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mrcowboydeanwinchester · 1 year

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☀️ on sunshine ☀️

charliedonna fic - 7250 words - rating: M - read on ao3

art by myself and @limbel - view full piece

“The two biggest rays of sunshine this side of the Atlantic,” Dean grins. “It’s fitting you two are finally meeting.”

Charlie knows all too well what it is to smile for everyone but herself. And after months of running across Europe to retrieve the Book of the Damned, she’s grateful for a change of pace when Dean suggests they spend the weekend with Donna and Jody in Sioux Falls. So now it’s spring, Donna is beautiful, and from the second Charlie lays eyes on her she wants to figure out who really lives behind Donna’s sunny smile.

thanks to @magdaclaire for the beta!

Charlie meets Donna for the first time, and is greeted with the widest smile she’s ever seen.

On the drive up, with ABBA playing in the background because Charlie has Dean wrapped around her little finger, Dean had promised a change of scene in Sioux Falls, a change of pace. Getting out of the tense coffin of the Bunker would be good for both of them: it would let Charlie unwind after being on the run for so long and it would let Dean forget, hopefully, about the mark burning its way through his arm.

Jody has a proper backyard, he’d said. Actual sunlight, and some room to breathe. And Donna is stopping by for the weekend, too, so you’ll get to meet her as well. Donna’s awesome, possibly the smiliest person I’ve ever met.

He’d looked over at her then, eyes off the road, fondness rolling off him in a way he always hides when the others are around. Well, maybe apart from you.

So it’s a smile she’s greeted with from Donna now, just as Dean had said. A welcoming, friendly, gorgeous one, as Donna holds open the door and beams hello.

“Hello you two! Jodes, they’re here!” she calls to the hallway behind her, before turning back to them and stepping down to wrap Dean in a warm hug.

“And you must be Charlie,” she grins, disentangling herself from Dean and turning to where Charlie is standing beside him.

“Hi,” Charlie replies, giving her a little wave. The second she does it it feels stupid but Donna returns it easily, before taking Charlie’s wrist lightly and pushing it aside so she can wrap Charlie into a proper hug, just like she had Dean.

Charlie barely has time to consider the feeling of the worn pads of Donna’s finger gracing the skin of her arm before she’s wrapped in her embrace wholeheartedly, everything suddenly the orange of Donna’s flannel.

Donna doesn’t just smile, then, she follows through with affection. How much of Charlie’s body can she feel in the lack of space between them? She probably thinks nothing of it, if she introduces herself through hugs full of so much love. So Charlie should think nothing of it either.

So Charlie thinks nothing of it as Donna releases her again, and leaves her cooling in the afternoon spring air.

“Didn’t want to crush you or anythin’,” Donna chuckles, motioning to the wrist she’d moved aside what now feels to Charlie like a lifetime ago.

“Yeah,” Charlie smiles a little breathlessly back. “I get it. You give really good hugs.”

Donna beams at the words, and as light seems to pour out of her, teeth dappling the rays, Charlie suddenly understands how a smile can be equated to sunshine.

“Oh, you really think so? Well, I try my best. And you know you’re not too bad yourself - I find folk like you who are all wiry and strong are always the best huggers.”

Charlie is saved from trying to find an acceptable response to that by a fond voice coming from further within the house.

“Donna, don’t tell me you’re leaving our guests on the doorstep again!”

A woman steps into the light of the doorway just as Donna turns a bashful look towards Charlie and Dean.

“Jody,” Dean greets her warmly, taking Jody’s cue and stepping up into the house, dropping his and Charlie’s bags to wrap her in a real bear hug.

Charlie lingers on the step slightly, not sure there’s enough room in the front corridor for her.

“Come on in, Charlie,” Donna says quietly with a nod of her head beckoning Charlie inwards. She shuffles herself to the side so Charlie can walk properly into the house. The doorway is still small, though, and Dean and Jody are still hugging, so Charlie only really has space to press herself up against Donna to squeeze inside.

As she passes, Donna’s breath heats the side of her neck, the ghost of the slightly awkward smile Donna lets out condensing itself onto her skin. They were closer when they hugged, setting themselves against each other with a friendly warmth. But this, somehow, feels more intimate.

Charlie slips past and is finally free within the berth of the corridor, with Dean and Jody moving further up and taking the bags with them. Donna still lingers next to her.

“And this is Charlie,” Dean says, gesturing between Charlie and Jody. “Jody, Charlie; Charlie, Jody.”

“Lovely to meet you,” Jody says, squeezing Charlie’s hand in a hearty handshake. Her demeanor is slightly rougher than Donna’s, maybe, but her eyes are still sparkling with camaraderie.

“And you,” Charlie replies as she flashes a smile. “Dean says such awesome things about both of you. He could barely speak about anything else the whole drive here.”

The women turn to look at Dean with a fondness he doesn’t appear to really know what to do with.

“Oh, you know I love you all,” he huffs, eyes cast down to where he’s scuffing his feet along the carpet. He clears his throat and looks up, only to make a beeline to the bags and the stairs. “Where’s the best place to put these?”

“I’ll show you,” Jody says, exasperated smile evident in her voice. She grabs a bag out of Dean’s hand and slings it over her own shoulder before heading up the stairway, closely followed by Dean.

Charlie is left standing next to Donna in the hallway, the space around them suddenly feeling abundant and empty. Empty, in particular, of reasons for them to be standing so close together.

Out of politeness more than any real want, Charlie reshuffles herself to lean against the wall, facing Donna. It isn’t a long time that passes, then, but enough for Charlie to take Donna in properly. She’s got an orange and pink flannel on - lesbian colors, Charlie’s brain helpfully and needlessly supplies - tucked loosely into sturdy bootleg jeans that cling to her wide thighs. The seams are stitched in yellow and look almost ready to burst.

The fire that that image starts up in the furnace of Charlie’s belly is fierce and quickly ignored. She lets her gaze glide away like she used to do with the windows of lingerie stores at the mall.

Donna brushes a stray strand of wavy hair that’s fallen out of her low ponytail behind her ear, and it draws Charlie’s eyes back to her again. So far, Donna hasn’t stopped looking at her. She shoots Charlie a small smile.

This silence, after the bustle of their arrival, should be awkward. Maybe it is, a little. But there’s something about Donna that puts Charlie so at ease she doesn’t really mind.

“Would you like a drink?” Donna offers with a smile, gesturing towards what must be the kitchen.

“Sure,” Charlie says back, making sure to shoot her a grin.

Donna pads through to the kitchen with Charlie in tow, flicking on the coffee machine at Charlie’s nod.

“So did you arrive today too?” Charlie asks.

“Oh yeah, drove down this morning. Got here in time to have lunch with Alex before she went out for the weekend with her friends.”

“Alex is Jody’s kid, right?”

Donna smiles. “Yeah, basically. Although she’s feelin’ more and more like mine too, what with me spending so much time down here recently. It’s like I live here as much as Stillwater now.”

Suddenly, the orange and pink flannel doesn’t seem as irrelevant as Charlie first thought. Donna driving for hours to live with Jody and a kid who feels like her own - maybe she’s unavailable in a completely different way than Charlie expected.

And as much as she loves Dean, it’s definitely the kind of thing he’d neglect to tell her.

“Oh, are you and Jody together?”

Donna turns to her with a chuckle. “Oh, no, nothing like that. That’d be cute, but, uh. Jodes is just teachin’ me how to hunt and we’re good friends, is all.” She pauses, before adding, “not that I have any problems with it. At all.”

Her last words come out glittering, more meaningful than the rest. Charlie isn’t oblivious, but it’s not enough to go on, either. Not for the first time, Charlie mourns how girls in bars are so much easier to work out than any of her friends.

Again tucking her hair behind her ear with one hand, Donna passes Charlie’s mug to her with the other. It’s handpainted, by the looks of it, with swirls of pink, purple and blue decorating the sides.

Charlie admires it before taking a sip of the coffee. It’s horrific; she doesn’t like coffee. Donna made it for her though, so it tastes a little better than normal. “It’s a pretty mug, did you paint it yourself?”

“I sure did!” Donna says proudly. “Me, Jody and Alex went out for a girls pottery painting night. Had a real nice time painting mine, but Alex’s is by far the best.”

She shows off the mug she’s drinking her own coffee from, which has three recognisable little figures painted around the sides. Jody, Alex and Donna are labeled neatly above each one.

Charlie whistles. “Wow, she is good. And mini you is so cute!”

Donna smiles, the upward curves of her lips then hidden as she takes a sip of her coffee. Her eyes linger on Charlie until they don’t, until Charlie realizes she should probably glance away too.

“What about you,” Donna asks with a satisfied sigh after her drink of coffee, “you got anyone?”

Charlie shakes her head. She steadies herself too, for what she’s about to tell Donna, like she always does. It’s still instinctual, universes later. “No, not anymore. I traveled with this girl, Dorothy, for a while, but I had to come home in the end and she wanted to stay out there, so.”

That’s the simplest way of telling it, she’s figured.

“That’s rough, I’m sorry,” Donna says, face falling in sympathy. Charlie reckons it’s the first time she’s seen Donna look anything other than joyful since she arrived.

The smile flickers back a second later though, and Donna nods encouragingly. “But hey, it just means there’s somebody else right here who’s perfect for you. Everything’ll work out.”

There’s an assurance in her words that unearths Charlie a little. She is suddenly aware that with Donna, she doesn’t really know where she stands. But Donna is looking at her like she really is hopeful for Charlie. In the breezy light of the kitchen, maybe Charlie can invest in a little blind optimism too.

“You really believe that?” she asks, quirking an eyebrow.

Donna shrugs. “I have to.”

There’s something more to Donna, Charlie estimates, with the fixed determination in her eyes and the supposed levity of her smile. She’s holding on.

The heavy footsteps of Dean and Jody plodding down the stairs and across to the kitchen break the hush of their conversation and the intensity of their gazes. Donna jumps into cheery action, offering coffee to Dean and Jody.

“You two getting along?” Dean asks, happily accepting the mug Donna passes to him.

Donna smiles at Charlie. “Oh, you betcha! She’s a real sweetie.”

A heat spreads across Charlie’s cheeks, one she knows will be fluorescent against the weedy paleness of her skin. Damn ginger genes. She takes another sip from her coffee, hoping to hide her flush with her mug. She glances over to Donna as she does so though, and shoots her the warmest look she can muster in exchange.

“The two biggest rays of sunshine this side of the Atlantic,” Dean grins, oblivious to it all. “It’s fitting you two are finally meeting.”

“Keeping two old grumps like us smiling is quite the feat, but you two sure do it,” Jody heartily concurs, raising her mug slightly as if in toast.

Donna ducks her head and chinks her mug with Jody’s, as Charlie chuckles, reaching up to mess with Dean’s hair. “Well, someone has to.”

“And you do it brilliantly,” Dean says softly, the tenderness of his words completely undermined by his forceful batting away of Charlie’s hand.

“We left your bag on yours and Dean’s bed by the way, Charlie,” Jody says. “You’re in Alex’s room and she has a double, but there’s no room for a mattress on the floor.” She gives her an apologetic grimace. “I hope that’s alright.”

“You’re welcome to stay in my room if you’d rather,” Donna chimes in, looking towards Charlie. “It’s just one bed still, but it’s a little bigger.”

It’s a kindness, another obvious example of the way kinship just seems to stream out from Donna and light the surroundings. But it’s also a dangerous game: sharing a bed, sleeping with her. One that never ends well, and that she’ll fall for all too quickly.

The implications of Donna’s suggestion ricochet around Charlie’s head. Dean, on the other hand, is safe and easy, and doesn’t send Charlie reeling when he does something as simple as hold the door open for her.

“Thanks, but I’m sure me and Dean’ll be okay,” she smiles instead.

Donna’s eyes darken for a second, but her kindness doesn’t. “No worries! If he starts getting smelly though, you’re always welcome.”

“Old and smelly,” Dean laments. “Is this all I am to you now?”

“Always,” the three women laugh fondly. Dean just sighs and shakes his head.

Jody collects the now empty mugs of coffee from everyone’s hands and pushes them towards the sink, before gesturing out the window.

“I’ve got some new fruit trees growing in the backyard if you guys wanted to take a look before it starts getting dark?” she asks, much to Dean’s immediate joy.

“Sure!” Charlie agrees, eager just to see something green and alive after the gray and gray and gray of the bunker.

She’d had houseplants in her old apartment, before she had to move. And then move again. And then run across Europe. She misses them now, and she’d tried to petition Dean to get some for the bunker once, before he pointed out there was no sunlight down there. Nothing can live without sunshine, after all.

Sometimes, Charlie thinks that’s why they keep her around.

“Just make sure to say nice things,” Donna chuckles, “Jody’s real protective over those trees of hers.”

Charlie hesitates in her movement towards the door. “You’re not coming?”

Donna shakes her head with a laugh and gravitates towards the sink. “I’ve had the tour already, many times. I’ll stay and clean up.”

She takes the cuffs of her flannel, and unbuttons and rolls the sleeves up in one swift motion, revealing the thickness of her lower arms. The light brown hair which sweeps up them is just visible in the light.

Charlie feels a little dizzy with it.

“As Donna keeps telling me, if you’ve seen my plum trees once, you’ve seen them a thousand times,” Jody says, her chuckle echoing Donna’s.

No one else seems to care about Donna’s forearms, or the way Donna’s fingers deftly tuck the cuffs of her sleeves up in the fold of fabric around her elbow.

“Good job we’re seeing them for the first time then,” Dean grins placidly as he heads out the door.

Charlie makes a beeline to follow before she embarrasses herself when Donna calls out behind her.

It’s just them in the kitchen. Unlike in the corridor, with its emptiness, the kitchen feels warm and full. And Donna feels too far away.

“Charlie?” she says, and Charlie whips around to face her.

“Yeah?”

Donna’s large hands clutch the mug she’d given Charlie earlier, the one painted in swirls of pink, purple and blue, as she runs the tap over the sink. Her knuckles are a little bruised.

So are Charlie’s, lately.

“I know you’ve been all over, but now… I think you’re right where you need to be.”

She’s earnest and soft about it, in a way that sends shivers across the hairs on the back of Charlie’s neck. Charlie finds a smile working its way onto her face. She nods, something like gratitude and something like agreement, the words raising a blush on her cheeks.

Donna smiles again, then switches her attention back to the bubbling water and coffee stained mugs.

Just as Charlie turns away to join the others outside, she catches Donna’s reflection in the glass of the window above the sink. If it were a horror movie, this image would be haunting, different as it is from what Charlie’s come to expect from the other woman. Turns out in real life it’s just sad.

When she thinks no one can see her, Donna’s smile drops.

The evening falls, and it falls visibly, which Charlie realizes is something she is no longer used to.

In the bunker, the lights are artificial and bright and decidedly on , until she decides to turn them off. They never change, never waver, never indicate the time of day or if the moon is out. The library’s ambient lamps are the closest they get to evening.

And she hasn't realized how stark a difference it is until she spends dinner half listening to the conversation and half watching the sunset through the mirror facing her opposite the window. It isn’t a special sunset: the clouds aren’t spun purple and the sky is never tinged that tender pink. But still, it’s the first sunset she’s seen in two weeks, maybe.

And she watches the light melt across Donna’s face the whole time.

It’s not long after the sun has sunk completely below the horizon that the four of them turn in for the night, with three of them having traveled for hours earlier and Jody confessing she considers any night she gets to sleep before 11 o’clock a huge success.

Dean teases her for it, but Charlie can tell he’s really all too eager to follow suit. The second he gets the chance, he pulls his hearing aids out from his ears with a sigh of relief and flicks them off, dumping them on the bedside table of Alex’s room where they’re sleeping.

“You could just not wear them around Jody and Donna you know, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind,” Charlie points out to him as he rubs at the back of his ears with a pout.

Dean waves her off. “I just haven’t worn them for that long in a few weeks, it’s fine. Besides, I don’t wanna make things hard.”

“You don’t make things hard, it just makes things different,” Charlie says, stepping right in front of him to make sure he can understand her. “No one minds switching a few things up to make it easier for you.”

She tells him this because she believes it wholeheartedly, and it’s true. It’s times like these, though, that she wishes she believed the same for herself. It’s not like she doesn’t think that Dean and Sam don’t want her around, or wouldn’t drop everything to help her out, because they’d proved that theory wrong a long, long time ago. It’s just the instinctual little things to make herself smaller, more easily digestible, that are harder to shake.

The princess only ever gets saved if she smiles enough, right?

Charlie smiles at Dean, determined to make him understand that she cares, and he scrubs the backs of his ears again, but more out of bashfulness than ache this time.

“Alright, alright. Stop being good to me, Bradbury, I don’t know what to do with it.”

“You could get changed and brush your teeth,” Charlie says hopefully. “I want to go to bed.”

Dean rolls his eyes but ambles off to the bathroom, and Charlie takes the time to get changed herself. She throws on her pajamas and then stands in the mirror for a moment, lifting her t-shirt to see her stomach, where the bullet wound is meant to be.

Castiel healed it weeks ago now, but it’s still strange. The pain of it plays so frequently in her mind; she wakes up remembering it and the nightmare tears through her like the bullet did. In a way, how angels can heal a wound so completely isn’t all kindness. There’s no proof, then, that it still hurts inside.

Dean wanders back into the room in his pajamas and with minty fresh breath. It’s a Led Zeppelin long sleeve shirt he’s wearing, one Charlie had picked out for him last time they swung by a Goodwill. He barely ever wears t-shirts now, and he rolls his shirt sleeves down too, especially around Charlie. Charlie pretends she doesn’t notice.

“Strange, isn’t it? Took me years to get used to it,” Dean says sympathetically at where Charlie’s hand still ghosts her stomach. He can be quick when he wants to be.

“It’s odd,” Charlie says. “Like the wound was never there. I know it was, but only I know it was.”

“Messes with your head, having nothing to show for the pain,” Dean nods perceptively. He perches on the bed, looking up at Charlie with his big labrador eyes. “But it’s still a good thing, though. That you don’t feel pain.”

Charlie is all too aware of the intricacies of the singular and plural you in the English language, but she swears that in that moment, Dean means it for her specifically.

“Yeah,” she replies. She wonders if not feeling the pain is the same as not feeling anything.

The conversation dips as they both settle under the duvet, taking a moment to get comfortable. Dean switches off the big light.

“So,” he eventually murmurs. “Do you like them?”

The words feel loud in the quietness of the night, and Donna and Jody are only walls away. But Dean can't really hear himself if he whispers, and he definitely can't hear Charlie if she does, so when she speaks she murmurs too, facing Dean in the bed so he can read her lips in the lamplight.

“Of course I do,” she says. “I never expected not to.”

“You and Donna seem to get along well,” he smiles, and Charlie isn’t sure if there’s more meaning she should be reading into that than she is.

She takes up the edge of the duvet in her hands and twists it a little, mostly for something to do.

“She’s really nice, yeah,” she says carefully. She looks up at Dean then, and feels the carefulness drop away in the warmth of a shared bed with her best friend. “She’s really pretty, too. How did you forget to mention she’s so pretty?”

Dean chuckles. “I thought you would figure it out for yourself, it’s not hard to see.”

“No,” Charlie says, the word coming out as a deep sigh in a way she hadn’t quite intended. “It’s not.”

Dean brings his hand up to near hers on the edge of the duvet, and takes up the little creases she’s been folding into it and squeezes them like an accordion. Charlie can just make out the way his Adam's apple bobs, just the way it always does when he wants to say something but is struggling to.

She waits him out. You’ve got to be patient, to hear Dean Winchester.

“I’m sorry about the way things have been going lately, Charlie. You know that, right?”

He’s staring at the patterns they’re both tucking into the blanket. This was not the way she thought the conversation was about to go.

“Yeah, Dean, of course.”

“What with Dorothy, and the mark, and you going on the run… it’s nothing like what you should be doing.”

He’s refusing to meet her eyes, but in the gold of the lamplight they’re turning an earnest hazel.

“I don’t blame you, Dean, if that’s what this is.” She pauses for a second, the question fizzing on her lips before she gets it out. “Is that what all this is?”

His gaze snaps back up to meet hers, surprised. “No, no. I wanted you to meet Donna and Jody, spend some time together. I thought it would be nice for you.”

“And Donna’s really lovely, and Jody’s kind. And I got to play ABBA all the way here. It’s good, Dean.”

He sighs, obviously unsatisfied with her answer; rolls away slightly to look restlessly towards the ceiling. His hands stay by hers on the duvet, tapping against the folds.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, loud enough for him to hear her say something, if not make out the words.

He gestures to show he didn’t understand her, but shows no sign of moving to face her. She asks him again, louder this time. Starts tapping it onto his wrist in morse code too, but he cuts her off before she can finish by turning back towards her with an intensity he didn’t have before.

“I want you to be happy, Charlie.”

Charlie stills next to him, the duvet she'd been fiddling with on the bed laying flat between her fingers.

She does what she always does. She meets Dean’s eyes and smiles.

“Who says I’m not?”

For the first time in months, Charlie wakes up slowly and freely, not to the scream of the alarm but instead to the morning light glowing in warmly from behind the curtains. She didn’t quite close them fully last night, so a slither of clear sunlight arches its way across the room. As she stirs, breathing in a deep, relieving breath, she follows its trail along the walls and ceiling. Little rainbows spiral out from it where it hits the mirror.

She looks beside her, and Dean is still slumbering away. His breaths are deep and even. Although the mark is still visible from underneath his rucked shirted sleeve, for the moment he seems peaceful. It’s nice, that Dean’s face isn’t creased in repressed ire, that Charlie can see all this without even having to flick on a light: this morning, this is just how the world is.

No more bunker, no more shitty motels , Charlie thinks as she stretches luxuriously out under the clean cotton sheets which Jody’s own hands undoubtedly strung up on the washing line. I should live somewhere else. After all this, I’m gonna live somewhere else.

When she does check the time, it reads a comfortable half past eight. Dean won’t be up for a few hours if he can help it - although maybe he’ll be stirred early like her by the light of a genuine sunrise. He must’ve seen even less of them than she has in recent years. Maybe, if he got out of that damn hole in the ground, he would photosynthesize a little and see that the sun was already out there.

As she wiggles gently out of bed, careful not to disturb Dean with her movements, Charlie lets her mind stray to what Donna’s house might be like. Does her bedroom face east and get the sun in the mornings? Is it cluttered and cozy with trinkets and souvenirs, or swept clean and neat? Probably a mix of the two, Charlie decides. Homey, while still being organized, with everything important kept within reach.

It’s as she ponders this that she pads airily down the stairs. In the kitchen, with the large window opening out upon the vivid spring planes of the fruit trees in the backyard, Charlie helps herself to a breakfast of berries and yogurt that Jody recommended last night. It’s all green outside, dewy with the morning. The sour bite of the berries tickles her tongue.

Everything is growing here. Everything is alive.

Charlie is so involved in her cloudless thoughts as she strolls back up the stairs to the hallway, that she doesn’t quite notice Donna stepping out of the bathroom with only a towel wrapped around her until her own forearms make contact with Donna’s still lightly damp skin.

“Oh, sorry-!”

“No worries,” Donna grins with a smile, not bothering to move too far away. She’s tossed her hair over her shoulder and now the ends, darkened with water, are creating small wet patches on the side of Charlie’s pajama sleeve.

This morning, Charlie can’t find it in her to mind.

Donna’s had her hair up in a sensible low ponytail the entire time Charlie’s seen her so far. But after the wet of the shower, it’s curling around her face and down her back in tight ringlets. Somehow they bounce slightly as Donna moves her head, even under the weight of the water.

Charlie has spent years learning how to keep her friendships with women exactly that - friendships. She is an expert in all things platonic, so she doesn’t even think about how little the towel is really covering Donna’s freshly showered, lavender smelling skin. She keeps her eyes fixed on Donna’s face, on the water-shining rosiness of her cheeks and the single strands of hair that fall in lazily gorgeous curls in front of her eyes.

Charlie swallows down a swallow.

“Your hair is curly? I’ve only ever seen it straight.”

Donna nods, her face falling from her always friendly smile to one of frustration. “Oh, you betcha. Takes me hours to straighten the damn stuff.”

“But it looks so pretty curly,” Charlie says, maybe a little softer than she intended in an attempt to hide the pout she knows is otherwise audible in her voice.

But Donna is pretty, that’s plain as day, and has been since Charlie slipped closely past her through the door yesterday. And it’s not just the natural curls of her hair that bring this further into the light; with all the layers of flannel removed, all the shields down, the round curves of Donna’s figure are even more evident.

Charlie forces her gaze back to the (admittedly relative) safety of Donna’s smile. Rather than the wide, sunshiney thing she’d been greeted with so far, it’s morphed into something softer. A little surprised.

“Oh, I dunno-”

“No, it looks real pretty. You should wear it down curly, it suits you.”

Charlie finds herself reaching out to thread a tangle of Donna’s hair through her fingers and brush it neat before she can catch the action and stop it. Donna’s hair is silky, freshly conditioned, and it slips easily between her fingers.

Donna’s eye catches hers and it’s only then she pulls her hand away, jerkily.

“Sorry, that was weird,” she starts, feeling the heat flood to her face.

Donna shakes her head slightly, the gentle radiance of her smile still lingering. “No, it’s okay. I don’t mind.”

“Your hair, it’s soft,” Charlie manages. The words scratch a little as they make their way up her throat. She shouldn’t be doing this.

“Thanks.”

Donna reaches out, now, twisting the longer front strands of Charlie’s hair around her own finger. Yesterday’s flat-iron curls give in to her movement as her hand brushes just slightly against Charlie’s cheek, and the quiet damp of her skin sends a shiver, barely a shiver, through Charlie.

Her hair’s a little greasy, Charlie knows, she needs to shower. But Donna’s lips quirk up as she strokes her thumb against it. “Yours is soft too.”

“Thanks,” Charlie whispers, just about.

Donna pulls her hand back away and stray hairs follow the action, ginger turning gold in the morning light chasing after the loss of contact. Some wild part of Charlie runs to strings of spit, her lips pulling away from Donna’s and their connection still not leaving her completely.

Oh, Bradbury, this cannot be happening right now.

She sways back, falling out of Donna’s space, away from the lavender scent and the ever-drying blonde curls and the warm blush blossoming on the tops of Donna’s shoulders above her towel.

“I just always wanted curly hair as a kid, you know. And all my favorite characters had curly hair, I was always kinda jealous of people who had it. People say all kinda things about ginger hair but I’ve just always loved curly.” Charlie gets the distinct sense she’s rambling, and perhaps even more hysterically than normal.

“Yeah, well tell all that to my ex-husband,” Donna laughs almost sourly, wrapping the towel a little tighter around her again as she starts towards the guest bedroom that seems to be decidedly hers. “Come sit with me as I get ready, I don’t mind,” she calls back to Charlie.

Charlie doesn’t bluescreen often, but she’s pretty sure she hears the dull thunk of the error sound at that comment. Donna has an ex-husband, and she knows Charlie’s a lesbian, and Charlie just ran her hand through her hair, and Donna’s inviting her to sit in her room as she gets dressed as casually as gals who actually are pals.

“You sure?” she asks, wandering to the door. She’s giving Donna an out, if she wants one. Don’t they all normally want one?

“Of course, hon!”

So Charlie lets herself walk through the door and flop down onto the bed, grabbing a cushion to fiddle with, something to keep her eyes busy as well as her hands. Donna shrugs a bathrobe on over her towel and Charlie knows she doesn’t really need to look away, but she does anyway. The cushion has little purple flowers embroidered all over.

“I can’t imagine not liking your curly hair,” Charlie says, mostly as a means to get the conversation going again, but also decidedly to pick at the thread she thinks might unravel a little more of Donna’s mask. The darkening of her face in the kitchen window has a cause, and whatever the cause is, Charlie wants to hunt it down and eclipse it. It’s instinct.

“Oh, Doug liked me best however I wasn’t,” Donna chuckles disparagingly, as she slides her towel off underneath her robe and lays it on the bed next to Charlie.

The towel is damp, still. Charlie can feel its coolness next to her. Damp with the water that once sat on Donna’s skin, smelling still of the lotion Donna rubbed between her hands before smoothing it over her arms, down her stomach, the wavy cellulite of her thighs.

Charlie wants to reach out and touch it. Charlie wants an excuse to use that towel after her own shower, like kissing through a shared bottle of beer.

“I wore my hair curly, he liked it straight. I put on a full face of makeup, he liked me natural. I gained a few pounds, he told me…” Donna trails off, the reverie clouding her face completely.

Anger flushes hot through Charlie, a burning passion building on her already quickening heartbeat. “He was wrong, you know,” she says.

Donna turns, looking surprised at the change in Charlie’s voice. She smiles at the intensity of it. “You’re kind, Charlie. A lot of people say that, but I can never seem to shake the feeling he’s right.”

“I’m not being kind, Donna, not right now. I’m telling you the truth,” Charlie insists. She takes Donna’s hand and pulls her down to sit on the bed next to her. “You’re beautiful.”

It’s only as she says those words that she realizes the potency of them, and how Donna’s hand is now in hers, and how she’s only wearing a bathrobe. Charlie wants to recoil, suddenly, and take it all back. But that would be a lie. And Donna’s been told too many of those already.

The other woman’s eyes are wide as she looks at her. Full of so much, and so much of that incredulous doubt.

Charlie steels herself and raises her hand and brushes it through Donna’s hair again. “I say a lot, but I mean this. Believe me.”

“I would like to,” Donna says, decidedly lightly for a room full of gravity. “Of course I want to. But I can’t.” She shakes her head slightly, like she wants to clear it. When she looks back up at Charlie, her eyelashes are dewy with tears. Her throat bobs beneath her smile.

Charlie caves in, her anger turning to a porous sadness inside. “But it’s over, Donna. He’s over.”

Donna draws in a teary breath. “Maybe people, relationships, can be over. I don’t think words ever are.” She shoots Charlie a grin; it’s a false, self-deprecating thing.

“You’re still smiling,” Charlie says softly. She runs her thumb over Donna’s, smoothing over the skin like it will smooth over the tired corner’s of Donna’s lips. “Honey, you don’t have to keep smiling.”

Donna wavers in front of her, the expressions on her face flickering like heat on the horizon. Charlie can’t quite make her out, anymore, underneath it, but at the same time Donna feels more touchable than she ever has before.

“Don’t I?”

Charlie shakes her head. “No, love, you don’t.”

Like rain spilling down and pouring after the bitterest summer drought, Donna cracks. Her face falls completely, her lips pulled downwards in pure, luxurious upset. The tears that had been locked into place around her eyes pool forward and fall. The rosy apples of her cheeks relax too, the smile lines shifting into creases of sadness.

The mask cascades down around them both, and Charlie sits and holds Donna’s hands, and the absence of her smile feels like being let in on something special and sweet, something secret.

“Thank you,” Charlie whispers.

Donna looks up at her through watery eyes; the light of the morning hits them and the sheen of her tears is clear as glass.

“What for?” Donna asks, voice gooey and lips still trembling.

“For letting it be me you let the smile fall for.”

Donna heaves in a shuddering breath at that, like she’s scared that what Charlie said just made it real. “It’s not usually anyone, I’m not usually like this,” she sniffs. She glances back up again, and then seems to catch something in Charlie’s eyes, not averting her gaze. “You’re not usually like this either though, are you?”

It goes against every instinct for Charlie not to flash a grin, feels like short circuiting not to come back with a witty remark. But she shakes it off, letting it fall away like Donna did.

“No,” she admits. “I smile so much my cheeks ache, most days. But without it, it feels like - what do I do?”

Donna nods, taking Charlie’s hands in hers now. Charlie isn’t sure she knows she’s doing it, and she’s not sure who she’s doing it for, but it’s spreading warmth up her arm. “Gives you someone to be, a way to hold everything together.”

Those words tilt Charlie’s world slightly to the left before righting it completely again, like she can feel the gears of her mind clinking right back into place and running smoothly.

“You put it into words,” she breathes.

Donna strokes a thumb across the aching inside of Charlie’s palm. It’s a movement intended to soothe, but it just draws Charlie closer in. With every circle Donna graces against the sensitive skin of Charlie’s heart line her gravity is stronger, more magnetizing. She’s no longer sure where the comfort they’re sharing in each other ends and the sparking press of her fingertips tapping along Donna’s thumb begins. Every flare of contact begs another. Now, everything about Donna is comforting - but nothing about the way she makes Charlie feel is safe.

Donna worries at her plush lips. They’re a little chapped, and downturned too, finally relaxed. When she wets them with her tongue and leaves them shining and rosy in the morning light Charlie feels the inner workings of herself break and give way.

Donna speaks and her voice is low. “Sometimes it just feels like… I’ve just got to be sunshine.”

And that’s what they are for everybody else at the end of the day, aren’t they? But this morning, by god can that be broken with the dawn.

“I don’t want sunshine,” Charlie whispers.

“Really?” Donna asks, like she still doesn’t quite believe her. Like she’s sitting here, inches from Charlie’s mouth, realizing she doesn’t have to be who she thought she had to. Charlie wants her to realize it all. Charlie wants Donna to realize her .

“There’s a sun already. Can you see it, through the curtains?” she breathes. “Can you feel it on your back?”

Charlie lets her hands roam to the tie of Donna’s robe. No inhibitions, no pretenses, she pulls the knot away. Donna leans into her touch, into the cool freedom of the unbroken air. Her skin is still slightly damp; Charlie can feel it all along the insides of her wrists as she takes the edges of the robe from Donna’s shoulders and pulls it tenderly down her soft arms, until it falls away and gives in completely.

The sunlight pours through the windows onto the fullness of Donna’s back, descending upon the upper curves of her arms. The robe lays around her on the bed. Kneeling naked in the fresh white of the robe upon the flat of the sheets, it looks like Donna has parted the sea.

Or maybe it looks like wings, spread out across the ground. Like Icarus, and Donna is still glowing, silhouetted in the warm light. Never has flying too close to the sun prompted such sweet a fall.

Charlie feels Donna inhale, feels the intake of breath and expansion of Donna’s stomach against hers with it.

“I can feel it,” Donna murmurs.

Her breath is hot and quivering against Charlie’s cheek.

“I can feel everything.”

With that it’s like Donna’s bashfulness evaporates under the warmth of the sun, and she surges forwards with her hands under Charlie’s t-shirt. Charlie lifts her arms as soon as she catches on, feeling the light hit her skin as she raises them upwards past the shadows. Donna coaxes her t-shirt off of her, over her head, and for the split second Charlie can’t see Donna it’s like being taken out of orbit, out of gravity. When she resurfaces Donna’s eyes are the first thing she sees; the warmth on her arms is the first thing she feels.

She drops her arms in all their sunlight, runs her hands through Donna’s hair instead. Clutches her close, until Donna becomes more than silhouette and more than a ray of light and is a body, soft and damp and lavender in her arms. Donna is kneeling but Charlie is reverent. She wants Donna’s lips, she wants to taste the lavender and saltwater, she wants to leave that string of spit hanging between them, but she takes it slow.

She sighs forward, pressing kisses along Donna’s rounded collarbone. Donna melts into her, her hands roaming across Charlie’s back, grazing her lips along Charlie’s bony shoulder. The pads of Donna’s fingers are tracing along her spine. Charlie pulls herself closer, every fuse within her shorting.

“Don’t want sunshine,” Charlie mumbles again, into the soft slope of Donna’s neck. “I want you. Just you.”

Donna breathes, one hand still on her back but the other cupping her cheek upwards. “You have me.”

Their eyes meet in startling clarity, the world dipped in salted caramel all apart from them, together, suspended. Charlie has some of Donna’s hair in her mouth.

And then they’re kissing and Donna’s knee is slotting between Charlie’s legs and her lips are touching hers, and she doesn’t just taste of lavender and saltwater she tastes of something true and real and god, Charlie knows . Charlie knows it all, she knows what Donna means. She can feel everything.

Beneath the smiles, naked and silhouetted and tender, she can feel everything.

#IT'S HERE IT'S FINALLY HERE #AFTER 6 WHOLE MONTHS #finally the fic is out alongside the art....... they literally go together that is how old this fic is #so so so proud of this #thanks to mer for betaing again!!!!!!#charlie bradbury #donna hanscum #charliedonna #sapphicnatural #spn fic #femslash #hohnatural #ola writes

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tathrin · 1 year

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🎨 + 🤲

From this ask meme. (I know you asked these last night, I'm sorry for running out of time to answer them before. I hope you didn't worry that you'd been forgotten!)

These are the last asks in my inbox so if I haven't answered yours yet, then they have been lost/forgotten sorry please resend.

🎨 How do you feel about fan art of your stories?

I WOULD ASCEND BODILY INTO A HEAVEN I DON'T EVEN BELIEVE IN IF SOMEONE DREW FANART BASED ON ONE OF MY STORIES OH MY GODS. Ahem I'm fine, very chill, nbd. Fanart is awesome.

🤲 Would you please share a snippet of a wip?

I'm going to combine this with another ask and answer them both together since they touch on the same topic:

So @katajainen has gotten me thinking about zombies in Middle-earth courtesy these amazingly awful fics here, and now I find myself lost deep down a world building rabbit hole (inspired also by @roselightfairy and @deheerkonijn's incredible Modern LotR AU) for a Modernized High Fantasy Zombie Apocalypse story and setting. Here's a bit of it.

The sound of the engine, which has been their steady accompaniment for so many hours now that it feels like the rumble of it must be baked all the way into their bones, finally fades. The silence that follows is so strong that it almost rings, feeling somehow louder than the engine for a moment.

Then it is broken by two car doors opening and closing, and the heavy stomp of dwarven boots across rough ground.

"Ahhh!" Gimli says, holding his arms up over his head and stretching all the way up onto his toes before bending over and grabbing for his ankles. His spine crackles in relief. "That feels good!"

"Don't go tumbling head-over-heels and rolling back down the mountain, now," Glóin chides him teasingly.

Gimli rolls his eyes and stomps off into the brush that lines the overgrown road for a few moments of very specific privacy. Behind him, his father snorts into his beard and then goes groping for a handkerchief. Dwarves are not people of sunlight and trees, and the pollen of so many plants is making his nose drip.

That doesn't mean that Glóin can't appreciate the view a little, as he turns to look back down over the land behind them. From this point of the High Pass, he can see great fields of green and brown stretching out behind him. Sunlight sparkles off the curve of distant rivers, and birds that he cannot name twitter in the sparse trees that dot the steep mountain earth around him. This is not a place for dwarves, outside in the sun with nothing around but green plants and feathered, flying things; but it is still a mountain, even if they stand on the outside of it rather than within. It is still a good place, in its own way, even if it is not a dwarven one, and Glóin takes a few minutes to appreciate the sights around him.

Also it is nice simply to be out of the car for a little. Glóin always thought the seats of the [DWARVEN CAR MAKE] to be the epitome of comfort, but after three days of being crammed into one as the car jolts and bounces its way up an unpaved mountain road, he is beginning to revise that opinion. Like Gimli, Glóin stretches out his stiff muscles a little, but he does not have his son's enthusiasm—nor his youthful flexibility. He contents himself with smaller motions, working the bones and joints as much as anything. Even dwarven bodies, which are stiff and stony by nature, can become uncomfortably rigid after too long confined in one tight space, and it feels good to ease that stillness and get the blood flowing again.

Glóin groans happily as he sinks down onto the warm bumper of the car, luxuriating in the feeling of stretching his legs out before him without pedals to interfere or the press of a belt across his chest to draw him back. He listens to the crackling sounds of Gimli stomping through the brush, at this point finished with his moment of privacy and now just giving his blood a chance to wake up too. Glóin glances over and sees his son shooting glances over the edge of the mountain, clearly also taking a moment to enjoy the view, and he smiles and ducks his head before Gimli sees him watching and accuses him of getting sappy.

Gimli is too young to understand, but he will someday. Sappiness is an inevitable side-effect of fatherhood, and not something that any dwarf stands much chance of resisting in the end.

He scratches absently at the bandage that sticks out past the end of his rolled-up sleeve and lets himself wonder what being a grandfather will be like. The day is many years away of course, if it should come at all; but out here in the warm sun with the air blowing past crisp and clean on the side of a high mountain, it is a nice thing to contemplate. Certainly better than the ugly plague they left behind in Erebor, the grim knowledge that cannot be forgotten and which drives the urgency of their travel.

Glóin catches himself scratching harder and makes a face into his beard. The itching is a good sign, he knows, a sign that the wound below is healing; still, that knowledge does not make the itching pleasant. With a sigh, he pulls his hand away before he can dislodge the soft white cotton or do some damage to the oozing scabs that lie concealed beneath.

He still can't believe Kili bit him when he went to hug his poor, feverish nephew goodbye.

Glóin sniffles and curses the pollen all around them. He wipes his nose again as he hears Gimli laugh. "You all right, da?" his son calls from the other side of the car.

Glóin looks down at the handkerchief in his hand and feels a chill run up his bones suddenly, despite the warmth of the sun overhead. "Fine," Glóin barks, staring at the spots of blood on the pale cloth. "Just a bit stuffy from all this damned greenery."

Gimli chuckles and returns to whatever he was doing before—more stretching, Glóin thinks absently, from the sounds of soft grunting and shifting cloth—and Glóin shoves the bloody handkerchief deep into the pocket of his jacket. He shivers, despite the warmth of the day.

"All right, time's wasting," he declares, taking care to make his voice as cheery and boisterous as though he were calling a crowd in for a feast. He shoves himself to his feet and unrolls the sleeves of his jacket against the sudden chill. "We aren't out here to sight-see, after all," Glóin says, and is abruptly reminded of the sight of Dori coughing into that bloody handkerchief of his back in the dim and empty council chambers. Is he well again by now, or has he succumbed like so many have to the disease, to be lying even now in a feverish stupor in a bed lined with chains in the increasingly-crowded hospital rooms? Are the dwarves they have left behind getting better on their own, or are they still getting worse?

Has anyone died yet?

Glóin shivers again and pulls his jacket tighter, buttoning it up high beneath his beard. As anxious as their hurried trip has been so far, he feels more than ever now that they are running out of time. "Back in the car," he orders.

Gimli grumbles good-naturedly, but he doesn't hesitate. He understands the urgency of their journey too, after all. He walks back to the car, taking the chance to stretch his arms up over his head and tug at them one last time before climbing back inside. His shoulders protest the movement but they revel in it, too, and some of the ache of travel lifts from his muscles.

Glóin's aches do not lessen. The stone of his bones is too old, the boulder of his heart too heavy. "In fact," he says slowly, "why don't you take the wheel for a while."

Gimli freezes with his hand on the door. "Da," he says, "are you talking pyrite?"

"No." Glóin shakes his head. He tosses the keys to Gimli. "Go on, if you're going to."

"But you hate my driving," Gimli says, even as he hurries to the other side of the car and slides into the driver's seat before his father can change his mind.

"Eh, well," Glóin shrugs. "Nobody else on the road all the way out here, is there? What better time for you to drive."

"Da," Gimli groans, "that was one time and I was barely sixty. I'm not going to hit anything now."

"Certainly not if you don't get moving," Glóin says mildly.

Gimli curses him affectionately and starts the engine. As the car rumbles off up the mountain pass, Glóin turns his face to the window and discreetly wipes his nose again.

His hand comes away bloody.

#ask meme #lotr fanfiction #my writing #gimli #gloin #zombies #lotr au #lotr #zombie apocalypse au #lotr zombie au

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gertlushgaming · 1 year

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LEGO 2K Drive Review (PlayStation 5)

For this LEGO 2K Drive Review, where our incredible transforming vehicles give us the freedom to speed seamlessly across riveting racetracks, off-road terrain, and open waters. Get behind the wheel and gear up for many open-world explorations and thrilling races! Take on the exciting Story mode, jump into a single race or Cup Series tournament, and let loose in off-the-wall minigames. Master the arts of drifting, boosting, and using power-ups to claim victory!

LEGO 2K Drive Review Pros:

- Decent graphics. - 9.97GB download size. - Platinum trophy. - Can connect your 2K account. - Motion blur on/off. - Colorblind support. - Crossplay can be turned on and off. - Controller settings - Invert axis and camera look delay slider. - Game settings - automatic transformation and in-air pitch control options. - Four controller layout schemes. - Racing gameplay. - Four game modes - story, cup Series, race, and minigame. - In-game cutscenes. - Splitscreen is multiplayer. - Opening racing tutorial with ongoing pop-ups as you play. - Earn EXP and cash from racing, doing events, and finding loot within the world. - Open world exploration. - Play how you want. - The gimmick is when you change surface (like dirt to grass or air to water) your car transforms its vehicle type. - The garage is where you go to create or edit vehicles. You can go as far down as changing a single brick. - Has the full Lego instruction manual experience for building along with skip-step options. - Overall stats section. - You can replay races and events. - Find events within the world. - Interact with other characters to get tips and tricks on advancing. - Character creator along with the ability to buy new outfits and models. - Many Breakable elements within the world from fences to trees and people? - Combo counter when chaining actions together which rewards exp and cash. - Has a Forza Horizon feel to it all. - The shop is where you go in order to buy new Lego characters and Vehicle models. - Tight controls. - The map fills in you find events and races. - Mark the map with a custom pin to have it show on your screen when driving. - Fully voiced characters. - S.T.U.D is your Ai companion that doles out advice as you play. - Two views - close and far. - Unlock and use fast travel points. - You can fire behind. - Earn EXP and level up to unlock new events and championships. - Optional side quests can be taken on from certain characters. - Earn EXP just by discovering landmarks and places of interest. - The load-out lets you change what vehicles spawn in each race/terrain type. You can have multiple load-outs. - Each car has unique stats and handling. - Handy tight turning button so you can turn quicker. - Win new cars by beating Rivals in events. - Turbo starts are a thing if you can time it. - Win perks from races and you can equip only a couple of them depending on your rank. - Car creation lets you go as basic or as deep as you would like, you can set the baseline stats along with engine and horn sounds. - Test track allows you to have a run out with new Creations and try them with power-ups. - Weeds slow you down big time, unlock the lawnmower, and clear the weed patches to have them gone! Also, they regrow as crystals that give boost and health making races easier. - Each map has its own percentage completion. - The mini-games mode allows you to replay over and over the mini-games you do in the story mode and it's usually Wave based. - Four biomes to unlock and explore - Turbo, Acres, Hauntsborough, prospect Valley, and Big Butte County. - Quick abandon and restart buttons for every event and race in the game. - The events around the world are where you go for variety and fun missions with gems such as golf, pushing gold nuggets around, Drift challenges, picking up cows, or taking back items from Dolphins.

LEGO 2K Drive Review Cons: - Cannot rebind controls. - Drifting takes a bit of getting used to with its holding a button down to drift. - The initial Learning curve as to what all the power-ups do. - In-app purchases for in-game currency. - Very basic character creator. - No difficulty. - The first race is very overwhelming with a lot going on and it's all very tight-knit. - The creation stiff is not as clear and easy to use as it should be. - Cannot compare cars easily in the load-out menu. - Not actually sure what half the stats mean in the load-out menu. - The story mode doesn't feel cohesive and together. - The progress loop is the same for every map and every driver rank. - They pad out the championships with time-consuming Wave-based events. - The Ai can hit you and you go flying and usually out of the race. Doesn't happen all the time. - The mini-game parts in the story are tedious and not fun to play. Related Post: Desta: The Memories Between Review (Steam)

LEGO 2K Drive: Official website. Developer: Visual Concepts Entertainment Studios Publisher: 2K Games Store Links - PlayStation Read the full article

#PlayStation4 #PlayStation5

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urbanskylinephase2 · 1 year

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What to expect in Urban Skyline's 3 BHK flats/ apartments in Ravet

Urban Space Creators, a well-known name in the real estate sector of PCMC, Pune, launched a landmark project, Urban Skyline Phase 2. After successfully developing Urban Skyline phase 1, Phase 2 is their dream project offering spacious homes with modern amenities. The project has 40 floors and more than 70 luxury amenities. Urban Skyline Phase 2 offers 2/3/4/5 and 6 BHK homes. So if you are looking for a 3 BHK flat for sale in Ravet, you can check out Urban Skyline phase 2's 3 BHK units.

3 BHK apartments in Urban Skyline Phase 2

3 BHK apartments in Urban Skyline Phase 2 are meticulously-planned and come with a range of carpet areas( 1042 sq ft, 1103 sq ft, and 1125 sq ft). Each unit is equipped with luxury amenities and provided with home automation features in living rooms. In addition, each unit is provided with smart appliances to improve the quality of living. The project is sitting next to the Mumbai-Pune expressway, offering a panoramic view of Pune city and convenience at your doorstep. If you plan to buy a luxury home, check out 3 BHK apartments for sale in Ravet at Urban Skyline phase 2. The property is close to daily essentials like schools, colleges, and hospitals. Moreover, it is well-connected to Pune city via spine road and Hinjewadi I.T. park.

Connectivity of Urban Skyline phase 2

Urban Skyline Phase 2 is well-connected to important locations in Pune city. The property is close to the Mumbai-Pune expressway and is well-connected to Hinjewadi I.T. park. The project is effortlessly connected with PCMC, Talegaon MIDC, and Chakan MIDC. Navi Mumbai is 70 minutes from this landmark project. Also, it is close to civic amenities like schools, colleges, and hospitals. S. B. Patil Public school and City Pride school is within walking distance. Bhagyashree hospital is within walking distance. Mukai Chowk, D.Y. Patil University, and Akurdi Railway station are 5 minutes away from Urban Skyline Phase 2. Indira School & College and Bhakti Shakti Park are 10 minutes from this landmark project.

Amenities in Urban Skyline Phase 2

Urban Skyline Phase 2 offers more than 70 luxury amenities. One of the tallest residential projects in Pune, Urban Skyline Phase 2 has luxury amenities at different heights! At 450 height, rooftop amenities offer a luxurious lifestyle. Rooftop amenities include a glass-covered skywalk, infinity pool, sun deck, gazebo, landscaped garden, community kitchen, barbeque station, and mocktail bar. At 150 Ft height, the project offers a gamut of luxury facilities, including a toy library, book library, coffee lounge, indoor games room, a multi-purpose banquet for birthday parties and kitty parties, toddler room, and salon and spa. Finally, at 25 ft height, Urban Skyline phase 2 offers amenities like a school pick-up point for school kids, cross fit gym, a yoga garden, a Kids' play zone, a Ganesh temple, a flower garden, an herbs garden, a sand pit area for toddlers, sports area, senior citizen garden, and sit-out area.

Amenities in common areas

From the designated society office to motion sensor lighting in passages and lobbies, Urban Skyline Phase 2 is loaded with thoughtful amenities. The overall living experience of the residence improves with thoughtful amenities. State-of-the-art security features, CCTV monitoring, a video door phone with a big display, and mobile verification system for visitors further enhance the safety of the residents. Thoughtful amenities in common areas also increase the property's value, making it more attractive to potential buyers.

Smart luxuries inside homes

Smart luxuries, such as home automation systems, smart lighting, and smart appliances, improve the quality of life. These features make the daily task easier, enhance the energy efficiency, and increase security. Additionally, they can increase the property's value and provide a more modern and sophisticated living experience. Urban Skyline offers smart appliances like R.O. water purifiers for each unit, solar heating systems, Alexa, and home automation in the living room area.

Emergency medical facilities in Urban Skyline Phase 2

The property offers thoughtful amenities like emergency medical services at one click, wheelchairs for specially-abled residents, and 24-hour ambulance services. For vehicles, there are air pump stations, car washing areas, car charging areas in the parking area, and safety signs wherever required. If you are looking for a dream home, check out urban Skyline Phase 2.

#urbanspacecreators #urbanskyline #ownyouhome #furnishedflats #luxuryapartment #residentialprojects #punerealestate #ravetflats #newhomes #flatsinpune #ravetapartmentproject #investinflats #investment #fullyfurnishedflatscommercialspace #homeproviders #ownyourhome #luxuryflats

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vittrup90bitsch · 2 years

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chiseler · 3 years

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Gnostic Boardwalk

Canonical stature is a fragile and contingent thing, which is why powerful institutions seek to shore up the various canons of art with rankings and plaudits. We’ll play along by asserting that one of our favorite “B” movies was originally screened by Henri Langlois at the Cinematheque française with Georges Franju in attendance. Night Tide (1961) was an unlikely contender for this particular honor—shot guerrilla style on an estimated $35,000 budget, and intended, by its distributors at least, for a wider, less demanding audience seeking mostly air-conditioned escapism.

With its hinky cast—nonfictional witch, Marjorie Cameron; erstwhile muse to surrealist filmmaker Jean Cocteau, the undersung Babette who usually appears en travesti; and lecherous, booze-addled, fresh-faced Hollywood castoff Dennis Hopper—Night Tide invades the drive-in. A tarot reading at the film’s heart gives Marjorie Eaton her time to shine, traipsing into nickel-and-dime divination from her former life as a painter of Navajo religious ceremonies. Linda Lawson might have issued from an etching by Odilon Redon, with her raven locks and spiritual eyes, our resident sideshow mermaid. Not surprisingly and despite such gentle segues, the film itself traveled a rocky road from festivals to paying venues.

Night Tide had spent three years languishing in the can when distributor Roger Corman smuggled the unlikely masterwork into public consciousness, another of his now legendary mitzvahs to art. And the sleazy-sounding double bills that resulted also unleashed an aberrant wonder: the movie’s compact leading man, a force previously held captive by the studio system—looking, here, like some homunculus refugee from the Fifties USA. Dennis Hopper, in his first starring role, would later recall that it represented his first “aesthetic impact” on film since his earlier appearances in more mainstream productions such as Rebel Without a Cause and Giant had denied him meaningful outlets for collaboration.

It’s the presence of its featured players—certainly not their star power—that lends the film its haunting and enduring legacy, and elevates the term “cult classic” to its rightful place in the pantheon of cinema. But we argue that Night Tide remains outside these exclusive parameters—upholding an elsewhere-ness that defies commercial, if not strictly canonical, logic. Curtis Harrington’s first feature film escapes taxonomy, typology or genre—gets away—fueling itself on acts of solidarity instead. If Hopper contributes his dreamy aura, then Corman rescues the seemingly doomed project by re-negotiating the terms of a defaulted loan to the film lab company that was preventing the film’s initial release. His generous risk birthed a movie monument that would add Harrington’s name to a growing collection of talent midwifed by the visionary schlockmeister responsible for nursing the auteurs of post-war American cinema. And here we enter a production history as gossamery as Night Tide itself.

Unlike his counterparts entrenched within the studio system, Harrington was an artist – i.e. a Hollywood anachronism, with aristocratic graces and a viewfinder trained on the unseen. We see Harrington as Georges Méliès reborn with a queer eye, casting precisely the same showman’s metaphysics that spawned cinema onto nature. By the time moving pictures were invented, artists were moving away from a bloodless representational ethos and excavating more primordial sources for inspiration. The early stirrings of what surrealist impresario André Breton would later proclaim: “Beauty will be CONVULSIVE or it will not be at all.”

Harrington owned a pair of Judy Garland’s emerald slippers, and according to horror queen/cult icon Barbara Steele, also amassed an eclectic array of human specimens: “Marlene Dietrich, Gore Vidal, Russian alchemists, holistic healers from Normandy, witches from Wales, mimes from Paris, directors from everywhere, writers from everywhere and beautiful men from everywhere.” On a hastily constructed Malibu boardwalk, Hopper would be in his milieu among the eccentric denizens of California’s artistic underground—most notably, Harrington himself, a feral Victorian mountebank of a director who slept among mummified bats, practiced Satanic rites, and hosted elaborate and squalid dinner parties. One could almost picture the mostly television director in his twilight years as Roman Castavet of Rosemary’s Baby; a spellbinding raconteur with a carny’s flair for embellishment and enticement. Enthralled by the dark gnosticism of Edgar Allan Poe that had started when the aspiring 16-year-old auteur mounted a nine-minute long production of The Fall of the House of Usher (1942), Harrington would embark on a checkered film career that combined his occult passions with the quotidian demands of securing steady employment. Night Tide, a humble matinee feature whose esoteric underpinnings would spawn subsequent generations of admirers, united the competing forces of art and commerce that Harrington would struggle with throughout his career. Like Méliès, Harrington pointed his kinetic device towards the more preternatural aspects of early motion pictures to seek out the ‘divine spark’ that Gnostics attribute to transcendence, and the necessary element to achieve that immortal leap into the unknown. What hidden meanings and unspeakable acts Poe had seized upon in his writing were brought infernally to life with a mechanical sleight-of-hand. It was finally time for crepuscular light, beamed through silver salts to illuminate otherworldly and other-thinking subjects.

Curtis Harrington

By the time Harrington had embarked on his feature film debut, a more muscular celluloid mythology based on America’s proven exceptionalism was in full force, taking on a brutalist monotone cast in keeping with the steely-eyed, square-jawed men at the helm of a nascent super-power, consigning its more feminine preoccupations to the dusty vaults where celluloid is devoured by its own nitrate. Harrington would resurrect the convulsive aspects of his chosen vocation and embed them deep within the monochrome canvas he’d been allotted for his first venture into feature filmmaking, and combine them with the more rational aspects of so-called realism. In the romantic re-telling of a familiar myth, Harrington was remaining true to gnostic roots and the distinctly poetic language used to express its cosmological features.

In Night Tide, Harrington would map the metaphysical terrain that held up Usher’s cursed edifice as a blueprint for his own work that similarly explored the intertwined duality of the natural and the supernatural. The visible cracks that reveal a fatal structural weakness and a loss of sanity in both Roderick Usher and his doomed estate are evident in Night Tide’s conflicted heroine compelled to choose between her own foretold death underwater, or a worse fate for those who fall in love with her earthly human form.

A young sailor (Dennis Hopper) strolling the boardwalks of Malibu while on shore leave offers the viewer an opening glimpse into the film’s metaphysical wormhole, and a not so subtle hint of the director’s queer eye, stalking his virginal prey in the viewfinder. A beachfront entertainment venue is, after all, where one would casually encounter soothsayers and murderers, sea witches and perverts, as the guileless Johnny does, seemingly oblivious to the surrealist elements of his surroundings as he makes his way on land.

Harrington’s carnival-themed underworld is both imaginatively and convincingly presented as a quaint slice of post-war America, effortlessly dovetailing with his intended drive-in audience’s expectations of grind house with a dash of glamor—not to mention his own avant-garde leanings, which remain firmly intact despite Night Tide’s outwardly conventional construction and narrative.

Harrington is able to present this juxtaposition of kitsch Americana and the queer arcana of his occult fascinations. Indeed, Night Tide’s lamb-to-the-slaughter protagonist could have wandered off the set of Fireworks, Kenneth Anger’s 1947 homoerotic short film about a 17-year-old’s sadomasochistic fantasies involving gang rape by leathernecks.

Anger would later sum up his earliest existing film as “A dissatisfied dreamer awakes, goes out in the night seeking a ‘light’ and is drawn through the needle’s eye. A dream of a dream, he returns to bed less empty than before.” Harrington (a frequent collaborator of Anger in his youth) seems to have re-worked Fireworks, or at least its underlying queer aesthetic into a commercially viable feature film that explores his own life long occult fascinations.

Both Anger and his former protégé would view the invocation of evil as a necessary step towards the attainment of a higher level of consciousness. Harrington coaxed a more familiar story from the myths and archetypes that informed his unworldly views for a wider audience; a move that would be later interpreted by sundry cohorts as selling out. Still, Night Tide shares a thematic kinship with Anger’s more obtusely artistic output as acknowledged by the surviving occultist, who confirmed this unholy covenant at Harrington’s funeral by kissing his dead friend on the lips as he laid in his open coffin.

The hokey innocence of Dennis Hopper as Johnny Drake in his tight, white sailor suit casts a homoerotic hue on the impulses that compel him to navigate a treacherous dreamscape to satisfy a carnal longing, just as Anger’s dissatisfied dreamer obeys the implicit commands of an unspeakable other to seek out forbidden pleasures.

As he makes his way on land, the solitary, adventure-seeking Johnny will be lured into a waiting photo booth, his features slightly menacing behind its flimsy curtain, and brightly smiling a second later as the flash illuminates them. Johnny has entered a realm where intersecting worlds collide, delineating light from shadow, consciousness from unconsciousness. The young sailor’s maiden voyage into the uncharted waters of his subconscious is made evident in the contrasting interplay captured by the camera, where predator and prey overlap in darkness. Here, too, we get a prescient preview of the deranged psychopath Hopper would subsequently personify in later roles, most significantly as the oxygen deprived Frank of Blue Velvet—a man who seems to be drowning out of water. But here, Hopper convincingly (and touchingly) portrays a wide-eyed naïf, still unsteady on his sea legs as he negotiates dry land.

As a variation of Anger’s lucid dreamer in Fireworks (and later Jeffrey of Blue Velvet) Johnny will have abandoned himself quite literally (as his departing shadow on a carnival pavilion suggests, before its host blithely follows) to his own suppressed sexual urges; a force that eventually compels him towards denouement.

Moments later, inside the Blue Grotto where a flute-led jazz combo is in progress, Johnny spots a beautiful young woman (Linda Lawson) seated directly across from him. Her restrained and almost involuntary physical response to the music mimic his own, offering the first indication of a gender ‘other’ residing in Johnny; an entombed apparition cleaved from the sub-conscious and projected into his line of vision. Roderick and Madeline Usher loom large in Harrington’s screenplay and Usher’s trans themes lurk invisibly in the subtext. Harrington is arguably heir apparent to Poe’s vacated throne, pursuing similar clue-laden paths and exploring the dual nature of human and the primordial creature just beneath the surface poised to devour its host.

The near literal strains of seductive Pan pipes buoyed by the ‘voodoo’ percussion sets the stage for Harrington’s reworking of the ancient legend of sea-based seductresses and the sailors they lure to their graves.

Marjorie Cameron (or ‘Cameron’ as she is referred to in the opening credits) makes a startling entrance into The Blue Grotto as an elder of a lost tribe of mermaids seeking the return of an errant ‘mermaid’ to her rightful place in the sea. Cameron, a controversial fixture in L.A.’s bohemian circles and one-time Scarlet Women in the mold of Aleister Crowley’s profane muses, would later appear in Anger’s The Inauguration of the Pleasure Dome, and as the subject of Harrington’s short documentary The Wormwood Star (1956).

The inclusion of a bonafide witch, along with a host of less apparent occult/avant-garde figures, is further evidence of Night Tide’s true aspirations and its filmmaker’s subversive intent to sneak an art-house film into the drive-in, and introduce its audiences to the heretical doctrine that had spawned a new generation of occult visionaries influenced by Edgar Allan Poe. Decades later, David Lynch would carry that proverbial torch, further illuminating the writhing, creature-infested realm underlying innocence.

Johnny approaches the young woman who rebuffs his attempts at conversation, seemingly entranced by the music, but allows him to sit, anyway. Soon they are startled by the presence of a striking middle-aged woman (‘Cameron’) who speaks to Johnny’s companion Mora in a strange tongue. Mora insists that she has never met the woman before, nor understands her, but makes a fearful dash from the club as Johnny follows her, eventually gaining her trust and an invitation the following day for breakfast.

Mora lives in a garret atop the carousal pavilion at the boardwalk carnival where she works in one of the side show attractions as a “mermaid.” Arriving early for their arranged breakfast, her eager suitor strikes up a conversation with the man who runs the Merry-Go-Round with his granddaughter, Ellen (Luanna Anders). Their trepidation at the prospecting Johnny becoming intimately acquainted with their beautiful tenant is apparent to all except Johnny himself, who is even more oblivious to Ellen’s wholesome and less striking charms. Even her name evokes the flat earth, soul-crushing sensibilities of home and hearth. Ellen Sands is earthbound Virgo eclipsed by an ascendent Pisces. (Anders would have to subordinate her own sex appeal to play this mostly thankless “good girl” role. She would be unrecognizable a few years later as a more brazenly erotic presence in Easy Rider, helping to define the Vietnam war counterculture era.)

As Johnny ascends the narrow staircase leading to Mora’s sunlit, nautical-themed apartment, he almost collides with a punter making a visibly embarrassed retreat from the upper floor of the carousel pavilion. Is Johnny unknowingly entering into a realm of vice and could Mora herself be a source of corruption? Her virtue is further called into question when she not so subtly asks Johnny if he has ever eaten sea urchin, comparing it to “pomegranate” lest her guest fails to register the innuendo that is as glaring as the raw kipper on his breakfast plate. Johnny admits that he has never eaten the slippery delicacy but “would like to try.” Moments later, Mora’s hand in close-up is stroking the quivering neck of a seagull she has lured over with a freshly caught fish, sealing their carnal bond.

Their subsequent courtship will be marred by an ongoing police investigation into the mysterious deaths of Mora’s former boyfriends, and her insistence that she is being pursued by a sea witch, seeking the errant mermaid’s return to her own dying tribe. Her mysterious stalker will make another unwelcome entrance after her first appearance in the Blue Grotto—this time at an outdoor shindig where the free-spirited young woman reluctantly obliges the gathered locals who urge her to dance. The sight of ‘Cameron’ observing her in the distance causes the frenzied, seemingly spellbound dancer to collapse, setting off a chain of events that will force Johnny to further question her motives and his own sanity.

Mora’s near death encounter through dance is an homage of sorts to another early Harrington collaborator and occult practitioner. Experimental filmmaker Maya Deren had authored several essays on the ecstatic religious elements of dance and possession, and later went on to document her experiences in Haiti taking part in ‘Voudon’ rituals that would be the basis of a book and a posthumously released documentary both titled Divine Horsemen: The Living Gods of Haiti. Note the Caribbean drummers whose ‘unnatural’ presence, in stark contrast to the more typical Malibu beach party celebrants, hint at the influence of black magic impelling the convulsive, near heart-stopping movements that eventually overtake her ‘exotic’ interpretive dance.

The opening sequence of Divine Horsemen includes a woodblock mermaid figure superimposed over a ‘Voudon’ dancer. The significance of this particular motif was likely known to Harrington, a devotee of this early pioneer of experimental American cinema. Deren herself appeared as a mermaid-like figure washed ashore in At Land (1947) who pursues a series of fragmented ‘selves’ across a wild, desolate coastline. Lawson with her untamed black hair and bare feet could be a body double of Deren’s elemental entity traversing unfamiliar physical terrain to find a way back to herself.

Mora’s insistence that she is being shadowed by a malevolent force directly connected to her mysterious birth on a Greek Island and curious upbringing as a sideshow attraction compel Johnny to investigate her paranoid claims, hoping to allay her fears with a logical explanation for them. The sea witch (or now figment of his imagination) will guide the sleuthing sailor into a desolate, mostly Mexican neighborhood where her departing figure will strand him—right at the doorstep of the jovial former sea captain who employs Mora in his tent show as a captive, “living, breathing mermaid.”

The British officer turned carnie barker is in a snoring stupor when Johnny first encounters him, snapping unconsciously into action to give a rote spiel on the wonders that await inside his tent. Muir balances Mudock’s feigned buffoonery with a slightly sinister edge. When Johnny arrives at his doorstep to find out more about the ongoing police investigation into her previous boyfriend’s deaths, the captain’s effusive hospitality takes on a decidedly darker tone when he guides his visitor to his liquor/curio cabinet where a severed hand in formaldehyde, “a little Arabian souvenir,” is cunningly placed where Johnny’s will see it. The spooky appendage serves as a reminder to Mora’s latest suitor of the punishments in store for a thief.

Captain Murdock’s Venice beach hacienda is yet another one of Night Tide’s deviant jolts: a fully fleshed out character in itself that speaks of its well-travelled tenant’s exotic and forbidden appetites. The dark, symbol-inscribed temple Johnny has entered at 777 Baabek Lane could be a brick-and-mortar portal into this mythic, mermaid-populated dimension that Johnny’s booze-soaked host thunderously defends as real.

Before falling into another involuntary slumber, Murdock will try to convince Johnny that while he and Mora merely stage a sideshow illusion, “Things happen in this world”—or, more to the point, Mora’s belief that she is a sea creature is grounded in fact.

Murdock’s business card that Johnny handily has in his pocket while tailing his dramatically kohl-eyed mark is oddly inscribed with an address more likely to be an ancient Phoenician temple of human sacrifice (Baalbek) than a Venice Beach bungalow. A lingering camera close-up offers another tantalizing, occult-themed puzzle piece—or perhaps a deliberate Kabbalah inspired MacGuffin. The significance of numbers as the underlying components for uniting the nebulous and intangible contents of the mind with the more inert, gravity bound matter, existing outside it, as the ancient Hebrews believed, wouldn’t have been lost on Night Tide’s mystically-minded helmer. Mora’s explicitly expressed disdain for Johnny’s view of the world as a rationally ordered, measurable entity that could be mathematically explained, reinforces Harrington’s world view, his love of Poe, and those French Symbolist artists who interpreted him.

In Odilon Redon’s Germination (1879), a wan, baleful, free-floating arabesque of heads of indeterminate gender suggests either a linear, ascending involution, or a terrifying descent from an unlit celestial void into a bottomless pit of an all-too-human, devolving identity. Redon’s disembodied heads gradually take on more human characteristics, culminating into a black-haloed portrait in profile. The cosmos of Redon’s etching is governed by an unexplained, inexplicable moral sentience, which absorbs the power of conventional light. Thus black is responsible for building its essential form, while glimmers of white, hovering above and below, prove ever elusive; registering as somehow elsewhere, beyond the otherwise tenebrous unity of the picture plane.

Night Tide has its own unsettling dimensions, of course, this black-and-white boardwalk where astral, egalitarian bums want to tip-toe; and, somehow, practically all of them do. Not a movie but an ever-becoming place, crammed into low-budget cosmogenesis unto eternity. We won’t discuss the ending here, since it hasn’t happened yet.

by The Lumière Sisters

19 notes · View notes

calebdumes · 3 years

Text

for @pretchatta who wanted kanera in evening wear and romantic tension. i hope i lived up to your wishes!

fandom: star wars rebels

relationship: kanan jarrus/hera syndulla

rating: n/r

word count: 2.6k

When it came to opulence and beauty, the estate of Count Jafan Harik had it in droves. From the marbled walls etched with gold and lined with expensive art, to the exotic foods served on guilded trays, every inch of the mansion displayed the man’s abundant wealth and taste for the grandeur. But even surrounded by priceless artifacts and glittering gems, Kanan couldn’t take his eyes off of Hera.

Her gown was simple, compared to some of the other dresses Kanan had seen that evening, just a form fitting bodice that left her shoulders and arms bare, showing off the graceful white markings that traveled down to her wrists. The skirt hung off her slender waist like water, long flowing layers of gauzy fabric that had been dyed varying shades of dark blue and purple. The tiny crystals that had been woven into the folds caught on the light when she moved, giving off the impression of a shimmering night sky.

Kanan had nearly tripped over his own two feet when he first saw her emerge from her cabin, dressed and ready for the mission - his mind going completely and utterly blank. Hera was beautiful no matter what she wore, but dressed in that gown, the deep color of the dress against her green skin, the gems in her headdress glittering as brightly as her eyes, Kanan felt the breath punch from his lungs and heat pool in his belly.

She was stunning, like a dignitary from Ryloth, all the sophistication and grace of royalty surrounding her as if it had been there her whole life. It left Kanan mesmerized. He wanted to reach out and touch, to trace the white markings on her shoulders, to feel her lips against his own. She was the most beautiful being in the galaxy.

And Kanan wanted her.

“Have you seen him yet?” Hera asked out of the corner of her mouth before taking a sip of her bright red cocktail.

Kanan mentally shook himself and forced his eyes to do a sweep of the ballroom. It wasn’t the first time he had been distracted by Hera tonight and he had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last.

“No sign of him yet.” His eyes caught on the two ISB officers standing stiffly by their stormtrooper escorts, somehow managing to look completely out of place even in their regal dress uniforms. Kanan’s lip curled at the sight of them but didn’t let his gaze linger. For once, the Imperials weren’t the target of tonight’s mission.

Hera frowned, setting her glass down gently on the silk covered table they were standing at. “I don’t like this.” she said, scanning the small gathering of beings had gathered on the polished dance floor. “He should be here by now.”

“Relax.” Kanan said, reaching out to touch her bare shoulder, her skin warm under his fingertips. It sent a thrill of electricity racing up his arm, his heartbeat doubling in pace. “It’s still early. And from what I hear, he likes to make a grand entrance.”

Hera didn’t look convinced but a light blush had begun to form on the tops of her cheeks. Kanan looked down and his hand and quickly withdrew it from her shoulder.

Things with Hera were...complicated to put it simply. He was in love with her, that he could at least say with one hundred percent certainty. Kanan had loved her from the moment they met in the mud covered streets of Shaketown and he hadn’t stopped falling for her since. Hera had more charm and charisma in her little finger than most sentient beings in the galaxy possessed. She was headstrong to a fault, impulsive (even if she said otherwise), and cared so much that she was willing to risk everything if it meant that people could live free. Hera was good and smart and funny and Kanan was helplessly gone for her.

But he never did anything about it. Because she was his partner and his friend and they had built a relationship based on trust and respect. If she wasn’t ready or didn’t want anything more than friendship from him, then Kanan wasn’t going to push it. He valued their friendship too much to ruin it over unrequited feelings.

Except there was something, more than just friendship between them. He could feel it in the quiet spaces after a mission, in the lingering glances and easy touches that came on so naturally. There was something there, Kanan just didn’t know what to do about it. Not without Hera making the first move.

“I guess it’s too much to ask that the Count would show up to his own party on time.” Hera said, taking another sip of her drink.

“Eh, you know these rich types,” Kanan shrugged. “They think the galaxy revolves around them.”

“Sounds like you know from experience.” Hera drummed her fingers on the table. Kanan’s eyes fell to the white markings on her wrist that snaked their way up her arms to her shoulders. They were the same markings that decorated her lekku, gentle sloping white arches that formed a graceful design that put most artwork housed in the Count’s estate to shame.

But then again, Kanan was a little bit biased. When it came to Hera, she beat out just about everything.

“You meet one, you meet them all.”

“Is that so?”

Kanan rested his elbows on the table. “That’s been my experience.”

Hera hummed thoughtfully at his response before saying, “You know, I’m surprised you decided to help out on this mission. I know you still aren’t fully on board with my...cause.”

“I make excellent arm candy.” Kanan winked, his heart flipping as her jade green eyes trailed up his body. “Besides, we can help a lot of people with the information that’s on that list.”

There was pride shining in her eyes as she looked up at him, the light catching on the many gems that made up the silver headdress that sat on her head and twisted down her lekku. Kanan tried to ignore how his stomach flipped at her expression. “We can’t help anyone if the Count doesn’t show.”

“Give it time, he’ll be here.” He could tell she was growing impatient, the tips of her lekku flicking sharply in odd intervals. Naboo wasn’t the safest place for rebels and he sensed that Hera would rather get off this rock sooner rather than later. Kanan glanced over to the bodies swaying on the dancefloor as an idea struck him. “Come dance with me.” he said.

Hera blinked at him in surprise. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Sure it is.” he smiled. “It’ll give you a better view of the room.” he pointed out. And it would hopefully help her relax until the Count decided to grace the party goers with his presence and they could get this show on the road.

Hera continued to look at him doubtfully but made no move to stop him from leading her onto the dance floor. “Fine.” she said as Kanan settled one hand over her hip, the fabric of her skirt soft against his palm. “But just for one song.”

Kanan smiled at her. “Sounds like a deal.”

They swayed in an unhurried motion on the outer fringes of the dancefloor, keeping the entrance to the ballroom within their sights at all times. The music was light and heavy on the stringed instruments, a gentle melody that reminded Kanan of the many waterfalls of Naboo’s capital city. As they danced, Kanan watched as the tight line of tension slowly dripped from Hera’s shoulders.

“Have you ever gone to parties like this before?” Hera asked as they swayed together.

“You do remember where you met me right?” He arched a brow in response.

Hera rolled her eyes but there was a smile growing on her lips. “Don’t pull that with me. I know Gorse was just another one of your many adventures traveling through the galaxy. You could have gone to something like this before.”

Kanan smirked at her. It was true, Gorse was just another stop along his way but even as a youngling at the Temple, he had never been to something as extravagant as this. “I’ve been around but all this,” he waved a hand at the ornate room, “is too rich for my blood. What about you?”

“Once.” She nodded. “When I was really little, before the Clone Wars. I don’t remember much about it but I remember how beautiful my mother looked in her dress. I remember thinking that I wanted to be just like her someday.”

“What was she like? Your mother?”

Hera smiled at him, her eyes going distant for a moment. “She was kind. Always willing to lend a hand to those in need. And brave.”

“Well,” Kanan said softly. “For what it’s worth, I think you’ve accomplished that.”

Color bloomed over Hera’s cheeks. “You’re just saying that to be nice.” she mumbled.

“Hera.” he said ducking down to capture her gaze. “When have I ever said anything just to be nice?”

“Do you want that list alphabetically or by date?”

“I’m being serious.” He said, pulling her closer to him. “Look around this room. Not a single soul here gives a kriff about the state of the galaxy. They wouldn’t lift a finger to help. But you, you’re doing something about it. You don’t think your mother would have done the same?”

The blush on Hera’s cheeks grew deeper, her chest rising and falling in light breaths. Kanan could feel her pulse beneath his fingertips. There was a look gleaming deep in her green eyes, bright and burning. It pulled him in, setting his soul on fire while the world around them melted away until all that was left was just Hera.

He loved her. He loved her more than anything, more than the air in his lungs or heart in his chest. He loved her. And he knew, in that moment, surrounded by all the riches the galaxy could afford, he would never love anyone as much as he loved her.

“Kanan,” Hera said, her breath ghosting over his lips. She was so close now, her body a long line of heat against his. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.” He swallowed thickly, his throat suddenly bone dry. He could barely hear the music over the rush of blood in his ears. She licked her lips, her fingers tightening against his hip. “Kanan I-”

But before Hera could finish speaking the music suddenly cut off as the doors to the ballroom were thrown open and the Count made his grand entrance. The people clapped as a tall man with raven hair and white silk robes strode into the room, his dark eyes drinking in the adoration from the crowd. Hera took a step back. Kanan tried not to frown.

Count Jafan was oddly enough, not escorted by any type of private security. He didn’t seem to mind as people milled up to him, shaking his hand and tittering on about the party. Kanan watched as the thin man smiled and carried on as if the party goers were his adoring subjects. In many ways they were. Just about everyone here at the party wanted something from the Count, themselves included. But while most tried to wine and dine the man to get what they wanted, Kanan and Hera had a...different plan.

“Just say when.” Kanan said as they walked back to their table, leaving the dance floor behind. “I’ll follow your lead.”

Hera flagged down a protocol droid and took another bright red drink off of the serving tray. “Wait until he gets closer, then we’ll make our move. But we need to intercept him before our ISB friends over there come to collect.”

Kanan eyed the Imperial officers that were now watching the Count with sharp eyes as he fawned with his guests. They were after the same thing he and Hera had come for, only they had paid the good Count a reasonable fee. Kanan and Hera didn’t see the need for money to exchange hands for this type of transaction. A small distraction and deft fingers would do the trick just fine.

“You know,” Kanan said while they waited for their moment to arrive, “I have to give the Count some credit, making the Imperials come to him for the information. It’s a gutsy move. They must want that data chip pretty bad.”

“Yeah,” Hera laughed without humor. “Too bad the Count is on their side. We could use someone with his connections.”

Kanan gave the man a once over as he drew near. Other than the fine clothes he was dressed in, there wasn’t much to the man. His dark hair was slicked back and there was a perpetual smirk on his face that made Kanan want to punch it off. “His money, we could use. The Count himself? I think we’d get more help from a blurrg.”

That time, Hera’s laugh was genuine. “Alright.” she said with a mischievous grin. “Let’s go meet our host.”

Kanan wrapped his arm around Hera’s, mindful of the drink still in her hand as they moved towards the Count. The music had returned, the dance floor filling out now that the Count had finally made his appearance. Kanan and Hera walked arm in arm around the edge of the ball room, past the gilded tables laden down with rich foods and groups of beings reflecting on the numerous painting that lined the wall. They moved at a leisurely pace that put them on track to walk right past their host.

Just as they were about to pass the man, Hera tripped over the hem of her dress, her drink crashed to the floor as she landed in the unsuspecting Count’s arms. Kanan reached from her, pulling her back on to her feet and away from the startled Count.

“Count Herik!” Hera said in a thick Rylothian accent as she adjusted her headdress. “I-I am so sorry!”

The Count’s deep brown eyes landed on Hera, a slimy grin spreading across his face. He took her now empty hand in his own and brought it to his lips.

“It was merely an accident, my lady.” he said. “Enjoying the party I hope?”

“Oh yes!” Hera said breathlessly, still trying to regain her composure from the slip. “You have a lovely home Count.”

“I certainly hope so.” Count Herik chuckled. “I spent a fortune on it!” The crowd around them laughed at his joke and Kanan resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“Our apologies for the mess.” Kanan cut in. “But my wife, she isn’t feeling very well. We were about to leave.”

Count Herik flicked a disinterest glance at Kanan before turning his attention back to Hera. “I hope you get a chance to view the gardens before you leave my dear, I had some Rylothian vine flowers imported in just a few rotations ago. They seem to be taking to Naboo quite well.”

Kanan bit down on the inside of this cheek. “Perhaps on our way out.” Hera smiled at him, leaning heavily into Kanan. “Thank you again for such a wonderful evening.”

“Of course.” Count Herik nodded to her before stepping away. Kanan led Hera out of the ball room and into the hallway that would take them to the entrance. As soon as they were outside, Hera straightened and lifted a small data chip up between her fingers.

“The Count should really learn to protect his valuables.” she said with a smirk.

“Nice job Captain Hera.” Kanan said, taking the chip from her fingers and slipping it into the pocket of his pants. “Now let's get out of here before he realizes it’s gone.”

“He won’t know it’s gone until it’s too late.”

“You have a lot of practice in picking pockets?” He asked as he flagged down a hover taxi.

“More than you I bet.”

Kanan laughed. “Honestly, you’re probably right.” He held open the door for her as she climbed into the taxi, gathering her skirts around her delicately. They didn’t speak on the trip back to the space port, the glowing lights of Theed passing by out the window. At some point, Hera’s head fell onto his shoulder, her eyes closed. The metal of her headdress pressed uncomfortably against the bone but he didn’t mind. He let her rest until the spaceport came into view and the taxi slowed.

He helped her out of the cab and paid the driver before turning back to see Hera standing under the dim light of the street lamp looking tired but accomplished. A soft smile broke out on his face as he walked up to her.

“What?” she asked, arching a brow.

“Nothin’.” He replied walking with her towards the Ghost.

“Hey Kanan.” She said, pausing. “What I was going to say earlier…”

“Don’t worry about it Hera.” Kanan cut her off, not willing to break the pleasant mood that had fallen between them. He didn’t know what she wanted to tell him before, back on the dancefloor but he had a sinking suspicion that he wouldn’t like it. He rather be left wondering than have to confront the truth.

“No, I want to say it.” she grabbed on to his wrist, holding it tightly. “I’ve been wanting to say it for a while now.”

Kanan’s breath froze in his chest. “What is it?”

Hera bit her lip, her eyes searching his face as if it held the answer. Instead of saying anything, she stood on the tips of her toes and kissed him lightly on the lips. Kanan blinked at her in surprise as she pulled away, his mind going blank for the second time that day.

“I like you.” she said, still holding on to his wrist. “I know I said that my mission comes first and I stand by that but I can’t help the way I feel about you and I think you might feel the same way too.”

She was looking at him with a worried look on her face but Kanan couldn’t quite get past her words. She liked him. She had feelings for him. She was ready for them to be something more.

“Kanan could you please say something? You’re kind of freaking me out.”

Without thinking, Kanan pulled her into his arms and kissed her. She melted into him, her hands cupping the sides of his face as he spun them around in the air. They broke apart, breathless and smiling.

“I like you too,” he said. “If that wasn’t clear.”

Hera nipped at the side of his mouth. “I think you might need to explain it to me again.”

“Hera.” he said in between kisses. “I’ll explain it to you as much as you like.”

She rested her forehead against his. “I love you.” She whispered.

Kanan held her close, his whole world resting in his arms. “I love you too.”

#pretchatta #kanera #kanan jarrus #hera syndulla #star wars rebels #star wars: rebels #star wars #look at me write #shleby writes #you could always see me #one day i'll write an ending i'm happy with #also i hope i delivered on the romantic tension #and i now realize i never say what kanan was wearing #he has a cape like lando #and he is working it

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encouleurdevie · 4 years

Note

OKAY SO HEAR ME OUT. TIMOTHEE CHALAMET AT THE GOLDEN GLOBES. THE RINGS THAT HE WEARS GIVE ME A STROKE. YOU SHOULD WRITE SOMETHING INCORPORATING THOSE RINGS CAUSE... GODDAMN 🥵

Rings

a/n: …. sorry for disappearing for a while. send me ideas, i read them all, and i literally have google docs opened for all of them it’s just a matter of making myself be productive lol i love you. thank you for reading it means more than you’ll ever know

word count: 3100

“Be there in 5 minutes.” you typed as the taxi sped down the road towards a hotel that was much too fancy for your taste. But it was where Timothee was staying and you couldn’t say no to an invitation to come and take pictures of him before his big night. He was a nominee at the Golden Globes this year, and according to his previous texts, his stylists had gone all out for the occasion. One mirror selfie prompted you to pack your camera bag and hail a taxi to where he was staying. You were already drooling over how stunning his head-to-toe black outfit would look on your newest camera, which only shot in black and white.

As a photographer, you had a knack for capturing people at their best. It didn’t matter how confident they were or how camera shy they claimed to be, you had a way of making your subjects comfortable and carefree. People often told you that your photos were some of the most unique and beautiful they’d seen, which is how you had gotten to the point of photographing the enigmatic but easily recognizable faces of Hollywood. And it was going well, for the most part. Celebrities loved the attention they received after you released their photos. They loved feeling so special because of your attention to detail and poise behind the camera, and you loved the fact that they felt beautiful because of your photos. However, many of them would simply pay you for your time and then be on their way, never to speak to you again unless someone from their team of people reached out to you for another shoot.

Timothee, however, was not one of these people. Months earlier, he had personally reached out to you online, expressing how much he liked your photos and how he’d love to do a shoot sometime. Nothing prepared you for the whirlwind of events that were to follow.

The first time you had taken his picture, you were blown away by how effortlessly attractive he was as he posed for you. The pictures turned out beautifully, but nothing could capture his essence as clearly as you could see it in person, so animated and electrifying. It would be a lie to say you weren’t smitten from the first click of your camera. As it turned out, Timothee was drawn to your passion for photography, your eclectic style, and the way your eyes looked when you stared at him carefully and told him how to pose. The second or third time you had taken his picture, a late night shoot on some of the hidden streets in LA, you had barely gotten ten pictures before he couldn’t stand it anymore and kissed you hard in an alleyway. You remembered waking up next to him, messy haired and in your underwear, the next morning.

The photoshoots and secret rendezvous became routine, and before long you became a somewhat permanent member of his team, showing up to events and interviews and snapping photos. On the surface, you were merely his photographer, a background character in the spotlight of his life, but behind the dressing room door, he would be carefully undressing you and kissing you with a passion you didn’t know was possible. A secret affair from the public, and an erotic motivation for your art.

As the taxi cab turned corners, you reminisced on the stolen kisses and the heat of his body moving against yours. When the hotel, in all of its high-end California glory, came into view, you shook your head in an attempt to get your mind back on the present. You thanked the cab driver and stepped out into the heat of Beverly Hills, walking quickly into the hotel lobby.

Timothee had instructed you where to go once you were inside, so you made your way down the winding hallways until you found his room number. You knocked on the door twice, and waited. Within seconds, the door was yanked open and you were standing in front of the man who had come to be your muse. Timothee looked even better every time you saw him, and this time was no exception. The outfit looked even better in person than it had on your phone. The pristine black fabric of his shirt and pants fit his body snugly, and the small sequins that dotted his Louis Vuitton harness glinted in the light.

“Well hello, stranger,” he smiled.

“Hello, Mr. Fashion Man,” you replied, taking in the bold yet totally tasteful outfit.

He laughed his beautiful laugh and motioned for you to come into the posh hotel room which was decorated with various art deco furniture and paintings. Instead of having you set up in the indoor space, he walked across the room and out into an enclosed outdoor patio area.

“I was thinking this would be a cool spot,” he stated and looked at you for approval. You glanced around at the tall plants that bordered the small yard and admired the varying green hues of the space.

“This will be perfect,” you exclaimed, “but we need one thing.”

You dashed back into the room, and grabbed a tall metal chair that had caught your eye on the way in. You set it down in the grass, and made sure it was perfectly framed by leaves.

Timothee watched you closely, and smirked. “Always so full of ideas, aren’t you?”

You grinned at him and started unloading your camera bag onto a table just outside of the sliding glass door. You felt his eyes on you even after you looked away, making your heart beat ever so slightly faster.

“The newest addition to my collection,” you said proudly, reaching in your bag and then holding up your new camera.

“Is that a film camera?” he stepped closer to you to see it better. And that was when you noticed them. As he reached up to try holding the camera, you noticed the small collection of rings positioned on his fingers. One on his pointer, one on his middle finger. You’d never seen him wear jewelry before and were taken aback by how good the rings looked on him. A tiny detail against the rest of his outfit, but a detail that for some reason made you lose all focus. As you gazed at his fingers, you realized you hadn’t answered his question.

“Yes. Um, yeah. I found it at an antique store last week and fixed it up.”

His eyes flicked up to you, obviously noticing the way you hesitated, and saw your eyes locked on his fingers as he held your camera.

You brushed it off. “Anyway, I thought it would be cool to try it out. I forgot how much I love film.”

“Yeah. Okay, let’s do it.” He handed you the camera, and you noticed the way he made sure to brush his fingers against yours. This was going to be a long shoot if your mind kept wandering to other places, like it was starting to in that moment.

Timothee perched himself gently on the chair as you finished setting up the camera. When everything was ready to go, you brought the camera to your face, ready to start snapping away. The looks he was giving you could have melted iron. He knew exactly what he was doing too. As his eyes burned through the camera and he moved between poses, he began absently twisting the rings around his fingers. He moved them around, up and down his fingers, and spinning them around.

The slight movement, paired with the fire in his eyes was making you squeeze your legs together. The rings were sexy, distracting, and clearly causing a lot of feelings to stir within you. His fingers were the only thing on your mind. You were always surprised at how he didn’t even have to say a single world. He just had to lock his big green eyes on yours and you were putty in his hands.

You pulled the camera away from your face, accidentally revealing your flushed cheeks.

“I just… um. I need to check something with the… uh… the shutter speed.” you said and it came out sounding more like a strangled whisper.

Timothee stood up instantly, and within seconds he was standing right in front of you.

“No you don’t.” he cooed. You felt his presence so close to yours, and once again your eyes were glued to the rings on his fingers. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “You’re aching aren’t you?”

You looked up at him, and that was the end of it. He took the camera from your shaky hands and bent down until his lips were pressed roughly on yours. If this was what getting busted for having dirty thoughts about Timothee meant, you would gladly accept the consequences.

He started nudging you backwards into the hotel room, one hand on the small of your back the other reaching out to set the camera back in your bag. Obviously, you wouldn’t be needing that for a while. You reached up, still moving your lips messily against his, and clasped your hands behind his head, gently touching the curls that graced the back of his neck.

Timothee pulled away for a second, letting you both catch your breath. His demeanor had gone from the smiley boy who greeted you at the door, to a worked up and dominating version of himself. You could sense how worked up he was too, and how much he craved your body. Every time something like this happened between the two of you, it was like the first time. There was so much sexual tension between you and the second someone initiated anything it was like an explosion of repressed feelings. And it felt so good.

As soon as Timothee led you across the threshold of the room, he fell back onto a chair that had been pulled away from expensive-looking desk. He pulled you right on top of him so that your chests were right up against each other. You straddled his legs, causing your flowy skirt to bunch up around your thighs. Timothee’s hands followed the fabric, gently grazing the skin on your legs until he had a firm grasp on your hips underneath your skirt. As he traced his fingers along the waistband of your panties, you felt the rings against you, causing your breath to hitch.

“I saw you looking at them, baby.” he whispered against your ear. “Thought you might like them.”

“Fuck.” you groaned against his neck. “They look so good…”

You pushed yourself closer to him, grinding your hips onto his and feeling the outline of his hardening cock beneath you. In a swift movement, he pulled one hand away from your waist and brought it back down on your ass quickly. The warmth of his hand coupled with the cool metal of the rings made you squeal in anticipation. His hands guided your body as you continued to rub your hips against his lower half.

“Stand up.” he directed, his voice coming out cool and confidently arousing. You climbed off his lap, painstakingly dragging your body away from his, despite only wanting to be touching him everywhere. You stood up on shaky legs between his knees as he looked up at you from where he continued to sit. His hands gripped the backs of your thighs, his stare filled with desire. Calmly, and still gauging your reaction, he gathered the material of your skirt in his fists and tugged downward. The light fabric fell from your body smoothly and pooled around your ankles, leaving you in your blouse and lacy underwear in front of him. His eyes hungrily raked across your body.

You really couldn’t stand not touching him for a second longer, so you bent down and caught his lips in yours. His hands cupped your jaw as you licked into his mouth, and you dropped your hands to the top of his pants. You popped the first button open and fumbled around until your fingers worked the zipper down. He pushed up against you, still kissing you hard, just enough so that he could push his black pants down to his knees.

“Now come back here.” he mumbled against your lips. You didn’t need to be told twice. You let your body fall back open, spreading your legs so that you were straddling him again, this time only underwear between your lower halves. Your draped your arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer to you.

Timothee snaked one hand up the back of your blouse, sending a shiver up your spine, and began inching the other hand down the front of your panties.

“I know what you want, princess.” he whispered. “I know you’ve been thinking about my fingers since you walked in the goddamn door.”

He ran a finger teasingly across your slit, and his face broke into a cocky grin as soon as he realized how wet you were for him. His eyes were locked on yours with such intensity you felt like if you broke the stare you might burst into flames. He began rubbing his fingers in slow circles around your clit, eliciting a string of moans to come tumbling from your lips, which you were biting down on to try and stifle the noise.

But your mouth quickly fell open as he slowly, slowly pushed a finger into you. His face remained calm but he knew exactly what he was doing to you, knew exactly the way he made you feel. You whimpered as you felt his ring make contact with your entrance.

“That feel good baby?”

You didn’t reply, but merely sighed heavily in response, feeling so worked up.

“I said does that feel good baby.”

“Fuck.. yes I-” Before you could finish speaking he was inserting a second finger, and didn’t stop until both fingers were ring-deep inside of you. You could feel every inch of his fingers sending waves of pleasure straight to your brain. He stilled for a second, still with his fingers inside of you and tilted his face up to yours. He just looked at you, his face emotionless but stern, studying you closely. He was driving you crazy, edging you on, and still giving you that stupid look. This was exactly what you craved.

“Look at me.” he said. “Look me in the eyes when I touch you.” You dragged your eyes open to meet his only inches away. He pulled his fingers down and out in one quick motion, before sliding them right back in and starting up a rhythm. In and out, scissoring you open a bit, feeling your walls, rings colliding with your entrance each time he pushed his fingers back in. You dripped onto his fingers, covering his knuckles with your juices. Moans spilled from your mouth as you bounced lightly on his fingers. You gripped his shoulders, pulling at the black fabric that was still annoyingly on his body. The way Timothee touched you radiated this dominant energy despite the fact that you were on top. He had a way of making you feel like all of you was his, no matter what position you ended up in, and it drove you wild.

You started feeling your stomach get tighter, teetering on the edge of cumming all over his fingers. He noticed this too and began pulling his fingers out of you, not ready to let you come apart just yet.

“Clean it up.” he said putting his fingers close by your face. You took his hand in both of yours and slowly licked up the mess you made on his fingers. Your brain felt fuzzy, still grasping for the high he denied you, and as you licked yourself off his fingers your heart pounded in needy anticipation. Timothee watched you with hooded eyes and flushed cheeks. He began edging a hand down into his underwear, which were tight as his cock strained against them. You watched his jaw clench and unclench as he began pumping himself, getting harder and harder as you licked his fingers.

The sight was enough to throw you over the edge. You could not wait any longer.

You let his hand drop from yours and you pushed yourself up and against him until the tip of his dick was right at your entrance.

“You gonna fuck me, baby? You wanna ride my dick?” Timothee hissed.

You groaned in response and dropped your body down, letting his cock fill you all the way up until you bottomed out. A low, loud groan fell from his mouth and his hands found their way back to your hips. You allowed yourself to fixate on the feeling of him inside of you, filling you up so perfectly and sending jolts of pleasure throughout your body.

After a second of adjustment, his hands found your hips again, and began guiding you, up and down, roughly, against him. The rhythm got faster and faster, and you whimpered above him as the incredible sensations racked through your body. He groaned beneath you, loving the way your pussy felt around him and the way your nails dug into the skin on his shoulders. He leaned forward and placed open mouthed kisses along your collarbone which was peeking out over the top of your now very messed up blouse, as the two of you got closer and closer.

You dropped your head down onto his shoulder as you felt yourself start to tighten around him.

“I’m gonna cum, oh my god. I’m gonna cum.” you moaned into his neck, feeling his hot skin and the tight breaths coming out of him.

“You look sooo good, Y/N,” he whined moving his hands to your ass and rocking you against him. It was like you couldn’t get close enough to each other, and your bodies moved together in hot quick motions. Timothee angled himself into you and you suddenly felt him so deeply, so electrically, so incredibly well. You felt yourself come apart around his cock, grinding your hips down into his and crying out as the pleasure flowed through your body.

The intensity of your orgasm was enough to throw Timothee over the edge too. He fucked up into you roughly as you clenched yourself around him, still coming down from your own high. He moaned your name loudly in your ear as he came undone, cumming in hot spurts inside you, and still holding your hips tightly against him.

His dominant aura began to disappear as he recomposed himself, and his face melted into a smile.

“God, I’m so obsessed with you.” he said, breathing heavily.

You leaned forward and kissed him gently on the cheek. “You’re my muse, Timothee.” You peppered more kisses on his cheeks and neck.

The smile stayed plastered on his face for the rest of the evening, and through the award show he attended later, where he beamed at the rest of the cameras, thinking about how none of them could ever compare to you.

#Timothee Chalamet #timothee chalamet smut #timothee chalamet imagine #timothee smut #timothee imagine #timothee x reader #timothee fanfic #golden globes #rings #timmy x reader #timmy smut

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thethousandyearwitch · 3 years

Text

Fatal Taste

“The townspeople believe you’re some kind of evil spirit or monster-” he laughed lightly, not sure if it was because of that ridiculous thought, or because of the soft lips that were caressing the underside of his jaw. “Oh, Ging,” Pariston sighed against his skin in a way that chased goosebumps up his spine. “They are right.” -----------

Ging Freecss has been summoned by his elusive pen-pal Pariston Hill, to examine his claim of a rare and unheard of art collection. Even despite the warnings and difficulties on the way, he was not prepared for what awaited him at the artful mansion.

M-Rated; Vampire!Pariston Hill x Art Appraiser!Ging Freecss.

AO3 Link!

It was the height of summer, as a horse drawn carriage made its way into a small valley village, about 8 miles off the coast, 20 miles from the country’s capital. The sky was mostly clear, and hungry crows on fenceposts watched the carriage pass between grazing fields. The carriage itself didn’t carry a heavy load, just some imported goods from the harbour destined to be sold in the capital, the carriage driver, and a stranger to the country, with messy black hair and rough beard stubble, who had asked for a lift. During the ride he kept mostly quiet, though he introduced himself as “Ging Freecss”.

As they reached the village’s main plaza, the man hopped of the carriage, and bid the driver goodbye with a thanks and some money he had pulled from his trousers, seemingly with no mind paid to how much he was actually giving out.

There wasn’t much to this town, a couple rows of houses with dusted windows, a quaint pub with a few tables decked outside, one of which was occupied by an elderly couple, and a shrine to a local god adorned with candles and food offerings. Ging decided to sit down for a brief rest at the pub, grateful to take refuge in the shade of a sun umbrella next to the tables.

After a short while, a short and stout young woman greeted him and offered him a menu, though he knew well that all he wanted to order was a cold beer. And his wish got fulfilled, as she returned quickly with half a litre of local beer and some trail mix in a bowl. The waitress spoke up with a bubbly voice. “We don’t get many outsiders, sir, you’ve must have had quite a trip. Are you on your way to the capital?”

Ging took a large gulp of his drink before he replied, welcomed the cool chill that chased down his throat. “Ah, No, though I heard it’s a beautiful old city. I’m here to appraise someone’s art collection. Do you think you could help me find an address, actually?” He handed the waitress a neatly folded letter and pointed at the sender’s address. She mustered the handwriting closely before gasping lightly.

“That’s mister Hill’s manor! How do you know him, sir?”

At the same time, the old man at the other table turned around with a stern look. “You must not go there if you value your life, son.”

“I’ve only been in correspondence with him over letters, and though he seems like a weird fellow, I doubt that his antics will cost me my life.” Ging laughed with a rough voice, though the man’s stare didn’t waver.

“He’s a strange and dangerous man. I’ve heard of women visiting him and never returning.”

“Maybe they liked it there so much that they didn’t want to leave! I’ve met him before, he was real polite and friendly, even invited me to his home. But my parents would have killed me if I’d gone out that late in the night.” The waitress sighed wistfully.

“Do you insist to go, young man?” Now the old lady spoke up, her voice sounded sore and stutter-y.

“I’m here to do a job, and if his collection is the real thing, then I’d hate to miss it. But I’ll be quick, probably on my way back to the harbour by the end of the evening.”

The old woman stood up and walked with slow steps over to him, before insistingly grabbing at his hand and pulling him up from his seat. “Come pray then, boy.”

“Ma’am, really, I will be fine, I- I am a grown man- “She pushed him towards the shrine and signalled for him to kneel. “I’m not very religious, y’know- “

“Nonsense, in the face of danger, every man can turn towards any god. Let me pray over you.” Ging rolled his eyes but knew better than to argue with an elderly woman, being beaten with a cane can teach you that lesson. “Dear Gods, watching high above, protect this soul who has strayed from his dedicated path. Guide him to safety and be the shining armour that repels any and all mischievous evils. Assist him in making his judgement, and forgive him for his faults, as we forgive as well. Hold him tight within your hand until he may part which his earthly body to meet you once again.”

Ging waited and listened to the eerie prayer until she removed her hand from his shoulder. “Say, Auntie, a couple rumours don’t turn a man into a monster, do they?”

“People have gone missing in the woods around the mansion. The house itself, it’s always been known to home something evil, for centuries. You youngsters are not in touch anymore with recognizing something malevolent even if it were to spit in your face.”

That cryptic message- or insult- still couldn’t convince Ging not to head towards his destination. Afterall, something like evil spirits couldn’t be real, or else he’d be haunted twice over after disturbing crypts and burial sites, places of worship and sacrifice, the last remains of civilisations long gone. Not once did he think about ghosts or monsters taking revenge.

This ‘Pariston Hill’ was no monster, but most likely just a pretentious man with too much money, feigning interest in art without understanding their purpose and meaning.

Ging asked the waitress again about the address, and she explained a step-by-step on which road he had to hike up to reach the manor. He left her a tip, bid farewell to the old couple, and started to head up the hill road, burlap sack with a few travel belongings over his shoulder.

The road quickly turned from sturdy cobblestone to dirt as he walked, the surrounding forest grew thicker and unkempt around the trail. The woods were quiet except for the occasional crow-cry and wing flutters in the tree crowns. Sweat made his clothes stick uncomfortably to his skin, his hair frizzed due to the humidity. He was an experienced hiker, but he still was sure that anyone who decided to build a mansion only accessible via dirt road was a sadist.

But as much as Ging craved refreshment from the heat again, the subtle static in the air and the increase of tiny insects flying around hinted at something unwelcomed: A summer storm was brewing. It wasn’t unusual for this part of the country, but it could certainly throw him off his schedule.

“Please, anything but- “Ging tried to plead to whatever deity in these parts might be responsible for weather, however he was interrupted by a blinding flash of lighting, followed by booming thunder, and finally cold rain. “Asshole.”

After a half-hearted jog through the rain and mud that would soak him head to toe, dim lights of a fenced in mansion came into view. A lit oil lamp illuminated an unlocked gate, and a gold-plated sign with fancy curled letters that spelled ‘Pariston Hill’. Ging didn’t second guess the open gate and let himself in, eager to get out from under the downpour. As the gate creaked open, he could have sworn he saw a cat that scurried around the corner, but it was gone before he could have been sure. An orange brick path led directly to the main entrance of the house, adorned on either side with well-kept lawn, hedges cut into elaborate shapes, and exotic flowers that Ging had seen in other countries and continents. The entrance was made up of two large solid wood doors, intricate floral carvings, and two iron door knockers that seemed to be decades old but kept in good shape.

But as the rain seeped deeper into his clothes, Ging disregarded the aged architecture and gave the door a few heavy knocks. Through the rain he tried to listen for a response or approaching footsteps, in vain. And yet without any warning, the door clicked, creaked, and slowly opened. Bright light from inside illuminated the outside area of the entrance. In the middle of the light, there he stood.

He seemed a bit taller than Ging, a perfect posture as if practiced. His hair stood out even against the equally golden light, and he wore a vermillion suit, most likely more expensive than the entirety of Gings closet combined. For some reason, the term ‘handsome devil’ came to mind.

For a second, the man looked down on him with a serious, even hostile expression, before he gave a pleasant smile in recognition. “Ging Freecss, I assume? Seems like you had a refreshing journey here.” He leisurely held out a hand, which Ging immediately took for a hearty handshake, subtly making sure that rain splatter from his hand and sleeve would scatter.

“I do enjoy a good hike, and a free shower is a free shower.” He flashed a determined grin, and Pariston removed himself from the man’s cold and clammy grip, still smiling though disgust flashed within his dark eyes. He stepped a bit to the side and made an exaggerated hand motion to invite Ging to step inside the manor.

The entrance hall was lit with a large crystal chandelier and a warm fireplace at the other side of the room, with two red velvet seats facing the fire. Marble floor was covered with a long red carpet, while the walls were adorned with classical paintings. Just at a glance Ging could tell they weren’t imitations.

“Ging- If you allow me to address you so intimately,” Pariston started, though he didn’t wait for an answer before he continued, “Ging, I’ve been anxiously looking forward to your visit. Now, I could have always called a local appraiser to come and do their job, but I sense a sort of passion within you that I’m sure won’t disappoint me.” He flashed another smile, though far from genuine as his stare and tone dripped with mockery.

“Well, usually I would have declined to come such a long way on a shallow request of a pen-pal, but it would be a shame to let the outrageous claim of a complete Ushiromiya portrait collection go unchecked. Where’s the goods?” Ging leisurely started to press out the water that had soaked into his clothes, directly onto the red carpet below. In any other case he may have shown an art collector more respect, but the smug aura of this man, which had already seeped through any and all letters he had ever received of him, pushed Gings buttons in all the wrong ways.

“I’d think a professional appraiser such as yourself wouldn’t want to examine rare paintings in such a condition that you’re in. It would be a shame if you were to get some dirt on them. Why don’t you go ahead and have a shower, while I retrieve the paintings from their safe?”

“I’m pretty confident in my ability to spot a forgery from a safe distance.”

“I’d be a terrible host if you were to catch a cold.”

“Never been sick in my life, now, I insist- “

“This is my humble home, and they are my paintings, Ging. I am the one who insists. And after all, a free shower is a free shower, isn’t it?” Pariston approached him and took clear advantage of his height, looking down at his visitors with an overly polite smile. Ging had never backed down from a challenge, however, his curiosity about the paintings had increased more and more as he looked around the mansion and noticed more authentic art and architecture. If Pariston Hill had truly come into possession of a rare collection, he didn’t want to deprive the world of this discovery just because he refused to take a shower.

“Alright then, but I don’t have a change of clothes.”

“I’ll generously lend you some of my attire, though I won’t make any promises about it fitting someone of your stature.” Pariston laughed lightly as he proceeded to push Ging towards another room down the hall. “Use any towels, soaps, and the likes as you please, be my guest~”

The washroom Ging got ushered into was equipped with a marble sink, a spacious shower, and a white cabinet that held towels of different sizes and colours. It was clean, maybe too clean, as he could find no trace of this room being used…ever. No water stains on the faucet or at the shower tiles, no used toiletries. Most likely it was a washroom just for guests, and he didn’t want to think about the over-the-top luxury that must hide in the master bathroom.

As he pulled his water-heavy clothes off his body, cold air hit his damp skin, there was a knock on the door. “I’ve got your change of clothes~ I’m sure you’ll like these even more than your regular attire.”

“What am I supposed to do about my clothes? I assume you don’t want me to leave them on the floor to rot?” He cautiously pressed one shoulder against the door, just in case his strange host would get any ideas.

“If you insist to keep them, I can hang them to dry by the fire.”

“You mean ‘dry’, and not ‘burn’, right?”

There was a moment of hesitation, before another light laugh echoed through the door. “What kind of person do you take me for?”

“I’ve been told it’s rude to insult a host. Thanks for the clothes!” Ging quickly opened the door just enough that he could fit his arms through, grabbed the neatly folded pile of fresh laundry, and dropped his soaked clothes into Paristons still extended arms, before he shut the door and clicked the lock. He could hear the sound of the clothes hitting the floor with a wet noise and snickered to himself.

After a long, warm shower, Ging tried his best to towel dry his hair, though in the end he opted to just slick it back. The clothes Pariston had picked out for him were simple, though not necessarily his style: Black slacks, and a white button up that didn’t seem to fit quite right, thus opting to roll up the sleeves just below his elbows and tuck most of the shirt into the pants. He kept the three most top buttons unbuttoned, because he had always hated the stuffy feelings of suits and dress shirts. The faint smell of cologne that wasn’t his stuck to the clothes, but he pretended not to notice. It smelled of cinnamon.

He exited the bathroom, towels discarded in the sink for whoever to clean up, only to find Pariston at the fireplace, Gings clothes neatly folded over the velvet chairs, as he held a small piece of paper. A picture.

“What an adorable baby!”

Ging approached him with quick step and snatched the picture out of his hands at an admirable speed. “Do you usually go through your guests’ belongings or am I a special case?”

“My, I was merely picking up something that fell out of your pockets. Is it your child?”

“What if he was?” Ging glanced over his spread-out clothes, suspicious of any tempering that might have been done.

“He certainly looks like you, if not as, how do you say,” Pariston waved his hand around as if he were to grab a word out of thin air, “bellicose.”

“Whatever that is supposed to mean. He’s my son; since you’re so curious.”

“Well, well~ Congratulations to you and your- “Pariston glanced at Gings hands, before he made eye contact again, prying smile “wife?”

“No such woman exists. Did you invite me here to pry in person about my life, or do I actually get to see the art?”

“Just making casual conversation. But since you are less of a hazard now, I’d love to see you go to work.”

“Don’t throw me out when you have to face the hard truth, though.” He shuffled through his light luggage to retrieve some appraisal tools, then followed Pariston Hill up a wooden staircase that opened to a long hallway of unmarked doors, and the walls here too were lined with paintings. Some were simple landscapes; others elaborate portraits of different eras. A couple of the artists seemed familiar, though most of them seemed to come from absurd sources or lacked an artist’s signature at all. He stopped in front of one particular painting: A painting of this very mansion. It was yellowed with age, and the edges that poked out from its golden frame seemed worn out and somewhat burned. A signature at the very bottom read in cursive ‘P.H.’ and a date around 50 years back. “Huh?”

“Ging~ Here please.” Pariston held a door open, this time with a smile that seemed almost painful with how his teeth were clenched. Ging decided not to question it, and followed his host into a dim room, packed with various dusted boxes and furniture covered in blankets. At the very end stood a row of aged easels holding up paintings.

“Think they will look more genuine in the dark?” he joked dryly, but his eccentric host flicked on a gas lamp in the row with a fool’s confidence, and-

The room lit up and Ging faced four stunning paintings.

He had studied the previously only known Ushiromiya painting painstakingly when he was still just an apprentice. He learned the way the brush strokes had been made in deliberate ways, burned the colour choices into the back of his eyelids, knew the exact curvature of the one-winged eagle that adorned its signature.

These paintings were real. There was no other explanation.

He went up close, examined the texture, searched for any mistakes in disbelief. But each one was flawless.

“And? Did I waste your time?” Pariston stood a couple feet back, arms crossed, and head tilted.

“They are real… Pariston, this is ground-breaking!” Ging spun around, his face a mix of bewilderment and pure joy. This joy only doubled when Pariston clapped his hands together and seemed to be just as elated.

“Wonderful! Simply splendid!”

“We might be some of the only people alive to have ever seen these!” Ging enthusiastically grabbed Parison by the shoulders, his mind was racing with potential studies he could write on these paintings and the way their existence was to alter history. “How did you get these?”

“They were given to my family by the original artists; So I’ve been told.” A mysterious smile, almost melancholy danced on his lips, before he gave another flash of his shining teeth. “I never doubted their authenticity, but I couldn’t keep their existence to myself, could I?”

Ging gave an enthusiastic slap on Paristons shoulder, feeling for the first time like the two of them shared a surprising, genuine connection. “Will you donate them to a museum? Try to contact the family of the Artist? Or the remaining Ushiromiya family members?”

“I will keep them here. Maybe hang them in my study. Now, would you care for a meal, Ging?”

“What?”

Pariston had already walked back to the door and flicked off the light, his silhouette only illuminated by the faint lights in the hallway. “I’ve let my chef prepare us a meal. I assume you don’t get asked for dinner often then.” He chuckled.

“I thought you didn’t want to keep their existence to yourself!”

“And I didn’t. You know about them now. Exciting, isn’t it?” He chuckled once again, before he disappeared into the hallway.

Ging weighed his option if he were to grab the paintings and escape into the night, but the storm still raged on outside, and he couldn’t safely juggle 4 large canvases all the way to the harbour or capital by himself.

For now, all he really could do was to find a way to convince Pariston to change his mind, through persuasion, threats, or force. Maybe if he were to get some outside forces to apply pressure, he recalled his colleague in forensics, Cheadle, owed him a favour.

He stepped into the hallway and quickly fell into step besides Pariston. “Dinner would be lovely, I’m sure, unfortunately I’m on a tight schedule, so I’d rather get going. I could write you a certificate of authenticity for the collection, though I’d need a second appraiser for the process. My good colleague Miss Yorkshire would be thrilled to visit, I’d think.”

Pariston came to a halt, ran his hand through his messy blond streaks of hair with a sigh. “Oh, Ging, I simply can’t let you continue in this weather. No ship will sail under these conditions, and the way to the capital is prone to mudslides. I don’t want to be complicit in your accidental death.” Ging was about to argue before he was cut off once again. “As for your colleague, you can gladly summon miss Cheadle Yorkshire here, though we’ve never been on very good terms.”

“Wh- How do you know her?”

“Let’s discuss it over dinner, shall we?”

Ging expected to be taken to a large dining hall with a table set for a dozen people, but in the end, they entered a separate room adjacent to it, with a medium scale dining table only decked for two. Unlike the other rooms in the house, this one was lit with multiple candles in elaborate holders -17thcentury bronze, Ging thought – and a phonograph was playing a concert recording. The men took their seats at opposed ends of the table, Ging sat with a natural comfort and slack, as if any seat he claimed was immediately his own with no regard to manners or humility; Pariston sat with seemingly practiced confidence and superiority as he made a show of crossing his legs and resting his chin on his hand. A confidence that irritated Ging to no end.

“Must be lonely to usually eat by yourself in this large, dusty room, huh?”

“I keep company one way or another.” Pariston spread a napkin on his lap, though the twitch of his eyebrow indicated his true annoyance with Gings remark.

Just then the door from the hallway opened, and a tall man in a chef’s uniform entered, as he pushed a small silver cart stacked with dishes. As he stepped closer, Ging noticed strange markings around his eyes, though there was no telling if they were tattoos or merely makeup. “Good evening,” he mumbled, in a voice unlikely for a man of his tall stature, “tonight’s meal is wagyu rump steak with rice and garlic Bok choy, served with a bottle of mister Hills personal wine selection.” After Pariston nodded in approval, the tall man started to serve the plates and poured two glasses of deep red wine.

“Don’t tell me you eat like this every day.”

“Of course not~ I prefer Kobe Fillet. I was trying to be mindful of less acquainted tastes.”

“You’re right, I don’t eat beef a lot. I prefer fish, but I understand that not everyone can get their hands on bluefin tuna.”

“Maybe I will let it be prepared for next time.”

“Is it that lonely up here that you’re already inviting me to another dinner?”

“I just assumed you’d appreciate the company, without a significant other and the fact that your child is most likely not under your care.”

The men exchanged challenging looks. Pariston still had a polite smile, though he started to lean forward in his chair like a predator about to pounce, while Ging couldn’t keep an irritated smirk form his lips. The tension was only interrupted by the chef, who cleared his throat and told the men to enjoy their meals. Just then the sweet and savoury smell of the food hit Ging, and he couldn’t deny the hunger that had built itself up.

Pariston lifted his own wine glass up, red liquid sparkled in the candlelight. “To the most interesting guest who has found his way into my home.”

In response, the man in question raised his own glass, though with less bravado and more at leisure. “To the Ushiromiya collection and their questionable owner.”

Both of the men started drink from their wine, though Ging noticed Paristons eyes on him, as if he awaited a reaction. The wine was sweet on Gings tongue, it lacked the usual sting that wine would give him once he swallowed.

“How is it?”

“Could be worse. You’ve got a lot of time on your hands to even make your own wine.”

The blond started to cut off a piece of his meal, and took a small bite, never breaking eye contact. “I am a man that easily gets bored. I need a lot of hobbies.”

“That makes two of us.”

They ate mostly in silence, music from the phonograph kept the atmosphere light. Ging hadn’t realized just how hungry he was, until he finally ate enough and the lingering knot in his stomach loosened. He emptied his plate in what felt like record time, no regard for table manners, and drank more wine while Pariston ate at a patient (and reasonable) pace. After his third glass, he was expecting the normal pleasant buzz that alcohol gave him, in vain.

“You still need to explain to me how you and Cheadle are acquainted.” He poured himself another glass, which Pariston seemed to approve.

“We have met a couple years prior, at a theatre opening in the city, hosted by Sir Netero. A friend of a friend, so to say. Unfortunately, people like us aren’t meant to get along. I offered her a dance out of curtesy, but I felt like she might have mauled me if I insisted.”

Ging laughed lightly, “She does have a temperament. I can’t imagine her being much of a dancer.”

“Saying something like that about a lady isn’t very nice, especially considering the same could be said about you.”

“Bold assumption, with no evidence.”

“You don’t look like you’d have the grace required for dancing.”

“I may not get invited to many balls, but I’ve known myself around a couple dancing events.”

“Are you willing to prove yourself?” Pariston got up from his seat, walked over to Ging, and as the phonograph started to play another orchestra song, he extended his hand to him. “May I have this dance?”

The shorter man hesitated, but unable to admit defeat to the other, he took the hand and immediately got pulled into the starting position for a Viennese Waltz, his right hand in Paristons, his left rested on the others upper arm; Paristons right hand rested on Gings shoulder-blade. As they started to move, Ging had to concentrate hard to not look at his feet, seeing as it would be an admission to not being confident in his steps, though locking eyes with the other man stirred something uncomfortable within him. He couldn’t clearly remember the last time he had danced with someone else, so the closeness of it felt foreign. As the music continued, they waltzed through the room, at first only in the ‘natural box’, though soon Pariston led them to side whisks and natural turns, a steadily increased pace.

“I do have to admit, you’re better at this than I initially thought.” Pariston smiled.

“You shouldn’t judge a book so easily by its cover.”

“You shouldn’t forget who has the lead.” Before Ging could question the statement, he was dipped low as the orchestral music seemed to reach its climax, hands immediately grabbing for more hold before he’d meet the ground. In the end, he clung to Paristons shoulders in a move that lacked grace but not force. The other man meanwhile had let go of his shoulder-blade, and instead had both hands secure at Gings waist. “Afraid I would drop you?”

“It’s what I would have done.”

The two men laughed and stood themselves up straight once again, but their hands remained where they were, whether it was a conscious decision or not. A slower song started, the name of it at the tip of Gings tongue, and as he pondered it, he may not have even noticed that they started a slow dance together. It was a simple three-step, and Pariston would occasionally close his eyes to hum along to the music, uncaring of the closer contact between him and the other man; The longer it went on, so did Ging.

“I didn’t think you’d agree to dance.”

“Maybe the alcohol made me more susceptible to idiocy.”

“There was no alcohol in that wine, Ging. Or at least not enough, to get you anywhere near an inebriated state.” He chuckled.

“A wine without alcohol can barely call itself a wine. What is in it, then?”

“I wonder if you can guess~”

Ging thought about it for a minute, determined to prove himself better once again. “It was very sweet, but too water-y to just be crushed fruit.” This only elicited a humoured ‘Mhm’. “I think it is a process of combining younger wine with some sort of flavoured tea.”

“Incorrect, but a good try~”

“What is it then?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

Ging rolled his eyes, but continued their slow dance, as he got used to the hands on his waist that occasionally tapped their fingers to the music. “Keeping secrets must be another of your hobbies. The wine, the portraits…” He trailed off when he realized that Pariston inched closer; He smiled, self-satisfied, dark eyes focused solely on the other. Suddenly Ging felt the blood in his veins run cold, like faced with a predator in the woods, his heart was beating in this throat. Every nerve in his body started to feel shocked and screamed to run. But he couldn’t. Didn’t want to. And so, he stood still when Paristons ghostly cold hand cradled the side of his face as if another rare piece of art. When Ging didn’t flinch away from the touch, the blond placed a first kiss just on the corner of the others mouth. Then another. And another. Until Ging turned his head just enough to connect their lips.

Paristons lips were soft and faintly tasted of that sweet wine, with each kiss his hold on the others waist would tighten, like he was afraid he’d turn and run. But instead, the shorter man wrapped his arms around the blonds’ neck, even a tad eager to press his tongue between his lips, to be closer, to taste more. Every new connected kiss made his stomach twist in just the right way, he relished that it felt dangerous, maybe even wrong, and yet so satisfying.

After what felt like hours, though realistically it was probably a couple of minutes, their lips parted and Gings head was left spinning as Pariston continued to kiss along his jaw. But there is one thing that pulled at his mind, annoyingly so.

“Oh, Ging,” Pariston sighed against his skin in a way that chased goosebumps up his spine. “They are right.”

“Wha- “Suddenly a sharp, paralyzing pain shot from Gings neck to the ends of his body. He couldn’t move, couldn’t scream, all he could do was to drive his nails deeper into the others shoulder, and let out quiet gasps. Meanwhile a thumb stroked over his cheekbone as if to soothe, the other hand on the small of his back to keep him from collapsing.

He wondered if he was going to die here, at the hands of a vampire that he’d been warned about. He wondered if he’d been deliberately seduced- did he consider himself seduced? – just to be killed.

He threaded his fingers through the vampire’s hair, with no energy to pull him away from himself, just enough to hold on. Acceptance. He felt cold.

A tongue lapped over the fresh wound on his neck, followed by a few soft kisses. The pain subsided to a dull numbness. His line of sight started to darken. Pariston cradled Gings face in his hands, lips and chin stained red. He pressed another kiss to his lips, so tender as if he had never revealed his true nature, and the shorter man but couldn’t help but huff out a laugh with the last of his strength.

“Tastes like wine.”

“Another secret revealed to you.”

The last thing Ging saw was Paristons smile and dark eyes. Then blackness.

When Ging came to, the past day felt like a distant dream. He felt no pain, only a comfortable warmth that surrounded him, and someone’s fingers that combed through his hair.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. A dim room he did not recognize, next to him a bedstand with a carafe of water and some medical tools that included gauze, needle, thread, and a dirtied scalpel. He himself was still wearing the clothes he had been presented with after his spontaneous shower. He turned his head to the other side, and there sat Pariston on the same bed, one hand in the man’s hair, the other held an aged book. At the movement, he retracted his hand in shock, before his signature smile flashed once more.

“You’re awake.”

“I’m alive.” It somewhat hurt to talk, and as he reflexively reached for his own throat, he felt a thick bandage at the side of his neck. “You kept me alive. Why?” He started to sit himself up, not wanting to be physically talked down to.

“I don’t want to be bored. You’re the first visitor I’ve had in a while that managed to keep my interest. I guess I am pretty selfish.”

“You are.” Ging reached out to brush a strand of hair from Paristons face, before gently pulling him in for a kiss. “So am I.”

He felt his stomach twist again as they kissed, so sickly sweet, and he wanted more. He deepened the kiss, drank up every relaxed sigh that came from the other, let himself be greedy and reach for more. Even though Pariston almost killed him, still could, he touched Ging like he was something treasured, close enough to not let him escape, but not enough to break him. And maybe that’s what Ging wanted, to be desired, even in a destructive, dangerous sense.

As the feeling returned to all his limbs, he took advantage of it to properly sit himself up, then straddle Paristons lap. He broke their kiss, leaving the other somewhat panting. Again, the blonds’ hand was at the side of his face, not as cold this time, and his thumb traced small circles into his cheek.

“How often have you coerced someone here, just to feed?”

Pariston closed his eyes in thought, “It would be pointless to keep count. But no one has ever made it as far as you have.”

This prompted Ging to claim the vampires’ lips with his own in a possessive kiss. Paristons free hand started to trail up and down the shorter man’s thigh; In response, Ging started to feel his way from Paristons shoulders to his chest, lean but firm muscle.

And no heartbeat.

Of course, there wouldn’t be. He was dead.

Ging thought about how, maybe in a different lifetime, the two of them could have met through different means, both alive and entirely human. He thought about the countless people that have stepped into this mansion, never to return to their families. How even he would one day pass, either through natural means or because Pariston had lost interest in his existence. Would he ever let someone else get this far, after Ging? He felt cold steel in his hand.

This time, Pariston was the first to break the kiss, only for a moan to escape his lips. By now, they had slipped further down the mattress, with Pariston flat on his back while Ging still firmly straddled his hips. He looked so human under Ging, dark eyes half lidded and even the faintest flush on his cheeks.

Ging thought about how long he could stay here. About all the paintings in this mansion and their history he could study. About shared dinners and slow dancing to orchestral music. The image of himself as a corpse, entirely dry, flashed in his mind. A wine bottle with his name written on it.

Ging took Paristons hand from his face and held it over his racing heart. “I don’t think someone else has ever done this to me.” It felt ridiculous to say but it also tasted so bitter with truth to say out loud. His other hand grasped the foreign, cold object harder.

“What an honour~” Pariston purred, and he tried to lean up to unite in another kiss before he got pushed back into the mattress.

“We are both selfish, Paris. I don’t want you to do this to anyone else. And I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

In the vampires’ eyes flashed confusion, irritation, and then the glistening object that Ging had hidden. The scalpel from the bedside table. And in his last moment, he smiled with such honesty, that it felt like it was Ging who would receive that fatal blow to the heart.

It was over in a moment.

The scalpel, with enough force, had swiftly pierced through the ribs all the way to his heart, and after a pained gasp and a bit of twitching, Pariston Hill had died.

Ging remained seated for a while; He did not move, just looked. He wondered if he should cry, if he even could if he wanted to. But in the end, he closed Paristons eyes, gave him a parting kiss on the forehead, and left.

He never told anyone about the paintings.

Never told anyone about what he experienced in the mansion.

He wanted to be selfish and keep this secret just between himself and Pariston. Forever.

#ALMOST 1 AM BUT IM FINALLY DONE HELLO PARIGING TAG <3 #Pariging #pariston hill #Ging Freecss #Hunter x hunter #fanfiction #hxh fanfiction #pariging fanfiction #vampires #pariging hxh #vampire au

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hispeculiartreasure · 4 years

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All We’ve Got is Time - Chapter Seventeen | B.B.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

AU: If They’d Survived/Post-War/Window Washer!Bucky Barnes

Rating: Teen

Word count: 9,636

Chapter 17/24

Warnings: PTSD, brief cursing, light discussion of a WW1 veteran’s amputation, mentions of war-related death.

AN: Apparently, I needed time. Time to heal, time to think, time to gain perspective. This chapter is not at all what I had planned, but it’s exactly what it needs to be. Thank you for your patience. Hope you enjoy. ❤

I do not have a set posting schedule for this story.

Chapter Sixteen

‘All We’ve Got is Time’ Masterlist

Bucky could not wrap his head around how bewitching you were in the autumnal twilight. The pink hue of the sun’s last rays set the skin of your arms in an alluring tone, made the color of your eyes even more pronounced. It wasn’t only your visage that was stunning, but your confidence behind the wheel of the cruiser. Freshly manicured fingers commanded the steering wheel with a grace that should not have taken him by surprise.

The 1941 Oldsmobile was a loan from Harvey. When you’d told him you were planning a visit home to Tarrytown he claimed he had a vehicle that needed test driving before it was detailed pending a sale. You and Bucky knew full well the car didn’t need any added travel time - Bucky being the mechanic who had repaired it in the first place. The train tickets had been easy enough to return, so the pair of you had taken the clandestine gift and reveled in the luxury of having a vehicle at your disposal.

With an ease that betrayed your years of experience, you navigated the road out of New York City and pointed the vehicle in the direction of your hometown. From his view sitting in the passenger seat, the thought crossed his mind that the woman seated next to him on the bench was a truly authentic you that his soul craved. No walls up, nothing to hide from the world - you behind the wheel cruising down the streets with a peaceful smile spreading to your cheeks. If Bucky had owned a camera he would’ve gladly spent a whole roll of film trying to capture this moment that was imprinting itself on his mind.

He could tell you knew he was watching you. Yet you didn’t shy away; didn’t admonish him for the way his eyes roved over you, nor the length of time they did. You merely continued to talk about your day like you would any other evening. Where you’d normally catch up over dinner and pie in a diner’s cozy booth, you did so in the comfort of the sedan as pavement moved steadily beneath you.

Bucky had expected you to be pleased earlier that evening when he picked you up from work in his Sunday-best; coveralls traded in for a dapper look after a long day working beneath the hood of this very vehicle. Instead, your eyebrows furrowed together, insisting he didn’t have to dress up to meet your parents. He’d waved off your protests with a cheeky “Can’t have your parents thinking I’m a hobo, right?” He bit off a comment about how despite your overtures, you were impeccably dressed. Hair coiffed in perfection, not a speck of makeup out of place - your immaculate appearance didn’t ring true for a reason he couldn’t identify, so he kept the observation to himself.

You had quickly slid back into your rightful place snug in his heart when you’d overruled him by climbing into the driver’s seat. Since he’d put in so much effort, you insisted he rest on the ride out to Tarrytown. Neither of you were fooled. You truly loved being at the helm of a car. With traffic to thank, the hour-long trip to Tarrytown was otherwise pleasant. When he wasn’t marveling at you, he admired the green fields of the rolling countryside.

A roadside advertisement for “Tarrytown’s Best Antique Shop - 2 miles ahead!” prompts Bucky to say -

“So, this is it, huh?”

You slant your eyes to his for a moment before they’re back on the road, a smirk gracing your lips. “Almost.”

Where a moment ago you had been the picture of serenity, an undertow of unease now laces your tense jaw. Try as you might, those eyes couldn’t hide from him.

Before he can ascertain the cause behind the shift, your hand comes down to his knee with an excited squeeze. “Well - this is Tarrytown!”

With the sparkling Hudson River visible in the west, a quaint village looms up to meet the Oldsmobile. All was exactly as he’d expected based on your stories. The place had the charm of another time with buildings betraying architecture from another century, a different kind of world. Towering dogwoods filled with red leaves greet the pair of you everywhere he turns. The road curves past the stately Tarrytown Village Hall, proudly on display in the center of the community.

He whistles appreciatively, eyes definitely not on the town. “She’s a beaut.”

“You’ve barely seen her,” you tease.

“Don’t have to, I know she’s a keeper.” He winks.

Your eyes roll with all the fondness in the world.

Not too much farther into town you take a turn, and another turn, and then another turn. Bucky’s sense of direction is lost in the maze of picturesque homes nestled in the hilly streets. He’s grateful one of you knows where you’re going; he’s grateful that it’s you.

Sooner than expected you bring the car to a slow stop; shifting the gear and pulling the emergency brake before killing the ignition, plunging the cab into a descending quiet as the engine settles.

You, however, are not settled. His attention is drawn to the way you twist the ring on your right hand as your eyes lose focus somewhere in the direction of what he assumes to be your childhood home.

The concept of you being nervous with a home-field advantage puzzled him. When he had brought you home he was fully confident in his sisters and mother making you feel welcome, truly taking a shine to you. To his joy, he’d been right. His father was another story, but that was an unfortunate surprise.

There wasn’t a bit of self-assurance in your shoulders as you gazed through the front windshield. The ring takes another spin around your finger.

He says your name as a question and you snap back to the present, eyes locking with his. You feign a grin and open the driver’s door before he can figure out how to word his question.

Following your lead, he opens the trunk and retrieves the bags, playfully refusing to let you carry yours. “And let your folks think I’m anything other than a gentleman? Come on, you’ve gotta give me something to show off.”

This only pulls a small smile from you before you’re checking your reflection in the side mirror. You wipe a bit of stray lipstick from the side of your mouth, rub at a dark spot beneath your eye. Slow steps lead you to the porch, where you pause again. The nippy breeze sends a flutter through your hair and Bucky takes the moment to really study your face.

Clearly there’s a mix between anticipation and unease. You’d been ecstatic at the prospect of bringing him home just a week ago when you’d made the final plans, so what had happened in the intervening time? Mentally flipping through his past observations he searches for a sign of what lays on the other side of the front door.

He had only heard you speak fondly of home, but in the seconds he reviews your statements they all land on the side of vague. Your hometown was big on traditions, so he assumed your parents would be of the same mindset. From what he’d gleaned you spoke with your mother on the phone fairly regularly, but any calls he’d been within earshot of had sounded almost. . . polite. He’d noticed letters from your father on your home desk and in your purse, sometimes reading a new one on the subway if you hadn’t had time the night before.

Based on his own time around Harvey, Bucky recalled several stories about you and your father. Your mother remained enigmatic, aside from the picture in your apartment of you nestled between your parents.

“You alright, sweetheart?”

You avoid his eyes, blink one too many times. “Of course.”

Before he has the chance to press you’ve twisted the doorknob and stepped across the threshold.

“Mom? Dad? Anybody home?” You call out into the sparse foyer.

Bucky can’t help the involuntary tremor of muscles at the sound of a crash from the kitchen, followed by a clamor of voices. When he pulls air back into his lungs, you're smiling an apology. A reassuring hand touches his cheek before fixing an errant lock of hair that had fallen from the strict hold of Brylcreem. He should’ve remembered that as clearly as he can see you, you can also see him.

You raise your voice a fraction, “Everybody okay? We’re home! You can set the bags down there, Buck.” With a motion to the side Bucky obediently deposits the luggage next to the door. It looks incredibly conspicuous in the tidy home, where everything seemingly had a place and stayed there. Some interesting artwork hung on the walls, a few he recognized from Steve’s art books. He’d have to ask who the art connoisseur of the house was.

A deep, soothing voice sounds from the doorway to the left. “Should have known you’d bring trouble the second you walked into the door!” The sentence hit Bucky’s ears a moment before your father, tall and lanky, rounded the corner, assisted by his two forearm crutches. “Hey, Sassafras!”

A giggle escapes you as you wrap arms around your father’s middle. “Hi, Dad. Missed you too.” He squeezes you with a little extra force, prompting an “oomph” out of you before turning to Bucky.

“Sorry about all the noise, we’re trying to get the pumpkins decorated for the contest tonight. We had a little mishap, but everything’s just fine. I assume you’re the young man we’ve heard about.” He worms his right hand out of the crutch and offers it, which Bucky takes amiably. “Glad you could make the trip out, son.”

You had mentioned your father’s service in the Great War that night in the diner when he’d finally told you of his own service. That conversation felt like a lifetime ago, especially when Bucky was faced with the reality of the injury in front of him. Below the knee of his right leg, his pants hang loose without the limb to support them. Nearly 30 years of practice could make anyone deft with crutches but the way he carried himself drew attention away from the injury and to the warmth in his presence.

“James Barnes. Nice to meet you, sir.”

“Do you prefer James?”

“Everyone who knows me calls me Bucky, but-”

Your father’s eyes shine with insight his tone belies. “Bucky it is, then. Come on in you two. Your mother is scrambling to get the last things together before the party, but we have a few minutes ‘til we need to leave.”

He tosses his head in the direction from which he came before offering an elbow to you. You tuck your hands into his elbow and kiss him on the cheek. Bucky trails behind the pair of you, noticing how you easily step in perfect time with each other.

“Your boss still giving you trouble?”

“Dad, it’s really okay,” Bucky hears you murmur.

In return you get a disapproving noise and he shifts to get a better look at you as they pass through the living room. “But if it’s not-“

Without an edge you state, “Not now, okay?”

“You’ll catch me up later?”

“Promise.” Crossing the threshold into the kitchen you quickly change the subject. “So how’s your pumpkin looking? What theme did you pick this year?”

Bucky isn’t sure he hears correctly when your father mentions something about dwarfs, but upon seeing the kitchen table he’s proven wrong.

Seven pumpkins sit in a row, each showing painted characteristics of Walt Disney’s cartoon variations of the fairytale dwarfs with background details carved to shine out from the candle burrowed in the pumpkin. The whole gang was there. Each pumpkin dwarf had its own colored hat; everyone’s beard a different shape and length.

A myriad of paints and brushes litter the table protected by a spare sheet that looks as if it had received much love over the years during arts and crafts time. Eyeing the paint stains on your father’s fingers, Bucky can make a fair wager as to who the artist in the house is.

Only one dwarf could have Grumpy’s sour expression, the one with the roses cheeks was not doubt Bashful; and who else could sport a grin that wide except for Happy?

A memory from 1939 surfaces fondly of Evelyn begging him to take her to the pictures to see it even though he told her he was too old. Her wide eyes eventually won him over and he dragged Steve along for the viewing.

Remnants of pumpkin entrails lay on the floor and the aforementioned mishap comes into focus. Bucky reaches for a rag to clean up the remaining spill but you snatch it first, quick to mop up and join your mother in the kitchen.

The most pristine-looking woman Bucky has ever seen in his life turns from the wastebasket in the corner, broom and dustpan in hand. Not a hair out of place, her pearl necklace looks as if it had just been polished.

“Oh,” the crease above her nose pinches, “I wish you hadn’t brought everyone back here, there’s so much clutter from this. . . project.”

“Dear, it’s just family.” Dad inclines his head toward Bucky. “Bucky, this is my lovely wife. Darling, this is Bucky.”

“Bucky? I’m so sorry, I was under the impression your name was James.”

“Oh, it is, Bucky is a childhood nickname that just stuck. But you can call me whatever is easiest for you.”

“Well, welcome to our home, James.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“I’m sorry the place is such a mess, it’s been a bit of a chaotic day.”

A few awkward beats pass before you approach your mother.

“Hello, dear,” her syrupy sweet voice contrasts the stiff kiss she leaves in the air above your cheek.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Have you been working long hours again?” She fixes a bobby pin that had begun to worm its way out of your hair. “Poor thing, the circles under your eyes are so dark, I knew this job would be hard on you. Have you been drinking enough water?”

You protest weakly, telling her it hasn’t been that bad and you must not have touched your makeup up good enough because you were resting just fine. Shoulders tighten slightly when she does a scan of you from head to toe - stopping to fix the collar of your dress that had crumpled when your father hugged you.

Some of the awkward tension breaks when your father clears his throat, drawing attention away from the mother-daughter reunion. “So what do you two think of the pumpkins?”

Immediately, your face softens. Joining your Dad to look over the assortment of pumpkins, you let out an appreciative whistle. “You’ve outdone yourself this year. Only one pumpkin required for entry and you bring six extra? The other contestants are going to hate you.”

“Probably,” your father replies with a chuckle. “Although the town already resents that I’ve won seven years in a row.”

“That’s quite an impressive reign.” Bucky runs a finger over the most prominent pumpkin, one that wasn't quite right. “But, I-uh, I think Doc is missing his glasses, sir.”

“Oh gosh, you’re right. He is supposed to have glasses. How did I miss that?” Leaning heavily into his crutches he groans. “And how do I get specs for a pumpkin on short notice?”

“You got a coupla paper clips around?”

With a puckered brow, your dad indicates to a drawer in the kitchen, from which you produce a handful of paper clips. After a minute or so of fiddling with the wire - using a glass to get a perfect round shape - he offers a pair of miniature spectacles fit for a gourd.

After examining the makeshift glasses your dad peers at Bucky, letting out a bark of laughter with a clap on his back to match. “Now we’re cooking with gas! Sweetheart, can you hand me some of that glue so I can pop these on?”

You proffer the pot of glue and help your father attach the glasses to Doc’s pumpkin.

The grandfather clock in the family room announcing the hour prompts your mother to sigh heavily. “Oh dear, we are running late. I told you we did not have time for these last minute additions. I warned you about leaving things until the last minute this year.”

“Ah, we all know they aren’t going to start without us, don't sweat it.” Dad waves a hand, not one to be rushed.

“You always think the best is going to happen.”

“And you always think the worst is going to happen.”

An unladylike humph passes from her lips before a bit of panic flashes across her eyes and she’s the picture of grace again. For a second, Bucky saw a shadow of you pass over her features. “Can you grab the boxes from the garage to help your father pack the pumpkins?”

A ‘yes ma’am’ rolls off your tongue before the sentence is finished, feet moving to carry out the request. Bucky lends a hand, following your dad’s instructions not to knock their hats askew.

As soon as your back is turned your mother slips in behind you, shifting a handful of the pumpkins you’d painstakingly placed. Despite her efforts, it doesn’t go unnoticed.

“I’m sorry to leave the place a mess, it’s a horrible first impression. I hope you can forgive us, James.” Your mother tugs on the strings of her apron, shaking it out before placing it on a designated peg.

“I don’t mind cleaning up, Mom.”

“Oh,” she shakes her head, patting you on the cheek, “don’t you worry about it. I’ll take care of it later. Do you two want to join us?”

You and Bucky each grab a box, following your parents to their vehicle to pack them in the trunk safely.

“No, we’re just going to take a walk around since we’ll be busy tomorrow night.”

Bucky casts a suspicious eye to you. “We’re busy tomorrow night?” he mutters under his breath.

“Mhmm,” you hum. “It’ll be fun, don’t worry about it.”

Again, your mother repeats her invitation.

Your dad exhales loudly after opening the passenger-side door. “Honey, let them be, no young couple wants to spend non-stop time with the parents. We’ll see them tomorrow.”

Mom huffs. “Well, there are enough leftovers from dinner for both of you. We really need to get going.”

Dad leaves an obnoxious smooch to your cheek. “So happy you’re home, sweetie.” Then he turns his head to face Bucky. “Really really glad you’re here. Looking forward to getting to know you.”

“You two have fun!” Bucky catches a moment between you and your mother. She shimmies her eyebrows up and down a few times as you close the driver’s door. With a wink she pulls the car out of the drive without any response from you.

Slightly miffed, you walk back into the house with Bucky on your heels.

It’s not until you start scrubbing the table Bucky speaks. “I thought your mom said she’d clean up?”

You snort, tossing a rag in the sink. “She said that because our cleaning standards have never seen eye-to-eye. Anyway.” With a deep breath you start digging in the cabinets, pulling down a few snacks. “You wanna grab that bag on the coat rack so we can head out?”

Once the food and a picnic blanket are stashed in the bag, Bucky slings it over his shoulder and accompanies you outside.

The neighborhood is homey, even sweet, Bucky thinks. Everywhere he looks he’s met with greenery and actual white picket fences. He hadn’t been convinced they existed in real life until this stroll through your old stomping grounds.

“Where exactly are we going?”

Nonchalantly slipping your hand in the crook of his elbow you answer. “Tomorrow my mother will insist on taking us on a horribly boring and irrelevant tour of the town, so tonight you’re getting my tour.”

Someone across the street calls your name, interrupting your conversation. An elderly woman beneath an oversized straw hat straightens up from her garden.

Your smile is instant and full of sunshine when you return the older woman’s greeting. “Mrs. Robbins!” Leading Bucky across the empty street you meet her on the other side of her gate.

Her eyes crinkle kindly as she takes your hand in hers. “Oh, Sassafras, it is so good to see you again!”

You laugh and shake your head. “Good to see you too, ma’am.”

She tuts her tongue a few times before patting your hand. “Darling you’re old enough to call me Fiona, please do. And who is this handsome young man?” Dark eyes examine Bucky, keener than her feeble posture would suggest.

“This is my boyfriend, Bucky. Bucky, Mrs.-” you stop herself at her sharp look. “This is Fiona. A dear family friend and Harvey’s sister.”

Brown skin wrinkles around her softening lips. “It’s nice to meet you, Bucky.”

“Nice to meet you too, ma’am. I work for your brother at the garage, he’s been more than kind to me.”

She titters at that, hand swiping through the air. “I should hope so! He better be payin’ it forward after he inherited the place from her grandfather. I’ve gotta warn you, kid. This one,” Fiona nods to you with no small amount of affection, “has always had moxie; done what she wants, what other people want be damned. She’s a brave girl. Sure you can keep up?”

Bucky beams down at you and you return it easily. “Probably be a step behind her most of the way, but I’m up for the chase.”

You bid her goodbye only after securing a promise to see her tomorrow night.

“And what exactly is tomorrow night?” Bucky’s question is drowned out by another neighbor exclaiming at your presence.

You seem to feel rather than see Bucky’s questioning gaze on you. “Babysat,” you nod to a young family pouring out of a vehicle and heading into their home who were waving at you like maniacs.

Next house down you offer another explanation. “Cat-sat.”

Ten more steps and you speak again. “Helped her tend her garden when her husband left for the war,” you wiggle your fingers at a pregnant woman checking her mailbox who was wearing a sparkling smile.

A car slows down to move alongside you; the mustachioed gentleman at the wheel asks, “You kids need a ride?”

Bending at the waist to make eye contact through the open window you say, “No, thank you, Mr. Quaid. We’re enjoying the evening walk.”

“Take care!” The car speeds up and is gone.

A little more solemnly you nod toward a couple sitting on their front porch, hands joined. “Their son was a few years younger than me, I tutored him in math. He ended up doing really well. . .” Your voice fades when you smile in their direction. Hand moving to grip his, you continue quieter, “He was drafted when he was 18. Died in the first battle he saw. They were devastated. I tried to visit and bring them food as often as I could.”

He squeezes your fingers, no words needed - the weight of loss heavy in his own heart. Seeking to lighten the mood, Bucky clears his throat. “You didn’t tell me you were a local celebrity.”

You scoff in a way your mother certainly would’ve labeled as undignified. “Oh, it’s just a few neighbors. Helps that I’ve got a dreamboat on my arm.”

Then it’s his turns to scoff. “Hardly. You’re the good-looking one of the pair, Sixth Floor.”

“Ah, but you’re the new one in town. The place will be buzzing with news of you by the time we’ve walked the neighborhood.”

Bucky isn’t quite sure how to feel about that, but before he can voice any concern you’ve arrived in the town square where volunteers were setting up decorations and festivities for the coming weekend.

He whistles at the splendor of the unfurled banners hanging above the streets, dozens of jack-o-lanterns hanging from light posts, and the fervor of the crowd orchestrating the perfect swoop of a swag of orange and black tinsel. “Man, you weren’t kidding about your town being into Halloween.”

“No, I was not,” you admit with a rueful laugh. “Everyone really got into it in an effort to lower kids’ interest in vandalism. What were your Halloweens like growing up?”

“Umm, usually pretty relaxed. The girls always dressed up; I put minimal effort into putting a costume together.”

“Party pooper.”

“I do remember this one Halloween when we were young. The ice cream store down the block would give you a free scoop if you showed up in a costume. It was more like a mob than a store, kids everywhere. The employees couldn’t keep up with how many cones to give out. Don’t think they ever did that again.”

“That is adorable, but I can’t blame the owner. I would’ve knocked down some doors for ice cream too.”

“I’m assuming your Halloweens were slightly more eventful than mine?”

“Slightly.”

“Yeah, that’s your lying tone.”

“I don’t have a lying tone!”

“That’s the same tone of voice you used when Steve and Peggy were arguing about which one of them was more likely to win a bear fight and you told them you didn’t have an opinion.”

You both chortle at the memory.

“Oh my god, how had I already forgotten about that? How could such a playful question escalate into them aggressively advocating for their individual tactical advantages over a bear?”

“Alcohol is one way. Stubbornness is the other. And they both had loads that night.”

“I thought you said Steve couldn’t get drunk.”

“Fine, pure stubbornness on his part. Either way, you’re lying to me.”

You continue your walk through the downtown neighborhood in the direction of the river.

“Okay, my Halloweens were plenty eventful. Lots of dances and parties and festivals. We don’t know how not to take Halloween seriously. Spooky is literally woven into the fabric of our town.”

“Right, right, I remember you talking about the Headless Horseman poem.”

“Yep. The author lived not too far from our house. Rumor has it Walt Disney is doing a cartoon based off of the story.”

“That what inspired your dad to go with the dwarfs for pumpkins this year?”

The sparkle in your eye proves his theory. “Has anyone told you you’re very astute, Sergeant Barnes? Anyway, we’ve got loads of other stories. The cemetery is haunted; some of the statues have been seen getting up and walking around, visiting graves. The British head of intelligence during the Revolutionary War, John Andre, was captured in Tarrytown after meeting with Benedict Arnold to negotiate his defection - he was killed several days later. People still report seeing Major Andre wander the woods, along with the Headless Horseman, obviously. The Flying Dutchman, the phantom ship, has been spotted offshore in the Hudson too.”

The look on his face must have betrayed his fear that his girlfriend believed in ghosts, because you snicker. “It’s mostly all in good fun, but the legends leave plenty of room for the local kids to terrify everyone.”

“Don’t suppose you were ever involved in any of those pranks?”

“Me? Oh gosh no.” Your intense tone of innocence has his lips curling in disbelief. “Well. . . one night some friends and I scared some tourists who were walking around the cemetery. It’s funny how from a distance, lit jack-o-lanterns can look so realistic when being swung from a stick.”

“You tricked people into thinking heads were floating around in the fields?”

“We were just carrying our jack-o-lanterns around, I don’t know what you’re talking about. . .” Oh, mischief was a good color on you.

You turn down a worn road and Bucky takes a moment to admire your silhouette in the eventide.

Over your shoulder you call, “You coming?”

“Depends, you taking me into the woods to scare me with floating heads?”

Beguiling eyes twinkle. “Not yet. I wanna show you something.”

He takes your outstretched hand and lets you lead the way; your feet carrying you as if you’d walked this trail a hundred times before. Turns out, you had.

Not too many steps later, the smell of the river and a cooler breeze greets the pair as a huge building looms in the distance. Beginning to block the view of the Hudson the closer you get, Bucky can just make out the sign affixed in bold letters across the side.

“This your old factory?”

Your silence prompts Bucky to glance down where he finds you nodding. As if the words had suddenly been snatched from your throat, like your faculties were stripped down to remembering how to breathe. He looks at you closer.

There’s. . . pain. Not the physical type. The type that was beneath the skin, underneath the beat of your heart. A type of pain uncomfortably familiar to him.

The affliction etched into your brow is too close to how he feels when recalling his time overseas. Countless hours you had spent asking about and listening to his stories, holding him close when the memories were so vivid he almost couldn’t distinguish them from reality.

But there were moments he found himself yearning for pieces of that life, he must admit. The camaraderie among his unit, the steady sense of duty, the sharing of stories around the fire when Dugan wouldn’t shut the hell up, sharing a dance with a Red Cross girl on a rare night off in London. Yes, there was inarguable tragedy, trauma, and sacrifice. He was left with scars and loss.

Selfishly, he realizes, he had not spent a moment thinking about what you had lost.

Your tone is unintentionally forlorn as you share the names of your crewmates, what your days were like, a few anecdotes of your time there. A sadness that seemed a cousin to the dissatisfaction you’d had when clocking out of the corporate office every day seeps through the tension in the hand tucked into his.

Buried under the facts, he senses a void that aches more in this moment than he’s ever witnessed. The quiet charm of your hometown dampened by the war factory up the river. Tension in your household when you told your mother of your career plans. Knowledge and skills you excelled in. The team of women in your charge who you loved deeply, felt a responsibility to. Childhood playmates that hadn’t returned from the European theater. A sense of purpose and pride ripped away after the last Axis power surrendered.

You’d never stared mortality in the face like he had, but you’d fought battles, risked a lot. The course of your life changed forever because of the war. The troops were celebrated, at least publicly, upon their return. There was a reverence reserved for the uniformed troops.

But you. . . you were thrust aside to make room for men like him. You, thousands of yous, were told you were no longer needed. You could go home and sit. You were meant for something softer, something more domestic. Your expertise and fortitude were no longer needed, could be put in a memory box and forgotten about.

The awareness that this is the first he’s seen this side of you unnerves him. Had he ignored it? Could you be that adept at hiding these inner struggles? Were you concealing this on purpose? Did guilt haunt you into silencing this wound? Sure, you’d alluded to how you’d been unhappy being pushed out of your job at the factory, that the office job was a consolation prize. Although, could it be called a prize when you’d forced the hand that had given it?

Shame washes over him as you blink tears away. Why hadn’t he asked? How hadn’t he caught this earlier? He wants to ask now, desperately wants to know and hold you, but he can read you well enough to see the sign your eyes hold that screams ‘do not cross into this territory’.

It dawns on him that he doesn’t know what to do. Helpless had never been a good fit for him.

Minutes of silence pass as he continues to watch you stumble through the visceral memories whirling about.

Then the answer hits him like a ball cracking against a bat.

Follow your example.

He can listen. He can respect boundaries. He can gently nudge. He can be present. He can offer perspective. He can provide backup when you face the scary depths of your mind. He can love.

Wordlessly you turn your back on the factory, unknowingly desperate to put space between you and a home that is too dear, too. . . no longer yours.

He can relate.

So he falls in step as you walk away, lost in thought. Trusting that you subconsciously know your next destination, that you’ll feel it when you arrive.

Every step away from that spot, you’re cast in a new light in the pitch black of night. One that paints you in braver, more hallowed strokes than before. A new admiration, a new respect. . . a new love blooms in him for you. And again, he finds himself thankful that he dropped into your life.

Releasing your hand, he pulls you closer to him with an arm around your shoulders and presses a vow to your head with his lips. A promise to watch closer, to always give you the respect you’ve earned, to care about the safety of your heart as you do for his.

In that moment, he decides that you deserve the world. And he’s going to do whatever he can to deliver it right to your feet.

You’ve walked a mile or so when you break out of your reverie and survey your surroundings, angling further toward a clearing free from artificial light or people. Finding a satisfactory spot - by what standards, he’s unsure - you pull the blanket from the bag he’s been carrying and settle it over the lush green grass. While you make yourself comfortable on the checked picnic blanket, he watches you with what he’s sure is an obvious adoration.

Looking up, what you were going to say dies on your tongue. “What?” you ask uncertainly, dragging out the vowel.

“Nothin’,” he shrugs. “Just enjoying the view.”

The cock of your head says you don’t believe him but you don’t press the matter.

“Well, c’mere.” You motion to the blanket next to you.

Feeling playful he shoves his hands into his pockets. “Answer one question.”

You hum inquisitively.

“Did you bring me to the middle of the woods to scare the bejesus outta me in the spirit of Halloween?”

Laughter has never sounded so sweet in his whole life. The mirth in your cheeks tugs a dopey grin upon his face as he plops down next to you, shoulder to shoulder.

“Alright, what’re we doing out here, Sixth Floor?”

“Well, you’re always complaining about how the city has too much light to really see the stars, so. . .” You turn your face to the heavens, Bucky following in kind.

He had been so wrapped up in you he’d failed to notice the mantle of twinkling lights above his head. A steadying breath is necessary as a peace washes over him at the beautiful sight.

“Now that’s a view.”

“Go ahead, talk my ear off about them.”

Growing up in New York City, the area was notorious for blackouts. Gradually growing bored during a summer filled with lightless evenings he found himself crawling onto the roof of his childhood home and examining the sky. He had been slow to fall in love with the sky but it had persisted throughout his childhood.

During a sleepless night on the cold ground in Italy, he realized the constellations he was looking up at were different from the ones back home. Peggy had surreptitiously smuggled him an astronomy book after Steve had rescued the 107th from Azzano and he’d carried it in his pack until he’d returned home. The same book rested permanently on his nightstand, a faithful companion when a different kind of sleepless night plagued him.

He settles in, throwing an arm around your shoulders, rubbing you for extra warmth.

“Ooh ooh, Jupiter is right there.” He points out the planet.

“Where?”

“Right there.” He wags his finger in emphasis.

“I. . . I just see stars.”

“Here, lay down.” Bucky falls to his back, feeling you drop next to him. He circles the planet again with a finger, hoping it’ll help guide your line of sight.

“Oh. . . yeah, absolutely, wow.”

“You still can’t see it can you?”

Your move to roll into his shoulder to muffle your giggles and embarrassment is futile; there’s no way he can pass up the opportunity to tease you about it.

In a torrent of words he finds himself helpless to stop, he tells you all about the skies above. He waxes poetic about the solar eclipse he’d seen over the summer, explains the draconid meteor shower that had graced the atmosphere earlier that month, and indicates several constellations.

He’s still not convinced you can actually make out the constellations; Ursa Major and Cassiopeia being his two favorites that evening. At one point you sit up and he shuffles to rest his head in your lap, legs crossed at his ankles.

Although he usually preferred to observe from the wings, he finds himself drawn to your audience. He could count on one hand the number of people he was at ease enough with to speak unbridled. Granted, you were an easy audience. Even if you were indulging him. there was refuge in your company.

Your digits twine into his hair, looping through the beginnings of a curl at the ends, undoing the efforts of the hair cream. A touch so gentle he could not bring himself to care. His eyes slide shut and he focuses only on the feeling of you playing with his hair, fingernails pleasantly scratching his scalp every so often.

Eventually, he runs out of things to say and you both keep your faces turned up to the blanket of stars. A thousand questions cross his mind yet he struggles to find his footing in this unfamiliar emotional territory.

“So, your mom seems a little. . .”

Your fingers falter for a moment before slowly resuming their perusing of his hair. “Obstinate?”

The bitterness surrounding that one word tells him all he needs to know.

“Invested?” He offers as an alternative.

You only hum.

“She cares enough to go along with your dad’s ideas. Like helping with the pumpkins, even if it seemed to stress her out.”

“Guess that’s love for you.” He detects a hint of strain in your voice, as if the unexpected emotions of your hometown arrival had drained you.

He’s hesitant to push further and his newfound courage fails him.

The stillness that falls is peaceful. A cozy bubble that’s just the two of you and the stars.

You eventually squint to see your watch in the dark and declare its time to head back before your mother calls the cavalry.

“She’d call the cops?”

“If it’s so late she thinks we’ve gone missing. And the Chief is my uncle, so. . .” A docile mirth meets him as you pull him up from the blanket to join you on two feet. “Do you want to explain to my mother's brother what we were doing in the wilderness at night in solitude?”

Bucky opens his mouth but you cover it with your hand.

“No innuendo-laced sass, sir.”

In a moment of impulsivity he kisses your fingers and is enamored by the embarrassment you hide by looking away, clear desire visible in the starlight.

“Let’s go before you give us a reason to really be in trouble, Sergeant.”

Unsurprisingly, he finds himself awake well before the sun. Given the unfamiliar environment and his mind turning the events of last night over and over, he was already pacing the guest bedroom’s floor. After debating internally whether or not it was rude to make coffee in someone else’s kitchen, he settles for scrawling a few passages in the journal you’d gifted to settle his mind.

He opens the door to leave the bathroom in fresh clothes and a shaved face, only to come face-to-face with sleep-rumpled you; in your pajama set with a robe thrown over it. Your bare feet brush against his - per usual, your toes are freezing.

“Good morning,” he hums.

“G’morning,” you return, burying your face in his chest, arms securing around his middle.

Unable to contain his grin, he scratches the back of your neck with one hand, smoothing circles on your back with the other. “You sure are cute in the morning.” He catches something vaguely resembling a ‘stoooooop’. “I’m telling you, you look your best right after you’ve woken up.”

“Shhh, stop talking,” you slur into his shirt, seemingly attempting to rub the sleep from your eyes.

“I mean,” he half-shrugs, “we have spent a night together.”

Your hand presses firmly over his mouth before he could finish his sentence. “James Buchanan, if you utter another word about that you and I will be banned from this house for the rest of our lives.”

He tugs your wrist down to kiss your knuckles. “We literally just fell asleep on the same couch, babydoll.” If asked he would blame the morning hour, not the overwhelming sensation of having you close, responsible for the deep rasp of his voice.

“I promise my mother will not listen to that story long enough before she disowns me.”

Releasing you, he steps out of the bathroom to let you in. Nodding, he turns around to watch as you shuffle to the sink. “Rest of our lives, huh?” He tosses a smug grin which you volley with a scowl.

“Shut up and make me coffee.”

He knows you miss the wistful glance accompanying his laugh as you shut the door in his face. Not that he minds.

When you do emerge for your lovingly-prepared beverage you are dressed to the nines. A new dress, coordinated stockings, and hair in perfect rolls. . . Bucky was more than a little taken aback. Saturdays were when he was treated to your out-of-the-office look; the bare face, your overalls, the unmitigated sass. This was. . . different.

“What?” You eye him from beneath your heavy eye-liner, taking a cautious sip out of your mug.

“N-. . . nothing, doll. You look nice.”

Your rigid smile gives him pause, but it’s one of the only pauses he has for the day.

The rest of the morning and afternoon don’t leave him much time to mull over all he’s learned about you in the last 24 hours; your mother kept the four of you quite busy with her town tour. Bucky can practically feel you cringing from your place next to him on the backseat bench of your parents’ car as your mother drags you all over town.

He doesn’t completely understand the point of most of the stops. She makes sure to drive by the newly built gazebo, the lovely park adjacent to downtown where there was plenty of space for kids to run, and a new boutique that had opened that spring. The tour included lunch with the mayor and his family, tea and coffee with the neighbors, and a quick stroll around the block where your mother pointed out several wonderful houses for sale.

However, he did notice how quiet you were. Your commentary was nil in comparison to the night before. Choosing to listen to your mother rather than add on to her narration struck him as slightly odd. Was it born from weariness or a reluctance to start an argument?

As the day progressed, Bucky clocked a growing agitation in you. Without so much as a minute alone with you since that morning he couldn’t put a finger on the source of your turmoil. He ached to fix it for you. Since he didn’t know what was broken, he settled for grabbing your hand and squeezing it three times.

Squeeze. I. Squeeze. Love. Squeeze. You.

The scowl you were wearing diminishes slightly when you redirect your gaze from outside the window to him. You squeeze back:

I. Love. You. Too.

The time for supper approached quicker than your mother anticipated, landing you, your father, and Bucky in the family room while she prepared the meal alone. After your lackluster attempt at offering help, which was quickly denied, you plop down onto the couch next to Bucky. He draws comfort from the way you nuzzle into his side, the way you rest your head on his shoulder for a few minutes. Your breathing evens out enough for Bucky to table his concern for a later time.

It isn’t until your dad shares a story about the time 10-year-old you had insisted a bead you were using to make necklaces was small enough to fit in your ear. It turns out you were correct, it was small enough to fit in your ear. After spending five hours at the doctor’s office with your father, the bead fell out the second the nurse had called your name to be seen by the doctor. It’s the first time that day Bucky hears you give a genuine laugh.

When the group sits down for dinner he can’t help but compare his family table to yours. Unlike being crowded into each other’s space in Brooklyn, he felt a world away from you at the formal dining table.

In between demure bites, your mother asks: “So James, we’ve been told you served, but haven’t heard many details.”

“For 1943 I served as a Sergeant with the 107th Infantry. I then became a part of a special operations combat unit.”

“Is it true you served with Captain America?”

“Mom.” If your mother could feel the waves of fury rolling off of you, she didn’t show it.

Feigning surprise, her shoulders raise in a shrug. “It’s a harmless question.”

Seeking to quell the simmer of anger bubbling in you, Bucky swoops in. “Yes ma’am, I did. Alongside a group of strong, fearless men.”

“And what was that like?”

“We dealt with a lot of classified information, so unfortunately I’m not at liberty to discuss much of it.”

A parroted line given to him by the SSR the moment he’d landed on American soil; a line that had saved him from this exact conversation a hundred times before.

Undeterred, your mother pats her lips daintily with her napkin. “Well, what is Captain America like? Have you met him, dear?”

After chewing on a forkful of the meal for a touch longer than necessary, you respond. “I’ve only known him as Bucky’s friend Steve. And he’s very kind, intelligent, thoughtful. He’s an artist, Dad. I’m sure you two would find a lot to talk about.”

“Well, James, thank you very much for your service. It’s an honor to have you at our table.”

“It was nothing, ma’am. I only did what other able-bodied men were willing to do, except I had the blessing of coming home.”

As if to stop whatever retort burning hot on your tongue, your father clears his throat. “We all do what needs to be done in times of war. Think all of us here can relate to that.”

“Oh yes,” your mother hums. “During the Great War, my husband, brother, and father were all off fighting. I took care of the household while everyone was gone instead of trying to find work. I felt that creating a stable home would be the most comforting for returning soldiers.”

Bucky does his best not to sputter around the food in his mouth, eyes going as wide as his dinner plate.

Your comeback to the obvious jab was a lifted chin and pursed lips. The line in your shoulders speaking to the countless times this conversation had happened before.

Without a rejoinder from you, the matriarch sighs. “But so many young people had a fervor for a more hands-on approach to war, as they are wont to do.”

“No need to mince words, Mom, we all know you weren’t a big fan of my factory work.”

“Thank goodness,” Bucky says amiably “or I wouldn’t have a job or career path. Your daughter has really steered me down a road where I feel a sense of purpose again, and I won’t ever be able to convey what that really means to me.”

The smile does not extend beyond your mouth - not when you catch how starry-eyed your mother looks. Undercurrents he doesn’t totally understand emanate from both women at the table. What he does catch is your father’s eyes flitting back and forth between the most prominent ladies in his life, measuring the same current Bucky feels.

The man opposite him shakes his head at his wife, who tsks quietly and pushes her food around her plate for another moment.

Head tilting toward you, your mother asks, “Will you help me clear the table and wash the dishes?”

“I don’t mind helping out, ma’am. Dinner was delicious and-” Before Bucky had fully risen out of his chair your mother was shaking her head.

“Oh no no no, you boys just relax while the two of us clean up.”

Probably a little heavier than intended, Bucky drops back into his seat. Discomfort knocks in his knee bouncing under the table as he watches you pile your arms full of dishware before joining your mother in the kitchen.

The fingers of his left hand fidget with the tablecloth. It had been several years since he’d been forced to sit unbusy for this long a stretch of time. Unsettled hands often led to unsettled thoughts. If he wasn’t careful-

A muffled grunt at his right jerks Bucky from his thoughts.

“You okay, sir?”

Jaw clenched, your father nods as he shifts in pain, taking a few deep breaths.

Blue eyes flit down to the older man’s right leg where he’s gripping what Bucky would guess to be the site of the amputation. It passes seconds later, the WWI vet relaxing once again. The moment didn’t appear to worry him; in fact, it seemed to be a regular occurrence.

“Has Sassafras told you about how I lost my leg?” The deep voice prompts Bucky’s eyes back up to your father’s face, one that is watching him thoughtfully. A pang of guilt twitches in his chest at his outright perusal of the man’s injury. But he didn’t seem embarrassed or self-conscious. Just a soldier asking a question of a fellow GI.

“No, sir. She’s only mentioned it in passing. I didn’t want to overstep.”

“Ah,” your father waves a hand dismissively. “I was in the hospital recovering longer than I saw combat. Bullet hit just wrong enough in Saint-Miheil. I don’t remember it happening, but I can recall the ambulance ride to the field hospital. Once the surgeons did their work,” he nods to his leg, “I only had to wait to become stable enough to get shipped back here. The hospitals were crowded wall-to-wall. Staff was in a rush to move those of us who were deemed unfit for service to make room for more casualties.”

“Did you ever get a prosthetic?”

“I did, I did. Sure was an uncomfortable thing, though. We were rushed out of the amputee specialty hospital too. None of us were taught how to use them properly. I tried to make it work. Eventually, it wasn’t worth it. Only caused pain on top of pain. The limb found much better use as a makeshift shovel for a certain daughter of mine.”

Both men chuckle at the image of you shrunken down as a toddler, digging a hole in the backyard to bury your treasure with a wooden prosthetic.

“After a while, I stopped trying to get the pain treated. Spasms like what you just saw will come along every once in a while, but it’s manageable. I’m just thankful I got to come home.” His features mellow as he watches his wife and daughter moving in the kitchen in tandem.

Bucky observes the scene as well with a slightly more scrutinous eye. Your mother maintains a steady stream of chatter without any response from you. Eyes fixed on the plates you were lathering with soap, movements mechanical. Something unidentifiable has shifted.

Having caught a vulnerable glimpse of you the previous evening, a tide of protectiveness nearly moves him to his feet. To do what, he wasn’t sure.

Once again, your father’s voice pulls Bucky back to reality. “While not having part of my leg is a pain, tons of soldiers suffer from deeper wounds. My brother-in-law, for example, is still dealing with his shell shock.”

The hair on Bucky’s arms stands up, his blood chills. Briefly he reflects upon his first date with you - the episode he’d had when the busboy had dropped a tray of glassware. He wonders if you’d shared that with your father. If he knew.

As if he could read Bucky’s demeanor, he continues unprompted. “When he arrived home after the Treaty, he lived with us for a few years. I did everything I could for him. Through all my efforts, the most powerful was simply being present. Reassuring him that I was there, I was listening, that he was safe.

“Really, all I did was talk to him like he was human. Which is surprisingly rare with shell shock. Even my wife struggled not to treat him like he was breakable.” Again, the elder’s gaze shifts to where you’re now drying dishes. A wisp of sentiment curls his lips. “What never failed to make his day was his baby niece fearlessly crawling into his lap. She always brought a smile to his face with her kindness, her innocence. . . her belief that her uncle was just that. Not a fighter. Not damaged goods. Just her uncle.”

Ah. So that’s where you’d gotten the extra dose of tenderness.

“Time passed. He healed. Got back on his feet. Found a job in town that suited him; settled down, had a family. Every once in a while he gets that thousand-yard-stare that tells me he’s still fighting battles.”

The scars on Bucky’s chest and back from his time spent with captors in Azzano itch incessantly; he exercises all his self-control to stay still. A bead of sweat rolls down his back.

“In all the chaos and gore, I think the hardest thing to watch was the way men were treated differently in the hospitals. Those of us with life-altering injuries were treated with compassion. But the men with shell shock; the ones shaking uncontrollably, staring into the distance, screaming in their sleep. . . medical staff were unkind to them. Almost like my physical wound protected me from judgement or impatience.

“People who haven’t seen a second of action seem to think physical trauma is the only excuse for mental trauma. Like that can’t exist by itself. I never saw that at all. I know you and I both have seen our fair share of shit. The biggest difference? I was discharged. The shell-shocked were often sent right back into battle. The experts, doctors, nurses - it was obvious they believed treating the mind was an acknowledgement that there was a problem in the first place. Because they didn’t have a solution, they turned it into the soldier’s own problem. He was weak. Needed to buck up and get the job done.”

Frozen to the spot, Bucky regards your father as he takes a deep breath. Shifting forward ever-so-slightly he locks eyes with Bucky. Through all the combat the younger veteran had seen, he’d never felt more exposed than in this moment.

Fingers rubbing at his chin, the older veteran begins again. “The things all those doctors say, that certain men’s minds are fragile or it’s an excuse to go home. . . there’s no reason for someone to continue the behavior once they make it home. When you’re in a room by yourself and wake up from a nightmare and find trouble breathing - what audience benefits from that act? That’s not something anyone wishes for.”

Somehow sensing the trepidation across the table, he leans back in a relaxed, yet calculated posture. Gives a sheepish chuckle while Bucky tries to catch his breath.

“Not to prattle on like an old geezer, but all that to say; I’ve had first-hand experience with wounds that aren’t visible. Every man is different. Time moves differently for every one. There’s not a set recovery time. As long as a man has a support system and is honest with them, he’s going to be okay.”

A long pause stretches out, Bucky’s mind ticking as his knee bounces slower eventually stilling.

One whispered phrase floats across the table. “You’re going to be okay, son.”

Voice thick, every muscle straining to suppress a display of emotion, Bucky manages a, “Th. . . Thank you, sir.”

“Anytime.”

That one word, filled with a copious amount of conviction, did more to convince Bucky of his value than almost anything else he’d heard in the last year of his life.

Movement from the kitchen catches his eye again and momentarily, you glance over your shoulder and catch him looking. Bucky smiles, remembering a similar moment in his mother’s kitchen the night you’d all had dinner together. Instead of returning his grin you whirl back to the sink, spine tight.

He can’t imagine what has you so tense, what could have changed so drastically from the night before.

His only course of action is to hope you’ll shed light on it when he can steal a moment alone with you.

Chapter Eighteen

Lovely dividers by @firefly-graphics!

Tags: Crossed through and bolded means I was unable to tag. I am aware this list is over 13 months old; please let me know if there have been username changes.

@lucyyannabel @abovethesmokestacks @blue-like-barnes @thorfanficwriter @ursulaismymiddlename @ren-val @sarcasm-ing @hiddles-rose @thisismysecrethappyplace @palaiasaurus64 @fanfic-diaries @majesticavenger @cake-writes @moderapoppins @collinsstanharbour @crazinessgraveyardsandcartoons @thinkwritexpress-official

@fearless2tobeme @laneygthememequeen @past-perfect-future-tense @drhughgrection @promarvelfangirl @anditwasjustus @p3nny4urth0ught5 @usernamemingmei @the-canary @blueskiesbleakeyes @silverwing2522 @satansmushroom @nerd-without-a-cause @firewolf-marvels @reginaphlanageadams @kiliakit @forsaken-letters @barnestruck

@bouquet-o-undercaffeinated-roses @part-time-patronus @biavastarr @ellaenchanted91 @ihopeyousteponarosepetal @bloatedandlonly @itsbuckysworld @captainsbuck @writemarvelousthings @havanaangel @animeflower26 @igotkatiepowers @clockworkherondale @mcueveryday @buckybarneshairpullingkink @cassianpeia @ladylizzieofdarbyshire

@russian-romanova @yknott81 @starkrobb @xmarveled @holyshitcats @flipflopasshat @creideamhgradochas @youclickedthislink

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes reader insert #bucky barnes series #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #tw: PTSD #All We've Got is Time #AWGIT #Chapter 17 #beka writes

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believingispowerfulmagic · 3 years

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“Second Chance, Best Chance” Chapter 20: A Happy Beginning

And so this story ends. Thank you for everyone who has followed it to this conclusion – you all have been amazing!

I will happily write any prompts in this verse if you have them and may revisit it from time to time but this story is finished.

Thanks again and have a great weekend!

-Mac

"Have a good weekend, Regina," Tink said, smiling as Regina left her office for the evening.

Regina paused by her desk, knocking on it. "You too. Go home and get some rest."

"I will," Tink promised. "Goodnight."

Nodding, Regina continued to the elevator. She hit the call button and was pleased when the doors opened a few seconds later. Within minutes, she had entered the parking garage and was in her car. She headed toward the gate, waving to the security guard as he let her out and onto the roads of Storybrooke.

Her commute home was a short one and she soon was parked in her driveway, her Mercedes right next to Robin's SUV. She grabbed her bag and headed into the house. "I'm home!" she announced.

Nothing.

There were no shouts of her name and her children didn't come rushing to greet her. All remained quiet and she frowned, wondering what was going on.

"Hello?" she called out. "Robin? Regan? Henry? Anyone?"

"In here, sweetheart," Robin replied, his voice coming from the dining room. She followed it into the room, stopping short as she took in the sight before her.

The lights were dimmed, really letting the candles placed on the dining room table glow brighter. Two China plates were set at two chairs and her good silverware was set out next to them. Wine glasses sat there, waiting to be filled for what was clearly a romantic dinner for two.

Robin stepped out of the kitchen, wearing a blue button-down shirt that brought out his eyes and navy pants. As he approached her, he held out a bouquet of roses. "For you," he said.

"Thank you," she replied, taking the bouquet from him. "What is all this for?"

"Well, in all the excitement, we didn't really get a chance to celebrate two big events - your birthday and Valentine's Day," he said. "So we're going to celebrate both tonight."

Her insides turned to goo and she couldn't help but smile. "You are so sweet. Thank you."

"You're welcome," he replied, kissing her cheek. "Do you want to change or are you okay?"

She glanced down at the black dress she had worn to the office. While it was nice, it was business and she wanted to be sexy tonight. After all it was both her birthday and Valentine's Day. Looking back up, she grinned at him. "I'm going to change. I'll be back soon."

"No need to rush," he replied, kissing her cheek. "I'm not going anywhere and we don't have any reservations to make."

"Understood," she said, heading up to her room as she went through her closet in her mind.

Once she got to it, she immediately pulled out a favorite red dress of hers. She laid it on the bed before going to her lingerie drawer to find something for Robin to find later. After all, they had all night and they were celebrating both her birthday and Valentine's Day.

Which meant at least two rounds of sex at the very least.

It gave her a thrill.

Regina found the perfect set for that night and placed them on her bed as well. She then shed her clothes and put some lotion on certain parts of her body to assure her skin wasn't dry from the cold winter air. After that she put on the lacier pants and bra she had pulled out before pulling the dress over them. Completing the look with her favorite pair of ruby studs and red heels, she took off the remains of her lipstick and put on a fresh bright red coat.

She headed back downstairs and posed in the doorway, holding out her arms as she did a little spin for Robin. "What do you think?"

"Bloody gorgeous," he said, awestruck as he took in the dress as it clung to her curves. It also had a lower cut neckline than she would wear for work, giving him a better view of her breasts. And she knew it made her ass look even better, which was a plus since it was Robin's favorite part on her.

"I thought you would like it," she said, sashaying up to him. She smirked as she leaned in, kissing his cheek.

He cleared his throat before pulling away, motioning to the table. "Shall we?"

She let him pull out a chair for her before she sat down. As she placed a napkin on her lap, she looked up at him. "What are we having?"

"Eggplant parmigiana," he replied, "with some angel hair pasta."

Her stomach growled and she gave him a sheepish grin. "I think that was a stamp of approval."

"Sounded like one to me," he agreed with a laugh. He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with their plates. "Let me go get the wine and we'll be ready to go."

Regina looked down at the plate and her stomach growled again. She licked her lips just as Robin returned, pouring some red wine into her glass. "This looks amazing," she told him.

"Thank you," he replied, handing her the glass. "I have some free time but not for long."

She perked up when he said that. "Did they offer you the position?"

He nodded as he took his own seat. "You are looking at the new art teacher for Storybrooke Academy."

"Congratulations!" she said, joy surging through her. "We should also be celebrating that as well!"

"We will - tomorrow, with all the children," he said. She nodded - they would have Roland for the weekend and so it would make sense that he would want to wait until they were all together to celebrate.

He raised his glass. "A toast to you. I am so lucky that we found each other again and that I get to spend my days by your side once more. You are a wonderful mother and an amazing partner. I couldn't ask for more. I love you."

"I love you too," she replied, clinking her glass against his. They took sips of their wine before digging into their meal. She let out a soft moan as she tasted the eggplant. "This is delicious, Robin."

"Thank you," he said, pleased. "I wanted it to be perfect for you."

She swallowed her second bite before saying: "You did a great job."

They ate a bit more before she paused, sipping her wine. "What else do you have planned for tonight?"

"Some dessert, a bath, and then dessert," he replied, wiggling his eyebrows.

She chuckled. "Sounds like a good night."

"That's the goal." He winked at her before taking another sip of her wine. "Can I get you seconds?"

"I don't know. I think I should leave room for dessert," she said, glancing at her plate. "But I also get the feeling I'll need plenty of fuel for dessert."

He nodded. "I can see your conundrum."

"Do you have a solution?" she asked him, resting her chin on her hand.

"Yes," he said. "I think dessert will be able to sustain us through dessert. So let's enjoy it."

She nodded. "I defer to your decision."

"Thank you." He chuckled, giving a little bow. Robin then stood and started to gather their dirty dishes. "I'll be right back."

"Do you need any help?" she asked him.

He shook his head. "I'm fine. Besides, this is also supposed to be your birthday. So relax."

"Alright," she said, leaning back in her chair. She held up her wine glass. "Please bring the wine bottle out. I can at least help finish that off."

"Whatever the birthday girl wants," he said, placing the bottle next to her. "Just don't overdo it. I'd rather you be on the sober end of things for dessert."

She chuckled, pouring the rest of the wine into her glass. It barely filled it halfway. "Don't worry. I think I'll be fine."

"Alright," he replied, calling from the kitchen. "I trust your judgment."

Regina smiled as she sipped her wine, waiting for him to come back. He returned a few minutes later, setting down a slice of cheesecake covered with cherries in front of her. "Enjoy," he told her.

"Oh, you do know how to spoil me," she said, using her fork to take off the tip. She placed it in her mouth, enjoying the tastes of the cherry and cheesecake.

It was perfect.

"You look happy," Robin said, taking his seat with his slice of cheesecake. "I made a good decision?"

She nodded as she swallowed another bite. "You made a great decision."

They finished their cheesecake and he cleared away the dishes. Regina followed him into the kitchen this time, leaning against the island. "So, time for our bath?"

"If you want," he said. "I also thought we could enjoy a dance in the living room."

"A dance sounds perfect," she replied, taking his outstretched hand. She leaned against him, smiling. "You're certainly pulling out all the stops."

He kissed the top of her head. "I am. Our first Valentine's Day should be one to remember."

"Even if it's not really Valentine's Day?" she asked.

"Shh, we're pretending it's Valentine's Day, remember?" He stopped as they arrived in the living room, pulling away from her. Robin started some music before approaching her again. "May I have this dance?"

She grinned. "You may."

He took her hand and pulled her close, placing his hand on her waist. She gently gripped his arm as they swayed in time to the soft ballad playing. Regina pressed her forehead to his, closing her eyes as she just enjoyed the moment. She felt herself relax as happiness and love flowed through her.

It was the best birthday/Valentine's Day she had ever had.

Continue reading here

#once upon a time #outlaw queen #oq au #oq ff #second chance best chance

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cyberp-ssy2077 · 3 years

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Cyberparents 2077: A Day in the Life // Part Two: Afternoon (Johnny Silverhand x Female!V)

Part One

Link to AO3!

A/N: Part two is finally here! Google "shopping cart with car" to see tyhe kind of shopping cart V is using. It's a liiiiittle angsty, so I hope I did okay!

“We should have tacos,” Sam opined with great seriousness from her seat in the plastic car that took up the front of the shopping cart.

“Sure, but what kind though? Beef, fish…?” V ventured, scanning the aisles. She was just there to pick up a couple essentials, but her daughter made an extremely compelling suggestion.

“Bleh, no fish!” Sam giggled, tugging on her little steering wheel. “Can we have chicken?”

“Now, that’s an idea,” V smiled, turning the cart towards the back of the store.

As they made their way, collecting items on their list, they inevitably drew attention. To be fair, V was eye-catching enough on her own; with her edgy haircut, riotous hair color, dark lipstick, extensive tattoos, and alluring figure, she was unapologetically alternative and rocking it. When you pair that aesthetic with a child of all things, it’s so seemingly incongruous that it seems nigh-on unnatural, to some.

Of course, when you add Johnny to the mix and all three went out together, it didn’t get any better. Sure, they got fewer comments (likely because Johnny looked like he was ready to cut a bitch at any moment), but the looks they got were still penetrating in their intensity.

V didn’t mind terribly what other people thought, especially the closed-minded people who took issue with how she presented herself. It was beneath her attention. She knew that Johnny definitely didn’t give two shits. What she struggled with, though, was the agony of Sam having to learn how to rise above others’ narrow views and how to react to them. V cast her memory back as they walked through the store, and remembered the first day that there was a real tipping point in Sam’s understanding of the situations they ended up in when they were out as a family.

V and Johnny had been waiting outside Sam’s school, waiting for the bell to ring and for their little girl to run out to them, excited and beaming, as she did every day. They were chatting and joking amongst themselves, Johnny having tucked V into his side with an arm around her waist. As time crept by, it became apparent that the school security guard was shuffling closer in their direction as he stood idly by the school gate that separated the classrooms from the parking lot.

Anyone who knew them knew that V and Johnny were not the type to be intimidated. So, they kept to themselves and ignored the encroaching party, until he was mere feet from them and began clearing his throat noisily. Johnny, in true take-no-shit fashion, raised his chin and looked the man directly in the eye.

“There a problem?”

“I could ask you folks the same thing,” the security guard replied. “There are kids getting out of school soon, so I need you to stop loitering so that parents can pick up their kids.”

Johnny pulled down his aviators and fixed the security guard with a piercing look. “Yeah, and one of those kids is my kid. Once she gets out, we’ll go.”

The guard looked taken aback at this, mentally weighing his options, and he slumped back over to the gate and pulled out his walkie-talkie, glowering at them as he brought the walkie up to his mouth.

“If he causes a fuckin’ scene…” Johnny trailed off. The sharp trilling of the bell rang out not a moment later, and soon enough kids of all ages began pouring out of the gates. V and Johnny scanned the pre-school area, and after a few moments Sam walked out.

The scene played out in slow motion; Sam’s class was led out by her teacher, and the little girl began making her way over to her parents. V glanced back at the security guard. He was no longer sulking at his post, rather walking towards Sam and calling her over once it became apparent where she was headed.

“Are you kidding me?” V asked angrily, pulling away from Johnny and marching over to where her daughter stood with the security guard. As she got closer, she started to hear what he was saying.

“...wait with me until your parents show up, okay? Just want to make sure you’re safe and nothing bad happens to you.”

Johnny had followed her as soon as he connected the dots himself, and he was fuming. “If you don’t get away from my daughter, something bad’s gonna happen to you, pal.”

Hearing her dad’s voice, Sam turned to face him and smiled. She ran over to cling against his leg and he picked her up and held her on his hip; instinctually, he wanted to be closer to her and he knew that if he had her in his hands, there was less chance that this tool would end up with a mouthful of Johnny’s chrome prosthetic in his mouth. For her part, once Sam had digested the expression on Johnny’s face and the tone of his voice, she appeared to be very confused.

Before anything serious happened, Sam’s teacher stepped in and apologized profusely to V and Johnny for the security guard’s over-zealousness. On the way home, Johnny and V had to explain to Sam why someone might assume that she doesn’t belong with them, and it broke V’s heart to see Sam’s eyes so sad. Later that night, Johnny and V sat together, both emotionally drained and contemplative over the events of the day… That wasn’t the first time something like that had happened, and it wouldn’t be the last, but it was the first time that Sam had noticed and asked about it. They were in for a long road ahead of them.

Today in the grocery store, everything seemed to be going well enough until it was time to check out. As V and Sam went through the line, Sam decided to bring up one of her favorite topics of conversation: dyeing her hair. She wanted badly to have “pretty hair” like her mom, but so far Johnny and V had held off on doing that for her due to the dark color of her locks; in order to achieve any notable change, her raven-black hair would have to be bleached. Despite their own views on self-expression and rebellion, both Johnny and V were holding off a bit when it comes to going that far with their child. In the meantime, they had the secret agreement that they would get her some hair chalk for her next birthday so that she could still join in the fun.

“I wish my hair had pretty colors,” Sam sulked, looking up at her mom with big eyes. “Me and Estrella both want pretty colors.”

Estrella was Jackie and Misty’s little girl, and Sam’s partner in crime. The two of them were thick as thieves and twice as mischievous, and of course they were universally adored by their parents and their parents’ friends. They went to the same school, despite being separated into different classes, and they both took martial arts classes together.

“What are you talking about? Your hair is a pretty color,” V said, tickling Sam’s sides as she climbed out of the cart. She noticed that the woman behind them in line was giving them a curious look, but it wasn’t outright hostile yet so V put it out of her mind. She began checking out, going through the motions of swiping her card and loading bags back into the cart.

“I want my hair to be purple!” Sam declared, smiling big. “I want it to be purple all over, like in my room!” Purple was Sam’s current color obsession, so it was not news to V that it was also the choice for her future hair color.

“That sounds pretty cool, I bet you’ll look awesome,” V replied, brimming with affection.

An intrusive voice piped up from behind them.

“You look rather young, so I’ll give you this advice: parents shouldn’t encourage such things. You never know what she’ll be asking for next.”

V pasted on her fakest smile. “Thanks, but I didn’t ask for your advice.” Ready to leave, V quickly sat Sam in the traditional shopping cart seat, facing her, and looked to make her escape. Before she got too far, Sam’s little voice piped up.

“I think you would look very nice with pink hair, ma’am,” Sam chirped, grinning toothily. The woman blustered, clearly not having a response. V couldn’t help herself, laughing out loud as they left the store. She’d have to tell Johnny about that one later, he’d get a kick out of it.

The drive to drop Sam off was rather uneventful, and Sam was bouncing in her seat by the time V put the car in park. As soon as she was let out of the car, she shot off like a rocket to the front door, with V trailing behind. By the time V got up to the porch, her perceptive (or precognitive?) friend had already let Sam in with a smile and was offering a greeting to V.

“How’s it going? You’re glowing, having a good day?” Misty asked dreamily, examining V as she handed over Sam’s dojo/overnight bag.

“Yeah, something like that,” V laughed. “We’ve had a good day so far. How are you doing?”

Misty shrugged. “Can’t complain. Star’s been bouncing off the walls all day, you’d think she didn’t just see Sam yesterday,” she said, a light smile playing on her lips.

“All right, well mine and Johnny’s cells should be on if anything comes up. I’ve got groceries in the car so I’ve gotta run, but see you tonight!”

“Yeah, sure thing,” Misty replied, glancing over her friend once more with a knowing smile. “You gonna tell him tonight?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” V replied, a massive grin betraying her words. As she hopped in the car and started to drive home, she started to feel a tingling excitement grow within her. Now, just to get through the rest of the afternoon and the evening would come soon enough.

Part Three

#cyberpunk 2077 #johnny silverhand #johnny silverhand x v #johnny silverhand x female!v #fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #fluff #family #domestic #modern!au

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genshin-impact-updates · 3 years

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Developer Insight #4: Character Stories (I) - "Vigilant Yaksha" Xiao (Part II)

3. Vanquishing Demons: Animating & Debugging

Greetings, Travelers. This is Xiaolong from the Genshin Impact Animation department.

When work on Genshin Impact first began, we in the Animation team set ourselves a rather challenging objective — to provide players with an animation experience as smooth as you would see when watching an animated film. To achieve this goal, we invested a significant amount of time and resources into making character movements as natural and polished as possible. Our hope was that players could view these animations many times without tiring of them.

When we received the character profile and concept art, the whole Animation team got very excited. "Conqueror of Demons," "Vigilant Yaksha," "mighty and illuminated adeptus"... As the image of Liyue's sworn protector emerged before our eyes, equally devastating in looks as in combat, everyone in the team wanted to be a part of it. We felt that in a sense, Creative Concept & Writing and Concept Art had created his soul, and our job as animators was to place his soul inside his body.

As a Liyue character, Xiao's movements naturally had to incorporate some Eastern elements. The notion of a classic martial arts hero instantly came to mind, and a thought took hold in my mind: "I have to capture something of this iconic Eastern aesthetic to show to players around the world, even if only a tiny glimpse of it."

In terms of how to combine polearm combat with Eastern elements, naturally we had plenty of martial arts tradition to draw on. But as an adeptus who has fought countless battles in his past, Xiao could hardly be limited to the physical techniques themselves. So, the way we animated him had to include Eastern elements as well as capture the swift and decisive combat style of a guardian yaksha who has honed his skills over thousands of years.

In the third phase of Xiao's Normal Attack, he performs a sidewards somersault. Typically, after performing a movement like this, one would expect to see further movement of the body to release the momentum. But to show Xiao's quick and nimble physical ability, we drew on the Chinese martial arts trope of the body being as "light as a leaf" as well as skills from parkour to have Xiao come to a soft and steady landing after his mid-air roll.

Clip from Flying Swords of Dragon Gate

Xiao's elemental affiliation is Anemo, and he was stated in his profile as having strong self-propulsion skills. After some brainstorming, we decided that we wanted the visual effect of Xiao's Elemental Skill to be like an arrow flying in a straight line through the air. When the skill ends, we have him slide along the ground as he slowly turns around, making the movement appear effortless and graceful.

Clip from Young Detective Dee: Rise of the Sea Dragon

As mentioned earlier, we wanted to make everything look as polished as possible. This meant ironing out a lot of details. Every flap of clothing and every strand of hair has undergone an animator's repeated scrutiny. After reviewing countless motion effects produced with dynamic simulation, we would select the one we were happiest with and polish the key frames further to finally produce the heroic Vigilant Yaksha we were happy with, whose every movement was filled with explosive energy and speed, and whose every posture in every frame was picture perfect.

We couldn't discuss Xiao without mentioning his mask, a key element which appears both in his Elemental Burst as well as his idle animations. Over the millennia, Xiao has fought constantly with the remnants of defeated gods and with all manner of monsters; at the same time, the burden of karmic debt has constantly been accumulating within him. When he dons his mask, this karmic debt manifests itself, greatly enhancing both his combat abilities as well as the suffering he must endure. And yet, time after time, he dons his mask to protect Liyue; time after time, he stays true to his contract.

According to Xiao's profile, his deepest, most hidden element is gentleness. When all identities and labels are cast aside, Xiao has a gentle side, shown in his curiosity towards phenomena in the human world, but he is very reticent to show this side of himself to others. This aspect was very difficult to capture in his animations, so in the end we created an idle animation that tells a short story: a spark of light that seems to be alive draws near; Xiao stretches out his hand to try to make contact with it, but because of his karma-ravaged constitution, he succeeds only in causing the spirit to fly away. He knew this would be the inevitable conclusion, but feels dejected all the same.

It took this kind of conflict between complex emotions to convey this character's richness and breathe life into his soul.

To perfect how Xiao is presented, our Technical Animation team used optical motion capture technology, which captures high-precision data to accurately recreate the finer details of the actor's limb movements. Meanwhile, more complex combat movements that could not be easily recreated in real life required the animator to go through and fine-tune the position of each bone and the movement of each streamer. On the foundation of smooth and natural animation, this added an additional element of exaggeration and novelty.

We are currently in the process of researching and developing character animation styles for several future world regions. Our dream has always been to create fresh, dynamic characters, build a vibrant fantasy world, and fully develop the various cultures across the different regions of Teyvat. Although plenty of challenges await us on the road ahead, we feel that the chance to bring you a product that is a true labor of love is something worth striving for.

---

Thanks to all our colleagues who worked on this article. We hope everyone reading it feels they got to understand something new about how we develop characters for Genshin Impact.

Please leave a comment if there is any aspect of Genshin Impact's research and development that you are interested in. We will continue to get colleagues from different departments to share their experiences and reflections with everyone.

Finally, thanks once again to all Travelers for your ongoing interest and support. See you again soon!

#genshin impact #official #genshin impact updates #genshin xiao #xiao #ok here's part 2 #there's another post about a live wallpaper but i'm in class so that'll be at 10 my time #developer insight

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cerezsis · 4 years

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The Missing Link

Chapter Three: Jia

Summary: Amon and the Equalists have taken over Republic City. No bender is safe. So why is one just out in the open?

The empty streets of Republic City were even more desolate and hostile under the guise of night. Not even a week had passed since the Equalist’s terroristic takeover, but it felt like so much longer. Benders were being rounded up and taken to Amon every day. People caught protecting benders were also hauled away, taken to spirits knows where. It was a terrifying chapter in the city’s history, that much was certain. Their only hope now was the United Forces, and the Avatar.

As she continued to drive down the slush-covered streets, the fifty-something-year-old woman spared a glance at the rear-view mirror. Her dark blue eyes looked so tired, fatigued by currents affairs. She longed for the comfort of her own bed, for her head to rest on her husband’s chest as they drifted off to sleep. That, however, wouldn’t come any time soon.

As she was about to look back at the empty road, something caught her eye. Her stomach dropped and her grip on the steering wheel tightened as she realized what was coming up behind her.

Monkey feathers!

She tried to stay calm. Maybe they were just patrolling. Maybe they would leave her alone. However, as their motorcycles drew closer and closer, she realized she wasn’t to be so lucky. Taking a deep breath, she pulled off to the side of the road, stepping out of the car with her hands in the air.

“What do you want?” she asked, her voice steady and without the fear she felt pulsating through her being.

The two equalists got off their bikes. Judging by their builds, she guessed they were both male.

“Identify yourself,” one of them ordered.

“Kaida, daughter of Suki and former councilman Sokka, and owner and operator of Kaida’s Academy of Martial Arts and Self Defense. I’m a non-bender. What do you want with me?”

The two men stood, taking in the information.

“Kaida, huh?” the shorter equalist pondered, “We’ve heard of you.” He and his partner put their hands on the bolas they had stored in their belts, not drawing them but making sure the woman in front of them could see they had them. “And we’ve heard of your twin sister; the waterbender.”

“We’re familiar with the whole family. Her husband’s a waterbender, their daughters are waterbenders, and your older sister’s firstborn is a firebender.” He paused as they both took a step closer, a clear attempt at intimidation. “Tell us where we can find them, and you’ll be free to go.”

“I have no idea,” she said, still showing no outward signs of fear, “I haven’t heard from them since you goons took over.” She lowered her arms, looking the two men square in the eye. “And since you haven’t either, my guess is they’ve fled the city. I have no idea where they could be.”

The two equalists looked at each other. Given the family’s high profile, it was common knowledge that the three who lived in the city weren’t the only sisters; the eldest of them lived in the Southern Water Tribe, and the second eldest lived on Kyoshi Island. Sure, they could still be in the city, but them having fled was equally possible. There was no way to be sure in that moment. They were at a standstill.

“May I go now?” the ever-growing impatient woman asked, “It’s been a long day, and I’d like to go home.”

The men nodded at each other and took their hands off their weapons.

“Don’t think we won’t be talking to you again.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will. Goodnight.” She turned around, reaching her hand out to open the car door. Seeing this, one of the equalists was hit with a realization. In one quick motion, he reached for his bolas, using it to grab the wrist of the woman in front of him.

“What are you doing!?” the now taken aback woman demanded.

“Uh, what are you doing?” the confused equalist asked.

“Kaida is right-handed.”

Her stomach plummeting, the woman looked down, seeing her left hand on the car’s handle.

Before the other equalist had time to react, Jia sprung into action. Using her unbound hand, she took advantage of the damp streets, and in one swift motion, a sharp slice of ice freed her from the bolas’ grasp. She ducked down just in time for the other equalist to draw his weapon, aiming for her, but instead hitting the car’s window, shattering the glass.

Kaida’s gonna kill me for that, Jia cringed.

Maneuvering her way out of the attack range, she bent as much water off the streets as she could. Immediately, she realized it wasn’t enough. As the men in front of her swung their weapons, she knew this was a fight she couldn’t win. She was outnumbered, low on ammo, and not to mention, there were pressing matters at hand.

“I don’t have time for this!” the waterbender shouted as she thrusted what little water she had at the men, knocking them down. “You know who I am! You know my profession! One of my patients is showing signs of pre-eclampsia, and I need to get to the hospital!” She swallowed hard. There was only one way out of this fight – one way they’d let her do what she needed to do. “If you let me attend to me patient, if you let me save mother and child… I’ll go with you willingly. I’ll surrender and allow Amon to take my bending.”

She studied the men closely. Though she couldn’t see their faces, she could tell by how long they looked at each other that this was a first for them.

“Do we have a deal?”

The seconds passed slowly, too slowly for Jia’s liking. Finally, they nodded at each other and stood up.

“There will be no funny business from you tonight,” one of them said, “If you double cross us, we know where to find your sisters. We will find them, and we won’t have mercy on them, or their children. Understand?”

Jia nodded. “We’ve wasted enough time. I need to get to the hospital.”

She walked past them, appearing as calm as ever as she got into the now damaged car. The two equalists got on their motorcycles, and they followed her to the hospital. Jia pulled into the staff parking lot, parking the car in the first spot she found. It wasn’t as packed as it usually was, the missing cars, Jia quickly noticed, all having belonged to the waterbending staff.

As she stepped out of the car, the equalists hopped off their bikes, following her as she made her way to the staff entrance. With the door just a few feet away, she suddenly stopped and turned around.

“Oh no, absolutely not. You’re not coming in here.”

Even without seeing their faces, Jia knew they were glaring at her.

“And why is that?”

“Why? This is a hospital, not an Equalist hangout! We may have a deal, but I will not compromise patient safety and privacy.” She crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing into a glare. “So, unless you plan on holding the placenta for me, you’re not coming in.”

The two men cringed, very clearly disgusted as they glanced at each other.

“Remember what I said earlier,” the taller equalist said, his composure coming back to him, “We will find your sisters if you double cross us. We’ll be waiting for you right. Here.”

“Oh, of course.” Her arms fell and she held them behind her back. “Now if you excuse me, I have a job to do.” She spun around, turning her back to them as she walked through the double doors.

The rush of the running water was the only sound in the hospital locker room. Scrubbing her hands vigorously, Jia looked up at her reflection. Her dark brown hair was now pinned up and hidden under the bright blue surgical cap. She knew her sister didn’t have the same practical reason for wearing her hair up high, but it still baffled her why she wore hers so low. They may have the same face, but they had such different tastes in style.

Kaida put her life on the line to hide me and my family. Why am I critiquing her hair style right now?

Her light brown hands scrubbed nearly raw, Jia reached for the hand towel.

I wonder if they’ll let me go after they take my bending. Or will they hold me hostage? She wondered, Imnek won’t risk the girls’ safety; he’s not stupid. Akina would never give up her son like that, and Kaida wouldn’t betray her family, or put Kirika’s life on the line by revealing she’s been hiding us in the academy’s basement… but I wouldn’t put it past her or Akina to do something equally stupid to save me.

Her hands now dry, she forced the thought out of her mind as she turned and left the locker room.

It’ll be ok. You’ll be ok. Bending doesn’t define who you are. You’ll still be Jia, even without bending.

The halls of the hospital were long. Having worked there for over twenty years, she knew them well. She’d attended to many mothers, delivered many babies. More than she could possibly count. Her greatest breakthroughs were made within these walls. Nay, the world’s greatest breakthroughs. It was because of her research – combining her tribe’s ancient healing practices with modern medicine – that the nation’s maternal and infant mortality rates dropped so significantly. She accomplished so much, saved so many lives…

You can still do that. You can still be a doctor without bending… albeit, not as efficiently. But you can still teach your methods to new doctors. You can still be on the research board. Lives will still be saved. Your research won’t go in vein.

She rounded the corner and walked into her patient’s room, pushing her thoughts down and putting a comforting smile on her face. The heavily pregnant woman laid in bed, gripping her husband’s hand. It took only one look to determine just how nervous they were.

“We’re almost ready to take you back,” Jia said, her voice calm and professional, “Do you have any further questions?”

The woman looked to her husband, before sheepishly glancing at Jia. “Are you certain this is safe? Will I be able to have more children after this?”

Jia walked closer to her, grinning with assurance. This procedure was still relatively new, so it wasn’t uncommon for women undergoing it to be nervous, especially first-time mothers.

“It’s 100% safe and shouldn’t affect future fertility. I’ve seen many mothers go on to have more children after a surgical delivery.” Though her words calmed the couple significantly, she still saw worry in their eyes. “I can assure you, you’re in the best hands possible. My team and I have performed this procedure thousands of times. I even underwent it myself when I had my youngest.”

The woman was intrigued. “Oh?”

Jia nodded. “Yep. See, rather than present head, or even feet first, my daughter decided she wanted to lay sideways,” she explained, gesturing her hands across her stomach to illustrate her point.

“Oh my!”

Jia chuckled and shook her head. “That’s kids for you. Always gotta be different.”

The mere thought of her children gave her a sense of calm. Even if she was a lost cause, they would be safe. And once this was over, they’ll be able to go back home, go back to some kind of normalcy.

Losing your bending doesn’t mean losing everything. You’ll still be a doctor. You’ll still be Nasak and Uki’s mother. You’ll still have your family. You’ll still be you. Amon can’t take that away from you.

“We both made it through the procedure in good health,” Jia continued, “She’s a perfectly healthy teenager now, head of her school’s drama club and everything. You and your child will make it through, too.”

The couple grinned, visibly more relaxed. Before more could be said, two nurses came in, wheeling in a bed to transport the patient.

“Looks like we’re ready for you. It’s almost time to meet your baby.”

The woman gave a genuine smile and looked to her husband. “We’re almost parents!”

Her husband gave her a gentle kiss before the nurses started helping her onto the new bed.

Everything’s going to be ok... I hope.

The cold of the night became increasingly evident the longer the two equalists waited outside. It was one thing to be constantly on the move in this cold, but just sitting around waiting was something else entirely.

“Isn’t she done yet?” the taller of the two complained, rubbing his hands together, “How long does it take to deliver a baby?”

“You’d be surprised. When my nephew was born, it–” He cut himself off. His posture stiffened as realization hitting him like a frate train, something his companion immediately took notice of.

“What, you forget you were supposed to babysit or something?”

The other man didn’t respond right away. He briefly debated if he even should.

“… I’ve told you the story, right? When my sister was nine months pregnant, she was suddenly convinced something was wrong. She tried to tell the doctors, but they brushed her off. Something about nerves and being a first-time mother… but one finally listened to her.” His head hung low as he continued the story. “Turns out, she was in the early stages of placenta abruption. Dr. Jia admitted her to the hospital right away, and thank the spirits she did. Just two days later, she started hemorrhaging. If she hadn’t already been in the hospital, she would’ve bled out. It happened so fast…” He looked up at his companion. “Dr. Jia saved her life. She saved my nephew’s life. I didn’t remember her face until now. I didn’t know this Jia…”

The other equalist looked to him in sympathy. The two had known each other for a long time now. He’d even met this sister, briefly. He knew she and her baby were the only family he had. He knew they meant the world to him.

No other words were exchanged for the longest time. The only sound to be heard was that of the wind, and the occasional passing car.

“So… what do you wanna do?”

Jia stood in the hallway, staring at the exit. Her patient had delivered a healthy baby boy. Mother and child were in the clear, and both were doing well. At this point, Jia was comfortable enough to leave them in the care of the non-bending staff. Which meant she was out of time.

Taking a deep breath, she held her head high as pushed open the double doors. If nothing else, she would face this nightmare with dignity and honor.

As the night air hit her skin, Jia’s heart nearly stopped in shock. No one was there. The motorcycles were even gone. She was alone.

She looked around, careful not to let her guard down. They could still be there, ready to ambush her. It was when she spun around in the direction of the car that she noticed it; a piece of paper tucked underneath the windshield wiper. Approaching with caution, she walked over and picked it up. Her eyes widened as she read the words, unsure of that to make of it.

Wrong person. Sorry.

#Avatar The Last Airbender #the legend of korra #atla #tlok #lok #korra #sokka #suki #sukka #amon #equalist #my writing #the missing link #fan fiction #jia #kaida #akina #oc

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