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robininthelabyrinth · 3 years

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part 3 of Escape Your Destiny (Star Wars Wangxian AU) - on ao3 or tumblr part 1, part 2

He had been right to reject seclusion, Lan Wangji thought grimly. The sweet siren call of calm contemplation had nearly seduced him, the Dark Side seeking to eat away at him through other means now that anger and hatred had not done the work – he would have meditated himself into a stupor, becoming little more than a vacuum within the Force, a black hole of deathly intent.

More than that, though, he would have missed – this.

This disaster.

Wei Wuxian’s lips were pale from blood loss and hypothermia. Two of his limbs were at odd angles, probably broken, and Lan Wangji feared that there were more like them beneath the body that was bruised like a tender peach – he had been shielding as many people as he could, Lan Wangji knew, because he knew his Wei Ying too well to think that he might have done anything else.

Lan Wangji still didn’t know all the details, what exactly had been the disaster or why Wei Wuxian’s starfighter had crashed when he knew (with painful recollection) exactly how good a pilot Wei Wuxian was, but it hadn’t really mattered. Xue Yang had rushed into his chamber shouting excitedly - not exactly a rare event - saying something about an alarm and a disaster and a crash and can I have one of these gadgets? possibly two, maybe, I’m thinking two but haven’t really committed yet, it’s a big decision you know, and Lan Wangji’s blood had run cold when he realized what alarm he was referencing.

(A proper Jedi would never have tagged the object of his affections like an endangered bird or a criminal, injecting the tracking chip so deep into bone and muscle that standard scans wouldn’t pick it up and even in-depth scans might register it as a naturally occurring aberration. A proper Jedi would think of such intimate surveillance as cruelty, dehumanization, the caging of a free bird –

A proper Jedi wouldn’t have known what happened.

A proper Jedi wouldn’t have been able to rush over at once, wouldn’t have been in time to retrieve the body from the wreckage, finding it still warm and breathing but swiftly fading into the Force.

A proper Jedi would have been worthless.)

“That looks pretty bad, Master,” Xue Yang said, the comm crackling in his ear, and for once his tone was almost solemn. Perhaps the lessons on empathy were working, following the introduction of the rancor Xue Yang had named Chengmei with an expression so pained and vicious that Lan Wangji had refrained from asking. Perhaps it was that he’d grown so obsessed with his pair of bounty hunters and their foundling assistant, a little not-blind Bothan girl who liked to mouth off at him. Or perhaps it was just something as simple as knowing that if Wei Wuxian were lost, Lan Wangji would have no reason to –

No reason to anything at all.

“It is within the limits of what a bacta tank can heal,” Lan Wangji said, because it was, it would be, as long as he got him there in time.

Time that was swiftly running out.

Later, when Wei Wuxian was safe, Lan Wangji would return to that obscure little space station that had nearly caused his beloved’s death and he would find out what had happened properly. He would find out, and he would slaughter every one of them that caused it, torment them for days if he needed to in order to know who to blame – it didn’t matter if their contribution were accidental or deliberate, major or slight. He would offer up a sacrifice of their suffering to the Dark Side, as solemn as lighting a stick of incense at a temple –

When Wei Wuxian was safe.

Because he would be. He had to be.

Lan Wangji’s Wei Ying would not die so easily.

“Uh, Master? We don’t have a bacta tank.” Xue Yang was silent for a long moment. “I don’t know that many people around here that do. This is Outer Rim, remember? Not even the Hutts have one.”

“There is one in an outpost in the Quiberon sector,” Lan Wangji said. His attention was split between piloting their stolen ship as fast as he could and monitoring Wei Wuxian’s vital signs. He had transferred a certain amount of energy into him already, but the Dark Side was poisonous in overly large quantities, especially if one was not accustomed to it; a pure Jedi like Wei Wuxian couldn’t tolerate it, and Lan Wangji would not risk making him worse. “Inat Prime system. I’ve entered the coordinates. Set us up for a jump to lightspeed.”

“Inat Prime,” Xue Yang repeated, instead of doing as he was told. “Isn’t that – near Rothana?”

Lan Wangji said nothing.

“Rothana’s a manufacturing planet. Heavy engineering – warships. It used to belong to a subsidy of the Jin Engineering Corps, maybe still does, I don’t know, but either way manufacturing planets like that are where those sleemos keep their precious IP. And that means it’s going to be guarded and booby-trapped up your chubba. Who in their right mind would set up an outpost anywhere near there?”

Xue Yang was descending into Huttese slang again, Lan Wangji noted to himself, keeping his calm only by sheer force of willpower even as the Dark Side screamed in his mind that now was the time for rage and pain and blood. Given his hatred of the entire species, Xue Yang only did that when he was especially anxious and didn’t want to admit it.

Later, when he didn’t have more pressing things on his mind, Lan Wangji would have to inquire of his apprentice – which he had previously believed was as transparent to him as a sheet of transparisteel – how he had learned about things like top-secret Jin Engineering manufacturing planets and IP and such things like that.

Later. Right now, he didn’t care.

“Prepare for jump,” he said again, the threat in his voice clear, and this time Xue Yang scrambled to obey, mumbling curses as he went. This was more typical of Xue Yang, but in this case it signified that he was concentrating, and that was all Lan Wangji cared about.

The rest of the trip passed as if in a daze, time counted in the beats of Wei Wuxian’s heart. Still strong, because Wei Wuxian was strong – this wouldn’t be the end of him. It wouldn’t.

Lan Wangji would make sure of that.

“We’re here,” Xue Yang said, breaking through Lan Wangji’s extreme focus on the rise and fall of Wei Wuxian’s chest. “I’m going to guess that our destination is the third planet? If you can call those other ones planets, they’re barely more than asteroids…”

Lan Wangji hummed, affirming.

“So, you going to tell me what this place is? Some super-secret Sith hideout?”

“No.”

“Smuggler’s base? Bounty hunter lair? Mandalorian terrorist cell? Clone factory?”

Lan Wangji rolled his eyes. Xue Yang had been reading too many historical action comics again.

“No, but seriously, Master! I deserve to know what we’re getting into, don’t I? What is this place?”

Lan Wangji was tempted to say you deserve nothing but what I give you, you filthy-tongue swamp-rat, but that was the Dark Side speaking, not him, and not only because the Gusu Lan Jedi order in which he had been raised did not permit cursing. It was simply anathema to him - he was Sith, but not a Lord, and he had encouraged this self-same insolence because it was better than having Xue Yang cringe before him like a kicked dog.

No matter how irritating it might be at times like this.

“It’s Jedi,” he said shortly, and to his amusement that actually shut Xue Yang up for a solid minute.

“I’m sorry, Master, I think I temporarily went insane due to Dark Force poisoning,” Xue Yang finally said. “But did you say that we’re planning on popping over and ‘borrowing’ the bacta tank of a bunch of Jedi?”

“Mm.”

“Master. Master. Please tell me you remember that we’re Sith, right? Sort of the sworn enemy of the Jedi? Arrest-on-sight orders? Any of this ringing any bells here? No? In short, have you lost your mind?”

Lan Wangji took Wei Wuxian’s pulse again. It was getting increasingly thready; he frowned.

“Take us in,” he ordered, and Xue Yang made a whining sound not unlike an especially agitated cat, but he obeyed, finding the planetary base and flashing them with a urgent medical attention required signal and transmitting the passcode Lan Wangji recited to him.

The base opened its doors in silent invitation.

Xue Yang took them in, apparently resigned to his fate and determined to pointedly suffer and judge him without saying a word.

This determination cracked the second they passed through the gates.

“Master!” he shrieked. “Master, Master! That’s the Qinghe Nie emblem!”

“It is,” Lan Wangji agreed. Foreseeing Xue Yang’s next question, he added, “It is here because this is an outpost of the Qinghe Nie Jedi order.”

Xue Yang sounded a bit like a rusty door when he hyperventilated, and even more so when he started laughing hysterically. How had he ever survived being a Sith before, if this was how he reacted to stress?

“Great, right, yes,” he said, nearly howling. “Sure, why not? Let’s go knock on the door of some Jedi and ask them for a bacta tank like we’re borrowing a cup of sugar, sure, okay, we can do that. Jedi are chumps, they’re all about mercy and sympathy and bantha fodder like that; we can con ‘em - it’ll be tricky, but it can be done when you’re in a pinch. I’m fine with that, up for it, it’s cool, all cool. You know who we can’t con? Qinghe Nie, that’s who. ‘Suppress evil no matter the cost’ Qinghe karking Nie.”

Lan Wangji ignored him, scooping Wei Wuxian into his arms and heading out into the saber hall.

Three grim-faced Jedi dressed in the immediately identifiable colors of the Qinghe Nie were waiting there, hands on their lightsabers and droids lingering in the corridors, but they did not attack. Instead, they led Lan Wangji, a nervous Xue Yang dogging his heels, to the medical bay, never uttering a single word.

The medical droids took Wei Wuxian from his arms – Lan Wangji forced himself to recall the Lan sect mantras on restraint and allowed them to do so without ripping out their wires for daring to touch him – but it wasn’t until Wei Wuxian was firmly encased in the bacta tank, the oxygen-rich liquid flowing into his lungs to heal him, the colors on all the screens all showing positive signs, that he was finally able to release the breath it felt that he’d been holding since he first saw the broken starfighter that encased Wei Wuxian’s broken body.

This was fine.

“Wangji,” a low voice said from behind him, and Lan Wangji’s back stiffened.

This was not fine.

The Qinghe Nie were a strange order of Jedi – almost heretical, really, by any traditional measure. The orthodox Jedi order, for the most part, valued calm and serenity and selflessness, prioritizing the logic of the mind over the yearning of the heart, preaching detachment from worldly concerns and attachments…

Qinghe Nie, in contrast, valued righteousness, and cultivated rage.

Halfway to Sith, Lan Wangji’s uncle had once remarked after a glass of something stronger than tea. He’d regretted it later, of course, and tried to walk it back, smooth over his uncharacteristic rudeness, but Lan Wangji still remembered.

The adherents of Qinghe Nie were of the view that for every virtue there was a fault – that the Jedi’s emotional remove would at times render them passive, that self-control could too quickly shade into indifference. They argued that it was the duty of the virtuous to be enraged by evil, intolerant of it, and that only through that anger would they be motivated to act to eradicate it.

Their philosophy often led to their deaths, whether through reckless action or through the corruption of rage into madness, but even their harshest critics had to concede that they were devastatingly effective.

Lan Wangji had always thought that there was something heartbreakingly sincere about all the Jedi that took the harsh vows of Qinghe Nie, each one willingly trading away long lives for the sake of righteousness, for the ability to make a change in the world, each one unable to tolerate life if it meant they weren’t striving to make things better. Perhaps they did not match the Jiang for creativity or the Lan for elegance, perhaps their techniques were more brutish and less refined, their diplomacy little short of appalling, but no other Jedi order could match them for sheer power.

Very few people wanted to be between a Qinghe Nie Jedi and their target, and still less if they had allowed themselves to succumb to the beserker rage that sometimes took them on the battlefield – indeed, in a crisis that called for force of arms, most people who knew what they were about would rather have a single Qinghe Nie on their side than an entire battalion of war-droids from the Jin or Wen engineering corps.

Still, even that efficiency might not have been enough to convince the ancient sticklers of the Jedi Council to condone such a Sith-like view of the Force, but the Qinghe Nie also had an unsurpassed connection to the kyber crystals that were essential to the creation of lightsabers – the mines under their hands were far more numerous and more fruitful than any other order, and for all that they seemed to have dubious connections to the lightsabers they crafted and wielded, with their highly unusual one-sided edge, they were always open-handed and willing to let other Jedi pick freely from their stores.

With the ancestral weapon of the entire Jedi order at stake, even the Jedi Council unwillingly bowed its head to reality and compromised.

Not very happily. Especially since the fierce young head of the Qinghe Nie order – the great Chifeng-zun, Nie Mingjue – had been constantly causing trouble for them ever since he had been admitted to their deliberations.

More relevantly, though, was that Nie Mingjue was also a good friend of Lan Xichen, Lan Wangji’s elder brother by blood, and it had been the gift of his token, his passcode, never revoked, that they had used to enter through the gates.

(Look what happened to the Twin Jades you prized so much, my old clansmen, Uncle, Father, Grandfather. Look at me now. Begging for scraps from a Nie -)

Lan Wangji turned and saluted, bowing deeply and ignoring Xue Yang, who had progressed so far into hysterical laughter that he was now hiccupping.

Nie Mingjue caught his hands and raised him up, just the way he always had, and that grim face surveyed Lan Wangji from top to bottom, those searing eyes seeming to pierce into the depths of his corrupted soul.

“You look well,” he said, which surprised even Lan Wangji, who had thought himself beyond surprises. “That’s good.”

“What the fuck,” Xue Yang muttered. “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck – you guys are with me here, right? This is kriffing insane…”

The Qinghe Nie Jedi ignored him.

“Chifeng-zun,” Lan Wangji said politely, and ignored the man’s raised eyebrow. He was not about to fall back into calling him da-ge the way he’d done back when he was in the Jedi crèche, no matter how tempting – everyone had called Nie Mingjue da-ge back then, too young to be afraid of his fierce and barely leashed energy. “Thank you for lending us temporary use of your base.”

There wasn’t really a polite way to say I wasn’t expecting to run into you here under the circumstances, but from the way Nie Mingjue snorted, Lan Wangji suspected he’d understood regardless.

“Checking up on the Jin,” he said, an explanation that Lan Wangji didn’t deserve to hear. “Treasonous svapers, the lot of them. Is this Wei Wuixan?”

Lan Wangji nodded. His heart was unexpectedly in his throat as Nie Mingjue studied the other Jedi through the glass of the bacta tank, though he wasn’t sure why.

He was Sith now, after all. Why would he care what Nie Mingjue thought?

It would have been easier if Nie Mingjue had been angry at him, full of rage the way he so often was. Easier if he’d turned his tongue as sharp as any lightsaber to scolding him, or turned his face away in coldness. Nie Mingjue notoriously despised the Sith, had probably meant to call the Jin Sithspawn instead of svapers earlier, had probably switched the word only in deference to Lan Wangji’s current occupation – which meant he knew, because of course he knew, there was no way Lan Xichen hadn’t told him even if his position on the Council hadn’t already entitled him to all such secrets.

He knew, and he still persisted in acting like – like –

“Cute enough,” Nie Mingjue commented, and Lan Wangji covered his suddenly burning face with both hands. “You have good taste.”

“Please stop,” Lan Wangji mumbled, mortified beyond all belief. Xue Yang was looking back and between the two of them with his jaw gaping wider than a Gungan’s.

Nie Mingjue snorted, amused. “I carried you around on my shoulders when you were knee high, Wangji. I think I’m entitled to torment you a bit about your crush.”

Xue Yang looked like he was going to forsake the ways of the Sith, convert to Qinghe Nie, and start logging prayers at the temple of Nie Mingjue, and Lan Wangji couldn’t even blame him.

“Don’t you have anything to say about –” Lan Wangji shut his mouth with a snap.

He didn’t actually want to hear Nie Mingjue exorcising him for his choices, no matter how little he regretted them.

Nie Mingjue was silent for a moment, contemplative. “No.”

Lan Wangji blinked, not understanding.

“I don’t have anything to say,” Nie Mingjue clarified with a shrug. “I can’t say I entirely understand why you chose what you did, but we all choose our own paths in the Force, Wangji. I have faith that even though your path leads you to the Dark Side now, it will eventually lead you back to us once more. If you keep your sense of righteousness about you and continue to stand up for what you believe is right as you always have – and avoid engaging in the wholesale slaughter of innocents the way so many Sith do – I will never be disappointed in you.”

…maybe Lan Wangji would allow the people in that spaceport to live.

But only because it would hurt Wei Wuxian to know that he had sacrificed so much for nothing, of course. It was pure selfishness, nothing more.

(The Dark Side hissed in his head, bitter-angry-vicious-hate-hate-hate, but Lan Wangji hadn’t been Hanguang-jun for nothing. He controlled himself, allowing for only the influences he chose to accept – it was his independence that had led him to the Dark Side, and his independence, he believed, that would allow him to forge his own path, as Nie Mingjue had said, even inside the ways of the Sith. His uncle would say that such thoughts were pure arrogance, pride before the fall, but, well. He’d already Fallen, hadn’t he?)

“Would you like to stay with him until his vital signs have recovered?” Nie Mingjue asked, and Lan Wangji nodded, grateful despite himself.

Grateful, too, that Nie Mingjue did not speak of Lan Wangji reconciling with the rest of his old order.

“I will not stay longer,” he added. “I know it must be a burden to you, opening your doors to one such as me –”

“Ridiculous,” Nie Mingjue scoffed. “This is a secret base, Wangji. If you don’t say anything about it, who’ll know? And before you ask, I’m going to tell Wei Wuxian that you saved his life whether you’re here for him waking up or not, so take that into account when selecting your leave time. And I’ll exaggerate.”

He would, too, Lan Wangji thought fondly. Nie Mingjue had always been big brother to all the Jedi younglings, no matter how grown up they eventually got, and he never let them forget it.

“I’ll consider it,” he allowed, and settled into a meditation pose at the side of the room.

“As for you,” Nie Mingjue said to Xue Yang, who straightened up so quickly that he might as well have attached a ruler to his spine. “I hear that you’re the one that’s been attacking Hutt palaces?”

Xue Yang glanced at Lan Wangji, who sighed.

“You shouldn’t encourage him, da-ge,” he murmured. “He gets into enough trouble as it is.”

“Comradery does more to defeat evil than any amount of solitary philosophizing,” Nie Mingjue proclaimed, certain as ever in his own righteousness. It would be unbearably irritating if it was anyone less sincerely bullheaded about it, earnest but full of flaws. “Anyway, it’d be good for some of our padawans to see a Sith in action without needing to go up against one right off the bat. You in?”

“…in? I don’t – there aren’t any Hutt palaces around here..?”

“They take their travelling palaces on the Quiberon Line,” one of the Qinghe Nie Jedi said, and Xue Yang’s eyes lit up at the promise of what he undoubtedly thought was an opportunity for wholesale slaughter. It wouldn’t be, of course, not when he was going to be fighting alongside the strict Qinghe Nie, but it would keep him busy for the time it took Wei Wuxian to stabilize and recover.

Maybe Lan Wangji would even stay long enough to speak with his Wei Ying before retreating to be his silent and unwanted protector again.

Maybe.

#mdzs #lan wangji #wei wuxian #xue yang #nie mingjue #my fic #my fics #escape your destiny #star wars au

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bubonickitten · 3 years

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Fic summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Chapter summary: Jon and Basira make their way to Ny-Ålesund; Daisy and Martin have a long-overdue conversation.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 26: panic/anxiety symptoms; brief descriptions of Flesh-domain-typical imagery; discussion of police violence, intimidation tactics, & abuse of authority (re: Daisy’s past actions); mentions of canonical character deaths & murder; reference to a canonical instance of a character being outed (re: Jon’s coworkers gossiping about him being ace); allusions to childhood emotional neglect; a bit of internalized ableism re: ADHD symptoms; discussions of strict religious indoctrination; a physical altercation, including being restrained with a hold; swears. SPOILERS through Season 5.

Chapter 26: Remains To Be Seen

The journey to Tromsø is… uneventful, comparatively speaking.

Almost worryingly so, Jon observes at one point.

You’re fretting because something hasn’t gone horribly wrong? Basira asks.

Aren’t you?

The tension in Basira’s shoulders is answer enough. They’re both on tenterhooks, all too aware of the dreadful species of things that lurk in the margins of the world, any number of which could be waiting in the wings for them.

That’s not to say there are no complications at all. There’s a learning curve to navigating the world blindfolded, but the two of them settle into something of a routine: Basira guiding Jon with a hand on his arm, talking him around obstacles, across gaps, and up and down stairs. An improvised system of nudges and taps develops organically over the course of their travels, starting when Basira realizes that Jon has trouble parsing her words over the noise of a crowd. It becomes their go-to mode of communication with surprising ease.

It’s an exercise in trust oddly refreshing in its mundanity.

Jon finds the blindfold comforting, in its own way: surreal, but somehow not as surreal as the evidence of normalcy all around him. Consistent, straightforward geography is disorientating enough after so long traversing a world knitted together by nightmare logic and allegory. Even more bewildering are the people. Throngs of them go about their day-to-day routines, each preoccupied with their own affairs, taking for granted their relative anonymity against the vast backdrop of the bustling world around them, secure in the privacy of their own thoughts – and blissfully unaware of the alternative.

This is how it should be, he admonishes himself in a weary refrain. People deserve ownership over their own minds, their stories, their secrets. The Archivist in him vehemently disagrees, of course. It’s exhausting, how relentlessly Jon has to challenge that instinctual voyeurism.

Prone to sensory overload, he’s always hated crowds: the noise, the flurry of movement, the press of bodies, the constant threat of unwanted touches, the lack of freedom to move at his own pace. Becoming the Archivist made the experience infinitely worse. The combination of the blindfold and Daisy’s noise-cancelling headphones does little to stem the tide of intrusive knowledge: random scraps of disconcerting trivia, a steady stream of morbid statistics, insights into the deep-seated anxieties of passersby – and, on a few occasions, the whisper of a story to be chronicled. At least the blindfold prevents him from inadvertently locking eyes with anyone.

They try to avoid traveling during peak commuting hours, but not every crowd can be evaded. The first time he wanders into the path of a potential statement giver, Jon nearly causes a pile-up in a congested station, stopping so abruptly in his tracks that the person in the queue behind him crashes headlong into him. Basira manages to catch him before he’s knocked off his feet, keeping a firm grasp on his arm when the panicked urge to flee overtakes him and nearly sends him careening blindly in the opposite direction. When a nearby stranger snipes at him for the nuisance, Jon is surprised at how immediately Basira leaps to his defense.

Back off, she says, the hint of a threat in her tone, before steering Jon out of the crowd and off to the side, where he can lean against the wall and catch his breath. She stands firm between him and the masses, diverting traffic and warding off anyone else who might seek a confrontation, giving him the sorely-needed time to compose himself. He’s certain that she’ll be cross with him after, but… she isn’t.

Tense, certainly. Concerned even. But criticism is bafflingly, mercifully absent.

There are a few more incidents after that, but none quite so dramatic. The instant he senses the Archivist in him stirring, he chokes out a warning to Basira, who turns out to be preternaturally adept at finding (or creating) spaces for him to recoup. With both of them on guard and communicating freely, they manage to avoid being in close quarters with anyone who might have a story to tell.

Tromsø offers a temporary reprieve from all of that. There are people, of course – it’s the busiest fishing port in Norway, the Eye interposes for the fourth time this hour. Jon takes an aggravated swipe at the empty air beside him, once again momentarily forgetting that there’s no pesky swarm of Watchers tagging along for this particular journey. Not visibly, at least.

Still, the open-air piers of a busy fishing port are a far cry from a densely-packed train. There’s a cargo ship scheduled to leave for Ny-Ålesund within the next hour, and Basira is further down the docks meeting with its captain to (hopefully) arrange for passage. Apparently Jon has earned some trust over the course of their travels, because she didn’t object when he requested to stay back and take a breather.

Although the docks of Tromsø bear little resemblance to the beaches of Bournemouth, the calls of seabirds are familiar enough to be meditative. Nostalgic, albeit in an uneasy, bittersweet way. His childhood was riddled enough with nightmares and alienation that thoughts of the place where he grew up are always laced with remembered horror and punctuated by a nebulous sense of grief for what could have been. If he never caught the Spider’s eye; if he never opened the book; if he wasn’t quite so demanding and easily bored and difficult to manage; if his eccentric reading habits were just a bit less finicky, even…

Left to his own devices, Jon could drown himself in what ifs.

A frigid gust of wind whips his hair about. When he reaches up to smooth it down, he finds it coarse from the brine-saturated breeze. Rubbing his fingertips together and grimacing at the faint gritty residue, Jon pulls Georgie’s scarf up over his nose to fend against the nip in the air and he turns his sight to the sky. It’s a stark, pallid grey, the kind of overcast that manages to be blinding-bright despite the sun’s concealment. The sight stings his eyes, but still he does not blink.

It should be exhilarating to look up and see nothing staring back. Instead, the sight fills him with… well, it’s difficult for him to define succinctly. Some peculiar species of dread, mingled with a disquieting, ill-defined sense of longing. Perhaps he’s simply becoming adrift in time again: remembering how it felt to look up at a Watching sky and hopelessly wish for a return to the world as it was, to clouds and stars and void. But he can’t shake the suspicion that it’s at least partly a monstrous yearning for the ruined future from which he came.

He doesn’t know what that says about him. Nothing good, probably.

You miss it, a gloating, sinister little voice concurs from one of the murky, thorny corners of Jon’s mind. You don’t belong here. You Know where you–

Jon’s phone dings several times, yanking him away from that ill-fated train of thought. Grateful for the interruption, he digs it out of his pocket, instantly brightening when Naomi’s name greets him and eagerly opening their text thread.

Jon is too busy smiling to himself to notice Basira’s approach.

“What’s – oh, sorry,” she says when he starts. “Keep expecting you to just sort of… Know I’m here.”

“The Eye doesn’t seem inclined to help me out on that front, unfortunately,” Jon says with an embarrassed chuckle. “If anything, my being jumpy probably feeds it.”

Basira glances down at his phone, then back up at him. “Everything alright?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. Naomi.” Jon’s grin returns. “All her texts from the last couple days just came through at once. She wants to know whether Krampus is real.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“Haven’t replied just yet.”

“Oh.” Basira opens her mouth to say more, then promptly closes it.

A delighted smirk twitches into being at the corner of Jon’s mouth. “Now you want to know as well, don’t you?”

Basira rolls her eyes, but doesn’t deny it. “Later. We have a boat to catch.”

When Jon reaches into his pocket to retrieve his blindfold, Basira shakes her head.

“Best not,” she says. “The captain agreed to take us, but she was leery about the whole thing. I don’t want to give her a reason to reconsider. The less suspicious we seem, the better.”

“Still getting odd stares, then?”

“Getting used to people looking at me like I’m transporting a hostage,” she replies with a tired, beleaguered smile. It fades into a frown as she looks him up and down, taking stock of his shaking hands and the way he leans heavily on his cane. “Alright?”

“A bit sore,” Jon admits, glancing down at his leg. “Probably just been putting weight on it for too long a stretch.”

“We should be able to sit soon. Until then, try not to fall.”

“Or freeze,” Jon says distractedly, glancing warily upwards again.

“Daisy says the cold always gets to her,” Basira says, quietly enough that Jon suspects it wasn’t meant for him. “Seriously, though – you alright? You keep staring at the sky like it’s going to crack open.”

“I’m fine.” Jon shuts his eyes and takes a slow, deep breath. “Just… apprehensive.”

“Sense anything?” Despite her carefully bland tone, the crux of the question is clear.

“Nothing concrete.” No statement givers, he does not say – but Basira nods, understanding his meaning. “I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“Come on, then.” She starts off down the dock – at a brisk pace at first, but slowing when she looks back to ensure that Jon is following and observes his stiffer, more deliberate gait.

He grimaces apologetically. Up until Jane Prentiss and her worms, he was inclined towards speed walking as much as Basira is. Always in a hurry to get nowhere at all, Georgie used to say, simultaneously lamenting and teasing. Not everyone is a power walker, Jon, Martin would gripe from time to time during the apocalypse.

Maybe some of us want to slow down and take in the scenery, he grumbled on one occasion, as they traipsed through a predictably grisly Flesh domain.

The forest of pulsating meat sculptures, you mean? Jon replied primly.

Oh, you’re telling me you don’t feel the overwhelming urge to stop and take notes on the ecology of flesh spiders?

Not as much as I want to get to a place where the ground isn’t a spongy skin trampoline.

Flesh domains always had a tendency to bring out the worst (best?) of their morbid humor, Jon notes upon reflection.

In any case, Jon has always had a tendency to hurry, too impatient to reach his destination to appreciate the journey. Internally, that impulse is still there. On good days, he can almost satisfy that restlessness. Today is not a good day.

Basira stops and waits. It’s a practice that has become second nature to her ever since Daisy emerged from the Buried: learning all the unspoken signals and warning signs of a bad pain day, from barely-suppressed winces and cold sweat to waspishness and stifled, winded breaths; gauging all the fickle fluctuations in mobility in real time through careful, constant observation; and discreetly adjusting her own walking pace to accommodate without question or complaint.

“You know, I haven’t spent much time on boats,” Basira says, apropos of nothing – probably to break the silence as she waits for Jon to catch up. “I’m hoping motion sickness during long car rides isn’t correlated with seasickness. Does the Eye have any statistics handy? Seems like it would qualify as terrible knowledge.”

“Let’s just say you should keep the Dramamine at the ready,” Jon says wryly as he reaches her position.

“Wonderful,” Basira sighs, and she resumes walking, this time matching Jon’s stride.

Martin will be the first to admit that, between the two of them, Jon doesn’t have a monopoly on obsessiveness.

Case in point: Jon and Basira have been gone for five days now, and – in between bouts of worrying over their safety and mounting apprehension about Peter’s inexplicable, persistent hiatus – Martin is still replaying everything he said and did in the moments leading up to Jon’s departure.

Or, more precisely, what he didn’t say.

Nearly two months have passed since Jon returned from the Buried. It’s been nice, it really has, spending time with him. He’s changed – How could he not have? – but he’s still Jon. Even more wounded and jaded than he was before – How much abuse can one person take? – but it hasn’t made him cruel or cold. Harder in some respects, to be sure – namely on himself.

Which is saying something, Martin thinks with a pang. In all the time that Martin has known him, Jon has never been kind to himself. It’s always been a struggle to convince him to take care of himself in the most basic of ways, let alone spare a thought for comfort.

But in other respects, Jon has grown softer. More open, more communicative – more trusting, somehow, despite this world and the next piling on reason after reason for him to detach and withdraw. Martin thinks about that every time the Lonely starts to whisper in his ear. The fog is still there, firmly planted in his mind, choking out his thoughts from time to time like an invasive weed. It won’t be easily uprooted. Seeing Jon alive and trying, reaching out, grasping at warmth, clinging to humanity with all his trademark stubbornness… it makes Martin want to try, too. It makes him want to hope, to look forward and see – to fight for – a future where things are better.

So, yes, Jon has changed. They both have.

I’m not the person you remember, Martin said the first time they spoke after Jon came back. I’m not the person you fell in love with.

Jon had locked eyes with him then, and Martin found that he could not look away.

Martin has spent the majority of his life walking a tightrope, striking an uneasy balance between competing instincts. The part of him that excels in flying under the radar takes comfort in being inconspicuous. There are people out there who see kindness as naivety and trust as a weakness to be exploited. The best way to avoid their notice is to avoid being seen at all, and Martin learned early on that to be unremarkable has its own advantages. All too often, to go unnoticed is to survive.

It isn’t enough to just survive, though, is it? Barely hidden underneath all the abysmal self-esteem and the carefully constructed mask of agreeability, there is a spark of indignation and outrage and want. To be seen is fundamentally terrifying; to demand acknowledgment is to welcome exposure. But Martin has always had a rebellious streak, carving out a space for itself amongst all the loneliness and fear and self-deprecation.

Look at me, it seethes. See me.

And when Jon did look at him – Saw him – an unmistakably pleased little voice jostled its way to the forefront to triumphantly declare, Finally.

Martin, I fell in love with this version of you, Jon said. With every version of you.

It was difficult to believe. Martin didn’t want to believe it. He was afraid to believe it. But he did, and he does, and he feels the same way, and he has for so, so long, and that defiant chip on his shoulder never truly let him forget it, even when isolation had him by the throat–

So why can’t you say it?

Since that day, it hasn’t come up again. Jon is affectionate, far more than Martin would have expected. Sure, Jon has always seemed more natural at expressing his feelings through actions rather than words, but Martin never imagined he would be so… well, cuddly. Jon always struck Martin as averse to touch, keeping people at arm’s length both figuratively and literally. He still is, sometimes. But more often than not, Martin gets the impression that Jon would cling like a limpet if given explicit permission. Martin doesn’t know whether that’s a new development, or whether it’s just that he now numbers among Jon’s rare exceptions.

Maybe I should ask Georgie, Martin thinks, only partly in jest.

There’s still a lingering hesitancy there, though. Yes, when Martin invites contact, Jon jumps at the opportunity to be close. Initiating, though… Jon doesn’t quite walk on eggshells per se, but he moves with a gentleness perhaps too gentle at times. Excessively tentative – but not subtle.

Martin long ago perfected the art of stealing furtive glances at Jon. It’s not difficult. Jon is prone to tunnel vision, predisposed to lose himself in his work or a book or his own mind until the rest of the world outside his narrow focus dissolves around him. If he ever noticed Martin’s eyes on him, Jon never called attention to it.

Jon’s staring doesn’t have the same finesse. His gaze is heavy. Concentrated, unwavering, penetrating – and Jon is painfully self-conscious about that. Prompt to stammer apologies whenever he’s caught watching, quick to avert his eyes. According to him, most people find the Archivist’s attention unnerving. Martin supposes it can be at times, but he’s long since become acclimated to it. Endeared to it, even. It’s grounding, despite how ruthlessly being Seen clashes with the Lonely aspects of Martin’s existence.

Maybe that disharmony is precisely why it’s grounding.

So Jon’s eyes flit to Martin whenever he thinks Martin isn’t looking, and cautious glimpses stretch into riveted, unconscious watching, and Martin graciously pretends not to notice. This has been the status quo for weeks now: faltering not-quite-touches and longing, not-so-surreptitious gazes, interspersed with understated handholding and a few sporadic sessions of what Martin can only call cuddling. All of it has been underscored by three simple words dangling in the scant expanse of empty space between them, waiting for acknowledgment.

Jon is waiting – waiting for Martin – and Jon… Jon has never been good at waiting, has he? Not like Martin. Jon’s directionless fidgeting and bitten-short declarations and absentminded stares betray his buzzing impatience despite his best efforts, but still he’s waiting, with as much valiant restraint as he can muster.

I love you. It’s a truth so obvious that speaking it aloud would hardly qualify as a confession. I love you, Martin thinks, and he feels it down to his bones, woven into the very atoms of him.

It’s difficult to pinpoint when it began. Early on, Martin only wanted to appear qualified to his new supervisor, then to impress him, then to prove him wrong – and then, eventually, to genuinely take care of him. Jon was in need of care, and resistant to receiving it, and that was familiar, wasn’t it? Maybe some desperate, stubborn part of Martin just wanted to be useful for once. To be seen. To succeed with Jon where he had failed with his mother.

Then Prentiss happened. Martin had been certain that Jon would dismiss Martin’s story, reprimand him for his prolonged absence, and snap at him to get back to work. And then… he didn’t.

Your safety is my responsibility, Jon said curtly, showing Martin to his new, hopefully temporary lodgings. I failed you, Jon’s contrite grimace read. I won’t fail you again. Then he immediately strode off to meet with Elias, leaving Martin loitering idly in Document Storage, speechless and bemused.

Maybe that’s where it started: Jon barging unannounced and uninvited into Elias’ office with brazen, unapologetic demands for safe haven and fire extinguishers and heightened security. He even went so far as to persistently badger Elias for customizations to the building’s sprinkler system. That tenacity may have been partly driven by guilt and obligation, but Martin swore he caught glimpses of something more from time to time. Something deeper and more personal, sympathetic and kind.

It started, as so many significant shifts do, with the small things.

Martin retired to Document Storage one night that first week to find extra blankets folded neatly at the end of his cot. I thought you might be cold, Jon admitted upon questioning. It can get chilly in here at night. The pressing question of exactly how many times Jon must have slept here overnight in order to know that was promptly crowded out by a vivid mental image of Jon wrestling a heavy quilt onto the Tube during the morning commuter rush. The thought brought a smile to Martin’s face. He said as much, and Jon immediately fabricated a clumsy excuse to exit the conversation.

On another occasion, Martin opened the break room cabinet to find his favorite tea restocked. He’d been putting off shopping, too anxious to leave the relative safety of the Institute’s walls. I noticed you were running low, Jon mumbled. And I was already at the store anyway, he added almost defensively, eyes narrowing in a stern glare to discourage comment – as if drawing attention to Jon’s random acts of kindness would destroy his curmudgeonly reputation.

Those circumspect displays of consideration were touching in their awkwardness. Jon was gruff and reticent, to be sure, but he cared, in his own unpracticed, idiosyncratic way. And one day, when Martin looked at him, he thought, I’d like to kiss him, and then: Oh no. Oh, fuck.

Jon never seemed to pick up on Martin’s feelings back then. But he knows now – not Knows, just knows – and, impossible as still seems, he returns those feelings. Jon said the words in no uncertain terms, left them in Martin’s care – and now he’s waiting for Martin to make the next move.

So why haven’t you? What are you waiting for?

“Want some tea?”

Martin jumps at the sound of Daisy’s voice.

“Sorry,” she snorts. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I –” Martin clears his throat, recovering. “Tea. Right. Uh, I can get it–”

“Let me. I need to stretch my legs anyway. And I wouldn’t want to interrupt your pining.”

“Wh-what?” Martin sputters.

“You haven’t turned the page in at least twenty minutes,” Daisy informs him, nodding at the statement resting on the table in front of him. “Liable to burn yourself on the kettle while you’re spacing out, fantasizing about snogging Jon or whatever.”

“Wh– I – you – I’m – why would–”

“Don’t know why you’re being so coy about it.” Her blasé shrug is offset by the devious grin on her face. “Not like it’s a secret you’re on kissing terms.”

“We… we haven’t,” Martin blurts out, heat rising in his cheeks. Immediately, he kicks himself. Given what he knows of Daisy, there’s no avoiding an interrogation now.

“You – wait, really?” Daisy raises her eyebrows. “Why not?”

“It just hasn’t – I – it’s really none of your–” Martin huffs, flustered. “I don’t even know if he does that.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“B-because, he…”

Because Martin has a tendency to fade into the background, and people will say a lot of things when they assume no one else is in earshot.

Do you know if he and Jon ever…

No clue, and not interested! Although… according to Georgie, Jon doesn’t.

Like, at all?

Yeah.

Martin cringes at the memory. He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. He still wishes he hadn’t overheard. Jon was always so tight-lipped about his personal life back then. It felt like a violation of his privacy, knowing something that he would in all likelihood have preferred to keep to himself and share only at his own discretion. Martin tried to put it out of his head, to avoid thinking too hard on the specifics of what Jon “doesn’t” – and, conversely, what he maybe, possibly does – but, well…

Martin shakes his head to clear his thoughts before they can meander any further into the realm of imagination. In any case, he certainly isn’t about to repeat that piece of gossip to Daisy now.

“I – I just don’t want to assume,” he says instead.

Daisy tilts her head, considering. “Well, have you asked him?”

“W-well, no.”

“Why not? Sure, some people aren’t into kissing, I guess, but I doubt he’d mind you asking. Even if the answer is ‘no,’ I guarantee he wants to be close in other ways.” At Martin’s lack of response, Daisy heaves an exaggerated sigh. “He reaches for you every time you’re not looking, you know. Always fidgeting with his hands, like he wants to touch but he doesn’t know how to ask. He’s as bad as you are, pining face and all.”

“I do not have a ‘pining face,’” Martin says. “If you must know, I was worrying just now.”

“You definitely have a pining face, and it’s different from your worried face. When you’re worried, you get all scowly and you chew your lip bloody. You’re focused, intense. When you’re pining, you get this faraway look to you, like you’re not taking anything in. And you touch your fingers to your lips a lot – yeah, like that.”

Martin yanks his fingers away from his mouth as if scalded, glowering indignantly at an increasingly smug Daisy. “What are you, a mentalist?”

“I’ve gotten used to reading people – picking up on openings, weak spots, stress signals, you know. Don’t know whether that’s a Hunt thing or a me thing. Both, maybe.” She shakes her head. “Anyway, you went from worried to pining about ten minutes ago now. And Jon, he’s even easier to read than you are. He’s so far gone for you, I can tease him mercilessly about it and never get a rise out of him. Even when I can get him to bat an eye, he never does that… that flustered denial thing he usually does when you hit a nerve. He just goes all… soft and wistful. Retreats into his own head, gets that smitten little smile – you know the one?”

“Yes.” Martin is blushing furiously now, he’s certain. Daisy flashes him another knowing, unabashedly victorious smirk.

“Point is, our lives are messed up, water is wet, and Jon Sims loves cats and Martin Blackwood, but he’s terrified of crossing some invisible line, so instead he’s just openly pining and it isn’t even fun to tease him about it because he’s too lovestruck to be properly embarrassed about it.” Daisy pauses for a breath. “So, if you want to kiss Jon, you should ask him, because I doubt he’s going to make the first move anytime soon, and it’s getting ridiculous watching the two of you tiptoe around the elephant in the room. So what are you waiting for?”

“How is any of this your business, anyway?” Martin snaps.

“Well, seeing as Jon’s my friend–”

That strikes a nerve, and Martin is reacting before he can properly evaluate the feeling.

“Okay, yeah, about that,” he says sharply. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Well, all you wanted to do before was hunt him down and hurt him.” Instantaneously, Daisy’s playful demeanor evaporates. “Even after Elias blackmailed you into working for him, you still looked at Jon like he wasn’t human. Not even a monster, either, just – just something you wanted to tear apart, just because you wanted to see him afraid. And now all of a sudden you’re friends? I mean, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that Jon’s willing to overlook a murder attempt. He… he has so little respect for himself, his standards are so…” Martin captures his lower lip between his teeth and bites down until it aches. “He’s so used to being treated badly, the bar is six feet below ground.”

“Yeah,” Daisy whispers.

“But – but what I can’t figure out is what your angle is. You wanted to hurt him, you did hurt him – he still has a scar from where you held a knife to his throat. You would’ve killed him if Basira didn’t stop you.”

“I–”

“He was so afraid of disappearing without a trace, did you know that?” Martin interjects, his face growing hotter as over a year’s worth of pent-up fury boils to the surface.

Martin has read enough statements to know that even one of the encounters representative of the Institute’s collection is one traumatic experience too many. Even so, it’s only a small fraction of the horror stories that have plagued humanity throughout history – that continue to unfold in the present day. How many people suffer something horrible and don’t live long enough to tell the story? The Archive, chock-full of terror though it may be, is an ongoing study in survivorship bias.

“When Prentiss attacked the Institute,” Martin fumes, “Jon was more afraid of that – of leaving nothing behind – than he was of dying. You were going to bury him where no one would ever find him, and no one would ever know what happened to him, and now… now you say you want to be his friend, like nothing ever happened? And I’m supposed to just trust you?”

For a long minute, the only sound is Martin’s rapid, heavy breathing. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting. Combativeness, maybe. For Daisy to get her hackles up, to defend herself against Martin’s implications, to take offense to his accusatory tone. Instead, her entire posture wilts and her shoulders curl inward. It’s as if an invisible weight is pressing against her on all sides, crushing her into something small and taut.

“I guess we’re doing this now, then,” she mumbles.

“Guess we are,” Martin says stiffly, one foot tapping frenetically against the floor as his agitation continues creeping ever upward.

Daisy nods and releases a heavy exhale. “This isn’t just about Jon, is it?”

“I…” Martin trails off as he considers the question. “No. I guess it’s not.”

“Well.” Daisy rubs at her upper arms, eyes fixed on the floor. “Go on.”

“When you questioned all of us – when you interrogated me, you didn’t – you didn’t actually want to find out the truth. You just wanted to get to Jon, because you assumed he was guilty, and…” Martin huffs. “No, it wasn’t even about guilt, was it? You didn’t care about solving Leitner’s murder, you didn’t care about finding Sasha – she could’ve still been alive for all we knew at the time, but you didn’t care whether she was in danger, whether she could be saved. And – and even if we did have proof that she was dead, we deserved to know what happened to her. She deserved better than to be a mystery.”

“You’re right.” Daisy’s soft agreement does nothing to temper Martin’s burgeoning wrath.

“She was my friend, you know that? She was my friend, and you just – dismissed her, like she wasn’t worth remembering, like her life was some – some trivial detail. I didn’t know whether to be afraid for her or – or – or to mourn for her, and all you had to offer was, ‘Jon probably killed her, tell me where he is or else.’ You were a detective, you were supposed to help, but all you cared about was getting to Jon, and you – you – you threatened me because you thought I could tell you where to find him. That you could use me to hurt him.” Martin breathes a bitter chuckle. “I guess Jon was right not to trust the police to figure out what happened to Gertrude.”

Daisy doesn’t deny it.

“So… yeah.” Martin shrugs as his rant tapers off. “That’s where I am, I guess. I know you’ve changed – haven’t we all – but… every time I see you near Jon, there’s a part of me that panics. Maybe I’m not being fair, but I – I can’t forget. I don’t know how to feel.”

Daisy is quiet for a long minute, fingers digging into her arms now, a pained expression lingering on her face.

“I’ve done… a lot of things I’m not proud of,” she says slowly. “Hurt a lot of people. Most more than they deserved. Many who didn’t deserve it at all. Can’t even make apologies to most of them, let alone make amends. I don’t even know if I could make amends. Some things are unforgivable.”

It doesn’t undo what I did, Jon’s voice plays in Martin’s mind. I can’t erase it.

“You should know,” Daisy says, “complete lack of self-respect aside, Jon doesn’t… he doesn’t overlook what I did.”

“What?”

“He knows what I am. What I’ve done. He doesn’t pretend I’m something I’m not, he doesn’t lie to me about what I could become, he doesn’t offer me forgiveness that I don’t deserve, but he still… he still doesn’t expect the worst from me, either. He expects me to make the right choice, even though I gave him every reason not to trust me.”

“He’s still too forgiving,” Martin mutters.

“That’s another thing. I… I don’t think he does. Forgive me, that is.”

“Have you asked him?”

“No.”

“Because you’re afraid to know the answer?” Maybe that’s uncharitable, but Martin never claimed to be an easily forgiving soul. Most people wouldn’t assume it at first glance, but he’s always had a tendency to nurse a grudge.

Daisy hunches even further, her shoulders drawing in tighter.

“Because if he did forgive me, he would tell me,” she says, her throat bobbing as she struggles to swallow. “But he doesn’t. I know he doesn’t, and he shouldn’t, and I’m not going to put him in a position where he has to justify himself, or sugarcoat it, or comfort me for what I did to him.”

Martin doesn’t know what to say to that.

“And the same goes for you.” Daisy steals a quick glimpse at Martin before lowering her head again. “I won’t ask you to forgive me. Ever. But I am sorry – for how I treated you, for what I did to Jon. I’ll never stop being sorry. That doesn’t make it better, I know. But I want to do better. I’m trying to be better. Too little too late, maybe, but I won’t go back to how I was before. I can’t take it all back, but I can at least make sure I don’t hurt anyone else.”

“You sound like Jon.”

“First and second place for guiltiest conscience, us,” Daisy says with a tired chuckle. “And I don’t know which of us is in first.” She sighs. “Look, I know you have no reason to trust me, but I do see Jon as a friend. Not just because I’m sorry, or because he saved me, or because I owe him, but because he… well, he sees me as I am, and he sees me for who I want to be, and he doesn’t see those as mutually exclusive, but he also doesn’t deny the contradiction.”

“Wish he could apply the same logic to himself.”

“Yeah. He’s an absolute mess of double standards. Best we can do is call him on it at every opportunity. Maybe eventually he’ll get it through his head.”

“Yeah,” Martin scoffs. “Maybe.”

“Anyway,” she says, “I care about him, and he cares about you, so…”

“So you thought you’d appoint yourself his wingman?”

“Maybe a little.” Daisy gives him a hesitant, sheepish grin. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Martin sighs. The resentment is still there, but he does feel a bit lighter after getting it all out in the open. Besides, he's so emotionally drained from his outburst, he can’t quite work up the energy for mild annoyance right this moment.

“Well, in that case – if you want to kiss him, you should ask. That’s all I’m saying,” Daisy says hurriedly, holding up her palms in a placating gesture when Martin gives her a tired glare. “I’ll drop it now. I meant it when I said I wanted tea.”

Daisy winces as she rises to her feet.

“And I meant it when I said I can get it,” Martin says.

“I’ve got it.”

“Then at least let me come along and–”

“Uh, no.” Daisy gives him a quelling look. “Jon warned me about how you are with tea.”

“What?”

“Says you’re a micromanager.”

“He what?” Martin demands.

“Okay, he didn’t say it like that. Actually, I think the word he used was persnickety.”

“Oh, as if he has room to talk,” Martin mutters. “He’s just miffed that I caught him microwaving tea once and I refuse to let him live it down.”

“What’s wrong with microwaving tea?” Martin recoils, affronted – and then Daisy snorts. “Settle down. I’m just messing with you.” She starts to leave, pausing only briefly to glance over her shoulder. “I won’t be long. Yell if Peter decides to finally show his face.”

“Will do,” Martin groans, reluctantly returning to the statement in front of him. Yet another alleged Extinction sighting, courtesy of Peter, for Martin to dutifully pretend to research.

Stringing Peter along is the best way Martin knows to keep in check. In that sense, it’s an important job – one only Martin can do. Nonetheless, it’s reminiscent of how it felt to be left behind when the others went to stop the Unknowing. Distracting Elias was important, sure, and dangerous in its own way, but it wasn’t exactly on the same level as storming the Circus to stop the apocalypse. Comparatively, Martin felt useless.

Now, with Basira and Jon off on their mission, Martin is beset by a similar sense of futility. There’s certainly enough work to keep him busy, given that Peter delegates most of his job responsibilities to Martin. (Martin is fairly certain that, fraudulent CV or not, he’s more qualified to run the Institute at this point than Peter is.) Performing routine administrative duties can be a boring and demoralizing enough endeavor in the context of a mundane underpaid office job; doing so in service to an unfathomable cosmic evil is, to put it mildly, soul-destroying. Perhaps in a literal sense, as far as Martin knows.

That’s not to mention the customary gloom that comes with reading account after dreadful account of senseless, indiscriminate suffering.

Martin wishes there was something practical he could do, is his point. Patient though he may be, indefinite waiting is less tolerable when what he’s waiting for is the other shoe to drop, so to speak. He has no desire to interact with Peter in any capacity, but the longer he remains scarce, the more Martin’s trepidation soars.

There’s no way Peter has conceded his bet with Jonah, but there’s no telling whether he’s simply biding his time and observing how events unfold, actively plotting his next moves, or already enacting an revised scheme from the shadows. Regardless, he’s a clear and present danger for as long as he’s around. He may not be hasty, but he’s still a wildcard. Jon told Martin about the last time: how Peter released the NotThem to rampage through the Institute, solely for the sake of causing a distraction. As long as he has The Seven Lamps of Architecture in his possession, he–

Oh.

Martin smiles to himself. Maybe there is something more he can do.

The warehouse is, unsurprisingly, dark. Even with the door propped open, the daylight filtering through illuminates a radius of only a few yards before it’s swallowed by unnatural gloom. As Jon and Basira move further into the cavernous space, the beams of their torches barely penetrate the velvety murk.

“Any idea where she is?” Basira whispers from Jon’s left.

“Waiting in ambush, I assume. I can’t See much of anything.”

“See or See?”

“Either. Both.”

“And you’re certain that applies to Elias as well? He won’t be able to See us here?”

“Positive,” Jon says. “The Dark has–”

An enraged bellow sounds out from behind them. Basira’s torch clatters to the concrete floor, its light promptly extinguished as the casing cracks and the batteries come loose. In a flash, Basira is on the ground, locked in a furious scuffle with–

“Manuela Dominguez!” Jon says. Manuela looks up reflexively, surprised to hear her name. It’s all the opening Basira needs to gain the upper hand, grappling Manuela into a prone position on the floor and pinning her in place with a wristlock. Manuela cries out in pain, but her wild thrashing continues unabated.

“Jon,” Basira grunts, increasingly winded as Manuela attempts to break the hold. “A little help?”

“Manuela, listen, we – we’re just here to talk–”

Manuela briefly pauses in her struggling to spit at Jon’s feet. Funny, how some details remain the same. A second later, she’s resisting again, now attempting to twist around and bite at whatever exposed skin she can find.

“Stop.”

The command crackles up Jon’s throat and sparks off the tip of his tongue like a static shock, hundreds of iterations of the word coinciding. The air itself seems to quake with the force of it, and Jon is left shivering in its wake.

So, it seems, is Manuela: her voice shudders out of her when she speaks.

“Who are you?” she hisses. “What do you want?”

“To make a deal,” Jon says, the words slightly slurred.

“Why would I deal with you?” In the flickering glow of his torchlight, Jon can see the baleful glint in Manuela’s eyes. “You’re of the Eye, aren’t you? What could you even possibly want? You’ve already taken everything – you lot and your Archivist. Where is she, anyway?” Manuela makes a show of scanning the room as best she can, pinioned as she is. “Too much of a coward to witness the wreckage she’s wrought?”

“Gertrude is dead,” Basira says.

“Stopping us took everything she had, then.” Manuela smirks. “Serves her right.”

“You wish,” Basira scoffs. “She was murdered. Completely unrelated.”

“That’s –” Manuela’s smug expression vanishes. “Who–?”

“Elias,” Jon says. “She was too much of a thorn in his side. Too much of a force to be reckoned with.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I told you,” Jon says. “We want to make a deal. A temporary alliance.”

“An alliance?” Manuela repeats. What starts as a weak, dismissive laugh dissolves into a wheeze.

“We have a mutual enemy.” Manuela’s eyes narrow in something more like curiosity now. “I take it I’ve piqued your interest. Will you hear us out?”

Manuela deliberates for a protracted moment, torn between rebellion and intrigue. “Let me up.”

“What, so you can throw more punches?” Basira says.

“It’s fine, Basira,” Jon says. Manuela is still seething with defiance. The more powerless she feels, the less open she’ll be to negotiation. Better to make a few concessions and let her feel some control over the situation.

Judging from her furrowed brow, Basira is running through the same calculations. She hesitates a moment longer before sighing, releasing her hold, and standing. Manuela staggers to her feet and backs away several steps, brushing herself off and panting shallowly as she catches her breath.

“Did you come here alone?” she asks, massaging her abused wrist as her suspicious gaze flits back and forth between Basira and Jon. “Just the two of you?”

“Yes,” Jon answers. Basira shakes her head with an impatient tsk – which Jon interprets as something like stop volunteering free information to every Avatar you parley with, Jon. “Like I said, we’re just here to talk. And to offer you the opportunity for revenge.”

“What revenge? Gertrude is dead,” Manuela spits out. “Who else is there? Her replacement?”

“I’m her replacement.”

With that, Manuela lunges in Jon’s direction. Basira swiftly moves to intercept her, but Manuela stops in her tracks before Basira can grab her. A tension-filled standoff ensues, the two of them eyeing each other warily. After nearly a full minute, Basira seems satisfied enough that the situation has been defused to take her eyes off Manuela and treat Jon to an exasperated glare.

“Do you have to antagonize every single person who wants to kill you?” she scolds.

Jon ignores her grievance in favor of addressing Manuela directly: “You wouldn’t have any luck killing me.”

Basira dips her head down and plants the heel of her hand on her forehead, grumbling under her breath. It’s mostly unintelligible, but Jon thinks he can make out the words fuck’s sake somewhere in there.

“I could try,” Manuela snarls. Her hands ball into tighter fists, trembling with rage at her sides, but she continues to stand her ground.

“You could,” Jon says mildly. “And you would fail.”

“You’ll just compel me, you mean.”

“I could.” He would rather avoid it if possible, but Manuela doesn’t need to know that. He can only hope she can’t tell just how much he’s only pretending at nerve. “Or, you can listen to what we have to say. Gertrude is dead, and lashing out at me isn’t going to satisfy your thirst for revenge. We can offer up a more satisfying target.”

“Unless you have a way for me to unmake the Power your Archivist served.” When Jon doesn’t deny it, Manuela lets out another harsh, scornful laugh. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“Well – arguably, Gertrude didn’t serve the Eye. She followed her own path.” Manuela breathes a derisive huff. “Like her or not, she did. Formidable as she was, none of that was due to the Beholding’s favor. That was all her. She never embraced the power it promised – not like most Archivists do. Striking a blow against the Eye wouldn’t be an insult to Gertrude’s memory. If anything, it would do her proud.”

“Killing it with the sales pitch,” Basira carps.

“But the head of the Institute does serve the Eye,” Jon presses on, “and he’s the one responsible for appointing Gertrude the Archivist in the first place. Hurt the Eye, and you hurt him.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Manuela says, bristling. “Your patron may pale in comparison to my god, but I’m not arrogant enough to believe that I would stand a chance of vanquishing it.”

“We can’t vanquish it, no. But we could destroy the Institute that serves it. Same as happened to the Dark’s faithful.”

“An eye for an eye,” Basira adds.

“Well, you’ve wasted your time coming all this way.” Manuela’s disparaging chuckle gets caught in her throat. “I’m the only one here. An abandoned disciple, guarding a lost cause. There’s nothing left of our former power.”

“The Dark Sun,” Basira says.

Manuela tenses. Then her shoulders slump, weighed down by dawning, solemn resignation.

“Of course,” she says bitterly. “It isn’t enough to decimate our numbers. You need to steal the only remnant of our crusade.”

“We’re giving you the opportunity to reclaim its purpose,” Jon says. “Or would you rather it rot away here, diminishing until it collapses in on itself?”

Manuela is silent for a long minute, a shrewd look in her eye. “Why would you want to betray your god?”

“The Beholding isn’t my god,” Jon says. “I’m not a willing convert. I was drafted into someone else’s crusade without my consent – and you know what that’s like, don’t you?”

Manuela just scowls.

“I Know your story.” Jon’s voice turns sibilant with power as the Archive rears its head. “Indoctrinated into a faith that never spoke to you –”

“– brought up to believe in the light of God, his radiant, illuminating presence –”

“Shut up,” Manuela says in a low growl.

“– deep down they were vicious, spiteful people who used their faith to hurt others, and I fondly imagined them discovering themselves in an afterlife other than the one they had assumed was their destination – I broke with them as soon as I could –”

“Jon,” Basira interrupts. The firm squeeze of her hand on his shoulder is enough to snap him out of his shallow trance. She jerks her head at Manuela, who looks about ready to charge him again. “Maybe not the time?”

“S-sorry,” he gasps. He shakes his head to clear the residual static clouding his thoughts before looking back to Manuela with genuine contrition. “Didn’t mean to do that, I swear. I only meant to say that I – I read the statement you gave to Gertrude. I know that your parents were zealots. They envisioned a perfect world that seemed to you like hell on earth, and you did everything you could to rebel against their arrogance. To spite the god they worshiped. We have some common ground there, you and I.”

Granted, Jon didn’t grow up in a religious household. His grandmother was content to let him explore – and he did.

Even as a child, he had an inclination for research. A topic would catch his attention and he would voraciously seek out as much information as he could. His grandmother didn’t take much interest in the content of those fixations, but she did encourage them as a general principle. Not with overt praise, necessarily, but by facilitating his endeavors: procuring reading material on the obsession of the month, escorting him to the library every so often and allowing him to max out his card. He suspects now that she was simply grateful for some way to occupy his attention. If his nose was in a book, he was keeping out of trouble.

He never told her how wrong she turned out to be.

In any case, one of his many early “phases,” as she liked to call them, was comparative religion. Part of it was simple curiosity. Part of it was a genuine desire to find something to believe: some conception of the afterlife that would resonate with him, some straightforward framework for understanding the world, some sort of certainty to assuage his fear of the unknown. His grandmother never seemed to care whether he found what he was looking for. She never really asked.

It was for the best. He never liked admitting defeat. Not back then.

They returned all the books to the library on the day they were due, and Jon brought home a new haul, this one centered around the field of oceanography. The seas were brimming with mystery, but at least there was a very real possibility of turning those unknowns into knowns. New discoveries were being made every day, newer and newer technology being developed to push the boundaries of that knowledge. There were sure answers, and they could be grasped, so long as humanity could invent the right tools for the job.

Still, Jon found himself envying people of faith from time to time. Sometimes he wished he had someone to point him in some sort of direction, like many other children seemed to have. But hearing of Manuela’s upbringing… well, if Jon was forced to choose between extremes, he has to admit that he prefers the complete lack of guidance he received as opposed to strict proselytization. His grandmother may not have shown interest in his opinions, but at least she gave him the freedom to come to his own conclusions. She may not have had reassurances to offer, but at least she didn’t foist upon him a worldview that made no place for him in it.

“It’s not the same thing as childhood indoctrination,” he tells Manuela, “but… becoming the Archivist – it was like being drafted into the service of a god that I never would have chosen for myself. Had Elias told me the terms, I never would have signed the contract.”

“I take it he didn’t tell you beforehand that he murdered your predecessor?”

“That I had to find out the hard way, unfortunately.”

“So you’re saying you’re not so much a traitor to your faith as you are a disgruntled employee.”

“Elias is my boss. Is that a trick question?” Jon is surprised to hear Manuela give an amused snort. “But yes. I’d like to… tender my resignation, so to speak.”

Manuela scrutinizes him intently, as if trying to solve a riddle. “You would give up your power?”

“I don’t want it,” Jon says truthfully.

If he’s perfectly honest with himself, there was a time that at least some aspects of that power were alluring. There was something intoxicating and liberating about being able to ask a question and not only receive a guaranteed answer, but be certain he wasn’t being presented with an outright lie – especially after spending so many months beholden to unchecked paranoia, distrust, and frantic, futile investigation.

But there was never anything benign or inconsequential about invading a victim’s privacy or compelling someone to surrender a secret, no matter how he tried to justify it to himself. Even if there was, even if it wasn’t both reprehensible in principle and harmful in practice, it still wouldn’t be worth the irrevocable costs.

“I want out,” he says, “and if getting out isn’t an option, then I at least want Elias to know what it is to be offered up to a god inimical to every atom of his existence. I thought you might be able to assist with that.”

“How?”

“The Institute is a seat of power for the Beholding,” Basira says. “If we introduce it to your Dark Sun…”

“A mote in the Eye,” Manuela says, intrigued. Her attention swivels back to Jon. “Do you Know what would happen?”

“No,” he says. “But I imagine it will hurt.”

“And then what? What happens after? You let me pack up my relic and walk away?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“I don’t believe you,” Manuela says.

“You don’t pose an existential threat,” Jon says with a shrug. “I have no doubt that the Dark will attempt another Ritual someday, but it won’t happen in our lifetimes. We have no qualms letting you walk away after our alliance is finished.”

“And the Dark Sun?” Manuela presses.

“I don’t know what condition it will be in after exposure to the Eye,” Jon admits. “But you’re free to do as you wish with it after. We won’t stop you.”

So she can hurt more people, Jon’s battered conscience chimes in.

“And if I say no?”

“Then I walk in there right now, Behold it, and destroy it entirely.” It comes out sounding more menacing than Jon had initially intended, but maybe that’s not a bad thing, given the way Manuela freezes up.

“You wouldn’t survive.” Manuela sounds far from certain.

“Maybe. Maybe not. But your Sun certainly wouldn’t.” Jon pauses for a moment to let that sink in. “Do you want to see its potential wasted here and now, or do you want to make all that sacrifice worth something?”

“If you’re so certain you have the upper hand, what’s stopping you from just taking it, then?”

“I’m not its engineer or its keeper. I wouldn’t even Know how to safely transport it. Too many unknown variables.”

“So you need me.”

“Yes. Beneath the Institute, there’s a… a sanctum of the Eye. A place of power, like Ny-Ålesund is for your patron. If you can bring the Dark Sun there, I… well, I’m hoping it will sever the Eye’s connection to that place. Destroy the Institute.”

“How would that work?”

“I’m… not certain,” Jon confesses. “Call it a… a hunch.”

“There’s precedent,” Basira says. “We found a statement that hinted at worshipers of the Dark destroying a temple to the Eye in 4th century Alexandria.”

Manuela’s eyes light up with interest. “How?”

“We don’t know,” Jon says.

“Oh, right. Foolish of me to ask,” Manuela says pertly. “Why would I expect you to know things? It’s only the entire point of you.”

“I never claimed to be good at my job,” Jon retorts. “Look, maybe I don’t Know exactly what will happen, but a focus of the Dark should hurt the Eye in some capacity, I think.”

“You think,” Manuela mutters under her breath, just loud enough for him to hear the derision in her tone.

“Whatever happens, it’ll be more satisfying than anything you’ve got going on here,” Basira points out.

Manuela barks out a contemptuous laugh. “You don’t even have the shadow of a plan!”

“We… haven’t ironed out the details, no.” Jon rubs the back of his neck, chagrinned. “We figured that if you did agree to an alliance, you would want to be part of the actual planning process.”

“And if you don’t cooperate, it’s a moot point,” Basira says.

“Also, I was… I suppose I was hoping you could offer insight,” Jon says. “The Dark is something of a blind spot for me, shockingly.” Manuela shoots him a withering look. “So even if I had any clue how to wield the Dark Sun, I wouldn’t be able to channel its full potential. Not like you could.”

“That much is obvious,” Manuela sneers, teeth gleaming in the torchlight as her lips stretch in a taut, wolfish grin. “You Beholding types always assume that knowledge is synonymous with control. Putting yourselves on the level of Powers greater than any mortal, assuming insight into things you could not possibly understand… you fly too close to the sun and then have the gall to indulge in outrage when you burn.”

We didn’t come here for a sermon, Jon almost says, but he bites his tongue.

“But I accept that I am a supplicant, not a god,” Manuela says, reverence seeping into her tone to supplant the reproach. “It’s pure hubris to assume that you could wield the Black Sun like a tool. It’s a communion, and only those with true and dutiful faith could ever hope to win its favor. Approach it with anything less than respect and devotion, and it will devour you.”

“If you’re done pontificating?” Basira says. She doesn’t give Manuela an opening to respond. “We’re well aware that we stand no chance of wielding–” Manuela looks up sharply, and Basira hastily corrects herself. “Fine – communing with the Dark Sun ourselves. That’s why we’re looking for an alliance rather than just taking it.”

“Do you think you could–” Jon pauses as he searches for a way to phrase his question that won’t unleash another tirade. “Would you be able to arrange for the Dark Sun to be brought into the Eye’s stronghold? Expose them to one another, let them… I don’t know – have it out with each other?”

“I’m capable of bringing it to London, if that’s what you’re asking,” Manuela says primly. “But it would be at a disadvantage on the Beholding’s home turf. If – if – I were willing to test this hypothesis, I would only do so on the condition that I could level the playing field as much as possible. Wait for ideal circumstances, as it were.”

“Which would be…?” Basira asks.

“The winter solstice. The Dark Sun will be the strongest on the night of the winter solstice.”

“That’s months from now,” Basira protests. “Can’t you just –”

“Ideally, I would insist on a total solar eclipse,” Manuela snaps, “but it will be quite some time before London witnesses another. Not until 2090.”

“Looking ahead, are you?” Basira asks.

“It is likely the soonest opportunity for another attempt at a Ritual.” Manuela pretends at nonchalance with a shrug, but she can’t quite conceal her profound disappointment as her voice grows measurably more subdued. “It gives me ample time to study our failure. To discover what went wrong.”

“To refine your Ritual, you mean.”

“There will always be faithful to take up the mantle,” Manuela says, her chin lifting marginally in defiance as she stares Basira down.

“But you won’t be around to see it.” Basira meets Manuela’s eyes with equal nerve. Jon remains silent, looking from one to the other as they face off against one another.

“No,” Manuela replies evenly. “I’ll have to settle for passing on my findings to those who come after. Leave behind a legacy to guide their steps.”

“In the meantime, the Dark Sun will stagnate,” Jon chimes in. It’s a bluff, of course: he has no idea whether or not it’s true. Judging from the unsettled look on Manuela’s face, neither does she. Jon latches onto that uncertainty, carefully twisting the knife just a little further: “Or, you could let it serve a purpose.”

“Its purpose was to usher in a world of true and holy Darkness,” Manuela says acidly. “You’re proposing I give it scraps.”

“Like it or not, you can’t give it the apocalypse it was promised,” Jon says.

Manuela’s fingers flex and clench back into fists. Jon suspects she would love nothing more than to wring his neck. She’s a truth seeker at heart, though. Ambitious, rebellious – idealistic even, albeit in a twisted sort of way, harboring an aspiration that most would rightfully find horrific. Adept at detecting and exploiting the more malleable aspects of material reality where possible, infusing the scientific method with just enough magical thinking to bend natural laws.

However, there are some truths that even she cannot deny, and she isn’t the type to ignore a certainty when it’s right in front of her face. And so, despite the unconcealed vitriol in her eyes and the contrariness sitting at the tip of her tongue, she does not deny his assertion.

“But it can still pay tribute to your god,” Jon coaxes, striving to stop short of needling. It’s a razor’s edge he’s always struggled to walk, but Manuela is still right there with him, toeing the line. “It’s better than nothing at all.”

Manuela directs a venomous glower towards the floor as she vacillates between summary dismissal and the temptation of vengeance. Basira side-eyes Jon as the standstill stretches from seconds into minutes, but all Jon can offer her is an awkward shrug. The ball is in Manuela’s court, and it seems she has no qualms leaving them in indefinite suspense as she painstakingly examines all the variables and weighs her options. The best they can do is wait and hope that tangible revenge will prove more enticing than spiteful noncooperation.

Eventually, she lets out a sharp exhale, raises her head, and breaks her silence.

“The winter solstice,” she repeats, her voice teeming with tension and lingering aversion. “Barring an eclipse, I would have to settle for the winter solstice. The longest, darkest night of the year… it’s second best, but it should suffice. Shame about the light pollution, of course,” she adds, wrinkling her nose with disdain, “but the power is in the symbolism.”

“Jon?” Basira prompts.

“Dream logic,” he says, massaging his forehead wearily. “It tracks.”

“Fine,” Basira sighs. She looks back to Manuela. “So does this mean you’ll do it?”

“I’m tired of haunting this place like a ghost.” There’s a sharp, predatory look in Manuela’s eyes now. “The Dark has lost its crusaders. The Watcher should have a taste of loss.”

Just then, a loud, metallic thunk interrupts the negotiations, reverberating through the space and drawing everyone’s attention to warehouse entrance. The light that had been percolating through from outside had been preternaturally dimmed before, but now it’s been snuffed out entirely.

Jon glances anxiously at Basira. “The wind, maybe?”

“There was no wind.” Basira is already drawing her gun. Like a switch has been flipped at the prospect of danger, her voice goes steely with manufactured composure. “Not strong enough to blow the door shut. I propped it open very securely.”

“We’re near the water, though,” Jon murmurs. “Strong gusts sometimes blow in off the sea–”

Jon’s mouth snaps shut at Basira’s quelling look. Manuela’s posture is defensive again, eyes darting suspiciously between Jon and Basira in the muted torchlight.

“I thought you said you came here alone,” she says accusingly.

“We – we did,” Jon says. “We–”

“Oh, Archivist,” a new voice sings out, oozing with an exultant malice. “Long time no see!”

It’s been ages since Jon last heard that cadence, but it’s horrifyingly, heart-stoppingly familiar even after all this time. It pierces Jon like a knife in the dark. He takes a frantic step back, nearly tripping over his own feet as his panic skyrockets and a tidal wave of adrenaline crashes over him.

“We just want to talk,” croons a different voice, rougher and more ragged-sounding. It’s difficult to gauge the newcomers’ positions through the impermeable gloom, but judging from the sounds of their voices, they’re drawing ever nearer. “Won’t you come out?”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Jon breathes an incredulous laugh, distraught enough to border on a whimper. “Now?”

“Who are they?” Basira asks urgently. Jon is still frozen in place, eyes straining against the darkness. Any answer he could make is bogged down with terror, snagging in his throat and forestalling coherence. “Jon!”

Jon swallows hard and finally looks at Basira, his eyes wide with dread.

“Hunters.”

End Notes:

naomi: hey jon. jon. consider: surveillance state kink jon: shut the hell your mouth

____

Both instances of Archive-speak are from MAG 135. A few pieces of dialogue from the beginning of the conversation with Manuela are taken/reworked from MAG 143. The Melanie and Basira gossip is from MAG 106.

Once again, had way too much fun with the text convo btwn Naomi and Jon. Cannot resist those chatfic shenanigans vibes.

In other news, Daisy WILL point at Jon and loudly exclaim, “Is anyone gonna volunteer as wingman for this lovesick disaster or do I have to do everything myself?” and not even wait for an answer. (Jon made the mistake of confirming that he doesn’t mind her lovingly dunking on him about this sort of thing and now she’s a menace. Listen, playful ribbing is basically her platonic love language.)

Sorry for the cliffhanger!! But hey, I think we all knew that there’s no way things would go entirely smoothly for Jon and Basira. And now I finally get to add some new character tags.

I’m very behind on replying to comments. (Tbh, spent most of the last month grappling with this chapter. I was stuck on a scene that REALLY didn’t want to cooperate.) I’m gonna try to catch up this weekend, though. <3 As always, thank you for reading!

#the magnus archives #magpod #tma #tma fic #tma spoilers #long post

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theonetheycallhannah · 4 years

Text

The Treatment of Capt. Syverson-Chapter One: Evaluation

Pairing: Captain “Sy” Syverson x OFC (Shane Benton)

Shane Benton gets a new patient, veteran “Sy” Syverson. He’s one of the most complex cases she’s had, in more ways than one. She thinks he’s already starting to like her and what’s worse...she feels the same.

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: None, really, mentions of war and trauma and some hate on the Chicago Cubs, but like…it’s not MEAN! (I’m a Missouri girl, and for the purposes of this fic, Sy is a Missouri boy, and we will bleed for our sports teams. Lol!)

A/N: Inspired by this post right here, and hopefully turning into some splendid fluffy and smutty stuff for my lovely Cavillry babes all around including the two that essentially forced me into this. Lol! (I’m thinking I’ll have at least three or four more chapters.

Disclaimer: Unfortunately for me, Henry is not mine, le sigh, and all mention of him, his characters, or his precious doggy, Kal, are strictly for transformative and recreational use. I neither ask for, nor accept payment for the work I post on Tumblr or AO3.

Tags: @onlyhenrys @cavillryarchive

Let me know if you wish to be added to the list! I’m happy to do it!

Shane was working on her morning's notes as she scarfed down her lunch. So many hand's-on patients made for a busy so called "lunch hour." Time which their boss was always reminded them was only half for their personal use, and could be taken away if census demanded. She was pretty sure it wasn't legal to make such threats, but thankfully, the secretaries usually had the therapists backs.

As she typed, she got a notification in her messenger app.

Just a head's up, your 1:30 is such a major babe I could barely look at him while I checked him in, so good luck with that.

Heather, one of her best friends in the office, had warned her, as she always did when there was a potential problem with a patient.

Oh, and his KOOS score is 27.5! Yikes! Shit, she'd seen arthritic grandparents with better scores on that test, which essentially rated your ability with the affected knee. Ideal was 100. She pulled up his chart review to see what she was getting herself into with this guy.

Tricare insurance, so, a vet. And only a year older than she was, so, recent discharge, or even active duty. She pulled up his order…shit. Traumatic tear of the anterior cruciate ligament. With damage to the medial collateral ligament as well. And a patellar dislocation. Repairs had been done, but this guy was in bad shape. He was going to be coming a while.

She replied to Heather.

Damn, that's bad. I'm looking at his order, and I'm already thinking I'm gonna want to try to keep him on my schedule if we can. And three times a week. If not with me, Jordan, if he's got openings. Can you start working on that when you have time?

Sure thing…I think you'll be glad you kept him on your caseload once you get a look at his face…and like all of him. Even on crutches, he's tall as shit!

Heather, come on. I'm a professional. I have a doctorate ffs. Lol

You also have a uterus, to the best of my knowledge, and it's about to explode. Promise.

Haha, okay. I'll be out for Prince Charming in about ten. Lemme pop a breath mint and run a brush through my hair.

Good call.

Shane did just that, but still pulled her dark hair back into her customary functional high ponytail, made sure there was no stray food on her shirt, and headed out of her treatment room for her patient.

As she walked down the hall to the waiting area to get him, she noticed a slumped and bearded figure leaning forward on a set of crutches, a KC Chiefs baseball cap slipping up off of his forehead revealing short cropped dark hair. She smiled at his repping one of her home teams, and stepped up to him, greeting him warmly, but formally.

"Mr. Syverson?"

"Ma'am." he said, as he adjusted his cap and stood immediately at attention, still relying on the crutches, but making himself as tall as possible. He really was a soldier. Despite her proximity to Fort Leonard Wood here in St. Robert, Missouri, she didn't see many military men.

"Hi, My name is Shane. I'm a physical therapist. I'm going to be working with you today."

"Oh, okay. They told me my therapists name was Shane, I figured…"

"Yeah, I get that a lot. Don't worry, I act like one of the guys. You'll hardly notice."

"I doubt that." he muttered, but she ignored it. She didn't know which would be worse. Him being a macho chauvinist who couldn't deal with a female therapist, or having a crush on her and making things weird. She'd had both. And it never ended well for her.

"Well, let's go have a chat in the treatment room."

They walked toward the room she'd just left, and when they arrived, she asked him to set on her plinth mat.

"Could you please verify your date of birth for me? Gotta make sure I got the right patient in here."

"May the 5th, 1983."

"Thanks, and the last four of your social?"

He told her, quietly, and against her will, a shiver ran up her spine at the softness the bear of a man exhibited in his voice when trying to maintain privacy. But she kept her composure.

"Excellent." she began typing her eval note, and asking him questions. He began telling the harrowing story of the mission, the mission that effectively ended his career in the military as he knew it. At lest, what he could tell her. Obviously some of it was classified, but certain details she would need to know in order to know how he it and how to treat him. She could tell he was trying to hold it together. Reliving the trauma was probably triggering to an extent. Her heart went out for the broad-chested, blue-eyed man.

"God, that's incredible. The fact that you're alive is amazing, Mr. Syverson."

"I go by Sy, ma'am. And as aware as I am of that, it's tough to feel good about it when some friends in my squad weren't so lucky." he examined the pattern on the tile floor as he rubbed the heel of his hand against the wide thigh of his injured leg. A nervous habit, she presumed. She had similar quirks.

"That must be difficult for you." she knew she was getting off-track from what she needed for her SOAP note, but after all, he was going to be on her caseload exclusively for the foreseeable future. She'd have time to flesh out the goals and basically finish the eval next visit.

"Yeah, but I know there's a lotta guys' got it worse'n me, ma'am."

"We think that should make it better, but it never does. And if I'm calling you 'Sy,' you have to cut the ma'am business. It's Shane, even to my patients." she smiled.

"Sorry, m--sorry. Habits die hard."

"Just like John McClean." she chuckled, not expecting him to get her ridiculous movie humor. But he laughed.

"Did you just make a Die Hard reference?" he smiled, and the sunshine of it paired with the stunning blue of his eyes nearly sent her flying into the wall. Thankfully, she had something to occupy her gaze in the form of her laptop, where she tried to document on him.

"Did you just get one of my movie references? Because nobody around here appreciates that I'm a total movie nerd. I'm wasted on these people."

"Ya know, maybe you're right about feeling like I'm getting PT from a guy." he chuckled.

"I told ya!" she laughed, but tried not to let her heart sink too far.

The evaluation continued with her doing strength and range of motion measurements on his knee. "Okay, push against my hand…now resist when I push…now bring your foot back against my hand…and resist when I pull." she did this with both sides to compare relative strength. "Great job. Okay, I'm going to see how much range you have in your knee. Lay back on the table for me, please." she thought she saw a flirty glint in his eye, but again, she ignored it. She had a job to do. And it was to hold this goniometer up to his knee and see how many degrees of flexion and extension this man had in the joint while trying not to think any salacious thoughts about the thigh connected to it.

"Okay, now, listen, Sy, I know it goes against your instinct, but I'm looking for pain-free range of motion, here, so don't be a hero. Don't move it farther than you can without hurting it. And let me know if it starts to hurt when I move it."

"Yes, ma'am." he winked.

"I'll let that one slide, I guess." she giggled. She concentrated on the numbers she was getting from the big protractor, and typing them into her eval, and not the man lying before her.

"Okay, I'm gonna get the other knee now to compare for goals."

He nodded.

"Were you pretty active before this happened?" she was more or less making small talk, as she could tell by the condition of the rest of his body that he was incredibly fit.

"Yes, m--yes, I was. We had a gym on base, nothin' like what y'all have here, just some machines and a few free weights."

"No bikes or treadmills or anything?" She herself liked the elliptical, but knew it was a considered more of a girl's machine in the gym world.

"Nah, with electric being spotty where we were stationed, we sorta had to…get creative, I guess you could say, for cardio." she let it slide, apparently there was an inside joke to which she wasn't privy.

"Right, understandable. Well, here, we don't have to get that creative. I'm gonna put you on some equipment gradually, and just warm up the knee, then get to work on joint mobilization and myofascial release. But at this point in Dr. Potter's protocol, he only wants gentle stretching and weight bearing as tolerated. We can start a bit of strengthening after next week."

"So, you think I'll be back to running anytime soon?"

"We can make that a goal, Sy, because I can absolutely get you there. But you're going to have to take it slow. You've got not one, but three major injuries we have to contend with, and there is major trauma in there. But it will heal. With time and effort. And like I said, don't be a hero. The number one rule of therapy is 'if it hurts, don't do it.'"

"I'll hold you to that, m--Shane."

"You're a quick study, Sy. I think you'll be alright. Looks like Heather's put some appointments in for you already. If any of them don't work, call us, and we'll try to get them swapped. I'd like to keep you on my schedule as much as possible, but if there's a conflict in your schedule, any of our therapists will be terrific. And I'll make sure they're looking at your chart and protocol thoroughly before seeing you."

"Sounds like a plan to me."

"Okay, I'm gonna print out your schedule for you, and a few exercise handouts I'd like you to work on, especially on days you don't come here. And I'll know if you don't do them, because you won't have improved…so, you better do them."

"Yes, ma'am." she half expected a salute. She rolled her eyes.

"Okay, maybe I'll give you three strikes on the ma'am thing."

"Baseball fan, too?"

"Not that three strikes is so obscure that I'd have to be to know it, but, yes! Major St. Louis Cardinals fan."

"I knew I was gonna like you from the start. Although, being brought up 'round Kansas City m'self, I'm more of a Royals fan."

"Hey, only time I don't root for KC is when they're playing my Redbirds. And even if my team loses to them, it hurts less than if they lose to, say…the Cubs." they shared a scowl of disdain for the Chicago team. "Although, I was happy for them and their fans when they won the series back in 16."

"Yeah, I guess we could afford to let them win one in a hundred years…I'm hoping their next one comes long after I'm in the ground." he chuckled.

"Can't have them getting a big head, can we?"

"Nope! Sure can't!" they both laughed at their mutual interest in dissing rival sports teams.

"Okay, I'll be right back with those handouts." she ran to the office all in one machine to grab the papers she'd printed for him, making sure they were all his and not another patient's. She put them in one of their folders and headed back to her room where he sat on the mat, waiting for her with a smile under his rather impressive beard.

"Before I let you out of here, what questions can I answer for you about what we did today?"

"Oh, uh, nothing comes to mind. You explained everything really well. Did you look at my schedule? Am I with you all the time?"

"Hmm, let's see here, looks like the next two, yes, but I'm off next week, so Heather put you with Jordan, which is what I asked her to do. You two will work great together and he's got a great instinct for injuries like this. And I'll talk to him before I leave. He's one of the best PTAs I've ever worked with, I promise."

"I guess, if you have to take a vacation. I'll see you next time though."

"I'm looking forward to it. That's when the real work will begin, Sy. And our number is on in this paperwork if you have questions, and I've put my card in here, too." they shook hands, and he grabbed the folder from her.

She saw him out of the room and into the lobby. She'd finished with him a bit early, but her next one was already waiting. She needed a break. To collect herself. To breathe.

"Jason! Hey! Go on and get on the recumbent bike, level two. Ride until I get there. We'll get a lot done today if you're already warmed up. I've got a note to finish. And then I'll be in. I should be 15 or less."

While the 19 year old with a torn meniscus hopped to her instructions, she went back to her computer to attempt to finish Sy's eval and pretend that she didn't already have a serious and intense crush on him. This was going to be a long twelve weeks…at least.

Up Next: Chapter Two-Therapeutic Procedure

#henry cavill #henry cavill fanfic #captain syverson #captain syverson fanfic #captain syverson x ofc #netflix sand castle #sand castle

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seven-oomen · 3 years

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The way I tend to be | The DILF Club

Happy Holidays to everyone! Have some delicious smut or our favorite DILFS, there's even some plot in this! Hope you like it because I have a universe thought out for this and if it does well, I'll share more!

It wasn’t doing as well on Ao3 as I was hoping for and I’m curious to see if it’ll do better here. If you enjoy it, please reblog, like, and/or comment on it. This is also a test to see if people still reblog fanfiction from me and if Once Upon a Time would do well on Tumblr. Which is my longest and most elaborate fanfic to date.

Fandom: Teen Wolf (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Chris Argent/Peter Hale/Sheriff Stilinski, Chris Argent/Peter Hale, Chris Argent/Sheriff Stilinski, Peter Hale/Sheriff Stilinski Characters: Chris Argent, Peter Hale, Sheriff Stilinski Additional Tags: Sheriff Stilinski's Name is Noah, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Porn with Feelings, Porn With Plot, Cabin Fic, trans chris argent, Bisexual Peter Hale, Alpha Peter Hale, Trans Male Character, Bisexual Sheriff Stilinski, Bisexual Chris Argent, Double Vaginal Penetration, Double Penetration, Breeding, Creampie, Unprotected Sex Series: Part 1 of The way I tend to be

Fate could be a very cruel mistress when she wanted to be. And often she came together with a little vicious thing called irony.

The last year had been crazy. He discovered werewolves, banshees, wendigos, and werecoyotes were real, and so was whatever Kira was supposed to be. Chris Argent, Allison’s father and Isaac’s foster father, turned out to be a hunter, and the little bane of his existence during his career as a deputy, a certain Peter Hale, turned out to be a werewolf. As was Peter’s nephew Derek and his niece Cora. He still couldn’t completely wrap his head around that one.

They’d fought together, protected the town together, and now protected their children together.

That didn’t always go well, of course. One of them was a hunter, the other a werewolf, and somehow he always found himself right in between the other two trying to break up their fights.

A lot, and a lot of therapy for all three of them, had fixed that for the most part.

Still, there were times when he really wished he could duct tape Peter to the ceiling, mostly because the man was still a delinquent with a golden tongue, but mostly just because he was annoying. At least the werewolf was now firmly on their side and had proven that by nearly dying for both the other adults and all of the kids on multiple occasions. He’d really turned a new leaf. Still annoying as fuck, don’t get him wrong. But at least not reprehensible.

It was Peter’s new loyalty and Chris’s new code that had led him to go along with them on this particular mission. A mission to find a lone werewolf kid causing trouble around Mount Shasta. Since it was only two hours from Beacon Hills, he’d agreed to go over with the other two.

Their cover?

They were the chaperons on a school field trip to go skiing on the mountain for a week. Which had been the luckiest of coincidences in the history of coincidences but he’d take it. And since Stiles, Mikey, Malia, Jackson, Isaac, and Allison were all going, well, the rest of that was history.

“Peter, I swear to god if I find your socks anywhere near my bed again I will throw you through this window myself!” Chris snapped, holding up a pair of light blue socks with pink flamingos on them.

Ah. So that’s where his socks had gone off too. He was wondering where’d he left them.

“Those aren’t mine!” Peter bit back, looking so insulted at the mere idea of having to wear said socks that he couldn’t help but be offended at his offense. “I would never wear those monstrosities!”

“Right, I just keep finding random people’s socks in my bed for the last three days…” Chris growled, “You expect me to believe that?”

He bit his lip, wondering if he should admit to being the culprit. Since he was the only other person who had a bed in this room he figured Chris would draw that conclusion as well. But apparently, the hunter really hadn’t considered it.

The werewolf cocked his head to the left and sneered. “I’m not the only one who has a bed here beside you.”

Those fierce blue eyes turned to him and he couldn’t help but smile awkwardly at the both of them. “Yeah, those are mine.”

Peter smirked triumphantly at Chris, his eyebrows raised in a clear; I told you so.

To his credit, Chris pursed his lips and wordlessly handed him the bunched up socks of the last few days. His silver-blue eyes lingering with something that wasn’t quite a glare, but the man wasn’t exactly happy with him either.

“Thank you.” He quickly put his runaway socks into his duffel bag and straightened out the covers on his bed to keep himself busy.

“You owe me an apology, Christopher…” Peter’s voice sang through the room and a glance found the hunter glaring back at the wolf.

“I’m sorry for blaming you immediately.” Chris sighed, straightening out his own bed before checking the equipment in his backpack.

“Thank you,” Peter turned back to him and stared at him rather expectantly. “Noah?”

He had to admit he felt a little bit guilty for what had happened. He sighed softly as he shoved his water bottle, his sleeping bag, and some provisions into his backpack, looking up at the wolf sheepishly. “I’m sorry Peter, I’ll uh-” His eyes flicked to an expectant looking Chris, “I’ll keep a better eye on my socks and speak up when you’re blamed again.”

The wolf smiled mischievously at his apology, his eyes flicking from Chris to himself for a brief moment. “Thank you, now we really need to talk about your fashion choices, because those socks-”

Chris’s laughter followed him out of the room as he grabbed his packed bag and his orange ski jacket and headed out the door.

The trek up the mountain was not an easy one and they only had until nightfall to explore the area. He pulled the black beanie further over his ears and his gloves on a little tighter and looked over his shoulder.

Chris walked ahead of him, his blue ski jacket standing out against the white snow, a red beanie pulled over his ears to keep him warm.

Peter brought up the rear, his red ski jacket and brown beanie complementing one another in a rather surprising way. But if anyone could pull it off, he supposed it was the wolf.

They pushed through the snow and the wind, hoisting backpacks up higher and threading on while trying to find one lonely werewolf kid who needed their help. The wind started picking up as the hours progressed and once the snow started coming down and whipped around them, he realized that they weren’t going to be able to get back any time soon.

With their sight blocked off by the sudden incoming storm and nowhere to huddle they had no other choice but to walk on. He could no longer see where he was walking, only saw the bright blue of Chris’s ski jacket in front of him and before he knew it, he was face down in the snow and heard someone yelling his name.

“Noah!”

Someone picked him up and he felt two gloved hands cup his face. It took him a moment to register that it was Peter who picked him up and was currently cradling his face. He wasn’t sure how the concerned look on Peter’s face made him feel.

It wasn’t necessarily a bad feeling, but it was one he hadn’t been expecting. It was warm and tingly. Peter’s blue eyes made him think of the ocean and moonlit beaches with a soft breeze and the soft calls of whales in the background-

“Noah… Are you still on this planet?”

Peter’s words pulled him out of his thoughts. “What?”

The wolf frowned at him and gently patted him over his body to check him for injuries. He swatted at the wolf’s hands to put a stop to it and pursed his lips. “I’m fine, but we need to get out of the cold.”

Peter raised an eyebrow but nodded in agreement, turning back to Chris who had come towards them. “We need to get out of this wind, find shelter!”

“I know!” Chris yelled back, trying to carry his voice over the roar of the wind. “I think I saw a cabin up ahead!”

Chris looped his arm over his left while Peter looped his through his right and together they started tracking up the slope. The silhouette of the cabin quickly came closer with every step and they quickly headed over. They had to let go of each other to walk up the porch and Chris tested the door. It was locked, of course.

“Shit.” Chris muttered, “Look around for a key, usually-”

He started looking under several pots next to the door and found a key under the second one. Though a loud bang told him that they would no longer need a key.

“Or we could kick in the door…” Chris sighed while Peter held the door open for them to let them in.

Chris went in first, drawing his gun from inside his jacket as he checked the cabin room for room. He followed after the hunter, trying to suppress his hands from shaking and his body from shivering as the cold started to set in around him. Some snow had gotten into his jacket when he’d face-planted into the ground and it was creating a wet spot on his clothes as his body heat caused it to melt. The water also cooled down his body, especially in these temperatures.

Peter brought up the rear once more, eyes glowing a bright red as he scanned their surroundings and scented the air. The wolf behind him relaxed after a few moments, closing the door behind him by propping a chair from the little kitchen under the handle so it stayed locked.

“Cabin’s empty.” Peter and Chris said in unison. They walked up to him, frowning as they noticed his shivering, though he was doing his best to suppress it. He felt Peter’s incredibly warm hand against his forehead and couldn’t help but lean into it. He wasn’t sure how hot Peter ran in general, but it was definitely a few degrees higher than Chris or himself. Right now, that was a very welcome feature of the werewolf.

“He’s colder than he should be,” Peter muttered, gently guiding him towards the large fireplace in the middle of the room. “Come on, let’s get you heated up.”

“Did his jacket rip?” Chris asked, looking around for paper, wood, and other items they could burn.

Peter patted him down, despite his best efforts to keep the wolf’s hands off him. Werewolf strength could be quite unfair and if he wasn’t so damn cold he would have complained about the little shit sitting him down and throwing his own red ski jacket over him.

“Doesn’t seem to be but the collar is all wet and against his skin, looks like snow got in.”

“Aren’t you gonna get cold?” He raised an eyebrow at the black sweater Peter was wearing but also pulled the jacket closer and breathed in the wolf’s scent.

“I run a hundred and two degrees on a normal day.” Peter smiled, his face illuminated by the first sparks of the fire that Chris got running. It gave him a warm… almost soft look.

“It’s a werewolf thing,” Chris added, “Their body heat is higher than ours, it protects them from hypothermia, aids in their immunity against disease as well. One of those unfair advantages.”

He chuckled in response, his shivering already dying down now that the heat from the fire picked up and he had an extra layer. “That so?”

Peter hummed in agreement. “As is our superior sense of fashion.”

“Even Derek?” He asked, earning a laugh from Chris.

Peter pursed his lips and squinted his eyes. “Derek’s the exception to that rule.”

A laugh escaped him as Peter sat down next to him, though the laugh died on his lips as he noticed the concerned look Peter was giving the fire. It sobered him up considerably, knowing what Peter had been through, how close he was now sitting to something that had hurt him so much.

“Are you okay?”

The softness of his voice must have drawn Chris’s attention as well as the hunter had turned to look at them, his brow furrowing as he watched Peter’s face carefully. “Peter?”

Chris sat down on his other side, keeping a close eye on Peter while pretending to stare at the fire. Still, he noticed how Chris’s hands twitched in his lap and his eyes kept flicking to the wolf.

For a moment it seemed like Peter was lost in thought, staring into the growing fire with widening eyes. He noticed the wolf’s breathing picking up and his shaking hands. He carefully reached out and laid his own hand on top of Peter’s, startling the other man.

“What?” Peter relaxed at his touch and leaned into him unconsciously. “Yeah, yeah I’m fine. It’s just-”

His eyes flicked back to the fire.

He didn’t have to say it out loud.

“Yeah,” He pulled Peter’s jacket closer and pulled his legs up to minimize the loss of warmth. “We can turn it down if you need that.”

Chris frowned at those words, eyes flicking from him to Peter, before slowly nodding in agreement. “It wouldn’t be ideal, but if it’s hurting you-”

“No.” Peter quickly interrupted him. “No, I’m fine. And you both need the fire. I just- I might need a distraction.”

“Distraction?” Chris raised an eyebrow at the word, earning a smirk from Peter in the process.

“Yes, the dictionary defines it as a thing that prevents someone from concentrating on something else. Or do you need a clearer definition, Christopher?”

“You don’t have to be a dick about it, Peter…” Chris looked down at his hands and shrugged. “We all have our own demons we want to forget.”

Peter went a little quiet at that, staring down at his feet while he scooted closer to him. “You’re right, it’s just-” His eyes flicked back to the fire.

“I get it…” Chris’s smile was soft as the hunter reached behind him to lay a hand on Peter’s shoulder.

It was nice, to be wedged between the two younger men and feel their warmth seep through him. He let himself lean back against Chris’s arm and laid his head on Peter’s shoulder. It just felt like the right thing to do in that moment. “It’s okay.” He whispered.

Chris frowned as he noticed the color difference of his gray sweater and trailed a hand over it, stopping at the collar as he felt the dampness. His warm hand trailed down over his collarbone and down his chest until he hit a dry spot. “You’re half soaked, we need to get that sweater off you and get you in something dry.”

He looked down at his body and froze. He didn’t show his bare chest to anyone. Ever. Even while sharing a room with the other two, he’d always gone to the bathroom to change. There were certain things he didn’t want anyone else to know, his past being one of them.

If anyone understands, it would be these two.

A little voice in his head told him. Yeah, it was right and he knew that. But what if they’d look at him differently?

Chris handed him a dark green sweater from his bag, having dragged said bag over with his foot, and gently started lifting his shirt. The hunter stopped after an inch and raised an eyebrow.

He was asking for permission.

He slowly shook his head. “I’ll do it.” And gently peeled the half wet garment from him and over his head. Constantly aware of what his aging body looked like. At fifty-three his best days had passed. He wasn’t as muscled as Peter or as lean and strong as Chris. His chest had a softness to it from all the fast food he’d been eating and he was showing his age with little marks, freckles, and the scars from years of abuse. The most obvious one being the scar on his left shoulder.

He paused for a second, jumping a little when Chris’s hand hovered over the scar. Though the hunter pulled away quickly and looked like he might apologize. Though the words seemed to get stuck in his throat.

“What happened?” It was Peter who broke the silence.

He wasn’t sure what he could say, felt tears prickling in his eyes and for a moment he heard his father’s booming vague voice ringing through his ears. “My father happened, he uhm, I didn’t let him hurt my mother,” He sighed, “and he pushed me through our coffee table.”

“Jesus…” Peter whispered, gently squeezing his right shoulder in comfort.

“I’m sorry…” Chris muttered, rubbing his own scarred hands in discomfort.

“We all have our own demons… Right?” He shrugged and put Chris’s green sweater on, quickly figuring out that the fit would work but was on the tight side as the edges of his sleeves stopped a little too high on the wrist. It was also a little on the short side at the middle.

He sighed. “At least it’s dry.”

Peter bit his lip and looked like he was having great difficulty with keeping his laughter contained. “It doesn’t look that bad…”

Chris wasn’t as kind and snorted before trying to cover it up with a cough.

He glared at the younger man but smiled after a minute or two. “Thank you, Chris.”

Chris let his eyes roam down and grinned. “You’re welcome.”

He laid his head back on Peter’s shoulder and pulled Chris closer for his warmth.

“So neither of you is going to distract me then?”

He didn’t know why he found that statement so funny but he couldn’t help but laugh at the annoyance in Peter’s voice. He felt Chris smile against his shoulder as the hunter laid his head down on it for a second.

“How do you propose we do that, Peter?” The hunter lifted his head and leaned in just a bit, just inches away from Peter’s face.

The wolf answered Chris with a smirk. Gently putting a finger under Chris’s chin to pull him closer. “I have an idea, it’ll also keep you both warm.”

“Will it now?” Chris’s smooth deep voice send a shiver down his spine and made his cock twitch. He swallowed rather heavily in response.

God, he wanted Chris to command him in that voice, to tell him to take off his clothes and put his ass up in the air and-

“I think someone likes the sound of that voice…” Peter purred into his ear, the wolf laid a finger under his chin and lifted his head to face Chris.

“Do it again.”

He stared into Chris’s silver-blue eyes, warmth traveling down his body and stirring in his loins as the hunter smiled deviously.

“Hmm, what do you think sheriff ?” Chris purred the last word, he couldn’t help the little sound of desperation that escaped him. A sound that he echoed as Peter leaned in and gently nipped at his ear.

“I think he hates it.” Peter grinned against his cheek and slowly started nipping his way down his jaw and to his neck. “I think he might want us to stop.”

The wolf paused and he growled in response, reaching behind him to cup the back of Peter’s head and pull him back down. “Don’t you dare, Peter.”

Peter laughed in response and gently pulled him into his lap before continuing his lovely assault on his neck. He moaned happily and wiggled a little to get more comfortable and rub his ass against the growing bulge beneath him. Peter’s laugh dissolved into a moan.

Chris smirked at them, slowly trailing his hands up Noah’s thighs though he stopped just short of his groin, a silent question in his eyes. He nodded enthusiastically, too occupied to answer due to Peter biting the sensitive skin at the nape of his neck without breaking it. “Fuck me…”

Peter paused in his marking efforts, growling into his ear as he forced him to focus on Chris by grabbing a hold of his jaw. He felt Peter’s nails gently scratching his skin. “Oh, I think Christopher might have a better idea.”

Chris’s hand traveled up and cupped his cock through his pants, gently rubbing and stimulating the hardening member. He in turn squirmed in Peter’s lap and felt the Alpha’s clothed cock press against the cleft of his ass.

“Does he now?” He moaned softly.

Chris scooted closer and placed a leg on each side of his lap, sharing a passionate kiss with Peter before he turned his focus back on Noah. Chris pulled him up a little by the collar of his borrowed sweater and for a moment he thought the younger man would kiss him as well. Chris leaned in but stopped just short and smiled. “I’m gonna ride you both at the same time.”

As hot as that sounded, his brain short-circuited for a moment. He paused and blinked, cocking his head to the left as he tried to figure out how exactly that was going to work. “How is that gonna fit, we don’t have lube.”

Chris chuckled in response and gently lifted Noah’s hands to cup his ass. “You’re just gonna have to get me wet enough.”

Wet enough? He was missing something here. Not that he was complaining, Chris’s ass was phenomenal.

Peter took pity on him. “I think he doesn’t know. Maybe you should show him.”

The absolutely feral grin Chris gave him made his breath stutter.

“Let’s have some fun then.”

He felt Peter smile against his neck, the Alpha going back to his assault to suck a few more hickeys into the sensitive skin. That was gonna be a bitch to hide from Stiles, Mikey, and Liam but considering that every touch sent electricity through his body, he wasn’t going to complain much.

Chris opened his own pants but didn’t slip them down. Instead, he zipped down Noah’s and continued his teasing touch.

A soft squeaky moan escaped him as Chris’s hand rubbed him through the fabric and slowly massaged him to a throbbing erection. Peter in the meantime had started rubbing himself against his ass while continuing his assault on his neck and even his shoulders. He was gonna be bruised and sore by tomorrow, that was for sure.

“He’s pretty when he’s marked up,” Chris commented as he slipped his hand inside Noah’s underwear and wrapped a hand around his hard cock. The other man stroked it slowly, keeping his touch light and gentle as he worked from the sensitive head to the base, and then slipped him out of his restraining clothes as he worked himself back up.

“Pretty down there too…” The hunter remarked, smiling as he studied Noah’s cock for a moment, fingers tracing over the thick veins down to his balls.

Peter let out a delighted moan behind him, one that he echoed as the wolf made him grind down on while Peter thrust up. It was a goddamn shame they didn’t have any lube because he really wanted that thick cock to wreck his ass right then and there. But Chris clearly had a different plan.

The hunter guided one of his left hand from its place on Chris’s ass up to his own mouth, offering him his own fingers with a firm. “Suck on them, get them wet.”

Processing that command took him a second but he caught on quickly and started sucking on his index and middle finger. Bobbing his head up and down and swirling his tongue around the digits until they were coated in his own saliva.

Chris gently pulled Noah’s fingers free after a few moments and guided his hand down Chris’s pants. His mouth opening in a little ‘O’ when his fingers didn’t brush over a hard cock but instead found soft curls and a wet cunt. Oh, that made a whole lot of sense. His cock twitched excitedly and he couldn’t help but grin and lick his lips as he slowly started rubbing the soft folds and sensitive clit. Using his wet fingers as lube to ease his way.

Chris’s breath hitched as he circled the sensitive little nub and applied varying amounts of pressure. He enthusiastically met him for a passionate kiss, causing Peter to groan, followed by a desperate moan once the wolf caught on what they were doing.

He heard a zipper behind him opening and felt the brush of Peter’s hand against his ass. Knowing Peter, he was practically drooling while jerking himself off as he watched them make out.

“Fuck that’s hot,” Peter whispered.

Chris grinned against his lips and leaned back, watching both of them with a hungry leer. The hunter leaned back and pulled away much to his dismay. His wet hand dropped to his side and he held it up to get a quick taste of Chris. He felt Peter practically vibrate behind him as he let out a hungry moan.

Chris came back quickly with one of the sleeping bags, zipped it open and laid it out on the floor before he took off his pants and commanded him in that silky voice, “Lay down on your back.”

The command made him shiver and he scrambled quickly to do the hunter’s bidding. Laying down on the sleeping bag. He was rewarded for his quick action by a gentle blow on his cock and the hunter’s questioning gaze.

“Please…” He begged softly, squirming at Chris’s burning look. God, he wanted Chris to ride em like he stole em and talk dirty to him until his toes curled and he came screaming their names. Judging by the hungry smile the hunter sent him in return, his fantasy might just be fulfilled tonight.

“Please what, sheriff ?” The hunter’s voice vibrated through him and he noticed Peter shuddering as well. The wolf’s breath ragged and his cock leaking precum.

“Oh for the love of God, Chris if you don’t start sucking me off-” He moaned as Chris licked a path from his balls to the tip of his cock before deep throating him in one smooth move, effectively cutting him off.

The hunter hollowed his cheeks and slowly worked his way up, making his toes curl as warmth exploded through him, and his heart hammered in his chest.

He felt Peter settle, one knee on each side of his head, and looked up to see the wolf was offering him his own hard member. He smirked and lapped at the leaking head, moaning at the slightly bitter but not unpleasant taste.

“Turn your ass around Chris I want to taste you,” Peter growled.

Chris demonstrated just how flexible he could be by putting a leg on either side of him and raising his hips in the air without hitting him in the process, his lips never leaving their attention to his cock.

Peter’s appreciative moan had him shivering in response. He continued his worship of the wolf’s member with short licks to the head and worked his way down to the heavy balls, taking each in his mouth and rolled it around on his tongue before working his way back up.

He heard Chris moan, long and filthy above him, and watched as Peter’s enthusiastic licking, sucking, and tongue fucking of Chris’s cunt was met with equal enthusiasm as Chris fucked the wolf’s face. He felt the hunter’s legs contract and shudder after a few minutes, gasps escaping Chris as he came hard on Peter’s tongue. He even felt some fluid hit him on the chin as the hunter squirted his juices over them, much to his surprise and Peter’s delight.

“I hoped you could still do that.” The Alpha growled, playfully biting Chris’s ass without breaking the skin and slapping his other cheek.

Chris pulled away from them and took a few strides and deep breaths to come down from his high. Then grinned and swayed his hips as he walked back to them and smoothly straddled him.

“Oh, I can do far more than that.” The hunter chuckled. “What do you say?”

He groaned softly and quickly nodded his consent. “Please…”

Peter growled in response, red eyes glowing as he walked around them to sink behind Chris. “Why don’t you ride us, sweetheart?”

Chris smirked in return. Gently grabbing a hold of his cock and guiding him into the hunter’s tight wet heat. He nearly came on the spot but managed to hold back just enough by focusing on a spot on the ceiling and letting out a slow breath to ground himself while Chris slowly got used to his length and girth. He wasn’t the biggest or thickest guy, and thankfully neither was Peter or this was never gonna fit, but neither of them were exactly small either and Chris would need to adjust to each of them.

After a moment or two, the hunter slowly raised himself and moved his hips in slow, long strokes until he slid in and out easily and Chris could pick up some pace. His toes started curling and the warmth in his belly started pooling slowly, gradually building with each thrust and stroke until Chris pulled up enough to keep only the tip of his cock in.

He hadn’t even noticed Peter coming closer until the wolf aligned the head of his cock against his own as he slowly pushed the first few inches into Chris’s cunt beside him.

“Fuck…” He moaned, eyes rolling back into his head as Chris slowly sank on both of their cocks. They rubbed together in the tight wet heat of Chris’s cunt and he could feel every pulse, throb, and twitch coming from the wolf’s cock.

Chris paused once he had them both down halfway, his chest heaving with every breath and a large grin on his face. The hunter leaned over him, sinking himself further on Noah’s cock but forcing Peter’s further out. Chris then grabbed his wrists and pinned them above his head, checking over his shoulder to see if Peter was on board, who grinned in return.

The moment Chris started moving, riding him like a prized stallion, Peter pushed his hips up every time Chris pushed down. Rubbing both their cocks together, lubed by Chris’s juices as the entire lengths met and rolled together with each thrust.

A string of moans and desperate little sounds left his throat as he surrendered to the warmth and feelings of pleasure that surged through him with every move. He felt it intensifying with each stroke, each move. Amplified by the wet sounds of Chris’s cunt and his little moans of pleasure, Peter’s growls and harder thrusts and by the twitching and throbbing of the wolf’s cock besides his own.

He managed to hold out for several minutes before his toes curled, his body convulsed and heat exploded in his loins. His cock twitched and pulsed as he came hard and in long spurts, while Chris continued to ride him and Peter continued to thrust in beside his twitching cock.

It didn’t take long for the wolf to let out a long moan and join him. Their cocks twitching and throbbing together as they came deep inside Chris and filled him with their cum. He felt Peter slump forward, held up by Chris as the wolf shuddered his last wave of ecstasy.

Chris continued to ride them, though the movement of his hips was greatly reduced due to Peter’s weight on his back. Milking them for every last drop they had. Only when they were spent and Peter was practically napping from exhaustion did he let them slip from him.

The hunter gently maneuvered Peter from his back to lay him down on Noah’s right, furthest away from the fire and rummaged through his own backpack for wet wipes to clean them up.

“Now that was a distraction.” Noah grinned, pleased when Chris winked at him.

It took a minute for Peter to come back to them with a dopey grin. Watching with interest as Chris did his best to clean them and himself from all traces of their fucking. Pouting a little as the hunter pushed out as much of their cum as he could and wiped it away.

“That’s a damn shame…” Peter muttered. “We tried so hard to breed you.”

Chris merely chuckled. “Wasn’t gonna work anyway, I’ve been on testosterone for sixteen years and have an IUD. The odds of you knocking me up are astronomical.”

He couldn’t help but frown at Chris’s words, for tempting fate was never a particularly good idea. But on the other hand, the hunter did have a point on how unlikely it would be. They weren’t the youngest, Chris was on hormones, and if he also had an IUD. What on Earth were the odds then? They couldn’t be high to begin with, even if in the best circumstances.

So he scoffed and pulled his pants back up. Peter did the same and Chris located his and put them on as well. Another sleeping bag was pulled from somewhere. His jacket was put up near the fire, on the back of a chair to dry further. And Chris laid down next to them on the sleeping bag to hunker down for the next few hours until the storm died down.

At least they were warm, comfortable, and utterly sated for now.

He dozed off knowing that their dynamic had shifted. Yes, he still wanted to duct tape Peter to the ceiling. And Chris could still be a jerk when he wanted to be. But at the very least, this was the start to a very fun beneficial rump for all three of them. Whatever else fate wanted to throw at them, they could only wait and see.

So what do we think? Do we want more of this universe? Do we want more DILF smut? More Chris/Peter/Noah?

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#teen wolf fanfiction #chris argent #peter hale #noah stilinski #sheriff stilinski #chris/peter/noah #the DILF club #lemons #trans character #bisexual characters #fanfiction #creativity he wrote #ben writes fanfiction

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dragonofthedepths · 3 years

Text

29/100 (29th of June 2021)

(29/100) Written/posted for the #100daysofwriting challenge by @the-wip-project

I spent several hours today filling out a survey on my fanfiction reading habits! This was not supposed to take several hours, but my inability to answer any free form question without writing multiple paragraphs dragged it out much longer than it was supposed to be! Considering that this was done around baking, having a friend over, and finishing a drawing that according to the timer on my art program took me a cumulative 22.5 hours to complete, I figured I would just copy and paste some of my more interesting answers here for today!

Here’s the link to the survey if you want to take it yourself, apparently it’s part of some kind of collage study:

https://robertgordonuniversity.onlinesurveys.ac.uk/fanfiction-questionnaire

Question:

What type(s) of library/libraries do you use? What activities or purposes do you use them for?

Answer:

The local library. I go there every now and then when I’m looking for an actual book to read, I usually have what I want already in mind, but might end up picking up something new from the same section if anything particularly catches my interest. Very occasionally I grab a few reference books, usually on things like religions that are harder to find a comprehensive reference for online beneath all the sensationalism and opinions.

I almost always spend at last a couple hours there, looking through my selection and reading a chapter or two. the only reason I’ll leave without sitting down and beginning at least one book is if I’m already late for something somewhere else.

Tldr: I use my local library, I do not go very often but I take my time when I do.

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Question (fanfiction.net):

If possible, please explain your typical process for finding fanfiction to read.

Answer:

Whenever I get interested in a new show I’ll latch on to a concept or particular character interaction eg. Villain!hero, ensemble finds out secret, character A needs a hug, character A adopted by character B, character C & character D friendship & hurt/comfort. Sometimes (especially if it’s a lesser known thing/has a small fandom) I’ll be as vague as favorite character, timetravel, wingfic, or soulmate AU. Whatever it is that I’ve latched onto, I’ll enter it into the search bar on whatever browser I’m using, and open whatever links look most appealing in a new tab, giving preference to stories from any website except Wattpad* over any king of collection, and links to Ao3 preference over links to anything else.

From there I work my way through everything that was offered, and as I do so I eventually come across new things that capture my interest, and —in general terms— follow them.

On ff.net I’ll follow the link back to the page for whatever franchise this is, then open the filter menu, select "all ratings" and begin using the filters to look for whatever character or pair of characters (seeing as looking for idea is not really possible on ff.net) interests me most in either the family, hurt/comfort, or angst genre depending on which has the most stories, unless one of them has stories in excess of 3 or 4 hundred, in which case I’ll pick whichever has the least stories. I’ll then go through the offerings, opening any story that look is interesting in a new tab. If I make it through all of that and somehow haven’t found something better to do on Ao3, then when I’m done I’ll go back to the genre filter and pick whichever had the middling number of stories, then after that the one on the opposite end of the spectrum from most to least. If at any point I’m offered more than 1,000 stories I’ll add additional filters until the results drop below 1,000, because I am not dealing with slogging through that much ff.net at once. If there is that much written for whatever I’m looking for, then either there’s some on Ao3 and I can leave, or I’m actually looking for something more specific and was just over-estimating how vague I’d need to be to get results at all. This is very methodical probably because I do not like this site and am putting up with it only to find what I’m currently looking for, I never get new ideas prompted to me or am enticed to wander off the beaten track. I don’t use ff.net very often, though still more often then I go to the library.

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Question:

Are there any search features or filters you wish fanfiction.net had for readers and searchers?

Answer:

Fanfiction.net is not a functional website, it’s a particularly shitty ghost town that is actively crumbling to pieces around its few remaining inhabitants. I it’s a hassle to read on and I only do so because I’m a fan of rare pairs, and have to take anything I can get, and because I’m a fan of a particular kind of low-brow overpowered-hero fanfiction that tends to be more common there then on Ao3 or Tumblr.

I wish it didn’t have adds in the middle of a page, every time I hit next chapter, ect.

I wish it didn’t have pointless captchas every time I start a new session.

I wish it had a visually pleasant format for presenting the stories for you to select from. Whether they’re search bar results, the results of a filter search, stories in a collection, or stories on an author’s page. It’s the same aggressively bad format and makes it hard to tell them apart from eachother and hard to pick which one(s) I want.

I wish stories could have longer summaries. They are so short that it forces everyone to sound same-y and rushed, and if an author want to include trigger warnings they have to be even shorter.

I wish there was a way to exclude/search/mark trigger warnings.

I wish you could select more than four characters in the filters, I wish authors could TAG more than four characters.

I wish there was a way to search/mark platonic relationships instead of only romantic.

I wish there was a way to search/mark a single character in multiple separate relationships eg. [A/B] and [A/C]

I wish there was a way to search for certain tropes or cliches without relying on pure hope that either the author used part of their limited summary space to mention it, or that someone else already made a collection for that trope and managed to find at least a few (they never have all) of the fics containing it.

I wish you could copy and paste the text without having to switch to the mobile version of the website. I don’t personally know why you can’t do this on desktop but I’ve heard other people say it’s because it’s actually generated as a pdf instead of genuine text.

I wish there was a way to open the whole story in one tab instead of being forced to go through it other by chapter.

I wish there was a way for authors to include author’s notes without it being part of the chapter.

I wish there was a way for authors to respond to comments without doing so in the author’s notes.

I wish the formatting wasn’t so aggressively bad as to be actively harming the quality of the story. I have found stories that were posted on both Ao3 and ff.net and read them on both websites, no differences in text, in punctuation, in anything at all, but on Ao3 it flowed much better, was much easier to read, and I’d have given a higher estimation of the author’s skill level if asked. All because it wasn’t actively being dragged down by ff.net’s formatting.

There are probably a fair few more things that I’m just not managing to think of at the moment, but considering there’s no way ff.net will ever be fixed and is in fact very likely to completely implode and die in the near future, I think this is good enough.

Sorry for the essays every time I’m allowed to write an answer but you’re asking loaded questions.

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Question (Ao3):

If possible, please explain your typical process for finding fanfiction to read.

Answer:

From there I work my way through everything that was offered, and as I do so I eventually come across new things that capture my interest, and —in general terms— follow them.

On Ao3 I’ll head back up to the top of a fic I really enjoyed and click on the tag for whatever little bit of it I enjoyed the most, and begin browsing again from there, refining with filters and following links and tags from new stories.

I will filter out reader inserts, original characters, y/n, or notps if I keep seeing too many of them in my results, but otherwise I’ll just scroll past them. Sometimes if I’ve been reading for a specific idea for a while I’ll sort by word count and begin going through it from least to most to see if there’s anything I’ve been missing because it’s not been updated recently. And sometimes if I feel like reading fanfiction but don’t have anything particular in mind I’ll just head to the Ao3 page for the main character (more reliable then a fandom tag, if a franchise exists in multiple forms of media they’ll usually each have their own tag the fanfiction will be scattered accordingly) of one of the bigger fandoms I’m in and start trawling the page for anything that looks interesting.

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Question:

Please use the box below to write any thoughts or opinions on this questionnaire or the subjects within it that you did not get the chance to share.

Answer:

On how I find fanfiction to read on websites that are not ff.net or Ao3, copy-pasted from the original all-encompassing answer I wrote before I realized you were looking for answers only about the website you’d just been talking about:

Wattpad (which I did not select when asked what websites I search for fanfiction on because I never willingly go looking there I just end up on it sometimes to my great frustration.):

Whatever idea it is that I’ve latched onto, I’ll enter it into the search bar on whatever browser I’m using, and open whatever links look most appealing in a new tab, giving preference to stories from any website except Wattpad* preference over tags or other collections, and links to Ao3 preference over links to anything else.

(*If links to Wattpad make it onto the first page of results, I’ll take whatever meager scrapings I was offer from other websites, then give up the search as a lost cause and pick a new idea as a I mourn the lack of the content I want to read. Only if I am already very attached to an idea and very desperate will I follow a link to wattpad. That website is the only one I have ever encountered worse then ff.net and it is an absolute unnavigable MESS.)

Tumblr:

If I’m on tumblr (mobile, I’ve never used tumblr on the computer but I don’t think it works the same) then once I find one thing to read that I like, I’ll begin tapping my way through the suggested posts on the bottom based on whatever looks the most interesting from what little I get to see of it. Sometimes I’ll end up on a specific blog or a specific tag, and I’ll just scroll through reading anything that looks even mildly cool regardless of whether it has anything to do with what I was originally searching for or not, until I click on a specific post for some reason (usually a “read more“), and then I’m back to navigating by suggested posts again. I tend to wander through fandoms and subfandoms a lot faster here, trading one interesting idea for the next as they’re presented to me. It’s a lot of fun and I sometimes discover completely new stuff! I’ll often end up following Authors I really like so that their stuff will end up in my feed, and this is really the only site on which I do that.

Just another couple comments on my general media consumption habits that I didn’t really see anywhere else to put:

Everything I stated about my fanfiction habits when getting into a new show applied if it’s a movie or book or game too, it’s just that 90% of the time it’s a show. My favorite movies are documentaries so I’m not sure what fanfiction for them would even look like, I prefer video essays and theories for games, and I just don’t read as many books as I used to. About half of the remaining 10% of the time is actually probably musicals.

It’s not unusual for me to have seen only three or so episodes of a show, but to have read insane amounts of fanfiction for it. I have difficulty sitting down to actually watch a show, and I usually only expend the effort for my absolute favorite series, so most of my interaction with most shows ends up being fanfiction. Getting into a new show because I came across some really good fanfiction for it is not uncommon either.

#100daysofwriting #how do I tag this #scribblings from the deep #I guess #fix tags later

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lcnguor · 4 years

Text

THE MEGA RP PLOTTING SHEET / MEME.

First and foremost, recall that no one is perfect, we all have witnessed some plotting once which did not went too well, be it because of us or our partner. So here have this, which may help for future plotting. It’s a lot! Yes, but perhaps give your partners some insight? Anyway BOLD what fully applies, italicize if only somewhat.

Mun Name: Mik Age: 26 Contact: IM, discord, smoke signal, whatever.

Character(s) I rp: Nora, Spike. Which muse(s) inspires you the most atm?(for MM): Nora, most likely Current Fandom(s): Fandomless Fandom(s) you have an AU for: pretty much everything I find around and hop on. My language(s): spanish, english. Themes I’m interested in for rp: Fantasy / Science fiction / Horror / Western / Romance / Thriller / Mystery / Dystopia / Adventure / Modern / Erotic / Crime / Mythology / Classic / History / Renaissance / Medieval / Ancient / War / Family / Politics / Religion / School / Adulthood / Childhood / Apocalyptic / Gods / Sport / Music / Science / Fights / Angst / Smut / Drama / etc. Themes/Genres you have an AU for: modern without supernatural, I do have some fantasy set up but eh.

Preferred Thread length: one-liner / 1 para / 2 para / 3+ / novella. Asks can be send by: Mutuals / Non-Mutuals / Personals / Anons. Can Asks be continued?: YES / NO only by Mutuals?: YES / NO. Preferred thread type: crack / casual nothing too deep / serious / deep as heck. Is realism / research important for you in certain themes?: YES / NO. Are you atm open for new plots?: YES / NO / DEPENDS. Do you handle your draft / ask - count well?: YES / NO / SOMEWHAT. How long do you usually take to reply?: 24h / 1 week / 2 weeks / 3+ / months / years. I’m okay with interacting: original characters / a relative of my character (an oc) / duplicates / my fandom / crossovers / multi-muses / self-inserts / people with no AU verse for my fandom / canon-divergent portrayals / au-versions (as main or only verse). Do you post more ic or occ?: IC / OOC. Are you selective with following others?: YES / NO / DEPENDS.

Best ways to approach you for rp/plotting: ask, IM, discord, singing telegram, smoke signals, messeger pidgeos -- whatever dude. I will most likely talk and ramble a lot, I do like plotting and I squeeze my brains out to think in ways to rp with ppl. and I really suck at approaching others. really...

What expectations do you hold towards your plotting partner: Ideas and somewhat more enthusiasm than me. I tend to shy away or feel very much awkward right off the bat if the person approaches me with not much to say or give. And honestly, some people really intimidate me because I am too hard on myself, so giving a bit of a pat on the back makes me relax more. I deal with a lot of anxiety and I know people run away the second I show it.

When you notice the plotting is rather one-sided, what do you do?: Mostly when I am doing the talk or coming with ideas or looking generally more interested. It takes effort for me to get on things and actually do stuff but if it’s not the other way around I end up thinking they got bored of me. I am one hell of insecure person. As for what I do, if after many tries of trying to reach another person and end up feeling rejected or ignored, then ... I stop. What’s the point of insisting if the other person would just be awkward or not spare you a word?

How do you usually plot with others, do you give input or leave most work towards your partner?: well, I usually ask first what the other thinks or have in mind, if nothing, I either suggest or start brainstorming with the other person. I know some who have dealt with me at first I seem like a dettached person but not having ideas really makes me feel like I have not much right to talk. I want to give yet without impossing or letting it twist my arm. I know for a fact nora’s lore really doesn’t help shit for most things.

When a partner drops the thread, do you wish to know?: YES / NO / DEPENDS. - And why?: if the thread was meaningful and we were really into it , then I would ask but as for the most, I don’t really bother with it. Sometimes people just lose muse, and even if I was enjoying it, I don’t have the right to force someone or ask why they stopped. thread dropping is normal, i guess. - What should your partner do when dropping a thread?: whatever they want. telling me or not is up to them, I don’t really mind. RP is not something SUPER serious like it should be just perfect. I try to convice myself of this a lot.

What could possibly lead you to drop a thread?: either because it was old as fuck, I couldn’t find muse or because it was lost in the void of tumblr’s amazing tracking system. - Will you tell your partner?: YES / NO / DEPENDS.

Is communication in the rpc important to you? YES / NO. - And why?: if I do not have some idea of who am i rping with and what they have in mind, then it’s nearly impossible. being purely IC is really uncomfortable and could lead to a lot of misundertandings. - Are you okay with absolute honesty, even if it may means hearing something negative about you and/or portrayal?: yeah. mostly yeah -- I mean, I will feel bad, I do have feelings, but I will take it with water. - Do you think you can handle such situation in a mature way? YES ( but I will feel bad anyways ) / NO.

Why do you rp again, is there a goal?: connect with others, ramble a lot about characters, have fun. I’ve been rping since i was 12 ( back then it was not big deal your age apparently ) and having to connect with other people by making these plots and stories and just having a fun time is something that brings me joy. There’s so much that can be done. And exploring my muses with other muses influences is really helpful to fill the holes left due indecisiveness.

Wishlist, be it plots or scenarios: I wish people joined my lore more. Having muses that could be in the same story department as Nora in particular, would be hella and inspire me more. There is so much I have. Explore nora’s power is also something I want but it’s hard -- it’s very invasive and not many would really like it, feeling it’s meta. For now, I don’t really have other muses and Spike has her little crew outside tumblr.

Themes I won’t ever rp / explore: umm, it’s hard to think in something in particular. But mostly stuff that collides with nora’s story/character. but there is a lot I am willing to explore.

What Type of Starters do you prefer / dislike, can’t work with?: casual starters are my fab. It’s easier to figure out how to go or stop and think. plotted ones also work. as for what I dislike or cannot work with, things that force my muse to not act how they would? not giving me something solid is hard to handle.

What type of characters catch your interest the most?: I really like out of the norm muses, something that you see and say /oh , look at that/. Aesthetically, story wise or personality wise, something that goes out the usual troup most would use. I do have a guilty pleasure for opposite to my muse characters --- something that would really show the contrast with one another.

What type of characters catch your interest the least?: Very basic ones? or those who try TOO hard to be special. A character that doesn’t fit in the context they are in, esp. in fandoms. HEAVILY divergent characters that just basically turn them into OCs. I know I sound like a bitch but I am the type who respect canon and the actual author behind the character too much. Also those that I don’t know much about? as in, the fandom never managed to catch my interest or smth in that line.

What are your strong aspects as rp partner?: I know where is the line between fiction and reality. And that what your character does it does not reflect as the person you actually are. I am pretty laid back and I understand people’s views and reasoning. idk. I draw a lot if I am super invested ?

What are your weak aspects as rp partner?: I am super sporadic and can go from being super active to flat out dead for weeks. my mood swings a lot with the amount of attention I get, as horrible as it sounds. I am very anxious as a person for reasons ( not IRL mostly, just bad experience from previous partners ). I promise a lot but do little? honestly I will just bad mouth myself if I keep writing this.

Do you rp smut?: YES ( tho mostly on discord ) / NO. Do you prefer to go into detail?: YES / NO / DEPENDS. Are you okay with black curtain?: YES / NO. - When do you rp smut? More out of fun or character development?: both? - Anything you would not want to rp there?: ehhhh, idk -- i don’t do as much to know what I don’t like here.

Are ships important to you?: YES / NO / RELATIVE. Would you say your blog is ship-focused?: YES / NO. Do you use read more?: YES / NO / SOMETIMES. Are you: Multi-Ship / Single-Ship / Dual-Ship — Multiverse / Singleverse. - What do you love to explore the most in your ships?: the very nature of human relations. I am talking about Nora big time here -- there is a lot to explore in her relations and how she reacts and acts towards someone is very very contextual. How much she fakes, how much she is sincere, how much she struggles or how relaxed can be. force her to show her real self, which is very hazy even for her as a task. Be very poetic deep and also very shallow. I particulary see her as a character that REALLY depends on her relation with the other muse -- but generally speaking for any of my muses: I love to explore them as a pair and as individuals. - What is your smut tag?: the unfamily friendly. ( new tag (?))

Are you okay with pre-established relationships?: YES / NO. - And what kind of ones?: Anything? I am open to anything honestly. As long as it makes sense.

► SECTION ABOUT YOUR MUSE.

- What could possibly make your Muse interesting towards others, why should they rp with this particular character of yours now, what possible plots do they offer?: Anyone who is denying their feelings, are peculiar as an individual or anyone who needs an insight of themselves and the world around them. Nora is a mentor type of character, she is here to be a support and help others explore themselves and learn. Also if you are a minor, she will most likely try to get close to help -- one must protect the good sad kids.

- With what type of Muses do you usually struggle to rp with?: Stubborn, very fixated with things. Who would not open themselves to other perspective without thinking someone is trying to change them. Also she would struggle a heck lot with psychopaths and sociopaths, or anyone that “doesn’t have a face” for her. - With what type of Muses do they usually work well with?: Curious people, struggling ones, kids in general -- people that are willing to listen to her opinions and try to improve in a positive way. Also those who are quirky in a way.

- What interests your Muse(s) in general: rabbits, literature, interesting people, the unknown, learning, relationships of all natures. - What do they desire, is their goal?: Live long without letting her particularity ruin her -- for her kind nobody makes it past the 50s and she wants that , to conquer her ability and prove that even with something like she is ( they are ), it’s posible to live and be happy. have a family of her own, yeah she is that cheesy. - What catches their interest first when meeting someone new?: Their actions and the emotions that they are carrying on their back. - What do they value in a person?: sincerity, willingness, enthusiasm. - What themes do they like talking about?: a lot of phylosophic stuff, deep topics -- as well to casual things of life. about people and society. - Which themes bore them?: excuses and avoidance -- people who are willing to drop everything and give up.

- Did they ever went through something traumatic?: the attempt of suicide of her mother. and the successfull suicide of many of her peers. - What could possibly trigger them?: any sort of threat or violence towards someone who does not asked for it. esp. her peers and family. - What could set them off, enrage them?: Immoral ones. Those who are willing to stomp on others just to success in their goal. - What could lead to an instant kill?: is not killing, but touch a hair of her family and you are done. same for her friends and protegees.

- Is there someone /-thing they hate?: gorgers, suicide, her tired face. - Is there someone /-thing they love?: her family and dear ones --- to a fault. rabbits or anything related to it.

Is your Muse easy to approach?: YES / NO. - Best ways to approach them?: any way is okay as long as is not threatening. - Where are they usually to find?: during the night, in the streets -- during the day is either her workplace or her house. maybe a park near her apartment/location if she is feeling stuffy.

Something you may still want to point out about your muse?: she is not a good person , she is willing to manipulate people and is constantly trying to impose her morals. but she is also very sensitive even if she doesn’t show it --- Nora does look tired for a reason , and one of them is because she cries a lot .

CONGRATS!!! You managed it, now tag your mutuals! ♥

Tagged by: @skyvar Tagging: @batoushoujo , @obtainedloss , @lorddiiavolo , @evanesense , @sunpierce , @necrotrigae , @maljefe , @ethaeria , @calpio , @veiliisms

#mik talks #ᴍᴜɴᴅᴀɴᴇ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛs » misc.

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dearlazerbunny · 5 years

Text

Lie to Me (Ch. 15 of 28)

Pairings: Loki x Reader

Genre/Ratings: M eventually (aiming for a slow burn here); warnings for kidnapping and subsequent anxiety/PTSD (will be marked before every chapter)

Words: 1900

Summary: If you had to guess what the captured, traitor, trickster god Loki Laufeyson wanted or needed at this moment, a babysitter would be far, far down on the list. (Set after the events of Avengers 1.)

SHOUTOUT TO @molmcb and @jessiejunebug, who are the best goddamn ego boosters a girl could ask for

Requested Tags: @deraniel, @iamverity, @yasnooshka24, @wegingerangelica, @themusingsofmany, @dark-night-sky-99, @tarynkauai, @stuffandstuff-stuff, @angelicshinigami, @my-current-fandom-is, @geekysimmerthings

((So because I don’t know how to use tumblr I JUST realized that copying and pasting tags doesn’t automatically make them active... to my requested tag list, I am SO SORRY! Please forgive me! Also, surprise! Now you have a lot to binge read!))

On the fourth day you fail to visit, Loki lets himself begin to worry.

He wasn’t expecting you back right away, not after admitting just how much of a monster he actually is. But he’s come to have faith in you, to the point where even if you are going to reject him for his crimes- he wouldn’t blame you if you did- he thinks you’d at least do him the courtesy of telling him. So the first day of your absence, he waits, trying to ignore the anxiety in his chest. The second day is spent in self-loathing; the third, hating the universe at large with more viciousness than usual. But the fourth… that’s when he lets a few tendrils of doubt creep into his brain. But not about your potential sudden change of heart- no. That doesn’t sit right with him.

It’s nothing. Most likely, you’ve left, just like everyone else, once realizing the depths of the horror of the man standing in front of you. Most likely, you’re moving on with your life without involving yourself with the villain. Most likely…

Then why does he still feel uneasy?

He glances where he knows a camera is positioned, tucked into the ceiling’s seams. How closely he’s being monitored, he’s never figured out, but he has an inkling that he could hang himself by his hair and no one would bother trying to stop him. So how to get their attention? He has little magic at his disposal, not enough to conjure anything disturbing, and his cell is lacking anything remotely useful.

With a sigh, he hefts his cuffs, twisting his wrists nervously in their prisons, unsure of so many things. Using as much strength as he can gather, the manacles are hurled at the glass barrier with enough force to make his bones ache and his teeth clench.

This may take a while.

Thor has never liked scavenger hunts- he lacks the brains for riddles his brother so gleefully loves- but a chase without clues is proving even more frustrating. Every inquiry about your whereabouts is met with indifference or confusion, and his visit to your offices was fruitless, as your colleagues don’t seem capable of anything but stuttering and terror in his presence. It is quite annoying. Why Loki prefers to rule through fear he will never know.

Loki. He sees you every day, from what little he can gather- no doubt he knows of your wellbeing. But he is not allowed passage into his brother’s cell…

“Thor.” A woman’s sharp voice cuts through his thoughts. “What the hell is your brother playing at?”

Ah. Very occasionally, fortune does favor him.

Maria Hill stands tapping a brisk toe. “He’s been intent on breaking out for the better part of three hours now. Can you please go talk sense into him? If there’s any sense there to reason with,” she mutters under her breath.

“Of course. Please, lead the way.”

In the depths of SHEILD, locked behind glass, stripped of his grandeur and posturing, Loki looks more himself than he has in a long time. Thor watches the muscles in his shoulders grind to a halt as he abandons his latest attempt at what looks to be smashing his handcuffs against the barrier. Neither the glass or the manacles are any worse for wear, from what Thor can see, but his brother is noticeably exhausted.

“Thor.” The relief in Loki’s voice is palpable. “You came.”

A small spark of happiness flares in Thor’s chest. When was the last time his brother welcomed his presence? “You wished me to?”

“Obviously.” Loki sets himself down on his cot. His hands rest in his lap, and raw rings of skin peek out from underneath his bindings. “Where is Y/N?”

For a moment, Thor only blinks. “The lady Y/N? Have you not seen her? I wished to ask you the same.”

A dark shadow passes over his face. “No. I have not.”

Maria is looking between the two gods impatiently, clearly not following the conversation. “Y/N? Who are we talking about?”

Something low grumbles in the back of Loki’s throat. “Y/N Y/L/N. An archivist under your employ. She has been- assigned to me, for however long I have been in SHIELD’s grip now.”

Her eyes widen just a hint. “You’re pitching a fit about your babysitter? Is she even still still here? I would’ve thought you’d have run her into the ground a month in.” The incredulousness in her voice makes both Thor and Loki bristle.

“You do not keep count of those under your care?” Thor asks.

“We keep track of the important ones.” When the atmosphere of the room dampens to the point of stifling at the clench of Loki’s fists and the stretching of Thor’s shoulders, Maria backtracks. “I mean- okay. Get to the point. Why are you worried about her?”

“She has been absent for the better part of four days now,” Loki grinds out from clenched teeth. “And such behavior is… unusual.”

“Aye.” Thor nods. “It is unlike her to remove herself from Loki’s side for so long.”

“Okay- okay.” The agent rubs her temples briefly. Her migraine isn’t getting any better. “I have two semi-immortal beings worried about someone we hired a year ago on a lark. Wonderful. You realize she’s just on vacation or something?”

Loki looks to Thor with a glance that clearly communicates everything he isn’t voicing. “Perhaps I could verify her whereabouts,” Thor says casually, unwilling to alert Hill to his brother’s turmoil. “To ease his mind, if nothing else.”

She sighs. “If it’ll get him to calm down, fine. Go find Stark, he’s been fiddling with the security system anyways.” She leaves mumbling something under her breath, shaking her head and looking like she needs a very strong drink.

Once she’s gone, Loki visibly deflates. “Thor-”

He holds out a hand. “I will investigate the matter,” he says calmly. “I am sure she is fine, brother.”

Loki nods. “Just- be certain.”

It strikes Thor, in that moment, that as meaningful as you are to himself, he has not begun to scratch the surface on your worth to his brother.

Stark is, as predicted, sequestered into a room full of glowing screens, his attention on all of them at once. “Sparky the Hammer-Bro. What can I do for you?”

Thor lets his eyes rove over rows of code, none of which he understands. “I need to view security recordings. The Agent Hill said you may help.”

“Uuuuuuuuuuuumsure.” The genius waves a hand, dismissing several rows of numbers. “Anything in particular?”

“Five days ago, roughly. As for what I seek- I believe I will know when I see it.”

Stark raises an eyebrow. “Cryptic. Fun times! Uno momento, por favor.” One by one, computer screens are filled with a past SHIELD, going about its business. It could be any given day- agents roam, papers filed, choice global secrets exposed and others hidden. But Thor zeroes in on the one displaying you and his brother, in some sort of tense conversation. Loki lashes out, and you reply with remarkable composure- enough to apparently reassure him you aren’t going anywhere. In his head, Thor adjusts every opinion of you he’s ever had.

You talk for a while more, underscored by Stark’s idle whistling from the corner. You leave, bag tucked under your arm, and say goodbye to a scant few colleagues. Outside, a car pulls up in front of you, and you go to open the door- only, it’s opened for you, by gloved hands belonging to an unseen being. While they grab you by the arms, another man in a suit is busy administering a blunt object to the back of your skull. You crumple into the waiting vehicle. The door is shut. It pulls smoothly away from the curb, as though you were never there at all.

To Thor’s right, static electricity shorts out a bank of monitors.

And now Tony is talking, leaning in to examine the footage- “Who- wait, isn’t that your brother’s pet? What the hell-?” But Thor is already gone, hurrying in a way that magically clears everyone from his path before he even arrives. Every thud of his heel echoes a crisp and succinct no, no, no, no, no, no

Loki has been pacing, but he pauses to turn his sharp gaze on his brother. “Well?” Thor can’t even open his mouth before green eyes turn deadly. “No.”

Thor’s mouth is suddenly dry. “Brother-”

There’s an inferno behind Loki’s voice, one that Thor has only ever seen herald destruction. “Bring me the director. Now.”

X “Let me get this straight,” Fury drawls slowly, in an obvious effort to try his prisoner’s patience. Even Thor is having to keep his fingers from curling into fists. “Your babysitter- who has apparently stuck around for the last ten months, even though by all accounts she should have run screaming from the room- has been kidnapped by a mysterious force, and you want me to release you in order to go on a harebrained rescue. Unchaperoned.”

“Yes.”

Fury snorts. “No.”

“I would be with him,” Thor argues, “and I would not let him-”

“-escape off-world with his magic in tow? Pardon me if I’m not inclined to believe you.”

“You don’t understand!” Loki looks incredibly close to breaking something, and for the sake of their argument, Thor very much hopes he doesn’t. “She is in peril and you would sit back and do nothing-”

The director holds up a hand as the door opens and Hill slips in, holding printed camera stills. “HYDRA, most likely,” she says, pointing out various details in each photo to her boss. “Why they’d target her I have no idea.”

Fury sighs. “Fantastic. Let me ask you something, Mister mortals-are-ants-beneath-my-boot. Why the hell do you care?”

Too many thoughts to count flit across Loki’s face, and Thor has had a thousand years to catalogue every one of his brother’s expressions. “Is it not enough that I simply do?” Loki asks, apparently at a loss for words, and Thor can’t help but notice everything he isn’t saying in that one question.

“I’ll tell you everything,” he continues, almost vibrating with desperation. “Everything you want to know, that is in my power to tell. I swear it.”

Fury’s eyes narrow. “The Chitauri? The Tesseract?”

“Yes.”

A pause. “Deal.”

Maria startles. “Nick-”

“No, Hill, don’t start with me, not now.” He nods at Loki’s cell. “If you would.”

Maria unlocks Loki’s cell and releases his manacles with the grace and poise of someone who has a revolver trained at her temple. Once his hands are free, she tenses, as though expecting a quick death- but he simply rubs his wrists, in the places they bleed slightly.

“You’re insane,” she says as Fury leads her out of the room, not bothering to lower her voice.

“Insane saved the world, once,” he shoots back. “How much worse can this be?”

“I can think of a few-”

The door closes behind them.

The two gods look at each other. “Four days is a long time,” Thor says softly, unnecessarily stating the obvious. “I would not even know where to look. Perhaps the captain would know-”

He stops as a rage of green flares up to Loki’s elbows, mirroring the fire that has suddenly blazed to life in his eyes. His voice is haunted by things unknown- “I have her.”

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queen-scribbles · 4 years

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2019 in Fic

Another tag from @starsandskies, just gonna open tag bc this one’s been sitting a while

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Favorite fic you wrote this year: Oh no, don’t make me choose. This was a really good year for me, writing-wise, and I have a lot I’m proud of and love... HELP. nnnnnn. Here, top three, bc I really can’t pick:

Tension(KotOR II; f!Exile/Atton sparring fic)

Certain as the Sun(Pillars of Eternity; Edér/Charity(OC) ultra fluffy wedding fic)

Drifting Roads(Dragon Age: Inquisition; Inquisitor!Jowan Fade adventure/self-worth wrestling)

Least favorite fic you wrote this year: A Little Excitement(PoE; Hirvaias & OC). Nothing wrong with it, I just really struggle with Hiravias’ voice, so I feel like it could be better but Idk how? That sort of thing

Favorite line/scene you wrote this year: UM. Dear God. I can’t pick a favorite fic and I’m supposed to pick just one line or scene? HOW. There’s the Ederity wedding, (also their flirting banter in the modern AU), Tavi and Khellin’s reunion. Mallory giving Felix a bloody nose for all of five seconds. Jonas and Bry making use of the Kissing as Cover trope. Levyn(Jowan)’s conversation with Trinne in the Fade--

OH. OH I KNOW. Jaaide’s breaking point in Cracks.

“And if I had? If I’d opted for directness over subtlety and still failed to sway her, would my hands be clean enough for you?!”

Total number of words you wrote this year: I didn’t keep track, but estimating between my AO3 stats page and short stuff I didn’t cross post to there... around 300k? HOLY MOTHERFORKING COW. THAT’S A NOVEL. I WROTE A LONG ASS NOVEL WORTH OF FANFIC LAST YEAR WTF

Most popular fic this year: A Good Story(DA:I, Varric PoV on writing Sebastian re: Hawke’s death during HLtA.) It somehow broke 100 notes and I’m still mildly stunned by that fact. :P

Least popular fic this year: Late Night Honesty(The Wayhaven Chronicles) only has three notes.

Longest completed fic you wrote this year: Drifting Roads is just over 20k

Shortest completed fic you wrote this year: If prompt fills count, this one. Otherwise it’s A Good Story(418).

Longest WIP of the year: Of Wardens & Pariahs(Dragon Age:Origins; Joined Canon AU for my Amell and a friend’s Cousland) is up to 150k now.

Shortest WIP of the year: If you mean started this year, I don’t have any; all my WIPs are holdovers from 2018.

Favorite character to write about this year: Okay, much as I love writing Jowan and Jonas and Edér and Sagani etc etc, this HANDS DOWN goes to Felix Hauville from The Wayhaven Chronicles.He’s a sheer joy and I love him.

Favorite writing song/artist/album of this year: Lindsey Stirling + The Witcher 3 OST

A fic you didn’t expect to write: Aside from all the Wayhaven stuff(I didn’t even play it until November), A Good Story. My feelings on Varric are /cough complicated and less positive than 99% of the DA fandom, so I never expected to write anything from his PoV.

Fic(s) you completed this year: Um. A lot. Look, it takes 9 1/2 pages of my tag.

Fics you’ll continue next year: Of Wardens and Pariahs

Current number of WIPs: four or five? A couple of those I started in January, though, so they’re technically 2020.

Any new fics to start next year: Mass Effect Holiday Harbinger fic, MORE WAYHAVEN FIC(esp. my f!Detectives being buddies with Felix bc that’s apparently so rare there isn’t even a tag for it on AO3 which is a TRAVESTY), Keme/Jorgan stuff.

Most memorable comment/review: While I love and cherish all comments, fave is either the person who commented “Oh darn, I’ve caught up” on OWaP or the person who asked if Tavi knew they’d die for her. :D

Events you participated in this year: Mass Effect Holiday Harbinger(Trust Exercise; MEA, f!Ryder/Suvi) and the DA Prompt Exchange summer fill-a-thin(Drifting Roads)

Fics you wanted to write but didn’t: That damn Brykar longfic(SWtOR) which I really, really hope I can get to this year. /fingers crossed

Favorite fic you read this year: JUST ONE?! HA. No can do :P

the past is a foreign country(Critical Role, by @teammompike)

Epiphany(Pillars of Eternity; The Watcher/Rekke, by @haledamage)

After, and After That(also Critical Role; Grogleth, post-campaign 1, by @aban-ataashi)

I’m sure there’s more that were on tumblr(those are all ao3) and I just can’t remember them. >.>

A fic you read this year you would recommend everyone read:

See Fire and Go Towards Light by @dalish-ish(Dragon Age: Inquisition, minor NPC-view of the game events) I really love her writing style, and she further explores some themes/issues that are only mentioned/hinted at in the game.

Number of favorites/bookmarks you made this year: A lot? I know three bookmarks off the top of my head, and I faved pretty much everything from The Usual Suspects(Knitter, Rhi, Grey, etc etc) by I didn’t really keep count.

Favorite fanfic author of the year: If I can’t pick a favorite line/fic of my own, do you really think I can pick a favorite author? :P I love all my writer friends. (I know it sounds like a cop-out, but it’s TRUE)

#tagged #i wrote SO MUCH pillars fic #just holy cow #choosing between my fics is like picking a favorite child xD

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heartshapedcreaturefromcriptoon · 4 years

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The deal with my deer tail: Continued from the last tagged post (MENTIONS OF EX’S AND OHS OFF THE PORT BOW).

Like, I’m very painfully aware that this is %200 a trauma/coping thing that I’ve developed for myself now because deer were … My exe’s absolute favorite animal of all time ever and he associated with them deeply in regards to certain aspects of his personality and hobbies and this kinda plays a little bit into why I was attracted to him in the first place because it was such unique interest for someone to have and then ….Of course his favorite film ever was “Bambi” like, to the point of having the plushies and the original ORIGINAL book by Felix Salten along with it’s original sequel book and everything and it’s like …So odd for me because I live right by the woods in the middle of nowhere anyway and not a day goes by without discussion of these creatures in my house or without an offer to go “deer spotting” or “Bambi Spotting”… And I don’t have much room to say “no” because who would say “no” to deer sighting so I typically just go along with as if it doesn’t effect me because I have no choice….. And anyway outside of my home life I know tumblr typically loves deer and deer aesthetics as well and while I thought I’ve been trying to go out of my way to avoid this particular animal (at least on social media if I’m unable to in my home life) for the longest time because I associate them so deeply with my ex … Because deer were *HIS* thing … I’m slowly coming to terms with this creeping realization that I’ve had that I’ve not only been surrounded by the actual animal since before I met him …. But I’ve also just … Been surrounded by just …. All these deer characters and deer aesthetic since he left me…. And that also hurts me ….Because ….Since he’d been trying to find ways to get back in contact with me for the better part of the decade yearly since then, without ever apologizing, and since 2017 I’ve only had two years without receiving something from him in order to fully process how he’d been in my life for a near full decade like, wether I wanted him to be or not … That sort of just … devolved into this odd habit of me projecting unto certain characters with these kind of aesthetics and relationship dynamics to help cope because he never gave me anything else and it’s weird because I started to seek out these things and look at them in context to my relationship with this person and I just felt ….. bittersweet but okay because I would think of him and I would think of the way that he used to make me feel and feel and I would feel sad but because of the nature and narrative that I was projecting toward I would also feel comforted in a way and validated and calm? Which is also the way I’d start to feel whenever I’d see an actual deer or mention of deer or even see clips or concept art from “Bambi” or a baby deer …

But ………

So back in 2018, just a couple days after what would have been one of our “anniversaries” had past, and I hadn’t even keeping track of how many at that point but like, basically something happened that triggered me into a remember the time that in 2013 he had found my tumblr and followed me without warning, context or permission, without even speaking to me after finding me the year before this just to let me know how much he couldn’t care less about me, apparently ….. which, sure, Jan.

But … This time he was freaking me out because he was just following me silently on a blank account out of nowhere and I kind of managed to find what could’ve been considered my first ever girlfriend within the six months to a year that he’d been out of my life and it is me and this new girl had only “official” for 3 days after like, 6 months of slow burn flirting with each other and then this other cowardice arsehole who didn’t even have the dignity to speak to me proper was … Someone who had known for me for 3 years and someone whom I had once shared the most intimate parts of myself with.

In short I could already foresee this becoming a pattern after he’d managed to contact me the last time so I ended up breaking down and having a panic attack.

I didn’t know what to do and I felt sick to my stomach and I didn’t want him putting me in a spot, so… I made a screen cap and a post and kind of explaining who he was and how he hurt me and how I didn’t want him hurting my girlfriend or anyone else so just PLEASE don’t talk to him etc. And then I blocked him and threw up. And would-be-girlfriend blocked me the next day because of this…

A couple weeks later around New Years, I decided to log into the old hotmail account that I had just because I was curious….

The first email that he sent me was to let me know that he was going to follow me on tumblr and he was asking how my Christmas was and inquiring how I was doing, he wanted to know if I was “fine”. His version of pet names all included as if nothing had gone wrong between us ….

The next three emails, sent within minutes of each other, each only sentences long, were all responding to my reaction to his following me on tumblr without a word, without context, and seemingly without context …. These emails all of which I did not end up saving or screen caping because…. I’m pretty much 99% freaking. Percent. SURE! That he stated something passively along the lines of: “ If I REALLY wanted to *BLANK* , I would have done so… >.>” cause I distantly remember his little side eye emoji that he placed after the words “done so” and like, it’s really easy to kind of place the words “HURT YOU” in the middle of that, because that’s what I was talking about him doing in context, which would lead to at least vaguely remembering this in a full sentence as: “If I REALLY wanted to hurt you, I would have done so … >.>”

So yes, I’m at least 99% sure that he had threatened me, like that …

And of course I didn’t respond, but I do remember feeling threatened enough that it made my heart race and it made me cry and I needed to ask my mom for champaign to calm and I also remember that the whole reason why I didn’t save those emails was because if I did it would make the threat real and would need to tell my parents and I just didn’t want to think of him that way or what he’d meant by that and because this was already becoming a pattern, I didn’t want to spend another entire year of being paranoid he was planning something …

And he also kept going about what a nice guy he was and told me to have a nice life and told me he was gonna check up on me anymore and said that I treated him like shit …

So I just took a sip of my champaign, told myself I’d see him in a year, and deleted his emails… This was in 2013.

In 2014, I caught him spying on me through the visitors page of an account I’d already gone out of my way to block him on, and I noticed that, even though it been two years, he still had the icon that I had personally picked out for him as his avatar, an odd memory to keep from someone you claim to not care about, constantly ….

In 2015, he sent me a silent skype request…

In 2016.. He found my tumblr again …Actually saying something where I could access it this time … He sent me like, 7 IM’s and for the most part was back to being nice as pie, back to his version of calling me pet names and everything … claimed that he just wanted to say Hello …

He said that we could talk someday if I wanted to and that it was up to me … I still didn’t answer, because for one this was past midnight on Friday The 13th and when I saw that I had 7 IM’s and a new follower I just …. I got this sinking gut feeling that I knew that it was him and then I told myself that I was being paranoid again and that he couldn’t possibly because I’d already blocked him and so I opened up the messages just to prove to myself that I was wrong and got met with his username and a single smiley face emoji like:

“:)” Was the first thing I saw when I opened his messages…

And I immediately closed them out again and I closed tumblr out and I just sat there …. for awhile … Because the last thing he did say to me verbally was to threaten me and tell me that I treated him like shit … And I had no way of knowing what could be behind that smiley face …

But I needed to know … So I opened the messages and read them …

And that’s when he went back to being as nice as his own pie recipe and seemingly pretending like those emails and the spying didn’t happen …

Like, I don’t know if he knew I knew about them, but I have an inkling he must’ve otherwise he wouldn’t have been that cocky … “:)” is not a friendly smiley face, nor will it ever be.

And in the middle before all that he was like: “Let’s hope you don’t bite my head off this time …. xD” referring back to only the 2013 incident when I said something indirectly and that scared away the girl I was about to maybe start something with, again as if that didn’t happen ….

So, I didn’t answer him, because he didn’t earn it.

So like yeah, back in 2018, due to …. certain contexts of certain things which would also lead into me having anticipated myself getting caught up in an over abundance of people’s appreciation for deer, due to something that I not mention, I’d also been triggered/hit with a sharp realization that, October 27th, 2019 would have been the 10 year anniversary of having met that person in the first place, if he hadn’t discarded me after 3 years and then spent like, the better part of the decade trying to get in contact with me, upon the deeper realization that, even as of now, I’ve only really officially had this person out of my life for two years, and on top of that, he’d still find a way of showing up in my life Every. Single. Year. For the past four years. And now I would have to be dealing with an over abundance of deer and ‘Bambi’ references and puns, even more so than I obviously did and still do now, in my home life…

So my reaction was to laugh. REALLY fucking hard. And then I realized that deer might actually just…. LEGIT be my trigger always and then I started crying laughing cause I was just like “OH dear GOD… (and I can’t even like, say that that or type that without it already being a pun without it being a pun …which only makes it FUNNIER …) I might LEGIT have Bambiphobia!”

And then I broke down. Because I didn’t know how to feel about this or how I was gonna deal with it.

I’m still figuring out how I feel about this and how I’m dealing with it ….

My ex …. Was….He wasn’t a very complex boy but, he had always been more ,… In touch with things like femininity and sensitivity, or at least made a show of it, but I’d like to think he was genuinely like that considering what his interests were and he might’ve been autistic too just, looking back on things in context?

(His absolute FAVORITE music to listen to was also Owl City and he loved Adam Young, and considering Adam Young is self diagnosed and my ex’s special interest in deer, and Bambi and the books and the plushies and the the way he could just …talk and talk to me about anything for hours and hours and hours and we’d never we’d never get tired of each other…. I’ve just been doing all this math in my head I’m not trying to imply anything bad about these things and they all play into factors of why I was originally attracted to him to begin with).

He openly identified as Bisexual before I even knew what that was for myself and still kind of considered myself “Straight but not Narrow TM” or whatever kind of definition I saw on Television.

He wrote poetry as a hobby and of course knew how to play the piano while I did none of those things.

He was 17 when I met him but due to cultural difference of where he lived… he enjoyed wine and opera.

He was extremely well spoken and charming and articulate, and he also loved Mr. Rodger’s and Albert Einstein to the point of just having just … One big black and white poster of Albert in his room and one time, he was going on about his admiration for Rodger’s and so innocently told me how he intended to write and send him fan-letters one day and then reasonably became extremely upset when I informed that Rodger’s passed away, and I felt even more so helpless to comfort him when he asked me if I could tell him a little bit more about Rodger’s life to make him feel better and I knew absolutely nothing about the man aside from vaguely remembering that I used to watch his show when I was small …

So yeah my ex’s personality could essentially be summed up as: “ Eccentric, Silly “Smart” boy”, if I needed to …

He once excused himself when I told him that I needed to eat soon and came back, all decked out in a tuxedo to “have dinner together”, and I was about to eat a taco…

This one time he noticed that I was super uncomfortable and upset because I just watched this disgusting ableist film that had like incest in and shit and I didn’t wanna tell him but he got it out it out of me and HE KNEW WHAT FILM I WAS TALKING ABOUT AND THEN WANT ON BIG RANT AND ESSAY ABOUT HOW VILE IT WAS AND HOW I SHOULD PAY IT NO MIND AND AFTERWARDS HE WAS LIKE: “You know what? We need some music to wash the taste out of our mouths…” and then he just started playing the piano to calm me down further.

And I’m only saying it like this because incase no one has noticed it’s been a little bit more… Confusing? For me to try and throw a man like this into everyone’s typical “FuckBoyTM” box and call that “Healing”.

I wouldn’t even wanna put labels on him …

I genuinely feel as though I would need to think back to olden times in order to find a way to insult him that would accurately combat and deconstruct the amount of passion we brought out in each other, if it is appropriate to speak of my feelings for him in this context.

His mistreatment of women that he did not like …. Left much to be desired in regards to his attitude. Though his comments were mostly reserved for his half sister, my half sister, and fictional characters and I’m not bringing this up to try and say that this was justified or frame it into a: “Well, he never did that to ME sort of picture …” Though, the odd thing is that, for all the things that my younger self had shared with him, after his abandonment, ever year for four years I’d kept on waiting for the shoe to drop and for him to call me names and slurs and for the verbal abuse to finally commence and he just …

He wouldn’t do any of that. He never did. Not once. Not even during times he would get angry with me when we were together.

So when HE DID, lose his patience with me, he never resorted to name calling, so when he said and did things that hurt me, that he should’ve known better for doing, that meant he was really fucking harsh ….

So harsh, that one night….. It would be the final night I’d ever thought I’d speak to him again. Or at least begin to test him to see if he would come back and apologize and therein lies the the issue: HE ALWAYS came back, HE NEVER apologized.

Perfect. Gentleman. (Of course I’m using sarcasm).

Seriously, you know that new chat post about Male Victorian Novel Protagonist has fucked by his Lady Love and Knows This, BUT is Too Proud to admit this though still pines for her so when he speaks to her now he just: *sweats*…Is your family in good health?

Legit triggers my PTSD cause for the past four years with me it’s been just: Hey mate. Wanted to see how your X-mas was. Is your family okay? Are you fine? I’ve got some time off… Okay fine, I won’t check on you anymore, it’s not like I still love you or anything, baka! >.< *cue two more years of silent bating before* Hey kiddo you doing okay? I know it’s late but my days off today and if you wanna talk someday you can I’ll leave you alone now! :)

Like I know I’m paraphrasing but that’s pretty much it (and I know I know I’m sorry for the “baka” joke, but he WAS a huge otaku nerd to a certain extent and all the anime that I would watch before I really started interacting with AMV editing community on YouTube was recommended him so needless to say I do not watch Anime so much anymore but I couldn’t resist making a “baka” joke in my own mind while reading his poorly veiled passive aggression and it’s written down and out of my system how I’m gotten to properly share one of the ways I’ve teased him for this if only in my own mind.

The thing that makes me feel weird/guilty about all this though is despite his behavior suspicious as shenanigans, he’d only ever attempt close contact once per year (as far as I know) and as far as I know aside from that one time I’d caught him spying on an art group from an account I’d already blocked him on which I don’t really know how he found (which okay, still a little shaken up about that one every time I type about it) his way of always popping up in my life somehow never really strayed from his ordinarily open way of trying to do it, and he’d never verbally abuse me or call me names or slurs while this was happening, despite how condescending or ominous he was while trying to get a razzle out of me …

MEANWHILE, because I let him get a razzle out of me, no matter how long ago it was before I found cpunk, I ended up deliberately calling him an extreme ableist slur just to send him away from away from me, over what was nothing more than a silly misunderstanding and classic case of miscommunication because I couldn’t see his first email and didn’t think to check before I went off on him, regardless if the misunderstanding could’ve been prevented if he communicated directly or not.

And I was too caught up in my reaction to him choosing being ominous and condescending when once he finally decided to try to speak to me again after two years of silent lurking after the last time he tried to speak to me he passively threatened me, that I didn’t get to take back the use of my ableist language toward when I had the chance. Which is the only thing that I’d ever apologize for before his, if he ever gave me one, and of course not conditionally for the both of us.

My ex’s most sensitive spot has always been his mental health and I’ve always known this because I found out once in the early stages of our relationship when we were roleplaying and I went a little too far with my character, so that’s in 2013 when I panicked I decided to say something…like that to upset him in hopes that he would leave me alone but I was really more hurt than I was scared and I would have confronted him directly but again I had a putting it quite bluntly flakey rebound “girlfriend” at the time and I had no idea where she was and I was freaking out and I didn’t want him putting me in a spot and I didn’t know what would happen if he left me alone. And this was at a time when I was taking the “stealth” mode about being disabled. Partially because of him (Gee I WONDER what could’ve happened).

The only person who knew this about me, very intimately (not intimately enough), was him and of course at the time I would NEVER tell my silly abled-bodied brit of a rebound girlfriend.

So, I did what I did and I said what I said.

At the time I only became slightly afraid when I read his reaction in those emails, and then the next year when I caught him spying on already blocked account and the blocking system worked both ways so I had no way of confronting him about it even if I wanted to ether way.

Though, I was admittedly slightly comforted knowing that he never changed the icon I’d picked out for him ….enough to kinda calm me down a bit…… Is that weird of me? It was weird of him.

Now because of this trigger and the context of certain things as to WHY this was such a strong trigger and in context of certain things that we both said… and in regards of the way he handled trying to get back in contact with me for four years and responded to the one reaction he got out of me and proceeded to continue the pattern for 3 years when he couldn’t just used that time to apologize like I’d been waiting for him to do and meanwhile I’m still… confused and guilty … because the first and final reaction he ever got out of me was …that.

For the past year now…. I haven’t been able to stop myself from crying and I just don’t feel like I can let it be like this anymore because I already felt awful about everything before but relating everything in context of the trigger which is another case where I could actually use it help cope is just making me feel so much worse.

What makes this even worser though is that this particular trigger is not only very popular and very public and with this substantial involvement of deer and deer aesthetics and then certain aesthetics and even names …. That I feel like only the two of us would get that it’s just ouch… But like, this thing is also interconnected with Owl City, like not officially but in it’s own way? Which is one of the first things that I thought of once I let the trigger settle because one of the FIRST questions that my ex asked me the day that I met him was wether or not I liked Owl City and I had never even heard of them before so I looked them up and my heart melted and I just knew I had to keep this God Damn Fucking Ray Of Sunshine in my miserable life and never let him go….

And I like to think obviously that the tables must have turned a little bit since then which is another part of what makes using my triggers as coping mechanisms if I can, so cathartic and funny to me and why people can pry this method from my hysterical hands …..

But what I’m getting at here making the Owl City mention even though I hadn’t had myself listen to a single Goddamn thing of theirs for 7 years up until this FREAKING. YEAR (because the tears were already flooding, my honey’s, so I figured MIGHT AS WELL! And yes I did end up crying my eyes out like I knew that would happen if I’d ever let myself listen to Adam Young ever again …) is that… This this thing….. That I love….. Is also a thing my ex would love ….And the reason that all my projectional coping mechanisms work so well is because the dynamics that remind me of our relationship tend to work both ways and is probably part of the reason how I was able to keep (at least reasonably) calm through the 4 years he kept tabs on me was because I felt like I had this very specific trope-y outlet to project my feelings onto and I know that he was a nerd so, if he was … paying attention and absorbing the same media I was …(he would’ve already learned how to apologize…)

No, but seriously, the difference is with THIS media though… Is because it has so many ties to so many of his own aesthetics and things he enjoys …..I just know ….. That he was seeing exactly what I was seeing. I was DREADING the concept of knowing that I was going to fall in love with this thing from the very beginning and it got to the point where I’d be reminded of certain elements I’d forgotten or I’d see certain things play-out for the the first time and, my breath would hitch in my chest …. and I feel guilty (You cannot be attracted to this you cannot be attracted to this you cannot be attracted to this. Not THIS time. Not again. Never again. Stop it …. Stop it…Stop it. Because ether way this is bad. This is terrible. This is going to be by far the WORST one because you know it involves the actual THING now for both you instead of just elements of the thing why are you subjecting yourself to this?! You know he’s seeing this right now….If he watched the Owl City thing that we’re not watching, then he’s watching this. And YOU shouldn’t be watching this ether!

And so, I would discipline myself to disassociate: You will NOT project THAT relationship onto these two characters, they haven’t even interacted yet!

And then …. that happened. They interacted. And it obviously felt so much worse then…. I prepared myself two seconds in for how it was gonna play out. But I wasn’t prepared that it would end ….or even be that close to home. And then I reminded myself that he was probably watching the same thing that I was, as I’ve always done because it was fun being reminded I was right, my only solace really because projecting myself through these characters was the closest I’d ever get to an apology, but the time that the first viewing was over, everything just felt so wrong and I just felt so uncomfortable about everything and I started to cry cause I knew my reactions to this dynamic were gonna be the most intense from here on out and ………I was so confused and afraid of my own emotions at that moment… And I was feeling a lot of them.

What concerned me the most here though, was being almost certain of the fact that that, if I was watching and it triggered a reaction, HE was most likely watching and it triggered a reaction.... And given the context of the trigger that I’m talking about .... I mean, if it hit close enough to send me into a freaking emotional whiplash and make ME breakdown and make cry and make sick enough to tell my parents and they didn’t even care ... because they said that they already “knew”...(not even discussing the fact that a year later, I would be assaulted by the one man in my family who should have never been the one to guide me through something so awkward but who “helped” me through this emotionally but, again would beat me a year later while my useless mother watched and laughed and would tell me it was it was my fault and I would end briefly removed from my home because of this because he’d left me with bruises and a permeant physical scar ... over food)

...then, I can’t help but think of how my ex would ....Ether be absolutely disgusted with himself or... be... very entertained by all of this. Or both. I know I’ve been both.

And oh, remember all that emotional whiplash I just mentioned in the above paragraph? Well it’s only gotten worse as time went on. Right now I’d say it’s at it’s peak.

Funny this thing is ....I’d been trying to fight back against this temptation to reach out to my ex since this whole thing started and like .... Once we were well into 2019 I just .... realized that fighting this wasn’t going to work anymore if certain circumstances were going to be what they were and things ended up cutting so close to what I feared that it almost doesn’t matter anyway and it still hurts me just as much if not now more so, because of other certain happenings that I will not mention.

And now I can openly admit why the entirety of 2019 has just felt like a ticking time bomb to me. Like of course there are plenty of other factors adding into why .... I’ve been preparing to go through with reaching out to him now but ,like... My paranoia has been like, trying to tell me that this has all just been one big long game or a test and has been making me feel as though he had somehow pre-planned this all and is he currently anticipating me contacting him before 2019 is over.

And that notion is driving me just as bananas as the idea of actually letting myself go through with contacting him.

So I might as well.

I mean ....

Our relationship was taken extremely seriously by the the both of us for the most part... up until the end.

And we were technically each others first times.

We weren’t even dating, really... I just refer to him as my “ex” to make things less complicated..... But for those three years.... We were each others partners....In a way. It just makes things easier to say He Vas My Boyfriend.

I’m suggesting it that would make sense if he would want to try getting back in contact with me and check on me but feel shy and not know how to make it better since he’d have to understand how he fucked up that badly. And for a time... he was the only one who kept extending the invitations for contact.

At least this way I can check to see if he’s okay.

Everything is so fucked up. I know this.

Though Christmas might be the right time to except his last open invitation, all things considered.

I would’ve originally had more time to plan this out had it not been for everything that happened.

My coping mechanisms are as bitter as wormwood and as sharp as a doubled edge sword.

I’m just a creature. That’s it. I cannot change this.

I might not be online for a while.

Another Friday the 13th.

Well fancy that.

#Moon Outta' Spoons #ask to tag #ask to tag better #I watched Bambi and Bambi II for the third or maybe fourth time in the last couple of months and like .... Also really for the first time #ever. I don't really know how that's impacted me yet but like it's gotta be good for something taking the leap that I'm about to.#You guys ever notice how MegaraxAladdin was a really popular crossover ship? That's pretty neat huh?#If I ever allow myself to express specific inspiration it's just gonna play out like ...#EX: *FINDS ME* ME: HOW THE FUCK DID YOU KNOW IT WAS ME? EX: BECAUSE IT IS YOU YOU HAVE THE SAME INTERESTS YOU'VE ALWAYS HAD YOU JUST #YOU JUST SLIGHTLY CHANGED YOUR URL!#I told you guys that this was gonna get weird and you have no ideer but it's like now after all these years and I've finally been presented #The opportunity to be able to vent about something that's been causing me so much pain for so long SO SPECIFICALLY that I wouldn't be able #to go through with if I wanted to because SOMEBODY OUT THERE WOULD DEFINITELY HAVE AN IDEA!#So I guess no more playing Hide and Seek then .......#Again I don't really know what to say I just might not be online for a while.

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apocalyvse · 5 years

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11/11/11

I was tagged by @water-writings <3

1. Do you write fanfictions or original stories and did you ever write fanfiction?

I write (and always have written) both; I actually started writing fanfiction when I was like 10 years old, before I even knew what fanfiction was, and then later discovered that it was a whole thing. For quite a few years now fanfic has been my main thing, but I’ve got a few original things that I’m knuckling down on this year and really enjoying, so we’ll see.

2. Did you ever write your stories in the middle of class instead of paying attention?

Not in the middle of class really, but I did write like half a harry potter au fic sort of thing based off of some rp characters at the end of my year 11/12 exams. The exams were like 3 hours long each, and like, I’m not smart but I am pretty quick at theory stuff so I’d have 1.5-2 hours per exam to fill, and I would never use the note paper for notes. So I’d fold my note paper into 8ths and write reeeeeally really small and fill it all up during my extra exam time. (I still have the sheets of paper if anyone wants to see xD)

3. How many notebooks do you have filled with your writing?

Since somewhere in 2015, I have filled 25 notebooks; not including anything I wrote straight out on a computer, on my phone, on random pieces of paper, or in other notebooks that aren’t included in my numbering system, which I have lmao.

4. What’s your favorite way to write? Notebook, Word Doc, Google Docs?

By hand in notebooks. I used to write in a word doc, and I still use word to type up into and edit it, but I find writing by hand really pushes my word counts up, and forces me to do an initial edit when I type it up, especially with fanfic because I don’t draft fanfic.

5. Do you write by yourself or do you need people writing with you?

I’ve always written alone - most of my friends don’t even know that I write, or don’t write anymore themselves, so it’s just me and myself over here. I was in a writing club at school for a while, and we tried to do a couple projects together, but the group got off course way too easily and nothing really got done, so I prefer to be alone with something I’m really passionate about finishing.

6. Have you ever cowritten with someone?

When I was liiiiiike 12, my friend and I co-wrote a lot of Avatar: The Last Airbender fanfic lmao, which to this day is one of my favourite writing memories. And I co-wrote an entire 50k ‘novel’ with my friend during middle school, which was actually pretty good fun - we traded off chapters and worked together on plot and worldbuilding and actually finished the whole thing. It was horrible (I can’t look at it anymore it’s so cringey), but a good experience to have. I’ve co-written with a few friends online too, with mixed results - nothing that’s ever really gone anywhere though.

7. Who do you bounce ideas off of?

No one lmao. I just throw them into the story and see if they work.

8. Have you ever taken an experience from your life and written it into a story?

Definitely! The most obvious example would probably be the series of short stories I’ve written and posted on this horse racing game I play, Flying For Home, which are sometimes drawn directly from stuff that happens around my workplace in real life, seeing as I work with racehorses in a big stable (the premise of the short stories lmao).

Another example I can think of is, funnily enough, my other horse-related project; a novel called Vertigo, for which I have drawn on a lot of my own personal history and people that I’ve met in my life and thrown it into the mixing pot. It’s a bit of a personal daydream tbh xD Other than those, there’s a little bit of myself in everything I write, I think, though it’s hard to pick out sometimes.

9. Favorite type of music to listen to while you write.

I usually don’t let myself listen to music when I write, but if I do, it’ll be the playlist I inevitably have for the story, turned down very quiet so that it fades into the background - usually just pop and alternative/indie sort of stuff.

10. Have you ever had anyone give you “advice” that hurt you and prevented you from writing for a while?

I don’t think I’ve ever had anything that stopped me from writing, and I’ve certainly never had criticism from outsiders/strangers or whatever (generally people just ignore me). But I do keep my mum at a distance from my writing, as she tends to just push and push me to ‘publish something already’ and gives off the mentality of ‘it’s not worth wasting your time on if it won’t make you money’. She uh...doesn’t know that I have published over 100k of fanfic this year. Lol. She’s only trying to be supportive, in her own way, and I appreciate it, but I just don’t mention it to her very often, because she’s never really ready to listen to my point of view on it.

11. Have you ever had fans of your writing pester to write a certain way?

I don’t have fans xD

And from @starsandstormyseas because you asked good questions and I Want To...

1. Have you ever had an idea that sounded really great in your head, but when you started writing it, came out terrible for whatever reason?

Yesssss, Flicker has gone through 9 versions in 2 years because every time I start it, it just goes very quickly in directions that I don’t want it to and it never feels right. This version I’m working on now is the first time I’ve really liked all the ways I could go with it so hopefully we’re past book 2 blues and back on track.

2. What’s your favorite part in writing a story? The relationships (or shipping), the plot, the worldbuilding, something else?

The like, ‘main’ scenes, the big hitters. The culmination of all the middle bits into that one main plot point. And relationships too, though not romantic persay - I just really enjoy the scenes where two characters will bounce off of each other for like 7 pages of dialogue, whether its enemies, or friends, or romantic.

3. And weird habits you do when writing, or to keep yourself writing?

I write by hand mostly, and I have my own system to mark as I’m going sentences I don’t like, or words that don’t really fit but I couldn’t think of the right one, or facts I’ve made up on the fly that need to be googled. If I just mark down stuff that I want to change later as I go, I find that I set myself free in a way, and I can just move on without getting stuck on a google spiral (also I don’t forget to fix my plot holes later).

4. Do you keep the internet on or off when you write?

On, though it’s very distracting when I’m trying to write straight on my laptop lmao

5. What books, authors, fics, or any media, have heavily influenced your writing style?

I spent a lot of my childhood reading Enid Blyton and authors like her; older books, mostly my mum’s books from when she was a child, and things from my hometown’s very, very outdated library. So they had a huge impact on the way I learnt to write (they also had an impact on the way I talk too, but that’s another story). More recently, the whole tone and way that fanfic in general is written has really influenced me, and I’d like to think I’ve adopted it and made it my own in a good way.

6. What time is the best time to write? Day, night? Morning, evening?

Evening/night; some days, I cannot focus until like 8pm when I go to bed. And then I lose sleep because I’m writing but y’know. For editing/typing up, that’s a late afternoon kind of job.

7. Is there anyone IRL that you let read your work?

I have a group of friends that I’ve known for 8 years now that are allowed to read my work. We used to rp together and all used to write and so we all know how bad we were back in the day xD. One girl from that group has been my friend since kindergarten, so she has always had me shoving handfuls of words in her face. There’s been a few other friends that have read some of my stuff, but not all of it, and the older I get, the less I share.

8. How do you handle negative or unhelpful reviews or critique? Does it impact the way you write?

I’ve never had any negative response, so I don’t know. The silence when you’re 4 chapters deep and no one has reviewed is deafening though.

9. Do you respond to every comment/reply you get? If not, which ones get your attention and why?

I only respond to the long/sincere ones, because I feel like they deserve some encouragement in return for taking the time to really let me know what they thought.

10. Ever gotten weird, unsolicited messages asking to join an RP group or some such because this person apparently read your writing (but probably didn’t)?

Hah. Once or twice.

11. What is your favorite platform to post your writing, talk about writing, or anything like that?

My favourite place to post and to read by far is AO3 - but I find the best platform to get feedback on is FF.net. My favourite place to talk about writing is over here on tumblr.

MY QUESTIONS

How do you get yourself to focus on writing?

What’s your favourite thing you’ve ever written?

Tell me about your current WIP.

Do you write for yourself or for an audience?

Do you share your writing with anyone you know in real life?

What’s the nicest comment/review you’ve ever gotten?

What platform do you prefer to post your work on?

Do you plot or pants?

What have you learnt while writing your stories?

Do you remember the first story you ever wrote?

Can you give a spoiler for your WIP?

Tagging (from writer peeps) @converginglives, @pen-in-hand (if you want another one I think mel got you xD), @aethryos, @paper-shield-and-wooden-sword, @siriusguided, @insertpenname-here, @indecentpause, @writing-at-dusk @sillyliterature @anoddconstellationofthoughts @writingtomorrow

#if you join ffh #the referral number is 24 #;)#tag game #nah for real though this was fun

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leta-the-strange · 5 years

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My troubled relationship with the FB community.

Okay, here goes. As ridiculous as it sounds (because in reality, it is ridiculous) I have taken a rather lengthy break from my writing – both here, on A03 and Fanfiction.net for my health. I have a few significant health problems and for as long as I can remember, writing is one of the few escapes I have – one of my true joys. Now, I’m by no means one of the ‘greats’ in any of the fandoms I’ve written in. I’m always in awe of the talent of some of the writers that I have been lucky enough to read and although I’m not at their level, I’ve been so excited to have the opportunity to have these platforms to share the stories I’ve poured my heart into and so mindblown and grateful to have people not only read them but take the time to leave feedback or thanks.

My love for Leta Lestrange began way back in the very first film when we knew very little about her. But I was starry-eyed from the get-go. A woman of colour main character? She quickly turned into my new inspiration and I was lucky enough to be one of the first Leta Lestrange-centred writers and blogs and meet some other great creatives and like-minded fans in the then tiny Leta loving community. I started developing my first multi-chapter story and (as daunting as it was considering the incredible talent in the stories I had read) started uploading the first chapters to share. A few people started reading my stories and left encouragement, advice and comments that absolutely made my day and I would feel so driven and inspired to keeping going and looked forward to spending my evenings putting together new chapters. My heart would skip each time I got an email saying that someone had left a comment, a review, kudos or notes.

I was quite naïve in not knowing much about ‘ship’ and ‘fandom wars’ and when I found out that was a…thing, I did my best to stick to safe, neutral content, staying out of the confrontational tags, not engaging in the fandom too much – only to share things I created or liked (what all this is supposed to be about). Unfortunately, no matter how well I did that foreign, poisonous part of the fandom I was naïve enough to believe I could easily avoid by minding my business found its way into my life and quickly consumed something I loved.

PLEASE understand that this post isn’t about the characters. This is about real people. As a young girl of colour, yes there have absolutely been moments where I feel sick at some of the racist undertones in a large majority of the fandom’s depiction of Leta – I am happy to put my feelings on this in a more eloquent fashion in a separate post but again, the purpose of my first post back is about real people.

There are people in this fandom, quite a lot of people actually who all belong to one particular community, who not only are lucky enough to have the free time to create and share the things they love on the internet but also apparently have enough spare time to actively go seeking out posts, stories, works, etc that are centred on fictional characters and relationships that they don’t like (to put it lightly) for the sole purpose of abusing, bullying and degrading the creators to the delight of their followers that have little more than mic-drop gifs, ‘oh snap’s, and ‘#preach’ to contribute.

This behaviour is disgusting, appalling, unacceptable and harmful.

And of course, not ALL people from this particular, I don’t know the word…’shipping group’ do this (so many are kind, talented and supportive) but enough have that I feel like even if I eventually came to like this pairing, I would never, ever feel safe engaging in that community myself.

I have characters I like, characters I love, ones that I am impartial to and ones I don’t like much. That’s the great thing about fictional characters. However, I have never felt the urge (or had the time or energy) to obsessively track the tags of ships and characters that I don’t like to leave hateful comments designed to make the creators feel unsafe and unwanted in a community in which they are just as entitled to be involved in than anyone else.

This obsessive, abusive behaviour destroyed my love for writing. One of the few things that drew me out of depression when I was unable to physically do much else activity-wise gave me intense anxiety and as much as I still received beautiful comments, I panicked when I received notification that someone had messaged me.

My story has been called disgusting, dumb, awful, gross etc. I have been called deluded (apparently for not following a canon ship), a crazy dumb bitch, illiterate – just off the top of my head. I found a thread last year that encouraged people to upload new Fantastic Beasts content to A03 asap to get my story off the first page when I would upload a new chapter. I was torn to shreds on both fanfiction websites after the second film came out and told that I hadn’t seen the movies (I had started my story well before the second film so I had to fill in the gaps which were quite a few). It seemed so pathetic and laughable at the start, I would just make sure I could monitor my reviews and would delete or not answer the abuse I received.

Eventually though, it become too overwhelming and I found it too difficult to continue – my inspiration was gone and I was emotionally drained. A few times I actually became pale, shaky and vomited from the relentlessness of it. I tried to claw back the thrill and love writing gave me by practicing getting back on the saddle by doing prompts on Tumblr while I was in hospital battling one of my illnesses. I thought it might be nice to take requests from people – a gentle re-entry into my beloved hobby and reconnecting with other fans. I did a piece on Theseus and Leta that I had overwhelming support for. I actually cried when more than a couple people left beautiful messages in regard to my Theseus dying/Leta surviving prompt. A few people left me Newt/Leta related prompts. I got around to completing a first kiss request that earned me an anon informing me that my writing was trash, made them gag in their mouth and I should seriously reconsider inflicting my unwanted pieces on a fandom that doesn’t want them and to keep my shit out of the tag.

I have seen blogs disappear from it and stories, posts and artwork removed. I was scrolling through Instagram and someone (quite notorious for this behaviour across all platforms) simply comment ‘ew #newtinaforever’ on a beautiful Leta fanvid that would have taken such a long time to put together. Surprisingly, the comments I got that were simply ‘ew’, ‘gross’, etc were more hurtful than the torrents of abuse sometimes.

Just a few days ago, someone posted something absolutely non-confrontational and innocent about them personally liking Newt/Leta because they found it cute which of course opened the floodgates for abuse and I read a comment relating to people who don’t personally ship the ‘canon’ ship (this sounds so ridiculous now that I’m typing it) as deluded and needed to check into a mental ward. This is quite personal but I am someone who has an illness that is accompanied by psychotic symptoms and I have spent periods of time in a psychiatric hospital (and will likely need to during my lifetime) for my own wellbeing. I felt physically nauseous by this. I feel anxious now disclosing this as I know this will give more ammunition to the people who have not yet been blocked by me and enjoy taunting me but I want people to understand the weight of their childish, uneducated, ignorant outbursts.

Because of my experience, PLEASE understand that when I say ‘unhinged’ I am not meaning it as a slur, it is coming from a place of serious concern. I think there are people in this fandom that are becoming quite dangerously confused between reality and fantasy. These characters ARE NOT REAL. If I can get through years of one my favourite characters being constantly hated on, written by fans as an abuser, rapist, you name it while far more ‘bad/problematic’ (white) females are adored and shipped with various characters quite harmoniously, and not resort to commenting, abusing or harassing people than you can get through your fave not being someone else’s fave. If your favourite pairing is canon, why are you so insecure about people liking other pairings? In Harry Potter, the most popular fan-favourite ships are non-canon and don’t cause any harm.

If someone writes on THEIR OWN BLOG that they personally don’t follow a certain ship, or they find a character bland or boring, or don’t agree with a casting, or don’t see chemistry between certain actors or like a pairing that differs from your own, JUST KEEP SCROLLING (and certainly don’t go on a witch-hunt by tracking down posts, blogs and stories you know you won’t like).

These are not real people. There is absolutely 0 reasons to be offended by someone saying that they find a certain character or pairing bland (which I haven’t done before). Of course you can disagree but if you are enraged, or offended, or feel inclined to personally attack or threaten A REAL PERSON over their preferences in something make-believe, than please, I implore you for your own mental wellbeing, to seriously assess if this level of emotional attachment to made-up characters is healthy.

I am planning on getting back into my story in time. I would love to get through the prompts and (nice) messages in my inbox now that I’m feeling a little more secure mentally and physically. I do thank all the beautiful people who have taken the time to request things, leave notes and such – I’m only back for them and feel confident that I can work through the toxicity and superiority complexes in this fandom with their support. I will do my best from now on to call out and check people when I see them mistreating others and to have more respect for myself and my work and not tolerate this any longer. I may respond and share some of the less pleasant messages I’ve received if I believe my responses can be helpful to others but there are some that require no response or audience.

I feel very content in the knowledge that I can see a story, visual, video, etc, involving a fandom, character or pairing that I don’t necessarily like and still appreciate the time and effort the person put in and find enjoyment in it too. If you still feel incapable of controlling yourself around people who are not a carbon copy of yourself, please just save yourself the distress by just blocking me instead of wasting valuable time and energy finding new ways to abuse me. I am not a harmful person, I am not an abusive person. I encourage you in your journey to hopefully become the same and if you need to remove yourself from temptation than I applaud that decision no matter how much I cannot personally relate.

To anyone who has read my stories or sent me prompts, thank your for your patience and encouragement. I look forward to being able to get back into a community I have found such joy in.

#fantastic beasts #fantastic beasts and where to find them #fantastic beasts the crimes of grindelwald #leta lestrange #newt scamander #cant get much worse #so i may as well dump this 'shit' in your tag too #prompt

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yujachachacha · 5 years

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rxasus replied to your photo “�� Apparently Tumblr’s bots think that blurry AnShuka is explicit....”

your posts are always such a treat lmao. sorry you had a such a bad day though

@rxasus: I’m glad you’re enjoying them, even though all I’m doing at this point on my blog is venting about dumb shit that happens on this website + random things I’m doing on SIF;; Thanks for the kind words - your sympathy does help me recognize that I’m needlessly trapping myself into a foul mood over things I don’t have much control over. Bad days happen to everyone, and it’s up to me to keep myself upbeat to overcome the hard times.

Of course, it really helps when you’re a fan of a cute Japanese girl who posts nice pictures of herself in Singapore on Twitter, and writes blog posts that literally say that her mission as an idol is to help people forget all their troubles and put a smile on their face. ( ; w ; )

Though, speaking of my blog, I wonder if I’ll have time during the Christmas holidays to be productive again (like I was during Thanksgiving) and get a small project out. I really have a lot of things in my backlog... OTL

@xxxyohanecion14: Okay, I have no idea how Tumblr’s new content filter works, but...HUH?! The heck kinda weens have you been lookin’ at? If you think that dingalings are supposed to be pointy and white with flowers surrounding them, hoo boy do I got some news for you.

In all seriousness, I don’t expect you to know any more than I do about what this content filter reviews, so my snark isn’t personally directed at you. I just find it really hard to believe that the cause was a tiny, innocuous portion of a low-quality image. If Tumblr’s filters really do work that way, then well...I have some really strong words for the idiot behind that decision.

I’ve actually seen things as innocent as dog posts (literally, the picture is just a close-up of a cute dog’s face) being flagged so. Well. I really don’t know what to think at this point. I do have a good amount of activity going on over at Twitter, but I’m loathe to completely move out because I’ve invested so much time into my blog and exploring the fandom through Tumblr. Plus, I really love how I can organize things with tags. I’m messy af with them, but I can still track certain posts with these, which works a helluva lot better than hashtags IMO.

#rxasus #xxxyohanecion14 #yujachask #yujachat #why am i still awake at 1am you ask #well i got home past 10pm for starters #then i spent an hour taking care of my grandma #then i spent another hour drafting a possible complaint i'd like to submit at work #then i spent the last hour catching up on tumblr #where did my life go #time to read shuka's 4L blog post and drown in feels again #god bless her she's a savior during troubling times

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zisurru · 6 years

Text

my big bad list o’ bartimaeus fanfic recs (updated september 2020)

it’s long so I put it under a cut. [unfinished] means the fic has been apparently abandoned :(

Gen:

On Names, and Becoming Them by me malum: "You have many names," the old crone continued. "Did you know you've gained another?" Bartimaeus, in the centuries after 'Ptolemy's Gate'.

Hair by Kyuunen: Jane Farrar wishes she could lock away the razor and the shaving cream. Lock them away forever.

In the End by Volkie: In a way, she was glad. She would rather die than live in a London controlled by commoners and second-raters.

Ties that Bind by chibideath: Concerning what happens to Kitty Jones and Bartimeaus following the end of Ptolemy's gate. A story about names, hearts, and what comes with being human.

Of Uruk by electrumqueen: Five stories of origin for the djinni known as Bartimaeus of Uruk, as told to Ptolemy of Alexandria over the course of his research. Some of them might even be true.

one day you will go away from this by electrumqueen: Enkidu becomes a real boy; Bartimaeus is dubious about the process. Uruk changes everyone who comes into her walls.

coda by asdfghjkla: a series of unrelated prompts taking place during and after the events of ptolemy's gate. spoilers for everything. mostly kitty and kitty+bart focused.

Of Pentacles, Rocking Chairs, and Presumed Deaths by yonwords: Kitty summons Bartimaeus after the events of Ptolemy's Gate.

Far From Home by Contrarian: Bartimaeus is summoned for the first time after Ptolemy's death.

After Icarus by Bialy: The boy in the pentacle is skinny and pale, and forever twelve years old. He has dark, combed hair, and his black eyes are locked on the thick chalk line at his feet. He is regretting this form. Oneshot, five years after the end of Ptolemy's Gate.

o brother you are not by DrMeh: He's always tried his hardest to forget the difference between cowardice and courage, Nick has.

Semantics by TheAliensDidIt: Detailing the exploits of Bartimaeus of Uruk (i.e. moi), the Serpent of the Silver Plumes, N'gorso the Mighty, the Bane of Magicians, in great battles of wit and cunning... you'd best say your incantations correctly and pray your pentacle has no faults, for if there is one, I will find it.

Untitled by @notaflower whom tumblr won’t let me tag

Untitled by @joons

Stages by @tarragonthedragon: Faquarl's view of Bartimaeus over time changes, and ultimately, stays the same. Their very nature seems to revert them to the status quo of uneasy disdain.

three doors, three souls by @avinryd: “B-” He clears his throat. “Bartimaeus?”(He's not sure where that name came from.)The boy blinks, then shakes his head. “No, my name is Ptolemy.” He looks expectant, as if waiting for a response.And what to respond? Does he have a name? After a moment of thought he decides, yes, he does have a name: Nathaniel. He says as much and Ptolemy smiles.“Hello, Nathaniel,” and it sounds so right and familiar in his voice that Nathaniel aches.

it doesn’t really bear thinking about by @avinryd: "He wonders, vaguely, what might have changed if they’d lived; all three of them against the world. It doesn’t really bear thinking about, but then again, he’ll be dead in moments. Why not spend those dwelling on happier things?"

Cats by @tarragonthedragon: Prompt: Bartimaeus and Queezle being happy. Maybe one of their adventures?

Just One Yesterday by @shadowy-dumbo-octopus: Bartimaeus stumbles upon an old enemy, and sees them in a new light after certain events from the last book.

a song skims over the nile, by dolokhovian: call it the earth turning.

Untitled by @shadowy-dumbo-octopus: Evil Nat AU!

A Road Trip (A Disgusting Human Invention) by @tarragonthedragon: In which a magician, a spirit, and a commoner are crammed into the cramped space of a single Honda Civic and are unable to stop and shout at each other. It's not going to end well.

Bartimaeus/Nathaniel:

Thorn by Maiden of the Moon: Nathaniel was a thorn in Bartimaeus' side. But now that he is dead, now that the thorn is gone, the resulting wound is free to fester and ooze and bleed...

Chaos by Maiden of the Moon: Sometimes, I understand why he hates me.

Distractions by Maiden of the Moon: The djinn flopped backwards, rearranging his puppet's toned body and dark hair in a sexy sprawl on his master's desk. “Why?” the demon pressed, voice husky with suggestion. “Do you find this distracting?”

It’s A Harsh Thing by Existence’s Bane: For each breath taken...

Written Aramaic and Other Tips for Everyday Living by Kyuunen: Somehow, in the thrum of everyday life, the djinni that drives Nathaniel to near insanity is the only thing keeping him sane.

miserable company by BoltAcid: Nine cheesy, mismatched prompts and one familiar, mismatched pair.

warm chromatic by atrophie: bartimaeus is on a desk and annoying nathaniel, as usual.

A Very Fetching Rug by ThePurpleRose: Nathaniel, you have a very feching rug in your hall." Bartimaeus plans to bring out the Nathaniel out of John Mandrake. Involves necklaces, guilt trips, soaps, coat stands and rugs.

As We Dream by the Fire by Wit Unraveled: Time progresses and turns to evolution; seasons decay into change. Magician boys do both. - In honor of the season; there's just something about all this snow.

Untitled by @chokopoppo

Untitled Part 1 Part 2 by @princefado

no dose of emotional chemotherapy (can halt my pathetic decline) by @singacrossthemoon: For all of his sarcasm, all of his acerbic wit, Bartimaeus could not, for the life of him, remember the last time anyone had treated him with anything less than nauseating kindness, never mind such immediate, obvious distain. I think, he realized in a rush, that I am in love.

love is colder than death by izzybusiness: Bartimaeus first meets Nathaniel at eight-thirty on a Monday morning. It’s not the most auspicious of meetings. Then again, when you’ve taken a job as a barista with the sole purpose of poisoning someone’s drink, he supposes that any sort of meeting is favourable to its end.

love is colder than death au fics by @singacrossthemoon [Series]

one for the money (two for the pain) by @singacrossthemoon: Or: Five times someone asks about John Mandrake, and one time Bartimaeus talks about Nathaniel. [Content warning: sexual assault]

fire and air by @transarty: Nathaniel wants to see Bartimaeus' true form - but what could he possibly expect? Bartimaeus delights and frights over this. / light bartnat and headcanon on bart's shape, feelings and a little mush

Bartimaeus/Kitty:

Autumn Leaves and the Endless Fall by otherworldviolet: Kitty dies. This is about what happens next. [Unfinished] [Content warning: brief mention of sexual assault in Chapter 3]

Of Fire and Roses by Anti-Logic: But this was different. That place had been all gentle waves and currents, always intermingling and flowing. This was a world of fire and roses. [Unfinished]

Of Auras and Oracles by conception.creation: The trilogy is complete, but Bartimaeus’ adventures are far from over. When a prominent politician goes missing, Kitty and Bartimaeus must find him, but who is behind the mysterious attacks on Kitty’s life?

Monomyth by conception.creation: Nouda didn’t die in the Glass Palace explosion. Now Kitty must rely on her wits to survive in a post-apocalyptic London overrun with enemy spirits.

The Haunting by conception.creation: A rebel turned demon hunter treks across the world in pursuit of escaped hybrids. Now she must track down a spirit with a mysterious agenda, and nothing is as it seems.

Restless Spirit by conception.creation: Quick thinking saves Kitty from assassination – unfortunately, she’s now without a body. Can she solve her own murder in time to stop a massive conspiracy threatening Britain itself?

Panache by conception.creation: When Bartimaeus' master sends him out to win him the hand of a beautiful commoner, he doesn't expect the djinni to fall for her himself. Based on the play Cyrano de Bergerac.

That Awful Rush To Say Goodbye by cacophonyGilded: Hope is what kills you. Kitty knows that. Bartimaeus, somehow, is still learning.

children of dust and ash by callunavulgari: Kitty summons Bartimaeus on a chilly fall day in her thirty-eighth year. Her children are at school. There is no husband. She is alone in the house, save for a fat persian who slumbers happily on a cushion in the window seat downstairs. The persian, she knows, will not wake before noon.The words are familiar to her, and she does not stumble over them. Smoke billows into the room, as expected, but instead of a creeping sulfurous stench, there is the faint smell of sandalwood and wet earth. When the smoke clears, Bartimaeus is there.

the way to the graveyard by @singacrossthemoon: Djinn are beings of fire, Kitty realizes anew; they leave naught but ash in their wake.

Bartimaeus/Kitty/Nathaniel:

stars are projectors by asdfghjkla: Someone is kissing her. She is not sure which one he is.

Entertainment by princefado: In which Kitty and Bartimaeus double team Nathaniel. In a skirt. Gratuitous smut.

the root of the root by @singacrossthemoon: The pyre burns with the misery of passion. She does not try to stop it.

Bartimaeus/Kitty/Ptolemy:

this isn’t our first time around by nighimpossible: It seems that the spirit she thought was dead and gone isn’t so dead after all. Kitty could spit she’s so furious.“This is about the worst way you could tell me you’re alive, Bartimaeus,” Kitty grits through her teeth. Her fingers curl against the countertop, nails nearly cutting into the wood.The man gives her a confused look. “Sorry,” he says carefully. “I think you’re mistaking me for someone else.”

Kitty/Nathaniel:

The Matchmaker by conception.creation: Eight lousy, stinking months have gone by and Nathaniel still refuses to let him go home. Bartimaeus gets creative.

Bartimaeus/Ptolemy:

Eyeliner by Chokopoppo: Generally, I’m known for my keen eye and my acute knowledge of universal human culture. There are few others, even among humans themselves, who so completely understand the workings of their past, present, and inevitably future, as I do. Few things are beyond my scope of great knowledge.This, apparently, was one of those things.

Coffee by Chokopoppo: He would follow the boy to the ends of the earth in every cycle of time, if he could.So he does.

Choices by Chokopoppo: He needs flight, he needs home, he needs the stars and dark eyes and shifting essence and warm skin and vast great oneness and a gentle fragile voice calling his name but he cannot have both the Other Place and Ptolemy and the universe has made his choice for him.

As Far As Adventures Go, It Was Pretty Okay by jonesandashes: Judge not - developing a proper threat rapport does not happen in a day. We got better.

drives you crazy getting old by electrumqueen

and we talk of things that matter, in words that must be said by @lupevensies

Lullaby by @shadowy-dumbo-octopus: In which Ptolemy refuses to sleep because who needs sleep when there's research to be done? This forces Bartimaeus to try and get him into bed before the poor kid burns himself out. Short and fluffy.

Bartimaeus/Queezle:

Battlecry by The Sad Privateer: "You are either a genius, or the luckiest idiot on the planet," she remarks to him one day. "And I'm leaning towards the latter."

Bartimaeus/Faquarl:

Hold Your Colour by otherworldviolet: Faquarl comes to Bartimaeus with a proposition. Set during Ring of Solomon.

A Mirror Darkly by badpriestess: Two entities so alike yet so crucially different can't help but clash, but in the end they always come back to each other.

Anger Was Good by @lupevensies

Eeeuuuggghjjjjj by meanfrogs: Bart and Faq con non suspecting people into buying terrible copper in some market stall in Ur. They hate each other and also kiss, hell yeah

Faquarl/Jabor:

Why you should never cut your fingernails in the kitchen by JTJonah: So Jabor and Faquarl are discussing ways to ruin Lovelace (as per usual) and then - you know what, we all know what you came here for, they swive okay they swive and that's all we're here for, I hope you're all goddamned happy with the results.

Indoor Voices by JTJonah: So they had just broken into a tomb in the middle of nowhere.

Khaba/Ammet:

The Master's Shadow by badpriestess: Khaba has been inadvertently cruel, and Ammet's dissatisfaction comes to a head.

Untitled by @madanach

More Thank Your Shadow by bluebeholder

Multiple ships:

Just Hold Me Close by Chokopoppo: A series of reincarnation romance AUs, set within the writing constraints of the Songfic Challenge from the early 2000s.

quiescency by @singacrossthemoon: “What a beautiful portrait,” the teenager gasps, his admiration genuine. “Is it of me?” The boy pauses, reconsidering the picture. It is yet unfinished. He cannot recall when he started it. “No,” he says at length.

#if your fic is on this list and you don't want it there just message me i'll take it off #fanfic #bartseq

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ursulaismymiddlename · 7 years

Text

“All That’s Best of Dark and Bright” (Bucky Barnes x Reader) Part 26/27

Holy shit! It’s been almost 11 months guys. I’m so sorry. Hopefully you’ll find it worth the wait. Tags at the end. Special thanks to @abovethesmokestacks @brookebarnes and @hispeculiartreasure for helping me along during this long ride

Warning: Smut

On Tumblr On AO3

Ten days could feel like a lifetime. In Bucky's case, maybe even more. Ten days of concerned looks from Steve, Sam, the other teammates, you. You with the swelling in your face receding, still hobbling a little on your feet no matter how much he tried to get you to sit. Ten days of checking in on your progress almost constantly, but barely being able to meet your gaze as bloody, visceral memories came flooding back. Ten days of little sleep from the nightmares and feeling guilty every time you reached a bandaged hand over from your side of the bed in the middle of the night to comfort him. He would have moved out to the couch so you could rest easier, except he knew you wouldn't. He knew you wanted him there and he wanted to be there in case you really needed him, in case your own dreams turned dark and violent. Ten days of bustling doctors studying the notebook, long and grueling sessions with Wanda, and his own grim determination, and the words no longer worked the same as they did before, no longer ripped him away from himself entirely. Not everything they put in was gone and not everything they took out was regained, but it was a start.

In the midst of those ten days, Natasha and Clint managed to ferret out information on the HYDRA detail that attacked the house. They were able to pinpoint their closest base of operations and took recon pictures to bring back to the team. A few of the photos were disturbingly familiar to Bucky, the sight of them giving way to more buried images in his head, information toppling into place like dominoes. It was that revelation, how going after one base might lead to the next and the next for him, which made up his mind on what he had to do. His initial thought was to sneak off alone and take out anything and everything he could without endangering any of his teammates, but he’d made a promise to you. That and Steve still knew him better than he realized. The argument that ensued was only quelled when he reluctantly agreed to take Wilson and Maximoff along after they volunteered to accompany him. But telling you about this new mission, especially so soon after what happened; that was the most difficult part. Because even though you eventually talked about it together, when he came back to the apartment after the meeting to tell you, all you did was stare at him a few moments before giving a small nod and wrapping your arms around his waist to bury your face in his chest.

The night before they were set to leave, Bucky stuck around the quinjet assigned for the mission, yet another equipment check occupying his mind and helping him ignore the no doubt concerned looks from Sam and Wanda as they retired for the evening. He reasoned he didn't need much sleep, and the flight to the first HYDRA base could afford him even more time to recharge, but deep down, he knew the truth. It was his last night with you, probably for a while, maybe even... No, if he wouldn't let you think like that he wouldn't let himself. Not this time. There wasn't a thing in the universe that would keep him from coming home to you one way or another. Still, as much as he itched to be with you, a part of him wasn't sure he could bear the sadness and pain he was certain he'd see in your eyes when the two of you parted in the morning.

An echo of footfalls behind him pulled Bucky from his thoughts. The sound itself was familiar enough now, despite distant memories of a much different gait, that he didn't even need to look to know Steve was approaching up the ramp. "Shouldn't you be getting some rest?"

"Making sure everything's squared away," Bucky replied, closing the weapons locker firmly before turning around to find his friend standing in civilian garb. "One less thing to hold us up in the morning."

Steve nodded with a glance around the interior of the quinjet, shoulder leaning against the entryway. Of course, he had more he wanted to say and Bucky braced himself for a renewed fight because if one thing never changed about Steve Rogers, super soldier serum or no, it was that he didn't let things go easily. Sure, he could pack it away for a while, but if there was still a chance he could get his way, he wasn't going to drop it. Bucky's suspicions were confirmed when Steve opened his mouth again, trying to make himself sound almost meek. "This mission's gonna be a tough one. Sure you couldn't use an extra set of hands?"

"I'm sure," was Bucky's gruff counter as he moved to brush past Steve on his way out of the quinjet. "I'm only takin Wilson and Maximoff to shut you up in the first place. And don't think I don't know why they're the ones that volunteered. Not everything's back in my head right and they're worried it's gonna get fucked all over again. Can't say I blame 'em."

"C'mon, Buck, they just wanna help," Rogers tried to soothe, though his tone was slightly strained in exasperation. "Same as I do."

"Goddamn it, Steve. It's bad enough I'm gonna be worryin about my girl every other second, last thing I need is to be distracted lookin after your reckless ass the times in between!" Bucky turned on his heel to face his friend, but any further tirade died on his lips at the somewhat wounded expression he found Steve sporting. The guilt there was all too familiar; a feeling that sometimes hung heavy between them, both sides trying to make up for it in their own ways. With a heavy sigh, Bucky continued in a more even tone, hoping Rogers would finally get it through his thick skull. "This is how you help me, okay? I don't know how long we'll be gone or how far this whole thing will take us. I don't know what could happen. I need to know there's someone here that can protect her while I can't. She means the world to me, Steve. And there's no one I trust more than you to keep her safe."

There was a moment's pause where it seemed like he might question or argue further, but then, as if by some small miracle, Steve closed his mouth with a thoughtful nod. He gave a defeated sigh, smile tight as he propped his hands at his hips and replied "Okay, Buck. Of course. I won't let anything happen to her."

Although plenty more could have been said on the subject, there was hardly enough time for all that and Bucky didn't have the inclination. Instead, he gave an appreciative duck of his head by way of thanks. It was enough between them; that much he'd been able to remember on his own. Anything else was understood or could wait. Yet, something remained he couldn't put off much longer, no matter how difficult he knew it would be, and he had just about worked up the gumption to face it when the door opened up to the hangar.

"Tony," Steve questioned by way of greeting as Stark came striding in, dressed-down and noisily twirling a ratchet wrench in his hand with one of his robots carrying a toolbox in tow. "I didn't know you were at the compound."

Neither did Bucky. If he had known, he might have high-tailed it back to the apartment much sooner to avoid a chance meeting with the last person he thought he could face that week. Too late now. He shifted uncomfortably as Tony approached, eyes locked on him curiously. "Pep's headed out of town on a business trip. Thought I'd personally make sure the quinjet was tuned up and ready to go.... Shouldn’t you be ravishing your lady love before you go gallivanting off at first light or something?"

"I was headin that way in a minute," Bucky replied with a slight nod. He reached up to run a hand through his hair. Nervous didn't even begin to describe what he was feeling at this unplanned encounter with Stark. Yet, maybe it was for the best because it forced him to deal with another thing that had been troubling him. "But maybe... maybe we should talk."

"If it's about your arm, you should be fine," Tony waved him off as he headed past the two super soldiers toward the quinjet. He threw another look back over his shoulder as he reached the ramp, gesturing with the tool in his hand toward Bucky's metal arm. "No one's controlling that mechanical marvel but you anymore. I threw a jammer in there so no one can gain remote access."

Bucky clenched and released his metal digits at the memory of Stark tinkering around in the bicep access point. He hadn't trusted the Winter Soldier at all yet, Barnes really couldn't blame him, but he still took the time to help. Probably for Steve's sake, or some sense of duty. Either way, it made what Bucky had to say that much more difficult. It wasn't enough that HYDRA made a cold-blooded murderer of him, setting him loose on an old acquaintance after stripping him of the few fond recollections he had from a bleak time of war; circumstance played just as cruel, putting him in the path of that same man's son and giving him all those memories back. And if Tony wanted him gone after this mission, well, Bucky wouldn't blame him for that either. He was just banking on that the same sense of duty, or at least Steve's urging, meant you'd still be kept safe at the compound.

“It ain’t about the arm,” he sighed heavily with a shake of his head. There was no going back now. For all the tension between them, Tony deserved to hear the truth from his own mouth. “It’s about the… the memories I’ve been gettin back.”

Judging from the split second of shock that crossed his friend’s face, instantly swallowed up by a determined set to his jaw and a sorrowful glance at the other man, Steve knew exactly what was about to happen and decided to plant himself right there to see it through. Solidarity, Bucky supposed, though he hardly felt worthy of it. Apparently, Tony had figured it out too, because he stopped dead in his tracks half way up the entrance ramp, so quickly the robot at his feet took an extra beat to come to a halt. He went relatively still, save his fingers jostling the tool he held in agitation, before turning around with mock casualness that didn’t reach his face, chin tilted up and features cautious.

Taking a deep breath, Bucky wet his lips nervously before he began. How does a person even start a conversation like this? "Howard... your parents..."

"Don't." Tony's rough croak barely matched the severe, thin-lipped grimace as he shook his head vehemently. His knuckles had turned white around the wrench and Bucky was both alert and resigned to the idea of a physical backlash. No doubt Steve was, too. But Stark only closed his eyes tightly for a moment, gesturing slightly with his free hand while taking a few harsh breaths. "Just... don't."

"Tony," Steve began, urging and placating all at once. Leave it to him to butt in on Bucky's behalf even when it wasn't entirely necessary. Though Barnes was maybe more grateful for the gesture than he'd ever let Rogers know. "Maybe you should listen to what he has to say."

“No, you listen,” Tony ground out harshly as he shot Steve a scathing glance. Bucky felt himself lurch on reflex, the muscle memory of dozens of times when he would put himself between Steve and the trouble he drew in like a magnet. The instinct made keener this time since the backlash should be his alone to bear. But Stark seemed to bite back on his anger, his jaw working for a moment as he regarded both men before some of the tension left him. Some, but certainly not all. "Look, I knew the possibilities when we brought SubZero here onto the team. I don't need to hear it. I don't want to hear it."

With that, Stark turned on his heel to continue up the quinjet’s ramp, trying to seem casual again and failing miserably. But Bucky couldn’t let it end at just that. Maybe Sam would say he needed it off his chest, closure, but more importantly, Tony deserved something. “Okay, but just… lemme say one thing. In case I don’t get a chance to later, alright?”

This earned another glaring look from Stark, but he remained silent as he turned his attention back. Bucky was damn near close to squirming under the scrutiny, though the unease was the least he deserved. Instead, he took a breath before he began. “Howard - your dad - I knew him. Maybe we weren’t best pals, and maybe my brain’s still stuck on static half the time, still I got to know him a little between missions with the Howlies. He wasn’t perfect, but he was a genius and he wanted to make the world a better place. And… well… all those good parts’a him, I see in you. Times ten, if I’m bein honest.”

A rousing speech, it was not. But it was what he had and he hoped it came off better than it sounded in his own head. Hoped it was well-received in the spirit with which it was given. Bucky chanced a quick look at Steve behind him, only to find his friend watching the scene play out with a cautious gaze. When he looked back, Tony had his head cocked with a strange, guarded expression before his brow creased and the corner of his mouth twitched up slightly.

“Is this… Are you trying to have a moment with me, Barnes? Is that what this is,” Stark asked, gesturing back and forth between the two of them with a flourish and a slight shake of his head. Bucky was confused for a moment until Tony’s eyebrows crooked up in that tell-tale sign of snark and he seemed to relax back into himself a little. “Because last I checked, we’re both spoken for and I really don’t think you could handle a man like me.”

"Ten times the cocky ass attitude, too. Holy shit," Bucky mumbled the expletive through a chuckle as he pinched the bridge of his nose. A glance over his shoulder revealed Steve just managing to rein in a smile as he ducked his head to hide it. Looking back, Tony let go of a gentle huff, half-hearted smirk and unaffected facade seeming slightly more genuine. Bucky knew firsthand how cracking a joke could lighten not just the mood of a room, but the weight someone might be carrying, if only for a short time.

"How about this, Robocop," Tony called out, finally entering the quinjet and taking the wrench in his hand to a panel near the entryway, his eyes never leaving his work. "You get back here in one piece and we can discuss things like civilized adults; with a bottle of scotch even older than you and lots of manly tears."

All Bucky could do for a moment was nod, caught off guard by the suggestion and the elusive idea that maybe one day he could be forgiven. It was one thing for Steve and Sam, for you, for anyone to tell him it wasn’t his fault, but quite another for someone made victim, even by association, from the monstrous things he’d done to show him something close to understanding and friendship. Eventually, he managed to choke out through the tightness in his throat “Sure, Stark. It’s a date.”

Tony shot him an annoyed look, though maybe there was a hint of amusement in his features before returning to the panel. “In the meantime, Encino Man and I will make sure that little spitfire of yours stays nice and safe, out of harm’s way. Speaking of whom, don’t you think you ought to be tending that flame about now?”

“Don’t gotta tell me twice,” Bucky chuckled weakly, feeling his gut twist in time with the flutter of his chest. “And thanks, Tony.”

Stark made a noise in the affirmative, waving him off haphazardly as he quickly became engrossed in his project, muttering either to himself or the task at hand. A clear dismissal that Bucky didn’t even really mind. When he turned back, he shared a quick nod with his friend, hoping it conveyed his appreciation well enough for the moment. And it must have, as Steve gave a warm, lop-sided smirk, almost reassuring, and nodded in kind before Bucky headed out of the hangar.

The compound was quiet, everyone either gone out or hunkered down for the evening. It felt almost stifling, though Bucky was certain that had more to do with his nerves than anything else. He opted for the stairs to reach his floor, the elevator notoriously slow in comparison to him or Steve on foot. You’d been kept waiting long enough. Besides, the motion of his steps offered a slight distraction from the churning inside him. Still the staircase didn’t last forever, and by the time he reached the apartment door, he had to take a moment and a deep breath, trying to school his features some before he even touched the doorknob. You didn’t need to see him so nervous, not when it would compound your own worry.

There was the slightest hope that you had fallen asleep while you waited for him. Of course he knew you wanted to spend these last hours with him, but he couldn’t deny the appeal of seeing you resting peacefully, of scooping you up into his arms and carrying you to the bedroom where he could lay with you tucked against him until the morning, commit the sound of your breathing and the scent of your hair to memory all over again to see him through the mission ahead. All that would have to wait though, because before the door was even open all the way he could hear the scrape of a kitchen stool across tile, letting him know you were awake.

“Bucky,” you called out quietly, hope and concern in your voice at once. It sounded like he felt and he found some relief in that, but there was hardly any time to dwell on it when he saw you in your soft cotton nightgown get up from the kitchen island to move toward him, trying to avoid the cat darting around your feet.

“Hey, hey, whoa! It’s okay, sweetheart. Sit back down,” he urged gently as he rushed to meet you. It had been a battle with you to take it easy ever since the two of you came to the compound. The swelling had gone down and the bruises and bandages had begun to disappear, but he could tell pain lingered in the slight hobble you tried to hide and the determined furrow to your brow.

“I’m fine, really. The doctor told me to start moving around more, remember,” you assured, though your hands gripped his open arms and let him take some of your weight. When you cleared your throat and looked up at him, the sickly, sallow splotch along your cheekbone made his heart sink. “Is everything ready for when you… for tomorrow?”

“All loaded and waiting to roll out in the morning,” Bucky replied, holding your elbows carefully and trying to keep his tone neutral, somewhat pleasant even.

You managed to give him a small smile, tight and almost reaching your eyes, putting on just as awkward a show as he was trying to. “Are you hungry? I could make you something.”

“Nah, don’t worry about that. I ate something with Sam and Wanda, goin over mission specs and everything this afternoon…” He trailed off when he noticed your face start to fall. Something like hurt flashed across your features, cutting Bucky to the quick before you were able to hide it again.

“Oh. Okay,” you nodded weakly as you slid your hands from him to stand on your own. “I had a late lunch anyway. Nat and Clint were kind enough to invite me along.”

It wasn’t until you turned back to the counter, closing a familiar cookbook that migrated from the house to the apartment, that it dawned on him just how thoughtless he’d been. Lunch, dinner; the meals themselves weren’t the issue. It was the connection they always provided, from when he first met you to before and after every mission that took him away from you. You were violently uprooted from your home with little to show for it still but some clothes, a few books, a cat who just now started coming out of hiding, and him; the man who was supposed to be taking care of you. Sure, he checked up on you throughout the day, made sure you were healing, but in his own damned foolishness, his own cowardice to face you, he never stopped long enough to just be there with you despite knowing how much you worry, how much you'd been through.

“M’sorry, sweetheart. I should’a been here. I should'a...,” he began quietly, but was cut off by you turning back to face him with a pacifying wave of your hand.

“Honestly, it doesn't matter,” you shook your head and let your hand drop to your side. “I’m just glad you came to see me tonight at all.”

That stung him, and deservedly so in his opinion, shame searing hot on his face and clogging his throat until he was able to swallow it enough to speak again, tongue swiping at the dryness of his lips. “I promised I’d never leave without saying goodbye again.”

“I know, but you’ve been distant with me for a while now. Ever since we got here. I wasn’t too sure.” Your humorless chuckle died almost immediately, fell into a quake of your lower lip that you bit into as your shoulders slumped and you sighed wetly. Whatever fear or self-loathing doubt that kept Bucky rooted to his spot all this time wasn’t strong enough to stay him any longer. Not when it looked like you were about to crumple in on yourself with your eyes rimmed in red and tears dancing at the corners. He went to hold your face in his hands, hesitating before slipping metal fingers across your unbruised cheek. And it would never cease to amaze him how you melted into the unnatural touch of it or eased when he crowded into your space instead of cowering as you looked up at him, sniffling before you spoke again. “I know you’ve been taking care of a lot of things. Trying to get your head straight. Planning a mission. I just… I miss you. You’re not even gone yet and I miss you, Bucky. So much.”

“Tell me to stay and I will. I’ll scrub the whole damn mission if you need me here.” Bucky’s reply came out in a rush of words, desperate for you to understand he meant it. “I’d do that for you, sweetheart. I’d do anything for you.”

Another sniffle and you gave a small, resolute shake of your head, though your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt held a fine tremble that ached in his chest. “Of course I don’t want you to go, Bucky. But you need to do this. And not just to protect me. You need to do this for you, to help you heal. I could never ask you to give that up. I was just hoping tonight…”

“What is it, baby? What were you hoping,” he asked when you bit into your lower lip, obviously trying to clamp down on whatever thought had been going through your mind. Pressing his metal palm to your jaw, trying to physically lift your fallen gaze back to his face proved fruitless.

“It’s nothing,” you said quietly. Your hands slid from his shirt and idly smoothed down the fabric from where they’d held on. “It’s really not important right now.”

“No. Don’t do that. Don’t you dare,” Bucky chided softly, daring to rest flesh fingers at the curve of your waist while he inched a little closer. He heard and felt the quiet hitch in your breath even as your eyes caught his fleetingly. “If you thought it, it’s important. It’s important to me.”

“It sounds really selfish compared to everything you’re going through, but…” you began as you covered his hand with your own where it rested at your cheek. A light flush colored your skin and you looked embarrassed when you spoke in a voice barely above a whisper. “This is the first time you’ve really touched me since what happened.”

Guilt twisted in Bucky’s gut and he had to force his hands to stay right where they were. It wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about it in all that time. There were little moments where he’d made to reach out, touch your hair, brush his fingers along the inside of your wrist, press a kiss to the crook of your neck. But then your bruises would stand out or you would wince in discomfort from some small movement and he was reminded that he was the cause of all your pain. The cut on your cheek from before had been one thing; eating him up inside for so long. He watched it heal in time with parts of himself, though like the scar, no matter how faint it became the damage would always be there. Yet, to see the violence of his past come screaming back at him to paint itself across your body in vivid colors, purple and red, was too much. How could he take comfort in you when you were suffering because of him?

“You were injured, needed time to heal,” he countered, though it sounded like a feeble excuse even in his own ears.

“Dr. Cho cleared me for most activities days ago, you know that. And besides, that wasn’t stopping you from… from holding me or kissing me,” you replied, letting your hand fall from his. Your eyes slipped closed and you took a deep breath, seeming to steady yourself with a furrow of your brow. “If you don’t want to… If you don’t want me anymore…”

“What,” he startled out. The idea that you of all people, the woman he loved, that his brain conjured dreams of when it felt truly at peace, could feel unwanted by him was almost enough to knock the wind out of him. “How could you ever think that, sweetheart? Christ, it feels like that’s all I ever do is want you. But hell if I deserve you, especially now, after all this.”

Bucky brought his right hand up, hesitating a split second before gingerly resting his palm along your jaw, thumb ghosting over the bruise at your cheekbone. A sympathetic wince scrunched his nose when you turned into his touch, but it melted away when your eyes finally met his again, brow furrowed and teeth scraping along your lower lip. “What do I deserve then?”

“Are you kiddin me, doll? You deserve a whole hell of a lot better than me.” He shook his head, disbelieving, something in him feeling half-hysterical that you even had to ask. “You deserve the world.”

“And all I really want is you,” was your quiet response and the sadness and longing in your voice tore at his insides. “You’re leaving tomorrow for who knows how long… maybe even forever…”

“Baby--” he tried to soothe, but you continued undeterred, silencing him with the plea in your eyes.

“But it’s you I want, Bucky. I just want you to be with me one last time before you go. Really with me.”

He regarded you silently a moment, trying to process, trying to accept what you were saying to him. There had been comfort in your closeness and your touch almost from the beginning, before he even recognized that feeling again, when he was afraid even breathing too loud would have you sending him packing. That same fear had crept up on him once more, the same dark voice that reminded him of what he’d done and what he was still capable of. Except it was amplified by every cut and bruise that marred your skin. So he denied himself the comfort that you came to embody for him. He never thought his self-imposed punishment could affect you so much. The idea that after all the pain and blood and death you could need his touch as badly as he needed yours was mystifying. Yet there he stood, cupping your face delicately in his hands. No trace of fear or loathing in your eyes. There was only want, need, love; your soft features watching him expectantly, drowning out the darkness in his mind.

The kiss was only meant to be a brief, chaste thing; a reassurance that he was there now. It started out that way, at least. But then you opened up beneath his lips, gentle breath pulling him in deeper, until your bodies curved into each other like they were meant to. Lost in the sweet familiar taste of you, Bucky almost forgot there had been so many days and so much distance between you both. It was indescribably easy, absolutely perfect to have only you filling every single one of his senses. When you finally parted, but only barely, your breath on his skin was as rapid and fluttery as his heartbeat.

“Please, Bucky,” you whispered and he knew exactly what you were asking of him by the soft, breathless little whine in your voice that still sent a shiver down his spine no matter how many times he heard it.

“Ya gonna let me make love to you slow, sweetheart? All soft and sweet like?” He sounded rough and gravelly in his own ears, your faces still close enough his lips grazed yours as he spoke. “Let me take my time so I can savor every moment I got with you tonight?”

The slight hitch of your breath when you gave a small nod had the corners of his lips quirking up just a fraction. You seemed to find your voice as his left hand slipped from your face to find the small of your back, holding you close as you trembled against him. “Yes, Bucky. Anything you want.”

“My sweet girl,” he sighed at the flush that colored your cheeks as his right thumb glided reverently along your plump lower lip, teasing it out from between your teeth. He gripped the very tip of your chin before molding his mouth to yours again.

Then, in one quick move, Bucky scooped you up into his arms bridal style to carry you to the bedroom. The little noise you made as your arms slung around his neck held less of your usual surprise he’d come to enjoy and more relief. He tried not to wonder if that was because you were pleased to get your way or if your poor, torn up soles had been aching again. That did give him an idea, though, and once he’d deposited you carefully on the mattress he plied you with a few more quick kisses before shifting down the bed to kneel at your feet.

Seeing you laying there in your simple nightgown and fluffy socks, it was difficult, and painful, to imagine all that you’d been through that harrowing night ten days ago. Dr. Cho patched you up and gave you something to calm your nerves not long after the quinjet reached the compound. You were afforded several hours of sleep… or rather, you passed out for several hours as Bucky stood watch over you. Then came the debrief, where Bucky sat beside you and listened as you relayed what happened, equal parts proud of your tenacity and sick at the thought of every injury, every time someone laid their hands on you in malice. And now he silently cursed himself again for not coming back to you sooner, because once he’d gotten past that fear and guilt of seeing you tonight, he wanted nothing more than to tend to each and every wound and spend hours, days, the rest of his life making it up to you.

Metal fingers curling around your left ankle, Bucky lifted your foot from the mattress and carefully removed your sock. While the cuts to your soles bled heavily for a long while and needed minor stitching in a few spots, luckily there was no sign of permanent damage. Still, they weren’t entirely healed and ached when you stood too long. He ran his thumb gingerly over the clean bandage wrap, remembering the scene he discovered of broken glass and spilled coffee and the motionless bodies of two men that had come for him but found you first, before he gently pressed his lips into the arch of your foot.

It was a spot he knew to be sensitive, ticklish even when handled properly, but the slight flinch of your muscles had him glancing up at your face, worried that he’d caused you pain. When he found no discomfort, only a curious fascination to your smile, Bucky moved his hand to cup behind your knee and peppered a few light kisses up your calf. A disgusted groan had him stilling suddenly, his gaze shooting up to you again in concern.

This time, your forearm was thrown over your eyes with a cringe scrunching your nose. “I haven’t shaved my legs in forever.”

“Me neither,” he huffed into your thigh just above your knee, amused, relieved.

And then you laughed. A real, honest to goodness laugh that shook your whole body and had Bucky lifting his head to catch you covering your face with your hands. It was a summer rain after too long a dry spell, finding every arid crack and breathing life back into him. It was so goddamn beautiful it made Bucky’s heart stutter against the fullness in his chest. Because if you could still laugh like that, at some stupid comment he made, after all that happened to you, then he knew everything in the world could be right again.

Your giggle was starting to subside as he managed to work the hem of your shirt up over your hips, but was cut off abruptly when he settled between your legs to bury a kiss in the bend of your thigh at your left hip. That sweet little spot he remembered from the very first time he made love to you, the one that could still earn him a gentle gasp. This time was no different and there was a comfort in that and in the feel of your fingers brushing the hair back from his face to caress lovingly along his cheek. Bucky sighed into your skin at the sweet, familiar gesture, a source of comfort since the very beginning. Reaching up, he cupped the back of your hand with his own metal palm so he could brush his lips against the inside of your wrist, noting the racing heartbeat beneath your skin. Then he turned your hand over to lavish some affection on your tender knuckles.

“What are you doing,” you asked, playfulness lilting your voice as your fingers wound into his hair.

“What’s it look like I’m doin?” With a mischievous smirk, Bucky pushed your nightgown further and further up your torso until the muted bruise along your ribs was exposed. He nosed carefully along the splotch just beneath your left breast where you’d fallen hard in the snow after creating a distraction for him to fight back, but he wouldn’t let the memory of fear and worry completely pull the smile from him now as he looked up at your beautiful face, safe and sound with him. “I gotta kiss all your booboos, sweetheart. Make’m feel better.”

The warm chuckle you gave turned into a sigh with a hitch of your breath when Bucky continued his ascent, drawing the fabric in his hands up over the swell of your breasts. His tongue laved sweet over a nipple, gentle suction puckering the sensitive bud, and he hummed contently at the needy way you arched toward his mouth. He didn’t linger, though, instead leaning back up enough to strip off his shirt. Of course, you were a bit eager and hastily tried to follow suit, but the slight wince that crossed your face had him catching your nightgown before it even made it past your elbows, lowering you down to the bed again.

“Easy now. Just lie back, baby,” Bucky coaxed, lips brushing gently along your discolored cheekbone while his hands finally pulled the shirt from you to toss aside. “Slow, remember? Wanna pretend like we’ve got all the time in the world together.”

“We do, Bucky,” was your quiet reply, though he felt almost dizzy at the promise in your words and your soft smile.

His mouth found yours in the same breath as your fingers laced through his hair. The kiss was languid and careful, not wanting to disturb the small, healing cuts left from your teeth when you’d been struck. Another lingering kiss dropped to the barely there scar on your right cheek before he moved his way back down along your jaw and neck. He took his time at your collarbone, relishing the subtle little movements you made against him in your eagerness, how your chin tilted up, the way your fingers scratched absently at his scalp when he tasted at your pulse point. You loved him and you needed him and you wanted him… it was enough to make a man giddy.

“Though, you know,” you mused gently, the smirk practically audible in your voice, matching his own. “A girl can only take so much teasing before she combusts.”

“Ain’t that the point,” he chuckled into your skin as his lips moved lower.

Any sassy retort you might’ve had was cut off in a groaning sob when his mouth teased over your other nipple. Bucky took a little more time here, until your grip tightened in his hair along with the delicate skin under his ministrations and you began to pant for air. After one last flicker of his tongue, he broke away to pepper kisses down your stomach, onto the spur of your hip, along your thigh, paying special attention to the waning bruise marring the silky softness he loved so well, the result of snapping a man… a monster’s elbow in two to save you both.

Once he was satisfied with his affections there and with the fine tremble of your muscles beneath his touch, Bucky slipped his hands beneath your hips to leverage you up a little, trying to keep some of the pressure off your feet. Flesh and metal fingers alike hooked into the back waistband of your panties to slide them slowly down your legs. Looking to where your head rested on the pillows, he caught your gaze and held it as he went. Each brush of his knuckles on your skin was a deliberate act so that he could watch your eyes darken, no doubt mirroring his own. The journey was over much sooner than he would have liked, but he didn't neglect slipping off your other sock and laying a final kiss to the clean bandages on your right sole, signifying the end of his little mission.

He took a moment to admire his view of you, laid bare, all flushed and vulnerable for him. The thought of you trusting him with all your softness, not just your body, but everything, never failed to send a thrill through him. It was an image he wanted to keep forever, one that helped burn away the darkness whenever it threatened to consume him. Nothing as strong and beautiful and lovely as you would choose him if there wasn’t something worthy hidden away inside him. And he’d earn it, too, even if it was the last thing he ever did in this world.

The weight of your attention was heavy and hot on his skin as he moved to finish stripping down. If he went a little slower than necessary, letting you get an eyeful, you definitely didn’t seem to mind. Looking up revealed you leaning up on your elbows, eyes roaming his body, and he couldn’t help his smirk at your sheepish expression when you realized you’d been caught ogling him. There was a time when being stared at would have made him uncomfortable, but never with you. Now the only discomfort was the aching need to be cradled in between your thighs again. Your head fell back to the pillows as he crawled the short distance up the mattress toward you.

“My pretty baby,” he hummed against the bend of your knee, adoring the quiet catch in your throat and the way you opened again at the gentle press of his fingers. They slid along your inner thigh until his hand came to rest at the juncture of your legs with his mouth trailing behind. “So soft and sweet for me.”

The kittenish noise you made when his teeth scraped against your tender skin shivered down his spine. And he could hear the slightest bit of desperation in your whispered “Bucky…”

“Ah, sugar, I know. You need it bad and I’m gonna give it to ya, promise,” he soothed, palming at the suppleness low on your belly, thumb caressing affectionate circles there. Glancing up at your heated expression, he had to lick the dryness from his lips. Hell if you didn’t know exactly what he was asking for. “But it’s been too long and I’d like the taste’a you fresh in my mind for when I can’t be with you.”

Your fervent little nod was all the answer he needed. To ease some of the strain on your body, Bucky quickly grabbed an unused pillow to prop beneath your hips before dropping a kiss just below your belly button. The feel of your fingertips dancing along his scalp had him sighing into your skin as he slipped his shoulders behind your knees. Your smell and taste were familiar and thrilling in equal measures, as was the gentle gasp you made when his tongue eased its way between your folds. He groaned in pleasure at finding you already slick with arousal, feeling himself twitch against his stomach. You bucked at his first tentative swipe and he moved his hands to your hips, holding you steady as he kept going. But that didn’t stop your fingers from twisting in his hair or your heels from digging into his back, urging him on with every lick, every dip of his tongue into your entrance, brushing the line of his nose along your clit the way he knew drove you wild. Soon, you were moaning sweet and panting, chest heaving when he looked up the length of your body. He had to pull away before his own instinctive rutting against the sheets overcame him.

“Sorry, sweetheart. Got a little carried away,” he murmured, pressing his lips to your quivering thigh at the disappointed whimper you gave.

“Just get up here and kiss me,” you huffed with an affectionate tug of his hair.

Bucky smirked at the firm command you mustered despite how breathless and flustered you were. It was definitely an order he had no problems following. “Yes, ma’am.”

The journey was peppered with a few kisses up your torso, but he didn’t dare take too long before his lips met yours again. Truth be told, he was probably more desperate for it than you were, especially now with his desire whet on the taste of you. A shudder ran through him at the way your knees slid to his waist, offering yourself up to him with a tilt of your pelvis, and he swallowed your gentle gasp in another kiss when he nestled himself along your folds. Your fingers tightened in his hair as he teased himself against you, slicking his underside and nudging at your sensitive little bundle of nerves to make you whimper, to help ease his way soon.

“Bucky, please,” you panted quietly, hot breath searing across his cheek when you broke away for air.

He stole another kiss before leaning up with his metal palm pressed into the bed near your shoulder. Gaze sweeping down your beautiful, flushed skin, he swallowed thick at the sight of your bodies notched together so intimately. And his voice was rougher than he realized, lips parched from the fluttering in his stomach, when he locked eyes with you again, taking himself in hand while he spoke. “Keep lookin at me. Please, baby?”

You didn’t question him, only cupped his jaw with one hand, fingers of the other trailing down the web of scarring where skin and metal fused to rest over his heart, making it beat all the faster, as he gripped your left hip and slowly sank into you. God, he missed this even more than he realized, the snug, silky heat of you, yes, but also the pleasured way your lips parted and the soft noises of approval you made as you tried urging him on. His own muscles shook with the effort to keep from just snapping his hips forward. Especially with the way your head fell back on the pillows, still managing to keep your eyes on him over the curve of your cheeks. But he was able to restrain himself, the bruises serving as a reminder of why he needed to, and took his time until he was seated deep inside you.

“You always feel so goddamn amazing, sweetheart,” he murmured, hearing bit of awe in his own voice as he pressed in close with you again to kiss along your collarbone. “Don’t think I ever felt anything as good as you.”

“I could say the same thing about you,” was your quiet chuckle as your fingers curled over the tender little spot on his rib cage, just below the line of scars and metal, that often sent a jolt through him. This time it was eclipsed by his low groan when you let your knees fall wider, let him slip that much further into you. You set your teeth playfully at his chin and kissed at the corner of his mouth before you spoke again. “And I love the look you get. Like you’ve died and gone to heaven.”

Bucky couldn’t help his gentle snort of amusement as he mouthed his way down your jaw. “Sometimes I think I might’ve. But it can’t be near as beautiful as the faces you make. Especially when you’re comin for me.”

“Bucky!” Though you tried to sound scandalized, there was no hiding the laughter in your voice or the way your shoulders shook with it while your nails scratched along his scalp. “Always such a sweet talker.”

A mischievous smirk and gentle roll of his hips was the only response he gave, catching the airy moan that fell from your lips with his own. True to his word, Bucky kept the pace slow and easy to start, savoring, memorizing you all over again. Lips and tongue tasted the salty sweetness of your skin everywhere they could reach. The scent of your soap and shampoo, the beginnings of sweat and blooming arousal, made his head swim. Every blissful sigh and hitched breath and delicious moan etched themselves into his mind, playing in time with his own pleasured sounds, a recording of a favorite song he hoped would never wear out no matter how many times he listened. And, oh, the way you clung to him; legs hitched around his waist, fingers in his hair and clutching at his skin, drawing his body in flush to yours as though he’d ever want to pull away. He kissed you hot and thorough, poured everything he had into your eager mouth and into the steady rhythm of your bodies. Only your nails down his back truly threatened his resolve and he had to grit his teeth a bit to keep himself in check. Though not for the first time, he wished the angry red lines or your sweet little love bites could linger on his skin to mark his body as yours now, freely given, instead of the jagged old scars of a half-life he never wanted.

It could have lasted this way forever, as far as Bucky was concerned. He wanted it to, anyway; no world outside the two of you. No mission to take him away, no responsibilities, no danger or darkness lurking just around the corner. Nothing but you and him and the warmth of your bodies pressed together, the breath shared between you. But none of that could stay the tight coiling of pleasure deep in his gut or the growing neediness in your movements and the sounds you made for him. When he felt that tell tale flutter and tension around him, he knew neither of you would last much longer.

“You gettin close, baby,” he asked, voice rough as he leaned back to look at you. Your only response was a breathless nod and a whimper when he slowed his hips to a deep, gentle rock inside you despite the somewhat desperate squeeze of your thighs at his waist. An adoring smile curved his lips while he reached to brush back some fallen hair from your forehead, metal fingers skimming over your flushed skin. “C’mon, then, beautiful. Wanna watch your face when you come for me. Almost as good as feelin it.”

His hand slipped down to cup your cheek, thumb caressing along the delicate skin of your bottom lip, kiss-swollen and red from his stubble. Your eyes quickly snapped up to his, dark and hungry, at the same time your right hand closed gently around his cybernetic wrist to hold it there. Not quite sure what to expect, Bucky paused his movements to watch awestruck as the tip of your tongue teased out along the pad of his thumb. The sensors went haywire when your hot little mouth closed entirely around the digit, the feedback of suction and swirling wetness shuddering through him to settle at the base of his spine. It took everything in him not to finish taking you hard and rough right there. Hell, that was probably what you had been hoping for. But he kept his composure for the most part, though a low groan escaped him when you released his thumb with a soft pop.

“Please, Bucky. Touch me. I need it,” you whimpered quietly. The slight tremor in your voice would have been enough to convince him, but your teeth worried at your lower lip as you slid his hand down your skin and there was no questioning exactly what you were after.

“Anything for you, sweetheart.” He bowed his head to steal a few quick kisses while his fingertips dragged down the length of your body until they were brushing low on your stomach, thumb sneaking its way between your folds. The kittenish noise you made and the accompanying quick clench of your muscles had his forehead dropping to yours with a sigh. “My sweet girl is always so good to me, how could I say no?”

Bucky eased back into movement, though the answering cant of your hips urged him into a quicker pace. Soon, you were breathless again, soft little moans as your fingers gripped at him anywhere they could find purchase, your touch solid and real and as desperate as the ache inside him. He knew he found just the right spot, the right angle when he watched your back arch with a gasp.

“C’mon, baby. Come for me,” he coaxed, dizzy on the sensations himself, repeating the rolling thrusts firm and deep, letting you feel every inch as he continued circling your clit carefully. “Ah, fuck, honey, you’re so close I can feel it. M’right there with ya, you feel so good. C’mon, pretty baby. Lemme see you come.”

And it was the truth, too. You were trembling beneath him, head thrown back in the pillows, the quiver of your thighs tickling around his waist, nails sunk so deep in his skin he thrilled at the thought you might actually bruise him. Even your voice sounded stretched taut and ready to snap. “Bucky! Oh God, Bucky! Ah!”

“Christ, sweetheart, the way you say my name.” His whole body shook with the strain of holding back, rhythm faltering as he ground out “Again. Please, baby, say it again.”

It drove him wild, the way you obliged him. A breathless, groaning chant, over and over in time with his thrusts. Somewhere in him, he knew he could never forget his name again, not with the way it sounded falling from your lips with each building keen. Then, with one last press of his hips and stroke of his thumb, you were crying out as you came undone around him, bucking against him for more. The sight and feel of you awash in pleasure were more than he could withstand and a moment later he groaned out his own release and spilled deep inside you with a few gentle rocks of his pelvis.

Hips still flush with yours, Bucky settled himself over you once again, weight held up on his forearms to keep from crushing you under his spent form. Your fingers along his spine and in his hair slowly, slowly calmed the wild beating of his heart as you both caught your breath. He covered your mouth in a brief kiss before slipping down your jaw, along your neck to bury his face in the crook there. Revelling in the soft pulse of your muscles around him, the way your bodies wrapped and melted together as if nothing else existed, Bucky filled his lungs full with the scent of you and promised himself, just knew that no matter what happened out in the field the next day or the day after or the day after that, no one would ever be able to truly take this away from him. Not this, not you, not ever. He’d never give them a chance.

---

The only sort of pain you felt in those quiet moments was the sweet ache of exertion in your muscles and the pang in your heart knowing that, come morning, the man you loved would be leaving and you didn’t know when - or if - he’d ever come back. It was difficult when Bucky first told you his plan, to meet Hydra head on with the memories that came tumbling out of his mind after the two of you came to the compound, but you accepted it. Not running away, like you feared might happen, not with Sam and Wanda in tow. Just taking action, taking the fight to them. It still hurt, and the distant way he handled you did nothing to soothe your worry.

But he was here now and that was what really mattered when all was said and done. The warm press of his body along yours was a reminder of that, caged in close beneath him as your fingers slipped through his hair, hips and thighs still cradling him close through the last few tremors of pleasure, sighing at the gentle twitch of him as he softened inside you. His contented hum tickled across your neck and you could almost feel a smile on his lips.

“Are you mine, sweetheart,” Bucky breathed quietly. The adoration in his voice left you flushed and breathless for an entirely different reason than before, each soft kiss making your skin tingle. “Really mine?”

“Of course, Bucky. For as long as you want me,” was your gentle reply. You should have been used to this sort of thing by now. As big and strong and broody as he could get, Bucky was more often a huge sap when the two of you were alone, especially when you were tangled up together so intimately. Yet, it could still catch you off guard, like now when it flared that ache in your chest.

No doubt it was your gentle sniffle that had him pulling back enough to look at your face. A few stray tears snuck down your temples when you blinked furiously against them, but he only gave you a warm little smile, leaning down to kiss away the wet tracks left behind, murmuring “Forever, then. Forever.”

You held him tightly as his mouth found yours a moment later, the brush of his lips soft and sweet. It was more soothing than enticing, so much like after the first time you were together. You had to stamp down the scared little voice in your head that worried about it possibly being the last. Now wasn’t the time for that. Now was the time to kiss him back like there was nothing in the world but the two of you. Luckily, despite everything you'd been through, that was still such an easy thing to do.

When you finally broke for air, that soft expression you’d grown to love so well shone on Bucky’s face as he looked down on you. The tilt to his lips and the gentleness in his eyes said almost as much as any words ever could. You brushed your fingers along his bristly cheeks, combing the long hair back from his face so you could take it all in, commit it to memory all over again as you scratched lightly at his scalp. His smile grew wider, but no less loving before he leaned in for another quick kiss. This one was broken by the quiet noises you both made as he pulled his hips away from yours.

Bucky settled onto the bed to your right and you rolled lazily into his arms, teeth nipping your lower lip at the sweet ache in your thighs. The metal plating of his left arm was body-warm, the ever present hum and whir fading into the background as he cradled your body close, flesh fingers tracing the curve of your face, your shoulder, your waist. And despite the dreaminess of his gaze, you could practically see the wheels turning in his head before he spoke gently. “You gonna wait for me, sweetheart?”

Something told you there was the barest hint of real concern flittering around his brain, but he covered it with a playful smirk as he toyed with the ends of your hair. No doubt he was trying to keep the mood light and you were more than happy to oblige. With a wide-eyed grin, you reached to cup his jaw, thumb slipping across his stubble while you chuckled “Oh, how many girls did you ask that back in the day, Sarge?”

“There were no girls,” he huffed out in a quiet laugh with a slight shake of his head. But then he pursed his lips and scrunched his nose in a mock look of consideration before smirking again. “Well... there were girls. Just none I would’a asked that. None I pictured myself comin home to.”

Teeth worrying his lower lip, Bucky looked almost bashful as his eyes searched your features. And if your heart hadn’t already been so much mush over him, it definitely would have melted at that. You leaned in closer, fingers dancing down his jaw to give his hair an affectionate tug, making him grin when you nipped the divot of his chin. His smile widened while you moved to prop yourself up on an elbow, side of your head resting in your hand. It let you survey him with your own thoughtful look though you didn’t try to hide the way the corners of your lips quirked up.

“I dunno, Buck. There was that guy at Stark’s party,” you sighed, smirking at the confusion that crossed his face. “You know, that bartender? Had his eye on me the whole night.”

The deep, incredulous laugh Bucky sputtered out shook his whole body, scrunched his face as he shook his head. “Christ, baby, you mean that geriatric with Coke bottle glasses? The one who kept shoutin ‘Excelsior!’ every time somebody put a dollar in his tipjar?”

“What can I say? I like ‘em old,” you shrugged, trying to feign nonchalance and failing as your heartbeat stuttered at the sight of his unchecked amusement. “The older the better.”

“Well,” he clucked his tongue with an affronted look while he played along. “S’pose it’s a good thing for me that Thor’s already taken by Dr. Foster.”

You scoffed in shock before narrowing your gaze and launching yourself the short distance toward him. Sheer delight crossed his face as he caught you easily enough, though it forced him onto his back and you wound up half-splayed across his chest in a peal of laughter, his own throaty chuckle echoing the moment’s playfulness. Left arm draped around your back to keep you close, his flesh hand cupped the back of your neck and pulled you in until your lips met again. Your hair slipped through his fingers like water as his palm slid along your jaw, thumbing carefully over your bruised cheekbone while he rested his head back against the pillow to gaze up at you, quiet and adoring.

“Assumin you’re still available when I get back,” Bucky teased and you gave his chest a sharp smack as you snorted. It made him smile, but it was subdued, a little nervous even, as he weaved his fingers between yours and brought your hand up to kiss your palm. He sighed through his nose and just barely met your gaze when he spoke in that low, intimate voice he had. “I thought maybe… maybe you’d let me make an honest woman outta ya.”

It took you a moment to register his meaning, the confused pinch of your brow giving way to a slack jaw as you stared at him. Your heart skipped a beat or ten while your brain tried desperately to catch up with the rest of you. Marriage. He was talking about marrying you. In the time you’d been together, in all the things you’d been through, it had never been a topic of conversation. Of your dreams, perhaps a time or two, but never spoken aloud between you. Not even as a joke. In hindsight, it made sense that Bucky wouldn’t make light of a subject like that. It was a big deal; even bigger when he was young, before the war and worse had taken away any hope he might have had for a normal life.

And yet, as Bucky’s eyes watched you expectantly, you still found yourself trying to lessen the gravity of the situation, tried to cover up the depth of your emotions with a weak chuckle and a self-deprecating smirk. “Well, why start now?”

You realized the error of it when the little line between his eyebrows darkened and his smile fell. It was only by a fraction, but you knew him, loved him well enough to recognize the thoughts that must have been flittering through his head by that look alone. Your heart sank at that and you sat partway up with your hand on his chest, shaking your head as if that alone could scare away what was in his.

“No, Bucky. No. I didn’t mean…” You sighed, biting your lip as you tried to gather your thoughts to explain. “I’d love to marry you, Bucky. You have no idea how much. I just… Things are different now. People stay together without getting married. I don’t want you to think you have to ask because of tradition or because we’ve been together or because you’re leaving. You shouldn’t feel obligated to…” “I want to,” Bucky interrupted your babbling with his matter-of-fact tone. A fond little smirk curled his lips as he cupped your cheek gently because, you realized, he knew you. He knew you just as well as you knew him. “Sweetheart, I want to marry you. It’s not an obligation. It’s not a knee-jerk reaction in the face of this mission. I want to be your husband, not just because you make me wanna be a better man, but because you’ve been helpin make me one.”

“Bucky,” you managed to breathe out, although your throat was tight, constricted, your chest full with so much you could barely form words for it all. You weren’t sure if it was a plea or a warning or just the only way to describe the stutter in your heart.

“Honey, you’ve been savin my life since the moment I walked through your door.” His face was soft again, but sure, fingers gently gripping your chin as his grey eyes wandered your features before settling on yours. “And I wanna spend the rest of that life with you, if you’ll let me.”

The words had barely left his mouth before you were kissing him, trying to pour back into him every ounce of love and happiness that he’d managed to drum up inside you. And for a moment even the looming sadness of his departure wasn’t enough to hamper the ecstatic laugh that bubbled up in your throat as you smiled against his lips.

“When you get back, Bucky.” You leaned back enough to see the corners of his eyes crinkling with his grin, arm cradling you tight to him while flesh fingers carded through your hair. “Ask me when you get back. I guarantee future me won’t say no.”

“I’ll hold ya to that, sweetheart,” he chuckled quietly, amused at your antics, though you could see some reality trying to worm its way back in. “It’ll gimme somethin nice to dream about when I won’t have you with me.”

There was no stopping the smirk that tugged at your lips. You never were one to pass up a bit of cheekiness, especially when the serious option seemed almost too much to bear. “Oh, I can give you something nice to dream about. The least I can do is give my soldier a proper send off.”

His small bark of laughter was muffled by another kiss, a bit more playful and heated this time as you pressed your body flush with his. The easy way the noise slipped into a deep groan was its own little reward, fingertips tracing down your spine as yours slid up to tangle in his hair. It was gentle nips and tender suction, tasting sweet at each others’ mouths, only pausing when you hiked a knee up to his waist and moved to straddle him.

“Baby… ya sure you’re up for another go,” Bucky husked out, concern evident in his voice even as he looked up at you in a slight daze, palms skimming up your thighs to rest at your hips.

“You certainly seem to be,” you smiled at him wickedly. Hands planted on his chest, you canted your hips back to rock yourself along his already-growing erection, the mix of your arousal and his release creating a smooth glide that made a delightfully filthy mess of his stomach and crotch. Teasing like that always did something to him and this time was no exception, the way his eyes darkened and his teeth caught his lower lip, stifling a moan while his fingers bit into your skin. “Already at attention, huh, Sarge?”

Right hand reaching to cup the nape of your neck, Bucky pulled you down to him with a playful growl until your lips were just brushing his. There was mischief in his smirk when he rolled his hips against yours, making your breath catch. “Yes, ma’am. But whaddaya expect when my gal’s grindin on me like she can’t get enough?”

“Maybe she can’t. Maybe she knows a good thing when she’s got it, Sarge,” you grinned back, giving a little wiggle until you felt him pressed along your folds again. And though it was said in a tease, you meant every word and the flash in Bucky’s eyes told you he knew it too.

“Aw, sugar, always so insatiable,” he smirked gently as his fingers tangled in your hair to bring you in for another kiss, hot and thorough. His metal hand held your hips still and soon you were whimpering softly into his mouth as he slid inside you, seating himself fully with a small snap of his hips and a pleasured groan. Then both hands were in your hair, holding it away from your face while he gazed up at you with so much emotion your stomach did a flip. Tongue wetting his lips, he finally spoke again in that intimate voice, quiet and rough at the edge. “Christ, I love you, sweetheart. I love you so goddamn much. Luckiest schmuck on God’s green earth to have you like this.”

Your lips captured his again, needing a moment to still the flutter of your insides, calm the wave of emotions that threatened to bubble up out of your control. He seemed eager enough to accept and return the kiss, lips trailing down your jaw and neck when you broke away for a shaky breath. “I love you, too, Bucky. More than anything. More than I could ever explain.”

He leaned back to look at you again with a tender smile, knowing, understanding, as he cupped your jaw in his hands. “Then show me, darlin. Just show me.”

That was a much easier thing to do, to give yourself over to the feel of him between your thighs, the press of your bodies, shared breath between kisses, whispered sweetnesses in the dim light. The night continued on much the same, over and over, both knowing sleep would be impossible either way. It was soft desperation and quiet reassurance by equal turns, trying to stretch the hours to stave off the inevitable as long as possible. All the love and tenderness managed to hold the sadness in your heart at bay, at least until Bucky urged you into the shower with him in the wee hours of the morning. He insisted on washing you himself, from the shampoo in your hair to the suds pooling at your feet, swiping carefully around the cuts and bruises, cupping the washcloth gently at the crux of your legs, all so reverent, like he might never get to touch you again. You couldn’t help the swell of emotion that crested then or the tears that started to flow beneath the cascade of water. Bucky held you through it, kissed your wet shoulders until the quiet sobs that wracked your body subsided, made love to you again with a little urging when you pressed back against him, wanting that connection to help ground you once more.

After that, you both tried to rest, though full sleep was beyond reach. Instead, you clung to each other, Bucky pulling you to his chest to tuck your head beneath his chin and your arms wrapping around his waist to hold him close. Between the feel of his fingers slipping idly through your hair and the sound of his heartbeat, you were sure you dozed at some point. Maybe he even did as well, but you were awake enough when his arms tightened around you hours later and you knew your time together was starting to slip away.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured into your hair, the ache in his voice evident.

“I know,” you answered with a small nod and gave him an extra squeeze before pulling back to look up at his face. “Is there time for some breakfast at least… before you go?”

A sad little smile quirked his lips as he cupped your cheek and leaned in to brush a kiss on your forehead. “Yeah, baby. I’m gonna suit up first though. And you should probably take your medicine.”

“Yeah,” you whispered. Behind the tightness of your heart and the twisting in your gut, part of you wanted to cry at how ridiculously mundane, how terribly useless and pitiful you felt in the moments leading up to him leaving for a mission, every time before, but especially now. Yet, you still gripped his chin in your fingers and tried to soldier on with as much mirth in your smile as you could muster. “I’ll probably need those pain meds if I wanna walk straight later.”

He snorted in amusement, though the emotion never really reached his eyes. There was too much sadness there to make room for much else even as you pressed your lips to his. You lingered there, not wanting to part, but after another quick peck, you headed for the bathroom. It was business as usual, despite the ache in your heart, going through the motions like any other of the last ten days, except your antibiotics were almost done and you had to take a little extra time to compose yourself in the mirror before you returned to the bedroom.

Bucky looked up at you from the bed, fingers pausing on the buckles of his leather gear as you moved to dress quickly. You could feel his eyes on you as you went and you purposefully tried to hide your face so he didn’t have to see the red no doubt still rimming your eyes. Of course, before you could leave the room, he caught you gently by the wrist as you passed him. One tug was all it took to urge you between his thighs while flesh and metal palms alike cupped your cheeks and pulled you down for a soft kiss. You sighed into it, letting his presence and the delicate swipe of his thumbs along your skin steady you until your fingers moved to help him finish getting ready. And you reminded yourself that he wasn’t running away from you; he was facing the darkness of his past head on so that you both could build a future.

As much as you wanted to make this meal together something lavish, stretch out the time that remained, you didn’t have the heart for it. Or the stomach, either, really, with as much sadness and anxiety as you had churning away in your gut. Scrambled eggs and toast. You were sending the love of your life off to fight a faceless Nazi death cult, one that held him brainwashed and used him for nefarious purposes against his will for decades, on nothing but scrambled eggs and toast. You almost could have laughed about the utter absurdity of the situation if you weren’t so close to crying as you stood in front of the stove. Bucky was only a few short steps away, further than you cared for though you didn’t dare say anything, at the ready with butter by the toaster. Neither of you even bothered chastising the cat when she jumped onto the counter between you with a soft mrr. He was too busy scratching behind her ears and you… you didn’t really see the point.

“Sweetheart?” Bucky’s concerned voice and the feel of his fingers at your waist pulled your attention from where it had been lost in your own head. You hadn’t even noticed him moving closer to you.

“Hm? Oh shit,” you barked in surprise, suddenly realizing the eggs you’d been idly pushing about the pan were starting to brown and sizzle, the scent of burn just starting to bloom. Quickly, maybe even a bit more frantically than necessary, you turned off the heat and moved the pan around before dumping the contents on the plate beside the stove. The sight of the nearly-ruined mess had you plopping the pan back on the burner none too delicately as you shook your head at yourself. “Jesus, I can’t believe I’m fucking up scrambled eggs. I wanted things to be perfect and I’m screwing up the simplest goddamn…”

“Honey... Honey, it’s fine. Really. I like ‘em hard-cooked,” Bucky soothed, drawing you in close and pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “And, honest to God, anything is better than powdered.”

You couldn’t help your slightly amused snort against his chest, even with the little memory it conjured up. “Y’know, my sister used to say the same thing. Of course, she was the one who tended to burn things.”

“Well, she wasn’t lyin. I’d’a eaten eggs burned black an gone back for seconds over powdered,” he chuckled quietly into your hair before you looked up at him with a soft smirk that you were sure matched his own. His fingers reached up to brush the hair from your face, kissing the tip of your nose. “мое солнышко… C’mon. Let’s eat.”

The eating was mostly show, really. You took bites here and there, chewed slow as if it could affect time itself, knowing that Bucky would have urged you to eat otherwise. He most likely only ate for your benefit as well, picking at his plate quietly with one hand while metal fingers rested on your thigh beside him, comfort and reassurance for you both. But it couldn’t last forever, and all too soon you were putting half-empty plates in the sink while he grabbed his duffel bag. It was slung easily over his shoulder when he rejoined you at the edge of the kitchen and the sight alone was enough to make your chest tighten that much further.

Bucky’s hand never left yours on the way to the elevator, only moving to slip around your waist and hug you tightly to his side as you waited for the car. Once it arrived, he shuffled you both inside and turned to press the button for the hangar’s floor despite the somewhat desperate grip of your fingers on the straps of his uniform. Something close to pain flashed over his face when his gaze found yours again, but before you could say a word the duffel bag was on the floor and his arms were around you, mouth molding to yours to kiss you breathless. His lips barely left yours the entire ride down, except to graze along your cheek, your jaw, your neck, hungry and wanting, but always finding their way back for another kiss. And you had no complaints about it. Sometimes you thought you could survive on his kisses alone and now was the time for glutting yourself on them to help see you through his absence.

Your heart sank with the slowing of the elevator reaching its destination. Bucky’s mouth lingered on yours momentarily before he parted from you with a reluctant sigh, tangling flesh fingers with yours as he stooped to grab his bag. He shouldered it just as the doors started to open onto the short hallway that led to the hangar. The walk was somehow agonizingly slow and all too quick at the same time; the twisting in your gut making you question if what little you ate would even stay down. A gentle squeeze of your hand brought your attention back to Bucky and his wane smile before he opened the door to the expansive hangar.

It was hardly the first time you’d been there, but the sight of the quinjet prepped and ready to go hit you a bit harder than expected. Sam, Steve, and Wanda stood waiting near the entrance ramp, talking amongst themselves, all three looking up as you and Bucky entered. Wanda moved to meet you halfway with a soft smile. It only seemed to grow a little when her eyes darted from your joined hands to Bucky’s face, knowing and pleased. They exchanged quick nods, Bucky giving you a reassuring smile and your knuckles a gentle swipe of his thumb as he headed toward the two other men.

Wanda greeted you by name in her thick Sokovian accent, swooping in for a hug that you gladly returned. Needed, if you were being honest, and she probably knew that. Her hands slipped down into yours when she pulled back, gesture and soft smile both familiar as she regarded you. “I would tell you good morning, but I’m not sure you would agree. Why don’t we settle for, good to see you?”

“It’s good to see you, too, Wanda,” you chuckled quietly, squeezing her fingers. You knew some of the power they held, some of what those hands were capable of, and you trusted them to keep Bucky as safe as possible, but in that moment, just the kindness and warmth of the simple touch meant more to you than any of that. “I’m gonna miss you, Wanda.”

“And I will miss you, my friend,” she replied, squeezing back before turning to walk with you toward the others at a slow pace. She hooked her arm with yours to lean in with a playful, secretive tone. “But do not fret. You will have Clint and Natasha to keep you company when they return from their mission tomorrow. And the Captain, of course. Though, I think perhaps he may need the same consolation as you will.”

You followed the guiding tilt of Wanda’s head to find the three men talking, too far away to overhear, but most likely mission related things, judging by their demeanors. Steve nodded at something, a dour look on his face until he cast a furtive glance at Sam beside him. There was something in his expression you hadn’t noticed before that was mirrored when Sam returned the look, soft and subtle but recognizable even from halfway across the hangar. You’d seen the same thing in Wilson’s eyes a time or two when he would dance with your sister what felt like a lifetime ago. And it was almost identical to the gaze Bucky fixed you with over his shoulder when he glanced back at you.

“These powers I have cannot show me the future,” Wanda sighed gently beside you, drawing your attention back to her. There was a soft smile on her face as she turned to cup your cheek with one hand. “But I promise to look after them and do whatever I can to help you all have the happy endings you deserve.”

“Thank you, Wanda. Just don’t forget about the one you deserve too,” you nodded, squeezing her elbow slightly just as you caught the three men starting to move your way out of the corner of your eye.

She grinned with a soft chuckle before leaning in to kiss your cheek, a gesture you returned easily. “Good bye, сестра. Take care. I think when we return, there will be many happy things to celebrate.”

You snorted in laughter at that, even as she started moving away from you. “I thought you couldn’t see the future?”

“No.” Wanda’s smirk was almost mischievous, a considering tilt to her head. Her eyes flickered to Bucky for a moment as the group drew closer only to land back on you. “But some people hope so strongly for things in their hearts, it is difficult not to overhear them a little.”

She knew. Of course, she knew, whether it was because it had flashed through one of your minds this morning or she’d seen Bucky contemplating it for however long, but she knew he’d brought up getting married when the mission was over. You couldn’t help the fond shake of your head as you squeezed her hand one more time. “Be careful, Wanda. And stay safe. I want to celebrate those things with you, too.”

Wanda nodded, swooping in for another quick hug to you and then Steve before turning to head into the quinjet. It seemed no sooner had she disappeared from your line of sight than Sam swooped in to grab your attention and your shoulder with a firm grip. He flashed you that dazzling, cheeky grin of his that you knew so well before his face fell into mock authority as he regarded you, affection still evident in his eyes.

“Alright, young lady,” he began, pointing his finger at you, and you were torn between a playful sigh of annoyance and wanting to tear up. “I’m trusting you to keep this place in line while we’re gone. No coffee for Tony after five. Clint cannot keep any stray dogs he finds. Steve’s bedtime is 9pm. And no wild parties. It’s no fair if you guys get to have fun without me.”

“Sam,” you breathed, sounding a little watery. Of course, tearing up was quickly winning out over everything and the slight quiver in your lower lip wasn’t helping matters.

“Alright, c’mere.” With a soft cluck of his tongue, Sam pulled you in for a tight hug. Your arms grabbed him up easy, clinging to the man who’d been your friend so long, who became family as sure as any blood, there through grief and heartache and, now, happiness for a change. If you held onto each other a little longer than what was conventional, you were certain no one could fault you for it. When he spoke again, he sounded serious enough, reassuring. “I got his back, kiddo, like I know he’s got mine. Same with Wanda.”

Despite all his playfulness and banter, when it came down to it, Sam didn’t make promises about things he wasn’t sure about, especially when it came to missions, but this statement alone was enough for you. “I know, Sam. Thank you.”

He planted a kiss on your temple before pulling back to smirk at you again. His eyes glanced over to Steve and Bucky, your own gaze following and finding them apparently breaking from their own farewell embrace, Bucky clasping his friend’s - his brother’s shoulder.

“You and Steve look after each other, okay,” Sam smiled when you looked at him again the other two men making their way toward you. “Or else.”

“Or else what? Huh,” you asked, sniffling slightly but managing a small smirk. “Is Steve gonna tattle on me and I’ll be grounded?”

He chuckled under his breath with a fond shake of his head. “Something like that.”

After another quick kiss on your forehead and a ruffle of your hair, Sam pulled away from you. It was difficult to let him go, but the look he shared with Steve told you they needed a moment of their own. Knowing you were that much closer to their departure, them actually leaving, only amplified the sinking feeling inside you. You’d nearly forgotten how to breathe in the second it took for Sam’s hand to be replaced by metal fingers curling gently between your own.

“Sweetheart,” Bucky whispered, quiet, reverent, but whatever else he had to say was cut off when you threw your arms around him. There was no hesitation in the way he pulled you in close, bodies flush, and you buried your face in the crook of his neck to muffle your sob.

You tried your best to keep it together, but that didn’t stop the errant tears that trailed from the corners of your eyes or the tell tale sniffle as you tried to breathe him in again, desperately trying to tell yourself that it wouldn’t be the last time. And it seemed he was doing the same, tip of his nose and his scruff tickling the delicate skin of your neck until you felt him drop a few soft kisses there. A few too-short moments later, he moved to cup your face in both his hands, thumbs caressing over your cheekbones and eyes glistening a little with their own wetness. There were so many things running through your head, so many things you wanted to say; sappy things and silly things and things to reassure you both, but there were no real words to say them with. Yet, even as his mouth closed over yours, you were certain he knew them all just the same.

“I love you,” you managed to whimper softly against his lips, fingers circling his wrists, wanting to savor the feel of him touching your face for as long as possible.

“And I love you, darlin. I know you’re worried and scared, but I swear, there’s nothin in this whole wide world that could keep me from comin home to you.” Bucky looked you in the eye, voice matter-of-fact, that certainty in his voice he had that brooked no argument. Whether he needed to hear it as much as you, you couldn’t say, but the conviction in his words struck you and eased a little of the terror fluttering in your chest. Then a soft smirk cracked his lips, muted but hopeful. “And when I do get back, maybe you’ll let me call ya Mrs. Barnes.”

You sobbed out a laugh, more tears spilling despite yourself while you nodded. “Of course I will, Bucky. Of course I will.”

The small grin of his widened, though you caught his gentle sniffle as he swooped in to kiss you again. It was thorough and lingering, all shared breath and trembling fingers and the need to feel each other one more time. A few more soft, quick kisses and Bucky was pulling away from you. No one had to say it was time, you could read it clearly by the pained expression on his face and the sympathetic look Sam cast you from right behind his shoulder. It took everything you had not to clutch at him, though your fingers stayed laced together until you were nearly out of reach as he backed away.

“Hey, punk, take care’a my girl while I’m gone,” Bucky called out to Steve. “She can be as stubborn as you. Might be a taste’a your own medicine.”

A quick glance at the blond’s face as he sidled up beside you showed he wasn’t barely better off than you were, though maybe without quite so many tears staining his cheeks. That lopsided grin of his managed to show through anyway. “Can’t be much worse than you, jerk. Keep your nose clean.”

Bucky nodded, clapping Sam on the back before fixing you with a reassuring smile his last few steps to reach the ramp. And then they both turned to disappear into the quinjet, your heart practically stopped as Steve urged you a safe distance away with a gentle hand on your elbow. You couldn’t take your eyes off the aircraft, desperate not to miss one last glimpse of them. It paid off with a final wave as the ramp began to close, your gaze locked with Bucky’s the whole time.

As the engines roared to life, Steve’s arm wrapped around your shoulders and you finally let yourself break down a little, the sound drowning out your sniffles and sobs while you both watched the takeoff. It surprised you a little, how easily he tucked you against his chest, but you were too overwhelmed to question it. Instead, you hugged at him somewhat until they were out of sight, feeling like your heart might have gone along with them. When you started to pull away, already chagrined that you clung to him, Steve just squeezed you in a little tighter.

“Y’know what my favorite thing is about this new century,” he asked, making you swivel your head up awkwardly to fix him with a confused and curious look. His eyes were somewhat distant, still staring at the hangar doors as they closed as he heaved a gentle sigh. “It’s the sheer variety of ice cream to choose from now. There’s about five different kinds in the freezer right now, alone.”

You blinked up at him a moment, brain trying to catch up before you sputtered out a wet little laugh. He finally looked down at you with that boyish grin almost reaching his eyes and gave you an affectionate jostle. “C’mon, let’s see how many we can get through.”

It seemed all it took was your nod of approval and he was tugging you back toward the compound. Ice cream wouldn’t fill the hollowness in your chest at watching the love of your life flying off to fight bad guys, but it couldn’t really hurt. Neither could leaning on a friend for support, especially one who was going through the same sort of pain. “So, you and Sam, huh?”

The grin did reach Steve’s eyes this time, though his face turned the most fantastic shade of red you’d ever scene while his hand scrubbed the back of his neck. Despite your chuckle, you still wished Bucky was there to laugh at it with you.

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