#lone wanderer: achilles | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ancientgreekyuri · 5 months

Text

okay one more h.ades fic this is a thesterius one and one of my favs that i've made... it's mostly a comedy / "fluff" but it does also discuss Internalized Racism (💔) there's also some very small suggestive moments

this was basically at attempt at making an in-universe reason for why theseus' portrait in game doesn't really Look like him (though the real world reason is simply that it's recycled concept art)

When the vile hellspawn sauntered into the arena, and announced to Theseus that he’d commissioned a portrait of the king during his princehood, he at first thought of it as a foolish attempt at a diversion. That Zagreus— did his vile schemes have no end? It was not the first time he’d attempted to drive Theseus into a tortuous rage, and it certainly would not be the last. And besides that, what use did he have for such a painting? As Theseus once again pierced Zagreus’ flesh with his ruby spear, and once again sent him back to the bowels of hell, he concluded that his words must have been nothing but lies. One day or night, however, the Lord Hades called Theseus to his dank house for a performance review (it was brief, of course. Lord Hades had his complaints, but the simple fact of that matter is that there was no one else within Blessed Fields who desired the title of champion). Not yet ready to return to Elysium, he wandered around the place, observing the many changes that had occurred in the time between his last visit and now. Upon entering the small west hall (and passing by the Great Achilles who had dismissed him with I’m working right now, King Theseus…), he found a piece of his own legacy hanging upon the wall there. The portrait was familiar: a near perfect replica of one he'd posed for in life. His father Aegeus had commissioned it soon after claiming Theseus as his son, but it was not completed until after his return from Crete. Despite this it was still completed with his father's specifications in mind, to honour him after his untimely death; the prince within the portrait had his ambiguities removed, and therefore looked rather unlike Theseus. One would mistake the fantasy-prince as being a grandchild of Pandion, with his pale skin and smaller nose. But the Theseus of reality shared no blood with the former king.

He remembers the discomfort he felt at the time, feelings he wasn't able to put into words. Aegeus had wanted his son to look like a proper prince, but what exactly did those words mean? To this day, he didn’t know. Theseus scowled. Were the painting not rightful property of the underworld’s lord and master, he would have gladly pried it from the wall and tossed it into the Styx to drown. All he could do for now was leave and hope that next time he appeared, it would be replaced with something more tasteful. -----------------------------------

When Theseus returned home, Asterius was sitting outside, half buried in their garden of wildflowers. The bull held in his hands a large book, its pages decorated with golden detailing. Butterflies of shimmering light would occasionally flitter onto his horns, then leave just as fast. Theseus’ heart swelled at the sight. How fortunate he was to have Asterius in his life! He didn’t have many kind words for his prince-self, but he could appreciate that even back then, he sensed that there was something special about Asterius. Theseus stood before him, then dropped down to his haunches. Asterius’ ears twitched in response. “Asterius, my dear friend… what are you reading?” Asterius looked up. His head tilted inquisitively, but if he noticed something amiss, he did not mention it. “A lone warrior is attempting to rescue a princess. But it is not his true quest.” “Oh yes? May I read it alongside you?” Asterius patted the ground beside himself, inviting Theseus to sit. He wasted no time positioning himself next to Asterius with his head resting against the bull’s sturdy shoulder. Theseus listened closely as the bull read out loud to him. It was something they’d done more times than he could count, often with Theseus voicing the most theatrical characters. For now, however, all he wanted to do was be comforted by the sound of Asterius’ sweet voice… “Theseus…” “Hmm?!” Theseus jolted, blinking blearily at Asterius. “Ah, did I fall asleep? I apologize, my friend!”

Theseus yawned before lazily throwing himself over the bull’s lap. In any other scenario he would have rolled onto his back so he could gaze lovingly at Asterius’ shapely jaw, and the cute shape of his snout. Asterius was perfect in every which way, and needed no portrait to immortalize it… unlike himself, apparently.

“I take it your meeting with Hades went poorly.”

“Not quite, dearest. My meeting with the Lord Hades went wonderfully! I am upset for… other reasons.”

“Such as?”

“Such as— that damnable portrait he has hanging on the west wall! Depicting myself, as a prince.” Theseus gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “The boy within its frame is a stranger to me. He is the one who killed you so very long ago, and…”

“And?”

“Even physically he is different. His skin paler, his nose smaller, his jaw more elegant! It is a perfect replicant not of myself… but of a portrait my father once commissioned, long ago…” When Theseus arrived within Athens as a young prince, he was thought of as a foreigner. His father, being born of Egypt, did not help in this regard. While there were plenty who followed the teachings of Apollo in that foreigners should be treated with grace, there were others who looked at Theseus with disdain due to his lack of Athenian noble blood, and many more viewed Aegeus as some kind of usurper. In an attempt to solve this problem, Aegeus had a multitude of portraits of himself made. He was so very similar to Theseus’ grandfather, obsessed with the idea of being preserved through history. But those portraits always depicted Aegeus in the way he wanted to be viewed, rather than how he truly was. Looking at paintings alone, there was no doubt that Aegeus was the son of Pandion, descendant of Erichthonius. But to look at Aegeus himself, and to compare him to his siblings, or even Athen’s previous rulers, it was clear there was no blood shared between them.

Preoccupied as he was with his thoughts, Theseus did not hear the sound of Asterius’ book closing. It was only when the bull’s furred hand cupped his jaw, brushing its thumb over his cheek, that Theseus’ attention returned to his dearest friend. “You are handsome and true, king. None in Elysium could hope to compare to you.”

“Oh, bull!” Theseus gasped, “How kind you are. But your praise is not needed! In fact, allow me… I simply must reward you for allowing me to nap besides you, after all.” “You slept for a mere few minutes…” “Even so!” Theseus planted a firm kiss against Asterius’ snout. “You, my bull…” he sighed, “Are without parallel. You’ve a unique beauty that cannot be rivaled. And more so than that, you are the most handsome Minotaur in all of Elysium!!” “The only Minotaur in all of Elysium,” Asterius corrected. When Theseus pouted in response, Asterius gave a soft snort in laughter. “You deserve a better portrait, king.”

“It is you, my bull, who deserves a portrait! Perhaps, after this, I will find an artist to hire for the task…”

“I would paint you,” Asterius replied. “I would capture your beauty in truth.”

“Oho? Are you being quite truthful, dear bull?”

“I am. I will.”

“Such kindness from you, such generosity… Asterius, Asterius…”

As Theseus continued to plant kisses against his most cherished companion, the topic of painting was soon forgotten by him altogether…. But Asterius remembered.

And so, it was a few weeks later when the bull surprised his king with this:

“King, allow me to paint you.”

“You want to… oh! Oh, yes. That conversation…”

Theseus hummed, lost in thought. Ah, how he loved the idea of posing for his beloved bull! But Theseus knew himself well, and knew that every time he posed for a portrait, he quickly grew antsy, impatient, and most of all restless. Indeed, he was a famously difficult client to deal with even as he lived! Asterius was a patient bull (something Theseus appreciated immensely), but he did not wish to put him through that sort of trouble for what was at the time merely a passing thought. Theseus wracked his brain for a solution, though he struggled to come up with something satisfactory. Still, Asterius deserved an answer, and Theseus intended to give him one.

“I must admit, my friend, that I find myself somewhat intimidated by the idea of posing for a painting! It has been quite a long time since I’ve last done so.” As he spoke, Theseus’ words and his budding thoughts tumbled into one another, and his next words became an impulsive suggestion. “Perhaps, instead of a painting, we could try sketching one another…?” Theseus’ expression turned grim at his own words; what was he thinking? He had of course dabbled in art before just as any king would, but his skills were next to nothing. But darling Asterius’ eyes lit up in excitement, glittering like two gemstones. He loved the idea, by the gods. “King, if you are willing…”

"Ah, w-well!” Theseus desperately tried to think of a way to retract his offer, but Aasterius looked so joyous at just the idea, and Theseus was loath to deny him such a simple request. “...Alright, my friend. From this moment onwards, the two of us shall temporarily relinquish our title as champions, and take on the role of artists!" -------------------------------------

There was a small area behind Theseus' home where a pond glittered with blue water. While the pair had plenty of fish tanks inside their home, the pond held many larger, exotic species. It was one of Asterius' favourite places to come and relax after a battle, especially when ghostly waterfowl would occasionally come to swim upon the surface.

It was here that they sat out their supplies to begin painting together. Theseus had long ago asked the shade of a carpenter to create an easel big enough for Asterius to comfortably use, which then led to the construction of paint brushes and other such items meant for his larger hands. Theseus wanted to have them engraved with an array of intricate patterns, but Asterius had pointed out that they would end up becoming decorative items by that point, rather than tools he could actually utilize.

Still, Theseus felt his heart swell with pride at the sight of Asterius elegantly seated across from him, his hair unstyled, falling in loose curls around his bullish face. Asterius of course looked handsome in any scenario, but there was something special about seeing him without his armor, relaxed and idling. There was none other within Elysium who had this unique privilege, after all, and Theseus would be sure to cherish every moment he could— “...King.” “Ah? Yes, my dear bull?” “You’ve been staring at me.” he snorted, clearly amused. “Get to work.” Theseus pouted, but did not complain as he finally turned his eyes towards his easel and the blank parchment upon it. Though it had been quite some time since he took lessons in art, he still remembered some of the basics. Where to start, though? Theseus supposed, with the head.

Asterius' bullish face was gorgeous in its uniqueness. From his luscious eyelashes, to the rich brown of his eyes, to the soft caramel-cream tone that coloured the bridge of his snout. However… it was not the easiest thing for a beginner artist to draw. If he broke down the shapes to their bare essentials, Asterius' head was something of a rectangle. He would begin there. Theseus pressed his pencil to the parchment. Somehow, his attempt at a rectangle looked more like a lopsided disc. Theseus tried again— this time getting something more akin to an elongated tube. A third time, with a furious determination, and somehow his clumsy hands managed to create a perfect square. Theseus was baffled beyond all reason- but it was good enough for now. With a shaky hand, he used this as a base to render the rest of Asterius’ head, including a glittery eye with long lashes, an adorable snout with a shimmering nose ring, and two tall horns… The end result was something more of an giant and overdetailed eye with long hairs growing off of it attached to a pair of overly long rods. Theseus’ hand hovered over the drawing, half tempted to tear it up and just take it from the top. But he knew that even if he did start over, his second attempt would not be much better.

(As his dread grew, Theseus couldn’t keep himself from once again focusing on Asterius. The Minotaur was working with intent, as if he knew what he was doing. Surely he wasn’t experiencing this same childish panic Theseus felt...) If he could not draw Asterius’ head properly, then perhaps his body would be easier. He had touched his muscles many times up until now, felt them beneath his hand, pressed against his body both in combat and in… other scenarios. He knew them as well as he knew his own! Yes, this would be simple! It was not. While Theseus could be proud that he’d managed to capture the shape of Asterius’ forearms fairly well, the rest of it was disproportional, not to mention the fact that he had become… engrossed while depicting his companion’s chest, and may have exaggerated more than is appropriate. The idea of starting on his legs was intimidating, now. Could he depict them in all their glory? He could at least do this properly, couldn’t he?

Theseus pressed his pencil to the page, and scribbled passionately. The end result was two awkwardly bent sticks, one slightly larger the other, both ending in round clubs for feet. Gazingly blankly at the page, the king sat in stunned silence.

He wasn’t particularly skilled in this regard, true, but he’d assumed he could at least do better than this. The drawing in its current state was a clear insult to Asterius’ beauty, and that was unforgivable. Theseus again looked over at his partner. Dear, sweet Asterius was so concentrated, no doubt creating a masterpiece that would make Theseus cry tears of joy once he laid his eyes upon it. And what did Theseus have to repay his kindness with? A drawing that looked as if it was created by a child. No— a child could surely do better than this! Perhaps he should start over after all? So long as he does so before Asterius completed his drawing— “...Theseus.” “Hah? Ah! Yes, my friend…?” Much to the king’s surprise, Asterius’ voice was tingned the slight irritation of having called out to him several times now, though Theseus, lost in thought as he was, did not notice. “I’ve finished.” “Ah! You’ve finished!” Typically Theseus would admire the speed at which Asterius could work, but at this moment it was an absolute hindrance. He could not help but to wonder if it would be possible to subtly (intentionally) dump his canvas into the pond water and request a do-over. So preoccupied he was with his plans that he nearly did not hear Asterius’ sighing:

"Mine did not come out great…” he admitted. "I was nervous."

Theseus had grabbed his easel in preparation for shoving it over, but Asterius’ words stopped him in his tracks. When Aserius looked at him strangely, Theseus sat back down with an awkward chuckle,

"Nervous…?" Theseus mused, trying to hide his own anxiousness. "From gazing upon my handsome visage, I'm sure!"

"Yes." Asterius’ honesty always shocked Theseus, even now. "I wanted to draw your features properly. I was nervous."

"I… I see!" Theseus was sure his face was heating up, now. How was it that Asterius was able to fluster him so easily, without any effort? "Well, I'm sure it's not any worse than mine! Shall we, erm…?"

Both men awkwardly clung to their canvases, seemingly unwilling to let the other gaze upon his creation.

"In that case!" Theseus eventually said "I suppose I shall go first! Promise me you will not laugh?"

“I prom— huh.” Theseus flipped his canvas so Asterius could see his creation in all its lopsided glory. A snout that had been erased and redrawn so many times it began to look more like smudged pencil marks than anything resembling a head, horns growing out sideways from its forehead. His overly-large chest was at a strange contrast with his comparatively smaller body, which became stranger still with his oddly proportioned legs.

Asterius did a good job of not laughing… for a mere few seconds. But soon his body tensed, and his shoulders shook, and a strange wheezing noise came from his throat. And Asterius- he laughed, guffawing at the drawing Theseus displayed to him, his body shaking so terribly his art supplies got knocked over. Theseus pouted, offended. “Is my art truly so funny?! Show me yours, th— hmm?!”

Theseus’ words devolved into strained choking when Asterius showed the work he’d created. Theseus’ nose was large, but here it was drawn exaggeratedly. His posture was some bizarre cross between the elegance of a swan, and the buffoonery of a satyr. At some point the bull realized he’d drawn Theseus’ chiton over the wrong shoulder, resulting in him wearing what appeared to be some type of bizarre tunic, and that goes without mentioning the lopsided grin he wore. Theseus was baffled. But beyond that, he loved it. He loved the drawing so much he could only express it by slumping down to his knees, and burying his face in his hands to muffle his increasingly high pitched wails of delight.

"That bad, is it?"

"Asterius, I adore it!! I simply must have it framed somewhere in my bedroom at once!"

Asterius gave a haughty snort, causing his nose ring to sway. "Absolutely not."

"Asterius, please, I am begging! See, I am already on my knees. In turn, I'll allow you to do whatever you'd please with the work I created! I’m sure you’d give Patroclus quite a chuckle if you showed it to him, next time you are together!" “Hmm…” Asterius tilted his head in thought. “I have a better idea.” “Oh yes?” The two champions began to gather up their art supplies, all while Asterius told his king of his idea. Soon they were distracted and found themselves sitting at the end of the pond, chatting eagerly as they watched Elysium’s false sky transform into a watercolour of orange and pink, before fading into a starry night sky.

--------------------------------------- Within their shared home, Theseus and Asterius posed together as the shade of an old painter prepared a portrait for them both. Asterius was used to sitting still for an extended period of time, but Theseus couldn’t help but to shake his leg, or rub Asterius’ hand, or try to start a conversation (leading to him quickly being hushed). Just as he predicted, Thesus still found the process of being painted to be an extremely sluggish affair. Rather than sitting and looking nice next to Asterius, he’d much, much, much rather be busy with cherishing him. But they had all the time in the world for that, he supposed. He could attempt to ignore his own restlessness, at least for now. And yet… When the shade announced that they’d finished, Theseus could not help but to groan out an exasperated “Finally!”, and even Asterius slumped backwards in his seat with a sigh, exhausted from having to hold his pose for so long. Within the painting, Theseus was wearing the blue cloak he once treasured as a youth, with Asterius wearing a matching one in a slightly darker hue. He sat poised on the bull’s broad lap, his smile vibrant, and Asterius’ curls were decorated with all his favourite flowers. Though it was just a painting, he could still feel the love Asterius had in his eyes. How strange it was, that his heart swelled with joy seeing this version of himself— the version of himself that had Asterius by his side, for now and for always. Soon the painting was placed within a frame of elaborate gold (Theseus had rushed out and purchased it mere minutes after Asterius suggested the idea of a professional painting, impulsive as always), and hung within their main room, next to several smaller paintings of Theseus’ family, and some created by Asterius himself.

(And on the wall immediately beside the portrait, folded up within a simple wooden frame, two amateurish paintings rested side by side, both signed with pride by their artists.)

#📚 codex #👑🐂 the king and the bull (thesterius)

13 notes · View notes

pastafossa · 2 years

Note

Hey! I love to listen to music that fits a theme when I’m reading, and I’ve put together a small Red Thread playlist, including the songs you’ve mentioned in notes and stuff, I was wondering if there’s any other songs that remind you of The Red Thread, and would you mind sharing them? I don’t mind a t o n of songs too, the more the merrier!!!

Oh I totally get that, I almost always have music I'm listening to that fits the theme when I'm either writing or reading! There's just something about it that puts you in a perfect mood, and sometimes I'm even looping a single song for a specific chapter, again either reading or writing it.

I actually have an entire TRT playlist on spotify if you're looking for everything I have for TRT! At this point it's about half me and half recommended songs by readers. There ARE however some standouts that I quite like that haven't mentioned in the fic I don't think. I'll ⭐ the one that I remember coming from readers! A song for the Hound of Los Angeles: Stay Alive by Hidden Citizens

I do what I need to What I have to Well, you can try To be civilized But I'm gonna stay alive

A song for the Devil and the Hound (and one of my favorites for them): Woke Up A Rebel by Reuben and the Dark

I am wild, I am lost I am sick, I am damned But I am holding redemption in the palm of my hand

A song for Matt: Death of Me by Saint Phnx

I feel it in my bones The devil's at my door So help me This will be the death of me

A song for Jane and Matt early on: War of Hearts (Acoustic) by Ruelle ⭐

I can't help but love you Even though I try not to I can't help but want you I know that I'd die without you

A song for Jane to Matt during our 'I'm hiding my secrets from Matt' arc but also works as a general song for Jane: Neptune by Sleeping at Last

Thread by thread, I come apart If brokenness is a work of art Surely this must be my masterpiece I'm only honest when it rains If I time it right, the thunder breaks When I open my mouth I wanna tell you, but I don't know how

Another powerful song by the same artist (I literally have an entire playlist just by this artist since so many fit, with special notes paid to the enneagram songs) for both Matt and Jane that encompasses both their childhoods: Eight by Sleeping at Last

Here I am, pry me open What do you want to know? I'm just a kid who grew up scared enough To hold the door shut And bury my innocence But here's a map, here's a shovel Here's my Achilles' heel

A song for Jane early on: all of the midnights album Dear Reader by Taylor Swift⭐

Dear reader, the greatest of luxuries is your secrets Dear reader, when you aim at the devil Make sure you don't miss

A song for Matt to Jane: It Will Come Back by Hozier⭐

Don't let me in with no intention to keep me Jesus Christ, don't be kind to me Honey, don't feed me, I will come back

A song from Jane to Matt: With You Til The End by Sam Tinnesz, Tommee Profitt ⭐

When your fears are not fading And there's parts of you breaking I'll hold the pieces all together with my hands Though the night feels lonely I won't leave you behind me Deep inside I know I can't

Each of those are on the playlist along with a lot of other good songs. I've started to wander through some other TRT playlists on Spotify too when I have the time, and there's some awesome songs on them, so if you're looking for even more after this, I highly recommend giving those a look, too!

#the red thread #the red thread playlist #i love that playlist because it's half me and half all ya'll and there's so many cool songs on it now #i *try* to keep from repeating an artist too much but sometimes they just FIT #taylor swift's got a ton and so do banners and sleeping at last #always happy to hear about other songs!

42 notes · View notes

helpmeimblorboing · 11 months

Text

Post-Patroclus-death - Odysseus meets him one last time (another excerpt from my book)

In my dream, I stand in a vast void, devoid of light, and of sound – a gaping, empty nothing, as dark as Erebus. There is nothing before me, and nothing behind me. An abyssal nothing above me, and the floor beneath is as dark as the void I look up, my eyes raking my surroundings, before a voice comes, as soft as the fall of a snowflake, as biting as the sharpest cold. I recognize it instantly, it swirls around me like the eddying currents of a whirlpool.

I turn to face him Patroclus stands behind me, his form distorted and warped, appearing to me as if through layer upon layer of water, and I am reminded of the blunt-nosed, waterlogged corpse of the hydros I slew, back in Phthia. An innocent life, slain to strengthen Achilles.

Perhaps I wasn’t as wise as I thought, after all.

He moves, and I see that his lower half seems to slips away into shadow, as though it is immaterial, invisible. His wounds gape against his bluish-gray skin, inky-black blood spilling from them. His eyes are sad, roaring whirlpools of misery

“He refuses to let me go”, the younger man whispers, and his voice resounds like the harmony of a thousand echoes, as tempting as a Siren’s song. The voice of a shade, luring me into the darkness of Hades I am silent, the roaring guilt has robbed me of speech. I simply stare at him, as his head rises

“Does he think I will cease to love him, should I pass on ?”, he wonders to himself, and his voice is tinged with sorrow, “I will not. I will never. Should I be blessed to retain my spirit beyond Death’s Five Rivers, I would still love him more, and more. He is a star, I know, the man who holds my heart, for he burns his own life, that he may be bright”

“Not any more”, I say, and his head snaps to me. My voice is hoarse, soft as a breeze, “Now he lives only to avenge you”

“I know”, he says, and his head falls like a stone, as if weighed down by choking guilt. I know the feeling. “It is my fault”

He looks up, and his yearning eyes, hollow with hunger, stare into the void that surrounds us, as if somewhere out there sat Achilles, able to hear the voice of his beloved. Perhaps he did, but it would not cure him of his destructive madness to hear it

He speaks again, and his voice is barely audible, as soft as ash falling to earth. His body is pale as the silvery surface of Artemis’ chariot – that celestial body some call the Moon – and as grey as the ash of dead men. He looks hard and cold – carved out of marble and suffering

“I caused this, didn’t I ? This destruction. This rage. He is the sun, and I, the moon…. But there are such things as eclipses, too. There is no way, to heal him of it, for he is glass, and I have shattered him beyond repair. Sometimes, I wonder”, he looks away, and his eyes are unfathomably sad

“I wonder if the simple truth of it is that loving another makes you live a half-life. One half of your soul will always belong to the other. Who did this to us? You take away a human’s lover, his ability to love, and that ability becomes crippled, a shaking, shriveled thing, wincing at every glimpse of light. Take away a human’s feelings of love and desire and want, and you take away the human themselves. We leave behind ghosts and empty shells, wandering the world half-blind. Always alone. Always lonely.”

I am silent. No words could possibly capture the emotion that swirls in my throat. At last, my lips part, and I speak, “"People are like rivers, those who rage for no reason, like Agamemnon, are often shallow; but when the truly deep ones rage, they sweep away countries with them. Hector will not live to see tomorrow’s moon"

He laughs, a broken, cynical noise, “Is that your way of comforting me ?”

Am I a sadomasochist ? Why do I love hurting myself ?

#lgbt #gay #angst #achilles #patrochilles #patroclus #silvertongue #original work #greek mythology #writing community #book writing #creative writing #writers on tumblr #writing

5 notes · View notes

fallen--leafs · 2 years

Text

Night 5

This night, Robbie and Duncan get to celebrate their reunion!! Robbie is on his way to the cave with fresh resources when Duncan stumbles across his path—And suddenly the medical supplies make sense. He drops everything and helps his boyfriend to safety, where they spend a good amount of time tending to his wounds. True fanfic material. I bet it’s really cute 🥺

On another cute and maybe gay note?? Kitty and Harlow crossed paths. Alessio after a frustrating hunt just dropped down and apparently planned to sleep where he sat, but Kitty had all intentions to make it back to the shack. Until, Harlow. The first meeting is tense - both former kindred, both a similar demographic… And both reaching the conclusion that if they split now, one will definitely hunt down the other. And it’s probably gonna be Kitty. So they truce, get on a fire…. And even cuddle for a bit. For warmth, of course. It’s cute!!

So where did Harlow’s former hunting party go??

They all decided to split up, each reaching a point where they don’t exactly trust anyone to sleep nearby them.

Hubert has taken this mistrust and turned it into Safety Measures. He nests up in a tree for a night, enjoying a good look over the immediate surrounding area as he settles down to sleep. Achilles meanwhile, departs from the party… And immediately gets lost. He wanders off in A Direction, unknowingly away from most other tributes…. And eventually he too makes his lonely camp.

#HG Tag

6 notes · View notes

dhampiravidi · 1 year

Text

mythical ships: Oraia & Achilles

basically a "wanted deities/heroes". Ofc this might change as I actually RP more stuff w/my two Hellenic Myth-inspired muses. Ideas for plots under the cut bc not everyone likes this kind of NSFW. A hyphen indicates a "package deal" AKA a poly situation!

Oraia: a Muse, Artemis, Aphrodite-Hades, Persephone, or Nyx as far as female goddesses go. Shades in the Underworld or heroes in the time they lived in would also be cool. & then there's Apollo, Dionysus-Ariadne...

Muse: Oraia's collecting some artifacts, as she does in her modern-era job when she comes across one/more of the Muses. Their conversation turns into a long night in her hotel room/whatever venue she was researching in.

Artemis: the huntress teaches Oraia self-defense. Either during their first meeting, or later on in life, the women enjoy each other's company.

Aphrodite: fuck. Let's just say that Oraia goes from being very naive/curious about sex in her early centuries of life to being very...experienced 😁.

Persephone-Hades: maybe the nature goddess is lonely while on Earth. Or maybe she sees Oraia (who sometimes journeys to the Underworld) & asks Hades for a present.

Nyx: Oraia walks into the primordial goddess's lair. Most are afraid of Nyx. Oraia is just really horny.

Shades/Heroes: depends on the canon's backstory.

Apollo: she's fantasized about him since the first time a nymph told her stories concerning the God of Light/Music/Truth...& then one day he's just THERE.

Dionysus-Ariadne: there's a party. The three share drinks, food, partners, kisses...(probably ends up as a FWB deal)

Achilles: Ares, Dionysus-Ariadne, Apollo & OFC Patroclus, Hector-Andromache, Eros, Persephone-Hades

Ares: they were on opposite sides during The War. Achilles is now a king that is secretly bored & forever mourning Patroclus, his soulmate. Ares offers a deal: if he bests Achilles, he gets to fuck the hero. If Achilles bests him, he brings Patroclus back from the dead for one night.

Dionysus-Ariadne: their lil wandering band of Maenads come to Phthia, disguised as regular entertainers. The new king invites the leaders to his personal rooms.

Apollo: dear GODS I have SO MANY GOOD BAD IDEAS--

Patroclus: ;-;

Hector-Andromache: the guys fall in love on the field. Achilles stops fighting (canonically) & Hector thinks his new crush got killed. Then the war ends (both Hector & Andromache are alive w/their baby; no, Hector didn't kill Patroclus). Achilles forbids anyone from touching his "prizes" & takes them home w/him to protect them *cue love*

Eros-Psyche: either way before the war, where Eros is summoned after Achilles angsts about the difference btwn his feelings for Patroclus (his soulmate) & Deidamia (baby momma)--or after the war, when Achilles curses Love for fucking him up *cue hatefucking that turns to hurt/comfort, totally consensual* & IDK if Psyche becomes besties w/Achilles or lovers, but she's in on it!

Persephone-Hades: yeah so uh...they think he's pretty & he's down for that.

#oraia: headcanon #achilles: headcanon #wishlist #greek myth rp #greek mythology rp #the iliad rp #gods rp #admin

0 notes

fandomtrumpshate · 3 years

Text

Unlisted Fandoms Challenge Update

Coming out of the first weekend of FTH2022 signups we've added TWENTY-TWO new fandoms to the write in offerings, bringing us to a total of 119! New since the last update are -

Cowboy Bebop Dimension 20 Fruits Basket Generation Kill Grace and Frankie Greedfall Happiest Season House MD Megamind Nancy Drew (TV 2019) October Daye Order of the Stick Sanditon Shadow and Bone Spartacus Spiritpact/Qing Li The Disastrous Life of Saiki K The Lone Ranger To the Moon Trash of the Count's Family Wander over Yander What We Do in the Shadows Yu Yu Hakusho

On the leaderboard, SVSSS (Scum Villain's Self-Saving System) has not only hung onto the lead, it's increased it! We still have ties for 2nd place (Rusty Quill Gaming and SK8 the Infinity), 3rd (Bleach and The Maze Runner are now joined by Hunter X Hunter and The Terror), and 4th (Anne with an E/Anne of Green Gables and Roswell New Mexico). Several fandoms also received their second signup and moved up in the rankings.

Want to see one of your fandoms move up the list? Sign up to create fanworks and encourage your favorite fandom creator(s) to sign up too! Signups are open through Feb 13!

Full list below the cut -

12 SVSSS (Scum Villain's Self Saving System) 5 Rusty Quill Gaming Podcast 5 SK8 the Infinity 4 Bleach 4 Hunter X Hunter 4 The Maze Runner 4 The Terror (TV 2018) 3 Anne with an E / Anne of Green Gables 3 Roswell New Mexico 2 9-1-1 Lone Star 2 Cosmere - Stormlight Archive (Brandon Sanderson) 2 Eerie Indiana 2 Gilmore Girls 2 Grace and Frankie 2 House M.D. 2 Imperial Radch Series - Ann Leckie 2 London Spy 2 Lucifer (TV) 2 Musicals 2 Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint 2 Parasol Protectorate 2 Pokemon (Games) 2 Red White and Royal Blue 2 Spartacus 2 Succession 2 The Green Hornet 2 The Lone Ranger 2 Tortall 2 Tower of God 2 Transformers Prime G1 IDW and Animated 2 Trash of the Count's Family (Lout of the Count's Family) 2 Yu Yu Hakusho 1 Actor RPF (any combo of Luca - Marwan - Ale - Matthias) 1 All American 1 Ballet Canon (eg Swan Lake/Giselle/La Sylphide) 1 Banana Fish 1 Bioshock 1&2 1 Black Sails 1 Black Summer 1 Cowboy Bebop (Netflix 2021) 1 Death Note 1 Destiny 2 1 Dice Punks 1 Digimon 1 Dimension 20 1 Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency 1 Dragon Ball 1 Dragonriders of Pern Series - Anne McCaffrey 1 Erha /2ha /Husky and His White Cat Shizun 1 Euphoria 1 Fear Street 1 Formula 1 RPF 1 Fruits Basket 1 Generation Kill 1 Giselle (ballet) 1 Golden Kamuy 1 Greedfall 1 Grimm 1 Gris (Video Game) 1 Hamilton 1 Happiest Season (movie) 1 Hot Fuzz 1 Inuyasha 1 Jujutsu Kaisen 1 Jurassic Park/Jurassic World (movie trilogies) 1 Justified 1 Lord Peter Wimsey 1 Major Grom 1 Malevolent (podcast) 1 Megamind (2010) 1 Minecraft: Story Mode 1 Miss Marple/Marple 1 Mob Psycho 100 1 Nancy Drew (TV 2019) 1 Nine Worlds - Victoria Goddard 1 October Daye Series - Seanan McGuire 1 One Direction 1 Order of the Stick 1 Outlast games 1 Pacific Rim 1 Peaky Blinders (BBC) 1 Sanditon (TV 2019) 1 Shadow and Bone (TV) 1 Slayers (Hajime Kanzaka) 1 Smallville 1 Smile For Me 1 South Park 1 Spinning Silver (Naomi Novik) 1 Spiritpact/Ling Qi 1 Stargate: Atlantis 1 Suits (TV) - Marvey 1 T. Kingfisher Clocktaur Duology and Paladin Romances 1 Tamora Pierce works 1 Ted Lasso 1 The Disastrous Life Of Saiki K. 1 The Goblin Emperor 1 The Hour 1 The Iliad/The Song of Achilles 1 The Last Kingdom 1 The Legend of Drizzt 1 The Man From UNCLE (TV) 1 The Murderbot Diaries 1 The Penumbra Podcast 1 The Queen's Thief 1 The Walking Dead (TV) 1 Tianbao Fuyao Lu 1 To the Moon (video game series) 1 Umbrella Academy 1 Undertale 1 Veronica Mars 1 Wander over Yonder 1 What We Do In The Shadows 1 Wheel of Time (TV Series only) 1 White Collar 1 Wynonna Earp (TV series) 1 X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies) 1 Yakuza/Ryuu Ga Gotoku 1 Yona of the Dawn

#fth2022 #fandom trumps hate #fanworks charity auction #unlisted fandom challenge

43 notes · View notes

itsthatoneidiot · 3 years

Text

Even more songs the Ghost family would like

Kanan

Bones In The Ocean & Ashes/Longest Johns

Fairytale/Alexander Rybak,

Achilles Come Down/Gang of Youths

Undercover Martyn/Two Door Cinema Club

Wander Wonder/The Arcadian Wild

Hera

Where No One Goes/Jónsi

Paradise/Coldplay

Home/Phillip Phillips

Renegades/x Ambassadors

For The Dancing and The Dreaming

Hey Look Ma I Made It/P!ATD

Road Less Traveled/Lauren Alaina

Sabine

Good Times/All Time Low

Bang!/AJR

Misery Business/Paramore

Small Talk/Call Security

No Children/The Mountain Goats

Lone Star/The Front Bottoms

The Hand That Feeds/The Crane Wives

Ezra

Medicine/Artist vs. Poet

ADHD/Truslow

I'm Just a Kid/Simple Plan

Pompeii/Bastille

Aphrodite/The Ridleys

On Top Of The World/Imagine Dragons

The Fine Print/The Stupendium

Zeb

Horror in the Wild/The Amazing Devil

Viva La Vida/Coldplay

Teenagers/MCR

Highway To Hell/AC/DC

Be Legendary/Pop Evil

Thanks, I Hate It/Simple Creatures

Chopper

You're Gonna Go Far Kid/The Offspring

S.O.S./The Glorious Sons

Song they all cry to (minus the murder bot) Blame by Air Traffic Controller

#i could only think of a couple for chop bc look at him #swr #star wars rebels headcanons #songs #i think theyd like them #zeb orrelios #hera syndulla #kanan jarrus #ezra bridger #sabine wren #chopper #c1 10p

18 notes · View notes

acadianideals · 2 years

Text

lone wanderer! now, you might notice he looks a little different-- be nice, he's sensitive.

he could never fight. does that show? untalented, he'd much rather stay in the safety of the vault. but when his dearest father went missing, he got brave and followed his dad's trail, bravely ignoring the clicking of the geiger counter-- until he noticed his flesh was melting off and thought 'hey-- maybe I'm NOT cut out for this! shit!!'. lost his pip-boy somewhere along the way [impressive!] and never found his dad. struggles to find safety. doesn't wanna go feral. the norm.

#fallout #fallout 3 #fo3 #lone wanderer #lone wanderer oc #my art #lone wanderer: achilles

45 notes · View notes

ashesandhalefire · 4 years

Text

i know, you know

alex, michael, and a lonely hearts club gone slightly awry.

inspired by @malex-cupid day one and three themes: wooing my way into your heart and valentine’s day.

“Okay, here’s a nightmare scenario,” Michael says as he eases back down onto the couch with another slice of pizza in his hand. He crosses his ankles on the coffee table and bites the tip off. Alex raises an eyebrow expectantly, drawing a sip from his beer, and Michael nods. After a rough swallow, he wipes the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “I once hooked up with a girl on February thirteenth. Totally lost track of the date.”

Alex rolls his eyes. “That’s not a nightmare scenario for someone like you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Michael takes another bite of his pizza and tries to talk around a mouthful of cheese, face twisted with playful indignation. “Someone like me?”

Alex leans his head against the back of the couch and says, “Charming people never end up in nightmare scenarios because they can, by default, charm their way out of anything.”

Brow furrowing, Michael wrinkles his nose. “I don’t think I’ve ever been called charming in my life. A few other choice words, sure, but not charming.”

“Well, I guess my perspective is a little different from the sheriff’s department. In my experience, you have a tendency to be very good at saying the right thing.” Alex wiggles his left foot where it sits, tucked beneath the center cushion on the couch, and rubs distractedly at his right knee. The knot in his sweatpants jostles close to Michael’s hip.

Entirely by accident, he’s significantly more dressed-down than Michael is in his slim jeans and crisply colored flannel. Neither piece of Michael’s outfit has the well-worn softness of his usual wardrobe, none of the torn seams or threadbare elbows, but the top two buttons of his shirt are undone like always and the collar hangs wide against his clavicle. Alex tries not to let his eyes linger.

As he chews through another bite, Michael stares back at him, and the gaze feels heavy enough that Alex turns away. “And, please, you’re sitting on my couch, watching my television, drinking my beer, and eating my pizza. If that’s not the direct result of charm, what is it?”

“Dumb luck,” Michael says. Amusement glints in his eyes as he licks his lips. “Besides, this whole lonely hearts club thing was your idea.”

“Yeah, but it was originally a party of one.”

Alex had quickly opted out, making his answer a polite but firm no, when Kyle mentioned the flier on the Crashdown’s front door that advertised the latest Wild Pony cash-grab attempt, but that hadn’t prevented him from running face-first into Isobel’s advertising efforts all over town for the next week and a half. General buzz at the post office and hospital implied that her reputation for event planning had drummed up some genuine interest from the locals, and that in and of itself cemented his plan for the weekend as pizza, beer, and whatever cable had to offer. His plan had, at no point, included running into Michael in the candy aisle at RiteAid at three o’clock in the afternoon on Valentine’s Day.

With an armful of personal care items marked with discount stickers, Michael had taken one look at the prescription envelope in Alex’s right hand and the box of chocolates in his left and said, “Got a hot date?”

“No,” Alex had said, wishing he’d chosen to put on something neater than his faded sweatpants. Michael rarely looked presentable by general standards, but he always looked good. “Just chronic pain and a sweet tooth.”

“You should come back tomorrow,” Michael had suggested. “Better sales after the holiday.”

“True, but then I won’t have anything to eat tonight.”

Michael had visibly perked, even though his face stayed neutral. “You’re not going to the singles night thing at the Pony? I thought Valenti would have roped you in for sure.”

“No.” Fleetingly, Alex had considered the idea of wandering through the crowded bar, equally decorated in distasteful neon and garish party store hearts, and trying to pick which of the Pony’s regular stock might like to have his drink bought by an openly gay veteran with one leg while his friends watch from the sidelines of their depressingly stable relationships. “There’s not enough booze in the world.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Michael had laughed. He hadn’t quite met Alex’s eye as they both carefully side-stepped the rest of the conversation. Alex had stopped paying attention, so he wasn’t sure if Michael had retaken to running up a tab yet. “Is is completely pissed at me, but I told her there was no way in hell.”

Alex had swallowed. “Got a hot date?”

“Totally,” Michael had said. He held up his hand and wiggled his fingers. “I think you’ve met him.”

In retrospect, Alex blames the rest of the conversation on the fact that he’s been unshakably in love with Michael since he was seventeen. For the better part of a month, he’s been trying to work up the courage to throw out a line. But they exist in a strange no-man’s-land of casual acquaintanceship that borders on friendship and romance simultaneously, and Alex hasn’t quite found the right way out yet.

“If you don’t have plans tonight, you could swing by.” Michael, already at the end of the aisle when Alex called after him, had looked mildly startled when he turned around. “We can get pizza. Or something. Whatever goes with beer.”

“Everything goes with beer in my world.”

“It’ll be a lonely hearts club type of thing,” Alex had said, primarily for the deniability.

Michael had cocked his head. His eyes drifted lower and lower until they paused and climbed back up Alex’s body at a crawl. “Are you lonely?”

“I had a nose ring, remember?” Alex had clutched the prescription bag in his fist with a crunch and forced himself to laugh, even as bashful panic squeezed at his throat. “You don’t end up with a nose ring and Danger posters on your walls at seventeen unless you’re deeply lonely.”

A slow smile had stretched across Michael’s face, and he ducked his head like it was too private to share with the open aisle. When he looked up again, he wrinkled his nose to help steady his armful of bottles with a nudge of his telekinesis. “I’ll see you at six, then. Pizza and beer.”

Now, Michael breaks a wayward string of cheese away from his last bite and asks, “You want me to go home? Leave you to your pity party?”

“No. I’m enjoying the company. I think it’s because you’re so charming.”

Michael laughs. “You’re so full of shit.”

“Fine, don’t believe me. But hooking up with a girl who was looking for a hookup on the day before Valentine’s Day is not a nightmare scenario.”

“Alright,” Michael says, nudging Alex’s bent knee, “so give me a better example.”

“Uh, pizza and beer with a guy that never learned how to chew with his mouth closed?”

Michael tears into the crust of his slice and says, muffled by food, “I’ll leave anytime. Just say the word.”

Alex pulls his foot out from under the couch cushion and rolls his heel into the side of Michael’s thigh. “Don’t be disgusting!”

Mashing his teeth, Michael chews with his mouth open for another two bites and then relents. He drops a hot palm into the exposed skin of Alex’s ankle, holding it in place, and Alex manages not to react until Michael strokes his thumb into the hollow beside his Achilles tendon.

“I need a refill. Do you want another beer?” he asks, pulling his leg away and turning to plant his foot on the floor. He bends down to grope beneath the couch for his crutch.

“Yeah, I’ll take another one.” Michael stands, taking his empty bottle in hand, and says, “I’ll get it. I know my way around the fridge.”

As he shuffles between the couch and the coffee table, he drops a hand onto Alex’s left shoulder and squeezes. The touch is gone almost as soon as it starts, but Alex still lets out an audible squeak on his next exhale.

Being touch-starved is hardly new, but it makes him feel like an especially pathetic rescue cat when his body shivers at the barest graze. Twice it happened when Kyle leaned over to look at his laptop and put a hand on his back while they worked on the salvaged hard drives together, and Alex had barely been able to hide the heated flush in his cheeks. It’s more humiliating with Michael, somehow, because Michael has always been exactly the same. He’s always turned into Alex’s touch with eagerness, always looked for the most contact he could find. Something about touch between them turning casual and unaffecting on his end while Alex is gasping like an Austen heroine is especially unsettling.

He takes three deep breaths, holding the air in his chest and releasing through pursed lips, and then Michael squeezes between the end table and the chair with two beers. He twists the tops off with a twitch of his nose, and Alex watches the bent metal land on the coffee table with a ding.

“Show off,” he says as Michael hands him a bottle. Their fingers brush against the glass. “You’ve never fought with a jar of pasta sauce in your life.”

Michael eases back down onto the couch, snagging the last garlic knot from the crimped tinfoil on the coffee table on the way, and says, “Rubber band trick works wonders. Not that I’ve ever needed it.”

“Smug bastard.”

Alex watches the bob of Michael's throat as he takes a long draw from his beer.

“Oh, here. Almost forgot.” Michael pops the rest of the garlic knot into his mouth and lifts his hips off the couch to give himself room to root around his pocket. After a moment of tugging, he tosses something across the couch. It lands on Alex’s thigh. “For your sweet tooth.”

Alex stares down at the packet of SweeTARTS heart candies, emblazoned with the same sentimental phrases as classic conversation hearts. “These are sour.”

“Well, yeah, but aren’t those the ones you like?”

Fingers toying with the crimped edges of the paper wrapping, Alex nods.

“Then Happy Valentine’s Day.” Michael sucks a spot of oil and garlic from his thumb. “I had to go to, like, four different CVS stores to find them.”

“Thank you,” Alex says. “You didn’t— I didn’t get you anything.”

Michael shrugs. “You paid for dinner. Least I could do was pick up some candy.”

Darkness creeps up on them while they trade sarcastic commentary about the fake detective comedy marathon they found on a higher cable channel. The lone bulb still on over the sink casts a warm yellow glow across the kitchen and dining room, and the living room flickers between dark and light as the scenes change on the television.

Alex glances down at Michael, who has made himself comfortable with one leg dangling off the edge of the couch and the other curled up against the arm. His head rests on a pillow that he laid atop Alex’s right leg, and he has Alex’s left leg stretched out in front of his chest to keep it from blocking his view.

The shift was gradual: he slumped sideways and curled his legs up; he leaned on his elbow and tried to stretch out; he whined about his neck and grabbed the pillow off the floor, checking that it wouldn’t bother Alex’s knee if he put pressure on it; and he grabbed Alex’s left leg by the ankle to straighten it out while complaining that he couldn’t see. And now Alex’s shin is pinned beneath Michael’s palm, feeling the rise and fall of Michael’s chest whenever he chuckles at one of the jokes.

They’ve spent hours together, rolling around in Michael’s cot and the back of his truck and motel beds, but Alex isn’t sure they’ve ever been more intimate. Quiet stillness has always been difficult for them to come by, and he can barely remember the last time they spent an afternoon together without some sense of doom hanging over their heads. They’ve certainly never laid on a couch together for four hours.

Michael shifts, rolling onto his side, and his hand drifts down towards the top of Alex’s foot. The calluses on his palm catch against the weave of his sock, and Alex listens to the faint scratch of material without breathing. After a moment, Michael’s fingers slip beneath the elastic at the bottom of his sweatpants, and he strokes absently at the ball of Alex’s ankle.

The fears and the doubts are as present as they’ve been for the last few weeks. All of their baggage is exactly the same.

Alex winds one of Michael’s curls around his finger, and he feels the stutter in his breathing.

With empirical evidence like that, he has to be brave.

He mutes the television and says, “I don’t have to work tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Michael glances up. “Is this…new information? Should we be celebrating?”

“No, I mean—” Alex swallows. “I don’t have to go out tomorrow, so if you stay over afterwards, we can talk.”

Michael stares at him. “After what?”

Alex shrugs, but his eyes linger pointedly on Michael’s mouth.

“Oh,” Michael says. He turns onto his stomach slowly, like he thinks moving too quickly will turn Alex skittish, and then he eases up onto his knees between Alex's legs. Carefully, he pushes the pillow on Alex’s lap out of the way and onto the floor. “Yeah. Yeah, I could stay over. Afterwards.”

Light from the silent television flickers against the side of his face, and Alex reaches for the loose collars of his shirt. Michael bends pliantly, anchoring his hands beside Alex’s shoulders on the arm of the couch, and lowers himself until their noses brush. Then, he hesitates. He nuzzles against Alex’s cheek, rolls their foreheads together, and sighs out a laugh.

Alex giggles back, a nervous sound he has no control over, and asks, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing. I just— I don’t wanna screw up. This has been a no-fly zone for weeks.”

“It really hasn’t.”

“It really has. I have the bruised ego to prove it.”

A missing piece slots into place in Alex’s chest, loosening every ounce of tension left in his body, and he sags down against the couch cushions. He takes a moment to look up at Michael, at the vulnerable pinch of anxiety that crinkles the corners of his eyes, and then he reaches up to smooth his thumb over the crest of Michael’s cheeks. The wrinkles worsen, so he tows Michael in by his hips and shakes his head. “No. No, you’re— you’re cleared to land.”

“That’s not— ” Michael blinks, and then says, affectionately, “Oh, fuck you.”

He laughs, deep in his chest, and finally presses his mouth to Alex’s. Alex surges into the kiss, letting it linger until the smile splitting across his lips forces Michael to pull back. He tries again, but Alex can’t relax his grin, so, for a moment, they just breathe, silhouetted in the dark.

Then, Michael says, “No regretting it tomorrow?”

Alex shakes his head. “No.”

“No nightmare scenario? No backslide with my ex?”

“No.”

“No… I scratched my itch, now get out of my house?”

“No!”

“Okay, good. Good. Because I’m playing for keeps this time.” He settles his weight between Alex’s thighs, and Alex is struck suddenly with the realization of how easy it is to be happy, how earned it feels after all this time.

They kiss, lazy and unhurried, until the cable box starts to idle in the background and leaves them in a nearly pitch black room. The last three buttons of Michael’s shirt come undone under Alex’s fingertips, and Michael’s unshaved jaw scrapes his mouth almost raw.

“Next year,” he mumbles against Alex’s cheek in a moment of reprieve, “I’m gonna fill this house with roses.”

Distractedly, Alex hooks his heel around the back of Michael’s calf and says, “If you somehow have a quarter of a million dollars to waste on that many flowers next year, we will not still be living in this house.”

Michael’s whole body jolts.

“We?” he teases gleefully, and he digs his fingertips into the soft back of Alex’s knee. “Did you just forget we don’t have a joint bank account? Oh, fuck, you really do like me.”

A hot flush rises in Alex’s cheeks as he squirms. “I like your fake money.”

“I think you mean our fake money.”

Alex laughs. “I fucking hate you.” He turns away, and Michael bends down to kiss the exposed line of his neck.

“You don’t,” he says between nips. “You really don’t.”

“No,” Alex agrees. “I really don’t.”

#michael x alex #malex #malex fic #malexcupid21 #roswell new mexico #alright it's DONE it's out of me so now i can read all the other ones lol #it's been a long while since i posted fic but!!! i kind of need them back together ASAP #my fic

121 notes · View notes

writer-and-artist27 · 3 years

Text

From my wandering mind (trying not to debate on who to Grail next, Skadi or Berserker Musashi/Shii-chan), I couldn't help but think about hugs with some of the Servants in my Chaldea.

Each Servant hugs a little differently, but when it comes to Vy and her posse of Heroic Spirits, they all have their distinct impressions.

Saber Alter is a bit awkward with hugs. She just doesn't do them, Servant or not. But when Vy's in a bad spot, she ends up placing a hand on top of Vy's head for pats. It just works out that way. Burgers aren't included, but Vy ends up finding one near her lunch tray later anyways. Alter seems to be aware of extra-tired days, which says a lot considering how many enemies Excalibur Morgan shut down back in the day.

Chevalier D'eon hugs like a comfy yet prickly burr of some kind, keeping Vy close with one arm around her waist while a hand stays close to her rapier. D'eon is still a Knight even in peacetime, and she can't let her new Lord get into trouble. She still remembers that one giant ghost from the beginning of their journey, and how much pain it caused Vy from just defeating the darn thing.

Medea hugs like a distant aunt that just reunited with you after some time away, eager for more affection without saying anything. Considering Vy almost always is smothered by the Caster, it's become a thing. Sometimes, Vy gets glimpses of a tall, dark man with glasses in her dreams and lets Medea hug harder. It's the least she can do.

Diarmuid barely initiates hugs on his own, most likely from his past with Fionn and Grainne. Vy often has to tug on his shirt hems instead to ask for permission, and he acts like a gentle tree when she eventually hugs him. He never pushes her away, but the hugs don't last long unless he feels up for extending the contact after a particularly tough battle. His mole has caused him plenty of trouble already, having a Master that's not affected in the slightest while letting him achieve his dream of being a loyal Knight is all that he's ever asked for. Letting her hug him every now and then is okay. Not all the time, though.

Archer EMIYA acts more like an unmoving rock compared to Diarmuid's tree stance sometimes, barely flinching when Vy wraps her arms around his waist from behind but not really reacting to her touch either. It takes Vy asking him, "Hug back?" that he eventually turns around and humors her, but his embrace is always hesitant while still being tight enough to remind Vy that he's been scarred in his journey to be a Hero. That physical contact for the sake of contact is something foreign to him. Vy tries not to think about what he's seen as a Counter Guardian, merely whispering, "Thankie, Shirou," into his shoulder every single time she hugs him, because it's the least she can do for the first Gold Archer who ever answered her call for help. She might not be able to do everything for him, but goddammit, she's gonna do her best so that he can rest too.

Marie Antoinette hugs like a sister would, giddy and giggling the entire time Vy comes close. She encourages the hugs the most out of the first group of Servants who answered Vy's call, eagerly taking them on even when Vy's shy about asking. Arms around Vy's back, squeezing warmly, and a cheek brushing the top of Vy's head. It makes for a cute image, and hey. Giving love is the least she can do. No one gets away scot free with calling Vy's body "dirty" from all the wounds she's been dealt. Vy has a heart big enough to even accept the darkest parts of Marie that she's seen of herself, after all. The least Marie can do in return is indulge a girl who really should've met some better people growing up.

Miyamoto Musashi, even as a Berserker, happily accepts Vy's hugs. It's partially because Vy's cute when tugging on Musashi's sleeve to ask, but it's also because without her sword, it's easy to get lonely when traveling the world. Being stuck in a swimsuit is the smallest price to pay when it means Vy can cuddle up to Musashi like she hasn't seen the swordswoman in years. It's nice having someone close by, and permanently too. Plus, as much as Vy says it's okay, Musashi still feels bad about eating udon out of a Grail to the point of causing a Singularity. Sure, it wasn't as bad as BB's apparent stunt last year, but it's egged Musashi on some. Not helped by Vy's occasional little mumble of, "Don't leave again, Shii-chan," into Musashi's chest after some simulator fights in that flaming castle tower.

Scathach-Skadi didn't know what to make of hugs at first. Even with her world gone and then later having traversed a lookalike of it with Vy, she's still a Divine Spirit. The last god after Ragnarok. Her hands have been cold for who knows how long. Yet Vy still chooses to lean against her side every now and then, arm faintly winding around Skadi's waist for that extra bit of warmth, and Skadi's gotten better at ignoring the urge to leave for ice cream. Novum Chaldea may be hot sometimes from the lack of working temperature control to Skadi's liking, but a little one's presence makes things tolerable. Skadi doesn't want to think about the world she lost, about the children she was made to leave behind from answering Vy's call back when Da Vinci was much larger in size and presence, but when remembering the Lostbelt she fought that other self in, she'd take Vy's hand any day, even if it burned. She made too many mistakes in her old world. Never again.

Ereshkigal hugs Vy timidly, almost like a bear trying to be aware of her strength in front of a cub. So many things could go wrong in Ereshkigal's point of view, but to Vy, it's just another friend who deserves hugs. Cold hands be damned, hugs make everyone feel warm and Eresh deserves nice things in Vy's brain. Ereshkigal fumbles even to this day, tongue-tied over formal language and plain sputtering, but the blush on her face makes it obvious she doesn't mind. No one really hugged her while she was still head of the Underworld, and now that Vy is with her for who knows how long, she's gonna cherish her little grape.

Achilles hugs like an over-excited big brother wanting to see his newly born sibling, eagerly catching Vy in his arms before she could even touch him to lift her up in the air. He's laughing the entire time in contrast to Vy's surprised squealing, but he can't help but twirl her around and watch the squeals change into surprised giggling. Catching her back into his chest once she gets dizzy is fun too, because he's the tallest out of the Grailed Servant group and can thus hide her away when some too-curious-for-their-own-good staff are glancing their way. Achilles can't help himself. Vy's laughter is cute and sounds more like the aspiring young woman she was supposed to be. At least in his arms, she could be Vy and not just Humanity's last Master.

Arturia hugs like that of a cat, coming to Vy's side when she feels it necessary. Even after being the Saber-class Servant in two Holy Grail Wars over, physical affection isn't her strongest suit. She admitted as much when Vy first asked her for permission to initiate a hug. Still, Arturia's gotten used to Vy gently asking for it, obliging almost every single time. Hugs are a bit too firm sometimes, but it's not to the point of EMIYA's rock. Arturia's still learning. Plus, Arturia can't help but see the similarities between Vy and her past self, and the last thing Arturia wants is Vy having a bad ending like how she did.

Robin Hood, unsurprisingly, ends up being the main person Vy ends up following for hugs, acting like a human-ish vine. Maybe it's the green clothes and the lack of smoke on him these days. Still, even if Robin doesn't respond to Vy's hugs immediately, it's almost always guaranteed that he's gonna wrap his arms around her eventually. With the way he hugs her back, it sometimes looks like he cradles her, using No Face May King to hide her away from the world while pressing his lips to her hair. Vy doesn't mind, often snuggling him via pressing her forehead into his shoulder and contentedly slumping against him in return. It helps that he's her first Hero and still is, even if he didn't answer her call at first. It took two months for him to show up during the Incineration of Humanity. Still, when Vy hugs him sometimes, she later dreams of hikes with her dad. The scent of the forest is strong with him, and Vy dearly hopes Robin gets as much comfort out of the gesture as she does. Thankfully, there's nothing to worry about. He hasn't stopped calling her "little sparrow", after all.

20 notes · View notes

jwxei · 3 years

Text

˗ˏˋ achilles' heel - chapter one ˎˊ˗

// the tyrant //

He's a monster, you would hear them say. Or that he's a devil; a dictator. That he is an arrogant brat that demolished everyone just to get what he wanted. That he planned to take the number one hero spot, and rid anyone who tried to get in his way, no matter the cost. His permanent bloodshot eyes screamed murder if you were unfortunate enough to get in his line of view. His hands were always clawed up in his pockets. The rumours that circulated him said that the only time he ever took them out was to scar your face with his explosions.

They say that his mother didn't even love him. That nobody loved or could ever love him. Nobody. He was alone and should stay that way, forever. It's not like he needed anyone anyways. Whenever anyone would try to start up a conversation, if they had the courage, they would always end up being blown up or yelled at. Insults harshly thrown at their face and tears welling in their eyes.

There have been multiple instances of sweet girls coming to confess their love for him. Hands trembling and gaze averted, as they gushed on about their feelings. Their faces dyed a deep pink while shaking hands thrust a homemade lunch box at him. His fierce glare would challenge them, looking for any sign of weakness. And when he does find a flaw, he would exploit it and deride them of their pride. The wasted food spilt on the floor would be accompanied by hot tears and harsh words. They say that he had talent, and a promising future. However, truth be told, no one wanted a future that involved him.

But when you saw him for yourself, he was nothing like the tales and gossip. The bitter frown he left was replaced with something more tame. His eyebrows were not stuck in a furrowed position. But more relaxed and perched perfectly above his eyes. The scowl that was permanently slapped into his face was no where to be seen. Instead his lips curled of that into a slight pout as he eyed his smartphone. With earphones plugged and a soft tune hummed, it seemed to you that he was just a man in his own little world.

Even so, people still feared the infamous blonde. Where he stepped, a smoky trail of unease followed. It seeped into the crowd and filled their lungs with doubt, possessing them to step back like cornered prey. Even the teachers felt a compelling pressure when walking past, their breaths sharply held and conversations hushed. A tense imprint hung in the air as he walked past. His foot steps were dragged and rough, but each step he took drove fear into everyone else around him. You could feel how the crowd around you froze with anticipation. The silent prayers those wove into the sky consisted of avoiding being the most recent victim of his torment.

He was coming this way now, closer than you had realised. Behind you, more students were edging away. Their murmurs echoed at the back of your head. Someone mustered up the courage to try and pull you back. You shook them off, giving a disapproving glance before returning to the charging man. You were intrigued, to say the least. How could anyone fear someone so serene looking? So calming? So amiable? Before you could complete the train of thought, you were abrupt snapped out of it by a crude push against your shoulder.

It was him, Katsuki Bakugo. His face turned back to meet your gaze, most likely as shocked as you were by the unforeseen force. He paused his walk and stared at you, crossing his eyebrows into a slight frown. For a second, you caught a glimpse into his private mind, and the world disappeared from view. A creeping feeling slowly made it's way to your chest, pumping your veins with adrenaline. It gave you a sense of energy and a sudden urge to just jump into his arms. It was like nothing you had ever felt before, and you weren't sure if you liked it.

The first thing that caught your attention were his eyes; a violent red hue. They trailed your features for a split second, before narrowing and yanking away. Now, the once relaxed expression that he so calmly wore was replaced with a distasteful scowl. Shifting away, he continued his walk to the school campus.

The further away he strayed, the livelier the crowd became. Girls could be heard squealing about how terrifying he was, or how attractive he was. There was no in between. Guys scoffed, and shouted amongst themselves once more, the lingering fear slowly evaporating with the seconds passing. In a second, everything had regained it's energy and U.A reverted to the bustling school it was famously known for.

But your eyes couldn't tear themselves from him. It fascinated you how he could change his demeanour just like that. One minute he's a Greek God, the next he's an evil ruler. However you managed to sympathise with him. He wasn't to blame either. If everyone treated you like a monster, you would soon convince yourself that you were one too. He was misunderstood. To make matters worse, no one would dare come near him. Soon enough, you found yourself wondering if he ever felt lonely because of all the unfriendly stares and secret whispers.

Whether he longed for someone to hold him in the middle of the night and soothe him to sleep. To kiss his forehead and tell him sweet nothings forever and ever. To grasp his hand as he would wander the streets of Japan like an excited child. He might have, you note down. Everyone has at some point, haven't they? But whether you liked it or not, you were spending the next three years of high school with him, so maybe a peek inside his curious mind would serve as payment, in return for the next years of Hell.

«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»

next chapter

24 notes · View notes

claybefree · 3 years

Text

A Letter to Josh Poteat

To be honest, I don’t know why I’m writing you this. It should have been the art I made for my ex-wife Mary in 1995, that she gave back to me in 2008 after I left her, that I later put in the trash. The art you told me recently got you working with shellac. It should be that I’m giving you, instead of this depressing thing about how I haven’t spoken with the oldest of my children in almost nine months, and the younger not since two Christmases ago.

I guess because when we talked about it before, I can’t remember exactly, maybe you asked in passing, “How’s the kids?” and I didn’t have an answer at the time. Maybe because I think you’ll understand me, like you always did. I haven’t been sleeping again lately, and this is when my mind wanders to the man I read about who died, trapped in a cave, but I don’t want to tell you about him. It’s too awful. If I find my mind lingering on him, I get seized by a whole body panic and I have to get up.

When I first got sober and couldn’t sleep, I went to war nightly with God. My mind was a scorched battlefield, blackened, shelled earth churned from trenches to craters. These days it resembles Zone Rogue in France, given back to nature and forbidden, saturated with ordnance, hundred year old arsenic lingering in craters. The toxic woods, wild and hoary, haunted now by deer and wild boar, trenches filled in with vines.

There is this vision I carry, not quite of myself- An old man alone in a mouldering trailer in the woods, bitter, childless and insane. No doubt, you have known such men. When I first got sober, he figured heavily in my mind- I considered this an alcoholic death even if I managed to stay clean.

It’s cold mornings like these- when I’m up early to feed the yowling cats, but again not quite early enough to manage to write, I wonder if perhaps he’s already arrived. I get on my worn out coat hanging by the leaky back door I haven’t fixed yet and head out into the frozen mud to free the chickens from their coop. The cracked tile floating underfoot like a shit-covered mosaic, and I remember to grab the screwdriver. I’m not using it to kill anyone, it’s to prize the eight little half-domes of ice from cups of their watering bucket. You know how this works. I always figured that, being a country-boy, you grew up with the same tales of horrors perpetrated against these birds, or else, like me, witnessed them firsthand.

Summer gets up and I finish my coffee with her as she tapes up my sprained hand. I try to get out the door before her kids wake. To facilitate quiet conversations that have a better chance of happening if I’m not around.

Pointing the truck toward Southside, it’s crossing the Powhite bridge where it really starts to bother me. Likely because it’s this point on the other side of the bridge, I’m only a mile away from their house. I ignore the river, bloated and steel grey, I’m looking for the nameless creek that empties into it there. I’m sure you know it, completely fabricated, it passes under Forest Hill and the train tracks. It’s cold outside the cab of my truck, but I’m not fooled by the last groan of winter. Studying the woods alongside the road, accessible as they aren’t yet burdened but the weight of all that green, I’m not sure what I'm looking for. Lost children perhaps. The sandy stretch where it emerges from snaking around behind the toll station is lined there with birches, flaking and slender, and shouldered with granite as it runs fast from a glut of late March thaw.

I’ve been going this way for a little over a month, filling a friend’s garage with sawdust from fabricating casework for bookshelves, paying particular attention to whatever happens to be going on with the creek as it seems to determine the flavor of grief for that week. Throughout the winter It’s been ever present, with me to the point I feel like there's something wrong, like a vitamin supplement I'm not taking.

Even though it’s been a string of bad days, the garage is warm enough, and I’ve been doing this work long enough I can rip down material on the table saw letting sadness wash over me without worry of losing a finger. I pay special attention to the music I listen to, so that I don’t have to take time and fall apart. At the end of the day I’ll sweep the dust-pile under the saw into a bucket for the chickens. There’s a ruined tire from the Harley I keep filled for them to bathe in. Which reminds me I haven’t told you about Greg the Bastard.

When Summer brought them home a year ago as chicks, they were unsexed, and as they grew, we inadvertently wound up with two roosters. Even though Greg is much bigger, he’s still number two and it’s made him skittish and unpredictable. Fierce Greg the Magnificent, Hen Raping Greg. He charges the dog as well as the kids now, and he’s even started to buck up on me. He stalks the yard like boys and men you and I have both known all our lives- insecure, large and dangerous. He doesn’t scare me, I’m more afraid the day will come when I will have to kill this animal.

In my twenties, Liz King, who you might know, got me a job after school let out with a woman I won’t name here. Another artist, she lived in an old farmhouse down Jeff Davis Highway and had been sexually assaulted by a man there. My job was to help powder and paint the place in order to put it on the market as she didn’t feel safe there anymore. We painted the whole inside. Flying the back roads in her pick-up to some Paint store way out Hull street, she told me how the man had befriended her dogs beforehand and how he threatened to kill her if she looked at him. I don’t remember asking her about it, just the image of her long legs in cut-off shorts clutching and shifting the small truck all over Southside. I made it most mornings, except after getting home late from a Rancid show in Hampton, I was too hungover and didn’t get to her place til well after noon. She was gone, but had worked the whole morning by herself. Later that day, when I called Liz to tell her how I fucked up, she fired me over the phone.

I bring all this up because she owned a lone rooster named Ajax, who hated me. Specializing in ambush tactics, I wasn’t safe anywhere in the yard from Ajax. The lady usually escorted me in from the gate, but heading out to the shed was dangerous. I can still feel him on the backs of my bare legs. Once, while rolling the living room ceiling and overwhelmed by the fumes of oil based primer, I stepped out on the front porch to dry heave a minute and catch my breath. Ajax heard and came stalking around the corner. Incapacitated, I cussed him, but head lowered, he came for me, creeping up the steps one terrible talon at time.

Later I made a six foot tall portrait of Ajax as best I could remember him. Crimson comb like a child’s depiction of fire out of control, waddles surrounding the beak blazing and reckless. The emerald of the sickle feathers a cyclone of green. Hock, shank and spur a series of harsh, black lines. Very Twombly-esque, it’s still hanging in my dad’s office. Based on this one hangover, I went on to make work for the next ten years depicting the Battle of Troy as a series of cock-fights. Achilles the Terrible dragging Man-killing Hector through the streets of Troy. That sort of thing. The drawing I made Mary came from that run.

I go home by way of the Huguenot bridge, because the Nickel bridge takes me directly in front of the house where my children live, which no matter how I’m doing, always threatens to cave my head in. If I go that way, I always think about stopping, and kneeling outside in the cold, perfect grass, with the thought if I wait long enough they might come out to see me.

I know it’s merely grief, the same garden variety of depression, that Chris Cornell said in an interview once was no less dangerous and could just as easily land a man on the end of a rope.

But that is not my way. I’ll drive home to Summer and her kids, help with dinner, watch TV and bed by ten thirty. Regardless. And if I find myself lying awake and the void comes, I won’t scream into it like the old days, I’ll sing to it. I don’t know why, maybe it’s a lament. Maybe I think my children will walk out of the darkness and into my arms.

18 notes · View notes

doubleshotofsomething · 4 years

Text

Needy

[ This is my submission for @sourpatchkidsandacokecan ‘s Little Darlin’ Mystery AU challenge. It is a three part soulmate au, inspired by the song Needy by Ariana Grande.]

What happens when you meet the one you had been looking for your entire life, only to find you’re not what they were hoping for?

Summary: You try to move on. You really do. But life just won’t let you.

Pairings: Bucky x Reader, Thor x Reader, Sam x Reader[Purely platonic]

Prompt: soulmate au. song prompt

Warnings: mentions of smut (nothing really major, unless you use a microscope), tiny mentions of abuse(microscopic), panic attack mentions, fluff maybe? for like a second?, angst(i think im getting good at that but probably not), Bucky is an idiot, everyone is an idiot here folks. Proceed with caution.

Prologue

Part One: [I admit I’m a little messed up]

“—dizzy yet?” You looked up at Sam, his soft eyes assessing you. “Nauseous?”

You shook your head, lowering your eyes back to the drip attached to your left arm. He was the only one in the room with you. He was always the only in the room with you, willing to wait until you were well enough to leave. Willing to keep you company.

A part of you was thankful, the thought of being alone in the Bruce’s Lab was daunting. Not even the scientist himself was willing to be there throughout the entire process, unless it was absolutely necessary. Or maybe the thought of being alone with you was what kept him from staying every time.

You frowned at the thought, the likeliness of it was unsettling. You didn’t even see Steve as much, anymore.

“You know what would be funny—” Sam grinned, still leaning against the door as he had been for the past hour. “—if he died halfway through the transfusion.”

That would be funny. And you would have genuinely laughed, loud and unapologetic, if swallowing your own spit didn’t still seem like a challenge whenever your soulmate was around, if breathing didn’t seem so impossible. If you heart didn’t have that overwhelming ache that won’t seem to go away anymore.

You would have laughed, honestly, but nothing seemed funnier that your predicament anymore.

“Don’t give him any ideas,” you offer him a genuine smile, “he’d do that just to have the upper hand.”

Just to spite me, you thought bitterly.

Sam chuckled, shoving hands into his jean pockets as he wandered further into the room. He hated the situation just as much as you did, you knew that because he voiced it every time he had to pick you up. But he couldn’t do anything except offer his presence, keep you company until Bruce was done getting whatever he needed from you.

This time, just like the past last two times, he needed your blood.

As it turns out, your soulmate decided to be hero, as if he wasn’t already one, and used his body as a shield to protect his wife from sniper shot. He could have moved her out of the way, if he’s fast enough to get in the way then he’s fast enough to get her out of the way. But he’s an asshole.

He’s an asshole that could have just let her get shot at – she was wearing a bulletproof vest anywhere – but he didn’t, because he probably gets paid to make your life a living hell.

The previous time you had a tube attached to you, he had pushed Tony out of the way and ended up with a poisoned dart attached to his neck. Tony was in his iron man suit, so the dart would have just bounced off. But your mate is an asshole that got himself poisoned, so you had to be pulled out of your best friend’s wedding for a blood transfusion that ended up poisoning you.

Bruce claimed that the poison shouldn’t have been able to enter your bloodstream, that the antibodies in your system were strong enough to fight and render it harmless, that the injection he had given prior was supposed to make it impossible for the toxin to survive. You and Sam called bullshit, hydra base poison was hydra base poison and nothing to keep it from not being toxic, but that didn’t prevent you from being hospitalised for two weeks.

Because your soulmate is an asshole.

“They haven’t come back for more blood—” you frowned as you tried to look passed the lab doors, finding no movement outside of the glass. “—do you think he’s awake?”

Sam frowned at that, turning to face you fully.

You couldn’t feel him anymore, you haven’t been able to since the vows, and you hated yourself for finding some sort of comfort in that. In the fact that he, too, couldn’t feel you anymore.

Sam knew that. One look at the bruising around your neck and he knew that the ties that bind had been damaged for good. Which is why he hated this, more than he could ever put into words. He hated that they all ignored the signs, that they put you in danger, and still made you save his life every time.

“I hope so,” he said, his brown eyes gentle as they continued to watch you. “Because, honestly, you’re starting to look anaemic.”

At that, you grinned at him. “I was wondering why the room was starting to move.”

“Y/N—”

“It’s a joke, Wilson.” You chuckled, shaking your head as you finally removed the drip from your arm, having done so enough times to know what you need to do. “I think that’s enough blood for now, anyway.”

It wasn’t a joke. The room had been moving since you stepped into the Tower, but they needed blood and the thought of declining didn’t sit well with you. It continued to move as you made your way to the lab, your feet taking you there on instinct, as if going to the lab was as routine as going to bed. Even now, as your heart rate had finally calm down and Sam’s presence had eased your anxious stomach, it still moved at the thought of the idiot you’d let get under skin.

Assholes and idiots were truly your Achilles’ heel.

He was awake.

You found out an hour later, after Bruce had cleared you and Sam had successfully convinced you to stay the night. You were too dizzy to be trusted on your own, and you couldn’t find it in yourself to force Sam to take you back home. So, you gave in.

He was still recovering, too weak to leave his bed. A part of you silently hoped he remained that way for the rest of the night, while a part of Sam vocally hoped he didn’t make it through the night.

Everyone else laughed and took that as a joke.

You laughed because you knew it wasn’t.

Sam stayed in the living room with everyone else, while you chose to go to your designated room for the night. You had accepted a little while back that this - whatever friendship you were trying to form with the group - would never work. It would never - could never, be genuine.

You wanted a soulmate, your soulmate, and they wanted a peaceful living environment. Resentment made for a terrible working environment and your presence brought about a truck load of it. So, naturally, they couldn't side with you even if they wanted to.

You hadn't noticed at first, the shift in the room whenever you were around. You just assumed it was the result of your nerves, or their unfamiliarity with you. So, you tried to ease the tension, to make it bearable for everyone involved. They had dealt with people trying to dismantle them, turn them against each other, and you just needed them to understand that that wasn't who you were.

Then, as the trips to the lab became more frequent, and Sam remained the only constant, you realised what the problem really was - you.

It didn't matter how good of a person you thought you were. Or needed them to know you were. Bucky would marry Wanda, and they would do nothing to help you stop that.

Bruce entertained your small talk because he was just nice, not because he was your friend.

Steve remained by your side only when necessary, only after your fights with Bucky, as if to ensure that you wouldn't lash out. As if you were that kind of person.

Natasha and Clint, in the brief moments that you had shared with them, were polite but always quick to leave the room. According to Sam, your entire situation was scary to them.

Tony only ever greeted in, only ever in passing. You were almost certain that you had talked more with Jarvis, than you had with him.

Sam was the only one that actually bothered with you, which was a problem for the team. Bucky didn't trust him to have his back anymore - not when he would side with you at any chance he got - and that made it impossible to send them both into field together. You tried to avoid him, he was an Avenger before he was your anything, figuring that you were doing the both of you a favour.

Rather drift apart than lose his friendship in the worst way, you figured.

But he was persistent. And patient. And had terribly good taste in music, and a great humour. And you were lonely and weak, and in desperate need of a friend.

So, you stopped ignoring his call as much as before. Stopped ignoring him every time he showed up at your place. You stopped denying yourself his consistency and started accepting that he wasn't terrible company for someone who hated labs.

You knew where you stood with everyone, at least you no longer had to force things.

"You're not even gonna say bye?"

Blue eyes stared back at you, trapping you in his gaze as your hand remained frozen over the car door handle.

He shouldn't be awake. You were quiet. You had woken up an hour earlier than usual to avoid bumping into any one of them, but clearly you weren't quiet enough for the super soldier to not hear you.

Bucky shrugs, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. "Figured you'd stay for breakfast, at least."

He says that so casually, so naturally, as if this was okay. As if what you two had - could have had, should have had - didn't fall apart at his hands. As if the marks on your neck would disappear within a couple of weeks, as if this was normal.

"I have things to do." Is your quiet response, neutral, as if your heart isn't beating painfully against your chest.

He frowns, taking a step forward, a step that has your eyes widening slightly at his movement.

"It's four a.m.," he states, eyebrows furrowing and face churning with a hint of disappointment. Disappointment with you, always you. "Calm down, doll, I can feel your heartbeat from here."

It's your turn to frown. He shouldn't be able to feel you, not anymore. Not after he chose her.

He seems to think that too, because he shrugs and lets out a sigh. "It's kinda hard to stay on bed rest when your anxiety is stronger than that coffee you drink."

You don't respond. You never do lately, and he understands that, knows that it's his fault. But you had moved to a different place, gotten a new number, changed workplaces, and he had to find all that out the hard way. With changed locks that his key no longer unlocks, sympathetic looks from the receptionist when she tells him that you quit over a month ago, and a different voice in the voicemails everytime he calls your old number. Despite both of your histories, you were still bonded to each other and you could at least talk to him.

You hate that he's doing this, to you, again. That he pushes you away, tells you he loves another woman, but still wants you to dance to the tune he's playing. You hate yourself even more for being too weak for this, too much for him.

His hair was still tousled and messy, his shirt wrinkled, and you hated seeing this part of him. Because this is the part that she gets, the part that should have been yours. The part of him that isn't fights and holes in walls and panic attacks in the middle of a shower.

This is the part that didn't have demons and freightcar and rusted and shattered glass every time you opened your mouth. This is the part that you don't get to have, because he could never give it to you, because Hydra was good, so damn good at making Winter Soldiers that the Soldat could never really leave Bucky.

Not while you're still alive.

"Breakfast?" he asks, after a moment of watching you. "Steve and I could drive you to work afterwards, I'm sure you still have some of your formal clothes here."

You shake your head at him, not able to find the words. Because this isn't how you pictured your relationship with your mate would be.

But this was the card you were dealt.

"Lunch?"

You frown.

"Come on, doll--" he runs his fingers - flesh, because metal is only ever reserved for you - through his hair, "--I'm trying to make up for everything."

"I have to go." You insist and get into your car before he can drag the conversation out, talk you into staying, into giving him parts of yourself he could never give back.

You leave and he lets you, for once. His chest heavy with the weight of your emotions, an ache for something he could never understand.

He couldn't be what you wanted, as much as he wishes he could. But he still wanted you to be happy. He'd give anything for you to be happy - almost anything.

Weren't you tired of being lonely?

You should have known who he was.

Who else could still stand after being hit by a car, at the speed you were driving?

But your vision was bleary, your stomach was cramping, and you weren't sure if your periods were early or if you were about to have another episode.

You should have known who he was. Who else could have been his height, had his strength and still asked if you were okay?

You don't usually cry when you first meet someone. But you cried when you met him.

You had rushed out of your car as soon as your actions registered in your head, practically stumbled your way to him, and wheezed as you fell on your knees in front of him.

"Are you alright?' His voice is deep, way too deep, as deep as the pit in your stomach it seemed.

You continued to wheeze, eyes wide with trepidation, struggling to find the strength to repeat his words to him.

You were having a panic attack; you were sure of it. You had left Bucky on an uncomfortable note and spent the entire day driving around in circles, avoiding your apartment. Scared that he had put a tracker, that he was following, that he would be waiting for you inside, vaguely aware that that line of thought wouldn't do you any good. Especially on your day off.

"Dead!" Is the first word that comes out of your mouth as your eyes frantically scan over him. "So dead! Oh, my, god--"

"Uh--"

"Gonna be attached to a tube in a prison cell--" your crawled closer to him, frantically feeling at him in search of any broken bones. "--I can't do prison. I couldn't-- I can't-- I'm not--oh, my, god!"

You couldn't calm down, not even as he assured you that he was fine, that he had survived far worse than a little bump.

Your car was dented where it had hit him, but he still got up without any difficulty. He helped you up as you gaped at him, still in shock and still rambling about things that neither of you understood.

He parked your car for you, took out your grocery bags - you didn't need to buy any of the things in them, but you were stalling so you bought whatever you thought you needed - and carried your things up the staircase with you.

You were still shaking and rambling and terrified. He took your keys and unlocked your door for you, letting you go in first.

You should have been terrified of him, he was a complete stranger and he could overpower you. He could do with you as he pleased.

But he told you a story about his brother pretending to be a snake when they were kids, and how his best friend would be proud to know that she wasn't the only one that could knock him off his feet.

Then he told you about his pet rabbit while extending his hand mid-air, caught an umbrella that flew in through the door and smiled at you.

Blue eyes crinkled at the corners as he watched you watch him, waiting.

You should have known who he was. What other human looked like him?

"Holy shit--" You cry again, harder than before, than earlier, because you hit an Avenger with your car and now, they knew where you lived.

Thor's smile disappeared slowly, then all at once. His eyebrows furrowed as he watched you back away from, his chest tightened when you started rambling about nearly killing him, and he was holding you before he even realised he had crossed the room.

He had been on Earth long enough to know that midgardian women had a habit of crying out of nowhere or for the oddest of reasons. They cried when they were happy, and sad, and angry, and holding them seemed to work every time.

So, he held you as you cried in the middle of your doorway, with the door wide open. He held you as you wheezed so hard, you passed out. Then he set you gently on your couch and waited for you to wake, to make sure you were alright.

You woke up to a dry throat, swollen eyes, a headache and the god of Thunder hovering over you, staring.

His smiles as you groan, eyes lighting up as you attempt to sit on your couch.

You used to have a couch big enough to fit two, comfortable enough for two to cuddle, because you were preparing for two. You sold that couch when you moved, you sold everything when you moved, and replaced it with furniture for one - and the annoyingly comfortable armchair for Sam, because why not.

You narrow your eyes at Thor, which entices his smile to widen as he leans back and sits upright on your coffee table.

"I made you something to eat." He's grinning proudly, and the cynic in you is almost certain that whatever it is, it's probably poisoned.

He made you cereal. He must have made it a while ago as well because it's swollen and soggy from the milk it absorbed, and it looks like it had been left out in the open the entire time. It probably has been.

You look between him and the bowl, then narrow your eyes at him further.

"Did you eat that?" You ask, your voice sounding croaky and disgusting to your ears.

He shakes his head, frowning at the bowl. "The milk smelled curiously funny. Is it flavoured?"

"It's rotten." You forgot to get milk while you were shopping, you also forgot to throw away the carton that was in the fridge.

"Thought as much." He hums, setting the bowl back on the floor. "Midgard does have peculiar things, so I just assumed this was another one of it."

You blink at him, his eyes startlingly warm, too warm for him to be an Avenger.

"Midgard is what we call Earth," he continues, taking your silence for confusion. "We, as in Asgardians."

You know. You had been to the Tower enough times to know.

He watches you, sky blue scanning over your frame, and you suppress the urge to shudder. You're hugging the thin blanket that had been thrown over you, assumingly by him, feet still stretched out on the couch as you subconsciously attempt to sink further into it.

His eyes fall at the cotton on your arm, an expression that you can't quite read cross his face.

He must have been so used to people welcoming him with open arms, that he didn't think this situation was odd.

"You know--" he scratches at his stubble, eyes still glued to your arm, "--the last time I got hit by a car, I ended up in a hospital and woke up to eat pop tarts."

You blame the headache. You're hearing things and seeing Avengers in your apartment because of the headache. Plus, you were low on blood at the moment, so it must be that as well.

"Are you--" you pause to swallow, suddenly aware of how achingly dry your throat is. He seems to notice and is handing you a bottle of water before you can finish.

You frown, sure that he poisoned it as well, but still drink the water because there are worse ways to go -- and you survived poisoned once, maybe you could again. Best two out of two.

You let out a relieved sigh, the water cool as it trickles down your chin and soothes your throat. You're about to use the back of your hand to wipe at the water, but his hand presses a napkin to you before you can even lift it.

"I'm not sick," you tell him, and he shushes you as he continues dabbing at your chin. "I can do that myself."

"I witnessed you drop your key three times in a row before I intervened, so I seriously doubt it."

He stayed until he was certain that you would be alright on your own.

He stayed until you were half-asleep on the couch and practically kicked him out.

Then he stayed the night when he had accidently walked in while you were in the middle of another panic attack.

He stayed until you started meeting each other during your lunchbreaks, at a cafe a few blocks from your work.

He stayed, with your hand in his hair and on his cheek, with his lips on yours and his arms around you.

He stayed, with his body on yours, connected in ways only lovers know. With his heat surrounding you, between you, within you. Chest to chest, lips to lips, he stayed.

He stayed, in your home, and then you woke up one morning to find him everywhere all at once. The toothbrush next to yours, shirts mixed up with his, beer next to the juice. He was in the warmth waiting for you on the couch and in your bed everyday - you, no longer shocked but expecting to find it every time.

He stayed, filling in the gaps, fixing the showerhead and the creak of your door and that window that wouldn't budge.

He stayed until you couldn't remember why you had cereal for dinner, while you waited for the food you ordered.

He stayed until he answered the door, and Bucky stood on the other side of it.

He stayed, until he didn't.

You should have known who he was. Who else could build you up and break you back down like an Avenger?

-----------

A/N: I stared at the word prologue so long, i dont think im spelling it right

121 notes · View notes