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florenceafternoon · 4 months

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━。゜✿ jily fic recommendations ✿ ゜。━

Really, we shouldn’t be surprised by now but I have more amazing jily AU fics to share because the writers of this fandom are incredibly talented and I have my screen report to prove it.

For reference, anything in italics is taken from the summaries on ao3.

serendipity by desperateforsanity (on ao3)

Modern college/uni AU. Dearest Students and Staff, I am pleased to announce Hogwarts University’s fourth annual Pen Pal Program. Upperclassmen and sophomores likely remember and cherish the memories of their previous penpals and are excited to make another friend this year.

TW: for the later chapters for discussions of grief and its effects on one's mental well-being. For the most part, though this is a fun fic full of great banter!

The Frenzied Misadventures of Balcony Man and Window Woman by @clare-with-no-i

prompt: "It's 3am why are you outside my window- are you trying to rob me?"

It feels necessary to preface this entire thing with the fact that, yes, James had good reason to be dangling precariously from a third-floor balcony, and anyone who says differently is simply attempting to smear his good name.

At least, that’s the story he’s sticking to.

Hijinks & Shenanigans

mellow is the man (who knows what he's been missing) also by @/ clare-with-no-i

Earl's Court. 24th May, 1975. Led Zeppelin live in concert like you've never seen them before.

FEATURING: prolonged eye contact, deeply metaphoric descriptions of cigarette smoke, painful levels of detail about makeup, and a special one-time performance by Two Teens In Love! OR: the "we made eye contact at a Led Zeppelin concert but my friends pulled me away to mosh before I could come say hello" AU

So when I say that I saw this unfold frame by frame in my head, I mean the writing is on another level. The way that I could almost smell Earl Court ... I regret waiting so long to read it. Also, found out this is written by the same author as one of my favourite jily fics foreigner’s god so that explains it “I'm not a religious person but I do sometimes think God made you for me.” ― Sally Rooney, Normal People

but he’s a little bit too far away by @firefeufuego

Historical AU. A decade after they met as cadets for The Times, the toll of James chasing stories in war zones is starting to hit home for Lily.

Taking A Shot At You by @annabtg

Modern AU. Lily Evans, pharmacist, has to work all day and night on New Year's Eve - and ends up ringing in the new year with a bloke who just got himself a dog bite.

The Right Track by BeeDaily (on ao3)

Co-workers modern AU. When James is first handed the train ticket, his immediate reaction is to laugh openly in his father's face.

the horoscope by lirians

Modern AU. James stops momentarily to give way to a bunch of rambunctious teenagers on the pavement before he regains his step. Lily has come to a halt a bit further, waiting on him.

“Horoscopes?” he asks as they move onwards. He’s relieved that any awkwardness between them is apparently gone. “How so?”

“Marly sent me mine this week because it said I would meet someone from the past again,” she explains. “I’m still not sold on the idea of it, but isn’t this weird?”

I was inspired to read this by this art

The Falcon and The Squid by @jfleamont

There's a Lego Millennium Falcon that needs to be built. There's also a bet, a ring and a bike.

Put it all together and what do you get?

Leda's jily will always be a favourite of mine. They're idiots in love your honour

Glastonbury by elanev91 (on ao3)

Prompt: we're at a music festival and you crawled into my tent when drunk and fell asleep, now you've woken up bewildered and to be honest I should be more annoyed but you're just so good looking

One Day at Time by @sweeethinny

Single-mum-lily AU. One day at a time is the mantra Lily uses to keep peace inside her mind, but there are days when it's simply impossible and in the end all she needs is a glass of wine, a cozy hug with her boyfriend, and a serious talk with her son.

Note that you can read this as a stand-alone one shot but it's part of a series that takes place in this AU

For All My Life by aheartcalledhome & SecondJadeofLan (on ao3)

When saving the bees ends in a happy family.

pumpkins and blueberries by evotter (on ao3)

Modern soulmate AU. In which Lily Evans hates puzzles, Marlene McKinnon is a coffee-making goddess, and the stuffy manager with the unkempt hair just so happens to be Lily's soulmate. In the wise words of Mary Macdonald, nothing is scarier than a relationship. Especially if it's with your soulmate.

After Moon by lovesickjily (on ao3)

When the universe sent Lily back in time for some inexplicable reason, she didn’t realise that she’d fall for the charming, messy-haired Prince along the way, nor did she realise that she’d see him once again.

here's to never growing up by elixirsoflife (on ao3)

Chat fic where a group chat documents the lives of four highly dramatic teenage boys as they navigate their A Levels.

Or, like, die trying.

Okay, I rarely ever read chat fics, they're just not my thing. BUT this one had me wheezing on my way to school. It's crack. Just treat it like crack

Ice Baby also by elixirsoflife

Modern college/uni AU. In his defence, James never expected to meet his soulmate at thirteen minutes past eleven on a Sunday morning when he’s aiming a puck at Sirius’ balls.

Or: call me sweetheart again and I'll punch you in the throat.

Not a Clue by PotterandEvans (on ao3)

Modern college/uni Quarantine AU. Lily stood in the doorway of the flat, looking at the boy in front of her. She had spent most of the last two years keeping her distance from the annoying piece of work, staying away from his ego mostly. “Come in.” She said, stepping away from the doorway to let him into the flat that she usually shared with Remus.

"Ah, so kind." James muttered as he walked inside, his heavy bag weighing him down. This really was not the ideal situation, for either of them. But he had nowhere else to go, so staying with Lily Evans it was going to have to be.

they were zoommates (requires an ao3 account) by elanev91 (on ao3)

Modern college/uni Quarantine AU. Lily's on lockdown and, because she can't help herself, signs herself up for a whole bunch of extra (and free) work with her ad agency. Minerva, her boss, assigns a cheeky social media manager to her team to help her. Also, Marlene discovers TikTok (this is nowhere near as important to the narrative as its inclusion here suggests).

And You Heard About Me (Ooh, We’ve Got Some Big Enemies!) by @wearingaberetinparis

Fame AU. Lily Evans is a Grammy-winning singer-songwriter and global superstar, who recently broke up from her latest and long-term actor boyfriend Amos Diggory. James Potter is a professional football player who plays as a forward for Manchester United and has never been quiet about his celebrity crush: Lily Evans. When Lily Evans thus plays at Wembley Stadium - a place he is more than familiar with due to his being part of the England team - he just has to go and see her perform, embracing his inner, besotted fan boy, while the woman on stage is completely oblivious to his presence. Or is she?

The most unrealistic part was man u winning (but it's James so that explains it). Regardless, I started this fic while waiting for my final grades from last year to come through, and while they were disappointing, this sure wasn't. I was crying so hard that I fell asleep. Then I woke up and continued the fic and suddenly I was giggling along with Lilly. Anything and everything Mary writes is a masterpiece. Thank you for sharing this wonderful story.

it continues (the beginning doesn't matter) by whitesunlars (on ao3)

She is the last person he expected at his door at that exact moment, despite feeling unsure about the fact that she managed to track down his address, he agrees to go out to coffee with her. A lot could be said about James Potter, but nobody could claim that he had good self-preservation skills.

They meet in a bar. Mistakes happen. They learn to keep going.

#jily fic rec #jily #jple #lily evans #james potter

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bluebellhairpin · 10 months

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Thou So Long Hast Mourn'd

Bruce Wayne X Batmom!Reader

Summary: After Jason's passing, your grief and anger combined causes you to leave Gotham - swearing only to return when you have a perfect chance to kill the Joker for what he did to your son. (Part 2 to 'Hell Hath No Fury')

Warnings: Loss and Grief (Mentions of a funeral and repeated mentions of Jason dying. We miss Mumma's Boy Jay a lot :( ). Bad coping mechanisms all round. Clark Kent acts as a marital buffer. (Reader is fem coded; has she/her pronouns; is referred to as ‘wife’ multiple times. Has the hero name of 'Valentine'.)

Listening to: 'Skyfall' By Adele - "I know I'd never be me without the security of your loving arms keeping me from harm."

Series Masterlist || Masterlist || Ko-Fi

Yes, thou shalt know, spite of thy past Distress, -

Jason’s funeral was attended by a very small number of people. Yourself, Bruce, Dick, and Alfred all front and center.

For days, weeks, the media pestered asking question after question. “A tragic accident.” Commissioner Gordon would reply. It became you answer too, like a well-rehearsed prayer.

A tragic accident. Tragic. Accidental tragedy. Accident.

Except it was no such accident. Someone killed Jason. A man, who still walked free, murdered your son.

Even now, a month after you buried the child, as you sat listening to rain pat against the window panes in Wayne Manor, you remembered what you’d told Bruce the night he brought Jason home for the last time.

“I’m going to kill him.” you said. “I’m going to kill the Joker.” You told Bruce you’d do what you’d vowed to never do again. You promised yourself to avenge your son, to make sure no one else would ever lose a child to that monster ever again.

Ever since that night you’d felt a wedge slide between you and Bruce. Dick, only sixteen and having lost the closest thing he had to a brother was feeling it - you could see it on his face, and they way he held his shoulders at dinner. How you were feeling, how little Bruce was doing about it - none of it was doing Dick any good.

Aside from the anger, you didn’t know how you were feeling. You never thought you’d ever be a mother - you had no idea what to do to help anyone. So you left.

Bruce was out on patrol - he dove into Batman head first, a bitter feeling in your stomach had you thinking he was compensating. Dick was out - gymnastic practice, which Alfred was in charge of tonight. You were left alone in a huge house, and you couldn’t stand to stay there any longer.

A small bag was packed with basics - clothes, cash, a few weapons from the cave, and a single family photo taken while on vacation just that past summer (stolen from its frame and folded into a jacket pocket close to your heart). As you walked past the main living space, you stopped, and looked up towards the item hanging above the fireplace.

The sword - Excalibur - a god-given gift to humankind to exact true justice, now resting as a collectors antique catching dust. You knew if you took it that you would be able to do what you needed to. During your time using it there was no greater pull than to execute Joker - yet something always stopped you.

You knew it was Bruce.

Even already, your own guilt over what you meant to do wouldn’t let you take it with you.

Naturally, on that night, Alfred brought Dick was home first. It was already nine thirty, and while Dick would be up for a long while, he knew the boy wasn’t sleeping proper anymore.

Alfred sent him up to his room anyway, reassuringly with a hand on his shoulder, telling him to go try and get some rest.

But Alfred knew something wasn’t right in the Manor the moment he stepped inside. It was too quiet. Like it had been empty as long as they’d been away - even though he knew full well you should’ve been there to keep the house alive.

Although not trained, the butler had a sixth sense for a lot of things - he was a natural at whatever he sent his mind to (in his youth it was acting, and hence so seeing through lies and reading rooms (for improvisation, obviously) went with it). He set out to find you. Looked in all the usual places, and the unusual ones, in the big rooms and the small ones.

In the last week or so you’d taken to spending time sitting in the walk-in-fridge. He worried about you a lot. While Dick still had school and his friends, and Bruce threw himself into Batman, you only really had yourself. It wasn’t healthy.

But no matter how much he looked, or where he looked, you were nowhere to be found - not in the house, nor in the grounds. You’d said nothing about going out when he left, he would’ve remembered. In a last ditch effort to find you, he looked in one last place.

But you hadn’t been in the Batcave since Jason came home.

It was there, as he walked down a set of stairs, that he noticed a piece of paper haphazardly taped to one of the center computer monitors.

He grabbed it, and flipped it open, reading quietly to himself the words inside, scrawled in your handwriting.

‘Bruce, Don’t look, you know I won’t let you find me. I’m going to do something you will hate me for - probably forever. I can’t keep living like this knowing Jason’s killer is out there killing more mother’s sons. Take care of Dickie. Don’t take Alfred for granted.’

The older man found himself sinking into the chair beside him.

He had a hunch this was coming - he wasn’t in the cave the night Bruce brought Jason home, instead at the time he was upstairs taking a call from an excited Dick who was recalling his day spent doing a treasure hunt around Blüdhaven for a school camp trip that lasted the whole week. Alfred had no idea how you first reacted - he didn’t know how Bruce reacted to your reaction.

He knew it wasn’t good. Especially since in your note you didn’t even say goodbye to your husband.

You’d been hiding in a place you knew Bruce wouldn’t ever look - he always hated visiting Metropolis, the city was too bright.

You knew no one there would snitch on you - most didn’t even recognize you, and the one person who did, conveniently the man who was the closest thing Bruce had to a best friend, wouldn’t ever snitch on you. Not for this.

‘I needed a break,’ you’d lied, ‘Couldn’t handle being in Gotham after…’ You never finished, and you knew Clark could see through a lie like glass - but the grief he could see. He could also see the anger simmering underneath. He never called you out for it though.

You’d been there a while, waiting, watching Gotham from a distance Bruce wouldn’t see you from. You kept tabs mostly on Batman - although interviews with Bruce having to explain where his wife went were entertaining (in a sick, satisfying way). Sometimes you were sick, others you were out of town, most times you ‘weren’t feeling up to it’ - the latter two would be closest to the truth, not that he’d know that.

You often looked fondly at whatever information came though about Dick - he took out the gymnastics first place for his age bracket in the Gotham state. The picture made your heart ache - his smile was wide and toothy, but even though your printed newspaper you could tell it wasn’t reaching his eyes.

Who you were watching most, though, was the Joker. You combed through old reports and new ones. Even called up Harley Quinn a few times, just to get a perspective on him from someone who was - at one point - much closer to him. She asked you why you wanted to know.

“I need to know.”

“O-kay. And where exactly have you been Val?” she’d said, voice crackling down the hotel landline, “You ain’t locking yourself up in that Mansion are ya?”

“No. I’m not in Gotham right now.”

“So what’s even the Joker to ya if you ain’t even here huh?”

“When I come back,” you said, “I’m going to kill him.”

You became a Joker expert in almost one night.

You got a late night visitor less than a week after that phone call. Clad in red and blue, with a gaudy cape and that stupid ringlet you and Bruce would always bitch about on late nights under bed covers.

You were a little happy to see Clark - you actually had nothing against him, it was all just in jest (or solidarity because Bruce was your husband). He was let in pretty quickly. Mostly to avoid questions from the nosey couple who’d been staying in the room next to yours for the past three days.

He stood around awkwardly while you watched him from the seat next to the room’s microwave, posture screaming Clark Kent, journalist, even though he looked like Superman, world-know superhero.

“I’m, uh -” he started after you stared at him hard, wordlessly willing him to speak, “- I’m worried. I think you should go back to Gotham soon. To Bruce, specifically.”

“And why’s that?” He looked at you like you’d just said you had Kryptonite in your pocket.

“Because you’re in trouble.”

“I’m here in Metropolis, I’m with you right now, I couldn’t be in less trouble if I tried.”

“You know I have super hearing.” he said sheepishly. It was like he was telling his Ma he ran over her peonies with a bicycle. You put two and two together quickly though.

“You’ve been spying on me?”

“For me!” He said, stepping back with his palms towards the sky, “I feel better about not telling Bruce if I know what’s going on with you.”

“And so what part of your spying brought you here tonight?” Both your arms and legs crossed, you could tell from his face he didn't mean for you to get so offensive so quickly.

“You were talking to Harley Quinn?”

“Oh that,” you scoffed with a wave of your hand, “Even Bruce does that. She’s not so bad. Taught me how to roller-skate you know.”

“About the Joker?”

“That happens often when my husband is being a pain in my ass,” you said, “Reminds me he could be much, much worse.” Clark motioned his head - ‘fair’, but then he returned serious once more. This time it wasn’t a question.

“You said you were going to kill him.”

You knew he couldn’t read your mind, but he could hear how your heartbeat picked up. He had to know you knew you’d been caught. He sat down on the edge of the bed, waiting for your answer in the most approachable way he knew in that moment.

“I’d be doing everyone a favor.”

“Bruce - I don’t know what he’d do. He could hate you.”

“I’m sure he hates me right now anyway.”

“You can’t believe that,” Clark said, looking up at you with blue eyes that almost looked like Bruce’s. “You don’t really believe he hates you right now?” You took a great interest in the patterned carpet. Clark said your name, and you reluctantly looked back at him.

“He misses you.”

“I miss my son.” You bit back at him bitterly. His face remained hard. This was suddenly no longer Clark. You were talking to Superman now.

“I’m not sure how to say this kindly,” Clark said with a firm voice, “But you’re so focused on the child you lost that you’re abandoning the one that’s still here. Bruce misses you, but Dick misses you even more. He doesn’t need to lose another Mom.”

His stare was hard, stubborn - he wasn’t going to let up. Your stare was hard too - sour and angry, not because you didn't believe him, but because you knew how right he was.

“I think you can leave now.”

Two weeks later, after a late night grocery run that consisted mostly of chicken noodle cups and instant coffee, you found a lump of black sitting in the dark with its back against the door of your room.

Clark told Bruce.

He didn’t seem to notice your approach, but once you stood toe-to-toe with his polished Oxford shoes, you kicked his leg.

“Get up.”

His head of messy hair lifted, and when his brain fully processed you - his wife, finally! - standing before him, he almost jumped to his feet. Uncharacteristic of him outside his prior - and now ditched - playboy persona.

He breathed your name, stepping forward with hands outstretched as if to hug you. You took a step back. Clark, apparently hadn’t told him everything - if he had, he was taking it very, very well.

“Where’s Dick?”

“With Alfred,” he said, hands falling to his sides again after you hummed in acknowledgment. You both stood in silence for a while, before you gestured to a door with a full hand. He got the hint, stepping away, then taking the bags away from one hand as you fumbled for your keys.

The quiet continued as you let yourselves in, you sat the shopping on the bench, and he made himself at home at the table near the door. You sat back down in the microwave chair, the furthest place from him you could be while still staying in the room.

“Been keeping busy, Bruce?” you asked, he turned to fully face you in his seat.

“Not really,” he said, “I’ve been looking for you. Never thought you’d be here,” You almost smiled, thinking about how right you were for coming here. Almost.

“Heard you went to Saudi Arabia while I’ve been gone.”

“It was nothing. Really.”

“You couldn’t have been looking too hard if you were able to take a ‘nothing, really’ trip to the Arabian Mountains.”

“I’m not here to fight with you,” Bruce said, resting a palm on his knee, “I’m here to ask you to come home. We all miss you.” his last words came out very quietly. “It’s been months. Nothings going to get easier if you stay away.”

“Are you listening to yourself?” you said with a soft scoff, “He who literally spent every single night after Jason died away from home. He who spends every moment he can down in a dark damp cave rather than with his family - I don’t think you get to tell me where I should be.” You felt tears well in your eyes - hot and fat if they fell, but you willed yourself not to let them. Bruce’s shoulders softened, and he stood and walked closer slowly, coming to kneel before you with his fingers just touching yours.

“We both haven’t been doing well, have we?” his head shook and his voice was barely audible. It was like he was speaking to himself. His admission - finally, his own pride and stubbornness aside, and it made yours disappear like dust in the wind.

“You need to see my bathroom,” you said. His head cocked, a sly smile twitched onto his lips.

“Oh?” he said, “And what might I find there?” But you weren’t smiling. You were trying to be honest.

“Just go look.” you said, turning away from him, bringing your hand away. Telling him with your actions that you weren’t going to be talking until he did.

He stood, opening the bathroom door behind you and flicking on the light. You could feel how still he was. Taking in the room, and what was inside it.

All across the mirror and walls were taped up newspaper clippings and photos and articles printed off from the library, old and new, a few of him - Batman - but most of the Joker. Beside the toilet was a case - one he knew would hold parts of a rifle (parts he'd seen you pull apart and put back together in a minute flat) - and across the sink were knives and gun magazines.

Bruce stepped off the carpet and onto the tile. There was a little list in the center of the mirror, written in red and with the last line underlined.

‘Kill the Joker’.

When he returned to you, he was holding the list in one hand.

“When were you planning on doing this?” he asked. You weren’t able to meet his eyes when you answered.

“Whenever I go back to Gotham.” His body went rigid beside you. Audibly, he let out a breath.

“I’ve thought about it too. Just getting rid of him like that.” he admitted, voice quiet and with a rough edge, “But I know it won’t help. It won’t bring him back.”

“This isn’t about bringing him back. If I knew it could bring Jason back I’d have done it weeks ago.” You looked up at Bruce as you spoke, watching as his face crinkled in disbelief.

“You’re so serious about this.”

“How could you still think I’m not serious?” you said, standing to help convince yourself you weren’t as unsure as you felt. “I will do it. A time will come when that monster dies - wherever it is I will be standing by watching.”

He watched you. Analyzing your face and the way your eyes moved. His face set like stone, hard and sure and you knew he was much more upset now having found out than what he was when you were missing. He took a step back.

Bruce was moving towards the door.

“I won’t stop you. I couldn’t bear to.” he turned, hand on the door handle, “But Batman still will.”

As far as you knew, you’d made it back into Gotham City undetected.

You knew the route’s Bruce - no - Batman, took while out on patrol. You knew the surveillance he constantly would check. You knew because for years you’d helped him do it all.

Thankfully, you had a not-so-little little helper - Joker assassination aside, Harley was more than happy to put you up for a while. After you’d killed Joker you’d planned to turn tail and leave again - maybe hide someplace in Australia where no one barely goes. It wasn’t like you had to put up with her long anyway.

Harley was great, but you’d have to love her a whole lot to live with her longer than a week. But you weren’t planning to stay that long.

You’d tracked Joker to an apartment complex near Arkham - you knew he wouldn’t stay there forever, so you needed to act fast.

Your weapons of choice were clean and ready to go, your escape routes A through to D were memorized, a hood and bandana combo were acquired to hide your identity long enough for no one around to know it was you. By all means and definitions you were ready to go.

You left Harley’s place wordlessly. You were sure she didn’t even know you left.

A cloak and the shadows of night concealed you from most passersby. Slowly, slowly you stalked towards where you knew the Joker to be. When you climbed the fire escape to find your vantage point, you almost didn’t make it all the way there because you saw Him.

Sitting, lounging. Acting like there was not a single thing in the world to worry about. It made you so angry you could scream, claw your eyes out, you could do so many things all because that man couldn’t care less about your son dying.

In fact, you didn’t make it to your original vantage point.

You settled right there, three levels lower than planned, and took the rifle off your shoulder. Clipping on the scope, twisting the silencer on, packing the magazine in. Settled your body into a comfortable position, then raised the gun to look at your target through the scope.

With greasy green hair and yellow teeth, you watched him smile through the crosshairs. With a sneer you flicked the safety off. You were ready to take the shot.

A flash of red, green and yellow came in front of the Joker. You frowned, confused. Pulling the scope back you looked again with a wider range and saw something that made your heart drop. Someone was tied up and presented to him like a present.

The Joker had Robin.

Your Robin. Your son. Your Dick Grayson.

Suddenly this was more than just a chance to avenge Jason. A switch flicked inside your heart. This wasn’t a chance to avenge Jason anymore; this was you, saving the son you had left. This was you not giving that monster the chance to keep you in black.

The lethal rifle was ditched right there on the fire escape, not caring if a lowlife found it before you could return. The knives you’d stashed - ‘just in case’ - were now your swords. Their piercing blades becoming the only thing shielding those who stood in your way a feral beating from bare fists.

No one was standing in your way of taking Dick home safely.

Your veins pumped white hot, you saw red all over. This was not going to happen a second time. It wasn’t ever going to happen again.

A goon at the door stood in your way, he was met with a knee to the crotch and a wound to his shoulder to keep him down. More on the stairs were thrown over bannisters. One had his head smashed into the doorway of the Joker’s apartment. Another was given a hard elbow to the back of his neck.

You weren’t aiming to kill - you were aiming to get them out of your way, and keep them that way.

When you reached the room which window you saw through, there were only four other people aside from yourself, your son, and that murdering bastard. They all stayed quiet, goons waiting on a call to action from their boss. You missed the way Dick’s eyes widened as he realised his Mom was here. You were busy staring down the Joker, trying to make him feel just how much pure hate you had for him without a single word.

“Give me Robin,” you said, voice low, venomous. Dangerous.

“Well if you want him so bad, and since you asked nicely,” His smile spread wide and uncanny. “Come and get him.”

So you did.

Like a blur of back and blue, you had all four men either out cold or groaning on the floor. The Joker himself was under your kneeling form with his teeth now stained red and an eyes swollen shut.

“Listen well because I’ll only say it once.” You said, your hand a rough fist in his hair to make sure he looked into your eyes and saw exactly how much of a threat your promise was.

“I spared your life today. I will never do it again. I am not the Batman. The next time I find you trying to pull something with one of my Robin’s and you see me coming you'd better run the other way because I will kill you.”

After untying Dick, retrieving your abandoned gear, and throwing Joker into Arkham, you reconvened with Dick on a nearby rooftop.

You barely stood upright on two legs before he barreled into you, arms thrown around your waist with his face squished right into your collarbone. He’d grown taller in the time you’d been away. You felt tears fall as your arms wrapped around him in kind.

“I’ve missed you Mom.” he mumbled into your shirt, “Please don’t go away again. Please.”

A hand raised to the back of his head as you pressed your covered nose into his hair. You took a deep breath with your eyes closed, then opened them, peeling you both apart just enough to take in each other's faces. Even with his mask on you could see how much he was pleading with you to stay.

You brushed his hair away from his face - he needed a haircut soon.

You wanted to stay, you never wanted to leave him ever again, not after tonight. But would Bruce let you?

Out the corner of your eye you saw a black drop fall onto the rooftop a little ways off. Batman. He stood, tall and intimidating. In that moment you had half a mind to take a step back even though he made no move closer to you.

Instead you just held Dick a little tighter.

Bruce's hand reached out to you, palm open, outstretched, and empty. Waiting for you to take it.

“I think we can go home now.” he said, “We all can.” Like that, Batman disappeared. Bruce was here. You guessed he bluffed - when it came to you Bruce was always there.

Things were not going to go back to normal. They weren’t for a while. But the best thing you could do was stay together, all together. As a family.

Nothing was going to push that away from you again.

- And all those Ills which thou so long hast mourn'd;

#the adventures of batmom #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x batmom #batman x reader #jason todd x batmom #dick grayson x batmom

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realityandrebirth · 9 months

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I don't think I've really talked about Forgetting the Coin (originalized version) on this blog before. Here's a working summary:

When Oliver Singh finds a traumatized teenager collapsed outside his house, he takes the responsibility of caring for them upon himself. As the CEO of a mid-sized company, he has the money and resources to keep them safe when the cult Crow escaped from attempts to take them back. But Crow isn't the only one threatened by the necromancy cult, and secrets are unveiled pertaining to Oliver's own past. While he struggles to give Crow a good, stable life, Oliver is haunted by what he knows to be true: you can try and resurrect the dead, but no one ever comes back the same.

Oliver is obviously in the place of Cyrus Borg here, and Crow takes the place of Morro, but there aren't many other characters who were clearly based on the fanfic.

Info about the characters under the cut.

Oliver's company produces disability aids for neurological disorders and other disabilities, and Oliver is epileptic himself. He's fairly young, not even 30, and he cut contact with his parents at the age of 21. They always mourned the child they would never have, who wouldn't be in and out of hospitals for the rest of their childhood, and they never treated him right because of this. He no longer seeks their validation.

Crow was one of dozens of children who were adopted out of the foster care system to cultists who posed as aspiring parents. Growing up in the cult, they had no frame of reference for the way they were treated, and it wasn't until a ritual nearly killed them that they escaped. Now they're trying to adjust to a normal life they never had, but the aftereffects of that last ritual still linger.

Maggie is Crow's biological mother. She lost custody of her child due to various circumstances, such as being a single mother and being diagnosed with stigmatized mental illnesses, leading to Crow being in foster care and adopted into a cult. She was never able to raise her baby, and when she's identified as Crow's mother, she wants to have a second chance–but Crow was too young to remember her, and by the time Maggie is found, Oliver's grown protective of them. After some tension, Maggie and Crow all decide to build a new relationship, even if they won't ever have the relationship that was taken from them.

Val is a nurse working at the hospital Crow was first brought to, as well as a survivor of the same cult. She pulls many, many strings to give Oliver custody, based on the correct assumption that he would not only care for Crow, but provide security if the cult tried to take them back. She visits Crow and Oliver often, and is the one to smooth things over with Maggie.

#forgetting the coin #a different tag than the fanfic tag. I couldn't think of a better title LOL

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lightpeak · 4 months

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a totally original shower thoughts video - script

I have a personal vendetta against the number 7. It’s the oddest of the odd single digit numbers. It’s just… there. That, and it’s the only single digit number, other than zero, with two syllables. I remember as a kid, hating it when a number was something like seven hundred, seven thousand, seventeen. It just felt crowded. But I suppose it’s a hopeless endeavor to hate it. It’s not like I can change it.

But what about hopeless? I think it’s the most despicable word in the English language.

Not because of some arbitrary linguistic property. But because of what it means, and the fact that humanity has deemed it necessary to express its meaning. That suffering perpetrates life in such a way to extinguish, however temporarily, a person’s hope.

What about the obviously dumb words? Like how we park on driveways, and drive on parkways. Shipments are carried in trucks or cars, but cargo is carried on ships.

Or what about discombobulate? Well actually, that one makes sense. It means to stun or confuse, and I pretty much always feel that way when faced with that word.

And then there’s taradiddle. This more or less means that something’s pretentious. Does that mean that my entire personality is taradiddlous? Taradiddleful? Taradiddliousious?

Have you ever looked out your window in the morning and seen canines and felines plummeting from the heavens? No? Then why is “it’s raining cats and dogs” a phrase? And what about buckets, and striking them with our feet, makes us think of death? And is breaking your leg not the worst case scenario during a performance? Why do we wish that upon others?

English is a giant… joke.

Speaking of falling animals, why do we say we are falling in love? What about a growing fondness for someone, makes us think of helplessly succumbing to gravity? Maybe it’s something to do with the duality of falling. How, thanks to relativity, falling is indistinguishable from floating, other than the air rushing past you.

This is because gravity is not a force within the universe, but a distortion of the universe itself. All lines are straight lines, except where gravity bends the space those lines occupy. This is also due to how acceleration works, and how movement is irrelevant without a reference frame. Long story short, we say we’re falling in love, because we also feel like we’re floating. We feel free. Yet we’re reminded of how helpless we are in the things we can’t control. Love is not a thought. It’s not something you have conscious control of. You will love, whether you like it or not.

Gravity is all fine and dandy, until someone wants to get off the planet. That someone being a selfish billionaire whose only goal is self preservation and destroying twitter. But I digress. It’s so interesting, how there are so many jobs, whose workers hope for the worst. Phone companies love it when you break your phone. Or when its ability to function correctly suddenly drops, due to no fault of the manufacturer. Or how cops want people to commit crimes to fill their quotas. Mostly people who are already in desperate situations, totally not systemically by design. Mechanics want your car to have problems, so they can charge you extra for repairs you didn’t even know you needed.

Going back to that billionaire that ruined twitter, he wants to install chips in people’s heads. Supposedly, to allow people to use technology just by thinking about it. Which I guess is cool. Except when you realize that we already have brain to technology interfaces. They’re called our hands, using keyboards, or controllers, or touchscreens. I swear he’s like a League Of Legends player, trying to get his input lag down to zero.

Speaking of video games, some games can be kind of like therapy for people. Just a way to escape the world, or be a cuddly wholesome environment to make your own. Others, however, might make you need therapy, with how dark and gritty their worlds are. All forms of media can inform us of who we are and what we care about. Others are just fun, and you shouldn’t really think much more about it.

Some may say that getting entrenched in a story can be meaningless. You’re just wasting your time in a fantasy land you’ll never visit. But they forget that these worlds are inspired by our own. Or are idealistic versions of the world we inhabit. Maybe it’s not so bad to hope for our world to look a little more like the one on the screen or between the pages. I don’t think it’s ever a bad thing to hope.

Now if someone can make a world where the number 7 doesn’t exist, you’ll know where to find me.

youtube

#Youtube

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xxxavo · 2 years

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JUST PROCCUPY

JA'FAR x READER x SPARTOS

Summary: The reader is hired by Al-Thamen to assassinate King Sinbad in Sindria. After disguising herself as a new member of his harem she has Sinbad’s fate set in stone until he offers her an unexpected request;

“There is somebody I’d like you to entertain for me.”

PROLOGUE:

No Conditions and Bad Decisions

It had been quite some time since you were granted access to enter what was commonly referred to as the Fire Pit. Most rooms in Al-Thamen’s Heliohapt branch were hard to gain admission to in the first place, but the Fire Pit was by far the most private of them all.

Placed at the top of the ten-story building, the Fire Pit was guarded by two mages cloaked in red stood on either side of the golden-edged door, which could only be described as a black void, sucking anyone who walked through the entryway into a place of chaos.

You felt like a school girl again, a life you only briefly remember living, sat outside the principal’s office because you’d decided to be a trouble maker. Perched on a simple wooden bench alongside the wall was your designated place to wait until you were called. Neither guard spoke a word to you, nor did you speak to them. There was a mutual agreement that nothing was to be exchanged, not one single word.

Minuets upon minutes ticked by until it felt like hours of just staring up at portraits of unrecognizable faces. One of them in particular intrigued you. It was a picture of a small child, pale and somewhat malnourished with long black hair braided in the most elaborate of ways. He was gaping past the frame.

The child looked almost innocent as if questioning why he was being painted in the first place. It would have been cute, if not for his red eyes and demented grin.

Click.

You’re head swiftly snapped to witness whatever was going on over in your expected destination. Another hooded figure, wearing the usual red attire, poked his head out of the Fire Pit to converse secretly with the other two mages, whispering things you couldn’t quite make out. The way they acted made you question what you were really doing here. Of course, you knew what you were doing here, in Al-Thamen’s Heliohapt branch bordering on the continent of darkness.

A future killer in the marking, you were chosen by Al-Thamen and trained at a tender age along with others, brought to the sand lands to be hidden and stored away until you were needed. Many of your mentors had spoken to you and the other children about missions.

What missions exactly? You weren’t entirely certain, though you had a haunch that if they were teaching you to throw knives and to identify poisons you weren’t exactly going to be working in a kitchen. At least not in the traditional sense.

It had taken blood, sweat, and tears just to survive Al-Thamens courses, others who were not so successful sold to slavery or killed as an example. But, to be quite honest, you had very little experience in the field, almost like they were shielding you . . .

The organization was smart not to let you mingle with the others as children; It meant no connections, no loyalty, no love. Just them and the empty promises they made. If you were being honest, you hated it here, but it was all you knew.

“My Lady.” It was the latter of the three men that addressed you, the two from before still staying silent with their heads down. “The Master shall see you now.” Now that he was looking directly at you, his face could be made out in the dim torchlight. He was an older gentleman, perhaps around fifty, even sixty. His kind smile did little to trick you, his eyes showing the murderous intent that everyone else around these parts carried. With that, he turned and shrunk back into the little gap he came out of, and then suddenly all the motions were put into place.

Clawing their nimble fingers around the golden hinges, the mages heaved the void the rest of the way open, the Fire Pit now exposed to your undeserving eyes. At first, the sheer intensity of the light inside blinded you. It forced you to swing your hands in front of your face, adjusting your irises.

“Enter, my child.” This time, the voice that spoke was different. It was no longer the third man cloaked in red, but a much deeper, strong voice, belonging to who you strongly assumed to be a male. Hands now to your side, you took careful steps into the Fire Pit, taking in all the surroundings. It took on a much different appearance from when you had last seen it all of those years ago.

Back then, you were just a ten-year-old girl told to circle around the cauldron in the centre of the room with the other unfortunate kids. The walls were black marble, the torches, which were a flaming sapphire blue, symmetrically placed on all five white pillars that led towards the lavish purple throne at the back. Everything was the same, except for a few minor details.

Firstly, the floor, sand-grained floor mind you, had a red carpet stretching all the way to the door, under the cauldron, and towards the throne. Secondly, on the walls now hung different scriptures you couldn’t understand a word of, their language unreadable to you. Thirdly, the light from the flames was much stronger, as if a force you’d never quite met before was fuelling their power, casting unforgiving shadows on the golden sand beneath your feet. Then, finally, at the end of the room sat on the foreboding throne was a person. Never before had you seen him, but it wasn’t hard to guess who it was, after all, you had just been told.

It was the Master.

For some reason, you did not expect him to be an actual civilian of the country this particular building inhabited. A man with tan skin, bright white hair, and a big beaming smile didn’t exactly read ‘I run a terrorist operation’.

If it wasn’t for the door slamming shut the moment you laid eyes on him, you wouldn’t have even flinched.

“There’s the promising one I have heard so much about!!” Unlike the others he did not wear red. Instead of wore robes of white, decorated with blue ribbons and golden jewels. It made you consider that the colour of clothes had more meaning to them than you had first suspected, considering all of the trainees either wore green, like you, or brown. Then, there were the Master’s underlings, covered in blood-red silk. “Tell me, child, what’s your name?”

As if on instinct, you were quick to spill the anticipated information to him. It made him chuckle gleefully, crossing his bulging legs one over the other like some esteemed noble in a palace. “Such a good listener, but I suspected as much. Commander Hashim has been watching you for a while now, we’ve been looking for someone. Someone strong and reliable. A soldier. Someone like you.” You assumed Commander Hashim was the one who had beckoned you in by the look of pride that had taken over his face. He snaked his arm around your own, swiftly tugging you to walk forward along the carpet with him and up to the cauldron. He only stopped making you walk when your noes was inches away from sizzling in the festering fire stemming from the object of witch-craft.

Silence. You took that as your cue to speak.

“What exactly have I been chosen for?”

“A mission.” Swooned the Master, dramatically waving his arms around in delight. “It’s a big one too, child. You should be honoured. I feel like such a proud father.”

“What’s the mission?” In the past, you had fought other rising assassins in the building, though never had you been assigned anything. The excitement from the Master’s face settled, replaced with a sombre look now, as he contemplated the delivery. It must have held great weight to it, for him to have changed his demeanour so drastically.

“Do you know why you wear green, my Child?”

“No Master. I do not.”

“Back in Kou…” Now, the heliohaptian man leaned forward, his great big blue eyes boring into your own through the flickering flames of the cauldron’s fire. “To wear green means to be a commoner. That my child is what you are here. A common assassin. What do some of your other friends wear hmm?” Friends was used sarcastically, almost in amusement, seemingly the Master took joy in every single one of his ‘children’s’ isolations. “They wear brown. A lowly, mucky colour. And why? Because they’re no good. They’re not common assassins, they’re broken ones. Unlike them you won’t be disposed of. You will be used.” Sitting upwards once more, the Master cricked his neck, a disturbing sound echoing from the walls. “Your mission is to assassinate the King of Sindria, Sinbad.”

Surely you couldn’t have heard him, right?

“The holder of seven Djinns?” You practically bristled, ripping your arm from the commanders hold almost in a panic. “I haven’t been trained for this, it’s practically suicidal!!”

“Only if you do it wrong.” Interrupted the Master with a laugh. “And we haven’t put all of our precious time into nurturing you for you to do it wrong. Child.” Commander Hashim now wrapped his wrinkly hand around your forearm before tugging it towards him, pulling out a needle and pricking it into your skin before you could blink.

You knew better then to resist, gritting your teeth as the droplets of blood fell into his free palm. Once satisfied, the old man released you, thrusting the loose droplets into the blazing fire and you watched almost in a daze as the crimson liquid combusted into ash, forming into a black figure that rose its head up high, revelling in the sensation of the heat as it thrusted to and frou.

Much like yourself, the figure was conflicted between escaping its invisible cage and staying put.

After all, if you were to deny the mission and leave you would be killed for insubordination, yet if you were to accept the mission and travel to Sindria, a place swarming with powerful enemies and a strong monarchy, you were likely to be executed. Either way you couldn’t win, but at least in Sindria there was a chance of success. Besides, like the Master had said, you hadn’t been taught to do your job wrong.

Out of everybody in your learning group you had excelled in all elements you’d been taught and relayed. They’d moulded you into a machine they believed could sneak swiftly into Sinbad’s chambers and out again without a single suspicion.

To throw away this opportunity was to throw away your life’s work.

With a new found resolve, you firm gaze met the Masters and you nodded swiftly. “I accept.” The Master found it endearing, finding it cute you answered as if you had a choice in the matter.

“Good.” The white-haired man hummed lowly; eyes now predatory.

“On one condition.”

“Oh?” That seemed to have caught his interest. “Does my child have a mind of her own? It seems like the Commander wasn’t entirely right about you, little bird. You seem much livelier than anticipated…” You didn’t give him much time to mull over if he should change his mind or not, opting to continue with your condition.

“I want to know what that was? What did you just do?” You were smart enough to know curse magic when you saw it. If a man takes your blood and throws it into a cauldron, what else was he going to do? Pulling a rabbit out of a hat seemed unlikely, especially for this kind of crowd.

As if your question had triggered some sort of beast, the figure in the fire let out an ear-piercing screech, wings feebly trying to hoist it up into the air yet the orange flames ate away at its body like puranas at the flesh of human skin. The sound did not disappear until the creature of ash was terminated, and once it was gone the flames swirled around like a dance before dispersing into thin air.

The Master made no sudden movements. All he did was nod his head, urging you to take a look inside the item of sorcery. You were hesitant at first, but curiosity killed the cat, did it not?

Inside the midnight cauldron lay an array of pumpkin tinted feathers, fluttering gently as feeble black eyes peered up into your own. It was a tiny orange bird. Despite the warmth that filled your chest, the scorching sensation on your forearm did little to let you revel in the attachment. It was quick, albeit painful, but once done indented onto your arm was a small black sun, fully in bloom as if it was at its highest point in the clear blue sky.

“Time is ticking little bird; you best be on your way.” You realized he no longer referred to you as child but instead little bird. Now, you were just his pet.

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ktinastrikesback · 3 years

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Alright, here it is: The meta post about Eddie Diaz and mother figures and how it all leads to Buddie (I think). Thanks to @yramesoruniverse for your help with this, and @kitkatpancakestack and @evanbucklies for inspiring it! I really have been thinking about this nonstop and had to get it all down. This got quite long, so I'll include a cut in order to spare everyone who doesn't want to continue reading!

We first get an idea of Eddie's complicated thoughts surrounding mother figures throughout his whole storyline with Shannon in season 2 when he romantically reconnects with her for Christopher's benefit. I do want to keep the focus here trained on Eddie in season 4, but I want to point out a season 2 line that is pretty fitting. As much as I don't want to use a Shannon quote as a starting point for a meta, I think this one is actually pretty useful: "...Eddie always knows what's best for everyone...God forbid you stop for a second and actually ask them what they need." While it's harsh and spoken out of spite, Shannon does make a point here which becomes relevant at the end of season 4.

We don't know a whole lot about season 4 Eddie (thanks writers) aside from the fact that he's working on being a single father (he tells Marjan in the crossover that he's "doing the whole single dad thing") and being a support system for Buck and the rest of the 118. Eddie's "arc" this season is moving on from Shannon and beginning to date again (a very small and limited arc, which hopefully season 5 will remedy). Of course, because it's Eddie, the core of this arc is him wanting what is best for Christopher. And it seems pretty clear that what Eddie thinks Chris needs is a complete family with a mother figure (note how he asks Bobby if he's "happy now, with Athena and the kids" and just assumes that Bobby is talking about Ana Flores), but the universe pushes against this idea throughout the whole season. There are a lot of examples in season 4 of unreliable mother figures (for example, the alcoholic mother who causes the wreck in Blindsided), but in order to save some space here, I'll list and discuss those in another post. The main thing I want to point out is that we've seen that mother figures aren't always perfect, and they aren't the end all be all that Eddie thinks. And canonically, the show suggests several times throughout the season that the partner that Eddie needs/wants and who is best for Chris is actually Buck.

In Breaking Point, while Eddie is on his date, it's Buck who is at home taking care of Christopher and getting him through his nighttime routine (which establishes that he knows the routine and has gotten Chris ready for bed before, hence the reference to his "cautionary tale"). On the date, when Ana says that no one has been in his life since Shannon passed away, Eddie noticeably looks uncomfortable (the will reveal makes this scene and that particular comment and Eddie's subsequent reaction so rich. Eddie knows that what Ana is saying is completely untrue, because the person he trusts most with his son is with him at that exact moment). Later, when Eddie tells Christopher about his new 'friend', he says "it's a woman." And...to be honest, what the hell was that? He could have said, "I'm dating someone" or "I have a girlfriend." But he says it like this? And it's weird...right? Christopher is the one who has to say "girlfriend." Also his tone of voice when he says it...it's suspicious to me. Anyways...Eddie talks with Ana about Christopher's reaction and her first instinct is to take a break and wait for Christopher to warm up to the idea so as to not cause him more pain. Meanwhile, Chris is out the door, in an Uber, and on his way to Buck, the person who actually gets Chris to talk about his feelings and who fixes the whole mess. So while Eddie is talking with Ana, Buck is playing a parental role AND promising Chris he isn't going anywhere, completely juxtaposing everything Ana has said and done in this episode (throwback to Fools, anyone?). Just like we see in 4x14, the perfect partner that Eddie is looking for is already putting in the work, no questions asked (and this is all before Buck knows about the will!). Yet Eddie is still trying to force it with Ana.

We see this again very briefly in Parenthood. Eddie and Buck are seen agreeing on parenting ideals on a call, similar to how we saw them work together in Future Tense to talk Chris out of playing video games. At the end of the episode however, when Chris asks to join the movie, Ana just jumps ahead and lets him in, not consulting with Eddie. Of course, this isn't a serious issue and Eddie is happy to have Chris join them, but it still carries on with juxtaposing Ana with Buck. It's also a bit interesting that Chris sits between them, parallel to the video game scene from season 3. But again, it's a very brief scene, so I don't know how much value it has overall.

We see all of this come to a head in 4x13 when Eddie becomes invested in the single mother and her son from the balcony call. Interestingly, this call happens after Eddie's conversation with Carla ("make sure you're following your heart"). On the call, Eddie flirts with the mom. This is interesting because we've seen many times in the past that Eddie...doesn't like flirting, especially on the job. Eddie openly flirting with the mom here may be his way of fighting against what his instincts are telling him Carla's comment was about (him liking Buck/a man). Eddie quickly becomes invested in Charlie (the son) and takes a liking to his mother because he relates to her. You can kind of see the gears working in Eddie's head when he's at their apartment...he's admiring her and perhaps maybe fantasizing about having a partner who gets it. And he sees a mother taking care of her son...reinforcing his love for the mother figure. But of course, we all learn by the end of the episode that this mother figure is extremely warped and not at all what her child needs.

The best part about this plot is the way it plays into the shooting scene at the end of the episode. Just before he gets shot, we see Eddie in an interesting framing choice (I am genuinely serious when I say that I want to sit down with Brenna Malloy and ask her about her directing choices for this whole scene):

The mother and son are placed into separate ambulances, and Eddie stands between the two vehicles. Visually, Eddie is literally placed between the mother figure and the son, and Buck is standing in front of him (at a slight distance). As (thank you to @kitkatpancakestack for pointing this out!) the ambulance with the mother drives away, Eddie says "shoulda gotten here sooner" to Buck (who replies, "That kid is just lucky he met you." He knows how to reassure Eddie and recognizes what is good for the child). Then of course, Eddie gets shot. But let's focus instead on why this framing before the shooting is important: the universe does scream, and it sure as hell was screaming at Eddie this whole episode. Carla calls him out for not following his heart, he idolizes this mother only for her to end up being horrid, then he gets shot with his partner standing right in front of him (you know, the same person who takes care of his son for the entirety of the next episode).

This can be read so plainly: Eddie has been fighting hard for what he thinks is best for his son, and he's stuck in this relationship with Ana because he thinks she is what will make Christopher happy. Meanwhile, Buck is in front of him and has been there the entire time putting in the work with Chris and making him feel heard, loved, and important. This ties right back to that Shannon line: if Eddie had simply asked Christopher what he needs/wants, it's very possible that his answer would be "Buck." Eddie doesn't need to be stuck in the middle of this relationship he doesn't care about because Chris' happiness is not dependent on having a mother figure.

Of course, we didn't see very much of Eddie in 4x14 so we don't really know what is going through his head regarding the shooting or Carla's comment just yet, but I'm hoping we see a lot of him working through all of the events that took place in 4x13/14 throughout next season. Because of the way the mother/son storyline ended up and the way they framed Eddie in the shooting scene, I'm willing to bet that he's going to be reevaluating just what Christopher needs and what he already has (with his Buck).

(Also side note--the welcome home party scene...when Buck is watching Eddie greet Christopher, notice the framing there too. The photo of Chris and Shannon is on the right side of the frame, Eddie and Chris in the middle, and Buck to the left. You already know what I'm going to say, so I'll leave it at that...)

Anyways. Edmundo Diaz is confused about what he and Christopher need, and it's actually a brilliant way to dive into a storyline about his sexuality and his feelings for Buck. Remember that post-finale interview with Tim where he said Eddie is always concerned with what's best for Christopher? That there will be a lot to explore with Eddie? I take everything Tim says with a grain of salt, but looking at all of this, there's quite a bit here pointing in the direction of pining Eddie. It's not wishful thinking, it's in the text.

I'm literally just applying basic film analysis to these scenes...and everything is adding up to a larger picture. I'm really excited to see what Eddie's arc in season 5 will be because there's so much set in place for it to be really great.

#buddie #911 fox #eddie diaz #evan buckley #christopher diaz #meta #mother figures #part one?#I have more to say but will save for another post #buddie canon s5 idc

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anonquack · 3 years

Text

| Chef Q |

Alex Quackity x Reader, Oneshot, Requested by: @anotherdreamsimp !!

Word Count: 3328

Warnings: Some curse words, mainly just some fluff !

Summary: Quackity hasn't been streaming recently, and decides to come back with a cooking stream. Featuring you as a special guest.

Lately, Quackity had been studying like crazy for his final exams. That meant no streaming. He'd take a break from it to focus entirely on his studies. Absolutely nothing else.

He claimed to have his priorities straight, and had the goal to pass all exams with high scores in order to keep his grades looking wonderful.

This also meant there was rarely any time spent between you two, beside the occasional snack breaks you forced him to take so he wouldn't die at his desk.

It was tough not being able to show him a random video you'd found on the timeline, or walking up to chat with him whenever you wanted, but you knew this was very important to him. So you gladly supported him and offered as much support as possible.

Thankfully, all of his studying paid off and he passed with flying colors. A teacher had even informed him that he'd received the top score for one of his final exams.

You were the first person to hear the news, and you couldn't help but feel the adoration coursing through your body at how excited he was to tell you. Jumping up and down and shaking you lightly as he told you about his scores.

You'd offered to take him out for a celebratory meal, to treat him for all his hard work and also since you missed the fun outings with him. There was no way he was saying no to that.

—

After a day out and about, you two had made your way back home. Both of you were pleasantly full, having enjoyed the meal and also dessert. His request, for "doing so well on his finals." How could you possibly deny him that?

You both were also very content, a warmth and comfort surrounding the air around you two the entirety of the outing.

One thing that was impossible not to notice was how he'd become exceptionally clingy as soon as you two were out of the car. Gripping onto your hand tightly as you singlehandedly unlocked the front door.

"I've missed you so much these past few days." He murmered as you finally got the door to open and pulled him inside.

"I've missed you too." You hummed softly. It was always nice hearing him say these things. You locked the front door, and gently pulled at his hand to lead him back to your room.

It didn't take much of a pull for him to willingly follow you. "Can we cuddle or something?" He asked softly, almost as if he was a bit embarrassed to ask. You turned to him and gave him a grin, along with a small nod.

You'd missed him, even if you two had been in the same apartment this whole time. You'd especially been missing cuddles with him, considering he studied pretty much all day. There wasn't enough time being shared together so you gladly agreed to some cuddling.

Sooner than later, you two found yourselves in your pajamas, laying in bed peacefully as you scrolled through tiktok, screen tilted in order for him to see as well. It really was so nice finally being able to be this close to him again.

After some time, you found yourself looking through tweets on the timeline. A certain one caught his attention and he asked you to stop scrolling.

It was a tweet from a fan, saying they missed Quackity since he hadn't streamed in two weeks, but that overall they hoped his tests were going fine.

"Has it really been 2 weeks?" He asked aloud as he clicked on it and looked through the replies, all agreeing with the original tweet.

"Mm.. two and a half, I think." You answered, looking at him curiously as a guilty expression appeared on his face.

"Hey." You called out once you saw the expression wasn't leaving. He turned to you with a small frown.

"It's fine. You had a good reason for being gone so long. I'm sure they understand. Plus, you'll be back soon, right?" You asked, to which he nodded before sitting up from the cuddling position you two were in.

You sat up as well, noticing how his eyes widened slightly, and a small smile made its way onto his face.

"I just got a great idea." He exclaimed. "Y'know, I was going to just spend the next few days with you since I missed you but– how about we stream something together? That way I can enjoy both, and the fans get a stream too."

You stared at him in surprise. The fans did know he was dating someone, but you rarely ever came out on streams, not because he didn't want you to but because you didn't deem it to be necessary.

The few times you had been on, you'd received tons of love and support from the chat, so you didn't think anything too bad would happen if you were to appear on his stream again.

"What did you have in mind?" You asked curiously. The other times you'd been on were him playing horror games and an extremely scuffed IRL stream.

"Well.. I haven't done a cooking stream in a while." He began, but you quickly shook your head.

"Oh no. Don't tell me you're going to make us eat some monstrosity‐ like your past cooking streams." You visibly shuddered at the thought. You remember having to help clean up the mess after. And no matter how funny it had been, the actual cleanup was awful.

"No no– I was thinking maybe we do a serious one, y'know? Chat hasn't really been able to see my cooking abilities, and well.. I'd say I am pretty good at it." He grinned. He was unfortunately right.

You relaxed at the mention of it being a 'serious' cooking stream. It could never really be too serious when it came to Quackity, but it meant not eating dog food or poorly made pizza. You were in.

"So we'll make an actual.. edible.. meal?" You questioned again, just to be sure. To which he nodded.

"Yeah, and we can enjoy that meal after. Like a date. What do you say?" He was beaming. It was his creativity rolling in. And he was probably so proud of himself for finding a way to spend time with you yet also give chat the stream content they'd been missing out on.

"Alright. I'm in."

You hadn't seen him this eager to get out of bed and head to the grocery store ever before. Chat was really in for a fun stream tomorrow.

—

He'd tweeted it out several hours before you two planned on starting the stream that he'd be streaming today with a special guest, and that he had his chef hat ready to go.

As you scrolled through Twitter you could see the timeline freaking out over 'COOKING STREAM' and 'SPECIAL GUEST'. Lots of discussion over who it was.

You couldn't help but feel a bit bad since the fans were probably speculating that he'd met up with his online friends, but in reality it was just you. In that case, you'd try your best to make this a fun stream, and your presence an enjoyable one.

As the time for the stream to start got closer, you helped him set the ingredients you'd be using onto the table, in a way where it was in perfect view for the stream to see and follow along if they wished.

"We're supposed to start in 5." You called out as he slipped his beanie on, fixing the few hair strands that were sticking out a bit too much.

He smiled and made his way over to you, cupping your face and giving you a small kiss. "I'm so excited to do some cooking with you. They're all going to love you."

You couldn't help the warm feeling that spread over your chest at his words. It was like introducing you all over again. He'd recently gained a lot of new followers, and that meant they probably had no idea who you were. Always fun going through that again.

He dealt with some last minute editing and placing, checking all ingredients were there and that everything was set, before hitting the 'Go Live' button.

It didn't take long for the viewers to increase after the tweet notification went out, and the starting soon screen was the only thing really protecting you two from the roaring chat.

Everyone was dying to know what was going on, who the special guest was, and whether this would be yet another scuffed cooking stream.

You stood behind the camera as the starting soon screen finally disappeared and he began greeting the viewers, thanking all the subs coming in, and eventually also giving them a little update on how he'd done on his exams.

You felt so proud as you watched him boast about how his studying had paid off, and how he talked about being the happiest he'd been in a while. He deserved all of it. And chat thought so too.

After some rambling about his test scores and what they'd be cooking today, chat finally became too impatient and asked for a reveal of the special guest.

"Fine. Fine. Since you guys are so fucking impatient." He huffed, watching as chat flew by, telling him to 'get on with it' and to 'TELL US WHO IT IS'. You couldn't help but laugh at the relationship he had with his chat. Always bullying each other but usually knowing when to stop and send love.

"I've actually had them on multiple other streams, not so much recently.. but they've been on my horror streams.. some IRL streams.. and they are really really special to me, chat!" He said with a big smile. Some of chat was confused as to who he was referring to, while older fans began to question if it was YOU. They were very smart.

"Some of the viewers might not know of them, so this is like I'm introducing them to chat all over again! Come over here." He finally directed the last part at you. You couldn't help but feel the sudden spike in anxiety, but chose to ignore it as you smiled back at him and headed into the frame beside him.

With a small wave and a greeting, you watched as chat completely broke. A mess of question marks and your name being spread in chat. You couldn't help but laugh. It was an overwhelmingly positive reaction as Quackity explained to new viewers that you were his partner, and that older fans were already aware of this for a while now.

The amount of 'y/n our beloved' and people asking if quackity's partner was single were abundant in chat, and you couldn't help but feel stupid for thinking the newer viewers would hate you or something.

Having the approval of Quackity's chat also made you feel lighter, it made it easier to let go and just enjoy the cooking stream.

You two began to explain what you'd be cooking to chat, and you made it very clear that he actually had to try and cook this time, to which chat agreed wholeheartedly.

He'd taken a recipe from his mom for one of his favorite meals, one he hadn't had in a while. He explained to chat that he wanted to see how well you and him could recreate it until you two took a trip to visit his family.

"Hopefully we don't disappoint her too much." You mumbled as he placed the chef hat onto your head, fixing it so you looked presentable.

"She can't be because we're actually gonna try." He stated before beginning to explain to chat what the meal was since many of them might not have even heard of it before. As he did that, you began to set aside the ingredients you wouldn't be needing until later.

After everything had been explained, it was time to get cooking. His concentration to try and recreate his mom's recipe was adorable, and chat agreed on that too.

This stream wasn't loud and messy like the others, but it was still enjoyable in its own way. Quackity was radiating such wonderful light and energy, cracking jokes and genuinely enjoying himself. It was all thanks to the stress and worries being lifted off his back. You really enjoyed seeing him like this.

Chat was able to follow along later if they wanted with how organized you guys were being, but the banter he had with you and chat made it entertaining to any casual viewer. He always found a way to make it fun.

Not only that, but chat was able to see a new side of him. The Chef Q side. More often than not, a message would roll in saying they were amazed by how good Quackity actually was at cooking. You could already imagine some of the edits that'd come out of the stream.

His mom had told you two beforehand how long it would normally take to cook this meal, and it was perfect for a usual stream and some extras where you two would actually get to try the food.

There was moments where chat was warning you two that the food would burn or that he'd accidentally set the kitchen on fire, but overall you were enjoying yourself so much.

And chat was enjoying your presence too!

By the time you two managed to finish the meal, you both plopped down onto the chairs he'd set for the supposed 'breaks'.

He had some of the sauce on his cheek and his apron, but still managed to look good. He'd also smeared sauce onto your cheek, and at this point some strands were sticking out of your hat in such a messy way since the last few minutes had been rather hectic, food almost burning and all.

"Chat. We did it." He called out before cheering loudly and clapping his hands, to which you swiftly followed along, chat beginning to cheer as well.

"I think its only right that we try what we made, don't you think?" You ask, to which chat quickly types YES in all caps, wanting to see the finished product and also find out if it even tastes good.

Quackity let out a chuckle as he smiled over at you. "Not gonna lie, I'm a little nervous. We haven't even seen it so it might just be black. Burnt to a crisp. Or what if it tastes like shit? Y/N i don't know what I'm going to do if the food tastes like shit. Thats what we're supposed to eat on our date." He whined a bit.

You shook your head, "It'll be great. And if not, we can just order takeout. It'll be fine big q." You smiled reassuringly. Chat became a frenzy of calling him cute for the state he was in, declaring their love for how supportive and kind you were, and melting over your relationship.

Before you knew it, you were both revealing the meal to chat, and pleasantly surprised by the results. The presentation of the meal itself looked really good. It looked like what you'd expect from such a plate. Quackity had even gone as far as saying it looked similar to how his mom made it.

You gasped, smiling in surprise at him. "Really? Did we really do that good of a job." His face turned into one of regret, and a long segment of silence engulfed you two before he nodded hesitantly. You both broke out into a fit of laughter.

"Okay okay, seriously. Chat's waiting for you to try it." You placed a fork in front of him, earning a loud scoff from him.

"They want to see you try it as well." He mirrored your actions and you gladly took the fork.

"Alright. First bite. Let's see if all our hard work paid off! Chat, are you ready?" You grinned and watched as the 'YES's started rolling in, some viewers telling you both to get the fuck on with it, and others gushing about how the food actually looked good. You could only hope.

You watched as he began to dig in, mouth full and chewing slowly, truly trying to savor the first bite. You did the same, and the stream was silent for the first time in a while. Chat was in suspense as well, question marks and incoherent rambling rolling through the chat.

"Chat..." he finally spoke after swallowing his bite. "Chat. It's." He paused before showing a small smile. "It's not bad at all. I like it. It's good."

You nodded your head in agreement, "It's nowhere near as good as the ones your mom makes.. but I think you and I make a pretty good team."

"I think so too. And not just for cooking." He grinned, earning himself a playful eye roll and shy smile from you.

The stream proceeded to you two feeding each other bites of the meal, asking each other if it was good, and just enjoying yourselves for a bit longer before Quackity deemed it was time to end.

"Chat !! Thank you so much for tuning in and watching this.. actually coordinated cooking stream. I had so much fun and well, I ate yummy food. I'm happy." He laughed, thanking a few more gifters before doing his signature Bye, and ending stream.

He hurried over to your side, pulling you into a hug. "Thank you so much. I truly had fun. And they definitely loved you, but not nearly as much as I do."

You chuckled at his words, giving him a small kiss before cupping his face. "I had a lot of fun too. Thank you for always being so nice to me." You paused, observing how cute he looked with his chef hat still on. "I think I like Chef Alex." You reached over and fixed his hat a bit.

"Yeah? Should I keep it on?" He teased, coming a bit closer. You couldn't help the warmth that spread over your cheeks at how blunt he was.

"Yes, but you need to help me clean this up. Maybe after we finish the food, hm? C'mon. Don't think I forgot our deal."

He whined, already feeling too lazy, but he quickly followed after you as you two sat down to actually eat. Still wearing the silly attire he'd bought for the stream, far too unbothered to change just yet.

Through a mouthful he asked, "Cuddles and a nap after we're done?"

You smiled and nodded, to which he gave a silent cheer. That was enough motivation to get you both up and cleaning after finishing the meal.

—

Wrapped in each other's arms again. He couldn't seem to get enough of it. You were once again scrolling through Twitter, this time scrolling through his indirects, wanting to see what people were saying about the stream.

He'd ask you to stop to read certain ones he found funny, and even 'aww'd at the ones he found cute, mainly those talking about how cute you two looked.

Surely enough, there was already edits using the clips of him cooking, and you'd openly admitted to him that he looked "so fucking good." To which he responded by cuddling closer, if even humanly possible.

Quackity found the numerous clips of you two feeding each other to be the best part of the tweets. You two rewatched, saved, liked as many as you could before he became tired.

And with that, he was pulling you close, and leaving small kisses anywhere he could on your face. Eventually, his chest slowly rose and fell as he entered a deep slumber. You smiled, glad to see he was finally getting the rest he deserved.

"Goodnight, Alex." You whispered, leaving a small kiss on his cheek before closing your eyes as well.

#alex quackity #quackity #quackity x you #quackity x reader #quackity x y/n #gender neutral reader #quackity brainrot #quackity scenario #streamer #quackity headcannons #quackity imagines #chef quackity #cooking stream #quackity fluff #quackity my beloved #revealing lovers #leave some requests !!! I am accepting requests #look at me posting a few days apart wooo #quackity <3

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gryffindors-weasley · 3 years

Text

Midnight Dances

Benedict Bridgerton x Fem!Reader

Summary: Upon your first week settling into your estate as a newlywed couple, you share a moment alone.

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: brief mention of alcohol, fluff, kissing

(aesthetic made by the lovely @heloisedaphnebrightmore )

It has been three days since your arrival at your new estate across England, and still, you have yet to see the entirety of its beauty. It was extraordinarily perfect in every way one could imagine, and impossibly grand for two newlyweds who spent most of their time in each other’s presence. In just three days time, you felt as though maybe you’d only seen just half of your newfound home, and you were determined to change that.

You huff out a quiet sigh as you stare up at the ceiling once more, not a single bit of fatigue as you lay awake. The same could not be said about Benedict as he lay tangled with you, soft snores puffing into your skin lightly. Nothing could get you to sleep; not the warmth of his skin on yours, not the late hour of the night, not the breeze seeping in through the open window, bringing with it the scent of flowers and fresh air. Any and all efforts to be swept into a blissful sleep were rapidly proving to be futile as the minutes passed.

With an exasperated sigh, you untangle yourself from him as carefully as you can manage, a smile gracing your lips as you watch his face nuzzle into the pillow. You slip on your night robe with a fond shake of your head, tying it closed before heading towards the door. You offer one last glance at your lover, at the grand details of your bedroom and the way the curtains fluttered under the breeze blowing against them. You slip out of the room and pull the door closed quietly, making your leave down the hall.

Your footsteps go unheard on the navy colored rug, not a single tassel out of place as they lined the entirety of the hall. Warm lighting illuminated the space in a dim glow, just enough to navigate but not enough to wake those trying to sleep. You were quite sure everyone in the vicinity had been asleep, everyone in the town even, everyone except for you.

The windows you pass by overlooked the gardens, perhaps the most brilliant and extravagant you’ve had the pleasure of seeing. It was hard to believe that it was yours. Finely manicured bushes were assembled in a meticulous pattern, almost maze like. And there were as many flowers as one could possibly imagine and then some, each different in color and type, each just as beautiful as the last. The blossoming trees were what had enchanted you the most, with the way their petals rain down in a flurry of pale pinks with just the slightest gust of wind.

You descended the marble staircase, your hand sliding down the smooth and cool stone railing as you made your way down the curving steps. It felt impossible to look at any one thing at a time, for everything was too glamorous and too wondrous to do so. Even down to the candles melted at varying heights as they sit in their rightful candelabras, ready to be lit again.

Shortly you arrive at the first landing, the familiar skylight coming into view as you continue walking down the stairs. The arched glass structure tucked amongst the lavish detailings on the ceiling lit up the first floor with a natural glow, the stars glimmering just beyond it. You found you liked it better at night than in the light of day.

You pass through familiar halls, ones you’ve frequented most often since arriving there but a few days ago. You passed familiar rooms such as the library, too grand and full of books for your own excited good. You passed the kitchen, still smelling of honey and cinnamon from that night’s dessert. It was the kind of scent that carried with it warmth and the feeling of being truly at home, regardless of the fact that this estate was still very new to you and most likely would be for a little while as you adjust.

With what seemed like a daunting amount of wandering through gorgeous hallways, each just as vacant as the last, you finally reach unfamiliar territory. Maybe you’d already been there, things tended to look quite similar when you were lost. The sound of ticking clocks had been apparent just about anywhere you’d been and anywhere you will go, as was the consistent artwork adorning every other wall in small glimpses of other worlds in depictions of nature. The only noticeable difference was the navy rugs had since changed to a soft lilac, fluffy golden tassels lining the perimeter.

With a few more steps, your brow raises at the sight of the unfamiliar double doors standing tall before you, adorned with intricately carved woodwork as gold sparkled on its surface. You have yet to see what was on the other side at all, and now you were taking full advantage of the opportunity to with your newfound time.

Upon pushing open the doors, you’re met with a sight so grand and enthralling you hadn’t quite expected to be presented with such beauty. Perhaps the most wondrous ballroom was contained within your very own home. It’s cream-colored walls were lined with carved framework at every edge and every corner, a metallic bronze detailing every curve and bit of linework lacing along its perimeters. Several paintings lined them, each encased in a carved and complex frame to house each nature scene captured within them. The far end of the large room held rather tall windows, nearly floor to ceiling, the very tops arched with a matching set of mirrors to adorn the walls between the glass structures. Not a single smudge was to be found.

Ruffles of silky cream curtains frame each window, pooling on the polished wood floors. Through those very windows, the moonlight had been streaming in so brightly it illuminated the room much like any candelabra could. It’s moonbeams reflected off the several chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, the myriad of crystals that dangle from each one casting little flecks of light on the floor and over your skin. The ceilings were made up of several sunken ovals, the same bronze detailing encircling each one. The murals inside had made you feel as though you were standing underneath the sky itself, and it was so meticulously painted you hadn’t known how many hours it must have taken. Surely far too many to wrap your head around. The ceiling in its entirety was so impossibly detailed and intricate you could give yourself a headache thinking of the effort put into creating it. It was delightfully busy.

Your eyes fall on a grand piano sat in the corner next, sleek and pristine with its ivory keys on display and waiting to be played. And the silky upholstered seats spaced out throughout the room. It was spacious, so vast you felt as though it could house all of England if they’d been invited. Though selfishly, a part of you wanted to keep this all to yourself.

“So, this is where you’ve run off to?”

You spin on your heel, a smile pulling at your lips once you see Benedict standing in the doorway. His arms crossed over his chest, the buttons of his shirt only half done and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows in a haphazard attempt to look decent as he roamed the halls in search of you. His hair was a mess, however, dipping over his forehead as the corner of his mouth quirked up in a lopsided grin. A grin that never fails to uncage butterflies in your stomach. You were unaware of just how long you’d been gone.

You smile, twirling once in the grand room as your nightdress flutters at the action. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“I quite like it,” he says with a shrug, pushing himself off the doorframe to make his way over to you. “Though I do believe that some things in this room are far more beautiful than others.”

You turn to face him fully, a blush staining your cheeks that had fortunately gone unseen in the lighting. His smile widened as he raised a brow at you, a laugh falling past his lips when you rolled your eyes.

“What? I was referring to the chandeliers, of course,” He quips with mischief, his eyes crinkling with his grin as you swat at his arm lightly. Your attempts to evade his grasp were futile as he grabs your hand, turning you to face him again as his lips press to your cheek. “I am only kidding, my love.”

“You really are terrible sometimes, you know that, don’t you?” You ask, a lightness in your tone as he drops a kiss to your neck.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” He says, his hands squeezing your own. “Though I suppose it’s better than being terrible all the time, is it not?”

You roll your eyes once more as you turn away from him in an effort to conceal your smile at his antics, walking over to one of the large windows. Just outside was a different angle of the garden, a view aiming straight down a long pathway of perfectly imperfect trees. Fluffy hydrangeas appeared just under the stone window ledges in varying hues of pinks and purples, vines climbing up the far wall of the building.

It hadn’t been long before you felt his arms snake around you, his chin resting on your shoulder.

“We must take a walk through the garden tomorrow,” you state, your heart fluttering at the feeling of his lips on the exposed skin of your shoulder. You could barely remember what you had planned to say next, until you’d forgotten altogether. “Are you listening?”

“Certainly, we must,” he responds with a soft laugh, pressing his lips to your cheek again. “And should it rain?”

“Then we shall take an umbrella,” you say as if your answer was entirely obvious as you slip from his arms with a delighted grin and a tap of your finger to his nose. You left him to look after you with parted lips and a shake of his head. He was awestruck to say the very least.

You wander about the room again with a bounce in your step, running the tips of your fingers along the soft curtains. Upon closer inspection, you discover the detailed linework you had seen moments before were in fact sculpted and carved vines and flowers spidering up the walls. Such a beauty nearly made you swoon at the very sight of it. Everything just kept getting better and better the more you gazed at it.

“What could be the need of a ballroom this grand?” You ask with a laugh, your eyes falling on Benedict.

“Perhaps to dance in,” he says with a shrug, an amusement in his features. You huff out a sigh though you can’t seem to fight your smile this time.

“You know what I meant. Of course it is made for dancing. ”

“Would you be so kind as to have this dance with me, then?” He asks, a teasing tone still weaving around his words as he offers you his hand.

“If I must,” you huff lightheartedly.

His nose scrunches at your counter and he promptly pulls you close, eliciting a squeal to echo into the room at the sudden action. His hand envelopes your own and his arm encircles your waist in the rightful position of a slow dance. Though this time, it was much less formal with the absence of watchful eyes and the need to execute every move with a flawless ease. For you were quite sure bare feet and slippers, night robes and half-tucked in, half-unbuttoned dress shirts were not of appropriate attire for such things.

No music was needed to find your own rhythm, no music was ever needed when the two of you were in your own world.

“I apologize…for waking you,” you say after a few moments, meeting his gaze once more.

“I was barely asleep, not with all your tossing and turning,” He says as you sway.

“Your snoring tells me otherwise.”

A look of faux surprise and offense crosses his face as he twirls you, wrapping his arm around you once more, “I do no such thing!”

An incredulous scoff leaves your lips as he tugs you close, your brows knit together and he continues to act as though he had entirely no idea what you had been talking about.

“I suppose I’m just hearing things then,” you state, far from being earnest as he nods along, “Perhaps it may have even been me.”

“Perhaps it might’ve,” he repeats in playful agreement, halting your frown from deepening as his lips press to yours in what surely would not be the last of many kisses that evening.

You sigh softly as your lighthearted bickering falls silent in favor of enjoying each other’s presence, enjoying the very fact that this was your home. This was your life now and you couldn’t think of anything better than that. He was ever so tender when he kissed you, when his fingers grazed up your side each time you fell out of rhythm. He claims it was just to hear you laugh, and rightfully so, but it was also in a playful payback for your sleepy dancing skills or lack thereof.

He was patient regardless, for the technicalities of the dance were not of much importance, they never were. Not even in a formal setting did he care if it was done perfectly. He cared about the fact that the most wonderful person in the world had been in his arms, and he loved you for all that you are and all that you will be. He hadn’t even needed a fancy ballroom to want to dance with you, hadn’t needed a large estate to be happy with you. He was perfectly content dancing with you in the field of flowers he’d spotted just two days before, and he made a mental note to take you there the following day.

For a while it was silent between the two of you, save for the occasional giggle when his fingers brushed over your skin. Or the patter of your slippers on the hardwood floors. Or his boisterous laughter he cannot contain when your lips ghost over that very sensitive spot just under his jaw, the fading scent of his cologne still lingering on his skin.

He twirls you before drawing you back into his arms, not without you stumbling into him, of course. It was as if your own two feet had been out to get you, and the undeniable grin on his face was telling enough that he’d been up to no good. Not after that.

“Remember that one dinner with my family?” You sigh in mild exasperation as you groan and look away from him at his words, fighting your smile nonetheless. “You had been so nervous you’d sent a spoonful of peas all over the floor. And—if I recall correctly, you proceeded to knock your wine onto my lap.”

“Am I to assume that you shall never let me live that down, Benedict?” You ask with a squint, your arms wrapping around his neck.

“Yes, you would assume correctly, Y/n.”

“It is only your fault, you have a dreadful habit of making me flustered after all,” you defend with furrowed brows and pursed lips.

“I very well see that,” he says, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a smirk.

You bite the inside of your cheek to stave off your grin, he did not deserve that satisfaction. Instead, you lean on your toes and press your lips on his, effectively kissing away the teasing smile he once had in favor of basking in the feeling of the warmth of your lips brushing over his own. In the feeling of your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck once more. His arms tighten their hold around you out of instinct, a soft hum escaping him.

“Perhaps I should bring it up more often if this is how you choose to quiet me,” he suggests against you, stealing another kiss.

“Or perhaps you shouldn’t.”

You pull away from him much to his dismay, and he finds himself chasing your lips for more. You laugh softly, your hand settling on his cheek as his once teasing smirk turns to that of a fond smile. The crystal reflections of the chandeliers above glimmer down over you, the moonlight illuminating the loving gaze that had been focused on you and only you. He couldn’t help but to capture your lips once more, for now that he had the opportunity to do so just as much as so he pleases he finds he can’t get enough.

Your hand falls from his face as your giggle brushes against his lips, his embrace sending you stumbling back a step or two.

“We’re supposed to be dancing, are we not?” You ask, breaking from his hold and spinning away from him, leaving him to smile after you in a lovestruck daze as you twirl in the glow moonlight.

He stood back to watch you for a moment, the way you seemed to beam more beautifully than any natural wonder ever could. The way you captured his attention far more than the lavish ballroom you currently resided in. Of all the luxuries he’s seen, of all the dashing estates and elegantly decorated soirée’s he’s been in attendance of in his life, there could be no greater beauty than you. There could be nothing in the world that is more enamoring, more effortlessly alluring.

He never knew the profound effects of love until it came along and grabbed hold of his heart, the feeling lancing through him with a wholehearted certainty that it was real and it was all-consuming. He knew love, of course. The Bridgerton family was large and filled with an unwavering warmth and welcoming one could surely wish for. He knew unconditional familial love amongst numerous siblings no matter the bickering that was bound to take place, serious or not. But this—this was different.

This kind of love was wonderfully and delightfully dizzying as it crashed down upon him in waves, immeasurably intoxicating with every fleeting moment that passed him by.

“Are you going to stare at me for the entirety of the night?”

Your teasing voice had stolen his attention once more, his attention that had been so distracted focused on you. It was then that he grabbed you by the waist and lifted you off your feet, suddenly spinning with you in playful retaliation for noting his gawking and telling him all about such a thing. Your laughter rang out into the glorious space while his lips pressed a flurry of kisses up your neck, your hands settling on his shoulders as his breath danced across your flushed skin.

To marry your best friend, whom you truly love endlessly is but a wonder indeed, a fate many dream of but very few experience. It is a feeling most incomparable to all else.

He set you back on your feet but his kisses never cease, his lips brushing along the underside of your jaw with his laughter left to linger against your skin. They travel upwards to press tenderly across your blush stained cheeks, to the very tip of your nose, and perhaps most giddily and passionately to your already kiss swollen lips.

He doesn’t know how he manages to stop; perhaps it’s your constant yet soft laughter breaking the two of you apart, or perhaps it’s his desire to see the way your eyes sparkle in the glowing light. Or the way your face is illuminated so beautifully that it has him fighting the urge to grab his sketchbook, but he does not want to leave you not even for a second. Perhaps it’s both and it’s almost entirely too much for him to handle all in one moment.

“Why ever are you looking at me like that?” You ask, amusement in your tone.

“Because,” He says with a breathless laugh, “because I love you. I burn for you.”

A fond smile pulls at your lips immediately as you look at him, and it is impossible to ignore the warmth blossoming in your chest, lancing through you. It is impossible to ignore the insurmountable love coursing through every part of your being as you gaze into the eyes of your lover.

“I love you, Benedict,” you murmur, “I burn for you.”

He finds his smile unable to be contained as his forehead drops to rest on yours, noses brushing. His hand once again finds yours, his arm encircling your waist, and you sway. In the ridiculously large ballroom, to a melody unheard by anyone else. You sway and twirl and laugh in a slow dance all your own, a midnight dance.

—

Tags: @dreaming-about-fanfictions @valwritesx

#benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton fluff #benedict bridgerton oneshot #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton fic #benedict bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton fic #bridgerton fanfiction

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jessikahathaway · 3 years

Text

Ambrosia - Prologue

Park Jimin (Aphrodite) X Reader

Genre: GreekGod!AU, Genderbent Aphrodite!AU, Romance, Fluff, Angst, Slow Burn and Smut (Future)

Warnings: Mentions of terminal illness, Jimin in a SUIT, Namjoon being a lil nosy, profanity (if I forgot anything please let me know!)

Words: 3.1k (YA GIRL PROCRASTINATED TOO LONG AND DIDN'T GET THE FULL CHAPTER DONE SO WE'RE DOING A PROLOGUE. K? K.)

Summary: Cast out of Olympus with the task to find his one true love, Aphrodite is certain his match will come to him. But as the years drag on, what happens when the God of Love, gives up?

Days in a flower shop in the middle of a decent sized town can pass by fast or slow. There can be days with what feels like hundreds of orders coming through the tiny store, and then there are the days where the employees just wind up looking at their phones the whole time and not one soul passes through the door.

But on special days, all it takes is one person to walk through those doors and everything changes.

This is a story of one of those days.

Tuesdays could seriously go fuck off for all you cared. This particular Tuesday was proving to be a test on every ounce of your patience and every single time you heard that door bell ring as the gates of hell opened, your shoulders sagged a little more. Something about their flowers wasn’t right. The blue wasn’t like the sky but like the sea and that’s an issue. The flowers look wilted. Always something.

But, like you did every day you turned to the customer and gave them a huge smile, ready to help them with whatever they needed. Even if it meant losing your sanity little by little.

The day passed this way, going on and the clock didn’t seem to be moving at your desired pace. So, you sat on the chair behind the desk at the front and gazed out the window.

It was a warmer spring day.

The trees were budding and life was returning after a long winter. You loved this time of the year. Everything becoming new again, alive and welcoming. But, it also means more work for you. It’s never been a problem, but this past year has been particularly hard.

Your younger sister passed away.

She’d been fighting a long illness, one with a poor prognosis. At a young age you and Sana were placed in the foster system, living with a decent enough upbringing. The foster parents were never mean or cruel, but they weren’t your parents. Whom you barely remembered now. So when you turned eighteen you asked if you could become her legal guardian. Your foster parents had agreed, wishing you and her the best of luck...

But luck had never been on you or your sister’s side.

Her illness started to rapidly progress, causing more and more doctor’s visits and more money being pulled from your measly savings. It wasn’t enough. You were having to take out loans and everything just to keep the lights on in your apartment.

Sana, however, kept her spirits high no matter the situation. She was the positive one. The bright one that everyone gravitated towards in school. She was your light. And now your life is duller. Your sister loved to go through the streets in her wheelchair, looking at the budding leaves and flowers that were growing on the trees.

“Look Y/N!” she’d squeak. “They’re so beautiful. I want to open a flower shop, and I’m going to sell the most beautiful flowers to people.”

As her birthday present you decided to open the flower shop.

It was her last one.

Looking out at the spring blooming in front of you it was hard to be happy, knowing how much your sweet Sana would’ve loved it. Life often wasn’t fair, but you hadn’t expected it to be so. You weren’t a bad person, but bad things had happened. But you were alive, and had a life to keep living.

As much as the flower shop was Sana’s dream, you couldn’t sell it when she died. It had become your safe haven. A little place to call your own. Even if it was Sana’s dream, you had made it real. Real enough for the both of you, and now you gotta keep it going. Even if the loan to open it made your wallet want to cry, it was enough. Plenty.

Because it was yours.

A single tear fell down your cheek as you thought of your beloved sister, and her cute cheeks and beautiful eyes that never held an ounce of fear or regret. A few petals fell from the blossoming tree outside in the wind and fell to the ground in a swirl of pastel hues that made you smile.

More tears moved down your cheeks and you wiped them away in frustration. She wouldn’t want you to be upset, she’d want you to be happy and to continue with your life. Keep going and make something of yourself.

Sana used to say that you were always Y/N the big sister and never just... Y/N. And you knew it was true. You were supposed to take care of her, but now that she’s gone... T-There was no one to care for but yourself.

You’d have to be enough.

Suddenly, the bell above your door ran proudly, making your teary eyes refocus on the person entering the store. Those tears were quickly replaced with a look of wonder.

A man walked through the door, head held high and his eyes scanned the area like he was inspecting it. Wiping your already sweaty palms on your apron you approached him with a gentle smile.

“Welcome to Sana’s flowers, how can I assist you?” you asked, coming towards him. The man took in your appearance and a calm expression steeled over his face.

“Hi, are you Sana?” he asked, referring to the name.

“No, Sana was my sister,” you said, swallowing hard. The man seemed to understand.

“I apologize, I didn’t mean to impose,” he said, bowing lightly.

“You’re fine, no worries. How can I help you?” you asked, looking at his apparel.

He was dressed in a fine suit, tailored to his every inch, must’ve been expensive as hell. You could probably open a whole new section of your shop with the money he was dripping in.

You weren’t known for having an upper class clientele, not that the occasional businessman came in and asked for a bouquet of your finest flowers. Sometimes two... Shaking your head you focused on the man in front of you as best as you could. But, his features were so striking it was hard to keep your eyes from wander...

“Park Jimin,” he introduced, holding his hand out politely.

“Y/N,” you said, extending your own hand and taking his in yours. Shaking gently he gave a smile that could rival the very stars in the sky. This man was more breathtaking the longer you looked, making your palms start to sweat even more.

“A pleasure, Y/N,” he said. “I’m having an event to celebrate my family's company. It’s the 125 year of it’s business and we are looking to source from the local populace instead of corporations to provide a more intimate setting for the investors and other members of the company,” Jimin said, rambling off a lot of information for your sleep deprived brain.

“I see, so you’re looking for floral arrangements?” You asked, heading towards your book of options. Jimin followed you over, leaning towards you so close you could smell his cologne. A spicy scent that wasn’t overpowering but more... alluring? Inviting?

Shaking your head you pulled up your options of centerpieces and the like, showing him what styles you had available and Jimin paid close attention to each set. Asking questions about what flowers would look good in what vases and if they did better in foam or water.

“For events I prefer the foam personally. Less likelihood of someone knocking a vase over and water getting everywhere. But the flowers are more mobile in the water, so it’s about what you’re looking for in regards to the feel,” you said.

Jimin seemed to weigh his options for a moment. “I like the traditional styles you showed me. The simple little flowers decorating around the larger arrangements, it looks classy and provides the color I’m looking for,” he said, nodding.

Making a note you grabbed a notepad to start writing all the information down.

“So when is your event? A month, two?” You said, throwing out a few different times.

“Two weeks,” he said. You froze, swallowing hard.

“Ah, I see,” you said, biting your lip.

“Is that a problem?” He asked, looking up at your pained expression.

“It’s just, the flowers might take a minute to get here. And I arrange everything by hand, so it takes me a little longer. How many tables were you going to have and the garlands for the stairways as well?” You asked.

“Well as for tables I have 150 dinner tables, 50 cocktail tables and 8 large banquet tables. There are two main stairwells that wrap around to the main area so there will be about 400ft worth of garland necessary,” he calculated slowly.

“Okay,” you said, rubbing your temples slowly.

“How many people do you have on your payroll?” He asked, looking around and noticing the empty space.

“Just me. My friend Namjoon likes to come and help sometimes but he’s a full time nurse so,” you shrugged.

“Would you be able to do this in two weeks with just by yourself?” He asked, raising a brow.

“I can always try,” you said, giving a gentle smile.

“How much would it cost?” He asked.

“Depends on the flowers you want, you already picked the style so one second,” you said, grabbing your calculator and running the numbers really quick. “I can do expedited shipping on the flowers to get them here faster but then you run the risk of stems getting broken and not having enough. But I can order more to compensate but then that’s more money,” you said.

Finally you had a total and you frowned.

“It would be around $2,156 if we did the expedited shipping and ordered more flowers to compensate for the potential broken ones,” you said, biting your lip. That was a lot of money to spend on flowers for a simple dinner event. You knew it, but with everything he wanted and the time frame it was the best you could do... You didn’t even charge him for the probability of Namjoon helping. Because then it would jump up to the 3,000 dollar mark and you weren’t going to push your luck.

After a few moments, Jimin pulled out his checkbook and started writing the check out. Your eyes bulged when he pushed the piece of paper towards you, his pen clicking with a sense of finality.

“What kind of flowers should we get?” He said, a smile on his face. You looked down and almost flung the check right back at him.

$5,500

This man had just dropped over five thousand dollars without blinking.

“Th-This is too much,” you said, trying to push it back towards him.

“You charged me for base flowers, and it’s super short notice. Take the extra as a tip,” he smiled.

“I-I can’t accept over two thousand dollars as a tip. If I get audited I’ll be screwed,” you said.

“No you won’t, it’ll be fine. Please, take it,” he encouraged, placing the check back in front of you.

You swallowed thickly, trying to keep yourself from panicking. You did have a large loan payment coming up, and this would lessen that blow significantly...

But wasn’t it wrong?

“Alright...” you trailed off, taking the check and stamping it before putting it in your deposit bag.

“What type of flowers do you recommend using?” He asked, looking at you with a gentle gleam in his bright eyes.

“Peonies and hydrangeas are a great combo with complementary color palettes. I always love doing grass pieces as a nice natural moment but, baby's breath is a classic and more traditional if that’s what you’re looking for,” you said.

“Can we do the soft blue hydrangeas and white peonies?” He asked, looking at the sample photos you had.

“Yes, the white peonies would bring a nice fullness and the hydrangeas can add the color,” you explained.

“Perfect, let’s do that then,” he said, nodding.

“Okay! I’ll get the order to go in and get the expedited shipping and we should get them by the end of the week. They’ll go into the fridge and that should help keep them fresh,” you said.

“Here.”

You turned around to see a small card placed on the table in front of you.

“What’s this?” You asked, lifting the small thing to your eyes.

“My number,” he said, grinning. “Message me when the flowers come in.”

“O-Okay, absolutely!”

Jimin smiled then, a bright dazzle expression that had your mouth drying in longing.

“I look forward to hearing from you, Y/N,” he said.

“I look forward to it as well, Mr. Park,” you said politely. Jimin tutted and shook his head.

“No, Jimin will do just fine. Have a great day Y/N,” he waved, turning on his heel and heading out the door.

You looked at the numbers and sighed.

God you were so fucked.

—

“So, let me get this straight,” Namjoon said over the phone. “Hot guy in a suit comes in and orders a fuck ton of flowers you know you can’t do yourself and you agree because he dropped an extra few grand in the check? Y/N! You can’t do that, I’ll only be able to help you arrange the bouquets the day of. So you’ll have to put them all together yourself! When will you sleep? Eat? Poop!?!” He yelped.

“Firstly, my bowel movements are none of your concern,” you stated. “And second of all, I can’t refuse that kind of money! The next loan payment is going to fuck me over if I don’t have this padding. Please Joonie, tell me you can help me at least the night before,” you pleaded.

“I really can't Y/N, I’m working night rotation. So, I could maybe stop by in the morning but then the flowers have to sit longer,” he reasoned.

“Yeah I know... Can you switch?” You said, a soft voice replacing your whining.

“I wish I could, but there’s hardly any staff that night as it is. And we’re all pulling hours we don’t like. I can’t ask them to do more. Poor Taehyung has already covered me this month and I would rather throw myself in front of a car than ask again,” he said.

“I’m sorry. I know you’re busy and I’m desperate, but... I’ll figure it out,” you said, rubbing your face in exhaustion.

“What kind of asshat doesn’t come in until last minute to order a huge ass amount of floral arrangements?” Namjoon asked.

“An asshat named Park Jimin apparently,” you said, twisting the stem of a flower in front of you.

“You-You mean the Park Jimin?” Namjoon stuttered.

“I don’t know how many of them there are, Namjoon. I just know what this one looked like,” you said.

“Doesn’t he have like, neon pink hair or something?” He asked.

“Um, no? It was blonde-ish when he was in here,” you said.

“Plump lips?”

“Yeah?”

“Eyes that command the panties of women to drop?” He asked.

“Sir, my panties stayed firmly in place so I don’t know what the fuck you’re on about,” you huffed.

“For now, Y/N, for now. Anyways,” he said dismissively. “If this is the Park Jimin we’re talking about you need to be very careful.”

“What? What are you talking about,” you whispered.

“He’s like a sex God or something. He’s got game better than Jordan, okay? But he never commits to anyone,” he said, seriously.

You rolled your eyes, even though the man couldn’t see you.

“My heart isn’t in danger here, Namjoon. We’ll be fine. I can handle an attractive businessman,” you said.

“Yeah, but can your cum thirsty twat handle it?”

“Sir, I’m gonna hang up,” you warned.

“As a nurse I demand to know the last time you got laid,” he said. “It’s for you health of course.”

“That should be a HIPPA violation,” you complained.

“Yeah, not a friendship violation though. Tell me when was the last time you were left boneless between the sheets my guy,” he said.

“I don’t see how this has to do with floral arrangements,” you sighed. “But since your bitch ass needs to know it was about a year ago.”

“Well, maybe it is time to get back in the ring,” he reasoned.

“Namjoon, there’s no need to get me a suitor. You’re not my dad trying to get another cow on the farm or something,” you joked.

“Do you think Park Jimin would give me a cow if I gave him you?” He asked, sounding too serious for your liking.

“I’m really gonna hang up now,” you said, pulling your phone away from your face.

“Just, be safe Y/N! Don’t work too hard, I love you!” You heard screamed from the receiver.

“Yeah love you too Joonbug,” you said, hanging up and looking at the clock. The numbers glared back at you like they were judging you for being up this late. But you simply shrugged and went and took a much needed shower.

That man had you sweating like a sinner in church.

As you bathed you tried to think of your next plan of attack, but the water was too warm and soon you found yourself relaxing into the stream happily. Once you were done you cracked open a can of beer and sat down in your living room ready to start the night right, when a message floated across your screen.

Joonbug: IS THIS THE CULPRIT?!? Jpg.1013

You stared at the screen with an unamused face, but picked up your device anyway. Namjoon had sent you the picture and you could tell the fucker picked the first one off of google images like the lame hoe he was, but you looked regardless.

And, surprisingly, it was him.

The cherubic cheeks and wide smile, bright eyes and an alluring body. You sighed and texted him back.

Y/N: Yea, that’s him.

Joonbug: OH REAAALLLLYYYY???

Y/N: I hate you so much.

Joonbug: You can’t resist. THIS.

Y/N: I’ve resisted your rat poison for years, I think I got it.

Joonbug: EXcUSE MEEEE??? I am at least some kind of like, sexy poison???

Y/N: I’m dying either way, why do I care if it’s sexy or not?

Joonbug: :((((((

You left the conversation at that, but your mind began to wander. How were you going to finish this order and not embarrass yourself in front of a multimillionaire?

Maybe you bit off more than you can chew...

#ficswithluv #ksmutclub #Jimin X Reader #Greek Gods #Jimin as Aphrodite #BTS Greek Gods #Jimin X Reader smut #Jimin Smut #Slow burn #Future Smut #Namjoon is a nurse #BTS #Bangtan #BTS Fanfic #BTS Fanfiction #BTS smut

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bigskydreaming · 3 years

Text

I’m a big believer that Dick’s independence and self-reliance isn’t in any way rooted in him just being stubborn, prideful or self-destructive. I view it as being in his eyes a necessity….because on a deep, fundamental level….Dick doesn’t trust anything to be permanent.

I’ll always go back to the fact that his character archetype isn’t that of the everyman, because he was of lower class origins compared to Bruce’s extreme upper class background.....but rather that given that Dick Grayson was allegedly exceptional from his debut, a child prodigy capable of feats of acrobatics few in the world could match....he could never actually be classified as an everyman. Rather, his core archetype is that of the fish out of water. The individual taken from the comforts of his original pond and thrust into a limelight of an entirely different nature from the one he grew up in, with the two not at all being interchangeable, and necessitating he change and adapt in dramatic and often unanticipated ways just to keep his footing in his new environs.

Its not incidental that his initial tragedy wasn’t JUST the loss of his parents, but rather the loss of his old routines, extended family, environment, way of life, expectations for the way his future would play out....it ALL vanished on the same night, never to return again. The loss of his parents was tragedy enough all on its own, but its really only one part of what Dick lost that night. He lost his entire footing. His frames of reference. Everything his life had previously prepared him for and everything he could have used as a familiar comfort or source of stability to lean on, if it had been ‘just’ his parents that he lost.

And I fundamentally don’t believe you ever get over THAT loss, no matter what peace you make with the loss of your loved ones or specific elements of that. Once you’ve experienced a shake-up of that size, once you have a bone-deep, visceral awareness of how completely your life can change in the blink of an eye, how you can effectively be set back to zero as though nothing you’ve previously accomplished matters (remember, he went from a kid whose name drew crowds on its OWN merits, based on what HE was capable of due to his own work and skills, the youngest of the Flying Graysons, capable of an acrobatic feat barely anyone else in the world could master......to being a kid who was only ever identified as in the context of Bruce Wayne having taken him in, as though his existence and worth were defined by someone else’s act of compassion rather than based on anything he’d ever done on his own, when the fact of the matter is even by age eight, he’d already accomplished a LOT)....

Like, the point is, you can’t go through a shake-up like that and ever fully FORGET how complete and total a change it was, how big a rewrite of your entire life story.

That’s a trauma all its own, one that goes largely unacknowledged, and one that I don’t think Bruce and Alfred or anyone else fully realized was even there TO need addressing in the first place. So of course how could they ever fully address it, without realizing a need?

And I think Dick’s constant moves and self-reliance are actually born of that primal awareness that there are no guarantees, that nothing is truly permanent, that anything can be taken away in an instant.

He’s always waiting for the other shoe to drop, for everything to be taken away again - as people have pointed out in other posts, Dick can never seem to have nice things. Even the apartment building he lived in while in Bludhaven….that wasn’t some height of luxury by ANY stretch of the imagination…was lost to him, along with all the friends and neighbors and community he’d built among them, something evidenced by how highly they all spoke of him, even to a total stranger. And that’s not even getting into how even the CITY he sought to establish himself as a guardian over, like, he lost the city itself. The CITY!

Dick, I believe, insists on holding down 9-5 jobs and paying his own way and only touching money that comes from Bruce originally, when like…he has no other option or its to help someone else….just like he’s resistant to ever fully putting down roots, at least none so deep that he can’t uproot himself and quickly relocate without ripping off a piece of himself and leaving it still buried in the ground behind him.

Because deep down, he’s always bracing for the next seismic event that’ll rip everything away from him, and he wants to be prepared. He WANTS to make sure he never takes anything for granted. That if he loses it all - hell, if he and Bruce fight again and Bruce decides once and for all to take it all away from Dick, cut their ties, something that would very much be a deep-rooted insecurity for a kid with as massive of abandonment issues as Dick must have given his childhood and a number of events after that…

Dick I think needs to trust that he’ll be capable of surviving, of standing on his own two feet, if the worst should ever happen again and he’s left on his own again. His self-reliance and obsessive need for independence aren’t a REJECTION of anyone else or anything Bruce or others have ever done for him.

They’re simply the defense mechanisms of a boy who was once upon a time torn away from everything he knew and in certain origins was then on top of that plunged into hellish circumstances before finding a refuge with Bruce….

And the man that boy grew up to be, who is determined to never be caught in a situation like that again, where his very survival might otherwise require the kindness of a stranger….with Dick knowing better than to count on lightning striking twice there, and him getting lucky a second time.

So in a lot of ways, my core perception of Dick having spent more time growing up in the luxury of Wayne Manor than any of the other kids is that its largely irrelevant to who he grew up to be. Because he was still more than old enough by the time he arrived that he had formative experiences all his own that no amount of time was sufficient to overwrite and exchange for new ones.

His experiences are so extreme in terms of the loss of all forms of stability, that the SHAPE that stability takes in the periods where his life IS stable, is largely unimportant. Because its the absence of stability that’s the defining recurrence in his life. Even the stability offered by his childhood in Wayne Manor eventually gave way to canon where he left the Manor before he was even eighteen, as well as canon where no matter how it was ultimately reversed, he was for a time affected by having the ability to call the Manor his home STRIPPED AWAY FROM HIM. Thus even when Bruce did ultimately welcome him back, there still retained an awareness that even the fact that this had happened in the first place was a reminder that even THIS was something Dick could lose, that no matter how stable his childhood there had been at times, it couldn’t in and of itself be COUNTED as a source of stability due to the simple fact that his ability to call it his home HADN’T turned out to be an irrevocable constant.

And so this is another of those areas where I think its fundamentally an oversight to have members of the family commenting on Dick’s self-reliance or tendencies to relocate himself, let alone in any kind of critical capacity......

If there’s not going to be an acknowledgment within the family or by the people raising these criticisms like, what kind of a role the family themselves have played in Dick feeling a NEED to have these tendencies in the first place.

If someone doesn’t trust in any place he lives in to ever truly be a constant in his life, truly permanent, that anything can be taken away in the right circumstances....and you yourself have done something that has made him feel or given him reason TO leave a place he’s found stability in at some point in the past....you kiiiiiinda forsake your right to be critical of his inability to see any place as permanent or constant, y’know?

Like, insert Miranda Whatshername gif or Meryl Streep peering down her glasses and going oh I see, you think this has nothing to do with you.

So I’d argue that Dick’s insistence on simulating the average person’s reality of livelihood, even when he has other means and funds available to him….just as his insistence on being as solely responsible for the well-being of the place or people he sees as his responsibilities, being single-minded about relying only on himself for tasks that he sees as ultimately having nothing to do with someone other than himself, etc....

All that is in my opinion BECAUSE he’s so firmly attached to the reality that anything and everything can be taken away, at ANY given moment. That he can be reduced to having nothing and no one he can depend on BEYOND just his own innate skills and experiences, the only things he trusts to be truly unable to be stripped from him by others.

If you ask me, one of the core aspects of Dick’s characterization throughout his adulthood in canon is SPECIFICALLY his fear that everything he cares about, or trusts, or relies on…can be taken away from him or lost.

And his determination to make sure that he’ll be able to survive even if that should ever happen again.

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spasmsofthought · 4 years

Text

rituals. (zuko x water tribe!reader)

+This turned out to be far longer than I anticipated it to be, but I couldn’t get this idea out of my head. I’m sorry if Zuko feels out of character; I tried my best to not make him so. I wrote him in my mind to be older than 16 and with, at least, a year of Fire Lord experience with him. All of the things he says in this fic may not be completely on point, but I hope I made sense of his character in this situation and kept an accurate frame of reference for you to hold onto!

I’ve been thinking: What would it have been like to marry the Fire Lord if you were an outsider, from another nation/element? And where that question led me is what produced this.

I tried my best to have accurate research, but if something’s off or wrong, please kindly let me know! I’m not an expert about the fandom here.

Otherwise, I hope you enjoy this mess of fluffy Fire Lord Zuko and a Water Tribe OC just trying to navigate the way between two different cultures.

Read Part II here!

Like, comment, reblog!

“Thank you.” You smile softly as some Fire Palace officials make their way out of the giant, ornate room. Their faces are more stoic, but there is one older man who gives you a slight quirk of his lips before they are back in a thin line. He’s been the only one who has been semi-kind to you. The rest of them have just been rigid and downright insufferable. It takes a few moments before their footsteps recede and you are surrounded by silence.

It turns out that the Fire Lord asking you to become his wife comes with a lot more than you thought it would.

And of course, you had never been blind to the fact that Zuko is of royal lineage. His family has passed down the title and office of Fire Lord for generations. The people of the Fire Nation have known this family for over a century.

The blood definitely feels thicker than water here, though Zuko’s own familial situation may testify against that.

How naïve of you to think any of this would be simple and easy. Nothing about this past century has been.

You press your head to the solid table beneath you, hand-crafted and polished so that it shines like the stars you remember seeing at night back home. Frustration and stress knit your shoulders together, your arms curling in towards your midsection.

Deep breath in, the voice of your mother reminds you. You can barely remember her face now, lost to time, but her voice still somehow stays clear. You hope it stays that way for a long time. Now let it go, she says, too.

If you close your eyes, you can almost picture your little family’s home. The sea squid hanging out to dry so that it can be prepared for supper and her bed disheveled but lined with furs that keep you both warm at night and during the coldest days. It’s probably empty now, a home to no one.

You exhale, forehead still pressed against the table. You repeat the process a few more times, trying to somehow expel the tightness of your shoulders. The weight stays. Despite whatever you may lose, being with Zuko is the closest to home you will ever feel now.

You get up from your seated position at the table and move to a window, looking down at the picturesque landscape of a quiet pond garden. You lean against a pillar supporting the ceiling and try to absorb yourself in the peaceful scenery. You close your eyes and try to listen to the sound of the soft breeze rustling the leaves of the tree. You just want it all to go away for a second.

“Have they exhausted you yet?” A gravelly voice behind you asks.

You turn to see Zuko standing in the open doorway. He’s dressed in all his formal attire, of course, but he seems to carry his own weight on his shoulders today.

Idiot, you think, of course he looks stressed and weighed down. He’s trying to re-establish peace among four nations after the 100-year war his ancestor started.

“Yeah, sure.” You mumble and smile softly.

The moment doesn’t last long before you turn back to the pond, stomach churning now. The grief and the stress mingle together. You miss home, you miss the weather and wearing your furs. You miss your parents, who have been gone for four years; your father to the war and your mother to sickness. The ache never seems to go away, but it dulls when Zuko is able to be around.

Zuko makes his way to stand beside you, saying nothing as he directs his gaze also to the peaceful pond, undisturbed by people or the noise of the outside world.

Despite what you had been told about the Fire Nation your whole life growing up, and what you’d been told about Zuko during the War, you’d always appreciated when he did this. Despite his title and the lineage he carries, he’s always treated you like an equal. You are no less to him because you are female, and you are no less to him because you come from the Water Tribe.

If it had been a few years ago, you wonder if he would have thought differently. Or perhaps he has always been able to understand honor more than most since he was a child, and that was part of the reason he was the one who was destined to be Fire Lord all along.

You take in the side profile of his face for a moment, trying to gather the strength you’ve always had inside you.

“I don’t want to worry you,” You begin, turning back to the view of the pond.

It’s still and quiet and sounds like a great place to escape to in this present moment.

“I’ll let you know when I can’t handle it,” His sardonic tone answers back.

You know he means it as a joke, but there’s a stark truth to his words. He’s handled much more than a trivial conversation about what may be bothering you.

You take a moment to organize your thoughts so that you don’t come across as an emotional train wreck. Zuko has always seemed to have infinite patience with you while you express your emotions, but emotional intelligence is new to him as well. You don’t want to burden him with trying to figure out your emotions while he’s trying to cope with and understand his own.

“I just... I didn’t know how difficult this would be.”

“What?” He sounds a bit surprised.

“Adopting your culture as my own,” Zuko opens his mouth but you stop him before he can even begin. “From a shallow frame of reference, I had always known your culture and your people would be different than mine. And the time I spent traveling back and forth from the Water Tribe to here when I was only your girlfriend gave me some exposure, but I didn’t know. Not really. Most of your people have been so indoctrinated by nationalistic propaganda that our union wouldn’t have really even been conceivable a few years ago.”

There’s another moment of silence as you take a breath and exhale it. In and out. Zuko doesn’t try to interrupt the moment with platitudes or words of comfort, and that’s another thing you’ve grown to love about him.

He doesn’t say something he doesn’t mean. It’s not in his nature to do so.

In allowing each of you to struggle with the weight of your words and emotions, he honors your emotions without dismissing them. Sometimes, it leaves you speechless because the practice is so ingrained in him, there are times he doesn’t even notice he does it.

“I can adapt. That’s not what I’m worried about. My people are strong because we are so willing to adapt to change, just like the ocean: strong and flexible. I can belong here without losing myself. I just don’t have anything to bring with me. There is no recognition of my culture, and since these meetings have started a few days ago, I get shut down every time I try to bring something into what should be the happiest day of my life.”

You turn to him also and take a step closer. His expression remains neutral and you can tell it’s going to take some time for him to digest all of this. For a moment, you place your hands on his chest, clothed with the finest robes available in the Fire Nation.

“When I said yes to your proposal, to the reality of a life with you, I meant it with all of my heart. I still do. But I have nothing tying me to my homeland or the place of my birth like you do here.”

He looks like he has a thousand things to say, but then the words fade away before they even make it out of his mouth. Zuko’s face turns back towards the outside, looking out at the pond as a soft breeze again disturbs the tree by the water. He always gets this look in his eyes when he’s in deep thought. The dilemma is less with him and his position as Fire Lord and more with how to integrate you in his world without making you “fit in” in ways you were never supposed to.

“If I’ve learned anything over the past few years,” He begins, still standing straight and looking outside. “It’s that nothing in the world is right if there is no balance.”

He reaches inside his formal robe and pulls out a box. Your brows furrow in confusion, because Zuko is not one to give gifts.

“I was going to give this to you later, but it seems like the right time now.” He shrugs and hands you the box while a hand goes to rub his neck.

He always does this when he feels shy or flustered. It’s kind of cute to see the “decisive Fire Lord” act like a teen aged boy. He had rare opportunity to act like one before.

The box is like a square and a silk ribbon is tied around it. Your fingers work at the knot while you raise your eyebrow at him. You place the ribbon on the windowsill once it’s unraveled and gently pull the lid off the box. It may have looked inexpensive, but you never truly knew in the Fire Nation.

The thing inside almost takes your breath away. It’s all blue, every single bit of it.

It’s a betrothal necklace.

You didn’t even know Zuko knew they existed, let alone what it would have meant in your culture if he gave you one. (Granted, he’s already asked you to marry him, but for the moment you dismiss the thought.)

It’s true, most marriages are arranged by parents or parental figures in the Water Tribe. Most people at home are not as lucky as you have been to freely choose a partner, whether inside the Tribe or outside of it. Sometimes it seems a more hollowed out gesture when neither party is truly looking to get married for love. But the ones that do always give the necklace its meaning and purpose.

“I asked Katara for some help,” He began to explain as you stare at the necklace. “I didn’t know what I was doing or where I should go, so she was the one who guided me. She gave me some ideas of what the carving in the stone should represent, but in the end, I came up with the design by myself.”

Zuko rubs the back of his neck again as you glance between him and the necklace.

The choker is dark blue as always, but the color gives you some semblance of peace. Blue isn’t a very prominent color displayed in the Fire Nation. Indeed, the stone fastened to the choker has already been carved into. The design is somehow intricate and simple at the same time. It is intimate without being gaudy or overdone. It is all blue and reflective of the culture you grew up in and the one you still carry with you.

“You carved it yourself?” You whisper, not doubting the answer but still needing to ask it. Zuko just nods and your eyes well up with tears. He doesn’t even know how sacred this necklace is to you in a place where no one else will ever understand its full importance and meaning.

“Will you put it on for me?” You hand the necklace to him as you also discard the box on the windowsill and turn your back to him. You’re thankful your hair is already tied back (still adorned with various blue beads from your background) as you sweep it to the side so Zuko can clasp the necklace around your neck.

The weight of it is unfamiliar but grounding. It anchors you to the truth. It reminds you that no matter what marrying Zuko looks like, you carry your culture with you wherever you go. The way you treat others, hold yourself, and what you, hopefully, pass down to your children is far more important than what traditions you do or don’t adhere to in a ceremony.

“I’ll talk to the officials,” He offers as he clasps the choker together. “You should be able to have all the customs that are important to you when we get married. You have always been my equal, but this time it will be a fact and not just an assumption.”

You touch the stone with your fingers as you turn back to face him. The tears are already sliding down your cheeks, but you also give him a sweet close-lipped smile. He knows but he doesn’t. And that is what makes him so beautiful.

You cup his face between your palms and feel him relax a little. Physical affection had never been a priority in his childhood or adolescence, but you can tell he’s starting to understand why you think it’s important to give and receive it.

“Thank you,” You say, smiling wider.

You close the distance and bring your mouth towards his. The kiss is steady and soft but also full of unrestrained emotion. Zuko gives you a second one before you both pull apart. He just shakes his head.

“I think I’m the one who should be thanking you.” He whispers back as he brings you to his chest.

He is home now, and that is what matters.

#avatar the last airbender #avatar: the last airbender #atla #atla zuko #zuko x oc #zuko x reader #prince zuko #fire nation #water tribe #avatar the last airbender one shot #zuko one shot #zuko imagine #zuko #avatar: tla #fire lord zuko

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definitelyseven · 3 years

Text

liability | eighteen - final

summary: reporter meets mafia boss, Park Jinyoung

It’s been six months since your wedding; since that night. You remembered your white dress being covered in his blood. No matter how many times you called for him, he didn’t respond.

Without Mark, you don’t know how you could’ve survived these past six months. He trained you to take over the clean side of Jinyoung’s business while he took over the dirty side. He didn’t want you to get your hands dirty. Jinyoung wouldn’t have wanted that either.

“Jinyoung, baby. It’s been six months. Please wake up,” you begged by his bed side. The doctor said the surgery was successful but they didn’t know when he’ll wake up. You rubbed the wet towel on his face. “Who could’ve done this?” you whispered to him.

“I’m looking into some people,” Mark responded. “But I don’t want you to worry about it right now. You need to take care of yourself and the baby.”

You instinctively rub your belly. While Jinyoung was in a coma, you also found out you were pregnant. His mother has been ecstatic and has been nicer to you ever since.

“Baby, please wake up soon. I could really use your help with the baby names. Your mother has some interesting ideas,” you joked. “Ow!” you winced in pain.

“What’s wrong?” Mark asked, rushing to your side.

“The baby is kicking,” you whined as you held onto your stomach.

“Deep breaths,” he instructed. You inhaled and exhaled as taught in your baby classes. You grabbed Jinyoung’s hand and placed it on your stomach.

“Do you feel that Jinyoung?” you asked him. “The baby is kicking me.” You watched as Jinyoung’s fingertips slightly move against your stomach. “Mark!”

“He’s moving his fingers,” Mark cheered before running out to get the doctor.

“Jinyoung, honey?” you called again.

You waited patiently outside as the doctor checked up on Jinyoung.

“How’s my Jinyoung?” his mother asked as she rushed towards you.

“He’s awake. Mark and the doctor is in there right now,” you explained to her.

“Mrs. Park,” the doctor called. “He’s awake. Everything seems to be alright with him considering how long he’s been in a coma-”

“Oh thank God,” his mother exclaimed.

“But his memory may be foggy,” the doctor continued to explain.

“W-what?”

“He might not remember you,” Mark continued to explain. You rushed inside Jinyoung’s room. He can’t forget you - he can’t.

“Jinyoung,” you called with tears in your eyes. He looked at you as if he didn’t know who you were. “No...” you whispered.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” he asked.

“I’m your wife,” you revealed, making your way closer to his bed.

“No, she’s not. She’s not your wife,” a voice from behind you said. “Get away from his bed,” his mother said. “Sweetheart, you remember me, right?”

“Yes of course, Mother.”

“This women is not your wife,” she explained. “Your wife, Irene, is on her way.”

“What? No. I’m your wife,” you argued. “Mark?”

“Jinyoung, she’s your wife. Not Irene,” he agreed with you.

“It’s me,” you whimpered.

You stood outside his room as you watched Irene and Jinyoung talked. He was smiling at her like she was the love of his life. It made your heart ache. How could he not remember you but remember Irene?

“Don’t worry. He’ll remember you. He has too,” Mark comforted.

“Y/N let’s have a chat,” his mother demanded as she pulled you to the side. Mark quickly followed behind.

“How could you?” you asked her with tears in your eyes. “How could you say I’m not Jinyoung’s wife?”

“Now that he’s lost all his memories, I want him to have the perfect wife he deserves and that’s not you,” she revealed. “We’ll keep the baby after you give birth. Irene will raise it as her own.”

“You can’t do that,” you sobbed. “I won’t let you. Jinyoung won’t let that happen.”

“He has no reason to protect you anymore. He doesn’t remember you and I want it to stay that way. You killed his father.”

“I am legally his wife,” you reasoned.

“No papers were signed - saying I do is just part of it.”

She was right. You and Jinyoung never signed any papers. You inhaled a deep breath, “I’m never letting you have my baby.”

“See you in court then,” she smiled before walking away. You exhaled deeply, turning your attention to Mark.

“I won’t let that happen,” Mark comforted. “Give him some time.”

“You really don’t remember me?” you asked softly. Jinyoung looks at you blankly, trying to remember you. “That’s okay,” you comforted him and yourself as you reached for his hand. He flinches at your touch. “Sorry,” you mumbled.

“No, I’m the one that should apologize. I’m sorry I don’t remember you,” he said. “I’m really trying.”

You shake your head, “It’s not your fault. We will find whoever did this to you.”

“Irene said Y/N did this to me. Do you know who Y/N is?” he asked.

“I’m Y/N. I’m your wife. I would never do this to you,” you sobbed. “This is our baby,” you said rubbing your stomach. “Why would I want to hurt my baby’s father?”

“I-I don’t know,” he replied, holding his head. “I don’t know. My head hurts,” he complained.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Irene shouts from behind. She rushes over to Jinyoung’s side, pushing you away as she tries to calm him down to relieve his headache. “Why do you insist on hurting him all the time?”

“You fucking bitch,” you mumbled in between your sobs.

“I heard that,” she glared while pouring Jinyoung a glass of water.

“Irene, you said Y/N did this to me. How did she do it?” Jinyoung asked weakly.

“You can’t possibly think that’s true,” you said in disbelief.

“I hired a private investigator. She deposited a large sum of money to a mysterious bank account an hour before the wedding. I traced the offshore account and it’s tied to a well-known gang,” Irene explained. You shook your head, denying all the allegations.

“No...that’s not true,” you sobbed.

“Don’t even try to lie. I have all the proof here,” she said reaching for her purse. She pulls out the documentation and hands it to Jinyoung. “See baby,” she pointed. “Look at all that money being transferred between accounts.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” you sobbed. “I don’t have an offshore account and the gunman was aiming the gun at me. You got injured trying to save me.”

“See,” Irene quickly asserts. “She knew you were going to save her so of course the target wouldn’t be you.”

“After everything we’ve been through, I would never hurt you.”

“You mean everything Jinyoung and I been through. Babe, it’s true you guys had a relationship. You cheated on me with her, but I forgive you. I will always forgive you,” Irene said tearing up. This fucking bitch.

“How were you able to find all this when Mark wasn’t able to find a single thing for months?” Jinyoung asked, suspicious.

“Oh,” Irene said, caught off guard. “Money can do wonders, silly.”

“I have money.”

“I don’t know Jinyoung; hire better help?” Irene said, annoyed.

“You set everything up perfectly to frame Y/N,” Jinyoung revealed.

“What? Don’t be ridiculous sweetie. Why would I hurt you? I love you,” she tries to convince Jinyoung.

“You were never trying to hurt me. You wanted to hurt Y/N. You just didn’t think I would save her,” Jinyoung revealed. Irene chuckles nervously. “I’m not stupid Irene. I may have just woken up but I know you. I remember you.”

Irene rolls her eyes and moves away from Jinyoung. “Why do you insist on believing her even when you don’t remember her?! I’m your wife!” she practically shouted. “I’m the one you should be loving!”

“Because you’re always so desperate for my attention you’d do anything! Even if it meant hurting someone! That’s the person you are - you’re selfish and greedy. You only want what you can’t have. That’s the Irene I know,” Jinyoung explained.

Irene’s eyes swells up with tears. “You’ll never love me like you love her,” she said with her lips quivering. “She’s the reason your father is dead!”

“Maybe but I can never be with you, Irene. She’s pregnant with my child. I have to be responsible.”

“I will treat the child as my own,” Irene said. “I promise I will love it like I love you. I promise I will change. I’ll be a better person.”

“I will never give you my child,” you tell her. “I will never let her grow up with a monster.”

“Her?” Jinyoung asked. You nodded slowly which made him smile. “It’s a girl,” he whispered to himself.

“Me or her, Jinyoung. Me or her,” she repeated. “This is your last chance. If you pick her, I will have my parents withdraw out of every investment in your company,” she threatened.

“I don’t care if you withdraw your investments. I don’t care about that. I want to be with my child and my child’s mother, even if I don’t remember them.”

“You’ll regret this,” Irene says through her teeth before leaving. You made your way towards Jinyoung’s bed. He grabs your hand.

“I’m sorry I can’t remember. I’ll try harder,” he said squeezing your hand.

“You don’t have to apologize. It’s not your fault,” you assured him. “Are you going to let her off that easy?” you asked, referring to Irene’s attempted murder.

“If you don’t mind. It’s the least I can do for her. She became like this because of me,” Jinyoung explained. You nodded slowly, agreeing with him.

“It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

“Can you tell me how we met?” he asked. You smiled at him, nodding.

“I was a reporter and you were a dangerous businessman. I wanted an interview with you,” you began to tell him. Even if he didn’t remember you or everything you’ve been through together, you would be willing to spend the rest of your life making new memories with him.

a little note from jennie: i’m so sorry for the delay on this final chapter. i really wanted to come up with a perfect ending for this and i’ve rewritten this so many times. hope you enjoyed it! :)

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animated-moon · 3 years

Text

tug of war

pairing: zhongli x gn! reader

warnings: SPOILERS FOR LIYUE’S CHAPTER OF ARCHON QUEST! reader works at bubu pharmacy, not proofread we die like real idiots 🤞🤞 i also made references to some of the liyue npc’s idle dialogues that people made into memes because it was too tempting not to

word count: 1.1k

a/n: i lowkey hate it but i guess we all just have to learn to adapt

☆。*。☆。

The almighty archon Rex Lapis has never lost before. Never once has he given in to the enemy’s demands, no matter who or what was at risk, and never once has he cowered to someone in battle, no matter how strong the enemy.

That was, until you came along.

“Hey! What are you doing out in Jueyun Karst all alone? It’s dangerous, sir!” He turns around, seeing a small frame running towards him. He’d just finished fending off a group of hilichurls, as per the Traveller’s request. He’d gotten a few scratches and part of his neat suit was torn. Sometimes, he forgot that he wasn't the unbeatable Morax anymore.

“Oh? You’re that new hot topic in Liyue, aren’t you?” He nodded, tucking his spear away.

“My name is Zhongli, consultant of the Wangsheng funeral parlour. A pleasure to meet you…” You chirped out your name, and he took a mental note of it. He’s heard your name around before, since you worked part time at Bubu pharmacy. He recalls that Baizhu was pretty fond of you.

“We should patch you up, Mr Zhongli. I happen to have some herbs that can numb the wounds for a bit. Please stay still while I apply them onto your arm,” you said, taking his arm gently as if he were made out of porcelain. He’d barely felt your hands on his skin before you clapped your hands ceremoniously.

“All done. Make sure to be more careful in the future, sir!” Before he could state his thanks, you’d run off, leaving the god speechless and charmed.

“Hey, Li!” Your voice stood out to him amongst the sea of chatter and exclamations. It's always been like this with you. “Wanna play tug of war?” He smiled.

“I’d never say no to a challenge,” A simple reply, like the simple man he now was.

This war between both of you started as a lighthearted game, and Zhongli found himself unwilling to let go of his end of the rope. He looked up at you, a focused gaze as you tried to knock Zhongli off his balance.

Every little motion from you was a tug of the rope, slowly pulling him closer. Even with his build, he found it difficult to pull the rope back to him. It was like his feet were planted to the ground, and his arms were only made of stone.

What is this feeling? He often asked himself, but even the almighty Lord of Geo couldn’t find an answer to his own question. When did he know to feel like this?

“Aren’t the lanterns beautiful?” You asked, taking a bite out of your cheap and tasty chop suey. Zhongli nodded, settling next to you with his grilled tiger fish. It was still hot, and he blew on it gently.

“I’m glad you took time off to hang out with me today, sir! Although you really didn’t have to,” you made a comment, and Zhongli had the smallest smile on his face.

“It’s nothing. Ms Hu let me off early today. Let’s just enjoy the lanterns.” He commented, and you hummed.

The silence was comfortable, and he glanced at you, the light from the floating lanterns reflecting off your face in a magical way. You fluttered your eyes close and clasped your hand over the other, lips moving slightly and allowing your wish to get lost amongst the beautiful lanterns.

What was it you wished about? Zhongli considered asking, but remained quiet.

“Li! Are you just letting me win?” Your voice pulled him back to reality, and he had a wide grin on his face.

“You’ve grown stronger,” he comments, and you laugh softly.

“Feel welcome to bash my ego with your geo arms.” Zhongli laughs at that, putting more strength into trying to secure himself. He wouldn’t fall. Not yet.

“Really?” You asked, eyes almost glittering. Zhongli smiled at you fondly. “They never told us these things in school,” you comment, and he shook his head.

“Not many truths of the past are conserved at all. It’s a pity not many people are as interested in history as you are,” he says, both of you strolling around the Dunyu ruins.

“Oh, do you see that?” He asks, pointing to a crossbow. “That’s-“

“The Guizhong Ballista, right?” You finished his sentence, and Zhongli looked at you, a little surprised. “I remember that you said the God of Dust, Guizhong and Cloud Retainer built it together to protect the citizens of Liyue! The traveller and you had to fix it together last time, since some treasure hoarders destroyed it.

“You remembered that? It was months ago.” Not many people bothered to remember Zhongli’s stories, after all. Not many even saw the true value in them.

“Well, it’s an interesting story, and I should be grateful that you chose to tell it to me,” you replied simply, gazing at the crossbow. Zhongli was a man of a million words, but at that moment, all the words he wanted to say seemed to be caught in his throat.

Zhongli tried again to tug on the rope, his strength not coming to him at all. Your giggles as he inched closer and closer to you was music to his ears, and he couldn’t help but smile again.

“Go! Pull harder while he’s not paying attention! You can do this!” Somewhere in the crowd, Childe could be seen, cheering for you. As he caught Zhongli’s eye, he snickered and mouthed two words to him.

“Down bad.”

“I like you, Zhongli.”

“Huh?” Zhongli made a sound of surprise? You… liked him? Before he let his mind wander, you tossed a pebble across the surface of the water, watching as the water rippled.

For some reason, he couldn’t remember the rest of that day. Did he say it back? How did you respond? What did you say after that?

Did it even happen? Or was it just a fragment of his imagination?

“Mr Zhongli! Go!” Hutao cheered, but Zhongli didn’t hear anything besides the bubble of laughter falling from your lips.

“Yea, I like you,” you repeated, turning to look at him. Before Zhongli could speak, you continued.

“-r passion for history.”

He pouts, tilting his head at you. Were you teasing him? Seeing the frown on his face, you laugh.

“Disappointed?”

“Hardly,” he replies, but turns away from you. Sometimes, Zhongli too could be childish.

“You’d have to say it first, Li,” you say, and Zhongli tilts his head at you again.

“Why is that?”

“I don’t like giving in,” you grin, standing up to leave Zhongli speechless yet again.

“I can never win with you, can I?” He mutters to himself, a wide smile across his face.

That was when your little competition began, he remembers. If he even tried to think that he wasn't interested in you, it’d be a lie. Within a few short months, he had become so enamoured with you that it’d hardly be fair.

Now, as he gave one last tug to his end of the rope, you grinned at him. He remembers every single time your eyes lighted up in delight, or dimmed with disappointment. He remembers every time you’d tugged on the rope, slowly knocking him off the balance he’d always known.

After everything, he finally let go of his end of the rope, falling into your arms which felt like home.

#zhongli #zhongli fluff #zhongli fanfiction #zhongli genshin impact #zhongli x y/n #zhongli x you #genshin impact #genshin impact fluff #genshin impact fanfiction #genshin impact zhongli #genshin #morax genshin impact #genshin morax #rex lapis genshin #🌓.creations

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duskholland · 4 years

Text

The Fame Game (Prologue) | Tom Holland

Summary ↠ There’s just something about Tom Holland that makes your blood boil. He walks around like he owns the world, always with an unhelpful quip or irritating smirk on hand. You can’t stand him, and your feud has burned hard and bright for three years. Everything changes following an explosive evening at the Oscars, when a questionable encounter with the paparazzi lands you in some hot water with PR... fake dating au; enemies to lovers; actor!y/n.

Word count ↠ 4.6k

Warnings ↠ Alcohol, paparazzi, swearing, discussions of misogyny and the corruption of fame, Tom and Y/N are both very petty, dramatic assholes.

A/N ↠ Ahhh it’s here! I was really shocked by how many people responded to the announcement post for the series -- I hope so much that this doesn’t disappoint anyone lol. This series is my baby, and I’m very excited to share it with you all. Before we dive into the fake dating, we must first explore a very critical evening for Tom and Y/N... hahahah. This was a lot of fun to write. Please let me know if you’ve got any thoughts! :D

(Tom’s in the FFH premiere outfit because I’m still in love with that fit, and the jury’s out for whether or not the actual Tom needs glasses to see; this version of him just uses them as a fashion statement lmao)

((The biggest thank you ever to V, mischiefandi, for being this series’ no.1 supporter and proofing this -- love you mate))

Series masterpost

ZERO: The Oscars (Y)

The atmosphere at Vanity Fair’s Oscars after-party is electric.

The soft boom of the latest pop tunes seeps into the air, mixing with the warm lights and the sounds of clinking champagne flutes. The room holds Hollywood’s best, and it seems no matter which direction you tilt your head, your eyes find themselves settling over a familiar face. You’re walking amongst legends tonight, and as you throw back your third glass of champagne of the evening, you let a small smile unfurl across your lips.

It isn’t your first time attending the Oscars, but it is the first time you haven’t felt utterly out of your depth surrounded by people of this calibre. When you’d first started in the acting industry, you’d found it incredibly unsettling to enter a room full of Oscar-winners. Even now you remember how your hands had felt slick with sweat as you’d nervously been introduced to Meryl Streep and Viola Davis, and how you’d felt imposter syndrome on a scale you’d never imagined possible. Time and experience have brought you many things, but most importantly, they have gifted you confidence. You’re 24 now, and the string of achievements and nominations tied to your belt is so impressive that they deem you no longer an outsider at the Oscars; instead, it’s as if you’ve been accepted into the fold.

But for all the enjoyment of the lavish after-party, you can’t stop your mood from plummeting. It’s all fun and games until your eyes sweep the room and settle on a smirking figure standing in the corner:

Tom Holland.

Just the sight of him makes your nostrils flare.

You think it must be true what they say: once you start to dislike someone, it’s as if every single thing they do irritates you. This is how you feel with Tom. Even the smallest, most insignificant details about him somehow manage to annoy you. You cannot stand the smell of his hair gel, and you detest the way he stubbornly refuses to mend his phone screen. Your teeth grit together every time you see that smug smirking grin hanging from his lips, and you get worked up by the way he always seems to swagger around as if he owns the room. The grievances fall into several categories: his aesthetic choices, his generally smug demeanour, and his irritating personality, and it all fosters your deep, unyielding disapproval of the man.

Tom infuriates you beyond belief - beyond words. And he’s standing across the room right now, staring at you over the rim of his wine glass with a teasing smirk hanging from his stupid lips.

You try to ignore him at first. You lick your lips and return your attention to a conversation with some of your co-stars. You know better than to try and approach anyone else tonight. Your reputation, as your PR team likes to put it, is ‘fragile’ at the moment. A string of uncomplimentary ex-lovers and a few disgruntled directors have shattered your pristine public image, making you regarded as both a rising talent and loose cannon by the media. There’s been a common trend recently of news outlets dragging your name through the mud, and the desperate words of PR as they’d begged you not to cause a scene tonight drift through your mind as you contemplate wandering over to Tom.

You know it isn’t in your best interests to engage with the man - no matter the occasion, your conversations always end explosively - but Tom is just standing there, staring at you persistently, and you just can’t help it.

Your tongue flicks out across your lower lip as you feel his hot gaze trailing around your made-up cheek. His eyes are intense - holding power over you, to the point where you have you excuse yourself from your conversation. An exasperated sigh slips past your lips as you turn around, preparing yourself for your encounter. Your stare finds him, and it follows Tom as he strides across the party towards you, one hand hanging easily from his trouser pocket as the other clasps an intricately engraved wine glass.

The frown on your lips deepens the nearer Tom gets, and as more details of his figure draw into focus. He’s got his chestnut waves slicked back tonight, with a few stray strands hanging out across his forehead. It makes him look dishevelled, but in a devilishly handsome sort of way - which makes sense, given you’re reasonably sure he must have some kind of relationship with Lucifer himself. Stretched across the wide expanse of his shoulders is a deep burgundy suit, and it cages him in tightly, leaving little to the imagination. Your lips curl into a poisonous grimace as your eyes finally fall on the glasses perched on his nose; you’re sure Tom doesn’t even need glasses, and it riles you up to see him parading the frames as a fashion statement.

But perhaps the thing about his ensemble that annoys you the most is the fact that you can’t look away. No matter how hard you beg yourself, you can’t drag your gaze away from Tom’s swagger, or the tight hold he has on the stem of the glass, or the way his eyes dance with a dark, mischievous glint as he falls to a stop in front of you. Tom is many things to you, but it’s undeniable that you find him attractive, and that fact often keeps you seething well into the early hours of the morning.

“Y/N,” Tom greets, his voice dripping charm. “Lovely to see you again.” His thin pink lips twist up into a smirk, and you find yourself clenching your fingers into fists around the tender stem of your champagne flute.

“Tom.” You step forwards, and your lips catch at his cheek as you press a firm, unwavering greeting to his face. You feel his warm hand slip from his pocket, and it grazes across your hip as Tom holds you closer. “You look to be enjoying yourself.”

When you pull back, you linger near him, allowing Tom to return the gesture by pressing his hot mouth to your cheek. He smells of rich, overpowering cologne, and you scrunch your nose up as his lips burn against your skin.

“It’s quite the party tonight,” he returns, stepping back. Tom’s beady little brown eyes run across your figure, taking in the long designer gown and the decadent sparkly necklace hanging from your neck. He graces you with an approving nod. “Are you having a nice time?”

“I was.” You pause to take a long sip of champagne, finding comfort in the way the bubbles pop against your tongue. You hope the alcohol will help to take the edge off the way your heart has started to pound against your ribs. “It’s a shame you had to come over here and ruin my mood.”

“Couldn’t help but notice you were staring at me, love,” he says, “Thought maybe you had something you’d like to say to me.”

You feel a hot spike of irritation as his lips curve effortlessly around the word love. Tom has always been a fan of pet names. The ease in which they roll from his tongue in that smooth, accented voice never fails to charm the room, and though you like to think you’re immune to his allure, you can feel the word spinning around your head like a broken record.

“Not really,” you return coolly, maintaining your composure with the poise and precision of a seasoned actress. You even manage to flash him an apologetic smile. “No big award for you tonight, though? Must be heartbreaking.”

Tom rolls his eyes. “Are you really still caught up on the BAFTA?” He asks, his voice lower and harder.

The mood between you dips, and instinctively you find yourself moving away into a quieter corner of the room. As you drift away from the hordes of celebrities guzzling champagne, it’s as if the facade between you breaks down. Your smirk becomes harder, your eyes less forgiving - and in return, Tom’s smile sours into a grimace, and he holds himself straighter. The masks you wear come off, leaving you both bare and exposed.

“No,” you respond darkly. You’re tucked away in the corner of the party, with your back almost against the wall as Tom lingers in front of you. Both of you have discarded your drinks glasses. “I couldn’t care less that you won the BAFTA, Tom. If the jury decided you were worthy, then you were worthy. I would have to be very unreasonable to disagree with the committee.”

“I don’t believe that for a second, Y/N.” Tom tilts his head to the side, flashing the tips of his shiny white teeth as his mouth loosens into a wild smile.

“Fine.” You give him an excessive sigh, and you let your eyes drift towards his mouth. “I don’t buy it, Tom.”

Tom’s suit jacket breaks out into wrinkles as he crosses his arms across his chest. “You don’t buy what?”

“This act.”

Tom almost rolls his eyes again. “And which act are you referring to, Y/N?”

“The Mr Nice Guy Act, Thomas.” The way he flexes his jaw makes you lean nearer and smirk. “Everyone here thinks you’re such a wonderful man, but I see right through it.”

It’s hard to know precisely when your feelings towards Tom became so hostile, but you like to pinpoint the night of the BAFTAs in 2017 as the day you surpassed the point of no return. You were younger then - both of you - and things quickly got out of hand. You know Tom likes to pinpoint your ‘jealousy’ following his win and your snub at the awards show as the catalyst for your tumultuous relationship, but both of you know that night was the product of several cumulative events.

Your best friend had worked with Tom’s mate Harrison, all those years ago in 2016. You knew Harrison through her, and you got on well enough with him, so when the BAFTA academy had nominated both you and Tom as contenders for Rising Star, Harrison had orchestrated an exchange of phone numbers. However, given your packed schedule and press engagements, you had failed to respond to all of Tom’s attempts to contact you.

One thing led to another. Tom assumed you were dodging his texts and started bad-mouthing you to Harrison. Word travelled to you that this guy - the competition - was throwing shade to your name, and so you might have made a few choice remarks about him on Ellen and suggested that Tobey Maguire was the best Spider-Man. Whatever. It was all so petty and childish, and it’d escalated to boiling point on the night of the BAFTAs when Tom hadn’t been able to shut up and thrust his win right into your face - quite literally. You can still remember the way he’d clutched the trophy as he’d shown it off in all its grandeur.

Ever since then, your relationship has been poisonous. A case of miscommunication and petty jealousy turned hostile, and now you’re in far too deep to even think about mending the fractured dynamic.

“I am a nice guy,” Tom tells you. His eyes skim across your face, and you don’t miss the way they drag across the curve of your lower lip.

“As if.” You ponder which anecdote you should fall back on to prove your point, and it takes a while to select one: the pool of Tom’s past mistakes and moves against you is vast and wide. “Would a nice guy conveniently forget to invite me to Harrison’s birthday party?”

Tom winces, and something almost like regret flickers out across his face before he meets your eyes and hardens up his gaze. “I’ve already told you that was a case of miscommunication,” he says slowly, patronising. “I doubt you would have enjoyed it anyway, Y/N. Wasn’t exactly your type of party.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Your hand finds your waist, gripping firmly at your flesh to stop your fingers from shaking. The way Tom looks at you so intensely makes you feel strung-out and bare, and it’s almost as if he can see straight through you.

“It was a small, intimate gathering. From what I’ve been hearing, you’re a fan of the larger, more explosive parties, aren’t you?”

You could throttle him. You could really, truly throttle him. You know with certainty that Tom’s referring to the latest smear the media had run against you, which had placed you at an illegal rave in Downtown LA and cost you a role in a film you were passionate about.

“You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the tabloids, Tom.”

“Maybe not.” Tom’s closer to you now. You find your back brushing up against the wall as he steps nearer yet again, his shiny leather shoes sparkling beneath the light curving out from the chandeliers. “I’d like to think I know you quite well, though, Y/N. We have known each other for several years.”

“I’d use the word ‘known’ very loosely if I were you. I think it’s more like, ‘been plagued by’, but you do you, Tom.”

He laughs, and this time the noise is lighter. You feel a little woozy from the champagne - or maybe it’s his cologne - and you let your hand wander up to rest on the top of Tom’s suit. You drag your fingers across the smooth material, marvelling at how soft the designer garb is to touch.

“Do you like my suit?” Tom asks, his voice lower than before. There’s a strange charge to the air between you, and you find yourself nodding.

“I disagree with the glasses, but your suit is decent. I have to admit that this colour looks flattering on you.” The bold burgundy tones bring out the warmth in his eyes, even if the stupid thin frames of his glasses obscure them. You watch as his pupils widen and feel the warmth of Tom’s breath as he inches in closer.

“Thanks,” he says. Tom’s hand winds around your waist. “Your dress is very nice.”

You swallow, your throat suddenly feeling dry. You briefly wish that you had another glass of champagne to keep you occupied because you find your other hand joining the first and finding purchase on Tom’s shoulder. He’s very close to you, and there’s nowhere left to move because you’d backed up against the wall. Fleetingly you wonder what it must look like, to be hidden away at the back of the party and caged in like this, but you decide that the flurry of heated emotions passing through his eyes and the way his thumb pads over your waist is worth it.

Neither of you says a word, but you watch through wide eyes as Tom’s gaze flickers out across your lower lip. He inches in closer, almost painfully slowly, his demeanour radiating a shaky confidence as he tilts the angle of his head. You watch the hard lines of his mouth dissolve, and his smirk melts away into something like a smile as his eyes flutter shut. Now Tom is very close - so, so close - and the gap between your mouths narrows by the second.

He’s going to kiss you. You know he’s going to kiss you. Why is he going to kiss you? Why are you going to let him kiss you-

“Y/N! Hey, congrats on the film. I saw it last week with my wife, and she loved it-”

Tom springs back. You gasp a short breath of air as your eyes widen, and the film of scattered emotions that had temporarily disarmed you shatters. Tom’s cheeks are bright red, and he doesn’t seem to know where to look or what to do as he jams his hands into his trouser pockets and stares at the floor.

“-Oh, sorry, was I interrupting something?”

Your throat tickles as you shake your head, looking up to see Mark Ruffalo standing there, his expression relaxed but growing in confusion as he drinks in the awkward tension rippling between you and Tom.

“No,” you say immediately, a bite to your voice. You refuse to look at Tom. “You weren’t interrupting anything.”

Mark releases a breath of relief and launches back into his speech, complimenting you profusely on your performance. You become distracted as you listen to him, but not enough to forget about the way Tom had leaned closer and brushed his thumb across your side almost gently. After a few moments of conversation, you can’t stop yourself from glancing over towards Tom, only to notice that he’s slunk away elsewhere. His absence makes your heart twist.

Another hour slips away, and you find yourself returning to the Moët for release. You can feel your composure gliding away from you with each fateful sip. Tom seems to have vanished, and you find yourself questioning if he’s so embarrassed by your moment in the corner that he had to leave. You wonder if that would be better than him staying.

But eventually, your eyes seek him out, as they always seem to do. And you catch him chatting with a woman, his arm around her shoulders and his lips brushed against her ear. Tom seems to feel your gaze on him, and his deep brown eyes meet with yours. He raises his eyebrows and whispers something into the woman’s ear that makes her laugh, and it sends something whipping down your spine.

It isn’t just jealousy - it goes deeper than that. It’s the realisation that you could never get away with this behaviour. You know that if the roles were reversed and it was you who had been seen getting close to two men in one night, you would be assigned a whole host of derogatory names. The double standards that exist in this artificial world of cameras and headlines make you feel sick to your stomach. You are not jealous of the woman beneath Tom’s arm, though you will admit it makes you feel uneasy - it’s the hypocrisy of it all that makes you seethe.

“Excuse me,” you mutter to no one in particular. Tom’s eyes slip away from yours as you put down your empty glass and turn, heading in the direction of an exit. You wander the vast, glittering ballroom for a few moments before spying a door embedded in the back wall that leads out into a dark alleyway.

When you step out onto the street, the cold February air seems to bring your tipsiness to the forefront of your mind. You giggle softly to yourself and wrap your arms around your chest, your fingers rubbing rapid fiery circles across your exposed flesh as you try to drum up a heat.

You lean back against the wall and stare up at the vacant sky. LA is too polluted to see the stars, but you like to imagine they’re staring down back at you. In the distance, you can hear the sounds of laughter coming out from the hall, and out at the end of the alley you can see the street, cloaked in dark paparazzi vans and dim amber street-lamps, but tucked away up here alone, you feel at peace.

“Cinderella runs away from the ball, yet again.”

You scowl. Your eyes move away from the dark blanket of clouds to see Tom. He’s ditched the glasses, but you can see the legs sticking out from the pocket sewn to the top of his suit.

“Joined by her ugly pumpkin.” You screw up your nose at your own words, cursing your fizzled mind for messing up the tale. “That’s not right, is it?”

Tom approaches you, his cheeks full of a rosy tipsiness. “Dunno,” he murmurs. “Think I like it better than being called your ugly sister, though.”

“Ew.”

You share a loud, unruly laugh with Tom, your voices mixing almost melodically. When you sigh, you lean further against the wall.

“I hate it in there,” you find yourself admitting. “So many people were talking about me behind my back. It’s like they think I can’t tell that they’ve just been discussing me when I walk over and the conversation falls silent.” You slot your fingers together and play around with your thumbs. “Everything is so fake. It’s like a game to them.”

A cool breeze floats down the alley, and you find yourself shivering.

“It is a game,” Tom says slowly, all whilst slipping off his suit jacket. He holds it out to you, raising an eyebrow when you shake your head. “It’s cold, Y/N. I know you’re stubborn, but neither of us wants you to freeze out here.”

The mood between you feels tender, and you let yourself accept his warm jacket. You throw it across your shoulders and feel the warm embrace of his suit, and the husky traces of cologne nestled to the fabric, but Tom’s looking at you with an intense gaze, and the sight of his golden browns draws you back to the scenes from inside the party.

“Saw you chatting with a woman inside,” you say, words a little sharper. “Trying to see how many times you have to try it on before someone bites?”

Tom flinches. The air fills with the sound of him clicking his tongue as he rubs his hands together. “You are so fucking petty, Y/N.”

You raise an eyebrow, responding to his clipped voice with surprise. “Hit a nerve, have I?”

He groans softly. “Sorry,” he mutters, “I shouldn’t swear at you. You just get under my bloody skin.”

You shrug. “You’ve said worse.”

“So have you.”

“Only because you deserve it.”

Tom’s bearing in on you again, but this time you feel more at ease. The scent of his cologne mixes with the sweet champagne that lays fresh across your palette, and it makes you feel delirious. You can’t stop yourself from reaching up and draping your hands across his shoulders, bringing him nearer.

“You drive me crazy,” Tom admits. His voice is husky, his eyes dark and intense. In the slight breeze, strands of his hair waft across his forehead.

“I can’t stand you,” you return. Your heart beats wildly in your chest as his hands dig into your waist. The rough render on the building behind you digs into your back as you loop your arms around Tom’s neck and bring him in closer.

“Neither can I, darling.”

It’s like magnetism - some sort of invisible force pulling you in before you can even fathom it. One moment you’re staring at Tom, scepticism in your eyes and anxiety thick in your chest, the next he’s surged forwards and captured your lips in a messy, sensational kiss. You gasp into his mouth, and your fingers tighten against the short hair at the nape of his neck as you kiss him back harshly. Your noses bump and your teeth collide as Tom grabs at your sides with fervour, and having him clutching at you is so hot that it takes your breath away. The kiss is messy and hurried, and it seems to melt down all the built-up tension and frustration you’ve been nurturing for years. It makes your head hurt, and all you can focus on is how crazy it is that you are kissing Tom Holland - and, horrifyingly, how much you don’t seem to hate it.

It comes crashing down when there’s a round of flashes, and you hear the telltale sound of paparazzi photographs.

“Shit!” You push Tom away from you immediately, your breath hitching as your head snaps down to the end of the alley. Unbeknownst to either of you, you’ve been spotted by the men with those large, invasive lenses. The flashes continue, and you turn away, your actions almost in slow motion as you feel a wave of nausea travel across your chest.

“Y/N!”

“Tom, Tom!”

“Are you dating?”

“Having a bit of fun tonight, Y/N?”

A chorus of cataclysmic yells come racing down the alley and the howls of the paparazzi mix with the loud sound of camera shutters.

“Fuck.” Tom grabs your arm, and he pulls you away from them, bringing you both back into the party. There’s a tightness in your chest as you gasp for breath, walking in dizzying strides as you card your fingers through your hair anxiously.

“No, no, no,” you mutter to yourself. You can hear the calls of the paparazzi ringing in your ears, and you dig your fingers into your temples for relief as you snap your head to glare at Tom. “Why did you just kiss me? What’s wrong with you?”

Tom looks pale, and his eyes are round with shock, but he still manages to stare at you incredulously. “You kissed me too?”

You bury your head in your hands. “This is it - this is the last straw. They’re going to have a field day with this.” You peek out at Tom through gaps in your fingers, laughing humourlessly. Your chest burns as you take in his disarmed expression and his deep chocolate eyes. “This is the end.”

“It… It was just one kiss.”

You shake your head furiously. “They’ll run with it. They’ll make a spectacle of us.” Your nails dig into the soft palms of your hands. “You are such an asshole.”

Tom’s mouth, a little red and puffy, twists into something of a snarl. “You kissed me! Why is this my fault?”

“It’s always your fault.” You pause and shake your head. You can’t help but fall back on the naive thought that this truly is all Tom’s fault. You’d been fine before him. You’d been looking into the starless sky. You’d been at peace. He’d just had to waltz on out and trick you into his lips. “Well, I hope you enjoy the end of your career.”

He raises a thin eyebrow. “What do you mean by that?”

“You’ve been associated with me, which is the equivalent of getting a big black line scored right across your name.” You reach up and jerk his jacket from your shoulders, and roughly shove it back into Tom’s hands.

“I think you’re overreacting.”

“Really?” Your gaze hardens. “This is all just a game, Tom, don’t you see? We don’t get to decide who stays on top.” You laugh humourlessly, your tongue tasting sourly of champagne. “We have fucked up.”

Tom sets his jaw. One by one, he stuffs his arms through his suit jacket and tugs it back around his body, sinking into it forcibly. He pulls his glasses from the pocket and places them back on the bridge of his nose, balancing them crookedly.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” Tom remarks, his voice cold and sharp. You briefly wonder if he understands the magnitude of the situation, and as he sweeps away without so much as a kiss on the cheek goodbye, you realise he probably does.

Without yet wholly understanding it, one drunken kiss has sealed your fate. As you stand there, twiddling with your thumbs in the back corner of the Vanity Fair party, your mind races. You know with absolute certainty that things will never be the same again, but not even your wildest dreams could compare to what is about to come.

buckle up bc I’m about to take us on a ride and a half. may as well have ended this with an ellipsis lmao.

↠ next part

any thoughts?! I am actually dying to know what you’re thinking lmao!! my askbox is open :D

taglist can be found in the series masterpost, which is the pinned post at the top of my blog

masterlist linked in my description

#tom holland #Tom Holland x reader #Tom Holland x y/n #Tom Holland imagine #Tom Holland series #Tom Holland fic #tfg #y/n #y/n use #self insert #self-insert #my writing

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ashintheairlikesnow · 3 years

Note

Would lowkey kill to see Kauri attempting to write poetry in his relationship with Jake era (omg Jake helping him/being the one to write it down) I always forget that he was a writer and loves poetry and I love him 10 times more every time I remember

CW: Some references to past trauma, forced illiteracy, some brief internalized victim-blaming/slut-shaming, Kauri’s low self-esteem

Takes place after Worth the Risk and Kauri’s first glimpse of his own past

“This is fucking stupid. I can’t fucking do this.” Kauri picks up the notebook, hard-backed blue with little golden stars twinkling on the cover, and throws it full-strength across the room until it smacks into the wall and drops to the ground, open to his own scrawling, struggling handwriting.

Chris, wrapped in a big fuzzy blue blanket and curled up in an armchair playing a game on his phone or texting Laken or maybe both, flinches and looks up. “Kauri?”

Kauri looks away from the earnest concern in those huge green eyes and kicks ineffectually at the coffee table, hissing when he doesn’t actually miss and his toes connect with the hard wooden leg. “Fuck. Fucking-... bullshit, I’m an idiot trying to do this, just-... god damn it. I should know better.”

There’s a silence, and then Chris asks, softly, “Know better than, than... than to what? What were you, um, you doing?”

Kauri’s jaw is set and for a second he considers lying. He’s a good liar, after all, and Chris is always so ready to believe him, he wouldn’t even question it. Safer to lie, hide the ideas inside his head, talk instead about something soft and surface-level.

Safer to be stupid, always.

But he’s trying not to do that anymore.

He’s trying.

“Writing,” He says, finally. “I was... trying to-... write something.” The words are ground out of him nearly against his will. He glares at the notebook lying open on the floor, the scrawling handwriting of the fucked up slut still thinking he can be anything else. Looping and childish, too big almost to fit within the lines.

“Oh.” Chris pauses, and then brightens, setting his phone aside and straightening up. “You, you sad you think that you used to, to, to, to write, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.” Kauri’s head hurts, a sharp punishing ache. How dare he think in metaphor and simile, how dare he try to build the villanelle, how dare he remember vaguely arguing with someone in a coffeeshop over old poetic forms being superior to poems that don’t even try to fit within a rhythm, and he just-

This is so-

He’s so stupid, thinking he could just pick it up again like it hasn’t been a decade or close, like he’s still whatever stupid shit lived in his body before he-

signed up for this-

followed a fucking hot guy outside in the dark and got thrown into a van and made into Kauri.

“Well, my... my professor for, for, for, for Playwriting says... says writing is a muscle. You, you have to exercise. And you can’t do the, um, the, the, the-the heavy weights until you start with, with small ones.”

Kauri snorts, derisive, but it’s not because Chris is wrong - of course he’s not wrong. Part of Kauri knows it, too, that he used to write all the time, around the pounding inside his skull he knows that he used to scribble lines on napkins and paper towels and the margins of his study books, bringing together the poem itself only later, usually alone or with a boyfriend on the other side of the room. He used to be able to do this.

He used to do this all the time.

“I wish Owen had wanted someone who could write a fucking poem,” Kauri says, voice breaking on the tears that threaten. “Maybe then I’d still be able to.” He pushes himself to his feet and stomps over to scoop up the notebook almost violently. “Why are you taking Playwriting, anyway? I thought you wanted to do set design.”

“I, I do.” Chris shrugs, eyes on Kauri, watching him walk back towards the doorway that leads to a hall and then to the kitchen. “But I thought-... I, I, I figured-... maybe if I learn how to, to write a play, it would help... visualize. For, for, for set-building. You, um. You know?”

Kauri exhales, slowly, and then nods. “Yeah. I get it. That’s a good plan - I mean, not that I would know, I’m a college fucking dropout, right?” He laughs, bitterness in every word, in every sound.

“No,” Chris replies, simply. “You, you were... abducted. We were, um. We, we, we were stolen. Your words were, um, were stolen, too. That’s what Dr. Berger-”

“Fuck Dr. Berger,” Kauri snaps, and leaves the room before Chris can make any more sense and possibly break apart Kauri’s determined self-loathing while he still wants to soak in it.

Hating himself for what he can’t do - or what he’s been told he can’t do - is so much easier than trying to do it anyway.

Everything was easier than trying to get better.

So why is he still trying?

Notebook clenched in white-knuckled hands, Kauri climbs the stairs like a man moving to the gallows, one by one, his thoughts a swirling morass of self-hatred, and then he moves into the bedroom he shares with Jake here and stares at the rumpled covers on the bed.

He sleeps here every single night, wakes up to the same face pressed red on one side from the pillow, hears the same deep voice rumbling good morning, feels the same arm slide over his waist, the same scratchy stubble rubbing his jaw when he’s kissed.

I have generally found, in my work, the fucking therapist’s voice echoes inside him, that when you begin to do the work to rebuild, you will find yourself dedicated over time to reconstructing not just a room, Kauri, but the entire city that was once leveled. Does that make sense?

He’d told her it didn’t.

Kauri spent years dodging therapy whenever Nat didn’t talk him into it, and he hates going. He hates having to spill all the darkness inside him to someone who never stops being so goddamn calm.

But the first time she’d said, have you ever heard about the effect that solitary confinement has on the human mind? He had told her he didn’t know, but he’d started crying, too, and hadn’t been able to explain why.

Part of you knows, Dr. Berger had said gently. Part of you always knew.

He had never really wanted to know the person who had inhabited this skin, or try to be him again. But standing here looking at the evidence of the life he is slowly building - his clothes in a crumpled heap on the floor by the bed, his toothbrush in the little cup in the bathroom, a picture of he and Jake in a frame by the bed now, the very small silver ring he wears sometimes even though they’re not and they probably won’t but it kind of feels good to wear it sometimes...

He wonders if Liam Harker wanted a life like this one.

---

“It’s really dumb,” Kauri mutters, pulling the pillow over his face, burning red with embarrassment. “I didn’t even really mean for you to see it-”

“It’s not dumb,” Jake says, gently. Kauri feels the dip in the mattress as he sits down, feels the warmth of his hand resting on Kauri’s thigh through the blanket. “I’m sorry I read it. I didn’t know what I was looking at. If it was supposed to be a secret-”

“No. I didn’t. I forgot I left it out on the dresser. It’s not your fault. It’s so fucking stupid. I don’t know why I even-”

“Kauri.” Jake’s voice sharpens, a little. “Stop. Stop calling yourself stupid. You’re not, and you never were, and you don’t have to repeat what that asshole told you about yourself anymore, remember?”

Kauri swallows, hard, a lump in his throat he can’t quite breathe around. “When does it stop being his voice,” He asks, muffled, “and start being my own?”

“When you let it,” Jake says, rubbing his leg soothingly. “Just like my dad’s voice. You’re not stupid. You’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever met in my life. I’m sorry I read it, but that’s because it wasn’t mine to read, not because it was dumb, or bad. It wasn’t.”

Kauri hesitates, then pulls the pillow to the side, looking at the sincere affection in Jake’s face, his slight smile. “Yeah? You’re not just-”

“Saying that? No, I’m not. I mean, I’m not, like, a poetry person-”

“It’s not even a real villanelle, anyway.”

“I have no idea what that means. I just... I thought it was pretty good, actually. When I realized-... I put it down when I realized you were writing about-... you know. Yourself.”

“Liam,” Kauri says, hoarse, barely able to pronounce the name. “I wrote-”

“Yeah.” Jake takes his hand, pulls it to his lips, presses a kiss to Kauri’s knuckles. “I know. It’s really good, Kaur. You should keep writing. I promise I won’t look at any stray papers I find anymore, yeah?”

Kauri takes a breath. He feels almost dizzy, in a way that is both terrible and wonderful. The way you open yourself to the people you love is a horrible, amazing risk. The way you spill the darkest parts of yourself, not things you’ve done wrong but the things you are afraid of allowing back into the light, in case it washes them all away again.

But the light he lives in now isn’t cold, and it isn’t taking him away from himself. The light he lives in now is sunlight.

“What?” Jake’s eyebrows raise slightly. “What’s that face for?”

“Jake. What if-... what if I ask you to? Read them?”

Jake’s lips press together, and he nods, smiling slightly, closing his eyes and leaning his forehead against Kauri’s hand. He’s always warm, Jake, even on the coldest days. He’s always warm. “I’d be-... be fucking honored, or something that sounds less bullshit than that, but I mean it. I’d be... I love you, Kauri. Seeing inside your head is what I want to do for-... for forever.”

“Maybe I’ll ask then,” Kauri says, and pulls Jake’s hand and then Jake himself, the taller, larger man settling on top of him, holding himself up on his elbows, careful not to rest all his weight. “I love you, too, you know.”

“Yeah.” Jake kisses the tip of his nose. “It’s pretty fucking great.”

Kauri’s eyes glimmer, but he closes them so Jake can’t see, and kisses his forehead. “It’s nice to think that I’m lucky and mean it.”

“I think you should read your poem to Dr. Berger,” Jake says, and when Kauri groans, he pulls back. “I mean it. She should know.”

Kauri wants to argue, but he looks into Jake’s eyes, and sighs, and says he’ll think about it.

---

AN APOLOGY

I am built from the hollow air left after your heart stopped beating

Your hands still gripped tight to the life they were ending

I know you thought of home but I don’t know where your home is

The sound of my voice is a green valley that only sends back screaming

Covered in smoke and dust that I told myself smelled like cologne

Pathways that remember your laughter silent in the years that followed

Have I done enough to build a life you would have enjoyed living?

I am built from the hollow air left over when your heart stopped beating

The heat of their hands as inevitable as a river tore down every foundation

Their cruelty buried you so deeply that only I remain

I don’t deserve the love that should have been yours to receive

The sound of my voice is a valley echoing back your screaming

I owe you an apology for walking around inside you

Crumbling ruins with my touch and calling it preservation

I’m sorry for every blade of grass growing through our bones

Am I nothing but hollow air from when your heart stopped beating?

Wildflowers grow inside me from soil windswept over ash

Is that life worth everything not quite dead so deep below?

Is Kauri Grant good enough to make up for Liam Harker’s loss?

In the valley of my body, does anyone but me still hear you screaming?

I owe you an apology and have to hope the life I live provides it

I wish I could ask for forgiveness from the shape of you

We’re both ghosts, in the end, mosaic pieces shattered in shadows

I’m sorry that I’m all that’s left.

I built myself from hollow air in the shape of a heart still beating

The sound of my voice will always carry the echo of yours screaming

Tagging: @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @endless-whump , @whumpfigure , @astrobly @newandfiguringitout , @doveotions , @pretty-face-breaker , @boxboysandotherwhump , @orchidscript @cubeswhump , @whump-tr0pes @whumpiary @moose-teeth @whumptywhumpdump @wildfaewhump

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