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ancientechos · 4 years

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Summer Days

For @windup-dragoon, based on a bunch of random discord convos!

Hien/Kirishimi + Emet-Selch/Arianna ♡ 2192 words ♡ some kinda modern au

The scent of the sea is fresh and crisp, circling in Hien’s lungs as he takes in a deep breath. It’s warm, and sunny, and vibrant: a perfect day to visit the beach. Perhaps take to the surf, enjoy the waves...

Unfortunately (or not?), two of his trio of companions have a quite different idea of what “fun at the beach” looks like.

“C’mon, Hien! The day’s not gettin’ any younger!” Kiri waves a hand in front of his face impatiently, shouldering her bright yellow surfboard and gesturing toward the sea. “We’re gonna surf, yeah?” She follows his gaze toward the small construction of umbrellas and towels they’d left and gives a small laugh. “Just leave ‘em, they said they’re fine.”

Emet, lounging on his towel, notices them staring, and gives a hand movement he’d like to assume is a wave but is really more likely to be a shooing motion. The smaller figure a little ways away from him, meanwhile, has most of her face obscured by the hat upon her head and the book held up to her nose.

“Besides, Emet’ll probably break his bones if he tries goin’ surfing.”

Hien can’t help but snort at the woman’s exaggeration.

“And Ari, well -- she’s not really too fond of this sorta stuff.”

It still feels a little off to simply leave their companions -- though really he wouldn’t mind Emet not being here at all, he feels just a smidge bad for Arianna. Whilst he cannot pretend to know the quiet, dark-haired woman very well, he at the very least knows of her through Kirishimi, and at best doesn’t want to seem rude...

But Kiri does know her, so he supposes he should take his chances and simply relax. They had all come here to have fun, after all. Even if their definition of such was not exactly the same.

That was still fine.

Exhaling softly, Hien drums his fingers along his own surfboard, a bright lime green colour.

“You’re right! Let’s enjoy ourselves -- ” No sooner has he finished speaking than Kirishimi has already launched herself across the sand, giving a loud cheer of victory.

“Well? What are ya waitin’ for, slowpoke?!” She turns to regard him, one hand on her hip, pale hair framed by the sun. But what does Hien Rijin in is the enormous, joyful grin that spreads across her face.

Rivalling even the gleaming star behind her, the happiness is enough to spear him straight through the heart. He remembers precisely why he’s fallen for her.

He has just never seen anyone more beautiful and genuine in his life.

“Sorry, sorry.” He lifts a hand in mock surrender. “I won’t keep you waiting.”

The sand grows damp beneath his feet, gets between his toes and he merely kicks them beneath the gentle laps of water. His girlfriend is already nearly knee-deep in salt and fighting to get ever further past the waves, to finally use her board.

“I bet I’ll catch a bigger wave than you,” the woman taunts with a sharp quirk of her lips, glancing back at him over her shoulder with one blue eye. Her black two-piece is already soaked by the water, some droplets courtesy of the children playing in the shallower waters.

“We’ll see about that,” Hien replies, with a tiny smirk of his own. If there’s anything his love can bring about him, it’s his competitive flair.

It doesn’t take them long to find a decent wave; the water here is good for surf, the wind bustling their hair and Hien’s swim shorts as they struggle to find their balance. A swell of water takes Kirishimi away from him -- brings her back just as quickly as he surfaces at the top of the wave and he sees her, arms outstretched, braid streaming out behind her.

He can’t see her face from this angle, but he’s certain that if he could, he’d see that bright, free smile again. Sure enough, she gives a delighted whoop as another wave curls above her, and she tumbles below the surf.

Hien can still hear her laughing and chuckling, but his stomach drops out from underneath him anyway as he sails downward, thoroughly soaked now as he falls into the water. He surfaces with a gasp, grasping for his board before it can bob away from him entirely.

“Wasn’t that fun?!” Kirishimi yells at him excitedly a few feet away. Her laughter fills the air as another wave picks her up, sways her. “Let’s do that again!”

By the time they return to the beach, they’re thoroughly soaked. Hien’s hair is nearly coming undone from its ponytail, and Kiri has long ago lost her braid to the depths.

Emet and Arianna have for the most part not moved, the woman still curled up in her pale sundress. Through the shadows, it’s clear she’s wearing a swimsuit beneath, though she seems to have no inclination to actually put it to use. And the other, well...

He’s not entirely sure, but Hien thinks Emet’s eyes are closed beneath those dark sunglasses he’s wearing.

Kirishimi makes her way onto the towel nearest Emet, sighing loudly. They’ve both propped up their boards nearby to allow them to dry in the sun, doubting they’ll return to the sea for today.

“Man, that was tirin’,” Kiri proclaims, bunching up her hair. “We’re all soaked.” With this she squeezes -- allowing a series of water droplets to spray upon Emet as he reclines beneath the shade.

With a jerk and a stifled sound of annoyance, he pushes his sunglasses off; though Hien can cover his mouth with his hand as he turns away, he can’t quite stop his shoulders from shaking in mirth. Arianna shuts her book silently and eyes them both from beneath her hat somewhat warily; once it becomes clear neither Hien nor Kiri have any intention of spraying her, she relaxes somewhat.

“Couldn’t you have picked somewhere with less noisy brats running amok?” the older man hisses, narrowing golden eyes at Kirishimi in a way that implies he’s not simply talking about the little urchins clambering about the sand.

“Ahahah, sorry.” Not really. If anything, Hien finds seeing his former rival irritated like this amusing. “This just seemed the closest to all our residences...”

Not telling him that he and Kiri are actually, currently, “renting” one of the beach houses here.

…Which is actually owned by the Rijin family, though Kirishimi doesn’t know this, either. It’s fine for her to think it’s just temporary. For now.

Mentally patting himself on the back for being able to keep his composure, Hien finally turns back to his companions.

“Besides, we came here for a bit of fun, right? Stretch our legs a little, maybe let’s walk around -- I hear there’s a sand castle competition further up the beach. It might be nice to take a peek.”

Thus that’s how the four of them end up shuffling down the shoreline, toward the mass of sand and small crowd of people they can see milling about. The sun beating down on their sculptures allows them to harden and set, preserving them for at least until the moment they’re destroyed.

Most of them are quite impressive -- not all of them are grand castles and mansions. Some are cats, dogs, sphinxes, even dragons. It’s hard to believe they could simply be made of sand...

Beside the rows upon rows of majestic and interesting sculptures they’ve just walked through are a few children making their own play at sandcastles, though for the most part they amount to merely mounds of dirt.

“I bet ya couldn’t make anythin’ better than that, Mr. Architect.”

One of Emet’s brows twitches as he pauses mid-step to glare down at the highlander.

“Excuse me...?” His gaze flicks from the cheeky-looking woman to the sorry pile of sand currently being kicked about by a gleeful young boy.

“Ya heard me! I bet ya can’t make anything as cool as what we just saw,”

Privately, she mumbles under her breath that it hadn’t even really looked like sand anyway. Far too realistic...

The man scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“And why on earth do you think I care what you think?”

Once it becomes clear her attempt at challenging him isn’t working, the woman kicks it up a notch.

“Whoever builds a worse one’s gotta pay the tab at dinner later -- how about that?”

The expression on Emet’s face transforms from derision to vague amusement; he gives a shrug and filches a bucket and small plastic tools from one of the pairs of children puttering in the sand.

What seems like hours later to Hien but realistically can’t be, and his rival has already amassed a miniature crowd of his own, much to the discomfort of his date. Whilst Kirishimi and his sculpture is -- reminiscent of a castle, certainly, with no shortcuts taken for details...it’s lopsided and amateur, whereas Emet’s is most certainly...not.

The proudly tall, spiralling castle, decorated with small stones and other gathered trinkets, could well rival one of those built in the competition. Hien can hardly believe the thing the older man’s managed to create in such a span of time. Were it not made of sand, he’s sure it would gleam beneath the sun.

“Well,” Hien says with a nervous laugh as they push through the small row of onlookers, “I do believe you’ve lost your bet, Kiri.”

“Why didn’t ya tell me yer some kinda sand castle champion, Emet?! That’s cheatin’!”

“Mmm? Oh, I’m nothing of the sort.” The man’s tone simply drips with arrogance as he discards his final tool into the sand. “I’ve never built one before, and that was easy.” His smirk doesn’t fade as he grasps Arianna by one of her thin wrists, pulling her closer to him and out of the crowd. Hien pretends not to see the way his normally blade-sharp gaze softens as he presses a hand to her dark hair.

________

They’d all gotten time to change and get ready before heading out to the fancy restaurant. Halfway there, Hien can see Kirishimi beginning to brood about her supposed having to pick up the tab, and tries to reassure her.

“Listen, how about I pay instead? Anyway, it’ll be fine.”

“Huh? You pay? Nah -- it was my bet, Hien. And anyway, I’m not worried.”

Certainly not, that’s why the sun has left her gaze.

They all meet in the parking lot, Emet looking utterly bored whilst Arianna holds her cellphone in her hand. While she still doesn’t speak around him, Hien would at least like to think she seems a little less nervous in his presence than before.

Before they can set foot into the restaurant, Emet abruptly raises both arms, coming to a halt approximately a foot from the doors. The others stop in confusion.

“Do wait a moment.” The smirk is, once again, disturbingly palpable in his tone even without looking at his face. “I need to open the door.”

Comprehension seems to dawn on Arianna, as she rapidly begins to tap at her phone screen; if Hien strains his ears, he thinks he can hear Emet’s phone vibrating in his pocket, though the other man seems to have zero inclination in looking at it. In a last ditch effort to wheedle the man’s attention, Arianna grabs at the sleeves of his coat --

“Open sesame.”

-- just as he says this and takes a step forward.

The automatic doors, of course, open. He gives a ridiculous half-bow that has Arianna, for once, reeling away from him even after he attempts to coax her back. She merely gives a stiff shake of the head, hiding her expression.

“Yeah? Of course it opened?” Kirishimi says aloud, seeming irritated herself.

“You’re very welcome.”

Though he doesn’t bother to explain, Hien has the suspicion that display had not really been for them.

Things are mostly quiet once they find their reserved seating, thumbing through overpriced menus. Hien can feel Kiri deflate slightly beside him, doing mental mathematics or perhaps concerned about her dress in comparison to the other patrons.

But the food is delicious; not even Emet’s subtle attempts to antagonise him can possibly ruin Hien’s mood. He can only be thankful that Kirishimi doesn’t seem to notice, too preoccupied by her meal. He even manages to trade numbers with Arianna, letting her speak to him as opposed to through Emet or Kiri.

And when the check arrives, Emet swipes it with an annoyed exhale before either he or Kirishimi can move.

“Perhaps next time, eh? I did choose the restaurant this time, after all...”

Hien isn’t sure there will be a next time, but nods graciously regardless. Despite his presence, after all, he did quite enjoy his day with Kiri. And perhaps he even has a new place to take her, where they might enjoy dinner together, without his jabs.

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sitp-recs · 2 years

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A Young Radical's Guide to Love by blamebrampton

Harry/Draco (2013, Teen and Up, 66k)

Memories of the war are still fresh, which is all the excuse Decent People need to do appalling things. In this quietly waged conflict, Draco Malfoy is happy to be on the right side of things for once, and even happier to find he’s not alone.

“If they hurt you, I will kill them,” Potter promised.

“No you won’t,” Draco told him. “You’ll arrest them. And you’ll hit them with the full force of the law.

Every time I read something by blamebrampton I feel so transformed I decide that will be my new favourite fic. A few years ago I used to think the hilarious and fascinating Little Red Courgette was the one, then I decided it was actually the perfect war AU And Save Me From Bloody Men (gosh, these titles are *chef’s kiss*), later on I realized it couldn’t be anything other than the gorgeous and quietly cathartic Tidings of Comfort. But revisiting this fic last night I was convinced that okay this right here makes my heart sing and beat faster at once, the flawless humorous narrative put my mind so at ease it unexpectedly made me break my hiatus to write another rambling rec. Oh how I missed this itch, the desperation to put into words that which cannot be translated into a comment, an urge so intense and full of euphoria it overrides any insecurities I’ve had in the past few months. I thought I felt too disconnected to be hit by that reccing frenesi but what do I know, here we are again.

I am 100% sure that whoever reads this fic will immediately understand why I am so infatuated with it. It is the easiest thing to dive in and get lost in the rich, charming, detailed and unique universe BB creates. Thanks to their brilliant mind I love fics exploring the perks of wizarding politics. I feel like this trope is getting popular again these days but it’s crazy to revisit BB and realize that back in 2013 they were already giving us food for thought about the infinite possibilities, intricacies and complications of post-war politics (and here I also need to mention Femme’s brilliant angsty piece We Are Young, from 2012). I consider these works a stepping stone that helped forging how I perceive and question those matters within the HP universe. And the plots they came up with are so inventive and nuanced I need five minutes per chapter to mourn the fact that we never got any of this brilliant meta in canon.

But beyond a unique premise and fascinating plot lines, the power of BB’s narrative just takes my breath away, and it’s something palpable in this fic. Their characters are so alive and full of personality, the dialogue so organic and clever and charming, istg it was a nightmare to choose among the 2872169 quotable scenes one to illustrate this rec. I could spend the rest of the week waxing poetry about how lovely Harry and Draco are, or about their easy camaraderie with Ron my beloved, which is by far one of my favourite things about this fic. My heart ached seeing these boys displaying a mix of competent maturity, self-awareness and youthful charm and optimism. I just fucking love how well they get along, trading moments of friendly banter and earnest seriousness, not to mention the trust and admiration they have for each other ugh I could barely believe how perfectly crafted for me those dynamics were.

If you appreciate a well balanced plot + romance combo, this will definitely be your jam. The thrilling pace and deliciously witty dialogue and character development guarantee satisfaction on both ends - there are no boring days at the Ministry and yet Harry and Draco find time for each other amidst the chaos, their relationship flourishing in such an easy and uncomplicated way. On that note, I wanna point out that few fics fit the rating so well as this one. I’ve noticed that sometimes Teen fics lean towards Gen or Mature content, but this is an exemplary T fic imo. As things escalate Harry and Draco stand as equals, work partners always listening to, trusting and supporting each other; but their wit and courage are perfectly matched with the thrilling delight of falling in love. The flirting moments may be subtle but thanks to multiple POVs their mutual attraction is very much acknowledged, gentle and fun with some sneaking around witnessed by an exasperated Ron. They’re so clearly smitten with each other I cannot handle it, not when they’re also so smart and badass and good. The quote I chose was just one of the moments that made me wanna cry because Draco gets Harry. But I almost went with this gem: “Potter, bless his earnest little face, was taking notes. Even Draco could start to feel himself being charmed. It was those straight shoulders. They could confuse an uncertain young wizard.”

And that ending! My god, I haven’t read a comfortingly sappy ending like this in ages, it’s so damn sweet I couldn’t stop smiling with my chest bursting in affection for their affection. I felt a bit like Ron watching them, simultaneously charmed and horrified to realize “yep this is my life now, these two idiots are banging and I am a sap for both so I don’t hate it”. Ron is such a legend here. Then again, could we expect anything less from a fic with such distinguished title? I realize this ended up being more of a love letter to blamebrampton’s brain and contributions to this fandom than about the fic itself, but I’ll just go ahead and blame my taste twin and guardian angel @tackytigerfic for enabling me in such a gentle and terrifying way.

Read on AO3

#drarry fic rec

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sofiaaaaaaaa03 · 3 years

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Comms

Title: Comms

Pairing: Din Djarin x GN! Teen reader

Word Count: 2.6k

Rating: PG

Warning: Cursing, mention of wounds, blood, scared Mando.

Description: In an unexpected raid, Din finds himself unable to find his foundlings and searches for them.

Request: Hey! I love your stories and thought that I would submit a request myself. So this is about Din having a teen foundling/adopted child. They’ve known each other for a little over a year now and even if they don’t show it a lot they’ve grown attached to each other. So this particular story would be about the foundling nearly dying and Din being a scared Dad (I hope you get what I’m going for. Kind of a fluff/Angst story with comforting afterwards😅)

A/N: I'm so sorry this took forever to write, I've been travelling and my computer has been messing up so I have not had time to write at all. Anyways, here it is! I hope it's to your liking. It took me awhile for inspiration to hit but I am pretty happy with how it ended up. Enjoy!

....

“Okay kid, what do we do when we get in trouble?”

“Call for help and signal our location.”

Call for help and signal your location. That was all you were supposed to do, the one rule Din gave for you before he took you along with him anywhere outside of the safety of the Razor Crest. He considered himself lucky that you rarely wandered off without letting Din know where you were going, and that you always seemed to be able to handle most dangerous situations on your own. Maybe it was because you fretted to be too much of a bother for Din, seeing as he took you in almost a year ago when he could have easily left you. Din didn’t see it that way, if he was honest. You were valuable to the group, taking care of Grogu and the ship when Din could not, and he believed it his duty to protect all on the ship. Only once or twice did you call for him, and he was quick to come to your aid.

He did not think that today would be the day where his timing risked your life.

The Mandalorian found himself aiding a local trading village with a raider issue in exchange for information about a bounty he’d been pursuing. He’d led a group of men over to what they’d suspected to be the raider’s hideout and set up for an ambush. The Entrance of the cave’s dunes felt barren, and only after the mens’ legs grew sore from crouching and backs ached from huddling in the dark was it that Din began to suspect something was wrong. The quiet environment was abnormal behavior to the raiders he’d encountered before, no doubt this specific group would be any different.

“They’ll see you!”

Startling the men surrounding him, Din shot into the air and stalked the vicinity. The dunes’ walls stretched for meters long as he kept his piece raised, occasionally scanning weak spots for life forms or any piece of equipment. He paused, frowning a moment when his scanner detected nothing.

That was the first sign that things weren’t going as planned that day.

“...hiss…”

“...m..do... v.llage... here…”

There was the second.

Din raised his arm to speak into his comms.

“Y/N?” Nothing but static came back from the comms. Din fidgeted and smacked it a couple times before grunting in frustration.

Damn, comms were jammed.

Wait, they were jammed.

And in a moment of a horrible realization, Din was quick to grab the men and make their way back to the village. When they arrived they found the village in chaos- buildings were burning, villagers running, and materials and pieces and bodies strewn across the ground. For a moment, Din froze in fear and worried that you were on the ground as well, your comms still ringing static and Grogu taken from you, lost to the raiders, or worse, the Empire.

Din quickly made his way throughout the village, barely rounding the first corner when a group of raiders assaulted him. He threw punches at the first raider, using their momentum to kick them hard into another. After several dodges and shots from his blaster, most of them were dead aside from one that laid on the ground and clutched his blasted leg.

Din marched over and pressed his blaster against the wound. “Where are the hostages being held?”

As it turned out, the raiders had no plan of keeping hostages. When Din finally tracked the building where captives were supposedly held, he was unable to remain collected when he found that you and Grogu were nowhere to be found. Instead, he stood before raiders responsible for the attack, their blasters disturbingly put away as they argued amongst one another. Din didn’t bother listening, he looked around but saw no sign of his foundlings.

“Wrong door.” He said simply before taking out his blaster and shooting the raiders.

Pocketing his piece Din ran out of the stronghold and went outside, calling for you and Grogu. He thought about the worst possible scenarios that could have happened to you two as he took out the raiders pillaging the village, until all but one remained, the leader. He found him in the main courtyard of the village, his face hidden though his body seethed with labored breaths. He stood there for several moments before Din heard one last labored breath before the leader’s legs buckled beneath him and he slumped to the ground with a sickening crack of skull on stone. Hm? Din didn’t know what to make of this, and further stalked over, hand on blaster, examining the body. Upon closer look a blaster wound to the stomach was made more visible. So, someone got to the leader before Din could. That leaves the question… who?

A quick look around the area pointed out a trail of blood.

The Mandalorian followed this trail without any real reason behind it.

He found the remainder of the villagers at some point along the way. Sullen masses of faces mixed together, mourning the loss of their villages and lost ones but kept busy with treating the wounded. Women sat in huddles cooking with what food was salvaged and children sat quiet. One stood out apart from the rest in Din’s eyes, a large male leaning over a group of medics. Din recognized him as Cyrukee, the villager’s chief, who noticed the lone bounty hunter from the corner of his eye and stood up. In his arms was the most beautiful thing Din had seen all day, Grogu. The baby gurgled in joy as he walked up to the chief.

“There you are.” Din didn’t realize that he was holding his breath when he sighed in relief, taking Grogu into his arms.

“Sir.” Cryukee barely got a word out before Din turned to him.

“I’m looking for a youngling- my kid. Have you seen them?”

“Sir, please.”

“They’re this tall,” Din rears a hand near to your height, “they were with this little green baby. Your husband, he took them to the school. Where is he?” The Mandalorian made a full turn around to look for the red robed headman who was last responsible for your care. He reached for his comms and tried to reach you again. His voice rang back at him, and in a terrible moment of realization he realized that that was your comms.

“Where are they?”

“Sir, let me explain.” Cyrukee wore an exasperated expression and looked as though he was about to speak before one of the medics from the group he was with requested to speak with him. He spared a glance at Din as though he struggled whether or not to say something. And then, Din followed his arm towards the medics he was just with. Din didn’t know what to make of it, not able to recognize any of them. The Mandalorian took one last look at the chief, whose grave expression gave him reason to worry, and slowly walked towards the group of medics. He buzzed through the comms, trying to pinpoint your location. As he got closer he heard medics speak in soothing voices and their patient hyperventilating. Had it not been his own voice coming from the center of the personnel he would have moved on, instead he could not find the will to move. Grogu looked at him expectantly.

One medic in particular took notice of the beskar-armored man. He and some others quickly got up and pushed Din away before he could force his way through the medics to take a look at you.

“Hey, wait-wait-please.” Din grunted at the force and staggered several steps back. He took a moment to collect himself and Grogu sneezed in his arms. Dust must have gotten into his nose during the scuffle. “Please, my ward- my kid. That’s my kid.”

“Just a moment,” one of the bloodied nurses kept her hands on Din’s chestplate longer than he would have liked. He didn’t push her away though.

“I need to see my kid.” Din looked her in the eye, hoping that she could see his desperation through his helmet.

His kid. When Din looks back on this he would think about how he’s never referred to Y/N as his own before. He would have liked to think he said that so the nurses allowed him to pass easier. But deep down, he knew it was because of how much he cared for them.

“I understand but please let me explain. Sir, Sir!” Din retreated in defeat on his second attempt to get past her and the other nurses. She stared into his eyes and patted his shoulders, Din didn’t know whether she was trying to comfort him or control his movements. “They’re traumatized enough right now, and you moving around in that armor of yours will only make it worse.”

“What happened to them?”

“They had an encounter with Jetwal,” Din’s blood boiled at the recognition of the raider’s leader who’d died before him. “according to the children, your child was leading them to the outskirts when he found them. They killed him, he was threatening the children, and they shot him. Now, listen to me. They did get injured. Several blaster wounds to their limbs and upper torso- sir, listen please I cannot allow you to go to them just yet- they’re still panicking right now but I assure you their wounds are being treated right now. They’ll be fine, but disrupting our work will only inhibit us from treating them properly.”

She watched his gaze linger to the sound of your crying. “How much longer until I can see them?”

Din was not pleased to find that he was only allowed to see you when the nurse came for him herself. Reluctantly he walked a little farther away from the medics when asked to give them more space, and sat down with Grogu bouncing on his knee next to a young Twi’lek running their hands over their lekku to soothe themselves. Between glancing at the medics to keeping Grogu entertained, Din didn’t realize how much time had elapsed before noticing the nurse had come to his side to collect him.

She took a seat next to him. “They’re hurt very badly, but with time their injuries will heal. All they need to do is rest. You can see them now.”

Grogu giggled and played with the nurse’s finger that was threateningly wiggling on his little tummy. “Can you take him for a moment?”

Din stood up and gave Grogu a pat on his little head and rubbed his large ears out of habit. Something you used to do to calm the little green alien down after a terrible meltdown. Even under his helmet Din smiled at the alien before dredging towards you. You laid on a pile of fabrics that functioned as a makeshift cot, but you looked like you had a pile of fabrics on you with the amount of bandages that wrapped your body. You didn’t notice Din approaching you as you stared straight into the sky. Din wondered what you were thinking. What could you be thinking? From his knowledge, this was your first time dealing with major injuries from blasters. It must have made this whole ordeal so much more frightening to you.

Maybe Din was too light on his feet, recoiling instantly when you jolted at his touch and groaned in pain.

“It’s me, it’s me.” His voice was soothing, even more than normal which surprised him.

A sort of wheeze escaped your lips and you coughed. “Mando.”

“Hey kid.”

“I tried calling for you.” A gasp. “They jammed the frequencies.”

“Your message barely came through, kid. But it made us realize what was going on. We got here before more damage could be done because of you.”

Your form relaxed. “Good, good. Grogu?”

“With a nurse.” “The one with the sweet voice.”

“Yeah.”

“I liked her voice-” A cough. “Sounds like my mom’s. She was nice. She helped calm me down.” At this point Din had stared at you long enough to realize how puffy your eyes were from crying. He didn’t stop himself from reaching over to brush your H/C hair out of your face. You leaned into his touch.

“I’m pretty fucked up, huh?”

Your eyes were already locked onto his when he met your gaze. A tick passed, and Din’s eyes fell to the wounds you were referring to. He shook his head. “No, kid. That’s not what you are.”

“Feels like it.” Din scowled at your words.

“There are too many fucked up people in the galaxy, kid. You´re not one of them.” You look at him with a raised brow. “Y/N, you barely have any combat experience yet you took on Jetwal? What were you thinking?”

And you said something that surprised him.

“I was thinking of you.”

And Din couldn’t find any words. He cleared his throat and you continued, “We were alone and I had no idea when you’d come, I was scared something had happened to you because I couldn’t get a hold of you through the comms and that guy was coming at us and-” You inhaled sharply, wincing at what Din assumed was a jab in one of your wounds but he didn’t know how to help. You calmed a moment later, closing your eyes and furling your brows together. “I thought about what you would have done if you were there. You always looked like you knew what to do.”

To say that Din was proud of you would have been an understatement, he was beaming wonders underneath his helmet but realized that you couldn’t see through the beskar.

“I thought I’d lost you both.” Din admitted. “But I’m very proud of you. You saved lives, Y/N. That’s no easy feat for someone of your age.”

You grinned at him and laughed. “Did you do something like this when you were my age?”

“Yes, but I didn’t end up as fucked up as you did.” “Hey!” Din laughed and raised his forearm to block your playful hits.

A moment of silence falls between the two of you before you look at Din again. “Do you know how long we’ll be here for?”

“With your injuries, no clue. I’ll talk to the medics and Cyrukee to see what is to be done.”

“Okay.” You nodded, your fingers twitching involuntarily. Din’s hands find their way to your hair again. “Mando, I’m tired.”

“Rest. I’ll be here with you.” He watches you half-heartedly nod at his words and doze off in a matter of seconds. The injuries have taken a toll on your body, Din suspects, and he pulls a sheet over you. He sits with you, watching villagers talk amongst themselves, speaks with those who come by to thank him for his help, and accepts Grogu from the nurse when she comes over, thanking her for all she’d done for you. She told him that a thank you was not owed to her, and that if you were to need anything she was only a call away.

And when he was finally left alone, Mandalorian took one look to take account for his two foundlings. They slept soundly and with luck, heads full of dreams. Most importantly, they were safe in his care once again.

Din realized he’d been holding in a breath, and exhaled a sigh of relief.

.....

Taglist:

@kiara-is-gay @pcotato @sagedgeek

#din djarin x teen!reader #din dijarin fanfiction #din djarin x y/n #din djarin is a dad #din djarin imagine #din djarin x reader #din djarin #grogu #mandalorian and grogu #star wars x y/n #star wars requests #star wars x you #star wars x reader #star wars reader insert #star wars fanfiction

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watermelonlipstick · 3 years

Text

Parking Lot

This is a love letter to the Dean who told Cassie everything about his life after knowing her for 2 weeks and who didn’t see What Is And What Should Never Be as a horror show until he saw his bond with Sam was gone. I don’t think it would work for a later seasons Dean, who had pretty conclusively abandoned this idea for himself. I’d love any advice or critiques!!

Title: Parking Lot

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 3801

Summary: A parking lot quickie leads to an illuminating argument between Dean and the reader.

Warnings: Swearing, smut, angst, ~*idiots in love*~, fluff

In a couple ways it seemed like a lesson; you really shouldn’t have been fooling around in a parking lot no matter how late at night it was. Especially not a bar’s parking lot, potentially more likely to be busy at this hour, shadows be damned.

But it wasn’t all your fault, not by a long shot. Dean knew exactly what he was doing, getting a Manhattan rather than his standard straight bourbon just for the cherry, rolling it around with his tongue and licking his fingers of the juice while you waited for the guys you were playing pool against to shoot.

If Sam had been there you might’ve been able to keep it together for politeness’s sake, but you didn’t give a shit about these people and you weren’t doing research for a case, just blowing off steam post-job before heading out of town in the morning.

Two could play at Dean’s game, though, you arching your back deep into the table to make a shot and practically purring “your turn” when he was up, hovering close enough to see the goosebumps spread over his neck when he smirked and obeyed. He finished the game lightning fast with a string of laser-focused shots and you silently downed the rest of his drink as the guys ponied up, tossing thick folds of cash onto the table and shaking Dean’s hand. You didn’t even feel guilty for hustling them, partly for their ignoring you but mostly for the distraction of Dean’s hands reracking the balls and grabbing your coat, sliding a palm to your lower back with his pinky just barely under your waistband. It was all you could do to wait until you get to the back of the parking lot to shove him up against the Impala and bite his bottom lip almost too hard before slipping your tongue into his mouth.

You felt the smile and heard the groan at the same time, both pouring into your mouth as you ripped at Dean’s jacket, trying to yank his flannel off his shoulders with it. You abandoned the project to paw at Dean’s tee once you’d gotten the outer layers bunched down around his elbows, kissing him hungry and dark like he was yours to take.

One of Dean’s bitten off groans trailed off into a barely-there whimper. For all his posturing he loved this, when he could give up being predator and let go for a few minutes to be your prey. He didn’t start fumbling for the door handle until you flicked open his belt, his other hand clutching at a handful of hair at the back of your neck and kissing down your jugular fast and hard. Imagining the way Sam was going to roll his eyes at the hickeys only added adrenaline while Dean finally got the backseat door open, sliding you in and unfurling on top of you. Still working on his jeans, you dragged him tight between your legs.

“You are—so—mean,” you grinned between kisses. “Teasing me like—that.”

Dean’s eyebrows kicked up on his forehead, playing dumb like you knew he would. “Me? Never.” His act dropped the moment you finally got his fly open, wrapping your hand around his cock through his boxers and punching all the air out of his lungs. His head rolled back on his neck almost violently, impossibly long eyelashes grazing his cheekbones and lips parted around a breathy “fuck.”

His switch flipped, Dean scrambled to strip you as fast as possible. You tried to help him in large part to avoid tearing your clothes, ending up crushed into the leather of the bench seat somehow with one leg fully out of your jeans and underwear, the other knee tangled up in the fabric. He’d shoved up your shirt and bra and it would’ve been uncomfortable and tight if any of your senses had been turned to it instead of Dean wetting his middle finger to slip-slide along your clit, murmuring something about “I love it when you do that,” into the side of your neck as he swirled circles into you. After a few moments you were writhing in the seat and Dean pulled that finger back up, sucking you off of it before pushing it up inside you, then another.

“Fuck me, Jesus Christ Dean,” you moaned against his tongue, yanking him forward until he guided himself into you. The stunted warm-up helped but that first push was always a shock, and whatever sound you made was loud enough that Dean covered your mouth with his hand, grinning conspiratorially down over fingers still steeped in you as he thumped you into the car door.

“Quiet—someone’s going to hear you.”

You bit his hand and Dean yelped with a chuckle, pulling it back before you roped around his neck and kissed him lasciviously. “Don’t tell me what to fucking do,” you smirked.

He stabilized himself against the Impala’s door to pound into you harder, you wrapping your legs around his waist and whisper-moaning filthy nothings into his ear, biting his neck until suddenly you felt that finely honed awareness pique in the back of your mind, flaring hot enough to burn and you froze, thighs clamped tight around Dean.

“Baby, I—”

“Don’t fucking move—did you hear that?” you hissed.

Dean tried to pull back and tensed hard, shuddering into you as you tried to lift your head to see as surreptitiously as possible before the delayed processing hit you. When you looked up at Dean he didn’t meet your eyes, wincing over one shoulder with his arms still planted.

“Tell me you didn’t,” you whispered.

He was silent for a half-second, still didn’t meet your eyes. “I tried t—you fucking death-gripped me with your legs, what was I supp—”

“Oh my god, get off of me,” you yelped, trying your best to sit up and snatch at anything to clean yourself up before realizing it was useless. “FUCK! Fuck, Dean, fuck, what’re we going to—I can’t be—”

He leaned back into the seat to get back into his jeans and fasten his belt. “One thing at a time, okay? They’ve got like pills and stuff right? We don’t even know if it’ll take.”

You rolled your eyes angrily at him as you jammed your leg back into your jeans. “Our fucking luck it’s already triplets.” You ran a hand through your hair and took a deep, hard breath. “Okay, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

“No, I get it.” He slumped into the seat next to you. A long beat passed, you and Dean both sitting stupid, half-dressed in jeans and untied boots, hair all over the place. He cleared his throat. “Wanna head out?” His voice was small and rough; you knew he was sorry and maybe a little embarrassed. If you were more highly evolved you might’ve been able to console him more in that moment, but your heart was bounding through your chest about what was going to happen next—if. You managed to squeeze his hand in solidarity if nothing else before grabbing your stuff and moving to the front seat.

Minutes of silent road passed before Dean reached over and covered your knee with his hand. You capped it with one of yours and saw his lips twitch up at the corner in response.

He glanced over at you tentatively. “Maybe it uh, wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, you know?”

Your incredulity spun you around in your seat so you were fully squared to him. “What?”

It was dark in the car but you thought maybe Dean’s cheeks started to look pink. “I don’t know, teaching a little squirt how to play catch or whatever, might be cute.”

“You cannot be serious.”

His eyes flicked back over to you and his lips pursed out, trying to look non-plussed. “Whatever. Just trying to make you feel better.”

“No, you’re not. Because that exact possibility is scaring the shit out of me right now and two minutes ago you were trying to convince me we were going to pill this away. So it’s—is that something you want? Having a kid someday?”

Dean took his hand back under the guise of using two hands to turn the steering wheel. “No.”

You waited, willed your own heartbeat to slow down. As you knew he would, Dean kept talking, keeping his eyes on the road more to avoid the vulnerability of looking in your eyes rather than out of necessity on the long, straight stretch of road. “I don’t know. It really seems that bad to you? Having something that’s really, like, ours? Just you and me?”

“We’re not talking about a something, Dean, we’re talking about a fucking kid.”

“Jesus, fine, forget it. Sorry I asked.”

His knuckles went white on the steering wheel and underlined that Dean Was Done Talking. What an absolute waste of a fun little night out, leaving Sam to have a couple hours alone. Now instead of getting back looser to a well-rested Sam, you were going to barrel into this crappy motel terrified with a pissed off Dean, dropping it all at the younger Winchester’s feet to deal with (again).

It took you until the motel parking lot to muster up the courage to touch Dean’s wrist. “Can we talk for a second?” Dean pretended to be annoyed but you could tell it was an act shielding a spot of tenderness. He flopped his hands in his lap and looked over at you expectantly. “Maybe it’s dumb to even talk about this; like you said, it might be nothing. But I just—I mean if—do you really want that? What would that even look like? Not even with me or whatever obviously but leaving hunting, leaving Sam—”

“Leaving Sam? Who said anything about leaving Sam?”

“You volunteering him as nanny?”

Dean sort of half-rolled his eyes and shifted to face you. “You know as well as I do that Sam doesn’t want to be doing this, not forever. I’m not saying we should be fucking trying, obviously, I’m just—I’m going to stick around no matter what happens. I wouldn’t ditch you with my mistake.”

You scoffed. “How noble.”

“Not like that. But I’m not a complete moron, I know we’ve played with fire a couple times and I know what I’m doing.”

“I guess I just figured that was heat of the moment stuff.”

A flash of something passed over his face, gone almost too fast for you to decipher. Offense? Sadness? “Yeah, part of it. But you—you’ve never even thought about it?”

“Thought about how I’d get a couple hundred dollars and find a clinic, yeah. I—we can’t be hunters with a baby. And I won’t be stashed in some safe house somewhere, see you and Sam for a day or two every couple months, be the loner single mom who can’t tell anyone anything about her life.”

“Single mom? I’m not a fucking deadbeat. I just said I wouldn’t make you deal alone.”

You shot him an exasperated look and took a deliberate breath to keep from rising to the bait. “So what, now you want to get married? Dean, I’m not even really your damn girlfriend.”

He reached for the handle fast enough that you had to scramble across the seat after him, Dean pausing in the open door. “Look, if it’s not what you want, that’s fucking fine. But don’t patronize me. Not my fucking girlfriend? Fuck you.”

You flew across the Impala and out of the passenger door, following Dean as he stormed across the asphalt. “Fuck me? How are you mad at me?”

He spun on his heel in the parking lot. “I tell you I’m willing to leave all of this—all of everything I really know, fucked up as that is—for you, would make you my whole future and you, you—your response is that you’re not even my girlfriend? Yeah, fuck you.”

“Dean, that’s not what I—” but he had already started storming back to the room. “DEAN!” you yelled, standing stock still in the middle of the lot. He paused with his back to you for what felt like a long second before turning back around. “I don’t want to bring this back to Sam. I’m sorry, okay? I’m just—I’m scared shitless about something that might not even happen and then you spring the idea of some shotgun wedding on me—”

He rolled his eyes without even a hair of humor, the muscles in his jaw tensing hard enough to catch the cold overhead light. “See, how can you—” he started, before taking a deep, deliberate breath and starting over in a tone that was forced calm. “That’s everything I ha—that’s all I can give you, is loving you and fucking being there for you. So if it’s that fucking cheap or skanky to you then I’m sorry for wasting your fucking time.” When you didn’t respond his spine straightened a few degrees. “What? Say something. Tell me how stupid I am for suggesting that being tied together might not ruin your fucking life.”

You felt that your mouth had fallen open but didn’t care. “You love me?”

Dean’s face contorted like he was looking at a mirage of something bizarre, curious and disbelieving and frustrated. “I lo—of course I love you, what the fuck?”

“Y—you’ve never said that to me.”

“What? Yes I have.” His voice softened a shade, the certainty his anger had afforded him beginning to slip away like sand at high tide, but his eyebrows stayed indignant.

You’d never been more certain of anything in your life, that Dean had never said that, because it was something you wanted constantly. Craved, even. Were kept awake at night by; the desire to have your feelings for Dean reciprocated too intense even to dream about. So you justified and bargained with yourself: if fooling around and this kind of casual commitment—girl who would cover him and Sam in a firefight and didn’t hound him for a label—was what he wanted, it was what you would give. Anything for more time with him or the chance to kiss those lips, to see the way he looked first thing in the morning, to get annoyed at his bullshit idiosyncrasies.

“No, you haven’t.” So many more words tried to burst forward from you that you had to bite your lip to be sure your mouth stayed closed.

Dean held your eyes, willing you to say something until he lost his patience. “Who says that stupid shit all the time anyway? You know I love you; I’d do fucking anything for you.” His voice had started to rise again but the heat behind it was some sort of hungry desperation, not hurt rage. “I’m—you don’t think I love you?”

You started to feel completely exposed by the industrial light, seared alive by green eyes. Shifting your weight from foot to foot didn’t help, and you fought angrily against the lump forming in your throat.

He looked over his shoulder and the barked “FUCK!” startled you despite yourself. “Kid, I—FUCK, that’s what this is? I loved you since that first fucking hunt in Cleveland! You really think I’m just…? This isn’t some Beaver Cleaver ‘I put you in a family way’ bullshit, I—I don’t know, I just, with you it feels like for the first time maybe it’s not insane to think that I could—that we could—whatever, man, I’m not fucking talking about this.” A hand shot up to rub the back of his neck, a nervous tic you recognized immediately.

You took two big steps toward him. “Dean, I just—I didn’t know. That’s—I mean I’m not going to say I’ve been thinking about it; but it—it’s more because I didn’t even think it was on the table, you know? I thought we were, I don’t know, really close friends that sleep together.”

Dean’s eyebrows flew up his forehead and he blew an almost-laugh out of his nose. “I don’t even know what to say to that. Never heard of any friends that live together and fuck raw.” His tongue slid along his molars and he sucked his teeth looking down at the ground, flicker of a despondent, self-deprecating smile twitching his lips. “Uh, noted, I guess. Sorry I misunderstoo—” and his eyes on the blacktop prevented him from seeing you cross the few strides between you, catching him off guard when you kissed him hard enough to bruise, hard enough to feel everything you wanted to say, wanted to scream (at him, from the rooftops, ohmygodhelovesme) take a backseat for a moment. He grunted at the impact, stunned for a half-beat before surging forward into you, wrapping into your hair and pawing at your hips with desperate effort to get closer. Feeling the grin against your mouth, you wished you weren’t standing in the absolute middle of the parking lot, frenzy to have something to push each other against building to a fever pitch inside you when Dean tugged your hair back to look at your face.

He looked downright pornographic; swollen, flushed pout and impossible lashes framing bedroom eyes Marilyn or Sophia would’ve envied. A washing of cockiness only amplified the effect, those pillowy lips pulling into a lazy smirk. “So is this a really-close-friends kiss or what? Trying to figure out how much tongue I’m supposed to slip you.”

You giggled good-naturedly, letting the weight of your head press into his palm. “You are such an asshole.”

“Yeah, you fuckin’ love it.” He sucked on that sweet pulse spot under your ear deeply, some accessory movement with his tongue enough to make you see stars and miss that it was you letting out that ungraceful whine-moan. When Dean spoke the air passing over your spit-slick neck exploded in goosebumps. “And I love you.”

Dean kissed you in that searching, delicious, eat-you-alive way he sometimes did after a particularly victorious hunt when he either had all the time in the world or didn’t give a fuck about making it; soothing-probing with a little edge of danger that hypnotized you. It pulled at the sweater of your being and tugged, steady and cloying until you were something loose and ephemerous in Dean’s hands, something equally likely to float away or explode right there in that parking lot, clearing a hundred miles in every direction and leaving behind only the imprint of your craving for him. It’s a miracle your brain was able to function at all. In the best circumstances this flayed you open and coming on the heels of having the most beautiful gift you could imagine dropped at your feet—Dean loves you, he loves you and always has—it felt like it could stop your heart and you wouldn’t care.

“I need about twenty minutes in a cold shower or I promise I’ll knock you up right the fuck here,” Dean growled, low with sin directly into your ear.

You laughed breathily. “I thought you said that might be a good thing.”

His chuckle was rough as he pressed his lips to the crown of your head. He rested there for a moment before murmuring into your hair. “You really thought we were just messing around?”

“Dean, come on, I—don’t make me say it.”

“Say what?”

You swallowed shakily, tried to get a handle on your thoughts through the endorphins. “You—I—I’ve had it bad for you, thought if I really like, acknowledged it that it might fuck up what I did get to have of you or that some commitment would freak you out or whatever so I just—I don’t know, tried to be cool about it. Obviously we’ve always been kind of ‘don’t ask don’t tell’ when we were apart—”

Dean cut off your rambling. “Uh, has there been something you’ve been ‘don’t tell’-ing? I wasn’t ‘don’t ask don’t tell’-ing.”

“You haven’t?” you asked, surprised enough to be knocked off your nebulous trail of thought.

“No, I mean—no. You would’ve been fine with that?” The disbelief was so clear on his face it was practically casting a glow around him.

“Not fine with it—of course not—the thought of it kept me up nights, but I didn’t you to think I was some jealous freak.”

A smile spread over his face slowly, butter on hot toast. “So you would’ve been jealous?”

“I was jealous, I thought that’s what was happening.”

Dean’s head lolled back on his neck a few degrees, smirk cementing itself in place. “That’s kinda hot.”

It took the tension out of the moment and you chuckled under your breath, glancing down at your feet. “Yeah, you would say that right now, psycho.” It was breathy and shaky but Dean let you have it, throwing his elbow around your neck affectionately and tucking you into his side. With a kiss to the crown of your head, he started you both walking to the room lazily. At the door, you stilled him as he reached for the knob.

“Would you really want to keep it? Like, no bullshit, if that’s the situation, that I’m actually—you know, you wouldn’t want me to…?”

He licked his lips and bit the bottom one. They parted for a moment before he began to speak as his gaze flicked between your eyes. “Babe,” he finally breathed, and there was a note of croak there. “I’m in this for the long haul. If that’s where we’re going then we’ll deal with it. If you don’t—if you’re not there, I get it, but for me, I—yeah. If it’s going to be anyone for me, it’s you.”

“Even now?”

“I could think of worse things. Worse things have happened to me this week, probably.”

There were so many follow up questions running through your mind, so many rock-solid certainties that Dean wouldn’t really be able to quit hunting, that even figuring out how to go to an OB-gyn on fake IDs was likely to be more complicated than either of you realized, but his lack of hesitation was so sweet, so earnest, and you were still riding that he loves me high. And you might’ve gotten lucky; it might be nothing, no parking lot baby to contend with, just a tense reminder to be more careful next time. It was easier than you might’ve thought to give yourself permission to relish it for the night, consequences be damned.

Thanks again for reading! If you liked it, check out my Masterlist or send me a request!

Tags: @sams-sass @vxnderlindes @deanwinchesterswitch @akshi8278 @itsjensenanddean @flannellover67 @weepingwillowphoenix @tj-drinks-tea @whatareyousearchingfordean @winchest09 @winchestergirl2 @samwisethegr8 @nurse-sarahrn @lovers-in-japan-reign-of-love @deanwanddamons @stressedoutkitten @winchestershiresauce @tatted-trina6 @percico-heronstairs @downanddirtydean @queenoftheunderdark @lyarr24 @wonder-cole @that-one-gay-girl @fairlyspnfanfic @treat-winchesterswith-kindness @mimaria420

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mangos-hat · 2 years

Text

a fallen king

pov its dark CACAO fucking dies this time!

ya uh sorry if the chrs r ooc i was tired writing this /gen

Dark Cacao barely had his final breath before Dark Choco slashed him for the last time. Dark Choco lowered his sword and watched the sight of Dark Cacao fall to the ground with a THUD . Jam oozed out of the newly cut wound.

The sword’s red gem pulsed in glee as he caught his breath. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he gave a small smile. He did it. He really did. He killed him.

…But why did he feel a sense of regret…? It was like he did something wrong. Was he supposed to do that?

…He killed him. He really did kill him.

“...” Dark Choco took a step back. Did… Did I…? He did. He knew he did. The smile faded from his face.

“My king!” Someone shouted from behind. The cookie ran towards the fallen king to aid him. “My king, are you alright?!” Caramel Arrow.

She turned to look at the once prince who had slain the king. “You… you promised us a kingdom as strong as the chocolate mountains themselves!” Tears formed in her eyes as she looked at him. No longer a face of admiration, but now a face of pure rage. “You are no prince!” She cried.

“You are no prince.”

The words echoed in Dark Choco’s mind. And she was right. He was no prince. He didn’t deserve the title of a prince. He didn’t deserve any of this.

He nodded in agreement. “I do believe that is true.” Sheathing the sword on his back, he looked into her eyes. “I am no prince.”

“Do you feel no remorse for what you have done?!” She yelled at him. “You have slain the king, your own father!” Caramel Arrow loaded her bow and pointed it at him. “You are a monster!”

Dark Choco nodded again. “I am a monster.” A tear rolled down his face as he looked away from her. “To have killed my father, I am no prince.” He chuckled. “I see.”

“...What has gotten into you?!”

“I…very much am a monster.” He looked at his hands, now stained with jam from Dark Cacao. “I have killed my own father. One who cared and loved me.” Tears welled in his eyes as he smiled. “I do not deserve such a title. I am no prince.”

Caramel Arrow lowered her bow. “Why… Why have you done this?” She looked at the ground while tears streamed down her face. “Why have you… betrayed us?”

“...That is something I cannot explain.” He took a step, turning away from the scene. “I am sorry.”

“But…but why?!” Caramel Arrow cried. “Why?! Why did you do this to us?!”

She tried to reason with him but Dark Choco started to walk away.

“Please…!” She sobbed. “Why…?”

He stopped for one last time.

“I am sorry. This is my destined path.”

#dark choco cookie #dark cacao cookie #cookie run kingdom #angst #fic #hurt no comfort

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sidespart · 3 years

Text

The Fall of King Romulus Part 3

Summary: Twin Princes Remus and Romulus are cursed at birth with Honesty and Obedience. When Romulus, who cannot disobey any order, is told to kill his brother the next time he lays eyes on him, he changes his name to Roman and runs away. Roman joins up with a misfit group of adventures and plans to never return to his homeland. But the fae have other plans for him…

Warnings (for whole fic not necessarily individual chapters): Violence, mind whammying/memory altering, curse of obedience related consent issues, references to sex, references to war related injuries/PTSD, references to child abuse/neglect (YMMV on that one but just in case), antagonstic-but-not-exactly villian!Janus, Extremly-moraly-dubious-but-not-exacty-unsympathetic-Remus

Pairings: Mostly Platonic LAMP and all the found family feels. Could be read as pre-slash.

Feedback appreciated.

NOW ON AO3 :D

Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Remus. Remus, Remus, Remus.

The mad Prince of Notaleveale.

Remus was coming here. Remus was coming to Steveange and if Romulus saw him-

Roman had to leave.

Which was easier said than done; when the streets were crowded with hoards of shoppers and revellers all pressing against him, blocking his path, stealing the air out of his lungs-

“Roman!”

He needed to go. He need to find Virgil and Patton in whatever rooms they’d managed to find, collect his belongings and-

No. That would take too long – he could replace the clothes and books, he already had his sword-

“Roman, what’re you-”

- but he needed his lute. To make any kind of living he had to be able to perform. It was the only thing he was good at and once he’d got away he’d be -

He could do it. He’d run away before. He survived alone, without anyone, he could do it again and-

“Roman! Stop!”

He stopped.

Logan. Heading towards him. But he hadn’t given a time frame and if Roman grit his teeth and pushed past the spike of pain he could start to move again in just a second-

“Wait!”

Dammit.

Roman waited. Fists clenched by his side, until Logan was next to him.

“Roman.”

His chest was tight. His brain wasn’t -wasn’t working right and Logan looked so odd, with his glasses askew and his face flushed – had he been running?

“I thought I saw Patton.” Roman blurted.

It was the first excuse that popped into his head and it was clearly not – not good enough. Logan was frowning at him, a pinched expression, studying him like an experiment and-

Roman hated him, suddenly.

Logan was an upstart swot with ideas above his station and a chip on his shoulder. He poked and prodded and lost them jobs with his terse words and his better than you attitude. He reminded Roman of the tutors who snap at him for his lack of understanding and bark orders for him to recite, repeat, remember, to be better, smarter, stronger: someone worthy of his title.

He reminded him most of all of Julius. His fathers closest advisor, who had been charged with unravelling the Princes’ curses. He was the one who had helped Romulus learn how to push against his curse. He would give him orders that were almost impossible to follow and watch with cold eyes as Romulus struggled to disobey. Together they’d categorised how much pain he could withstand, what orders could be navigated and misinterpreted and which ones he was truly helpless against.

Once, he’d bid Romulus to stand on one leg. And left him there until his muscles started to cramp and shake, waiting to see if gravity or the curse was stronger. Romulus had been in tears by the end. Had even wondered, briefly, about complaining to his parents. But is was such a silly, innocuous order compared to other experiments. What had truly upset him was how Julian had just stood there, not speaking, his eyes distant and cold and calculating as he noted down every twitch and whimper from the boy. Even when he circled him, Romulus could feel those eyes boring into the back of his neck like a-

“Princey.”

Roman blinked. Julius’ practice room disappeared, replaced with the sights and sound of the Steveange street. Logan was in front of him and his eyes were far from cold. When he spoke it was with the same gentle tone that Roman had heard him use when Virgil’s worries overwhelmed him or when Patton woke from a nightmare and didn’t know where he was.

“Did the cro- the woman. Did she say something to you?” Logan was holding his hand. Gently but firmly, he tugged at Romans tightly clenched fingers, encouraging them to unfurl. Roman stared uncomprehendingly at the deep crescent marks he’d made in his palm.

Slowly, Logan released his right hand and reached for his left, repeating the process.

Roman felt shame ripple through him.

Logan wasn’t Julius. Logan would never push him so far he broke.

Logan was his friend and Roman has made him worry with his silly behaviour and his slapdash lie. But he could fix it.

He forced a smiled. Flexed his fingers and straightened up his full height. Made a show of looking around him.

“I swear I saw him. Big man, big sword, big smile – he’s hard to mistake!”

Hesitantly, Logan glanced around too before quickly refocusing on Roman.

“Are you sure you –“

“Ah well, the mind plays trick I suppose – must be hunger getting to me, speaking of which…”

Roman reached forward and deftly snatched the bag from Logan's grasp, reaching in blindly and shoving the first pastry he found into his mouth.

“Mmmm so good!” He beamed at Logan with berry stained teeth, flakes of pastry flying through the air. “Aren’t you going to have one?”

Logan stared at him. Roman kept his smile sweet and his eyes clear. He held up the bag and wiggled it enticingly.

Hesitantly, Logan took the bag and selected a tart. Keeping his eyes on the bard the entire time, he ate his treat with much more refinement then Roman had shown. “Holding back?” Roman asked, teasing, “I’ve seen you eat jam before, there’s no point pretending to have table manners now.”

Logan just hmphed but his shoulders relaxed slightly and Roman decided to take that as a victory. “We should get going” Roman said and started walking, Logan easily falling into step beside him.

The streets were crowded enough that none of the sellers seemed to feel the need to call to Roman specifically, and so this time he was free to investigate the stalls he was actually interested in.

But instead he stayed by Logan's side

Logan was a good friend. For all he claimed to lack an understating of emotional nuances he was letting Roman have his space. He’d even distracted him earlier, when his biggest concern had been the a spike of homesickness after meeting their northern customer.

He was nothing like Julius.

Roman was going to miss him so much.

***

Roman kept up his performance of normality all the way back to the main square, where they had agreed to meet the others once their mission was done. The sky was beginning to turn dark by the time they got there, though it was easy enough to navigate from the sheer number of stalls still in operation, each one boasting its own selection of colourful lanterns.

“This is fantastic!” Roman gasped theoretically, spinning on one foot to take in the whole spectacle.

“It’s a fire hazard.” Logan muttered with a frown.

They found Virgil waiting for them by the central fountain. He had manged to find a seat on the fountains edge but was wedged between two young couples who had clearly taken the romantic festival atmosphere to heart. The healer’s shoulders were up by his ears and his cloak was wrapped so tightly around himself it looked constricting. When he saw them he sprang to his feet so quickly he almost knocked one of the young ladies into the water.

“Took you two long enough.”

Roman and Logan glanced at each other.

“Logan got lost-”

“Roman kept wandering off.”

“-We brought you baked goods!”

Virgil took one of the two remaining pastries with minimal grumbling and led them out of the square. They took the north east road, a path that curved its wary upwards into the higher levels of the city. Here the buildings were all built of a blush-pink marble that sparkled in the evening twilight. The streets were wide, with neatly arranged flowerbeds and street lights which had the steady glow of Arkazeii glow lamps rather than the flicker of oil. There were certainly no traders spread out on blankets. Logan looked distinctly unimpressed.

“Was this inn you found an…economical choice?”

“It was a ‘the whole town’s rammed and this was the only place with a room left’ choice.” Virgil snarked “and don’t worry – its one room for all four of us with no breakfast included, if you were worried about getting too… bourgeoisie…or whatever."

Logan raised his hands for peace.

“I’m sure you did the best you could.”

“Well …we were lucky.” Virgil told him, and then glanced over at Roman, his lip twitching.

“Apparently they give discounts to performers.”

***

The inn was certainly a cut above their normal haunts. With brightly painted walls almost obscured by well pruned climbing plants, outdoor seating, and a wrought iron gate leading to spacious stables behind the building. Even the doors were of better quality then your typical village tavern – made of wood heavy enough to make a satisfying crash when Roman stormed in.

The room was crowded, but Patton really was hard to miss. Roman shoved his way through to the back table where the big man sat waiting. Leaving other customers cursing in his wake.

‘Hey kiddo!’ Patton greeted him with a wide smile “Did you-“

“Key.” Roman snarled.

Patron blinked and him, shock writ large on his face. “Sorry?”

“The key. To my room. Give it.” Roman snapped. “It is mine right? Since you seem happy to pimp me out in exchange for-“

“Hey!” That would be Virgil. Roman half thought he had left both men behind in his rage after Virgil’s little announcement, but the elf at least seemed to have kept up. He’d reached the table just in time to hear the start of Roman’s rant. “What the hell is your problem Princey?”

“My problem? Oh I’m sorry, I’M not the one signing other people up to sing for their supper without permission Virgil.”

“You like singing for your – we thought you’d want to!”

“Well it would have been nice to have a choice!”

“Virgil. Roman.” That was Logan, it had taken longer for the shorter man to force his way through the crowd but he wasted no time now in inserting himself into Romans business. “whatever this is… it’s not about putting on a show.”

He turned to the other two. Virgil scowling, Patton wide eyed.

“He had an…episode in the market.”

“Excuse me?” Roman shouted.

“Roman, whatever disturbed you, you practically ran away.”

“Well perhaps I had simple grown tired of looking at your face? Had you considered that?”

He turned his back to Logan, rounding on Patton again: “Now, give me the-“

Patton already had his hand out, wrought iron key resting loosely in his palm.

“We’re on the fourth floor.” he said calmly as Roman snatched it from him. “First door once you get up the stairs.” Roman spun on his heel only to find Virgil blocking his path.

“Move.” Roman hissed.

“What is wrong with you?” Roman narrowed his eyes. Virgil looked angry. Looked one second away from telling him to sit down, shut up, stop causing a fuss. He wondered if he could get past him without using his sword.

“I’ll bring you up some food in a bit,” Roman blinked glancing back at Patton, startled. The warrior still hadn’t moved from the table - admittedly no easy task in the cramped corner- and was looking at him calmly.

“I don’t want anything” Roman muttered, sullen.

“But you might later.” Patton smiled at him. Not knowing how to respond Roman turned back to Virgil. The elf glanced between the two, chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, before sighing and stepping to the side. Not fast enough to prevent Roman from knocking his shoulder with his own as he pushed past however.

It wasn’t as satisfying as he hoped.

At a guess, the room was normally meant for storage not guests. Two rickety looking beds had been shoved in, so close together they might as well have been one. There was one small table forced between the end of one bed and the wall, with a basin of water perched on top. Someone, presumably Patton, had organised their bags neatly at the end of the beds. Roman’s was at the far end, closest to the window. Then Patton, then Virgil with Logan closest to the door, next to the only built in shelf where a candle had been left for the night. Roman would be able to wake with the dawn, as he liked to do, and Logan would have light for the longest to stay up and read.

Romans lute was not on the floor with his pack. Instead he found in had been placed on the bed itself, propped up on his pillow, away from any potential harm.

Whatever righteous anger he had been able to hang on too as he stomped upstairs dropped out of him now like a stone from a cliff. Without it, the despair he had felt in the market came rushing back. He sank down right there by the door, bringing his knees up to his chest as he’d done in the forest. As he used to do in Julius’ room.

He almost wished Julius was here – at least he would tell him not to cry.

The through was so absurd he let out a weak snotty laugh and buried his head in his arms.

He needed to leave Steveange.

He didn’t want to leave them.

But they had planned to stay for a week at least, hopefully longer.

Convince them to leave early? Except he couldn’t explain why. Find them a job out of the city? How? When the coronation and accompanying celebrations were over it would be easy enough to find a traveling group in need of a little extra protection, but for now no one was leaving.

They’d been excited to come. Virgil want to try the city baths, famed for their heated pools and soothing water. Logan had been talking about the library for half the trip. Patton was just excited to explore the city itself, meet the people and try the food. He loved when they stopped in busier towns but it was a rarity.

There was no way Roman would be able to convince them to leave just because he wanted to.

Roman did what other people wanted. It was all he knew how to do.

And even if he had a convincing reason…well, they probably didn’t want him around anymore anyway.

He scrambled up, grabbed the first pillow he could reach and buried his face in it to muffle a scream of frustration which turned into more sobs.

He was so pathetic.

Since he’d left home, he’d kept his memories, kept Romulus, buried as deep as he could. But now it was like Romulus was just under his skin. Ready to jump out If he let himself slip. With all his anger and hurt and fear.

Romulus was a liability.

Romulus was a murder. Or would be. If Roman couldn’t think.

He stepped over to his pack, still hugging the pillow to him like a teddy bear, and started to review the contents. He didn’t need to take all of this with him, surely? Half of it wasn’t even his, their belongings having become more and more intertwined the longer they travelled.

The healing salve was rightfully Virgil’s, the soft shirt he wrapped himself in during cold nights was actually Patton’s, at least one of the notebooks belonged to Logan.

He opened the nearest book to check, but instead of Logan's neat lists his own sloppy scrawl stared back at him. Song lyrics and passing thoughts and, on the next page, an unfinished sketch. It was of Virgil, hand covering his mouth but eyes betraying his laughter. The other pages, he knew contained scribbles of all three of them. He flicked back and found his favourite, the page marked with a yellowed leaf he couldn’t remember picking up.

It showed all three in one sketch. Logan, sleeping and so looking years younger, head pillowed on Virgil’s thigh. Virgil was turned towards Patton, rolling his eyes as if to say ‘can you believe this?’ but making no move to actually shift scholar off him. Patton was laughing, he was the most well rendered of the three figures, you could almost see his shoulders shaking.

Roman looked at it for a moment. Then slowly replaced the book mark and closed it. This would have to come with him.

A knock at the door startled him so badly he dropped the book, which bounced under the bed.

“Kiddo? Can I come it?”

Fuck.

Patton. He had -he had been so, so unbelievably rude to Patton.

His first instinct, which was admittedly not a good one, was to jump out of the window.

Roman took a deep breath. Focusing on the mundane task of sorting items had cleared his head somewhat. He was still a little shaky but his eyes were dry. He knew what would be expected of him now - Romulus had spent most of his life apologising.

“Come in.” he croaked and stood, squaring his shoulders.

Patton entered alone, two bowls of something that smelled delicious cradled in his arms.

Roman ignored the sudden spike of hunger – the fruit tart seemed a long time ago now- and bowed from the waist. He kept his back ramrod straight and bent low enough that it quickly became uncomfortable. It was the kind of bow Romulus would only have given his father or elder brother.

“Patton, I owe you my most humble apology I-“

“Roman I am so sorry.”

“The way I spoke to you was the height of disrespect and unprin- ungentlemanly behaviour I – wait, what?”

He straightened up and looked at Patton, confused. “Why are you sorry?”

“Roman, I – wait hold on.” Patton handed him one of the bowls and turned to close the door. “Do you mind if we sit?” he asked and Roman nodded, smiling despite himself. Patton was the politest person he had ever met.

Once they were both seated, Patton’s bad leg stretched out in front of him, Patton looked at him seriously.

“Roman you were right downstairs. We should never have promised you’d perform without asking you first - no it's true!”

But Roman was already shaking his head. “Patton you were fine, you know I love singing! I was the one acting like, like some sort of beast I-“

“I know you love singing but that doesn’t mean we get to pick and choose when-“

“But I wanted to perform as much as possible whilst we were here- I’d told you that!”

“-especially after travelling all week. We were, er, presumptuous.”

Roman stared at him.

“Unlike this soup, which is pre – scrumptious.”

Patton beamed at him. Roman groaned.

“Anyway I’m sorry for letting you stew-“ he held up the bowl again waggling his eyebrows “- up here for so long, but we needed to make things right with the landlord.”

Roman, who had been starting to relax under the force of two puns in a row, tensed again. “What things?”

Patton smiled. “We paid the difference – you don’t have to perform! Uhh unless you want to of course, but it’s your choice.” He nodded decisively whilst Roman gaped.

“b-but isn’t it expensive?”

Patton just shrugged, “Well, the last job paid well didn’t it?”

“Not that well!”

“Aw c’mon kiddo, what’s the point of having money if we don’t spend it? Right?”

Not knowing what to say. Roman shoved a spoonful of stew into his mouth without tasting it. Guilt turning the meal to ash.

“Patton…how many days did you pay for?”

“The rest of the week! And there’s still enough to have some fun at the markets, don’t worry, we can all have a – hey!” Patton put his bowl down, shuffling closer to put one warm hand on Roman’s knee.” Roman, hey kiddo, buddy what’s wrong?”

Roman found, quite to his surprise, that he was trembling. He followed Patton's example and put the bowl carefully on the floor before digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I…can’t Pat. I can’t stay here. I have to go.”

“Go?” Patton looked at him with confusion clear in his big brown eyes, “But why kiddo? You don’t like the inn?”

Roman groaned shaking his head “not the inn. The city. I’m not – I can’t – if ‘m here it- “ he let out a whine of frustration, hating his curse heavy tongue.

Never tell anyone about our conversation.

“I just-“ My brother is coming and if I see him I-

“If – “ my brother is coming and he won’t be alone. There are people who know who I really am and I –

“Okay.”

Romans head snapped up.

Patton still had a frown on his face but when he looked at Roman his eyes were as serious as Roman had ever seen them. “If you can’t tell me the details it’s fine but-“ he lent forward, “Roman, are you safe here?”

Without breathing, Roman shook his head. No.

Patton nodded and squeezed his knee. “Well then of course we’re not staying.” Hesitantly, he lifted his arm and rested one large hand on the back of Romans neck. Forcing their eyes to meet. “Whatever it is – we will help you. You know that don’t you?”

Embarrassingly, Roman felt his eyes filling with tears.

“We’ll leave in the morning.” Patton told him. Patton stood up, taking Romans congealing stew and his own empty bowl and headed to the door. He paused, one hand on the door handle. “Everything’s going to be okay kiddo.” he smiled, “We love you.”

And he was gone.

For a long moment Roman sat frozen, staring at the closed door.

“Yeah.” He agreed, eventually. “Right.”

Except. They didn’t. Not really.

They loved Roman.

Roman had screamed and insulted them and instead of kicking him out of their group like they had every right to do, they had given up what little money they had just to make Roman feel better.

And Roman was a lie.

Roman was Romulus with a bad haircut. And Romulus was everything they weren’t’ – a stupid, pampered, prince with no power or pride.

Patton might be willing to upheaval their lives just on Roman's say so, But Logan and Virgil were more practically minded. They would want explanations. Might even demand them.

Never tell anyone about your curse. Remove yourself from anyone who might ask you about it and put as much distance between you as you can.

Romulus was a liability.

One they shouldn’t have to deal with.

He strapped his lute to his back and secured his dagger in a hidden pocket that Virgil had taught him how to sow. Everything else he left, including, after a moments hesitation, his sword. He had been training Logan to use it, on and off, and whilst the scholar was no solider he was improving. At the very least, it would be some source of protection until they could hire another swordhand for their travels.

The climbing plants he had noticed on the way in made getting down from the window much easier than he had originally anticipated. Dusting off his hands he skirted the building, taking care to avoid the large windows of the main hall, until he found the entrance to the the stables.

He wasn’t proud of it, but he had stolen before when he first left home. He would have to again now in order to put some distance between the city and himself.

It wasn’t his worst plan.

And it might even have worked, had they not already been waiting for him.

When Romulus was eleven, and had taken to following the young Marquis de Orenlla around like a love sick puppy. Even now, under the weak light of a covered lantern and with almost fifteen years distance from the memories, he still recognised him instantly.

“Good evening, your highness.” The Marquis smile was as dazzling as he remembered, although his eyes were colder.

He had no army with him, and no weapon that Roman could see. But then, why would he need one?

“Come with me.”

Roman went.

part 4

#sanders sides #sanders sides fic #roman sanders #logan sanders #patton sanders #creativitwins #this chapter is just #roman having an extended panic and making piss poor decisions #but also having great friends #alas #sidespart writes #TS: Fall of Romulus

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therealjammy · 3 years

Text

The Lady of Half-Death

Hi, hello, posting this here for the Tumblr crowd, in case you don’t feel like venturing to Ao3.

This work’s alternate title: “Lucky One”

Content Warnings: Very NSFW, a brief but graphic depiction of violence. (This work is meant for 18+ only!)

It’s also told in first person POV, the Forbidden Perspective, so sorry if that’s not your jam.... Thank you for reading xx

November, 1937

On a bitter November day, early in the morning, I was roused by the tinkling of the bell hanging beside my bed. Being Mother Miranda’s most competent servant, I was long used to a summons during the small hours of the dark. She was night’s creature, bent over her studies and her subjects until a bitter sun lit the sky, almost unaware of time’s passage, while her servants kept in perfect time with every striking hour. I splashed sleep from my features with bitterly cold water from the basin on my dresser and wrapped myself in my warmest robe. I lit a candelabra, savoring its small warmth as I donned my silver mask. It had frightened me at first, how the servants wore these metal things elongated into an elegantly startling bird’s beak, but when serving the Lady of Ravens, one had to know to whom they pledged their loyalty, both inside and outside the house’s grounds. Though the metal was light, it still made one’s head ache after only a few minutes of wear, and was a constant irritation after many hours. But like a pain that was more a nuisance than anything, it was easily set aside.

I walked quickly through dark hallways and creaking staircases, passing through rooms whose furniture was covered in sheets and rooms whose contents were not. Each was quiet as the long-dead.

The doors to the laboratory opened on soundless hinges. Inside, there was only a spotlight on the latest occupied table and the stoic figure of Mother Miranda leaning over it, her hands coated in deep crimson, her subject unmoving. Her face was drawn into a deep, displeasured frown.

“What may I bring you, ma’am?” I asked carefully.

“Tea, Trudy,” replied Mother Miranda. By the ancient tiredness in her voice, I knew the kind I ought to fetch.

Staying true to her grief, Mother Miranda had a fondness for black tea, steeped for five minutes to be strong, made stronger with a dollop of Sanguis Virginis, a sweet but robust red wine made by Lady Dimitrescu. She kept the largest bottle for herself, but sent a smaller one to Mother Miranda every winter. The bottle was red and adorned with golden flowers crawling up its sides.

By the time I brought the fresh tea to her, Mother Miranda’s hands were washed of blood, and the subject on the table was covered with a white sheet, slowly turning scarlet. I set the teacup and candelabra beside her and gave a professional distance.

“The nature of science,” Mother Miranda said, picking up the teacup, “is to fail again and again.” She held it delicately. There was rage underneath that delicacy. “Every vessel thus far has been unfit, even if it’s accepted the Cadou, and with each unfit one I feel as if I am losing her more.”

“You might feel like Tantalus, ma’am,” I said after a pause, “with your goals evading your grasp, but I rather think you must be like Orpheus.”

“Attempt until death,” she murmured. “Yes, child, I believe you’re right.” A long sip of tea. Underneath her golden mask, her pink lips turned a deep red. She set the cup gently in its saucer and rose from her chair, black robes shuffling quietly. “Come. Let us begin anew.”

I lifted the mutilated subject from the table, wrapping the sheet about her carefully, and carried her fresh limpness to the courtyard with the others. Her cooling blood seeped from the sheet and onto my robes, and it dripped onto the bricks and my feet, leaving a sticky trail. It was cloying, but it was a sweet perfume compared to the rich decay that wafted from the courtyard’s cold soil. In the dark, I saw there was already a space made for her. I lay her carefully in it. A good sacrifice deserved gentleness once the deed was done, after all. In that sense, I was more merciful than Mother Miranda. Once a body was no longer of use, she would carry it out herself and toss them hastily aside, for only one body mattered above the rest.

“In life and in death,” I said over the grave, “we give glory to Mother Miranda.”

I sprinkled a handful of dirt over the covered girl and left her to the bitter, near-winter air.

Inside again, I scrubbed the table twice with soapy water and dried it thoroughly. I lit more candles, placing them around the table’s edges, away from the notes that Mother Miranda spread across the surface. While she organized them, I brewed another pot of tea, bringing it and the gifted bottle of Sanguis Virginis with me. When I had poured my own cup, Mother Miranda gestured to the wine. Pour that in, too. I obeyed without question. Grey eyes watched me drink, unchanging even when I made no face at the taste of wine and blood mixing with strong black tea. I’d learned long ago that reactions caused reactions. I remained impassive, though my stomach still curdled and rebelled at the taste of the sinful wine. To the others—Mother Miranda and Lady Dimitrescu— the wine was a sweet and prized possession. If ever it was sold, it would be incredibly expensive.

I brought a chair and perched myself next to Mother Miranda. It was always a thrill to be at her side, to study her volumes of notes and drawings and glimpse the way her mind worked. But more than that, I cherished the nights like this, when it was only the two of us. I enjoyed her company. I desired more of it, because I desired her. At times I believed she knew this, but then she would dismiss me so easily, brush by without a care, and I’d question if she knew at all.

Attraction, I reminded myself, was a science, too, and like an experiment gone horribly wrong, it was best if one didn’t share the results.

I cleared my throat and straightened in my chair. “We should begin where this one failed,” I said. “Pinpoint a reason, compare it to the rest.”

We pored over notes for hours, comparing observations, Mother Miranda writing furiously in her looping scrawl underneath a page titled Quinn. The candles burned low, and the sky lightened outside the laboratory’s several windows, revealing a cold, white-filled dawn.

“The conclusion is painfully obvious,” Mother Miranda sighed at last, pushing her nearly empty teacup aside. It’d turned cold hours ago. “I must find a truly unique vessel. The village is rotting with diluted blood and therefore cannot be used again. Three of the Lords—those children!—were ones I found outside. Diluted in other ways, perhaps, but strong enough.”

“Yet you declared them all unfit,” I remarked.

“Because they were too much,” Mother Miranda said stiffly, “and the rest have been too little. They served their miserable purpose and now I must find yet another clean slate! And to think I’d chosen so carefully…” A hand curled into a fist, clenched improperly due to taloned fingertips.

“Send me to the field, Mother Miranda,” I said. “I will search for you.” But it was the wrong thing to say, for her other hand darted quickly out and knocked her teacup and saucer from the table. They shattered on the floor, black-red tea pooling around their remains.

“Do not be dim, child; it cannot be done by you. It must be me.” She paused for a long moment, coming back to herself with a single, sharp shake of her head. “Please,” Mother Miranda said around a breath, “forgive my outburst.” She moved smoothly to the shattered teacup just as I did. We knelt out of time but reached for the same piece, her gold-plated fingers brushing my bare ones, sending a brief, hot shock through my being that ended in my chest.

“You need never ask my forgiveness, Mother Miranda,” I said, slowly withdrawing my hand and reaching for a different piece. “A woman in grief doesn’t know her own actions.” And it was her grief, I thought then, that made my heart ache for her. That made everyone’s hearts ache for her. Mother lost a child, they’d say. No greater tragedy exists. We must be kind.

“Grief is some people’s undoing,” Mother Miranda said. She had stopped picking up shards of teacup, a few pieces cradled in a hand. Her gaze was on the puddle of bloody, wine-soaked tea. “It festers like a splinter left in too long, or a piece of metal unable to be dislodged, and it consumes, until its host perishes with it. I’ve known it for many stretches, but rather than give myself to despair, I have chosen determination; for the parasite cannot fully live while its host fights it. So fight I must.”

Her face was a pale reflection on the tea’s surface.

II.

The next morning, a snowy one, Mother Miranda went for a walk. In her absence, her rule passed to me, and then to the Head Housemaid Vera, a stout older woman who kept the other servants in strict line. I was, however, only consulted for advice or for orders. Other than that, I was blessedly alone, a spectre haunting the laboratory while I organized Mother Miranda’s notes and gave into my own musings, letting my mind take up the cluttered space. Many things ran through it: thoughts of my former life, of the people I’d once seen and never would again, and if I followed that line, I knew exactly how I’d come to be here. Sitting alone in a tepid laboratory, surrounded by paper, rotting with attraction.

It’d been there from the beginning, for there was always attraction to a leader, and many reasons behind it. People were attracted to safety and to comfort, to promises and protection, but highest of all, a deity that preached all the above. People backed off their words more often than they gave in to them, but a deity never would; their word was given and kept. It was learned, it was ingrained, and so like everyone else, I held that same attraction. I gazed upon the same likenesses of Mother Miranda and prayed for protection, for strength. I prayed to one day work for her—the highest blessing of all!—and that prayer was answered. She came to my door in all her godly glory and the paintings held no candle to her real beauty.

The attraction molted once I’d begun to work for her properly. She was aloof and cruel and methodical, but there was talent and beauty, too, and soon enough I began to realize there was a person underneath the deity. And it was the person whom I thought of, now, wondering where her walk was taking her, who she was talking to, what she was thinking. I imagined her underneath a cold white sky, ashy flakes of snow sticking to her black robes and veil, the harsh, mountainous landscape reflecting her own desolation back at her.

I thought, as I filed the last of the notes away, that I would make her return easier. Oftentimes her walks changed her mood; one never knew the sort she’d bear when she walked through the doors. It could be the silent sort of rage, during which she’d seal the doors of her laboratory shut and refuse to emerge for days, or the one where she’d return with a deadly ice in her eyes and drag the nearest servant by the wrist to her chambers. Sometimes they’d be alive and shuffle from the room with their clothes barely on; other times there was an unfortunate mess to clear away.

During my luncheon, I called Vera to me and ordered the most frequented rooms be given a thorough cleaning, excluding the laboratory and Mother Miranda’s bathroom.

“And her dinner?” asked Vera, once she’d given the orders to four maids. “Something comforting, I assume, as the latest loss is still ripe in the courtyard.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “A shepherd’s pie with marmite in the gravy, and the bottle of Sanguis Virginis.”

“Very good, Miss Bevan.” Vera bowed her head and left.

I went over the bathroom myself, being careful to put every object in its proper place. I drew a bath, the water unbearably hot, but by the time Mother Miranda returned, it would be perfect.

I loitered for a long while in the bathroom’s silence, sat on the chessboard floor, gazing out the window to the snow-covered hills, the occasional drip, drip of the tub’s taps serenading me into a trance, filled with visions of blonde hair and grey-blue eyes and impeccable hands.

I wasn’t the first to think of her in this light. Far from it. Worship came in many forms, after all, and many people fell to this one. Except mine was to the woman I knew, not to the idol emblazoned on a shrine dangling from a peeling wall.

Unable to think of nothing but the bathroom’s suddenly stifling heat and the absent Mother Miranda, I left, unaware of where I was going until I collapsed on the chair I’d occupied earlier, everything about me aching for someone who saw me only as a servant in high regard—but a servant nonetheless. The fact, I thought, unbuttoning my uniform enough to feel cool air caress my chest, made me desire her all the more.

I propped a shoed foot on the seat’s corner to give myself better access and began my pleasure gently, my head falling against the back of the chair once the rhythm was established, my free hand indecisive on where it wanted to stay—a breast, the chair’s edge, the table; at least until my mind offered me a vision of Mother Miranda ordering me, from between my thighs, to keep it planted firmly on the chair’s edge. There it stayed while my other moved, and behind my closed eyes I saw a skilled tongue working me up, teasing, licking slowly as if to claim ownership to even that part of me; I saw intense eyes meeting my own, telling me to give myself over; in my mind I whispered my glory to her. I twitched erratically, my movements almost clumsy; a few moments more and I’d be tumbling into the blissful void—or would have, had I not heard the door open and the familiar, near-silent movement of the woman living in my head.

The silence that beat between us lasted only a moment and yet it felt like centuries. Mother Miranda’s eyes narrowed to deadly slits, and before I could manage to stumble out an explanation, she strode to me in five heavy steps.

“You dare defile this space with your musings?” Mother Miranda hissed, her grip on my wrist vicelike. “Do you not know how ill I find this gesture? How ill it makes me to think you care naught for the meaning of this room?” Claws slashed at my cheek, the first sting of it only surprise at first; it burned when I realized she’d cut flesh. I felt blood welling, but I could not bring a hand up to staunch its flow. Nor could I staunch the fresh wave of heat that pooled in my core at Mother Miranda’s fury. Cold eyes darted from my still-wet hand to my face. Mother Miranda scoffed, roughly releasing my wrist. “Attraction is a damned wicked creature,” she said. “It morphs perspective and thought. It makes one act rashly, makes one believe they’re subtle. You think I’ve not seen your lingering gazes, child? How you bask in my company the way you would underneath the sun? How you are afraid of my rage but it arouses you all the same?” She chuckled lightly, dragging gold-tipped fingers over my cheek, the metal blessedly cool against my heated skin. Having spent so much time in close quarters with this woman, I was no longer terrified by the talons. Their scraping made the coil in my belly curl tighter, and if she were to slip bare fingers against me, she would find me all too ready for her. I met her eyes with a steely look of my own, hoping she wouldn’t see shame, but Mother Miranda was wise in ways I couldn’t fathom. She saw through people as if they were cheesecloth.

She hummed, fingers roving lower, tracing my pulse hammering in my throat. “Is there any shame about you, Trudy? I should think so, as you are not my equal.” Moving lower still, to the buttons I hadn’t undone, hovering like she wished to tear them—and perhaps she did, for her hand gave a small twitch. “I am higher than you will ever be, yet you stand here, gazing at me so defiantly, trembling with your want of me… Do you think it will make you rise to my level?”

Her words were fog clouding the forests of my brain. I could think of nothing but how I wanted to serve her, to fall to my knees and pledge fealty, even if it was sworn with her hand guiding my mouth between her thighs. I said, “No, Mother Miranda.”

“No, indeed. But,” a taloned thumb slid over my lower lip, “it’ll bring me pleasure to see you try.”

When she kissed me, it was with a slowness that one could believe was care, but I sensed the possession. I opened my mouth to it, leaned into it, every nerve alight at the thrill of kissing someone I had once dreamed of serving under. Her hands drew me close to her, splaying across my back, bunching up my uniform, and her kisses became rougher, filled with need. I met every one with a need of my own, my shaking fingers undoing the rest of the buttons down my front. The movement caught Mother Miranda’s eye; she pulled back, her gaze intense, the color high in her cheeks, watching intently as the top half of my uniform parted and revealed bare skin. She reached out, two fingers gliding smoothly over my collarbones, my sternum, tracing the swell of a breast; gooseflesh rose in the touches’ wake, and my breathing trembled.

“You are practically untouched,” Mother Miranda said quietly. There was, to her, no greater sin than a specimen that remained unstudied and uncatalogued.

“Only practically, Mother Miranda,” I returned.

She leaned down, burying her face against my bloodied neck. Lips pressed softly, tongue lapping slowly— tasting me. “Have you not known love?” she said. “Or devotion?”

“Fleetingly.” There was the blacksmith, Cristian, in whose strong arms I felt safe. There was Tatiana, who made me feel at peace even after our desperate acts. But with this life, they were fleeting. To serve one of the Lords or Mother Miranda herself, it was until death. “The only devotion I know,” I continued, my voice growing thinner the lower her mouth travelled, “is to you.”

Mother Miranda hummed against my chest. “You worshipped well, then, Trudy,” she said, rising, taking my chin between two fingers and tilting my face up to hers, “but what of now? How shall you prove your worth to me?”

I grasped her unoccupied hand and pressed it against my breast, holding it there. I wanted her to feel it, to feel my heart underneath it, to know she could reach in and take it because I offered it to her. “Take what you will,” I said.

What was left of her resolve crumbled. Mother Miranda swept me into her arms with a low growl, lifting me as easily as she would a child and setting me hastily onto the table we’d cleaned the night before. Impatient fingers worked the rest of my clothes away. She tossed them aside and pressed me into the cold wood, impossibly dark eyes drinking me in, lingering on my neck, my breasts, my thighs. Places I hoped she would kiss. Places she did, in that order, her mouth untamed, leaving harsh love-marks behind. Throughout that act, she didn’t once touch me; I was strung so tightly that even one finger tracing me would’ve been my undoing. It was a sort of torturous study, I realized, clamping my tongue between my teeth when it nearly made me beg for release; she was seeing me as a case, testing my own resolve. How long could she make me wait before I begged forgiveness? Time ceased to exist. I could not tell how long she made me hang.

When she finally did touch me, I was relieved. Instead of a sigh, a long whimper escaped my mouth. Mother Miranda groaned in response, her fingers twitching and pausing against me, surprised at the slick want they found. Her second touch was heavier, more confident. My hands couldn’t help but cling to the back of her neck, which was covered by a thick cotton veil. I realized I’d touched her without her consent, but when I made to pull away, her free hand came to rest over both of mine, and together we slid the veil from her head.

Blonde hair, a darker gold in the dim light of the laboratory, fanned around her face, gracing my bare forearms, soft as silk. Without the veil, it was tantamount to seeing her naked.

“Cling to me,” Mother Miranda breathed.

It was as much permission as I was going to receive.

I buried my hands in her hair and leaned up to kiss her. I accepted her tongue when it slipped between my teeth. I opened for her when, at last, she slid fingers inside me.

And when she truly took me, she devoured me, sprinkling evidence of her use across any expanse of skin she could reach, uncaring if teeth dug in too much, if my back was rubbed raw from the wooden table, if her golden talons left angry scratches. I clung harshly to her during my crisis, my cries only winding her further, for when I was barely limp, she withdrew entirely and carried me to her own chamber. Deposited on her bed, I watched through bliss-filled eyes as she undressed.

Black robes pooled at her feet. In the blue-white moonlight, she was harshly ethereal. Everything about her seemed to glow, including her eyes. And sprouting from her back were five pairs of midnight wings. I wanted to catalogue it as a dream, a delusion caused by a mind still recovering from an intense crisis, but the wings, like Mother Miranda’s arms and legs, were very much a part of her.

“Look while you can,” she said. “Commit it to memory, for true revelations are rarely given so freely.”

She stood for study, allowing me to take in every inch. My eyes lingered where hers had lingered on me.

“Do you reject me, Trudy?” she questioned softly.

“No, Mother Miranda,” I replied. I offered her my hand. “I’d fall to my knees in prayer if I were not otherwise occupied.”

She accepted my hand and leaned over me on her bed, naked and otherworldly, and in my long, exquisite worship of her, I met death eye to eye and thought there would never be another equal.

#resident evil #resident evil village #fanfic #mother miranda #mother miranda x oc #mother miranda x reader

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suicidalslasher · 3 years

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forever & always. ➤ tom. h.

Happy Valentine’s Day~!!! I couldn’t contain myself and or stop myself from writing about my favorite Valentine’s day killer. So, here you go :)

WARNING: descriptions of gore and blood. in this one-shot, the reader’s pronouns are she&her. i might make a part two of this, depending on how well it does. maybe not. i like how it ends, regardless. either way. enjoy.

The news spread like wildfire. No matter which way you went, there was always a flame, reaching out towards those to burn. Try as you may, you can't get away. The words that littered the air was nothing more than burnt ashes fluttering around, burning each object as it flies above said thing or said person. In this case, the people of a small town called Valentine Bluffs were the ones burning from the inside and out. They felt trapped within the smoke, unable to seek out which way to escape the dangers that had followed. The terror; the trauma; the panic and anxiety attacks; All of it - they thought it was long gone.... they were finally going back to being normal, how things used to be.

They were going back to a life that wasn't full of fear, having to look behind your shoulder constantly and being careful of who you trust. It was all going to be okay, happy once more. They'd finally be able to celebrate their favorite day once again. But... as you may have guessed, it's not quite easy to put out a rapid wildfire. All it takes is a small fire to expand out into something bigger, bolder, and scarier. You can't escape the flames. No matter how big or small. You cannot ignore the overwhelming burning sensation that glazes across your skin as the fire around you grows larger, making you feel smaller and smaller by the second. The words, however, the statement that was fluttering around like specks of ash, wasn't at all a sentence (nor an actual fire) but a name - Harry Warden. 1997. Valentine's day. Everybody, in & out of town, knows what happened. For a brief period of time there, nobody celebrated Valentine's day, having thought it out to be cursed. Yet, as time went on, there was no sign of Harry Warden. No copy cat killer version of him, neither. So, the people went back to celebrating. Writing hand written love letters, buying cheaply made cards at the local supermarket, buying and or receiving overly priced chocolates. Anything, everything, people did it with love in their hearts and a smile on their face. Today was Valentine's Day, once more. Expect it wasn't the way it had been for the past 9 years. It was exactly like the day in 1997. History was repeating itself. Instead of love, presents, and reserved dinner dates being celebrated and shared, the town of Valentine Bluffs got decomposed, rotting corpses, instead. Blood scattered outside and inside of buildings.

It was worse than before, more bodies were showing up without their hearts and the missing body piece would be found neatly placed in between a plastic heart shaped box. All of which would be sent to the police station as a joke, as a threat. Even a card would be taped on top or under the container, though the sentences were far from cheerful and loveable. A few of them had been thrown aside, only having been read once. Those who opened it and read it aloud usually found themselves cringing in dismay as they read the paragraph out loud all while shifting around in their seat, uncomfortably.

Once they read it, they shook their heads as tears welled up in their eyes before they threw it into the trash bin or ripped it into hundreds of tiny pieces, not daring to open another letter that's brought in. Evidence or not, the workers couldn't keep their breakfast or lunch down when they'd read the cards. The recent two cards had said; From the heart comes a warning, filled with bloody good cheer, remember what happened as the 14th draws near! And the last victim, a girl named Maryanne Anderson, had gotten a card right before she was found dead, her body laying in a ditch to rot. Her card had read; Roses are red, violets are blue, one is dead, and so are you. Nobody knew who the new killer was, or if it even was a new killer, copying Harry's schemes and following in his footsteps. It could have very well been the same man all those years ago. That's what they were saying. (Y/N) (L/N) was in her car, driving back home from work when her favorite song had been replaced with an alarm, cutting off her favorite part. "Oh, c'mon!" She groaned, hands hitting the steering wheel in annoyance before she goes to turn up the volume anyways, wondering what's so important that the town and the police station had to turn off her favorite song.

She knew about the murders, she knew there was a serial killer around, she already knew this already. And yes, she was petrified, as most people were. When the first body showed up, the mayor of town announced there'd be a curfew until they found out who is doing all of this. Whether it was one person or more, they'd find a way to capture the killer. No matter what. There was not going to be another murder.

(Of course, there was more.)

(The original curfew was getting home at 9:30. Now, it had gone down and you'd have to be indoors, at your house, by 6:30 PM.) Students in school would get out earlier, as well as the adults in town. The only ones who didn't get to go home so early in the day were those who were trying to protect the people of Valentine Bluffs. "We are sorry to interrupt that song there," came the radio host's deep and groggy voice. "However, this is more important than your favorite throwback jams. I've gotten an officer here with me, he had just shown up not even a second ago to tell us more news on the situation we are currently in. So, please, listen carefully." "Yeah, whatever. I already know what's going on. Tell me something I don't know." (Y/N) turns off the radio as she pulls up in her driveway, feeling a sense of comfort clouding over her, another day, she's okay; safe and sound, unlike a few of her old high school friends that were gutted like fish and butchered like pigs.

She shivers at both the bitter and harsh wind brushing against her as she steps out of her vehicle and the obvious visual of whatever masked man (or men) that's around, killing innocent people for whatever given reason. Hurrying along the steps to her porch, she digs her keys out of her jacket pocket, finding them within seconds before she's pushing them into the door as quickly as she could. She didn't show it, tried not to show it, but she was as anxious and paranoid as everyone else was.

(Y/N) was trying to hold back her fear but the moment she gets home, locking all the doors and windows, the uneasy feelings creep up on her and every negative emotion takes charge. With a sigh, she falls down onto the couch with a plop, reaching for the remote, she turns on the TV, attempting to try and get her mind off of things. Of course, every station wasn't what she wanted to watch, the news replacing every channel. She skipped and skipped but it all remained the exact same. With a groan, she decides to listen to what they were saying, even though she really didn't want to hear it as it'd only make her anxiety worse. "I am Jonathan Godfrey. We're sorry to interrupt your daily scheduled programs, however, a man you may know as Tom Hanniger has escaped from his stay from a mental hospital." (Y/N)'s eyes nearly budge out of her head at the mention of the man's name, the remote she had in the palm of her hand goes flying, falling down onto the ground by her feet. Tom? Mental hospital? It didn't make any sense! Everyone... including her, thought he was dead! She, with shaky fingers, grabs the remote to turn the volume up. Jonathan's own eyes were wide as he read the teleprompter, his voice now grew shaky as he spoke. Fear was written across both his and his co-worker’s face. "Unfortunately, we don't have any more information or news as to where he's escaped off to. Or where he may be as of the moment. All the reports, every last piece of information we have been received has said he's been missing since two days ago. He can be anywhere. More importantly, he can be here, hiding out." His voice trembled as he spoke, it was also very faint - almost ghostly. Quiet as a mouse. His skin was pale, making it appear as if he was a ghost rather than a living person that sat in the chair there.

Jonathan couldn't continue, this much was obvious, therefore his co-host, Abigail Miller, continued where he had left off. "This being said, please, lock the doors and windows of your home. If you have a weapon to guard your own life and protect your ground, get it out now. Please, protect yourself the very best you can. And do not, I repeat, do not answer the door. Do not leave your home whatsoever. Whatever is outside of your house is surely not more important than your life.

“Whether it is Tom that has been doing this or not, we're not exactly sure. All we tell you is to be careful and remain indoors until we can find Tom and or find the Valentine's killer. This has been Jonathan Godfrey and Abigail Miller, with the news. Stay safe and God bless." The program that was previously playing showed up finally, the neon colors swirling together to form the title of the show, along with a fairly way too cheerful theme song playing faintly in the distance as the introduction played out. (Y/N) had never heard of it before, but from a quick glance, it appeared to be a sitcom from the late 70's. The only source of light was coming from the television screen, casting colorful shadows across (Y/N)'s face. She had felt too tired to have turned on the lights upon entering her house. Work was short, the hours having grown thinner because of the curfew, however, it was still tiring all the same. She instantly regretted not doing so now, however.

She sat in the dark, her heart thumping loudly against her chest as she pulled a near by blanket around her shoulders as if the thick fabric would comfort her and protect her. The room had gotten colder ever since the report was announced. Goosebumps ran up and down (Y/N)'s body, the baby hairs on her neck stood on end as a shiver slid up and down her spine. Despite the blanket being around her body, she felt nothing but cold, numb. Suddenly, the TV went out with a soft 'ping'. (Y/N) gasped and her heart stopped beating all together. She felt like she couldn't breathe, she couldn't tell if she was going crazy either when she heard what sounded like footsteps coming down from the hallway. She sat, frozen, on her couch, unable to move, unable to breathe. Then.... a knock. Followed by another and another. It was right outside, coming from not the front entrance but the back yard. "(Y/N)? (Y/N), please..." came the voice. And (Y/N) recognized that voice anywhere. She knows she shouldn't.... everybody said not to but... she couldn't help herself. Getting up as quickly as she could, she runs down the hallway, the sounds of her feet echoing against the thin walls as she reaches the door, tugging it open. There, on the other half of the door, stood nobody other than Tom Hanniger himself. He looked up, surprised she had answered the door. Giving her a weak, lopsided smile, Tom's pulling her into a tight hug, his head falling down in the crook between her shoulder and neck, tears flooding his eyes as he soaks her shirt, silently weeping. "(Y/N).... fuck, I've missed you so much, missed you so bad." Tom confesses with a sniffle. "Tom... I- what're you doing here? They're looking for you, you know this, right? Everybody's looking for you. And.... and I- fuck, Tom! I thought you were dead. Everybody in town thought you died the day your father did." (Y/N) didn't hesitate to hide her true feelings. She was a mixture of emotions. Angry, happy, sad, scared - she was feeling every single emotion there possibly was. "I know... I know. I-I have a lot to explain and a lot to tell you but please, right now, can we just- can we just play pretend?" He asked, moving away from her shoulder as he wiped his nose on the sleeve of his sweater, his eyes remained watery and his skin was flushed as he looked up at (Y/N). (Y/N) guessed it was a mixture of three things - running away from the mental hospital to where her house was to the bitter and harsh February air. Plus, the crying he had just done, too. His face was red and blotchy from all three. Despite it being so cold, sweat trickled his face, a few drips of it falling along side his cheeks. "Play pretend?" (Y/N) echoed, tilting her head to the side, unsure of what he meant. "Let's play pretend." He repeated, licking his lips. "Let's play pretend and imagine none of this horrid, crazed shit is going on right now. Let's pretend it's only me and you. It's Valentine's day, isn't it? Let's celebrate. After all, it was one of our favorite days to spend together." Heat rose to (Y/N)'s cheeks and she bit on her bottom lip, rocking back and forth on the bottom of her feet. "Tom.... I-I'm...You want-" She couldn't from sentences, her thoughts were mushing together and it was all too much for her to handle. She felt like she was going to pass out. "I want you, (Y/N). I want you as bad as I did then and I want you just as badly right now. There has never been a day where I wasn't thinking about you. You were the love of my life. I still love you, maybe even more, now. Let's celebrate, please. We can talk about everything tomorrow morning. I promise I'll tell you everything. Right now, let's play pretend, let's act like it's just us again, like when we were teens.... I've missed you. And.... and I know you've missed me too or else you wouldn't have opened the door." And, yeah, okay, he was right. "Tom..." "(Y/N)." He stepped closer to her, closer than he had done before, as he rests his hand against her cheek, fingers brushing against her skin as he looked into her (E/C) eyes. "I love you. I never stopped. And I know you love me, too.... so, please, baby girl.... can I just show you how much I love you?" (Y/N) shouldn't have answered the door. She should have called the cops when she heard his voice. Everything was too much of a coincidence.

Her power was working perfectly fine until Tom had shown up.

Now that she was thinking about it....

There was also no victims until she had heard the news Tom had left the asylum. Three days ago....

Three days ago, there was the first victim; Maryanne. If she thought too much about it, got too deep into the rabbit hole, she would have assumed Tom Hanniger was the Valentine's killer - The Miner. Yet... looking at Tom, she knew he wasn't - couldn't - be the killer. If he was, he would've killed her too, right? Tom Hanniger's been through too much, and just like she was there before, she was going to be there for him now. Through Hell and back.

She would stay by his side, no matter what. She still kept the old promise ring he had given her in high school, along with the note in which he confessed his feelings. In which, he told her - one day - he'd marry her. She was the perfect girl for him, as he was the perfect man for her. A promise is a promise. When she said 'forever and always', she meant that. (Y/N) knew Tom meant it, too. "I love you too." Tom's quick to place his lips on (Y/N)'s and (Y/N) is quick to kiss him back just as hungry, just as fierce. She tangles her fingers through her hair and pulls on it, earning a groan from Tom. Satisfied with the result, she tugs him into her house by the sleeve of his shirt, slamming the door shut with her foot.

"I've missed you, baby." He says, not daring to pull away from the kiss.

"Show me how much you've missed me then, baby." She mumbles against his lips. "Oh, I'm going to." "Let's go celebrate Valentine's day the right way then. Come on, let's go upstairs." Tom grins and (Y/N) smiles back before she's pulling him up the stairs and into her bedroom.

Forever and Always. It was them until the end. Nobody would ever separate the two of them, again.... not even Harry Warden was going to destroy Tom’s happiness... not this time.

#Tom Hanniger x reader #Tom Hanniger x Y/N #slasher imagines #slasher one shots #slasher x reader #Jensen Ackles x Y/N #My Bloody Valentine #Jensen Ackles x reader #Slasher fanfictions #Jensen Ackles fanfictions #Jensen Ackles imagines #Tom Hanniger imagines #Jensen Ackles one shots #my works #Tom Hanniger one shots #Tom Hanniger fanfictions #Harry Warden x reader #Harry Warden x Y/N #cierra's stories

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sunlightdances · 4 years

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Safe Place to Land (Modern!Bucky x Reader)

Author: Katie @sunlightdances Pairing: Modern!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Rating: PG-13 for swearing. No trigger warnings except some alcohol use and drunkenness, and if awkwardness makes you feel weird, which-- SAME. Slow burn. Two idiots. Words: 8K+ aka HOW DID THIS GET SO LONG Summary: Modern!AU. You and Bucky are both standing up for Steve and Peggy’s wedding. Checking in at the hotel for the weekend, you’re horrified to realize there’s been a problem. A big problem. Prompt Filled: “Only one bed” Author’s Note: This is for @fanfictionaries’ Classic Trope Challenge! Congrats on 300 followers, and thanks for hosting! This was so fun to write. Special thanks to @writeyourmindaway for the divider at the beginning and the flower divider throughout the post! Disclaimer: I don’t own Bucky Barnes or Marvel. I also don’t own the song “Dance with Me” by Kelsea Ballerini, which is where the title comes from. The plot is mine! Please don’t repost my work on any other sites (AO3, Wattpad, etc.) without my permission. If you like what you read, please reblog to help share my work!

You’re late.

It’s truly a scene from a movie - you dashing through the airport, your rolling suitcase clicking behind you as it hits every line in the tile. People are staring, and you’re embarrassed, but you don’t have time to be.

Peggy will kill you if you miss this flight.

You’ll kill you if you miss this flight. Not for the first time, you curse Steve Rogers and his romantic streak for having a destination wedding. Especially because it’s going to be small. An exclusive wedding that could have just as easily been done in New York… you stop yourself.

You’re happy to be going to London. You’ve never been before, and you’re even happier to be going to celebrate the wedding of two of your closest friends.

It’s been over a decade since the first time you met Steve Rogers, alone and out of place in New York City, and at first you didn’t bother him - he was clearly going through something, and through your nosy neighbor, you knew he was recently back from a tour in Afghanistan. You were unable to stay away for long though, especially when you could hear the nightmares through the apartment walls, and could hear the grief he was struggling to control.

A casserole outside his door and a late night coffee break later, the two of you were fast friends. He trusted you with his story, and the look on his face when you introduced him to your coworker Peggy sealed your friendship for good.

Finally arriving at the gate, you nearly knock over a very tired, very irritated looking Bucky Barnes, and roll your eyes to the heavens, because of course you’re on the same flight. Why wouldn’t you be? You suspect foul play by your conniving best friend, but you don’t have time to complain about it.

Bucky’s already glaring at you. “You’re late--”

“I know. How did you even know I was going to be on this flight?”

“Steve mentioned it. Said to make sure you didn’t get left behind.”

You roll your eyes, collapsing into a chair near the gate as the boarding process begins, out of breath from your sprint through the airport. “He worries too much.”

“You are late, though.”

You glare right back at him, but can’t help but give him what you hope is a subtle once over - right from the top of his baseball-cap covered head to his Nike-covered feet. It’s really not fair that he still manages to look like a runway model at four in the morning.

Finally you’re called for boarding, and you push past Bucky to get on the plane, where you have plans to promptly fall asleep and hopefully be out for the next several hours.

“Me again,” you hear his deep voice before you open your eyes, and you’re treated to the truly amazing sight of Bucky Barnes’ abs when his shirt rides up as he puts his bag in the overhead bin.

“Terrific,” you mutter, and he snorts.

“Go to sleep.” The heat practically radiates off him as he sits down next to you, him in the aisle seat and you in the dreaded middle seat.

You really are tired - there was a reason you were running late. You have a habit of working too late and not getting enough sleep, another reason you were looking forward to this wedding. Ten full days in England. No work, just rest. And a wedding. But besides that--! No obligations. You can practically feel the stress melting off you.

Almost as soon as the plane takes off and you start to doze, the man on the other side of you starts talking. At first you think he’s talking to Bucky across you, but it becomes clear he wants to get to know you better when he starts asking about your job, and finally, if you’re single.

You crack open an eye in disbelief, and open your mouth to respond before Bucky leans over and says quietly, but firmly, “No, she’s not. Sorry, dude.”

Bucky’s forearm is pressing into yours, and you scowl at him before the other guy replies.

“Oh, sorry. Should have guessed.”

“Don’t worry, it surprises a lot of people,” you tell him. Including me. You look back at Bucky with a what the hell look on your face, and he shrugs.

Shifting, he lifts the armrest between you and leans in, whispering. “Unless you wanted him to hit on you for the rest of this flight?”

You groan internally, because there’s nothing you hate more than when Bucky has a point.

It’s not like you hate Bucky. He just-- he knows how to push your buttons. Being Steve’s best friend in the entire world, it was a packaged deal. Bucky came home a year after Steve. He was injured, and angry, and wanted nothing to do with the same type of optimism you tried to supply Steve with.

You were okay with that. Not everyone is wired the same, and you had no business butting into Bucky’s life just because you were able to help Steve adjust to life after the Army.

He warmed up eventually, after he and Steve both started going to VA meetings and were slowly working through things, though you knew there was a chance that the Bucky Barnes you were going to get to know would be nothing like the Bucky that Steve told you stories about.

Still, it has always seemed like there’s something else there. Something under the surface that makes Bucky wary of you.

You’re civil and have come to accept the facts: you and Bucky will never be friends.

That’s why you’re so suspicious of his behavior on this flight. You figured he’d be rather amused by you getting hit on at 20,000 feet.

Right before you fall asleep, you put that thought safely into the box labeled Reasons You Will Never Understand Bucky and leave it at that.

You wake up to turbulence, and Bucky’s elbow jamming into your ribs.

“Sorry,” he mutters, and when he steadies you, you realize you were leaning into him while asleep, and feel your face turn hot.

You don’t say anything - too worried you’re going to put your foot in your mouth. “What time is it?” You ask instead, and he blinks at you.

“No idea. I was asleep.”

“Oh.”

The silence that settles between you is a little awkward, but you try your best to get over it. It’s dark on the plane. Your left leg is asleep and your neck is so tense you wonder how you managed to sleep at all. Probably because you had the world’s most attractive body pillow, you think.

You pull your tablet out of the seat-back in front of you and turn the brightness way down. Opening a book you’ve been reading, you check the time. Seeing you still have a few hours before you land, you try to get comfortable before you start reading.

You can feel Bucky’s eyes on you off and on for the next few minutes and you try to ignore the feeling it gives you - the hair on the back of your neck standing on end, and when you catch him before he can look away, you feel the jolt through your entire body.

That’s new.

Finally, the announcement comes that you’re landing in fifteen minutes, and everyone around you starts to gather their things and get restless. You feel the excitement building in you like a live thing, and roll your eyes when you see Bucky smirking at you.

“Leave me alone; I’ve never been to England before.”

His smile falters, just the tiniest bit. “It’s nice. You’ll like it.”

It’s a weird comment, but you don’t say anything else. You have a vague memory of Steve telling you Bucky was airlifted to Germany and then to London before coming home after his accident, and you don’t want to say the wrong thing. Contrary to what he thinks, you actually don’t want to argue with him all the time, but especially not on this trip.

Heathrow is a madhouse. It’s even busier than when you left New York, and you’re a little overwhelmed, plus jet lagged. A great combo.

You and Bucky get your bags from baggage claim and then he turns to you, looking a little worse for wear. “I’m assuming we’re at the same hotel.”

“Hopefully not the same hotel Steve and Peg are in.”

Bucky looks like he’s trying not to laugh, but still remains stoic.

“Oh come on,” you say as the two of you head to try to find a cab. “You know if we’re in the same hotel they’ll be calling all hours of the day to get us to do last minute stuff for them. I agreed to be a bridesmaid, not the wedding planner.”

Like the sun finally breaking through, Bucky actually smiles at that, and not for the first time in your sort-of-friendship, you’re struck by it, by how it changes his entire face and makes him look like a completely different person.

“Steve’s been driving me a little crazy, I have to admit.”

After verifying you are both staying in the same hotel where the majority of the wedding guests are, you fall silent as you take in the scenery zooming past in the cab.

Soon you’re approaching the most beautiful hotel you’ve ever seen, and you stare, open-mouthed, because this cannot be the place you booked. You were given the name of a hotel that Peggy said was nice and reasonably priced that most of the other guests were using, and you expected it to be-- well, not like the place she and Steve were staying.

Still: this is-- too much. Opulent doesn’t even cover it.

“Wow,” Bucky says next to you, uncharacteristically awed by the sight.

In the lobby, you’re even more convinced this is all a scam. Which is why when the concierge tells you there’s a problem, you’re almost not surprised.

“I’m so sorry - we have names for both of you on the reservation list, but it seems like they’ve put you both in the same room.”

A pin could be heard dropping for how quiet you and Bucky get.

He’s the first to speak. “I’m sorry?”

“There must have been a mistake… we’re full the next two weeks with several wedding parties and whoever booked it must have made a mistake.” She’s perfectly apologetic, in that British way, but you’re having trouble getting past the idea that you’re going to have to live with Bucky Barnes for 10 days.

“Can I just get another room?” You blurt.

“I’m sorry - we’re booked. There aren’t any other rooms.”

Bucky turns to you. “Look, it’s fine. Where else are you going to go?”

You feel something like panic welling up inside you. You and Bucky, sharing a room for ten days. How are you going to survive what’s sure to be the most awkward thing you’ve ever had to do in your life?

Better yet: how are you going to live with the teasing from Steven Grant Rogers when he finds out you have to be roommates with his best friend?

You sigh.

“The same room it is.”

This can’t be real, you think. It’s too cliche.

“Um,” you say out loud, elegantly, “There’s only one bed.”

“Appears that way.”

“Well? What are we going to do?”

Bucky looks at you, blank. “We’re grown. I feel like this isn’t that big of a deal.”

You feel semi-hysterical laughter bubbling inside you, because this is very much a big deal. Especially when you’re just sort of admitting to yourself that your tiny crush on Bucky hasn’t waned over the years. You’ve always found him attractive and had no problem acknowledging that, but this? This is just too rom-com, even for you.

“It’s ten days. You don’t have a problem sharing a room with me for ten days?”

He shrugs. “What else am I going to do? Can’t bunk up with Steve. We’ll be busy with wedding stuff for the next two days anyway, and then afterwards… I don’t know. I figured you’d be sightseeing?”

You stare at him. “Okay, but… what are you going to be doing?”

He looks down. “Hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. You assume I’m here as long as you are,” he points out.

He’s right - you have no idea how long Bucky booked this trip for. Without wanting to pry, you’re again reminded that he has a small history here, and probably one that he doesn’t want to re-live.

You’re interrupted by Bucky’s phone ringing, and you busy yourself unpacking while he answers it.

“Hey, Steve.” He says, his voice entirely different when he talks to his best friend. “Yeah, just got to the hotel.” A few beats. “I was probably just going to crash for the night…”

You get a text from Peggy almost at the same time, asking if you want to meet her and Steve for dinner, and meet Bucky’s eyes. You must look as tired as he feels, because he makes another excuse.

“If Katie’s not going to be there, I don’t want to be third wheel with you two lovebirds.” Another beat. “Yeah, let’s do breakfast. I’ll call you in the morning.”

You tap out a response to Peggy about jet lag and already being in bed (and it’s not like you don’t want to see your best friend, you’re just-- there’s too many things happening right now for you to even think about going out for a late dinner), and toss your phone towards the bed.

Yet another reminder of the fact that you’re going to be sharing with Bucky Barnes as soon as you’re both exhausted enough to sleep.

When he hangs up, you look at him curiously. “You didn’t mention anything about our living arrangements.”

He sighs. “Look, Steve’s stressed out enough. He doesn’t need to worry about this mixup too. Besides, it’s fine. It’s just sleeping.”

You hate yourself for the heat you feel at the thought of sharing a bed with him, even though it’s a fleeting feeling that you force away. “Yeah. Just sleeping.”

Bucky says he wants a shower and you offer to order room service. It’s almost 10pm, but you both know you won’t be able to sleep on an empty stomach.

When Bucky comes out of the bathroom, you feel like a teenager. Even he looks a little flushed, but you think it’s from embarrassment. “I-- forgot a change of clothes. Sorry.” He looks so chagrined, you can’t help but snicker.

“Buck, you’re offending my delicate sensibilities.”

His eyes go a little wide and you realize you’ve never called him by that familial version of his nickname before, but it just -- you’ve known the guy almost as long as you’ve known Steve. It just slipped out.

He recovers quickly, winking at you. “Honey, we all know there’s nothing delicate about you.”

You both freeze, both taken aback by the sultry lilt to his voice as he teases you, and again, you’re saved by an interruption - this time a knock on the door saying room service has arrived.

Bucky heads back to the bathroom to change, and you gulp in a few deep breaths before answering the door to get the food.

A whole night of this. You have no idea how you’re going to survive.

Your alarm goes off way too early. In reality, it’s eight in the morning, but you still feel like you’ve been hit over the head with something heavy after a day of traveling.

Moreover, you feel like something heavy is actually on you, and you peek open a bleary eye to see Bucky over your shoulder, his arm slung across your waist like it was always meant to be there.

“Shit,” you whisper, hoping you don’t wake him, but also wanting to get out of this situation as soon as possible. You scramble for your phone, the groan leaving him as he wakes up a noise you try to convince yourself you don’t want to hear again.

“What time is it,” he asks, his voice rough with sleep. You shiver.

“Eight,” you reply, finally reaching your phone and sliding a thumb across the screen to turn the alarm off.

He realizes his position and rolls away from you casually, so you mentally decide to pretend you weren’t cuddled up to him for most of the night.

You already have a text from Peggy asking if you want to join her, Steve, and Bucky for breakfast, so you have no choice but to get up and shower, trying to forget the warm feeling of being held by Bucky Barnes.

In an hour, you’re both waiting on a busy street for the almost-newlyweds, and you see them before they see you, Steve’s broad form and Peggy’s impeccable posture unmistakable. You smile unconsciously - they look so happy. You feel a pang though, because you don’t think you’ve ever been with someone who made you feel so carefree.

“Short stuff!” Steve calls, and you roll your eyes, muttering under your breath about how you’re not that short while Bucky snickers next to you, but before you can berate Steve, he’s gathering you into a hug, nearly lifting you off the ground.

Over Steve’s shoulders you see Bucky give Peggy a kiss on the cheek and a shy smile as they hug, exchanging quiet words.

You and Peggy might have known each other first, but she and Bucky bonded right away, making you wonder (not for the first time) why it seemed to be only you that Bucky had trouble getting to know. You brush off the thought - this week was about your friends and their wedding, and you were going to stop worrying about anything that wasn’t making sure this wedding was perfect.

“Missed you,” Steve whispered, “Did you get in okay? Bucky said you were late.”

You roll your eyes again. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

He smiles. “Go say hi to Peg. She’s excited you’re here.” He gives your shoulders a squeeze before passing you off to Peggy, who hugs you so tight you can barely breathe.

“You look so--” you sigh, unable to find the words, “Happy. You look so happy, it’s like you’re already married.”

She grins. “I’ve been dreaming about this day for years. I’m excited.”

The four of you sit down to eat and you have the best breakfast you’ve ever eaten. Around a mouthful, you tell the table, “I never want to eat anything but these potatoes for the rest of my life.”

The rest of the meal is spent talking about the wedding and any last minute items that need to be done before the rehearsal dinner later that night. It sounds like everything is going as planned, which doesn’t surprise you when it comes to Peggy Carter.

“And so far everyone has arrived, we think. Have you run into anyone at the hotel?” Steve asks, and you and Bucky both freeze, before he speaks.

“Not… no. Haven’t seen anyone else yet.”

Steve looks between the two of you, eyes narrowed. “What? What happened?” He puts down his fork. “You can’t be fighting already, it’s only been--”

“They gave us one room.” You blurt. “There was a mixup and we have to share a room.”

Bucky steps on your foot hard, because you’ve forgotten his warning about not telling Steve and keeping the groom from stressing out the day before his wedding.

“It’s fine,” Bucky says, waving a hand. “It’s just sleeping.”

You want to scream. Was it just sleeping when we cuddled all night? There wasn’t even alcohol involved!

“Right.” You say brightly, “It’s fine. No big deal.”

Steve is frowning. “I can call--”

“No!” You and Bucky both exclaim.

“Please don’t worry about this. It’s a non-issue,” You say, looking to Peggy for reassurance.

“They’re adults, Steve.”

“Adults who always seem to want to rip each other’s heads off,” he mutters, reaching for his coffee. Over the rim, he meets your eyes, and you shake your head minutely. Don’t you dare.

Breakfast is a little subdued after that, but soon it’s time for Steve and Peggy to go to the venue to make any last minute changes, leaving you and Bucky to your own devices for a few hours before you have to get ready for the rehearsal dinner.

Before parting ways, your phone buzzes.

Steve Rogers: You sure you’re going to survive this?

You: I will murder you.

Across the sidewalk, Steve snorts.

Steve Rogers: I’m just saying. Your crush is kind of obvious, you know?

You: Lucky for you, Bucky literally pays no attention to me. It’ll be fine.

Steve Rogers: That’s what you think.

You meet Steve’s eyes, trying to figure out what he means, but he just shrugs and puts his phone back in his pocket.

The four of you say your goodbyes, and then you and Bucky are left standing on the street awkwardly.

“I was going to go to a museum--”

“I might check to see if Sam is here yet--”

You both speak at the same time.

Bucky clears his throat. “Right. Well, I’ll go check on Sam and you go to your museum or whatever. You have a room key?”

You nod. “Yep. All set.”

“I guess… have fun. Don’t get lost.”

You scowl. “Great, thank you for your concern.”

You’re halfway down the street when you hear him call, “Don’t be late!”

You flip him off over your shoulder and pretend you don’t hear him laughing as you keep heading down the street in the complete opposite direction.

You get back to the hotel in the early afternoon so you can shower and start getting ready for the rehearsal dinner. Outside your shared room, you hear voices, so you pause. You can tell one is Bucky, and soon you recognize the other voice is Sam.

“Really, dude. You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.” Bucky’s voice is gruff. “Do I want to be in London? Not particularly. Can I separate my issues from celebrating this wedding? Yes.”

A sigh, but you can’t tell who it comes from.

“It’s okay to have mixed feelings about London.” Sam says. “The last time--”

“I know what happened the last time I was here.” Bucky interrupts, voice firm and icy. “Sorry. I just-- I don’t want to talk about it.”

A pause. “Okay, then let’s talk about your other issue.” Sam says, and even through the door, you can tell he’s got a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Absolutely not.”

“Come on! You’re sharing a room with--”

Not wanting to overhear something else you shouldn’t, you hurriedly put your key in the slot and push the door open.

The two men are silent, staring at you, and you can feel the guilty look all over your face, so you try your best to school your expression into nonchalance.

“Long time no see,” Sam says, standing up to give you a hug.

“Hi, Sam.”

You make some small talk and try not to notice how quiet Bucky is being. He can’t really hate this situation that much… right? Or is it just this place in general? You’re too afraid to ask.

After another hour or so, Sam leaves the two of you to get ready himself, and you race to the bathroom to shower and start doing your makeup.

You’re very conscious of the fact that Bucky is getting changed in the room just beside you, so you take your time getting ready, making sure you’ve done every last thing you can think of before you emerge.

You’re not prepared for the sight of him, more dressed up than you’ve ever seen him. A dark blue button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbow, showcasing part of a tattoo that snakes down from his left bicep. His newly-shorn hair is artfully styled, the watch on his right wrist glinting in the late day sun streaming into the room.

God, how are you going to get through tomorrow? Seeing him as one of the groomsmen? You’re going to die.

“You look nice,” you manage, not wanting to stare at him any longer.

He looks like he doesn’t know what to say. You’re not sure if it’s the compliment he’s having trouble with, or what. “Thanks,” he says eventually. “You do too.”

The rehearsal dinner is like a fairytale, just like you knew it would be. The food is great, the company is even better, and even Bucky looks like he’s having a good time. There’s lots of toasting the bride and groom to be, and that involves a lot of drinks. A lot.

By the time you’re walking back to the hotel with Bucky, you’re a little unsteady on your feet, but he’s not doing much better, your hips bumping every few feet as you walk.

“You’re a lightweight,” he laughs, and you attempt to glare at him, but you think it comes off more like you’re leering at him. He reaches for your elbow gently and tugs you into the elevator with him, and it’s a challenge to stop thinking all the inappropriate thoughts that start clouding your mind.

Safely in your room, you sit on the edge of the bed and watch as Bucky starts to get ready for bed. You need to get your makeup off and into your pajamas, but you can’t bring yourself to move.

“You’re staring.”

You grin, “Just enjoying the show.” Instantly horrified, you clap a hand over your mouth. “I didn’t say that. You didn’t hear it.”

Bucky’s a little pink around the ears, but he looks smug. “So you think I’m hot?”

You groan. “Shut up. You know you’re hot.”

He looks surprised for a half second, and you fall backwards onto the bed.

“Stop it, stop asking me stuff. I can’t be trusted.” Apparently you can’t take your own advice, because you start thinking out loud, “It’s too bad you hate me. We’d be like, the hottest couple of all time.”

It’s silent, and when you finally look up, he’s staring at you, a frown on his face. “Is that what you think?”

“I know we’d be the hottest couple of all time--”

“No,” he interrupts, exasperated. “You think I hate you?”

“I think--” you suddenly clamp your mouth shut. “I think I need to go to the bathroom.” Bolting past him, you make it there in time, and barely register him coming in a few seconds later, holding your hair back.

God. How embarrassing. Love this journey for you, your brain helpfully supplies.

The last thing you remember before falling asleep is Bucky helping you out of your dress, and a cool hand on your forehead. Then it all goes black.

Your alarm goes off early again the next day. Wedding day. You’re due at the venue with the rest of the bridal party at nine to start hair and makeup.

Your mouth feels like it’s made of cotton, and you curse everyone involved in the dinner for doing so many toasts.

“God,” you groan, and when you open your eyes, you see Bucky on the chair in the living area, a steaming cup of coffee in his hands. “What--”

“Here,” he says, tossing you your phone, alarm still going off.

There’s a text from Steve asking if you’re alive, and another from Peggy’s bridesmaid group chat with a million love-themed emojis.

“Thanks,” you grumble, bits and pieces of the night before coming back to you. Startled, you look up, “Bucky, I am so sorry--”

“Don’t worry about it,” he waves a dismissive hand at you.

“I didn’t mean to drink so much. I’m such an annoying drunk. I--”

“Really,” he interrupts your apology, “It’s okay. You weren’t that bad.”

He’s quiet, which isn’t that different, but he looks… more intense than usual. Contemplative. It makes you nervous. Especially because the night before is still coming to you in pieces.

“Have you been up long?” You ask.

His eyes shutter. “A bit. Had trouble sleeping.”

An awkward silence settles. “What time do you have to--”

“You probably need to get going--”

You both speak at the same time, and strangely, your throat feels tight as he won’t meet your eyes. How badly had you screwed things up the night before?

“Right. I do have to get going. Just going to--” you gesture to the bathroom, and he nods. You make your escape into the shower and spend a little longer than necessary in there, trying like hell to figure out what you could have said to him.

It’s hours later before you see Bucky again. You and the rest of the bridal party are helping Peggy with finishing touches, and the photographer is taking action shots, the entire room a mix of blush pink and gauzy white.

Peggy is a vision - her hair curled and pinned in an old-fashioned style befitting a princess, and her lips painted her signature cherry red.

“Steve’s going to die,” you say, grinning at her, and she winks.

“Almost ready, girls?” She asks everyone else, and there’s a cheer before everyone begins to head out into the hall, gathering with the groomsmen to begin the walk down the aisle.

You’re blindsided by the sight of Bucky in his tux. You take a moment to be thankful you’re walking with Sam, not with Bucky, because surely he’d be able to hear the way your heart is pounding just looking at him.

He looks similarly awed, and your ego takes a moment to soak it up before you can feel embarrassed at the attention.

“You’re… you look great.” He says quietly.

“Thank you. You too.”

The smile he gives you is so soft, you can barely stand it.

“Okay Barnes, hands off my date.” Sam interrupts, linking your arm through his.

Bucky rolls his eyes. Before he can say anything else, the procession is starting, and you’re swept up in the romance of this moment finally happening.

Steve cries.

You do a little, too.

You catch Bucky looking at you with those intense eyes during the ceremony twice, and you’re suddenly more nervous than you’ve ever been, because you still have eight days left of your trip. Possibly eight more days rooming with Bucky if he doesn’t leave before you.

If the tension doesn’t kill you, sleeping in the same bed with him again will, for sure.

The reception space is even more beautiful than the ceremony, and even as you sit there, chin in your palm watching Steve and Peggy dance, you think you’ve never felt more romantic in your entire life.

You dance with Sam, and then Steve finds you, his eyes already a little glazed over.

“Come on, you can’t sit there all night.”

You huff as he finds your hand and tugs you out of your seat. “I haven’t been sitting here all night.”

“You’re not going to deny your best friend a dance. That’s that.”

You smile, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

It’s quiet for a few moments as the two of you sway slowly, and when you look up at Steve, he’s only got eyes for Peggy, who’s dancing with Sam on the other side of the room.

“I’m happy for you, Rogers.”

He grins down at you, “When are you going to start trying to make yourself happy?”

You groan. “Steve, don’t.”

“I’m serious! Look… I know Bucky is… he seems serious sometimes, and it can be hard for him to open up, but I’ve seen the way he looks at you when he thinks no one notices.”

The thought of it sends butterflies straight to the pit of your stomach, but there’s just no way that could be true. No matter how much of a romantic Steve Rogers is and how much he would love for his best friends to get together, it’s just not going to happen.

“Incoming,” Steve whispers, and you turn over your shoulder to see Bucky there, looking a little sheepish.

“Sorry to interrupt.”

Steve steps away from you, and your eyes widen at him, panicking. “No problem,” he says to Bucky, “I’ve got a bride to get back to.”

Bucky takes a step closer. “Dance?”

As if on cue, the DJ plays something soft and slow, and you’re left powerless to resist Bucky and the way he’s looking at you - a little guarded, but still open and vulnerable. You feel like you have no choice but to take his hand, a shock working its way up your arm at the contact.

May my hands be the hands you hold onto When you let go of everything else May my arms be the arms that you fall into When the night gets too heavy to hold by yourself

You feel so self conscious as you dance with Bucky, his touch gentler than you ever allowed yourself to imagine it might be. He holds you close, your clasped hands resting over his heart, and you force yourself to enjoy this quiet moment with him.

If you're looking for a safe place to land I will guide you home And if the levy of your life breaks all your plans You'll never be alone

You think about the first time you met him - he was so different then. The same stoic Bucky Barnes you know now, but less quick to crack a joke or a smile. He stuck close to Steve and Sam, but it was clear to you that there was so much more to him than his outward appearance.

There’s the loyalty he shows to his friends. He’s smart - probably the smartest person you know, and so driven. He’s fiercely protective and is observant to a fault, the result of Army training he’ll probably never get rid of.

And -- you hate to admit it, but there was a time when you thought Steve was right. You’d catch Bucky staring out of the corner of your eye and think maybe, maybe there’s something there. And then like a switch flipped, he was quicker to argue with you, every little thing turning into a reason for the two of you to fight.

Now though, the gentle way he’s holding you and the scent of his cologne flooding your senses… you can almost trick yourself into thinking your feelings are reciprocated. That Bucky was just as nervous around you as you are around him.

The song comes to an end, and so does the moment.

If you dance with me Feel my heartbeat through your body to your feet If you dance with me Hold me in the dark now, until both your eyes can see And if it's you and me against the world If I'm your man, you're my girl We'll win you'll see, if you dance with me

Steve and Peggy are leaving in the morning for Paris for a few days, and then to Spain. You feel a pang of jealousy watching them leave the reception, hands and eyes locked together as if nothing could tear them apart.

For a moment, you so desperately want that kind of affection with someone else. You take a deep breath and force yourself to get it together.

“Share a cab back?” A deep voice behind you asks, and you’re surprised to see Bucky. He made himself scarce after your dance and you didn’t see him again for the rest of the night.

You nod, not trusting your own voice.

The cab ride to your hotel is nearly silent. Every small noise is amplified, like you shifting in your seat, and Bucky loosening his bow tie.

“Have you decided how long you’re going to stay?” You ask, finally, the one question that’s been plaguing you.

He looks at you, eyes impossibly blue in the streetlight glow. “A few days, I think. I have some… I have some stuff I want to see before I go home.” He shakes himself out of whatever memory he’s in. “You? The full ten days?”

You shrug. “If I can keep this room, yeah. I can’t remember the last time I took a vacation.”

Bucky nods, turning to look back out the window again. At the hotel, he helps you out of the car and pays for the cab despite your protests, and when you get inside the elevator, you’re struck again by how handsome he looks, flushed from alcohol and a little more tousled than usual; his bow tie hanging loose around his neck and his top two buttons undone.

He catches you looking once again, but you can’t look away. You know you’re not imagining this time how his eyes darken a shade, and you watch with rapt fascination as he licks his lips, leaning down ever so slightly -- the elevator dings and the doors open.

The spell is broken.

“Bucky?”

He shakes himself out of his thoughts almost physically, and then he’s walking away from you, heading towards the room without a backward glance.

The next morning, you and Bucky are tangled together so much that there’s no way you can get up without him waking up first. Your first thought is embarrassment, but then you just… give in. You let yourself enjoy it, only feeling guilty for a few minutes.

You’re so warm and you feel so protected… you once again curse Steve Rogers for making you think about your persistent crush on Bucky, because now you can’t get it out of your head.

“Morning.” Bucky’s voice is rough, and you jump, because he’s still got his arms around you. And he’s awake.

“Morning,” you say cautiously.

“Sorry,” he slowly pulls away from you, the tips of his fingers lingering on your arms. “I’ve been told I’m like an octopus in my sleep.”

Something about Bucky seems different first thing in the morning. His walls aren’t up.

“It’s okay. I’m not complaining about free cuddles.”

He smiles, you can feel it where his stubble scratches your temple. There’s something like giddy excitement brewing in you.

“Can I-- I have a favor to ask.” He says. “I have to go somewhere today… I-- if you don’t have plans, would you come with me?”

You crane your neck to meet his eyes. He looks nervous.

“Okay,” you say simply, because you think if he keeps looking at you like that, you’d follow him anywhere.

He tells you to dress casually, so you opt for a simple jeans and t-shirt outfit with a cardigan thrown overtop. You pack whatever you think you’ll need for a day in your backpack and follow Bucky out when he’s ready. He seems to know where he’s going, and you walk with him in comfortable silence.

He starts fidgeting the closer you get to a massive hospital, and when you get close enough to read the sign, you realize this must have been where he was taken for part of his recovery.

“Bucky--” You breathe, because this is too much. He’s trusting you with too much, and you’re not sure you deserve it.

“I--” He swallows hard, “The doctor who saved my arm still works here. I try to write as often as I can, but I thought a face-to-face visit was probably overdue.” He looks down at you, “I just-- I haven’t been here in years. I don’t think I can do it alone.” His words are measured and careful, and you realize how hard it must be for him to be here in the first place, let alone trusting you with something like this.

You feel tears pricking your eyes and you fight to keep them back. “Okay, Bucky. Yeah. Let’s do this.”

He smiles shakily at you, and on a whim, you reach for his hand. When he freezes, you realize you’ve gripped his left hand, the one with the scars encompassing his wrist and three of his fingers, the hand connected to the same arm that was nearly blown off in Afghanistan, the one that nearly cost him his life.

He doesn’t let go. If anything, he squeezes your hand tighter, and you feel another tendril of affection curl around your heart.

Inside, he introduces himself to the woman at the reception desk, and after a few questions, you’re directed towards an elevator and given directions to the floor the doctor’s office is on. You think Bucky has memories of this place for the way he leads you there with almost no words.

A quick knock on the door, and then he’s shaking hands and exchanging broad grins with a young woman.

“Sergeant Barnes!” She exclaims after letting go of his hand. “It’s about time you showed your face around here.”

Bucky is blushing and you’re so enamored with him you can barely stand it. While he’s talking, you dig your phone out of your pocket and text Peggy.

I know you’re on your honeymoon, but SOS! I need help.

Bucky turns to you, and you realize he’s trying to introduce you.

“This is Shuri. She’s the one who operated on me and helped me with PT after my injury.”

“It’s really great to meet you,” you tell her, trying to ignore her curious look.

“You as well.”

She and Bucky start talking again, and even though you can tell Bucky’s still a little nervous to be here, you’re enthralled by the sibling-like relationship he has with his former doctor.

“I want to make a donation,” Bucky says quietly. “I didn’t know who to go to about it. I want to give it specifically to this ward, to the work you’re doing.”

You feel like you’re intruding, but he keeps looking to you like he needs reassurance, so you smile at him.

“I’ve-- I’ve been putting money away over the last few years and I’m at a place now where I want to help.”

You send another text to Peggy.

Seriously, SOS!!!!! If you don’t call me soon, I’m going to do something I regret.

A minute later, your phone rings, and you excuse yourself to the hallway.

“Thank God.”

“Darling. I love you, but what could possibly be so important that you had to call on the first day of--”

“I think I’m in love with Bucky and I have no idea what to do about it.”

A choked noise comes from behind you and you whirl around, mortified to see Bucky there, eyes wide, pale.

“Oh, shit. Peggy-- I have to go.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Bye, love you.” You hang up quickly, and take a step towards Bucky before you even register you’re doing it. “Bucky--”

“Are you-- I heard you were talking to Peg, I thought something was wrong.”

“I’m-- oh God, Bucky, I-- I have to go.”

“Wait--”

Your tears are overflowing now. You’re so embarrassed, you have no idea how you’re going to look him in the eye, let alone sleep in the same bed as him.

Vision blurry, you decide to take the stairs two at a time instead of waiting for the elevator, and you’re gone before he can catch up to you.

Bucky’s ears are ringing as he stares after you. He feels like he has shell shock again - unable to comprehend anything that just happened.

“Need a chair, soldier?” Shuri asks him, clearly having overheard the entire thing, and he nods dumbly, basically collapsing into a chair near her desk.

I think I’m in love with Bucky.

Your words echo over and over in his mind, and he honestly can’t believe what he just heard.

Your friendship has always been complicated, but the way Bucky feels about you is simple. He’s crazy about you. Crazy for you, and terrified that he’s not good enough for you, so he’s pushed you away time and time again, despite all evidence pointing to the fact that you might like him too.

Sharing a room -- a bed -- with you has been every one of his daydreams come to life. (A lot less kissing, sure, but whatever)

Now this-- this revelation, it’s too much.

“All the most important events of your life seem to take place at this hospital, Bucky.” Shuri says, gentle teasing in her tone.

“Jesus Christ.” Bucky groans, “What the hell do I do?”

“You’re going to go after her.” Shuri says simply, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world. She rolls her eyes. “It’s obvious you’re in love with her too.” Bucky thinks he must look horrified, because she continues, “You’ve never brought anyone here before. I couldn’t convince you to come back even for a tour of the new labs. And the one time you do come of your own free will, you bring her. What does that tell you?”

A half hour later, Bucky has called you three times and has checked at the hotel twice, and now he’s at a park near the hotel, on a bench, having no idea what to do.

Of course that’s when Steve calls.

“I hear you’re having a crisis.”

Bucky groans. “‘M not having a crisis. A moment, maybe.”

“She told you she loved you?”

“She told Peggy she loved me, and I was eavesdropping, and she ran away crying.”

Steve is silent.

“Right? It’s bad. It’s so bad. Maybe if I’d just been… I don’t know. More talkative during this trip? Or maybe I should have just gotten my own room and saved us both the trouble.”

“Look, no offense, but you’re both so dense.”

Bucky scoffs. “Thanks.”

“I love her like a sister and love you like a brother, but everyone knows you two have a thing for each other. Why else did everyone steer clear of the two of you at the wedding? It’s obvious, dude.”

Bucky has never felt so stupid in his entire life. All these years, he tried to distance himself from you, sure that he was only going to get hurt if he put himself out there. He liked you too much to risk ruining a friendship, even if it was barely a friendship to begin with. Quick to argue and stubborn, you were also generous and kind, beautiful, and passionate about your work and your friends and your family.

You’re everything he’s ever wanted, and you terrify him.

And you love him.

Apparently.

He’s on his feet again.

“I have to go,” He tells Steve. “I’ll text you later.”

“Good luck.”

You’re back at your shared hotel room, trying to pack up and leave before Bucky finds you. It’s childish, sure, but you can’t take this anymore.

You’re going to get a new room at a different hotel, and try to salvage the rest of your vacation.

The door opens before you can finish zipping your bag, and you turn to see Bucky storming in, his face unreadable and a piece of paper in his hand.

“What the hell is this?”

You turn away. “It’s a note.”

You assume he’s noticed your bags. “Were you really going to take off and just leave a note that says you’re sorry?”

His hand on your elbow forces you to turn around, and you feel like you’re going to cry again.

His face softens. “Talk to me. Please.”

You bury your face in your hands. “I’m so sorry, Bucky. You were-- you were trying to do something for you, and my loud mouth just had to ruin it. I never meant for you to find out--”

“You were never going to tell me you’re in love with me?”

You blanche. “God, I mean-- I don’t know! It’s not… this isn’t easy…”

“You still think I hate you.”

You freeze, thinking back to your drunk conversation from a few nights ago. “I don’t think you hate me.”

“Good. Because I don’t. Far from it, actually.”

You try to squash the little seed of hope blooming in your chest.

“You know, when we first met, I was jealous of you. You were closer to Steve in a year than anyone else, and I didn’t know where I fit anymore. I didn’t understand what made you so special.”

Frowning, you try to turn away, but he won’t let you.

“But then I got to know you. I got to know how you care about people, and how you looked after Steve when he first got back. I learned how you do everything you can to make other people happy, but don’t try to do the same thing for yourself. I learned that you’re a lightweight and you’re a flirt when you’re drunk, and I learned that I--” He stops, catches his breath. “I learned that it only took me a few months to fall in love with you so deeply that I can’t see my way out.”

Your insides feel like mush. The touch of his hand slides up to your shoulder, and you feel more alive the closer he gets to you.

“I pushed you away, because you’re way too good for me, sweetheart. You always have been. You don’t need someone like me weighing you down. And when this room mix-up happened, it was both the best and worst thing to happen to me.”

“Don’t you dare,” you whisper, and his brows furrow, confused, as you continue. “Don’t you dare say you’re not good enough. You’re-- I’ve never met a better person than you, James Barnes. I think I’ve loved you since the day we met.”

You’re both silent, staring into each other’s eyes, the room crackling with the energy of confessions and tension.

You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly you’re kissing, Bucky’s hand moving to the back of your head as his free arm slides around your waist to haul you against him. Fire licks through your veins as he deepens the kiss, barely letting you break for air before dragging you in again, consuming you entirely.

It could be minutes or hours that you’re kissing him in the middle of your hotel room surrounded by your luggage, but when you break apart, your legs are weak and he chuckles as he keeps you upright, a smug smile growing on his face.

“Shut up.” You say weakly.

“Don’t leave.”

You sigh, forehead leaning against his collarbones.

“I haven’t had a vacation in a long time either, now that I think about it.” He offers, head tilting to one side as he looks you over. “You think you could stand to room with me for another week?”

You can’t stop touching him; hands gliding over his shoulders as he noses at the spot behind your ears where you’re the most sensitive. “I might be able to be talked into it.”

He smiles, and it’s blinding. “I love you,” he whispers, right before he kisses you again.

Later that night when you call Peggy on speakerphone and tell her the entire story, Steve takes the phone and says “told you so,” before hanging up.

Bucky’s arms around your waist, you’re already thinking of writing the concierge who made the room mix-up a thank you card.

End

#FanFictionariesClassicTropeChallenge #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction

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