#YES LOOK AT ANTHONY MY FINEST WORK | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

airis-paris14 · 3 years

Text

Wonder What She Thinks Epilogue

Summary: She learns to put herself first and he loses the best thing he ever had.

A/N: A new chapter of Starlight coming up next.

Warnings: None

Masterlist

It's Never Wrong When You're In Love...

I haven’t felt this type of thing in a while. I thought I lost myself in love until I found you.

- “Natural” Sabrina Claudio

I’m telling you right now from this day on, I’ve already weighed out the pros and cons, your just the woman I want.”

-"4evermore" Anthony David (ft. Algebra)

“Mrs. Jordan,” Michael leaned over and whispered in his bride’s ear. “Yes, Mr. Jordan?” Zoe beamed as she and her new husband waited for their cue to walk into the reception party. “You look absolutely breathtaking today. Coming down that aisle I was watching you like hot damn that’s my lady,” Michael grinned as Zoe slapped his arm, laughter falling from her lips. “Shut up, you were crying too,” the bride reminded, allowing Michael to wrap his arm around her waist.

“Yeah but that was the internal monologue,” he insisted as one of the tech workers handed each of them a microphone. The intro to “4evermore” by Anthony David began to blare on the other side of the banquet hall doors. “You ready?”

Zoe nodded and took her husband's hand. The doors opened on cue and the couple walked in belting their respective parts of the song.

“Forever’s a mighty long time but I really wanna spend it with you. I shine when you shine. There's really no substitute. 4evermore,”

The two danced around each other singing along with the track. The audience joined in clapping as the newlyweds continued their performance. “I’m making my plans just to be with you. It’s you and me, babe, till the days are through, And I ain’t ashamed, love, to say I do,” Michael crooned

They went through the chorus again before Zoe got her chance to shine, consequently surprising the guests who’d never heard her sing, “Pick a tree to carve our names, let the world know it’s not a game. Last longer than a wedding ring, generations tattooed with the love we bring. From the seeds we sow, to the time it takes to grow. Long enough to show you, I won’t let go of you. Without you, I'm incomplete, like this love song without this beat. I’m saying you are the man I need,” Zoe sang causing the crowd to erupt in cheers.

“I didn’t know Zoe could sing,” Shuri leaned over to her brother who was carrying both of his children in his arms. “She doesn’t often, but she’s great,” he nodded, trying to stop the regret flooding through his veins by bouncing his fussy two, almost, three-year-olds. He watched as their mother spun and sang with her husband. A man that wasn’t him. A man who was making her laugh and having fun on the dance floor as Camden started the rap verse in the song. His attention was then pulled to Nakia, as she laughed and danced on the sidelines of the dance floor cheering on Zoe and Michael with the rest of the bridesmaids and groomsmen.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, give it up for the new Mr. And Mrs. Michael B. Jordan. That was the best wedding entrance I’ve ever seen,” the DJ announced as the crowd began settling back in their seats. Zoe-Iman laughed as Michael handed over their mics and pulled her in close for their first dance. “I’m serious, who giving the new Mrs. Jordan a record deal, cause sis got some mad pipes. I know all this money in here, there’s gotta be a music exec looking for fresh talent. But, imma get off my soapbox so this new union can enjoy their first dance as husband and wife.”

Soon, “Butterflies Pt.2” by Queen Naija was drifting from the speakers as Michael gently swayed with his new wife, the couple singing along softly to each other. “You going to ask Nakia to dance?” Shuri caught her brother’s attention as she grabbed her niece from his arms. Not wanting to be left behind, Meluzmi began wriggling from his father’s arms to get down to the floor with his sister. “I don’t think Nakia wants to talk to me.” The king glanced again at his ex-wife dancing with Camden. “Nonsense, you all were friends first,” Ramonda interrupted, stooping to kiss both of her grandchildren. “That is why your father, and hers, thought you would make a great match.”

“You all are running the country well together, for over a year now.” Shuri pointed out smiling as the toddlers began bopping along to the song with each other. “Business conversations do not mean she will want to dance with me. Besides, she seems like she is having a good time with Camden.”

Shuri shook her head, “I’m taking the twins to dance, Mama, do something with him please,” the now 19-year old shook her head and headed towards the floor as the song shifted, signaling that other couples could join the wedding party on the floor. “Dance with me,” Ramonda extended a hand and the son turned king accepted and escorted her onto the floor.

“You know,” the queen mother started a few seconds later, “the first time you brought Zoe home, I was sure that within a year or two, you’d be telling your father you wanted to marry her.”

T’Challa smiled, “I was that obvious?”

Ramonda chuckled, “Painfully. You were looking at her like a lovesick fool the whole time she was there. Your father tried several times to give you his permission to date him. Even blatantly asking if you all were dating, but you were so stubborn.”

T’Challa looked away and swallowed, “It was not my finest hour and it will forever remain one of my biggest regrets, but I am happy for her.”

“You are, but you are also jealous. Zoe gave you plenty of chances, she even bore your children T’Challa but you were so stubborn, you lost your chance. Now that she’s happy, you should try to find happiness of your own. If not with Nakia, try again with someone. Don’t spend your life believing these were the only two women who could ever have been a great wife. Zoe found her happiness, Nakia is working on hers, it’s time you find your own.”

“Umama-” the king started. “Happiness outside of your children T’Challa, you need adult company too. Company you actually like, the elders don’t count.”

The king sighed and glanced across the room, “I’d like to try again, but I fear I will always wonder what Nakia and Zoe think of her.”

“That is your problem, you always wonder what everyone else is thinking, son.”

“You loved Zoe, but you were so afraid that we would hate her, you hid her and lost her. You had feelings for Nakia, but you wondered what she would think about what you had done to Zoe, so you pushed her away. Stop wondering what one girl will think about the other. Find your happiness, then bring her around. You always attract wonderful people, and we all always love each other. Think about it son, who else’s ex-wife is good friends with the woman her husband was cheating and had children with?”

Ramonda laughed, watching Zoe and Nakia dance with the rest of the wedding party. The king joined in chuckling as his mother continued, “Stop pitting the women against each other before they can even meet. Just let yourself fall in love freely son. We just want you to be happy.”

Zoe instinctively held her head further back as a smirk crossed her new husband’s lips. “Now, Michael, this is a very expensive white dress-”

“And you look beautiful baby-,” he raised his hand with a piece of cake in it closer to Zoe’s face. “Michael,” Zoe whined as his smirk turned into a full-on grin, “What? I’m just trying to feed my beautiful wife.”

“No, you are not!” Zoe laughed and dodged Michael’s hand, “I don’t wanna ruin my makeup, I paid a lot for it,” the bride pouted. “Fine,” the groom sighed, “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“Thank you,” Zoe beamed and allowed him to feed her the piece of cake, she leaned in, kissed his lips, and smashed the piece of cake and icing onto his face, “Gotcha,” she cackled as Michael wiped icing from his mouth. The guests doubled over in laughter as he wrapped a giggling Zoe up in his arms and shook her. “You play dirty,” he laughed. “Mama!” two voices cried out as Ka’aulani and Meluzmi ran to their mom and stepfather. “Cake,” Meluzmi pleaded and his twin nodded her head in agreement. “Okay baby, “Zoe smiled. Michael cut them two small pieces and handed Zoe a plate. The caterers took over cutting up the rest of the large cake for the couple as they led their children over to the main table.

Michael took his self-proclaimed best friend Meluzmi in his lap and let him try and figure out how to spear the soft pieces of dessert, before eventually helping him out. Not wanting her daughter to ruin her dress or hair, Zoe still couldn't understand how so much of the toddler’s meals ended up in her curls, the mother alternated between feeding the toddler and herself. The small family sat sharing cake in silence, bobbing softly to the beat of Kiss Me More while watching their guests tear it up on the dance floor and fight over pieces of cake. “There you two are!” Shuri sighed obviously frustrated, “ T’Challa is gonna kill me, he wanted me to keep them so you could enjoy yourself.”

“Girl,” Zoe dismissed. “He will be fine. My babies just wanted some cake and their mommy.”

On cue, the twins giggled. “Are you having fun?”

Shuri shrugged, I’m just glad to see you happy,” The teen admitted. “Yeah but you’re young, you should be out dancing, and not with two-year-olds.”

“I got a cousin, he’s 20, but I think y’all get along great,” Michael grinned and called the boy over. As predicted he and Shuri hit it off and as the party forged ahead, the couple saw the two dancing and shared a fist bump. “We’re definitely the matchmaking couple,” Zoe beamed.

As the party began to wind down hours later, T’Challa approached the couple for the second time that day and cleared his throat. “My mother and I were about to leave, I was gonna take the twins,” the king gestured towards the children sleeping peacefully, each spread over two chairs pushed together. “Oh okay, thank you for coming and babysitting,” Zoe Iman Jordan hugged her former best friend, ex-lover, and the father of her children, “I’m gonna go say goodnight to mama,” she squeezed Michael’s hand before leaving in search of the older matriarch. “I’ll help you grab the kids, '' Michael broke the silence.

T’Challa nodded and they grabbed the slobbering children from their makeshift beds and headed out of the venue to the cars. Once both twins were buckled, they leaned against the car awaiting the women’s arrival. “Michael thank you.”

“For what?” The actor turned to the monarch. “For loving Zoe and for bringing the light back to her life. For taking care of her and loving my children as your own, even when I wasn’t man enough to do the same.”

Michael nodded, “You know for the longest I hated you. I didn’t understand how one man could be so self-involved he couldn’t see how amazing of a woman he had right in his hand. I hated that you messed with Zoe’s head, made her second guess herself. Then I finally got her to a good place, she opened up, we were having a good time, then she found out she was pregnant. You wouldn’t even text her back about your own kids.” T’Challa nodded and shoved his hands in his pockets, “If I could do it all again, I would do it differently believe me.”

I know,” the groom agreed, “but everything happens for a reason. I don’t approve of what you did, but if you had been a good partner, I probably wouldn’t be married to the love of my life right now. So I forgive you. And those kids, they are like my own. I am beyond glad that you’ve stepped up for them. I want them to have their father and a bonus father in their lives. You stay involved and love them, then there are no hard feelings between us.” The acclaimed actor extended a hand and T’Challa accepted his handshake. “You have my word, I’m never leaving them again.”

“Good.” Michael leaned back against the car and crossed his legs, hands stuffed in his tuxedo pockets. “So what’s next for you?” He asked a few beats later.

T’Challa exhaled, “I’m not sure, but I do know I wanna get my life back on track. Find someone and treat her right.”

“Then you do that man,” they stood up off of the car as Ramonda approached. “I just wonder what she’ll think of this family. It’s all a little bizarre isn’t it?”

“Yeah most baby mamas and ex-wives aren’t best friends, especially under our circumstances, but if she loves you and you love her, there’ll always be room in the family.”

“I appreciate that Michael.”

“Shuri staying with Nakia?” The actor asked when the queen mother reached the car. “Yes, she and your cousin have taken quite a liking to each other,” Ramonda raised an eyebrow. “You know me and Zoe will watch out for her,” Michael reassured. “I know, that is the only reason I’m letting her stay,” Ramonda answered.

“We’ll get her back to you safely later tonight. I promise,” The actor shoved his hands in his pocket and stepped back. “I guess we better get going then-”

“Wait,” Zoe walked out of the venue over to the car. “I didn’t get to kiss my babies goodbye,” the mother pouted. Michael laughed as T’Challa rolled his eyes. “Boy, don’t roll your eyes at me before they get stuck like that.” She slapped his chest before opening the car doors and kissing both of her toddlers.”

“Okay, we will swing by to pick them up after we get back. And you have everything packed for them right? You have Meluzmi’s inhaler, and enough clothes and replacement outfits? You got the earplugs too right? They hate heights and the sounds of the plane's engines when-”

“Zoe they will be fine. T’Challa reassured. “And if I don’t have it, you know my mother will make sure they get it. They will be fine. I can do this,” The king grabbed both of her hands and squeezed them gently. “I know, I know,” the young mother sighed, “This is just the longest I have been away from them ever and I’m nervous.” Michael moved up to wrap an arm around his wife’s waist and press a kiss to her forehead. “ Everything will be fine,” he soothed. “I know-”

“Then stop worrying,” T’Challa offered a sad smile, “You deserve this, to be happy, to have a break, to enjoy your honeymoon. You are an excellent mother Zoe, but they have a father too. So enjoy your break, enjoy your marriage. I promise they will be just as alive and happy as they are now when you get back from your trip.”

Zoe nodded and sighed, finally stepping back from the car with Michael at her side. “Okay, see you in three weeks. Thank you all again.”

“Anytime, you know I love my grandbabies.” Ramonda hugged the bride once more before closing the door facing the twins and taking a seat in the backseat next to them. “Ayy, Mike, it’s almost time for the garter toss,” Two of the groomsmen waved the couple over but T’Challa reached for Zoe’s hand. “Can we talk?”

Zoe nodded at her husband letting him know she was okay, he looked the king over once more before heading inside to watch from the doorway. “What’s up?”

“I just wanted you to know that you were right.”

“About what?” the bride squinted. “About deserving to be with someone who can say they love you in and out of the bedroom. You deserve someone who loves you out loud, and I’m glad you found it in Michael.”

Zoe smiled softly, “Thank you. I hope you find the same for yourself. We both deserve someone.”

“I think I already did but I kind of fucked it up...twice,” the king chuckled. “I’ll keep you updated on that front though.”

Zoe Iman nodded. T’Challa gestured to the doorway, “I think you better go though, your husband hasn’t stopped watching.” Zoe laughed, glancing over her shoulder at Michael who was, sure enough, watching from the door. “Yeah... Goodbye T’Challa.” Zoe pulled the king in for a hug before placing a kiss on his cheek.

“Goodbye, Zoe… I love you,” he sighed once she had walked off out of earshot.

Taglist: @almostpurelysmut @blackbypurpose @tchoking @sisterwifeudaku @wikiwakanda @royallyprincesslilly @90sinspiredgirl @thedelightfulone @autumn242 @purple-apricots @kumkaniudaku @queertrex @kaciidubs @halfrican-heat @skysynclair19 @dramaqueenamby @leahnicole1219 @kreolemami @mzbritt @derangedcupcake @chaneajoyyy @lalapalooza718 @ororowrites @leahnicole1219 @sarcastic-sunshines @sarahboseman @faatassbitch @lady-love-and-glitter-roses @cxnismajcr @tchallasbabymama

#t'challa #tchalla black panther #black panther #shuri black panther #black panther imagines #black panther au #black panther fanfic #blackpantherimagines #black panther fanfiction #t'challa x black! reader #nakia x t'challa #t'challa imagine #t'challa x you #t'challa x black!reader #t'challa x oc #t'challa x reader #apbpfics #wwstfic #wwstfics

24 notes · View notes

lovelyirony · 4 years

Note

Hi! “If I fail, I’ll fall apart/Maybe it is all a test/because I feel like I’m the worst / so I always act like I’m the best” -Oh No! This is one of my favorite lyrics ever, and I'd really like to see what you bring out of it :) You're amazing, ily! 💞

what if maria had more of an effect on tony’s upbringing than most? howard’s still a dick but make it funny

Tony has known he was probably not the best human on earth ever since he was five and his dad made a bigger deal out of a dead man’s birthday than his own.

At age five, you don’t really know a lot about the world yet. There were about two things that Tony didn’t know that he wishes he did know:

1.) The word “fuck.” It would have helped with a lot of his situations.

2.) The concept of jealousy. He probably could have gone to a child therapist or some shit, he’s not sure if those even existed back then, or if his parents would have even let him go.

(After all, he’s supposed to be their perfect little boy, just the right amount of precocious and the other amount being something like genius or respectability.)

It is actually his mother who takes the reins on his life. Howard has effect, he has huge effects.

Maria is a socialite who absolutely refuses to let her son succumb to Howard’s devil-may-care attitude that he’s so infamous for. Her son is going to be well-mannered, respectable, and know exactly how to treat a lady of high social standing.

This involves training at a young age. Six would be a fine age.

It’s not Howard who sends him to boarding schools, it’s Maria. She ensures that he goes to the finest schools available, most abroad in Europe. She trains him out of the American accent, into something a bit more refined.

He spends summers learning different languages and different skills. He learns how to fence by the time he’s ten, and becomes quite proficient at it.

She quizzes him on established families, up-and-coming families, and never keeps him far from her sight.

Anthony Stark is not going to be a wild-child, she decides.

Anthony isn’t, for the most part. Sure, he usually stays up past what is acceptable for the night to work on some mechanic stuff and uses the word “damn” a bit too much for his mother’s liking, but that’s the reason make-up and apologies were invented.

He follows rules and is known to smile like his mother and enjoy listening to quartets play out in the open air during the summer months. He travels to Europe and participates in various activities and is the talk of many socialites who eagerly await his arrival.

He’s a portrait, holding still for all’s approval, and he’s not quite sure how to move.

That’s troublesome, he thinks.

The problem is this: Anthony Stark doesn’t have any interests outside what is required. He loves working on inventions, and they are necessary for the company to survive, but his father hates any robotic invention he pushes for, and mother thinks that if he tells people he’s rather fond of AC/DC then he’s a plague to society and will be shunned.

(He doesn’t say it to her face but they haven’t shunned Sunset yet, and she’s a whole world of problems, so rock music is the least of their problems.)

There is one thing that he pushes for: university in the United States. He’s been traveling to Europe since he was a child, and he honestly needs to do something for himself.

Maria is not pleased.

“So after I sacrifice so much for you, this is how you repay me?” she asks him over dinner.

He places his fork to the correct side.

“Yes. This is how I am repaying you. By getting a perfectly respectable college degree from a critically-acclaimed university that anyone would be lucky to attend. Not to mention it might reflect badly on Stark Industries if I don’t go to an American college. Do I not trust American institutions to run an American business?”

“You shouldn’t.”

Anthony laughs.

“Mother, they cannot teach me anything that Europe can’t. Let me go to college in the United States. Please.”

“No.”

It takes Howard to convince her, and a.) Howard doesn’t even like Anthony that much, and b.) he also doesn’t like his wife that much.

“He’s going to a damned college here, Maria. We don’t need him to go to any more of that fancy bullshit you call school over there.”

“Fancy bullshit, Howard?! Bullshit?! You mean what has gotten him this far in life and will make him a better man of social standing than you?”

“My god, is social standing all that matters to you? What are your little friends going to do, choke on their silver spoons when they find out that your son is going to an American college?”

Jarvis also convinces her.

“It will be easier to monitor his progress from a shorter distance,” he advises. “And you can visit frequently.”

Anthony gives him a very dirty look. Apparently, he wasn’t supposed to mention that.

Oops.

But, Anthony gets his way. He’s going to MIT, and he has a roommate.

(Okay, so mother doesn’t know that. But he supposes she will if she ever visits. Or maybe not considering if Tony can successfully convince his roommate to “disappear” for at least a day.)

Rhodey does not give a singular shit about high society anything or anyone. Anthony Stark is a name he registers, but doesn’t recognize.

“Anthony’s a mouthful,” he says a week into their cohabitation. “You have a nickname or something?”

“Ah...no? I mean, not yet,” Anthony says.

“How do you feel about Tony?”

“I...I suppose that that is alright.”

“Are you from Europe?”

“No, from New York.”

“Well holy shit, you sure as fuck don’t sound like it.”

Anthony--well, Tony now--learns quite a bit about American schooling and what he’s actually supposed to be doing to pass off as normal.

Rhodey (yeah he got a nickname that ended in ‘y’ too, Tony said he wouldn’t be the only one) takes him to the thrift store and tells him to pick out some clothes.

“...there’s a shirt that’s advertising a restaurant from Montana.”

“And? Does it look hilarious?”

“Is that the point of this?”

“Fashion is supposed to make you like what you’re wearing or like yourself. I swear if you say that those boring black suits make you feel better about yourself, I will be dragging you to any therapist that will take us for at least five dollars.”

“Five dollars?”

“Maybe less if I can negotiate.”

“Hey!”

Tony learns how to have fun. He loves it.

Rhodey makes him go to record stores and find the bargain bin, and they play the warped records and laugh as voices go up and down in pitch. Tony blasts Black Sabbath and Iron Maiden until the RA begs him to go to bed and Rhodey throws all of his pillows off of his bed.

In return, Tony teaches Rhodey how to read other’s facial expressions, dress for any occasion and be the best-looking there, as well as avoiding any sort of conflict by bringing up past embarrassments.

“Are you serious about the color of my shoe affecting my social standing?” Rhodey asks, trying to shove his foot into a shoe that was a brown color that Tony had described as a “golden mahogany.”

“Yes, I’m dead serious.”

“No fucking wonder everyone says eat the rich all of you are so fucking pretentious. It’s brown, Tony.”

“Tell that to any high society woman over fifty.”

“I will.”

As it turns out, he ends up doing it much sooner than anticipated.

Tony’s parents come to visit.

They call him Anthony. Which is gross. Rhodey hasn’t used the name “Anthony” in about six months.

“I wasn’t aware that you were his roommate,” his mother says.

“Well, here I am,” Rhodey says. “Name’s also on the information they sent out to the parents about the living situations.”

Tony tenses as his parents brush off the obvious comment on how little they actually know about his situation and move right into the room.

Maria stops at the huge poster of a rock band.

“I assume that this is...James’?”

“No,” he says timidly. “It’s...it’s mine. Their use of movement on the guitar strings-”

“Take it down,” Maria demands. “It’s unsightly.”

“Oh give the kid a break,” Howard says tiredly. “For once he’s not listening to you talk about the merits of paisley prints.”

“I’m training our son for a more successful life than yours,” Maria hisses. “Of course, you’d have to stay away from your friend Jack to understand that.”

“Rhodey, leave,” Tony says. “Trust me, it gets messier from here.”

He does think about it. How easy it would be to walk out and check in with a couple of his other friends and talk about how crazy Tony’s parents are. How he could check back in near dinner time and then Tony could tell him all about how terribly it went.

But Tony already looks terrible, and he’s doing that weird thing with his hands where he wrings them and then remembers he’s not supposed to wring them and makes it worse.

“No,” Rhodey says. “I am staying until the bitter end. Who knows? Maybe I can give your mom a heart attack when I ask her the difference between kelly and forest green.”

Tony grins.

“You can leave any time, it’s about to get...interesting.”

Tony’s family is quite dysfunctional. They can put on a good front in public, for what it’s worth.

Howard is impressed that Rhodey’s planning on going into the Air Force and then talks about Captain America for a lot of the dinner. Rhodey is very uncomfortable and then asks about business and Maria rolls her eyes and orders another glass of wine.

After Howard finishes up talking about some contract and making vague threats against businesses that Rhodey thinks might actually be in trouble, it’s Maria’s turn.

“So, Rhodey, where is your family from?”

“We live in the Boston area,” Rhodey answers.

“And what do your parents do?”

“Dad works as a consultant for a local construction company, and my mom works as a high school history teacher. They both like their jobs.”

“Hm,” Maria remarks, and it’s so light and casual and yet so cutting. Tony can see how Rhodey squirms, and he can’t just let it stand.

It’s one thing for Maria to cut her own son down until he’s nothing. Still fucked up, but Tony can handle it. He’s been handling it for years.

“Rhodey, how did your mom come to want to know she liked teaching?” Tony asks. “That sounds like it could be really hard to figure out.”

“Oh, well it all started when she was in high school and wanted to change how one of her teachers treated students. It was a really inspiring moment for her.”

“That sounds really cool,” Tony says. “What does she like most about her job?”

“Probably the kids,” Rhodey says.

The conversation carries on about Rhodey’s family until their dinner arrives and his mother manages to cut in with more questions.

“So, what else does your mother do?”

“She volunteers at the local food kitchen and helps some of the younger kids at the after-school program,” Rhodey answers. “She also makes a mean Thanksgiving turkey.”

“Would you look at that,” Tony says. “Mrs. Rhodes sounds like a fine cook, I wish I could say the same for you, mother.”

“Oh?”

Howard actually laughs at that as he signs for the bill.

“The kid is right, Maria. At some points I think your kitchen is only used for decoration.”

“Oh, and you know how to cook, Mr. Stark?” Maria asks, raising her eyebrows. “I’d love to see you make anything other than coffee.”

“I’ll make toast.”

Rhodey laughs, and so does Tony.

“Ready to go?” Tony asks, and part of it is a way to get away from an isolated conversation, and part of it is to make his parents leave for their hotel room sooner.

“Tony, I want to have a talk with you before we retire for the night,” Maria says, and Tony tenses up.

Rhodey can’t protect him from that, and he squeezes Tony’s hand as they walk behind his parents.

“It’ll be okay,” he whispers.

“Maybe,” Tony says. “Maybe.”

Rhodey goes into their building, and Howard waits in the car. He nods to Tony on his way out.

“You’ve...changed,” mother says.

“Well, that’s how humanity goes,” Tony says dryly, looking anywhere but her eyes.

“Rock music? These snappish remarks towards your own mother? I don’t know if this college was such a good idea.”

“It is,” Tony says. “I just...learned new things and incorporated it into my life. Nothing the matter with that.”

“Nothing wrong with that?” Maria reiterates, surprised look on her face. “Rock music is for other people, you know things that others don’t know! You can perform violin and piano, you don’t have to listen to the personal manifestation of a headache!”

“And if I like that headache?!” Tony asks. “If I like something that’s outside of what you approve, why so angry about it? Is it because you finally can’t control every single aspect about my identity? Is it because I’m not like your perfect little toy that you can make walk and talk how you like?”

“You know it’s not that.”

“Isn’t it?” Tony asks. “Because you want me to change every single interest that I’ve found I like by myself. I bet you want me to listen to Bach for fun.”

“I do not want you to change from who you are,” Maria says. “You have eaten at the finest restaurants in the world and now you brag about making something called ramen in a microwave. A microwave?!”

“A surprising amount of families in America have them,” Tony says. “And I’m a college student! I’m supposed to eat crappy food and then laugh about it in twenty years!”

Maria turns red, and her lips screw up into a tight line.

“I don’t think you should be here,” Maria says. “You’re forgetting your place. Your roommate is...”

“My roommate is what,” Tony starts, glaring at her. “My roommate is what, mother? You want to honestly finish that sentence?”

“He’s not good enough!” she yells at him. “You are a Stark!”

Tony stares at her for a moment. And then another moment.

“Leave,” he says. “Get the hell out of here.”

“You don’t tell me-”

“I do,” Tony says, using his full height to his advantage. “You can tell me how many times I’ve fucked up as many times as you want, but you never talk about James that way ever again.”

He twists on his heel, forcefully opening the door to the dormitory and not once looking back.

Rhodey finds Tony back in his room when he gets back from getting ready for the night, and Tony is clutching a pillow and laying face down on the bed.

“You know, you’ll have to turn over eventually to get some fresh air.”

“Leave me to die, Rhodey. Oh my god.”

“That bad?”

“That bad. She’s probably going to try and put me in a prestigious college or some shit.”

“Oof. Wanna fake your death and run away?”

“Please.”

“Well, too bad. I have a test next week, and you need to do your poetry notes.”

“But poetry sucks.”

“It only sucks because you don’t like modern poetry, suck it up and pull it out of your ass or something.”

“Ugh, fine.”

Maria is trying very hard to get her son away from MIT and towards a fancy school in Europe. She doesn’t even care where, just away from his roommate and his classic rock posters and the dormitory. Anthony needs an environment where he can focus on networking, meeting more people.

Howard says no.

He can’t even bother to remember her son’s birthday, and he says “no.”

“We need Anthony to go to an American school, and nothing is better besides maybe Cal Tech, and he’ll have to finish another year of college and Hammer Industries can use that as a sign of an unsteady heir.”

“Well then get rid of his roommate.”

“I’m not doing that, you’re asking for a PR death sentence.”

“He’s a bad influence.”

“No he’s not,” Howard says tiredly. “The kid is finally standing up for himself, and you hate that.”

“I don’t hate that he can be his own person.”

“You just wish he were his own person under your specifications,” Howard drawls. “He’s staying at MIT, that’s final.”

“Hmph.”

Howard rolls his eyes.

“Go back to planning whatever charity gala you’re hosting this week, honey. I’m sure things will be fine.”

Maria doesn’t speak against her husband, just fumes and decides she’s going to try to get Jarvis’ opinion.

Edwin is also a flat no.

“He will not forgive you if you do this,” he says, pouring her tea and adding in one sugar cube. “He loves his school, he talks about it all the time.”

“And what, he calls you?”

Edwin Jarvis realizes he shouldn’t have mentioned this.

“At times, madam. At times. Will that be all?”

“...that will be all.”

Jarvis does bring up a good point. Besides her, of course, he knows Anthony best, even if he does keep calling him Tony. Anthony will grow out of that nickname soon enough.

She has hope for her boy. He will most likely grow out of this silly little phase in life and finally appreciate her lessons.

Tony Stark doesn’t.

Well, he learns her lessons. Can appreciate some of them and how much he hates that he uses them.

But he learns a far more important lesson from Rhodey, and it shapes everything:

“You’re your own person, and you’re far better as your own person,” Rhodey says. “I wanted to kick the shit out of you when we first lived together.”

“You did?”

“Of course I did!” Rhodey explains, gesturing with his coffee mug and getting yet another stain on the pillow. (Laundry again. Ugh.) “You talked like you were from a movie from the forties, it sucked.”

“Oh, you mean the transatlantic accent?”

“It’s pretentious, just ditch it. You’re interesting enough to listen to on your own. I listen to you talk about how much you hate Picasso sculpture, don’t I?”

“You do,” Tony admits.

“So then be yourself. Use what your mom taught you sometimes, but otherwise don’t.”

“You sure?”

“Of course I’m sure, I’m a fucking genius.”

Tony snorts.

“Okay, Mr. ‘I Forgot to Run the Dishes Again.’”

“I already said I was sorry!”

Tony takes Rhodey’s advice into account when he walks into any board room. He wears the worst possible shoes with every single suit, usually uses all sorts of cultural references that fly over the old board members’ heads.

He does things his way. It’s unconventional, it’s unpredictable, and it earns him a reputation.

He’s in an interview in a suit and patterned tie (patterned with tiny robots), and the woman is smiling in a plastic way on the other side.

“Now, a lot of people are saying you’re taking the business world by storm with your unconventional methods and personality. What helped you formulate this, your father?”

“Oh god no,” Tony says, laughing. “He’d probably curse me to hell and back for even wearing this tie. My mother would drag me back down to hell again for this.”

“Then who helped you with this?”

“Rhodey, who else?” Tony asks. “He always gives the best advice, even if I’ll deny that about fifteen minutes later. He really is the reason that I’m who I am today.”

“Seems like a great guy.”

“He is. He always is,” Tony says with a grin. “Except, of course, when he doesn’t fold his laundry, that bastard.”

The interviewer laughs and moves on, but Tony smiles to himself.

He doesn’t have to be the best, he just has to be Rhodey’s. That’s all that matters.

#lovelyirony writes #maria stark #howard stark #tony stark #rhodey #ironhusbands #kind of #i'm hinting at it and i didn't outright rlly say shit but y'all know me so you should know this #anyways tony DOES develop his own personality and rhodey hates him for like three months

164 notes · View notes

darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 years

Text

tapestry 👑 VIII

Warnings: eventual dark elements (tags to be added as fic continues)

This is dark!(king)Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Summary: King Steven had a wandering eye but you never thought it would fall upon you.

This Chapter: The reader attends the royal hunt.

Note: Um, so I wrote half this at work because fuck customers lol. But I hope you all enjoy a change in scenery in this one. I had fun with it :) I’m going to try to keep writing as much as I can but I might take a day or two to chill. But who knows. No promises either way. :)

(also open to new moodboards for the fic or even playlists for inspo if anyone’s interested.)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋 You guys rock!

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply! Love ya!

The air smelled of horsehair and dying leaves. It was the last hunt of the season as the dirt threatened to turn to ice. You were among the dozen that formed the royal party. Only a selection of lords and ladies were invited annually to partake in the event. Half as many servants followed the royal party to tend to thirsts and to carry the prizes of the hunt back to the castle.

King Steven rode at the head of his lords, James, Samuel, Anthony, Callum, and your sister’s recently returned husband, Edward. They led the party. You kept to the rear, careful to avoid Eleanor as Diana and Mabel rode at her flanks. Ahead of you, trode Beatrice and Joan. The queen gathered her former enemies as new allies.

Your invitation to the hunt had not been issued by the queen. The king insisted you ride in your sister’s place as her husband took his among his entourage. Alice remained in her marital home, recovering still from her labour and tending to her newborn. You mourned Edward’s return, having hoped instead for that of your mother. She chose to keep your sister company in her early motherhood as you were left to traverse the treacherous court upon your own.

The feel of the horse beneath you gave you resolve. It reminded you of your childhood and the mares in your father’s barn. You would ride them across the fields as you chased Alice through the grass. You could hear her laughter as you trotted along, your eyes drawn to the trees around you.

You sensed a shift in the procession. You looked up as a horse turned away from the pack and shuffled around to you. Lord Barnes reined in next to you as you were drawn from your detachment. Mabel and Joan peeked over their shoulders as he fell into step with your steed.

“You are quiet, my lady,” He said. The king’s laughter boomed from the head of the hunting party as the women’s voices provided a buzzing undertone. “And pensive. As is your habit, but I wonder how one can be so on a day such as this.”

You looked to him and reached to adjust the cloak around your shoulders, the leather rein wrapped around your other hand. He watched your gloved fingers as they tugged your hood straight around your neck.

“I am not much for hunting.” You replied. “Rather, inexperienced I should think.”

“Ah, but you ride well.” His eyes strayed for just a moment to your hips as they rocked atop the horse. “And more confidently than most ladies.”

“I did not say I could not ride, only that I did not hunt,” You assured him. “My father had a falconry but the birds didn’t catch more than vermin.”

He thought for a moment as he faced forward. You followed his attention to the front of the party. The king peered over his shoulder and smiled as you caught his eye. You lowered your head meekly and reached to pet the dark mane of the horse as it nickered. Your energy unsettled the beast and you found it difficult to calm him.

“Ah, but our king is quite the hunter.” Barnes mused. “He does enjoy the chase.”

You looked to Barnes again. You hated how he spoke in quips but his words seemed more honest than most.

“And does he ever show mercy on his prey?” You asked.

“None that I’ve ever seen. Once his game is in sight, its fate is assured.” He raised his chin as he kept his eyes ahead. “But not every hunt is as abundant as the harvest.”

“And you would aid your king in his pursuit? See that he has a skin to hang upon his wall?” Your horse twitched restlessly as you pressed your thighs to your saddle.

“He needn’t my help, lady,” Barnes smiled.

“Certainly not ...so I wonder why it is you would see to me if not on his behalf? If you do not set the snare so that he may strike?”

He laughed and looked to you. Several other heads turned at his deep chuckle but he didn’t seem to mind. “I may be the king’s most loyal subject but he does not reign over me so completely.” He said. “I see to you, lady, as I intend to. You are clever despite your reticence and far more interesting than those who would boast of their novelty.”

“I cannot figure if you flatter or mock me, my lord,” You returned. “Though I cannot figure which I’d prefer.”

He laughed again, so loud that it filled the forest. The king looked back and you pretended not to notice. Your horse flinched at the noise and you gripped the reins tightly.

“For a tongue so rarely used, it is rather sharp,” He bowed his head at Steven and the several ladies who peeked in his direction. “Yes, I do see to you upon my own accord for I am rarely left unamused, you see? And this place does grow rather mundane.”

“I long for the mundane,” You mourned. “Simplicity. Peace.”

“Then you should’ve remained in the countryside, my lady.”

You stared at him a moment and weighed his words. He didn’t seem to notice as he steered his horse after the party. You thought of your father’s castle, the snows that would fall there days before they reached the capital. You longed to be there to watch the first deluge. To be hidden away and safe. He was right, you should have remained.

“Do not grieve it just yet, my lady.” He spoke, and though the voices of the other lords and ladies continued, it felt as if he had cracked a sacred reserve. “You may return again one day. One can never know what fate holds for us.” He straightened in his saddle and bowed his head. “Enjoy the hunt, lady. It can be fun if one can forget their fears.”

He pulled away from you. You muttered after him, “my lord” and watched him direct his horse back to the head of the entourage. You mulled his words as your horse snorted loudly. You bent to coax the beast as you sensed its nervousness mingle with your own.

A sudden hush went over the party. You looked up as the king’s gloved hand rose above him to signal silence. Hooves stilled as the king reached for his crossbow and gestured to Lord Barnes. The other men drew their weapons but did not advance. They allowed their monarch his pursuit and watched as he went forward.

You leaned over to looked around the bodies ahead of you. You spied the antlers of a great stag in the clearing just past the line of trees. There was a stillness in the air. The shadow of death settled around you as the king edged his horse forward. The reverence and tension of the slaughter hung over you as you watched the king aim the bow.

You closed your eyes as the string loosed noisily. You heard the sharp scuffle of feet, the pained whine of the stag, and the final grisly collapse of its body into the dirt. The king’s boots crunched as they met the dirt and the last desperate breaths of the animal filled the air. The draw of steel whispered and the stag was still.

You opened your eyes and your horse stamped its foot. You shook as you squeezed the reins in your hand. You swayed as the nervous animal below you continued to kick impatiently.

Lord Barnes helped the king lift the stag and carry it towards the lords and ladies. The lords parted and the ladies did to as they surrounded the men and their felled game. You could barely look at the stag and instead stared at the dirt.

“As is tradition of the last hunt,” The king said as he held the beasts head up by it’s antler. “I shall present this fine beast to the finest lady of the hunt.” The queen sat up in her saddle and her ladies looked to her. “And I shall name her the Maiden of the Forest.”

Steven turned to you. He pulled on the beast until Barnes followed and stopped before your huffing horse. The queen let out a dark breath and the lords and ladies shared a moment of shock. For all his slights, the king had never been so outright; never so blatantly spat upon the mantle of custom. He kept his dalliances aside as he paid homage to his royal union. He didn’t so much as acknowledge Eleanor on this day.

“My lady, I present to you this stag. A symbol not only of your dignity and grace, but of my regard for you.” He declared loudly so that all could hear.

Barnes lowered his head but you could not see if he hid his shame or delight. You looked to Eleanor. She scowled but would not meet your eye. Your horse twitched again and jolted you.

“Your highness,” You began as you reared in your horse. “I am honoured by your present but I should think it belongs to another.”

“You are far too humble,” Steven insisted. “And I know of no other who are owed it more than yourself, my lady.”

You looked down at him. He stared back boldly. Did you dare argue with a king before his retinue? Edward would surely report back to your father if the story did not persist at court. You smiled as graciously as you could and bowed your head.

“Thank you, your highness,” You said. “You are a most generous liege.”

“And you,” He dropped the stags head and neared the side of your horse. He grabbed the horse’s bit as it shied away from him. “Are the most good-hearted woman I’ve known.” He smiled up at you before he turned away and threw his arms out. “To our Maiden of the Forest!”

“To the Maiden!” The lords sang back but the ladies remained silent.

“And as our Maiden of the Forest, my lady,” Steven spun back to you as servants rushed forward to take the stag from Barnes. “You must head our party...at my side.”

Another silence. This one so deep it felt almost as if the birds had stopped chirping and all life hidden in the trees had ceased. Your drew up straight in your saddle and avoided the glares.

“As you wish, your highness.”

👑

You could feel the gazes of the party behind you. The queen’s unwavering spite, the ladies’ mounting jealousy, and the lords’ general apathetic curiosity. Your horse sensed it too and grew increasingly jumpy. You struggled to keep your composure and that of your mount.

“My lady, I did not have a chance to visit your new chambers,” The king began and you tore your attention from the dark neck of the horse. “My apologies, but I’ve been most busy.”

“Why, your highness,” You said evenly. “I’ve not even the grace to thank you for such generosity. It is quite too much, I assure you. I needn’t the extravagance.”

“You deserve everything I can give and more, my lady,” He insisted. “I might seem oblivious but I do notice the animosity among the ladies, no doubt sewn by the woman who would call herself queen.”

“Your highness. Such favours do not improve their distaste for me.”

“Let them languish in their scorn,” He shrugged. “I am not beholden to my own subjects.”

You weighed his words as you thought. “While I am grateful for the chambers, is it not improper for you to speak of visiting. I could not possibly receive you without a chaperone.”

He looked at you. His forehead wrinkled and the frustration burned in his eyes. “Why do insist upon such piety, my lady? Have I not shown you restraint? Respect?”

“It is not you who troubles me, your highness,” You lied. “Merely those who would seek to harm me. What should they say if the king visits the chambers of an unwed lady upon his own? Surely worse than what they already do.”

“Very well, you may have your father attend our meetings, or perhaps another you trust with the task,” He sighed. “Or perhaps I should enlist a priest to oversee us.”

“I only seek to preserve my virtue, as well as your own stature, your highness.” You said. “What am I to think with all that has occurred these last weeks?”

His eyes narrowed and his face turned to stone. He looked ahead and his profile caught the sunlight. “You speak of Lady Rose?”

“I do. And can you blame me if I fear the same fate?”

“Lady Rose assured her own fate. She tries to thrust her bastard upon me but it will be known to the court soon enough the truth of her circumstance.” He puffed up his chest and huffed. “While I do not deny my own error, I knew her to be a woman careless of her honour.” He looked to you and his face softened. “Much unlike you.”

“Your--” You lurched back suddenly as your horse whinnied and kicked up its front hooves.

You clung to the reins and hugged the saddle with your thighs as the horse bucked beneath you. A rabbit hopped frantically around its feet as it came back down in a panic at the small creature. You bounced upon the horse’s back as it continued to snort and whine, your own yelps let loose as you struggled not to be tossed.

“My lady,” The king tried to grab the reins and found his fingers almost crushed by the horse’s teeth.

The horse kicked and turned in its fervour. You were jerked so that you bit your tongue and you saw another rider near you. You barely caught sight of Lord Barnes’ dark hair before your horse dashed into the foliage. You exclaimed as you had not choice but to hold on or be sent flying.

Branches whipped over your head and twigs tugged at your hood and cloak. You lowered yourself over the horse’s neck as it reared wildly along the forest floor. You could hear hooves behind you and voices shouting but could not decipher them. You whimpered in fear as the beast stormed forward and barreled between trunks and over roots.

Suddenly, he came to a stop. So violently that you were jolted forward over his head to land harshly upon the dirt and roll down into a ditch just beneath a bent oak. You groaned at the stab along your arm and the ache that filled your body. The horse snorted and its hooves galloped away from you noisily. You were left weak in the mud as your head spun.

The voices came clearer but distant nonetheless. The leaves muffled their tone. “I see the horse.” Barnes voice cut through the hum of the forest. “Over there.”

A set of hooves set off after your horse. You groaned and heard a twig snap. Another horse huffed but did not follow the other. Soft footsteps trampled over the earth. They walked near to where you lay and passed along. You could hear the far away call of the king’s voice, the hopeless pursuit of the riderless horse.

The footsteps were close again. You let out a moan as you tried to sit up. The figure paused.

“Help,” You croaked. “Hello? Is someone there?”

“My lady,” Barnes called back to you. “Where are you?”

“I am upon...the ground,” You were breathless from the impact. “I do not know where.”

You heard the crumple of leaves and the suck of mud on the sole of boots. A shadow appeared in the brush along the side of the ditch as Barnes appeared amid the haze of the forest. He peered down at you and slid down into the crevice to kneel beside you.

“I didn’t think I saw you on that horse,” He said softly. “My lady, can you move?”

“I don’t--” You reached to him with your right arm but your left reverberated in agony. You cried out and kicked your legs at the pang. “I can but...but it hurts.”

“Where does it hurt?” He asked as he reached to sweep the dirt from your cheek.

“My arm...my shoulder,” You gasped.

“You must get up,” He urged. “I can help you but you must stand.”

“It hurts…” You breathed weakly.

“I will take your uninjured arm and help,” He stepped over you and grabbed your right arm. “Once you are up, it won’t be so bad.”

“I can’t--”

“One, two, three,” He ignored your plea and pulled you up until you were forced to plant your feet beneath you. Your ankle felt brittle but not so painful as your arm. “Careful, careful. That’s it.”

“My arm. I cannot move--” You groaned as you looked over at your heavy limb. “Ow.”

“We must find the others before they stray far, my lady.” He led you out of the ditch with his arm around your back. “My horse is just over there...much calmer than your own.”

“I tried ...to hold on.”

“That beast was wild.” He intoned. “Whatever fool saddled it should be lashed.”

You let out pathetic gasps as he guided you between the trees. His golden gelding stood patiently between two elms and sniffed at the patchy dirt.

"Brace yourself, I must lift you. Just get your leg over, I'll do the rest." He released you but stayed close behind.

You flinched when you felt his hand on your waist. He counted against and lifted you. You used your right arm as you angled your leg over the saddle. He helped push you upright though you slumped in pain on the horse.

He took the reins. "Hold on." He said and you grabbed the saddle grip.

He slowly led the horse in a circle and back the way you'd come through. He sped up a little with each step and your arm felt as if it would fall off. Finally he came upon the path where the ladies waited. Only Callum and the servants remained with them.

"Lord Callum, go find the men and let them know the lady is found. Then send to the castle to have a physician readied." Lord Barnes ordered as he led his horse between the group of women and servants.

"She is injured?" The queen remarked. It wasn't truly a question but an affirmation.

"She will survive, I think." Barnes said as he turned back to his horse and Callum trod off into the trees. "My, what a dramatic day." He lowered his voice as he came around to the side of the horse.

"I may faint, my lord," You said softly as you struggled to stay aloft. "I feel very poorly."

"You don't look otherwise," He assured you with a grin.

"Really, this is not the time." You warned.

"Well I expect you won't look so pitiful later," He teased. "You needn't worry, you'll keep the arm, I'm sure."

"I do not know what is more painful," You gasped as another pang shot through you. "My arm or your chatter."

"I'd bet on myself any day." He grinned and stroked the horse's mane. "Next time, take Marigold. He is so calm they thought him a mare."

"Should there be a next time." You griped and winced.

"Do not be so morbid, my lady." He jibed.

"Oh I was not but now your suggestion should make me fear for my well-being." You retorted.

A rush of hooves sounded from the trees. Steven led the charge as he appeared with Samuel, Edward, and Anthony. The king held the reins of your former steed as it shook its dark mane wildly.

"My lady," He was breathless as he handed the reins to Samuel. He dismounted and rushed over to stand next to Barnes. "You are hurt?"

The queen's dark sigh permeated the air but none dared look at her. The king touched the dirtied tail of your cloak as he peered up at you .

"I found your horse and thought you in dire circumstance," He said pitifully. "I did worry most immensely."

"She was tossed from her horse but she is well enough to carry her own weight," Barnes said. "Her arm may need setting."

"My lady, I will have this tempestuous beast put out." The king avowed.

"You needn't punish the creature, your highness," You said. "I cannot begrudge it its life for being afraid. Please, do not harm him."

"Even after such grievous injury, you are merciful," The king marveled. "My lady, you truly are the fairest I've ever known."

You moaned and clutched your shoulder. You yelped and hung your head. The king touched your hand but only for a moment. He turned back to the lords and ladies.

"We will return to the castle," He announced. "Before any other should have the chance to get hurt." He swung himself up on on his horse. "Lord Barnes, I trust you to see her to the castle physician upon our return."

#tapestry #Steve Rogers #king!steve #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #dark steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x reader #dark!steve rogers x reader #medieval au #au #series #fic #dark!fic #dark fic #mcu #marvel #captain america #bucky barnes x reader #Bucky Barnes

1K notes · View notes

anika-ann · 4 years

Text

Walpurgis Night

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader Word Count: 9860 (oh, oh, dammit)

Summary: For the once wandering eye of the former King Howard of Starkerbürg, the kingdom suffered a terrible loss.

As winter blossoms into spring, the night of Walpurgis arrives and another man is chosen to bring the long-lost princess, sister to King Anthony, home. No one has ever succeeded in the task; another spring equals another life lost.

Steven was not meant to be selected; he volunteered, taking another man’s place. It is up to him to set foot into the woods where myths come to life and men of the kingdom meet their death.

A/N: for a challenge hosted by @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan. Congratulation to your rightfully earned milestone. May you gain more loyal followers in the future. I thank you for allowing me to take part in your challenge. Prompt: Fairytale AU

Warnings: mentions of death(s), minor injury and blood, supernatural elements, fluff extraordinaire, a little bit of angst

Note: It’s not a habit of mine to inset links for music, but if anyone wishes to listen to the song responsible for this fic, link is in the text (and the non-Marvel pics above are from the music video).

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･

“May the Gods lead your sword and bring you home safe, my brave lord,” the Queen pronounced as she placed a cowslip to his collar and beckoned to him to stand up.

If Steven’s heart wasn’t beating its way out of his chest with a barely contained restlessness, he would have chuckled bitterly. ‘Lord.’ As if he was anything but a peasant, as if his life had any value to the King or the Queen; and yet, Queen Virginia’s gaze rested upon him and observed him with sorrow; as if he mattered to her.

As if she regretted her husband’s madness, one he had inherited from his father.

King Howard, passing away last winter, had never bothered hiding his wandering eye. Queen Maria, his beloved wife, had graciously tolerated her husband’s predilection for other women, seeing as he never acted upon it. Many ladies of the court had found themselves blessed when the King decided to spent an evening in their company; although never left alone with his highness, never granted even a gleam of hope of being taken as a lover, they cherished their moments with him and held no grudges.

However, an exception to the rule had always solidified its validity.

One of the King’s chosen companions had fallen for him, refusing offers of marriage which had been not scarce as she had foolish faith in king’s short-lived attraction. She – and her name could never be spoken in the land of Starks ever again, one of the most serious offences punished by death – deluded herself into believing he would leave the Queen, blind to the deep affection shared between her sovereigns. Oblivious until the second royal child was born.

The Princess, barely days old, went missing overnight, the very night of Walpurgis, when the powers of evil were believed to be most potent. With the ringing of tower bells, the King’s Guard saw to find the heiress to the crown.

Before the night was over, all they discovered was a laughing woman, having gone mad with heartbreak.

“You took everything from me,” she spluttered, spitting on king’s shoes as she had been forced to her knees, hands restrained; eyes teary and yet smiling. “Now you shall know how that feels.”

The woman had laughed and laughed as she burned at the stake, crying tears of joy at king’s torment. She had carried away the baby to the woods; left it for the malicious intentions of fauns, elves, dryads, nymphs, hulders and witches, all the evil spirits from myths much truer than prophesies read from the stars.

The Princess was lost ever since.

Steven had only learned this history from his mother’s narrative (Gods may grant her peace in afterlife) and from rumours spreading all over the Stark’s lands.

How could it not still be spoken of?

Every Walpurgis Eve, the night of the evil spirits’ power ruling and yet assumed to be most vulnerable, a brave man would rise and offer his service to the King, attempting to save the Princess from the claws of darkness.

Every morning after, all that was left of him was his armour; king’s armour, the finest quality, abandoned. With each life lost, the King turned more furious; with every life laid down, fewer and fewer lords were willing to meet their certain death.

Thieves and tavern brawlers were dragged to the edge of forest in their place, meeting the same fate; death cared little for nobility and wealth, greedily hoarding all souls offered.

Steven was no thief, had never been caught in a middle of a brawl. However, Pietro, the brother to Wanda, born moments apart from her as their mother left them before they were blessed enough to meet her, had not been as fortunate.

While King Antony had promised to end the never-ending madness of his father once he would inherit the crown, swearing that no other man would be coerced to try and complete an impossible task (as the people of Starkerbürg whispered of the Princess being long dead, eaten by wolves or the forest spirits), the day had come and he had chosen another innocent soul.

No amount of cries from the broken woman, who had no family left but her twin brother, had mollified the King. He himself had lost his mother to grief, his father to illness and his sister to pointless vengeance; why should he care for compassion when he could hold onto the senseless hope instead?

Steven could no longer watch the tragedy unfolding in front of him, less so having met the twins before. He had stepped forward and took Pietro’s place.

Steven had no family of his own, not anymore, not yet; not for the lack of sudden interest from women who had never as much as spent him a glance only few winters prior when he had been fighting all illnesses the kingdom had ever suffered. His mother had worked tooth and nail to keep him alive; and Steven wished to find himself a mate just as loving, not a fickle female who turned around for the man most impressive at given time.

Perhaps he was abandoning that foolish dream for his very recent actions. Perhaps, he wouldn’t live long enough to meet such kind soul who would care little whether his body was a fragile vessel (which it used to be) or as strong as a horse.

In the end, Steven had nothing to fear, barely anything to lose. Should he fail, he might encounter his father who had offered for the similar task many years ago.

Men had been laying down their lives, involuntarily. Steven was willing to do so if he could spare the poor Wanda suffering and gift her the life of her brother. If there had been one thing Steven craved more than a beautiful loving wife of a kind heart, it was him being a good man.

Returning to the present, Steven rose as the Queen had commanded, his fingers deliberately brushing over the yellow flower nestled in his collar. A cowslip; for protection from evil spirits. The castle, the towns, the villages… they were flooded with cowslips these days, fires lit long before sunset. The whole land feared the creatures of the forest.

His mother had always warned him from them, keeping the fate her husband had met in mind.

Sarah, Steven’s beloved mother who had worked herself to an early grave to put as much as a bread crust to his mouth, would have cried her eyes out if she learned her son was being foolish, coming voluntarily; her heart would have shattered with sorrow. Her heart would have burst with pride had she learned he had done it to save another man’s life.

With peace in mind Steven bowed to Queen Virginia and King Anthony once more before turning away. The Queen’s sorrowful eyes followed him as the crowd parted, forming an aisle for him to walk through; gracelessly stepping aside so he may walk towards his death.

A small hand curled around his wrist, forcing him to halt and meet a pair of familiar emerald eyes.

“Natalia,” he granted her with a reassuring smile and she sprang towards him from James’ side, throwing her arms around him in an unladylike manner, losing nothing of the warmth of her gesture.

“Steven. Trust nothing you see,” she warned him with a knowing glint in her eye, worry for her dear friend creasing the elegant arches of her brows.

Steven stiffened, taken aback by both her heartfelt assault and her words. He gently squeezed her waist, wary of letting people see their affection. She was to wed soon, to his best friend no less. James understood, however the people of the court and other commoners like himself might not.

“I shall return to you all, Natalia. Worry for me not,” he whispered, allowing her to slip from his arms, nodding at his friend who reciprocated the gesture, patting his shoulder covered in expensive cloak.

“Don’t do anything foolish, brother.”

Natalia shook her head, tight-lipped smile on her face, brief and too weak for anyone to believe that she had that much faith in him.

It wounded Steven, yes, but feeble-minded he was not. The truth was merciless; not one man had ever returned from the path he was about to set foot on. Not a single one.

“You are a fool,” Natalia lamented, her palm tenderly laid on his chest, as if she could feel his heartbeat under the many layers covering his torso, including the thick chainmail. “May the Gods protect you, Steven. Be careful.”

He nodded, only having taken a single step aside when another person appeared in his path.

Wanda. The sister. Realization dawned to Steven, for the first time since the unfortunate morning of Pietro being chosen, that she had barely reached the age of a woman, rather being a child still. Bending down to her as her frame seemed even smaller than usual, her thin shoulders scrunched in guilt, Steven could see clearly her tears-stained face.

Her petite hands, cold to touch and trembling, wrapped around his left one, watery eyes looking up at him. Steven didn’t hesitate to give her a smile, to assure her that she owed him nothing for taking her brother’s place.

The redhead didn’t seem to agree, seeing as her skirts swirled and she fell to her knees right in front of him in a gesture of subservience.

“My la-“ he exclaimed, alarmed, more so when she turned his hand in hers, her lips hovering above his leather-cladded palm, another sign of inferiority to him, leaving him horrified. Overtaken by shock, rendered speechless, he only observed as she took his other hand and repeated her action, clinging onto him like onto a dear life.

Only when she raised her teary eyes to him, he shook himself at last and kneeled to her level, regardless of the mud staining his attire. She had clearly cared not for her skirts either as the plain dress she was wearing were now soaked in dirt.

“My lady, Wanda-”

Her lips quivered, tears rolling down her pale cheeks as she released his hand and reached to the curve of her nape, unfastening a thin chain carrying a pendent.

Breath caught in Steven’s throat when she handed it to him without hesitation, curling her tiny fingers around his before he could even consider giving it back. Her whisper, peculiarly deep and so quiet he had to strain his ears to hear it, resonated in his soul, her gaze trapping him.

“Shall the kindness of your heart be your lifeline in the dark. May it shine and keep you warm, perish not its honest spark.”

Mesmerized by a red gleam which Steven would swear he saw burning in her eyes for the shortest of moments, he nearly missed the flicker of fire running through his veins.

Mind foggy, he blinked quite frantically to clear his vision. Wanda’s eyes welcomed him with their inviting brightness, her hands squeezing his. The illusion of the flame disappeared.

Snapping from his trance, Steven got a hold of her forearms and assisted her in standing up to her full height. She appeared unbothered by the state of her clothing, her gaze never leaving his face, focused and sincere.

“Blessed be your kind soul, son of Joseph,” Wanda whispered, voice as soft as her grateful smile.

Steven, feeling a strange tingle in his fingertips, at the base of his spine and in his very core, only nodded, his father’s name echoing in his ears. How had she heard of his father? How did she know?

Sensing the eyes of all onlookers on them, he swallowed his confusion and the unfamiliar feeling coursing through his veins and finally continued walking, the crowd closing behind him like sea. He readjusted the sword in its scabbard, the shield – a gift from the King himself for every man marching to find his own end in the woods – sitting heavy on the straps on his back.

The pendent from Wanda burned in his palm and so he secured it around his neck, hoping he would bring the precious piece of jewellery back to her.

Unknown to him, Wanda’s eyes followed him with content, an inconspicuous watery smile on her lips, a knowing glint in her eye as her brother placed a hand on her shoulder, pulling her into an embrace.

The glittering aura, now glowing bright due to her little enchantment, drawing sights of all powered creatures, just might mollify the spirits of the woods and cause them to spare Steven’s life as they never wished to harm a man of a pure heart.

The sun was nearly at the end of its path behind horizon when Steven walked through the city gate.

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･

♪

Steven couldn’t recall how he had found himself in this place of magic. His feet had led him of their own accord, the fire of his torch long gone; an absence barely acknowledged as the moonlight was shining bright, illuminating the scene unfolding in front of him.

A meadow soaked in silver, serene and yet bursting with life, laughter and music, men-like half-goat creatures romping in the middle, a circle of dancing women-- beautiful, beautiful women, light on their feet, nearly floating, their modest white clothing swirling with each movement---so exquisite that Steven forgot how to breathe, all coherent thought leaving his mind as his eyes remained hypnotized by the grace and joy of the dreamlike goddesses.

Laughing, voices as hundreds of tiny bells, two of the stunning women turned their head, spotting his lone figure standing motionless between the trees. Eyes sparkling, they sprung forward, bare feet barely touching the ground as they twirled around him, delicate fingers tracing the lines of his wide shoulders and his heart fluttered and begun to hum an ancient song he had never been taught and yet he knew.

His cloak pooled on the ground by his feet as their quick fingers unclasped the buckle and Steven was overtaken by gratitude, for the cloak had been weighting him down, a superfluous piece of heavy cloth, too warm, standing in the way of their pleasant touch—the chainmail was lost next, having him bound, suffocated---he only had the mindfulness of the precious doves to thank to for freeing him of his burdens.

His sword long abandoned beside the shield and his dagger, their giggle echoed in the open space, whispered back by the lindens and oaks, as they aided him to lose his boots too, those shackles preventing him from joining their joyful dance.

Each of the goddesses interlaced her fingers with his, pulling him into the whirl and twirl, his heart light and overflowing with happiness unknown until that very moment.

The sheer beauty of his female companions would have been enough to bring him to his knees, already growing weak from exhaustion; the delicate lines of their physique, hair he would serenade for its softness, lips lush, begging to be tasted, eyes sparkling with life—and one pair of the most dazzling eyes glassy with unshed tears, smiling, yet heavy with sorrow, never leaving his frame, never shying away from his fascinated gaze, her own boring into his very soul and weeping for it.

Steven truly ceased to breathe and his heart rose to the moon and stars themselves when she broke the circle and reached out to him the exact moment his legs gave out under a sudden wave of dizziness. Steven succeeded at staying on his feet only for her and the brief hint of a smile on her tempting lips.

Then, this incarnation of the goddess of beauty herself was drawn back to her place as the dancing and singing went on, weariness settling deep in Steven’s body. Too frantic, too swirly, too noisy—too little breaths, too little beats of his heart, his feet too slow, not even hoping to match the swift and elegant movements of his dance partners.

Glancing at the stunning woman-like creature following him with her mournful gaze, Steven had been offered a sight of her tears. His heart ached for he saw her sadness; he wished to dry the salty droplets, to wipe them with the pad of his thumb, to kiss them away-- but his hands were trapped in strong grips of his companions, not allowing him to as much as budge.

Darkness edged his vision and more and more tears escaped the wells of her eyes. Before Steve realized what was to happen, his worn feet tangled and he collapsed to the ground, grass and moss soft and damp under his cheek.

The music and singing didn’t cease, the circle simply shifting few feet away so his heavy body wouldn’t be in the way of the ancient dance, old as time itself.

Steven’s vision blurred; the last thing he felt before his mind abandoned the feast of the forest spirits was the woman – for whose smile to see he would both kill and die – cupping his cheek.

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･

From the moment the sunrays ceased to paint the sky in warm colours, your heart appeared to be called out by a presence unknown to you until tonight.

Tonight--oh, the precious night, the dreaded night, as every year, a man would appear in the middle of the celebration of the gods and joined your circle, only to leave it before the fire could even begin to be lit.

Too weak, your sisters always whispered, dismissing the human as a lesser being, consumed by the feast, the most cherished night of the year.

It is to be as the Gods wish, they would laugh, pulling you back to the circle, the dance swift to take up all of your attention.

It is as it was meant to be, they would assure you as another soul left its vessel by the dawn, their elegant fingers scattering cowslips all over the cold body, enchantment whispered in deep voices resonating in your very soul, until the corpse was swallowed by the sacred ground.

You’d only contribute by tears, watering the earth with salt and sorrow, until your sisters – in soul, not blood – would hold your hands, tugging you to join them in collecting the sweetest dew, healing all plant life and animals, the magic of the previous night persisting in its droplets.

And as day blended into night and night into another day and night—you’d be soothed by the beautiful circle of life, for until the Walpurgis Night crept in anew and the history would repeat itself.

But tonight, oh, tonight, Gods bless this night and curse it-! Let it never end—for that the man who had appeared this night was too good, too beautiful, his presence blissful and warming, radiant, his kindness as if glowing through his whole being--- basking in his light alone brought tears of delight to your eyes—turning to ones of sorrow and terror when your sisters pulled him into your dance, a dance macabre for every ordinary human being.

Every human being; except you. Mother’s magic sheltered you, keeping you safe, but oh, oh, if he was to die, then who were you to live--

His eyes barely ever left you, as if he could hear the trees whispering it was you, it was on your conscience; pointing their barky fingers at you, they accused you of every life lost and the truth they revealed. All the men, they had been seeking you, seeing to bring you to the castle where you had been stolen from and then left to die.

They don’t deserve you, Findling. You are ours to protect, ours to love. Don’t you love us too? Have we not given you home? You are safer in the forest than with them; they gave you up before.

And the truth they spoke too, your sisters; here you were welcomed. Only Gods withheld the secret of what would await you in the city. It could be death for all you had learned.

And did you not belong here?

Were you not grateful enough to stay?

Not tonight-- oh, tonight, you wished to leave, to redeem the kind soul trapped in the claws of death, ugly claws slowly dragging him away since the moment his strong body found its nest on the forest floor.

Breaking the circle was an offence, the greatest; yet, your heart begged you to do so, to hasten to kneel by the handsome and the oh, oh so good stranger, your fingers tracing his lovely features, gazing into his eyes – the colour of the sky meeting a glassy surface of the lake – watching you intently until they fell close.

Tears dampened your cheeks, the swirl and twirl of the wind and dance cooling them down, but only vainly hoping to sooth the burn in your heart, the pounding ache.

Your sisters let you, finishing their gift to the Gods, the exquisite dance of life and only then, Aeliana kneeled beside you, fingers curling around your wrist and pulling you away, your handsome stranger remaining motionless aside from shallow breaths, thin clothing over his body and nothing else; he had discarded it all, left at the mercy to the cold of the night. Just like every man before.

“Come, Findling, leave the fellow to his fate.”

Your feet moved unwillingly, step after step building a distance from him, your head spinning from the ache squeezing your chest.

Could she not see?

“He’s of such kind heart, sister. Should we not spare him? Do we not protect kind men from harm?” you queried, interceding on his behalf.

Such a handsome man he was. And his soul, so gentle-

“Kind as he might be, he shall meet the fate the Gods have prepared for him. Come now, little Findling, the fire is to be lit soon!”

Your vessel heavier than you remembered, you followed her back to the gyration of joy, sparing your stranger one more longing glance.

“May the Gods protect you for you are already dear to me,” you prayed for him, having no power similar to your sisters to keep him safe, your words nothing but simple sound. “May the Gods protect you.”

And should they not, then I will.

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･

Cold seeping into his bones was the cause of a rude awakening; his fingers and his toes hurting, a biting coolness blended into pain with how insistently it clawed at him.

A shudder shook his whole frame and for several moments, as he walked the thin line between wakefulness and the bliss of a dream, Steven remembered how he had once believed that the sensation would be everlasting. He thought so every winter, when due to ever-present cold, his weak body suffered from the illness with ferocity unknown to stronger men.

He grew up strong and healthy, yet the memories of icy cold remained, a reminder of how he had to be grateful for every little blessing in life. Steve didn’t recall feeling such cold for few winters now, certainly not when welcoming a new day; and a new day it was, the sun, lacking its summer warmth still, danced behind his closed eyelids.

A weight on his chest wasn’t feeling any more familiar, far from the sensation his covers ever offered and that, more than anything, caused him to open his eyes.

Steven was welcomed by green; a green of the meadow, a green of the lindens and oaks and… and a fading green of a wreath resting on the head of the sweetest creature lying – to his profound astonishment – on his chest.

His heart sang as he recognized her soft features at instant.

It was her. The beautiful woman with the mesmerizing regretful eyes was sleeping on his chest, covered in droplets of dew, sparkling in her hair and in the withered flowers of her wreath, causing her to look even more ethereal than the night before. She felt a warm feather-light weight on him despite the see-through spiderweb-thin fabric, only so-so covering her fragile body in places where Steven’s eyes shouldn’t even wander if he was to remain proper.

He observed her, perplexed and grateful to Gods; what for he wasn’t certain yet. For letting her live?

She appeared so dream-like, so fragile, yet her body kept its warmth as if not affected by the freezing cold biting into Steven’s own skin. He would have thought he had been the one to protect her from freezing to death; and yet somehow, it appeared as if it was the exact opposite. When he swallowed against the lump forming in his throat and found courage to trace the pads of his fingers over her bare arm, her skin felt soft and warm, unlike his.

The breathing weight on him shifted at his daring touch and Steven would have regretted disturbing her sleep hadn’t it been for her luscious lips parting, her small hand over his heart flexing in his shirt, the tinniest movement sending a strand of her hair tickling his face and wrapping him in a heady flowery scent.

Hadn’t he been lost to her the night before, he would have given her his heart the very moment her eyes fluttered open, thick eyelashes calling for attention, framing a pair of the most mesmerizing irises he had even seen.

Hours could fly by and Steven wouldn’t have noticed; not when her gaze lingered on his face, locked with his and then… then she smiled, a wide and yet soft curve of her lips and Steven, who might have suffered from cold gnawing his body only a moment before, felt his heart melt; wondering what had he done to be blessed by the Gods guiding this stunning fairy into his arms.

“You are to live,” her voice caressed him and his hand acted at its own will, curling around the smooth arm it had stroked earlier.

Only then, her words rang in his ears, their meaning, and he couldn’t but reciprocate her smile. A complete fool he was not; he had a solid ground for believing she was the very reason he was still breathing. All of his predecessors had caught their death, only for their armour and clothing to be discovered untouched; seeing as he had apparently shed his own as well, he hadn’t been meant to survive.

The stunning beauty on his chest had saved him from freezing to death.

“Yes, my beautiful fairy. I feel like I have you to thank to for such blessing,” Steven whispered reverently, his heart swelling in his chest. What had led her to such action? Why had she protected him? And how was she not freezing? Was it her magic? “How is it you are not cold yourself?”

Seemingly unbothered by his touch, she brought her palm to cup his bearded cheek, as she had the night before. “It’s a gift, one of many from mo-- oh Goddess, you must go, now-!”

Ignorant to the dread in her eyes, Steven revelled in her tender touch, nearly crying out when she withdrew and went to stood up in one graceful motion.

“Fairy mine, of what-“

“You must leave! Surely Mother would be furious to see I have not left you for death to take! Go, run-“

At her words, Steven’s brows furrowed. He did not want the woman’s mother to be angry with her for she had helped him. Climbing to his feet, bare toes stiffened and almost blue, he barely found his footing. His suddenly fearful fairy took his hand and guided him to where he had left his attire.

“Hurry-"

Steven’s body listened, his fingers, slightly numb from the cold, reaching for his chainmail and cloak; yet, his eyes remained fixed on her, basking in the light of her presence. She truly was exquisite; for all she had been breath-taking in the moonlight, in daylight she glowed brighter than the sun.

“What may I call you, fairy mine?”

Her delicate hands, frantically aiding him with his cloak, ceased their movements, resting on his shoulders as she looked up at his face and while confused, she replied with a gentle shook of her head, sending her silky hair sliding down her shoulders.

“I do not have a name. Mother and sisters call me Findling. It is of old language, it stands for a-“

“- foundling,” Steven stole the last word from her lips, astonished. At that moment, he could be knocked out with a feather. She was-- his beautiful savoir, his stunning fairy--- his hands rose to her cheek to caress the skin, impossibly warm given her modest clothing.

She truly was still alive. The long-lost princess, believed to be dead for years by nearly everyone… was still breathing, a tragically forfeit daughter growing into a beautiful woman with a heart of gold.

Her eyelashes fluttered, shy gaze lowering to the sacred ground.

“You’re human,” slipped past Steven’s parted lips and her features, already tender, softened as she elevated her gaze, irises deep as a sea and sorrowful for whichever cause.

“Yes.”

“I found you—no, you found me. You are--- come with me-!”

As if a lightning struck her very being, she slid from his grasp and retreated several steps, heading towards the trees. Without hesitation, Steven followed her light footsteps.

“We must go. You must leave the forest before the wrath of Mother finds you,” she said, voice carrying nothing of its earlier softness.

Steven mourned its loss; his strides much longer than hers, he stooped in her path and carefully took a hold of her wrists. She appeared agitated now, frustrated that he was thawing her plan to lead him to safety as quickly as she could.

He cradled her jaw then, seeing as she halted in her steps despite her indignation. Even angered, she was the most precious thing he had ever laid his eyes on.

“Why wouldn’t you come to the castle with me? Your family mourns you,” he whispered, his thumb stroking her cheek unwittingly. “And I-I--“

I can’t even think of not seeing you again. Your smile. Gods, your smile…

Lost to the emotions swirling in her eyes, dancing across her features, a sudden thunderclap snapped them from their intimate conversation, practically causing his heart to stop in fright.

Steven instinctively stepped between her and where the noise had emitted from; the menacing sound had not been sent from the sky, he was certain of it as the sun still illuminated both him and the Princess.

“Mother,” his fairy whispered fearfully, easily slipping between Steven and the woman-like creature materializing between the trees, only few steps from them.

Steven liked little what his beautiful foundling had done for he was supposed to be the one to protect her. However, he could barely deny that he stood no chance against the Goddess, the Mother. His muscles could not even hope to compare to her magic; and could he feel it, the power crackling like a lightning in the air, a premonition of a death sentence.

Before Steven could as much as speak a single word, his fierce defender fell to her knees, head bowed in submission to her judge and jury.

“Mother, please, punish me for my insolence, for my felony—but harm him not. He is nothing but an innocent soul, too good to-“ she pleaded frantically, voice honest and trembling, striking Steven right in his heart, causing his chest to tighten.

His stunning fairy, the kindness incarnated, begged for his life.

No hesitation. No remorse. No care for her own well-being.

“No!” Steven blurted out, sidestepping her, only to freeze in his tracks when the Mother raised her hand, commanding him to stop without uttering a word.

Stunned, Steven didn’t dare to speak more, to move an inch; the creature carried herself a Goddess indeed, the Queen of the woods, the sovereign of magic itself. Purple and red twirled in her eyes, strict and yet somewhat kind, powerful. She walked measuredly to the pair of them, her outstretched hand slowly falling until she could reach the precious fairy, palm laying down on her head, caressing her hair, sliding lower until she forced her to raise her chin.

Then, the Mother smiled a gracious smile, seeing her daughter’s tears, tears which made Steven’s ribcage ache. She spoke in a voice deep enough to touch Steven’s soul, mighty and yet gentle.

“Did you believe I would punish you, Findling?” she questioned, sorrowfully almost. “For the love you carry in your soul, your kindness to strangers whose good heart you see even without ability to match ours? No, my sweet child. But you shall be reminded of the warning.”

Steven stiffened further. What warning? Was a punishment still to be carried out? In contrary to her words- he could not let that happen, not to his little fairy he had only just found--

As if sensing his outrage, as if reading his thoughts – and for the briefest of moments, Steven wondered if the powerful creature possessed such ability –, she levelled her gaze with his, one corners of her lips twirling, her smile turning into something resembling a smirk.

“Be at ease, soldier, I do not wish to harm her, quite the opposite. We have her wellbeing in our hearts always,” she assured him, an army of women, actual fairies, appearing behind her back out of thin air, side by side, serene and beautiful. “You think us savages, son of Joseph. We are not. We would never abandon a child, crying and starving in the woods, left to die. Certainly not for a twisted vendetta.”

Struck by genuine surprise at both the sudden emerge of the ethereal creatures and the Mother’s words, Steven couldn’t let out a sound. He was rendered speechless, overtaken by the memory of Wanda addressing him the very name the Mother had, similar magic reflecting in her eyes.

What did it mean? What—how-

“If I should leave…” the former princess whispered, rising to her feet for her sovereign, only to be interrupted.

“You lose our protection, yes. You shall be an ordinary human again. Short of the joys our life brings.”

Steven found himself utterly lost in their conversation, a hunch nudging at his mind, an inkling of what the Goddess could mean by her words, painting a picture in his head he couldn’t quite grasp. Like a fool, he only observed the scene unfolding in front of him, feeling useless and ashamed for his inability to as much as move an inch.

“Thank you, Mother. Sisters,” his fairy bowed with a smile on her lips and tears sparkling in her eyes. “You have been kind to me. A true family. Perhaps the time has come for me to leave.”

The Mother smiled at her kindly, nodding and taking her hand between both of hers, squeezing gently.

“May your life rest in the hands of the good man tasked to bring you to your birthplace and tear you away from where you had found home.”

“May I… visit?” the Princess asked shyly, rewarded with a chorus of chuckles, thousands of tiny bells ringing in fine tune.

“You may always find a home with us shall you ever feel the desire.”

“I shall,” she echoed and turned to the awe-struck Steven, her shining eyes finding his gaze. “Shall we be on our way?”

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･

Your feet were on the verge of giving out; unfamiliar with the cold biting into your skin, every step a rough sensation, every branch and stolon hurting, each thorn felt like a dagger in your soles.

And yet… your body was floating, a hand, gentle fingers, curled firmly around yours; you had lost sense of who was leading who. It was you and then it was him, it was a dance you had never knew and it had your breath caught in your chest; slightly painful, endlessly blissful.

The absence of words bothered you not. The chime of the birds and the whispers of trees carried a lovely tune and all was well.

“What will happen to you?” he asked, your handsome stranger, the kind soul calling out to yours since before your first encounter. “What was the… Goddess talking about?”

Moved by his concern for you, a brief smile passed your lips. You did not have the heart to tell him of the sensations, so human, yet unknown to you. You could sense it already, a true weariness – and finally, the vivacity too. You were nothing but a human again, the protective spell, casted upon you to keep you from harm commonly deadly to ordinary men, fading.

“Oh, Mother? Do not wear your head, I shall be quite alright,” you assured him and he, the sweet man he was, raised your hand to his face, caressing its back with his lips ever so softly.

“It is my duty to wear my head for you, fairy mine…”

His duty was it not. A heart-warming sentiment? Certainly. Your smile widened, a hiss escaping your lips only a moment later.

A sharp pain cut through your sole again, a shiver running through your whole being.

Cold and pain; your life from now on.

Faster than you could hope to comprehend, your companion stopped in his tracks, kneeling in front of you, tender and rough fingers examining your left foot; to your astonishment, a red liquid stained your cold skin, thick and heady. Blood. You had never bled before.

Genuine worry creased his forehead, his bright eyes looking up at your face as your teeth sunk into your lower lip; partly to cover your pain, partly from guilt as he observed you with tender accusation.

Pulling out a knife, he released your shaky foot in order to cut off a band of fabric from his thick cloak, swift fingers wrapping it around your wound.

“Thank-- thank you,” you stuttered, taken aback by the strange sensation of the cloth against your skin, your world swaying to side for a bit. You were bleeding, the fluid of life leaving your veins. So strange.

He shook his head, rising to his full height; a peculiar thrill it gave you, tilting your head back to maintain eye-contact. Mesmerized by the colour of his irises, you barely noticed he stripped the cloak, securing it over your bare shoulders.

Before you could utter a word of protest, he scooped you into his strong arms, cradling you as if you belonged there and nowhere else. A feeling of infinite rightness overwhelmed you, nearly rendering you speechless.

“Oh no, put me down. It only is a brief faintness and pain-“

Securing you in his hold as if he had not heard you, his embrace grew firmer and looked into your eyes with gravity.

“You are not to walk barefoot, let alone on such cold morning, in the woods no less,” he argued, his hands warm against your unusually cold skin, his fingers caressing you and effectively causing words to get stuck in your throat. Taking a notice of your sudden speechlessness, he smiled. “Rest, little fairy. I will protect you.”

“I am not a fairy, son of Jo-“

“Steven. You should call me Steven, shall you be willing.”

As delighted as you were to learn his name at last, your concern remained unshaken.

“You will tire yourself… Steven.”

Swallowing the peculiar sensation of thrill his name created on your tongue, you busied yourself with the matter of his wellbeing. He soon would exhaust himself should he carry you. Surely, he must know that? He was strong, yes, an impressive mass of a man, shoulders which could carry the weight of the world and the curses of all Gods shall it come to it… but-

“With what, my sweetness?” he questioned lightly and began to walk. “You barely weight more than a feather. And you do appear a fairy to me. Beautiful. Ethereal. Like a fairy from the tales told to the good children so they would dream a sweet dream.”

Charmed by the compliments, your heart felt like it grew in size, filling your chest with each beat, sweet and dizzying. Uncertain how to show your gratitude and favour, you reached out. Your palm cupped Steven’s jaw, a touch featherlight indeed.

His breath caught in his chest and for a moment, you worried you must have done something which was not to his liking. But then, he nuzzled your palm, eyelids falling shut, a soft smile painted on his lips and you understood you had merely surprised him by your actions.

“You are too good to me, Steven.“

“Oh, my sweet fairy… you are too. Know, I would lay down my life for you this instant if you asked me to.”

An uncomfortable lump grew in your throat at such admission, tears stinging in your eyes as you thought of how little would suffice for him to meet his death for you, only the night prior.

“I would never ask. So many have lost their lives for me… I am feeling the deepest regret-“ you sobbed and his arms wound around you tighter as if shielding you from grief and regret weighing both your heart and conscience.

“It is not for you to blame yourself for what your father has done to find you.“

“Steven-“

His lips—oh Gods, his lips, warm and tender, brushed your palm still laid on his jaw, then proceeded to your forehead, warm breath caressing your hair. You lost your voice at the affection gifted to you, a single silent tear rolling down your cheek.

“Oh, sweetness, my name on your lips is like music…” he whispered, voice low and thick with emotion that sent a shiver – this time somehow pleasant – down your spine. “Lay your head down now, fairy mine. We have a journey ahead of ourselves still. I shall watch over your sleep like you have watched over mine.”

Your hand hesitantly slid from his neck, settling on his chest, his strong and oh so kind heart humming under your palm. Obediently you laid your head into the crook of his neck, a scent unknown but pleasant curling around you, causing your head to spin.

You closed your eyes and laid your life into the hands of the good man who had come to bring you back where you had been born; precisely as Mother had said.

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･

He had been greeted with delighted shouts full of excitement and surprise, people dropping whatever had they had on their hands only to follow him as he had carried his fairy, the Princess, to the castle, to her family.

The King and the Queen had been spending over a day with the long-lost princess, agreeing she truly was who she was, while Steven had been treated like a knight, provided with luxury unknown to him, luxury he found unnecessary; yet, who he was to refuse and offend the hospitability? Especially should it outrage the King?

Facing King Anthony now, he was asked to rise from his knee as he was promised to receive the greatest honours, enough food and money for a lifetime and a place at King’s Guard.

“You have done my kingdom an inestimable service, Steven. What else do you ask? Say the word and your wish should be granted,” the King of Starkerbürg offered generously, gesturing to encourage him to speak his mind.

And Steven wondered.

What could a man wish for? What more than he had been offered? For the people he loved to be treated in the same manner? Certainly, he could demand that? To give his friends a wedding they deserved, to ensure they would never have to worry about a place to lay down their heads, about feeding their children and themselves?

As his mind wandered to his friends, so deeply in love, he couldn’t but think of the Princess, of his beautiful, precious fairy. Oh, how had he already missed her, not having seen her for two days almost. His heart ached for her smile, for her soft touch.

However, a fool he was not. Asking for her hand would be unacceptable. The King would never allow it for Steven was nothing still; the King would never agree to wed a potential heiress to anyone but a lord, a prince of another land perhaps. Steven would be not surprised should the King already set plans in motion to offer her hand to his friend, Prince Thor of Asgard.

Steven couldn’t even dare to ask for what an insolence- a laughable demand would it be.

Swallowing his grief at that, his heart torn, a gaping wound in his chest, he asked for a fraction of what he desired. What more could he wish for that for being allowed to bask in her presence at least? Watching her afar, yes, but perhaps… he could speak a word with her, from time to time-

“My King… I—”

“Yes, Steven, please. Speak. I am listening,” King Anthony hurried him, short of impatient.

Shy and bold at the same time, Steven could barely raise his voice enough to be heard.

“Shall the Princess ever agree to it when she is recovered… may I—may I speak with her again?”

The crease forming on the King’s forehead meant nothing good and Steven stiffened, instantly scolding himself.

A fool! Natalia always told him he was one. The most foolish of all fools!

“Of what could you possibly speak with her? What motivation could you have? Perhaps… why should she ever as much as look at you, Steven?”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Steven lost all will to speak as his voice betrayed him. He shook his head in defeat.

“Oh no, please. Do enlighten me,” the King continued, slowly rising from his seat, towering above Steven due to the three steps which led to the throne.

Steven bowed, shaking his head again. “Forgive me, my King. I should never have asked such a daring question-“

“Oh no, colour me curious, I would like to know what you have to say to me to this matter.”

“My King, I do apologize, I—I-“

A suffocating silence fell on the Royal Hall when Steven trailed off, tension heavy and menacing as he could sense the realization dawning to his King.

A complete fool, Steven. For all he survived the journey to the woods, he returned only to be beheaded by the King for a moment of rash boldness. A damn half-wit!

A gasp left the King’s lips and Steven clenched his jaw, hanging his head, awaiting his sentence.

Blood pounded in Steven’s temples, growing in intensity with each moment no words were spoken.

Two sharp claps of hands, as loud as a thunder in the empty hall, bounced off the walls instead and a rustling of chainmail instantly followed, heavy boots rushing to King’s aid.

Without much decorum, brute force knocked Steven down to his knees, a sharp pain jolting up his joints as they dug into the hard floor, one pair of firm hands pushing him down, another grabbing his wrists to keep them locked behind his back.

“Gods protect us from minds as feeble as yours,” King Anthony snarled, awe-struck and outraged all the same.

A pang of longing gnawed at Steve’s heart as his suspicions were confirmed. While the indignation at being thought of as of a lesser human being flared in his chest, the injustice nothing short of irritating, he didn’t utter a word. A harsh hand gripped his jaw, yanking it upward, forcing him to look into King’s eyes where rage twirled with contempt.

“You foolish nitwit! How could you even think I would ever allow you to—to WHAT? Court her? Gods forbid wed her?! To put your—your filthy hands on her?! Oh my, MY! You will not as much as LOOK at her ever again, you UNDERSTAND?! Gods- you--- you- TAKE HIM! Dungeon! Right this instant! You fool, you scum, you PERV!! Get him off my sight-!”

Yanked up without fight on his side – because truly, what the point would be, he was in the castle, he wouldn’t escape the many men of King’s Guard –, Steven was dragged away, meeting the raged glare of the King for the shortest of moments. King’s much obvious disgust hurt, but not nearly as much as the thought of never seeing her again.

His beautiful, ethereal fairy.

Because he would never as much as get a glimpse of her ever again--- or perhaps he would, at his own execution? The King would make a huge spectacle of it, he was sure-

The heavy door to the hall were pushed open, Queen Virginia walking through them gracefully, the guards only bowing their heads frantically before they proceeded to tug Steven away.

Steven’s heart ceased to beat when his eyes fell on her; no, not the Queen, but her companion; and then it started singing, bliss and delight at his wish being granted not by the King, then by the Gods themselves.

She carried herself as light as she had when he had seen her the first time, the night of Walpurgis, shining brighter than the moonlight, than the sun itself, as exquisite in her royal blue gown as she had appeared in her modest attire of thin white fabric.

Gods, she appeared ethereal and where the Queen’s shoes clicked against the floor, hers tapped, causing Steven to smile. She might be wearing a dress worth a months’ living, but she remained barefoot. He would be afraid about her catching cold; however, he rested assured that her newfound family and servants would never allow it to go as far.

Where Queen’s brown furrowed, her face lighted up impossibly at the sight of him; and Steven knew he would die a happy man. Such delight in her eyes was the greatest gift he could be given and he shall accept it and take it to afterlife.

“My King,” the Queen greeted her husband shortly, apparently confused at the scene unfolding in front of her. Steven paid her no mind as the gaze of his stunning fairy followed him, the spark in her eye fading, clouded by bewilderment. Steven’s chest tightened at the loss. “What-“

“Wait!” the Princess piped up and Gods bless, the guards halted in their steps, hesitant gazes casted upon their king in question. “What is it we have walked into?”

The King instantly fixed a smile for the newcomers, not providing an answer to the guards on how they should proceed. Who should they listen to? The King or the Princess, an unfamiliar woman put on a pedestal?

“Oh, simply a little quarrel, dear sister. Worry not your pretty head.”

Steven grinded his teeth at the patronizing approach.

She was not a child; and naïve she might be, untrained in the procedures of the court, but feeble-minded she was not. She might have not grown up around ordinary men, but her eyes displayed wit and understanding of human nature deeper than of several people Steven had encountered.

Her gaze flickered between the King, the Queen and Steven and her face lost any resemblance of a smile for a moment long enough to bring sorrow to everyone present. Her eyes lingered on Steven the longest and while aware he should not, he basked in her softened expression, his chest heaving in pride.

A brief smile passed her lips as she turned to her brother, her long eyelashes fluttering. Steven couldn’t take his eyes off of her. She was a dream coming to life.

“A little quarrel? Then surely it can be solved without such violent behaviour, without handling a man, who brought me home, with brute force,” she said, innocence incarnated.

Her gaze flickered to Steven again, a spark of emotion he couldn’t hope to unravel in them.

King Anthony wavered, silent for a moment as expectant gazes of his wife and his sister were casted upon him. Pretending to be mollified by his sister’s remark, he beckoned to his Guard to release Steven; much to Steven’s surprise.

Upon that action, his brilliant fairy smiled brightly, her fingers getting a hold of her skirts to get it out of her way, scampering to Steven as the guards took a step back. And Steve truly could die a happy man at such gesture, feeling blessed. She chose to grace him with her attention; him, not the King, her brother.

Against his will, a smile formed on his lips, all ache disappearing from his chest, his knees, his roughly handled wrists. Her whole demeanour glowed with sincerity as she came to a stop only a step from him, her head tilted back a fraction as he stood taller above her.

From the corner of his eye, Steve could see the King stiffen, his hands balled in fists. Steven paid him little attention; how could he do any different with the breath-taking woman so close to him, looking up at his face with her full lips curled up in an inviting smile, eyes mesmerizing as always?

“You are not to walk barefoot,” he remarked, quickly catching himself and in hope to maintain at least some etiquette, he took one painful step back, bowing to her, “Your Highness.”

The grind of King’s teeth could be heard as Steven spoke up without permission. In all honesty, Steven had no care in the world. If he was to die, he might as well walk through paradise before meeting his end.

“Whatever has happened to ‘my fairy?’” she questioned sweetly, eyes full of wonder, the corners of her lips losing its happy curve.

In another world, a world outside the lovebirds’ little universe, the King was searing, nothing but a growl coming deeply from his chest. Queen Virginia laid a soothing hand over his heart, scolding him by one single look for his barbarian ways.

In his own paradise, Steven’s heart pounded and swelled, touched by his fairy’s hopeful question. He cleared his throat as a lump grew in it, torn between the need wrap her in his love and keeping his head on his shoulders rather than have it cut off.

As much as he was in her favour, surely the King would hate him should he as much as attempt to court her.

“It is not proper, Your Highness. I should have not-“

“But you should, Steven!” she whispered feverishly, her tender hands cupping his face, tears turning her eyes glassy. Steven’s breath hitched, his insides twisting painfully. “Or do you not feel for me what you have felt before?”

The very moment, Steven realized he could not care less about being a fool as long as he would be a fool for her. His shoulders hunching, he bended down to meet his beauty’s gaze properly, his palm covering the back of her hand on him, caressing affectionately.

“Oh, sweetness, fairy mine, I shall cherish you for as long as I live,” he declared. Which might not be too long, he thought, considering the King fuming as he watched them, prepared to tell the guards to pierce Steven’s heart with a sword right here and now, apparently.

However, the beautiful smile reappeared, a single tear rolling down her cheek as one of her hands slipped lower to rest against his chest, feeling his heart hammering no doubt.

“Then I shall hope you will live long…” she whispered, inching away to look at the King with undying hope indeed. “Shall I not, brother mine?”

Oh, feeble-minded she was not and she very much did understand what she had walked into.

If Steven was bold enough to read anything into her actions, her gestures, her affection, he would believe she carried him in her heart, in her mind as much as he had been in his and truly-- when had he deserved such blessing?

“Oh, for Gods’ sake! You want to keep him?!” the King demanded, exasperated as he was aware his question was nothing short of pointless for her favour was evident.

“Keep him? In my heart? Oh, how I wish for it, brother dear!”

The King shuddered at the addressing, moved by her voice holding such joy and wistfulness. Oh, how she had him wrapped around her finger! Her persona was as enchanting as the night Steven had encountered her; a human and yet a fairy, her charms stronger than the magic of the forest creatures who could only wish to match its power!

“Husband. Anthony…” the Queen chimed in, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. “Do you not recall your father’s disapproval? Fond of your choice was he not. Not fond of me in the slightest.”

“For he was a fool,” the King scoffed, meeting his wife’s gaze.

“Then do not be the same fool,” she retorted and despite himself, Steven couldn’t stop the corners of his lips twitching, more so when the King pouted at his wife’s remark.

Peace in his mind, recognizing his head was not to be chopped off in the near future, Steven feasted his eyes on the stunning fairy, her touch still soft on his cheeks, her smile illuminating the Royal Hall, nothing but pure love as she gazed up at him.

The King grumbled something incomprehensible, sighed and finally gave his approval.

The Princess’ laughter rang loud and joyful as she dropped her hands from Steven’s face in order to run to her brother, assaulting him with a fierce hug which caused the King to stumble backwards.

“Thank you, brother! Thank you! I would have come back to the woods should you not-“

“Whoa, whoa! No woods, you stay right here, even if it’s with this fo-“

“I am so happy, brother mine!” Her kiss smacked on the King’s cheek, his sudden panic resolving, an actual blush colouring his face, much to Queen Virginia’s amusement.

“Alright, alright, no need to smooch me, young lady-“

While was the King in fact basking in the affection from his long-lost sister despite his words demanding restraint, his eyes met with Steven’s. And for the briefest of moments, they shared a deep understanding; a similar knowledge of what was of the highest import.

As long it would make her happy, they would do anything. Even put up with each other’s presence.

Without a warning, the Princess left her brother’s embrace again and rushed back to Steven’s arms. Worrying not for being scolded and executed anymore, he smiled at her widely and welcomed her, hands locked on the back of her thighs, lifting her from the floor so she towered over him for once.

Awed at the heights she found herself in, she bent down to Steven’s face, her lips brushing his, loving and euphoric; her kiss sealed the deal and their happy beginning.

No one – not the grumbling King or his Queen, not the delighted Princess Fairy or her beloved, let alone the still perplexed members of the King’s Guard – noticed the gust of wind dashing through the Royal Hall and the silent click of the door.

In a ramshackle house at the edge of the town, Wanda smiled when her brother brought her the joyful news and her fingers brushed the powerful pendent, a gift from her Mother, once more resting heavy on her chest.

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･

Notes: Yes, it got away from me, AGAIN, and more than usual. Sorry?

I hope you had not been repulsed by the possibly crappy and totally mixed up representation of old religions; then again I think all is fair in a fairy tale AU 😇 Also, sorry if the language sounds weird; I tried.

I’d like to thank @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan once more for letting me participate in her challenge and I thank you all who have made it to the very end of this long-ass fic. Any feedback is always appreciated.

P.S. - if you feel brave enough, I’d be delighted if checked out my Masterlist

#star’s celebration challenge #marvel #fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #fairy tale au #writing challenge #steve rogers imagine #captain america x reader #captain america imagine #mcu au #steve rogers #captain america #reader insert #steve rogers fanfiction #captain america fanfiction #long read #walpurgis night #anika ann #star's celebration challenge

312 notes · View notes

the-ineffable-demon-crowley · 4 years

Text

The Sweetest Wrath

Your romantic dinner with Crowley goes pear-shaped when Aziraphale unceremoniously interrupts. As your attention is captured by the angel, Crowley finds he has to use more creative means to remind the two of you just who you belong to.

Pairing: Anthony J. Crowley x reader (ft. Aziraphale)

Warnings: Exhibitionism, little bit of voyeurism, praise kink, fingering, rough sex, dirty talk, hair pulling, car sex

Length: 4.2k

Cross-posted to AO3 here

This work is a commission for @mollyplier

⋘ ⋙

Despite what you might think, demons had very busy schedules. Well, someone had to go around tempting people into their insidious desires, spreading hate and unrest within the population. Whether that be by blocking off all the main roads with untimely construction work that never seemed to be completed, pulling down all the major phone networks on a Friday evening, or by crashing the entirety of the public library’s database during finals season, Crowley had a long to-do list. Never mind the collection of souls for the Dark Lord, a back-breaking tasks in of itself.

Of course, that never stopped him from using his tempting charms as a means for his own good. There were a few souls that had caught his eye over the centuries, but they were far too special to be sacrificed to the Dark Lord. No, these were just for him. You were one of his finest achievements, but it didn’t take much to ensnare you. His charming walk, his easy grin, and his simple one-liners. Who could resist? It’d almost felt like you knew him for centuries, but that was just how comfortable you were with Crowley, and how much of an old soul he really was beyond the sarcastic, sniggering snake he could be sometimes.

Still, he worked hard, even if he didn’t want to. Which is why you loved Aziraphale, a cheeky but posh cherubic principality who was Crowley’s colleague, friend, confidante, everything. Though Aziraphale didn’t like it, he understood how useless it was to cancel each other’s work out, and would sometimes come to an agreement with Crowley over the heavenly state of the souls of some town’s population. Usually, Crowley won the coin-toss. Aziraphale never thought to ponder how Crowley was always so lucky.

But on the off-chance that Crowley lost, Aziraphale would keep you company. He was a delightful companion, and the two of you always spent your time talking books, plants, and the bureaucracy of Heaven. Aziraphale had much to say regarding that. But now, with Crowley off unveiling the worst in people, you were sat at home alone, planning. Conniving, he would call it, and then boast about how he had done well in corrupting you. If only he knew.

You’d made a reservation for two at the RItz for you and Crowley for that very evening. It was technically Aziraphale’s favourite place, but you knew Crowley was fond of it as well, having been dragged there for drinks and crêpes since its inception in 1906. You planned the whole thing out; for dinner, a sumptuous 4-course feast, and for dessert, well... You had several decadent selections in mind, each sure to make him more insatiable than the last.

Your instructions to Crowley were simple as you typed them out on your phone. Dinner, tonight. Pick me up at 8. Stay hungry, my demon.

His reply was swift. Ravenous already. See you tonight.

Crowley wasn’t often known for punctuality, but because you hadn’t been able to spend much time together since he was busy at... work, you supposed it was, he was outside your flat, leaning against his Bentley waiting for you at 8 on the dot. You smirked at the sight of him, black blazer, black trousers, per usual. Red hair swiped upwards, black sunglasses framing his sharp features. He was angular, positively fiendish, and he was here for your soul.

⋘ ⋙

As expected, the Ritz was beautiful, the vintage building’s peaks soaring into the backdrop of the starry night sky, and its patrons dripping in glamour. Guests came dressed with their savings on their sleeves, with even the most casually dressed of diners boasting expensive loungewear. You thought you fit right in on the arm of your demon, bedecked in black, and you, clad in a tasteful dress that brought out your eyes. As you made your way up towards the entrance, your arm brushed against Crowley’s, and you nearly flushed, as though this was your first date all over again. He just had that kind of effect on you.

Despite the fact that Crowley wasn’t often one for affection, you could feel his long, strong arm slipping around your waist as he escorted you into the dining room, a quiet din of the other diners filling your ears. You sat down onto the white upholstered chair, and smiled at Crowley as a waiter came to take preliminary drink orders. Minutes later, drinks and the first course had arrived.

“This is absolutely glorious, angel, thank you.” Crowley murmured as he tipped the mixed alcoholic concoction into his mouth. His tongue darted out to collect a stray droplet, and you watched it with fascination at its snapping movement.

“It’ll get even better once you start eating instead of just drinking.” You quipped, lifting a forkful of your dinner to your mouth. Crowley grinned.

“All in good time.” He raised his hand, fingers long and neatly manicured, and gestured to the waiter for another round.

“Have Hastur and Ligur been giving you much trouble?”

“Ngk.” Crowley responded, this time taking your advice and swallowing whole his bites of dinner. However, he remained a perfect gentleman, and you couldn’t help but stare at him outfitted in his jacket and trousers. He didn’t necessarily fit in among the glitzy crowd of the Ritz dining room, but damn if he didn’t look every bit as expensive as everybody else in there, right down to the shining black gunmetal of his sunglasses. “Nothing I can’t handle. They’re attempting to delegate the planning of the next recession and stock-market crash to me, but I told them they can stick it right-”

“Oh!” A sudden soft gasp, otherwise masked by the din of the room, caught Crowley’s ear. Mostly because he’d heard it for centuries; mainly when a particularly cute creature was in view. His partner in.... something, Aziraphale. You noticed him noticing it, and turned your head to see what had caught his attention.

“Crowley! Y/N! How lovely to see you both here!” Aziraphale was positively gleaming as he approached the dinner table, a ray of sunshine in direct opposition to Crowley’s black void. You couldn’t help but smile at the angel, appreciative at his endless enthusiasm.

“Aziraphale, what a surprise!” You returned.

“Oh, my dear, I have been holed up in my shop for what feels like hours. I had to get out and have a nice cuppa. Speaking of which, have you read that novel I gave you yet? You simply must, I could not put it down for the life of me.”

“Oh, I’ve gotten about halfway, and I was so shocked when one of the twins died, and- oh, please, sit down.” You hadn’t expected this interruption, but now that he was here, you simply couldn’t resist a quick chat. You were about to ask a nearby diner if you could borrow one of the chairs at their table, but one miracled itself right in front of your eyes. You glanced around at the others, the magical appearance of the chair apparently unnoticed, then at Crowley, seemingly as indifferent as ever, continuing to sip at his drink.

“Thank you, Y/N. Now, tell me what you think of the heroine.” Aziraphale happily on the chair.

You gushed about the novel with Aziraphale for a few more minutes, admittedly completely neglecting Crowley during that time. But every time you glanced at him, he seemed to at least be paying attention, albeit drinking all the while. You had counted three or four empty glasses before the waiter came to collect them, bringing a fresh one shortly afterwards. A demon’s tolerance was essentially bottomless, so Crowley wouldn’t be anywhere near drunk yet, but it could be soon at the rate Aziraphale was talking, and Crowley with no other way to entertain himself.

“Oh, have you finished eating? Then I believe it’s time for dessert- garçon! Three of your finest strawberry crêpes, s’il vous plaît.”

“Oh, angel, I think Y/N had planned for-” but Crowley was quickly cut off, and he sat back in the chair, raising a brow to you. You signalled to give it another minute, and you would start to shoo Aziraphale off.

“Don’t be silly, Crowley, company as lovely as YN here deserves nothing but the best- and the crêpes here are the best.” This seemed to shut Crowley up for the moment, but you could tell he was getting a little territorial over your attention, with his boot beginning to slowly trace itself against your ankle. You cleared your throat to focus, but your leg did not move, eager for a piece of Crowley during this interrupted dinner. Still, it was simply impossible to be rude to the angel, and Crowley, for whom it was somehow an endearing trait, was seemingly refusing to help. “Oh, Y/N, that reminds me, I have taken your advice and have taken up a spot of painting.”

“Oh, that’ll be fun. What medium?”

“Oil paints, I should think. I dabbled in it before, of course, tried a hand at some neoimpressionism, but I should think the classical styles are more my type, the nude portraits and the like. Positively divine.” Crowley snorted, the first indication that he hadn’t petrified and turned to stone since Aziraphale’s arrival.

“Bit biased there, aren’t you?” He drawled smugly.

Aziraphale glanced at Crowley from the corner of his eye pettily, then looked back at you. Then as if to spite him, or perhaps out of a naive desire to simply catch your beauty on canvas, he blurted out, “You’d pose for me, wouldn’t you, Y/N? You’d make a beautiful model for a nude study.”

Your eyes flashed and your mouth fell open slightly, lips parting in surprise. It wasn’t necessarily the request, but the fact that Crowley was right there-

“Oh, yes, I could see it now. Bedecked in honeysuckle and lavender, in your hair, against your lovely skin, you’d be heavenly. What do you think, Crowley?”

You laughed, a bit taken aback. “I’m flattered, really! But I-”

“Oh, I should think she would be- Y/N.” Crowley leaned forward, placing his elbows onto the table. “Get your coat, sweet.”

Aziraphale seemed genuinely confused, bless him, turning to look at the demon. In the meantime, you stood from your chair and scooped up your jacket, trying not to think about how Crowley’s darkened voice sent shivers up your spine. You knew this was coming from the moment Aziraphale even mentioned nude portraits, could almost see how his features were shadowed by lust at the thought of you. Aziraphale’s voice remained strong, but innocent. “But the crêpes haven’t arrived yet-”

“Oh, come on, Aziraphale.” He cajoled. “Let’s have a bit of a walk, hm?” Crowley inclined his head towards the exit, his red hair catching the light of the chandeliers. You smirked as the angel, still babbling, stood up and reluctantly agreed, leaving the promise of his dessert behind.

With Aziraphale in front of you, Crowley’s arm slid possessively around your waist a little tighter this time, pulling you to him, against him as you walked between the tables. You could feel the power in his body with every step, and though you knew you were in for it now, the thought of Crowley claiming you as his was as delicious a dessert as you could ever have suggested. Despite his intimidation, you knew he was secretly enjoying this; he had found the perfect excuse to shut Aziraphale up, and finish the the night off exactly the way he wanted to- with your legs spread.

The night air was cool but not unpleasant as a breeze traced across your skin. Your senses felt sharpened, each of his touches sending you into a frenzy as he led you towards the car. Aziraphale followed behind, one of his hands holding the other in front of him like a poised debutante.

“Y/N, sit in the back for a moment, please.” You heard the subtle growl in his voice, and you obliged, popping open the door of the big, black Bentley and slipping inside onto the cool leather. The angel and the demon got in in front of you, and you stared at their beautiful silhouettes. Crowley, a lean, shadowy, sinful figure, and Aziraphale, a vision of purity and light even in the nighttime, even in the face of Crowley’s wrath.

The car was silent for a beat before anybody spoke.

“My two angels,” Crowley murmured, turning back to look at you in the backseat. “You’ve both been naughty, haven’t you?” His gaze turned to Aziraphale with a slight turn of his head. Even behind the impenetrable sunglasses that perched on his nose, his gaze was heavy, dangerous. You scarcely felt yourself breathe. You were in trouble now.

“Crowley, it’s my fault, Aziraphale was just-” You began to reach forward for him. He turned his head towards you, and your mouth closed. You sat back against the backseat of the Bentley quietly, the leather creaking underneath you. It was the only noise in the car for a long moment.

“I know what he was doing, love. Like to have a bit of a look? Bit of a flirt?” He looked at Aziraphale. “And you-” You bit your lip, eyes lifting slowly to look at him. “You know.”

God, did you ever. Crowley had never been that much of the jealous type, but for you to have been fawning over Aziraphale like that, during a dinner meant for him to relax? It was enough to trigger the most hellish side of the demon, and you were in for it now. Heat flooded your core, and you pressed your knees together. You saw Crowley raise a brow behind his glasses, a smirk adorning his lips. He saw.

“You’re enjoying this. Would you enjoy bouncing on my cock while Aziraphale watches, then? I think it’s what you both deserve after tonight.” He inclined his head towards the angel, who began sputtering in shock.

“Crowley, I say!” But you saw his cheeks flush pink, painting the perfect picture of a cherub. You weren’t going to lie, making Aziraphale watch was one of the hottest things you’d ever heard, and you had never expected Crowley to go that far. It was clear things were going to be played by his rules tonight.

“What d’ya say, angel?” His smirk grew wicked, and you grew hot beneath your clothing. Your reply was a whisper, but you knew he heard it, and he knew you meant it.

“Yes, Crowley.”

It took him precisely half a second to materialize in the backseat with you. It was a mess of limbs, his long and lean, and yours tangled up with him. His hands gripped your hips, and his lips found yours in a searing kiss. You moaned into his mouth at the feeling of his strong, nimble fingers beginning to trail up and down your sides, one slipping underneath your shirt to palm at your breast. His thumb rolled circles over your nipple, and you groaned your pleasure against him.

“Eyes on me, angel.” He growled in your ear. You blinked, and looked up at the man overing over you. His sharp features were illuminated only by the orange glow of the streetlights outside, and whatever scarce cars drove by. You knew they couldn’t see anything; the car was probably magicked to invisibility. Crowley wouldn’t be that careless. He was lithe, but heavy, a comforting weight between your legs, and his hair already a mess from the way your fingers had been running through it. He stared down at you with black eyes, his sunglasses still on his face. “Both of you.” He barked, lifting his head to look at Aziraphale. The angel, looking quite unsettled, turned his head to look at you. Crowley’s hands made quick work of your shirt and your bra, exposing your breasts to the night air.

You felt like you were being ravished in front of God himself, a demon laying snugly between your thighs. Crowley seemed to agree, as he bucked his hips against you, his hard erection pressing into your clothed centre.

“Fuck, Crowley, please.”

“So needy, angel, even with an audience. You’re greedy, little one.”

His large hand snaked down to between your thighs, his fingers beginning to rub you against your trousers. You keened at the feeling, head rolling against the car door, hips squirming. He held you fast, his weight keeping you pinned down beneath him. You felt absolutely at his mercy, without even Aziraphale to dare help you now. Crowley’s fingers then found the button and zipper of your jeans, at which point he began to yank them down.

“Crowley, is this really-” You heard him start, but your moan swallowed his words in the darkness of the car.

“That feel good? My long fingers inside of you?”

Precisely two of his long fingers were now buried deep inside of you, thumb on your lit, and palm slapping against your pussy. Your hands snapped forward, gripping his forearms. You felt the power beneath the corded muscles that flexed underneath his thin black blazer. The smell of smoke and leather overwhelmed you, eyes shutting tightly as his fingers increased their pace.

“Look at me. Look at me, or I won’t let you cum.” He hissed, and your eyes popped open, so desperate were you for release.

“-Yes, Aziraphale,” He addressed the angel calmly, though his eyes remained on you. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To see her splayed out, desperate, needy, begging? ‘Cept of course, it’s my cock that she’ll be bouncing on, isn’t it, love?” His thumb rolled over your clit harshly, and your hips bucked. Aziraphale couldn’t help but keep his eyes trained on you, so clearly in the throes of pleasure. He wasn’t proud of himself, and yet...

“Yes! God, yes...”

“You like him watching, don’t you?” He purred in your ear, and your ankles hooked around his hips, an attempt to bring him closer. No part of him touched you except his hand, buried in your soaking cunt. “Say it.”

“I-I... I like it! I like it- please, let me... cum.”

“Alright, I’ll allow it. Cum.”

Stars sparked behind your eyelids, and fire tore through your insides. Your juices soaked his hand, fingers still fucking in and out of you, and you heard him groan at the sight of it. You could also feel him rubbing against your thigh in search of a bit of friction, but still, he kept his composure. A sheen of sweat covered your forehead, hair sticking to your cheeks. Aziraphale cleared his throat quietly; you’d nearly forgotten he was there at all.

“Are you satisfied, Crowley?” He muttered.

Crowley grinned. “Not nearly.”

In the blink of eye, you were on top of the demon, jeans abandoned, and his cock free of his tight leather trousers. He folded his hands behind his head, mirroring your previous position, and yet it was clear he was the one in charge here. His sunglasses were also gone at this point, and the sight of his snake eyes filled you with desire. There was something so wrong about it all, being fucked by a demon with an angel staring right at you. You had no hopes of explaining this one to the Almighty.

You could barely keep yourself upright as you straddled him, limbs still weak from your orgasm. Crowley did not care.

“Turn around, Y/N.”

You raised a brow, and his eyes narrowed, challenging you. You quickly changed positions, with the help of Crowley sitting up a bit in the back. You were now sitting atop of him, staring directly in the face of Aziraphale, sitting in the passenger seat. If he had looked uncomfortable before, he was positively faint at this point. It was clear he wanted to look away, and yet, if either by some wicked temptation or by Crowley’s clear commands, he did not. Not for a second.

Not even when your eyes rolled to the back of your head as the tip of Crowley’s cock rubbed against your folds. Instantly, you felt desire electrify your insides, and you wanted nothing more than to sink down onto him. But you needed his permission first. He rubbed the pre-cum against you, and you felt your juices slowly dripping down your thighs. You shuddered, hips bowing down to try to take him in. He chuckled.

“You still want my cock, love? Right in front of Aziraphale?”

You lifted your eyes to the actual angel’s, and he gave you a slight smile as if to assure you. Angel or not, he couldn’t have not been enjoying this display.

“Yes, I want your cock always, Crowley, please, please fuck me.”

“Whatever my angel so desires. Keep your eyes on him and I might let you cum again.”

With one hand on your hip pulling you towards him, he used the other to guide himself into you. Thick, long, and hard, he filled you entirely, and you felt stuffed as you seated him inside of you right to the hilt. You heard Crowley growl underneath you, the only time he had lost his composure during this entire affair. His hand pushed against your hip, encouraging you- pushing you to build up your rhythm. You gyrated your hips against him as hard and fast as you could, but it didn’t feel like enough to Crowley.

You bounced against his cock, tits bouncing in front of Aziraphale, hands reaching for the headrest to steady yourself. Crowley’s hips, powerful and strong, fucked up into you as his cock filled your walls. You felt him shift slightly, and the instant he hit that special spot, your back arched.

“There, is it?” Crowley’s voice was rough, and his grip, his pace, was rougher. “Look at you, being fucked right here in the backseat, absolutely soaking wet for my cock, even with someone watching. You are a little minx, aren’t you?”

His dirty words spurred you on, bouncing as quick as you could, chasing your high. You knew Crowley’s permission wouldn’t come easily this time, and you had to make it count.

“Aziraphale, isn’t she lovely?”

Your eyes flitted to the angel’s, then fell, and he swallowed, clearly affected by the sight of you. “Positively decadent.”

“And she belongs to me.”

His fingers wrapped around a handful of your hair, bending your neck back. You felt his teeth scrape against the exposed skin, and you cried out at the feeling of the pleasure and pain mixing. “Look at him while you try to cum.”

One of his hands traveled between your legs, and his fingers pinched your clit. You nearly sobbed, and you wanted nothing more than to collapse, but still, he kept you going. Your release was coming, and coming hard. Crowley could feel it by the way your hips began to stutter, your pace slowing as your limbs grew weak from the exhaustion.

“Don’t you stop.” He yanked your hair harder, and you moaned in response, the stinging sensation in your scalp a delicious addition to the pounding between your legs. His cock, hot and hard, was hitting you over and over again in the your most sensitive of places. But you were so close, so close.

“Please le-let... me cum!” You begged, his fingers gripping your hair and your neck bending as you stared into Aziraphale’s eyes. Crowley’s fingers began to tweak at your clit, but his permission didn’t come. You cried at the feeling, continuing to fuck yourself against his cock without any sign of release in sight.

“Tell me who you belong to.” You could hear his voice becoming ragged as he fought the urge to cum himself, eyes fixated on the way your ass bounced against his hips, his cock disappearing in and out of you.

“You! You, Crowley, only you... Please!”

“Cum.”

With one single word, you fell to pieces. You fell forward as his hand released your hair, his hands now gripping your hips harshly as he sought his own release. You moaned at the feeling of letting him use you for his own pleasure as your cum soaked his cock, your thighs, and the leather of the Bentley beneath you. Your fingers slipped against the plastic interior of the car door, trying to no avail to get a grip on your surroundings. He thrusted in and out of you a handful of times again before cumming, hot spurts of cum filling you up inside, then slowly beginning to trickle out.

Crowley’s hands, no longer harsh, but strong, moved to disengage himself from you, and reached for some napkins to help you clean up. You reached for your shirt and jeans, and began to dress yourself as awkwardly as you could in the small space. Crowley’s hair was mussed, and his perfect skin glowed with sweat. You felt your hair sticking to you, and the heat of Crowley’s cum still inside you. Limbs weak, you allowed yourself to be collected in Crowley’s arms.

Aziraphale cleared his throat quietly.

“Yes, well... that was-”

“Divine? Tempting enough to immortalize on canvas?” Crowley finished with a grin. You felt him chuckle beneath you, and you snuggled in close to his chest.

“No! Goodness, no, I, uh... get the message.”

“Glad to hear it. You alright, love?”

“Yes, Crowley.”

“Good. Shall we get some dessert?”

You saw Aziraphale’s gaze light up, and you knew that his eyes were never meant for you. Only Crowley’s.

#Anthony Crowley #anthony j crowley #anthony j crowley x reader #anthony crowley x reader #anthony j crowley smut #good omens smut #good omens au #good omens smut au #good omens fanfiction #good omens fanfic #commission #fanfic commission #mollyplier

179 notes · View notes

hmel78 · 4 years

Text

In conversation with Anthony Phillips ...

1967 – the World watched on as San Francisco experienced it’s ‘Summer Of Love’, and listened on as music reached the dizzy heights of psychedelic rock; Classical music seemed to be drowned out by the screams accompanying The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Who … Meanwhile, at Charterhouse school - one of Great Britain’s finest ‘public’ educational establishments in the idyllic English county of Surrey - a handful of budding young musicians, were busily trying to prove to their masters that banning guitar practice as a punishment for missed homework, would not stop the musical revolution that had begun to happen within it’s own splendid Gothic walls! Unsurprisingly, there is a noteable list of ‘Old Carthusians’ – including the composer Ralph Vaughan Williams, amongst numerous artists, actors, poets , sportsmen, TV personalities, journalists, politicians, and Bishops! – but we doubt that they could ever have imagined that they would also nurture, and eventually include in that list, the founder members of a band called … ‘Genesis’. Perhaps you have heard of them?

Peter Gabriel, Michael Rutherford, Tony Banks, Christopher Stewart, and … Anthony Phillips. Despite his departure from the band in 1970, Ant has never strayed from his musical path. His solo discography boasts in excess of 30 albums; in addition to that he enjoys an incredibly busy, and successful career as a TV and ‘library’ composer; and has been involved with a number of musical projects including collaborations with fellow ‘Genesis’ band mates Mike Rutherford, Phil Collins, and Peter Gabriel - but it hasn’t all been plain sailing … Helen Robinson, caught up with him to find out more : HR - So where did your musical journey begin?

AP - I was pretty much self taught at school. I studied music later, but in the beginning I was self taught. I briefly had guitar lessons from a chap who was very impressive. My mum used to buy me the Beatles sheet music, and kindly send it down to me at ‘Charterhouse’ – and this chap would just look at them and read from the piano score, with guitar ‘shapes’ written in fret numbers as opposed to tablature – and he would play the chords and the melody on this beautiful classical guitar. I just wanted to be able to strum the chords to the songs and sing along really, and I think at the time he was a bit disappointed that I wasn’t prepared to go the classical route … Anyway I didn’t. Then formed a band at school – doing Rolling Stones, Beatles, Kinks, Animals, The Shadows - Hank was a big influence - and that took me up to starting to write my own stuff; A lot of it with Mike Rutherford. I met Mike when I was 13 – the other Genesis guys were quite a bit older so we didn’t get together with them for a couple of years. The school band – The Anon - was people more my age. I was the babe of Genesis!

HR - Indeed – and with that in mind, how much input did they allow you to have on the debut album – “From Genesis To Revelation”?

AP - The first album I didn’t do an enormous amount of writing – it was very much dominated by Peter Gabriel and Tony Banks. The second album – “Trespass” - was much more of a ‘group’ album. In fact, myself and Mike were responsible for the basis of 3 or 4 of the tracks on “Trespass”. “Visions of Angels” was my piano track originally. Songs like “Looking For Someone” were Peter Gabriel songs that the rest of us developed the instrumentals around. I had a reasonable amount of stuff on “Genesis To Revelation”, but Mike had very little – we came much more into play on ‘Trespass’.

HR - You’d left the band by the time their 3rd album was released. Did they take any of your ideas forward into “Nursery Cryme”? AP - Actually, I was responsible for mucking about with a few ideas that ended up on the album, way before I left - Mike had this weird tuning of F# which we played about on. That song became “The Musical Box” later – so, yes, a couple of ideas made it.

HR - Do you ever listen back to the first two albums, and hear things that you would change?

AP - I don’t often listen, no - and I haven’t listened to them enough to have any really strong thoughts. I think if you don’t listen for a while then it’s quite pleasant. If you have a period away from these things, you tend to forget what you thought was wrong, so then it’s not so bad – but I must say that when you listen repeatedly, then you start to think “oh dear”, I could have done that differently. We all felt that the business of putting strings on “Genesis To Revelation” - which necessitated reducing the backing track to mono -was a bit of a disaster. Whilst our playing wasn’t the best, the album had a rough, raw power to it which, that process of adding these high wheeling strings to, made it lose something, and anodyne, perhaps. I know that our producer was trying to give it a more commercial edge, which I understand, but I don’t think it really came off - and it was at some cost too!

HR - Would you re-record or re-mix any of it again now, in your own way?

AP - No I don’t think so. I think it is of its time really. The other thing of course is that it’s physically impossible now. That reduction process, means that things were erased, so we can’t get back to the original stages even if we wanted to. That’s all changed now, mercifully, with computers . You can get back to any stage these days – providing you remember to save it!

HR – Ah, yes! The wonders of modern technology. And … NOT saving things! [laughs]

AP - Yes – we’ve all done it!!! It’s all so easily done. We take too much for granted with technology. You can become over reliant on it, and lazy! I do fall into that trap myself sometimes actually – musically. I don’t think enough about original sounds I just tend to buy virtual instruments. T hey are wonderful, but if you think back to albums like [The Beach Boys], “Pet Sounds” and [The Beatles] “Sgt Pepper”, those sounds were created, they weren’t just there at the push of a button!

HR - I know you’re quite experimental with your solo work … Once you’d left Genesis , how easy was it to move into a more classical sound with your compositions?

AP - I found it difficult! I could play by ear, but learning to read music at the age of 18 was incredibly hard to grasp. It was a different discipline of course, of not looking at the guitar or the piano, whilst reading music. My motivation in doing it, was because I wanted the ability to orchestrate ; Not having had that set of skills in Genesis , we couldn’t really have any input into the orchestral approach because we simply didn’t really understand it. Tony Banks did more than the rest of us, although he wasn’t orchestrally trained, but he could read music. So I wanted the power to orchestrate. It wasn’t simply about being able to read music, or being able to play piano pieces – It was definitely to understand notation, so that I could write orchestral pieces. I had a ‘Road to Damascus’, if you like, after I left Genesis, and listened to all sorts of composers. “The Karelia Suite”, by Sibelius, was my epiphany. I suddenly thought “this doesn’t sound like classical music!”. I must have listened to the wrong things, or maybe my ears weren’t ready to listen as a child, so I had a lot of catching up to do. There was a huge ‘pop’ / ‘Classical’ divide as I was growing up in the 60s – it was rancorous between the establishment and the young tear-aways, and hippies. It was a wonderful voyage of discovery though, but frustrating at the same time – technically - I loved doing Bach ‘Chorales’ and things like that, but some of the exercises I had to do, I found quite dull.

HR - Having honed your skills then, did you find that it made a difference to the music that you wanted to write? Did you find yourself wanting to bridge the gap between pop and classical – through a ‘progressive’ angle?

AP - Hmmm, Bridge the gap is interesting. It didn’t make a great deal of difference to me in terms of the progressive wing of my writing – I think I would have grown into that anyway.

With Genesis - There were some moments which were quasi classical, but I don’t think they bridged the gap really, no. Tony Banks was very familiar with the classical repertoire, so you could argue that his chord sequences were classically influenced. What studying did for me, was give me the ability to do - with the more markedly classical wing of things (although you may argue that it’s a fine line to distinguish which bits are prog, and which are classical!) – was cope with them better.

On “The Geese And The Ghost” for instance, having studied orchestration, and knowing how to write the parts, I didn’t have to get an arranger in. I could think for myself and make my own judgments on which instrument to add where. Plus – arrangers inevitably, like anyone else, tend to have their own styles which then reflect on the piece, which might be good, but it might not be necessarily what you want. So it really did help me in that respect.

HR - Genesis certainly didn’t carry any of that vibe forward, into their commercial phase …

AP - No! Well, the post Gabriel group gradually became more and more commercial didn’t they. Phil Collins and Peter Gabriel were quite different animals really - Obviously Peter did some successful commercial things afterwards. To be fair to them [Genesis], it would have been very difficult to carry on that way – especially post punk, and disco eras. There was almost a unilateral, multilateral, Palace revolution, that everyone had to start doing that! It became very unfashionable to be ‘prog’ and have such complicated long and drawn out pieces of music.

My timing was peccable - I’m not sure there is such a word, but I like it anyway! - coming back into the business, because I walked straight into the teeth of punk! Whilst I had nothing against it, in the sense that if I had been 10 years younger I would have been doing the same thing –what I did object to, was being asked to go into reverse gear, and start doing simple pop stuff, because I’d out grown it.

So I think it actually, for the purposes of the market, became very difficult for groups to stay true to their former selves and continue to produce classically based music. I don’t think it was a conscious direction on behalf of a lot of groups to start to simplify their music, they just were not given much choice. It didn’t do England a great deal of credit the way that everyone cashed in on that - there was so much clichéd nonsense around and people were saying “this music hasn’t got any balls!”. In a lot of European countries and the States, different styles were able to co-exist much better, than here in the UK. It was the fault of the record companies rather than a lot of the punk musicians really - they were just happy doing their own thing, but there was a lot of unpleasantness at that time. There were a lot of people who were heroes one day, and then being knifed in the back the day after by the people who had been adulating them! Which wasn’t anything to be terribly proud about …

HR - Not at all! But, something to be proud about is this lovely re-issue of your debut solo album “The Geese And The Ghost”!

AP - Yes! Absolutely! It’s just come out again, and in surround sound too, which is the first time I have had a surround sound album, and they have done a fantastic job with it! Particularly the instrumentals – it really does make a difference to have that experience of surround sound. And they’re releasing limited editions on Vinyl too, which is fabulous because that is when the artwork really comes into it’s own. Vinyl seems to be having a bit of a revival, which is great! MP3s are OK, but the sound is pretty impoverished really one you’ve narrowed the bandwidth of the sound. It sounds like a different album really, with that treatment! HR - When you started work on “The Geese And The Ghost” originally - Did you write it from a fresh perspective or was it something that you had brought forward from Genesis?

AP - It was actually written from a period as far back as 1969 / 1970. Things that Mike [Rutherford] and I had played around with then. There were some additions and refinements made between 1973 / 1974. Recording began in 1974, although the main body of it was done in 1975 – which is actually 40 years ago, isn’t that terrible?! And then, because they were now unfashionable times, we really struggled to get it released - so it didn’t come out until early 1977, by which time some of that material was over 7 years old!

HR - When you were selecting musicians to work with, what influenced your decision to ask Phil Collins and not Peter Gabriel?

AP - Well, Mike and I wrote together, and Peter and Tony [Banks] wrote together - when we came together as a group, that modified a little, but that initial pairing pretty much stayed the same way. So, because Mike and I had all this unreleased music – which was frustrating –at the earliest opportunity ; at a time where solo albums looked like a possibility - we wanted to use this material. We had done a single with Phil in 1973 which ironically was written about the previous Genesis drummer, Jonathan Silver, who was on the first album. I had written this with Mike – a very uncharacteristic kid of loose country song called “The Silver Song” and Phil came down and sang the demo and did such a great job of it. You see, Peter was married, so whenever we had any time off - he went home to spend it with Jill ; whereas Phil was foot loose and fancy free and had tons of energy. The single never got released for various reasons, but when it came to “The Geese And The Ghost” he was the obvious choice because the three of us had worked together before. HR - I’m glad you mentioned Jonathan Silver there – with regards to him, and John Mayhew – were they just hired guns for the early Genesis albums or did they have creative input?

AP - No, they weren’t hired guns as such, but by the same token they didn’t have a huge input, but we did group compositions on all the tracks on those first 2 albums – so whilst they weren’t writing huge swaythes of chord sequences, they were putting in little bits here and there. Jon Silver was full of energy and ideas about arranging and how things were connected. HR - We never really get to know the dynamics of the early stuff, which is why I was curious. It has always seemed to me, that Phil Collins became Genesis … or is that an unfair judgment?

AP - Well he had the big commercial success and I don’t think it would have been easy to keep him unless he had the lion share of the writing credits, although I think they’ve shared the credits pretty well … I think it’s sad to see him fall so far from all of that these days, with the press in particular, but he was colossally successful, and I think the group would have been looking the gift horse in the mouth if they hadn’t run with Phil.

The media can be so cruel. I remember a duel review of “The Geese And The Ghost” being handed to me from the states. One called it a “mellow rock classic”, the other said it was “music to wash dishes to” … and sadly you seem only to remember the bad ones!

And do you know, that it was the album that very nearly never came out?!! It sat on a shelf whilst punk roared away, and I’d given up on it to be honest. It was 15 months between finishing it and it being picked up to be released. For the first 3 or 4 months I was quite hopeful; by new year 1976 I was beginning to lose hope, and by the summer I was definitely starting to think about other things, and applying to go to music college full time.

It was a pretty soul destroying time – I’d spent a lot of time and energy on it; a lot of angst , and thought, apart from hard work, had gone into it … And then right at the 11th hour, while I was going for auditions to music college for the following year - suddenly it was picked up by an American record company. It was never actually released on a formal English record company label - it was released by the Genesis management company with whom I was with at the time – ‘Hit And Run’ – so like I say it’s the album that nearly never was!

HR - If it hadn’t been picked up then, do you think you’d have given it another shot down the line?

AP - No … I don’t actually. I think I would have gone to music college, and ... Good point! What would I have done at the end of it? I think I would have carried on composing, definitely, but I’m not quite sure where I would have come out at the other end, because the progressive scene had long gone, when I finished college in 1979– [laughs] Yes - in a parallel world what would I have done? I have absolutely no idea! I would probably have ended up as a music teacher.

HR - Did you teach, at some point?

AP - Yes … yes I did funnily enough. Whilst I was studying, I taught classical guitar - which helped me a lot. I had always played acoustic guitar, but didn’t play proper finger style - my right hand was quite basic, so I studied classical guitar as well as piano when I left Genesis, and teaching then helped me to pass the Classical Guitar teachers exams (as opposed to the performers diploma). I taught at a couple of different schools. One was Pepper Harrow ; which was like a progressive borstal for kids who were very bright, but who’d fallen foul of authority - not so badly that had to be interned, as it were. A great number of them had come from some pretty horrific backgrounds, but a number of them have gone on to do great things. Some of them were brilliant musicians! I remember wondering what I was letting myself in for initially, but it’s something that I look back on with a great deal of affection. They weren’t just guitar lessons – they were much more - the music was a vital part of these guys rehabilitation.

HR - Sounds like you’d have made a fantastic teacher, had all else failed! Given that “The Geese And The Ghost” almost didn’t happen – did that fill you with confidence to carry on to do the next album straight away, or had it discouraged you a little?

AP - Oh I’ve had more than my fair share of discouragement over the years! The album that came directly afterwards was “Wise After The Event” and I was immediately told that it had to be an album of songs – the writing was on the wall for these straggly instrumental albums - and it was time to crank up the electric guitar into a heavier rock genre, or don’t bother turning up, kind of thing.

“Sides” was originally going to be called “Balls”, which was cocking-a-snook at people for saying that my music didn’t have enough balls! At the time it seemed to me to be so ludicrous to have this blanket approach across all music - so that’s why we had the cover with the table football table on it - But the powers that be, over-ruled “Balls” and we had to change it to “Sides” ; because it did have one side that was more overtly commercial than the other, which is a little more instrumental.

I was lucky at that point, because the “Private Parts and Pieces” idea just came out of the blue really. I had been recording and stockpiling quite a lot throughout the year when nothing was happening with “The Geese And The Ghost”, and I asked if it might be possible, as a foil to this more rock orientated stuff, to be able to release an album of piano pieces, guitar pieces – sort of home recordings, which made up in their atmosphere and mood, what they lacked in technical perfection - and they said yes!

The first X of “Sides” was released as “Private Parts And Pieces” - as a freebie. It wasn’t actually “Private Parts and Pieces I” because it was a one off, but that numbering thing became sort of a generic term for my albums which were more homespun and simple – you know, small scale, as opposed to the more magnum opuses.

Not that I was able to do a Magnum Opus for quite a while! There was the “Invisible Men” album, which had a certain amount of record company backing, but that was again released around the time of the ‘New Romantics’ – more bad timing! I’d just bought my first house, and was under huge financial pressure with about 18 lodgers to pay the mortgage! So there was big pressure on to have hit singles and get paid, and so I didn’t do another full scale album for about another 6 years. I was lucky to still have this ‘outlet’, with the small scale releases, to continue to get some music out there during the 80s - when the climate was very much against the more classical stuff - at least I did continue to get piano, guitar, synth - slightly more imaginative stuff - out there, but all very much on a small scale.

Thinking about it, it was actually a full 7 years gap before I had the opportunity to do another large scale album at the end of the 80s. It was a frustrating time that too, I can tell you. I had rather a chequered career for a while. I was doing a lot of songwriting, and aiming it at other artists. We would keep getting close, but then, the management would lose the artist, or the album was canned. They weren’t collaborations or anything, but we had some placements in the works for Sheena Easton, Roger Daltry and people like that, but they never worked out. We had a song covered by Bucks Fizz – who promptly had a coach crash! So I had a run of bad luck with that really. It was an interesting time – I was trying allsorts of different things whilst my own music wasn’t making much money, and whilst trying to pay for the new house. It didn’t quite come to being a cat burglar, or an assassin, but I did give it some serious thought!

HR - Your celebrity friends could have hired you to assassinate the music press …

AP - [laughs] Yes …

HR - Is there anyone in particular, that you would like to collaborate with? AP - I thought you were going to say Assassinate! I don’t know these days … about collaborations … Mike and I were always a good team but we have gone in different directions now. I’m not sure that he’s interested in doing complicated instrumental stuff any longer. He did ask me if I wanted to be involved with the Mike and Mechanics albums, but I knew that I couldn’t see the whole project through with the touring and everything, which is what he needed. And it’s not necessarily my bag if I’m honest, although I very much respect what he’s achieved. I think maybe we’ve gone too far down different roads now to make anything work. Steve Hackett and I have talked about writing together a few times, but it’s always risky when someone is your friend. Working relationships do change things, and I’m not sure I’d want to risk my friendship with Steve!

With my TV library music, I do collaborate with quite a lot of people then anyway, so I’m not one of these musicians who doesn’t want to work with anybody else.

HR - When are you at your happiest then? When you’re working on solo stuff and you’re completely in control of it (and I’m not insinuating that you’re a control freak!) …

AP - Ha, NO! Actually, a great friend of mine calls my studio the spaceship! And I’m completely happy in there when I’m just mucking about with all the wonderful synth sounds, creating tapestries of colour with sound – Love it!

And also playing guitar, which increasingly seems to happen late at night in front of the TV. Just picking up a guitar – 12 String or Classical – when these ideas enter my head at absurd times of the day. On the recordings you can invariably hear Alan Hansen and Match Of The Day commentary in the background! And I do actually present demos to my library producer, with TV programmes going on in the background.

HR - What sort of boundaries are in place with your Library writing? Can you remain true to your ‘album’ style, or are you tied to a brief?

AP - I have a lot more freedom these days to create some varied pieces – guitar, synth – it’s very varied, and that’s what I love about it, but it’s hugely competitive, and the recession spawned a lot of ‘under-cutting’ - the market is flooded, and the rates of pay have dropped! I feel very fortunate to have done well at a time when it was less competitive, and to have continued to do it. It’s incumbent on me to keep writing as much as possible - I can’t afford to take my foot off the peddle. So when things come up, I don’t ever really have a blank page because of the stockpile of guitar, piano , synth, and orchestral library pieces already down – I have all of this material ready to go, rather than start from scratch. Some of them are slightly rough and would need to be redone, but the mood is there, and if someone came to me tomorrow asking for such and such, I would hope that I have something that would suit. Unless they asked for a bagpipe concerto. I haven’t got one of those. It’s unlikely to happen, but you never know …

HR - So when we end this conversation, you’re going to go and write one …

AP - [laughs]They’re not a pretty sound when people turn them off you know! What they don’t tell you is that when they’re warming up and cooling down they sound like a sick cow! It is a racket! We had a funny incident on the road with Genesis actually. Peter Gabriel was a little bit accident prone, and slightly absent minded on stage, and used to play the accordion in Stagnation, a bit – in quite an unconventional way, not like jolly French stuff with the onions and the beret - but he would put it down during a very quiet section and if he didn’t put it down properly, it would make this kind of squealing noise going off into the distance, and suddenly we would sound like a John Cage outfit! People would look up completely startled! Another thing he would do – he was a good flute player but struggled with an A flat in “The Knife” which was our closing song – and Tony Banks had to remind him before we went on, that you had to tweek the flute to tune it by a semi-tone. Occasionally Tony would forget to tell him, and Peter wouldn’t remember; The lights would dim, and we’d be ready for this lovely moody bit, and BANG! He would come in a semi tone out! That was pretty tense I can tell you! I love all of those instruments …

HR - What’s your favorite instrument?

AP - Ooooh Tricky. I think pushed to answer that, I’d have to say 12 string guitar 1st, followed very closely by piano, Classical guitar 3rd, and underwater sousaphone 4th …

HR - And, may I say you play all 4 brilliantly!

AP - Aww thanks …

HR - I’ll look forward to your underwater sousaphone symphony at some point, amidst the forthcoming re-releases! Were you looking at reworking your back catalog, or was it something that you were approached to do?

AP - They approached me! [Cherry Red / Esoteric Records]. Not to put too finer point on it but I make the majority of my living from my TV music, and the album work has always been a very nice foil to that, but it’s not been my bread and butter, as it were. I’m probably one of the only artists who has ever said to a record company – “are you really sure you want to do this?” And they did, so I was a bit surprised really! I gathered they were in the business of picking up back catalogs– and I hate the world ‘cult’ – but of people who have ‘cult’ followings, and it felt like entirely the right thing to do. It feels a safe place to be, and with a decent company who have their act together; after having had so many years of uncertainty with this stuff.

HR - How much influence did you have over the way that the 2014 anthology “Harvest Of The Heart”, was put together?

AP - Not a lot actually, but entirely by choice. I wrote a little bit for the blurb on the boxset, but as far as choosing what songs to include – I couldn’t make the decision. It was too difficult – I mean, I dither anyway, at the best of times! And I’m not in any way trying to imply with arrogance that this is all so wonderful, but it was just too hard for me to decide. I’m not a good judge of what other people would have wanted, and to be frank I don’t like listening to a lot of it anyway, once I have done it, otherwise I start to pick it all apart and convince myself that I could have done better … So I was very happy to leave it up to Jonathan Dann, who runs my website ; and Mark Powell (Boss of Cherry Red), who went through all of it. He deserves a medal for that!

HR - I know it’s unfair to ask an artist what their favourite piece of their own music is, but – do you have one?

AP - The albums I’m most proud of , would be “The Geese And The Ghost”, and an album called “Slow Dance” ; which was the first album that I did when I came back after that 7 year hiatus in the wilderness, as it were …

HR - Was that [Slow Dance] released under your own steam outside of record label jurisdiction?

AP - It was actually! I did that off my own bat, and once again ended up having a bad time of it! We’d done an album called “Tarka”, and there was a bit of an upturn in the 80s with the ‘new age’ boom. I’d been doing what was effectively ‘new age’ for a while, but suddenly people realised that, after about 5 years! So I borrowed some money from my management company to crank up my gear, in order to enable me to do a larger scale record. This was in lieu of a small advance from the record company, who then went bust! So the rights to my songs were impounded, under US laws, and my catalogs were frozen (as assets) in the states for a number of years and I couldn’t get them back - so it was a pretty chaotic period in terms of America, but also I had to finish what I had started here! So I pressed on with this album, very much in debt, because I’d bought the gear, but then hadn’t got the advance to pay it off! Looking back I’m not sure how I kept going really because the record was very complicated … But I did have an ulterior motive which was to try and secure a publishing deal with the then’ Virgin Publishing’ under Richard Branson. I don’t to this day think he realises what he let go of when he sold it on to EMI – it was such a wonderful company to be a part of. Ultimately, I got a deal, which got me out of the mire; I finished what became “Slow Dance” and then Virgin came in and released ALL of my albums onto CD for the first time, so I was very fortunate then. I owed a lot to that record in the end. But it was a real blood, sweat, and tears album, and it wasn’t just mentally painful to listen to afterwards – it was literally physically painful too ; I would writhe around and cringe listening to it because I spent too long on it, and it sounded awful to me. It tried to do too much. It’s quite filmic, and unabashedly lyrical - It’s very orchestral at times and some of it is artificial; the sounds at that stage weren’t particularly brilliant and in hindsight it would have benefitted from more real orchestra. I think I could listen to it now … There is a two year rule – don’t listen for something you did for two years, and you’ll forget what was wrong with it!

HR - Would you re-record it, now?

AP - Well – it’s one of the things that will come up for discussion, funnily enough, because we are planning to release some more in surround sound, but it has to be practical to do because it’s a very expensive process, and Cherry Red are very fair, but they know we possibly won’t sell a million copies. I would like to do “Slow Dance” yes. I think any of the orchestral albums would really benefit from being in Surround Sound. The bigger it is, the more there is going on, and the more you can throw around the room. The re-release schedule is a bit torturous actually. Up next is “Private Parts and Pieces” with a bonus CD of material from the time, and … I don’t want to give too much else away really, but we will be doing more … maybe “Tarka”, eventually.

HR - Would you like to get any of your compositions to a point where an orchestra could perform it live? AP - Oh You bet! I’d love it!! There was a performance of “Tarka” in Australia, but it was with a scratch orchestra, so a rather mixed affair. It’s quite hard [Tarka] although it’s not an incredibly difficult score, but it needs some very good players to do it justice. These things are just so incredibly expensive to put together though, aren’t they?

HR - Yes, they are! Do you ever perform?

AP - I don’t … no. My experience with Genesis made me very tentative about performing, but to be honest - the thing that I enjoy most is composing. I’m a terrible practicer! The process of playing something over and over again, just bores me to tears!

HR - How about conducting then? AP - Gosh no, I’m not a good enough conductor – I did study it for a while, briefly, but I’d be much better on a bus! I know the moves, and the beats, but it’s that business of making the left hand totally independent of what’s going on with the right hand – that’s really difficult. It’s an extraordinary art! And when I go to see an orchestra, the conductor always seems to be so far ahead, that I can’t ever put it together!! When I was first studying I used to get the orchestra seats behind the Albert Hall proms, which are the ones behind the Orchestra where you’re looking directly at the conductor – and some of the conductors seemed to be so far ahead of the orchestra, that we used to joke that the conductor would be in the dressing room toweling down, whilst the orchestra were still finishing off! I don’t understand it!! It’s one thing that I do regret in life actually – I would have loved to have been in the middle of a big phat orchestra when something like the “Rites Of Spring” [Stravinsky] or ��The Planets” [Holst] is being played. That must be amazing! Even to just play the triangle or something! I’d love to do that …

HR - There’s always time! What about your life outside of music? Do you ever divert from your musical routes?

AP - [laughs] It would seem not to the untrained eye eh? I have a lot of friends and probably spend too much time socialising, and eating out, so I burn the candle at both ends too often. I spend a lot of time with my nieces and nephews, and God-children – I don’t have kids of my own but keeping up with all of them makes life pretty full! It is a difficult balance to keep because I really can’t afford to fall behind with work stuff and that involves an endless amount of mind boggling admin with the album career, and for composing for the library - I have to keep up with all the new technology in the studio, and the new sounds – endless changes! I love sports ; all sorts of sports … I’m a big film man - love films. Probably my favourite music is in film scores these days. My big musical heroes are film composers – amongst many, my favourites are Ennio Morricone : particularly ”Cinema Paradiso” and the wonderful ”Gabriel’s Oboe” from ’The Mission; John Williams, ”Schindlers List”; George Fenton , ”Shadowlands”; Thomas Newman , ”Shawshank Redemption”; Hans Zimmer, James Newton Howard, Alan Silvestri and many others … so, yes! How do I actually find time to work? That is the question ... Not too long after we’d had this chat, Ant got the opportunity to work on a re-release of “Slow Dance” ; here’s the verdict ... HR : So the ultimate question is, forced to listen to it again, have you grown fonder of Slow Dance during the re-mastering, for this re-release?AP : My own view in general, which I appreciate may be very different to that of other musicians, is that when you come back to an album not having heard it for ages, it has novelty value and you think ‘that’s not bad at all’….! That’s why i prescribe the ‘two year rule’. Don’t listen to a piece, album, whatever, for a while and you will forget what it was that you are aspiring to that made you feel dissatisfied with its original outcome !Alas, repeated listens gradually bring back the issues that worried you at the time ! And the more time spent on an album (in my case Slow Dance, Geese were particular long campaigns) the worse it is. QBG and I flew through PP3 in the lovely summer of 1981 and it all remained fresh and therefore untarnished in one’s memory. This naturally makes us completely unobjective when it comes to judging our work ! Slow Dance was such a painstaking haul that when I finished it I found it excruciating to listen to.You have a mystical image of how a piece should sound and capturing this remains tantalisingly elusive ! Perhaps this very frustration is what drives you on to try and do better …?So yes, at first pleasantly surprised, with a few reservation, then gradually I began to feel ‘could have done that better - in many instances !But there are sections that I am still quite proud of and I know it is a piece that has been a moving experience for number of people……. HR : When last we spoke, You were enjoying the opportunity to take your recordings into the surround sound arena - has this one surpassed your expectations?AP : The Surround was a tough one : the toughest of all the re-releases thus far….Perhaps not harmonically but certainly in terms of the arrangement, the album was in parts very intricate and both the balance and flow hung by a thread. Any slight change and the wheels would come off. And they did ! It presented an almost insurmountable challenge to Simon Heyworth and Andy Miles, as there were effects on outboard gear (now either absent or defunct !) that weren’t recorded to tape and therefore had to be somehow ‘reconstructed’. On the other hand instrumental albums such as this and particularly 1984 ( a feast for the guys with all the weird, tricky sounds lending themselves well to sonic spatial manipulation !) do benefit from the size and ambience that 5.1 affords. So my considered view is that the more ambient, floaty parts benefit greatly whilst other sections slightly less so….But what does the musician / composer’s view count…..? It is only the audience’s opinions that ultimately counts ! I am happy that we try to give anyone repurchasing these albums enough extra material to make it feel worth it !

#genesis #modern classical #anthony phillips #ant #cherryred #cherryredrecords #esoteric #prog rock #prog #classical #composer

9 notes · View notes

the-faultofdaedalus · 5 years

Note

stevetony pirate au with the feared vigilante robber of the high seas, captain rogers, and duke-turned-captain-rogers’-gun-wielding-concubine anthony stark.

The nice thing about running a small ship, Steve thought, surveying his crew from the bridge as they scurried over the larger merchant’s ship, moving cargo and captives to-and-fro, was that no one, absolutely no one, ever expected the most feared pirate on these seas to be sailing something more suited for a civilian on a day-trip.

And no one expected their armed and armoured and much, much bigger ship to be taken by a clipper with only two canons to its name.

Hell, no one ever expected the crew of a ship as small as the Banshee to even think about trying to take a ship at all, much less the Crown-sanctioned merchant frigates that were always bristling with weapons and paranoid, pomped-up ego.

Steve surveyed the other ship, holes blown in the hull and long gashes along the sides, slowly, slowly sinking.

“—You bastards,” Steve heard, the voice carrying over even the general din, and couldn’t help but smile, just a little. “Let GO OF ME, don’t you know who I am, you can’t—“

The man’s voice was abruptly cut off when Steve’s gunner, Clint Barton, stuffed a rag into his mouth, to the jeers of the rest of Steve’s crew, and to the growing alarm of the captured shiphands.

Anthony Stark, heir to the crown and the kingdom’s most valuable asset, was unceremoniously tossed across the gap between the two ships, twisting and struggling against his bound hands and feet, caught by Bucky on the deck of the Banshee, muffled, angry shouts still audible through the makeshift gag.

“Where do you want him, Cap?” Bucky called up, easily holding the other man despite his struggles and attempts to kick him, and Steve tipped his head in consideration, mostly for the effect it’d have on the remaining crew.

“Throw him in my quarters,” Steve finally shouted back, making sure to give the prince a slow once-over, “I want to talk to him myself before we treat him to the brig.”

Stark started yelling again at the same time that Steve’s small crew cheered, and without preamble, Bucky shrugged, kicked open the door to the small room that Steve got to claim as his own, and tossed Stark in like a sack of potatoes.

It didn’t take long from there for the Banshee to be detached from the larger ship, holes punched in the hull to scuttle it.

Steve wasn’t worried about the crew they’d left on the boat — it was resting on a sandbank and the deck wouldn’t flood, and their people should find them soon enough — and soon enough, the Banshee was hauling around, heading for new waters, and Steve couldn’t resist one last parting shot. “Tell your king,” He shouted, voice carrying easily over the water, “That we’ve got your golden goose! Again!”

With that, and the Banshee’s sails pushing her across the water, Steve left the tiller to Natasha and took the steps down from the bridge two at a time, couldn’t stop his lips from curling into a smile.

It was time to pay his guest a visit.

By the time Steve closed the door behind himself, Tony had slipped his bonds, had stripped down to the more practical underclothes as opposed to the stuffy coats and pants he usually wore and was stretched out on Steve’s bed, a wide smile spreading across his face when he caught sight of Steve.

The gag that had been in his mouth flew at Steve, and he caught it with a grin before it could hit him in the face. “Would it kill Barton to use something clean?” He asked, though his eyes were bright, and Steve laughed before he tossed it aside and took the half-stride he needed to get to the bed, let Tony pull him down.

“Yes, your highness,” Steve rolled his eyes, looked down at Tony, “Next time we’ll make sure to use the finest silk we can find.” He poked Tony’s nose, felt fond beyond belief when Tony’s eyes went slightly cross-eyed to track it, “The theatrics were your idea, Tony.”

“It tasted like pickled eggs, and the theatrics are necessary,” Tony groused, and the air whooshed out of Steve’s lungs when he wrapped his arms around Steve and pulled him down on top of him, clearly wanting more contact than Steve being propped up on him gave, pressed his face into the crook of Steve’s neck and exhaled. “Do you people eat anything but pickled eggs?”

Steve wiggled, got comfortable, making sure he wasn’t jabbing Tony anywhere, and brought an arm around to hold Tony back, felt how Tony relaxed. “Now that we’ve raided your ship’s food stores, we will,” He said, “I know the theatrics are necessary, you’re good at it, but one of these days you’re going to fall into the drink and then where will we be, huh?”

“Your people are good at what they do,” Tony muttered, “Barnes isn’t going to drop me.”

“If you kick him he might,” Steve shot back, rolled to the side so he could rest his head on Tony’s chest, wrap his arm over Tony’s stomach. “I don’t want you to get hurt, alright? And I know the knots are slips, but—” Steve cut himself off, didn’t want to continue that sentence, didn’t want to paint the possibility of Tony falling into the sea, the knots waterlogged and impossible to slip, didn’t want to think about Tony drowning because of him.

Tony rolled his eyes, but pressed a kiss to the top of Steve’s head. “You’re not going to let me get hurt.” He told Steve, “Even though you are, technically, kidnapping me on a semi-regular basis.”

“Oh, poor you,” Steve said, “The innocent prince—”

Tony snorted.

“-Kidnapped by the scary, mean, pirates. Whatever will you do?”

Tony’s eyes went half-lidded, and he licked his lips. “Oh,” He said, pressed the back of his hand to his forehead in a fake swoon, “Whatever will I do, Captain? I’m so helpless, you could do anything you wanted,” Tony continued, as if he hadn’t managed to get the hinges off the cell he’d been put in the first time Steve and his crew had grabbed him, snuck up to the deck and was halfway into a rowboat until Sam had actually caught him, at which Tony had threatened him with a sword until Natasha had disarmed him. “Woe is me—”

Steve cut him off by kissing him, soft and sweet and slow, a kiss that Tony returned eagerly even as he melted into it. When Steve broke away, Tony was smiling softly up at Steve. “Hey,” He said.

“Hey yourself,” Steve replied, knew that his answering smile was sappy and soft and not caring in the least. “Missed you.”

“Missed you too, honey.” Tony answered, “And speaking of mist—”

“-It worked great,” Steve cut him off, wasn’t lying in the slightest. The bags of powder Tony and Bruce had concocted, when thrown against the sea, made a wall of mist 10 feet high, thick as anything natural, and all in all was better than waiting for the right conditions to catch a ship, “We’ve got a week until we make port, you’ll have plenty of time to talk shop with the others, for now—”

Tony’s eyes softened. “I’ll stay. Of course.” He said, pulled Steve back down on top of him. “Picked one hell of a week to grab me, though. I was sailing to meet Pepper.”

Steve blanched. “Oh gods.” He said, and Tony started cackling.

#my writing #stevetony #mmmm this is a fun au im gonna keelhaul tony later #i have. sO much worldbuilding yall don't even know #STEVE'S SHIP IS A LITTLE KETCH WITH MOVABLE MASTS #its. gr8 #he uses a combo of mist and decoys to make everyone think he has a fleet of MUCH larger ships #he doesn't #it's just that one #Anonymous

622 notes · View notes

hazelandglasz · 4 years

Photo

Sweet, Sweet Temptation

Word count: 12.727

Archive Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Pairing(s): Arizaphale/Crowley (Ineffable Husbands) ; Hastur/Ligur ; Beelzebub/Gabriel (Ineffable Bureaucracy); Background Minor Relationships

Characters: Crowley, Aziraphale, Gabriel, Beelzebub, Hastur

Tags: Alternate Universe-Humans, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Food Porn, Bibliophile Aziraphale, Gourmet Aziraphale, Slow Burn, Awkward Flirting, Romantic Fluff, Fluff and Humor

Summary: Anthony J. Crowley started working at Heavs and Hens, F.A., but they thought he asked too many questions, and frankly, he didn’t like his colleagues’ attitude. (Well. Except for one, but he never got the chance to get close to the blond cutie.) So he left. Now he’s working in a pastry shop and life is infinitely better. (Well. Most of the time, since neither his boss nor his colleagues are too often in the shop and he’s left to his own device, which is really for the best.) Baking is fun, tempting customers is even better, and if there is a certain blond who keeps on coming back to the shop, well, Anthony is not one to deny himself that pleasure.

A massive, massive thank you to the artists who managed to create such beautiful art for this fic, to the mods who set all this process up, and to my betas for blessing this mess!

Artist: IG Hufflepuffbetty (Art Post) / @hufflepuff-betty

Artist: @scribblemakes

😇😈😇😈😇😈

They say they fired him, but if you were to ask him, Anthony J. Crowley would tell you that he quit before they could.

Or, more accurately, he would tell you to bugger off and leave him alone, but if he felt like giving you an answer, that is the one he would give you.

Joining the financial advising firm was never his idea of a good time, really, but he did because he could and that it made his mother happy. But as weeks went by, Crowley discovered some things.

About himself, and about the firm’s ways, and both were inextricably in opposite directions.

He discovered that the more answers he found, the more questions he got.

That questions were not exactly welcomed, at Heavs and Hens.

That asking questions was the equivalent of lighting yourself on fire in the middle of a family dinner--a sure way to get everybody’s attention, but at what cost?

That fairness and obeying to the idea of the law was not a top priority for the partners.

And that fairness was one of his major core value (along with curiosity, which, if you have paid attention, should tell you how bad an idea it was for Crowley to work there).

So he quit, not with a bang, but with a swagger.

(And a comfortable “keep your mouth shut” pocket money.)

Oh, Crowley doesn’t hold any lasting feeling toward his former colleagues--especially not for Gabriel, that pompous ass who kept on stealing all of Crowley’s ideas and notes for his own credit--but there is a, oh, how can he put it into words, a chance of something greater that was missed with one particular junior adviser.

The man must be approximately Crowley’s age--old enough to be an adult, young enough to still have hope and energy--, with curly hair so blond Crowley isn’t quite sure it is natural, blue eyes that remind Crowley of a Spring sky, and the perpetual shadow of a smile on his rosy lips.

Yes, Crowley could wax poetics about this angel of a man who passed his desk once, eyes on a pocket watch while Gabriel was berating him for being too soft with the clients.

Crowley also knows one thing about this former colleague of his, that could-have-been-something-more-but-wasn’t, one thing that nobody else knows--if they knew, Crowley has no doubt about whether the man would still be working at the company or not.

(The answer is a resounding “not”)

The man, Mr. Eastgate is all Crowley knows to call him, is not as robotic as the other employees and, behind his soft smile and perfect attire, hides just enough of a dark side to be interesting.

How does Crowley know this to be facts?

Crowley saw a memo that miraculously disappeared from the system the following day.

A memo stating that while Mr. and Mrs. Godson would have been very interesting clients for the firm to acquire--read, very profitable clients who would have ended up with the clothes on their backs, if at all--, Mr A. Eastgate thought it best to tell them to invest their savings in a more secure venture, such as Apple shares or any other investment they could actually profit from in the future.

Which, if you weren’t aware, goes against the grain for a financial advising firm.

Tells you a lot about the kind of ethic and the character of Mr. Eastgate, that’s for certain, but where Crowley wouldn’t have been able to resist the need to rub it in everybody’s face, Mr. Eastgate apparently possesses much more diplomatic talents and decided to just …

Swipe it under the proverbial carpet, and play dumb whenever asked about it.

Crowley has to admit it: he respects that.

In addition to his already unbearable crush on the guy for simply looking cute, that’s the only reason he has a pang of regret as he leaves the firm’s building with his potted plant and his severance check.

So long, Mr. Eastgate.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

Aziraphale may not be the best financial advisor in the company, let alone in the world, if only because he doesn’t like putting people in harm’s way, and financial enterprises often lead to harmful conclusions.

But he’s good with numbers, and people listen to him, so, financial advisor it is.

When A.J. Crowley is summoned in the boss’s office and leaves with a smile on his (handsome, unusually handsome) face and a swagger to his walk, sunglasses firmly in place even indoors, Aziraphale feels something akin to regret to see him go--the man was probably the only of his colleagues Aziraphale could stand.

Sad to see him go, but delighted to watch him go, if you can catch his drift.

Good Heavens, what a sight.

Anywho, Aziraphale needs to get back to work, now, doesn’t he?

After all, collecting books is one pricey hobby.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

Plant in hand , Crowley lets himself stroll the streets down to the parking garage where he left his beloved car.

As content as he may be to be done with all of those self-righteous lunatics, a question keeps on nagging him:

What is he to do with his life now? Pester his neighbors until they want him blown to smithereens?

Not that he would particularly mind, Crowley delights in being a bother to his admittedly boring neighbors.

But there is a limit to the amount of little offenses one can come up with on a daily basis, isn’t it? And staying idle is really not in his temperament; again, lounging in the sun and doing nothing is a fun past-time, but there always comes a time when his mind cannot stand the passivity.

No, there is no way around it: Crowley needs to find himself a new job, one that will not make him feel like needles are piercing his skin every time his values system is breached.

A quiet, nice job, with almost non-existent colleag--

Oh, look at that shop window.

All thoughts about his future, near and far, come to a standstill as Crowley pauses in front of a bakery.

“Tempting Bites”, an interesting name for sure, but it is the content of the window that really gets his interest.

The cakes are all, indeed, bite-sized, but elegantly decorated--if a little on the morbid side, if Crowley is actually seeing what he thinks he’s seeing.

Yep, that is a tombstone on that grey-glazed éclair.

The pastry cannot be bigger than Crowley’s index finger (sure, he has long, pianist hands, as his mother called it, but still, it is a size-reference) but the fondant is still delicately decorated to mimic granite, and the tombstone is engraved and, dare he say it, sculpted to perfection.

The woman behind the counter glares at him, raising one eyebrow when he replies with a smile.

Daring him to enter her queendom, no doubt, and Crowley has never been good at resisting a dare.

“Good morning,” she says in a deadpan tone, “may I tempt you with one of our delights?”

Crowley’s smile only widens. “I would love to try the éclair in the window,” he replies, eyes perusing the store’s shelves. “And may I get a bag of chouquettes?”

The puff pastries are just, well, too tempting to pass, what with the black and red pearls of sugar decorating them.

“Temptation accomplished,” the salesperson says in a monotone, ringing his purchase. As Crowley goes to pay, he spots a sheet of paper behind them.

“You are hiring?”

They blink at him before sighing. “Yes, we do. Do you have any experience in baking?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Do you mind if the hours are long and the pay minimal?”

Crowley beams at her, leaning over the counter. “Not at all.”

“Are you a felon?”

“Would that matter?”

For the first time since he entered the shop, the hint of a smile appears on the person’s face. “Not at all,” they reply, “but I have to ask.” They shrug, pulling a piece of paper from under the counter. “Here, fill this and send a picture of your I.D. to the number inscribed on top.”

“Right away, boss,” Crowley replies, giving them a jaunty salute with the piece of paper.

“Call me Beelzy.”

😇😈😇😈😇😈

Okay.

If we’re going to continue with this story, there are a couple of things you need to know about Aziraphale Eastgate.

First of all, as previously stated, he is quite the bibliophile, collecting all first editions of British children’s books.

(Yes, it is a collection that requires a lot of time, care, and money.)

(Yes, Mother, he’s aware that he is an adult and that there are better things he could do with his money than chase after kiddy books.)

(No, Mother, he has yet to find a woman to marry and carry on the Eastgate’s legacy.)

((If only she knew.))

Second of all, but perhaps not entirely unrelated to the first point, Aziraphale considers himself an epicurean. A lover of good and beautiful things. A man capable of appreciating the finest things in Life, from a good book to a good meal.

After all, C.S. Lewis said it quite eloquently, “Eating and reading are two pleasures that combine admirably.”

Third of all, as brave and smart as he vows to be on a daily basis, Aziraphale hates being confronted.

All three are needed to understand how conflicted Aziraphale has always felt about the bakery around the corner near the office.

(All right, so maybe the fact that he is a bibliophile is not particularly relevant to this part of the story. But presenting Aziraphale without insisting upon his love for books would be criminal, criminal indeed.

Back to the point.)

Because on the one hand, bakery! Provider of scrumptious cakes and food!

But on the other hand, the person usually behind the counter makes him feel like he’s about to enter a ring just to prove himself worthy of the cakes.

Oh, he has seen many of his colleagues and many people coming out of the shop with little black bags, so the confrontational attitude may just be in his head, but still.

For now, he has only savored the pastries with his eyes, for their aesthetics and satisfies his need for sweet goodness in other places.

(No one needs to know about this, but his favorite place is a little, how should he say, hole-in-the-wall restaurant near the Theater district that serves the finest sushis in all of London and got him addicted to crepe cakes. Di-vine, to say the least.)

That being said, he’s reconsidering his avoidance of the bakery.

The sight of a certain shade of red hair behind the window is most definitely to be blamed for this change of mind, but Aziraphale would never admit it, even under threat.

(It depends on the kind of threat. Though he tends to avoid it if he can, Aziraphale is more than capable to handle a little brawl, shall the need arise. But threaten his books or his closet, and chances are Aziraphale will fold like a … well, like a crepe.

Oh, crepes.)

As it is, Aziraphale is not so easily tempted, so “Tempting Bites” and his possibly newly hired and very tempting salesman will have to work a little bit harder at convincing him.

Or, to be more truthful, Aziraphale will need to be sure that it is his infamous former colleague who is now behind the counter, in order to ensure a fruitful encounter.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

Crowley is many things, but he is not a liar.

When Beelzy asked if he had any baking knowledge, he did not lie when he said none whatsoever.

But. He is a very fast learner.

“Crowley!”

And. He has a lot of imagination.

“Crowleeeeey!”

Not necessarily a bad combination--he supposes it depends on who you asked.

“What. Is. That.”

Crowley beams at his boss and at his colleague.

“That, my Lord,” he replies with a small curtsey, “is a pumpkin brioche.”

“A … brioche.”

“Yes.”

“A bit on the nose, Crowley,” Hastur drawls from behind him. “An orange brioche, shaped like a pumpkin, and you flavor it with pumpkins.”

“Try it, Hastur.”

“No thank you.”

“Try it before you ditch it.”

Hastur rolls his eyes at him but takes a knife from his pocket anyway, cutting two slices of the brioche.

Beelzy’s face barely shows any reaction, but then again, their face is usually expressionless. As it is, the slight uprising of their eyebrows is all Crowley needed from them.

Hastur’s reaction, in comparison, is far more immediate and satisfying.

“WHAAAAA--”

“Yes, Hastur?”

“But--! How--! Beelzebub, how did he do this?”

Beelzy takes another bite, waving the slice in the air. “Well, there are definitely spices in the dough of the brioche--you’ve been too generous with the cinnamon, Crowley, curb your enthusiasm there--reminiscent of the infamous pumpkin spice latte, and there is the matter of the gooey center … Citrus?”

“Lemon zest and orange compote.”

They nod, swallowing the remains of their slice of brioche in two bites. “Good product. We’ll get the high school population and the office population tempted in no time.”

“Only a matter of days until they’re ours.”

Hastur recovered from his shock--or from his distaste of cinnamon, whichever sounds best--and is now smiling like he came up with Crowley’s creation.

“I’m glad you approve of my idea, my Lord,” he simply says, pushing Hastur out of the way with a hip check.

Beelzy leaves the kitchen as the bell above the door rings and Hastur comes far too close for comfort.

“One of these days, Crowley,” he croaks, “one of these days, you’re going to run out of ideas. And then--”

“And then we’ll be more alike than ever, Hastur! Won’t it be wonderful?”

Hastur snarls one more time before pulling his phone out of his pocket--to text his boyfriend about all the things he wishes he could do to Crowley to make him suffer, no doubt.

Crowley picks up the last piece of brioche from the plate and nods to himself. Indeed too much cinnamon, but he lost track of his spices while he was preparing his test batch.

See, a certain blond head happened to walk by the kitchen’s window when Crowley was seasoning his dough, and, well.

Crowley preferred to follow its tracks than to follow his idea.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

That is most definitely Anthony J. Crowley arranging small brioches in a basket in the bakery’s window.

Aziraphale finds himself dry-mouthed at the sight of these long fingers carefully placing one delicate peachy confection after another on a checkered napkin, and he would have an awfully hard time telling you which of the two brings him to push the bakery’s door.

“Good afternoon, how may I tempt you--,” Crowley starts, spinning on his toes before coming to a stop as he sees Aziraphale.

The way he stops and the way he gawks at him from behind his tinted glasses makes Aziraphale blush and preen.

“--today,” Crowley finishes his welcome, a small smile appearing on his face. “Well, well, well. Welcome, Mr. Eastgate.”

He knows who I am.

He knows my name.

Say something, Aziraphale, before he thinks you are under the influence of something illegal.

“Hello, Crowley.”

There, short and to the point.

Oh, dear Lord, he’s leaning against the counter like some sort of Michelangelo’s sculpture.

“Tempted by something, Mr. Eastgate?”

“Oh please, call me Aziraphale, Mr. Eastgate is my brother Uriel.”

“Aziraphale.”

Crowley repeating his name should not awaken such warm tingles in his lower regions, and yet, here we are, aren’t we?

Maybe it’s the way his tongue seems to hiss on the ‘zee’ sound and curl around the last ‘el’, maybe it’s the way he says it like Aziraphale himself is the delicacy about to be devoured.

“Earth to Aziraphale?”

Oh, right. He didn’t enter the shop just to leer at his former colleague and ever-present fantasy-man.

“Forgive me, Crowley,” he manages without a stutter, “I was, um, that is to say,” so much for not stuttering, well done, “your buns caught my attention.”

An army of angels passes by, as Crowley’s smile widens into a smirk. “Did they now? Flatterer.”

Aziraphale blinks at him until the words that left his mouth fully register. “Oh! Not those buns! I--I mean! The edible buns! Brioches! In--in the window!” He groans, placing his hand over his face. “Can the floor swallow me now, please?”

“What a waste it would be,” Crowley says quietly, his smile less mocking and more … gentle. “Don’t worry, Aziraphale, your appreciation of all my kinds of buns will be my little secret.”

Aziraphale can literally feel the color of his face taking a turn for the crimson. “G-g-good to know.”

“Now, about the pastries in the window, would you care for one?”

Aziraphale relaxes with a deep breath. “That would be lovely, yes, please.”

Crowley nods and goes to pick a couple of perfectly round orange brioches to put in a paper bag, and Aziraphale watches him carefully.

There is clearly more to Mr Anthony J. Crowley than meets the eye (and a sight it is already, look at those lines, those curves!).

What a pity that he didn’t get closer to the man when they shared an office--now, if he wants to be better acquainted with him, Aziraphale will have to come to the bakery quite often, won’t he?

As he takes a bite of one pumpkin-flavored brioche at the bus stop, letting moans that scandalize and, or, amuse his fellow commuters, Aziraphale comes to realize that it won’t be much of a hardship to pursue a friendship with his former colleague, present favorite baker.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

Crowley waits for Aziraphale to cross the street and turn toward the bus stop to fall to his knees behind the counter, one hand pressed against his heart.

So not only the man looks like an angel, but he decides to attack Crowley with puns, albeit unintended, and a delicious flush that Crowley wanted to follow under that crisp, white shirt?

Cruel, cruel, cruel.

Cruel and delicious torture.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

As time goes by, Crowley comes to really appreciate his new job.

Sure the hours complicate his social life, but Crowley never really had a social life to begin with, and he’d rather be in the lab in the early morning to tend to his garden of herbs and berries and try new recipes than go out and, what, dance on a sticky dance floor in the hopes of finding someone who will only be second-best to the man he really yearns for ?

He’s not that much of a dancer anyway.

And he has standards.

“I’m warning you, you better do as I say or there will be consequences.”

Luckily for him, now that both Beelzy and Hastur know he can hold the fort alone, they tend to mysteriously disappear and leave him to his own device.

All the better for Crowley to experiment to his heart’s content.

All the better for Crowley to enjoy the company of one particularly faithful customer, too.

Aziraphale comes almost every day now, several times on particularly gruesome days in fact.

By some kind of magic, the shop manages to always be empty when Aziraphale enters it, allowing Crowley to take a break with a man who is slowly becoming a friend.

Crowley doesn’t talk much, not in his nature really, unless a bottle of strong alcohol is involved, but he is a good listener.

And there are very few things in this world as entertaining and satisfying as Aziraphale daintily devouring Crowley’s cakes while ranting about his colleagues.

The man is made of contrasts, and Crowley …

Well, Crowley loves it.

Him.

Whatever.

You’re not in his head.

So what if he made a detailed mental list of all of Aziraphale’s preferences in the matter of tastes, uh?

What about it?

So what if his heart tries to compete in the Gymnastics Olympics every time the doorbell rings?

What are you going to do about it? Mock him? Tell him that he is an idiot for pining after a man who, clearly, seeks his company?

(Well, you wouldn’t be completely wrong about that, even Crowley would admit it. Not out loud, never out loud, but he would admit it.)

Trust him, he knows that this is bordering on ridiculous, this pinning and sighing and burying his feelings in yeast and flour whenever Aziraphale leaves.

Ridiculous, yet productive.

He just put a batch of his matcha, sesame and crushed hazelnut loaves out of the oven, right before the end of the working day, when Aziraphale comes in.

“Hmmm, that smells heavenly.”

“That’s the yeast fucking.”

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them--he entirely blames Hastur for the phrasing (and his twisted mind for actually enjoying it)--and he looks up toward Aziraphale in alarm, with an apology on the edge of his lips.

Except that Aziraphale, while clearly startled by Crowley’s words, seems to be even more enthused by them, if the beaming smile on his face is to be trusted.

It’s blinding, truth be told, even with the protective sunglasses Crowley has to wear at all times to protect his sensitive eyes from any light.

“The yeast f--”

“I mean, it’s the dough,” Crowley interrupts. He’s not sure he would survive hearing Aziraphale actually curse.

He’s already as infatuated as can be, there is absolutely no need to add another layer of hidden bastardry into the mix.

Aziraphale hums, his amused smile hiding possibly jokes that would kill Crowley on the spot.

“And what, pray tell my dear, did you do to make the dough rise so deliciously?”

A thousand arrows into the chest probably wouldn’t hurt as much as this.

(Probably.)

Either Aziraphale has taken a secret vow to kill Crowley with innuendos while not doing anything about … whatever is brewing between them, or he is really that oblivious and Crowley’s mind just has a dirty filter.

Whatever explanation works, Crowley wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Green tea and roasted sesame seeds,” he replies before shimmying his shoulders. “And my personal touch.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks turn a delicious shade of pink. “As in …?”

“As in, that’s my secret and you won’t get it, as angelic as you may appear.”

Aziraphale looks surprised for a moment, before turning bashful. “An-angelic? Me? No, I’m not, I’m just... I’m just me.”

Crowley cocks his head to the side, mentally listing everything he would love to do to the people who ate this man’s self-esteem.

Then he starts mentally listing everything he could do to restore said self-esteem, and, folks, it takes a turn for the graphic with the speed of light.

“You are just you,” he finally says, leaning over the counter with his chin in his hand, “and that’s all it takes for you to be angelic.”

The blush on Aziraphale’s face darkens, but his smile is more assured already. “That’s … probably the nicest thing anyone has ever s--”

“Oh shut up,” Crowley sneers as he straightens up, “I’m not nice.”

Aziraphale makes a show of zipping his lips shut, but his shy smile is still there when he leaves.

😇😈😇

When Crowley leaves the shop, not too long after Aziraphale, the skies have taken a turn for the gloomy and seem ready to open and throw a flood on them all.

Crowley allows himself a moment of self-pity. Even if he takes the bus instead of walking home like he intended to, there is no actual bus-stop.

Hence no shelter.

Hence his new boots getting soaked and his evening ruined.

Raising his head to the heavens just as the first drops fall, he mouths a heartfelt “why” before making his way to the aforementioned bus-stop.

Only to find a blonde head and a beige trenchcoat waiting under the most Aziraphale-Esque umbrella possibly conceived.

“Aziraphale?”

The man in question looks startled before beaming at him. “Crowley!”

Without another word, he lifts the umbrella higher, giving Crowley some room to shelter himself from the downpour.

“What are you doing here? I thought you had dinner plans for the evening,” Crowley says, digging his hands in his pockets to keep himself from doing something stupid.

Like, on the top of his head, snake his arm around Aziraphale’s waist.

That would be a terrible, awful idea.

A deliciously awful idea.

Aziraphale shrugs. “I did,” he replies, looking at Crowley from the corner of his eye, “and then decided I would rather be at home, with a nice cup of cocoa and a book--and some secret bread someone just created.”

His bus comes and leaves and Crowley cannot be bothered to leave the cocoon of warmth that the umbrella provides.

“Which bus are you taking?” Aziraphale’s voice is muted as if the umbrella really shelters them both, not only from the rain but from the rest of the world.

“I--I think it just drove away.”

Aziraphale looks at him more directly, a crooked smile on his face. Not mocking, no, just …

A smile that speaks a thousand words.

A smile that says, “I know what you did, and I know what it tells me about you and about us, but I won’t say it aloud. For now. Because this is comfortable and nice too.”

Or at least that’s how Crowley reads it.

“Looks like mine is delayed,” Aziraphale simply says. “How do you feel about breakfast for dinner?”

Crowley smiles, tired but content. “What do you have in mind, Mr. Eastgate?”

“If there is enough cocoa for one, there is enough for two, my dear Mr. Crowley.”

😇😈😇

For the life of him, Aziraphale doesn’t know what he was thinking.

He entirely blames Crowley’s tight pants and warm smile and--and ...Well, he entirely blames Crowley for being Crowley for his enthusiastic yet unplanned invitation to go to his place.

If he has to be completely honest, Aziraphale’s place is … Not somewhere you invite someone without careful planning beforehand.

(Especially someone who could potentially see more of the place than any random guest, and is possibly someone Aziraphale would like to see in the said apartment more often than not.

Possibly.

As in, always and forever.)

Because, and not that it is a piece of information that is absolutely needed but it bares being told at least once, Aziraphale is messy.

“Ooooooh,” Crowley starts, low under his breath the moment Aziraphale lets him in, an amused look on his face. “You’re messy.”

It does bare being told twice, to be honest.

What puzzles Aziraphale is the sheer delight in Crowley’s voice. He glances around the living room, slash, kitchen, slash, dining room, slash, personal library, and tries to give it an objective look.

There are empty, dirty mugs in the sink, but otherwise, the kitchen area is clean-ish.

There are … oh dear Lord, there are dirty clothes on the couch where Aziraphale came home last night, too tired to get to his bed but not tired enough that he didn’t feel like indulging in a little one-on-one session with himself and his thoughts before succumbing to sleep.

(If said thoughts involved the very person now standing in said living room, well, that’s for Aziraphale’s shame to feed on.)

Three books are opened, stacked in a precarious pile on the coffee table.

At least Anathema is nowhere in sight. With any luck, she’s asleep on Aziraphale’s bed and won’t bother sniffing around.

(Aziraphale feels like introducing Crowley and Anathema would bare more consequences than introducing Crowley to his family.)

Some shoes and ties create a parkour-worthy arrangement around the room.

On his shelves, it’s not a mess. It’s the perfectly organized chaos Aziraphale has chosen as his way of putting his collection together.

All the editions of one book together, naturally, arranged per publication date, of course.

So it looks a bit in disarray in relation to the sizes and the conservation states.

That doesn’t bother him in the slightest, but he can see how, added to the rest of the room, his shelves give a distinctively chaotic vibe.

Still, Crowley is not running for the hills or making fun of him as some other people did in the past.

(Gabriel is a judgmental asshole who wouldn’t make the difference between a sketch by E.H. Shepard and a napkin at the bottom of a dump, and he can suck on his minimalistic design for all Aziraphale cares.

Still hurts when he makes fun of Aziraphale’s prized possessions.)

No, quite the contrary. Aziraphale can only gulp when he spots Crowley strutting, really, the man is strutting in his living room, caressing the back of Aziraphale’s chair or browsing the shelves, the same delighted look on his face softening as he goes.

“Oh, Aziraphale,” he says suddenly, voice barely above the sound of the rain hitting the window. “How did you get your hands on this one?”

Aziraphale forgets all of his embarrassment at the state of his home to see what caught Crowley’s attention.

“Sendak?”

“Not just any Sendak, you little minx. Quite the controversial item, isn’t it?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale can tell that his cheeks are now matching some of his books binding. “Well, no respectable collection--”

Crowley snorts and raises one eyebrow.

“No collection would be complete without Sendak’s entire body of work, now would it?”

“Dreaming about baking in the nude, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale’s brain flies out the window and into the gutter. “I--you--but--”

Crowley snickers, reaching for the copy of “In the Night Kitchen”.

Aziraphale takes it first, clutching it to his chest. “You demon! Do you enjoy making fun of me?”

Crowley’s smile slowly melts away. “I am not making fun of you, honest. It’s just …” Crowley looks frustrated, searching for his words and that alone appeases Aziraphale. “I like finding out that there are more layers to you than what you usually let people know, okay?”

It’s raw and honest and, frankly, adorable.

If Aziraphale wasn’t so worried about losing Crowley’s friendship, he would jump in his arms right there and then kiss the sarcasm out of him.

(It would take a while. Maybe even a lifetime. That doesn’t bother him. He’s willing to spend that time on this task.)

As it is, Aziraphale simply puts the book back on its shelf before clasping his hands in front of him. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

Aziraphale chances a look at Crowley, who is busy pretending he finds the pattern on Aziraphale’s floor mind-riveting.

“How about that cocoa to go with your loaf?”

Crowley visibly chokes on air.

“Of bread! Your loaf of bread! That I bought!”

“... Right.”

Aziraphale all but runs to the safety of his kitchen where he gently smacks his head against a cupboard.

“Are you all right, Aziraphale?”

“Y-yeah, of course, why wouldn’t I be?” Aziraphale closes his eyes one moment before letting out a deep breath. “Do you have a milk preference? And do you want some sugar in your ….?”

Crowley appears next to him. “I wouldn’t mind if you have sheep milk--easier to digest.” Crowley takes a step that puts his hand almost on top of Aziraphale’s. “And I think I have all the sweetness I need.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale is absolutely not using his countertop as a crutch to keep himself upright while Crowley is standing so close to him.

Dear Lord, he smells like a cologne-scented pastry, and that is more appetizing than it should be.

“Perhaps if you mixed some honey in it, though …”

Aziraphale can’t help but beam at Crowley. “Now that’s an excellent idea, my dear! Go, sit, I’ll be with you in a jiffy.”

Crowley frowns at him, silently muttering “a jiffy?” but still complies with the command.

Aziraphale focuses on preparing their drinks, cutting slices of the delicious green tea loaf and putting them on a clean plate--more of a feat than you’d think--before joining Crowley.

And that’s when he almost drops the tray.

Because Crowley is not sitting on the couch, oh no Sir.

Crowley is sprawled on the couch, spread on the pleather like caramel on a crêpe.

“Com-comfortable, I believe?”

“Hm-hm.”

Aziraphale straightens up and bumps his hips against Crowley’s feet. “Leave some room for me, will you?”

Fussing over the cups and saucers, Aziraphale completely misses the fond look Crowley addresses in his direction as he sits more properly.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

“What are your plans for the weekend?” Crowley asks, wondering if today is the day he’ll finally get brave enough to ask Aziraphale if he’d like to--

“Would you care to accompany me to the auction I texted you about? Afterward, we could go get some sushis ….”

“Why do you need me, exactly?” Crowley cuts in. “It’s not like I know anything about books.”

(This is a blatant lie, for once. Crowley knows it, you know it, his shelves of astronomical and botanical books and romance novels know it. Aziraphale, however, does not. This will have to wait for Aziraphale to actually come to Anthony’s place, and, well, sorry dears, but Crowley is not there yet.

Pace yourself and enjoy the moment, will you?)

Aziraphale toys with the paper napkin, wringing it into oblivion. “Well, if I remember our brief moment as colleagues, you always seemed to be the … responsible, shall we say, um, perhaps, the sensible kind of fellow.”

Crowley barely resists the need to bark a laugh at that. As it is, he keeps it to a smirk stretching his lips as he leans back in his chair.“Hardly.”

“Now come on, dear,” Aziraphale tuts, oblivious to the way Crowley’s eyes widen at the term of endearment, “you would do a fantastic wingman to contain my enthusiasm.”

Crowley briefly raises his eyes to the ceiling--dear God, there is no way his former-colleague-turned-friend-could-be-more is not doing it on purpose, is there?--before sighing. “Why is there a need to contain your enthusiasm?”

Aziraphale gives him a look.

“No, seriously, Angel,” he continues, this time being the oblivious one to the stunned look on Aziraphale’s face at his choice of words, “you do make a decent living, working for those vampires, why would you need to, um, contain your enthusiasm?”

“Because that’s the … reasonable, err, thing to do?”

“Screw reasonable, Aziraphale!” Crowley exclaims. “You’re not harming everybody, you are not going to spend all of your money during an auction. After all, there is only one book fitting your collection--”

“Oh. You looked at the catalog I sent you?”

“Of course,” Crowley shrugs, mildly offended. “So if you’re only looking to buy one book, why not splurge a little?”

“When you put it that way …”

“Treat yourself, Angel!”

“Clever tempter.” Aziraphale tries to look angry, but it only comes out as unbearably cute.

Crowley lets himself smile as fondly as his heart desires at Aziraphale. “Not much to tempt when it’s already what you wanted to do.”

“So?”

“So…?”

“So, will you come with me, Crowley?”

Oh, right, he never actually gave an answer did he? “I guess. If nothing else more interesting comes my way.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What? I may have hundreds of invitations waiting for me to give them a reply.”

“Dear,” Aziraphale says, his voice just lower enough to awaken an unidentified heat in Crowley’s stomach, “you’re the one who asked me if I had plans over the weekend.”

With a pat on Crowley’s knees, Aziraphale is up and already at the door with a wave. “See you Saturday on New Bond Street, Crowley!”

Crowley is left stunned in his chair, looking after the blond curls bobbing down the street.

The little devil.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

To be completely honest, Aziraphale wasn’t sure Crowley would show up.

After all, it is his only day of freedom before going back to a job that is far more physically demanding than Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale would completely understand if Crowley decided to just sleep it away.

(He would understand. He would be disappointed and sad, but that would be for him and for his pet to know.)

But no.

Next to the entrance of the auction house, in all his glorious lankiness draped in black, stands the man starring in a lot of Aziraphale’s dreams lately.

Oh, kindly get your mind out of the gutter, not all those dreams are of the pornographic variety.

(The key-word here being “not all”.)

Crowley’s hair is out of his usual messy bun, flowing in crimson rivlets around his angular face. Sunglasses firmly in place even though it is a cloudy day in London.

As for the rest of his attire, one would call it “punk chic” if one even dared to try and qualify Crowley’s …

Well.

Crowley as a whole is inqualifiable, isn’t he? Almost …

Ineffable.

And here he goes again, waxing poetic over Crowley while being too shy, awkward, afraid, to do something about it.

Would that be so hard? “Hey Crowley, thanks for coming, after the auction, would you fancy some dinner? No, not like the hundreds we already shared, no, this one would be special. A date. I’m asking you on a date. No? Preposterous? Oh, alright, back to business as usual then, see you Monday at the bakery.”

See? Not that hard. Hardly more than a band-aid ripped from one’s skin.

… Right. As if that simple mind simulation didn’t rip Aziraphale’s heart out of his chest, stomped on it before putting the beaten pulp back for him to heal.

“Right on time, Angel.”

The pet name never fails to cause more aortic gymnastics and Aziraphale beams at Crowley. “If right on time means half an hour before the auction, then, yes, right on time.”

Crowley digs his hands in his pockets, face turned to the ground. “I know you want to find a good spot to observe without being observed,” he mumbles as they enter the auction house and are directed toward the room. “Half an hour to do so sounds reasonable.”

“I appreciate the effort,” Aziraphale says lightly, lighter than he really feels. “I thought reason was your kryptonite.”

A crooked smile appears on Crowley’s face, and he pulls his glasses down just enough for Aziraphale to see him wink. “Among other things, Angel.”

Crowley takes two strides as Aziraphale is glued on the spot.

That--that was flirting, wasn’t it?

It has to mean something, doesn’t it?

Aziraphale is going to lose his darn mind trying to read between Crowley’s lines.

(And he loves every second of it, don’t get him wrong.)

“Now, do you prefer to sit in the back, or somewhere in the middle? I’d prefer somewhere where we can talk without disturbing anybody, even if the walls have ears,” Crowley is rambling, strutting--there is really no other way to put it--strutting his stuff back and forth across the room where the auction will be held. “Do books have ears?” he mutters, to Aziraphale’s complete delight, before snickering in a way that can only be described as adorable, as much as Crowley denies being anything approaching “adorable”, “cute” ou even just “nice”. “Though I suppose they can be eared.”

It requires a lot of focus on their surroundings and a massive amount of self-control for Aziraphale to keep himself from throwing himself at Crowley and kiss the living daylights out of him right then and there.

“Get it?” Crowley insists, his smile far too much for Aziraphale to handle. “Dog-eared?”

“I get it, dear,” Aziraphale says, willing his cheeks to return to their normal, pale complexion. In a very satisfying turn of event, his blush seems to transfer to Crowley’s cheeks, too. “Very funny, and contextually appropriate. Kudos.”

Crowley gives him a little curtsey before pointing at different seats. “So? The choice is yours, Angel.”

Oh, Aziraphale knows that there is a slight percentage of Crowley’s choice of pet name which is vaguely mocking. He knows.

He does love being called “Angel” by a man who looks like one himself, only in a more lustful way.

(Can angels be lustful creatures? There is a probably a whole moral and theological debate to have there, but he’ll keep it in mind for their next date-not-a-date-God-he-wishes-it-was-a-date.)

“Right this way,” Aziraphale points to two seats in second to last row, somewhere around the middle. “Perfect view, perfect to bid.”

As if summoned by magic, a paddle seems to appear in Crowley’s hand. Aziraphale eyes it warily as Crowley twirls it in the air. “Planning on bidding, dear?”

“Yep. You should get yours too.”

“Seriously?”

Crowley looks over the rim of his sunglasses to look at Aziraphale. “Deadly.”

Aziraphale attempts to glare a him as he stands, taking a double take to make sure that his companion is not pulling his leg. When Crowley has the audacity to make a “go on” motion, Aziraphale huffs and puffs all the way to the paddle counter.

“And what, pray tell, do you plan on bidding on, exactly?”

“Something awfully overpriced, just to make some idiots pay more than they should.”

“Oh, be serious, Crowley.”

The room fills up one person at a time, but as far as Aziraphale is concerned, it’s just the two of them.

“If you must know,” Crowley replies, a faint blush appearing on the apple of his cheeks (and on the tip of his ears, that is just … Aziraphale has no words), “while browsing the catalogue you sent me, I spotted a copy of a book that could look good on my shelves.”

“As in …?”

“As in, wait and see, good things come to those who wait, for Pete’s sake!”

Aziraphale smiles crookedly at that, as discretely as he can manage.

If he had any doubts, they’re all gone now. There is definitely more to Crowley than meets the eye. The man is not as blasé as he would like to appear.

Or maybe, just maybe, he only lets Aziraphale sees under all that nonchalance to show his true self.

That possibility almost makes him faint.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if I can have your attention,” the auctioneer calls with a too-white smile. “Let’s begin with the first lot of this English literature, History science and Children’s book auction, shall we?”

😈😇😈

It’s not that Crowley is a bibliophile--far from it.

He simply has a profound respect for books and the answers they can provide to all the questions in the Universe.

And sometimes, just for the fun of it, he likes to splurge on books which show how far Humanity has come, in terms of knowledge.

The irony of it all, and, though he’ll never admit it, the hope that lies between those lines.

If humanity is capable of growing out of a pit of superstitions and darkness, the future cannot be as bleak as it looks, can it?

Which leads us to the present moment, to the book he spotted in the aforementioned catalogue and wishes to purchase if it fits his splurging budget.

Rachel Bell Maiden’s “The Canape Book”.

The small book doesn’t look like much, on its podium, barely held upright by the handler’s gloved hand.

And yet, Crowley wants it like he doesn’t often want for things.

(A look on his left tells a different story, but a, this is not the place nor the time, and b, Crowley himself doesn’t want to admit to himself that he yearns.

Humans can be stupid like that.)

The green binding is pretty unique, or so Crowley has learned online, and he really, really ...

“Starting the auction at 200 pounds, do we have a bidder, I have an offer at 250 pounds …”

Crowley raises his paddle like a sword in the air.

“300 pounds to paddle 666. I have an offer at 325?”

One more lift.

“350, 350 to paddle 666. What about you, Sir, care to raise the stakes? No? On the phone?”

The auctioneer looks around the room and Crowley starts sweating. As it is, with the fees, and everything, the book is going to be right on the verge of extravagant for his budget.

But it is a good purchase, if only to find recipes to try with Aziraphale, sandwiches and cocktails that will make for splendid afternoon and fantastic evenings, perhaps a prelude to more if they--if he ever gets himself together.

“Going once, going twice …”

“Come on,” Crowley mutters between gritted teeth.

“And sold to paddle 666, congratulations sir.”

“Yesss,” Crowley cannot help but hiss as he puts the paddle away.

Still in the rush of the auction--and yes, it was a rush, shut up--he slides his hand over Aziraphale’s next to him.

And Aziraphale doesn’t move it away.

Oh, no, quite the opposite actually: he turns his hand to clasp Crowley’s firmly and doesn’t let go.

“Congratulations, dear,” he whispers, close enough for his breath to tickle Crowley’s skin. “I hope to be as successful in my own endeavor.”

Crowley smiles bashfully. “Thank you, Angel.”

The fifty or so lots after that go by without Crowley noticing them.

A not so small part of him wishfully thinks that Aziraphale doesn’t pay much attention to it either.

When Aziraphale straightens up in his chair, paddle at the ready, Crowley turns his attention back to the room.

The big lot of the sale isn’t up yet, but a few heads are turning toward the three tan-leather bound books.

“Now, lot 69, a 1840 printing of Charles Dickens’ Oliver Twist, in 3 volumes, signed by the illustrator George Cruikshank, we have a lot of interest from buyers over the phone, let’s start this auction at 1200 pounds. 1200, 1300, thank you Sir, 1400 for you Emma, 1400 over the phone, 1500 for me, 1600 over the phone with Tang, 1650 for me, 1650, do I have more bidding?”

Aziraphale raises his paddle and Crowley can feel his heart beating faster in his friend’s behalf.

Well, “friend”.

Whatever they are.

“1700 pounds for the paddle 29472, thank you Sir. 1700 in the room, not with me, not on the phone.”

Aziraphale wiggles in his chair, a proud smirk on his face.

“And 1800 for the paddle 75005.”

Aziraphale and Crowley snap their head toward the part of the room pointed by the auctioneer’s hammer. A smug looking person raises one eyebrow at them.

Aziraphale scowls at them and lifts his hand.

“1900, paddle 29472.”

“2000, paddle 75005...”

Crowley glances back at the catalogue when Aziraphale reaches 3000.

“Angel,” he whispers, “you’re at the higher estimate.”

“These books are mine,” Aziraphale growls back, and while the sound goes straight to Crowley’s bloodstream, it may be time for this whole affair to end.

Glaring at the back of Mx. 75005’s head, Crowley waits for them to lift their paddle, again, and turn to smirk at them, again.

Which they do--so predictable.

Crowley discreetly brings his thumb to his throat and hisses.

The person seems appropriately taken aback.

Aziraphale lifts his paddle one more time, bringing the auction to 3500 pounds.

“3500 pounds for paddle 29742, do you wish to continue, Sir?”

The person hesitates, glancing at them one more time. Crowley lowers his glasses to glare them into submission.

And then they shake their head.

“We’re at 3500 pounds for the gentleman with the paddle 29742, do I have any more bidder? Going once, going twice…”

Aziraphale is the one reaching for Crowley’s hand this time around.

“And sold. Congratulations, Sir. Now, moving on to lot 70 …”

“Unless you wish to stay for what most of these people consider to be the important lot of this sale,” Aziraphale whispers, his hand still clasping Crowley’s, “we can take our leave.”

“Do you want to see how it goes?”

“Nah, I’ll check the final results online.”

“Sure?”

“Sure. Let’s go. I feel peckish.”

“Peckish.”

“Indeed. How about some crepes?”

“Lead the way, Angel.”

😈😇😈😇😈

“Well, wasn’t that fun?” Aziraphale says happily, hands clasped in his back as they walk down the street.

“It was fun,” Crowley replies, a crooked smile on his face. “Especially to see that side of you, Angel.”

“Which side, my dear?”

“The feisty, slightly bastardish side, of course.”

Aziraphale wants to protest, he does, but even if he felt like lying to Crowley, he couldn’t possibly procede. And he can admit that he did let out his … inner bastard.

“Right. Well. I’m glad you enjoyed that.”

“You have no idea.”

Crowley’s voice catches Aziraphale’s attention. It’s soft suddenly around the edges, almost tender, almost fond.

Almost smitten.

Aziraphale searches Crowley’s face for more clues, but beside this smirk that has indeed softened into a grin, his blasted sunglasses block Aziraphale’s “reading”.

“Crowley …”

“Angel …”

They both start at the same time but Crowley shakes his head before Aziraphale can tell him to go ahead. “Never mind that. Where are you taking us?”

Aziraphale considers pushing it, once and for all--speak your mind and heart, damn you, so I can snog you senseless in the middle of Oxford Circus--but Crowley is not the kind of man you can push into confession, that much Aziraphale knows now.

“To my secret spot.”

Crowley’s face instantly matches the crimson lining of his jacket. “Cool. Do you take all your dates there?”

“I never brought anyone there, I’ll have you know,” Aziraphale replies over the pitter patter of his heart at the mention of this afternoon being a date. “But I--I want you to be my guest there.”

They reach a crossroad and Aziraphale brings his hands in front of him, nervouser and nervouser as Crowley remains silent.

Until, that is, Crowley’s hand enters his line of vision.

“Crowley?”

Crowley is not looking at him, but he still wiggles his fingers, prompting Aziraphale to take it.

“I would love to see your secret spot, Angel,” Crowley finally says, voice barely covering the hubbub around them. “I am--I am honored.”

It’s only because he knows the way so well that Aziraphale doesn’t lose them both in the streets, floating as he is on his very own cloud.

“This,” Crowley says with as much doubt as he can put in a single syllable, “is where you take me to have crêpes?”

“Indeed it is.”

“This restaurant? Really?”

“Don’t pass on such a hasty judgment,” Aziraphale tutts. “‘For by your words you will be acquitted and by your words you will be condemned’.”

Crowley groans as he follows him inside the tiny Japanese restaurant. “Quoting scriptures at me now? Why, oh why would you do that?”

Aziraphale salutes the owner before taking “his” seat, inviting Crowley to join him. “If only to make you admit that you knew the source of my quote, you fallen soul. And to gently ask you not to say another word before you have a chance to try their desserts.”

“Fine, fine, I suppose I can put my judgmental side on hold for a moment with you.”

Oh. Wow. That’s too much, too fast, wow.

All Aziraphale can do on the outside is clearing his throat and pulling the menu in front of him.

“I mean--” Crowley starts, but Aziraphale cuts him short.

“Should we split one plate of crêpes, or should we share two plates, I don’t know, I--I, um, I know I have built an appetite with the adrenaline and all, but how do you feel?”

Crowley shrugs, pulling off his glasses to clean them with his scarf. “You’re the connoisseur, you decide. I’m putting my faith in you, Angel.”

But all of Aziraphale’s knowledge and appreciation for the crêpe cakes on the menu flew out the window the moment Crowley’s eyes came into view.

They’re such a peculiar shade, a mesmerizing golden amber Aziraphale could bask in for all of Eternity.

“-raphale?”

“Uh? Sorry, my dear boy, I was--I was lost in thoughts.”

“Pure, happy thoughts?”

“Enough to make me fly if I had any fairy dust.”

Crowley opens and closes his mouth, the smile left behind enough for Aziraphale to gather that he has a joke on the tip of his tongue and is refraining out of the goodness of his heart.

“You were saying?” he asks instead, folding back the menu to focus on Crowley, now that those jewelled eyes are once again hidden.

(What a shame, but what a relief for his poor heart, too.)

“I was asking you what was your favorite cake?”

“Depends on my mood,” Aziraphale replies, more comfortable on the subject of food. “A good vanilla crêpe can do the trick but when I feel like treating myself properly …”

“Yess?”

“Chestnut and chocolate is my go-to.”

“An interesting combination.”

“A scrumptious combination!” Aziraphale claps his hands. “Oh, that makes my decision easier. We must simply try that.”

Aziraphale’s favorite waiter approaches and they exchange a few words in Japanese before Aziraphale places his order.

As he leaves them to it, Aziraphale turns back to Crowley who is gawking at him.

“What?”

Crowley clears his throat and chuckles awkwardly. “You--you speak Japanese?”

“Oh, yes, I do, don’t I?”

Crowley cocks his head to the side, fingers drumming on the tablecloth.

Aziraphale starts fidgeting under such intense scrutiny. “What’s so special about it, anyway? I’m sure you speak other languages, too.”

It comes out a bit more defensively than he really intended to. There is just something about Crowley that reveals his darker side.

Crowley smirks, still drumming on the table. “I speak Scottish, if that counts.”

“Of course it does.”

“And I suppose I can manage with French, but nothing as … exotic as Japanese.”

“French?”

“Tout à fait.”

Isn’t it funny, how we sometimes discover things about ourselves late in life?

As it is, until this very moment, Aziraphale had no idea that a few words uttered in French could affect him as it does.

But affected he is, and to his core.

“Mighty useful, French, when you enjoy baking,” Crowley continues, seemingly unaware of the sudden heat threatening to consume his companion on the spot. “So many French words just to talk about ingredients. Beurre noisette, crème pâtissière, sucre boulé …”

“Would you teach me?”

Crowley stops in his tracks and looks at Aziraphale over the rim of his glasses. “French, or baking?”

“Both?”

Oh, it’s not that Aziraphale doesn’t see how either lesson could turn into an apocalyptic sort of disaster. He does, he absolutely, with great clarity, does.

But on the other hand, this kind of apocalypse would inevitably lead to him and Crowley spending more time together, getting closer, until Aziraphale would be able to whisper his freshly acquired vocabulary into the meat of Crowley’s skin.

So, yes, Aziraphale would take the risk of an apocalypse of embarrassment for the reward of successfully wooing Crowley.

“That could be fun,” Crowley replies just as the crêpes land on their table, his hand suddenly covering Aziraphale in a sneak attack. “If you teach me something in return.”

Oh, boy.

“What would you want me to teach you?” Aziraphale asks.

“You could teach me Japanese,” Crowley replies, taking his hand back--both a blessing and a curse. “Or fencing.”

Aziraphale freezes. “How do you know I fence?”

Crowley sits back in his chair, cup of tea in his hand as he slouches. “Something in your posture, Angel,” he replies, gesturing in Aziraphale’s direction. “It was either fencing or horse riding.”

“And how do you know it’s not horse riding?”

“Hard on the buttocks, horses. Bit of a flaw in the design, if you ask me. But you don’t strike me as someone who would inflict such pain on his buttocks.”

Such a sentence promptly produces images of Crowley thinking about the comfort of his buttocks, which, if you are in Aziraphale’s mind, doesn’t take too long before derailing into Crowley taking care of his ass.

Not that Aziraphale’s mind needs much prompting to go in that direction nowadays.

“Touché,” is all he can say without making a fool of himself in the middle of his favorite restaurant. To cover for his sudden silence, he picks up a fork to dig into the crêpes.

Ah, crêpes.

Even when they are average, they are the superior dessert, snack and culinary creation altogether.

Aziraphale takes a moment to enjoy his first bite. Much like a French philosopher, Aziraphale thinks that as enjoyable a thing may be, nothing can surpass the happiness brought by the first bite, first sip, first encounter.

The crêpes are thin yet soft, with a delicate crispy ring on the edges. In the center, the pieces of chocolate are on the verge of being completely melted, but not yet, while the crushed chestnuts are bringing some texture to the whole plate.

Aziraphale hums in his delight, before pushing the plate toward Crowley. “Where are my manners? You’re the one who has to try this for the first time.”

Crowley picks up a fork, turning the plate so he can face an untouched part of the crêpe. Aziraphale carefully watches his face for his reaction.

His mind takes another turn for the gutter at the way Crowley flicks his tongue at the fork before closing his lips around it, but then.

Then.

Crowley’s eyes widens, visible even from behind the tainted lenses and he lets out a soft, heartfelt moan that seems to fly directly through Aziraphale’s veins and straight to his heart.

“That’s--” Crowley starts, a pink flush appearing on his high cheeks. “It’s delicious!”

A small part of Aziraphale’s mind takes pride in making his … friend discover such a pleasure, but most of it is entirely consumed by the way Crowley looks at the moment.

Amazement colors his features, and the largest smile Aziraphale has ever seen on his face stretches his lips.

If Aziraphale thought he had a crush on the lanky man before, that is nothing compared to the rush of, well, Love he feels right now.

“I can understand why you kept this place a secret, Angel,” Crowley says, picking a second piece of the crêpe cake. “This is truly a slice of Heaven.”

Aziraphale lets out a short giggle before smothering it with a forkful of cake.

“Aziraphale.”

“Yes, dear?”

Crowley removes his glasses completely before cupping his face in his palm. The sight of those golden eyes, with their oh so particular shade, short-circuits Aziraphale’s brain.

Particularly because of the fondness warming them.

“May I tempt you for dinner?”

“T-tempt me?”

Crowley cocks one eyebrow at him. “Well, asking you for dinner on my terms means making you leave work early, thus tempting you away from them all.”

“Them?”

“The parasites who used to be my colleagues.”

And just like that, the warm feelings in Aziraphale’s chest melt away. “Parasites?”

Crowley must hear the change of tone in his voice. “Well,” he straightens up while managing to still slouch in his chair, “you know. Gabriel, Michael, all those who act all holier than thou.”

Aziraphale feels hurt--he isn’t quite sure if he feels attacked or if it’s just a sense of professional duty. “Aren’t I one of them too?”

Crowley puts his sunglasses back on. “You work there, yes, but you are not one of them,” he replies emphatically.

“How so?”

“I know so.”

Aziraphale swipes his face with his hand. “I know I should take your words as a compliment, but what makes you so sure that I’m not like them?!”

Crowley smiles at him, blinding and, and, loving, yes. “I know you would never take advantage of the people who have faith in you,” he replies simply. “And that you are more layered than any of those buffoons.”

“Oh.”

“And given the chance, you wouldn’t work for them.”

It’s Aziraphale’s turn to raise an eyebrow at Crowley. “Oh really. And what would I rather do?”

“I think that you would be way happier if your job involved books and making people happy.”

Aziraphale blinks at the image those words paint.

Far too appealing an image. He needs to stir the conversation away from it.

“To answer your earlier proposal …”

“Hmm yes?”

“I would love to let you tempt me.”

“Great.” Crowley beams at him. “Meet me at the bakery around 5pm.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

😈😇😈😇😈

The thing you need to know about Crowley is that he’s a perfectionnist.

Oh, maybe you already gathered as much about him from the rest of the story already.

But anyway, that is to say that in preparation for his date--because yes, this is officially a date, if the previous day wasn’t already one--, Crowley spends the night trying to figure out the best sweets to treat his angel to.

(Yes, his. Aziraphale is his. Move on.)

He considers making a decadent crepe cake, perhaps even on with a heart hidden in its center, cliché be damned, but does he really want to enter a competition with Aziraphale’s favorite dessert on their first date?

No, he doesn’t. Maybe later, once they will have dated for a while, for a special occasion perhaps.

No, for now, Crowley needs to blow Aziraphale’s mind and tastebuds.

(No, Crowley is absolutely not considering blowing anything else. Who do you take him for?

… If the mood seems right.

Maybe.

Possibly.)

The rest of the meny is fairly simple: Crowley knows Aziraphale’s tastes now. Fresh, quality ingredients, some fancy ones but nothing that can take him away from the ultimate prize that is the dessert.

So he decided to start with oysters (which doesn’t require a lot of preparation, juste the mignonette sauce).

Pros: it’s easy, fresh and aphrodisiac.

Cons: the shells. But Crowley will deal with them later.

For the main dish, Crowley goes with a pancetta and butternut squash risotto.

Pros: he can prepare it in advance and simply reheat it when needed (and he totally prepares it while considering his dessert options).

Cons: well, there are ways to fail at making a risotto, but this is not Crowley’s first risotto. He knows where the potential failure lies, and he sidesteps it like a pro.

And now back to the dessert.

If everything goes as well as Crowley wishes, thinks, hopes it will go, then by the time they get to dessert, they will both want to get closer.

Maybe kiss.

Maybe hold each other.

(Oh, to feel Aziraphale’s soft body pressed against his. Now that would be his treat.)

In order to to so, Crowley has two choices, really.

Either a dessert they can feed to each other, like an ice cream or a mousse of some sorts, or a dessert they can nibble on, like some kinds of biscuits or--

Hold that thought.

Crowley applauds himself before going through the pages of his book.

“Good Nommins: Agnes Nutter’s Nice and Accurate Recipes”, a book he got from his great-great-great-great aunt. All of Crowley’s recipes are a variation he played from those ancient recipes.

And there is something he thinks will do the trick.

So, yes, he spends the night trying recipes, finding ways to recycle what doesn’t make the cut (an unsuitable cookie is only a good cheesecake crust waiting to happen) until Crowley is sure he has the right treat.

And now he is.

At 5 a.m.

Which means that there is no point in going to bed now, is there, since he has to be at the bakery in one hour.

That’s alright, though. Crowley doesn’t really mind, especially considering the ultimate goal. Mission Woo Aziraphale Eastgate out of his waistcoat, dot dot dot, is a go.

😈😇😈

Crowley is waiting for Aziraphale in front of the bakery and he does his best not to be nervous.

“Whatcha doin’?”

Crowley is too tired to hide that Beelzy managed to surprise him.

“I’m waiting. For my, um, my friend.”

“Right,” they drawl, fixing the brooch on their lapel. “Your … friend, the blondy from the vampire office.”

“You know them?”

“Got my loan from them.”

Crowley can’t help but pull a face.

“And my regular booty call.”

Crowley’s grimace takes a turn for the worse. “Isn’t that what people call a boyfriend?”

Beelzy makes a gagging sound. “Don’t be gross. Okay, I’m off. See you tomorrow? I’d like to talk to you about something.”

“Should I worry?”

“Do or do not, I don’t care. Bye!”

Crowley is still frowning after them when Aziraphale taps on his shoulder, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Good afternoon, dear!” Aziraphale says, rocking on his heels. “So, where are we going?”

Crowley leans in to kiss Aziraphale’s cheek, bringing the rocking to a stop.

“Follow me.”

😈😇😈😇😈

Aziraphale doesn’t quite know what makes him trust Crowley so much that he’s willing to follow him through the streets of London until they reach what looks like an old factory.

“What is--where are we, dear boy?”

“My place, Angel.”

(I told you it would come in the proper time, didn’t I, dear readers? Good things come to those who wait.)

“Your--your place?”

“I thought it would be better to have an intimate setting for our, err, first, you know,” Crowley says while opening his door.

Aziraphale’s brain has already melted at the word “intimate”, but the design of Crowley’s flat finishes the job.

Given the look of the building, Aziraphale expected something rough, somehow bohemian. The idea doesn’t quite fit Crowley’s general look, but what does he know, right?

But that flat!

Everything is sleek and modern, except for the kitchen which has a wooden counter, but even that part of the flat is in the darker shades, black wood and metal.

Though the space is not big, the whole space is tidy and sparkly clean, a complete opposite to the way Aziraphale himself keeps his own flat. Next to the windows, which could be seen from the outside, stand giant plants. Monstera, succulents and alocasia fill in the space, probably eating up the light during the day.

It’s the most luxurious private garden Aziraphale has ever seen. Next to them, in the biggest sunlight spot, stands a vivarium with a napping snake.

Now, that fits the picture of Crowley he has built in his mind.

“Welcome to my casa,” Crowley tells him, taking off his jacket and sending it with a scary accuracy onto the hook. Aziraphale doesn’t trust his own talent and goes to hang his own coat. “I hope you don’t mind Newt?”

“You have a lovely home, Anthony,” he replies instead, looking around. A door is closed, probably leading to Crowley’s private parts of the flat--and Aziraphale is now very intrigued to know more about the kind of bedding Crowley likes to sleep in, while the main room is split between the living room, where the plants are, and the kitchen, where Crowley is standing.

His sleeves rolled up to his elbows, good Lord.

“Thank you, Aziraphale,” Crowley replies softly, simultaneously opening the refrigerator and turning the fire on under a large pan.

For some reason, hearing his first name in Crowley’s mouth is even better than the pet name he got used to.

“Is there something I can do?”

“Make yourself comfortable, angel, and perhaps open a bottle of wine?”

Aziraphale works quickly to open the bottle of red wine in order to be able to return to his gawking at Crowley in action.

“Anthony?”

“Yes?”

“This is a date, right?”

Crowley freezes before nodding.

“I’m really glad it is.”

Crowley comes to sit at the table too, a large plate covered in oysters and a light vinegary sauce. He has a small smile, almost shy. “I’m really glad too.”

“Oh, oysters,” Aziraphale can’t help but sigh happily. “How did you know that they are my “péché mignon”?”

“I had a hunch,” Crowley says, pushing the plate toward Aziraphale.

“You have a lot of them, about me?”

“Quite a few.” Here is that smile again, soft and warm and reaching into Aziraphale’s body to seize his heart in the most tender way.

Aziraphale tries to hide his blush by slurping on an oyster, the peppercorn and the vinegar heightening the ioded taste of the mollusk.

“That’s delicious.”

“I’m glad.”

“How are you so good at cooking?”

That, more than anything else, gets Crowley started, and the hours tick by as they devour the plate of oysters and then the entire pan of risotto, spoonful by spoonful, while Crowley talks about his childhood, his desire to cook and his incessant need to ask questions to understand, really, the why’s and how’s of the universe. Aziraphale interjects some questions, mostly savouring both the food and the way Crowley seems to lighten up from the inside as they move to the plush looking couch in the living room. Truth be told, he becomes more alive the emptier the bottle becomes, sure, and his speech makes less and less sense, but it only makes him more attractive in Aziraphale’s eyes.

“And then, then--” Crowley pauses, pouting. “What was I saying?”

Aziraphale blinks, and yes, he is quite inebriated himself. “Something about fish soup?”

“Bouillabaisse! Yes!”

“What about bulibaze?”

“... I don’t know. But it’s bloody good.”

Aziraphale starts giggling, and when he looks up again to pour himself another glass, Crowley is sitting far closer than he was just a moment ago.

“Oh.”

Crowley’s hair is ruffled and soft-looking, begging for Aziraphale to pass his fingers through them. His eyes are dark, a golden circle surrounding his irises. And his mouth is …

It’s calling for Aziraphale’s touch, that’s what it is.

They both lean closer, and Aziraphale licks his lips the moment Crowley bites on his lower lip.

“I have dessert.”

“You--uh?”

Crowley leans back, still close enough that Aziraphale can feel his body heat radiating on his left side.

“I prepared a dessert. For you. A special dessert.”

I could be happy with you as my dessert, fleetingly crosses Aziraphale’s mind but in the ranking of his sins, gluttony must supersedes lust because he is immediately curious.

“A special dessert for me?”

Crowley winks, the devil, before jumping out of the couch and sautering to the kitchen.

While he waits, Aziraphale tries to compose himself.

Oh, he has every intention of bringing what almost happened to something that definitely happened, but he doesn’t want it to be a drunken, or worse, rushed moment.

Hence the composing.

“Tadaaa,” Crowley singsongs as he brings a plate to his coffee table. The plate is covered in thin golden biscuits, as thin as paper, rolled up and folded.

“Oh, lovely!” Aziraphale picks up one of the biscuits. It’s amazingly light and buttery. “What are those?”

“They have two names,” Crowley explains, pushing forward Aziraphale’s glass. “They’re known as gavottes, or as crêpes dentelles.”

Aziraphale recognizes the first word. “Those are crêpe biscuits?”

“Yes.”

“And you made them for me.”

“... Yes, angel.”

Aziraphale delicately puts the biscuit back on the plate.

“What are y--”

Crowley doesn’t get to finish his sentence, his lips otherwise occupied by Aziraphale’s.

After months of dreaming about it, picturing how it would be, the reality of kissing Crowley is even better than he imagined. It’s soft and passionate and clumsy and perfect, all at once.

Crowley wraps his arms around him, pulling him closer until Aziraphale is practically lying on top of Crowley on the couch.

Clumsy? Definitely.

Uncomfortable? Just a little bit.

Everything Aziraphale wished for? And more.

Crowley moans into the kiss, and it’s not necessarily the good kind of moans. Aziraphale pushes himself up. “Everything alright, my dear boy?”

“Hm-hm,” Crowley replies, looking a bit dizzy. “Just, let me--agh--” Crowley winces, reaching behind him and picking a book. He glares at it, putting it on the table, before returning his gaze to Aziraphale. The love and adoration in those golden eyes render Aziraphale silent. “Better. Now, where were we?”

Aziraphale smiles, caressing Crowley’s cheek. “At the beginning of forever, I believe,” he whispers, before diving in for another kiss.

(They do get to the gavottes, eventually, once Aziraphale is out of his waistcoat and his shirt is opened, and once Crowley’s pants have been opened.)

😈😇😈😇😈

It’s a heartbreak to part, but on the other hand, they make the journey from Crowley’s flat to the street where they both work together, so Crowley counts that as a win.

He waits for Aziraphale to pause at the entrance of his building, smiling at him one more time before they meet again in the evening, before entering the bakery.

“Ah, just the man I wanted to see.” Beelzy’s words contrast with their tone, but Crowley is used to that by now.”

“What can I do for you, my Lord?”

“Do you enjoy your job?”

“I--I do. Did I give you the impression I wanted to leave?”

“No. Then again, I don’t usually care.”

“Oh. Then why--”

“I don’t want to work anymore. So. Are you interested?”

Crowley feels like he has entered the Twilight Zone. “Interested in?”

“In the shop, you imbecile. Wasn’t I clear?”

“Not really, no. But I could be interested.”

Beelzebub smiles at him. “Not so dumb after all then. Take your time, think about it, and come back tomorrow with your answer. I’m off now.”

With that, they walk out of the shop, leaving him alone with more to think about that he thought he would have on this day.

😈😇😈

“Are you interested?”

Crowley walks back and forth in Aziraphale’s living room, after retelling him of his boss’s proposal.

“I am! Of course I am!” he exclaims. “Fancy me, business owner. In charge of …”

“Of everything.”

“Oh God.”

“I’m sure you could do it,” Aziraphale points out, before sipping out of his mug of tea. “You have all it takes to turn this business into a success.”

“Except for the will to be responsible for it.”

“Hm.”

Crowley pauses. “Do you really think I could do it?”

“I do. You’re smart, creative, intuitive. You can do it.”

Crowley leans over the table to kiss Aziraphale before resuming his walking around. “But what of the money?”

“You have your severance money from Heavs.”

“True.”

“And, um.”

“What?”

Aziraphale wiggles on his spot. “I could, um, invest in it too?”

Crowley freezes. “You? What?”

Aziraphale stands to come in front of him. “I have money I could invest in your business.”

Crowley opens and closes his mouth like a fish; he’s sure it’s not attractive, but he can’t do anything else.

“Or better yet?”

“Better?”

Aziraphale nods. “I could … be a partner.”

Crowley feels his face heating up but he focuses. “A partner?”

“Yes.”

“Care to develop on that idea, Angel?”

“I could--that is, I have been thinking.”

“Yes?”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath and then unloads all of the following in seemingly one breath.

“I have been miserable at my job for a while now, even though I’m quite good at it. I just, just, have enough of it, and I don’t think my soul can take much more of it. Meanwhile, I can see myself having a library of sorts, making my books available for all to peruse and enjoy while, I don’t know, maybe, savor some mini pastries?”

Crowley stares at him.

That idea is crazy.

Demented.

Completely out of this world.

Doesn’t make a lick of sense.

… Exactly what he wants, without ever knowing he did.

And yet, what comes out of his mouth next doesn’t make much sense either.

“You’d let people eat or drink near your books?”

Aziraphale had his mouth open to keep on babbling about his plans, but Crowley’s interjection brings him to a halt and he beams at him.

“I would. Would be rather hypocritical of me not to when I do it so often, wouldn’t it?”

“Ah. Right.”

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand and brings it to his lips to kiss his knuckles. “Was that your only objection, my dear, dear boy?”

Crowley’s brain fires up before he can get back to his senses. “I would love for us to be partners.”

“You would.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever had a better idea, Angel.”

Aziraphale pulls on Crowley’s hand, pulling him closer, pulling him to him so they can kiss. “I do have a lot of ideas, Anthony.”

“Can’t wait to test them all, Aziraphale.”

(It takes them a moment to get their shop running, but eventually, Londoners get to enter “Above and Below”, thus named for the nurturing of the mind, through the books-- above-- and the body, through the food--below.

Crowley finds a way to make one-bite delicacies that match some of the books and Aziraphale is the one making the match when it’s not obvious.

They work well together, what can we say?)

~~ The End ~~

#good omens big bang #gobb #masterpost #sometimes i write #hufflepuffbetty #scribblemakes #ineffable husbands #ineffable idiots #good omens au #food porn a plenty

14 notes · View notes

the-canary · 5 years

Text

Stargazer - B.B.

Summary: There’s a gala and your dear friend finally decides to do something about your crush – Nat decides to do the same for Bucky as well. .(Modern!Reader/Bucky Barnes)

A/N: this was for the @themaskedwriter challenge. congrats on the people that figured it out! there have been some changes/edits here and there. also, if you want music to accompany the ballroom scenes my dear friend made a playlist!

Feedback is always appreciated.

All Stark Industry employees are welcomed to this year’s fundraiser gala. The event will be held in [...]. Please remember to wear your finest and hide your face so the world will never find you!

--Anthony and Virginia Stark.

“Did you see the email?”

“Yeah, it was a massive email blast. I am sure everyone saw it.”

“You know that’s not what I mean, James.”

“No, I really don’t know what you mean, Nat.”

“So, do you plan on going?”

You frown at the question, giving the email one more glance before turning up to see Sam grinning at you as he took another sip of his coffee. The twinkle in his eyes seemed permanent, but you didn’t want to deal with it, especially with the lack of sleep in the past 48 hours.

“I don’t know, Sam,” you grumble before pointing at the giant machine that was taking up most of the space in your shared lab with one Bruce Banner, though he had left and hopefully knocked out after his own sleepless four-day run, “I’m sort of trying to make this giant machine work before the next Expo.”

It was the complete truth -- you and Bruce had been just one team that was working on a functioning engine for the future Stark Car, but like everyone else you weren’t having any progress. It was the anniversary of the Stark Expo and one Mr. Stark felt it was necessary to finally show some progress and what his father had shown years ago, though there hadn’t much progress at all on the project since them.

“And since it is going to be one of the main attractions,” Sam starts off, playing devil’s advocate with you like always, ”You should consider putting some dedication to that---mppf!”

Sam lets out a huff an air as you see a certain brunette and redhead walk across your little workspace, heads together and ignoring the rest of the world around them as you let out a little lovesick sigh.

“You can’t seriously think that I could compete against that,” you murmur in utter defeat while staring at Sam for a brief second. You let out a huff of air in annoyance before getting up and going to see what you are going to get for lunch before deciding to pass out in one of the break rooms within the building.

You just weren’t aware that there were two pairs of eyes watching the entire time.

“They aren’t going to ask each other out, are they?”

“I doubt it.”

“I guess it’s up to us then!”

You end up sleeping straight through the end of the work day after lunch, but instead of going straight back to work the aches flooding your back and neck and realizing that you haven’t changed in a couple of days makes Sam send you back home before you can think of doing anything else. You end up walking towards the subway station when you notice him -- sitting outside of a Starbucks with a drink and computer in front of him, confused but determined about whatever he was doing at the moment.

You and one James Buchanan Barnes had entered in the same department around the same time and while you struggled here and there with your work alongside Bruce Banner, James always seemed to some new idea that he and Dr. Romanoff were working on.

It was lovely and frustrating to see, though you were sure somewhere along the line you--

A familiar redhead soon joins him and your heart deflates for a second. You let out a sigh before taking the stairs down and away from such a sight.

“Don’t worry everything will be under Stark’s credit card.”

“How the hell did you do that?”

“He owes me. Now, time to play fairy godmother to these numbskulls.”

In the following weeks after the announcement of the gala, Sam doesn’t ask you once more if you are going or not, though you hear through the grapevine that both James and Natasha are. For a brief second every once and awhile you get lost in your little daydream of being able to dance with the man -- though you knew it was a faraway dream since you didn’t know how to dance or even approach him if he wasn’t already dating the beautiful genius.

“Hurry!” Dr. Banner’s yell pulls out of your depressing thoughts, as he motions you to get in front of the little console you had set up outside to the control the car.

The little thing stutters once then twice, as Bruce screams from his seat in the car while motioning at you with awkward hand signals what you should be doing next. The engine pops a little bit a smoke before stabilizing completely and hovering in midair.

You and Bruce both scream in delight, as a small group starts to gather around the glass doors of your lab with wide eyes and clapping all around. You swear that you see a flash a blue from the sweater that James had decide to wear today, but you push aside at the sound of Mr. Stark’s exclamation over the sight that his father could never accomplish.

By the end of the day, whether you like it or not you and Dr. Banner are both gala bound.

Once Sam hears the news, he can’t stop grinning as he makes you go last minute to get a dress because nothing in your closet will do for such an event, he had said so himself. Thus, you spend most of the weekend being dragged around by your best friend to all the high-end dress places in New York, though you aren’t quite sure who is buying and Sam just smiles and tells you not to worry.

“Well, you’re going to turn heads with that one,” Sam finally remarks with a laugh as he makes you twirl.

You end up glancing in the mirror once more with a bright smile and a little laugh, because even though you might be going alone and your crush was with someone else -- you were drinking and eating all you could grab your hands on.

However, before ending the shopping spree -- Sam has one more trip to take with you on the other side of Brooklyn with that large shit-eating grin of his that sends you into high alert. You grab your bags a bit tighter than before as you stop in front of a little red-brick building with the word PSYCHIC painted on the glass.

You frown, unsure what is going on, as Sam laughs.

“What are we doing here?” you can’t help but ask as you wait for someone to appear after Sam has rung the bell on top of the glass table that is filled with candles, chalks, various stones and a little tree that seems to be greeting anyone that comes in. It bothers you just a little, but whatever Sam is planning bothers you even more.

“I know you need a confidence boost,” Sam starts explaining, as you look at him, ”I usually come here when I need something of the sort.”

Your eyebrows shot up for a second at the sound of his awkward laugh and sudden confession, before smiling: “Does it work?”

“It really depends.” he winks at you, as the psychic calling herself Wanda finally comes out to greet Sam and start whatever she has planned for you. ‘

However, the strangest thing out of the hour-long session is when she smiles at you and declares: You’ll meet a fish by a fountain soon.

You aren’t quite so sure where you are supposed to do with that piece of information.

“She’s actually going. So, what are you going to do about it, Romeo?”

“I really don’t know, Nat.”

The Stark Expo Anniversary Gala is nothing short of beautiful with it being set up near the waterfront where Howard Stark had his own humble beginning and was now home to Stark Industries’ Brooklyn base. High ceiling, bright lights with people dressed to the nines, and some even with masks on, caused you to pause at the entrance for a moment before you feel someone push you just a bit.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going,” the voice behind you states and you swear you stop to see a nervous smiling James, though completely different from his loose hair, sweaters, and lab coat that you have seen him in most of the time.

“It’s all right, I was just trying to prep myself,” you admit bashfully, starting at anything but the man in the dark blue suit that match his eyes with slicked back and a killer smile.

Damn, Romanoff was a lucky woman.

“Do you,” his voice breaks for a second, “Do you need someone to escort you inside? If you want to?”

You have to pause for a moment and actually think about what he is saying, your mouth gaping slightly as you kill the both of you just a bit with your silence, but you end up giving him a small smile.

“Yes, it would help a lot actually,” you end up admitting and you swear his smile grows just a bit more as he places his arm in front of you to hold it.

“Anything for you,” James states with a twinkle in his eyes, as you wrap your arm around his arm and head inside.

In your excitement, you don’t notice the stars and city lights twinkling on a certain surface.

However, as quickly as you get James to yourself for a brief moment, you are pushed as quickly away as Mr. Stark makes you do rounds with Dr. Banner to all the people that are excited to see what you two had in store. You don’t see Sam anywhere throughout the whole night, though he had promised that he would be there, though you were finding yourself meeting a certain set of blue eyes whenever you looked around.

You would smile and James would sometimes smile or laugh, only for you to turn back more bashful than before. Dr. Romanoff wasn’t in the gala either, so you weren’t sure how to feel deep down about the attention you were getting from him tonight.

And as the demonstrations and speeches moved the evening, you eventually found yourself in front of everyone trying to explain the success of the car and paying special tribute to Back to the Future with the “Science Bros” taking the reins when it becomes too much. The bright lights and millions of questions became too much after everything was said and done, as you found yourself sitting outside beside the fountain and taking deep breaths in order to calm down.

“Hey, hey,” that voice that has been haunting you all night decides to show up once more as you feel a hand over yours and rubbing calm and easy circles on top of it, “Take a deep breathe and count. Only pay attention to my voice.”

You let out a little whimper, it had been the thing that you had been avoiding since meeting him during the employee orientation all those years ago, but here he was playing with your heart when all you wanted to do at the moment was disappear regardless of a successful showing.

“You’re just making it worse,” you say in a shaky breath as he stops moving. You look at him with the best glare that you can muster, as there is nothing but question in those pretty blues of his, “You shouldn’t do all this if you’re already dating someone else. It’ll give someone the wrong idea.”

“I--” he stutters a bit unsure, “Who am I dating?”

“Dr. Romanoff,” you exclaim pulling your hand away from his and you try to ignore that brief hurt in his eyes, “I know that she isn’t here, but you shouldn’t--”

James gives out a laugh, which angers just a bit more as you get up ready to head back inside before getting your heart bruised any further. However, he pulls you back as you stand face to face.

“I’m not dating Natasha, sweetheart,” your eyes widen at his statement as it appears that there is a switch that goes off in him. James isn’t shy anymore as he leans in a bit more into your personal space. A crooked but rueful smile on his face, as he places one hand on your hip and the other on your cheek.

“In fact, she’s always getting on my case about asking someone out,” he keeps going as you stare at him with wide eyes, as he also states that Natasha never stopped bothering him about his crush -- like Sam did with you.

“W-who do you like?” you let out in one breathe, angry slowly giving away to confusion and anticipation as his thumb grazes your cheek softly.

“I thought it had been obvious that I haven’t been able to keep my eyes off of you the whole damn night,” he breathes out, he leans in a bit more. You let out a sound like a wounded animal at this revelation that makes him laugh.

“And if I said the feeling was mutual?” you state, as he lets out a small, delirious chuckle.

“Then, I’ve gotta make up for lost time and share a dance with you,” James grins as you nod with sudden enthusiasm, “And maybe to a date later on.”

“Yes, yes to both,” you let out your own giggle before you lean in to kiss on the cheek -- an interlude to all that you had planned now that your feelings were set free as he guides you back into the building to share the rest of the night. The fountain and loneliness you had felt for such a long time slowly being forgotten.

James smiles and you realize that the feeling is mutual as you think of Wanda’s words for a brief moment while staring at the dark sky above for such a second before looking at the stars in front of you before heading back inside.

You’ll meet a fish by a fountain soon.

It’s much later on that you come to find out that James is actually a Pisces.

#Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes x reader #james bucky barnes x reader #james buchanan barnes x reader #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes modern au #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fan fic #series: short stories #fabiola trying to write

223 notes · View notes

of-nodus-tollens · 4 years

Text

Those Who Matter

Summary: Tony may not have the best childhood, but that does not mean he is without people who matter. (An AU look back at the people in Tony's life who made a difference).

Word Count: 5892 | Rating: General | Pairings: None | AO3

A/N: This is me getting back into fanfiction to deal. This was written a while ago but I’m starting to expand on it so posting on here to hopefully force me to type up four notebooks worth of stories. This is a self-indulgent fic - Lucy is my OC and my way of exploring the mcu. Not beta’d so apologies for grammatical errors.

Tony was 4 when he believed achievements was the way to gain his father’s affection. So he built his first circuit board, using scraps from his father’s discarded pile. If he found the wires and mechanics were easier to comprehend than the nuances of human interaction, he was too young to understand it. The times Howard had taken the time to talk to him were about work and Captain America’s achievements, so Tony thought it was time he did something his father would be proud of… but Howard barely glanced at the complex mechanism before brushing Tony away, failing to see the heartbreak in his child’s eyes or the smoldering heap in the garden the day after.

~*~

The Starks’ were busy people unless you are a child, in which case you get left behind a lot. With his parents' absence, Tony found solace in the only adult who would listen to him - Jarvis. And it wasn’t because it was his job, as he seemed genuinely interested in what Tony said and does, helping him with his projects. Plus it helped that he treated him like an adult, despite offering him milk and cookies.

~*~

Tony was two months shy of his seventh birthday when he built a V8 motorbike engine. Impressed and awed, Jarvis helped him put together the outer body, painting it royal blue with gold accents. On the day of his birthday, Jarvis presented him with a helmet with matching colours and allowed him to ride it in the sizable driveway on the condition it is only to be used under his watchful eye and out of sight of his father, to which Tony readily agreed.

~*~

School had never been Tony’s strong suit, not because he’s not intelligent but because it bored him to tears. He was mouthy, proud, and wore his arrogance as an armour when the looks and whispers came his way. He’s different, his mind constantly on the run while everyone menders behind. It’s exhausting and lonely. So he talked to himself, to his work, to the familiar doorway as he is ushered out of his father’s presence, to the bland smile on his mother’s face… maybe someday, someone will talk back.

~*~

Maria Stark was not your conventional mother. Then again, the Starks are not your typical family. She’s a socialite who balances out her husband’s brashness and arrogance with politeness and diplomacy. And while the public was surprised by Howard’s move to settle, Maria was the partner he needed to keep him steadfast. The perfect wife, a struggling mother. She at least tries, even when she least wanted to and there’s no doubt she cares, asking after her son even as she wearily toes off her heels at the door. She listens but forgets, humming her response in lieu of answering questions and employed material possessions in place of emotional support.

~*~

Tony ran away from home when he was ten, having been told for the umpteenth time how useless and selfish he is by his father. A whisky bottle thrown in his general direction aided his decision. It wasn’t planned and he was hardly prepared, as evidenced by his lack of shoes but that was the last thing on his mind. He was certain he would not be missed when a car pulled up next to him on the dark, empty road. The passenger door popped open.

Aunt Peggy was one of the few people that Tony respected, so he clambered into the car while she waited silently behind the wheel. Tony waited expectantly for the lecture as she drove but it never came. Instead of home, she drove to a diner where the bright lights chased away the darkness. Aunt Peggy bought a banana split for him and a cup of coffee for herself. This was not what he expected, sitting in a rag-tag diner in the middle of the night, with muddied feet and blood-shot eyes.

“Stop staring, it’s unbecoming.”

Tony snapped his eyes away and started slowly into his ice-cream. Half-way through, Aunt Peggy helped herself to some too.

“Aren’t you going to yell at me?” Tony finally demanded.

Aunt Peggy raised an eyebrow, looking almost offended. “And what will that achieve?”

“Just tell me what I already know, that I’m a waste of time and space, that I’ll never be like Captain America and that I’ll amount to nothing.”

Aunt Peggy finished off her spoonful before setting down her spoon and dabbing her lips with a napkin. She planted her hands before her and fixed him with a hard look. “Anthony Edward Stark, I will only say this once so listen carefully. Just because your father is an idiot, does not mean you get to be one too. He may have many problems but you are not one of them, no matter what he says. Stand up and be brilliant. If you let people continue to tell you what you are, you will not get anywhere. We need to be our own heroes and not imprints of someone else. Do I make myself clear?”

Her expression left no room for argument. “Yes ma’am.”

“Good. Now it’s quite late. Let’s get you home.”

Once home, Aunt Peggy left Tony in Jarvis’ capable hands, turning down his proffered cup of England’s finest in favour of “business to attend to”. Sharp steps found its way to Howard's office, the snap of the door, then the dulcet tone of her voice echoed through the mansion.

“So yelling does help.” Tony quipped when Aunt Peggy stepped out of her father’s study an hour later.

“Only when the recipient does not listen,” she replied, smoothing down her blouse and entirely unruffled.

“Thank you, Aunt Peggy.” It was heartfelt and sincere. Tony ran off before Aunt Peggy can respond.

~*~

Lucy is a mass of black curls, sharp edges, perpetual scowls and invisible scars. She is the result of Howard’s past indiscretions, a secret hidden in plain sight, a responsibility shoved onto others as a form of goodwill, for the Jarvis’ had always wanted a child.

(Tony wondered if he would be in the same position if not for his mother).

He was sworn to secrecy - the family’s reputation and business on the line. If the request came from anyone but his mother, he was not sure he would have agreed. As it is, he was amazed he was allowed to spend part of his summer vacation with the Jarvis’.

His intentions were not entirely innocent - part curiosity and part vindictiveness at finding proof to put a hole in his father’s holier-than-thou image.

The Jarvis’ live on a ranch (Maria Stark’s family ranch to be exact), a dream of Ana’s since childhood, complete with horses and stables and more green space than Tony knew what to do with. But the Jarvis’ put him to good use, fixing equipment and improving the machinery. It was good to feel useful and appreciated as Ana fussed over him.

Unsurprisingly, Lucy resented his presence, going out of her way to stay out of his way. Admittedly, Tony might have laid on his Stark-ness a little thick, showing off in an effort to ensure he would not be another passerby. It never occurred to him that she would be jealous, not for being him or the fact that he’s a Stark, but of his relationship with the Jarvis’.

Tony has never hit a girl before but that was before Lucy tackled him and then they were brawling in the hay and god knows what else, fists and hay flying, the horses' protests adding to the cacophony of their incoherent yells.

It ended in a splash of cold water, both literally and metaphorically, when Tony saw Jarvis’ face and realised he may have failed one of the few people who cared about him.

They were separated and tended to - bruises and scratches and what will be an impressive shiner on Tony’s face. There was confusion and anger and disappointment too but… “You have never and will never fail me, Tony. I know your heart and that is what matters.”

Tony remained quiet, unsure if this comment would be whipped away at a moment’s notice or safe to use as a balm to soothe the cracks in his heart. But Jarvis’ hand on his shoulder told him this was his to keep.

There was a new calm in the air now the storm has passed. Tony wasn’t sure what was said to Lucy for she was now civil and her glares had dulled around the edges.

It probably helped that Tony has stopped pushing her buttons.

Howard showed up two weeks short of his stay. Things must not have gone well at the meet for he was particularly ferocious with Tony. It was nothing he hasn’t heard before, a tape played so frequently on repeat that Tony had it carved behind his eyelids. Maybe because it was the disruption to the peace that Tony had found here but he bit back, words of hurt and anger flung as weapons.

Lucy found him sitting on the barrels behind the barn, fuming at the open fields. She had a rifle slung across her back and another in her hands which she wordlessly held out to him.

Tony blinked. “Are we going to have a battle to the death?”

He was graced with an eye roll. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“That may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“If you’re going to be difficult, I’ve got better things to do.”

He jumped off the barrel with all the vitality of a 13-year-old and took the proffered weapon. She led him to the outer fields where cans lined a crooked fence before giving him a thorough drill on firearm safety and showing him the basics on operating the gun (filled with blanks of course). A quick demonstration showed off her prowess. Tony hit the fence and the air several times before he tagged his target with a satisfactory clang. He grinned.

“Not bad, kid.”

“I’m only 2 years younger than you.”

“Not bad, brat.” She took another can down. “But brats don’t deserve to be treated so poorly.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” A beer bottle flew backwards.

“That’s why we’re here, and why I’m probably going to have my head handed to me if we get found.”

“The Jarvis’... your parents, they’re cool.”

There was a pause in which Tony waited for Lucy to accept the olive branch he was offering - an apology and acknowledgement.

“They are. You’re welcome to borrow them once in a while, but you gotta return them at the end of the day.”

Tony smirked. “Deal.”

(They did get caught but Tony took full responsibility. They were let off the hook with full night duties and knowing looks.)

~*~

Having a nanny at 14 is still a sore point for Tony. Not only that, but she’s also a small-time thief, taking items from the household and snooping around, constantly trying to get into Howard’s study to no avail.

Even worse, Tony is now stuck with her for 3 days whilst his parents visit Germany on a business trip.

He was woken up on the second night by a tapping on his window and Lucy hanging off his window ledge.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, then “How did you get here?”

“Helping a lad in distress. I heard about your nanny troubles.”

Tony groaned. This is about as flattering as it can get. “And what are you going to do about it?”

Lucy had a plan. It took the rest of the night to set it up and half of the next day snooping around and ensuring Lucy wouldn’t be found (“I took a break from a sleepover. They were wasting perfectly good cucumbers.”)

The end result had the nanny screaming from the house, babbling something about ghosts and a haunted house.

Back inside the house, or more specifically, Howard’s study, an empty television crackled merrily, an illusion still in effect. Lucy peered out from her hiding spot on the balcony, while Tony sat on the floor in his ghostly apparition get-up, a big grin on his face.

(Tony denied all knowledge of what happened as his father questioned him, claiming he was in bed and yes, his study has always been locked and no, he has not seen any ghosts, there are no such things.)

~*~

MIT came knocking and Tony received an early acceptance into one of the most prestigious schools where his intelligence was appreciated by his peers, rather than scoffed at.

Still, he kept his guard up, learning from an early age that appearances are deceiving, The Stark name carried a certain grandeur and value, and with it jealousy and those who seek to use it for their own gain.

So he kept up an easy facade of sarcasm and humour, building his charisma and charm. He partied (and drank where he could) and still passed everything with flying colours.

~*~

Honestly, he should have learnt by now that his confidence will get him into trouble. Being the youngest and the smartest can rub people the wrong way, especially for those who enjoy a certain stature.

He had been attempting to keep his drinking to a minimum by keeping busy but there was only so much he can do before the emptiness around him spurs him out, lest he even tries to call home.

The local watering hole was never short of people and before he could change his mind, Tony was enveloped in a group that he pretty sure despised him. But it seems alcohol changes much of that as they pushed more and more drinks onto him until he started agreeing to the most obscene things like making a cocktail explosion.

If he weren’t so drunk, he would have felt the solid presence behind his back before the voice spoke. And even then, it was like a delayed transmission to his brain as he struggled to stop the room spinning.

“Kid, are you alright? Are these guys bothering you?”

“Not a kid,” Tony mumbled.

“If you’re here visiting someone, I can take you to them.”

Tony shook his head which was a very bad, not good idea.

“Dude, relax, he’s with us.” one of the guys laughed.

“He shouldn’t be here.”

The voice grew louder. “You want to know who shouldn’t be here? You and your kind.”

More words were traded and a scuffle ensued. Tony's inebriated mind processed everything in slow motion.

“Hey, back off!” It took a moment for Tony to realise that those words came from him and he was suddenly standing, but the ground refused to stay still.

(Decades later, during his best man’s speech, Rhodey will fondly recall the moment that a very drunk Tony knocked himself out in an attempt to defend him. But the way Tony remembers it, was that Rhodey had his back first.)

~*~

It seemed like the unlikeliest of friendships - the straight-laced duty-bound future colonel, with a smart-ass, crazy, rich playboy. But Rhodey never judged, he took Tony the way he is and went with it, occasionally steering him back in the relatively right direction.

And Tony found, between Rhodey and Lucy, school was actually quite enjoyable, if not for educational purposes.

~*~

Rhodey and Lucy’s initial meeting was far from ideal.

Living only an (in)convenient 10 minutes away from Tony at Tufts University, Lucy became Tony’s designated driver by default. He should not be drinking, of that everyone agrees but unless there is someone tethered to him, his actions were his own. So Lucy did the next best thing and made sure someone was there for him on the condition that nights like this only occurs once a month. More often than not, she would show up in her pyjamas, study notes in hand and Twizzler in mouth as she bundled Tony into her vehicle.

So after one of those nights in which Tony managed to convince Rhodey to take a break after midterms, Tony woke up to his head being blown apart by the scream of death. Apparently, opera is a very good form of torture.

“Turn it off! Turn it off!”

By the time the request was heeded, Tony was sure blood was leaking from his ears.

“It’s not, but given how I might not even pass my exam at this point, I may not be the best person to ask.”

How passive aggressive, Tony thought.

“You know you’re speaking out loud right? And I have full control of the music.”

Tony groaned, peeling one gummy eye open to see Lucy sitting cross-legged on the bed, chewing lazily upon her favourite confectinary, “Goose, have mercy.”

“Is this going to be a thing now? Having your honey bear tag along?”

“I’m not his honey bear,” Rhodey mumbled from beside him.

“I’ve got photographic evidence,” she sounded entirely too gleeful for Tony’s liking as she waved said evidence before him. Closer inspection of the Polaroid revealed him and Rhody entwined with one another on their current mattress.

“Looks like she’s outed us, honey buns.”

“I hate you,” Rhodey groaned, then directed his unfocused gaze to Lucy, “And I don’t know you but I hate you too.”

“Now that’s what you call gratitude. You guys better hope I pass this exam or this picture is going public.”

She nudged Tony with her foot on her way out. “Water and aspirin are on the bedside table and you better be gone before I get back. Apparently, I’m getting enough action on the rumour mill without adding another person to the mix.”

“Help me out here, I’m not sure whether I should be disgusted or pleased for you.”

The answering slam of the door was unnecessarily ferocious.

“You have the most wonderful friends, Stark.” Rhodey commented.

“Don’t be jealous. You’re still my favourite, platypus.”

~*~

Tony unveiled DUM-EE at the MIT Robot Design competition, his first limited-awareness artificial intelligent robot with the personality of a gambolling puppy, eager to help but damned if it does.

It almost strangles Rhodey in its attempt to help him with his tie and ends up spilling white wine on Lucy in its enthusiasm to get her a drink.

“It’s fine, I’ve had worse things spilt on me before,” Lucy said as she wiped herself down. “Besides, it was just trying to help.”

She blinked as DUM-EE’s singular claw wrapped around her wrist and tugged it up and down. “What’s it doing?”

“DUM-EE’s saying thank-you,” Tony translated.

“Aw, you’re cute,” Lucy patted the robot.

“Hey, no, it’s not meant to be cute,” Tony intervened.

“Especially after it tried to kill me,” Rhodey added.

"Well I think he's sweet," Lucy laughed as DUM-EE swung her wrist happily.

"You would," Tony grumbled good-naturally while Rhodey struggled with the knot his tie had turned into.

Almost everyone showed up, including Jarvis and Ana. Everyone that is except his parents. Tony really shouldn’t have expected any less, but it still stung, the childish part of him hoping to hear some sort of approval. He brushed away the tightness in his chest and focussed on the people there with him.

He won first place and he tried to feel happy about it.

~*~

“Build something of value before asking me to waste my time,” was his father’s response when Tony had the very bad idea to call home.

He then proceeded with an even worse idea of mixing alcohol with sleeping tablets, and the next thing he remembers is waking up to the steady beep of a machine and a red-eyed Lucy, looking both relieved and extremely pissed off.

“Have you been crying?” he asked, only it came out as more of a croak.

She did a quick preliminary check before being satisfied enough to say, “You are a complete shithead. Try that stunt again and I will kill you myself.”

Tony wanted to point out that the point of being a doctor is not to kill people, but Lucy had already stormed out.

“I ditto what she said,” Rhodey spoke from his spot in the corner, looking tired.

“Not fair,” Tony pouted, “I’m sick and need looking after, not to be ganged up on.”

Rhodey gave him a wane smile, “She’s a spitfire that one. No way will I be getting on her bad side. Almost came to blows with your old man.”

Tony was about to make a joke when the rest of the sentence registered, “Wait, what with my father?”

“Dropped some truth bombs.” Rhody looked sombre. “Not really my place to talk about it. Best to talk to her.”

Tony debated the best way to get the story out of Rhodes when his best friend got up and stretched, eyeing the doorway where a nurse is being waylaid by Jarvis. “Looks like visiting hour is over for us. You going to be okay, Tones?”

“I’ll be fine.”

Rhodey looked sceptical but clapped Tony on the shoulder, “I'll be around if you need anything.”

Jarvis came in after Rhodey’s departure, eyes sad as he took Tony in, straightening the cover out of habit as he took the seat next to him. “You gave everyone quite a scare.”

“Obviously, not everyone.”

Jarvis acknowledged that comment with a tilt of his head. “Your father was here while you were asleep but something unexpected came up.”

“Lucy.”

“Among other things.”

“I’m sorry, Jarvis,” Tony was not one to apologise easily or at all, having been told that it was a weakness by his father. But with Jarvis, he has lost count of the number of times he has apologised and yet, it always seems inadequate.

And without fail, Jarvis responds the same way, “You are forgiven, Master Tony,” and the shame in Tony deepens all the more.

“Just promise me you will cease this unhealthy behaviour. You will do well to remember that you have those who care about your well-being.”

“I know, Jarvis. I’ll try.”

Jarvis smiled kindly, “That’s all I ask.”

~*~

It seems the Stark men are not known for their timing. By the time Tony has completely stopped caring for what his father thought of him, Howard was trying to reach out to him, claiming there are things Tony needs to know, needs to be shown but Tony hardly cared for any of that now. It’s easier not to care than to open himself up to ridicule again. Never let people see how you really feel, wasn’t that another life lesson Howard imparted to him?

“You must hate him,” Tony stated.

It was Thanksgiving. Lucy had invited both him and Rhodey to the Jarvis’ where they had finished off an interesting Hungarian feast made by Ana and now sat around a bonfire, drinking hot chocolate and roasting marshmallows.

It was nice and homely and Tony wished this was how home is.

Lucy glanced in the direction Rhodey had gone to retrieve more refreshments. He may know about the family secret but it’s not something she is comfortable talking about, even with Tony.

“To be honest, I’m pretty indifferent to him bar a couple of things.”

“He abandoned you.” Tony pointed out.

“He did, and I think we can all agree it was a shitty thing to do, but look at what I received instead,” she gestured towards the house where they can see Jarvis and Ana dancing in the living room, unaware of their audience.

“I’m not a fan of his work and I hate the way he treats you,” she absently picks at the grass at her feet. “But Jarvis has always said that family is what you choose it to be, so you know…” she gave an offhand shrug.

Tony gave a sly smile. “Careful Goose, it almost sounds like you care.”

“I will Nerf you in the ass.”

“I’ll sic Rhodey on you.”

“I’m not your bodyguard.” Rhodey retorted, settling himself down with a pack of drinks.

“Then why do I have you around?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking that question?”

“You’re a glutton for punishment, we both are.” Lucy shook her head sadly.

“Here, here.” Rhodey’s bottle met hers with a clink of solidarity.

“Jarvis, I’m being ganged up on!” Tony protested, as his friends sniggered next to him.

~*~

Maria Stark was not unobservant to the divide between the two most important people in her life. The problem is she doesn’t know how to resolve it other than being the buffer; to keep the fire from spreading too widely. Tony appreciated the efforts, futile as they may be and he hated how it seem to hurt her.

“Talk to him,” she requested one day, eyes pleading in an attempt to salvage whatever moment they have left of Christmas, and Tony wished it was something as simple as him taking the first step… but it was always him and he was tired of being burnt.

“Have a good trip,” he said instead. “Love you, mum.”

Maria smiled sadly at him, pressing a kiss to his cheek as he turned away to avoid the look of disappointment in her eyes.

Afterwards, he only wished he walked through the fire instead.

~*~

He doesn’t remember much of the funeral, just a blur of white noise and touches from acquaintances and strangers. Rhodey was deployed somewhere (despite his best efforts to get back) and Lucy couldn’t attend for obvious reasons. Jarvis and Ana hovered close by and it was their presence which grounded him.

Lucy snuck into his room during the wake, where Tony had already retired to his bed, the tie long discarded, the buzz in his head refusing to go away. She laid down beside him, hand wrapped around his wrist. They watched the sun’s ray crawl across the ceiling until the darkness swallowed it whole and the noises faded away.

~*~

Tragedy followed in quick succession when Ana’s health took a turn for the worst and passed away shortly after. Jarvis followed in her wake. The doctors said it was old age, but those who know Jarvis understood it was from a broken heart.

The funeral was small and intimate, rather than crawling with corporate friends. Many were unsure how to approach Lucy, who is an unknown in their mind - present but unaccounted for. Instead, they offered their condolences to Tony, whose grief was hidden behind sunglasses and dulled by alcohol.

He was unsure how to offer comfort the way Lucy had to him - what does he say? What does he do? Why does he feel so inadequate? He drinks as he ponders each question until everything blurs away and the action becomes routine. There were missed calls and unopened letters and knocks on the door that goes unanswered.

That was until the day he was rudely woken up by a rush of ice water. By the time he had finished spluttering his indignation, a garbage bag was thrust into his face by a very unimpressed Peggy Carter.

Bags of accumulated bottles and cans were thrown out, surfaces wiped clean and the windows thrown open, chasing away the stench of a month’s worth of self-pity. By the time he stepped out of the shower, Tony was feeling somewhat human.

The strangest vision hit him when he followed his nose to the kitchen and found Aunt Peggy, regal and intimidating as ever in her older years, cooking him a full English breakfast.

“Stop gaping and eat.”

And eat he did. Tony was famished as he unashamedly polished off the contents of the plate in record time, no doubt demonstrating his ability as an adult to look after himself.

Silence descended when he settled his cutlery, waiting for the lecture that was sure to come. But Aunt Peggy continued to sip her tea as she perused the morning’s paper.

With a sense of deja vu and feeling very much twelve again, Tony said, “Aren’t you going to yell at me?”

“Would it help?” she turned a page. For all his mouthiness, Tony just shrugged.

“You know what is wrong with the picture here. This is to ensure you start fixing it,” she levelled him with a firm but kind gaze. “Grief should enhance your purpose, not dull it. Now, you would be glad to hear that short of kicking your door in, purely due to the distance I suspect, Colonel Rhodes has successfully filled your answering machine to capacity with some rather colourful messages. There are also some earlier letters from him, accompanied by some rather crude drawings, courtesy of Dr Ogden.”

Tony’s spirits lifted for the first time in a month, which must have shown on his face for Aunt Peggy said, “You are not without people who care about you, Anthony. It is not something to be taken lightly.”

“And before you ask,” Aunt Peggy went on. “Your privacy was invaded for security reasons. Your father made many enemies and they would find this an opportune moment not to be missed.”

“Actually, I was going to ask how you knew about Lucy,”

“I worked closely with your father for many years. Mr. Jarvis too, who was my ‘sidekick’ for a while. His words, not mine.” she added unnecessarily with a small smile. “He was my confidante and I his. So yes, I know about Lucy.”

Shame welled up in Tony as it occurred to him that he wasn’t the only person to have lost someone he cared for.

“All is not lost, Anthony. If you want to prove your father wrong, make your own mistakes, don’t tread in his footsteps. Stop living like a Neanderthal, mend your bridges, and use that intelligence under all that belligerence.”

~*~

Admittedly, Tony still had a lot to learn about mending bridges. Calling was a lot harder than apology gifts. Same with home visits. He just can’t seem to make that reach. Shame and fear continued to tighten his chest.

The decision was taken out of his hand when he received a phone call from Metro-General hospital. He arrived in a daze, positive that he had broken half a dozen traffic laws but uncaring in the least.

He was directed to a room where he was pulled up short by Rhodey’s presence, looking calm and collected. Approaching footsteps preceded a harried-looking Lucy, who took one look at the occupants of the room (eyes resting on Tony for a moment longer), glanced back down at the pager in her hand and asked, “How the hell is this a 911?”

Rhodey crossed the room and locked the door with a click. When he turned around, he had pulled himself to his full height and even without his dress uniform, his stance commanded authority and respect. It was impressive, if not at all imposing.

“You two are going to be quiet and let me talk because this has gone on for long enough.”

Lucy groaned. “I really don’t need another lecture.”

At Rhodey’s look, she sighed, lifted both hands in surrender and leaned back against the wall.

“I don’t know if this is a Stark family trait but you two should know better. You,” he pointed at Lucy, “need to stop running away. And you,” he turned to Tony, “need to stop throwing money at problems to make them disappear. You two need to talk and we’re not leaving here until you do because as emotionally stunted as you guys are, I’m not going to sit by and let this crash and burn.”

Tony was scrutinising Rhodey in what he thought was a subtle way, “You’re mad at me,” and the fact that he seemed resigned like it proved him right, made Rhodey’s chest hurt, even if he was pissed off. But he had to remind himself that Tony had spent his short life being proven he was a disappointment to the person who mattered the most to him and expected everyone to do the same.

“I’m upset,” he acknowledged and Tony nodded expectantly, “because you expect me to walk away and not care as if our friendship doesn’t matter. You’re an ass but you’re my ass and that won’t stop me from punching your face if you make a flippant remark right now because I don’t need it. You’ve made your feelings about me clear but I’ll be damned if you two sink too.”

It was more than Rhodey had expected to say but it’s out in the open. At least it won’t be a complete waste of his requested leave of duty.

“It does matter, Rhodey. Our friendship,” Tony clarified, hesitant and uncertain. “I’m just not so good with the whole - “ he gestured aimlessly.

“They’re called feelings, Tony.” Rhodey supplied, amused despite himself.

Tony made a face. “Is that what it is? Yuck.”

“Glad to see age hasn’t affected your maturity.”

“I’m a dick and that probably won’t change but I’ll try to do better,” Tony promised.

“Okay.”

Tony raised an eyebrow, "Okay?"

"Okay." Rhodey reaffirms.

A shrill beep interrupted the moment and they both turned to Lucy, who glanced at her pager before pocketing it. Somewhere between Tony and Rhodey’s heart to heart, she had deposited herself on the floor, cross-legged.

“Goose?”

She shook her head even as she avoided his gaze, “No, you don’t get to call me that anymore.”

“I tried to get in touch with you,” Tony thought of the time he hovered outside her apartment building, working up the courage to knock.

“She went AWOL.” Rhodey provided, tone non-accusatory, just a simple fact.

“I was travelling.” Lucy snapped. “Whose side are you on?”

“Just trying to mend bridges here,” Rhodey said calmly.

“You can only mend something if it was there to begin with.”

Ouch.

Glances were exchanged between the guys and Lucy’s ire grew to expand the hurt in her heart, the one she refused to acknowledge as she traversed unknown terrains in an effort to escape what she thought she knew. And as much of a genius as Tony is, it occurred to him he knew nothing at all if he only just realised what must have been going through Lucy’s mind. He crouched down before her.

“I’m sorry Luce, I didn’t mean to leave you. I just didn’t know how to help you the way you helped me.” I didn’t want to leave a damaged boy for you to look after.

There was a sniffle, “Goddamnit, Tony, I just needed you by my side. Not your money or your status, just you.” Her eyes were wet as she finally looked at him. “But you weren’t there even when I reached out. So yeah, I ran because it’s easier than being unwanted. And now you’re making me cry and you just really suck.”

Tony reached out tentatively to grasp her wrist, the way she use to comfort him. “I know I do and I know it’s a bit late to say this but you’re not unwanted. I’m here if you’re crazy enough to want me around and I promise I won’t leave, no matter how annoying you are.”

A wet laugh escapes Lucy. “I’ll hold you to that.”

(Later, Lucy would drag herself back to her shoebox apartment, eyes blurred with exhaustion and proceeded to throw herself onto the couch, only to scream with terror at the bodies that were already on there, as well as the box of cold pizza. The next morning found Tony and Rhodey with bright pink toenails - a sign their relationship has returned to normal.)

#mcu #mcu fanfiction #mcu ff #iron man #iron man fanfiction #tony stark #tony stark fanfiction #marvel #marvel fanfiction #my writing

2 notes · View notes