#and so he did the impossible and trapped himself in exchange for her freedom | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hezurkubo · 3 years

Text

When D’jinn meets Gene or “Dramatic Pot Twist!”

Hey there! Just wanted to start off by saying that in order to give this story the desired outcome I was looking for I added in some extra events that I thought could have canonically taken place during certain key moments in “The Last Adventure!” While we as the audience don’t know what happened to everyone else while the main characters were off driving the main plot along I still tried to come up with a side story that seemed plausible at least in terms of timing.

If I overlooked anything and it comes off as complete nonsense that throws off the original plot than please consider this an AU where the side characters play a more proactive role in kicking the butts of F.O.W.L.’s lackeys while our main cast took care of Bradford. This is mostly to satisfy my craving for a meeting that never happened in canon and I still hope that whoever decides to read enjoys this dumb story of mine. With that said.........

“SHABOOEY!”

That was all Gene managed to exclaim before he felt himself vanish in a dramatic flash. He found himself being dragged through the pocket void between realities, a place he’d frequented many times since his existence had been tied to the trinket he’d been forced to call home. While he had yet to feel the familiar power of the ‘Seal of Solion’ connecting him to his lamp, he knew it was only a matter of time.

“Huh, wish I coulda at least thanked her for saving me. Guess now it’s back to the good ol...”

His thoughts were interrupted by a rather abrupt tug to the side through a sudden blinding light, giving Gene just enough time to let out a yelp before tumbling beak first onto a cold hard surface. Groaning as he got to his feet, the duck had to double-take as he got a first look at his surroundings.

And it was, unfortunately, a very familiar site.

He’d become well acquainted with the row upon row of containment units in which the people F.O.W.L. saw as threats to their ‘final goal’ were imprisoned.

“Oh-keeeeey, so.... another dramatic plot twist, shoulda expected that in a ninety minute finale, though not so much for a short cameo appearance.”

Although he was pretty sure what would happen, and despite knowing the repercussions, Gene focused his power and winced in painful anticipation as he tried to will himself out of the current space he occupied.

“Okey three, two, one...SHABOOEY!”

He felt a small spark of magic begin to bubble up within him, allowing him to hope that maybe he could....

ZAP!

The genie doubled over as a short but powerful electric shock coursed through his body. He had been unfortunate enough to witness others struggle for freedom and receive the same treatment, and while he doubted it’d be different for him he felt that he at least had to try. After all, he was magic and it couldn’t possibly hurt that bad....right?

He had been partially correct, but it was still VERY unpleasant.

Thankfully the shock wore off quickly, but rather than test his chances again he moved to the center of the cubicle and sat in the dark, drawing his legs into himself as he rested his arms atop of them and let out a sigh.

“Guess old Blotty really made sure I couldn’t get out of dodge.”

“Not like I’d have a choice anyway...” Gene couldn’t help but think bitterly while resting the the bottom of his beak on his arm. He’d already exchanged one prison for another, so what difference did it make?

Gene let the moments tick on by as he attempted to drown out everything else, which had so far been surprisingly easy despite being surrounded by people....

...And then, despite his best efforts, a familiar thought reared it’s ugly head.

Many of these people were trapped here because of him.

Because the Blot had used his power.

Because he had given him the information needed to capture them.

And he had watched helplessly, his screams for them to run drowned out by their own as they were zapped of their magic, easy for the Eggheads to swoop them up and bring them to this hopeless place while they waited to be done away with for good.

And now Gene was here. He supposed it was fitting, as unwilling as an accomplice he had been in all of this, he still felt deep despair for having been used as a tool for the inevitable destruction of so many innocent lives.

And he would join them. Gene buried his head further into his lap, holding back sniffles as he felt his eyes stinging.

“...At least it’s roomier in here...”

“KA-BOOM!”

“Gyaaa!!! Bees!!! AAAHHH!”

The genie’s head quickly shot up, eyes widening as he took in the commotion echoing off the library’s lofty walls. Scrambling to his feet, he dashed to the front of his cell, pressing his ear against the glass.

Someone was fighting out there, and from the sounds of it they were facing off against Steelbeak.

The kid that had freed him, her friends were still fighting F.O.W.L.

Gene couldn’t fight the small smile that began to spread across his beak despite his teary eyes.

He would never be free, not even if he got out of here. But everyone else still had a chance. There was still hope that this could be made right.

“And the plot thickens!”

__________

Faris Djinn watched helplessly from his prison as Scrooge’s allies valiantly fought against the rooster F.O.W.L. Agent. Clenching his fists to his sides, the desire to unsheathe his sword and join them against these honorless enemies boiled within him, but he knew it was of no use so long as he was trapped like this. Still, that gave him all the more reason to wish to help the group of birds somehow. This was finally everyone’s chance to escape!

The canine warrior had been brought to this strange place after being ambushed and knocked unconscious by his cowardly foe, whom he had barely caught a glimpse of. When he woke up, he was surrounded by blocks of blacked out cubes in what looked like a giant storage facility. After about a day or two, he learned that his first assumptions had been somewhat true.

From what he’d gathered through listening to hushed conversations exchanged while the security guards were busy, and from a few familiar faces detained with him, including his good friend Amunet, he came to realize they had been brought there because they had been labeled as dangerous by simply knowing or associating with Scrooge McDuck and his family.

From close family members and friends to bitter enemies, or from good and bad to neutral, nobody seemed to be spared. It made D’jinn seethe at the injustice of it all, while villains such as the Beagle Boys and the infamous Magica de Spell may have deserved such treatment, this F.O.W.L. organization was indiscriminately locking away so many innocent people. He had even seen them lock up a couple of elderly ducks that could have easily passed as Scrooge’s own parents

(Impossible, he thought, for a man of McDuck’s age)

but not before the old woman had let loose a string of unintelligible words that D’jinn was pretty sure were some colorful expletives.

It appeared that the enemy had overlooked nothing, and any means of escape had been locked away along with them. The canine began to lose track of time as freedom seemed more and more impossible.

But D’jinn remained resolute that if anyone could pull off the impossible, it’d be Scrooge McDuck.

Then, a strangely dressed duck decked in a dark flowing cape and hat swooped in, followed by his heavily armored companion, and while they were acting antagonistic towards each other the dog had a feeling they had come to help. His hopes soared even higher when Scrooge’s pilot crashed in after them. At last help had come.

Then that nefarious Steelbeak had chosen to fight underhandedly, controlling the Beagle Boys and the dread sorceress herself as the heroes fought valiantly back before being imprisoned as well, and any hope of freedom appeared to rest on the shoulders of Launchpad McQuack, Scrooge’s pilot.

D’jinn winced as the poor duck was thrown about and beaten to the ground, unfairly outmatched in strength and numbers.

“Get back up!”

“You got this!”

As big and strong as he seemed in appearance, the warrior canine doubted the pilot could last at this rate, watching from the dark with urgency as he struggled to lift his head.

“Ugh... I’m sorry, I’m no hero...”

D’jinn shook with righteous indignation.

‘No! You cannot give up...!’

He couldn’t just stand by, there had to be something he could do to help, anything....

“That’s ridiculous! You helped inspire me to be a hero!”

He watched in anticipation as Launchpad gathered enough strength to look their way, unsure gaze focused on his friends as they encouraged him to keep fighting.

“And me pal.”

A new source of light brought their attention to the square that held the young red headed duck and the strangely proportioned robot child, both looking back at Launchpad with hope and confidence.

“Same here.”

The prison above them lit up, revealing a familiar Moonlander.

“I as well, Earth Launchpad.”

The room quickly grew brighter as, one after another, everyone stepped forward to show the duck that they believed in him.

And so did D’jinn.

His cubicle lit up as his hope returned.

“Blabbidy-Baloonersize!”

....Later....

Gene watched elated as scores of people poured out from their now-opened confines and began to wreak havoc on anyone unlucky enough to be a F.O.W.L. lackey. It was an unspoken call to arms, inspired by Scrooge’s pilot and, while the genie hadn’t seen what had actually happened, Steelbeak running away while screaming in terror was a pretty clear indication that the good guys were gaining the upper hand.

Gene was so relieved that everyone had been freed, he almost missed Launchpad and company dashing towards the main entrance before slipping out of sight.

He took another look around him, and couldn’t help but quirk the edges of his beak up in a mischievous grin.

“Well.... dunno how long I’ll be sticking around for, might as well be part of the fun...”

“SHABOOEY!!!”

_______

There was low buzz followed by a click, and suddenly the front of his enclosure swung open. Eyes narrowing in careful focus, D’jinn stepped out from his prison and into what was quickly becoming a losing battle for F.O.W.L.’s remaining underlings.

Scrooge’s family had been triumphant, and he was now free to assist in thwarting what remained of their foes once and for all. The canine reached for his hip, unsheathing his sword and slicing it through the air before resting it with his arm against his side. The McDucks may be fighting greater forces, but that didn’t mean there weren’t loose ends to tie up.

“SHABOOEY!”

Ears perking under his keffiyeh, D’jinn turned to the side and lifted his head just in time to see something rather peculiar rounding the corner. It appeared to be a small duck, but he was gliding through the air as if there was nothing to it, a trail of smoke billowing from his lower body.

For a single moment, D’jinn lost his carefully guarded composure as his eyes widened in shock and his jaw dropped.

It was as if all those fantastic stories he’d heard growing up had come to life in front of him.

He recalled the hushed conversations among a few of his fellow prisoners, all regarding the terrifying power the Phantom Blot wielded when he came after them.

However, what now came to the forefront of D’jinn’s mind were their descriptions of the strange and obviously magical little guy smooshed to an impossible degree within the Blot’s gauntlet. He didn’t quite understand what they could be referring to, but now, despite his usually serious demeanor, D’jinn couldn’t stop the small bit of wonderment from rising up in him, momentarily forgetting where he was.

“Could it really be...?”

A loud crash from above followed by a chorus of screaming Eggheads brought him back to reality. The warrior shook his head, scowling to himself for losing focus.

“No, I must not waver! The task at hand requires a warrior’s spirit!”

Sword at the ready, D’jinn quickly made his way towards the sounds of fighting, the lingering thoughts of his ancestors replaced with the challenge to come. He still chanced to glance back one more time at the spot he had last seen that duck, hoping that he’d be able to see him again once all of this was over.

....Later....

With F.O.W.L. defeated and it’s remaining agents scattered, everyone wasted no time in congratulating the heroes of the hour, rushing at McDuck and family as they made their way down the library tower. It was a whirlwind of joyful cries and relieved sighs as the exhausted but happy family meandered amongst the crowd, breaking up into teams to prepare for their departure.

With everything finally settling down, Gene casually sat in midair as everyone else began to disperse and make preparations of their own, all the while chatting amongst each other. He figured it must have been a sense of camaraderie that came with surviving such an ordeal, and while he wished he could fully indulge in the same feelings of comfort, he couldn’t help but feel on edge.

The powers that bound him to the lamp hadn’t reclaimed him yet.

He knew that couldn’t last much longer, whatever forces the Phantom Blot had used to disrupt the seal’s power and separate him from his prison

....no, home....

wouldn’t be able to hold on their own, now that the Blot was gone and Gene was free from any magic-proof confinement.

Earlier, before the extra trepidation had sunk in, he did try to enjoy his temporary freedom for as long as it lasted.

And oh, how he wished it lasted.

The genie chatted briefly with the young sorceress that had freed him, but not until after she and a younger hummingbird finally stopped hugging the pink clad girl, who he recognized as the little spitfire who tied him up and interrogated him during the entertaining fiasco that was Donald’s wish for a ‘perfect family’.

Despite the now growing feeling that this would all end soon, Gene had enjoyed himself. It was nice to just interact with others again and not be at someone’s beck and call. While he did like using his powers to have fun with mortals, there were more than enough terrible things he’d been forced to do, and the ability to simply be among people he knew couldn’t demand something of him was a rare reprieve. One he probably wouldn’t be getting again.

Now, with the excitement beginning to wind down, Gene decided to take in the busy atmosphere, not expecting anyone to notice him up there with how preoccupied they all were.

“Pardon me...”

The duck quickly spun around in midair, looking down and catching the sharp gaze of a rather serious looking canine all dressed in dark, save for a few splashes of red. He was staring up at him so intensely that Gene jokingly thought if he looked at him any harder lasers would shoot from his eyes.

“Hmmm... an interesting side character, guess a little more mingling wouldn’t hurt.”

Without missing a beat, Gene floated down from his place above the crowd to hover at eye level with the stranger.

“Well He-llo there! Always nice to meet a new face!” he said eagerly, flashing a grin that he hoped came off as charismatic and giving a wink.

The dog’s eyes widened for a few seconds before returning to his serious expression. Trying to act nonplussed by the lack of enthusiasm, the duck waved his arm to conjure a neon sign above him, his name spelled in blinking lights. Smile unwavering, he held out his hand.

“Name’s Gene! Nice to meet ya!”

The dog stared at the outstretched appendage, his hesitance causing Gene’s excitement to falter. Luckily, it wasn’t long before he was reaching out and gripping his hand in a firm but friendly shake.

“Faris D’jinn. It is an honor.” He said, head bowing slightly.

“Woah, an honor? Kinda formal, but I think I like it.”

Gene suddenly perked in realization. ‘Faris’, if he recalled, meant knight or horseman, and he couldn’t help but think how it suited the noble looking gentleman in front of him. And with a surname like ‘D’jinn’, well, why would the genie not find that interesting? He became so uncharacteristically lost in these thoughts that he almost failed to realize that his companion was staring at him a bit oddly, and he was suddenly aware that he was still holding his hand.

Awkwardly clearing his throat, Gene hovered back slightly while relinquishing his grip, trying to hide how awkward he felt by widening his smile.

He was sure he looked half crazy.

“Well Mr. D’jinn, I must say it’s a pleasure to meet such polite and proper ol’ gent and- Ooooh!”

Gene was at his side so fast that the warrior nearly jumped away in surprise as the genie’s eyes sparkled with curiosity at the sight of his sword’s hilt peeking from his robes.

“Oh-hoho, that’s quite a blade you got there. It almost looks like... I wanna say late Mamluk dynasty, Burji maybe...? But that can’t be right, unless it’s a really good replica.”

If D’jinn was shocked by his educated guess he hid it well, although Gene did notice the dog’s brow raise slightly from were it was hidden under the hem of his headdress.

“You are quite wise, although I would not expect anything less from a great and mystical genie.”

Gene’s eyes shot up from the finely crafted blade to the canine’s face. The gaze that met him was serious but not in a way that came off as cruel or accusatory. Still, that look, accompanied by such a bold statement, made the duck want to buckle his knees and shrink into himself.

Just who was this guy?

“Are you not a genie?”

The duck suppressed the urge to gulp at the quiet forcefulness behind the simple inquiry. It was after all a sensible question, he did more or less fit the description of his kind, though he liked to think he set himself apart with his showman’s flare because, servant or not, he still liked seeing others smile.

Now, his inner showman was currently at a loss for words, opting for wanting to hide his face in his turban.

“Get it together Genester! You heard him, how ‘great and mystical’ do you think you look right now?”

Trying to shake of the awkwardness, he disappeared from D’jinns side to reappear in front of him in a puff of smoke.

“Yessir! One-hundred percent bonafide and certified wish-granting genie, that’s me!” Gene exclaimed, conjuring up a laminated license that read ‘Certified Genie: Gene C. Baba’ complete with a photo of himself smiling awkwardly while donning a thick pair eyeglasses and suspenders.

D’jinn stayed unwaveringly quiet as the duck nearly shoved the card to his face.

“He he... yeah, funny thing though, the whole ‘wish-granting’ part of my deal is a bit... compromised at the moment. Y’see, only the holder of a genie’s lamp can control said genie, i.e., me” Gene pulled an arrow out of thin air and pointed towards himself “and big bad and Blotty left my lamp behind along with the rest of the lost treasure of Collie Baba when he sucked me into that fancy oven-mitt of his, you’d think with all his magical know-how he wouldn’t forget that important tidbit, right?”

Why did he sound so nervous?

“And I tell you what, I’m glad I’m not strapped to that thing anymore...!”

D’jinns eyes widened as a grim realization dawned on him.

“So, it is true. The device the Phantom Blot carried with him, the one he used to steal the magic from those he hunted...”

“I swear it was totally against my will!”

The canine shook his head. “No, I heard of its use from other captives, some who were brought here months before F.O.W.L. found me. Gene, how long have they kept you prisoner?”

The genie awkwardly rubbed one of his arms, looking away from D’jinn as the mood shifted drastically. While he may had been a little uncomfortable before, now he wanted to focus on anything but the dog in front of him. He might end up saying something that would break his facade, and he couldn’t....

“Technically, was already a prisoner. Y’know, the whole ‘genie in the lamp’ deal.”

“What are you doing?! Stop talking before...!”

“It’s like, I dunno... I’m almost glad this happened...”

“Idiot...”

“I mean not that I helped capture all those people or anything, because I still feel real bad about all that! It’s just that, whatever he did, even after I escaped, I’m still here. This right now is the closest I’ve ever felt to being...”

A sudden feeling of a hand gently enveloping his own prevented him from saying anything else. Momentarily shocked out of his train of thought, Gene dared to look back at the stranger he had begun to admit his sadness to.

He expected to see pity, but the eyes that looked back at him held something different. They were narrowed and serious, but not like before. There was fire in that glance, and as D’jinn’s grip on his hand tightened it only seemed to burn brighter.

“You shall be free, that I promise you.”

If Gene’s eyes got any wider he thought they’d escape out of his head. Heck, there was a better chance of that happening than what the man in front of him had just said.

“Heh, Being trapped in that pickle jar must’ve done a number on my ears. Y’know everything’s muffled in there, might not have heard ya right....”

He tried to laugh, to call the his bluff.

The dog said nothing, nor did he change his determined expression. He simply gave Gene’s hand a quick but firm squeeze, as if to reaffirm what he said.

“But why....”

Just then, he felt it.

It wasn’t how he expected it to happen, but he knew.

A panicked glance down confirmed his suspicions as he saw a bright light spread from the tip of his shoes, gradually making its way up his body, a familiar emptiness growing with it.

His time was up.

“No, please, it can’t be over yet...”

He felt D’jinn grab his other hand.

Even as he felt himself fading away, as he began to feel despair weigh him down further and any lingering hope drained from him, Gene again dared to look up at his companion.

He was greeted by the kindest smile he had ever seen.

“Because, it is the right thing to do.”

A single flash, and the genie was gone.

___________

D’jinn was left standing at the now-empty space in front of him, hands outstretched to cusp something that was no longer there as his smile disappeared, allowing the heaviness of the moment sink in.

That silly little duck hadn’t been at all what he expected. The stories his grandmother told him painted a picture of genies as powerful and filled with fiery intimidation, as well as being wiser than any mortal born of flesh and bone...

“Technically, I was already a prisoner.”

D’jinn’s frown deepened. Those words, they certainly weren’t spoken by some mighty cosmic being, but by a man, who could feel sadness and fear just like anyone else.

D’jinn thought back to the story of his ancestor and a kind servant trapped for eternity, until she saw it in her heart to exchange that eternity for a lifetime of love and happiness. This was certainly a different situation, but wasn’t it still the right thing to do?

And those eyes.

The look of desperation in those beautiful gold-colored eyes as he vanished were now burned into his memory. It was a cry for help, and the warrior ached to answer it.

He had made a promise, and while it may had been spoken in a passionate spur of the moment, he would honor it.

Resolute, he scanned the enormous crowd, his well-trained senses focused and on high alert for any sounds or scents that would lead him to his quarry. The minutes ticked by as his stoic expression masked his growing apprehension.

“There!”

It was faint among the throngs of people surrounding him, nearly undetectable, but his keen canine nose picked up on a familiar smell of dusty tomes mixed with the metallic scent of coins. With extreme calculation, he allowed his tracking instincts take the helm as he stealthily maneuvered through the crowd, ears perked beneath his keffiyeh for any signs of...

“Della, Launchpad! How’re the plane repairs comin’ along?”

Quiet relief washed over D’jinn when he noticed a familiarly distinct top hat poking out from the crowd near the library’s entrance. Making his way towards the fellow adventurer, he couldn’t help but notice just how tired the old man looked, uncharacteristically showing his age.

“Scrooge, my friend.”

Caught off guard, the duck tensed so hard that he nearly lost his balance before turning to the canine in surprise.

“D’jinn? Bless me bagpipes that villainous vulture nabbed you too?”

Scrooge shook his head as he adjusted his spectacles, expression shifting back to exhaustion, his browsed creased upwards in guilt.

“I’m sorry lad, you lot were all dragged into this mess because of me. I cannae imagine what you must ‘ave endured at the hands of those fiends.”

D’jinn’s eyes narrowed as he placed his hand on his chest, expression serious but sincere.

“Noble Scrooge, the only true guilty ones are the villains you speak of, those who would seek to harm the innocent indiscriminately and use them for their own nefarious means.”

Scrooge’s sighed heavily at the canine’s statement.

“Aye, like me poor darlin’ Webby.”

Like Gene.

“I have dedicated my life to righting such wrongs. I hold nothing against you my friend, I could not let such transgressions against an ally stand. That is why we are here. You have many on whom you can rely, and friends are part of the journey as well, are they not?”

Scrooge stared at D’jinn for a moment, absorbing the man’s insightful words before breaking into a gentle smile, eyes shining with gratitude.

“Thank you, I... needed to here that. I know I can rely on my family when I need ‘em, but it takes times like these to remind this stubborn old fool that ‘family’ can be many things.”

Scrooge silently laughed at himself.

“Sorry, been feeling a little more sentimental than usual.”

Nodding in understanding and knowing that he’d soon depart, Djinn decided to waste no time and reached into his robes as he lowered himself onto one knee, startling Scrooge with this sudden change in demeanor as he withdrew a blank scroll along with a quill.

“Not all has been made right, and my journey must continue.”

The look of determination that met the old duck’s gaze startled him with its ferocity.

“Scrooge McDuck, I simply need a moment to ask you some questions, and the rest will fall to me.”

Scrooge stared back for a moment, perplexed. His family would be leaving soon, and he needed to help them prepare. However, the weight of the severity in the canine’s request, along with the deep sincerity with which he’d said it, told him all he needed to know. Nodding in affirmation, Scrooge watched as D’jinn unraveled the scroll in front of them, quill raised and ready.

“I wish to know about the lost treasure of Collie Baba, and the lamp that is hidden there.”

I’m so sorry, that took MUCH longer to complete than I wanted it to, l have more projects planned and hopefully once courses are over they won’t be as bad. Also sorry for the poor writing quality, I’m kind of rusty. Still I hope that whoever took the time to read this found something entertaining about it. Thank you for your interest, until next time!

#ducktales #dt17 #faris djinn #gene the genie #gene c. baba #faris d'jinn #fargene #djinn x gene #self-indulgent nonsense #sorry it took so long #launchpad mcquack #the last adventure fanficion #ducktales fanfiction #bad fanfiction #d'jinn x gene #scrooge mcduck

36 notes · View notes

wkemeup · 4 years

Text

By Any Other Name (3)

series summary: When Special Agent Bucky Barnes is tasked with infiltrating the notorious gang Hydra and gathering evidence against its leader, Brock Rumlow, Bucky finds himself drawn to the woman who doesn’t seem to belong in this world of violence, the wife of the head of Hydra… you. pairing: bucky x reader chapter word count: 6.9k warnings: flirty heart eyes, excessive emphasis on fluff, love is in the AIR, the knowledge that these happy times won’t last forever....... 👀 🌹series masterlist 🌹

“You did what now?”

Bucky rolled his eyes, explicitly ignoring Sam’s full-bellied laugh as he struggled not to spill the open lidded coffee cup on the impossibly small table between them. There were near tears in his eyes and patrons of the Brooklyn based café were all staring in their direction. Bucky tugged the bridge of his baseball cap lower over his eyes.

“Leave him alone, Sam. It was a good idea,” Steve warned, voice low, as he turned to Bucky to clap a hand on his shoulder. He gripped at the muscle, massaging the tender scar tissue, before dropping his grip. “It gave him an in with Y/n. He needs to work on building that foundation of trust before he can start figuring out what she knows about Hydra. Ain’t that right, Buck?”

Bucky nodded, his lips pressing to a thin line, though it felt forced, jarring against his features.

“Yeah.”

He could still picture the shock in your eyes; the surprise and the realization as he placed the book in your hands. He had thought for a minute that you were going to laugh at him and discard the old, worn down copy he’d stolen from his high school library as a sophomore because it in no way compared to the first edition novels worth thousands of dollars sitting upon your shelves, but the smile that lifted your lips had made his heart feel like it was going to burst out of his chest.

Sure, maybe there was a part of him that knew that your library and your clear love of fiction would be an easy target to begin building a connection, a layer of trust, before he could start getting the information from you he needed, but it wasn’t why he’d spent two hours tearing apart his childhood bedroom in search of the book.

He wanted to see you smile again.

He wanted to see your eyes light up and the way you bite on the corner of your lip. There was just something about it that made his stomach twist in knots, that made his own mouth start to curve at the edges, and his heart beat just a little quicker. It was so rare to see it from you, especially in the days your husband lingered around, but suddenly, it was all he could think about.

He could have asked for the funds from the Bureau to buy you the first edition, writing it off as a necessary expense for his cover, but somehow, he knew you’d appreciate the hand-me-down copy more. It had character and a history. It was messy, and a little broken; a glimpse into his life, his real life, something he was never supposed to cross the boundaries of, but it served its purpose.

He’d seen you around the house carrying it under your arm for nearly four days after he’d given it to you. Sometimes he’d spot you sitting in the living room, nose deep in the pages as he walked in the front door behind Rumlow before you’d get up and quickly escape to your library without a word to your husband, though you stopped and caught his eye before you left, holding up the book so he knew you were reading it and giving him that short, stolen smile before you disappeared.

You had run into him on the fifth day and swatted him with the book in a rare moment when he was standing by himself in the kitchen, Rumlow having gone up to the office to gather some paperwork before they were meant to head to the Lernaean.

“What did this poor book ever do to you?” you had teased him, flipping open the pages of his copy of A Farewell to Arms to find stains of Dorito dust in the folds on page 76, mindless doodles done in blue ink pen on the top corner of page 117, and a sticky note taped to the inside back cover of a crude drawing of a lanky, high school version of Steve with big angry eyebrows and a boxing gloves held up by his face.

“Sorry, I guess I should have looked it over before I lent it to you.” Bucky laughed, swiping the book back from your hands and earning a pout in return. “I mean if you don’t want to finish it, I’ll just take it b--”

“I never said I was done with it, you vandal!”

Your laugh was like music to his ears, melodic and captivating, and he hated the moments you cut it off short and closed it away to the darkest parts of yourself; moments like when your husband walked back into the room.

Rumlow had eyed you with a kind of look you must have been familiar with because your smile fell away instantly and Bucky released the book to your grasp. You held it down by your hips, eyes glued to the floor. He had watched as you left the room without another word, book gripped so tightly in your hands, the pages started to crinkle.

He knew what he was feeling was dangerous. It went against every code he swore an oath to. He’d be pulled from the case the second Director Fury got wind of his personal attachment to you – if that’s what he was going to call it. There wasn’t really a way to describe what he was feeling.

Infatuation. Admiration. Longing. Ease. Attraction.

He didn’t know.

All he knew was that he wanted to see you smile more, wanted to knock Rumlow’s teeth in for more reasons than why he was stationed undercover within Hydra in the first place. He wanted to know why you were involved in this world to begin with and how you ended up trapped in a marriage you clearly wanted nothing to do with.

He wanted to protect you from all this; from Hydra, from his investigation.

A few conversations, a couple smiles from across the rooms, and it changed everything.

“Buck? You awake in there?” Sam chuckled, tapping a finger on Bucky’s forehead until he swatted his hand away with a grunt.

“Knock it off, Wilson,” Bucky grumbled, bending down to take a sip of the burning hot coffee resting in his grasp. It stung on his lips but he swallowed it back anyway, the heat of it warming down through his chest.

“It’s been almost two months,” Steve said casually, “how have you been holding up?”

Bucky glanced around at the busy café. It wasn’t unusual for them to meet in public places and talk about the case, as long as they kept details vague and didn’t draw any attention. Hell, Bucky just needed an outlet sometimes outside of the conference rooms and safe houses he usually met the team in. He was thankful Nat typically elected out of their Sunday coffee runs because she was always able to read him like a hawk, and he was certain she’d be able to pick up on his affection towards you in an instant.

“It’s fine,” Bucky shrugged. “Boss is still a piece of shit.”

“Yeah, well, we already knew that,” Sam agreed, pursing his lips with a shake of his head.

“You said there were some guys there who seemed to be blackmailed into their work?” Steve asked, voice a little quieter now.

Bucky nodded. “Seems that way. Not everyone is there by choice. Still working out the details of who but I’ve got a list going for Nat when we meet up next week. I’m supposed to be stationed out on the docks this week so I’ll talk to the guys then.”

“Good, good,” Steve said. He paused for a moment, staring down into his coffee, studying the swirl of the soft chestnut coloring. “You being careful?”

Bucky smiled at that. For a kid who spent his youth getting himself into trouble and leaving Bucky to watch over his back, he sure as hell got protective himself once his body grew into his rebellious and reckless attitude.

“Yeah, pal, you know I always am.”

“Something just feels different about this one,” Steve said, leaning back into his chair. A woman behind the counter was staring at him, and he cleared his throat awkwardly upon noticing her eyes, shrugging the collar of his jacket up to cover the pink blush in his cheeks.

“Well this is the biggest profile case we’ve tackled,” Sam offered casually as he took a sip of his coffee, grinning at the way the girl at the counter shamelessly ogled at Steve.

“I don’t like that he’s in there so deep with no one to watch his six,” Steve shook his head, teeth gritted.

“I’m not alone and you know it,” Bucky responded, reaching across the table to grab a firm hold of Steve’s forearm, squeezing just enough to get him to meet his eye. There was hesitancy there and Steve wasn’t usually one to worry. “I’ve got you guys, remember?”

“You just need to watch yourself, alright?” Steve exhaled, patting at Bucky’s hand until he released his arm. “This is the first time you’ve been put in so close to the target. You spent most of your time in his house, Buck, and with Fury tellin’ you to get close to the wife, I just... I worry there’s too much on your shoulders and somethings going to fall through the cracks.”

Bucky sighed, exchanging a quick look with Sam who’s teasing smile had faded away upon noticing the genuine concern and anxiety in their friend.

“Nothing’s gonna happen to him, Steve,” Sam said, sending a wink at Bucky before he added, “you know he’d never let us hear the end of it.”

Bucky laughed, nodding. “Damn straight.”

Sam punched at Steve’s shoulder, grinning again, and didn’t let up until Steve finally relaxed and sat up further in his chair, the tension clearly washing from his muscles.

“Now that that’s all settled,” Sam teased, clapping Steve on the shoulder, “how about we focus on getting you the pretty barista’s number?”

***

Sundays used to be your only good days.

You used to find solace in warm teas and coffees from Café Ramos and freshly baked bagels from the Marselli’s; freedom in the wind gusting through the open back streets of Queens. Far away from tourists and amongst the bodegas and apartment buildings, you walked dozens of blocks from where your driver dropped you off; an added precaution to keep Brock from tracking down where you spent your time, and who you met up with.

Peter was sitting on the stoop of the brownstone, cheek resting on his hand and slouching up his face as he stared down at his phone. There was a lovesick look in his eye and you wondered if he ever got around to asking that girl out from school he’d been crushing on.

He was a sweet kid. Kind. Compassionate. Intelligent beyond belief. But his optimism and habit of overlooking flaws to see the best in someone, while admirable, was dangerous. It was why you worked so hard to keep him away from Brock. Your husband had a talent of convincing kids like that with an eagerness to please and a family tight on cash to join his ranks.

Peter was like a brother to you, having grown up with him running around your father’s house at all hours of the day when Aunt May was working, but lately, you kept him at an arm's length. You never let him over at the house, kept details vague about Brock’s employment, and insisted on walking the fourteen blocks to his apartment to pick him up, even when he offered to meet you at the subway stop near where your driver dropped you off.

He was a sweet kid, but he was naïve. Young. He had some learning to do. It was what you liked so much about him. You could use a little unending joy and positivity in your life.

“Hey Aunt May!” you called, waving at her as she walked by the front window folding a shirt from the dryer. She paused, turning towards you with a big smile and made her way to the door.

Peter had nearly fallen over on himself, clutching at his chest, his phone on the ground where it flung from his hands upon your sudden arrival.

“You okay there, kid?” you laughed, bending down to pick up his phone. No cracks. You handed it back to him with a wink.

He chuckled nervously, brushing off the screen with the edge of his shirt. “You scared me.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be so nose deep in your phone, Z.”

“Yeah, okay, Mil.”

“Z? Mil? You two develop another coded language or am I losing it?” Aunt May folded her arms over her chest as she leaned against the frame of the door.

“Gen Z,” Peter explained, pointing to himself, and then to you, “Millennial.”

You and Peter had some years between one another and, sure, you didn’t always understand the other’s lingo or quirks in their behavior, but it didn’t make much difference to either of you. It was another reason to poke fun at each other. Siblings were like that.

“I still think it’s funny you spend as much time together as you do,” Aunt May smiled.

“Hey, I keep him out of trouble!”

“-- and I keep her young.”

“Okay, watch yourself, kid,” you warned, laughing as you poked him hard in the side, causing him to jump away a few feet to escape another attack.

Aunt May always did like you being around so much after Uncle Ben died. Peter didn’t take it so well, not after losing his parents too, so he spent hours every day at your house when Aunt May was on shift at the hospital. You’d occupy his time and keep his mind from wondering back to finding his uncle in the streets, alone and bleeding. He was so young when it happened, you were surprised that when your father died just a few years later, he had insisted on doing the same for you.

The years between you didn’t matter. Not when it came to a bond like that.

“Will you come say hi already?” Aunt May teased, stomping her foot playfully as she opened her arms to you and you rushed up the stoop to fall into her embrace. She smelled of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and you peaked around the corner to find trays lined up on the kitchen table. Your stomach growled.

“Do I smell--”

“You want some before we go?” Peter asked before shoving his way inside, not quite bothering to wait for an answer as he started grabbing a few cookies from the table, bouncing a particularly hot one between his hands before he shoved it in his mouth.

He grabbed two for you, slipping them into your outstretched hand as you stepped out of Aunt May’s hold. She smiled at you, brushing your hair from your eyes in that motherly way you’d missed since you were a kid. You supposed it was another thing that drew you and Peter together.

“Don’t think I forgot about that science project you have due this week!” Aunt May called as you and Peter started to walk to the sidewalk. He visibly winced. “I want you home before dinner, Peter.”

“Okay, okay!” he groaned, shooing her off with a wave of his hand and sent you a glare as you struggled to contain your laughter.

“Oh, man. I do not miss high school,” you grinned, taking a bite of the cookie and nearly choking on a moan that slipped out. Buttery soft and warm gooiness melting on your tongue. Heaven.

Peter rolled his eyes, nudging you with his elbow playfully. “Don’t rub it in.”

***

Your Sundays were never exceeding exciting. Most of your time spent with Peter was just running errands, taking deposits to the bank for Aunt May, picking up lunch at one of the sandwich shops, getting him a new pair of sneakers he so desperately needed even though he fought you on paying for them for about an hour before he gave in.

They were often mundane and filled with idle chatter, sitting on park benches and watching the people walk by and the tourists taking photos in front of brick walls. He’d sit there and talk for hours because that’s amongst the things Peter did best. He'd tell you everything from his latest science fair project, the progress on his Lego set with Ned, the kid named ‘Flash’ who pranked him again and filled his locker with whipped cream.

It was simple. It was easy and comforting.

It was an escape.

Peter had nearly forgotten he was supposed to pick up a few things from the corner store for Aunt May, so you were on your way to the shop with the black cat who liked to sit perched in the window just to get a good look at her again while he tracked down the milk and bread.

The wind was picking up and you tugged your jacket tighter around your chest. You glanced over at Peter who had his hands shoved into the thin layer of his jacket, cheeks a little pink from the wind and he shivered.

Your heart ached a little and you decided you’d talk him into a new coat on your next Sunday together. He’d never make it through New York winter with holes in his pockets and no protection from the blistering wind.

While Brock didn’t give you access to enough of your father’s money to make it on your own, you had enough to buy things for Peter, to collect your first editions, and to remain moderately comfortable.

It was a ploy to keep you content, a carrot to dangle for the arguments when you’d threaten to storm out of the house you shared and he’d remind you, you had nothing without him, that he could implicate you in each and every one of his crimes, and you’d stay. Every time. You’d stay.

You had no choice.

And for years, you’d grown accustomed to the prison your home had turned into. Until you met James Karpov.

You’d almost forgotten what it was like to feel the twist of nerves in your stomach, to seek someone out amongst a crowd and to feel the relief deep in your bones upon finding them, upon finding blue eyes and dark brown hair, warm smile and that slight nod. So impossibly subtle and somehow it became the best part of your day.

Maybe you were naïve, and maybe it had simply been too long since anyone within that home had treated you with even an ounce of kindness or respect that you clung onto the first man who so much as smiled in your direction and asked about one of your overpriced books, but it gave you back a sense of yourself you’d been missing.

You started smiling again, starting looking forward to the days Brock held his meetings within the house in hopes that James would be there and you could ask him how far along he’d gotten in Fahrenheit 451. You were careful about your interactions with him, knowing that Brock was an exceptionally jealous man, even if your conversations with James were innocent.

And they were.

They had no greater meaning or underlying feelings.

So you told yourself, anyway.

The wind was picking up again and Peter was finishing up a very long and overly detailed recount of he and Ned’s favorite comic book series, when you realized you’d walked nearly five blocks without realizing it.

“Did you give Michele the necklace yet?” you asked him as you crossed the border into Brooklyn. He nearly choked on air, coughing to alleviate his surprise and you laughed into your scarf, trying to hold it back for the sake of his ego.

“Oh, um, not yet! But I’m working on it,” he chuckled nervously. “I’ve got a plan.”

Peter was starting to tell you all of the intricate and perfectly timed details of this ‘plan’ when you spotted someone across the street that caught your eye.

Tall, with long brown hair swept behind his ears and hiding under a baseball cap, hands tucked into the pockets of a familiar bomber, he swatted the arm of a friend on his left while the other scolded him.

You narrowed your eyes, not even realizing you’d pulled to a stop until Peter came rushing back a few paces, complaining he’d kept on walking without you. You apologized quickly, a little out of focus, and asked him for a minute. He nodded with a shrug and pulled out his phone, sinking down to the sidewalk and waited patiently.

“James?” you called over the rush of traffic. He didn’t seem to hear you.

You’d never seen him outside of your husband’s home and it was strange running into him in such a personal environment. He was with friends, off the job, his guard was down. A bright smile, brighter than you’d ever seen it on his face as he laughed loud enough for the sound to carry across the street. It made something in your chest clench.

You called his name again, a little louder this time, but the blare of a horn drowned you out.

Letting out a heavy sigh, you held up a hand to warn oncoming cars that you were crossing the street and quickly wove your way in and out of lanes until you made it to the other side of the road. You glanced in his direction, brushing out the dirt on the thighs of your jeans before you approached him again.

“James!”

You were only standing a few feet from him and he still didn’t respond. You closed your eyes, gritting your teeth and feeling a rush of embarrassment.

This was his day off; he didn’t need to be dealing with his boss’s wife.

All this time, while you were caught up in your own head with fantasies of ‘what if’s’ and finding solace in his short, kind smiles, he was probably just appeasing the wife of his boss. He must have known how lonely you were, could sense it a mile away, and he was simply being polite. You just misinterpreted it for interest or kindness or something, but it was clear your stolen moments over classic fiction and subtle glances across the room were exclusive to the walls of your home.

You turned to leave, clenching your hands into fists and puncturing the skin, when you heard your name called from behind you.

“Y/n?”

You spun around to find James staring at you with wide blue eyes. He was clearly surprised, caught off guard in a way few men of his rank within Hydra ever were, and he glanced back at his friends hesitantly before they quickly departed, retreating to a table on the edge of the café they had left from. He walked closer to you, enough so neither of you would have to shout over the rush of traffic.

“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting to see you,” James said, that smile tugging on the corner of his lips as he everted his eyes. He was nervous, swaying in his stance and running a hand through his hair.

“No, it’s okay!” you replied quickly. “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything with your friends.”

He clenched his jaw at that, the smile fading from his face. “Friends? What friends?”

You peered around his towering shoulders to find the two men he was just standing with sitting over at a table at the café, talking to one another and stealing glances in your direction over the tops of newspapers they had just nabbed from the adjacent table. It was endearing, if anything.

“So, the guys siting over at that table pretending not to watch our every move aren’t your friends?” you asked, a slight laugh in your voice as James shook his head.

“No,” he responded shortly, though when you narrowed your eyes on him, grinning, he sighed, “yeah, ok. I know ‘em.”

You pursed your lips, glancing between James and two men sitting over at the table; the dark-skinned man with the toothy grin seemed to be thrilled to watch James fumble his way through half of a conversation, while the tall blonde one punched at his friend’s shoulder, seemingly warning him quietly to knock it off.

You sighed, noticing the way he kept glancing back at his friends, shuffling his feet like he wanted to be just about anywhere else than this conversation. You tried to ignore the free-falling feeling in your stomach.

“Look,” you started, feeling a little uneasy in your stance now, “it’s totally okay you don’t want me to know about them. I get it. You want to keep your personal life separate from work. It makes a lot of sense, especially with, um, with what you do and, um, I’m part of work, right? Different worlds. Don’t need to be bothering yourself with the boss’s wife in your free time...”

His whole body seemed to freeze and his eyes went wide.

“What? No, that’s not it at all!” he quickly explained, but he seemed to relax for a moment, glancing back towards his friends. “They don’t know what I do outside of the cover at the club. I just don’t want them catching wind.”

You nodded, knowing full well how that felt. A wave of relief swept through you; like a rush of water pushing away the aches and twists and breaks in your chest, leaving behind only that pleasant little tug you felt every time he walked in the room.

“You must be the new guy!” a voice chimed from behind you and you nearly flinched from the shock of it.

Speak of the damn devil.

Peter was suddenly at your side, a little out of breath as he looked James over, wide eyed and grinning. “Holy cow. He really is all muscle, huh?”

You shoved Peter hard in the side, cheeks flushing with heat as James laughed a little under his breath.

“I thought you were gonna stay on the other side of the street until I was done?”

“Got bored,” he shrugged, pushing you aside and turning to James. “So! What’s the likelihood you’ll let me sneak into the Lernaean? I’ve got an in with the owner and Y/n never lets me get anywhere near that place. Tell me you’re cooler than my cousin, man, I’m beggin’ you.”

You must have stopped breathing because your lungs felt like they were on fire. Peter had never been so brazen as to bypass your carefully constructed boundaries like that, but then again, he’d never met anyone from Hydra before. It was your mistake to confide in him about the strange new ‘bouncer’ with the blue eyes and the unexpected appreciation of fiction. Peter was curious by nature and he just liked seeing you happy.

James must have sensed your distress because he raised a brow at you, but your jaw was wired shut. Peter couldn’t know about this world. You had to keep him out of it. You tried to convey that to James with a simple glance, but he didn’t owe you anything. What would he care if this lanky kid knew about Hydra and the world you lived in? He was still Hydra himself and you had to constantly remind yourself of that.

“Please, man,” Peter begged. “It’ll make Flash so jealous and I need a win over that jerk.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, kid,” James replied. Peter let out a very dramatic groan and it got James laughing. “It’s not a good place for a minor to be hanging out, anyway. Listen to your cousin.”

The fear didn’t escape you, even as Peter seemed to let the topic go. You liked James, that much you were able to admit to yourself, but did you trust him enough to protect Peter from Brock’s world... you weren’t sure.

Trust wasn’t so much a step as it was a cascading waterfall into an abyss. It didn’t come easy to you.

“Fine. But I’m not giving up that easily,” Peter huffed, folding his arms over his chest. He caught sight of the watch on his wrist and pouted. He turned to you. “I should head home anyway.”

You nodded. “Okay, I’ll walk yo--”

“No, you won’t,” Peter argued with a massive smile. “I know you still have stuff to do before you head home. I’m fine on my own, you know that.”

You did. Didn’t mean you liked it.

“Besides,” Peter continued, that cheeky grin tugging on his face, “I’m sure Mr. Karpov here wouldn’t mind escorting you the rest of the way.”

Your throat ran dry. “T-That’s entirely unnecessary... Peter.”

You sent him a glare but it only made him laugh harder as he started to back away down the sidewalk. He winked and quickly turned his shoulder and jogged down the remainder of the block just to deprive you of the chance to argue back. The little shit.

Spinning back around to James with an anxious grimace on your face, you quickly held your hands up to apologize but he was laughing to himself, causing you to lose your train of thought.

“I really don’t mind, you know,” he said, and of course he didn’t, because he simply couldn’t make it easy to disregard that nervous feeling in your stomach when he looked at you.

“It’s super boring,” you warned and he shook his head with a smile, some stray pieces of hair falling into his face. Damn that smile of his.

“What are we doing?” he asked, like it wasn’t even a second thought.

“There’s a café a few blocks from here,” you started, carefully watching his face for signs that he was surely making fun of you or appeasing you to be polite, but came up empty. “They sell paintings by local artists and I’ve been wanting to replace this godawful modern abstract Brock’s interior designer hung in one of the spare rooms. He wouldn’t notice anyway, don’t you think?”

James shrugged, a nodding slightly as he chuckled. “I don’t suppose he would.”

You chewed on the edge of your lip, gesturing for him to follow you down the street and he did so without hesitation.

There were only a few minutes of silence, of walking side by side with hands tucked carefully into jacket pockets and side stepping pedestrians with their noses stuck in their phones, before you worked up the courage to say something.

“Peter doesn’t know about our world,” you said suddenly, keeping your eyes trained ahead of you, scared that if you even looked at him, you’d lose your nerve. “I work really hard to keep it that way, so if you could-- if you could avoid mentioning to Brock that I was with him today, I would – I would really appreciate that. You know how Brock can be; always trying to recruit kids on the street to push his product and I don’t-- I don’t want Peter anywhere near--”

“You have my word,” James said simply, genuinely, and you let out a heavy exhale that released like flood gates. “No reason to tell the boss what I do on my days off and who I run into, right?”

You nodded, a little lost for words. “Right.”

You paused at a stop light, stealing glances at him as he mumbled a soft apology to the elderly woman who was attempting to push past him to get to the front of the sidewalk. She was uneasy on her feet and using her walking cane as weapon as she clicked it against his ankles and he quickly stepped out of her way. He winced, rubbing at his right ankle with the back of his left shoe.

As the light turned green and the old lady pushed past, shoving a few other pedestrians out of her way, you turned back to James, grinning so wide it hurt in your cheeks. He was chewing on his lip.

“This could really damage my rep, huh?”

“Just a little,” you laughed and you were certain if your hands weren’t shoved deep into the pockets of your jacket to hide from the cold, you may have offered your hand to him. Just instinctively. His hands were so big, they seemed warm, safe.

“I finished 451, by the way,” he said as the two of you rushed to cross the street before the light turned again.

“What’d you think?”

“Never as good as the first time,” he shrugged but there was still a semblance of that smile on his lips. “Still pretty great though. Didn’t even spill coffee on it or anything.”

“I suppose I should be impressed, considering the way you treated Hemingway,” you laughed, shoving at his arm with your elbow, and though a hit like that would have had Peter stumbling a few paces, James barely even flinched, but he did start to laugh.

“Come on now, you know I was in high school when I last touched that thing and you can’t trust a teenage boy with shit,” he teased and you found yourself grabbing onto his arm for support from that laughs making your unsteady on your feet. He didn’t seem to mind at all, not even as you suddenly realized what you were doing and quickly released him with a quick nervous brush of your hair from your eyes.

You cleared your throat, continuing to walk down the sidewalk. “I finished it last week, actually. I can return it to you tomorrow if you--”

“It was a gift,” James said simply. “Keep it. If you want, I mean. I know it doesn’t exactly fit in amongst all the first editions and fancy copies so you can get rid of it if you--”

“No! It’s, uh, it’s perfect. Thank you,” you said and he pressed his lips together to keep himself from rambling.

He was right. It certainly did stand out amongst the novels on your shelves with the cracked and broken binding, the doodles in the pages, and the stains on the cover, but it was so entirely human. It was a relief to have something of imperfection amongst masterpieces.

***

Bucky wasn’t quite sure what to make of you.

It was the most relaxed he’d ever felt on an assignment as he walked alongside you down the busy streets of Brooklyn. You tried to lead him down less crowded alleys and avoid the cross-section of tourists taking photos in the street because you noticed the way he tugged at the bridge of his cap to pull over his eyes but it was near impossible. You must have mistaken his attempts at concealing his identity in a part of the city that knew him well for anxiety around the bustle of people.

It was sweet, he thought, that you were observant enough for things like that and tried to make it easier on him without saying a word. You’d give him silly excuses to travel down abandoned streets and act like it was you that wanted the space away from the crowd, but he knew you were doing it for him.

You told him about the café you liked to visit with the family you’d grown to know well over the years and the bagel joint a few blocks away that Bucky spent many years grabbing breakfast at as a teenager. You talked like you knew the owners, spent time with them and caught up on their weeks when you waited for your orders, and somehow that didn’t surprise Bucky at all.

He felt an ease by your side he’d never felt in all his years in undercover work. He was used to be on edge, to watching his every move and purposefully concealing parts of himself to create firm boundaries between his cover and himself.

But not with you.

The rare moments he spent alone with you were the only times he felt like Bucky Barnes, even under the guise of James Karpov.

But he still had a job to do.

You were smiling, telling him about a pain-in-your-ass student from your time teaching at Columbia and he could tell how much you missed it. There was a brightness in your eye, a flicker of nostalgia, of loss, and he hunched his shoulders against the cold with a steady breath.

“Why’d you quit?” he asked when you’d finished your story. Your smile fell away quickly and he nearly regretted asking. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I mean, it sounds like you really loved what you did. With all the books you collect and all, figured you’d quite enjoy an outlet with people who are as obsessed with fiction as you are.”

That got a slight laugh out of you, but it was tense. Your eyes were on the sidewalk, jaw clenched.

“Oh, I… um…” you were struggling to come up with an answer, one to bullshit to him. You weren’t ready to trust him and he should have known better than to ask so soon. “I stepped down when I got married. Brock has more than enough money. I don’t need to work anymore.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t want to,” Bucky offered because part of him simply just wanted you to know that not every man would isolate you from the things you loved and demand you give your entire life to him. The other part, the one screaming in the back of his head, knew that validating you like this, giving you the support you so clearly craved, would only build on that trust; trust he would need to use you as an accessory to bring Hydra to ash.

He hated that part of him. He never used to.

You nodded, chewing on your lip. “Doesn’t mean I can.”

He changed the subject quickly after that.

He knew well enough that it wasn’t a good sign that he was putting your feelings over his commitment to the job. On any other assignment with any other target, he would have pressed harder, would have asked how you met Rumlow and why you married him at all if this was the life you’d end up in, but he bit his tongue.

You were talking about a local kid’s high school musical you wanted to attend and suddenly you were smiling again. The tension left Bucky’s chest and he felt at ease, pushing aside the nagging voicing in the back of his head, reminding him why he was stationed next to you in the first place.

It seemed to quiet down the longer he walked with you, the more he stole glances at your smile, the more his stomach seemed to twist to pleasant knots whenever you look at him.

***

“What do you think of this one?” you asked, pulling his attention back to the painting hanging above two teenage girls huddled around a single laptop, sharing a pair of headphones as they struggled to contain their laughter.

The painting you were looking at was filled with reds and oranges, yellows and dark blue, soft brush strokes in gentle waves across the frame; it looked like a sunset, warm and comforting. It was in stark contrast to the cold and isolating nature of the house and he supposed it was why you liked it.

“It’s nice,” he said. He wasn’t as attuned to the arts as you were, but he knew it was nicer than the one you were trying to replace. It was one that made you smile. That was enough, he thought.

“Think Brock will be mad if he finds out I’m replacing a $50,000 painting with one done by...” you squinted your eyes, leaning in closer to read the tag, “a lovely young art major named Wanda at NYU?”

“Not if he never notices it.” He winked, nudging your arm.

You smiled, the lines of it wrinkling up by your eyes and Bucky had a hard time tearing his gaze away from you as you politely waved over the owner and pointed to the painting on the wall.

Bucky leaned against the counter, watching from a distance as you conversed with the owner for a few minutes, and after a while, he gasped, staring at you with wide eyes. You must have told him how much you were willing to pay for the piece.

Steve and Sam were going to rip him a new one at the next meet up, he was sure of it. There was no way they didn’t catch on to how easily he retreated back to Bucky Barnes, highly capable FBI special agent and nervous wreck amongst pretty women, from James Karpov, enforcer to the world’s deadliest mafia.

You turned back to him, raising a thumbs up with the biggest smile on your face he’d ever seen as the owner moved to take down the painting. You were practically giddy with joy and he found himself smiling until his cheeks hurt, even long after you turned away to start writing the check.

He was such a goner.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes one shot

1K notes · View notes

atlascas · 3 years

Text

DEANCAS FIC REC

(last updated 7/1)

FINALLY. this is like. just a place for me to rec and write excessively abt the fics i've been reading lately. it won't be organized but it WILL be very earnest and i'll keep it updated as i find/remember more. also i have obnoxiously high standards when it comes to fic so these ARE the cream of the crop, if u will. the god tier. the s tier.

very loosely organized into "newer fic" and "classics." these are subjective categories. do what you will

✨ = new fic on the list

💖 = in my brain rent free!

CURRENTLY READING

these are the fics that i’m currently reading! may or may not get recced. usually i read the first couple paragraphs/lines and if i like the writing it gets bookmarked and put on this list.

lazarus needs a robe of scarlet thread by herrosesneverfall, 90k, canonverse au. dean starts getting stigmata. when i was getting back into spn there were a LOT of religious fics flying around bc that was the Hot Topic of Discussion. this was one of them

Three weeks ago, Dean woke up in a pine box. He thought dealing with the nightmares was going to be the most difficult part of his new life after Hell, but at least they were something he could understand. Something he could deal with. Something he deserved.

Then he began having agonizing visions of crucifixion. Wounds appeared on his body out of nowhere. Wounds that refused to heal and coated his skin with the sickly sweet smell of roses.

Stigmata are said to be the marks of saints, but Dean is not a saint and the wounds are only the beginning.

kingdom come by ahurston, 8.7k, coda to 15x18. cas gets to go home. im gathering all the s15 fix-its to my heart and holding them close

Cas wakes up on the coast of Maine. He makes his way home.

hunger by ellispark, 10.8k, s13 au. dean grieves cas, post s12 finale. perfect writing perfect awful heartwrenching characterization so far on dean’s end especially towards jack. nuanced emotional writing

Dean takes his meal and throws it away, plate and all. He's not hungry. How can he even begin to eat, knowing what he kept from Cas — what he kept from both of them?

They could have had something, and now all Dean has is this gaping, empty hole in his stomach, in his chest, and he has to learn to breathe and eat and move around it.

the law of equivalent exchange by awed_frog, 60.8k, canonverse. cas loving dean in all permutations of humanity, throughout time.

“And what’s the point of it?”

“Of love? There isn’t one. Loving is its own purpose.”

NEWER FIC

“newer” just means “i discovered it in 2020/2021 after coming back to spn fandom” so it very well could have been published before 2015 but really who’s checking. not me that’s for sure.

💖 so says the sword by komodobits, 85k, s4 au. cas guards the michael sword in the beautiful room. this is easily the MOST obvious rec on this entire list but it was the first fic i read when i got back into spn this year and jesus christ it set the bar sky fucking high. the way they create a coherent mythology out of the mess that is spn canon is incredible.

The briefing was simple: ‘Stand guard over the Michael Sword until the battle is ready to commence. Await further instructions.’

Castiel doesn’t mind working security duty; he was briefed shortly after the initial salvation of the Sword from the pit, and again before taking up his position. He knows what to do. However, it’s easy to forget that the green room isn’t real. Time moves differently there, the space ever-changing to make a prison of mountains, cathedrals, salt flats, orchards, and whatever Castiel was led to believe about Heaven’s greatest weapon—Dean Winchester is something entirely unexpected.

assimilation by komodobits, 5.6k, coda to 12x01. mary meets dean and cas and they go to find sam. such good character studies of all three of them. the best mary pov fic i’ve read

Mary always thought you were supposed to be able to tell. That you could just look at someone and know they were – you know. One of that sort. It’s not supposed to happen to her son.

cuckoo and nest by komodobits, 10k, ambiguously canonverse. dean and cas navigate relationship anxiety. cute, in character, and their relationship is realistic and the conflict well-written and emotionally nuanced and really really really good.

For a long time, Castiel thought that every earthly possession other than the immediately necessary was excess to requirement. But Dean – Dean who named his car, who keeps a photograph of his mother in his wallet, some thirty-plus years after her death, who still has the crumpled ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign with a sleeping pelican emblazoned on it from the Microtel outside of Roanoke where he first kissed Castiel, clumsy and unsure, under the unsteady fluorescence of an exhausted bathroom bulb – is sentimental.

It puzzles Castiel, where Dean draws the line between what is meaningful and what it is worthless.

💖 one white lie by komodobits, 11k, au. cas panics when trying to ask dean out and has to fake being a jehovah’s witness. it’s adorable and hilarious and it’s been ages since i actually got butterflies at a kiss in a fic but this did it. it did it. it felt like someone swaddled my soul in a cashmere blanket and kissed me on the forehead

Castiel takes a deep breath and rings the doorbell. He doesn’t need to run through what he’s going to say – he’s already planned and edited and rehearsed it a thousand times. He is going to ask Dean Winchester out to dinner. If it’s not too forward, he’ll say, perfectly charming. You see, I’ve seen you around the neighbourhood and you always seem so earnest and I’d really like to get to know you bette— The door swings open, and Castiel panics.

He intends to excuse himself. He means to apologise and come back some other time. However, in a moment of blind fear, what comes out of his mouth instead are the words, “Could you spare a moment for Jesus Christ?”

a crash course in someone else’s history by annie d (scaramouche), 11.5k, set during s6. cas comes to as his s4 self without any memories of the past two years and has to figure out what the fuck is going on. it’s kind of like so says the sword. you’ll know it when you get to it.

Castiel is captured inside a trapping circle of holy oil set by Dean and Sam Winchester. The brothers call him "Cas", claiming that he has amnesia and that he is obligated to help them take down Crowley to atone for his betrayal of them. It's the strangest story Castiel's ever heard, and one he doesn't have time for because he's only just raised Dean from Hell and has work to get back to.

💖 cas and dean’s adventures in gardening by ahurston, 19k, post-canon au. a series featuring dean and cas living in the bunker, human. cas is very into plants. i read this yesterday actually and it made me smile SO much it’s just so lovely and sweet. i’m also a sucker for any fic where cas has a garden. he deserves a fucking garden okay

In this post-God world, everything is different. A little quieter, a little softer. Cas grows a garden, Dean cooks, and they take care of each other.

tall grass by aeli_kindara, 57k, post-s12. dean and cas live in the bunker on their own, and cas grows a garden. i did say i love fics where cas has a garden. plus domesticity, plus some good case fic, PLUS dean and cas’ relationship is so gentle and good

“I think we should have a garden,” Cas says.

Dean looks up from his beer. He hasn’t had that much to drink, but Cas still has a vague look of unreality about him, a splash of living color that doesn’t fit in the bunker’s echoing stillness. Dean didn’t hear him coming. A lot of the time, Cas is so unobtrusive it feels like Dean has the bunker to himself, with Sam away.

Dean shakes his head to clear it. “A — garden?” he repeats.

in a week by renrub, 2.3k, post 15x18. cas is in the empty. dean saves him. this is genuinely the best “dean pulls cas out of the empty” fic i’ve read so far like conceptually this entire thing just fucks. when cas is cycling through the barn scene. god. SO well written

Castiel is outside a barn covered in sigils. He frowns. This isn’t right. This has never been something he repented for.

i won’t even wish for snow by annie d (scaramouche), 5.6k, college au. cas goes to the winchesters’ for christmas. honestly scaramouche fics belong in the classics section bc she’s like an og deancas writer but whatever. mistletoe! banter! good in-character au! this fic’s got it all

It’s the third year that Castiel’s spending Christmas with his best friend’s family, and he expects it to be much like the previous two. Then mistletoe happens.

convenient husbands by annie d (scaramouche), 39k, canonverse au. cas is a phoenix, dean is a hunter. they get married and have a sick psychic bond. unexpectedly fluffy considering how the fic starts and i love the banter so much and dean/cas’ relationship gets fleshed out and organically developed it’s very cute

"It's only temporary, right?" Dean says. "Just until you're healed up, and then we'll never have to see each other again. So what do you say, Castiel, do you want to marry me or not?"

cinderwings by bendingsignpost, 181k, cinderella au. cas goes to a masquerade ball to save his people from an eternity trapped in a void. he meets prince dean. i can’t tell u how much this fic drew me in - thru good worldbuilding, but mostly thru cas’ social awkwardness. like it works PERFECTLY to his advantage in this fic and reading how expertly he manipulates social situations w/o any fucking idea what he’s doing is both hilarious and inspiring

Under the cover of a masquerade ball, Castiel has five nights to recover the key to his people's freedom. The world has changed greatly in the six centuries since their banishment into the void, but the task isn't impossible. Unfortunately for Castiel, this is going to involve talking to people - especially the Knight Prince who has taken an interest in Castiel and his "costume" wings.

as the crow flies by bendingsignpost, 3.4k, au. dean and cas go on a roadtrip. cas has wings! it’s so dreamlike and meandering and the slowburn is so good. honestly it reminds me of stevebucky/stevesam post tws era roadtrip fics if ur hip LMAO

Cross country road trips with Cas are the best.

long-term relationship by bendingsignpost, 2.7k, au. dean and cas have a Serious Conversation about their relationship.

Castiel says, budging over to make room for Dean on the couch, “I thought we should have a serious talk about our relationship.”

Reflexively, Dean laughs.

Castiel does not.

“Uh, Cas... you know we’re not dating, right?”

all this and heaven too by ftmsteverogers, 7k, ambiguously canonverse. dean is trans. dean and cas are fucking and lowkey hiding it from sam. perfect character study PERFECT trans dean fic it’s so fucking well-written

“Hey,” Dean said. “I’m not ashamed of you, okay?”

Cas raised skeptical eyes to meet his.

“I mean it,” Dean insisted.

“I understand you mean it,” Cas said. “But I don’t think it’s any better if you’re only ashamed of yourself.”

💖 the love story of the runner up by margo_kim, 4.7k, ambiguously canonverse. cas tries dating other men. bear with me here. this is an outside pov fic from an oc named miguel who is WONDERFULLY characterized and very endearing like i find outsider/oc pov to be on Thin Fucking Ice bc it always ends up as fandom/author self-insert but miguel is his OWN MAN. he gets his own lil arc and everything. dean and cas are concentrated perfectly crystallized versions of themselves and the little glimpses we get of them are amazing. ALSO i wrote like 9k of an spn vent fic (basically the same premise but w an oc named marcus) back in like. freshman yr of hs. so when i first opened this fic i was like what the fuck someone’s been in my google docs. very weird experience 10/10 regardless

“So you saw a white man in a trench coat pop out in an alley,” Paul says, “and you thought, what, ‘I want to see where this is going’?”

“If you get hung up on details like that,” Miguel says, “it will take a very long time to get through this story.”

For a very weird era in his life, Miguel dates an angel who is in love with another man.

sunshine by northernsparrow, 8k, set during s13. dean and cas have a long conversation about their Profound Bond. the description left me off-balance (it really. really truly says “dean is straight in this fic” like okay bro WEIRD hill to die on) but it pulled through w the relationship study and reassurance and snuggles. a sweet fic

One-shot with a single conversation between Dean and Castiel, set in a late-S13-ish world. Gabriel, Cas, Sam & Dean are all living in the bunker together, Gabe's been cracking certain jokes, Sam's found a certain book, Cas is injured and isn’t healing... and it's all making Dean wonder if his angel friend might have some sort of a "bond" with... somebody? Whatever that means.

Maybe it's time for a talk.

💖 still life by catchclaw, 16.5k, post-s8. cas, newly human, goes to live on his own for a while. he and dean maintain a relationship thru the phone. this is LITERALLY the only first person fic i fucking respect okay like i was skeptical! i really was! but the pov is PERFECT and also my man kevin tran is in this fic and i love him and miss him very much. oh and cas going off to explore humanity on his own..............perfect arc. very much in character we love that for him

Dean'd always thought that falling in love was a capital letter kind of thing, an Important Event you carved into the calendar of your life and never, ever forgot. But with he and Cas, it wasn't that simple.

it’s mostly cowardice, and bad timing by ferritin4, 1.6k, pre-canon. actually this one is just a dean study it’s not deancas but i spent an entire night looking for it and i need someone else to read it too. dean is smart!!! SAY THAT

Dean gets his GED.

a list of reasons the bunker shouldn’t get a sofa by lizbobjones, 5.6k, set during s12. sam and dean and mary and cas haul a sofa back to the bunker. cute domesticity and fluff

Let me count the ways that this is a terrible idea.

no kingdom to come by domesticadventures, 16.8k, canonverse. dean and cas deal with being stuck in quarantine in different ways. this is the one and only quarantine fic i’ve read and it’s really good lmao. dean and cas’ relationship is so organic and tentative in this one

“We should fuck,” Dean says.

Cas looks up from where he sits on his bed, hair still damp from the shower, frowning as he places a finger on the page of his book to mark where he left off.

There are a million things Cas could say here; Dean has rehearsed them. After lunch, his restlessness had given way to a vague panic, a dread that matched his every step and crept along with him from room to room. Eventually, he had returned to his bedroom and spent the rest of the afternoon pacing back and forth, playing out all the possible scenarios. When Cas asks him Why? or Are you being serious? or when he sighs and says, in that way he has, Dean, he knows exactly what he’s going to do. He’s going to shrug casually, like he isn’t invested in the answer, like he isn’t desperate for an outlet, and say, Why not? He’s going to raise an eyebrow and say, What, are you not interested? He’s going to crowd into Cas’ personal space, he’s going to shove himself right up in there and whisper Cas against his ear.

Instead, Cas says, carefully, “Okay.”

till the juice runs by deathbanjo, 8.4k, canonverse. it’s like dean’s being cursed to have bad hookups with men. SUCH a funny fic and the deancas tension is so simple and sweet and GOOD. plus cas is so enjoyably characterized here he’s so human and worn in and experienced in his own unique way. perfect use of rowena too

Apparently whoever drew up the venn diagram of Dean’s sex life decided the circle labelled ‘good sex’ and the one labelled ‘sex with men’ should be kept far apart.

turn of the year by kototyph, 3.9k, canonverse au. sam and dean get stuck out in the middle of nowhere on the winter solstice. what i wouldn’t give for a full 80k of this verse actually. also i went on a kototyph binge after reading shut up put your money where your mouth is and they have a SOLID spn repertoire

Fifteen minutes later, Dean gets back in the car with empty hands and ice in his fucking eyebrows. “Get the map out,” he says through chattering teeth, sticking numb fingers under his arms.

Sam holds up the battered 1995 Rand MacNally they keep in the side pocket, turned to a page of uninterrupted green. “We’re going to die,” he announces.

💖 bullets in the gun by kototyph, 4.9k, canonverse au. cas is a cop (i know. still) who gets kidnapped by dean in an unfortunate turn of events. GOD this fic is SO FUNNY. cas’ canny and strategic escape attempts render him a very active VERY funny pov character plus the hate attraction to dean is PERFECTLY WRITTEN VERY BELIEVABLE. dean’s kindness also shines thru even as he literally holds cas hostage like!!!! PERFECT characterization. both of them are so LIKABLE here. if you read anything on this list read this

“Sorry, sweetheart, but I’m going to need to borrow your car.”

as you will by kototyph, 1.8k, victorian au. cas endures a proposal mishap. it’s cute it’s funny it’s sweet!

"No?" Castiel echoes, dumbly.

and if i was looking too? by kototyph, 2.6k, au. cas is undercover where dean works. this fic is just so cute like. bird angels.................

There are some things Castiel hasn't told Dean, and there are some things he doesn't need to.

the most important thing by northernsparrow, 94.5k, s10 au. amnesiac cas raising claire until he comes across someone familiar. claire is so well characterized here i really loved her arc thruout this fic. she just wants her dad back and u can’t even blame her the author rlly does an amazing job creating realistic and heartbreaking motivations for her. oh and dean and cas (esp cas characterization!) are sweet in this but honestly the highlight IS claire for me

Jimmy Novak remembers nothing of the last six years. Reunited with his troubled daughter Claire, he's struggling to raise her on his own. The most important thing is to make Claire happy. But why does he keep having these dreams of wings, and of two men in a black car? (Canon-divergent from S10E11, when we first met Claire again and Dean was still struggling with the Mark of Cain. Takes places several months later).

there’s only one sure thing that i know by blinkiesays, 20.3k, post-s5. dean goes to help cas out in ohio and they end up building a home together. i love the writing it’s rlly funny and sweet.

Dean doesn't even get halfway through explaining before Bobby starts laughing. When he lets himself think about it for more than five seconds, Dean can almost see Bobby's point: he's faced down demons, witches, vampires, werewolves, ghosts, angels, and Satan himself and now he's been defeated by the God damn Midwest.

💖 to an angel, love and worship are the same thing by geminisage, 10.3k, post s15 fix it. dean grieves cas - and then cas gets brought back back from the empty. i didn’t have this in my bookmarks so i MISSED it the first time around on this list but this was another one of the fics i came back to spn fandom to. it’s so fucking unique?? it actually reads like spn like i think fic tends to soften dean/cas up and makes them more emotional + emotionally intelligent than is ever shown in the show. here the dialogue/characterization adheres RIGOROUSLY to their communication in canon in that dean’s not overtly emotional, and cas is very reserved. they have to negotiate their relationship exactly like they would in the show. it’s all clipped conversation and anger and hurt and (warning btw) LOTS of internalized homophobia on dean’s end but it’s SO worth it. dean navigating his [GESTURES VAGUELY] everything is compellingly written, emotionally true, and PERFECTLY characterized. cas characterization also amazing like u rlly feel the quiet devoted bittersweet love. ok this was long clearly it’s a good fic go read it now

Just as Dean knew they would, the weeks do stretch into months, and then into a year. Grief never gets easier, Dean knows from experience, but you do get better at it. After all, you can get used to anything.

the violin house by teh_helenables, 8.5k, post-s5. dean and cas build a home after stull. so slow and lovely and sweet and gentle. i need to put this here so that i don’t forget it tbh. it’s very much dean as a war wife cas as the husband away on the front

The Apple Pie Life is a slow process, but Dean and Cas are getting there—until Cas is called for battle and Dean is forced to wait.

💖 muscle memory by komodobits, 18.9k, au. amnesiac cas wakes up three years in the future with dean in his kitchen. komodobits DOES NOT FUCKING MISS!!! i CRIED at the end of this i had NO INTENTION OF CRYING the rest of the fic isn’t even SAD i just had to sit there at the end of it w tears dribbling down my face. INSANE work of art

Dear Castiel,

Hello – it’s Castiel. This must all seem very confusing, and I’m sorry for that. Dean says to tell you that this isn’t some kind of ‘time-travel stunt’, although I’m sure that won’t be your first thought. I know it wasn’t mine. I’ve told Dean to leave now, as this is my notebook and I want everything in it to come from me – or rather, from you. I know you think it's the fifteenth of January, 2010, but it isn't. At the time of my writing this, the date is the fourth of October, 2013. Dean Winchester is your boyfriend of a year and a half, and you no longer work at the library, and in early 2010 you were hit by a car and hospitalised. I’m sorry.

a.k.a the 50 First Dates Dean/Cas AU where Castiel wakes up on a day just like any other, except that three years have passed without his knowing, and Dean Winchester is in the kitchen wanting to marry him.

don’t forget the experience points by annie d (scaramouche), 10.8k, au. cas is sam’s work friend, and he and dean get to know each other. genuinely an adorable fic. i adore cas’ characterization in this it’s snarky AND awkward AND confident in a way that i absolutely believe he would be if he had 30 yrs of human life under his belt

It's because Dean was an awesome brother than he took such an interest in Sam's new friend. No, really. What happened afterwards was mostly an accident.

actus fidei by manic_intent, 5.6k, canonverse au. dean’s a priest, cas is still his angel. i was HOOKED from the description alone like That’s Everything I Love in One Sentence. Cool!!!!!!!!!!!!

On the very first time that Castiel manifests in front of Father Dean Winchester, he gets as far as "Rejoice, for you are blessed-" before Dean shoots him with a salt-loaded shotgun.

not with a bang but a yelp by strange_estrangement, 1.4k, canonverse. team free will leave yelp reviews. this isn’t d/c actually it’s just a crack-ish fic but the formatting is cool and the references are SO funny and so well done

What happens when you visit dozens and dozens of motels every year? You leave Yelp reviews.

the courtship of combat by bendingsignpost, 18.2k, medieval a/b/o au. cas is politically coerced into fighting in a courtship melee for prince dean's hand, and he teams up with two unexpected allies to do it. I KNOW HOW THE ABO THING SOUNDS but i swear it's done well - it's by bendingsignpost so ofc he puts his own spin on the premise. im absurdly into it. PLUS jack is in it!!!!!!! it's technically an unfinished series but the first part is so good just on its own

When pressed upon to mate for a political alliance, Commander Castiel dares to refuse his king. As “I do not wish to mate at all” is clearly the wrong thing to say, Castiel takes the other path and lies. “You must know my affections lie elsewhere, my king.”

King Michael studies Castiel’s face long and hard. Then, with a nod, he snaps his fingers, pointing to Castiel. “The Winchester omega.”

“Yes,” Castiel says with no real recollection of who that is.

The ruse of an unavailable omega works well enough, right up until that omega is no longer unavailable. Then, with what seems to be his entire nation cheering him on toward victory, Castiel must enter the melee to win his mate. Backed by allies, training, and his own natural talents, the only question is how well he can contrive to fail.

four letter word for intercourse by bendingsignpost, 194.7k, au. dean calls a sex hotline. OH BOY solid characterization excellent plot/premise like bendingsignpost is so good at turning absurd premises into realistic, believable fiction. also sex hotline fic is usually a BIG turn-off bc of the power dynamics/one-sidedness of a relationship based on sex work but. BUT. bendingsignpost does it well! it’s not weird at ALL i started reading and was immediately reassured abt its intentions and its plot direction

As a grease monkey turned college freshman, Dean's constantly three seconds away from being stressed out of his mind. It hardly helps that he's finally figuring out his sexuality in his thirties.

What might help with that stress is a little phone number (and a big credit card bill). If he can't figure out how to be bisexual in person, he can at least give it a go over the phone, right?

(It's probably a bad idea, but he really can't help himself.)

the tunnel of love by xylodemon, 21.4k, post-canon. case fic! dean and cas have to kiss on a loveboat to solve a case >:)

"We might," Cas starts slowly, pausing like he's choosing his words. "We might have to kiss."

Dean just stares at him.

when you have a future. by firebog, 17.6k, post-s8. dean and sam and cas learning to be human post-apocalypse. reminds me of robotmango’s writing! it’s kind of eccentric and very very sweet and funny.

Sam closes Hell. Castiel closes Heaven. The heroes save the day. There's no Heaven or Hell waiting to cause the next big disaster. There's no more end of the world. There's only a squirmy feeling in his chest that feels a lot like freedom. So, now what?

(Things I promise you in this fic: dog poetry, rabbits, and fluff)

six inch heels by alitneroon, 2.3k, canonverse. dean does drag! excellent fucking character study. prose is fantastic

Dean does drag on a whim, and ends up in way over his head.

sharing is caring by gateskeeper, 2.5k, canonverse. five times dean and cas shared something and one time they didn’t. look. sometimes u just need some saccharine tropey fluff. it’s VERY well written

Sam knows that Dean and Cas have shared a lot together, but ever since Cas became human permanently, it seems like they've been sharing a lot more.

Or: five times Dean and Cas shared something special and one time Dean refused to.

💖 empty spaces by schmerzerling, 60k, au. dean has to take care of his dying father, and takes up running to cope. that’s just the beginning. HEAVY trigger warnings for ED (specifically anorexia) and suicidal thoughts. there is a happy ending, but dean has to fight to make it there. god. okay. this is a dark fic. it’s also one of the most well-characterized fics i’ve ever read. dean’s spiral is excruciatingly accurate and written with the kind of wry compassion that comes from either extensive research or extensive experience. it’s also completely immersed in dean’s perspective - dean’s relationship w his dad, dean’s relationship w food scarcity, etc. it’s incredible. it’s kinda scary. it’s deeply sad. cas is explicitly autistic and it’s ALSO incredibly accurate and loving, and makes cas so true to his canon self. ugh. and i burst into TEARS at some of the accompanying art, which is so sparse and lonely and beautiful. 100/10 experience one of the best fics i’ve read this year

Dean is fine. The way he sees it, things are simple. He had a house and a family and food in his stomach, and now he doesn't. And yeah, that's a downer, but he's not going to let that stop him from being fine, because he's in control of the situation. He definitely doesn't need anyone to save him. And it's not like the weird guy with the nice butt from down the road is the knight-in-shining-armor type, anyway.

broken road by thegeminisage, 109.6k, 14x13 au. dean makes a wish and gets more than he bargained for. a lot of “john comes back” fics are kinda short on nuance, which this author has talked about a lot - and oh MAN does this fic deliver on nuance. john’s abuse is absolutely present, but his pov makes him a complex character instead of a flat caricature for dean to reject. and the way this fic resolves really makes it clear that the priority is dean’s emotional well-being over all else!!! this isn’t about dean taking the path fandom thinks he should take w his abuser (killing john, punching john in the face, etc), this is abt dean coming to terms w his abuse and finding his own emotionally satisfying way of resolving it. also dean and cas are in an established relationship and it’s very slow and sweet.

A 14.13 Lebanon rewrite. When Dean uses a wish-granting pearl to try and kill the archangel Michael before he can escape the cage in Dean's head, they instead wind up with a newly-resurrected John Winchester.

It's been more than a decade since John died, and a lot has changed: Mary is alive, Sam and Dean have what passes for a proper home in the Men of Letters Bunker, and they're living with angels. John doesn't know angels are real, he doesn't know about the fragile new relationship between Dean and Castiel, and most of all, he doesn't know that Dean said yes to Michael, or that Dean's plan to defeat Michael would send him to a fate worse than death.

Now Dean must contend with both his father asking questions he can't answer, and his loved ones learning about the darker truths of his childhood, all while constantly battling the archangel trapped inside him. But Dean coming to terms with his history may be the difference between this being the beginning of a journey—or the end.

home is not a place by imogenbynight, 6.8k, post-s11. human cas struggles with belonging, and dean struggles with their relationship. this reads a lot like komodobits’ cuckoo and nest, but it’s its own sweet little thing. they watch movies!!! very cute

In which Dean is the oblivious one for a change.

love: a retrospective by xylodemon, 40.7k, post-s12. dean tries to deal w cas’ absence after s12 and reflects on their relationship thru the years. this was written before s13 aired, so - no spoilers - but jack plays a different role than he ends up playing in canon. it’s kinda fun seeing ppl’s theories pre-s13 tbh. makes me VERY glad that they took jack in the direction they did in show. anyway this is THEE definitive “they’ve been fucking all along” fic

Pretending Cas is just his friend has been the only thing keeping Dean's head on straight for years. He never realized how much doing that depended on him making himself scarce in the morning ─ not until Cas came back and moved into the bunker.

✨💖 if it all fell to pieces tomorrow by spocklee, 37k, post-s15 fix-it. cas gets broken out of the empty - and he immediately makes a break for it. new fave fix-it!!!! the writing is so understated and so straightforward - SO in character for cas tbh - that every single emotional beat feels like a PUNCH. and there are so many amazing character moments it made my chest seize the fuck up!!!!! perfect characterization perfect relationship moments perfect cas/jack parenting moments. the yearning over the phone is OFF THE CHARTS and spocklee makes the most of that tension!!!! PLUS old canon characters get to make fun appearances!!!!! i cannot recommend this shit enough

After the Empty, Cas has to spend some time alone. Orpheus tries to convince Eurydice over the phone that it’s okay to turn around now.

✨ before and after breakfast by spocklee, 10.5k, post-canon. dean and sam and cas tackle a monster of the week case with unexpected consequences. perfect pov perfect relationship moments SUCH GOOD TENSION. again this writing style just lets the tension dial up to 1000% every word is meaningful and it makes my chest hurt!!! spocklee SHOULD have blown up during the spn renaissance and i STAND by that

The monster of the week is a ghost who hates meat, alcohol, and feeling yourself. Guess who it is during the commercials.

CLASSICS

isn't it cool how every person has diff fics they consider "classics?" anyway these are required fucking reading. if u've been around these will prob be old news.

💖 asunder by rageprufrock, 23k, au. dean and cas go to sam's wedding. i reread this once a year like a religious ritual.

Wherefore they are no more twain, but one flesh. What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder. (Matthew 19:6)

💖 the girlfriend experience by rageprufrock, 15k, set during s5. dean teaches cas how to be human. mostly the sex part. literally the gold fucking standard of s4-5 era deancas fic and for deancas fic in general, personally

While it's not like Dean hasn't had a couple of truly regrettable hit-and-runs in his sexual history, this is probably the saddest fucking thing that has ever happened to him.

okay, cupid. by orange_crushed, 4.5k, au. dean tries to sign up for an ok cupid profile and has a revelation. as soon as i put this entry down i realized this entire fic rec was an exercise in futility, because if i could i'd literally just rec everything orange_crushed/robotmango has ever written. still one of THEE best authors in this fandom. go read all her fics. i’ll put the highlights here

"The dating thing?" Dean frowns. "Online dating is for weirdos. Robots. Dudes hanging out in their basements."

"You hang out in your basement."

"I have an air hockey table down there,” Dean says, icily.

💖 pwp: pie without plot by orange_crushed and majorenglishesquire, 82k, post-s8. sam and dean and cas quit hunting for a little bit to open a bakery. this is my comfort fic. i love it so so much.

he is in the kitchen with flour on his hands and an apron and there is flour on his forehead and cas leans across the counter and wipes it off with his thumb and dean says "thank you" and cas says "you’re welcome" very seriously and later dean makes apple turnovers and he only ruins them a little and sam realizes it’s not a real hunt like four days into it and he lets dean stay undercover for like a week and a half or longer maybe way longer because he is such a good everything

💖 la cucina by orange_crushed, 4k, post-s8. dean gets into cooking for a newly human cas. it's so gentle and loving and kind and makes me tear up every time. YES food is a comfort item and expression of love for dean. no i don't want to talk about it

Dean turns around and Castiel is picking through the jars, turning them over carefully to read the labels, totally engrossed. Dean watches him.

"Is there," Dean says, "uh, anything in there you like?" Castiel looks up at him and then back at the apples, sitting in a basket on the counter in their golden skins, ripe and pretty. Castiel smiles up at Dean.

"I don’t know yet," he says.

today, your barista verse by orange_crushed, 13.6k, coffeeshop au. a series of short sweet lovely fics where cas is a barista and dean is a smitten customer. literally the only coffeeshop au i respect

"Is that-"

"My number," says Dean, because he's a fucking champion, he's cool, he's collected, he's Captain Smooth of the USS Smoothtania, that's right. He is definitely not leaning against the counter for moral support. Cas doesn't looked seduced or impressed, though. He does not look like a dude who just met Captain Smooth and wants to ride the loveboat. He looks puzzled.

fata morgana. by orange_crushed, 6.6k, post-s9. dean is the king of hell. bela and cas team up to find him. bela pov. yeah you fucking heard that right BELA POV. BELA AND CAS!!!!!!!!!! makes me lose my mind i love everyone in this stupid desolate fucking hell wasteland.

The endless asphalt and broken road, the empty land and piles of human garbage, the unwanted ends of life, the cracked toys and broken screens and burning cars and gravel. Dean Winchester is the king of hell.

"Oh," says Bela.

That changes certain things.

💖 gran fury. by orange_crushed, 5k, pacific rim au. sam and cas pair up in a last ditch mission to save the world. permanently damaged me at age 15 and i've never recovered. major fucking angst warning.

They sit in silence and Castiel passes him the bottle. There’s not much left to say. Sam takes a gulp and it burns going down, like the cheap shit it is. He holds the bottle up against the light. He can see the Fury through it, distorted like a funhouse mirror. She’s a tomb but Sam loves her. Loves everything that’s left.

"To the end of the world," he says.

"To the end of the world," says Castiel.

💖 shut up (put your money where your mouth is) by kototyph, 24k, au. dean and cas get drunk married in vegas. dean renovates cas' house. this fic is SO MUCH BETTER than i remembered/expected and the entire series is fucking adorable go read it RIGHT now

Dean's done some pretty stupid things, but getting drunk-hitched in Vegas to a colleague he barely knows might just take the cake. His surprise husband, Castiel, is a little weird but likable despite that, and Dean figures they’ll go back to Boston, get a quiet annulment, and go their separate ways. Six weeks later, he’s still married to one of the strangest, most genuine and definitely most dangerously lov-- likable guys he's ever known. Dean doesn't know why or really even how it’s happening, but it’s getting harder and harder to remember that he has divorce papers to file.

not part of the plan by annie d (scaramouche), 338k, arranged marriage au. cas is slated to marry a noble from the winchester house. things spiral out of control. if you’re looking for an extensive well-developed political au, this is fucking it. i love reading about political machinations so this was FASCINATING to me.

Castiel's spent most of his adult life keeping his head down and staying out of trouble. This is a deliberate choice on his part, because as a cousin of the King, he'd rather stay unimportant and forgotten. This changes abruptly when King Michael decides that he has a better use for Castiel: he is to be wed to a noble member of the neighboring Republic, as part of an agreement between their two nations.

Castiel knows he has to obey, but that doesn't mean he won't rebel in what small ways he can. Unexpectedly, his actions end up having far-reaching consequences.

💖 all things shining by askance and standbyme, 142k, au. sam and dean and cas go on a hunt that's not really a hunt, and against all odds good things happen. it's beautifully written and has scenes that literally make my heart leap out of my chest with joy and awe it's just WONDERFUL it's a wonderful fic. incredible mythology too omg i found that the authors actually created the myth the entire story is based on - like they don’t pull a random one from history, they made one up THEMSELVES. they even self-published it on amazon if ur curious

Something in the world is waking up.

It isn’t long before it’s brought to the attention of the Winchesters and Castiel: miracles are spreading across the country, the paranormal seems to be shrinking back on itself—and it all has something to do with the missing prayer book of a traveling preacher who died over a century ago.

Dean is convinced it’s all the lead-up to another Apocalypse; Sam and Castiel aren’t so sure. Regardless, it sends them out on a less-than-typical road-trip, following the Mississippi and remnants of a very old story that seems increasingly to call to them. And along the way the trio learn much more about themselves—and the consequences and origins of love—than they’d ever have anticipated.

💖 broadway musical by griftings, 12.4k, crack. romcom where cas is supposed to play matchmaker to dean and jo and well. you know. it actually made me cackle out loud when i read it again so you know it's still good. absolutely one of the funniest fics i’ve read

This is the day that marked the Holy and Blessed Union of Dean Winchester and Jo Harvelle.

The merging of prominent bloodlines is always a grand occurrence, but breeding pedigree hunter families like Winchester and Harvelle is something to be rejoiced. It is also something to be meticulously planned, which thankfully the Host is very good at.

Or, the romantic comedy where Dean Winchester and Jo Harvelle are destined to get married, Castiel is given the task of playing matchmaker and fails terribly, the entire Heavenly Host becomes a sitcom audience, God warns against male pregnancy, and Jimmy Novak is incredibly unimpressed with angels in general.

the five people you meet in heaven by chevrolangels, 22k, ambiguously canonverse. dean dies and goes to heaven and meets five people from his life. NOT a post-finale fic but still horrifically sad. i remember sobbing hysterically when i first read this so

Heaven is white.

Well. Isn’t that fucking stereotypical.

Dean isn’t really sure how he got here. Or even why he’s here. And hell, for all the times the Winchesters have died, he thinks he ought to know the drill by now. But what he doesn’t know is when most folks go, they find something different.

There’s a system God put in place. That when you’re gone (for good), there are a couple things you gotta do first. There are five people waiting for you.

They are the five people you meet in heaven.

any port in a storm by microcomets, 53k, post-s8. dean and cas go on a haunted cruise for a case. you know what happens next. also the art is by anobviousaside and it's gorgeous

The angels have fallen, leaving Castiel graceless and Dean with, well, more of other people’s problems. When a string of couples goes missing on the east coast, Dean and Cas decide to investigate—and find themselves trapped and hunted on a couples’ counseling cruise. Although battling monsters at sea is dangerous enough, sorting through emotional baggage proves to be far more deadly. (And, in which Cas embarks to find his missing grace and Dean is put out. Not necessarily in that order.)

a turn of the earth by microcomets, 95k, pre-canon au. cas is on the run from the empty and crash lands in dean's life. at one point he punches john in the face. a fucking beautifully written character study of pre-canon dean, honestly.

Dean’s your typical half-orphaned, monster-killing 22-year-old until a trenchcoated stranger crashes into his back windshield one September night, claiming he’s an angel that knows him from the future and that he’s on the run.

Frigging fantastic.

(Or, in which Castiel gets stuck in Dean’s timeline preseries and Dean kind of hates it—until he doesn’t.)

unfinished duet by microcomets, 5.8k, canonverse. sam observes dean and cas throughout the years. i remember this breaking my heart back in 2013!

Sam watches Dean and Cas over the years and notices a few things. (Or, Dean and Cas unscripted.)

💖 ergative/absolutive by glassedplanets, 8k, college au. dean and cas are best friends who meet in an astronomy class. i'm never not thinking about this fic it's so sweet and the friends to lovers is so soft and believable

He really shouldn’t be thinking thoughts like this about his best friend who literally just broke up with his girlfriend, but he knows he’ll blame it on sleepiness in the morning. He always does.

a certain light by flightagain, 24k, au. cas works at the gas n sip. dean is a customer. this author’s writing style is so lonely and heavy but it’s very lovely

Castiel works at the Gas-n-Sip. There are half-price nachos and flickering lights, there are office-workers and werewolves stopping by for snacks. Dean is a frequent customer, and his office might be haunted.

the one thing you can’t lose by majorenglishesquire, 5k, ambiguously canonverse. dean can pull cas around and it’s adorable. character study-ish. very sweet.

You know what I like a lot? The thought that Dean can just tug Cas anywhere at any time and Cas, who can lift tons without effort, who can demolish things with the light of his grace, who has battled and gone to war, has defended and broken, will just let Dean do it.

brother lover by twentysomething, 4k, set during s4/s5. dean’s jealous of sam and cas’ budding relationship. this fic is so tropey but it does it well and it’s funny as fuck

However- and it doesn't happen a lot- they have to invoke 'I saw her first.’

his fucking kids by 8sword, 3k, canonverse au. dean and cas raise claire and emma together. yes, claire novak. yes, emma of 7x13 spice girls fame. this was the first kidfic i read for spn i think. obvs written before jack or claire actually came back into the picture but it was the TEMPLATE of kidfic for me for ages

Jesus, the school should just have a parking spot labeled, “Reserved for the Novak-Winchesters,” because Dean’s getting sick of having to cruise around the parking lot looking for a spot every time he gets a call from the principal about Emma.

💖 what has eight tentacles and isn’t allowed to eat pie? by annie d (scaramouche), 16k, post s8. dean gets turned into an octopus. another fic that was SO MUCH BETTER than i remembered i fucking love when that happens. it isn’t even about dean being an OCTOPUS like NO. NOT EVEN. it’s ACTUALLY about the bunker and building a home and a community and a family and about PHYSICAL COMFORT and you can actually feel the world expanding at the end of this fic like a gusty sigh of relief it’s SO WONDERFUL. kevin is in this fic. ellie is too and i had to look her up but THIS is her!!!! danay garcia u were too hot to stay on this show but i love you and miss u

Dean watched an anime porn about this once, but real life turns out to be way less interesting.

Or, the one where Dean gets turned into an octopus.

💖 a beginner’s guide to communing with the dead by suspiciousflashlight, 77k, canonverse au. dean is a cop who summons a powerful entity to help him solve a cold case. oh my god i can’t believe i didn’t put this on here i love this one so much. the writing bowls me over it’s so confident in its worldbuilding like you’re IMMEDIATELY plunged into dean’s pov (FLAWLESSLY executed throughout the fic btw) and you just learn about the world as you go!! and it’s such a fascinating world!!! i love the magic i love the typical bureaucratic red tape procedures i love normalizing the supernatural. i ESPECIALLY love monsters as normal people in a society. at one point there’s this exchange

“Monsters,” says Cas finally. “Beyond the Wall there are monsters.” “You mean, like, vampires and djinn and stuff?” Cas shakes his head. “Those aren’t monsters, those are just people.”

those lines have stayed with me for years. i think about them every time i rewatch an episode of spn.

Maybe it's the little girl whose disappearance turned into a murder, and whose murder turned into a cold case, and who has now apparently decided to move in with him. Maybe it's the unacceptable hole left in his life when his dumb best friend and partner in (the prevention of) crime decided to go and get himself killed. Maybe it's his brother, whose high-profile career and fantastic girlfriend and first-child-on-the-way are steadily leaving Dean in the dust. Pick one. Pick all of them. The why doesn't matter so much as the what, and the what is this: Dean is pretty sure he's going completely, certifiably insane. Sure, he hasn't started wearing all his clothes inside out, and he still showers on a regular basis (anyways, that's not crazy, just a little eccentric); but there's no getting around the fact that he just threw away his life, his career, and his reputation by dragging out his mom's old necromancy book and summoning a Class A Forbidden Entity to his attic. A cranky one, too. With horrendous bed-head.

dean’s list by almaasi, 3k, canonverse. dean makes a list. short and sweet. i read this so much in 2015 that it literally got engraved into my brain line by line and rereading it caused synapses to fire that havent felt anything in years

Dean writes out a list of men he would go gay for. Sam has a suggestion to make.

💖 the path of fireflies by museaway, 63.7k, post-s8. dean and cas open a charming bed and breakfast in vermont. no, literally. another CLASSIC. i think about the food in this fic all the time...........maple bacon baked french toast......the cinnamon rolls.....it literally sounds so good

After his humanity is restored, Dean wakes up in bed with Castiel, a wedding ring, and no memory of the past twelve years.

long nights in cold months by pyrebi, 2.3k, au. dean’s an insomniac and cas works at walmart. i forgot i had this fic ALSO basically memorized. holy shit. pineapple in the fruit aisle.....................anyway it’s short and sweet and the “plot” resolves in such a satisfying way

When you're an insomniac, you get used to the "what the hell are you doing up, man?" look. Dean just hopes the guy who's stocking the shelves will stop giving it to him long enough to help him find some damn pineapple.

incredibly single & ready to mingle by imogenbynight, 3.6k, au. dean and cas meet on facebook. short cute au!!!!!!

Sam uses Facebook like the social media junkie he is. He's befriended literally every person he's ever had a conversation with since he got an account, which means that approximately—Dean checks—eight hours ago, he shared this horrible photo with something in the vicinity of nine hundred people. The caption below the picture reads “incredibly single & ready to mingle ;)” and roughly half of them have liked it.

Dean has never been so embarrassed in his life.

💖 unknown quantities by xylodemon, 8.5k, post-s8. after a post-case tryst, dean has to figure out his and cas’ relationship. human cas fics hold a special place in my heart. funny AND good dean pov AND a misunderstanding that i actually think works!!!!!

No one ever tells Dean anything.

(or: Dean Winchester and the not-relationship crisis of 2014)

#spn fic #spn #dean x cas #this is horrifically long actually.

28 notes · View notes

nataliedanovelist · 3 years

Text

GF - How A Star Is Born ch.XI

A Hercules AU, founded by @evaroze, whom this fic is a gift for. This is the last chapter, so I truly hope you all enjoyed this fun AU, and thank you from the bottom of my heart for your support!

(Also, a small cameo for @lemonfodrizzleart is in here, so I hope you enjoy!)

ch.X

AO3 link

~~~~~~~~~~

Stan could feel the familiar pressure on his chest when Dipper and Mabel defeated the monster. He did everything he could to keep it at bay until the kids left; they would have stayed, and Bill would have won. Ford might get hurt, so Stan made sure they didn’t know and that they left him.

The second they were gone a powerful wave of pain flared his chest and he sank. Pacifica helped him lie down comfortably against some smooth boulders, unsure if it was safe to move him, and held his hand as he had to endure another heart attack.

Stan’s mind was hazy, but he reminded himself that he was okay with this. He was okay. Dipper and Mabel were gonna in. They got to see each other face to face! Dipper would get to meet Ford, and one day he would get to be with them forever. Heck, Stan even got lucky enough to meet his niece, who he already loved just as much as he loved Dipper. And Ford… he might have been a huge jerk, but he would have liked to see him again. Oh, well. It’s not like Ford would want to see him again.

The old trainer winced and groaned as he could feel his breath being taken away.

Mabel had Gompers go as fast as he could back to Thebes. She, Ford, and Dipper were terrified of what they would come to, but they had to see him again, they had to!

Gompers stopped right where he had picked the young pair of twins up for battle and were distributed to find Stan lying down, he never lied down! Pacifica turned to them, shaking her head and moving aside so they could see how deadly still and pale Stan was.

Ford instantly collapsed onto his knees by his brother’s side. He shook his head, refusing to believe it, and carefully took his hand. “Stanley,” He muttered quietly. “Stanley, it’s me, your brother.”

Mabel was on her knees next to Ford, trembling like a leaf and already crying. “G-G-Grunkle Stan… please…”

The ruler of the gods scooped his brother up and was distraught when his head fell limp to the side. Ford helped his head lay on his strong arm, tearfully begging and holding his twin close to his fast-beating heart. “Come on, Stanley. P-Please! Wake up! Stanley!” He sobbed and bowed his head, cradling his brother and distraught to find him already cooling down. Ford had never been there for his brother when he needed him to be.

Mabel took Stan’s free, limp hand and kissed it through her tears, then rubbed Ford’s back as he cried freely. Stan appeared much more pale in comparison to the gods that held him close, who shined and glowed like gold. Ford freed an arm to bring her niece closer, and the two held the family member they had so desperately wanted to be reunited with and now would never have a chance to.

Dipper was standing right behind them, shaking with his fists clench. He turned away and sniffed, trying to keep it together, a tiny toxic voice telling him to keep it together and be a man. But the fact that the ruler of the gods was sobbing his heart out behind was enough to help Dipper shed a tear or two, but he couldn’t help but cover his eyes with a hand.

Pacifica hesitated, and then patted his shoulder. “I’m… I’m so sorry, Dipper.” She croaked and glanced back at the broken family. “There’s… some things you just can’t change.”

Scowling and determined with fire in his eyes, Dipper lifted his head and dropped his hand from his eyes. “Yes I can.” And he and Pacifica were gone before Ford or Mabel could realize they were going and they were too busy to notice their disappearances.

~~~~~~~~~~

“WE WERE SO CLOOOOOSE!”

Bill was on a rampage. Now completely alone with no allies and only a sad underworld for his lair, he released his fury by blasting everything in sight with fire. Gideon was well hidden and letting his boss let his anger out, getting fed up of being under the triangle’s thumb and looking for a way out of this; If Pacifica can get her freedom, maybe he can, too.

Bill floated to a window overlooking the underworld, cooling down, but still furious. “We were so close, we tripped at the finish line, WHY?! All cuz that worthless conartist had to teach that twerp a thing or t-...”

The doors crumbled at the punch of the young hero, accompanied by his little tour-guide, Pacifica, who scowled at the demon with a gleam in her eye. “Where’s Stan?” Dipper growled.

Bill smiled at his visitors. “Ah, Pinetree and Llama, underworld’s a great place for a date, isn’t it?”

“Let him go.” Dipper demanded, charging at the demon and grabbing him by his stupid black toga.

Bill rolled his eye and plucked the human’s hands off him. “Get a grip, kid. Here, lemme show you around. C’mon.” And he had a hand on Dipper’s shoulder and walked with him out of Bill’s study, with Pacifica and Gideon curiously following them.

Bill took Dipper to a river of green death, with hundreds of thousands of souls swimming around. Towards the top, was Stan. Peacefully sleeping in his armor and cape, his soul torn and war-worn, but there he was.

“Stan!” Dipper called and reached for him, but the green liquid made his hands burn and age.

“Ah ah, you can look but you can’t touch.” Bill laughed. “You see, Stan’s got a new place here. He’s gonna be in this river, floating for eternity.”

Dipper did some quick thinking, watching Stan float farther away, and an idea came to him and he glared at Bill. “You like making deals. Take me in Stan’s place.”

“Hm.” Bill poked his face as he mockingly gave it some thought. “The great-nephew of my hated rival trapped forever in a river of death.”

“Going once…”

“In exchange for an old man who’ll probably die again next week.”

“Going twice…”

“Okay!” Bill interrupted. “Okay, okay, okay. If you can get him out, he can go, but you have to stay. Good luck, hero.”

Dipper looked back at the river he could easily step into. Stan was farther away now, almost around a riverbend, so the brave young man took in a deep breath and cannon-balled into the River of Death and swam for his uncle’s soul.

“Oh, you know what slipped my mind, you’ll be dead before you can get to him.” Bill called after him. “That’s not a problem, is it?” He cackled.

Dipper knew Stan was right, but if this would give Ford and Mabel a chance to be with him, if only for a short amount of time, so be it. Twins shouldn’t be separated forever.

The instant he jumped in, Dipper began dying rapidly. Not even aging, having a moment’s peace of being in his thirties, forties and fifties. His body seemed to instantly jump to his sixties and then slowly crawl upward. Stan was still so far away, but Dipper kept pushing, thinking of his family crying over Stan’s body. He had to do this. This had to work. Now aged to a hundred-year-old man, frail and at the brink of death, he reached for his uncle’s hand, just as they turned a corner on the river, hidden by a cavern.

Bill grinned at his victory, but his joy was short lived. Bright golden light shined. Bill’s eye was wide with horror and he watched as a true hero walked on the River of Death, carrying his trainer in his arms. “This… This is impossible! You can’t be alive, you’d have to be…”

“A god?” Pacifica and Gideon asked.

Bill roared in fury as he turned red, small and child-like as he kicked and screamed in the air.

Dipper’s skin now glowed golden, like his great-uncle and twin sister. He was sure and determined, clever, and healthy and youthful. And though he was grateful to have his godhood restored, he was still focused on getting his family together.

“Dipper, stop! You can’t do this, you can’t…” And Dipper punched Bill so hard in the face that his eye fell inward into his triangle body.

Bill recovered shortly, popping his eye back into place and chuckling nervously as Dipper walked away. “Okay, I deserved that. Pinetree, can we talk? Your uncle, Sixer, he’s a fun guy! Y’know, m-maybe you can put in a good word with him and we can just blow this whole thing off, huh?” Not seeing any reassurance, Bill went for his last desperate attempt to save his bricks. “Eh, Stan. Stanie, c’mon, talk to your kid.” And he cupped the soul’s cheeks.

At that, Dipper lost his patience and punched him so hard that Bill flew right into the river. Souls instantly latched onto him, and at his annoyance, he was dragged into the depths of death.

“Oh, he’s not gonna be happy when he gets outta there.” Gideon fretted at the edge of the river.

“You mean,” Pacifica gently elbowed her old working buddy and asked slyly, “If he gets out of there.”

Gideon lit up and grinned. “If… If is good.”

“You know,” Dipper said coolly, and the two looked at him. “I think this place is gonna need a new ruler of the underworld. But I think it should be someone who knows just how important life is, so death becomes more comforting.”

Gideon gasped and had an idea, so excited about it he swatted Pacifica’s arm and yelled, “OH! Oh oh oh oh OH! C’mon, c’mon!” And he dragged Pacifica to a special section of the underworld.

Dipper followed behind with Stan still in his arms and Gideon took them to the throne room. Years ago, Gideon watched Bill press a stone on the left side of the door to reveal where he kept a small amount of poison to turn gods mortal. Today, Gideon felt around for a stone on the right side of the door that could be pressed. After a few seconds, he found it, pressed, and a door opened to reveal a cave much like the last, except for oozing purple poison, a bottle of golden elixir awaited them.

“I knew it!” Gideon grabbed the bottle and held it out to Pacifica. “Here! Take it! Be the new god of the underworld!”

“What?!” Pacifica pushed the outstretched bottle back. “No, not me…”

“I think you should.” Dipper reassured. “You helped save my family twice today. You helped those kids. You clearly value life the way you should. I think you’d make a great goddess.”

“And I’ll be there to help you!” Gideon volunteered. “I know a lot about this place, I just… erm, let’s just say I’ve proven to be an awful boss in the past, k’?”

Pacifica played with her hair nervously, still unsure, but the smile from her friends was just enough, and so she snatched the bottle and took a swing before she could change her mind.

~~~~~~~~~~

Dipper carefully walked back to Thebes with Stan’s soul in his arms. He was reminded of so many times when Stan would pick him up from the dining table full of work and take him to bed. Stan had been his family for so long, that to know they were blood was actually very exciting. On top of which, if Dipper understood the rumors correctly, Stan was once a god, ubt lost his godhood, too. If Dipper can get his back, there must be a way to get Stan’s back. Even if he was a god now, Dipper was determined not to leave Stan’s side until he also earned his godhood. Family sticks together.

Mabel and Ford were still holding onto Stan, just as Dipper left them. Mabel was the first to notice the footsteps, to look up, and to gasp at not only Stan’s soul, but the fact that Dipper glowed like gold, like she and Ford did. She squeezed Ford’s shoulder and he finally took notice, gasping at his nephew.

Mabel scooted back a little bit to give Dipper some space, but Ford refused to let Stan go. He merely loosened his hold so Dipper could gently place the soul down onto the body, and then they waited with Dipper on one knee and Mabel scooting closer again.

It only took a moment. Stan took in a deep breath and let it out far easier than he had in years, and his color returned far brighter than before. Dipper gasped at how he sparkled and shined, and Ford and Mabel grinned to know their hope was proven correct.

Stan blinked once or twice, confused, but beyond amazed to see his entire family surrounding him. He quickly noticed the tears and sat up a bit, concerned, “Whoa, hey, is this an audience or a mosaic?”

“STANLEY!” Ford cried out and threw himself into his brother so hard they both fell into the ground, but neither cared. Stan chuckled nervously and tightly hugged his twin while Ford began to cry again. “St-Stanley! I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry! I should’ve…”

“Aw, c’mon, Sixer,” Stan rubbed his shaking back. “It’s okay, it all worked out.”

“I almost lost you…”

“Well, you didn’t.” Stan loosened his grasp to better look at his nephew, and Ford turned to grin proudly at him as well. “Thanks to that knucklehead. HEY! Wait a minute! You jumped into the River of Death?! That was stupid, don’t you dare lemme catch you risking your life for mine, kid! I’m old! I go first!”

Dipper laughed and gestured to Stan. “That’s never gonna happen.”

Stan looked down at himself and flexed his arms and hands, his eyes wide. “Whoa hey! Kid, you did it!” He looked back up at Dipper, finally noticing that he was also glowing, and he jumped to his feet and cheered. “YOU DID IT! You’re a true hero! I trained a true hero! We’re gods again!”

Mabel jumped into Dipper’s arms and hugged him. “I’m so proud of you guys! I KNEW you could do it!”

Ford chuckled warmly and helped his twin up to his feet. “Come, let us go home.”

Mabel whistled and Gompers lowered himself so the family of gods could ride the giant goat back to Olympus.

At the mountain top, just inside the newly repaired gates, the gods and goddess awaited to congratulate the newcomers. Fiddleford blew his trumpet loudly with joy; Hazel, the goddess of spring, tossed flowers every which way; Jackie, the goddess of Summer and Romance, winked at Stan, who ran a hand over his gray hair and threw her a sly smile; Pacifica and Gideon were there, too, Pacifica glowing a peaceful light-blue color to go with her white tiara and baby-blue dress with white sash. Dipper couldn’t help but smile at Pacifica; maybe someday she could earn his trust.

The gods entered their new home and Mabel caught something happening to the night sky. She gently elbowed her brother and pointed up to the sky, and their uncles also looked upward. The Faiths had manipulated the cosmos to tell the new story, and they all watched as the stars formed into the shape of a dipper, the exact same shape on Dipper’s forehead. Beside the new constellation, a shooting star graced the dark inky sky.

“Hey, that’s Stan’s boy!” Hephzie, the goddess of autumn and harvest pointed out.

Stan blinked his eyes dry and let Mabel hug him around the neck from behind, patting her hands. Ford put a hand on his left shoulder, and Stan pulled Dipper into a soft noogie. Together, the loving family watched the beautiful sky.

Just remember, in the darkest hour, Within your heart's the power For making you A hero too!

So don't lose hope when you're forlorn! Just keep your eyes upon the skies! Ev'ry night a star is, Right in sight a star is, Burning bright a star is born!

#GF #gravity falls au #fanfiction #hercules #dipper pines #mabel pines #grunkle ford #grunkle stan #death #just kidding #stangst #happy ending #gift #Thanks for reading!#seriously thank you all!!!#I hope you liked it!

15 notes · View notes

problems-of-immortality · 3 years

Note

[🪀] what was your muse’s childhood like? how did their upbringing affect them? (for Sahren)

Oh wow, this will be a lengthy one, still one of my favorite questions for him, so thank you! I'm going to write this with a lot of detail so even people who haven't played can understand, as the lore is very extensive and convoluted and it is some chunky sections of that lore that shapes his upbringing and his entire personality. Also a fair amount of it takes up heavy content, so check the tags before reading to make sure you are comfortable reading. Sahren grew up in Dalish culture, essentially nomadic clans that live away from human settlements because of major cultural disagreements. Most of Thedas believes that mages should be locked away because of their power, and their ability to reach their minds across the Veil when they sleep makes them susceptible to being influenced or possessed by the denizens of the Fade. The entire world and all of it's cultures have some degree of fear of mages. Dwarves don't have them, but Qunari essentially enslave their mages, the Tevinter Imperium is run by mages that are too power hungry, and humans trap theirs in tower colleges. Dalish clans don't like interacting with humans for a multitude of reasons, but the main reasons are: Dalish clans consider mages to be a risk but also necessary to lead the clan as Keeper, the clan's diplomat, the leader, and the mage healer of the clan. They are the only group besides the Imperium to give mages freedom. But because they wander Thedas with no homeland, they have to avoid humans for long periods or else risk situations where humans under the Chantry deem them to be blasphemous to the Maker and try to convert them or kill them. The Tevinter Imperium still has a slave trade, and elves make up an overwhelming majority. The Dalish in the long forgotten past used to rule all of Thedas as a magical utopia with an advanced culture of people that never died and all were mages, but for mysterious reasons the humans came along, and the Dalish believe that the fall of this nation made them lose their immortal lifespans to become mortal, and then enslaved, which caused them to lose most of the knowledge of Arlathan. (The name of their nation) Different clans take different approaches to humans, but most are wary of them. Sahren's clan had bad experiences with the Tevinter Imperium because they lived much farther north, closer to the border with Tevinter. There were skirmishes with his clan twice in his life, and both he ended up losing a loved one, to. His mother was his clan's Keeper, Thalia, and his father Athras the head ranger. It was expected when Sahren was born that he'd become her First when he developed magic, and eventually succeed her. When he was four, she gave him a large book in which he would write all of his knowledge, but he passed the age where he would develop magic without so much as creating a spark. That same day came a kid his age that Sahren grew to love dearly, came into the clan after his own was destroyed. Feladara, with auburn hair and honey gold eyes. Feladara ended up developing magic instead. Sahren really tried not to be bitter. His mother let him study longer, even though only the keepers could really study all of the lore they had. But then tragedy happened- Some bandits came along while Thalia was out with just Sahren and Feladara at 10, gathering herbs with her. She convinced Feladara to run back to camp just as she heard them nearby, but Sahren refused to go.They tried to demand that Thalia tell them where the clan was camped, but she calmly tried to diffuse the situation and convince them to go elsewhere. They call Thalia a knife ear, so Sahren runs up and kicks one of them in the shin, and ends up becoming a hostage. His mother had a different opinion than the normal views on the denizens of the Fade, because she actually understood their nature, and was friends with a Spirit of Loyalty. So she fuses with the spirit and together they fight off the bandits, killing all of them to defend her clan and her child. When she does, she goes to hug Sahren, and because she secretly taught Sahren the ways of the spirits, he isn’t afraid. But then Feladara comes back with Sahren’s father, Athras. A more superstitious person than his wife, he immediately assumed she was a typical abomination, and thought she was going to kill Sahren, so he struck her through the heart from the back with an arrow. Sahren never forgave him for that. After her death, Athras more aggressively tried to make Sahren learn how to be an archer instead, going down his path instead of his mother’s. A retired Keeper from another clan became the new Keeper for Clan Lavellan, and Feladara became her First. So Sahren would skip his lessons to hang out in the Keeper’s aravel with Feladara, learning whatever Feladara was learning. The new Keeper enabled it for some time, but eventually Sahren’s father found out where he was going and forbade him from entering the Keeper’s aravel, grounding him to staying in camp for a week. It was then he noticed all the stares, and the whispers. “Abomination’s child”, “he’s going to end up like her even without magic”. None of the other kids wanted to hang out with him, and Feladara was too busy with lessons. He quickly found that the rest of the clan didn’t like him, and that ended up souring his opinion of most of them. It made him a really angry teenager- When the week ended, Sahren took to hiding in the woods outside the camp instead of sleeping in camp. He refused to bunk with anyone, instead sleeping in the trees. It led to quite a few falls at first, but then it became impossible to knock him out of a tree. Feladara found him first, and then they began to hang out together at night, talking for hours about nothing and everything- magical theories and theories about the stories that remained of the Creators, the Forgotten Ones, and the Dread Wolf. In return, Sahren teaches Feladara how to use daggers. (The elven pantheon) Sahren picked up a lot of words from these exchanges that belonged to the old language of Arlathan. He laces them in Common often, like “Ma serannas” as thanks, “Ir abelas” as I’m sorry. Learning the meaning of family names: Feladara’s simply was the old name for the herbs they gather the most (elfroot), his own name meant “One who commands respect”. His father’s meant “Half in shadow”. He picks up many more words and names during the events of the game, and when he drinks from the Well of Sorrows ( Vir’abelasan ) he sometimes speaks completely in the old language because of the voices of the elven scholars who placed their knowledge in the Well. (There’s a person who created an entire lexicon on the language to fill in the gaps that the actual games left, I reference this and the game all the time) They end up falling in love over time. Eventually, when they both turn 18 and receive their vallaslin (tattoos on their faces, right of passage for Dalish elves. It means “blood writing”) Sahren and Feladara end up confessing their love to one another and marrying each other privately in the Dalish way, by exchanging hand crafted gifts and then tying each other’s wrists together with a ribbon. When Sahren told his father, there was an uproar. Sahren assumed it was because his father was homophobic, but in reality, Athras didn’t want him to marry a mage after what happened to his wife, worried the situation would repeat itself. About a year or so later, tragedy strikes yet again. This time, slavers attack the clan because they got too close to the Tevinter border for too long. Athras gives himself up to them after some fighting so they leave the rest of the clan alone. Sahren comes to the clan, smelling blood and ash. Feladara convinces him to save his father, but in the fighting when they catch up, Feladara dies in Sahren’s arms. Sahren becomes incredibly distant and unapproachable, always sleeping alone on the outskirts of camp whether he’s hunting or not, and begins to drink alcohol often to numb his feelings. The worst part: he gets drunk in trees and high places. He never falls from the trees, though- he considers them places of safety, away from other people who see how bitter he is and avoid him anyway. Over the course of the game he gradually mellows out, makes friends, drinks less. But the game just gives him the worst luck based on his choices, and the backstory I wrote myself for him gives him reason for those choices. So he’s surprisingly open about spirits, interested in learning new lore about his own culture from Solas, even becoming friends with him, and with nearly everyone else, even Cassandra and Cullen, who are very Andrastian in their faith.

He goes from being blamed for the explosion to being praised as the Herald of Andraste, sent by the Maker Himself to save Thedas. The worst part is, he doesn’t even believe in the Maker and hates the Andrastian faith, but no matter how often he forces himself into a Dalish figure and acts deliberately blasphemous while denying that he is the Herald people still praise him as Inquisitor and later on, ask him who should lead the Chantry. He absolutely loathes the role, and the way people look at him because of it. His inner circle is full of interesting, loyal people of all races and walks of life, and somehow, despite his prickly nature he ends up befriending them all, while successfully saving the world for a time. I’m going to cut this short before it turns into an entire biography, haha!

#tw alchoholism #tw emotional abuse #tw: bad parenting #tw religious trauma #tw: religious themes #dragon age #dragon age inquistor #dragon age inquisition #tw violence #tw fictional slavery #tw fictional death #tw slavery mention #tw: witnessing a parent's death #tw: homophobia mention #v: Oh Father I'm Not You #v: The Path That Leads Astray #Sahren Lavellan

2 notes · View notes

con-fection · 3 years

Text

ASHES TO ASHES | jim moriarty x reader | part 2/13

Word count: 4.7K

"Sherlock," John says, for what is quite possibly the third time in a row. He sighs in frustration, his eyes darting between Sherlock's phone, which is set on the kitchen counter and has been ringing incessantly for the past half hour, effectively disrupting the peace in 221B, and Sherlock himself, who is positioned on his armchair, his elbows on his knees and his hands interlocked in front of his face.

"Not now, John. I'm thinking." Sherlock shakes his head, his eyes narrowing slightly, focusing in on something imperceptible.

"Right, well, I'll get it shall I?" John says, mostly to himself. He rises from the sofa, striding over to the kitchen to grasp the phone. "Hello? Oh, hi Greg. No, no, he's here. He's thinking. Yes, I'll let him know. Yes, thanks. Bye."

John turns around, eyeing Sherlock and waiting for any form of reaction. He doesn't even blink. His spine remains ramrod straight, but the tips of his fingers are twitching slightly, tapping rhythmically against his knuckles. He'd been trapped in a cycle of thinking and tossing away clients since he had last seen Moriarty - it was rather disturbing.

"Sherlock," He tries again. John really is one of the only people that Sherlock depends on, or even tolerates, and he's probably one of the only people that can tell when something has really got to Sherlock. Moriarty is under his skin, he has been in some way for years, starting with the murder of Carl Powers, and culminating with the bombs.

"Not now, John. I'm - "

"Thinking. Yes, I know that." John snaps slightly, huffing. The frustration is evident in his voice, but he shakes it off quickly, disregarding it in favour of a calmer, more patient tone. "Greg just called - "

Sherlock finally blinks, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion. His gaze finally diverts from his interlocked hands to John. "Who?"

"Greg Lestrade, the man who you've worked with for literal years. You have known him longer than you have known me. You have a case." John explains.

Much like any knowledge of the solar system, Lestrade's name is simply deleted from Sherlock's mind, redacted on the basis of it being irrelevant. To John, it seems painfully rude, but to Sherlock, it's an everyday practice - he constantly filters out information that he deems not to be useful enough, disregarding it and then replacing it with something new, something more useful. Something smart, something interesting. And as far as Sherlock is concerned 'Greg' is neither of those things.

"Why didn't you just say so?" Sherlock looks mildly surprised, letting his hands drop and standing up, rising from his armchair. "And I think you mean that we have a case, John."

"Yes, alright, we." John begrudgingly agrees, tossing Sherlock his phone. The taller man catches it with ease, before shrugging his coat on and stuffing it into a pocket.

---

"So, ah, what happened?" Is the first thing that tumbles from John's mouth as he and Sherlock enter Lestrade's office at the police station. The door swings shut behind them, but he can still sense Donovan's burning stare at his back, piercing through the door.

Lestrade is sat at his desk, a collection of pictures strewn around him, haloed by sunlight spilling in from the window behind him. Some of the pictures have been pinned to a corkboard on the wall, connected to each other by thumbtacks and neon-coloured string. He looks rather thankful for Sherlock's presence, his shoulders sagging instantly in relief.

"Right, well, murder and arson." Lestrade says, turning one of the pictures around. Sherlock and John quickly crowd around it, both vying to see the charred skeleton of a house.

"That doesn't look much like London." John says, squinting slightly.

"Well, it's not really London London, you know? It's only London technically." Lestrade supplies, shrugging slightly.

John nods. "So, it's in your jurisdiction, but barely. And, ah, when exactly did this all happen? Do you have like an estimated time of death?"

"This morning." Lestrade says. "The fire started pretty early - we can be relatively certain that the victims were killed in the night or this morning. Our killer was pretty quick about it. We're not sure if anything's missing yet."

"Strange fire pattern," Sherlock remarks, his eyes flitting over all of the pictures. "I assume our perpetrator used an accelerant - most likely gasoline, which they would have poured throughout the house judging by the consistency of the burning. I'm guessing that the fire began in the basement?"

Lestrade nods. "It's probably the worst room in the whole house. They didn't bother as much with the victims."

"So the basement's more important, then?" John guesses.

"Or the most convenient room to start the fire in," Lestrade says. "Right, these are our victims." He rises from behind his desk and strides over to the board, pointing to three pictures depicting three women. The first is probably in her mid-thirties, and she's wearing this slinky black dress with matching silk gloves. Her pale blonde hair is arranged in waves, and she's smiling to display perfectly white teeth.

"That's Verona Archer, and those are her two daughters Aubrey and Alora."

"Twins?"

"Yes, both of them are nineteen, on their gap year. A shame really, from what I can tell they were all very well liked." Lestrade confirms.

John nods slowly, his eyes travelling over to Verona's daughters. They're identical - the pictures are different, one depicts a young blonde girl wearing a sparkly pink dress, and the other depicts a blonde girl that is her mirror image in every way riding a white pony and waving to the camera. "And their father?"

"Ah, their dad died when they were three, of kidney failure. Verona remarried - he died nine years ago, in a car crash. Poor woman, losing both of her husbands." Lestrade answers. "Here's what the Archer family look like now." He grabs another three pictures off his desk and pins them underneath the pictures of the women whilst they were alive.

They're almost impossible to distinguish in death. Their bodies have been charred, their skin turning shrivelled, red and twisted. There's blotchy patches of red and white travelling down their arms, culminating in blackened fingertips that have crumpled to reveal bone. A few strands of their blonde hair has survived, but it's marred with thick blood and ash.

Their bedrooms, too, have been completely burnt. There's dark black smudges running up the walls, smoke stains pooling on the ceilings and floors, their belongings burnt, singed or reduced to piles of ash.

Their faces have been mostly obliterated in the fire, the bedsheets around them singed. There's a matching neck wound on each of them, one that's hard to see as a result of how badly their bodies were burnt. The remaining flesh on their neck has bubbled up into blisters and stuck to the sheets, almost melting off the bone. There's a glint of pale cartilage visible, poking out from between pieces of mangled, burnt skin.

"Their necks were hacked open," Sherlock observes. "There's no hesitation marks, from what I can tell. This wasn't some robbery gone wrong - they were sleeping. They wouldn't have even seen their attacker coming. This looks like a meat cleaver - I'd wager that you could find the murder weapon in their own kitchen. That alone should imply that this was unplanned, and yet, it seems to thoughtfully executed. Delightful."

John blinks rapidly. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, did you just say - you know what, never mind."

"He really hated them - he resented the Archer family more than anything. Do we know if any of the women had recently rejected a man? Broken off a relationship, perhaps?" Sherlock asks.

Lestrade shakes his head. "Not that I'm aware of, but I've got people looking into that avenue - forensics is going through the girls' phones right now."

"He?" John repeats, confusedly.

"About ninety percent of arsonists are male. Most of them are also white and have a low IQ, typically ranging between seventy and eighty. They're almost always either under eighteen, or in their late twenties." Sherlock says. "We can narrow down our search once we get to the scene."

John sighs, exchanging a long-suffering glance with Lestrade. "Sherlock, I hate to break it to you, but there's not much left to see."

"Not for you, but there will be for me." Sherlock says, glancing at John.

"But we're looking for a man, yes?" Lestrade asks.

Sherlock narrows his eyes, his gaze flitting between all of the pictures. "Most likely, yes. But we can't rule out a female suspect yet. It's always possible that it's a scorned female lover rather than a male one, or perhaps she could be acting out of jealousy, if those Archer girls were so well liked."

"Erm, will we even be allowed in the crime scene?" John enquires. "I mean, I imagine it would be quite dangerous, with the house literally crumbling, and all."

Sherlock scoffs, "You're more than welcome to stand outside and watch, John."

---

Central London isn't quite what you expect it to be. The bus ride is a nightmare - the incessant chatter of the other passengers around you sets you on edge. Their conversation is all so mundane, so pitifully boring that it makes you feel almost resentful.

These are people who have always had their freedom - who haven't had to kill and burn their way out of a gilded cage. And they use it to discuss things as asinine as the weather. You long for the depth that you had always been denied, the warmth, the love, the meaning.

It's so strange, that you can sit among them, an outsider - a dark Cinderella - in the midst of rodents that have yet to turn to carriagemen.

You're glad when you get off, and you can escape their dull conversations. Though, the streets are much louder. There's not any pretty, delicate fragments of birdsong to be heard here. There's the occasional squawk of some hungry pigeons vying for food, but no birdsong. The air is rife with pollution - contaminated, tainted by smoke. It's all cigarette smoke or the chemical-smelling kind that billows up from factory chimneys in plumes of white and grey smoke.

It's nothing like the kind you had smelled only earlier today - it's not the corpses of your step-family being reduced to charred remains. That was far more pungent, far sweeter, if only in the way it made you feel.

There's a constant urge to look over your shoulder. You still feel intensely victorious, and full of a pride that burns just as brightly as your house had done mere hours ago. Yet, amongst those addictive, elated kind of feelings, is a sliver of paranoia.

You don't want to get caught, not now. All pictures of you, all evidence even of your existence, had been destroyed first. It had to go, you had to be free to start afresh, to reinvent yourself as the princess rather than as the maid.

Cleaning the house constantly had been so useful. It had taught you a lot about cleaning up after yourself, about making sure that there would be no evidence you were even there. All those surfaces had shined brightly, but so had the knife when you lodged it into their throats.

The streets in London aren't as nice as you had thought they would be. In every alleyway lingers a different shifty person, eyeing passersby carefully, likely determining who they would try to pickpocket next.

There's so much noise, too.

There's the drunken ramblings of men who are going through a midlife crisis and day drinking. They stumble through the streets, seemingly having gravitated towards one another, forming packs of aimless, rowdy men who just want to escape from their lives and live something that's more interesting.

Then, there's the noises of the cars. There's so many cabs, all identical in their sleek, black appearance, hurrying through the streets. And then there's the people hailing them, standing in the streets and raising their hands, calling out loudly.

"Taxi!" Yet another man yells, and you flinch instinctively, automatically turning around to look at him. He's nothing special, nothing dangerous.

In fact, you're probably the most dangerous person on this street. And yet, you remain hypervigilant. There's only the remnants of all that adrenaline in your system, but still, you remain awfully flighty. You are more than aware that soon it's going to wear off and you're going to be absolutely exhausted.

If you were any normal, entirely sane person, by now you would have been concerned at the lack of guilt.

But it wasn't like these deaths were accidental, or spur of the moment attacks. They weren't self-defense.

They were retribution.

They were violent acts of revenge designed over years and years. It was premeditated in every sense of the word. The only thing that could really, truly bring you warmth on those cold nights in the basement wasn't those scratchy blankets. It was the thought that one day you would take them out of this world, and that they would burn for everything they had done to you.

Over the years, the plan itself had taken a great many differing directions. You had planned versions where you would burn them alive, torture them for days on end, or even use something as simple as a poison to achieve your aims - that would have been remarkably easy considering that you did all the cooking. But ultimately, those fantasies had to be short-lived. They fell victim to practicality. Poison wasn't readily available, and the longer your step-family lived, the more likely they would be to escape or attract the attention of any neighbours.

It was your own version of Cinderella. And although you hadn't much planned for after the murders, you knew that if she got to rule a kingdom, then you would, too.

But first, you wanted to find a hotel room. One with nice blankets and decent heating and light walls that didn't remind you whatsoever of that basement. You'd been trawling for a while, ever conscious of the amount of cash you had, and the fact that eventually, you would have to gain some form of employment and find a more permanent housing situation.

The third hotel that you look at is the one you decide is just right. The first had been far too expensive, and the second one had looked like it shouldn't even be in business with how dilapidated it was. It's pretty enough, a grand white towering structure with flowers in all the windows and delicate borders around the windows. The price, which would be steep elsewhere, is decent for London.

You push the door open - it's a glass door with cursive, swirly golden writing emblazoned across it, and a little overhead bell jingles. The lady at the desk's head immediately turns your way, and she gives you a bright smile.

The entrance is spacious, but sparsely furnished, a few simple chairs and tables scattered around, but nobody's using them. Security seems relatively lax here, you can't see any cameras yet, and despite the hotel seeming acceptable to you, it's probably not one of the most popular establishments in London.

You approach the lady at the desk - your eyes immediately darting to her nametag. Emily.

"Hello, how can I help?" She asks, smiling. Her voice is dripping with that faux-sweetness that is innate to anybody working in customer service. It's cheery, and terribly fake - but you can't really bring yourself to feel any contempt for her lack of genuity. For her it's protection, and just a part of her job. It's not malicious.

"I'd like to book a room, please." You reply.

"Sure," She says, her fingers darting to the computer keyboard. "Do you know how long you'll be staying with us for?"

"A week, I think." You decide that it should be enough time for you to get everything together.

The top priorities for you now were evading the police and finding yourself some new documentation so that you could work, and move on with your life.

Emily nods, her finger tapping away and clicking for a few, silent moments. "We have you booked in room 125." She briefly ducks below the countertop, emerging with a keycard in hand.

It's blue, with a curvy lime green stripe swerving up through it. It's not the most impressive graphic design you've ever seen, and it doesn't really match the rest of the hotel, but it's good enough. You take it from her with a smile. "Thank you."

"Enjoy your stay!" She calls out after you, just as you've started to head further into the hotel.

You don't bother to acknowledge her comment. You simply keep walking, wandering around the bottom floor of the hotel lobby. There are these tiny, light-up signs plastered everywhere, giving the guests directions. It doesn't take you long to reach your room once you start following them.

Room one hundred and twenty five is incredibly boring.

The entrance-way is frustratingly narrow, with a cramped bathroom on your left, and a wardrobe on your right. It opens up to a relatively small space - a double bed against the left wall, a TV mounted just opposite it, a desk and some windows with terrible, thin curtains that do nothing to obscure the light.

It's so terribly basic, and the whole place smells like cleaning supplies - that alone makes you recoil. It brings you back to scrubbing each and every surface again and again. It makes your fingers twitch with the urge to just tear it all apart - to pull the curtains from their rails, knock the sparse furniture over and destroy it.

It feels so fake. It's all orchestrated to look appealing - but to you it appears bland and disingenuous.

The smell of bleach permeating from the bathroom makes you flinch. It's so sterile. There's no life in this place. There's nothing real here.

You have to constantly tell yourself over and over again that this is temporary. For a fleeting moment, you feel some kind of pain, a sharp pang of longing for your home - it had been a prison in every sense of the word once both of you parents were gone, but still it was familiar, the safe haven of your childhood where your mother would read you bedtime stories.

In your story, Cinderella would get her palace. Your happily ever after wouldn't be marred by the fact that a few people had died at your hands.

This hotel room is temporary - something to be used briefly and once you've moved on, never to be dwelled upon again. For now, you just have to lay low, and establish your new life here. The hotel room, with it's bland white and beige decor is hardly the fruition of all your planning. It's just another stepping stone.

It's only saving grace is the mattress and the heating. You're all too happy to kick your shoes off and lay face-down on the bed, letting all of the tension in your body go. The sheets, for all that they smell like cheap detergent, are petal-soft beneath your fingers. They're nothing like the ones in that cold, awful basement.

---

It doesn't take long for Sherlock to become a man obsessed.

They had first visited the residence of the victims - the scene of the crime. The Archer home had been destroyed, completely reduced to rubble and ash - even Verona Archer's car had been caught in the blaze, though the damage to the car was inconsequential next to the damage to the house and the lives lost within it.

What had once been a grand, elegantly decorated four-bedroom house was now barely standing. It's roof had caved in, and there were slate tiles strewn throughout the top floor and around the garden. Some beams of wood had been exposed, and many of the bricks had simply tumbled over, left with dark scorch marks over them.

It had been necessary to wear hazard gear within the house, and there was still one fire-engine waiting on the street, just in case the house were to be set aflame again. That was a common procedure, at the very least. A few neighbours would come out every once in a while, looking at the burnt remains of the Archer house in awe and horror.

There wasn't a whole lot actually left of the house.

Sherlock had torn his way down to the basement first, and quickly discerned what most of the items were - bookshelves, and lots of family photographs that didn't survive the blaze. But, most of the items in the basement were really irrelevant. It was the pile of scorched blankets that drew his attention.

"This is where the fire started, then, is it?" John asks, peering down at the blankets - they've melted together in some places, fusing to one another under the extreme heat. The entire house smells awful - the sickly scent of burnt human flesh mixed with gasoline - but the blankets smell awful, too. They were probably, back before they had been reduced mostly to ash, some sort of plasticy-material.

"Of course it is." Sherlock says, flitting around the basement and moving to inspect every little thing. "The Archers weren't the only ones living in the house. They were allowing someone to live in their basement."

"I thought they had four bedrooms?"

Sherlock shakes his head slightly. "Mm, no. One was Verona's closet. They had left their guest to sleep in the basement. The blankets are mostly polyester - they're well-used but they don't match anything upstairs. I think our guest has been down here for quite some time. The basement was a mess before the fire. Ms. Archer keeps things down here that she doesn't particularly like, but can't bring herself to throw away, just in case they become useful later."

"Wait, are you saying that the Archer girls - who, may I remind you, the mother being a grieving widow twice over, and her teenaged daughters - had been keeping somebody in their basement?" John asks, incredulously. He looks up from the pile of blankets and to Sherlock, in utter disbelief.

Sherlock scoffs. "Yes, John. That's exactly what I'm saying. Their guest was probably closely related to them. It's even possible that Verona had a third child. I'm almost certain now that our arsonist is a woman."

"A woman?" John frowns, "I thought you said most arsonists were men?"

"They are. They also tend to have a low intelligence - but she is neither a man, nor is she stupid. No, she's smart. She's smart and she's hurting right now. They're not going to find any evidence. She won't have left any. She's wanted this for a very, very long time." Sherlock whispers. "The rest of the house will be useless - the stairs are liable to give in if we try them. The basement was the only part she cared about. The burning was about obscuring her identity, not her crimes."

Naturally, the next place they turn to is the morgue.

All three bodies are already lain out on metal slabs when Sherlock and John enter, the latter wrinkling his nose. The house had, of course, smelled worse. But the actual scent of a charred corpse right in front of him was still incredibly sickening.

Molly greets them both with a smile, "Hi, Sherlock, - "

Sherlock brushes past her, his hands clasped behind his back. He circles around the bodies, his eyes darting over their wounds, their burnt, blistered skin, and the protruding bones.

The pictures had made Verona, Aubrey and Alora seem to be in even better condition than they were.

Their flesh had sunk, plastering itself to the bone in flaky pieces. They were more a mass of bloody body parts, sullen skin and ash than a real human body. There were a few persistent strands of platinum hair that had survived both the fire and the murder, clinging to their burnt scalps.

"That - oh, my god, the smell," John says between coughs, bringing a pale hand up to clasp it over the bottom half of his face. It was more a gesture of self-soothing than any actual attempt to block out the pungent fumes, but he does step back and momentarily avert his eyes.

Molly winces slightly, her cheery visage disturbed only slightly. "Yeah, I've tried pretty much everything. There's not much you can do for them. Ah, they died in their sleep, at least, so..."

"From the uh," John gestures to his throat, drawing a line across his neck horizontally with his pointer finger.

By far, the most disturbing part of the burnt cadavers is their necks. There's a grand, gaping hole in the charred flesh. It pulls away from itself, ribbons of burnt skin dangling into the throat cavity, and tiny pieces of ripped, hacked skin flaring upwards, soaked in crimson blood. They've been almost decapitated - their heads only very tenuously linked to their shoulders via the back of their necks.

It's much worse in real life - the crime scene photographs hadn't quite captured the depth of the cut.

"Yeah," Molly confirms with a grimace.

"No hesitation marks," Sherlock whispers. "Just as I thought. The twins were killed first. Aubrey, then Alora not soon after. Verona was saved for last - she was the culmination of all of this, the main target, if you will. Our perpetrator hated the twins, yes, but she hated Verona much more. You won't find any gasoline on their bodies. She put the gasoline on the floor, but not her victims. She wanted to obscure her identity but avoid damaging her work as much as possible."

"Okay, but we still don't know who the culprit is, or better yet, where they are." John says.

Sherlock shakes his head. "No, we know lots of things about her. Petite, early twenties. She hates the smell of disinfectant and she hates the cold even more. We can make the assumption that she may not even be Verona's daughter at all - perhaps one of those husbands had an affair, or more likely, a previous marriage that produced Verona's step-daughter."

"So, once again, the Archer girls were keeping a... step-daughter in their basement? And she killed them?" He questions.

"Oh, yes, she absolutely did." Sherlock grins. He sounds terribly fascinated, almost breathless - it's a kind of intrigue that John has only ever seen Moriarty produce in him. It's the kind of intrigue that never ends well. The kind that leaves Sherlock invigorated as he tries to unwrap every tiny mystery, whilst John is probably in some sort of danger.

"Right..." John's voice trails off, dying slowly as he watches Sherlock's eyes light up.

The consulting detective paces around the room, stalking around the bodies, grinning and muttering softly to himself. Moriarty's game is still afoot, but whilst they're waiting for his next move, Sherlock is going to indulge himself with another clever little side quest.

"She was smart. You're probably not going to find her - I mean I can tell she's probably gone to a major city, most likely London, given the proximity and her lack of resources. But, there's not going to be anything about her that's distinguishable from any other girl living in London." Sherlock announces.

"So that's it then. Case closed?" Molly asks, confusion colouring her tone as she folds her arms over her chest.

Sherlock pauses in his stride, and narrows his eyes, going so far as to look mildly affronted. "No, of course not. We're going to find her."

"Of course we are." John groans. "Was it not enough to just identify the unstable murder-arsonist lady?"

"No, John. Don't be silly." Sherlock scoffs. "We're going to find out everything we can about our Cinderella."

John frowns, looking to Molly who still looks equally puzzled. "Cinderella?"

"What else would you call a step-daughter mistreated by her step-mother and step-sisters?"

"I don't think that Cinderella killed her step-family and burnt their house down." John points out, sighing. "She's meant to go to a ball, meet a prince, not try to decapitate her family."

Sherlock dismisses John easily, "Perhaps not in the original version, no. But in this one? Absolutely."

#jim moriarty #jim moriarty x reader

16 notes · View notes

carewyncromwell · 4 years

Photo

Back with another installment of the POTC AU...and we have entered mermaid (and men) waters, folks. These two lovely creatures are Merman!Kai Williams and Mermaid!Keira Jones, owned by @hphm-brooke, based on their designs here, but with more of the “fishy” look the mermaids have while underwater in Pirates 4! (They look much more like Brooke’s concepts, when they’re above water.) I hope I did your kids justice, cherie! Yes, I know this visual logically doesn’t work at all as neat as it looks, since Carewyn should be drowning if there’s a hole in the ship she can see through: I was stupid and half asleep when I originally drew this, but I went ahead and conjured up an explanation for it for the actual writing section, so indulge me. XD;;

Some LGBT+ headcanons of mine for the HPHM cast are also featured here -- namely, McNully as gay, Skye as lesbian, and Charlie as aroace. (I also personally see Carewyn and Orion as ace/pan and gray-A, respectively. ^.^) Feel free to ignore them if you see these characters differently than I do...goodness knows I understand why plenty of people would want to hook up with Charlie!! He can always be interpreted as demi, gray-A, or just a late bloomer here too, if thou dost prefer. <3

For the previous part of this AU, click here -- for the full POTC AU tag, click here -- otherwise, enjoy! And beware any siren song you may hear...

x~x~x~x

The Revenge was an even more oppressive prison than it was when Carewyn was a child. Charles Cromwell had always been a very controlling, cruel man who only saw someone’s value based on what they could do for him. Even when you were family of his -- or, one could argue, especially if you were -- you were expected to never say “no” to him and to always put his desires over your own. So it was when she and Jacob were under his control way back when, and so it was now that Carewyn was alone.

Interestingly, despite Charles’s clear disdain for Carewyn having become a Commodore of the Navy, he actually seemed very coldly pleased by how she’d grown.

“The Navy may be a pathetic institution,” Charles said very coolly as he strode leisurely in a circle around Carewyn, “but at least fighting in the War toughened you up. You’re strong -- ruthless -- talented in swordplay and willing to do whatever it takes to defeat your enemies. You’ve been taught and trained to kill.”

He stopped right in front of her, his cold almond-shaped blue eyes boring into her as his lips spread into a smile.

“You are far from the weak, bleeding-heart little girl you were before, Carewyn. Before, you could only be useful in persuading other men to join my crew -- now, once we’ve finished at Isle de Muerta...you’ll be able to join your aunts by doing that and helping us with our plunder.”

Carewyn’s eyes, which were the same color and shape as Charles’s, met his gaze head-on with just as much coldness, but with no hint of a smile.

“I have no intention of being anything like Pearl or Claire,” she spat, “least of all by being one of your pawns.”

Pearl made a violent move forward, but Blaise grabbed her arm and gave her a dull warning look.

“Pawns?” repeated Charles. “I’m wounded, child. We are family -- we are blood. I raised you and your brother. I provided for you.”

“After killing both Mum and Dad right in front of us,” Carewyn said very coldly.

Charles feigned an empathetic expression, but it only came across as incredibly condescending.

“Yes -- it was a horrible thing. But your parents thought to abandon the crew, our family...to take you two children away from me, your grandfather, who loves you so dearly. And deserters and traitors must be held accountable -- any good leader knows that. It’s awful that it had to happen...but they left me no choice.”

Carewyn’s eyes flashed with hatred.

“First of all...our parents thought to protect their family -- Jacob and me -- from you. Second, any good leader knows that true loyalty is accrued through respect, not fear. Third, you always have a choice to do what’s right, and you didn’t. Fourth, I will NOT hear you try to tell me that my parents brought their deaths upon themselves when you pulled the trigger. And fifth...”

She took a step forward, aiming to get right up in Charles’s face -- Claire Cromwell grabbed her harshly by the arm and held her back, but Carewyn was strong enough to push herself forward right up into her grandfather’s personal space anyway.

“...you don’t know what love is,” hissed Carewyn venomously.

Charles’s face lost all hint of a smile or warmth, instead becoming oddly mask-like and detached as he considered her. The stillness was far, far more intimidating than his attempts at pleasantry -- it was like he truly felt nothing...like all possibility of persuasion or appealing to his better instincts was hopeless.

“It seems freedom has spoiled you, my child,” he said softly. “I suppose I’d have to blame your brother for being such a bad influence on you...at least while he was still alive.”

Carewyn’s face blanched and her eyes widened. ‘What?’

“Oh?” said Charles, raising his eyebrows in mock concern. “Were you unaware? I thought for sure something would’ve trickled back to you through the Navy. But I suppose if they had told you, you’d have had far less reason to be loyal to them. After all...the pirate who killed him ended up getting a full pardon from the crown, and now works alongside the new Lord Cutler Beckett at the East India Trading Company...a thoroughly prosperous woman, by all accounts.”

Charles’s face again grew much mask-like as he stared down at Carewyn.

“One would never know such a woman could be capable of shooting a man square in the back and then pushing him overboard into the ocean...and just when he’d returned from Port Royal, to find that his sister was gone...”

Carewyn could feel her shoulders quaking. Her eyes had fallen away from Charles and down to the deck a while ago, as she struggled to contain her emotions, but what he said --

It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be. Jacob, dead -- Jacob, having gone to look for her, and not finding her because she’d gone off to War -- Jacob, being murdered right after he tried to come home --

“You’re lying!” snarled Carewyn, but her voice quaked with pain and grief despite her best efforts.

Charles didn’t answer. Clearly he didn’t think he had to. The silence was infinitely worse than if he’d chosen to mock her further -- it forced her to solely focus on the terrible doubt and pain flooding her chest and making it hard for her to breathe.

Charles’s gaze flickered up to Claire still holding Carewyn’s arm.

“Get Carewyn out of that Navy filth and into some proper clothes,” he said almost boredly. “Make sure to pick something that shows off her assets -- she comes from fine breeding, and we want the men of Tortuga to see that first.”

His gaze then rested on Carewyn again, twinkling with a cruel kind of satisfaction, as Claire yanked Carewyn away. Carewyn fought against her grip, but before she could pull out of it, Pearl grabbed her other arm and, with considerably more strength, helped Claire drag her away.

Carewyn was soon forced into a pair of men’s knee breeches so tight that they felt more like form-fitting stockings than trousers; tall black boots; an off-white sailor’s shirt identical to Pearl’s with such an oversized neckline that her chest was largely exposed; and an R-standard dark red coat just small enough that she couldn’t button it around herself to hide her chest better. Pearl had also pointed a pistol at Carewyn’s neck while Claire applied eye-make-up and bright red lipstick. Carewyn normally wouldn’t have minded wearing make-up -- she may have had to dress like a man out of necessity, but she liked women’s fashion a lot. Under the circumstances, though, it was impossible to enjoy it.

Needless to say, Carewyn was in no mood to take orders from Charles or exchange so much as a word with any member of his crew, whether it was her uncle, aunts, cousins, or in-laws. At one point, one night, one of those such cousins -- clearly very amused by how unhappy Carewyn was with her new “look” -- decided to try to force himself into her personal space, and Carewyn was so disgusted that she grabbed his own pistol out of his belt and pointed it right at his head to threaten him to back off. Rather than scare him, though, the cousin merely laughed.

“Go ahead!” he jeered. He clearly thought Carewyn was too much of a “good girl” to do it. “Go ahead and shoot me. Right in the head, come on -- ”

Carewyn pointed the pistol down at his thigh instead and fired.

BANG.

The younger man collapsed in on himself with a cry as his leg collapsed out from under him, the bone clearly blasted open from how close the pistol had been. Carewyn then gave the pistol a light shake to clear the smoke.

“Seems to me that place is closer to where you do most of your thinking than your head,” she said very coldly. She looked around at the rest of the crew, who’d stopped to watch, and added, “Now, all of you, stay away from me -- AHH!”

She suddenly felt a hand seize her around the neck and hoist her up off the ground.

The younger man somehow was back on his feet again, as if he hadn’t been injured at all. Carewyn’s shock only seemed to make him smugger still, even though his smile was oddly humorless.

“You’re so cute, little Winnie,” he said. “Thinking you can hurt somebody who feels nothing but pain already.”

At that very moment, the clouds parted, to reveal an eerie silver-white moon. And it was in that terrible, paralyzing moment that Carewyn saw why everyone said that the crew of the Revenge was cursed.

It seems that the medallion Jacob had stolen from Charles’s office wasn’t just a pirate trinket. It was one of 100 identical pieces from a cursed chest that once belonged to Cortez himself. Anyone who stole but one piece from the chest was cursed trapped between life and death, unable to enjoy any earthly pleasure -- food, drink, or otherwise -- with their true decaying form only revealed under moonlight. Jacob had taken the medallion with the thought that Carewyn could always sell it if they ever got really desperate for money -- Carewyn had kept it because it was one of the only things Jacob had ever been able to give her before he disappeared, and she cursed herself eternally for the sentiment now. Still, she told herself, it also hadn’t seemed safe to try to sell something that so clearly looked like a pirate medallion anyway -- just about anyone would ask where she got it, and that would’ve opened her up to a million more questions. In either case, that medallion Carewyn had was the last piece that Charles Cromwell needed to break the curse -- and thanks to her fame as the newest Commodore in the Navy, one of her portrait miniatures had found its way into Charles’s hands, revealing to him where his granddaughter had vanished to. And now he had both her and the medallion -- in short, everything he’d wanted.

Charles Cromwell decided to punish Carewyn for her little act of defiance by locking her in the brig. It was a very wet and mildew-stained place -- clearly it had been host to more than a few leaks. One hole in Carewyn’s cell in particular even showed clear blue ocean water -- she suspected that the Revenge had been patched up with quite a few spells to keep it from sinking, over the years. She remembered there was a witch on Tortuga that her grandfather sometimes made deals with -- maybe she’d given him something to keep the sea water from rushing in.

Carewyn could’ve easily broken out of the brig, but under the circumstances, she decided it wasn’t worth it. Not only did she not want to show off all her tricks yet, but the cell door would at least serve as a barrier between her and everyone else, for now. And that was what she’d wanted -- to get as far away from them as she could. Jacob would’ve understood. Jacob had always been there as a protective wall between her and the rest of their family, in the past...

The night in that cell was one of the coldest, darkest, and loneliest of Carewyn’s life. Her heart ached at the thought of Jacob -- of Percy, his face white with upset and terror when she told him to retreat -- of Bill and Charlie -- of Jules. She missed them so much, and yet she knew...she would likely never see them again. Charles Cromwell wouldn’t tolerate her insubordination for long, and if she failed to escape -- rather likely, considering that neither he nor the rest of her family could be killed, at this point -- she’d be murdered just like her parents.

...At least then...she’d see Jacob again...

She didn’t know when or how she’d fallen to sleep, but it was in her sleep, when she was most lonely, that Carewyn found herself again in her and Jacob’s tiny, old house in Port Royal, sitting at the side of her own bed, which currently held a young man with a worn brown bandana around his head, a black eye, and bandages around his arms. He looked up at her, his dark eyes rippling like the darkest sea -- and then, he rose from the bed. As he did, he changed, becoming older, with tanner skin and dreadlocks under an emerald green bandana. Orion didn’t say anything in the dream -- instead he held her gaze, drowning her in it as he gently held her hands in his...

When Carewyn awoke, she found her face wet with tears. Wiping her face clean, she sat awake for a while, revisiting Orion in her mind. As bizarre as it sounded -- just like he had many times in the past -- the thought of Orion seemed to bring her a sense of peace and focus she couldn’t quite explain. And it was for that reason that she found herself singing one of the songs she used to sing Orion to sleep, all those years ago...for the thought of him, if not for the man himself.

Abroad, as I was walking one evening in the spring,

I heard a maid in Bedlam who mournfully did sing.

Her chains she rattled on her hands, and thus replied she:

"I love my love because I know my love loves me.

Oh, cruel were his parents who sent my love to sea,

And cruel was the ship that bore my love from me --

Yet I love his parents since they’re his, although they've ruined me...

I love my love because I know my love loves me.”

As luck would have it, however, her song attracted some attention. For the waters surrounding the dreaded Isle de Muerta contained merfolk -- specifically a mermaid called Keira and a merman called Kai, who hunted as a pair and had heard Carewyn singing through the hole in the ship’s hull.

“Was that you singing?” asked Kai. He seemed the more sociable of the two -- the red-haired mermaid behind him called Keira was staying at a distance.

Carewyn rested a hand beside the hole, trying to peek out at who was speaking. She couldn’t see them very well, but from what little she could see, they didn’t look like how she’d always heard mermaids described. They appeared human enough on top, of course, but she could see scales on their faces and there was no white in their eyes. Kai had one completely brown eye and one completely blue eye, while Keira had completely blue.

“Yes,” said Carewyn.

“I could hear the longing in your voice,” said Kai. “Like a woman in love.”

Carewyn’s face flushed, but she kept as proud of an expression as she could manage.

“...Are you merfolk?”

“Why, yes,” said Kai with a smile. “And you? Are you a pirate? Or perhaps you’re a maid from Bedlam, awaiting her love’s return?”

“Neither. My name is Carewyn...but most people call me Carey Weasley.”

Keira looked at Carewyn through the hole, clearly interested despite her distance.

“You’re different than the other humans on this ship,” she said thoughtfully.

Carewyn scoffed. “I’d certainly hope so. I suppose my grandfather and his crew fear you?”

“Fear, yes,” said Keira in an oddly stiff voice, “but we don’t approach them.”

The memory of her disgusting pirate cousin as a molting skeleton rippled over Carewyn’s mind and she grimaced.

“...I don’t blame you for that. I wouldn’t be here either, if I had a choice.”

Kai raised a curious eyebrow. “You’re a prisoner, then.”

Carewyn sighed and nodded. Kai’s eyes flickered over to Keira before returning to Carewyn.

“...Perhaps we can get you out.”

Carewyn was startled. “What?”

Kai’s lips turned up in a smile. “Come with us...we’ll help you escape.”

It was strange -- Carewyn hadn’t known these two at all, but something in their voices sounded so kind. Despite everything she’d ever heard about sirens, they seemed oddly persuasive...it was like even they were singing beautifully, even while talking...

But...

“No,” she said. “My grandfather and his crew can’t be killed. I’d never be able to defeat them, while they’re like that...and anyone who tried to help me would be killed right along with me.”

Her eyes softened. “Thank you...but I have to stay here.”

Both Kai and Keira looked genuinely startled. Kai seemed to rest on his stomach in mid-air, his tail flopping up over his head as he rested his chin on his fist, his lips spreading in a much fuller, fanged smirk.

“...Well, now,” he said, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of someone saying ‘no’ to one of our kind in order to protect them before. He shared a glance with Keira. “You truly are different, Carey Weasley.”

Keira exhaled tiredly. “Come on, Kai...let’s go.”

“Coming, coming,” said Kai in amusement, as Keira began to swim off. He added to Carewyn, “Guess we’ll never know if we would’ve been able to tempt you, if we’d met you above water...oh well. Best of luck, little Bedlam maid -- thanks for the new song!”

Kai swam in a circle to follow along after Keira and disappeared into the dark blue depths.

Back on the Artemis, the days of their voyage dragged. Jules had heard all sorts of exciting stories about pirates since she was a child, but now that she was onboard a ship with them, she found that it was far less glamorous than one would think. There was so little to do to pass the time, aside from trimming sails or swabbing decks. Charlie and Bill admitted that was a lot of what sailing on board ships was like in general -- there was plenty of excitement, sure, but only inter-spliced briefly between long stretches of nothing. On top of that, the water on board went sour before long, making it so everyone had to drink rum instead, since it was the only drink that didn’t go bad at sea. The best thing by far for Jules, though, was that there was no dress code -- and so she ditched her fancy dress as quick as she could, traded them in for a pair of men’s breeches, and then belted her chemise around her waist so that it fit more tightly like a shirt. She’d be a little embarrassed walking around in her underwear for a while, but after a while, she concluded it really wasn’t any more revealing than the loose-fitting shirt and men’s breeches Skye was wearing. Bill’s ears turned a very dark red when he first saw Jules out of her dress, though.

Their first real burst of action came when they had to battle a torrential storm that had blown in. The Artemis had been tossed about as if it were a toy in a bathtub, sea water splashing onto the deck with full-bodied waves that could knock a man off their feet. It was likely only thanks to Orion’s bizarre idea to tie everyone securely to the mast with a long piece of rope that served as a life line that no one was thrown overboard. The following day, the storm had fortunately cleared to leave an almost surreal calm. Soon everyone returned to the boring routine of before, mending torn sails and swabbing the deck, as if nothing had even happened.

The helmsman solely followed Orion’s direction of where to go, rather than using a map, so Bill, Jules, and Charlie had assumed he already knew where the Isle de Muerta was. One could therefore imagine how horrified Bill was overhearing McNully talking offhandedly to Orion one afternoon about his compass “not working right for him” -- Jules recalled that it didn’t work at Port Royal either. When the three confronted Orion about it, the Captain responded rather cryptically.

“Lieutenant Weasley said that my compass didn’t point north, Miss Farrier. That doesn’t mean it’s broken.”

Orion turned on his heel and headed back up to the helm. “A bit more to starboard.”

Bill opened his mouth to protest, but McNully climbed down one of the loose ropes enough to pat his shoulder.

“Easy, Mr. Weasley.”

He lowered himself back down into his chair and rolled it around to properly face them.

“The Captain’s compass isn’t like most compasses -- just like Orion himself isn’t like most captains.”

“But you said it wasn’t working right,” Charlie said angrily. “And all he ever seems to look at is that compass. How do we know we’re even heading the right way? Does he even know how to get to Isle de Muerta at all?”

Jules had to admit, she had doubts too. Orion had sounded pretty confident that he’d be able to find Carewyn -- but how could anyone do that, when they didn’t even have a compass that could point north?

The dispute was interrupted, however, when Orion abruptly called out from the helm.

“Put out the lamps!”

The crew immediately tensed up, and bolted around, putting out every lamp. Jules looked around in confusion.

“What are you doing?” she asked. “It’s almost dusk -- we won’t be able to see!”

“The water is darker and colder here,” said Orion solemnly, “and there’s a song on the air. The lamps would only antagonize them further.”

“‘Them?’“ recurred Jules.

“Mermaids, of course,” said Skye impatiently.

“Mermaids?”

“I heard those tales when we were all in the Navy,” said Bill, glancing at Jules a bit uneasily. “Mermaids are attracted to singing and lamplight.”

"Right,” said McNully. “There’s still a 32% chance they might show up even without those, though, so you’d best keep your wits about you.”

Skye nodded. “Mermaids are no joke. They might look beautiful above water, but they don’t look half so pretty under the water when they pull you down to the depths and eat you alive.”

Jules cringed.

“If they’re that dangerous,” she said slowly, “why don’t you do what Odysseus did, to escape the sirens? Just have someone else tie you up really tightly on the mast, and you can’t jump overboard.”

“Yeah!” Charlie piped up. “I reckon Jules, Skye, and I can handle running the ship for a bit on our own -- pretty faces don’t really do much for me.”

McNully laughed. “If being attracted to gorgeous women was the problem, then I’d be a better choice to help than Skye.”

Skye rolled her eyes and scoffed.

“Mermaids don’t just tempt you with sex,” the quartermaster explained. “They’re temptation itself. Everything about them draws you in, makes you open up to them and talk to them...lets them look right through you. They’ll try to tempt you with whatever they think you want most in the world -- and when you give in and get too close...”

She made a knife-like gesture across her throat with her finger.

“There’s only one person on this ship that’s known to have ever said ‘no’ to a mermaid before,” said McNully, and he nodded up at the helm. “And that’s the Captain.”

Bill, Charlie, and Jules all looked up in surprise. Orion had his back to them and was looking out to sea with narrowed, unreadable eyes.

Then, all of a sudden, the crew could just barely make out a eerie, beautiful song, which seemed to float on the wind itself.

“...her chains she rattled in her hands and thus replied she...”

“Stopper your ears!” McNully said urgently. “Quickly!”

The crew hurriedly did as they were told. Orion, however, did not do so. Instead he darted down to the main deck, grabbed one of the lanterns, and set about relighting it.

“Orion, what are you DOING?!” bellowed Skye.

Orion didn’t answer her. McNully rolled hurriedly around the deck as he tried to make sure everyone blocked their ears, but Orion completely ignored him, instead rushing over to the side of the ship with the lit lantern.

The singing was getting louder now.

“Yet I love his parents since they’re his, although they've ruined me... I love my love because I know my love loves me...”

Just as Bill had finished helping Charlie and Jules completely stopper their ears, he caught the sound of a low male voice singing the next line.

“With straw I'll weave a garland, I'll weave it wondrous fine...”

Bill looked up in alarm at Orion. He had a hand cupped over his mouth to magnify his volume as he sang over the ship’s railing.

“With roses, lilies, daisies I'll mix the eglantine...”

“Stop!”

Bill barreled over, grabbing Orion’s shoulder and trying to pull him back away from the edge.

“What are you doing?! Singing and lanterns attract mermaids!”

“That’s the plan,” said Orion, his voice almost frustratingly calm.

Bill saw the water burbling up beside the edge of the ship. His heart clenched with fear.

Orion, however, paid him no mind -- he turned right to the form burbling under the water, his hand beside his mouth again as he continued,

“And I'll present it to my love when he returns from sea... I love my love because I know my love loves me."

Jules quickly grabbed Bill’s arm, pulling him back away from Orion. Bill looked at her anxiously, but she merely reached up to stopper his left ear with some fabric she’d ripped out of her chemise. Orion wasn’t going to explain, so all they could do is get ready.

Within moments, a woman with red hair had appeared out of the water. Her chin and neck were still largely submerged as she blinked up at Orion.

“You know the words,” she said almost shyly.

“Yes,” said Orion. “Where did you hear that song?”

The mermaid blinked slowly. “A maid imprisoned in the brig of a pirate ship.”

Jules had been just about to stopper Bill’s right ear when he straightened up sharply. He turned his head sharply to better listen to the conversation.

"What did the maid look like?” Orion asked.

The mermaid’s eyes flickered over the pirate captain’s face carefully as she eased her head and shoulders out of the water.

“I could not tell for sure. The brig was dark. The hole looking into it was small.”

“Yet you spoke to her?”

“Yes. She was a selfless woman. Very selfless.”

“When did you see her?”

“Very early this morning...before dawn.”

Orion’s dark eyes narrowed. The mermaid reached out to grab onto the edge of the Artemis so as to slide herself out of the water and closer to Orion.

“You know her,” she said.

“Yes,” Orion answered quietly.

The mermaid’s eyes seemed to soften. “...You love her.”

Bill, who had been listening carefully, looked quickly at Orion’s face for some sort of reaction -- but once again his face was remarkably calm, and he didn’t respond.

“I could take you to her,” the mermaid said sweetly. “I know where she is...”

Bill felt his mind drifting slightly, as if he’d suddenly become very sleepy -- her voice sounded almost soothing -- and she knew Carewyn? She could take them to Carewyn?

“No, thank you,” said Orion with the kind of polite finality one would more likely hear at a Christmas function than to a creature that wanted to eat human flesh. “If you saw her this morning, we’ll be caught up with them soon enough. The wind will take us where we need to go, if only we have our sails pointed in the right direction.”

He inclined his head respectfully.

“Best of luck finding your next meal elsewhere.”

The mermaid frowned in immense confusion at him, looking almost put-out.

“You and Carey Weasley are both very strange humans,” she said. Her lips then curled into a faintly wry smile as she added, “She was not tempted by our call either. That should please you.”

And with that, she splashed back into the dark water and disappeared.

Orion blew out the flame on the lamp and turned back around.

“It’s all right now!” he bellowed loud enough that everyone could just barely make out his voice through the stuffing in their ears. “It’s safe!”

Everyone little by little unblocked their ears. Bill turned around to face Orion properly, his brown eyes rippling with amazement and a bit of guilt despite himself, as the pirate captain walked past him.

“You did know what you were doing.”

Orion turned to Bill. The eldest Weasley rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I misjudged you.”

Orion inclined his head slightly to Bill, his lips touched with traces of a smile.

“A common enough thing, for people to do,” he said patiently. “Think nothing of it.”

He strolled back up to the helm, leaving Bill and Jules alone.

Jules turned to Bill. He still had his eyes on Orion’s back.

“Bill...is everything okay?”

Bill glanced at Jules and then back up at Orion, and he swallowed.

The mermaid had said Orion loved Carewyn. He didn’t make any kind of reaction that would prove it was true -- but he didn’t deny it either. And more importantly, back at the church, he’d said he wouldn’t have hurt “either Bill’s or his lady,” when talking about Jules and Carewyn. And immediately after, he spoke of Carewyn’s past, of her history with him...of details even he didn’t know, like her apparently having worn a red ribbon in her hair since she was little...with such a soft voice that it wouldn’t be a stretch to think there was something fond in it, under that detached affect..

Bill hadn’t had a real friend in his life until he’d met Carewyn. They’d connected almost immediately out of their mutual desire to protect and nurture others, and they always seemed to be in sync whenever they had to battle together. Bill had always been a shoulder for others to cry on, but it was Carewyn who had first offered her shoulder to him, while they were fighting the Spanish together. The friendship and caring she’d shown him made her family to him more than her using his name alone ever could have. She was a sister to him -- his best mate -- someone he loved and cherished like few others in the world. And he wanted every happiness for her, just as he knew she did for him...

But what happiness could there be for her, with Orion? He was a pirate. There’d be no way the Navy would pardon him with the East India Trading Company breathing down their necks -- and would Carewyn truly be happy living the life of a pirate, after having been raised on a pirate ship like the Revenge? She’d built up a stable life for herself in the Navy, and Bill knew how much Carewyn loved being able to come back to Port Royal after a long expedition -- to come home, after being at sea. But pirates had no home. There was nothing anchoring a pirate. And no matter what Orion’s feelings were, and how much Bill suspected they might actually be something genuine...it didn’t mean a thing if Carewyn didn’t feel the same way.

“Jules...” he said at last, very quietly, “...is Carey...in love with Amari?”

Jules was startled by the use of her nickname. She glanced from Bill to up at Orion at the helm and back, frowning deeply.

“...Love, I’m not sure, but...back at the fort, before Captain Amari rescued me...Carey told me that she’d bandaged him up and hidden him from the Navy, when they were young. So when Captain Amari figured out who she was...he let her go. I reckon they probably just made it look like Carey broke free.”

This information startled Bill. His brown eyes brightened in understanding.

“He owed her a life debt,” he said softly.

Jules smiled. “No. I thought the same thing -- that it was gratitude, on Captain Amari’s part. But...”

Her dark eyes softened.

“...Carey said...that he was simply a good man. And I don’t know...but the look in her eyes, as she looked out to sea...I’ve never seen her eyes look like that before.”

She reached out and took Bill’s hand. Bill gave it a squeeze.

“The water temperature has returned to normal,” announced Orion from the helm, emptying the bucket of sea water he’d filled earlier over the side. “Go ahead and relight the lamps -- we should approach Isle de Muerta within the next day or so.”

#potc au #au #pirates of the caribbean #my art #my writing #my fanfiction #kai williams #keira jones #other people's mcs #carewyn cromwell #orion amari #bill weasley #charlie weasley #jules farrier #skye parkin #murphy mcnully #charles cromwell #blaise cromwell #pearl cromwell #claire cromwell #jacob cromwell #bawww bill #worrying over your best buddy :<#carey loves you so much too </3 #also friendly reminder that orion is a cool calm and collected bad-ass #he may not be as flashy or suave as jack but he is just as clever #also yes charles cromwell is an irredeemable son of a b****#I find it hilarious that this is the first place I'm actually writing interactions between charles and his family and not the rakepick au #I'll have a drawing of him included in these posts soon but just imagine jeremy irons as a pirate -- that's his fancast #I'm sure you can all see why in canon carewyn and jacob's mum lane had to get the hell away from charles's toxic sociopathic arse

20 notes · View notes

fandom-necromancer · 4 years

Text

Enemies to lovers in 3.6 seconds

This was prompted by an awesome anon! Enjoy!

Fandom: Detroit become human | Ship: Reed900

Detroit’s fifth police department was occupying Willis Show bar. The last time they had celebrated like that had been on Christmas. All other occasions, birthdays, promotions, retirement, were celebrated in personal circles, not with the full team. But this time, it was different. Being the precinct with the most android officers, the anniversary of the day androids were granted their freedom was something special. In the far back, the SWAT team played darts. Sixty’s team had been winning until the loosing team had decided to get him something to drink and interfere with that perfect accuracy. Hank, Connor, Captain Fowler and the other Lieutenants had gathered at the largest table, mostly talking and joking. And of course, there was what people quickly called the kids-table: Gavin with Tina and Chris, Nines sitting with them as there hadn’t been any space for him with his brother and he was the Detective’s partner. He had been told he could join them soon, as officer Person planned on leaving early. But at the moment, it looked very much as if the man would never leave: drinking beer after beer and showing no sign of stopping.

The overall atmosphere was fine, even cheery, with the occasional victory scream from the darts-section and the laughter of the bigger table setting the general mood. That was until a heated discussion began growing in volume and aggression: ‘You can’t just phcking say that!’, Gavin claimed, anger evident on his face. ‘You were in maintenance half week, that case was clearly on my count!’ ‘Yeah and the half week I was there we made most of the progress’, Nines held against it. ‘Just agree that you are useless without an android by your side.’ ‘Useless?!’, Gavin shouted lost for words. ‘Useless?! I’m sorry, but I was in this job as you were still some wet dream of some bottom technician! I have more experience than any of your kind!’ ‘That is all you humans have going for you, huh?’, Nines hissed lowly. ‘Experience. What is that even? We have been programmed to do our jobs. You get pushed into a world and spend your first two decades useless learning basic facts and rules. How dare you even think you are superior to us?’ ‘Oh, but you are?’, the Detective growled. ‘Where’s the equality shit now, hmm toaster? Or do you just fake that so no one runs away screaming when they see you?’ He grinned evilly, knowing exactly where to strike next. ‘Are you afraid people will realise what you are? What you were meant to be? That you are a phcking terminator unable to feel a thing? No compassion, no love, nothing. The only thing you know how to do is killing!’

Nines stood at that last roar that had silenced the rest of the bar. ‘What did you say?’, he whispered with a calm that promised bloodshed. ‘I said, you are nothing more than a gun’, Gavin repeated, standing up himself. ‘A tool that is convinced it is a living being!’

At that point, Tina looked like she wanted to interrupt their shouting match, but Gavin and Nines exchanged looks that would kill. A drunken Gavin really wasn’t someone you wanted to get on the wrong side of and drunken Nines seemed to be even more intimidating than his normal collected self. Despite better knowledge, Tina didn’t dare to step in between and backed down. But Hank didn’t: Standing up from the larger table and turning towards them, he shouted louder than either of them before: ‘Reed! You either fucking behave or you two leave! No one wants to hear your anti-android shit, especially not today!’

Gavin had turned to Hank, a curse on his lips, but eyeing Fowler directly next to him, he showed enough brain power to swallow his words. ‘You know what? I will. Couldn’t care less about the tin-cans either way.’ He stepped to the side and hurried for the exit, as Nines shook his head, still agitated. ‘Gavin, I’m not done with you yet!’ ‘Well, I am!’, Gavin shouted back and left through the door. ‘You goddamn-‘, Nines muttered but fell into his wide stride and followed the Detective outside.

The silence afterwards settled heavy on the bar and made Connor even more nervous than before, as he had seen his brother growing more and more angry with the asshole Detective. The conversations around him had already resumed, as he had made up his mind and excused himself: ‘I’m sorry, I have to check on them. Either Gavin is dead, or Nines lost his thirium regulator and is bleeding out, none of that is something we want to see tonight.’ ‘My money’s on Gavin dead’, Tina cheered, her voice slurred from the alcohol, as Connor jogged past.

Nines was ready to kill. Just here outside the bar there were no witnesses and a body in some side street to it would be taken for some unconscious drunkard for long enough so he could leave the country. The only question was whether getting rid of Gavin was worth it. And he was still angry enough that his immediate reaction to that was a yes.

He had caught up to Gavin quickly and grabbed him by the back of his jacket, ready to jolt him back. He hadn’t expected the human to shrug out of it in one fluid motion, but adapted in an instant, taking his shirt next. He pulled him back with all his strength and pinned him against a wall, not at all caring if the brick wall in his back hurt him on impact. He stared at Gavin, fury in his eyes, where Gavin was still defiant. Instead of showing fear in the eye of a war-machine threatening him, Gavin stood tall – well, as tall as he could – and pushed his jaw forwards in accusation. ‘What. Do. You. Want?’, He pressed past his teeth and glared at the android. Nines in turn tried to stare him down, showing no sign the Detective’s intimidation had any effect on him. They looked each other in the eyes, until Nines had forgotten he had been about to end this man’s life just seconds ago. Until he had realised too late, he was lost in these grey-green eyes that dared him to try anything. Nines could beat the man into a bloody pulp without breaking a sweat and Gavin knew that, still the human stood his ground and challenged him.

Nines caught his eyes wandering to the scar on the other’s nose and followed it further down to the chin where it wasn’t as easily detectable for most humans. He got stuck on the human’s lips, slightly chipped from the cold now and just a tiny bit parted. Nines hadn’t realised he had licked his own lips, but Gavin certainly did, as his heartbeat quickened. In a sudden burst of energy, the human reached up to Nines’ uniform and pulled him down on his lips. It was a hard kiss, neither careful nor pleasant nor expected, but all the more needy. Nines was close to reposition the hand from the man’s shoulder to his throat to make it stop, but consciously stopped himself. This… This was…

He answered the until then one-sided kiss and leaned closer, convincing himself he was essentially trapping the human in between the wall and his body, when in reality Gavin wasn’t anywhere close to even think of escaping. The android pulled back his lips, letting teeth clash and only allowed himself to get softer as the human was in need for air. Gavin gasped for it, when they finally separated and Nines allowed it for just a moment, gracefully swooping up the human’s jacket and throwing it around the Detective to pull him close again and resume. ‘Phck. Nines! You asshole!’, Gavin protested, but Nines shut him up quickly. ‘Quiet, human’, he mumbled, directing Gavin to a corner and pressing his knee between his legs. ‘You started this.’ Gavin bared his teeth in a hiss: ‘And you be damn sure you have no say in the matter when to stop!’ ‘That we will see…’, Nines whispered in his ear, completely lost at that point.

‘-You asshole!’ Connor startled at the curse. That was Gavin’s voice. So definitely not dead yet. But how about Nines? ‘Quiet, human.’ Okay, Connor re-evaluated his first thought. Gavin may not be dead… yet. Only then he turned around the first corner and saw Nines crowding Gavin against a wall holding him confined in the small space by wrapping the Detective’s leather jacket around him. Connor froze as he saw his brother angle his body and pressing his leg in between the smaller man’s. That… Gavin was allowing it. They were whispering something to each other, but Connor was too frozen to take notice of what words they spoke. The only thing he did see was that Nines bowed down for a kiss and repositioned his left hand to hold both sides of the jacket in one. His now free arm was trailing down the human’s body and his flat hand found its way under his shirt. Gavin squirmed, but their kiss only got deeper, and he saw the man press against the hand on his heated skin.

Connor couldn’t believe what was going down right in front of his eyes. Nines, his brother, was making out with Gavin Reed, the one he had just fought with and seemingly had been ready to kill. He was kissing the guy that had pointed a gun at Connor multiple times and at himself too. The precinct’s asshole who used every chance to annoy and start a fight with someone. The idiot everyone wondered how he still stayed employed. It… It was simply impossible and yet it just happened right here.

A moan that wasn’t even attempted to be stifled, brought him out of his shocked state and Connor darted. He had never been as fast in his life as he was now, sprinting around the corner, opening the door and falling down at his table. His haunted expression instilled worry in most faces, but it took a while until someone asked: ‘What happened?’ ‘Trust me, you don’t want to know’, Connor muttered staring straight ahead. Then his head snapped up and life came back to him. He looked miserable. ‘Both are still alive, but believe me as a loving brother, I wish they weren’t.’

#detroit become human #dbh #Reed900 #Gavin Reed #RK900 #angry kiss #Nines: I hate him so much he is insufferable and a total asshole and he doesn't know when to back down #Nines: Also I get lost in his eyes and he is such a dumbass and...#Nines: Nevermind I love him so much #Connor is facepalming in so many damn stories lately poor little android #this actually had been fun to write but the person next to me on the train left the seat at the knee thingy #some people don't know what's good

31 notes · View notes

broadwaytheanimatedseries · 4 years

Text

Once Upon A Time, In A Far Away Land... - AU:

The legend says that King Raymond, then still a Prince and an adventurer, went to find the terrible threat known as the dragon witch, that has been rumored to have hurt innocent people and was the cause of great distress for a long time. What he found was a lovely, beautiful woman with charm and wit and a heart of gold, who's reputation had been tainted by those who tried to steal from her and payed the price when she defended herself.

It was then and there that the king decided he would do anything to make her happy.

Many years later, and the two married and had a family together. Three beautiful boys. Two of them ordinary looking twins, and the younger one seemingly half dragon and half human.

Now of course not everyone in the kingdom was immediately on board with their new queen, not did they all approve of the princes, especially the young one. But eventually, most of them came around, or at the very least knew better than to voice their negative opinions.

The years pass and the children grow up. Roman and Remus learn magic and swordsmanship, both being more talented in the latter, and they go on lots of adventures, both together and separately.

while Drake learns all that and more, doing his best to perfect all his skills but being especially talented in magic. he wants to be able to always have the right answers, to never be caught unprepared.

Unfortunately, he is caught very unprepared.

One day, while adventuring in a part of the woods rumored to be overtaken by the misfits and rebels of the kingdom, Roman and Remus are caught in one of their traps.

"well well well, a couple of trespassers." A hooded figure teased, eyes lighting up in amusement.

"those are no ordinary trespassers! It seems we're in the company of royalty!" Replied a man with glasses who didn't seem that mean compared to the hooded figure.

"Vee did good job with those traps, I gotta hand it to him." Said the woman among them, sounding pleasantly surprised.

The twins were too weak from their previous fight to do much, and they could only stare angrily as they waited for one of the rebels to speak.

Finally, the woman gave an order.

"R, Em, escort our guests. I'll go tell boss the wonderful news."

Hours later, as Drake was pacing in his room and his parents were sitting in the throne room patiently waiting for news on the whereabouts of their sons, all knowing it isn't like them to disappear for this long without giving a proper warning.

Finally, a message came, from the leader of the forest dwellers.

"if you wish to see your sons, there are matters to discuss. I will come to the forest's entrance every night for the next three days. Send a representative, they must come alone. We shall see if we can come to an agreement that's favorable for both sides. Should you fail to accept this offer, we will have no choice but to keep the princes as our prisoners. Their transgressions can not go unpunished, but perhaps theit unfortunate mistake can bring about a new era, for all those who deserve a better life.

Sincerely, P. Sanders"

Drake couldn't sleep that night, knowing that his parents had no intention listening to the rebels' wishes. He couldn't help but worry what his life would be like without his brothers. He didn't like the idea of it, not one bit.

So that night, after tossing and turning in his bed for hours, he decided to do something he never thought he'd do in his life.

He snuck out of the castle to disobey his parents.

He went to the entrance of the forest to speak to the leader of the rebels. The man he saw before him, however, was not at all what he expected.

Patton Sanders has been fighting ever since he could remember himself. He was hardly the first rebel to find shelter in these woods, but with all the elders that had raised him having passed away, he became the new leader. It wasn't an easy job, but it was rewarding, and someone has to do it. He couldn't let all these poor people go without any help, not when he knew from personal experience how hard it was to survive in the kingdom for anyone who couldn't be born or marry into nobility, and who couldn't fit into whatever narrow path was set up for them.

So to see that the king and queen sent their youngest son to negotiate was... puzzling, to say the least. After all, you'd think at least one of them would want to show up to discuss a way to get their sons back.

But when he saw the prince's nervous body language, he suspected he knew what was really going on.

"greetings, Mr Sanders." the young prince gave a small bow.

~at least he cares enough to show up and be formal about it.~ Patton thinks and decides that he can allow himself to be a little nice.

"please, Mr Sanders was my father. You can just call me Patton, your highness."

"oh, alright. Well then I suppose you can address me as Drake, if you wish."

There was a moment of uneasy silence before Drake decided he'll cut to the point.

"so what is it that you want in exchange for my brothers' safe return?"

"simply put? Justice."

Drake raised an eyebrow, not in judgement or mockery but in confusion. "I'm afraid you're going to have to be a bit more specific."

"why is it, you think, that generations of outcasts and misfits have sought shelter in these woods? Have you considered why we'd need to seek shelter from our own kingdom?"

Drake had a few ideas, but by the look on his face they troubled him too much to express.

Patton sighed in sympathy and decided to say it himself, as he had many times before, to save the young prince (who actually was about Patton's age, although the leader looked older due to all that he's had to endure) the embarrassment.

"the kingdom is under attack from within itself. The rich and powerful are attacking the poor and helpless, by not extending to them the aid they need in order to just barely survive, let alone thrive as the nobles do. And your parents have been complacent, content to let the broken system that benefits them go on as it always had. All I want is equality. To be provided with what we need to survive and to be allowed to exist however we choose, be given the same freedom the nobles have that we had to escape from the kingdom into the forest to find. That is all the rebels have ever wanted, and it is all I ask."

Drake listens carefully, studying Patton's face for any deception or insincerity, and finds none. He sighs, tiredly, heavily.

"you know my parents didn't send me, don't you?"

"I figured as much, yes."

"so you understand this is gonna be hell on earth for me, trying to accomplish what you're asking of me, against their wishes, right?"

"indeed, but considering your choice of words, it sounds to me like you've already joined the cause."

"...unfortunately, yes." Drake couldn't help but agree. He knew it was dangerous, and would take expert planning, and would be downright impossible to achieve, but besides the fact that it was the only way to get his brothers back without starting an unnecessary war with the peaceful forest dwellers, it was also the right thing to do. And besides, Patton was very cute- convincing! Drake had meant convincing, he insisted to himself, unconvincingly. Yes the irony of that is not lost on him.

Meanwhile, At the rebels' campsite, the twin princes were surprised to find that aside from the occasional jab or tease, they were being treated rather respectfully. Sure their hands were tied to ensure they couldn't escape but they were treated more like guests rather than prisoners. In fact, they were treated like equals, which has never happened to them before. Their parents treated them like kids and, although they tried to be subtle about it, so did a lot of the older nobles, and everyone else treated them like royalty, which they were. But this was the first time they've ever had a normal conversation with people who saw them as equals.

Roman was a bit huffy at first, insisting he be treated with the respect worthy of a prince, only to be met with laughter and eye rolls. "there aren't any classes here, you're no better than anyone else. Better get used to it, Princey." said a figure standing completely in shadow, though his eyes almost glistened in the darkness, the fire reflecting off them. "let him whine, Vee. It's all he's got now." the woman he now knew as Valerie teased, and the only reason he let her get away with it is because she had bested him in combat earlier that day, when he made a daring escape attempt. Seeing as she proved herself a fierce warrior, she had his begrudging respect. But then he heard the shadowed figure chuckle in response, and the sound evoked many different emotions in him, so he decided to focus on annoyance and anger. "so, you're the Vee in charge of the cowardly contraption that ensnared my brother and I." Roman could see the eyes squint as they looked him up and down, and then a smug smirk spread across the shadow's face. "the very same. Pretty neat trick, isn't it?" "I don't know what you think is so impressive about a machine made by a man too weak and scared to best his enemies face to face." "it's efficient, and it takes a hell of a lot more wit and talent than waving a sword around like a reckless idiot." the shadow bit back, sounding very defensive. Roman would have been prouder to have gotten him riled up if it were for Valerie looking very mad at him for insulting who he now had to assume is a friend of hers. He really didn't wanna anger Valerie. "I wouldn't expect a ruffian like you to understand anything about the fine art of sword fighting." at that, the shadow growled. Well and fully growled, sending a shiver down Roman's spine, filling him with fear and... Well he was going to ignore that other feeling for now and hopefully it would go away. "okay, fuck this. Val, can you untie his hands?" Valerie's eyes went wide. "Vee, you don't have to-" "no, I want to. It's worth it to get this asshole to shut up and show some respect." Roman would have said something if he weren't intrigued by the conversation. "alright, but I don't like this." "no one's gonna get hurt. I promise." as Valerie untied his hands she glared at him. "what? How was I supposed to know he'd react this way? Also what the hell is going on?" "you'll see in a second, just don't see this as a chance to try escaping again or I'll personally knock you unconscious." "noted." as the bindings were fully removed from his hands and Valerie backed away, Vee stepped out of the shadows, allowing Roman to see him for the first time. This was already a very big problem for Roman, as he was not prepared for how hot the rebel was. To make matters worse, Roman wasn't done checking him out sizing him up, when Vee pulled a sword from where it was resting on his hip, and he held it directly at Roman's throat, just inches away from grazing his skin. And that really should not have made the blood rush to the direction it did for Roman, but his body just had the worst timing. Luckily, somehow, he still managed to focus on Vee's next words.

"you wanted to fight face to face? Fine. I, Virgil Fabre, challenge you to a duel."

And that is when Roman realized his big mistake. Well, too late to back out now.

"I accept your challenge."

Remus was ecstatic, though. He immediately started feeling more at ease and free to be himself. He didn't even mind being tied up all that much, and he made sure to get that point across with a bunch of inappropriate humor that made everyone uncomfortable. Well all except for the two men who brought them to the camp, and a third, much cuter nerd, resembling the rebel in glasses but seemingly more stoic, but even he was clearly smiling at one of Remus's crass jokes. Their eyes locked and the serious rebel blushed and turned back to resume his conversation with the men he now knew as Remy and Emile. Fuck. Finding a way to enjoy being kidnapped while waiting to be rescued or until he found a way to escape? That was one thing. But crushing on one of the rebels who was holding him prisoner? Remus would have to be a fool to act on these emotions. He glanced the other way to check on his brother and asked why he was sword fighting with one of the rebels. After being updated on what happened, he sighs heavily. Well you know what? If Roman was allowed to be stupid, and they were truly equals in this forest, then dang it Remus can do whatever Roman can do if he damn well pleases. With this new conviction, he boldly strutted over to the handsome nerd, only for Emile to give him a death glare that immediately makes him turn around.

But he's far from giving up. They all are.

Anyway thats it for this au, for now (;

Let me know what you think and as always -

Stay Tuned!

107 notes · View notes

shesey · 3 years

Text

Excerpts from Rachel Cusk’s “Kudos”

“A degree of self-deception, she said, was an essential part of the talent for living.” “What is history other than memory without pain?” “...for the world seemed full of people living evilly without reprisal and living virtuously without reward, the temptation to abandon personal morality might arise in exactly the moment when personal morality is most significant.” “I have met people who have freed themselves from their family relationships. Yet there often seems to be a kind of emptiness in that freedom, as though in order to dispense with their relatives they have had to dispense with a part of themselves.” “You asked me earlier... whether I believed that justice was merely a personal illusion. I don’t have the answer to that... but I know that it is to be feared, feared in every part of you, even as it fells your enemies and crowns you the winner.” “We invent these systems with the aim of ensuring fairness, she said, and yet the human situation is so complex that it always evades our attempts to encompass it.” “They forgive so easily, it is almost as if nothing matters.” “And I wonder, she said, whether we haven’t done them a great disservice in sparing them this pain, which might somehow have brought them to life, at the same time as knowing that this couldn’t possible by true, and that it is only my own belief in the value of suffering that makes me think it. I am one of those who believes that without suffering there can be no art.” “It may be the case, she said, that it is only when it is too late to escape that we see we were free all along.” “Why should I trust your view of the world if you can’t even take care of yourself? If you were a pilot, I wouldn’t get on board - I wouldn’t trust you to take me the distance.” “You earn just enough to get by but at the end of the day there’s nothing left mentally, and so you cling to the job even harder.” “That tribe was one to which nearly all the men in this country belonged and it defined itself through a fear of women combined with an utter dependence on them.” “We live with an almost superstitious belief in our own differences, she said, and Luis has shown that those differences are not the result of some divine mystery but are merely the consequence of our lack of empathy, which if we had it would enable us to see that in face we are all the same. It is for his empathy, she said, that Luis has received such acclaim, and so I believe he should congratulate himself, rather than feeling ashamed for being praised.” “... and it is impossible not to feel that we have broken him, not out of malice but out of our own carelessness and selfishness.” “Behind every man is his mother who has made so much fuss of him he will never recover from it and will never understand why the rest of the world doesn’t make the same fuss of him, particularly the woman who has replaced his mother and who he can neither trust nor forgive for replacing her.” “... because it reminds them of the possibility that it is patience and endurance and loyalty - rather than ambition and desire - that bring the ultimate rewards.” “In this country, for a woman to survive the numerous attempts to crush her, he said, she has to live like a hero, always getting up again and always, ultimately, alone.” “I replied that this was something all of us had felt in our turn, as we passed into adulthood and recognized the role of outside events in shaping history and their capacity to interfere in and change our lives, which until now had remained in the hermetic state of childhood.” “Great art was very often brought to the service of this self-immolation, as great intelligence and sensitivity often characterized those who found the world an impossible place to live in.” “Could a spiritual value be attached to the mirror itself, so that by passing dispassionately though evil it proved its own virtue, its own incorruptibility?” “And that was without mentioning the moral duty of the critic to correct the tendency of culture likewise to err towards safety and mediocrity, a responsibility you couldn’t measure in dinner invitations.” “What he couldn’t tolerate above else, he went on, was the triumph of the second-rate, the dishonest, the ignorant: the fact that this triumph occurred with monotonous regularity was one of life’s mysteries.” “Yet if one looked at the work of Louise Bourgeois, one saw that it concerned the private history of the female body, its suppression and exploitation and transmogrifications, its terrible malleability as a form and its capacity to create other forms.” “It is hard to think, she said, of a better example of female invisibility than these drawings, in which the artist herself has disappeared and exists only as the benign monster of her child’s perception.” “Plenty of female practitioners of the arts, she said, have more or less ignored their femininity, and it might be argued that these women have found recognition easier to come by, perhaps because they draw a veil over subjects that male intellectuals find distasteful.” “It is understandable, she said, that a woman of talent might resent being fated to the feminine subject and might seek freedom by engaging with the world on other terms.” “I remember, she continued, as a young girl, the realization dawning on me that certain things had been decided for me before I had even begun to live, and that I had already been dealt the losing hand while my brother had been given the winning cards. It would be a mistake, I saw, to treat this injustice as thought it were normal, as all my friends seemed prepared to do.” “These boys, she said, had the most ridiculous attitudes towards women, which they were busy learning from the examples their parents had given them, and I saw the way that my female friends defended themselves against those attitudes, by making themselves as perfect and as inoffensive as they could. Yet the ones who didn’t defend themselves were just as bad, because by refusing to conform to these standards of perfection they were in a sense disqualifying themselves and distancing themselves from the whole subject. But i quickly came to see, she said, that in fact there was nothing worse to be an average white male of average talents and intelligence: even the most oppressed housewife, she said, is closer to the drama and poetry of life than he is, because as Louise Bourgeois shows us she is capable at least of holding more than one perspective. And it was true, she said, that a number of girls were achieving academic success and cultivating professional ambitions, to the extent that people had begun to feel sorry for these average boys and to worry that their feelings were being hurt. Yet if you looked only a little way ahead, she said, you could see that the girls’ ambitions led nowhere, like the roads you often find yourself on in this country, that start off new and wide and smooth and then simply stop in the middle of nowhere, because the government ran out of money to finish building them.” “I also enjoyed the attentions of men, she said, while making sure never to commit myself to any one man or to ask for commitment in return, because I understood that this was a trap and that I could still enjoy all the benefits of a relationship without falling into it.” “It did not seem like enough, she said, simply to pass the baton to the next runner, in hope that she would win the race for me.” “I have a male counterpart on the show, she said, and he is not required to look attractive, but I am not in the slightest bit interested in that example of inequality. What I am interested in is power, she said, and the power of beauty is a useful weapon that too often women disparage or misuse.” “For a while, at university, I sat as a life model for the art students, she said, partly to make money and partly to get this subject of the female body out into the open, because it almost seemed to me that even by clothing myself I was inviting the mystery to take root there under my clothes, and to weave the web of subjection in which later I might become trapped.” “In my own case, she said, I have fought to occupy a position where I can perhaps right some of these wrongs and can adjust the terms of the debate to an extent by promoting the work of women I find interesting.” “I said I wasn’t sure it mattered where people lived or how, since their individual nature would create its own circumstances: it was a risky kind of presumptions, I said, to rewrite your own fate by changing its setting; when it happened to people against their will, the loss of the known world - whatever its features - was catastrophic.” “... That family was big and noisy and easy-going, and there was always room for him at the table, where huge comforting meals were served and where everything was discussed by nothing examined, so that there was no danger of passing through the mirror, as he had put it, into the state of painful self-awareness where human fictions lose their credibility.” “The truth was that he no longer wanted to go there, beacuse the same things that a year or two earlier he had found warm and consoling he know found oppressive and annoying: those mealtimes were a yoke, he now saw, by which the parents sought to bind their children to them and to perpetuate, as he saw it, the family myth...” “He recognized that in taking their comfort he had created a responsibility towards them; and this realization, I said, had caused him to consider the true nature of freedom. He understood that he had given some of his freedom away, through a desire to avoid or alleviate his own suffering, and while it didn’t seem exactly an unfair exchange, I believed he wouldn’t do it again quite so easily.” “There was a word in his language, I said, that was hard to translate but that could be summed up as a feeling of homesickness even when you are at home, in other words as a sorrow that has no cause. This feeling was perhaps what had once driven his people to roam the world, seeking the home that would cure them of it. It may be the case that to find home is to end one’s quest, I said, but it is with the feeling of displacement itself that the true intimacy develops and that constitutes, as it were, the story. Whatever kind of affliction it is, I said, its nature is that of the compass, and the owner of such a compass puts all his faith in it and goes where it tells him to go, despite appearances telling him the opposite.” “But you, he said to me, don’t belong anywhere, and so you are free to go wherever you choose.” “... these experiences do not fully belong to reality and the evidence for them is a matter of one person’s word against another’s.” “Our bodies outlive their use of them, and that is what annoys them most of all. These bodies continue to exist, getting older and uglier and telling them the truth they don’t want to hear.” “I feel so lonely, he said, and yet I have no privacy.” “You can’t tell your story to everybody, I said. Maybe you can only tell it to one person.”

#rachel cusk #kudos #feminism

5 notes · View notes

tiaragqueen · 5 years

Text

At The End Of Her Tether

✂ Pairing: Yandere! Wu Yifan x Reader

✂ Word Count: 1,6k

✂ Trigger Warning: Isolation, possessive behavior, jealousy, slight angst, demeaning nicknames, yandere theme.

✂ This story is fictional and for amusement only. I don't believe any of the members would do this in real life. As always, thank you for reading and I hope you have a good day! [Edited]

If you like my writing, please support me on ko-fi!

"You're reaching out, and no one hears your cry. You're freaking out again, cause all your fears remind you. And all the dream has come undone." - Desperate [David Archuleta]

Two years.

It’s been two fucking years since you left him. Him, the only one who loved you. Him, the only one who cared for you. Him, the only one who knew everything about you.

And him, who sacrificed everything just to be with you. For you.

Kris was a man of few words. That, and his inability to fully express his feelings made him unreadable to others. For these very reasons, many people dubbed him as ‘boring’, ‘too quiet’, and to some extent ‘robot’. It hurt to hear those demeaning nicknames just because he possessed high self-control, especially the latter.

Just because he rarely showed emotions didn’t mean he was a robot. He, like any other humans in the world, had feelings. He did feel angry, sad, content, excited, and sometimes a mixture of all those things. He did feel the emotional rollercoaster sometimes, and he did cry once in a while. It was a shame that very few people realized that, and went on with their shallow judgments. They spread lies to the others to make them believe he was a pathetic loser with no friends. That pathetic loner who had trust issues because he was too cynical.

That pathetic loner with nobody to love, and to be loved.

Kris used to pray for a miracle; for someone to notice how lonely and hurt he was. He’d prayed for someone to befriend him, to go through thick and thin with him, to be loyal to him despite his distant attitude. He didn’t really think about a lover that time, as he considered dating someone to be too much of a stretch.

And God eventually granted his heartfelt wishes.

It was one overcast day – snowdrops falling from the cloudy sky and the atmosphere was bleak overall – during his first encounter with you. You were working as a cashier in some convenience store when a tall man approached the counter. He was buying toiletries and groceries, but that wasn’t what caught your attention. It was the bags under his eyes; definitely bigger and darker than yours. From his appearance, you deduced that he couldn’t definitely be older than twenty. However, his exhausted face made him look like a thirty-or-something.

“Hey, you’re okay?”

Kris glanced up from the iron countertop, finding you staring at him with a concerned mien. Not wanting to waste his time chatting around with some random stranger – and a staff nonetheless – he silently nodded.

“Oh, well,” you coughed into your palm, suddenly became conscious that you might have been a bit rude towards him. “It's just... you look very tired.”

“I didn’t have much sleep last night.” he murmured, voice so soft you almost misheard it.

You frowned. “Well, that’s not good at all. You look younger than me, and yet your face seems like an old man. A jaded old man.”

Curiosity peaked, Kris asked. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.” You bit your bottom lip at the sudden realization. “Oh, man. I just realized how old I am. This is why I avoid talking about age.”

Kris smiled. It was small – you weren’t sure if you saw it had his eyes didn’t soften a little – but it made your heart flutter nonetheless. You always loved bringing a smile on to other people’s faces, no matter how minuscule it might be.

“You know, your smile is very beautiful.”

Caught off guard, Kris snapped his head towards you at a surprising speed. You smiled and maintained steady eye contact, showing him your sincerity. Blood slowly rushed into his cheeks as he bowed in bashfulness.

“Thank you...”

Ever since that day, Kris made an effort to shop in that store more often and talked with you. You also began to exchange your number, leading to deep conversations in the middle of the night. The night where his depression hit him. The night where he couldn’t sleep because he was too busy thinking about you.

What were you doing?

Have you eaten yet?

Did you get enough sleep?

Whenever you were absent or on a vacation, he felt a slight pang in his chest. Kris used to think that it was odd to get attached to a new friend, but after meeting you, he started to consider that maybe – just maybe – you weren’t so bad at all. You were easy-going, understanding, and sympathetic. You never seemed irritated whenever he texted you on ungodly hours or calling you because he was struck with a longing to hear your voice.

That soothing voice that always eased his tensed nerves. That giddy voice when you told him something interesting that happened today. That melodic laugh that echoed in his mind when he made a joke.

Kris never perceived himself as funny, but after listening to you laughed to a corny pun that he made on the spot, he endeavored to be as funny as possible. He wanted to be the reason for your smile, of your laughter, the same way you made him smile that time.

That wish to bring happiness to you eventually blossomed into romantic feelings. He couldn’t help it; you were too precious for him. You had proven yourself as a worthy and loyal friend, and Kris desired a deeper relationship with you. He didn’t want to lose you to anyone else.

Which led him to confess to you.

It took a long time for you to accept his confession. Not because you didn’t like him – you did, yet the sentiment was nothing compared to his – but because you wanted to make sure he wouldn’t cheat on you. That this relationship wouldn’t be a waste of time. You were aware that it was impossible to control people’s feelings, because who knows what would happen a month or a year later? Then again, the chance of him being disloyal to you was slim. But you wanted to ensure things wouldn’t change in the near future.

And Kris held on to his vow. The vow to be a good boyfriend and a best friend, because being in a relationship with you didn’t mean he would stop befriending you. He knew that those two could be very different things depending on the problems that arise.

It was truly a delight to date him. He was a hundred times more caring, kinder, and attentive than he already was. It was like he had developed a sixth sense to detect your wants and negativity that came from day-to-day troubles. You appreciated his efforts to always put your needs above his, even though you had repeatedly told him to think about himself too.

Everything was sunshine and rainbow. You grew to love him even more; his little quirks, attitude, looks, and everything he had offered. However, you had underestimated how jealous he could be given the circumstances. It didn’t matter if you were merely glancing at a random person, he would still take it to the heart.

“Kris, let me out, please! I’ll do anything just please... please don’t lock me in here. Please!”

Your scream and sobs echoed in the otherwise quiet house. Kris leaned against the wall beside the door that led to a room; devoid of any furniture except a single tray that contained your dinner. He didn’t know if you had eaten it yet, seeing as you had passed out from fatigue during the daytime earlier. It was a waste of food, but he was fully aware that all you needed was freedom. A breath of fresh air. Not a small room with the dizzying smell of paint wafting around.

“I'm begging you, Kris, let me out! I’ll promise I won’t talk to him again! I’ll do anything, just please let me out!”

Kris squeezed his eyes shut to prevent the tears from leaking as he listened to you coughing and whimpering inside. He didn’t want to do this – heck, he was willing to gloss over it – had you didn’t choose to escape.

Then again, if anyone – any sane person – were to look at it through another point of view, it would be understandable if you made such a rash decision. Kris could be cruel if he wanted to, and although his punishment was normally sexual, you refused to lay on the bed crying your heart out. It was enough that you had more than enough time stewing over what had been, over what you had missed.

Just for once, you wanted to be able to independent. You wanted to be free from his suffocating clutch. You wanted a taste of freedom; something that you used to take for granted.

But that choice only turned to bite you back in the end.

The door creaked after you had collapsed from hours of wailing and sobbing. Even though you saw Kris slinking inside, even though you were begging for him less than five minutes ago, you had never been happier at the sight of the light that poured inside the room. It gave you hope that you were still alive – that you didn’t need to be trapped in this hellhole again.

And perhaps, you could regain that freedom you had so carelessly let go in a moment of complacency. No matter how farfetched it might sound. No matter how laughable the mere notion of you escaping his tight hug.

“You promise to be a good girl, right?” he whispered in your ear as he caressed the hair that clung on to your sweaty forehead. “You promise to never leave me again, right? I’d hate to do this for the second time if I see you repeat your mistake.”

Or maybe not.

Sighing, you closed your eyes and buried your tear-stained face against his chest. You were tired. So, so tired it felt like your soul had left your body.

It would be good if that was true. If that could be reality. At least, you never had to deal with him again.

“Yes...”

#yandere kris #yandere kris wu #yandere exo #yandere kpop #yandere kpop au #kpop yandere #yandere exo au #yandere kris x reader #yandere kris wu x reader #yandere exo x reader #yandere wu yifan #yandere wu yifan x reader

99 notes · View notes

grimmbrookhq · 4 years

Photo

THE ANGRY LITTLE PIG ▶ SAMUEL MASON ( THIEF ● 38 ● JOEL KINNAMAN ● TAKEN )

Even though he and Luke are twins, Sam has always considered himself as being the oldest an therefore felt a responsibility towards his siblings. Tried to shelter them as much as he could, especially his brother who was smaller and sensitive. Or at least that is how Sam saw him. Sam was always the problem child.

He was burning ants with a magnifying glass when the dry grass caught fire and spread across the yard all the way inside the house. Before he knew it, the place had gone down in flames with both of his parents trapped inside. Sam and Luke tried to save them but it was impossible. To this day, no one knows how the fire started.

The guilt consumed him and he used drugs to numb his pain. This led to a life of crime that started with robbing liquor stores and breaking in to people’s houses and ended with the bank robbery that would send Samuel away for 2 years. He made a deal, pleaded guilty in exchange for a shorter sentence and for his siblings freedom.

He learned a lot in prison, like how to make a shiv out of a toothbrush. He also learned that some people were doomed to lead a life of crime and violence and that he was never going to change. That he did not want to change. He was surprised when he found out that his brother was trying to better himself and he is trying to get him back on the job.

CONNECTIONS ▶

Luke Mason: He loves his brother, he does. What better way to show his love than to take the fall for him and his sister after the bank robbery went awry? Does he get any appreciation for it? It seems like his brother still resents him for dragging him along this job and “ruining his life.” Sam wants them to get back to work but it seems that Luke is trying to turn in a new leaf by befriending the town sheriff? Seriously?

Danielle Mason: He is not lying when he says that he’d take a bullet for his siblings, his sister most of all. He loves Danielle and unlike his brother he supports her in whatever she chooses to do with her life. Stripping is not ideal but at least she is doing what she can to survive and he respects that. He does visit the strip joint at times though to make sure no one gets too grabby.

Archibald Crock: The guy who arrested him and his siblings? No, Sam does not like him and he especially does not like the fact that he is always checking up on him to make sure he doesn’t violate his parole. Also what is that interest he has with his sister all of the sudden?

Joseph Maddox: He used to think of Joseph as a brother from another mother. They have known each other for a long time, even before they both got involved with the Snow family. They don’t talk much these days after he decided to drive off and leave him and his siblings at the mercy of police officers. Worst get away driver ever. Sam could have thrown him under the bus and yet he decided to keep that information to himself. If anyone’s coming after Joseph, it’s Sam.

Hunter Grey: Hunter is a tough chick and Sam has a lot of respect for her which is saying a lot considering he respects no one. She can also drink anyone under the table, a quality he always looks for in a friend. Sam wants to ask her to put in a good word with Winifred so he can get back to work.

#dark rp #mystery rp #skeleton rp #new rp #grimm.skeleton #samuel mason #death tw #luke #danielle #archibald #joseph #hunter #joel kinnaman

2 notes · View notes

singulardivinity-blog · 5 years

Text

Enchanted pt 1

Prompt 1 (uploaded 02.06.19)

Characters: Witch!Y/N, Physician!Namjoon, Herbalist!Seokjin, Knight!Jungkook, Knight!Hoseok, King!Taehyung, Servant!Jimin, King’s Adviser!Yoongi. Paring: Taehyung x Y/N Genre: Fantasy, Romance Words: 1.8k Warnings: None Parts: [1] /

-> The Kingdom of Malith falls to the witches and King Si-hyuk of Eondan is killed. A new king is crowned and smugglers make their way into the kingdom, leaving Y/N with little options. She meets with her childhood friend Seokjin and royal physician Namjoon who offers her a job at the palace.

Part one: I ran through the forest, gasping as I struggled to breathe, the soft sound of hooves hitting the mossy floor chasing me as I went. Entering a clearing, I staggered realising I was trapped, ensnared in the familiar path back to my burning camp. Smoke curled in waves off the forest floor, the ruins of my community and our peace blackened in smog. This community had held my youth, the safety and love of my peers, and admittedly as of recent, the demise of a kingdom.

Our people were a generous and peaceful group, yet anger had brewed until we were oppressed into fighting. I had not taken part in that historic event, although held dear the story of my mothers and fathers struggle at revolution.

And here I was again. Nearly a decade after I had ran from the fear and grief of losing the two I loved above all else. I was back, watching the rest of my life demolish.

Only this time, I was stronger and I understood my power. Nothing could weaken me, and there was nothing left to take from me.

The horses and riders upon them, halted as they circled me, seemingly giving me no escape. What could they possibly want from me? There was nothing left they could take from me, nothing to blackmail me with as they tortured me for the whereabouts of my kin.

“You have nowhere to go now, sweetheart,” the thug crooned, smiling viscously as if I were an animal caught for sport.

I spun, glancing at each of the riders and wondered briefly if they each had their own families, friends, or if they knew what it felt like to lose a partner.

“Unfortunately for you I’m afraid,” I smirked to their leader, “I have more than one trick up my sleeve.”

The uneasy glances surrounding me made me smirk. They knew what I was.

Back turned to their leader, I smiled sadly as I heard him scream, “Seize her!” I knew what I had to do in exchange for my freedom.

A single tear slid down my cheek as my closed eyes flared golden. “You’ll never catch me.” with the twitch of an eyebrow the men and creatures ignited, shattering as flames licked at their skin. I sprinted, escaping their screams as shrapnel flew from my explosions, and freed myself of their torment.

There was only one place I could go now. The only place where safety and trust was ensured; in the small cottage of my childhood best friend. Seokjin and I had known each other since before either of us understood the meanings of power and law. We had grown up vivaciously; I danced among flowers while he discovered new herbs and undergrowth, and he watched avidly as I perfected my craft and learnt new spells. We understood each other’s passions and we became each other’s closest friends. A few years older than me and the most promising of his siblings, Seokjin was expected to find work while I was still going through the early awkwardness of puberty. He became apprenticed as an amateur herbalist, a royal physician offering him a chance to pursue his dreams professionally, and my heart ached as I watched him leave.

We never grew apart completely, but seeing each other became difficult due to his growing responsibility, and my need to keep myself hidden. He was affiliated with the castle, and I could not risk that kind of exposure.

Reaching the edge of the forest, I spotted the small wooden cottage. Its quaint familiarity made me smile and I quickly noticed the two figures pottering around the garden. I watched as they spoke, laughing at something Seokjin was holding, and I longed to be in that second man’s place. Those bittersweet emotions clutched at me again, and I couldn’t help but wish he had never left. Seokjin had barely changed, gangly limbs and boyish aura, although he now stood tall and confident, any suggestion of the worry or anxiety that used to trace his face was gone and his smile content.

Approaching the men, Seokjin’s smile grew impossibly wider as he recognised my short figure and unusual clothing immediately. He rushed over and pulled me against him, exclaiming in his rich teasing voice, “It’s been long enough for heaven’s sake, I had started to think you gone and died on me!” He was joking, although concern laced his voice at seeing my exhausted form, my attire having ripped while I was running and my hair oily from my less than frequent washes. “I was wondering when you’d come back to me.” Mockingly patting his chest, I laughed. “Yeah, yeah. I missed you too.” As we pulled away the other man stood forward, extending an arm. I recognised him immediately from the countless times Seokjin had gushed about the attractive and intelligent physician. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Y/N.” “Namjoon?” I tried and he smiled broadly taking his hand. He was a handsome man, brownish hair and tanned skin, and he held such a poised persona that I was surprised when he blushed self-consciously. “I’ve been told so much about you over the years and to be honest, I was wondering when we would finally meet.” He glanced teasingly at Seokjin who had brought me back into a hug. “I missed you so much,” He paused. “There is so much we need to talk about.”

Seokjin led me inside and I marvelled at the beauty of his house. Rows of shelves packed with books and jars filled with dried flowers, an ornate fireplace sitting the corner and I realised that Seokjin had become significantly wealthier than when he’d left home.

He sat down before me as Namjoon left excitedly, babbling about some herbal tea Seokjin had taught him how to make. I could tell Seokjin was trying to tell me something, internally conflicted about how he should word what he wanted to say. “You and Namjoon have a beautiful house, Seokjin.” I smiled and his tense form visibly relaxed. “How did you know?” He laughed and I shrugged, “I guess I just had a feeling. Besides you look absolutely smitten.” Namjoon came back in the room with our tea cheerily and sat down next to Seokjin. “I probably don’t need to ask you not to tell anyone, do I?” Seokjin implored and I faked a gasp. “Jin, as if you’d even need to ask me! I would never dream about telling anyone.” The couple beamed at each other and I couldn’t help but join them, knowing my best friend had found his muse.

The mood softened as Seokjin sighed, “I don’t know what to say, Y/N, where to start. So much has happened.”

“After the fall of Malith to the witches, and then the overthrowing of the witches, Eondan was thrown into chaos. Our trading routes have become non-existent and King Taehyung doubled the amount of soldiers on standby in case of an attack. Families have been closing down their stores because they either can’t get supplies, or can’t sell what they have.” He looked disgruntled, disturbed by what he was to say next, and I noticed that Namjoon had begun holding his hand, adorned with a beautiful woven metal ring identical to the one on Seokjin’s fourth finger.

“Namjoon has had to stop attending to people. He doesn’t have any medications left and it’s too dangerous for me to risk going into the forest to get herbs. I’m sure you’ve seen the smugglers?” I nodded solemnly, recounting the run in that had bought me to Seokjin in the first place.

“They’re trafficking anyone of worth; anyone they can get money off in Azkater, whether by profession or simply beauty, as a way of earning enough income to feed themselves.”

I recalled the stories I’d been told of Azkater as a child. It was a corrupt nation where criminals would go if they found no other kingdom that would accept them. It ran off greed, money and hatred, and allied with no one unless they proved beneficial. I had only been there once briefly and what I saw was enough to keep me away forever.

“Wait Jin. What do you mean King Taehyung?”

“King Si-hyuk was in Malith when it was attacked. He’s dead. Prince Taehyung brought him here after he was hit in the chest but he died while Namjoon was attending him. Taehyung was crowned king.”

“But surely Taehyung must only be the same age us? He’s barely an adult how could be expected to run a kingdom?”

“There were no other successors. King Taehyung is the oldest of his family, it’s what has been expected of him since he was born. Although clearly they didn’t prepare him very well, he hasn’t been very good at his job.”

“Oh Seokjin,” Namjoon tutted, “He’s grieving. He watched his father die, have sympathy.”

“And while he gets to sit on his throne crying in his silk cloak and holding his silver spoon, his kingdom is falling apart!” Jin paused embarrassedly,

“I’m sorry Y/N, I shouldn’t be speaking so ill of our king, I’m frustrated is all. Joon tells of what happens inside the castle and out, and we’ve just been through so much recently. It just all seems so unfair-.”

“I understand. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here for you, Seokjin. If I had known, maybe I could’ve done something, could’ve helped? I was so selfish to stay hidden while all of this was happening.”

“It’s not your fault, Y/N, how could you have foreseen this? Your community did this, not you.”

Your community. Not ours. How could he say that when he grew up alongside the same laws as ours, the same peace? I felt disgusted that we had become so torn apart that he didn’t recognise himself as part of our family, as if he had erased our entire childhood from his life.

He sensed my discomfort and immediately apologised.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It doesn’t matter Seokjin.” I snapped, composing myself I looked to Namjoon who had begun speaking.

“The reality is, I’m afraid, that there’s really not much we can do about it now. We’re just going to have to sit this out.”

Seokjin hugged me one more time before announcing that he was going to cook dinner. Namjoon led me to the spare bedroom telling me they had it set up in case anyone got suspicious of their living arrangement. Two men in the one house often did arise theories.

I laid underneath the woven blanket and realised then that I had been exposed to a circumstance I had never envisioned; my best friend and the love of his life hiding the same way I did with my powers and I couldn’t help but cry.

No one should have to live like this. I shouldn’t have to live like this.

#fic #fanfic #bts #writing #masterlist #taehyung x reader #bts au #bts x reader #bts fanfic #king!taehyung #kim seokjin #min yoongi #jung hoseok #park jimin #kim taehyung #kim namjoon #jeon jungkook

9 notes · View notes