#they're quite willing i assure you officer
Text
Trans girls when grooming their most recent discord kitten: this can be our little secret. PETA doesn't have to find out
#peta#animal abuse#trans women#transfems#transgender#traaaaaaannnnnnnnnns#trans women are not actually grooming them its a meme#they're quite willing i assure you officer#memes#196#idk what else to tag this with
30 notes
·
View notes
Text
Hello my little lovelies!
My, you've all been such busy little bees this beautiful springtime. Of course with spring comes the birds and the bees, and since our lovely flower festival last month, love seems to be all around us. It's always great to see the community able to find hope in these dark and tragic times.
The younger Romero and Sinclair still seem to be going strong, and on top of that, their dance classes have been the talk of the local mom groups. Good on the Romero boy for finally settling down with a nice, respectable girl... A rarity in that family, I can assure you.
Now, I'm not one to judge, you all know this. But I can't help but feel a touch concerned over two new lovebirds. As it turns out, I'm not the only one worried about little Miss Genesis - I have received quite the earful from many concerned citizens who have seen her gallivanting around town with that computer boy. While he may have been cleared of suspicion, it still feels rather uncouth of them both after poor little Gia's tragic passing. Here's hoping our Head Ranger can help lead the girl back on a proper path.
Speaking of darling Gia, it does pain me to bring some much more unpleasant news. But I am one to tell you the truth at all times, and that has always been and will always be my promise. I have been repeatedly tipped that TJ Spade had a physical altercation with Gia prior to her tragic demise that went so far as to leave him with a scar after she defended herself against him. Why he is still allowed to roam free, wandering town as he pleases, has stumped many. Are we giving special privileges to commune members? Is the Mayor too afraid to prosecute them like we would any other town member?
As for the Commune, I have never had anything personally against them, as long as they remain proper members of the community - even if they enjoy their isolation. However, it has been told to me by a trusted source that one commune member shot another former commune member. It was claimed to be accidental, but the timing just seems interesting, doesn't it? A commune member leaving the house, becoming engaged, and then being shot? It just makes you wonder what really is happening behind closed doors.
Another thing for the police to investigate, I suppose, if they aren't drowning in existing case work. Or perhaps in their own personal dilemmas? A reliable witness has informed me that Officers Vovk and MacGillivray not only had a torrid affair in their youth, but that the union resulted in a baby, whom they then gave away. Bless that sweet child, whom I have confirmed would be around 27 years old now. Wherever they are, at the very least they're free of all this insanity.
Whoah, I am exhausted sharing all this news with you! But that is all that seems to be new in town, or at least what my anonymous, reliable sources have been willing to share. Stay safe out there, my lovelies. Remember, I'm always here to provide a shoulder to lean on. Love, Auntie G.
#cass romero#jessie sinclair#sissy boone#cyan canne#tj spade#gia rodriguez#elya kapur#matt walker#morgan vovk#hank macgillivray#zarina west
7 notes
·
View notes
Text
phishy business, or how to watch a concert for free
The first thing that you’ll notice at the Phish concert is that you’re probably the youngest one there. I found myself surrounded by an assortment of deadheads, dreadheads, and middle-aged men who looked like they’d just finished up a shift at the local record shop. You know the type. Many held in their hands the largest whipit balloons I had ever seen, purchased from the numerous enterprising vendors with nitrous tanks large enough to supply a dentist's office for weeks.
Let me be completely honest here: I am not a fan of Phish. Before the concert, I found their music to be mediocre at best, a jam band whose music should have perhaps stayed in the garage. What I am a fan of, however, is people, places, and things with a cult following. And if I have to give Phish credit for anything, it’s their fans.
The line into the Greek Theater spanned several blocks. Walking through was a funny experience due to the juxtaposition of the Phishheads and the intrigued Greek life students walking home or to class. I found myself somewhere in between the two groups- dressed in a long skirt and sweater I felt a bit like a kid dressed in hippie cosplay. And the Grateful Dead bucket hat didn't help.
So, what is Phish? By definition, Phish is an “American rock band formed in Burlington, Vermont, in 1983. The band is known for musical improvisation, extended jams, blending of genres, and a dedicated fan base” (Wikipedia). What they're really known mostly for their live performances. Their fans claim that no two shows are ever the same, as they rely heavily on improvisation in both music and lighting.
The music started to make more sense as I got higher throughout the night. I suppose being able to openly smoke weed is one of the benefits to not being willing to spend $300+ on a general admission ticket, or $500 for the three-day pass, although the people inside didn’t seem like they were having any trouble. My friend and I watched from the parking lot above the theater, where several other groups had set up camp.
The band continued their semi-melodic tunes into the chilly Spring night, waltzing about with their improvisational guitar tunes. While I couldn’t quite make out the performers, the sound was just fine, perhaps even better, from up above.
When the three days of Phish-tivities were finally over, I found myself walking by the Greek Theater on my way home, melancholically missing walking through the block-long lines of the people who I will likely one day join. And when I do, I hope to see people like me walking by; young, curious, well-dressed, and in search of aneurism-inducing quantities of nitrous.
Side story: I went out to a bar the next night and met a man whose word slurring I thought was simply from his incredible inebriation. Turned out he was just from Virginia. But I knew who he was here for.
We talked about the band for a bit, and frankly if I weren’t so inebriated myself I likely would have picked up some interesting tidbits. I told him what I thought about the band (I don’t love them, but I love things with a cult following) and he laughed and said he liked my answer. He was having a great time here in the Bay, he said. All I really remember from the conversation was that he loved Phish.
He bought me a drink later (as a Southern gentleman, he assured me, he had a wife at home). Unfortunately, the bar was cash only and he had none, so I ended up paying for it myself. But all was well, it was closing time anyways. He wandered out into the streets in search of an afterparty at 2 am on a Tuesday. I headed home.
Glossary
Phishheads- According to Urban Dictionary, a follower of fish; one who hates wilson
Wilson- A song by Phish, described by some as the seed that sprouted the whole thing. Wilson is a song in the overarching saga called “Gamehendge”, which spans about 10 songs. Wilson is a character who embodies corruption, unchecked ambition, and greed.
Jam band- a musical group whose concerts and live albums are characterized by lengthy improvisational jams. Famous jam bands include the Grateful Dead, Blues Traveler, the Dave Mathews Band, Phish, and Santana.
Shakedown- Shakedown Street is a phrase coined by the Grateful Dead which describes the parking lot of a jam band where vending takes place. Food, alcohol, clothing, jewelry, and tickets are sold in this lively little community area.
Phish Lot- The Phish take on a Shakedown. The Facebook group describes It as “a connection network of sellers, buyers, and kids who just like to look!” Aww, I feel included :)
Phish.net- your ultimate source for all. things. Phish. There, you can find recaps of pretty much every show.
8 notes
·
View notes
Text
Major Arcana: Justice
Written by @oftachancer and I for the @30daysofdorian event!
Masterpost | First | Previous | Next
CW: conversion therapy (aftermath); successful blood magic ritual; recovering from trauma; adopted children
The sound of the portal opening in the courtyard was like a clap of thunder, shaking the walls and shaking the manor’s denizens. Rilienus was huddled on a chaise, his first foray into the sunshine in days, and the light had been stinging his eyes. He was tired. His father was, too; he knew just by looking at him. They were, he thought grimly, looking far worse for wear than Felix and that was an accomplishment. Rilienus still couldn’t quite taste anything yet and swallowing anything remotely cool felt like blades of glass cutting up the inside of his neck, so he swallowed mouthfuls of kava and tea praying for the heat to salve the ache and tried not to notice the worried glances Dorian and his mother shared.
But the portal.
No one should have been able to open the portal. No one outside of their family. No one but-
“You.”
Flowing robes as radiant as the sunset and a broad gilded helm with cloth of gold streaming over his shoulders. Radonis.
Fuck.
Rilienus tried to stand up, wincing. “Your radiance,” he croaked.
“You,” Radonis pointed at him, stalking across the courtyard. “You are supposed to solve problems. Not bring them to me unfinished and then disappear- Maker’s breath, you look as though you’ve been poisoned with kaddish powder.” He paused. “…have you?”
Rilienus winced. “I’m afraid so.” He cleared his throat. “And my father.”
Marius gave a weak wave from where he had given up trying to stand. “Your radiance.”
“My mother, Auna. My fiancé, Dorian.” Rilienus grimaced. “Mother- could you… that probably woke the twins.”
She glanced between him and the Archon, waiting until he waved a hand before she dipped a curtsy and headed off towards the children’s room.
“Your radiance,” Dorian said, dropping into a low bow. “Our sincerest apologies for not anticipating your arrival. I would be happy to fetch anything you require-“
“Water,” Radonis removed his helm, resting it on his lap as he took a seat across from Rilienus. “That will be all.”
Dorian glanced at Rilienus, frowning, then followed Auna back into the manor.
“Halward Pavus was arrested at his home in Qarinus and brought to Minrathous for questioning and, eventually, a trial. We have yet to locate the blood mage.” Radonis’ face was
locked in an almost perpetual frown. Rilienus had only seen him smile when one of his many cats was nearby. “It has been a very, very long time since I’ve seen evidence of a pool of power that large that didn’t result in abject failure.”
“Not abject failure,” Marius corrected, “but my son managed to reverse some of the effects of the spell.”
“That is… reassuring.” Radonis nodded, studying him. “Infighting between the great houses during broad daylight- You can understand my irritation, I’m sure.”
“I understand it and share it.” Rilienus curled his fingers around the clay mug of hot tea, feeling the warmth pour in from all sides. The sunshine. The water. They’d arrested him. Caught him. Gods, Dorian- “They're quite sure they’ve actually collected him and not one of his seemings?”
“I was assured the appropriate tests for simulacra and illusion were conducted. Yes. He went quietly with the Templars. Only a handful of people know and of them, only you and I are aware of the entire story.”
“I have no intention of making the scenario public, your radiance,” Rilienus told him, the words sawing at his raw throat. “I would not bring shame to your office if I can help it.”
“Your discretion is appreciated, as always, Rilienus. Particularly as it was Halward’s request as well, in exchange for providing detailed information on the Maleficar. A quiet abdication and indefinite imprisonment.”
Abdication? He’d tried to kill Rilienus and his father and now he was willing to abdicate? Impotent fury swelled in Rilienus’ chest and caught painfully with sorrow as Dorian carried a pitcher of water and glasses from the house. Rilienus dampened his lips and reached for him once Radonis had been served. “What would you have of us, your radiance? If he’s confessed-“
“He has.” Radonis sipped casually from his glass, sighing. He reached into his pocket and handed a golden letter with a dark seal to Dorian. “I don’t normally play messenger, but in this instance, I thought it appropriate.”
Dorian frowned, taking the missive in hand, scanning the official document.
“Congratulations, Magister,” Radonis hummed, tapping his fingertips against the glass. “My office will require statements from the three of you, upon your return to Minrathous.”
Dorian blinked, reading the paper again. “There’s no way my father- He’s alive, still, is he not?”
“Oh, yes.” Radonis’ frown deepened. “Alive and revealed. I’ve known him since my ascendance-“ He trailed off with a grim shake of his head. “A full audit of the council and the senate will be required sooner rather than later, Rilienus. No more snakes in the garden, understand?”
“Yes, your radiance,” Rilienus agreed, pressing the cup to his chest, then peered at Dorian. “What is it?”
“He kept me as his heir, even after all this.” Dorian wrinkled his nose. “I’m to take his place in the Senate.”
About fucking time was all Rilienus could think, then- still work to be done. Still weaves of the spell to untangle. He seemed improved, in parts, but there were still whole swaths of Dorian’s memories yet to be uncovered. He glanced at his own father, draped in linen blankets and cradling his own tea. What if there was something else? What other aspects of Dorian’s heart and mind had Halward sought to alter? How could they find them- return Dorian to himself- without knowing where to look? “It sounds as though you might keep your name,” Rilienus murmured, his gaze traveling over Dorian’s features, “if you want it.”
“I…” He folded the parchment and tucked it into his pocket. “Yes. It does seem like a possibility.” Dorian ducked his head. “I’m sorry for the trouble my family has caused you, your radiance.”
“Sorry? I’ve lost a counselor I’ve relied upon for years-“ Radonis’ broad bushy brows drew together in consternation. “I’ve discovered,” he amended, “that a counselor I’ve relied upon for years is unstable, not to mention false. Are you unstable, Dorian Pavus?”
“If I am, it’s only from the remnants of the spell my father ensnared me with, your radiance. I would suggest, if you’re amenable, submitting myself to a full medical and arcane examination before being allowed to make any decisions that could affect others outside of my house.” Dorian rested his hand on Rilienus’ shoulder. “We aren’t yet certain of the extent of damage it caused.”
Radonis narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “Very well. I’ll send someone out.” He paused. “…you’ve attended nearly every Circle in this country.”
“I bored easily as a youth.”
“And you were under the mentorship of Gereon Alexius.”
“I was, for nearly a decade.”
“Where is he now.”
“South, outside of our borders. He left while I was… interned at my father’s house.”
Rilienus glanced between them, trying to read into Radonis’ narrowed gaze.
“South where.”
“He was in the Free Marches, when last he wrote to his son. He didn’t say where he was headed from there.”
Radonis watched Dorian for what felt like ages, still and studying. “You will tell me if you or young master Alexius receive word.” He rose, settling his helm onto his head and rolling his shoulders back. “An assessment and an audit. You will both present yourselves to me the moment you return to Minrathous.”
“Of course, your radiance. Your offices will be our first stop when we return to the city.” Dorian cleared his throat, glancing at Rilienus, then the Archon. “You’ll also be receiving an invitation to our wedding, within the month. I do hope you’ve time in your schedule for a bit of leisure, your excellency.”
“In Minrathous. Nihalius will ordain it. The Maker knows we need a distraction from the current mess. That will do. Good thinking.” Radonis dusted his hands together, striding to the blackened circle that his arrival had left behind. “Two months. Rilienus, schedule it,” he added, waving a hand, and cracked the air open to step into a portal. “Look less like the living dead by then. This isn’t Nevarra.”
It snapped shut behind him with a sizzle.
“A marriage ordained by the Divine himself,” Marius croaked, sitting up slightly. “Well done, my boy. Or should I say, Magister.”
“Not until I’ve been cleared,” Dorian murmured.
“I’ll get back to it,” Rilienus assured him, squeezing his hand. “As soon as I’m able.”
“You’ll rest,” Dorian lowered himself to sit beside him, easing Rilienus’ head into his lap.
It wasn’t what they’d wished for. It wasn’t what they’d planned. The simple ceremony with their friends and family in the orchard at sunset. The quiet joy. But it was… something. Spectacle, yes. Distraction. But also acknowledgement.
Why had Radonis been asking about Alexius? What did he want with Dorian?
“I’ll rest,” he agreed quietly, settling into the sensation of Dorian’s fingers through his hair. “And then we’ll finish bringing you home.”
#dorian pavus#rilienus maecilia#dorian x rilienus#dragon age fanfiction#30daysofdorian#midnight writes#oftachancer writes#major arcana fic
3 notes
·
View notes
Note
hey, was wondering if you do this one FNV companion reaction where they find the courier to be pretty skilled at many things(lockpicking, sneaking, medicine, hacking, cooking, G U N S,etc.) and then later when asked, they casually say they learnt it all from old timey magazines??
The courier shrugged, when they caught their companion studying them after having popped open a wafer tumbler lock in under two minutes. "It's just practice, I guess," they mused, swinging the safe door open to inspect its contents. "Well, practice and a couple of readings-through of Tumblers Today. Volume 64, Issue 1."
They said something similar two days later, after throwing together a mad mix of Nuka-Cola Quartz, turpentine, and Abraxo and stuffing it into a tin can. "Got that recipe from the Patriot's Cookbook," they said proudly, taping the top back onto the can and poking some holes for wires to run into the dangerous slop. "Man, I really wish I hadn't had to take that unexpected dip in Lake Mead. That magazine was invaluable."
Their random assortment of skills was best on display later that day though, when they wandered into a building patrolled by hostile robots. All it took was a little bit of patience, and eventually the courier was able to sneak up to the nearest Colonel Gutsy, pop open its combat inhibitor panel and move a few things around to shut it down. Once the bot crumpled to the floor, the courier turned to their companion and winked. "Programmer's Digest, a little bit of the Tesla Science magazine, plus a healthy dash of La Fantoma," they said. "Always was a comic book fan."
Arcade Gannon: "Where do you keep turning them up?" Arcade asked, clearly impressed. "I've spent years out here with the Followers, and I haven't seen more than a handful."
"Well, maybe you just needed to step outside the Old Mormon Fort." The courier shrugged. "They're tucked all over the place. File cabinets in old offices, desk drawers in hotels, on the floor behind couches and mattresses and piles of-"
"Okay, okay, I get the idea." Arcade grinned. "Basically, you find them because you're willing to crawl around the dustiest, sandiest places on earth in search of them."
"Hey, that sand is their saving grace," the courier said, straightening up from the bot they'd felled. "It's dry enough out here that magazines don't suffer as much. Sure, you might find the cover ink's worn off by some grit, but you go north? East? A little bit of humidity and bam, your pages are all stuck together. Eugh."
Craig Boone: Boone pressed his lips together. The courier recognized the sniper's silent disapproval and raised their eyebrows. "Something to say?"
"Can't learn sniping from a magazine," he said, being careful about his words. "But it means you don't need to sneak up on a target to take them out."
"Sure," the courier agreed. "But if I can just hack a bot rather than waste ammo, I'd rather that. Don't you think?"
"We've got plenty of ammo."
"Yeah, Boone, I know." The courier sighed. "But sometimes I didn't. Don't knock the magazines, they've kept me alive this long."
Boone nodded. He could appreciate that, at least.
Lily Bowen: "Oh yes, dearie," Lily agreed, nodding enthusiastically. "There are so many good things young ones can learn from books these days. Why, Grandma used to be quite the reader, back when she had fewer grandchildren to take care of."
"Aw, Lily." The courier gave her a sad pout. "You mean you stopped?"
"Don't you worry about Grandma," Lily assured them. "She's got plenty to take care of, traveling with you and the rest of her flock."
"The bighorners?" The courier pulled a face. "They're not much for reading, I guess. But I've got quite the collection back at the Lucky 38, from my travels around the Mojave. Maybe I can lend you something? Or at least read you a few things when we're taking a night off?"
Lily grinned. "Oh, pumpkin. Grandma would love that."
Raul Alfonso Tejada: "La Fantoma?" Raul grinned. "I used to read that one all the time when I was putting off chores on the ranch."
"Híjole." The courier shook their head. "I love that woman. What I wouldn't give to see her cross over into the Hubris Comics universe. La Fantoma versus the Silver Shroud? Or the Inspector?"
"Why not la Dueña de los Misterios?" Raul asked. "Now that would be a squaring-off I'd pay my last cap to see."
"The Mistress? Please." The courier gave him a skeptical look. "They have too much in common. They'd probably just team up to take down Pyramind or something."
Raul waved his hand. "La Fantoma would never get mixed up with the likes of Pyramind. That was her whole draw, that she was down-to-earth. Una ladrona en la noche, sure, but still a woman."
Rose of Sharon Cassidy: Cass spat onto the Colonel Gutsy's shiny dome. "Programmer's Digest, one, pre-war bots, zero. It's almost a shame, I never get to use my shotgun when we're traveling."
"What are you talking about?" the courier replied playfully, straightening up from their handiwork. "We run into Vipers and Fiends often enough, don't we?"
"Sure, but they're more work than play." Cass smiled. "When you're putting lead into a robot, they make the best noises. Thunks, beeps, and if it's a Mister Handy, they're polite as all hell about the fact that you're shooting them up."
The courier wiped some grease from their hands. "I'll remember that for the next one. Far be it from me to keep you from turning these guys into shrapnel, I suppose, even if I like to keep things clean."
Veronica Santangelo: Veronica pulled a face, then laughed. "What didn't you learn from magazines, Six? Because I'm starting to think you were raised by a copy of Dean's Electronics."
The courier made a face back at her. "Well, I didn't learn manners from them, but that doesn't make much of a difference in the Mojave. No one out here seems to have learned them, either."
"Pffft." Veronica rolled her eyes. "Manners are for the White Glove Society. Hacking a robot is a bit more useful to us common folk."
"Exactly." The courier slapped their knees and straightened up. "Plus we can salvage this guy, now that he's no longer defending God and country. Did you still need parts for your power fist?"
"Oh, yeah, good thinking. That one piston's been sticking something fierce."
ED-E: ED-E beeped in agreement, as it did every time the courier felt the need to re-announce their reliance on pre-war periodicals, and opened up its storage compartment to reveal the stack of magazines within.
The courier chuckled. "Okay, okay, I can take a hint. I'm just pleased with myself, that's all."
ED-E trilled in agreement. It was only an eyebot, but it still felt something akin to pride for its companion.
Rex: Rex sniffed the now-defunct robot over, lip still curled in case it stirred and resumed its patrol.
The courier gave his brain dome a reassuring pat. "I know what I'm doing, buddy. Or at the very least, Tesla Science's star contributor Karl Oslow does."
#fallout#fallout new vegas#fnv#fnv companions#fnv companions react#fallout new vegas companions react#fallout new vegas companions#fallout magazines
102 notes
·
View notes
Text
I just want to talk about one of my favorite Quodo scenes. You know, as I do. So S2 E18 Profit and Loss, for all that it’s focused on a one-episode love interest for Quark (and a romance with Natima so intense that it makes Quark very uncharacteristically be willing to risk his life and even give up the bar for the sake of pursuing it), it has some really amazing Quodo scenes. In particular, it has a really lengthy conversation between Quark and Odo that features some great things like (1) establishing important aspects of both of their characters and their relationship, (2) lots of intimate leaning over each other and casual touches, and (3) a flirtatious and shippy dynamic.
Let me walk through the whole scene because there’s a lot to analyze here.
The scene opens with Quark coming to talk to Odo about the urgent need to release Natima rather than handing her over to the Cardassian government who will execute her. Quark tries multiple tacks, all of which fail:
First, he tries to make the appeal that releasing the Cardassian dissidents would lead to a better, brighter Cardassia, which obviously Odo doesn’t buy. Quark doesn’t care about that.
Quark immediately pivots to spinning that change as one that would lead to him getting more profits -- more plausible, at least, but Odo is still skeptical. In response, knowing that Odo doesn’t find benefiting Quark financially to be a worthy cause, Quark impishly says, “Now Odo... don’t allow my greed to keep you from doing the right thing.” Here he’s making a small appeal to Odo’s moral system rather than Quark’s.
But that’s not the reason why Odo was skeptical. He’s skeptical because Quark isn’t being honest about his motivations.
“I know you better than you think, Quark.” - Moment #1 in this scene where the long history and enefriend relationship between Quark and Odo is highlighted.
Odo prompts Quark to bring up the third and more honest consideration: that Quark is in love with Natima. Odo asks Quark why he didn’t just say that from the start, which prompts Quark to go into a long rant about how Odo is incapable of understanding his feelings while Odo listens awkwardly: “What was I supposed to say? That I love her? That I would do anything for her? That without her my life would be meaningless. Sure, I could say those things, but what good would it do? How could I expect you to understand? You’ve never had those feelings. You don’t know what it means to really care about another person. You’ve never been in love. You’ve got all the emotions of a stone. (pause) No offense.”
None is taken, because that is the image that Odo has carefully crafted for himself, which doesn’t in actuality line up with who he is, but he’s happy for others to believe that is how he is like. So even though Quark realizes how harsh his words are and walks it back, Odo is not offended, but nor does he find it entirely convincing either. It’s one of this scene’s many ways of illustrating the conflicting moral codes between Quark and Odo: Quark may view doing things out of love as legitimate, but he knows that Odo can’t enter into that mindset.
(It's not text, but Quark's speech could also be read as Quark expressing his frustration that his own attempts to court Odo have ended in failure -- Quark angsting that he is barking up the wrong tree, so to speak.)
Quark then tries a fourth tack: Making an exchange instead of putting forward logical arguments and appeals. He begins to offer information on the various deals he’s involved in ("Listen to me, Odo. You do this for me, and I promise there'll be no more secrets between us") -- this momentarily catches Odo’s interest -- before Quark chickens out and instead offers information on Rom’s activities instead, which is, well, worthless, lol. Odo isn’t interested in your brother, Quark, he’s interested in you. Quark does have something of value to Odo but he’s not willing to offer it up because, well, he's just not THAT good of a person.
Seeing this fourth try has failed, Quark then makes a fifth appeal:
Quark’s fifth try involves directly leveraging Quark and Odo’s relationship and involves Quark asking Odo to do this as a personal favor to him. Here is moment #2 where Quark and Odo’s longstanding relationship is highlighted, with Quark turning what Odo said earlier back on him:
(Technically, Odo didn’t say he knew Quark better than anyone else; he said he knew Quark better than Quark thought. But Quark is speaking the truth in any case.) Quark actually just spells out their relationship a bit anviliciously: “Sure, sometimes we’re on opposite sides, but that doesn’t mean that we aren’t close. I never told you this, Odo, but I consider you as dear to me as my brother.” Again, Odo is unimpressed given that Quark literally just tried to sell out his brother. One can’t help but feel like Quark’s fifth appeal failed for the same reason his fourth one failed: Like with the fourth appeal, Quark began to show some vulnerability here which actually interested Odo, but chickened out at the end. He did have something valuable to bargain with (his relationship with Odo) but wasn’t willing to pay the price it would require (being fully open and vulnerable with Odo about the value of that relationship) -- instead, he deflects at the last moment with something joking and ironic.
Finally, Quark makes his sixth and last appeal. “Odo, look at me. Look at me. I’m on my knees. I’m begging you. I don’t care why you do it. Pick any reason you want. But please, let Natima and the others go.”
On his knees, he makes the Ferengi gesture of supplication. With this attempt, Quark does two things: One, he sacrifices his pride for the first time by openly begging -- in his other appeals, he protected his pride by couching it in logical appeal, anger/disapproval at Odo, irony, or jokes. But here, for the first time, he displays humility, desperation, vulnerability, etc. Second, he lets Odo pick the reason, which allows Odo to also intervene without having to lose his own pride.
The reason Odo picks in the end is (what else) justice.
"Justice," Quark says. "That was going to be my next suggestion."
And then (after being on his knees begging, etc.) Quark slowly gets to his feet, and it’s framed like this:
THIS. IS SO. SUGGESTIVE.
I’m... I'm dying. Definitely a "getting shit past the censors" moment.
Anyway, moving swiftly along, now that Quark has gotten what he wants, it's back to the old light-hearted and flirty dynamic they always have. Now assured Odo definitely isn't doing this as a personal favor to Quark, Quark gleefully declares himself debt-free to Odo. He hugs him and Odo pretends to dislike it.
The scene ends with Odo asking how Quark plans to sneak the dissidents past the Cardassian warship hovering outside DS9. By the way he asks the question and is able to guess just by Quark's mischievous smile, Odo already knows the answer, bringing the episode back full circle from its opening where Odo was investigating Quark for having an illegal cloaking device.
Yeah, bickering, casual touching, their cat-and-mouse relationship, flirtatious dialogue, even Odo grudgingly letting Quark get away with crimes because they're a reluctant team with aligned interests now -- it's all here.
Anyway, I love this scene because it's an extended look at how Quark's moral system and Odo's don't really line up with each other (Quark valuing things like love and profit and not valuing abstract things like justice or order, and vice versa for Odo) to the point where it's actively hard for Quark to convince Odo to do something he's inclined/sympathetic to doing anyway. At the same time, they also have some shared interests (in Quark's dealings, in their relationship with each other) while being engaged in a complex dance where neither of them can quite acknowledge it. For example, Odo says he will release the prisoners solely out of his own sense of justice, but if so, why did it take Quark begging him to move him to act? Before Quark came to his office, he was reading a detective novel, suggesting that Quark's appeal is at least one part of Odo's decision to act, despite what they both say. But it serves Quark's purposes to let this slide ("So, you're not really doing this for me?" "That's right." "Then I don't owe you a thing. Thank you!") and let Odo keep his pride, so he does.
Anyway, I just love how much Quodo there is in an episode that's entirely dedicated to Quark's love for a different woman entirely. That's how powerful the relationship between these two is.
#quodo#star trek: deep space nine#ds9#ds9 quark#ds9 odo#quodo meta#oh god I wrote an essay#I meant to write this earlier but I wanted to make a gif of that moment#👀
55 notes
·
View notes
Text
Chapter 27
Who's still reading this? Have fun!
CW : character death (This spoils a lot I'm sorry but I have to put it.)
THE ROAD SO FAR
Previous Chapter : What's behind door number two?
Staying in Shape
John Price
MacTavish Residence, Glasgow, Scotland
It has been almost three days since the culmination of the New York Attack and most of his contacts regarding Nero and Shepherd's movements were quiet. He was getting anxious to step back into the fight, but without sufficient intel, or even better weapons, they couldn't do anything.
Price scanned the room, everyone else started to pair up with each other, a dynamic he expected to happen anytime soon. With all the challenges they've been through, finding love within each other was inevitable. And Price was fine by that. Heck, when he was younger, he had his fair share of romance during missions.
With the thought of Nero and Shepherd resurfacing any moment soon, Price devised a plan, to keep his crew in shape and always prepared to deploy as soon as sufficient intel is presented.
With the help of Jack, they created a training and endurance exercise schedule, where the soldiers, including Price himself, would follow to still continue to stay in shape and prepared for battle. They asked permission from Soap who was more than willing to help, an excited grin all over his face.
"I'll help you set up." he said, gaining a nod from the old man.
"France will train at the basement gym." He added and Soap nodded.
From that moment, the team started training, improving their physical abilities and endurance. Weapons training wasn't possible at the moment as they left it all in Brazil.
Jack overlooked the team from afar, Samantha and Maxine were at the gym helping out France's version of the training. They did the regular set of training from standard 141 protocol, using everyday materials in exchange for some of the equipment Soap didn't own. Price also instructed a specific dietary plan for the soldiers instead of just eating whatever they liked.
While on break, the two girls, Samantha and Maxine approached Price with an excited look in their eyes. Priced raised an eyebrow and asked what they were up to.
"Everyone's doing their best and We both wanted to offer our help." Samantha explained as Maxine inserted.
"We'd like to apply as the team's dietician and health consultant. My resumé is that I have vast knowledge in cooking along with their nutritional information." She grinned.
"And Samantha here has little background on tending to physical wounds and pain. You could see how fast Alex's face healed!" Maxine added. Price was more than happy to accept their offer, it goes to show that they were willing to give whatever it takes for the people and cause they cared about.
"Alright. Guess you're both hired." he chuckled as the two cheered and made their way to their respective 'partners', probably out to share the good news.
Wiping his sweaty forehead with a towel, he looked around the main room where everybody was. Jack was by the office, looking up something on the laptop or probably just playing solitaire. Soap and France were at the gazebo, he could barely see them by the angle he's at but he couldn't miss that flashy mohawk.
To his left, he saw Samantha sitting on Alex's lap as she carefully cleaned Alex's bruise, Roach sat on the other end of the sofa, chugging a bottle of Gatorade while Maxine stood behind him, he could barely hear it, but it looked like the newly hired dietician was already lecturing him about the benefits of said drink, saying the word 'electrolytes' somewhere in the sentence.
He felt proud that this team stood by him ever since he made that choice. He was very grateful that he had someone whom he shared common goals with.
"Price. It's for you." Jack called from the office, causing him to immediately get up and answer the call.
"Aye, this is Price. Got anything for me?" he muttered.
"John. Looks like your friend is on the move." Kate Laswell spoke on the other end of the line, her voice was authoritative as always.
"Which one?" he chuckled, it was about time he received some news.
"Shadow Company. Looks like they're brave using the same car again. Same plate and all." she informed, giving Price the last route they went before going cold once again. It led them to an empty warehouse just by the docks.
"Just what are these bastards up to…" he muttered.
"I have no idea. Think you'll do recon? It doesn't strike as a threat to warrant an official team, this leads really calling your name, John."
Laswell hinted. Despite him being out of the force and one of Fbi's most wanted, Kate insisted to use such perk for further trapping the suspicious Shepherd.
"I worked hard forming the 141 and he easily disbands it like it's nothing…" she added, her voice sounded very bitter.
"Now now, Kate. Take it easy. We'll get him. He's bound to fuck up anytime soon. Keep in touch, mkay?" he said as they both said their goodbyes and ended the call.
"A little recon mission won't hurt, right?" he nudged to Jack who grinned proudly at the solitaire victory screen, cards bounced all around the edges of the screen.
John Price found himself unable to sleep. It was either he's actually excited to do some missions or he's too worried about what they're about to discover, what would Shadow Company be up to and what is the quiet Nero planning behind the scenes? His thoughts raced to a dozen possibilities, all calling for drastic measures and sacrifices. He knew he had allies by his side, allies that are always ready to do whatever it takes to fix this mess.
He lazily dragged his feet to get a glass of water in the kitchen, despite being huge, the house was awfully quiet. Too quiet that he could hear every soft rustling from the halls.
He wasn't one to eavesdrop but he couldn't help but hear soft murmuring near MacTavish's bedroom.
"So.. um.. same time tomorrow?" said a low Scottish voice a chuckle followed. It was obviously Soap and Price thought only enemies were doing something behind the scenes.
"You wish.." a female voice giggled.
"But seriously… Thanks for tonight John." she added.
"No problem, Francine. So.. what's stopping you from staying overnight?" he chuckled. Price knew this was wrong but his glass of water was still half full.
"You know that I'd love to… but Maxine also needs me right now. Especially that she's slowly recovering bits and pieces of the past." she reasoned and Price knew it was time to head back to his room quietly.
Maxine Winters
MacTavish Residence, Glasgow, Scotland
It felt real. She looked around and felt that this was more than just an ordinary dream. The vision was too dark with a small ray of light peeking from the slightly ajar door.
She knew where this was. She liked hiding here, her parent's closet.
She was waiting for Francine to find her, Francine always knew where she hid. But in this certain memory, she wasn't there.
She giggled quietly and hushed herself as soon as the door opened, France was going to find her. But instead, what she heard was her Dad saying words of assurance followed by heavy breathing. She was curious enough to peek through the small opening.
Her dad carried her Mom to the bed, his hands held hers tight, wiping the sweat off her forehead as her chest rose and fell quickly, her breath was labored and her eyes looked tired.
"Hang in there, love. The doctor's on the way." his father assured, making his wife comfortable as they wait for help to arrive.
"I don't think I can make it anymore…" She whispered.
"No no no. Don't do this to me Coraline, don't you want to see our angels grow up?" he sobbed, tears fell on her hands as he kissed it. Maxine remained still, she wanted to cry but she just sat inside the closet, peeking, frozen in a mix of fear and worry.
"I do , Love … but it looks like my body can't make it to that day… I'm sorry…"
"Don't! Please Coraline, stay strong, for me… for the kids…"
"I am… and I know that you know it." she exhaled, panting heavily after the last sentence. Her Dad hugged her until her breathing stabilized, while Coraline weakly raised her hand and hugged him back.
"Promise me you'll see the kids grow up…
Promise me to tell them how much I love them every single day…
And promise me that you'll never forget how much I loved you… Francis Maximus Winters." tears fell from her tired eyes. Her dad held her cheek and wiped it off, sobbing as she slowly closed them.
"I'm not sure if I could keep all of those promises… but I will try… I love you Coraline Winters, I always have and I always will, until the time we'll meet again." he muttered. Maxine witnessed it all, the way her father's face frowned when he realized he just lost his wife. It was one of her saddest memories.
~
Maxine gasped and opened her eyes, touching her face as soon as they opened. Tears. She was crying while asleep. She flicked the lamp and looked around her, France wasn't around. Just as she pulled the sheets so she could leave the bed, the door knob slowly turned and a soft creak was heard. It was Francine.
"France!" Maxine gasped and immediately ran to her side, hugging her tight as she began crying. France smelled different, almost masculine, but she didn't mind.
"Max! What happened? Are you okay?" France quickly hugged her, rubbing her back as she quietly bawled out her emotions.
"I saw… " She panted.
"I saw… Mom…"
"Mom died…" She exhaled as Francine escorted her downstairs to the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water to calm her heart.
"You were in the closet. We were supposed to be playing hide and seek." France muttered as Maxine turned to her.
"Francis… Maximus Winters." she recalled.
"That's dad's name. It's quite long, right? Mom actually liked him because of it." France enlightened, trying to make Max calm down.
"Yeah… is he ?" Max asked.
"Yeah… but he's kinda forgot about us now. Every time we visit he just looks for Coraline."
"Mom."
"Yes."
"He kept his promise." Max said.
"Huh?" France tilted her head.
"Mom's last words. Promise me you'll see the kids grow up…
Promise me to tell them how much I love them every single day…
And promise me that you'll never forget how much I loved you…" Max recalled from her dream and as more words were added, France's sobs were louder.
"He… he did them all…" France cried as they both hugged each other. And it was the moment that Maxine remembered what France looked like when they first met, her smile… It was the smile of someone who was finally reunited with her only family, and it was painful how the only ones she could cling to couldn't remember her.
"What's that smell?" Maxine asked as she killed the mood of the sisterly hug. France's face turned red, even in the dimly lit room, Max could tell that she was blushing.
"N-Nothing… I don't smell anything." She laughed nervously.
"I swear I passed by that scent somewhere…" she looked at her suspiciously and laughed, shrugging it off which actually made France relax her shoulders.
"Let's go back to sleep." Maxine invited her sister and they both got back to their room.
Next Chapter : Docked and Loaded
Notification Squad my Beloved
@beemybee @enderio @smokeywhalee @samatedeansbroccoli @whimsywispsblog @ricinbach
#horrayfic#codmw#john soap mactavish#john price#simon ghost riley#alex echo 3 1#gary roach sanderson#whateverittakes
13 notes
·
View notes
Text
Desert Days
Pairing: Sam Wilson x Reader
Summary: “If this war ever ends-- and he assured you that it will eventually-- you’ll tell Sam Wilson you love him.”
Warnings: 18+, profanity, angst for days, extreme injury and death (blood), mentions of PTSD, implied smut
A/N: 9.6k word count, goddamn. This is a very Sam heavy one-shot. Also, I tried to make the reader as gender neutral as possible!
2001.
A colossal mountain of mutilated steel and concrete rubble sits, smoking, in the center of the world. Lower Manhattan. Financial District. Eight blocks that make up ‘Wall Street’, some elusive playpen for the invisible but potent power of ‘stock’. Destroyed. And with it, lives, hopes and dreams. 2,606 bodies buried there in the debris. An illusion of invincibility crushed in too. In the flames that lick at ruins of the Twin Towers, an Indian summer. The warm September haze forcefully burrows itself in the guts of New Yorkers, Americans, the world. It’s fear, not flush. It’s anger.
How could this happen? To us?
The news outlets evoke the memory of a vastly different war. They call it a day that will live in infamy. Which, it will. Undoubtedly. Yet, it’s hardly the same as Pearl Harbor. Perhaps, the only thing comparable, but dissimilar all the same. Since the greatest generation created generations of their own, the pastime of waging war happened elsewhere. On other lands. In other homes. To other people.
September 11th, 2001 burst the bubble of willful ignorance. War is happening. And there is a debt to be paid for crimes. All crimes. Even American.
Sam Wilson is only twenty when it happens--
--waking up next to a girl from English class that he’d been playing footsie with in the library the day before. Her cellphone, pink and bejeweled, rings at 7 am drawing them both from slumber. Sam rubs the hangover from his temple as she unwinds her limbs from his, both sticky with sweat. Through tears she turns and tells him.
Four planes hijacked. Two crashed into the World Trade Center. One at the Pentagon. Another in a Pennsylvania field.
Sam’s from New York City. Harlem. He’s stood at the bottom of those towers before-- a kid with a skateboard carving lines over all five boroughs. But he hasn’t been back to the East Coast in years. No reason to. Mom was laid to rest next to Pops and Sam ran away to the other side of the country not long after. The news isn’t any less devastating.
He’s at UCLA, majoring in philosophy of all things. It all seems so pointless then. Studying knowledge, reality, existence, when the rest of the world is bleeding.
Everyone is in pain.
Soldiers. Doctors. Accountants. Car Salesmen. Kindergarten Teachers. They demand their pain be spread. They want revenge. They want blood. War is now felt by all.
In October, the US invades Afghanistan.
Sam enlists in November.
2003.
“Superman School” is what it’s called. Sam thinks it should rather be called simply, “Hell”.
Indoc is easy. Sam has always liked the water and it’s just nine weeks of basically swimming. But what follows is two grueling years of vicious emotional and physical exertion. The events, the ache inside that led him there, are practically forgotten when the training starts. In Combat Dive School, he’d panicked the first few times an oxygen tank was strapped to his back and a regulator shoved in his mouth. In Paramedic training, he’d slipped and stabbed his fingers practicing sutures so much that he lost feeling there for a week. During SERE, Sam lost a toe nail; that hurt like a motherfucker. It was probably the most physical pain he’d ever been in at the point of his life. The guys, other PJs in training, don’t let that one go for a couple of months. At least.
The best part, perhaps the only remotely good part, is Army Airborne and Military Free-fall Parachutist training.
“It’s not exactly flying, but it feels like it,” Sam speaks animatedly into the receiver after chow on a Tuesday night, “It feels like fucking flying and you always imagine that flying is cool but then you do it and, I swear--”
He spends the next fifteen minutes going on and on and when his girlfriend, Lisa from English class with the pink bejeweled phone, finally hangs up, Sam feels like there’s so much he still hasn’t gotten to say about it.
In a different life, I might’ve been a bird, he says during a poker game later that night.
They're all chasing their own highs after the first jump, but no one’s as dumb with it, as corny about it as Wilson. They give him shit for it. Sam is too hopped up on finding his first love to care.
It’s easy to forget why they’re there and what they’re working toward. Graduating. Deployment. War.
Afghanistan is a long way from Lackland Air Force Base, Texas. But with every day, every training course completed, Sam Wilson closes that gap with flying colors. And eventually, in May of that year, he found himself in Nevada with the 58th Rescue Squadron. Impossibly, closer now to Afghanistan.
There, he’s given a maroon beret and dubbed a “Guardian Angel”. Small consolation prizes for the news he’s being deployed.
2004.
It’s hot in Afghanistan, he’s heard. Sam had never expected it to be so bad; it’s summer, everywhere’s hot in the summer. The hottest place on earth is the Lut Desert in Iran. Barren, sparsely vegetated, open scrub. 70.7 Celsius recorded. That’s about 160 Fahrenheit. But nowhere, not even the hottest place on earth, is as sweltering as Bagram Airfield in July. With fatigues stuck to his back with sweat, stomach coming up on ‘E’, split red knuckles being bandaged: 40 Celsius feels like 5,000 Kelvin. Dry heat with nowhere to go but through him. It adds ten pounds at least to the weight in his shoulders.
Sam made one comment. Just one. But a scathing reply from his least favorite Squadron member was enough to unravel him.
This is the land of your peoples, Wilson, stop bitchin’.
Sam flexes his fingers on his bouncing knees, sitting and waiting stoically; internally, he’s burning.
When he enlisted just three years ago in a fervent bout of passion and patriotism, he didn’t anticipate the racist pieces of trailer park trash he’s supposed to call brothers. The amount of self-control it would take to not punch the asshole square in the jaw. The fucking heat.
Three years after waking up that fateful morning, turning on the news with Lisa taking calls non-stop, flames and smoke reflected in his brown eyes and he’s stuck waiting in a tent for disciplinary action. At least it’s reprieve from the merciless Afghanistan sun.
The tent flaps rustle softly, heavy boots command Sam reflexively to stand at attention. It gets his knee to stop bouncing. It’s in his face when he sees you. The faltering expression in his eyes that he tries to hide behind a stone slate. You’re not his CO there to NJP him, he’s never seen you on the base and he’s sure he would’ve remembered your face had he, but the patch on your chest dominates him anyway. A stray bead of sweat tickles Sam’s temple underneath your blank stare. You’re not, but you look ten feet tall over him. He’s never been someone so easily intimidated, but you? You are formidable.
He wonders which part of you gets to him the most.
It might be your impossibly straight posture, one that he could never fully get right much to the ire of his commanding officers. Or maybe it’s the sharpness to your eyes, dissecting him piece by piece before he even hears your voice. Or, it could be, that you’re really fucking hot.
Christ, are you.
But that last one might be skewed by the fact that he’s been on tour now for a couple of months and his girlfriend, not Lisa, now Kerry, has been giving him blue balls. Sending letters so salacious, they’ve found home in the john for everyone’s personal use.
He’d remember you if he saw you. He’d never be able to forget.
Another body entering the tent brings a breeze to save him from the downright oppressive warmth of your stare. A man, another Sam has never seen around, stands much more relaxed and close to your side. He’s tall and blonde and somehow pale even after hours spent in the sun.
You look at him and smile. So nice and pretty without any trace of your previous hardness.
“So, you’re Sam Wilson?” he asks with a hint of a smirk in his voice, “Heard a lot about you.” There’s laughter playing at both of your smiles and Sam’s fists instinctively clench. Are you making fun? He’s not in the mood. It’s hot and sticky, and he might be fighting down an embarrassing and painful semi.
“Yes, sir.”
The man at your side laughs, digging his elbow into your side, “You hear that? He called me sir!”
“Fuck off,” you roll your eyes, flicking his ear so hard it draws a hiss. The first words he hears spill from those lips, twisted now in a smirk, don’t match your silvery voice.
Fuck off, so rough and yet said in dulcet tones with affection.
Sam’s hot again when you step forward, away from your partner-- the breeze was only fleeting. Nowhere is as hot as in that tent on Bagram AFB, you, just five feet from him, hand held out with a soft smile to introduce yourself. Warm and sweet, but somehow it burns.
God, he needs to get laid, like, yesterday.
He didn’t even realize he shook your offered hand until he misses the feel of it as it slips from his own. “And this is Riley, he got dropped on his head as a baby,” straightening beside the man in question, Sam catches an all too short flash of white as you laugh.
“So, what did he say?” Riley asks. At the quirk of Sam’s head to the side, he gestures to the wrapped right hand, “I mean everyone’s talking about it. You’re gonna be on latrine duty for weeks!”
“Riley,” you sigh, smacking his chest that shakes in laughter with the back of your hand. A comforting smile when you turn back to Sam, “We have business to do.” The file you hand him, which he had not noticed was in your hand until it was heavy in his, it changes everything.
Why me? Sam doesn’t let the question slip past his tongue, but it’s there.
You shrug, as if you’d heard him, “You’ve made quite the reputation for yourself, Sam Wilson.” A soothing smile, big and easy. Like the one you sent Riley. He’d like to see it his way again.
And you’re not lying.
9 months in Afghanistan and word carries of a PJ falling from the sky like some vengeful archangel of salvation, laying suppressing fire steady as breathing, healing hands flipping the bird at death. Sam Wilson, orphan boy from Harlem, amateur philosopher, provider of quality spank bank material, was made for this.
The first time he sees it, Sam doesn’t know what the hell he’s looking at.
Like a big black horseshoe crab, washed up dead on the shore, metal back shining slick with sea water. Three of them, laid out on a table in a hangar removed from the rest of the air base. Engineers rattle off all sorts of specs, some Sam understands, some he hasn’t the slightest idea the meaning of. He looks to his right, at you, then Riley. The pair of you, grinning at each other, bouncing on the balls of your feet like children. Always so lively with each other. Always overflowing with enthusiasm-- in each other, something you now extend to him.
All happening so fast. Too fast. Sam’s queasy from the whiplash.
A month ago, he’d only just gotten used to the cycle: Jump. Find cover. Fire back if need be. Don’t mind the blood. Do what he can. And if he can’t, say a prayer. Swallow his vomit. Back to camp. Brush his teeth. One. Twice. Rinse. Repeat.
How did the saying go? ‘These Things We Do, That Others May Live’. Sam’s swallowed enough of his own vomit that the taste doesn’t even phase him anymore. Partially because he’s scrubbed his tongue raw and numb with toothpaste.
Then, you and Riley ripped him from it.
Bought him dinner in Kabul. Offered him a cold beer. Which, he hadn’t had one in a year and fuck if it wasn’t orgasmic on his tongue. You two wined and dined him, told him he was special, he was meant for more. Made him feel good. Reminded him he wasn’t just some cog, some tool in a war that was quickly losing support. That he had a chance to do something important. Christ, he was surprised there wasn’t a good old fashioned fuck at the end of it. He’d put out on the first date.
EXO-7 Falcon. In a different life, I might’ve been a bird. He maintained a year out that jumps were everything.
But wings? Actual wings?
It’s unbelievable. No. Fucking insane. He can’t fathom it. Not free-falling and convincing himself its as close to flying he’ll ever get, but actually flying without the disappointing fact that eventually he’ll have to pull the chord.
It’s just a prototype, don’t blow your load too soon, you laugh, hand on his bicep, for now, we just get to ogle them looking all nice and pretty.
He doesn’t have the balls to tell you he already has. In the showers. Numerous times. Your smile flashing behind his eyelids.
It’s just a waiting game now for the prototypes to be approved.
Sam finds his stride again, much quicker than the last, in this new routine. He suspects his easy adjustment has everything to do with you and Riley. PT at 0600. Showers at 0800. An emergency non Falcon rescue mission about two, three times a week. Chow together in the mess at 1730. Sometimes, the three of you eat MREs outside instead, watching the sunset like a bunch of cornballs.
You guys talk a lot, typically always over a meal. And Sam, who usually speaks a mile a minute, is slowed and forced to take a breath. Between the three of you, the fight for air time is intense.
Everything is learned and shared in that small circle of three, sometimes too much.
In some sleepy Georgia town, five houses away from each other, you and Riley spent your entire childhoods not meeting until basic.
Kismet, Riley grinned between mouthfuls of a macaroni and chili MRE that he traded for. That green sucker had no idea what he was getting into with Riley’s chicken a la death.
The pair of you, southern belles, you’d joked. Attended the same Sunday service, learned how to ride a bike on the same stretch of asphalt, enrolled in the same high school but different years. Riley lost his virginity to your older sister in the back of his dad’s wood paneled station wagon. You remember she complained about a cum stain on her favorite skirt around that same time.
Too much? you ask with a widening smirk at Sam’s grimace.
The two of you are so close, Sam can only be grateful for how easily you’ve let him fall into place by your sides. As welcoming, as kind and as warm as you are, in those early years, Sam can’t help feel an outsider sometimes.
You and Riley are so so close.
He’s sure he’s only seen you guys separated by bathroom breaks and sleep. An inordinate amount of time side by side. Fond smiles come often and effortlessly. Only ever fully at-ease in each other’s vicinity. You’re left handed and Riley’s right handed and your elbows always knock when eating. Which seems purposeful because once, when Sam suggested you just switch your normal places at the table, he was met only with blank stares and shrugs. And when the three of you walk across the airfield together, Sam naturally has to fall back slightly because he’s pretty sure you and Riley are tethered together with an invisible string, footfalls in sync. Your right leg in time with his, strides equal.
He’s not sure he’s met a pair of friends ever more suited to each other.
So, are you guys, like, together? Sam asks Riley hesitantly one night when you’ve gone to speak with some other officers. The pair of them lay on their backs on the rocky ground, gazing up at the clear expanse of stars. The new addition to your little merry band of friends tries to appear casual when asking. But really, it’s been nagging at him for months now.
It’s a valid question.
You and Riley are almost abnormally close for two people that have only known each other for a couple of years. Sam’s never seen anyone, not even his disgustingly in love for 30 years parents, so attached. If he were honest, sometimes it’s scary. Uncomfortable.
Mostly, because it’s never been defined. And Sam is, by nature, curious.
Partly, because the things he thinks about you... well, he doubts Riley would appreciate him thinking about his significant other that way. Especially a friend thinking that way.
Riley’s bellowing laugh draws angry hushes from surrounding PJs trying to sleep. He cackles so hard with hands clutching at his abdomen, he practically rolls.
You’ve got it bad, Wilson, is his only reply before getting up to go take a leak.
2005.
Euphoria. That’s the only word Sam can use to describe it. Like sex. Maybe, even better. Up there, in the clouds, where everyone below are just little black dots, his stomach lurches and flips and folds itself over and under. Actually flying, not free-falling and biding his time until he eventually must pull the chord. He’s shaky with it at first. Like a baby on fresh legs, wobbly and awkward. Even still, he’s fucking flying.
Back on the ground, him and Riley gush with it. Joy. Freedom. Ecstasy.
They talk a mile a minute, even though their burning lungs are screaming for them to just breathe. They brush off the medical staff urging them to put on oxygen masks for a few minutes. Can’t, Riley rejects it, too fucking wired.
You’re up next, burning with the need to get yours too.
It all moves so fast. Sam and Riley each in one of your ears, telling you how amazing it feels. How much you’re gonna love it. They watch, chests heaving, hands on hips, as you’re strapped in, take your place 50ft away and nod along to all of the instructions given. Giving you pointers like they’ve been doing this for years. You roll your eyes. The pricks only have an hour of experience each. Though, that’s an hour more than you have, so you listen despite your pride.
You fail. And just as everything you do is, you fail brilliantly.
Sam and Riley watch helplessly as you crumble in the clouds, tumbling in the wind, barreling towards the hard rock and sand beneath their boots. The limp wings thrash in the wind, punching sharp welts into your sides. Your blood curdling scream rips out above, echoing in the valley. They can see you scrambling, panicked brain searching for a fight or flight response. But you can’t do either.
Can’t fly.
Can’t fight the merciless pull of gravity.
You get ahold of yourself long enough to pull the emergency chute at the lowest possible altitude. A heap of nylon lines and cloth on the ground, your impact striking up a cloud of dust.
Their feet can’t move fast enough, rushing to your side, hearts in their stomachs and stomachs in their asses.
Don’t fucking touch me!
Riley’s hand that gently grabs your bicep swiftly retracts as if you’d burned him. You won’t let them help. You just lie there, forehead pressed into the sand, body shaking with adrenaline, pained wails vibrating behind your grit teeth.
Silence except for the sick sound of your brokenness.
More than the acid cuts on your palms and cheek. More than a cracked rib. More than the ugly smattering of red and purple that will appear on your torso later. You mourn what is lost in your failure.
Back on the ground, you gush with it. Wrath. Anguish. Woe.
Sam feels sick beside Riley. Watching you there is the hardest thing he’s ever done. He reminds himself of the careful routine. Don’t mind the blood. Do what he can. And if he can’t, say a prayer. Swallow his vomit. He remembers the taste now.
The prognosis is: you are a no-fly zone.
You barely hear the flurry of words thrown at you, in front of you, around corners when you’re not supposed to hear. Cracked rib. Major contusions to the trunk. Sprained wrist. Can’t handle it. Right side too weak. Six weeks recovery, then return to regular duty. Maybe, you can work on it in PT and try again in 6 months. Not likely. Third prototype destroyed. Only two Falcons.
Weren’t supposed to hear that.
The next few days are eerily quiet. Filled with silent tension, Sam and Riley sending worried glances your way, forcing down winces at your every labored movement. You’ve abruptly walked off at seemingly random points of conversation. You’ve lashed out at Riley when he tries to help a little too much, pushes back against your attitude a little too hard. You’ve retreated. No joking around, no smiling. They have, at least, the clemency to avoid any mention of the Falcon jetpacks in your presence.
When they train, you avoid it like the plague.
The crowds they draw. The hooting and hollering cheers of the other PJs as Sam and Riley defy all odds in the air. The time will come soon, for them to employ the EXO-7 Falcons in an actual rescue. You pray that you aren’t healed by the time the first mission comes.
God, whomever, hears your pleas whispered into the tough canvas of your cot.
Four weeks after your failed flight test, an Apache helicopter goes down in Taliban infested territory. You haven’t been cleared.
Sam walks up on the Chinook, dressed for the first time in his full suit. It would feel so gratifying, had you not been standing there with Riley, heads bowed lowly in short whispers underneath the raucous whirring of the engine.
You haven’t talked to Sam in more than a few words. Only Riley. You only really talk to Riley. Sam has walked in on an abruptly cut off conversation a few times now. Shut out. It burns at him in the middle of the night, keeps him from drifting off in much needed slumber. You and Riley are his people now. Confidants. Friends. Comrades. Family. He wants to be there for you both, but you don’t let him. Just, give her time, she’s upset, Riley had supplied a dejected looking Sam when you stormed away at his advance for the third time.
Now, at his careful approach, you look up and force a tight smile across those lips he sees in his dreams. An awkward, heavy hand on his shoulder that makes his heart clench, Good luck, Wilson.
He’ll still feel it burning through his fatigues hours later.
When they successfully return with the entire crew safe and sound, the base is alive with celebration. A friendly football scrimmage is thrown together by Riley in amber skies of late afternoon, their focused play-calling set behind 50 cent blaring on the boombox.
You’re noticeably absent.
Sam stands outside of your barracks with his hands stuffed in his pockets, uncertain if you’ll even speak to him. You haven’t before. Why would you now? When everyone is happily relishing in something you can no longer be a part of. His boots scuff in the sand as he debates leaving. Letting you alone for the night to surely lament in your loss.
“Shouldn’t you be out there kicking ass, superstar?”
Your face, a familiar smile there that he’s been desperate to see for weeks, evokes an overwhelming sense of guilt in his gut. It was you and Riley from the start. Always you and Riley. The two of you had recruited him. And now he’s taken your place and they’ve left you in the dust.
His return smile comes out more like a grimace without his permission.
The large tent, usually filled to the brim with airmen stacked atop of each other, is empty. Everyone’s either getting chow or at the makeshift field spectating or playing. It’s just you sitting on a makeshift bed on the ground, softly closing the book you were reading when he entered. Sam doesn’t think the two of you have actually ever been alone together. Not like this. No Riley, no one milling about in the background, no rescue mission. The closest thing might’ve been the first time you met. And even then, you hadn’t said anything to each other until Riley joined.
“Honestly,” Sam swallows hard, shaking his head in what looks like a humorous gesture, but really, he’s trying to find his footing again. “How does Riley have so much energy?”
You smile wider and his heart, it fucking aches. For you.
Knees pulled up tightly to your chest, ignoring the sharp pangs in your ribs at the action, you tilt your head softly up at him, “It’s all sugar and tai chi.”
Sam nods, a ghost of a chuckle humming from his throat. He sits on the ground next to you, knees bent, forearms hung over them. Tries not to make the hitch in his breath known when your thighs brush against each other ever so lightly.
“I’m sorry,” he croaks.
You shake your head at the ground, sighing deeply in defeat-- as if it would magically ease the pressure in your temples. “I think I forgot, it’s so easy to forget. But I dunno, all this self-pity and for what? Because I don’t get a cool pair of wings?”
“You’re allowed to be upset,” his hand hovers over your back. Half afraid of hurting you, half afraid of you rejecting him.
Eyes like the cosmos lift to his and you lean back to close the distance for him. The press of his palm over your shoulder is warm, his fingers flexing slightly in the contours of your back. Gooseflesh fanning out from where they indent your skin, hidden beneath the fabric of your shirt.
“My last rescue op, that kid whose lower half was blown to shit?” Sam nods solemnly, he remembers. How could he not? “He couldn’t stop crying about how his girlfriend was gonna break up with his dickless ass. And then he broke into a whole other fit because he didn’t have an ass either,” you laugh humorlessly, “I’m alive and in one peice. I’ve got a sweet ass and a fucking elephant trunk of a dick swinging between my legs.” Sam snorts, can’t help the gap-toothed grin that makes his cheeks ache.
You pause, licking your lips. Sam’s got a smile is like the sun. All warm and bright. The way it feels to bask in it’s glow, a personal beach day, you don’t think you’ve ever been so content to just be looked at.
“I guess, I just-,” brows furrow, struggling to find the words. “You spend months preparing for something, with your best friends, you’re all excited about it, mostly because you’re doing it together. Me. Riley. You. Demented three musketeers,” you smile sadly, a cracking phantom of a thing Sam has come to love. “And then it all goes to shit. So easily slips through your fingers.”
There are tears that you’ll never let fall, but you trust Sam enough to let him see the way your eyes shine with it. The glossy finish of your glum and how it paints you blue.
“I’ve been with Riley since basic. Never been an op where I haven’t had his back and him mine.”
You know. You know you’ll never fly again. No one’s said it outright, but they look at you like a kicked puppy enough for you to get it.
“Will you promise me something, Sam?”
Sam. Sam. Sam. He’s heard his name said a million times in a thousand different cadences, but never like that. Never so soft and honeyed and certain. All at the same fucking time.
“Anything.”
“There are going to be ops for just the two of you that the rest of the unit, that I can’t go on. Will you look after Riley?” You’re so close, practically whispering. Sam could count your lashes if he wanted to. “I love him, but he’s a fucking idiot. Just doesn’t think sometimes.”
Without question. Fervently. For you, “Absolutely.”
And you just listen to each other breathe. In and out. So steady and sure. Content in just the sweet sound of each other, living.
2007.
Hands, calloused from fast-roping down from a helo, splayed out on the contours of his shoulders. Hot and urgent, everywhere and nowhere at once. The emotion in them permeates through his skin-- flooding him, filling him to the brim. Had he always been so empty before? Or had that space always been carved out for your touch? Your eyes are above him, searching, pleading. Lashes fluttering down at his face. Lips falling open in soundless utterances, mouthpiece of the gods. Breathless. His ears are ringing, eyes blinking away that white hot blindness licking at the edges of his consciousness. You’re so beautiful there, rays of sun peeking out behind you, he might pass out.
Wilson, can you hear me?
And then a laugh. Loud and boisterous and Holy shit! You just got your world rocked! Riley beside you, his face a picture of delight, buzzing with adrenaline.
Along with the rapid pops of gunfire and cracks of an AK returning, gentle jingling of hot casings hitting the ground, steady lines of communication running down the line of airmen, Wilson, I need you to confirm that you are okay.
He nods dumbly at your insistence. Remembering suddenly how to breathe when you grab him by the vest and yank him up off the ground. He’d been blown on his back by the sheer force of a screaming mortar impacting the earth nearby. Your smack on his helmet is enough to refocus him, and all attention is back on the vic, packing the wound, applying pressure. You radio in controlled and calm-- GSW to the leg and shoulder, hoist out exfil necessary, popping green smoke on our location.
Helmand is hell. But you grin and bear it so well.
Things have levelled out. The three of you adjust to yet another new routine; much remains the same. The months are filled with morning PT, showers, any and every conversation under the sun shared over chow, a game of Slapjack or Bullshit after the sun’s gone down. Standard combat search-and-rescue, thankfully, for your sake is unchanged. But you have to get used to watching Sam and Riley soar through the sky like it’s what they were born to do. You stick to field medicine when they become something altogether different than PJs. Though, they were never just PJs. And you pretend it doesn’t just ache the tiniest beat when they leave you behind for some confidential mission.
Being the failure is hell. You grin and bear it to keep the pain from spreading to them.
Hours later he finds you pelting the metal floor of the HH-60 Pave Hawk with an unwavering jet stream of water, diluted blood dripping from the sides.
“Any special plans for when you get home?” Sam watches your face as it remains focused on lazily hosing down any memory of a bleeding young Corporal laying slack in your helping hands from the bird.
Six weeks. His tour ends in six weeks. He plans on sleeping-- sleeping hard, sleeping in, sleeping around. Riley joked about Sam burying himself in alcohol and puss, ‘it’s a toss up which addicts anonymous circle he’ll end up in’. Sam laughed and cheered in good fun, but the scent of JP-8 stung his nostrils. You and Riley have three more months left in this tour. Sam doesn’t like to think about the fact that he’ll be home, smelling apple pie and boob sweat, and you’ll be stuck here, sniffing jet fuel; that’s the smell of freedom, airmen say.
“Might take up yoga,” he quips.
Your eyebrows raise slightly, lips spreading into an easy and knowing smile, “Bet you would, you horndog.” Yoga pants, nylon and lycra second skins that hold everything just so, are all the rage all of the sudden.
Sam laughs, leaning against the side of the helicopter with a cheeky smirk. That smirk you know so well now after three years. You count on that smirk. Pray on it. How something so small can bring you so much comfort, impossible to say.
“If you come to LA, I can take you to all the studios. You’d love it.”
Sam Wilson’s always been a social butterfly. The lifeblood of every party. The guy that gets along with everyone. The funny, effortlessly cool guy. He thrives on meeting new people and cracking jokes.
But really, if Sam could do anything when he gets home, it would just be to see you. And Riley, of course. He wants you to come to LA, go to a bar, hide in some corner and just talk. Like you always do. Except, in civvies and heavily lubricated. He’d wait that excruciating month and a half before you’re back stateside too. He’d wait, not so much as think about alcohol, if it meant the three of you could share that first cold one together. You and Riley, you’re family. The first he’s had in a long while.
He can’t help himself. “Will you? Come to LA?”
You smile, so nice and pretty, big and easy, like the one you’d once reserved only for Riley.
2008.
Hands, softened with shea and two months R&R, fisting the back of his shirt so tightly he fears the fabric might disintegrate. Feverish and needy, fingernails digging into his warm skin, leaving ardor shaped crescents in wake of their campaign to conquer his back. Scorched in the spots first touched, soothed by the soft sound of sliding skin.
Panting. Clenching. Burning.
Your eyes squeezed shut, tears pricking at the edges. Lashes, all 359 of them -- he’d counted -- fanning his cheeks. Sweet wetness. Trembling fire. Mouths, hot and urgent, moving against one another. Whiskey tongues, sliding together, worshipping every inch. Lips numb. Teeth clanging. Both chests heaving, humming with moans too gentle and too desperate. You’re so beautiful there, in a bar’s dark and dirty bathroom stall pressing chest, groin, thigh, and leg against him.
Gushing with it: joy, freedom, ecstasy. Overwhelmed by what he swallows from that heavenly spout: wrath, anguish, woe.
You’re so beautiful he might die-- without question, fervently, for you.
2009.
The world works in strange ways. People will pay a 1,000 USD for a mattress that perfectly shapes to the curves of their spines. Commercials demonstrate you can balance a wine glass and simultaneously jump like a giddy kid in a hotel room without any risk of stain-- and for good measure, in the event it does stain, some special formula ensures it’ll come right out. Such strange desires of men. Sam sighs into his pillow-- zero cost, no secret formula. Sand, his mattress covered in 1500 thread count egyptian cotton; rock, his feather pillow that corrects his posture; a heavy coat of dry heat, his comforting New Zealand sheep wool blanket. Riley snores soundly beside, drool dribbling from the right corner of his mouth, chest spluttering in his exhales-- his white noise machine.
He’s never been more comfortable. And in strange ways, he’s glad to be back, just starting his second tour at twenty-seven now, another successful Falcon mission recorded with the capture of Khalid Khandil.
Sam’s almost disgusted with himself. He’s so stupidly content to be there, in the middle of the Afghani desert, sleeping on the ground. As if it’s not a fucking war.
Well, as the world turns.
Do you ever think it’ll be over? you’ll ask one night, a whisper on his lips as soft as the dripping beside you. Never defined, never talked about, but most nights, when sleep evades you, you’ll slip from the barracks to the empty showers. And you’ll sigh in pleasure in time with the echoing splash of leaky faucets.
And Sam has to bite his lips from saying the words ‘God, I hope not’ into your neck.
Stateside, he has a joke of a life. The year in between tours was almost unbearable. He’s supposed to call that land home? It feels more foreign to him now than Afghanistan. A place where people create mattresses with different settings on two sides for maximum comfort.
Strangers see him in uniform and either say ‘thank you for your service’-- which always feels hollow-- or looking like they want to spit on him. Suffocating. He could only breathe the three times you visited him in Los Angeles and the five times he came to Virginia for you. Only felt comfortable there with his face in your thighs, heart and breast in his hand, lips in his teeth.
Here, he has structure. Purpose. Brotherhood. You. In war, he’s important. He’s helping people, not in any misguided, easily skewed fight for freedom and self-righteousness. He’s actually helping people. ‘These Things We Do, That Others May Live’. It’s what PJs do.
In Afghanistan, he gets to fucking fly.
In the US, his wings are clipped and everything feels so dull in comparison.
Eventually, it has to, he’ll murmur back to spare you from his terrible thoughts. You’re so soft and sweet under him, and Sam knows just how much this war tears you apart.
The guilt that plagues you because not everyone can be saved, but everyone should be. You’ve said before that the PJ credo implies death yourself. ‘That Others May Live’. But you’re alive and so many have died beneath your palms despite best efforts. Those trained fingers that sometimes feel useless apart from bringing Sam to bliss.
If you knew how he truly felt, how even if he’s a good man he harbors such selfish thoughts, it would only hurt you more.
So he keeps it to himself and kisses your worries away. Soft pecks at your eyes that never cry but are always on the brink; the tip of your nose that’s become immune to the overwhelming metallic scent of blood; the crease between your brows that screw together in torment; lips, that despite all of the above, smile for Riley and for him.
He’ll hold you so tenderly with strong steady hands, that it’s easy to forget the two of you are pressed together in a shower stall. You seem to have a habit of getting into compromising positions in bathrooms with Sam.
A soft moan of appreciation escapes your lips, just to see that charming gap-tooth grin it draws from him. A taste of his light. So wanting, so desperate for that warm glow that emanates from Sam Wilson, you peel the shirt from his back sticky with sweat. Fingers scrambling to run across the smooth, hot skin there, chasing that tranquil day at the beach that is him even in the middle of a goddamned war. Greedy hands draw silken lines down the length of Sam’s spine, smiling in his mouth at his shuddering. How he leans into your touch reflexively.
You’re drawn tight against him, his arms snaking around the base of your back, your hips flush against his, heels digging into his hamstrings. So close you become almost indistinguishable from him, simply a heap of warm skin and desert camo bracing the shower walls.
A single kiss, languid and saccharine, suddenly turned quick. Sam is urgent in unfastening your top, splaying it open to lay you bare and panting before him. Each snap undone, a breath more labored. Your own hands, fumbling for the belt at his waist, mourning the loss of kissed raw lips against you. Hurried, as if at any moment one of you will perish. And the other, having tasted a body so divine, would simply crumble into dust-- there could never be another that they craved the same. Disappear forever in this desert, to perhaps be stamped down by another set of lovers’ boots. Here, in the sand soaked with your blood, Sam’s sweat, Riley’s tears
A vow taken in the sighs of pleasure quieted by amorous mouths.
If this war ever ends-- and he assured you that it will eventually-- you’ll tell Sam Wilson you love him.
2010.
He’d wished for this, hadn’t he?
To live in War. This ungodly, disorienting flurry of chaos that feigns a sense of order. Mayhem, no matter how many hours ripping apart his muscles to put them back in place in accordance with military regulation, how much firepower there is to decimate enemies. A messy, merciless machine, endless. Running on the energy expelled from eating-- young men chewed up and spat out, shoved back into the hungry mouth, and chewed and spat again. And again. An emulsified puddle of blood and sweat leaking from the bottom.
This, is war. Not fucking in the showers, watching the sunset while playing cards, and trading MREs like it’s elementary school.
Structure. Purpose. Brotherhood -- all of the things Sam craved. It all means jack shit once someone steps on an IED, the distinct crisp sound of AKs firing off, or staring an RPG straight in the eye.
Sam can’t stop looking at the way the blood squeezes through his shaking fingers. Thick and scarlet and slippery, bubbling through the cracks, seeping into the lines of his skin. Unyielding to Sam’s hands desperately clasping at the ripped flesh, trying and failing to apply pressure to the wound. No matter how much pressure he applies, the blood persists. Gushing, oozing, turning black under his palms. Because it’s everywhere and he only has two hands. Why did God make man with only two hands? Why?
Come on, man!
It’s a pathetic sound, the way it rips from his throat, raw and pleading. His arms, trembling so hard they shake the body beneath him too.
Sam removes one hand to pop a yellow smoke outside of the ditch he’d pulled them into, using his teeth to pull the pin from the canister.
He’s whimpering, choking down the sobs he so desperately wants to let out, communicating in broken sentences through the radio. Deaf to the return chatter.
His eyes refuse to leave his bloodstained hands when the Pave Hawk is hovering above, his team of six fast-roping down, quick and methodical in employing care under fire protocol. Four of them stationing themselves at a pole just outside of the ditch, laying suppressing fire.
You’re there, he can feel you rushing forward with your pack already slung over and onto the ground at their sides. But Sam won’t look at you, can’t-- if he sees your face, he’ll lose it.
Moving, but nothing feels like it’s by your own volition. Rather, muscle memory. Flipping up your NVG, your eyes flit over the scene fast, thinking, but not feeling. And somehow, you’re thankful you’re numb at the sight.
You’ve never seen it quite so... he doesn’t look human.
It was just supposed to be a standard op. A marine stepped on an IED, and no one had metal detectors so the normal PJ unit couldn’t land. They were supposed to fly in and out, barely even touch the ground.
And it all got fucked. How had it gotten so fucked?
Helpless. Nothing he could do. Like he was up there just to watch. Squint in the dark night for a body barreling towards the ground. So much like your first flight test. That sickness churning his gut.
Sam. Sam. Sam!
His eyes flit to meet yours wide and white in the dark and just can’t bear it. He careens over to the side, retching this morning’s powdered eggs ugly and loud. Emptied, body too spent, the sobs finally overtake him.
Quickly, you cut open his top, pulling the tattered fabric from where it tangled up with his body. Your hands take up the spot where Sam’s once pressed, pulling out combat gauze with your teeth. Deperately packing until you run out of gauze. It does nothing. The white is quickly stained so red that it just resembles more mutilated strings of flesh.
“Okay,” you breathe, but it does nothing to return the oxygen to your lungs, “okay we need to stabilize the wound, tourniquets”-- the wound, he’s more wound than whole-- “and I need someone on chest compressions.”
You’re met with stares. Seven red-rimmed eyes, just staring as the very fluid of his life drains from him, body going cold under your hands warm, soaked in his blood. The only thing holding him, all mangled chunks of burnt tissue, together is you.
“But-”
“But what?”
But, it was an RPG. So what? We’re fucking PJs, aren’t we? But, he’s lost too much blood. We’ll do a transfusion. But, he’s dead.
“Just do it!”
No one has the heart to stop you.
You work over Riley’s corpse for the entire ride to the hospital. They have to rip you from him on arrival. Because he’s dead. And you’ve just spent an hour elbow deep in a mess of blood and guts that feel like your own, exhausting yourself-- keeping nothing alive but your own sanity.
Riley’s a pair of boots, an M16, a helmet, and two shiny dog tags clenched in your fists.
That’s it.
The rest of him was put back together as best they could, shoved in a pine box shrouded in stars and stripes, and sent off to Georgia. He’ll be received by his parents, two little brothers, three nieces, and his dog. They’ll write about him in the paper, a hero he’ll be called-- when really, he was a dumbass that got dinked by a rocket.
He’d enjoy the fame in your small town.
Idiot.
Dropped on his head as a baby.
As you squeeze the dog tags hanging from his M16, so do you squeeze a tear from your eye. A warm thing running down your left cheek that feels just like Riley’s blood in your palm.
Sam’s behind you, head bowed low, maroon beret in his hands. The amount of times he’s said sorry, some blubbery, some frustrated, some murmured in your hair, some screamed at you.
You’re both raw.
Hands scrubbed with soap, but stained Riley red.
Those showers have been tainted now with the fresh memory of pink streams circling the drain. Where once you found yourself lost in lust, now, in misery. Riley in your hands disappearing into the pipes, into nothing forever.
“My tour’s up in three months,” Sam watches you carefully as you release the silver tags imprinted with Riley’s information. You stand and face him, wiping away that traitorous tear. “I’m going to leave active duty.”
When he was twenty, and the world was bleeding fresh scarlet, he’d hardly imagined he’d be retiring at thirty. But twenty seems so far now, just as the aftermath of 9/11. Now, the blood has caked into a mountain of pain, dried brown. Revenge, and then some.
He enlisted for patriotism, duty, selflessness. He stayed for you and Riley, for flying.
He can’t stay anymore-- can’t see you die too.
"You’re retiring?” your cloudy stare, brows pulled together, eat at him, “Okay.”
Okay. Sam never tried to guess what you’d say, but ‘okay’ somehow seems like the only thing that would ever make sense on your lips. So soft and simple. You. Always supportive, always sure.
You nod with a gentle smile, and while he doesn’t know where you’re headed-- somewhere that’s not Riley’s makeshift shrine-- Sam trails closely behind. Partially because he has more to say, but mostly, because he’s bound to you now. His chest is tethered to yours, feet instinctively falling in line. He heels, like a dog. For you.
The barracks are empty for chow again. Neither of you are hungry. Meals are different without Riley.
So familiar, the two of you sitting side by side on the ground, knees bent, forearms resting on them, thighs brushing. Alone together.
Sam has ocean eyes. Warm brown eyes that look like the ocean. They’re still on you but they move. You’ve never noticed. How they swell and glimmer, so constant yet always in motion-- pure in how he allows himself to live so freely. Going with whatever flow his heart takes him: dropping out of college and enlisting; punching ignorant airmen; and giggling like a girl at the feeling of flying. Making promises you both know he has no control over. Kissing you in a bar because he can’t take the longing for a second more. Leaving the Air Force because it’s getting in the way of his light. Even if it means giving up flying.
Sam slips his hand in yours, so warm and soft, his squeeze, a plea.
“Come with me.”
You’ve never met a person who lives like him.
You laugh, fondly. Sam Wilson is so earnest in almost everything he does.
“Can’t.”
So tempting. You remember now, how close those words once were to falling from your tongue. I love you. It seems pointless to say now, he’s leaving, you’re staying.
“Come on, don’t be a martyr.”
Like Riley, he says without ever needing to flex his vocal chords that way.
Morbid as it may be, you’d be glad to die like Riley. He always believed in the cause more than either of you. He was dumb and goofy, but he truly believed in it. All of it. You’ve never been so bound by an unearthly force like that-- religion, ideology, patriotism.
Must be nice, Riley mused, not having to answer to God. No, it really isn’t. It’s... lonely. You want to try your hand at it now. Might do you some good. You’re looking at another two years, or whenever your tour is up, alone now. Why not fuck around and find some higher power? God, the PJ creed, macaroni and chili MREs. You’ll figure it out.
“Eventually, it has to end. Right?” It’s his own words. You knew he never believed them. And neither do you now, really. “So I’ll see you then.”
Or in a pine box.
Ocean eyes are wet with his sorrow. You are so lovely. Love. He loves you. He thinks he might’ve loved you from the moment he first heard your velvet voice. Fuck off. So lovely. Sam kisses you, and the waves have come to drag you out to sea. If he could, he’d beg you to come home in his riptide.
Wherever that is.
2012.
A Goliath building with tall glass windows that turn sunbeams into rainbows with rows upon rows of fresh tulips surrounding. Brilliant yellows and oranges-- like poppy field sunsets in Afghanistan. In the center of the free world. So much meaning there now behind what it means to fight for freedom. No place knows it quite like this house of warriors. This is a place of healing. Of mending brains put in a blender, frozen in some eagle shaped mold, and then thawed out with guns in their hands and a burning vendetta to satisfy.
Sam Wilson is thirty-one now, and remains a man of routine.
He wakes to darkness. Unfolds himself from the tight ball he’d curled into at some point. On the floor. Again. Sam gives himself just five minutes to lay blinking at white walls painted 5 am blue, bleary eyed birds just starting up their morning songs.
And then he’s up. His teeth are brushed, sneakers laced up, keys thrown into the pocket of his shorts. Sam runs along the Potomac with the familiar soft pink aura of dawn crawling along the horizon. Around the Washington Monument, past the Lincoln Memorial, down Pennsylvania Ave.
He feels so small among those giant monoliths of the land of the free. Not purple mountain majesties, but the marble Hill.
Sometimes, he feels you and Riley running beside him, like all those years ago bright and early for 6 A.M. PT-- wearing ankle high socks, grey t-shirts with white wings splayed across the chest and those little navy shorts Riley complained crushed his balls.
God, he misses Riley.
He misses you too.
In college, Sam was a philosophy major of all things. He studied questions of human nature while picking up ‘cerebral chicks’.
A decade later, the questions he once pushed away have all come up again. It all seems so important now.
When he closes his eyes he sees your smile, yes, but he sees fire and smoke too. Like the rubble of the Twin Towers, his memories of war are shrouded in destruction.
Sartre said, Once you hear the details of victory, it is hard to distinguish it from defeat.
So much cost, tangible and not. Cities riddled with bullet holes and missile craters, conquered and hailed as a successful operation so long as it forces the Taliban back. Beautiful landscapes marred with IEDs and shrapnel which will make the Americans wish they never step foot in Afghanistan. Invisible things too, like a mass grave of men, women, and children-- some military, some civilian. Glass shards of minds, not broken, but cracked.
Sam is bleeding. Veterans are bleeding. Everyone is bleeding.
The puddle of blood and sweat at the bottom of that machine, fathomless.
He ends up in D.C., staring up at that Goliath building with the scent of fresh spring tulips in his nostrils-- Department of Veterans Affairs. He needs help and he needs to help. Post-traumatic stress disorder is such a big name, and he never fully understands his meeting. What he does know: sleeplessness, irritability, paranoia, numbness, waking nightmares.
Healing is a process, but Sam’s doing it now. Himself, through others.
Things are getting better.
He’ll never be completely whole, but the circle helps. ‘It’s a toss up which addicts anonymous circle he’ll end up in’, Riley joked. Sam laughs up at the sky, his dumbass friend was probably sporting a smug smirk wherever he is.
This morning Sam is chipper, today is a good day. He smiles wide at the girl at the front desk; she’s pretty and shy and always tucks her hair behind her ear when he’s flirting. Sam snags a classic glazed from the box of free donuts from Astro and it hangs from his mouth as he goes about setting up for a meeting. Unfolding chairs, he arranges them in a comforting position. In a circle, everyone is equal-- no one is alone or an outsider.
And then he waits with a welcoming smile as everyone filters in. Some are regulars and he’ll exchange ‘how are you’s. Some are new and uncomfortable so he gestures to an open chair and says ‘Welcome’ with that beach day grin. Soothing, calm, comforting.
Sam listens so well.
For as much as he likes to talk, listening is sometimes better. He only speaks when he’s sure they’re done and comfortable, offering what has helped him best.
Adjusting to civilian life is hard. No one expects how hard it truly is, because it’s never talked about it. They’re supposed to push themselves to the extremes of human experience and then come back as if any of that was normal. As if they didn’t just come from a war, that still persists. Even if by a different name, in a different place, against a different group, it persists. And no one ever tells them how hard it is to just sit there, surrounded by friends and family where you’re supposed to be happiest, and act like it’s not burning you from the inside out.
But it’s important to remember the good things too, he’ll tell them. When the dark shadow threatens to swallow them up whole, there is always light. It’s important to know that and make sure they stay separate.
Like Astro donuts and playing soul music all the time and showering without a dozen people next to you. And the freedom of getting to do whatever the hell they want.
Sam tells them, if it makes them happy: do it.
“You’ve made quite the reputation for yourself, Sam Wilson.”
He’s seeing you, looking just the same as the last. With that smile, that’s only his now-- nice and pretty, big and easy. You are beautiful, so beautiful Sam wonders how he’s survived so long without seeing it.
His own smile falters when his ocean eyes travel from your face.
You are exactly the same, except, you’re missing a few pieces.
Your left arm, which he expects to lead down to those calloused hands somehow impossibly soft, is cut off abruptly, cruelly, above the ghost of your elbow. The left hand, your dominant one, that he had known the comforting feel of on his shoulder, burning through the cloth of his uniform, gone. The hand that breathlessly trailed down his torso, tickling and seducing, leaving goosebumps in its wake, missing.
He’ll ask another time. You’ll tell him of more casualties of war, this one visible, and of others invisible.
But for now, he’s rushing at you, and it’s still not fast enough to quiet his screaming heart. He grabs you, doesn’t care if there are still people lingering from the end of the meeting, and really kisses you. And your right hand still finds its way to his torso.
I love you, breathless. It was never pointless to say.
No, the war is not over, maybe not even eventually, but you’re here in D.C. wrapped in his waves, alive.
He’ll never be completely whole, but you get him damn near close to it.
51 notes
·
View notes
Text
Twas the Day before Christmas
(Catch up on the first three Parts Here)
Part Four of A Very Valtorian Christmas
The kitchen at the manor in Valtoria was a bustling hive of activity. Cakes and pies were being made for the meal on Christmas day, and the warm scents of cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger and vanilla filled the air. Standing at the long marble island, Hana and Kate are rolling out sugar cookie dough and cutting out shapes to bake.
Hana picks up a star-shaped cutter, "I love stars, they're my favorite shape of Christmas cookie."
"I'm partial to snowflakes myself." Kate says, laying the cut shapes carefully on the baking tray.
Kate feels the baby move and lays a hand on her belly. "What about you little one? Will you be a snowflake lover like Mommy or a star lover like your Daddy and Auntie Hana?"
"Speaking of Daddy, I wonder how Drake and Maxwell are getting along with their mission to spread Christmas cheer." Hana says as she hands off the tray of cookies to one of the cooks.
Kate giggles as she rolls out more cookie dough, "I'm sure they're fine. I know that Maxwell can be unpredictable at times, but Drake assured me that he would let him help in whatever way Maxwell as an elf can. I'm proud of Drake for taking on the responsibility of playing Santa this year. I can imagine all of the smiling faces of the little children."
"I'm still trying to get over seeing Drake in a Santa suit. Shockingly he wears it well. Who knew Mr.Grumpy would make such a good jolly old elf."
Kate swipes a bowl of gum drops as the bakers shoo her and Hana out of the kitchen. There was still much to be prepared, and having the Duchess and her Lady friend in the way was slowing them down.
The two women giggle like school girls as they make their way back to the Great Room. "Well I guess that officially takes us off baking duties. Now what?"
Hana links her arm through Kate's, grabbing a red gumdrop out of the bowl, "Any gift wrapping left to do?"
Kate shakes her head, "No, all done."
Hana takes in the lavish decorations around the Great Room as they sit down on one of the sofas to relax. "Thanks so much for inviting me to your home for Christmas Kate, it really is a nice place to spend a holiday. And you and Drake have really captured the spirit of the season in your beautiful decorations."
Kate smiles and reaches out to squeeze Hana's hand. "You're always welcome here sweety, and Drake and I wouldn't dream of letting a friend spend Christmas alone. I'm so glad to have you, Maxwell and Nicholas here. You're part of the family."
Hana wipes away a tear, "You're the best, Kate."
Pulling her friend into a hug, Hana giggles as the baby belly ends up in the way. "And our family is growing too. I can't wait to meet your sweet little baby."
Kate looks down and smoothes her hands across her belly in a gentle hug of her own, "Can you believe my child is going to be King or Queen someday?"
"You and Drake must be over the moon excited about being parents. This little royal heir is going to be born into such a world of love. Between all the attention from Mommy and Daddy, plus their Aunts and Uncles. I truly believe they're blessed."
"We're both excited and a little nervous, as any first time parents would be. But we also know we've no shortage of help if we need it."
"Have you picked out names yet?"
"We've talked about it, but haven't narrowed down a list."
Hana frowns, "I suppose it's a little complicated to pick out baby names when there's going to be so much importance attached to it."
Kate's eyebrows shoot up, "Exactly! Knowing that the title of King or Queen is going to be forever associated with their first name is a heavy burden on my mind."
"Have you thought about picking a name from ancient Cordonian history and giving it new life?"
Kate smiles, "Ooh that sounds like a great idea. It would give our son or daughter a connection to history and we can tell them stories about who they've been named after. Plus where I'm not from here it's a way to show the people that I'm embracing their Country as my own."
Hana glances around the Great Room, "Does the manor have a library? Surely there's a Cordonian History book around here."
"We don't have a library, but there are plenty of books in the study."
Hana helps Kate up off of the sofa. "Cool, what do you say we score a plate of cookies and some hot chocolate and head down to the study and research some cool baby names?"
Kate tucks her arm through Hana's and gives it a squeeze. "I'm so glad you're here Hana. Do you have to go back to the Palace tomorrow? Because I'd love it if you could stay longer."
Hana grins at her best friend, "Wouldn't I get in the way of you and Drake having time alone?"
Kate laughs, "As sweet and comforting as Drake can be, he can be a bit too helpful sometimes and I have to shoo him away to do something else. I know he means well, but I can tell he gets bored just sitting around while I sit and read or take a nap. And there's only so many romantic comedies on Netflix he can suffer through before he just pretends to take a nap or finds a game to play on his phone."
Hana scoffs, "Well that won't do. You need another girl around to binge watch stuff with you and to gush over cute baby things online."
"Exactly! Drake doesn't have a clue about all the adorable baby clothes, toys and other gear there is out there. I want my nursery to be fully stocked."
"Do you think Drake will change diapers? Or if he knows how?"
"He said he was willing to learn how to do all of that stuff, but I guess we'll have to wait and see."
"Hasn't he helped Savannah with Bartie before?"
"He has, but beyond holding his nephew and chasing him away from things he shouldn't touch I don't know what else he's helped her with."
After stealing a plate of cookies from the kitchen along with two glasses of milk. Hana and Kate head for the study.
As they pass by Kate's office, they can here Nicholas on the other side of the door, his voice is raised and he's talking to someone.
Hana frowns, "What's going on in there? I was wondering where Nicholas was hiding."
"Oh you know Nicholas, you can take the King out of the Palace but he can't leave the Crown and everything that goes along with it behind. He asked me if he could use my office as a base of operations while he's here in Valtoria. I'm hoping he takes a break at some point from running the country and enjoy the Holidays."
The main Study is in the room next to Kate's office, and as the women enter Kate turns on the lights. Hana sets the tray of cookies and milk down on the large oak desk.
"So as the Duchess, you have an office. Does Drake have an office too?" Hana asks, picking up a cookie.
Kate smiles as she leans her hip against the desk and folds her arms. "Well, it's not quite an Office for business anymore. The room next to this one used to be the Duke's office, but Drake had it converted into his own personal man cave."
Hana giggles. "Let me guess, it's upholstered in leather, dark wood and smells of whiskey?"
"Pretty much. He's basicly turned it into his own pub. With a bar and a pool table. Although he still calls it his Office."
Hana looks at the array of bookshelves lining the walls of the Study. "Hmm, where do we start. Do you think Drake would be upset if we start researching names without him?"
Kate shrugs, dunking a cookie into her glass of milk. "I think he would just be happy to have a list to pick from."
Hana runs her fingers along the spines of the books, "So how far back into history should we go? There are books here going back to the 17th century."
"Is there one that chronicles the nobility from way back then til now?"
Hana picks two books, "Yes, two actually."
Kate clears a spot on the desk for the two books. "Cool, let's take a look."
Hana and Kate settle into the desk chairs and each grab a book. Kate pulls a couple of notepads from the drawer and hands one to Hana, along with a pen.
"Ok Hana my love, you pick me out some nice girl names and I'll look at names for boys. And we'll take note of any interesting facts about these people as we go."
Nicholas opens the door to the adjoining office, "I thought I heard voices in here. What are you Ladies up to?"
Kate waves him over, "Welcome your Majesty! Just the royal brain we need to help us out."
Nicholas grabs a cookie from the plate and leans over to see the open books on the table. "Doing research?"
"Well kinda, we're looking up baby names." Hana says from behind her glass of milk.
"I don't want to impose my opinions on Kate or influence her in any way. She made it clear this is her and Drake's child first, and heir to the throne second. If it got back to Drake that any of my suggestions made the list I don't think he'd be very happy."
Hana and Kate exchange a worried look, "Well I'm sure Drake wouldn't protest that much would he? You know Cordonian history better than we do. I'd hate to pick someone bad out of history to name my child after."
Nicholas nods, "Well I can help steer you away from repeating that kind of history for sure."
"Ok good, pull up a chair."
Hana looks through ancient family trees from the 17th century, "So are you partial to any letter of the Alphabet for name starters?"
Kate blushes slightly, "Well I do have a soft spot for names starting with K. Or containing the letter K. Since Drake and I both have that in common. I figured it could be our new Walker family tradition."
Hana smiles, "That would be nice, plus it would help narrow things down."
.........
Drake and Maxwell opened up the back doors of the SUV and climbed in. Pulling off his Santa hat, Drake settled back against the seat wearily.
“Take us home, Preston.”
In the front seat Preston nods and makes eye contact with Drake in the rearview mirror, “Very well, Your Grace.”
Beside Drake in the backseat, Maxwell's tank of exuberant Christmas energy is still half full. If it weren’t for the requirement to wear a seat belt for safe travelling, he'd be bouncing all over the car like a rubber ball. Between Drake and Maxwell there's a large bag of candy on the seat. They're leftovers from the parade, and Maxwell has already had more than his share. Drake pulls it over closer and throws his hat over top to discourage Maxwell from eating anymore of it. Who needs little children to worry about when you have a Maxwell?
Maxwell looks like he might explode if he doesn't talk about his day, so Drake reluctantly engages him to let him let off steam. “Ok Maxwell, out with it. Did you have fun today?”
Maxwell beams, “Yes! This was the best Christmas adventure ever. Bertrand never lets me do this sort of thing. Now that he has Savannah, Bartie and now dear old Dad to keep him busy he has even less time for doing fun stuff.”
The warmth inside of the SUV is starting to get to Drake and he struggles his way out of his Santa coat, Max grabs a sleeve to help him get free of it. “Best adventure ever, huh? So what was your favorite part of today?”
“Seeing all the kids happy faces when I handed them candy canes and presents. They were so excited. What was your favorite part?”
Drake looked at Maxwell and thought about his answer. He didn't want to admit to Maxwell that the happy children were his favorite part too. Every smiling, rosy cheeked, grateful child reminded him that he was going to be a father himself soon. That warm, emotional feeling he felt every time one of the kids said: “thank you Santa..” had nearly brought him to tears.
Oh my God what's happening to me? I’ve gotta maintain my tough, grumpy guy persona in front of Maxwell or he’ll tease me like the schmuck that he is.
“Uh, sure the kids were great, but driving that sleigh was definitely the highlight of my day. Three horse power doesn’t mean shit as far as motors go, but with three actual horses? Damn that sleigh flew.”
Maxwell frowns, “But the drive to town was terrifying. I fell off, remember?”
Drake gives Maxwell a reassuring pat on the shoulder, “Well that part sucked, sure, but after you got back on the sleigh and sat up front with me; you had fun right?”
“Yeah, I guess so.” The corner of Maxwell’s mouth turns up in a smirk as he shrugs his shoulders.
“The children really did seem to enjoy the sleigh’s jingling bells, and the fancy horses.”
Drake gives Maxwell a gentle punch to the shoulder, “See? That’s why the sleigh was my favorite part. Besides, I couldn’t have handed out all of those candy canes by myself. You did good today, Max. Heck, if we do this thing again next year maybe you can play Santa, and I’ll …”
Maxwell’s face lights up, “O..M..G, could I really play Santa?”
Drake nods, scratching at the itchy white beard on his cheek. “Well sure you could. But just let somebody else drive the sleigh for you OK?”
Maxwell grins at Drake, “And would Daddy Drake be my elf helper?”
“Nope, not a chance.”
°•~⭐❄🎅🍭🎄🎁🏰~•°
Continued in ^♡^ Part Five ^♡^
25 notes
·
View notes
Note
Hiiii! Good luck on your blog! May I request a sfw scenario about Jushiro finding out that it was his s/o that was once his secret admirer and left him love letters? And they're super embarrassed about it because they're not seen as the lovey-dovey type?
Gaah, Jushiro, my love! What a wholesome ask, of course I can do that! He’s second only to Shunsui in my eyes, but it’s a close second. Oh, this was so cute. I could feel myself melting into a puddle when I was done! Thank you for the well wishes! I really hope you like it!
It had taken months of careful planning–of placing notes where Captain Ukitake would find them, of roping his lieutenant into helping you hide them, and telling you when he would be out on an errand. Each time you left a letter, it was usually accompanied by a delicate lily of some kind (it varied in color, depending on the content of the letter), and was tied with a ribbon of your favorite color. Perhaps that was what gave you away…
In the end, the letters, and flowers, and general sneakiness weren’t necessary. Nearly caught in the act of leaving yet another love note on the captain’s desk, he’d arrived just after you’d entered his office. Startled–that damn old man and his talent for hiding his spirit energy–you hid the note in the sleeve of your shihakusho as you spun around, flashing him a sheepish smile. You had apologized, stating that you thought he was inside, but realized a little too late that that wasn’t the case. Being the huge sweetheart that was he, he waved it off like no big deal, pinning you with that gorgeous warm smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine tenderness, and your heart melted into a puddle of goo.
He was just too much, all smiles and kindness, a contrast to your slightly rougher exterior. Hell, the love letters weren’t even really your thing, but the thought of being upfront and blunt about your feelings made you so nervous you thought you would pass out. But looking into Jushiro’s beautiful green eyes, so forgiving and trusting in that moment, you couldn’t keep your feelings bottled up any longer, and they came out in a rush that you weren’t initially sure was decipherable.
“I-I-I like you!” you stuttered out. “Wou–Would you consider having lunch with me?” Color flooded your cheeks instantly, burning, and you couldn’t keep your eyes on him anymore. Your gaze shifted to the floor as you willed it to open up and swallow you whole–it would likely be less nerve-wracking than your current situation.
You could practically feel Jushiro’s eyes boring into your soul, and the gentle shuffle of his feet was much too loud in your red-tipped ears as he stepped toward you. Soft, caring fingers found themselves under you chin, gingerly easing you up. You resisted.
“___,” Jushiro said gently, “would you look at me? Please?”
Eventually you did, after much coaxing, and he happily agreed to your offer. You’d been happy as clams ever since, lunch becoming a near daily commitment, something you both looked forward to. While you remained virtually unchanged, Jushiro was all sweet words, gentle, loving caresses, and smiles when he was with you. Of course you were happy as well, even though you weren’t as verbally affectionate as he was. Your actions spoke for your feelings more than your words, and that was just fine with you both. He appreciated that you doted on him in your own subtle ways. Everything was going great…until today.
When you arrived at the Thirteenth Division barracks, Rukia greeted you as per usual, giving you a knowing wink that you ignored. There was absolutely nothing that could dampen your mood when you were on your way to see Jushiro. You had your lunch in your hands, thinking about how hungry you were as you slid the door to his office open–
To reveal him reading an extremely familiar looking piece of stationary, a ribbon dangling from where his hand gripped the letter. Your eyes widened, already knowing that he had figured it out.. Jushiro was a smart man. Your face flushed red, all the way to the tips of your ears and down your chest, as he turned to you with a knowing smile. You wondered exactly where that thing had popped up from, but couldn’t find an answer.
“Darling, were these from you?” he asked, holding your letter a little higher. Damn that thing! You should have trashed when you got the chance, but you had given so much thought and care into the thing that it would’ve been a waste, even if Jushiro never read it.
Well, now that he had, and he knew your secret, there was no turning back. That didn’t make you any less embarrassed, however. You gulped, but couldn’t form any words, and your mouth opened and closed with a snap. Jushiro looked over the moon.
“’I have a feeling that I can comprehend, In my deepest thoughts you’re more than just a friend… … I’ll love you tomorrow, I’ll love you today. I’ll love you forever, And forever always.’ Did you write this for me?” Oh, damn. When he looked at you like that, like you were the most precious thing to exist in this world, you couldn’t deny it.
But you would try.
“N-No! That’s not–! It was–! U-Um…”
“Those letters were all from you?” he pressed, still giving you that disarming smile. He eased his way closer to you, careful not to startle you because he knew how you were. Oh, and did he love the look on your face. It was so cute, he didn’t know what to do with himself. Your eyes wide, cheeks a rather impressive shade of pink, lips pursed trying to find your words; it made his heart sing. For your part, you couldn’t look him in the eye, and instead stared at his chest, trying to calm your racing heartbeat.
“I truly enjoyed those letters,” Jushiro murmured. “Every time I found a new one, it would brighten my day. I even kept the flowers until they wilted, because they were special to me.”
Slowly, you brought your gaze back up to his face, and you could have died. His expression was so tender, so full of love that your breath hitched in your throat, and if it were possible your face flushed even darker.
“You’re embarrassed,” Jushiro chuckled. In the next moment, your face was in his hands, and he was giving you softest kiss you thought you’d ever had. “I really should have noticed sooner. The letters stopped coming the day you asked me to lunch, and this ribbon–” he held it up “–it’s your favorite color.”
“W-Well, I–” You looked down again, but Jushiro wouldn’t let you stay that way. He pulled your face back up, nuzzling your noses together, coercing you into answering. “I never intended for you to find out…”
Jushiro blinked. “Why not?”
“Because… It’s embarrassing… It’s not really my thing, you know…”
“But you do feel that way?” He raised an eyebrow. Even though you knew he was teasing, you still panicked.
“Of course I do!” you assured him. Then, quieter, “I wouldn’t have written you those letters if I didn’t…”
You refused to make eye contact while Jushiro pondered you, and you were suddenly wrapped up in another toe-curling kiss that made your knees turn to jelly.
“’Your words touch my heart, Whispers of truth reflections, With fingers of love.’”
You wet your lips with your tongue, gazing up at him, then let out a small laugh. “How long have you been working on that one?”
“Hm… From about when I found your last letter.” He smiled, and wrapped you up in his tight embrace. “By that point, I knew enough that it came to me quite easily.”
“Heh, you’re much better at poetry than I am, then. That poem took me weeks…” Hiding your face in his broad chest, you breathed in his scent as you circled your arms around his torso.
“I love you, ___,” he whispered in your ear.
There was just no end to the cavity-inducing sweetness that was Jushiro Ukitake, and it wasn’t good for your heart, either. That man learned a new way to make you swoon with every passing day.
“I love you, too,” you replied without looking up, holding him a little tighter when he tried to see your face.
“Are you ever going to come out of hiding, my love?” he inquired, gently teasing again.
You shook you head.
“I see…”
Seeing as how you were already dying, he didn’t see the harm in picking you up and walking your lunch date out to the gardens. There, you sat under the tree that overlooked the koi pond, perched in his lap with your face buried in his neck, until your heart was calm enough to handle peering up at his handsome face. The surprisingly sneaky Jushiro stole a kiss from your pouted lips, making the color return to your cheeks once again.
He was going to be the death of you, and you were entirely okay with that.
______________________________________________________________
Credit where credit is due, the poems are not mine. I’m terrible at poetry. The first one is titled “My True Love” by Hailey L. Sturgill. I took only the first and last verses of her poem. The second, the haiku, has no title, and is by someone from twitter with the handle @purelovenergy. Thank you!
#tammi-dawdles#blameitonthebleach#jushiro ukitake#sfw#bleach headcanons#bleach imagines#bleach scenarios#gaaaahh#my heart is mush
491 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
fabianvalencia561
The corrupted au (ttte) :D
chrissenbun
send me prompts or requests pretty please
miasmithart
MiaSmithArt
hscandidgod
Untitled
tv-maroc-hd
Sans titre