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problematicfavesareproblematic · 3 years

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Caught in Your Riptide, Can’t Let You Know

Joe Liebgott x Reader One Shot

MERRY LATE CHRISTMAS @sunsetmando!

Summary: Joe needs to remember that there are still some things worth fighting for

Warnings: ANGST AND SMUT AND BLASPHEME!, feels, church sex, fwb relationship, sex with feels, maybe fluff?

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You didn’t even seem surprised as you watched him slip into the cold stone sacristy behind him, your eyes dancing in the low light that trickled in through the cracks in the walls.

Joe didn’t believe in angels or demons, but right now he was willing to swear on whatever religious text he could get his hands on that you were both.

You’d been sitting just behind his left shoulder silently, head resting on your folded arm as they lay crossed on the back of his pew. The warmth on your hand around the back of his neck was sweet, the steady half-moon crescents your thumb made as it moved up and down the only thing keeping him from crawling out of his skin- a task that was becoming more and more difficult with each passing moment.

He knew that most mothers would tell their children that they couldn’t run away from their problems, he knew that for most it was just a turn of phrase.

But not for Joe

Since he was a child, he’d always chosen to run from conflict, too young to know what to do with all of the frenetic energy in his little body. That was before he’d learned how to hit and fight and shove the adrenaline from his veins, before his mother started begging him to just walk away from discord and hostile situations he always managed to get himself into.

When things became too much, Joe knew himself enough to know that he needed some sort of release- some physical outlet for all of the feelings that made his skin itch and feel too tight.

But he didn’t have it in him to fight anymore, not right now.

Not after months of watching the people he cared about die and get sick and break like brittle branches under the constant stress of battle. He was tired, so tired that he wondered if it were possible to die from exhaustion. Every bone in his body ached but he still had the urge to flee, as if he could run back to the safety of his home and the smell of the sea and his mother’s arms.

He wanted to run until everything made sense again.

There were only three things that stopped him from doing just that:

His hatred of injustice.

His loyalty to his friends.

His loyalty and love for you.

He never thought that there was a difference between loyalty and devotion until he’d met you, when he realized that you meant everything to him. As far as Joe Liebgott was concerned the sun and the stars only hung in the sky and shined because you willed them to. Before you’d even given him a second glance he’d known that he was willing to go to the ends of the earth if it meant making you happy. He thought he might even consider leaving San Francisco if doing so ensured you would spend the rest of your days by his side.

Not that he told you any of that.

Telling you how head over heels in love he was with you meant that you’d know.

And if you knew, you could turn him away.

And he didn’t think he’d be able to deal with that.

So he settled for showing you how much he cared.

Sex had always been easy for him, another extension of his tendency to seek out a physical release when the thoughts and feelings boiling his blood became too much.

He was a quick learner and he’d be lying if he said that making his partner fall apart in ecstasy didn’t give him a major ego boost. For a skinny kid who’d been bullied for things beyond his control, knowing that he could fuck his tormenter’s girlfriends better than they ever could gave him the confidence to fight back.

Joe never claimed to be a good man, something he used as an excuse for the libidinous delinquency of his early teenage years. It kept people from expecting anything from him, kept him safe from the disappointment he left in his wake

Those days felt like lifetimes ago now.

Today, he felt powerless. He had no wind in his sails, no fire in his belly.

He needed to feel something good, something to remind him that he wasn’t as useless or powerless as this war left him feeling.

And, because you were both sin and salvation in one, you had seen it.

Which was what brought him here, having trailed after you like the dutiful servant he was after you’d whispered the command in his ear.

You knew what he needed and because you were too good for him you would give it to him, you’d let him take back whatever prowess he’d lost in that month-long foxholed nightmare.

Your coat was already off, and when you whispered his name he came to stand before you obediently. Your bruised and battle-raw hands found his face and brushed gently against his cheeks, fingertips trailing the path across his too-sharp cheekbones as if he were something precious.

Why you kept coming back to him, Joe would never know. He wanted to, but that would mean the two of you would have to actually talk about those feelings lurking beneath your bated breaths and he knows that would change this strange dynamic he cherished so much.

When you whisper his name again, he finally meets your eyes- feeling small and intrusive under such open care. Sincerity made him anxious, but with you he couldn’t bring himself to lie about how broken he was. Keeping the depth of his affection from you wasn’t as much a lie as it was an omission, or at least that’s how he justified it to himself.

The fisr press of your lips to his is always sweet, and this time is no exception. Your lips are chapped but still softer than they have any right to be, and when you press your next kiss to his mouth you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him into you.

Joe takes your bottom lip gently between his, always wanting to make sure that this was what you actually wanted, that you got at least a moment of sweetness before he let himself be selfish.

Because that’s what he was, even though he didn’t want to be- especially not with you.

But it was all he knew.

Why did you let him do this?

You sigh shallowly as he grips at your hips, his tongue spearing your lips apart so he can make the kiss deeper, firmer. Better. More.

The hands that had fisted in his hair slide down his chest and begin to unbuckle his gun belt, fingers nimble and quick from muscle memory. You don’t have much room to work, not with the way he’s pressing his torso into yours yet still you manage to drop it to the floor and move on to the buttons of his jacket.

He can feel your brows furrowing as you press your forehead to his and gasp for breath, your eyelashes ticking his skin as he kisses at whatever part of your face he can get his lips on.

His hands pull and fist into the mess of your hair as he walks you backward, letting one of his hands follow the curve of your neck to wrap around your throat when your back meets the wall.

Holding you there, he kisses you with tongue and teeth and groans when he tastes blood.

“Yeah?” he asks, and when he hears you echo the word he knows that you don’t mind the overenthusiasm. That you don’t want him to stop.

It’s his turn now to seek the belt holding up your cargo pants, his fingers noticeably fumbling with excitement and making the metal of the buckle clack promisingly against itself.

He doesn’t bother removing the belt from the loops, more focused on tackling the button keeping him from his goal.

Your nails are scratching at his chest, his neck and scalp as you match his eagerness. He likes when your nails are a bit overgrown like this- likes the bite of them and the red lines they leave behind despite your attempts to refrain from marking him.

If Joe had his way, you’d leaven him bruised from head to toe from your love bites. He wants people to know how much you want him, how desperate you get int hese moments.

You are so reserved in public. It had shocked him how untamed you could be in private.

You’re pleading with him under your breath, alternating between his name and telling him to hurry up. It drives him wild, the idea of you impatient to get him inside of you.

It makes him so hard it hurts.

The moment that he unfastens your pants you’re turning around and bracing your hands against the wall, gasping quietly when he tears them down your legs and kneels to free at least one of your feet from the leg of your pants. Your underwear comes down easily, and as it does the smell of your arousal is revealed to him like someone uncorking a fine wine.

Joe bites the skin of the backs of your thighs as he follows the scent to the source, bunching your shirt around your hips and pulling at your waist so your back is arched for him. You always hiss when he kneads the cheeks of your ass up and away so he can nose at the thatch of damp hair between your legs, and if you were somewhere else he knows you’d call him disgusting and depraved.

As if those words didn’t encourage his behavior. As if it made him any less debauched.

“Not now, Joe,” you mumble, one of your hands reaching behind you to grip onto his too-long hair and pull at him. “I can’t keep quiet if you do that now, not here….”

You’re right, your otherworldly self-control does always seem to slip when he eats you out- which he loves but he also knows that getting caught doing such a thing in a church is something neither of you wants to have happen.

So he settles for ducking a quick kiss there and biting your buttcheek before he stands and pulls himself from his pants.

You keep your hand in his hair as you press your forehead against your forearm against the wall. Joe can feel your back heaving with the quick, deep breaths you’re taking, the knowledge that you’re this worked up because of him adding to the tight warmth pooling at the base of his spine.

If you both somehow managed to survive this war, the first thing he wanted to do was fuck you until you passed out. Watching you hazy and fucked out was one of the only things he missed about being in Toccoa.

He’s wrapped his arm around your hip and doesn’t realize how vigorously he’s been rubbing at your sex until you twist your grip in his hair so tightly he almost cries out in pain.

“Please please please, inside me, don’t make me come until you’re inside me—”

How is he supposed to deny a request like that? When you’ve asked so sweetly?

The first thrust inside of you almost unmans him, it’s been so long since he’s been able to relish in the hot and tight squeeze of you that he nearly blows his load embarrassingly soon.

He’s hooked his chin over your shoulder and gasps pathetically into the soft pillow of your hair, glad you are so distracted by your own pleasure that you probably don’t hear the high keen in his throat as he starts to piston his hips.

Keeping one hand between your legs he brings the other up your stomach to grope at your chest, the feeling of your nipple against the rough skin of his palm sending rivulets of sweat down his back.

You always started babbling when he started playing with your tits, making him think that your past partners had neglected to give them the attention they deserved. Since your time in Europe, he’d noticed that they’d become smaller, most likely from losing your soft weight under the heavily rationed diet they all sustained themselves on.

He didn’t mind, if anything he thought they had become more sensitive from it.

Next time, he’d make sure to pay more attention to them from the get-go.

Next time.

With that thought, Joe suddenly remembers the sight of you huddled behind the hay bale beside Dike. watching you and his friends scramble for cover under the heavy fire of the German Army had made him sick to his stomach, the lack of direction from Foxhole Norman leaving you vulnerable for far longer than you ought to have been.

Joe, stuck providing suppressing fire in the tree line, had never felt more useless in his life. Because all he could do was watch while Dike pulled your body over his in some desperate attempt to shield himself from enemy fire, your screams for Dike to let you go reaching Joe’s ears and making his heart still in his chest.

If Joe had had a clear shot, he would have truly considered taking it.

Suddenly, the fact that Joe can’t see your face is wildly unacceptable, and he pulls himself from your velvet heat immediately.

Hands finding your hips, he twists you around before you can voice your protest- your face twisting in pleasure when he shoves you up the wall and sheathes himself inside of you once more.

Yeah, this is better. God, you’re beautiful.

Your head is thrown back as you bite back your sounds of pleasure, your breaths coming out sharp and hard with each full rut of him inside you. Skin flushed and shining, some of your hairs are sticking to your temples attractively and when you look down and catch him admiring you, you smile.

The press of your forehead to his allows him to hear all the praise you’re gritting out between clenched teeth for him- your words making him moan low in his throat.

“You’re close,” you sigh, a hitched sigh interrupting your cooing. “Shit, Joe- I can feel how close you are—”

“Shut up.” he hisses without any venom, not disagreeing with your observation but also not wanting to come before you. “Just, shut up about it— fuck.”

Before he can stop you, you capture his lips in a deep kiss and clench down around him- a move you know he can’t resist.

He always seemed to forget how wicked you can be when it comes to making him come. your drive to push him over the edge first was just as strong as his desire to do the same to you.

Unfortunately, it seemed like you were going to win this time.

The bite of your nails at the nape of his neck paired with a dragging, tight roll of your hips sends him tumbling over the edge- your hand slamming over his mouth before his guttural cry has a chance to escape his throat.

“Yes yes yes yes yes…” you are praising from somewhere near his left ear, his vision going white and his muscles clenching violently with the force of his orgasm. “Look at you….shit, don’t stop doing- oh!”

The feeling of you fluttering around him is foggy in his blissed-out mind, and when he feels himself re-enter his body he is sitting beside you on the cold stone floor and you’re running your hands over his face and brushing his sweaty hair from his brow.

When he regains use of his limbs, he brings his hands up to take your wrists and pull them until your face is close enough for him to kiss, his lips lazy and slow against yours as you kiss him back.

All too soon, you duck a quick kiss to his cheek and sit back- using the hem of your shirt to wipe at his cum as it gathers between your legs.

He knows what comes now- he knows that you’re going to leave and give him a moment to put himself together and rejoin you whenever he’s ready.

That’s how it’s always gone, and while he hates it he knows that he was the one who started this routine back in Georgia- because he was afraid that he’d accidentally tell you how much he loved you.

Joe knows that he needs to tell you, the words curling on his tongue as he watches you put your clothes back on and rebraid your hair away from your face. He knows that if he asked you to stay that you would, you’d stay and let him tell you how lost he would be without you- how this isn’t about sex and hasn’t been just sex for a long time.

But he doesn’t, and when you sling your gun over your shoulder and turn back to give him a knowing smile he can only give you a wink that portrays more cockiness than he actually feels.

“Better?” you ask, your cheeks still rosy and your lips still swollen from his biting kisses.

He can’t, not now. It could ruin everything.

“Better.” he hears himself agree, and the moment you slip out of sight he smacks his helmet and it skitters across the floor.

Alone, in the dark room that now smelled like sex, Joe wonders how much longer he’s going to be able to keep quiet.

Because when he’s like this, he’s reminded of how there may not be a next time.

Fishing around for a cigarette in the pocket of his pants, Joe tells himself that he’ll tell you in the morning.

Maybe he'll be braver in the morning.

~ ~ ~

TWO IN ONE NIGHT?! WHO IS SHE?

Taglist: @mrseasycompany @itswormtrain @mrsalwayswrite @happyveday @sunsetmando @teenmagazines @liebgotttme

#band of brothers imagines #band of brothers x reader #joe liebgott x reader #joe liebgott imagines

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xoxo-ren-xoxo · 3 years

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Tommy’s (and Tubbo’s) Character /rp /dSMP

This is a bit of a rant so like be warned. I have nothing against any CCs mentioned in this, this is all roleplay, lighthearted, and just a bit of fun analysis. Mostly this is a ramble about how I see certain people analysing Tommy’s character on tumblr and twt, and why I think they’re wrong. This isn’t directed at anyone specific, just a trend I’ve been seeing that kinda irks me. I don’t dislike the fandom, just a few ‘takes’ have been really weird for me.

TW for everything below: analysing the effects of trauma, abuse, manipulation, gaslighting, and lack of therapy.

I’m not really liking how victim-blamey everyone is getting currently in the dSMP, both in fandom and canon. In canon with certain characters but especially in fan analysis posts and especially about Tommy and Tubbo. People legitimately celebrating that Tommy might start ‘apologising’ for his actions more and 'growing as a person' somehow don’t realise that hes been made this way through a tonne of negative reinforcement. abuse, and gaslighting. And people blaming Tubbo for actions he had no choice in, rather than the actions he did choose.

Currently, as I see it, Tommy is so scared that anyone would find a reason to be pissed off at him that his fighting spirit has been completely crushed. He was exiled and abused when he should have been helped and given an understanding figure to guide him and teach him how to deal with things non-violently. In everyone’s eyes, the problem was that Tommy was creating violence with no real reason, acting recklessly and commiting crimes. Tubbo, having made him a part of his cabinet, knew that this would only harm the country. So instead of talking to him reasonably, he got angry, put him on trial, and punished him with the logbook (humiliating him by making him report back to Fundy, which he obviously hated). Tommy’s actions were, of course, bad, but did he deserve everyone ganging up on him? No. Especially when Tubbo was supposed to be in his corner, helping him out like he always said he would (”It’s me and you vs Dream” etc). This is the first betrayal of trust from Tommy’s POV. He doesn’t understand what he did wrong to its full extent, and no one can explain it to him.

However, Tubbo was under a lot of pressure from Dream and George, and he’s a literal child President, so his ‘safety over friendship’ actions are understandable. I don’t believe Tubbo is solely to blame for anything he’s done in season 2, but it can’t all be excused. If you are to blame Tommy for his recklessness, you have to blame Tubbo, at least partially, for his disregard for Tommy’s feelings and mental state. There were other ways to go about the entire thing, including the trial, which was just horrible to watch, and agreeing to give Dream the disc, something Tommy gave him in pure confidence that it would be safe with Tubbo. Yikes moment.

At that time, Tubbo knew a lot of things about Tommy. In fact, he probably knew the most about Tommy out of anyone on the server. He knew the discs were incredibly important and a comfort item for Tommy. He knew Tommy had trauma from being exiled in the past. He knew Tommy was abused, or at least manipulated by Wilbur, in addition to growing up in war. Wilbur once told Tommy to stop being reckless, and Tommy listened, changing his attitude because he looked up to Wilbur so much. Then Wilbur said ‘let’s be the bad guys’ and stopped trying to mentor Tommy. There’s a conflict here, because Tommy was told by Wilbur that he wasn’t good enough to be President (links to the idea of ‘not being strong enough’) but he knows that Wilbur was a bad person. But Tommy is never given the chance to reconsile his feelings surrounding Wilbur, both because of Ghostbur and because of the conflict he starts with George. So he is harbouring a mixture of emotions about his mentor and brother, not understanding how to untangle the ‘real Tommy’ from the manipulated boy he became.

What was going through his head when he stole from George and griefed him? Perhaps the thought that he needed to show he was still the same old Tommy. Maybe the need to ‘prove himself’ as a strong person? It could have just been an outlet for his trauma. He’s grown up in a world where everyone is either a friend or an enemy. George isn’t a friend. How was he supposed to know that hurting him was bad?

Tubbo was pressured into the actions he took against Tommy, but he was pressured far too easily. There is no moment where Tubbo turns to Tommy and makes sure he’s okay, he views him as ‘selfish’ and overdramatic, and sees his actions that way. This makes sense from Tubbo’s POV, he’s struggling to be President in ways that Wilbur *knew* he would, but in Tommy’s eyes this is the worst betrayal he’s ever known. The moment Tubbo (rightfully, but poorly executed) defies Tommy’s plan to hire Technoblade (ahem, seeing Techno as a weapon again) and exiles Tommy is the moment their friendship shatters. They’re two people who don’t understand each other anymore. Two people who are technically in the right, but only hurt each other.

What Tommy needed was a therapist, instead he had Dream, who put out the fire of rebellion that made him so strong, and Techno, who was trying to help but doing it in the wrong way.

People see tommy's change post-exile as a good thing because he's not as rebellious anymore and he’s thinking things through a lot before he does them, but they will soon realise that his rebellion was one of his best traits and the fact that no one saw it as anything but a problem really shows. He now second-guesses himself so much and is so scared of being wrong that everything seems too difficult and too dangerous. Every trait can have a positive and negative side. Tommy's defiant nature would have made him the perfect negotiator with a little practise. In fact, he had plenty of good ideas before he was exiled (using spirit against Dream, though it didnt work in the end, for example). The negative side of this was recklessness and the desire to cause problems on purpose, but what he needed was a friend (looking at you Tubbo) who understood that hes been through several wars, was manipulated by Wilbur, and hasnt known a time of peace where everyone who wasnt on his side was out to kill him. Now that ‘fight’ is gone he's just become easier to manipulate.

He may be getting better (see: telling Dream to go fuck himself) but there hasn't been any long-term growth because he was never told what kind of rebellion was good and what was bad. He was just told it was all bad. By Dream (and by Tubbo). Who he doesn't trust. So he's just going to revert back to his old ways because no one told him what was bad in a way that didn't make him feel like everyone was against him. Dream is the enemy (though Tommy’s feelings towards him are complicated, they make his brain go all ‘flippy floppy’) and Dream told him that rebellion was bad, so rebellion must be good always, right?

And then there's Techno. Techno did nothing wrong except for when he did. Techno is 100% right except for when he isn’t. He doesn't understand Tommy because Tommy was never fully open about what Dream had done and how it affected him. That's not Tommys fault though, because who the fuck openly talks about their trauma? So neither of them are to blame for pretty much anything up until the confrontation at the community house.

However, Techno's methods and ideology were not what Tommy needed. He was thrown from one extreme to another over and over again, from complete subservience to total rebellion. Neither of these inforce good attitudes in Tommy. One, as stated before, makes it so that he will regain his negative traits again. The other reinforces those violent traits as good, just like Wilbur did. The only difference is that Techno had good intentions, he wasnt trying to use Tommy, which is why he feels so used when Tommy 'betrays' him (Techno doesnt realise that he himself betrayed Tommy by teaming with Dream, he sees it more as a transaction than a personal thing). Techno feels so hurt by Tommy ‘viewing him as a weapon’ that he goes on with his no-mercy attack, completely dropping Tommy at his lowest point.

Tommy says he doesn't want to be like everyone he's hated. In fact, he say's he is 'worse' than all the villains. This is very obviously untrue, though he was clearly going down a dangerous path with Techno's influence (see: bullying Fundy, spawning wither, kidnapping Connor, and saying that the discs are more important than Tubbo, more on that later). He's not a villain but who exactly has said he's not a villain. Dream? Techno? Neither of them can be trusted in his eyes. They say he's a good guy, Wilbur wanted to be the bad guy, who's right? He doesn't know. He has a crisis of morality.

And? Some people want to point at that and say 'aha! Character development! He's finally realising his actions have a negative affect on others!' OH GOD NO??? He's a *child* who thinks that he is worse than his abuser. Does that sound like positive character growth to you?

Lastly, the discs. We know theyre a comfort item blahblahblah. He hates himself for valuing them more than he values Tubbo. He's literally innocent in this. He’s been horribly manipulated by Dream to believe that the discs are worth anything. Theyre really not worth anything if they are being used as tools rather than, yknow, discs. My poor boy. He doesnt trust people, so what can he trust? The discs. But then he says it out loud and realises he misses Tubbo and he wants to be with his best friend again and and and WAHHHH. This also isnt really character growth its just fucking sad leave me alone.

Anyways what the fuck guys. @ Niki and Jack what the fuck. Yeah we get it it’s miscommunication but wtf. Kinda worried that the actual lore will make Niki and Jack’s hatred of Tommy justified in some way and take on a big victim-blamey vibe, but I’m hoping that everyone is smart enough to not do that. I cannot praise Tommy enough for how he’s portrayed his character. I’m currently hoping that he himself understands the true complexity of it all. I’m sure he does.

Mostly though im actually pissed off at all the people praising tommy's character for 'maturing' when hes literally just got trauma. Nice one, tumblr and twt users. Thanks. Great job. He hasnt 'learnt his lesson', he’s traumatised. What the fuck.

Thanks for coming to my TED talk, leave your responses in the reblogs and comments.

#dreamsmp #dream smp #character analysis #dreamsmp analysis #analysis #critical #tommyinnit #tubbo #dream #technoblade #wilbur soot #tw trauma #tw abuse #tw gaslighting #tw manipulation

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hopelesshawks · 3 years

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Physical Fatality Part 12- Grief

18+ Hawks x fem, pro hero!reader

Summary: You’re a rising star in All Might’s agency. Hawks is the darling of Endeavor’s. By virtue of your job descriptions, the two of you are supposed to hate each other, or at the very least be cautiously neutral. For a long time that’s exactly what the two of you did. You stayed out of each other’s way and formed little opinion of the other. One fateful night at an HPSC gala changes all that. Based on the album Hopeless Fountain Kingdom by Halsey.

If you don’t want to see Physical Fatality content blacklist #hopelesspf

This story will have multiple NSFW parts so it is 18+ ONLY minors dni

Masterlist Ko-fi

Over the course of your relationship Hawks has seen you pissed off quite a bit. He’s seen you mildly annoyed, he’s seen you decently irritated, and he’s seen you practically rabid with rage. He is intimately familiar with the spectrum of your anger.

And yet all of those times combined cannot compare to the level of rage he sees in you now.

Red Riot, who Hawks now realizes must have arrived with you, rushes to Bakugo’s side to check on him. Only once you’re positive Hawks and Bakugo won’t lunge at each other again do you unceremoniously drop Hawks to the ground. “What the fuck is your problem?” you demand as you storm over to him. “Look I’m sorry but-“ he starts but you don’t let him finish. “There shouldn’t be a ‘but’ in that sentence Hawks why the fuck are you fighting Bakugo of all people? You could’ve killed him!” “Technically he could’ve killed me too, let’s not make him sound helpless.” “That is NOT the point Hawks.” “Right yea no, of course it isn’t. Look I’m sorry things got out of hand but-” “Out of hand? OUT OF HAND? Your lack of self awareness is genuinely fucking phenomenal my GOD.” “Christ will you fucking listen to me instead of cutting me off every fucking time I try to speak?” “You don’t get to make demands right now! You know all this shit reflects back on me!” “Right your precious fucking reputation.” “Yes! My job relies on it remember!” “Could you forget about All Might and the press and whatever else for one goddamn minute? Our relationship is fucking drowning in it!” “What fucking relationship? I don’t even know what the fuck this is anymore.” “What are you on about now?” “We’re not lovers Hawks! We’re just strangers with the same damn hunger to be touched, to be loved, to feel anything at all and it’s gotten genuinely pathetic now.” “Pathetic?” “Yes pathetic! Because clearly we aren’t supposed to be together!” “Says who?” “Look around you Hawks! Apparently fucking everyone and everything!”

Your words seem to echo around the two of you, both of your chests heaving in the wake of the argument. Both of you had forgotten yourselves for a moment and as awareness creeps back in you suddenly can feel the eyes of every reporter and civilian in the area boring into you. “What are you saying (y/n)?” Hawks asks and his voice is heartbreakingly quiet, hands clenched into fists. “I’m saying this is done,” you reply. “Don’t do this, please, I love you and-“ “No you don’t Hawks. You might think you do but you don’t. We love love and the idea of it and for fleeting moments between the arguments and the press and our bosses and everything else we thought we had it but we don’t. Or at least it’s not strong enough to out weigh everything else. I’m sorry,” you sigh before turning away. Cameras flash and reporters shout questions but you ignore them all as you walk over to where Kirishima is helping Bakugo up off the ground. “(Y/n)-“ Bakugo starts to say but you cut him off. “Don’t. I’ll deal with you after we get you patched up,” you tell him before you and Kirishima start walking him back to your agency.

Hawks stares after you, feeling frozen in place as you leave him behind and take his shattered heart with you. “Told you so,” Monoma suddenly taunts from beside him. Hawks jumps, having not noticed when Monoma had come down from the building’s rooftop. Hawks whirls around to face him, grabbing hold of the collar of his shirt. “Ah, ah, ah, don’t you think you’ve done enough damage?” Monoma asks cheekily, jerking his head towards the still flashing cameras. Hawks’ grip tightens momentarily before releasing the other man. Unfortunately Monoma has a point and Hawks really isn’t eager to make things even harder for you. “Don’t worry bird boy, I’ll invite you to our wedding,” Monoma tells the other man before flouncing away, pleased with himself. Hawks tells himself the best he can do now is wait for you to calm down and talk to you then so without another word and before he can do anything else to worsen the situation, he takes off back to Endeavor’s agency and hopes the others from the task force will have good news to share.

The first words he hears when he walks into the meeting room on the top floor are “You’re a fucking idiot” from none other than Shoto Todoroki himself. “I really don’t want to talk about it,” Hawks sighs. “You’re the only one. Pretty much every gossip blog and news outlet ever is talking about it,” Tokoyami tells him. “Headlines are all about how (y/n) is rubbing off on you in the worst possible ways and speculating about your break up,” Midoriya adds in, an unspoken accusation buried beneath his faux neutral tone. “We didn’t break up, she’s just upset,” Hawks denies, desperate to be right. “Really? Looked like a break up to me and the thousands of people who’ve already read the articles and the few dozen people that watched this whole train wreck you started,” Shoto quips. “Can we please just focus on the mission? Please tell me you got good intel,” Hawks sighs. “Since some of us are capable of doing our job, yes. Luckily for you the terror group is in the building we were watching and since you and Kacchan drew so much attention to the other building they think we’re way off base in our search for them. We should be able to make a move by this weekend,” Midoriya informs him. “Great. What now?” Hawks replies. “Now we wait to move out and I go back to my agency to reassure my probably panicked best friend,” Midoriya bites out before handing the last of his operation notes to Shoto and storming out.

“Jesus, I thought Deku was a puppy,” Hawks remarks as the door slams closed. “Midoriya’s always been scary when he wants to be, he’s just also very genuinely kind,” Tokoyami shrugs. “Which is exactly why being on his bad side is a nightmare,” Shoto points out. “Thanks Shoto. Really making me feel better.” “I wasn’t trying to make you feel better. In fact you should feel bad.” “I’m gonna call her,” Hawks sighs as he pulls out his phone to dial your number. The first call rings for awhile before going to voicemail. So does the second. The third is sent straight to voicemail. The fourth doesn’t even go through as he’s promptly alerted his number has been blocked. Hawks swears and tosses his phone onto the table in frustration. “I must have really crossed the line,” he sighs. “You think?” Shoto asks with a raised eyebrow.

“For the record I threw the first punch,” Bakugo admits somewhat sheepishly as you dab at one of several cuts he sustained during the fight. “Unprovoked?” “Obviously not.” “Then it doesn’t change anything. And you’re not off the hook either, what the fuck were you thinking?” you question as you start bandaging him up. “I don’t know, Monoma was being a little shit which got Hawks all worked up and then I tried to get him to back down and we both got worked up and well... you know how that went,” he admits. He watches as your phone lights up again with Hawks’ contact info. You grab it, sending him to voicemail again before blocking his number and putting your phone back down. “Are you sure about breaking up with him?” Bakugo asks and you can tell by how uncharacteristically gentle his voice is that he’s concerned. “I.... don’t know. In a perfect world I’d love to take the time to unpack all of this bullshit and work it out with him. I already know I’ll miss him. I’ll miss the mornings with him laying in my bed and the thought of a forever him and me but I bet all he’ll miss is my body,” you confess. “Don’t you think you’re not giving him enough credit?” “Probably. But I can’t sit at home and be his housewife which means I have to focus on salvaging my career. I’m lucky All Might is out of the office, gives me time to try and think up a sales pitch.” “You’re a good hero (y/n). All Might knows that.” “He also knows he gave me an ultimatum,” you point out. You finish off bandaging Bakugo up and he looks as if he’s about to say something else but you resume talking before he can. “I’m going to head home and lie low. Hopefully I’ll still be employed next time you see me,” you sigh before giving Bakugo’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze and walking out.

The video of you and Hawks’ break up is already viral by the time you get back to your apartment.

You walk straight past the living room, completely ignoring your concerned roommates, and head right into your room. Your phone alerts you to several no doubt concerned texts from Midoriya but you ignore them all as you collapse onto your bed. You lie there for awhile, letting your phone ping almost incessantly with concern from your friends and all the news alerts mentioning your name. When your ringtone cuts through all the other alerts you almost ignore it, assuming it’s Midoriya calling to check on you. Your heart sinks when All Might’s name flashes on the screen instead. You take a deep breath, stubbornly ignoring the way it rattles in your chest, and then answer the phone. “(Y/n)....” All Might starts. “I know,” you answer. “We had a deal.” “I’m a good hero. You know I am.” “I know you are. But we had a deal. I’m sorry.”

Numb.

Achingly,

Heart wrenchingly,

World endingly,

Numb.

That’s how you feel as you listen to All Might continue to justify his decision without actually hearing a word he’s saying. You vaguely register apologies and talk of the agency’s reputation, but for the most part you’re too busy feeling your entire universe crashing down around you to pay much attention to his words. You don’t know how long it’s been when you finally register that he’s been calling your name. “(Y/n)! Are you alright?” All Might presses. You don’t answer. You hang up your phone, face still blank, as Denki and Mina appear in your doorway. They both look you over for a long moment before wordlessly climbing onto your bed to join you. They cuddle up on either side of you and only once you’re safely wrapped up in their arms do you finally allow yourself to break. You mourn the career you worked so hard for as sobs wrack through your body. Your chest and ribs burn with the force of it but the feeling is nothing compared to the bitter grief of losing your job. As your friends hold you, you utter only one heartbreaking phrase between sobs:

“What am I if not a hero?”

Author’s Note: 🥲 we’re getting close to the end game now everyone, and boy oh boy does it hurt

Taglist [open]: @akkaso @cathy8taffy @eeppff @iikillerkitteh @pixelwisp @pokesosa @lildockel @bread0nhead @lavender-moon13

#hopelesspf #hawks #wing hero hawks #hawks x reader #hawks x y/n

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hoplesslylovin · 3 years

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I love the crows so much I could talk about them all day. Every character is well developed and so utterly human, they were not written to be perfect but dumbass teens trynna get money and not die. It’s a perfect mix of seriousness and humor

Every relationship is 1000/10. Kaz andJesper relationship, with Kaz calling Jesper Jordie and Jesper asking who’s that and Kaz saying “ someone i didn’t wanna lose” skfjkjfhkh. Jesper willingness to do anything for kaz bc he has a crush(before wylan) and admires Kaz so much.

Matthias and Inej subtle bonding over religion and making righteousness decisions.

Nina and Inej having a beautiful relationship and with the best girl talks. The scene where Inej holds Nina’s face and says “I owe you a life debt” shows the beauty of friendship and will never be topped by any other line. Also most novels fail to have this bc “the main character can be not like other girls🙄”

Kaz helping Wylan overcome his insecurities and realize his dad ain’t shit and basically changing the will so Wylan can get all the money.

Jesper and Inej calling each other family and yet Inej still being able to forgive automatically but also holding Jesper accountable when he fucks up.The bonding in the scene where they talk about they love kaz and also admitting it’s exhausting trying to keep up with him

This is just friendships like most series that are under 3 books never really develop friendship and mostly focus on relationship or the plot and this queen Leigh wrote the perfect plot the perfect friendships and the perfect relationships in two books?!?! I love it

Now let’s talk about relationships Kaz and Inej being absolute perfection with Leigh recognizing their combined trauma and not just ignoring it so they can kiss is beautiful. Knej knowing her self worth and not sticking around for Kaz even though they both loves each other bc he’s not ready for a relationship and she has her own life is amazing.Kaz also realizing that he can’t give her what she deserve and instead of being a grumpy/petty/shitty person like most male leads when realizing the female lead deserves better,!buys inej a boat to travel around the world, finds her parents for her and basically promising to work on himself while she is gone achieving her dreams is truly iconic. Also Inej knowing that Kaz will always be a “monster” and saying that Ketterdam needs a monster to clean away its filth and that while i’m away at sea fighting slavers you will help me by destroying companies that imploy slavers.-like they both don’t try to change the other person ideas/ambition but work together

Next Nina and Matthias relationship is enemies to lovers done right. Firstly the story of how they met is a slighly cliche shipwreck meeting, but is it the best one i’ve ever read?? Yes it is!! Like the slow development of Matthias at first always comparing her to fjerden women to realizing that Nina may not be “a traditional fjerdan women” but what he needed to see his discriminatory ways. Nina also taking zero bullshit and not babying him but just straight calling him out when he says something wrong.Matthias finally realizing that he was brainwashed without Nina really taking him step by step and more like Nina explaining it to him once and letting him figure out himself. Matthias not accepting only Nina but all grisha yet still not giving up his religion and pride of his country to be with Nina but recognizing that it wasn’t perfect and needs a lot of improvements. Nina also not changing any part of herself and making him have her as she is or leave

Lastly wesper (Wylan and Jesper) which is just amazing. Leigh not making the main focus of the relationship being tht their gay but just focusing on the development and chemistry between them. They in the middle of a dangerous life threatening mission and Jesper says sum shit like “I wish it was this easy to get girls” and Wylan goes” just girls? “and Jesper is “like no not just girls” and that’s it. Jesper and Wylan have a soft friends to lovers with a lot of witty one liners. They both talk to each other about their insecurities like Wylan knowing when Jesper is filled with too much energy and helping calm down, they had their first kiss like this :) and Jesper telling Wylan that he isn’t stupid and it’s fine he can’t read bc he so talented in other ways.

Also the character development!! firstly Jesper being black(darkskin)and bi. While being a main character with flaws. Jesper is extremely loyal and funny yet he also fucks up bc he human and make mistakes. Jesper has a gambling addiction and his gambling addiction wasn’t tried to be justified with an excuse or a reason but realistically described as some thing he just can’t bring himself to stop. He’s written so well, we get to see him struggle with his self esteem and his restlessness, but we get to see him grow and realize that he can’t be stuck in what he did in the past but make sure he won’t do it again and finding a positive outlet instead of gambling. Jesper also hating and hiding that he is grisha bc his dad had drilled into him tht his powers were dangerous and bc his mother had died from using her powers too much.Yet by the end of book he still hides his power but learns to accept it and saying maybe in the future he will learn how to use it bc Wylan helped him realize that he shouldn’t hate anything about himself and learn to embrace it, but also did not push Jesper very hard and let Jesper figure it out himself

Nina being a tall plus sized powerful asf women and still being repeatedly described as beautiful and charming in the book.This may seem like a simple thing but most books just write plus sized people as the “token fat friend” and make the character whole personality be about their weight. Nina doesn’t care for her weight. she is bold and confident. She knows that she is gorgeous and strong and flaunts it. Nina loves her country and struggle with trying to do what’s best for it bc at the end of the day she will put ravka first. Also Nina’s struggle with jurda parem is written really well in a way that shows clearly how much she struggles with the addiction and the shame she feels on how she acted yet how she can’t help herself. After she finally got over jurda parem withdrawals she has new powers that leave her feeling lost bc this wasn’t who she was before yet with Matthias help and her own sheer stubbornness she gets the hang of her powers and accepts that it still very miraculous evn if it connected to death

Inej is honestly a amazing character. She has very strong moral views and struggles with religion esp with the idea that she doesn’t know if she will be forgiven for all the lives she took as the wraith, yet she doesn’t regret what she’s done bc it allowed her to be free.Inej after getting free from Tante Heleen would rather die and then ever be hold in a cage again. We see this when she almost stabs herself in the heart after being cornered. Also we learn that after being freed she could barely even touch other people or even walk in front of Tante Heleen building to see her growing and overcoming her trauma in a realistic way that it’s still there but she doesn’t allow it to control her life. She voluntarily wears Tante Heleen silks again for a mission and stole her necklace which symbolizes her stealing her life back in a way. She finds a purpose for her life in the idea of freeing slaves after this mission instead of just waiting for Kaz. I could talk about Inej all day tbh

Honestly where should i begin with Kaz. Kaz is not a righteous man, he’s ruthless,and would do anything for money but keeps his promises yet Kaz sees himself as a villain and doesn’t see the good even if Inej tells him how he helps others in subtle ways. In the beginning Kaz is painted as a evil genius which he is but and then we learn that he was a happy and cheerful child till Jordie died, leaving him with severe trauma and unable to hand skin contact. Kaz also broke his leg in some robbery when he was younger and it never healed correctly yet it was never a problem for him, even tho he is disabled and with a cane everyone is scared of him. Anyway throughout the books Kaz goes from unable to even touch another persons hand and fainting in the wagon to slightly overcoming this with Inej. Kaz wants to be better for Inej and himself bc Inej says she will have him without armor or not at all and Kaz wants to be that person. While by the end of crooked kingdom he can only hold Inej’s hand and he still shook a little, We can still see how much he is trying to overcome his fear. I also love how Leigh did not write that Kaz overcame years and years of trauma for a girl within a few weeks but ends with him doing a only little better but still having a long way to go.

Wylsn being the genius nerd of the group and also having dyslexia. Wylan starts off as a shy runaway whose shitty dad severely impacted their self esteem, and grows to be very confident person who sees that nothing is wrong with being unable to read bc he can still do anything he wants.Wylan kept his dyslexia as his biggest secret bc he is taught that he is useless and worthless bc he can’t read, yet through subtle and amazing advice from Kaz about how you can’t let things hold you back, Jesper’s support and mainly seeing all the things he can do without the need for reading-Wylan slowly realizes his self worth. To the point where he can tell a few people that he can’t read. This causes Wylan to help Jesper with accepting his powers bc Wylan sees the how similarities between how Jesper acts about his power and how he use to act about his dyslexia.

Matthias had the biggest character arc. He went from wanting to kill all grisha to accepting Nina’s very unique death powers before she herself did. Matthias struggles with realizing his old mentors were wrong throughout book 1. The rest of the crew do not waste time explaining or trying to change his beliefs but instead only correcting his words when he says offensive things. Inej also subtly tells him to get his shit together, at first he believes how could everything he ever learn is a lie but after seeing the outcomes of his actions/ druskelle actions. Matthias realizes that it was all lie and finds reasoning and understanding through his experiences with the crows. He after a long process begins to thinks grisha powers are a miracle. Yet even as he slowly see his wrong ways- His first thought for a long time when seeing grisha powers was unnatural in his manipulative father figure Brum’s voice. After a little while he began to correct the voice in his head with own.Matthias finally reached a point where his first thought was miraculous. Leigh wrote this really well bc it shows a person cannot change a mindset drilled into him within a day but takes a process. Throughout all of this he still feels a strong sense of pride in his county but also seeing that his home has many faults and needs improvement and guidance.

i wrote this midnight y’all pls ignore shitty grammar and mistakes

#kanej #six of crows #matthias helvar #nina zenik #wylan van eck #jasper fahey #kaz brekker #inej ghafa #wesper #helnik #crooked kingdom #character analysis #soc #ck #relationship #friendship

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quarantined-with-bucky · 4 years

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Good Together

Bucky x Reader

Words: ~ 9,300 (sorry!)

Summary: You and Bucky have a very tumultuous relationship -- but you’re good together.

Warnings: Smut!! Angst maybe.

A/N: Inspired by “Good Together” by SHY Martin. This is my first time writing smut, so please let me know what you think and I’m so sorry if this is terrible!! Just let me knoowwww also sorry for making it so long!

...

I've been working on myself and on my patience But sometimes that shit don't come easy And I see you've been tryin' your best to give me explanations But words don't really cut it lately

“Buck, would you just listen to me,” you spat, emphasizing the last three words, shaking your hands in significance. He continued calmly putting the dishes away; you knew it was a façade: his relaxed shoulders, plain face, raised eyebrows – all a ruse to make him look like a victim. “Turn around.”

He spun quickly on his heel, still holding the clean plate in his hand, facing you with a strong tone of expectation: expectation that you had something really fucking good to say if you had to interrupt him putting the dishes away, especially since you ask him every day to help out with the chores. “Yes, dear?”

You rolled your eyes almost immediately as the term of less-than-endearment slipped off his tongue. “Listen to what I’m saying – ”

“I can multitask, (Y/N), thank you very much.” He continues on his merry way unloading the dishwasher, turning his back to you once again.

You shut your eyes and took a deep breath. An inhale and exhale through your mouth; so quiet yet you’re sure he heard you. Focus, you thought to yourself, shutting your eyes and finding your peace. He wants you to snap. You took another deep breath, craning your neck in a circle, listening as the top of your vertebrae cracks with a loud pop! “All I’m saying,” you begin smoothly, “is that you need to stop acting like a baby.”

He scoffs, eyebrows raising in doubt. “What part of this is being a baby, (Y/N); enlighten me.” Patronizing fuck.

You swore that talking to him took more patience than raising a puppy – hell, at least the puppy would learn to listen to you. “You’re always like acting like the victim; such a martyr. I try to bring up one thing with you – have an adult discussion – and suddenly you act like it’s all my fault and that I’m crazy? Like I’m the bad guy here.”

You can feel him roll his eyes through the back of his head. He shrugs. “Look, (Y/N), all I was saying was that you were bitchin’ over nothin’ – all I did was apologize.”

You actually laughed arrogantly, reminding him what he stated earlier, laying the sarcasm on as heavily as he did: “oh, I’m so sorry, (Y/N). Sorry that I have eyes and like to use them to look around.” You narrowed your eyes at him, finally gaining his full attention as he fisted the cutlery. “Sorry, how does having eyes justify you eye-fucking the girl behind me?”

“I wasn’t even staring – ”

And you snapped. In his defense, you maybe sounded a little shrill when you flipped out at him; your voice did, in fact, raise about twelve octaves. “You were literally undressing her with your eyes, James.” You threw up your hands in the air, exaggerating a groan as your head dropped back. “You probably have x-ray vision, don’t you?” You accused, almost jokingly. But as he narrowed his eyes as he hesitated to say something back, searching his mind for the proper response – but you were too fast. “You fucking do, don’t you, you piece of shit. Of course – ”

The sound of shattering glass cut you off immediately. You opened your eyes and straightened your stance to be faced with Bucky, butter knife in his hand, and a plate, split perfectly in half, sitting on the counter beside him. His blue eyes were squeezed tight in control, his flesh hand gripping the knife so hard that his knuckles had gone white. You stared at the porcelain dinner plate, feignedly wondering if that’s what he wanted to do to you.

Deep down, you knew he would never lay a hand on you; he always insisted on throwing or breaking something when he became so frustrated with his anger – with you. He’d gone so far as to throw a lamp at the wall (in the opposite direction of you, of course); thus, showing his intention to release his anger and not an intention to hurt you. The two of you had been working on different ways to channel his anger; however, as he stated: he was used to a life of destruction, so that’s how he vented. He found that it got the job done: it got you to shut the fuck up.

“I don’t have x-ray vision, don’t be a child about it.” His voice was surprisingly calm, especially considering how he still hadn’t put the knife down. “I wasn’t even starting. I glanced at her – in her direction.”

This wasn’t the first time you’d had this conversation, though. That’s the issue that he didn’t comprehend. You let out a sigh, speaking calmer than you had all night. “Bucky, I’m just sick of having this same conversation, please,” you pleaded, taking a step closer. He remained silent and still, eyeing you as you approached him. “I feel like I’m not asking for much.” Stop staring at other girls while you’re on a date with me: not much. It was not only infuriating, it was embarrassing.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, putting the knife on the counter beside the pieces of plate, turning his head down. “I didn’t mean to be doing it. I just get distracted.” His voice was quiet, almost child-like as it rose in inflection.

You were torn. You could believe what he was saying, hoping that this time he’d actually be telling the truth: you knew he had a short attention span, and he did have a tendency to space out a lot. But you were caught between believing that and the fact he had spaced out in the direction of a girl with a significantly low-cut blouse. These other times, he liked to play the victim-card, blaming his less-than-appealing tendencies on his poorer qualities that, technically, nobody could refute him having.

You’d learned to read through his words, though. And this time, it was the latter.

Remember when our love was precious We thought what we had was the best, yeah Now every answer's a question Like every night is one of us is getting aggressive The other one's acting possessive Guess it's the way that we do shit now

Your fights had grown frequent.

Your relationship had grown volatile.

Not that it wasn’t based on your tumultuous roots – but it had just gotten so much worse lately.

This relationship started off fairly normal, however, the cherished affair the two of you shared quickly became tainted through the media. Countless news outlets had gotten word of the coupling instantaneously, leaving the two of you swamped with paparazzi and yelling passerby’s every time either of you left your houses. It was quite the shock that James Buchanan Barnes had a girlfriend – a regular girlfriend, too; a non-Avenger. People were quick to sell you out, too. Close friends and even some family selling information about your relationship (and even just material about you) to make a quick buck.

It had gotten the best of the both of you early on. Bucky was tired of being constantly followed and photographed. He was a man who had grown used to solitude and, while he was slowly but surely adapting to twenty-first century life and everything that came along with that, all of the flashing lights and constant yelling made him want to climb into a hole and live in the dark forever.

You, similarly, were extremely unaccustomed to this. Suddenly, you were on the cover of magazines, reading articles about yourself in People & Us magazines, scrolling through stories of yourself on Snapchat. Old friends, people from college, even some work colleagues sold stories about you to the tabloids. Maybe some of the resentment that you held towards them reflected upon Bucky. You didn’t think about it often, but maybe there was a correlation – an unfair correlation, obviously. Your hatred on the outside world didn’t equate to hatred towards Bucky, but you still aimed it towards him quite a bit.

Bucky, never slow to defend himself, returned said animosity right back at you. The two of you picked each other apart until you were both bloody and raw.

Tonight was no different.

The entire evening, meant to be romantic, turned into a fight. You both intended for event at Stark Industries to be uneventful: a night of mingling with friends, reminiscing in old stories, and drinking expensive champagne. It started off halfway decent, that is, until you started meeting more of the people that worked at the Tower.

You had no problem hanging out with the rest of the Avengers – especially Sam, who you bonded with through teasing Bucky (nothing but love, of course), but when it came to meeting a couple other supporting agents, you were a little out of you element.

Take, for example, Agent Toller, who came up to you and Bucky early on, greeting him kindly with a hug and introducing herself to you with a handshake. “Nice to meet you, (Y/N)! Bucky’s told me so much about you!” You smiled genuinely at her statement, responding and continuing the conversation. It, of course, came to a point where she slung her arm around his and stated matter-of-factly: “You better keep him locked up. I know a lot of ladies wanting to get their hands on him.”

Your lungs deflated. Including herself, apparently. “I’ll do my best,” you reply through gritted teeth.

Then there was Agent Rivers, who straight off the bat ignored you. She came up to Bucky telling him she finally mastered the thigh-grip, a move, she later clarified, made notorious through Black Widow. “All that time in the gym finally paid off, huh,” Bucky teased.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” she beamed back, touching a hand to his arm.

He rolled his eyes playfully, chuckling. “Please, just playing the dummy – as usual.”

She merrily smacked his arm, grinning. “Don’t say that, Buck.”

You stood next to Bucky, staring up at the man blankly. Rivers trotted off once she caught wind of you glaring at Bucky. Plucking another glass of champagne from the passing server, you took a long sip, finally asking: “So, Buck, what would be your part in her mastering this thigh grip?” It was a bit condescending, a little irked, and extremely sarcastic. The image of her perfect legs around your boyfriends neck did not sit right with you.

Was he more of a flirt than you remembered? It had been ages since he’s properly flirted with you. It was nothing to get angsty about; its not like you had anything to truly worry about. He came home every evening, spent the night in your bed with you; save for when he went on missions, but surely, he wasn’t accompanied by any women you had to worry about, at least – Natasha and Wanda had your full confidence. But it wasn’t the women that bothered you; you shouldn’t have to worry about Bucky. No matter how many beautiful, strong, talented women flirted with him, he should shut them down – not flirt back literally in front of you.

A few more introductions played out exactly like that, so a few more glasses of champagne were necessary for you to get through the evening. At one point you actually started having a good time. You’d left Bucky to chat with the boys while you found sanctuary in your girlfriends off to the side. You were able to air out your grievances, confidential information falling onto open ears. They took your mind off it by bringing up their own drama, in which you all openly made jokes and critiques, the liquor now fully streaming through all of your bloodstreams.

Once the party started to clear out and even some of the Avengers began to leave, Bucky swooped by your pow-wow and wrapped his arm around your waist, whispering a quiet “ready to go?” in your ear. You and Bucky walked out with Sam and his girlfriend, chatting casually.

As you expected, as soon as the pair spilt off from you two, everything fell silent. Not the good silent: the silence that swirled around you two as your gazed at stars together, the silence as you laid napping in each other’s arms on the couch, the silence that comforted him after a nightmare, accompanied by your fingers curling through his hair. No; this was the silence filled with tension; it was the kind of silence that you’d rather die than have to ride home in the car with him not talking to you.

You bit your lip when you brought it up.

He actually laughed, one hand gripping the steering wheel, the other resting loosely on his lap. He turned his head to you momentarily, a glint in his eye as his smile mocked you. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“They’re all throwing themselves at you!” You clarify, exasperated, throwing your hands in your lap, turning towards him underneath your seatbelt.

“I can’t help that, can I?” He shrugged it off, turning back to the road, reclining farther in his seat, biting his bottom lip to stop himself from smiling. Smug bastard.

“Yes, James. It’s called personal space and we all have it.” You spoke slowly, enunciating each work clearly. “It would really kill you to tell these girls to stop touching you?” He pulled into a parking spot in front of your apartment and got out of the car without even letting you finish. You followed suit, trialing him up the few steps to the front door. “Every single woman you talked to had her hands all over you.”

He shoves the door open, leaving it wide open for you. “I wasn’t touching them, was I?” He ran his hands through his hair, pulling it back. He groaned and pulled at the tips, acting as if any sort of physical torture would be more preferable to this conversation. “No, my hand was on you the whole entire time, (Y/N). It’s not an issue.”

You slammed the door, crossing your arms over your chest. “Really?” You questioned, tone and volume raising significantly. “So, you don’t care about them touching you in front of your girlfriend? It’s not an issue? Forget it just pissing me off – you don’t think that was fucking embarrassing for me?”

He shrugged earnestly, raising his eyebrows and pursing his lips.

Taking a page out of his book, you pick up the closest thing in arms-length: the half-empty wine bottle you’d left on the table from earlier. You don’t intentionally aim for Bucky, but maybe you weren’t seeing as clearly as you thought you were. It narrowly swipes past him as you drive it into the wall, only marginally missing him because he took a step sideways. His eyes are wide momentarily, turning his head from the large red splotch dripping down the white wall back to focus on you. Instantly, his posture changes: he’s standing upright, more alert – no longer seeing you as annoying instead of nonthreatening; his chest puffs out, his eyebrows knit together, lips pressed into a firm line as he glowers at you. “What. The. Fuck.” His teeth are barred, the words coming out bitterly.

“Oh,” you scoffed, unable to hide the smirk forming on your lips. “You don’t like it when I do it to you?” If you were in his position, you’d want to slap yourself. You were only taunting the beast, speaking to him in such a patronizing tone. You couldn’t help yourself, though; it was finally a taste of his own medicine: to be treated like a child. You bit your lip, trying to smother the smile pulling your lips as you watched with half-lidded eyes as he strutted towards you.

“You don’t fucking talk to me like that.”

You raised your eyebrows in challenge. “Says who?”

He stares down at you, another stride forward, consuming all the space left between the both of you. Taking one more step, he backs you into the wall. Your shoulder blades make contact with the cold plaster. “I do.” His voice was rough, about six octaves lower than usual, volume barely above a whisper, yet so much anger in his tone. You laugh, breathing out, sneering at him. “You better wipe that smile off those pretty little lips.” His voice did not waver; there was no inflection nor cadence of amusement.

Your smirk does not faulter. “Make me.” His metal hand snakes around the base of your throat, squeezing the sides of your neck. He watches in amusement as your smile quickly drops into an open mouth, gasping as you struggle to take in a sharp breath in shock.

His hips press into yours, hip bones jamming into each other’s. His breath tickles the shell of your ear as he leans in closer to you, chest against chest. “Not so funny now, is it, baby?”

You and me we never say we're sorry Hands around my body Fucking 'til we're good Fucking 'til we're good And we promise we'll do better Both go down together Fucking 'til we're good

You stare up at him under your eyelashes and focus all your energy on inhaling and exhaling through your nose – this wasn’t your first rodeo.

He watches you, jaw tense, flexing at the sharp contour under his ears. You feel his angered breath as it warms the air over your nose. He grinds his hips up against yours, just moving ever so slightly, pushing his thigh in between your legs. You narrow your eyes at him, clenching your own jaw and huffing out a sharp breath. Your hands flew up to his metal forearm to have something you could hold onto as your oxygen left your lungs.

He leans in once again to whisper in your ear. “What’s that, baby?” He coos condescendingly. He kisses the spot just under your earlobe, the sensitive skin sending a jolt through your body. He trails a few more kisses under your jaw, just above his hand; each kiss becoming progressively longer and sloppier. He makes his way to your other ear, now pressing his lips right up against the cartilage. “You got more to say to me?” His metal fingers and his left leg. His thigh hitches farther up, you’re now practically sitting on his leg – trying to stabilize yourself on your tiptoes. His fingers squeeze your throat, causing you to shut your eyes as you release the breath from your lungs with a whine. He hums in response – you can feel his smile pressing into your skin. “That’s what I thought.”

Your eyes open at the sudden loss of contact as his grip loosens and he shifts back in front of you, face-to-face. He stares at you through the dark strands of hair that had fallen loose in front of his face, his eyes dark and clouded over with lust. You imagine you looked the same way, completely disheveled, staring up at him with nothing but desire. Your legs clench around his thigh, pulling yourself farther down onto his muscle-bound leg.

Bucky leans down, slowly diving in for the kiss.

But he stops too soon, his bottom lip just brushing yours. You try to meet him halfway, struggling against the sturdy grip on your throat. You can’t help but groan, eyebrows pulling together in need as he beams down at your joyfully. “You wanna tell me what you need, baby?”

“Touch me,” you whine, hips now moving ever so slightly against his thigh. You couldn’t move much, considering you were barely balanced on there, but you could manage.

“Touch you?” He questioned, quickly swooping forward, pressing his lips to yours chastely. As soon as you tilted your head to deepen the kiss, he tore himself far enough from your lips to speak in a hushed tone: “Touch you like those girls were touching me?”

Fuck. Immediately without thinking, you release his forearm where your hands previously rested, pushing back on his chest as hard as you absolutely could. He stumbled back a couple steps, completely taken off guard. God, you were so hot when you were aggressive like that. He loved pushing you to your breaking point: to the point where you’d begin to assert yourself towards him. He loved when you stood up to him, reeling in anger, just so he could take charge and show you who was boss.

It was an adrenaline rush for him.

For you, too.

You stood before him, fists clenched in rage, staring at him. He was just barely smirking, eyelids half shut, a hungry look on his face. Ever the challenge, he would conquer you.

You nearly jumped when he pounced, taking him up against you, legs twined around his back, arms locked behind his neck. His tongue was hot on yours, meeting in a seething hot kiss. His hands immediately palmed at your ass underneath your cocktail dress that had now ridden up to pool at your waist.

As he began up the stairs towards the bedroom, you broke the kiss – with a displeased groan from Bucky – and laid a sloppy trail of kisses and licks along his throat and to his ear. You pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the corner of his jaw (his weak spot), touching your tongue to his hot skin, following it with another kiss. His steps stuttered, his knees buckling as he took the next step. He groaned deep somewhere in the back of his throat, pinching your ass, a quick slap ensuing afterwards as he regained his footing and kicked open the bedroom door.

He tossed you on the bed, wasting no time in grabbing the back collar of his shirt, pulling it over his head and onto the floor in one swift motion, completely disregarding the row of buttons sewed along the front. You took the hint, shimmying off your tight dress while laying on the mattress. He followed suit with his pants and underwear off next. As soon as the cool bedroom air hit his body, he was throwing himself on top of you, pulling your dress off the rest of the way and unhooking your bra. He discarded your underwear next, pitching it over his shoulder, fingers immediately finding your pussy and sinking in.

He took you by surprise, eyes squeezing shut and knees involuntarily closing together. Bucky used his hand to hold one leg down, prying them apart completely. He looked between his hand – his fingers pushing in and out of you completely soaked – and your face – eyebrows knitted together and mouth hanging open. He didn’t know which view he liked better. “Shit, baby, you been this wet the whole time?”

That was the thing about Bucky – he was a talker. If he wasn’t egging you on, then he was filling the room with his vulgar commentary and dirty talk. He added another finger, pumping in and out of you faster, obscene sounds blocking out anything and everything he said. He moved his metal hand from your knee to your clit, rubbing in slow circles, contrasting to his other movements. His metal hand was great – sensitive, temperature resistant; better than his flesh hand – but, god, there was something about feeling your wet cunt on his own skin drove him crazy.

You gasped, quickly biting your lip in anticipation of your orgasm. “Oh yeah, baby? That feel good?” He huffed, thumb whirling on your clit faster. He hunched to lay a kiss on your breast, meeting you hallway sitting-up to capture his lips with yours. You released the sheets you’d been clutching, instead opting to fist his hair, pulling his mouth hungrily to yours. As your body throbbed and your pussy clenched around his fingers, you moan into his mouth, falling back onto the bed.

Bucky sat upright on the bed and watched you as you laid on the bed completely blissed out; hair splayed across the mattress around your head, chest heaving up and down, legs shut – shaking – but knees pulled together, arms once pulling taught at his hair now limp on either side of you.

He waited patiently for about forty-five seconds for you to open your eyes. As soon as you did – without enough time for your eyes to even focus on him, he grabbed your waist, flipping you on the bed, gripping your hips to pull you ass to his face. He truly was a face-down ass-up kind of guy. Not that you minded.

You squeaked, burying your face in the sheets as his hand slapped your ass; his palm following to rub away the burning hot sensation it left behind. You felt his tongue drag a long line up from your clit to your tight hole, taking extra note to curl inside your leaking pussy.

Bucky wasted no more time in straightening up and giving his cock a few pumps, smearing his precum all the way down to the base. He grabbed your hip in one hand, guiding his dick to drive into you with the other. He sighed, your soaking wet, tight cunt squeezing him as he pounded into you from behind. He took hold of both your hips, balancing himself on his knees, pulling you backwards on his dick as he rifled his hips forward.

His momentum drove him forward, nearly folding on top of you, your ass pushed dangerously high in the air, tits and face pressed firmly into the mattress, muffling the sounds that escaped you every time the tip of his cock drove into you. His metal hand remained gripping your hipbone, his other palm pressing flat into the curve at the small of your back, pressing your arch deeper and ass further up as your ribcage met the top of the mattress.

He pounded relentlessly into you, the tiniest change in position making your pussy even tighter around him. “Take it,” he growled through gritted teeth. “Take my fucking dick, baby.” You couldn’t help but release a short breathy moan every time his dick brushed against the very edge of your cervix.

Bucky gathered a fistful of your hair in his metal hand, half slipping out, the other half tangled dangerously in between the death grip of his fingers. He hauled you up, causing you to yelp as you tried desperately to push yourself up. He never let go of your hair, instead using it as a vice to keep your back pressed firmly against his sweaty chest, yelping as he did so.

The pain subsided quickly as his other hand found your still sensitive clit, rubbing it with fast, loose circles. You dropped your head, no longer resisting him pulling it back, falling against his shoulder. “That’s my good girl,” he cooed, driving his dick upwards into your wet cunt; the soft pants you made egging him on.

He waited until he could sense your orgasm – feeling your muscles clench, your body stiffen, temperature rise – before he let himself cum, pumping thick ropes of his cum deep into you. His fingers didn’t stop working on your clit – in fact, they moved even faster even harder. You came with a shriek, his hand finally releasing your hair, allowing you to drop forward onto the mattress.

You didn’t move – couldn’t move – but Bucky followed suit, hovering lowly over you, pressing kisses down your spine, reveling in the feeling of his cum dripping out of your pussy around his dick still warm inside of you.

We don't do no, we don't do no conversations We don't talk the way we used to You act like we're all good sometimes, you know I hate it 'Cause it's so obvious it ain't true

“Hey, Buck,” you called from the kitchen as he walked through the front door. He didn’t acknowledge you, didn’t even look in your remote direction. He kicked off his shoes, tossed his keys on the table, and walked directly past you to grab a snack from the fridge. “Dinner will be ready in fifteen,” you mention, watching as he already began devouring the left-over chicken legs from the other day.

You gave him the benefit of the doubt: maybe he had a bad day. You continued chopping the onion, minding your business, silently cursing him out. He can’t even give you a simple hello back? Yes, a bad day makes anyone want to come home and eat a whole meal, but does it really give him the excuse to eat a whole meal right as you’re working on dinner in front of him? If you knew his plan was to eat cold chicken for dinner, you would’ve gone out to eat by yourself instead of making supper for the both of you.

As you started working on mincing the garlic, you mulled over last nights’ events. The two of you had it out, sure, but it was nothing out of the ordinary. You’d fought, made up, even cuddled when you went to sleep. Now today he was going to flat out ignore you with no rhyme or reason. Unless something did happen – something regarding his coworkers? It wouldn’t be impossible, you thought to yourself, bitterly slamming the knife on the cutting board.

“Can you chill with that?” Bucky grumbled, finally looking in your direction, mouth full as he spoke to you in an irritated tone.

“I’m chill,” you mumbled, scraping the contents of the chopping block into the pan, a sizzle filling the silence that now washed over the two of you.

“What’s your problem?” He muttered, mostly to himself, as he took another bite.

“You’re my fucking problem.” You earnestly didn’t mean for him to hear it; if it weren’t for his goddamn super soldier hearing, he wouldn’t have.

He sighed heavily. “What did I do? I’ve been home all of two-minutes.”

You abandoned your pan, turning on your heel to face him. “You’re always ignoring me.”

“What?” He questioned, dropping the container on the counter and raising his hands up. “I can’t enjoy silence anymore? Do you want me to hate every aspect of my life?” He bit his tongue, immediately regretting what he said, but lacking the filter to be able to stop himself. He just wanted for once to be able to have a conversation – actually, he wanted for once to not have to have a conversation – but to have one without arguing would be a gift from god.

You lay the wooden spoon on the island counter between the two of you, the smell of burning onions and garlic now very fragrant in the space between you. “Damn, I wish I knew you hated your life earlier,” you sigh. He rolls his eyes, preparing a refute about how you always seem to blow things out of proportion, but you cut him off before he can open his mouth. “I would’ve left a long time ago.”

He’s the one who was always incapable of talking. One small thing ticks him off and suddenly the only thing he’s capable of doing is shutting himself in a dark room alone. He’s always shutting you out and pushing you away; and all you every try to do is something nice for him – making him dinner, offering an open ear to ramble off some steam – but he always ends up throwing your good deeds back in his face.

Not anymore.

You simply walk out the door. You took your purse, your keys, put on your shoes, and left him standing alone in the kitchen with his chicken.

Maybe it was an overreaction. However, you felt that it was fine based on how he acts like this every day. Was he doing it so you’d fight, and he could just have angry sex with you to make it okay later? Did he genuinely not want to talk to you – ever? If he really hated his life – and you in it – he would surely let you know? Unless this was the actual way he was letting you know? He didn’t call out after you, he just rolled his eyes and let you walk out the door.

Not extremely surprising, but it did hurt your feelings a bit. How could it not? The man you loved for the past two years, put up with this tumultuous relationship for, dealt with his mood swings, waited for him to come back home to you – all that for him to tell you he hated his life? His life that you entered and made so much better; at least, that’s what you thought.

So, you gave him a day. If silence and peace was what he truly wanted, you’d give it to him. You crashed at your friend’s place that evening, taking that bumpy couch so Bucky would have his time alone.

The only issue is that he didn’t call you the next day. He didn’t call or text.

He was waiting for you to come back to him. Understandable but annoying – aggravating. You (and your friend) hatched out a plan. You waited until he left for work before you returned home, grabbing a few necessities: clothes, toothbrush, the works, and heading back out to her place. There was no doubt that he would know you were gone. This happened twice before. That you became so irritated with him that you left for the night. But you went back the next day, coming home to him lounging on the couch with not a care in the world, hindsight told you that much. You’d simply laid on top of him, his arms snaking around your waist and your face buried in his neck. He waited for you to come back because that’s what he knew you’d do.

This time, you wanted him to reach out. To see if you were okay. To see if you were coming home. You felt like the only one putting in effort and you were so tired. That effort, of course, was shown in the fights the two of you had. You might be able to pin 75% of said arguments on you; but yelling at him was the only way to get through to him. Boy, he loved to fight. You’d honestly never seen him show off such emotion. You brought everything up – the other women all over him, his attitude problems, everything that bothered you. But he never said anything to you. He was so apathetic towards you that he barely spoke to you anymore. He didn’t ask how your day was, he didn’t get jealous when another guy flirted with you, he didn’t even respond to you saying hello – he was completely apathetic.

You waited four days: Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday.

Monday, actually, you called in sick for work. You were caught between sobbing to your friend about how much Bucky didn’t care about you and wanting to show up to the Avengers Tower with your fists clenched and a certain red-headed Russian spy to back you up. There was no word from him. He obviously saw some of your things were missing; hell, he probably knew exactly where you were, too. He just didn’t do anything about it.

He obviously didn’t care, so you wouldn’t either.

So good together Maybe I'm crazy Maybe we're crazy No one loves me better Than you, you, you, you

It was clear that you were broken up. Neither of you said anything, but you slowly started to move out of your shared apartment, taking small amounts every day while he was at work until you were fully moved out and into the spare bedroom at your sister’s place on the other side of the city. It made your commute to work a little harder, now having to take two trains and walk a couple blocks; but you learned to appreciate the city, the architecture, the weather. Living with her was great – she was a built-in friend; but it wasn’t living with Bucky.

You were a little heartbroken – maybe more bitter. He just let you go without a fight.

Without a single word.

It was four months of binge-eating, wine-drinking and moping around about Bucky before you had a date. The date itself was fine. The guy was cute enough, funny enough, sweet enough. Your sister convinced you to go out with him again. You almost used him just to take your mind off Bucky. You felt bad about it, but he technically knew you and Bucky dated not long ago.

Everybody knew. It was in the tabloids. They photographed the two of you separately. They connected the dots after they hadn’t seen you and him together for a few weeks. Instead, they only got photos of you or him doing mundane things: you grocery shopping, Bucky going for a run around Central Park; you sitting on the train on your way home from work, Bucky saving the world.

Although you never grew to like having paparazzi take photos of your every step, you’d grown accustomed to it. You never made the front page or headline news, more reserved to as a style-guide or just a few Buzzfeed articles about yourself. Bucky, however, made headlines a lot. You had to speed walk past the newspaper and magazine stands around the city because you didn’t want to see him: whether he was decked out in armor, fighting bad guys, or simply smiling alongside Steve and Sam as they enjoyed one rare night out – you didn’t want to know about any of it.

You continued to see Oliver, almost seriously now, but trying to see past the whole using-him-as-a-rebound mentality. You’d gone on a few more dates, and, before you knew it, he had officially asked you to be his girlfriend. He was awkward in a cute sort of way – couldn’t be more of the polar opposite of Bucky.

Bucky had a demanding, intimidating presence; Oliver stood lanky and slender. Bucky was every bit of tall-dark-and-handsome; Oliver was fair and pale. Bucky’s attitude read toxic, masculine, and provocative; Oliver read like a nerdy-teenager, meekly quiet.

While there was nothing wrong with Oliver, he just wasn’t Bucky.

There was another aspect in which Oliver didn’t hold a candle to Bucky.

In. The. Bedroom.

You may not have been in love with Oliver, but, damn, after six months a bitch gets horny. It was fine at first, you were going to throw a dog a bone and not judge him too much the first round. After all, he was genuinely nice and seemed to care about you a lot, so you weren’t about to crush his heart just because he couldn’t make you cum the first time.

You’d grown to a certain level of intimacy with Bucky. One minute you could be making love – softly, sensually; the next minute he could be choking you and fucking you senseless. A long time was spent building the light affection between the two of you, before either of you even got comfortable with the toxicity and animosity that surrounded you – that egged you on, riling each other up until it was too much and you’d just explode. And maybe that was your problem. Each of you had too much pride and hidden hostility that it engulfed you. You’d lost touch with your younger selves. That became your downfall.

You tried not to think about it too much. Especially when you were in Oliver’s bed and he was kissing your neck. Exactly the position you were in at that exact moment.

His lips were sucking a hickey on your neck as he fucked you slowly. You laid flat on the bed, his elbows bent on either side of your ribcage, head tucked under your jaw. “You like that?” He whispered, dragging his hand down your stomach, fingers desperately trying to find your clit.

You laid there like a dead fish. There was no way you were going to be able to stand this for any longer. You stopped him, pressing a hand to his chest and pushing him off your body. “Let’s switch,” you suggested.

He laid down in your place, allowing you to hop on, reverse cowgirl, fucking yourself the way you wanted.

Bucky liked it when you did that. And you liked the way that Bucky would’ve let you use his dick to get yourself off, smacking your ass along the way, spurring you on. “Fuck, I love it when you ride me like this, baby,” he’d groan, snapping his hips up to match yours.

Oliver stayed quiet, breathing heavily as he watched your perky ass bounce up and down in front of him. You were just getting into rhythm when he began to groan behind you. No, no, no, please. One more minute, you begged, cadence not faltering. Before long – before you came – Oliver finished, leaving you with no other choice than to lay on the bed beside him. He pressed a breathless kiss to your lips. “That was amazing,” he mumbled against your lips. “Did you cum?”

Yeah fucking right. You kissed him again, humming in neither confirmation nor opposition. He got up and shimmied to the bathroom to dispose of the used condom. You shut your eyes and nearly face-palmed yourself.

God, Bucky had ruined you.

Ruined your emotions, your life, your perception of love.

Ruined you for any other man.

So, laying in Oliver’s bed, unsatisfied, you couldn’t help but think about how much you’d want to off yourself if Bucky slept with someone else – especially Toller or Rivers. You were broken up. It had been months – nearly a year. Hell, even you were technically sleeping with someone else.

But just the thought of him treating someone else the way he did you – pulling her hair, fucking her, eating her out, making her scream his name like it was the only word she knew – it devastated you.

You promise yourself not to ask and never to find out.

If it isn't love, tell me why do we hurt so good? If it isn't love, tell me why do we hurt so good together? If it isn't love, tell me why do we feel so good? If it isn't love, tell me why do we hurt so good together? So good together

You broke up with Oliver that night. It was better for everyone.

You felt it best to take this time to focus on yourself. Hell, you spent your whole past relationship focusing on Bucky, you spent all of your time with Oliver focusing on how he wasn’t Bucky.

This was about you. It was about your career, your health, your sanity.

Your broken heart.

No matter how hard you threw yourself into your work, how much you worked out, how much you refined your cooking, how many self-help books you read – you felt empty.

You got promoted at work, you built your confidence up, your pallet refined, you loved yourself more than you ever had – something was still missing.

And that’s how you ended up with your phone ringing against your ear, Bucky sitting silently on the other end.

He agreed to meet you. As you walked up the stairs from the subways station, your heartstrings tightened as you walked around your old neighborhood. It had been a year since you’d really been back here; you’d passed through occasionally, but never wanted to take your time travelling down the streets, as it was too painful. There were too many memories of you and Bucky walking hand-in-hand down these streets.

You strolled down your old block, stopping in front of your old apartment. Books and plants cluttered the front windowsill, CDs stacked along the side, bright lights shining across the windowpane, a shadow cast over the glass.

Of course Bucky sold the place. You left. He had no reason to keep it. He had a place at the Tower. He had people there. He had a life there.

You crossed your arms over your chest, pushing the collar of your coat higher around your neck, shielding yourself from the cold New York winter evening. You turned the corner at the end of the block, seeking shelter in the coffee shop. Bucky agreed to meet you here; it was neutral ground for the both of you. You’d had plenty of dates there, Sundays spent catching up on work and getting coffee. There were no bad memories here, no fights, no fowl words, no animosity. Only hand holding, hot coffee, and shy smiles passed from over the small tables.

You pulled open the door to the shop, sighing in relief as the warm air hit your cheeks. You stopped suddenly in your tracks, breath hitching in the back of your throat.

There he sat, fifteen minutes earlier than you planned, wrapped in that navy-blue sweater you loved – you loved to wear – waiting for you. You couldn’t feel your legs. You couldn’t take a step forward.

You barely recognized him. Obviously, you’d never miss him. He just looked so different. His hair was cut – short. He was clean shaven. He was a completely different man.

He stared you up and down. You looked good, he could tell even with your thick winter jacket and tall boots. He missed your face, your eyes, your lips, your hair, your smell – everything. He waited for you to walk over to the table; it took about two more minutes of you staring at him before you even made your first step closer.

You finally took a seat at the opposite side of his table, a large latte already waiting for you. Your hands were shaking as your held it against the porcelain cup. You couldn’t even look him in the eyes. His handsome blue eyes. His chestnut locks brushed back nearly away from his face, showing off his chiseled cheekbones and jawline. You loved his long hair, you loved grabbing it, you loved the way it hung in his eyes, contrasting his blue eyes; it made him look so edgy. But this Bucky. Ladies’ man, charming, mesmerizing. You’d only seen pictures of Bucky like this, but you couldn’t believe how alluring he actually looked in real life.

Bucky with long hair would fuck you raw until you screamed yourself raw – Bucky with short hair would smile while doing it.

“Hey,” you whispered, voice failing you as you dropped your eyes to your latte.

You saw him nod at you from under your eyelashes. He lifted his own coffee to his mouth, taking a long sip before clearing his throat, gaining his full attention. You bit your bottom lip, staring at him wide-eyed. “So…” he began softly, giving you a half smile. “You’re the one that called me here.”

You stared blankly at him. He was right. It had been over a year and you’d called him up. Why? The answer escaped even your own mind. You didn’t know what compelled you to call him or what your plan was going to be once you actually sat down in front of him. “I guess…” you sighed loudly, dropping your eyes again. “I – I was wondering…” You lost your voice again.

“Why I never called?” He finished for you. He looked sad, once you finally gained the courage to raise your head again. He stared blankly at you, very matter-of-factly. You nodded, not trusting your own voice. He confirmed your nod with one of his own, taking another sip of his coffee. “I didn’t think I should drag you down anymore.”

You rolled your eyes. Just like old times. “Stop playing the victim, James. That’s why I walked.” You took the first sip of your latte, cooled now after it had been sitting out.

He narrowed his eyes at you, but you were right. Just like old times. He shrugged casually, trying to keep his cards close to his chest. “I just thought you’d be better off without me.” He stops himself from reaching across the table and taking your hand. “And that’s being honest.”

You nodded, processing his words. “We weren’t good for each other, huh,” you muttered over the rim of your glass.

“It was kind of toxic,” he admitted, a nervous chuckle following after. He tugged his knit sleeve farther up his arm, flexing it behind his head and pulling at the tips of his hair at the top of his neck.

“You hair looks nice,” you throw in, filling the silence that had fallen between you.

“Thanks. Just needed a change-up,” he replied, dropping his hand to the tabletop.

You nodded softly. You leaving his life wasn’t enough change? “I just wanted you to want me to come back,” you blurt. That’s the change you were waiting for.

He slowly let out his breath, shifting in his chair. His eyebrows raised at the accusation. “I don’t know how you could think that I didn’t want you back.”

“Buy you didn’t say anything,” you protested, laying your hands on the table, trying to keep your voice calm and steady. “Every time I left – you never tried to call, text – nothing.”

He brought his hand up to his chin, rubbing his jaw firmly. It was his old habit dying hard; back when he had a beard, he used to scratch at it all the time, you used to run your fingers against it, used to revel in the feeling of it brushing roughly against your thighs. “(Y/N),” he sighed. “I didn’t know what I was doing – I was stupid. Look, I thought about what I said to you for days; Every day that you’ve been done, actually. I treated you like shit.”

“Well,” you interjected. “It goes both ways.”

Neither of you could hold back your smiles. God, you treated each other like shit. But that didn’t stop either of you from loving each other as much as you did. “A little pain with the pleasure,” he mumbled, drinking his coffee. “So, you called me just to ask me that?”

You sighed, now your turn to awkwardly scratch the back of your head. “I missed you.”

And that’s how you ended up at the Avenger’s Tower, Bucky throwing you on his bed. He laid on top of you, bringing his lips to yours. You fisted at his sweater, trying to tug it off of him, Bucky breaking off the kiss just to pull it off his back, his lips finding yours once again. You kicked off your boots as Bucky unbuttoned your jeans, making quick work pulling them off your legs. You sweater followed suit, lifting your torso off the bed so he could peel it off you. As soon as your skin was exposed, Bucky’s lips attached to your warm flesh.

He trailed his tongue and wet lips against your collarbone, trailing it down your chest, then between the valley of your breasts. He quickly pulled off your bra, throwing it on the ground beside the bed. He took your nipple into his mouth, sucking softly, flicking the tip of his tongue over your nipple. He continued downwards, kissing the underside of your breast and down your ribcage.

Your breath hitched as his tongue dragged across your warm slit; he let out a low moan, reveling in the taste he’d been missing for so long. His hands found your inner thighs, pushing them apart, pinning them to the bed. Your hands slid through his hair, grabbing handfuls of his chestnut locks, short strands slipping through your fingers.

He laid his tongue flat against your slit, pointing the tip to curl between your lips to taste your juice. He circled his tongue gently at your clit, his hand finding your lips, spreading open your pussy and spreading you open with two fingers. He pumped in and out of you slowly, indulging himself in your velvet cunt.

He hummed against your clit, kissing it softly before groaning into your folds. He added a third finger, joining them with his tongue as he stretched you open, licking his fingers clean afterwards. He ate you out with vigor, rapidly fucking you with his tongue and fingers.

As he continued tongue-fucking you, he pulled his fingers out, holding them up to your face. He looked up at your from over your pussy, holding his fingers to your mouth. “You taste so good, baby,” he whispered against your clit.

You opened your mouth, sticking your tongue out. You shut your eyes, swirling your tongue around his first two fingers as you sucked of the salty taste. You moaned around his fingers, Bucky’s face burying itself deeper into your pussy. As he sucked your clit, you sighed, dropping your head against the mattress and shutting your eyes tightly. You were surrounded by darkness and a sudden bright light.

He kissed your sensitive clit, kissing up your pubic bone and making his way up to your lips. “I missed your sweet pussy, baby.” You moaned, something about his low voice whispering against your lips, talking about how good you tasted that made you melt.

“Bucky, please,” you whimpered, fingers dragging through his hair, pulling at the ends. “I need you.”

He sighed, staring down at you. You were glowing. Sweat beading along your hairline, eyes glazed over and shining, skin luminous. “I love you, (Y/N),” he whispered, gazing into your eyes in admiration. “And I want you to know that I’m not letting you leave again – ” he pressed a firm kiss to your lips, his tongue running against your bottom lip. You parted your lips to accommodate his tongue, although he pulled away from you. “And I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth.”

Your heart was heavy as it leaped into the back of your throat. Your breathing shallowed – and it wasn’t because of Bucky’s bodyweight laying on your chest. You blinked the tears away from your eyes, willing for them to not fall in this exact moment. “I love you, James.”

After two chaste kisses to your lips, he buried his head in the crook of you neck, lining up his cock with your entrance. As he pushed into you, he sighed against your collarbone, his hot breath tickling your skin. “Fuck, you’re so tight.” He bit into your shoulder, you eyes rolling to the back of your head as he bottomed out inside of you.

You hadn’t been stretched like this in so long. You felt like you could be torn in two as he impaled you. It hurt in all the best ways.

You gasped as he pulled out of you, quickly shoving back in – he bit his lip, nearly cumming in that exact moment. You were so tight, so wet. Nobody could fuck you like this – nobody could make love to you like this.

He took hold of your thighs, pulling them over his shoulders, calves resting against his collarbones. He took a hold of your upper thigh with one hand, intertwining his fingers with yours in his other hand, pressing it into the mattress. He angled his hips directly on top of yours, pounding straight on top of you. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed in the hot, steamy room, your sounds muffled by Bucky as he swallowed your moans.

He kissed you sloppily, his cock pulsating in your pussy, you writing underneath him – it was driving him crazy. It had been over a year since he had you under him: a squirming mess. You almost had to push him off of you – out of you – it was nearly too much. His wet lips on yours, his hot breath on your skin, his words whispered in your ear, you overly sensitive clit. This is what you’d been missing: all the pleasure that made the pain so worth it. The endless fights, the ruthless words, the meaningless fights.

Unbeknownst to either of you, it was the moment in which you both came simultaneously, in which you both silently promised each other to love each other forever – to never make the other hurt that badly again.

#bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes imagine #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #captain america #bucky barnes fanfiction #fanfic #bucky x you #angst #smut

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ddarker-dreams · 4 years

Note

Out of all the yanderes that you write for, which ones would be the most possessive/protective of their darling?

Bakugou:

Bakugou might not be the type to compliment you often, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t think highly of you. For someone with as high standards for people as Bakugou, that doesn’t come without some weight to it. He holds you in high regards so he figures that other people feel the same about you. If he thinks you’re amazing, everyone else most likely does right?

This adds with it a sense of competitiveness and concern that someone might try to take you from him. He doesn’t think he’s unworthy of you or anything, far from it. Just that you being so likable means others might try. He doesn’t think you’d ever betray him in that way, but his trust doesn’t extend to others.

This all creates a perfect storm for his possessive nature. Under the guise of wanting to be a caring boyfriend, he’s deluded himself into thinking cutting others off from you is for the best. That they’d only try to poison you with their thinking, and he’s fending them off for your own good.

It also goes without saying that he keeps an eye out for you at every given opportunity. If you were in class together, he’d try to protect you during training exercises and the like. It’ll be accompanied by him chastising you, but he secretly feels content when he keeps you safe. It makes him feel like he’s the only person that could do this for you, and really validates him.

Todoroki:

Todoroki feels a sense of unworthiness when he’s with you. He adores you and puts you in such high regard, that he can’t help but notice how everyone else looks at you as well. Of course you’d be desirable to others, look at what you’re able to do to him! It makes him sick to his stomach, just the mere thought of someone else taking an interest in you.

He is protective over you to an overbearing extent. Always looking out for you, constantly going out of his way to ensure your safety. What he lacks in words he makes up for in action. Unfortunately for you this makes him desire to kidnap you as soon as possible. He views it as the ultimate form of protection, since no one else could interact with you.

He can be suffocating in subtle ways, not wanting to clue you in to just how delusional he is. Texting you almost too often but just stopping shy of being creepy, stuff like that. There’s a line that he comes close to crossing but before you’ve been kidnapped he stops himself from crossing it. Just for now anyways.

Shigaraki:

Shigaraki wouldn’t have an issue with the immoral side of being possessive as much as most would. He doesn’t rush to try and justify his actions to himself, he simply just doesn’t see the point in that. He feels that he wants you, and he should have you. This means there’s no limit to his possessiveness over you.

On the off chance that he hasn’t kidnapped you yet, he would stalk you whenever he had free time. This means anyone you’re often in contact with would be observed as well. Anyone that acted a little too friendly for Shigaraki’s liking would be disposed off without any issue, their deaths ranging in intensity depending on how upset he felt about their relationship with you.

He’s not the textbook definition of protective, but he wouldn’t let you get into any situations where you’d be hurt. If he were to ever be watching you and saw someone trying to hurt you, they’d be suffering an awful fate for even making an attempt. It wouldn’t be a “knight in shining armor” situation either since he’s mostly upset about someone approaching you more than your actual safety being in jeopardy.

He doesn’t know what to do with all the feelings you inflict upon him. It can be overwhelming at times, since he doesn’t have a good outlet for all the extreme emotions. Shigaraki doesn’t want to lash out on you, however, but that means someone else will get it instead. Most likely someone you were just talking to, or giving more attention to instead of him.

Izaya:

For someone that likes humans and observing them in various situations, Izaya would not be keen on sharing you with the outside world. He wants all your new experiences to be related only to him, and no one else. He’s definitely the type to isolate you due to his own possessive nature, slowly making it so you rely only on him.

He would take measures to prevent you from harming yourself. He isn’t protective in the traditional sense, since he doesn’t have any qualms to exposing you to extreme situations. But he wouldn’t ever want you to be mortally hurt or anything, his life wouldn’t be the same without you after all.

Izaya definitely threatens those close to you into backing off before he kidnaps you. The range of subtly and severity of the threats depends on their relationship with you, but it’s enough to be effective. This is his way of isolating you and having you more open to him, but also satisfies his desire for you to only be with him.

Giorno:

Giorno tries not to be extreme with his methods, opting on escalating things only if it’s necessary. He tries the traditional methods of getting you to fall for him before moving to anything else. But if you’re apprehensive about getting into a relationship with him, that’s when he starts to use less desirable methods.

He often has someone watching over you, reporting back to him about what you’ve been doing and who you’ve been talking to. Every aspect of your life is fully exposed to him, as he starts to pull strings behind the scenes.

Things such as your job suddenly firing you, a random eviction notice at your apartment… all so that you have to rely solely on him. It isn’t done with any ill will towards you, rather, he wants to set himself up to be a hero in your eyes. He would even say that your past rejection is already forgiven, and that he’d do anything that you needed.

This set up would put you exactly where he wants. He’ll kindly offer you a place at his villa, as if he wasn’t the source of all your troubles. He’d be able to look after you better this way, and ensure your safety.

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wings-of-a-storm · 4 years

Text

So there’s a scene in ‘Love, Victor’ that I can’t seem to stop thinking about. It just fascinates me to a ridiculous level (probably more than it warrants, to be honest). It’s when Benji sings ‘Call Me Maybe’ to Victor at Battle of the Bands.

Yes, this moment! I have yielded to its power.

Like where the hell do I even begin to start unpacking the existence of this kind of moment so early on in the show?

To start with, I used to be haunted by the question: Was Benji actually singing to Victor with that intense eye-contact for the whole song or was the entire thing just “Victor Vision” and symbolic of what Victor wishes was happening?

And at first, my answer was: There’s just no wayyyy Benji could have actually done that! For the simple reason of HOW THE HELL WOULD HE HAVE BEEN ABLE TO JUSTIFY THAT TO HIMSELF? Singing a love song inspired by another guy, to that guy’s face, while the boyfriend he is super committed to is literally standing beside him, dropping phat beats on his bass to help the song come to life?

And yet…over the course of the performance, Benji starts to look almost angry/bitter/sad as he’s singing.

And as soon as the performance wraps up, Benji’s eyes are still locked right onto Victor’s as he steps off the stage. Like there is no searching, he knows exactly were Victor is and heads straight to him. And even more telling, once his Singer Persona drops off, he is nervously fiddling with his hands as he walks to Victor, like he’s waiting for Victor’s verdict of the performance. Kind of like: “Did you like it? Because I know how much you love that song and I sang it for you.”

I mean… Excuse me, sir? Consider me convinced that Benji really was singing it while staring at Victor the whole time, and Victor Vision just embellished parts. And you know what, that suddenly turns a fairly tropey scene into something so much more psychologically stimulating. Welcome to the holy trifecta of burning questions:

- Why did Benji make a cover in the first place? - Why did he sing it staring at Victor the whole time? - How did he justify it to himself?

The beauty of Benji's enigma is that the answers to those questions can be anything you want them to be. So many reasons fit, and so many overlap. It’s really rather fun to try and figure it all out, especially when there aren’t really any wrong answers.

So I guess here are mine:

WHY DID BENJI MAKE A COVER IN THE FIRST PLACE?

Fact: After sharing a fun Moment with Victor (dancing together like no one but Victor’s mother was watching, hah), Benji went home inspired to turn that song into a cover of his own. Why? Looking at it logically, their time together must have meant a lot to Benji, more than anyone could have realised. It affected him to the point where he had to preserve that moment, live in it for a bit longer, and also unpack it in his own mind in a way he’s most familiar and comfortable with: a creative outlet.

I love the idea of Benji listening to ‘Call Me Maybe’ over and over again when he got back home. At first just to relive the high he got from sharing such an uninhibited Moment with Victor (a rare occurrence after spending so much of his time walking around egg shells with Derek?). But then, after the nth play, getting the inspiration to make his own slower version of the track to better explore his feelings about that night and the way Victor makes him feel. Then finally re-listening to the song over and over again but this time to get the right chords and the right splicing/arrangement of lyrics that could convey his feelings but not completely cross the line into full on romance…

But Benji making that cover could have been inspired by so many tangled up reasons, like:

- He realised the lyrics were mirroring his own thoughts and experience, so singing it out loud was helping him process the harmless crush he seemed to be developing

- He wanted to preserve the memory of their dancing Moment because it gives him a dose of happy feels to relive it

- He may have partly intended to make the new version as a sort of gift to Victor that he’d one day play for him (maybe even at Battle of the Bands if Victor changed his mind and showed up). A gift that would further tie them together and cement their friendship, be a way to show Victor how much their friendship already means to him, and give back a little to Victor for trusting Benji with personal/embarrassing information about his guilty pleasures. Like a pre-Drawing gift, with similar energy

And let’s be real, also to try to impress Victor so that Benji can feel a little cool and desirable since it seems he doesn’t often get to feel that way around Derek. Like seriously, who can forget the lingering looks of anticipation Benji gave Victor when he first told him he was a Lead Singer in a Band. He wanted to impress Victor so badly. And who wouldn’t crave Victor’s sweet brand of attention?

Okay, so now Benji has a cover. But…

WHY DID BENJI SING IT STARING AT VICTOR THE WHOLE TIME?

Well firstly, how passionate must Benji have been behind the scenes if he was able to arrange a cover in less than 24 hours before the contest and prioritise it in band practice so that everyone was on board with his musical whim? (And how did he convince Derek to play such an unpretentious song?)

But I imagine the Intense Staring was probably a mixture of:

- Benji had probably spent a lot of the night hoping that Victor would miraculously show up after all (that mood of secretly looking through the crowd every so often throughout the night just in case…). And then when Victor actually did show up, Benji made the band play CMM even though they were still workshopping it, and got so caught up in his excitement and determination, he zeroed in on Victor hard and forgot to reign it in

- Because Benji feels something for Victor (even if he can’t name what exactly that is), and performance is a safe way to express the things he’s not meant to be feeling. It’s a safe space because when you’re performing something, you have the creative freedom to be someone else, to become another version of yourself, a persona, with the license to use whatever emotions you have in your arsenal to tell a story. Benji could express his yearning and fascination (etc) for Victor with the distance of a parallel universe or alternate reality. Stage Benji is allowed to stare

- Because Mia was there with Victor and Benji felt compelled and determined to win Victor’s attention back. You know, some good old fashioned jealousy born of insecurity -- that feeling of being a little insecure and protective of a new friendship, of wanting that person to just see you as special, of feeling like you have something to prove or you’ll end up forgotten in the background. (And maybe he was also a little sick of straight(?) girls having it so easy with the cute guys…)

- Because Benji subconsciously wanted to telegraph to Victor that he is interested in him (and is bitter that it’s not that simple) and wanted to see if Victor bites back. For science

- Or maybe because Benji saw a perfect chance to perform the song as a cute gift to Victor since he actually showed up, but then his intentions quickly unravelled into the prior points, haha

And that leads me to…

HOW DID HE JUSTIFY THE INTENSE* STARING TO HIMSELF?

(*Because even if the song was meant to be something innocent like a homage to an in-joke with Victor or a harmless means to process his feelings on this new and exciting friendship with an attractive boy, the intensity with which he sang it felt like something else entirely. It transcended friendship into a very ambiguous zone. And there was so much yearning in it. Particularly by the end...)

I think Benji probably justified his behaviour by thinking:

- It’s okay for Lead Singer Benji to stare at his muse while performing a story. (It’s just a persona, there’s no need for guilt!)

- It’s normal to be excited by a new friendship and it’s okay to want to sing a giddy song about that experience. And at worst, it’s just a harmless crush that will eventually fade once the novelty wears off. It’s not like he has any intention to do anything further with it since he is committed to Derek. It’s just fun to feel the tingles of a teeny crush…….

Alright, that’s it. I’m out. I’m done. I’ve got nothing left. Thanks for the ride, Benji, you mysterious, complicated, hopeless romantic.

#Love Victor #Benji Campbell #Victor Salazar #Venji #Battle of the How Dare You

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invisibleinorange · 3 years

Text

Chapters: 12/? Fandom: Bridgerton Rating: T Warnings: Presumed Character Death Relationships: Colin Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington, Eloise Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington(besties), Bridgerton Family Dynamics, Simon Hastings/Daphne Bridgerton Characters: Colin Bridgerton, Penelope Featherington, Eloise Bridgerton, Anthony Featherington, Benedict Bridgerton, Portia Featherington, Violet Bridgerton, Genevieve Delacroix Additional Tags: Bridgerton, Polin Summary: Unexpected bad news arrives for the Bridgerton Family (and friends) regarding Colin's travels. This will be a series that is set after "The Duke and I" or season one of the show. It is a companion piece to "Goodbyes".

It took nearly a week for the tensions to calm down after what posthumously was dubbed ‘the night of the burnt dresses’. Anthony for his part had attempted to make things right by purchasing a series of new dresses for Penelope. He knew that he took things a bit too far but he’d only wanted to protect her like he would any of his sisters. At the end of the day, he wouldn’t change a thing about the actions he’d taken.

He wouldn’t come right out and say it but he also felt a bit like he’d done the poor girl a favor. Her mother had clearly been dressing her in poor fitting dresses in the poorest excuse of fabric colors for years. Dressed in decent clothing, it was abundantly clear that had she had her new wardrobe in the last season, things might have played a little differently for her.

He knew better than to put that out into the universe though since he’d barely escaped unscathed from the daily glares, silence and intermittent tongue lashings from the family.

Benedict hadn’t exactly been forgiven either. Whenever he came into the room, people got up and walked out all together. Eloise and Benedict had hardly went a day since Eloise was born without talking to each other and even she was keeping her distance.

It was enough to drive anyone mad. There was only so long that Benedict could avoid being home by drinking and making art. As much as he needed his outlets, he also did enjoy the comfort of family around him.

He needed to take action but he didn’t know what to do.

Fortunately for him, he didn’t have to do anything.

He was alone the study when he heard the door open. He was busy working away with a sketch with his charcoals and he didn’t bother to look up. In his mind it was either going to be a servant or someone who would walk right back out.

He was surprised when it wasn’t.

“Benedict,” he heard after a long moment.

He looked up and there was a strange sense of déjà vu that hit him. Just like she’d sought him out before on the swings and things had seemed to be working themselves out, she was there again.

She cleared her throat. There was something quiet, unsure about her voice which reminded him of how she’d always been instead of the confident girl that he’d been watching her grow into.

“Can we speak?” she asked.

“I’ve been trying to speak to a week,” he said knowing there was some edge to his voice and he softened it once he caught himself. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings or deceive you. I was just caught off guard and - I would have told you I didn’t send the dress.”

“This isn’t about the dress,” she told after a moment, lips pursing into a tight line. “I know that none of you would intentionally hurt me. It was my thought for jumping to conclusions and thinking that you were trying to romance me. I’ve never actually had anyone attempt to romance me so I was too blinded by it to think logically and Eloise didn’t help.”

“I didn’t know that you wanted me to romance you,” Benedict said after a long moment raising an eyebrow. It was uncanny really that even now the thought of actually romancing her was foreign, weird. Even after all these weeks, he still thought of her like another sister. If he set his mind to it, he could do this properly. “I mean, I thought that you hadn’t set your mind to accepting my proposal so I was honestly giving you the space you required.”

“I don’t know what I want,” Penelope confessed after a long moment. That didn’t seem an accurate depiction of how she felt though since she knew precisely what she wanted and it was something that she could never have. All the time in the world could pass and she’d still wonder about how differently her life might have been had Colin not been lost at sea. “I won’t begrudge you secrets because I have plenty of my own – I can’t marry someone that I can’t trust and I wouldn’t want that for someone else. You can’t grow to love someone if you can’t trust them.”

It was that point that he realized she was still wearing the ring he’d given her and everything seemed to fall into place. She was actually considering going forward with this after everything. An even bigger alarm went off in his head at the fact she thought she could have some secret so big that he might have a problem with it. He cocked his head gazing at her as if trying to read through it all to figure it out. There was literally nothing there.

“I won’t lie to you any more then,” he said after a long moment. “And while I can’t think of anything more than a white lie that you are burdened by, I suppose you can do the same.”

Penelope visibly winced at that. There was something about the expression on her face that made it clear that she was holding back something big and he was at a loss so he just listened and waited, prepared for her secret to be something absolutely innocent.

“Then I must tell you something now,” she started. “You must promise to never tell anyone.”

“I promise,” he told her. He nodded, anticipating building and a chuckle already threatening at his lips for whatever would come out of her mouth.

“I’m Lady Whistledown,” she confessed.

Confusion flooded his feature and that chuckle did escape though almost waiting for her to laugh as well. Surely, this was a joke! There was absolutely no way.

“Did Eloise put you up to this?”

“No, I’m serious.”

“But – that’s impossible!” he found himself arguing knowing that there was no way that the awkward little wallflower who hung around his little sister was that the proprietor of that wretched gossip column. “There is no way that you’d have nearly ruined yourself and the whole Marina Thompson thing easily could have –“

“Colin,” she said after a long moment as if to justify it. “I couldn’t let Colin go through with it. I tried to talk him out of it and he wasn’t listening so I used the only tool that I had that would stop him. I’d rather be a spinster than someone who lets. I regret the hurt that it caused but I don’t regret – well, I do actually. If I’d not done it, he’d still be here now and you wouldn’t be trying to ruin your life by marrying me.”

That was enough to render his speechless and he rose from where he’d been sitting, pacing for a moment to try and gather his thoughts. His family had been absolutely obsessed with that woman, trying to figure out who she was every time they delighted in what she said or were angered. He didn’t know whether to be upset or proud that Penelope was capable of such a stir.

The truth of the matter was that she’d never said anything that was false (as far as he was aware) about their family or other families. She merely speculated, stated what she observed and candid. He couldn’t hold that against her, especially when more times than not she’d saved them.

The fact that she blamed herself for saving Colin from a loveless marriage built upon a lie hit him like a ton of bricks and the heaviness of it reminded him of the grief that he’d locked down. He wasn’t happy that his brother was gone but he didn’t blame Penelope or anyone else for the death. He could have just as easily blamed Anthony for the fact he’d felt like he needed to see more of the world.

Benedict let out a long breath of air that he didn’t know he’d been holding before crossing the room, decisively taking her hands as if to show that this information didn’t bother her. He wasn’t going to go and tell the Ton this information.

“You’re not the reason he’s dead,” he said after a long minute. She wasn’t quite looking at him though so he reached down to force her to look up at him. “Besides, Colin would be furious if he knew you were blaming yourself for that.”

She was clearly going to dismiss the words but it was essential that he knew as much.

“Well he at least wasn’t furious enough to come back and haunt me,” she said quietly after a minute. She’d honestly begged him to do it and he hadn’t.

“Well you’re just not looking in the right place. He’d haunt the kitchens. Even in death he’d be a bottomless pit,” Benedict added, with a sad, wiry smile. Even if it was painful to talk about him, it did feel nice to have Colin’s name not be avoided.

“I can’t argue that,” she said after a long moment. “Are you really sure though?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” he insisted. “You’re just crazy enough to survive our family. We might as well make it official. I suppose, I could put one condition on it.”

“And what might that condition be?”

“Our first born son,” Benedict said after a long moment pausing to try and make the words feel less weird. “He’d have to be named Colin.”

Something about that touched Penelope to the core and she felt tears forming in her eyes. She wasn’t quite sure how much of that was still grief and how much was the moment. Her words didn’t form for a long moment.

“What if we only have daughters?” she finally asked.

“Colleen clearly,” Benedict added with mirth.

Beloved Readers it appears that the mourning black of recent days is about to transform to new, exciting shades. It thrills me to announce that the confirmed bachelorette Penelope Featherington will not be forced to spend season as a wallflower.

As previously reported, she took up residence with the Bridgerton Family some time ago. While there was speculation around the Ton to what this might mean, we can now confirm that from grief new beginnings have formed.

Benedict Bridgerton, the second eldest son of the family, has allegedly proposed and said proposal has been accepted. The news has brought joy where in recent weeks there has been little positive news to report…

LADY WHISTLEDOWN'S SOCIETY PAPERS, 7 OCTOBER 1813

#⚜ writings — polin #polin #penelope featherington #colin bridgerton #benedict bridgerton

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lightsupinthenorth · 4 years

Text

Billy is a crier. Steve finds out even before they become friends.

He notices how shiny Billy’s eyes are when he apologizes for hurting him during that fateful night at the Byers’ house.

Despite the darkness of his living-room, he sees the tears rolling down Billy’s cheeks when they watch The Outsiders.

The closer they get, the more often Billy cries around Steve. When he’s had a fight with his shitty father, when he regrets getting angry at Max, or at Steve himself, for no valid reason, when he’s tired, or frustrated, or feeling hopeless.

Billy cries a lot.

And, at first, it’s hard to deal with for Steve, because he’s not used to seeing people cry. He doesn’t now how to handle tears, how to handle such blatant sorrow, because he’s learnt to bury his own feelings early on in life.

But he learns, for Billy. It turns out to be easier than he thought it would be. All Billy wants is a shoulder to cry on, and Steve is more than willing to offer his. And the knots in his stomach, caused by the sight of a distressed Billy, loosen a little once he understands that crying actually makes Billy feel better, that it gives his emotions an outlet.

Steve wishes he could do that to. Express his emotions. He wishes he was a crier. But he couldn’t be farther from it.

Even when he is extremely upset, he doesn’t shed a single tear.

Instead, Steve’s body ‘deals’ with strong negative emotions by shutting down. It just quits on functioning. Thankfully, it’s generally not an instant reaction. When something really bad happens, adrenaline gets Steve going until he gets somewhere quiet, somewhere private, and then he just collapses and stays immobile for hours on end.

When he’s upset about little things, he keeps it bottled in until the bottle is full and ‘shut down’ mode activates itself. It’s hard to predict: Steve can’t always tell when he’s going to reach breaking point, and sometimes the smallest thing can make him wilt.

Some days, he goes back to his empty house thinking he’s alright, and then as soon as the door closes behind him, he slides down it until he reaches the floor and proceeds to stare into space for a small eternity.

It’s as if his body were giving up, but not so much so that it forgets about keeping up with pretenses. God forbids anyone sees Steve in such an undignified state. His parents’ numerous precepts concerning proper behavior have been drilled into Steve to the point of conditioning even his breakdowns, it seems.

Steve can’t keep this to himself anymore once Billy and he move in together, though. Now Steve has nowhere left to go in order to shut down away from view. He still tries though: the first time he shuts down while living with Billy, he goes to the bathroom and locks the door right before it happens. Evidently, it is a terrible idea.

Indeed, after a while, Billy knocks on the door and asks him if he is okay. When Steve doesn’t answer, he justifiably starts freaking out, and warns that he is going to come in, even if he has “to destroy the fucking door with an axe like in The Shining”. They have no axe, but Steve can’t point that out because his vocal cords and mouth are out of order, as the rest of his body is.

Billy doesn’t need an axe, in the end. He just body slams the door like a madman.

“Steve, what the fuck? Are you okay?” He asks, kneeling down on the tiled floor and looming over Steve’s prostrate body.

Steve doesn’t react, he doesn’t even blink, as Billy presses two fingers to the pulse in his neck.

“Fuck, what’s wrong with you? Should I call 911? Steve?” Billy sounds more and more distressed, and then he starts crying.

It seems to be enough for Steve to regain control of his limbs. Steve’s boyfriend breaking the door of their bathroom down wasn’t enough for his body to start functioning again, but this is? It seems a bit illogical, but Steve doesn’t make the rules.

As Billy tries to get up, maybe to indeed call 911, Steve grips his wrist loosely, and mutters he’s fine.

“Damn, you sure didn’t seem fine a second ago.”

Steve has to explain, then. He has no other option. Billy doesn’t interrupt until Steve is done describing how he ‘deals’ with his feelings, and then he just asks.

“When you get like that… would touching you help? Would it make it worse? Do you want me to call someone who knows how to calm you down or? I don’t know, tell me if there is anything I can do.”

Steve blushes.

“Uh… well I don’t exactly know… I’ve only ever went through it on my own so…”

“Oh… Would it be okay if I tried to comfort you, next time?”

Steve considers how he reacted to the tears Billy spilt over him earlier.

“Yeah… I think it might help.”

“Good… Can I hug you… I mean, now?”

Steve nods and suddenly his arms are full of Billy, who starts crying again a few seconds later.

Steve starts caressing his hair, because it’s usually a very efficient way to comfort him.

“I should be the one comforting you right now.” Billy says in between sobs.

“You are.” Steve replies.

And it’s true. Taking care of Billy is comforting, in a way.

“It was some scary shit, Steve.”

“I know… I’m sorry, I should have mentioned that whole thing at some point.”

“I mean… yeah. A warning would have been nice. At least I would have known you were probably not having a stroke.”

Steve winces.

“I forgive you though.”

“How generous.” he quips.

“I know, right? You’re lucky I love you.”

Steve sighs. Billy is lucky Steve loves him, too, the unsufferable bastard.

“I love you too.” He replies.

Steve can’t ever not say “I love you” back to him. He has to say it back, always. It’s some sort of undisclosed obligation.

Billy hugs him tighter and Steve could swear he’s smiling through his tears.

#Harringrove #Billy Hargrove #Steve Harrington #ficlet #slight angst #hurt/comfort #fluff #Steve buries his feelings #Billy is a crier #I always make Billy cry I'm mean #but he's fine here I swear #I should be studying #and I'm writing about these dumbasses instead #someone come slap me

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let-me-write-shit · 4 years

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Somebody To You: 26

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Word Count: 3,031

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CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

Last night was draining and Zoey hardly got any sleep. There were too many thoughts running through her head. Being back home gave her mixed emotions. There were so many great memories filled with lots of great people, but there was so much loss, as well. She felt like she was on a death march, visiting a terminally ill man, a son who is about to lose his father, and bereaved parents. The knowledge of the losses made her normally bright and cheery little suburb feel dark and gray. How was she supposed to make light in these situations? She stressed, trying to figure out how she was supposed to act when she met Mr. and Mrs. Lewis for lunch.

“Just relax, it’s going to be fine,” Michael tried soothing her in the car on the way to their house. “You don’t have to impress them. They’ve known you for years. Just act normal.”

Zoey took a deep breath, nodding. He was right. This isn’t her first time spending time with them. But it was her first visit since she’s moved to LA on their dime and she felt pressured to explain or justify all that has been going on in her life since moving there. How do you thank the people responsible for changing your life in so many different ways?

The first thing Zoey noticed when they pulled up to the house was the different flower beds by the front door. They had done some rearranging. Honestly, it was refreshing to see at least a minor change in scenery. Still, her nerves began to grow as they made their way to the front door. She began to contemplate whether she should knock or just go right in, having always done that in the past. But she figured its been too long since she’s been here to just walk in, so she knocked, bouncing anxiously on her toes. Within seconds the door flew open and was instantly being enveloped by Mrs. Lewis’s curly blonde hair. Zoey’s worry eased at the sound of the woman’s delighted laughter, pulling away to take a good look at each other.

“Oh, Zoey, you look beautiful with your hair down,” Mrs. Lewis cooed, smiling adoringly at her, “Come in, Mr. Lewis should be back any minute with the pizza. Hello, Michael, how are you?”

“I’m doing well, thank you,” Michael grinned as they followed Mrs. Lewis inside, closing the door behind them and making their way to the eat-in kitchen.

Mrs. Lewis looked different than the last time Zoey saw her. She was more put-together, wearing a little bit more makeup and in business-casual clothes, instead of the robes and oversized sweaters that she had gotten used to wearing after the death of her daughter. Her eyes weren’t sunken and dark any longer, instead, they were bright blue and she had a glow about her that radiated through her smile; something she hadn’t seen Mrs. Lewis do in over a year. She seemed to be doing better, and Zoey couldn’t have been happier about that.

“I was so happy to get that phone call from you yesterday, Michael. I didn’t know you were going to be in town,” Mrs. Lewis turned to Zoey, pulling out cups and plates in preparation for her husband’s arrival with their lunch.

“I didn’t either,” Zoey admitted, “It was a last-minute plan to come after hearing about Paul.”

Mrs. Lewis nodded seriously, “Yes, I’m so sorry to hear about your dad, Michael. How are you feeling?”

Mrs. Lewis listened intently as Michael confessed himself to her; something Zoey was surprised by. Michael was never one to delve into his feelings too much, but it seemed that he had so many thoughts pent up, understandably, that when provided with an outlet to express his feelings without the worry of judgment or hurting anyone else’s feelings (like he would have had he expressed these thoughts to his parents, perhaps) he was able to really dig deep to the root of his worry and have a weight lifted off his shoulders from the burden it carried.

Michael wasn’t an emotional person. He could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen him cry. So when she saw a tear trickle down his cheek, Zoey couldn’t help but get emotional and cry along with him. She felt for him. What do you say to a person who is about to lose their father?

She felt guilty for not being there for him sooner. For letting their ties loosen so much that he felt he couldn’t confide in her anymore. It was no wonder he didn’t absolutely hate her for it. He deserved much better than what she’s offered him in the past five months.

When Michael had reached the end of his rant, Zoey felt the urge to hug him, pulling him into the tightest, warmest hug she could muster as she pushed her tears aside. He relaxed into her embrace and felt the shuddering of his body begin to calm until his breathing evened out. She’d never seen him in so much pain before and she couldn’t blame him for breaking down in front of Mrs. Lewis. But if anyone would understand what he’s going through, it was her.

Mrs. Lewis rounded the table and wrapped her arms around Michael, motherly shushing him and gently rocking him back and forth making a grown twenty-eight-year-old man look like a child in her arms. Michael seemed to calm from his uneasiness and cleared his throat, wiping his eyes as Mrs. Lewis sat back down in his seat. He was embarrassed, but neither of them criticized him for it. How could they? He had every right to feel what he was feeling.

Not even a minute later, Mr. Lewis came stumbling through the front door, making his way back and beaming when he saw the two of them sitting at the table.

“You made it!” he exclaimed, plopping the boxes of pizza in the center of the table and reaching out for a quick hug while his wife began serving slices. He noticed Michael’s puffy red eyes and looked as though he was about to say something, but decided not to at the last minute, resorting to, “Dig in, I want to hear all about what you two have been up to.”

They each had a bite of their pizza while Mrs. Lewis eyed them curiously, asking, “So, are you two back together, or…?”

“No,” Zoey hurriedly responded, swallowing down her bite of food, “No, Mikey, here, has found himself a girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend yet,” Michael narrowed his eyes at her.

Zoey grinned in amusement, wiggling her eyebrows at Mr. and Mrs. Lewis who laughed, “So how did you meet this girl?”

“She’s a new hire at work. She’s the receptionist.”

“So no dating apps for you, then, huh?” Mr. Lewis joked before turning to Zoey, “What about you? Any boyfriends in LA?”

Zoey shrugged, feeling a little more confident in being more open now that she knew she didn’t have to worry about Michael being hurt. But she didn’t want to get into too much detail. Surely they didn’t need to know about all of her one night stands, friends with benefits, and sleeping with an international celebrity. So she simply said, “I’ve been dipping my toes in the dating scene, but nothing serious so far.”

“No?” Mrs. Lewis asked, expression bordering confusion, “I thought your mom said you had a boyfriend who took you and your sister to Italy for your birthday?”

Zoey’s eyes widened, unsure of what to say. Certainly, no one ever told her mother that Harry and she were a thing. Mrs. Lewis must have misunderstood. At least she was none the wiser on who the supposed ‘boyfriend’ was. She shook her head, laughing in an attempt to conceal her surprise, “No, no, no. I mean, yeah, I went to Italy, but it was with several of my friends. Boy friends, not boyfriend.”

She stared at them fixedly to make sure they believed her. When they nodded and continued to ask her about her trip to Italy, she felt Michael’s suspicious gaze on the side of her face. She ignored it, telling them all about the guided tour, Katie’s crush on a cute Italian boy, shopping in the lanes, pizza making, wine tasting, and all of the dreamy nights spent poolside underneath the stars.

“We’ve only been there once on our honeymoon,” Mrs. Lewis fondly recalled, smiling dewy-eyed, “I’m so glad you were able to meet some nice friends in LA. Jess would be so happy for you.”

Mr. Lewis placed a supportive hand on his wife’s back and Zoey pursed her lips with wide puppy-eyes. She missed Jess and wished, more than anything, she could have experienced all of this with her. She wanted to make new friends in LA with her, immerse themselves in Italian culture, she wanted to go on double dates with Jess, she wanted to go on more beach trips with her and ride on the back of sketchy motorcycles side-by-side, she wanted to tell Jess all about Harry and all the gross, cliche, sappy little moments between them that made the butterflies in her stomach go crazy. She wished Jess were here as a lending ear to hear her rant about the absurdity that came along with stupid boy crushes and as a shoulder to cry on when the unavoidable overwhelming grief took over her when Paul was no longer here.

They’ll be together, she told herself. She’ll be in safe hands with Paul. They’ll be looking down on all of us, proud. They did this. The two of them. Jess and Paul were the light of this town, the reason why so many were compassionate, kind, and happy. And Zoey took solace in knowing that the world was a better place because of those two people. She was a better person because of them. And she will love them until the day she meets them again.

The minor display of emotion caused a group hug between the four of them and when they pulled away, they all laughed. After lunch, Mr. and Mrs. Lewis took the two of them to the poolhouse to check out Jess’s old living space. They hadn’t done much with it. They explained that they had plans to eventually make it into a guest house. They wanted to paint and get new furniture, but they hadn’t had the heart to change it entirely just yet. Most of her things were still there. Framed pictures of her with her friends, books that she was reading, most of her wardrobe still in the closet and dresser drawers. But it looked cleaner and more organized. There weren’t random clothes strewn about the floor or makeup covering the vanity. It felt different.

“Do you mind….can I have this?” Zoey asked, holding up a framed picture of her and Jess sitting on Zoey’s trampoline.

Mrs. Lewis smiled, nodding a yes. They talked a little longer before they decided it was probably time to get going and the couple led them to the front. “I’m so glad you were able to stop by, you guys. Thank you for thinking of us,” Mrs. Lewis sang.

“Thanks for having us. And for the pizza,” Michael smiled, giving them each a hug, followed by Zoey.

As they made their way towards Michael’s car, Zoey suddenly remembered and turned, calling out, “Oh! I almost forgot. My parents are having a BBQ tomorrow around 2. It’ll be my last night here before I catch the red-eye home. Would you two like to come? Michael’s parents will be there, too.”

The two of them smiled, looking at each other briefly before nodding and Mr. Lewis said, “We’ll see you two tomorrow, then.”

She grinned at them before jumping in Michael’s car and heading back to her parents’ house. The journey back was mostly discussions reflecting on Mr. and Mrs. Lewis and how happy they were to see the two of them in a better mental state than the previous year, but by the time they reached Zoey’s house, the conversation had changed to bets on which parent got drunk at the BBQ first. Zoey bet Paul would be first while Michael had bet on Mr. Lewis.

She had assumed that Michael would only be dropping her off at home, saying a quick goodbye to her parents on the way out. But her mom had cornered him, practically forcing him to stay for dinner as she was making her ‘world-famous shepherds pie’, which honestly had no taste to it and had no business being called ‘world-famous’. Not wanting to be rude, Michael accepted and stayed to eat. Throughout dinner Mary subtly hinted at her desire for Zoey to move back home, discussing the office remodel, mentioning little trips they could take as a family, and visits to Katie in college. It was clear that she was suffering from pre-empty nest syndrome, but she was laying it on thick.

After dinner was finished, Zoey had offered to clear the table, and with the help of Michael, loaded the dishes into the dishwasher. She dried her hands on a spare dish rag that sat on the countertop, staring at the framed picture of her and Jess that she had placed there right before they ate. Michael looked over at her, then to the yard, and back at her.

“Come on,” he urged, taking the picture and leading the way towards the back door.

Zoey followed him outside, the sun setting and the faint, flickering glow of the lightning bugs hovered and the warm porch lights illuminated the garden. Michael climbed onto the trampoline, bouncing on his knees as she climbed on after him. The lack of netting surrounding the trampoline always terrified her mom, but she and her sister always hated the idea of being confined, so she left it open.

The springs from the trampoline squeaked and creaked as they sat cross-legged, facing each other. Zoey slipped the picture out of Michael’s hands, running a few fingers across Jess’s face. She hadn’t seen her in so long that she was beginning to feel like Jess was a made-up imaginary friend. She needed these pictures and trinkets, like her bracelet, as proof of her existence.

“Can’t believe it’s been a year,” Zoey hushed.

Michael nodded, pausing before wondering, “What do you think we’d be doing right now if she was still here?”

“We’d probably still be together,” Zoey said, laughing and looking up at him, teary-eyed “My life has changed so much in the past year. I’ve experienced more in the last four months than I have my whole entire life and she wasn’t here for any of it.”

“She was there,” Michael placed a reassuring hand on her knee, “you know that.”

“It’s not the same,” she shook her head, laying down on her back to look up at the stars, her hair scattering around her while holding the picture to her stomach.

Michael laid down beside her, sighing. The two of them had been through so much in the past year, and it still wasn’t over. He was glad that someone else understood what he was going through, but the fact that they had to go through this at all was ridiculous. There was a long silence before Zoey finally spoke again, the subject changed.

“So...tell me about this new girl of yours. Has she met the parents yet?”

Michael groaned again, “No because it’s not serious yet.”

“Oh, come on, you don’t have to be afraid to tell me. I broke up with you, remember?”

“There’s just not much to say. It’s too new,” Micheal shrugged, turning his attention towards her. “Besides, what about you?”

“What about me?” she asked defensively, furrowing her eyebrows at him.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” he smirked, “you don’t think I noticed the panic in your voice when Mrs. Lewis mentioned the ‘FRIEND’ who took you and Katie to Italy?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she blushed, looking back up at the night’s sky.

“I was with you for over four years. I know when you’re lying.”

Zoey rolled her eyes in annoyance, hating how predictable and easy-to-read she was. Hating the fact that she was about to talk about a man she considered to be her soulmate to a man she thought she would end up marrying. When did her life become this complicated?

“First of all, he was never my boyfriend. Nothing even happened before the trip to Italy,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“Oh, so things happened in Italy, then?” He sounded cheeky, “Tell me about him. What’s he like?”

Zoey chuckled, trying to connect the dots of the stars above her, seeing what sort of pictures she could make out of them, “You wouldn’t even believe me if I told you,” she said under her breath. Sighing, she spoke louder, “It doesn’t matter, though. We kind of got into a fight. I don’t think it’s going to work out.”

“A fight about what?”

“Something stupid,” she admitted, “I called him out because he can’t ever make up his mind about what he wants and I basically told him I didn’t want to waste my time. He’s the one that called at dinner last night.”

“Is that why you came inside looking all upset?” Michael turned to look at Zoey, earning a nod in response. Michael slowly turned to look back up at the sky, putting his hands behind his head to elevate it a bit more, “Well, for what it’s worth, I think you’re right. You deserve to be prioritized. You’re worth it.”

“Thanks, Mikey.”

“No problem.”

The two of them laid there in comfortable silence for what felt like an hour, counting the stars when they heard a crack from the back door opening and closing. She figured it would just be Katie wanting to join in on the conversation. But when a deep, humble, monotone voice sounded her name from behind them, the two of them sat up, surprised by the unexpected visitor.

“Harry?!”

KEEP READING

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Taglist for Somebody To You:

@thurhomish , @stilljosiegrossie , @odetostep , @apples2019 , @stylesmioamore , @inyourhaven

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bigdlittleibignlittleozzo-moved · 3 years

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@sebastianshaw asked A, C, G, L, P , Q, S, T, W

A: Who are their exes? Do they still keep in touch?

It sounds funny to Tony, when he says he only has two exes and they’re both women. Well how can that be? He’s a gay man, and he’s never had sex with a woman, but both of his exes are women, and both of them (rightfully) pin the downfall of their relationship on him.

At least with Wendy, they ended somewhat amicably, even if he stood at the front of that church for two and a half hours, waiting for her, worried that something had happened to her. When her bridesmaid had shown up and told him that Wendy was calling the wedding off, it had been a relief. Tony hadn’t really wanted to be married anyhow. It was just what had been expected of him, and that was the wrong reason to get married, the wrong reason to trap someone with him, tie them down.

Jeanne... well, what could he say about the woman who had accused him of murdering her father, who had tried to get him locked in prison for a crime he hadn’t committed? He didn’t blame her at all. After everything he’d done to her, the lies that he had told her, he’d deserved to be treated the way he was, to be accused of murder, to be treated however she saw fit. Hell, if she’d wanted to kill him, he wouldn’t have blamed her. He was the reason her father was dead.

Not being in contact with either of them was what was best for them, and him. They deserved better and he- well all he wanted was peace. He didn’t want fighting, didn’t want to feel the need to justify his actions. He’d done what he’d done, and it was terrible. He knew that. He could never take that back. Best for all of them if they just moved on.

C: If they had to pick one sport to play/watch which would it be?

Getting into football had been an accident. He’d needed to pick a sport when he was at RIMA and he hated riflery with a passion. But he could throw a ball like no one’s business, so he’d joined the football team. When he’d discovered that he was actually good at it- well it had taken care of his bullying problem almost immediately. No one wanted to bully the star quarterback, even if he was only a freshman with ADHD and behavior problems.

Maybe that’s why he loved it so much. Football had been his sanctuary, the thing that had saved him from being harassed by the other kids. No one liked the rich kid, no matter that most of the other kids were also from well-off families. No one liked that he knew more about war than they did, despite not coming from a military family. No one liked that he was constantly making jokes, that he couldn’t hold still in class.

Oh, but they liked him on the field. When he threw that ball in a perfect spiral, everyone liked him then. That was when everyone cheered his name, wanted to be his friend. Football made him popular, in a way that he’d never thought he would be. It was amazing, how much people changed the second they discovered he was good at the sport. He just wanted to bask in it, in the praise that they heaped upon his head. It was such a nice change from the derision that was usually pointed at him, he didn’t think anyone would blame him.

G: What was their first job?

It was a busy Friday night. He was late to work because of the football game, the same football game that meant that they were busy. He skidded into the kitchen wearing his post-game sweatshirt and apologized in rapidfire Spanish, pulling off the sweatshirt and hanging it up, grabbing his apron instead. There was a sink full of dishes, but he was good with that. It wouldn’t take him long to wash them all up, get everything clean. He was good at that, at physical work like that. He’d had a lot of practice.

Tia Maria came and patted him on the shoulder, congratulated him on the big win, and Tony smiled at her, his entire face brightening. He loved this job, loved the family that he’d come to have here, the people he’d befriended. Between Maria and Pablo, the owners of the restaurant, he never went hungry. They were always sending him home with food, and Joaquin was always teaching him how to make new recipes when they had some downtime. There wouldn’t be any downtime tonight, but that was okay. He was ready to work. That’s what he was paid to do, after all.

L: How often do they post on their social media accounts?

Twitter was a new thing to him, but he liked it. He could follow all his favorite actors, comment on their movies. He’d once upset Mark Hamill by mentioning the Star Wars Holiday Special, something his Nonna had gifted him with when he was six.

He didn’t post often though. He couldn’t afford to. He was still an undercover agent, after all, and he couldn’t afford to blow his cover. Risking his job for the sake of posting a few selfies seemed dumb, childish and immature, and Tony wasn’t about to do that. It wasn’t safe, for the people that he protected when he went undercover. It was why he didn’t have a Facebook, or any other social media outlet. It wasn’t like he knew anybody he would want to keep in contact with using social media. The only frat brother he was still friends with was Steve, and they called each other on the phone, met for coffee. There wasn’t the need for social media.

Maybe he was just old. He didn’t see the point behind these websites he would never use, though. They weren’t for him.

P: What are their thoughts on going vegan? Could they do it?

He’d gone kosher after Ziva started working for NCIS. It was an easy change to make for him. The hardest thing to give up was shellfish, but he’d made the adjustment. It was just easier. They didn’t always label their lunches, had habits of grabbing whatever bag was in the fridge and just eating what was inside, no care for whose it was. Tony wasn’t about to make Ziva eat something that she couldn’t because he was too selfish to give up pork, too selfish to adjust his diet.

But vegan? He had no problem with vegetables. There were certain times of the year, centered around certain Jewish holidays, where Tony didn’t cook with meat at all. But that had everything to do with the fact that Ziva was always grateful when she grabbed his lunch and it was something she could eat, saving her the trouble of having to order out, hoping that the Jewish deli had someone who could get onto the Navy Yard. They both knew McGee wasn’t going to change the way he ate, so Ziva grabbing his lunch was out of the question.

Still, vegan... as much as he loved vegetables, Tony also loved meat, loved the taste of it, the way it added flavor to his food. He had no problem with other people going vegan, that was their choice. It wasn’t the healthiest dietary choice they could make, and that was coming from the athletic nutrition courses he’d taken when he was studying for his degree, but it wasn’t the worst either. It just- it wasn’t for him. He needed proteins from meat, needed the flavor too. He respected the choices others made for their own bodies but it wasn’t for him, that was for sure.

Q: Do they have a good luck charm they often have with them?

It was stupid. The thing had been given to him as a joke. Holding onto it was just silly. But there it sat, on the corner of his desk where everyone could see it, where it had sat for years, since his Captain in Baltimore had given it to him. He didn’t even like Mighty Mouse, had never seen the show. So why was it that the stapler meant so much to him? He couldn’t rightfully say. But the thought of getting rid of it-

He couldn’t do it. That stapler had been there through too many rough cases, too many cases that Tony shouldn’t have solved, by all accounts, but he still had. He’d used it on too many reports that he never should’ve been able to close. Maybe it was dumb, to consider a little blue and red piece of metal and plastic his good luck charm, but he did. Some cops had their St. Michael medallions, and he respected that, but he wasn’t Catholic, and he’d never really believed in the saints.

His stapler though. His stapler brought him luck. It brought him success. He loved his stapler. Even after it came out that the Captain was a dirty cop, Tony couldn’t get rid of his stapler. It had seen too much, had done too much for him. The stapler and he, they were a team. He wasn’t going to give up on it. It hadn’t given up on him.

S: How do they tell someone they’re sorry?

Rule 6 existed for a reason. Never say you’re sorry. So Tony had to find other ways to apologize when he screwed up, because he screwed up a lot. He couldn’t just not apologize and move on. Because while Gibbs may hate apologies, he also hated it when Tony ignored his mistakes, completely acted like everything was normal. It was a tricky game he was playing, a complicated dance, but he was figuring it out, slowly but surely.

He didn’t apologize anymore, not after the first half dozen times those words had passed his lips. No, now he owned up to his mistakes and sucked it up when the slap came to the back of his head, biting back the wince that was inevitable. Gibbs never pulled his punches with Tony the way he did with McGee and Ziva.

“Right boss. Won’t happen again, boss.” That’s what Gibbs wanted to hear, the only apology he would accept. It left a dirty taste in Tony’s mouth, but if that’s what Gibbs wanted, that’s what Tony would do. This wasn’t about Tony’s preferred method of apology, it was about what Gibbs wanted.

T: How quick are they to cry?

He didn’t cry after Kate died. He was emotionally drained, but he didn’t cry. He didn’t think that he could, too drained and angry at the world, at Ari, at Gibbs, at himself. He couldn’t cry. He could only think about revenge, about getting back at the bastard who had taken his partner away from him.

He did cry when Jeanne left him. He’d loved her, in his own way. Loved her as best as he could. But everything he’d ever told her had been a lie. Everything about himself, about their relationship, about all of it. It had all been a lie. How could he have loved her if he had lied to her constantly, if he hadn’t been honest with her? So why did losing her feel the way it did? He hadn’t ever slept with her but their relationship was something more, something emotional, something that he could just- it hurt to lose it. And he cried.

He wasn’t positive what he was crying for. Maybe it was the loss of Jeanne. Maybe it was the loss of himself. After all, he’d given up a lot of his own self respect and pride in order to go undercover the way he had. He’d sacrificed a lot of who he was in order to be who Jeanne knew. He didn’t even know who he was anymore, half the time. Maybe that was why he was crying. Maybe it was just the broken heart. He didn’t know anymore.

W: Would they be starstruck if they met a celebrity?

Growing up the way he did, he’d rubbed elbows with a lot of old money, people with names that would be recognized. He’d met a lot of people who others would consider famous, and it had been just another Tuesday for him. It wasn’t unusual for Senior to namedrop someone important, even today, wasn’t unusual for Tony himself to have connections that went beyond what a normal NCIS agent would have. He didn’t think anything of it.

He wasn’t the type to really care about somebody’s fame. Why would he, when he’d grown up around money? He’d gone to school with Frank Sinatra’s nephew, the closest he’d gotten to knowing the man himself, and he’d never once freaked out about it. The kid was a bully, and Tony hadn’t wanted anything to do with him, even if his uncle was one of the coolest singers he’d ever heard.

Maybe it was a rich kid thing, a money thing. Maybe it was a Tony thing. Fame and money just didn’t matter to him. Not really, not anymore. Maybe they never had.

#answered asks

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eternalstrigoii · 4 years

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Unfettered - III

Original; I, II Borra (Maleficent: Mistress of Evil) x Forest Dark Fey Reader; Philip x Aurora; King John is Everyone’s Dad (reprise)

Your people did not celebrate the way they should’ve.

It should’ve been a glorious occasion – you were, at last, after centuries of destruction, on the path to justice. To true peace.

But Shrike kept only Ini for company, and you had yet to apologize for your outburst in the courtyard. You told yourself with increasing frequency that you did not mean it, though you were painfully aware that you did not speak because you had.

Because Percival went before them again afterward, and he told them of you. He told them that he was aware of your and the other fey’s captivity. You had known by the look on Philip’s face that the boy mandated the door be left open so you would not feel caged again, although you had.

The only comfort you had regarding that betrayal was that he had never partaken directly in your torment. He knew of it. He did nothing. And he answered honestly when Lord Azarias asked if he supported it – at first, he had.

You owed Shrike so much for standing beside you. You felt like you owed her your life; never once did she take your hand once she’d finished crying. She was like Maleficent, like Borra, like you would never be. She had her moment, her pain returned to fury, and if she could’ve burned him alive with her stare, she would’ve.

Even when he told them of how he stood beside her at Aurora’s wedding, and he saw, just as they did, how beautiful she was. He was rightfully wary, especially after you were found. He was open to change, since Philip was. Since Borra hadn’t killed him. But he expected retaliation, and so he waited.

He waited until he saw her fly during a great storm. It had been late in the evening; many shops simply closed for the night before their time. The torchlight in the palace, the hearths were all stoked. It was a cold rain, and it came down in a fierce, white blanket. He had seen her, felt the crash of thunder in the breastplate of his leather armor, and went to the highest point of the battlement protecting Ulstead from the sea. He stood on the very ledge where her people had been fired upon, battered by the ocean spray, and held out his hand.

You saw tears well in her eyes, but they never fell.

The ribbons of her bodice clung to her leather breeches. The braid in her hair was windblown; tendrils of rainbow jerked to and fro with every gust. And he called to her, the fool, catching his death in the storm to make sure she was safe.

That was when he decided to know you. All of you. To know you as Philip did, to love you as Aurora did. And he did, now. He loved your children. He cared for the moor-folk. He sat at your fire, he heard your stories, he brought sweets for your fledglings. He respected Maleficent.

And it did not erase what he’d done or what he hadn’t.

The tribunal lasted until sunset. You endured the full account of Lickspittle’s torment of the moor-folk; how he came into Ingrith’s servitude, how he could justify his actions to himself. How the poaching began, how it escalated, what he hoped to learn. What he intended to do. Why he never stopped her, or helped them, or let them go.

You were the subject he danced around the longest, and you knew it had something to do with the man at your back who did not know how to stand still or contain his frustration. Borra was not stationary. Borra was not powerless. And yet he heard, as did you, in excruciating detail how you entered the dungeon of a room, hauled in by a trio of poachers, bleeding from your wing.

You were delirious with pain. You didn’t recall what you’d done. You didn’t recall fighting, though he said you had. You were strong enough to knock things from the tables, nearly strong enough to break yourself free, had the third of them not restrained you by the throat.

Philip asked, gently, with his eyes locked on your mate, if Lickspittle knew their names.

No, the gnome had replied. He couldn’t even point them out if he saw them in the square, there had been so many poachers over time.

At some point, when your story began to interlock with theirs, you no longer craved solace. You stopped yearning for the vivid hues of pleasant memory in between his account of pouring the first dose of tomb-bloom treated iron powder onto a dandelion fey, and the way Borra recoiled as though intending to tear the very stone from the walls when Lickspittle revealed how your wings never fit in the ice bath – how you were never fully conscious when you were submerged, and yet you didn’t drown. (Ingrith was intrigued by that after Maleficent plunged into the sea; you did not recall it occurring at any increased frequency, though he attested that it had.)

You were still trying to make sense of it afterward.

After Aurora found the room. After Aurora found the missing fey. After Ingrith launched her attack and he hid for the duration of the battle. After she found you, and he almost thought after everything he’d done, they might show mercy.

Borra laughed out loud at that. The sound was sharp and musical and very much his.

Even Lord Azarias paled in response.

John declared the tribunal would resume in the morning once Lickspittle was finished with his urgent amendments – he swore he had plans to repent for the error of his ways, he’d nearly put them into action when the crown brought him to justice, and you smiled at that just as sharply as Borra laughed.

They walked home with you from the tribunal as though you were all too tired for flight. As though the citizens of Ulstead didn’t flock to their windows in numbers they hadn’t dared assemble in when the sun revealed them, as though their shadows blotting out the light didn’t give them away.

You walked home to the moors among the glowing toadstools and the dancing will o’ the wisps, several of which rushed to greet you once you crossed back onto unpaved land. You could’ve kissed the soil. You felt filthy and wrong after standing in their dusty little room for so long – your legs hurt. Your feet ached. Though, it was all the more pleasant to sink down in front of the fire and rip the meat from your falsely celebratory goat.

You did not say two words to one another until new steps approached. Booted steps.

Half of you sat upright with curiosity. You did. Borra did not.

“Hello,” Philip greeted them. He wore only his dressing shirt, no doublet, no coat. You blinked at him; wasn’t that considered half-obscene by his people? Like – well, walking around like one of you.

“What’s wrong?” you asked.

“Nothing.” He sounded equally tired, though, and you hoped that he’d brought his horse lest he walk all that way by himself. “I wanted to make sure you were all alright.”

Borra did not look at any of you. Not even to you, and you felt that was fair of him.

“I plan to ask you both to speak before the tribunal tomorrow.” He didn’t approach, though it wasn’t out of wariness; he wasn’t in attendance as frequently as Percival, but he understood your custom better than you thought he did. Though only five of you were directly involved, it was a matter of the collective, and he offered it just as anyone would’ve had you retained the meeting-cove. “If you’re willing.”

Borra finally looked to you. Were you? he asked with his eyes.

You nodded. Are you?

His eyes hid nothing. He would not keep his anger from them. It was a detriment to your people, and yet, if Philip offered him the floor, he would take it.

You linked your fingers securely through his. I will be with you every step.

“Does your father know of your decision?” Borra asked, and you pretended not to hear the note of mocking in his tone.

“He does. As does Aurora.” His posture was soft though he stood straight. “They know what you have to say will be necessary.”

That it will be unpleasant, and cause problems. But they want you to say it anyway.

Borra stood, then, allowing your hand to fall from his grasp. His wings perked, and the sheer difference in size between them with regards to his horns and his wings should’ve been off-putting.

Philip never faltered.

“You trusted me when I said I would not let her ruin your kingdom. Trust that I will not allow them to silence you, no matter what it is you have to say.”

His down bristled a bit, and you dug your feet into the soft earth to stand. They wanted to give you justice, but they gave him no outlet to act upon what he learned. Your people didn’t have law, you had sense. You had compassion. Empathy – for each other and your fellow creature.

Knowing that a man who came to you with love in his heart for your sister could be responsible for your father’s slaughter reflected poorly upon them as a whole, and that was the most drastic understatement you could make of the matter. Borra was right to be angry.

“Will you sit with us?” you asked.

You kept nothing from each other. You were family regardless of your blood-bonds. Without unity, you never would have survived.

Without unity, you still would not.

There were decisions to be made, and they came for you one after the other. Do you trust him? Do you trust any of them? Yes. In spite of it all, Philip was not his mother, even though when he frowned he shared the same partial pucker of his soft lips. He was an open, gentle creature, and he had come to you, knowing what had been said, knowing that you would be angry and hurt and desperately in need of rest. If he was afraid, it didn’t show. If he distrusted you once, he certainly placed his life in your hands now.

He looked to Borra. He wanted to make sure that it was alright, though your mate said nothing. Borra always knew what to do, what to say. He had never waited and watched from the sidelines. Your father implored him to, but he didn’t. There was action to be taken, justice to be dealt.

This was different. Now, he was forced to. Now, you all had been asked to trust an ornamental ruler whose people didn’t even choose him. You had to trust a murderer’s husband and a pair of children to bring you justice and preserve your peace – all, while they asked the man you love, who led your people for a reason, not to act.

Did he feel just as powerless as you, or had he already planned for the alternative?

“Come.” You held out your hand to Philip and rested the other upon a bare spot on Borra’s arm. He nearly recoiled at your touch, and that made you slip your talons into his braces and pull him closer to you.

Philip took your hand. Let you guide him over the logs and toward the fire. He saw the goat you ate, and you nodded toward the leftovers in event he desired some for himself.

“No, thank you.” He sunk down with you on the red-needled earth. “Frankly, after this afternoon, I haven’t much of an appetite.”

“It’s there if you want it.” You folded your legs under yourself, and the shiny strips of skin that ran from your knees nearly to the ends of your calves glinted in the firelight. You touched them absently, and it made you painfully aware of Borra, rigid beside you, so you claimed one of his hands and rested it on your knee.

“I’m sorry.” You had to begin there; before you could ask Philip anything, you had to reconvene with him. “I know I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

He took a slow, deep inhale. Stars, he was seething. “You shouldn’t feel that way.”

“I shouldn’t, but I do. I depend upon you. You have obligations that I shouldn’t impede.”

“Do you still?” He did not share in your feelings, which you knew, but it still stung that whatever you said had to be breeched one subject at a time.

You were also aware that Philip, and the others, did not know of what you were speaking.

“When I feel overwhelmed, I do,” you admitted. If not for the immediacy of your fingers in his, he would’ve withdrawn. “I can’t ease my pain, and I have no outlet.”

“You’re not alone.” His frustration bled into his voice, though you knew it wasn’t at you. “You depend upon me,” he repeated, and you reconsidered; maybe he was upset with you. “As though I didn’t choose to be there.”

“My pain isn’t something you should have to endure.”

“I don’t endure it, Cas. I hate it when you cry. I hate that you flinch when someone moves toward you, I hate the way you shy toward me when they look at you. I hate that you need to hold my hand to cross the river, and I hate that you fear each and every last one of them – you, who are so powerful that you can still look at them and see their faces when you do.”

You ran your thumb over his fingers. It never ceased to compound your hurt, knowing that you caused him pain.

“If you died,” his voice lowered. Though sitting beside you, Philip was entirely forgotten. “If you died while you were still in the palace, I would’ve mourned. I could have respected your father’s sacrifice.” He lifted his uncovered hand to hold your face the way you liked, so you were resting in his palm like it was made to cradle you. “I would not if they took you from me now. By their hand, or yours.”

After what they did, you should not be alive. Just because you shouldn’t be did not mean you weren’t.

He did not take breaking peace lightly. He never had, not after the way your people suffered. Your suffering couldn’t be elevated, you thought, but you didn’t know if anything like this had been done before. Your people, slaughtered, yes – violently, cruelly, without regards for their age, frailty, or innocence. But to endure what you had, to survive in spite of it…

Perhaps he wasn’t wrong about you. About your strength.

“I cannot stop using you for my tether, and it frightens me,” you whispered, “It’s why I dream what I dream. If anything happened to you, I could not imagine what would happen to me.”

He stroked your cheek. You held his eyes, searched them for something, anything, that would help you find peace.

“You’ll be safe.” He could offer you no comfort but his immediate certainty. “Only once did they manage to shed my blood.”

You hoped he meant it as a joke, but you didn’t treat it that way. You kissed the heel of his palm and closed your eyes.

“I won’t let that happen.” There was a promise in Philip’s voice that you trusted without question.

He watched you, both of you, and somehow managed to hold Borra’s gaze when he said, “Our kingdoms are united. You have my full support.”

You didn’t want to lift your head from his palm, but you had to. Not for yourself, not for Philip, not even for your people – you raised your head from his hand so you could ask the impulsive question that had been nagging at you since you started trying to wade through your iron-fevered memories.

“Philip?”

His head perked.

“Tell me about the man in red. Why does he look at us the way he does?”

“Lord Azarias?” he asked. You saw in his eyes that he had some manner of answer, though you doubted it would be pleasant. “He distrusts you.”

“He hates us.”

“That as well.”

“Does he have reason?”

Philip hesitated. You braced yourself, so to speak; tensed the muscles in your wings little by little to distract yourself from your blooming anxiety. The ones that could respond, did; the ones that couldn’t quivered.

“His father was the advisor to King Henry that encouraged him to go to war with the moor-folk. They have had something of a crusade against fey for generations.”

“You let him sit on your council?” Borra interjected.

“We have to. He funds several smithy in Ulstead as well as Perceforest.”

Iron. What made the color of his coat so best resemble blood – the iron that bound you, the iron that gave you fever and left these marks upon you, it was his?

Borra stared at him, surely sharing your conclusion.

“He needed no role in my mother’s operation,” Philip said, lowering his voice as though it kept any of the others from hearing. “She had her own methods. I didn’t even know the cutlery wasn’t silver until Maleficent’s visit.”

“Methods like what?” Ever the tactician, Borra had to know the odds. He had to know what you faced when you returned to Ulstead in the morning – whether or not it would be of grave consequence.

“Annexation of the Midlands. She made a deal with their nobility; iron and weapons in exchange for the benefits of unity. Increased military support, access to the sea, no taxes upon trade.”

Access to the sea.

You tried so hard not to let your blood run cold, but even Borra bristled beside you. War was inevitable, then; had Maleficent not been rescued, it would’ve marched right to your home. It would’ve slaughtered each and every last one of you on the shores of your own land.

“I can’t arrest him purely because of his trade,” Philip was bright enough to understand your feelings, at least in part, “but I do keep an eye on him. He’s made no secrets of the enemies he makes.”

“And what will it mean if he makes an enemy of us?”

You dared ask, though the gravity in the young prince’s expression betrayed him long before he put the thought to words. He looked at the altered flesh around your wrist while you kept your grip on Borra, and it was to that part of you that he replied, “He won’t make an enemy of you. He’d make himself your enemy.”

You did not know how often your father looked toward Ulstead, when he was alive.

It had been generations since your people had connection to the earth the way Maleficent did to the moors’ tomb blooms. You never regarded the way you oriented yourself in the cage as your instinct to point yourself toward home – toward family and safety, the magnetic lines of the earth drawing you back like a compass. Your people were displaced, and you had felt displaced, disoriented as you were, and yet it wasn’t Borra’s comings and goings that motivated those instincts in either of you.

He knew you were alive with the same intuition all parents possess; you were tethered to one another by more than blood – by every beat of your heart when you were small and tucked into the safety of his arm, by every braid he wove into your hair, and every day when it was just the both of you, after your brother left the nest and the loss of your mother cooled in you both to a dull, reminding ache.

Your tether to this world was the reason you carried his name in yours.

Even when you were lost, you’d known the way home. Even when you were caged, half-dead, weighted and silent with exhaustion, you’d begun to cry when your tether slipped.

Lickspittle the Gnome remembered the sound of your quiet weeping. He’d attributed it to the presence of the sentry as they left bushel upon bushel of tomb blooms around the laboratory, more and more of them infringing upon your nonexistent space. You had been silent for some time; he’d nearly thought you slipped away. Then, he thought you may have been sentient enough to have heard his plans.

“Shut up,” one of the sentry struck the front of your cage with a pole-axe.

You were so weak, you didn’t even flinch. You were hardly sentient, not even delirious with pain. Your body had, nearly altogether, given up. You were dying, and then you felt…distant. And afraid. It was as though you’d lost your homing signal.

You did not know that your father had been shot. How many times.

You did not know of the iron coursing through his blood and yours. The way it had fallen, thick like molasses, half-congealed from the heat, into the grass; the way it coated Maleficent’s skin.

Your father felt you dying, just as you felt him.

You whispered for him, in your iron prison. Your wrists bled anew as you trembled.

“Shut up!” The sentry struck it harder.

You were so close to him. Just over the river. The tears that ran down your face were swift and silent, and took more strength to release than you had. “Papa,” you whispered in a child’s broken voice. You were afraid, and you didn’t want to die.

“Conall!”

When the infantrymen were dead – thrown from heights, dragged with branches into early graves deep within the earth, clawed, strangled, and otherwise destroyed – Borra rejoined them. Maleficent was barely strong enough to keep her shield, but, for your father, she had. She was weak again, breathing heavily, and his blood soaked her bodice and her skirts. They had gone deep, left several punctures through his great, dark wings. There were more embedded in his back, and Maleficent couldn’t contain the emotion in her voice.

“I’m trying to heal him,” she said. “I’ve been—”

“Can you fly?” Borra drew her attention from them, lest she start to see him choke. If they returned quickly enough, the elders…

Not even he could lie to himself that well.

“Maleficent,” his voice sharpened; she caught the sound of your father’s hitching breath and had to be drawn back to him. “Can you fly?”

She nodded. Her eyes were damp and her frown had begun to quiver.

“Then go. We have to get him home.”

It was a struggle for him to lift Conall by himself; they were nearly the same size, and his low-hanging wings would create problems. He nearly sent her ahead to warn them, to try to save his life.

There was so much blood. It saturated the grass where they landed. It soaked into the cracks of your now-lover’s skin, mingled with their lightly-toxic mortal blood as though it was necessary to wash it away.

“Find her,” Conall rasped.

The fury in Borra burned anew. He set his jaw, flattened his wings and took off. He had to beat them hard, waste precious energy, but he would not leave him, and he couldn’t very well ask Maleficent for the help. She was supposed to save them all, and yet she hardly had the strength to summon branches.

“Find my daughter,” Conall pressed, and, for a moment, he nearly sounded like himself despite the roughness of his breathless voice. “Bring her home.”

“I will.” There was a vow in the words he hadn’t been asked to make.

He hoped you didn’t feel him, wherever you were. He hoped you weren’t bound to them the way Maleficent was to her ancestors. He hoped you weren’t, but he also hoped you were – he hoped that Conall felt you, even now.

He hoped you knew that he was coming. That he would find you. That he would not abandon you, wherever you were.

By the time Conall had been laid beneath the Tree of Life, on the Phoenix’s eternal grounds where all of your once-living people rested if they were able to return to the nest in time, Borra hoped, above all, that you could wait for him. That you were strong enough. Because if you weren’t, then he would kill them for you. In your name and your father’s.

You felt it, when he slipped. When dawn broke and he chose to give Maleficent what little strength he had left in hopes of it being able to save her – to save you all, just as Borra said. You couldn’t breathe under the weight of the iron on your chest. You didn’t have the strength to cry out for him, though the agony of loss crushed you from within.

You felt lost. Truly.

No help was coming.

You were going to die in there, in that little iron cage that Aurora didn’t even notice.

You didn’t have the strength to cry at all, and yet, tears sizzled on your oven-hot skin, like the ashes of the phoenix from which they said your kind was born.

Say nothing of what you now know of him while you’re in Ulstead, Philip cautioned before he left, and you were still mulling over the severity of his voice as you crossed the bridge the next morning. You wore the purple of new dawn, which you felt was appropriate.

You slept well again in spite of the day before. It was becoming a habit, and you weren’t entirely sure if it was Maleficent’s doing or Borra’s.

Even after your outburst in the courtyard, he hadn’t left you. He had every right to turn heel and go back to his nest, to his privacy and space all his own, but he had stayed with you again rather than take flight over the moors. He held you in the curl of his wings, punctuated the silence with gentle kisses, and you fell asleep against his chest with the sound of his heart reverberating through you.

You held his hand as you walked the bridge, and you weren’t even clutching him.

Perhaps, in truth, you were emotionally drained. One day of it was enough for a lifetime, one day of watching things collapse as though a gust of wind displaced a child’s stick-pile in the high canopy left you feeling raw and tired and you hadn’t even spoken to anyone but those who were already beside you.

You gently bunted with his arm before you crossed to meet John, and you thought there might’ve been a hint of a curl to Borra’s lips when he huffed out a sigh.

John wasn’t present for the battle, and you both had that in common. It was part of the reason why he moved toward you both in his robes, trying to embrace you both at the same time as he did Aurora and Philip.

Borra took a step away, though, and sacrificed you to John’s enthusiasm instead.

You weren’t even upset about it; you hugged him as tightly as you could, bumping your wings on his arms. “Good morning, John.”

“Hello, Cassia.” He squeezed you like you were a child, and the warmth of it eased your worries. You relaxed as you let go, breathed out your tension as he straightened and nodded respectfully to your mate. “Borra.”

The hint of a smile was no longer on his lips. He nodded back, silent. Waiting.

“I need to warn you,” he gently laced your arm through his as you entered the great courts of Ulstead on foot for the second time. There were more people out and about, almost as though they’d forgotten about the tribunal. Peasant women hung their laundry like flags between the gables of their above-shop homes, “I have already given Lord Azarias a talking-to this morning.”

“The iron-monger,” Borra said, and you sighed profoundly when you looked at him.

John looked surprised, but not disappointed. “Don’t repeat that in front of him. Yes, he’s been…rather difficult about the impacts that the reparations treaty has had on his business.”

“Tell him to make silver,” you replied, and it was a joke though it didn’t sound that way.

People were staring. Again. It unnerved you, but none of them approached. None of them tried to touch any of you this time, or get within the berth of your personal space.

“I wish it was that simple.” He paused with you right there in the streets of Ulstead, and your whole collective drew to a stop with you. You were all wary of them, even Udo who loved their children; they kept eyes for you while you held John’s.

“I also came to fetch you this morning, personally, for a reason.”

You waited. You hoped your tension wasn’t palpable.

“I owe you an apology, Cassia. Though it will never be enough, I swear to you that I believed Ingrith could change. I truly believed that if she knew you, she would understand why, for so long, I’ve wanted peace. She could be a cold and distant woman, but I never thought her capable of what she did. That is as much my fault as Percival��s.”

You drew in a deep breath. An apology was insufficient in ways he would never understand. You didn’t want his justification. You already trusted that he was innocent because you knew he was a very kind and gentle man – and also rather foolish. It was endearing, though your feathers bristled anyway.

“It is not as much your fault as Percival’s.” You were not your father, though you often wished you could at least pretend to be; you hid nothing from him with your face or your eyes or your words. “It is as much your fault as Lickspittle’s.”

John was taken aback. Still, there was a profound and genuine sadness in his eyes, and he rested his hand on your cheek for a moment as though you were Aurora and there were not scores of eyes upon his every move. “You are a very brave girl, Cassia. Your father would be proud.”

Your eyes dampened.

“I certainly am.” He touched his lips to the marks painted on your forehead, and you poorly resisted the urge to grip his sleeve.

John was a kind man, kind to the point of foolishness, and he loved you. He loved you like he knew the appearance of your people was not the catalyst for Ingrith’s war, just as you knew that Maleficent’s plunge into the sea was not the catalyst for yours.

And you were grateful, for once, for the pain that bloomed anew in your chest. John had to enter before you, being king, and it gave you the chance to linger in the courtyard with your fingers on the etched blue stone around your neck. You could almost feel it, the gentle bunt of your horns against your father’s before he’d gone to join them for council.

“I love you,” must’ve been the last thing you said to him. Your voice was dancing; it was as much a dismissal as a reminder, because you were redoing your braids and his lingering blocked what was left of the fading light.

You recalled, all by yourself, the way he smiled at you. The kindness that radiated from him always, the sadness and the love in his eyes. “I’ll be back soon.”

Borra stepped toward you, and Ini fell in at his back to keep eyes.

“Don’t hold back with them,” you whispered. It was the opposite of what you should’ve said.

He touched your chin, guided your face upwards, and bunted horns with you gently. He would be there when you needed him. You could be weak; he would be there to keep you from drowning.

“I hope I give you the strength you’ve given me,” you admitted, knowing well that you had to withdraw. You took a breath of him, the heat of the desert radiating from his skin, and you held on to your newly acquired calm.

He touched the downy hair at the back of your neck lightly, brushing his thumb over the little curls too short to be trapped in a braid, and let his lingering touch speak for him. You did, and it would be alright for you again. You weren’t alone.

Ini touched your back, and you rested your hand over hers. You nodded, and the five of you, watched so closely by the people of Ulstead, rejoined the tribunal in their chamber with the wide-open doors.

Philip introduced you again, as though they had forgotten who you were. It must’ve been a formality, though the rest were shorter than they had been; the date was declared, and the purpose cited as established. There was almost no time at all between when you entered and when Philip looked up at you, you and only you. “Cassia, are you ready to join us?”

No. Yes. What you wished to do was not what you must.

You still touched Borra’s arm to support yourself, though it was also to remind him that, just this once, he did not have to follow.

This was not your people’s meeting-cove, but it was functionally the same. You perked your lopsided wings to keep them from dragging on the floor, and when the left one started to tremble from the effort, you let it. You let them see what had been done to you in the light under which they were gathered.

The nobility, whom you’d heard in passing had been rather unkind to Aurora before she was queen, exclaimed quietly in shock at the shine of your scars.

You breathed, and the tall posture at which you held your wings relaxed. The left one sagged significantly; you let them see how it drooped from the very joint. Even Lord Azarias sat forward, his head canted at the sight of you.

He had never seen you beyond the shadows, you realized. You wondered if he could see any of you back there, since he looked that way so often and so intently.

“Cassia Born-of-Conall,” Philip spoke to you, “how did you arrive in Ulstead?”

Again, you breathed. They watched you, their faces so nearly like yours – nearly as colorful as the lot of your people’s, their eyes nearly as bright. Were it not for their mannerisms and their dress, your similarity might’ve been a source of comfort.

“I left my home on impulse.” It was the first time you’d said it, and it made you feel like a fool. “My father was at council with the others, and I wished to fly freely. Truthfully,” you remembered, now, why you’d gone. “I wanted to taste the sea-breeze. I missed the brine. I missed the clouds and the stars; so rarely did I leave, I had just…grown restless.” It was still a foolish reason, but it was a reason you’d forgotten. “I veered close to land, though it wasn’t intentional. I saw a man in your river, struggling against the current. He was headed toward the falls.”

You saw him in your mind as clearly as if he’d been in front of you, no more than a little black dot at first. Had he not moved so strongly, you might’ve thought he was a bobbing log.

“My father, Conall,” your heart bloomed with pain, and you let yourself reach up to touch his pendant against your chest, “he sought peace with humans. Your kind as a whole have decimated ours since the dawn of our existence; we want only to live freely in nature. Beside you, rather than among you. We mean you no harm.”

There was a low murmur from the nobility; it sounded like approval.

“I reacted without thinking. I flew down to pluck him from the water, and carried him to shore. No sooner had I set him down than I was shot,” you tried to raise your left wing, and had to reach back to part your feathers. The scar was severe, pink-shining even then as though unhealed. “I was shot by another poacher.”

“Would you have saved him,” Lord Azarias interjected, “if you had known what he’d done?”

“Yes,” you replied, and the ease at which it came startled you. “He was drowning in the river, Lord Azarias. Not even the other poacher helped him.”

“Why? Men were slain on the moors for what they’ve done to your kind.”

“My father wanted peace,” you repeated. “I wanted freedom. Those things are rarely achieved without some measure of empathy.”

“To your kind, perhaps,” he pressed. “I’ve heard this story already; you were shot and dragged through the courtyards kicking and screaming, you tried to fight your way out—”

“I was shot through the base of my wing,” you cut him off. “I was in pain. I went for the river myself before I was caught; I tried to escape. Yes, I was dragged through the courtyards of Ulstead – by my wings. I was blind with pain. I couldn’t run, let alone fly. I don’t even remember making it inside.”

“What do you remember?” Philip’s gentle voice interrupted.

You focused on it, on piecing together your past like shards of broken crystal. Glimpses of the stars from the ground, drips of dark blood congealing on the pale stone, the sear of iron melding into darkness.

“…His arm was already around my neck.” His hand over your mouth to quiet you. You couldn’t breathe, and you were afraid, and you dug your heels into the stone until you choked. You were so afraid, beating your wings. Trying to gather up wind only to be crippled by pain. You twisted, and darkness encroached… “I was unconscious before they entered.”

The whispers died abruptly.

You pretended you did not feel the heat of Borra’s eyes. The weight of his fury.

“I remember pain.” And you did. “Iron touching me.” You’d jolted, coughed. You weren’t even fully awake. “I tried to step away, but the floor was made of it. My wings hit the bars. I must’ve cried out. My back…”

You were pushed into the bars, and you screamed. You lurched forward only to have the door slammed in your face. You struggled to your feet, gripped the bars, begged the sentry man – please! It burns! Oh, stars, it burns!

“…she was there.”

“The queen?” John asked.

You nodded. “Ingrith.” You saw her just as vividly, too, in her iron-bright dress with shiny ornaments in her white-blond hair. “She stood behind several of them, at first. Watching me.”

“Is that a faerie?” she’d asked Lickspittle in the same manner of accusing tone she used when she felt he wasn’t working quickly enough.

“Yes, your majesty,” the gnome replied. “They call them dark fey. Maleficent of the moors is one of them.”

You’d never heard that name before. You hardly paid attention. The iron scalded your feet and burned your flesh and you were woefully under-dressed; you tucked your right wing as close to flat against your back as you could get it and curled the left around yourself, cradling it to keep it from sagging.

“Please,” you repeated. “Let me go. I won’t tell anyone where I’ve been.”

“No,” she clicked her tongue at you as she approached, parting the sentry with her hands. “You won’t. Come here.”

She reached in toward you, even though one of the men repeated her title. You thought she was going to be benevolent, so you did; you went to her, and she only recoiled a little before placing her gloved hand upon your chin.

“I see it now.” Her voice was cold. You didn’t understand what she meant; no one had ever seen your eyes or your cheekbones or felt the warmth of your skin and disliked them. Not even the tundra-children when they falsely swooned and told you that you were going to burn them to death like iron, being from the temperate forest, oh being out of the snow was such a tragedy!

“One bolt injured it?” She withdrew her hand, and herself, to walk toward the gnome at his table.

Injured what? you’d thought.

“In the wing, yes,” Lickspittle replied. Your skin was still burning and you didn’t understand; you shifted, restlessly, trying to alleviate the pain in either foot.

“Would another be fatal?”

The gnome was quiet for a moment, as though contemplating how quickly you might be killed, though you were slow to realize it. At first, you truly didn’t understand. Then, you hadn’t wanted to. You did your best to believe differently, but your skin was peeling and you hurt and you couldn’t take refuge anywhere.

“If you struck her somewhere vital, yes. In the back, the belly, the head or the heart.”

You recoiled. The hiss and bite of iron into your flesh nearly made you scream, and yet when you peeled yourself off the bars against the wall, it wasn’t by far.

“Which is the most vital? Does it have defenses?”

“She is not all that different from you—”

The iron queen’s hand came down on his work abruptly, and you thought you saw the gnome startle. You didn’t think her voice could get any colder, but she never moved closer when she said to him, “Do not show sympathy for that beast. It is not human.”

You were so scared. Your heart pounded; you wished for them, though you were afraid to do it. You wished your father, or your family in some combination or other, would come to your rescue. You were afraid that she would kill you. You had no way of knowing that she would rather make you wish for it; that you were folded around yourself not too unlike the way Maleficent would be when she first laid eyes upon them.

“I don’t know how long she kept me there, at first.” It could’ve been hours, it could’ve been days; you had no way of knowing the measure of time by the sun, and your body felt the effects of exposure quickly. You were not Borra; you never exposed yourself with intent to build tolerance, though it struck you as a very good idea at the time.

“I sacrificed parts of my covered legs in rounds. Sat there on my knees. My heels. Tried to reason with him.” You shook your head. “I was so sick I couldn’t even remember when I’d last had water.”

You recalled, in parts, the way the sickness took you. Iron is lethal to fey, everyone knows this. You were sick, and then you were tired, and, though the pain was immense, eventually, you laid down on your broken wing. You used it for a shield and a pillow and tried to curl your body onto it with no such luck. It was hard to sleep, but even harder to be awake. You were dizzy and nauseous and grew weak.

“She put the collar on while I was asleep.”

You woke to the burn of it. The pain. You screamed and fell on your back, grabbed at the hands of the men who put it on you. You wouldn’t have hurt them; you wanted them to take it off.

“The shackles followed.”

Strung through the iron-bar door, your hands were left on the outside. You were forced onto your knees, and you furiously beat your good wing in hope of doing something to free yourself. Blinding pain in your neck, your wrists, your legs. Your toes lost your grip on the bloody floor.

“Stop that noise,” Ingrith ordered, and one of the sentry grabbed the end of your wing. You screamed and fought, pulling hard. You felt the joint roll, but he had good hold of one of the hollow bones toward the apex.

“He snapped it.”

Right below the claw, like an extra thumb. You’d screamed at the top of your lungs, and that earned you another. The other wing flared out on instinct, the bad one, and someone else grabbed it. The first time she had your wings broken might not’ve been intentional, but you’d seen the pleasure on her face – the ecstasy in response to your pain.

You screamed yourself hoarse. You screamed until you could do nothing but cry. Until you shook, and you were limp, and the fever in your skin claimed you fully. You put your head on your arm and wept, and your tears did nothing to heal your burning skin.

You prayed, out loud. You recited old rites. Ancestors, please guide me; ancestors, give me strength, my body is weak but my soul will join you—

How quickly she had you struck for it. So violently that you were dazed. Your stomach lurched from the force and you laid your head back down on your arm.

“I lost track of time quickly. I was wholly engulfed in sickness and pain. Once she bound me, I lost the ability to move. To resist.” You moved then, though, and the stiffness in your gait betrayed you – how long you’d been left in one position. Your joints sometimes forgot what it was like to be mobile. “At some point, someone fed me. Water and bread, I think. I do recall water,” so cold that it felt wonderful in your raw throat, like it might break your fever if you were submerged. “being given from a leather flask. It didn’t burn when it touched me.”

“Forgive me,” Philip interrupted, “but do you have any idea of how long you were there?”

“The tide was high,” Ini said from where she stood with the others. “It was a full moon. One and a half before Maleficent came.”

You were doing well, you thought. Shaking, but sentient. Lost to your memories but not the emotion. You still couldn’t look at Borra, because you knew he saw all of your scars and knew of their making, now.

They were silent, aside from John. “Six weeks?” he whispered. Six weeks in an iron prison? Did that seem right? Six weeks sought to erase the entirety of your life – how had you not succumbed?

“Can you recall anything else?” Philip asked.

“Your majesty,” Lord Azarias interrupted, “We know this story. I understand that it’s a formality—”

“It is more than a formality, lordship, Lickspittle is not an authority on Cassia or the other fey. Hold your tongue. And wait to be spoken to.”

You told them all in painful detail of the re-breaking of your wings. That the memory was so violent that it haunted your nightmares and your waking dreams. You told them of the guards and the jab of their weapons, the scars on your body that they would not see. You told them of the ice baths’ abrupt addition, and that you supposed it was because your blood had baked solid and offered you some measure of relief. You told them of the addition of the iron weight, and that you didn’t know why. Just that you shook with chills and burned with fever and you knew that you were going to die in between your fitful periods of waking. You knew that you would close your eyes and you would not wake up again. That there was a long period in between when you lost consciousness and when you regained it in a royal bed.

You did not see that Philip was no longer looking at you.

“You should have been dead,” Borra agreed. There was a familiar harshness to his voice that comforted you; you knew it wouldn’t offer the humans the same, but you knew him, and you were happy that he joined you on the open floor. It was like your council again. “Aurora stayed with you when she found you in that cage. She couldn’t lift you.” When he spoke, it wasn’t to them. He sought your eyes and no one else’s. “I did.”

You suspected, but confirmation still warmed you in a strange and twisted way. You hated that you caused him pain, but you were so glad he gave you comfort.

“All of this,” he lifted your wrist, brushed his fingers over the scars at your throat, “was bloody and raw. You were drenched in it. You stunk of blood and burnt flesh. Your wings barely fit through the door. They were limp and wouldn’t bend.”

There was no hiding the anger in his voice, and you didn’t want him to. He only told them because he was also telling you – filling in the gaps of time lost.

“I had to hold you to hear your heart beat. You were so weak you barely breathed. She gave you a bed, and it wasn’t big enough.” He blinked, and you knew he saw the sight of your freshly-unfurled wings in the brightness of his memory. “You were so broken I didn’t even see the shot that started it. They had to send for the elders.” His jaw flexed. He suddenly had to look anywhere else but at you. “I thought they’d start giving you rites.”

You let your eyes fall closed. You let yourself worry your pendant over the imagined memory of shared heartache.

“They’d given them to your father that morning. Couldn’t deal with it if they had.”

Aurora silently blotted her eyes.

“Couldn’t leave you even if they would have. Couldn’t bear to touch your wings.” He did, then, lightly, like they might break again because of the remembered action. “No human in the palace would touch you; they thought cleaning your wounds would make you bleed out. They wouldn’t even dress you.”

You thought, faintly, back to when you awoke in pain. Your change of clothes and how you never even noticed what it was you wore.

“I did.”

You met his eyes again.

You fledged together; blind as you were to his feelings for you, there were periods in your life when you felt you knew him better than you knew yourself. You always knew of what befell him, how he got each and every burn. You’d been there when his kinsman’s fledgling – the little, desert girl last born to his niche of people – rushed up to him at the bonfire with the braid of woven grass he wore around his ankle. For luck, he’d whispered to her, and you hadn’t hid your smile.

“I saw the wounds on your sides. How fresh they were. I stayed with you,” and his voice was different – strong still, hard still, but not the same. Because he wasn’t speaking to them. Pain bled through his anger. “Every moment that the elders cleaned your wounds. Every balm, every salve, every tonic they used. You slept for a day.” He moved again, the restless shift of his feathers brushing across the stone such a familiar sound. “I couldn’t watch them set your wings.”

“Where did you go?” you whispered. You hadn’t meant to sound so forlorn; you didn’t want him to share in your pain, and yet you couldn’t understand why he hadn’t.

“The balcony.” He hadn’t gone far. You could almost see him, the shift of his weight as he listened for a break in your silence. “The others went to the moors with whoever desired to stay; everyone else returned home.”

“Why didn’t you?” Philip asked, and you assumed that was equally a formality.

His eyes spoke volumes only to you, volumes that did not match how he responded to the young prince. “After your men shot her father,” the anger returned in full, and you loved him for it. You loved him because he would rather incite their fury in return than make you vulnerable by admitting that he loved you. “All he could ask was that she be found. Brought home.”

“So why haven’t you left?” Lord Azarias asked.

You thought, for just a flicker, that you’d have to hold him back. No, you had to give him more credit than that; he wasn’t foolish.

“She cannot fly,” Borra replied, the hiss of emphasis on the word drawing many eyes back to your lopsided wing.

“Perhaps, but can you not carry one another? Wouldn’t it have been more simple for you to just…go back where you came from?”

You were unprepared to interject if they needed you to. You were, but Philip was not. “Lord Azarias, I do believe I’ve made my feelings on your questions quite clear.”

“I represent the people, your majesty, and it is with their best interests in mind that I ask what I do.”

You hadn’t fought a war to run back home. Even a mortal knew that. Their people conquered territories; your family stood together to liberate themselves. And that was what Udo said when Borra didn’t justify the bait with an answer.

You knew it was in your collective best interest not to allow your emotions to get in the way, but you touched him when he got close. You met his eyes and apologized, and the hardness in his refuted it. You have nothing to apologize for.

“And yet, little lasting physical harm was done. Your people were free to go, as were the moor-folk, and you have the ability to travel back and forth as you wish. It wasn’t as though the crown infantry disrespects the honor of even a savage.”

They didn’t understand, but you did. You had to turn away. You caught Percival’s eyes by accident, and the horror in them betrayed, much to your relief, that they were too prejudiced to think that way. Oh, you had never been so glad that Ingrith’s hatred came wrapped in disdain.

“Azarias,” Philip interjected, much more forcefully than you thought the boy knew how to be. “Leave.”

The iron-monger blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Leave. The sentry will escort you.”

“Sire,” he didn’t even try to soften his voice, “you understand my intentions.”

“No, I do not. For that, I am increasingly relieved.”

“Philip,” John cautioned, which made Aurora sit straighter. The poor girl. They should’ve let her keep her rabbit.

“I will not have this tribunal derailed by your provocation. Leave. You are welcome to rejoin us in the morning.”

“What did he say?” Provocation wasn’t lost on Borra; you ended up holding onto his gauntlet, and his attention turned to you.

“It doesn’t matter,” Percival tried to quell the unrest before it began. “The crown sentry operates with honor and nobility. Lord Azarias speaks only for himself.”

Somehow, you felt like that only made the situation worse.

“What did he say?” Borra repeated, over your head. To Philip, directly.

The young prince did not respond. You didn’t even look up to see what expression he made; you thought you could cling to Borra and it would stop him, but something in Philip’s face told him. The young men of the crown sentry who knew well of your mate’s ferocity, having trained with him, did not move to stop him the way you did.

They were all afraid of him, and they should be. He was strong; he swept you behind him gently, his wings fanned out against yours as though they would act as your shield while you wound your fingers through the leather straps of his armor where they crossed on his back.

“You’re brave enough to speak to them. Say it to me.”

If Azarias was smart, he wouldn’t. Your experience with humans – humans who were not of the immediate crown family – had shown you differently.

He was arrogant enough to look your mate in the eyes despite the fact that you were holding on to him, practically begging not to let this escalate any further, and respond to him clearly. “No human sullied your little wife. Her virtue is intact, and yet the lot of you stand there posturing for sympathy.”

Even you were confused by the phrasing, though you still believed you understood. What in skies is a virtue?

When Borra breathed, you were surprised no growl followed it. You weren’t surprised that not even digging in your heels stopped you from being pulled along when he went forward; when his talons clicked deliberately on the wooden box surrounding the nobility and the gentry’s seats, as though anyone else had the nerve to join you.

“Posturing for sympathy,” he repeated. There was the growl, an undercurrent in his voice that soothed you like a big cat’s purr. “As though you don’t insult us to our faces.”

He raised a brow, nearly saying out loud that he didn’t imagine any of you understood.

“Do you know why poachers were killed on the moors?” It shouldn’t have made you feel so safe, the dangerous gravity in his tone. “They were cowards, just like you. Robbing sleeping children from their beds, shedding blood like animals.”

They were all fixed on him, but none of them dared look him in the eyes. Only Azarias did, and it reminded you so strongly of Ingrith that you felt the phantom weight on your chest return.

“Look at her like prey one more time and you will not have eyes.”

“That is a threat,” Azarias replied – posturing for sympathy.

“That is a promise,” your mate replied, and you had to hide your smile in his shoulder when the human collective jumped at the sound of agreement that arose from Ini, Udo and Shrike.

“Your majesty, you reason with savages.”

You thought John might muster some benign comment meant to placate you both, but his voice over your shoulder was hardly disappointed. “Yes, it seems I do. I agree with Philip’s motion to dismiss you, Lordship, and I remind you that your place in my gentry is contingent upon your willingness for diplomacy. I can, and will, excuse you if necessary.”

You knew he felt you smiling against his skin, and you knew that you weren’t supposed to, but it was so satisfying to hear John back you without regards for their feelings that you almost forgot what manner of unrest all of this might cause.

His lordship didn’t.

He left his seat without escort, departing from the hinged entrance to his box, and circling it down toward you. Borra’s wing canted around you like a shield, and the blood-red man paused in front of him. “So it was you killing innocent men on the banks of the river, then?”

“They weren’t on the banks of the river when I met them,” Borra replied, more even-toned than he’d been in some time.

“Is that a yes, or a no?” Azarias asked, and his deliberate enunciation made both of your pinfeathers bristle.

He got a cold smile for his trouble, and your mate deliberately, brimming with false and wholly performative innocence, cocked his head like he had no idea what it was he was being asked. Anyone with eyes could know the answer, and yet, the blood-red man stalked past you both. He was not afraid to weave through the gap between Udo’s and Shrike’s wings so he might exit, and John, to his credit, recalled the gathered humans’ attention nearly immediately.

“I apologize to our guests for the outburst, as well as his lordship’s blatant lack of diplomacy.”

“Apologize for nothing, John,” Borra replied, though you put your hands on his back in hopes he still might calm. “Best they don’t hide their intentions.”

“It’s not like that for the rest of us,” Aurora promised. She was so sad, and you felt for her, but you also had begun to feel something like relief. This fight was familiar – this stalking, this talking, the exchange of thoughts in a great chamber before a crowd. This was all so familiar to you that it was as though the war, and your captivity, solved nothing.

You stayed with him when Philip asked about the moor-folk. You stayed, though your fixed place behind him changed once you could breathe normally again.

You took your place at his side like your painted-on marks warranted. You listened, and you devoted your every breath, every pulse of your still-beating heart, to the lives that had been taken.

Lickspittle the gnome looked at you sidelong. The fear was plain in his eyes, though Percival nudged him with the side of his boot to make his gaze shift back to the tribunal. You held yourself differently. Like you were less burdened. From the iron-fire in your veins, despite the immobility of your wings, you perked them. And you held them up. Even as they trembled, even as they struggled to stay aloft. It was an instinct that you did not even notice until Borra’s hand on your back reminded you to let them down before it hurt you.

There was phoenix blood in your veins. And you were in the midst of her fire.

Lord Azarias made himself your enemy while you were still in Ulstead.

In the taverns, the smithy, and even the chapel, he spun stories with his iron tongue. They were lies, and many were afraid.

But fear was not the control he wanted.

The silence of it made his ears ring when he should’ve heard the pounding of the hammer upon the anvil. The renewed roar of fire in the forge.

“Bring me the human-slayer,” he said when no one rose to his call for action, “and you will be paid whatever it weighs in silver.”

There were many, still, that said nothing; the very idea was against the law, and if they were to fear the fey, they had to also fear their influence upon the king. Word traveled quickly of the way John touched you, the barrier your people made between you both and the outside world.

“Dead or alive?” one man dared ask. It was a joke to them, but Azarias set down a piece of silver before him, thick and beveled with the great, slain beast on Ulstead’s crest.

“It is a wild animal, killer of men. If I didn’t want to mount the whole of it, I would tell you to bring me its head.”

#Borra x Reader #Dark Fey #Unfettered #Borra #Conall #cw: graphic depictions of violence; discriminatory language; character death

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commandertheory · 5 years

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Throne of Eldraine Commander Set Review

For each new set, I write an article discussing the new legendary creatures and the nonlegendary cards that I think will be relevant in Commander.

The Commanders of Throne of Eldraine

He’s a more interesting political commander than most existing options because he has so many tools to work with. Notably, the last ability goes infinite with a Composite Golem and any one of the following effects:

Something that triggers when an artifact or creature enters the battlefield

Something that triggers when an artifact or creature is put into the graveyard

Something that reduces the cost of activated abilities

Sample decklist: Kenrith, the Returned King

In terms of tech, there’s Well of Lost Dreams, Dawn of Hope, Angelic Accord, and Resplendent Angel. But that’s about it, and if you don’t draw those four cards, you’re left with a commander that gives you a small boost in the least important resource in a color that can’t use that resource for anything.

While it’s not great as a commander, it’s probably good in the maindeck of Karlov decks.

This seems quite bad. In contrast, Pianna, Nomad Captain does basically the same thing for two mana cheaper.

This is a very neat self-mill combo commander. The absolute best pieces of tech for the deck are Mirran Spy and Chakram Retriever, which allow you to cast as many artifacts as you have the mana for. If your deck is full of 0-mana artifacts and cards like Sol Ring and Mana Crypt that net mana when you cast them, you can really combo off with Emry.

Some of the more notable combos:

0-mana artifact creature + Thornbite Staff/Intruder Alarm/Mirran Spy + Grinding Station/Ashnod’s Altar/Phyrexian Altar/Krark-Clan Ironworks/Blasting Station

Basalt Monolith + Mesmeric Orb

Basalt Monolith + Rings of Brighthearth

Mirran Spy/Chakram Retriever + Lotus Petal/Lion’s Eye Diamond

Emry + Mindslaver

Walking Ballista is your outlet for infinite mana, generally.

The rest of the deck is mostly tutors and self-mill cards to help you assemble your combos and counterspells to help you protect it.

Sample decklist: Emry, Lurker of the Loch

He’s a better outlet for infinite mana than Ambassador Laquatus and he synergizes extremely well with Verity Circle. Unfortunately, I’m not seeing great uses for those guy aside from those two possibilities. Not being able to tap your own stuff means you can’t abuse Winter Orb/Static Orb (or even fun/fair stuff like the untap symbol or inspired) and having such a restrictive color identity prevents you from doing cool stuff like running Urborg, Tomb of Yawgmoth and Spreading Algae.

High Tide and blue’s untap spells (e.g., Frantic Search, Time Spiral) are also good non-infinite ways to generate tons of mana for your commander.

I am not super stoked about this card. While it could potentially have 7 or more power, that’s not an insane rate for 5 mana and it’s lacking the evasion, haste, and effective protection against removal needed to make it a good Voltron commander.

Thornbite Staff turns this into an unrestricted card draw engine, and she combos with Phyrexian Altar + Gravecrawler + any zombie to cause infinite life loss for your opponents.

Not only does it provide a discard outlet for the 8ish decent madness cards in monoblack, but you can usually get a free discard by dumping Bloodghast, Reassembling Skeleton, Gutterbones, Bloodsoaked Champion, etc. before you start recurring them to pay for the sacrifice ability.

It’s also worth noting that there are some fantastic death triggers in monoblack; Mindslicer and Corpse Augur are some standouts.

Shared Trauma, Dread Summons, and Mesmeric Orb are good ways to mill your opponents in monoblack, and Heartstone will greatly increase the efficiency of his activated ability. You can also try farming the ability with powerful discard effects like Mindslicer, Capital Punishment, Cabal Conditioning, and Myojin of Night’s Reach, and Black’s efficient removal will also help you get triggers.

I’ve also seen takes on this deck that combine the activated ability with Lantern of Insight to set up a soft lock where you prevent your opponents from drawing anything relevant.

With Syr Carah, the name of the game is cheap spells that hit multiple opponents. Fortunately, Red has a ton of these that are relatively cheap and so Carah makes it so you can draw a ton of cards for relatively little mana (spending 2 to draw 4 is a pretty common occurrence). If some of those cards net mana (e.g., rituals, moxes), then you can keep the combo going.

Sample decklist: Syr Carah, the Bold

Aside from boosting your creatures’ damage output, he also combines extremely well with Group Slug effects like Manabarbs and Spellshock; in fact, he’s probably the best Group Slug commander of all time.

Sample decklist: Torbran, Thane of Red Fell

Bubble Matrix and Fog effects make it so that your creatures can’t take damage in combat but they can still dish it out.

You can also run Viridian Longbow and Thornbite Staff to make use of this guy’s deathtouch. Other than that, there’s not a whole lot of direction to build around this guy; bog standard Voltron package, I guess.

I wish this card had more power. +2/+2 is nothing and while I can think of creatures that could use a buff effectively (Infect creatures), I feel like I need to buff Syr Faren in order to buff them more. If that’s the case, why am I even using Syr Faren? Why not just buff the creatures directly and cut out the middleman?

You can get a bunch of counters with cards like Deranged Hermit, Deep Forest Hermit, etc, but 5 mana for 5 power isn’t even that great compared to some of the better auras and equipment.

Also, give that Yorvo’s reward is making himself bigger, the only way to build around him is Voltron; which he’s not well suited for. His base stats are a 4/4 for 3, which isn’t insane, and he doesn’t have haste, evasion, or resistance to removal.

Although I don’t like him as a commander, he could be good in the maindeck of Ghave decks.

This guy combos really well with sac outlets and creatures with persist, offering you infinite of whatever your sac outlet generates. Unfortunately, there’s only about 6 unrestricted sac outlets and 6 persist creatures in these colors, which is far from enough stuff to fill out a deck, so there’s a lot of room for token generators, proliferate effects, interaction, and a generally more straightforward aggressive game plan.

Sample decklist: Grumgully, the Generous

I tried building Alela a few ways before I settled on a build I liked. Initially, I tried running a bunch of cheap (3 CMC or less) anthem effects, because they were essentially “lords” when they came with a 2/1 Faerie attached. The issue with this build was that there wasn’t much card flow, and although I often ended up with a huge scary board, I didn’t have many cards in hand and I was very vulnerable to board wipes.

The second build I tried used a ton of 2-cost artifacts and enchantments that drew a card when they entered the battlefield; essentially, my deck was full of flying Silvergill Adepts. This has been working pretty well, as I can commit a bunch of dudes to the board while maintaining a respectable hand so I can rebuild if something goes wrong.

In addition to my card-drawing eggs and Auras, I’m also running the most efficient anthem effects in these colors, such as Favorable Winds, Shared Triumph, Intangible Virtue, and Konda’s Banner.

Combat damage triggers are pretty good when you have a bunch of flyers, so I’m running Coastal Piracy, Bident of Thassa, Larceny, and Kindred Discovery.

There are a few sac outlets that are powerful enough to justify diverting a few Faeries away from the beatdown, such as Attrition, Mind Slash, and Skullclamp.

Sample decklist: Alela, Artful Provocateur

This guy is a powerful combo commander centered around chaining cheap creatures together. He has very strong synergy with effects that subsidize or eliminate the cost of cheap creatures, such as Earthcraft, Aluren, and Tangleroot and he loves self-bouncing creatures like Shrieking Drake.

Sample decklist: Chulane, Teller of Tales

Works well with fetchlands, so a good Korvold build will likely have a solid land package. That being said, the heart of this deck is creature sacrifice, and this color identity has some great sac fodder in the form of token generation and self-recurring creatures, as well as some of the best sac outlets in the format. He also works well with creatures that really, really want to die, like Protean Hulk, Mindslicer, Seedguide Ash, and World Shaper.

Sample decklist: Korvold, Fae-Cursed King

I think Syr Gwyn is worth comparing to Kestia, the Cultivator. Both of them reward you when you attack with a narrow subset of cards. The main differences are that Kestia is significantly cheaper, is in a better color identity, and the things that trigger Kestia only require the commitment of a single card, whereas Syr Gwyn (generally) needs you to commit both a creature card and an equipment card to assemble a card-generating unit.

There are some exceptions to this rule: Living Weapon equipment come with a creature attached, as do the two equipment from M20 with a similar ability. Bloodforged Battle-Axe copies itself so you don’t have to commit as many real equipment to the board.

While there are a few low-casting cost high-equip cost cards like Colossus Hammer and Blackblade Reforged that really reward you for committing to Knights, most of the best equipment costs 1-2 mana to equip. I’m not sure saving 1-2 mana is worth committing to the Knight creature type.

Instead, I’d probably run the cheap doublestrikers in these colors (many of which are, admittedly, Knights) and a bunch of cards that synergize with equipment (not just Stoneforge and Puresteel; I think I’d also run Kor Duelist). In general, I want the deck to function without Syn Gwyn on the battlefield, since she costs a bunch of mana and isn’t very resilient to spot removal. Slapping a Mask of Memory on a Fencing Ace seems like a solid plan A in case Gwyn can’t get it together.

Sample decklist: Syr Gwyn

The Maindeck Cards of Throne of Eldraine

In this set review, I’ll be using two five-point rating scales to evaluate the nonlegendary cards, one that measures how many decks a card is playable in (we’ll call that “spread”), and one that measures how powerful it is in those decks (”power”). Here’s a brief rundown of what each rank on the two scales means:

Spread

1: This card is effective in one or two decks, but no more (ex: The Gitrog Monster).

2: This card is effective in one deck archetype (ex: self-mill decks).

3: A lot of decks will be able to use this card effectively (ex: decks with graveyard interactions).

4: This card is effective in most decks in this color.

5: Every deck in this color is able to use this card effectively.

Power

1: This card is always going to be on the chopping block.

2: This card is unlikely to consistently perform well.

3: This card provides good utility but is not a powerhouse.

4: This card is good enough to push you ahead of your opponents.

5: This card has a huge impact on the game.

Spread: 2 Power: 2

The -3 will never be bad, but spending six mana for this effect is not great. His 0 ability does synergize with sacrifice decks like Mazirek and Savra, but I’m still not sure he’s worth the price of entry in those lists.

Spread: 5 Power: 3

Shutting down someone’s commander is a big game, and the potential to activate him multiple turns in a row makes this a very big threat for just three mana.

Spread: 1 Power: 1

1st ability is weak, 2nd is a blank, ult will never happen and won’t even win you the game if it does. Don’t play this card.

Spread: 1 Power: 2

Given that it only works in a deck with a critical mass of Knights, I think this guy is relegated to Aryel and Syr Gwyn. It’s def good in those lists, though.

Spread: 1 Power: 2

This costs one more mana to activate than I was hoping it would, but the opportunity cost to run it is basically nil, so I guess I can’t complain much. I think this is the narrowest of the five, though.

Notably, out of 23 cards in Magic that produce Human tokens, 9 are legal in Throne of Eldraine standard. This seems like too many to be a coincidence so this could mean that Human is now going to be the default white token type or we’ve got Human tribal coming up in the near future.

Spread: 1 Power: 2

I’m not a huge fan of cards that require you to jump through multiple hoops, as they pull a deck in two different directions. In this case, there’s not a big overlap between the decks running lots of legendaries and the decks running lots of Knights. There are about 10 playable Knight legends that you can stuff into a Syr Gwyn deck, but that’s barely a critical mass so I don’t see you consistently getting many Knight tokens off of this. Decks like Kethis and Sisay can trigger this way more frequently, but they probably don’t care about the reward; it’s not like they were running Primeval Bounty.

Spread: 1 Power: 3

Incredibly meta-dependent.

This is a super-powerful hoser for storm-y decks. The main problem with a silver bullet like this is that White doesn’t have many great ways to dig it out of your 100-card deck; you’ll need additional colors to help you find it. Like, side from Enlightened Tutor and Idyllic Tutor, how are you finding this early enough for it to save you?

Spread: 1 Power: 2

The removal spell will find targets in an average game of Commander, but they’re not always going to be the most important creatures. If we ever got human tribal, I’d consider running this as a value dude similar to Big Game Hunter. Or Peasant Tribal, I guess.

Spread: 1 Power: 1

This is never going to trigger and the ETB gives away 3 cards and 15 life. Don’t run it!

Spread: 1 Power: 2

Kicks ass in Oros, the Avenger.

Spread: 2 Power: 2

It’s better than Tocatli Honor Guard in White hatebear lists, but it’s very meta-dependent. I think Green decks are going to be hit harder by the Torpor Orb effect and Black decks will be hit harder by the death trigger prevention.

Spread: 2 Power: 3

If you’re running a deck with Black in its color identity and you could easily recur the creature half of this card, I’d seriously consider running this card, even if it’s one more mana relative to Wrath of God and Damnation; the potential for recursion is seriously that powerful.

And of course it’s really really good if your commander is a White Giant.

Spread: 1 Power: 2

It’s unfortunate that there are no white commanders that grant haste (well, I guess there’s Odric), as Commander does not take too kindly to 6 mana cards that have to wait a round of turns to start generating value. However, as we noted when Aryel was released, there was an embarrassing shortage of playable Knight token generators, so this may see play in Knight tribal decks.

Spread: 2 Power: 2

This type of card (land with expensive activated ability) is arguably better in Blue decks since you can hold counters up and activate it if your opponents don’t cast anything worth answering. As with all the other Castles, the opportunity cost to run this is extremely low in 1- and 2-color decks.

Spread: 0 Power:0

Wish effects currently don’t work under the official Commander rules; hence the ratings for this card.

However, it’s worth noting that Wizards has printed a wish effect in each of the last three Standard sets. These types of designs are clearly going to be a part of Magic going forward, and it doesn’t make sense that Commander’s rules don’t align with modern Magic design. You’ve probably heard me advocating for a rules change before, but I want to do more than theorycraft; I want some experience.

So, I’m planning on testing wishboards over the next few months to see what the pros/cons are and whether a rules change would be feasible or whether it would break the game. Now, I want to make a distinction: The wishboard will be used solely as a place for cards that I’ll search out with cards like Fae of Wishes; I’m not going to be testing a sideboard and I will not be switching cards between my sideboard and maindeck between games. I didn’t really want to test that because I think it will slow down games and sideboarding doesn’t matter that much unless your deck is really good at tutoring; a silver bullet sideboard card with no redundant effects is only 1% of your deck.

Expect a report back sometime at the beginning of 2020.

Spread: 4 Power: 2

I don’t think it’s particularly difficult to hit the cost reduction over the course of a multiplayer game, but it’ll be tricky to pull off early and there are lots of alternatives that have no such timing restrictions.

Spread: 2 Power: 2

I’m really underwhelmed by this card. This is uncastable unless you’re running a spellslinger deck, and if that’s the case you can probably win by spell combo looong before this accrues enough knowledge counters to be good. Also, spellslinger decks can refill their hands instantly with a single card that actually synergizes with their deck’s strategy of casting instants/sorceries, such as Windfall, Time Reversal, Reforge the Soul, etc, etc. How much effort and how many turns will it take for Magic Mirror to draw you as many cards as a Windfall? How many opponents have to choose not to Vandalblast or Krosan Grip or Return to Dust the Mirror over that time period?

Spread: 3 Power: 2

Great card! It’s not hard to build a deck with plenty of mana rocks and utility enchantments that are good in multiples, and your opponents are likely to have some good targets, as well.

Spread: 2 Power: 3

If you’re in monoblue, and your commander can bounce lands, and you’ve got a critical mass of extra turn effects, this thing generates infinite turns.

That may sound unlikely, but there are a surprising number of monoblue commanders that can bounce lands; Uyo, Silent Prophet, Meloku, and Kefnet the Mindful all combo off with this thing, and there are 5 extra turn effects that don’t exile or shuffle that you can slot into this combo (6 if you’ve got Rogues).

Spread: 2 Power: 3

Very good with commanders with “cast X, get token” abilities, like Sai, Master Thopterist, Alela, Artful Provocateur, Kykar, and Talrand. Many of those commanders build around cards of the chosen type that cantrip, so you can use this ability to loot away lands and chain relevant cards into each other and continually trigger your commander.

Also, it goes infinite with the Locust God.

Spread: 2 Power: 2

This seems good in less-competitive Urza and Jhoira 2.0 decks as a means to get more gas off your Darksteel Relics and such. The good builds don’t have time for a 6-mana dragon, though.

Spread: 1 Power: 2

With the introduction of Syr Gwyn, there are now two Knight tribal decks in Commander. Run it in those decks and nowhere else.

Spread: 4 Power: 2

Life is, of course, worthless, but I’d still be wary of activating this when I had more than two cards in hand.

Spread: 1 Power: 4

Incredible combo piece in Grenzo, Dungeon Warden decks. All you need is a sac outlet and you can start juggling creatures between the library, graveyard, and battlefield, farming ETB and death triggers.

It also seems good in self-mill decks that can easily drop its cost down to two, but the bottom-of-library drawback is much more significant in those lists.

Spread: 2 Power: 3

This will often create 4 bodies for four mana, which is a great ratio. Black has a ton of sac outlet commanders that will be happy to run this card, including Torgaar, Whisper, Bontu, and Yawgmoth. Marrow-Gnawer lists may also be interested, as it’s one of the few Rat token generators that can make many at once.

Spread: 3 Power: 2

Hero’s Downfall sees play in almost 15,000 decks on EDHREC. While this card has some weird drawbacks (exiles itself, then buries itself on the bottom of your library), there are a lot of powerful things you can do with it because it’s stapled to a creature, like recurring it with a Phyrexian Reclamation or Volrath’s Stronghold in response to the death trigger. It works even better if you have access to Blue’s bounce engines.

I know it seems a little goofy compared to a Ravenous Chupacabra, but the instant speed on Swift End should not be underestimated, as there are a ton of situations where you need to interrupt something to keep from dying.

Spread: 1 Power: 2

Upping your Rat count and snatching commanders seems solid in Marrow-Gnawer lists.

Spread: 3 Power: 3

If you’re running a combo deck, the drawback is basically negligible, since your deck can probably kill your opponent before they can use it.

Thanks to @ceta-maelstrom for pointing out that this works pretty well in Aminatou, since she can blink it back under your control.

Spread: 3 Power: 2

Probably the best in the cycle. It’s useful in the many, many red token decks and the rate on the activation is not bad.

Spread: 1 Power: 2

There aren’t a whole lot of Red decks capable of going wide that are interested in double strike for their commanders; most decks don’t go both wide and tall. Maybe Wasitora or Gishath can use this effectively?

Spread: 1 Power: 2

The Crush effect will never be irrelevant in Commander, so this is a solid card for Syr Gwyn decks that lean into Knight tribal. I probably wouldn’t run it in other decks, however, as Red has better artifact destruction than this.

Spread: 1 Power: 2

This guy is too inefficient for me to be excited to run him in most go-wide decks, but tribal lists always have a lower barrier to entry because their creature type is so valuable. In Syr Gwyn tribal Knights, I’d give this anthem effect a shot.

Spread: 1 Power: 1

This effect just seems too hard to break to be worth running. Let me know if you figure out a deck in which it’ll be good.

Spread: 2 Power: 2

This is a generally useful reward for something few decks can pull off. It’s tricky to find commanders that can reliably trigger this a bunch without straight winning the game in the process (i.e., Jhoira Weatherlight Captain, Anje Falkenrath). I think Arjun, Jori En, and Korvold could be good fits for this card.

Spread: 2 Power: 2

In order for this to be good, your commander has to be able to trigger this and make use of the reward. Lyzolda can do this by sacrificing the Rats to draw cards, potentially triggering Mad Ratter again if you activate her on your opponents’ turns.

Korvold behaves similarly, as you can feed him two Rats to draw two cards and trigger the Ratter again.

Finally, the Scorpion God can eat the Rats for cards, thereby creating more Rats.

Spread: 4 Power: 3

Sure, it’s got a drawback, but it offers a relatively unconditional instant-speed kill spell in a color that has far from a critical mass of them. This is one of the best Red spot removal spells, beaten out only by Chaos Warp, Lightning Bolt, and Abrade. This kills 14/21 of the most popular commanders on EDHREC and the vast majority of the most popular creatures.

Spread: 2 Power: 1

Casting exiled cards on later turns is a big benefit, but Robin Hood still has a ton of drawbacks relative to Grenzo, Havoc Raiser.

Spread: 3 Power: 2

I run Tormenting Voice in a LOT of monored decks, and this is strictly better. Excited to see Red getting more and better variants of this effect.

Spread: 3 Power: 2

Heavy Green decks tend to be creature-focused, so the restriction isn’t that significant. It feels a lot better if you think of this card as a Temple of the False God that can still tap for mana when you have fewer than five lands.

Spread: 1 Power: 1

I can’t see where this fits into the format; even Derevi birds would want this to have at least one power. Let me know if you think of a deck that can use this card!

Spread: 3 Power: 3

This is pretty comparable to Guardian Project or Beast Whisperer if you can reliably get a 3+ power creature on the field (perhaps from your command zone?), as the ability to tap for two means this effectively costs 2 less than whatever the reduced price ends up being.

Spread: 1 Power: 2

It took me a minute to notice the “one or more” clause, after which my interest in this card plummeted. However, it is a Cat that draws you a card every turn, so Arahbo with gladly welcome him into the pride.

Spread: 4 Power: 3

It doesn’t hose commanders as hard as Darksteel Mutation, Song of the Dryads, or Imprisoned in the Moon, but the cantrip more than makes up for it.

Spread: 3 Power: 3

Big fan of these effects, and I don’t think the non-Human restriction is very relevant.

Spread: 1 Power: 2

The existence of Bane of Progress (and the dozen tutors to find it) in Green makes this card a lot less appealing. However, the Hydra type makes it a great utility creature for Gargos decks.

Spread: 3 Power: 3

Anyone who’s played Gruul Ragebeast can tell you that this is pretty powerful creature control; if this goes unanswered, you’re going to eat all of your opponents’ threats. I would happily run this in monogreen decks looking for ways to remove multiple creatures, especially if my meta was light on spot removal.

Spread: 1 Power: 1

Never before have I seen an Impulse that was this hard to cast. Bird decks don’t run enough artifacts/enchantments to make this reliably hit, but if there was ever a commander in these colors that rewarded you for playing artifact creatures, I’d consider running this guy.

Spread: 2 Power: 3

This looks like a one-sided Open the Vaults to me, and there are lots of commanders that will be happy to run this, including Hanna, Breya, Tuvasa, and Kestia. I think this card was intentionally designed so that you can easily avoid animating your stuff if you don’t want to, as making your hard-to-remove artifacts and enchantments vulnerable to creature removal is not ideal (as anyone who’s played with Opalescence or Starfield of Nyx can attest).

Spread: 2 Power: 3

This is pretty close to drawing five cards for five mana, provided your curve isn’t too high. I think I’d run this in Gruul or Naya decks with a low curve.

Spread: 3 Power: 2

Fyndhorn Elder and Greenweaver Druid are not good cards, but Llanowar Tribe and Somberwald Sage are. If you’re running 3+ colors, I would happily run this card, as 7 mana on turn 4 is no joke and can really launch you past your opponents.

Spread: 1 Power: 2

Its color identity precludes it from being used in Aryel, so Syr Gwyn is the only home for this card.

Spread: 1 Power: 2

I like this effect way more than a typical anthem, since it scales to multiple opponents. I’d run this in tribal Knights, but don’t get your hopes up about firing off that activated ability when none of the Knight decks are in ramp colors.

Spread: 3 Power: 2

This is one of the best 2-drop mana rocks, but not every deck needs those. Best when used with non-Green 4-CMC commanders.

Spread: 1 Power: 3

This is quite good in Arcades, the Strategist. The rate isn’t terrible and granting all of your creatures haste is very powerful in a deck that can vomit out five 4-toughness defenders in a turn.

Spread: 2 Power: 1

There are a couple lists that are very excited for new Eggs (cheap artifacts that draw cards and sacrifice themselves), such as Gerrard 2.0, Teshar, and some Breya builds.

Spread: 3 Power: 3

I generally do not like anthem effects that only buff for a single point of power, especially when they cost three mana. I also generally do not like mana rocks that cost three and only produce a single mana. However, the combination of these two effects is kind of attractive. Tapping for mana means your anthem essentially only costs two mana, and producing a mana every turn thereafter is a significant bonus. I really like this in Alela since it also triggers her token production ability, but I’d consider testing it in other go-wide token decks as well.

Spread: 1 Power: 2

It’s a 2 CMC scarecrow, which means Reaper King is interested.

Spread: 2 Power: 2

This seems like a solid draw engine for monowhite decks, and maybe monored and red/white decks. As long as you have a commander that doesn’t mind attacking, this’ll probably act as an Underworld Connections.

Spread: 4 Power: 2

Even monocolor decks now have a ton of options for fetches; we’re at the threshold of a critical mass of fetches so you can more consistently assemble an engine with Crucible of Worlds. I’d run this in 3-color decks, 2-color decks, and monocolor decks with Crucible and Scroll Rack.

Wrapping Up

Please let me know if you think I missed any relevant cards or if you disagree with any of my ratings. Thanks for reading!

#set review #edh #commander #eld #mtg #magic the gathering

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