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missdawnandherdusk · 4 years

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the lakes

Draco Malfoy X Reader

Request: @youareinllve: Imagine spending summer break at the Malfoy manor and you realize that this is the first time in a while that draco seems like a kid again, with no pressure from his family or Voldemort or the death eaters, just draco, your draco again, just having fun in a lake. (also see the lakes)

A/N: So I think this is the softest thing that I’ve ever written in my life and that’s saying something (especially for those of you who have been around for a while). It also has brilliant cadence, so if you can, read it aloud: it’s that much more enchanting if you can. By no means will this always be how I write, because it is more poetic than prose, but I don’t mind doing it now and against especially with a muse like folklore. Let me know what you think! Seriously, I thrive on y’all feedback/comments/reblogs.

There were few days that I could call my own. The days when no one expected me to sit this way, talk that way, act perfectly. I could be young. I could be free. I could be loved. I could be with him.

There were few days that I could call him my own. The days when no one expected him to walk this way, speak that way, act like a Malfoy. He could be young. He could be free. He could be loved. He could be with me.

There were no tight-fitting robes. There were no school uniforms. There were no hours spent on hair and makeup. There was no time wasted in reflections. There were no side eye glances to steal.

There was the lightness of cotton. It was sundresses, cuffed trousers and flowy shirts. It was wide brimmed sun hats and bare feet. It was the softness of grass and the strength of the stones and comfort of earth.

It was his smile. The way it met his eyes. The way it called me in.

Into that cold water. That crystal-clear water. The water that matched the shade of his eyes.

Meet me at the lake,

Yours, Draco

That’s all it would take. That was when I knew the day was mine. When I knew he was. It was a trip to Windermere. To the wood skirting around his large suffocating manor. It was meeting him at the lake, where our days went to live and die.

“Took you long enough,” I’d tease as he passed the first few trees, his eyes scanning the foliage for me.

“Not all of us can apparate yet,” He’d jest back, taking my hand.

The warmth of his hand in mine matched the smile on his face. The sharp points of his cheekbones and jaw meeting the soft curves of his lips and eyelashes. The grass struggling to grow in the speckled light beckoned us forward. Our shoes, coats, and griefs left under a tree where our initials were carved. Sunlight filtered in golden and green through the trees lighting him softly.

Draco would take my hand and pull me close. His hands would rest on my waist as his nose nuzzled against mine in the calm lighting. Our breaths and the rustling of leaves were the only things heard. The only things that mattered to listen to. His lips would be soft and alluring on mine—just as his smile was.

The shock of the chilled water would elicit the most irresistible laughter and shouts of joy. The squishy earth beneath my toes would have me draped over Draco’s shoulders, just to avoid the prickling feeling. My dislike of the sensation would have him laughing yet again, and perhaps he’d roll his eyes at my ridiculousness. But he’d never complain. Instead he’d hold me or draw me deeper into the water.

The lake. The deep water. As soon as we could dive beneath it, our worries were gone. There was no war looming. There were no evil overlords. No heroes. No ransoms. There was no good versus bad. There was no sides. No houses. No prejudices.

There was me.

There was Draco.

There was the hum of insects. There was the swaying of wisteria. His smile pressed against my skin.

“I love you,” He’d whisper. “More than anything,”

“Never more than I love you,” I’d reply.

The enchanted water of that lake would take us to the banks. The outcropped rocks surrounded by flowers that were free to grow. That grew despite the adversity that it faced. The blanket would be soft under my touch as we carved a little square of the wildflowers to call our own.

Draco’s eyes would watch the distance, gazing upon the peaks of the mountains. Being with Draco seemed to make everything hurt less. No matter what it was, he had a way of soothing all of my worries and strife.

“How do I love thee?” He’d quote as I lay beside him watching the blueness of the heavens above.

“Let me count the ways,” I’d muse back, propping up on my arm so that I could catch a glimpse of the grey that his eyes held.

“I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach,” The words would tumble from his lips with practiced ease, with the same grace as the breeze persuading the grass to waver.

“I love thee to the level of every day's most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.” My words would barely be heard above the babbling of the lost brook as the sun would stretch out its last efforts of warmth and guidance.

Draco would sit up then, tucking my drying hair behind my ear in a feeble attempt to tame it against the will of the wind gods that accompanied us.

“I love thee freely, as men strive for right.” An air of melancholy would haunt his words as shades began to seep back into our Eden.

“I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.” The gentle reminder would ward off the ghosts of who we were supposed to be as a smile would be mirrored on his face as it was mine. Again, we were free.

“I love thee with the passion put to use in my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.” Draco would become theatrical at these lines, feigning distress and he draped over my lap. A laugh would fall from my lips and onto the perfection of his features.

“I love thee with a love I seemed to lose with my lost saints.” My fingers would dust over his cheek, drawing down his jaw, to trace the pink of his lips.

“I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears, of all my life,” His grey eyes would vow this to me. Each and every day that belonged to us he would declare these words.

“And, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.” I’d promise back.

As the sun gave into his sister for the night, there was no escaping the world that demanded us back. The world filled with grief and sorrow.

The truth was: Draco and I didn’t belong in that world. The world of heroes and villains. The world of happily ever after’s and storybook endings. We weren’t made for rumors and gossip. Our love didn’t fit in newspapers or hushed conversations.

We belonged to the poets. To the sad prose. We belonged to the orishas of that lake and the wood and the flowers and the earth. Thousands of nymphs and naiads for us to be in the comfort and care of. The fae that would welcome us and protect our love. Our love that grew deep roots and beautiful flowers with no one around to spoil it.

Those were the days that we’d set off without our beloved to the lakes.

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kikis-writing-world · 3 years

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Flags and Labels

Part of Writer Wednesday by @flightlessangelwings & @autumnleaves1991-blog

Pairing: Modern AU, pan!Din Djarin x Bi!Reader (GN, no pronouns, no Y/N)

Word Count: >2k

Rating/Warnings: Mentions of a religious upbringing and trauma from that past. Essentially Din grew up in “The Children of the Watch” and was very sheltered, but is now exploring the real world. If I’m missing anything else I should tag in this vein, please let me know.

pride / “Kiss me again, like you mean it.”

You smiled brightly at Din as he gazed around, a look of wonder on his face. The street was alive with colour. Walls, windows, fences, parking meters: Everywhere you looked were multicoloured flags of every kind, representing the various people taking to the streets to celebrate their freedom to be who they are. The people themselves in the streets were just as colourful. They sported flags and bright colours and all kinds of eccentric accessories, showcasing who they’re proud to be. The joy in the air was palpable, contagious even.

You had been friends with Din for nearly two years now, the two of you having met at the local library. He always took out such interesting books on a variety of subjects, both fiction and non-fiction, and shortly after becoming acquainted with him you found out why. He had grown up in a very strict religious sect - some would go so far to describe them as a cult - and had been sheltered from many things until his early adulthood. When he became comfortable with you, he had just as many questions for you about the “real world” as you had about his past.

One topic that had come up as you two talked about Din’s past was his sexuality. He had known from a young age that something was different. His religion had been strict about heterosexual couples being the only way, shunning all other types of love. You happily helped him find books and resources he could look into, to further explore his feelings. You also opened up, sharing your own personal journey and experiences as you came to terms with your bisexuality.

When you suggested taking Din to this year’s pride, he was both nervous and excited. He still wasn’t a fan of large crowds, a side effect of his upbringing. He also didn’t know what to expect when he got there. With some research and reassurance from you that you wouldn’t leave his side, he agreed. You were so glad he did now that you were watching him take it all in.

“All these people…” Din trailed off, losing his voice.

“They all support love.” You finished the thought. “Regardless of labels, they all just wanna be who they are, love who they want. There’s always some protesters, but whatever, don’t pay them any mind. We outnumber them.” You chuckled.

“I had no idea this was out here, all this time.” He breathed.

You had to bite your lip to keep your own emotions in check. The look of awe, the unshed tears in his eyes. You felt drawn to the sweet, quiet man like a moth to a flame. You’d been falling for him for months, the embers of your crush only stoked when he opened up about his sexuality and yes, you were in his spectrum. The glimmer of hope that he might be attracted to you dangled in front of you like a feathered cat toy… but you just couldn’t risk it. He had opened up to you, come to you for guidance and a shoulder to cry on. You felt guilty taking that away from him if you pushed that line too far. You’d crush on him silently while remaining a pillar of support.

“C’mon,” you wrapped your hand around his forearm - a safer place than taking his hand or feeling the enticing muscle hidden under the sleeve of his t-shirt - “let’s dive in.”

You watched Din carefully as you two walked the streets and took in all the sights. You wanted to know if he was getting overwhelmed or uncomfortable, but he took it all in stride. He had lots of questions about the performing drag queens, and not all that you could answer yourself. You laughed heartily at the look on his face when one queen draped her boa over his shoulders with a shimmy.

There were people doing tarot readings, which while he seemed intrigued about, didn’t want to miss anything else by waiting in the long line. You shared a rainbow coloured ice cream sundae which turned your tongue different colours as you went, both of you laughing as you stuck your tongue out periodically - you forced yourself not to think about how the flavors would taste on his tongue every time it came out a different colour.

You made a point to stop at some information booths for local groups, picking up flyers for Din to look over later. Sports teams, choirs, friendship/support groups; Din was absolutely shocked to find there were arms of religion that not only accepted but supported LGBTQ+ rights. You knew he was struggling with reconciling his religious teachings with the “real world” and thought maybe these groups might be able to help navigate it more than you could with your limited experience.

A face painting booth caught your eye and you dragged Din over, not that he was putting up much of a fight. There were a few people doing the face painting, some clearly artists who would do a full-face of whatever you requested, but also there were some that were simply painting pride flags on cheeks for the price of a donation to a local queer youth shelter.

You and Din looked over the board they had set up of different flags, all that you had seen throughout the day as you explored.

Dropping some money into the bucket, you sat on the stool and asked for a bisexuality flag. Din stood by and watched as the artist painted. You kept quiet, not wanting to cause them to mess up.

“Well? What do you think?” You prompted when they were done.

“It looks nice.” Din nodded.

“Did you want one too?” The artist asked, looking Din’s way.

You looked over to Din, smiling as you waited for him to answer. As comfortable as he’d grown in your time walking around and meeting new people, you didn’t know if he was ready to wear anything pride related. It was his call, but you looked as encouraging as you could.

“Um, can I get this one?” He asked, pointing at the Pansexuality flag. Your heart soared for him. It wasn’t exactly a declaration of finding the right label, but feeling comfortable enough to display the flag on his cheek was definitely progress.

“Of course!” They answered, gesturing for Din to sit in the stool as they got the right colours ready. As he sat, you gave his shoulder a squeeze. He looked up at you with a soft smile, eyes shining with excitement.

“Have you ever had your face painted before?” You questioned, realizing that it probably wasn’t the kind of thing he’d grown up with.

“I don’t think so.” He shrugged.

“Oh, it’s been a while since I had a virgin.” The artist teased with a wink, making you laugh as Din blushed bright red. You ran your hand across his shoulders to soothe him through the embarrassment, although all it did was make your own face flush as you felt the firm muscles twitch under his shirt.

“All done!” It took the artist only a few moments to swipe the three colours evenly along his cheek. They lifted a handheld mirror so Din could see for himself. He nodded his approval with a quiet thanks, adding some more money into the collection bucket.

“C’mere, let’s get into the sun for a picture!” You suggested as you skipped ahead of him. He followed, grinning at your excitement as you found the perfect spot and opened up your camera.

He leaned over you, head nearly resting on your shoulder as you started snapping selfies. Happy ones, goofy ones, serious ones. Your thumb automatically tapped every few seconds as the two of you made different faces. When Din pressed his lips to your cheek, the picture captured every ounce of surprise you felt.

“Thanks for bringing me here.” Din smiled as you tucked your phone away, trying to hide your burning face.

“Y-yeah. I’m glad you enjoyed it.” You stuttered, picking at some non-existent lint on your shirt.

“Did I do something wrong?” The flatness in Din’s voice made your head shoot up. He was frowning, the excitement of the day all but vanished from his expression.

“No. W-W-Why… Why would you think that?” You shook your head, internally cursing yourself for the reaction you had to a simple, friendly kiss.

“I kissed you, and you…” He trailed off, gesturing at you in lieu of verbalizing his thoughts. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No, Din. Don’t apologize-”

“I’ve been trying to tell you for a while now-”

The two of you began speaking at once, only to both pause when you realized the other was talking.

“Trying to tell me what?” You asked, feeling that familiar heat rising up your neck into your cheeks.

“I… I like you… more than just friends…” Din admitted, looking down and kicking at a rock on the ground. “I guess today just… made me feel… brave.”

“Really?” You squeaked, voice malfunctioning as you fought to keep your body under control. You wanted to jump, sing, cartwheel, hell you would fly if you had the ability.

“You don’t have to like me back. I don’t want it to change anything.” Din continued, still focussed on the rock.

You tucked your hand under his chin, forcing him to look up and see with his own eyes how you felt about his confession. His eyes widened a fraction when he took in the wide smile you wore ear to ear.

“I definitely like you back.” You confirmed. “And you are one of the bravest people I know.”

A sigh of relief gave way to a matching smile on Din’s face, the two of you smiling at each other widely, neither sure what to say next.

“Din?”

“Yeah?”

“Kiss me again, like you mean it.”

The only regret the two of you held from your first real kiss was the smudged flags on your cheeks.

Tagging @wickedfrsgrl @din-damn-djarin @seasonschange-butpeopledont @kesskirata @phoenixhalliwell @vonschweetz @insideafictionaluniverse @driedgreentomatoes @computeringturtle @spideysimpossiblegirl

#Din Djarin x Reader #Din Djarin x You #Mando x Reader #Mando x You #Din Djarin imagine #din djarin drabble #Din Djarin fluff #WookieTales #jey’s pride celebration 2k21 #Writer Wednesday

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mooshs-crack-headcanons · 3 years

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with Javier day 16 13 24 please?

Sure thing! Hope it turned out to your liking this was definitely different for me but I thought I would try it out. With this one please especially make sure you read over the CW below.

Day 16: consensual gunplay

(Cw: like the day says both party consensual gunplay, meaning sexual activities (oral sex) involving an explicitly stated in request unloaded gun. If this is something you are uncomfortable with please don't feel pressured to read the following request further)

(This work includes gender neutral!reader)

(NSFW under the cut as always)

The gun wasn't loaded. He made sure to tell you that at least fifty times before you finally got to where you were now. But still it didn't stop the absolute excitement in your heart that rashed around your rib cage and adrenaline in your veins with you on your knees below him with his trusty pistol several inches away from your face. You squeeze you legs together with a shaky gulp as he held it above your mouth, looking at you with contemplative gaze.

"You're positive you're sure you want to do this? Because if you're not that crazy about it we can stop at anytime, you know?"

"I'm good, I want to do this." He gives you a nod.

The metal is cool on your face, rubbing against our cheek, down your neck, along your jaw, then pressed up against your lips. Your heart sparks up and thus against your chest but you do find your lips moving on their own to caress the barrel, your tongue caressing around it with your eyes never leaving Javier face - drinking in the half lidded look of his eyes as his lips that are barely spread apart.

You hum as you lick the barrel back and forth, but after but the metal tang taste does taste as bad. A tight grip finds it's way in your hair that takes you suddenly by surprise after awhile and guides your licks an sucks after awhile but nothing to harsh so that you could pull away if necessary to stop.

It's that excitment that gets you off, you desperately capture your sex in between your thighs as your entire mouth absorbs the barrel of the empty gun. It sparks heavy rush into you.

"Look at that mouth go," your love says above you with a chuckle mixed in and followed by words of his home language. Your eyes tear up as you work the metal in your mouth, absorbing every bit you could from your wet vision of his handsome face and a new feeling of desire sets in just how much you could imagine this being his cock instead. Speaking of which; driving down a bit he's about to bust out of his pants.

You exactly take him by surprise when you pull him out if his confines. When Javier looks down you're already jerking himself in tandem with every moment of your mouth. It spins his head around that he can help but to throat his head back with a struggled curse.

It doesn't take him very long every his cock is squirming and begging to come in your hand. When he asks you if your ready for it you do your best to give him a nod before he rearranges a bit which you pulled more downwards hes hunched over you over you and frantically working himself to finish while you open your mouth partially, gun to the side and tongue exploding the last few seconds it can before he finishes on your face and bits saying in your mouth.

You snap up with a loud pop, spit and come drenches the sides of you mouth and your tongue hangs out to show him - which he makes sure is the most gorgeous sight he's ever seen and tugging you into a messy kiss that's sprinkled with the aftertaste of metal.

If you like what you read please consider reblogging! It means the world for writers and artists!

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#red dead redemption #red dead redemption headcanons #javier escuela #javier escuela x reader #mine #tw gun play #moosh's 2021 kinktober #sin content #red dead redemption x reader

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slutsofren · 4 years

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Paint Me Red

Summary: Being a struggling artist in a city filled of aspiring artists has always been rough, you were privileged enough to have a semblance of steady income thanks to the promotional work your manager, Poe Dameron, does for you. For the past however many weeks, you've become consumed with the works of an anonymous poet, one who has captivated their own cult following. Their works have inspired countless paintings of yours and in turn, you catch the eye of one Kylo Ren.

Tags: Kylo Ren reader insert / modern au / painter reader / poet Kylo / eventual romance / maybe smut idk / Kylo has Trauma but you dont have to “fix him”

Read on AO3 here!

Chapter 1: Gallery (below the cut)

You kept looking at the painting. No matter how many times you re-painted, reinterpreted this poem, your hands just couldn’t find a consistent translation between the words and your paint. You dropped the brush and leaned back in the chair, hanging your head as far back as you could and let out a loud groan.

“Why does this have to be so complicated ,” you exclaimed to nobody in particular. It’s been a month since you cooped yourself in this studio, a whole month! It felt like you’ve accomplished nothing but waste canvas and paint this entire time. All along the floor laid waste to the discarded abstract portraits you had produced and hated. Nearly a fraction had been left unfinished due to it just not working out.

You mumbled and grumbled while you stood and relocated to the workspace of the studio, where a computer and books had been thrown about. The computer woke, nearly blinding your eyes. What time is it anyways, you wondered. The sun had set some time ago, you knew just as much when you could barely see your work and were forced to lose focus to turn on a light. That distraction had really set you back.

A quick glance to your watch informed you that no, the sun didn’t just set a while back- it set well over six hours ago. The time had been creeping to two in the morning already, no wonder your eyes were straining so hard. When your computer unlocked and you opened your music app to play some background audio, you grabbed the leatherbound book that was inspiring your work.

Nobody knew who the author was, only that they released two-hundred and fifty black leather bound books with gold foiling titled “Mine” every couple of years. You were close friends to some editors down in San Diego, the same publisher that worked with this anonymous author and they were always kind enough to secure you a copy.

They wrote like it was the last thing they’d ever write, as if pain circulated through their veins. They wrote of being lost, being hurt, feeling such intense anger with no human outlet, and of being ignored and tossed away.

Sometimes they wrote like they’d be dead before the poem had ended.

Much of this resonated with you. Ever since you moved to Los Angeles, this magnificent city of wanna-be actors and musicians, seeing lights that inspired yet mocked the pedestrians down below, you’ve felt like you were dead yourself. When you moved here, all you ever wanted to be was a painter. It didn’t always matter what you painted, you loved a variety of styles and eras, as long as commissions paid the bills and your personal pieces sold at galleries, you were satisfied.

But sometimes being satisfied wasn’t enough.

You took the black book and opened to the poem you had been hyper-fixating on for the last couple of months since it was released. You interpreted it in as many ways as you could style your hair on any given day. This one spoke to you the moment you read it, it broke your heart, mended it, then threw it away all at once. To you, this particular poem breathed new life into your soul.

You read each line over and over, admired how this poet seemed to write effortlessly, as if it’s just how they speak. Gosh, what you would do just to meet and have a conversation, to understand the mysterious writer’s genius.

And so you kept painting, never seeing each unfinished canvas as a failure but rather an entirely different interpretation. You couldn’t let this get you down, you just had to keep working- keep picking up the paint and let loose.

As the days blended together, your manager, Poe Dameron waltzed into your workspace without a care in the world. You turned down the music that you had playing in the background while you worked.

He picked up one of your unfinished works, “I got you a gallery space, set for two weeks from now in Pasadena. Sponsored by the Norton Simon Museum.” The way these words rolled off his tongue was so nonchalant, you didn’t believe it.

You let out a choke, “Excuse me?”

“You heard me, you got a space, now give me something to tide them over with- oh, that looks nice can I take that one,” he grabs another unfinished painting. “Anyways, don’t worry about promoting it, they are all over it. They’re just calling it Artist Spotlight but they’re going to need a theme name.”

Your eyes drifted over your amazing manager, he worked just as tirelessly as you did with each and every one of his clients. It was no wonder he was married already, with a charming smile like his and the luscious hair to match made him a total darling.

“Let’s call it, Paint Me Red .”

“You got it, girl,” he walked over to you and gave a chaste kiss on your cheek and left with his silent goodbye. Although you were nothing more than his client, you loved him very much. He always gave you a rough time when you needed it but was always a person you could rely on to tell you the truth when you needed it.

To sum it up, Poe Damereon was a guy you paid to berate you like a protective older brother and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Those two weeks passed and you worked even more tirelessly. The artist in you was seldom satisfied by your creations but your manager reaffirmed even your “trash” paintings were more beautiful than the best modern oil paintings for which you found yourself taking the most comfort in.

It was difficult to remove yourself from this mindset but as your gallery expanded with each rise of a new day, you became prouder of not just what you painted but of yourself. This was going to be a showcase that you were to be proud of.

Your night came which brought nerves like no other. Los Angeles had a rough art community to grow and develop but this was the place for you. You arrived at the gallery, dressed as professional yet as fierce as you could in a shimmery silver gown that bared your shoulders in a skinny strap that had a plunging neckline. You wanted to wow your crowd with your paintings and yourself.

You poured your heart out over this collection- you wanted, more than ever, to receive a warm reception and maybe a little bit of praise in the meantime. It didn’t make you vain, it made you human.

The director of the art studio welcomed you with a glass of champagne and let you wander the space before it opened to the public. Your heart swelled with emotion as you glanced over all these white walls that supported your artwork. Abstracts, sharp lines on some, a couple that resembled portraits of a human-like void. Anything and everything of what could be taken of that single poem.

Over some small amount of time, guests began to fill the building, allowing others to finally view what you’ve worked tirelessly over these past however many weeks, well, months really. As the newness of this exhibit of yours wore off, you began to get antsy, started to bite on the inside of your cheek.

You felt eyes on you as you hid your face behind the fourth glass of champagne you managed to snag. The more nervous you felt, the hotter the room got. This is beginning to be way too much- oh stars, you can’t breathe- it feels like you’re dying, like you’re-

“Are these yours,” a dark voice asked behind you. You stood up straight and turned slowly, trying to get your mind away from whatever was happening to you.

“I- yes they are.”

This tall, handsome stranger looked at the painting that was next to you, something that mildly resembled Everts’ Studies in Desperation series. It was one of your darker interpretations, something filled with a little more hatred and angst than the rest.

“They’re very nice, what inspired you?”

Your mouth opened agaped and quickly shut, you didn’t want to look like a fish now. You opened up your bag and pulled out your trusty copy of Mine and showed the stranger. “This poet, their selections have always called to me but, Red, Mine would repeat in my head nearly nonstop until I picked up a brush and painted what it spoke to me.”

He grabbed the book from your hand and flipped through it slowly, sometimes reading the short notes you had written on some of the pages, like “I love this one,” or even, “I’ve felt like this before”. As he took his time going through the leatherbound poetry, you took this moment just to admire just how handsome the man before you is.

He stood tall and confident, long black hair that looked soft enough that you had to refrain from running your fingers through; his face was littered with constellation-like moles that truly gave his presence some warmth and beauty despite the deep angry red scar that cut threw them like a blade. The large crooked nose stood just as prominent as his ears but, by the stars, he made it work. All of these features suit his being so well, almost as if he was your own personal Adonis, you wanted to paint his beauty.

His long lashes finally looked up from your bookmarked page of Red, Mine where you had written very simply, “This one,” and a heart. He closed the black book with a small thud, almost entirely muted by the sounds of your audience mingling.

“You really liked that one,” he questioned as he handed the object back to you. You took it from him and gestured around you.

“All of these paintings represent how this one poem has made me feel. Loss, hope, anger, hurt, fear,” you paused while you looked at the man before you and held his gaze, “But most of all, this particular poem has made me feel accepted. Like I’m not alone. Almost like, it’s my turn to be strong, it’s silly-”

“No, by all means, no, it’s not silly,” he interrupted you. His eyes had grown wide and you realized he put his hand out to almost hold your shoulder but quickly retreated to put his hands in the pockets of his suit’s pants. His jaw flexed for a brief moment and he looked to his feet. “I have their collection too. It’s a good read from time to time.”

Your lips turned up in a small grin, “Yeah, they are. I’m glad to have met another Anonymous Poet enthusiast.”

He looked up at you and cleared his throat, “What’s something you’d say to them if you ever could?”

“Hmm,” you wondered, “That I love their work, I’d love to sit down and talk, wonder what they think- what their thought process is. Maybe thank them for helping me cope and tell them that I don’t think I’d be alive without their words. Heck, I’d even work up the courage and ask if they like my interpretations of their poetry. I’m not sure, what would you say?”

He looked at you almost like you had shot him, “I think I’d simply say that I’m sorry they went through whatever they did to get them where they are. That they’re stronger now.”

Before you had a chance to respond, Poe came and placed his hand on your arm and called your name, “Hey, girl. Time for your speech and then people can start buying your art.”

You looked back at your strange new friend and he gave you a small encouraging smile, “It was nice meeting you.”

As Poe began to drag you away you piped up, “I didn’t catch your name!”

“Kylo- Kylo Ren.”

You gave him a small wave before you turned your back on him and approached the stage. Poe did the honors of introducing you, calling your vision “illuminating and awe-inspiring”. Finally it was your turn.

You approached the glass podium with only a mild case of anxiety shaking within your bones. The lights, however warmly hued they were to temper against the constant rotation of art still seemed like a spotlight on you. You cleared your throat.

“Hi- hello,” you introduced yourself, mentioning you're the creator, “Thank you all very much for being here and supporting me tonight. This entire exhibit is decorated with a wide variety of my illustrations in both dedication of and inspired by the Anonymous Poet, creator of Red, Mine the poem. It is only fitting that I should read the very words that seemed to have possessed my mind these past couple months, you think?”

The audience gave a chuckle. You looked up and around, feeling hints of anxiety nipping at the silhouette of your being. Across the room, leaning against the small bar table, you spotted Mr. Ren and when he noticed you staring, he raised his glass of champagne. Urging you to continue.

It was almost as if his steady gaze and warm features guided your confidence to hold steadfast and ready, your courage multiplied and tingles at the tips of your body, sparking new found strength.This small gesture kept those dark hounds at bay in your mind.

You cleared your throat and began, “Red, Mine

This is how the story goes

It has never changed, never been altered

It didn’t make much difference

The twin suns are rising in the west now,

The world changed from when you knew me last

This is how the story goes

This life of mine would be snuffed in green lights

Then you were there to guide me

Truth is, you could never be thanked

I would never be forgiven

This is how the story goes

I snuffed the little lights that had mocked me

Tore down the buildings that confined me

I ran

I never stopped running

This is how the story goes

I found solace in red

This green and blue would have ended my life

The both of you tried and failed

I will live on bathed in black and red

This is how the story goes

This fire red consumed me

I consumed red

Now it’s your turn to run.”

At the beat of the last syllable, you could hear a warm applause, a gracious signal of congratulations. Your smile kissed the corners of your lips and your heart swelled with warmth. This was exactly where you were meant to be in life and you couldn’t be prouder of yourself.

Your speech wrapped up with the ceremonious thank yous and appreciation to all who came as well as the Norton Simon Museum for sponsoring the showcase. Not to mention the big fat check you got on their behalf.

Poe lent you a hand as you descended the platform, “Alright, now go mingle and sell some art!”

You gave him a warm kiss on the cheek and another wave of thanks. One hand took yet another glass of champagne as the other held your clutch tightly. Your heels clinked against the tile of the gallery as you floated in and out of conversation, selling your artwork and trying to network and make new professional relationships.

It was rather obvious that leaving early would be considered rude but your feet hurt as much as your eyes. All you wanted was your warm bed and soft music to lull you to sleep. You spotted Poe across the room speaking with a pale gentleman, donned in a navy blue suit and matching tie, his orange hair was just as slicked back as his authoritative presence. You watched as they shook hands and the stranger departed, leaving the building entirely without a glance back.

Poe caught your eye and his jaw dropped, just nearly bolting into a fast pace walk, attempting to keep whatever semblance of professionalism as he could without knocking any of the patrons over as he bee-lined straight to you.

“You will not believe what I’m about to tell you,” his brown eyes lit up.

You gave him a hesitant look, clearly it was good news but usually Poe Dameron was in a good mood usually meant him ending in some kind of trouble. “Then don’t tell me?”

Your manager gave you a deadpanned look and pulled out his clipboard, “Every single piece was sold before you even walked off the stage.” He handed you the order sheet and sure enough, each and every painting was bought by the same person, leaving only AP as the buyer’s name.

“AP?”

“Initials for a little someone called the Anonymous Poet,” with those words you instantly felt faint. There was no way, no goddamn way.

“Was that him? Poe, was that really him,” your voice faltered. Your hand rose to cover your open mouth, eyes wide.

He did nothing but shrug and give you a sly smile, admiring your shocked expression, “The man I talked to was not, rest assured, but clearly your muse admires you and your work.” Poe gave you a small squeeze on your shoulder, feeling your oncoming emotional whirlwind. “If you faint on me now, you won’t hear the best part,” he teased.

“What is it, tell me,” you rushed the words out as fast as you could, the heat licking at your skin as your anticipation mixed with anxiety.

Poe reached into his pocket and retrieved a sleek black business card and flashed it at you. “Expect an email within the next few days, your muse wants to talk with you.”

You felt Poe’s warm hands grasping your shoulders as you fell. After all, Poe did say to wait until after he gave you good news.

#asher's writing #paint me red #kylo ren #kylo x y/n #kylo x reader #kylo x you #kylo ren reader insert #star wars sequel trilogy #star wars smut #star wars reader insert #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren/reader #kylo ren/you

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azems-familiar · 3 years

Text

Time to Shine Thursday

i got tagged in this by @seethestarsalittlecloser, so i figured i’d do my own version. the tag event description:

“This tag game was created in hopes of reaching at least a few people and creating more awareness for the creator-side of tumblr. Time to Shine Thursday is inspired by these posts and meant to be for all artists alike: writers, editors, poets, GIF makers, cartoonist etc. This is me giving you all an excuse to show off!

Only rule: Be as thirsty for attention as you want to be! Link one of your old fics/art pieces or one that didn’t didn’t get enough attention, link a work you loved to create or share a draft from your newest WIP. Or do all of these. Be greedy. Show your art. Crave attention. Be proud. And don’t forget to give your friends an excuse to show off theirs!

Additional note: Please consider dropping one of your favorite hidden gems by an other author along with your own work so others can enjoy it as well and so that it doesn’t stay buried any longer!”

so i haven’t been writing much clone wars fic lately cuz my attention has been utterly grabbed by the knights of the old republic game, but here’s a piece from a fic that’ll go live in a couple weeks that i’m super proud of!

Revan has never lost to Malak before, not in close combat, and this is hardly fair, but she can’t lose. She can’t.

“That’s enough,” Malak says, as she starts to rise, and abruptly there’s multiple lines of lightning burning into her skin, and she can’t move, can’t breathe, the pain so much more than she’s felt in so long, and she’s better than this, she should be better than this, but she curls up to protect herself anyway, still holding tight to her sabers because she cannot let them go-

The pain fades and before she can take advantage and throw herself to her feet, she’s being held by several of Malak’s Sith, dragged to her feet, and she throws herself forward only to be savagely jerked back by the Force. Revan spits curses, struggles, and gets backhanded across the face by a lightsaber hilt for her trouble, and then Malak walks over to where Bastila is laying on the ground and for a moment the universe stops.

“No,” Revan says, too quickly, and Malak laughs and laughs, grabs Bastila around the upper arm with one hand and jerks her to her feet.

“I’ve wanted her power since I first learned of it: the only Jedi who could make the Republic Navy stand against my fleet! How convenient that Saul Karath told me this girl is your weakness, that you lost all sense of rationality when he tortured her. I can sense the bond between you, Revan. Can you feel her pain? Is that what finally drove you over the edge?” Malak walks backwards, dragging Bastila with him - she’s struggling but none of them have had a chance to recover and she’d gotten the worst of it. Malak’s laughter feels like it’s worming through her ears, filling her mind, and he has Bastila, and it’s been so long since protecting Bastila was about protecting her potential apprentice, or angering Malak, she just wants Bastila safe. Needs her safe. “I never thought I’d see the day where you lost control of yourself, Revan. I wish I could’ve seen it for myself. But I’m afraid I won’t get that chance. I have a Jedi to break, after all, and you have maps to find… if you live.”

“No!” Revan shouts, struggles to free herself again, uselessly, and then Malak laughs one more time and backs through the blast door as it seals itself shut. “Bastila!”

She will kill Malak for this.

He’s taken her. He’s taken Bastila.

A wave of fury (and fear, she can admit that) rises choking and hot in her chest, sweeps through her body, and Revan screams, wordlessly, the sound full of every ounce of pain and desperate fear and hatred seething through her, the Force practically glowing red around her for a heartbeat, and then the Sith surrounding her are slammed into the walls of the room on all sides so hard the transparisteel cracks and she hears bones snap.

Revan pays no mind to them, grabs onto her bond with Bastila and summons her sabers to her hands, igniting them as she goes, runs to the blast door and drives the blades into it, melting through the thick metal as quickly as she can. Bastila’s presence is already fading as the distance between them grows, her mind full of fear, and Revan will get her back.

If Malak wants to see her lose control so badly, she’ll damn well oblige him.

anyway, i will go on hoping i can somehow drag more of you into this pit of hell with me because i’m having to create my own content again and this is so annoying, what even.

tagging: @gracethescribbler @linwyrms-lair @bluemaskedkarma @countessofbiscuit @glubtheflyingfish jesus idk people on this hellsite anymore tag yourself in this and say it was me??? it’s nice to appreciate yourself for once

#kotor #knights of the old republic #star wars #tag game #my writing

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sunflower-swan · 4 years

Text

Wolfstar Chapter 13

A/N: Here’s what you need to know: I created this story for Writer’s Month 2020. Every day is a new prompt, and therefore a new chapter. This is an AU Wolfstar where Remus is a tattoo artist next door to Sirius who manages a flower shop. James and Lily are alive in this universe and own a coffee shop across the street. And to make parts of the story work with the prompts, Remus is about 10 years older than Sirius. It also takes place more or less in present time, minus Covid-19.

This is chapter 13 of a multi-chapter work. If you’d like to start from the beginning, here is chapter 1.

Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters. I just like to play with them.

Day 13 Prompt: Music

Rating: Teen and Up

Word Count: 1788

Tags: feelings, fluff

Chapter 13

Sirius

Oasis, “Wonderwall”

Backbeat, the word was on the street

That the fire in your heart is out

I'm sure you've heard it all before

But you never really had a doubt

I don't believe that anybody

Feels the way I do about you now

A/N: Call me basic, but I love the song “Wonderwall”, and the lyrics fit perfectly into what is happening between Remus and Sirius right now. Also, despite the opinion of the internet, this song is, in my opinion, not easy to strum correctly and also sing.

“Morning, Sirius,” James said as Sirius walked into Potter’s Wheel. He was wiping off the counter with a rag.

“Hey, James. How’s it going?”

“Not bad. Lily took Harry to visit her sister today, so I’m on my own this morning. Which is fine,” his nose crinkled, “I’d rather be here than visit her family.”

Sirius barked a laugh. “Well, I won’t keep you from it then. I need two usuals to go.”

“To go?”

“Remus had an early appointment this morning, so I told him I’d deliver his coffee.”

“Lucky man.” James raised his eyebrows before disappearing to the back to prepare the coffee order.

Sirius tapped his fingers on the counter while he waited for James to reappear. He noticed a flyer on the bulletin board advertising an Open Mic Night at the coffee shop that night. Hmm...could be fun? Maybe I can convince Remus to come, too. Wait...would that seem...date-ish? No, two friends can do stuff together. Doesn’t have to be weird or mean anything. Besides, Remus has made it abundantly clear that he does not date. There’s no way he would even think of it that way. Do I want him to think of it that way? Do I want to think of it that way? Sirius smacked himself in the forehead. With a little too much force. Ouch.

“What’d you do that for?” James laughed as he emerged from the back with Sirius’ coffees.

Sirius massaged his now sore forehead. “Thinking too hard.”

James set the coffees on the counter and began to ring up the total. “Never thought that was something you had to worry about much,” he said with a chuckle.

“Shut up, Prongs. How much?”

“Four pounds.”

He pulled out a fiver and handed it to James. “Keep the change,” he said, then pointed at the Open Mic Night flyer. “So what’s up with that? Open Mic Night?”

“That was Lils' idea.” James opened and closed the register. “Try to drum up some new business,” he added with a shrug. “Want to take a couple flyers to hang in the flower shop? Maybe Remus would hang one, too?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll ask him.”

“Hey!” James slammed his hand on the counter. “You should play!”

Sirius jumped back, startled from the sudden hand slam. “What?”

“Guitar! Open Mic tonight! You should play!”

Oh...no. “Eh, no. I’ll come and watch other people make a fool of themselves. I only play for myself.” And Remus one time, I guess, technically. “Playing in public sounds…”

James scrutinized him. “You know, I’m starting to think you don’t actually know how to play guitar. You’ve just been winding us up this whole time.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Fine. I’ll show you. See you tonight.”

Sirius grabbed the coffees and swept out of the shop. He was pretty sure he had been tricked into agreeing to that.

When he walked into the tattoo lounge, Remus was in the middle of a sitting. He was hunched over in concentration working on...oh! Logan. Sirius’ skin prickled at the look of lust glittering in Logan’s eyes as he watched Remus work.

“I’m at a good spot to take a break,” Remus said with a glance at Sirius. He sat his tools down, removed his gloves, stood up, and stretched. “You can move around or eat something if you want,” he added to Logan.

Remus walked over to Sirius and accepted the mocha cappuccino offered to him. He took a long sip and let out a grateful sigh. “Thanks, mate. I needed that.”

“You didn’t mention your appointment this morning was with Logan,” Sirius said in an undertone.

“Sure I did.” Remus’ brows drew together. “Didn’t I?” He frowned.

Sirius brought his own coffee to his mouth. “Nope.”

Remus shrugged and looked away.

Shady little shit, thought Sirius. “Oh, hey!” He dug the flyer out of his pocket and held it up for Remus to read. “We’re going to this.”

“What is this?” Remus took it out of Sirius' hands.

“James and Lily are hosting an Open Mic Night tonight and James goaded me into performing,” said Sirius, “and we’re going,” he added with emphasis directed in Logan’s direction. Remus was too busy reading the flyer to notice.

“Ok. Sounds fun.” Remus' eyes sparkled, and Sirius' insides melted.

He left the parlour feeling giddy with excitement.

~~~~~

Sirius locked up the flower shop for the day and apparated home to clean up before Open Mic Night. He walked into the flat and tossed his keys on the entrance table. Six weeks ago he hadn’t been capable of being here without having a breakdown. At what point had he stopped spending every waking second consumed by grief? It had been gradual, of that he was certain. Noticing his life had mostly returned to normal was a surreal realization.

He took a quick shower, then stood wrapped in a towel and stared into his closet. Sirius placed one hand on the wall while he considered what to wear. He patted his fingers rhythmically in contemplation. I don’t want to look like I’m trying. But I also don’t want to look like a slob. When did choosing an outfit become a life or death decision? It’s just hanging out Remus. This is not a big deal.

After much internal struggle, he finally settled on his vintage Poison tee, not overly distressed jeans, and black converse. He studied his reflection in the mirror as he pulled his still damp hair back into a bun.

“Eh.” He shrugged. “Could be worse.”

He picked up the case containing his Martin acoustic, and headed out the door.

~~~~~

When Sirius walked into Potter’s Wheel, he was struck by the transformation. A small platform had been set up in the corner in which he and Remus usually sat. On the platform stood a mic. Two large speakers, one on each side, completed the make-shift stage. Most of the tables had been cleared away, and the chairs had been placed in rows facing the temporary mini-stage. A rather large crowd had already assembled and were mingling about, buying coffee and chatting to each other.

Sirius searched for Remus through the sea of people. His heart skipped a beat when he finally spotted him. Remus was leaning casually against the counter, observing the mass of people. Instead of ignoring the sensation or burying it deep down, which had been his M.O. since they met, he smiled to himself and embraced the feeling.

Taking a deep breath, he made his way through the crowd to where Remus stood. A warm and fuzzy feeling overcame him as he drew nearer. He noticed Remus had dressed simply in a forest green oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and well-worn brogues below cuffed dark wash denim.

Remus looked in his direction and beamed upon seeing him. “Sirius!” he called and waved.

“Hey, Remus.” Sirius finally weaved his way over to Remus. “Crazy in here, huh?”

Before Remus could reply, James' voice was heard on the sound system over the din. “Hello? Hello? Hi, everybody.” He waved. “Welcome to the Potter’s Wheel, and thanks for coming out tonight. If you will be participating in Open Mic Night, then I need you to sign up,” he held up a clipboard, “on this sheet. And then we’ll get started pretty soon if you want to find a seat. Alright?” He smiled and stepped down.

“I’ll hold that,” Remus gestured toward Sirius' guitar, “and find us seats while you go sign up.”

Sirius glanced down. He didn’t usually let other people hold his guitar. It was very precious to him.

“Yeah. Ok.” He handed the case to Remus. “Treat it like you would a baby.”

“Got it.” Remus chuckled.

A queue had already formed in front of James by the time Sirius got there. Eventually he made it to James to add his name to the list, then turned around to look for Remus again. He found him on the end of one of the back rows of chairs and took the seat Remus had saved for him.

“Here you go.” Remus passed the guitar back to Sirius. “I treated it very well,” he added with a smirk.

Sirius set the case between his legs and settled back to enjoy the show. All the while a nervous knot twisted in his stomach. There were a good variety of acts including comedians, magicians, musicians, and even a guy who swung around balls of fire. Then it was his turn.

His Converse squeaked as he walked up to the small stage. He set his case on the ground, took out his Whiskey Sunset Dreadnought and slid the leather strap over his shoulder. Turning his back to the audience, he checked the tuning of the strings and strummed a few chords. Sirius turned back around, stepped up to the microphone, and searched out Remus' face in the crowd to calm his nerves.

“Hi.” The PA squealed, and Sirius leaned back from the mic until it stopped. “Ahem, uh, hey. Um, I’m Sirius. Hi.” He waved and chuckled. “And, erm, I’m going to sing a song. And, well, the truth is,” he scratched his arm, “a couple months back I was lost in a pretty dark place, and a really great friend was the light that led me out, so, uh, yeah. Here we go.”

Sirius wiped the sweat off his palms and adjusted the pick between his fingers. Then he started the intro to ‘Wonderwall.’ He closed his eyes and let the chords wash over him.

He sang, “Today is gonna be the day that they’re gonna throw it back to you…”

His heart thudded in his chest, but he ignored it and allowed himself to be swept into the performance.

When he reached the chorus, he opened his eyes and locked them on Remus. “‘Cause maybe, you’re gonna be the one that saves me … And after all, you’re my wonderwall.” He smiled through the break before the third verse, and now his heart was thundering for a reason other than nerves.

He finished the song and the audience went wild with clapping, and whistles, and foot stomps.

“Thank you,” he said into the mic, and left the stage.

James was there when he stepped off to give him a great big thumping hug.

Sirius' legs felt like jelly as he made his way back to his seat as James was announcing the next performer. He couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face as he reached Remus, who stood and also gave him a hug. The next act was starting, so they had to take their seats and wait for the evening to conclude.

A/N: Noel Gallagher’s acoustic version of this song is sorta how I imagine Sirius performing it. You should check it out on YouTube. Also, the Schitt’s Creek episode where Patrick sings to David was some of the inspiration for this chapter.

Next Chapter: Chapter 14

#writersmonth2020 #wolfstar #remus lupin #sirius black #remus x sirius #sirius x remus #mauraders #james potter #slow burn #alternate universe #harry potter #fanfiction #fanfic

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pllandcompany · 4 years

Text

I Choose You

Summary: Hospital AU! A look into how Roman and Logan’s relationship developed.

Pairings: Pre-romantic into Romantic Logince, background QPP Moxiety

Warnings: discussion of medical procedures, blood mention, violence/shooting mention, mention of drug use/addiction, anxiety, crying, a (and one almost) kiss

Tagged: @shxtxpp @apologieslogan @crofters-jam @asylia5911 @ab-artist @band-be-boss-blog @unbefuckinglieveable@flyingfreeyt @thecatchat @thefallendog @backatthebein @insufferablegayastronaut

Notes: Guess who’s back at it again after months of writer’s block?? I’ve wanted to write this story for a while. It does reference a few other fics I’ve written in this AU so here, here, and here are the links for those stories if you want more context as the events of this story are not in order of how they happened based on the established timeline. Also, heads up that I’ve only linked the first part of Out Loud (last link) and Don’t You Remember (second link) but If you want full details (or if you just love my writing so much, insert eye roll here), go to my masterlist and read all of the parts. Still, it should be fairly clear even without reading the previous stories. Okay! Enough talking! Enjoy!

Why wasn’t he awake?

That deadly, nerve-wracking, gut-twisting question had been bouncing around Dr. Roman Courtland’s mind for five days now. The deadline of the withdrawal of care date loomed over his head like a terrorizing and expansive storm ready to break open at any moment. Fourteen days was just simply not enough time. Did the man have no hope?

Note to self: Remind Logan to change that stupidly short time period when he wakes up.

In all actuality, Logan being in a coma was not the expected outcome. It was a nearly perfect surgery. The bleeding was minimal and deftly controlled by his swift hand when it occurred. There was no sign of post-operative stroke or brain death. He should be awake. Yet there Logan lay as still and pale as driven snow, the steady beep of the machines being the only sign of life in the room. It shouldn’t be the case, but it was and Roman was damned determined to find out why. This wasn’t just any patient. No, this was a colleague and a gifted one at that; Logan was quite possibly the most brilliant cardio-thoracic surgeons this hospital had ever seen. Not only was this a professional point of pride, Logan was also the man who saved his brother’s life while simultaneously putting up with his relentless torment the entire time Remy was hospitalized. Roman knew he had been unfair to the surgeon, cruel even and he has certainly spent an exorbitant amount of energy trying to make up for that fact since, including personally taking on his case when Logan turned up with a brain tumor. Shortly before his diagnosis, the two finally found themselves on better terms and Roman was…looking forward to getting to know the doctor more, figure out what truly makes him tick. Now he was potentially the surgeon responsible for destroying that precious of a mind, for squandering the opportunity to…learn more about Logan? Roman refused to accept that reality. Logan Taylor was going to wake up if he had any say in it. He had to; Roman wasn’t ready to lose him-

“Roman? What are you still doing here?”

Patton. Damn it. “Looking over Logan’s post-op scans.” Roman felt the deep sigh more than he heard it.

“For the hundredth time, I bet. Roman, take a break, please. You have to step away at least for a moment. Have you even eaten anything?”

“Have I figured this out yet? Then the answer is no and I’m not leaving until that changes.” A small pang of guilt tightened Roman’s chest briefly. Yelling at Patton was like kicking a puppy, a completely undeserved action. As usual, Patton didn’t even seem fazed which only served to make the neurosurgeon feel worse. Instead, he simply sat across from the distraught doctor, empathy shining in his eyes.

“Roman, you can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

“Then what the hell else am I supposed to do?!” Roman flailed his arms in sheer frustration, the force of action flinging the scans everywhere. He roughly ran a shaky hand through his hair and breathed deeply, trying to control himself while Patton quietly picked up the discarded films.

“I wish I could tell you what to do, Roman. I don’t know how to fix Logan. But I do know you’re not going to find the answer like this. Please take a break. Get some sleep. Come at this again in the morning.”

Roman buried his head into his hands. “What if something happens when I walk away? What if he gets worse and I’m not here to stop it? What if I can’t figure this out and I…and we lose him?” Patton gently took Roman’s hands out of his hair and smoothed the wavy locks down, a solemn yet knowing smile playing on his lips.

“I know you’re scared. I am too. But we don’t get to know what’s going to happen sometimes. All we can do is our best. Which you can’t do if you’re exhausted. So, come with me. We’re going to have dinner and then you’re going to an on-call room to lie down. You don’t have to sleep. You can ramble all the medicine at me that you want, every detail. Maybe then we can come up with something together. How does that sound?” Roman nodded silently, allowing Patton to lead him out of his office.

An hour and a sandwich later, Roman was out like a light and Patton was quietly sneaking out of the on-call room.

Mission successful.

****

“Good morning, nerd!”

God, Roman was insufferable. Logan let out a soul-exiting sigh. “Dr. Courtland, must you insist on calling me that?”

“Oh, don’t get your briefs in a twist, Dr. Taylor; you know I tease only out of love.” Logan hoped the tenseness in his shoulders wasn’t noticeable.

There he was using that word around him again.

“You cannot possibly love me. We’ve only known each other a few months. Besides, I seem to recall you having a certain disdain for me when I first arrived here. It would be impossible for that to have resolved itself in totality so soon.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Roman stop and turn back to him. Suddenly, Logan was grateful they were the only two in the lounge.

“Logan…you still think so ill of me?” The cardiologist barely held back the gasp that bubbled in his throat at the hurt look on the neurosurgeon’s face.

“No…not of you?”

“Then of yourself?” Roman sat next to Logan, setting his thigh ablaze when they brushed against each other. Logan hesitated for a moment as his mind struggled to find the best way to answer.

“That’s not it either. I simply meant that we are very different people with not much in common. I’m not certain as to how we will coalesce outside of being coworkers.” If we will.

“Well, that isn’t always a negative thing. I like that we’re different. Means there’s much we can learn from each other.”

“Of course. Our specialties differ greatly; there’s bound to be new information learned between us.” Roman chuckled warmly.

“While I find your habit of taking things literally quite refreshing, in this case it led you astray. You’re so much more than the job, Lo. You are strong and wise, brilliant and beautifully complicated in ways I’d like to know more about. If you’d let me that is.” The neurosurgeon’s face held so much hope, it metaphorically made Logan’s heart just…stop. How ironic that he, the cardio-thoracic surgeon would be the one to need pulmonary resuscitation from just one look from the towheaded neurosurgeon. It just wasn’t reasonable how one person could be so disarming, so confounding, so attractive…

Logan had to get out of there.

“Ah! Yes, well, then I concede to your point, Dr. Courtland. Fare-farewell.” The older doctor jumped up like a jack in the box and practically sprinted out of the room, the edge of his white coat narrowly missing Roman’s face.

It didn’t bother him too much once he realized that Logan hadn’t said no.

****

“Okay, Logan. Let’s try this again. Pick up the pencil and write your name.” Logan stared at the yellow No. 2 as if it would jump up and slap him at any moment. “Can we go back to the ball?”

Roman almost chuckled. “You’ve already done that portion. Your grip strength is greatly improved. Now we need to build your prehensile strength back. Go ahead, pick up the pencil. Just try.”

After a few tense moments, Logan finally held the writing instrument. His heart pounded with anticipation as he gingerly placed the tip to the paper in front of him. He pressed down ever so slightly and began to write his name.

He didn’t make it through the ‘g’ before the force of his tremor snapped the graphite.

In a fit of pure rage, Logan swiftly grabbed the pencil in his left hand and threw it across the room. It sailed past Roman’s ear so close he felt the wind move his hair. Before he could react, Logan was standing and tossing his chair across the room. A loud clattering sound stunned Roman into stock still reticence, not daring to test the cardiologist in this state.

“Damn it! Damn it all to hell!”

“Logan, just try to stay calm- “

“No, you said this would work! Yet it’s been a month and I still can’t use my hand! An entire month and I still can’t operate because you make promises you can’t keep!” Silence. “I’m sorry. That was…an unbecoming display.” He moved to restore the room to its original order but Roman intercepted him. He placed two warm hands on Logan’s shoulders, drawing a gasp from the sudden contact.

“You don’t have to apologize, Logan. I understand. I’m surprised you’ve held it together this long.”

Logan refused to make eye contact with Roman. “I still should not have behaved in that manner. Especially after everything you’ve done for me, I shouldn’t be lashing out at you, I am alive because of you, I should just be grateful for that- “

“Dr. Taylor, will you please look at me?” When Logan didn’t move, Roman took his hand under the surgeon’s chin and gently lifted his head. His heart nearly broke at the shattered look on Logan’s face. “See? I’m not mad. What you’re feeling is normal because what you’re going through is hard. It’s okay to get frustrated.” Roman pushed back a lock of the cardiologist’s dark hair and Logan’s eyes closed, leaning into the touch. His head dropped alarmingly close to Roman’s forehead and the neurosurgeon shifted to hold his face with both hands. Logan’s lips parted and his gaze suddenly changed to something…insistent, almost desperate. The question he was asking was obvious and oh, how Roman wanted to acquiesce. Maybe he could, maybe it would be okay…no, it wouldn’t be right; Logan was his very vulnerable patient right now and his coworker. Complicated wouldn’t even begin to describe the nature of their involvement. Roman took a step back and cleared his throat, turning to grab the chair and returned it to the table.

“Look, your hand works. You just have to remind your brilliant brain that it does. And it takes time to build new neural pathways so…try again. Write your name, as much as you can.” Logan swallowed tensely, seating himself once again in the chair. He closed his eyes in a silent prayer, willing the pressure in his chest to release. He looked when he felt velvet skin against the back of his hand: Roman was holding it. Smiling gently at the supportive touch, he picked up the second pencil Roman had conjured from his white coat.

This time, he made it through the ‘g.’

****

“Tell me a secret.”

“…what?”

“We’re getting to know each other. Setting aside our differences, becoming…friends. Friends tell each other things so…tell me a secret.”

“We are sitting on a bench on our lunch break in the middle of our workday. What about this setting makes you suddenly want to have an intimate conversation?”

“Deflecting…”

“Oh, for heavens’ sake, fine!”

“…Paging Dr. Taylor? Are you actually going to say something?”

“I…I want children. Or at least a child. I want to be a father.”

“Well, that’s a mighty forward proposition.”

“Dr. Courtland…”

“Oh, hush now, you know I’m kidding! But why is that such a secret?”

“Because no one expects it of me. People see me as cold and emotionless; no one would think me fit to be a father, much less have a desire to raise children. I’m not like Patton; I don’t seem like ‘the type,’ if you will.”

“I don’t agree with that at all. I think you’d make an excellent father. You’re very practical and you’re extremely dedicated to your patients. There’s no way that wouldn’t translate over into being a parent.”

“Oh…well, uh, thank you. I, uh, believe it is your turn.”

“…I have a twin.”

“In addition to your four other brothers?”

“No, he’s one of the five of us. His name is…was Remus.”

“Was?”

“Truth be told, I don’t know if I should be saying is or was about him. I don’t even know if he’s alive or not.”

“Roman…”

“He was a surgeon in the military. Reconstructive surgery was technically his specialty but over there he functioned mostly as a trauma surgeon. He loved it; he was never phased by gruesome injuries or the horrors of combat. He just did his job saving as many lives as he could so they could go on to keep ours back home safe. One day, their compound was raided and…he was never heard from again. A lot of soldiers died that day but…they never found his body.”

“Oh, Roman…you have my deepest condolences. The amount of grief you’ve had to endure…it’s quite unfair.”

“Don’t worry, Specs. I’m all right. I know it may sound…completely ridiculous but he could still be alive. It’s one of the few things I still hope for…that one day I’ll see my brother again.”

“I understand even more why you’re so protective of the brothers you have here now.”

“Congratulations, Doctor. You just figured out why we tell each other secrets.”

****

The first thing Roman felt when he woke up was pain. Pain in his chest, pain in his throat, God, it felt like he was choking on something-

“Roman? Roman, calm down, don’t fight the intubation, okay? We’ll get it out, just hold on.” That sounded like Virgil, why was Virgil taking him off a vent?

Oh. Right. He got shot.

He got shot and almost died.

He got shot and needed surgery. He had just had surgery to take a bullet out of his chest. Chest…cardiovascular…where was Logan?

Roman knew he wouldn’t be able to get much out at first, but he had to try. He took a breath that rattled in his throat and attempted to speak. “Lo…Lo-”

“Shh, shh, don’t try to talk, Ro. I know who you want; I’ll go get him.” Virgil turned to leave, not even making it one step before he was stopped short by a vice-like grip on his wrist. He turned back to see Roman staring at him with wide eyes, almost pleading with him to understand. Virgil nodded; the message clearly received.

“I know you’re grateful. I’m not hurt. I’m just…really glad to see you make it, man.” Virgil left before anyone could acknowledge the tears threatening to stain his face and Roman found that being alone was scarier than it should be. After all, he had no idea where the shooter was; Logan could have hidden him away to fix him, he could still be here somewhere, lurking, waiting to take another shot that would surely end his life this time-

“Roman? Calm down, your heart rate is way too high. Just breathe, you’re safe.” The neurosurgeon’s eyes met with two dark pools of worry and he locked onto them, Logan urging him to match his breathing. “That’s right; breathe with me. You’re safe. We’re safe right now.” Once Roman’s chest evened out, Logan reached over and grabbed a paper cup full of lukewarm water and handed it to the eager patient.

“Don’t drink too fast, Roman. Slow sips. There you go.” A moment of silence passed. “I’m sorry it’s not cold, I couldn’t seem to locate any ice.”

“The…the shooter-”

“Dead.” Logan’s tone was abrupt and cold. “The shooter is dead; you don’t have to worry about him any longer.”

Roman nodded slowly to not aggravate his already sore body any further. “You saved me.”

Logan nodded absently, staring a hole into the linoleum floor. “I know.”

“Then you know…you know I cannot thank you enough- “

“How dare you?” Logan whispered softly.

“Wh- what?”

“How dare you! How dare you just…waltz into my life and torture me and make me hate you then apologize and befriend me and make me respect you?”

Roman’s eyes widened in shock. “I-I’m sorry- “

“No! No, you do not get to apologize because…because you don’t even leave it there; I can’t just respect you, you then start to make me like you and want you around and want to be near you and then, oh God, you even go as far as to make me fall for you! And just when I figure that out, just when I’m finally able to admit the depth of my feelings for you to myself, just when I finally muster up the courage to even consider telling you about how I…feel, then you decide to go and almost die on me?! And on top of it, you make me be the one to have to save you! How DARE YOU?!”

The entire room stuttered to a halt, save for Logan’s ragged breathing. He was outright crying at this point and quite honestly, Roman wasn’t far behind him. “Logan…I’m so sorry- “

“Shut up! Just shut up! Please just…just tell me you want me too. Tell me I’m not crazy. Tell me that I don’t ever have to live without you because today I learned that losing you feels far too similarly to dying myself so if that is not the case…tell me now so I can figure out how to survive.” A long, tense, quiet moment passed before either of them spoke again.

“Logan,” Roman coughed abruptly, wincing as the motion sent shockwaves of pain through his ribs. He cleared his abused throat and tried again. “Logan, look at me.” The dark-haired surgeon looked up into the soulful eyes of the injured man laying in the hospital bed below him.

“Roman, please,” he pleaded, his voice impossibly soft.

“You can survive without me…but I promise you, as long as I am alive, you will not ever have to.” Logan’s head shot up and before he could control himself, he launched into the bed with Roman, just barely remembering to avoid his ribs and all the wires attached to him. He mumbled a hushed prayer of thank you, thank you, thank you as he curled himself into the space between Roman’s body and the railing of the bed. Roman took a moment to settle before he rested his head against the taller man’s shoulder, exhaustion beginning to blur out the edges of his vision. Logan kissed the crown of his head and wrapped his arms around his newfound love in the gentlest protective hold he could muster, allowing the neurosurgeon to succumb to sleep.

“Rest, Roman. I have you. You are safe. You’re safe with me.”

****

Dr. Picani was a typically patient man but this? This argument he was deeply tired of.

“What I fail to understand is how I continually prove myself to be trustworthy over and over again and you continually shut me out!”

“It is not about you, Roman.”

“Then what is it about? Why wouldn’t you tell me about something like this?”

“I’m telling you now!”

“Yeah, two weeks after the fact and I technically had to hear about it from Virgil!”

“Have you considered that. just maybe, I felt some shame? I had achieved six months of solid sobriety and I nearly threw all of that away in mere minutes!”

“You were obviously triggered by something.”

“I was weak! I failed to keep myself together yet again! And if it weren’t for Virgil dragging me to a meeting and convincing me to tell you, I’d probably still be failing.” Struggling doesn’t make you weak, Logan. The therapist scribbled the thought in his notebook, making a reminder to bring that point up later. He was about to interject when he realized that for the first time in a few minutes, there was silence. Dr. Picani’s head snapped up at the sudden quiet to see Roman’s eyes rapidly filling with tears. Well, this is unexpected.

“Roman? What’s wrong? Say what you’re thinking.”

“I…am I the trigger? Have I pushed you too far?” Good job, Roman, the therapist praised silently, way to take ownership!

Logan’s stomach churned guiltily at the tentative question. “No. You have gotten so much better about that. You did nothing wrong, you are perfect, it’s me, I am…broken.” Logan cursed himself internally for how his voice cracked at the end of his sentence, but he had to keep going. “I want to be good enough for you, but I constantly fail you and I don’t want you to see it. But I fear that one day you will and the fact that I love you won’t be enough to make you stay.” And good job being honest about your fears, Logan. These two have come so far.

While Roman knew just how necessary it was for Logan to admit how he felt, God, how it broke Roman’s heart. He reached out slowly and touched Logan’s hand, chest tightening even more when he felt the muscles jump under his palm. He breathed a sigh of relief when the brunette managed to make eye contact with him, the shared gaze giving him the courage to continue.

“Logan, you’re forgetting one very important thing. I love you too. I don’t want you to be perfect. I want you to be you. Yes, you are strong and brilliant, and I love when you are confident and at your best. But I don’t just love you then. I also love you when you’re hurt, when you’re scared, when you’re less than perfect. Lord knows that I am all those things and you don’t shy away from any of that with me. We’re all a little bit broken but we need each other to keep ourselves together. So, yes, I want you to be strong and healthy but if you can’t be? If it gets hard for you to be that? I still want you.”

“All of me?” Logan whispered.

“The whole damn thing.” Roman paused suddenly, a moment of deliberation passing through his eyes. Logan watched as he seemed to come to some sort of internal decision. He felt the grip on his hand tighten into a gentle squeeze…and then gasped as he watched Roman slide off the couch they shared and drop to one knee.

“Oh my God,” Logan choked out. A loud clatter sounded in front of them as Emile dropped his notebook, both hands flying up to either side of his face,

“Oh my God!” Roman chuckled damply at the poorly contained squeal.

“Save it for the end, Picani.” He pulled out a small black box from his pocket, relishing in the way Logan’s eyes lit up at the sight of it. “I’ve been carrying around this thing for weeks wondering when the right time to ask you was, but truth be told, I could have done it anytime. I didn’t have to wait for some perfect moment because every moment is perfect with you. An appropriate time period in our relationship didn’t need to pass because every minute that goes by is another minute that I am undoubtedly grateful to have spent with you. I didn’t need a counselor to tell me if I’m making the right decision. I just need to look at you and see that all my futures, all my forevers and tomorrows live in your eyes. You are the answer to every question I’ve ever had, even the ones I didn’t know I was asking. So today, I am not proposing marriage. I am affirming my sure commitment to you for the rest of my life. The ring is yours today, tomorrow, and for years to come. There’s no time limit, no expiration date. All you have to do is take it when you’re ready.”

Logan sat in stunned silence as his mind turned over every word of Roman’s confession. Slowly taking the sapphire studded ring from the now open box, he turned it over in his fingers and watched as the light danced with the gems, searching the depths of his heart for any hesitation. He handed the ring back to Roman and slowly turned his hand over, palm facing down.

“Put it on me. I’m ready.”

The squeal that Dr. Picani let out threatened to break glass.

****

“Patton, I must insist that you let go of me before you completely cut off my oxygen supply!"

Patton somehow managed to squeeze Logan even tighter for the briefest of seconds before releasing him.

“Sorry, Doc, I’m just so darned excited for you both! Virgil, isn’t it just amazing? They’re getting married!” Virgil chuckled at the giddy look on Patton’s face.

“I swear, you are a living heart eyes emoji. And yeah, it’s pretty damn cool considering you guys hated each other when you met.”

“My God, you would bring that up,” Roman rolled his eyes as Logan and Patton collectively groaned. Patton delivered a playful smack to Virgil’s arm.

“Virgil! Leave them alone, they’re in love now.” Virgil raised an eyebrow down at his partner’s glossy eyes, almost feverish with excitement and something close to…envy? He elected not to comment as turned to embrace the newly engaged pair one more time.

“Whatever, I know the truth. But seriously, congratulations. I’m sorry I’ve gotta run, I’m assisting on a general surgery case and I’ve gotta change out of chief attire. I’ll see you both later this week, celebratory sushi? Friday night?”

“You bet, Tickle-Me-Emo!” Virgil glared at the nickname as he disappeared into the bathroom of the attendings’ lounge. Patton went in for the hundredth hug and jumped as his pager suddenly went off.

“Uh oh, gotta run, looks like a crash C-section. Congrats to you both again! Bye!” he shouted boisterously as he ran down the hallway.

“I’m afraid I must depart as well, my love. It does not inspire respect in my residents if I’m late for rounds.” Roman beamed at the cardiac surgeon, seemingly unaware of anything he just said. “What?” Logan asked hotly.

“You called me your love. You claimed me.” Embarrassment curled up Logan’s neck as he shook his head fondly and leaned in to kiss his now fiancée.

“You are so endearingly sentimental. I will see you at home, my love.” He smirked as he walked out of the door at the way Roman’s knees seemed to buckle just the smallest amount. The neurosurgeon stood in the middle of the room chuckling to himself when he heard a low, smooth voice speak up behind him.

“You’re engaged?” Roman turned around, his face falling in sympathy at the person behind him.

“Oh, Declan…yes. Yes, I am.” The fellow surgeon turned his face to the side to hide his tears, displaying the long scar that ran down the left side of his face. Without warning, he was suddenly being embraced by Roman who seemed to be unable to stop his own tears as they soaked the corner of his scrubs.

“You know, if Remus were here and we weren’t already married by now, we could have planned a double wedding,” Declan murmured.

“He would have loved that. He loved you so much.” Declan pulled away, his glance suddenly dropping to the floor.

“I wish I could tell you what happened to him.” Roman placed a hand on the orthopedic surgeon’s shoulder.

“It’s okay. I know you weren’t there. You couldn’t have done anything to change it.” Declan smiled weakly, nodding a silent goodbye before leaving the room. He paused at the doorway facing the empty hallway.

“Congratulations. Really, you deserve to be happy.” Roman let out a small sob as Declan left, swiftly brushing the tears away before heading to his own rounds.

Neither of them remembered that Virgil was in the bathroom, listening to their entire conversation…and absolutely seething with fury.

#sanders sides #logan sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #virgil sanders #sanders sides au #tw:/anxiety #tw:/violence #logince #romantic logince #moxiety #queerplatonic moxiety #deceit sanders #sanders sides surgeon au #my writing #pllandco

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lostcauses-noregrets · 5 years

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You ever think of the fact that Erwin could've easily married Marie and had all the happiness in the world instead of enduring all the burden, guilt, and loneliness, and chasing a dream he wasn't even sure of, and eventually even dying without fulfilling it? The man clearly struggled with immense guilt and loneliness and I don't think anyone dwells enough on how tragic his life, and even eventual death, were. The man screams tragedy in every sense of the word 😔

Ok, I’m going to preface this answer by saying that I’m deeply uncomfortable with marriage being held up as the apotheosis of adult relationships. Certainly marriage works for some people, many people in fact, but I don’t believe it’s necessarily something that everyone should be expected to aspire to. Relationships can take many, many forms and I think people would be a lot happier if they accepted that.

Right, now we’ve got that out of the way, I’m curious about your suggestion that Erwin would have wanted to marry Marie and that this would have brought him all the happiness in the world. In the manga, Erwin mentions Marie only once, when he tells Nile in chapter 53 that he was “quite taken” with her. The whole point of that conversation is to remind Nile that the life he has chosen; marriage, children, protecting his family rather than fighting for Humanity as a whole, is a path that Erwin and those who died before him couldn’t have chosen even if they’d wanted to. The reason being that Erwin can see the bigger picture, and he knows that unless things change, Nile won’t be able to protect his family, no matter how much he follows his orders, and sadly the most recent chapter of the manga has borne tragic witness to that. So no, I don’t think Erwin could have easily married Marie and lived the life that Nile lived, because he would always have known that he was living a lie.

Of course there’s also the Smartpass Close-Up Interview with Erwin and Levi where they are asked by a journalist what they would do when there are no more battles left to fight, what their dreams for the future are. Erwin initially avoids the question but when pressed by Levi, who is quite obviously teasing him, he says “As for me…right. Retire to a reclusive area, or maybe have a family”. To which Levi responds “Your kids won’t be cute for sure.” The whole exchange is obviously flippant, however Erwin does make the same serious point that he makes to Nile in chapter 53, that “the realization of our own dreams is less important than building a world for people, a place where humans can accomplish their own dreams.” It’s an interesting interview and worth rereading, as it’s quite revealing about Erwin and Levi’s characters and their relationship with each other.

I absolutely do agree that Erwin struggled with an immense burden of guilt over all the lives that were lost under his command, and his desire to prove his father’s theories true, however I disagree strongly that Erwin was lonely. The one saving grace in Erwin’s life was that he had a small but close group of friends who respected and supported him; Mike, Hanji, Nile, and of course Levi. However you interpret Erwin and Levi’s relationship; lovers, friends, comrades, brothers in arms, it’s impossible to deny that they had a deep and close relationship based on mutual trust and respect. Erwin recruited Levi into the Survey Corps, created a rank for him, they fought side by side for years, they shared private meals together after expeditions, and, if the recent USJ exhibition is to be believed, shared a room together. Levi’s trust in Erwin never wavered, he supported him through thick and thin, eased the burden of his guilt and despair, and stayed by his side until the bitter end. I think the fact that Erwin died with his two closest friends by his side is testament to the strength of that friendship. So yes, Erwin’s life was tragic, but one thing it wasn’t was lonely.

With regards to your last point “I don't think anyone dwells enough on how tragic his life, and even eventual death, were.” The tragedy of Erwin Smith’s life and death has been honoured and explored in depth and detail by the many, many talented writers and artists of the Eruri fandom. If you need a place to start, I’ve got a whole host of fic recs devoted the Commander here: fic rec and a list of artists here: tags page.

#asks #erwin smith #erwin meta #eruri relationship #smartpass #lostcauses meta #snk

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searchingwardrobes · 5 years

Text

Until the Day Breaks and the Shadows Flee: 8/8

A huge thank you to everyone who has gone along with me on this crazy mythological au! I have enjoyed every kudo, comment, and reblog more than I can say, and it kept me going when the muse was as fickle as Venus! Speaking of which, since Cupid and Psyche is a Roman myth, I have been using the Roman names for the gods and goddesses. However, when it was time to head to the Underworld, I just like the Greek names (Hades and Persephone) so much better than the Roman ones (Pluto and Porserpine). Since this is an AU and it’s mine, I just went with the Greek names for those two. Sorry if that bugs anyone!

I also am so grateful to everyone in the @cssns - all the writers and artists for their support and encouragement, and @kmomof4 for heading it all up. I can’t thank my beta @snowbellewells enough, especially tonight when I was finishing this up in the eleventh hour! Also huge thanks to @hollyethecurious for making the banner above which just perfectly captures the mood and setting.

Summary: Every night she traces the contours of his body as Killian whispers words of love against her skin. But can Princess Emma ever be fully happy with a husband who only comes to her in utter darkness? A Captain Swan AU of the myth of Cupid and Psyche.

Rating: M for sexual situations

Words: ~5,000 in this chapter

Tagging: @jennjenn615 @welllpthisishappening @let-it-raines@kday426 @nadine200179 @teamhook @bethacaciakay@profdanglaisstuff @distant-rose @shireness-says@mythologicalmango @wellhellotragic @branlovestowrite@xhookswenchx @optomisticgirl @winterbaby89@ultraluckycatnd @vvbooklady1256 @resident-of-storybrooke@spartanguard @thislassishooked @whimsicallyenchantedrose@tiganasummertree @snidgetsafan @ohmakemeahercules@delirious-latenight-laughs @nikkiemms @gingerchangeling@revanmeetra87 @cocohook38 @effulgentcolors

Chapter Eight: A Seal Upon My Heart

If Emma had to pick just one word to describe the Underworld it would be colorless. The only hues that clung to the scant vegetation were in shades of grey. The very air itself hung thick with a smoky miasma, and it tinged the realm of the dead like a painting coated in eons of dust.

The castle of Hades and Persephone rose before Emma. Cerberus lay at her feet, each of his three jowls distracted by the thick biscuits Emma had given him. Her heart beat wildly as she hurried down the rocky path towards the castle which resembled a tower of jagged, broken glass in varying shades of black. She clutched the strap of her satchel, her feet hurrying lest Cerberus make quick work of the dog treats and come begging for more.

The closer she got, she more she worried. How did one go about making a request like this of a goddess? If Persephone had long held the flower of beauty close, why in the world would she give it to a mere mortal? And even before her request could be made, how did she begin to seek an audience with the Queen of the Underworld? She couldn’t just knock on the front door. Could she?

The decision was taken from Emma’s hands, however, the minute her foot touched the castle’s bottom step. Guards dressed completely in black, nothing but a cold void behind the visors of their helmets, seized her before she even had a chance to cry out. Their hands were so cold, they burned as she was forced up the steps and into the castle.

She was hauled down the black marble corridors. Emma kicked and struggled, but her efforts were futile. Please, she begged to whatever deity would still listen to her, don’t let them throw me in the dungeon!

The guards kicked open a heavy door of steel and dragged Emma into a cavernous room with a domed roof. At the end of it, two beings sat side by side on matching thrones. Relief flooded Emma, and she inwardly whispered a prayer of thanks. It wasn’t the entrance she had hoped for, but all that really mattered was that she had an audience with the king and queen. The guards thrust her roughly forward, and Emma fell to her knees on the hard, cold floor.

“How did you manage to get past Cerberus, mortal?” Hades asked.

Emma trembled as she lifted her gaze to the larger of the two thrones, but not because Hades was speaking in a thunderous voice. On the contrary, he sounded calculating and slightly . . . bored? His crisp suit, closely shorn hair, and neatly trimmed, pitch black goatee reminded Emma of that shady ambassador from the Southern Isles. Slimy her mother had called him. Of course, it woud be suicide to call the god of the Underworld that. Emma swallowed nervously.

“I . . . gave him a treat?” Emma winced when it came out like a question. Her plan had been to exude confidence, not grovel.

To her surprise, Hades threw his head back and laughed heartily. “Did you hear that, darling? Gave him a treat!”

He wiped at tears of laughter as his wife cast a smile in his direction. “Yes, dear. No mortal has cooked up a batch of those since . . . Ulysses?”

“No. no,” Hades corrected, waving a hand in the air, “I thought it was a female then, too. Medea? No . . . she was a witch, though. I think.”

As Hades debated over who last charmed his pooch, Emma took the opportunity to look more closely at Persephone. For someone who lived half the year in the Underworld, her complexion was almost radiant. Her hair was a deep brown, with streaks of auburn, and her eyes were bright amber. She gazed with humor and ease at her husband, her hand idly rubbing his forearm. Together, each detail made hope surge through Emma’s veins. She took a deep breath, then spoke as reverentially as she could while still infusing her voice with confidence.

“I was given the biscuits as a gift from the fairies to aid me in a very important quest.”

“A quest?” Hades asked, a sudden edge to his voice.

“Now, dear,” his wife admonished softly, “none of that.”

“Always with the quests! Do these mortals think I have nothing better to do down here?” he turned to Emma in exasperation. “Do you know what I go through? Do you?”

Emma didn’t know how to respond, so she simply shook her head.

“Processing each soul as it enters, weighing them on the scales. Coming up with fitting penance when necessary. Then processing those who move on to paradise. There’s far more to running this operation than anyone knows. And if that weren’t enough, mortals on quests, seeking guidance from the dead, or begging to let the dead free -”

“I’m not here for anyone who’s dead,” Emma bravely interrupted.

Hades blinked in surprise. “You’re not?”

Emma shook her head. “I’m trying to . . . free someone from Venus, but she’ll only let him go if I can get the flower of eternal beauty.”

“That shallow, insignificant excuse for a goddess,” Persephone snapped, her earlier peaceful facade falling away to reveal a truly powerful deity. “She’s been trying to get that flower from me for eons. Well, I’m sorry you’ve gone to all this trouble, but the answer is no.”

“Please!” Emma exclaimed, feeling no shame in groveling now. “I beg of you. I know it’s

a lot to ask, but -”

“You know nothing, mortal! Venus will waste the juice of that flower on herself though she

has absolutely no need of it. Simply so no one else will ever get their hands on it.”

“Maybe she wishes to have it so she can help those who lift up prayers to her.” Even as the words left Emma’s lips, she knew how ridiculous the suggestion was. She expected Persephone to laugh condescendingly. Venus certainly would have. Instead, the goddess scrutinized her until she was tempted to squirm.

“You’ve met Venus,” she finally said, “and I have a feeling you know full well how ridiculous you sound right now.”

Emma deflated, sinking into a heap upon the floor, her knees aching from kneeling on the cold marble. She lifted her gaze to Persephone. There was only one other option, and that was to be fully vulnerable with the goddess. If she turned out to be callous and cold, she and Killian were both doomed. She prayed that Persephone would prove compassionate instead.

“Once again, I beseech you, goddess of spring, Queen of the Underworld. I don’t ask this for myself. It is for the man I love, my husband. Venus has him under a sleeping curse.”

Hades tsked and shook his head. “She’s taken yet another lover? This is why I prefer these austere halls to Mt. Olympus. So much drama, I tell you.”

Persephone grinned at her husband and lifted his hand to her lips. Emma felt hope surge in her heart.

“He isn’t her lover,” Emma explained, “and he isn’t even mortal. Killian is my husband - Cupid, I mean. The son of Venus.”

“Killian!” Persephone exclaimed with a gasp. “That precious boy loved the springtime, you know. It’s why so many lovers choose that time of year for their wedding vows.” The goddess shook her head. “I say Venus may be the goddess of beauty, but not of love, not truly. No, it his her son who fights for love and heeds the prayers of the star-crossed.”

“Now, my love, I know you have a soft spot for the lad, but this is Venus we’re talking about.” Hades frowned in concern. “Your feud with her goes back eons.”

Emma rose to her feet, her hands clasped at her breast, hardly daring to believe that the goddess would be willing to help her. “I love him so much, but Venus is determined to keep him under an enchanted slumber until I’ve taken my last breath.”

“Unless you retrieve my flower?” Persephone asked.

Emma nodded. “Yet every moment I delay, Killian is one step closer to forgetting me.”

Persephone scowled and rose quickly from her throne, she motioned for Emma to follow her as she swept down the small steps of the dais. She went through an archway to the right of the thrones, and Emma hurried after her.

“Venus is so fickle,” Persephone muttered as she hurried along, “and her memory is laughably short. Yet that may be to your advantage.”

She smiled conspiratorially back at Emma before pushing open a heavy oak door at the corridor’s end. Beyond the doors was the first bit of color Emma had seen since entering the Underworld. It wasn’t much of a garden - only two things grew in the mostly stone courtyard - yet in the vast sea of black and grey, it was a veritable oasis. At the east end of the courtyard, a large tree grew, heavy with pomegranates. Yet it was the pathway to the west which Persephone hurried down.

“Venus has forgotten that I took care of her boy as much as I could, during the spring and summer months, of course. Juno was his other main babysitter, which explains his soft heart for women trapped in arranged or loveless marriages.”

Emma thought of the story Killian had told her of his first love, Milah, and she realized that it was Juno who had sent him to assist her. Ahead of her, Persephone came to a stop in front of a large rose bush. Only these roses sparkled with golden radiance, and even Emma could sense the magic radiating from them. Her mouth dropped open as she looked at the goddess of spring.

“I thought there was only one flower.”

Persephone’s lips widened into a smile. “Oh no, there have always been many on this rose bush, which I have tended with great care for many centuries. I couldn’t let Venus know that, however.”

Emma shook her head in wonder. “Then why not share?”

Persephone’s amber eyes narrowed, and Emma could practically feel the ground at her feet crackle with angry energy. “With that selfish goddess? She would do nothing but wreck havoc with these flowers, causing all sorts of mischief. Remember that golden apple “to the fairest”? Remember that impotent, silly Paris? Venus got us plunged right into the Trojan War. Can you imagine what she would do with a whole bush of flowers that can give eternal beauty?”

The blood drained from Emma’s face at Persephone’s impassioned speech, and her heart sank. “But Killian . . . “ her voice drifted off, for what argument did she have for a goddess?

“Although,” Persephone pondered, tapping her finger upon her lips, “Venus isn’t the smartest goddess. You could take her a flower, and let her believe it’s the only one.”

“Oh,” Emma exclaimed, “I’ll do anything you ask, if you’ll only help me!”

Persephone’s gaze turned serious, “Be careful what deities you make such promises too, my dear.”

Emma swallowed nervously, but then Persephone smiled softly once more.

“All I ask, however, is that you answer a question. Answer correctly, and I’ll give you the flower.”

Emma blinked, her hands grasping nervously at the satin of her nightgown. “I’m . . . I mean, I’ve never thought of myself as . . . . “ she sighed. “What if I get it wrong?”

Persephone reached for Emma’s hand and squeezed it. “I don’t think you will. The question is this: Why did I plant this rose bush here, in the Underworld? Why did I not plant it in the world of the living?”

Emma’s first thought was that she planted it here to protect it. After all, Killian had tried to flee here with Emma so they would be hidden from his mother’s eyes. But then she gazed upon the golden flowers, mesmerized by their incandescence. The longer she looked upon them, the more a feeling of peace washed over her. Their beauty wasn’t just striking; it was soothing. Suddenly, the answer struck her with startling clarity. She turned to Persephone with a small smile upon her face.

“You planted these flowers here for your husband. To comfort him, to remind him of you, in the long months you are forced to part.”

Persephone gave Emma a tiny nod of her head, a flash of pride in her eyes. “I had a feeling you would guess correctly.” With that, she snipped one of the flowers from the bright green plant, then surprised Emma when she picked a second one. The goddess placed both in a large leather pouch. “To keep them from being crushed,” she explained.

“But Venus thinks there’s only one flower.”

“The second is for you. I have a feeling you’ll need it. Keep it close until absolutely necessary.”

Emma bit nervously at her bottom lip as she accepted the pouch. She placed it carefully into her satchel, then regarded Persephone thoughtfully.

“How will I know when -”

“When it’s absolutely necessary?”

Emma simply nodded.

“You’ll just know.”

***********************************************************

Travel via deity was getting old. At least this time, when Perephone teleported her to the home of Venus, Emma actually landed on her feet. She was still dizzy with a pounding headache, but at least she wasn’t slamming into the ground or completely unconscious. Persephone evidently had a gentler touch.

This time, however, Emma wasn’t in Venus’s private chamber, but in a courtyard with abundant greenery and a fountain surrounded by a glittering pool. Though soothing, gentle splash of the water couldn’t mask the shouting coming from a nearby open doorway. Emma recognized one voice as Venus; the other was male. Emma tiptoed closer to the angry sounds.

“You’re willing to let our son sleep for possibly another eighty years just because of some mortal girl?”

“Eighty years might as well be a week when you’re immortal, and since when did you care about Killian anyway?”

Emma was close enough now to peer around the edge of the doorway. Killian had been moved from the dais to the round, luxurious bed that Emma had awoken in the last time she was here. Venus stood on the other side of the room, arguing with a broad, muscular man dressed like a gladiator in leather armor with a red cape flowing over his back. A feathered helmet and broadsword lay at his feet. Emma assumed this was Mars, Killian’s father, and she could certainly see the resemblance in the god’s thick dark hair and startling blue eyes. He had a full, curling beard, and his jaw was tight as he glared at Venus.

“I’ve cared about him far more than you have!” he thundered. “Otherwise he wouldn’t be in an enchanted sleep right now, would he?”

“No harm will come to him,” Venus shot back, “he’s surrounded by a protection spell.”

Mars arched a brow as thick and dark as his son’s, “Or is it to keep the mortal girl from awakening him?”

As intimidating as the god of war seemed, Emma figured this was just as good a time as any to make her presence known. At least one of the deities in the room was on her side. She took a deep breath to gather her courage, then rapped her knuckles on the door frame. Venus and Mars both spun towards the sound, and Emma stood as confidently as she could manage just beyond the threshold. When neither of them spoke, she broke the silence.

“I have completed my quest, and I have brought you what you seek.”

Venus’s eyes widened with delight while Mars rolled his towards the ceiling. Emma glanced nervously at her husband, who slept peacefully through it all. She stepped fully into the room while reaching into her satchel. Just as Persephone had advised, she removed only one flower, and handed it carefully to Venus. The golden rose still glowed and sparkled with ethereal beauty. The goddess took it reverently in her cupped hands, gasping in awe.

“Long have I desired this,” she whispered.

“As if you don’t have beauty enough of your own,” grumbled Mars.

“Keep your opinions to yourself,” Venus snapped at her former lover.

“I brought you what you requested,” Emma reminded her gently, “and I believe completing a quest to the Underworld is sufficient proof of my love for Killian. You must awaken him!”

“I must do nothing!” Venus snapped. “I am a goddess!”

Before Emma could even think of a reply to her callous declaration, Venus had crushed the beautiful flower between her palms. Emma gasped in shock as the broken petals grew dull against the porcelain skin of the goddess of beauty. Only the flower’s inner nectar still glowed in Venus’s palm. The goddess brought her cupped hands to her lips and sipped up the sparkling juice with relish. She then took a deep breath, an almost manic smile filling her face as she tipped her gaze to the ceiling. The veins in her neck glowed, then the shimmering golden hue filled her cheeks and blazed from her eyes. Her hair for a moment seemed to alight like the rays of the sun. Then Venus gave one more shuddering breath, and her countenance returned to normal. She couldn’t have possibly gotten any more beautiful than she already was, and now that the flower’s magic had faded, Emma saw no difference in the goddess before her.

Persephone had been right.

“Please, Venus,” Emma tried again with feigned humility, “free my husband from his slumber.”

“You keep calling him your husband,” Venus snapped, “but you are nothing more than a mortal. You can’t understand the ever-changing needs and desires of a god. We take lovers, not spouses.”

Emma was thankful for what she had seen between Hades and Persephone, for it guarded her against the lies of Venus.

“That may be true for you, but it’s not true of all the gods and goddesses. Killian has chosen me, and I choose him.”

“She brought you the damn flower,” Mars snapped, “wake the boy up.”

“Boy,” Venus sighed, “you never can see him as a man, can you?”

“And you can? All you ever do is treat him as your errand boy, never willing to cut those apron strings.”

“At least I’m involved in his life, which is more than I can say for you!”

Emma inched closer to the bed where Killian lay, frustrated at the time that was being wasted while the two divine beings fought. Had she slipped from Killian’s memory already? She knelt by the bed, reaching forward, but it was no use. Venus’s protection spell was still intact.

“Involved?” Mars was still arguing with Venus. “I can list half a dozen goddesses, fairies, and mermaids who were more of a mother to him than you. Maybe I’ll just wake him myself!”

“You can’t, the spell doesn’t work that way.”

“But I can do this,” Mars spat, lifting an arm and snapping his fingers.

The sound of it was loud, reverberating through the room, and the magical shield surrounding Killian and the bed upon which he lay, shivered and then dissolved. Emma surged forward with a cry, flinging her entire body across Killian’s chest and peppering his jaw with kisses.

She pressed a kiss to his still lips, murmuring against them, “I love you, come back to me, Killian.”

When she pulled back, he was just as deeply asleep as before. Behind her, Venus giggled with deceptive sweetness.

“It isn’t the kind of sleeping curse that your mother was under. That was cast by a mere mortal witch. Your kisses will do nothing to wake him, you foolish girl.”

“Then wake him!” Emma screamed. “You promised!”

Venus shrugged in an almost bored way. “I’m known for my fickleness, and, well . . . I just don’t feel like waking him up.”

Rage surged through Emma’s veins, and she clenched both fists as she stared at Venus. Her knuckles brushed against the satchel she had forgotten that still hung from her shoulder and across her chest. Suddenly, she remembered the second flower and Persephone’s words: Keep it close until absolutely necessary.

Gently, she reached into the satchel and pulled out the second flower. Venus gasped, her eyes widening.

“Where did you get that?”

Emma ignored her and turned to Killian. She cradled his head in her lap. She crushed Persephone’s flower and squeezed the juice between her fingers and past his slightly parted lips. His eyes blinked, then opened. Yet, as they gazed upon her, they looked confused.

“Where am I? Who are you?”

“You don’t know me?” She choked out a sob, clutching desperately at the front of his shirt. “Look at me, Killian! It’s me, Emma, your wife!”

His eyes widened. “I don’t have a wife, and I allow few to call me Killian.”

Behind her, Venus spoke with cold malice. “You’re too late, little mortal girl.”

Emma ignored the goddess as tears slipped down her cheek. “But you do have a wife, and I call you Killian because you asked me to. I love you, and you love me.”

“It’s true, son,” Mars said gently, stepping around Venus and coming closer to the bed.

Killian looked with shocked confusion at his father, and Emma wondered how rarely he saw Mars. Then his bewildered gaze fell back on her.

“Then why do I not remember you?”

“It was your mother.” Emma trembled, terrified that she was too late. Then a spark of hope lit within her. Her parents! Maybe her kiss couldn’t waken him, but that didn’t mean it was powerless. “I - I can make you remember me.”

She pressed her lips against his, and felt his shocked surprise in the rigidness of his mouth. Yet as her tongue brushed gently against the seam of his lips, he responded, opening for her and angling his head to deepen the kiss. She cupped his face, and he grasped the back of her head. Her lips curled into a smile as she broke the kiss, pressing her forehead to his. His eyes were closed, his breath ragged.

“Remember now?”

“Your kisses are intoxicating,” he rasped, but when he opened his eyes, there was still no recognition there. “I wish I could claim a woman as beautiful and passionate as you as my wife, but how can I when I still don’t know you?”

Emma sobbed, dropping her head to his chest and wrapping her arms tightly around him. The rigidness of his shoulders and the awkwardness as he patted her back only made her heart break more. She was too late.

Suddenly, the floor felt as if it were shifting, and Killian grasped her more tightly as they seemed to hurtle through the air. Head spinning, Emma pulled back from her husband to look around, completely disoriented. She blinked to clear her vision and was shocked at what she saw.

They were in another marbled room with tall Grecian columns, yet this one was ten times larger than the private chambers of Venus. Towering over their heads was not a domed roof, but billowing clouds. Surrounding them in this great hall were twelve giant, elaborate thrones. Sitting on each was a beautiful, regal figure. Emma scanned them in awe, startling when she saw Venus sitting on one to her left. She inched closer to Killian, and though he did not know her, he pulled her close to his side. They were in the throne room of the twelve Olympians.

“Princess Emma,” thundered a voice in the center of the room, “come near.”

On trembling legs, Emma obeyed. She assumed this was Jupiter, king of the Olympians, and she lowered herself to one knee. He didn’t look like she had imagined: glowing, with a long beard and a thunderbolt in his hand. Instead, he was clean shaven, muscular, with a smooth, young face, yet his expression was stern and she felt herself tremble.

“Emma, you have apparently angered Venus a great deal.”

“I did not mean to, your . . . majesty?”

Jupiter surprised her by chuckling. “Many beautiful maidens have aroused her jealousy, my dear. Yet none have managed to steal the heart of her son.”

“And steal it she has,” Mars spoke up, and Emma turned her head to see him seated on a throne to her left. “I saw the lengths my son went to in order to save her, and I have likewise seen what Emma has been willing to do to save Killian.”

“I never saw you as a romantic,” Venus snapped from her throne across the room.

“Maybe not,” Mars shot back, “but I do admire those willing to fight for what they want.”

Jupiter lifted a hand to stop the lovers’ spat, and turned his gaze back to Emma. “I understand you completed a quest to the Underworld to prove your love.”

“Yes,” Emma said, her emotional control slipping as a tear tracked down her cheek, “but I was too late. Killian no longer remembers me.”

“If I may, my lord,” Killian’s voice was suddenly there at her side, and she was surprised when he took her hand gently in his. “If this lass truly is my bride, then there’s nothing I could wish for more than to remember her.”

Emma blinked at him in surprise, and he in turn gave her a shy smile before scratching behind his ear. She had never seen him so unsure and confused. Or, more accurately, she had never heard him seem out of his element before. He certainly was now, and her heart grew with love even more.

Jupiter rubbed at his chin thoughtfully. “What say you, Juno?”

“No one is more loyal than our Cupid - Killian,” she said, looking at the young god fondly, “and he deserves happiness after so much loss and turmoil.”

“And what of this Princess, Minerva?” Jupiter asked, turning to the goddess on his other side. “What does your wisdom discern about her character?”

“Tenacious,” Minerva answered, “strong, smart, and willing to die for those she loves. If I’m not mistaken, she’s also a product of true love.”

Vesta spoke up from her place at the brazier that burned in the center of the room. “Oh yes, she is the daughter of the legendary Snow White and her prince.”

“I have a proposition,” Jupiter announced in a booming voice. “Never have I seen a mortal worthy of being wed to a god until now. These two should be wed in the truest sense.”

Venus surged forward on her throne, “But in order to do that, she would have to be -”

“A goddess?” Jupiter chuckled. “Yes, I am aware. I propose making Princess Emma a goddess, returning Killian’s memories, and allowing these two to live out their happy ending without interference. After all,” he turned a humorous gaze upon Venus, “that way she would cause you no more trouble with her beauty.”

Venus pouted and practically slouched on her throne, but she made no reply.

“All in favor?” Jupiter asked.

There was a chorus of “ayes” from every god and goddess, save for Venus. Jupiter clapped his hands, and a thundering wave of magic pulsed outward, washing over Emma and Killian. They both stumbled, their hands pulled from one another’s grasp. Emma shook her head, and turned towards her husband. A slow smile filled his face, and a sparkle lit his brilliant blue eyes.

“Emma!”

“You remember me?” she gasped, tears spilling from her eyes.

“Yes,” he laughed, “but love, look at you!”

Emma looked down to find herself clothed in a figure-hugging gown of purest white, embroidered with silver and gold thread. Gold bangles hung from both wrists, and her hair was piled upon her head in a riot of ringlets threaded through with baby’s breath and tiny pink rosebuds.

Yet it wasn’t her appearance she cared about as she crossed the room in two strides and flung herself into her husband’s arms. He caught her in a firm embrace, pressing her flush against him. Their lips met hungrily, and Emma poured into the kiss every desire she had felt while missing him. Killian couldn’t stop touching her, running one hand up her back and down her arms, his other making a mess of her perfectly styled goddess hair.

Their kiss was interrupted by the clapping and cheers of the twelve Olympians. They parted, a blush upon Emma’s cheeks, and turned to face Jupiter. Killian kept her tucked against his side, his arm holding her close.

“Killian, you are Cupid, the god of love, and here is your bride: Psyche, the goddess of the soul. For it is these two entwined - the heart and the soul - that creates the strongest magic of all: true love.”

***************************************************************

Years Later . . .

Emma and Killian sat in the garden of their estate on top of the misty hill, watching as their two children ran amidst the flowers that the fairies tended. The god of Belief and the goddess of Hope.

Often, Emma and Killian were called away on adventures. Some as simple as answering the desperate prayers of lovers, others as dangerous as battling the gods of Discord, Hate, and Apathy. One day, when they were old enough, their children would join them.

Yet their favorite days were these, with the warm sun beating down, happy and content. Their love now bathed in light; a light that had pushed away every shadow.

#cs ff #cssns #cssns 2019 #captain swan supernatural summer #enchanted forest au #myth #slow burn #cupid and psyche au

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sweetcatmintea · 5 years

Text

The Passion Shop

Flash fiction Friday! I cannot believe how tired I am right now XD I had some fun with imagery in this one :3 I hope you find what you’re looking for at this shop! Feedback is appreciated!

As always, the biggest of thanks to @cawolters for organising the event and to @bookenders for hosting this week!

Prompt: Shelf Life

Words: 1375 (orz)

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It took you longer than you’d like to admit to find the narrow wooden door nestled between two much larger red brick buildings. You’ve never been good at navigating but this time you have the benefit of inexperience to blame. You’re nervous. It’s understandable. This is the start of something new – a frightening concept on its own – made more so by the gravity of your upcoming decision. In another realm, you’re in front of a small tea shop. The kind that’s just always been there, smelling of old books and lavender, with floating dust glittering in dim lights. You fidget at the copper knob, seizing it only to release it again, brushing invisible faults off your clothes. Take a deep breath. Open the door.

The noise behind you vanishes, the streets muted in this space. It is no the tea shop of the other realm you enter. It’s bright, painted with glass, prisms casting rainbows wherever they see fit. It conjures images of greenhouses of magic in your mind. A fair way to describe what you’re seeing. There’s a feint twinkling you can’t place, echoing alongside a pleasant hum. Shapes of light line every surface. Rows and rows of flickers held safe within clear cake stands on airy shelves. Some move in calm orbits, path clear and predictable. Others dart sporadically within their confines. Occasionally you hear quiet plinks of energetic lights bouncing off their glass homes. The longer you stare, the more you begin to differentiate between the lights. Some glow vigorously, some faintly, some with tinted hues, some shifting in colour. Each a little different from the last.

A tall woman waits behind the counter at the end of the shop. Though she stands still, she does so with an inescapable grace. Mint and cream robes tumble around her, curling on the floor like a Luna moth’s tail. You cannot say with confidence that there are not moth wings tangled in the silk. She catches your eye, smiling warmly, politely ignoring your momentary lapse in manners. She understands your awe.

Take your hat off already!

You snatch it from your head, bobbing awkwardly, half an apology, half a greeting. You want to say something, but you stumble over yourself in your fluster. There is a strong sense of being in the wrong place, like a child who has wondered into a queen’s court. That is not the case. Remember, you are supposed to be here.

“Please, there is no need for such formality,” she laughs “I am happy to see you Little Guardian.” She beckons you closer. “You are very welcome here.” Her voice is so kind, so accepting, you feel compelled to cry. You aren’t sure why.

“You flatter me as ever, Sweet Narrator. I am happy to hear from you as well.”

Oh! T-Thank you, Lady Keeper. It is an honour. I’d bow were I capable.

“I trust you’re being kind to our Little Guardian? It’s their first day isn’t it? You will help them flourish, won’t you?”

Of course I will. You won’t be disappointed in me.

“I never am.”

She chuckles again, smiling behind her fingertips. You inch forward, peering into the dome in front of the Lady Keeper. You want to see the light. Somehow, it’s not all that surprising to see a fish no bigger than your palm, circling the air. Not well versed in aquatic life, you hazard a guess that it’s a kind of flying fish. A good guess. The lady Keeper lifts the dome, fabric slipping from around her arm, revealing many delicate golden bracelets resting around her skin. The fish darts out, nearly blinding you as it investigates your face before returning to circle the Lady. It twirled around her, weaving itself through her long satiny hair as she spoke.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

You do know why but don’t really understand why. You say as much. You feel foolish but it is ungrounded.

She nods along to your words, familiar with the story. “These,” gesturing to the fish, “are mortal passions. Each person has one. They grow and evolve, as you would expect them to, helping mortals to become their best selves, their happiest selves. They are such wonderful things, but they can’t survive on their own. Passion needs to be nurtured to fruition. You must tend to it, feed it, and, sometimes, contain it until the person is ready for it.” She cups the fish, trapping it in her hands. “Passion can run amuck it you let it. Let it burn too bright too soon and it’ll go out.” The light emanating between her fingers pulses as the fish circles. “But if you treat it properly…” Released once more, the fish speeds around the room, glowing a hundred colours at once. “It can become something else.” She fixes her attention back at you. “As a Guardian, it is your duty to pick a passion. Follow it to its person and help them grow. Do you understand now?”

You nod dumbly. Information and doubt swirls through your mind. You thought you’d be helping stop a distracted person walking into traffic, not caring for the basis of their fulfilment. It is too much for you. What if you messed up?”

You are prone to worry, aren’t you? In honesty, you wouldn’t have been accepted as a Guardian if you weren’t capable. Besides, you don’t do all that much. Your charge has the lions’ share of the work. You need only nudge them on occasion.

“Do you know which you will pick?” The Lady is patient as you try to make up your mind. You really don’t know. She points to the slow orbiting one you noticed earlier. “A passion like this is a good start. It’s simple but rewarding. This one belongs to a person who’s happiness revolves around family. They want to have a large one. It’s a nice desire, don’t you think?” She glides to another, a sporadic one. “This one is popular. The passion of a person already set to succeed. It still takes quite a lot of hard work, mind you, but they already have a good foundation to work with. They aren’t without their draws. They can be fickle and prone to temptation. These poor mortals are more likely to suffer quite the self-destructive personalities.” Another fish. “This one, well this one’s my favourite kind.” Her finger traces the glass fondly. You struggle to see why. This fish is dull, barely glowing and just a single colour. “This is an unlikely passion. A pipe dream, in colloquial terms. An artist, an author, an astronaut from poverty. Passions for something more than they’re allowed to dream of. Passions for the dreamers.” A sort of sadness tinged her voice. “They have a short shelf life. As their person gets older, the fear starts to dim them. Fear of failure fed by parents pulling them out of the clouds, disillusion from teachers and poorly chosen role models, hopelessness of being ignored. They burn out so easily.” She looks up at you, eyes glittering through long lashes with an emotion you can’t name, contagiously twitching in your chest as well. “But if you can nurture them, remind their person how much they love them, they can grow into something … beautiful.”

You know you should pick the reliable and accomplishable passion as your first. With so much riding on your abilities, you should leave the difficult ones to the professionals. You watch the fish swimming around and around. You swear it dims a little more with each lap. You ask what passion the fish holds.

You feel like you’ve asked the right question when she smiles at you. “This one is a creator. They want to be a poet.”

That’s the one you want. You don’t know anything about poetry, you’ve read maybe five poems in your life, but you want to help this passion grow. You can’t watch it die out. She releases it. The fish is much faster than you expect, zooming around your wrists, circling back and forth from the door. A delicate golden ring appears on your arm.

“It looks like you’ve been accepted. Congratulations! That passion is eager, you’d better run Little Guardian! Good luck!”

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Tag list

@cawolters, @inkovert, @snobbysnekboi, @kainablue, @i-rove-rock-n-roll, and @goblin-writer

#I'll edit the breaks if it needs them tomorrow #Flash Fiction Friday #FFF23 #short story #fiction #original story #original fiction #writing #writblr

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courtorderedcake · 5 years

Text

Untitled, Double Dark Ones drabble

Found in my "WIP - untitled" folder.

Blame this completely on @thisonesatellite who had me searching for my illusive prompt list, or billions of things that I will never write.

No beta, so no better than my usual junk.

Rated M, for gore, multi character death, OUAT forgiveness of everything, a mention of sex, and whump. Would you like fries with that?

Tagging whump machines.

@hollyethecurious @doodlelolly0910 @sherlockianwhovian @killian-whump @artistic-writer

--------------------------🌹----------------------------

Neither of them can destroy the other, without ending their own selfish needs as well. It frustrated both of them, but both of them are happy to use each other in the less contentious moments.

So, the games of torment, of pure hatred that true love bore, carnal needs satisfied in brutal couplings just to forget the names of so many who have died in their war. To drown out the darkness, it's voice no longer the crocodile or Nimue, but their own.

His strikes have an easier grace to them, maybe because he's simply been so deep in revenge before, his teeth and claws easier to sharpen. The Darkness was an old friend made captain.

She does not take to it easily, fighting their purported nature. The Dark Swan cried when he held her Father by the neck, and begged for his life when he bled slowly to death from nightshade. The man had stabbed him. Stabbed the Dark one. Revenge was the expected outcome. A pity that her mother, the queen, had gotten in the way. Respect was difficult to earn without some bloodshed.

Even if part of him dies with David, and another as he watches Snow struggle towards her family. Snow held her husband's body, and Emma both, forgiveness on her lips for the Dark One and her daughter.

“Emma… Don't give in. Don't do it. It isn't him. Fight for your true love.”

Last words whispered to two beings that could never feel anything again. Or, that's what was easier to pretend, at least.

Killian can only watch, the Darkness bemused as Emma ran, fled to lick her wounds until their next encounter. As she steeped in revenge. It doesn't take long.

She burned the harbor, burned his sanctuary and every vessel seaside for miles, the sea a blanket of fire. The fire burned his trunk, the home of every piece of Liam and Milah he'd replaced with Emma's pretty face.

He razed The Enchanted Forest as her subjects flee in terror, and only stops when it's her boy, her son, he's almost burning to death. Her adopted son, the darkness tried to taunt, but her son and the boy Killian returned to raise. Henry's eyes barely recognize him, and Killian feels the recoil, the man who saw this boy as close to his own son surfacing in haste.

Emma doesn't show emotion in her eyes, the tilt of her shoulders, or hard won smile anymore. The surprise on her face is an arched eyebrow, a look of resigned relief, a little give in the tight lines and angles that she is as this dark queen.

“Thank you.” She whispered softly, Henry resting with a doctor. Handing him a glass, she sat by the fire with her own goblet resting on the black of her dress. The distance is purposeful, her pensive frown in it's crimson color like the red of forbidden fruit.

“If that's all his life means to you,” He swaggered towards her, throwing back his drink. “or is another form of gratitude in order?”

Their kisses are frantic and so is their fucking, peace restored for another set of years until the next wars. It's an uneasy truce and forgiveness in quarters that doesn't come without quarrel. It is something.

They watch the world move by, the same mistakes made with or without their touch.

They took no part in the attacks themselves, instead wreaking havoc and sowing mischief in small ways, changing the odds of battle and tipping the scales of fate.

They forget in the terrible lull of almost humanity that magic always comes with a price.

The war spread, closer and closer, until the sea burnt and shipwrecks littered the shoals and shores. It crawled at first then dug in its claws to sprint, blood shed like brush fire. One of Killian’s men made mad with his own strength, pulled his sword from King Henry's chest, Queen Jacinda and the princess slaughtered in the siege.

Emma did not run. She raged, burned as bright as a second sun. The war is over in a blast that is indiscriminate in its destruction, but this is not enough, and the Dark Swan is not nearly done. Killian, the Dark One, knew true pain and true fear for the first time as Emma destroyed him and put him back together again. The darkness in him echoed his own screams, and they are turned inside out, burnt, frozen, tortured in new ways that only another with darkness inside them could create.

In a sudden moment of weakness, Emma shrieked to the skies; they are unable to die, she cannot join her family, she cannot disappear, cannot escape her thoughts.

Killian understood.

Killian ran, for her sake, across the ruined world. Another chase, a hunt that kills both prey and predator. As the years pass, the few people remaining rebuild, trees grow, plants sprout from scorched earth, green returning to a world of charcoal and embers.

Killian studied the old texts, any that are left, and continued to flee from Emma's grasp. They danced around each other, ships in the night passing ever closer. There are times when the attempts were sloppy, as if she's bored, and others where he can see the fire behind glassy eyes. Her attacks were precise and her accuracy frightening. Killian licked his wounds after barely escaping more than a few times.

They both wondered what they will do if Emma does manage to capture him again.

She appeared, eyes full of that flame, and this time Killian was ready with determination of his own. Emma was brutal, speed and hatred, tears streaking across her cheeks as she lept toward him.

It doesn't matter what she does to him.

Killian managed to hit her on the neck, and her surprise echoed through the woods. They are right where he has planned, the clearing full of pink flowers that sway in the breeze, that make the blood coming from her neck look dark against their brightness. Wine on blush lips, deep crimson on soft petals.

Clutching her neck, Emma stumbled toward him, and he caught her with the same grace that they danced with all this time. The sword was thrown aside as he lays her down, carefully, holding her delicately as she looks at him with sad adoration.

“I'm sorry.” The gurgled whisper startled him, but Killian laughed gently at her, finally pushing her hair away from her face to see her eyes. There's no more anger held there, only the tiniest flicker of hope. “Killian, I -”

“Hush, love.” Stroking her cheek soothingly, Emma reached to touch his hair, tracing the lines of his face, gently skimming over his scar. When she rested her thumb on his lips his own tears started to fall. His hand gripped the pommel of the discarded sword. “It's not going to hurt you, is it?” his words are strangled, but Emma made soft noises to quiet him, gently wiping at his eyes.

“If it does, it will only be for a moment. Like ripping off a dressing.” Killian felt himself chuckle despite himself, a sob catching in his throat as he gripped the sword. “Will you…?”

An unspoken question that was understood immediately. He nodded.

“Yes. I'd follow you to the end of the world, or time.” She sighed in contentedness, almost looking as she did when they met.

“Do it.”

Killian leaned forward, letting their foreheads touch. After a moment, he kissed her softly, and pulled away. Gazing into her eyes one more time, he whispered hoarsely into the quiet glade, raising the sword above her chest.

“As you wish, my love.”

Emma was right, her pain lasted only a moment before her face stilled into what looked like a peaceful slumber. Color returned to her, as the darkness was rinsed away by the pallor of eternal rest.

Laying next to her after carefully setting up his rig, Killian interlocked his fingers in the lingering warmth of hers. He looked up at the sword, the darkness in him caged, giving a quiet protest. Looking at Emma, his Emma, before names on swords and swirling ink, he cut the rope with his hook.

The sword burned in his chest, all but forgotten by the blackness that encroached on his view of his love.

The darkness that held him for the last time was different than what dwelled inside him for so long. It was warm, fluid and gentle, guiding him towards something he could not see. Her fingers in his again, Emma pulled him into color and light. There a crowd of people waited who forgot owed apologies, in lieu of welcoming him home.

#captain swan fanfiction #captain swan #cs ff #cs au #cs #cs au fic #cs au ff #courtorderedcake #whump #whumpy whump

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alexabarnes · 5 years

Text

Into the Water- Part One

Pairing: Bucky x veteran!reader

Summary: When a boy falls into the harbor on an icy December day, Bucky meets ex-combat medic (y/f/n) (y/l/n). She is fighting to figure out life after the war. Something about her sticks with Bucky in a way he can’t shake.

Word Count: 1,914

A/N: First of all, s/o to @invisibleanonymousmonsters for being the absolute most amazing person ever and giving me constant support with my writing (lmao I know I never post anything). So here’s the deal with this story. I’ve had this written for a while but I have withheld posting it because it is a multi-chapter fic and I’ve never done one of those before. Well, here it is anyways. I’ve been wanting to write something for a while that touches on service, medicine, and PTSD in the way I have seen and experienced it. Real life is a lot grittier than Tumblr writers’ romanticization of mental health, in particular when it comes to PTSD. I’ve gotten kind of annoyed with the representations of PTSD and medicine in general (because tv shows and movies almost never get it right), so I wrote this. I will say, though, that everyone experiences and heals from it differently, and I’m not discrediting that, but often the way I see it written in fics is either it’s glossed over, cliche, and/or repetitive. There’s not a lot of nuance to it and I want to change that. So, here it is.

P.S. This fic is going to get gritty and dark, so strap in folks.

Bucky hated winter, to say the least. He hated the way the large flakes of snow flew into his face, he flinched every time they touched his skin. He hated the way the cold seemed to make his skin burn. He hated the low-hanging white clouds of a blizzard that encroached into his space and threatened to swallow him into their thickness. Every second of winter reminded him of who he is—no, who he was— they reminded him of dreamless, bone-chilling cryofreeze. Bucky hated winter because winter reminded him of Hydra.

The only good thing about winter was the excuse it gave him to wear long sleeves everywhere. He felt protected when he could leave his apartment with his hood up and nearly every inch of his skin covered.

Bucky walked along the snow-dusted sidewalk, icy blue eyes always scanning the street, always assessing. It was exhausting sometimes. Sometimes he wished more than anything that he could turn it off and let his mind rest for a while. Better exhausted than dead, though, he thought to himself. He decided to take the longer route today because very few people were out on the street. The snow had stopped falling and, despite the throbbing noise of the city, everything seemed a little softer, everyone seemed to speak a little quieter. It was a little hint of peace, and Bucky appreciated it. He rounded the corner and took a side alley that let out onto the street that bordered the waterfront.

The water was grey, the slight waves crested white and threatened to freeze over if not for their movement. Bucky walked past the piers, gazing at the ships tied onto the dock, old and beginning to rust from the sea water. There weren’t many people at the waterfront. A few joggers passed him, bundled up, cheeks pink from the wind exposure.

He paused for a moment, noticing a tall black marble stone out of the corner of his eye. A monument to World War II and the naval officers of the city who gave their lives in the war. Their faces were engraved on the marble, along with their name, rank, and place of deployment. He knew the artist chose black marble for a reason. Simultaneously, Bucky saw his own reflection in the smooth façade overlaid with the portraits of fallen soldiers. His stomach twisted, his heart beat uncomfortably against his ribs. He turned his head to look at his boots, suddenly too aware of the cold and his own thoughts.

Suddenly a dog barking and a splashing sound tore him away from his intrusive memories. His eyes snapped to the dock a mere hundred yards away from him. A large German Shepherd was clawing at the dock, barking at the water, frantically rocking back and forth, as if he was thinking of jumping in the water and deciding against it from second to second. Suddenly a young boy breached the surface of the icy water, waves lapping at his neck, he struggled against the cold. Bucky could hear the gurgling sounds as the boy, unable to keep himself from gasping, inhaled the water. He immediately sprinted forward towards the boy, but as he was nearing the dock, a runner came seemingly out of nowhere and jumped off the dock before Bucky could.

Bucky skidded to a stop, working to maintain his balance on the slippery dock. He looked out at the water and saw a woman with bright (y/h/c) hair swimming towards the boy. A small crowd had gathered and bystanders began to film the dramatic scene. Bucky immediately took notice of every camera angle, making sure he avoided being captured on video. He watched in bewilderment as this woman took hold of the now unconscious boy, pulled him to her body and began to swim on her back so that his head remained above water.

Someone must have called 911 because Bucky could hear the sirens. The woman tipped her head back, eyes searching wildly for a place she could get the boy out of the water. Bucky rushed forward to the edge of the dock and locked eyes with her. He was the only one there that could possibly lift them out of the water. Bucky’s every instinct was screaming at him to run, stay in the shadows; he was exposed and vulnerable kneeling on the dock. But he couldn’t leave her. She swam towards him and the dog, who now paced nervously next to Bucky.

She was gasping for breath. Bucky knelt down and reached his hand down to her. She thrust the boy out of the water with all the strength she had left, submerging her own head in the process. Bucky lifted the boy out of the water, laid him gently on the dock then reached down to pull her out too.

Her body was so cold that if he couldn’t see the light in her bloodshot eyes he would’ve thought she was dead. She was gasping, eyes locked on the sky, the cold air burning her lungs. Everything was numb and blurry, noises were distorted, almost as if everything that existed outside Bucky’s immediate view was under water. But her, she was in perfect clarity. He lifted her out of the water and into his arms before he gently laid her down next to the boy. Distantly, he could hear the crowd that had watched the scene unfold clapping and cheering.

Both of them looked in terrible shape. The woman was pale, eyes bloodshot, lips blue, but at least she was breathing. The boy was still in the most sickening way. She allowed herself to be still only for a second before she leapt up to get to the boy.

She immediately kneeled over him, put her ear to his chest and pressed two fingers to his neck to check his pulse. She felt her heart drop as the agonizingly slow seconds ticked by with no movement under her fingers. She ripped off the boy’s jacket and shirt, clasped her hands together and began doing compressions on his chest.

Without taking her eyes off the boy, she said to Bucky, “I need you to call 911.” Bucky was stunned to hear how calm and soft her voice was, despite how hard he could hear her heart beating.

“Hey, what’s your name? I need you to call 911,” she repeated.

“Uh—Bucky. And I think someone already called 911, I can hear the sirens coming.”

“Okay, good. Bucky, I need you to hold his head still,” she told him. He took his jacket off and placed it under the boys head, so it wasn’t on the rough wood of the dock, and held both sides of his head while she continued compressions. His heart was aching, begging the boy to breathe.

“Come on, sweetheart” she whispered under her breath. She stopped for a second and put two fingers back on his neck. A sharp breath of relief came from her mouth. “I have a pulse.” And suddenly water came sputtering from out of the boy's mouth. Bucky looked down at the boy’s chest and it began to rise and fall with breaths from his now clear lungs. She was panting at this point. Her shoulders sagged, her arms limp at her side. Relief and exhaustion evident on her features. She kept her fingers on the boy's arm to monitor his pulse. The German Shepherd, who had been pacing anxiously, now laid down at the boy’s side, his head resting on the boy’s legs.

Bucky faintly heard the bystanders’ reaction to the scene, mixtures of shuddering breaths, cries of relief, and applause. Bucky moved the jacket from under the boy’s head to cover his wet, shaking body.

“Thank you, Bucky. You did great.” Bucky was at a loss for words. Great? He barely did anything, he thought to himself. She just brought a boy back to life with nothing but her two hands, for Christ’s sake. Though the boy was still unconscious, he was breathing, and it was a goddamn miracle.

“How did you—” he began, but then he saw the ball chain around her neck, and the U.S. army dog tags hanging from it. “You served,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah. Combat medic; two tours in Afghanistan.” He just looked at her in awe.

The water suddenly reflected blue and red and the sirens were almost unbearably loud. The siren cut and Bucky looked up to see paramedics walking swiftly over to the scene.

The woman stood to address the paramedics. “Pediatric male, initial GCS of 3, now improved to a 6. Patient was unresponsive upon extrication from the water. CPR performed after witnessed arrest. ROSC obtained after five rounds. Patient is hypothermic and in need of post-resuscitation care.”

“Thank you, we got him from here. Does anyone know where his parents are?” The medic asked.

“No, I never saw him with anyone,” the woman replied, looking to Bucky. He merely shook his head.

“Well, we’ve made sufficient effort to contact family, we’re taking him to the hospital. Child Protective Services can deal with contacting parents, he needs an ED doc now. And Miss,” the medic turned to the woman, “don’t think I’m going to let you go without checking you out.”

Now that the adrenaline was beginning to wear off, she started to feel the weight of her soaked clothes drawing the chill into her veins every second she was exposed. “I’m fine, I promise,” the woman replied, but the medic had no intentions of letting her off that easy.

“From the assessment you gave us of the patient, I know you’re medical, and I know you know the legal stuff I’m required to do, so let me check you out.”

“Treat the kid, don’t waste your time on me.” If the situation were different, Bucky might have chuckled. She was stubborn as hell and reminded him of a certain blond super soldier in his life.

“My partner is taking care of him. It’s going to be a minute before we can get him out of here. Let me at least give you a blanket,” the medic insisted.

“Fine, but while you’re getting the blanket, you might as well get the refusal form, too.” The medic sighed, but begrudgingly agreed. She quickly filled out the form to refuse treatment from the medics, despite her blue lips, shaking frame, soaked body.

“Thank you,” she said to the medic. He gave a tight smile; he was obviously worried about her. A heavy sigh left her lips as the ambulance pulled away from the scene. Bucky looked down at her hands and saw them shaking. He wanted to touch them, reach out to her. But he had seen enough in his life to know that wasn’t what she needed or even might be able to handle.

“Miss, are you okay?” Bucky asked softly. She snapped out of wherever her mind went. He had a guess as to where her memories took her because he knew where his took him.

She forced a smile, “Yes, I’m fine.” She reached down and patted the German Shepherd on the head, smoothing the fur on his head and neck. He rested his head against her thigh. She grasped the leash hanging from his collar and began to walk away.

“Hey, wait—” Bucky called out. She turned back to him. “What’s your name?”

“(y/n) and this is Ranger.”

“(y/n),” he repeated; her name a whisper lingering on his lips. He watched her walk with Ranger, who stayed pinned to her side, until she disappeared from his view.

Hope you all liked the first part! Please please please send me your reactions and thoughts <3 it means the world to me.

#Bucky Barnes #bucky x reader #sebastian stan #marvel #new fic #multi chapter #angst #MCU #marvel fic #alexawrites #Bucky Barnes x reader

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1000-directions · 5 years

Text

annual writing self-evaluation

All answers should be about works published in 2018.

tagged by: N O B O D Y, i’m the one getting the party started this year 😎i’m going to tag every writer i follow, so please feel free to fill this out for yourself without feeling obligated to read my answers if you’re not into it!

i. Optional if applicable: link to last year’s self evaluation:

2017!

1. List of works published this year (in the order that they were posted):

tonight make me unstoppable

turn to dust or to gold

spring cleaning

since we’re alone

this modern love

i still remember

the gentlest feeling

think i’m gonna win this time

nothing but dreams inside

sending postcards to myself

dust to dust

lullaby for the new world order

gold dust in our hands

#ship 1d with superheroes 2k18

cloud on my tongue

sing it one last time

(unpublished winterhawk fic that will be arriving next weekend)

2. Work you are most proud of (and why):

hmmmm. i mean, if you count the luckyverse as a whole as one work, then obviously that. i’ve put a lot of time and thought into developing this relationship and finding ways to progress it over the course of several years and trying to justify why we are examining their relationship at the specific times that the stories take place. it’s the hardest i’ve worked on anything, it’s the most time i’ve spent on one idea, it’s the longest thing i’ve ever created, it’s the most i’ve ever enjoyed writing, and it’s gotten the most satisfying response. it’s not the most popular thing i’ve ever done, and i know there will be fewer and fewer people showing up for each successive part, but the people who support this have been just...the most generous and wonderful, and creating this thing has been such a rewarding experience for me.

3. Work you are least proud of (and why):

nope, this year i’m pretty proud of everything 🙃

4. A favorite excerpt of your writing:

from this modern love:

“Buck,” Louis says, and he’s looking at Bucky so openly, gazing at him so adoringly, and his fingertips are so gentle against Bucky’s face. He isn’t holding anything back, and it’s one of those moments where Bucky almost steps out of his own head and sees himself from a distance, and he has to tell himself, this is your life, you get to have this now.

“It was a nice day,” Bucky says instead. “I’m really glad I got to be a part of it.”

“You’re going to be a part of everything from now on,” Louis says, tracing the arch of Bucky’s eyebrow with his thumb. “Shit, I can’t stop touching you.”

“Don’t stop touching me,” Bucky says. His hands are on Louis’ hips, anchoring him in place, and they feel hot where they meet Louis’ clothing. His right palm is sweating, and his left is crackling with the anticipation.

There are two categories of energy. There’s kinetic energy, the energy of motion. The energy of Bucky reaching through space and time against all the odds to meet this man, to run after him down the street, to touch his body and kiss his sacred mouth.

And the other category is potential energy, the energy that is stored up and kept secure for the future when you’re ready for it. The energy of possibility, the energy that hasn’t done anything yet but promises you maybe, maybe, maybe.

5. Share or describe a favorite comment you received:

i got a lot of comments along the lines of ‘i didn’t expect this to work, but it did,’ which always brings me joy. i reread @queerlyalex‘s comment on nothing but dreams inside whenever i’m feeling :/ about myself and my writing. all seven comments on cloud on my tongue are so precious to me because i loved writing that one so, so much, it was my love letter to lucky and how far they’ve come. i really just treasure the people who are still hanging in there and reading about my precious weirdos and really picking up on all the things i was trying to do with that story.

6. A time when writing was really, really hard:

any time i have to write a scene with more than two characters is a struggle. the absolute worst ones this year were freddie’s birthday party and bucky and louis’ dinner party. just the worst. more than two characters is too many to keep track of.

7. A scene or character that you wrote that surprised you:

genuinely everything. at the end of last year, i was planning to write one (1) lucky fic for rarepair fest, and i was planning to write trans spiderlou, and that was it. and instead, this turned in the year of lucky, the #ship 1d with superheroes 2k18 that i was not expecting.

8. How did you grow as a writer this year:

last year, i was very focused on being a more minimalist writer, on ignoring plot and just writing the parts that i found interesting, just quick projects in one sitting for as long as they held my interest. this year, i spent more time stretching out inside a scene, just settling in and letting it take as long as it needed to take. i learned how to sustain my own interest in an idea for longer than a few hours. it used to be that if i didn’t finish something in one sitting, i didn’t finish it at all. meanwhile, i can’t even tell you how many sittings i’ve spent on lucky over the last year, and i’m still excited about it and invested in it. i wouldn’t say that i appreciate the concept of plot much more than i used to -- i’m still much more focused on small moments of character interaction. but i’ve learned to embrace the concept of outlining in order to make sure i cover everything i want to cover, and i’m not so afraid of the passage of time anymore.

9. How do you hope to grow next year:

this is my answer from last year:

i would like to try some new pairings. this is weird, but i’ve never really written a true nouis story? it feels like i should have, but i haven’t, and that’s something i wouldn’t mind tackling next year. also, when i first started out, i didn’t feel comfortable leaving canon behind because i worried that i didn’t have a strong enough grip on my characters yet, and i feared that if i started writing AUs or whatever, my characters would become unrecognizable. but i’d like to keep venturing out and trying new worlds and tropes. i want to write more trans characters. i’d like to write an ace fic. i’d like to bring my eye to things i haven’t written before and see what happens.

things i did this year: tried new pairings, wrote a true nouis story, wrote AUs, wrote more trans characters. and although it’s not explicitly identified in the story, bucky is demi in luckyverse, so i guess you could say i wrote an ace fic. so...i’m pretty pleased with all that.

‘i’d like to bring my eye to things i haven’t written before and see what happens’ is always going to be my writing mantra, i think. this year was very heavily focused on lucky, so i think i’d like to write more diversely next year, focusing on other stuff as well. i’d like to write more marvel stories, and i’d like to play around with winterhawk more and maybe find my own preferred niche inside that particular pairing. i just want to keep pushing myself and trying new things.

10. Who was your greatest positive influence this year as a writer (could be another writer or beta or cheerleader or muse etc etc):

i will say that @dearmrsawyer really stepped up and became my absolute mvp this year. jamila is the best for pure brainstorming, for just coming up with an idle idea and running with it until it’s something huge and important and vital to whatever project i’m working on. there is very little i wrote this year that she didn’t have a hand in to some extent. @nightwideopen was absolutely lucky’s #1 cheerleader, which means so much to me. @queerlyalex is always the best in terms of pure positivity and encouragement, about writing, about not writing, about life, about everything. @fleetwooded has been such a perfect beta for me, someone i absolutely trust to tell me the truth about whether or not something works, someone who is so thoughtful with comments and ideas, someone whose eye i 100% trust. @sarcathlon made me art!!!! holy shit, i’m never going to be over it, genuinely the nicest and most supportive compliment ever. and of course, bucky barnes has my entire heart and i’m never gonna stop yelling about how he is a good boy trying his best.

11. Anything in your real life show up in your writing this year:

uh, yes. lol. all of bucky’s anatomical awareness is a result of my stupid useless anatomy degree. at least i finally got to use it for something!! a lot of bucky’s anxiety and panic is based on my own. bucky’s hatred and fear of grocery stores is literally me.

12. Any new wisdom you can share with other writers:

i’m always going to say to write the stories that you want to write, and fuck all the writing rules that tell you there’s a specific way to tell a story. tell it your way. have fun. writing is pointless if you don’t genuinely enjoy it, because we aren’t getting paid for this, and most of us aren’t going to write things that are wildly popular, so the joy has to come from the creation of it. if you expect the joy to come entirely from other people’s responses to your work, you’re going to be disappointed. if you love what you write, then you are guaranteed that at least one person is going to love what you wrote. that’s all i got.

13. Any new projects you’re looking forward to starting (or finishing) in the new year:

we’ve got two (or three 😩) more parts of the luckyverse in the wings, and i want to write my zayn character study. everything else is up for grabs.

14. Tag three writers/artists whose answers you’d like to read:

listen, i’m tagging e v e r y o n e who i think wrote something this year because i wanna get this thing going again. so please, if i accidentally skipped you, or if you are someone i don’t follow who is reading this and you want to do it, please feel free, just say i tagged you.

@magicalrocketships @veryniceandgood @bigbrotherlouis @secretspeller @ferryboatpeak @zaptains @jiksax @mildlymaddy @dearmrsawyer @saysthemagpie @polaroidgirlfriend @clarz @imlouisaf @queerlyalex @nothanksweregood @musingsofmaura @niallspringsteen @foliealou @tintedglasses @sarcathlon @nocontrolforlouis @fleetwooded @nightwideopen @captn-sara-holmes @flawedamythyst @akai-coat @claraxbarton @kangofu-cb

#me me me #long post #writing #year in review #goodbye 2018 #it's hilarious how long this takes to do when no one is going to read it but it was nice to organize my own thoughts about the year i had

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