#Felt a strong need to speak on this almost a decade later

[hatchetation]

The worst character assassination on the planet was grey’s anatomy making calliope torres battle for sole custody of sofia and act like arizona had never been a true mother to their daughter. Sorry but the callie torres I know had the biggest, most loving and generous heart and she would have NEVER

[bibbityboppitybillyharvgrove]

Holiday Blues - S.Rogers

Summary - Steve Rogers loves the holiday season, going all out with baking cookies, blasting holiday music and watching a constant stream of holiday movies. Y/N, his floormate and teammate, never celebrated the holidays and he wanted to know why. It takes her time but she finally opens up to him after an impromptu sparring session at midnight.

Word Count - 2117

Author's note - Welcome to Day 8 of my 25 days of fics! This is getting uploaded later than I usually do because it was not written in advance. School has been crazy with the end of the semester coming next week so I have been very busy. I hope you enjoy!

Warnings - Hydra, mentions of torture and brainwashing, Steve is a very patient man, not proofread, vulgar language, use of Y/N, Female Reader, (let me know if I missed any!)

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As she got older and the world became an increasingly worse place, it was hard to get into the Christmas spirit. She had seen most of the horrors of the world, alien invasions? Check, more than once. Half the world disappearing? Check. Meeting 2 men that were born during World War I? Check and check. She herself was much older than most people assumed, she was born during the late 20s so she knew how the two men felt.

However, only one of them embraced the holiday spirit and that was Steve. Steve who had probably seen worse than most of them, other than Bucky and Nat of course. Steve who was used as propaganda during the war. Steve who was ‘America’s Golden Boy’. Steve who was Captain America. A majority of the world never thought of Captain America as Steve Rogers, no, they thought of a strong man who had been a world protector starting with the second world war. Sure he was frozen for nearly 80 years but that didn’t matter to them, what mattered was the image America attached to him.

Y/N, who was a bit younger than Steve, still understood him better than most. She knew what it was like to be used for the ‘betterment’ of society. She knew what it was like for nobody to truly see the person she was. She knew what it was like to be frozen in time for decades and wake up confused and lost in a world filled with all this new kind of technology. She knew and Steve understood that. He understood that they went through similar things in their lives. He understood what she felt deep down but never let it show. 

Speaking of the horrors she had faced, well there was more than just alien invasions. She had faced escaping from Hydra, who was thought to be dormant. She had to face constant brain washing and memory wiping because no matter how often it was done, there was still a little piece of her inside that was fighting. That little piece was fighting for everything it had which wasn’t a lot. She was poor, her parents had died and her sister had moved to another state with her husband. She was left alone and Hydra saw this, Hydra saw a girl that was lonely and needed somebody so they became that somebody. She was manipulated into becoming a pawn in their game.

She had lost her faith in humanity long before she had woken up in the 21st century. But as she lived in this new century, she felt more out of place than she ever did. Because of this, she hadn’t felt the need to celebrate any holidays or any of her own birthdays. To her, these were miniscule things in a huge world of issues that needed to be resolved.

With living in the Avengers tower, it was quite hard to get away from holidays. Almost every inch of the tower had been decorated for the holiday season, Christmas lights and Hanukkah candles staring her in the face every time she left her room. She had even told Tony that she didn’t want her floor to be decorated but he ignored that request and her floor was decorated anyway. 

Even Bucky, who shared her floor, didn’t want the decorations up. He too could care less about the holidays after all of the horrors he had seen. The two of them brought up the point to Steve who was the other person on their floor. Tony thought it was funny to keep the three of them together and call it the glacier floor but that’s besides the point. Steve admitted he was the one who wanted the floor decorated. Bucky and Y/N knew that Steve had a particular love for holidays, no matter what kind of holiday it was.

The two couldn’t be mad at him so they ignored the decorations the best they could, ignored the constant baking the best they could and ignored the constant holiday movies and songs the best they could.

Steve, on the other hand, was trying to get the two of them excited for the holidays. He couldn’t understand why they hated holidays so much so he took to asking. Bucky was okay with the holidays but Y/N would almost disappear during them. He had asked Bucky first and all he said was he was too old to celebrate holidays to which Steve scoffed at his life-long best friend. Steve knew it was an excuse but he brushed it off since Bucky had started watching holiday movies with him and helped him with his baking.

Steve couldn’t seem to get a straight forward answer from Y/N though. It was like she hated talking about the subject of holidays all together. But Steve watched as her walls cracked a little bit and her true feeling shone through. 

“I used to love the holidays, especially when I still had my parents around and my sister. We had so many traditions that I couldn’t keep track but as I got older and my parents' health deteriorated, we stopped our traditions because they were becoming too much. After they died and my sister and her husband left the state, I was alone so I didn’t feel the need to celebrate the holidays anymore. I had nobody to celebrate them with, I guess I just never went back to celebrated after waking up,” She explained to Steve, but he knew there was more to the story. Her voice changed a lot as she spoke about why she stopped celebrating but it wavered the most when she said she stopped celebrating. He could tell she was lying to him just by her voice but she also avoiding his eye contact and was shifting from foot to foot. Those were her usual tells that she was lying.

“There’s something more that you aren’t telling me, isn’t there?” He asked her.

“There is but let’s save that for another day.” So they did save it for another day, Steve brushing it off until she looked particularly off, more than usual during the winter holiday season.

“What’s going on? You seem upset,” Steve asked her quietly one night in the kitchen. He was cleaning up after a baking disaster with Bucky, the other super soldier going off to bed after. It was just the two of them as it neared midnight, the only light being the gentle ceiling lights that hung over the island.

“Just thinking about my life back in the 30s. I couldn’t sleep so I spiraled a bit and needed to get out of my own head for a bit. Wanna head to the gym with me?” She offered him. He put the rag he was cleaning with down and followed her to the elevator so they could go to the gym.

“You wanna talk about it?” He questioned gently, not trying to pry the information out of her.

“Maybe after I get some energy out.”

So as they entered the gym after getting off of the elevator, it was quiet. He had never heard the gym so quiet before, usually music was playing or someone was in there training but it was desolate. Y/N loved coming to train at this time, enjoying the quiet and the privacy it provided. The two of them sparred for a bit, and by a bit that really means nearly 3 hours before one of them got even remotely tired. 

“You wanna tell me what’s going on now?” Steve asked as they both laid on the floor of the ring, panting and sweating from their long spar session.

“I was taken by Hydra 75  years ago today and tomorrow will be 75 years of me having the serum in my body. It’s why I hate the holidays so much, they remind me of Hydra and what they did to me. Reminds me of times when I was younger and able to believe in my family’s traditions. When I was innocent and not a monster that Hydra created. When I was me,” She explained absently. She was staring at the ceiling as she talked and continued on as he spoke back.

“So Hydra took you on Christmas Eve and you got the serum on Christmas day? Why would they do that to you? You were so young!” 

“Because I was alone and sad. My parents had just died, my dad dying of cancer and my mom dying of a broken heart, my sister got married and left to some southern state with her husband. They saw that I was vulnerable and alone so they used that as their opportunity to take me. I went willingly because I thought that I was doing the right thing, they really knew how to play mind games. Then I met Bucky, he was still Bucky but he was getting tortured and brainwashed right next to me until he wasn’t Bucky anymore. I was the next in line, getting the serum hurt like a son of a bitch, I didn’t think I would live but I did. Then came my torture and brainwashing. I put up a hell of a fight, nearly 40 years until I gave up fighting.”

Steve’s heart was heavy as she talked, not knowing what to say so he just listened. “There were a few times I almost died but they never let that happen, I was a winter soldier, one of two compliant soldiers they could use and abuse however they liked. I was in and out of cryo just like Bucky, when I was in he was out and when he was out I was in, that made for the consistency that they wanted and craved. The last time they sent me on a mission with Bucky was to kill Howard and Maria. I spent so many years of my life frozen in some unclaimed territory so when I escaped right before the issue with SHIELD, I had no idea who I was or what I was doing. I had such a hard time adjusting to everything going on because the last time I was out of cryo was the 90s where technology wasn’t as advanced. That’s probably why you found me so quickly, I didn’t know how to lay low and in the shadows in this new world.”

“Come with me,” Steve said, getting up and holding out his hand for her to take. She grabbed his hand, pulling herself up and followed him. He hadn’t let go of her hand and neither did she. They left the tower, both of them in sweaty pajamas, and walked through the streets of New York City. She had no idea where Steve was taking her but she willingly followed. They finally stopped right in front of the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree, brightly lit and holding the winter snow in all of the right places to make the view even more breathtaking.

“That’s beautiful, I haven’t seen this in person ever. I never realized how pretty it actually is,” She rambled about the beauty of the large evergreen. 

“I know holidays are tough and trust me I understand what it’s like to spend them alone, but you don’t have to, not anymore. You have me, Bucky and the rest of the team. We can start new traditions, just me and you and go from there. How does that sound?” Steve asked her, his eyes lit up with joy and wonder, he looked like a kid in a candy store.

“Can this be one of them? Seeing the tree at 3 in the morning on Christmas eve?” She asked innocently as she looked into his storm blue eyes.

“Of course it can. We can add a new one every year.”

She smiled a real smile for the first time since November had rolled around. The two of them enjoyed the view of the tree and the company of one another as the sun started to rise. They stood there until the sun was up and the streets were getting busy before making their way back to the tower. The two of them happy as could be, hands intertwined as they practically skipped through the tower and to the main kitchen floor where they had breakfast as a team every morning. 

Y/N was happy to be starting new traditions with someone she loved dearly, someone who cared about her but never pried her for anything that was on her mind, someone who let her take her time opening up and going to him in times of need. Someone she needed in her life.

[volturiwolf]

Dandelions - A Paul Lahote x fem!reader Story - Part 1

A/N: currently coming down with 👑 (iykyk) for the first time despite my vaccinations and I'm pretty sure I'd be in the hospital without them SO I needed something interesting happening in my life and here it is

A/N 2: The timeline is a bit stretched to fit age criteria - Jacob, Jared, Paul, Embry, and Quil are 18 or almost 18; Bella is almost 21 - she was traveling a lot with Renee and Phil and she missed a few years of school.

∘˚˳°∘˚˳°∘˚˳°∘˚˳°∘˚˳°∘˚˳°∘˚˳°∘˚˳°∘˚˳°∘˚˳°∘˚˳°∘˚˳°∘˚˳°∘˚˳°∘˚˳°∘˚˳°

Taglist: @xxx-wounded-angel-xxx @venusdelaroix @morganaah @paisley-37 @idkanymor3e

(Y/N)’s POV

I loved my life. I had a loving found-family. I was abandoned in the woods when I was a baby, but Rosalie and Emmett found and adopted me, and I had never felt unloved since. They were wonderful parents, caring and loving, and gave me all the attention and care I needed. What had been stripped away from me years ago, I got 10 times more with these two and the Cullens.

With two amazing parents came two amazing grandparents, two amazing uncles, and one amazing aunt. When Edward got together with Bella, I knew I had gained another amazing aunt, though she was way more shy and introverted than Alice was, and just a few years older than me. That was quite amazing though because Edward himself was exactly that - shy and close to himself. It was like they each found their perfect match.

Despite the incident that happened on Bella’s birthday, which put both hers and my life in danger - Jasper had completely lost himself for just a few minutes, and the fact that we all had to move away for a while - mom and dad took me on vacation to the Bahamas, Bella still loved Edward a lot. Despite the pain; despite the distance; despite being from two different worlds.

Though I was still quite young - at least in my parents’ eyes, I too wished for a love as strong and as loving as theirs. The way they met was not ideal by any means, but they somehow - even under these unorthodox circumstances - found each other, and they saw what true love meant. Sixty years later, they found me, and it had been the best life I could have ever had ever since.

Of course, I knew they were all vampires but I didn’t mind at all. I didn’t care what they were; they were my family above everything else, and I would love them even if they were demons or whatever. In the end, it doesn’t matter who you are; you are not defined by your character or your appearance; your actions are the ones to be judged. Your actions speak louder than anything else - if you’re actively a bad person, that’s what you need to change.

I would never judge them for being vampires, nor would I tell anyone else. And despite what Edward had been constantly saying, my mom only killed those people who sexually attacked her, which was truly inspiring and fair, in my opinion. They took her life; they assaulted her body and soul; they left her emotionally scarred for decades. Killing them was the least she could do.

Unfortunately, the only downside of living with vampires was that it meant we moved around. A lot. I didn’t complain about all the great places I’ve been to and all the people I met, but we moved too fast and too soon for me to make any real friends. Connecting with others had been difficult for me because of this, but I could never blame my parents for that. They needed to move as much as they did.

People talked too much, always curious about the new family with the supernaturally beautiful people. I was the exception, of course. I was too plain and too simple to compete with my family’s standards. Being a vampire had its perks of unconditional beauty, though my mom was probably the most beautiful of all the vampires I had ever met.

I was always presented as ‘Dr. and Mrs. Cullen’s youngest daughter’. Being just 14 when we first arrived at Forks, there was no way people believed Rosalie and Emmett were my parents, and Carlisle and Esme were my grandparents. It was hard being away from my family, starting in a new school, in the middle of 9th grade, while my parents and uncles were in the 11th or 12th. 

I was in a different school, on the outskirts of Forks, while all the others were going to Forks High School. I was closer to the Quileute reservation, and, though my family was forbidden from ever going near, I was still human and I could still spend time on the beach there. I liked the Second Beach more than the First; it was not as close to the reservation and thus, it was way quieter and more peaceful.

That was where I met Jacob Black, Embry Call, Quil Ateara, Jared Cameron, and Paul Lahote. They all were the same age, though a year older than me. It was fun spending time with them back then when everything was - seemingly - normal. Back then, they didn’t know they had the werewolf gene, or that there were vampires, as much as I didn’t know they descended from wolves, having the werewolf gene. 

My family told me about the legends, but they didn’t tell specifically who was able to transform back in their days. Besides, I thought that getting “the truth” from their side would not have been as biased as it would be if I had heard it from both sides. I decided that it wasn’t my place to snoop around, trying to find the truth that would satisfy me, instead of the truth that covered both sides and was the most unbiased of all. 

I hadn’t realized that life changed too quickly when Bella showed up. We went from the seemingly normal family to being chased by another vampire who was after Bella; to having to leave our lives behind when Edward decided to leave her; to coming back and pretending everything was okay; to having another vampire going after Bella; to having to witness one of the most gruesome births in my life; to going against the vampire royalty. All that in less than 2 years.

It was a lot for me. The first time when we were chased by James, my parents had to leave me back at the reservation. They actually had to beg the Elders to let me stay there, as I was a human and couldn’t keep up with the vampires. Bella was James’s target, so my family would have to work and cooperate around her anyway. But I wasn’t part of the equation, and my parents thought I shouldn’t have been, so I had to stay back.

When the incident between Bella and Jasper happened, we all had to leave Forks. Alice decided to take Jasper away from humans for a while so that he could relax from everything that happened on Bella’s birthday. They decided to travel across South America, as my parents took me to a private villa in the Bahamas, away from other guests who would have questioned their sparkly skins. 

It was also a way for me to have some “normal” time away from the hectic vampiric way of life. I wasn’t gonna lie; it was a nice change from the constantly moody weather. I also got to review my classes for this year and the next, since I had pretty much missed over 6 months of school.

When we came back, it was towards the end of the semester. Technically, I was behind in my classes, but a confirmation note from Mrs. Iklor, a supposed private tutor my parents hired for the time we were out of town, allowed me to go back to my classes and finish that year smoothly. 

My parents were already done with school, and they wanted us to spend more time together as a family. They told me I could still get "homeschooled" but I just missed school. Well, to be honest, I missed the normality - not being around vampires 24/7. But I couldn't tell them that, so I only told them I missed school. Edward didn't tell them what I had in my mind, and they decided to stay in town for my own sake.

Unfortunately, nothing good can last too long. It wasn't long before Bella was chased by another vampire once again; this time Victoria, James's mate. We never had so many vampires coming after us - including the beef with the Volturi - until we came here, in Forks. Life was much, much quieter and boring in Alaska, and part of me missed those peaceful days.

At first, I wasn’t allowed to go to the graduation party, though it took little convincing from Alice for mom and dad to let me, but “as long as Alice and Edward were there to watch after me”. Mom couldn’t stand the way modern teenagers behaved, especially when at parties, and dad would - almost - always agree with mom. 

The party was fun and exciting if you were just a human. However, I knew what was going on, so there was fear and anxiety, in the end, for me. On the flip side, I got to see Embry and Quil again - Jacob kept his distance ever since he found out the truth about my family, and, despite me being human, he refused to get too close to me ever again. 

We didn’t talk much with Embry and Quil, but it was a nice change to talk to some people who were still human-like. I hadn’t talked to them ever since I came back to town, and with the constant beef between the two sides, I was caught in the middle.

And it seemed like it was a never-ending situation. This war my family had with Victoria seemed to be way more serious than what they had with James. Victoria was creating an army, an army of newborn vampires, powerful enough to destroy my family and the local community, which was why both Cullens and Quileutes had to put their differences aside and work together.

Carlisle asked the Denalis for their help before he went to the wolves, but Tanya refused for the sake of Irina and her hatred towards the wolves for killing Laurent. After that, he knew he couldn’t persist anymore, so he went to the wolves for help. 

But, before they ended their conversation, mom and dad asked Tanya if I could stay with them until all this was over. There was a lingering fear that the army would eliminate them and everyone else around, and they didn’t want to lose me, even if that meant I would lose them. Tanya really wanted to have me around again but thought that it still wouldn’t be good for Irina, so she had to “sadly refuse”.

I wasn’t gonna lie, I missed Alaska. I spent almost 15 years of my life there, but I was actually so relieved that Tanya refused to take me in. Not knowing how everyone would be doing or what would be happening around here would be literal torture for me. At least now, I would be still around and I wouldn’t worry more than I already did.

As for the wolves, up until now, there were 8 of them on the Quileute reservation, including Leah and Seth Clearwater. They had joined Sam’s pack, along with my friends, and they all knew about my family, and probably me, as well, though I wasn’t 100% sure what exactly they knew or thought of me. 

It wouldn’t be fair if they judged me in comparison to my family, but I didn’t know the way they were thinking of me now. And I couldn’t and wouldn’t blame them; their lives turned upside down and they had every right to be angry with my family. After all, the vampires’ presence in the area was what caused their transformation in the first place, though we didn’t know that when we first came to town.

When my family and the wolves had the chance to train for the upcoming battle with the newborns, I had to beg my parents to let me watch. They thought that being too close to them when they were ready to fight and their minds would probably be hazy and battle-ready would put me in extreme danger, and they wouldn’t negotiate with me any further. 

I had to remind them that nobody would hurt me - not themselves, or the rest of my family, or even the wolves. Besides, Bella would be there too, so why couldn’t I? I would have at least two to protect me in case anything went wrong. That angered my mother even more; she wanted an excuse for me not to join, but now she lost that too. Eventually, she had to give up and let me join them. 

Both mom and dad were hesitant to allow me to meet up with everyone else at the training spot and made sure to nag me enough into giving up, but I wouldn’t let that go so easily. Besides, my parents always taught me to stay clear in my position and not let others boss me around. 

While the others would go there by feet, we had to take dad’s jeep because of me. Rosalie refused to have Emmett run with me on his back; she was afraid I’d catch a cold because of the wind or go into shock or something, and she wasn’t going to risk it.

Carlisle and Esme were the first ones to get there, and dad parked the car just as Alice and Jasper arrived at the spot. We only had to wait for Edward, Bella, and the wolves now. Emmett quickly came by my side, and lifted me in his arms, as he and Rose joined hands and walked towards the others.

“Dad, you know I’m old and big enough to walk on my own, right? This is quite embarrassing.” I whined and joked at the same time. I understood they were both to be protective of me, but this was too much.

“I’m just being careful, (Y/N). We don’t want to risk anything.” Dad did not look at me; he was only looking forward, waiting for the wolves to show up.

“You know that most of them are my friends, at least they used to be. And I’m almost 17. It’s just weird having my dad carry me around.” I admitted. 

I was saddened my supposed friends never hung out with me after I came back to Forks. Probably because they were already wolves by that time, and they wanted nothing to do with the vampires’ daughter. Four months after we came back, I was still waiting for them to ask me to hang out, as I didn’t want to be the one forcing a friendship on them.

“We don’t know their intentions with you. And they are wolves now. So we have to protect you even more than before. It’s better to keep a distance between us.”

We walked beside Esme and dad finally let me walk on my own, as I came to stand beside my grandma. It was weird to call Esme grandma, though she technically was my grandma. Mom came to stand beside me, and dad stood in front of us as if he was a shield, ready to cover and protect us. 

We still had to wait a few minutes for the others, so dad decided to challenge Jasper, who would be the one showing us - them - how to fight off newborns. Emmett was primarily relying on his exceptional strength, so he thought everything would be easy, too easy for him. Uncle Jasper showed him that was not the case when dad ended up getting tossed around at least 10 times. But his ego wouldn’t let him lose, so he would go “Again!” and “Again!” for about 10 more times.

Finally, Edward and Bella arrived at the clearing, and it was about 10 seconds later that the wolves showed up, as if they were waiting just for them to show up. Mom gently pushed her behind me, as if to cover me up from the wolves’ prying eyes, but I still turned my head around to get a better look at them. 

There were 8 massive wolves in front of us, varying only slightly in size. It was clear who the Alpha was, as Sam was both the oldest and the biggest wolf of all of them. Seeing my old friends in wolf forms was surreal and scary. I was used to seeing vampires because they looked somewhat human - they had a human form. But I had never seen humans being transformed into huge wolves.

“They don’t trust us enough to be in their human forms.” Edward explained to us.

“They came. That’s what matters.” Carlisle had always been understanding of others, but I was slightly in shock by the existence of wolves in front of me. It wasn’t like I was standing right in front of them on my own, but seeing how massive and strong they seemed made me a bit uncomfortable.

Mom must have sensed my fear and hesitation, as she took my hand in hers and caressed it. “Don’t worry, baby, you’re safe here.” She whispered soothingly, and that calmed my nerves just a bit.

“Thanks, mom.” I leaned on her shoulder, as she turned to plant a kiss on my forehead.

Carlisle started explaining how Jasper was experienced with the newborns, as all eyes now fell on my uncle. He added how newborns were way more powerful than regular vampires, because of their own blood still lingering in their tissues, before Jasper took over to make his points.

“Now, the two most important things to remember are, first, never let them get their arms around you. They’ll crush you instantly. And second, never go for the obvious kill. They’ll be expecting that, and you will lose.” His words made me shiver; I didn’t even want to think that anyone from my family, or the wolves, would get hurt or die at the hands of a newborn.

A wolf growled at Jasper, as he called upon my dad, who walked too confidently for his own good if we took into consideration what had been happening a few minutes ago. We turned around to look at my dad and uncle’s fight, and I felt someone’s eyes on my back but was too frozen in my place to turn around and see who it was.

Just as I said, dad was relying too much on his strength and speed, while Jasper relied on techniques, and he easily overpowered Emmett. Dad quickly stood up, finally feeling defeated, and walked beside me, holding my hand to comfort himself. 

Then, it was grandad and Edward. I thought a fight between them would be tricky since uncle Edward could have easily been reading Carlisle’s thoughts about his next moves. We were all watching their battle carefully, as they moved around too fast. And when we thought Edward won, Carlisle stood up and pinned him to the ground victoriously. I heard my parents snickering, and I laughed at that, as well.

Jasper called upon my mom next, and she let go of my hand as she walked toward him. I heard a growl behind me, and I felt the hairs on my back and my hands standing, but I never turned around. It was my dad the one who did, and I heard him growling back towards the wolves’ side.

Mom was too good, much better than dad. Instead of showing off her strength, she focused more on avoiding Jasper’s moves in a rhythmical dance. She was the first one Jasper called it even with. Just like my dad, she too came by my side to hold my hand.

Finally, it was Alice the one to beat Jasper, because he was being too cocky and thought he would seduce her to call it even, when in fact, she played him and beat him to it. It was hilarious and cute at the same time. Jasper continued training with Esme and Carlisle, then my mom and dad competed against each other. 

They were fun to watch: dad was trying not to attack mom too hard, and mom was trying to mess up with dad. I had a hard laugh watching them. But I heard another growl behind me, and this time, I turned to look at the one who seemed like they could not stop growling all this time. My eyes fell upon a wolf with dark silver fur and gray, almost silver, eyes. He was shorter than the Alpha but seemed to be the most muscular of all.

The wolf turned to look at me before instantly freezing in his place. They seemed scared, or taken aback - I couldn’t really tell what it was. I could only stand there and stare at them with curiosity and total oblivion as to what was happening to them, but, for some reason, I felt my hands trembling. They tried taking a few steps toward me, before I quietly gasped and my parents were by my side in a second, having abandoned their fight.

“What’s their problem?” My mom shouted towards the wolf, not really caring if anyone answered back. 

My dad, however, turned towards Edward. “Edward! What is going on?”

Edward was looking in between the three of us and the wolves, trying to decide whether to tell us what was going on or not. “Paul. I have to tell them. They need to know.” The wolf - Paul - growled at Edward, as he continued. “Paul just imprinted. On (Y/N).”

That was enough for my parents to lose their minds. My mom quickly grabbed me, not thinking that she could actually hurt me with her strength, and turned around to take me away from there, as my dad launched forward at an angry Paul who was now growling and trying to fight my dad off of him. 

I could only hear the loud growls from both sides as my family and the wolves started attacking each other, but I couldn’t do or say anything as my mom took me out of there, running through the woods with me in her arms.

✧•✿•✯•♡•☆•✧•✿•✯•♡•☆•✧•✿•✯•♡•☆•✧•✿

Paul’s POV

“They can’t do that! They have no right to take (Y/N) away from me! And so..violently! She’s my imprint!” I was growling as I was walking around Sam and Emily’s living room, still angry at the Cullens.

“And they are her family! They were afraid you were gonna launch at her! She’s only human and they were worried something could happen to her. Try to see their point of view.” Sam was trying to reason with him, but I didn’t care about any of that.

“I would have never dared lay a finger on her and you know that! You all know that!” I turned around to point at my packmates.

“Yeah, but her parents don’t know that. For all they know, we are supposed to be mortal enemies. Who were to say that we wouldn’t attack their daughter?” Embry responded.

“Because, one, she is human. Two, that mind-reading leech knew that I imprinted on her and that I wouldn’t let anything happen to her! They just don’t want a wolf to be associated with their daughter, ‘cause they hate us. That buff leech had it for me ever since the incident with the red-haired leech.”

“And you are not making it any better. I’m sure (Y/N) would not appreciate you calling her father and family leeches.” Quil spoke as a matter of factly.

“I… I wouldn’t want her to hate me for that.” I abruptly calmed down; the thought of her hating me was tearing me up.

“Paul, just give them some time to process everything. I’m sure her family will understand. Dr. and Mrs. Cullen will be the most understanding of all. I’m sure they will ease everyone’s nerves. And I think (Y/N) may be feeling the same about you.” Emily spoke softly, sitting on Sam’s lap.

I turned to look at her, frowning my eyebrows. “How do you know she feels the same?” 

“Because, one, the imprint is based on mutual feelings, most of the time. Fate does not pair people randomly; your imprint is what the universe and the ancestors think will be good for you. And two, I remember when you all said that when you used to hang out with (Y/N), you two were inseparable, like partners in crime. I’m sure that was no coincidence either. I think she must have liked you, too.”

I had to think a lot about that perspective. I had never realized that (Y/N) may have ever liked me. I must admit that hanging out with her used to be fun. She was alone and lonely when she found us, claiming her older siblings went to Forks High School, and she was still left in middle school.

Despite our apparent differences, she was really fun to have around, and when she was suddenly gone without any explanation, something inside me broke. I missed her presence around us, around me. 

And then, after a sudden outburst of anger over her leaving, I shifted for the first time, and it was my time to leave Embry, Jacob, and Quil behind, just as Jared did a week or two before me.

I thought about all the little moments I had with her. I had to find a way to get to (Y/N), talk to her, and explain everything. Unfortunately, as much as I tried to find or contact her, I could no longer find her around. She wouldn’t come down to the Second Beach, as she used to, or even to the reservation. 

There was only one person that could probably be able to communicate with her; one person that spent most of their time around or close to her. I reluctantly picked up my phone and called the number I found through Jacob. The phone beeped for a few seconds before they picked up. 

“Hey, Bella, it’s Paul. I need to ask you something.”

[terracomets]

I've been reading your Misfit Mania fic and I just finished Chapter 14, and I'm curious: Since we don't see Axel's POV of his fight with Aiden, why *does* he forgive him? Or, at least agree to tolerate him.

this has been sitting in my inbox for a while and ive been wondering how to word the answer. there is one, and ill say this to start: later on youll see axel and aiden become more friendly, but i dont think axel ever fully forgives and especially does not forget what aiden did.

but, given the group's situation during chapters 13-17, and especially their situation in the second half of the fic (chapters 20-40) they dont really have time to deal with infighting. the infighting thats already happening is affecting the other characters (the tension is making calloway more stressed, which makes their wither sickness worse, for example), and thats why petra practically forces the two of them (mostly aiden) into an enviornment where they'd have to speak. she also knows that aiden wont stick up to her LMAO

petra is manipulating the situation for the better of the group and creek, who they're trying to save. does she actually believe that aiden is better? probably not. she wasnt around for the events of the prequel fic. does she know he's still extremely desperate to prove himself to an almost sad degree? yeah. so shell use that to everyones advantage.

pike also mentions that axel's anger is distractingly strong and more powerful than any anger she's felt since she came to the Overworld over a decade ago. this is notable for her, given her origins and what caused her to leave the end in the first place:

as for axel actually "forgiving" aiden, to me, he realizes (and maybe always knew) that he needs to put this aside for the sake of the group and creek. i think a part of why his anger was so intense is that he was having some kind of internal argument with himself; part of him knowing he needs to shove this aside, and part of him fighting to keep it in his head so he never forgets. its a defense mechanism.

a big thing of axels character and how i interpret it is that he hates being hurt, and thinks if he lets his guard down around a person he already doesn't trust in a stressful situation, hell just get hurt again. misfit mania is, honestly, just a massive excuse to explore facets of some of my favorite characters in mcsms cast LOL. axel takes the cake with that, especially in chapter 25 and s2 as a whole.

[the-masked-ram]

You Look Like Home- Chapter Two

CW: Not SFW, Dark Content, Yandere themes, Monster fucking, Demon fucking, Demogorgon!chisaki, Dub-con, Later Consensual, Fem Reader, Tail fucking, Rimming (reader recieving), Slow Burn, Plot heavy, Angel/Demon relationship, Forbidden love, War, Breeding Kink, Anal, Vaginal Penetration, Oral, Choking, Corruption, Age Difference (kinda?), Alternate Universe, Loss of virginity ---

Chapter Two: Shackles It had started the last few weeks. There was an agonizing crackling in your chest every time you felt strong emotions whip through you. It had been a recent development; your runic bindings were glowing more often, though the power they exuded seemed to have weakened. You felt like you were being ripped apart sometimes until the rings around your limbs stuttered to life, and you could finally breathe again. You had no real idea what was going on, you had no idea how to stop it either, and no one was telling you. Your mind reeled, trying to figure out answers, research in the library came up with nil, and you barely knew anything about anything on your own. You asked your mother, your father, the few other angels you could easily get into contact with, but honestly there seemed to only be one person willing to tell an iota of blunt truth in this fucked up world. Yet, you weren’t sure how you’d talk to him anytime soon. Despite the Overhauler straddling a line of godliness and demon lineage he still was considered a demon, and you were an angel. You were highly revered, someone coveted as the next generation of the cherubs and yet… you looked at the shimmering mirror just across from you hanging on the starkly white wall. It reflected your confusion; would he even tell you why you were struggling? Why wouldn’t the others? How could someone supposedly so powerful, be controlled by their own feelings? You touched your cheek, watching the doppelganger in the glass do the same. It was a hypnotizing vision, something that gave you some sort of comfort. How could you fix something if you didn’t even know what was happening? The light of your wings shuddered, and you decided in that moment you’d find a way to speak with Chisaki. The challenge would be doing it without anyone else finding out. ---- The Abyss had been strangely calm lately. A silence, only broken by the occasional scream of pain, had settled over the swirling mass of purple mist and burning rocks. It set Kai on edge, he rarely saw it this quiet. Almost as if it’s silence was akin to a predator walking a forest, like it was something wrong treading where it didn’t belong. As he crouched on the Barrier that separated the Abyssal Plains from the Netherworld, his tail whipped behind him, the only sign of his agitation. He felt unsettled, the ones called his charges were dwindling it seemed. But their power was still bright in his mind’s eye. He couldn’t find the reason behind the changes and he wondered if he would need to slip into a more proactive role soon. Chisaki was the only one who could safely wander the filth of the Abyss without being attacked by the Exiled, still the dimension itself drained him. The emptiness that stretched out before him was meant to suck all who entered of their energy, slowly and painfully. With no source of sustenance near, all who lingered eventually wasted away but not without spending decades in the grip of madness. So, Kai was always careful to be prepared before leaping into the swirling mists below. He needed to eat, to rest, and to probably let an underling or two know where he was wandering off to in case he got lost for a year or more. He frowned as he straightened, and slowly made his way back along the top of the Barrier, back to the Accursed Realms. As soon as his feet passed the threshold of the Netherworld, he felt the tingling in his runes, the usually black patterned tattoos changed to a flickering gold. Someone was praying to him. He tilted his horned head, a curious smile stretching across his masked face. No one prayed to the Demogorgon, so who would be that audacious to call him from the belly of the underworld. Eager to see the creature stupid enough to bother him, he let the prayers pull at him and followed their power. Whoever was demanding his attention was strong, if he had been a lesser demon, they probably wouldn’t have even needed his consent to drag him to their feet. Imagine his surprise when within seconds he stood in front of you. The room you called him to a mix of stark white and jumbled blue pastels. He guessed it was supposed to be reminiscent of the earthly sky at its most hopeful. When it was nothing but puffy white and robin egg blue. He looked down at you with that tilt to his head and a lift of his brow. A chuckle rumbling up his throat. “Well, well, looks like a certain cherub wants to get in trouble,” he couldn’t stop his eyes from crinkling with his ever-growing smile. ---- You couldn’t believe it worked, not even as you felt his answer to your prayers tremor though the lines your magic had cast. You could still barely believe your eyes as the demon towered over you, his stone-grey tail curling lazily around his legs, his eyes crinkling in a smile hidden behind the beaked mask perched on his face. He was an amazing sight. He fingers shifted the leather gloves on his hands to a tighter fit, fussing with the cuff of his dress shirt for a moment as he looked around the library you both stood in. Your wings shimmered in delight, the crackling coming to life painfully in your chest and making you gasp until the bindings around your limbs glowed to life. He looked down at the containment circle you’d carefully drawn to hold him still, “Did you summon me into the Ethereal Realms, little lamb?” He clicked his tongue in reprimand. “Technically,” you replied. “But that circle will keep you con—” Yet, he stepped out of the ring before you even finished your sentence. A small spark of white chased after him, but the magic dissipated as soon as he left the crushed crystals. “Contained?” he finished for you. “Not likely. You are centuries too young to be able to contain something as old as me.” You felt your breath catch in your chest, anxiety ramping up and the painful jolts shocked you so bad your wings winked out of sight while you collapsed onto a knee. When you looked up Chisaki was observing you with narrowed eyes. “Perhaps not as far away as I originally thought,” he murmured, in mild surprise. “Why did you call me?” “You said you’d tell me who I was when the time is right, that first time we met, remember?” you said, words spilling out in an eager rush as you moved to stand, clutching at your ribs. “Well I’m deciding now is the right time.” Chisaki’s brow quirked, “Are you now? And what has brought you to this conclusion?” You hunched over again, hissing out a breath while you fought back tears, “Something’s happening, and no one will explain though I’m pretty sure at least the Archangel Council know what’s going on. My mother seems to as well.” “And what makes you think I know?” Kai asked, his eyes narrowed. “Because you’re one of the oldest beings alive. Because you’ve probably seen this before,” you then met his golden gaze dead on. “And because the way you look more curious than surprised when I started going into spasms.” The tilt to his head was back and his slitted stare turned a shade darker as it flicked over your crumpled body. You met his watchful eyes head on, even as you muscles jerked under your skin and pain rocketed through your spine and ribs with each shallow breath. The runes around your wrists stuttered as they tried to keep up with your shifting magic. “Hm, you are a smart one,” he stated, slowly circling you. “I wouldn’t say I’ve seen this before, you are one of the rarest creatures in your own right. But I’ve seen similar happenings. Though often less violent and usually the angel is much older.” You knew you should feel wary, should be on the defensive, but you could barely stay standing, let alone try to keep Chisaki in your sights. You sighed, body quivering as the agony receded. “Can we stop talking in vague allusions? I would really like to know what’s going on, and if there is anyway to stop this pain,” you gasped, trying to stop the tremors from growing again. “Ah,” he was back in front of you and for once, he looked hesitant. “Yes, there is. But… it’s not really my place. Though I suppose I can make it better for now while I try to talk to Council. I think it’s time that they address this, lest you be torn apart. And it would be a shame to lose such a pivotal being.” He looked at you thoughtfully, a shadow in his eyes, his words held a weight that spoke of a hidden agenda. But you were too tired, brain too foggy, to be able to try and pick it apart. You just nodded eagerly, desperate for your internal organs and bones to stop aching. “Alright,” he said with a sigh, as if this was one of the worst annoyances he had been tasked with in his last century. He slipped one of his leather gloves off and pressed the warmth of his naked fingers against your collar bone. You blinked up at him, waiting and his eyes crinkled but it was different than before, damn that mask and hiding so much of his face. Suddenly a surge of power rushed through your aura, into your body, and swirled in your veins. You squeaked, breath coming out in sharp pants as you felt your very molecules split apart in areas and then shove back together in others and knit to form something new. You didn’t understand, it didn’t hurt but it wasn’t comfortable, and you squirmed, frantic to get away from the foreign sensation. A strong arm curled around your waist and held you in place, “Stay still, just give in, little lamb. It will be over soon.” You fisted your hands in his shirt blindly, realizing black spots were overtaking your vision, realizing you couldn’t hear well. Then all there was, was the black and you were tipping forward into unconsciousness. Into a solid chest that smelled like lemon, fresh linen, and the sharpness of rosemary. “Sleep, you’ll feel better when you wake up,” his voice was soft but strong, and you welcomed the command like there was no other choice. ---- Chisaki sneered down at your prone form, his lip curling in disgust at the way you clutched at him. He knew he needed your power, he knew he needed your strength, and it wasn’t a bad thing that you kept him entertained. But the touching thing… he sighed. He scooped you into his arms and placed you back onto the bed decorated with pale purple and white swirls. You smelled like the crisp scent of snow falling on the first night of winter, a sharp scent he placed as mint, and something warm that mellowed both out, the sugary sweetness of peaches. He felt the itch of stony scales along his face when his fingers once against brushed your skin, they must have first appeared when he used his powers. They’d grown down to his cheekbones. He sighed, shuddering at the thought of your filthy skin, focusing instead on the purity of your soul and letting the warm radiance it pushed out pull his scales back into his body. He needed you, he reminded himself again. He would never reach his goal or complete his promise without you. You were crucial and he’d been waiting for you for centuries. Chisaki looked down at you, not in revulsion this time, instead his gaze was calculating. Instead he looked at you like you were the key to everything. In the beginning he had just wanted to protect, in the beginning you were a source of amusement, he never could has imagined why he felt those things. How much was fate on his side? Was something, somewhere hoping for the Overhauler to succeed?

[dankusner]

So You Think You’ve Been Gaslit

When Leah started dating her first serious boyfriend, as a nineteen-year-old sophomore at Ohio State, she had very little sense that sex was supposed to feel good.

(Leah is not her real name.)

In the small town in central Ohio where she grew up, sex ed was basically like the version she remembered from the movie “Mean Girls”: “Don’t have sex, because you will get pregnant and die.”

With her college boyfriend, the sex was rough from the beginning.

There was lots of choking and hitting; he would toss her around the bed “like a rag doll,” she told me, and then assure her, “This is how everyone has sex.”

Because Leah had absorbed an understanding of sex in which the woman was supposed to be largely passive, she told herself that her role was to be “strong enough” to endure everything that felt painful and scary.

When she was with other people, she found herself explaining away bruises and other marks on her body as the results of accidents.

Once, she said to her boyfriend, “I guess you like it rough,” and he said, “No, all women like it like this.”

And she thought, “O.K., then I guess I don’t know shit about myself.”

Her boyfriend was popular on campus.

“If you brought up his name,” she told me, “people would say, ‘Oh, my God, I love that guy.’ ”

This unanimous social endorsement made it harder for her to doubt anything he said.

But, in private, she saw glimpses of a darker side—stray comments barbed with cruelty, a certain cunning.

He never drank, and, though in public he cited vague life-style reasons, in private he told her that he loved being fully in control around other people as they unravelled, grew messy, came undone.

Girls, especially.

Sometimes, when they were having sex, Leah would get a strong gut feeling that what was happening wasn’t right.

In these moments, she would feel overwhelmed by a self-protective impulse that drove her out of bed, naked and crying, to shut herself in the bathroom.

What she remembers most clearly is not the fleeing, however, but the return: walking back to bed, still naked, and embarrassed about having “made a scene.”

When she got back, her boyfriend would tell her, “You have to get it together. Maybe you should see someone.”

A few months after they broke up—not because of the sex but for “stupid normal relationship reasons”—Leah found herself chatting with a girl who was sitting next to her in a science lecture.

It emerged that this girl had gone to the same high school as her ex, and when Leah asked if she knew him the girl looked horrified.

“That guy’s a psycho,” she said.

Leah had never heard anyone speak about him like this.

The girl said that, in high school, he’d had a reputation for sexual assault.

Some of what she described sounded eerily familiar.

“The idea that he would want to have power over a girl while she was asleep was as easy for me to believe as the idea that he needed air to breathe,” she said.

“It reminded me of every sexual experience I had with him, where he had all of the power and I was only a vessel to accept it.”

Leah went back to her dorm room and lay in bed for almost two days straight.

She kept revisiting memories from the relationship, understanding them in a new way.

Evidently, what she’d understood as “normal” sex had been something more aggressive.

And her ex’s attempts to convince her otherwise—implying that she was crazy for having any problem with it—were a kind of controlling behavior so fundamental that she did not have a name for it.

Now, six years later, as a social worker at a university, she calls it “gaslighting.”

These days, it seems as if everyone’s talking about gaslighting.

In 2022, it was Merriam-Webster’s Word of the Year, on the basis of a seventeen-hundred-and-forty-per-cent increase in searches for the term.

In the past decade, the word and the concept have come to saturate the public sphere.

In the run-up to the 2016 election, Teen Vogue ran a viral op-ed with the title “Donald Trump Is Gaslighting America.”

Its author, Lauren Duca, wrote, “He lied to us over and over again, then took all accusations of his falsehoods and spun them into evidence of bias.”

In 2020, the album “Gaslighter,” by the Chicks (formerly known as the Dixie Chicks), débuted at No. 1 on the Billboard country chart, offering an indignant anthem on behalf of the gaslit: “Gaslighter, denier . . . you know exactly what you did on my boat.”

(What happened on the boat is revealed a few songs later:

“And you can tell the girl who left her tights on my boat / That she can have you now.”)

The TV series “Gaslit” (2022) follows a socialite, played by Julia Roberts, who becomes a whistle-blower in the Watergate scandal, having previously been manipulated into thinking she had seen no wrongdoing.

The Harvard Business Review has been publishing a steady stream of articles with titles like “What Should I Do if My Boss Is Gaslighting Me?”

The popularity of the term testifies to a widespread hunger to name a certain kind of harm.

But what are the implications of diagnosing it everywhere?

When I put out a call on X (formerly known as Twitter) for experiences of gaslighting, I immediately received a flood of responses, Leah’s among them.

The stories offered proof of the term’s broad resonance, but they also suggested the ways in which it has effectively become an umbrella that shelters a wide variety of experiences under the same name.

Webster’s dictionary defines the term as “psychological manipulation of a person usually over an extended period of time that causes the victim to question the validity of their own thoughts, perception of reality, or memories and typically leads to confusion, loss of confidence and self-esteem, uncertainty of one’s emotional or mental stability, and a dependency on the perpetrator.”

Leah’s own experience of gaslighting offers a quintessential example—coercive, long-term, and carried out by an intimate partner—but as a clinician she has witnessed the rise of the phrase with both relief and skepticism.

Her current job gives her the chance to offer college students the language and the knowledge that she didn’t have at their age.

“I love consent education,” she told me. “I wish someone had told me it was O.K. to say no.”

But she also sees the word “gaslighting” as being used so broadly that it has begun to lose its meaning.

“It’s not just disagreement,” she said. It’s something much more invasive: the gaslighter “scoops out what you know to be true and replaces it with something else.”

The term “gaslighting” comes from the title of George Cukor’s film “Gaslight,” from 1944, a noirish drama that tracks the psychological trickery of a man, Gregory, who spends every night searching for a set of lost jewels in the attic of a town house he shares with his wife, Paula, played by Ingrid Bergman.

(The jewels are her inheritance, and we come to understand that he has married her in order to steal them.)

Based on Patrick Hamilton’s 1938 play of the same name, the film is set in London in the eighteen-eighties, which gives rise to its crucial dramatic trick: during his nighttime rummaging, Gregory turns on the gas lamps in the attic, causing all the other lamps in the house to flicker.

But, when Paula wonders why they are flickering, he convinces her that she must have imagined it.

Filmed in black-and-white, with interior shots full of shadows and exterior shots full of swirling London fog, the film offers a clever inversion of the primal trope of light as a symbol of knowledge.

Here, light becomes an agent of confusion and deception, an emblem of Gregory’s manipulation.

Gregory gradually makes Paula doubt herself in every way imaginable.

He convinces her that she has stolen his watch and hidden one of their paintings, and that she is too fragile and unwell to appear in public.

When Paula reads a novel by the fire, she can’t even focus on the words; all she can hear is Gregory’s voice inside her head.

The house in which she is now confined becomes a physical manifestation of the claustrophobia of gaslighting and the ways in which it can feel like being trapped inside another person’s narrative—dimly aware of a world outside but lacking any idea of how to reach it.

The first recorded use of “gaslight” as a verb is from 1961, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, and its first mention in clinical literature came in the British medical journal The Lancet, in a 1969 article titled “The Gas-Light Phenomenon.”

Written by two British doctors, the article summarizes the plot of the original play and then examines three real-life cases in which something similar occurred.

Two of the cases feature devious wives, flipping the gender dynamic usually assumed today; in one, a woman tried to convince her husband that he was insane, so that he would be committed to a mental hospital and she could divorce him without penalty.

The article is ultimately less concerned with gaslighting itself than with safeguards around admitting patients to mental hospitals.

The actual psychology of gaslighting emerged as an object of study a decade later.

The authors of a 1981 article in The Psychoanalytic Quarterly interpreted it as a version of a phenomenon known as “projective identification,” in which a person projects onto someone else some part of himself that he finds intolerable.

Gaslighting involves a “special kind of ‘transfer,’ ” they write, in which the victimizer, “disavowing his or her own mental disturbance, tries to make the victim feel he or she is going crazy, and the victim more or less complies.”

On its way from niche clinical concept to ubiquitous cultural diagnosis, gaslighting has, of course, passed through the realm of pop psychology.

In the 2007 book “The Gaslight Effect,” the psychotherapist Robin Stern mines the metaphor to the fullest, advising her readers to “Turn Up Your Gaslight Radar,” “Develop Your Own ‘Gaslight Barometer,’ ” and “Gasproof Your Life.”

Stern anchors the phenomenon in a relationship pattern that she noticed during her twenty years of therapeutic work: “Confident, high-achieving women were being caught in demoralizing, destructive, and bewildering relationships” that in each case caused the woman “to question her own sense of reality.”

Stern offers a series of taxonomies for the stages (Disbelief, Defense, Depression) and the perpetrators (Glamour Gaslighters, Good-Guy Gaslighters, and Intimidators).

She understands gaslighting as a dynamic that “plays on our worst fears, our most anxious thoughts, our deepest wishes to be understood, appreciated, and loved.”

In the past decade, philosophy has turned its gaze to the phenomenon, too.

https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/abs/10.1111/phpe.12046

In 2014, Kate Abramson, a philosophy professor at the University of Indiana, published an essay called “Turning Up the Lights on Gaslighting,” which she has now expanded into a rigorous and passionately argued book-length study, “On Gaslighting.”

Early in the book, she describes giving talks and having conversations about gaslighting in the decade since publishing her original article: “I still remember the sense of revelation I had when first introduced to the notion of gaslighting. I’ve now seen that look of stunned discovery on a great many faces.”

The core of Abramson’s argument is that gaslighting is an act of grievous moral wrongdoing which inflicts “a kind of existential silencing.”

“Agreement isn’t the endpoint of successful gaslighting,” she writes.

“Gaslighters aim to fundamentally undermine their targets as deliberators and moral agents.”

Abramson catalogues the ways in which gaslighters leverage their authority, cultivating isolation in the victim and leaning on social tropes (for example, the “hysterical woman”) to achieve their aims.

Outlining the various forms of suffering that gaslighting causes, Abramson stresses the tautological bind in which it places the victim—“charging someone not simply with being wrong or mistaken, but being in no condition to judge whether she is wrong or mistaken.”

Gaslighting essentially turns its targets against themselves, she writes, by harnessing “the very same capacities through which we create lives that have meaning to us as individuals,” such as the capacities to love, to trust, to empathize with others, and to recognize the fallibility of our perceptions and beliefs.

This last point has always struck me as one of gaslighting’s keenest betrayals: it takes what is essentially an ethically productive form of humility, the awareness that one might be wrong, and turns it into a liability.

Any argument in which two people remember the same thing in different ways can feel like a terrible game of chicken:

the “winner” of the argument is the one less willing to doubt their own memories—arguably the more flawed moral position—whereas the one who swerves first looks weaker but is often driven by a more conscientious commitment to self-doubt.

Being a philosopher, Abramson spends a good deal of time defining the phenomenon by specifying what it isn’t.

Gaslighting is not the same as brainwashing, for example, because it involves not simply convincing someone of something that isn’t true but, rather, convincing that person to distrust their own capacity to distinguish truth from falsehood.

It is also not the same as guilt-tripping, because someone can be aware of being guilt-tripped while still effectively being guilt-tripped.

At the same time—and although Abramson recognizes that “concept creep” threatens to dilute the meaning and the utility of the term—her own examples of gaslighting sometimes grow uncomfortably expansive.

(And her decision to use male pronouns for gaslighters and female pronouns for the gaslit also reinforces a reductive notion of its gender patterns.)

Both the book and her original essay open with a list of more than a dozen “things gaslighters say,” ranging from “Don’t be so sensitive” to “If you’re going to be like this, I can’t talk to you” to “I’m worried; I think you’re not well.”

It’s hard to imagine a person who hasn’t heard at least one of these.

The quotations function as a kind of net, drawing readers into the force field of the book’s argument with an implicit suggestion:

Perhaps this has happened to you.

Growing up in Bangladesh as the daughter of two literature professors, a woman I’ll call Adaya often had difficulty understanding what other people were saying.

She felt stupid because it seemed so much harder for her to comprehend things others understood easily, but over time she began to suspect that her hearing was physically impaired.

Her parents told her that she was just seeking attention, and when they finally took her to the family doctor he confirmed that her hearing was fine.

She was just exaggerating, he said, as teen-age girls are prone to do.

Adaya believed what her parents had said, though she kept encountering situations where she couldn’t hear things.

It wasn’t until her mid-thirties, in 2011, that she finally went to see another specialist.

This was in Iowa, where she’d moved for a graduate program in writing after her first marriage, in Bangladesh, fell apart.

The clinician told her that her middle-ear bone was calcifying; it was a congenital problem that had almost certainly affected her hearing for at least twenty-five years.

Waiting for a bus home from the hospital—in the middle of winter, with a foot of snow all around her—Adaya called her mother to tell her.

She responded without apology (“You’re old enough to take care of yourself, so take care of yourself”), and let another six years pass before casually disclosing that the family doctor had found something wrong with Adaya’s hearing, all those years before.

When Adaya asked why they had kept this from her, her mother replied, “I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want you to be weak about it.”

Of all the people who approached me on X with testimonies of gaslighting, I found Adaya and her story particularly compelling because her diagnosis eventually offered her a kind of irrefutable confirmation—something the gaslit crave, but often never receive—that allowed her to confront the dynamic directly.

For Adaya, the damage of her parents’ deception went beyond the hardships of her medical condition.

“It made me feel that what I was experiencing in my body was not real,” she told me. “All my life I was told I was lying and exaggerating. . . . In those years when my sense of self was being formed, I was being given a deficient version of myself.”

It was part of a broader pattern.

From an early age, Adaya told me, she felt that she didn’t fit in with her family without quite knowing why.

Eventually, she realized that this sense of falling short had arisen from things her mother said.

She thought of herself as ugly because her mother said so, disparaging her dark skin; when she got a skin infection, she was made to believe it was because she didn’t keep herself clean enough.

“If your mother cannot see the grace and beauty in you, who can?” Adaya said.

That sense of shame and worthlessness propelled her toward an abusive marriage

(“The first boy who told me I was worth loving, I moved toward him”) and kept her in it for years.

The idea of gaslighting first began to resonate with Adaya when she finally went to therapy, in her forties.

She had gone in order to understand the dynamics of her failed marriage, but came to see that the problems went deeper.

As she wrote in one of her first messages to me, she found it easier to talk about surviving domestic violence than about the emotional violence she experienced in her childhood.

The things her mother had said about her “dislodged and disoriented and to some extent destroyed my sense of self.”

Adaya has come to divide her life into three parts:

her youth, when she believed in the version of herself shaped by her mother’s narrative;

the period of adulthood when the hearing diagnosis caused her to wrestle with that narrative;

and the current era, in which she has a stronger self-conception and is in a stable romantic relationship.

She was able to arrive at this point in part because her therapist helped her identify her relationship with her parents as one of gaslighting.

Looking back on herself when she was young, she says, “I almost feel like it’s a different person—like she is my child, and I want to take care of her.”

The psychoanalyst and historian Ben Kafka, who is working on a book about how other people drive us crazy, told me that he thinks our most familiar tropes about gaslighting are slightly misleading.

He believes that, although romantic relationships dominate our cultural narratives of gaslighting, the parent-child dynamic is a far more useful frame.

When I visited Kafka in the cozy Greenwich Village office where he sees his patients, he pointed out that, for one thing, the power imbalance between parents and their children is intrinsically conducive to this form of manipulation.

Indeed, it often happens unwittingly: if a child receives her version of reality from her parents, then she may feel that she has to consent to it as a way to insure that she continues to be loved and cared for.

(And what other sense of reality do we have at first, besides what our parents tell us to be true?)

Additionally, gaslighting later in life almost always involves some degree of infantilization and regression, insofar as it creates an enforced dependence.

Lastly, and crucially, Kafka’s orientation toward parent-child bonds stems from an essentially Freudian belief that the dynamics at play in our adult relationships can usually be traced back to those we grew familiar with in childhood.

There are many memoirs that recount experiences one might call gaslighting—indeed, the very act of writing personal narrative often involves an attempt to “reclaim” a story that’s already been told another way—but few trace the lasting residue of parental gaslighting as deftly as Lily Dunn’s “Sins of My Father.”

When Dunn was six, her father left the family to join a cult who called themselves the sannyasins and preached a doctrine of radical emotional autonomy.

At thirteen, Dunn went to spend the summer at her father’s villa, in Tuscany, where he lived with a much younger wife (they’d got together when he was thirty-seven and she was eighteen) and a rotating crew of fellow cult members.

In the entrancing but unsettling paradise of the villa—with its marble floors and grand staircases, shoddy electricity, and plentiful vats of wine—one of her father’s middle-aged friends began trying to seduce her.

After kissing her in the kitchen, his skin leathery and his breath stale from cigarette smoke, he whispered, “I want to have sex with you,” and invited her back to his camper van to listen to his poems.

When Dunn told her father how anxious these sexual advances made her, he replied that she shouldn’t be worried.

“You could learn something,” he told her. “He’s a good man. He’ll be gentle.”

(He changed his mind once he learned that his friend had gonorrhea.)

For Dunn, her father’s failure to affirm her sense of being preyed upon was far more damaging than the other man’s predation.

Years later, whenever she asked her father to acknowledge that his behaviors had affected her, he would gaslight her even more.

Echoing the teachings of his sannyasin guru, he acted as if it were inappropriate for her to blame him for any emotional damage:

“‘You can choose how you feel,’ he said, again and again. ‘It has nothing to do with me.’ ”

For years after that incident, Dunn told me, “I could never trust that what I was feeling was quite right,” because she’d been consistently told by her father that she felt too much, and that she needed to deal with these feelings on her own rather than foisting them onto others.

At fifteen, she began her first serious romantic relationship, with a much older man (he was thirty-two), and found it almost impossible to trust her suspicions about him.

Looking back, it’s clear to her that he was living with his female partner, but he said that the woman was just a roommate, and Dunn didn’t have the confidence to disbelieve him.

Instead, she told me, she got lost in obsessive thought patterns, trying to figure out whether this man was lying or if she was being paranoid; she couldn’t concentrate properly because she was so consumed by this circular thinking.

“I thought I had to work it out myself,” she said. Looking back, she sees herself frantically trying to play two roles at once: she was the anxious child, who knew something was wrong but couldn’t figure out what, and the adult who was attempting—but not yet able—to take care of things, to make them right.

Sitting in Kafka’s office thinking of Dunn and Adaya, I found myself swelling with indignation on behalf of these gaslit children, taught to feel responsible for the pain their parents had caused them.

But beneath that indignation lurked something else—a nagging anxiety coaxed into sharper visibility by the therapeutic aura of Kafka’s sleek analytic couch.

I eventually told him that, as I worked on this piece, I had started to wonder about the ways I might be unintentionally gaslighting my daughter—telling her that she is “just fine” when she clearly isn’t, or giving her a hard time for making us late for school by demanding to wear a different pair of tights, when it is clearly my own fault for not starting our morning routine ten minutes earlier.

In these interactions, I can see the distinct mechanisms of gaslighting at work, albeit in a much milder form: taking a difficult feeling—my latent sense of culpability whenever she is unhappy, or my guilt for running behind schedule—and placing it onto her.

Part of me hoped that Kafka would disagree with me, but instead he started nodding vehemently.

“Yes!” he said. “Within a two-block range of any elementary school, just before the bell rings, you can find countless parents gaslighting their children, off-loading their anxiety.”

We both laughed.

In the moment, this jolt of recognition seemed incidental, a brief diversion into daily life as we crawled through the darker trenches of human manipulation.

But, after I’d left Kafka’s office, it started to feel like a crucial acknowledgment: that gaslighting is neither as exotic nor as categorically distinct as we’d like to believe.

Gila Ashtor, a psychoanalyst and a professor at Columbia University, told me she often sees patients experience a profound sense of relief when it occurs to them that they may have been gaslit.

As she put it, “It’s like light at the end of the tunnel.”

But Ashtor worries that such relief may be deceptive, in that it risks effacing the particular (often unconscious) reasons they may have been drawn to the dynamic.

Ashtor defines gaslighting as “the voluntary relinquishing of one’s narrative to another person,” and the word “voluntary” is crucial—that’s what makes it a dynamic rather than just a unilateral act of violence.

For Ashtor, it’s not a question of blaming the victim but of examining their susceptibility: what makes someone ready to accept another person’s narrative of their own experience?

What might they have been seeking?

In addition to working as a psychoanalyst, Ashtor has studied and taught in Columbia’s M.F.A. program in creative nonfiction (where I also teach), and she thinks a lot about the connections between gaslighting and personal narrative.

I asked her how patients tend to narrate their gaslighting experiences: how often they come to her with the idea already in their minds, and how often she is the one to bring it up.

Ashtor said that, if she introduces the term, she tries to use it as a placeholder, a first step in figuring out what was at play in a relationship.

When patients introduce it—and sometimes she can sense a patient wanting her to use it first—she may be skeptical, not because they are wrong but because they usually haven’t fully reckoned with their own role in the dynamic yet.

It’s as if they are trying to close something by invoking the word—to mark it as settled, figured out—whereas she wants to open it up.

Ashtor says it frequently becomes clear that patients are very attached to the term “gaslighting,” and fear something will be taken away from them if she disputes it.

The question of what would be taken away is an illuminating one, and it raises an even trickier question: what did the dynamic give them in the first place?

The issue of susceptibility gets thorny quickly; it can appear to veer dangerously close to victim-blaming.

Ashtor doesn’t believe in the old psychoanalytic idea that everything that happens to us is somehow desired, but she does think that it’s worthwhile to investigate why people find themselves in certain toxic dynamics.

Without discounting the genuine suffering involved, she finds it useful to ask what her patients were seeking.

Ashtor wondered aloud to me whether there could be something “good” about gaslighting, and why it feels so transgressive even to suggest that this might be the case.

“There’s a real appeal in adopting someone else’s view of the world and escaping our own,” she told me. “There are very few acceptable outlets in our lives for this hunger for difference.”

Ashtor thinks that therapeutic examination of a gaslighting dynamic can bring you closer to understanding something crucial about yourself: a complicated relationship to motherhood, say, or the effects of certain imbalances or conflicts in your parents’ marriage.

The work is to “understand what’s getting enacted and why.”

One doesn’t necessarily emerge from this type of examination with a self that is entirely “cured” or integrated, but it can, as she says, allow one to “live in closer proximity to the questions and struggles that animate the self.”

In working with patients to better understand their experiences of being gaslit, Ashtor is hoping to give them a different way to engage with the impulses that led them there.

Although most accounts of gaslighting focus on interpersonal dynamics, Pragya Agarwal, a behavioral scientist and a writer based between Ireland and the U.K., believes that it’s more useful to consider the phenomenon from a sociological perspective.

“People who have less power because of their status in society, whether it be gender, race, class, and so on, are more susceptible to being gaslighted,” she told me. “Their inferior status is used as leverage to invalidate their experiences and testimonies.”

She spoke of instances in medicine in which genuinely ill patients are repeatedly told that their symptoms are psychosomatic.

Endometriosis, for example, is an underdiagnosed condition, she said, because women’s pain is often discounted.

Similarly, in the workplace, minorities who report microaggressions may be told that they are being “too sensitive” or that the offending colleague “didn’t mean it like that.”

In this view of gaslighting, it becomes harder to see the utility of susceptibility as a framing concept.

When I asked Agarwal about what role the gaslit party might play in the dynamic, she replied, “I don’t believe that it is the responsibility of the oppressed to create conditions where they wouldn’t be oppressed.”

What does the gaslighter want?

In the 1944 film, the gaslighter’s motivation (to steal Paula’s jewels) is so cartoonishly superficial that it seems like a stand-in for something larger—a metaphor for the desire to undermine a woman’s self-confidence, perhaps, in order to keep her dependent.

In real life, casting the gaslighter as a two-dimensional villain seems insufficient, another way of avoiding a reckoning with complicity and desire.

The question of the gaslighter’s motivation often becomes a chicken-or-egg dilemma: whether their impulse to destabilize another person’s sense of reality stems primarily from wanting to harm that person or from wanting to corroborate their own truth.

Think of the college boyfriend who convinces his girlfriend that all sex involves violence—is his fundamental investment in controlling her or in somehow justifying his own desires?

Abramson writes that both goals can be at play simultaneously, such that a gaslighter may be “trying to radically undermine his target” and also, “in a perfectly ordinary way, trying to tell himself a story about why there’s nothing that happened with which he needs to deal.”

(Indeed, as she points out, gaslighters “are often not consciously trying to drive their targets crazy,” so they may not always be self-aware enough to distinguish between these reasons.)

If the need to affirm one’s own version of reality is pretty much universal, it makes sense that a desire to attack someone else’s competing version is universal, too.

Yet, in the popular discourse, it can seem as if everyone has been gaslit but no one will admit to doing the gaslighting.

Kristin Dombek, in her 2014 book, “The Selfishness of Others: An Essay on the Fear of Narcissism,” discusses how narcissism, once solely a clinical diagnosis, became an all-purpose buzzword.

In her view, we hurl the accusation of pathological selfishness at others as a way of making sense of the feeling of being ignored or slighted.

Gaslighting is not a clinical diagnosis, but, as with narcissism, less precise applications of the term can be a way to take an inevitable source of pain—the fact of disagreement, or the fact that we are not the center of other people’s lives—and turn it into an act of wrongdoing.

This is not to say that narcissism or gaslighting don’t exist, but that, in seeing them everywhere, we risk not just diluting the concepts but also attributing natural human friction to the malevolence of others.

Although “gaslighting” is a term that many members of Gen Z have grown up with, one teen-ager I know expresses its perils in this vein succinctly: “Every time someone gets criticized or called out, they just say, ‘Oh, you’re gaslighting me,’ and it makes the other person the bad guy.”

It doesn’t help that the accusation is essentially unanswerable: “No, I’m not” is exactly what a gaslighter would say.

Even a third party who disputes someone’s account of being gaslit is threatening to inflict the same harm as the gaslighter.

No wonder the issue of proof is crucial in many accounts of gaslighting: the tights on the boat, the charts that show decades of hearing loss, the other women who were assaulted.

These are empirical life preservers that pull us out of the epistemic whirlpool.

In proving that our past perceptions were correct after all, they also seem to guarantee that we are correct now in our feeling of having been hurt.

Such certainty is possible only in retrospect, however. Inside the experience of gaslighting, Abramson writes, “the gaslit find themselves tossed between trust and distrust, unstably occupying a world between the two.”

Which is to say, the more adamant you are that you’re being gaslit, the more probable it is that you’re not.

On Reddit, a man laments, “My last GF loved to tell me I was ‘gaslighting’ her every time I simply had a different opinion than hers. Infuriating.”

Has he been gaslit into thinking he’s a gaslighter?

Part of the tremendously broad traction of the concept, I suspect, has to do with the fact that gaslighting is adjacent to so many common relationship dynamics: not only disagreeing on a shared version of reality but feeling that you are in a contest over which version prevails.

It would be nearly impossible to find someone who hasn’t experienced the pain and frustration—utterly ordinary, but often unbearable—that comes when your own sense of reality diverges from someone else’s.

Because this gap can feel so maddening and wounding, it can be a relief to attribute it to villainy.

At the climax of Cukor’s film, Paula confronts her husband with the truth of his manipulations.

(He has been tied to a chair by a helpful detective. She is brandishing a knife.)

He doubles down on his old tricks, trying to convince her that she has misinterpreted the evidence and should cut him free.

But Paula turns his own game against him: “Are you suggesting that this is a knife I hold in my hand? Have you gone mad, my husband?”

In a further twist, she inhabits the role of madwoman as a repurposed costume:How can a madwoman help her husband to escape? . . . If I were not mad, I could have helped you. . . . But because I am mad, I hate you. Because I am mad, I have betrayed you. And because I’m mad, I’m rejoicing in my heart, without a shred of pity, without a shred of regret, watching you go with glory in my heart!

On its surface, this final scene offers us a clear, happy ending.

The gaslit party triumphs and objective truth prevails.

But deeper down it gestures toward a more complex vision of gaslighting: as a reciprocal exchange in which both parties take turns as gaslit and gaslighter.

This is a version of gaslighting that psychoanalysis is more congenial to.

In the Psychoanalytic Quarterly article from 1981, the authors describe a “gaslighting partnership” whose participants may “oscillate” between roles: “Not infrequently, each of the participants is convinced that he or she is the victim.”

In this sense, gaslighting is both more and less common than we think.

Extreme cases undoubtedly occur, and deserve recognition as such, but to understand the phenomenon exclusively in light of these dire examples allows us to avoid the more uncomfortable notion that something similar takes place in many intimate relationships.

One doesn’t have to dilute the definition of gaslighting to recognize that it happens on many scales, from extremely toxic to undeniably commonplace.

Ben Kafka told me that he thinks one of the key insights of psychoanalysis is that people respond to anxiety by dividing the world into good and bad, a tendency known as “splitting.”

It strikes me that some version of this splitting is at play not only in gaslighting itself—taking an undesirable “bad” emotion or quality and projecting it onto someone else, so that the self can remain “good”—but also in the widespread invocation of the term, the impulse to split the world into innocent and culpable parties.

If the capacity to gaslight is more widely distributed than its most extreme iterations would lead us to believe, perhaps we’ve all done more of it than we care to admit.

Each of us has been the one making our way back into bed, vulnerable and naked, and each of us has been the one saying,

Come back into this bed I made for you.

X

[lowlifetheory]

So I’ve been trying to write this thing, for like 2 months, and I don’t always know where I’m going with it or if I like it, but I really loved this scene. Idk why.

Anyway thought I’d share.

Steve never meant for it to happen, but the new kid Coulson brought in was just so- it was impossible to articulate for him.

Peter was young, and fresh and full of reckless energy that was begging to be used up. He was smart as a whip too, and funny besides and he somehow made an impact almost right away.

And he was an omega. He’d bounced into the team, had charmed even the most cynical of the mixed team of alphas and betas, had become one of them, like a little brother no one knew they wanted. Or needed.

Steve felt a churn of guilt course through his gut. This wasn’t something you did with a little brother. That guilt didn’t stop him from meeting Peter’s lips or nuzzling into his neck as they waited for Steve’s knot to go down. Peter for his part was sprawled across Steve’s broad chest, Steve was half sitting on his bed with a lapful of needy omega.

Peter, for once, was quiet. Blissed out on pleasure and unable to remove the dopey grin from his face. He was always like this after sex, happy and content and so goddamned quiet and soft, and these were some of Steve’s favourite moments of the day.

Steve loved it. Loved him and wasn’t that the fuck up of the century. Well, the second fuck up. The first fuck up was, well it was Steve.

Steve remembered his childhood vividly, more so than most. He had been a sickly kid, and when his teenage growth spurt began when he was barely a teenager he displayed the obvious signs of presenting as an omega.

Uncaring of designations but anxious for his health his parents had taken him to a doctor, a specialist in puberty healthcare. Steve had listened and tried to understand the conversation that the adults around him were having but he was fourteen and his head was filled with plans, for the comic book he was writing, for the latest benefits of adopting a dog and for the weekend when he and Bucky could escape to the rooftop hut they’d been constructing and play their games and camp out underneath the stars.

Whatever concoction of medicine Dr Erskine gave him helped him, it truly did, and after many weeks and months Steve’s body grew strong, and sickness was more or less a thing of the past.

Steve was devastated when at sixteen he presented as an alpha. He was supposed to be omega. He was supposed to be Bucky’s omega.

Somehow it worked though, Steve still felt and acted like an omega, still nested and presented and even took pseudo heats and Bucky loved him through all of it, and by Christ did Steve love Bucky back.

He still did, a decade later, but things had slowed a bit. They had both intended to join local law enforcement but they had both been plucked out during training by the International Shield unit. Shield was intent on doing the right thing and protecting the vulnerable. They had offices all over the world.

Careers took off and they agreed to an open relationship, they were still pre bonded, they shared each other’s marks and made sure to speak as often as they could, spent time together as often as their schedules would allow but Bucky was currently in Russia and Steve was in Washington.

Without a doubt, Steve knew Bucky would come back to him, they talked about it all the time, about their shared future and a rural home with enough room for all the goats, dogs, cats and chickens they wanted. Hell right now they were mid renovation of a tall handsome brownstone in Brooklyn that they bought together. And that wait for his future, and the knowledge that he was Bucky’s had never bothered Steve.

Until now.

Until Peter.

‘I can hear you thinking, it’s keeping me awake,’ Peter murmured into Steve’s right pec. He sat up slowly, the movement jolting Steve’s knot, and gave Steve a big dopey grin.

‘I love you,’ the words were out before Steve could understand what he said. That happened too often with his lovers, Steve lost his mind and followed his impulses and his brain was always a few seconds behind his mouth.

Peter flushed and beamed and leaned in to steal a kiss. ‘I love you too.’

Steve lay back and watched as Peter began to rock on his knot chasing more pleasure.

‘Really?’ Steve teased.

‘Yeah,’ Peter grinned as he rotated his hips, clenching down. His dark honey eyes drew Steve in, and Steve caressed his warm hip, then stroked up Peter’s flanks to his shoulders. Peter moaned and arched his back and Steve felt his cock twitch in interest.

‘Yeah,’ Steve agreed flipping them so Peter was on his back and Steve had better leverage to drive them both insane with pleasure yet again.

[allandoflimbo]

Ashens (Part 23)

Summary: She falls in love with Bucky Barnes from the moment she sees him. Bucky, still in love with a woman from his past, hates Y/N and plans to make her life miserable. To both their dismay, they are assigned together to go undercover into The Capitol for six months. There, they develop a heartbreaking friend with benefits agreement. Dystopian.

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Chapter Word Count: 6,000

Rating: M for Mature, E for explicit. Enemies to lovers trope, sharing a bed trope, friends with benefits trope, temporarily unrequited love, heavy and angry sex, heavy on the angst, and very strong language.

Full Masterpage |

The world was on fire and no one could save me but you

It's strange what desire will make foolish people do

I never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you

+ + +

“Don’t question acts of the daring and misinterpret it for insanity. 

Simply thank the courages ones for their heart and strong character, 

for not all are willing to do the good and get destroyed in the worst way, 

not for their own benefit, but for others.”

+ + +

It starts in his fingers, a feeling of hot tingles and sporadic static. He plays with the condensation of the glass, gathering the wetness on the tips of his digits until they are completely numb from the cold. The hot tingles and static dissipate momentarily until they move up his arms and into the cavity where his heart beats.

It beats for the way you waltzed into the room, smelling like sweet strawberries and your shampoo. 

It beats for the way it continues to ache and hope to feel your touch again.

If he’s quiet enough, he could hear it, too. It thumps away in his head, making his temples pulse and his palms sweat. He rubs the palm of his hand against the glass, too.

He looks up, dark eyes meeting your figure in your shared bedroom. Memories of the last few months fill his brain with a strong ripple of serotonin, gaze drifting towards the messy, fresh out the dryer, white sheets. 

He’s feeling too much. It must be why he feels like he’s having a heart attack and why his mouth is insanely dry.

His eyes flicker back up to you again, and for a fraction of a second, he considers saying something.

Bucky doesn’t talk about his feelings much. 

He always held it down. 

He didn’t talk about how he felt when he watched his sister being taken from him, or when either of his parents died and he in result became an orphan. 

Not much has changed since then, he thinks as he keeps looking at you.

You were moving around, unaware of his inner turmoil.

Bucky is fully convinced that no one on this earth detests him more than he detests himself. Not only does he hate himself for the things he’s done, but he can’t stand how he’s unable to talk about his feelings when he knows he needs to. 

He can’t stand how weak he is and how he doesn’t have the guts to face it. 

He’s watching you and he wants to speak up, but he can’t.

He detests himself for always running away from facing his demons. 

This had a lot more to do than you going on a date. This was about everything. He knows there’s so much he needs to tell you.

He just wishes it were a lot simpler. 

He doesn’t dare compare his issues to yours. 

He knows each person has their own demons and their own complications to conquer, so he doesn’t dare compare. But, sometimes, he can’t help but think he is the world’s most horrible person, through no fault of his own.

Why couldn’t he have been stronger? Why couldn’t he have stopped himself from getting brainwashed? Why couldn’t he stop himself from doing all the things that he did?

Nobody knows what it’s like to live with the memories of being forced to train young girls who were taken from their families to fight for the KGB, one of them who later turns out being your friend. Not to mention then also shooting the same girl through the stomach on a bridge in Odessa. Nobody knows what it’s like to be forced to put a bullet between countless of innocent people’s eyes, some being young kids, cutting their innocent lives short. 

Nobody understood what it was like to then be forced to kill someone’s parents, the same person who’s teams then welcomes you decades later into their home as family. 

He experienced all of it without one goodbye to his blood family. 

It doesn’t make sense to him how no one else could see what was going through his mind. Maybe he was messed up to the point where he could no longer be okay ever again. 

Maybe.

But you, you had woken something inside of him that he thought had been long gone. You gave him a longing for communication, to talk about how he was feeling. For the first time in over half a century, because of you, he sees a potential light at the end of the tunnel.

You didn’t treat him like an ex assassin, a veteran, an avenger, or just a friend. You treated him like an imperfect man, taking him into your arms in spite of that.

Unbeknownst to you, you had taken his broken heart in your hands and held it tenderly, like a mother holding a newborn child. You taught it how to be happier, you taught it self forgiveness and preservation. You showed him how to be human, how to feel human desires that for so long he had held down. 

He continues to watch you, swelling hard.

You showed me that it was okay. He thinks to himself.

You were his friend for much longer than you ever knew, and you had no idea.

He needed you more than you realized. 

But you were right. It was time to let you be truly happy. After all, how could someone like him make you happy? You made it clear to him, time after time, that you’re both toxic together. He knows most of it was his fault, but he had changed. Unfortunately so had you and your feelings were just platonic now. It was a mess. Both of you, together, was a mess.

The amount of orgasms you shared don’t even make up for the hurt you’ve put each other through.

That’s what he needs to tell himself as he watches you from the living room, pulling the wool scarf tight around your neck to hide your tattoo, and tightening the lightweight white coat over your shoulders. 

You were wearing a mid length dark red dress and short black heels. You looked great. The small smile your wore complemented you well, too. You looked happy.

Bucky knows he has no right to feel what he does as he watches you go back into the bathroom to touch up your hair.

It was a quarter past seven and the sun was setting. If this was two weeks ago, you two would probably be having sex right about now. 

It had become routine after a certain point. He would probably have you bent over the sink, leaving finger indents on your hips. 

Not anymore. That was over.

Ironically, it wasn’t even want he wanted to do with you as he watched you walk back in. He just wanted to grab you, run his hand through your hair and kiss your forehead. 

The thought of wanting to do such a pure act catches him off guard and he feels a tightness in his chest grow hot. There was the static again in his fingers. 

“I’ll be back in a few hours. We’re just going to have dinner at his place.” You say, slowly stepping into the lit living room.

Bucky’s on the sofa and you watch as his eyes leave yours to obviously linger down your body. 

He clears his throat, reaching for the glass of water on the coffee table.

“Be safe.” He says softly. 

You watch as he takes a sip of the water, his eyes meeting yours again over the glass. There’s a pull inside of you that wants you to ask him if he was okay.

“You’ll be okay here?” 

He gives a curt nod, avoiding your eyes.

“I’ll be fine.” His tone is hard and straight to the point, but something was still clearly off with his behavior. 

He’s been acting weird since a few days ago when you told him about Pietro.

You start playing with the sleeve of your coat, clearly stalling. 

He had to open up to you.

“You have food?” You ask. The edge of Bucky’s lip perks up. You’re thankful for the almost smile.

“Yes.”

You watch him for a few more seconds. The mundane exchange is almost comical.

“I gave you his address, right? Just in case?”

Pretty blue eyes narrow at you curiously. 

“Yes, I have it right there.” Bucky says, pointing over to the dining table below the blue A.I glow.

“Okay.” you say, nodding slowly, “Okay, I’ll see you later then.” 

Bucky doesn’t say anything as you leave. He leans his elbows on each of his knees, bringing both his clasped hands together up to his chin. 

He wants the static to go away. He wants to tell you everything.

He takes in a deep breath and runs a metal hand through his hair.

No, I wasn’t going to be okay without you here. 

He picks up the control off the table and starts season nine of Friends. 

It was going to be a long night.

+ + +

You were nervous. This was your first date. 

Ever.

You also didn’t know what to expect from tonight. Sure, you liked Pietro. He was sweet, a good guy, and he was attractive. You wanted to give it a try. You were done being dragged down by one man that didn’t even love you the way you did. 

It was time to move on.

Three soft knocks is how long it takes for the dark blue door of apartment 8C to swing open.

You’re immediately welcomed by the scent of something delicious and Pietro’s warm and bright smile.

“Hey, you.” He says with a delighted perk in his voice. He swings the door open wider for you to walk through, “Come in.”

Timidly, you walk into his inviting home. 

The walls were beige and he had dark brown wooden floors. They were glossy instead of matte. To the left was a small kitchen with black cabinetry, and in front of you a small living room with a television and a black cotton couch.

You didn’t miss the hallway towards the far left the most likely led to a bedroom and bathroom.

Bedroom.

You feel your throat close up.

You were nervous.

“May I take your coat?” He asks sweetly, stretching out a hand to you. Your eyes go from his hand to his own eyes and his smile is contagious, “I’m just going to hang it in the closet. I won’t let it run away. Promise.”

You chuckle.

You give him a short nod, shrugging off your coat and handing it to him. 

“Thank you.” You say.

There’s a small pause of silence.

“Wow, you look amazing.” He says quietly, taking in your dress. His eyes sparkled as he looked at you and you knew he was being sincere. You smile. “Do you want me to take your scarf, too?”

You instinctually reach for your scarf before pausing, your hands lingering on the fabric a bit longer than casual, “I’ll keep it,” your eyes meet and he squints at you, “It’s supposed to go with the dress.” You say quickly on your feet.

He tilts his head at you and chuckles.

“Okay. Well,” he looks down at his hand still holding your coat, “I’m just going to go hang this up. Feel free to to look around for a few seconds.” 

You nod again, watching as he walks to a small closet towards the right, passed the tv.

You look over into the kitchen, and you see a neatly set table with two glass of wine. 

There’s a pot on the stove with the lid on it, but the stove isn’t on.

You feel a warm and inviting hand on your upper back.

“I made, or should I say, I attempted,” he adds a chuckle that makes you smile, “to make some chicken parm.”

You giggle.

“I’m sure it’s delicious.”

You both walk over to the table which isn’t that far to the side and he pulls out one of the chairs for you. You thank him politely, taking a seat.

There’s the sharing of shy glances and awkward feet hitting each other under the table. You mutter out sorry’s.

Pietro clears his throat when he remembers he forgot the plates. You smile again as he apologizes and gets up.

“I’m the worst.” He says quickly.

“You’re not, relax. I forgot, too.” You play with the glass on the table, vividly remembering Bucky doing the same not too long ago.

You were picking up each others habits, hard.

“So, how’s it going with the whole situation at home? With your friend?”

You’re caught off guard by the indirect mention of Bucky and you try to casually grab the white napkin off the table, laying it over your lap.

“It’s going better.” You say, hoping it’ll make Pietro cut the topic short.You smooth the fabric over your legs, picking at it.

He looks over his shoulder to you and you can feel his eyes on you.

“Really? That’s good. I’m happy to hear that. I know it was rough for you. I hated seeing you like that.” That makes two of us, you want to say. There’s another pause. “You’re quiet today.” He notes, placing your plate in front of you. You’re hit with an intense wave of nausea as the delicious smell peaks up into your nose. You look away from the plate swallowing hard, “You okay?”

You clear your throat and swallow and swallow.

“Yeah I’m fine,” the bile lays in your belly as the smell continues to drive into your head, making you dizzy and sweat, “Do you have some water?” You croak out, trying to push your chair a little away from the table. It scrapes angrily against the floor, and if it wasn’t for how sick you were feeling, you would be apologizing.

“Yeah, yeah of course.” He says quickly, moving around the kitchen and fixing you a glass.

He hands it to you and you take some heavy gulps. It’s cold and slices through your throat. It lays into your stomach uncomfortably but you prefer it over a dry and heavy tongue. 

You place it back down on the table, taking a deep breath. You feel the sweating start to dissipate and your stomach slowly settles.

You bring your palm to your head and quickly blink away. 

You hated throwing up.

“Sorry, about that.”

He chuckles and gives you a smile as he takes his own seat across from you, “That’s okay. Are you sure you’re feeling alright?”

You weren’t too sure, but you don’t say that. “Yeah, I don’t know what that was,” you look back down at the plate that begins to look somewhat appetizing again, “Believe me, it wasn’t the food. This smells delicious and looks delicious.” He opens the glass the red wine and offers some to you. You quickly shake your head, giving him a wave of rejection with your hand. Just the thought of wine made your stomach turn again, “I’ll stick to the water for now.” He nods and pours himself a glass, “Sorry if I’m quiet. I’m a bit nervous.”

“Nervous why?”

You shrug, digging a fork into your chicken and swirling it around.

“I don’t know. I’m just like that.”

He says your name and you stop poking your fork to look up at him, “It’s me. We’ve been friends for a few months now. I’m not some stranger.”

You smile. He was right.

“I know, trust me. It’s just…” you think for a moment and then start laughing, “God, we’re literally on a date, during the apocalypse, like this is just weird, ya know?”

Pietro frowns.

“Apocalypse? We’re safe in here, in these walls. Everyone is safe in here.”

Your smile drops.

You stare at him and begin to wonder if he’s actually being serious. Was the majority of the people in here really convinced that this was it? That everything was perfect? Was Hydra really that capable? Part of you is proud of your parent’s work because you truly were safe because of what they built, but the world was still out there, living. There was still more. This wasn’t supposed to be a permanent solution. 

There were people out there still dying, trying to survive. And these people had no idea, including Pietro.

You realize you’re quickly going into dark territory and you don’t want Pietro digging into what you were trying to say, accidentally blowing your cover.

“You’re right. I don’t know why I said that.” You say quickly. You bring the chicken to your mouth, taking a small and careful bite, “This is so good.” You say after chewing and swallowing.

“I’m glad you liked it. I made some lava cakes for desert, too.”

You laugh.

“Are you a cook?”

“Nah. Just watch a lot of Tiny Kitchen.”

You perk a brow.

“Tiny Kitchen?”

“You’ve never heard of Tiny Kitchen?”

You laugh, placing your fork down on the plate. 

“No, what the hell is it? A small kitchen?”

“Literally what it is. I’ll show it to you afterwards.” 

“Okay.” You grin.

You look down at your plate again, wanting to go in for another bite, but for some reason you just can’t.

+ + +

He doesn’t get past episode three. He can’t. 

Not when all thoughts of you clouded his mind. He knows Pietro is good people, so he’s entirely not concerned about that. 

He knows he’s jealous. He knows that. 

The jealousy mixed in with the anticipation of how the rest of the mission will play out worries him. 

He wanted you home and near him, but since that wasn’t going to happen, he was home by himself, glooming.

He knows he needed a distraction right away so he picks up some of his things from the dining table, slides on a light jacket, and makes his way towards the tower.

He knows the blueprint of the tower already and he’s able to navigate himself into stairwell of the apartment on the top floor. 

After weeks of dissecting, you both found out that Ashens’ father, Ashen, and his mother don’t live here with the boy. For safety precautions, which are obvious why, he’s being housed in under high security and under the supervision of some au pair who is as clueless of his importance as the day is young.

Bucky knows that what he’s about to do borders on breaking boundaries, and downright creepy. 

But this was a situation he would qualify as desperate times comes to desperate measures.

Bucky’s able to bypass security, taking a security outfit off a ‘poor’ victim (he scoffs) as he does soon. 

He’s just outside the boy’s bedroom when he hears the nanny tell Ashens goodnight.

When she’s leaving she tells Bucky in a heavy Bulgarian accent, clearly thinking he’s just a regular guard, that Ashens is about to go to sleep. Bucky keeps his head down and nods.

The clueless ar pair goes the opposite way, presumably to her own bedroom.

Bucky waits a few moments before knocking on the boy’s door.

He hears the little boy give out permission to come in. Bucky opens the door.

The bedroom is plain and depressing. There’s a bed with plain white sheets, a small nightstand, and a large window. There are no toys and nothing that would show any proof that a child resided here. 

The room is not one he would expect for a boy Ashens’ age.

The little boy sits up in bed, his eyes squinting at the figure in his doorway.

“Hello.” The boy squeaks out.

Bucky practically laughs at how easy it was to get here. For a boy they are trying so hard to keep protected from just anyone, it was quite easy ending up just a few feet away from him.

Bucky’s had his fair share of experiences with kids, having a little sister himself. He knows he has to do this differently.

“Hi.” Bucky says lightly, almost too cheerfully.

The boy continues to stare at him as Bucky closes the door behind him, but not letting it close shut just yet.

“Who are you?”

Bucky slowly takes off his halo looking helmet and the boy squints at Bucky’s revealed face.

Bucky tucks the helmet under his arm and smiles.

“Can you keep a secret?”

The boy looks at him for a few more seconds before nodding slowly.

It’s not until Bucky is closer to the boy that his eyebrows shoot up,

“Wait. I know who you are.” Bucky can’t tell if the boy is excited or surprised, but the reaction makes Bucky’s chest swell.

This might go down easier than he expected.

“I -I  was so little when I had the toy but,” the boy starts to talk excitedly and Bucky has to hide a growing smile, “Because I can’t have toys anymore. Not since we moved here. I was little but I remember,” the boy and Bucky both narrow their eyes at each other as if it’s a game to who would say it first, “it’s captain America. You ever heard of captain America?”

Bucky bites his lip. 

“No, never.” He says sarcastically. “Oh, he’s the best. You look like his friend, but I don’t remember his name. He used to be the winter soldier and then he became good.”

Bucky’s heart swells again. The boy’s joy was so pure.

“Oh, yea?”

“Yeah. Dad didn’t like them vey much, though,” his face drops as he looks away from Bucky, “I didn’t like how happy he was when they all died. But no one knows that just us I think,” when Ashens looks up again, Bucky’s face is more solemn this time, “Are you sure you’re not the winter soldier?” The boy whispers the question.

Bucky considers his next words carefully. He places the helmet at the feet of the boy’s bed.

“If I told you I was?”

“I would be surprised because I though you were dead, and also I would be confused. Because why you here?”

Bucky nods. He looks away and then back at Ashens.

“Would you tell your dad?” He asks quietly. This was important.

The boy looks at him for a bit before answering.

“No. He would kill you. Daddy’s not on the good side.”

“And you believe I’m on the good side, right?”

“Yes. You’re an Avenger.”

Bucky bites his lip and looks around the room. This boy was good. It angered him that his own father wanted him killed. Now, more than ever, he wanted to rescue this boy. 

“Can you trust me?” Bucky asks, suddenly serious. 

The boy nods.

“Am I in trouble?” He asks timidly. “What do you mean?” “Ae you here to save me, sir?”

The question broke Bucky’s heart, but he nods.

“I trust you.” The boy’s eyes dart down Bucky’s left side, “Can I feel you arm?” The edge of Bucky’s lips perk up as he takes a seat, “and what does it feel like to hold the shield? Did you really know Iron Man? Black Panther always said —”

+  +  +

By the time Bucky is back you’re already home in your pajamas tucked into bed.

“Hey. Where’d you go?” You ask him as he takes off his coat, draping it over one of the chairs in the dining area.

He kicks off his shoes and reaches back, pulling off his shirt. He walks over to the closet for a new one.

“I met Ashens.”

You raise your brows at this. You knew it was part of the plan to happen, but you didn’t expect it to be today.

“What?”

Bucky also pulls out a new and clean pair of boxers, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Yeah. We spoke for a bit.” “And he didn’t recognize you?” “No, he did,” Bucky says simply, eyes going over to you. You looked so pretty, comforter pulled up under your clothed breasts, a book in your hands, and a messy bun in your hair. He wanted you. He looks away, remembering where you had just been, “He knows I’m here. He won’t tell his dad." “How can you be so sure?” “I’m an Avenger, aren’t I? That’s what everyone tells me, has been telling me.” He says it bitterly. Bucky sighs, closing the closet door and then walking over to the bed near you, “Because I made him a promise that I was here to save him. I think he knows his dad is bad news. He’s a smart kid. He knows his dad hits his mom, too.” Bucky’s voice is soft.

“So you trust he’ll keep this between us?”

“I do.”

You nod. You watch Bucky’s eyes as his stare stays on you, unnerving.

“And you?” You voice shakes as you ask, “How are you? Ya know, after?”

Bucky nods his head.

“I’m alright, ya know? I — ,” something happens to him that you had never seen before. A wave of happiness washes over Bucky’s face like a fresh cup of lemonade. His eyes shine and a bright smile fills his face. Even his voice sounds perkier, “It was just so nice talking to him. He’s such a sweet kid. I know we’re doing the right thing,” his eyes meet yours again and his voice lowers to a deep tone, “We’re both going to walk away from this mission with more than we thought.” It’s the first time he’s said that you are both going to walk away from the mission together, and not just you. He knows that. Bucky clears his throat, “You definitely won’t run into his father. He’s not living with him to avoid attention and possible abductions. Ashens is a literal rapunzel right now.”

“Good. That’s good.” Obviously it wasn’t. But it was good for the both of you. You had less chances of running into Ashen.

Bucky takes in a deep breath when he realizes his eyes are lingering on your collarbones for far too long.

“How was your date?” He actually doesn’t want to even know, the thought of you and Pietro makes him sick, but he knows he needs to show courtesy. They can’t ignore it forever. “It was fine. I wasn’t feeling too well, though—“

Bucky’s eyes narrow.

“—Oh no, I’m sorry.”

 “Couldn’t eat. But,” you took a deep breath and eyed the hallway, "Brought some in a small Tupperware if you want it. It’s in the kitchen.”

Bucky ignores the flutter in his heat at the mention that you thought of him. Thought of him enough to bring the leftovers for him.

He smiles.

“What is it?” “Chicken Parm.” You watch as Bucky continues to watch you, eyes still sparkling. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine. You’re happy, right?” Your eyes flicker away for a moment.

“Y-yeah.”

He knows he’s not fine so he lies. 

“Then I’m fine. You looked great by the way.” He adds quickly.

You tilt your head at him and he tilts his back.

Damnit, he needed you.

“Yeah?” You ask hoarsely. 

He wanted you.

“You’re glowing.” He says.

 +  + +

Jazz and burlesque shows were the epitome of everything she had lived for up until she was sixteen years old. The smell of handmade lace garters and expensive perfume still lingered in the back of her mind, bringing her a feeling of contentment and a strange longing for the past. 

Nostalgia would overwhelm her as she looked on at what was the exact contrast to her innocence – her mother’s hugs. She missed those nights where she’d play some 12’s of her beat up vinyl on her record, the scratches adding to Peggy Lee’s voice a twinge of imperfection that made it the perfect tone. 

With nothing on but her undergarments, and a pair of leg garters accompanied with knee high black stockings, she’d open her closet to a huge collection of gorgeous cocktail dresses. A couple handful landed just above her knees, not many past her mid shin - Scandalous and mildly scandalous. Her parents would kill her if they ever found out she even owned them (let alone have them in their home) so she kept those hidden in a little pile in the back corner of the wardrobe. 

She had every right to be terrified for many reasons. It’s not that she was not loyal or a rebel, per say. She was born and raised into a Christian family, all strict rules of modesty and heavy morals applied to her daily life. She was always daddy’s little girl in the simplest sense possible. 

She wouldn’t ever dare roll her eyes at him or purposefully make him disapprove of her, ever. Sure, she was raised in a rich family, so she was used to getting everything she always wanted. Material things being at the top of the list. Even then she remained as humble as possible. 

Especially when she thought her strong faith was behind it all. 

Do well for God, he gives back in return, right?  At least that’s what her naïve self believed at the time. But she’d never admit it to her family that she now thought otherwise, especially to her mom. 

If anything, God was now banning them all to Hell anyway.

Her vanity was those of every girl’s dreams. Drawers filled with everything you could only wish of having. Inside were lingerie of every shade (from fiery red to pure jet black, like the night sky in the city), style, and earrings of every pearl and diamond crystal variety you could think. Her favorite would always be the garters. 

She’d clip each of the four clasps into place just above her knees with her nimble fingers and then she’d sit opened legged in front of the mirror. 

Diligently, and with prestige dexterity, she’d apply her blood red lipstick and her four inch black heels. 

After an o shape with her lips around her fingers and a loud pop, she’d walk around her room and close her eyes, envisioning herself as a burlesque girl and a sensual song playing in the background. After all, she had all the right in the world to be the exact opposite at night than what she was during the day. Morally, at least.

 She still remained as the same sweet, innocent, and faithful young girl she always was. But she had big hopes and dreams, especially in film and dance. God should be okay with dreams, she thought.

When she had learned the truth it was just short of her 20th birthday. She unwontedly found out that her father and brother were different souls at night, too. She wished she never found out that everything that had been lying in front of her had been a lie, and instead of life being a gifted blessing it was instead a bloody carcass hades. 

Their life wasn’t one she liked to admit to partaking in. There were times where she would trick into telling herself that they weren’t doing it. She’d trick herself into thinking that way so that when she saw her dad that night, she’d be able to surpass the strong smell of whiskey and gun powder and kiss him goodnight. 

Jimmy would roll his eyes with a shove past her shoulder.  

As much as she detested it, she knew that without them, they wouldn’t be living in one of the most beautiful homes in all of Manhattan in complete safety. It was because of them that she wasn’t living out in the slums. She tried to divide that part of harsh reality from her brain as much as she could. Eventually, the pros outweighed the cons.

Maybe it was the fact that her body had finally developed into a women’s body. Her breasts were now fully perked and her legs were long and porcelain gorgeous; all she knew was they figured she could be put to good use. 

At first she was repulsed by her own father’s comment, but if it meant having dinner that night and not getting killed, she would swallow those nagging feelings and take it head on. It never lasted too long anyway, and all she had to do was stand there and be her brother’s accessory.

When her father brought her into the business, he told her she would thank him one day when she had children of her own- she’d have all the men of the lower east side wrapped around her pretty little finger.

 She was alright with it, until something happened that she would never forget. She had to swallow the repulsive bile and control herself not to run away then and there. She was too far in and knew way too much.

It was just another Tuesday night and she had been sitting at the dinner table, when both her mom and dad had stepped out of the dining room and into the kitchen. She ate her soup quietly, not being able to stop thinking about going back to her room to play burlesque, when Jimmy had turned to her.

 At first it was the sudden motion that caught her attention, it had made a strand of blonde hair fly off her arm. Then it was the feral look in his eyes. 

“Daisy,” his voice was low and dangerous. Daisy knew that tone very well because it was the tone all the other men used on their nights of missions. She was terrified and disgusted.  Wide eyes trailed from her eyes to her full red lips and she felt a cold rigid finger against the heat of her skin on her upper thigh, pushing the fabric slightly up. She gulped.  

Jimmy smiled, “You gorgeous thing.”

She thought about telling her father but she knew that if he found out, the one partnership that was bringing them the most cash would be jeopardized and it would have to be terminated and he’d be more than upset. She knew when her dad got angry, it was not good. It’s was messy and bad. 

Back at dinner, her father would say grace before they ate, all of them hand in hand, and her mom would sit there quietly, a terrified and exhausted look in her smiles. She had heavy bags that weren’t there years ago, and her hair that used to always be done was now up in a messy clip, the baby hairs hanging against her wrinkled forehead, messy and unruly. But still she managed to smile, even if it wasn’t a real smile. It was all a stupid act. 

 It reminded Daisy of how she herself was when she was 16 - pretending to be oblivious to what her family were doing to the innocent. And so she hated her mom for that, for being just like her. 

She felt disgusted in herself, she felt disgust for her family. Oh how she missed those days of when she was a child, before she even knew the truth. It was all so much simpler back then and she was so much happier.  The worst it used to get was when her mother would tell her stories about when she was a nurse back in WWI. 

She had wanted to be like her mom at first. Her mom was quiet, humble, caring, and extremely gracious. It’s what made her such a good person to have back in the war to help the soldiers- she was strong willed and knew she could help and would in her best ability do so. But those stories made Daisy question why any man in his right mind would want to do such a thing to their own body- putting themselves at such a risk. 

Sure, she was privileged by riches, but problems didn’t have to be solved by violence. There must be other ways, like prayer or simply believing. 

Her mother would tell her the graphic stories of the injuries that made Daisy queasy and fidget in her seat. She loved her mom’s qualities and how willing she was to help others who were injured and almost dying, but it still made no sense to her.

 When daisy questioned her concerned to her mother she had simply said:

“Don’t question acts of the daring and misinterpret it for insanity. Simply thank the courages ones for their heart and strong character, for not all are willing to do the good and get destroyed in the worst way, not for their own benefit, but for others.”

To this day, Daisy wondered if her mom was indirectly referencing her own father- him lacking thereof. 

Next, she wondered about when her mom stopped believing her own words.  

Daisy wondered if she’d ever meet one one day - a soldier. Someone willing to get destroyed. Or if her mom had been lying and all men are the same, evil like her father and brother.

But she was evil, too.

No, I don't wanna fall in love.

A/N: yes. she’s pregnant.

@snakeeatery17 @utterlyhopeful-fics , @marvelfan1017, @iheartsebastianstan , @annathesillyfriend , @redhairedfeistynerd, @perksofbeingabookworm, @amyrose051, @meegggoooo, @morganclaire4 , @captainchrisstan, @bxndys , @shoesonpointe ,  @writerwrites, @rainbowkisses31, @lindatreb , @littlemissner98 , @dezzylou24, @ayeitslelee , @hardygal69 ,  @emmabarnes , @redbarn1995@thequeenreaders@ilovemysupersoldiers@maximumplaidzonknerd@ceapa-mica @s-trawberryv-eins@buckysknifecollections@sobangie@lindatreb@theseuscmander@nervous-plant @wildmoonflower @aya-fay@appreciating-fanfics@kaitlynisinfinite@justreadingfics@kaitieskidmore1 @mrsdancing​ @everythingiloveandcherish @shinykoalacat​ @dragongirl31 @kaitlynisinfinite​ @alwaysclassyeagle

[jaskierswolf]

The Love We Have

Part 1/5 - AO3 - Next

Summary: Kaer Morhen has an old tradition in order to keep the witchers safe after the siege. Only witchers and their partners are allowed in the keep but Geralt is tired of parting with Jaskier over the winter so decides to invite him to Kaer Morhen... only he forgets to mention one tiny little detail.

Ship: Geraskier

Rating: T

Warnings: None?? Maybe... I'll add them later if I remember any.

(Written as a prompt that got way out of hand for @dani-dandelino and beta'd by @professorjaskier)

____

The path up the mountain was steep, treacherous and fucking cold. Jaskier felt himself slipping on the loose rocks underfoot. He yelped, ready to meet his maker but Geralt’s strong arms wrapped around his waist before he could hit the floor. It was all very reminiscent of a lover’s embrace.

One could only dream.

Geralt had been particularly stoic on the trek up The Killer, barely responding to even direct questions and grunting orders when they set up camp for the night, but there was none of their usual banter. Unfortunately, Jaskier’s fingers had been too frozen to pluck at his lute, leaving a deafening silence between them. To top it off Geralt was now glaring at him from across the campfire.

Jaskier sighed, stuffing his hands under his armpits, pulling his hood closer around his ears. “Geralt?”

Geralt’s eyes widened as he seemed to finally register their surroundings, and he let out a low hum.

“Have- have I done something wrong?”

The crease between Geralt’s brows deepened, his jaws clenching. “No.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, scoffing haughtily. “Oh sure. Sure. So that’s why you’re acting all…” Jaskier trailed off, gesturing at Geralt’s direction with a flick of his wrist.

“Hmm.”

“Oh no. No, no, no. We are not doing this!” Jaskier tried to put his hands on his hips but the motion let a biting cold breeze into the thick woollen travelling coat that Geralt had insisted he buy for the journey to Kaer Morhen. “You’ve been grumpier than usual and honestly, I wasn’t sure that was possible. What’s going on, Geralt?”

Geralt let out a long heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. He wore a weary expression that Jaskier thought was utterly adorable; not that he would ever tell Geralt that. He’d learnt the hard way how much a witcher’s punch to the gut could hurt. Instead, he rested his chin on his knees and pouted at his friend. “Come on, Geralt, you invited me here. No pretending that we aren’t friends anymore.”

Geralt smiled faintly at that and then sighed once more. “I haven’t been honest with you.”

“About us being friends?” Jaskier laughed “I stopped caring about that years ago. Your actions speak louder than words, my dear.”

“Jaskier!”

Jaskier’s mouth snapped shut. He was barely able to conceal his gleeful smirk. This felt like coming home after the stone-cold silences of the last few days. It almost warmed the chill in his bones; almost. It would take a veritable miracle at this stage to fend off the frost bite.

“Done?” Geralt growled and Jaskier nodded. Pressing his lips together. “We have an old tradition at Kaer Morhen, ever since…” Geralt trailed off with a growl. “It’s to protect us, our home.”

Jaskier raised his eyebrow, tongue flicking out to lick his lip, a habit he’d picked up to prevent himself from interrupting Geralt. His witcher often took longer to find the right words, and Jaskier had learnt it was better to be patient.

“Only significant others are allowed.”

Jaskier blinked and Geralt’s words hung heavy in the air.

“I’m. I’m sorry, what?” he gaped.

Significant other?

“You heard me, bard.”

Jaskier let out a nervous laugh, wringing his hands in his lap. “But. but we’re. we’re not?”

Oh, if only they were.

“I know that.”

“Then why?!” Jaskier wasn’t proud of the way his voice squeaked, jumping two octaves.

“I. I trust you.”

Jaskier scoffed. After nearly a decade of friendship he sincerely hoped that the witcher trusted him. He had been absolutely delighted when Geralt had extended the invitation to his elusive home in the mountains. He hated leaving Geralt over winter, the cold making his dorms at Oxenfurt seem even lonelier… but to pretend they were dating?

It was a little too close to the truth for comfort.

He was surprised Geralt had asked him at all. The witcher rarely admitted they were friends. Jaskier couldn’t imagine he’d be particularly thrilled about pretending to be lovers, and he had a brilliant imagination!

Unless, of course, Jaskier had gotten the wrong end of the stick. He could be jumping to conclusions. Geralt probably hadn’t meant for them to pretend to be lovers at all. It was just a pre-warning that Jaskier might not be entirely welcome until he earned the other witcher’s trust. They were breaking the rules. That was it.

“So…” he trailed off, not knowing how to voice his question. Geralt, helpfully grunted in response. Jaskier rolled his eyes and tried again. “Are you nervous about breaking the rules?”

Geralt frowned, that adorable little crease on his forehead deepening and Jaskier yearned to smooth it out with a press of his thumb, but alas the witcher remained grumpy and unobtainable. “They won’t know,” he huffed.

If Jaskier had been eating or drinking at that moment, then he certainly would have choked on it or spat it out all over the floor in his shock. As it was, he almost fell off the log he was perching on. “I’m sorry?”

“They’ll make assumptions. We won’t correct them.”

Jaskier was sure that his jaw would never leave the floor. “We. we won’t?”

“No.”

“Alrighty…”

An awkward silence fell over the camp. The crackling of the fire suddenly sounded louder than any tavern in Oxenfurt. Jaskier could hear every breath like a hurricane blowing through the camp, the howling of distant wolves clawing down his spine. What felt like hours was probably only seconds when the silence became too much to bear.

“Oh ho ho, no. No, no, no. No. I’m sorry. What the fuck, Geralt?”

Geralt sighed and pressed his fingers to his forehead. “I should have asked sooner.”

“Do you even know what you’re asking of me?” Jaskier peered suspiciously at the witcher, wringing his hands in his lap and flexing his fingers. He desperately wanted his lute, his notebook… something, anything.

“Just don’t correct them?”

Jaskier snorted. “Just don’t correct them?” he asked incredulously “Oh sure, it’s that simple. Geralt, my dear, you’re asking me to pretend I’m in love with you.”

Jaskier barely managed to conceal his flinch.

Pretend.

Hah!

If only it were that simple. He was a pretty decent actor, most graduates of Oxenfurt were, but to act like he was only pretending to be in love with Geralt? That would be perhaps his toughest role to date.

And it would fucking hurt. Especially since Geralt hadn’t seemed to have realised he would have to do the same.

“Fuck.”

Jaskier tilted his head at the witcher, brushing his fringe from his eyes, his hand shivering from the cold. The penny had apparently dropped; finally.

He smirked, “Well, I was thinking we’d only have to kiss but if you insist?”

Geralt growled and pushed him onto the floor.

____

That night had been a particularly awkward one. The biting cold meant that Jaskier had to curl up into Geralt’s side to prevent himself from freezing to death. Geralt would normally wrap his arms around Jaskier in his sleep, making it more comfortable for both of them. But when he woke Geralt was lying rigid next to him; only staying as close as absolutely necessary and nothing more.

They ate their breakfast in silence, with even Jaskier’s normal chatter and noise absent. Jaskier was starting to get really sick of silences but he knew that Geralt needed a chance to process. The witcher would only blow up in his face if he said something now. It was a struggle for both of them. Jaskier was always desperate to fill the silence. He never enjoyed being left alone with his own thoughts and chattering about everything and nothing helped to calm the anxiety inducing void, and yet he knew that Geralt sometimes needed time. He would normally be scribbling away in his notebook, or carving patterns into the dirt with his boots, anything to keep busy, keep moving. Instead, he tapped out silent lute fingerings on his leg beneath the cloak and chewed on his lip, only stopping when he tasted the sharp tang of blood.

It was only after they had packed up camp and been walking for a few minutes that Geralt finally spoke, seemingly calmed by Roach’s reins in his hand.

“We should plan.”

Jaskier, still shivering under his cloak, snorted; a cloud swirling in front of his face like he was some kind of draconid. “Plan?”

“Hmm.”

“Pray tell me, dear witcher, what are we planning?”

Geralt grunted, gesturing between them, a trace of a blush on his cheeks which utterly delighted Jaskier. The blush meant that Geralt could only mean one thing, and Jaskier was having a ball!

His grumpy, allergic to feelings, witcher wanted to plan how they were going to convince a keep full of witchers that they were not only dating but seriously involved. Geralt wanted to talk about it. That was a first. Perhaps the witcher was treating this like just another contract to prepare for. That thought made Jaskier’s heart clench in his chest.

Just another contract.

Fuck.

He plastered a bright smile on his face before Geralt could notice his inner turmoil and clapped his friend on the back. “What’s there to plan?” he asked cheerfully, voice full of fake camaraderie. “We’re pretending to be in love, should be easy! I’m a bard, a troubadour, a graduate of the famed Oxenfurt academy!”

“Jaskier, shut up.”

Jaskier gaped and shoved Geralt in the chest. “You wanted to talk, Geralt!”

“We need boundaries.”

Jaskier’s heart sank and his smile faltered. “Right, yes, of course. I was. I was joking, last night, when I said…”

“I know.”

“We probably will have to kiss though.” he mumbled, his cheeks were a blazing fire and he probably resembled a tomato. Hopefully Geralt would just think he was cold, which he really really was. Honestly, he was starting to think that he might never be warm again. What was heat anyway? He swallowed, digging his nails into his palm. “Maybe just on the cheek. Think your family will buy that?” Geralt shook his head. “Well… bollocks.”

Geralt chuckled and Jaskier looked up at him with a sheepish smile. Geralt actually had the decency to look apologetic for the mess he’d gotten them into. “It’ll be just enough to convince them, nothing more.”

Nothing more. Of course it was nothing more. These were the boundaries that Geralt was talking about. He didn’t want Jaskier to think it was anything more than an act. Well, message received loud and clear! He sighed and ran his hands through his hair. He should be ecstatic, finally a chance to kiss Geralt… but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t what he wanted.

It wasn’t real.

Geralt grunted, his own hands were buried in Roach’s mane as they walked side by side up the perilous mountain. He paused suddenly and began fussing with Roach’s saddlebags. Jaskier wrapped his arms around himself, shuffling from one foot to another to keep moving. He had to keep moving or he might freeze to death. He could already feel his toes going numb and the perpetual stinging in his fingers. Oh he was definitely getting frostbite. He watched Geralt for a few moments. The witcher’s shoulders were tense and his jaw was clenched. Jaskier sighed and placed a hand on Geralt’s arm, enjoying the soft warmth that radiated from the witcher, letting it seep into his frozen bones.

“Do. Do you want to practice?”

“What?”

“Kissing,” Jaskier said with a flick of his wrist. “You want boundaries, so let’s practice. That way we’ll know what we’re comfortable with”

“You want to kiss me?” Geralt asked, brow furrowed and arms crossed in front of his chest.

Jaskier scoffed at Geralt’s emotionally constipated antics. He was nearly at his limit with stupid witchers and he hadn’t even reached Kaer Morhen yet. Maybe this whole thing was a bad idea.

Jaskier poked Geralt in the chest. “You suggested it!” he pointed out “and I’m never going to refuse the opportunity to kiss such a gorgeous person. You, dear witcher, are no exception!” He hoped that Geralt would be fooled by his nonchalant flirting. He did this all the time in taverns and courts all around the Continent and Geralt had witnessed it on many occasions. This was just what Jaskier did, nothing out of the ordinary… nothing to worry about.

He swallowed, a bubble of fear rising up in his chest and he couldn’t calm his racing heart. Oh gods, this was really far too close to the truth.

Geralt just gave a hum but let go of Roach’s reins. He gripped Jaskier’s shoulder and cocked his head, giving Jaskier the fondest of smiles. “Last chance to back out, bard.”

Jaskier grinned, raising his chin. He had a stubborn streak that would serve him well here. He never could say no to a challenge. “Just kiss me, you coward.”

A lie. Geralt was no coward. If anyone were it would be Jaskier. He couldn’t even tell Geralt the true depth of his feelings. They were concealed in songs for the whole Continent to hear but he couldn’t tell the one person that really ought to know. It was pathetic, pining over his best friend for years and years instead of moving on or just… admitting the truth?

Luckily Jaskier’s joke seemed to break the tension between them. Geralt hummed and cupped his cheek with more tenderness than he’d expected. Chapped lips pressed against his, warm and gentle as Geralt’s thumb stroked his cheek, calloused fingers brushing against the stubble that was beginning to prickle up through his skin. Jaskier wasn’t sure where to put his hands. He yearned to cup the nape of Geralt’s neck, to pull his lover closer and never let go. In a more passionate affair, his hands would land on his partner’s arse, squeezing cheekily as the kiss deepened.

Jaskier wanted to cry. It was all so sweet, so perfect, and none of it was real. This was his fate. Like a character in one of his ballads, a flower doomed to wither away without the heart of his beloved.

But this was Geralt.

This was his friend.

He settled for holding onto Geralt’s waist, his fingers digging into the wool of Geralt’s cloak. The kiss was over all too soon, leaving his head spinning. He felt breathless, like all his soul had been poured into the kiss. He pulled back from Geralt’s embrace in a hopeless attempt to calm his beating heart, but it was too late. The damage was done. With a single kiss Geralt had ruined Jaskier for all other love. Before it had been pitiful yearning but now…

Gods…

He was utterly done for.

His fingers itched for his quill. Oh, the poems and ballads he could pull from just a single kiss. A buttercup crushed under the paws of a great wolf as he roamed through the forests. Okay, that one might be a tad obvious. He preferred to at least try and hide in plain sight.

A dandelion perhaps?

Geralt would never need to know that Jaskier had almost chosen a different flower as his namesake.

“Jaskier?”

Jaskier blinked and looked up at Geralt. Normally Jaskier was able to pick up the most minute changes in Geralt’s expression and his eyes were usually an open book. The witcher’s face gave away nothing and it was bloody infuriating.

“That…. that went well?” he stammered, pulling at a loose thread in his cloak.

“Hmm. We’ll be fine,” Geralt turned from him, looking more and more like the Butcher of Blaviken of old, and less like Jaskier’s darling White Wolf. “It’s not long now. We should get going.”

And get going they did.

[ssson-of-sparda]

Fathers Do Cry (DMC Vergil one shot)

Summary: Vergil remembers his last Father's Day with Sparda and doesn't really realise how similar to him he has become.

Tags: Father's Day special / DADGIL! / Vergil acting like a dad to Nero

Author’s note: I woke up this morning suddenly inspired. Doesn't happen very often so enjoy ;) ps: I just love Dadgil!

***

His big blue eyes staring without blinking, the child was observing his father sitting by the fireplace in the parlour. Full of admiration, he was detailing all the features of his serious face, all the details of his confident posture and all the different luxurious fabrics that made his purple finery and as he did, he repeated to himself, wished, prayed, that someday, one day, he would grow up to be just like him.          “Aren’t you going to speak, Vergil?” The father’s powerful voice asked as he finally acknowledged the boy’s presence with a small amused smile, wondering what brilliant thoughts were occupying his eldest son’s sharp mind this time.            “I made this for you, father.” With a solemnity that didn’t suit a five-years-old but that somehow fitted Vergil’s young yet wise spirit and his will to be perfect son in the eyes of Sparda, the boy handed a paper sheet to his father.         “ And what would that be?” The man said as he took his son’s gift. “It’s father’s day so … I made you a poem… or tried to.” The adorable embarrassment tensing the child’s traits in funny grimaces made the father's smile wider but Vergil, suddenly too preoccupied with the blue paint stuck under his fingernails, didn’t notice it as he didn’t notice the paternal pride and the love shining in his eyes.               “I thought your mother wanted you and your brother to make a gift together this year.” “ You know Dante” Vergil sighed. “He has no artistic talent whatsoever. He wanted to make you a wooden sword to play with us.”    “ That’s actually a very good idea.”  Vergil frowned; suddenly worried that Sparda would not like his gift and preferred Dante’s – if he had made one of course. “Except when the sword looks like two twigs glued together. You should have seen this, father. It looked ri.di.cu.lous.” Sparda laughed at his son’s attitude, finding amusement in this sibling rivalry. “Why don’t you read me your poem then?”              “ I learnt it by heart actually. The paper is for you to remember this day by … and also because I wanted to illustrate it. Look.” Vergil approached his father, seized the poem from his big hands and climbed on his lap to show him the delicate aquarelle he had painted around the lines. “Impressive. Did your mother help you with this?” Vergil shook his head. “No, I did it on my own. I used a book I saw in that old man’s house I often go to as a reference.”       “ The old academic that lives down the hill? I thought you found him boring.” Vergil shook his head again, furiously this time and with a serious frown. “That’s Dante. Me, I really like him. He teaches me a lot of things. And he has lots of books. It’s incredible.”

Sparda ruffled his son’s silver hair whose hairdo was always made in order to somehow mimic his, thinking what a promising young boy Vergil was. Maybe more promising than Dante to be honest – though he knew he shouldn’t think that.   But there was something that Vergil had that Dante lacked. Perhaps rationality beyond his age … or some kind of maturity … wisdom maybe? He couldn’t really pinpoint what it was exactly. All he knew is that it was something unique and special, just like his son, something that made Sparda certain that one day his eldest would grow up to be a great man, a man greater than him, a man worthy of the Yamato and capable of handling its burdening power.

“Can I recite my poem now?” Sparda smiled at the sparkle in Vergil’s eyes. “Sure.” The boy quickly took back his previous position in front his father, cleared his throat, put his hands behind his back and stuck out his chest.

Sparda listened to every word, fascinated and amazed by his little one’s talent and profoundly moved by all the love, all the meticulousness and the time he put in each line and in each word. “Oh Vergil. The world is not yet ready for someone like you.” The father said as he let a tear roll down his cheek. “Why are you crying, father?” Vergil worried. “Because fathers cry, my son.”

That day was the last time Vergil truly celebrated Father’s day for a few weeks later he had no father, no one to make poems to, no one to admire by the fireplace. Just a memory that he feared would sooner or later fade but that he would cling to dearly for as long as he could.

“Why don’t we bring flowers to Daddy’s statue in the park today?” Eva asked when Vergil was six, when Vergil was seven, when Vergil was eight only to be welcome by a heavy silence that was no longer hiding brilliant thoughts but a painful sadness. But each time he did as Eva suggested, maybe more for her than for him, maybe because he still loved and admired Sparda even if he had left him, maybe because he thought that his father might see him and smile from wherever he was now, the same way he had smiled when he had read him his poem on his last father’s day.

And that’s certainly why, more than three decades later, he was back in this park, on this very special day with a bouquet of purple peonies he had bought on his way here and a memory that never faded. A memory he could still recite.

"Whether the sun shines or the sky cries,                 Whether the day breaks or the night wakes,       My father always as a rampart stands Protecting my house with his bare hands.

He is strong, he is brave                 And the day he always saves.     A knight in cockroach armor     To scare my terror away."

Vergil scoffed at the lines, at the way they rolled off his tongue, finding them funny and childish and not worthy of a Blake or a Fielding at all unlike what he thought when he wrote them as a child. The over-confidence of youth probably.

“Did you just come up with that?” Vergil turned around to see Nero walking towards him with a smirk. A surprise but not a bad one. “Cause the rhyming sucks a little. I expected more of you.”                “ And I suppose you’re an expert in poetry now?”         “ I may read have read one of your books.” He said as he tapped the pocket of his marine blue coat hiding Vergil's most sacred book with pride. “You still have it I see.”     “Hey! It’s a real page turner! Can’t get my nose out of it.” Vergil had a crooked smile, understanding perfectly what his son meant.

Son? Even a year after this reveal he still couldn’t believe this boy before him, the one he had lived such a terrifying yet incredible adventure with, was his own flesh and blood.

A sigh almost escaped Vergil’s lips. How did he make such a fine young man? Someone so selfless, so generous, so loving when he was nothing like that.              “ What are you doing here, Nero?” He asked, trying not to think more about this.      “ Well it’s father’s day, no? So … I made you something… or tried to.” The embarrassed grimace Nero suddenly made made Vergil’s smile grew larger but Nero, too worried to keep the gift covered with the pieces of newspapers he had taped together, didn’t see it as he didn’t see the paternal pride and the love shining in his father’s blue eyes. The same paternal pride Sparda had displayed when Vergil was a little child with a small paper in his hands.  “Thank you Nero.” The man said as he gently took the present from his son's hands, wondering what it was even though the long shape didn’t leave much place for imagination.

He cautiously unwrapped the thing, already feeling a happiness he hadn’t felt in years warming his heart. And when he saw a katana-like wooden sword that purposely looked like Yamato he couldn’t help but smile and let a tiny drop of water blur his blue eyes. “It was Dante’s idea. Though he might have suggested gluing two sticks together.” Nero said as he scratched his head. “It looks amazing.” Vergil’s honesty was like a knife in Nero’s chest but in a good way. It was as if all the stress and all the stupid fear he had felt while making this toy sword had been stabbed away. He felt relieved, joyful even that his always so stern father was genuinely grateful and seemed to appreciate his gift. “That way, you won’t have to tear my arm apart again cause look, you have two now.” Nero tried to joke but his words just erased the smile on Vergil’s face.

“There is not a single day I don't regret what I did to you.” This was Vergil’s way to say he was sorry. Nero was certain of it. He didn’t need to know his father that well to know it. After all, he was somewhat the same. “Hey, it’s in the past. Plus it grew back, so no harm done.” He winked, trying to ease the atmosphere with a bad pun worthy of Dante even though there was a time he would have ripped Vergil’s chest open for what he had done. And a part of him knew he would never forget and maybe never fully forgive what happened.               But right now he was just happy to have a family, to have a father and to finally be able to celebrate a day he has so long hated.  “ This world doesn’t deserve you, son.” Vergil solemnly declared. He had never called Nero that way and that name felt strange yet beautiful to both of them. It made the son and the father smile in ways they never thought they would smile at each other. “ Damn, are you crying old man? I thought devils never cry.” Nero suddenly harrumphed when he finally noticed the water growing in his father's eyes.                   “ Well, fathers do cry." Vergil declared as he allowed a tear of joy and pride to fall along his pale cheek. The first in a very very long time but one he will never regret or brush away. "Father do cry.” He repeated with a glance at the statue of his father behind him.

[samwilsonshandsandass]

In The Coffee Shop

Summary: You work in a coffee shop and preparing the special of the month starts something you’d never thought would happen at your work place.

Pairing: Sharon Carter x Sam Wilson x Bucky Barnes x Natasha Romanoff x Steve Rogers x Reader

Warnings: Dubcon (sex pollen), smut, oral sex (m and f receiving, m and f giving), fingering, anal

Word count: 4.6K

A/N: This is my entry for @tinymalscoffee 400 follower writing challenge. Congrats on that milestone and thank you for hosting this challenge! I chose the prompts sex pollen and coffee shop AU. The graphics I used are by the amazing @firefly-graphics

It was, surprisingly, a slow morning in the coffee shop. Well, maybe not that surprising. There had been a warning for an extreme weather phenomenon and judging by the lack of customers in suits, several of the big employers had for once decided to not force their employees to come into work during this. You could already see the dark clouds forming on the sky.

The bell above the door rang and in came a red head with shorter hair. You didn’t look up from the flat white you were preparing and put some chocolate powder on it when your colleague yelled to you to get started on a double espresso. The flat white was done and snatched up by someone who visibly thought himself a hotshot, and even more visibly, wasn’t. Probably why he was out, to show his unwavering dedication to the company…

Then came the red head into your line of view directly. She was beautiful. And your hands trembled when you pushed the cup over the counter to her.

“Here’s your coffee, ma’am. Enjoy” You were surprised you were able to keep your voice steady.

“Thanks. Sugar is…?” Her voice was beautiful.

“To your right, ma’am.”

She smiled. “Do I look that old?”

“N-no, miss” You felt yourself get hot in the face.

“Don’t worry, just pulling your leg.”

You smiled at each other. Her smile made her even more beautiful. She nodded once more to you and then went to find a seat in the farthest nook of the shop. Your shift went on like usual after that.

Some days later, you had the afternoon shift. Your favorite. There were mostly students chatting about their lectures and during ordering, they were the nicest of customers and even chatting with you and the other baristas about their own side jobs, often in other cafés like yours.

This time you were on the register. Because of the influx of customers, you didn’t register the black-haired man and the blond one next to him until they stood directly in front of you.

“What can I get you, sirs? Our feature of the month is the flat white and the blueberry muffin.”

“I’ll have a latte macchiato and one of those blueberry muffins. Sound delicious.” The black-haired man grinned at you.

“And for you, sir?”

“Just a black coffee, thanks.” The blond one smiled.

“Right away, just wait for it over there.” You pointed to the end of the counter.

“Thanks” The black-haired one smiled. “So, Steve about that idea for Veterans Day…”

A week later, right at noon, a blonde woman and a brown-haired man came in. You were just finishing up an americano when they came over to you and you caught a snippet of their conversation: “… but knives-“ Said the blonde woman.

You had expected normal talks about work or whatnot. But not about knives, and apparently that had shown on your face.

“Don’t you scare the lady that’s granting you tea, Sharon!” The man said and smiled at you.

You smiled back as you gave them their tea and coffee and they smiled back. Like customers and employees smiled at each other.

Days later, when you were on table cleaning duty, your eyes swept over the customers’ heads. There was that cute couple that had had their first date here. You had no idea what number date they were on, but they were clearly progressing. The redhead putting her hand on the hand of the other woman after she put down the cookie she just broke in half.

The next table already had drunk their orders and the crumbs on the one plate in front of the brown-haired man signaled them being finished.

“Can I clear away?” You asked.

The brown-haired man and the redhead woman nodded.

“Thanks.”

There was even more traffic than usual in the morning today. Some conference was happening near you. And it wasn’t the fun kind for comics or books or games or a combination or all three with people in cosplay and sometimes, literally, screaming about who they saw and who was gonna be where and what they wanted to do and fandom discussions you got way to invested in for the fact that you were working. No, it was some business conference. It meant even more suits and even more snatched drinks without so much as a glance. It shouldn’t have bothered you, but it still did.

On one table though, there were two blondes and a black-haired man next to them. When you yelled out their orders, the blonde woman came up and took them with a genuine but tired “Thanks.” It was the first thanks you had heard that day by a customer.

When you went to do your cleaning rounds and came to their table the black-haired man and the blonde woman seemed to be dozing. The other blond smiled to himself. You took the cups and remembered how they all had wanted a double-caffeine shot.

“Thank you very much, ma’am” The blond man said.

You looked up at him, aghast. Thanking customers were one thing. They made your day. But this? This much manners? Calling you ‘ma’am’? Wow.

“O- of course. You’re welcome.”

You came out of the back room and had to grip the doorframe to hold yourself up. Your head was swimming.

“Hey! … okay?” You heard a voice in front of you.

You clenched your eyes and opened them again.

“Hey. You okay?” The blonde woman came into focus.

“I feel … weird…” You mumbled.

“I’ll take a look” The blond man said and went to the back room. A few minutes later, he came back, carrying a tray with a coffee grinder and half of the beans already ground.

“Did you just work on this?”

“Yeah… it’s… it’s our … special feature … the coffee with … with our special… home-ground beans…” Speaking was hard, you slurred, but somehow you managed while the blonde woman stroked your back.

“And you prepared them for tomorrow?” The redhead asked.

You nodded.

“Right, there was an ad about the new monthly feature” The brown-haired man mused.

You nodded again.

The blond man bent over the tray and took a whiff.

“Steve, no!” The black-haired man shouted.

“That’s been a losing battle for decades now, Sam” The brown-haired man sounded almost resigned.

“It smells a little weird.”

“I don’t smell anything” The redhead said. “But if you sense something, it must be there. Probably not strong enough for her to pick up.” She nodded to you.

The brown-haired man stood up from where he sat and went into the back room. He came back shortly after and pinched his nose in what seemed disbelief. “I think I know what it is. And all of us already inhaled it.”

“What are you talking about, Bucky?” The blonde woman spoke up.

“There were rumors about a substance that could be both used in liquids and in air to heighten sexual arousal. At the moment I don’t yet know who exactly produced it or why they need this and I also don’t know who ‘they’ are but the rumors I could listen to years ago when they were slow with wiping me, apparently led to something.”

“So, ‘they’ isn’t Hydra?” That was the redhead.

The guy shook his head.

“So, what happens now?” The blond man, Steve, asked.

“Most likely, all of us will go more or less crazy unless we…” Bucky scratched his neck and trailed off.

“Getting ourselves of by ourselves isn’t an option?” Sam wanted to know. “The whole thing would be weird if it was just people we knew from work, but she” He pointed to you. “doesn’t know us, we don’t know her and besides introducing ourselves, there won’t be much getting to know each other.”

“I know your orders, but that’s about it. I can’t even tell if you have a routine for which you need caffeine, because you all came in at different times and all the time” You mumbled with a tight-lipped smile.

“They say something about ourselves, right?” The man who was called Steve.

You nodded and looked at the blonde woman. “You have someone British in your family.”

Now Steve. “You want something simple. Maybe you don’t care for all the special things coffee shops have, but maybe, you’re also overwhelmed by the sheer amount of choice.”

The one called Sam was next. “You want something sweet but unlike others, you don’t want it contrasted with a drink on the bitter side of the spectrum. You want something toned down. You don’t need another stark contrast.”

“You” You looked at the redhead- “want something strong and sweet. Always. It’s both a pick me up and something to calm down but stay energized.”

“And you, ordering a black coffee but with caramel and peppermint syrup. There are people who order one of the two syrups in their coffee. Maybe caramel and hazelnut together. Peppermint on its own. But caramel and peppermint? That’s very unusual.” That was the last one of the group.

As much as they looked stunned, you looked proudly at them.

“How do you know I have someone British in my family?” The blonde woman seemed a little lost for words.

“Tea in this shop is either ordered by people who wanna seem fancy but not too fancy to hinder their career or by people who have an emotional response to tea. That’s why we sell almost no tea when there’s a conference, even to those suit-wearing people from around here who normally order one.”

“But how?” The one called Sam wondered.

“Barista.”

“If you know all that just by our drink orders and we’ll probably have sex with each other tonight, we should probably know each other’s names, right?” Steve said.

You nodded. “I’m Y/N.”

“I’m Steve and this are Sharon, Natasha, Sam and Bucky.”

You shook their hands and looked them in the eyes when their names were called and they smiled at you. You shook hands with people you barely, if at all, knew and who you were going to have sex with in probably a few minutes.

“Is there somewhere where it wouldn’t be that uncomfortable?” Natasha asked.

You nodded and led them to the very back of the shop, right where Natasha had once drunk her double espresso.

“The first time I came in here, you made the coffee and I went to this nook. You make a mean double espresso.”

“How do you remember that one coffee?”

“Because the first time it wasn’t you who made it, it didn’t taste as good.”

“Oh. Thanks.” You smiled; the barista part of your ego needed that and getting that compliment from someone like her, was an added bonus.

“May I?” Sam asked and untied the apron, now working on your shirt and you nodded.

Your clothes went one by one, slowly and when you were just in your underwear, you saw the others had taken off their clothing as well, except Sam of course.

You looked at Sam and when he smiled at you, you took off his clothes, first the sweater, then the pants.

Someone took your hand and you looked to your right to see Sharon pulling you with her on the couch. She put her hands on your cheeks and slowly kissed you. Her lips moved with yours and left you breathless when she let you go.

You felt someone on the other side of you who rubbed your waist. Turning your head, you saw Steve who looked encouragingly at you. He kissed the junction of your shoulder and neck. You could feel his chest pressing to your back and leant into him.

Suddenly there was something cold on your left leg and you flinched away, only to be stopped by soft hands.

“Sorry” Bucky mumbled and when you looked down you saw him massaging your leg with his hands, one flesh, one metal and you couldn’t help but think of how his metal hand would feel between your folds.

On your right leg were Natasha’s hands, massaging, kneading higher and higher until you felt her between your folds. She rose up until you could feel the tip of her tongue when you heard Steve say: “Nat, wait a second.”

You tore your eyes away from Natasha and saw Steve push a pillow under Natasha’s knees. She turned her head to give him a quick smile of thanks and then licked a stripe on the junction between your vulva and your right leg and then on the other side. Her hands had left your leg to hold you down at your hips and not too soon, because as her tongue was on your vulva longer than a second and she moved around, licking up and down your lips, your body bucked into her mouth on its own.

Sam moved behind Sharon, pressing himself into her, pushing her on you and both of you a little more into Steve. He somehow got his hands under your butt, letting his fingers dance over it, rubbing all the spots that you didn’t even know would make you moan. And then, he removed one of his hands. You just heard a wet pop and felt Steve’s forefinger at your hole.

“Okay?”

You tried to nod but in that moment Natasha inserted two of her fingers in your channel, and already, you could hear your wetness. So, instead of a nod, a moan escaped your lips and that was the non-verbal “Yes” Steve needed and he pushed his finger in.

Your mouth, still open from your moan, fell open even more and Sam traced it with his thumb. You moved your head forward a bit and closed your lips around it and sucked. You wrapped your right hand around Sam’s wrist to keep his hand where it was and linked your left hand with Sharon’s. You could feel her thighs next to yours on the couch moving. You looked at her. She had her eyes closed, whimpering into your neck.

“Y/N, hold her hip” Sam ordered.

You moved your hand from his wrist to her hip and Sam held her other hip. He moved forward and Sharon whined when Sam sank into her.

“Good?” You asked her.

She smiled lazily at you and nodded. You rubbed her neck and with each thrust of Sam, he squished her and your chests together. You angled your head a little to easier to kiss Sharon. You traced her lips with yours, she traced yours with hers when you pulled back for a second. She caressed your cheekbones with her thumbs and only when you opened your lips a bit further, did she use her tongue. She poked yours playfully, you poked back and could hear her giggle that traveled straight to your core. You entangled her in a light dance until you both had to breathe.

You leaned against each other, foreheads touching. You felt Sam moving his arm but couldn’t see where it went. You just noticed Sharon jolting and looked down to see him rubbing her clit.

“Baby, open up” Sam purred and pulled down your bottom lip with the thumb of his other hand.

You parted your lips immediately.

A second later, Natasha pulled her fingers from you and held them up in front of your face. She scissored them a bit and you could see your wetness between them.

“Sam?”

“Oh, yeah” He chuckled and removed his thumb from your mouth to a whine from you but that turned into a moan when Nat pushed her fingers into your mouth. You moved your tongue around, tasting yourself on her and maybe, just maybe, putting on a little show for her.

Steve kissed your shoulder blades, your neck, your collar bones while he moved his finger in you.

“Ready for the next one?”

This time you could nod, and you did.

“Alright” You could hear the smile in Steve’s voice.

He inserted his middle finger alongside his forefinger slowly and gently. He waited until he felt you relax and suck on Natasha’s fingers again. Just enjoying the feeling of being full and you felt your pussy clenching around nothing.

Now, you felt Bucky moving up a little. He looked up at you through his lashes. He massaged your tummy, going in circles until his hands gripped you were Natasha had had her hands. Bucky dove in, kitten licking your pussy and Nat’s soft hair was one thing between your thighs and definitely something you’d enjoy later when you were alone, even if it was just a memory, but Bucky’s shorter hair combined with his stubble was something else.

You couldn’t help but put your legs over his shoulders and link your ankles.

“Good… so good…” You moaned. Natasha had pulled her fingers back by now and kneaded yours and Sharon’s breasts.

“Yeah? What exactly feels good, baby?” Sam purred as he thrust into Sharon.

“Nat’s… Natasha’s fingers… and Steve’s as well” You could feel Steve’s grin on your shoulder blade and his fingers thrusting a bit deeper. “And-“ Bucky’s tongue entered you, going back and forth, in and out and you clenched around him.

When he pulled back for a moment with a grin, he said: “You were saying?”

You swallowed thickly and summoned your will to answer him. “Your beard! It feels so good on my thighs, never had one between them before…” You moaned again.

“Then I’m honored to be your first” He winked and dove back in.

He continued right where he left of. His tongue fucked up into you, his hands pulled you down onto him and soon your hips were basically riding his face. After a very pointed movement of his tongue, perfectly timed with Bucky squeezing your hips while pulling you down again, made you come undone. Your pussy spasmed around him, your mouth opened and your eyes closed.

You couldn’t hear anything, you couldn’t move anything but when you came down back to earth, you could still feel your pussy spasming. Apparently, you had gripped Bucky’s hair at some point and carded your fingers through it and scratched his scalp to ground yourself. But that plan backfired. Your scratching of his scalp made him purr. Understandably because having your scalp scratched was nice but after such an orgasm it was too much for you and you whimpered.

Bucky moved his metal hand to cup your pussy and the pressure of the plates without much structure plus the coldness soothed you and you sighed.

You felt several hands stroking you, calming you down and Sharon and Natasha kissing you.

“All good?” Steve wanted to know from behind you.

You nodded and turned your head to kiss him, moving your tongue against his.

They all pulled back a bit, Natasha and Bucky sitting back on their heels, Sam pulled Sharon from you and leant back and Steve removed his fingers and while you still felt Steve’s chest at your back and Sharon’s thighs next to yours but other than that, nothing.

You whined at the loss of contact and of the confusion until Steve lifted you up by your waist.

“Spread your legs, love” He commanded softly, and you did. As he lowered you down, you could almost feel his thighs under yours and the tip of his cock at your spread butthole.

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

“Then breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. Steady, okay?”

You followed Steve’s advice and you felt him slowly inch in. He stopped every few seconds, letting you adjust to it all until you felt his hips digging into your butt.

He wrapped his arms around your waist and slowly leaned back, until he laid flat on the couch with you on top of him. He rubbed your arms

Bucky climbed between your and Steve’s legs, holding his dick and looked to you for confirmation. You made grabby hands and he chuckled.

“Needy.”

Bucky bent over you and looked you in the eyes. And he continued to hold your gaze as he entered you. You couldn’t have looked away if you wanted to.

“Wet. So warm and wet” His eyes were screwed shut and he leaned his forehead on your collarbone.

Natasha moved to your head and you moved so your head was on Steve’s shoulder. You put your hands on Nat’s hips and pulled her down until her clit met your lips and she hissed on contact, while facing away from Bucky. She slowly began to ride your face and you moved your tongue a bit to touch her.

Seeing Natasha in this position, you below her, your mouth on her clit, her using you for your pleasure and her stiff nipples and her breasts moving made you wish for two mouths. You wanted to taste her but at the same time, you wanted to suck and bite her nipples until they were swollen and she’d push you away because it felt too good.

Bucky and Steve held you close, sandwiched between them, their arms around you and each other and when they started to move, they moved in unison. They made you feel almost completely empty and then full again and Bucky rubbed your clit with his left middle finger and forefinger.

That was the moment Sam softly took your left hand from under Bucky’s and Steve’s arms. Sam wrapped it around him and started moving it up and down. When you looked to your left, you saw Sam, but you also saw Sharon looking straight at you as she quickly rode Sam’s thigh. She smiled and reached out to stroke your forearm.

You were so glad Sam helped you, because on your own, you wouldn’t have been able to do something. The stimulation of Bucky’s slow and deep strokes that hit all the points in you, Steve grinding and keeping you close, Sharon’s touches a contrast but at the same time not to it all, the heat of them around you, Natasha on your face and moaning. It was all too much.

Natasha rode your face rhythmically, you licked and sucked on her until the rhythm she had built stuttered, her moan broke off and her legs twitched. You could see her bending forward to rest on her forearms.

Sam moved your hand along him, he squeezed your hand around him, lessening it a bit when he came to the tip and twisting your hand around it.

You moved your right hand from under Bucky’s arm and put it on Natasha’s hip to stabilize her. She moaned at the contact and the moan morphed into a whimper when you switched from using your tongue to nipping and sucking on her with your lips.

At the same time Steve gripped your hips and used what leverage he had to chase his release and soon you could feel him cumming with a groan. After the last spurt, he pressed you to him.

The slightly new angle seemed to trigger something in Bucky. He started rutting arrhythmically in you. With each thrust, he bent over you a little more until he effectively blanketed you with his body. Bucky softly rubbed and pinched your clit and you clenched around him. He stopped moving and you heard his growl as he started cumming in you.

And then you felt like you were floating up and away from the earth.

For a short time, nothing.

And then you felt like you were floating back down to earth.

You could feel your pussy still spasming, although now around nothing, and you could hear voices. You couldn’t discern who said what.

“Hey. Hey! … Oh shit, I think that was too much.”

“Too much of what exactly?”

“Of everything.”

“That wasn’t me, was it? The weight of my body?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Hey, Y/N. Hey. Come back to us.”

“Mmmhmmmm”

“Oh, good, you’re back. Thought we’d lost you there for a second.”

“You probably did, but I’m back now.”

You were maneuvered to lean against the back of the couch and just breathed in and out a few times. When you calmed down and got your beating heart a little more under control, your eyes fell to Sam’s cock, which still stood at attention.

“May I?” You asked and looked at him, at his cock and back at his face.

Sam just nodded and that was enough to lick long stripes up and down, only sucking on his tip for a second before you went back to the base of him and massaged his balls until you could feel him twitch. You waited until the last second to put your mouth on just his tip and sucked.

You continued sucking on Sam, letting him buck up his hips and swirled the tip of your tongue around the slit until he couldn’t take it anymore. Sam came and spurted in your mouth until he literally tore your mouth off his dick. You swallowed and grinned at him like a Cheshire cat.

You turned to Sharon, and this time, you pulled her on the couch. You pushed her back until she laid on her back. You moved down her breasts and tummy with little kisses and bites. You ignored her whimpers when you neglected where she visibly wanted you the most in favor of her thighs. You altered between nips, kisses and bites that would leave a memory for a few days, until you reached the junction between her legs.

You pursed your lips and only moved them over her. When your mouth was back at her entrance, you flattened your tongue and licked up until you swirled your tongue around Sharon’s clit. First in bigger circles that went smaller and smaller up to the point where you sucked her clit in your mouth. You continued sucking on her with alternating pressure until you could feel her twitch and buck her hips into your mouth.

Each time Sharon bucked into you, you made it a point to get closer to her, until she couldn’t take it anymore and came. She whimpered, she wailed, you could see several hands stroking her body, soothing her and you felt her thighs shake next to your head. After some time, her thighs stilled and you gently uncrossed her legs and took them off your shoulders. You licked your lips and grinned at her.

“Good?”

Sharon only nodded with a smile.

One day after this one-of-a-kind night, Natasha came back in the morning and left with a little black container under her arm and a double espresso to-go.

One or two weeks later, you had the day shift and were solely on coffee making duty. Your coworker had just told you the next order and it was a big one all at once.

“Latte macchiato, one blueberry muffin, black coffee, double espresso, black coffee with peppermint and caramel and a black tea!” You yelled out.

Someone came up to you and you recognized Sam.

“Good to see you” He winked with a smile.

“Not like I work here” You retorted with a smile of your own.

“Buck! Help me carry all these things!”

Bucky came up and looked at you. “Hey. Nice seeing you.”

“Surprisingly, I work at the place that I also call ‘my workplace’” You deadpanned.

Bucky let out a dry laugh. “Yeah, should have expected that.”

They both took half of the order in their hands and went to walk to the table where the others were sat. Although you couldn’t see the entire table, you knew exactly who sat at it, just from the orders.

Sam turned his upper body to you again. “When do you get off work?”

“In an hour. Why?”

“Wait for us here?”

“Who is ‘we’?”

Sam only winked and he and Bucky went to their table.

[nevertheless-moving]

Pop Star Wars AU: Waking

Drabble set in this au which I wrote way back a few weeks ago.

Back then, I had only recently decided to look up my tumblr password for a third attempt at being an appreciative fandom community member instead of just trying to think really hard at internet strangers, and maybe shout into the void a little. (But there’s like, several people here now??? How did you even find me on the internet? )

Anyway I have since learned how to spell Anakin’s name and insert links. Also that if you resize your window while typing directly into tumblr everything disappears.

Self Indulgent Crack Pop Star Wars Time Travel Fixit (star wars au no 3):

After several years of exile in the Jundland Wastes, Ben Kenobi had not quite finished mentally unpacking the decades of mistakes, grief, and failure that had led him to the desert. It was the work of a lifetime, and some days were harder than others. But after several forays in and out of alcoholism, spice addiction, and every other form of geographically-accessible self-destruction, he could at least say that some days were easier. 

The process was no doubt made more difficult by the abject solitude. Unlike the chaotic years that constituted the fall of the Republic, he had all too much time to think, and no one around to share his thoughts with. He closed his eyes in the dark of his hut, thoughts drifting between past and future. 

The past was as ugly and lovely as ever. The larger future didn’t look much better, but he could find some joy in the thought of tomorrow and fresh bantha milk when the herd roamed near. Owen was always much less begrudging of his presence when he came with an offering, and Beru would likely invite him to stay for noon meal where he would share in fresh cheese as Luke rambled about his plans to fix-up a junked speeder bike.

The thought of Luke’s happiness at the treat allowed him enough peace of mind to meditate more deeply.

He carefully broke off a piece of unfair-bitterness from his larger loving-grief. The bitterness he released into the force. The grief he turned over and soothed until its edges dissolved. He accepted it, now smoother if not smaller, laying it to rest alongside his hard-earned wisdom and unfinished poetry.

Tired, but fractionally lighter, Ben Kenobi drifted to sleep.

He opened his eyes to the first rays of daylight peeking in his temple chambers.

The room was intimately familiar. For a few years they were Ashoka’s, on the rare occasion she found herself temple-side and in want of privacy but not complete solitude. For a solid decade before her, the chambers were Anakin’s, though he was quick enough to accept the common room couch when Ashoka entered their life. And before that...they were his. That was his model rocket on the shelf, and his astronomical mobile hanging from the ceiling, and his robes scattered on the floor, though they hadn’t been arranged as such in this room since his apprenticeship with Qui-Gon. He sat up. 

Glad he had put energy into meditation last night, he used the lingering clarity of mind to try and work through possible explanations. 

Vivid Dream? No a quick pinch to his inner elbow debunked that, as well as the fact that the morning taste in his mouth was more the minty tang of denti-cleaner, rather than the saltiness of dried meat which he had grown accustomed to.

Hallucinogenic mushroom flashback? Possible, though it still wouldn’t explain the detail of physical sensations he felt, running his hand from the temple-spun linens on his bed to the warm-carved wood of his bedside table. He stood and did a perfect forward flip in place. Shockingly his knees didn’t ache at impact, but a drug induced hallucination of this intensity would have some sort of impact on his equilibrium, and he felt perfectly balanced, at least physically.

Force vision seemed most likely. Sinking into cross-legged meditation, he gradually lowered his mental shields. There was no whisper of Vader or Palpatine anywhere near Hutt space at this time, so the risk of reaching out was both manageable and necessary. Rather than the pure energy he personally associated with intense visions, he felt gradients of light, echoing ripples of emotions, and the unique solidity of force-imbued stone walls.

Heart beginning to race as reality set in, Ben concluded that he was, indeed, in the Jedi temple on Courascant. Even if he had suffered a complete psychotic break, his force sense couldn’t lie with such crystal clear detail. Confused unreality mixed with images of the past and future, sure. But this was the temple. It just was. 

He couldn’t make sense of it. Even if he had somehow been found, drugged, and transported to the heart of the empire, the rooms as he sensed them didn’t exist anymore. The contents were lost or burnt, the stone walls destroyed and rebuilt into a wing of the Imperial Palace.

Obi-Wan sank deeper into the force and reached out further, searching for he answers. In general, the force felt light, the shroud of the darkside was a hazy irritation in the distance, not a smothering blanket. The manifold wounds in the force formed by senseless war and destruction were absent. Also gone were the tang of grief and loss that he had begun to associate with the temple’s signature even before- even before the purge.

The temple was also full to the brim with tens of thousands of lights in the living force. He reached out to them incredulously, nudging many just to feel a living, sentient response. The last time he remembered feeling so many Jedi all in the temple at the same time was...well, when he still lived in this room. The nearest living force sensitive presence was achingly familiar, though notably and unquestioningly living. He could feel the presence moving nearer and retreated, pulling himself fully back into his body.

The only explanation that fit was that he had suddenly, miraculously, inexplicably traveled back in time. 

He half ran to his closet, opening the door with a yank to reveal a full length mirror. A once-familiar, 25-year old padawan stared back with visible shock. Of course his knees didn’t hurt, this body hadn’t yet been broken and abused by knighthood, war, and Tatooine. His hands examined the smooth chin, the unwrinkled forehead, and even the terrible, terrible haircut.

Obi-wan startled at a knock at his door, freezing in place. 

“Padawan?” Came Qui-Gon Jinn’s voice softly, “I don’t intend to pull you out of meditation prematurely, but is there a particular reason you were sprawling over the temple this morning? You startled me somewhat. To be perfectly honest, I think you might have alarmed a few people around the temple, I’ve already received messages from council telling me to reign in my padawan before he hurts himself.” 

Qui-Gon sounded more amused than reprimanding, and he paused, clearly waiting for an answer. 

Obi-Wan’s jaw locked up. What could he say? How could he even to begin to explain what had happened? He sank to floor, head pressed to the ground and tears silent streaming down his face. All he could do was offer to the force were words, the feelings could come later Thank you. Thank youThankyouthankyouTHANKYOU. 

For whatever reason, the force had granted him a second chance. Regardless if it was intended as punishment, gift, or inexplicable chance, he would build a better future than the one he left behind. 

“Padawan?” Qui-Gon knocked again, sounding concerned, “Are you alright? If you don’t answer I’m going to have to come in there.”

And all at once he had flipped back to not enough time to think and too many people needing his attention.

Obi-Wan managed to open his mouth to call out some meaningless assurance, intent on gaining more time to process the fantastical situation. Much to his surprise, what came out was a strangled, keening sob. Qui-Gon burst through the door. 

Obi-Wan realized, with a little embarrassment, that he was curled up practically into a ball on the floor, tears streaming in a shocking waste of water. It was probably not the most dignified, nor the most reassuring position for Qui-Gon to walk in on. 

Qui-Gon rushed to his side, pulling him up by the shoulders to frantically look him over. “What happened?” he demanded, “Are you hurt? Did something go wrong while you were meditating and you were trying to reach out for help?”

Obi-Wan smiled at the barrage of questions. He had almost forgotten that on the rare occasions when Qui-Gon’s perfect Jedi serenity broke, he became somewhat counterproductively intense. 

“I’m alright, Master,” he tried to say, but what came out was more of a croaking, “MNNrlerR.” 

This predictably, only increased Qui-Gon’s concern.

To Obi-Wan’s deep consternation, he was dragged by Qui-Gon to the healer’s wing. He remained quiet during the examination, not wanting to risk whatever was compromising his ability to speak. It could be readjusting to his younger body, or a manifestation of the admittedly great emotional shock he was still experiancing. Or simple lack of practice- it had been several weeks since he had last heard the sound of his own voice, from a certain point of view.

After finding no physical cause for concern, Master Vyr asked Qui-Gon to wait outside.

“Padawan Kenobi?” The Tortugan healer asked gently. “Your Master seems quite insistent that something is wrong. Would you like to discuss what the problem seems to be?”

Obi-Wan cleared his throat and was relieved when his voice came out smooth and under his control, “I’m alight, Master. I apologize for disruption. I experienced a... particularly strong vision when I woke up this morning, and temporarily lost control over myself. I’m already feeling more stable. I believe I simply need to meditate on what I’ve seen. My master unfortunately came in while I was dealing with some of the emotional aftermath.

“I see,” Vyr responded. “Did you experience this vision before or after your expansive foray into the force? I understand a surprising swath of the temple felt your presence press against them this morning.”

“I reached out after,” Obi-Wan admitted. “My vision was...particularly dark. I felt the need to ground myself with the presence of other Jedi. I’ll make certain to apologize to anyone I may have startled.”

Eventually he was cleared with the strict instruction to stick with shallow meditation for the next few days as well as a strong recommendation to seek out Master Yoda, Sifo-Dryfas, or one of the other Master known to experience visions. 

Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan walked back to their quarters together in a peaceful quiet. It wasn’t until the door clicked behind them that Qui-Gon rounded on his padawan.

“What vision could possibly have left you in such distress?”

Obi-Wan walked to the kitchenette to make tea, stalling before answering. “You have always told me to stay focused on the present, Master”

Qui-Gon frowned. “Yes, however this...vision seems to have altered you somehow. You are grieved by it.”

“Yes. But what I grieve may never come to pass.” 

It won’t come to pass. I might not know his every tool, but I do know Sideous’s biggest secret, and I WILL stop him.

“Will you not tell me what you saw?” Qui-Gon asked, sounding somewhat hurt.

Obi-Wan poured the hot water carefully, feeling torn. If he told Qui-Gon everything... would he believe him? Perhaps, eventually but...what would become of Anakin, still just a boy? And the moment he knew of Palpatine’s evil...he knew Qui-Gon. He would favor the direct approach, underestimating the sheer breadth of the trap the sith had laid (Obi-Wan himself lived through it and only began to understand long after it had closed).

“I saw...a great shadow fall over the republic.”

He sat at the table, relishing in the simple pleasure of pouring a cup for Qui-Gon and himself from a shared pot.

Qui-Gon cradled his mug in his hands. “I see. Nothing specific?”

“Your death. At the hands of a tool of darkness. You ran ahead...” Obi-Wan took a scorching sip to stop himself. “It was foolish. Unnecessary. And I was forced to fight alone without you.

Qui-Gon set the tea down to stroke his beard in thought. “Well. I have no great desire to die. While I make no promises, I will endeavor to avoid leaving you behind ‘unnecessarily.’”

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan replied, over sincere. 

They drank in peaceful silence. It was interrupted by a shrill noise from Qui-Gon’s comm.

“I’ve just received a personal request from the Chancellor to immediately assist in negotiations with a Trade Federation blockade around Naboo. Are you feeling up to it?”

“You know, I think I am”

[violetmuses]

Miracle || Chapter 1

TITLE: “Miracle” || Javy "Coyote" Machado 

FANDOM: “Top Gun Maverick” (2022 Film)

CHARACTER: Javy “Coyote” Machado

PAIRING: OC Victoria Powell + Javy “Coyote” Machado

MAIN STORYLINE: Hoping to discover the truth behind her own past, Tori Powell returns to North Island. Meanwhile, could an unexpected bond with Javy Machado change everything? 

MAIN WARNINGS: Angst, strong language, discussions of military service, adult themes, etc.

Author’s Note: Surprise, new story alert! I’ve waited a long time to publish this one as well. Feedback would be greatly appreciated and thanks so much for reading my work as always. - V. 💜

Miracle - Masterlist ✈

Main Masterlist

Tagging: @fangirl0917 @fanboygarcia @ginghampearlsnsweettea

_______

2022

Communal bar The Hard Deck is crowded as usual, especially since summer heat and shoreline breezes fill surrounding air once more. Voices chat in all directions and glasses clank as members of this naval base enjoy much-needed downtime. 

“Uh-oh.” Smiling for a moment, Jake “Hangman” Seresin fixes his posture and holds the pool cue towards his uniformed chest before eyeing Coyote across this green felt table. 

“What?” Javy "Coyote" Machado squints, folding both arms while looking towards his amused comrade in one way or another. One vintage jukebox plays decades-old music as Javy waits for Jake to keep talking. 

“Turn around.” Jake whispers to Jav, trying not to weirdly catch the attention of one new young woman who’s sitting up front and alone at the bar. 

Javy slowly turns on the heels of his standard-issue shoes and glances over one shoulder. 

Who is that? He thinks while facing someone new, not wanting to smile quickly and make her feel uncomfortable. 

From this angle, the new young woman is sitting on one bar stool and drinking from one of the classic glass soda. She definitely plans on driving home tonight. Even over the sound of thundering music, Javy can hear the way she laughs. The woman  chuckles out loud, humored by something that one of the other patrons said. 

“Make a move.” Jake encourages Jav after ending their game of pool and winks before shaking hands, heading in the opposite direction. 

_______

Javy knows better than to interrupt the woman's conversation at this point, so he waits until after she’s paid a bill and hops off that front stool. By now, she’s been greeting other people for only a few minutes. 

“Excuse me?” Javy asks in a kind way, still not mean or weird enough to start flirting like some kind of jerk. As skilled as he is while airborne, respect always matters. 

“Oh, sorry.” The woman gasps towards Jay after recycling another glass bottle of soda. “Did you say something? I haven’t been here in years and it’s still really loud, yknow?” 

“Yeah, I understand. I was just asking, what’s your name?” Javy sounds louder than before, but remembers to keep his distance from this stranger.  

“Victoria.” Offering to shake hands with him, Victoria smiles once more. Javy almost buckles, entranced because she’s so pretty. 

“Javy.” Jav welcomes that handshake from Victoria without fail, overjoyed from within. 

________

Jav speaks with Tori until closing, or at least Jake regrettably interferes. Staying out a little too late at night wouldn’t make training with Maverick any easier the next day. 

“How did it go?” Jake asks his best friend this question later that night before lights must go out for everyone on the base. 

“Victoria’s great. We had a nice conversation.” Javy speaks to the bottom bunk without facing Jake, smiling anyhow. 

“Do you plan on seeing Victoria again this weekend or was talking to her so good that I need to break out my tuxedo for the wedding?” Seresin jokes, laughing without being too loud of course. 

“Shut up, man.” Javy shuts his eyes and ignores Jake, planning to sleep before training tomorrow. 

***

By that following weekend, The Hard Deck is once again crowded with new recruits and veterans. 

Victoria jokingly rolls both eyes as soon as Natasha “Phoenix” Trace opens the front door and walks alongside her towards that main bar. 

“What’s this I hear about you coming back. Too many rumors.” Natasha asks, tilting her head while facing Tori. Both music and voices still clustering 

“Don’t get your hopes up, Phe. I’m not flying again anytime soon.” Tori offers the truth and takes another drink of her soda. 

“Why not?” Phoenix whispers, almost sounding gentle despite her usual resolve in one way or another. 

At that same moment, Tori finishes drinking soda and reaches out, carefully toying with dog tags clasped around her neck. 

“It’s complicated.” Tori answers. 

_________

“Your girl just snatched the pool cue, Jav.” Jake almost rattles both of Javy’s shoulders while after finishing his own drink that night. Tori is playing against Natasha for the sake of a good time. Everyone watches, down for this matchup. 

By the time Jake utters acknowledges  Victoria’s presence for Jav, even Fanboy and Rooster look on, huddled at this crossway table and holding invisible popcorn.  

Back and forth. Back and forth. Spectators of this bar nearly howl in the name of surprise and trick move as Natasha and Tori keep up their own comradery.   

Tori wins, but shakes hands with Natasha and grins through sportsmanship just before ending this game. 

Cheering echoes almost immediately and everyone seems impressed. Too many other people ask questions, but Victoria eyes Javy across the bar, smiling once more. 

“Saw that.” Javy jokes with Tori when Jake is out of the way. He’s already dealt with enough teasing from Seresin by now. 

“Just wanted to blow off steam with an old friend. Now let's get out of here before Penny kicks everybody out.” Tori speaks up through laughter. 

“We’ve got about two more hours left until close, actually.” Javy smiles back, gently correcting Tori as he looks down at his watch. 

“Is that right?” Victoria slyly bites her lip for a moment, but doesn’t close too much space between herself and Javy. 

“Yes, Ma’am.” Javy catches on, but still knows better than to really act the way that he wants to. 

“What should we do now?” Victoria smirks, but before Javy can respond, Rooster slides near the piano and jokingly cracks his knuckles. 

“Oh no! Rooster’s already played Great Balls of Fire for everybody at least three times in the past week.” Javy rolls both eyes while facing Tori, apologizing without other words. 

Moments later, Rooster Bradshaw then chimes the opening chords of one classic ballad entitled “Sweet Love” by Anita Baker. 

“Oh, shit!” Victoria drops her jaw and makes another comment while looking at Javy for now. “That was my parent’s wedding song.” 

“That’s really nice.” Javy remarks. Meanwhile, quite a few nostalgic veterans sing along with Rooster as the young graduate uses his lower register to croon every romantic lyric. 

Even still, Jake, a small town kid through and through, belts during the Quiet Storm bridge with this raspy tone out of nowhere, striking attention from everyone. 

“What?” Both Javy and Victoria gasp, almost shouting in the name of excitement and encouragement as Jake sings along. To Javy, such a surprise moved from his best friend. 

When Rooster finally stops playing the song, Jake can only smirk. He then points towards Javy and gestures for him to walk forward with Victoria. 

“If you two don’t stop playing…” Jakes reveals his Southern drawls, trailing off his words and pointing between Javy or Victoria before walking away. Hangman won’t even explain where the hell his bombshell voice came from. 

“Jake’s got a point.” Victoria grins for a moment, but speaks once more, leaving Javy to ponder with his own thoughts. 

Damn. Laughing, Javy considers the truth. He can’t refuse it anymore. 

[volturiwolf]

The Volturi Princess - A Felix Volturi x fem!Reader Story (part 1)

A/N: This is the first Volturi- and Twilight-related story I ever started writing and it is quite long and elaborated/complex, as I tend to overanalyze in many parts. I have wrote a few parts until now and I'll be uploading them in the future. I have been quite emotional throughout writing it, trying to understand the reader's point of view.

A/N 2: I'm sorry if something doesn't make sense. English is not my first language. I also include Italian through the story, with translation, but I'm not a native or a speaker, so I'd like to apologize in advance to those who speak Italian. Enjoy :)

A/N 3: According to "The Amagi" on Youtube, Felix was born in 250 BC (their thumbnail), so I used that in my story.

No of Words: about 5347

Mentions of: Abandonment, Abortion, Anxiety, Blood, Bruises, Coma/Comatosed State, Death Emotional Abuse, Emotional and Physical Pain, Gaslighting, Greece/Greek Language - with translation, Heartbreak, Italian Language - with translation, Manipulation, Murder, Pain, Panic Attacks, Pregnancy, Suffering, Suicide/Suicidal Thoughts, Swear Language, Throwing Up/Puking, Witches/Wizards/Witchcraft

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

My heart felt heavy. I may have just escaped the cruelest vampire of all, but I also ran away from the love of my life, my mate, the only person who could fully understand me in this world. I asked him to run away with me, but, although our bond was strong, he felt obliged to stay loyal to his master, his creator. I drove as fast as I could, away from the sunny Volterra, and away from him.

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(Y/N) grew up quite privileged, in Vampire terms. Being born into the Volturi coven was something many vampires could only dream about. (Y/N) was abandoned by her parents when she was a baby, but Aro, one of the three Volturi leaders, took her under his protection, and offered her more things than she could ever have imagined. After all, she was his only biological granddaughter, the “Volturi princess”, an heiress to the throne; her mother lost that “privilege” when she met and fell in love with a wizard.

(Y/N)’s mother soon got pregnant with her, and then later turned her husband into a vampire to help her with her pregnancy, and stay together forever. However, (Y/N)’s parents couldn’t raise her because they wanted to run free and careless, not commit to anything permanent, so Aro took over and raised his granddaughter with the highest honors and privileges, “as a princess should be raised”.

(Y/N) was a mix of Vampire, Witch and Human, due to the grandmother, Sulpicia, being human when Aro found her; Sulpicia later fell pregnant with (Y/N)’s mother, and Aro transformed her to vampire, as he had planned all along. Aro raised (Y/N) according to his own rules and morals, teaching her how to kill humans to feed from, how to attack and slip away from her opponents, how to lead other vampires, and most importantly, how to keep her identity and existence a secret, not only to humans, but other non-Volturi vampires as well. No one could know that there was a possibility of a vampire having a child with a human, and that the child could be effectively controlled and raised as a regular vampire.

As (Y/N) grew older and older, reaching the human age of 25 within 7 years of her birth, Aro would spend more and more time with her, examining and studying her possibilities and her potential powers’ development. (Y/N) grew up to be extremely strong and fast, an excellent tracker with great intelligence and understanding of the world around her. However, Aro could not risk sending her to “Volturi duties”. She was his hope for a stronger coven; with (Y/N) in the throne, Aro felt like he could conquer the vampire world with ease.

That’s why he was always searching for the best guards he could find, to protect the coven and do his work instead of himself, Caius, or (Y/N). He couldn’t rely on Marcus, as he proved to be too emotional since Didyme died, but was still valuable for his plan. Caius, on the other hand, although powerless, was far more sadistic and “diligent” in following vampire rules, and (Y/N)... (Y/N) was just too obedient, following every order Aro gave her - a strong asset for the Volturi.

Aro was changing guards and trackers quite easily, disposing them when they were no longer needed or when he found better ones. He needed talented and strong vampires to serve the coven and do their work.

Chelsea was the very first vampire Aro created solely to serve the Volturi, after recognizing her potential when she was human. Chelsea’s gift of relationship manipulation was truly useful in bringing new vampires into the coven and was used thousands of times during Volturi's reign. It could also easily dispose of them, making their bonds with other vampires break at will; those vampires were isolated by the other vampires and then killed - Aro couldn’t risk letting them get away knowing the Volturi’s secrets and life.

About 100 years later, Corin joined the Volturi, just a couple decades after (Y/N)’s birth. Corin’s gift of addictive contentment was the one which kept Marcus in the Volturi after Didyme’s death - along with Chelsea’s to make him committed to Aro’s greater plans, and was also used on Sulpicia, Athenadora and any other vampire in the Volturi guard to keep them satisfied being in the Volturi. Under Aro’s instructions, Corin was keeping Chelsea content with being in the Volturi, and Chelsea was keeping Corin loyal to them, each of them using their gifts against each other, without their knowledge.

Sometime between 230 and 220 BC, while travelling in Rome, searching for additional vampires to add to the coven, Aro supposedly met a young, strong and ambitious fighter, who wished to become a gladiator one day, named Felix. Felix did not only look, but also was physically capable of fighting even with beasts, during his short time as a fighter, way before the Colosseum was built. Born into a poor family, his strength was his only way of making money, and becoming a gladiator was his only way out of poverty, a way to provide for both his family and himself.

When his family was almost imprisoned by Roman army officers for outstanding debts, Felix was forced to make a deal with them to fight, in whatever they ordered him to. Fighting turned out to be the only way for Felix to deal with his emotions and rage towards people in power. When Aro approached Felix, he was promised a good life, where he wouldn’t have to worry about surviving another day. Felix did not seem willing enough, not being fond of the idea of serving people in power, who he so despised.

Luckily for Aro, Chelsea was the one who “convinced” Felix to join the Volturi guard, with Aro changing him afterwards. Unlike previous guards, Felix showed impeccable strength, speed and talent towards both dodging and initiating attacks, eventually making him a permanent member in the Volturi Guard, along with Chelsea and Corin.

Felix was assigned as the leading guard for the three kings’ protection, this role extending to the protection of their two wives and (Y/N); though Aro knew that, if it came to anyone attacking his granddaughter, she would be able to handle it by herself. However, he still wanted to make sure that she was safe and that Aro would do anything to protect her.

For about a couple millennias, (Y/N) was content with her situation, being the “Volturi princess” and all that. Besides, having Felix in the Volturi was another reason to stay in the coven, apart from staying loyal and true to Aro for taking her in, when she was abandoned.

Every time Felix looked into her eyes, she felt her whole body burn - though, it wasn’t a feeling of suffering, rather a feeling of longing, waiting for something to happen so badly that her body couldn’t control itself. Although she was partially a vampire, (Y/N) would feel like she couldn’t breathe, like her legs were ready to give up on her, like she wanted to grab Felix and never let go.

Felix, although not admitting it even to himself, would feel the same way, but he knew that his position would not allow him to approach (Y/N) in such a way. He was just a guard - although he was the strongest of them all, and she was the Volturi princess, one of his masters, whom he was only allowed to approach in order to protect. He didn’t want Aro to know he saw his granddaughter like that; it could cost him his position in the guard, or even his life. So, he kept these feelings deep within him, not allowing them to resurface, or act upon them.

However, every time these two existed at the same place, the invisible sparks between them would fly left and right. And only one vampire was able to see them. One who hadn’t felt these sparks in centuries.

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

(Y/N)’s POV:

I yawned loudly as I woke from a long, much needed sleep. I was the only vampire around who was able to sleep, mostly due to my non-vampire natures. I didn't really need to sleep on a regular basis, but when I did, I could literally sleep 3 days straight and nobody would be able to wake me up. “For my own protection”, as Aro said, I would always have at least two guards outside of my room’s door, in case anything happened while I was sleeping. Like what could even happen? My room was at the furthest side of this huge castle. I’m pretty sure that if there ever was an attack against the Volturi, it would most probably have been dealt with immediately, and the attacker wouldn’t make it anywhere near my room.

I felt the warm sun on my skin, slightly glowing and sparkling beautifully. My eyes, mostly (Y/E/C) with a golden ring around the pupil, could easily adjust to the light. Unlike the other vampires, I could easily live among humans; I could sleep, eat human food, my skin not being as sparkly as others, and I could control my thirst far better than others.

Since Jane and Alec joined the coven, Aro would show an immense interest in them and their skills, helping them train daily and develop their powers further, eventually forgetting about me. I would spend more and more days away from the castle, “protected” by my anonymity, getting to know humans more and more. The longer I was observing them, the more they would trigger my interest in them. They could feel true emotions, real pain, real hurt, real love. They had their families, they received an unconditional love that I could never have.

Unbeknownst to Aro or anyone else for that matter, I have started developing new powers, similar to the other vampires in the Volturi coven or anyone else outside of it. I have also started noticing that I may have an immunity towards others’ talents, feeling that neither Corin’s addictive contentment made me satisfied with being in the Volturi, nor Chelsea’s relationship manipulation could keep me loyal to Aro anymore. If it weren’t for Felix, or Demetri and the Twins, who have all become my best friends by now, I would have probably left.

A vampire named Carlisle Cullen had visited the Volturi and stayed with us for a while, about 100 years ago. He saw the way the Volturi treated humans like they were nothing, and how they were as cruel as to kill other vampires, with the excuse that they were exposing our kind with the way they lived. Entire covens had been wiped out due to such excuses, a way to eliminate potential enemies from becoming too powerful and find as many talented vampires as possible and force them to join the Volturi.

Carlisle was talking about a new way of life, where vampires wouldn’t have to kill humans to survive, a life where vampires and humans could live in peace, without harming each other. He was insisting that vampires could survive on animal blood just as efficiently as with human blood; that animal blood would not make them weaker, and that it would be a much more ethical and sustainable way to feed.

Of course, Aro and Caius were the first ones to mock his proposition, clearly not caring about humans’ feelings and pain. Marcus did not budge at all, his heartache making him indifferent to anything around him. But I was growing more and more interested in this alternative way of life; I was, after all, feeding on human food already, so that I was feeding on human blood as little as I could.

It was a few years after Carlisle left Volterra that Eleazar joined the Volturi. Aro forced him to join after finding out he could detect if someone had any special ability. Aro considered his gift useful in identifying if any of his enemies had any special power when in battles, or when he sent Eleazar around the world to recruit talented vampires.

Eleazar was clearly not liking the way the Volturi forced their ways and wants on others, and how they could take advantage of others for their own benefit. I could just sense that he was displeased and was forcing himself to stay in the coven, one, due to Corin’s and Chelsea’s gifts, and two, out of fear of what could happen to him and his mate, Carmen.

Carmen, a vampire from Spain, like Eleazar, met with Eleazar while he was a guard here, they fell in love, and eventually, Eleazar decided to leave the Volturi and run away with Carmen. Aro decided that he did not care about him and his gift as much as others’, so he let him go unharmed, “blessing” them for safe travels.

Just a few days before he left, I consulted him on my own powers. Though a lower member of the guard, Eleazar had his own room, a decent place to stay, and spend his endless hours in. I knocked slightly on the door.

“Come in”, a calm voice was heard. I opened the door and came into his room. Carmen was sitting on the edge of their bed and Eleazar was reading a book on his desk. They both smiled sweetly. I just felt and knew they were too nice to fit anywhere in here, among the cruel and strict Volturi.

“(Y/N)! So nice to see you!”Carmen exclaimed and stood to hug me. The second we hugged I started seeing parts of her life in Spain, the calm waters of Catalunya, the vast vineyards where she would spend the early years of her life… I quickly detached myself from her embrace. I just couldn’t invade her privacy like that. She and Eleazar both looked at me worried, as if I had offended them.

“I’m sorry. I just can’t let you “show” me your whole life like that!” I looked at Carmen apologetically.

“(Y/N), you saw Carmen’s life?” Eleazar continued, intrigued by my words.

“That’s why I came to talk to you. I..I feel like I’ve been developing a gift, or a few gifts, to be completely honest. And I feel like.. like I have a specific power one day, and another power the next!” I stated frantically.

It was the first time I have openly talked about my powers to anyone, and I was shaking just by the words that came out of my mouth. Eleazar did not say anything, he just stood there for a few minutes, I supposed “examining” me, as if a doctor checking on a patient.

“Remarkable.” He said calmly. He looked at his mate with excitement, as if he just discovered a lost treasure. “(Y/N) has one of the most remarkable gifts I have ever seen.” He then turned to me. “You, (Y/N), are able to copy anyone else’s gifts and keep them as your own. You don’t even have to be in contact with them. Just by meeting someone, you can obtain their powers. I have never met anyone like that. You also seem to have obtained immunity to others’ powers, kind of like a shield. I have met such vampires before. From the stories Aro has been telling, your mother was like that. It is likely that you copied that gift for her. Such vampires are extremely useful to themselves or even others, in battles. Like themselves, you can use your gift to protect others from others’ powers, beside yourself.”

That came too sudden to my ears. I have assumed that I may have at least one power, but I didn’t realise I could copy others’ powers. That is why I was showing signs of Aro’s power!

“How can I train my powers? Eleazar! Carmen! You have to help me!”

“As you know, we will be leaving soon. I don’t know if there will be enough time to train you.”

“It’s okay. We will train as much as you want. Please, Eleazar! Please, Carmen!” I started begging them. As if they were hypnotized, they quickly looked at each other and agreed to help me.

The next few days, before Eleazar and Carmen’s departure, included intense training, far away from Volterra, deep in the woods, where no human could interrupt us. I couldn’t say the same for vampires, but I hoped nobody would cross paths with us. Eleazar and Carmen helped me develop my self-control and self-awareness, concentrating through the deepest parts of my mind, resurfacing my shield and expanding it beyond my existence. I started to have control over it, as if it was an actual solid substance, a veil floating around me towards any direction I ordered it to go.

After Eleazar and Carmen left, I started travelling the world more, trying to copy as many powers as I could come across with, while also training my shield. My excitement for the endless possibilities was what kept me going - kind of when Aro would add another talented vampire to his Guard. His Guard. Felix. I wonder how he was. I hadn’t seen him in a while. I wondered if he thought of me like I thought of him.

After travelling pretty much anywhere I could reach, I eventually went back to where it all started: I went to Greece. Aro met Sulpicia here, apparently my mom met my dad here. Maybe I could find out, understand why they left me. I have never met them, but I felt as if my tracking skills could detect them through my own existence.

I started travelling through the country, hoping that they stayed here or, at least, that they’re alive. I spent about 2 or 3 years in Greece, trying to take in every different place, while also avoiding the battles that seemed to take place in every other corner. I was feeding off animals mainly, mostly when I couldn’t find any other human food. I was washing myself in rivers, streams, whatever I could find.

I was stopping by any village that seemed to be still standing, asking about the current situation. The Greek Revolution, which started a few years ago, seemed to still be going on. The Ottomans, who had been occupying Greece for almost 400 years, could not allow Greeks to turn against them and start claiming their rights within the Ottoman Empire.

Many Greeks I met and talked to, admitted that some of the Ottomans were actually being nice to them; it was only the Ottoman government ordering their armies to execute massive massacres against Greeks, and after all this time, a few Greeks started gathering up and planning a revolution, away from Greece, in fear of being caught. They started getting organized and finding possible allies to help them with the Revolution; they just couldn’t risk getting caught within the country that they were hoping the independent Greece could become. The battles were becoming more and more intense, both on the mainland, as well as on the islands.

I started looking for answers, anything that could suggest that my parents were still alive and somewhere in Greece. To my surprise, I crossed paths with many Greek nomad vampires all over the country. They were also fighting against either Ottoman vampires or each other for territorial claims; however, they all talked me out of travelling north, towards Macedonia. The region had started being reclaimed back by Greek humans, but vampires were also seeing the potential for the area and they fought against each other for the land.

All of the nomads I encountered were talking about some of the most vicious vampires claiming the land, their enemies being literally slaughtered and burned to set an example for other vampires to back off their territory. I was intrigued, and I knew that, most probably, I would be able to deal with them or flee before they got to me.

So, I started travelling north, through the woods and mountains, in order to avoid any possible battle between humans, though many of them seemed to hide in the mountains, preparing for their battles. Macedonia was a quite big and vast region, so I had to travel quite a few days and search every possible corner.

I know I shouldn’t have done this, but I was feeling exhausted from all the searching. I haven’t fed in quite some time, and my throat was burning by the familiar need for blood. I haven’t seen any animals all these days, and I was wondering if they were gone or hiding.

Sadly, I came across a human. He seemed to be wounded, probably during a battle, his blood gushing out of his body. I couldn’t help myself, when I breathed in the smell, the burning sensation becoming unbearable. I thought of approaching him slowly, so as not to scare him, offering to help him, but deep down I just wanted to feed off of him.

“Γειά! Συγνώμη αν σε τρόμαξα. Σε είδα από μακριά. Μπορώ να σε βοηθήσω με κάποιο τρόπο; (Hey! Sorry if I scared you. I saw you from afar. Can I help you in any way?)” I offered calmly.

The man was trying to suppress his growls. I could sense his pain. I tried to help him stand on his feet, and then I saw all of his memories. He was in the army, fighting alongside Greeks against the Ottomans, in Macedonia, just outside of Thessaloniki. I didn’t even know I was so close to a city, let alone Thessaloniki.

He was trying to pass through the woods, when he came across what seemed to be two red-eyed vampires, one male and one female. They tried to attack him, but someone else managed to shoot him first, forcing the two vampires to run away. I don’t know how or why, these two felt familiar to me, I could feel that through his memories.

“Γειά! Μπορείς.. Μπορείς να πας στο κοντινότερο χωριό; Νομίζω.. Νομίζω ότι είδα κάτι στο δάσος, δε νομίζω ότι ήταν κάτι φυσιολογικό! Πρέπει.. Πρέπει να προειδοποιήσω τους άλλους! (Hey! Can.. Can you get me to the nearest village? I think.. I think I saw something in the woods, I don’t think it was something normal! I have.. I have to warn the others!)” He mumbled in between sharp shoots of pain.

“Με συγχωρείς πολύ! (I’m really sorry!)” I plead with guilty eyes. I put my hand in his wound, searching for the bullet, while he was consumed by pain. I took the bullet out of the wound, and quickly attached my lips on his skin, sucking the blood as fast as I could, biting deeply unintentionally. His screams were becoming louder and louder, so I covered his mouth with my hand, while trying to shut him up or break his jaw. A few seconds later, he stopped screaming, and I let his lifeless body fall, completely numb and drained out of blood.

I felt renewed, his blood travelling to every part of my body and giving me a new kind of strength that I haven’t felt in a while. I still felt guilty for killing him, but he was already wounded and I couldn’t risk him exposing our kind to others. I assumed that whoever found him - if anyone found him - would also assume that he died of blood loss, so I tried to position him in a realistic pose for that purpose, as best as I could. I left him there, and continued the search for my parents.

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

I was running through the woods, trying to locate the two vampires from the guy’s memories. My mind was chaotic, I wasn’t thinking about something specific. I stopped in my tracks. What Aro taught me, and what I understood from Demetri’s tracking skills, is that you have to stop, take a breath and realize your position in the world. Then, you would be able to realize everything around you and find your targets. I have successfully found other vampires like that before, vampires who I have either met in person or smelled their scent, but I didn’t know if I could find someone through someone else’s memories of them.

I took a deep breath and tried to concentrate as best as I could, focusing on the smaller details of the guy’s memories of these vampires. I felt two vampires running on my west, about 10 kilometers away, and I ran after them. They were running fast, but I was way faster. Within a minute or two, I was running right behind their tracks. They must have realized that a stranger was following them, but, instead of running, they suddenly stopped. I stopped as well, and we were now facing each other.

The female had long, brunette, curly hair, and the male short, dark brown, straight hair; both of their hair looked shiny, healthy, and rich. They were of average height and their eyes were piercing red, as if they also fed quite recently. The female was exceptionally beautiful and enchanting; I could only compare her to Heidi’s exceptional beauty. The male looked quite stoic and austere, though still beautiful.

Both of them on defensive positions, waiting for me to attack. I wasn’t planning to move any further from my position; I was only waiting for their own reactions. I felt that kind of a burning sensation within me again, like a feeling buried deep inside me, trying to find an escape.

Suddenly, the male growled at me, flames springing out of his hands, and being thrown at me. I felt my heart fall out of my chest, fearing that this would be my end. As if my body reacted on its own, I felt my own shield extending out of my body, building a wall around me and protecting me from the male’s attack. My hands started burning and flames came out, ready to counterattack the male. The male looked at the female, dumbfounded by what he witnessed, still in a defensive position, but ready to attack again.

“I’M NOT HERE TO FIGHT YOU!” I shouted at both of them. “I’M JUST SEARCHING FOR SOMEONE!”

The male shrinked back, the female following close by. “Who are you looking for? We haven’t seen you around. Who are you? Why are you here?” The male requested. His voice serious, but smooth at the same time; a voice I could only describe as the warm earth below their bare feet.

“No, I’m not. I come from Italy, though I think I was born around here. My name is (Y/N), I’m looking for my parents. I don’t quite remember what they look like, but I’m pretty sure that they lived around here. They abandoned me when I was a baby.”

“This has been our territory for almost 3 millennials! We would have known if any humans abandoned their offspring around here!” The female exclaimed, as if she didn’t believe a word I said. I didn’t want to tell them the whole story, but I had to show them that I didn’t mean to fight in any way.

“I never said they were humans. My mother was actually sort of a vampire, like you.”

The female started letting her guards down. “What do you mean sort of? I’ve never heard of a “sort of vampire” before!” She continued doubtfully.

“Believe me or don’t, my mother was born half vampire, half human. My dad wasn’t even a vampire before she met him. He wasn’t even human to be honest.” My eyes started stinging slightly. I could have had a good, happy life if they didn’t abandon me. I wouldn’t have to grow up with Aro.

“You said you were from Italy.” I nodded at the male, as he continued. “You never said where exactly.”

I wasn’t sure if I should tell them my real origin; I wouldn’t like them to know I was a Volturi, but I knew I needed help to find my parents. If they were actually here as long as they say, they might have known or met my parents at some point.

“Volterra. I was born here, in Greece, like my mother, but grew up in Volterra with my grandparents.” I looked down, kind of scared, kind of anxious, waiting for their next move.

The female gasped. “Are you a Volturi?!” I looked at her, straight in the eyes, swallowed, and nodded. “I know the Volturi. Who are your grandparents?”

“Aro and Sulpicia.” I answered so quietly that, if they weren’t vampires, they wouldn’t have heard me, my voice trembling slightly.

The female suddenly fell on her knees, the male wrapping his arms around her, comforting her. I didn’t know what was going on. Did I say something wrong? Were they scared? The sheer mention of the Volturi would scare a lot of vampires, but I thought that maybe these two seemed strong enough to deal with them.

The female started sobbing, no tears coming out of her red eyes, her body shaking. I felt something within me break. I felt that I didn’t want to upset them, that’s why I was hesitant in telling them who I really was. The male looked at me, pain in his eyes. I saw a familiar look. I saw me in his eyes, what I looked at in my mirror anytime I was thinking about my parents, or, sometimes, when I thought of Felix.

“Are you a half witch?” The male asked quietly. Something snapped in me. How would he know that?

“I swear, I didn’t do anything to your mate! I DIDN’T!” I shouted at the male. I didn’t want him to think that I would hurt his mate, or himself.

“I know you wouldn’t. It’s just..” He looked at his mate who had stopped sobbing, but was still down on her knees, unable to stand up. “..my mate is Aro and Sulpicia Volturi’s only daughter.”

My body tensed and shivered. If that woman is the only daughter Aro and Sulpicia ever had...could that mean..?

I took a few steps back. “AM I YOUR DAUGHTER? ARE YOU MY PARENTS?” I looked at them in disbelief.

Those were the people who abandoned me! That let me grow parentless, under Aro’s rules and directions! I was breathing heavily, in between sobs. I didn’t even realize that I set my whole body ablaze, until both vampires looked at me shocked. I didn’t feel any pain, but I couldn’t stop the flames licking my body, and in my frantic state, I started panicking even more.

The male started approaching me slowly, trying to not scare me away. “Shush, shush. You’re okay. You’re doing okay. I know how it feels at first. You’re experiencing some aspects of the life as a witch. It’s okay. Close your eyes and picture the flames in your head.” I closed my eyes and tried concentrating on the flames. “Now, imagine them burning out, becoming smaller and weaker.” I focused on the flames, imagining them weakening. After a few minutes, I felt them getting smaller and smaller, and finally disappearing. I opened my eyes slowly.

The female was standing next to the male, watching me carefully. In a quick motion, she pulled me and embraced me, stroking my hair lightly. I breathed in her scent, a mix of mountain flowers and the saltiness of the sea. Her touch was soft, and filled me up with what felt like a thousand different emotions.

But, I mostly felt safe. It was the first time in my life that I actually felt this safe. And whole. I felt like I actually belonged somewhere. I hugged her back. Tears started spilling from my eyes. That was my mom! That was actually my mom! After all this time, we were finally together. I felt the male, my dad, hugging both of us, and in that moment, I felt my legs giving up on me, and I finally fell into a long sleep.

[twofrontteethstillcrooked]

3 Oct. Suptober: Rainbows

With his finger, Dean traced the outline of one of the rainbows arced on Cas's knee. "Is it weird that rainbows remind me of you?"

s15 au; deancas

In hindsight, Cas was preoccupied, not only by the task at hand but by the person he was undertaking it on behalf of, which was likely why he didn't realize he had company in the bunker kitchen until Sam said, "Hey, Cas," and Cas almost fumbled the glass into the sink. 

"Oof, sorry," Sam rushed to say next. 

His expression was a variety of things, none of which Cas clocked as fundamentally apologetic while he refilled the glass. 

Sam cleared his throat. "Whatcha doing?"

Cas squinted at him. Maybe Sam was drunk, or ill. "Just getting a drink of water." He left the statement there; Sam had seen him consume water before.

Sam fidgeted with the hem of his t-shirt and did not look at Cas. "Sure. You." He made some kind of gesture with his hands that did not seem relevant to anything. "You seen Dean lately?"

"He's asleep," Cas offered, since he knew it to be correct.

"In his room?" Sam's voice cracked on the second word.

Cas drew out the word 'yes' into something of a question. What was Sam looking at on the ceiling anyway?

"His room. Which. You just left?" Sam bounced on the balls of his feet for a second.

Cas looked around for intruders, hex bags, strange fogs, spooky auras, blood stains, a bucket of empty beer cans -- something that might explain why Sam was speaking like someone who'd just learned English. 

"Yes, Dean's room." 

Cas suppressed a smile that wanted to surface as his thoughts quickly flitted to Dean -- Dean curled boneless beneath a body-warmed blanket, his eyelashes fanned dark against the tops of his freckled cheeks -- and back again. He sat the glass in the sink and stepped toward Sam carefully.

"Uh huh. Okay." Sam took a step backwards. His line of sight popped back up to the light fixture. "Wearing. ...What it is you're wearing?

Cas glanced down past his bare chest to the flannel covering his legs. "Pajamas?"

Sam nodded a series of tight little nods, like an invisible puppeteer controlling him was getting restless. "Okay. Okay. And Dean is." He didn't trail off as much as seem to run out of ideas for the rest of the sentence.

"Asleep," Cas reminded him. 

Another Sam nod. "Right." 

"He tends to fall asleep for a while within thirty or so minutes after we--"

"Dude," Sam said. 

Understanding clicked into place. "Ah. I apologize, Sam," Cas said, with a small sinking sensation in his stomach. "I did assume Dean had told you." 

He was leaving out some words, and he didn't mean to play coy; it just seemed like perhaps Sam would prefer fewer details over more with regards to -- how to say diplomatically? -- recent developments.

"Dean tell me? Really?" Sam stared at him directly for the first time the whole encounter. His pupils were big black dots reminiscent of the ones he'd had when they were all cartoons for a while.

"No." Cas paused. "But I did think maybe you just knew." 

An honest confession, since Sam, a skilled hunter with decades of experience beneath his proverbial belt, was often quite good at discerning patterns beneath the surface of verbal communication. Cas had not always been as certain of his own feelings as he was in the present. Indeed, it had taken years for what he felt for Dean -- unfamiliar, prismatic impulses occasionally strong enough to almost bring Cas to his knees -- to coagulate into something fierce and unshakeable that could in part be described in words, much less translatable to more tangible actions. Just because Cas had been slow to realize the depths of his own emotions didn't mean Sam had been.

Except.

Sam's eyebrows jumped into his hairline like worms fleeing chicken beaks. 

"What," he choked out. "Why. No. How would I have known about--" He was flinging his hands around again. "--This?" The hands flew toward Cas like Sam was casting a spell at him. "You are like my brother."

"Um," Cas said.

"And Dean is my brother."

"Uh--"

"And I have literally heard him refer to you as our brother."

"Right.”

"Like, we're all brothers here." Sam gave a helpless chuff of laughter.

"Okay."

"So you understand," Sam continued, "why I might be concerned that my two brothers are apparently sleeping together." The volume of his voice went lower in direct counter to its pitch by the end of the sentence.

Cas chose not to comment on this, nor on the shadow that lurked in the doorway and then dissipated. He said instead, "I don't really sleep all that much, but I take your point."

Sam buried his face in the palms of his hands. 

"I'm." Cas swallowed. He stood a bit taller, the way a soldier might when either respectfully yielding to an enemy or accepting that opponent's surrender -- not that Sam was a villain here. "I'm sorry you found out this way, Sam."

"It's." Sam took a deep breath, then coughed once. "You don't have to apologize."

"Sam, could you... There is nothing on the ceiling that could be that interesting."

"You have nothing to be sorry about." Sam spoke like he meant it, or at least wanted to mean it.

Cas let out an inward sigh of relief. "All right."

"The stress," Sam said. "What we do. Monsters. Apocalypses, plural. It's-- I know it's a lot." Now he had slipped into hunter wrangler mode, all rallying the troops and leftover law school pragmatism. "And I can see how the two of you might, you know, need to blow off some steam. Sometimes."

"Sam--"

"Dean always does get a little antsy when he goes a while without." Sam shook his head like he'd realized this was absolutely not a topic he wanted to think about. "You know."

"Sam," Cas said sharply.

"I'll stop talking now."

"I'm in love with your brother, Sam." Those truest words were spoken so easily that once upon a time it might have bothered Cas; in the present, it assuredly did not. He let Sam gape for a moment and then softened the statement with, "It's not just a casual, friends with insurance sort of thing for me. For the record. If that helps."

Sam looked like the human equivalent of the little tri-colored beachball that would spin and spin onscreen when one of his computer tablets got overwhelmed. Finally, his eyes cleared. "All right." His mouth quirked. "The phrase is 'friends with benefits.'" 

Cas blinked. "Insurance is often a benefit extended to citizens in the United States, isn't it?"

"Less often than's helpful," Sam said.

Cas nodded. The two of them stood there by the sink, not really looking at each other. A thought came to Cas.

"I love you too--"

"Dude," Sam said.

Cas held up a hand. "--But I'm not in love with you." This distinction was one that had taken him a long time to understand; it seemed worth sharing.

The ceiling had recaptured Sam's fascination, but he was smiling when he said, "I know." He clapped Cas on the shoulder. "I love you too."

Cas returned the smile. "You, and Dean, and Jack -- you are all my family."

"Yeah." Sam ducked his head, as if pleased. "Yeah, I know."

Cas picked the glass of water up out of the sink. He raised it to Sam in a small toast. "Okay. I'm going to go back to Dean's room now."

"'Night, Cas."

Cas padded back down the hallway, opened Dean's squeaky door, and crept inside the room. The bedside lamp had been turned on. He watched the blanketed lump in the middle of the mattress for movement before asking quietly, "How much of that did you hear?"

"Most of it." Dean sat up and yawned. He scratched at the side of his head where his hair was sticking out. The blanket puddled below his pelvis. Cas glanced away like he hadn't personally and enthusiastically pressed those hipbones into the mattress less than an hour before.

When Cas walked around and put a knee on the bed, Dean said, "I also wanted water."

Cas bumped his arm with the glass. "This is for you."

"Oh," Dean said, taking it from him. "Thanks."

"Because I don't drink all that much water."

"Right."

"Because I don't sweat as much as you do."

"Hmm. You sweat some," Dean said, a hint of slyness in his tone. He leaned away to leave the water glass on the bedside table.

Cas sat on the edge of the mattress and let Dean scoot up to him. "Are you bragging about making me sweat?"

"Mmm," Dean said, splaying his hand over Cas's clavicle. 

"You should probably talk to Sam in the morning."

"This is the morning."

"Later, then."

Dean wrapped his arms around Cas's waist like he owned the span of it. "Yeah, that's not going to happen."

"Maybe you could just--

"Nooo." 

A sharpness tapped underneath Cas's ribcage, an angel blade's point pressed with deliberate aim. It took a minute before he could speak. He gathered his courage. "If you want to stop--"

"No." The word fell from Dean like Cas had knocked it out with his fist. His eyes were fever bright and anguished, and another, better ache flooded Cas's chest at the sight. "No."

"I am very much in love with you." Cas took a breath. "Sam's reaction, I know, wasn't entirely out of nowhere." 

Dean tipped his forehead to Cas's. "I don't think he was objecting so much as he was surprised--"

"I'm only saying, I have thought of you both as my brothers, at various times in the past." Cas studied, not for the first time, a collection of freckles on Dean's shoulder. "I still think of Sam as a brother, in a way. He may not be incorrect that the situation, as it has evolved, is something a bit… Atypical." He considered a further implication. "And each of us is one of Jack's dads."

Dean huffed, a bluff since his fingertips were memorizing Cas's vertebrae like he planned to sketch them later. "Well. We can't all be the goddamn Waltons, or whoever."

Cas agreed, "We definitely do not live on a farm." He let himself sway toward the ardent way Dean was looking at him. "It might be nice to live on a farm, with cows and ducks, maybe some sheep--"

"And I am very much in love with you too," Dean said softly. He pressed his lips to Cas's cheek.

"Yeah?" Cas's eyes felt hot.

"Yep."

Cas thought to say, "You know, Sam is exactly who you raised him to be: a good man."

At that, Dean squeezed his eyes shut. "New rule," he said hoarsely after several seconds. He wiped his eyes and shook his head. "We cannot talk about Sam, like. When we're not even dressed."

Cas stretched out his right leg and wiggled his foot. "I have on these pajamas pants. Can no-one else see them? They're covered in so many things."

This was an understatement. Technically, the pattern contained no less than the following items: rainbows, unicorns, blue whales, yellow stars, shield-wielding pugs, and anti-whale flags, whatever and why-ever those were. Put simply, the pajama pattern was like an indecipherable code of images that seemed to illustrate the illicit drug use of the manufacturer's designer.

With his finger, Dean traced the outline of one of the rainbows arced on Cas's knee. "Is it weird that rainbows remind me of you?"

Cas thumbed a spot on Dean's throat, his mouth going dry with the desire to taste the pulse fluttering there. "In my celestial wavelength form, I suppose I would be more closely related to a visually-deducible electromagnetic wave than I would be a pug riding a whale into glorious battle."

"These pajamas are a work of art," Dean contended, kissing Cas's temple. "Hmm."

"What?"

"I guess that story about God -- Chuck -- using a rainbow to seal a promise about never again destroying earth with a flood is just apocrypha, huh?"

Cas thought about it. "Yes. Unfortunately." He tried not to sigh. "Sometimes I have to remind myself Chuck created some beautiful wonders despite...being who he is."

"Yeah. Going out after a hard rain and seeing a rainbow's colors arching through the clouds -- still seems hopeful." Dean started pulling Cas down beside him on the mattress. "Maybe that's what reminds me of you."

Unable to speak, Cas tucked his face into Dean's throat. 

Dean's fingers were slipping beneath the waistband of the pajamas, ever so slowly. "Anyway, these are mine." Cas hummed an affirmative. "I would like them back," Dean said.

"Now?" Cas heard himself gasp.

Dean pressed him onto his back to nose his way down the line of Cas's breastbone, his warm breath teasing over cooled skin and coaxing out a shiver Cas felt splintering through his whole body. 

"I would settle for you just not having them on at the moment," Dean said, using both hands to reclaim his property, and before raising up to kiss anything Cas might have wanted to say in response entirely out of his mouth.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Spilled Pearls

- Chapter 3 - ao3 -

The closing ceremony of the discussion conference was dignified and serene, as appropriate for an event hosted by the Lan sect, and after it was done everyone milled around to chat a little more before starting to break off into groups to leave.

The leaders of the Great Sects naturally gathered together.

They were an unusual mix. Wen Ruohan was the eldest by an entire generation, technically hailing from the generation of Lan Qiren’s grandfather even if his extraordinary cultivation made him seem as young as Lan Qiren’s brother; after him there was Lan Qiren’s father and the Jiang sect leader, Jiang Menglin, who themselves were a generation above their younger counterparts from the Nie and Jin clans – Jin Guangshan especially, having only inherited his position in the past year.

Lan Qiren’s brother stood beside them, speaking with them with his head held high. Their father planned to slowly transition sect leadership to him over the next half-decade so that he himself might be allowed to retire from the mundane world to focus on cultivation, as Lan An ultimately did. In accordance with that plan, he had allowed him to take the lead on hosting certain small events at the discussion conference, like the night-hunting.

Lan Qiren was there, too.

He was lurking as far to the back of the platform as he could get, trying simultaneously to perfectly reflect his sect’s expectations for proper behavior while also doing his utmost to remain beneath anyone’s notice – Lao Nie had caught his gaze at one point and winked, a friendly older man’s indulgence of a junior, but that was in large part unavoidable given the man’s gregarious personality – and enjoying the rare moment in which he could see his father at something other than a distance.

He usually only saw his father when he was brought before him to report on his achievements, typically once a month. When he was younger, he had been accompanied by one of his teachers, who would report on him while Lan Qiren anxiously examined his father’s face for signs of approval; now that he was older, he went by himself, dipping into a deep salute as he recited anything of interest, and sometimes if he really exerted himself his father would reward him with a word of praise.

Lan Qiren was only allowed to stand with the rest of them on the basis of a technicality – his father hadn’t officially transferred power to his eldest son and wouldn’t for a while yet, so he had brought along both of them on the transparent excuse that they could provide company for Jin Guangshan and Lao Nie as members of the same generation. It was very much a technicality in Lan Qiren’s case, given his much younger age; he fell on the very tail end of their generation on account of the circumstances of his belated birth.

Lan Qiren’s birth was very late to allow him to be considered a peer to those a decade or more older than him, in fact, but that was the way of things.

He was a child of duty, rather than pleasure.

His parents had been very much in love, as was the Lan sect’s way, and together they had had two sons and a daughter within six years, each one of them deeply beloved. But perhaps their joy had been too complete, because the heavens had not permitted it to last: they lost their younger son and daughter both – one to an unexpected illness, the other to an accident. Their eldest, Lan Qiren’s brother, was still there, but it would have been irresponsible to have only a single heir to a Great Sect. Accordingly, under great pressure from the sect elders, they had sought to have another child, only to fail time and time again, enduring countless miscarriages and stillbirths alike.

There had even been some debate as to whether such a situation permitted the sect leader to take on a concubine, regardless of custom or even his own wishes. Desperate to prevent such a result, Lan Qiren’s mother had inadvisedly taken certain drugs to encourage conception and at last Lan Qiren had been successfully born in a slow and bloody labor that had sapped his mother’s already poor health. She had died a few years later, suffering a recurrence of the infection left behind from his birth. Lan Qiren had been too young to really remember her, but he knew that his brother had blamed him for her loss ever since.

He sometimes wondered if his father did, too.

Of course, unlike his brother, his father had never said as much. As the Lan sect leader, he was graceful and refined, educated and reserved, a venerable and venerated cultivator; it was widely agreed that he would never have planned to retire so early if it hadn’t been for losing his true love all those years ago. Perhaps he might even have been another Wen Ruohan, seemingly ageless, striving for immortality – at any rate, he would never be so petty as to mistreat a person due to the circumstances beyond their control. It was something he had heard that his father had said from one of the other Lan sect juniors, and at any rate it was in the rules, and Lan Qiren believed in the rules.

Besides, it wasn’t a surprise that Lan Qiren would be an afterthought in comparison to his brother, the already famous Qingheng-jun, who his father treasured like a pearl cupped in his palm. His brother was the much-anticipated first child of his father’s happy youth, the reminder of good days gone by, a child who had survived the misfortunes that had taken his siblings, and Lan Qiren’s brother repaid his father’s adoration with strength, intelligence, and endless potential. He was a cultivation maniac, yet good at managing the other juniors; he was cold and aloof, elegant, yet capable of being personable and even charming when needed. He was one of the shining stars of his generation, already a powerful cultivator and a respected gentleman even though he’d only just passed twenty-one. Even the name which he was commonly called, Qingheng-jun, was a rarity, a personal title unusual in this peaceful day and age.

Lan Qiren, in contrast, was slow and clumsy, with only average cultivation skills and positively dire social skills. While his teachers praised his strong academic skills and musical talent, the Lan sect followed first and foremost the orthodox path of swordsmanship; once his weakness in that area had been discovered, many of his sect elders lost interest in him as anything other than the inferior back-up plan that he was.

Undoubtedly that was why, when Wen Ruohan turned to Lan Qiren’s father and said, “Your son is a credit to you,” everyone assumed he was talking about Qingheng-jun.

“Sect Leader Wen does him too much honor,” their father said, clearly pleased despite his deprecating words. After all, Wen Ruohan, Sect Leader Wen, was well known to be extraordinarily sparing with his praise for any who didn’t share his bloodline or surname. “My unworthy son is still young and foolish. His eyes are always fixed upon cultivation, never straying – he doesn’t even spare time for girls, despite his advancing years!”

The other sect leaders were smiling, and Lao Nie already opening his mouth to say something teasing, when Wen Ruohan said, “I meant your other son.”

Lan Qiren wasn’t prepared at all for all the sect leaders to turn to look at him.

He shrunk back.

“Qiren?” his father said, almost as if he were checking to confirm that that was the right name, a trace of doubt in his voice even as Lan Qiren’s brother’s face went white with humiliation. “I didn’t realize you’d had a chance to hear him play.”

“Regrettably I have not yet had that pleasure,” Wen Ruohan said, a slightly strange expression on his face. “We merely exchanged some charming conversation, that’s all. Is that his most notable skill?”

“His accomplishments as a musical cultivator are sufficient to rank him among the adults of his already talented sect,” Lao Nie volunteered when there was a brief pause, and Lan Qiren’s father was quick to smile and nod along. “You missed out, Sect Leader Wen.”

“Perhaps another time,” Wen Ruohan said, his return smile still strange and almost subtly displeased, though Lan Qiren would hardly trust himself to know for sure.

At that point, Jiang Menglin spoke up, changing the subject, and most everyone joined in, all of them evidently relieved – not least of all Lan Qiren himself, who had started wondering if there was some way he could become invisible or else fall into a deep chasm that might conveniently open up beneath his feet.

Nothing more was said on the subject until the ceremony was done and the last of their guests departed, when Lan Qiren’s brother tracked him down and hissed, “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” Lan Qiren cried out. “We only talked!”

“You mean you talked at him the way you always do – ”

Their father cleared his throat, having come up behind them, and they both turned at once and dropped into deep salutes.

“Do not think about it too much,” he said, voice distant as the cold wind on a winter night. “Sect Leader Wen sometimes likes to make trouble for the sake of making trouble, especially if he thinks he has found a weakness. You will need to be on your guard against that when you are sect leader.”

He was talking to Lan Qiren’s brother, of course. Lan Qiren could count, and had, the number of times his father addressed him directly in a given year, but it was only reasonable – he wasn’t the heir, doomed to take on the burden of leadership, and so there was much less his father needed to say to him.

“Yes, Father,” his brother said. “I’ll remember.”

“Do not trouble your younger brother over nonsense.”

Lan Qiren felt his brother’s angry gaze like a flame against his skin, even if it wasn’t anywhere as weighty as Wen Ruohan’s. He did not understand what he had done wrong, whether to Wen Ruohan to decide to make trouble using his name or to his brother now that had made him angry, but that wasn’t so much different from the usual.

“Very well, Father,” his brother said. “I won’t.”