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heli0s-writes · 3 years

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IV. Symbiosis

Summary: “Since you’ve been caught—” Fury squints, “Canoodling With The Allegedly Injured James Barnes, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone’s already halfway finished with digging you up. Forgeries. Petty theft. Grand larceny. The damn rest of the kitchen sink. So, Ranger…” The way he says it is both lazy and threatening, completely on brand and irritatingly calm.

“Here’s my suggestion: get ahead of this thing before it knocks you on your ass.”

A/N: 4.8k words. I’m a liar who lies because after 4 months of overthinking and coming up with diddly squat, here is part 4 of Trinity Epoch sans smut. I’m sorry! I’ll double your pleasure next time. xx Thank you for sticking with me, I’m so sorry it’s taken so long.

Warnings: Language. References to canon-typical violence.

Trinity Epoch Masterpost

Bucky stays like that a while longer, just breathing.

Your fingers trace his hair—running through the strands, over the shell of his ear, then resting briefly on his cheek. All the ways you used to with Natasha when she’d break her own heart, or maybe ways you would have liked her to have done for you when you felt like you were dying a little bit.

You feel it now: a small death in the wake of last night’s simple touches. Your body and Steve’s body curled around each other sprung something immeasurable, as if the drift flowered then and ripened beneath your skins. You bit into it. You savored its taste. You could have lived on it alone.

Everything smears together like a child’s careless hand in a mess of paints until all the brights muddle dark. A shaky breath as you work yourself into calming, trying to find coherent words while your head remains a pot of sideways soup, at best.

Bucky shifts until he’s looking up at you, nose millimeters away. His irises are just a touch more gray, a sprinkle less green. You can see Steve in him, just as he can see Steve in you and then your eyes begin to prickle, Nat’s face undulating behind the burn.

You don’t really know what you want to say. Maybe apologize, run, beg for forgiveness, grab Bucky by the shoulders and shake him until he understands that you didn’t mean it— you didn’t mean to hurt him. That you love him. That he lives inside you, too.

His ghost from the drift— the aftermath phenomena of the neural bridge when pilots take on a bit of each other’s consciousness out of the cockpit and into the world with them. Take two people with a predisposition for the drift into the cockpit into each other’s brains and they exit heightened—sharper, better—imbued with each other’s strengths and knowledge. Mind-meld long enough, deep enough, and your core endures, but you become a different beast.

When Steve’s consciousness bled into yours, so did Bucky’s. If you walked away with half of Rogers, you also got a quarter of Barnes and it only compounded worse during Polidori’s drop. Resurrecting trauma, agitating itself, making a mess of your weary soul.

You relived his amputation last night, just as fresh as you relived Nat’s death. More visceral than the first trial run, you witnessed him—felt him—torn and hoarse, clutching his shoulder as he rocked helplessly inside Orion’s chest, frayed wires sparking across his cheek and landing in his own blood. His teeth gnashing together as he tried to hold on for Steve’s sake, steering his co-pilot’s panic back on course. Terrified and agonized, but he was hellbent on making it out.

Bucky who made you laugh. Bucky who took you to dinner. Who walked with you, gave you his jacket, listened to your rambling and crying, and kissed you because you reminded him of his co-pilot, or maybe of himself.

How could you not love him, after all this?

Armageddon slows for nothing though, and before the first letter of his name can fall out recklessly from your mouth, three precise thumps jostles it back in.

Steve’s voice is muffled through heavy steel. “You in there?”

The door slides open with a tremulous croak but neither of you bother to separate. Nothing seems to matter now.

“Buck...” Steve looks from one raw face to the other, stepping forward and reaching out. He grasps Bucky’s hand. “We should talk—” he closes his mouth into a thin line, shoulders slumping heavily before letting go. “I’m sorry. Later. Shit’s hit the fan.”

The office is stagnant air full of questions but other than the squeak of the marshal leaning back in his chair, nobody makes a sound.

Fury untucks a finger from the crook of his elbow before pointing it between your eyes.

“Culpability.”

Across the room, you flinch in his crosshairs. Standing apart from them, you’re partially slack against one of many steel filing cabinets, using it to prop yourself up in case your knees might give out as vertigo descends.

It’s been a lot to take in. Everything— the night, the morning, emotionally, mentally, physically. The hull is a steel cage, and pilots are well armored, but you’re still hooked up to the robot enduring damage, taking hits at barely .0001 percent, but taking it all the same. You’re bruised up good beneath your clothes— Polidori’s claws leaving four tender imprints of a scratch to Orion’s right shoulder. Your shoulder. Steve’s shoulder.

To your right, he shifts. A tiny hint of pain streaks over his expression before it falls serene again, fixed on Fury.

“Since you’ve been caught—” the marshal squints, “Canoodling With The Allegedly Injured James Barnes, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone’s already halfway finished with digging you up. Forgeries, petty theft, grand larceny, the damn rest of the kitchen sink. So, Ranger…” The way he says it is both lazy and threatening, completely on brand and irritatingly calm.

“Here’s my suggestion: get ahead of this thing before it knocks you on your ass.”

This thing, being any story a 13-year old kid with two thumbs and a twitter account can spin between now and when you let Pepper Potts spin it for you first. There’s not a lot imagination can’t conjure to fill in the blank pixelated space between Bucky standing on the curb and you right behind him wearing his cap and jacket. Not to mention that once speculation goes live, it starts sprouting all sorts of appendages with minds of their own, and no matter how diligently you might cut one off, two would only sprout in its place.

The marshal stands up and takes heavy steps before turning the corner of his desk, absently tapping a pile of folders together like they’re not already in a perfect column. He slips a manila folder out from the stack and it becomes obvious that his suggestion is just buildup to some other type of impetus.

When you open the file up under his sharp gaze, you feel the blood drain from your face and possibly from your entire body.

The bullet he aimed between your eyes hits home. Cue your brains blowing out slow. Impetus met.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky appears over your shoulder, staring at the same grainy photocopied document. “You can’t be serious.”

“Do I look like I make a lot of jokes?” Fury leans forward, pointer curving over the top edge, tapping emphatically one, two, three times, even waving it back and forth in front of your unseeing eyes. “I’ve got a good contact inside the PPDC who risked a lot to get this out. They’re just plans for now, dogeared behind other pages, but don’t doubt the Corps’ cowardice for a second. The second this program looks like it might not hold up, they’ll turn their efforts there.”

You’re gone. Trapped between the lines, vehemently scanning the page, reading the same words over and over until they no longer make sense. But it’s not like they made any sense in the first place.

ANTI-KAIJU WALL: CONSTRUCTION AGENDA. SPRING 2020.

The conception of a perimeter stretching around the Pan Pacific—North and Central America, East and South Asia to isolate emerging Kaiju. It’s a fetal skeleton at most, the roughest of outlines for a plan, and truthfully, it’s no plan at all.

It’s shameful. It’s shit.

The so-called Wall of Life implies the portending death of the Program—of all Shatterdomes and Jaegers. It implies no support, no funding, and no repairs. No Kodiak. No juniors. No future.

Back and forth, you’re still desperately inspecting as if the words might shift into a new message, maybe one that didn’t spell out certain extinction, but despair is rippling across your face. Bi Fang and Polidori had wings, and they were only Category II. Bi Fang massacred one of the best pilots you’ve ever known—and it was only a Category II. Any higher and they’d blow through that wall like a ribbon of wet toilet paper.

Hysteria creeps up at the mere thought of it, fear stubbornly lodging itself in your throat. Nuclear-powered automata—the only proven defense against the terror of massive alien attacks are being dismantled in favor of steel rods and cinderblocks. They might as well build it out of Legos.

Anti-Kaiju Wall. A string of ants meeting a boot.

You’re panting softly, tongue swollen in your mouth, shaking with equal parts terror and rage, on the verge of breaking into inappropriate laughter and yelling.

“What—what do they expect?” You croak, “The breach opens, the fucking thing comes out, sees a fence, and what—they think it’s—going to crawl back in…?”

“Hey, calm down,” Bucky curls his fingers around your elbow. His hand and its black plates are peering at you, purring, dull gold bands threading at the knuckles. For a second, the prosthetic disappears. For a second, he’s blood red again.

“Hey!” Bucky grips tightly when you sway. “I’m fine! Don’t—don’t.” Steve’s jaw is set firmly on your other side, arms crossed so severely his biceps bulge with the strain.

“Nick,” He’s abruptly brusque as he eases the file from your grip. “Give us a minute.”

“You’re in my office.” But the marshal’s words hold no bite. He’s already won; he knows. Cornered again, he’s got you same as before in Red Cloud.

You get the gist: play out your redemption arc and come clean with your record. Win over the public, hoard all the additional support and funding you can because you’ll need every goddamn cent of it when the PPDC rips it away. The gossip. The photos. The headlines. It’s the perfect opportunity for a few hundred million when the media is putting a magnifying glass on your presence in Hong Kong.

Duty. Duty. Duty.

You’re just one small part of this colossal puzzle—a negligible smear of guts across the battlefield trying to keep the rest of the pieces together while the PPDC sits in their panic rooms throttling the entire fucking thing.

Fury steps to the cabinet and slides the file back in its place, keeping the illusion of it being just another unremarkable envelope in a row of hundreds of others. The metal drawer shuts with a clang, housing the most damning piece of information you’ve ever seen. His tact aside, you know he would never show you his hand like this if it wasn’t completely necessary—or pertinent.

Steve was right, you understand now.

The world owes you. And it owns you.

The next six—seven?—hours scatter like pulled teeth with your head spinning like a top the entire way. Pepper had been outside the door for the conversation, waiting on standby to whisk you off for princess lessons. Having already (and correctly) predicted your compliance, Fury scheduled an interview for precisely at nine. Then you were off, towed along by Miss Potts and her hasty strut.

You try to find perspective, reminding yourself that you’ve successfully gone toe-to-toe with the Empire State Building with fifteen rows of teeth seven fucking times and come out on the other side alive and if not in one whole piece, then at least 2-3 relatively serviceable pieces. You’re functional. A little damaged, but fine enough. But there’s also the fact that you’d just hopped out of Orion not even 24 hours ago coupled with how you’re suddenly in the middle of something that feels less like a confused love triangle and more like divine providence at the end of the world.

Fuck. No time to think about it now. The human brain is not programmed to multitask, and you’re hanging on by a mere thread. You prioritize making it through the night just as alive as you can make it out of a drop. Just a couple of hours and you can rest. Just a couple more.

After what felt like an eternity and a half of simulating Q&A, practicing your posture, smiling into a mirror, and one horrible limo ride where you stared dead-eyed out the window—Steve and Bucky’s steely gazes after you—the building finally comes into view.

Hair. Makeup. Wardrobe. You wear pants. You smile for the camera. You don’t stand in the middle of the group photo.

8:55 and time halts to a near stop. You can hear your heart in your throat, or in your skull. Your eyes feel switched from their sockets, or stomach rotated 30 degrees. Someone fixes your mic wire, your blouse collar, asking you to turn just a little over there. Three cameras are pointed to capture every angle, punitive red dots angry and glaring.

A live broadcast was agreed upon to ensure the least amount of potential edits and skews, as well as the charmingly quaint idea that it’s unscripted. The rub, therein, lies upon the burden of poise and a flawless performance. You rehearsed lines until your jaw felt like it was coming unhinged. Then you did it again.

Everything requires precision, and you keep that in mind with your hand on the glass of Dom Perignon being constantly refilled. An amicable gesture by the hosts, but their intentions are cunning: loose lips sink ships, and they’re betting on yours to sink the S.S. Orion Bravo.

Out of view, the translator sits with her legs crossed, listening to the questions before turning the words over in English.

You take a sip of champagne and it fires off like a gunshot—Cantonese and English in rapid-fire verses.

<2017 was a fateful year for both the Jaeger Program and the world. Beloved pilot Natasha Romanoff sacrificed her life to protect Alaska’s coast in a final battle against Category 2 Bi Fang. Memorials dedicated to Romanoff’s efforts appeared across every nation to lament her death and celebrate her heroism. Yet, somehow, no one seemed to be asking the million-dollar question: Where is her co-pilot?>

The host’s open hand urges your reply.

The lights seem to turn up even brighter. Your back starts sweating. The room is about to collapse. In short, naturally—infuriatingly—you choke.

Seven hours of droning like a broken wind up toy, already knowing how to answer this question by heart, prepping yourself for the interrogation, the relentless demand to publicize your grief, to placate the people about your relationship with their heroes—and, you choke.

Bucky’s chin tilts microscopically in the corner of your line of vision. You’re fine, he’s saying, you got it. He’s strangely calm, even pleased, as you stutter involuntarily. Like he’s the first to remember an inside joke you’d long forgotten, his grin widens the longer you look at him. Steve turns next. Focus. Don’t fight the drift. The drift is silence.

And suddenly, your shoulders ease. The static in your exhausted brain slides out of your ears.

You sit up tall. You smile. It doesn’t quite feel like your smile, but, it’s a good one. You know this smile; it’s Steve’s smile. Like a seamless assembly, you fall into rhythm.

The white of his teeth slip out from between Steve’s lips. He notices too.

You calmly recite the introductory speech you’d been practicing for the last two hours, feeling out your new voice, borrowing from his bearing—deeper, smoother, certain. The major points get run through: your record and own personality traits keeping you from the spotlight, admitting genuinely that you’re pretty damn uncomfortable now, so they’ll have to forgive you for any slip ups. It goes over well, as Pepper predicted; “candid” blunders made Rangers human—made them likable.

When the subject of Anchorage rolls back around, you can practically feel Steve’s jaw bulging preemptively. You graze his foot with yours as a warning to back off.

<It’s remarkable that you were able to bring the Jaeger back to shore, there has been only one pilot who was capable of that—>

“I’m thankful to have had Stacker Pentecost as my mentor. I owe so much of my resilience to him. It was difficult, but simply put, I had no other choice. I feel so lucky to have survived it.”

“She was one of a kind.”

“Yes.”

The host clears his throat, visibly awkward that you’re being so terse, but taking the hint until Bucky turns into the spotlight, that divorced happiness he’s so skilled at beaming into the lenses.

Steve easily picks it up, steering the conversation where he wants it to go. He’s disarmingly sincere as he relays the process of Bucky’s injury, replacement, apprehension, and finally success

His bright blue eyes flicker secret messages and you decipher them all.

“The connection was like—"

There’s a bell chiming in your ears. Bright, crisp chirps of it, cutting through laughter and bickering. You taste summer air in your throat, Bucky’s hair flying in the wind. “Riding a bike…”

“Exactly. New bike, same motions, and it worked. It was great. We learned things about each other. Some good, some bad—”

Crosshatched pencil lines of their shared apartment. Smudges of charcoal in a sketchbook. “He’s an unbelievable artist, but—”

“No— don’t say it!”

Bucky smothering a small kitchen fire. Steve throwing a damp rag on him in a frantic attempt to assist. Your voice is bubbling out gleefully. “—an awful cook!”

“It’s true,” Bucky smugly chimes in. “The boy can’t boil water. Breakfast eggs come with shells every time.” You can taste the grit between your molars—crushed grains inside an overdone omelet, Bucky spitting out spinach and feta cheese.

“Oh my god,” you sputter into a sip of champagne. “It’s so bad.”

“Do you see what I have to deal with? Two people knowing my secrets. Two.”

<Fantastic! Already we can see a great friendship here—>

It seems congratulatory, but there’s determination to drive into scandalous territory, poking at any rumor to lance and leak. A sly smile crosses his face as his assistant shows photos of you and Bucky in the city, but the lurid suggestion only gets shrugged off. “We’d gone out for dinner. It was the first time I’d left the Shatterdome after Seigehook and I needed moral support.”

“I’d give you my jacket if you looked cold.”

<Steve, Ophelia isn’t concerned that your new co-pilot is a woman?>

“No, absolutely not. ‘Lia’s the first person to support Orion—and the loudest. I don’t know what I’d do without her. You don’t have her behind the curtain, too, do you?”

<Well, what about personal memories? Won’t you know everything about each other…? Private things?>

“Sure, but what pair of pilots don’t? You got twins and siblings, not just married couples. Look, here’s the thing: the neural bridge doesn’t take you to a filing cabinet. It’s not open like that. It’s more like—somebody help me—” Bucky snaps his fingers your way, “—what’d you call it the other day?”

You didn’t, but you say, “A dream?”

“Right, a dream. If you think about it, you can pull on it, but if it’s not in the forefront of your mind. It’s a non-issue.”

“We’re all adults here,” Steve confirms.

Steve’s palm faces outward as if keeping the host at bay— or, you think, keeping himself at bay. “Hold on. This isn’t about replacement. Nobody is framing it like a nail in the coffin—we’re in the interim of a period of time, readjusting. Short of death, nothing is going to take him away.”

Sunlight. Recruitment. Ice baths. Training until they had to carry each other to bed. Your eyes flutter, head pilfering through the memories like instinct.

“James is still Orion’s co-pilot.” You agree. Apprehension. Dread. Terror. Confidence in each other even when they didn’t believe in themselves. They were together. Nothing else mattered. “Steve’s co-pilot.”

The tight look on his face is temporarily wiped as he beams proudly, “He’s my Bucky. Always has been, always will be.” He claps Bucky on the back twice and each thump’s echo bounces its way into your chest.

Bucky bristles and sputters, but a healthy pink dusts its way across his cheeks, “Don’t embarrass me, Rogers.”

“Are you blushing?” You tease, elated.

“Don’t you start, either.”

<Well… this is very wonderful. Is there a possibility we’ll be seeing a triple-piloted machine? The Tang triplets have been in talks for a new model.>

Steve shakes his head. “We haven’t discussed it yet. Nothing’s off the table, by any means. Just not priority at the moment.”

“Normalcy, as much as we can get in the middle of all this.” Bucky holds out his hand, closing it into a fist, letting the camera zoom in. “We’re… still working through all the kinks, balancing the personal and global.”

He flexes his fingers, letting the microphones pick up the drone of machinery, but his meaning is another secret. Clicking Morse codes of well-oiled obsidian plates purring two names. You’ve stopped listening to everything but the echo incandescent in your heart.

You down your glass.

Champagne tipsy, you try not to stagger through the lobby. The doorman nods toward the limousine parked faithfully by the curb.

The barrage of questions slowed after it became apparent that there would be no sensationalist headline. There was attention to Bucky’s arm, his handsome face, of course, before the banter quickly devolved into entertaining frivolous sidebar queries. Five flutes bubbled down your throat and by the end of it, you no longer wanted to grab camera one and shake the shit out of it, anger whittled down to a dull hum of annoyance.

Thirty million stupid dollars for inane reels of:

What’s in your purse? What do you eat? How do you stay feminine in a Shatterdome full of testosterone—have you tried any K-beauty skincare routines? Do you have anyone special in your life?

Bucky went in, then, leaning forward until he was nearly rocking off and leveled his glare. You know she’s on the other side of the same robot, buckled up into a ninety-pound rig steering two-hundred tons of—

It took a miracle (see: Steve’s firm hand discreetly on the back of Bucky’s neck and Pepper drawing a sharp line across her throat) to effectively halt the derailing train.

“I can’t believe,” Bucky grouses now, opening the door and waving the driver back to the front. “Those goddamn questions.”

“Does wiping my sweaty face with my even sweatier shirt count as skincare? What’s the K stand for?”

Bucky smacks the back of your head with one hand, other clumsily yanking the door open with the other. “For Korean—have you been living under a rock? Just—get in the fuckin’ car.”

You slap him back. “Quit it, you invalid.”

“Invalid? I’ll show you a fuckin’—Steve, did you hear—”

“Both of you, get in the car.”

And you shriek, scrambling in and yanking Bucky along by the scruff of his jacket. Mischief courses beneath your skin, encouraged by clever alcohol, now fully buzzed its way to every extremity.

Still giggling and leaning into the thrill of it, you slump over the smooth plastic molding of the door and press your face against the tinted window. It’s a cool reprieve on your warmed cheek, frosting when your temperature meet the glass. Bucky’s easy Cantonese, albeit slurred, is requesting a ride back to base. His hand has found its way into yours, fingers laced large and warm, clasping tight before he lets go.

“Haven’t had a drink—oh--” you murmur, catching yourself as the wheels shift.

“Since Red Cloud.”

“Outta my head, Rogers.”

“Says the person who kept finishing my sentences during that interview.”

“It’s the champagne! It makes me—“

“Stupid?”

“You’re an ass, Barnes.” But you’re laughing at him, at the way he’s smirking— cheeks gone ruddy. Both of them, open beside each other, heads inclined intuitively together. It makes you ache to see—to experience again after disruption—Rogers and Barnes. Barnes and Rogers. Perfectly fitted.

The partition slides up. The sunroof tugs open with a whistling draft.

Hong Kong’s lights are vivid—too much to properly see the extent of space’s beauty, but there are a few twinkles you’re able to make out in the moonless night as light poles and skyscraper tips whiz overhead. They’re brighter than most, simple to spot patterns in the dark.

“Orion’s out tonight,” you mutter, moving to catch the line of its belt, “Look. Beneath his feet is Lepus, the hare, pursued for all time.” From across, Steve follows, also looking to find their hero as your hair rustles wildly, making a hurricane against your ear.

“Don’t be so fucking dramatic,” Bucky scolds. He’s annoyed and comfortable on leather, ankle crossed over opposite knee. “You’re not being chased by anything. Besides, if you were a constellation, you’d probably be the soup ladle.”

You laugh. He’s always playing the part of a stoic so well. “Hey, I’ll have you know the Little Dipper’s got the north star in it. That soup ladle’s gonna be the thing that gets you home when you’re lost.”

The tone shifts—time dragging its pace as you look at them in wonder. The city’s overripe heaviness of the blows through, making goosebumps on heated skin.

“Buck,” Steve says, and Bucky slips his jacket from his shoulders to slide over yours. He tugs the lapels down like he’s trying to keep you on earth and your hands clasp on his wrists for a second before you let go. They’re both sitting up now, watching your bleary gaze unfocus.

Steve and Bucky oscillate in front of your eyes, their lines blurring until it doesn’t really matter who you’re looking at—until they become one. So easy, like this, just them like two sides of the same coin, belonging so seamlessly to each other.

“Sorry,” you blurt in shame, “I feel like I fucked it up. Ruined a thing that wasn’t mine to ruin.”

“Think you put it together,” Steve responds quietly, and the simplicity of his statement throws you off. “We found our way.”

“Soup ladle,” Bucky jokes.

“But, aren’t we just trading one war for another? World peace only made it because of monsters.” Unspoken questions hidden inside large-scale metaphors— symbiosis could only be achieved under the lies of other relationships. Whatever this would be, it wouldn’t be accepted. Steve still retains his supermodel girlfriend and you and Bucky dutifully fall in line for your own packaged little PR lies.

He shrugs. “I’m fine with losing a few battles in this war, but Orion’s got a good track record, doesn’t it, Buck?”

“Twelve— thirteen kills, sweetheart.” Bucky’s grin is lopsided. “Don’t forget you made that happen.”

“Thirteen’s an unlucky number.”

“Feels lucky to me.” Steve’s hand wraps around your wrist, thumb resting on your pulse. He taps your skin, looking genuinely apologetic. “Listen, all I can do is ask— and I’m not good at asking for things. I just want to make them happen.” A quick glance at the watch under his cuffs and he tugs at your arm like a lost child, “So, before we get back… will you come here?”

As he said, he’s not really asking. More like reaching his will out to you, finding you when you’re caught in the undertow and pulling you back to safety. To them. Okay. Okay.

Your footing slips, but they take your hands and turn you carefully, letting you settle in between. Bucky hums a low sound, fingers curling around your waist. Steve does the same to the opposite side and you feel both torn apart and held together by them.

Steve nuzzles your neck, hot on your skin.

“She was wrong,” he whispers, barely audible over the sound of your rising breath, “You know that? She was wrong, and I was wrong. I thought it couldn’t happen—thought I had other priorities, other things to manage and settle and save and... I lost sight of what matters most. But I’m gonna really fix it this time—I’m gonna do it right by you.”

He looks to Bucky, pained and relieved, “Both of you, I promise.” He takes Bucky’s hand in his own and holds it to his mouth, kissing his knuckles, his palm, saying softly, “I love you, Buck. I’m sorry you waited so long.”

“Hey stupid,” Bucky says shakily when your chin starts to quiver at the sight of them. He’s sniffling and swallowing his syllables, unable to stop himself from staring at Steve’s face in his hand, how Steve kisses the blue pulse in his wrist. “Ain’t you—too pretty to cry?”

The rocking of the car flattens out as Steve gently presses his lips to yours, letting the trail of salt bursting down your cheek into his mouth. He moves to the line of your jaw, promising,

It’s okay. I got you. Nothing’s gonna hurt you anymore.

They kiss you and the world turns itself right.

They kiss you and then they kiss each other. Again and again and again.

#marvel #stucky #stucky x reader #pacific rim au #steve rogers x reader x bucky barnes #fanfiction #reader insert #steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x reader

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smirkingsolo · 4 years

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Orpheus: A Reylo Story (Chapter 1: Ash and Memory)

The World Between Worlds Reylo Fix it fic you’ve been craving since TROS ripped out your still beating heart and crushed it to death.

Canon-compliant, universe-plausible, multi-chapter

Please read the Prologue first; it will literally not make any sense if you don’t!

Prologue can be found here or over on my AO3 (Rinnagirl) at https://archiveofourown.org/works/21984730/chapters/52460923

Your comments, likes, reblogs, kudos, etc. mean the absolute world to me!

Chapter 1: Ash and Memory

For what feels like the hundredth time, Rey ignites Leia’s saber. Its blue beam casts the surrounding woods in an unearthly glow. The effect is immediate. A sound like a distant scream of frustration echoes in her mind, pounding against the walls of her skull like some caged creature desperate to break free. She drops the saber, hands shooting to clutch at her throbbing head, clamping down over her ringing ears. When the saber hits the ground, de-igniting, the silence is just as immediate.

Two months.

It has been two months since Exegol. Two months since she has been able to use the saber, either saber. Though it had meant the triumphant return of her staff, the inability to use the only sabers she had was becoming incredibly inconvenient. She could tell she was already losing some of her skill and coordination with single-bladed weapons after two full months of being unable to even ignite the sabers, let alone train with them, without the horrible screams. Some days she vowed to ignore it and train anyway.

That never lasted long.

Even when there was no screaming, the alternative was not much better. It was either a desperate, trapped scream or a chorus of voices so loud they drowned out her every thought with their incessant chatter.

She glares at the saber resting oh so innocently on the forest floor. They are on Takodana at the moment, a place Rey would normally have enjoyed visiting. Poe and Finn were meeting with Maz to discuss what Rey usually referred to as “CC (co-comander) business.” In the months after the Battle of Exegol, the group of former Resistance fighters had kept busy. More than enough small pockets of First Order loyalists and even the odd scattered Sith cultist groups still stirred up enough trouble here and there to keep them on the alert.

Rey, honestly, hasn’t a clue what Maz and her friends are meeting about this time. She’s sure Finn told her, maybe no more than two hours ago on the ship, but like so much in the last two months, it just slips right off as soon as she hears it. She is distracted, and now, thanks to her lovely situation with the sabers, incredibly frustrated.

She picks up the saber, turning it over in her hands like she used to do with the scrap parts she looted from the ships crashed in the Jakku desert. Leia’s saber, like Luke’s, was a marvel. She never grew tired of the schhwizz that accompanied an igniting lightsaber. But the Skywalker sabers still feel distant in many ways, like they are still being borrowed even though they had both technically been left to her. You need to make one of your own, she thinks, not for the first time. But how?

She sighs, tucking Leia’s saber into her belt and settling into her meditative position. The Force hums around her, coming alive in her new attentiveness. She feels the grass growing and the brush of the wind across her skin as it stirs fly-aways loose from her buns. The solid earth presses upwards towards her and she can feel herself lifting up off it, her diving off point into a sea of feeling. A sense of pure calm washes her bones in sunset warmth. She concentrates. Be with me. Be with me. Be with me.

She reaches out, stretching towards the memories and souls of the past Jedi, their experiences hovering at the edge of her consciousness like her own forgotten thoughts. There is a sense of understanding, of surety, and she chases after it, the fingered tendrils of her mind reaching further, tracking the feeling. She catches up to the memory, brushing against it like one might brush the hair from a lover’s eyes.

She sucks in a breath. It’s him.

In her mind’s eye is a young Ben Solo, white padawan robes and all, eyes closed in focused meditation. Before him float the pieces of an unfinished lightsaber, twisting and hovering, held in place only by his concentration. She feels an understanding of what he is doing seeping into her own mind. Then the scene begins to flicker, the once defined shape of Ben Solo blinking in and out of form, alternating with another, smaller figure. It’s her. Her vision leaps rapidly between the two of them, both somehow occupying the same space and position. As she watches, the two begin to blur together before settling on the image of Ben once more, his eyes snapping suddenly open, wide and dark.

He is looking at her.

She feels a jolt; a once familiar tug in her gut overtakes her. It’s been two months since she last felt this feeling. The feeling of him. The feeling of connecting to him across lightyears of space rocks and stardust. The feeling of their Force bond comes alive inside her and she aches. She knows it is impossible to connect with a memory, for it to acknowledge her in return, but Ben’s eyes are focused, looking past the hovering lightsaber pieces and trained on her.

“REY,” Finn's voice collides with her like a blaster bolt, ripping through her vision of Ben and snapping her meditative state in half, dropping her unceremoniously to the dirt. She is breathless and disgruntled when Finn reaches her and she has half a mind to smack him with her staff.

Times like this almost make her wish for the solitude of Jakku again. They’ve been hovering over her these past two months, Finn and Poe. Moments of peace and quiet are rare. She knows they mean well, appreciates what they are trying to do for her. But it has been difficult to grieve with them around. There is something more personal about her grief over the loss of Ben Solo, something they would not understand. It wasn’t like losing Leia. It was like losing part of her own soul. He still felt close to her in some strange way that she couldn’t quite identify, but still, it wasn’t the same.

She hadn’t known what he was to her when she lost him, hadn’t had the time to even try to work it out. Their relationship up until that point had been complicated to say the least. So much so that she hadn’t even known how to explain herself when she returned from Exegol a shell shocked mess. They had attributed it to her encounter with Palpatine, to the revelation of her bloodline, to the loss of Leia. She had told them what she could in the simplest of terms. Told them that Ben Solo had had a change of heart after all, had come to help her fight Palpatine, had saved her life. Finn had pressed her about it, about the life saving bit in particular, almost as if he knew that she had died completely. She waved it off, claiming that he took a blow meant for her and died of the wound. She still wasn’t entirely sure why she lied to him, but something about the intimacy of that memory felt too precious to share with someone who still only knew him as the hated Kylo Ren.

There was only one person with whom she had shared the full account of the events on Exegol. She hadn’t expected the conversation, hadn’t expected to share so much, but Lando Calrissian was quite charming. There was an ease about him that seeped into her and knocked loose her secrets.

So few were the people left who had known Ben Solo before he was Kylo Ren. She had asked him with as much nonchalance as she could manage what Ben had been like as a child. Lando had studied her for a few moments before answering. But then he had launched into a tale of the time he’d presented young Ben Solo with a blaster with which he’d accidentally blown a hole through the wall of a visiting diplomat’s chambers.

Lando had caught her not long after that conversation in the back of the Falcon, tears in her eyes and a small lockbox open in her lap that contained a plain black shirt with a hole burned through it and a familiar blaster. He asked her how she had come to acquire Ben Solo’s blaster and from there the truth had tumbled forth.

He had listened patiently, placing a comforting hand on top of hers on the blaster when it came to the difficult parts. A gesture that reminded her of Leia. She had even told him about the kiss. He didn’t press or ask her to explain, he only nodded, a knowing look in his eye.

“Some people are never really gone, Rey. Especially the ones we love.”

*****************************************************************************************************

When they reach the ship Rey gathers Finn and Poe to her.

“There’s somewhere I need to go.”

Both Finn and Poe nod, but she can tell they aren’t really hearing her. Both are eyeing a precariously placed BB-8 on the roof of the Falcon, his tiny blowtorch ignited in an attempt to reseal a crack that Poe had undoubtably caused.

She gives them each a light tap on the head with the end of her staff and they refocus their attention on her.

“I need to go to Dagobah. Alone.”

*****************************************************************************************************

“Ben, are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

Ben rolls his eyes, shooting his mother a look of thinly veiled annoyance.

“Yes, mother. I’ve flown plenty of interdimensional ghost crafts before.”

Leia presses her lips together; a tiny, wry smile threatens to slip through.

Ben wonders if she can tell he is doing none of the steering. It isn’t that he couldn’t fly the Falcon if he wanted to, but this Falcon has a mind of its own and a clear destination that Ben cannot discern. He can’t even see through the front windows for the blue blur of lightspeed until they land, as if the ship has shifted from lightspeed to landed without need for transition. Then it’s nothing but sand.

Kriffing, World Between Worlds rules.

Before Ben can push the release on the door, Leia clears her throat. He only half turns.

“Yes?”

“I don’t quite know how this world works, but I wonder if perhaps we ought to dress a little more inconspicuously. We still don’t know if or how we will appear to others.”

He notes now that she has already changed into a spare set of clothes, ones she stored in a compartment long ago, still right where she left them, even in this strange dimension. Ben glances down at himself. All black. Perhaps she is right, it is a bit dark side for what appears to be a hot desert planet.

She offers a bundle to him and he heads off to change. He snorts derisively when he opens the bundle. It is clear that these were once his father’s clothes. They practically scream “scoundrel smuggler,” but there is no sense in disagreeing with an insistent Leia Organa, even in an alternate dimension. She turns away from him quickly when he emerges, concealing a small smile and a few tears, and he knows he must look exactly like Han. Though he elects to keep his own black pants and boots, the loose white shirt and lightweight vest are better suited for the environment, necessary even. At least, that’s what he tells himself. He knows the low slung blaster belt and holster are nowhere near as necessary, but he straps them on anyway. May as well.

The nearest village is eerily familiar, at least to Ben. The longer they linger, the more he remembers, and he truly wishes he didn’t. They are on Jakku in the village of Tuanul. The village is largely empty with the exception of a few marauding scavengers who seem entirely unable to see them. Leia calls out to one, even moving to touch the man’s shoulder, but there is no response. Her hand passes through him, a blurry mirage-trail of her movement following behind it. They are smoke and ash here, a match to the ruins of the settlement.

Ben is staring at one of the burned out structures when Leia returns to his side, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Ben?”

“I did this.” His voice is no more than a choked whisper.

The air around them begins to stir, a sluggish tornado of trailing ash forming images as the remaining scavengers move off into the desert, unaware of anything more than a light breeze.

The images solidify, Ben’s memory set around them now in a frozen rendition of the past. The villagers cower in a huddled mass in the center of the village. Ben can see himself, as Kylo Ren, strike down Lor San Tekka. No mercy, no pause, no regret. They watch as he gives the stormtroopers the order to execute the remaining villagers, and he looks away, unable to bear witness to the terror in their expressions. The terror you caused, murderer.

He feels sick, an overwhelming urge to vomit pits his gut. What does it matter if you could live again? Do you even deserve to? More than any one of these innocent people you sentenced to death?

He stumbles away from the scene, finally collapsing to his knees in front of the memory-figure of Kylo Ren. His tears fall, mingling with the ash. Black raindrops in the sand. He’d thrown away his saber, but knows he can’t throw away his past actions so easily. He’d told the memory of Han Solo that he wasn’t sure if he had the strength to do what he needed to; Han had assured him that he did. So he had. He had thrown away his prized saber. He had given his life for another. But this? What more of himself had he to offer? He was a ghost in the world now, not even a body or soul to give. Was there even anything he could offer that could atone for these sins if he returned to life?

Leia’s hand is on his shoulder again, warm and firm, offering a light squeeze of reassurance. He turns towards her, arms wrapping around her legs, his face pressing into her stomach like he is a little boy again, ashamed and afraid.

She strokes his hair, bringing her other arm around as she bends to hold him.

“Mother...” His voice breaks. “I don’t know how to undo the past. I don’t deserve to live again, not after all of this.”

“Ben.” He never understood how his mother managed to sound both gentle and stern all at once, but there it is, the tone she would use on him when he was a child. He holds her tighter.

“Ben, there is so much you must unlearn if you are to live in the world again.” She cups his chin in her hand, tilting his face up to look at her. “But you have taken the hardest step. The first step is always the most difficult, but it matters. It means something that you made the choice to walk away from this life. I won’t lie to you, my son, you have done many things that are worth regretting. I know you did so much out of anger, out of fear, loneliness, sorrow...”

Leia’s voice shakes; she tightens her hold on him.

“So much done out of the pain that we... that I was supposed to protect you from.” Her tears flow freely now. “And I am so sorry, Ben. I am sorry we ever made you feel like you were less important to us, like you were unloved or unwanted or abandoned. Your father and I loved you and still do. And I want nothing more than to see you live a life of happiness and belonging. Oh Ben, what you have done doesn’t matter nearly as much as what you will do. If you return to life, you need only live a life of deliberate, intentional love. Choose to take care of others. Choose to be compassionate, protective, kind. You earn the life you live by making the lives of others worth living. There is still time, Ben. It is never too late to love others, to care for them.”

She slides to the ground, kneeling before her son, placing both hands on his face.

“I sense great love in you, Ben. I always have, but now more than ever.”

With that he folds into her, clinging to her with abandon, a lost child found again. They stay like that for a time, the years of emotions ebbing away gently, leaving them both peaceful and renewed.

When they stand again, the memory-figure of Kylo Ren has dissolved into ash once more, scattered in the desert wind.

The pair once again move about the frozen memory, observing as parts of it begin to dissolve. Ben pauses in front of a lone Stormtrooper. A bloody handprint stains the trooper’s mask.

“What happened to the stormtrooper? FN-2187. The one who defected...is he...is he happy?”

Leia smiles, nodding. “Yes, he’s quite happy now. He’s found a home. It is my understanding that he is now co-general with Poe Dameron who you might recognize.” She gestures towards a memory-figure frozen in the act of being dragged towards the First Order ship by two half-dissolved Stormtroopers.

She smiles at him affectionately. “Yes, Finn is in good hands.”

Ben nods, extending a hand towards FN-2187...Finn, resting it on his shoulder.

“I am glad.”

*****************************************************************************************************

Lightyears away Finn jolts in his seat, a vision passing before his eyes, the mug in his hand splattering caf onto Poe who lets out an indignant shriek.

“Kriff, Finn! What was that about?!”

But Finn barely hears him. His hand resting on his shoulder where he had just felt the presence of a hand, not quite touching but close enough to sense. Not just any hand. The hand of Kylo Ren. Through new to his Force-sensitivity Finn recognized the Force signature immediately.

“Finn, Finn? Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Poe is standing now, hovering near Finn, wide eyes creased with lines of concern.

“I...I think I did.”

Poe cocks one eyebrow at him, but doesn’t scoff.

“What did you see?”

“Leia and Kylo Ren. They’re somewhere. Not quite alive, but definitely not dead. It’s hard to explain, but it’s like he almost touched me.” He gestures to his shoulder. “Dead people can’t do that, Poe, not even through the Force! Look, I know it sounds crazy but—” Poe slides his hand to cover the spot on Finn’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze, effectively cutting off Finn’s babbling. He looks Finn straight in the eye.

“I believe you.”

52 notes · View notes

jackiesarch · 5 years

Text

be alright

Rook’s lived a lot of places, but she thinks Hope County may be the strangest. It’s massive, geographically, spread out across the Henbane, the Whitetails, Holland Valley – she’s been here for months, and she still doesn’t think she’s seen half of it all. She’s not quite sure she ever will.

Despite its size, though, she’s learned that Hope County gives off just as many small town vibes as the tiny place she grew up. Everyone knows everyone, whether personally or in passing, and Rook can’t go anywhere without hearing what is, quintessentially, the latest town gossip.

Needless to say, word travels fast between members of the Resistance. It gives her an edge up on Eden’s Gate, most days, an internal surveillance system that tells her about the Seeds’ comings and goings.

You hear the commotion out at Seed Ranch? she hears one evening as she wanders past a group of Resistance members chatting just inside the outpost at Kellett Cattle Co. Looks like some of the Peggies are finally seein’ the light.

“What’s that?” Rook asks, before she can even stop herself.

“Oh, hey, Dep,” one of the men says. Rook has never been good with names, but she thinks his may be Eric. “I was just sayin’ it looks like there may be more defectors out there than we thought.

“What do you mean?”

“Word is John Seed’s got a bit of a mutiny on his hands. Couple Peggies went rogue this morning, shot the place up,” Eric says. He leans up against the wall of the building next to him and crosses his arms over his chest. “’Course, that didn’t last too long.”

Rook’s stomach twists unpleasantly at the thought of a gunfight inside John’s home. Her next words, her tone, they all need to be carefully regulated – Kim Rye is the only one who knows about her indiscretions with John Seed. She’d like to keep it that way as long as she possibly can.

“Any word on his status?” Rook asks. Her voice is cool, detached, clinical – none of it betraying the anxiety curling inside her.

“Nothing, really,” Eric shrugs. “Friend of mine in the area says he may have been hit. No one knows for sure. Be crazy if one of his own people ended up doing your job for you, huh, Dep?”

Rook smiles weakly, tries not to fidget as the panic rises.

“Wild.”

She says goodbye, grabs her rifle, and leaves the outpost with her jaw clenched so hard she might chip a tooth.

-----

There’s a roadblock just outside of Nick Rye’s place, close enough to John’s ranch that it can’t be a coincidence that it wasn’t there before today. Rook pauses from a couple hundred feet away, hidden by foliage and the thick brush where she crouches.

Instinct tells her to take it quietly. She lingers there in the bushes, rifle clasped in her hands, watching the Peggies patrol their little setup. She should get her binoculars out, map each of them out, come up with a strategy.

Instead, she shoulders the rifle and moves quietly though the trees, keeping her eyes on the men. There are four of them, one heavily armoured, the others carrying machine guns. Rook gets the angle on the armoured one. He paces back and forth behind the truck parked in the middle of the road.

Her body is thrumming with adrenaline. Part of it, she thinks, is the anxiety, the fear, the not knowing about whether or not John is okay. The other part is a fervent anger that’s been building up inside her since she arrive in Hope County.

John is right – she is wrath incarnate, and she is about to prove it.

Rook darts out from the treeline, hardly making a sound as she heads toward him. Then she is on him, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, the bulk of his bulletproof vest digging into her stomach. Rook squeezes, twists, and the man sputters, searching for air. Then—

Snap.

He goes limp in her arms and Rook drops him, his body thumping satisfyingly against the sidewalk. She has tried to be silent, but the commotion has alerted the dead man’s friends, and before she knows it Rook is crouching behind the truck to avoid a spray of bullets.

One of the men turns the corner, machine gun aimed at her face, and Rook lunges, fists flying and nails clawing at him. She tears at his skin, his hair, lands a solid right hook against the side of his face and feels his nose break beneath the blow. He reaches for her throat, his gun clattering to the asphalt, and when Rook looks in his eyes she sees complete and unfiltered fury.

She smashes her head into his. He crumples, and pain radiates through Rook’s temple. Not her best work, but it’s done the job.

The other two are easy to take out – they’re rookies, new recruits, and they put up a good fight, but Rook is faster, stronger, angrier. Blood dripping into her eyes, she grabs one of them by the hair and slams his face into the concrete beneath her feet. He doesn’t get up again.

The last one is scared as she rounds on him. He steps backwards, makes to run away, but Rook’s hand is on the grip of her 1911. There’s one shot, clean and quick and echoing loudly, and the guy drops. There’s a hole in his chest and his breaths gurgle in his chest as his lungs fill with blood, but Rook doesn’t hear him.

She stands in the middle of the roadblock, observing the carnage, and takes a deep breath. The world around her smells clean, crisp, metallic with the blood of the four dead men.

Her eyes flick toward the direction of the ranch. Rook wipes the blood from her forehead, shoves her handgun back into her thigh holster, and keeps moving.

------

By the time she sneaks past the guards stalking the outside perimeter and into the ranch through a laughably unattended open window, Rook feels like she’s been hit by several different vehicles. She tastes blood and dirt in her mouth, aches everywhere, and is pretty sure she might have a concussion.

Taking on four armed men on her own may have been a poor choice, in hindsight, but she’s never claimed to be the most brilliant woman alive.

Rook creeps up the stairs, familiar enough with them now that she knows what spots to avoid, knows which steps will creak under her weight. At the landing, she peers down the hallway. John’s bedroom door is open, which means he’s likely not there, but the bathroom door is shut, dim light peeking out from the crack at the bottom.

Only John uses John’s bathroom.

Heart in her throat, she takes quiet, hesitant steps down the hallway until she’s standing outside the bathroom door, wondering if this has been a terrible mistake. She shouldn’t be here. Her knees ache like she’s run twelve miles, and stiffness is starting to gnaw at the base of her spine. Her eyes feel gritty each time she blinks.

She is tired and afraid, but she needs to see him. She needs to see if he is okay. Besides –- being in the wrong place is a specialty of hers.

Her stomach twists as she reaches out to rap her knuckles gently against the door. Through the wood, she can hear John moving around in the bathroom. The muffled sounds of running water stop abruptly, and she imagines his slender fingers twisting at the knobs of the sink’s faucet. Rook sees the handle twist before she hears the door click open, and then John is standing in front of her.

He is shirtless but wearing sweat pants, his hair wet and his beard neatly trimmed. She is struck all at once by how normal he looks.

“You’re really starting to make me question my home security, my dear.”

He means it as a joke – the corner of his lip is tugging upwards – but Rook doesn’t laugh. Instead, she swallows thickly and follows the lines of his body, her eyes fixed on the spot a few inches from his belly button where a thin piece of gauze is taped. His ribs are a canvas full of purples and blues, mottled skin that proclaims he’s been hit by something.

“Not that I’m not pleased to see you, of course, but is there a particular reason you’ve broken in tonight?”

“Are you all right?” Rook asks quietly. Her voice sounds a million miles away, even to her.

John stares at her like he doesn’t understand what she’s asking, eyes raking her up and down.

“Am I—Rook, I’m fine. Are you okay?”

The question isn’t one she was expecting. Rook wonders what she must look like for him to ask that, for him to use her name instead of one of his sickeningly sweet pet names. She knows that her hair is a disaster, stiff with dried blood and dirt - the rest of her can’t be much better. She doesn’t know what to say, so she says nothing.

John reaches out, and his fingers brush against her elbow.

“Come here,” he murmurs.

Each step toward him feels like a light year away, but somehow Rook manages to get there. She crowds him up against the bathroom counter, places a hand gently on his side. His skin is smooth and warm. He smells clean.

John cups the side of her face in his hand, then lets his fingers spider upwards toward her scalp, where her hair is matted with blood.

“Is this your blood?”

Rook doesn’t actually know. Every part of her hurts, so it may very well be. She doesn’t speak but instead shrugs, reaching out to wrap her arms around him. One of his hands settles on her back, the other splayed across the back of her head. For a moment, she feels safe. Calm. She forgets that her head is pounding, that her lips are dry and cracked, that her stomach aches. She forgets the anxiety thrashing around inside her chest. John kisses her forehead.

“I should go,” Rook says abruptly. She pulls herself out of the embrace and stares up at him. “I need to shower. And you’re probably tired. You should go to bed.”

She doesn’t know why she’s trying to push him away. Every part of her screams to stay here, to stay wrapped in his arms, quiet under the sickly glow of the bathroom lights.

Staying, though, means she has to put a name to the feeling that drove her all the way here in the first place. Staying means she has to confront it. Rook doesn’t know if she can do it.

John makes the decision for her, his voice gentle and his breath ghosting over the shell of her ear.

“Let me help, darling.”

His hands go to the hem of her shirt and he tugs, up past her ribs, bunching under her shoulders until she lifts her arms and lets him pull it over her head. The shirt falls silently to the bathroom floor. Rook starts to wriggle out of the embrace to help him but John doesn’t let her get very far before he’s gripping her tighter.

Goosebumps prickle at her skin as he reaches behind her to unhook her bra. He slips the straps from her shoulders, presses feather-light kisses across the line of her collarbone, tosses the garment on the floor next to her shirt. The dirty jeans come next. There’s a new tear in the knee that Rook doesn’t notice until the denim pools around her ankles and her toes catch in the rip. How has she managed to do that?

John finally lets her go. He steps toward the shower and twists the water on, and Rook, watching, strips away her underwear. Her pile of clothes tell a story – a horror story, full of blood and fear and terror. The memory of the evening makes her grind her teeth together. She thinks she can feel tiny pieces of dirt between her molars, gritty and sour.

“Get in,” John encourages, once the water is hot and steam is billowing from the stream.

It looks inviting. Rook pads toward the shower and slips under the warm spray, and John joins her a moment later, slipping in behind her, a warm weight against her back. The water drills against her chest, her arms, her shoulders, and for a moment, Rook feels better than she has in months.

John’s hands come to her shoulders and squeeze, kneading the muscles, his thumbs pressing firmly into the back of her neck. She leans back against him and sighs. Water runs down her face, her chest and her belly in rivers, the blood and dirt melting from her skin like hot wax, spiraling down the drain. She feels John move, and then he is scrubbing shampoo into her hair with the tips of his fingers, gently, because he still doesn’t know if the blood in her hair is hers. It must be, because his fingers brush against a spot near her temple so tender that it makes her flinch. The shampoo stings.

“You should have gotten someone to stitch this up,” John murmurs. Rook can barely hear him over the rush of the water, but she feels him run a finger along what must be a cut about an inch long. “Does it hurt?”

“Stings,” she says, “but it’s fine.”

The gentle scrubbing is hypnotic. Rook feels as though she might fall asleep standing up and is grateful that John is behind her to keep her on her feet. He scratches at her scalp gently, then turns her so her back is facing the water. Rook tips her head back and lets the shampoo run down her back, splattering against the shower floor. Her eyes are closed, but she feels John lean forward to kiss the hollow of her throat, the side of her neck, the corner of her mouth.

She feels at home here, in this moment, soap dripping from the ends of her hair and John’s breath against her cheek. Rook noses in a little until their lips meet, and they kiss a few times, slow, lazy, peaceful. The panic that’s kept her on her toes all day has left her now, and her mouth starts to go slack halfway through because she is so tired, and John laughs, reaching up to scrub the last of the shampoo from her hair.

“You okay?” he asks. She opens her eyes and follows the lines of John’s face. His eyes are a bright blue, his expression soft as he watches her.

“Tired,” she admits.

They spend another ten, maybe fifteen minutes in the shower. Rook can’t be sure how much time goes by exactly, but the water starts to run cold just after John finishes cleaning her skin with nicely scented soap. She rinses and shuts the shower off.

Rook can’t map the journey from the shower to John’s bed. Things are starting to move in slow motion, like a movie montage of the mundane moments of her life. Somehow, she ends up cloaked in one of John’s shirts, curled under the blankets with him pressed up against her back.

She was calm in the shower, but now her mind is racing again, filling in all the blanks she’s desperately been trying to ignore.

“You—I thought you were dead,” she says warily, suddenly wide awake. Her eyes are burning. “They said—.”

John sighs. He pulls at her hip gently, his fingers pressing into a spot that hurts enough that Rook thinks it may be bruised. She rolls over, runs her fingers along the clean gauze patch that John must have applied during their transition from bathroom to bed. Rook wants to peel the tape back, wants to see exactly what was done to him, how bad it really looks.

“I’m fine, darling.”

“I know,” Rook says, “but for a minute, you weren’t. You were dead.”

He doesn’t say anything for a while, staying uncharacteristically quiet as he reaches out to brush her wet hair from her face. John has always liked to touch, tactile like no one else she has ever met. His fingers linger next to the ear he tucks her hair behind, then skim down her cheek to the line of her collarbone. Eventually, he grabs her hand and slides it up to his chest. His pulse thuds under her palm.

“I’m here,” John murmurs. “Just a scratch, darling. You haven’t lost me yet.”

Rook chokes out a shaky laugh, splaying her fingers wider, feeling his heartbeat steady and constant beneath her skin.

“I’m sorry,” she says eventually, curling tighter against him. “This is embarrassing.”

If the Resistance could only see her now — at her least heroic, skin pale and hands shaking, wrapped up in the enemy’s arms. Rook’s tried to plan out all the ways that this holy war might end.

This was never one of them.

“Shh,” John quiets her, threading his arms tightly around her and pulling her close to him. “Everything is all right now. You need to sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Rook is grateful that he hasn’t decided to press her. John is always seeking answers, always seeking the truth, always seeking confessions. For once, it is comforting to see him simply be.

Her hands slip around him, reveling in his warmth. John settles one hand on the small of her back, warm and steady, and runs the fingers of the other through her hair. Rook savours every touch, every brush of skin against skin. Eventually, she starts to drift off, her head tucked neatly under John’s chin.

It may be her imagination, but she thinks she hears John speak just before she falls over the precipice and into unconsciousness.

“I won’t leave you.”

#john seed #far cry 5 #my writing #far cry 5 fic #john seed x female deputy #john seed x deputy #sure didn't plan on writing this but here we are!!!#soft john

122 notes · View notes

unimpressedperson · 5 years

Text

Once in a lifetime, changes were not doubts | m.yg |

(Found this lovely, cutie utie pic on @mnygni‘s account)

Genre: Fluff, a bit of angst

Warnings: Existential crisis

Pairing: @cypher-yngi x Min Yoongi, reader x Min Yoongi

Word Counting: 1.5k

Synopsis: Once Emerson met with her old high school colleagues, she began questioning her own life choices.

A/N: Heeeeeey EM!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!! I PURPLE YOU GIRL! IT’S PART OF YOUR BIRTHDAY GIFT! It’s a short one shot, sorry for the small lenght. This piece of writing was inspired by the song ‘Triste, Louca ou Má’ from a brazilian/mexican band called Francisco El Hombre. It’s such an empowering hymn. Hopefully you’ll like it ♥ Forgive any grammatical mistakes. Good reading xX

It’s highly unedited

The link for the playlist attached to the oneshot and your second birthday gift ♥: Emerson’s Greatest Hits

- x - x - x - x -

Emerson felt like Schopenhauer, facing existentialism and digging in her own thoughts, craving realization or new ideas. Although, her brain worked in a fast pace even during the ungodly hours of the morning. After so many sleepless nights, there were no clues on what's a proper slumber under blankets and anchored by pillows, only flying and allowing her body to float around through dreams.

Tired of stiring between the sheets, she took a deep breathe, opening her blueish-greenish eyes, staring at the darkness consuming wholly the bedroom. When you cannot rest peacefully, nights and days seem to last long, long dusks and long dawns. The yellow mornings and purple evenings all feel the same, no longer being capable to differ them.

She couldn't pierce her eyes closed anyway.

Still feeling the queer comfort of being left sitting in the dark, Emerson got on her feet, hazy with tiredness, awake with one thousand thoughts cruising, synapses and explosions, lighting the darkness behind her eye globes. Brain producing more energy than the whole neighbourhood.

It's weird to imagine how much electricity a body can produce, but cannot spread. Humans are nothing but a storage of unused energy. We are atomic and Emerson knew it, she swore that if the room was quiet enough, she could feel atoms setting, blood rushing in her eardrums, result of the heart beating, pulsating the red and white globes through veins.

Standing up felt weird, anything a palm in front of her face couldn’t be seem. The darkness is terrifying once you’re no longer hiding yourself from everything outside. Once you feel obligated to navigate along it, reach the light switch and hope it will be there. Not being able to perceive a fly in front of you is scary, and Emerson knew it.

Instead of turning the lights on, Emerson decided to keep walking through darkness, listening to shadows speaking. Telling her secrets only daylight can keep, nighttime is a loud speaker, a tattletale. Corners whispers, but once you drown it all in black, then nothing else contain their incessant talking, babbling nonsense.

Emerson listened to them, not stopping their ranting.

Darkness, sleepless nights, tiresome afternoons, nothing could quite hurt her anymore.

Nothing but loneliness.

Maybe, all the rating could not bother Emerson, their voices fulfilled the silence, not leaving room for loneliness. A loneliness daylight couldn’t occupy, fill to the brim. Shadows are full of sounds, everything seems livid in darkness.

Why turn the lights on, when the gloominess hugged so tightly those who accept it?

However, in that specific night, Emerson felt lonely, even accompanied by her ghosts, loud thoughts and thuds of her feet hitting the cold ground.

Emerson felt numb by sleeplessness, but awake with jolts of thoughts. Finally reaching the kitchen, after an eternity of walking and exploring the darkness, she got to the door and, only then, turning on the lights, hissing with clarity, asking for apologies from the shadows who were abruptly shut down. She could no longer bear listening to them. She was going insane.

The fridge was opened and Emerson grabbed a box of milk, not worrying about pouring the content in a cup, drinking straight from it. Long sips, nurturing her body and slowly blowing away the fog.

A long day ahead. A long day back.

Sitting on a chair and reaching for her laptop, Emerson began remembering the past day.

A high school reunion. Almost 12 years passed and yet douchebags were douchebags, people still talked shit about each other, but now whilst rambling about their conquerings, children, jobs, travels, fulfilled dreams, and well, Emerson felt like just Emerson.

A gymnasium crowded with people on their 30s, old students, old friends whose destinies run apart. They were now gathering 12 years of news, 12 years of events and occurrences. Dyed hair, wigs and a lot of dieting shakes, adults swimming in debts and bills, yet proudly bragging and showing off their achievements.

Emerson decided to sip on her non-alcoholic fruit punch and observe, questioning all her life choices, mainly the moment where she accidentally accepted hanging out with venomous colleagues. She was sitting on the benches and taking a mental note on never accepting anything without thoroughly reading ever again, specifically if the e-mail has her school emblem and the option to turn down.

Staring at everyone, showing off their kids and apartments, Emerson thought about life.

In ten years she rented her own small place, kept a good long-distance relationship with a korean music producer, a stable job as a psychologist, yet all the bragging made her question: How much did I actually change?

Growing old felt easy, but growing old comfortably always bugged Emerson. Once she left high school, her dream was to evolve, grow out of her shell and be Karen Horney for the teenagers. Unfortunately life ain’t that easy and concluding university costed too much of her sanity, despite all the loneliness and issues, she managed to survive.

Leaving the High School meeting felt reliving. What a waste of precious time, getting around people she hated or barely knew. It drained all the energy from her body and once she arrived at home, let her flesh and bones carve their shape on her bed, hopeful and wishing for some rest. But her brain couldn’t shut off and get in R.E.M sleep, going through everything that happened during all those 12 years.

In a well filled with loneliness and gloominess, Emerson met Min Yoongi through internet.

After finishing high school and entering university, Emerson discovered a profound love for acoustic rap. Her roommate showed a song from Rap Monster and his lyrics about anxiety and fear of failure, some of them masterpieces and within weeks, the girl was dipping down on a spiral of acoustic songs, charged with unhuman levels of sentimentalism and words. Among the talented rappers, a certain small yet rageful guy named Min Yoongi, or Agust D, started playing on Youtube.

Agust D, stage name from a korean rapper who moved to United Kingdom when he was 14, wrote about depression crudely, getting rid of metaphors whenever the subject was himself, but showing off his writing skills and capacity of creating parallels between rap and philosophy. Emerson fell head over heels for him and commented on one of his videos with such passion, expressing how grateful she felt for finding out about his work.

What actually surprised her was his answer: his personal e-mail address, an emoticon winking and other of a phone. He asked for her phone number in a subtle way. Smooth.

Their bonding was instantaneous.

Although he lived in Northern Ireland, too far from Emerson, yet they worked their arses off in order to meet monthly.

Her dating aspect of life was amazing, a long-term relationship with someone compatible and comprehensible.

Why did she feel so incomplete and lonely after all?

Staring blankly at her laptop screen, suddenly her vision got wet and blurry. Tears streaming down her face, ruining the make-up she applied in order to look more mature. Black eye liner? Ruined. Concealer? Stained. Mascara? No longer existing. Everything running down and breaking the coat of foundation.

Emerson wanted to improve herself and wished upon a star everyday.

She had an amazing life, with a good job and a stable relationship. Yet her brain couldn’t see how amazing she was. No one half as strong and tough could go through hard times on her previous job, all the bullying and mental health struggles without letting the existential pain drop them to their knees.

Her insatisfaction seemed pointless, whenever she thought about rationally, but couldn’t control her brain. Could not hold the negative thoughts down.

Everyone on that goddamn high school reunion seemed to have improved, matured and grow out their childish pants. Changing and living their best life, regardless of bills and difficulties.

Yoongi always bragged about how great his girlfriend was and her co-workers constantly compliment her skills, her empathy.

How could she not understand it? How could she still feel so lonely despite everything surrounding her?

Why couldn’t she feel like evolving and changing?

Out of nowhere, the ghosts decided to pronounce themselves even without shadows to support their voices, asking her why she was crying, who did hurt her and saying the sweetest words, slowly helping and making everything seem to be less lonely.

After crying a river, she cleaned the last remaining tears. The clear, small and, before contaminated by rests of makeup, the black eyeliner corrupting the pureness of each drop, now clean and sheer, the most raw demonstration of innocent sadness.

Indignation.

Rage.

Frustrations.

Among so many changes, ups and downs.

Evolution, it’s not solely a synonym for improvement. Changing, this defines the human evolution. It frustrates. It hurts you. Changing is painful. Emerson felt so much pain whilst watching time flying by.

The teardrops, now transparent, candid like newborn soul, brought to this world within seconds.

In that moment, pure, crude, bare, stripped of luxe, all the past risks and struggles drowning in realization, oh in that moment, Emerson realized her growth. Her changing.

The ghost now had only one voice and the source from every word was placed in front of her: the laptop.

“Hey, love, are feeling better now?” - Yoongi asked through a video call, his gummy smile flashing and making Emerson grin.

She was changing, growing, improving and slowly accepting it.

- x - x - x - x -

Hey babe, did you like it? Here’s the translation for the song I mentioned above:

“Sad, mad or mean

Shall be qualified

Those whom she denies

Follow thus method.

The cultural method

Of husband, of family

Take care, taking care of a routine

Only rejects anyway

Well known method

Those whom are painless

Accepts everything shall change.

That a man doesn’t define you

Your house doesn’t define you

Your flesh doesn’t define you

You’re your own home.

That a man doesn’t define you

Your house doesn’t define you

Your flesh doesn’t define you.

She’s gone senseless

Untied knots

Will live in her own

She’s gone senseless

Untied knots

Will live in her own.

Cannot perceive myself on that word

Female: hunting target

Settled victim

I’d rather burn the map

Trace the roads all over again

See colours through ashes

And reinvent life.

And the man doesn’t define me

My house doesn’t define me

My flesh doesn’t define me

I’m my own home.

She’s gone senseless

Untied knots

Will live in her own.”

youtube

#bts fluff #bts angst #bts reactions #bts oneshot #bangtan sonyeondan #min yoongi #suga #rm #kim namjoon #bts #francisco el hombre #bts fanfic #happy birthday emerson #i purple you #bts ships

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aschenink · 6 years

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SUFFOCATE ||| 🎶 by COLD

↳ Got a random flash of inspiration and came out with this, a post-Eosophobia Viktor/Jackal drabble… oneshot… thingy. Hm. It’s fairly long for a random piece, clocking in just over 4,100 words, so just a heads up ^^

Also, this is written in a non-linear fashion, as in there are flashback/memory scene thingies! They are italicized, for easier differentiation.

Content Warnings: Lots of strong language and a tiny bit of incredibly vague sexual referencing. Just two morons who can’t communicate and Nadege who communicates maybe a little too forcefully.

Suffocate: to smother, to asphyxiate, to stifle. My hand on your throat. I swallow metal: the taste of our kiss, the chain’s rattle when you shift your ankles.

“Oh, God,” you plead. You’ve never prayed before. You, and the blood smeared at the corner of your lips, the swollen mil-dots of bites on your shoulder. Your oil-spill hair swimming atop the sheets, curled with sweat. You don’t pray, but you do beg. “God, p-please.”

“Yes, darlin’?”

“Please,” you sob. Somewhere between laughter and cracking, equally desperate. Your fingers scratching up my back, carving angel’s wings. Pulse trembling under my fingers. Your eyes open, spilling at the edges.

Your eyes don’t seem so broken. Like rain falling in reverse, the morose clouds stitching themselves back together. Were you sad, when I met your kisses with bites, your pleas with bruises? Am I just callous, having worn out this memory, the emotional cogs grinding against each other in nightly repetition?

“Please.” But you know I’m the kind of deity that listens to prayers only to shatter them. ‘Sides, I’m torn between prayers of my own. Between Don’t let this end, let me have this, let me suffocate in this memory, and begging you to Break, break, break. I want to feel you crumble. Just once, just this time–I want you to break, want to feel your shards slicing under my fingers as I piece you back together.

Your fingers curl into my hair. Pulling me closer. “Viktor.”

Please, I pray.

God takes a page from my book–wraps his hand around my throat. Plucks me right from the only memory I still have of you that doesn’t taste like the shrapnel of my heart.

Memories of Jackal spiral nonsensically from that first conscious ache when I wake up, spidering out along my body, coating me in the sticky webbing of cold sweat.

Remember that? the memories taunt. Or the time in Pistol Beach, with the ocean salt still in his hair, the endless abyss in his eyes?

Funny thing, really. Pistol Beach wasn’t so far from Ashland, where the whole wreck started. Like we hadn’t gotten anywhere at all. Like we’d only been a dinky tornado spiraling towards the sink drain, a disaster that doesn’t spin far at all.

Pistol Beach, the memories coo, where I woke up with no blood circulation to my arm because of his damn heavy head, where his eyes were sticky and overcast, where I kissed him and kissed him and–memories spiraling nonsensically. Where I said “I’ve wanted this since the moment I saw you,” where he laid on the sheets and traced the rose thorns printed on my throat, where everything was rushed and possessed and tasted like blood and morning rum and blurred together, still half-drunk and blinded by the dawn-light.

“Start as you mean to go on,” I chuckle. I swallow ash in the silence that answers.

A shower, lukewarm and rattling the motel pipes, washes away the cobwebs. Brandy, a self-medicating dose, washes away the taste of ash. Nadege stumbles out of the motel room next to mine, wrapped in a tattered pink hoodie. The midmorning sun glares down while I smoke, daring us to speak. Dege only hands me the carkeys and waits for me to unlock the truck so she can clamber into the passenger seat and ignore me for the next fourteen hours, arms crossing over her chest when I climb in, only breaking her silence to assure me that she’s still pissed as hell.

“You’re a dumb, selfish bastard,” she snaps.

Jackal’s ghost sits between us, unspoken.

There’s this thing about Jackal. The rest of us, we’ve got our pride. We clutch our masks to our faces until they meld with the flesh, half-phantoms roaming the opera house ashes, scavenging for the things that might makes us feel human again.

Jackal, though. He wears his pride like he wears his clothes: tightly, but he isn’t afraid to peel ‘em off if he thinks it’ll benefit him enough.

Ever seen a crustacean without its shell? The fleshy insides, the exposure–uncomfortable to look at, impossible to look away from. That’s Jackal–shamefully shameless.

That’s Jackal–mine, a voice whispers. Shame and all.

No. That boy ain’t worth the trouble, I tell myself. Everything he’s done to you, all the killing, all the misery. What’ve I got to show for it? No coin–only scars, and memories of prayers to Gods that despise us.

The road thumps in agreement. Nothingness stretches forward: abandoned fields overgrown and razed by fires, roads bursting with roots suffocated by the concrete. All that civilization from the people before Dawn, and now they’re all dead and gone, and all that’s left to show for it is this nothingness.

See–that’s our problem. All this hurt and nothing to show for it. What is there to gain by being with him? Coin, at first (a clever lie, the bait of his frightened eyes, luring me on by pressing cold quarters into my palm). Then, just trying to survive (cell bars and conspiracies, brothers who prove relation through their bloodlust). You go through that, course you’re scared to leave each other, even if you aren’t happy, even if there aren’t promises keeping you locked down.

How do you love someone you can’t take from? Me, I take and take and take. And Jackal, for his all his broken edges, for all the undone zippers on his pride, is only a half-concept, still digging for the pieces he’s missing within himself. How do you love someone who isn’t someone?

Not like that was the only problem. But the rest, they aren’t worth discussing, because I, I have all my pieces, and I like them how I have them arranged. If Jackal doesn’t like my cards (even if my cards are a little bloody, and half the deck’s up my sleeves), we can’t play the game.

The truck bounces hard over the road. Punishing my thoughts, my defiance. Dege shifts in the passenger seat, cherry bomb screeching out of her earbuds. Studies me for a moment, that gentle, pitying look she has, warm brown eyes and freckles bunched together curiously. A different kind of silence than this morning, when she was punishing me for my insolence. This time she reaches for me. Puts her hand on mine, where it rests on the empty seat between us.

“I miss Smalls,” she sighs.

I snap my hand away. Fire snaps and burns on my knuckles where she touched and spoke my thoughts for me. “He’s fine where he is.”

“He’s hopeless. Kal survives only cos that boy acts so strangely, no one can pin ‘em down enough to get a bullet in him.”

“Maybe.” But you can’t love someone who calls you a monster and lies about love, and I, I want love. “But you and I, least we’ve got each other.”

“Sure,” she snorts, rattling off. “That is, till you spot another wealthy rancher and leave to drain ‘er pockets, or till you get hired off to go shoot some important fuckface. Ah! No,” she jerks a finger at me, shuts me up before I can form thoughts, “And I love ya, Giant, but I don’t touch anything below the belt. I can’t be that for you. Even if I could, I wouldn’t. You and I, we’re more family than friend, more blood than not.” She sniffs, crosses her arms back over her chest. “Jackal was family too.”

“Family loves each other,” I snap. “Jackal is fascinating because he’s heartless. Apathy doesn’t make a family! Apathy makes misery. I–I’m better off without him. We are better off without him.”

She slams a fist into my arm, the force burning, stinging, spider-webbing up my shoulder. “We were family, and then you left him behind. Now I’m stuck here, caught ‘tween losing Neda and Kal–I’m suffocating. I love you, Vik, but right now I’m ‘bout as close to steering us into a ditch as I am to forgiving ya. You and I, we’ve got each other just as closely as we’ve got our miseries.”

She looks at me for a moment but seems to think better of the words stacking between her open lips. She pushes the pink bud into her ear, right back to glaring out the window.

I think about telling her the truth. I try. Try to form the words, try to form them into something that might make sense. I try to tell her that I’m tired, tired, that I wanted to stay, that I would have if only Kal had asked me to.

But he didn’t ask. Not because he has his pride, but because he didn’t see the benefit.

Kal’s probably made the right decision, not wanting me to stay. If you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, then you probably can’t teach a swindler to put love before profit, either.

And I was probably right to leave. If you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, then you probably can’t make a man like Kal grow a heart, either.

The words crack on my lips, a higher pitch than I intended. “I miss him too.”

But Dege is lost in her own world, mourning her surrogate brother abandoned far behind us.

Let the record show that I spoke the truth, even if silence and misery are my only witnesses.

“I’m leaving.”

He looks up at me, overcast eyes still holding themselves together. My heart runs like a Harley, heavy thrumming, ready be chewed up and spat out, trying to wriggle out my throat so it doesn’t have to leave with me. He’s watching me and I’m here praying to Gods that probably ain’t real, to Gods that I’ve never prayed to before, praying that Kal’ll say what he’ll never say, something like I want you to stay or Take me with you. But he shrugs, indestructible, looks back down at the scraps on the table in front of him and says “Okay.”

“I mean I’m not coming back, Kal. I’m leaving.”

“I know.” His fingers wrap tight around the red screwdriver I got for him a thousand lifetimes ago, back when debts and brothers seemed like the problem and not us.

My heart’s already pushing on my tongue, trying to leap off. It finds its way out in my sobs, crying, “That’s all you’ve got to say?”

He doesn’t look at me. His curls look like smoke clouds, smothering the space between us, dizzying the thoughts. “Always knew you’d leave.”

“But I told you,” I plead, going about this all wrong, “I told you I’d stay.”

“Yeah.” He looks, looks, stares right over my shoulder, indifferent. “But not forever.”

“Kal.”

“I won’t make you stay. If you wanna stay, stay. If you don’t, go.” Gray eyes catch mine. Less like rain, more like thunderstorms, heavy, suffocating. “I won’t be your victim.”

“I’m not asking you to be!”

“You are.”

“No! Dammit, Kal, I’m asking you to—” to say you want me to stay, that you need me, that I protect you—that I keep you warm, keep you loved, that I and I alone have delivered you through hell, that your life is as good as mine—I’m asking you to love me, to promise, to be a victim of your heart—not mine.

I can’t say it. The words crash against my teeth. Air struggles to finds its way around the traffic jam.

“Asking me to hurt,” Kal answers. “And I can do that for free.”

“We could go back,” Nadege pleads. “We could go back and take him with us.”

“We’re too far. We can’t have wasted all this gas money just to go back.”

Her eyes suggest violence, but her hands only tighten on the backpack in her lap. “We’re stumbling aimlessly like a kicked dog–ya kicked yourself, Giant! The hand that feeds you is back in Dakota. We should go back. We’re family, and family stays together, lives, thrives, dies together. You can’t just—just feel hurt and leave. So your past caught up with you. That doesn’t mean it gets to swallow ya whole, to suffocate the future!”

I open myself. Can’t say the words I should say. I should tell her yes, but I’ve already imagined it–crawling back. Imagined a future where he opens the door and I plead Let me stay, let me stay, it might not be forever but it can be more than now. But Kal, the Kal in my head, the Kal in my heart, he has no sympathy. Nor should he. Like every abandoned lover before, there are no open arms to go back to.

“He wouldn’t want me,” I grind out. “Why would he? I left him. Abandoned. You and I both know how that tastes.”

She slams a hand on the dashboard. “Yes! But what about me, Viktor! What about me! I’m part of this too—he’s like my brother, and you, you ripped me apart from him!”

“You helped,” I say, and I taste hysteria rising on my tongue. Saying things I don’t want to say. Is this how Kal felt, when he spat that I was a monster, that love meant nothing? Hysteria in his eyes, in the way his hands trembled? “You helped. You told him he had every goddamn reason to want me gone—”

“I did, ay! I told him, I told the boy, told ‘em straight to the face: Viktor’s a swindler, a murderer, a fool, a drunkard, a gambler, a whorish ass who cheats everything he loves, even himself. I told him! I told him your flaws, I ripped you apart for that boy, because I love him and he deserved to know. If you weren’t a fool with sins longer ‘an the sun’s rays I wouldn’t ‘ve said a peep. But listen to me! I told him, told him all the things you could never say. I told him you loved him, you’d die for him if he asked. Each day you were free was a day you chose to stay with him.” Her nails dig into the dash, her eyes warm, warm, burning, like gunpowder’s swimming in her tears. “I told him love is a misery shared ‘tween hearts, and misery was what he chose.”

“That wasn’t your place,” I whisper, the steering wheel veering, knuckles white on the black leather. “Telling him my sins when I never intended to cheat him, not by then. He said I was a monster because of what you went around telling him, Dege! Told me each kiss tasted like a countdown!”

She slams her palm again, a noise scraping up against her throat, pulling itself out angrily. “And he was right! Because you, you went and left! If you had a sense better than a fool’s I wouldn’t have said shit, now would I? But I, I’m not you, I ain’t such a fool. I know how you looked at that boy! I know how you looked at him, Giant, and it’s been a damn long time since you’ve looked at anyone like that. Looking at ‘im like he’s more than prey, something more fascinating than a man on the other side of a scope. You looked at that boy like he was a bottle, like you’d be scared of your own thoughts if he weren’t there when you woke up. Like your whole damn reason for living was to press your lips against him.”

“Yeah,” I swallow. “And now look. Waking up every morning with only the bottle.”

“He deserved the truth. And then you left, ran away–I let him get one step ahead of you and you cashed out!” She shakes her head. “I ain’t saying you’re good for each other, that you’ll be espousing vows or sharing tender looks or shit. I’m just saying, as miserable as you were together—all your sins and fears combined—you’re even more of a miserable bastard without.”

“Yeah. I’m a monster and a miserable bastard.” The truck feels small, curling in on me. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“You whimper and whine but it was your dipshit decision to leave, and your decision to ruin our family. You are a monster, Viktor. Doesn’t mean yer beyond love, but damn if you don’t make it harder than it needs to be.”

Jackal—the Jackal I love, the Jackal I miss, the Jackal in my head greets my wandering thoughts of what if I went back? with a rusted screwdriver and simple indifference. “Didn’t think you’d be back,” he says in my head, peeking from around a hotel door. His voice, the odd formation of his words, choppy and small, like a replacement for the voice of my sanity.

“Neither did I,” I’d say. With a smile, I offer, “Guess it’s a surprise party.”

He wouldn’t think that was funny. His fingers would curl around the screwdriver, clinging to it for comfort, half-prepared to dig it in my chest. “Why?”

“I missed you.” No–too simple. “Couldn’t get you out of my head.” Better.

The way his eyes would rake up me, curious, hands loosening. “You aren’t staying,” he accuses.

No. I don’t want to stay, to be always haunted by his rain-eyes, to only kiss blood. But then… Yes. I want to stay, want to taste his kiss in the morning sun, want to hear him beg, want to unzip his pride-suit and poke at his shame until there is less shame and more me.

“Nothing’s changed,” he says, and it sounds like an invitation. If I’m still leaving then I’m still me, and if I’m still me I can go back. Does this make sense? He and I, we circle one another, vulture and prey. Our endings are terrified of our beginnings.

“Well, can’t say nothing’s changed. Dege is pretty pissed at me. Staged a coup till I came to my senses.”

“Found them at the bottom of a bottle?” He sighs, voice melting, like mist when the rain won’t commit. He steps back from the door–a real invitation. Something about his face is off, like I’ve forgotten the flaws in his skin, or the sound of his laughter. What… what did his laughter sound like? I called it music, once, if the harsh, shocking cry of a rifle and the way it melts into silence can be music.

“Why try?” he asks me, his fingers on my chest, my shoulders, crawling up my neck. “Why?”

“Tired of leaving my heart behind. I was born a human, not a swindler.” My hands on his, inked hands on calloused ones. “Guess it took missing you for me to remember.”

“Can monsters shed their fangs?”

“No. You’ll have to train me, teach me to kiss you, rather than to gnaw on your bones.”

Hesitation. You’re a swindler, his eyes would say. I won’t offer you anything to make you stay. I know your tricks. I won’t fall for them. I won’t be your victim. This affair is just an affair—not a promise.

“Okay,” he says. His fingers curl around my throat. Smother, asphyxiate, stifle. Suffocate. “You asked for it.”

Somewhere in reality, Dege pokes me in the arm. She shouts over the music, eyes tired. “Pull the damn truck over. You’re weaving so badly—are you sobering up or somethin’?”

Grunt, scraping against the back of my throat, where his fingers should be wrapped, wringing me of my independence. “Tired.”

“Let me drive.” Her voice, soothing, a maternal coo. “We ain’t going anywhere in particular anyway. How lost can I get?”

She hops out of the truck and I shuffle into the passenger seat. By the time she pulls onto the road and meets the next bend, the cold glass of the window has already lured me away from the truck, back to where my heart always wanders, right back to you.

“You want me to hurt,” Jackal accuses. The screwdriver in his hand trembling. “To beg. I won’t. Not for this. I don’t waste breath on prayers—I won’t waste it on you.”

I don’t need you to beg mixes with Break, break, break. Prayers and words all crashing against my mouth, riding on red waves. Nothing comes out but pain. A gasp. “After everything I’ve done for you.”

“No. After everything you did before me. You’re more monster than man. You take what you can take. Swindling and baiting. Feasting on flesh: cattle and kin alike.”

And I am, I am, I am. What can I say? That I need him, that he completes me, that his wounds and mine mirror each other? No. What could I say that wouldn’t sound like lies? I know all the lies, all the falsities. They work because they sound just like the truth—they both bleed, indecipherable.

“I love you,” I plea, and the words that have always meant too much suddenly not enough, “You swore you loved me too.”

His lips, blood and lies, purse. “Maybe I’m a monster too.”

My heart, leaping forward. Then let us be monstrous together. We’ve hunted together, you and I; we’ve bled together, survived together, my freedom and your heartbeat entwined.

But he—he scoffs. “How could I still love you? We precedes end.”

And he’s right. I know me. We precedes end. But, see, even when he’s long gone, abandoned one morning in a hotel in Dakota, I’ll always remember what his pulse tastes like on my lips, how it sings under my fingers.

But, see, that–that’s love. Wrapping your fingers around their throat, but never daring to take all you can take.

Rain pounds against the windshield, in harried tempo to match the memory of Jackal’s pulse. The map spread on the seat between Dege and I is marked in pink highlighter, a path going north.

“Should’ve known you’d go back for him,” I groan, pushing up from where I’m slumped in the seat.

Dege gasps, playful, invigorated. “Not fighting? No threatening to oust me from the truck—my truck, by the way, friendly reminder—for my decision? My, my, old man, yer losing your stubborn streak.”

“Not really,” I sigh. The window is cool against my fevered face. “Just tired of leaving behind the things I want to take.”

She peeks over at me, shadows crawling on her face in the evening light. Laughter and fright mirror in her eyes. “What sorta dreams are you having that changed your mind?”

“None,” I whisper. Tasting blood in my dry mouth. “Only memories.”

“Like he’s your present,” she whispers, “Can’t imagine a future without him, so now you’re suffocating in the past?”

“When’d you get so wise, Dege?”

She smiles. Gentle. Reaches for my hand on the empty seat, patting it softly. “You’re just a damn fool, Viktor. ‘s why you need me around, to keep your head on.”

I know. I know. “A monster, a miserable bastard, a fool.”

“So greedy,” you whisper, long fingers roaming through my hair, legs shamelessly spread open without the cuffs on your ankles. “I’m still here.”

“I know.” Bringing your hand to my lips, kissing the tips of your fingers. “I know. Still–I want you to stay.”

“I will,” you say. Your eyes have that sadness again, whispering instead, I’ll stay, but you won’t.

You’re right. I won’t. I always leave, always pick up first, always trying to stay a step ahead. But you, Kal, you’re pondering the wrong questions. It’s not about if I’ll stay or if I’ll go. The question to ask is if I’ll come back.

You let me kiss you. Blood. How do you do that? So indifferent, completely apathetic to the taste of my heart on your mouth. I trace bitemarks with my fingers, your tired pulse thrumming under my touch.

“I love you,” I admit, half experiment, half truth.

And you. The look in your eyes, like you want so badly to taste the truth, too. “I know.”

You close your eyes. Are you thinking of praying? Thinking of the Gods we never speak to, hoping one’ll take pity, that maybe I’ll stay? Because I, I am–I’m praying to every deity I’ve ever heard the name of and praying to some others, too, covering all my bases, praying that one day I’ll wake up and your soft voice will sound less like the wind and more like the truth.

You mumble something quiet, too low to catch. It sounds a bit like I want you to stay.

And me. The words in my throat, trying so badly to swallow down the truth, too. “I know.”

About EOSOPHOBIA || Vikal Drabbles || All EOS Drabbles || My Ko-Fi

Tagging people who have either asked to be tagged or shown a lot of interest in EOS, please let me know if you’d like to be tagged in the future or removed from the list!

@lady-redshield-writes @relevy @cogwrites @beeofwriting @fdicenzo @writerightmegpie @homesteadhorner @authorisada @eternalwritingstudent @annabetchases @theguildedtypewriter @possibledreamswriting @maxseidel

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diminuel · 6 years

Text

Reading List: April

I missed archiving fics I read in March, but I’m back for April. Some of the fics I might have read in March. I’m still not very good at keeping track of what I read when! But the important part is that you get some fics to read! ;D

I’ve added the archive warnings in the brackets in case there were any, but didn’t include the tags. So make sure to read them.

Enjoy! ♥

bring it on home by xylodemon (2.4k)

"She ─" Sam grimaces again. "She likes tea, right?"

Dean hesitates. He pictures their old kitchen in Lawrence ─ the floral wallpaper, the walnut cabinets, the pots and pans hanging on hooks. Sheer, white curtains had hung in the windows, and Mary had left them open because she'd liked plenty of sunlight. It had smelled like coffee in the mornings. Dean had always lined his army men up on the table before eating his Cheerios.

"I don't know," he admits. "She ─ maybe."

Soft and gentle, but also slightly melancholy coda fic for 12x02

The One: Supernatural Edition by motorbike_on_the_avenue (73k)

The One is America's #1 dating show!

Twenty contestants will spend six weeks competing in tasks, to show the American public they should be picked to marry the suitor. Over the six weeks, they'll be voted down till just The One remains...

Dean Winchester is this year's suitor. A 34 year old firefighter from Kansas he isn't entirely sure why he applied to a dating show where he has to get married at the end.

Especially since he'll never have met (or seen) anything about his future lawfully wedded whatever.

But just who will be voted The One?

This is such an enjoyable fic! Dean and Cas don’t even meet each other until the very end, but the premise is so captivating and I constantly was nervous and rooting for my faves *lol*

Kitchen Overhaul by Powerfulweak (Explicit, 20k)

For Dean Winchester, his family’s bakery is his life, even if business is tanking. When his brother volunteers them for the reality show “Kitchen Overhaul”, Dean is less than enthusiastic with changing anything about his beloved bakery. He is even less enthusiastic to deal with the infamously icy host, Chef Castiel Novak.

Just like the previous fic on the list, this fic also has a TV show format as the premise of its story, but it’s more in the background. I loved this a lot! I got frustrated because of Dean, then because of Cas, but it’s all very rewarding!

Peak Homosexual by K_K_TiBal (3.7k)

You know that thing that happens where you hear something really homophobic in public so you gay it up as much as you can? This is that story.

Cute, pretend relationship fic! ♥

Neighborly Behavior by Annie D (scaramouche) (1.8k)

Cas and Dean at a neighborhood potluck, in an AU where they're both kinda assholes.

It’s hilarious and always good for a re-read!

Dean's Table by through_shadows_falling (4.9k)

On Castiel’s first day waiting tables at the Roadhouse Diner, his co-worker tells him to save a spot for Dean, a young veteran with a cane who sits in the same corner booth every day. Dean doesn’t talk, but Castiel’s charm soon works its magic until Dean reveals that he’s there to reconnect with his brother after a painful falling out. Castiel hopes Dean will succeed, even as Castiel's roommate, Sam, visits the diner one morning.

Lovely story about Cas easing Dean out of his lonely shell. And it also includes a happy reunion.

The Glen by Annie D (scaramouche) (3.2k, Explicit)

Dean's run out of excuses to not claim Cas, so he finally does. Better late than never, right?

This is actually set after a previous story, which focuses on Sam and Kevin. It might be slightly confusing without the previous part but I think still an interesting read, especially with the following part!

The Shop on the Corner by CasCase (18.6k, Mature)

Two years ago Castiel left behind his job and his past to fulfill his dream of opening a neighborhood bookshop. Now, his shop is popular and he’s finding himself fitting in with his new community. He’s perfectly happy with his quiet life among the books.

Perhaps the only thing that could make it absolutely perfect would be the attentions of Dean-the-Delivery-Guy. But, of course that means Castiel will have to work beyond his own insecurities to find a way to see the gorgeous man more than once a week.

Maybe he should stick to the books after all.

This was fun and lovely and even though there’s a bit of angst and pining involved, Dean’s gentle patience were lovely!

In Someone Else's Life by blue_morning (4.5k)

Cas never believed in love at first sight, but when he accidentally crashes a wedding trying to keep his brother out of trouble, it happens to him. Happy ending, right? Yeah, except that the man he falls for just happens to be the groom.

Light-hearted misunderstandings (mostly Gabriel’s fault) and an absolutely hilarious ending!

The Return Policy by aileenrose (12.9k, Explicit)

"Most of his visitors are academics. They come from universities all over the nation, sometimes beyond. Others write books. The man in the Reading Room today is neither. He’s a tall, irritated man with a federal badge."

The federal agent's partner is usually the one who does the research. And even though Cas doesn't think this man is a real federal agent, he's happy to help where he can.

A great read, close to canon, with lovely atmosphere!

Do You Need a Stepdad? by supernatural9917 (1.8k)

When Claire Novak tweets a picture of her dad cooking, she didn't expect to go viral, or for everyone to be quite so hot for her dad.

Based on a photo prompt: Teenager Claire posts a snarky tweet about her single dad Cas, and gets this response. She says ‘LOL no he’s gay’ so Dean tweets to ask if she needs a stepdad!

It might be short but it’s incredibly delightful!

How to Keep Time by aileenrose (6.6k, Mature)

Dean's just beginning to learn that some times are more precious than others.

Very touching fic, featuring homeless Cas making beautiful things and Dean having to (re) learn what’s truly valuable.

The Neighboring Perspective by aileenrose (12.7k, Mature)

Dean's newly single, in a new house, and a brand-new father to boot.

Dean's also got this weird thing where some stranger is leaving baby clothes on his porch at night.

A very lovely fic with Cas breaking my heart with his softness and his sadness...! ;w;

Best You Ever Ate by darkforetold (1.7k, Explicit)

Cas sucks—under a table at Ma's Diner.

A PWP! :D

For Science by shiphitsthefan (6.1k, Explicit)

“Think of it like an experiment," says Dean. "You’re testing a hypothesis as to whether or not a desirable response can be achieved through the stimulation of the anus via the application of a willing volunteer’s muscular hydrostat.”

Cas raises an eyebrow. “Are you actually trying to use the scientific method to talk me into letting you lick my asshole?”

It might sound like a cracky PWP, but it’s not! It features ace!Cas and Dean figuring out their sexual relationship. It’s sweet and funny~

Remarkable by shiphitsthefan (3.7k)

It’s only Castiel’s first day as a teacher at All City Elementary in Sioux Falls, and he’s already been warned by four teachers, the guidance counselor, the principal, and the librarian to watch out for Ben Braeden’s father. Unluckily for Castiel, Dean turns out to be just as “helpful” as everyone’s said, bringing in stacks of literature and just as many ideas for how Mr. Milton can encourage his students to be more socially conscious. Castiel dismisses him every time with hardly a second thought.

When Ben brings in his Patriot Day essay assignment, Mr. Milton can't help but change his mind.

I love how passionate and insistent Dean is about social issues. And the way the other teachers speak about Dean makes me sad, but at least Cas makes an effort and the whole fic is very sweet and uplifting!

Made Manifest by schmerzerling

Wherein Castiel defied God for Dean before Dean even knew his name.

I was craving trans!Dean fic and this was recommended to me. It’s really good, focusing on Dean up until Cas pulls him out of hell and recongizes Dean for who he is. Dean, not Deanna.

Low Battery Blues by destielonfire (4k)

Wherein a dead phone battery ruins an otherwise perfectly good and well-intended joke and causes Cas to think Dean broke up with him.

Misunderstanding with a happy ending!

Parent's Weekend by Piper_Halliwell1979 (1.7k)

Claire needs a "dad" to come meet one of her professors during Parent's Weekend at college. She can't get hold of Cas so Dean steps up to help her out. Turns out Claire wouldn't mind if she had two dads.

Dean and Cas both pretend to be Claire’s dads!

This Is Gonna Have Consequences, Kid by omgbubblesomg (Explicit, 3.6k)

Modern AU. Dean is looking for someone to spend the night and Cas is working the streets

PWP with sex worker Cas, featuring younger!Cas and older!Dean.

The Ritual by HazelDomain (Explicit, 9.6k // non-con cw)

The Winchesters were used to being outnumbered. They weren’t too worried about taking on humans, numerous though they may be. It was the ritual’s mystery guest that concerned them.

Their intel wasn’t good. They knew the cultists needed the participation of some incredibly powerful being in order to complete the summoning. “Powerful” and “being” were both very loosely translated, as was “participation.”

I was on a hurt!Cas kick and this story has plenty of it. Cas was abducted by a cult and then found by the Winchesters once it’s been mostly completed. See the archive warnings (graphic violence and rape) and further tags!

Finding Courage by DarkHeartInTheSky (26.3k)

By allowing Lucifer to use him as a vessel, Castiel helped eliminate the Darkness and saved the World. But it may have been at the cost of Sam and Dean's friendship. Deciding he has nothing to live for without that, Castiel plans to end his life on his terms and be at peace---if only a certain ghost of an archangel would leave him alone. Meanwhile, Dean needs to learn to use his words.

A Supernatural "It"s A Wonderful Life" AU

More hurt Cas. Dean reacts very negatively once Cas is free of his possession, sending him away. As a consequence Cas tries to commit suicide and is given the chance to either die or return to life once more. It takes a while to convince him that he hasn’t lost everything. It’s sad but it has a good ending.

Specimen Two Eighty Five by HazelDomain (Explicit, 8k // non-con cw)

Prompt: Cas gets taken prisoner by the MOL or some other people. They lump angels in with all the other supernatural creatures, and believe they’re little better than animals. They keep Cas restrained and burn or tattoo warding on him. They talk about him like he can’t understand them. They strip him, examine him, make him manifest his wings. He can’t escape, and every day brings new mistreatment and misery.

Hurt!Cas and tortured Cas seems to be the theme of my reading at the end of April. What I particularly like about this is the non-linear narration!

Womb Kindred by Annie D (scaramouche) (Explicit, 33k)

It was probably too much to hope for that Castiel's once-betrothed, Dean of Winchester, never found out that they had a child together.

I adore this fic and the last chapter was recently posted. So it’s on my to re-read list! It’s got a very interesting setting and there’s constant tension between all the characters. Cas has been hurt in the past and while he is fierce in guarding Claire, there’s a sad resignation about him. And about Dean as well. They’re pretty much walking on eggshells around each other all the time and then they get flung into troubles which readjusts their relationship. While it has a good ending, it’s clear that it’s not a perfect happy ever after.

Pining Sickness; Or, Murder With One Stone by athaclena, iraeim (Explicit, 57.8k)

New York, 1895. The rigid customs of the old century are beginning to fall away, allowing access to the professions for more people than just Omega men and Alpha women. Dean Winchester, the city’s first Alpha male Detective, uncovers evidence that a mysterious new illness killing mated couples might have its origins is the criminal rather than the medical.

Castiel Novak is a respectable Omega doctor who has started to see patients dying cruelly of something he cannot cure or even effectively treat. Approached by the Detective to once again give his medical expertise, he is eager to work towards finding a cause and, he hopes, a cure for the unfortunate sufferers. But both men harbour a secret attraction towards the other, and the quest for the truth will stretch their relationship beyond its limits.

A historical murder mystery set against a backdrop of a non-traditional Omegaverse.

I absolutely adored this fic! It’s got a historical setting and a very interesting world building which, as the summary advertises, features a non-traditional distribution of roles, with omega men at the top of society. The case itself is interesting and you just get a massive dose of pining between Dean and Cas, but it’s a quiet, resigned kind of pining, that really pulls at your heart.

Take On Me by Powerfulweak (Explicit, 46.4k)

Alpha Dean Winchester figured the closest he’d get to the apple pie life and fatherhood was a one-shot, “wham-bam-thank-you-mam” trip to a sperm bank. That is, until he comes face-to-face with the omega carrying his pup on a fateful trip to the grocery store. When the the omega runs off without a word, though, Dean learns the situation is far more complicated than he expected. Can an anonymous sperm donation and the favor of a lifetime help two complete strangers find everything their life was missing?

A fic with an unusual premise that just promises a “it’s complicated” kind of situation! There’s plenty of very intriguing angst, but there is a fluffy happy ending!

Marry Him by ProLazy (2.9k)

Jimmy is sick and asks Castiel to do him a favour. This results in Dean mistaking Cas for Jimmy and explaining that he wants to marry Cas.

A cute sort of mistaken identity fic!

Left Behind by Aini_NuFire (6.6k)

Sam and Dean saved Lucifer from Amara. They just assumed that meant they’d saved Cas too…

(Author needs to vent some angst, but there’s still a happy ending)

That last part of the summary pretty much describes this fic. It’s a gen fic, addressing the fact that Cas often gets forgotten or left behind, especially in this whole Lucifer and Chuck fiasco. ;w;

Captured by bobertsmallismydad (6.2k)

On a day when he is taking a break from Heaven Castiel is captured by the order of the Royal Court aka King "Dickbag" John Winchester. He is forced into servitude as a . . . nanny?

This has a very interesting premise! An enslaved angel having to work as a nanny? Great! Castiel is captured by king John (a douchebag) and tasked to watch over Dean, which he does, over the years. Until Dean himself becomes king.

Choice and Precious Vessels by justabrain (11.2k)

In a world where angels wear collars to suppress their powers and are subservient to humans, a young Castiel finds himself serving a family with two young boys, Sam and Dean. He soon befriends the older of the two, yet all good things must come to an end.

Another gen, Cas whump one. It’s a sad story in which angels are slaves and even though Castiel’s situation improved when he is being bought by the Winchester family, Cas still isn’t treated with dignity. And while the story promises a happy ending and it does have a happy ending, my soul wasn’t quite soothed. ;w; All the damage had been done and nobody makes reparations for it. But despite the sadness I do think it’s a great read!

the worst week of dean's life by jhoom (1.7k)

Dean’s son is driving him crazy.

Super cute, poor Dean is so frustrated because he can’t get his son to call him dada.

Moonlit Sky by hollyblue2 (1.1k)

They'd been busy on their actual anniversary, so Dean decides to make it up to Castiel.

A soft and fluffy story, good for the heart!

Dean's Carol by BurningTea (17.9k)

Dean has learned that a hunter can't have close friends or loved ones, not without being ready to lose them, so he decides it's safer for Cas not to be around.

Can the traditional visits from three ghosts change his mind?

Dean has to learn an important lesson! I love how it takes the story of the christmas carol and putting it into a canon compliant universe, where Dean is aware of what’s happening because he knows the story.

#Supernatural #Destiel #reading list #fic rec

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thedistantstorm · 6 years

Text

A Shipwright Worth Her Salt Chapter 03

He had continued popping in on her from time to time between missions, over the next eighteen months. Slowly, surely, she had converted the devastated house that was her little shelter into a workshop of sorts. Inconspicuous on the outside, but the inside housed two sawhorses, an innumerable amount of tools, and quite a few parts that were littered around the rest of the space. Mostly guardians popped in and out for repairs that couldn’t wait, or those who were short on glimmer came by to propose a trade for scrap that was hard to get within the city walls or other goods she required, though a few civilians also came by with broken radios, trackers, and comm devices. She’d managed the funds to pick up a few broken data tablets, and repair them to functionality.

It always impressed him, watching her work. He hadn’t let her work on his sparrow way back when, but at present, she had an old one balanced between the saw horses, and was working on its engine with practiced ease, though she said it was her first, and it was a salvage she’d purchased - just in case she broke something beyond repair. She was pragmatic and practical, and he had to admire her tenacious personality when it came to learning new things. Her skill with Golden Age tech was undeniable, and on occasion, he would tell her so.

His ghost was particularly enamored, practically adopting the girl as her own, speaking to her quite frequently when it was only the three of them. “She’s gonna have to raise prices at this rate. I heard a few of the new hunters say she’s got a week turn-around now.”

“Yeah, what’s with them breaking everything all the time?” She wiped sweat from her brow and looked up at the pair at his ghost’s snort. “I’ve only seen two warlocks, and they said the only reason their stuff is broken is because of a hunter on their squad.”

“Fireteam,” Zavala replied. “They’re called a fireteam.”

“Ah. You have one?”

“Of sorts, usually we go on missions with different guardians each time. However, some guardians have a specific team they prefer. I find myself working with Shaxx, and our mentor, Lord Saladin.”

“Titans tend to stick together,” She replied, tightening one of the bolts to the chassis after closing the engine compartment. She’d heard tidbits about the Iron Lord through her rapidly increasing clientele. “I think I like them best.”

Zavala couldn’t help but smile. A warm feeling washed over him as he asked, “Do you now?”

She nodded. “Yeah. You’re like knights in shining armor. Literally.”

She can tell he likes the comment, because his ghost spins around him and gushes, “Look at you, big guy, you’re blushing. Haven’t seen that in a while. Good work, kiddo.” He swats at her shell in a half-hearted attempt, clearing his throat as he does so.

Amanda can’t help but smile. “They gonna send you out any time soon?”

He shrugs. “One can never tell. I think I’ll be making a run to one of the settlements outside the Cosmodrone soon, to pick up supplies.”

“Like, a flight?”

He nods.

“D’ya think - nah, nevermind.”

“It won’t be my jumpship,” he says, as though she hasn’t just tried to ask. He knows what she wants. Even his ghost has mentioned it to him. They can see it in her eyes, whenever one of them shares a story about a run to the other side of the globe or, on occasion, another planet. “It’s a transport ship.” He reclines back on the workbench, propping his upper back against one of the outlying walls, before casting his eyes downward to gaze at her intently. “Plenty of room for stowaways.”

She drops the wrench in her hand and it clatters noisily to the floor. He jerks at the sound. Her eyes are blown wide and glassy with what terrifies him to think are tears. “You mean it?”

He feels the brush of his ghost in the back of his mind. No going back on this one, Guardian. You’ll crush her. She’s conscientious not to say it out loud, but he can see the serious gaze of her optics.

“Yes,” he nods, and is surprised by the tightness of his own voice.

The little girl rushes toward him, throwing her arms around his neck and pushing her face into his cheek. His arms come around her and he hears her litany of gratitude in a breathless mumble into the side of his face. She’s smiling and crying and the force of her emotions are too much for him to do much more than hold her tightly in response and hope he hasn’t just made a terrible decision.

Naturally, he had.

The second he touches down in Old Russia, he sees what’s left of the few guardians fighting against throngs of Hive enemies. His cheery co-pilot, eager to learn and so excited to come along gasps and shakes at the sight of the gore. He bangs his fist on the console as he takes them down, cursing his abandonment of the rules. It’s the first time he’s bent them for a civilian, and he realizes that it may cost her her life if he doesn’t put this situation to rights quickly.

“I am going to put this ship down, and you will stay in here. If you hear activity on the ship and it is not me, hide under the control panel and hit this button,” he points to a green flashing light on the control panel, “to alert my ghost.”

At that, his ghost bobs in the affirmative. “All will be well, co-pilot. Just got to stop some baddies, pick up the supplies, and then we’ll get this hunk of metal back to the city.”

Zavala casts a glance at his ghost. She’s oddly maternal toward the girl, but he’s not about coddling her on matters like these; Amanda knows about the dangers of what lies outside the Last City. The anxious spin of her shell tells him she knows she’s embellishing. This won’t be an easy mission for them, if the welcome party is any indication.

Once she’s alone, Amanda re-thinks everything she’s ever though on the Fallen being the most frightening of Earth's invaders. The Hive are truly terrifying. She’ll never un-hear the scream of the Wizard she sees plummet past the ship and above the throng of Hive, or be able to un-see the Thrall mowing down fighters. Above all, she’s terrified for her friend. He’s told her before in no uncertain terms that guardians don’t die like regular folk. But, if something tears you limb from limb, Amanda doesn’t see how a person can come back from that, blue skin, glowing eyes and fists, or otherwise.

She clicks on the radio in the cockpit - Zavala had immediately turned it off the second he realized what was happening on the ground - and listens to the gunfire and screams at close range. She hears him yelling directions, taking control of the other guardians, and forces herself to stay calm. He’ll save as many people as he can, and be fine himself.

She knows it.

“Amanda, Amanda, you there?”

The voice over the radio sounds an awful lot like Zavala’s ghost. She flicks the switch on the input. “I’m here.”

“Open up the bay door, you know which button?”

She leans forward and flips a red toggle. The radio crackles with static as the hydraulics whir to life.

“Good girl,” The ghost says gently. “Supplies are transmatting. I’ll close it when it’s done on this end.”

“Where’s Zavala?”

“Had to split up get into range. He’s coming.” Amanda can’t help but notice the almost tinny quality of her voice. She sounded exhausted. Did ghosts get tired from fighting? They didn’t actually fight, that much she knew. “I’m going to go back to him. We have most of the threat contained, once the rest of the guardians get to their jumpships, we’ll be good to go.”

There’s a few moments of anxiety before she hears the roaring of jumpships, and then she sees six of them take off into the sky. She doesn’t see Zavala or fighting, though she’s managed to toggle the radar and can see a whole army of them swarming further away.

A bloody palm slaps against the window of the cockpit and she screams.

“No, no, open the door Amanda, it’s us!” His ghost pops into view, exasperated.

Despite her panic she manages to click open the door to the cockpit. The ghost flits over to her as Zavala manages to pull himself inside, practically collapsing into the seat. He looks at her with dull eyes, practically unseeing.

“Zavala! You’re hurt!” She says in a hushed voice, her eyes wide and horrified.

He opens his mouth to respond but only blood leaks out, “Ahhm,” he coughs before going still.

“Zavala!” She screams. “Zavala! No, no, no. Not again, not again!”

“Amanda.” His ghost is calm, though her voice sounds tired. “It’s okay.”

She reaches for his wrist, and feels for a pulse. There isn’t one. She releases it and pushes his head to one side in an attempt to feel his pulse that should be thrumming on the underside of his jaw.

“Amanda!”

“He’s dead,” she whimpers, sobs bubbling from her throat. “I - I thought guardians couldn’t die,” She says between muffled sobs.

“Amanda Holliday, listen to me.”

The girl looks up at the ghost, her shell spinning furiously. “I need you to buckle him in, and get this ship off the ground. Can you do that?”

“I-”

“There’s no time to doubt yourself. There are people counting on us to get these supplies to safety. Can you do it?”

Swiping at her eyes and steeling herself, she nods.

Buckling the Titan in is a challenge. He's dead weight (she tries not to focus on the dead part, despite hearing her heartbeat in her ears chanting dead - dead - dead with each pump of blood she gets that he doesn't) and when she pulls the harness over his head it tips forward onto her shoulder. She leaves it there while she finishes pulling the bottom part of the buckle from under his leg and buckles it with a bit of difficulty. There’s blood dripping from his mouth down her shirt, as well as frothy saliva, but she swallows down a gag and puts a hand on each of his cheeks, shoving him back against the headrest so that he’s propped up. She clambers up on his knees quickly, giving him a peck on the forehead and a quick hug before returning to her seat and buckling in, unable to stop herself. Just in case she doesn't get a chance later to say goodbye.

“There are an army of Hive headed towards the ship. We have to be off the ground before they get to us,” His ghost is beginning to glow. “I can rez him while you fly.”

“Rez?”

“Resurrect. No time to explain the how. I can't rez and pilot this thing at the same time.”

Swallowing her gasp at the prospect of the little ghost bringing him back, Amanda the switches to start the engines and and grips the lever that toggles the landing gear, pulling it as she pushes forward the thrusters. She’s only watched Zavala do it on the way there, and tried her best to commit everything to memory. Hopefully she had.

The ghost’s shell seems to be pushed away, as she lights up, core spinning with that blue glow like his fists had, that time he saved her from the fallen. She sways back and forth as she does her work.

Their takeoff is shaky, she can hear the sound of gunfire against the hull, and the supplies rattle around in the back of the ship. She gulps, and pushes the thrusters harder. It’s enough to jolt her back in her seat, and she grips the steering control hard to keep it from wavering further. The ship hurdles forward, just in time for her to see arriving ships. Their armor is that dark purple and orange that signify the Fallen, and a bang of a ship’s lazer against the shields causes Zavala’s ghost to shutter and her core to dim for a moment in distraction.

“Oh no,” the ghost says, already beginning to glow as she recollects herself. “This is going to be a rough one.”

“For him or for me?” Amanda quips.

“The both of you.” She sets back to work as the girl attempts to steer around the rapidly approaching Fallen vessels while thwarting any stray shots from the Hive at her back. “I’m not usually interrupted while bringing him back,” The ghost’s voice is laiden with strain. “And we rezzed so many on the field that I’ve barely got the energy.”

Amanda didn’t look, couldn’t look away from the scene ahead of her to see what was happening with all of the blue light. She had to get them out of here. “I’m guessing you’re both gonna need a good rest after this one.”

The ghost laughed, her partner igniting with the blue ripples of arc energy. “Yeah,” she said, as he gasped for breath, coughing out the remains of blood and ichar in his lungs, his eyes staying shut though he was very definitely breathing. The ghost settled down onto his shoulder, nestled between his neck, shoulder, and the back of the headrest, her optics dim and indicative of her exhaustion. “You’re not kidding,” she said, before her light died down to a very muted blue.

Amanda chanced a glance between evasive maneuvers, figuring that was the ghost’s ‘standby’ mode, of sorts. At least she hoped. Zavala’s chest moved up and down, like he was sleeping, and she prayed to the Traveler looming half-covered by the horizon she’d be able to get the ship back without trouble.

Flying felt second nature to her, even if the ship felt wide and less responsive than the ones she piloted in her dreams. She wasn't really keen on the bits where she was fired at, but as she barreled in a quick spiral to avoid one ship and dodge the blast from another, she decided that it could have gone worse.

It took an hour to stop seeing the Fallen ships, and she made sure to check the radar and satellite data to make sure they were on course and not being followed, adjusting her course slightly to keep making time. The jump-ships she’d seen leave were much faster than this transport, so she kept an eye out for any blips on the radar to indicate another vessel headed their way, and settled in for the long haul. It’d be at least another eight hours before they’d see lands she was familiar with, if the ride there was any indication.

When he woke, it was not to gunfire and calamity like he’d expected. He was used to this sensation, the slight bit of memory loss associated with a difficult resurrection. Though something nagged at him, it was just slightly out of reach. His consciousness blinked out, though his thoughts remained. He’d been doing something, transporting civilians - no, something else - and -

“Cargo transport ship zero - three - two requesting airspace clearance. Vanguard authorization code eight - six - two - seven,” His ghost rattles off. “Closing in on the EDZ, estimated arrival time two and a half hours.”

The radio crackled. “Authorization granted. You’re making good time,” Came the reply of a female guardian. “See you landside.”

“Aashima,” He breathes his ghost’s name, not quite opening his eyes yet.

Said ghost flutters directly into his peripheral as he does, tutting softly. “It’s about time you joined us.”

“Us? I -” He lurches forward, awake now, almost headbutting her as he does. She stutters backward and allows him to gather his bearings. The cockpit is dark, and the sky in front of him even more so, the Milky Way prominent against the stars. He looks to his right. She’s not making eye contact, instead, scanning the radar and pushing gently on the thrusters to move forward, sweeping her gaze across the horizon.

“Glad you’re back,” Amanda says, when he shakes out the stiffness in his joints. “Gave me a scare,” she continues, softer.

A hard look in his ghost’s direction has her speaking quickly. “What do you last remember?”

He gives the girl a pointed look, then looks back at Aashima.

“You got into that seat and croaked on us,” Amanda said when no one spoke. “Aashima - that’s your name right? Never heard ‘em use it before,” She jerked her thumb up at the ghost, who bobbed in the affirmative. “Aashima used her light to bring you back while I out flew the Hive’s guns and a couple’a Fallen ships -”

“Couple?”

“More like half a dozen,” The ghost provided brightly and Zavala groaned.

“...And half-rezzed you,” She looked to the ghost again for clarification on the new term, “But she got interrupted ‘cause the shields got a little battered ‘n it jolted her pretty good.”

“I… see…” He sighed, alert enough now to be concerned. “Does anyone else happen to know that Amanda’s piloting this ship?”

“Nope,” Both girl and ghost say at the same time.

“As far as the Vanguard is concerned, I’ve been piloting it the whole time you’ve been out. Nothing happened, right?” The ghost’s optics flicker over to Amanda who shakes her head.

“Nah, I outran the Fallen, flipped off the seatbelt sign once we got high enough and have been doing my best to make good time. When you came to, I was just gettin’ out of the cradle.”

The ghost and guardian exchanged a glance. The ghost hummed sheepishly while the guardian asked, “We were both out?”

Amanda shrugged. “Yea, but it wasn’t a big deal. Everything’s fine back there, I pulled up a visual once we were out of hostile airspace.” She cues it up again for him to confirm, stifling a yawn as she does. He does the math. They’ve been in the air for at least six hours, and she hadn’t slept the whole way there in her excitement. It's been at least a day that she's been awake, under stress and on high alert at that. She’s a girl, not a soldier.

He reaches for the controls. “I’ll take it from here, if you’d like to rest.” She nods, and he can’t help but feel guilty that he’s been unconscious for the last however many hours - long enough that the girl is actually tired. It hits him hard to realize that if she hadn’t been there, it’s possible he might not have made it out, or at the very least, he’d still be there waiting to be rezzed while the Hive thinned out and retreated back to their holes.

Her hand reaches over to his arm and squeezes before she curls up as best she can with the harness on. “I’m really glad you’re okay,” She says, green eyes serious. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Aashima waits until she’s done a scan to confirm the girl is asleep to speak. “This was kind of a disaster. I didn’t know if she’d be able to pull through. She hesitated pretty hard when you died. Really thought I’d have to try and fly this thing, and we both know I’m a bad pilot.”

He hums. “We are lucky to have had her with us. And even luckier that she did.”

“She’s a natural flyer,” Aashima gushed, lowering her speaker’s volume. “And so young. I’ll have to run the log when we get back. I really don’t know how she got past all of them with this bucket of bolts.”

“Perhaps she’ll be the best pilot in the solar system someday.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little too far? She’s good, especially for it being her first time, but one cargo mission doesn’t make her the future hopeful for ‘best pilot in the galaxy.’”

Zavala hums, and turns his gaze on the sleeping girl. Something tells him he’s not far off.

Note: The name I’ve chosen for Zavala’s ghost - Aashima - is an Islamic name, meaning ‘limitless protector, guardian, defendant.’ I thought it was fitting, considering the number of times the ghosts actually rez their guardians. I’ve seen other fics use different names, and didn’t want to steal anyone else’s ideas. If anyone comes across info on his ghost��s name or gender (I’m assuming female, here), please feel free to assist. I envision his ghost to be a bit like Sagira (with less snark), and for she and Zavala to be a bit more dependent on each other.

#destiny2 #destiny2 fanfiction #commander zavala #amanda holliday #cosmodrone #i'm just learning how to tumblr now sry #swhs fanfic

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ivorydice · 7 years

Note

Prompt: Niflheim abducts Noctis and uses him as a magic battery! :D

I guess this could be considered mildly AU, and I’m so sorry for the confusing turn this took lol, my brain went a little weird with it. I’m not sure if I’ll put it up on AO3 or not. Maybe? Eventually? Who knooowws XDWord count: 3680Rating: T (like a mild T lol)Warnings: None really, unless you count any mistakes and terrible grammar lol (and maybe mentions of needles? Mentions of a taser being used? Could be considered mild torture, but only very slightly? I don’t know, this is really tame compared to other things I’ve written lololol)-guilt machine-Hedidn’t know how long it had been since he had been brought intothis place. Days, weeks, months.Time became meaningless after a while, after he was prodded and pokedat and tased to make him more cooperative. It all blended into onething, until there was nothing but the pain, the exhaustion, thefrustration. The unconsciousness that kept pulling him under, like aweight wrapped around his ankle and pulling him down, down,to drown in it all. His mind became fuzzy with it, until he couldn’tthink past the ringing and the blood roaring in his ears.Itwas a shame, because he liked to think he had started out so well. Hehad used his training, he had done everything Gladio and Cor hadprepared him for. He had fought in the beginning, when they had firstbrought him in. He had punched and kicked and thrown himself around,warping out of grasping hands, and it had taken several of them atonce to hold him down long enough to tase him until he wasunconscious.And that was where it all went downhill. Oncethey had him unconscious, they had strapped him into the machinewaiting for him. And once he was strapped in, there was little elsehe could do but thrash in his restraints. He had fought against them,had pulled at the straps so much that he had nearly dislocated hisarms more than once, had pulled until the wires and needles hadripped out of his flesh, tearing the skin open. All the while yellingcurses at them and warning them that it wouldn’t be long before thecrownsguard found him, before his dad would make them all pay.Theydidn’t care. Not about his threats, or even about him. They justcarried on with their jobs, their faces cold and closed off wheneverthey were around him, as if he was a mere object,one of their test subjects, nothing human or alive.

And escapewas no longer within his grasp. Days, weeks, months, however long ithad been, attached to this damn machine, tased unconscious wheneverhe fought too much, and now he felt too weak, to the point where evenopening his eyes was the hardest thing he could do. There was nochance in hell that he could escape now, not like this.And itwas all Noctis could do not to let that tiny spark of hope that theymight someday win this war die away like a snuffed outcandle.Because this, all of this, was bad. Potentiallydisastrous, even, and he wasn’t sure how they had done it in thefirst place but they had.Niflheim had a new weapon in theirarsenal, and this one could prove to be their winning hand in thewar.They had somehow found a way to tap into his magic. Thismachine, this strangemachinethat seemed to take up an entire wall, attached to him through thewires and needles buried into his arms and his chest and his legs andup along his back. It was draining him, whatever it was. It pulled onhis magic whenever the scientists pressed their little buttons andflicked their switches and turned their dials. It was feeding off ofhim, leaching every bit of energy he had so that it could power up.He could feel the way his magic left him, how, instead of naturallyrunning through him to heal whatever miniscule injuries he had, itshot up through the wires instead. It made him feel cold, it made himfeel sick.And he could feelwhereit went. Crawling up through wires and metal and concrete, pouringitself into more wires, along conduits, and, finally, into theweapon.He sort of had to give Niflheim some credit for that.They had managed to create a weapon that could be fuelled by magic,and they had done that without ever having been in possession ofmagic themselves.It would have been nice to know just howtheyhad managed to accomplish that, at least.Days, weeks,months.He wondered if his dad and the crownsguard would everfind him. They knew he was gone - there was no doubt about that,however long it had been it had clearly been long enough that hisabsence would have been noticed - but did they even know where hewas? Did they know how to find him?They had to, they hadto.Hejust had to have hope.But it was hard to keep his hopes up.Especially when the scientists flicked more switches on their controlpanels and pain shot through every inch of his body, through hismuscles, his veins, his bones. Fire and electricity and ice ranthrough him and burned him from the inside out. He could feel hismagic pouring out into the wires attached to his flesh, draining outof him and into the machine he was strapped into.Not again,notagain.Hefelt pain in his palms. His fingernails digging in, nearly drawingblood. He squeezed his eyes shut, like that would stop the imagesfrom coming to him. It never stopped the images. He was always forcedto watch, as if the machine wantedhimto see, as if it was a sentient thing and it loathed him and itwanted him to see the pain he would cause.But that wasn’tit. He knew it was just his magic. Whether it was with spells orwarping, he was always so awareofwhere his magic went, he could feel it extending out like anotherlimb, his senses hyper aware of every pulse of energy. And now was nodifferent.“Tryswitching the settings around on those dials,” someone said. Thevoice was muffled and distorted, like trying to listen to it fromunderwater. When Noctis opened his eyes, he could only squint at thebright lights, the world tilting and swaying.Fuckyou,hewanted to scream. Fuckyou, fuck you, fuck you.Thepullonhis magic grew stronger, until he felt like it might rip him apart,and white hot pain lanced through him as his vision jerked. The roombefore him, the computers, the wires, the people, it all washed away,replaced instead with bright lights and the landscape rushing by,travelling so fast and so far, he felt like a meteor burning up inthe atmosphere.And then—there,another light up ahead, gold and shimmering and huge. Familiarenergy, familiar magic,and encased in that magic was home.It hurt to see it, even as brief as the image was, but to see thoseskyscrapers, those buildings—ithurt.Noctis thought he might be screaming, even though histhroat was a little raw these days. He tried to clamp down on theenergy, on the magic, tried to squash it and make it weak, but he waspowerless. Even with his own gods damn magic he was powerless, anddread ran through him like ice.Watchout. Watch out, watch out, watch out.Hecould only watch, helpless, as the ball of energy slammed into theWall. He felt the impact himself, as if hewasthe one that had collided with it. He felt it in his chest, in hisbones, and it left him winded, fire crawled along every vein, untilhe thought it might consume him.And he could see the way themagic almost broke through the protective shell, the shield thathummedwithhis father’s energy. He felt the echoes of it, the ghost of themagic running along his skin, a warm familiar presence, and he feltthat longing in him again even as his fear grew.He wonderedif his dad could feel him too. He wondered if he sat on the throne,feeling the echoes of the attack along his skin and, with it, tracesof Noctis’s energy.They were getting better at harnessinghis magic. Every shot they made with the weapon grew stronger as theychanged their tactics. Soon enough, they would know how to manipulatehis magic completely, how to make it fuel the weapon so that theycould break through the Wall, so that they could shatter his father’smagic with his own.The images washed away and he was back inthe room. His ears were ringing and the room was swaying again, moreviolently than before. The sights and sounds of the scientists weretrying to crawl in, but it was like white noise to his senses.Therewas something warm coming from his nose, running down along his lipsand chin. Something warm trickling down the sides of his throat,coming from his ears. His heart pounded in his chest, fast and alittle unsteady.He couldn’t move. If it wasn’t for thefact that he was strapped into the machine, he probably would havefallen flat on his face and remained there. He couldn’t holdhimself up anymore, everything hurt too much, everything hurt,and supporting himself now seemed like too much of an effort. Healways felt like he was on the brink of unconsciousness these days,but this was different.He was getting worse. With every shotthey made, he was getting worse. He wondered if the next one wouldkill him. He wondered if the shot that broke through the Wall wouldbe the one to finally take his life.He almost hoped hewouldn’t make it that long. If he died before they could make thatfinal shot, well then, that would be the biggest middle finger hecould give to Niflheim.~&~Something wasdifferent.Noctis was aware of the voices before he could openhis eyes. Slumped back into the machine, letting it take his weighteven if it pulled at the wires and needles, he groaned and tried tolisten to what was going on, to make out what they were saying. Butthe ringing in his ears was simply too much, the pounding of hisheart blocked everything out, hecouldn’t—“—sound—alarms—”“—turrets—”“—evac—”Somethingstarted ringing. A loud, piercing sound, nearly deafening. It lancedthrough Noctis’s skull, scraped against every nerve. He could onlygroan, letting his head fall back, trying to open his eyes.Thescientists in the room were in a frenzy. He couldn’t focus on theirfaces or their voices properly, but he could see the panicked waythey were moving around, from computer to computer, some rushing outof the room altogether, clearly with no intentions ofreturning.“—I’mtelling you—”“—coulddrain him—needhis energy—”“—damngun turrets—loseyour job—”Noctisfrowned and swallowed, grimacing when he thought he tasted blood. Hedidn’t like the sound of this, the tones of their voices, like theywere desperate.His magic pulled,shooting through him and up the wires, and he cried out, his entirebody locking into place. This wasn’t the weapon they had beenusing. The way his magic was pouring into the machine and outwards,into so many different directions, it was different compared to thelarge weapon they had been using him for.And still that alarmwas ringing, echoing throughout his head, even as his vision jerkedand pulled, twisted sideways, blurred images coming into focus.Bluelight. Shattering into crystals and shards, a figure disappearingalong with it. Other blue lights, shooting back and forth, figuresemerging out of thin air. Noctis felt a pull on his magic, it rippedfrom his skin, and he saw smaller bursts of energy shooting for thosefigures, his magic chasing after them, trying to killthem.Moreflashes and his vision was jerking again, twisting and pulling untilhe was looking somewhere else, like his magic wanted him to seeeverything at once. There were more figures, ducking and dodging,swinging weapons and fighting against guards. His magic shot out atthose figures too, nearly caught them, until blue sparks wereappearing right in front of him, attacking him. Noctis thought hejumped backwards, flinching away from the hit, though he felt nopain.A blade swung down for him, and his vision went blackfor a moment.And, with it, a small amount of relief. Hismagic didn’t feel so stretched out.“—yousure—powered—allthe turrets?”“Yes,but—it’sthose—they’retaking them out—”Moreimages, more blue lights, more figures appearing and disappearing,more solid figures dodging out of the way of his magic. He feltnauseous with the way his vision kept spinning around, the way itjumped from place to place, unstable and chaotic. But there were moreblue sparks and weapons coming for him, at each different angle,blades swinging down on each location, and each time there wasanother wave of relief, his magic slowly retreating back into him,sinking back into the machine, through the wires and into hisbody.“—damnit—mustevacuate—can’twin—”Afinal image of four figures, charging into a building. A flash oftattoos, a flash of blond hair.And then black.Hismagic rushed back into him and he sank into the machine, breathless,exhausted, sweat making his hair stick to his brow. He could feelmore warmth trickling from his nose and his ears, he felt nauseousfrom the taste of blood running down his throat, metallic and warmand disgusting.Buthe was no longer tense. He no longer had that fire and ice andelectricity burning him up inside, running along every vein like tinydaggers splitting him open.The alarm was no longer ringing,and the room seemed emptier than before, only a few voices remaining.There were hands on him, pulling at the wires and needles, rippingthem out of him, and Noctis groaned, opened his eyes enough to glareat the scientists in front of him.“—evacuate—takehim back—Niflheim—tryagain—”“Getoff,” Noctis mumbled. He tried to move away from them, to pull hisarms away, but he could still barely move, his body weighed down,heavier than any metal, any stone. “Leave me alone—”Abang. Loud and startling. Noctis jumped at it, flinching back intothe machine, barely able to keep his eyes open as he saw the doorsburst open, figures marching through, their weapons at the ready.There was a commotion as the hands pulled away from him sharply,footsteps running away, things crashing to the ground as the figuresslammed into the scientists and had them pinned down withinmoments.“Noct!”Somethingappeared in front of him, hands reaching up for his face, and Noctisfound himself staring down at the figure in front of him. There wassomething familiar about it, as blurred and wavering as it was. Heknewthisface, he knew it—“Noct?”the figure was saying, lips moving desperately, voice piercingthrough the blood roaring in his ears. “—hearme, buddy?”“Prom—”Noctisbreathed out. Confusion washed through him, and he frowned again.Prompto was here,he was right in front of him, smiling with relief, and he wasn’t adream. But howwasPrompto here? “What—”“Don’tworry about it,” Prompto was saying. “We’re here—gonnaget you out—”Hisface twisted, grimacing, and there were shaking fingers pulling atthe remaining wires and needles buried into Noctis’s skin.“Usea potion!” someone yelled.Prompto grimaced before lookingover at one of the figures as he called back, “I need to get thesewires out first! Ignis, come help me!”“—suggestyou lay down any weapons you have,” someone else was saying, voicedeep and strong and leaving no room for argument, “we have thisentire facility surrounded.”Noctis squeezed his eyes shut.There were so many voices and sounds, toomany sounds,and it made his head spin. There were more hands on him, gentle andyet firm, helping to hold him up and steady him as the wires andneedles were pulled out one by one. It seemed to take forever, but hecould ignore it now, he could ignore the way they slid out of hisskin, nothing compared to the burning sensation of his magic beingripped from his very being.He let the hands do what theywanted, let them manoeuvre him this way and that. They were warm andfamiliar and comforting, safe,as were the voices in his ears, murmuring things to him that hecouldn’t quite make out. He let it wash over him, finally givinginto the idea that maybe it was over now, maybe he wouldn’t have topower some machine ever again, maybe his dad would be safe from hisson’s magic attacking him and their kingdom.When he openedhis eyes again, the scientists were gone and he was laying on thefloor, Ignis’s arms wrapped around him and holding him up, a bottleheld up to his now clean lips. Noctis opened his mouth obediently,drinking it down and feeling the resulting magic run through him,fresh and reinvigorating.There were other faces, hoveringover him, watching him in concern. Prompto, Gladio, Cor. They wereall covered in sweat and dirt and blood, and it was such a weirdsight that Noctis could only stare for a moment.“Hey,”Prompto said quietly, “you with us now, bud?”Noctisswallowed the rest of the potion down, shifting in the arms that heldhim. Ignis murmured something, placing the potion bottle down ontothe floor, choosing to run his hand through Noctis’s hair insteaddespite that it clearly needed a wash or two.“YourHighness?” Cor said.Noctis blinked up at them. “You foundme.”Gladio snorted, as if he was amused, but his eyes werestill tight, concern shining through. “You weren’t really toohard to find,” he said.“Yeah,”Prompto grinned, “just had to look for the giant cannon firingmagic nukes.”Noctis stared at them, his head stillspinning, struggling to catch up with everything, and yet he couldn’thelp but say, “So your grand plan was to head directly to thecannon with magic nukes?”“Onlyway to get you out,” Prompto shrugged.“Yeah,you’re welcome by the way,” Gladio added.Noctis wanted toroll his eyes. “You idiots,” he muttered, but there was warmthrunning through him again, warmth and affection. “Could’ve gottenyourselves killed.”“Themarshal insisted that we didn’t come along for this mission, forthat very reason,” Ignis murmured. His hand was still runningthrough his hair, fingers brushing it back, soothing and gentle. Itmade Noctis a little sleepy. “We insisted that we did.”Corlet out a heavy sigh. “It seems you have a stubborn crownsguard,Your Highness. Not even His Majesty could convince them to staybehind.”“Whydoes it sound like an insult when you put it like that?” Promptomuttered.Noctis found himself smiling a little, unable tohelp himself, but his heart was pounding at the mention of hisfather. The Wall had taken some horrible blows, it might haveweakened him, hurthim,and Noctis would never forgive himself if his magic had done that.“My dad,” he murmured, and he looked up at Ignis, managing toreach his hand up a little to clutch at his jacket, “is my dadokay?”“HisMajesty is perfectly fine,” Ignis said, his voice soft. “Althoughhe is quite eager to see you returned home. As are we.”“Mightwant to get you cleaned up a bit first, though,” Gladio said.“You’re not exactly a stunning sight right now, YourHighness.”“Yourfaceisn’ta stunning sight,” Noctis muttered. It was more out of habit thananything else, but he could see the way Gladio appreciated it, theway his face softened a little, the way his shoulders lost some oftheir tension.Noctis sighed and he shifted in Ignis’s arms,tried to get his hands underneath him, to push himself upright, butthen every muscle was screaming at him, locking into place and makinghim grimace.“Easy,”Ignis murmured, and he and Prompto were pushing him back down intohis arms. “Don’t try to move. You might have had a potion, butyou still need time to heal.”“Thekingsglaive soldiers have the place cleared,” Cor said, but he wasdirecting it to the others, his eyes flicking from one face to theother. “Let’s get him into the van and we can take him back toInsomnia.”Prompto was smiling, coming closer, his handreaching out to rest on Noctis’s forehead, fingers trailing intohis hair briefly. “You hear that, buddy? You’re cominghome.”Home. Days, weeks, months, he had been away for solong,his magic battering the Wall, and yet it remained unharmed. He couldstill return home. He could see his dad again, he could see him withhis own eyes, could make sure for himself that he was okay, and hecould apologise for any damage he and his magic might havedone.Noctis sighed again, relaxing back into Ignis’s arms,turning into him. “Yeah, I wanna go home now,” he murmured.Ignis’s heartbeat was steady under his ear, almost hypnotic,soothing to listen to. It made him feel safe and warm.“Don’tworry, we’ll get you there,” Gladio said.Ignis’s armstightened around him, holding him close as he said, “Sleep, Noct.Allow us to take care of everything else. You needn’t worry about athing.”He didn’t worry, even as Ignis rose to his feetand carried him out of that damn room. He didn’t worry even as Cor,Gladio and Prompto went into formation around them, guarding them thewhole way, their weapons still ready despite the fact that the threathad already been taken care of. Clearly they all had his back, theywere crazy enough to rush into an enemy facility to rescue him, andso he knew he had nothing to worry about now.Noctis closedhis eyes, giving into unconsciousness, letting it tug him under,content in the fact that he was finally going home.

#final fantasy xv #ffxv #final fantasy xv fanfiction #ffxv fanfiction #noctis lucis caelum #prompto argentum #ignis scientia #gladiolus amicitia #cor leonis #prompt/request fill #my fics #hurt noct hurt noct hurt noct hurt noct #lol you have no idea how much i hate this #but hey i guess i liked some of the imagery #one of these days i'll learn to love my writing #lol maybe?

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xfirespritex · 7 years

Text

New in Town

Tag List:

@wwesmutdonedirtcheap @chaoticsoulandheart

@thedeboniardevistation @xxnobodyshero13xx @speedilyghostlycloud

@fan-fiction-galore @amaranthine-reign @lordoftheringsmyass

@justtheaverageblog1 @alpha-american @aineslight @reigns420 @deajm2116

@redroseblackwolfpack96 @blondekel77 @shieldgirl95 @gelinas22

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@fmlallthewayup @breezy14fan @secretagentfangirl @crowleysqueenofhell

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@calwitch @sleeplessandcynical @sjwrites22 @georgiadean37 @houndofjustice-imagines @needinghugs

@squirrel666 @dorkyvillain

–

Story Summary:

Based on an unofficial request/ suggestion from @sonjashuterbugjohnson

“Y/N is at a bar and this guy won’t leave her alone, keeps trying to buy her drinks. She goes up to Tommaso and his group, asks him to pretend to be her boyfriend, things go from there”

Pairing: Tommaso Ciampa X Reader Warnings: Cursing, punching drunks and smut later on.

I had come out tonight to meet some work friends. I was new to the area, having moved to Milwaukee for my job and it was only my second month in the area. A co-worker, Julie, had invited me to come out and meet some of her friends and while I was grateful it was difficult to enjoy myself when I realized that everyone was paired off. Julie’s boyfriend was there and there were two other couples. The other two singles girls were twins who were definitely more the party type and seemed to be looking for a good time with any of the guys there tonight.

I took a sip of my drink and looked around awkwardly. It was always stressful, being in a new place and not knowing a lot of people but, throughout the night Julie made it a point to include me which I was grateful for.

“I’ll go get the next round,” I said, looking at the group. They all cheered and Julie offered me a smile as I headed off to the bar. Squeezing my way to the front of the crowd I leaned across the bar top to wave a hand at the bartender.

Thankfully I was spotted quickly and ordered the next round. Sliding to the side to allow a larger guy to place his order I looked over my shoulder at Julie and the group. I held up a finger to signify that I was just waiting for the drinks when the guy who had slid in next to me finished placing his ordered and turned to face me.

“What’s a pretty little thing like you doing, ordering and paying for her own drinks?”

His breath stunk of alcohol and his eyes lingered far too long on my bust line. I leaned over to look at the bartender, hoping he’d get the sign that I needed him to hurry up. He didn’t see me and I sighed as settled back. The guy leered at me.

“Might like you needing to get your own drinks though, nice view when you’re trying to get service,” he smirked, his eyes glazed as they traveled over me.

“Sorry, not interested,” I said, feeling relief start to flood me as I saw the bartender coming my way with the drinks.

Grabbing the small tray I squeezed past the man and through the crowd, back to the table.

“What’s wrong?” Julie asked.

“Nothing, just a drunk hitting on me,” I said, setting the drinks down before sitting across from her. She rolled her eyes and grabbed her drink, taking a sip as her eyes went to the bar.

“Well no one is coming over here so you’re okay for now.”

I nodded and took a sip of my own drink, again relieved that I hadn’t been followed.

However, when the music changed and Julie dragged me and the other girls to the dance floor all sense of safety was gone as I saw the same man coming towards us.

“Let’s dance,” he said, stepping into my personal space, letting his hot breath drift over my skin as he yelled over the music.

“No thanks,” I said, taking a step back.

“What’s the matter?” he asked and I could see his nostrils flair. “Not good enough for you?” he shouted over the music.

My heart began to race and I saw Julie turn to the table where the boyfriends sat and she waved to get their attention for some back up.

Realizing that the guys hadn’t seen Julie I blurted out the first thing I could think of.

“I’m already taken,” I shouted.

“Bullshit,” he growled back “Where’s your man, huh? No man would let his girl come out dressed like that without him.”

Anger flared in my veins. My black skinny jeans, boots and black halter top put my outfit in the top percentile for modesty in this place. To insinuate that I was any different, that I was looking for such attention, made me angry.

“He’ll be here in a minute,” I said, turning my eyes to the door of the bar.

“Yeah? I’d like to see the fucking loser.”

I turned and glared at the man before turning to the door and seeing a few guys making their way inside. Biting my lip I started towards the door, pretending I’d seen my “boyfriend.”

When my eyes fell on the muscular yet lean man coming in with the crowd I felt my heart skip slightly. He was good looking and even though he looked like someone you didn’t want to piss off I had to hope he was quick enough to play along and help me out.

Bee lining for him I kept my eyes wide with fear as I walked to him, hoping he’d get the message.

“You’re here,” I said, loudly, unsure if the guy was following. The man opened his arms when I did and I leaned into him, my hands on his shoulders so I could support my weight but let the embrace appear intimate.

“I’m so fucking sorry. There is a creep following me around. Play along? Please. I’ll buy you the fucking bar at this point.”

The stranger laughed and wrapped his arms around my back, pulling me into a genuine hug and his lips ghosted over the shell of my ear as he responded.

“No problem. Not every day a beautiful woman just walks into my arms.”

I sighed in relief and pulled back to look at him and was taken aback at the bright blue of his eyes. “Thank you,” I said, offering a bashful smile.

His friends, to their credit just rolled their eyes and followed the man’s lead. His eyes fixated on something over my shoulder and I knew it had to be the creep. Kissing the stranger’s cheek quickly I turned and let my hands fall, as if it was normal, into his large, warm hands.

“Come on guys, you’ve got catching up to do.”

I tugged my savior along, hoping the big guy would just let it go but the odds were not on my side tonight.

“You know you got a real fucking cock tease there, don’t ya,” he said, pushing the guy’s shoulder.

I jumped back as the man released my hands and squared up with the larger man. I could see tension in his shoulders as he looked into the drunk’s face, a sneer on his lips.

“Oh fuck,” I whimpered. Hands came to my shoulder, one of the other guys who had come in and he held me tight.

“Don’t worry, Tommaso will sort him out. He was bugging you?” I turned and saw dark brown eyes and hair.

“Yeah, I’m sorry, I didn’t want,” my voice cracked as I looked back at the man, Tommaso, and the drunk.

“It’s okay, he’s fine,” the friend said.

I bit my lip as my eyes locked on Tommaso, Julie and our group coming over to see what was happening.

“What the fuck did you just say?” Tommaso challenged.

“You heard me. Your little bitch was out here, sticking her ass out, looking for some fun before you got here.”

“Say one more thing about her and I swear I’ll break your jaw,” Tommaso growled. My stomach knotted itself a million different ways.

“You think your bitch is worth the trouble?”

“Shit,” the friend who’d held my shoulder mumbled. A second later the drunk was on the floor, Tommaso over him, his fist clenched and the man groaning.

“Fuck,” I said, rushing over and grabbing Tommaso’s arm gently. “Tommaso?” His head snapped to me, whether from the adrenaline or the surprise of me knowing his name I wasn’t sure. His eyes softened slightly and he stepped away from the guy, coming to me and wrapping an arm around me, pulling me close to him.

A bouncer came over and immediately everyone cried foul at the drunk who was escorted from the bar. Tommaso was allowed to stay and I was relieved, feeling the tension in my body lessen slightly. Once the scene had died down I threw my arms around Tommaso’s shoulders and hugged him fiercely.

“Holy shit, I’m so sorry, are you okay?” I asked, pulling back to look at him again.

He laughed. “Yeah, it’s fine. I punch people for a living sweetheart. Breathe. Are you ok? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I just…I wanted him off my case. I’m sorry,” I mumbled.

Tommaso chuckled as Julie rushed over and hugged me to her before her eyes fell on Tommaso.

“So, fake boyfriend to the rescue, huh?” She said, laughing once.

“Literally,” I said, smiling at Tommaso, then his friends. “Let’s get you guys some drinks, on me,” I said. A cheer went up and the group, now larger with the addition of Tommaso and his friends, easily made their way to the bar.

Once everyone had a drink in their hand and we’d pushed two tables together I sat beside Tommaso while the boyfriends of Julie and her friends talked with Tommaso and his friends Johnny, Greg, Scott and Dash. Tommaso had repeated my name once after I’d given it, slowly, like he was testing how he liked the sound of it.

“So, you beat up people for a living?” I asked as Tommaso turned to look at me.

He laughed and turned so his body was towards mine, a smile on his lips as he took a sip of his drink before speaking. “Well, yeah. We all do. We’re wrestlers.”

“Oh, so knocking out dudes is just another night for you.”

He laughed again. “Exactly.”

“What about saving women from creeps? A normal night for you?”

He smiled softly at me and slid his arm over the back of my chair, leaning close to me so he could speak quietly but ensuring I could still hear him.

“Nah, first rescue. Glad it was you though.”

I blushed a little and he laughed again, the smile on his lips infectious as I smiled back.

“Seriously, anytime you need a rescue, let me know.”

“And how am I going to do that? Tommaso signal?”

“Or you could just take my number,” he said, his eyes looking me over for a reaction. I slid a hand into my pocket and wordlessly handed him my phone. He handed me his and when we exchanged I saw he’d put a little heart emoji next to his name in my contacts.

I laughed and held the screen up for him to see. “A heart?”

He laughed. “A guy can dream, can’t he?”

The next morning I woke up to a text from Tommaso.

Tommaso: Morning, need any saving today?

Y/N: If I do I know who to call. Unless you wanna save me from boring house chores.

Tommaso: I can only save you from house chores if you want me to distract you from them. I am useless when it comes to assisting with them.

Y/N: Distracting me, huh? How would you do that?

Tommaso: Trying to think of an answer that won’t get me slapped on sight...

Tommaso: Brunch?

Y/N: Where?

Tommaso: Ever been to Honeypie?

Y/N: Still too new to town, have only been to like two places.

Tommaso: I’ll send you the address, is that a yes?

Y/N: Give me an hour?

Tommaso: See you then.

True to his word Tommaso sent me the address and an hour later, after a quick shower, blow drying my hair on the highest setting and grabbing a pair of blue jeans and a simple blouse I was standing outside Honeypie which, apparently, was one of the top places in Milwaukee for brunch.

“Y/N!”

I turned and felt my stomach do a little flip at the site of Tommaso walking towards me, jeans and a black t-shirt on, a smile on his face.

“Hey beautiful,” he said, smiling down at me.

“Hey yourself,” I said, smiling. He smirked and threw an arm around me as we headed inside the restaurant. It was busy but being only two of us we were seated in a small booth towards the back of the place.

“So, any creeps need knocking out today?” He said, smirking at me over his coffee cup.

I sighed and shook my head. “Seriously, thank you for that. You don’t even know me and you just jumped right in and helped.”

He shrugged. “Happy to help, I mean, like I said it’s not every day a beautiful woman just walks into your arms. Wasn’t going to turn that down.”

I felt my cheeks tinge red and he laughed. “You going to blush every time I call you beautiful?”

“So you intend to keep doing it?”

The smile on his face made my heart skip. “Yeah, I just might.”

Tommaso and I kept in touch while he was on the road and, a little more than a month after we’d met, he was coming back to Milwaukee for a few days off.

I tried not to be too excited. We talked almost every day but I was unsure of where I stood with him. Was I a friend? Our conversations held a tint of flirtation but it was never more than that. I tried to tell myself that being lucky enough to have Tommaso as a friend was all I needed but it wasn’t the truth at all.

Whenever I closed my eyes and thought about it I could still feel Tommaso’s arms around me the night we met, the sturdiness of his body and the strength within him. I shivered slightly, shaking myself out of it as I finished folding my laundry and tucked it away.

Tommaso: Hey, what’re you up to?

Y/N: Laundry, you?

Tommaso: Airport bound.

Y/N: Ah, right. What time will you get in?

Tommaso: 6 AM. Way too early.

Y/N: Well I guess when you get in you’ll want to get some rest.

Tommaso: Yeah, but is it okay if I come see you later?

Y/N: You know where to find me.

Tommaso sent back a wink face and our conversation ended at that. Sighing I set my phone on my bedside table and crawled into bed. When I woke up it was a little after six and immediately I checked my phone.

No messages.

Sighing and hating myself for getting my hopes up I collapsed back into bed, frustrated. When had my crush begun to control my actions?

I laid there for a while, moping, but as the day crept closer to seven I got up and went into the shower, deciding to start my day. Tommaso knew where to find me and I wasn’t going to spend my day sitting by the phone waiting for him.

Once I was showered and dressed I set to work on the chores I needed to accomplish that day but, hating myself for it, I checked my phone here and there and felt disappointment every time I didn’t hear from Tommaso.

Arriving back home I popped the trunk and began gathering my groceries and was trying to find a way to balance my bags and house keys.

“Need help?”

I screamed, quite pathetically and dropped a bag that contained canned goods directly onto my foot.

“Fuck!”

I sat back against my car and looked up to see the concerned face of Tommaso.

“Shit! I didn’t mean to scare you, Y/N.” He crouched down and took my injured foot in his hand, the other resting at the back of my calf. “Are you okay?”

“Would’ve been better had I not had a heart attack before the injury,” I said, trying to laugh but I could feel the pain spreading through my foot.

“I’m sorry,” He said, standing and forcing me to drop the bags looped around my arms, he scooped me up bridal style and carried me to my front door. I clumsily put the key in the lock and he carried me inside, setting me on the couch in my living room.

“Stay here, okay? I’ll get your groceries. Let me get some ice,” he said, standing and going to the kitchen, grabbing an ice pack out of my freezer and rushing back to me. He tugged the coffee table closer and tugged my slip on shoe off carefully before laying the ice on it. I hissed in pain and I heard Tommaso mutter to himself.

“I’ll go get your groceries and be right back,” he said, rushing outside and, a minute later he came in with what appeared to be all of my groceries in his arms. He shut the front door and went into the kitchen and I heard him rustling through bags and the fridge door opening and closing.

Minutes later he reappeared, an apologetic look on his face.

“I really didn’t mean to scare you and injure you,” he said, a bashful smile on his face.

“Yeah, you know texting someone to expect you is a good way to avoid accidents,” I scolded lightly, a smirk tugging at my lips.

“I thought it’d be fun to surprise you,” he said, sitting on the couch next to me.

“Well, consider me surprised.”

He laughed and leaned forward, lifting the ice pack to peek at my foot. “Shit, it’ bruised pretty bad.”

I shrugged. “Well looks like I need to stay in with it propped up and ice on it.”

“Mind if I stay in with you?” he asked, sitting back and looking at me, a smile on his face.

“Not at all,” I said, unable to keep the slight blush off my cheeks.

He smirked and brushed a strand of hair out of my eyes and I felt the blush grow.

“You’re beautiful when you blush,” he said, smiling.

Hours later Tommaso and I sat, munching on pizza crust and watching TV. I hissed when I shifted my left and my foot shot off a twinge of pain. Tommaso frowned at me. “I feel like an ass. Your foot is going to be bruised for days,” he said.

I shrugged. “Small price to pay.”

“For what?”

“Guilt tripping you into spending time with me,” I teased.

“You wouldn’t need to guilt trip me. I’m happy to be here,” he said, turning his body so more of him was turned towards me. My eyes lingered over his shape for a moment and I sighed.

“I’m sure you were going to go out with the guys tonight,” I said, trying to keep disappointment out of my voice.

“What fun is going to the bar if you’re not there throwing yourself into my arms for safety?” He teased.

I rolled my eyes. “Hey, you have to admit, it worked out in the end.”

Tommaso smirked at me. “Yeah it did. Luckiest timing of my life.”

“Oh yeah, lucky you. You get a clumsy friend.”

Something flashed across his face then and I couldn’t place it. “Yeah, exactly. I get you.”

I smiled softly at him, trying to ignore my racing heart beat as his eyes met mine. “So,” I started, licking my lips nervously. “What did you want to do tonight if you’re not going out with your boys?”

Tommaso shrugged one shoulder, his eyes not leaving my face. “Stay in with my girl, I guess.”

My girl.

“What?” I asked, unsure if I’d heard him correctly.

Sighing Tommaso sat up, grabbed the plate I had in my lap and set it, along with his, on top of the pizza box near my foot and he shifted slightly closer to me.

“I don’t want to dance around this anymore,” he said, his voice soft but I could hear an edge to it.

“Dance around what?” I asked.

“Whatever this is,” he said, motioning between us.

I sighed and could feel my throat close up slightly, anxiety burning beneath my skin. I knew I had to be red in the face as I looked down at my hands in my lap.

“Tommaso…just because I have a crush after the knight in shining armor moment it doesn’t mean you have to keep protecting my feelings,” I mumbled, keeping my eyes on my hands, picking at the chipping nail polish on my thumb nail.

“What?” he said, his voice even quieter than before.

“You’re really going to make me repeat that?” I asked.

Tommaso’s hand gently cupped my cheek and lifted my face to meet his our gazes locked. I could feel my stomach knotting itself up and my heart begin to race. It didn’t matter that we were adults, feelings were complicated. Unrequited feelings were embarrassing no matter the age.

“You mean that?” He asked.

My throat was too tight so I just nodded.

“Good,” he said before leaning forward and capturing my lips with his.

I jumped slightly at first, whimpering in shock and pleasure, before returning the kiss, Tommaso’s hand burying itself in my hair and prolonging the kiss for a few moments before he pulled back slowly.

I tried to speak a few times but couldn’t find the words so I ended up stuttering for a few moments before falling silent again.

“Yeah, wasn’t sure where we stood, didn’t want to mess things up,” he said, his fingers playing across my scalp and making me shiver.

“I figured you were just being nice. New girl, save the day, get a friend and some drinks out of it,” I said, shrugging one shoulder.

He laughed. “Well, yeah, that doesn’t sound too bad but you know what I imagine sounds better?”

“What?” I said, feeling my body heat up under his gaze and a rush of excitement pool between my thighs. His gaze had darkened and his body language had shifted slightly. I felt simultaneously safe and like prey in the wild, my body on high alert for his next move.

He smirked, his hand coming back to cup my jaw and his thumb tracing lightly over my lower lip, making me shiver slightly. He leaned closer to me, his lips brushing over mine as he spoke.

“You moaning my name,” he said, his voice even but I could feel the energy pouring off of him. The restrained tension in his body as my hands came to rest on his shoulders making me cling to him, wanting him to act.

“Why don’t you find out?” I whispered.

A groan left his lips and the sound went right to my core as he kissed me again, his arms pulling me closer to him. His hand dropped from my jaw to my hip, his thumb pressing into my hips as he pulled me closer, gripping me to him tightly. I whimpered into the kiss and that seemed to send electricity through him as he broke the kiss and began kissing my neck. I gasped at the sensation, his facial hair scratching along my skin felt like little sparks and I immediately ran my hands from his shoulder to his chest, gripping his shirt tightly, trying to pull him as close as possible.

I could feel him smile against me neck and I bit my lip, trying to clear my brain of the haze that had started to block all logical thought.

“Tommaso,” I gasped as he nibbled on the skin of my neck just below my ear.

He groaned slightly. “I knew it’d sound amazing,” he mumbled before bringing his lips back to mine, his tongue sweeping across my lips, begging entrance.

As our kiss deepened I turned more, my leg coming off the coffee table to hook over his carefully. His hand immediately fell to my thigh, pulling me tightly to him and I shivered at the feeling.

“Tommaso,” I said again as the kiss broke.

“Yeah?” he gasped, his forehead pressed into mine.

“Bed?”

He stared at me for a moment, his eyes taking in my face before he nodded once and stood, lifting me bridal style once more. He was careful as he situated me in his arms, his eyes falling to my foot that I had forgotten all about.

He carried me easily up the stairs and down the hallway, following where I directed him. As we entered my room I watched his eyes sweep around the room before he laid me gently on my bed, his body covering mine immediately, his weight shifted away from my injured foot.

“I’m terrified to hit your foot again,” he said, chuckling slightly.

“I can barely feel it right now,” I said, gripping him by his shirt and pulling him closer.

“Never thought I’d be grateful to some drunk asshole for messing with a beautiful girl,” he said, brushing hair out of my face.

“Me either,” I said, softly, wrapping one arm around his neck and pulling him down for a kiss. His hands trailed up and down my sides as the kiss deepened and I shivered as his fingertips brushed the bare skin at the bottom of my shirt where it had lifted.

He smiled into the kiss and looked down at me as he pulled back, his fingers tracing over my hips and lower abdomen.

“Does this make you my girl, officially?” He asked, a smile on his face.

“Do you really think I’d want you in my bed if I wasn’t your girl?”

He laughed and kissed me sweetly then before pulling back and putting his forehead against mine. The sparkle in his eyes made my heart skip a beat.

The next kiss was slower but still full of passion that it had me shivering. Tommaso shifted and as he laid across me I felt his length against my thigh and I whimpered into the kiss, my fingers digging into his shoulders to pull him closer.

He was being slow and careful as he moved and, with each article of clothing that disappeared he checked with me to make sure it was okay. When I was naked and he was down to his boxers he sat back looking at me for a moment and I crossed my arms and legs, feeling too exposed.

Tommaso frowned and laid along my side, his hand gently smoothing over my sides, concern on his face.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I just…I’m not…”

“Y/N, you’re beautiful,” he said, his voice sincere. “Every single inch of you.”

“Tommaso…” I started.

“I get that it’s something I can’t make you believe right now. I get that we all have our insecurities but will you let me make you feel good? Let me show you how much I care about you?”

I swallowed and nodded and Tommaso kissed me gently then, one of his hands resting on my hip, the other burying itself in my hair as he deepened the kiss, the hand on my hip tracing teasing circles along my skin there, drifting down to trace patterns over my thighs.

I whimpered at the feeling of him teasing so close to me without touching me and felt the smirk on his lips as he began to kiss down my body. His lips closed around one of my nipples just as one of his fingers brushed over my core and I jumped at the dual sensations, gasping his name. He groaned and lifted his head to look at me.

“Told you my name sounds great on your lips,” he whispered, sliding his fingers through my slick folds and making me bite my lip. He groaned again, feeling how wet I was and looked at me with a half awed expression on his face. “All this for me?” he said, his voice lower, throatier.

“Yes,” I whimpered as he teased one finger around my entrance.

He didn’t make any further comment as he slowly inserted a finger into me and began pumping slowly, his lips finding purchase on every single part of me that he could reach, kissing and biting the skin over my torso as he added a second finger.

I moaned when his lips began traveling south and when they closed over my clit I couldn’t stop my hips from bucking up, trying to increase the friction. He continued his delicious torture of my body and I felt the tension inside me coil tightly and I gripped the hand Tommaso had pressed across my abdomen to hold me still.

“Tommaso, I’m…”

“Do it,” he said, before resuming his position. The command, combined with the sensation of his lips and fingers and his beard brushing my thighs was all too much and when my orgasm hit I was shaking hard, the adrenaline pouring into my veins and making me moan loudly, my hands fisting the sheets beneath me.

Moments later, after helping me ride out my orgasm Tommaso kissed his way back up my body and I felt my skin prickle wherever he kissed, every inch of me over sensitized after my release.

A self-satisfied smirk was on his lips as he came into view and I laughed once at the look on his face.

“Proud of yourself?” I teased.

“Yeah, actually I am,” he responded, his voice light as he dipped his head to kiss along my collar bone.

“Yeah? Well it’s my turn now,” I said, pushing on him slightly so that he rolled onto his back, allowing me to straddle his thigh and look down at him. One of his hands rested on my hip, the other on the bed beneath him as he watched me.

I smirked at him and leaned forward, capturing his lips in a kiss before pulling away, tugging on his lower lip and continued to kiss down his body. I bit and licked where I wished, taking time to tease the line of his abs and the V muscle until I reached his boxers. I glanced up at him quickly before tugging them down his legs, dropping them to the floor beside my bed and immediately coming back to my position, his length gripped carefully in my hand.

Pumping him slowly I began teasing him, licking along his muscled abdomen and legs but never there. I could hear a frustrated sound leave him and felt my lips quirk into a smirk as his hands fisted into the bed sheets.

Deciding I’d teased him enough I licked from the base of him to the tip and felt a thrill shoot through me as he groaned and his hands tightened in the sheets. Taking him slowly into my mouth I worked what couldn’t fit in my mouth with my hand, being sure to listen to his reactions to figure out what made him groan the loudest.

“Y/N,” he groaned, grabbing at my hair as gently as possible.

I looked up at him and let the tip of him slip from between my lips as our eyes met.

“Come here,” he groaned, his voice tight with need. I crawled up to him and he grabbed my waist and rolled us, quickly laying across me. I laughed and the smile on his lips made my own smile grow more.

“That’s not how I want this night to go,” he whispered, shifting his hips slightly so his tip was at my entrance.

I nodded once and he took a breath before pushing against my entrance and slowly stretching me. He moved slow, not wanting to thrust into me all at once and I gripped his shoulders tightly as he settled inside me fully, feeling the slight burn of being stretched so much fade slowly.

He held himself still for a few moments until I hooked one leg up over his hip and rocked my own hips gently. Groaning Tommaso began thrusting into me, dragging his movements out so he could feel every inch of our connection.

I whimpered, feeling my second orgasm approaching quickly and gasped when he hit the spot inside me and I saw stars. I saw him smile as he continued to thrust at that angle, his eyes on me as I began whimpering his name, begging him to go faster.

“Please, Tommaso I’m so close,” I begged, my hands clasped behind his head, holding on as he thrust into me, harder each time.

“Right behind you, babe, come for me,” he whispered.

I gasped again, right on the edge and he pressed his forehead into mine, locking eyes with me.

“Come on princess, let go for me.”

He kissed me then and I felt my orgasm shatter through me, my body clenched around Tommaso quickly, making him shudder into me and thrust a few times before his own orgasm hit, and my name falling from his lips.

When he laid next to me and pulled me against his chest I happily obliged, resting my head on his shoulder and my fingers tracing patterns over his chest.

“So, this is why people like fairy tales so much?” he said, a small laugh on his lips. I looked at him curiously and he smirked. “Knight in shining armor saves a princess in distress and they live happily ever after, right?”

I smiled at him and nodded. “Right. Happily ever after.”

#WWE #wwe fanfiction #tommaso ciampa #tommaso ciampa x reader #romance #fanfiction #fanfic

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janeykath318 · 7 years

Text

Sand, Sun, And A Grumpy Doctor 5

Leonard stiffly followed Phil through the throng of people gathered for the Starship premiere. He was on edge being among so many high society, richly dressed folks and annoyed at having to be dressed up himself. Then there was the little problem of what to do if he saw Jenna. Surely he could be cool about it. After all, it had been five years ago. Her comments on the Talk show continued to niggle at him, though. She wasn't really over him, it seemed, and he was torn between feeling bad about it and wanting to take her in his arms again. He hadn't really tried to date since he'd ended things, being crushed at being fooled twice.

His attempts to stay happily in the background were thwarted when Phil caught sight of his friend and dragged Leonard foreword so he could introduce them. “Chris, good to see you, man! How’s it going in the Hollywood meatgrinder?” “Oh, not too bad. It’s always a whirlwind around premiere times. How’ve you been, you old sawbones?” Phil beamed and embraced his friend. “Fabulous! I brought along my bright young colleague here to....” Len didn’t hear anything else Phil said, because he saw Jenna and the rest of the world faded away. She was absolutely stunning in a flowing pink empire waist gown that swished around her as she walked, grinning and laughing at something one of her co stars said. Even after five years, he was still plainly affected by her, given his pounding heart and ragged breaths. Before he could move or make an escape attempt, she’d turned and looked right at him. So much for being over her and given the way she’d gone pale, probably wasn’t as indifferent as he’d hoped. In fact, she was deliberately heading their way. “Len!” Phil poked him. “What’s your deal? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” He dragged his eyes back to his friend and a now suspicious looking Chris Pike with an apology. “Um....Sorry,” he managed. “Thought I saw someone I recognized.” His attempt to backpedal was blown when Jenna cried “Bones!” as she reached them. Pike out his hands on his hips and stared at them searchingly. “Hey, Jen,” he said softly. “Fancy meeting you here.” The air practically crackled with the unspoken communication and tension going on. Phil cleared his throat. “Is there something we should know about, Len?” “Exactly what I was going to ask you, Jen,” added Pike, giving her a stern look. “We....uh....met on vacation a few years ago,” Jen said, not looking away from Leonard, who was frozen in place from the spell of her familiar blue eyes. He’d forgotten just how gorgeous they were. “Yeah,” Leonard corroborated. “I wasn’t too happy with life then and would have grumped the whole vacation away if it wasn’t for her.” “So YOU’RE the one,” Pike said, steely eyes boring right through Leonard, who was starting to sweat in his itchy suit from the scrutiny. Who knew what Jenna had told the man? “Chris....I told you it wasn’t his fault,” she whispered in her companion’s ear. “Don’t get mean with him.” “This is rather a large coincidence, though,” Chris said out loud. “Did you beg Phil to bring you along?” “No!” Phil jumped in quickly. “I had to bribe him to come with me with a promise of a medical conference in LA tomorrow. He was rather nervous about the whole thing, but I thought it was because he hated space.” More awkward silence and glaring happened before Jenna said firmly, “Please Back Off, Chris. Bones has never once lied to me. Now is not the time to go all bull dog on him.” “I’ll just go wait in our seats while you two catch up,” Leonard quickly put in, anxious to smooth things over. This Pike character clearly knew something about their break up and didn’t think much of him. “Don’t go, Bones,” She pleaded, “I want to talk to you. It’s been way too long.” “My presence here is clearly a problem,” he said, indicating the thunderous expression on her manager’s face. “I’ll let those two hash it out before I cause a ruckus. Good to see you again, Jen,” he added, “You look stunning as usual.” Frustrated at Chris’s actions, Jenna watched as Leonard disappeared into the crowd. She rounded on him, ready to express her great displeasure, but Phil Boyce got the words out first. “What the heck, Chris?” He said rather angrily. “Do you know the trouble it took just to get him to come out of his shell and have some fun?” “He hurt Jenna,” Chris declared stubbornly. “She doesn’t need any of the baggage brought up right now. She was a wreck for months because of him.” “And I told you it was my own fault!” Jenna protested. “He ended things because I lied to him, that’s why!” “You never told me that part,” Chris sighed, expression relaxing. Phil was still eying his friend with disappointment. “I was just to mad at myself and ashamed of what I’d done. He was one of the best things to ever happen to me, believe it or not. Dr. Boyce, I’m glad you could come. Has Dr. McCoy been in San Fran long?” “A couple years,” the silver-haired man responded. “I really had no idea about you two. He doesn’t date at all anymore since the divorce so it was very much a surprise to hear that.” “I’m afraid I might have added to his issues with what I did, but I would be so happy to catch up with him.” Jenna looked hopefully at the doctor, utterly ignoring Chris’s sigh. Phil grinned. “I’d be more than happy to help you with that.” Leonard was waiting in the darkened theatre when Phil returned, looking quite satisfied. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Chris gets ridiculously over protective sometimes. Jenna was royally telling him off when I left them. It was great. By the way, she wanted you to have this.” He handed over a slip of paper upon which was written a phone number. “She said she wants you to text her after the movie and tell her what you thought.” Phil winked at him and Leonard gaped with surprise, face turning red. He certainly hadn’t expected Jenna to acknowledge his presence, let alone speak to him. Thankfully the movie started before he could begin overthinking things.

#jim x bones #kirk x mccoy #mckirk #my fics #is anybody even reading this?#genderswap #sigh #I'm going to keep posting it anyway

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ksparksthefuture · 7 years

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K. Sparks: Things Aren’t What They “Post” To Be (Blog)

I haven't been compelled to blog in a long time. Today's era has been reduced to tweets, doing it for the vine, throwing it on the gram' and snap chatting. A well thought out post that exceeds 140 characters has seemingly become obsolete. Nonetheless every now and then I get the urge like your old uncle that has absoultely no business on the basketball court hoopin, but finds himself getting crossed over. Fortunately for me I still got it like Uncle Drew.

Recently one of my friends quit music. She’s a talented singer/performer and in all honesty better than most mediocre singers you hear on mainstream radio. When she sings you feel it in your soul, placing passion mixed with intonation and just the right amount of connotation within her vocals. In the words of old black women in pentecostal store front churches on Sundays, that girl can sang. Last year when I was piecing together my album ‘Seasons Theme’ I had written a few hooks and had her lay some sample jazz riff vocals. Once we finished recording we began discussing music, song placement, business and other dynamics. When I asked her what she is presently working on the conversation shifted, disheartened she stated...

‘I stopped doing music. Nowadays I only do session work’

Completely taken back, my natural and initial response was why because she has a natural gift. Some musicians have to work at their craft to get better while others are just naturally dope, she being the latter. Plus we’ve been working together for a while over my past few projects. Her response was simply this...

‘I make $750 monthly from music. Artist like Drake are selling millions. It’s not worth it’

And just like that she summed up her life’s dream and passion within four simple words ‘It’s not worth it’. Years of diligence, studio hours and performances to arrive here. This is where our conversation commenced. What started as a routine recording session in my studio turned into a three hour therapy session about; perspective.

Perspective is a funny thing. Regardless of sex, race, age or profession one thing is certain, ultimately we live and die by perspective. How you view the world is a reflection of how you see yourself, and if you’re not careful that can and will shape your daily actions. Those daily actions will indefinitely determine your future. The man that takes the bus to work everyday envy’s the man with a car because he wants to drive. On the flip side, the man with a car may envy the man that takes the bus to work everyday because he has to pay a car note, insurance, and battle traffic everyday. That’s perspective. As we spoke further I began to realize her perspective was off. She had embraced a negative and defeat-us attitude that it’s nearly impossible for an independent artist to succeed in the present musical climate of Major Labels that fund artist with radio play, promotional budgets, and buy their own albums to boost sales. The first thing I explained is that...

‘In order for anyone to determine success you must first determine what success means for you’

And when I say you, I truly mean you. For example, an independent artist may look at Drake and envy his level of success. I’m not taking anything away from that. But let’s entertain numbers. On Facebook Drake has over 35,000,000 Likes. And for his Views album set a record at 245.1 million streams. Pretty big numbers. But album sales for Views were only 4.14 million. That number isn’t bad by any standard in todays deplorable music climate. But it does show a large disparity when it comes to people that purchase music versus people that simply like artist social media pages. That means out of 35 million Likes only 4.14 million of those translated into sales. If everyone purchased his music sales would be way more massive, basing this upon his social media following. Which brought me back to my point, perspective.

‘Don’t be fooled, things aren’t what they “post” to be’

If major artist can't get the majority of fans to purchase their music what makes you think an independent musician is any different. My friend had 1000 Likes on her Facebook artist page before she deleted it, which means that a monthly income of $750 equated to a 75% return on her fan base. Now although those are not Drake sales numbers, technically speaking her percentage is better. See the perspective. When you view yourself against unrealistic expectations things don't add up. However when you apply realistic perspective things make sense. An independent musician that is able to write, package, distribute and retain ownership of their content is in a powerful position. I then began to discuss the power of Influencer Marketing. Yearly I do tons of ghost writing which leads to music placements in commercials, movies and etc. A perfect example of this is a song I recorded a few years ago with my brother Ahmad. He's best know for recording his hit song ‘Back In The Day’ released under Warner Bros Records.

We connected to record my single entitled ‘Black Magic’. After building back and forth about the concept we agreed to discuss the topic of shady record label business, how most people’s favorite rappers are poor, and the Ins & Outs of 360 deals taking advantage of musicians. We released the song and didn't think much of it until something strange started to happen. I started noticing the song getting significantly more traction and fans requesting to purchase the record. I wasn't sure where the random influx was coming from until I saw this posting on Youtube.

Chris Ramsay utilized the song in one of his card trick videos which amassed over one million views. If you notice above you can clearly see he has 140,671 subscribers to his Youtube Channel. The video has gained 1,078,094 views. Thus the influx. Also, there was an increase in demand for my single ‘Blindfolds’ from my album ‘Self Portrait’ once Monster Energy and Marie Claire, and movie directors began purchasing the single to utilize in their commercial ads like the Toyota BMX Triple Challenge, Victoria Secret Super Model Elsa Hosk, Model Shanina Shaik, and countless others.

In a nut shell Influencer Marketing is when brands that have massive followings utilize your content. In music industry terms we call this a co sign. It's no different than if Jay Z or 50 Cent featured on your song, they are now giving you their coveted stamp of approval, which in turn puts an entire new demographic of fans they have on to your content. Songs you think are old, played out and no longer relevant can possibly take off. Look at Raphael Saadiq’s song Good Man that was released in 2011. By industry standards that song is old news. But thanks to the Netflix show Luke Cage, they utilized the song in their show and once again the song is revitalized. Read the comments “Luke Cage brought me here”. Influencer Marketing with brand power can cause excellent rewards for musicians. Once I started doing music placements I became connected with power brands to record music. I noticed things began to shift in a positive way, the energy was different. My content was no longer isolated to the underground, new opportunities began to generate within additional corporations, movies, and commercials until I started doing over 100 placements yearly from content. I have over 500 songs within my music catalogue and continue to create content at my own pace, making what I want when I want. The whole purpose is to have fun doing what you love to do, which is music; while generating revenue. Within this same conversation I also explained the beautiful part about music placements is that musicians get paid on the front end from the company that needs music, and also on the back end from mechanical royalties, publishing and music sales. When people hear content within commercials they always seek to purchase the content. If you read the c section, comments always request to know "what song is this?" or "who is the artist?". It’s the automatic win.

But let me pause and digress. There is another dynamic that plays a key role in musicians being successful in regards to placements, and once again I revert back to perspective. When placing music and pitching music to companies be mindful that this is like the NBA, you're only as good as your last performance, people will disregard and doubt you. I've seen it time and time again when individuals become that quintessential rapper, singer or producer that feels because they got one song or beat placed they have arrived and will now see residual income indefinitely from that one placement. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, and this will break your heart worse than Musiq Soul Child creating his alter ego The Husel and making bad trap music now, oh the tragedy indeed. If you are that type of person quit now, ctrl + alt + del your career because that is a losers mentality. The name of the game is hard work, and you have to be consistently good. Think about it like this, you get a beat placed once and don't create any new content. Every day that passes there are young talented and hungry producers that attend community college full time, drink Star Bucks late’s and live off they momma cranking out beats quicker than Devante made Timbaland and Missy do in his basement before they were famous. Remember that time Jay Z was talking about the kid with the Apple Jacks. It's real, he’s real; and he already surpassed you. So get with it or get left behind.

Needless to say, at the end of our therapy session my friend had several laughs, a renewed thought process in regards to not only music, but ultimately her perspective which led to her recording the hook on this song.

When you leave money on the table, the waitress cleans up...

So many artist are leaving money on the table and have no clue. Have you ever heard of Perrin Lamb. Chances are that would be a firm no because he's not as famous as the Justin boys (Timberlake or Bieber) and doesn't tour consistently across the country selling merchandise to fans. But he did have one of his songs randomly added to a popular Spotify playlist. As a result he received a payment of $40,000 from Spotify. Don't believe me, then read his article here in The New York Times. This is because Spotify pays artist for streaming of music. Now in full disclosure, granted the pay per stream is deplorable (somewhere between $0.006 and $0.0084 on the dollar). However, we're not talking about the quality of the amount, we're merely interested in the quantity of the amount because that's precisely how Perrin Lamb was able to see such a payout. $40,000 isn't a massive amount of money, but I'm certain it's a decent payday no Indie musician would decline. It's a clear cut example of how streaming can work in artist favor when positioned correctly. Ultimately musicians need to position themselves to have their music heard on each and every platform as possible. This means having your albums distributed properly and readily available for streaming on all digital outlets. For Indie Artist they normally debate about which distribution is better, Tune Core or CD Baby. Ah yes, the proverbial enemies that go hard at each other worse than Martin and Pam. When people ask me which is better they’re surprised to hear my answer, neither. The best digital distributor for Independent artist hands down is Distrokid. Let’s break it down, CD Baby charges $60 per album ($40 for album cost and $20 for Album UPC. That’s a one time fee, but on the back end they treat you like a two dollar whore and take a 9% commission from all of your sales. In my opinion if I pay you to distribute my album you are not and should not be entitled to any of my sales. In the words of your favorite high yellow rapper/singer “you wasn't with me shooting in the gym” or in this case “you wasn’t with me mixing in the stu”. Tune Core on the other hand initially charges $29.99 for album cost, however they then charge yearly $50 to keep those albums live on all digital retailers. If you don't renew, your album disappears like her career. With that said, Distrokid offers the best deal hands down. You have several payment options, but the choice I prefer is to pay $34.99 annually, and you can distribute unlimited music. That means regardless if you distribute 10 albums or 100 albums you still only pay $34.99 annually and retain all of your sales. See the difference.

Phil Jackson ran the triangle offense and you can too, sort of...

Within the importance of streaming there is also the importance of having what I call The Triangle Offense. It contains your Agent/Manager, Performing Rights Organization, and Sound Exchange. Those are three players that ensure you're not leaving any money on the table. The agent/manager is responsible for positioning your music to generate income (If you don't have an agent/manager do it yourself until you have adequate representation). Examples of outlets content can be placed with companies are such as commercials, movies and etc. From that point depending upon what format your music is utilized that will determine whom collects your publishing, writers and or mechanical royalties. PRO's such as ASCAP, BMI and etc ensure you are compensated when your music is played. However you have to stay on top of them because they cater more towards their big name artists, and often lesser known independent artists get over looked. Sound Exchange is also important because they are the clean up crew in a sense. They also make sure you are being compensated for your content. Any artist can sign up, and once signing up you will be instructed to fill out spread sheets with pertinent information such as the albums Bar Code, UPC & ISRC numbers for each song from the albums (hence why you need proper distribution for your music).

Stop making excuses, start making progress...

If you're a musician there is no reason why you aren’t taking advantage of all the present opportunities. Every-time I read about these men it’s a constant reminder that we have no excuse not to try everyday. If at some point you recorded music, singles or albums and they are presently sitting on your hard drive collecting dust you are to blame. You are the type of artist that believes you can't win because you don't have the resources and time to tour. You are the type of artist that records music and sits on it forever without releasing it because you constantly get in your own way. You are the type of artist that once upon a time had the passion for music because God instilled the gift within you, but ultimately you became defeated into accepting you will not earn revenue from music. Change your perspective. The days of having to tour are not the only way to make income. There are hundreds of what I call new age musicians that are quite comfortable doing it their way. Making quality music, releasing it at their own pace, and when corporations want to utilize their content non exclusively they get paid. As an independent musician you may not sell 4.14 million records like Drake, but you most certainly have the ability and capability to sustain a healthy lifestyle while reaping the benefits of your hard-work. So even though things aren’t always what they ‘post’ to be, ultimately you can decide what angle and approach works best for you. In the words of Amel Laruex, the possibilities are infinite, the only question remaining is simple; what's your perspective.

#K. Sparks #Perspective #Blog #Knowledge Is Power #Music Placements #Digital Marketing #No Excuses #Winners

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