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levigarden999 · 1 month ago

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love or heaven ₊ ⊹ levi x reader fluff ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

theme : fluff , healing , you get levi to open up about his late mother, levi misses his mother words : 1,5 k notes : this was heavily inspired by the theory where the white 'scarf' around levi's neck is actually a piece of fabric from his mother's dress. i just love kuchel and levi so much omg

the night was serene at the head quarters. as you walked through the training grounds, the moist grass and the cold gravel under your feet made you feel more vulnerable than in a long time. you held your arms firmly crossed, attempting to warm yourself up despite the fact you were wearing a warm set of pajamas, the edges of the pants so long they got slightly wet from the frosty grass. you looked around, it was awfully quiet with only the sounds of occasional crickets filling the cool night air. it was chilly and the sky was dark, covered with stars that reminded you of a distant mystery. a distant mystery of a man called levi ackerman, who your eyes finally landed on.

he was lying on a small cliff near the edge of the forest, a cliff which was mainly used to train the scouts. once a week levi kept a tough training session for the youngsters and one thing it included was uphill running on this very same cliff. you could barely see in the dark, but the moon allowed the reflected light of the sun to cast blue shadows on the ground and light up the world enough for you to see.

as you began to walk the cliff upwards, your eyes focused on levi. his hair was a little disheveled and pushed back, exposing his face in its’ full glory. you walked next to him, your eyebrows arching in concern. he was keeping his eyes closed, his beautiful thick lashes resting on his soft cheeks. his skin looked nearly white under the moonlight and for a moment, you wondered if he was asleep. however, you recognized his usual frown between his eyebrows, telling you he was wide awake and acknowleding your presence.

he was wearing a pair of black slacks and a gray shirt with a black coat. he almost looked like he was resting on his damn grave with how little he moved, but the small movement of his chest revealed that he had some sort of life left in his body. your eyes focused on something else too – he was holding a white cloth against his chest. his hands gripping the material, almost clutching it.

”levi?” you asked quietly as you crouched beside him. you knew that levi often left your shared bed in the middle of the night to come here and just be. you figured it was one of those moments in his life that he desperately needed to function, to carry all the pressure and trauma he had. however, tonight you felt different. he had been disappearing a lot more lately, which worried you.

”what.” he asked, his voice raspy and barely audible. his eyes didn’t open.

”what are you doing here?” you asked gently, even though you knew the answer. it was surely a stupid question, but in your worry you couldn’t come up with anything better. you didn’t want to touch him, you didn’t want to rip him away from whatever daydream he was having. you had to see if this man would finally, finally, not push you away.

”go back to bed.”

you sighed, your heart feeling heavier again. you so desperately wanted to know the right words to say, to know the right way to approach him. to know how the hell to reach this man.

you looked back at the piece of cloth in his hands. it was white and washed, you wasn’t sure what it was but it reminded you of the cloth levi often wore around his neck.

”what’s in your hand?” you asked, still not touching him. however, you noticed his fingers twitching just the tiny bit. his grip on the fabric got tighter, as if he was seeking for something.

it was silent a few moments, a gentle breeze of cold wind making the trees whisper to each other.

”my mother’s dress.”

you fixated your gaze back to him, and to your surprise, his eyes were open. the look in those dark glossy marbles made your skin shiver. it was longing. desperation.

you knew he had a mother who had passed away when he was only a child, but that was practically all you knew about her. you wondered if he often stared at some particular distant star that somehow drew him in, a star that reminded him of his mother, a star he was afraid that would disappear some day.

”it’s a piece of her dress?” you asked, nearly as a whisper. you were testing the waters, afraid that he would close in again and flee from your love.

”yes. she died with this dress on. i needed something to remember her about, so i took a piece just before kenny took me.” levi explained. you noticed the way a desperate arch had formed on his eyebrows. his eyes were wetter than before, his usual dagger looking eyes were now similar to a small boy’s. a boy’s who was afraid and seeking for something unknown.

you inched closer and sighed softly, but you were still too afraid to touch him. you looked down at his face, hoping he would look at you and not the distant memory that was no longer here.

”can i touch it?”

that made levi’s eyes shift to you and he blinked. for once it really seemed like he didn’t have much to say and that made you worry that you had said something wrong, but no. something about his eyes changed again as he looked at you, as if he was looking hopeful. a glimmer of the moon’s light flickered in his irises, before he handed you the cloth carefully with his delicate fingers.

you took it in your hands, gently holding it and feeling it between your fingers. the fabric was clearly worn out and a little rough, but it was clean. levi probably washed it regularly. you could imagine levi’s mother wearing the dress, even though you had no idea what this woman had looked like. you bet she was a bright, strong women, someone beautiful who never stopped loving her son.

as your eyes flickered back to levi, your heart swelled and nearly burst. you saw tears. tears on those beautiful, white cheeks of his, a lonely blow of wind making a strand of raven black hair fall on his forehead. levi was staring at the cloth in your gentle fingers, his gaze filled with unknown sorrow, but also relief. as if he had given a piece of himself to you, a piece of his memories and dreams – and he had done just that. the cloth held a piece of his past, his emotions, his murderous doings but also heroic acts. the fabric had his whole life in it, which you now lovingly held – you had touched levi’s heart.

”levi..” you whispered and quickly laid beside him, holding a hand on his cheek. you bruhed his tear off with your thumb, looking at him with so much sincere love and affection. you could feel his emotions, all the pain and suffering he had kept inside all these years. all this love and devotion he felt for his late mother made him who he was and you realized that his mother had raised him and loved him, even if she was dead.

levi turned on his side and took the cloth back from you, which you allowed. he held it against his chest once again, like a baby boy holding he’s first plush toy. you wondered if levi ever even had toys in his childhood, beside a knife.

”thank you.” you whispered, looking at his wetted eyelashes and eyes that currently stared down at your neck. he was too afraid to meet your gaze, because he knew it would make all this real. it would make it real that he really had allowed you to truly see him. he didn’t want to allow himself to accept your love or sympathy.

”thank you for letting me meet her. it means a lot.” you continued and smiled softly. levi glanced up at you, more life in his eyes than ever before. it surprised you that you somehow enjoyed this sad, pained and vulnerable look on him more than you did his usual stoic, cold look. even if it was because of pain and suffering, it made his eyes look more human than ever before. and you believed it was a tough spot for levi, since he wasn’t used to be seen as a regular human.

but that was what he was. a human. an emotional, feeling being.

”sometimes i… miss her.” he admitted, his voice only a shaky whisper. you pulled his head closer to your chest, your hand slipping into his black hair which was now damp from the moist grass under us.

”you’re allowed to do so, levi. it would be odd if you wouldn’t.”

levi was quiet for a moment, but you felt his calm breath against the crook of your neck.

”do you believe one of those stars represent her?” you ask, after another breeze of wind passes past you.

”those stars were the same before and after she died. those stars remain the same after you and me die, too. so, no.” his voice was quiet and hoarse.

you remained silent.

”so you don’t believe in a soul? reincarnation? after life?” you eventually asked.

”no. i believe in emotions and memories that we have left from the people who were taken away. believe it or not.” he let out a small huff.

”and it’s enough for me. to love her, to remember her presence, is enough. it’s enough for me to keep going for another day and live.”

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heartfullofleeches · 1 year ago

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Moonlight Waves

Yan Alien Human Guy Person + Jellyfish Hybrid Reader

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: None, pure fluff

“If you put some thought into it…The ocean and space have a lot in common.”

Vast, boundless frontiers- Depths and reach never to be fully unveiled to the eyes of man. All imposing surfaces blanketing both heaven and earth. Two opposing bodies that on nights just like this might align, conjoined by midnight and the luminous orb mirrored upon them both. The full moon was a blessed companion for those who found themselves alone on eves similar to this- Solace and guidance found in her radiance.

“Whelp- Guess it's time to throw myself.”

Wiser folk have said desperate times call for desperate measures- While there were lesser extremes he could have gone to, this seemed like the quickest solution to their predicament. Twenty-four years on this planet and they had still yet to conquer the strenuous feat that was learning how to swim. His mothers were gentle in their upbringing- Apparently too gentle as they never pressured their child into braving the horrors of the swimming pool. On one hand, the biggest factor to their child's fear may have been the fact that it was their neighbor’s pool - and it'd be quite difficult to explain the eerie glow to their toddler's tears and the stains they left on clothing.

They were fine with it early on, but as he grew - Alien realized how much he was missing out on being unable to swim. Most humans know how to swim by their age anyway which would give less credit to his claims of an earth born and raised member of the population….Which they were regardless of whether or not they knew how to swim.

Alien squares his shoulders, testing the binds of numerous weights anchoring various parts of their body. Unsatisfied with the distribution, he plucks a stone from the moist sand surrounding his legs - unfastening the velcro of their right breast pocket and adding it to the collection. A horde of trinkets ranging from shells to stones to a couple marbles crowded each pocket from the vest they wore down to the swimming trunks they purchased for the occasion. So what if his body was more buoyant than the average human being- requiring additional weight to avoid floating off into the endless sea. Alien had always been a scrawny person-

“That should be enough- Wait…Is that?”

Srounging for more space to stuff the final stone, a gentle glow envelopes their fingertips following a faint- snap! Alien pushes the rocks and shells aside, wrestling the shining band from beneath them with minimal effort.

*Jackpot! I thought I used all of these already. With this baby on, I'm definitely ready for this. Wish me luck up here!”

Alien gazes up at the moon as they slip the glow-stick bracelet onto their arm. It's the last thing they see as their legs carry the rest of them towards the end of the cliff. Had it not been a full moon or the sky so clear- tonight may have gone different for them. They could've swallowed their pride, and went to bed with intentions to sign up for the nearest swim class come morning. Realistically, Alien knew he'd never go through with that plan, but it was nice in theory. Safer too-

Head lost in the cloudless sky, Alien yelps as the ground is swept from beneath them - their screams swiftly snuffed by gallons of water as they're dragged into a plummet off the cliff's edge. Their body connects with the sea, pockets of air bubbling to the surface from the force at which they collide. The oxygen escaping him would have been alarming - had they any need for it. Whether they could hold their breath or their biology simply skipped the stage where their lungs depended on air was a secret they'd take to the grave.

Sinking fast, Alien realizes what some might call a flaw in their ingenious plan.

Perhaps, just maybe, they potentially added too much weight for them to claw their way back to the surface.

…

Ah well.

Since they're already down here, there's no harm in exploring. Hard to see much beyond the gleam of their jewelry dangling freely around their wrist, but they dig the vibe of it all - drifting weightlessly without aim or reason. The deeper they dove, the brighter the natural fluorescence of their skeleton bled through their skin. Alien had heard of a condition that made people's skin slightly yellow before. Surely the green glow of their bones had to be in the same family. The shine widens their range of sight. By now, it was hard to decipher which way they were facing. The moon had long since faded from view….

Oh, wait. There it is..

….

Is it?

Stranging their eyes through the blackened depths of the ocean, Alien can clearly make something out miles away from them - shrouded by a halo of light. It almost mimics their guideless descent - floating off course before gradually aligning itself in a mostly linear ascent towards them. That alone was enough evidence whatever they were looking at was not the moon. The fluctuation of its surface and the four, almost crescent shaped markings atop only served as further proof. Inch by inch, as the space between them grew narrow, Alien could make out more of its features. Flowing tendrils, a pair of arms floating freely at its sides, a face adorned with a dopey smile.

Face to face, the near angelic like figure raises one of its hands - waving its fingers at the unfamiliar face within its territory. Alien’s eyes tighten from the phosphorescence of the creature's skin. Ignoring the sting, Alien lifts his own hand, mirroring the entity’s motions. The corners of its smile peak higher upon its face, head following the dim glow of their bracelet. The lightly draws focus to the stones bulging from his pockets. The creature's grin falters into tight lipped confusion.

“Hey…Hey!”

Alien struggles to make a sound as its hands paw at the straps of their pockets. Successfully tearing the sleeve open, the creature yanks out every rock, every shell- It pauses briefly to marvel at the eye of the marbles in Alien's pocket before shoving them beneath the cap of their head as they continue. Depleting their vest of its contents was all it took to send Alien on their upwards rise towards the surface. The angel waves again before swimming its way to the top, gliding gracefully as a true angel would through the sky. It grabs onto Alien's wrist, tugging him along with them as he apparently took too long for their liking.

Alien could only watch on in awe as the darkness peeled away - moonlight adding on to the ethereal, otherworldly glimmer that was this being and its flesh. Could this be Alien's first encounter with an extraterrestrial? There was no possible way a creature of this radiance was from earth. They just couldn't be-

The creature releases their hold on Alien's wrist as they breach air. Alien finds himself searching for their touch, and another item he appeared to be missing. The angel, the only term Alien found fit for them, wandered towards the shore without him- back facing the sand as they spun a glowing band around their finger. Alien channels the knowledge of every training video they viewed before their trip as they doggy paddle in the general direction of the shore. Thankfully, there was still enough weight in their shorts to keep them perfectly balanced between drifting off and going under.

The energy is depleted from their very soul by the time they reach their destination. The angel sits with its lower half still bathed by the oncoming tide, rolling a marble through the crystalized sand. It throws its arm into the air as Alien appears.

The angel waves. Alien, running on fumes and the strange heartache that would come from not reciprocating their kind gesture- waves back.

The angel helps Alien sit upright, returning the marbles they had borrowed back into the land dweller’s pocket from which they can. Alien fishes out of the marble they saw the angel toy with and gives it back to them.

“Keep that one… So- you got a name?”

The angel’s mouth falls open in a “O” of both surprise and honor at the present. They brush the sand smooth before rolling the marble through it once more. Inspecting their craft, Alien can make out letters the further along the angel continues.

“Y/n? That's your name?”

You clap your hands in praise, sound and ferocity increased by the wetness of your palms. Cute.

“You, uh, come here often?”

The point of your finger towards the water states the obvious fact that you live here. A murmur akin to laughter slips past your lips at that one.

“You got me there… The sea’s pretty big, though. What I'm asking is can I see you again?”

You tap a finger to your chin in thought, head dipping towards the bracelet now hanging from your own wrist. You point to it, hope and wonder present in your grin.

“You like the bracelet? You can keep that too. I can bring you more if that's what you're asking.”

Clapping again, you latch onto Alien's side - merging your fingers with theirs as you hold them both to the sky. Moonlight pours through your skin and theirs, transparency muddled by the existence of their bones. Your head falls to their chest- a whisper so quiet they almost missed it.

“Like me…”

They're glad that they didn't.

#alien my oc #yandere oc #yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere #yandere headcanons #yandere x you #yandere scenarios #yandere blurb #yandere insert #yandere fluff #yandere drabble

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sapphoherselz · 11 months ago

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hi do you ever wonder if wyamack EVER met the Foxes before their time? I'm talking any age, any time in their lives, especially the ones where they really needed a paternal figure to help them out or get them out of trouble?

like he goes grocery shopping and sees this quiet kid trying to stuff as much food in his pockets wo being noticed? but David of course does and the kid is already taking a step back, looking at him with pure terror in his eyes as if he's seeing just another person that can hurt him but of course that doesn't happen. what does happen is that david offers to pay for anything the kid wants and then starts asking question like that's one nasty bruise you got there, want to tell me what happened? and then out of nowhere the boy's mother appears and starts tugging the kid away in a not very gentle manner and David tries to interfere but they're hurriedly walking away before he can get the words out of his mouth (he has to physically stop himself from going after them because that would just frighten the kid more)(he goes back to the same grocery store at the same hour for an entire month, hoping to find this short kid hiding somewhere and maybe tell his mother exactly where she can put her hands)

or maybe he's walking home late at night and sees this kid sitting on the sidewalk and he approaches cause shouldn't you be at home? wouldn't your parents worry? do you want to give them a call, you could use my phone but the kid tenses so much that David takes several steps back and starts talking about everything under the blue sky trying to get him to calm down. when that eventually happens, they end up sitting (with some comfortable distance) next to the other in utter silence, until the kid goes "I don't want to go home" and David is like. okay. we can stay here for as long as you'd like. the night is young and I have snacks in my pockets. did I tell you already that I'm an exy coach? what do you mean you don't know what exy is- no I'm not making that up, it's a job and I have it! they even pay me for it! (he ends up falling asleep in a sitting position and wakes up alone, the marble next to him having long gone cold) (he doesn't even remember if he had managed to make the kid smile or if his eyes were playing tricks on him) (if he starts walking home later than usual just to sit on a lonely sidewalk for hours then it's his business and no one else's)(and yes he does bring with him all of the snacks he thinks the kid would like) (no he didn't spend minutes choosing them)

like something something the red string theory something something everyone is always connected something something

#does this make sense #wymack how long have you been 45 yo #i havent sleot since last bight #so #man i broke my own heart wtf #almost didnt want to put the third paragraph cause #david wymack #red string of fate #red string theory #neil josten #aftg #all for the game #fic idea

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rohvee · 1 month ago

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The steampunk adventure au intro 🤎

The Piltover Academy auditorium was not the temple of quiet lectures and theory it usually was. Gone were the tiered seats where professors once pontificated beneath stained-glass oculi; the space had been gutted and reimagined in brass and linen.

What now sprawled was a great and haphazard bazaar of invention. Long rows of demonstration tables jostled for attention on the marbled floor, each bearing strange apparatuses like altars to rival gods. Arc-lamps, strung from wrought-iron gantries above, hissed and flickered, casting long shadows over polished gears and oiled levers. The scent in the air was thick: scorched copper, varnished mahogany, the faint sweetness of ozone.

This was the Distinguished Innovator’s Competition—an annual tempest of ambition and vision, where the Piltover Academy’s finest, or at least its most desperate, unveiled the inner machinations of their minds to the city’s elite. The auditorium was a throbbing cacophony: a din of overlapping demonstrations, raised voices, hydraulics, and the occasional alarming hiss from a pressurized pipe.

A mechanical arm attempted to knit a sock and promptly strangled itself with yarn. A self-boiling kettle shrieked like a banshee and spat steam in the face of its inventor, who bowed anyway. A student demonstrated an atmospheric condenser that quietly turned fog into ice within the glass lungs of a humming cube.

The judges floated through this chaos in clusters of three and four—academy staff in pressed uniform, trade lords with silver-topped canes, and venture financiers with toothy smiles. They murmured, took notes, and occasionally raised a brow to devastating effect. Some candidates blanched as they approached; others straightened spines and grinned too wide.

For those gathered here, it was not merely a contest. It was stage upon which a single brilliant moment might secure a lifetime of funding, patronage, and renown—or else consign an idea to obscurity and student debt.

This was Piltover’s true theater, and the curtain was already rising.

Jayce stood at his table, posture straight as a rifle barrel, but his fingers betrayed him—twitching at his sides, drumming anxious patterns along the seam of his coat. He’d polished his boots twice that morning. Now they scuffed restlessly against the gleaming tile, unable to keep still. The judges were one table away.

He glanced sidelong toward the neighboring exhibit and immediately regretted it.

Dmitri. Of course.

Dmitri and his stupid ponytail already grinning in his direction. The man beamed, raised both thumbs in an encouraging gesture that practically radiated good will.

Jayce scowled.

Top of the class. Preternaturally polite. Unfailingly kind. And always, always looked at Jayce like he'd hung the moon in the sky. Jayce loathed him with every fiber of his being.

He rolled his eyes and turned sharply back to his own table.

Jayce’s exhibition lay at the center like a reliquary in a chapel. It rested atop black velvet, arranged with ecclesiastical care: a gilded cradle of finework brass and filigree. It resembled some celestial device—an orrery or diviner’s scope more than any earthly thing. And yet at its heart nestled the true marvel: a gemstone, glistening blue, teardrop-shaped, clenched in golden teeth no wider than a compass needle.

Wires spilled from the contraption’s flank like viscera, snaking toward a tall mechanical limb to its right—elbow-jointed and claw-tipped, folded like a mantis in patient wait.

Jayce stirred at the movement in his peripheral. The judges had begun to bleed away from the neighboring display, and his heart climbed into his throat like a stowaway. He adjusted his stance, smoothed a wrinkle from his lapel, gave his curled moustache a twist, and composed himself.

They approached his table in a cluster.

A vastaya in pince-nez and brocade, fur combed sleek as gunmetal. A chirean of considerable height, nails lacquered and spats spotless. A man with a breathing apparatus of polished brass and wet, hissing filters—the scent of brine and antiseptic trailed him like perfume.

And last, the Dean of the Academy himself: Professor Cecil B. Heimerdinger, who had not missed a single competition in sixty-three years. The yordle's snowy mustache was a sculptural wonder that Jayce often envied.

Jayce inclined his head. “Welcome, honored gentlefolk,” he said, enunciating each word with theatrical clarity, though his pulse thundered in his ears. “I am Jayce Talis, son of the late Caetano Talis—explorer, inventor, and the first man to chart the skies beyond the Shadow Isles in search of the legendary Camavor.”

There were a few mutterings of recognition and approval. Everyone knew of Caetano Talis. His name held a weight that Jayce had every intention to exploit.

Jayce reached to the core of his device and delicately unseated the gem from its cradle. It caught the lamplight and held it like breath in a bottle—blue and infinite.

“On one such expedition, my father unearthed a most curious mineral—what he called a hexstone. Though it may appear unassuming, this is no ordinary gem. Within it pulses a force that defies steam, coal, or even combustion. Colleagues, this stone may offer what the engines of progress have long cried out for: clean, inexhaustible energy.”

There was a rustle among the onlookers. Heimerdinger’s eyebrows gave a subtle twitch. Nearby students—fellow inventors and visitors both, began to collect in a small crowd.

Jayce returned the stone to its golden housing and flipped a switch.

There was a moment’s silence—then the machine stirred.

Light welled up inside the hexstone like a sunrise in deep ocean. It crackled—delicate arcs of lightning leapt along its cage. The arm beside it unfurled like a serpent stretching after sleep. Servos whined. The claw rotated, then lowered with ritual gravity toward the metal block on the table.

A beat.

Then: a searing beam of blue lanced forth from the core of the claw. The table glowed with it. The metal block sizzled. Half the observers flinched.

Jayce kept his hand outstretched like a showman before a curtain drop.

“Laser cutters, as you know,” he said, “require immense power to operate—usually fed by great quantities of coal. And yet, this cutter is powered by a single hexstone.”

The beam sliced cleanly across the block, leaving a line of molten silver.

The judges stirred like deepwater fish sensing heat. There were sharp murmurs and the fevered scratchings of fountain pens.

Jayce cast his gaze over the crowd.

His eyes locked with another’s: a young man in the Piltover Academy uniform, leaning on a cane, a year his senior from the color of his cravat. His face was sharp, arresting, his expression one of quiet intrigue. Amber eyes held Jayce’s gaze with disarming steadiness.

Jayce faltered, momentarily thrown off course.

Then he gave a quick shake of his head, cleared his throat, and turned back to the judges, recovering his rhythm quickly.

“Alas,” he went on, “this is the only hexstone presently known to exist.”

A pause. Just long enough for the drama to curdle.

“My father left no coordinates, no records of the site where he found it. That is why I ask for your support. Your patronage, sponsoring an expedition of discovery. With it, I will retrace my father’s steps across Runeterra to find the source of the hexstones. To bring back more, and change the—”

A sudden noise interrupted him.

Wet and sparking, like a metal lung collapsing.

The generator hiccupped. Then rattled. The golden cradle hissed as veins of lightning began to crawl across its arms like restless centipedes. The gemstone's light shifted—brilliant, then flickering, then too-bright.

Jayce’s smile died.

“No—no no no, not now—”

The machine shrieked. The cutter arm twitched, spasmed, then swung violently to the left.

A student’s project—an elegant clockwork aviary—was reduced to burning feathers and melted brass in a blink.

The cutter jerked again. A nobleman’s hat halved neatly by the beam. Its owner screamed, clutching his scalp and dignity alike.

Jayce lunged for the controls, but the machine was not yet finished in its path of destruction.

The arm rose—higher, higher—then slashed upward in an arc of glorious light.

Right through the gantry.

There was a sizzle as the beam kissed iron. The structure groaned. Weld-points glowed red-hot. A shout echoed across the hall.

“Clear the floor!”

Panic moved like gas through a breached hull.

Innovators scattered, skirts catching, boots slipping on tiles gone slick with spilled oil and tea. The judges fled, coats flaring behind them. The gantry gave a final metallic shriek—then fell.

Arc-lamps burst like supernovae. Wires lashed. Sparks rained.

Flame found silk. A row of tables blossomed fire. Black smoke rose thick and cloying. Screams followed.

And at the center of it all, framed in the infernal glow of a dying dream, Jayce stood in shock.

He stood like a statue carved in the moment of tragedy. Mouth ajar. Blue in the strobe-flashes of the dying machine.

Professor Heimerdinger stepped through the ruin with the quiet dignity of someone who had weathered worse. It wasn’t the first Distinguished Innovators catastrophe—not by far. His waistcoat ends were scorched. His whiskers stood on end with residual static.

He stopped before Jayce, who glumly lowered his gaze.

“I am sorry, my boy,” Heimerdinger said, not unkindly. “It is a grand dream. But I fear the technology of our time is not yet ready to house such wonders.”

He touched Jayce’s hand—a ghost of reassurance—and turned to follow the tide of scholars, sponsors, and engineers streaming toward the exits beneath the alarm-bells.

Jayce remained a moment longer.

He moved then, stepping back to the smoldering remnants of his table. Amid scorched velvet and crushed metal, the hexstone lay still—dull and dormant. He lifted it from the debris, cradling it in his palms.

He turned to go, casting his miserable gaze to the smoke rising toward the fractured oculi far above, carrying his dreams away with it.

Jayce sat on the Academy steps with the slack posture of the thoroughly defeated. His coat was singed at the hem, and soot had settled in the folds of his collar like old guilt. In his hands, the hexstone glimmered faintly.

Behind him, the world carried on: fire-brigades doused the auditorium with hissing foam. Students clustered on the lawn, their voices low, scandal-bent. A few spared glares for the man on the steps. Some pointed accusatorily. One threw a crumpled flyer.

Jayce ignored them. He turned the stone over in his palm, as if a new angle might reveal something salvageable. It did not.

“Sorry, Papa,” he murmured to the stone. “I suppose I’ve fucked everything up again.”

There was a clap on his shoulder, startling him out of his melancholy.

“You’ll get it next year, mate,” chirped a voice like sunshine in a bottle.

Jayce didn’t have to look to know it was Dmitri: stupid ponytail bouncing, optimism radiating from every pore. “You were brilliant right up until the bit where everything exploded. And I’m sure you’ll get that part sorted. Just needs a bit of tinkering!”

Jayce said nothing. He didn’t even scowl.

Dmitri gave his shoulder a squeeze, then bounded off to go join their fellow students.

Jayce sighed. He reached for his coat pocket—and froze.

He patted it. Then the other side. Then rummaged through his satchel. Panic prickled.

“Shit,” he breathed.

His notebook was missing.

Years of equations, test notes, frantic breakdowns, errant sketches scrawled in midnight ink. Obsessions, revisions, half-formed revelations. His life’s work—every fevered inch of it. The thought that it all might’ve gone up in smoke filled his gut with a cold, rising horror.

“Looking for this?” said a voice, each syllable rolling with a thick accent—

Jayce turned—and startled.

It was the man from the crowd. The one with the cane and the amber eyes.

He stood a step above Jayce, idly flipping through a familiar leather-bound book. “I must say, Mr. Talis; I’ve never met anyone who signs every single page of their notes. A little egotistical, don’t you think?”

“Give me that!” Jayce scrambled upright, indignantly lunging for the book. He was a full head taller, but the man was quick and unconcerned. He pivoted with a deft flick of his cane, holding the notebook just out of reach like a matador taunting a bull.

“They were impressive pyrotechnics,” the man said, still leafing through. “But this ‘HexTech’ theory of yours—I’m far more interested in that.”

Jayce faltered mid-grab. “I—pardon?”

The man raised an eyebrow. “It worked, did it not?”

“I… suppose so,” Jayce muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I can’t stabilize the output. It always hits a runaway threshold and overfeeds the system.”

“Have you tried increasing the frequency?”

Jayce blinked. “I’ve always focused on dampening the oscillations.”

The man stopped at a page. “Ah, and therein lies your issue.” He drew a pencil from his vest pocket and scribbled a few marks. “Here—see this? You are thinking in terms of suppression, but the stone will only stabilize at high frequency.”

Jayce leaned in. His eyes widened.

He took the notebook, staring down at the page, wonder flooding his veins.

“So… I have to crank it,” he breathed.

The man blinked. Then gave a soft laugh. “Yes. You have to, eh, crank it.”

“It certainly works on paper, but...” Jayce breathed. “I must test this immediately.”

“A tad troublesome with a melted generator,” the man noted.

“I’ve another at my workshop,” Jayce replied. “A prototype. Not as refined, but it’ll do what we need it to do.”

“We?”

Jayce smiled—wide and sincere—then reached out to clap a hand on the man’s narrow shoulder, who raised a curious eyebrow at the contact.

“You solved the issue,” Jayce said. “You ought to see it through with me.”

The man regarded him. Then, with a shrug, “Lead on, then.”

Jayce turned, eagerly bounding down the steps with renewed purpose—then paused, glancing back.

“I realize I don’t even know your name.”

The man gazed at him for a moment, a slow smile crossing his face.

“It’s Reveck. Viktor Reveck.”

#jayvik #jayvik fanfic #steampunk au

57 notes · View notes

aspen78 · 2 months ago

Text

Chapter 4: How it all Byrnes

<<prev chp>>

Today was the day.

Today was the day all the heroes would gather.

Today was the day even the villains would pause.

Today was the day the world would be watching.

Today was the show.

The world stood still for its fallen titans, draped in ribbons and regalia, beneath marble monuments and a bright, cloudless sky. The lighting was perfect. The scripts were written. The speeches were rehearsed. And, now, the cameras were rolling.

All of them pointing at the man responsible. Just not in the right light.

His hands were still red, but the crowd wouldn’t know it was not just his color scheme.

His frown was practiced, but the crowd wouldn’t know it was to hide secrets.

His strength was shown, but the crowd wouldn’t know that was a warning.

And from just beyond the cameras’ reach, dark lenses watched the crowd fall for it. Fall for all of it. They all looked up at him, faces glowing with admiration for a killer cloaked in more than just a red-dyed cape.

“I’ve fought the unimaginable in defense of this world…”

Omni-Man stood tall above the funeral wreaths.

“I’ve battled alien tyrants, defeated nightmares from the deep. Gone toe to toe with ancient gods… but no matter what threat I faced, I knew I wasn’t facing it alone.”

Her gloved hand twitched at that. A fist curled under her cape.

He had the nerve. With his chest puffed and the light hitting his face like a star. With her father’s name--no, pseudonym embroidered onto silk ribbon in front.

(Y/n) Byrnes couldn’t be here. Not as herself.

Not when the global eye might catch the resemblance. Not when the internet was already theorizing.

She already scrubbed what she could--records, addresses, photos, any traces of Keon Byrnes that might confirm what are presently wild theories.

But some files couldn’t be deleted. Some ghosts refused to stay buried.

So she came as the ghost they whispered about online. The silent one in the smoke. The bird that vanished.

She had to come as Vireo. Because he existed as Darkwing here.

She had to mourn as someone colder than her father’s corpse.

Because as stupid as the world was. She had to give them a little credit.

“Darkwing. Aquarus. War Woman. Green Ghost. Red Rush. Martian Man. Immortal.”

A perfect roll call of the dead. Read aloud by their executioner.

“Who will save us now?”

“I will.”

A bitter laugh almost slipped from her throat. She had to bite her tongue. Hard.

The crowd around her hung onto every word. Some cried. Some clutched tissues. Some held their children tighter.

(Y/n) just listened.

Not to what he was saying. To the whisper of wind blowing past her cape, like the ghosts of the Guardians calling bullshit in unison.

"...have faith... and look to the sky."

The camera panned upward, perfectly timed with his words.

So did she.

But not in dumbstruck awe.

She looked to the sky because that’s where the monster came from now.

The public got their closure. Their speeches. Their polish.

Their show.

But real grief didn’t come with perfect lighting.

This part didn’t make the news cycle.

There were no capes or cameras at this one.

Just the ones who actually mattered.

Just the dead.

(Y/n) Byrnes stood a few steps away from the rest of the Guardian’s loved ones.

Not as Vireo this time.

Not quite as (Y/n), either.

That’s the luxury of being a Byrnes. Privacy didn’t exist. Not really. Not when every moment--every breath--was archived, indexed, and ready to be monetized.

So she stood in the back.

A black coat sized too big to hide her frame. A pair of dark sunglasses layered over her eyes. A surgical face mask covered her mouth. Hair tied in a bun she never wore. Shoulders tight like a tripwire.

Civilian enough to not get flagged. Masked enough to not get recognized.

Disguised enough to not look like herself. But at this point, she was not even sure who that would look like.

“I was never a Guardian of the Globe, but it was the Guardians who welcomed me when I first arrived on this planet.”

For some godforsaken reason, they had Omni-Man--Nolan Grayson give another speech.

“They were my mentors… my comrades… my friends.”

Rather than his empty words over bones he helped break, she listened to the raindrops falling onto black umbrellas. Onto black suits. Onto black coffins.

“Darkwing…”

That one she heard past the falling water. Her eyes narrowing under her glasses at his words.

It wasn't the name that did it.

It was the pause before.

The rueful chuckle.

Like Darkwing was a punchline in a eulogy.

“Well, Darkwing made his own kind of solitude.”

(Y/n)’s jaw locked so tight under that flimsy mask it clicked.

She didn’t hear the rest of his words at first--not the bit about rare connections, or restful peace, or whatever false grace he tried to pin to their graves like it made up for any of it.

Because that line? That delivery?

He doesn't get to chuckle over his name.

He doesn't get to speak his name like it was ever his to say.

She hadn’t cried. Not when the footage was found. Not when Cecil called. Not even when she scrubbed the blood from his tech belt herself.

But this?

This almost did it.

Because that chuckle--that rueful, perfectly timed pause--wasn’t just disrespect.

It was mocking.

She lowered her head, pretending it was for composure. Really, it was to hide the look on her face. Because he would have felt the burn from those eyes under tinted lenses.

“It was a rare, lucky few of us who found someone who understood our path…”

Oh, go to hell.

Her father understood that path. He walked it every day without a safety net. Without a Viltrumite’s invulnerability or a magical hammer or Martian regeneration. He fought monsters with tech, wit, and bruised ribs. And he kept going. For this world. For her.

(Y/n) stared ahead, the rain sliding down her glasses. It blurred Nolan’s figure, smeared him into a vague black-and-white smudged silhouette against the gray.

She liked him better that way.

“…but at least they will rest together.”

They better. Because that was the only grace left in this mess.

The umbrellas shifted around her as the final silence descended. People bowed their heads. Some wept again.

Her father died facing someone he trusted.

Her father died betrayed.

And Nolan got to lie about it twice.

(Y/n) tilted her head ever so slightly, just enough for the rain to slip off her face and down the back of her neck. She welcomed the cold. She needed it.

It was the only thing keeping her from stepping forward. From tearing off the mask. From making a scene no one could ignore.

But she didn’t.

Because she couldn’t ruin her father’s funeral for him, too.

So she just stood there.

Unmoving.

Unforgiving.

Mourning quiet. Mourning correctly, as the Byrnes family PR manuals would say.

(Y/n) stayed rooted to the gravel.

Only once the plot was rid of people did she finally move.

Boots crunching toward the edge of the grave.

She stood over it. Over him.

Still no words.

But her shoulders dropped. Just barely. A silent exhale fogged the air escaping the sides of her mask.

She reached into her coat pocket and pulled something small and black. Glossy. Heavy. A single throwing blade. Custom etched. Compact. Tactical.

She placed it gently on the lid of the coffin. That was her version of flowers.

She didn’t whisper anything. Didn’t need to.

There was nothing she could say that he didn’t already teach her with a nod or a look.

Though, before she turned to leave, she paused.

One last glance at the dirt.

Then, under her breath, nearly inaudible, “I’ll make it right.”

But beneath the layers--beneath the coat, beneath the disguise, beneath the strength that hadn’t cracked yet--her grief was not nearly as inaudible.

It was thunder without a storm.

It was the scream that hadn’t come yet.

And somehow--somehow--Mark Grayson heard the scream.

Not with his super-hearing.

Not with the part of him that could pick up heartbeats a mile away.

He heard it with the part of him that remembered.

The part that knew the rhythm of that voice--modulated or not. The cadence of conviction masked as sarcasm. The hum of quiet rage beneath careful calm.

He knew it.

He turned, cutting through the fog of black suits and low murmurs, eyes searching.

And then he saw her.

Just for a second.

Not the heiress. Not a hero. Not a vigilante. Not a knight in fractal light.

Just a girl.

Standing alone at the edge of Darkwing's grave, coat too big, posture too tight.

And it hit him.

Like the air had been punched out of his lungs again.

“It’s her,” he whispered to himself.

Everything clicked--Chicago, the alley, the bird, the words she never really explained.

He didn’t call out.

Didn’t say her name. Not the one the tabloids used. Not the one that came with the billion-dollar net worth.

He didn’t say “Vireo,” either.

He just watched.

Watched her retreat--controlled, quiet, head bowed like she was just another person leaving just another grave.

Mark took one step toward her.

Then another.

And stopped.

Because what the hell do you say to someone who’s been holding up the sky on their own?

To someone who cleaned blood off their kitchen island like it was just another Tuesday?

To someone who put on a mask and saved his life--three times--and then walked away like it didn’t mean anything?

To someone who was grieving quietly, because the world never gave her a version where she was allowed to scream?

But he followed anyway, with a quick “I’ll be right back” thrown over his shoulder to his parents. He followed at a distance. Past the uncovered graves. Past the rows of polished headstones. Past the mourners who were getting in their cars.

(Y/n) didn’t head toward the parking lot. She vanished behind a tall mausoleum and slipped down the far side of the hill, like a shadow disappearing off script.

Mark hesitated because fuck if he knew what the right thing to do right now was.

His body wanted to move. His brain begged him not to screw this up.

It was funny.

A girl his age could rattle his heart harder than an alien warlord.

He sucked in a breath, continuing to cut through the rows and follow the traces of her.

He rounded the mausoleum corner, expecting nothing. Maybe the faintest glimpse of her coat vanishing into the tree line. Maybe nothing at all--because she was good at that. Disappearing.

But she hadn’t vanished yet.

She was still.

(Y/n) had stopped at a stone bench nestled between the hedges--one of those pretty little places cemeteries pretend are peaceful. A crooked willow stretched above her, its leaves dripping with slow rain. She leaned back against its trunk, spine pressed to bark like she needed something real to hold her upright. Her head was angled up at the leaves as if they held the answers. Her arms were folded tightly across her chest. The oversized coat made her smaller than she was trying to be. Her face mask was gone… so were the sunglasses. In her hands. Not on. Not hidden. Just… there. Like an open wound.

She hadn’t heard him yet. Or maybe she had, and just didn’t care.

It was the latter.

She had felt it before she saw it.

The shift in the air back at the gravesite. The attention. The eyes.

His eyes.

Even through tinted sunglasses and the face mask and the bun she never wore, he still looked right at her.

And then he followed her as she ducked through rows of headstones. As she tucked herself away into a little corner of the world to try to disappear.

But there he was.

Mark Grayson.

Staring straight at her, hesitant, uncertain, and yet--still searching. For her.

He took a slow step forward.

Then another.

And another.

Until the distance between them was small enough that he could trail the rain droplets that dripped past lashes that didn’t blink, down the slope of her cheekbone, and off the twisted ends of her bun. Small enough that he could hear her breathing.

And she was breathing like someone who had been holding it in too long.

Mark stayed still for a breath.

Then another.

The air between them held its own kind of gravity--thick, waiting, full of the words neither of them knew how--or wanted to say. Her hands were dropped to her lap, gripping the edges of her coat closer to her body as if she could vanish into it if she tried hard enough.

He didn’t want to scare her off. But he also didn’t want to walk away.

So, carefully, quietly, he sat down on the opposite end of the bench. Not close. Not far. Just… enough.

“It is you.”

She didn’t look at him.

He didn’t expect her to.

“I-uh I almost didn’t come,” he said after a beat. His voice wasn’t steady--it was nervous and unwilling to come out.

“Didn’t think I deserved to be here.”

Still no reaction. Just her slow inhale, the kind that didn’t want to let anything in, even air.

“But I’m glad I did,” Mark added. “Because… I think I was supposed to see you.”

A drip.

Then her voice--still in the same charming cadence, but low with exhaustion. “Supposed to?”

He glanced sideways. “Yeah. I think… I needed to.”

(Y/n)’s gaze didn’t move from the willow branches above them. Her throat bobbed in a swallow. “And what do you think you saw?”

Mark let the silence sit a little too long, then answered with quiet certainty. “Someone who shouldn’t have to sit here alone.”

That made her finally look at him. Just for a second. Just enough.

There was no mask between them this time. No magic glasses. No voice filter. No cracked lens or billowing cape.

Just her eyes--bloodshot, rimmed with the kind of grief he didn’t know how to carry.

Her eyes didn’t stay on him long.

Just that second.

Enough to register that he meant it. Enough to see that he didn’t flinch from the mess.

Then they flicked away again--back up, like the tree above them had more answers than he ever could.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” she said quietly.

Mark didn’t argue. Just let the rain fill the space again, soaking the edges of his suit, darkening the fabric where it clung to his arms.

“You think it’s enough to sit here. Say something nice. Play the good guy. It’s not.” Her voice cracked, barely, but she caught it--trapped it like so many other things.

He turned toward her more fully now. “I’m not trying to fix anything.”

“Good,” she muttered. “Because you can’t.”

He nodded, slowly. Accepted it.

“But,” he said, carefully, “I can listen.”

(Y/n) exhaled. Not quite a scoff. Not quite a sigh. “You think that helps?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But it’s what I’ve got.”

The girl didn’t answer. Didn’t look at him again. But she let the absence of words stretch now, like a thread pulled tight but not snapping.

Mark leaned forward, bracing his elbows against his knees. Bracing him for everything he was expecting and not expecting.

“I didn’t think you’d recognize me,” she grumbled out as a disappointed sigh.

Mark’s mouth twitched. “You think I’d forget that voice?”

She huffed once through her nose. It might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been a breath that wanted to be one.

“You called me a dramatic boulder… or something,” he added, accusingly.

“You are a dramatic little meteor.” She shook her head once, like the memory was something she didn’t want but couldn’t shake. “I was hoping you’d chalk it up to shock. Or a fever dream.”

“I did…” Mark said. “For, like, maybe a day.”

A boyish chuckle to himself escaped him as he shook his drenched head. “But I kept remembering it anyway.”

“Of course you did,” (Y/n) murmured, her shoulders sinking down just an inch. “Fuck, I got sloppy.” Her hands rubbed against her temples. “I wasn’t supposed to get close. Wasn’t supposed to give you hints.”

"You didn’t have to." His brows drew together, the faint grin he'd had fading. "Keep your distance, I mean."

"Yeah. I did." (Y/n) squeezed her eyes shut, slowly. “I wasn’t supposed to be anything around you. That was the plan.”

“Well,” he said, gently. “Plans don’t always work out.”

That earned him a small, tired, bloodshot glance. “Yeah. Tell that to the Guardians.”

The name hung between them like a crack in the air--jagged, quiet, inescapable.

Mark’s throat swallowed. He looked down at his hands, clenching and unclenching them slowly like he could wring answers from the spaces between his fingers.

Then--because he couldn’t not say it: “I just-I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t kill them… kill him,” she said, monotony replacing any emotion. “You don’t have to apologize for someone else’s hands. Or pity the aftermath of them.”

“It’s not pity,” he said firmly, almost letting his hand reach out to hers. “It’s… whatever the opposite of leaving you alone is.”

She passively muttered, “You kind of suck at this.”

He smiled faintly. “Yeah. I really do.”

Silence again. But not tense now.

He never saw her like this before. And somehow, he knew she didn’t want anyone to--not even herself.

“But everyone kind of sucks at this. Even him.”

Mark looked down. Then, tentatively, he reached over.

His hand brushed against hers. Light. Careful.

She flinched--just a micro-movement--but didn’t pull away.

Her fingers stayed still.

Then, slowly, a pinky curled around his.

The connection was barely there.

But it was there.

He was warm.

(Y/n)’s eyes drifted back to the leaves, her voice in reminiscent this time. “He wasn’t the ‘Darkwing.’ Or the ‘Keon Byrnes.’ And he was also... just my dad, Keon.”

Her breath hitched in the rainy air. It fogged up the air in front of her, and she sank further into the stone.

“I’ve had to bury him. Four times, Mark.” She could feel all the effort she’d spent suppressing it--pushing it down, locking it away--just fade. Her eyes were burning from more than just the cold running down her cheeks now. “For Darkwing. For Keon. For the media vultures. For my dad. And then I had to erase him, digitally, surgically, like he was tumor instead of a person. I can’t bring myself to do it again.” Her voice broke on that last part, and she didn’t catch it this time. “I-I don’t want to--I’m scared I’m going to forget him. All the parts I had to delete… those were him.”

Mark didn’t breathe right for a second.

Four times.

She’d buried him four times.

He didn’t have a script for that. No perfect words. No clever answer. Just the sound of rain against the willow branches and the muted, shuddering grief of a girl whose world had been stolen four separate times by the same loss.

“I won’t let you forget,” Mark said, low but sure. His thumb shifted--just a small movement, brushing against her knuckle.

It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t even something he was sure he could do.

But it was the only thing he could give her.

“How can you say that like it means something?” (Y/n) huffed--small, watery, tired. “You didn’t even know him. You barely know me.”

“I don't need to,” Mark said, turning toward her just a little more. “I see what he left behind.”

Her head dipped slightly, rain dripping off the corner of her jaw. Her hand trembled just a little under his.

“That’s not enough,” she rasped.

Mark’s voice was softer now. “Maybe not. But… I think he’d be proud. Of what you’re doing. Of what you’re carrying. Of you.”

That broke something.

Something that got caught in her throat. A sound escaped--half-laugh, half-sob, the kind of noise grief makes when it finally claws its way out of your ribs.

He stayed still. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t lean in like he wanted to fix it.

He just held on.

(Y/n) dragged in another breath, shaky and uneven. “I hate this,” she whispered, feeling all the pressure just bloom in her chest.

Her throat flexed again. Her jaw clenched, like she was trying to hold onto the strength he’d just spoken aloud. But a tear still fell--one she didn’t bother hiding.

But she only let it pass the boundary of her cheek before she swiped it away, quickly.

“He used to hum when he worked. Off-key. Every damn time.”

Mark let a smile tug the corner of his mouth. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said. “And he never remembered to label his files. Ever. Every hard drive I inherited is just named ‘stuff_2_final_FINAL_maybe.’ He was the worst.” Worn-down scoff. “Had an entire backup server labeled ‘DefinitelyNotTheCave.’”

A whisper of a laugh escaped her lips. Shaky. Real.

And, he held onto it like a lifeline. That tiny sound, barely there, but proof that she could still make it. That maybe, for the first time in too long, she wasn’t carrying all of it alone.

Mark laughed under his breath. “Okay, that’s genius.”

“It’s chaos,” she said, but the ache in her voice bent toward fondness. “I asked him once why he didn’t just organize everything. He said, ‘Because chaos is harder to hack.’”

Mark smiled wider. “He sounds kind of brilliant.”

“Or a menace,” she muttered. “He was a menace of a hero.”

She shook her head faintly as if trying to shake the resurfacing memories away from her like you would a fly. “He wasn’t trying to be one. He just… did what needed to be done. Quietly. Even when no one was watching. Especially then.”

Mark glanced down at their hands, still joined by the lightest pressure. “Guess that runs in the family.”

(Y/n) didn’t answer right away.

“I’m not him.”

“No,” Mark said. “You’re you.”

She looked at him again. Really looked. Like it hurt to do, but she couldn’t not.

“I don’t know who that is anymore.”

And the words hit the air like a glass finally dropped.

Mark saw it--the fracture behind her eyes, the way it deepened when she said it aloud. Like naming it made it real.

(Y/n)’s gaze turned back to the ground again. “Ever since the massacre… I’ve been living in fragments. Vireo. (Y/n). The vigilante. The orphan. The billionaire ghost. I keep switching masks and forgetting which one is supposed to be my face.”

He wanted to reach for her.

Not just her hand this time. All of her. Everything she was losing hold of. But he didn’t know how to. She was right. He couldn’t fix anything. He couldn’t save her. No matter how much he wanted to.

But, he couldn’t pull away either. He felt the tug in his chest--the kind that said to move closer, not further. Carefully, gently, he slid an inch toward her, just enough for their shoulders to barely brush.

She didn’t flinch at the contact. Didn’t lean in either. But she didn’t pull away.

And in its own quiet way, that was everything.

“It shouldn’t be this hard to exist.”

The rain dripped steadily through the willow branches above, playing muted percussion on hollow stone and wet leaves. Neither of them moved. There was nothing to run from in that moment--only things to sit with.

“I kind of hate this bench,” she said suddenly, her voice brittle with something too cracked to be humor. “It’s making me say things I shouldn’t. It’s making me even more careless.”

“Then I guess I owe this bench something,” he said with an air of humor, but he was kind of serious.

(Y/n) let out a breath through her nose. Not a laugh. Not really. Just a sound of release. Of something heavy letting go just a little.

“I shouldn’t be telling you any of this,” she murmured, almost to herself, bringing a hand to swipe the wet hair out of her face. “I shouldn’t be talking at all.”

And, then tired (e/c) met his almost innocent brown. Not like she had before. Not broken. Not open.

Like she’d just realized how much she’d said. Like she had been sleep talking against her will. Like she had finally sobered up.

Like she remembered who she was supposed to be.

Her posture straightened by a fraction, like she was trying to reassemble herself spine-first. Her hand broke from their already shaky connection, like she was trying to take back all the parts she laid bare.

Then her voice spoke, low and guarded, like she was doing damage control. “So what now?”

Mark didn’t answer right away.

He could see it happening--the walls going back up, brick by brick, every second he stayed silent. But he wasn’t good at this. He didn’t know the right words, the ones that could stop her from slipping away again.

And maybe if he were smarter, he would’ve let her. Pretended none of it happened. Let her have the distance she thought she needed.

But he wasn’t smarter. He was just here. With her. Still trying.

Mark tried when he opened his mouth. But that was all he could do. Try.

His mouth slowly closed again.

He knew it.

And she saw it.

The attempt. But ultimately the lack of anything. The nothing. The same helplessness she carried in her own chest. It was almost worse than a lie would’ve been.

Almost.

Because even in the silence, he stayed.

Even with no answers, he stayed.

(Y/n) exhaled slowly, something inside her unclenching in surrender, bitter and reluctant. She took down her bun and carded her fingers through wet knots, buying herself a few more seconds.

"It’s okay. Forget it," she said, trying for a shrug but barely managing it. "Bad day. Bad bench."

Her voice swayed on the last word.

Mark watched her pull her hair loose, fingers working through the mess like she could untangle something deeper. Maybe she could. Maybe she couldn't.

He hated how far away she suddenly felt, sitting not even a foot from him.

He wasn’t even completely sure why he hated it.

It should have been that way anyway. They barely knew each other.

He was him. And she was her.

If he hadn’t become the other him, she--all the parts of her--would not have batted an eyelash. If he hadn’t become the other him, she would have remained a headline.

But even knowing that--especially knowing that--Mark found himself speaking anyway.

"I’m not going to forget it," he said, voice rougher than he'd meant. “Even if you want me to.”

She stilled for a millisecond, but for a long moment, she said nothing. Her hands stayed busy at the ends of her wet hair, twisting and untwisting.

“Then you’re an idiot for it.” No malice. No warmth.

Mark stared down at his knees, at the cracked stone path beneath the bench. Anywhere but her.

"You’re not the only idiot," she said, so low it could’ve been the rain.

His head lifted a little, not quite looking at her, but close.

"You’re not," she repeated, firmer now. Like she needed it to be true. Like she needed him to hear it.

(Y/n) sighed gently, looking back up to the willow leaves.

“You just really suck at knowing when to walk away,” she whispered, almost as if she didn’t want him to hear.

“Yeah…” He scratched the back of his head, sheepishly but relieved. “I’ve heard that before.”

Something in her expression shifted--subtle, fragile.

“But thank you… for sucking.”

The sky was still crying. At least it didn’t pretend to be okay.

…

“I still hate this bench.”

A small, surprised chuckle of disbelief.

“I don’t.”

<<next chp>>

<3 -> @jiyeons-closet @heiankyonoeiyuukun

#invincible x reader #invincible show #invincible #mark grayson #mark grayson x reader #reader insert #x reader #robin reader

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katuschka · 6 months ago

Text

Olalla Chapter Eleven 2/2

Josh Kiszka x f!OC x Jake Kiszka 3.740 words

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, intended for adult readers. Any resemblance to real persons is purely coincidental. Also, if you're under 18, go find some other entertainment elsewhere.

Warnings (are spoilers): alcohol consumption, talking about infidelity, emotional infidelity, nightmares, secrets and insincerity, brief mentions of sex, including a rough blowjob, and as always, an unhealthy dose of heavy emotions and feelings

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Previous chapter Next chapter Olalla masterpost

I found a violin and I wondered why it lay abandoned on flattened grass under a walnut tree. I wondered about the musician who fell asleep under that tree, troubled by a dream that made him never want to play again I asked the violin to play a cheerful song, to haunt the girl who rejected him.

Jake

—-

He unlocked the door and Lisa entered, moving past him without sparing a glance at him. It was a simple assessment of dominance.

Through her silence, she made it perfectly clear that it was his task to carry all their bags inside, while she just threw her coat and scarf nonchalantly over the nearest chair and looked around with a sigh.

The chalet was beautiful: designed in a modern style, with minimalistic furniture and teal artificial marble panelling that covered both the floor and the whole kitchenette. It contrasted delightfully with the light wood walls and off-white drapes. Those were drawn apart momentarily, revealing the southern window wall that separated the interior from a spacious terrace outside and also offered a breathtaking view.

A true winter wonderland. A sea of conifers and gingerbread-like roofs stretching towards an invisible horizon, momentarily obscured by a lacy veil of falling snow.

Even at this late hour, it was all still visible and also eerily tranquil due to an artificial glow, as the snow-covered landscape reflected the city lights below. It made the overcast sky that hung above it look almost pink.

“Yeah, this will do,” Lisa sighed again, whispering those words mostly to herself, with her fingertips softly sliding across the cold glass panel. Jake turned the lights on then, and the scenery in front of them disappeared, replaced by just their reflections. She couldn’t ignore him any longer.

No, that was bullshit. He couldn’t ignore her any longer. His silence confirmed her theories, but he owed her a little bit more than that.

However, Jake decided to postpone the direct confrontation for a little bit, turning his back at her as he went on to examine the contents of the fridge. He had made a request for it to be stacked with essentials, so that they wouldn’t have to worry about groceries upon their arrival. It was a smart move, he thought as he opened a bottle of wine.

Without a word, Lisa accepted the glass that he offered her, before she made herself comfortable on a pillowy couch and took a sip with her eyes now boring into his.

“I’m sorry,” he finally broke the silence, but remained standing. The confession part was quite easy; it was the explanation that he had been dreading. Jake couldn’t really explain it to himself properly yet…

“No need, Jake. As I said before, I’m a big girl. And I don’t love you either.”

It should have made him feel better, knowing that he didn’t really hurt her… at least not in a way that would make it hard to look in the mirror afterwards, However, the words still cut through him like a knife. He looked down at his boots, unable to keep eye contact. It was the story of his life, essentially. Perhaps that was his destiny. Before he could think of any answer to that, Lisa continued.

“Don’t get me wrong, you turn me on like no other, and it’s been a ride. I’m simply cautious and self-protective… you being who you are…”

Who am I?

“... and yet you managed to humiliate me!” Jake’s head snapped back up and he looked at her in a mixture of anger and alarm.

“Humiliate you! I never wanted to humiliate you. And I haven’t really done anything to make you feel that way.”

“Then tell me: Why are you here? And why am I here?!”

Jake downed his own glass of wine and looked into the distance, while trying to be honest with himself and face the truth. Why indeed. The only conclusion that he arrived at made him want to groan in frustration. He really was an asshole, just like Veela said.

This was going to be a long night and his exhausted mind was once again beginning to wander. He had to come up with something that would keep his hands busy so that he could focus on how to sort this out somehow. Playing with his hair wasn’t really doing the trick and he started pacing around nervously. “Are you hungry?” he blurted out all of the sudden, making her eyebrows shoot up in surprise and amusement.

“Starving. But I think that can wait, don’t you?” she replied curtly.

“No,” he mumbled as he opened the fridge once again to check out the selection of various cheeses, smoked meats and assorted vegetables. “Lemme just fix us a cold charcuterie plate.” In the meantime, Lisa helped herself to more wine, while watching him curiously and keeping her cool at the same time. Like a big cat. It wasn’t really helping him overcome the sudden period of restlessness, but he concluded that he absolutely deserved it.

When Jake got everything he needed and started slicing tomatoes, he was finally able to sort out the thoughts and words in his head enough to be able to speak coherently.

“She invited me, ok? Because… regardless of my feelings… she’s still my friend. And she thought that it'd be alone otherwise. We were already seeing each other, you and I, I mean, but I just thought that it would be nice to just take you somewhere for Christmas AND I’d be able to spend it with my brother at the same time…” Her scoff made him pause and look up.

“Yeah, you’re both just sooo eager to spend the holidays together. Overjoyed!”

“He’s still my twin,” Jake retorted, as if it was a given. To him, it was. People often didn’t understand. On the other hand, it was considered socially acceptable and understandable for adult twin siblings to live together. And they did, too, for a while. And not because it was easier. He ain’t heavy… “Anyway, I DID reconsider the idea eventually. And it was because of you! I was on my way to tell him that I’d rather stay in Nashville with you, when…” He suddenly stopped, unsure how to continue without saying too much. This was a slippery slope, but Lisa was a good and a smart girl… woman, and the truth (or at least a semblance of it) was probably the only way out of this mess.

“When..?”

“I saw something,” Jake responded hesitantly. It definitely piqued Lisa’s interest. She got up from the couch and leaned against the kitchen island opposite to him.

“Let me guess: You saw something that made you almost break his jaw. And it concerns her. Something that convinced you it would be better to dog him here… for some reason.”

Jake stopped cutting the cheese momentarily. It was not just that she once again proved to be quite bright and observant, it was also how she said that. Outwardly calm and pleasant, he could sense an artsy undertone in her voice. If she was the cat, Jake was a mouse. He pressed his lips tightly together and bit the inside of his mouth, mulling over his next move. Lisa was slowly starting to lose her patience.

“Jake! I can tell this tea is fucking hot and spicy just from the smell of it, and unless you want me to ask him in front of her, you better spill it, honey!”

Jake took a deep breath. They could either abandon all their plans completely, hop in the car and fly back home (practically impossible at this time of year), or he’d just have to trust her.

She had proven herself over the last few months. Well versed in the world of both traditional and social media, Lisa knew the true value of privacy and cherished it just as much as he did. It was one of the things for which he really appreciated her.

“I saw him with Christopher…”

“His ex? And they were… in bed?” Lisa’s mouth transformed into a small “o”. She completely forgot about her “humiliation” and was all ears now instead.

“No, but they kissed. He was just leaving Josh’s house, and… Josh swore nothing happened there, but… I know Taffy and I know how he felt after that thing happened, and…” Jake sighed. He was both physically and emotionally exhausted. “It was in the morning and Josh had just his bathrobe on. I just… I just don’t believe him.” He closed his eyes, frowning. When he opened them again and looked at Lisa, she was squinting at him.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” she asked in a low voice. Suddenly, she seemed really angry.

“Which is?”

“Why are we here… You want to tell her?”

“No! As I said, I don’t really know what happened. Or is happening... I want to make sure that he won’t hurt her. I wanna do everything in my power to prevent it.” He wasn’t lying.

“Uh-huh. OR seize the opportunity in case he does, huh? And I’m your alibi, you mutherfucker.”

Now it was his turn to get angry. Jake told her just a moment ago that he wanted to cancel the trip because of her. To be with her. To try… And that was NOT a lie… at that time.

Well, what exactly was he hoping for, anyway? Didn’t she just tell him that he was just a fancy piece of meat to her? Fuck! This was – in Josh’s words – a shitshow. To tell the truth, he’d gladly seize the opportunity if there was any chance… and fuck his precious brother, who always – ever since Jake could remember – happened to be the first one at the feasting table, even when it was Jake who prepared the feast.

It was also true that Lisa struck a nerve. Above all and from the very start, he simply yearned to see Agnieszka again, and Lisa’s company legitimized his presence. He was welcome here; his feelings were not.

“What opportunity?!? She doesn’t care about me! Not like that, anyway. She almost slapped me when I kissed her! And then she begged me not to tell him when she crawled back in his bed. That was his reward for acting like a fucking asshole for days. Days we spent taking care of him!”

Realizing he was brandishing the knife in the air like a madman during his quite animated speech, Jake finally put it down, leaned backward against the kitchen cabinet behind him and rubbed the hand down his face. His head however snapped back quickly when Lisa suddenly started to laugh.

“Oh my god! This is like the best, real-life soap opera!”

Not bothering with the glass that stayed on the small table by the couch, Lisa grabbed the bottle and took a healthy swig straight out of it, before she put it back with a thud and grabbed a few slices of salami from Jake’s plate.

“I’m going to take a shower,” she said when she was finally done chewing and swallowed the mouthful. “And then we should take this to bed.”

“That’s it?” he asked incredulously and continued to watch her with apprehension, while his own derisive words only served to mask his confusion: “Now that you know the truth, you don’t feel humiliated anymore? Why the sudden change?”

He expected her to make a scene, to throw things at him, maybe even hit him. And he would let her.

But a fucking picnic in bed was not on the fucking list! It felt a bit… anticlimactic.

“Yeah, that’s it, Jake. Maybe I should feel different, for my own sake, I don’t know.” She sounded a bit weary, and he thought that he could spot even a tinge of sadness somewhere in the undertone. Lisa held herself well, though, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of unleashing her frustration and rage at him. “But this is some hilarious shit,” she continued to scoff him with a proud smirk, letting him know that he was the one who should feel humiliated. “And I’m going to be pragmatic about it, if you don’t mind, because to let you piss me off even more would be a waste of my opportunities. I was sceptical at first, but this place is really beautiful,” she swung her head around towards the window wall, “... this shit is not bad,” she pointed her finger at the munchies that lay on the kitchen island between them, “.... and you fuck me real good when you’re in this mood. Remember the night after the first show? That was one amazing fuck, huh? I suppose the only thing that really changed is that now I know why.”

With that, she pulled her t-shirt over her head and threw it demonstratively on the kitchen counter, before she stretched her stiff muscles, wiggling her bare tits at him with a shifty side glance. It was all extremely theatrical, and it worked. She had his full attention.

“You can come with me, if you want.” The tone of her voice was still quite standoffish and haughty. A promise of treacherous fire underneath the cold shell.

Jake’s expression hardened, and Lisa knew too well it only meant that the same thing was happening in his lower regions as well. She unzipped her jeans just enough to reveal the crimson lace underneath the tight denim, took one more swig of wine with a particularly whorish gusto, and then strutted into the bathroom…

She graciously let Jake use her body to let out at least some of that bottled-up tension, and when he held her hair and she willingly gagged on his dick until the tears started running down her cheeks, Jake felt like he was in charge again. When he made her cum, and then again, and again, he got lulled into thinking that things got somehow settled and they were ok.

What a stupid man.

It was all just an illusion, as well as a test of his intelligence. He should have realized that Lisa was leaving him hints like crumbs along the way, and that all that talk about her own opportunities were not just empty words, but a real warning. Barely noticeable, but otherwise sinister, because hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

While still gracious enough to let him play the game, her mind was set and she managed to cloud his own with lust.

But even then he still had a chance. From now on, it was all about the right (or wrong) choices.

He should have paid attention to his gut feeling that was later robbing him of much needed sleep once more. With Lisa nuzzled peacefully against his chest, he could still feel a cortisol rush poisoning his veins. It was long past midnight when he finally dozed off.

Snowflakes kept coming down like ash as he rambled through a haze with his toes stiff from cold and his lungs filled with smoke. The more he tried to take a deep breath, the more he felt like suffocating. Suddenly the mist dissolved and revealed a haunted landscape stretching all across the horizon, with the skyline razor sharp in cold twilight.

She was standing on an elevated boulder not that far from him, her hair flapping wildly in the sudden gusty wind. What was she doing there? So alone, and shaking… “Veela?”

Another familiar voice whispered right next to him; it was a wonder he could even hear it. Then a hand on his shoulder. A familiar touch. Turning his head to the right slowly, he looked right into Josh’s weeping eyes. They grew wide and bright, suddenly illuminated by a blinding light. She started crying, a gut-wrenching and mournful song, and Josh whispered again. “Olalla…”

“What are you waiting for?” Jake shouted incredulously. But Josh only shook his head and nodded towards her. Jake understood. And he started running.

It was almost impossible to reach her at first, until his fingers finally grabbed her sides and tried to pull her back. “Come, my love,” he shouted…

His own shaky exhale woke him up. Next to him, Lisa stirred slightly, only to turn to her other side. She puffed contentedly, lost in her own dreams.

The room was already filled with cold morning light. Jake checked the time on his wristwatch: 7:52.

Wide awake and shaking, he scrambled out of bed and crept downstairs. Their bags were still lying by the dining table, just where he carelessly threw them the night before. Good. He needed to get out, because he could somehow still feel that suffocating smoke filling his lungs. And preferably without waking Lisa.

Wandering around aimlessly at first, he focused mostly on the crispy air that helped him calm the senses and ease the knot in his stomach. The town was waking up slowly around him, but Jake was only barely aware of the passing cars on the busy road under the ski slope, or the wooden church that he just passed, or the peculiar large chalet that reminded him of Gaudí. He had seen that building before…

With a jerk, he looked around once more and the knot right under his ribcage tightened again. Jake recognized this part of town. He was not far away.

It was time to go back before Lisa woke up, and maybe she already did, although in that case Jake expected a call. Maybe he should at least text her. He pulled out his phone from his pocket and opened the contacts, but – against his better judgement – scrolled further down and opened a completely different thread or cherished texts.

Jake watched her for at least one whole minute before she even noticed him standing in the doorway. Cute and gracious, with her hair pulled up in a messy bun and the long sleeves of her ribbed t-shirt rolled slightly up. Elbows deep in her work, she was swaying to Bon Yver’s Holocene coming from the speakers on the wall. What a domestic scene, overall. The sight warmed his heart.

He didn’t want to startle her, but that short, high-pitched squeal made him chuckle anyway. And then she smiled…

There was a sacred set of strings inside his chest. Like a harp. He could feel them reverberate onstage when he played the real thing. They emitted a subtle melody every time he and Josh laughed… and the bastard swore he could hear that, too. They all broke when Emilia told him about Lulubean; he could feel the raw ends perforate his heart and lungs, and he thought he’d never recover.

When he came here months ago to ask Agnieszka for the impossible favor, when she snapped and started yelling at him, the undiluted pain in her eyes made those strings rattle and twang. At first it startled him, and he thought it was just a primal reaction to the tsunami of emotions she was able to muster and release. But then it kept happening every time she smiled.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” Her straightforwardness took him by surprise once again. However, she kept on smiling.

“Why?”

“Well, the texts, now this… you certainly know how to make a proper entrance,” she joked while wiping her hands in a towel. “Did they leave the veranda door open once again?”

Instead of responding, Jake succumbed to the embrace as she approached him with outstretched, open arms. The feeling was exhilarating and painful at the same time and he had to muster all his self-restraint not to overstep… again.

He just wished they could stay like that forever, but his stomach suddenly rumbled. Maybe it was the smell of coconut ice-cream and cinnamon in her hair… She laughed and broke the embrace at last. “Did you have any breakfast?”

“No… just water and a couple of cookies.”

“Well then, come on in. I’ll make you some coffee and… hmm, let’s see. How about a few slices of poppy seed roll? You look pale. Everything ok?”

“Yeah, just… still a bit tired,” he breathed out as he took a seat at the long table and waited for her to join him with a plate and two steaming mugs.

As soon as she took a seat next to him, the smile was gone, replaced by a sad frown that made his guts twist. “Jake…”

“Hmm?”

“Why did you hit him?”

So Josh did tell her it was him… but he omitted the crucial part of the story. Fucking treacherous, bastardly coward. As this visit was unplanned, and Jake didn’t expect to be faced with the question so bluntly, and him being so unprepared. While he was pondering what to say, they were interrupted by a set of footsteps and cheerful voices; one of them way too familiar.

And sure enough, a moment later, Josh entered the kitchen with a bubbly woman, who looked like a younger copy of Agnieszka, except for the pixie haircut. They looked like they had been just exchanging a few cheerful pleasantries. Like two acquaintances who hadn’t seen each other for a while. As soon as Josh spotted Jake by the table, his face hardened, though he didn’t look surprised. “Well, Maya, this is my brother.”

“I can see that,” the Agnieszka 0.2 trilled cheerfully and immediately offered Jake her hand. “Kuba! Mom’s favourite. I’m Maya. Neszka’s siostra.”

“Jake, actually…” He couldn’t help but smile, though. He was quite fond of Elena, as well as the nickname she gave him.

“Yeah, whatever,” Maya laughed again and hugged him too, briefly and politely.

“Where’s your girlfriend, Jake?” Josh blurted out. It sounded off, and Josh’s menacing stare gave Jake an ominous feeling. All eyes were on him now, but he tried to remain calm for everyone’s sake, including himself.

“Uh, she was still sleeping when I went for a walk. I’m sure she’ll call as soon as…” Jake checked his phone again more or less absentmindedly, and froze. He had forgotten to recharge it last night and now he could see that it was already dead. “Shit! Maybe she already tried.” His voice sounded unnaturally strangled, even to his own ears.

“Yeah, she did,” Josh sneered. “And then she called me. The two of you talked quite a lot last night, huh?”

Jake could feel bile rising in his throat, but then he remembered Neszka’s previous question, which made him recover fast and he returned the deadly stare. “While you decided not to, apparently! Meaning I was right, you fucker…”

“What the FUCK is going on here!” Maya blurted out, darting her eyes back and forth between the brothers first, before casting a questioning look at her sister, who was suddenly pale as a ghost.

@thewritingbeforesunrise @fleet-of-fiction @writingcold @lvnterninthenight @its-interesting-van-kleep @takenbythemadness @edgingthedarkness @myownparadise96 @gvfstuddedmajesty @josh-iamyour-mama @jazzyfigz @tripthelightfantastix @sanguinebats @wetkleenex-gvf @peaceloveunitygvf @kiszkas-canvas @fleetingjake @lizzys-sunflower @hollyco @emojakekiszka @gvfmarge @Dayumclarizzel @lipstickitty @clownstarr @musicislove3389 @i-love-gvf @blankvz @psychedelectable @allof--mylove @joshylanefleet

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chanelle-lize · 3 months ago

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The Sword and the Stone

A fanfic I wrote because I listen to Worlds Beyond Number to micro-dose heart-wrenching trauma. The beginning is a little odd, because the story is based on how I think Suvi and Steel's relationship will change in the future, but I don't have a specific enough theory about the future of the main plot to place the characters within a setting that is any more specific than a marble room that is vaguely dangerous for rebel wizards to be in. Contains blood, betrayal, character death, grief, and Suvi generally having a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. ~1,900 words

A Wizard Trap (which is a trap for wizards) springs as Suvi does whatever Wizard Thing needs to be done to help solve the Big Problem. Blood trickles from her nose and sprays from her mouth as she cries out in pain, taking a massive amount of damage from the trap as it punishes her for continuing to do the Thing that she is doing, yet still she forges forward relentlessly. Ame, Eursulon, and the Fox are somewhere nearby, but Other Things are happening, so they are otherwise occupied.

Just as Suvi successfully does the Wizard Thing, Steel rushes towards the Wizard Trap, sword drawn, ready to finish off whichever traitorous wizard has dared betray the Citadel under her service.

“It’s me! Steel, it’s me!” Suvi calls out, her voice cracking with pain, exhaustion, and the relief of knowing that what she’s done will help fix the Big Problem, and that her adoptive mother will understand and everything will be okay once all of this is over.

Steel halts for a moment as she realizes who is in the trap.

“Suvi…?”

“Mom!”

Suvi begins to cry as she stumbles towards Steel, desperate for comfort, her arms slightly outstretched for a hug.

“Suvi… I’m so sorry.”

Compelled by a self-inflicted Geas spell, the Sword of the Citadel strides forward and aims a deadly decapitating blow at the neck of the Wizard Sky.

Time itself appears to slow.

Suvi’s heart shatters as Steel’s blade slowly swings towards her neck, and she holds Steel’s sad yet convicted gaze with a look of numb disbelief, until, with the clear, silvery tone of a crystal wine glass struck by a knife, the sword glances off some unseen shield, and a flash of brilliant blue reveals a dome of glassy light surrounding Suvi. The very air around her begins to tremble, and the sapphire pendant hanging from her neck begins to glow with a blinding white light.

Steel staggers backwards, sword dangling awkwardly in her hands as her stance momentarily falters. The dome of light chips where it’s hit, then cracks and fractures, silently shattering into slivers of glass light that hover for a fraction of a second before they coalesce into a column towering high over Suvi and Steel's heads, swirling as it settles into the shape of the Wizard Stone.

Steel takes another step back as the shimmering Stone, an eight foot murmuration of glassy midnight blue, appears before her. To Steel she is a giant, but to Suvi, she is just as tall as she remembers.

Stone stares down at Steel with a look of disappointment, rage, and compassion and silently raises a glistening hand. Steel’s eyes, at first flickering with terror and confusion, now lock onto Stone’s shining white eyes. Her arms fall slack to her sides, sword sent clattering against the cold, stone floor, as tears begin to trace down the strange white scars that lace her cheek. As her eyes begin to take on the same shining white glow, her expression twists from confusion to disbelief, and then contorts into a rictus of horror.

Suvi never would have known what was happening to Steel if she hadn’t experienced something similar herself. There were no verbal or somatic components to go off of, but it was unmistakable. This image of Stone had inflicted Steel with something akin to what she would have experienced had she cast the Identify spell on herself. The only difference: this magic was undoing her.

A Mirror Curse.

The thrum in the air intensifies, a deep, bone-rattling rumble joined by a shimmering, bright, otherworldly buzz that bends in pitch like a polyphonic overtone, deeper and clearer, until it begins to resemble the ringing, crackling chime of shattering glass, familiar, yet stretched and distorted as though by some temporal equivalent of a Doppler effect. Time begins to return to itself, and as the present moment finally passes on and makes room for the next, the approaching sound that somehow hadn’t quite gotten here yet finally arrives, and the brilliant crash that should have accompanied the shattering of the bright glass light dome finally rings through the air. Stone’s dark blue figure bursts in a salvo of slivers that spark and disappear like dying stars. The light fades from Steel’s eyes, and the Sword of the Citadel clatters to the floor, dead.

Eursulon, Ame, and the Fox see only this: Steel swings her sword at Suvi’s neck, but it bounces uselessly against a blue dome shield of light that springs up around her. Steel’s eyes flash white as the dome shatters like glass, and she falls dead to the cold, stone floor.

The perfect sapphire pendant around Suvi’s neck, having served its final purpose, cracks and crumbles.

“Mom!”

Suvi shrieks, her voice somehow sharper than the loud shattering of glass reverberating around her. She calls for her mother again and again, but does not move towards Steel. It’s Stone that she wants. She had her back for just a moment, just long enough for her to wrap her protective blue cloak around Suvi one last time, and now she’s gone, and so is Steel. Steel, who Suvi never would have guessed would ever choose the Citadel over her. Steel, who Stone believed could be trusted to take care of her child. And if she couldn’t, if Suvi chose to stand against the Citadel and Steel chose to stand in her way, she knew her child would have a shield to save her. She knew her child would still be safe even if the Citadel that was once her childhood home turned the steel-bladed Sword that once protected her against her.

Ame, Eursulon, and the Fox look on in shock, not believing what they’ve seen and not daring to move, until Suvi, suddenly overcome by wracking sobs, wobbles and drops to her knees, and then down to the floor. All three rush towards her, but Eursulon easily outpaces Ame and the Fox, making it to Suvi’s side in three quadrupedal bounds. Gently, Eursulon slides his paws under her back and knees and attempts to lift her from the cold floor, but she rag-dolls as he lifts her. He slides his right arm back out from under her legs and instead supports her head like one would a newborn baby, pulling her into his chest, and casting Lay on Hands to heal some of the damage she’d sustained from the trap.

The tears welling up in Ame’s eyes are spilling over as she and the Fox catch up with Eursulon. They pause, watching for a moment as he silently weeps, gently rocking from side to side as he clutches a limp, wailing Suvi to his chest. Ame pauses in consideration and looks to the Fox, and they move towards Steel, quietly setting themselves to the work of putting her body to rest.

Suvi wails herself hoarse, her body dead-weight in Eursulon’s arms. But as she feels and hears him breathe, her breathing also changes. Her wails calm to hiccuping sobs. Her breath falls in time with his. The tone returns to her muscles, and she begins to bear her own weight. Eventually, she reaches a hand up, clutches a tuft of Eursulon’s fur, and breathes a deep, shuddering sigh. Eursulon’s hug tightens slightly as he curls around her and breathes a shaky sigh of his own in response.

As though somehow waiting for this signal, Ame and the Fox join them. Ame rests a gentle hand on Suvi’s shoulder as the Fox noses his way under Eursulon’s armpit and worms his way between Suvi and Eursulon’s chest. Overwhelmed by the additional affection, Suvi once again begins to sob. Ame gives her shoulder a comforting squeeze.

Eventually, Suvi stops crying again, and after a short, intimate silence, she takes a loud, long inhale through her nose and declares, “We have things to do.”

“Hm?” from Ame.

“What?” from Eursulon.

“I wasn’t sleeping, you were sleeping,” from the Fox.

“This is… so nice, but we do need to complete our mission, and this hug is getting so warm and I want to get out.”

“Of course,” Eursulon intones, loosening his grip on Suvi a little too abruptly.

The four untangle themselves from the grief heap and begin readying for their next objective. Suvi prestidigitates the blood from her clothing before becoming preoccupied with adjusting and readjusting a button on one of her cuff sleeves.

“Ready to go?” Ame asks.

“Yeah, uuh…” Suvi glances at Ame, then back at her cuff, but it’s long enough for Ame to see her eyes beginning to water again. “Is… “ She falls silent.

“…Suvi?” Eursulon quietly probes.

Suvi glances towards Eursulon’s voice, but doesn’t turn her head. If she turns to look at him, she’ll have to look at the spot where she saw Steel’s body fall.

“Is she…,” she makes out, before her voice cracks and falters.

“Oh! Uh…” Ame fumbles nervously, “I assumed… I didn’t, um… I’m sorry, did you want to say ‘goodbye’ first?”

Suvi looks up. “You already did it?”

“Yeah.”

Suvi’s shoulders visibly drop away from her shoulders and she exhales a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

“Okay… okay…”

“Is that okay?”

“Yeah!” Suvi gives a shrug of nonchalance and flashes a smirk that accidentally squeezes a couple tears onto her cheeks that she quickly wipes away with the back of her hand. She steadies herself with another deep breath, then swiftly looks over to the spot in the room she was trying to avoid. Her heart lurches as her gaze meets the little brass censer of ashes placed neatly on top of Steel’s spell book next to Steel’s sheathed sword, but she fights back the wave of emotion and strides forward with a soldier’s grace.

Suvi bends down on one knee and looks like she’s about to simply pick up the items, but she pauses as she reaches for them. Slowly, she readjusts, shifting to a full kneeling position, and she slowly pulls the sword about halfway out of the sheath before letting her fingertips gently rest along the blade.

After a little longer than a minute, Suvi slides the sword back into its sheath, wipes her face with her hands, stands, clips the sheath onto her belt, then picks up the censer and spell book. She turns around, startled and slightly embarrassed to find Ame, Eursulon, and the Fox silently watching her.

“I was casting Identify,” she declares a little too loudly in the echoey, marble room. Suvi hates the awkward pause that lets her voice bounce around the room unimpeded.

“On the sword.” Another awkward silence.

“And what did it tell you of the sword?” Eursulon inquires.

“It’s… fine.”

“Ah... Good.”

“So, there are no dangerous enchantments on it then?” Ame asks. Suvi visibly winces, turns, and strides out of the room, and the rest of the group quickly follows.

“That is why you cast Identify on it, right? To see if there was something wrong with it?” Suvi's stride lengthens, a change that is barely noticeable to Eursulon, but a notable increase for Ame.

"Suvi?"

“There was nothing wrong with the Sword.”

Suvi rounds on Ame, who bumps into her in her haste to keep up with her longer-legged companion. She takes a step back and looks up at Suvi from under the brim of her hat.

"It's a sword. It cuts and it kills. That's what it's for. There's nothing wrong with it. It does what it's for."

“Ok... That’s good, then.”

Suvi stares down at Ame a little longer before answering.

"Yeah."

Turning back around, she brushes off her jacket, and, after a moment of fiddling with the button on her cuff, begins striding forward once more.

#this is the first fanfic I ever put out into the internet wilds I think #I'm in the queue to get an AO3 account so I'll also post it there when I get it #I never did fanfic in my youth though so I need help understanding literally all of it #please infodump essential fanfic writing knowledge in my dms please thanks #fanfic #fan fiction #the wizard the witch and the wild one #worlds beyond number #suvirin kedberiket #the wizard steel #the wizard sky #the wizard stone #the sword of the citadel #hey remember how brutal Suvi was about the Chalice because she chose to be that? hm.

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somerandomdudelmao · 1 year ago

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OKAY SO GENERAL THOUGHTS AND SOME HYPOTHESES BASED UPON THE INFORMATION WE HAVE:

Holly is from Teegarden; a place where either all of his species can shapeshift or he himself is some kind of priest of whatever god they worship that has given him the ability to shapeshift. If ALL of the Teegardenians have innate shapeshifting, this makes the bird hunting Inherently More Sinister, but it makes far more sense to me for Holly to be special, because he says he's from a temple and attributes his shapeshifting to god. It also makes sense for Holly to be special amongst his species because Sculptor asked Oscar and Ward 'Which of you is smarter?'

They're keeping higher quality/more unique specimens in The Vault and maintaining them for some reason.

When Ward is still Very Much Ravaged by whatever the fuck the Science Scrapers were doing, we see probably-Sculptor saying they should put him specifically with 'someone peaceful'. We don't know why they have taken this consideration beyond determining he's not going to be a danger to a more peaceful inmate, but we do know Holly is also missing an eye, which means that must be part of the 'forcibly extracting information from a creature's body and brain' process. Ward was not doing any talking, they got the information about Oscar's laptop via stealing it out of his brain. Sculptor was not separating the dangerous smart one from the harmless stupid one. The Echolocators (this will be my shorthand for the rest of the Q) fully believe themselves to be above both these weird little dudes, but they know from experience they can get more, better information about humans out of the smarter of the two.

Holly sighs sadly and says 'they've found another civilization to destroy', and he's been kept alive alone in the vault for an indefinite period of time while the general ecosystem of his planet appears to be intact enough for regular hunting excursions. Either the Echolocators circle around regularly between planets they've previously colonized to keep the base resources on each planet fresh, or they are in the middle of ravaging specifically Teegarden beyond livability, and will move on to Earth next now that they've conveniently found some fun new pets. I believe the use of 'civilization' is significant enough to suggest it's the former, which is Way Scarier because they've also noted humans are edible and taste good.

A species of colonizer aliens being set up in an ant-like colony is delightful by the way. Also I saw someone in the notes saying 'oh no she doesn't know about The Incident' over Ecliptica being like 'I didn't really check on Ward, science is boring to me' and would just like to say No. Ecliptica absolutely knows about the unethical Whatever That Was and The Vault. She just doesn't know if Ward survived or is any semblance of okay. Because Oscar is a cute fun novelty and Ward is some guy she does not particularly care about.

Oh, my God, I want to express my thoughts on your hypotheses so bADLY. But that would be the wrong way to present information that should be shown in a story. But I still want everyone to see it, because carefully analyzing a story is one of the greatest forms of art that amazes me every time🧡

#marble sky ask #should I....maybe...#marble sky theories #okay why not #congrats Stars-in-a-jam-jar you made me to establish the new tag for you haha #really cool nickname btw I love it

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coolattasclown · 1 year ago

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So I saw that one drawing you did of Oscar being caught because he lied to protect the teeguardians this time. Who is the person saying, "Just throw him in there, I don't want to see what happens next." Ecliptica looks like she's swishing her tail like a cat does when it's mad. I think she would grow suspicious eventually if he kept saying every single one she caught doesn't have those eyespots she likes.

Yeah i drew that before Oscar followed her order, stuff like that!! Although I don't really consider it a part of Olmi's lore anymore just bc we've gotten more characterization of Oscar and Ecliptica, I do think it would be really interesting if Oscar was ever caught in a lie or caught off guard and didn't know how to react since hes like. 2 steps ahead most of the time. I imagine Ecliptica would feel a bit betrayed because I do think she likes Oscar and believes his loyalty to her. She is the one telling them to throw him in there.

#cool clown posting #marble sky oc #I do have a theory that Ward's eye was basically turned into a sort of camera or some way to spy on them #implemented by sculptor #so maybe that would be how oscar gets caught off guard helping the teegardians

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vivs-fics · 10 months ago

Text

Just As It Is

Bucky Barnes x Reader

College AU

No minors allowed. Read at your own discretion.

TW: Swearing, religious imagery, smoking, mention of underage drinking

Part 1

Dark clouds linger overhead, far too close for comfort. A twinge in the air and rain birds circling the sky makes unease swell in the pit of my stomach. A storm is brewing, something dark this way comes- and here I am walking down the street with no jacket, no umbrella and Bucky’s place nowhere in sight.

I quicken my pace. Shoes stomping heavily on the asphalt, desperate to outrun the impending shower- to no avail. Thunder claps, electricity crackles, the birds make their descent in the sky behind me and the floodgates of the dreaded downpour open. I feel the rain spilling through my hair, the chill crawling down my spine and soaking my clothes. I wish more than anything just to be inside, warm and in good company.

The D&D campaign tonight is one I’ve been looking forward to for weeks. Bucky let me in on a few minor details now and again. This story was meant to be his most enticing yet, described by the man himself as “a fuckin’ mind-blowing maelstrom of malice, monsters and murder.” He added that the alliteration was meant to captivate and create anticipation- fucking English majors.

I have a feeling we’ll be trekking through some haunted castle, infested by a lonesome vampire luring innocents into his clutches. I recall when the theory solidified for me, it was just a few days ago- after classes had ended for the semester. Bucky and I were meeting up on the benches on the edge of campus for our afternoon chit-chat and I convinced him to act out a snippet from the forthcoming adventure.

Bucky slinked behind me, fallen auburn leaves crunched under his boots and the chains on his pants clinked together- I held my breath as he brushed his fingers over the side of my neck. The touch was light, almost untactile- nevertheless my skin felt like it was lit ablaze. The flames spread, embers sizzled deep in my stomach, the red blaze surged through my arms, and it settled in the tips of my fingers.

Blood rushed to my ears and my heart pounded against my chest, I could feel his breath on my neck. “Are you scared, little bird? Or do the pleasures of the night entice you? Are you willing to take this journey and receive your hearts desires, or do you fear the lurking horrors may consume you before you reach the summit?” Bucky whispered. A shuddering breath escaped my lips, and I took a moment to compose myself, a shoddily concealed smile on my face, “Jamie is the whole campaign going to be voiced in that sultry, bad guy accent?”

He beamed, “I guess you’ll have to wait and see, sweetheart. You should, however, expect to be wowed beyond your wildest dreams.” He raised his right hand and touched it to his heart, “That’s your beloved dungeon master’s guarantee.”

He sat himself down on the bench next to me, the wood creaked under his weight, and I brought my eyes up to him- I found myself lost in the vast blue of his eyes.

God, he’s beautiful. Gazing upon the pastels of a rococo could not compare to him. The glittering of all Klimt’s work would never be able to culminate to the way he shines, my Bucky glows from the inside. The light in his eyes are millions of stars burning in the sky, had Van Gogh’s masterpiece been done today, surely Vincent would have drawn inspiration from them. The figures taken out of stone by the great Michelangelo wouldn’t amount to the statuesque beauty I see in him, skin smoother than marble and a face that could have only been carved by the divine.

“You alright, Birdie? Somethin’ on your mind?” His voice was smoother than honey, it dripped from his lips slowly and it covered me in its splendour. I shook my head. I couldn’t tell him. I wouldn’t allow myself to say just how much he means to me. I couldn’t risk ruining years of friendship and muddying the dynamic we have. We’re in tandem, parallel lines that are destined to run beside each other for as long as the universe allows.

“What’s up with the ‘Birdie’ thing, Buck? Were you inspired by my beady eyes or the way I flew down from the trees to see you today?” I jested in the hope it would cover up the black hole that would in the pit of my stomach.

His eyes drifted down, and his ring-clad hand pulled a fallen leaf fragment from my sweater. Bucky shrugged, “I don’t know, it was in my dialogue for the campaign. I thought I’d run with it, it’s cute. It suits you.” He leaned back, palms flat on the dark wood of the bench. He tilted his head back and flashed me a bashful smile.

I look toward him in earnest, and he continues his ramble, “No, actually, it’s stupid. Sorry, sweetheart.”

He shook his head, the beautiful cascade of brown hair framed his face and I retorted, “No, no. I was joking Jamie, I do like it. It’s just different, is all. You had me thinking someone usurped my title of your cherished sweetheart. I was just brainstorming my plan of action- you know- setting my targets and ensuring I could retrieve the name that’s rightfully mine.”

He sat up and rubbed his hands down the length of my arms, a comforting gesture. A reassuring one. Hands caressed me like the singed spine of a book salvaged from the fires of Alexandria- as if I were a priceless artefact not to be handled precariously. “Nobody could steal that from you, Birdie. And if you catch me callin’ anyone other than you, sweetheart, know that I’ve been body snatched and you need to come save me.”

A laugh escaped me, he knows just how to make me feel safe when I’m with him, in every capacity. Bucky wrapped himself around me, encompassing me in the warmth that melts the welts of my worries. It’ll be fine, I thought to myself. I can do this. Right?

Rain beating down on me like the mighty wrath of Zeus hauls me out of the fond memory and pushes me back into my very cold, very wet reality. In the distance I can see the living room light turn on in Bucky’s home, the exterior of it seemingly harsh and bitter but it’s filled with more love and acceptance than I’ve experienced elsewhere. The wind whistles riotously as I bang on the door, “Jamie! I’m getting hypothermia out here! Can you open the fucking door please?”

He emerges, brows furrowed, “Birdie, what are you doin’ here? The campaign isn’t for another hour,” Realising that I look like a drowned subway rat he ushers me inside, “Shit, sorry! Come on in sweetheart, uh- let’s get you dry.”

“Thank you, Jamie, truly. Really glad you didn’t decide to leave me outside to die.” I shiver out. He looks at me apologetically. Jesus those eyes. He could get away with murder with those eyes. He could glance at St. Peter at heaven’s gates and Bucky would be admonished of all his sins. He’d be allowed in and be given the best resting place Heaven has to offer without so much as a word. They’re soft, an endless Mediterranean blue- so captivating it would rival Narcissus and his reflection.

He disappears for a moment and emerges with a dry article of clothing. Bucky extends his hand to me, the soft grey fabric now within my reach.

“Here sweetheart, fresh shirt. You can go to the bathroom and change if you want. I’d offer my room but… truth be told, it’s a mess and I’d be embarrassed if you saw how I really lived.” He ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “I- uh- I can also grab a sweater for ya, if you’re still cold.” He adds, with a smile.

“Thanks, Buck.” A small grin graces my features, the cold that clung to me dissipates in the confines of his kindness. “My god, the Zeppelin shirt?” I clutch it to my chest and gasp dramatically. “Maybe I should walk to you in the rain more often, I don’t get this five-star treatment all the time.”

“Hush, sweetheart. You know I’d give you anything if you asked.” He retorts, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

After changing into something significantly more comfortable than the soaked fabric that clung to my skin, I return to the living room to find my knight in shining armour lighting a cigarette on the back porch. He turns to look at me and inhales, “You feelin’ better now?”

“Much,” I move to sit beside him on the battered porch swing, and tilt my body towards him, “Can I have a puff, Bucky? Light of my life, saviour of my world?” He smiles and puts the orange filter up to my lips, I breathe in. Letting the nicotine fill my lungs, I feel the menthol spread across my body, it tingles down my arms and a calm settles over me.

“You want one for yourself sweetheart, or would you prefer to smoke half of mine like always?” He cocks his head to the side and smiles.

“I’m fine with our arrangement just the way it is, Jamie.” I shift over and place my head on his shoulder. He kisses the top of head, a familiar gesture. For him it was a sign of reassurance, as if he was saying: ‘you’re going to be okay as long as I’m here.’

“Why’d you decide to come here so early, Birdie? You miss me that much?”

“Don’t flatter yourself James, I just needed a smoke.” Taking a long drag of the cigarette, I close my eyes- happy to finally be where I needed to be.

He hums in acknowledgement. “Of course, sweetheart.”

“You want me to help you set up?” I enquire and he shakes his head.

“Nope. I got it all sorted out, you can just sit and look pretty.” He places his thumb and index finger onto my chin and squeezes, his nose scrunches up and a smile graces his face. “Although, that shouldn’t be a problem for you sweetheart.”

“Are you calling me lazy, Barnes?”

“I’m callin’ you beautiful, Birdie.” He says simply, the words roll off his tongue with no more effort than a breath.

What I wouldn’t do for him to always look at me like this, with those azure eyes full of contentment. They’re warmer than the embrace of a summer’s day, than the encapsulating feel of steamy water in the bathtub, than a balmy breeze whispering past me on the beach.

“Oh, uh, Buck? I got you a little something.”

“What? You didn’t have to do that, sweetheart. You should know that you bein’ here is a gift in and of itself.”

A smile makes its way on to my face, and I chuckle, “Sure, but this is something that you absolutely need,” Sifting through the contents of my bag, I find it. A small black box with a glittery red bow on the top, “Here. Open it.”

With the unveiling of the contents of the box, Bucky’s face lights up- like a Christmas tree on December 25th. “No fuckin’ way, sweetheart.” He shakes my shoulders excitedly and promptly goes back to admiring his new possession, running his fingers over the cold metal links, “Holy shit, this is so cool. A fuckin’ chainmail pouch? Is this for my dice?”

“Yes! You can keep them all together now, I know they always end up in weird places after campaigns so I thought this could help.”

“Thank you, Birdie. This is amazing.” He laughs.

What an angelic sound- comparable only to the trumpets of heaven or the symphonies of a divine orchestra. He wraps his arms around me and squeezes, “I love it.”

I turn to face him, bending my leg up on the worn porch swing, the wood is soft under my skin, such a familiar feeling- upon which so many memories were made. Bucky moves closer to me, an indistinguishable look in his eyes. My breath halts, it feels as if my lungs were dipped in iron. My insides are hot and there’s a fluttering in my stomach. Why’s he staring at me like that? Am I melting? It feels like I’m melting. Come on, get a hold of yourself. It’s just Bucky, looking at you the way he always does.

A small smile graces his face, the edges of his lips lifting ever so slightly and the corners of his eyes crinkling up. He tilts his head to the side and places his hand on my cheek, his thumb shifting up and down so gently I almost don’t notice. I wonder if this is how people experience religious euphoria. Is this how it feels to be touched by the hand of God? Could the promise eternal peace be held within the fingers that are caressing my face? Is it possible that the divine culminated in this Adonis of a man?

An abrupt knocking at the door startles me and Bucky recoils, “Let me, uh, I- I’ll get it.”

“Bucky, open up already!” A woeful gust of wind screeches outside the door. “Jesus Christ, Barnes, I’m gonna grow old and rot before you let us in!” Sam yells, announcing his presence.

“Alright, alright! I’m comin’.” Bucky shuffles to the door, a twinge of annoyance laced in his tone. His demeanour, however, shifts when the boys come inside. He’s happy to see them, he always is. I am too, they’re some of my best friends. I won’t lie to myself though; I would have appreciated them arriving just a few minutes later- if for no reason other than quelling the sheer curiosity about what was going to happen.

“If it took you any longer, Buck, I would have assumed you were dead.” After hugging him, Steve sets down his bag and greets me, “Y/N, Hey! It’s so good to see you. We didn’t interrupt anything did we?” He raises his eyebrows suggestively.

“No, no, Stevie- you’re all good. I missed you.” I ruffle his hair when he comes over for a hug, my actions are met with a disgruntled groan from the six-foot-three puppy of a man.

Nat pulls up behind me and I embrace her excitedly, “Nat, baby! How have you been? How’s your girl?” She slinks her arm around my neck and in return I put my arm around her waist.

“We’re alright, hon. Why? Have you reconsidered our request for a threesome?”

“Aw, Natasha don’t flatter yourself. We agreed to do it without you, obviously.” I give her a light pat on the back and turn away, going to greet Sam.

The rest of the group starts filtering in after a bit, Steve and Thor creating their usual ruckus.

“Alright sinners, are we ready for the campaign of the century?” Bucky announces, as he stands at the head of the table- a king ready to lead his troops into battle. A Greek god, blessing his subjects with the greatest gift- a myth, a legend, a story to be passed down ear-to-mouth and mouth-to-ear for generations to come. And we, his loyal subjects listening in earnest, hanging onto every vowel, every consonant as if it were our life force- sustaining us. His words igniting a bonfire to provide light and warmth as we make our way through this ominous cascade of casting spells, battling beasts and me trying not to visibly sweat because of that sultry voice Bucky is speaking in. Anxieties fly high as the six-hour campaign draws to a close.

“Xanaphia of Excelsior, you have travelled a distance incomparable to any other, you have seen nations built and destroyed, you have brazened the path to my home- a journey no man before you had been able to conquer. A path, little bird, no man should be able to survive.” Bucky narrates, his character so carved out and precise I almost don’t recognise him.

“Luckily for me, Alaric... I am no man.” I smile up at Bucky, he reciprocates- a genuine beam shines upon my face. I knew the Lord of the Rings reference would get to him. The rest of the room melts away, the cries of Sam telling me to finish the job and Scott excitedly banging his fists on the table become nothing but distant memories. Bucky stands, in all his glory- broad shoulders block the light behind him and a halo encompasses the edges of his physique. Is he an angel, or just the devil in ambient lighting? With his eyes piercing into mine like they are, I don’t think I could bring myself to care.

“No man indeed.” A corner of his mouth turns up, a devious smirk creeps onto his face. “So, little bird. What shall it be? I am completely at your mercy. You have me on my knees.”

Everyone perches on the edge of their seats at the final roll of the D20, the last dance between my character and the Vampire at the top the Hill approaches. To stab or to seduce, that is the question. Will I succumb to the pleasures of the night or fight my desires and kill him for my brethren, currently surrounded by ghouls? I should kiss him, right? A move to seduce could ensure that the Vampire lets the surviving members of my party go, whereas a move to kill him could result in everyone being murdered. This is purely a selfless choice.

“I’ll roll for charisma. I want to kiss you- him! Ahem- Alaric.” Heat rises in my cheeks and a pit forms in my stomach. Oh, my God.

A hush falls over the room, the booming of the dice upon the table is all that can be heard, save for the thudding of my heart that pounds in my ears. The resin contraption stills, and Bucky leans over to inspect what the gods have decided my fate shall be.

“A… a fuckin’ nat’ twenty.” He says in bewilderment, his voice barely above a whisper. And the crowd goes wild- jests and jeers come from all around the table.

“Alaric of the Hill concedes! Your kiss has bewitched him, congratulations. He decides to let your party go on the condition that you keep him company. Will you, Xanaphia, stay with Alaric and forgo all other quests?”

“Fuck yes.” I state triumphantly, relieved as all heaven that the risk I took paid off.

Celebratory drinks are raised, and toasts are made in my honour- to Xanaphia of Excelsior, she who could warm the heart of even the most cold-blooded of creatures.

Bucky gets the music going and Thor pours the drinks, perhaps the most dangerous of combinations. Bodies push against each other, the sounds of Def Leppard’s Pour Some Sugar on Me intertwine with the heavy breathing of the people in the room, dim lighting overhead makes for a danse macabre-esque sequence to play out around me. We are neither here, nor there. Dead, nor living. Could this be a man in front of me, or an angel? Deep shadows are carved under his cheekbones and his jaw is sharp under this light, threads of walnut hair are strewn across his face, moving with him to the music.

Rhythm flows through me, I lift my arms up close my eyes in sheer delight- being here with these people is all I could ask for.

Bucky is beckoned over to the kitchen and upon arrival, he laughs boisterously at something Sam says. Steve claps his shoulder and throws his head back as he always does when someone makes a stupid joke. I wonder if he knows that he lights up the room the way he does, if he has any idea of the fact that he could put the Nevada sun to shame, that all the bonfires in the world couldn’t amount to the warmth he brings to a room.

Well, perhaps this exact situation is not all I could ask for, but it will do just fine.

As the song reaches its summit Nat approaches me with an inebriated smile on her face, she reaches her hands out to me and interlocks her fingers with mine.

“Hey pretty girl, you havin’ fun?” the red head exclaims, her voice barely swimming above the music. We move together to the rhythm of the song; I sway my hips and look around the room, to find Bucky over by the counter, pouring himself another drink.

My eyes shift back to Nat, and I smile, “Of course, babe! It’s always a good time when you’re here.”

She lifts my hand and spins me before resuming our prior position. She raises a quizzical brow, “You sure, hon? Because you keep looking over in that direction.” Nat tilts her head towards Bucky. Of course she’d know. She’s like a bloodhound when it comes to people’s feelings, sniffing out the source for minor ticks in their facial muscles, every dilation of their pupils and apparently each longing stare in their direction. “Y/N, do you have something to tell me?”

I shake my head, grimacing slightly, “Don’t worry about it, babe. It’s fine.”

“No, uh-uh. Come on.” Nat takes my hand and pulls me through the room and to the restroom. She points at the clawfoot tub, “Sit. Tell me what’s going on.”

“Nat, I really don’t want to talk about it right now.” I turn my gaze from her, mortified at the prospect of having to spill my feelings.

“Baby, if you like Bucky it’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’ve suspected it for a while now.”

“How the fuck did you know? I thought I was good at hiding it, Nat.”

“Freshman year, orientation mixer. Do you remember that Y/N? Because I do. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you that drunk. You vomited into a flower pot- really not a good look for you, baby. Bucky showed up in that black leather jacket and you physically faltered when you saw him. I had to hold you up for the better part of five minutes because your legs, and I quote, ‘couldn’t possibly stay solid with how fucking hot he looked.’”

“Oh my God!” I exclaim and put my head in my hands, “I have to dig a hole and hide away in it forever. Nat- that’s fucking awful. You never told me!”

“I assumed you’d bring it up when you wanted to talk about it,” She shrugs, as if she hadn’t just unearthed the one dirty little skeleton I would have liked to keep buried, “And you never did, hon. But it’s been years and you’re clearly still enamoured with him, and I feel like I’m entitled to a little bit of an explanation.” She takes a seat on the cold porcelain next to me, a half-smile decorates her face.

“Okay- you’re right and I’m sorry for not telling you before. I just couldn’t- I didn’t want to make it real. You know? Because if I admitted that he’s on my mind constantly and that he’s the only person I’ve really, truly wanted for fucking years, and that he makes me feel seen and heard and cared for in a way I never thought was possible- then there was a possibility of all that going away.” An exhale escapes me, and I look away from Nat- who seems less flabbergasted at this admission than I’d expect.

She places a supportive hand on my shoulder, “Baby- you know that man loves you, right? You’re his best friend, he’d never let you go like tha-”

“I know, I know.” I interject. “He’s my best friend too- but if it ever came up that I wanted more than what we had right now and he didn’t want that, then everything would fall apart. And you know that, Nat. Everything is perfect the way it is. I wouldn’t want to jeopardize it for anything, not even for my own feelings.” It’s a lie, deep down I know there will always be a part of me yearning, wanting, needing something just out of reach.

Perhaps it is a sacrifice I’d be willing to make. I could be the slaughtered lamb on a pyre, if it meant Bucky would be happy, if it meant he could get love and support and care from me and everyone around him, without me fucking everything up.

We’ve all been together since freshman year, some of us before that. We’re a family. For me to toss it aside in favor of this childish crush, it would be selfish. It would be building your home and setting it on fire, pushing a boulder up a hill just to push it down the same way, it would be Icarus flying into the sun and dying a horrible, fiery death.

“Hon, I love you but you’re really fuckin’ stupid sometimes.” Nat shakes her head with a small laugh.

“Stop it, Nat. I mean it. He’s never said anything about that- us, you know in that way- and… And he was dating that girl a couple months ago- what was her name? Jo-Ann?” I retort quickly, attempting to repress the feelings that arise from her steadfast argument.

“And do you remember when that ended? Less than two days after you and that asshole you were seeing broke up.” She bumps her shoulder against mine to drive her point forward. My eyebrows knit together at that, she’s not wrong. Technically.

“We all knew that was never going to last. She was so mean and self-involved. I mean- I know I can also be those things… and there’s nothing wrong with being a little bitchy and vain but at least when I do it, it’s classy and everyone loves it.” I jest in an attempt to shift her focus away from Bucky and I, but to no avail.

“Come on, hon. We all know why it didn’t work out. The real reason why.”

“Oh yeah, Nat?” I tilt my head to the side curiously. Music bleeds through the vacant space under the door and I can hear Sam singing along to the song, loudly and off key. It makes me smile. “And what is the real reason?”

“Because she wasn’t you.” She lays it out plainly. Her shoulders shrug in an almost exaggerated display of nonchalance.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Natasha. There- there’s no way.” My voice comes out a bit more strained than anticipated and I stand up from my seat on the bathtub.

“Fine, since you clearly don’t want to listen to reason... I’ll drop it for now, but you’ve got to understand that I meant everything I said. We can all see how head over heels he is for you, baby. You just- maybe you should talk to him about it.” She follows my lead in standing up- there’s an air of finality in her voice and I know our conversation is over.

I take the quick reprieve as Nat leaves the restroom to collect my thoughts. If the alcohol in my system didn’t make the room sway slightly, the revelations that Nat unleashed on me certainly did. I rest my hands on either side of the cool, white basin and look at myself in the mirror that stands proudly on the wall. Good god, pull yourself together. An abrupt knock on the door interrupts my much-needed mirror reflection time. “Occupied!” I yell out in the general direction of the door. For fucks sake, I can’t even get a moment of silence to think.

“Sweetheart? You alright in there?” Bucky’s voice sifts through the door and caresses my ears. His tone so soft, so full of warmth and concern- it makes my heart clench in my chest.

“Yeah, just give me a second.” I smooth down my shirt that had crumpled and gathered in the worst possible way as Natasha berated me about my lack of perception and emotional intelligence while we balanced on the edge of the bathtub.

“Can I come in?” He asks, almost tentatively- or at least as tentative as James Buchanan Barnes could sound. I quickly move to unlock the door and I let him in. His hair is slightly damp from what I assume could only be vigorous beer pong playing or dancing drunkenly to the music. Either way, I’m thankful for it. It's hot.

There’s a slight dusting of red along his cheeks, it is amplified as he gives me a lazy smile. “You alright, Birdie? Do I need to be concerned as to why you’re hiding out in the bathroom when you could be dancing or singing or losing to me at beer pong?”

“In your fuckin’ dreams, Jamie. Do I have to remind you about Thor’s Halloween beer pong tournament?” I raise my eyebrows in challenge and step closer to him, my arms folded across my chest.

Bucky lets out an exaggerated scoff, “That was beginner’s luck on your side. Had to be, sweetheart.” He follows suit and takes a small step toward me.

“Beginner’s luck? Three games in a row? I don’t think so, pretty boy.”

He smiles at me, his eyes searching my face. “Pretty boy, huh? That’s new.”

“Don’t change the subject, Barnes. I could beat you blindfolded, with one hand tied behind my back.” Smugness drips off my words and Bucky’s gaze darkens.

“You want to bet, little bird?” He towers over me now, arms on either side of the basin, confining me between him and the cold tile.

“Sure, why not? There’s no way you’d win anyways.” A deceptively sweet smile is plastered on my face in a challenge to him. My heart thumps loudly in my chest. I feel the blood rushing to my ears and butterflies erupt in my stomach. He’s so beautiful, it’s nearly impossible to stop myself from thinking about how much I’d like him to grab my face and kiss me.

“State your terms, sweetheart.” He backs up and folds his arms over each other across his chest.

“One round, first one to no cups wins. We can have one redemption shot each. And when I win… Hmm…” I tap my finger against my lips in contemplation for a moment, “When I win, you have to let me drive your car.”

His eyes widen slightly, and his lips move to form a small ‘o’ shape. “Sweetheart, you- you can’t possibly be serious. I don’t even let Steve drive my car.”

“I’m deadly serious. I’ve had my eye on it for a while now, to be quite honest. I would love to drive her down to the coast… Put the top down, play some trashy pop music on the speakers…” I taunt, my voice low and melodic.

“I…” He starts, but I cut him off before he can argue.

“Unless you’re chicken, that is. You scared, Jamie? Shaking in your boots over your inevitable, devastating loss?”

“No- I mean-” He takes a breath in and lifts his hands in surrender, “Fine. Fine. If you win, you can drive the car down to the beachfront. But I’m ridin’ shotgun.”

“I expected nothing less. It’ll be fun- we’ll make a day of it.” I say with a smile, my eyes light up at that prospect.

“You don’t want to know what I get if I win?” He pivots.

“Nope. Don’t need to. Because it’ll never happen. Come on, let’s play.” I tilt my head in the direction of the door and smirk at him with as much cheek as I could muster.

Bucky grabs my hand, returning the smile. He stops for a moment and stares at me, that same indecipherable look in his eyes from earlier. Our fingers are interlaced, one continuous string moves in between him and I.

It felt as if I’d be able to hear a pin drop, despite the hustle and bustle of the party raging on outside. I move to grab the door handle and exit the restroom when I feel him pull me back towards him. He grips my hand and pulls me flush against his chest.

“Bucky, what are you d-”

“You- I-” He clenches his jaw and exhales sharply. “I just- I wanted to tell you that you look beautiful tonight. Your- uh- your outfit looks good on you.”

“You mean your shirt? You mean to tell me that your most beloved article of clothing looks good universally?” I laugh out nervously, not wanting to mention the proximity.

“No- just on you. It looks- you look fuckin’ incredible, sweetheart.” He flashes me a lopsided smile and gives my shoulders a squeeze. “You can keep it. If you want.”

“You don’t need it? I thought this was your secret weapon that you used to bend all of mankind to your devilishly handsome will?”

“I could do that with or without the shirt, believe me.” He drawls out, the cocky bastard. His smile falters the tiniest bit, unease flashes across his features. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He clenches his jaw one final time and finds my hand again.

“Let's go.” Bucky leads me out of the bathroom to the outskirts of the party. The beer pong table is left uninhabited, red solo cups stacked messily from rounds passed.

Bucky quickly sets up the cups and I fetch the most tolerable beer I can find and start filling the cups in preparation of the battle ahead. I roll my neck and crack my knuckles before we begin- Bucky rolls his eyes at me with a laugh. “You ready, sweetheart?”

“The real question, James, is… are you ready?”

“Just play, smartass.” A cheeky smile appears on his face.

Something is wrong. Dear God, something is horrifyingly and incredibly wrong. Bucky is winning at beer pong. Never, in the history of us, had he even come close to beating me- except for tonight.

“What the fuck, Barnes? Have you been getting private beer pong lessons just for this?” I shoot and miss again. Third time in a row. I haven’t even hit the rim in the past few turns.

Could it be because Thor got too tipsy and spilled his drink all over Bucky’s little conservative long sleeve sweater and he had to go and change into one of those ridiculously stupid, sexy, (did I mention stupid? And also so, so very sexy) wife pleaser vests. His muscles are on full display- arms toned and chest rippling. Dear God. The alcohol buzzing around my system is screaming at me to bite his bicep- surely it wouldn’t be that weird, right? Just a little nibble...

No. What the fuck is wrong with me? I need to get a fucking grip. Perhaps a grip on those sculpted pecs while- No. Not doing that now.

Looking like the cat that ate the canary, Bucky wears the smuggest, filthiest grin on his face. “Oh, sweetheart…” He saunters over to my side of the table and picks up my last red solo cup- there is a small, orange ping pong ball floating tauntingly in the cool brown liquid. He fishes it out with his fingers it and sets it down on the table.

“Drink up.”

I flash him a glare, my eyes narrow as he brings the cup up to my lips. His eyes are trained on me as I gulp down the last of my drink.

“Good. Now let’s discuss my prize.” He removes the cup and wipes away a stray droplet of beer that escaped out the corner of my mouth, with his thumb. Without stopping, he brings that same digit to his lips and licks it. I feel frozen, dumbstruck, and I’m quite sure I look it. My jaw hangs open slightly as I watch him. I gulp, suddenly very thirsty.

“Cocky, weren’t you? Sweetheart?” he smirks and pinches my chin lightly with his pointer finger and his thumb. He gives me a light squeeze and retreats. The touch sends a shiver down my spine, goosebumps erupt down my arms and the delicious burn of desire settles in my stomach.

“Shut up, Barnes. I don’t know which devil you gave your soul to for skills like that, but I have got to say… that seems like a pretty good deal. You're alright." I admit defeat, my shoulders rise and I hold my hands up in surrender. I smile at him cheekily as he approaches. His steps are slow, deliberate. Wrapped in confidence and assuredness.

“So, Jamie. Your prize- what’ll it be?” I ask, after a small beat of silence.

We look at each other for a moment, just a single moment. Although, it doesn't feel that way. Lifetimes could have passed us by, empires could have risen and fallen- and I would still be lost in his eyes. The deep azure pierces my very soul. He blinks and clears his throat, looking to the floor almost embarrassedly.

"Buck? You alright?" I enquire, moving closer to him.

He chuckles and nods his head slowly.

“You know my cousin, Emma? She’s uh- she’s gettin’ married next Saturday and... And I need a date.” Earnest fills his words, and an irresistible, infuriatingly beautiful smile appears on his face.

I have to resist the urge to pinch myself, because this could only be a really fucked up, steamy dream. I’m silent for a beat, trying to comprehend exactly what he said and the implications behind that.

“I mean, sweetheart, only if you want to. If you- uh- like if you’re not into that, I can just go solo.” His voice holds a slight tremble at the end of his sentence. Holy shit- is he nervous?

“No, no! I am- I’d be into that. We can definitely go together.” I reassure him. My heart pounds against my ribcage, my cheeks heat and a bright smile finds its way onto my face.

“It’d just be better for my ma to think I’m seein’ someone. I know she’s gonna try pair me up with her neighbour’s daughter. Again.” His hands are dug deeply in his pockets, his Adams apple bobs as he swallows.

Realisation flashes on my face. Friends. He wants to go as friends who are pretending to be dating. Right, of course.

“Yeah, for sure. Uh- I’ve got you covered, Jamie.” My smile falters, only for a moment. His eyebrows scrunch together, concern flashing across his features. I give him a half-hearted smile.

“Alright, thanks Birdie. You’re a lifesaver.” He removes his hands from his pockets and claps them together. “You want another drink? I can make you somethin’ quick.”

“Sure, yeah. Do you still have that margarita mix? It was yummy.” I suggest, clumsily. I need to find my footing after that absolute emotional rollercoaster, so he will just have to excuse my unbecoming behavior.

People start filtering out one by one and soon, the disco lights are turned off and the soft, warm glow of the lamps fill the living room. I find myself leaning against Bucky on the worn leather couch, exhaustion weighs heavily on me, and I find my eyes flitting shut for a few moments at a time.

“Birdie? You wanna go to bed?” Bucky coos.

I grumble in response, not fully committed to giving him a proper answer.

He chuckles, it’s rich and dark and perfect. “You can take the guest bedroom if you want… Or do you want to sleep here, sweetheart?”

“Bed.” I manage to mumble, with half lidded eyes and a stifled yawn.

“Do you need me to walk you there? You good to do that, baby? Or should I carry you?” His voice is soft, full of compassion. Even drunk and exhausted, it makes my heart swell. I can’t help but smile- it’s lazy and probably not my most picture-perfect smile, but it’s there now.

“Just fucking carry me. I know you want to- you know I want you to.”

He laughs out and hops up to scoop me up from my position on the couch. His strong arms come up under me and Bucky carries me to the guest bedroom, he doesn’t even break a sweat. You’d swear he was a goddamn superhero or something.

Bucky lays me down gingerly and I shift to get comfortable as I feel the softness of the mattress beneath me. “Thank you, sweet Jamie. My sweet… sweet Jamie.” My eyes flutter shut and I nestle into the pillow.

“G’night, Birdie. Sweet dreams.” He leans down and presses a chaste kiss to my forehead. If I'd been more cognizant, perhaps I would've seen the way he smiled down at me from the side of the bed, eyes soft and full of care. Maybe I would have noticed his hesitance to leave, or the way he brought his fist up to his chest and rubbed it soothingly. Perhaps I would've picked up on the fact that his heart burned inside his chest for me, the same way mine did for him.

Hello everyone! This is the first part of my first ever series, I really hope you like it!

Please let me know what you all thought of it!

xoxo, Viv

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