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liketheletter-l · 1 year

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SCOTCH GAMBIT - CHAPTER 1

(Leo doesn’t sleep for a week. Leo gets really good at chess.)

ao3 link!!

NIGHT 1, 2:02am

By the time the digital alarm clock flashes 2am, Leo knows what kind of night it’s going to be.

He actually flopped into bed at 11, which could be described as unthinkably early—at least for Leo. But after his Thespian meeting (wherein Sara Burnett got that look in her eyes like she was going to freaking maul Caleb for the role of VP—that girl’s got capital-i ISSUES) and a quick afternoon study with his Physics group (before he even got there, they unanimously decided Leo’s doing the presentation, UGH, the pitfalls of being so charming and beautiful), Leo had pretty much nothing but homework to do until evening.

And video games. Lots of video games. Why would he do homework when he could grind out Mario Kart drills until his eyes bleed? Serious question.

Maybe he should pick up another club, though. Just to fill that Sunday 5pm-ish slot. Why not? Leo likes having free time, sure, but he hates being bored. He could take up fencing or something. God, that would be so cool. Or maybe he’ll just text Andre. Or Levi. Or Damien.

A-ny-way.

Having tossed and turned in bed for the past three hours completely restless, eyes burning, Leo can accept it’s just a No-Sleep kind of night. He can take the L on this one. And he would like the record to reflect that he REALLY DID TRY, Mikey, so no more Dr. Feelings trying to wheedle an admission of ‘poor self-care’ out of him. That’s downright laughable. Poor self-care? Leo’s nighttime routine is twelve steps and that’s JUST for his skin, not even counting hair.

So, yeah, Leo feels justified in giving up tonight. He’s booooored.

Extracting his legs from the snarl of sheets and blankets, Leo gets out of bed and immediately trips on his backpack. And then his swim bag. And then all the outfit rejects from this morning, including a pink knit vest and those pants with all the buckles (he keeps wanting to wear them but they tragically don’t look right with any of his outfits—SO FAR, he’s not giving up on them yet.)

“Eugh, who put these here,” Leo jokes under his breath, righting himself super gracefully and Definitely Not banging into the wall hard enough to wake Donnie. Nobody saw anything, so it basically never happened.

The red glow from his LEDs casts all his green clothes black, like little mounds of shadow on his floor. Spooky. (In the way that makes him confront that he really should clean his room.) His bedside lamp chases it away, though, dousing the room in warm light.

Leo kicks aside a paper plate with crumbs and one of Raph's textbooks (oh that’s where that is, geez, he was tearing apart the house for it on Friday, Leo should really hide it in Donnie’s room) and makes his way to the door. Absentmindedly, he feels up on his head for any wayward curls and tucks them back in his blue silk scarf.

Their apartment is nice and cozy at night. Mikey used to be real scared of the dark when they were little (well, so was Leo, but even the CIA couldn’t get that outta him) so they put up kiddie nightlights in every outlet down the hallway. And then they just never took them out. When Leo was ten or so, he used to try and hop from one pool of light to the other. Undisputed champion of “nightlight hopscotch” over here, five years running, no paparazzi please!

Oooh, maybe there’s a hopscotch club. Would that be too lame or just lame enough that it circles back around to being cool again? Post-post-ironic?

Leo shuffles down to the ground floor, careful not to slip. Fuzzy socks + hardwood floors = waking everyone up by eating shit down three flights of stairs, nooo thank you, that has happened before and he was not fond of it. Sure, he escaped with just a couple bruises, but his pride still has not recovered.

Holy shit, his thoughts are all over the place. Oof. Yeah, Leo’s really not sleeping tonight.

It’s one of those times where his mind just keeps spinning and spinning with no end in sight. He calls it Beyblade Brain. Other people probably have different, lamer names for it, but that’s really how it feels; just sort of gears whirring and clicking and thoughts cartwheeling about. Y’know, regular stylez.

That’s how Leo knows not only is he NOT sleeping tonight, he’s gotta find something to do. Being bored is already the worst thing maybe ever, but bored when he’s Like This is basically freaking torture. Seriously.

Oh, someone’s awake.

A slice of cold light from the half-open downstairs door trips up the steps in chunks. Either someone is in fact awake, or Dad forgot to turn the lights off when he went to bed: both equally possible.

Leo doesn’t bother to be quiet when he slips in. Dad sleeps like a rock even during midday naps (jealous? Yes, Leo is jealous, thanks for asking) so smack-dab in the middle of his REM should be no problemo.

It’s not Dad, though—it’s Donnie, clearly also not in sleep mode, twists up in a messy bun and glasses low on their nose, bundled in the weighted hoodie Raph got them last Christmas. They’re spreading almond butter on a sleeve of saltines one by one.

“Why don’t you ever just take the crackers and the almond butter with you?” Leo asks, in lieu of greeting. “It always takes you, like, a million hours to get all of it on there, and then you’re balancing forty-five saltines face-up on a huge platter instead of—I dunno, a regular-sized snack plate?”

Donnie looks up long enough to roll his eyes as Leo skirts past him to the coffee machine, but otherwise turns his attention back to his task. “You should know better than to suggest I partake in regular snacking, Nardo.”

Fumbling in the cabinets for his fancy Starbucks Veranda blend, Leo scoffs. “I just think there’s a less dramatic way to eat crackers. Myyy bad.” The coffee filters cling to each other stubbornly, even as Leo tries to wriggle a finger in and separate one. He growls in frustration—on GOD, he’s lobbying for a Keurig. Starting TOMORROW. This is fucking ridiculous. This is straight-up clownery.

A purple-gloved hand darts into his vision and swipes the filters. Leo turns to see Donnie pull one off with insulting ease. And again, he’s wearing gloves! How is that fair!

“I’m not thanking you,” Leo says, in an attempt to humble the smug smirk off Don’s face. It doesn’t work. Obviously.

“Fine. You’re not welcome. See if I ever help you with anything again.”

“Uh-huh.” Knowing full well that Donnie loves being needed too much to ever make good on that threat, Leo turns his attention back to his coffee. He dumps some grounds into the filter, about halfway to the top. And then he adds some more. And then a little more, just for good measure. He likes his coffee full of sugar and caffeinated enough to give an elephant heart palpitations.

Oooh, Dad will probably agree to a Keurig if he thinks it’ll discourage Leo from drinking entire pots of coffee in the middle of the night. Of course, it will not, but that’s still an argumentative point in the Keurig’s favor. It would be nice to make just a CUP of coffee instead of having to make a whole POT, Leo will say, as earnestly as he can manage. Hook, line, and sinker. Too easy.

“You’re not sleeping,” Donnie says, not a question but an observation.

Leo flicks the coffeemaker on and spins around, clocking Donnie’s raised eyebrow. “Neither are you, hermano.”

“True, but unlike you, I do intend to go to bed at some point. Likely soon.”

Stretching his arms over his head, Leo leans back against the counter. Faced with Don’s total lack of judgment or well-intentioned but anxiety-slash-guilt-inducing worry, it’s a little easier to admit: “It’s a No-Sleep night.”

Donnie nods, and resumes laying out their crackers on a tray. They must have been in the workshop before getting a snack; they tend to be more sensitive about touching food with their bare hands when they’ve been elbow-deep in circuits for several hours. Hence, the purple latex gloves.

It was actually Leo who got a pack for him first, back when they were kids (and partially as a joke to be honest), but then Donnie started wearing them all the time. Said they helped with feeling like his hands are too dirty to touch certain things, even after he’s washed them. And with the added benefit of preventing bad texture-issues. Yeah, Leo’s a genius, best brother ever, hold your applause.

Donnie finishes making their snack. Their face relaxes, content.

So obviously, Leo decides to be a problem. He heaves a big, dramatic sigh, and drapes himself across the kitchen island, whining, “I’m boooooored.”

“Ack— Leo, get off!” Donnie complains, moving the tray to the other counter, rescuing the few stray saltines that have migrated dangerously close to the edge. He turns and fixes Leo with a glare that could melt steel. “Is it your personal mission to find any semblance of peace I create and obliterate it into shrapnel?”

“Literally yes.” Leo flings out an arm, blindly reaching to poke Donnie or tug on his hoodie or something, just to be annoying.

Donnie smacks his hand. “Go find someone else to bother.”

“It’s the middle of the night!”

“He says, without a hint of self-awareness.”

“Oh, I’m plenty aware.” Leo scoots his back further up the counter, squinting against the fluorescents. He’s gonna do a back walkover off this kitchen island and/or die trying. “I’m aware that I have a shitass ugly stupid sibling who doesn’t appreciate me.”

“That’s one out of four correct.”

“You haaate me, you’re praying on my downfall.” Fully upside-down now, Leo reaches for the ground. He’s totally got this.

“Two for two. Good job.” Ouch, okay. “And I see you gearing up for a back walkover; just know you’re going to break your leg against the fridge. Also, your coffee’s done.”

“Aw, sweet!” Leo loses concentration for half a second, and his hand slips. Before he can brain himself on the hardwood, though, Donnie’s arms are under his shoulders, hauling him upright. His legs slip off the counter and land hard on the floor. Ow fuck that’s going to bruise. “Owwwwww.”

Even though Donnie’s face is upside-down to Leo when he cranes his neck back, the contempt is clear as goddamn day. Probably visible from space. “You’re an idiot,” Don informs him. One of their twists slips loose, dangling down over Leo’s face, and he bats at it like a cat.

“Owww, I’m grev-i-ously injured, Donald.” Leo pouts. “Help me up.”

“It’s grievously.” Without warning, Donnie stands, dropping Leo back down on the cold floor. It knocks the wind out of him. Don steps over his broken, shattered, betrayed body and retrieves their tray of saltines. “And remember, I’m never helping you again. Because you, dear Leonardo, are ungrateful.”

Leo scrambles to his feet, because he wants company way more than he wants to continue this bit. “Wa-wa-wait, hold up.” Adjusting his hair again, Leo worries at his lip.

Donnie’s stopped in the doorway, looking back at him impassively, but he knows he has about—ehh—five seconds (give or take) to come up with an excuse for them to spend time together. Either that, or resign himself to a night spent losing at Bedwars half a million times. (At least with Donnie on his team, he actually stands a chance.)

“Do you wanna play video games?”

Don’s expression doesn’t change, but he shifts on his feet a bit. “I’m in the middle of something right now.”

“Oh.” Cool, cool. That’s cool. Leo totally gets it. It’s just that if being bored when he gets all spinny is the Worst Thing Ever… being alone probably takes silver.

All the same, Leo forces himself to smile. Because he’s a good brother and he gets that Donnie has way more important shit to do than, say, lose to Leo in Mario Kart. “Gotcha. Have fun, mellizo.”

A beat of silence. Leo stares at the pictures on the fridge to avoid meeting Donnie’s eyes.

There’s Miguel winning his most recent gymnastics championship (for about the millionth time), holding up a trophy with a thousand-watt smile. Raph and April before their orchestra concert, both in black suits. Donnie, dangling his gold AcadDec medal over a dozen of the same kind, grinning smugly. One of Leo himself, bowing to accept Best Solo Acting Performance at NY-freaking-TF last year. Oh, that was nice. That was a fantastic day. Some of the people from school were sooo mad because he was only a freshman, but—

“I’m not using the desktop in the Lair.” Donnie’s looking down at his tray when Leo turns. Even though his intonation hasn’t changed, as monotone as ever, Leo can hear the implicit lead-in. And sure enough, “As long as you don’t distract me, I won’t mind if you use it while I’m working.”

Fucking around on the big three-monitor desktop and distracting Donnie while they’re working? Win-win!

Leo feels his face split into a shark-like grin. “Moi? Distracting?” he chirps, and Donnie’s ensuing eye-roll is so worth the smack upside the head he gets.

“Don't make me regret this,” Donnie warns, with no real heat.

“I don’t know why you would say that. I have never done anything wrong in my life,” says Leo solemnly.

NIGHT 1, 3:12am

Leo is losing his goddamn mind.

“I need a different game.”

Bathed in purple and blue light from the LEDs, hunched over with their hot metal tool thingy about four inches from his comically oversized safety goggles, Donnie squints at his circuit board and says, “You keep saying that and yet, you keep losing. Basic statistics indicate that the game is not the problem.”

Leo stares at the GAME OVER screen that’s been flashing since he rage-quit Overwatch five minutes ago. Ow.

Okay, so. Okay. That. Um. Ouch.

Normally it doesn’t bother him. When things bother Leo, he’s typically really good at shoving down the hurt into a tiny little space that he imagines is like, the bottom left-hand drawer of his heart. And then locking it. And throwing the key into a volcano.

But, um. When he’s lost at, like, four hundred different fucking games in a row in front of Donnie, who’s standing over there making their own custom circuit boards, it kind of. Sort of. Hits a little hard.

Jeez. He’s being such a baby. It’s not Donnie’s fault that Leo isn’t—

“You’re just jealous ‘cause you don’t see my vision,” Leo says quickly, stopping that train of thought in its tracks. And then exploding it. “This is actually a gambit I’m doing. This was part of my plan all along.”

“Uh-huh.” Donnie doesn’t even dignify that with an eye-roll. They lean towards their work at almost an entire 90 degree angle (they’re gonna have back problems by age twenty, Leo keeps saying), and make a low, unhappy sound in the back of their throat. Setting down the coil of metal, Donnie snaps at the adjacent table, sound muffled by their gloves. “Hand me that IC.”

“Don, buddy, you gotta use more words than that.”

“Integrated circuit,” Donnie says, impatient. He points to a square thing that looks a little spider-like, with a bunch of thin metal prongs coming off of it. “That.”

“You’re literally closer to it,” Leo complains, even as he’s rolling his chair over. He ferries the weird little gadget an entire six inches from the desk to Donnie’s hand. And then he just sort of… watches.

Don adjusts his goggles and tucks a stray twist behind his ear. He sets the hot tool on a stand and picks up a smaller tool nearby, one that’s black and rectangular. Slotting the gadget Leo handed him into the mouth of the smaller tool, he delicately aligns it with the circuit board and then presses down, the mouth segment retracting in with the pressure like a stamp.

Abruptly, Leo realizes, he wants to know what that tool is called.

It’s on the tip of his tongue. What’s that? But when he tries to ask, his mouth won’t make the shape of the words.

Leo sort of… hears the exchange in his head, how it would go. What’s that? And then Donnie tells him, it’s a [insert-nerd-sounding-thing-here.] And life goes on. Leo’s picked Donnie’s brain about plenty of times before, so it doesn’t make sense, but for some reason…

Well. In his mind’s eye, he sounds like a little kid. Just sort of… hovering. Asking annoying questions and doing nothing with the answers.

Why is he—?

Wow. This is. This is really stupid. Is he actually getting a little choked up because he doesn’t know the name of Donnie’s weird stamp tool?

It’s dumb but Leo still just… really wishes he knew what it was called. And the hot tool. And the—the gadget Leo handed Don, dammit, it was… it was something-circuit. How did he already forget?? They said it like four seconds ago. God. Wow.

“Can I help you?” Donnie asks dryly.

Oh shit. Leo’s been staring for an aaawkwardly long time.

He should really go back to his own desk. He’s got a mug of coffee going cold.

Instead, Leo puts on a smile that feels a little weak-kneed—he hopes it doesn’t come off that way. “Just enraptured by your nerd shit, ‘Tello. Don’t mind me.”

Donnie searches his face, brows furrowing. “Are you being sarcastic right now?”

That is. That is a great question.

“Nah,” Leo decides. “I really—this looks, I dunno. It looks cool.” A little heat prickles at his cheeks. He sounds so fucking stupid and he’s so fucking weirdly nervous. This is insane. Literal clownery.

One of Donnie’s painstakingly maintained eyebrows quirks up in an insulting display of skepticism. “It looks… cool.” They set down their tools and spin fully in their chair to face Leo. “You, Hamato Leonardo, think that me soldering a DIP IC—that’s an integrated circuit of the Dual Inline Package variety, a logic gate, in particular—onto my build to improve my Boolean Logic implementation for a custom asymmetric encryption algorithm, is. Cool.”

Hitting Leo with that many nerd terms in a row is fucking evil.

But the worst part is that it’s not, right? Donnie isn’t being evil. They aren’t even really trying to show off, at least not right now, not to Leo.

“...Yeah?” Leo manages.

The flat look Donnie levels him is par for the course, but it still needles at the thrashing, tender thing in Leo’s chest right now. “That seems unlikely.”

“Why?”

It’s out of Leo’s mouth before he can stop it. His voice sort of bends mid-syllable, whiny and vulnerable and Not At All Chill. Cover. Cover cover cover.

“Like…” Leo swallows, and then forces a corner of his mouth up into a smirk. He can’t quite meet Donnie’s eyes, so instead he looks up at some of the Jupiter Jim posters on the wall. “Y’know. I’m a—a shape enjoyer. Little squares go brrr.”

Wow, Leon. Reeeally going for the fuckin’ Oscar here.

Donnie says nothing for a second. Two, three, four—

And then abruptly, they yank their goggles down around their neck to better fix Leo with an unreadable stare. A sharp one. One that pierces through several layers of skin. Leo swears he can actually feel it: epidermis, dermis, subcutaneous, all crumple inward like tissue paper.

“Are you angling for a favor?”

“What? No!”

“Are you sure?” Donnie leans back in his chair, crossing his ankle over his knee, all narrowed-eyed suspicion. “Because lately you’ve been very vocal in your dislike of quote-unquote ‘nerd stuff.’ So I can’t think of another reason for the total about-face.”

Oh.

Leo guesses he has been ramping up the teasing recently, but he didn’t— he wasn’t trying to—! Augh.

What Leo tries to say is Don, I really do wanna hear about your work. But it comes out as: “Maybe I’m taking an interest in circuitry. Maybe I’m coming for your brand. You never know, Don-Tron—I gotta keep you on your toes.”

Wow.

The joke—or whatever the fuck that was—does NOT stick the landing. Five-tenths deduction.

Donnie raises an eyebrow, half-lidded eyes forming the signature portrait of disbelief and contempt he perfected years ago. “Oh, I’m terrified.” And then he clarifies, “Sarcasm.”

Well. Alright.

Now is the time to brush it off. Now is when Leo rolls back to the desktop and pours himself another cup of coffee, finds another game to lose at; now is when he laughs and waves a hand dismissively.

But. For some reason.

He can’t let it go.

There’s a complicated sort of tugging in his chest. A two-finger pinch to the tender flesh of his heart, and a rising heat pricking up his neck, his cheeks, the tips of his ears.

“I mean, I don’t think it’s that ridiculous,” Leo finds himself saying.

Donnie doesn’t look at him. “That you would take up circuitry?”

“Yeah.”

Thin wisps of smoke curl off the hot tool as Donnie presses the metal to it again, movements precise, practiced, skilled.

“Well. You’d need to start with electronic fundamentals, and then move onto schematic diagrams, component functionality, PCB design principles, etcetera. Circuitry as a hobby requires a wealth of background knowledge in many fields of science—digital logic, electromagnetics, semiconductor physics—that you aren’t interested in.”

A slightly hysterical laugh bubbles up out of Leo’s throat. “Who—who says I’m not interested in that stuff?”

Donnie looks at Leo like he’s insane. “Um, you?”

Leo’s mouth snaps shut. Ah. Well. Can’t argue with that.

Just barely, Donnie sighs.

It might not even be a sigh, it’s literally just an exhale, could have just been an oddly sharp breath. All the same, Leo has to avert his eyes. Up. Back up to the poster. Jupiter Jim 28 and ½; Sub-Galactic Cruise. Cinematic masterpiece.

“Nardo, if you really want to take up circuitry, heaven knows I won’t stop you. I mean, it would be nice to compare notes.” Whatever Donnie’s working on makes a little snap, almost inaudible over the skepticism in their tone. Mm. Poster. Cool poster. Wow, this poster sure has a lot of bright colors.

“But based on your last, say, one hundred comments about the areas of study it’s tightly interwoven with, it’s statistically improbable that you’d enjoy it. That’s what I was saying. Academically-based hobbies don’t typically capture your interest the way that phys-ed or arts-based hobbies do.”

Mm.

Donnie’s just stating a true fact, here. There’s a very trackable throughline between all of the things Leo’s gotten passionate about before, and it doesn’t include anything that could be considered, like, generally scholarly or intellectual.

So yes. We’ve established: true fact.

What Leo can’t figure out is… why it feels like an insult.

Leo doesn’t tend to spend his free time on especially cerebral activities, that’s basically old news, so even if he seems to be physiologically interpreting it differently, there is really no reason at all that he should feel so… mm. Hurt.

Huh.

A sudden, horrible burst of shame wracks through him out of nowhere, like being doused in ice water, and Leo shivers despite himself.

“Nardo?”

The foggy glow of the desktop’s screen loses its halo as Leo blinks away the accumulated glaze in his eyes. He reorients himself: three identical screensavers of some mountain scene, two Jupiter Jim posters above the desk, and Donnie, looking over at him.

Leo clears his throat, tries to untangle the knot in his chest. He pictures it smoothing out to un-creased rope. Not a single mark. Like it hadn’t been there at all. “What’s up, Dee?"

Squinting uncomfortably, Donnie clears their throat. “Are you alright?”

Despite feeling raw, exposed, peeled back to muscle and sinew, Leo summons a smile out of thin air. (He didn’t win that acting award for nothing, after all.) “Right as rain, Don-Tron. Just having a bit of a… y’know.” He makes a vague gesture with his hand. “Thoughts goin’ all around and around.”

“Ah, Beyblade Brain,” Donnie hums. They reach for some small, cylindrical object, and it’s then that Leo decides to turn away so he doesn’t have to keep looking at things he doesn’t know the name of.

Leo rolls his chair back to the desk. Mkay. No more hurt feelings. Done. Over. It’s getting annoying.

No new notifications on his phone. His family’s faces grin up at him from his lockscreen, along with Hello Kitty and sparkle stickers he added in Picsart, plus Meryl Streep photoshopped into the background. Eugh, is it really not even four yet? This night is going by agonizingly slowly. Blowing out a breath, Leo wiggles the desktop mouse—ah, server timed out. Figures. Whateeeever! He’s done with FPS anyway.

Leo picks up the Sparkle On! mug (Raph’s) and chugs his long-cold coffee, overly-sweet to the point that his teeth throb a little, until only grounds cling to the bottom. A ring from where he spilled a bit down the side is drying tacky on the desk; Leo scoots forward and scratches at it with his thumbnail.

The pot’s maybe a third of the way full of cold gross coffee. That’s, what, two cups? Either he downs it all right now (bad idea, might be funny) or pours it in a jar to put over ice tomorrow morning (good idea, booooring).

Yeah, is that even a question?

Leo picks up the pot, tilts his head back, and—

Donnie snatches it from him.

“Heyyy, come on!”

“As much as I want to see you get karmically punished for your stupid decisions,” Donnie deadpans, “if you chug this, you’re going to vomit, and then I’m going to vomit. So, do it or don’t, but if you do, I’m going to wake up Raph.”

Hmmmm. Leo does some mental math: Raph, grumpy from being woken up at 4am, plus Leo making Donnie sick, plus Leo making himself sick, plus Leo chugging an entire pot of coffee in the middle of the night…

“Ughhhhhh, you’re such a snitch!” But he stands anyway, grabs for the pot and when Donnie raises an eyebrow he says, “Oh my god, I’m not gonna do it. I’m putting it in the fridge for tomorrow.”

“Get me a juice while you’re up there?”

Leo rolls his eyes. “Uh, no. Never. Fuck you.” They both know he’s going to.

“Die.”

“You first.”

Donnie kicks him.

“Owww Donnie! I’m telling Raph, you GREV-I-OUSLY injured me—”

“I KNOW YOU KNOW HOW TO SAY IT, LEO!”

NIGHT 1, ???am

Unsurprisingly, Donnie’s head starts dipping around 4:30. They just aren’t built for all-nighters. Unlike Leo, who is clearly the pinnacle of evolution.

After many threats of bodily harm, Leo finally wrestles Donnie into brushing their teeth, putting their hair up, and taking off their makeup, just in time for them to collapse face-first into bed, snoring like a freight train in the way they SWEAR everyone lies about. (Which, like, come on. Okay, Mr. Records-Everything, suuure, claim every single person who’s ever shared a room with you is full of shit. Leo and April, yeah okay. Mikey, sure. But Dad?? RAPH??)

Anyway.

Leo takes a shower, plays some solitaire, folds about half his laundry (which really goes to show how desperate he is for activity), sews up the torn arm of Raph’s teddy bear that he’s been meaning to get to for a month now, runs on the treadmill, slogs through tomorrow’s homework, and drinks another half-pot of coffee.

And now he’s cleaning his closet. Leo doesn’t know what time it is, but it’s late (early?) enough that the honking on the streets outside is more frequent, commuters driving into the city pissed off to be at work at the ungodly hour of… whatever. Whichever one it is. It won’t be long before the faint grey wash of cold morning light filters through his window, and Leo will have to actually like, get ready for school, but for now, he’s splayed out on his blue rug surrounded by knick-knacks and clothes he really should give away.

With a sigh, Leo leans forward and drags out YET ANOTHER short sleeved blue button-down. This is the eighth total (and the fourth in that near-identical cornflower color) but—he can’t help it! They’re so versatile! Pop one on over a long-sleeved turtleneck or under a knit vest or a sweater or a denim jacket and BAM; sometimes he threads a bandana through the collar and ties it in a bow—like an ascot kind of thing—and it’s sooo cute—

But he does have four of them. And they are, legit, the EXACT same color. And Leo’s not sure he can hear the words “rampant consumerism” or “shopping addiction” out of Don’s mouth any more times before some fratricide occurs.

Into the donation pile it goes. (He’ll only part with two of them, though: the one with the scratchy sewn-in tag and the one with a Kool-Aid stain along the row of buttons. The other six are for safe keeping.)

Considering it’s… whatever time it is, Leo feels pretty okay. His hands are shaking, but if they don’t always do that then it’s a pretty near thing, with all the caffeine he drinks, so y’know. Not super worrying. And he does feel sort of sick. Which is annoying but again, par for the course—like, c’mon; this specific kind of sleepless early-morning nausea is basically an old friend of Leo’s. A kind of shitty friend, sure, but still.

The next thing Leo pulls out of the closet (lol) is an extremely cloudy gallon Ziploc bag—jeez, this thing must be ancient. Leo turns it over in his hands, plastic crinkling under his fingers, to try and make out the shape of whatever’s inside. Finally, he gives up and opens the slide-zip top:

Chess pieces.

Oh. Oh wow, these ARE ancient.

Nostalgia floods Leo’s chest with warmth. Man, it’s been forever since he thought about chess. Dad tried to teach them all when they were really little—so little it must have been right after they moved, long enough ago that the memories flicker faintly at the back of Leo’s brain, just a few snatches of sensation:

Running his nail down the wooden ridges that made up the Knight’s mane. The soft plunk of the felt bottoms hitting the board. Dad’s warm hand covering his, showing him in a tactile way—the only way he ever really learns things—how all the pieces moved: Pawns one-space forward, Bishops diagonal, Knights in an L shape (the main reason he remembers Knights being his favorite piece).

Leo reaches forward to sift through jackets and scarves, tossing a couple of unpaired sneakers to the side, until finally he’s able to excavate the accompanying chessboard.

It’s just like he remembers it. Heavy, sturdy beige-and-brown checkered wood. Leo rests it on his lap, glides his fingertips down the side.

He sort of remembers the rules, still.

Remembers how most of the pieces move, at least? He can’t totally recall what the King does, but he could Google it. And, y’know, while he’s there, get a refresher on the rest of the game. And he could play some online, against the computer, only he could follow along with the physical pieces, because feeling them in his hands helps him think. Already, Leo can imagine the gears in his head clicking and whirring as he surveys the board.

Hold up. When did he decide he’s going to learn—or, re-learn—chess?

Leo. Does not know. Really, his brain gets ahead of him sometimes. But he doesn’t even bother tracking the thought process back, because it just… feels right. It makes sense.

It makes him excited, actually.

To have something to sink his teeth into. Something to focus that fizzy, spinning thing in his brain towards, something he can funnel all this excess energy into. He can get into it, learn all the terms and the fancy moves, get the full scope of it under his grasp until he can win again and again and again.

And it’s going to be awesome. It’s going to be fun.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

i've never posted fic on tumblr before so this is a first for me O.O anyway this is set in the universe of @tangledinink's BALLER fic "I'm Sorry, Teenage Mutant What Now?" so i HIGHLY suggest you check that out if you somehow haven't!!! usually after writing a neat 5k in like 5 days i'd be conked out for the forseeable future but somehow this fic is giving me MORE energy ??

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xopinkroses · 2 years

Text

Idiot♥

(Lady x Injured Fem!Reader)

Summary; You and Lady go out on a job together that results in you injured. Lady patches you up in your bathroom, leading to some confessions being made. Word Count; 2496 Warning; Violence, mentions of blood, detailed descriptions of treating wounds, reader wears a bra but other than that could possibly be considered gender neutral, partial nudity (nothing explicit) cursing

MASTERLIST🌸

Lady has been your partner in crime and best friend since the age of five, when she was still going by her old name (which you do not speak of)-- Which meant you were the first person she went to after her father killed her mother. You remembered that night like it happened yesterday, rather than six months ago. You answered your door to a hysterical Lady, blue and red eyes bloodshot and swollen. Her short black hair was a mess, like she had been running her hands through it. You brought her inside and, through her tears, she explained what happened. Over the course of the night a rage began to take root inside of her, her grief and betrayal driving her into a murderous wrath. She didn’t even have to ask you to help her punish the man she once called her father, you were all too willing to accompany her. The ominous demon tower that burst from the ground in the middle of the city, causing mayhem and destruction in its wake, was just a small pin in a pinterest board full of reasons to kill Arkham. School night or not– the bastard had to pay for making your bestie cry!

And now, vengeance achieved and a new friend in Dante gained, you and Lady were professional demon hunters. Still a team, sticking together through thick and thin. You had each other's backs no matter what. Could you really ask for a better partner? But over the past few weeks… something changed– shifted between the two of you. Your feelings had evolved somewhat, you were in love with your best friend. How cliche.

The tragic part was that you were positive she didn’t return your feelings. To rub salt in the wound, she seemed to be snapping at you more often these days, you could feel the two of you drifting apart and it was taking its toll on you. You felt like you were desperately trying to hold your friendship together with pva glue and things were starting to feel pretty hopeless.

Dante knew about your feelings, he was surprisingly observant sometimes. Or maybe Lady was just as oblivious as a newborn puppy. Maybe you were as well. Dante had a blast making jokes at your expense, a real good friend he was, but in the end he told you to just woman up and tell her. “What's the worst that can happen?”

You had several things to say to that. None of them positive. But he simply rolled his eyes in response, putting his hands up in mock surrender. “Then, by all means, pine from afar.”

That’s exactly what you planned to do.

You and Lady were hired by a client to clear a small infestation of low level demons that had overtaken his property just outside of town. It was supposed to be easy, but neither of you had expected to walk into a full blown army of demons. A situation that you were normally able to deal with quickly and efficiently, turned very dangerous for the two of you. Things got even more ugly when you were grabbed by the shoulder and pulled into the blur of gnashing teeth and sharp claws. Separated from Lady, you fought for your life in the mosh pit of demons as she tried to clear a path towards you.

Lady would never admit it, she had a reputation to uphold of course, but she was panicking. You were lost in the carnage of the main hall of the mansion. She'd lost sight of you the second you were grabbed, the only reason she knew you were even still alive was the screaming and yelling she recognised as yours.

Through sheer grit and determination, the two of you were able to mow down the demon horde. Your every muscle ached and you were covered head to two in demon blood. The carnage around you bled into the background as you laid eyes on Lady. Fierce and stunning, even when tired and filthy. She looked back at you, scanning over your injuries from her position across the room. You knew you must look like a wreck, the adrenaline pumping through your veins was stopping you from feeling your injuries but you knew they had to be bad.

“You had me worried for a second. Are you okay over there?” Lady called.

A small grin played on your face, you nodded. “Yeah–”

“–Look out!”

You didn’t see it coming. One minute you were on your feet, the next a demon was tackling you to the ground– it’s fangs ripping into your shoulder. Your scream of pain made Lady see red. She roared in vengeful fury as she darted across the room and threw the demon off of you. She made quick work of it, planting one foot on its back, and sliced its head from its shoulders with the bayonet of Kalina Ann. Blood sprayed over her face, her eyes gleamed dangerously. The savage look on her face only faded when she looked down at you.

You were laying in a crumpled heap on the bloody floor, breathing ragged and eyes wide. You were unable to recover from the surprise attack right away, struggling to regain your composure. You were instinctively holding your shoulder, slowly rising to sit up.

Lady dropped to her knees beside you, weapons and ammo on her belt clanging as she hit the ground. Her hands swiftly ran over your shaking form to check for injuries. Your body was bruised and covered in scrapes and scratches, but the worst was definitely your shoulder. A jolt of nausea shot through her stomach when she touched your injured shoulder and you let out a cry.

“Shit, shit!” she yelled. “How badly does it hurt? Do you think it’s broken?”

You groaned and tried to stand, “I’m fine.” You sounded like a liar even to yourself, but you didn’t want to worry her. Underneath the whole tough girl thing Lady had going on… she cared about people. She cared about you. Especially you.

“No, you’re not!” Lady snapped, putting a hand on your chest to push you back down into a sitting position. “Your arm is broken, and you're bleeding!”

“My arm is not broken,” you rolled your eyes. She pointedly ignored you in favour of fretting over your injuries. It was kind of hard to tell how badly you were bleeding as you were already covered in blood and gore. How much of it was yours? The bite mark was deep and jagged, you needed medical attention. And fast.

With strength unusual of a young woman her size, Lady hoisted you up to your feet. Your uninjured arm was around her shoulders, your weight supported by a hand around your waist, letting you rest against her. You almost fell a few times on your way out of the mansion, but Lady kept you upright as she guided you to her motorcycle.

Eventually, after a stressful journey full of Lady’s yelling and scolding. You made it back to your shared apartment. It was late and nobody was around, so you didn’t have to worry about that at least. Lady was fuming, her grip tight on your good arm as she pulled you along inside the apartment. You were none too gently taken into the bathroom and forced down onto the closed toilet lid.

“Sit,” The shorter girl ordered, you knew better than to argue. She rifled around the cabinet under the sink for the first aid kit you had stashed there, letting out a relieved sigh when she found it. You weren’t looking forward to this whatsoever.

Neither was Lady. The last time you had been in this position was when you patched her leg up after she was stabbed by her father. Not a happy memory, and certainly not one she wanted to relive. But with a job as dangerous as yours, these things were bound to happen. It was a wonder you had both made it this long without any serious injuries.

“Take your shirt off,” she said, turning on the sink and wetting a rag with cool water.

You felt your cheeks burn and butterflies erupt in your stomach, with wide eyes you looked up at her in shock.“What?”

Lady huffed, grumbling to herself while wringing some excess water out of the rag. She turned to you and put a hand on her hip, cocking her head to the side with an impatient look on her face. Youthful features pulled into a scowl. She was struggling to look you in the eye. “Shirt. Off. I need to clean your shoulder and I can’t do that with your shirt in the way.”

A sudden shyness overtook you, your teeth pulled at your bottom lip. You considered the irrational request of asking her to turn around while you stripped off your top, but shook the thought away quickly. Despite years of friendship, Lady had never seen you in any kind of state of undress before; and vice versa. You nodded, reluctant but knowing it was either this or you’d be treating your own injuries.

Pain seared through your shoulder as you tried to lift your top above your head, Lady watched you struggle for a bit, deliberately keeping her eyes focused above the collarbone, before sighing irritably and stepping forward to help you. She was surprisingly careful while easing your top over your head, she threw it into the corner, the plastic siding of the bathtub being stained red in the process. No doubt that would be a bitch to clean up later.

“There,” she stated, voice strained as she examined your shoulder with guarded eyes. She swallowed the lump forming in her throat and looked away, grabbing the wet rag and manoeuvring herself to stand in between your legs. You let out a hiss as the rag made contact with your wound, the cold feeling of the water mixing with the pain.

“Sorry,” Lady mumbled weakly. “I’ll try to be careful but I need to clean your shoulder.”

You nodded, “It’s okay… Thanks, Lady.”

“Don’t mention it.”

After the first initial wave of pain, it stopped hurting as much, probably numbed by the cold water. Your skin was broken out in goosebumps and you were shivering slightly. Lady tried to work quickly, cleaning out any dirt that could be inside the cut. She kept a warm, reassuring hand on your biceps the entire time. There was something oddly intimate about the whole thing. You supposed it was the concept of being laid bare and vulnerable, but you trusted Lady. She did her best to remain respectful, keeping her eyes on her work, occasionally moving away to rinse and wring out the, now bloody, rag. This was probably the closest you’d felt to her since before the Temen-ni-gru incident.

Lady left the rag in the sink, pulling out a small bottle of disinfectant. Before you could stop yourself, soft words began to spill past your lips. “I feel like you’ve been drifting away from me lately.”

Lady didn’t respond straight away, pouring some of the disinfectant onto a clean towel. One that wouldn’t leave any fluffy particles in your injury. She inhaled deeply, like she was mentally preparing herself for the conversation. Worry tangled in your chest.

She didn’t warn you before beginning to disinfect your shoulder, making you yelp in pain. You held onto Lady’s arm, not letting go even after the burning sensation became more bearable. You were starting to think she wasn’t going to respond to your earlier statement, but after throwing the towel in the laundry basket, she turned to you and said,

“I’m sorry.”

You blinked, “It’s okay, it didn’t hurt that bad–”

“Not for the disinfectant, you moron,” she rubbed her forehead. “For… I don’t know, being– distant? I don’t mean to be, it’s just… Nothing, forget I said anything.”

“What? What is it?” You urged her to keep talking. You took her hands in yours, squeezing them. “You can tell me anything, you know that, right?”

The two of you had been through so much together, your lives so intertwined that it wouldn’t make sense for you to ever separate. Surely what she had to say couldn’t be that bad, right? Her hesitance to share made you a bit nervous, it wasn’t like her to be so secretive.

“I love you,” Lady blurted.

Her eyes went wide and she bowed her head down to avoid your gaze. Uncharacteristically shy, the fair skin of her cheeks flushed pink.

“I love you too,” you said. “You’re my best friend, and–”

“No,” Lady snapped, freeing her hands from your grip and stepping away to turn her back to you. “No, it’s… it’s different.”

Your heart skipped a beat. Careful as to not bother your shoulder, you stood up to match her height. “How so?”

With a shaky breath, Lady gathered her strength and faced you once more. “Because I’m in love with you.”

Time froze for a second, or minutes, or days. You stared at your closest and dearest friend in utter disbelief. She loved you back. You had never even considered the possibility of your feelings for Lady being mutual, but it seemed that she had been under the same assumption. Two halves of a whole idiot. Dante was going to have a field day making fun of you later.

Lady seemed to take your silence as you not returning her feelings, instantly her guard went back up. “You know what, never mind– it’s fine, I shouldn’t have even sai–”

You didn’t let her finish her sentence before you leaned forward and connected your lips with hers. The kiss was short and sweet, you pulled back before she could really react. With a smile, you held onto her shoulders. “Lady, I love you too.”

Lady’s face lit up in a grin, like she couldn’t believe it. “Seriously?”

At your nod, she crashed her lips against yours, holding your face in her hands. You giggled against her lips, wrapping your good arm around her neck. A weight had been lifted from you, it was like you were breathing for the first time in weeks. Your friend didn’t hate you, and she loved you back? Your giggling was contagious and soon Lady was also laughing with you, both embracing each other and just bathing in the warm, fuzzy feeling you were sharing.

It was that moment that you remembered that you were standing in only your bra and a deep flush crept up over your cheeks. You slapped a hand over your mouth, “I should probably put a shirt on.”

Lady flicked your forehead, “Way to ruin the moment. I need to bandage you first, you idiot.”

Things weren’t going to be the same as before, but you were okay with that. You had the feeling that life was only going to get better with your partner at your side.

~ 🖤

#devil may cry #dmc #lady x reader #devil may cry x reader #dmc imagines #dmc lady #dmc x reader

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woods2006gal · 1 month

Text

Chapter 12 - As Time Goes By

Dean glances up when the bathroom door opens and he watches as Addison walks out wrapped in a towel with another one on top her head. It had been a month since she had taken off to go help Sarah. He still had no idea why Sarah needed Addison’s help in New Orleans. They had elected to put the whole incident behind them. ”That’s why we never have clean towels," he points out.

Addison rolls her eyes. "I thought it was cause of Sam's hair."

Sam shoots her an unamused look. "Haha."

Dean smirks at his younger brother. "I agree with her. Your hair is getting longer than hers."

"I liked it better when you two weren't together," Sam tells them. "You didn't agree on everything."

"Hey, we still fight. But now we just get the make up sex afterwards."

"Or the angry sex," Addison adds.

"You know what kind we don't have," Dean begins.

Sam shakes his head. "I can't believe you guys are talking about this."

"It's not gonna happen," Addison tells her husband, before disappearing back into the bathroom.

“One day it will,” Dean replies.

Addison walks out of the bathroom and tosses her dirty clothes in Dean's duffle, ignoring the look her sends her. "We need to do laundry," she states.

Suddenly, the closet door flies open and a man falls out. The boys stare in disbelief. He was about their age with jet black hair and a pair of bright blue eyes. He wore a blue suit. "Which one of you is John Winchester," the man asks, looking between the boys. The trio stares in disbelief. "Please, time is of the essence! Which one of you is John Winchester?"

"Uh, neither," Sam says, breaking the confusion that had fallen over the three hunters.

"That's impossible. That's absolutely…" The man trails off. "What did I do wrong?"

"Who the fuck are you, mister," Dean demands, standing up and aiming his gun at the stranger.

"Not now. I'm thinking.” Dean grabs the man and slams him against the wall. “Please. I can assure you there’s no need for violence. One of you must know John Winchester.”

Sam stands up. “I’ll tell you what,” he begins. He could see where Dean was headed. “When one of us fall out of your closet, then you can ask the questions.”

The man nods. “Yes, my apologies. Is it absolutely essential, sir, that you keep your hands on me,” he asks, directing his question at Dean. Dean releases his grip on the man and steps back. Addison places a hand on his back. “Thank you. Gentleman, ma’am, in the absence of any and all other explanations, I’m afraid this has been a marvelous, tragic misunderstanding. I’ll be on my way.”

“Yeah, that’s not happening,” Addison tells him.

“There are things of grave importance. I do not have time to deal with the likes of you,” the man says.

Dean picks up a pair of handcuffs as Sam grabs the man. “You’re not going anywhere, 007, till we get some answers,” he angrily says. He tries to handcuff the stranger, but there’s a scuffle. Dean and Sam are handcuffed to the chair.

The man starts towards the door, but stops upon realizing that Addison was blocking it. “Yeah, you’re not going where,” she tells him. The man stares at her for a moment, then punches her in the face. She immediately covers her face and bends over, moving away from the door. The man slips past her and out of the room.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean mutters, struggling with the handcuffs. He always kept a paperclip in his back pocket for these kind of situations. It only takes him a couple of minutes to get out of the handcuffs. He grabs his gun and makes his way out of the room. Sam grabs a wash cloth from the bathroom and hands it to Addison before following Dean.

“Yeah, I’m perfectly fine,” Addison mutters, wiping the blood from her face. She walks into the bathroom and rinses the blood off of her face. She checks her nose and is relieved to find that it’s not broken. Addison walks back into the room as Dean shoves the man into a chair.

“Broken,” Dean questions, pulling out a silver knife.

“No, thankfully,” Addison tells him. Dean grabs the man’s arm. He shoves the sleeve up before running the silver over the man’s forearm, drawing blood.

“Is this really necessary,” the man questions. Dean ignores him and grabs a flask out of the weapons duffle. He splashes water on the man. “And there with the holy water.”

“He’s clean,” Sam states.

“I could have told you that,” the man mutters, pulling the sleeve down.

“Yeah, well, you can start by telling us everything before I beat it out of you,” Dean snaps.

“I’m quite certain this is all beyond your understanding, my alpha male monkey friend. And violence will not help you comprehend this any easier.”

Dean pulls his gun out of his waistband and aims it the man. “Let me tell you what I understand! Some asshat pops out of my closet asking about my dad, punches my wife, smashes up my ride. So why am I not getting violent again?”

The man stares at them. “John Winchester is your father?”

The closet starts shaking. “What the actual fuck,” Addison lets out in disbelief.

“Oh my god,” the man says.

“What,” Dean asks.

“Run!”

The doors burst open and red headed woman in a bright blue dress steps out. She was wearing bright red lipstick and a pearl necklace. “Henry,” the woman laughs. “Silly man, you forgot to lock the door. But then spells never were your best subject, were they? Why don’t you be a doll and give me what I want? And I promise to kill you and your friends here quickly.”

“You know I can’t do that,” Henry tells the woman.

“You’re not a fighter, Henry.”

Dean aims his gun, but the woman sends the three hunters flying into the motel walls. Henry tries to step forward, but is held back by an invisible force. “Josie. I know you’re still in there. You must fight this.”

“I’m afraid Josie’s indisposed, pet. It looks like it’s just you and me.” Dean stands up and stabs the demon in the back with the demon killing knife. The demon lets out a scream and falls to her knees. The familiar orange light flashes through the demon’s body. Then she stands up. “Well, that is no way to treat a lady.”

Addison, Dean, Sam, and Henry all run out of the motel room. They jump into the Impala. Dean and Henry are in the front seat while Sam and Addison are in the backseat. The Impala’s tires squeal as they pull out of the parking lot. Silence is over them as they drive for about a half hour. Dean pulls the Impala over on the side of the road.

Henry jumps out of the Impala and walks a few feet away before throwing up. “Are you okay,” Addison questions, climbing out with the boys.

“Yes, I will be,” Henry replies, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. He throws up once more. He takes a deep breath. “It’s just all the adventures I enjoy are usually of the literary nature.”

“Yeah, well, now that you’re done blowing chunks, you want to tell us who Betty Crocker was,” Dean questions.

“Abandon. She’s a demon.”

“No shit,” Sam responds. “Where’d she come from?”

“Where’d you come from,” Dean asks Henry.

“She’s from Hell. I’m from Normal, Illinois. 1958,” Henry tells them.

Dean snorts. “Yeah right.” He’s met with a serious look. “Seriously? Dudes time traveling through motel room closets? That’s what we’ve come to?”

“If you could just take me to John, we could clear all this up, I’m sure,” Henry tells them.

Dean tenses. “I’ve told you that’s not gonna happen.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s dead,” Dean snaps. Addison places a hand on his arm.

Henry shakes his head. “No.”

“What’s it to you,” Sam questions, wondering why the man was so interested in their father.

“Everything,” Henry sadly replies. “I’m his father.”

~*~

Addison shifts as she sits at the table with Henry. Dean and Sam were at the counter, waiting on the food they had ordered. Henry hadn’t said much to her. He had been focused on the photo he was holding. She glanced over his shoulder to see the photo was of him with a small boy. She softly smiles at him as the boys sit down with two trays of food. Dean and Sam were being their overprotective selves as they were sitting on either side of her. She wasn’t sure how things were between her and Sam, but for the time being, Addison was glad that things seemed back to normal.

“How are you doing,” Sam questions Henry. He sets a basket of chicken fingers and fries in front of Addison.

“I’ll be fine,” Henry replies, putting the photo up. “After all, despite everything, I’ve just met my grandsons, haven’t I?” He holds out a hand to Sam. “Henry Winchester. It’s a pleasure.”

Sam lightly smiles and grabs Henry’s hand. “Sam.”

“Hello, Sam.” Henry holds out his hand to Dean.

Dean drops a basket with a burger and fries in front of Henry, ignoring the hand. “Dinner.”

Addison rolls her eyes. “This is Dean,” she says, grabbing Henry’s hand. “And I’m Addison.”

“I apologize for punching you,” Henry tells her. “I assure you that I do not make it a habit of hitting women.”

“It’s fine. I’ve been hit much harder.”

“I still do apologize.”

Addison lightly smiles. She turns to Dean. “I like him,” she amusedly says. Dean glares at her. “He’s nice.”

“Well, this has been touching. How about we figure out how to clean up your mess, huh,” Dean coldly asks.

“Abandon,” Henry tells them, nodding. “Yes. She must be stopped.”

“How come she didn’t die when I stabbed her?”

“Because demons can’t be killed by run of the mill cutlery. At the very least, you’d need an ancient demon killing knife of the Kurds.”

Dean reaches into his jacket and pulls out the handle of the demon killed knife. “That’s what this is.”

Henry leans forward. “Where’d you get that?”

“Demon gave it to me,” Dean answers, shoving the knife back into his jacket. “We’ve been around this block so many times.”

“Now, that portal or whatever it was you came through,” Sam begins. “Is it still open?”

Henry shifts. “I highly doubt it. Why?”

“I’m just thinking if we can’t kill this Abandon—”

“Maybe we can shove her back through the magic door,” Addison finishes and Sam nods in agreement. “How did you do it?”

“It’s a blood sigil,” Henry explains. “Blood leads to blood. Or their next of kin.”

“But Abandon came through it, also, right,” Sam asks. “So you can create this blood sigil again?”

“My blood, an angel feather, tears of a dragon, a pinch of the sands of time — I-I would need those and…at least a week for my soul to recharge, but, yes, it’s possible.”

“You tapped the power of your soul to get here? I thought only angels could do that.”

Henry looks between the boys. “You should know this. What level are you two?”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “What level?”

“Level of knowledge. You’re Men of Letters, correct?”

The boys exchange a look. “I’m a little busy on my boy bands,” Dean tells him. “Men of what?”

“Men of Letters, like your father, who taught you our ways.”

“Our father taught us how to be hunters,” Sam clarifies.

Henry laughs. “You’re not.” He stops laughing at the serious looks on Dean and Sam’s faces. “Are you? Hunters? Well, hunters are…hunters are apes. You’re supposed to — you’re legacies.”

Dean frowns. “Legacies of what?”

~*~

Addison yawns as the Impala is parked on a street. They had been on the road all day. And she was ready to lie down in a bed. They climb out of the Impala and stare at the comic book store in front of them. Henry walks up to a door and places a hand on it. “What’s going on here,” he softly questions, lightly touching a carved symbol that had been painted over. “No.”

“All right, well, this was enlightening,” Dean says, clapping his hands together. “Let’s hit the road, huh?”

“Give him a minute, Dean,” Sam tells him.

Dean glares at his younger brother. “We just spent four hours driving, okay? All he did was stare out the window and request Pat Boone on the radio. He had his time.”

“I don’t think a couple of minutes is going to hurt,” Addison says, placing a comforting hand on Dean’s back.

“It’s just a facade, a way to rook our enemies into believing we are house elsewhere,” Henry says, walking over to them.

“Okay, enough with the decoder talk,” Dean snaps. “How about you tell us what this whole ‘Men of Letters’ business is or you’re on your own.”

“It’s none of your concern.”

“Why? Because we’re hunters? What do you have against us?”

“Aside from the unthinking, unwashed, shoot first and don’t bother to ask questions later part, not much, really.”

Sam shifts. “You know what? Wait a second. We’re also John’s children.”

“You’re more than that, actually. My father and his father before were both Men of Letters, as John and you two should have been. We’re preceptors, beholders, chroniclers of all that which man does not understand. We share our findings with a few trusted hunters - the very elite. They do the rest.”

“So, you’re like Yodas to our Jedis,” Dean reasons. Henry stares at him, confused. “Never mind. You’ll get there.”

“So if the Men of Letters are such a big deal,” Addison begins. “Then why haven’t we heard of you?”

“Abaddon,” Henry answers, then opens the door to the comic book store. He walks inside and the trio follows him.

“But why would Abaddon do that,” Addison questions.

Henry reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small wooden carved box with the same symbol that was on the door. “I think for this?”

“Okay, what’s that,” Sam asks.

“I wish I knew,” Henry tells them, then puts the box back in his pocket. “Abaddon attacked us the night of my final initiation. All secrets were to be revealed then.”

“Let me get this straight,” Dean says as the group walks down through the comic book store. “You traveled through time to protect something that does you don’t know what from a demon that you know nothing about?” Henry stares at Dean then walks down the hallway. “Good.”

They follow Henry and come to a large room with comics along with a counters with a cash register sitting on it. “Hand me your….walkie-talkie,” Henry says, holding out a hand.

Sam raises an eyebrow. “You mean my phone,” he questions, pulling his phone out.

“Even better,” Henry says, taking Sam’s phone. He holds the phone up to his mouth. “Operator, I need Delta 457.”

“Who are you not calling,” Dean questions. He shoots Addison a look and finds that she’s trying not to laugh.

“Our emergency number.”

“Yeah. Not anymore.” Dean grabs the phone from Henry and hands it back to Sam.

“They can’t all be gone,” Henry says. “There must be another elder out there who can help us figure out how to stop Abaddon and what to do with the box.”

Dean walks up to the counter. “Hey, uh, hi. Can we hijack your computer for a hot second,” he asks, shooting the woman a grin.

Henry laughs. “Like you could fit a computer in this room.”

The woman shrugs. “Sure.”

“Thanks.” Dean turns the computer to Sam and Addison. “Sam. Ads.”

Sam walks up to the computer. “Yep. All right, um, give me a name. Anybody who, uh, might have been there that night — one of those elders.”

“Um, Ackers, David. Larry Ganem,” Henry recites. “Um, Ted—”

“Okay, here it is,” Sam interrupts. “Um, August 12, 1958. A tragic fire at a gentlemen’s club. Uh, 242 Gaines Street.”

Dean shoots the woman behind another smile when he notices her checking him out. Addison rolls her eyes and smacks the back of her hand on his chest. “Still no fun,” he mutters.

“This is 242 Gaines Street,” Henry says. “But that was no fire.”

Sam turns the computer screen to show Henry the article he had found. “Larry Ganem, David Ackers, Ted Bowen, and Albert Magnus. All deceased.”

“Albert Magnus,” Henry repeats.

“He a friend of yours,” Dean questions.

Henry smiles. “Even better.”

~*~

Addison yawns as she walks through the dark cemetery that night with the three Winchesters. The drive hadn’t been long from the comic book store. “These were my friends, my mentors, our last defense against the Abaddons of the world,” Henry softly says.

Dean shines his flashlight on a headstone. “Here’s your buddy Albert Magnus.”

“Albertus Magnus,” Henry corrects. “He was hardly a buddy. He was the greatest alchemist of the middle ages.”

“Okay, so why is he buried here,” Sam questions.

“He’s not. His was the alias we’d use when going incognito. I believe someone planted his name in that article. So that if a Man of Letters came looking for answers, he’d know something was amiss.”

Addison frowns. “Someone wanted you to come here.”

“The question is why.”

Dean looks around the graves. He stops when his flashlight lands on a symbol on the headstone. “What is this?”

“Our crest. The Aquarian Star, representing great magic and power,” Henry explains. The symbol looked like a star with six points inside a circle. “They say it stood at the gates of Atlantis itself.”

“It’s on all the tombstones except for this one,” Sam says, shining his flashlight on the headstone that had a different symbol. “Larry Ganem.”

Henry kneels down in front of the headstone. “The Haitian symbol for speaking to the dead,” he says. “This is the message. You boys ever exhume a body?”

~*~

“Tell me how we got stuck doing this,” Dean angrily mutters as tosses a shovel full of dirt out of the grave. He and Sam were currently digging up the grave. Addison was standing next to the grave, shining a flashlight on them, with Henry next to her.

“Are you of relation to a man named Jack Sloan,” Henry questions, looking at Addison.

Addison softly smiles. “That’s my grandfather,” she confirms. “He died before I was before.”

“How? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I think my dad said it was a wendigo.”

“I’m sorry that Jack died in such a horrible way. The few times that I met him, he never mentioned having a son.”

Addison shifts. “Uh, yeah. Apparently he didn’t know my dad existed until my grandmother died. I guess it was a big surprise when Father O’Connor showed up with a five year old and said you’re a father now.”

Henry frowns. “Seamus O’Connor?”

“Yeah. Did you meet Father O’Connor?”

“No, I never did meet Seamus O’Connor. But I did hear he was a member of a group that was tasked with ensuring the survival of the bloodline of the last descendant.”

Dean looks up at Henry. “Is there a reason why you’re interrogating my wife?”

Henry frowns, confused. “We’re just talking.”

“Yeah, well, stop,” Dean snaps.

Addison sighs. “Dean gets a little overprotective at time,” she softly tells Henry. Sam’s shovel hits wood and they turn to look in the grave. The boys had reached the lid of the coffin. Carefully, they lift the lid and push it out on the ground to reveal a skeleton in the grave.

Dean frowns, temporally forgetting Henry’s question of Addison. “Hey, was Larry a World War I vet?”

Henry kneels next to the grave. “No.”

“Well, then, who’s the stiff?”

“No idea.”

Sam kneels down and finds a dog tag on the skeleton. “Captain Thomas J Carey the third,” he reads. He looks up at Henry. “That mean anything to you?”

Henry shakes his head. “Well, somebody wanted you to see this, so maybe that somebody is Larry,” Dean points out.

“Larry survives the attack and takes his guy’s identity,” Addison questions.

Henry stands up. “Okay. What are we waiting for then? Cover this up. Let’s be on our way.”

~*~

Addison flops down onto the bed that she and Dean had claimed after they had checked into a local motel. Dean and Sam were sitting at the table. Dean with Addison’s MacBook in front of him wile Sam was looking through John’s journal. Henry was sitting on the couch, whistling a tune that was familiar to all of them. “What is that,” Dean questions, looking at his grandfather. “I know that tune.”

“As Time Goes By,” Henry answers. “I hope so. It’s from Casablanca.”

Sam nods, recognizing. “Right. Dad used to whistle it from time to time.”

“Your father saw Abbott and Costello Meet the Mummy at the drive in one night. It scared the beeswax out of him. So I got him this little music box that played that song to help him sleep at night. It worked like a charm.”

Addison raises an eyebrow. “I…I can’t picture John being scared of anything.”

“Hey, uh, according to county records, Tom Carey lives in Lebanon, Kansas and is a very happy one hundred twenty seven year old,” Dean says, closing Addison’s laptop. “I say we get some shut eye and head over first thing in the morning.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Sam says. “Listen to this. According to Dad’s journal, he once tortured a demon that said he made his bones working for Abaddon, who, it turns out, is a Knight of Hell.”

Dean frowns. “What does that even mean?”

“Knights of Hell are hand picked by Lucifer himself,” Henry explains. “They are of the first fallen first born demons.”

“So very pure, very strong,” Sam clarifies.

Henry stands up and walks over to them. “Legend has it that Archangels had killed all of them, which, as we have witnessed, is not the case.”

“Unless Abaddon is the last one,” Addison points out.

Henry motions to the journal in front of Sam. “You say that belonged to your father?” Sam nods. “May I?” Sam slides the journal over to him.

“It’s a hunter’s journal,” Sam says. “I assume Men of Letters…you use journals too?”

“I intended to,” Henry replies, flipping through the journal. “I sent away for one the day before my initiation.” He turns to the front of the journal and life up the photo John had attached. Embossed letters, HW, were sitting there. “As a matter of fact, judging by my initials here, this one, I believe.”

Dean stares at him. “That was yours?”

“It must have arrived after…” Henry trails off. “I’m beginning to gather I don’t make it back from this time, do I?”

Sam sighs. “We don’t know for sure. All we do know is that Dad never saw you again.”

“What did he think happened to me?”

“He thought you ran out on him,” Dean answers.

“John was a legacy. I supposed to teach him the ways of the Letters.”

“Well, he learned things a little differently.”

“How?”

“The hard way. Surviving a lonely childhood, a fucking war…only to get married and have his wife taken by a demon…and later killed by one himself. That mean got a bum rap around every turn. But you know what? He kept going. And in the end, he did a hell of a lot more good than he did bad.”

“I’m sorry. I wish I had been there for him.”

“Yeah, it’s a little late for that now, don’t you think,” Dean coldly replies, standing up. He starts towards the door.

“It’s the price we pay for upholding great responsibility. We know that.”

“Your responsibility was to your family, not some glorified book club!”

“I was a legacy. I had no choice.”

Dean scoffs. “Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.”

Dean walks out of the room. Addison sits there for a moment, before getting up and following her husband. She finds him making his way to the vending machine. “Dean,” she softly says, placing a hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, but pulls her close.

~*~

Addison lets out a snore. She was curled up against Dean in the bed. Her head was resting on his chest. His arm was protectively around her. Sam smacks Dean on the shoulder with the motel notepad and the older hunter jumps awake. “Hey, wake up,” Sam says.

“What? What,” Dean asks, sitting up. Addison rolls over and Sam rolls his eyes.

“Henry. He’s gone.”

“Where is he?”

“Well, no idea. He just left a note saying he was gonna fix everything.”

Dean runs a hand over his face. “Yeah or fuck it all up. All right. I’ll go check the car. You see if you can wake the hibernating bear.”

“I’m not waking her.”

“You’re better at it.”

“Dude, Ads and I are finally back in a good place. Besides, she’s your wife. You wake her up.”

Dean shakes his head. “I would like to actually have sex with my wife. So, no, I’m not waking her up.”

“Oh my god, you both suck,” Addison tiredly snaps, climbing off the bed and walking into the bathroom.

Dean shrugs. “At least we’re both on her bad side now.”

A half hour later, Addison is sitting at the table with Sam. Dean opens the motel door and walks in. He was clearly annoyed at something. “What,” Addison questions, taking a sip of the horrible tasting motel coffee.

“He broke into the trunk, stole an angel feather,” Dean replies. “I’m guessing he’s gonna whip up another one of the blood spells and Marty McFly himself back to the 1950s.”

Sam frowns. “To do what? Stop Abaddon before she strikes?”

“Or grab Dad and haul ass. Look, point is he’s doing it.”

“How? He still needs two ingredients for the spell. Unless…unless there’s some place nearby that sells real hoodoo.” Sam opens his lap and gets to work.

“I’ll call Garth,” Addison says, standing her. Her phone was sitting on the nightstand. “He owes me for not kicking ass after learning that he was tracking us.”

Dean smirks. “That’s my wife.”

“Hey,” Sam say and they look at him. “It just hit the wire. One dead at Astro Comics.”

Dean walks over to his brother. “Abaddon?”

“Yeah, has to be.”

“Okay, so she’s close. I’ll go find Henry. You two find Larry. Figure out how to kill this chick.”

~*~

Addison pulls the sweat she was wearing close. Sam had borrowed a car from the motel parking lot so they could talk with Larry Ganem. The house was a simple two story house with a picket fence in the front yard. “So this is where a dude pretending to be a super old dude lives,” Addison amusedly says.

“Looks like it,” Sam replies, looking at the notepad in his hand.

They walk up to the front door and ring the doorbell. After introducing themselves to a woman and explaining why they were there, which was just a small white lie, Sam and Addison find themselves sitting on a floral couch while an old man sits in a matching armchair. “So, Henry is dead. I was so sure that…that he had survived,” Larry Ganem tells them.

“Yes, well, um, like I said…I found his journal and was hoping you could fill in the gaps and explain to us what happened that night in 1958,” Sam says.

Larry sighs. “It doesn’t matter. They’re gone. We’re gone.”

“But Abaddon isn’t,” Addison softly argues.

“Abaddon was a hired gun. She killed us all that one night.”

“Everyone but you,” Sam points out.

“She blinded me. It’s a miracle I survived.”

The woman walks up behind Larry. She places a comforting hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, dear,” she softly tells him.

Larry grabs her hand and presses a kiss to the palm. “But she did not get what she came for.”

“The box,” Sam answers and Larry nods. “Listen, Abaddon is here, and she wants this thing. So, we need to know everything there is to know about it.”

“In the box is the key to every object, scroll, spell ever collected for thousands of years under one root. It is the supernatural mother lode.”

Addison frowns. “So, Abaddon wants this key so she can get her hands on it.”

“Can you imagine what she would do with that?”

Sam and Addison exchange a look. “So, how do we stop her,” Sam questions. “How do we stop Abaddon?”

“You don’t,” Larry answers. He pulls out a pen and notepad from his shirt pocket. He scribbles a set of coordinates on it before the paper off and hand it to Sam. “If you know where the key is, then take it to these coordinates. Throw it in. Shut the door forever. And walk away.”

“Wait, why would we do that?”

“Because it is the safest place on Earth, warded against any evil ever created. It is impervious to any entry, except the key.”

“But if we did that then all the knowledge in there would be lost forever,” Addison argues.

“And that is the price we have to pay for keeping it away from Abaddon. You do have the key, don’t you?”

“We don’t, um, but, my brother…my brother does,” Sam says, standing up. Something didn’t feel right to him. He grabs Addison’s arm and tugs her up.

The woman walks around Larry. “How rude. You two haven’t finished your tea.”

The woman’s eyes turn black. The demon waves a hand and sends Addison and Sam flying into the walls, knocking them both unconscious. “Abaddon,” Larry states.

~*~

Addison lets out a groan. She had a pounding headache. And being man handled by a demon certainly didn’t improve her mood. Sam was standing next to her. How Abaddon had managed to eat with the two unconscious hunters without any help, Addison wasn’t sure. Their hands had been tied in front of them. She shifts as footsteps echo throughout the empty processing plant. “That’s the problem with you hunters,” Henry says. “You’re all short sighted.”

“Yeah, at least we’re not extinct,” Dean replies, entering the room with Henry. He holds up the box that the Knight of Hell had been searching for. “Abaddon! I’ll send Henry here over with the box. You do the same with Sam and Addison. No tricks.” He shoves the box into a pocket in Henry’s jacket.

“My only interest is Henry and the key. You three are free to go,” Abaddon tells him.

Dean shoves Henry, but the elder Winchester doesn’t move. Dean pulls out his gun. “You can do this standing or you can do it crawling. Your call.”

Henry reluctantly starts forward as do Sam and Addison. Addison shoots Henry an apologetic smile, but he ignores her. “Henry, I’m sorry,” Sam quietly tells him.

“Save it,” Henry coldly replies.

They reach Dean and he cuts the ropes around their hands. “Don’t do this, Dean,” Sam says. “This is a bad idea.”

“Shut your mouth,” Dean snaps. “Let’s go.” The start to walk out of the room, but the door suddenly closes. Dean turns around and glares at the demon. “We had a deal!”

“Surprise,” Abaddon taunts. “I lied!”

Abaddon stabs her hand into Henry’s abdomen. “Henry,” Addison shouts. She starts to move towards him, but Dean grabs her arm.

“Wait,” Dean quietly tells her. “Wait.”

Abaddon pulls her hand out Henry’s abdomen. He coughs up blood. “You’re not the only one,” Henry says, revealing that he had been holding a gun. He presses the muzzle against Abaddon’s chin and fires. The demon’s skull flashes with bright light.

“Whoo,” Abaddon shouts, clearly amused. “What a blast. Now, give me the box.” She reaches a hand into Henry’s jacket and pulls out a pack of playing cards. She angrily drops the box to the ground. “Where is it!” Her anger sets off sparks and causes something in the building to crash. She humorlessly laughs. “Okay. We can do this this hard way.” She grabs Henry’s chin and black smoke flies out of her mouth. Except instead of going into Henry, it hits a invisible barrier. Abaddon shoves Henry back and Sam runs over to him. Abaddon tries moving, tries smoking out of the person she was using, but can’t. “Why am I stuck?” Abaddon glares at Henry and Sam. “You still didn’t kill me.”

“No, but you’ll wish we did,” Dean snaps, slicing Abaddon’s head off. It hits the floor with a thud. Addison walks over to him. “The demon trap in your noggin is gonna keep you from smoking out. We’re gonna cut you into little steaks and bury each strip under cement. You might not be dead, but you’ll wish you were.”

“We did it,” Henry softly says.

Dean kneels down next to his grandfather. “No. You did it. For a bookworm, that wasn’t bad, Henry.”

“I’m sorry I judged you two so harshly for being hunters. I should have known better.”

“About,” Sam questions.

“You’re also Winchesters. As long as we’re alive, there’s always hope. I didn’t know my son as a man, but having met you two…I know I would have been proud of him.”

~*~

Addison stands next to Dean in the Men of Letters cemetery. Sam was hammering the makeshift cross in the ground. The Men of Letters logo and H. Winchester were carved into it. She leans against Dean and he drapes an arm around her shoulders. They had felt that burying Henry with the other members of the Men of Letters is what he would have wanted. “I get it now,” Sam says, standing up and joining. Dean shoots him a questioning look as Addison slides her arm around his waist. “What Cupid said about Heaven busting ass to get Mom and Dad together. The Winchesters and the Campbells. The brains and the brawn.”

“Well, I’m glad you see it. All I see in our family tree is a whole lot of dead,” Dean replies. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small photo. He holds it out to Sam. “Hey, I, uh, found this in Henry’s wallet.”

Sam takes it and sadly smiles. Henry was standing next to a young John Winchester. “Dad looks happy,” he softly says, handing it back to Dean.

“Kind of makes you wish he knew the truth, huh? I mean, all those years thinking his old man ditched when the poor son of a bitch really came here and saved our bacon. Fucking time travel, man.”

“You think it would have made a different?”

“What?”

“Dad. If he’d had his own father around.”

Dean frowns. “What, in how he raised us? Sammy, he did the best he could.”

“I know that. I-I do. They all did.”

Sam reaches into his pocket and pulls out the box. “What are the chances that place is still standing,” Dean questions.

“It’s a chance we got to take,” Addison amusedly says. “I mean, you guys are legacies. It would be a shame if we didn’t.”

#supernatural #fanfiction #dean winchester #addison sloan #sam winchester #ofc #oc

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kinqarou · 1 month

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This is about the casino story I talked about SOooooooo..

Poker Deal is about four Teenagers, Jonathan, Charlie, Elijah, and Alex that come across a massive casino and decide to go in and have fun since it was summer. Charlie and Alex get wasted and gamble a lot. The Cardmaster decides to challenge them into one more round. If they win, they get 1 million dollars. If they lose however, their soul is his. Jonathan Knows something is off about this place but Charlie and Alex did not care. They sadly lost and now their souls are trapped. As for the other two, they are trying to find a way how they can free them and it can go back to normal. The story may be fun and cool but it holds a tragic past. Let’s hope John and Jacob can save the two. Who would want to leave someone to die?

Jonathan: Jonathan is a 17 year old trans boy with brown hair, an orange jacket, sunglasses and tan eyes. He is known to be the serious and cautious one in the story and usually thinks twice before he acts. Ever since his friend’s souls got trapped in the casino, He’s been trying to find a way to help them ever since. He would not sleep or even eat knowing the fact that the two are in danger. Elijah is highly concerned and tries to help him but Jonathan denies it. Jonathan has a little sister named Chloe and cares a lot for her. Jonthan identified as a female but did not really feel like one. Later on he found out he identifies as a male.

Charlie: Charlie is a 18 year old man with black hair, a gray hoodie, a star necklace and dark blue eyes. He is Hispanic but usually speaks English since his family got deported for unknown reasons. He was one of the victims of the card master and after his soul was trapped, he does not gamble that often anymore, since that’s what dragged him into this situation. He is Jonathan’s best friend along with Jacob and Alexander. He wants to be a clothing designer.

Elijah is an 18 year old boy with blond hair, dark green eyes along with a scar on one of his eyes, bandages, white pants and a black shirt with a yellow moon symbol. He can get really uncomfortable and can ignore people but sometimes he’s caring and sweet towards others. There was a tragic event that happened in his childhood and he lost some of his memory due to being hurt badly. He doesn’t really mind if people bully him, but if they bring up his mother, It’s a deathwish. He can get distracted very easily.

Alex is a 17 year old man with dark skin, black hair with a white streak, a black and red hoodie and angel with one being dark. He was an alcoholic and would fake his ID just so he could get some drinks. He would always annoy Ellijah and poke him around but still cares for him. He would drink to the point where he wheezes and laughs. He is pansexual and loves all genders.

Anthony is a 41 year old man with brown hair tied back in a ponytail, a blue police uniform, and green eyes. He is dating Francesco, who is his colleague. He did not have a good childhood since his father was alcoholic and used to beat him. The mother got him out of that mess. He used to have kidney cancer. He is partly German and can speak german. He has a few white hairs due to stress. Even if his girlfriend is partly a demon, he still respects her. He even plans on proposing to them.

I'll be talking about more characters soon!

WHERE DID ANTHONY COME FROM WHO IS THIS MAN

#asks

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beevean · 1 year

Text

I just. The parallels in Hector and Isaac’s designs are so good.

I love the angel/devil motif they have going on. Hector is conventionally pretty, with a soft face, long wavy silver hair, baby blue eyes, and is dressed in blue (and black, to symbolize his dark past). Isaac has stronger features (which is a godsend among the plethora of “same faced long haired pretty boys” drawn by Kojima), slick red hair that covers half of his face, grey/yellow eyes, and is dressed in reddish black. He even wears red makeup and has black tattoos all over his body.

The angel/devil motif is blazoned in the Devil Forgemaster crest as well, as they’re not one thing or the other, but in between. Not angels nor devils, not fully human nor fully otherworldly, always on the edge: from there, they choose their own paths. And I adore when in fanart their positions are reversed compared to the placement of the wings on the crest <3

https://at.tumblr.com/whitecatarts/hector-and-isaac-castlevania-has-always-been-one/2clhzacnuoqj

Speaking of Isaac in particular, red hair and yellow eyes hint at some kind of demonic nature. In the franchise, only two other characters have flaming red hair: the vampire Walter, and the Succubus in SoTN (and Simon in Chronicles, but I don’t understand why). Red hair has been historically associated with witchcraft and vampirism, and Isaac descends from a formidable family of dark sorcerers and is the loyal servant of a vampire. As for the yellow eyes, the only other character in the series with the same color is Alucard, a half-vampire. There is enough evidence to theorize that Isaac could be a cambion, or a changeling. After all, he and his sister Julia look absolutely nothing alike... Too bad that it would ruin the overall theme of “humans who don’t belong to the human world” :\ it’d make for an interesting AU, I think.

And yet, and yet. They still have part of each other in their design. Hector has a red sash wrapped around his waist; Isaac’s armor includes a little blue crystal. They also carry the pain caused by the other: Rosaly’s black headband is wrapped around Hector’s sash, as her tragic fate was caused by Isaac and Hector’s past; Isaac’s outfit is what’s left of his Devil Forgemaster uniform after Hector slashed and broke it, much like Hector’s actions indirectly broke Isaac. They’re intertwined to the core.

Isaac having the Devil Forgemaster’s crest tattooed on his back says a lot about him. Unlike Hector, who could take off his vest and stop being recognizeable as a Forgemaster, Isaac chose to be branded for life. This might also be why he stayed away from human civilization during those three fateful years: he really couldn’t have shown his face, or better his body, anywhere. It speaks about his loyalty, running much deeper than Hector’s, but also of his insecurity, so eager he was to show his commitment to his Lord. Hector didn’t need to be tattooed: his proficiency was more than enough.

Even their own names are parallels of each other! Hector is Greek in origin (most famous example being General Hector of the Trojan War) and it means “to hold fast” or “restrain”, hinting at his strong will that allows him to break free from Dracula’s Curse. Isaac is Biblical in origin and refers to the son of Abraham, who was nearly sacrificed in the name of God to prove Abraham’s loyalty: Isaac, loyal to Dracula beyond reason, also get sacrificed to his “God”, but unlike his namesake, he was not saved in time. It also means “he will laugh”, which Isaac does... a lot... not for good reasons...

Honestly at this point my only problem is with the details of Hector’s design. I have no clue of what’s going on with his arms, or if he has holes in his pants and how he covers them. But otherwise I really appreciate how much thought was put into both of them. And this is not even getting into the parallels of their personalities.

#castlevania #curse of darkness #hector castlevania #isaac laforeze #i care them... i care them too much...

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amarriageoftrueminds · 2 years

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God the Howlies episode in AC was such a debacle. Another thing I’ve noticed is that after she and her team meet with the Howlies she’s essentially under their protection from the misogyny and the constant belittlement of her coworkers. Neither the Howlies nor her fellow agents object to her orders, despite being more experienced in military strategy (on account of actually being in the frontlines and not just cowering in a bunker doing secretary work) and the agents don’t make snarky comments at her like they usually do. She spends the half the season trying to earn her coworkers’ respect (something she verbalizes more than once) so you’d think as the founder of feminism & the lord and savior of poor oppressed silly Betties she wouldn’t take kindly to other men -whether or not they’re her friends- being the source of whatever little respect she gets. But she has no problem using strong and influential men as a reference when other men don’t treat her like she wants them to. Seriously, watching that scene where they were sitting by the bonfire (where they also established that Peggy was not like other girlsTM for loving whiskey. I’ll never get the American fascination with women who drink whiskey) sharing war memories was so cringeworthy. It’s like the scene in every high school movie where the freshman hegemon sees the awkward kid they bully be friends with the cool seniors and feels insecure when they laugh around, tell funny stories and share inside jokes; then starts to act like they’ve been friends with the awkward kid all along to stay in the cool kids’ good graces. It’s so fanfic-like. Peggy Carter is a glorified Y/N.

continuation of (XX)

You’re completely right. She’s a Canon Sue.

They really looked at a comics character based on Virginia Hall (i.e. real peg-legged American heroine who managed to stay undercover in Nazi-occupied France twice, despite having a thick Baltimore accent, and helped captured Resistance fighters break out of Gestapo prison!!)

...and thought ‘hmm yeah she’s boring let’s incorporate the Nazi woman instead and ignore the other non-Nazi love interests (they’re Jewish) oh and let’s make her a Bletchley Park codebreaker and a martial artist boxer and friends with a billionaire inventor and she has a Tragic Past and-’

All she’s missing is the long ebony black hair with purple streaks and red tips that reaches her mid-back and icy blue eyes like limped tears. 💅

(The irony of them doing all this thinking they’re making her Steve’s equal by it, when in fact it’s doing the exact opposite. She has no power or significance outside of a man. Steve is his own original character with shown competence and independent motives and backstory; she’s just a cheap mirror who follows everything he does. The very idea of a dance partner means she cannot perform her only function without a man. Even in WhatIf her only powers or accomplishments are all just Steve’s.)

As for the Howlies ep; yeah it’s just more of the cringey mythologising of a past she never actually had (how Disney!)

She wasn’t on the Continent with the Howlies.

She wasn’t any kind of a soldier or fighter.

Her training is not in anything that would be of use or interest to them.

(They’ve got a tech/radio guy in Morita, a translator in Gabe, an explosives / French geography / Resistance Underground expert in Frenchy, airborne assault expert in Monty, an expert sniper / Hydra lab-internee in Bucky (the only reason they even know there’s a Valkyrie base is because he told Steve! without him, Hydra would’ve blown up half the world!), extra muscle from Dum-dum, all the gadgetry they need from Stark, all the aerial recon they need from Stark’s planes, and Steve’s brilliant tactical mind.

What, exactly, would they need her for?? Carrying more clipboards? Tidying more flags off maps? Missing more saboteurs? Not getting to more grenades on time?? More irrational attacking of Steve?? Hmm. I guess she would be pretty good practise for having a Nazi nutjob around who could fly off the handle at any moment...

If there were more Howlies than shown in CATFA, they wouldn’t even need her as a spare pair of hands -- they accidentally made her even more irrelevant!)

And if she’s supposed to be a spy:

1) she definitely wouldn’t be wherever they are, she’d be undercover somewhere, where a spy would be needed;

2) why would she walking around with the famous guys and appearing in public showreels, thus blowing her cover and rendering her even more useless than she is already?

As well as having zero military experience or background, Pggy has no rank.

As Steve himself clearly pointed out when he ignored her ‘orders’ on the plane, she has no right to boss Commandos (or Agents) around. She’s just so in love with the sound of her own voice that she assumes (in ignorance of how society actually works for non posh people) that her high opinion of herself = the right to be in charge.

Very typical Upper Class assumption of superiority.

All her scenes with the Howlies are straight up lies.

She wasn’t even on first name terms with Bucky, the original Howlie!

And to paper over this giant crack, they just introduce new Howlies, as if to say ‘ohh, yeah, she did spend loads of time with them, it was just characters you didn’t see, it was just off screen.’

Newsflash, fucker! That’s not how characterisation works!

Hmm okay, I just decided Pggy’s actually a many-tentacled alien in disguise as a human. It’s just that the scene where you found that out was off-screen.

And, ah yes, spirits. Yet another thing they've stolen from Erskine and Bucky -- the only people in all of CATFA shown drinking them (by choice).

(Steve and the Howlies, including Dum-dum, drink beer in the pub scene, when they are at liberty to choose their poison. Pggy is never shown drinking at all. But hey, why let a silly thing like consistency get in the way of further bullshit!)

The people writing really think that what makes a character good is just ‘introduce them and then show how great they are by having every other character kiss their ass. Job done!'

Kind of like a reverse Whorf Effect. They don’t have to actually go to the bother of showing us how she’s great, exactly, they can just tell us she’s great -- because everyone says so!

What’s laughable is that HA’s really out there saying Pggy doesn’t need external validation.

If that were the case, she wouldn’t be throwing temper tantrums and shooting at Steve in public when he’s interested in someone else, or defining her whole life around him. And she would never once say anything about getting her male colleagues’ respect because, actually, if she didn’t need their validation, she would never mention it; she would be indifferent to them, (gaining their respect as a motivation would never even cross her mind.)

In fact, they show us her in every iteration being absolutely desperate for male validation. The classic ‘not like the other girls’ Pick Me. (Tbh I think probably the writers are too old to be aware of this; their politics are still in the 90s).

Most damning of all is the ‘I know my value’ line.

Passing over the absolutely rancid ‘I’m a cool girl -- and cool girls’ don’t complain!’ vibes (oppressed people should just shut up about it -- as long as they know they’re oppressed, that’s all that matters. Hmm. Sounds like something a Republican would say.)

It’s said to stop a male colleague going and speaking up for women’s recognition in the workplace.

It shows that actually Pggy doesn’t give a shit about feminism. She wants herself, personally, to be respected by the men... but not women generally!

(Textbook white feminism. Has the glass ceiling shattered for her by powerful men, by virtue of her class, and then as soon as she’s given power to help other women, she instead immediately rebuilds the glass ceiling underneath herself, when it looks like there’s a danger of other women slipping through. They cannot be allowed to do that, since their presence would undermine the idea of her specialness, for being the only woman there.)

If instead Pggy had insisted on being given recognition, as a woman... that would’ve had a positive effect on all the other female workers in the SSR.

But they’re not the Main Girl, so who gives a shit, right? 🙄

#long post #antipeggy #antisteggy #p*ggy meta #mcu meta #mcu critical #steggy is hydra trash party #ac meta #toAyourQ #hey nonny #dat's me #meta #mcu #yet each man queues the thing he loves #the AC Anon #tw peggy

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juniaships · 2 years

Text

New scooby doo oc dropped

Name: Jeremiah Ravencroft

Occupation: Businessman& executioner of Ravencroft Estate.

Age: 40s to 50s

Appearance: Looks a lot like his younger brother except with shorter gray hair combed back, sharper features and more prim attire. Think burgundy suit with black details, and a ruby brooch. Sports icy blue eyes.

Personality: A reclusive man of aristocratic bearing, Jeremiah isa prime source of intrigue in Oakhaven. When he does reveal himself he has a curt demeanor, an apparent intolerance for rudeness or illmannered behavior. He also dislikes his privacy being invaded. Deep down he is a caring man who may not always vocally express it. Only he knows the real truth of Sarah Ravencroft and tried to dissuade his brother from trying to fond her diary to protect him. At any cost.

Skills: Aside from being experienced in business, he is also a warlock using magic for mundane things such as keeping rabbits out of his garden. He is skilled enough to fight his spellbook empowered brother to a draw.

Other: Ironic for his prim&proper appearance he is a fan of the Hex Girls *likely due to his past as a goth rock music groupie*

After defeating his brother he looks back with sad fondness over how far Ben had fallen. But he assures the Scooby Gang that the Witches Council (in the otherworld) will deal with his brother and ancestor

After becoming the full owner of Ben's estate (explaining his disappearance as a tragic accident) Jeremiah had to use the money to pay off the massive dining bill inflicted by a certain pair 👀

Inspo: Vlad Masters, Helena Douglas, Ivy Valentine, David Xanatos, Alma Madrigal, Castiel SPN, Six (GenRex), Snape, Dooku, Captain Von Trapp

The reason why i made Jeremiah was to have a good Ravencroft to show that evil family does not define you

He and Ben were super close but had a falling out over Sarah's journal. Jeremiah hoped Ben would cease the search. Even after everything Jeremiah forgave his brother aware that bitter resentment wouldn't help.

Jeremiah developed power naturally while Ben didn't. Which probably explains why Ben got desperate he wanted magic too

#scooby doo #oc x canon #platonic #oc: jeremiah #ben ravencroft #sarah ravencroft #scooby doo and the witch's ghost #warlock

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witchthewriter · 1 year

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Hi!! Here for the matchups!!

Level: 3

Fandoms: Stranger Things, Marvel and The Umbrella Academy.

Energetic af, also depressed?? My counsellor says I always look sad and unhappy, even angry sometimes. Um, smart but dense. Quite dirty minded at times. Lots of anger issues. Music tastes be random. (I love Metal and Rock, but got a small spot for sad/good hearted messages like Alamo, devil town, etc. and just random over songs too.)

Pansexual, she/her, absolutely love my birds (I got 2) and my dog sadie, only got like 1 friends, I shoot boxes in my backyard with a bow and arrow. Im a self taught skater (since I was 7-). I also own heelies. I hate drama, yet always get dragged into it. (I get into a lot of (physical) fights at school.)

Do not like my mom is putting it lightly. (Lots of mommy issues over here.) Have a randomly high pain tolerance. I laugh at pain, to make it worse? I built my my own treehouse?? I mean, my dad helped me take the crates apart for the wood but everything else was up to me. I can sew? Currently learning to crochet. LOVE Ghostbusters.

Ginger, white, lots of freckles, face, arms, shoulders and even a few on my lips. Greenish/blue eyes. Short mid neck-shoulder hair. All over the place nest of hair. Thick thighs and a little chubby. I weigh around 65kgs, which is 143 in pounds.

This got very long, lol

Thank you I’m advance!!

Want one? Here be the rules 🦋🌈

Um okay I absolutely love your introductory sentence. "Energetic af, also depressed?? My counsellor says I always look sad and unhappy." ITS A VIBE. I too look like I've stepped on a bee and hate everyone.

𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬

𝐷𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛

She was the first person who popped in my head when I read your message. She would absolutely love that you have such a twisted outlook on the world, and find solace in your trauma. She feels seen with you, and you bond so fiercely.

𝐻𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑛𝑠

・Sitting around her bedroom, talking about the most randomest topics because conversation is so easy. There’s nothing taboo or inappropriate with Robin. She loves talking about fricken EVERYTHING

・”Wanna go annoy Steve?” “Fck Yeah”

・ice cream ice cream ice cream ice cream!!!!!!!!!!!! she always wants to go get ice cream and usually ends up dripping it on herself

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆 𝑺𝒐𝒏𝒈:

↬ Rebel Yell by Billy Idol

𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒔:

↬ Similar Personalities

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐥

𝐷𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛

I ship you with Bucky Barnes. I think he scares a lot of people off eventually because of his grumpy moods. But you found it endearing. He knows he can open up to you, and you can do the same with him.

𝐻𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑛𝑠

・Bucky LOVES banter. When you guys first met, he said a few comments and thought in his head, “shit, they probably freaked ‘em out” but you gave it right back

・You like to show him stuff he’s missed out on. His favourite things that you’ve introduced him to are Ghostbusters and croqueting

・Will pick you up and throw you over his shoulder...

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆 𝑺𝒐𝒏𝒈:

↬ Black Dog by Led Zepplin

𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒔:

↬ Initially Distant But Mutual Yearning

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐔𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚 𝐀𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐲

𝐷𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛

I ship you with Klaus Hargreeves! I think he would find a way to make you smile. Your mind seems to quiet whenever Klaus is around, he has this ability to make all issues seem small.

𝐻𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑛𝑠

・Loves to read to you, and not only books. He’ll just start reading things out loud and getting sad when you aren’t listening to him

・Likes the sound of you laugh, and will do anything to hear it

・Petnames are absolutely ridiculous: “sugar pie”, “sweet cheeks,” “giggle-gurt”, “honey-pie”

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆 𝑺𝒐𝒏𝒈:

↬ From Ritz To Rubble by Arctic Monkeys

𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒔:

↬ Tragic Past x Ray of Light (works both ways!)

#match ups #ships

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reginarubie · 2 years

Text

Second installment of ‘Jon and Sansa do end up together, but—’ this time from one of Jon's exes' eyes

Got inspired from an amazing prompt by an anon, this became a series of one-shots set in the same modern setting of Jon and Sansa seen through the eyes of their exes (good and bad) and through each other eyes (these two will be last ones, just saying).

First one: Waymar Royce, inspired by Happier, Ed Sheeran

Now let's hop onto the new one, this one from one of Jon's exes's POV.

Gonna keep it real with you, this one literally made me shed a tear as I've been in her shoes before, obviously not with so much trauma and violence, but you get my meaning.

Prompt: Jon and Sansa do end up together anyway, but Sansa has had, just as Jon, past experiences that were not abusive or tragic. Jon and Sansa seen through their exes' eyes. Tbh this might be very heartbreaking, but I hope also a bit healing.

So this one is from Val's POV, and inspired by Arcade, by D. Laurence

All I know [I got addicted to a loosing game]

Val ~

She catches Jon from the corner of her eye, all clad in his black clothes. It makes him stick out like a sore thumb, but a sore thumb that is lovely to look upon.

A smile curls on her lips, she had been cautious of Jon at first, he had had a… reputation for his skills and people were surprised when he stepped back from the field-duty and chose instead to become a diplomat.

No one had expected that. From enforcer to ally.

Val had been cautious because of that.

Ygritte had, had her own to say about the man. The thing he could do with that mouth of his had spiked her interest at the very least, Ygritte spoke wonders of that, less of his… attachments.

Ygritte was all fire, all violent freedom breaking the shackles of conventionality.

Even the first time Val saw them together she knew they wouldn’t last. And they didn’t. What she hadn’t accounted for was…getting a fancy for the brooding man herself.

Jon is…

He is what Val had never expected. His hands are capable of inflicting terrible pain, but they’re also capable of being tender. She got addicted to that tenderness, to the softness beneath the hard surface.

She walks to him, to her boyfriend, a beam atop her lips; she is not wallflower herself, she had, had previous experiences perhaps even more than him, and with him it’s different. She has fallen fast and true.

Jon’s lips curl into a fond smile but he’s still not seen her, she sees him offer out one of his gloved hands and only then her eyes zero on the woman at his side. For a moment the fiery beam of red makes her think of Ygritte, but this woman’s hair are much less red, the tone more auburn or some other color Val cannot name, but warmer, less fierce but not for that less enticing. She’s slender and lithe, and wears the winter bulkily clothes in shades of grey and white to the point that besides her red hair she could almost fade in the background.

She’s looking at him too.

And Val’s heart skips a beat when Jon brushes the tip of a gloved finger to her cheek brushing away some kind of dirt or snowflake, Val cannot see at this distance. It’s so tender it almost makes her breathless.

The woman notices her first and nudges Jon “Is that her?” she asks, her blue eyes, — so blue — sparkle and Val has a terrible, lucid moment in which she thinks this woman looks exactly the part of the pretty woman she’d imagine hanging at Jon’s elbow, with him hanging to her every word.

Jon’s eyes are soft when they fall on her and they remain soft — at least they don’t harden — though something akin to guilt flashes behind his grey eyes.

“Aye,” they step closer, and only then does Val realize that her steps faltered and she’s standing stock still “Sansa,” and surely Val might have imagined the way his voice dipped at that “this is Val,” he introduces her “the head of the movement for the Free Folk”

I am your girlfriend too, Jon.

“My girlfriend,” he adds almost as if he has read her mind “Val, this is Sansa Stark. She’s at the head of several of the charity works you’ve benefitted from”

So this is lady Sansa. The title is mostly formal. This is the kind of woman one should expect to host tea parties between dignitaries and play hostess to foreign monarchy in the name of the king of the Seven Kingdoms. Not the kind of woman who should look all prim and proper and yet comfortable on the field, with cheeks and nose red raw from the cold, yet looking as at ease as at a ball.

“Hello,” she greets her, with a beam that makes her distaste for the girl melt into liquid warmth “it’s so nice to finally meet you,” Val can detect no lie in her eyes “we were all very curious about the woman who has Jon wrapped around her little finger and so smitten”

Jon blushes.

It settles something inside of Val, even as they start an easy banter between themselves.

“Stop embarrassing me in front of my girlfriend”

“In front of who else should I embarrass you?,” she grins and Val finds herself half smitten at the woman herself “I have access to his baby pictures,” Sansa tells her conspiratorially “and his prom’s pictures!, teeny weeny Jon all suited up with that trademark brood to his face—”

Jon clamps a hand over her mouth, his hold gentle.

“Stop it,” he warns her, his voice dipping with fond annoyance “stop being a nuisance and just do your— fuck, Sansa”

Even Val has noticed the way Sansa Stark has stilled in his hold, the way she has flinched. She half expects Jon’s arms to fall from her neck and they do, but not to return to his sides, merely to hold more laxly around her shoulders.

“Sorry,” he mouthes pressing his lips across her shoulder, then the rest of his sentence is lost to Val, but he can see color return to Sansa Stark pale cheeks. She shakes him off.

“It’s alright, Jon” but her tone suggests it’s anything but. They don’t look so mushy, though Jon broods endlessly, after that. Val doesn’t know why she feels guilty at how relieved that makes her fell.

And that is how Val had met Sansa Stark.

The woman against whom she could never win.

It isn’t like Jon cheated on her. Oh, he’s far too honorable to do that. He’d rather cut off his own hand than disrespect a woman.

Still, her heart breaks at the same.

It’s the small things.

The details.

She likes Sansa Stark. Truly. This would be easier if she didn’t. If she managed to hate the woman, but she— she can see the appeal.

She’s smart and soft-spoken and gentle and good with kids. She has a sharp wit and a gentle heart.

She has seen the smile playing at Jon’s lips when he had seen her entertaining the children of Hardhome with songs and stories of chivalries from the Seven Kingdoms. They especially seem to like Jonquil and Florian.

She’s beautiful and graceful.

Val knows she’s beautiful too, but in a different way. Or perhaps is the same way, but with a different character, which makes her appear different. She doesn’t know.

Still, Sansa Stark is like a beacon and Val enjoys her company.

The bloody infuriating woman is easy to get along with.

She only knows she has flinched when Jon commented on how, one day, she had sported her hair in the same braid Sansa did.

The way he had noticed the weaving pattern was the same Sansa indulges in when her hair gets too unpredictable due the cold and wet weather Beyond the Wall.

“Sansa is lovely” she had told him, one night, tucked naked into his side after their passion had been spent, the furs tugged under her armprint. She knows she didn’t just imagine his hand stilling from drawing patterns on her bare arm. A shiver of cold had settled into her core at that.

“Aye,” had been his response “but what brought this on?”

She had shrugged “A couple of boys, even a couple of women, were thinking of—” Jon had never interrupted her so fast, or so fiercely before.

“Absolutely no” she still remembers the sheer will and violence of the way he had uttered those simple two words. She had flinched away from his touch as if burned. Turned her back to him and heave out dark breathes.

“Fuck,” he had sworn “Val,” he had coaxed her to twist and look at him, her upper body exposed to the cold “I am sorry, it sounded wrong. Sansa… she has had some… suffice to say she’s had some bad experiences. I was the one to collected her, cheek and eye bruising and lip busted, from that scumbag’s home, young and afraid” he confides her.

Val had felt guilty all of sudden of all the jealousy she had felt toward them.

She had looked at Sansa differently after that.

Still— the small things.

The way, when they were eating together Jon knew what foods Sansa liked and disliked enough to pour in his own plate the carrots she did not want — it’s called cannibalism, Sansa had joked when she had caught Val’s intent gaze on the interaction fingering at her braid, it had brought a reluctant, but genuine smile on her lips — and give her, instead, part of his smashed potatoes.

Or the way, when they talked over the campaign to better the conditions of the Free Folk, Jon would pace around the small office, a time or two opening the nuts she always had on the ready for the children when they came in her office, to offer them to her.

Or the way they almost never left the fire before Sansa had been shown safely to her room whilst she was with them.

Things were better when she wasn’t around, despite her help being incredible. Val had managed well enough alone, well enough for her voice to reach the right ears; or perhaps that had been Jon too. He had an in with the Starks after all, he might have brought the matter to Sansa himself.

But Sansa… Sansa had the voice and the authority to carry it on. People listened to her even outside her inner circle. Val herself listened to her. It was just…she gave off this vibe that she would take care of everything and you just needed to trust her, and most importantly she never, ever took decisions alone.

She always wanted it voted by the Elders, she wanted it to be their choice, she only offered to help channelize their voice, carried by Val, to be heard by all. She took no credit and asked none.

Val almost would’ve wanted she did.

It would’ve been easier to dislike her if she did steal her place. But she never even tried.

She just…she genuinely wanted to help. And Val watched Jon escort her back to Castle Black every time with her heart in her throat, wondering if her boyfriend would return to her side, or if next time he’d been guilt-ridden and breaking things off with her.

But he never did.

And she holds on. Maybe it’s only some kind of… deeper bond caused by the shared experiences and she’s putting in questions everything because of her jealousy.

But then, the dam breaks the moment she and Sansa get abducted.

Well, abducted perhaps is not the best way to put it… they are taken hostage by a faction of dissidents and when Sansa wakes up, bound to her, and with a throbbing head Val can see in her eyes she’s scared.

“Don’t worry,” Sansa had told her “I can speak us through this, and if I can’t, I can still buy time enough until Jon gets here”

They both know Jon will revert back to his on action days to come and save them, he would not trust the matter to anyone else. Still, her faith in him is…astounding.

“I know,” she drawls.

Then Sansa catches sight of her bruised cheekbone and exhales “Jon’s gonna have a field trip on this” she mutters “he’s going to go ballistic. I remember how ballistic he went when he found me bruised and shaking, when he finds you he’s just going to snap”

Val has never seen Jon even get mad at someone, she can’t imagine it. But somehow she trusts her judgment. Even if Jon showed little if none jealousy when Toregg tried to sweep her off her feet.

“I am sure together we can find an accord, all we’ve been working for is—”

She even tries to speak it through with their abducters, though barely. Some of them seem moved by her speech, another slaps her on the cheek for it. Calls her kneeler whore and yells at her to shut up if she wants to keep her face pretty, he goes even as far as to slice at her cheekbone with a pocket knife. The wound isn’t too deep, but it spurns Val into action.

Val is struggling beneath her bindings but she’s never learned any kind of martial art as Ygritte had, she isn’t trained. She barely manages to head-butt the man closer to her, but that too serves nothing. She’s vicious enough when needed, though and when the man comes close enough she bites at his earlobe, hard enough to tear.

Still, the man who sliced Sansa’s cheek is the first one to fall on the ground, a bullet hinged in his kneecap. It’s a massacre and when Sansa hides her head against her shoulder Val realize she isn’t able to tear her gaze away from the sheer focus and violence of Jon’s each hit and motion. To the point that when he kneels before them she snaps completely out of it. The kiss Jon presses to her lips is so quick, too quick, almost perfunctory, so quick she almost doesn’t realize his lips have been there at all, then Jon is disentangling them and welcoming Sansa’s falling, boneless form in his open arms, kissing her hair like a fevered man. He cups her cheeks and drags his thumb over her wounded cheek, Sansa winces.

She doesn’t hear what he says to her, but she gets enough to get the gists of it “You’re alright, baby, I got you” and he’s so frenzied that Val knows he means not to hurt her, though he does all the same.

He’s on autopilot as he barely contains a snarl the moment Sansa weeps, it doesn’t surprise Val — though she should’ve seen it coming with how ferocious he looked barely five minutes ago — that as he carries her outside, nestled against his side, he still finds the space of mind to order his sworn brothers to not tend to the man’s wound beyond ensuring he survives the trip back to Castle Black, his voice vice and cruel and Val doesn’t miss the way Sansa sags against his side, her hand flexing into the fabric of the back of his bulletproof vest.

It is hours, hours he assuringly spent on the cleanup, though she knows he’s been by Sansa’s side — and that Sansa apparently talked him into tending to the men’s wounds as they voyage back to Castle Black — before Val finally manages to catch him alone, or well… he comes to her.

He is tired. Exhausted.

She can see in his eyes that all he wishes to do is bury himself deep under and not resurface for hours. And he does. He disrobes quickly and cleans himself up, then he tucks the covers under his chin and he is dead to the world. Val barely manages to get a word edgewise with him, beyond assuring him she’s physically fine before he’s under and unreachable.

She spends those hours sitting at the edge of the cot they have claimed as bed, their bed that feels almost as foreign as her own mind.

She wonders if she’s reading way too much into what happened, Jon is known to be eternally protective of the Starks with whom he has grown up, vicious when they need protection. She knows, because he told her, of the way he dislodged the shoulder of the coach of the hockey team of his high school when the man had terrorized young Arya Stark and used his stick to make the girl double over in pain when he used it to manhandle her and hit her in the stomach to point out why women should not play hockey.

Of the way he went ballistic when disabled Bran Stark ended up falling off the rocky tree house Theon Greyjoy had convinced him to climb even though his legs don’t work anymore after the accident.

She knows how fiercely protective he is of them.

So maybe she’s letting her own insecurities work her mind into a frenzy.

Maybe there is nothing to worry about, and after all Jon kissed her when he came to their rescue. Still—

He had kissed her on the lips, yet the kisses he had bestowed on the crown of Sansa Stark’s head had been fevered, reverent. Filled with panic and relief and fondness and love.

The kiss he gave her had been almost…it had felt like duty, it had tasted like it too.

“Sansa”

One word. Two syllables. Five letters.

To make her world cave in.

To break her heart.

She had always though she would hit him square in the face, maybe break his pretty nose if he ever uttered the other woman’s name in the throes of passion when they made love, but that had never happened beyond her fear.

Now she finds that his whine, so desperate, so wholesome as he is so far down into his own mind that he doesn’t even look able to open his eyes shatters her heart in a million pieces.

It’s brutal the way pain guts her like a knife and suddenly she can’t be in this room anymore.

She gets up and leaves.

She avoids him for a long time and part of her is broken hearted over the fact that he is following her like a lost pup, unless Sansa Stark needs something that is, his big eyes following her every move as he tries to get her to speak with him. It comes all to an alt when suddenly Val cannot hold it anymore.

“YOU CALLED HER NAME” she whispers-yell, because she has still pride and Sansa Stark is near them, busy with to organize some interview and telling the interviewer how brave Val was and how she had fought back, fearless.

Jon’s face becomes blank all of sudden, pale and ashen and she can see in how tense he is that he is straining himself not to look at her, not to sell himself out. It makes for a bitter laugh to escape her lips.

“And what’s worse—” her voice breaks “I know you haven’t even touched her” she feels the tears prickling at her eyes “still her pull on you is stronger than mine could ever be”

Jon wets his lip “Val—”

She shakes from his hold “No, you don’t get to do that,” she says “try to convince me otherwise, I’ve seen it” she hisses as she closes in on him “I deserve better than this” she snaps “so does she” she shoulders past him, and walks to Sansa Stark and the interviewer, pouring all of her anger into her intensity to speak with the masses, to let them know they deserve better than what they get in the reserve.

It doesn’t escape her notice how Sansa Stark looks at Jon for a split of a second and yet seems to understand more in one look than Val did in almost a year they dated.

It makes bitterness bloom on her tongue, especially when Jon leaves to escort Sansa back to Castle Black, unable to even look in her direction.

She tries to tell herself she doesn’t wait for him. That she doesn’t spend her days wondering if she has done it, in the end, pushed him in her arms.

“I want you to know,” Sansa Stark had told her as they had said goodbye to one another “I think you were very brave, and that whatever Jon has done to make you so upset, he possibly deserves it, but surely did not mean it. So… just be patient with him, alright?”

It makes her laugh brokenly. She doesn’t know what is more pathetic. That Jon would forever keep his distance from the woman he wishes he could love, or that that woman is completely unaware of the length at which his love for her runs.

She tries to tell herself she doesn’t spend her day hoping to see him walk back to her, that she doesn’t dream that he’ll come to her, promise her she has misunderstood, that he loves her enough to stay.

That even if he loves Sansa Stark he doesn’t love her enough to leave Val for her, that he chooses her. And perhaps that would mean that Val would never be the number one in his heart, but she’ll be the one who’ll get it all the same.

No, she shakes her head, I deserve better than this. I deserve to be loved the way he loves Sansa Stark, even if he’s a coward about it.

But that never happens.

No.

When he comes he’s walking as if he’s carrying the burden of the world on his shoulders. Val avoids him for four days.

She doesn’t want for him to see her this way.

Can’t bear to see how to him she’ll never be more than one of the many he took because he couldn’t have Sansa Stark.

In the end he is the one who corners her, looking as heartbroken as Val feels. She refuses to feel sorry for him.

She’s sorry for herself. Because she knows that if he was to tell her he’s choosing her, despite it all, despite knowing she’ll always be loved less, she’d accept.

No.

“You were right,” he tells her “I am sorry. I— I thought I had gotten over it,” he admits “truth is, I was lying to myself and to you”

Val feels her throat constricting.

She’s giving her dignity more worth than his love, like she should. No man should be ever worth your dignity, she tells herself.

So why does it feel like a defeat still?

“How long?” she demands. Her voice is cruel, and Jon flinches. She forces herself not to care “how long have you loved her?”

Jon wets his lips. Says nothing.

“I deserve at least the truth” Val hisses and Jon squirms as if he has been pinched. Then he hangs his head.

“I can’t choose a moment—” he begins.

“Try” Val interjects and Jon exhales audibly.

“I feel like I loved her since the moment I met her, but that would be a lie. For the longest time she was just my best mate’s little sister, then somehow that gradually changed—” his voice breaks.

“She was the little girl who Robb would have to get out of practice quickly to go collect from her ballet lessons. The same girl who hand-knit me a scarf the first Christmas I spent without my mother, because she wanted me to feel appreciated, even though I never paid her much attention”

“She was the one who’d sit with me and watch stupid naturalistic documentaries she didn’t care for whilst reading a book, but always managing to ask pertaining question to my matters” he admits “I— only an idiot would not love her, she’s so easy to love”

And on that Val has to agree. She’s lovable. In a way that make anger spark in her belly.

“Love is different than being in love,” Val sniffs “and I saw a man in love, not a boy who loves a little girl”

Jon inhales sharply “When she called me,” he admits at last “that’s the moment it hit that I was in love with her,” he tells her “she was crying… just breathing into her phone, unable to speak, yet I knew it was her. Had her send me her location and broke down the bathroom door behind which she was hiding.” he tells her.

“Her eye and cheekbone were bruising and her lip was busted. I don’t remember much after that, only that I had Joffrey pinned down after having punched him in the gut, and I would not have stopped. It was her voice… the way it trembled. That moment I realized it. Fuck, I am in love with her”

Val exhales “It’s been years since then,” she contest “why did you never—”

“It was never the right moment,” Jon interjected “Sansa needed time, then she met Waymar and I decided to move past. I knew I could never have her.”

“Why?”

Jon chuckles out, a dark, self-deprecating laugh “Have you seen her?” he asks “I am just me, Sansa descends from kings” he says “I will never be enough for her and I don’t want to hold her down”

“I moved on, or so I thought”

Ygritte, Val realizes with a startle. Ygritte had been him ‘moving on’. Another red-head, another girl with a beautiful singing voice and an easy smile. Yes, Ygritte was not as lovely as Sansa was, and twice as irrational, but now Val could see the appeal for Jon.

“I want you to know Val,” Jon’s voice interrupts her musings “I genuinely didn’t mean to hurt you,” he tells her “I thought I had moved on, truly”

And Val feels the tears prickle at her eyes, burning. Her throat burns as well.

“I wish it was different” Jon says “but when you got abducted… it was then that it hit me again”

Val breathes out, gingerly, trembling “When you discovered she had disappeared?”

“No, Val. Fuck— I was worried for both of you. I could scarcely sleep or eat, knowing that something could happen to the two of you, I… I care deeply for you”

Val hisses, it is worse than a physical blow even though she is expecting it “I—” Jon’s voice dies out “it wasn’t until I saw her, so scared so— it was then that it hit me again full force. I knew I loved her, thought I had moved past being in love with her, in that moment I knew I had been lying to myself”

“Yet you came to my bed anyway”

Jon looks sick at that “I… I was searching for comfort,” he admits “I knew you loved me and I acted instinctively coming to you. I was worried about you and I needed—”

“You needed to hide” Val seethes “from yourself or from her I don’t know. Point is, you can’t hide from me, Jon. I love you, it’s true, but this— this is not love, this isn’t even care. This is just cowardice and I never took you for a coward”

Now the tears stream down her cheek “I am not mad at her,” she informs him “bless her she’s so dense she hasn’t even realized,” she says “but you… you are not welcome in my life anymore”

“Val, I—”

She twists around enraged, her lip curling rawly on her face “Do not” she hisses “don’t you dare”

He visibly deflates “I am sorry” he says.

Val flinches at that, is that how she’ll be dismissed? An half-hearted apology? No. I deserve better than this.

“I didn’t deserve this, Jon. I deserve to be wanted, and loved and desired the way you are afraid of wanting, loving and desiring her. I won’t settle for anything less” she tells him.

Jon winces at that and Val draws some kind of pleasure in knowing that hurt him at least half of how he hurt her. It’s nasty and terrible, and she’ll feel awful later, but right now she needs the rage to help carry herself out of this situation.

“You’re right, of course you are—”

“And you can’t give me that,” Val interjects and she can see the hurt in his gray eyes “but I can, and I will” she states “thank you, lord Snow, for the false glimmer of love and the half meant sentiment between us” she says.

Then she turns and walks away.

The tears crystalize over her cheeks as she walks in the snow, the chilling cold not colder than she feels.

It’s Dalla who finds her.

She gathers her in her arms, brings her back inside, cleans her face and murmurs praises as Val breaks down.

“You were the one, Val,” her sister whispers in her ear, kissing her head “you were the one who carried yourself out and back home. To say enough. I am so proud of you,” Dalla tells her “what you did. It takes courage and strength. You are the strong one, not him. He has no power over you”

“I’m always going to love him” she cries in her arms.

“You’re always going to love yourself more. You’ll fall in love again, your heart’ll get broken again, but it’ll mend and in the end you’ll find your perfect match”

Years later it still hurts, but the pain is dulled when finally they manage to get what they wanted, to get more rights, to get independence, as the North did. Val is proud, she feels strong and confident now, more than she did then.

So when Sansa Stark, newly named Queen, invites her as the head of the Free Folk, Val accepts. Sansa Stark has aged nicely, perhaps it’s because she’s a nice person. Her smile is as lovely as it always was and her eyes are as sincere and true.

They don’t speak about Jon.

Val is glad of it.

They don’t speak of him, because it was never about him. Not between them. Their acquaintance was not soured because of him, because it survived her relationship with him.

Because both Val and Sansa know.

It always was more important than a man. It was about their people getting what they wanted, what they deserved and they worked together tirelessly to get them that. And they had success.

It hurts less after that.

Val only catches a glimpse of Jon, he is rocking a newborn with a mop of red hair, in his arms and his smile is more genuine than it ever was with her. It pains her. But somehow when she walks away from him this time she’s smiling.

As she looks back beyond her shoulder to Winterfell, Val doesn’t feel like she’s less, nor like she’s better.

She feels like she’s free. Like she's strong. Like the world is full of possibilities just in her reach.

“Race you to Mole Town” Toregg tells her, and her smile becomes a beam on her lips.

“You’re on” she tells him, and then lets go of the brakes before he does. For some reason as they flash through the roads of the North, Val feels like she’s going to win this game.

The smile remains with her.

Fin

So, this was the first one from one of Jon's exes, next one will be from one of Sansa's exes, anyone wants to guess whom I've chosen for the task? I'll leave you with a clue: it's another nice one.

I hope you enjoyed it! We've seen another side of Jon and Sansa, a vulnerable Jon and a dense Sansa, Jon and Sansa through the eyes of Val. I had almost chosen to do Ygritte first, but I chose not to. I wanted to make Val first.

As always you can find it in my series of prompt on ao3: the Jonsa Hag prompts, chapter 5.

#jonsa #jonsa hag prompts #the hag's prompts #jonsa fanfiction

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english-professor-wraith · 1 year

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Fictober 2022: Day 16

(I am still writing these, yes. They are going very slowly because I have been busy and tragically uninspired. This one ain't perfect but at least it is complete)

Your skirts swirl around your legs, gathered petticoats hidden beneath the finely-embroidered overdress. Your hands, clad in silky gloves, rest gently on your partner’s shoulder and hand. His hand is warm through his white kid leather glove, and your feet move perfectly in time with each other and the music. Though your faces are turned to each other, you look staunchly past him, ignoring the way his eyes behind his corvid mask are pinned on you. This mask is different from his usual, the one you’ve seen a hundred times in the forest staring blankly at you from behind the barrel of his gun and a cloud of smoke. This one maintains most of the crow design, though only the top half of his face is covered, and is formed from delicate silver scrolling instead of black leather. There are no lenses, leaving open gaps through which his cold blue eyes watch you, and some of the wires spiral down to his jaw and into his hair, holding it in place securely.

Yours is more typical, tied with a simple ribbon behind your head, though moulded slightly to fit your face more securely. The red fur of your mask is smoothed to allow visibility, and the fox’s hue practically shines when paired with your deep green dress. Those green skirts catch the light as you spin in this man’s arms, the embroidered leaves almost shimmering in the candles’ glow.

“If it was such a punishment to be seen dancing with me, you ought to have turned me down, darling.” His voice almost purrs, and you can’t tell if it was meant to be sincere or a threat.

“You know as well as I that that could never happen, Lord Frederick.” You practically spit the title at him, and relish in the momentary satisfaction of his flinch and the subsequent fading of his smug grin. He finally looks away from you, scanning the room before leading you away from the dance floor. No one seems to mark his exit- either they are very well paid (which would not be a surprise) or this man- who is apparently a nobleman, though you’ve only ever seen him tousled and dirty in the forest- pulls women from the ballroom to a side hallway frequently.

“I was hoping we could speak civilly while dancing, assuming you would prefer the presence of others for safety. It would seem your civility is reserved for…well, I’m not entirely sure where. I’ve certainly never seen you be such. Either way, what do you think you’re doing here?” His fervour surprises you slightly, and you step back before answering, pulling your wrist from his grasp.

“I was following a lead, Freddie- if that really is your name- on a possible threat to the de Rolo family. I heard there was to be an attack tonight and I wanted to ensure that they stay safe.”

“Even if it weren’t my name- which it is, mind you- what would it matter? We’re nothing more than rivals, if that, and we haven’t even seen each other for months until tonight. Why do you care so much for m- for the de Rolo family?” You notice the quick change of subject and hear the slip, but are distracted from any comment by his eyes. Something behind them has changed: no longer do you see contempt or haughtiness in them. Instead, like looking through a shattered window, there is something there that you have never seen before: panic.

“They’re good people, Frederick. They care for the people of this city- unlike you, apparently, since you are keeping me from my intent of protecting them.” With this, you stalk back towards the ballroom, checking through your open pocket to make sure your thigh sheath is still in place. Just as you touch it, though, a hand comes down on your shoulder. Before you can think, you’ve already pulled out the dagger and slammed the body connected to that hand against the wall, knife held to their throat. Freddie stands in front of you- if you had taken another moment, you would have realised it was his hand- breathing heavily as your blade lightly brushes against his skin, his pulse hammering in his wrist, pinned to the wall by your other hand.

“Please listen to me” His voice is quiet, though you’re not sure if it’s intentional or if you’ve knocked the breath out of him. His mask is crooked from the rush, the beak now tilted at an awkward angle, but it makes it easier for you to get closer and hiss into his face.

“Oh I am, highness. Every word.”

“I’m not who you think I am.” The basic reply earns him a scoff, and you roll your eyes. In doing so, you see another guest coming into the hallway, not looking your way yet but you know they will very soon. You flip your blade around and tuck it against your arm, silently indicating the newcomer to Freddie and his eyes widen.

“Trust me, please”

Before you can even comprehend what he’s said, he has spun the two of you and placed your back against the wall. One hand cradles the back of your head to keep it from hitting the wooden panelling, and the other shoves up his mask in an instant and then hits the wall next to you. Your hands are caught up in his flurry of movement- the one that was holding his wrist is held next to your head, wrapped around his forearm as his fingers lace into your hair. The other, the knife still hidden behind your arm and brushing against the glove, he traps between your bodies to further hide the blade.

And then-

His lips are on yours.

The beak on his mask was too long to allow it, but the short muzzle of your fox mask barely even makes him turn his head to reach your mouth.

Gods above, his lips are soft

Your eyes drift shut on instinct, though you catch a short glimpse of the newcomer shuffling quickly past your pairing, their arm now around their own partner’s shoulders protectively.

He’s so warm, I thought for sure he would be cold…

You try to listen carefully to make sure they have left before opening your eyes, but between Freddie’s shallow breaths and your heartbeat pounding in your ears, there is little chance of you being able to hear the quiet footsteps as the other pair leaves the hallway.

Is this what it’s always like?

A sudden rush of coldness as he steps back, and you gasp in a breath that you try to stifle with little success. The two of you stare for a moment, blushing and stunned, until Freddie shakes himself a bit and replaces his mask.

“Come on, we need to find a more private place to talk.”

“And the de Rolos? What if there’s an attack?”

“I have some friends here- extra muscle in case of emergency. Trouble seems to follow me”, he chuckles, turning towards the other end of the hallway from the ballroom.

You follow, though uncertain, and replace your dagger in its sheath (though you keep a hand in that open pocket, just in case). Eventually he stops in front of a door- different from the others, metal and heavy looking.

“We’ll be safe and undisturbed here, this is my workshop. No one comes in without my invitation, so it will stay quiet.” He stands by the door as you enter, then pulls the heavy door closed with a surprising lack of sound. He steps past you to sit on the stool by the workbench and gestures at a chair in the corner. “Grab that and pull it closer if you like, or sit over there. Whatever you like.” His face is still red, and you’re not sure what you’re hoping the reason to be.

“Your workshop? Do you work for the de Rolos or what? You’re nobility- so many people recognized you in that ballroom- but you still have this-”, gesturing at the grimy walls as you sit on the chair he had indicated, “workshop here. What’s going on?”

He sighs, as if he had hoped not to have to explain it. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? Look at me.” He pulls off his mask and looks squarely at you, expectation in his eyes.

You stare at him, confused. “I see you, Frederick, I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me.”

“You’re looking at me, but you don’t really see.” He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and reaches towards the shelf to grab a pair of glasses that are sitting there. As he puts them on, he takes another look at the handkerchief and then hands it to you. Looking down at the monogram, you see the de Rolo crest embroidered on it. As you look back up at him, his glasses now in place, a glimmer of recognition appears in your mind.

“Are you- but his name isn’t Frederick- or Freddie-”

“One of my names is. Yes, I am one of the de Rolos- My full name is Percival Fredrickstein von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III; Percy to my friends, and Freddie to those who don’t treat me like some prissy aristocrat upon first meeting.”

Percival de Rolo kissed me

What? Why is that my first thought?

“What the FUCK, Freddie?” He winces at the sudden exclamation, then nods brusquely before pushing on.

“I know I shouldn’t have lied, and I’m sorry for it, but-” Before he can even finish his sentence you are already continuing your tirade, standing from your chair to pace across the workshop.

“No, you don’t know. You couldn’t! Look, we were rivals, enemies somewhat, but I trusted you. Stupid, I know, to trust one’s rival, but I knew who you were, at least- or so I thought. You’re nobility! Do you know what having injured you will do to my life if anyone ever learns of it? It’s only now that I find out that the person I’ve been arguing with, fighting with, falling in-UGH”. You finally cut yourself off with a sound of disgust, burying your face in your hands as you collapse back onto the chair, ignoring the ominous creaking of the wooden legs beneath you.

Past the fingers which now block your eyes, Freddie- Percy- cocks his head, looking like nothing so much as the crows after which his mask- laying on the bench beside him- is patterned. He leans forward, his gaze dropping from you as his head falls towards his chest. His hands are limp, his elbows settled on his knees as he stares at the stone beneath him.

“You’re right.”

You look up at this quiet admittance, so different from the haughty persona he had been half-maintaining this whole time. His voice is barely audible, hardly louder than the muffled string music still creeping beneath the door.

“You’re right”, he repeats, “I should have told you. I should have been honest. I know it’s not a proper excuse, but I just- I suppose I simply wanted something in my life that wasn’t tied up in the cords of nobility and expectation. I am-” He looks up at you, his eyes meeting yours and showing you again that broken, panicked expression. “I’m deeply sorry for having lied to you. I don’t expect you to trust me. I won’t ask you to stay. But I hope you know that I never held any bad intentions toward you- only selfish ones.”

You carefully steel your expression, disguising the tangled hurricane of emotions coursing through your soul. You stand, taking a step towards him and handing his handkerchief back to him. He takes it, then looks up at you with confusion as you continue to hold out your hand towards him.

“A truce, Frederick. I accept your apology, and I hope you will accept mine for my actions, both intentionally harmful and not.”

As he reaches up and wraps his hand around your wrist in a knight’s shake, the sound of chaos comes from down the hallway, screams and crashes echoing into the workshop. The two of you release each other quickly and Percival sweeps a gun from the bench into his holster and sweeps up his silver mask, scowling at its impracticality before striding towards the door, reaching behind him for your hand to lead you down the hallway and towards the sound of the battle. The two of you run towards the ballroom, pushing through the fleeing crowd. Shots of blazing light shine through the doorways, voices shouting with intent as Frederick quickly explains who his ‘extra muscle’ is and finally pushes into the main room. You gaze around in horror at the carnage already spread about the room, and your hand tightens around Percy’s until you realise you’re still holding him, then drop his hand and pull your daggers from your pockets. He chuckles as he looks over at you, knowing that those two are only the beginning of all the weapons you’ve stashed on your person, then strides away from the door towards the centre of the room, watching the fights occurring along the walls. You follow, carefully watching to gather insight on the pattern of creatures and heroes. You stand with Freddie, back to back, and fling your first dagger as you hear the click of his gun about to shoot.

#critfictober #critical role c1 #critical role #wraith's fics #percival fredrickstein von musel klossowski de rolo iii #percy de rolo #percyxreader #vox machina #lovm #CR AU #romance #tw knife use

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berserkshopofficial · 1 year

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One could describe Berserk as a manga series about a rather bleak, bloody world where everyone is born with a duty and a specific mission. And the dark things described above are almost all made by the strongest. Here is a look at the top 4 characters in Berserk who stand out the most. 1. Guts Former mercenary Guts, also known as the "Black Swordsman," travels the world in a constant internal struggle between pursuing his own goals and retaining attachment to his loved ones. Although not the most powerful character in Berserk, this one is the primary one. Almost every negative event that occurs to Guts makes him the manga character with the most traumatic past. Originally, Guts was a formidable character who could fight dragons and wield weapons like arrows and canon to great effect. Guts receive Berserker armor from Flora, which not only makes him quicker and stronger but also makes the pain go away, increasing his strength day by day (Although there is also a risk that he may lose his mind). Guts will definitely be much stronger in the future. Later, Guts comes to the realization that protecting his loved one comes before seeking revenge and abandons it in favor of forging close bonds with his new friends. If you're a fan of Berserk, you'll adore this character and the items we've got here that are based on it: https://berserkshop.com/collections/guts-merch/ 2. Isidro Isidro is a young burglar on the run who travels with Guts as a member of a traveling party of swordsmen. Isidro always dreamed of becoming a soldier or the best mercenary of his era. He is currently undergoing training from Guts in an effort to become the best swordsman in the entire world. Guts advise Isidro to learn how to fight in his own style rather than teaching him his techniques because each fighter has different strength, speed, height, and arms reach. Isidro creates his spin using a sword Morgan passed to him and the Salamander Dagger Flora gave to him. If you like this character, you can see some of the inspired merchandise we've created here: https://berserkshop.com/collections/isidro-merch/ 3. Puck Puck was the first companion Guts made in his later days as the Black Swordsman. Puck is a Pisky race elf that is descended from the legendary wind spirits. He was once a resident of Elfhelm, the idyllic goblin kingdom ruled by the Flower Storm Monarch, but he left it out of boredom and ended up being Guts' first brand-new friend ever. Puck resembles a tiny naked person. He has wings on his back that resemble insects, and upon closer inspection, his ears are long and pointed. Puck has blue hair that grows uniformly out in all directions from the front to the back, giving him an athletic appearance. Puck has huge, softly outlined eyes that are the same color as his hair. He frequently uses burdock, a weapon used by elves. Puck exudes an extraordinary sense of joy. Thus, he is the exact antithesis of Guts, who has a melancholy, cynical, and secluded appearance. Puck is not a face-to-face person; instead, he seeks out the good that is already present in those he meets. Puck is therefore very patient with characters who have a bad reputation. Although Puck's role appears to be primarily that of a comic entertainer, he takes forced situations very seriously. He makes friends with the world's more naive individuals with ease and listens and empathizes deeply when he learns about their tragic pasts. If you like this sweet little elf, you might like to check out the items we've made that are based on him: https://berserkshop.com/collections/puck-merch/ 4. Casca The youngest of six children, Casca was born in a small mountain community. Casca had a negative outlook on the world as a young girl from a humble upbringing where problems like famine and the potential for kidnapping were just a typical part of peasant life. Casca is a former Band of the Falcon unit commander and an estranged friend of Guts. She joined the

Falcon as a fledgling peasant girl from a remote mountain village and helped the group's enduring victories during the Hundred Years War by maturing into a sociable warrior. Judeau first said that Casca "gives up being a woman to become a mercenary" because of her unfeminine appearance and harsh behavior. In actuality, she is fundamentally defined by her female role. She dresses like a man since it is more useful in combat. Casca wants to be accepted as a woman and a warrior, which is what she originally wanted from Femto, but she hides that desire behind a protective facade. If you adore this brave Casca character, you can view our merchandise here that is based on her: https://berserkshop.com/collections/casca-merch/ The dark fantasy setting of Berserk was inspired by medieval Europe. Black Swordsman Guts is a major character in the story. The themes of free choice, destiny, and cause and consequence are heavily discussed in Berserk. Many characters live in challenging situations and battle an unfair reality on a daily basis. If you are a fan or a follower of this manga series, you will undoubtedly be unable to resist visiting our official website for merchandise based on Berserk characters and events: https://berserkshop.com/

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synergysilhouette · 1 year

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Continuing on with my Choices ideas for books from my banned Reddit account, here is "Celebrity Status":

You're one of the most famous actors in the country, and many would say you've attained that status very quickly! You've been in blockbuster hits as well as critically acclaimed pieces. But now you're doing something you've never done before: a biography. And not just any biography; you're playing the role of Gene/Jean Rolfe, a famous singer who died tragically. As you dig deeper into their past to embody the role, you're worried that you just made yourself someone's new obsession.

Gameplay: you're able to choose premium scenes that allow you time with LIs, find clues about Gene/Jean's death from the cops, talk to family members, and so on to understand what happened to the celebrity. You're also able to choose how you reflect yourself to the media; are you a rude, entitled celebrity, a charming and sexy icon, or a humble and private thespian?

LIs:

Sebastian Wagner, a sweetheart and professional dancer. Classically trained, he has trouble playing a back-up dancer to your character, as it's much more contemporary. He struggles in a world of toxic masculinity due to being mainly a ballet dancer, but is your classic boy next door. (Caucasian; red hair, blue eyes, usually wears street clothes, including leggings)

Stephanie Mare, the director of your film. Very professional and can come off as a bit cold, but she always makes sure the work gets done and no one is mistreated in the workplace. This is her directorial debut for a major film; she's done independent films before that cover N.A. representation. (Native American; very well-put together and glamorous, deep tan,long black hair usually braided)

Salim Chopra, a cop who was in charge of Gene/Jean's case when they died two years ago. While he comes off as flirtatious, he uses this as a way of gaining information from others, who mistake him for a hedonistic man. Growing up with unfaithful parents, he's essentially brainwashed to believe that he'll never find love, and just focuses on his job and occasional hook-ups. (Indian/Middle-Eastern, medium to dark tan skin, some facial hair, usually dressed very elegant and sensual)

Jamie Haynes, Gene/Jean's younger cousin whom they grew up with. Intelligent, nerdy, sarcastic and intuitive, she's logical and her cousin's death spurred her interest in forensic psychology and criminology. People in Rolfe's circle have made advances to her and Rolfe defended her, making her wonder if they were responsible for her cousin's death. (African-American; female, but maybe gender-optional; very nerd-chic)

I considered making Gene/Jean's manager an LI, but that felt too expected.

Themes: kidnapping, racial profiling, murder, objectification of men and women, token representation, sexual harassment, blackmail, toxic masculinity, etc.

Twist: around the middle of the story, a person is convicted of murdering people close to Rolfe, and claims you hired him to kill them.

#choices #pixelberry studios #choices stories we play #choices app #play choices #choices stories you play #choices game #playchoices #pixelberry

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divine-mistake · 3 years

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bitter fruit

Summary: “The mission was already a success!” you say and you can feel tears burning the back of your eyes. You will yourself to blink them back. “You had the files, the base was set to detonate, I don’t understand why you didn’t just stay on the fucking jet.”

“Because you were going to die.”

Characters: Bucky Barnes/(f)Reader

Warnings: 18+ smut (oral fem receiving, Bucky is a slut for consent), language, graphic depictions of violence, blood

Word Count: 9338

A/N: This is a tumblr request for @buckybarnes101 who requested an enemies to lovers with eventual smut and I got so so carried away with this request and ended up writing this 9k chonker! (5k of it is smut so, carry on) HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY! Enjoy!!

main masterlist | AO3

“What the fuck were you thinking?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you snap, “maybe about saving all the innocent people that’ve been trapped in HYDRA’s basement for god knows how long?”

Bucky snarls at you, grabbing the front of your tac-suit and pulling you up until your nose is inches from his. A striking pain shoots through your side like a bullet, which is funny, considering the hole he stitched up for you what seemed like seconds ago.

But just like your relationship, numb one second and blazing the next, it’s like some switch has flipped in his brain in a matter of minutes.

You should really give him some more credit—the man describes his brain as spaghetti most days. And as funny as it sounds, it really isn’t. You’re keenly aware of the haunted look that fills his eyes when he struggles with his past.

Except when he acts like this, it’s hard to remember that.

Something smells of smoke and gunpowder. People are screaming. The men who just ran through the door are shouting in Russian, you know, because you’ve heard the same language from Bucky’s mouth when he’s having nightmares. Faintly, you realize there’s a pain just above your hip. You don’t have time to look. The gun is in your hands and you’re firing. Someone—innocent, crying—bumps into you as they flee the scene. Your shot goes wide.

Bucky’s voice crackles over the comms. “Where are you?” He sounds panicked.

“Got held up,” you respond. “I’m on my way. Civilians headed to you.”

He curses your name. “I told you to get back to the jet!”

The butt of an assault rifle is hurtling toward you and you duck, rolling across the dirty concrete. The pain in your side flares up, burning. You think you might’ve gotten shot. You return the favor, killing two more HYDRA agents.

“I took a detour.”

A moment to breathe. Your eyes roam over the cells that you uncovered in the base, checking for any signs of life you previously missed. It’s all dead bodies and blood. You’re starting to feel weak.

“Get back to the fucking jet, agent! The base is rigged to blow!”

Before you can reply, someone grabs you by the hair, the muzzle of a gun pressed into your neck. On reflex and instinct alone, you thrust your elbow into his side and disarm him just in time. The gun goes off, bullet lodging in the concrete. Fucking slug would’ve ripped right through you.

“Bit busy,” you reply to Bucky.

Your name is lost to the sound of you firing the last few rounds into your attacker. When you’re sure he’s dead, you slump to the wet floor, knees unable to hold you any longer. The pain in your side is killing you—probably literally. A gasp escapes you when you press your fingers to the wound, trying to staunch the blood from the bullet hole, but at this point, you guess it doesn’t matter. The base is going to go up in flames in a few more minutes and you don’t have the strength to get back to the quinjet.

And really, you don’t want to. Bucky’s gonna be pissed.

“Hey, Barnes,” you wheeze through the comms. He doesn’t reply. “You know how you got all pissy at Sam when he ate your last loaf of that banana bread, and you put all those laxatives in his brownies and he was shitting for like, days? Yeah, that was me. I ate your banana bread.”

He never replies, but you chuckle all the way until you fall asleep, cheek pressed into a pool of someone’s blood.

He says your name now, catching your attention again, and when you roll your eyes at him he shakes you again. With a hiss of pain, you try and shove him away from you, but his dumb super soldier ass is too heavy.

“That hurts!”

“Good!” Bucky finally lets you go and you slump against your seat, wincing. “Maybe the pain will make you stop being so fucking reckless! You defied a direct order from your captain. You could have died.”

“Maybe I should have,” you mutter back, not looking at him.

“I should be so lucky,” he seethes. “If I hadn’t gone back for your dumbass, your body wouldn’t have even been recovered. You would have rotted in that damn HYDRA base. Is that what you want?”

You snort. “Ain’t like I got a family who wants my ashes.”

Bucky throws up his hands, exasperated, and then decides to pace up and down the aisle of the jet. He doesn’t look at you, and you only sneak glances at the rage painting his face when you’re sure he isn’t going to see you staring. He looks just as worn as you, the sole sleeve of his tac-suit bloody and ripped up, charred remains and soot skimming his boots where he’s tied the laces tight. Sweat-matted and probably dried with blood, his hair is falling in chunks from the bun he usually keeps it in for missions now, and he has to brush it out of his face every few paces he takes.

In another phrase, Bucky is fucking hot right now.

Maybe death would have been tragic, you muse, since you wouldn’t get to see the absolute specimen of your partner anymore.

For as much as you two hate each other, you can’t deny how gorgeous he is. Ripped to match the gods, carefully trimmed beard only a little more bristled than the one Steve sports these days, and god, the man wears a sweater like it’s Armani.

When you blink, you realize he’s looking at you, and your face flushes. It isn’t the first time he’s caught you staring at him hungrily, you’re sure, but most of the time he gets this stupid smug look on his face, lips wide in a smirk, and sometimes he’ll even throw you a flirty little line that has you gnashing your teeth and snapping at him to fuck off.

But this time, he’s so angry that he just stares at you, eyes narrowed in a glare.

“When we get back,” he says, nostrils flaring, “I’m benching you.”

“What?” you cry out, eyes wide. “Why the fuck—who the—who the fuck do you think you are?”

“Your captain!” he roars, and you almost swear the whole jet shakes with his fury. “You disobeyed my direct order to retreat to the jet and instead you almost cost us both our lives. Why the fuck shouldn’t I bench you?”

“I didn’t ask you to come save me!” you shout back, trying to stand from your seat. Almost immediately, Bucky shoves you back down.

“Not only am I your captain for this mission, but I’m your partner. I’m responsible for you. What, you just expect me to leave you behind?”

“The mission was already a success!” you say and you can feel tears burning the back of your eyes. You will yourself to blink them back. “You had the files, the base was set to detonate, I don’t understand why you didn’t just stay on the fucking jet.”

“Because you were going to die.”

The way that Bucky is looking at you right now steals all your breath away, steals all the fight you feel in your bones. You watch the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the way the vein in his neck jumps, the way he holds his jaw tight. His eyes, a blaze of blue, are looking at you like he’s afraid you’ll dissolve right in front of him, leaving behind a body bag of skin and bones and teeth. That’s all you are, maybe.

“Stay with me,” he says, voice so close to your ear. “Please, just stay with me, doll.”

It’s all hazy. The world is black. You can’t open your eyes, they’re so heavy. Your body hurts so bad, so fucking bad. Someone is jostling you and it hurts so bad and you just want to open your mouth and scream.

“You’re okay.” It’s Bucky, you realize in some vague fog of a dream. “You’re going to be okay, I’ve got you.”

Your leg feels like it’s on fire. The air smells like the fourth of July, all fire and gunpowder and barbeque. Burnt flesh. It’s hot and thick, the smoke you’re breathing in.

“I have so much to tell you,” he whispers, maybe. Or maybe that’s just how it sounds in your mind. “So much to say to you. So much to apologize for. I need to tell you something. You told me about that dumb fucking banana bread. I have something I gotta tell you, doll.”

What? What does he have to tell you? You want to ask but your throat is so dry and your lips are glued together.

You want to tell him you aren’t dying, and god, he’s being so dramatic. But you can’t, because you might actually be dying.

Instead, you try so so so hard to open your eyes, and a sliver of light invades your vision, and even with the way your eyelids shudder, you can see Bucky’s face. Just a little bit. He’s covered in blood, you think.

Oh, but his eyes. Fuck, you love his eyes. Thank god you opened yours so you could stare at his eyes before you go to sleep again. So blue. So deep. So icy and sad and hurt and beautiful.

“Please,” he says, and you swear it’s the only time he’s ever begged you for anything.

Of course, you tell yourself before your eyes close again. I’d do anything for you.

“Why do you care?” you whisper, and he blanches, because you swear his damned super soldier hearing can even hear your thoughts.

But fuck it, you’re young, wild, and free, and you’re alive now too, so fuck it.

“Why do you care?” you repeat, louder this time, very clearly addressing him. “Why do you care so much if I die? You’ve hated me since the day you met me,” you spit the words out like poison.

Bucky turns away, gaze trained on something other than you and your bloodied tac-suit.

“We’ve always fought about this,” you continue. “This isn’t anything new, Barnes. You knew I’d go down to save those people. You knew I’d risk my life to get them out. You know this and you still fucking went after me. So why?”

The silence eats at every edge you have until it consumes you, and Bucky never replies.

You watch him walk away, toward the cockpit, and you don’t have the energy to follow him and finish the fight.

“Get it through your pretty little head before you go on a mission and get yourself killed, doll.” Bucky’s smirk sends a shiver through you and you aren’t sure if it's anger or arousal. You bite down on your tongue to keep from lashing out. “You can’t save everyone.”

“Bullshit,” you say before you realize. Bucky’s eyes go wide. “I took this job because I have the ability to save people, so I’m going to save everyone.”

His mouth opens but you cut him off.

“I don’t care if you can’t save everyone, but me?” Your finger is braced against his hard chest and he doesn’t recoil. “I’ll save everyone or I’ll die trying.”

“Hey,” Steve says, trying to move between you two, but you barely notice his presence.

“You’re stupid,” Bucky hisses.

You smirk. “You’re not as skilled as you think you are.”

“Shut up,” he snarls.

“Make me,” you snap back.

“Guys,” Steve tries to interrupt.

“Meet me in the ring.” Bucky’s eyes are glaring down at you, heated. “Let’s see if you can handle me, doll.”

“Buck!” Steve’s hand falls on Bucky’s shoulder, working to hold him back from stalking off to the gym. But Bucky shrugs him off.

“Back off, Steve.” He looks over his shoulder at you as if daring you to follow.

And, fuck, you’ve never backed down from a challenge in your entire life, so you follow him all the way to the training room, watching the way his muscles strain through his tight t-shirt the whole way.

He’s kind enough to hold the ropes up so you can duck under easier, but you roll your eyes and leverage your foot against the spring and tuck your legs underneath you to jump the top rope easily. You throw him the same look that he did, a coy gaze over your shoulder, and then you beckon him forward.

His nostrils flare and you wonder what he’d look like on top of you in bed.

“Wrap your hands, for god’s sake,” Steve shouts, but you ignore him in favor of cracking your knuckles for good measure.

“I’m not planning on getting mine bloody,” you tell him, and Bucky laughs brusk.

“You should plan on losing,” he says, smirking.

With a twist of your jaw, you crack your neck. “Not planning on that, either.”

Like big cats, the two of you circle each other, toes so light the mat makes no noise. Bucky’s eyes are focused, narrowed, and beautiful like this, you think. He’s calculating every single movement you’re making and it sends a heat down to your core. This is all just foreplay to you.

Until he charges, and then it’s on. You’re a flurry of limbs, defensive stances and blocks. Bucky is unrelenting and the fucker is fast for his size. He never uses his metal arm to attack, but the manic whirr and click of it as he moves is alarming. There’s a window of opportunity when Bucky overshoots a right hook and you duck underneath his arm, and you’re able to get behind him and kick him the back of his knee. He falters for not even a second and then it’s back on.

It’s a dance, weaving between limbs and twirling kicks aimed at his head. You struggle to figure out how to take him down—he’s so big, like a fucking brick wall. There’s very little chance you can flip him. You’re going to have to try and get him in a hold, but there’s no way he’s going to allow you to do that.

But maybe you can bait him. You go on the attack now, whiffing a couple of good punches and sending a straight kick right at his jaw that he barely dodges. While you’re recovering, before your foot is even planted back on the mat, Bucky does exactly what you want him to do. He slides up with a fist and you feign a misstep, ducking right. His follow-through is too heavy and you grab his wrist, locking it in your grasp, and then your heel goes straight into his abdomen, right under his center of gravity.

He goes down and you relish in the moment his eyes blow wide with the shock of being caught off guard. You scramble on top of him but he rocks his hips up and starts to roll you both until you’re underneath him. In retaliation, you lock one foot around his calf and use your other knee to jab his stomach, and then you roll him underneath you instead. Your forearm presses against his neck, legs squeezing his middle.

God, he’s fucking pretty, his blue eyes all big and pants falling out of his pink lips. Sweat is dripping from his hairline and rolling off the bridge of his nose and it pleases you, the fact that you made Bucky Barnes bust his ass in a fight. You know you have to look like a drowned dog by now, so how the fuck is he still so pretty? For that, you press down on his throat harder until he taps the mat—a yield.

Immediately you’re off him, panting as you lean against the ropes, but a shit-eating grin is plastered on your face. Bucky looks anywhere but you, wiping his damp face on his shirt, which gives you the most perfect flash of his carved abs.

“So,” you say, breaking the silence, “we can agree to disagree, right?”

He stares at you for a hard moment, a longer moment than he has before, and you swallow as desire crawls up your spine. Then, Bucky ducks under the ropes, grabs his towel, and gets the hell out of dodge.

“Fuck you too, Barnes!” you shout, and you know he must’ve heard you.

He helps you walk off the quinjet and you hate literally every second of every moment that you have to have his arm wrapped around your waist. Mostly because you’re pissed at him and you hate being babied, but also because god, you can imagine Bucky holding you like this in a different context way better than you should be able to.

Those thoughts are the demons in your brain and you need someone to exorcise you. Probably Natasha. No, Natasha will make fun of you. Wanda, then.

As soon as you’re out of the hangar, Bucky asks FRIDAY if there’s anyone in the medbay, and your neck about snaps in half from how fast you turn.

“No,” you say. “Absolutely not. I’m not going to medical.”

He cuts you a glare. “As if you have a say in it.”

“I do have a say! It’s my body! This is the twenty-first century, Barnes. My body, my choice!”

“You’re injured,” he grits through his teeth. “We’re going to medbay.”

“I don’t need to go!” You start dragging your heels, trying to make yourself heavier, but Bucky is a super soldier and probably throws mack trucks for a living or something. “You stitched me up! The burns aren’t that bad, either. I’m fine, I’m not going to medical.”

“God, can you ever give me a break?” he groans. “Why are you always so fucking difficult?”

“I’m not being difficult!” you snarl, trying to push away from him, but his grip tightens. “Why the fuck do you care so much?”

“You’re so fucking stupid.”

“Yeah, maybe I am, since I don’t know why the fuck you give two shits about saving my quote-unquote dumbass who almost got us both killed, and I don’t know why the fuck you care about getting me to medical when you’re gonna bench me anyway! Right, thanks a lot Barnes, I’m so stupid for not fucking figuring it out!”

“You are!” he roars, and then your back is against the wall, his hand cushioning your head from hitting it. He corners you there, covering your body with his, ducking down so your mouths are so close you would only need to reach up a little to kiss him, and god, that’s tempting.

Not tempting enough when you’re this pissed off, though.

“So that’s what it is, huh? You just think I’m some stupid, incapable little girl who is so impractical because all she wants to do is save lives? You think I’m so stupid that I don’t know that people are going to die? And they’re going to die because I can’t save them? Maybe you should think about how I could never live with myself if I didn’t do everything possible to save them, so I risk my life to get them to safety. I would never ever risk yours, you stupid, arrogant, ignorant—”

Oh, Jesus.

His lips are hot when they crash against yours, pinning you between him and the wall. It’s desperate, the kind of kiss you’ve never had before. It’s so desperate and you want to pull away and ask him, Bucky, what are you so desperate for? He kisses you like he wants to keep you, his mouth swallowing yours like he can’t get enough of you. It’s hungry and begging and you don’t ever want it to stop, your teeth nipping blood from his bottom lip as if it’ll stop him from leaving, but he pulls away, leaving you breathless anyway.

“You’re stupid,” he repeats again and you watch his tongue dart out to taste the blood you’ve ripped from his skin. It sends a thrill of pleasure through you. “You’re so stupid.”

And he kisses you again and you decide that sure, maybe you’re stupid, you’ll be stupid all day long because he’s going to kiss you stupid.

It’s your hands that move first, you realize in some random corner of your mind. Your fingers twine in his brown locks, tugging the hair tie away and flinging it somewhere. Vaguely, you realize you’re still in the middle of the hallway, on the way to the elevator, but you don’t give a shit. The hand that isn’t twisting Bucky’s scalp finds the material of his tac-suit and starts pulling at all the straps and buckles, searching for a sliver of his hot skin in any capacity.

His own hand, the one not holding the back of your head, skims over your waist and flutters down your uninjured hip, grasping at the flesh underneath your suit. Suddenly, you’re overcome with the need to get these fucking clothes off, and immediately, and you break the kiss so you can suck down air and ask the man you’ve been hating, been pining after, to take you to bed.

As you do, Bucky trails a hot path of sloppy kisses down your chin, over your jaw, against your neck, until he finds the juncture of your shoulder and attaches his teeth there, nibbling on a patch of skin that is so distracting you forget about your question for a minute. And then your fingers run over a rough spot on his suit and you remember.

“Bucky,” you gasp out, and it sounds so heady that you nearly throw your head back. “Bucky,” you repeat, more urgently, when he doesn’t let up, your hand is tightening on his sleeve and tugging on it.

His head snaps up now, eyes piercing yours, concerned.

“Are you okay?” he asks, moving your hair away from your face to look closer at you.

“Bed,” you rasp out, but barely. “Now, please.”

He doesn’t move for a second, just staring at you like he’s scared, like he’s surprised you would ask. You see his eyes sort of glaze over, a reminder of the nightmares he’s seen, the nightmares he replays over and over in his head, but you’re selfish and your core is pulsing with a heat you’ve never felt this hot before and you need him here, not wherever his mind is taking him.

“Please, Bucky,” you say, and he blinks, and then he’s present again.

“Anything for you, doll,” he whispers, and your legs nearly collapse beneath you at the thought. Bucky scoops you into his arms carefully, trying not to jostle your wound too much, and then he sweeps you into the elevator and you’re speeding toward his room and hoping to god that Steve isn’t prowling around.

In a haze of kissing and excitement, you barely recognize that Bucky’s opening his door until it’s closed behind you and he’s walking you through his room and to his bed.

God, you’ve wanted to be in his bed for so fucking long.

He drops you among the sheets gently, so starkly different from the harsh tone of his voice only a few minutes earlier when he was yelling at you, and you’re not sure what you like better. You want Bucky to fuck you, to rip you in half and put you back together like he always does. But you want him, so badly, to make love to you just as much, but you’d never admit that to him.

Bucky’s kissing you so sweetly now, and then his kisses get more forceful, more needy, and you suck on his tongue until he’s panting above you. His hands are everywhere, sliding over your suit, unstrapping and unzipping and unbuckling all your gear, and your hands fumble in tune with his, trying to help him get you out of your clothes.

Just before he takes off your vest, he kisses you and asks, “Is this okay?”

You rip the vest off yourself, sitting up on your elbows to rip your undershirt off with it, leaving you in a black sports bra.

And you revel in the way Bucky stares at this new flesh. His lips find your sweaty skin, covering every inch that’s been revealed now as your fingers start taking his tac-suit apart the way he did yours. Soon, you’re frustrated, and you whine and pull at it until he huffs a laugh and takes it off himself. His vest gets thrown to the side and his tank top follows, leaving him bare-chested.

Your fingers are shaky as they touch his tanned skin and you almost laugh at how nervous you are. You’ve spent so long looking at him, hating him, wanting him, and now you have this stretch of his wide chest in front of you and all you can do is let your fingertips glide over him, mouth parted, eyes hazy.

His pupils are blown wide, too, and Bucky takes your hand in his and presses it against him harder, and suddenly you’re feral.

Your hands slide over every part of him, taking in the expanse of him. His biceps, his strong shoulders, the hard planes of his body. As gentle as possible, you trail your fingers closer and closer to the scar where metal meets flesh, and you glance up at him, a silent question, and when he gives you the smallest nod, you smooth over the gnarled rift of skin. You don’t ask if it hurts. He gives no indication that it does. And when you reach up to press a soft kiss to it, he shudders above you.

“Please,” he whispers, so quietly. “Let me touch you, doll.”

You lay back and start to unstrap your holsters, gesturing for Bucky to help you with your pants. He unlaces your boots for you as you throw your weapons to the ground, the clink of belts and buckles mingling in the silence, a song that ignites the excitement inside of you.

Your core is molten lava, the apex of your thighs dripping and Bucky hasn’t even touched the most intimate parts of you yet. Every single fiber of your being is trembling in anticipation, and in your hurry to strip your pants off, a twinge of pain shoots through you as you bend the wrong way, stitches pulling.

Bucky curses—like he’s the one who’s hurt you and you aren’t the idiot trying to rip her pants off—and just like he can flip the switch on his attitude, he flips the switch on this, too. He’s off of you before you realize, sitting back on his haunches, staring down at you in panic.

“I’m—Baby,” he breathes, voice shaking. “I'm sorry.”

His hands are outstretched, reaching for you, trembling as he swallows hard. You watch as his eyes shift in the space between your face and the white gauze wrapped around the bullet wound in your side.

“Bucky,” you hiss and grab him by the back of his neck, pulling him down. He doesn’t budge, not much at least, but you meet him the rest of the way and your lips collide with his in a thunderous crash, and like instinct, he kisses you until you can’t breathe.

“Doll,” he mumbles against your mouth and you drink the word from his tongue, distracting him. “We can’t.”

“We can,” you growl back, teeth reminding him of the pulsing ache between your thighs. In search of more, your hips roll up and meet his own, causing a groan to tumble out of his mouth into your own.

Fuck the pain—you’ll grit your teeth and bear it. This is the only moment you’ll ever have him, and by god, you need him.

Your hands return to your pants. “Help me,” you plead, breathless, unable to shimmy out of them. Bucky’s already pulled your boots off, socks coming with them, and his fingers find the heated flesh right beneath your waistband.

“Are you sure?”

All you can do is whine his name until he understands, and then Bucky is peeling your black pants from your legs, the rush of cool air rolling over your hot skin feeling almost as good as his hands are going to feel if he’ll just put them on you.

When his palms finally fall upon your thighs, rough and calloused and big and warm, you need much more, so much more. The way he trails his fingers down your knees, caressing your calves, brushing atop your ankle, and then coming back up to have his thumbs follow the ridge of muscles in your thighs, it all makes you shiver in pleasure. You’re so hot, sweat pooling in the small of your back against the bed, the dampness of your core becoming harder to ignore.

You squeeze your thighs together in an attempt to relieve the ache and Bucky notices—of course he notices—and his mouth finds your neck again, sucking until dark bruises begin to mar your skin, until you’re bowing off the bed, arching toward him, trying to get something, anything. Anything from him.

At some point, you realize he’s just torturing you on purpose, letting his hands roam the stretch of your stomach, smooth over the hills of your hips, and then draw down your legs until you’re shaking as he kisses you so softly, and then so roughly, like he can’t decide if he wants to grow old with you or if he wants to ruin you for whoever comes after him.

You sit up and reach around, fingers intent on unclasping your bra, but Bucky stops you with a nip at your bottom lip.

“Will you let me?” he asks, so sweetly. Bucky’s hand finds yours and bats them away, his fingers on the hooks as he waits for your answer.

“Yes,” you moan as his other hand tickles down the curve of your side. “God, please, yes.”

“Bucky,” he says, smirking against the side of your neck.

“Shut up and undress me, for fuck’s sake.”

“Well, when you ask so sweet like that, baby.”

With a quiet click, your bra comes undone and Bucky pulls it away from your body, and then your breasts are bare before his eyes. Now, it’s your turn to be doused in ice, to freeze, for the switch to flip.

You feel shy beneath his gaze, the way he looks at your nearly naked body with such reverence, as though this is the moment he’s been waiting for. Your knees close and your elbows draw in over your chest without your permission. It’s not like you want to hide from him, but he looks so perfect atop you, so beautiful in every single facet, better than any dream you’ve ever had of him, and you can’t stop yourself.

What have the other girls looked like underneath him? Better than you, surely. Prettier, skinnier, smaller, sexier. For fuck’s sake, you’ve got a nasty burn on the side of your leg and were shot through your left side only a few hours ago, your middle wrapped in medical tape. You can’t be that pretty a picture.

You’ve had your shot at him and you’re gonna lose it.

But when you look up, Bucky’s looking at you like you’re everything. His face is flushed, red creeping down his neck, and his eyes are soft, hazy, glassy. Gently, his fingers find your jaw and cup your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

“Let me look at you, baby.” His voice is almost as rough as the worn skin of his hand, dry and gravelly and thick with lust. When Bucky moves to grasp your wrists, you let your eyes flutter closed and nod, allowing him to peel your arms away from where they hide you, and you hear the sharp intake of breath he takes.

“God,” his voice shudders. “You’re so fucking gorgeous, doll. I couldn’t have dreamed you up if I tried, and I promise you, I tried.”

Your eyes fly open at this. “What?”

If it bothers him, he doesn’t act like it. Bucky leans down to nuzzle his nose against your collarbone, kissing and licking your skin like he’s making constellations out of your body—bruises connected only by his tongue.

“I’ve thought about this since the day you kicked my ass in the ring.” He sounds like he’s reciting a prayer, all whispered desires. “Your perfect lips, what they’d feel like, how soft they are. If you’d touch my scars, and how your fingers would feel on them all if you did.”

His mouth closes over the mound of your breast, the clash of tongue and teeth upon your nipple forcing you to arch into him in pleasure. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream and you aren’t quite aware that you’re even whining until his free hand crawls up from your hip and cups your other breast, thumb strumming over your peaked nipple. The breathy moans that pour from your mouth fill the room and only seem to make Bucky work faster, work harder, as he drags every drop of pleasure out of you with every instrument he has. Your hips buck up and into his, your thinly-clothed core catching the tent in his pants—his tac-suit, you realize, is still on—and it makes you both groan in a symphony of need.

“Need you,” you somehow manage to get out between your heavy panting, hips still searching for something to relieve the ache in your center. “Bucky, please.”

He releases your nipple from his lips, the chill assaulting the wet bud making you bow from the bed once again. Bucky places a kiss on the other, letting his tongue lave over it until it's just as wet and hard.

“I imagined what you’d sound like,” he says against your stomach, punctuating his words with a smattering of kisses across your skin. “Thought about what you’d—fuck, baby—I thought so much about how you’d look beneath me all spread out, just for me.”

The sound you make in reply is almost embarrassing as how soaked your panties are.

“Wondered how you’d taste.” He lets his tongue drag across the hem of your underwear and you press up, trying to get his mouth closer, but his hands settle on your hips and gently hold you to the bed.

“Bucky!” you try and growl, but it comes out an octave too high. “Please!”

“What is it, babydoll?” His fingers curl underneath, thumbs riding the line of skin just beneath your panties.

“I need you!” You throw your head back against the pillow. “I’ve thought about it too,” you admit, breathing hard. “How you’d touch me like this, how you’d feel inside me, please, so please just—I need you, Bucky.”

“You got me, baby,” he says and it sounds so fucking beautiful. “I’m right here. I got you, doll. Gonna take care of you, okay? Will you let me give you what you need?”

You answer by trying to press your hips up again, and Bucky shifts until his hands are cupping your ass and he drags you down the bed, closer to him, closer to his own hips where you can feel the bulge of his cock begging to be released.

“Your pants,” you remind him, wrapping your uninjured leg around the back of his thigh. “I want to feel you, please, Bucky.”

“Okay, doll,” he says, laying a kiss just above your panty line again, and then he’s pulling away and you whine despite it.

You listen as Bucky fiddles with his gear, going through the same motions as you had to go through earlier. The clink of his knives, the buckles of his holsters, the heavy soles of his boots as he throws them off. When you sit up, Bucky is standing in his black boxers, the faint light streaming into his room highlighting the shine of the scars that cover his body.

He looks as breathless, as flustered, as aroused as you feel. His hair is mussed from your hands, falling over his shoulder in the thick waves that feel so soft between your fingers. The lust is evident in the way his eyes roam over your body, his pupils blown wide, and then he’s moving toward you and fitting himself between your legs on the bed.

Bucky slides his hands over your heated skin yet again, a reminder of how much he wants you, how much he loves the feel of you, before his fingers hook inside your panties and begin to pull them down. Before he gets too far, he stops again, gaze flicking up to meet yours.

“Is this alright?” he asks.

You nod, lifting your hips as carefully as possible in order to keep from jostling your wound, and Bucky slips the last piece of clothing from your body. You hope, fucking christ you hope, he doesn’t realize how soaked they are when he peels them off, but maybe that’s a lost cause.

Because as soon as you’re naked, your glistening core bare to his eyes alone, all bets are off. There are no more barriers, nothing for you to hide behind, no sharp words to keep your feelings at bay.

His fingers skim over your lips, collecting all the honey you’ve made for him as his knees widen to spread your thighs. The simple movement has your hips rolling already in search of more, whimpers falling from your mouth as Bucky stares at your naked form beneath him. Eyes lidded, you watch as he brings his fingers, wet with your juices, up to his mouth.

“Shit, doll,” he curses. Bucky’s tongue envelops his digits and he groans at the taste, sending shocks like a fucking earthquake through your body, through your bones, straight to your core.

He moves closer to you, sliding your thighs onto his shoulder and locking his metal arm around the top of your hips, far enough away from your wound that it doesn’t hurt. Bucky peppers kisses along your inner thighs, biting and sucking in intervals that has you pressing your mound to him, begging for more.

“You taste so good,” he mumbles, breath ghosting over your quivering pussy, pulling a wanton whine from your throat. “Will you let me taste you, baby?”

“God, yes, please Bucky, please, I need it so bad.” The words are frantic, strangled, a mess of moans of breathless gasping.

“I know, sweetheart,” he says. “I got you, baby. I got you.”

And then his mouth is on you, hot and slick upon hot and slick, his tongue parting the valley of your lips and delving into your dripping center like he’s a man starved and you’re the first meal he’s tasted in years. You keen in pleasure, thrashing your head against the pillows until your hair is a tangled mess as Bucky’s tongue flattens on your clit, licking a wide path until it’s well-traveled and your hips stutter, held back only by the cooled metal on your heated skin. Your hands find purchase in his hair, fingers tugging at his scalp, and the motion makes him groan into you.

You call his name like it’s the only word you know, chanting it over and over like it’s a spell similar to the one he’s weaving with his tongue upon your aching clit. He doesn’t let up, tracing words you can’t make out and drinking in all the wetness flooding his mouth. The gentle scratch of his wiry beard burns just right, contrasting with the curls of pleasure coming from your sensitive clit. Without realizing, you grind your core against Bucky’s mouth, the friction only serving to make you into a trembling mess, your insides throbbing with a need to be filled, pussy clenching around nothing.

As if he feels you, Bucky slides his free hand over your leg and to the apex of your thighs, the first thick finger entering you slowly, like he’s testing the waters. You cry out, begging for more, and Bucky relents. His second finger follows as his tongue continues to lap at your pussy, letting you gyrate against his face as you try to fuck yourself on his hand.

“Bucky,” you pant, each letter of his name a stutter with moans, “please!”

“Please what, babydoll?” His voice sends another wave of arousal through you, juices slicking his fingers up more than before. Your stomach is tightening, pleasure in tight curls between your legs, center so close to snapping that tears are beginning to leak from your eyes because Bucky won’t fucking let you move your hips in the way that you want. He chuckles against your pussy, breath teasing over you, vibrations making you quiver.

“I’m gonna—”

Bucky curls his fingers inside of you, stroking your spot, just as his mouth envelops your clit in its heat and he sucks, hard, and the thin thread coiling in your core snaps and you come apart, harder, and a scream tears itself from your throat as warm tears fall into your hairline.

He never stops. As his suckling turns into kitten licks upon your clit, his third finger breaches your opening and slips inside, pumping into you as you ride your orgasm out on his hand. Your hand is tight in his hair until it all becomes too much and it falls to cover your mouth, your teeth finding your knuckle to bite back the sound of your moans.

“Oh no, baby, no,” Bucky says, and when you look down, he’s between your legs, watching you in the aftershocks of your pleasure. His fingers leave your pussy and you clench around nothing, a whine leaving your lips at the emptiness, until Bucky’s metal fingers are pulling your hand away from your face.

“I gotta hear you,” he whispers, the hand covered in your nectar finding your mouth. “Need to hear all those pretty little noises you’re making, baby. I’ve dreamed about ‘em. Would get my cock all hard thinking about ‘em. You gotta keep making ‘em ‘cause now that I’ve heard ‘em, I can’t get enough, babydoll.”

When he moves to trace your bottom lip, red and swollen from his own, your tongue darts out to taste the salt and sin on the pad of his thumb. Bucky places his fingers at your parted lips and you suck them into your mouth, licking all the juice from his skin, tongue swirling around his digits. You wonder if his lips taste like this, too.

He groans as he watches you, his eyes lidded and hazy and lovely, and then his metal hand finds the waistband of his boxers and yanks them off his hips. In one perfect movement, his cock slaps against his stomach, hot and red and already leaking, which makes you flush at the fact that Bucky liked making you come.

Subconsciously, your tongue snakes out to lick your lips as you take in the length, the thickness of his cock, and Bucky gets that familiar look on his face—cocky, smirking, knowing that he’s pushing your limits. He presses you back down upon the bed, his arms bracketing your head as his nose brushes against yours, his heat pressing into the subtle dip where your hip and thigh meet.

The feeling of his cock, hard and heavy against your naked skin, sends you into a frenzy of arousal, of want, of need. You reach out and take him into your hand, your thumb brushing over the velvet head and smearing his precum along his length. Bucky’s jaw tightens, muscle twitching, as you pump your fist around him and drag your fingers along the blue vein riding up the underside. The groan that falls from his lips, the stutter and jerk of his hips, the way he shakes above you is addicting, and Bucky has to pull your wrist away from his cock in order to stop you from getting him off just like that.

“Baby,” he breathes, resting his sweaty forehead against yours.

“Bucky, please,” you beg again. “Please, I need you inside me.”

“You want me?” he asks, and even though his voice is scratchy and thick with desire, he says it like he’s surprised. As if you could never want him.

You’ve always wanted him.

“Yes, god, Bucky. I want you,” you moan, threading your fingers into his hair to smash your lips together in a sharp, bruising kiss. “I need you,” you say against his mouth. “I need you so, so bad.”

“I need you too, babydoll. Need to feel you,” he says, the sound strained, almost like he can’t stay away from you any longer. You feel it too, the ache without him, the way your pussy clenches in anticipation for him.

The head of Bucky’s cock nudges at your entrance and your slick coats him. The soft skin of him brushes your over-sensitive clit and you keen, and he does it again, and again, until you’re shaking, until you wrap your ankles around Bucky’s back and pull him into you, raising your hips to meet his.

“You want this?” His voice is heavy when he asks.

“Yes,” you moan out, rocking against him.

He says your name and it sounds pained on his tongue. “Are you sure?”

“James.” Your teeth snap and gnash on his name, and it awakens something within him that sets every place he touches you ablaze with a new sensation, and Bucky enters you with a slow thrust of his hips.

And it feels so fucking good.

Like straining a muscle you haven’t used in a while, it aches as he enters while you stretch to accommodate his size. The way his cock feels inside of you—touching you in places you never thought you’d be touched, filling you in a way you never thought you’d be filled.

He’s finally, finally yours. If just for this moment, Bucky Barnes is yours.

Your nails incise his back, making new marks among the sea of scarring he’s suffered, as you cling to his body in any way to feel him closer to you. Bucky leaves kisses on every surface of your face, your jawline, your neck. He kisses you everywhere and you wish you could tattoo the feeling into your skin.

“Are you alright?” he mumbles faintly into your neck and you can feel how hard he’s trying not to move, not to hurt you, to give you time to adjust to him. Your fingers trail up and down his spine, drifting into his hair, scratching against his scalp.

“Yes,” you hiss, undulating your hips and making a similar sound fall from his lips. “Bucky, please.”

You don’t know how many iterations of that same phrase you’ve said all night, but you’ll keep saying it, over and over, if he’ll take you like this. Just like this, with his arms trapping your body to the bed, his hips flush against yours, panting above you as he stares into your eyes all lustful and dark and wanting. He smells like the Bucky you’re so familiar with, your partner, Barnes, gunpowder and explosions and blood, with the clean scent of whatever deodorant he uses. If he’ll keep you like this, where you can pretend your his for this moment, you’ll say it over and over

Bucky, please—Bucky, please—Bucky, please—please—please—

When he finally moves, thrusting into your heat with a growl, it feels like time stops.

Bucky fucks you like he loves you, slow and steady, pumping into you fully and deeply until you lose your mind. He fucks you like he wants to ravage you, fast and quick and hard as he holds your hips to keep you steady, and you ignore the dull pain that flares up in your side because he’s fucking you like he needs you, like he can’t exist without you. He fucks you like he’ll never get another chance to touch you. When he fucks you like this, his thrusts falling out of rhythm, out of time, he rests his forehead against yours and you lean up to capture his mouth with yours, tongues sliding over one another sloppily.

The heat is building up inside of you again, and when Bucky lifts your hips and drapes you over his knees, pressing you up with his metal arm, his cock hits the spot inside you that makes you scream over and over. The waves are cresting. The crescendo is approaching. Every grunt and groan he makes mingles with your moans and shrieking pleasure, and it’s all going to culminate into one big moment, you can feel it.

Bucky pulls back to slip his hand between your bodies, sweaty and hot, and his thumb presses gently into your clit. With one sharp thrust, your body arches off the bed as you snap, screaming his name, and Bucky holds you through it.

Your vision goes black—you aren’t sure if it's because your eyes are screwed shut in pleasurable pain or if it's because you’ve passed out. Bucky’s hips jerk wildly into yours and you tighten the grip you have around his waist with your legs, digging your heels into the small of his strong back.

“So tight,” he hisses into your ear. “So fucking wet, baby. Feel so fucking right, made for me, aren’t you doll?”

“Yes, James,” you moan out as you ride the waves of your orgasm. “Made for you!”

Bucky works at your clit again as his rhythm starts to fail, and even with how sensitive you are, you feel the pleasure curling inside you again, hot inside your stomach. You clench and jolt whenever his cock hits the right angle, and all of a sudden, you’re on the edge yet again.

“I can’t,” you cry out, nearly a sob lost to the sound of his hips snapping against yours.

“You can,” he says, so gently. “You can, baby, just for me. You said so, right?”

How is he still talking? For fuck’s sake, your tongue feels like its detached from your mouth and all you can muster are the moans and whines that come from the back of your throat Bucky is forcing out of you.

“Come with me,” you beg, you plead. “Please James, please, come with me.”

“Baby—”

You break apart silently, clinging to his body, holding him to you as every fiber of your being is torn into pieces, shattered. As your pussy clenches and spasms around him, Bucky stutters in his thrusts and you pull him into you, willing him to fall over the edge with you, and he follows dutifully.

He groans out your name as he comes inside of you, liquid heat searing the deepest part of you. Falling back against the pillows, you whisper his name and drag him with you, mouth meeting his for one last clumsy, haphazard kiss. Bucky stills inside of you, still throbbing, and then he whispers something against your lips.

“I love you.”

You freeze, eyes wide, and Bucky pulls away from your embrace to look at you.

“What?” you ask, swallowing thickly. “What did you say?”

“I—” He looks nervous now, but his blue eyes are so fucking sincere. “I’m—I’m so sorry, fuck.”

Bucky moves to pull out of you, to leave, but you tighten your legs around his hips and trap him against you. The cocky smirk he wears, the confident smile, even the look of desire he wore while fucking you—it’s all gone. Left in its wake is the ashamed look Bucky wears that makes him seem small, and you want to smooth it away until he looks at you like he wants you again. Like he wants you to be his.

Like he loves you.

“Why are you sorry?” you ask him, stroking a hand through his hair.

“Because—fuck—this wasn’t supposed to happen.” He glances away from you and glares at the floor and a heartbreaking pain shoots through you. Now, he pulls out of you, shifting to get off the bed and clean up, but you can’t stop the words before they tumble out.

“You didn’t want me?”

“What?” Bucky turns and cups your face in his hand, searching your eyes for something, and his thumb wipes away a stray tear you didn’t realize had fallen.

Oh fuck, here it comes. He told you he loved you in a fit of passion and now you’re the stupid, clingy girl that he needs to leave behind. You’re partners, first and foremost, and you shouldn’t have forgotten that.

But god, he made you feel like you were his, and you wanted that so bad. You want it so fucking bad.

“It’s okay,” you tell him, voice shaking and you wonder if you mean it. “I know I’m stupid, and I know you hate me, and I know it was just sex—”

“Baby, no, please.” Bucky brings your face to his and kisses you softly, sweetly, like he adores you. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry because someone like me shouldn’t love someone like you. God, I shouldn’t love someone as perfect as you. I can’t have you, doll. And I’m sorry.”

Oh. Bucky does love you.

Oh. Oh. Oh.

You surge up and slant your mouth over his, hand gripping the back of his neck to pull him down, fingers twining in the fine hairs where his scalp meets his skin. In this one kiss, you pour everything you think you can into it, everything you feel now, everything you’ve felt since you met him, everything you’ve ever felt at every moment you’ve shared with him.

“I love you,” you say when you pull away. “I love you so much, Bucky. I’ve loved you since the day I met you.”

His eyes are so wide, so afraid, so confused.

“You do?”

“I do,” you tell him. “God, I’ve wanted you for so long, Bucky Barnes, you stupid man.”

You expect him to kiss you now, but he doesn’t. Instead, Bucky cradles your head in his hand and pulls you to his chest, embracing you in his warm arms. He rolls onto the bed, carefully lifting you until you’re situated on top of him, where you wrap your limbs around him and lay upon his warm body. Bucky lays kisses on the crown of your hair, holding you so tightly against him you think you might suffocate.

“I’ve loved you since the day you kicked my ass, doll,” he admits. You laugh.

“Are you kidding me? I thought you hated me.”

“I could never hate you,” he says. “I hated that you would sacrifice yourself for others. I still hate it. It’s why you got hurt today and god, the threat of losing you, it scares me doll. I didn’t know what I would do if you died right there in my arms and I never got the chance to tell you all this.”

You glance up at him, at his beautiful face and his beautiful eyes, the man who you hated and who you wanted and who you love. God, you really do love him.

“I’m not going to leave you,” you whisper, pressing an awkward kiss to his bare chest. “Now that I have you, I could never leave you.”

He laughs at that. “Babydoll, you’ve always had me. I can’t believe you never knew.”

You think back to all the times he’s looked at you, dopey grins and cocky smiles and coy glances. You think about how long you’ve leaned on each other in the two years you’ve been partners, how he’s the only person you’ve ever trusted with your life, how you always work to come back to him. You think about the butterflies that stirred in your stomach the first time you met him, when he shook your hand and gave you the prettiest smile you’d ever seen, the same smile he has plastered on his face right now as looks down at you.

Sitting up, you look at Bucky Barnes, chin resting in your palm lazily.

“Maybe I’ve always known,” you say.

“Yeah,” he says. “Maybe I did, too.”

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