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1kook · 3 years

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card swiped (4)

→ jeon jungkook x (f) reader

→ “I’ve known Jungkook was a virgin since he first tried to tell me he wasn’t,” you tell him, arms crossed over your chest. “I’m pretty sure everyone knows.” GENRE romance (romcom?), eventual smut, teensy angst WARNING mentions of a hand job, talk of virginity OTHER college crushes, volleyball player!jk, student council president!oc, idiots to lovers, besties to lovers, childhood friends au RATING m (18+) bc brief sex ment WC 1.6k

NOTES (!) sorry for taking so long to update </3 school be kicking my ass. anyway here they are! an idiot couple. lmk what u think!!

[ masterlist ]

In the past, whenever something had bothered you, the first person you ran to was Jungkook. Low grades, fights with your parents, boy drama— as your best friend and number one confidant, Jungkook was always your first choice. He was always willing to lend you a shoulder to cry on, even if that meant staining his white t-shirts with streaks of your mascara. He was always ready to go beat up a mean boy who had hurt your feelings during lunch, even if he’d miss his favorite special. And he was always down for some good old fashion i hate my parents ranting, even if he adored your parents. He was a great listener, an even better best friend, and had rightfully won you over from a very young age.

That being said, how were you supposed to talk to Jungkook about something that bothered you when that something was him?

You could easily tell any of your numerous girl friends, those of which would probably understand your predicament better than Jungkook or any man ever could. But after years of vehemently denying any notion of a romantic relationship between the two of you, you get the feeling your call for help will be met with more unimpressed glares than actual assistance. Besides, as much as you bring up Jungkook, none of them really know Jungkook to truly offer you any worthwhile advice.

Your next option: Kim Taehyung. Now, Kim Taehyung held a similar background as Jungkook (translation: he also went to the same high school as you). He knows both you and Jungkook—frankly, more than you’d like him to—so he would be able to dissect the issue easily and offer trustworthy advice. The problem with Kim Taehyung, however, is that aside from knowing you at your embarrassingly dorky teenage prime, he doesn’t know how to keep a secret. Anything he knows, Jungkook knows. So if you were to, hypothetically, ask Taehyung for advice on Jungkook, well. Chances are, you’d probably get a rather confused text from Jungkook two minutes later.

Which leaves you with one option— Park Jimin. There’s a reason Park Jimin isn’t your first option, and that reason presents itself now as you glare at him from across the empty room. For as long as you’ve been in university, Jimin has always lingered around the student council meetings, giving everyone he sees the prettiest, meanest stink-eye. You suspect it’s because he waits around for Min Yoongi, your Vice President (which isn’t an issue; Jungkook also frequents student council meetings while waiting for you), and doesn’t really care for anyone else. Your problem with Jimin doesn’t lie there but rather with the fact he’s adamant on taking up space and not lending so much as a finger to help.

Today he is sitting with his feet on the table, dirty volleyball bag tossed on the floor. He’s watched you for the last fifteen minutes wrestle with the broken copy machine and hasn’t said a word since. He pretends he doesn��t see you struggling, because if he does, he’d be obligated to help you.

To summarize, Park Jimin may be the fastest libero your university’s volleyball team has seen in years, but he’s a good-for-nothing bum everywhere else.

And despite all that, he’s your best choice. There’s no one quite as blunt and honest as Park Jimin. There’s no one in this world who truly doesn’t care enough about anyone’s problems to gossip about them as Park Jimin. You plop down beside him, rumpled papers in hand. Without warning, you jump straight into it. “Jungkook is going to take my virginity,” you announce, like it’s the most casual thing in the world. If any of your fellow student council members heard you, you’re certain you’d shrivel up and die.

Jimin hums. “That’s nice.” His eyes don’t leave his phone, thumb hovering over his screen. It’s a testament to how much he truly does not care. His extended silence plants a seed of doubt in you— was this the right person to tell? you begin to worry. But after a beat, Jimin’s thumb taps against his screen and he says, “Jungkook is a virgin.”

You clench your jaw. “I know.”

The thing about Jimin is, with the right wording, you can get him interested in something. Not interested enough to genuinely care, but interested enough to at least listen and offer his own piece of straightforward advice. His thumb comes to a standstill over his phone, eyes momentarily going blank. It’s a minute gesture, one that’s taken you four years of paying attention to catch. Just as quickly as it appears, it’s gone. “Really,” Jimin sighs, back to, you now realize, playing CandyCrush on his phone. “You’re gonna let a virgin take your virginity.”

Not a question, but you nod anyway. “Yup.”

There’s sweat building on the back of your neck, nerves at an all time high, but you’re trying to play it off. Just a little bit more and you know you’ll have caught him. Beside you, Jimin’s jaw twitches.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity of trying to act calm, Jimin clicks his phone off and turns to you. He’s as intimidating as ever, ash blonde hair pushed back today to reveal his forehead and dark eyes. “You’ve known Jungkook was a virgin this whole time?” he asks, has this calculating look in his eyes that makes you feel like you’re being questioned by an officer of the law and not the shortest person on the volleyball team.

With a practiced air of nonchalance, you shrug. “I have,” you confess, and it’s the truth.

While you may have been initially fooled that night two years ago, you weren’t that oblivious. Oh, you knew clear as day that Jeon Jungkook was still a virgin, just as well as you knew that he religiously washed his sheets every weekend or that he had a specific color coded system for his underwear drawer. Jungkook was a fool to try and lie to you, not only because you had found out, but because you had found out that very next morning.

It had been subtle. The night at the party, you had watched on with a throbbing heartache as some pretty girl led Jungkook up a set of stairs, had barely fought off a wave of emotion when he returned twenty minutes later, his hair a rumpled mess. “Did you… ?” you had mumbled, pressed closely against him by the back door. Your eyes had been glassy, from your emotions and from the drunken stupor you had gotten yourself into while he was away, wondering what he was doing. A sense of jealousy you would never admit to had curled around your heart. His hand had landed on your hip then. He smelled like flowers and vanilla, a smell unlike his own. Your heart clenched, hand mindlessly reaching up to cup his jaw, so drunk and heartbroken, you couldn’t stop yourself from trailing your fingers along his pretty cheekbones.

Jungkook had graced you with a simple nod, and then, “do you wanna leave now?”

You’d left, stumbling down Greek road on your way back to his dorm. Jungkook had held your hand the whole way, tucked you into his twin bed, and then promptly knocked out on the floor between his and Taehyung’s beds. The latter was nowhere to be found, wouldn’t appear until the next morning when he’d accidentally step on Jungkook’s ankle and wake both of you up.

Jungkook had yelped, and your eyes had fluttered open. You remember debating rolling over, checking on him like you wanted to, but Taehyung was already there doing just that. So you had laid still instead, listened as the two boys clattered around the room. They chatted mindlessly, about the party and tomorrow’s practice. Taehyung had been bragging about some girl he’d slept with last night. “What about you?” he had asked, and your breath caught in your throat. “Did you and…”—a pause, the distinct ruffle of fabric—“finally?”

“What— no,” Jungkook had said, and you felt the bed dip as he sat down on the edge beside you.

Taehyung pushed on with a snort. “Well, did you get lucky at all?”

Jungkook groaned, placed one warm hand on your back soothingly. You tried your best to level out your breathing, relaxed your facial expression as you clung to the sound of his voice. “Just a handjob. Some girl I didn’t even know. Does that count?” You could hear your heartbeat in your ears, felt it beneath your fingertips when you fisted the sheets.

And that curt admission sat in the back of your mind everyday for two years.

You turn to Jimin. “I’ve known Jungkook was a virgin since he first tried to tell me he wasn’t,” you tell him, arms crossed over your chest. “I’m pretty sure everyone knows.”

Jimin lets out a low whistle. “You’re smarter than I thought,” he grins, this conniving little smile that is a genuine cause for concern. “So you’re letting him think you don’t know?” You nod. Jimin’s smile grows. “My, my. If I had known you were this evil, maybe we would’ve hung out more.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not evil,” you insist, flicking him on the nose. Jimin huffs indignantly. “I think what he’s doing is sweet…” you confess, feel your entire body heat up as you recall that wide-eyed look Jungkook had given you just yesterday afternoon, your kiss print fresh on his cheek. “And, well,” you look down at your shoes. “I used to dream about him being my first.”

Jimin groans. “You two make me sick.”

#networkbangtan #kwritersworldnet #jungkook smut #jungkook fic #jungkook #bts jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook x reader smut #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook x reader smut #bts fic #bts smut #bts #jeon jungkook #jeon jeongguk #jjk #mine

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fantasticstoryteller · 3 years

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New Amsterdam Chapter 21

Peter watched in fascination as Wade mixed seasoning in with the rice before carefully pushing into the bottom of the casserole dish. (Peter hadn’t known he’d had a casserole dish. It was in with a bunch of dishes Aunt May had packed for him when he moved out.) There was something—alluring about watching hands, hands that he knew could both kill creatively and without mercy while also being capable of the best hugs Peter had ever had, making food. He was almost hypnotized by the sight.

“Careful, Baby,” said Wade as he grabbed the cheese and the cheese grater. (Peter wasn’t asking why Wade had a cheese grater in one of his pouches. Or why he’d soaked it in bleach for three minutes before washing it.) “You’ll give me ideas.”

Peter frowned. That was the second time that Wade had mentioned Peter giving him ideas. “What do you mean?” asked Peter as he leaned against the counter. Taking the new position was all about getting closer to Wade, and not about getting a better look at those hands making food. Food that wasn’t even finished yet and looked delicious. “By giving you ideas?” he clarified.

Wade stopped moving and then turned to look at Peter. It was one of the few times that the mask wasn’t emotive. “Peter,” he said in a low, serious voice that was nothing like his normal, over the top one, “I’m a guy. I’m a crazy, few-bricks-short-of-a-house guy who, under this fabulous outfit, looks like a horror movie monster reject—but I’m still a guy. And when you say things like that, or do things like that, I start getting the idea that I might be a guy. And that’s dangerous.”

Peter hopped onto the counter as he watched Wade turn back to the casserole he was making. “What kind of ideas? And why do you think you look like a horror movie monster reject?”

Wade snorted as he covered the dish with foil and put it in the oven. (That, Peter had known worked, as he’d reheated pizza in it on occasion.) “I’ve seen myself, Baby Boy,” Wade said bitterly. “I’ve seen people’s reactions to my ugly mug. Trust me, I’m a monster. And not a good monster in the oh-the-audience-wants-to-fuck-him way, either.”

Peter hopped off the counter and wrapped his arms around Wade. “You’re not a monster,” he said.

Wade hugged him back. “You don’t know that Petey,” he said wearily as he slumped against Peter. “You’ve never seen me.”

Peter looked up. “Then show me,” he challenged, suddenly reckless. “Show me what you mean.” Wade recoiled slightly, but didn’t let go of Peter. Peter reached up and gently pressed a palm to the masked face. “It’s okay,” he said.

Wade shook his head, but the movement was sad and despondent. He reached up and gently pressed against the hand on his cheek. “I know how people look at me without the mask,” he said. “And if you looked at me like that—I’d break, Peter.”

Peter’s heart was already breaking. “Wade,” he said, “I’d never—”

He was interrupted by a furious pounding on the apartment door. “Mr. Parker!” cried a desperate voice that he was all too familiar with.

In a flash Peter was by the door, holding it open for the two children—one leaning heavily on the other. The more mobile one half dragged, half carried the other one into the room, and then came to stop. The child stared at Wade, eyes wide, breathing heavily.

Oh, right. The last time the child had been in his apartment Norman had been over to visit. “He’s safe,” Peter assured the child as he helped with the badly injured one. “What happened?” he asked helping the girl to the table.

The more active child nearly danced with worry as Peter did a cursory examination. Bruises, strains, minor abrasions and lacerations. Not nearly as bad as some he’d seen. The worst were the raw, bloody strips at the child’s wrists. Peter grabbed his first aid kit and went to work.

“Juby was in the store, getting some food, when the police picked her up.” In its distress, the child didn’t even seem to realize that one of the forbidden names had been dropped. “They took her to her dad.”

Juby turned to Peter, eyes wide and glassy, but focused nonetheless. “Ellie saved me,” she said firmly.

“I couldn't leave you there with that bastard!”

“Enough,” Peter said gently as he worked. He used some alcohol to tease hair out of one of the worst wounds on the girl’s scalp, hoping he could stave off infection. “I thought you were using the buddy system,” he said with a slight frown.

“We were!” protested Ellie.

“Anna Marie’s mom is worse than my dad,” Juby said calmly, barely twitching even though Peter knew it had to hurt. He tried not to think about why a small child had such high pain tolerance. He didn’t want to know. “When I saw the cop I made her hide.”

“And then she came to get me,” said Ellie.

As Peter moved to treat the wound on the girl’s wrist, he noticed Wade gently shoo Ellie towards him. “So, tell me about Juby’s dad. I have serious questions like, where does the fucker live?”

Peter wanted to tell him not use such language in front of the children—but knew that they’d heard worse. “All right,” said Peter as he wrapped the last treated wound in gauze before grabbing an orange he’d picked up earlier. “Here you are,” he said handing the fruit to the child before grabbing another one for Ellie. Juby put a finger to the orange and small purple spark bit into the rind, making it accessible to the child.

“Just between you and me,” Wade was saying as Peter got close to give Ellie her orange, “I’m well known for jobs that take fuckers like that out of the world.”

“We can’t afford to pay you,” Ellie said suspiciously, and clearly uncomfortable with the close contact.

“No worries,” Wade assured her as Peter gently nudged him out of the girl’s personal space. “My services are all pro bono in a case like this.”

“He means,” Peter translated as he tossed Ellie the orange, “that he’ll do it for free.”

Wade scooped Peter to the side as Ellie ripped the orange in half and began to eat it, carefully saving the seeds. The children had taken to planting them—somewhere. Peter wasn’t asking where.

“Will you tell on me?” asked Wade.

Peter was conflicted. “Killing is wrong,” he said firmly. He glanced behind him, at the injured child eating on his table. “Killing is wrong,” he repeated, “but so is this.” Wade pulled him into a hug and pressed a kiss through the leather of his mask to Peter’s forehead.

“Everything will be all right Pete,” said Wade gently, repeating what Peter had said to him earlier. He pulled away and gently shooed Ellie towards the door. “Come on Ellie. Let’s go kill us a bad guy!”

“Don’t call me that!” growled the girl.

Peter noticed an odd sound behind him and turned to see Juby watching him warily. He smiled as reassuringly as possible. “The couch pulls out into a bed,” Peter said. He’d gotten it for free from a neighbor who was upgrading her own furniture. “I’ll get it ready for you, and you can sleep there tonight.”

The child eyed him suspiciously. He was used to the look by now. “And where will you sleep?” she asked curtly.

“In my bed,” Peter responded, just as curtly. “I don’t share well. I kick. And snore.” The girl dissolved into giggles and he smiled thinly at her. “And your friend should be by in the morning to take you back to where the lot of you are staying.”

The child looked at him again. “You really don’t know where it is.” It wasn’t a question.

Neither was his response. “I’m not asking,” he said firmly before pulling out the hidden bed.

#Spider-Man #Deadpool #Spideypool

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when-they-write-stuff · 4 years

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Hello, not sure if you're still looking for drabble stuff but if I may: angst, #11 - “Don’t cry. Everything’s going to be okay.”, Sterek and maybe derek the one who's crying and stiles comforting him??? maybe because anniversary of his family's death or something??? if not it's cool but i love you're writing and i thought that'd be a good one to write :DDD

I messed around with the prompt a little, but here we go! Sorry it took so long, my brain has been on the outs a bit lately <3

- -

There was blood on his hands, blood on his shirt, and Stiles felt like he could lose his lunch.

There was a banshee scream in the air.

Faintly, Stiles was aware of the voices around him. Some part of him recognized the fingers brushing over the back of his neck; the soft whispers that were more a blur than anything else, but then some part of him was completely blank. Stiles shivered, dropping down to his knees, and just stared at the body of the hunter in front of him.

There was a body of a hunter in front of him. Not moving, not breathing. Glassy eyes staring at the dark sky. And there was blood on Stiles’s hands.

Blood on his hands, on his shirt. And he felt sick.

Stiles didn’t… he didn’t remember much of the last few minutes. Only, that there’d been a gun to Derek’s head, the hunter had laughed when Scott had attempted to talk him down, and then Stiles was moving forward with his baseball bat, without a thought other than Derek’s safety.

Someone was kneeling at his side, hands cupping his face. Stiles swallowed hard, breaths trembling, and turned toward soft grey-green eyes. Derek looked a lot more than concerned.

“Hey, Stiles, are you okay? Are you with me?”

Stiles could barely breathe. He tried to nod but was pretty sure he failed. Derek searched his face and then nodded, slipping a hand underneath Stiles’s legs and picking him up. He barely registered any of that, turning his face into Derek’s chest. And faintly, he was aware of the rest of the pack watching them. Silently. Nervously. Derek barely even glanced over in Scott’s direction.

“Take care of the body.”

“But Derek—”

“Take care of it, Scott.”

Stiles closed his eyes, still trembling. Derek’s grip tightened and then they were moving. Through the preserve, away from the others, the night air cold against Stiles’s face. He didn’t realize why until Derek murmured something soft and Stiles realized there were tears streaking down his face.

“Don’t cry,” the man said quietly. “You’re alright, Stiles. Everything is going to be okay.”

There was blood on his hands. Blood on his shirt. And Stiles felt sick.

“You’re going to be okay.”

The last time he’d killed a man… the last time he’d killed a man… When was the last time Stiles had killed a man? They’d all done it before, hadn’t they? They’d all gotten their hands dirty. Usually, it was over quick. Someone would roar, someone else would howl. There’d be splatters of blood and no one really talked about it the next day.

When was the last time Stiles had killed a man?

“I don’t think I’ve done this before.”

The words slipped out before Stiles could stop them, the realization hitting him like a blow. Because yeah, he was pretty handy-dandy with his baseball bat, but did things ever go that far? But then there had been a gun pressed against Derek’s temple. Stiles hadn’t even stopped to think.

He closed his eyes tighter. Derek shifted and it seemed like the man was trying to pull Stiles even further into his chest.

He could hear the steady thump-thump of Derek’s heartbeat through his thin t-shirt. Stiles thought silently— dully— that it was kind of a beautiful sound.

“Can I take you home?”

It took him a moment to realize Derek was asking his permission. And sudden terror clutched at Stiles’s heart. The thought of his dad seeing him like this; covered in blood and trembling, made Stiles feel sick all over again. He curled a hand into Derek’s sleeve, face turned into his chest, and Derek’s heart skipped a beat.

“Okay, okay, Stiles, it’s okay. I won’t do that. We can go to the loft.”

The loft was safe. The loft was silent.

Stiles liked the loft.

Derek carried him to the Camaro and Stiles felt a little dizzy as he was lowered into the passenger seat. Derek buckled him in, grey-green eyes searching his face, and the man brushed a thumb across his cheek. Then he was gone, the door was closing, and Stiles stared blankly out the window.

The last time he killed a man… the last time he killed a man. No, this was the first time.

This was the first time.

The ride back to the loft was a quiet one.

Stiles felt a little sick and a lot confused. Like maybe he was disconnected from his body. Some part of him was hyper-aware of the blood on his hand and clothes, freaking him out more and more with each second that passed. But then another part of him was just… quiet. Disconnected.

When the car stopped, he blinked a few times and went for his seatbelt. But then Derek was there, opening the door and unbuckling him, and Stiles attempted a chuckle when he was swept up again. As if he was injured or something stupid.

“I can walk, Derek.”

The man rumbled something unintelligible. Stiles blinked into his chest and faintly realized the man’s shirt was smeared with blood. That made Stiles’s stomach flip again and he swallowed hard.

When they entered the loft, Derek set him down gently on the couch and then looked uncertain. He made an abortive move forward, pulled himself back, and turned away, vanishing into the kitchen. A few seconds later, he came back with a rag and Stiles didn’t think that was going to even make a dent in all the blood that currently coated his skin.

The man reached forward and Stiles caught his arm. Derek looked nervous again.

“Stiles?”

“Can I just… shower or something?”

Derek’s face softened. He nodded and backed away, leaving Stiles in the silence once more. Faintly, he caught the sound of running water, closing his eyes to the rest of the silent loft. He’d have to text his dad, Stiles realized. Something, at least.

By the time Derek came back, Stiles was sitting up with his phone out. Bloody fingers trembled over the screen and he typed out a quick “At Scott’s” as if his dad would believe that. Or hopefully, at least, Scott could cover him.

Stiles didn’t know which of those he’d rather, to be honest.

Derek hesitated a few feet away and Stiles glanced up slowly. Derek cleared his throat, eyes dropping to the floor.

“Is a bath okay?”

Stiles glanced down at himself again. For some reason, just the idea of standing in a shower for long enough to get himself cleaned was daunting. So quietly, he nodded. Derek looked relieved.

“Can I get you anything else?”

“No,” Stiles said softly. “But thank you.”

Derek looked like he wanted to say more, but the man just nodded. Stiles pushed himself up and plodded past him, ducking into the bathroom door and closing the door tightly behind him. He debated locking it for a moment and then just turned away, stripping off his blood-covered clothes.

He didn’t manage to look in the mirror for longer than a few seconds before he was on his knees in front of the toilet dry heaving.

There was blood on his hands. Blood on his skin.

So much blood.

Stiles closed his eyes, trembling as tears burned at his eyes. Behind him, quick footsteps approached and he startled as he heard the door open. A figure dropped to their knees down beside him and Stiles unconsciously leaned into the warmth, tears slipping steadily down his cheeks. Faintly, Derek’s voice punctured through his panic.

“Stiles, Stiles.”

“Don’t leave,” Stiles babbled, curling further against the man and grabbing at his sleeve. “Don’t leave, Derek. Don’t leave, please don’t leave. Please”

“Okay, okay,” Derek said, sounding uncertain. “Okay, Stiles. I won’t.”

“Stay with me.”

“Okay, Stiles,” the man said again, softer this time. “I’ll stay.”

Stiles swallowed hard, throat tight. He let Derek gently help him up and guide him toward the tub. The first touch of water was almost too warm but then Stiles all but eased into it. He closed his eyes, arms wrapping around his chest, and felt Derek’s fingers carefully ghost over his skin.

“Hey, Stiles. Can I get a rag?”

Quietly, Stiles nodded. He heard the man get up, the door open and close, and he finally blinked his eyes open again, gazing dully at the opposite wall.

“Scott, Scott, don’t let him shoot Derek. He can’t shoot Derek.”

“He won’t, Stiles! Get back.”

“He can’t shoot Derek.”

“He won’t— Stiles! Stiles, don’t! Come back!”

Something touched his shoulder again and Stiles startled so hard, some of the bathwater went sloshing over the side of the tub. Derek gave him a soft-eyed look and Stiles ducked his head, closing his eyes. The events of the night still played over and over again in his head. The words shouted into the night still echoed through his ears.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Stiles laughed shakily. It didn’t even sound like his own laughter.

“Stiles, it wasn’t your fault.”

“I killed a man.”

“... You protected me.”

And yeah, that’s what Stiles had been trying to do, right? Except that had involved taking his baseball bat to a hunter— a human being— and not stopping until he was covered in blood. Until someone was shouting his name, someone else was pulling him back, and then… then...

Stiles felt sick again. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I killed someone, Derek.”

Derek was quiet for a long moment. There was a wet noise and Stiles glanced over to see him dipping the dishrag from earlier into the path water. Gentle fingers danced in the air above Stiles’s shoulder before touching, and then Derek was moving the cloth across his shoulder blades. “You saved my life.”

“My dad can’t know.”

Derek looked sad, but he nodded. Stiles took another trembling breath, curling into himself a little bit.

“I couldn’t lose you.”

Because that had been the only thought going through his mind at the moment. Stiles liked to think he’d do the same for anyone in the pack, but it had been Derek. Derek, who he’d known since he’d been a stupid sixteen-year-old kid. Derek, who Stiles didn’t know what he could call, but he’d protect with his life.

He couldn’t lose Derek. He never would.

It was quiet, then. Stiles sat wrapped around himself and Derek moved a rag across the blood-stained expanse of his skin. Soon, the water was tinted pink and Stiles was shivering a little, the warmth of the water having evaporated a long time ago. Derek pulled the plug to the water and turned his face away, offering out a towel.

Stiles looked at it for a moment before wrapping the warm material around his shoulders. He stepped out of the tub and Derek glanced down at him, offering a small smile.

“I can put on a movie and order dinner. Is take out okay?”

Stiles felt stupid for how tight his throat became all over again. He stepped closer, turning his face into the man’s chest, and Derek wrapped arms around his shoulders, pulling him in closer. Swallowing hard, Stiles nodded.

“Yeah, that’s good.”

“You’re gonna be okay, Stiles.”

That might take a while, Stiles thought silently. But here, now, yeah, he could be. He could be okay. Derek pressed a kiss into his damp hair and Stiles all but melted into it. The touch, the comfort. He didn’t know what he could call this, but he knew he’d do anything to protect it.

He’d do anything to protect Derek.

“Me too, Stiles.”

Stiles shivered, wondering how much of that he'd said out loud, and clamped his mouth shut. A small chuckle rumbled through Derek’s chest. The man held him tighter and for a moment, they just stood there. In the silence. The fading warmth.

Me too.

Stiles didn’t glance into the mirror as Derek turned him around and led him back out.

- -

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#sterek #teen wolf #derek x stiles #hurt/comfort #prompts #pickosita5 #derek hale #stiles stilinski #lil bit o' angst

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third-rail-vip · 4 years

Photo

Wide Awake

Summary:

“It’s quiet out here... too quiet” might be fun to say, but when it’s 2am and quiet as hell in Sanctuary, sometimes it’s just boring.

A sleepless MacCready pays a visit to the only other person who might still be awake.

Notes:

Tumblr fluff prompt: “what are you doing here? it’s late.” I accidentally deleted the ask because i’m an idiot.

Beautiful screenshot of the night sky at Sanctuary very kindly lent by @mutantenfisch

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 3873 [AO3 link] [Then I Met You - Series Link]

MacCready couldn’t sleep. Lay in his darkened room, he huffed out a sigh – cigarette smoke mingled with condensation in the cold air. A cursory glance at his watch told him it was pushing 2 am.

What felt like too many hours ago, he’d found a spot in one of Sanctuary’s many unoccupied houses and bedded down on a mattress that seemed to be more springs than anything else, but it would do. He’d slept on worse.

Not that sleep seemed to be on the cards.

Nah, the mattress wasn’t the problem. He just couldn’t settle properly the first night back in ‘civilisation’ after weeks on the road. His nerves were still on edge. He’d barely undressed for bed, only shedding his coat, hat and kicking off his boots. His rifle lay at hand by the mattress, ready for what still felt like the imminent possibility of attack. He’d studied the ceiling until his candle burnt down, then lay in the darkness, not even able to blame his usual turn on first watch for keeping him awake—they’d be well into Ivy’s shift by now.

Not that she’d be awake. She’d be enjoying a quiet night’s sleep, some space to herself and no monsters ready to jump out of the shadows.

Just whatever prowls the dark places in her head.

MacCready shook the thought from his mind; it wasn’t any of his business where his partner went in those glassy-eyed moments when the colour left her cheeks and she looked like she was watching something so real she could reach out and touch it. Something he had no idea how to even begin looking for. All he could do was watch her back if it happened again.

Instead, he busied himself fidgeting with a fresh pack of cigarettes— ‘fresh’ 200 years ago anyway —unable to decide whether he should just lie there and light another or get up and stretch his legs in the hope that the cold night air would either wake him up fully or put him to sleep.

Whatever he chose, he needed to decide soon because the boredom was driving him nuts.

He sat up, suspiciously eyeing the sliver of moonless sky he could see through a hole in the unpatched roof above him. For a boy who grew up in a cave, darkness made him twitchy (not that Lamplight was a dark place, the clue was in the damn name). The thing he’d come to realise about the dark and the quiet was, if you didn’t know any better, it could too easily be mistaken for calm and safe. Once, just once, he’d let himself be taken in by it. And he’d have to live with that for the rest of his days.

These days, not that MacCready would ever admit it, he liked it better if there was just that little bit of light to creep past his eyelids as he drifted off, and maybe a bit of noise too, some sort of show that there was life around him; campfires, candles, even the tinny echo of Ivy’s pipboy broadcasting that jackass, Travis, at all hours would do the trick.

This quiet wouldn’t do at all. Too few distractions. Too much time to think.

Finally freeing a cigarette, he fumbled for his lighter in the darkness, flicked it a few times to no avail. A cursory shake confirmed it—empty. He tossed it aside, tucked the cigarette back into the pack and reached for his boots instead.

A walk it was.

------

The damn door creaked.

MacCready cursed himself for using it instead of the other one, which didn’t even technically have a door in it anymore. Idiot. He’d seen a glow through the window and hadn’t even thought. He’d just walked straight in.

Ivy’s house (the one she’d adopted, anyway) wasn’t like the one he’d chosen to hide away in. It didn’t smell like damp or have holes in the roof. Someone had gone to great effort to get it back to being homely. It still smelled like supper from that evening, leftover veg stew, and the vague scent of-MacCready sniffed-was that carrot flowers? Probably had something to do with that fussy old woman of a Mr Handy unit. He was undoubtedly why there was also a lingering smell of disinfectant.

Ivy had told him that it had stayed there cleaning its old masters’ house for two hundred years. What a loser.

From the meagre moonlight he could just make out the dark shapes of the kitchen counters ( there was the vase of flowers the robot must have decided to put out while playing house in honor of his new mistress’s return home), the rickety dining table they’d decided not to eat their supper at, and the couch that, on the one occasion he’d been stupid enough to throw himself onto it, turned out to be even more uncomfortable than the one in their usual room at the Dugout.

The faint welcoming glow of lantern light from the hallway to the bedrooms almost made him forget his midnight trespassing. He meandered forward – fully intending to announce his arrival– only to boot a water bowl right across the room. He dived forward trying to put an end to the metallic ringing and sloshing, but too late.

“Who’s there?”

Mac knew Ivy well enough to hear the edge of panic behind the warning in that shout. He clamped his hands onto the bowl, finally stopping it rolling, and looked up from his spot knelt in a puddle of dog water.

Ivy darted out from the farthest room, the one where the warm light spilled from, oh, and now he felt bad . She was dressed for bed in the over-large plaid shirt she’d picked up from some trader in Diamond City; something more comfortable to sleep in that her vault suit, she’d said - it hadn’t seen much use, given the amount of time they spent staying in places where it was safer to stay as armoured as possible, even when trying to get a night’s rest. Her hair was all over the place, like she’d been tossing and turning, trying to get settled as badly as he had. Frankly, she looked exhausted.

But only a real dumbass would tell her that right now, because the startled woman, whose house he’d walked into at 2am was currently levelling a pistol straight at his head.

“Woah woah woah! Angel, it’s just me!” MacCready stuck his hands up in the air, giving her a startled grin. He may be used to being on the end of the threat of her pistol—he couldn’t help having a smart mouth—but the actual pistol… that was new. “Is this a hold-up? You want me to hand over my caps?”

Ivy dropped the gun to her side with a muttered curse and flopped back against her doorframe.

“Mac? What are you doing here? It’s late.” Rocking her head back, she let out a shaky breath. “You scared the shit out of me.”

He shrugged apologetically from his spot on the floor, avoiding her question long enough for her to wander forward offering her free hand.

“You can get off the floor now, tiger,” she said with a sigh that edged into a smirk. “Like I could get any caps out of you anyway. Gunpoint or not.”

Now banter he could handle. It was one of his favourite things about her, she enjoyed his teasing and his joking, she even put up with his snarking. Plus, she’d offered him the perfect get out of jail free card to avoid any explanations about why he was there.

He let his gaze flick down the bare legs he was currently eye-to-thigh with, and back up to Ivy’s face, giving her an excessively dramatic eye roll.

“If you’re trying to impress me, it’s not going to work,” he drawled.

She withdrew her hand with a mock scowl and gave him a sharp, but not painful, kick—enough to send him from kneeling to sitting in the puddle of dog water—turned on her heel and wandered back up the hall to her room. With maybe a little more sway to her hips than was entirely necessary.

It was probably safer not to call her on it though, she was still armed, after all. Best just to stay put, watch maybe...

“I was in bed, thank you very much. There were blankets and everything.” She snarked back over her shoulder at him, finally giving a cursory glance as she reached her room before disappearing out of view. “I was just drifting off when I heard this absolute racket. And I thought to myself, it’s not Christmas for a few more weeks, so it can’t be Santa. Not that he doesn’t owe me 210 years’ worth of presents…”

And people thought he was the sarcastic one.

MacCready grinned, getting up quickly and bounding after her up the hall.

He was careful to avoid looking into the darkened nursery as he passed. His first time in Sanctuary he’d found Ivy staring into the room. She’d asked him if he thought they’d ever find that missing boy, Shaun, but he couldn’t answer. The sight of that damn crib haunted him. All he could think about was Duncan and how time was passing and he’d gotten nowhere. He’d just about managed to thickly mutter “yeah, sure”, which didn’t sound overly convincing to either of them, before he had to rush outside and try not to be sick.

Leaning on her doorframe, he peeked round the corner into the room. It was mainly taken up by an old pre-war bed that’d been fixed up like new since the last time they were there. There were clothes, sketchbooks and empty gumdrop wrappers strewn over a dresser in the corner - Codsworth mustn’t be allowed in here, there was no way he’d leave it such a mess. The glow that spilled out into the hallway came from an oil lantern balanced on the windowsill and a single candle, melting its way down on the bedside table.

On the bed was an open comic and more gumdrops. She hadn’t been sleeping either.

“If you don’t think you can get caps out of me, you can be damn sure you aren’t getting 210 presents,” he grinned, but Ivy was too busy rummaging through the dresser drawers to do anything more enthusiastic than throw a sock at him.

He flopped down onto his back on the bed and snatched up the comic and a handful of gumdrop. This bed was a damn sight more comfortable than the crappy mattress he had to put up with, that was for sure.

Grognak the Barbarian and the Jungle of the Bat Babies.

“Meh. I’ve got this one,” he complained as he munched on the candy, continuing to idly leaf through the pages anyway.

“Well if you wouldn’t mind not losing my page…” Ivy shot him a sharp look over her shoulder as she dragged on a pair of tatter jeans.

After weeks of sleeping in foxholes, broken-down houses and on rooftops, privacy between the two of them had become less of an issue, he’d gotten fairly used to catching sight of her trying to wriggle in and out of a vault suit in his peripheral vision, but he still couldn’t help smirking at the idea of the raised eyebrows there’d be around the settlement if they could see them now. He had to stop himself chuckling out loud, wondering what Garvey would think of his precious General having an ex-Gunner in her room in the middle of the night.

Best not to get too smart about the Gunner part… he’d heard about Quincy. Might have been years after his time with them, but that kind of association tainted the way people looked at a man.

Most people anyway.

He glanced over at Ivy who was trying to get her hair to behave. Christ knows why, it’s not like there was anyone to see it. It wasn’t Preston’s fault he kept catching on Mac’s last nerve, it was just… there were only so many times you could hear someone called a ‘good man’ without starting to wonder if that made you the ‘bad’ one. Not to mention the looks—he glanced at Ivy again—the way Garvey would go soft whenever she was helping that handyman with settlement stuff, or any other do-gooder crap. You’d think she was some kind of miracle.

He’d bet every last cap he owned that the man had never seen her pickpocket Gunners or watched those fingers crack a lock faster than any professional he’d ever met, just to break into a guy’s house because he rubbed her up the wrong way. No, MacCready might call her angel, but he was more than aware that she was flesh and blood.

Ivy plonked herself down cross-legged on the end of the bed, entirely derailing his train of thought.

“So, a gentleman caller at this late hour… tongues will wag.” She raised an eyebrow. “Did you just come here to frighten me or did you need something?”

Well now he felt like an idiot. There was no dodging the question this time, and she was watching him intently. Why was he here?

Because he was lonely? Heck no. He couldn’t sleep and he’d gotten used to having someone to talk to? He was bored? This place is too damn quiet and too damn boring. And how the hell could she live here before the war? Surrounded by boring houses with boring people and boring jobs and boring everything , when she wasn’t boring at all…

“I saw your light was on.”

“You couldn’t sleep either, huh?”

“Never can on the first night somewhere.” He gave in and shrugged as nonchalantly as he could manage. “Still feels like I need to watch the shadows. Anyway, I gave up trying and figured I’d get some air.”

She considered his statement for a moment. He hoped she wasn’t considering too hard how much ending up in her house probably didn’t count as ‘getting air’.

“Air sounds good.”

Well, he couldn’t say he wasn’t a little disappointed at the turn of events. He’d just been getting comfy, wondering if he could sneakily doze off and then she’d be stuck with the couch - she could usually be relied on to be too nice to wake him if she didn’t have to. But he dutifully put aside the well-thumbed comic, grabbed another handful of gumdrops and waited for her to pull on some shoes and grab a spare blanket before they headed outside.

------

Ivy swore under her breath, something about Boston winters even without snow. She gave an exaggerated shiver and dragged the blanket around her shoulders before joining MacCready in the street. She probably should’ve grabbed a coat, MacCready mused, but she didn’t seem bothered enough to head back into the house. Instead she fidgeted on the spot, looking at him expectantly.

“It’s your walk,” she whispered after a moment, keeping her voice low for fear of waking the long since passed out settlers. He could just about see she was smiling at him despite the shadows of the house. “Lead on, boss. ”

Boss. He rolled his eyes at her, but led the way anyway, meandering slowly up the street towards the end of the cul-de-sac, their footsteps crunching quietly on the broken asphalt as they passed house after darkened house.

MacCready stopped when he reached the tree that dominated the end of the estate, not sure where to go next. He hadn’t thought this far ahead. They could wander the edge of the small island that housed the settlement, but that ran the risk of bumping into whoever was on guard and then they’d be stuck making awkward conversation. They could cross the north bridge towards the vault. No, definitely not. Ivy was one of the few people he knew who wanted to go near a vault even less than he did. Especially that vault. Anyway, they were meant to be distracting each other from lack of sleep, not creating more reasons for it.

Ivy must have noticed the lost look on his face (or just got impatient of waiting) because felt a tap on his arm. She didn’t wait for him to respond before dragging him towards the farthest house. Instead of going inside, she led the way to a ladder propped up against the roof.

“You’ve got your binoculars, right?” she whispered, pointing up the ladder. “After you.”

He gave her a confused look, but patted the pair strapped to his belt, and went ahead and climbed first - offering Ivy a hand when she reached the top. Other than a couple of tall trees, the roof offered an unimpeded view right across the commonwealth down to the coast.

They settled down on the broad roof tiles, feet in the gutter so they didn’t slip down. Ivy had offered to lay the blanket out for them to sit on but after her display outside the house, he wasn’t going to sit there and watch her shiver for the sake of keeping his ass warm. And he told her as much.

“Don’t let anybody tell you I’m not a gentleman,” he grinned after her laughter died down.

It was a hell of a view. Mac scanned the horizon, picking out the familiar shapes that loomed in the darkness; the jagged skyscrapers of Boston’s skyline - lit up by Diamond City’s unsubtle display of lights, the satellite bank out near the coast, and the freeway, snaking across the landscape towards mass pike interchange. That held his attention a little longer than the rest. Just one more item on his list of problems.

But Ivy didn’t seem to notice. She wasn’t even looking out across the vista, she was sat back on her elbows, staring straight up into the night sky.

He leant back too, looking across at her but he didn’t stand a chance of catching her eye, she was completely enthralled. After a couple of minutes he gave up and gently prodded her, “Come back down to earth, spaceman…” It was enough to get her to tear her eyes away from the sky and glance back across at him. A sad smile touched her lips.

“My dad loved looking at the stars. It was kind of his job... along with a lot of math. He taught at a college back home.” She didn’t often talk about before, and he wasn’t sure she’d ever mentioned her family. “You don’t know how lucky you are, seeing the sky like this. People would travel hundreds of miles for a view like this.”

“Seriously?” MacCready stared up, bemused.

“Seriously.” She smiled at him, or maybe through him. Her mind seemed to be somewhere else, but not in a bad way for once. “Have you ever tried to look at the stars when you’re in Diamond City? Even Goodneighbor? It’s far too bright, you can barely see anything. That’s what most places were like before the war. It was all streetlights stopping you from seeing ‘one of the best views in the universe’. That’s what my dad used to say, anyway. He used to drive me, my mum and my brother out into the middle of the countryside on clear nights like this. I swear he’d talk about space all night, if mum let him.”

“Sorry, I went a bit off topic…” She let out a small laugh and shook her head. “I think the point I was aiming for was it’s beautiful.”

“I suppose it is.”

He hazarded a smile in the dark. Starlight suited her. Sat there bathed in the soft glow, wide-eyed and taking everything in as though she was seeing it for the first time, she looked genuinely happy. Completely lost to the world, mind, with no idea of anything else happening around her.

“I’m probably boring you to death.”

“No. Well maybe a little.” MacCready couldn’t resist a chance to tease. “I read about stars when I was a kid. Big balls of glowing gas, yada yada. You said your dad was an expert, show me something I don’t know.”

Ivy sat up, giving him a determined look. Oh good, challenge accepted. “Fine. Give me those binoculars.”

He handed them over and watched her tracing the sky above them, leaning back to look further and further north east until she spotted what she wanted.

“You see that star?” she pointed. “The fuzzy looking one.”

“They all look fuzzy.”

“No they don’t! Come here.” She shuffled right up next to him, still pointing in the direction she was looking.

It took about five minutes of manhandling to get him looking in the right direction. He was having too much fun winding her up by purposefully not paying attention, and laughing too hard when she tried to move him by his chin because it tickled. Eventually, and only after she begged, he stopped still long enough for her to get him looking in the right direction - according to her anyway. To him it just looked like any other star.

“Ok, stay still will you?” This time Mac did his best as she squashed right up next to him, and pressed her cheek against his to make sure they were both looking where they should be. She produced the binoculars again, holding them so they had an eyepiece each, and finally he could see what she was talking about.

“Right, so it’s a fuzzy star?” he muttered from trying to keep his head still. There’d be hell to pay if he didn’t.

“Look again. See the ellipse shape?”

“Yeah, the fuzzy one. What about it?”

“Oh, there might be a couple more than just that one fuzzy little star.” She pulled away and handed him the binoculars, tired, but beaming. “More like a trillion of them, a couple of million light years away. That is the Andromeda Galaxy.”

“No shit- oop.”

MacCready clamped a hand across his mouth in a poor attempt to catch the curse that had slipped past his lips.

“Does that count as something you didn’t know?” Ivy giggled softly, stifling a yawn as she lay back down and pulled the blanket tighter around her. “Damn. I should’ve put some caps on it.”

“Yeah, I’d say it counts,” he grinned. “But trust me, I’ve learned not to make bets against you.”

MacCready lay back, staring at the sky, eyes fixed on that blurry star that turned out to be much more than it appeared. He opened his mouth to quiz Ivy some more, but in the quiet he could hear that her breathing had become soft and even. A glance confirmed it, she was fast asleep.

“Well, I don’t know how I’m going to get you down off this roof,” he whispered, reaching over to tuck an errant curl back behind her ear. “So it looks like we’re here for the night.”

He settled back again, pulling the brim of his cap down over his eyes before resting his head on his hands. This time sleep found him easily, a smile on his face, thinking of a little boy back home who would love to hear all about the stars.

#fluff prompt #mac x ivy #then i met you #ivy kendrick #maccready #robert joseph maccready #maccready x f!solesurvivor #maccready x sole survivor #in this house we love preston garvey - mac is just being a grump and he'll get over it #my writing

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mxsinistir · 5 years

Note

May I request a Good Omens Gabriel x Human! Reader please?

Pairing: Gabriel x [y/n]

Warnings: n/a besides the fact that the bad writing ™ becomes worse writing ™ towards the end bc it’s 2 am while I’m writing this.

Summary: Freelance London Photographer [y/n] is friends with the bookshop owner Aziraphale, and happens to be sitting in one day when a mysterious stranger enters to have a meeting with her friend. Suspicious, this artist is ready to find out as much as she can about the man.

Word Count: 2390

(tried to keep this gender-neutral but tell me if I screwed this up anywhere bc I probably did)

Hope you enjoy!

***

The first time you met him was whenever you were inside A.Z. Fell & Co., discussing a book you’d just read and returned (since you were aware he despised the permanent purchasing of his collection) over two cups of hot chocolate.

The moment he entered, you were intrigued. You turned your head to watch him saunter in, and some part of you screamed deafeningly that whatever he was, he did not belong here. That was saying something since unusual people were not uncommon in the little London bookshop. You’d known Aziraphale’s eccentric friend Crowley for quite some time now.

“Aziraphale,” His voice was hearty, one you should have taken comfort in hearing. But in addition to his picture-perfect, incredibly fake smile, it set your nerves on end. “May I have a word?” Part of you decided this was your chance to run from the off-setting visitor, but that would leave your friend alone with him.

“Hi, I’m [Y/n],” You shoved a hand into space between you, “I don’t believe we’ve met before.” He looked you up and down, your eyes unwavering until he met your stare. His eyes - your stomach flipped, oh god his eyes - bore into yours, and you nearly recoiled when you noticed the color. A glassy purple with no signs of contacts. Just unexplainably rich violet that made the hair stand up on the back of your neck.

“Gabriel,” He said, shaking your hand with a grip that was just a little too strong. You were too proud to coddle your sore hand, though. “I need a moment with Aziraphale.”

“Sorry, can’t,” You couldn’t leave Aziraphale with him! What if something happened? You’d picked up that Aziraphale had been involved with some sketchy people before, and what if this guy happened to be a well-dressed gang member? Well . . . well dressed wasn’t exactly the way to put it. You didn’t know what look Gabriel was going for, but it just added to his overall wrongness.

Besides, Aziraphale and Crowley had always remarked on your excellent intuition. Warning Aziraphale about bad customers, giving Crowley advice on problems he hadn’t explicitly explained, knowing that both your friends were thinking at a given time - and at this time, Aziraphale felt very, very anxious about Gabriel waltzing into his shop.

“What do you mean, you can’t?” He half-snarled, his fake smile faltering.

“My bike got stolen earlier,” You explained, casually turning to drink the rest of your cocoa before it went cold. You also needed something to hide your growing smile. “I told the police to drop it off here when they found it.”“Are you sure you didn’t miss them during your chat?” He said, “I swore I saw a bike parked in the front.” You stepped past him, putting your nose against Aziraphale’s window. Sure enough, a blue bike was leaned against the glass pane.

“Well, silly me - Guess they just left it and had better things to do.” You laughed, turning back to smile at Aziraphale and Gabriel. “See you later, Zira!”

You walked outside, planning on walking home. You weren’t going to take some random bike from in front of the bookshop just because some guy had snapped and made it appear for you.

You didn’t own a bike.

***

The next morning, before you even had the chance to ask questions about the purple-eyed man, Crowley had come into your studio, mentioning that he was bored, due to Aziraphale’s sudden occupation with work. Aziraphale had never been truly busy since you’d known him.

“Crowley, do you know a Gabriel?” You asked, not looking up from the photo you were currently editing the lighting of, trying to decide if you could amend the conflict between the clashing color palettes. If anything, Crowley just hoped that you were too occupied with your work to even notice that you opened your mouth to ask the question. A few seconds ticked by, and then you stared up at the redhead.

“Yeah, I know him.” He said under his breath, “He’s a friend of Aziraphale’s. Definitely not a friend fo mine. I’d keep your distance.”

“What does he do?” Even without being able to see his eyes through the glasses, you sensed the panic in them as he proceeded to mumble out an answer.

“Paperwork,” He steadied himself, easing into the lie now. “Some company Aziraphale used to work for. I think he’s kind of a jerk, but he and Zira go way back, so I don’t intrude.”

“Funny, I thought the bookshop had been family owned for a hundred years?”

“Part-time job, maybe?” Crowley stammered out. You just rolled your eyes.

“Is Aziraphale in . . . is he in any danger with this guy?”“What? No, no, [Y/n], you’re just being paranoid.” You weren’t so sure. You’d never heard Crowley so nervous about the subject of someone, and you’d certainly never heard of him willing staying out of Aziraphale’s affairs. It was common knowledge that he was the nosiest man in London, especially when it came to his friends. “Seriously, Just stay out of his way and it should be fine.” He had a certain voice he used when he wanted you to believe things were fine, even if they weren’t.

“I’ll just ask Aziraphale since apparently, you won’t explain.” That little taunt was usually enough to make Crowley spill everything. Not for this, apparently. “He listens to you, Crowley. Just make sure he doesn’t get hurt.”

Just because he didn’t say the promise doesn’t mean she didn’t see him make it.

***

The second time you saw Gabriel wasn’t at the bookshop, but on a bench in St. James’ Park. You were currently looking over some pictures you’d taken of the vibrant area, the photographs dotted with jogging passersby and fluffy ducks that reminded you of Aziraphale. You stood up to walk by, snapping a few more when your camera focused in on a not-quite-familiar face.

“Gabriel,” You said, curiously approaching the benched man. “Fancy seeing you here,”

“[Y/n], is it? Aziraphale’s . . . acquaintance.” Who the hell used the word acquaintance anymore? You thought. “Is there something you need?”

“Just came to clear my eyes - I’ve been staring at this one picture I took for Aziraphale last week.” You briefly explained how one of the customers had split their coffee on one of Aziraphale’s old wall paintings, which he had sat on the table to clean the walls behind it. He had been furious, and though you knew you couldn’t possibly replace the expertly preserved painting - ruined by only human clumsiness - you’d offered to gift a photograph to him. Though he was obviously still disgruntled over the lost air, he did say that even something modern would eventually become history. You’d gotten to work. “I’m supposed to bring it to him this evening.”

“I was planning to speak with him this evening as well, actually.” The man remarked.

“Well, if you wanted, you could com toe hang out at my studio for a while.” You had a feeling that no matter what, this man would try to keep up appearances. Meaning he would accept your offer, even if only not to appear rude. Thanks to some information you’d gotten out of Crowley, you now knew that you wouldn’t be in any real danger as a human inviting him to your studio. He, on the other hand, wouldn’t be expecting the onslaught of questions you had for him.

“That sounds great,” He said with clenched teeth, and so you just smiled and packed up your laptop and camera equipment, making sure to walk beside him all the way back to your flat.

The square footage wasn’t much - you were honestly surprised you could manage to fit two people inside at once. Beyond that, every inch of the place was stacked high with frames and camera equipment and printed portraits. Your bed was usually just the couch by the window, and even then, you more often than not just fell asleep at your work desk, head draped over crossed arms.

“I’m gonna be a little bit - I’ve gotta play with some finishing touches, and then I’ve got to print it.” You explained - Aziraphale had given you a faux-gold 18 x 21 frame, nearly identical to the one bordering the ruined painting. “You can sit on the couch if you still want to hang out. You okay with music?” You asked casually, bringing him a glass of water. You may be suspicious of him, but your mother had always stressed the importance of hospitality.

“Do you like music?” He thought for a moment, staring blankly before nodding as if he’d been assessing whether or not it was the correct response to say so. “Queen?” He looked even more confused but nodded again. You synced your Spotify to a small speaker and set it to shuffle, sliding into your chair as We Are the Champions began to play. You snuck a glance over at Gabriel while mouthing the words and concluded he was possibly the only person in the world who didn’t know the lyrics. If anything, that just confirmed your suspicions of the man.

Gabriel, on the other hand, was just as confused by you as you were by him. When you’d first met, he hadn’t known how to react to you. You’d stood up to him with no background knowledge, purely because you thought he had ill intentions towards your friend. Humans were always willing to throw themselves at things for no reason, but you were different - you had a reason, and that reason was nothing more than intuition to protect those you care about.

And now, you’d carelessly brought him into your apartment - if he could even call it that. It was a glorified storage closet, filled to the brim with art and junk and beauty. He’d never been exposed to such a mess; heaven would have never tolerated it. He couldn’t even imagine that Hell was this chaotically organized.

He could barely focus on that. How could he anymore, when there was you to look at? Smiling truly and losing yourself in the music blaring, snapping your fingers with bad timing, singing the guitar riffs, and constantly standing up just to pace around while mouthing the lyrics.

You walked around him more than a few times, asking him random questions while leaning far back to see what your photo looked like from afar. He eventually saw that it was of an eggshell white duck in St. James, curiously floating alongside a dark goose that had landed in the waters. He could have scoffed at the symbolism, wondering if you understood the irony of it all yourself.

Gabriel had never seen so much life in one plac.e It radiated from you, from your camera, from your fingers. It felt raw and unexplainably human, and not in the way that disgusted him with its mediocrity. There was nothing mediocre about you. You oozed with some sort of high that no angel could ever dream of finding themselves on. Angels were too flawless for something as uncontained as the day-to-day life you lead.

During the middle of one of your lyrical outbursts, you glanced over at Gabriel. He was drinking tea now, staring out into London from your window, sunbeams casting over his dusty hair and stunning eyes. Without a word, you pulled your camera in front of you and stepped towards him, snapping photos of him a quick succession. He whipped around at the sound, just quick enough to see you smiling.

“Stay where you are - the lighting’s amazing.” You said, steadily walking closer to the man. He truly was a vision in an element like this. You leaned back to observe the picture he’d found himself in. “Do you think you could give me one with your wings?”

And just like that, you watched the Archangel Gabriel freeze to the core as you shuttered a few more photographs.

“Come on, everyone knows Aziraphale isn’t human.” And of course, there was no way Crowley could keep a secret like that once he was sufficiently drunk. “And besides, humans don’t usually make this pretty of muses.”

He unfurled his wings gently, being careful not to knock over anything. All three pairs appeared in pristine, white condition, though when the window light scattered them, they reflected a spectrum of glistening violet.

He nearly asked to confirm that you were human, though he knew the answer. No one but a human could accomplish this - a demon nor an angel could live in such harmonious chaos with their own little world, dancing to the raw beauty of it all and flourishing in the flaws you did not perceive as such.

Gabriel had never felt love - a sort of ‘love for all humanity’, of course, but not the thrumming in his heart he felt now, looking at you in your element, high on the artistry of what you saw in him. On what no one else had ever seen in him.

“I could have a photoshoot with you, you know.” You said, looking at your camera screen. “You look great on camera.”

“There’s still a few hours before I need to meet with Aziraphale,” He lied - he was two hours behind schedule, not that that mattered. “He’d told me about this bakery beside his bookshop that he apparently adores.” He didn’t even like food. It didn’t matter - he figured you would.

“Am I being asked out by the Archangel Gabriel?”“That’s strong wording-”“I’m famished,” You smiled, and as you walked over to your computer, he expected you to print and frame your imperfect perfection. Instead, you just saved the photo and eased your computer shut. “I can make something here, though. I don’t want to leave. Does the Archangel Gabriel want to watch a movie?”

He was about to make a snarky comment about your sarcastically calling him that, but he paused as you did the unexpected. You settled down on your couch right next to him and smiled. That was enough for him to decide that his meeting with Aziraphale could wait till morning. To hell with Heaven questioning him - him of all people - being off schedule. He would deal with that in time.

Right now, all that mattered was that he was sharing in on an artist’s high, and he wasn’t ever coming off.

#good omens #good omens gabriel #archangels #archangel gabriel #gabriel good omens #gabriel #good omens x reader #gabriel x reader #goom #i love artists x gabriel #gabriel x human #good omens imagines #gabriel imagines #archangels gabriel imagines

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therainroguefanfiction · 4 years

Text

⁂ Love is a Battlefield (Arthur Kirkland/England)

Genre: Comedy, Fluff, Suggestive/16+, Romance ☁

Word Count: 1,582 ☁

Pairing: Reader x England ☁

World: Hetalia ☁

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One of those nights

England had gone out drinking with America to celebrate the blue-eyed male’s three hundredth hamburger. England wasn’t happy to be dragged out to celebrate something as stupid and pointless as that. However, it was better than listening to said male whine and complain for the next five hours. At least if he was drunk, he wouldn’t remember the crap Alfred talked about when he finally sobered up.

Arthur downed another glass of scotch, slamming the glass onto the counter and watching the ice cubes rattle with the slightest movement. His mind was hazy and the words Alfred spoke were nothing more than gibberish to him. The blonde’s head was aching and the room span before his head fell onto the counter, a groan passing his lips as he tightly shut his green eyes to try and block out the pain.

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You sighed in annoyance as you carried England into your home, dropping the half-conscious male onto the couch.

“Why’s your bloody room spinning?” he slurred, green eyes closing as a small groan left his lips.

You chuckled as you sat on the coffee table in front of him, chin in the palm of your hand, “That’s what happens when you get drunk, moron.”

He groaned again, reaching his hand up to tug on the hem of your shirt, “Get me some water.”

You grinned as a thought entered your mind. Standing up, you made your way into the kitchen, grabbing the largest glass you could find and filling it with ice-cold water. Returning to the living room, you stood over the male with an almost evil grin tugging at your lips. “Oh, Arthur~” you sang before dumping the contents of the glass over the male’s head.

He sprung up almost instantly with a yelp. “Bloody hell! What was that for, woman!?” he shivered, shaking his hair free of the drops and wrapping his arms around himself, “That was bloody cold, you git!”

You giggled in response, “You said you were thirsty, I was just trying to help~”

His eye twitched and he fell back on the couch with yet another groan, clutching his throbbing head. Even the small drops of water from the faucet were enough to send ripples of pain through his head. Knowing this, you made sure to make as much noise as you possibly could, and whenever he’d yell at you, you’d simply come back with “You shouldn’t have gotten drunk, idiot! It’s your own fault, now suffer.” while sticking your tongue out in a childish manner.

Ah, yes. It was just one of those nights.

“I’ll never get drunk again! Just please stop being so loud!” England moaned, clutching his blonde locks as he lay face down on the couch.

You chuckled in response, lips curling up into a satisfied smile.

Battle #1: Victory!

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Pain relief

“What’s wrong with you?” England asked as he stood in front of you. You were lying down on your bed, groaning in pain.

“My head. It hurts so bad~” you moaned, “Make it stop, Arthur~!”

Said male gulped as his eyes darted from your glassy eyes to your flushed face and parted lips which made way for more moans and groans of pain. His own cheeks tinted pink at the arousing sight. Were you doing it on purpose? Was it punishment for his drunken escapade a few nights ago?

“What’s wrong, Arthur?”

He saw your lips forming the words, but no sound reached his ears. The pounding of his heart blocked it all out. Against his will, Arthur’s body moved forward towards you. Seeing the approaching male with lust clouded green eyes made you turn over so you were facing him, hands out flat behind you in order to keep your body up.

“Uh, Arthur?”

The male ignored the call filled with confusion, pushing you back down into a lying position before climbing over you. He licked his lips, grinding his hips against your own, creating enough friction to earn a pleasure-filled moan from you. Hearing such a beautiful sound coming from such an intoxicating person made the beast within him awaken; England pounced, slamming his lips roughly against your own.

A groan left his throat and he ran his tongue along your bottom lip. You refused him until he bit down roughly on your bottom lip, causing you to gasp in surprise and open the door for the wet appendage. His tongue darted in immediately after, greedily exploring every inch of your mouth before letting it caress your own. His hand pushed your shirt up, exposing the skin beneath and his lower body was roughly grinding against you.

Feeling the need for air, he pulled back, a string of saliva connecting you both. Seeing you breathing heavy, eyes half-lidded and hair fanned out over the pillow… you were absolutely breathtaking in his eyes. He leaned back, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered to you in a low, husky voice. “Let me relieve your pain, love.”

A strangled moan left you as his hands explored your body, the sound muffled by his own mouth as he kissed you with so much passion and lust that neither of you had ever experienced before.

Battle #2: Defeated?

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Word on the street

You smiled as you ran your hand through Arthur’s blonde locks. You were both lying on the couch, the blonde sound asleep with his head resting snuggly against your chest. Your free arm was wrapped around his back, while his were secure around your middle.

For some reason, you began to reminisce about old times. One particular memory that floated to your mind was the time when Arthur had first asked you to be his significant other.

You had visited America’s birthday party…

> Flashback

You sat on the stool at the island in America’s kitchen, drinking a glass of soda. It had gotten dark by this point and the party had mellowed out considerably compared to how rowdy it was when it first began. Only Alfred’s closest friends remained.

England had been the first one to notice you when you arrived and his eyes had not strayed from you for more than a few moments at a time. He was nervous because he planned to ask you out. It was just a matter of getting up the nerve to do so.

“Go on!” America nudged him, sending him an encouraging wink and a thumbs up.

Arthur nodded, taking a deep breath before finally approaching you, “Hey, Y/N.”

“Hmm?” you paused just before the glass reached your lips, moving your gaze to meet his. You were surprised by the serious and determined expression the blonde wore.

He leaned against the counter, his lips pulled up into a smirk. “Word on the street is that you have a thing for me.”

Your cheeks turned a rosy pink as you cursed down at your soda. You should have known not to trust France…

“So, let’s not beat around the bush, love. Be my girlfriend?” On the outside, England was cool, calm and collected. On the inside, he was a raging battlefield of emotion. How could he say something so stupid? You were totally going to hit him.

To his surprise, you laughed softly, eyes lighting up. “I’d love to,”

He grinned, mentally breathing a sigh of relief.

> Present Day

You smiled warmly at the memory and England snuggled closer, his face now resting in the crook of your neck. Arthur Kirkland was an all-around idiot who often spoke too loudly, loved to argue with people, and had a weird obsession with invisible fairy tale characters, but you wouldn’t trade him for the world.

Even if he was slightly crazy, you’d continue to love him forever.

Battle #3: Tied

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Always, all ways

You smiled as you leaned your head on England’s chest, eyes locked on the velvety black sky that shined brightly with thousands of stars. It was a clear night, without a cloud in sight, making the sky appear even bigger than normal.

You and Arthur were sitting outside on the roof, wrapped up in each other’s arms and gazing happily at the twinkling dots that hung above your head. It was a romantic atmosphere and the two of you decided to eat it up while you had the chance.

“Y/N?” England’s voice broke the silent barrier that had formed around you, voice low as if trying not to disturb the peaceful night.

“Yes, Arthur?” you responded with a tone just as soft.

“I love you,”

Those three simple words made the corners of your lips curl up into a smile. He had said it so many times to you in the past, but it seemed to sound better and better as time passed; you could never get enough of hearing it.

“I’ll always love you, in all ways, no matter what,” he whispered, his hand slowly stroking your back as he kissed the top of your head in an affectionate manner.

You snuggled closer to his warmth, hand lacing with his free one. “I love you too, Arthur. I love everything about you.”

He smiled, his arms tightening around you. It may have been out of character for him to act so fluffy, but that didn’t matter to either of you. He was being true to his feelings when it came to you and that was more than enough to satisfy you. You knew that you would always have Arthur Kirkland as your own and nothing would ever change that.

Battle #4: Tie~

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misstinfoilhat · 5 years

Text

Whumptober #2: Explosion. Bungou Stray Dogs

This is going to be the first part of this two-part story. The continuation comes tomorrow when the prompt is “Delerium”. Enjoy! The abandoned construction site seemed eerily quiet. The Armed Detective agency already knew that they were walking into a trap, but had no idea what would possibly happen once there. They were prepared for an ambush. It was a great risk, but their best strategy to lure this shady group of ability users out of their hiding was to humor the fake lead the group had left out for them, and show up to the instructed site.

“Stay low, keep your backs close together or near a wall. Don't let yourself get blindsided,” Kunikida instructed quietly, weapon raised and hiding behind the rubbles of a concrete wall. The agency followed closely. Intentive eyes scanned the area, looking for any movements, listening for any sounds. It was dead quiet. After a while of investigating, they all came to the same conclusion; there was absolutely nobody there. This had probably just been another decoy, keeping them occupied and leaving the group free to set up another terror attack against Yokohama and its innocent civilians. Except, if that had been the case, why hadn't they gotten any news of it yet? Something suspicious was definitely going on, and now, they needed to figure out why they had been brought there. They were all standing around, discussing their next move when Atsushi froze. His head perched up, catching the attention of Kunikida. “What's wrong?” he asked, alerting the other members. Atsushi hushed at them, concentrating his superior feline hearing fiercely, trying to figure out what he was hearing. Everyone was watching him, waiting guardedly for his assessment. Finally, Atsushi's complexion paled into sickly gray, dual-colored eyes widening unnaturally large. “Get down!” he shouted, loud enough to make his voice crack. The slow beeping was becoming more rapid, and he finally recognized the tell-tale sound of an active bomb. He grabbed Kyouka elbow and dragged her along as far away as he could, before they got down underneath a stone plate with heavy beams laying discarded on top of it, raised slightly off the ground by rubbles and pieces of broken building materials. Before taking cover, he had seen Tanizaki drag Naomi and Kenji along in the other direction towards a similar structure. Ranpo had luckily been left to help out at the police station, he would probably have been the most useless in a situation like this, and Yosano was on call, safely back at the offices in case anybody needed medical attention when they returned. Kunikida and Dazai lingered a little behind but seemed to be on the move as well. In what felt as an eternity later, the explosion finally occurred. The loud noise was overwhelmingly consuming. Only the pure pressure of the blast felt like a rockslide of punches. Atsushi held Kyouka protective underneath him, shielding her from the worst of it. Rocks and debris rained upon them, and the piece they were hiding under cracked in the eruption. When it all stilled, all that was left was a sickening silence, only disturbed by the high-pitched ringing in Atsushi's ears. “Are you okay?” Kyouka asked shakenly from under him. “Yeah, I think so. Are you?” She gave him a small nod, looking frightened and relieved at the same time. “Stay here,” Atsushi directed, and carefully started to crawl out of their hiding spot. The scene that met him was the absolute chaos of broken concrete and small fires. The dust laid like a thick blanket over their surroundings, and he felt his lungs burn when inhaling it. About 100 meters away, he saw Tanizaki help his sister out from their hiding spot. He was bleeding from a small cut on his head, but looked otherwise unharmed. Kenji followed closely behind Naomi, also bruised, but didn't seem to have any problems moving around. A bit closer to where he was standing, closer to the initial explosion, he saw Kunikida brush some dirt off his pants and vest with an angry furrow between his eyes. Dazai stood beside him, leaning heavily against a brick-wall that the blow had been unable to knock down, clutching at his side. They were all okay. “Is anybody hurt?” Kunikida stressed, peering at his coworkers as they approached. “We're okay,” Tanizaki declared, with Naomi gushing over the gash in his forehead. He tried to keep her from invading his personal space too much but clearly failed miserably as hands and comforting kisses trailed all over him. “We're okay too,” Atsushi answered, pulling Kyouka out of the relics by her hand. Kunikida turned to his partner, looking sternly at him. “Dazai?” he asked, waiting for the bandaged man to give him his status. “I'll be fine,” Dazai croaked out, a bit strained. That would have to do. Kunikida glanced at his phone, moaning his annoyance and pocketed it again. “There's no cellphone coverage here. We need to get out, there's no way of knowing what other traps they might have laid out.” Kunikida had quickly stepped back into his role as the group leader. Nobody was going to argue with him over it. To keep any panic at bay as long as possible, he held back his inklings that the building might not be as structurally sound as it had been when they entered anymore. “It seems we have to start digging,” Kenji thought out loud, looking at the piles of fallen stone in front of the main entrance. Defeated sighs were uttered from the small group at the realization that their next problem would be that the gate had collapsed. “Tanizaki, I'd like you to go dig over there.” Kunikida pointed in the other direction. “The piles are smaller there, and there's likely to be an emergency exit somewhere. The rest of us starts working with the main entrance.” With a couple of individual tasks given, they all got to work. Only Dazai lingered behind, not moving from his crouched position or releasing the tight grip on his abdomen. “Don't tell me you're going to be a lazy asshole at a time like this,” Kunikida growled and marched over to him with his fist raised in warning. Dazai looked at him blankly. It didn't look like he understood what was going on, and his pallor was starting to look a bit off. “I think I've been shot,” he finally said, his voice muddled. “Don't be stupid,” Kunikida scoffed. “There was nobody else here. No shots have been fired.” He watched the dark-haired man warily. “Oh,” Dazai mused emptily and slowly released his hand from the sharp pain in his side and shot a quick glance down at what he had been covering. He immediately pressed it back down. “What?” Kunikida asked, blood running cold. “Nothing,” Dazai muttered, too quickly. “Spit it out or I'll find out for myself!” Kunikida growled urgently, attracting the other agency member's attention. They slowly started walking towards them. Dazai blinked, glassy-eyed and sluggishly before finally answering. “So, we might have a problem... I may or may not have been impaled.” “What?!” Kunikida exclaimed furiously. Dazai only let out a nervous laugh as he swayed tiredly on his feet, breathing getting more and more labored and a couple droplets of sweat started to trickle down his face. Their five younger coworkers were closing in on them, looking concerned and confused at what was going on. “Is Dazai-san hurt?” Atsushi asked, but was ignored as Kunikida reached out for Dazai's hand. “Let me see it,” he demanded, swiping Dazai's hand away, looking wide-eyed at the sharp metal piece that was sticking out of the blood-covered shirt. The object looked to be about an inch wide and 1,5 inches high, leaving a considerably large gash to the bandaged man's side. Dazai groaned in pain. The loss of pressure made him winch, finally, getting the best of him as he lost his footing. Kunikida quickly grabbed him and helped to lower him to the ground. As his back connected with the dirty ground, Dazai went rigid. A small gasp of pain escaped from him, and Kunikida lifted him back up a little, cursing their luck as his hand trailed down Dazai's back to find the end of the object sticking out under Dazai's shirt. “Atsushi, come and help me get Dazai's coat off,” Kunikida told the boy-tiger, who reluctantly approached them. “What's going on?” the melodic voice of Kyouka asked behind them. “Dazai has been impaled by some kind of metal shard,” Kunikida answered with forced calmness, holding Dazai in his arms. He heard their sharp inhales, but knew he needed to pay Dazai his undivided attention right now if they were going to get him out of there alive. Dazai himself sure as hell wouldn't help with the “staying alive” part. Atsushi positioned himself behind Dazai, carefully sliding the coat off. Dazai instantly started to shake. “No,” he whined weakly. “It's too cold.” Kunikida ignored him, instead, directing Atsushi to bundle the coat up and situate it underneath Dazai, giving him a slight tilt so he wouldn't lie directly on the tip of the end-piece of the metal shard. Now, Dazai was able to lie a little more comfortably. “Why didn't you say anything sooner?” Kunikida sneered and started to unbutton Dazai's shirt to get a better look at the wound. Atsushi sat on his knees by his side and looked at his injured mentor worriedly. Dazai was bearly coherent. His head swayed from side to side, looking at his surroundings with a slight curve to his eyebrows, trying to comprehend what was going on. Suddenly, a gust of fresh air brushed over his stomach, and he snapped out of his muffled state in high-alert. “No,” he argued feebly, grabbing lethargically at the strong hands unclasping his shirt, trying to wrestle the offending arms away. “Stop being an idiot,” Kunikida struggled, letting go of the snippets of the shirt and holding his hands up in surrender. “I need to see how bad the wound is.” The strain of the hassle left Dazai breathless, but he stubbornly shook his head anyway. “No,” he whispered, trying to cover himself back up. Kunikida groaned his distress loudly. Instead of pushing further, he shifted his attention towards the rest of the agency and barked, “Are you just going to stand there and stare? Get to work!” Before turning towards Atsushi. “You, stay with him. See if you can get a look at the wound. If he gets any worse, come and get me. I think my talents are better used elsewhere.” “But... but, if I use my ability, I might be able to dig the way out much quicker than any of you,” Atsushi retorted, looking conflicted. On one hand, he wanted them to get out of there as soon as possible, on the other hand, he really wanted to stay with Dazai. Kunikida considered it. “No,” Dazai muttered sickly. “The building won't hold if you use that kind of power Atsushi-kun. Then none of us will get out.” “He's right,” Kunikida grimly chimed in. “The whole place would likely collapse.” The idealistic man slowly rose to his feet. “You're staying here,” he decided strictly and started to throttle towards the large rubbles at the other side of the room. A couple of feet away from them, he turned back around and looked intensely at them. “And Dazai, don't you dare fall asleep.”

#whumptober2019 #whumptober day 2 #explosion #two parts #1 of 2 #bungou stray dogs #hurt/comfort #no.2

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xantchaslegacy · 5 years

Text

MtG Month of the Ship Day 17 - Matchmaker

This one takes place before the other two dinobots fics I posted earlier. Oviya sees a potential partner for Saheeli in her new visitor, and puts a plan in motion to get them a little closer.

The stranger’s garb was the first thing to catch Oviya’s attention. The woman wore a fashionable artificer’s tunic that was innocuous enough, but her feathered headdress and strange haircut marked her clearly as a planewalker. Oviya had met enough of them in the past few years to be certain of it.

Even more interesting was seeing this new visitor trailing after Saheeli Rai like a puppy.

“Saheeli, dear!” Oviya waved from the cafe table where she’d been enjoying breakfast. Saheeli caught sight of her and strode through the crowd, her companion right behind her.

“Ms. Pashiri.” Saheeli extended a hand and they traded the secret (well, semi-secret) lifecrafter handshake.

“Who is this?” Oviya looked the visitor over head-to-toe. She carried herself like a consulate guard, but her expression was friendlier, and more curious. She was taking in every angle of the city with the wide-eyed wonder of an artificer encountering a novel invention. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you with a…a friend.”

“Huatli.” The visitor gave an unusual sort of bow, and smiled at Oviya. “May I ask what you’re eating? It smells better than the ocean breeze.”

“Just a bit of masala dosa.” Oviya slid the plate of food across the table. “You’re certainly welcome to some. Do you two have a moment to sit? Not to divert you for too long.” She winked at Saheeli.

“Well, we were-”

“Saheeli! What is that?” Huatli had grabbed Saheeli’s shoulder and was pointing down the street at a squat little bomat courier, rolling along and weaving through the foot-traffic. For a split second Saheeli flushed, and her hand jumped up, as if to take the other planeswalker’s hand in her own.

Just a split second, but long enough for Oviya to notice.

“My apologies, Lady Pashiri.” Huatli gave another deep bow. “I would love to dine another time, but…”

Oviya waved away the apology. “I understand, lots to see in our thriving city. You two have fun. I’ll have you for tea tomorrow, if your schedule permits. Stick close to Saheeli until then; she knows all the most interesting sights in the city.” She gave Saheeli another sly wink.

“That sounds lovely, thank you!” Huatli was already halfway down the street in pursuit of the courier as she shouted back. Saheeli lingered a moment.

“Thank you for the invitation Oviya. My, um…my guest is from out of town…”

“Like Ajani. I guessed.” Oviya took a slow sip of tea. “I didn’t realize there were so few good women in the city that our young bachelorettes must go off to faraway worlds to find companionship.”

Oviya thought she saw the blush return, but it might have been a reflection of light.

“N-nothing like that,” Saheeli said, unconvincingly. “We’ve only just met. I think she found our world by accident. I don’t even know if she’s involved…um, what her life is like back on her plane.”

Oviya tsk-ed. “No time like the present to learn. Haven’t you talked at all?”

“Mostly about dinosaurs.”

“About what?”

Saheeli shrugged. “Creatures from her world. It’s really very fascinating; apparently there are all different kinds, and she’s very good at describing them. I invited her to my workshop later, after I’ve shown her more of the city.”

“For inventing purposes, of course,” she added hastily.

“Of course. Well if it’s interesting sights you’re after, I hear Gonti’s new underground racing league is having a competition along the old consulate parade streets.” Oviya scrawled down a place and a time on a scrap of paper. “Maybe take your friends there this evening.”

Saheeli glanced at the paper. “On the rooftops?”

“That, is the best vantage point, or so Depali tells me.” Oviya settled back into her chair. “I’m inclined to trust her on all matters fast and furious.”

“Hmmm…I think Huatli will like this. Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure. You show her a good time until then.”

Saheeli’s face definitely flushed this time. She nodded and bid farewell to Oviya, walking quickly to catch up with Huatli.

Oviya watched her go. As soon as Saheeli was out of sight, she plucked the hummingbird construct from her shoulder and whistled an order.

“Find Shadowblayde. And Kari. If they’re free, I have a fun project for them. If not, well I think they’ll want to help all the same.”

* * * * *

“That’s…odd.” Saheeli looked up and down the roof of the building. There wasn’t another soul in sight. Even if the race location was being kept secret, word should have gotten out to someone. A race wasn’t a race without someone cheering the pilots on.

“That sunset!” Huatli ran to the railing. “By Kinjalli, I’ve never seen a sky like that!”

Saheeli followed her. It was a lovely afternoon. The sun was about to settle below the horizon, and the final rays of the day were refracted through a hundred loops of aether in the sky, creating a filigree maze of rosy clouds and glassy blue distortions.

Saheeli dared a sidelong glance at Huatli. She had closed her eyes, and in that moment the sunlight shining off of her made every curve and crevice of her face glow. Saheeli stared at that wonderful, serene face for what seemed like a small eternity. When Huatli’s eyelids flashed open, she quickly diverted her gaze to the street below.

Still too crowded, even for an illegal race. Where had Oviya gotten that intel from?

“Oh! Look!” Huatli jabbed an arm out over the rooftops ahead of them.

A flock of skywhales danced through the sunset-lit sky, looping and diving in graceful intertwined paths. Saheeli was taken aback. It was unusual, to say the least, for so many of the creatures to convene over the city itself. In fact, the last time it had happened…

…there. She caught sight of Kari Zev’s skyship trailing after the whales, adding another graceful silhouette to the scene. What was that little pirate up to?

“The golden city is full of wonder

But above the spires and metal that moves

Shadows rise and twist and fall

With the grace of pterosaurs

Against a twisting field of sunset jewels

Lovely as the gold on a fair maiden’s dress”

Huatli’s voice filled the rare silence of pre-twilight, sending a chill spreading from the base of Saheeli’s neck across her shoulders.

“That…that’s lovely. I don’t think I asked how you were so good at that.”

“Lots of practice.” Huatli grinned, looking caught between pride and embarrassment. “And a bit of inspiration.” She made a broad gesture that encompassed the sky…

…and Saheeli.

Thankfully, a sudden sound from somewhere on the rooftop gave Saheeli an excuse to look away, hiding her reddening cheeks. At the same moment, Huatli reacted to the sound, pulling out a war-fan and placing a protective arm across Saheeli.

“Hmm.” Huatli scanned the rooftop. “Sorry about that. Warrior’s instincts. That’s a lovely song, whatever it is.”

Saheeli had to agree. A soft, musical sound was thrumming through the spires of the rooftop, like several insects humming together in harmony.

Several very familiar insects…

“Ah, they’re going higher!”

Saheeli turned back to the railing. The skywhales were dancing straight up into the spreading dark of the night sky, following the aether trails of Kari’s ship. Saheeli couldn’t fathom what Kari meant to be doing.

Not that she was much focused on it, with Huatli’s hand still resting gently on her shoulder. Her head was practically swimming, between the touch, the music, and the admittedly lovely sight of the whales twirling high above the setting sun.

Saheeli leaned into the touch, and to her delight, Huatli lay an arm across her shoulders.

“Cold?”

“Hardly.” Saheeli managed to keep her voice steady. A small miracle all things considered.

Even more interesting was seeing this new visitor trailing after Saheeli Rai like a puppy.

“Saheeli, dear!” Oviya waved from the cafe table where she’d been enjoying breakfast. Saheeli caught sight of her and strode through the crowd, her companion right behind her.

“Ms. Pashiri.” Saheeli extended a hand and they traded the secret (well, semi-secret) lifecrafter handshake.

“Huatli.” The visitor gave an unusual sort of bow, and smiled at Oviya. “May I ask what you’re eating? It smells better than the ocean breeze.”

“Well, we were-”

Just a split second, but long enough for Oviya to notice.

“My apologies, Lady Pashiri.” Huatli gave another deep bow. “I would love to dine another time, but…”

“That sounds lovely, thank you!” Huatli was already halfway down the street in pursuit of the courier as she shouted back. Saheeli lingered a moment.

“Thank you for the invitation Oviya. My, um…my guest is from out of town…”

Oviya thought she saw the blush return, but it might have been a reflection of light.

Oviya tsk-ed. “No time like the present to learn. Haven’t you talked at all?”

“Mostly about dinosaurs.”

“About what?”

“For inventing purposes, of course,” she added hastily.

Saheeli glanced at the paper. “On the rooftops?”

“That, is the best vantage point, or so Depali tells me.” Oviya settled back into her chair. “I’m inclined to trust her on all matters fast and furious.”

“Hmmm…I think Huatli will like this. Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure. You show her a good time until then.”

Saheeli’s face definitely flushed this time. She nodded and bid farewell to Oviya, walking quickly to catch up with Huatli.

Oviya watched her go. As soon as Saheeli was out of sight, she plucked the hummingbird construct from her shoulder and whistled an order.

“Find Shadowblayde. And Kari. If they’re free, I have a fun project for them. If not, well I think they’ll want to help all the same.”

* * * * *

“That sunset!” Huatli ran to the railing. “By Kinjalli, I’ve never seen a sky like that!”

Still too crowded, even for an illegal race. Where had Oviya gotten that intel from?

“Oh! Look!” Huatli jabbed an arm out over the rooftops ahead of them.

…there. She caught sight of Kari Zev’s skyship trailing after the whales, adding another graceful silhouette to the scene. What was that little pirate up to?

“The golden city is full of wonder

But above the spires and metal that moves

Shadows rise and twist and fall

With the grace of pterosaurs

Against a twisting field of sunset jewels

Lovely as the gold on a fair maiden’s dress”

Huatli’s voice filled the rare silence of pre-twilight, sending a chill spreading from the base of Saheeli’s neck across her shoulders.

“That…that’s lovely. I don’t think I asked how you were so good at that.”

“Lots of practice.” Huatli grinned, looking caught between pride and embarrassment. “And a bit of inspiration.” She made a broad gesture that encompassed the sky…

…and Saheeli.

“Hmm.” Huatli scanned the rooftop. “Sorry about that. Warrior’s instincts. That’s a lovely song, whatever it is.”

Saheeli had to agree. A soft, musical sound was thrumming through the spires of the rooftop, like several insects humming together in harmony.

Several very familiar insects…

“Ah, they’re going higher!”

Saheeli leaned into the touch, and to her delight, Huatli lay an arm across her shoulders.

“Cold?”

“Hardly.” Saheeli managed to keep her voice steady. A small miracle all things considered.

They watched until the light faded from the horizon, and the urban glow of night enveloped the city. The hidden music persisted, shifting to a tune that better matched the lighting. They leaned over the balcony to watch the foot traffic, and stayed that way in silence for a while before Saheeli spoke again.

“If you’d like, you can sleep at my place tonight. It’s just a workshop, but I have plenty of space…”

“Thank you, I would love that.” Huatli smiled up at Saheeli, and the artificer felt her heart stutter. I can tell you more about the ferocidons. I think you’d like them.” She turned her gaze back toward the avenue below, where several shouting Aetherborn were beginning to clear the streets of pedestrians, while motorists lined up their vehicles on the far end of the street.

“Yes,” Saheeli said softly, her eyes caught on the soft glow of the city lights through Huatli’s hair. “I think I would.”

The above is unofficial Fan Content permitted under the Fan Content Policy. Not approved/endorsed by Wizards. Portions of the materials used are property of Wizards of the Coast. ©Wizards of the Coast LLC.

#mtgship #saheeli rai #oviya pashiri #huatli #kaladesh #mtg story #MTG Flash Fan Fic #dinobots

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lilacmoon83 · 5 years

Text

Finding You Always

Also on Fanfiction.net and A03

Chapter 183: Endgame, Pt 2

Cassidy Gold looked around at the destruction and helped around the debris and through the streets. He had been at the station looking for Weaver when this all started and had saved Harmony from being crushed by a piece of sheet rock that had fallen on her desk, as the entire station seemed to collapse around them. They had gotten out and saw the horror that was wrought before them. It felt like something out of a movie, but they were in the middle of it and it was very real. The ominous storm clouds swirled above and vines of all things were growing at an exponential rate. They sprouted from beneath them, cracking and destroying the roads and concrete. They were wrapping around buildings and structures, as well as the highways and bridges, destroying the city's infrastructure in a matter of moments. He could see the national guard trucks making their way into Seattle and military helicopters circling the city.

"The military...that's not good…" Cassidy mentioned.

"What do you mean?" Harmony asked.

"Haven't you ever seen a disaster or alien movie?" he questioned, but she still looked a bit lost.

"Whenever there's something going on like this that the government can't figure out how to contain, they decide to use nukes to deal with it," he replied. Her eyes widened in horror.

"You think they may send a nuclear warhead to Seattle?" she asked. He shrugged.

"If they can't figure out how to stop this, they might. And considering that we have no idea what the hell this is...I think we need to get out of this city," he mentioned.

"But how? The bridges are gone and boats are already leaving by the hundreds," she said.

"Then we see if we can smuggle ourselves out on one of those boats," he suggested.

"And how do you plan to get past the National Guard at the Marina?" she asked. He smirked.

"I have my ways. You in?" he asked. She bit her bottom lip. She barely knew him, but something told her that she needed to trust him and she nodded.

As they started toward the Marina though, there was a whooshing sound. She looked back, only to see a rainbow light washing over the entire city. It rushed through them both and everything came back to them like a ton of bricks. It didn't have any kind of affect on the normal people around them and only served to further confuse the residents of Seattle. But for them...it changed everything and returned that which had been lost to them.

"Tink…" Neal uttered and she smiled, as her eyes watered.

"Neal…" she squeaked, as they embraced in a tight hug, before their lips met passionately. As they parted, they looked in the opposite direction of the Marina and toward the storm clouds that loomed over the epicenter. And now that their memories were back, they knew that epicenter was where the battle raged.

"The curse is broken," she said.

"Yeah...but the battle isn't over. Let's go…" he said, as she opened hand and willed her wand back into her hand, shocking many around them. But they paid those people no mind.

"Magic is here…" she said, looking at him.

"We need to find my Dad, Henry, and the others," he replied, as they joined hands again and began running toward the battle.

~*~

Several moments earlier

The wind whipped violently around them, as the air was thick with magic. The resurrection amulet glowed green and an inky blackness leaked from it, spreading its poison into the Earth. This blackness would cause death to everything they knew and all sentient life and resurrect a new world in something akin to a twisted garden of Eden.

By now, the National Guard had moved in and had been screaming at them to evacuate the area, but their orders fell on deaf ears. They were armed though and Emma knew that could be dangerous to them too.

"Summer...I need a really big bubble around this area!" Emma called. Her brunette sister nodded and concentrated with her powers.

"Ma'am...you cannot go in there!" she heard a soldier holler at Eva, as she and Paul returned from treating the injured. However, her sister must have realized that it would do no good to keep treating the injured if they did not stop the source. Had the situation not been quite so serious, she would have laughed at her normally gentle and sweet sister shoving several big, burly men, armed with rifles to the side with her wind powers and pulling her confused and still clueless husband back into the fray.

Summer succeeded with encasing them and the area in a bubble, further infuriating and puzzling the city's police and the army.

"I'll hold it as long as I can!" Summer said, as she outstretched her arms and was obviously strained by maintaining such a massive bubble.

She saw that everyone was pretty much holding their own, but that's all they could do. Even Fandral and his family were struggling to fight off Gothel's monstrous fauna. Her father's counterpart guarded Rose, though she fought as well, from the vines, while their children fought like the well-trained Asgardians that they were.

"Hit her guys!" Emma ordered, as her powers slammed into Gothel. Leo, Elsa, and Eva joined her, but the inky blackness from the amulet only seemed to fuel her power and make her further impervious to their attacks.

"Dammit...why the hell can't we scratch her?" Leo wondered.

"It's that damn amulet," Emma growled, as they struggled against her, as she eyed her parents, who were fighting off the vines and vicious man-eating plants that would have long ago moved in on them without them. Her mother's arrows were very effective at burning the man-eating plants up and her father's blade was keeping the vines at bay.

"I've had enough of this bitch," Regina growled, as she was tiring from expelling so much magic. And she knew they all were, except Gold, perhaps.

"You know...you could help!" she called to Facilier.

"You can't want this! Whatever you wanted is moot now! Either Gothel dies or we die! There's no other way this ends now!" Regina called to him. He glanced at her and knew she was right. She saw him eye the chalice that glowed between Snow and Charming.

"You can't touch it! You can never properly wield it, don't you get that?! Going back won't turn out the way you think!" Regina added. Facilier's jaw clenched, but she saw relent in his eyes, as fire appeared in his hands and he began to fight with them, if only to help save his own skin. The smirk on Gothel's face was still prevalent though and she remained unscathed.

"It's time to end this," she announced.

"We definitely agree on that, plant bitch...but probably not in the same way," Regina quipped. Gold watched vines slither from her hands and opened his mouth to warn them. But it was too late. He, Regina, Belle, and Facilier were suddenly constricted by those vines and volts of electricity traveled through their bodies. They screamed at the excruciating pain and now were helpless in the battle.

"Don't let the vines touch you!" Gold called, as he tried to reach the dagger inside his jacket pocket, but the vines kept his arms glued to his side.

More vines sprouted from the witch, capturing Leo and Elsa next, rendering them captured as well. Snow grabbed Bobby and backed away from the vines to keep them away from him. Henry guarded Jacinda and Lucy too, as one wrapped around Emma next.

"Emma!" Snow and David cried, as she screamed in pain.

"Mom!" Henry called, as he was torn between protecting his family and running to his mother. Hook prodded a scared and struggling Alice toward Margot and Robin watched him run toward her.

"Killian no!" he cried, as the pirate rushed headlong into danger and sliced through the vine that held Emma. Unfortunately, that only served to see that a vine captured him and another replaced itself around Emma. Gothel laughed evilly and then met Snow's eyes, before looking at Summer.

"I think I'll squeeze the life out of this one. Just one tiny snap to her neck and there will be no dancing in her future," Gothel hissed. Snow cried out and saw her husband already running toward their daughter.

He sliced through the vine that was after her and lifted her up to carry her out of danger. Unfortunately, the unspeakable happened and Snow's blood curdling scream shook them all to their core, as the vine glowed and the inky blackness from the amulet paralyzed his movement. His eyes suddenly went completely black, as Snow rushed toward him, but it was too late. When his eyes returned to their normal blue, they were glassy and his red star gem hovered just outside his chest with a golden glow.

"He did exactly what I knew he would if I threatened one of the little ones. So predictable your Charming is…" she cackled, as the red star seed floated toward the amulet and joined the other four star seeds. The amulet glowed with destructive light and the clouds in the sky darkened. Lightning struck violently around the city, further destroying and compounding the chaos. But Snow couldn't see any of that, as she caught her husband's lifeless form, as he fell to the ground.

"No...no...no…" she cried uncontrollably.

"Don't you dare do this to me again, Charming...don't you dare!" she screamed, as she cradled him in her arms.

"Daddy!" Summer cried, as she knelt beside him.

"Dad!" Bobby cried too, as he tore away from Frankie and Joe, before crashing beside Summer.

"Don't worry...you're about to join him, Princess…" Gothel hissed, as she was suddenly hovering right above them. Henry and Joe pulled a sobbing Summer and Bobby away from their parents and the witch.

"Grams...look out!" Henry called to her, but Snow refused to let go of her husband and even if she had tried to run, it was too late. The blackness was upon her and she was already dying without the other half of her heart. She gasped and her eyes went black, before returning to their normal green, albeit now glassy.

"NOOO!" Emma and the twins cried, as they witnessed the murders of their parents before their eyes. Snow fell against her husband to the ground, as her white star gem hovered above her body with a silver glow. And perhaps even more shocking, the chalice cracked in half and broke apart, stunning them all.

"It's over…" Gold said brokenly.

"No...it can't be…" Belle answered, as Gothel raised her arms to the sky. The amulet poured with black energy and the sky opened up to a burning rain that would eradicate humanity in a matter of hours. Alice seemed to be in a trance, like she was hearing voices again.

"No...I won't let you do this! I'll stop you!" Alice cried, as her golden magic erupted from her fingertips and slammed into the amulet.

"NO!" Gothel cried, as she sent vines to stop her. With her attention on Alice, the vines around the others loosened. Hook grabbed his cutlass and rushed toward his daughter, slicing through any vines that crept near her. Fandral did the same, as he knew Alice was probably their only chance at survival now. Emma, Leo, Eva, and Elsa joined their magic with that of the guardian's and Gothel cried out in horror, as the resurrection amulet shattered into a million pieces. The six star gems were scattered, but Emma was focused on the red and white ones. She scrambled after them, as Gothel tried to get them, but the Savior kicked her away.

"Not today, Satan," she growled, as she retrieved her parents star gems and hurried toward where they lay. The gems hovered above their hosts and she watched hopefully, as they glowed and gently disappeared inside her parents again. But her brief smile faded, as they didn't move or awaken.

"What's going on?" Bobby asked, as he shook their mother and father.

"Why aren't they waking up, Emma?" Summer asked.

"I...I don't know. Come on Mom and Dad...wake up," she muttered, but as seconds passed with no movement, the situation seemed grim. Were they too late to revive them? ~*~

Snow and David stood in that familiar meadow, hand in hand, as they saw the crystal palace before them. He was dressed in his familiar red coat he had worn to awaken her from the sleeping curse and she wore a flowing white dress, with her long hair cascading down her back.

"Are we dead?" she asked, as they glanced at each other.

"I...I don't know. We lost…" he realized.

"Not yet," a male voice said. They turned to see Serenity and Endymion before them.

"What do you mean?" Snow asked.

"It's not too late...you need to speak to Alice. The Guardian can still save everyone," Serenity answered, as she motioned them to the crystal ball behind her. They approached and gently touched it, as they watched Gothel unleash horror on the world with a fully powered amulet.

"Alice...you can still stop this," David said.

"He's right sweetie...you can stop her," Snow agreed, hoping she would hear their pleas. And she did. They shared bright smiles, as they watched Alice and their children shatter the amulet.

"They did it…" Snow said, as tears filled her eyes.

"At least we know they'll be okay without us now," David replied, as he took her in his arms and they prepared to accept their fate. Snow's eyes teared, but she could accept this too, as long as she had him to hold her.

"You two aren't really that dead yet," Endymion said, with a note of amusement in his voice.

"What do you mean?" David asked. He smirked and motioned for them to see exactly what he was talking about. ~*~

"No...they can't be dead! You put their star seeds back in!" Leo cried, as Elsa hugged his arm, the sadness on her face palpable. Eva knelt beside them and tried to use her powers to heal them, but there were no physical wounds.

"Why aren't they waking up?!" Summer cried, as Regina hugged and cried with her. Realization dawned on Henry, as he received the answer from his now active author's pen.

"Because they need true love's kiss," he realized.

"But...how can they give each other true love's kiss when they're both down?" Emma asked.

"Mom...there's more than one kind of true love," he answered and her eyes widened this time, as she got what he meant.

"Is it really that simple?" she asked. He smiled at her.

"Isn't it always when it comes to Grams and Gramps? True love to them is as easy as breathing air," he replied. She smiled at her son and joined hands with Leo and Eva. Summer and Bobby joined them too, as they encircled their parents.

Emma kissed her father's forehead, while Bobby kissed their mother's at the same time. A wave of rainbow light erupted from their kisses and washed over them and the entire city, bringing light to the darkness. Realization dawned in Jacinda's eyes and she practically tackled Henry to the ground.

"Henry!" she cried, as their lips met. He smiled once their lips parted.

"Ella…" he uttered, as they hugged and then lifted Lucy into their arms.

"Eva!" Paul cried, as he rushed over to her. Tears streamed down her face, as he enveloped her in a fierce hug.

Snow and David both took a starved breath and their eyes opened, as they looked around, seeing their children gazing down at them, all crying. They sat up and hugged them all, as true love had reunited them all once again.

"If you think this is over...you're sadly mistaken," Gothel growled, as she continued to pour dark magic into the earth and her storm clouds still threatened to let poisonous rain fall on the earth.

"No...it's definitely not over until we're sweeping your ashes back into the Earth," David growled, as he and Snow stood up. Gothel smirked.

"Your Chalice is broken...do you really think you have the power to defeat me now?" she questioned.

"It may be broken, but it still has power. It's just time for it to take a new form," Snow responded, as they all watched the two broken halves glow and float into the air.

Gold and silver magic swirled around it and then them, as they watched the two halves become something new.

In Charming's hand appeared his sword, only it was now embellished by a golden light and the blade swirled with golden energy. In both of Snow's hands appeared twin gauntlets that were equipped to fire glowing silver arrows that she could control with a mere thought. But that was not all that was different. The power transformed their clothing into familiar battle ware. He now donned his familiar leather jerkin and leather pants, while Snow was now wearing her white warrior princess-esque outfit.

"You think some fancy new weapons are going to scare me?" Gothel asked smugly. Snow aimed her gauntlet and fired three glowing silver arrows at Gothel. They exploded around her in flames and Gothel cried out, as she was badly burned. When the smoke cleared, they could clearly see that she was singed. She looked at her scorched skin and singed hair.

"What have you done to me?!" she cried. Zelena snorted.

"Are you really fishing for sympathy? Even these two have their limits with all their goodie goodie nonsense," the redhead quipped.

"For once, we agree," David said, as he brandished his sword.

"We'll see if you feel that way after I filet one of your precious babies," Gothel growled, as she fired razor sharp leaves at Summer and Bobby. But David was quick, as he jumped in front of them and expertly parried each and every one with lightning precision. Snow fired three more arrows at her and she screamed in agony. Once the smoke cleared again, she glared at Snow.

"No one attacks my babies and comes out of it unscathed," Snow growled. Gothel was about to retort, when Charming called out to her.

"HEY!" he shouted, as he hurled his blade at her and it went through her side. She cried out in agony, as he stretched his hand out and recalled the sword. It answered his call and was pulled from her body. She held her side in horrified agony, as green blood seeped from the wound.

"Alice...help me…" she pleaded with her daughter.

"Help you? You tried to slaughter my family and the entire world," Alice protested, as Jade held her after a tearful reunion.

"I am your family," Gothel pleaded pathetically. But Alice shook her head and stepped up.

"No...you're a monster that will destroy everything I love if I don't stop you," Alice responded, as golden energy erupted from her fingertips and slammed into Gothel.

"No...NOOOO!" Gothel cried, as she felt herself slipping back.

"This is it guys...this ends now," Emma called, as her magic joined Alice's. Leo and Elsa joined her, as his lightning energy paralyzed her limbs and Elsa's froze her to the ground. Gothel screeched and struggled against their magic, but to no avail. She watched in horror, as Alice, her own daughter that she had cruelly abandoned and trapped in a Tower, delivered the final blow. Alice's Guardian magic slowly ate away at her and she could do nothing to stop it, as she was slowly turned to dust. Gothel's remains floated to the ground and her horrid plants were gone. Instead, light magic returned the garden to its former glory. Hyacinths and Snowdrops bloomed again, but as they looked around the city, the damage was done. Snow and David smiled at each other and as expected, their lips met in a passionate kiss.

"Henry!" Neal called, as he and Tink shoved their way toward them, only to be stopped by soldiers. But those army officers felt an invisible shove out of the way, as Rumple raised his hand, and the two rushed toward them.

"I'm okay, Dad," Henry promised, as his father hugged him fiercely. Neal sighed in relief and then hugged his father and Belle.

"I don't know who the hell you people are of what the hell all this is...but you're all under military arrest!" one called to them. By the insignia on this woman's uniform, it was clear that her rank was that of Major and she was in charge of this particular group of guard members.

"Hold on Major…" a voice called, as Angela and Nick made their way through the crowd of onlookers. They flashed their badges.

"This is an FBI matter," Angela claimed.

"No...Agent Martin, this is a matter of obvious National Security," the Major argued. Nick turned to them.

"We can hold them off for a few, but if she calls our superiors, we'll be ordered to step aside," he warned.

"Gold...is there any kind of spell we can use to erase this whole mess from their memories?" David asked. But he shook his head.

"There's no putting this back in the bottle. We can escape back to where we belong and likely never be able to leave Storybrooke again," Gold replied, as they looked over at the military forces that were mounting.

"The military has seen what we can all do now," he said gravely.

"Yeah...this is blowing up all over social media too. It's all over the world now," Neal added.

"And even if it wasn't...like I said, the military has seen our powers and they want it," Gold said. He could see it especially in this Major's eyes.

"Then we can at least fix the damage done by Gothel's near apocalypse," David said, as he looked at Snow. She nodded. They couldn't bring back anyone that had died in the attack, but repairing the city was at least possible.

"As a gesture of good will," she agreed.

"It won't help," Gold warned.

"Maybe not, but it's the right thing to do," David said.

"That's all well and fine, but even with all our magic...we're talking fixing the infrastructure of an entire city," Regina reminded.

"And we have four star seeds, each with a bit of remaining magic," David said, as he opened his palm, revealing an orange star gem and a green star gem; that of which had once belonged to the Dragon King and his Queen.

"They are gone and would want the last of their powers to be used for good," Snow added, as she opened her palm, revealing a silver star gem and a gold star gem; that of which had once belonged to Serenity and Endymion.

"Then you had better hurry," Gold urged. David willed the orange star gem to repair the damaged bridges and highways, while willing the green one to repair damaged buildings. Snow willed the gold one to destroy the storm system in the sky left behind by Gothel and clear skies were restored throughout the city. That left the silver gem and they exchanged a glance, knowing it was their way home and back to the future. David looked at her and they joined hands, as they willed the final star gem into the air. A shining vertical portal appeared before them and all the people from their land and those from Tiana's Kingdom began to file through the portal. By now, all the people that really didn't belong in Hyperion Heights had gathered with them.

"Stop immediately!" the Major ordered, as the soldiers aimed their guns at them. But Summer concealed them in another bubble, causing the bullets to bounce harmlessly off the shield. Snow and David made sure everyone got through, until it was down to their family. They saw Joe and Frankie hugging Summer fiercely and they exchanged a glance, before walking toward them.

"Come with us," David requested of them. The two men exchanged a glance.

"David told me that they won't let you adopt here...but the same wouldn't be true where we're from. It would be new beginning for you both and the chance at having the children you want...and the family," Snow added, indicating them. Joe and Frankie smiled at each other.

"We were hoping you'd ask," they agreed. Summer smiled and practically pulled both of them through the portal.

"Taking in more strays...I shouldn't be surprised," Regina quipped slyly, as she, Robin, and Roland followed Chad and Zelena through the portal. Zelena's fiance was still trying to wrap his mind around everything, but he loved Zelena and vowed that nothing could scare him away.

"Hop on kid," Leo said, as he swept Bobby onto his back. Elsa took his free hand and they stepped through together. Jacinda, Henry, and Lucy followed, along with Paul and Eva, until only Snow, Charming, Hook, Emma, and Alice remained. They looked back at the National Guard and other police forces trying to get through the shield.

"So the world knows…" Emma mentioned. They nodded.

"But that's okay. This is their world and ours awaits us. We're going home," David said, as Hook, Emma and Alice walked through. And finally Snow and Charming followed through, as the bubble dissipated and the portal closed...

#Snowing #SnowxCharming #Charming family #OC Charmings #Hyperion Heights #season 7 #AU #Snowing centric season 7 #Rumbelle #CS #OutlawQueen #KnightRook #Curious Archer #finding you always #the epic continues

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otheroutlandertales · 6 years

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@canmyemotionspleasechill said:

Hi guys 🙋 I was wondering if one of you could write something about Lord John realizing or coming to terms with his sexuality? Also I adore your work. I turned on notifications for your blog and every time I get one I’m super excited to see what you came up with.

Caught

by @futurelounging

John straightened the cuffs of his jacket, a nervous habit he’d formed in recent years, and one deemed acceptable within the bounds of the excessive grooming afforded to gentlemen of his class. Willie had disappeared, yet again, right before they were to leave on their journey and the servants’ efforts to find him were suspiciously unconcerned. He’d gotten better as he’d aged, less prone to relentless mischief, but his default still seemed to be defiance.

Having checked the usual places throughout the estate, John walked around the side of the house where the servants came and went through the kitchen. He stopped suddenly as he rounded the corner and tucked himself against the stone wall. Before him, crouched behind a winterberry bush, was his son, staring glassy-eyed with his hand down the front of his trousers.

The object of his admiration was a kitchen maid who was washing vegetables in a bucket and had managed to thoroughly soak the front of her dress, which now clung to her bosom. She continued scrubbing the root vegetables causing the aforementioned parts to shake and jiggle in a manner that even John found difficult to ignore.

He needed to find a way to interrupt Willie’s spying without embarrassing both his son and the kitchen maid. And himself, for that matter. There didn’t seem to be a way to make his presence known without red faces all around, so he decided on another tack.

Rounding back through the front of the house, John made his way past the cook in the kitchen who looked at him as though he were stomping on her flower bed. “Oh!” he stopped and smiled apologetically to the cook. “The, erm, the maid’s name?”

“Amelia, sir.”

“Right, Amelia. Pardon.” John burst through the back door, startling Amelia who dropped the turnip she was holding and bent over to retrieve it, which was certainly not the outcome he was hoping for. John positioned himself behind her to draw her attention away from the bushes where William had done a very poor job of concealing himself.

“Amelia, so sorry. I was wondering if perhaps you’ve seen my son anywhere lately. We are to depart now, and I do not wish to delay lest we lose daylight. We’ve a long journey ahead of us.”

Willie’s head popped up over the top of the bush and John briefly glared at him, attempting to gesture with his eyes for Willie to remove himself from this situation at once. Willie, thankfully, did so, though not without making an absurd ruckus which John was forced to conceal with a coughing fit.

He said nothing to Willie as they left the estate. A couple hours in, they stopped outside a town to water the horses and eat a bit. Willie dipped his hands in the cool stream to wash off the dust and John watched him, the sun shadowing half his face. The structure of him had changed, the baby fat giving way to widening cheekbones. He was changing right before his eyes, a perfect image of his parents.

Something had to be said, of that he was sure. But, despite thinking about it continuously on the ride, John had failed to come up with a good way to broach the subject. The last thing he wanted was for the servants to be nervously checking the bushes for spies whenever they left the house.

It then occurred to him that he was a grown man and William his son and perhaps he was overthinking it.

“Willie, about earlier, with Amelia.” He glanced at Willie who had suddenly turned to stone, a blush creeping up his skin. “It is, of course, entirely natural that you should appreciate the features of...of the fairer sex. But, you might perhaps wish to commit those images to your mind and enjoy them as recollections rather than live viewings, as it were. Just to avoid any complications.”

Willie remained still, though his posture relaxed slightly, perhaps in hope that this would be the extent of their talk. And then John spoke again.

“You know, I...I understand what you’re going through at this particular juncture in your journey to manhood.” John stopped and cringed at the words coming out of his mouth. My god man, silence yourself! “It can be a bit surprising the things the body does as we...ponder certain aspects of those whose beauty we admire, and while it is natural to want to consider such beauty...often, do be considerate of where you are and perhaps keep such activity confined to your bedchambers.”

Willie was suddenly very interested in the movements of a frog attempting to clear the bank. John breathed a sigh of relief that he’d done his duty as father and could perhaps go some time again before another awkward conversation was merited.

Crouching in a muddy patch of mashed fallen leaves, William furrowed his brow, contemplating more than the frog’s next move. His voice was quiet, but openly curious. “When you were my age, did you like to admire ladies, too?”

John’s brow shot up and he quickly recovered a more neutral expression. “Oh, well…” The truth was not so simple. In fact, John did quite admire ladies, but perhaps more in the way one admires a well-manicured garden or the smooth lines of a horse’s back. The type of admiration William inquired about he’d felt most sincerely and forcefully at William’s age, the unexpected joy of it drowning in the murky waters of shame.

As a lad, his godfather took him weekly to attend lunch at The Society for the Appreciation of English Beefsteak, a club whose name took on entirely new meaning for him as he matured. It was at such a luncheon, when he was about Willie’s age, that he first acknowledged the feeling roused in him at certain aspects of the male form.

He’d not cared much for most of the men at the club, older gentlemen with prominent jowls and even more prominent voices. However, he was witness to a strange scene one day that opened a door for him that would never again close, through which his true self required admittance.

Reginald Craig was not particularly jowly or particularly loud, but as a member of the younger set, had a certain boyish charm. He made jokes at the older men’s expense and winked at John conspiratorially, which John secretly loved.

One day, after a tad too much brandy, Reginald began boasting of a gruesome scar he had on his thigh, the result of a sword fight that may or may not have been about honor or an argument about grouse hunting techniques - no one was quite sure.

The scar, however, was so boasted about that more than a few members of the club implored Reginald to display it, right then and there. He seemed quite eager to do so and warned them that it was rather high on his leg and he could not guarantee one would see it without also catching a glimpse of his manhood, and there may have been hooting. John’s memory no longer afforded details of the scene after that moment. As he recalled, a searing flush rose up him body at the thought of this man baring himself before him.

Reginald’s trousers dropped. He lifted the bottom of his shirt and placed his foot on a chair and pointed at a spot on his inner thigh which prompted the gathered men to murmur congratulations of surviving such an injury and maintaining his manhood considering the proximity. John peeked through the spaces between the gathered men and felt his own body go taut at the long muscular lines of Reginald’s legs.

He imagined running his own hands over them, his small fingers no match for the expanse of skin stretching over the muscles of his thigh. He stood on his tiptoes to see over the hunched shoulders of the men in front of him and felt the flush that had covered him before now concentrate in his groin. There, just below the seam of Reginald’s shirt, he could see the tip of his manhood, the soft loose flesh of the scrotum contrasting behind it against the coarse hair of his leg.

This fever that made John’s hands shake with the need to reach out and touch him was not a result of embarrassment or surprise or any passing fancy. It was a bone-deep desire that could no longer slumber.

John now remembered that longing, the all-consuming force of it, and felt something inside him crack open. For all the shame he’d felt, hiding first with Hector, and then others through the years, that first burst of desire was pure and shameless. For Willie too, the simple yearning of his flesh for women was no different. And he felt a strange connection to his son at that moment, that they both were at the mercy of their bodies, with their hearts braced for what lie ahead.

#outlander fanfiction #otheroutlandertales #mod fulo #ch: john #ch: william #canon compliant #book: DOA #missing moment #oot #*

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laurelsofhighever · 6 years

Text

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 21 - The Windrise

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3 Masterpost here

Second day of Bloomingtide, 9:32 Dragon

Stifling a yawn, Alistair rubbed his eyes and made his slow, unsteady way towards his rooms in Bann Ferrenly’s house. The first stair creaked under his foot, chiding in the late-night silence, but nobody came to trouble him. The building’s inhabitants were either already asleep or still revelling in the king’s company, chewing over the final scraps of the feast in the guildhall. In the intervening years since watching guests parade in for Isolde’s endless salons, it seemed the nobility had not lost any taste for long nights and loud noise. He considered himself lucky to have gotten away so early, though the sun had gone to bed many hours earlier still.

He had to admit, however, that the feast had been a magnificent affair. An astounding seven courses, each of which was presented with flourishes of showmanship to make any travelling circus master blush, brought in by a small army of servants groaning under the weight of the platters as they were shown around every table, before being presented to the king by a tiny man in the colours of a herald. Innumerable glasses of sparkling Antivan white had been pressed into his hand, the refills coming so swiftly that if not for the steadily growing buzz in his head, he would have doubted that he drank anything at all.

And after that, with barely time to let the food digest, the music had begun, lilting into the air to join the hum of pleasant, tipsy conversation. Another herald had appeared, presumably from somewhere, and announced the dancing. Knowing it would have been rude to refuse, and with Cailan watching on with that beneficent smile of his, Alistair had allowed himself to be passed into the arms of what seemed like every noblewoman in the room – daughters, sisters, cousins, and good acquaintances who all blurred together in ripples of variegated silks and gleaming jewels. They tipped glittering smiles at him from under the demure flutter of their eyelashes, giving him gestures that made him flounder like a landed fish.

And through it all, Rosslyn had not returned. He had kept one eye on the door, and the other on the guards, certain that at any moment the bright world of the party would smash apart like a dropped glass, swept away under the clank of marching, armoured feet. But he saw no sign of her. The music played on, and the laughter of the crowd lost all inhibition, and Cailan, on his fifth glass of port, told him to stop being such a sourpuss and spoiling the fun.

He paused on the stairs, waiting while Bann Ferrenly’s imported clockwork struck the hour. When it continued to chime far longer than expected, he realised he must have lost count somewhere along the way, but that in itself told him it was way past a respectable hour.

“Ugh, my head’s going to hurt in the morning,” he grumbled as he reached for the bannister to help haul himself up to the landing.

Should he knock on Rosslyn’s door? She was probably asleep already, and even if she wasn’t, if anyone saw him trying to talk to her so late at night, it would only add fuel to the speculation that had been ringing in his head since the morning before. The Falcon and the Rose? Don’t make me laugh. Something tugged at his chest but he pushed it down. The haughty look she had taken such care not to give him before she was called away had been enough to douse any flicker of hope that he might be able to salvage her regard, let alone wonder if she might want more. What bitter irony that, mere weeks ago, he had fantasised about being acknowledged, about gaining rank and privilege to be able to talk to her as an equal, about thinking a title would be all it took to make him happy. And now that very same title was the wedge that had driven her away. He had been a fool from the very beginning.

The thought carried him to his door. For a heartbeat, he paused, swaying, trying to remember the climb up the last flight of stairs, until he bit back a growl and fumbled for the handle. His rooms contained a feather mattress, a hangover tonic, and several thick, soft pillows to scream into if he felt so inclined, and after such a long day of disappointments and interruptions, that was all he wanted.

Then he heard raised voices.

Recognising the arguers, he paused, breath held to try and make out the words, but the wattle-and-daub walls of the old house muffled everything except the volume of the argument. Before he could chastise himself for letting his curiosity overcome his common sense, Alistair abandoned thoughts of his warm bed and crept across the landing towards Rosslyn’s chambers. She sounded more upset than angry, and still clear-headed enough to keep her voice level, though he could tell that control was fast crumbling away. As he neared, he caught a thread of exhaustion tangled in her anger, and he remembered her expression as she begged the king to let her go.

The guard on duty outside her door eyed him warily as he approached.

Alistair nodded to him. “Is everything alright, Sergeant…?”

“Hobbs, Your Highness,” the sergeant replied. “Nothing amiss – all’s quiet.”

From behind the closed door came the sharp scrape of a heavy chair against floorboards, and a thud as it toppled over.

“All’s quiet, hm?” Alistair checked.

Sergeant Hobbs blanched.

“Would you have me abandon them?” Rosslyn’s voice, cutting clear and sharp through the walls.

“I would have you think of the bigger picture, lass.” Ser Gideon – nobody else would dare address her in such familiar terms. “There’s no money, we have no army big enough to match what you propose. The only way you can help them now is by seeing this through to the end.”

“Their crops are burning! They won’t make the winter, let alone the spring. They’re dying.”

“This is the cost of holding to ideals. You gave your word. Your father –”

“Is there any chance I could speak to Her Ladyship?” Alistair asked, his gaze flicking to the door as if he might see her through it.

“My apologies, Your Highness, but –”

“Oh, please do tell me everything my father would have done better. It does me such good to hear all my failings put into perspective!”

“- Teryna Rosslyn is, uh, not in.” Hobbs shot him a pleading look. “She didn’t want to be disturbed, Ser.”

“I see.” He swallowed. Gideon’s voice had dropped to a low, uneasy hum, like a distant swarm of bees. The words were lost, but the conciliatory tone did not have its intended effect.

“Get out,” she snapped.

“Bah!”

Alistair barely had time to scuttle out of the way of the door before it was wrenched open and Gideon stood framed in the lamplight, bristling in full armour, a frown like a thundercloud carving deep lines into the contours of his dark face. He gave a jolt of surprise when he saw he had company, but proper decorum had never been one of his priorities, and he shouldered into the hallway with only the thinnest veneer of propriety.

“Maybe you can talk some sense into her,” he growled as he stomped past. “Stubborn, headstrong lass, no appreciation for…”

The rest of the words were lost to grumbling as the Commander of the Highever Guard trudged towards the stairs. Alistair turned back to the sergeant, who had shrunk himself against the wall to avoid the wrath of his superior officer, and offered him a grin.

“You want to see the teyrna, don’t you?” Hobbs asked.

“Please.”

The man offered him a defeated sort of nod. “Very well. Follow me, Your Highness.”

Rosslyn didn’t look up at the sound of new footsteps. She sat, bent over with her head in her hands, staring glassy-eyed at the papers strewn over her desk. Some were letters, penned in elegant hands, and Alistair recognised merchant seals from Orlais, the Free Marches, and even Nevarra, though he couldn’t put a name to them. Around the room, vases of wilting flowers stood in silent condemnation, only adding to the drab, stale air of the room. He wondered when someone had last opened a window.

The sergeant clipped to a halt and saluted, but Rosslyn still didn’t look up.

“Call it a night, Will,” she said in a voice that cracked with fatigue. She still wore her finery from earlier in the day, but the glossy curls of her hair had long since fallen into disarray, the laurel blossoms drooping and half-loosed from their pins. “Everyone else is asleep, you might as well join them. I’ll finish up here.”

“Err…” For a moment, the sergeant’s expression softened. “His Highness to see you, Ma’am.”

She glanced up. When she spotted Alistair, the effect was like the shock of a lightning spell. She shot to her feet so quickly her thigh banged against the underside of the desk, jerking it violently, and her hand flashed to the inkpot before it could spill over her papers.

“Al– Your Highness – I wasn’t expecting you… uh, not so late.”

“It is late,” he agreed, watching as she rubbed her leg and gathered all the letters together to place them in a small bureau at her elbow – hiding them from him. “I wasn’t expecting anyone else to still be up.”

“Yes, well…” She shook her head. “You may go, Hobbs.”

“Your Ladyship.” The sergeant saluted again. “Your Highness.”

“I didn’t realise you were still working,” Alistair said when the man was gone. He tried to keep the note of bitterness out of his voice. She might have come to the feast instead of holing herself away like a bear settling in for the winter.

“I work until the work is done,” she replied, shrugging. “Was there something you needed?”

“I…” A nervous hand ruffled through his hair. Confronted with the gaunt exhaustion robbing the warmth from Rosslyn’s skin, his mind baulked at unburdening even more worries upon her shoulders. As he searched for something to say, keenly aware that he was looking more and more like the village idiot as the silence stretched, he glanced down to her hands.

“You’re hurt.”

“What?” She followed the line of his gaze to the hem of her left sleeve, which was soiled by a dark, rust-coloured stain. Her eyes refused to meet his as she covered the sight with her other hand. “It’s nothing – not mine,” she said of the blood. “The messenger, he… well. It doesn’t matter now.”

“Rosslyn…”

“I’m fine – really.”

Unbidden, Teagan’s words from the previous morning ran through his mind, heavy with certainty. She’s not sleeping, not eating either. Stubborn as she is, she won’t complain.

“Have you had dinner?” he asked. Blurted.

Her brows twitched in surprise. “Dinner?”

“Yes, dinner. That meal people tend to eat at the end of the day?” he teased. “You left this morning before the feast started.”

“Oh,” she replied, flushing a little at the concern in his voice. “I suppose I did, didn’t I? There’s been so much to do, there hasn’t been time to…”

Alistair sighed. Hopeless.

“You’ll figure it out,” he promised. “Whatever this is, whatever’s troubling you. I know it. But,” he added, taking a step forward, “I also know that you can’t face anything properly on an empty stomach.” A plan was forming in his mind. The kitchens would still be warm, leftovers abundant, and so late at night, not even the scullery maids would be around to interrupt them. And afterwards, he would make sure at least some of the mountain of paperwork Cailan was foisting off on her found its way to him. His palms grew sweaty and he tried to wipe them on his breeches without her noticing.

Rosslyn bit her lip. “Your Highness, I –”

“Please don’t,” he said. “Everyone’s been calling me that. I rather miss being called Alistair… especially by you.” At her startled look, he stepped closer and swallowed his nerves. “You need a break. Let’s go and see if we can raid the kitchens for a decent bottle of wine and whatever table scraps haven’t already been taken to the kennels.”

“I wouldn’t want to keep you from your rest,” she replied, picking out a loose lock of hair to curl around her fingers.

“If you want, I can make it an order.” Alistair grinned. “I’m told I’m allowed to do that now. Please? I – I feel like we haven’t spoken in an age.”

For an instant, he feared she would say no. She glanced at the bureau with the letters in it, to the map, even to the pitch-black square of sky at the window – but then she smiled, a tiny thing weak as a candle flame in a storm, but at the sight of it an answering flare of hope surged in his chest.

“I know what you mean,” she said. “And maybe… I am a little hungry.”

“Then, my lady, would you care to accompany me?” Alistair stretched out his hand in a poor imitation of Cailan’s gallantry, but when she returned the gesture and hesitantly placed her fingers in his, he decided he couldn’t have been that far off the mark. She bit her lips to hold back a smile as he placed her hand in the crook of his elbow, and for a moment he was too giddy to move. The last time she had been this close to him, had leaned into him, she had been badly wounded, not smelling of jasmine and rain on new grass. He wondered if she still had scars from that night.

“To the kitchens then?” she prompted.

“Right. Yes.” How long have I been standing like a fool? “This way.”

They walked in silence. Not an awkward silence, exactly, but one that was loaded with the weight of the weeks they had spent apart. Rosslyn kept her gaze cast down, avoiding the uneasy glances he passed her as they descended the stairs, but she stayed close to his side, pressing into the heat of his body, and out of the corner of his eye he saw her gaze dart to him, only to dart away again onto some less charged part of the hall.

“So,” she asked eventually, flicking her tongue out to wet her lips, “how are your studies going? I hear Master Brantis only lets you out of his schoolroom to eat and sleep.”

Alistair laughed, grateful for the neutral topic. “And weapons practice with the royal guard, but he only does that because Lieutenant Mhairi takes her job very seriously. Even when it means hitting me – I think she enjoys giving me bruises.”

“As long as you’re not the only one taking hits?” Rosslyn teased.

“Not so much anymore, I’m happy to say.”

“Good.”

There was a pause.

“And you?” he asked. “I never seem to see you these days except through a crowd of retainers.”

“I do well enough. Some things can’t be left to clerks.”

“And Cuno? I haven’t seen him for the past few days.”

“There’s a bitch in heat in the kennels.”

“Say no more.”

They carried on, limping through brief bouts of small talk, which flared like the prodded embers of a damp fire, and then fizzled out again almost immediately. The gardens were quiet as they stole along the path, a last rind of light still lingering to the west, while the two moons swung heavily, half-full on the eastern horizon.

“What do you think that is?” Rosslyn asked as they passed the green.

A few torches still flickered, leftovers from the feast, but when Alistair had left it not half an hour before, almost nobody remained at the table, and those that did had been cheerful, and sagging with inebriation. Now, a small crowd clustered outside the main entrance to the guildhall, not just nobles but villagers as well, roused from their beds by the commotion. Alistair couldn’t see much through the sea of people, but along the road he saw a ragged string of horses, travel-stained and skittish in the torchlight. Unable to tear his gaze away, he grasped harder for Rosslyn’s hand, disturbed by the memories the sight woke in him, but she was already striding away towards a pair of soldiers just come back from patrol who were wavering at the edge of the crowd, uncertain what to do.

“You there!” she barked. “What’s going on?”

The soldiers turned, and when they saw who was addressing them, they jumped backwards and shrank away as if meaning to turn invisible.

“Your Ladyship – I don’t – I, um – and Your Highness!”

“Clear a path for us. I wish to see what is happening.”

“Uh…” When Alistair didn’t offer any contradictory orders, the pair glanced at each other and straightened, their chests puffing out with the importance of their new assignment.

“Make way for Prince Alistair and Teyrna Rosslyn!”

“Go on, move!”

“Don’t barge people out of the way,” Alistair chided as the pair of them led the way into the throng. He slipped his hand into Rosslyn’s so he wouldn’t lose her, and a tingle went all the way up his arm when she flashed a glance back at him and tightened her grip on his fingers.

He blinked when the last line of villagers parted and Rosslyn led him into the great room of the guildhall. Golden light sloshed over the floor and up to the rafters, and around the room the leftover detritus from the feast lay scattered where it had been dropped, when the stunned nobles first realised the atmosphere in Aeylesbide had changed. They huddled against the far wall now, milling like rams cornered by a wolf as they stared at the small group of people crumpled on the floor before the king. The eldest was a woman, clutching two small children to her sides, while a second, younger woman knelt beside her, staring glassy-eyed at the floor. Their faces were unfamiliar, but the Portcullis embroidered in green thread on their cloaks, singed and caked with dirt as it was, sent a shock of recognition through him.

“It’s Élodie, Arlessa of South Reach,” Rosslyn whispered next to him, eyes wide and jaw set. “And that’s Habren. She’s a few years younger than me. What are they doing here?”

“There’s nothing left of it, Majesté,” the arlessa said, her Orlesian accent thick from exhaustion. “Nothing but flames.”

“Loghain did this?” Eamon demanded. He stood behind Cailan, in cloak and boots hastily put on over his nightclothes.

The arlessa shook her head. “Not Loghain, my lord. His hound, Ser Cauthrien. The loyal mongrel he found crawling out of a ditch. She has been winding through the smaller Bannorn to the north, but we heard nothing of the attack, not until they were outside our gates. And then they tore them down.”

A ripple ran through the onlookers. The fortress at South Reach stood on a steep, craggy hill overlooking the road to the Brecilian Passage, and during the Occupation it had been the focus of an intense rebuild by the usurper Meghren, in an attempt to block the rebels’ passage north after they took Gwaren. Not even Maric had ever dared lay siege to it.

“This is disturbing news indeed,” Cailan said. “South Reach is – forgive me, my lady, was – well garrisoned, especially considering Bann Elara’s forces were stationed there as well. How could Loghain’s force outmatch that?”

“He has roused the whole Bannorn against you, Majesté,” Élodie spat. “He has convinced them of your treachery, and that my countrymen are to be feared, and hated without exception. That mongrel bitch brought more than just Gwaren’s army with her to lay siege to my home. My husband…” Here the arlessa’s voice cracked, and she pulled her two younger children closer. “He told Bann Elara to act as a guard. We left her – Créateur, pardonne-moi, we left her at the pass beyond Bloodhill.”

Cailan turned to Eamon. “Order a party out, a full cohort. At once!”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“It will do no good,” the arlessa growled as Eamon left the hall. “There will be nothing left of them. Nothing at all but ashes.”

Rosslyn wrenched her hand from Alistair’s. He shook his head to clear it of surprise, and when he looked again she was kneeling by the arlessa’s side, speaking to her in mumbled Orlesian. The older woman blinked, recognition shining clear in her eyes as she reached out to clasp the sleeve of Rosslyn’s dress. Whatever she said deepened Rosslyn’s frown into a scowl, and as her shoulders tensed Alistair recognised the signs of her rising battle blood.

She rose and turned to the king, who had summoned a chamberlain to prepare rooms for the arlessa and her family.

“How will you answer this?” she asked.

The hall fell utterly silent.

Cailan frowned. “For now, we will press onward, to Redcliffe, as planned. I will send scouts to find survivors.”

“And what then, Your Majesty?” Rosslyn answered. “What of Loghain, and those who have chosen loyalty to him?”

“They will face the king’s justice,” Cailan said. There was no trace of his habitual smile playing about his mouth, and this unaccustomed stillness made the gathered nobles shift uneasily.

“King’s justice?” she repeated, stalking forward. “You speak so lightly of it. This is the second time Loghain has proven he cares nothing for spilling noble blood, or slaughtering innocents in his quest for power. His fear of Orlais is nothing more than an excuse for his greed, and nothing is being done to curb his ambitions.” She stepped forward again, her voice ringing in the stillness of the hall. “What answer do you have for the suffering of those most loyal to you – first Highever, and now South Reach? It will not stop here, not until all of Ferelden is under the heel of this traitor and everything that you and your father before you worked to build is shattered to the foundations.”

Eamon emerged from the crowd and once more took his place at Cailan’s side. “Mind your tone, my Lady Cousland,” he intoned. “You speak to the king.”

She bared her teeth. “And not, my lord, to you.”

“How dare you –!”

“Enough, Uncle.” Cailan raised his hand to forestall any further argument, drawing up to his full height. “I would have peace between you.”

Eamon’s mouth clicked shut, but the scowl he flashed Rosslyn was one Alistair remembered from his childhood, and not with fondness. With her attention still fixed on the king, she didn’t notice it.

“Teyrna Rosslyn,” the king asked. “What exactly would you ask of me?”

His gaze was steady, serene, and for a moment it seemed like she would back down, step away. Alistair found himself hoping she would.

“We have floundered for far too long,” she muttered eventually. “We’ve spent too long licking wounds already long past healing, and while we did we allowed this to happen.” She breathed deep to steel herself, and licked her lips, and sank to one knee, just as she had in the chantry barely a day before when she took her oath of loyalty.

“Your Majesty,” she said. “Give me command of the army. Make me the sword in your right hand, the shield on your left arm, and I swear I will not let this tragedy happen again. By my blood I swear I will strike back at this traitor who seeks to raise himself to power above what is his to claim. Grant me this,” she snarled, “and I will see to it this jumped-up peasant regrets the day he ever thought he could sit the throne of Ferelden!”

Silence over the nobles, all sound stolen in a single hush of breath so that the spitting of the torches cracked through the air like fireworks. All eyes were fixed on the two figures in the centre of the room, and even the light seemed to pull inwards, drawn by the weight of the moment and the knowledge that, whatever the outcome, it would turn the tide of the war.

Alistair turned his head away, jaw clenched and heart thrashing behind his ribs. Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes. Hearing the contempt in her voice for Loghain, the way she spat the word peasant like a curse… But he was the only one who noticed, and nobody noticed him. He watched the hope light on the arlessa’s face and felt Rosslyn slip even further out of his grasp.

“Do this, Your Ladyship, and I pledge what remains of my army will be at your disposal,” the arlessa declared, straightening where she sat. “I am no warrior, but I have heard of your deeds, and I know you will see this justice done for my husband.”

“Thank you for such a show of faith, my lady,” Rosslyn replied, with only a slight tremble in her voice. The audacity of making such a demand of the king made her glad for kneeling, and whatever colour was left in her complexion fled.

They waited for Cailan’s answer.

“Rise,” he commanded at last, and his smile crept out from the corners of his eyes. “Rosslyn Cousland, Falcon of Highever, you truly are as fierce as your epithet. Very well. Who better suited to lead the charge against a king’s enemy than the person willing to stare down the king himself?

“Let it be known!” he cried, turning to the waiting assembly. “The Teyrna of Highever will be the spearpoint that strikes the heart of my enemies, the sword and shield that will hold aloft the principles of honour, courage, and duty by which we of Ferelden have lived and died for almost four hundred years. Let her be an example of honour to you. And let my banner bring you glory on the battlefield,” he added in a quieter voice as the nobles broke from their places and hurried to be the first to offer congratulations to the new commander-in-chief of the army.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“You’ve come a long way from the little pirate who used to traipse after Fergus and I on our adventures through the orchards,” he murmured once the jostling had died down. “Your family would be proud of you.”

“I – thank you. It means a lot to hear you say that.”

Cailan chuckled and gestured for the arlessa to join him. “Now, I know that the feast is over, but these good people require respite after their long journey – no, my lady, I insist on entertaining you until accommodations are prepared. Will you join us, Rosslyn?”

“It’s a generous offer,” she replied with a tired smile. “But I can’t. I was already going to –”

But when she turned and looked for Alistair in the crowd, he was nowhere to be seen.

#dragon age #dragon age: origins #alistair theirin #king alistair #alistair x cousland #cousland #rosslyn cousland #king cailan #cailan theirin #dragon age au #dragon age fanfic

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seductresses-temple · 6 years

Text

Late Nights

So...I desperately needed a little Drarry fluff tonight so I decided to go with Harry trying to comfort his tiny drunk boyfriend

——————————————————

“He didn’t mean it.”

Harry was met with no response. Sighing, he crawled up onto the bed, sliding in behind Draco. He wrapped his arms loosely around the blonde’s waist, nuzzling his neck. His boyfriend had been quiet and morose since he’d Apparated them home from drinks at the Leaky. All it had taken was one off handed remark from a ridiculously intoxicated Ron Weasley and an equally intoxicated Draco Malfoy was rendered speechless. Harry had no idea what had been said.

He went to the bar to buy the next round and came back to find the atmosphere completely changed. Hermione glared daggers at a tomato red Ron. Pansy looked ready to kill, or maim, or at the very least vitally injure his best mate. Draco...Draco was tight lipped and glassy eyed and refused to say a word.

“Draco…we’ve talked about this. How can I fix it if you won’t tell me what’s wrong?”

“It isn’t your job or to fix everything, Potter.”

Potter. Oh, Harry was in for such a long night. He sighed again, as if the noise would somehow give him more strength, more energy, more something to deal with his emotionally constipated boyfriend.

“Alright,but I thought we had a deal, yeah? You try to open up more and I learn to tell people ‘no.’ That was the plan…” was Harry really going to guilt Draco into talking?

“and I was under the impression that plan was important to both of us.” Welp, looks like he was.

Draco twisted around to stare at him, clearly seeing through his manipulations. He tsked lightly, falling more heavily into Harry’s arms. “Never pegged you as the type to lay on a guilt trip, Potter.”

“Mm, not my finest moment,” he placed a gentle kiss to Draco’s neck, holding him a bit tighter.

“Talk to me, love, please?”

Silence stretched between them. Sighing for what felt like the umpteenth time, Harry began to pull away until he felt Draco’s hands suddenly clutch his own, drawing him closer. Something wet hit his hand. Then another. Then another. His heart sank as he realized Draco was crying. Draco rarely cried, not since the war, not even in his nightmares anymore.

“Draco…”

“He told me I don’t deserve you,” he whispered fiercely. He clutched to Harry’s hands as if he feared he’d disappear...or leave...suddenly realize that Ron was right.

“Draco,” Harry fought to wrench his hands free, scrambling off the bed until he was on his knees in front of the blonde. His heart twisted in his chest to see Draco’s face red and scrunched up in a vain attempt to stop the tears from falling.

“Oh, love,” Harry cupped his cheeks softly, resting his forehead against Draco’s.

“You know Ron’s a complete tosser when he’s drunk. You know he didn’t mean it like that, love.” His words of comfort only seemed to make Draco cry harder. Harry grimaced. The entire situation was giving him fifth year Cho Chang flashbacks. He was bollocks at comforting crying people.

“I don’t deserve you, Ha-Harry,” Draco hiccuped, sliding awkwardly off the bed until he landed in a heap in Harry’s lap, wrapping his arms around his neck.

“What have I ever done to deserve you?” Draco was clearly still sloshed if the way he spoke at a snail’s pace to keep from slurring his words was any indication. Harry doubted he would remember anything come morning but in the moment, Draco had asked him a question. Harry could answer questions much better than he could comfort crying people.

“Lots of things, love,” Harry shimmied around Draco until he’d managed to get his t-shirt off and dabbed at his lover’s face, kissing his forehead tenderly.

“For starters, you didn’t kill Dumbledore. You saved my arse when we got captured and wound up at the Manor. You threw me your wand so I could defeat Vol-“

“None of that is good enough, Harry. If I had been on the right side of the war…” They had the same argument more times than Harry could count. Draco never gave himself any credit for the things he’d done to help keep Harry alive long enough to fulfill the prophecy. He was always so hard on himself.

“Okay,” Harry conceded, kissing Draco’s left cheek and then his right.

“You’re the one who had Grimmauld Place renovated. You’re the one who got Sirius’ motorcycle back from Hagrid. You pulled the strings to get Sirius’ name cleared and got the burial plot next to mum and dad for him. You got your mum and Andromeda speaking again so Teddy has even more family in his life. You, Draco Malfoy, have against all odds, become friends with Hermione Granger and a gaggle of Weasley’s even if Ron could use a swift kick in the arse or two tonight. Draco, I never, ever thought you had to deserve me, but you do, either way. You’re the one who always reminds me to eat, you’re the one who makes sure I don’t forget half of the engagements I volunteer myself for, and we both know that if you didn’t dress me for public events...I’d be a walking fashion disaster.”

That earned him a small, watery chuckle. It was the most beautiful thing Harry had heard all night. He smiled, trailing butterfly kisses along Draco’s jawline.

“You’re the one who bought me the most gorgeous snake when I was finally ready to have a pet again. You even let said snake sleep in our bed despite staunchly telling me you would never do so in a million years when you first got him. You come with me to every appointment with my Mind Healer even though all I you do is sit in the lobby. You made a special tea blend just to help me get to sleep after my nightmares. You’re the only person who doesn’t give a bloody fuck that I’m Harry Potter because to you I’m-“

“Harry. Just Harry,” Draco sighed lightly, smiling when he saw the way Harry’s eyes lit up even in the dim lightning of their bedroom.

“Exactly. I’m just Harry and now that I’ve gotten a smile out of you, I find it fit to inform you that Just Harry’s arse is numb and he’d like very much if his gorgeous blonde boyfriend could crawl back into bed so he can cuddle him senseless.”

A blonde brow quirked upward in amusement before Draco’s head flew back and he let out a loud, barking laugh. Sirius’ laugh. What Harry had discovered to be the Black family laugh. It was like music to Harry.

“Soppy git,” Draco rolled his eyes, disentangling himself from Harry before striding over to the wardrobe so he could change.

“I may be a soppy git but the last time I checked, I also happen to be the love of your life so watch it, Malfoy.”

“You’re delusional, Potter,” Draco muttered but as Harry discarded his jeans and crawled into bed he could see a blush tinting Draco’s pale cheeks.

“You’ll be crawling into my bed in the next ten seconds so I can’t be too delusional.”

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

Draco slid into bed, a half hearted scowl marring his face “Shut up,” he grumbled. He fluffed his pillow a bit before sinking down fully into the bed, crossing his arms over his chest as he pouted. Harry thought his boyfriend was the cutest bloke in all of London when he pouted...not that he’d ever tell Draco that. Despite what his reputation at Hogwarts might have indicated, he didn’t have a death wish.

“Fine, you win,” Harry leaned over, looking at Draco through his lashes, waiting for the inevitable.

“Why do I even love you?” Draco sighed dramatically, leaning over to kiss Harry softly. He couldn’t help but moan when Harry deepened the kiss, pulling him close by his waist.

“Haven’t the foggiest,” Harry murmured as they pulled apart “but I’m damn lucky in any case.” He ignored the gentle swat to his arm and rested his head on Draco’s chest, loving the feeling of silk against his face and Draco’s fingers lazily trailing through his hair.

“I’m sending your Weasel a Howler full of showtunes tomorrow.”

Harry chuckled deeply “I’ll be sure Hermione conveniently forgets to give him a hangover potion in the morning.”

Draco hummed softly, his eyelids heavy and barely open. “Best boyfriend ever,” he whispered, slumber claiming him quickly.

“G’night, love.” Harry curled more protectively around Draco before falling asleep beside him. He knew Draco was right and that it wasn’t his job to “fix” everything. But this he could do. Making sure his boyfriend fell asleep each night knowing how loved, how appreciated, how deserving, and absolutely perfect he was...Harry could do that. He always wanted to do that.

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hopeymchope · 6 years

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To give you some more difficult writing tasks, some Naegi angst after Kirigiri's execution? (I love these characters I swear)

This is a sequel to this brutal request for a Kirigiri execution because @thedanganrompaumberon enjoys torturing me. :P

Throughout the execution, Makoto Naegi was torn between watching in glassy-eyed horror, screaming in sympathetic agony, and shutting his eyes as though he could wish it all away. His legs felt weak. His throat quickly burned from the heat of the flames and the intensity of his cries. And then, when it finally end, he fell to his knees and wept.

He screamed and cried until he thought he might vomit. His sobs became gasps for air. Even when he felt an unknown hand gently lay upon his back, he didn’t stop.

Makoto didn’t know how many minutes had passed when he opened his eyes and attempted to get us bearings. He could feel that he’d wound up on his back, but he was still disoriented when he saw the ceiling through his tear-clouded eyes. Sitting up, he looked around to discover that he’d somehow returned to room. Makoto presumed that he’d walked back absent-mindedly, leaving his brain functions to focus on grief. Then again, perhaps someone had carried him there. Not that it mattered either way.

Makoto wiped his eyes and his nose with the sleeve of his hoodie, then pulled his student handbook from his pocket. He began to scroll through the list of rules provided to them so far.

I wish I knew what she’d been up to before, he thought. But this… this seems like something she’d do.

“Rule #1: Students may reside only within the school. Leaving campus is an unacceptable use of time.”

But the Hope’s Peak campus encompasses a lot of buildings, right? Makoto thought. So then maybe we can leave the building and still be within the ‘rules.’ Maybe Monokuma even intends to take us to another building at some point. Still, he didn’t see how that information would be easy to exploit in their current situation.

“Rule #2: ‘Nighttime’ is from 10 pm to 7 am. Some areas are off-limits at night, so please exercise caution.”

It doesn’t say if we’ll be punished or how, he thought. And why would the mastermind shut down some areas for any amount of time if he has total control of the school? Maybe he’s going to those places during the night? That might explain the kitchen being closed. He probably needs to close it so he can get access to food for himself. We might be able to catch sight of him that way.

“Rule #3: Sleeping anywhere other than the dormitory will be seen as sleeping in class and punished accordingly.”

I wonder if there’s only one kind of ‘punishment’ with Monokuma, Makoto considered. Maybe he has-

His thought process was interrupted by a knock at the door. He shot an annoyed glance at the door, then returned to the handbook.

Rule #5 only says that violence against Monokuma is prohibited, but it doesn’t say how that will be enforced. And yet, we already know the punishment. Enoshima-san died from it. So that suggests-

The knocking became louder. “Naegi?” a voice called. “I know you’re in there!”

Makoto furrowed his brow. It was Aoi Asahina at the door. He didn’t bother to look at the door this time. “Go away,” he said firmly.

“Naegi… “ he heard Hina say sadly. “Please come to the door.”

He turned to regard the door with a small frown. The sorrow in her voice…

Makoto got off the bed with a sigh and walked to the door of his room, slipping the handbook back into his pocket as he went. He cracked the doro open just enough to peek half of his face through, allowing him to see Asahina’s face on the other side. Her mouth was trapped in a concerned frown, and her eyes looked bloodshot.

“Yeah?” Makoto asked simply.

Hina attempted a small smile. “Feeling any better?” she asked with a faux-cheeriness.

Makoto didn’t answer. “It’s smarter to stay away from me,” he told her.

Her mouth fell open slightly. “Wha… why would you say that?” she asked. “I’m… we’re running out of people we can trust. I just want-”

He cut her off, answering in a monotone: “It’s dangerous to care too much about anyone in here,” he warned.

Hina bit her lip in frustration. “So you regret trusting Kirigiri now?!” she spat.

That was all it took to make Makoto throw the door open with a THWAM. “Of course not!” he shouted back at her. “I’d NEVER regret trusting Kiri OR knowing her!” He shoved his right hand into his pocket, placing the purple ribbon he’d shoved there between his thumb and forefinger. “Kirigiri-san… “ he said softly. His gaze drifted down to his pocket as he withdrew the ribbon from inside. “There’s something about her that made me…. I mean, I almost started to remember something. Something I’ve forgotten, somehow.” He explained haltingly. “I… I could tell she was… “ His voice shrank to a whisper. “I don’t know how I know this, but… Kiri was… special.”

Hina clenched both of her fists. “Then what the hell is your problem?!” she demanded. “You think that cutting yourself off from us is gonna-”

“I’m trying to protect you,” he stated in a shaky voice. “A lot of us have chosen someone to trust and paired up with them to work together. You put your faith in Ogami-san. Ishimaru-kun and Owada-kun, they trusted each other. Me? I had Maizono-san and Kirigiri-san… “

Tears filled Asahina’s eyes. “Don’t you dare blame yourself for what happened to Maizono-san and Kirigiri-san!”

Makoto closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. “I don’t think it’s my fault,” he told her. “Not directly, anyway… ”

Hina’s arms fell limp. She stared blankly, utterly lost. “What, then?” she pressed. “How are you… “ Her voice trailed off. Her face scrunched up, then suddenly stretched, leaving both her mouth and eyes open wide. “You think the mastermind is making certain people die?!”

Makoto opened his eyes, now glistening with fresh tears. “Trapping Maizono-san’s bandmates and threatening to destroy her career. Promising to reveal Owada-kun’s dark secret. Telling everyone that Ogami-san was spying on us. Even putting Kirigiri-san in a situation where she had to kill someone to save her own life… it could… be a pattern.”

Hina’s expression collapsed into grief for a few long seconds. “Yo-you’re not her,” she argued, trying to find some kind of reason to doubt it. “You can’t just… you can’t find some thin connecty-thing and make everything… “ Her words trailed off as her body finally slouched in defeat.

“l’ll never be her,” Makoto agreed with a sad, rueful smile. He slipped her hair ribbon back into his pocket. “I’ve never known anybody like her,” he went on. Awe and respect crept into his tone. “In my heart, I know she could’ve gotten us out of here. She was the key to our escape. That’s why someone has to try and do things the way she would… if she was still here.”

Makoto surprised Hina by stepping out from the room and maneuvering around her. As he turned to head to the left of his room, Hina’s body straightened up. She slapped her cheeks with both hands, hitting her face three times in quick succession. “No, no, NO!” she insisted. As she closed both of her hands into fists once more, she continued, “I refuse to believe we’re getting punished just for caring about each other!”

Naegi only half-shrugged. As he turned back towards her, Hina couldn’t help but think about how worn out he looked under the fluorescent lights. “I thought maybe I’d go find Monokuma,” Makoto said glumly. “Y’know…. maybe see how smart he is…”

Hina shook her head. “Don’t be stupid over this,” she begged him. “Please, Naegi. Think of what Kirigiri-san would want. She’d want you to live!”

“Good thing I’m not planning to die,” he said with weak sincerity. “But Kirigiri-san would take chances to get to the truth. She’d put herself at risk to put all of us closer to freedom. She even proved herself guilty in the trial so that we’d all go on living.” He sighed raggedly and tried to force a sad, weary smile. “She gave up everything for us,” Makoto said as his voice cracked with emotion. “And I have no right to do anything less.”

#danganronpa #asks #my writing #angst #The concept of crying so hard that you wind up completely losing track of where you are or how you got there?#that's happened to me #it's pretty wild #i don't recommend it #but that's my personal life touch in this one #requests

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spellingwasp · 6 years

Text

Ne me plaignez pas; I was born for this.

“Stars are beautiful, but they may not take an active part in anything, they must just look on for ever. It is a punishment put on them for something they did so long ago that no star now knows what it was. So the older ones have become glassy-eyed and seldom speak (winking is the star language), but the little ones still wonder.”

-J.M. Barrie, “Peter Pan”

This France, like an old star, was often too still, too prone to staring off into the distance with glassy eyes; saying little, eating less than that. Some of his vigour returned with the distant ringing of shots being fired and the echoes of thrown mortars bursting against the struggling green of the French countryside, anachronistic glee in his voice as he rallied his tired men with a mad gleam in his eyes that flickered through battle and dulled to banked embers by nightfall.

At a venture, when things seemed particularly hopeless, Scotland looked askance at France, wild-eyed and hair shorn close, efficiently (but viciously) pulling a tourniquet around his arm tighter with his teeth before shouldering his gun once again with a tight-lipped expression.

“What say you then,” Scotland began, grinning helplessly and running his fingers over the last of his rounds, counting them and recounting them and thinking that he had, at some point, been up against worse odds, “that we give them back a bit of the hell they gave us?”

France was silent for a long moment and Scotland was beginning to think he’d been ignored until a slim, long-fingered (familiar) hand settled heavily on his broad shoulder in the darkness, sliding down his arm in idle exploration, settling briefly in the crook of his elbow, lighting for a moment on his mud-flecked wrist, before seizing his much larger hand in a bone-creaking vice grip that shocked the breath out of him in one gusty exhale.

“Why not,” France returned in a murmur, his smile half-lost in the fading light. “To die would be an awfully big adventure.”

Scotland wanted to say–many things, probably. More than their tattered dignity would allow, more than what they didn’t already know. So, with the same single-bloody-mindedness that had gotten him this far, he steadily crushed the tiny voice whispering nonsense in the back of his head until it went silent.

He wanted to say–something, but he wasn’t the poetic one out of his brothers and all his beauty was written into the bones of the land and not laden heavy on his tongue.

He wanted to speak, but he couldn’t; so he didn’t.

And in that spare moment between one break in the bullet fire and the next hail of it, he listened to France inhale deeply, impatiently, and watched him jam the dented helmet onto his head, knocking it into place with a practiced fist, calloused fingers tightening straps, adjusting grips, straightening arms in their holsters.

Quick as a thought, he threw himself up the sides of their trench with a sardonic laugh, and the glance he threw over his shoulder back to Scotland felt like a benediction of the most bittersweet sort. He found himself laughing as well as he levered himself up and tore after France, lungs heaving like bellows.

He wanted to speak, but he couldn’t.

After all, there were other words for this.

#hetalia #APH France #APH Scotland #Vague WW setting #scofra #cricketwrites

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imagineclaireandjamie · 6 years

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Hi, I dont know if you have watched 3x09 yet. But in one of the scenes we see a flash of a Fraser kilt and I was wondering could you do a prompt where Jamie wears it again for the first time again? And maybe have a bit where he gives Claire her own piece to wear. Thanks in advance. 😃✌

The Advantages of a Kilt

We’d been one month in North Carolina, and had spent most of it trying to determine where we stood among the locals. Our temporary homestead, located within a day’s ride of Salem, had seen a steady stream of visitors since our arrival. Whether they were new or longtime residents, the majority had given us a sincere—if not slightly awed—welcome upon hearing “MacDubh” had come to the Colonies.

To my pleasant surprise, any fears of any being ostracized (I’d been a stranger in a strange land far too many times) were unfounded. Rather, the company of so many Scotsmen made our home feel as any home should: Warm, inviting, and most of all, safe.

I could sense that Jamie felt it too. While Scotland would always be a part of him, thriving in the very marrow of his bones, he conversed with our new neighbors like lifelong friends. And justly so: For the first time since 1741, he wasn’t pursued by men, or worse, by old ghosts. His comfort had even extended to his clothing—a progression I was more than happy to see. He hadn’t worn a kilt in since my return—such garments being outlawed after the Rising—but now that we were safely across the Atlantic, and far from the Red Coats who hunted him, Jamie had dug out his Fraser tartan.

Just yesterday I had seen him out in the fields, making arrangements for the fall harvest in his red and green kilt. The sight of it, alone, had made me pause at the laundry lines, if only to appreciate the confident way he carried himself.

Confidence had always come naturally to him, of course, but it had increased without the shadow of persecution. And this first sight of him, wearing his kilt, only convinced me further that we were here to stay. I’d sighed, happy at the thought of permanence and hoping it would last.

Presently, I was grinding herbs inside our small cabin. Jamie, clad in that same kilt and a pair of eyeglasses, was reading a letter from Jenny. His leg was propped up on the lower spindle of a stool, right knee bared to the shafts of waning sunlight. For all women’s talk of abs and biceps, I thought a man’s knees were vastly underrated. I said as much.

“Knees?” Jamie replied. “Well, if that’s all it takes…” He repositioned himself on stool so that his knee was closer to me, more exposed. I spotted a small scar there—a silken white line that stretched from the top of the cap to the bottom—and wondered where he’d gotten it.

Though I’d been reunited with Jamie for over a year, I was still taken aback by these reminders of our separation. The decades we’d spent apart occasionally reared their heads, announcing themselves in the different cadences of Jamie’s speech or, in this case, the marks of his body. A familiar sadness pulled at me—a regret for every change I had not been able to witness, cherish, or mourn.

I turned back to my work, wanting to distract myself from these gaps in my knowledge of Jamie’s life. But still—even I could not ignore that damn knee.

“So what d’ye think, Sassenach?” he asked then. “Perhaps it’s no’ as pretty as it once was, but it’s still a fine knee.”

“Very fine indeed,” I said, still grinding away with my stone pestle. Feigning nonchalance, I asked, “Does this mean the kilt has been reinstated into your wardrobe?”

“Aye, if the lady desires it.”

I studied him, and tilted my head in mock consideration, as if such a thing had never crossed my mind.

“Mmm. I suppose she does.”

“Good,” he replied. “Much more comfortable than trousers, kilts.”

“They certainly have their advantages,” I said, purposely avoiding his eyes.

“And what might those be, Sassenach?”

I didn’t have to look up to see the expression on his face. How the slight curve of his lips would indicate he knew full well what advantages I meant—and all the ways in which he’d put them to good use.

I did have to look up, however, to understand what the bloody hell he did next. Somehow, he’d already divested himself of his shirt and had tied it neatly across his chest, as though to staunch an invisible wound. His arm had grown suddenly stiff, and he held shoulder at an unnatural angle.

His knee, of course, remained fully exposed.

With a false grimace, he said, “Hurts bad enough, sitting still. I couldna manage a horse…”

I rolled my eyes.

“Oh, I see what you’re playing at, James Fraser.”

If it weren’t the smells wafting through the open window—so distinctly North Carolinian—I might have believed we were back in Scotland. I could almost envision the two of us during our first meeting in 1743: He, a 23-year old Highlander injured from a raid. I, a 20th century outlander stranded in a different century. The both of us brought together by the whims of chance or—if one believed in such things—by fate.

“My shoulder’s dislocated, Mistress,” he said, doing his best to sound young and gravely wounded. “I canna move my arm.”

I smiled, kneeling down beside him, and left a trail of kisses from his shoulder across his collarbone. His laughter, a rumble far deeper than it had once been, vibrated against my lips as he gasped and exclaimed, “It doesna hurt anymore!”

“It will,” I recited dutifully. But even so, Jamie seemed notice a deficiency in my performance. After his eyes appraised my figure, clad in a homely woolen gown, one of his brows raised with a suggestive, “Hmm…”

I understood his meaning immediately.

“Jamie,” I said, looking towards the door. Duncan had been sent out to fetch firewood and would surely be back any minute. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m seriously injured, Sassenach,” he replied. “ And yer a nurse wi’ a fine touch—though if memory serves me, I dinna think yer meant to be dressed so respectably.”

I rolled my eyes, but with one final peek towards the still-empty doorway, I dressed down to my shift. If it wasn’t the exact outfit I’d worn on my first trip through the stones, it was at least something Mrs. Fitz would blanche at.

A breeze lifted the thin fabric, sending a chill down my spine as the wool pooled on the floor.

Apparently, the chill had made itself known elsewhere, for my husband was ogling my breasts with a glassy-eyed stare. I took a step forward and managed in the most authoritative voice I could, given the circumstances: “Not a wet nurse.”

“Aye,” Jamie mumbled, quickly falling back into his role. Still, he gored me with his eyes, fighting the grin that tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“You musn’t move the joint for two or three days,” I continued pointedly. The words came easily, like our encounter in that tiny cottage had happened only yesterday. “When you begin to use it again, go very slowly at first, and—”

“Slowly, is it?” Jamie said, the ‘injured’ arm reaching towards me. His hand inched its way beneath my shift, and upwards, to begin a torturous rhythm between my legs. “How’s that, Sassenach?” he asked eventually, and I could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “Slow enough for you?”

I moaned.

There may have been scars, wrinkles, and age spots Jamie and I had not been there to see, but a different kind of familiarity had remained unchanged over 20 years. In the span of a few minutes, I knew Jamie could still unravel me completely—and I reveled in the surety of his knowledge, and in my own surety that he had it.

Thoughts of Duncan completely forgotten, I urged his fingers to move faster.

“Faster? Yer breaking your rules, Sassenach,” Jamie tsked, getting to his feet as he continued to work against me. “If I did that, you’d punish me for it.”

In response, I dug my nails into the vulnerable skin of his back, while my other hand snaked under his kilt. I held him, then, in more ways than one—and this, too, we understood.

More than willing to concede, Jamie allowed me to push him towards the table, both of us pawing at the clothes we still wore. My jars and notebooks were shoved aside, their clatter against the floorboards outmatching the noises we were making ourselves. Duncan, if he heard, would likely think a bear had invaded our home. At the moment, I couldn’t care less.

With Jamie now standing in front of me, and I sitting on the table, I wrapped my legs around his torso. Lips and tongues met in a hard and frenzied dance, and I broke away, breathless, to bite the lobe of his ear.

“I’ve half a mind to show you the advantages of a kilt,” I said, “Though as your nurse, I’m not sure it’d be professional.”

“Show me,” Jamie whispered, smiling into my neck. “I like it when ye break your rules.”

#;mod liv #hehe #book: drums of autumn #one shot

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