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laurenceslife · 1 year

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Chapter 17

On the day of the journey, Larry regretted leaving the girl there, too, and felt relief at the same time.

Hattie and Jack, who were also having a quarrel with each other over something, were also accompanying him to the plane, pretending that they got along well with each other but Larry knew that it wasn’t true, and it was also disturbing him that they were burning him with this. Emily was also coming with him but at least she was one of his friends.

When he was thinking that he and Jenny weren’t going to meet anymore, he was already missing the girl. He was much more missing her than his mother. But what was disturbing him the most, was that he separated from her that way.

He only noticed at the airport that their suitcases were with Hattie, Jack and Emily too.

- What are these?! – the boy asked furiously, looking at the suitcases, then at his mother.

- I decided to go with you – Hattie said resolutely and a bit strictly – The reason why Jack was in bad with me was that I’ve already told him, but we found a solution: he and Emily are also coming with us to the Philippines. Don’t begin being indignant now because I terminated my covenant because of you, because I know you wouldn’t get on alone as a kid, without me, with so many strangers – she said, showing it with her voice that she didn’t endure any contradiction patiently.

Larry was annoyed during the whole flight because he would burn before the other actors because his mother went with him to take care of him like he would have been some small child. He was only looking out of the window, reading comics, sleeping, and talking to Emily, and wasn’t talking to Hattie at all during the whole flight.

- Cool off, I bet you that my father wouldn’t let me go, either, while I’m older than you – the girl said, who was sitting next to him – Although he wouldn’t sacrifice his career; he would rather simply lock me in the house – she rotated her eyes.

- Emily! – Jack rebuked her from that row that was next to her. Hattie was sitting next to him, the farthest from Larry, next to the other window.

- It came into my head only now: isn’t it awkward to you that you’re your father’s trailer? – Larry asked in a whisper – What are you gonna be doing in Asia, without your former life?

- Dad and I are gonna go home for a few days, every few weeks. I’m gonna continue the school year there but that’s no big deal, either, moreover, it’s like a vacation, just with school – the girl said cheerfully – Dad’s also gonna look for a job there but that’s not a problem, either if he doesn’t find any during this time. Home, he’s definitely gonna find a new job.

They moved in a luxury hotel in the Philippines for the time of the filming, like the other actors; everybody moved in separate suites. It was a huge, fashionable, snow-white building, far from the set, but closer, there wasn’t any such a good place like that. But Larry wasn’t in that mood that he would have been wondering about it.

When he got his common suite with Hattie, Jack, Emily, and he went upstairs to their own rooms, he dropped his baggage on the golden yellow carpet after an employee of the hotel took them upstairs till the door.

While they hadn’t have to set off for filming, he was killing the time with packing his clobbers into the huge, brown, antique wardrobe, loudly listening to the radio that was next to the royal blue double bed, on either of the bedside tables, setting the radio to such a radio station where rap numbers were played.

When they had arrived back from filming, and he had gone to sleep, the memories were anguishing him again about how nastily he separated from Jenny. He was also repenting that their relationship already came to an end, and he was constantly seeing the girl’s blue, slits of eyes, tiny, a little bit snub-nose, nice lined cheeks, tempting, shapely lips and pointed chin in front of himself when he had fallen asleep.

- Laurence, get in on the act now! We’re shooting the scene already for the hundredth time! – the director Francis Ford Coppola shouted irritably. Larry had never been in such bad form like this. He hardly could be sleeping because the way he separated from Jenny, was so much plaguing him, and he was so much missing the girl, and was constantly thinking of her then too. It was little wonder that the thirty-six-year-old, black-haired, bearded man blew his top, anyway. Marlon Brando, the fifty-one-year-old co-star hadn’t arrived yet so Francis was already edgy.

Larry didn’t say anything, he only played the scene again.

- I haven’t seen anything like this before! What is it that Marlon came here late, and just like he was chosen for no obvious reason from every actor in the world, to be understudying in filming?! – Scott, one of the actors asked wonderingly two days later, after filming, on the way back to the hotel.

- As an addition, he was drunk, grew fat and knows nothing about the movie and of his parts of the script! – Dennis Hopper, another actor, was indignant.

- He didn’t get ready for reasons of his own. Something could happen because the circumstances weren’t suitable for it at all - Larry spoke, thinking of the day before yesterday, it was happening to him too. He thought if he would have more scenes in the movie, and would have had to get ready for the movie after his break with Jenny, maybe his attitude to this excess duty would have been similar.

- There’s something in it. I’ve had a colleague who poorly performed in filming for a while, and didn’t get ready for them too much, either ‘cause it was diverting his attention that he was very broken down ‘cause the filming shielded him from his girlfriend for so long time – it came into the thirty-three-year-old Harrison Ford’s head, like he guessed the boy’s thoughts – But that Marlon’s already fifty-one years old; he’s already had a lot of experiences in filming. He should have gotten used to it.

Larry heard it, disappointed - He couldn’t have imagined that he could be far from his friends and family for months. He could even less imagine that he systematically could have been far from Jenny for so long. At least he hadn’t been able to imagine it for the time being. And in the end, his relationship with Jenny already came to an end – he thought – Maybe movie stars only get such affairs like that?

- So why do actors get married? – he asked the question.

- I’ve said, you get used to it after a while. And the woman gets used to it, too.

- But they don’t cheat each other, do they? – Larry asked, frightened but concealing his fright.

This, being an actor is good; actors don’t always reveal their feelings, thanks to their talent; they only do it when it’s necessary - he thought. And also, he decided not to be asking any more questions in this conservation because he was beginning to feel like some small child because of this inquiry. But in the end, he was still only fourteen years old.

- Not unconditionally. After a while, it’s possible to bear it. But of course, if they really cling to each other, they’re not unfaithful, either when it disturbs them. And anyway, sometimes they take their family along to some filming locations. I think at least fifty percent of them are faithful, in the beginning and later too – Harrison reflected.

- I think this is a big hogwash. At least I’ve also met with such ones who even admitted it to us, even if he didn’t admit it to the woman – Dennis said.

Larry suddenly wasn’t sure if he wanted to rank among these people. He already then decided to never cheat on his partner.

And after they had arrived back in the hotel, and he had gone upstairs to his room, he was still under the influence of what he just heard, and felt more and more that he didn’t want anybody else but Jenny – He wouldn’t have been able to cheat on her if they would have still been dating, and he still loved her so didn’t even want anybody else to be his girlfriend – he thought - He loved her! - he suddenly realized it then, when he was considering about it.

He sprang up from the armchair that stood on golden legs, and suddenly began searching for the slip of paper that he got from the girl that contained her telephone number. He still hadn’t thrown it away.

After he had found it in one of his pants’ pockets, made up his mind for good, and called her. He didn’t care about how much it would cost – He could afford it. And anyway, he was in love with this girl, so he had to try to reconquer her – he thought.

He sat down on his bed, picked the receiver up that was next to it, and called the number.

- It’s Laurence – he began to speak after Jenny introduced herself in a bored manner. But after she had heard the boy’s voice, she was speechless for some seconds.

- Why… are you calling me??? As an addition, from Asia??? You surely wanted to call somebody else… - she laughed awkwardly.

- You really can be surprised at it… So I wanted to tell you that I freaking miss you. Also, I wanted to tell you that I considered our relationship serious, too, but I only now realized it…

- OK, now you’re surely expecting that I’m beginning to fly into a tantrum ’cause it only now came into your head, but I think let’s drop that part… - she said, still in a nervous but cheerful voice – So I forgive you…

- Really? – this time Larry was surprised at it. This was that answer which he didn’t expect at all but he expected it at most only after lots of trying to persuade her. But then that oppressive feeling was over what he used to feel because of his break with Jenny, and a much better feeling took its place over that he felt when they were dating. Because then they were dating again.

- Look, I’ll persuade my parents to go there for the spring holiday where you are! – the girl continued cheerfully.

- It would be good if you succeeded in doing that but it’s hell of a far so it costs freaking much money – Larry remembered Jenny’s house that suggested a middle-class family…

- I know, that’s why I need to persuade them but I’m gonna succeed in doing it ’cause they surely freaking much wanna be vacationing in the Philippines, too.

- OK, try it. If they say no, tell them that I’ll pay for the flight after you guys arrive; then they’ll surely agree to it.

- Really?! You’re so rich?! – Jenny rejoiced.

- It sounded like you only wanted my money… - the boy said as playing jokes on her if it wasn’t true.

- You know that it’s not true! – the girl said with adoration in her voice. Larry only a little bit doubted it even till then, and then believed in Jenny’s attraction to him, 100 percent, because he knew that she couldn’t play-act.

They arranged that Larry would call her every day until they would get to know exactly when they were going to arrive there and where they would stay.

Then he saw a sci-fi movie, then went over to Emily’s room to chatter.

He proudly told her that he succeeded in getting her girl back and in achieving that she would come there with her family, and also proudly told her that in what a trendy situation he was because he could pay for their flight to there and back, during filming America’s big movie with huge stars.

- Francis trusts me that I can hold my own in this huge movie, as an addition, we don’t literally have to say the sentences but he entrusted the wording to us what’s sheer scary but he trusts me even this way! – he eulogized.

- Did you ask that girl to only come by showing off? ‘Cause it very much seems to me like that… Sorry but how are you quite capable of using her? She surely thinks you’re in love with her ‘cause you pay for their flight. Otherwise maybe she wouldn’t even come here to be vacationing if your relationship wasn’t so important to her that she’s vacationing exactly here because of a dude, and then she would definitely break up with you; she wouldn’t wait for you for six weeks – Emily said but didn’t speak up.

- It’s none of your business if I’m in love with her or not – Larry said a bit huffily – But I tell you so you don’t consider me such a base fellow like that, that I didn’t call her to here by showing off how you said.

- You still didn’t do it by love.

- Think what you want!

- You’re occupied with thinking of what a trendy guy you are by this filming and because you’re taking that girl here with your own money; you’re not occupied with thinking you would be so much in love. This is a fact. You surely only called that girl here ’cause you think you’re in love. But you’re not; you can believe me ‘cause I’ve been in love already.

Why was there everybody older than him?! – Larry was annoyed.

- Tell me only one reason why you think you’re in love! – the girl laughed.

- I’m not gonna speak about my emotions to you! – the boy said.

- So I’ll just tell you what proves that you’re not in love. So: if you don’t think of her constantly when she’s not with you, if you don’t love her more than everything and everybody, if you wouldn’t do everything for her, if you don’t see her look and inside qualities more attractive than every other people’s in the world, if there’s no a huge, beautiful emotion inside you that only she creates in you, you’re definitely not in love.

- I don’t care about your opinion; you’re just a teenage chick, too.

- Did these seem to you a kid’s words?

- And did my ones seem to be like that to you? – Larry looked at her, knitting his brows – I don’t want a teenage girl to tell me what I feel! – he said, going towards the door after standing up from the girl’s armchair.

He went out through the white door, and went back to his own room.

There he reviewed the script, sullenly sitting in his own armchair.

A half an hour later, his mother appeared – In his own room! – the boy thought.

- You’re getting ready for filming now too?! – Hattie rejoiced – But don’t forget to order dinner! And then I’m gonna look in on you to see if you continue getting ready, then there’s cleaning teeth, having a bath and sleeping! And now why are you so sullen?

- I’m fed up with everybody treating me like a kid! – Larry said after standing up from his armchair – Here are those many old guys and my mother who consider me a baby compared to themselves, only ‘cause I’m younger than them! – he shouted furiously.

- If you weren’t in a new place, what by one can forget about the usual things, and if you weren’t so cross what by there’s more chance of it, I wouldn’t have remembered you to your duties – Hattie went up to his son, and sat down to the bed – Do you tell me what happened?

- I’ve already told you. Why should I detail it?

- I came with you to help you with some things.

- You’re already doing it again! I’m fed up with the help of you guys! – Larry said in a complaining and furious voice, knitting his brows.

- One day, you’ll be grateful that I’m here for you! I terminated my covenant and came with you, only because of you, so that you’re not alone! – the woman stood up, and left the room.

Larry continued reading the script, and during it, decided to show to those huge, „old” stars that he could hold his own in America’s biggest movie, and to take acting really seriously from then on.

He talked to Jenny every day, and it came out that they could only come if he would pay for their flight, to go there and back, and the girl’s parents also considered even this way, about if they should accept this chance at all.

- They say maybe this tempo’s too fast that we’ve met only twice, and you already pay a flight for us to go to Asia and back – Jenny said on the phone in a complaining and sulky voice - And they also say you haven’t even met with them but you already wanna be vacationing together with them.

- I don’t wanna be vacationing with you guys; I’m just working here, and sometimes the two of us could meet… - Larry said.

- I know but they comprehend it in a different way – the girl whined – What do you think, should I tell them that you don’t even wanna meet with them, or would they just even more disapprove of this all?

- I don’t know. Tell them that if they wanna, I also meet with them while you guys are vacationing here, but if they don’t want me to meet with them, I don’t meet with them.

- OK. Bye!

- Bye – Larry replaced the receiver next to his bed where he was sitting, and was thinking about the problem for a little bit of time, then was reading comics.

Later, at ten in the morning, they went to the set, and he and two other minor characters could be going back to the quarters already at half past five in the afternoon.

He read a comic, then Emily came into his room. She superficially spoke to him that Hattie wanted to be having a dinner together with her son, her partner and his daughter tonight, in the hotel’s restaurant, because everybody had always been eating alone in the suite’s dining room or in his or her own room till then, and that she asked her to tell him to be there at seven.

Emily had still been disapproving that Larry called Jenny there, but she didn’t want to pick on him so much, so hadn’t told it to Hattie, to Jack either, who would have told it to the woman. But because of it, the girl was furiously sitting till the end while having dinner, angrily with herself and with the boy.

More punctually she wasn’t doing it till the end but until Larry told them.

- Actually I didn’t call her here but she said she would talk it over with her parents so they would come here to be vacationing – the boy continued it.

- Till now, you haven’t even told me that you’ve got a girlfriend! I also had to get to know it from Jack, a couple days ago, who knows it from Emily! I’m raising you alone, you should be the closest to me, I’m to be thanked for your career, and you don’t share even this with me, that you’re dating somebody?! – Hattie said huffily and furiously.

Larry stood up from the table, and went upstairs to the suite. Jack and Emily didn’t even dare to begin to speak, not to excite the woman even more.

Larry was reading the script in his room when his father called him.

He didn’t understand why his mother gave him the hotel’s number – Why did she call his father at all? – he thought.

Then he began talking to him about his mother complaining about he was judging her to be nothing during the filming, while she terminated her covenant only to be there with him, he needed her mother, nothing would get him far without her.

- She asked me to put your head in order because it cannot continue. She’s offended that she went there in vain because of you, and far from thanking her for it, you’re indignant of it ‘cause it’s so „awkward” to you. But she mostly fears for you; she’s afraid that you won't speak to her if you get into trouble, kid.

- Into trouble??? – Larry was uncomprehending.

- I know in what state of mind the director is, and between what actors you are, at least one or two of them are fairly chaotic blokes; your mother said these. The director can even knock you guys out, or who knows what he’s quite capable of doing in fury; also, there’s a druggy fellow and a dead untrustworthy bloke among the actors.

- To me, Francis is dead nice, he’s like he’s my godfather ‘cause he takes care of me so much and teaches me so many things. He only howls at who’s not doing his work well but while I was scared to death ‘cause we the actors have to word our sentences exactly in the movie and ‘cause he wants to make The Big American Movie, he didn’t treat me badly even then, and neither when I haven’t succeeded playing well ‘cause I’m still very young so inexperienced compared to the others – with his voice, he was trying to persuade him to believe him – And Marlon’s not unconditionally untrustworthy by he didn’t get ready for the filming happen to be this time. If he was always like that, nobody would employ him in any movie.

- Maybe he’s untrustworthy but he’s a freaking good actor, and that’s why directors don’t care so much. And maybe it’s better to stay away from him in personal life too. Who is like him about work, is very probably like that about other things too.

- We go to the set and back to the hotel together, and we’re also together during the breaks. I know him; I think he’s a nice person. And anyway, I haven’t made friends with him. But I’ll tell Mom that I’ll speak if I still get into trouble. And anyway, when I arrived back in the suite from dinner, it came into my head that I couldn’t have come without her. I would have been traveling by plane alone for the first time in my life, I couldn’t even have found my way here, the other actors boarded somewhere else in America, and also, if she wouldn’t have spoken, maybe I would have even forgotten about my everyday duties because of nerves and the new environment – he said in a repentant voice for he used to ignore her. He was very grateful to his mother for she went with him to the filming location, and already regretted rushing away from the restaurant like that. He planned to tell her when he would replace the receiver.

- I’m sorry I was behaving that way during dinner – Larry said in a resigned and repentant voice in Hattie’s room – After that, I realized that I really couldn’t have come without you. Thank you, a lot of moms wouldn’t have done it.

- I’m not teaching you only, but I’m also teaching the kids who play in the movie, Francis’ kids too, and they pay me for it – the woman said, softened and smiling, and hugged her son.

Next morning, he was eating together with Hattie, Emily and Jack in the restaurant again, to make up for the dinner that came to a bad end. Emily was telling them that an actor had heard from Francis that the girl who Larry hanged out with, was an actor, too, she just didn’t play in the movie, and he told it to a supporting actor who had been an actor already for a long time so he only married to actresses, and was happen to be single and didn’t have girlfriend either, so „hit on” Emily. Jack was suspicious of how old that man could be if he had already been married and had been an actor for a long time so he asked her about it, but his daughter told him that nothing was going to be by it, anyway. For a while, all the three of them were trying to get it out of her if she meant the relationship or the importance of his age, then the girl told them, laughing, that he was in his twenties but she didn’t like the „dude”.

Her father said that anyway, he was too old to her even though he was in his twenties; and Hattie said she had heard that she hadn’t been with anybody for a long time, she already could have „a little boyfriend”. Then they were questioning Larry about Jenny, the boy was telling them where and how they met, and told the whole story till then.

The joint breakfast was a success, apart from that Emily remarked that he wasn’t telling anything about the girl herself, who’s in love, would have spoken in glowing terms about her, but Hattie saved the situation with saying that men don’t talk about their emotions too much, and anyway, they would get to know her when they would meet with her.

After breakfast, everybody went back to their own rooms, except Emily who went in Larry’s one.

- What’s up, you didn’t like that fellow but you like me?! Now you wanna pick up with me? – the boy mocked.

- Very funny! – the girl said indignantly – I came to tell you that it’s so visible that you’re not in love with that girl!

- I see, so you wanna pick up with me this way! – Larry played jokes on her, laughing and being amused at the situation.

- Just guffaw but I know you shouldn’t have called Jenny here! – Emily shouted – I’m one of your friends, and in her interest, I have to defend that poor girl from you because she believes you’re in love with her!

- So who should I believe now: my forty-two-year-old mother or my eighteen-year-old pal?!

- Your mom wasn’t there when you practically admitted to me that you don’t feel the conditions that prove that one’s in love! Maybe you think you’re in love with that girl but this is because she’s the one who the first kiss happened with what was good, and you haven’t felt anything like that about any girl before, so you think what you feel, is special, while you only feel drawn to her bodily – the girl said, sitting on the bed – I’ve heard something like this from a few of my friends already.

- Don’t talk to me about your girlish things! Maybe it’s this way to girls but freaking different to dudes! And anyway, even if I’m not in love, Jenny was still the one who said that she would persuade her parents to come here, I didn’t mention anything like that before it!

- When you called her to tell her that you still wanna be with her, it was obvious that she won’t be waiting for you for six weeks; it was irresponsibility that you picked her up again, even in spite of these circumstances, ‘cause now she definitely believes that you fell for her, with real love; that’s why you’re gonna pay their flight, ‘cause you believe that, too!

- And what should I do now?! Should I call her to tell her I’m not in love with her, „don’t come to the Philippines”?! Maybe you’re right, I’m not in love, but this number’s also worth to me this way, to pay the flight, and otherwise she would ditch me!

- But you have to tell her that you’re not in love with her, and if she also wanna come this way, she comes anyway; she has nothing to lose ‘cause you pay the flight, and she knows what you want from her so you don’t use her.

- So you think she comes? – Larry asked hopefully.

- But only if you tell the truth that way like you don’t insult her and not that way that it would make her disappointed! The best thing is if you tell her everything the way they happened.

- This is all nonsense! Maybe she doesn’t even believe that I fell for her; you know that I also wanna pay it this way, so she comes. It doesn’t even make sense to tell her! If she doesn’t know it, I offend her with it, anyway, as an addition, maybe I also do if she knows it! Besides, since I cling to her so much like this, maybe I’m still in love with her, don’t you think so?!

- Take it easy, you won’t lose her if you tell her that you’re not in love with her, if you tell her everything sincerely, but believe me, you’re really not in love; I’ve seen some people who’ve been in love, and I’ve heard them speaking about their love, and you’re not like them! If she’s said to you that she’s in love with you, she might be offended, otherwise I don’t think so.

In the next moment, Francis rushed in through the door of his room, and told him, raging, that they would have started to the set already a long time ago, everybody was waiting for him on the common bus that they hired for the rides there and back.

- Sorry, I lost track of time – Larry said while they set off for outside.

- I was hindering him – Emily admitted.

- If it’s necessary, ask for a wake-up call to know when you’ve got to come with us if you forget to look at the clock! – the man said, not even caring about the girl, still angrily but already more soberly, when they had left the suit already – You know that I’m already broken down because of Marlon; an irresponsible teenager puts the lid on it to me to completely blow my top! – he said sullenly but not petulantly – What was that chick hindering you with why you so much lost track of time like this? – he asked already with a smile.

- It’s a long story – the boy said dryly.

- You could tell me on the way.

Larry told him the way Emily was conducting herself with him nowadays, and that this was why it was annoying him again, that everybody was older than him.

- I also think you’re not in love – the man said.

- Well, I believe a much older guy more – the boy said - But how did you realize it?

- I also think you don’t conduct yourself that way like who’s in love.

- But maybe I just don’t show it; I can conceal my feelings with other things ’cause I’m an actor.

- Of course, continuously, all day, every day – Francis laughed.

- I’m not in the presence of people all day – Larry said, sullenly, because the man had a good answer to everything against him. But he only considered this all a funny game; he already knew that what he felt wasn’t real love. The only thing he didn’t know was how to tell it to Jenny…

#laurence fishburne #francis ford coppola #dennis hopper #harrison ford #marlon brando #scott glenn

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bookishofalder · 3 years

Text

Rainy Days

Spencer x Reader

Request: @starwithoutdarkness - Hey! I heard you were looking for requests! Maybe Spencer Reid x reader fake dating fluff? Combined with Request: @paulaern - Hello! What about Spencer Reid x reader when they realizes they love each other? Like reader makes something for Spencer and he thinks like "I can't deny anymore, I'm completely and hopeless in love with her" or something like that (G!neutral if you want)

A/N: Thank you so much for sending in requests! Hope this makes you smile!

Warnings: Swearing, moderate BAU violence, creepy men, fluffiest fluff, intense headache description. Set randomly post prison Reid but Hotch is still there because he should have been! WC-2,488

Spencer was staring at the geo-profile he had been working on all day, very glad to be inside. The weather in Seattle had stayed consistently rainy for the two days the BAU team had been in town assisting in catching a killer, who had been committing serial robberies/murders with no apparent rhyme or reason. And while Spencer didn’t mind the rain, he did mind loud, busy cities. Combined, they usually led to a headache that would take a day or two to recover.

The door to the conference room he was working alone in burst open and slammed shut so suddenly he nearly jumped out of his skin, turning to see-

You.

Spencer hated it when you appeared without warning, catching him entirely off guard and presenting the risk that you would notice the visible effort it took for him to compose himself around you.

While he’d noticed how beautiful and hilarious and empathetic you were the moment you joined the team, he’d fallen in love with you when you had your first case with them. Spencer had begun to ramble about the specifics of casinos, and how ‘beating the house’ was nearly impossible, when the rest of the team had tuned out. A temporary member, Agent Seaver, had sneered ‘I’m sorry I asked.” Effectively shutting him up. But then you had turned in your seat next to him and, after shooting Seaver a look had asked him to continue. And though he didn’t have that much more to say, and it wasn’t all that interesting, you listened to every single word and thanked him.

It had been years since that had happened, your friendship had blossomed into best friends, something Spencer cherished immensely. This was partly why he shoved his feelings down. The relationship did not need to change for Spencer to remain happy; as long as he got to spend time with you at work, or watch movies and make tent forts in his living room. And visit his mom (who adored you and always gave you book recommendations that you would be sure to read the moment you could), or go to comic conventions and museums...yes, as long as he could always do those things with you, he was happy.

No need to risk changing a perfect thing.

Now though, you were shutting the door and giving him your most panicked look, wide-eyed, with your hair damp from the rain you no doubt had run through to get inside, accounting for your breathlessness. If it weren’t for the worry that had sprung up inside of him upon seeing your expression, he would have fixated on how beautiful you looked at that moment.

“Spencer, you’re my boyfriend.” You whisper yelled at him, quickly stepping closer and setting your bag down on the conference table.

“Wha-“ He began, but you cut him off frantically.

“I’ll explain-just, oh fuck-“

Spencer stood frozen to the spot as the door reopened and one of the senior detectives sauntered in, a friendly smile somewhat overshadowed by the almost predatorial glint in his eyes. You awkwardly stepped closer to Spencer, raising a hand in hello.

“Agent (Y/L/N), great to see you’re back, I was hoping to catch you before the end of the day!” He said merrily, placing two hands on the back of the nearest chair. Something about the way his hands gripped the chair made Spencer feel...on edge.

You gave the fakest little giggle Spencer had ever heard from you, “Oh, nice to see you too Detective! Just had to catch up with Agent Reid here...”

When his eyes moved from you to assess Spencer briefly, he felt a protective force rear up, instincts entirely at alert. Without hesitating, he casually draped an arm over your shoulder, brushing some hair back as he did, and replied, “And you promised we could get some coffee from the Starbucks down the road, hon.”

He enjoyed the way your cheeks flushed and noticed the pulse in your neck pick up. You glanced up at him, trying to look coy but he knew you too well and could see you were partly surprised, and also trying not to laugh.

“Um, of course, I nearly forgot, babe, let’s go in about 5-unless, did you need something specific, Detective?” She broke off to glance back at the now scowling man, who gave an annoyed jerk of his head before stomping back out of the room.

Once the door banged closed behind him, you let out the biggest sigh of relief, raising a hand to your face in dismay.

Spencer hadn’t removed his arm yet, “I’m assuming I just helped you avoid being asked out, but why-?”

“Uhg, Spencer, I’ve already turned him down TWICE since we’ve arrived! He’s literally the kind of dude who doesn’t take no for an answer unless another man has some fucking misogynistic claim over the woman!” You exclaimed, before moving to stand right in front of Spencer and lean just your head to his chest, staring down at the floor, “I hate everything.”

Spencer laughed, patting your back softly, but internally making note that he wouldn’t be letting you go anywhere alone for the rest of this case-that detective gave him the creeps. And while you were beyond capable of protecting yourself, he just knew he wouldn’t be able to focus on anything if he thought you could be hurt.

“Well, just so we’re clear I would never want to be called ‘babe’ in a relationship.” He joked and the desired effect was his immediate reward when you lifted your head and giggled-your genuine, beautiful little giggle-and then grinned.

“Spencer, you called me ‘hon’ like we were 70.”

Spencer considered a moment, “We could be, you’ll be Gladys and I’ll be-“

“Winston!” You supplied eagerly, and he frowned at you, trying not to laugh.

“Winston?”

“It’s really very dignified, the kind of name where people call you ‘sir’.” You replied cheekily, and while Spencer grinned, a part of him felt a swoop of pleasure when your lips formed the word ‘sir’.

He decided very quickly that he liked the idea of you calling him that. And then, just as swiftly dismissed that train of thought and chastised himself.

As you both stood together and laughed, the door swung open and Hotch and the team followed him in, all in various stages of the results of exposure to the rain, looking equally grim. Spencer and you abruptly stopped when you saw their expressions and launched back into work mode seamlessly.

———

Two days later, the team was closing in on the unsub and everyone was on high alert. Taking the profile and applying it to the geo-profile he had been working on, Spencer had narrowed down this grubby old apartment that sat above a nightclub as the most likely spot the unsub was staying at. Of course, they were arriving at night which meant the club was busy and loud, people lined up out the doors waiting for their chance to enter, pay too much for a drink and grind their bodies against strangers.

Spencer’s headache from the unforgiving rain was thrumming now with the music that seemed entirely unencumbered by the walls of the stairwell, the team slowly climbing. It was bad enough that his eyes narrowed somewhat, but he didn’t lose focus.

You were behind him, watching his six as Hotch and Morgan approached the door ahead and prepared to breach. Spencer slipped a hand behind his back and, on cue, you’re pinky wrapped with his. A brief promise to each other, ‘I’ve got you.’.

They had anticipated violence and heavy arms, so when their announcement was met with silence and the door was kicked open, the tactical response was to secure positions and carefully proceed. Agents and SWAT members lined the building and were, at that moment, securing the club below to ensure the unsub couldn’t flee into a room full of potential hostages.

Spencer and you were the third pair to enter, quickly moving ahead of the others to secure more rooms, eyes peeled for movement. The floor was covered in litter and random spots of dirt and dried substances. It smelled like body odour and axe body spray-which immediately went to Spencer’s headache and caused it to throb in protest.

“Freeze!”

You had shouted right as Spencer noticed the movement from a back room down the hall, as the unsub leaned out and, not abiding by the command, opened fire. Spencer grabbed you and swung you both behind the wall of the kitchen, out of the line of fire while he shouted the unsubs location.

You recovered quickly, dropping to the ground and leaning out to return fire as Hotch and Morgan ran across to the living room to join the battle. It only took a few moments after that before Morgan managed to get a shot to the suspect's shoulder and he fell with a cry of anguish.

You popped up from the ground, watching as Prentiss and Rossi moved forward to secure the man, and barked into your radio for medics to come in.

Spencer, meanwhile, was reeling. When the shots in the room had all joined together in a cacophony, sound and noise piercing his skull, it had converted to pain and panic in his skull, overwhelming him. He had used his own body to shield yours when he pulled you with him into the wall, and the caution he took with you meant he hadn’t caught himself carefully enough, his head bouncing lightly off of the stone wall.

Which, on a normal day would have simply been annoying. But today, with a headache so severe he was beginning to get spots in his vision, it was detrimental. The scene was secure, so he allowed his eyes to shut, a meagre reprieve but at least it was something, at least he didn’t have to see the beams from the flashlights or the pulsing of the neon signs outside of the windows...

“Winston, take my hand.” Your voice was so, so soft. Spencer let his mouth open slightly, a small rush of air all he managed, trying to say ‘I can’t-it hurts, make it stop’ but you grasped his hand tightly and pulled and he followed, his other hand reaching and grabbing that back of your vest, he let you lead him.

He knew from the reduced foot traffic of agents and crime scene workers that you were taking the rear exit, a stairwell that was narrower than the main. He peeked through his lashes to take the stairs, and then suddenly, the cool night air hit him and the door was closing behind you both.

You kept walking with purpose, leading Spencer further away from the loud building. The rain spattered his face but with each step the noise reduced and after a short walk it became relatively quiet.

“Sit.” You murmured, halting. Spencer opened his eyes and saw that you had led him to the farthest spot in the parking lot from the building, where trees lined the lot along a community park that was probably utilized by vagrants and drug dealers more than families. But there was a bench, and you were waiting for him to take a seat. You had pulled out a compact, expandable emergency rain shield from one of the pockets on your FBI utility belt and tossed it on the bench, protecting you both from soaking your underwear.

Spencer sat, setting his elbows on his legs and leaning forward with his hands pressed to his face. He took deep, steadying breaths as you joined him, your hand on the back of his neck. At first, he thought you were just resting it there because his FBI vest would have prevented him from feeling your hand on his back, however, a moment later it was joined by your other hand and a very cold object.

Resisting the urge to pull away, he gasped at the contact, “What-?”

“On-the-go cold compress, Doctor.” You explained, leaving it in place and then rummaging again. Spencer wanted to look but the compress, combined with the quiet, was already doing wonders. He continued to take deep breaths.

“When you’re ready, try this.” You said softly, pressing something to his hand. Opening his eyes, he saw a mini flask that had his name written on the side.

He turned his head slowly so as not to move the compress and met your eyes, which were assessing him with concern. “(Y/N), when did we start drinking on the job?”

You giggled quietly, “It’s just water mixed with this like, vitamin powder that’s supposed to be good for rehydrating you quickly. I did some research on how to help headaches like yours on the go, just in case, and I made this ‘Spencer’ care bag.” You rambled a little when he didn’t reply.

Spencer looked back at the flask and opened it, quickly downing the contents. It tasted pretty fruity and he realized he was thirsty, this taking the edge off.

“Is it okay?” You asked. Spencer raised his head and met your eyes, searching them.

He was overwhelmed, the headache already fading, in its place an intensely warm feeling building inside of him as he considered the time and effort you had taken to care for him. He hadn’t asked you, or hinted, you had just taken it on to find a way to help him and you were right there when he needed you the most.

You had always been there when he needed you. When he had been shot protecting Blake, when he struggled to care for his mother, when he had gone to prison, when he was freed, you were there.

The words tumbled out, unable to be contained a second longer.

“I am hopelessly in love with you.”

Your mouth opened and closed in surprise, taken entirely off guard. Though he worried what you would say, he couldn’t deny the relief he felt having finally said it out loud. He watched patiently as your mind processed his confession, holding his breath.

“I-Spencer,” And then suddenly your lips were pressing into his and the pain from his headache ceased entirely. Spencer was consumed by the feel of you against him, of your hands holding his face and the hum of content you gave when he returned your passion, dropping his flask and sliding his hands up your neck, gripping tenderly.

After what could have been hours, weeks, or years, you both broke apart, pulling back just enough to make eye contact without your eyes crossing. Neither of you let go, your breath puffing out in wisps in the cold night air.

“I love you too,” You breathed, “I could grow old with you, Winston.”

Spencer laughed, relief and happiness swooping through him at your words, “Gladys, I couldn’t imagine anything more perfect.”

Did you enjoy this story? Please consider reblogging or commenting to ease my inner turmoil as a writer. Likes are basically just a bookmark!

You grinned back at Spencer, and then he kissed you again.

#spencer reid x reader #reid x reader #spencer reid #bau x reader #fluff #fake dating #requested #fanfic #reader insert #friends to lovers #best friend #love #mgg x reader #mgg fanfiction

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alldagayships · 3 years

Text

Like Dewdrops - Kit/Ty

Short fanfic inspired by a comic by @toka-sketch

(I was basically bullied into writing this by @kieran-lovebot and @ithurielkeepsgettingkidnapped, so you have them to thank)

(By the way it’s not very good)

(Read at your own risk)

(I’m really bad at self-promo, if you couldn’t tell.)

If I could gather all the tears I spilled for you, they would cluster like dewdrops and form an ocean.

"Kit!"

As soon as his name left Ty's lips--it seemed as if Ty's lips were made to speak his name--Kit turned. His golden hair was damp, weighed down by the moisture that accumulated between its fine strands. Yet still it gleamed like the sun, bright against the dark background of the night. His eyes were half-hidden by the heavy locks that fell in front of them, their blue light as piercing as a sharpened sapphire.

If only your eyes could carry my ocean; but they are too alive to carry the burden of something so hopeless.

"Ty?"

Somehow, Ty was in Kit's arms. His hands clutched at Ty's shirt, and Ty buried his own into the soft fabric on Kit's back. He could feel the warmth of his skin, the solid shape of his shoulders, the slight tremble of his body. He clung on to Kit, the way he'd never thought to before. He should have held him at every chance he got, held him closer than he'd ever held anyone.

If I'd known we couldn't have infinity, I would have kept you with me and never let you leave.

They were on the ground: Ty had knocked Kit over in his haste. But who wouldn't be hasty when the thing they had wanted and had and needed and lost was right back in front of them, found again? Who wouldn't rush to snatch it up and make sure it was real, to claim it for their own?

Ty had been so quick to run to Kit that he hadn't noticed the flush on his cheekbones, the tangles in his hair, the ash and charcoal smudged on his bare skin. Ty wanted to say something, to do something, to tell Kit all the thoughts he'd had, all the times he lay thinking about him. The regrets and the realizations that had hit him like a crushing gravity since Kit had gone lay on the tip of his tongue. Ty longed to let them spill out, but for the first time, he was afraid that he would say the wrong thing to Kit.

If you would hold me as tightly as I hold on to you, you would understand everything without me saying it.

"What's wrong?"

Kit drew back from Ty as he spoke, and reached his hand up to Ty's head. He threaded his fingers into Ty's hair. Warmth spread through Ty. He closed his eyes and relaxed into Kit's hand, snuggling closer as Kit's fingers wove the dark strands away from Ty's forehead. The corners of Ty's mouth lifted into a soft smile. Affection beat through his body like blood through his veins. He could only think of how gentle Kit's hand was, how comforting his presence was, how he wanted to stay like this for as long as he could. What would happen if he curled up right here, with Kit beside him, and they stayed there, and he didn't have to worry about anything, and he would be happy with Kit and Kit with him? He opened his eyes a crack and gazed fondly up at Kit.

If I could make you understand how you make me feel, if you could see the stars in your own eyes as I stare into them, when would you get bored and leave?

"It's nothing."

Kit drew his hand back suddenly. The absence of it was enough to snap Ty out of his stupor and open his eyes fully. Kit was crouching on the wet cement, his head bent over and his face stuffed into his arms. Was he okay? Was he injured, or cold? What did he need? The bit of Kit's face that Ty could see was pale, and his eyes, peeking out from under his arm, seemed distant and as sharp as the tip of a needle. Ty wanted to comfort him, to reach a hand out and make the tension in his muscles ease with a touch. The look in Kit's eyes stopped him when his hand was halfway there. Confusion stirred in Ty's stomach.

"Kit?"

If happiness was not so easy to lose and not so difficult to gain, we would have it all and I would never worry about you.

"Hey, Kit."

Ty let his arm drape over his knees and hugged them to his chest. He grinned dopily and pressed his face to the crack between his knees. A giddy feeling ran through him, like when he watched small puppies chase each other around with a carefree joy. The only time Ty felt like that was around Kit. With a small sound, Kit lifted his head and looked up. His whole face was red, and Ty could feel his cheeks burning, too, as he drank in the sight of Kit. Energy seemed to be rolling off of him in waves, making the blue of his eyes jump out, the movement of his throat as he swallowed, the breath escaping his nose. Ty's smile and that giddy feeling turned into something deeper, an emotion so intense, compelling him, and he couldn't stop himself when he reached out again.

If I could control myself around you, how much pain would we have evaded, how many blades could have been turned away from us?

"Christopher."

It was barely a whisper, a rush of air, as light as Ty's hand on Kit's face, cradling his cheek, his chin, pressing against his chapped lips. Kit's eyes were fixed on Ty's face, round and blue, magnified by unspilled tears. His brow was drawn in, his features forming an almost worried expression. But why would he be worried? There was nothing wrong, nothing to fear. Just him and Ty.

If we could run away, how soon would it be before I drove you back?

"I'm so happy to have you."

Ty leaned closer to Kit until their foreheads brushed together. A sense of surety and calm settled over Ty. This was right, this was how things were supposed to be, this was how things would always be. Kit's face in Ty's hand, his palm on Ty's sleeve, his lips so close that Ty could feel where the air was stirred between them. Ty's heart was beating so fast in his chest that he knew Kit could feel it.

If you have this effect on me now, how will it feel when you split me apart like a fallen branch?

"Really?"

The word barely registered in Ty's mind. He was too focused on Kit, on everything about him. He shifted his head infinitesimally closer, closer, closer, until there was barely a centimeter between their faces.

If I can finally know you like this, maybe I will be able to think straight.

And then suddenly Ty was being thrown back against a wall, and Kit's hands were on his shoulders. The force with which Ty's head hit the brick reverberated through his body. Kit's fists, far from gentle, as they had been before, were digging into Ty's shoulders, his arms, as stiff and straight as arrows, pinning Ty against the wall. Kit's back was curved, as if his body was bending over itself to get as far away from Ty as possible. There was a ferocity in him that Ty had never seen before, never imagined would be directed at him.

"Then tell me why, Ty?"

If you love me, if we can get through it together, why did you leave me?

"Why didn't you listen to me?"

If I could know every word you'd ever said, I would memorize it all.

"How could you do this?"

If you leave, how could we get through it together?

"To Livvy..."

If my sister could see this happen, what would she say?

"To me..."

If you'd refused at the start, where would we be?

"It's your fault."

If it's my fault, why do I not feel guilty?

"Ty. . . My Sherlock. . ."

If I'm yours, why can't you be mine?

"I loved you so much..."

If you could fill me up with all your love, how much empty space would there be?

"But now I-I..."

As Kit spoke--words that filled Ty's eyes with tears and chest with lead and head with throbbing thoughts that swirled and sank like oil in water--he'd loosened his grip on Ty's shoulders and moved his hands to Ty's jaw. They lay there, deceptively tender as he brushed his fingers over Ty's face. Ty was numb everywhere; he could barely feel the pressure of Kit's hands, or the hard brick behind him, or the cold of the chains that hung around his neck. Yet it was like the rest of the world was magnified, stretching out towards him, strangling his breath and tugging on his limbs and stretching out his skin.

And Kit's hands were still there, even though Ty couldn't feel them. In the back of his mind, the thought occurred to Ty that he could move away. That tantalizing ghost of a sensation on his face would be gone, and he wouldn't have to hear the rest of Kit's sentence. But another part of Ty that couldn't understand what was happening wanted to move forwards. Wanted to react to Kit's hands, to sink into his touch as he had just moments earlier, let himself be comforted.

If you blame me so much, why are yours the hands that bring me ease, yours the voice that mitigates the sting of reality?

Silence was the only thing Ty was truly aware of. The absence of Kit's voice, the sound of it as it had faded away. But now I... What? Now he what?

Ty swallowed--with as much difficulty as it would take to swallow a blade--and forced out, in a scratchy voice barely above a whisper, "Kit?"

It was like the second the words slipped past Ty's lips, a flip was switched in Kit. He flinched and yanked his hands back, anguish filling his face, tears welling from his eyes, falling--falling and landing perfectly on the ground like dewdrops. A sob choked its way up his throat, then words, words that had echoed in Ty's head and seemed to drain his energy and bleed the colour from his surroundings--

"I wish I'd never known you!"

If I knew how you would burn more than the wounds of consciousness, would I have welcomed the strain?

"Kit!!!"

He was gone. Cold air replaced the heat that had radiated from Kit's body. Stiff blankets twisted around Ty where the soft cloth of Kit's shirt had been. Ty's hand clutched the pillow beneath his head rather than the spun gold that was Kit's hair, moist from the dew in the air. The only constants were the tears that blurred his vision and the loops of metal around his neck. Despair filled Ty--at what, he didn't know. At what Kit had said in his dream? At what he had said in the past? At the image of Kit, in front of him? At losing him again? At having him again?

If I could have you back, would I take you without hesitation or would the fear of my nightmares hold me away?

A forced breath flew past Ty's lips as he felt his eyes tingle with another round of tears. He clenched his teeth, gripped his arms tightly, bit his lip, to keep any sound from following the sporadic inhales and exhales that shuddered through him. He squeezed his eyes shut and water seeped past his eyelids, catching on his eyelashes and tracing a path down the side of his head. His hand, covered in blood like the sheets tangled around him, flew to his mouth and smothered the sob that rose up against his will.

Kit.

Tears like rain.

I'm so sorry.

Like a river.

Please forgive me.

Like a current.

I miss you, Watson.

Like an ocean.

I love you.

Like dewdrops.

#ty blackthorn #kit herondale #kit rook #tiberius blackthorn #christopher herondale #kit x ty #ty x kit #kitty #the shadowhunter chronicles #tsc #cassandra clare #toka-sketch

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kateis-cakeis · 3 years

Text

This analysis is specifically for this anon

HELLO, Ghostbur did some SHOUTING today! Do you know how amazing that is? Do you know how long I’ve been craving that?! HOLY FUCK

Hi... Let’s reset. Ghostbur shouting at Phil was a big step, and even though he forgot all about it, it shows a lot about Ghostbur and what he cares about, and that in turn shows why he’s changed his mind on being brought back to life.

(All these quotes are from Wilbur’s stream, First Time Ghostbur Live: 6th Jan)

When he begins talking to Phil, he’s... calm.

“Why- Why did you- Why did you blow up L’Manberg?” - (17:19)

The way Ghostbur says this with such sadness, such sorrow. It hurts.

I MEAN LOOK AT THE POOR GUY! He’s emotionally destroyed by it. Because of Friend, because Friend’s dead, again, and we know what that does to Ghostbur, it hurts him. Because he loves Friend. (Which suggests that canon deaths in the Dream SMP are real, painful deaths, which is why they’re so serious in their nature.)

And then he shouts, and he makes Phil listen (after he tries to make the excuse that Friend has infinite canon lives like that makes it better):

“You knew Friend was in your house! You knew! Stop! Stop! Stop! You knew Friend was in your house! You knew everything everyone owned was in this town!” - (17:39)

This line shows how Ghostbur is thinking, him putting his head in his hands, him shouting, it shows his emotional state. He’s full of anguish and pain, sadness and anger.

But what does it suggest he’s thinking? That he puts value on people’s belongings. (Including books, because like rip to them, that one hurts.) Friend is a physical being, something he loves, but he applies that same love and value to what people owned in L’Manberg.

It causes him great pain to think of this, that those things are gone, without ever getting them back (a bit like death, huh).

Then we get this line, where he’s completely done with Phil’s explanation:

“I don’t- I don’t- I don’t- I don’t want to listen- I don’t want to hear what you have to say. I don’t want to have to hear what you have to say. I- I- I’ve read the history books, Phil. I’ve read the history books. You- You- You slayed the dragon, you slayed Alivebur. You were the- You- You are the St George of the Dream SMP. We understand, everyone understands that, Phil. But, look what you’ve done. How can you look at this and still see yourself as a hero. Sending a message, Phil. Sending a message?” - (17:58)

So, that’s a big quote, and every single part of it is so important.

His repetition shows his struggle with his emotions. But he makes the point again that he’s read the history books (no one else, but that’s a separate thing entirely). He knows what Phil did, hell! He remembers it! He sees Alivebur’s death as a good thing, and the parallel to him being a dragon and Phil being St George, where do I even start with that???

Because dragons in legends hoard things, right? So you could see Alivebur’s hoard as L’Manberg itself, that’s his gold. And Phil is the hero for slaying the dragon who wanted to keep L’Manberg from anyone else (which shows how Ghostbur doesn’t remember Alivebur’s final motivations for blowing it up).

But Ghostbur understands, he’s telling Phil that everyone understands why he killed Alivebur, only to point out that the destruction of L’Manberg removes the title of hero from him. He can’t be a hero when he caused so much destruction. (At least Alivebur knew he was the bad guy. Phil and Techno think they’re in the right, that they’re heroes.)

He specifically calls out Phil’s wording of sending a message. Ghostbur can’t understand that, because it doesn’t make sense. Sending a message. I get the implication of what Ghostbur is suggesting, that sending a message makes Phil the villain, makes him as bad, if not worse than Alivebur.

At least Alivebur had cause! Sending a message is pure evil, through and through. (but that’s just my opinion :P)

“So you make me suffer? I- I don’t know what Alivebur did, and I’m really trying to remember. But I know what I did, and I just wrote books. I built- Remember the lanterns we used to make? I built them. I- I built a house for people- I- I set up this area- I built this town just like I built Logstedshire, and I watched them both blow up. And I didn’t- I- I didn’t- I didn’t hurt anyone, and yet I’m the one who pays. Tommy didn’t even live here, Tommy didn’t have a house here. I sowed the seeds of peace, and yet I’m the one who pays for war.” - (18:47)

I picked out this screenshot specifically because he’s making this expression as he talks about the lanterns, the anguish in his expression, the way he’s looking out at L’Manberg, head slightly tilted up towards the lanterns. It shows how Ghostbur holds onto the good memories, but he feels the deep sadness of building up L’Manberg again, making it look nice, houses, the main area, he built that town more than anyone else, gave it a personality, only to lose it.

And he feels that, as well as the pain of losing Logstedshire. He makes the point that he hasn’t hurt anyone. And he hasn’t. Not physically anyway, the only damage he’s done as Ghostbur is the pain others feel knowing he doesn’t remember the bad.

And this line, this 30 second line, it shows so much. It shows how Ghostbur still feels how Tommy never even lived in L’Manberg (I know he had that house under Ranboo’s but he never really lived there like the others). It shows that Ghostbur feels like he’s paying the most because he built it, because he lived there, because he had the history books, because.... “Everything for L’Manberg. For L’Manberg, my L’Manberg.” (Wilbur’s Amangus with new and old friends :): 1:46:29, 24th Nov)

And he’s right, he set up peace. He called out Tubbo, he made sure to remind him of the values. He made his point to Phil that L’Manberg wasn’t doing things right. He made the same point to Ranboo. He tried. He read the history books, he kept telling people! But they didn’t listen, and in the end... he paid for it the most because he thought he had done enough, but it’s not enough. With L’Manberg it never is... was, I suppose.

“I know I’m forgetful, I know I’m an amnesiac, and I know I’m the comic relief in all of your stories, but I still feel this, I still feel things. And I try my best to make sure no one else feels it... And I just.” - (19:32)

This is Ghostbur’s turning point for the quote that comes after this.

You know what all of this is? All these quotes, Ghostbur making someone listen to HIM for once. All people have done since Ghostbur has been around is shout at him, belittle him, treat him like he’s stupid, patronise him, go against all of his wishes. Finally, this talk with Phil allowed him to take control again and speak his own mind without being beat down, he was loud, not quiet, he even banged his fist, something Alivebur did a lot.

He had his fire.

But this line... He’s calling people out, calling them all out. He knows he’s forgetful, an amnesiac, the comic relief in their stories (is that why he’s inserting himself back in the narrative? to put himself back in, to take control of his story again?)

And he makes the point that he feels this, he still feels things! And why would he make this point? For what I said above. He’s only ever been beaten down by others, or patronised. He’s reminding Phil that he’s still very much a being that can feel, he isn’t devoid of emotion, in fact he’s full of ‘em. All the emotions, especially sadness.

You can see it in his expressions too, the way he puts his head in his hands, the way he covers his mouth. He’s full of pain.

His goal though is to make sure no one else feels what he does - the sadness - which makes sense to why he hands out Blue like it’s gone out of fashion. It may be his unhealthy coping mechanism for his depression, but he’s trying his best. He just wants people to be happy.

But, as I said, this is his turning point. He hangs up on Phil and thinks for a moment, in complete silence, nothing but the sounds of the surviving campfires in the apiary to keep him company. He realises that Alivebur needs to come back, he knows that in being forgetful, he isn’t helping people like he wants to.

He knows as Ghostbur he can never make any progress (especially since he forgot the entire conversation with Phil).

And so...

“I take it back, Tommy. Tommy, I take it back. I’m burning in the rain right now, and I just- Tommy, I want you to bring me back to life.” - (20:07)

“Tommy, I know- I know I said- Tommy, I know how I said I didn’t want- I didn’t want to be brought back to life because I didn’t want to- Because that would mean me as Ghostbur would stop existing. But I want- I want you to bring me back to life. I don’t want to be Ghostbur anymore.” - (22:12)

These quotes are so important. They show how Ghostbur’s mind has changed from:

“Hey, Tommy, I was having a think about it, and I don’t think I want people to bring me back to life.” - (Tommy’s Alone?: 47:38, 19th Dec)

“If I am given a life, does that mean I die? Like Ghostbur dies? And Alivebur is alive but Ghostbur is dead.” - (Tommy’s Alone?: 48:11, 19th Dec)

To now wanting to be resurrected. He’s made peace with the fact that he must die for Alivebur to exist again (which is sus, like this poor depressed boyyyy). But he’s doing it for noble reasons, it seems, not uh.... not other reasons, I don’t think. He wants Alivebur to exist because Ghostbur can’t help as much as his alive self could.

And hell, maybe he’d be able to make up for his mistakes.

Overall, his conversation with Phil shows many things. Mainly, that Ghostbur saw what he was doing in L’Manberg as sowing peace, that he relates his love for Friend to people’s belongings, that this is his turning point in how he sees himself (and how he can’t stay dead), and that it’s him putting himself back in the narrative.

This one conversation had so much to tell, and I’m sure I could analyse it further but this is far too long (1.8k words). So, if you made it this far, thank you for reading <3

#dream smp #ghostbur #pls pls dont let this flop #this is the most intense analysis ive done on ghostbur so far #it's his turning point #he's putting himself back in the narrative #he made someone listen to him for once #he thought he had brought peace to l'manberg #i was gonna add a read more but idk where to put it #so uh sorry for the long post #dream smp analysis

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 3 years

Text

Pierre Teillard de Chardin

* * * *

I'll never forget this story told by Jean Houston at a conference I attended as an MIU student. Very beautiful and moving, worth a read, especially if you're familiar with Teilhard de Chardin and his writings that got him in trouble with the church because he was way too cosmic for them.

"Mr. Tayer," by Jean Houston

When I was about fourteen I was seized by enormous waves of grief over my parents’ breakup. I had read somewhere that running would help dispel anguish, so I began to run to school every day down Park Avenue in New York City. I was a great big overgrown girl (5 feet eleven by the age of eleven) and one day I ran into a rather frail old gentleman in his seventies and knocked the wind out of him. He laughed as I helped him to his feet and asked me in French- accented speech, “Are you planning to run like that for the rest of your life?”

“Yes, sir" I replied. “It looks that way."

“Well, Bon Voyage!” he said.

“Bon Voyage!” I answered and sped on my way.

About a week later I was walking down Park Avenue with my fox terrier, Champ, and again I met the old gentleman.

“Ah." he greeted me, “my friend the runner, and with a fox terrier. I knew one like that years ago in France. Where are you going?"

“Well, sir." I replied, “I’m taking Champ to Central Park."

“I will go with you." he informed me. “I will take my constitutional."

And thereafter, for about a year or so, the old gentleman and I would meet and walk together often several times a week in Central Park. He had a long French name but asked me to call him by the first part of it, which was “Mr. Tayer" as far as I could make out.

The walks were magical and full of delight. Not only did Mr. Tayer seem to have absolutely no self-consciousness, but he was always being seized by wonder and astonishment over the simplest things. He was constantly and literally falling into love. I remember one time when he suddenly fell on his knees, his long Gallic nose raking the ground, and exclaimed to me, “Jeanne, look at the caterpillar. Ahhhh!” I joined him on the ground to see what had evoked so profound a response that he was seized by the essence of caterpillar. “How beautiful it is", he remarked, “this little green being with its wonderful funny little feet. Exquisite! Little furry body, little green feet on the road to metamorphosis." He then regarded me with equal delight. “Jeanne, can you feel yourself to be a caterpillar?”

“Oh yes." I replied with the baleful knowing of a gangly, pimply faced teenager.

“Then think of your own metamorphosis." he suggested. “What will you be when you become a butterfly, une papillon, eh? What is the butterfly of Jeanne?” (What a great question for a fourteen-year-old girl!) His long, gothic, comic-tragic face would nod with wonder. “Eh, Jeanne, look at the clouds! God’s calligraphy in the sky! All that transforming. moving, changing, dissolving, becoming. Jeanne, become a cloud and become all the forms that ever were."

Or there was the time that Mr. Tayer and I leaned into the strong wind that suddenly whipped through Central Park, and he told me, “Jeanne, sniff the wind." I joined him in taking great snorts of wind. “The same wind may once have been sniffed by Jesus Christ (sniff). by Alexander the Great (sniff), by Napoleon (sniff), by Voltaire (sniff), by Marie Antoinette (sniff)!” (There seemed to be a lot of French people in that wind.) “Now sniff this next gust of wind in very deeply for it contains.. . Jeanne d’Arc! Sniff the wind once sniffed by Jeanne dArc. Be filled with the winds of history."

It was wonderful. People of all ages followed us around, laughing—not at us but with us. Old Mr. Tayer was truly diaphanous to every moment and being with him was like being in attendance at God’s own party, a continuous celebration of life and its mysteries. But mostly Mr. Tayer was so full of vital sap and juice that he seemed to flow with everything. Always he saw the interconnections between things—the way that everything in the universe, from fox terriers to tree bark to somebody’s red hat to the mind of God, was related to everything else and was very, very good.

He wasn’t merely a great appreciator, engaged by all his senses. He was truly penetrated by the reality that was yearning for him as much as he was yearning for it. He talked to the trees, to the wind, to the rocks as dear friends, as beloved even. ‘Ah, my friend, the mica schist layer, do you remember when...?” And I would swear that the mica schist would begin to glitter back. I mean, mica schist will do that, but on a cloudy day?! Everything was treated as personal, as sentient, as “thou." And everything that was thou was ensouled with being. and it thou-ed back to him. So when I walked with him, I felt as though a spotlight was following us, bringing radiance and light everywhere. And I was constantly seized by astonishment in the presence of this infinitely beautiful man, who radiated such sweetness, such kindness.

I remember one occasion when he was quietly watching a very old woman watching a young boy play a game. “Madame", he suddenly addressed her. She looked up, surprised that a stranger in Central Park would speak to her. “Madame,” he repeated, “why are you so fascinated by what that little boy is doing?” The old woman was startled by the question, but the kindly face of Mr. Tayer seemed to allay her fears and evoke her memories. “Well, sir,” she replied in an ancient but pensive voice, “the game that boy is playing is like one I played in this park around 1880, only it’s a mite different." We noticed that the boy was listening, so Mr. Tayer promptly included him in the conversation. “Young fellow, would you like to learn the game as it was played so many years ago?”

“Well. . .yeah. sure, why not?” the boy replied. And soon the young boy and the old woman were making friends and sharing old and new variations on the game—as unlikely an incident to occur in Central Park as could be imagined.

But perhaps the most extraordinary thing about Mr. Tayer was the way that he would suddenly look at you. He looked at you with wonder and astonishment joined to unconditional love joined to a whimsical regarding of you as the cluttered house that hides the holy one. I felt myself primed to the depths by such seeing. I felt evolutionary forces wake up in me by such seeing, every cell and thought and potential palpably changed. I was yeasted, greened, awakened by such seeing, and the defeats and denigrations of adolescence redeemed. I would go home and tell my mother, who was a little skeptical about my walking with an old man in the park so often, “Mother, I was with my old man again, and when I am with him, I leave my littleness behind." That deeply moved her. You could not be stuck in littleness and be in the radiant field of Mr. Tayer.

The last time that I ever saw him was the Thursday before Easter Sunday, 1955. I brought him the shell of a snail. “Ah. Escargot." he exclaimed and then proceeded to wax ecstatic for the better part of an hour. Snail shells, and galaxies, and the convolutions in the brain, the whorl of flowers and the meanderings of rivers were taken up into a great hymn to the spiralling evolution of spirit and matter. When he had finished, his voice dropped, and he whispered almost in prayer, “Omega ...omega. . .omega.." Finally he looked up and said to me quietly, "Au revoir, Jeanne”.

“Au revoir, Mr. Tayer,” I replied, “I’ll meet you at the same time next Tuesday."

For some reason. Champ, my fox terrier didn’t want to budge, and when I pulled him along, he whimpered, looking back at Mr.Tayer, his tail between his legs. The following Tuesday I was there waiting where we always met at the corner of Park Avenue and 83rd Street. He didn’t come. The following Thursday I waited again. Still he didn’t come. The dog looked up at me sadly. For the next eight weeks I continued to wait, but he never came again. It turned out that he had suddenly died that Easter Sunday but I didn’t find that out for years.

Some years later, someone handed me a book without a cover which was titled The Phenomenon of Man. As I read the book I found it strangely familiar in its concepts. Occasional words and expressions loomed up as echoes from my past. When, later in the book, I came across the concept of the “Omega point." I was certain. I asked to see the jacket of the book, looked at the author’s picture, and, of course, recognized him immediately. There was no forgetting or mistaking that face. Mr. Tayer was Teilhard de Chardin, the great priest-scientist, poet and mystic, and during that lovely and luminous year I had been meeting him out side the Jesuit rectory of St. Ignatius where he was living most of the time.

I have often wondered if it was my simplicity and innocence that allowed the fullness of Teilhard’s being to be revealed. To me he was never the great priest-paleontologist Pere Teilhard. He was old Mr. Tayer. Why did he always come and walk with me every Tuesday and Thursday, even though I’m sure he had better things to do? Was it that in seeing me so completely, he himself could be completely seen at a time when his writings, his work, were proscribed by the Church, when he was not permitted to teach, or even to talk about his ideas? As I later found out, he was undergoing at that time the most excruciating agony that there is—the agony of utter disempowerment and psychological crucifixion. And yet to me he was always so present—whimsical, engaging, empowering. How could that be?

I think it was because Teilhard had what few Church officials did—the power and grace of the Love that passes all understanding. He could write about love being the evolutionary force, the Omega point, that lures the world and ourselves into becoming, because he experienced that love in a piece of rock, in the wag of a dog’s tail, in the eyes of a child. He was so in love with everything that he talked in great particularity, even to me as an adolescent, about the desire atoms have for each other, the yearning of molecules, of organisms, of bodies, of planets, of galaxies, all of creation longing for that radiant bonding, for joining, for the deepening of their condition, for becoming more by virtue of yearning for and finding the other. He knew about the search for the Beloved. His model was Christ. For Teilhard de Chardin, Christ was the Beloved of the soul.

Years later, while addressing some Jesuits, a very old Jesuit came up to me. He was a friend of Teilhard’s—and he told me how Teilhard used to talk of his encounters in the Park with a girl called Jeanne.

Jean Houston

Pomona, New York

March, 1988

#story #Jean Houston #Pierre de Chardin #people #spirit buddies #spiritual direction #quotes #Teilhard de Chardin #theology

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mandoalorian · 3 years

Text

I Believe In Love [Maxwell Lord x F!Reader] — Eight: Courage

Summary: When you find your calling to leave Themyscira, you venture out to the World of Man with intentions of helping and healing a very specific person's relationship with his son. You've heard his voice before, but only in dreams. You've felt his pain and anguish and you've never been able to relate to anything more. But things don't come easy for you, and they certainly don't come easy for him either. [This series contains spoilers for WW84 and is my interpretation of what happens after the movie ends].

Warnings: canon typical violence

Word count: 5,000>

Masterlist

Previous - Chapter Eight - Next

You awoke to the phone on the nightstand ringing. Maxwell groaned, rolling over and pulling the pillow over his head. You tiredly opened your eyes before taking the phone off the hook and holding it against your ear. “Hello?” you asked, your voice hoarse and your throat sore. It must have been the implications of yours and Maxwell’s actions from the night before. Max moaned and wrapped his large arm around your naked body, pulling you into his chest and resting his chin on your shoulder.

“It’s me,” Diana snapped back quickly. “I’ve been calling your room for the past fifteen minutes. What’s going on?”

“O-oh,” you groaned, rubbing your eyes and pulling out of Maxwell’s grip. You sighed and propped yourself up on some pillows. “I’m sorry Di, I guess we must’ve slept through the phone call. I didn’t hear anything.” you admitted.

“Listen, we only have two days in Greece so if we want to find the dreamstone we have to work fast. Meet me in the lobby in fifteen minutes or I’ll go without you. I already have a lead.” Diana instructed and you heard the phone slam back down on the hook with a ring.

You turned to Max who had fallen back asleep, his snores gentle and light as his chest slowly rose and fell with every breath. He was so peaceful. When he was asleep, it was one of the few moments where he wasn’t ridden with stress or anxiety. And you wished you had the rest of your life to admire his tender movements.

“Max, wake up, we have to go.” you whispered, shaking him gently.

Maxwell mumbled something incoherent and rolled over, resting his head in your lap. You smiled, feeling your cheeks heat up as he shuffled further into your body. You smoothed out his golden hair and traced the features of his face with your index finger. So beautiful. So perfect.

You imagined spending every single one of your future mornings like this, in bed with him, his face buried in your lap and his gentle snores echoing throughout the room. Your naked legs were tangled together and neither of you had ever felt so comfortable in your life.

“Max, baby,” you cooed, leaning down and pressing a soft kiss into his forehead.

“Mmm, good morning.” Maxwell grumbled, rubbing his tired eyes.

“We slept in,” you sighed, letting your hand trail down his body and lazily circle his tan chest. “Diana is waiting for us downstairs. We have to go.”

“I don’t want to,” he whined, almost child-like. “Wanna stay here with you- foreverrrr.” he purred, pressing a tired kiss to the inside of your thigh.

“Maxie, please don’t make this any more difficult than it needs to be.” you hummed seriously, although you were trying to hold back a smile. If anything was going to wake Maxwell up, it would be that nickname. He opened his eyes and pulled off you.

“Okay princess, I’m up.” He said, running his hand through his wavy morning hair.

“Princess? I told you I’m not a-”

“Think of it as a term of endearment, sweetheart.” he said, pressing a kiss into your nose.

“Oh.” was all you managed to breathe out before his lips caught yours.

***

Just as she had stated, Diana was waiting for you in the hotel lobby, dressed fully in her red, blue and gold warrior costume. It had garnered quite a bit of attention, but nothing Diana Princess of Themyscira wasn’t used to.

“You said you had a lead?” you quizzed, quirking your eyebrow and taking a step closer to Diana.

“Yes, Dr. Minerva,” Diana said, immediately glancing at Maxwell who’s eyes had become comically wide. The name clearly meant something to him. It rang like alarm bells in his head. “Or Barbara, as myself and Max know her as.”

You turned to Max, confused as to why Diana was being particularly smug. She’d acted the same when she mentioned Barbara and Max back at the Smithsonian yesterday. “Who is this Dr Minerva?” you asked him, looking at him with the most innocent, doe eyes. Your voice was soft but riddled with curiosity. He wanted to tell you, he wanted to tell you everything it’s just… things were difficult. He’d done things with Barbara that he’d be afraid of you knowing; afraid of what you might think or if you will think any less of him. He couldn’t stand the fact you genuinely had no idea. It was a long complicated story. He hoped to tell you it one day - but knowing that you might not have much time left on Earth, was it really worth it?

“Maybe Diana is better off explaining.” Maxwell scrunched up his nose, dismissing your question. It brought back too many memories that Max would prefer to just ignore. Even though ignoring his past trauma was how he got into this mess in the first place. If he’d learned one thing from Diana, it was that he must face the truth no matter how difficult it may be.

“No,” Diana shot back, but her voice wasn’t laced with venom as Maxwell expected. “I think you’re better off answering this one.” Diana smiled a perfect smile. Maybe smug wasn’t the word to describe Diana’s demeanor, but she certainly knew something that you didn’t, and she was being particularly hidden about it.

“Well Max?” you narrowed your eyes. Why was he being so secretive? Who was this woman?

“Uh-,” Maxwell trailed off, avoiding all eye contact. He took in the features of your face, admiring your beauty with all he had and thinking about how he didn’t want to lose you. He loved you. And you deserved to know. If Max could open up to you about his childhood and about his pursuit of the dreamstone, he could tell you about his short-lived relationship with Barbara-Ann Minerva. “Shit, okay. I had been searching for the dreamstone for a long time when one day, a newspaper headline told me that there was a robbery at a jewellery store, and that the Smithsonian had all the stolen treasures. Including the dreamstone. So I went to the Smithsonian and requested to see Dr. Minerva because I did my research and I knew she was the fresh faced gemologist they just hired a week earlier. And she was… beautiful,” Maxwell seemed to get lost in the memory of her vibrant blue eyes and blonde wavy hair. His lips then curled into a frown. “But so ditzy... I saw straight through her vulnerabilities and insecurities in an instant and I used that to exploit her and get the dreamstone. I gained her trust when I told her I’d be donating to the gemology department at the museum, I charmed her at the charity gala and I wooed her in her office and took the stone.”

Maxwell seemed to gloss over the chain of events but it didn’t really matter. He’d explained what he needed to. You felt a pang of jealousy strike your heart at his revelation. You had been made aware from Mrs Stagg, Ted and Julianna, Diana, and even Max, that he’d done bad things and made terrible mistakes, but you couldn’t help but feel an irk over what had happened in Dr Minerva’s office. “Wooed her?” you quoted him, folding your arms over your chest. Maxwell blinked, but then sighed and reached out to hold your hand.

“Really?” Diana sighed. “That’s what you're focused on right now? Dolos lives. The God of Lies lives.” she shook her head in disbelief and you bit your lip, supposing that she was right. You had bigger things on your plate. You were a goddess for heaven’s sake, you couldn’t let the irrational human emotion of envy consume you. But you had noticed the way his face softened when he was reminded of Dr Minerva’s beauty. And you couldn’t help but feel the urge to know what exactly went on in her office, the night of the charity gala. After a brief moment of silence and exchanged glances, Diana opened her mouth again. “I had a contact in D.C., Babajide, who knew all about the dreamstone and the powers of the God of Lies. Myself, Barbara and Steve met with him when we found out Maxwell had become the dreamstone.”

“Hey- how did I not know about Babajide?” Maxwell frowned. He’d been researching the dreamstone for years and he’d never known of such a man. A man who supposedly had all the answers about the stone.

“Irrelevant,” Diana rolled her eyes. “Seriously guys, this is important. You need to pay attention.”

“I am!” You and Maxwell exclaimed together, in an unpredicted unison. Diana quirked an eyebrow and you felt a warmth cross your cheeks. Ancient Olympian tales would describe moments like that as soulmate-ism.

“Babajide knew so much about Romulus and the exact dreamstone that Max got a hold of so I paid him another visit and found out he had knowledge on Dolos’ dreamstone too. Only…” And Diana let out a long sigh before pinching the bridge of her nose. “He told me that Barbara had visited him a day earlier, asking him of the same knowledge. ‘Asking’ is putting it nicely. Apparently Barbara was a menace and threatened Babajide. And Babajide told her everything he told me. It’s more than likely that Barbara is already here, in Greece, seeking the stone for herself.”

“She sounds dangerous.” you said quietly. Maxwell held his head in his hands.

“I don’t think I can face Barbara again.” He said, shaking his head, fearful.

“Max I don’t think we have a choice. We have to get the dreamstone before she gets it. What do you think she’ll do with the stone once she has it?” you asked Diana.

“I can only imagine the worst,” Diana shook her head in dismay. “Barbara was complicated… she craved power just like Maxwell only… she had nothing to lose. I fear that she’ll wish to become the dreamstone.” As the word’s left Diana’s lips, Maxwell’s heart sank and he ran off, disappearing amongst the lobby crowds. “Do you think he’s okay?”

You stood for a moment, watching as his dirty blonde hair descended behind the grand staircase. No, of course he wasn’t okay, and you were the only one who truly knew how much this business with the dreamstone had affected him and harmed him. He had come so close to losing everything and so learning that Barbara might make the same mistake as he did, hurt him too. No matter what happened between Barbara and Maxwell, he clearly cared about her. “Excuse me.” you told Diana, following Maxwell through the crowds.

You just noticed him heading through an alcove and outside of the resort. He pushed his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose and stood by the pool, relishing the fresh air and trying to regulate his panicked, erratic breathing. “Max! Max!” you called after him, pushing past the people until finally you were by his side, grabbing his hand. “What happened back there?”

Maxwell said nothing, instead he just looked into the golden horizon. “Max?”

“Maybe I shouldn’t be here,” he told you. “You have Diana. What use am I?”

“We need you Max,” you promised him, placing your hand on his cheek and gently turning his head so he was facing you. “I need you.”

Maxwell smiled softly and felt himself lean into your warm embrace. “I’ve never felt needed… or wanted… until I met you.” he confessed and you felt tears prick your eyes at his admission. You knew that feeling all too well.

“I know, me too. Back home, all the other Amazon’s were fighters and warriors… like Diana. But not me. They made me feel useless… like I had no point. Like I was a mistake. My mother would tell me that Zeus created me for a reason, just like all the other Gods and Goddesses, and that one day I’d serve my true purpose. That’s why I’m here today, with you. I already know that the years of humiliation and feeling like an outcast will be worth the few days that I get to spend with you, Max.”

Max sighed softly. “I never thought a Goddess could feel like an outcast,” he told you and you pursed your lips into a fine line, nodding in affirmation. “I’m sorry.”

“I think we have more in common that meets the eye.” you giggled softly, dropping your hand flat against his chest. Maxwell wrapped both of his big arms around you and pulled you into a hug.

“I think so too,” he agreed, pressing a soft kiss into your hair. “We better catch up with Diana then,” he told you, taking your hand. “Let’s put an end to this.”

***

You had been walking for miles in the blazing Greek heat. Maxwell had unbuttoned the top of his shirt and his collar was slightly wonky. His hair may have been disheveled and the blonde locks may have been sticking to the pearls of sweat that beaded along his forehead, but you still admired his beauty. He was truly wonderful. He was quiet most of the journey, and he didn’t have the agility or stamina that you and Diana had. Sometimes you’d have to take stops and have water breaks or toilet breaks. You tried to include him in conversation but his discomfort wasn’t lost on you. It was clear enough that his relationship with Diana was complicated, to say the least. Little did you know, the three of you were about to become a whole lot closer. You and Diana laughed and talked for hours, sharing stories about your time together on Themyscira.

“Zeus is my father. Zeus is your father. We’re basically sisters,” you nudged her, and she giggled. Maxwell scrunched up his nose. Sisters?! He ran a hand through his hair and continued to listen in your conversation. “It’s just unfair that you got to be Princess of Themyscira and I was stuck living a sheltered life with my mother.”

“It wasn’t always easy being a princess,” Diana scolded, but in a warm and polite manner. “It was all about duty. But hey- you’re a goddess, you know all about that.”

If Maxwell Lord had a dollar for everytime he thought he was in a fever dream… he might have been able to afford Black Gold Cooperative’s utility bill. He’d always been a realist. He’d never engaged in fantasy movies or novella, but there was something about overhearing a conversation between a Demi-god and a goddess that just didn’t feel real.

He knew it was. He’d seen Diana in action himself. Hell, he’d seen the powers you possessed. Albeit, when Diana mentioned how you possessed double her power, he was shocked to say the least. Diana could barely hold off Barbara in the White House but with you here? For once Maxwell finally felt hopeful.

As you furthered deeper into unknown plains, a sudden coldness enveloped you all. It was like a dark, enigmatic spirit ghosting between the three of you, and just like everything else that had happened over the past four days, it couldn’t be explained.

“Do you feel that?” Max finally asked, breaking his silence as he folded his arms over his chest. A shiver raced down his spine as Diana increased her pace and approached the forbidden tomb. “Look at this place. She took us to an ancient burial site, it seems. Like ancient Greek ruins.” he told you, scoping out the place.

“I feel that, yes.” you hummed, your mind wandering the origins of the cold air. Diana’s cries alerted both you and Maxwell as your heads both snapped in her direction and watched her push an enormous boulder away from the tomb, revealing an opening.

“Are you as strong as that?” Maxwell asked, his mouth gaped open in shock.

“Stronger.” you winked before taking his hand and dragging him towards Diana.

The cold spirit then enveloped you, Diana and Maxwell, whispering words of admission, encouraging you all to come forward. “Don’t you think it’s a trap?” Maxwell asked once you were deep enough in the cave that you had hit a point of no return. Even if it was a trap, there was no going back now. You were faced with two path-ways.

“The Sword of Athena is this way,” Diana pointed to the right pathway, otherwise known as the pathway she stood before, and then she pointed her other finger to the left pathway, “and Dolos’ dreamstone is that way. I say we split up and rendezvous here. Maxwell, come with me.”

“Wait what?” Max asked, narrowing his eyes.

“No,” you told Diana firmly. “He is coming with me.” “You really think it’s wise to let Max Lord accompany you to get the dreamstone?” Diana quizzed quietly, stepping closer to you and breaking any distance. Her dark eyes flicked between you and Maxwell. “After everything he’s done.”

Diana’s hiss was quiet, but not quiet enough to go unnoticed by Maxwell. He knew he wasn’t going to do anything. He was a changed man - but the realization that he’d have to prove to the people he hurt that he was changed, suddenly overwhelmed him. He’d have to prove himself to Diana, and even prove himself to Barbara before he could put all this behind him. There were still steps Max Lord had to take in order to gain full closure of his trauma.

“I trust him.” you said through gritted teeth. Maxwell felt a wave of relief. You were so pure of heart. So angelic. You took his hand, nodded goodbye to Diana, and guided him through the left path-way.

“How much further?” he asked. You had been walking hand in hand for around five or ten minutes, only your lasso of Hestia illuminating the cave. Before you could reply, you felt the walls and ceiling of the cave begin to vibrate and crumble. “What’s that?!” Maxwell asked again, this time panicked and looking around erratically.

“We might not have much time.” You said, feeling your own heart rate increase speed as anxiety settled in you.

Something wasn’t right, that much was clear. You tightened your grip on the businessman’s hand and began to run, pulling him with you. Within seconds, you had reached your destination. Maxwell was heaving and panting but he straightened up and fought for composure when he noticed a dim, amber light illuminate your skin. It wasn’t your lasso of Hestia… not this time. He slowly looked up and followed your gaze, gasping when his eyes set on the dreamstone.

You had completely frozen up, struck by awe as you took in the beauty of the citrine stone which stood erect on top of a Greek pillar. “Wow.” you mumbled, swallowing the hard lump in your throat.

The stone was practically identical to the one Maxwell had utilized just a week ago, and just seeing it again, in its full glory, sent electric bolts of dread through his body. He couldn’t be here. He couldn’t do this. Not again. Being in the same proximity as the stupid stone that had ruined everything sent Maxwell into his fight or flight. “I can’t- I can’t do this.” Maxwell shakily declared, his coffee coloured eyes glazed with panic.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, taking both of his hands and coaching his breathing. “Let me get the stone and we can head on out of here.”

Maxwell closed his eyes and nodded. If you could trust him, he could certainly trust you. You brushed a chaste kiss against his lips and pulled away from him. It only took a few steps on your approach to the stone before the walls began to crumble again, even more so than previously, and the ground beneath you began to split.

“Shit!” Maxwell cried as he stared at the crack in the floor between you both. It was deep and only getting deeper. If you didn’t run now, you might have gotten separated. He called your name, terror rampant in his voice. “Hurry!”

As you were about to grab the stone. A voice stopped you. A voice that Maxwell thought he’d never hear again.

“The stone belongs to me.” she said coldly. You huffed and opted to ignore the grave voice, taking the dreamstone from the pillar before spinning around on your heel and turning around.

And when you saw the sight before you, you dropped the dreamstone and let it fall to the rocky ground beneath you. Trepidation consumed you and suddenly, it felt like your whole life was on the line. “Maxwell!” you cried, your hand immediately dropping down to your lasso and curling your fingers around the rope. You scowled angrily, your gaze flicking between Max and the woman who was holding him by his neck.

“This- this is Dr. Minerva!” Maxwell choked, tears streaming down his cheeks as Barbara tightened her grip around his throat. Her once blonde hair was white and knotted, and her black kohl eyeliner smudged down her cheeks. Her tights were ripped and a sleeve was missing from her Cheetah print fur jacket. She is not at all how you’d imagined her.

“Let him go!” You begged as anger swelled in the pit of your stomach. “Let him go now!”

Maxwell’s eyes squeezed shut and he let out a groan, his knees wobbling as he struggled to even stand up straight. It was only Barbara’s strong grip of his neck that was keeping him upright. He was hurting. The love of your life was in pain.

“Give me the stone.” Barbara growled.

You picked up the dreamstone and passed it her way. She took it, willingly and let go of Maxwell, throwing him to the ground. The glint in her eye as she analysed the citrine was enough to terrify you. You ran to Maxwell’s side, dropping to your knees and nursing his body.

“Hey! Max, are you okay?” You whispered, smoothing out his hair and running your fingers along his face. He nodded wearily, rubbing the scratches on his neck from where her sharp, cat-like, fingernails had dug into his skin. You helped him to his feet and swung an arm around his body to support him.

“Barbara.” he called, gaining the attention of the doctor.

“No,” you chastised Max. “Don’t. There will be another opportunity to get the stone.” But he wasn’t going to give in that easy, he had to play his cards right. Luckily for you, manipulation was one of Maxwell Lord’s most tactful skills.

“Barbara, did we end things on a bad note? I must admit, I thought we had something special… me and you.” Maxwell said, his voice hoarse. He pulled out of your arms and sluggered towards the gemologist, who had finally looked up from the citrine stone and towards the businessman. For a split second, you saw a glimpse of humanity flicker in her eyes.

“You renounced your wish,” Barbara said, her grip on the stone as tight as ever, but her heart ached as Maxwell approached her. “You were weak. The dreamstone deserves to be with someone like me.” Even her words sound forced and unnatural - like they weren’t really coming from her. Had she not renounced her wish? You wondered what she had even wished for.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Maxwell coaxed. He had gotten so close to Barbara, he was able to cup her face and rub the height of her cheekbone with his thumb. It was an action he’d performed on you many times, but even watching this play out, with your own two eyes, you could tell it was different. It was colder and more forced. He had that fake television smile, not the smile you had been blessed to see so many times. “I just hoped things could’ve been different between us.”

“Max, what are you saying?” Barbara asked, goosebumps lacing her arms and you noticed the way her grip on the dreamstone loosened under his touch.

“Everyone has something to lose,” Maxwell whispered. “I could have all the power in the world but it would mean nothing to me if I lost Alistair, my son. Tell me Barbara, does that really make me weak?”

Barbara considered his words for a few moments. “No.”

Maxwell nodded. “What do you have to lose?” Maxwell whispered, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.

Barbara sniffed, a single tear dripping down her cheek. She was once so warm and compassionate, so friendly. There was one thing. Only one thing she thought about losing.

Just then, the dreamstone slipped from her grip as the lasso of Hestia curled around it and pulled it away from her. But it wasn’t your lasso.

“Diana!” Barbara gasped, her face hardening as she quickly and fiercely wiped her tears away. “That dreamstone belongs to me!”

“I can’t let you do this Barbara!” Diana cried. “This has to end now!” You and Maxwell ran towards Diana and she passed you the dreamstone. “Get out of here!” I’ll hold back Barbara.”

You handed Maxwell the dreamstone and equipped your own lasso, circling it around until it wrapped around a rocky ledge at the end of the cave. “Hold on to me. One hand around me and keep tight a hold of the stone!” you commanded as the walls of the ancient temple began to crumble around you. Just before you set off, you saw the silver gleam of Diana’s sword of Athena as she wielded it before Barbara.

“Shouldn’t I hold on to the lasso?” Maxwell asked, sliding an arm around your waist and holding the stone tight against his chest.

“Just trust me!” You shouted over the loud rumbling around you. You gripped on to your lasso firmly with both hands before shooting off in the air.

“Whoa!” Maxwell screamed, squeezing his eyes tight shut the second his feet left the ground. “Are we flying?! Are we flying?!”

You giggled as your bodies glided through the air. Max might have been holding on to you for his dear life, but somehow he knew he would be okay. That he’d be safe and you wouldn’t let him get hurt. You rapidly approached the entrance to the cave and used the last of your might to safely land. Maxwell had no time to catch his whereabouts when his feet hit the ground, as you clipped your lasso back to your belt and ran with him to the edge of the ruins.

You hadn’t been in there too long, but by the time you had exited the ancient temple, it was already nightfall. You looked back and there was no sign of Diana. She must have still been in there with Barbara, and you wondered what was going on.

When Maxwell held the dreamstone, he felt opportunistic. He could make a wish. He had the possibility to make a wish again and have a do-over. He knew where he went wrong last time. He could make it right. He could wish for you to stay… and for you to live a peaceful, happy life with him and Alistair. He could wish to win the custody case. He could wish for so many things. But it was the softness of your touch which interrupted him from his intrusive thoughts. The way your fingers gently grazed across his knuckles and you held his hand.

“We have to destroy it now.” you whispered, looking into the glowing citrine rock.

“We?” Maxwell questioned. His eyes were dark and wide. “We don’t even know how.”

“Only the truth can destroy the lies. But my mother said I had to believe in love. Love would destroy the stone. Truth and love… truth and love…” you chanted as you tried to piece together the puzzle.

It suddenly hit Maxwell like a ton of bricks. “True love,” he said out loud, his gaze flicking from the dreamstone to you. “True love will destroy the stone.”

It made more than sense, and Maxwell had worked it out on his own. “You’re right…” you whispered. You squeezed Max’s hand and then reached over to the dreamstone. You placed your hand on the stone, and the tips of your fingers touched the tips of Maxwell. As you both held the stone together, the magic began to work and the stone grew hot and tingled your skin. Very soon, Dolos’ dreamstone - the final dreamstone - fizzled away into a pile of glittering dust and blew away in the cool Greek wind.

You and Maxwell both stood there in silence, still holding your hands out, but this time there was no dreamstone. You had done it. The dreamstone had been destroyed. The God of Lies was dead. It was over.

“You did it,” Maxwell was the first to break the silence. “You destroyed the dreamstone.”

You had both been thinking the same thing. The fact you had both placed your hand on the dreamstone and that your combined energy was enough to disintegrate the possessed rock. True love. It was hard to know what to say. Of course you were in love with Maxwell Lord, and knowing that pretty soon you’d have to leave him, made your whole body ache to the core. And Maxwell felt the same about you. He’d never been this happy in his life - but spending his days with you and Alistair felt so special. You were his guardian angel, sent out from Themyscira to aid him and help him. To rescue him. How could he not love you? But still, neither of you said anything. How could you ever tell him that you loved him when you were going to leave him? It would only make things harder when it was time to go. You winced and blinked away unshed tears.

“No,” you whispered, turning to look into Maxwell’s honey coloured eyes. “We did it.”

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#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #max lord #maxwell lord #maxwell lord x reader #max lord x reader

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blazehedgehog · 3 years

Note

With that Sonic anniversary comic they just put out, the second story I feel they way overdid it with cramming references into every inch of every page and the third story had none of that but I felt was a funnier story overall. Does Sonic stuff overdo it with references these days?

I mean, to some degree, yes, Sonic has been overbearing with nostalgia for a long time now, but I also think that recent Sonic stuff is getting better at nostalgia, too. Starting with Sonic Mania, we’ve been seeing a greater outpouring of real, genuine love for Classic Sonic that doesn’t feel cloying like it did in, say, Sonic 4.

But I also think the second story in the 30th Anniversary book has other problems. I didn’t really mind it at first, but the more I roll it over in my head, the more it starts to sour a little bit. If you didn’t know, it’s written by Justin and Travis McElroy (and their dad, Clint, too). They do a series of podcasts and other things that have made them so mega-popular that the weight of that popularity is threatening to crush their business.

I am indifferent to that. I listened to a lot of MBMBAM back in the day, and I always intended to try listening to The Adventure Zone (one of their other podcasts), but I ran out of time and places to listen to any podcasts. I liked MBMBAM a lot and I thankfully missed out on all the anguish and drama that would come to hound The Adventure Zone. I would not classify myself as a lover or a hater of the McElroy “brand” at this junction.

But if you told me that Justin and Travis set up a microphone, recorded themselves doing improv, and then transcribed that recording to text, I’d 100% believe that’s how this script got written. Because, like, I’ve listened to a fair amount of MBMBAM in my time, and that’s all this is. This is Justin and Travis riffing off of each other -- nothing more, nothing less.

It is so specifically their voices that I can tell you that Justin is Sonic and Travis is the driving instructor. And, like, let's be fair: this is what these guys do. The fact they probably wrote this in the way that was comfortable for them is fine. I'm not going to say they need to change anything about the process. But when I read this story, I don't hear Sonic characters. I hear Travis and Justin doing a MBMBAM bit, and then it's like somebody drew Sonic the Hedgehog artwork over the top of that, like it was one of those Youtube animatics people sometimes make of their podcast goofs. Sandwiched between two extremely loving, extremely nostalgic stories, this "Sonic Learns How to Drive" detour sticks out like a sore thumb. It doesn't line up with the vibe in the rest of the book. Seasons of Chaos? Absolutely gorgeous to look at, and it's a pitch-perfect example of how you use Classic Sonic to tell a story. There's a hard-to-describe tone to this, like somebody reached back in time to 1994 and pulled out the perfect adaptation of the Genesis games that never actually existed. Against all odds, they took the example set by Ian Flynn and Tyson Hesse's "Sonic: Megadrive" miniseries at Archie and actually made it better. Every page and every panel is like official 90′s Sega artwork come to life. At 50 or 60 pages long, it has a chance to stretch out and tell a longer contiguous story with more characters than the Megadrive mini could muster. It may not be deep or dramatic, but it doesn't need to be. It's fun, and that's what is important.

And then the book ends with "Dr. Eggman's Birthday," a sweet, endearing story where the badniks are just trying to show appreciation for their creator, who is predictably grumpy about celebrating his birthday. It's short and simple but it just made me feel good. In the middle of these two high points is a story where Sonic acts in a way that's deeply out of character, and 75% of most pages are taken up by word balloons and 30 different angles of a minivan interior. It doesn't fit. The book is a celebration of what we love about Sonic, but the McElroys don't strike me as particularly connected to the Sonic franchise and that comes through in the tone of the writing. It feels more like stunt casting. Which is where all these references come from, I think. The art is essentially trying to do all the heavy lifting. So you'll get a page that references the original announcement poster for Sonic 1, concept art for "Dr. Badvibes," the strange girl poster from Sonic Adventure, Sonic's Schoolhouse, the SegaSonic Popcorn Shop, G-Sonic, the glider from the Sonic Spinball intro, the prototype version of the Tornado from the Saturn version of Sonic Adventure, the flickies from Sonic 3D Blast, etc. All on one page. Heck, everything I mentioned is just in one panel of one page, and I didn't even cover everything. That's just the stuff I could personally identify. Basically, since the story itself wasn't going to do it, the artist went hog wild cramming in as much referential material as possible. And it's impressive, because there are cuts so deep even I didn’t know where they came from. But it doesn't really make the writing fit in any more with the rest of the book. That’s what bothers me, and the more I think about it, the less I like it. It feels down right random.

#questions #jackelzxa #sonic the hedgehog #sega #idw sonic #the mcelroys #justin mcelroy #travis mcelroy #mbmbam

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scapegrace74-blog · 3 years

Text

Lucky

A/N I’m enjoying going back and filling in some of the missing Metric Universe details. This one is set during the time of Jamie’s injury, so just after The Beginning, and it introduces some important secondary characters.

Inspired by the Radiohead song “Lucky”, and particularly by Thom Yorke wailing “it’s going to be a glorious day” as though he is trying to will it to be true from the depths of his agonized soul.

The entire Metric Universe is available on my Ao3 page.

January 6, 2015, The Royal London Hospital

Sterile hallways. The noxious funk of London smog blending with the antiseptic sting of the Intensive Care Unit. The endless thrum of traffic, bleep of life-saving equipment, squeak of rubber soles on linoleum. It was only when she left the Highlands that she realized how much she took their clean air and miles of quiet for granted.

A few feet away from where she kept vigil in a stiff avocado chair, her brother lay in a medically-induced coma. An orchestra of machinery beat out the tempo to his survival. The zigs and zags of his heartbeat against the ivory background of an electrocardiograph called forth memories of their youth, racing like wee fiends down the snow-laden slopes behind Lallybroch.

Younger by four years, Jamie had long been larger-than-life, even before he surpassed her own diminutive stature at age eleven. Lying now under hospital sheets carefully draped to avoid his flayed back, she remembered the tiny babe in arms their mother had carefully lowered into her lap all those years ago. Fragile, as though life clung to him with only a provisional grip.

“Dinna ye dare think of leaving me, Jamie Fraser,” she softly threatened for what must be the hundredth time since arriving at her brother’s bedside five days before. “I ken ye miss them, but Mam and Da have each other now. I only have you.”

January 11, 2015, The Royal London Hospital

“Fer the love of Christ and all the saints, jus’ drink the damn water ye clotheid!” an all-too-familiar female voice rang out.

“Leave me in peace, Janet. I dinna want any water,” a masculine growl replied.

Ian Murray was still some distance from Room 418A, but he could hear the siblings bickering just fine. Doubtless a good handful of staff and other patients were within earshot as well. He rounded the corner and observed a scene that was equal parts poignant, comic and exasperating.

Immobile by necessity while the surface of his back slowly reinvented itself, his best friend lay facing the door. Ian’s fiancée stood beside the bedrail, five feet of visible agitation. She held a cup of ice water so tightly in her right hand, the straw quivered.

Jamie was no longer the pallid husk who awaited them at the end of a frantic race from Lallybroch to the Royal London that first morning of the new year. Normally hale and over-flowing with vitality, it was distressing to witness him so motionless, eyes sunken and muscles slack. Unfortunately for both Jamie and Ian, Jenny’s sharp tongue increased in direct proportion to how much emotional turmoil she was forced to cope with.

“Och, ye’re finally here,” the woman in question exclaimed. “Will ye explain tae this bampot tha’ he willna improve if he doesna listen tae what his doctors tell him?”

“And what of no’ getting me riled up, hmm? Ye dinna seem tae care what the doctors say when ye stick yer neb in my face every twa minutes.”

“Mebbe the doctors dinna realize that ye’re a muckle-sized bairn with the sense God gave an...”

“ALRIGHT, THE BOTH OF YE!” Ian yelled over the melee. “I am tired of hearing ye bicker an’ so is the entire fourth floor. Jenny, ye’re tired. I’ll take o’er for the night while ye get some rest. An’ Jamie, drink yer water before I pour it over yer bloody hot head.”

Both Frasers froze with their mouths open in retort, surprised by Ian’s uncharacteristic outburst. A deafening minute of silence elapsed before Jenny silently gathered her coat, cap and purse, wished the two men a curt goodnight, then left in a swish of gabardine and discontent.

“Ye’re gonna pay for that later,” Jamie remarked, bending a rueful smirk around the extended straw.

“It’ll be worth it no’ tae hear ye two scold each other fer eight hours,” Ian retorted, taking Jenny’s place in the uncomfortable avocado armchair but sliding it back a foot so that it no longer blocked Jamie’s view of the hallway.

“Jen could harry Auld Nick inta church, and ye ken it well, a charaid.”

“Grant her some mercy. She’s scared witless, Jamie. After yer Da...” Ian left the rest unsaid.

His childhood friend nodded against the bleach white pillow, weariness and something more insidious weighting his eyes closed. Minutes passed, but Ian could tell from his irregular breath than Jamie was still awake.

“How is it today?”

A shoulder twitched in a minute shrug which still caused its owner’s brows to furrow with pain, though his eyes remained closed.

“Hurts like hell, if ye must know. But I’m told I should feel lucky tae be alive by a team o’ London’s finest medical minds.”

“And do ye?” Ian persisted, trying to excavate the kernel of anguish that lay almost hidden beneath all the layers of physical pain. It had been nagging at him since Jamie first woke three days earlier. It wasn’t only the extensive physical damage to his body and daunting road to recovery that was afflicting his friend. The blast had shifted something nearer his foundation, destabilizing the very structure of the man he’d known since childhood.

A long, hissing breath told him Jamie understood what Ian meant by his question, and was giving it due consideration.

“Mebbe feeling lucky is wha’ led me tae this hospital bed.” He spoke quietly but urgently, with the tone of a penitent in the confessional booth awaiting divine judgement.

“Ye dinna mean ye think ye deserved tae be burnt near tae death? Christ, Jamie, twas an industrial accident and ye’re a firefighter. Awful luck, aye, but twasn’t something ye did or didna do that brought it upon ye.”

Another long pause, and this time Ian thought his friend may have fallen asleep. Finally, almost drowned out by the whir and whisper of life-giving machinery,

“I dinna ken what I think anymore, a charaid. I got lost, an’ this is where my mindless feet brought me.”

Long after Jamie drifted to sleep, Ian sat in the awkward chair, listening to his breathing and trying to make sense of what he’d just been told.

February 13, 2015, The Royal London Hospital

Beads of sweat furled down his neck and his back burned anew. Aegrescit medendo, he thought wryly as he readjusted his grip on the wheeled walker and continued his unsteady progress.

“Very good, lad. We’ll have you running again in no time!” Dauntlessly cheerful and deceptively matronly, Jamie soon learned that Maureen Graham was an exacting physical therapist as well. It was exactly what he wanted, when he wasn’t cursing her for it.

“Can we no’ take the elevator to another floor? Mebbe down tae the A&E?” Jamie tried to pass it off as an offhand request, but silver-grey eyes narrowed shrewdly.

“That’s the third time you’ve asked to go downstairs this week, Jamie Fraser. I’m beginning to think you don’t like my ward.”

Thwarted, he carefully pivoted in a half circle and began the arduous trek back down the hallway to his room. Six weeks spent nearly immobile while the surface of his back was slowly reborn had sapped all his strength. Even if permission had been granted, he wasn’t certain he could navigate his weakened frame all the way to the emergency ward he’d last visited the night of his accident. The last place he’d seen her.

“What’s her name?” Mrs. Graham asked as he shuffled the final few feet and sank gratefully against his bed. He thought about deflecting her conjecture, but it posed an opportunity too good to pass up.

“I dinna ken”, he confessed. “Twas the nurse who saw tae me when I was first admitted. Curly brown hair. Eyes the colour o’ ripened barley. I think she served overseas fer a time. Afghanistan, mebbe?”

He was doing his best to appear nonchalant, aided in part by the fact that his muscles twitched violently after every therapy session, but he still didn’t think he was fooling Mrs. Graham.

“Oh, I know just the one. You were lucky to be in her hands. No wonder you pulled through.” She poured a large amount of fresh water into his re-useable bottle. He drank it down in rapid gulps that leaked over his chin. He realized his was beyond pride at this point.

“Her name?” he begged.

“Nurse Beecham. Spelled the French way, but she’s as English as they come.”

Nurse Beauchamp. She finally had a name. He vowed he would recover his strength so that one day he could walk up to her and properly express his gratitude.

#my writing #outlander

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justthehiddleswrites · 3 years

Text

Nice Shirt | Tom Hiddleston x Reader

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Reader

Summary: After two years of being in a relationship with Tom, you start to question whether you are putting your own dreams aside for this relationship. You make a hard choice but is it the right one?

Warnings: Implied Smut, Drinking, Bit of Angst

2016

Tom couldn’t sleep after comic-com panels. The adrenaline pumped through him, and he couldn’t sleep for hours. He tried to convince Chris Hemsworth to go to the bar with him, but he begged off.

“You can talk to your wife any time. But how often do you get to bar hop in Philadelphia?”

“Nah, mate.” Chris responded. “I am absolutely wiped. But go have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Chris clapped him hard on the shoulder.

“Ehehehe.” Tom chuckled. “Of course. Brother.”

The two men parted with a hug, and Tom headed for his car.

“James…” Tom asked his driver. “Do you know any good bars?”

The man smiled in the rearview mirror. “How good?”

“The best.”

“I know just the place.”

You weren’t sure how you ended up at Frankford Hall, but here you were, beer in one hand, ping pong paddle in the other.

“Whoo!” you hooted as you beat the young frat guy on the other side of the table. “That’s how it’s done!”

Someone tugged on the back of your shirt, you spun wide, sloshing your beer. You weren’t drunk yet, but the buzz was flowing.

“JESS!!” you screamed. “You made it!”

You pulled your best friend into the tightest hug. She mumbled something against your chest.

“What?”

“I said…” Jess pushed off of you. “… we need to get some food into you.”

“Excellent idea.”

You linked arms and headed inside to order some food.

Tom reminded himself to thank James for the excellent suggestion. He never would have picked a biergarten for the night but with ping pong and authentic food. It hit the spot after a long day of photographs and signing photos.

“Hey!” a voice beside him cut through the din of the bar.

“Pardon?” Tom answered, turning to find you standing there.

“Nice shirt, Paul!”

“The name’s Tom.”

Your head ducked as you burst out into laughter.

“I was calling you Paul Bunyan. You know, the lumberjack. Plaid shirt.”

Tom glanced down, forgetting he had thrown on his well worn red plaid shirt.

“Oh, right. Eheheheh.” Tom gave a nervous chuckle.

The waiter plopped a plate in front of Tom. Bratwurst. Tom licked his lips and took a big bite, bits of sauerkraut falling to the plate.

“I like a man who can handle his sausage.” you flirted.

The waiter delivered your and Jess’s appetizers, laying the plates in front of you. Tom eyed your food while taking a big swig of beer.

“I like a woman with a big appetite.” Tom countered, turning on his stool to give you a once over.

“Good to know.” You licked your thumb after popping a bit of pretzel in your mouth. “How are you with a paddle?”

Tom choked on his beer. “I beg your pardon?”

You lifted your chin to the outside.

“Ping pong. What did you think?” You returned the favor of allowing your gaze to slide up and down his long lean body, lingering on some places more than others.

“No comment. Let me finish this beer and I will meet you out there.”

You grabbed your plates and headed outside.

“It is about time. I worried you got lost in there.” Jess grumbled as you shoved her food at her.

“Jess! You will never guess who I just ran into in there!”

Two Years Later

“What on earth are you doing?” Tom questioned as he viewed drawers opened and the closet door thrown ajar.

“Packing, Tom.” you sighed as you folded up shirts, deciding which ones to pack and which ones to leave behind. “That is what one does when getting ready to travel.”

“I thought we decided you weren’t going to take that job.” Tom sat down on the bed, jostling your suitcase.

Your hands gripped the once folded shirts.

“No, you talked to me for two hours about all the reasons why I shouldn’t move back to the States and then you changed the subject every time I tried to bring it back up again. But there was never any ‘we’ in this decision, Tom. I’m going.”

“Why?” Tom’s voice cracked. “I thought we… you were happy living with me here in London.”

You sighed as you shoved a couple pairs of boots into the suitcase. “I was.” Tom smiled a slight smile. “But I realized if I stayed here, all I would ever be is your girlfriend.”

“You make it sound like a prison sentence.” Tom mumbled.

“For me, it would be. I have dreams and goals of my own and no matter how hard I try, it would always be overshadowed by you. Or worse, pitied or given special treatment because of you.” You shoved the last of your clothes and pushed the lid down and struggled to zip the case closed.

Tom fidgeted with his hands in his lap.

“We could have talked about all this before you booked your flight. We can still talk about it, delay your flight.” His voice grew shrill. “We can make this work. Just don’t leave. Not like this.”

His hand slid over to grab yours. You sat down beside him, giving his hand a brief squeeze before extracting your fingers from his grip.

“My lectures start tomorrow.” A horn beeped. “That’s my taxi.”

Tom bolted to standing. “You can’t possibly be leaving now! Let me drive you to the airport. Something!”

You stood too. You rose on your toes. Your hands rubbed across the stubble on his chin and cheeks. Tom’s eyes squeezed closed at your touch and tears streamed down to your fingertips. You pressed your lips to his and sighed. Tom gripped your sweater like his life depended on it. The sound of the taxi honking again interrupted your embrace.

You squeezed his shoulders hard. “I need to go. I will call you when I land.”

Tom nodded. He grabbed your suitcase and carried it to the door. You reached for it, but he held on.

“Please reconsider. I love you.” Tom pleaded.

“I love you too. But I love me more.” You kissed his cheek. “I’ll call from Philly. Take care of yourself.”

Tom bit his lip in hopes to stifle his anguish. He released his grip on the handle as he nodded at you. You kissed his cheek and stepped out the door. He stood at the threshold until you waved from the backseat of the cab.

Tom gave a tight smile and a small wave until you disappeared into view. Once the door clicked behind him, Tom crumpled to the floor, his legs ceasing to function. Bobby trotted over to check on him, and Tom burrowed his head into Bobby’s soft fur.

He sat there for 30 minutes until his phone rang. He sent it to voicemail. It rang again. This time he turned the phone off and chucked across the foyer. He dragged himself to the couch where he lay until there was a knock at the door.

He jumped to his feet and ran to the door, hoping you had changed your mind.

“I’m so glad you—” he exclaimed as he flung the door open.

“Glad to see you too, mate. Why didn’t you answer your phone?” Luke responded as a disheveled Tom met him at the door. “What the hell happened!?”

Tom’s face fell. “She’s gone.” he croaked out as he fell against Luke.

Luke stood bewildered as he walked Tom back into his house and hoped to unravel just what had Tom in such a state.

Three Weeks Later

It was Tom’s first time leaving the house since you left. Luke made sure he had groceries and cleared his calendar of what few things were on it.

Tom had been planning a surprise vacation with you. Which Luke had to cancel. And now Tom sat in a corner booth of his favorite restaurant waiting for Benedict to arrive.

“Shall I get you something to drink?” The waiter asked as Tom ignored the menu.

“A pint. And keep them coming.” he grumbled, not bothering to take off his sunglasses.

“Are you sure that’s a wise decision giving your current emotional state?” Ben’s voice questioned as the waiter walked away.

“Why the fuck not? I am in mourning.”

“It’s been three weeks, Tom. You can not continue on like this. Your liver will never make it.”

“Want to bet?”

“Your GP would agree with me. Nice shirt, by the way. You’ve got a real brooding lumberjack vibe going on.”

Tom glanced down at the red plaid and tears welled in his eyes.

“That’s what she said the night we met.” Tom’s voice cracked.

Ben’s face softened at the wreck of Tom. “I didn’t mean to hit a nerve. I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t know. I never wear the shirt any more. But I haven’t been doing laundry as much.”

“Or showering either.” Benedict takes an exaggerated sniff.

“Not helping, mate.” Tom shot daggers across the table.

“How can I help? I assume that is why I am here. Since you are not taking any calls.”

“I broke my phone chucking it across the room. Haven’t bothered to replace it.”

Ben pressed his hands flat. “You might want to get on that. Perhaps she is trying to call you. I was under the impression you were smarter than this.” He shook his head at Tom.

Tom perked up. “I hadn’t thought about that. Do you think she has reached out?”

“Well, you won’t know until you talk to her.” Tom’s eyes sparkled and sat up straighter. “There’s the Tom Hiddleston I know.” Ben smiled.

“Thank you, Ben. You are a loyal friend.”

“I’m your best friend. And I only want you to be happy. And as payment for my expert relationship advice, you are paying for lunch.”

“With pleasure.” Tom smiled for the first time in weeks.

Tom’s mood was short lived. He stopped by the store and replaced his phone. He listened to your voicemail from that day you left. And then nothing. Not a text, not a call. Radio silence.

“Hello, darling. It’s Tom. Sorry I haven’t called sooner. A bit of an accident with my phone. I would very much like to talk to you. To hear your voice. Call me, please. Any time, day or night.”

He sighed as he left the message and stared at the phone for the rest of the night. It didn’t ring.

Two Months Later

It was three months since you moved to Philadelphia and began your adjunct position at Penn. You only gained some semblance of normal in the past few days.

“And that is it for today.” You addressed the class. “See you on Thursday.”

The auditorium emptied quickly as students rushed to either their next lecture or something else to do. With a huff, you heaved your bag onto your shoulder and headed to your office on campus.

“Hello?” you answered your phone.

“Any word?” Jess’s voice asked on the other end.

“I told you. He doesn’t have this new number, and I lost his when my phone took a swim in the toilet.”

“Then email him.”

“If he wanted to talk, he would have called those first few days. He has moved on.”

“You are a stubborn ass. You just don’t want to reach out first and have to admit you made a mistake. That you still love him and still want him.”

“That’s not true. He’s busy. He has projects. He probably isn’t even in London right now.” you lied to yourself. You hated when Jess was right.

“Bullshit. You’re scared. Fine, don’t do anything and throw away the best thing that ever happened in your life.”

“Hey! This job is the best thing that happened to me. It moved me closer to you.”

“I would give up our weekly lunches to see you happy. Are you happy?”

You sat down silent at your desk. She was happy, she thought, right? That was the whole point of this. The move was meant to help her reach her goals. Everything felt hollow instead of empowering.

“Yeah, yeah.” you lied to Jess. “Of course, I’m happy. That was the whole point.”

“Still calling bullshit. Remember Jason is coming to pick you up for lunch tomorrow because I have that client meeting.”

“Thank you for reminding me. Bye Jess.”

“Talk to Tom.” she blurted out before you ended the call.

You laid your head on your desk and sighed.

The next morning dragged on. You loved teaching communication, but today your heart was somewhere else. Jess’s words weighed you down like an anchor.

“And what percentage of communication is communicated nonverbally?” you asked the class.

You scanned the room to find someone to call on. Out of the corner of your eye, you spied a red plaid shirt. Just like the one Tom wore at Frankford Hall years ago.

“Ah…” you lost your train of thought. You glanced again but couldn’t find the shirt again. “… yes?” you pointed at someone in the third row.

You spent the rest of the lecture searching the room for the owner of the shirt, but he had disappeared. You convinced yourself you imagined the entire thing.

“Let’s end class early. Enjoy it because it won’t happen again.” you announced.

The class cheered as they packed up for the day. You waited until the hall was empty just to double check for Tom.

“You are losing it.” you mumbled to yourself.

Tom convinced Luke he was ready to work again. Starting with some radio appearances in New York. Luke wasn’t convinced Tom didn’t have a hidden agenda.

“Are you sure you aren’t planning on taking a day trip to Philly to find her?”

Tom scoffed. “It’s over, Luke.”

Luke glanced at Tom askance but complied with the request. “Fine, but I don’t want to see a single story unrelated to these interviews in the papers.”

“Cross my heart.” Tom made an exaggerated “x” on his chest.

“I’ve heard that before.” Luke groused as he made the plans.

When Tom received his itinerary, he was grateful Luke left an entire day empty.

“You know me too well, mate.” Tom commented as he saw the handwritten note at the bottom:

Here is a good car rental company. It is just under two hours to Philly. Be safe and tell her you love her.

- Luke

Tom wasted no time to call the car company.

When he arrived on campus, it didn’t take him long to find your office. It was locked.

“Excuse me, do you know when the professor will return?” he asked a passing student.

“She is lecturing in Ames Hall. It's just down the corridor.”

“Thank you.” Tom took off.

He snuck into the back to the crowded lecture hall and listened in for a bit. He swore you glimpsed him. His stomach growled as he skipped breakfast to get on the road and he ducked out of the hall to get a quick snack.

As he headed back, he spied you outside your office. His heart leaped into his throat. Tears threatened to spill from his eyes in joy.

He stepped forward but stopped as a man approached you, and you threw your arms around him.

“Fuck!” Tom cursed as the two of you walked away. He collapsed on a nearby bench, uncertain where to go from here.

It was later in the day when Jason dropped off back at campus.

“Call him.” both Jason and Jess pleaded.

“Leave it be, you two. We have both moved on.”

“Is that why you swear you saw him in class today? Or that you haven’t even thought about dating since you got here?” Jess added.

“Goodbye you two.” You slammed the door and headed to pick up your things before heading home.

You noticed someone slumped over on a nearby bench. You stepped closer and noticed the red plaid shirt from earlier.

“Are you okay?” you inquired. “Tom?!”

Tom unfolded himself from the bench.

“Tom, it’s you! What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in London?” Tears pricked the corners of your eyes.

“I needed to see you. To talk to you. To explain why I didn’t call.”

You crossed your arms. “I’m listening.”

“I was so upset, I threw my phone and broke it. I left you a message but didn’t hear from you. I figured you might have moved on, but I was willing to take a chance. But I see I was right.”

“How long have you been sitting there? Are you talking about Jason?” You hooked your thumb behind you.

Tom sighed heavily. “So that’s his name.” He took your hands and held them tight. “I should have fought harder. I should have listened more. I am so sorry that you ever felt you couldn’t pursue your dreams with me by your side.” His thumbs ran across your knuckles.

You spied the tears falling down his cheeks. You opened your mouth to speak, but Tom cut you off.

“I want you to be happy. Whether that is with me or not. But above all, I want you to be happy. And if that means I never see you again, then so be it. But know I love you. I will always love you.”

“Tom—”

“Have a wonderful life.” Tom leaned forward and pressed his lips to your cheeks. “Give me a call if you are ever in London.”

Tom turned on his heel and walked away.

“WAIT!!!” you screamed, and he stopped and turned to face you. You ran to meet him. “Did you mean it?”

“Every word. I have never lied to you.”

“Jason…” Tom turned his head away at the name. You grabbed his chin to have him face you. “… is Jess’s long-term boyfriend. He picked me up to meet her for lunch.”

Tom’s eyes widened as the words sunk in. “So…”

Your lips curled into a smile and your hands snaked up his torso, gripping the front of his shirt. “Nice shirt, Paul.”

Tom smiled back. “The name’s Tom.”

“Well, Tom. I think we should carry on this conversation in my office.” You tugged him along. “I think your shirt would look amazing on my floor.”

Tom smiled as you shut the door. “I only want to make you happy.”

#tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston fanfiction #tom hiddleston fanfic #tom hiddleston x reader #tom hiddleston imagine #tom hiddleston angst

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quibliography · 3 years

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The Sandman series by Neil Gaimon

Synopsis: This graphic novel is about one of the eternals, the master of the dreamworld, the sandman. In an attempt to capture Death, an occultist accidentally captures Morpheus (aka Dream) instead. During his imprisonment, Morpheus’s possessions are lost and scattered through the ages and the world is thrown into dreamless anguish. This is just the beginning as the infamous sandman must seek release, revenge, and master over his dominion once again.

My Quibs: I want to preface that I started this series (graphic novels and audible adaptation) with a deadline, not knowing how huge an endeavor this would be. Audible had only put out 8 chapters, which seemed do-able. Now I know, not only is this only Act I, which precedes a highly anticipated Act II and Act III, but it only covered Books 1-3, of which there are 11. And Gaiman is not a breezy read. So, my review thus far is strictly about Books 1-3/Act I.

My love for Gaiman and his writing is so inherent and obvious that more words praising him is unnecessary. Despite that, I avoided reading The Sandman because I’m very picky when it comes to the style of a graphic novel. Classic American comic book art is like classic Hollywood horror to me: there’s too much detail that unfortunately leaves little to the wrong side of imagination. But with the expectation of the audio adaptation and the news of a TV series, I felt the time had come. Strangely, the graphic novels are exactly what I would expect. It’s your standard high-quality Gaiman story telling and he uses every visual tool of a graphic novel to give it every nuance. The story itself is curiouser and curiouser and I’m invested in all the characters. It also helps when you have actors like James McAvoy and Kat Dennings giving them life. The audio adaptation, despite the steller voice casting, plays second fiddle to the graphic novels. I always give the benefit of the doubt though because it’s hard to translate anything. All Gaiman’s visual artistry is literally translated into descriptive narration (by Gaiman), but there’s a reason I read books instead of listen to them. Audio books lull me and I lose track of the story. You also get supportive information from background art that background audio usually makes more confusing than clearer. Maybe if the original content had leaned more heavily on dialogue than graphics, it would’ve been an easier transition to audio. But also maybe if they had invested a looooot more in foleys. I’ve noticed that the best audio stories have creative and distinct foleys; it’s basically sound art. A highly underappreciated art.

Should you read it? Always always read Gaiman.

Similar reads? Audio-wise, I loved the audio adaptation of Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere which also has James McAvoy as lead protagonist.

(Spoiler Alert!) The narrative is a bit windy and confusing at times. Some books/issues are contained side stories and some participate in a larger story. I did enjoy the lone-immortal-human-because-Dream-is-lonely-and-wants-a-friend story but while listening to the audio adaptation, I was thrown way out of the loop. I also didn’t appreciate the extended serial/cereal (killer) convention storyline. It seemed gratuitous, how much detail went in to each killer and their seemingly prosaic but disturbing conversations. Other than that, the narrative unwinds at a pace and path that doesn’t lend itself to conclusion jumping. He creates a world that is just on the other side of unpredictable so I don’t even try to anticipate or expect anything. Thus, I have nothing to say about spoilers. Just enjoy the weird and twisted wonderland kind of ride.

What did you think of The Sandman series?

#the sandman #neil gaiman #dirk maggs

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huilian · 4 years

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Donna’s wrists are throbbing from days of pulling against the chains binding her. These people are good. They are very good. It takes planning and a whole lot of resources to effectively restrain an Amazon, much less to devise equally effective restraints for the rest of the Titans.

She looks over to Wally, who is practically vibrating inside his glassesque cage. Donna doesn’t know exactly what that cage is made of, but Wally can’t vibrate out of it.

They know. He has tried, again and again. He has the injuries to prove it.

Roy, on the other hand, is almost completely covered in rope, with tape covering his hands. Their captors have learned why people call him Arsenal, and paid for their underestimation in blood. But even his efforts were not enough to get them out.

Next to her, in chains nearly similar to her own, is Garth. His own wrists are chafing too, but it is made worse by the fact that it has been hours since their captors last came with water for him.

All of them dread and look forward equally to the times their captors come with water for Garth. On one hand, none of them wants Garth to die. On the other hand, them coming with water for Garth, also means that they are coming for Dick.

How long has it been since they last come? How much longer can Garth last? Donna tries to catch Garth’s eye, but he hasn’t looked anywhere else but at Dick since they last dumped Dick back to their cell.

Donna’s heart aches. How much guilt is swimming inside Garth’s head now?

She knows them. These are her oldest friends. The ones she grew up with, the ones she has shared laughter, tears, blood, and ice cream with. She knows that Garth is once again beating himself up, blaming himself for being a liability to the team.

A liability to Dick.

But Garth’s physiology is not his fault, and Dick would be the first to tell him that.

It doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt him, though.

“Garth,” Donna asks softly. “How much longer?”

And with that, Garth looks up at her, the guilt and anguish clear on his face. “No. No more,” he whispers, eyes wide with misery. How much of that is guilt and how much of that is pain, Donna doesn’t know.

“Garth,” Donna coaxes. “How much longer?”

“No, Don,” he answers, face still twisted in anguish, “no more.”

“Gillhead, just answer her,” Roy snaps.

Garth shakes his head and looks back down to the floor where Dick is laying. They haven’t bothered with much restraint for Dick since five sessions ago. Dick hasn’t moved from where they dumped him back in their little room since two sessions ago.

Donna follows Garth’s eyeline and almost immediately looks back up. She can’t do it. She can’t bear to look at Dick.

“I can’t do that to him,” Garth admits. “So, no more. No more asking for water. Please, just don’t.”

Donna registers the hoarseness in Garth’s voice, in clear contradiction to his request not to ask for water, but, before she can say anything, there is a soft, nearly unhearable whisper, even for her enhanced ears, from Dick. “Garth, it’s alright.”

That soft whisper stabs at her heart. She wishes she can take Dick’s place, but they have screamed, they have shouted, they have even begged to their captors, and still, it’s Dick they take with them every time. She wants to take Dick’s pain and make it her own, if their captors won't take her, as much as she wants to, she can't do that. She doesn’t have Raven’s powers.

And of course Dick would say that it's alright. This is Dick. He would gladly let himself be torn to shreds if it meant saving his friends.

Garth breathes out, harshly. But he doesn’t say anything. None of them do.

They all know how far Dick would go for them.

It’s Wally who breaks the silence. “‘Wing? Are you sure?”

A small, nearly imperceptible nod. Donna sees Wally bite his lips, she sees Roy’s tightening shoulders, and she sees Garth’s anguished face. None of them want to do it. None of them want to condemn Dick like that.

But none of them wants Garth to die.

Donna breathes in and steels herself. “Guards!” she yells, holding back tears. She hopes Dick can forgive her.

She hopes Garth can forgive her.

They come immediately. It’s like they are already lurking outside, waiting for one of them to break. She’s just sorry that it has to be her.

One of them carries a bucket of water that she dumped without any fanfare over Garth. It was just enough water to revive him. It was never enough water to fuel Garth’s magic.

The rest of the guards pull Dick away, also without any fanfare. Dick doesn’t protest. He doesn’t struggle.

Donna can’t tell if it’s because he has already accepted the pain and torture that is coming, or because he doesn’t have enough strength to struggle. She doesn’t know which one is worse.

As usual, Roy and Wally start shouting when they start to pull Dick away. A litany of insult, of threats, and even a few pleas.

Donna, also as usual, pulls on her chains, ignoring the pain it caused her already mangled wrists. She wants to join in on Roy and Wally’s shouting, but she has long ago run out of insults to say.

And, as usual, the guards ignore all of them.

It is only Garth who doesn’t move. His eyes are still transfixed on Dick, mouth moving. Donna knows, even before seeing, that he’s apologizing to Dick.

That makes Donna pull on her chains harder. It never works, though. She knows it’s not going to work.

They have been doing this for days.

The last of the guards leave, without even a glance at the four of them. Donna puts all her strength in trying to get out of her chains, but it doesn’t work. It never works.

They are good. And if they are this good, this meticulous in restraining them, she shudders to think what they’re doing to Dick.

The door closes, sealing them in again, and they are left once again, the four of them, just looking at each other. Donna holds her breath, waiting in dread for the inevitable, and she knows all of them are doing the same.

Minutes pass in silence. And then...then, a faint scream.

It’s Dick’s. It’s always Dick’s.

Donna answers it with a scream of her own. All the anger and the guilt and the torment inside of her swirls together and escapes in that scream. What kind of Amazon is she, what kind of friend is she, that she’s unable to protect her dearest friend?

Distantly, she hears another yell rivaling her own. “Damn it!” It’s Roy. His yell is more anger than anything else, but she knows how to listen underneath and hears the agony inside. “If you want someone who doesn’t have powers, I’m also here, bastards!”

“What the fuck do you guys want?!” Wally also yells, adding his own voice to their cacophony of despair. They are not going to get an answer, or even a reaction.

These people seemed to not want anything other than hurting Dick.

Donna feels tears coming out of her eyes, and feels guilty about that too. Garth is there, hanging to his life by the barest inch, and she is wasting water by crying.

It’s unbecoming for a warrior to cry when there’s still something to be done about the situation. But there is nothing else for her to do. Nothing else that any of them can do.

#whumptober 2020 #fic #dc #no. 6 #no more #torture #dick grayson #donna troy #garth #roy harper #wally west #lian writes

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zilbea · 5 years

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Some FAHC freewood headcanons I promised! (kinda long)

Gavin has a back thing - it’s inconvenient, really. He’ll arch away from the touch of the occasional Fake accidentally brushing his back in passing. It throws him for loops, sending shivers shooting both up his spine and to his groin. Some might say it’s why he’s always fronting on people - exuding such arrogance and nosiness; no one can get extort his hypersensitivity if he faces them - no one can make him look vulnerable. No one except Ryan, who caresses Gavin’s back with strong warm hands after a long day of heisting. No one except Ryan can make The Golden Boy melt under their touch, and as Ryan pulls Gavin into a kiss, trailing his fingers up and down that tanned back, he’s the only one Gavin leans towards.

Gavin brings a kitten into the penthouse one day. Most of the Fakes don’t much care for it, but it brings The Golden Boy absolute joy. Gavin stumbles into the penthouse late one night, bruised and exhausted from a side job. The main room appears empty and Gavin blindly flops onto a couch, begging for sleep to swallow him. It almost does, until Gavin hears a low voice mumbling from the other couch. Opening his eyes, Gavin sees The Vagabond, still in heist face paint, cradling the small dark tabby. The kitten looks comically minuscule in Ryan’s large arms, and Gavin can’t help but smile. The tabby lets out a small mewl and kneads at Ryan’s belly. Ryan scratches the kitten’s head, chuckling softly. “Gavin,” he says, not looking up, “You’ve got some competition for my affections”

Ryan knows he’s scary. He knows The Vagabond is notorious around Los Santos, and he does little to downplay this fact. During missions, Ryan rarely checks his rage, letting it boil over and unfurl with vicious ferocity onto victims. Even so, Ryan thinks, as he watches the Golden Boy calmly snap the neck of a traitor of the Fakes, that Gavin Free should be the talk of terror. He carries out jobs with such silent offhanded energy and always manages to keep his clothes unmarred. Ryan won’t ever tell Gavin, but he looks up to The Golden Boy. Clean, calm, casual, and horribly cute. Ryan’s brain drops to his lap when Gavin winks at him - the dead traitor’s head between two pristine hands.

The Fakes know to give Ryan his space after big heists or dangerous jobs. They’ve seen the hostility that still burns in his eyes as he stalks around the penthouse, having killed and tortured just hours before. Ryan knows his limits, and for fear of lashing out at the crew, he often locks himself in his room to regain a sense of normalcy. None of the crew questions it, not necessarily willing to find out how the Vagabond de-stresses. One night, after a risky heist, Gavin realizes that Ryan’s door is cracked. He leans in close to the door and ragged shuddering breaths echo forth. Gavin peers through the crack - drawing lewd conclusions - but to his surprise, he finds the Vagabond hunched over on his bed, head in his hands. Gavin slips through the door against his better judgment, settling on the bed next to Ryan. Gavin puts an arm around Ryan’s shaking shoulders, and Ryan draws a slow, tense breath. He stares up at The Golden Boy with anguish in his eyes, face paint melted and smeared by tears. Gavin just gives Ryan a gentle nod, rubbing circles into The Vagabond’s shoulders until shaky breaths become measured once more.

(I could go on and on about this one alone)

During heists, Gavin likes to switch to a separate intercom channel as he hacks from a distance. He taps into Ryan’s mic and listens to the sounds of Ryan’s carnage, offering unwelcome commentary directly into Ryan’s earpiece. Gavin hears Ryan grunting in a fistfight struggle and puts on his best pout. “Ryan, I thought those noises were only for me, Ryan!” Ryan grits his teeth and knocks his victim unconscious. Later, fingers flying across the keys, Gavin hears Ryan snarl, “Be good for me, and I won’t have to do this,” followed by a strangled scream. Gavin grins, saying “Not the first time I’ve heard that one.” Ryan, covered in blood that isn’t his, closes his eyes and sighs in irritation as Gavin loudly reminisces Ryan tying him to the bed. Gavin hears Michael and Geoff’s voices through Ryan’s mic; he types a line of code on screen and says, “Ryan, a million dollars, but every time you roll your eyes, a very small bald man hits your bum with a sexy paddle.” Ryan growls a shut up into his mic, and Gavin just grins when he hears Michael ask who the hell Ryan’s talking to. During the heist’s climax Gavin is left with little to do but monitor the crew - so of course he talks Ryan’s ear off. He asks Ryan if he’s a psychopath, when’s the last time he got off, why he didn’t water the plants, if he wanted to get a dog, how it feels to be buried deep inside Gavin - Ryan cuts him off with another growl into the mic; “If you don’t shut your smarmy fucking mouth right this minute I’m going to come back there and give you a reason to not talk for days.” Gavin quirks an eyebrow at this, languidly kicking his feet up onto the desk. “Ryan,” he says innocently, “If you want to fuck my mouth all you have to do is ask!” Ryan’s eye twitches.

Ryan really loves to dance. It’s a fact he never planned on sharing with the Fakes, but sometimes, after most of the crew have gone to bed, he’ll pull Gavin close - swaying to easy jazz music and the wail of sirens far below. With a smile, he spins the Golden Boy into a twirl, dipping him into a kiss as sax and sirens crescendo.

Ryan isn’t known for his sense of danger during heists, and he and Jeremy are notorious for escaping bruised, bloodied, and battered. Ryan hates showing weakness and often refuses to seek treatment for his wounds. Because of this, Gavin corners Ryan on the couch one night, first aid supplies in his arms. Ryan frowns at the greeting, opening his mouth to protest, but Gavin just kisses him quiet. Gavin sinks to his knees between Ryan’s legs, gingerly grabbing the larger man’s bloody hands in his. Begrudgingly, Ryan holds still as Gavin cleans his knuckles. Gavin’s eyes flick to Ryan’s as he smears ointment across the cuts, content to see the spark of agony fade from those icy blue eyes. Gavin kisses Ryan’s fingertips slowly and Ryan bites his lip. He gazes at Gavin kneeling between his legs, bandaging his wounds with a tenderness Ryan had never yet seen, and maybe, just maybe, The Vagabond is falling in love.

Ryan was a football star back before he turned to a life of crime and glory and sometimes when provoked, a little bit of his old offensive side creeps through. Gavin gets in rowdy moods sometimes, assaulting Michael or Jeremy with a surprise tackle in the penthouse’s main room, or running headlong into a mutual shove. Ryan usually stands by as the shenanigans unfold, shaking his head and laughing, but when Gavin runs at him, he’s prepared. He catches the Brit in strong arms, hoisting the squealing man onto a shoulder. Michael and Jeremy collapse into a fit of laughter as Ryan parades Gavin around. Gavin flails and squawks in Ryan’s grasp, putting up a monumental fuss, but really, he loves the attention.

During a heist getaway, there’s not enough seats in the small van to securely hold the whole crew. Geoff drives with Jack shotgun (literally). Trevor sits on Alfredo’s lap, Michael sprawls across Jeremy, and Gavin is seated on Ryan. The crew is in high spirits; blaring music and overlapping chatter recalling their best moments almost drowns out the police sirens. It’s a bumpy chase and Gavin is a malicious tease, accentuating each jostling pothole with an extra movement of his hips. The van rattles over a grassy hill and Gavin grinds his ass against Ryan’s lap. Ryan’s face is flushed and he just hopes the Fakes are too caught up in their conversations to notice. He places his hands on Gavin’s waist to settle the Brit’s squirming and leans forward, lips brushing Gavin’s ear. “Don’t do this here, Gavin, please.” His voice is low and he’s not sure if he really means his words. Gavin just cranes his head around, staring slyly at the Vagabond. He reaches backwards and grabs Ryan’s neck, moving his hips hard into Ryan’s lap as Geoff yanks the van off-road. His lips brush the larger man’s, speaking softly. “What’s wrong, lovely Ryan?”

#freewood #slight warning for lewdness sorta #fake ah crew #fahc #zilbea's writing #hooo boy why can't i just write short things #i love words and being wordy #anyway hope you enjoy these! i have thousands more but this is already a long post lol #im also more of a not-fluff freewood typa gal buttttttt some situations require exception

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shemakesmusic-uk · 4 years

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INTERVIEW: Girl Friday.

LA band Girl Friday's debut full-length Androgynous Mary will be out August 21 via Hardly Art.

Burning deep in Girl Friday's music is an unquenchable will to survive. The LA-based band don't blunt the impact of the themes they work through in their ferocious, knotty rock songs, but they don't let the more harrowing aspects of being alive and young in the 21st century daunt them, either. Taking full advantage of the dystopian shades of post-punk and noise rock palettes on their arresting debut LP, Androgynous Mary, Girl Friday nevertheless suffuse their music with abundant optimism. The world is a hellscape, but the four of them are in it together.

With bold, dramatic guitar lines and tightly wound vocal harmonies, Girl Friday negotiate the stress and alienation that comes with being sidelined from normative society on Androgynous Mary.

We had a chat with the band all about Androgynous Mary, the music industry and much more. Read the interview below.

Hi! How are you? How have you been spending your time during this pandemic? How has it affected you as a band?

Libby: "Hello! How are YOU? These days, generally diving into some long forgotten projects. I have been chipping away some music that may or may not ever emerge into the world."

Virginia: "I’ve been able to give some more time to working with other bands and collaborators which has been really nice. Outside of that, just using this time to reflect and learn."

Sierra: "Welcome to this interview. I am stocking up on metaphysical paraphernalia in the hopes that the spirits in my house will finally relent and participate in my long-awaited masquerade ball."

Vera: "Initially I was making tunes and learning Spanish and hanging with my family - now I’m always working but for the teachers union here in NZ so some important work and there is lots to learn."

You are gearing up to release your debut album Androgynous Mary in August. What can you tell us about the record?

Virginia: "In the words of the late Steve Irwin, “She’s a beauty!” I think we’re all very proud of dear Mary."

Sierra: "Mary likes to explore the entire emotional world at her disposal and say whatever she wants about it."

What were your musical influences for the LP? Who were you listening to around the time of writing it?

Libby: "The movie Hole."

Virginia: "Definitely second Hole. Pretty sure I had also started descending into my first Cheap Queen deep dive at the time."

Sierra: "I was photosynthesizing in a Placebo hole that I have yet to claw myself out of. And also a lot of Blaenavon. Every answer must include the word “hole.”"

Vera: "Holy moly mother Mary, literally holes what we dug and sat in."

Please talk us through your songwriting/creative process for Androgynous Mary.

Sierra: "On the third try, we successfully meet in the center of a dark room, under the disco ball. We scream in anguish into assorted jars and shake them violently until we can’t deny the brilliance of the sound contained therein."

What do you hope fans/listeners will take from the album?

Vera: "I just want people to be weird and feel ok about that."

Virginia: "I hope it’s as satisfying as eating a home cooked meal with your chosen family."

Sierra: "I hope they can listen to it on repeat for an extended period of time and feel like they are being held by a loving entity who is just as confused as they are."

Libby: "I hope they like me."

Were there any other songs written during this period that didn’t make it onto the album, and if so, will you revisit them again in the future?

Virginia: "Wouldn’t you like to know..."

Sierra: "We have a staggering and comical number of voice memos that, and I promise you will thank us for this, will likely never emerge from their technological encasings."

Libby: "Nah."

Which new artists/bands are you listening to right now? Anyone you think we should be checking out?

Libby: "Kills Birds, Ulrika Spacek."

Virginia: "Mod Pods, Suzie True, Cry Babe, Hot Moms, Genevieve Artadi."

Sierra: "Hayley Williams’s Petals for Armor. And my brother is about to release an album with our friend Brian that he’s put so much love and work into, and the entire universe needs to hear it! It’s called Silo by The Altogether. (Disclaimer: I am on it, but I can assure you I’ve contributed very little to its perfection)."

Vera: "At the moment I can only listen to this one album by Brian Eno and John Cale, Jesus is King by Kanye, Gracie Fields and Nina Simone."

If there was one thing you could change about the music world today, what would it be?

Libby: "More Trans A&Rs. More Black A&Rs, More POC A&Rs. More accountability in safe spaces."

Virginia: "More safe music venues open to minors!"

Sierra: "Fair pay for artists too."

Vera: "Agreed with all. And yes we really need the unionization of musicians and artists and understanding our value in society. Because it is labor and the fact we ‘love to do it’ is really exploited. Going off Libby's point, I think we need to acknowledge the major influence that music created and invented by BIPOC has had and continues to have in genres (including rock) where the main profiteers today are white men. We got to dismantle that."

What challenges, if any, have you faced in the music industry? And how did you overcome them?

Sierra: "We’ve been really lucky overall in terms of the people we’ve worked with, but we have gotten some not-so-sexy commentary from people assuming our genders and what that means about the music we’re able to make. We rename them all “Chris,” quietly hex them, and move on with our lives."

Finally, what do you have planned for when we're back to some sort of normality? I expect you're excited to get out on the road to tour the album following its release and when it is safe to do so?

Sierra: "You are absolutely right about that. Other than fantasizing about future tours, I’m taking it one day at a time."

Vera: "I don’t think there is a return to ‘normalcy’, but honestly if normalcy is Trumps America with a complacent public where cops intimidate and murder and money takes precedent over life, I don’t want to go back to that anyway. Let’s keep pushing forward."

youtube

Androgynous Mary is out August 21.

Photo credit: Al Kalyk

#interview #girl friday #this is not the indie rock i signed up for

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iwantutobehapppier · 5 years

Text

Safe Place

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You were Romanian native when you two met. something in him drew you in. You were safe with him and he felt a since of peace he’d not known since before the wars. Feelings develop and boundaries blur in your need to help him heal.

Warnings: Oral (for you), unprotected sex, PTSD episode-ish and I think cursing. 18 an older only, do not read if under the age of 18. This isn’t for everyone, if any of these situations bother you please read no further.

Word Count: 3.938

A/N: This was made at the request of my bestie @judiakino. She wanted fluffy Bucky smut so I tried my very best to deliver. Hope you all enjoy!

Chiming of the clock in the entry hallway of your humble walk up pulled you out of your book. You frowned looking out the window, the darkening sky telling sign you had gotten lost in your latest romance novel and the need for starting dinner imminent. Setting the book down on the coffee table across from your love worn couch, you made your way to the kitchen.

You couldn’t help the smile that spread across your lips as you began preparing dinner, he would be here soon and the anticipation of his arrival made you bounce on your feet as you moved between tasks in gleeful anticipation. Once you had the soup cooking on the stove top you pulled the open living room blinds and curtains shut, your visitor had an issue with open window views; you chalked it up to his soldier training he sparsely spoke of.

Returning to your soup you took a small taste and wrinkled your nose, it needed more spice. Reaching up towards your spice rack to your left a cool metal hand wrapped around yours as you grabbed the desired spice, a warm arm wrapping around your stomach pulling you into muscular chest. The heat of his breath fanned neck as brown hair brushing against your shoulder, you sighed in content at his touch. You knew this greeting very well, he was always so silent even the whirling of his metal arm barely above a whisper. His left arm remained glued to yours as you seasoned the soup, he pressed his face into your neck a content sigh falling from his lips at your smell invading his senses.

“I missed you,” he murmured against your skin, you pushed your body further into his at the sensation.

“Oh? More than you do any other day?” You smiled turning your head to face him, he always looked at you with such warmth that you couldn’t stop smiling when he was around.

“There was this elderly woman down at the market going on about the best ingredients for Sarmale.” You turned your attention back to the soup stirring in the spices slowly a you became embarrassed knowing what he would say next. “It reminded me of when you gave me a good verbal thrashing for bringing you lamb instead of beef.” Your checks bright red recalling just how indigent you became with him over his faux-pa he didn’t even understand.

“In my defense,” you began with a sigh, burrowing his face in your neck under your hair you felt him softly chuckle as you became wound up, “I was not aware you knew nothing about Romanian dishes. You have no accent.” He hmed pulling his head back up, just as your sat your stirring spoon down he twirled you around to face him. He kept his arm around your waist, his metal arm gently holding your chin up turned to him as his warm cerulean eyes searched all over your face.

“Do I have something on my face?” you asked, lifting a hand to your cheek looking into his eyes. He shook his head, “No, you’re just so gorgeous I can’t help but want to memorize this face.” Your cheeks turned a deep crimson at his words, breaking eye contact his honesty and admiration overwhelming. After 3 months of you spending such intimate time together he had yet to kiss you, but he certainly imprinted himself against your skin, always touching you in small or not so small intimate ways that made your heart stop and warmth pool in your stomach.

The both of you ate in comfortable silence at your kitchen table; he looked so large in the basic metal lined kitchen chair. You had to stifle a giggled, his size always seemed comical in your tiny place. His warm hand entwined his fingers with your hand resting palm up on the table. He would look at you randomly smiling only when you looked back. Once finished he took both your bowls to wash them while you put away the left over soup.

Before long the two of you were cuddle up on your love worn couch T.V. playing some American sitcom re-run. His arms locking you in his lap, as if you’d ever leave his embrace. You rested one arm on top of his, your other reaching behind you playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. He bent his head down and nuzzled his face into your hair breathing in deeply. You could feel yourself dozing off in his arms when the T.V. became louder talking about breaking news, causing you to open your eyes wide.

“This just in: Avengers spotted in Sokovia confronting what appears to be some type of Robot Invasion”

The news caster was reading from the prompter on one side while shaky cellphone footage played, Hulk slamming on the ground tearing apart robots and arrows from Hawkeye flying by causing explosions.

You could feel Bucky tensing behind you, his grip around you tightening each second the footage aired the whirling of his arm increasing in noise as it constricted. It wasn’t until Captain America appeared that you felt his grip become uncomfortable.

“Punk,” he whispered out, your hand had stilled against his head and you tried to call out his name as the grip reached level of pain. Hearing you struggle seemed to break whatever trance he was in as he instantly let go of you and stood up shoving you down onto the floor at the unexpected movement.

“Oof” you grunted as your butt made impacted with hardwood floor. You went to pull yourself up off the ground when the T.V. cut to images of people screaming out. Bucky bent at the waist covering his ears, you stopped trying to get up instead grabbing the remote and quickly turning the T.V. off. Once the noise was gone you began standing up, you brushed his hair back holding it behind his neck and other hand pulling his arm to try and get him to stand up straight.

Quickly, almost smacking your heads together, he stood up looking at you with cloudy fearful eyes chest heaving panic clearly setting in. You gripped both sides of his face lifting up onto your toes and pulling his head down you put your forehead against his keeping eye contact with his faraway gaze.

“Listen to my voice,” your voice calm while you pet the sides of his face, his chest still heaving. “You’re here in Romania,” you slowly trailed your hands down to his neck stopping at his shoulders, your touch soft and caressing. “You’re safe with me,” his breathing began to slow down, tears pooling at the corner of his eyes as you kept staring into them. “No one is controlling you,” His eyes began to focus on you, an anguished whimper came from his lips as he pulled you into his embrace, your arms curling under his arms and clinging to his shoulders as he rubbed his face into your hair. “You’re safe,” you repeated few times you voice trailing off as his breathing finally evened out, the whirl of his metal arm returning its normal white noise level.

When you felt his metal hand pet your hair you knew he was returning to himself. You wrapped your arms around his back, gently rubbing and whispering softly words only he could hear the same words you’d use late night during his night terrors the few times he had stayed over sleeping on your couch. There was never a question of if the relationship would move further; you were content with his visits whether just for the evening or the night. He confessed once that every time you touched him he could feel the demons recede. You never minded comforting the demons he was always trying to keep at bay, the demons you dared not ask the names of.

Quietly you guided him back to the couch; you sat down first laying your back against the arm rest, Bucky cautiously laid between your legs, resting his head on your stomach. You smiled at his trepidation to lay directly on you; he was always concerned in how he handled you. Rarely would he become rough only times getting close when he’d have a flashback. Gently combing your fingers through his hair he burrowed his face into your stomach arms looping underneath your back, the desperate way he clung you giving away his current thoughts.

“You’re safe, we’re safe.” You repeated, nodding your head as you spoke to reaffirm the truth.

He sighed and nodded his head, “Yes we’re safe, you’re safe.” He stressed the last part, expressing the utter importance you held to him with a simple inflection.

“I’m always safe with you around,” your bright smile beaming at him when he upturned his face, his gorgeous pools of blue gazing in awe. The corner of his lips twitched but the smile never really formed, his mind still trying to switch off unsuccessfully as adrenaline still running rampant. He turned his head down, clouds swirling in his eyes once more. He was silent for a moment. “No one is safe around me.”

You chortled at his words; he looked back at you in confusion and mild shock. You shook your head baffled at his inability to see who he was.

“Who saved that little child we saw last week getting bullied? The elder woman who always wears purple down the street, when people were ransacking her house who intervened?” you pressed him to sit up on his knees as you sat up straight looking him in the eyes to make sure he was focused on you and not listening to whatever self-doubt rang in his head. “When I was alone, and those men started following me,” his hands balled into fists, you both recalling a less than pleasant memory. “Remember when they held me in that alleyway. Who was it that saved me?” He looked down to his chest unwilling to answer you, adverse to let him fold into himself again gripping both sides of his face forcing him to look at you repeating yourself slowly. “Who was it?”

“Me,” his voice was barely above a whisper if the T.V. had still been on you would have missed it. “I’m sorry I couldn’t hear that?” His eyes narrowed, he knew you could hear that.

“Me,” Bucky’s voice raised this time enough to satisfy you. “I’m safe with you, Bucky.” He pulled your hands from his now pensive face.

“What I have done, what I did-” you cut him off before he could start his familiar self-loathing rhetoric.

“I don’t care what you did, it only matters what you do.” Your arms sliding up his chest you fought the shiver at the feel of his firm sculpted muscles under your hands. Wrapping your arms around his neck you sat up on your knees as well. Given his height your eye level was still his neck but it was less of an ache to turn your head up only slightly with this position. He appeared to be mulling over your words, determining their worth and truth.

“But I-” you gently pressed your lips to his, capturing his bottom lip. At first he stiffened at the boundary being crossed, his hands finally unclenched resting at his sides, eyes wide peering into yours. You gradually closed your eyes applying more pressure to his lips, his arms shot around you pulling you flush against him. He was tilting his head ever so slightly when his tongue trailed between his lips testing the waters of whatever this new dynamic was.

Gladly you accepted, your lips parting more and both of your tongues gently touching he inhaled deeply closing his eyes, his flesh hand reaching up to grip the back of your head, cradling it as his fingers gently caressed your neck. He had never pushed this line with you, content and believing he only deserved the touches and heartwarming cuddling that had remained but now that he had his first taste of you, he could not find any good reason why he waited so long.

The intensity of his touch ramped up but it still remained gently, caressing, malleable and almost haunting. His metal arm whirling as he caressed your side, moving to rub your back, then back to your side, the metal fingers trailing so cautiously along the underneath and side of you breast but never directly touching. Your head began to swim at his touches. His hand began to play with the bottom hem of your shirt, pulling his lips from yours.

“May I?” he bobbed his head downward, without a word you leaned back his arms moving back to his sides and you pulled your shirt off, making quick work of your bra. When you tossed your bra behind the couch he stared at you, his fingers twitching at his side the gentle whirling of his arm and both of your raggedy breaths the only noises in the small home.

“Please say something,” you muttered becoming increasingly uncomfortable at his silence, “you’re making me worried something doesn’t look right,” he breath hitched at you words, eyes narrowing at recognition of your insecurities.

“Baby,” he whispered out, his metal arm wrapping around your waist pulling you back to him as his flesh hand trailed up your stomach, gently cupping a breast, lifting it up slowly and rolling your nipple gently between his thumb and pointer you felt your breathing shallow at the sensation. “You’re breath taking,” he paused his metal hand molding your side, caressing, grabbing but never too tight, never too aggressive.

He guided you onto your back, your knees falling open; he placed himself right between them. Not before pulling his own shirt off followed by pressing his hardening cock against you to provide much needed friction. Your hands shot up tracing the line of his muscles that felt like carved marble, so smooth but so hard underneath. When your feather like touches trailed his Adonis belt he couldn’t take anymore. He leaned down his hands braced against the arm rest, pressing your chests together you both let out a soft moan. The skin contact feeling like heaven after waiting so long, he kissed you once more, both your breathing labored.

It wasn’t long before he started exploring your body, his kisses trailing down you jaw, lingering at your neck for a gently bite that made you buck your hips up with a gasp. He responded in kind by baring his hips down onto you, the feel of his hard cock turning your gasp into a moan. His right hand began to trail down your body, paving the way for his lips. Just as he gently caressed your breast, rolling the nipple between pointer and thumb without applying pressure his mouth trailed to the adjacent breast, kissing along the nipple, then flicking his tongue gently across your nipple. You arched your back up whimpering at the sensation pooling between your legs. His right hand began to pull your pants down your legs. Reluctantly to get the pants off Bucky had to pull him from your breasts. You almost laughed at his down turned lips, clearly unhappy about having to pause.

“Is this okay?” he pulled at your pants again, you gave a vigorous nod. Before you knew what was happening he had your legs up in the air, almost bent in half pulling your pants and underwear off. He nestled himself back between your legs, returning his attention to your beasts as his right hand gently cupped your mound and nothing else. He continued his lavish attention and adoration of your breasts, his lower hand applying the slightest pressure to your mound, his middle finger trailing along the slit. He groaned against your beast in his mouth when he felt your wetness.

Suddenly his attention shifted, placing soft kisses between your breasts he began to kiss his way down, stopping at your navel to roll his tongue along it as his middle finger gently tapped your already over sensitive clit, you moaned out louder than before at the intensity. He smirked against your navel and returned to descending to his prize, your hands grabbed his shoulders when he kissed your mons.

“Buck you don’t”

“Sssh, baby let me do this, let me love you” You nodded your head slowly, the grip on his shoulders slacking. You watched him spread your lower lips apart, his eyes trailing up and down letting out a soft groan. “Beautiful,” he whispered out before his flat tongue swiped from your weeping opening to your clit were his lips wrapped around, flicking his tongue leisurely along the engorged nub, slowly moving his pointer and middle finger into your warmth. Your body was shaking by this time, one hand had trailed to his head, gripping his long hair and pulling him into you as you pressed your hips up in offering.

He gladly took all you gave, desiring to only worship upon your alter; show you how much he cared for you, how much he needed you. Bucky had something he’d never thought he’d get when he was with you, a quite mind, there were no replays of missions, no recounting of torture, no war, just you. It wasn’t long with his gentle touches and determination that you were falling apart beneath him.

His eyes were trained on you, watching your flush face tighten then release, lips forming a perfect ‘o’ letting out the most stunning noises he had ever heard. He rested his head on your thigh watching you, his metal hand twirling patterns along your stomach as you kept your eyes shut riding the waves he moved within you. When you finally opened your eyes and looked down at him you smiled sheepishly at the moister along his mouth, he returned your smile.

“Hey there,” you spoke awkwardly not sure what to say to a man who gave you one of the best orgasms of your life. His eyes twinkled knowingly at you, a since of pride and accomplishment taking him over. “Hey yourself.” He stood up his fingers trailing across your skin as he brought himself completely up right.

Lifting you up with both arms he cradled you to his chest making his way to your bedroom. Gently he set you down on the duvet and stood up admiring your body as he undid his belt buckle and pants with his one hand, his metal hand trailed down from the curve of your breast to the widening of your hip. Gently gripping your hip, instinctively you lifted your knees up and spread your legs out, without missing a beat Bucky pulled both his pants and briefs down, climbing to his new haven between your legs.

“It’s been a long time so – and not since they – I just mean,” pressing your fingers to his lips you silenced his jumbled words. Your eyes trailed to his cock, a small whimper falling from your mouth at the sight. He was flawless and truly chiseled from marble head to toe. The venous shaft and glistening head made you weak, your eyes were transfixed as he gripped the base, trailing it up and down your slit, the tip starting to shine more with your combined desire. His eyes were jumping from your face to his actions below and back to your face but your eyes never stopped watching him trail along your slit.

Your eyes widened watching him gently press the head against your opening, his arms shook lightly as he pushed his head all the way in, rolling his head back groaning. You looked up, his neck muscles taunt as he bowed his head back. You couldn’t help yourself, an arm wrapping around his neck lifting your upper half up and pulling him down to kiss. He placed both of hands flat on the bed enjoying the kiss you offered him, tongues gently lapping at each other.

He slowly rocked his hips back and forth panting louder with each movement, working himself into your tight heat slowly to ensure he wouldn’t needlessly hurt you. You were the first to break the kiss; quietly crying out you fell back on to the bed, arching your chest up. Your fingers wrapped around his forearms, your short nails slightly digging in as you mewled and whimpered at the sensation of him slowly filling you.

When he was finally at the hilt, he dropped to his elbows, stilling for a moment inside you, eyes closed he tried to catch his breath. You pushed his hair out of his face with both your hands; he opened his eyes to stare directly into yours. Bucky’s eyes searching along your face, checking for any signs of pain, any signs of discomfort or regret of where you currently were. You grazed the back of your hand along his check then cupping you gave him a soft smile that easily slid into a naughty smirk as you tightened yourself around him. Groaning he pulled back his hips slowly then unhurried he pressed back in. You cried out his name, the sensation setting your whole body on fire, wrapping your legs around him.

“Don’t stop,” you barely got out between your heavy breaths as he continued to move inside you. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he began to pick up his tempo, pressing his forehead against your shoulder as your arms wrapped around his broad shoulders, encasing him entirely. He cherished the feeling of your entire being coating his, his pace stuttered for a moment, feeling overwhelmed. He lifted his head up, his brown hair curtaining around the two of you, your eyes looking up at him in lustful daze. Not wanting to leave you behind as you were the only thing he could focus on his hand reaching down he began to rub slow circles around your clit watching the sinful faces you made.

He knew he didn’t deserve you, or any of this. The way you always cared for him, caressing his rough edges, never afraid of him, so trusting and he didn’t deserve any of it. Yet here you were, open to him, your embrace so inviting and tender. Watching your face as you came undone he vowed he would love you with every piece of himself to prove to himself he deserved this. He would earn your affection, no matter how challenging it would be.

When you began to spasm around him at your release he couldn’t hold back, his hips jerking hastily wanting so badly to feel this euphoria together. Groaning out your name he felt the pressure finally release, baring his hips down onto you riding out the sensation. When he felt his shoulders start to wobble he wrapped his arms around your waist, rolling over on to his back and pulling you with him. A whimper escaped your lips, feeling his softening cock move inside you at the shift in position.

He kissed the top of your head as you lay on his chest, you turned your head up and he was there waiting for your gaze, those stunning blue eyes shimmering. His arms tightened around you and with the blood no longer rushing through your body loudly you could hear the whirling of his metal arm, a welcomed noise that you often missed nights he didn’t visit.

Your eyes began to feel heavy, the satisfaction of his attention wearing you out.

#bucky x reader #bucky fluff #bucky smut #james barnes #bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky x female reader #bucky x female #buck x you #reader insert #winter soldier #winter soldier x reader #marvel universe #ptsd #fanfic

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