#ALMOST A HUNDRED FUCKING TIMES SHE WAS TRAPPED IN THE LOOP ALMOST A HUNDRED. FUCKING. TIMES

[passerinesoncaffeine]

tonight on thinking about homura and madoka.

[modern-inheritance]

Modern Inheritance: Keeper (Immediate Post-Galbatorix time period)

(A/N: This was just going to be a few ideas slapped together, and then it turned into...this...big thing. I don't feel like do a lot of notes right now, but be warned, there's going to be a bunch of new concepts tossed out there, and there are some instances of wound description. There will be other stories from this time period at a later date, but for now, take this.

Arya and Glenwing are informed by others that Islanzadí was gravely wounded by Barst after the citadel has fallen. While Glen tends to her mother, Arya waits outside the tent and grapples with the prospect of losing her remaining parent only a handful of years after reconciling with her. And then a particular bird drops from the damn sky.)

~~~ MODERN INHERITANCE: KEEPER

Everything here smelled of blood. 

Arya braced her hands on her knees, forcing herself out of Trancing. The half-sleep state had snuck up on her mind despite the stress and chaos of healers and doctors and medics rushing too and fro across the churned up soil. 

Apparently preparing for the end of all things after over seventy years of conflict, navigating a trap-laden fortress of a castle, being nearly talked to death by a megalomaniac, watching the love of one's life fight their half brother, and then fighting and taking down a dragon larger than what large could even define could make the unfortunate person experiencing such a day quite exhausted. 

Shaking off the last traces, Arya leaned back in the folding chair and strained to hear anything past the canvas of the tent at her back. 

Nothing. Warded. 

When the healers had finally slowed and led them to the tent the elven Queen had been evacuated to, both her daughter and Glenwing had pushed to enter. Glen had only made it a single step inside, his head just past the tent flaps, when he had thrown his dented metal arm back and shoved Arya away. 

“Stay out.” 

“The fuck do you mean–”

“Arya, stay out.” Glen took her by the armored shoulders and walked her three paces back, almost into the frantic flow of medical personnel constantly surging between the tents. “You don’t need to see her like this, and I can’t focus if you’re in there and can’t compartmentalize. She needs the best right now, alright? And she would never forgive me if I let you see her in this state.” 

His eyes were bright, hard chips of liquid gold burning from the inside. “Please. Stay out unless we call you.” Glen gave her arms a quick squeeze. “We– I – will do everything we can. But if it’s clear, then…”

Arya reached up and seized his wrists before leaning forward. He joined her out of instinct and long built trust, their foreheads pressed together in a moment of quiet. 

“Just keep fighting. Don’t waste time with me, just fight to the end.” She wasn’t shaking, but her eyes were closed. “Please.”

“I understand.”

With that Glen slipped away into the tent.

And so Arya sat on one of the rickety folding chairs outside the tent. She had spent some time pacing until the thin layer of muck made of dirt and blood binding together in a paste coated her boots. After that she sat again and now found herself shaking off the half sleep state, still waiting, still out of the loop.

That’s when she heard it. 

Arya bolted to her feet, head snapping up. That call. Among the cacophony of the camp, the pitched struggles still being fought in pockets out on the plains of Ilirea, the screeching and screaming and croaking of hundreds of thousands of carrion birds. One stood out, one piercing, warbling cry, keening and slicing through the cacophony.

Heart pounding, eyes glued to the dust and haze above, Arya began to run. 

‘Not another one. Not today. Not here.’

Slipping between soldiers, leaping over supplies. A white speck the only thing that had her attention, the only thing important in that moment. The white dot wobbled and grew, following her as best it could on turbulent, low winds from the fires until the young elf burst through into a tiny clearing. Barely the size of three tents crammed together, a single piece of open land not flooded with people or bodies or equipment. Some long buried boulder or mass of roots sloped the ground up a foot higher than the rest, leaving the patch unusable except for a measly breath of fresh air.

Without a single thought beyond the damn determination to keep one more member of her dwindling family alive, Arya slammed a foot down as she crossed the threshold and leapt into the open air. Throwing her weight, twisting, she opened her arms. 

“Blagden!”

Bloodied wings went limp, surrendering to exhaustion and long-stalled pain. With a morose crackling croak, Blagden, white raven of the Knotted Throne, plummeted from the sky like a rock straight into Arya’s chest.

Arya folded herself around the wounded bird and hit the ground with a solid whumph. The shock half absorbed by her armor vibrated her sternum and yet she refused to let it transfer to Blagden’s broken body, coughing as the air drove from her lungs. 

“I have you.” The words were a wheeze. “You’re safe, Blagden.”

She could feel the rapid beating of the raven’s heart through the fingers holding him to her chest, his lungs heaving. His right wing was crooked even as it lay open, feathers tickling her neck. Sticky gore clung to his talons, strips of flesh still tangled in the shaggy fluff of his ruffled throat. 

Careful, supporting his broken wing, Arya rose up to a crouch. “Don’t you dare give out, you damn bird.” Blagden merely grumbled in response, a short hiss of pain when the woman shifted to kneel and rest his body on her lap. “Shh, okay, just…fuck, okay, I’m going to…I’m going to heal your wing, alright?” 

Arya reached out with her mind, ironclad barriers encasing the mental tendril. Her brows lowered, exhaustion creeping in again with just the minor exertion, when she encountered wards around the raven. Some were familiar, the spicy richness of sandalwood and sparking ozone so distinctly her mother’s magic that it made her heart twinge with a renewed fear of loss, but the other was…different. Like…like the cool, smooth, immovable stone carvings in Tronjheim, but half blanketed with soft moss. Crackling campfires, smokey and oddly similar to her own strains, the feeling of music without the sound, a sudden flash of flat stones skipping across a pristine lake–

It took everything she had left for Arya not to hug Blagden to her chest as the raven’s mind brushed her own and the image of her face above him, lightning brow tipping down, determination set at her lips, morphed into a face she only ever saw in hazy Recall dreams of years long past. In fairths and pictures and the few aching memories shared. 

‘Da.’

“I won’t break them.” For the first time that day, tears dropped from Arya’s eyes. They wet Blagden’s feathers, rolling light streaks through the collected soot. “He stays with you. I promise.”

Glenwing was always healing any injured bird that he came across. He left the windows of their flat open most nights, an open invitation to any feathered friend to come rest out of the elements. Arya herself had helped on occasion, Fäolin lending his hand all those years ago when a third set of steady fingers were needed to help calm a nippy eagle or cradle a jackdaw deadset on flying before it was ready. 

It was with those memories in mind pushing aside her parents, Arya found the gaps in the wards. Energy, warm and buzzing, trickled from the fingertips gingerly holding Blagden still. Apologies, something so unfamiliar between them, poured from her lips as the bird thrashed and cried out with harsh squawks as the hollow flight bones realigned like broken straws. They fused together smooth and strengthened, the energy moving on to fix bruised muscle, torn tendons and ligaments stressed beyond their limit from his flight–

And then the magic snapped like rotten rope, a surge from within the white raven’s own mind lashing out like steel blades to sever the connection. The mental ricochet felt like it slapped straight to the center of Arya’s forehead, a sting and a throb of a promised headache pulsing to the surface as she cursed and curled forward, catching herself on a hand before she completely folded in and smothered the ungrateful feathered wretch. 

“Blagden, I’m trying to–”

It was almost pathetic, really. The way the bird flipped and flopped off her lap and managed to stagger to his feet with his undamaged wing outstretched. “A Queen’s touch only may apply! Only she will make me fly!” He hissed, loud and threatening, as Arya reached for him again. “Touch again and learn it well! Your bite’s not the only one to give hell!”

That ripped a broken, choked laugh from Arya’s throat. 

It was all too much. 

The laughter, so incredulous and disbelieving at the gall this spicy raven always had boiling in his feathered body, transformed to ragged, gasping sobs. Fuck, why did she feel so small again? After everything that day, after confronting Galbatorix himself with Eragon, Saphira, Elva, Nasuada, Murtagh and Thorn? All of them little pieces in that mad king’s sick game, their lives and struggles all turned to seemingly useless specks of dust before his discovery and manipulations. After standing, blood cold, staring up at an ice blue eye with nothing in it but malice and hatred for all things and so…so much larger than she had thought possible, only to later meld minds with the smaller of its kin, Thorn and Saphira both, and feel dragonfire bathe her skin before making that fated leap to end its miserable existence…

Not once had she felt small. 

It was here, kneeling on a torn up knoll with her sobs drowned out by the keening, wailing and screams of the wounded, the dying, the mourning, the lost and the found, being confronted by this damn two foot tall menace of feather and saucy tongue refusing to be healed by anyone but her mother, who lay, likely dying in a tent some distance away…it was here that Arya suddenly felt seven years old again. 

So small. Barely a foot taller than the raven himself. The same raven that had perched on her father’s casket until it had lowered at the base of the ancient tree and had sung for days on end, mourning the man who had made him as he was. The friend he had become. 

And now. Now he might sing again. Sing for her mother as they wrapped her body for the long journey back. Cry his funeral tune for days more. Clawing at her ears, piercing the bittersweet veil of the ended war. Reminding, for days and days and weeks and months that her mother was dead, as dead and gone as her father.

The feeling had her crying harder, the images of that casket long buried dragged up to dance with her new fears. Islanzadí, dying? How was it not impossible? How was there even such a chance? After so long at war, witnessing and experiencing and feeling it all in every shape and form and in every role of soldier, leader, wounded, captive, saboteur, assassin, bodyguard. The mourning mate and the warrior lover side by side with the man she loved the day one died and the day one triumphed. 

She knew people died. She knew elves were not invincible, had screamed that fact at the Lords of House with her scars laid bare and her rage boiling. How dare they think that elves, hidden as they were, were untouchable, invincible, when Glenwing had his arm taken, when Fäolin didn’t even have life anymore, after her heart just about stopped too many times to count, actually gave out more than once?

But…but Islanzadí…she wasn’t an elf. She was their Queen. Her mother. And after Da, Arya should have known, did know, that the quietly whispered promises to a tiny child at night that they would never, ever leave her were lies to make her and them feel better…. But how could Islanzadí die?

Burning anger followed close behind. Arya struggled to stop her chest from heaving, teeth set, ragged near squeals of air pushing forward and back against them as her body clawed for the chance to submit to the emotions. She scrubbed at her eyes with the heels of scuffed palms, dirt and avian blood smearing at her cheeks. 

Galbatorix may be dead, yes. The promise she made to Brom all those years ago finally fulfilled, yes. But damn it all to whatever emptiness awaited the lost souls of the blood soaked war now ended–

‘I still have work to do. Now is not the time for tears and a fucking breakdown!’

“Right–right now–” Arya hiccuped, trying desperately to get tears off her cheeks with the rough straps at her shoulder. Their presence was a dim and hollow reminder, one that should have been bringing fiery hope but now felt heavy. The dragon egg, tucked at the small of her back in the hastily emptied and secured medic’s kit Glen had repurposed for her on the fly as they ran, was free. Her mother would have been overjoyed. 

If she lived to see it. 

“Right now, I’m the–the best you–you’ve got.” 

Vision blurred, tears and dirt and blood clinging to her eyelashes, Arya dug into one of the side pouches on her leg and scrambled her fingers around until they met wax paper. She tore the packet out and ripped the paper away, the large muslin sheet flapping out like a flag. Swallowing a fresh wave of tears, the elf tied to opposing corners in a knot behind her neck and slipped her arm through the loop. 

“Get in.” Still rough with contained sobs, but firm and carrying at least a hint of her mother’s command, Arya opened the makeshift sling slightly. “Get in and I’ll take you to her. You can’t…you can’t balance right with your wing like that.” 

When Blagden did not move, wing still limp at his side, Arya reached out her fist. “She needs us.”

The white raven lifted his head, ruff rising. “Paths entwine, root and vine.” With a bit of a wobble, Blagden strutted forward and hobbled up onto the offered perch and allowed her to transfer him into the cloth’s embrace. “Our strength grows with your blood and mine.”

And that was how it came to this. Arya, sitting again outside the warded tent, eerie false silence as the world faded in and out around her. A bloodied white raven nestled in a sling against her chest, looking almost comical were it not for their surroundings. 

Blagden had allowed her to carefully wrap his wing with strips of the muslin. He kept his promise of a painful nip as well, squalling his indignation at being restrained when Arya stopped him from marching into the tent like some knee-high, feathered general checking on his second-in-command. The puncture to the back of her hand burned, but it was a welcome distraction in the chaos.

The raven eventually settled. He slept now, head tucked into the cloth, talons flexing in his fever dreams. Arya gently rubbed her fingertips at the crown of his head, the spot he ‘loved a good tickle,’ as Islanzadí always said despite the halfhearted grumbling Blagden always made at such a description. His feathers were already wrecked, and she didn’t want to risk stripping them of even more of their precious oils by stroking his back. 

Time passed, though Arya could not tell how long. The smoke from the raging fires and lingering dust of the king’s explosion nearly blotted out the sun, robbing her of any sense of time yet again. 

A battle frazzled elf carrying a large crate of fortified nectar bottles hurried by, hastily placing two of the six bottle carry cases down at Arya’s feet. In a flash she caught his arm as he made to pull away, stopping him dead. His features, splattered with mud and flecks of blood, were hazily familiar, but Arya couldn’t spare the energy to find his name in the moment.

“How long–” Arya fumbled, at a loss for a point that she could draw reference from that the man would also know. She went with the first thing that came to mind despite the excess it would add. “How long since the explosion?”

The elf yanked his arm free, already moving on with the barest glance at a scratched timepiece hung around his neck. “About four hours. If you can stand, grab a crate from block eight and start passing these out to healers and the wounded!” And then he was gone, his call to action trailing into the masses of people looking for loved ones or tending to the injured.

‘Four…four hours?’ 

Just four hours?

The tent flap suddenly slapped against the middle support, one of the occupants stumbling out into the grey light. Arya bolted to her feet and caught Glen around the shoulders as he nearly pitched into the dirt. 

“Easy! I got you, I got you.” The man feebly clung to his CO’s forearm, legs unsteady. He could feel himself being guided back, collapsing into one of the folding chairs hastily set up outside the hundreds upon hundreds of healing tents. “Sit.”

Glen raised his bleary gaze to Arya’s face. He had to tell her. “Arya–” 

“Shh.” There was an unmistakable tremor in her voice. “Here, drink this. It’s got the powder in it.” Something pressed first to his palm and then his lips as it was raised to his mouth. “Just…take a minute.”

Sweet, thick nectar slid down the medic’s parched throat. The gritty feeling of fortification powder did little to dissuade him once the liquid touched his tongue. He leaned back, dizzy, draining the bottle before tearing it away with a ragged gasp of air. “Arya–”

“No.” Arya’s voice lacked any bite. It cracked at the edge of the word. Through his steadying vision he could see the shine of tears clinging to her lashes, the pallor of her face beneath grime and streaks of blood. And yet…as always…the fire in her eyes. Different from any time he had seen it before, but still there. “Glen, I can’t…I can’t hear what you’re going to say right now. Just…take your time. Let me take care of you. Please?”

Numb. Exhausted. Blood, blood so akin to hers, caking the joints and creases and crevices of his prosthetic. Tightening and tangled in the fine hairs on his remaining forearm, flakes of it falling from his knuckles as he gripped his knees.

Glenwing nodded, and, feeling every one of his hundred and twenty six years, slumped back in the rickety chair’s embrace.

When he was next aware of his surroundings, cool water was pressed against his arm. Arya knelt before him, her face hidden by the bow of her head as she gently scrubbed away her mother’s blood from his skin. A clean bucket of soapy water was at her knee, several soiled rags in a rough hewn bowl beside it. His prosthetic wasn’t gleaming, but it was as clean as battlefield washing could get it without removing the plates. 

Bandages, soft gauze and clips keeping pads in place, had replaced his left pauldron above the prosthetic. Tape over his right ribs. The slight tug of three stitches, her knots feeling as perfect as he had taught her, over his right eyebrow. Wounds he hadn’t felt, dressed and tended.

Arya’s voice was a shivering murmur, the woman still trying so hard to contain the tangled emotions at war in her chest. “I hope you…don’t mind some company.” She squeezed out the washcloth and used a mug to pour fresh water onto the fabric to avoid spoiling the bucket. “He’s cranky.”

Still bleary, Glen tilted his head down further and found a haphazard pile of feathers nestled in his lap. Blagden let out a half croak of protest, his bandaged wing flopping as he tried to make clear his displeasure. There was blood soaked into the white flight edges, soot turning his startlingly bright form a dingy grey. 

“I healed his wing.” The tremor in Arya’s tone rose for a moment. She turned Glen’s hand over, began clearing the grime from his palm with shaking fingers. “He…he won’t let me do anything besides the bones.” Another fresh wash of clear water. “He wants her.”

Droplets of blood-tinged suds dripped from Glenwing’s fingertips. As his CO pulled away again, wringing out the rag a third time, he caught her wrist. 

Still armored. The moisture made the aramid weave glitter.

“Arya.” 

“Don’t.” 

Carefully shifting a grumbling Blagden to the crook of his metallic arm, Glen gently seized Arya’s elbow and stood. She followed his motion out of ingrained instinct, trying to steady him, grasping his forearm. 

The exhausted medic barely wavered, however. “Arya, look at me.” The younger elf refused, shoulders rigid, teeth set and face obscured by the wild, singed fringes of her hair. Glen gave her no choice, his heart bubbling as he cupped her jaw and turned her back. “Arya, listen.” 

His palm was wet. Not from the water, but from the tears cutting streaks through the soot and blood on Arya’s skin as she finally looked at him. 

“Glen, please.” He could feel her shaking. She was begging him, pleading. “Please, I can’t…I can’t take this right now.” 

Damn it. She really always expected the worst. It’s what made her so fierce, always made her come up swinging. But right now was not a time that required fight. Not from her, at least. 

“Arya.” Glenwing gently squeezed his war sister’s cheek. No, they weren’t war siblings anymore. She was his sister now, forever and always. Kid sister, who he would watch over and take care of just as much as she watched over and took care of him. And right now, he could ease her pain in a way she needed more desperately than any time before. 

“Arya, your mum is alive.” 

The green eyed soldier stared at him. Stopped breathing. 

“Islanzadí’s alive, Ari. She’s stabilizing.” 

A strangled noise, half released pain, half relief, and all bewilderment at the revelation, clawed its way from Arya’s throat. And then she tipped forward and fell against Glenwing’s shoulder, arms almost limp from the shock of it hanging around his body and let out a sob that he could feel deep in his chest. 

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” Careful of the raven cradled in his arm, Glen followed his sister to the ground as her knees gave, holding her to his chest with a hand on her back. “It’s alright, Ari.”

He let her sob into his half-removed armor, cheek pressed to the side of her head as he stroked her unraveling braid and squeezed as tight as he dared. All the while he spoke, repeating himself over and over. Trying to prepare her for the inevitable.

“Arya, she’s alive, but she’s still hurt. We had to stabilize her fast. The only way we could was to take her arm at the shoulder.” 

The feeling of muscle, pulverized, shredded, slippery arteries threatening to retract into flesh, all giving way under scalpel blade and held in place by unforgiving clamps made his throat convulse. A piece of a person separated, so clearly removed, across the tent. The white, purplish hue to the hand, so clearly lacking any bloodflow. 

Deep, deep in his mind, Glenwing wondered if that was how his hand had looked to the healers that night now years in the past. 

And then he shook himself and focused on the present, the woman shivering against him, thanks tumbling from her lips only half intelligible. 

“She’s still weak. We’re putting her in the Dream State for a few days. The healers are going to keep working, they’re doing everything they can to preserve nerves and repair her collarbone and ribs, but it’s slow going, okay? She’s alive, and she’s stabilizing. That’s the important part right now.”

A few more long moments passed, the two of them clinging to each other, before Arya pulled away and rubbed her eyes dry with a scarred wrist. “Can…can I see her?”

Glenwing gave his sister a gentle smile and wiped away the last of her tears with his thumb. “Let them keep working, okay? She’s still in rough shape, and like I said, she’ll kill me if she learns I let you see her like that.”

A small nod and shaky breath in and out. “Okay.” Her smile was bright, eyes still shining, but there was that fire, that spark of hope and tenacity in the face of everything around them. “Thank you.” 

They both slumped into the folding chairs, Glen passing Blagden off to Arya. He didn’t comment when she half wrestled, half shoved him into a bloodied sling across her chest. Just grinned and touched the back of her hand. 

“Now. It’s my turn.” The exhausted medic lolled his head to the side, eyes flicking over his CO’s battered and burnt armor, catching on open spaces where pieces had cracked or fallen away during the pitched throne room battle. “Will you let me take care of you?”

Arya let out a soft laugh. “Don’t you dare go trying to heal anything. I’m alright. Just bruised and banged up a bit.”

Glenwing’s golden eyes were hard when Arya looked to him, pulled by his hand on her shoulder. “You don’t feel that?”

“What, you grabbing me? Of course I do.”

“Arya,” He chose his words carefully. “You look to have a lot of burns on your right side. Just from what I can see.”

Arya blinked. ‘Burns?’ She turned her gaze downward, following where Glen had indicated with his own eyes. 

Most of the armor pieces on her right arm were gone. A few measly shards of spidersilk aramid hung limply at the connection points, edges and fragments sharp as glass. The undersuit was…adhered. In some places. In others it had burned away entirely, the tissue beneath bright cherry pink in rippling flares while shiny tissue spidered out around them. 

Glen grabbed her hand, fingers interlacing with hers, when she went to twist the limb to further examine the damage. “Take it easy, don’t move too much.”

“Bit late for that.” Arya stared. What the hell had happened? She had barely fought at all, Eragon and Murtagh taking the brunt of the close quarters combat on themselves while Saphira and Thorn had rushed–

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Glenwing looked up from carefully wetting pieces of the adhered undersuit with the remaining water from the bucket. Arya had fallen silent for several minutes, eyes glassed and far off, when he began working on getting her free from the charred remains of her armor. He wasn’t exactly surprised at her muted pain reception, adrenaline still pumping even now in his own body, likely covering the pain of any of the injuries she had wrapped while he Tranced outside the tent. But Arya always hated burns, and always made that fact known whenever she had one. 

Arya stared down at her skin as the last strip of undersuit was gently worked off her right arm. Tongues of flame stood embedded in her flesh, licking up her forearm, thankfully missing her joint and skating up to her shoulder like liquid dragonfire had become one with her body. 

“Shruikan breathed fire on me.” She cocked her head. The patterns were honestly quite pretty the longer she looked at them, raw flesh aside. 

Glen reached to the back of his webbing, servos and mechanical joints whirring to manipulate his arm in ways a normal limb could not naturally bend. Burn ointment. Lidocaine ointment. Gauze. “Mm-hm.” He began smearing a mix of the medicines over the burns, quietly thanking whatever the hell may be out there, real or imagined, that the pain was yet to begin. These would not feel good when Arya finally registered the full extent of their spread. 

“I had to go through it.” Even through the numbness of shock and exhaustion, Arya couldn’t suppress a sigh at the cooling feeling creeping over her skin. “Wouldn’t have been able to kill him if Saphira and Thorn hadn’t helped me.”

“That was nice of them.” Loose wrapping. Give it a little bit of air, space for any swelling. Once they both had rested they would reassess. Crazy as she was, Glen had no doubt Arya was going to pester him to let her keep some of the burns as scars. And it was only right, after all, having earned them by killing–

“Wait, what?” 

Blagden’s ruffled head appeared above the edge of the sash. “Be kind, rewind! The thread of fate is confused this time!”

Both Arya and Glenwing stopped their motions and stared down at the beleaguered raven. 

And then pointedly ignored his quip.

“I think the thermal shock is what exploded the armor.” Arya reached up and massaged the right side of her neck. Tiny scratches made themselves known under her fingertips where splinters of the aramid had sliced microtears in her skin. “Explains why my neck itches like mad here.”

“No, wait, hold on!” Glen grabbed her hand and pulled it down. “You killed Shruikan?”

“Saphira and Thorn did all the work getting his head down. And they came up with the plan.” A ghost of a grin touched Arya’s lips at the mention of Murtagh’s partner. “Thorn’s got a very kind consciousness. He’s confused, but he’s very sweet.”

Glenwing stared. As surreptitiously as he could, he used a free finger to palpate her wrist, checking her blood pressure in the most rudimentary way possible. “Ari, slow down a second, okay? You killed Shruikan?”

“I didn’t want to kill him.” The mumble would have alarmed him further had he not seen the bright green fire in her eyes, no hint of any muddling beyond that of exhaustion. “But Eragon and Saphira told us what Elva felt. There could be no saving him. And he was going to kill Saphira and Thorn and everyone else if I didn’t take the opening, so…” She shivered, and Blagden burrowed his head deeper into the sling. “I…I gave him rest. We could give him that much, after what Galbatorix put him through.”

Arya took a steadying breath again and shot Glen a wan smile from beneath troubled brows. “I hated that damn spear.”

Glenwing squeezed her hand. “He’s not being used anymore. That was the best thing for him.”

“True. But it still feels…wrong. To kill a dragon.”

“I know.” 

The conversation lapsed, Glen focusing on the extent of Arya’s burns while the woman leaned her head on his shoulder, eyes closed. The few minutes of Trancing here and there was doing wonders for the both of them, bringing the world back to clarity. 

As he tucked the final tail of the bandage and sealed it with a clip, Arya raised her head and blinked away waking dreams. 

“All good?” 

The medic grinned and rubbed his sister’s head roughly. “Good as it’ll get for now.” He ducked a halfhearted swat and tapped his forehead to hers. He had seen the flicker of her eyes towards the tent, the glimmer of ache. “Do you want to go find Eragon and Saphira? Or Brom? Waiting is going to be more difficult than doing.” His voice was soft. 

Arya stretched and winced as the movement sparked pain along the wrapped burns, quickly soothed by the numbing ointment encasing them. “No. No, they’re all needed elsewhere. Eragon’s working on the citadel wounded, and Saphira’s doing evac. Brom’s–” She paused, a whipcrack tendril of thought finding the old Rider among the thousands upon thousands in the camp. “He’s helping Jörmundur.” She looked past the tents arrayed before them, where the elven command center was nestled in the distance. “If you’re clearing me, then I think I need to find Däthedr. He’d have taken command.”

Glen raised an eyebrow. Of course she’d try to dive into work. In all honesty, he was itching to get back into some normalcy, as odd as their normal was. Taking stock and helping the wounded after a pitched battle always gave him a sense of strange calm, as if the differences made both on and off the field were evening out in alignment. 

Motion caught his eye, snapping his attention to the throng flowing back and forth in the makeshift alley. People were parting, moving to the sides as if a force of nature split their river. 

He tapped the uninjured back of Arya’s right hand, tried again when he touched the nerve-severed portion by accident, and pointed. “I think Däthedr’s already found you.”

The Queen’s aforementioned second was breezing up the muddied lane, the handful of the Lords of House that had not been left behind to tend to Du Weldenvarden fast on his heels. 

Both Glen and Arya pushed themselves up to standing as they neared. Däthedr dismissed their tired salutes with an equally tired wave of his hand, bandages already smeared with dust from the thickened air flashing at his forearm. “Enough of that. I think we can forgo our culture’s formalities at a time like this. It is good to see you both made it out of the citadel.” 

“It’s good to see the lot of you in one piece as well, sir.” Arya gave her mother’s advisor a half smile, one that wobbled at the edges when she straightened and gestured toward the tent at their backs. “If you’ve come about the Queen–”

“Finli has already informed me that Islanzadí lives.” Däthedr’s eyes softened, and, maybe with as much surprise to himself as Glen saw on the faces of the Lords of House, the elder elf stepped forward and gently hugged the woman before him. He pulled back after a moment and cleared his throat awkwardly, as if suddenly realizing that the lot of them were in public. “I wish I could say I am here solely to provide support, but time and power moves quickly. We are here to speak on official matters.”

“I’m sorry, but you can’t.” Glen stepped forward to be shoulder to shoulder with his still somewhat bewildered CO. The hug seemed to have caught her off guard just as much as the others, completely unused to the calm and collected Däthedr of all people giving in to what equated to an emotional outburst. It didn’t help that Blagden, woken by the movement and determined to take part in official duties, had begun clambering out of the sling and up her cracked cuirass, using beak and claw to haul himself to a wavering perch on her left shoulder. “Queen Islanzadí is still being tended to, and she is to be put into the Dream State to heal for the next two days at least. With all due respect, I’m afraid you’re going to have to handle the politics on your own.”

Däthedr nodded, head dipping lower than usual. “Understood. We are not here to speak with Islanzadí, but to speak with Arya, and, by extension of your role, you, Glenwing.” He returned his attention to Arya, who seemed to have shaken off her shock, if not the raven clinging to her pauldron. “Nasuada, Eragon, Saphira, Brom and the other leaders are gathering at dusk. The choice of the Broddring ruler is to be made. Our own ruler must attend.”

Arya blinked, then pinched the bridge of her nose, elbow braced against the back of her scarred right wrist where the bandages did not reach. That headache that Blagden’s earlier snap had started was beginning to bloom between her eyes. “Right.” The word came as a barely contained sigh. Really? Now? “Regency. You need my okay to go ahead with electing the Keeper.”

“Keeper?” Glen’s hand at the small of her back was a brief touch, probably invisible to the gathering of elf lords and ladies in its speed. The message was clear, an offering of physical support if she needed it. The question he voiced, while genuine, a subtle way to allow her to catch her metaphorical breath.

It made her grin inwardly. Maybe he should go into politics. 

“Keeper of the Knotted Throne.” Her responding quick tap of her knuckles to his assured him she was fine. “It’s basically a regent, put in place when our ruler is incapacitated until the king or Queen is able to resume duties fully, until they die, or until they pass the throne on to someone else.” Arya dropped her hand and squared her shoulders, ignoring Blagden’s half startled ‘whoop’ at the movement as she fixed her gaze on Däthedr. “They need my permission to put a Keeper in place since I’m the Queen’s next of kin. The Right of Blood, remember? They’re trying to see if I’ll push a claim.”

“Ah.” Glenwing tilted his head slightly. He had only heard Arya invoke Right of Blood a handful of times, all within the last few years, and only within Eragon and Saphira’s band of protectors. Blödhgarm was a reasonable man, and his thinking frequently aligned with Arya’s when it came to commanding the spellcasters that were technically under Eragon and Saphira’s control. 

But cultural standards and hierarchy frequently tied his hands when it came to a few points of contention, and Arya had found her Right of Blood, given by her status as Islanzadí’s daughter and her military rank, allowed them to circumvent such blocks. When Arya spoke with the Right invoked, she spoke with the Queen’s authority, a temporary power but a very high one indeed.

Her use of it during the fateful meeting after Nasuada’s failed kidnapping had been what revealed her parentage to Nasuada and Orrin, and while a rather heated debate on the differences between nobles and primagenature monarchy for humans and elves had followed, the Right had been useful in the end. 

Again, Däthedr bowed his head. Arya’s lips tightened slightly at the lower than normal dip, recognizing it for what it was. Deference. “Yes. We need your permission to name a Keeper.” There was no wary light in his eyes when he met her gaze, just honest exhaustion and a will to find a raft of normalcy in the new storm of uncertainty. 

She could put this in his hands. Her Da had put his faith in him, and so did her Mum. He would not lead the Lords of House to a weak leader, and he would not allow them to manipulate his nomination, nor the Keeper’s judgment. 

Arya sighed again, and this time made no attempt to hide it. She was sore, and she was tired. The sooner she and Glen got to work, the sooner she could forget those facts. Forget that her mother was laying in the tent behind her, arm gone, fighting it out in the Dream State. 

“Alright. I put aside my claim through Right of Blood. You know her better than most, Däthedr.” She nodded firmly. “I trust you’ll find the right person to fill the role, one that the Queen will approve of.”

In the back of the gathered lords, a few shifted slightly. Whether they thought Arya would have pressed claim or were miffed she had so clearly appointed Däthedr to lead the search was unclear. 

“Thank you. However, I’m happy to report that the choice has already been made now that you have given your consent.” Däthedr gestured toward Islanzadí’s tent. “Queen Islanzadí thought it wise to set in place a…living will of sorts. There were…” He paused, grey eyes flicking to the preening Blagden almost too quickly to notice. “Some fears that Islanzadí could be gravely injured or killed on this day. The nomination for Keeper of the Throne was chosen well in advance, as well as Islanzadí’s nomination for her successor should she be killed.” He swept his outstretched hand back, indicating the gathered Lords. “The Lords of House agreed then, and still do now, with the nomination. All that is left is to present the title to them.”

Arya opened her mouth to speak, but Blagden beat her to it. The white raven lifted his head, ruff proudly raised, and uttered a sharp croak.

“Wyrda!”

Arya scowled at him from the corner of her eye, voice harsh.  “Cram it!” How a raven managed enough expression to look offended, Arya had no idea. He took the chance to nip her ear, growling softly. “Knock it off!” 

Once the feathered terror had taken a few shuffles away from the side of her head, Arya put her hands on her hips, left palm settling on the guard of her father’s blade. A flicker of thought at the sword’s name, amusingly kinned to Blagden’s call, flitted through her mind before it was gone again. 

“That makes this far easier. I’ll leave it to you and the Lords of House to alert the Keeper and prep them if they accept.” She shrugged. Entertaining the idea that the nominee, hand picked by her mother, would refuse the position was a nauseating prospect, but if chaos was what awaited them, then they may as well meet it head on. “If they refuse the position, just let me know when you come up with another one and I’ll do this song and dance again.” 

Arya tilted her head towards Glenwing. “We’re going to head for block eight. Help where we can.”

“Very well.” Däthedr suddenly planted his staff in the mud and squared his shoulders. 

“Arya Shadeslayer of House Tialdarí, of House Varden. You have been chosen by Islanzadí Dröttning, Queen of the elven nation, to assume the mantle of Keeper of the Knotted Throne, and to rule as Queen Regent until Queen Islanzadí is fit to resume her duties or pass them on.” 

Däthedr’s voice rang clear in the crowded space, unmistakable power bonded to the truth of the Ancient Language. “The Lords of House are in agreement and stand united with Queen Islanzadí’s choice, made in sane mind and with due diligence done as required by our laws. This nomination is unanimous.” 

Däthedr locked his grey gaze to Arya’s burning green.

“Do you accept this title, position, and the responsibilities it entails?”

It felt as though the entire camp had gone silent. 

People in the lane stopped and stared, frozen by the authority lent by Däthedr’s voice. Though many had not understood the words, the overall feeling was clear. Something was about to change, a ripple through the fabric of the world ready to race out to enact it.

This was history.  

…Odd how making history still felt fresh during such an already historic day.

And as the last of the sounds of Däthedr’s words rang, even time held its breath.

Arya stared back into Däthedr’s eyes.

And managed only a single croaked, dumbfounded word:

“Huh?”

[alicepao13]

Hudson and Rex S02E06 - Under the Influencer

I don't really like this episode, I find the subject surrounding the murder and the whole influencer thing boring, plus it somehow was the most repeated episode when it aired in Greece (somehow they managed to put a few of them on a loop. Idiots). But I'll make an effort.

I think someone knew that the subject isn't too appealing which is why in the scene after the murder we get Charlie and Rex playing/training.

I know Diesel is a well-trained dog but I can't help thinking that a) I wouldn't put my hand there and b) I hope they pay John Reardon well.

I am with Charlie on this one, we shouldn't know about any of these people's lives. It's all like a bad reality show, and reality shows are already bad.

"Weddings and bad luck are virtually synonymous in my books" - Charlie Hudson. So, we're going with this now. And it's a cute small scene with Sarah and Charlie discussing weddings.

"Until death do them part, or another man in my case". Poor resentful man. It will get better.

If anyone actually speaks like that in real life, please don't tell me. Leave me blissfully unaware.

It's so insane how no literally no one actually cared for Katie enough, not even her mother, and the man who seemed to care the most about her actually killed her.

Rex: *repeatedly barks to indicate poison* Charlie: *repeatedly ignores him*

That's a lot of purple for a wedding.

Fun fact: The Greek word for the flower "snapdragons" is skylaki which translates to "doggo". I am not making this up. So, maybe that's why Rex likes them lol

Poor Jesse had to explain the term shipping to Charlie and Joe.

Charlie Hudson canonically ships Batman and Robin. Huh.

Fiance gets brought in for questioning because he has set up a ship account shipping him and one of the bridesmaids. We live in crazy times.

"I know this looks like a thirst trap..." And Charlie is error 404.

Katie may not have deserved to die but she was an awful human being.

"Your children's interests infiltrate your brain" I don't know what Joe is talking about. The only thing my parents ever got out of my interests as a child was a deep hatred for Pokemon, video games, and television, and a mild approval for the Harry Potter movies (at least back when JKR wasn't an unhinged right-wing nut).

Well, that reaction I get. Also Rex's what-the-fuck as well.

Sarah: The happier people look online, the sadder they are in reality. Charlie: You should post that.

Remember when Joe wanted things to be done by the book in the previous episode? Well, in this one Charlie is breaking into the storage locker without a warrant, right after asking Jesse if they're actually going to get that warrant and being assured that it won't be a problem. Good tv? Yes. Bad police procedure? Also yes.

For a shirt that says Katie club? Bitch, please.

"When you're a social media star, having trolls is a sign of success". Yeah, no. Any idiot with a few hundred followers can have trolls.

The scene with Rex's takedown in the storage area is almost comical and badly edited, with too much slow-mo. The scene with Rex's takedown outside the airport is better, has some obstacles which are good for jumps and such, and doesn't make me want to cringe. Although again, more slow-mo than what is needed.

Well, I'm glad it's on this show because in other fandoms this wouldn't have gotten weird so fast...

[the-ghost-bracket]

Lup propaganda:

"A kickass, dimension-hopping elf wizard and the twin sister of Taako (you know, from TV?). Technically a lich (which, in TAZ:B canon, is an incorporeal undead made wholly of magic, so that's pretty ghost-adjacent). Helped save the universe from total assimilation by the Hunger. Spent years trapped inside her own umbrella. Is canonically a trans woman."

"Spoilers for TAZ: Balance- an actual-play Dungeons and Dragons podcast ||

Lup (pronounced ""loop"") is a lich, which, while not being a ghost specifically, is still a type of undead being. However, Lup's brand of lich is that she's tied to this mortal plane and kept from dissipating not by a phylactery with souls, but by an emotional tether- in this case, that emotion would be love.

She's died, been ghostified, and been revived repeatedly due to what was basically a time loop. Once she and her found family were able to break the time loop (or temporarily stave it off), she then got poisoned and accidentally spent around a decade stuck in an umbrella that swallows the essence of defeated magical users (which she counted as). She, a lich powered by love, spent a decade in an umbrella, unable to contact anyone in the outside world or do anything but struggle to EXIST. It would have been so easy to give up, to let go and just stop, but instead, what does Lup do? She saves up her strength, over days and months and YEARS, to be able to control the umbrella instead. She does this several times: to influence the umbrella's reaction to others and get it to her brother (repeatedly); to protect him once it was by his side; to protect the umbrella from the Grim Reaper that was probably going to kill her since liches are illegal; to send a message to him, scorching her name into a wall in an attempt to tell him that she was still alive; and to channel the occasional spell, including the one that led to her brother realizing that she was in the umbrella and snapping it to free her. Asides from being an actual ghost, she is a ghost in the narrative too, haunting the entire story via absence ever since the early episodes, where the protagonists picked up her umbrella, so she's a ghost many times over at this point. Learning of her existence almost completely changes how you view the first few episodes. But that's just a bit of a fun fact; let's get back to why Lup is amazing.

She's VERY COOL. Her specialty is Evocation magic, and what she is MOST known for is fire spells. When she was broken out of the umbrella (it was snapped), her first action is to release a wave of fire that destroys every last bit of The Hunger (antagonistic force that swallows up worlds) in the room while leaving her allies untouched. Her second? To turn to her brother and ask gleefully, ""You're dating the Grim Reaper?!"" ICONIC. (Also she made the Phoenix Fire Gauntlet that has the potential to destroy entire towns or something.) In addition, she has other talents besides just magic and iconic lines. For example: Cooking! She and her twin brother Taako acted as chefs and arcanists for a ship powered by bonds and called the Starblaster.

While dabbling in transmutation (the school that her twin brother eventually chose), she made a fifteen dollar bill that duplicates itself (the duplicates don't create duplicates), but Greg Grimaldis stole it from her. So, what did she do? At the plane's most-watched press conference, she went up on stage and vowed, for the whole world's watching eyes to see, that she would be getting it back (and then dropped the mic). This is called back to repeatedly during said time loop (""I believe that, one of these times, we’re gonna get it right. And we’re gonna find a way to defeat The Hunger and... save everybody inside of it. I have to believe that, to keep doing what we do. Because I have to believe [choking up] that I’m gonna get...those fifteen dollars back from Greg fucking Grimaldis!""). And guess what? ~20 or so years later after the hundred-year time loop, she, her brother, and the other two player characters hold a heist on Greg Grimaldis's casino to get it back.

Also, she can play the violin, which was part of a scene that led to this beautiful narration that I'm only going to quote part of: ""Our capacity for love increases with each person we cross paths with throughout our lives, and with each moment we spend with those people. But too often we neglect that part of ourselves in favor of others. And by the time we realize just how important it is, we find ourselves with fewer folks around to practice with. But the seven of you have something that nobody else ever had: time. All the time in the world. Time enough to grow indescribably close. Time enough to learn how to care for each other, how to allow yourselves to be cared for. And in the case of Barry and Lup, time enough to fall deeply and truly in love."" She and Barry (also arcanist) spend several decades pining. Her first canon words to him are ""Nerd alert"". They became liches together in the same ceremony. They're part of each other's emotional tethers. Barry ghostified to avoid magical memory-wiping and made his sole goal for a decade plus just to find her and when Barry thought she was permadead he almost completely lost control of his lich form.

Other fun fact: One loop, the Starblaster team was being judged for sins the justices perceived them to have committed. When it was her turn, Lup correctly listed off each sin the justices were going to accuse her of, before they said anything other than her name. Boss move right there.

TL;DR: Lup is a ghost several times over, she's a girlboss, she's amazing."

"She is phantasmal and resplendent"

[cinnamonest]

Lupophobia

Yandere "Escape Attempt" prompt - Razor

-------------------- Words: 8,944 Warnings:-fem reader, attempted noncon beastiality (none actually happens), yandere/captivity, noncon, biting, breeding, brief gendered themes/tones involving animal mating. Heavily inspired by my degrees of lewdity "deviant"/beastiality playthrough. I applied things I learned in college linguistics for this. Truly putting my education to a good purpose. --------------------- The fortunate thing about animals, and their adjacents, was that they were very easy to deceive, and no matter what, they would fall for the same trick, time and time again. "You see it girl? You want it?" You grimaced at the slimy texture on your fingers, wiggling the fatty slab in your grip and swallowing the sickness that came from looking at it. Out of, you supposed, ingrained social habits, you gave an awkward smile as you wiggled the meat. In contrast, the wolf had the opposite reaction, her ears immediately perked up, and she leaped into a playful position, front half low to the ground as her tail stuck up, and a low whine escaped her throat, eyes fixated on the meat. Yes, unlike with people, who had a greater capacity for pattern recognition and learning, who followed the fool me once, fool me twice mantra, you could count on animals to be easily deceived over and over without having to change the way you deceived them. This was far from the first time you had pulled this exact move, nor was it difficult to do -- you merely waited for a spare moment to rip out a chunk of the meat and hid it away for a little while while the rest of the pack was not looking, too absorbed in their own gorging to even cast a glance in your direction. "You want it...?" You repeated, wiggling the slab again in front of the wolf's eyes. Drool spilled out of the side of her mouth between her sharp, glistening teeth, and she let out another whine.

This was not the first time this trick had worked. This was not the first time you'd managed to steal and hide a hunk of meat away while the animals gorged themselves on the remains of whatever poor creature fell victim to them. Hell, this wasn't even the first time that this specific trick had worked on this specific individual wolf. You'd come to recognize each of them with time, even assigned them little names in your head by identifiers. She was a mother, one of the wolves that remained behind at the little den while the others went out for hunting, leaving only the nursing females, the smallest pups, and, well, yourself. Albeit in a weakened state in nursing, they were still easily capable of overpowering you, and, through means you honestly did not understand, they somehow knew they were supposed to prevent you from leaving. Even when you stood up, one or more of them would immediately pick their heads up, ears falling flat and even letting out the softest of warning growls.

She whined in front of you, eyes fixated on the slab. You wiggled it again. It was an easy deceit to pull off. "You want it... then go... get it!"

You hurled the hunk of red flesh as far as your arms could manage, and, exactly per plan, the she-wolf immediately bolted in the direction of the throw. And likewise, you turned on your heel and began the now-routine dash in the opposite direction -- the direction of human civilization. That had been the easy part.

It was the rest of the way that would be difficult. This time of day was the only opportunity you had to pull this whole thing off, but the sun was quickly setting, and unlike the wolves, you were not exactly gifted with night vision. You likened the route to an obstacle course, a puzzle -- repeated actions that became muscle memory. The first few times, you'd merely stumbled around in the woods for a few minutes. With each successive attempt, you retained more knowledge of the path, could clear a longer distance in increasingly shorter times, memorized landmarks, remembered little helpful actions and hindrances, and with each successive attempt, you found yourself making it closer and closer to the end of the woods than the time before. There wasn't much else to go by, so you used trees that stood out to you. The huge tree with the hollowed out hole in the center was the first landmark -- go right. The tree that had an oddly-angled branch came next. So on and so on. You measured success by how many of said landmarks you could pass in time, striving to make each a longer and longer venture every time. Just when despair had been finally getting the better of you, the last attempt had had you finding a footpath used by the Springvale hunters, and that meant you were close. If you could just find that again -- there. To say flat ground was a welcome feeling to your bare feet was an understatement. The slimy dirt texture of the forest floor and prickly leaves and pine needles was not a pleasant sensation. Nonetheless, there was no time to savor it or anything, soon, soon, you'd walk on paved streets, and floors, and, and... You stopped for a mere moment, panting, desperately taking in deep breaths to soothe the exhaustion burning in your chest. You darted your head from side to side. There was no sign of anything coming your way. No footsteps or growls in the distance behind you. You felt your heart pounding in your chest, as much from physical exertion as it was from a blooming, disbelieving excitement. I might actually make it.  Your legs felt weak at the prospect, and you steadied your stumbling against a tree. You were certain you'd never made it this far before. It was difficult to process, almost surreal. After so, so, so many times, over the course of months and months, you were so used to being stopped by this point that your brain half-expected it at any moment. You'd really reached a point at which the escape attempts were almost done with a knowing futility, you no longer really had much hope when setting out, merely running on principle and the faint chance that was now so real. You could be stopped any moment. And yet, after a few more breaths, nothing happened. You shook your head to clear the dizziness, taking a deep breath and squinting forward in the twilight. You nearly felt your heart stop when you processed a shape in the distance -- a building. Springvale. It was distant and downhill, but visible. Right there within your reach, and all you had to do was go to it, so you steadied your breath and took off as fast as-- The world suddenly spun around you as something snatched at your ankle. Your shriek echoed off the trees, reverberating until it grew silent. A clanging of metallic sounds accompanied it, rattling hollowed objects triggered into motion. Everything began to settle, the sudden flooding of stimuli to your eyes and the feeling of sudden movement both slowing to a gentle sway. You were unbreathing, unblinking, heart pounding as your vision spun and, in a panicked haze, you desperately darted your eyes and head each way, struggling to process your senses. Your head felt suddenly tight and tense, your upper half heavy, and a burning pain wrapped around your ankle. Everything was... upside down. You looked down -- no, up -- at your feet. One was bent at the knee, falling in the direction of gravity towards your head, the other was extended perfectly straight, tense and unable to move. A cord was snagged around your ankle, a perfect tightened knot that wrapped around the flesh. You looked up -- no, again, down -- at the ground. Nausea lurched in your stomach as you did, seeing the forest floor a good drop below. You took a moment to process. You followed the trail of the rope from where it tugged painfully at your ankle, followed it to the branch it looped over, and down the trunk to the base of the tree, where it was securely tied around a knotted root. The metallic sound had come from what appeared to be collected garbage, metal scraps, a glass bottle or two, and some metal tools and cans all tied up in a net and secured to the spot where the rope met the branch, an alert that the trap had been set off. Your mouth hung open, you blinked over and over, before finally, bitter anger burst in your chest. "Ghhhhh!" You let out a frustrated, furious cry, thrashing wildly and pulling at your scalp. You kicked and struggled, but only succeeded in making yourself swing, making the nausea and dizziness worse. A trap. Of course. The furthest you've ever gotten, and you were stopped by a fucking hunting trap. Damn those Springvale hunters for coming this far out into the woods. It could be worse, you tried to console yourself. It could have been a bear trap, which would have more or less destroyed your leg, possibly taken it clean off. But nonetheless, misery and frustration bubbled up in your chest as you swung back and forth, slowing down to stillness. You'd never made it this close to town before. You could see the road as well, albeit just barely, a few hundred yards in the distance. You could make out where the dirt path became gravel in the distance, upside-down in the last light of the quickly-setting sun, and, as tears filled your eyes, you reached a hand out to it, miserably grasping your hand shut before letting your arm fall. It was so, so close! Now you were trapped, stuck here in this miserable, humiliating predicament, and you'd have to wait to be saved, and inevitably dragged back the way you'd come. You thrashed again, trying and failing to curl your body up and reach your foot. Your fingers just barely grazed the knot of the rope, but even if you could reach it, it was designed for your body weight to hold the knot in place to begin with. You let out a shaky sigh and a small sob, tears dripping directly out of your eyes and falling downward with gravity. You wiped your eyes, and a thought made a bit of nervous, daring hope light up in your chest. You were close to Springvale, right? Maybe you could be heard. This trap was set by the Springvale hunters themselves, right? You'd seen these types before, a snare that, when tripped, released on one side and whipped around the center of the force that tripped the rope, forming a perfect, tight knot around the ankle of the prey before hauling it upwards by use of weight. You took a deep breath and cupped your hands around your mouth. "Help!" You called out, straining out the vowel as long as you could, before inhaling a ragged breath and repeating the action. As the echoes quieted, you waited, but nothing happened. You wriggled and writhed, but only succeeded in making the net of metal rattle. You supposed it helped the hunters hear animals struggling, and led them to the source. But the hunters wouldn't be back out until tomorrow, you couldn't afford to wait for them to come rescue you on their own. You waited a moment, trying again and again to yell. The Springvale hunters, a traveler on the road, hell, you'd accept help from treasure hoarders if they hung out in this part of the wilderness. Anyone, anyone human. Well, except one, preferably, but still. Any other human being. You couldn't even remember the last human interaction you'd had. At least, a fully human interaction, without any licks or whines or growls or other canid behaviors you'd become far too accustomed to. But nobody came. You waited. Tried again. And again. And again. No response. Your head was beginning to pound and throb. You'd black out if you stayed like this much longer, and you were pretty certain it could even kill you. But nothing was responding to your cries for help. You wracked your brain in panic for a solution. An idea popped into your head. You'd seen Razor do it before, and the wolves responded to him even though he produced the sound with a human voice, so maybe you too could... It was embarrassing, but worth a try. You didn't exactly have many options. You jerked your bodyweight in the other direction, making yourself turn to face the woods in the direction you'd come from instead of Springvale. You reached your quickly-numbing arms up and cupped your hands around your mouth, forming your lips into an "o" shape, and, well, swallowed your pride. You didn't have any better ideas. "Awooooo--" You tried to mimic the howls you'd heard so many times as accurately as you could manage, but it came out a bit strained and comical. You waited a moment, and, receiving no response, whimpered in your desperation and tried a second time. Your voice echoed throughout the trees. You weren't certain exactly how it worked, you were pretty certain they had different tones they used, some for aggression, some as a cry of distress, but you weren't capable of telling them apart. You could only hope for the best. It wasn't really as if they could help you, but at the very least, they would probably go find Razor for you. They'd done so before, after another humiliating failure when you'd fallen into a hole in the earth during a past attempt. You'd learned they were far more intelligent than you once thought, and they understood things like that, at least. But gods, did this make you feel dumb. Your face heated with embarrassment with each attempt. You inhaled to try a third time, but as you did, a shrill howl pierced the air from a distance. A response. Your heartrate picked up as a little spark of relief and hope -- albeit dread that lurked in the back of your head -- made you shudder. You howled again, and received a second response. It carried on for a few minutes that way, sounding back and forth, and it sounded like the other was getting closer. Finally, you heard steps, and anticipation swelled in your chest. You were pretty sure that the response howls had been that of an actual wolf -- even you, in your time in these woods, had learned to tell the difference between Razor's vocalizations and that of the wolves. There were simply some aspects of the canid sounds that human vocal chords could only mimic, but not recreate to a perfect likeness, and thus his vocalizations were a bit distinct. Still, you could be wrong, or, even better, perhaps the footsteps coming close to you weren't an animal at all, but perhaps a different figure, maybe a hunter...? No, that was definitely a four-legged gait. That, too, was something you had learned to tell apart, a two-legged gait versus a four-legged one. It kind of came in handy when you were trying to to hide or run and needed to gauge exactly what was hunting you down. You craned your neck to the best of your ability in the direction of the sound. A creature emerged from the trees. You took a sharp breath. ...It was merely a very large, brownish-greyish wolf. It gazed up at you with big black eyes and ears perked up in alertness. You squinted. You'd never seen this wolf before. You were fairly certain of this much; during your time in the woods, you'd learned to distinguish between them pretty well. You learned the little differences -- this one was bigger, this one had a scratch on its ear, this one had a scar on its hip, this one was more brown and this one was more grey, and so on it went. This one was different from all the wolves you'd become familiar with. The wolf sat down, tilting its head at you, tongue lolling out as it panted. It was huge, muscular looking. "Help," you whimpered. As aware as you were that it obviously did not understand, you couldn't think of anything else to do. You flailed a bit in your desperation, and pointed towards the spot where the rope was tied to the tree. "Help me... Come on, please..." The wolf actually followed the line of your pointing, eyes settling on the base of the trap. And, miraculously, moved towards it. Your heart pounded. Did it actually understand? Would it help? It walked over and bit at the rope, shaking its head rapidly in the same way you'd witnessed the wolves kill small prey, or how dogs played with toys. It was helping! You shuddered again, hope burning in your chest, and a tear of relief dripping from your eyes upside-down to the ground below. And if this wolf wasn't from the pack, it wouldn't take you back, right? How, you weren't certain, but the other wolves seemed to understand the... arrangement going on. Many of your escape attempts had been thwarted not by your captor himself, but by the pack -- surrounding you in a circle, barking and growling and snapping at you until you were forced to turn back, even tackling you as you ran, biting your clothes and arms to drag you back. But this wolf would let you go, right? .... Wait a second. Cold dread suddenly made your stomach lurch. This wolf had no reason to help you, and no reason to drag you back. It had every reason to see you as easy prey. Any relief or hope you'd felt was immediately replaced with a chilling rush of panic. Yes, you would be easy prey, right there for the taking. You thrashed about, trying again to reach up and loosen the knot on your foot, but failing. Fuck. You were trapped between two unpleasant options. There was a chance the wolf was just helping, but in the end, it was an animal, not a person, with instincts of goodwill or benevolence. It would follow its instincts. Once you hit the ground, you'd have to run. That was the only solution. But... it also occurred to you only then that you were hanging a good fifteen feet or so in the air. Upside down. What if the fall knocked you out? Hell, what if it broke your legs? What if it broke your spine? If it were Razor himself, he'd lower you down slowly, but the wolf lacked the sense  or ability to do so. You'd just drop. Fuck, fuck, fuck. There was a thick coating of leaves on the ground, which would hopefully help, and this part of the forest had soft, clay-like ground rather than hard rock, but nonetheless, it was a long drop. Dammit! Your body wracked with a sob of frustration, anger, and panic. Why did all of this have to happen to you? You'd asked yourself that that plenty of times. You didn't do anything to deserve-- There was a snapping sound. You shrieked as gravity immediately sent you crashing down, world spinning around you, and you collided with the earth with crash that took the breath from your lungs; the sound flooded your ears, echoed as your head went numb. You landed directly on your back, eyes looking up at the trees and the sky beyond then as the world spun around you and your vision darkened. Pain ran through your body on impact, a rough, blunt sort of pain that ached through your flesh and meat and bones. You groaned in pain, teeth clenched as it flooded your senses, trembling as it slowly began to ebb away after the initial blow. The wolf's face popping into your vision sent you jolting back to awareness. It was startling, it's cold wet nose pressing against your own, and after a moment, it lapped its tongue against your face. Panic seized your entire body, and you were frozen, unable to move, not even breathing, eyes wide in terror. And then it licked you again, letting out a soft, tender whine. It was being friendly. You let out a shuddering sigh as relief washed over you again, and you thanked whatever god was looking out for you for granting you your life. "Th-thank you," you murmured, reaching a trembling hand up to pat the wolf's head, wincing at the soreness in your arm. It whined again, bumping its head against yours. Wolves were far, far larger than you were certain most people realized. Back home, you'd always thought that the howls you heard at night from within the safety of Mondstadt's walls were from creatures no bigger than the large hunting dogs you'd seen in Springvale. In reality, that was not the case. Even the smallest of the wolves were massive in comparison to those dogs, their heads easily twice the size of your own. You'd been utterly terrified of them in the beginning, bursting into frightened tears whenever one made its way over to sniff you in their curiosity, or dump an offering of a small creature's carcass at your feet in a show of friendliness (an unsettling experience, no matter how many time you were told it's good, 'cause they like (y/n)), or lick your face in an attempt to show affection. You'd grown used to it with time. But this wolf was even larger than the majority you'd seen, easily thrice your size in every capacity. Likely a loner separated from its pack. You were aware there were sometimes conflicts between the larger, stronger pack males that ultimately ended in the loser leaving the pack and heading off on its own, although it seemed nearly incomprehensible that a wolf of this size would lose to anything. Had it chosen the route of violence, you wouldn't have stood a chance. You laid there for a moment, head spinning as you took deep, shaky breaths, trying to calm yourself down and regain your sense of control over your body. You curled your fingers and toes, flexed the muscles in your arms and legs. You were a bit scraped up and your entire body still ached from the impact, but miraculously, nothing seemed broken. You closed your eyes, feeling the cool evening breeze and the wet tongue that was repeatedly lapping at your face. Finally, after a moment, with a groan at the ache in your body, you pushed yourself upward with your elbows, flipping over to your hands and knees, pulling your leg forward to stand-- The breath was knocked out of you yet again as a massive weight crashed down onto your body. You clawed at the ground, gasping to regain oxygen, body going tense. "Wh-what-" The creature let his bodyweight fall down on your frame, and you grunted as your upper half slammed into the ground. It rendered you entirely immobile, this wolf was both massive and heavy, you could barely breathe under the sheer mass of its body. You struggled to push yourself back up onto your elbows. "H-hey, what are you--" With a whine, it rutted its hips forward. Oh, fuck. "N-no!" You tried to rear up, pushing your upper half upward on your elbows as hard as you could, to no avail. Its weight was crushing. "B-bad! Bad dog! Stop!" You clawed at the dirt, gasping as it thrust again. "Get off!" It only let out the same high, throaty whine, thrusting its hips several times in quick succession, humping your ass with desperation. You could feel its blunt-ended cock digging into the flesh, making your blood run cold. When it rutted forward, the motion hiked your ragged little dress up, bunching up the fabric and exposing your cunt. You whimpered with fear, desperately trying to drag yourself forward. "Stop, stop, get off!" You thrashed again, achieving nothing by the action. The worst part, the dread that was quickly overtaking your thoughts, was that you knew it was futile. You'd learned a long time ago that your resistance would mean nothing, not by the brutal laws of the world outside of the fragile sense of safety human society provided. It was expected. It happened among the wolves themselves all the time -- the mates were not something that were chosen in the same way humans did. Too many times you'd witnessed the ritual -- the males would fight, snarling and growling and lunging at each other until one would give up and run scurrying away, tail tucked between its legs. Growing up with all the knowledge you'd learned from books and what humans generally observed of the animals, you'd always assumed that from that point, the she-wolves would then gladly and willingly copulate with the victor, but, you'd quickly learned, that was not the case. It had shocked you the first few times, your eyes widening and your mouth dropping open as you witnessed the poor females get tackled, mounted, their whimpers as teeth sank into their shoulders and kept them in place. It was brutal, and yet, you'd come to understand and accept it was simply the way things were. Perhaps the part that had shocked you the most was how accepted it was -- the other wolves would simply look on, adjusted to what was normal among them, and the brutalized female would, from that point on, act as a normal mate to what more or less was originally her assailant -- licking and grooming each other, sleeping next to one another, spending time with each other, all as if such a thing made sense. Given the acceptant, compliant state you sometimes found yourself slipping into, you supposed you weren't too different in that way. Because they're strong, you'd been told. Beating the other male and forcibly mating the female herself signified strength. They were supposed to try to run and fight, and the male was supposed to forcibly overpower them, a display of strength, of suitableness as a partner. That was why fighting back didn't matter -- it was supposed to be that way, in the minds of the animals, and thus they were content with that setup. The present moment was anything but content. Another rut of the wolf's hips brought you snapping out of your brief thought, back to the moment at hand. The forest was quiet aside from your own struggling, the last rays of light were fading from the sky, the moon hanging high in place of their light. You let out a shrill, squeaking cry, thrashing with renewed effort, but, predictably, not even budging. "Get off! Get off me! Stop it, bad dog!" No matter how you tried, you couldn't move your body in the slightest, perfectly pinned still. "Fuck..." It let out another whine, not even seeming to notice your struggles, grasping at your shoulder with its teeth, and you feared that if it bit down, it might shatter your shoulder. It rutted forward, and this time you froze, entire body going tense as the blunt head of its cock pressed firmly against your exposed slit. You finally managed to claw at the leaf-covered ground enough to pull yourself forward, if but just an inch -- and the wolf, snarling, thrust its own body forward to push you back into the same position. One of its front paws reached forward and clawed onto your shoulder, and you squealed as it pulled you back, forming a tiny cut in the flesh of your jugular. Your began to nearly hyperventilate, trembling, breaths shallow and quick. "S-stop..." Your plea was defeatedly quiet, realizing that further protest would only hurt you. Tears gathered in your eyes. Your back was bent at an angle under the sheer weight of the furry mass that kept you pinned, and it felt like your very lungs were crushed, breathing quickly becoming difficult. You began to feel your body tingling with numbness. It was so heavy and difficult to breathe you weren't certain you'd even survive if it fucked you. Panic seized your brain, overriding any coherent thought. There was a snarling, growling sort of noise that cut through the surrounding stillness. It wasn't coming from the creature mounted on your body. It didn't sound canid. It was human. Much like the howls, you had learned, with time, how to distinguish between the real and the imitation, those sounds that, no matter how long of a lifetime of practice one had, could simply not match the vocals of another species. The wolf stopped its motions, turning its head, and likewise immediately transitioned its entire demeanor, tensing up and returning the sound, a low snarl, baring its teeth as its snout wrinkled up. It dismounted your body and lowered itself to the ground, hips and shoulders raised as its core sank low, a preparatory stance ready to lunge. You fell forward, face crashing into the leaves, before scrambling upwards and falling back on your ass, propped up with your hands behind you and your knees bent as you froze, unable to move a muscle, eyes open wide and gasping for breath as air burned in your lungs. You could see red-orange eyes glaring in the moonlight from a short distance, and for once, the face of the wolf-boy made a wave of relief come crashing down, rather than panic at being found. He made another low sound in his throat, a snarling growl. His shoulders hunched up in a similar motion to the wolf, baring his teeth, glare locked on the transgressor. He didn't have a weapon on him, so his hands clenched into fists at his side. You'd witnessed this plenty of times in the past by now, but never before with him as one of the participants. The other male wolves within the pack hadn't exactly taken an interest in you, rather, simultaneously accepted you as one of their own, while seeming to recognize you as something of an "other," as they did him. Among them, though, these conflicts were regularly occurring, a constantly shifting hierarchal dynamic that was weighted in blood and pure brute strength. Your heartrate picked up anew. Strong as Razor may be, this thing was massive. And he didn't have his claymore, you remembered he'd left it near the den earlier, before going on his daily routine to check the various animal traps. This wolf could kill him. And given that it wasn't a pack member, it wouldn't hesitate to do so. The wolf took a few heavy steps forward, growling all the while, and the wolf-boy reciprocated the action, a deep low growl in his throat as he stomped forward, fingers curling into a claw-like shape, not exhibiting so much as the slightest hesitation to show aggression against the massive creature. You tried to stand on your shaking legs, but fell on your ass again. "W-wait, no, r-run," you stammered, words spewing out of your mouth before you could process them, "he'll hurt you--" Your vision went white, bright light exploded all around, a crashing, booming sort of sound cutting off your words. There was a heat to it that you could feel on your skin, but it blinded your vision, leaving you blinking as, in a mere moment, the electric energy faded to a purplish glow that sparked with a buzz in the palm of his hand. The wolf leaped back in terrified shock, immediately flattening its ears, turning and tucking its tail between its legs, scrambling with fear into the darkness of the trees. And just like that, the threat was gone. You were left slack-jawed, mouth hanging open, trembling and panting as you watched it disappear, footsteps growing quieter and quieter until they could no longer be heard. Instead, the leaves to your side crunched in a two-legged pattern as the figure drew closer, and then dropped down to his knees to get on a face-to-face level. You turned your head and your eyes met. His eyes were wide and pupils blown even wider, mouth slightly open, looking you over. His eyes had always had a softness to them, full of light. After a moment, he reached up, slowly, and wiped the tears from your eyes, a soft, unthinking gesture, and leaned forward. He nuzzled his face against yours, and, after a moment, licked a few quick, short laps up the side of your face. It was nothing you weren't very well used to, and you merely sat numbly as he did so. His eyes trailed downward, widening as they met the gash that had been created on your neck by the massive wolf's claws, and he leaned forward again, lapping at your skin. You inhaled a sharp breath at the sting of his tongue on the wound, but you knew it actually was helpful in terms of clotting, so you didn't resist. You sat like that for a moment, silent, still, letting him clean up the wound, saliva naturally helping the healing process. It was bizarrely intimate in its own way, but it certainly wasn't the first time he'd helped in that way with a wound. It stopped stinging after a moment, blood clotting under the wet warmth. He pulled his head back, looking over you again as if to ascertain your unharmed state, eyes wide and expression flat, looking directly at your face - your weary face, trembling lip, expression still uneasy from the remaining shock. "You... Okay?" There was a softness to his face, a wide-eyed look of innocent concern. You did your best to nod. Any hope you'd had left had been crushed at some point in the adrenaline of the encounter, and thus, all chances of escaping gone, defeat and weariness washed over your body, and you slumped forward in exhaustion. Of course, he was unaware of and most likely did not even consider why you suddenly fell against him, he tended to take any action you made at face value and accepted it as simply what it was, and likewise, every action he made was easily interpreted the same way. It was, you sometimes consoled yourself, a rather welcome simplicity in contrast to the hidden and subtle meanings that humans often portrayed through their actions, and you never had to worry about an innocent action being misinterpreted maliciously, nor did you worry that your emotions were too transparent in your actions. Instead, he merely seemed pleased by the gesture, eagerly wrapping his arms around your frame and pulling your closer, rubbing his head up and down so the sides of your faces nuzzled together, squeezing you tightly. "I heard you," he said, a cheerful sort of pride in his voice. "Came to help." You swallowed. "Th-thank you..." As much as his sudden appearance crushed any chance you had of reaching Springvale, you couldn't help but feel a genuine relief, even gratitude, for saving you from what would have undoubted been a highly painful and traumatizing experience, if you'd survived the lack of oxygen. Not that you weren't already getting your fair share of traumatizing experiences out here, but, well, none quite like what your experience would have been had he not shown up. After a still, silent moment of embrace, he released you, shifted and stood up, but then suddenly tensed, and his eyes widened with what seemed like surprise, or perhaps realization, mouth opening slightly. His eyes were cast downward, settled on the cord that was still tightly tied around your ankle, and reached down to loosen the knot, slipping it off and tossing the remaining cord to the side. You made a small sound as if to start speaking, but cut off and fell silent, shutting your mouth. And then, as he came back up, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion and processing, mouth slightly open as he looked a bit to one side, then the other, to you, and up to the tree from which you'd hung. The wheels were turning. Finally, after a moment, it seemed to click, his eyes went wide with realization for a split second before he turned his head back towards you and narrowed his eyes in a glare. His "angry" face had always been a bit difficult to take seriously, he had maintained a baby face despite his age, big eyes and soft features making it look like more of a pout than anything, but in time you'd learned the rightful amount of fear to have at seeing it. Your heart sank in your chest. "You ran away again." His voice was a bitter, grumpy mumble. You'd feared that when you noticed the surprising lack of anger up until a few moments ago. That it hadn't yet clicked with him, until now, exactly why you were out here, how you got out here, in the first place. He might have thought the larger wolf had dragged you out here, or, perhaps more likely, it had not crossed his mind at all in the intensity of the previous moments, too focused on conflict and comfort. "I..." You trailed off, trembling. There was a moment of silence. You couldn't exactly argue against it. It was true that he was rather gullible, and would often believe rather ridiculous excuses or explanations that anyone else would never buy, but there were limits to that, and at the present moment, you couldn't think of any excuse that even he would believe. Even if the wolf had come in to drag you away, the she-wolf set to guard you would have made a noise to alert the others, and he knew that. There was a moment of silence, and, not receiving any objection to his claim, he exhaled a frustrated huff through his nostrils. "I'm mad." As nice as it was that you didn't have to worry about being misinterpreted, another pro to your situation was that your captor was easily the most transparent person you'd ever met, bluntly honest, so much so it sometimes worked against him. You were pretty sure he couldn't be indirect or subtle with his words if he tried. Passive-aggressiveness or anything of the sort was foreign. "I'm sorry," you murmured, hoping to ease his anger, but you knew by now those words didn't really hold any meaning to him. He opened his mouth, that same pout on his face, and took a breath as if to speak, but no words came out. He closed his mouth, looking at the ground for a moment, opened again, repeated the process, and again, before roughly shaking his head, head hanging and expression falling to something like irritation and disappointment. With other people, you'd feel more intimidated by silence, silence meant someone was angry and trying to get under your skin. And while he made no attempt to hide being angry, you knew the silence wasn't an intentional passive-aggressive act, but rather, just lacking the proper words. It was a process you went through frequently, and to some degree, you felt bad for him. Having feelings, having complex thoughts, but lacking the knowledge or ability to articulate them, being unable to adequately express what you thought and felt, limited to such simple terms as sad and mad, words that could only convey incredibly simple feelings... you could only imagine how frustrating that would be. He knew that those words weren't enough, but didn't have any other ones to use. You understood why, then, he grunted in frustration, kicking at the ground, sending a few leaves scattering. But you also knew that if he could not express himself with words, actions would have to suffice. You knew better than to expect any different. This routine, despite its variances in the specifics of how the events went down, went like clockwork from this point onward, the moment of defeat. They say humans are, after all, creatures of habit. You nonetheless let out a little surprised sound at the suddenness with which you were lifted by the armpits, quickly moved a few steps to the side and unceremoniously pushed forward, facing one of the many boulders that dotted the forest floor. Instinctively, releasing an exhale of defeat and acceptance, braced yourself against it, hands pressed into the rock. You were technically standing, but leaning far forward, bodyweight resting mostly onto the rock you were bending over on. His front pressed against you, hand pushing your back down into an arch, latching arms around your waist. There was no hesitation, no preparation, merely pulling the fabric of your dress up with one swift motion, and the waist of his pants down in another, all in a matter of a single moment, and rutting against you, once, twice, cock slipping against your folds, and on the third thrust, it actually slid in, pushing about halfway in with harsh force with no warning. You gasped at the sting, clawing at the rock as your face twisted with the slight pain, but his hand gripped hard on your shoulder. "Stay... Still." It was honestly impressive, you sometimes thought, to manage to get a cock inside you so easily with hip angling alone. He'd never thought to use his hands to do so, you guessed due to merely mimicking what he observed, as all humans did. Nonetheless, you let out a mewl at the feeling of friction against your walls as it dragged, pulling out a bit before slamming back in. Then again, faster. And again, faster still. And finally, setting into a rhythm, quick and harsh, your body lurching forward at the force. Defeat and despond had fully set in, and you made no movement to fight back, instead attempting to ease the discomfort by pushing back with the thrusts. And then, after a moment, it stopped. It often did -- again, a set pattern, a routine. Increasingly often these days, he changed his mind at this point, initially going with the instinctive, natural option, but it would take a moment to remember that there was an alternative. You shuddered at the sliding feeling and emptiness as he pulled back out, but even though you braced yourself, the air was knocked out of you as you were flipped over, back hitting the rock -- and this time aching as the bruising flesh from the earlier fall was hit again -- now leaning your weight onto the rock on your back, facing forward. The roughness with which you were tossed about and maneuvered was, you knew, not intentional, nor out of malice, but it always left you disoriented as your vision spun a bit. And it was only a single second before you were filled again, gasping a deep breath and reaching your hands out to claw at his back as you felt yourself stretched apart all in one motion, and your legs fell into the routine position of hooking over his arms. He liked it this way. The human way, he called it, with you on your back in some form rather than on your hands and knees, facing him rather than turning away, which had been the only way you'd done it -- you supposed the only way he had been familiar with -- for a good while. You'd introduced the position once when your arms and legs were exhausted from strain, and, perhaps to your relief, it became the most common way that the routine went down. You supposed that, deep down, no matter the way in which a person was raised, there were certain innate needs and instincts that could not be overridden, woven into the very biology of a person. For humans, intimacy, the feeling of affection, and you supposed that that itch was met for him more adequately this way. And he liked to mimic normal behaviors in that regard. You recalled a time ago, back before you were brought out here for good, the wide-eyed fascination with which he'd watch passing couples of people on the road and streets, would make an attempt to imitate the same actions, albeit lacking in the same gentleness, technique, or appropriate timing. Reaching out to grab and hold your hand (with a crushing grip) as you walked, awkwardly pressing your mouths together (so firmly that your teeth clacked and your jaw hurt). That, at least, had gotten better. Now, it was somewhat gentle, he leaned down and pressed his mouth to yours. Gentle, but still very awkward, lacking in the rhythmic motions with which you'd expect, more like holding still but pressing firmly against you, but lapping a quick lick to your lips. You could taste blood on his lips and tongue, a permanent coppery taste that never went away. That didn't last long. It was hard to maintain the mouth contact when he started rutting into you, causing your body to rock in jerking motions up and down on the surface, and his face buried itself into your shoulder, panting shallow breaths that were warm against your flesh. And again, like clockwork, you knew how the issue of your body rocking back and forth, disrupting the rhythm, would be solved, and you inhaled as you braced yourself, first for the tightening grip of arms around your waist, and then-- You gasped a sharp breath despite your mental preparation as teeth sunk into your jugular, opposite the one with the injury, further locking your bodies together. He growled, a low throaty sound. Teeth gnawed at your shoulder before releasing and sinking down in a different spot, digging into the flesh just short of the force it would take to break it. You cursed whichever god thought it would be funny to give him abnormally sharp canines. Even with your weight leaning against the rock, a good portion of it was still being supported by his arms, which, with any normal human being, you would hope would cause enough strain to perhaps slow down the actual thrusting, but you knew better by now. Nor did you expect any kind of buildup or anything, no, you gritted your teeth at the immediate fast pace that dragged against your insides, raw and with little fluid to lessen the friction. The quickness and suddenness always left you sore, your internal parts not having enough time or stimulation to expand or prepare, so each thrust that slammed into the top of your insides sparked a shock of pain and pleasure sensation so strong your entire body jolted with the feeling. The bruising soreness of the recent abuse to the same spot -- how many times earlier today, three, four? -- heightened the sensitivity. And, as with the rest of the routine, you didn't expect words. You couldn't blame him -- talking was hard enough when he was focused, you imagined it was much harder when preoccupied with sensation, and with less blood in the brain. It also made sense that he didn't seem to process anything you said either -- any slow down or wait fell on deaf ears, or rather, non-comprehending ears. Eventually you, too, fell into the same state- "I-- hah, ah, w-wait, mnn-" -- unable to form words, unable to take in anything around you, pure sensation clouding your brain of any and all thoughts. You heard your own little cries ring out and echo through the empty forest, and soft, pleasured whines in your ear, hot breath from panting that grew faster and faster as the thrusts became more erratic and harder, slamming in and out, the wet, slapping sound ringing out with your own voice. It pushed against all the right spots, stretching you incomprehensibly full, overloading your brain with the feeling, and the harder your nails sank into his back, the harder his teeth bit down into your neck. The sparks of pain from the feeling felt small, distant, erased by the overwhelming good feeling created by adrenaline and pleasure, and the thought of how badly it would hurt later was the furthest thing from your mind in the moment. And because you knew words meant nothing in the heat of these moments, you had learned that announcing or warning for orgasm didn't matter. Neither of you needed words -- as with many things, you could communicate it without them just fine. He could still sense it, the way you clenched and your hands grasped at his hair and raked down his spine, and in response, the thrusting somehow grew harder and faster still. A perfect and clearly understood communication as clear as any verbal exchange. The squealing you made, the way your body spasmed and your back arched, was better than anything you could have said, really. You weren't... actually fully certain he understood the action as anything other than communication, like a message indicating "cum now." You assumed that was what it meant to him, since, as always, you felt the movement stop, panting as he pushed into your one more time, holding your hips as close as possible as you felt a twitching inside. It was always perfectly coordinated like that. The peak was always too short, always that same burst of feeling that you wished could last just a moment longer, leaving you panting. Heavy breaths in and out, shuddering, sweaty flesh clinging to each other. You could feel the arms that held your legs up shaking with aftershock, forehead falling to rest against the spot between the mounds of your chest. Then, after a moment, a nuzzle, slowly rubbing a cheek against your collarbones. As soon as that stopped, his head popped up again, looking up at your face with those same wide amber eyes, soft and somehow, despite everything, they always seemed so innocent and bright. A curious, but fairly neutral, content sort of wide-eyed gaze. Anger resolved. Sometimes you were grateful it was that easy. "Ok. You're... good, now." You understood without needing it explained. "Good" indicated something along the lines of fixed or resolved, the phrase "you're good" indicating, in this context, resolution. You assumed it had originated from listening to others in some context or another. You swallowed, and nodded. There was no point in fighting now. A sort of numbing aftershock had set in, and your head was spinning so much that even if you ran, you might fall over on your own without the inevitable tackling. It was a struggle for another day... the same conclusion this always, always resulted in, a conclusion you reached more and more quickly each time, but you tried to put the concern that thought sparked away, merely standing on trembling legs. "...Stupid hunting trap," you muttered, giving the remains of cord a kick into the leaves. He tilted his head and made a soft hm? of confusion. "Th-the trap," your voice was raspy. "They laid out traps for - for catching animals, the hunters, you know." He blinked for a moment as he processed your words, then shook his head, but smiled, beaming with pride. "Mm-nn, I made it. Put lots of them around here." You squinted, head jerking up to scan the treeline - sure enough, now that you looked closer, you could see several treetops dotted with similar nets full of scraps set to make a sound when triggered and struggled against. In fact, the more you gazed around, you realized there were easily dozens and dozens of similar traps, some of different styles and shapes, all perfectly lining the edge of the woods before the road. "...You won't catch things like that," you muttered. "It's too close to the end of the woods." Another slightly confused stare. He shook his head. "Traps are... for you." You could always count on him for two things. Undying loyalty, and obtuse honesty. You blinked at him, expression flat in blunt surprise, then, with a crooked smile, you let out a single huff of bitter, tired laughter. You were numbed to the point that you were, at the very least, able to recognize the humor of it all. Another way of coping, perhaps. It only occurred to you then, as your thoughts cleared, how relief had washed over you when the lone wolf had run out into the night, but your mind had not been focused on your own violation. You remembered your words. Run, he'll hurt you. Your only concern in that moment had been his safety. The thought set off some sort of alarm bell in your head, but the utter exhaustion made it difficult to place much concern in anything.

Your legs were trembling in aftershock, numb and heavy, but it wasn't as if that mattered. Even as you briefly put a hand to the stone beside you to lean your weight onto in an effort to stand, you knew you wouldn't be walking anyway, that wasn't part of the routine. And sure enough, as you got about halfway upward, arms wrapped around your waist instead, and you were roughly maneuvered, tossed like a ragdoll, knocking the breath out of you as you were tossed over his shoulder. "Okay, we're going home, now." He started taking a few heavy steps forward, not even struggling in the slightest to carry your full bodyweight, instead walking as if you were light as air. You didn't protest. You slumped over defeatedly, merely casting your gaze all around, trying desperately to memorize the locations of at least a few of the traps in the dark, but knowing full well in the back of your mind you'd never get past them all. No matter how you may outsmart them, you could never win. It occurred to you that, in a way, you were the one falling for the same trick over and over, continuously placing a ridiculous hope in escape and falling for your own foolishness time and time again. Perhaps that made you a bit more like the animals than you liked to admit.

[cowboycakes]

The Strategy

Pairing: Zeke Jaeger x Reader

Synopsis: The forest was the last place you thought you'd find yourself infatuated with someone you barely knew - especially not your cocky prisoner.

Themes: angst, flirting, guilty love, big plot twist

Warnings: kissing and suggestive language, bullying / teasing, mentions of death, some anxious thinking, light alcohol and tobacco use, profanity. reader uses she/her pronouns. s4 spoilers.

Word Count: 5.7k

Anon (🐸)'s Request: Hi ! Can I request a Zeke x fem reader imagine/one-shot? Reader is a captain for the survey corp and long time veteran. She is really intelligent and is a strategist for the corp. They kind of hate each other but have a lot of chemistry but start bonding before the forest incident. Sorry if that isn't specific enough and too vague.

On occasion, you tended to be so logical that it ruined your life. There was no room in your mind for daydreams, love, or speculation. Fate was false - most things in life were completely arbitrary. That was the way you’d trained yourself to think. Not because you enjoyed it, only because it made it easier to survive.

This way of thinking is a result of your lifetime with the Corps. The award of a Captain’s position was the fruit of your labor, along with being revered for your ability to strategize. Many of the most important and most successful missions in recent years had been planned by you. But, the bubbling tension and division within the walls have thrown you for a loop. You’ve attempted to collaborate with Levi in recent weeks to try to pin down any conflict - anything you could do to calm the storm and keep your comrades safe would be worth it.

Instead of being able to act on whatever plans you’d developed, you’d been assigned to the most bizarre mission you’d ever taken part in: babysitting some man in his late twenties, all the way out in a forest filled with towering redwood trees. This mystery man was apparently not to be trusted, he was Eren’s half-brother from Marley and the holder of the beast titan. He’d done tremendous damage to the Corps in the past. His intentions and motives now remained mysterious, but one thing was for sure: his loyalties lied with Eren, not with the Scouts.

You were disappointed and terrified all together. Being so far away from the action left both you and your comrades vulnerable. But, Levi insisted you needed to confine this man far away from society. And although you were a captain, whatever Levi says usually goes.

The forest wasn’t so bad upon your arrival. Damp pine needles that covered the ground coated the air in a sweet aroma. The blanket of shade given off by the trees was temperate in the summer heat. The tents you’d been provided with were sturdy, insulated, and a dark shade of green that complimented the woodland setting. Above all, you were accompanied by 30 trained soldiers and a shipment of high-quality Marleyan wine.

The entirety of your first day in the forest was spent unpacking and setting up your living quarters. Stars now peak through the canopy of branches above, and a cold breeze ruffles the millions of leaves surrounding the camp. The air was chilly despite the heat that blazed earlier in the day.

The cot you’d assembled in your tent is comfortable enough, but the grey sheets you’d just stretched over the mattress still smell stale. You conjure up the idea of going for a walk while your blankets air out. The musty scent sure wasn’t going to lull you to sleep.

Your timid feet crunch on the ground through the forest for a while, away from the camp. The mist of your breath is tangible in front of your face - the light jacket you’d brought wasn’t going to be enough to keep your goosebumps at bay. It’s much more intimidating out here at night than you’d expected. Darkness brought mystery to the gaps between each tree. And the sheer amount of trees beyond the campsite is dizzying, their height is even more difficult to process. They add a sense of company to your walk, although you can’t tell if they are peaceful observers or prying sets of eyes.

It’s surprisingly quiet out here, no animal or human alike made noise at this hour. The silence leads you to pick up on the echo of a fire crackling somewhere. You’re suddenly a bit excited - you’d figured everyone would have gone to sleep by now.

You spot a comforting orange glow coming from the other side of the distant campsite, offset from the main groups of tents. Maybe someone else’s sheets needed time to breathe too.

The light grows brighter as you trek towards it. It leads you to a humble tent and a fire pit with two rusted metal chairs placed on either side of it. In one of the chairs sits a blonde man in a white shirt, with his back turned to you. He has his nose in a poorly bound book - its stitching is frayed and the pages look wilted, as if they’d been dropped in water before. A cigarette smolders in his free hand.

Your feet crunch into the ground a little harder as you approach in an attempt to avoid startling him. The man looks up to you once you’re finally facing each other. His face is foreign to you. Round glasses on his nose reflect a golden luster from the fire in front of him, blurring your view of his grey eyes slightly. Blonde waves are parted down the middle of his head, tousled a bit too perfectly. He has a well groomed beard that compliments his structured face and strong biceps that peak through his shirt sleeves.

He’s handsome, classy, alluring. Nothing like the usual around here.

“Hi, I’m Captain Reader,” you say with a small smile.

“Reader, huh?” he says, folding his book closed, “I think I’ve heard that name somehow…”

“Oh, possibly. I’m a long time captain. I do a lot of strategic work as well, and it's not exclusive to the Scouts. So my name tends to get around.”

“My name is Zeke,” he replies, returning the smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Zeke… did that sound familiar? You couldn’t decide.

You take a seat in the other chair across from the fire, warming your hands once you get comfortable. The embers lit in front of you are only a sad little bundle of sticks, clearly in need of more fuel. Zeke rolls his shoulders back as his eyes focus in on your frame. His attention is definitely not on the book anymore. His body language almost tells you he likes what he sees - he’s open, relaxed, observant. The cigarette has gone a bit limp in between his fingers.

You’re guilty of curiosity too, as your eyes prod his figure. There must be something in the air.

“What’s that book about?” you question, “it looks… well loved.”

He chuckles. “It's a little fantasy piece, actually. Not something I’d usually find myself reading, but I’ve read it a hundred times now. It’s about a maiden who buys her way to heaven, and a prince who rescues her from the consequences.”

“Interesting…” you say, “how does someone buy their way to heaven?”

“With something far more valuable than money,” he explains. You wonder if the sultry undertone he added was all part of your imagination. It was a little grumbly, suggestive.

“And what would that be?”

“Not sure, still trying to figure that one out,” he remarks, bringing the cigarette up to his lips. Light from the fire gets trapped in the smoke and travels up through the dark air as he exhales.

“You’re gonna ruin your lungs if you keep doing that, Zeke,” you joke.

He chuckles again, “So she’s pretty and caring. Guess I’ve lucked out.”

You feel a little heat rush to your cheeks. This innocent, flattered, puppy-love feeling: you hadn’t felt this way in years. You really wish you could just brush it off, it wasn’t something you were used to. Instead, you let your mind wander for only a second - it would be a nice pastime to have a summer fling with someone in this forest. You were more than tempted. It would get your mind off of the impending doom you tended to feel in chaotic times like this. You could live a bit for once.

And the beautiful man in front of you could be the perfect candidate.

“Hmm, it’s convenient that you think so,” you reply, crossing your legs.

“Convenient? For you, or for me?” he questions. “Looking to get something out of your time in this forest, Captain?”

You pause. He’s bold. “Depends… what about you?”

Zeke lifts the book up slightly in his hand and flips it over to examine its withered back cover, “Not sure, maybe I’ll finally experience whatever this book is talking about. Something so desirable I could cheat my way into heaven with it.”

No. His tone wasn’t your imagination.

“I have a feeling you’ll end up being the prince that has to deal with someone else’s fuck-ups instead,” you laugh.

His lips curl back into a smile as he starts to laugh with you. “Doesn’t sound out of character,” he replies.

His pretty blonde hair ruffles a bit as the wind picks up. And shit - is that wind bitter. The miniscule fire wasn’t doing it’s best to warm you. You notice your limbs are shaking, too much for your jacket and hands to conceal. Zeke surely notices too, he’s been eyeing you this whole time after all.

“Here,” Zeke offers, pulling a thick corduroy coat off of the back of his chair.

“No, no. You should wear that. I’m alright,” you protest, rubbing your hands over your arms vigorously to try to stop your shuddering.

Zeke gets up from his seat anyway and crosses the gap between the two of you. You look up to him once he’s standing over you, embarrassed. Two big hands drape the hefty fabric over your shivering shoulders. You immediately feel warmer as your body heat gets trapped underneath it.

“Thanks,” you mutter, pulling on the jacket to adjust it on your arms.

The wind still howls as Zeke goes back to his metal chair. He sits down casually, taking another drag of his cigarette as his eyes move back to you, lingering on you gently -- like he feels satisfied or nostalgic. Your features looked so beautiful in the faint orange light of the fire, as the only focal point in his vision while darkness clouded everything behind you. He couldn’t help but stare.

“I do mean it,” he says as he exhales, “that you’re pretty.”

His words hang there for a moment. They wait for you on a hook, persuading you to take his bait. So he could reel you in.

“Trying to flatter your superiors huh? Well that’s one way to get what you want,” you retort.

“Who says you’re my superior, Captain Reader?” he jokes.

You laugh at him.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” you begin, “but I’ve never seen you around before. Are you from another branch of the military?”

Zeke pauses, letting out a huff of air.

“You know, with a reputation like yours, one would think you’d know your enemies a little better.”

Your face drops from a smile that rested high on your cheeks to a shocked, open-mouthed glare. You’re frozen. Why didn’t you assume…

“You’re the other Jaeger…” you trail off.

Zeke brings the cigarette back to his mouth and flips his book back open in response.

You stare down into the fire, unsure of what to do or say next. You were mortified. Maybe saying nothing was the answer - you’d already dug yourself into a hole by flirting with your prisoner. And damn, did Zeke deliberately let you. He knew who you were. He wanted you to feel this way. He led you on.

Who was supposed to deal with your fuck-up now?

You stand up, keeping your eyes on the ground.

“Goodnight, Zeke,” you say quietly, dropping his coat onto the chair.

You move quickly through the dark air that nips at your ears, back to the safety of your tent.

***

“Don’t go off and be an idiot,” Levi warns.

You assure him you wouldn’t, pouring a big glass of wine for yourself with a smile spread across your face.

Levi had been more than reluctant to let your soldiers bring this wine, but you’d done some convincing. This forest had been boring for the past few days. Laughing over a few drinks would be a sure way to liven up the crowd. You were just excited to finally get a taste of this Marleyan wine that everyone had been raving about.

You hadn’t seen Zeke since that night three days ago. Unfortunately, you couldn’t get him off of your mind. Partially because you were horribly embarrassed. And angry. You couldn’t believe you’d walked into his trap like that, practically offering yourself to him as a subject to humiliate. You were sure he’d enjoyed every bit of it.

And the other reason you couldn’t get him off of your mind…

He was a bit gorgeous. And you loved the way he talked to you, how it made you feel. Even though your time with him was so short, you secretly wanted more. You cursed yourself for thinking about him like that after all the harm he’d done to the Scouts. All of it made you sick - it was wrong, it made you feel like you had dirt on your hands.

But what if you tried to talk with him again? Just to sort your feelings out. Then you could be free to forget about him. This time, you would control yourself. You knew who he was now, and what it meant to be speaking with him. You were allowed to speak with him, you just had to be careful if you were going to proceed. None of you could trust him.

But the curiosity was still killing you.

You swirl the wine around in your glass as you dig the toe of your leather boot into the soft ground - trying to decide.

Anxious feet move below you before your mind is ready for them to, back toward Zeke’s tent.

It was nearly sundown, and beautiful purple rays beam through the forest, shattered from full display by hundreds of tree branches. The air was warm tonight, so there would be no need for Zeke's jacket again.

Once you see his camp, you notice he’s back in the same chair again. He’s still reading that torn-up book, this time with a pencil in his hand. He scratches little notes onto the pages here and there.

He looks up once he hears the familiar sound of your boots. The eyes behind his circular lenses scan you, lingering on the glass in your hand. You wonder if you should have brought him one.

“Hi, Zeke,” you say softly, making your way to the chair across the empty fire pit.

“Captain, thought I’d never see you again,” he says, a false excitement stuck in his voice.

You keep swirling your wine around in its glass, waiting for it to air out so you could take your first sip. It smelled divine, so fruity and fresh, in contrast with the earthy smells that the forest gave off.

Zeke looks up to you over the top rims of his glasses, unimpressed. You raise your glass to your lips, almost ready to tilt it back and let the chilled, burgundy wine rush into your mouth.

“That’s sluggish if you,” he remarks.

You pause, letting the cool glass linger on your bottom lip.

“What?” you bark, pulling the glass from your mouth.

He looks back down at his book, “No Marleyan strategist - or any good strategist for that matter - would drink in front of their adversaries. It makes you look sluggish.”

You just gape at him. He’s probably having fun while trying to irritate you. Two could play.

You put your arm out in front of you and flip the glass over, pouring the wine onto the wet dirt below. It splashes up onto your boots as it streams from your cup and runs down to spill into the fire pit.

“Happy?” you grumble, tossing the glass into the dirt. “Probably shitty wine anyway, considering you two come from the same place.”

He snickers, “Not quite. I was hoping you’d just hand the glass over.”

You regretted trying to talk to him now.

“Fine,” you sigh, getting up from your spot and turning back toward your tent. “Keep scribbling in your stupid book.”

“Actually, I was writing the two of us into the story.”

You’re sure he’s just pushing your buttons further - trying to lay another trap for you and capture you in another awkward moment of infatuation. But his words cause you to pause in your steps for a second.

“And what are we doing?” you question.

“We just cheated our way into heaven.”

“Creep,” you grumble before continuing to walk.

***

You hadn’t gone near that wine since. You had a grudge against it now, it completely ruined the mood last time you saw Zeke. But it had sure lightened the mood for everyone else, probably a little too much. Everyone except for Levi, of course. It was nearly impossible to change his mood.

In the meantime, you were still victim to unwarranted thoughts of Zeke in your head. This almost felt like a schoolgirl crush, how he bullied you a bit. This was more like torment, actually, considering you were trying to get him out of your head. But it didn’t change the fact that you liked what you saw.

Lately he was always reading that book and jotting down notes in it. And he rarely left his little corner of the campsite except for when he went on walks sometimes. You’d admire him from afar, careful never to let your eyes meet with his.

You’d take the images of him now burned into your brain back to bed with you, and stare up to the dark tent ceiling above. You’d fantasize about what it would have been like to meet Zeke in another life. One where the two of you weren’t enemies trapped on two different sides of a war. Where you didn’t feel guilt for your interest in someone who had jeopardized you and your comrades. Where the two of you were free to know one another.

You couldn’t pinpoint what kept driving this involuntary curiosity you felt towards him. It was tiring, honestly. But you wanted his company. Maybe you just wanted company in general -- it's not like you got along with him or anything.

Should you fix that? Did you even want to fix that? Would a peace offering be doing too much?

He did mention he wanted your glass of wine…

So one night, you cave. And you march over to the wooden cart that held dozens of cases of wine, an empty glass for Zeke in hand. You’re shocked to see only four measly bottles remain, laying on their sides in the only wooden case left. You could have sworn the shipment was full only a few days ago, but this camp had been set up for weeks now. Everyone here must be just as bored as you were, and several times more thirsty.

You pry open a cork and pour a few inches of wine into the glass, stopping to waft the crisp aroma into your nose. The air tonight was crisp too, it was cooler than it had been in recent days. You were adamant about remembering a jacket this time. The journey to Zeke’s tent feels long under the moonless sky. Hesitancy, followed by regret, pools into your brain as the dim light from his campfire comes into view.

Grow some balls, you’re convincing yourself that all of this means more than it really does. You’re bringing him a glass of wine for God’s sake.

There’s still time to turn around though… you could just finish the glass on your own. Out of range for him to bully you for it.

But he’s sitting there so prettily. He has his boots up on the rocks surrounding the fire pit, careful not to burn their soles in the flames. His blonde locks are pushed back slightly, giving you more room to look at his smooth face. And he’s certainly not busy, just reading his old book. Maybe he still had some compliments left for you despite all the bickering you two had done. Maybe he-

“Haven’t tried any of that ‘shitty’ wine yet, have you?” he questions. You hadn’t even noticed how close you are to him now. You’d gotten lost in him on the way.

“No…” you grumble, “it's for you. A peace offering.”

You stick your hand out. He receives the glass, lifting it up to examine it before taking a big drink.

“Ah,” he breathes, clearly satisfied. “It’s disgusting, Captain. Really.”

You stifle a laugh. “Everyone else seems to think so too. It’s all nearly gone.”

“Hmm,” he says, taking another sip, “None for you, I guess. Might as well just let it run out.”

“I think I will,” you mock, turning away from him to go sit in your chair,

The sizable fire Zeke had put together tonight was quick to thaw the chills on your arms. You really didn’t need your jacket after all, and opted to lay it over the back of your chair. The two of you sit there in silence for a while, taking in each other’s presence, observing the dying light in the forest.

Zeke looks at you eventually. Your eyes instinctually dart away.

“What made you want to come see me again?” Zeke asks.

You frantically search for an answer. You need to be careful.

“Boredom,” you reply flatly.

“You think so?” His attitude is back to how it was the first night you’d met. He’s engaged, focused, yet comes off so casual laying back up against his seat like that. He enjoys toying with you, like a cat to its prey.

Be careful.

“Don’t like my answer or something?”

That wasn’t exactly careful.

“No. You’re just not being honest.” He breathes that last word out like he needs to get a rise out of you, then he nonchalantly takes another drink while he waits for you to respond. Your mouth is open the slightest bit; you’re nervous, angry. He’s in your head now. He was reading you like that overused book of his.

“Then what do you want to hear from me?” you question. There’s thankfully still a false calmness in your voice.

“Just the truth. It’s not that complicated.”

You were sweating in front of this fire now. What was the truth? That you were interested in him? That you wanted nothing to do with him?

Be honest.

“I guess I just like your company,” you admit. Your eyes fall to the rocks lining the fire pit.

***

The discussion became pleasant after that, surprisingly. You guess you just needed to own up to how you felt. Your admittance caused some of the anger and tension tugging between the two of you to subside. The conversation was calm, collected, bouncing around from subject to subject: from the book, to life in Marley, to life in Paradis, to your occupation, and back to the book. Most of it was uneventful, but you liked that. It made it easy to pretend you were talking to him on the first night again, before you found out who he really was.

You left his camp with a giddy smile on your face. You’re on your way back to your tent now, after saying your goodbyes to Zeke. It was late, and you needed to be up early to have an important conversation with Levi. And god forbid he found out about any of this business between you and Zeke. Even though nothing was serious, it would come off unprofessional. And rightfully so.

You’re so lost in thought by the time you’re opening your tent door that you didn’t realize your arms were cold. The jacket you brought was probably still hanging off the chair at Zekes fire pit. It would look suspicious if you left it there and one of the other soldiers happened to see it.

You go back quietly, careful not to let anyone hear your footsteps. A couple of scattered thoughts weave their way into your head on your journey - what if this was another ploy of his? An attempt to get you back where he wants you, this time late at night. But how could it be? You were the one who left your jacket there. If anything, this was your own attempt to lead yourself back to him. Did you want him that badly… deep down?

When you reach your chair, you find it to be empty. You check around its sides, back, and underside - no jacket in sight. Out of the corner of your eye, a sliver of light shows from under the tarp serving as Zeke’s tent door. He’d probably noticed it and taken it inside with him after you’d gone home.

Halfheartedly, you meander to the tent door. You tap on it once the limited glimmer of light from inside touches the toes of your boots.

“Zeke? Do you have my jacket?” you whisper, still flicking the tarp to get his attention.

No answer.

Cold air stings your exposed skin as a draft swoops down through the camp. You also were wary of any observers that happened to be out this late at night. There was no telling what it looked like you might be doing outside his tent at the moment. The more uncomfortable you became out here, the more impatient you got.

“Zeke!” you hiss, whipping your head around your shoulder to double check your surroundings.

Still nothing but silence on the other side. Had he fallen asleep already?

The urge to pull back the tent door hits you. It would only take a moment to retrieve the jacket, then you’d be on your way.

Once again, making this a bigger deal than it really is.

But that didn’t matter. It felt like a big deal. That’s what every situation that involved him felt like. A big, complicated, multidimensional deal.

Be careful.

That wasn’t the answer either. Being careful was a good tactic when it came to strategizing your next moves in war. It was sometimes rendered useless when dealing with love. This was out of your control. And that was ok. That was what compelled you toward him - the mystery, the rush.

Let go.

You grip the tarp, it crinkles under your stiff fingers as you pull it back. A rush of warm air hits you, along with the light of a few oil lamps. And Zeke… shirtless. Sitting on his unmade bed with your jacket in hand.

The sight of his sculpted body in front of you sets a nervous, unprepared spark off in you, causing you to shut the door fast and stumble inside. And all at once, there you were - back in Zeke’s grasp. You accepted that wanted to be there.

“My jacket... ” you say, staring hard at the fabric in his hands, trying to avoid eye contact with his bare chest.

He stands up in silence and comes to your side, raising the jacket up once he gets real close to you. Oh no, he’s draping it over your shoulders again, slowly this time around, taking his time to stare into your puppy dog eyes. Dammit - the hot cheeks, the butterflies, the embarrassment. All of it was back now, in an instant he had you feeling like puddy in his hands. The two of you stare at each other as his hands adjust the jacket around you, stopping to play with one of the buttons on the front.

“You’re forgetful,” he mumbles, still focused on the button on your chest. His tone is sweet and quiet, a small smile appears out of one corner of his mouth.

You weren’t breathing, or thinking. Just looking down innocently at the hand that was so close to you.

“I’m not… normally,” you say quietly.

Zeke’s hands move to grip each side of the front of your jacket gently. His eyes move up from the hands placed on your jacket, and back to you. To your lips. You part them at the realization, swallowing the lump that suddenly appeared in your throat.

He shifts further in towards you, tugging on your jacket the slightest bit.

One cohesive thought rises up in the blankness of your brain. You want to kiss him.

The urge was mutual. Your lashes flutter against your cheeks a few times before you shut them, turning your head slightly to the right. Zeke follows your lead. You feel warm fingertips touch your chin and guide you to his soft pair of lips. His other hand abandons your jacket and comes down to meet your waist, slowly sliding to the small of your back. You melt into his touch, pulling yourself in closer. Chills go down your neck at the sensation of being in his arms, at his mercy. It feels so right, so warm and gentle. You want to keep going - so bad. You want him to hold you, touch you, kiss you harder.

But only for a moment.

You pull away once the guilt hits your core, gently touching your fingers to your lips.

Zeke stares at you, his eyes a bit wider than normal. His arms have gone limp at his sides without having you to occupy them any longer. You can tell there’s something on the tip of his tongue, something that might save the situation and bring your lips back to his. You didn’t want to hear it.

“It’s wrong. This is all wrong,” you say, backing up into the tent door behind you.

You think of the war. You think of your duties. You think of who Zeke really is. Any fluttering in your stomach was gone now, instead it was filled by tinges of regret.

“You’re right. It is,” he responds. He walks back over to his bed and sits on the quilt ruffled at its end. He runs a hand through his hair as he turns his head away from you. “I figured you’d be smart enough not to kiss back.”

You were almost too shocked to notice how much his words burned. Your mouth hangs open as your eyes squint at him a bit. Emotion courses through you as your mind crashes down from the high you were just on. You needed out of this tent.

You grip the tarp resting against your back and fling it open. You felt lost, speed walking away from Zeke’s tent and toward the center of camp. The night concealed the confusion on your face, but only for a minute. A fire glows near your tent, lighting up your surroundings - its Levi. You try your best to avoid him, changing your course to avoid his eyes.

“What are you doing awake, Reader,” Levi questions dully.

You don’t let out any response other than stopping in your tracks.

“Is everything... alright?”

“I just,” you search for anything appropriate, any excuse for your apparent distress, “don’t like being in this forest.”

You both go quiet for a moment, listening to the snapping of thin branches in the fire.

Levi breaks the silence, “That’s actually what I was going to mention to you tomorrow. The MP’s need you for something. I was going to give you the choice to go back, or stay here.”

Going back. Maybe that was the right answer you’d tried so hard to find.

***

You shove all of your belongings into your suitcase early the next morning. It didn’t take you long to decide you needed to abandon this mission. Nothing between you and Zeke would ever work out, and your feelings for him were only a burden to everyone here, and yourself.

You lug your bags to a horse and cart that had been set up for you, tossing them over the cart’s walls and into the back.

Climbing up into the front seat, you notice a gift waiting for you - that overused book. Zeke must have finally figured out how to fake his way into heaven.

You decided to read some of it on the way back.

Zeke sure had written his own story inside of it. All of the notes he’d scribbled in the margins were in another language, presumably from Marley - a secret story you’d never get to understand. Only for him to know.

***

You heard news of what happened in the forest a few days after you arrived home. You couldn’t process it at first, instead you just sat in disbelief and denial. Then the ‘what ifs’ set in. What if you had stayed? Maybe you could have stopped Zeke from doing all the damage he decided to cause. The tear-filled anger set in after that.

There was only one chapter of his book left now. You felt disgusted looking at it, a reminder of everything you’d felt for him. You needed to sit yourself down and get through it so you could finally throw it away - and finally forget about him forever.

You come to the final page. It was intended to be blank, a sort of protectant between the ink on the last page and the back cover. But instead, there’s a penciled in note. From Zeke.

His writing in your language was messy and shaky. You assumed he could read in your language, but may not be practiced in writing in it. This was probably the first message he’d ever written in it. All for you.

—

Dear Captain Reader,

I tend to avoid feeling guilty for much. I probably won’t feel guilty for everything I’m about to do to your soldiers in this forest.

I did feel guilty, however, when I saw your beautiful face that night you found me alone in the forest. And then I realized you were caring, brilliant, and a strategist that was far smarter than I was.

Well, this was my attempt at strategizing.

Pulling you in and then pushing you away. I hoped the guilt and confusion would make you leave. Make you think you were unfit for the assignment, too distracted by me. Heartbroken, even. Anything to get you out of here.

Now, I’m not too sure there will be anyone to rescue you. I won’t be able to again. Take care of yourself. Stay sharp.

I hope you enjoyed the book. I was really never a fan of the ending.

Zeke

—

Author's Note:

Dear anon: You gave me a lottt of free rein with this one, so I hope it was ok ●﹏● (and not too angsty and complicated lol. You said they kinda hate each other but theres chemistry and I just ran with it. Oopsies.) This was one of my favorite fics to write, ever, I think! I had a lot of fun with the dialogue especially. Thanks so much for the request, and thanks to everyone else for reading! Lots of love - Shep :)

[comradelup]

50 general with Taako and Lucretia!

50. “every time i think i’m close to finally figuring you out you end up surprising me.”

my botw au is constantly living in my head rent free so i thought i’d write some of that :0 for context, taako is link and lucretia is impa but a bit more fleshed out/involved with the champions

Taako marches decisively through the little village, up the tall set of stairs, and through the door to Lucretia’s house.

She’s at her desk on the opposite side of the room, as she nearly always is. Papers are neatly placed about and she’s reading one in particular. Beside her desk, the Bulwark Staff stands upright on its own, occasionally pulsing out a near transparent wave of magic.

Lucretia looks up at Taako’s entrance, and a smile that is one part joy and one part relief spreads across her face. “How did it go?”

He crosses the room and— on top of her papers— places the Temporal Chalice. “How do you think it went?”

She looks pleasantly surprised as she observes the cup, and Taako doesn’t really get why. It’s not like he hasn’t already gotten two other relics. Hell, he’s even wearing the Gaia Sash right now. And the Oculus is around his neck!

Lucretia shakes her head fondly and looks back to Taako. “Every time I think I’m close to finally figuring you out you end up surprising me.”

Taako shrugs, taking back the cup. As he attaches it to a loop on his belt, he says, “Heroes of Faerun have to be mysterious somehow.”

She chuckles. “You’ve always been an enigma.”

“As I should,” he says. “Oh! I almost forgot!”

“Hm?”

“Magnus says hi.” He says it dismissively, even if it’s possibly the most important message he’s carried; but isn’t that appropriate? He doesn’t wanna make a whole big deal of this. He sits nonchalantly on her desk, crossing his ankles. Suddenly, the dirt under his fingernails is the most interesting thing in the room.

Lucretia is silent for a beat. “How was he?”

“He’s fine,” Taako says and, fuck, his voice is all emotional and shit now. “besides the ‘spirit trapped by an apocalyptic monster’ part, obviously. He said that he knows you probably blame yourself but you shouldn’t. Either way, he forgives you.”

Wow! Heroes of Faerun shouldn’t have dirt under their fingernails! That’s just plain unheroic. He better get to cleaning that up.

“…He does?” Lucretia asks. Taako nods, not looking up from his now squeaky clean nails.

Lucretia sighs, and he knows her well enough to know her head is in her hands, elbows propped up on the desk. It’s weird, he doesn’t remember seeing her do this, but he doesn’t feel as though it’s a new thing. Magical memory loss is weird.

“I think they all do,” Taako says, dropping his hands into his lap. “They weren’t upset when they saw me. They were just… sorry.” He forces a small chuckle. “How’d I get surrounded by such do-gooders?”

Lucretia sighs again, heavier. Her voice wobbles as she says, “They don’t deserve this.”

“No shit,” Taako says, pulling his legs into a criss-crossed position and turning to face her. Papers get crumbled and quills fall off the desk, but neither of them seem to care. Taako sure doesn’t. “This is The Hunger’s fault. Not yours.”

Lucretia curls her fingers into her palms, staring up at him. “I couldn’t protect you.”

“Bullshit,” Taako responds immediately. None of that self deprecating bullshit while he’s around. “I’m still here. Lup’s out there. The rest of them are in the Beasts.”

“They’re dead. Lup’s fighting off the apocalypse on her own. You died. I was supposed to protect all of you.” Lucretia gestures to the Bulwark Staff. It’s currently projecting a large field around the tiny village of Phandalin, keeping it safe from anything that would do the IPRE harm. She hasn’t taken it down in one hundred years.

They all have their scars. Taako supposes not all of them are physical.

He takes a deep breath, composing himself. If he’s gonna be sincere, he’s gonna word it right. “A lot happened. I still don’t really remember it, but I know things were crazy. You did the best you could and, yeah, it wasn’t enough. But you saved me, and you saved Phandalin. You can’t be blamed for the Blights, no one knew they would be there. Even if you did know, they forgive you. Don’t go moping around blaming yourself for something no one else blames you for. You aren’t The Hunger, you aren’t the Shadow Brethren, you didn’t do any of this. Actually, you’re the only reason I’m alive right now. If Lup had to bring me to the shrine, she wouldn’t’ve made it to the castle in time. Thanks to you, I have a chance of saving my sister. And the rest of the world, I guess.”

Taako looks down into his lap. He’a not the emotionally vulnerable type, and he’s certainly not the pep talk type. He feels awkward, and he doesn’t like feeling awkward.

Then he feels something else: arms wrapped around him. It’s clumsy, because he’s sitting and she’s reaching over a desk, but Lucretia’s pulled him into a tight hug, head buried in his shoulder.

“Thank you,” she says, voice quiet.

Okay. Um. Taako gently reciprocates the hug. “No prob, Bob.”

[myhockeyworld87]

Not So Dangerous Liaison - Sidney Crosby - Part 6

Word Count: 3,259

POV: Reader

Warnings: Language

Notes: Here’s the next part of the Sid series. Let me know what you guys think about it.

NSDL Masterlist

Once you closed the door to your hotel room, you threw yourself on the bed. What the actual hell had just happened? You'd been trapped in an elevator with Sidney Crosby, your brain screamed. The fact that you literally almost kissed him in those last few moments had your mind spinning. What the hell had you been thinking? Obviously, you weren't. Maybe you could blame it on lack of oxygen or something. That was a thing when you were stuck in a confined space, right? If it wasn't, there was always temporary insanity.

 Who were you kidding? You wanted to kiss Sidney, and damn if it didn't feel right at that moment. Well until the lights came on and the elevator started. It was like divine intervention because lord knew you shouldn't be kissing him or anyone on the team. How did you go from telling him there was nothing between you and Beau one minute, to wanting to make out with him in the next? It wasn't like you hadn't wanted to kiss Sid before, but you'd pushed those feelings aside long ago when he'd made it clear he wasn't interested in you, but today, all that changed.

 He'd been so kind and caring, the way he'd calmed you down. God, you could still feel his hands on your hips when he held you tight to him and that was what, forty-five minutes ago. This fact alone had you rethinking dinner, though you had no choice but to go. Half the team was going; you could easily avoid Sidney, or at least you tried to convince yourself of this. Twenty minutes, that's what you were giving yourself to wallow in this self-mortification, and then you were getting your ass up, putting this whole incident behind you, while you got ready for dinner.

 You closed your eyes, and let your mind drift off to what it would've been like had the elevator not turned on in that minute. You let yourself dream of what it would be like to feel his lips on yours, his slightly chapped from all his time spent on the ice, yet still soft and tender on yours. It was easy to imagine them slowly moving against yours, just exploring, as his hands curled around your neck drawing you closer as he deepened the kiss. It was almost as if you could feel the gentle pressure of his lips as they sought entrance to yours. Your eyes flew open, what the fuck were you doing? This needed to stop. Jumping off the bed, you pushed thoughts of Sid and his lips behind you and started to get ready.

 Since you had a little extra time, you curled your long locks, fingering combing them out into the perfect waves that framed your face. Picking up your makeup brush, you applied a little more eyeshadow to your lids, giving them a smoky look for the evening. A bit more blush and a deep red lip completed the looked, the only thing missing was the dress. You'd checked out the restaurant the guys had chosen earlier on Yelp and found that it was an upscale Michelin star restaurant. Thank god, you had a dress packed that would be suitable. The black lace halter dress, was a bit shorter than knee length and had a lace bodice to it. You'd packed it with a blazer you could pair it with to make it less sexy for work. Though it was totally an appropriate cocktail dress for dinner. Slipping on the pair of slingback heels you'd brought, you were ready to go. Grabbing your coat, you gave yourself one last look in the mirror, before sliding the long wool cloth over your shoulders and heading out the door.

 When you came face to face with the elevator, you did a complete one-eighty and headed towards the stairs, not sure if you were avoiding your fears about being stuck in small spaces or your feelings for Sidney. At least the hotel wasn't one of those thirty-some floor ones and it was only about five flights until you were down on the ground floor headed for the lobby. A few of the guys were milling about, waiting till everyone arrived before heading out.

 "There she is. Heard someone got stuck in the elevator for a bit." Flower chuckled as he looped an arm around your shoulders. "See you avoided it this time."

 "Ha, ha, you're so funny. Let me shove you in there for an hour and see if you get back inside afterward."

 "So, did you kill Sid in there or should we expect him for dinner?" Phil asked laughing the entire time.

 You went to answer but were cut off by Tanger. "He lives." It was met with resounding cheers, from a couple of the other guys. "See you took the stairs as well." Sid looked over at you, a knowing smile on his lips.

 "I suppose we won't be living this down any time soon." He pointedly said to you. He was wearing a plain black suit, with a white shirt sans tie, with a few buttons undone. Just that tiny bit of exposed flesh had you yearning to be shoved back in the elevator for a few more hours with him again.

 "No I don't think we will." Jake and Dumo finally joined the party and you all set out to the restaurant, which was only a few blocks away. The air was crisp and you were thankful for the protection your coat gave from the wind whipping through the streets.

 "Maybe we should've taken a car, eh?" It was Sid's voice beside you that startled you as a particularly strong gust came by.

 You chuckled before answering. "It is a little cold for April." He offered you his arm, as the sidewalk got a little icy and you took it. "Thanks." For a second you let yourself believe it was just the two of you and not over a dozen other guys going out to dinner. You weren't going to lie, it would be nice to have his sole attention again. No sooner did you have that thought, then you rounded the corner and there was the restaurant. Phil held the door open, and you filed inside, Sid trailing behind you. Ever the gentlemen, he offered to take your coat, sliding it off your shoulders and revealing the dress you'd worn.

 One of the guys gave a low whistle, and as you turned you saw Sid scowl at either Phil or Schultzy; you couldn't be sure who. "I think that dress is illegal in some states." Flower joked with you, and you just cocked your head and gave him that look. "Seriously, though you look gorgeous. Are you sure you want to hang out with us meatheads?"

 "I feel like you're up for the intellectual challenge." You gave him a wink and then followed the hostess back to a private room, they had for your party. So far, your resolve to stay away from the temptation that was Sidney Crosby wasn't working, in fact it was the exact opposite. So, when he pulled the chair out of the middle of the table for you to sit, you did with a thank you to him of course, but he then proceeded to take the seat next to you. It only stood to reason that fate wouldn't be on your side, as the man was making it harder and harder for you to forget what had passed between you two only hours ago. "Do you guys come here whenever you're in DC?" You asked the room at large, though it was Sid that answered.

 "Um, we've been here a few times before. The duck confit is really good but so is the lobster waterzooi." You looked at the menu in front of you reading the descriptions, which both sounded delicious. "But order whatever you want, order two; it's on us tonight."

 The waiter came over then and interrupted the two of you. "May I get you a drink to start your evening off?" You hadn't really had a chance to look at the wine list, so you weren't really sure what to order.

 "I'll just have a glass of your Cabernet."

 "Of course miss, was there a particular one I could get you?" You quickly scanned the wine list looking for the cab section.

 "Why don't you just bring us a bottle of the 2010 Chappellet," Sid told him, and the man nodded and moved down to get Rusty's order. You finally reached the cabernet section and saw that the bottle cost over three hundred dollars. "Hope you don't mind sharing."

 "Um no, but you didn't have to get the most expensive bottle on here."

 "We're celebrating, remember." His brow raised and you were beginning to wonder if he was flirting with you.

 Conversation flowed throughout dinner, everyone asking about the incident in the elevator; which both you and Sid neatly avoided the almost ending. A few of the guys talked about the game coming up, and you chimed in with some of the missed opportunities you'd seen happen the past couple of games. Which really seemed to impress Sid, as well as the guys. The whole evening was simply amazing. There was laughing, joking and so many stories shared, and through it all you felt like part of the team.

 There were also soft touches from Sid. A hand on your arm here, the brush of his knee there; it was all too much and yet not enough at the same time. Though there was one thing for sure, he was definitely flirting with you. As the waiter cleared your dinner plates, you were wondering if there was some small elevator you could possibly get stuck in with Sid at the restaurant. The waiter broke your thoughts however. "Did you enjoy your dinner miss?"

 "Yes it was wonderful. Please send my compliments to the chef."

 Dumo, who'd been sitting on the other side of Sid, chimed in. "If he has a minute, I'd love to tell him how delicious that wine reduction was on the filet, and maybe pick his brain on it." Dumo was a food aficionado and didn't want to miss an opportunity to learn something from a Michelin star chef.

 "I'll see if he has a moment." He disappeared and conversation around you continued on.

 You got pulled into a conversation with Phil about a fishing boat that he was looking at buying, and in the end you offered to do some research for him; before Sid pulled you back to him. "So I was wondering, if maybe we could continue…." You didn't get a chance to hear the rest, as the chef came out to greet the table, though he didn't get more than a hello out before saying.

 "(Y/N), (Y/FullN) is that you?"

 "Christian, oh my god!" He made a beeline for your seat, pulling your chair out so you could rise, only he lifted you off the ground.

 "I can't believe it's you." You giggled for it'd been about four years since you'd last seen each other. Christian set you back down on the ground but didn't let go of you. He held both of your hands in his, stepping back to take in your appearance. "God, you look amazing." He did as well. While Christian's passion had always been food, he'd also been the star running back of the football team as well as running track and playing basketball. He clearly still stayed in shape, as even his chef jacket couldn't hide his muscular physique. You went to tell him how great he looked as well, but he stopped you. "Where was this dress back when I took you to winter formal?"

 "Not in my wardrobe yet, but look at you. Is this your restaurant?"

 "It is. Speaking of which," He turned to the team. "I hope everyone enjoyed dinner." There was a resounding amount of yeses and it was delicious, but it was Flower who spoke up and said.

 "Not as much as the show right now."

 It hit you then, that all eyes were on you and Christian. "Oh god, I'm so sorry. Guys this is Christian Werner, we went to high school together. Christian, meet most of the Pittsburgh Penguins."

 "Why am I not surprised you're surrounded by a dozen athletes?" You swatted his shoulder, the gesture a familiar one.

 "I work for the team now." You said by way of explanation for being at dinner with the guys.

 "She's become an invaluable part of us," Sidney spoke, a bit of possessiveness in his voice.

 "Of that, I have no doubt." Christian turned his full attention on you then. "You know my dad is still holding out hope that you'll be his daughter-in-law someday."

 "Oh, stop."

 "Or don't." Flower chirped. "I feel like we're going to get the scoop on this one here."

 "What scoop? You guys already know me." You insisted.

 "Oh so they know about the time, that you snuck into the high school garage and decided to throw, what was undoubtedly one of the biggest beer parties in our school's history."

 You winced at the memory. "What?" you heard a chorus of guys ask.

 A sigh left your lips before you said. "It wasn't that big of a party and it wasn't all my idea."

 "Maybe not, but you were the one who had us take out all the outside lights out so we wouldn't be caught." Christian wrapped an arm around your shoulders and drew you into his side. "And if memory serves me right, it was also your idea to sneak out of the hotel to go to a club on our senior class trip."

 "That was only supposed to be a handful of us. If I remember, it was your mouth that told Alexis, because you had a crush on her and she blabbed it to everyone else."

 "Well if I would've known you only wanted it to be just the two of us back then; I never would've given Alexis a second thought." You could feel the eyes of all the guys burrowing into yours. Christian had always been a notorious flirt, that you always thought was harmless, but tonight there was something different about it. As if he was staking a claim on you in front of the team, though he had none to make.

 "Don't flatter yourself. The only reason I asked you was so you'd tell Stephen Cartwright, but you failed miserably at that." The team laughed, dissolving some of the tension in the air.

 "Ouch, you wound me, but here I am being a horrible host. I don't believe you've had dessert yet, and I do know how (Y/N) here can't resist something sweet." There was something about the way he said the last part of that statement that had both you, and from the looks of it some of the guys, thinking he wasn't exactly offering dessert but something else entirely. Maybe it was the way his hand slid down your arm to the small of your back only to brush along the top of your ass, as he spoke the words, but it made you uncomfortable all the same.

 "You really don't have to do that Christian." Part of you wanted to step out of his embrace completely, but then you didn't want to make a scene.

 "It's really no trouble. Why don't I show you the kitchen, while the staff gets things ready? You guys don't mind do you?" He asked everyone, yet didn't give them time to object. "Sam, get everyone another round of drinks on the house." He then led you to the back of the restaurant, where his staff was busy fixing dinner, as well as the aforementioned dessert.

 "Wow, Christian this is all amazing. Your parents must be really proud."

 The two of you were weaving in and out of stoves and cooler as you went deeper into the kitchen. "It's not so bad. I'm actually thinking about opening another restaurant in Pittsburgh. You know something a little closer to home. Maybe then you could come work for me."

 You lightly laughed at his comment, as he showed you into his office. "And what would you have me do? You know I'd make a lousy waitress."

 He dragged his knuckles down your bare arm, the effect causing you to shiver and you found yourself taking a step back from him. "The same thing you do for them out there." You cocked your head to the side at his comment.

 "I doubt you need someone to report injuries of your staff to family members." You went to say more but he stopped you.

 "Come on (Y/N), we both know that's not what you do."

 "I'm sorry it most certainly is, as well as other things that are needed." You went to turn but he grabbed your wrist stopping you.

 "It's those other things, that I'm talking about. You can't tell me that you dress like this," He looked you over in a way that made your skin crawl. "And go to dinner with over a dozen men and none of them expect anything in return. You were always a bit wild in school, I just never thought you'd end up doing something like this. Tell me do they take turns every night or do you prefer them in groups."

 Your hand shot up before you even knew what you were doing. How dare he insinuate that you were some whore. Christian's reflexes were quick and he caught your arm before you were able to strike the blow. "All I'm asking for is a little taste of what they have." A sly grin came across his face, that made your stomach turn. "Then maybe we can talk about something more permanent. I'm sure some of the senior staff would enjoy your little perks." His lips smashed into your then, as he jerked your body towards him. When his hands released his grip on you; you brought your knee up and connected it to his groin. "You bitch." As he doubled over in pain, you took the palm of your hand and thrust it into his nose, effectively breaking it in the process, then shoved him to the ground.

 "For the record Christian, I'm not some two-bit whore you can just buy, and those men out there respect me and my job on the team. So, you can go fuck yourself. I only wish your parents could see you right now." With that you turned on your heel, walking straight through the kitchen not making eye contact with anyone. Your emotions were so high, you felt as though you could burst into tears at any second. When you walked back into the private dining room, you could see the concern on each of the men's faces. Your breathing was labored and you were afraid if you said too much, you'd just breakdown and you couldn't do that. So you took a deep breath to calm yourself, then moved to grab your purse. "Thank you guys for the lovely evening, but I…" You faltered then, both in step and in word. "I need to go."

 "(Y/N) are you ok?" Sid looked up at you with worried eyes and though it was his words you heard, you could also vaguely hear his teammates' concern. You nodded then headed straight for the front door.

[cake-writes]

Six (2/6)

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Chapter Warnings: Angst, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (Bucky), Eating Disorder (Reader), Fluff, Slow Burn, 18+

Summary: Bucky knew that there were more important things for him to worry about. Of course he did. He still had to work through the horrors of his past, never mind his present, which was the exact reason why he honed right in on your petty bullshit. You distracted him from the things he didn’t want to think about. You also drove him up a fucking wall.

Part One / Master List

The morning after The Incident (because you were still too proud to admit that you actually fainted), you decided to make him breakfast as a thank you. Despite all of your issues with the end result, you found it relaxing to cook. Therapeutic, almost. Like nothing was wrong with you.

It also felt nice to do something good for another person. Dopamine was in short supply, and you were running on fumes and misery.

You’d just started plating everything up when Bucky came into the kitchen, right on time. Another sleepless night by the looks of it, too. It certainly didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize that he never slept well. Not only were there always dark circles under his eyes, but you knew how much he tossed and turned. You'd witnessed it firsthand during the handful of times the two of you had shared a motel room. Of course, the fact that you usually spat nasty words at each other well into the early hours of the morning never helped matters any.

At some point, however, some small part of you had started to feel bad for him. You weren’t sure when – probably sometime after you read his file and found out what, exactly, he’d been through.

Maybe Bucky needed the dopamine, too.

Glancing over at him from the stove, you offered a casual, “Morning, Barnes.”

The surprise at your choice to strike up a conversation was evident on his face, but only for a split second; then he seemed just as casual as you. “Morning.”

That was when you started to have second thoughts about the whole ghastly affair. You’d never gotten along with him before, so why were you trying now? But you shoved the too-full plate at him anyway, before you could change your mind. It was piled high with bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast – enough to feed an army, or maybe just a super soldier, and he gave you a wary look.

“For yesterday,” you explained. When he hesitated, you rolled your eyes in annoyance. “For fuck’s sake, I didn’t poison it. I’m not an amateur. Here.”

Then you held it out a bit more pointedly as if to say, See, I’m not a complete fuck-up. I can be nice.

His eyes searched yours for a moment or two until he finally took the plate from you with an awkward, “Uh, thanks.”

Unsurprisingly, he set it down on the table at his usual seat, where you’d already laid out a fork and napkin. Even though the two of you had been in a perpetual state of arguing for the last six months, you knew him well enough. Not only did Bucky Barnes never waste food – especially not a home-cooked meal – but he liked routine. You wouldn’t go so far as to say he needed it, but even you could tell that it helped him adjust.

What caught you off guard was that he didn’t sit just yet. Instead he stood there, unsurely, watching as you pulled a bottle of orange juice from the fridge. As unnerving as that was, you somehow managed to fill up two glasses without spilling a drop.

Then you spared another glance up at him as you screwed the lid back onto the bottle. When you caught him staring, he quickly looked away.

“What?” you asked in exasperation, putting the bottle back into the fridge.

“You just… You look better today. I’m glad.”

At that, you nearly dropped the glasses as you made your way to the table. Thankfully, he seemed to miss it, finally having taken a seat.

He was glad. How on earth could he be? He couldn’t stand you.

“Thank you,” you said a little too haughtily, setting his glass down in front of him before you sat down on the other side, putting a proverbial distance in between you both – but not even a sip of orange juice could alleviate the sudden dryness in your throat.

He nodded to the glass in your hand. “Is that all you’re having?”

“I’m not a breakfast person.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie, but it did kill the conversation.

The silence that befell the two of you certainly wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t uncomfortable, either. Neutral. For once, the two of you weren’t fighting and it hadn’t taken a battlefield to get either of you to cooperate.

It was actually kind of nice.

Taking another sip, you gazed out the window as he quietly worked on the too-large meal you made. If nothing else, he’d always had an appetite and you secretly envied the way he could eat so much and not gain a pound. It made you wish you were normal. As it was, having juice instead of water was enough to stress you out.  

The day was beautiful, you found, nice and sunny and if you didn’t feel like you’d been hit by a train, you would have gone for a run to enjoy the weather – and to burn off the calories from your liquid breakfast.

Of course, what you were really worried about was where to go from here. You’d hinted at things yesterday that you’d never told anyone else, and you weren’t exactly sure what to do or even how to talk to him. It was him, after all. Bucky Barnes. Your worst enemy.

“Not that I don’t appreciate it,” he began carefully, almost like you'd take offense, drawing your attention away from the lovely weather, “but you didn’t have to do this.”

In the muted sunlight, his eyes were truly stunning: a gorgeous pale blue, just like the cloudless sky outside. There was an unrecognizable flutter in your chest – appreciation, perhaps – to which you responded more dryly than intended, “I know I didn’t have to. I wanted to.”

“Why?” he asked. There it was again: his curiosity. This time, however, he seemed a little suspicious, too. It made sense. You weren’t exactly a friend.

For a moment, you weren’t really sure what to say. Was it a peace offering? Possibly. It was also a thank you; you’d already said as much. You were more for grand gestures than words. Not that cooking breakfast was a grand gesture, of course, but the sentiment was the same.

So you shrugged. “You carried me up to my room. Couldn’t have been easy.”

His stupid comment that you’d been dead weight had been stuck on a loop in your mind since yesterday. It bothered you, but you’d never admit it, especially not to him.

Bucky paused, fork in mid-air, to study your face again – unsettling, just like before. You felt like he could see right through you, something he only further proved by asking point-blank, “Is that why you’re not eating?”

You immediately tensed. “What?”

“You’re light as a feather, doll. I didn’t even break a sweat.”

If nothing else, Bucky Barnes certainly didn’t mince words. That had always been one thing you couldn’t stand about him, not to mention the exact reason why you were always on the defensive. He was also far too observant for your liking.

This time, however, it didn’t bother you nearly as much as it should have.

You let out a noncommittal hum in response, resting your chin on your hand as you peered back out at the clear sky. Although you’d spoken the words a hundred times before, the lack of malice in your tone felt unfamiliar – almost warm. “Not your doll, Barnes.”

To say that the next few days were tedious would have been an understatement.

You’d been relegated to desk duty for an indiscriminate amount of time while you underwent tests and scans in the medical ward. Just because you’d been discharged didn’t mean that they were done with you. You did have a concussion, after all, and Dr. Cho wanted to make absolutely sure you were fit for field duty before she signed on the dotted line.

So far, she wasn’t convinced – especially because you’d lost five pounds since your hospital stay and, if you were being honest, you were in pretty rough shape. Unfortunately, you weren’t an honest person. You kept your troubles bottled up inside until they spilled over in the form of a too-hot temper, which you hadn’t had the opportunity to exercise lately.

It certainly didn’t help that Bucky was nowhere to be found. He’d left for a mission shortly after having breakfast with you, and he hadn’t been back since. Normally you’d enjoy the peace and quiet and lack of bullshit, but you just felt anxious. You didn’t like it.

Filing papers and typing up emails was boring, and your thoughts kept drifting back to him, wondering where he was and when he’d be back. It wasn’t like it was classified information – well, it was, but you had a clearance – and eventually you looked it up because you just needed to know. You weren’t sure why. Curiosity, maybe.

He was in Belgium.

You’d been there once before on one of your first missions, with him, Steve, and Natasha. On the flight home, you binged on so many Belgian truffles that you made yourself sick. Didn’t eat again for a full month after that.

It looked like his mission was pretty run-of-the-mill: extraction and interrogation. Shouldn’t have taken more than a day or two, but now it had been nearly a week. At least he was with Sam and Clint, but it must have gotten hairy if they weren’t back yet.

You probably would have been sent along too if you were in any condition for it. You didn’t like that, either. Not being out in the field made you feel like you were wasting your time.

Needless to say, you weren’t taking well to desk duty. You were going stir crazy, as a matter of fact. You liked to be active, not just because it burned calories but because it was cathartic. You enjoyed getting out and about, going for a run just to enjoy the tranquillity of nature surrounding the compound. A hundred acres to explore, and you were trapped indoors with your anxious thoughts.

“Steve,” you whined, using your feet to push off the floor and roll your chair over to his desk. “Isn’t there anything else I can do? I’ve just about typed my fingers off.”

“Not my problem,” Steve responded automatically, still focusing on the paperwork in front of him. It certainly wasn’t the first time you whined to him, but his patience had no bounds.

You groaned. “Then can I have a half day? I hate this. I hate being stuck in here when I could be out doing something useful.”

At that, Steve finally looked up from his paperwork to you.

You knew you sounded like a spoiled child, but you really did hate it. Filing was useful, of course it was, but your skills were better suited to the field and you felt well enough to go on missions again. Dr. Cho was just being difficult.

While you couldn’t manipulate your doctor, Steve was easy – all you had to do was pout and he’d give right in, the big softie that he was.

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” he said exasperatedly, and you jumped up from the chair in excitement.

“Thank you! I’ll make up my time tomorrow.”

“Go on, get out of here.” He gestured to the door, almost shooing you out. “Enjoy the weather for me.”

“Will do,” you called over your shoulder.

It wasn’t a secret that you liked to run.

And, of course, that was exactly what you did.

You finally returned to the compound around dusk, after your legs were once again thoroughly fatigued. Because of your stupid behaviour after being released from medical, you hadn’t been able to exercise much over the last few days. Your body was too sore.

Thankfully, you were in much better spirits now. Runner’s high may have contributed to that.

Wiping your face with the small towel around your shoulders, you jogged your way up the stairs to your bedroom, attempting to ignore the uncomfortable feeling of your stomach growling. You couldn’t allow yourself to eat, not when you still hadn’t burned off those ten thousand calories from days ago. You’d barely eaten since, and the fact that you’d already lost some weight had no impact on your resolve. There was always more weight to lose.  

On the floor in front of your bedroom door was a small brown box tied with gold string, one you recognized immediately.

Belgian truffles.

Fuck.

Even just seeing the box made you nauseous because you knew what it contained. Well, you couldn’t just leave it there as tempted as you were to do so – so you picked it up, and noticed a small yellow post-it attached:

Thanks for breakfast.

There was something about Bucky’s messy handwriting that made your heart warm, but your thoughts were already focused on something else entirely. Even if Bucky had remembered that you liked these particular truffles, and even if it was incredibly sweet of him to bring some back for you, it set you off all the same. He didn’t know that they’d triggered a binge the last time. Of course he didn’t. You didn’t share your eating troubles with anyone, especially not him.

Not that it mattered.

Your runner’s high was gone in an instant, replaced with stupid, irrational, uncontrollable panic. You couldn’t have these here.  You’d eat them. You’d eat all of them in five fucking minutes. You’d shovel them into your mouth like a maniac, and then you’d get sick all over again. Each one had to be at least a hundred calories, and there were twelve of them.

The walk to his room was brisk, punctuated by swear words muttered under your breath. With each step, you only got more and more irritated. He hadn’t even signed his name. How arrogant. It was obviously from him, but that didn’t matter either. All that mattered was that you needed them gone.

You were pounding on the door to his bedroom before you even realized it, palm hard and unyielding against the wood. “Open up, Barnes. I swear to god, if you don’t open this god damned door—”

Predictably, it opened, and you came face-to-face with those gorgeous blue eyes of his – but there was no time for appreciation, not now.

“Take it back.”

Then you shoved the box out towards him.

Bucky glanced down at it for a moment before he looked back up at you in confusion. Your face was flushed, but it wasn’t because you were happy. Far from it. You were angry.

Why?

“It’s for you,” he said blankly. Wasn’t it obvious?

“I don’t want it,” you spat, voice full of vitriol. Now that certainly wasn’t unfamiliar to him, but it still took him by surprise. “Take it back.”  

Hadn’t you liked those truffles the last time? His memory wasn’t exactly the greatest after, well, everything, but he could distinctly recall you eating a whole box of them – a whole box that looked just like that one. He remembered it because of how happy you’d been at the time. That was always a rare sight for him, because all he ever managed to do was upset you – sometimes intentionally, but usually not.

Just like now.

“Why don’t you want it?” he asked, still not quite understanding. If it was anyone else, he’d probably have taken offense, but it was you and nothing you ever did made a lick of sense to him. This was just another example of it. 

Even still, there was a certain look in your eyes that unsettled him. Panic. He’d seen it before, usually whenever he got on your case about wasting food, but he’d seen it that night at the gym, too. Something was wrong. Something was always wrong when you looked like this, but he could never figure out why.

Then you spoke so quietly, he might have missed it if his senses weren’t enhanced. “Just take it back. Please.”

The way your voice broke on the last word was what prompted him to take the box from you, hesitant, unsure. He didn’t know why you didn’t want it, but it bothered him. It always bothered him when you were like this, especially when he was the cause. Any other time, he understood enough; you hated to be nagged about things, and he got on your case pretty frequently.

This time, however, he didn’t have a clue. 

“Thank you,” you told him, and spun around on your heel to leave – but his free hand caught your wrist. Your skin was so hot to the touch against cool vibranium and he realized, then, how delicate you actually were. Your wrist was so small that his fingers overlapped quite a bit.

“I’m sorry,” he found himself saying, but he didn’t know why. All he knew was that, somehow, he’d offended you. Was it because he was the one who gave it to you?

That was when you offered him the ghost of a smile, one that made his heart ache just a little. You never smiled at him. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Bucky. This is all me.”

If he didn’t do anything wrong, then why—?

“I appreciate it,” you continued, pausing to worry your lower lip in between your teeth. “Really, I do. I’ve just… I’ve got some issues. Nothing worth talking about.”

And if he didn’t know the feeling. That was exactly how he felt whenever he went to therapy.

“You’re upset.” The way he said it wasn’t accusatory, but gentle. “Isn’t that worth talking about?”

At that, you snorted derisively and pulled your wrist free. “Not with you.”

Now that pissed him off. It must have shown on his face, because you immediately grimaced. 

“Shit, I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I mean…” You looked away, chewing your lip some more. Nervous energy. He knew it well. “You’ve been through a lot. My problems are pretty stupid compared to that.”

His tone held a slight note of annoyance. “It’s not a competition, doll.”

When your eyes met his again, he noticed that you seemed a little less panicked, a little more… open, if he could even call it that. So he took a calculated risk.

“I’ll listen.” When you tensed up at the suggestion, he quickly added, “If you want.”

You were considering it; he could see it on your face plain as day. And then, just as easily, he watched you make up your mind, watched you put your walls right back up like they’d never been down to begin with.

“Maybe another time,” you told him with another rueful smile.

“Sure,” he replied, but he wasn’t sure at all.

As he watched you walk away, for the first time all he wanted to do was help you. He just didn’t know how. 

Later that night, he received a text from you. He rarely received any, let alone from you and on the rare occasion you did message him, it always pertained to a mission. This one didn’t.

Thanks for remembering.

Part Three

[universe-n-3276]

Carrying the Moon

Chapter 12

The mornings when both of them had nothing to do, and Hero decided to sleep a little longer than usual, were the best. Sander and Robbe used to lay lazily in bed, and at times like that, it almost seemed like nothing had changed. There were only the two of them, in their little bubble of love. Although, that day there was something different because when Robbe woke up, he found the other side of the bed empty. The baby monitor on the bedside table was showing Hero still asleep peacefully in his crib. Robbe waited 20 minutes alone, clutching Sander's pillow in his arms and breathing in his boyfriend’s smell. It had always a calming effect on him. When he didn't see Sander come back, he decided to get up to check what had happened. He found his boyfriend sitting at the kitchen table, a glass full of water placed in front of him, his head buried in his hands.

That scene made Robbe shiver, reminding him of something so painful that it was marked with fire into his memory. "You're giving me war flashbacks." At the sound of his boyfriend's voice, Sander uncovered his face and gave him a small smile. He looked tired, exactly like the last time Robbe had found him in that very same state. He felt his heart beating faster and faster, but he tried to look as calm as possible. "Sorry, cutie." He walked closer to his boyfriend because he refused to reenact that awful morning again, he couldn’t relive it step by step. He wanted to change the things he should have done differently at that time.

Sander made room for him to sit on his lap, which calmed him a little. Robbe pressed his lips to his temple, moving the hair that fell awkwardly over his forehead. "Talk to me." He whispered, looping his arms around Sander’s neck, and leaving a kiss on his cheek. He had always hated seeing his boyfriend like that. The way thoughts were able to hurt him, as if they were real, tangible knives. Sander didn’t show himself so vulnerable in front of anyone. He exposed himself to the only person in the world, who was able to heal his wounds. “I once told you that without Charlotte I wouldn't be able to survive, remember? Now, when I think about her, I don't even know how I feel. I'm afraid she'll come back here, just to take Hero away from us. I'm angry because of what she did to our son, and because I didn't think my sister was capable of being so cruel, but I miss her. We have never been apart for so long, and at the same time I don't wanna see her again." Robbe sighed, trying to weigh Sander's words. He should have suspected to see some repercussions, after what they talked about the previous evening with their friends. He always tended to return obsessively to his thoughts. His boyfriend wasn't able to let them go until he had looked at them from every angle, at least a hundred times. Sometimes, however, he was trapped by them and was no longer able to get out of that loop, that was being created by his head. He needed help, and over the years, Robbe had learned what to say, and how to behave, to guide Sander out of his mind. He had to ground him again. To take him back to the present moment. “You can't live in fear that something bad happens, my love. I remember of that time, after you came back from a session with your therapist, when you told me, that the only thing we have control over is the present. You liked that concept. We have to try to spend every day in the best way we can. If and when something happens, we will act as we have already established. You know your parents are both on our side. They won't let anyone take Hero away from us. He is our baby." Robbe rested his forehead on Sander's and sighed, caressing his cheek softly. They both closed their eyes, enjoying each other’s presence. Something was reassuring in knowing that you can be vulnerable, and let yourself go, without being judged in any way. "Don't worry, ok?" Sander nodded, wrapping his arms around Robbe's waist, who kissed him on the lips, trying to convey all the affection he was capable of, through that gesture. When they heard Hero crying from his room, they both sighed at the same time, bursting into a little laugh. Robbe stood up and smiled, taking his boyfriend's hand to help him up. "Fuck, I wanted to spend some time alone with you." "The next time you want to spiral in the kitchen at 8 am, think about it." And then, it happened unexpectedly, on the same morning that started with an empty bed. Because when you live the moments, you will always remember, you don't even realize it. In the end, Sander and Robbe had still decided to spend the day together in bed, relaxing, even if they were no longer alone. So after having breakfast, and having taken care of Hero’s needs, they went back to bed, taking their baby with them. He was growing so quickly, that they were both sure, he would walk in no time. They didn't know whether to be more excited or scared. The house had already been secured since the day he started crawling, but they didn't know what to expect. Robbe ran his fingers through Hero's blond hair, immediately earning a huge smile. He was more and more like Sander and this made his heart tremble. He didn't know he could feel so much love for a human being. "He needs a haircut, or a scrunchie to tie back the locks that always fall on his face." “I don't want to cut his hair. They are so beautiful, and I'm also afraid he would get scared!" Hero was sat between his parents, playing with his pacifier, but when Sander took him in his arms to hold him, the child stretched out his hands, trying to grab Robbe. "No, papa! Dad!" At that point the boys froze, looking into each other's eyes, both incredulous, but Sander's gaze immediately softened, seeing his boyfriend's teary eyes. He let Hero go to his dad and pressed his lips against Robbe’s temple, trying to comfort him. "At least, tell me that you are crying because you are happy, and not because you have suddenly realized, that this is all too much for you." Robbe shook his head, hugging Hero, then took his hand, which was so small and chubby compared to his own. He snuggled to Sander’s chest, who kept holding him. “I can't believe I almost didn't experience all of this. I felt deep anger towards him because he had taken you away from me, and when I saw him for the first time at Jens's flat, I couldn't even look at him, but he smiled at me, as he did five minutes ago. I treated him so badly. I will never forgive myself." Robbe was now shedding copious tears from his eyes. It hurt Sander to see him like that because he knew, it was partly his fault. Maybe, if he had talked to his boyfriend differently, months ago, and hadn't tried to push him away, everything would have worked out well that damned morning of September. He wiped Robbe's tears and brushed his nose on his cheek, holding him tightly in his arms. “You reminded me just this morning, that we only have the present moment. We cannot feel bad about what happened in the past or about what we believe will happen in the future. Hero doesn't care about what happened months ago, because now you're here, and you love him so much. He knows it, or he wouldn't have called you dad. To him, you are his dad as I am. Although, I'm pretty sure he prefers you." The last sentence made Robbe smile. He snuggled even closer to his boyfriend, while Hero was sucking his pacifier, looking at them with his big green eyes. "You have to swear that when he grows up, you won't tell him I cried when he called me dad for the first time." "You know I love you, but this will be one of those stories that will be passed down to our grandchildren, baby." Robbe took Hero in his arms again, feeling a little lighter. In his heart, he had told himself thousand times that it was just a word, and that it had nothing to do with the bond between him and his baby, but being called dad, made him feel as if finally everything was going the right way. As if the last piece had been added to the puzzle. What he didn't suspect was that Sander had other plans to come full circle.

[previous] / [next]

[shih-coulda-had-it]

Angst then comfort?

I, uh, decided to go heavy with the angst. This is sort of a “What if?” take on Closing the Loop, which features Toshinori breaking the universe to save Nana. I got a comment asserting that Toshinori definitely tried a loop on his own, and, well... anon, you provided me with a good excuse to write it!

//

When Toshinori throws everything into a punch to save himself and Gran Torino, he is thinking, ‘I want to save everyone! I want to go back to when we were happy, and safe, and—!’ One for All sparks through his veins, a fiery if muted resolve that lets Toshinori break space and time.

He guesses even One for All has its limits. Toshinori would have liked to have landed before All for One murdered Shimura Sakumo and made oshishou look sad and drained, dissatisfied with all her shortcomings when she encouraged him to review, accept, and move past his. But it’s better to land in the middle of dinner than, say, in media res on the boat to Ekusegoru.

This time-loop thing bites. The trope seems so cliche in media. The set of conditions to end it, simple.

Toshinori sees All for One shove his hand through Gran Torino’s chest, the viscera clinging to the neatly-pressed black sleeve of his blazer and his pointed fingers, and has the very distant thought that he’s responsible for it. If he’d been smarter, he could’ve remembered where the hostage was when asked, and then Gran Torino would not be dead, and oshishou would not be screaming her terror and loss and fury—

One for All resets. Gran Torino is whole again, and so is oshishou, who is running a loop behind.

Toshinori is trying to think logically, like how Gran Torino taught him to be. It makes sense to warn oshishou of their mistakes; it makes sense that somewhere in the universe, there is a way that leads Toshinori to saving both of his mentors.

Oshishou wrestles with Gran Torino. She is not taking the spar seriously, and Gran Torino is clearly indulging her need to expend the nervous energy. Toshinori watches from the sidelines and wonders how two people in love can be so blind; sometimes, he wonders if his existence as oshishou’s successor prevents them from voicing it.

The boat. Ekusegoru. A swift, almost surgical strike to the heart of the empty city.

He snatches the hostage and leaps to the roof of a nearby building. He should get her back to the boat, post-haste, and add his strength to the fight. Maybe that’s what’s missing.

“Ma’am,” Toshinori says, distractedly, “you should brace yourself.”

“Wh—”

He’s not as fast as Gran Torino, and he lacks the ability to remove his considerable mass from the equation. So Toshinori jumps, kicks off the sides of buildings, ascends. He gains a vantage point that lets him see Gran Torino’s yellow cape streaming away from the center of the battle, and the concern blooms, malignant and malicious.

Toshinori changes directions to follow. Almost loses them for a bit, and then Toshinori wishes he had, because he’d rather have been ignorant than witness oshishou, sprawled broken against Gran Torino, the silvered head bowed with something like grief and resignation—

Toshinori screams. He doesn’t realize that the hostage has slipped her hand in his.

One for All resets. Oshishou is whole again, and Gran Torino looks so exhausted and fragile, hugging them both and breathing raggedly. Oshishou is just realizing the cause for their second loop, and Toshinori’s brain is whirling.

Logically, the loop is resetting after his mentors are dying. The solution is not their sacrifice.

One for All resets. The solution is not to eliminate All for One.

The solution is not to run away to oshishou’s place either, but Toshinori thinks the idea has merit. Gran Torino is burdening himself to solve this, and he needs time to recuperate. And if oshishou can connect to the spiritual nature of One for All, perhaps all she needs is time to really hash things out with the Quirk.

It provides him an opportunity to try another solution as well. He’s the consistent reason for their deaths, no matter that All for One wields the knife. Toshinori runs away, every single goddamn time, even though he’s the one who’s used One for All to break the world.

I want to save everyone, he had wished. A monumental effort that requires a monumental sacrifice.

Toshinori obediently moves from the couch to the spare bedroom oshishou had set aside for him. He hears her bedroom door click shut, and waits a breathless five minutes before getting to his feet. His bedroom window is just wide enough for him to wriggle out of, but first he needs his gear.

Gran Torino has tried to teach him how to sneak.

Sneaking is a lot easier with a fake excuse. Toshinori judges the distance from the kitchen to the front door, and hopes that oshishou is too distracted—ack, gross, gross, even if Gran Torino is unbelievably sweet and stupid—to think about his footsteps to the kitchen.

He roots around for a mug and switches on the kettle. Tensely, Toshinori waits for oshishou to peek out and double-check on him.

When that doesn’t happen, he darts for his gear. Boots and cape. His wrist bracers and belt are still on. Toshinori wraps his shoes in the fabric and lobs the package through his bedroom door onto his bed; it lands with a muffled thwmp.

Toshinori makes tea. He carries it carefully back, and sets it down on his desk. He listens for the soft murmuring of their conversation, and hears nothing. Not even a snore.

Time to go.

There aren’t any alternatives to reaching Ekusegoru. He’s only eighteen; he’s an intern to a nobody pair of pro-heroes; he doesn’t have money to hire some unsuspecting captain. So Toshinori puts on his brightest smile and charms the hell out of the crew.

“It’s only a recon,” he laughs. “Oshishou and Torino-sensei think I should get some experience with a solo patrol, y’know?”

The captain is visibly uncomfortable by the change. “All Might, are you absolutely sure that your teachers want you to do this alone? Maybe I should call the agency.”

“They’re preoccupied with something else,” Toshinori lies, smiling. “A really dangerous villain tried going for the archives and is trying to go underground, and they dispatched me to take care of this while they dealt with that.”

“Huh,” mutters the captain, tugging the brim of her cap. “They trust you a lot.”

“I’m top of my class.”

“Kids these days…”

And she takes him to Ekusegoru. Toshinori chafes his hands together and tries to think about a strategy. He can’t kill All for One. That resets the loop. At the same time, giving his oshishou’s greatest enemy—Japan’s greatest threat—One for All is definitely not on the table. Toshinori needs to die, and the best way to do that is to goad the bull.

If this doesn’t work, he tries to comfort himself, then the loop will simply reset, and his mentors will be none the wiser.

If this does work—well. Not like Toshinori will have to face the consequences anyway.

He enters the empty city, hyper-aware that he is walking into a trap without the certain possibility of a safety net. He sprints for the heart, channeling all his desperation and resolve, pulling on One for All in a way that burns.

The world looks sharper. It looks a little smaller. His suit stretches to the point of tearing a little. Toshinori doesn’t have time to gauge the differences; his body moves instinctively, and he slams into the warehouse shouting, “All for—!”

He freezes.

All for One looks at him coolly, with disinterest. The hostage is discarded on the floor, dead. Her wrists and ankles are untied; in the previous loops, she’d been forced to her knees, and the dread of disobeying her captor were all the restraints needed.

“The intern,” All for One names.

“All Might,” he corrects. Toshinori forces his feet into moving, forces himself to circle All for One instead of leaping directly to extract the body.

All for One doesn’t even turn to keep him in sight. “Shimura’s stray, ready for a fight that he shouldn’t even know about. Aren’t protocols for recon to check the perimeter and then investigate?”

Don’t freeze. Don’t stutter. Goad the bull and allow yourself to be gored by the horns.

“Even the blind could tell this was a trap,” Toshinori retorts. “Your reign of terror is over, All for One.”

“Oh? You know who I am?” All for One’s voice saddens, sweetens. “I knew the woman was a fool, but I hadn’t taken her to be cruel enough to force a child into this vendetta. You’re her successor, aren’t you? Number eight?”

Toshinori lunges at All for One’s back.

It’s a short fight. He gets curb-stomped, for lack of a better term, even though his body moves faster, endures better, hits harder. All for One is an opponent he hasn’t been prepared to face; oshishou prioritized running away and survival for him. For good fucking reason, apparently.

“You’re a hundred years too early to be challenging me,” the enemy chides. Toshinori can barely hear past the pain of being broken and bloodied and bruised.

“Asshole,” he curses.

“You know how this works. Give me One for All, and all this ends.” All for One’s grin is wide and manic with victory. His hand settles over Toshinori’s heart; Toshinori’s pulse is going rabbit-quick with fear. “I must thank Shimura before she dies. It’s always such a hassle, knowing the wielders’ luck in finding successors right before I can retrieve my Quirk.”

“It’s not yours,” Toshinori denies. It won’t be. I won’t. I won’t break.

“It was mine before you existed. Mine to give, and mine to take back.” All for One pulls out a pager. “Now, will you be a good hero and give me One for All, or shall I message Shimura that you’re my hostage? She’ll die for nothing, and I promise, I will make you watch her death.”

Goad the bull and allow yourself to be gored by its horns.

He wonders how much time has elapsed. Two hours total, for the boat to return to the mainland, get oshishou and Gran Torino, and come back. By then, the five hours allotted to them by the time-loop will have run out.

“Why are you such an asshole,” he says, wheezing.

“I’m righting the wrongs of the world. I need power to do it. Power, that comes from your stolen Quirk.” All for One presses the hand on Toshinori’s chest down, and something is creaking. Something is breaking. Unbidden, tears mix with sweat and grime and blood. “You understand. All Might. A man after my own philosophy.”

“No—”

“You want justice and equality. I’m going to provide that.”

“You monologue too much,” Toshinori spits, and All for One sighs.

“Well. We have time.” The pressure on his chest relents, and All for One backhands him—

One for All resets. Toshinori wakes to the scent of oden, savory and nauseating, and he understands now why Gran Torino is always moving violently after a loop. He should hide the trauma; he can’t unnecessarily burden them with the knowledge; he understands why Gran Torino didn’t want to tell oshishou.

He falls off the stool.

“All Might!” Oshishou immediately slips off her seat and kneels on the ground beside him, and the worry in her expression—Toshinori’s hyperventilating, burning with shame and terror, and he wants—

“Oshishou,” he sobs, gasping, and her cape falls over their heads, curtaining them off from the world. It’s the first time he’s been subject to the use, and he gets why oshishou wants to register the cape as a shock blanket. It’s very effective.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, you’re safe,” she says, soothing. “You’re okay, Toshinori.”

“Oshishou, I’m—I’m so sorry—I’m—”

He’s glad, in a way, that another loop has been triggered. It means that One for All is generous. It does not want anyone to die; it’s following his wish. One for All wants everyone to be saved, and is willing to reset time until they learn sacrifice is not the name of the game.

Toshinori hugs her, repeating his apologies. Her hug is firm, and gentle, and kind; she continues to reassure him, even though it must be increasingly awkward to break down in public like this.

Eventually, he collects himself. He can cry later. Probably in the office, as a defensive measure when Gran Torino inevitably wrangles the story out in the debrief.

Because Gran Torino will tell oshishou that they napped the last loop away. And no nap should result in Toshinori crying and having a panic attack. Therefore, he’s done something traumatic and he needs to tell them.

This needed to be tested though. Toshinori could never forgive himself for being too much of a coward not to try, and his mentors wouldn’t have given him permission.

(There’s an unspoken agreement, after, that the loop will be spent recovering. Five hours is not nearly enough time to gloss over the memory of All for One, but Toshinori is sandwiched between his mom and—and his dad—and even though Sorahiko seethed over Toshinori’s inherited ideals of martyrdom, Sorahiko was the one to call for a dogpile.

Of course, Sorahiko is a hypocrite who goes to confront All for One on his own. Oshishou is much smarter, if bitter, and she tells Toshinori, “I am going to talk to One for All, and I am going to figure out how to end this cycle.”

Toshinori feels hope rise, and he believes her.)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Eye for an Eye

This is a request written for Peachy.

Warnings: non/dub con sex (oral, intercourse); death.

This is dark!Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Summary: The reader is the longtime girlfriend of a mafioso, but she finds herself in danger when a rival mob boss, Steve Rogers, looks to even a score.

Note: So this is the last of the requests I have finished atm. As I mentioned, I’m taking a step back. I’ll still be doing stuff here and there but I’m not longer going to be putting so much pressure on myself. I’m eager to get some time to just relax and think about ongoing series without feeling like I need to sit down and get it done. Requests will be done in due time but I need the time to get my head straight and really calm down. The last few days have really shown me some awful things, but the support I’ve received is unbelievable and for that I am entirely grateful and I love you all!

...

You hadn’t slept in a week. Like truly slept. Little dozes here and there as Charlie held his private meetings or received a special visitor. That was when he wasn’t away tending to ‘business’ This business however was getting in the way of your own life. Your safety. He was never really one to go into detail; you knew the type of work he did and you had accepted it long ago. But when you could sense the tension in the air; the anticipation of doom all around, you needed some explanation. Some reason for the pistol under your pillow and the shotgun beneath the counter.

He was out of town again. You were trapped in this mansion which had grown so prison-like. Robert was there too. He stayed behind when Charlie was away to keep an eye on you. It gave you a little relief to have him downstairs prowling. A rare sense of peace as you sat against the headboard reading. A single lamp on the night table, barely more than an orb in the dark of the room. It made you feel even lonelier in the large bed.

You rested the open book against your chest and closed your eyes as you leaned back against the headboard. Your eyelids itched and you were tempted to fall asleep but your paranoia always kept you just above the cusp. You sighed and listened to the night outside your window. Leaves brushed against the window and the wind swept gentle over branches. It was oddly peaceful despite the chaos brewing within you.

You were close to falling off into your subconscious when an eerie silence rose. It was too quiet. You sat up and reached for the pistol under your pillow. Another gun cocked from downstairs and you crawled out of bed. You aimed the pistol ahead of you as you held your breath. You could hear Robert’s voice from below. You descended the stairs as another, unfamiliar voice responded.

“You think you can draw before I pull the trigger?” You edged forward; the stranger’s voice cool and taunting.

“We’ll find out,” Robert replied and the air grew thick.

You crept towards their voices, gun held steady as you came up behind the tall stranger standing in the kitchen. You could see Robert’s hand hovering above his own weapon still on his hip. If he moved a finger, the man between you would put him down in an instant. You pressed the barrel of your pistol against the intruder’s back.

“Do you think you can beat me?” You asked quietly. You kept the tremble from your hand. You had never shot a man before. Sure, you had expected that one day you might have to, but that didn’t make you any more prepared for the reality.

His shoulders dropped and the blonde man raised his hands with a chuckle. He let the gun dangle from a single finger. Robert nodded at you and neared to take the weapon from the man. 

“Keep your hands up,” You ordered, “Sit on the stool.” You nudged him with the barrel and he reluctantly obeyed as you led him to the tall seat. “Robert. Call Charlie. Get him to come home.”

The phone was already dialing as Robert kept the stranger’s gun pointed at its former owner. As the man sat facing you, you recognized him. The presence of such an infamous character had your heart racing. Charlie must be in some serious shit to have the man come here himself to do the job. The only other man in New York more powerful than him was in his kitchen.

Steve Rogers grinned despite his predicament. Your nostrils flared as you stepped closer. “Do you know how to use that thing?” He asked dryly.

“I do,” You assured him, “Why? You want me to show you?”

He tilted his head as the lines in his cheek deepened. “I take it Charlie’s away then.” You didn’t answer and merely kept your gun aimed at his chest.

“Won’t be here till the morning,” Robert hung up the phone. “I’ve got some men on the way though. Keep him alive until the boss decides what to do with him.” He cleared his throat and tucked away the cell. “You can go back to bed.”

“Not much use in it. Wasn’t sleeping anyway,” You turned back to the mafioso on the stool. He looked rather intrigued by the dull conversation. “What exactly did Charlie do to have you sneaking in our back door?”

“Well, doll, he really fucked up,” He seemed completely unfazed at his predicament; two guns ready to fire at his slightest move. “But you don’t have to pay for his mistakes. You just gotta lower that gun and step away.”

“Shut up,” Robert barked, “Y/N, don’t bother with him. And you,” He glared at Rogers, “Leave the lady alone.”

“She asked,” He shrugged. “I was only being polite.”

“Well, what did Charlie do, Rob?” You asked, “I’d like to know. Think I have a right...considering.” You gestured the gun to the man smirking at you. You wish he’d stop that.

“Took what’s rightfully his.” Robert boasted, “It was on our turf. We didn’t break no rules.”

You exhaled deeply and rolled your eyes. “You fucking idiots are all the same,” You muttered. “Always talking in riddles.”

“And yet you’re still fucking one,” Steve ventured and you turned back to him.

You snarled and took another step forward, the barrel against his chest. “Another word and I’ll have killed one.”

“Back up, Y/N,” Robert warned. He sounded nervous.

“It’s fi--” Suddenly the gun was being twisted from your hands and it discharged.

You were shoved back as another bullet flew, the deafening bangs rung in your ears. You slipped on the tile to your knees as Robert fell to the ground, a sickly chortle from his lips as he collapsed. You looked over at him as his lips opened and closed in a ghastly weeze and a river of blood seeped from his chest. You glanced back, a bullet hole in the fridge just behind Steve. You stared down the muzzle of your gun as he aimed it back at you.

He sat back on the stool and you tried to stand. “Ah, stay there.” He pushed back the hair which had fallen down his forehead, “My men will be here soon. The gunshots will draw them.” He explained nonchalantly. “Think they might be closer than yours.”

“Just do it,” You hung your head, “Please.”

“I came here for Charlie.” He intoned, “So...tell me the truth. Did you ever have to fire this thing?”

You lifted your head and stared up at him. You must’ve looked pathetic. Sat on your heels in nothing but a cotton nighty. You shook your head. “Not at a person.”

“You know he did,” He nodded to Robert’s body. “A hundred times over at least. He knew it was gonna end like this one day.” A silence rose around you, he lowered the gun to rest on his knee. A threat nonetheless. “Would it be worth it for you to die this way? For Charlie?” He tilted his head, “Alone?”

You had no answer and so you looked back to the tile. The adrenaline was like acid in your veins. You felt like you were going to vomit.

“Let me just say, if I was in his shoes, I’d not be leaving my woman alone. Not on a night like this,” He remarked. “Or maybe, he’s got another. He seems the greedy type. Has proven as much.”

You swallowed at the suggestion. You knew there was someone else. You had smelled her on him but this wasn’t a relationship you could just walk away from. “Stop.” You whispered, “Please. Just...get it over with.”

“Stand up,” He ordered but you didn’t move. “Come on. Up.” He stood and nudged your head with the pistol.

You pushed yourself shakily to your feet. The barrel slipped down your temple and cheek, trailing along your neck until it was just above your nighty. His blue eyes swirled with thoughts and he bit the tip of his tongue. He sidled past you and crossed to Robert’s body. He kept his eyes on you as he undid the dead man’s belt with one hand, pulling it loose with a jolt.

He neared you again, “Turn around.” He spun the gun in the air. You did as he said. “Hands behind your back.” You pushed your hands behind you and he pressed them together, looping the belt around your wrists again and again. He secured the belt, the leather so tight it almost cut off the circulation.

He turned you to face him, both hands on your shoulders as he guided you backwards to the stool. The gun was tucked into his pants; its presence never leaving your mind. He grabbed you by the hips and lifted you onto the seat. His fingers brushed over your thighs as he backed away and crossed his arms. 

“Well, tonight’s not a total loss. I mean, killing Charlie would have been a simple end but...seems I’ve found myself something even better.”

You tried to twist your hands apart but your binds were impenetrable. You gulped as the front door opened and he took out the gun. He looked down the hallway and nodded. Shit. They weren’t Charlie’s men. The footsteps that neared sent chills through you and another man entered with a grumbled greeting. He stopped short as he saw you on the stool.

“What’s this?” The dark-haired man asked.

“Our prize,” Steve replied, “Charlie’s not here but I think we can find a way to draw him out into the open.”

-

You were shoved in the back of the car. Steve and his accomplice, Bucky, it seemed his name was, were in the front. Your arms were trapped painfully behind you against the seat. You were silent; trapped in dread. You shouldn’t even be alive still. That fact was most frightening. Of course, it was smart to use you as leverage but you didn’t expect you’d truly find your way back to Charlie after all this. Not in one piece.

You were pulled out, your bare feet tender on the cold pavement. You were led inside a bar; it was almost morning and the last of the staff were just clearing out. They were hardly bothered by the bound woman being dragged through their workplace. You expected they had seen worse. You were left in the backroom; an office fit for any underground king. You shivered in your nightgown as you paced around until your legs were sore.

You sat on one of the twin sofas along the wall, knees drawn up as your wrists were caught painfully between your body and the arm. You leaned your shoulder against the back of the couch to alleviate the pressure on your hands. Your head fell forward and you slipped into a shallow sleep. It was an uneasy slumber; overwrought and uncomfortable. You were awoken by the click of the door.

The belt around your wrists was loosened and torn away. You turned your legs over the edge of the sofa and rubbed the raw flesh. A weight settled on your shoulder as Steve draped his jacket over you. “I told Bucky to bring you a blanket,” He said, “Guess he forgot.”

“I’m fine,” You went to remove the coat as you stood and he caught the lapels and held it in place.

“Your teeth are chattering,” He argued and you dropped your hands. “Take what little kindness you’ll get.” He let go and turned away from you. You watched him sit behind the desk in the leather chair and lean back with a sigh. “Sorry about the wait...Charlie’s back in town.” You clenched your jaw and he pointed with two fingers across the desk, “Sit.”

You neared stiffly and lowered yourself into the chair across from him. The jacket was warm; almost comforting. “Does he know I’m here?”

“He knows I have you,” He said, “We’re still waiting for his response to our offer.”

“Which is?” You ventured nervously.

“Fair trade; him for you,” Steve leaned back, his elbow on the arm of the chair as he rested his chin against his knuckles. Your lips parted and you quickly pressed them shut. “Yeah, I don’t think he’ll take it either.”

You placed your palms flat against each other and bent your head. He was right. You had accepted that Charlie was a selfish man but you had excused it for what you thought was love. You had even ignored his duplicity towards you because despite it all, he still treated you well. He doted on you when he was there but he wasn’t present as much as he used to be. You had always known it would catch up to you. Whether it came in the form of heartbreak or death. Or both.

“He’s a moron, if you ask me.” Steve continued. “It’s the best deal he can hope for. Plus, he’s giving up a hell of loyal woman…” You peeked up at him, “Gorgeous, too.” You felt your cheeks burn and averted your eyes. Was this some game? Was he so eager to humiliate you before you end? “Never found a girl I could stand for long. They just want the money, you know?”

“Money can’t buy everything,” You grumbled, “Like my life? If I made an offer, would you let me go?”

He considered you and smiled. “You’re right. Money can’t buy everything, but you don’t really strike me as the type who wilts at the sight of green.”

“I hated that house,” You said quietly. “It was too big. Too lonely, but Charlie didn’t want to downgrade. He was all about bigger and better. But I just told myself what he wants is what I want. Funny what we call love. Feels like stupidity to me. Fear, really.”

He nodded, checked his watch, sighed. He leaned forward and grabbed a pen, playing with it before chucking it away. “You hungry?”

“I don’t want a last meal,” You hissed and slumped down in the chair. “I’m just ready for it to all be over.”

“Tired, at least? You look it. Got a loft upstairs. I sleep there on the odd occasion,” He stood, “Better than the sofa.”

“Why?” You looked up at him. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I don’t want to kill you.” He rounded the desk and leaned against it as he stopped just before you. “You see, I don’t have to do that to even the debt. Charlie took something from me, so I’ll take something from him.” He bent down so that he was eye level, “I don’t think you’re getting it; you’re mine now, doll. And you’re more use to me alive than dead.”

-

Steve left you in the small loft beneath the roof of the bar. It was quaint despite it being no more than a prison. One of his henchmen stood outside the door, just at the top of the stairs to keep you from fleeing. Even if you could, you don’t know where you’d go. After this, you could go back to Charlie. Not now that you had admitted to yourself the farce that was your relationship.

You slept for a few hours on the bed. It was only a double but the covers were comfy and it was warm. When you woke, the man known as Bucky brought in a tray of food and rectangular box. You ate before you opened it. There was a dress inside; pale pink satin that dipped low in back and a pair of strappy heels. There was nothing else. No panties, no bra. It would be little better than being naked. You could take the hint.

You washed yourself in the small shower hidden underneath the slant of the roof. You stepped out and towel-dried your hair as best you could. You pulled on the dress and slid into the heels. The fabric did little to hid the buds of your nipples and clung to the curves of your body. You paced around until the door opened again. It was Bucky again.

“Here,” He held out a pale trench coat.

You took it and slipped it on as he led you down the stairs. He kept his hand on your elbow as he led you to the car and shoved you inside roughly. His blue eyes strayed to you in the mirror throughout the ride. To him, you were still the enemy. Hell, you were. They were all your enemies.

The car stopped in front of a house much like your former abode. Probably bigger. Charlie would’ve been jealous. You were led from the car with as little courtesy as before, your heels wobbly on the mosaic drive. You climbed the front steps and Bucky followed closely. He directed you through the airy lobby and up the winding stairs. He caught you before you could pass the third doorway.

He knocked on the door evenly. “Coat,” He held out his hand until you removed the trench and relinquished it with a shiver. “Inside.” He twisted the handle and pushed it open. You glanced at him before stepping through. The door clicked shut behind you.

Steve was waiting for you. He had a snifter of bourbon next to a bottle as he sat on a leather armchair. A twin seat was just across from him and he smiled as he stood to greet you. “Please, sit.” You braced yourself and marched over to him. Before you could lower yourself however, he took your hand and kissed it. A real gentleman. That was how Charlie had got you; how he had conned you as he had everyone else.

You lowered yourself and he lifted the decanter to reveal a second, empty glass behind it. “Drink? Figure you could use one.”

“Yeah, I really could,” You agree and crossed your legs. He poured a glass and passed it to you. You took it with a thanks and sipped. He watched you silently and you drank deeper. He didn’t speak until you drained the entire snifter.

“The dress fits you well. The colour is nice on you,” He gulped from his own glass and stood. “It will look better on the floor.” Your vision wavered with alcohol but you felt entirely sober at his words. He smirked at you, his eyes roving your sitting form. “Not that it hides much,” You followed his gaze to your nipples poking against the satin.

He curled two fingers in a gesture for you to stand. You rose and neared him. Your limbs were weak with surrender, you mind eager to numb the sudden whirl of emotions. You stared at the collar of his shirt as you stopped before him. He cradled your face, tilting your head up until you were forced to look at him.

“He doesn’t appreciate you,” He purred, “In a way, we’re both getting back at him.”

His thumb ran over your bottom lip. He bent to kiss you. You let him. It was an eager kiss, hungry and forceful. As he pulled away, he nibbled your lip. His fingers crawled along your neck, playing with the thin straps of the dress as he eased them down your shoulders. He slid them lower until the neckline droop and your chest was bared. He let go and the satin puddled at your feet. You kept your shoulders straight, the warmth spreading down your body as he looked down at you. Nothing but the strappy gold heels remained and you resisted the chill rising along your spine.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” His hand trailed down to your chest and he circled his thumb around your nipple. His other hand came up and he cupped them, pressing them together as he admired them. “Just relax. You might even enjoy it too.”

He placed little kisses and nips along your collarbone and chest. He doted on each breast, his tongue swirling around each nipple, working his way down. He got to his knees before you and you inhaled sharply. His hands gripped your hips as his nose tickled just below your stomach. He took your leg and bent it slowly.You grabbed him to keep yourself from falling as he hooked your leg over his shoulder.

He inhaled your scent as he nuzzled the trimmed patch of hair at your vee. This time the shiver was irresistible. You had to lean against him to keep your balance. His warm breath tickled you. He pressed his lips to your pussy and slowly delved his tongue further. He softly licked your clit and you gasped. Your fingers dug into his shoulder as he tended to you fondly. You closed your eyes and thought of Charlie. Is this what he felt when he was fucking that other girl?

It didn’t make it okay. Your breath caught in your throat as the pressure began to build. Your nerves began to cluster at the tip of his tongue and you moaned. Your hand was at the base of his neck as you clung to him; chasing the release which had been denied to you for so long. He squeezed your ass and it was like a strike of lightning. You hissed through your teeth, your leg curling around him as you shook in ecstasy.

As you caught your breath, you removed your hand from his neck. You felt awful but so good. You should not have liked that so much. He peered up at you and slid your leg from his shoulder as he stood. He took your hands and guided you to the bed, turning to nudge you onto the edge. You sat numbly and watched as he began to undress. You were in a daze; hypnotized by every inch of his flesh as he bared it.

When he was completed nude, you found yourself staring at his cock. He was big. You looked down shyly as you reprimanded yourself. He approached and used to fingers to push your chin up. You stared up at him and he bent to kiss you with a devilish smirk. 

“You gotta get out of your head,” He whispered, “It’s all in here.” He reached to dip his fingers between your folds. “Deep down, we both know you want this.”

He pulled his hand away and took yours. He drew you to your feet again. Your ankles shook in the steep heels. His fingers walked the length of your arms then down your sides. He only stopped as his hands snaked around to your ass, kneading the flesh as he lifted you off your feet. You squeaked in surprise and he steadied you against him. Your clasped onto his shoulders as you felt as if your would fall. 

He hooked his arms under your knees and held you aloft with your feet floating in the air. He moved his hips around and you felt his cock poking around. He finally found your entrance, a deep breath as he gazed down at you. You closed your eyes in shame as you felt your walls begging for him.

“Look at me,” He breathed and you forced your eyes open. They widened as he pushed inside and your lip trembled dangerously.

His irises turned smokey as he brought himself to his base. He thrust into you carefully at first and you whimpered at each rock of his hips. His fingers were stretched along your back as he worked into you. He spoke in a low purr, 

“Charlie doesn’t know what he’s lost, does he?” He brought you down entirely on his cock and wiggled his hips before picking back up, “So soft, so warm,” He threw his head back as he sped up, “God, you’re fucking tight.”

Your own moans rose in time with his grunts. You couldn’t help it. It had been ages since Charlies had fucked you. Longer since he had made you feel desirable. Sure, Steve’s words were carnal, shallow even, but it stoked a fire deep within you. Your hand was on the back of his head as you began to move your pelvis in time with his. His cock fit perfectly in you. Ever time he thrust into you, a burst of sparks trickled up your thighs.

You hugged him closer as you felt the impending climax. You were desperate, panting. There were tears in your eyes as you chased the momentary pleasure which would help you forget. Help you feel. 

You tugged at his hair and whispered in his ear. “Tell me I’m beautiful,” The tear streamed down your cheek, “Please.”

“You are beautiful,” He said with conviction as he plunged into you. “Absolutely…” His breathed was rampant, unyielding, “Breathtaking.”

You whined and tossed your head back as you orgasmed. You hung on to his shoulders as you leaned back on his cock. He kept his motion, his grunts and groans growing louder until he brought himself to his very limit. Your limit. You felt him cum inside of you but didn’t care. You wanted him; all of him, and he wanted you. Or at least lied well enough to make you feel he did.

Your heart pattered as he carried you back to the bed, his chest rising and falling furiously. He turned and fell back onto the mattress so that you were on top him. He was still inside you, clinging to you tightly as you settled against him. He was warm. He wasn’t supposed to feel this nice. He was a criminal. An enemy.

“I meant it,” His fingers rustled your hair and brushed over your scalp, “You are beautiful. A man would have to be fucking stupid not to see that.”

+

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[shortythescreen]

Warning(s): Mentions of alcohol, murders. Jealousy in a relationship (but it’s resolved and isn’t totally unhealthy)

Pairng(s): Loba/OC. 

Author’s Note(s): Commission for @chiefphilosopherbouquet! They asked me to write something with their OC Nyra and Loba. Very cute. Hope you all enjoy!

It’s not that Nyra doesn’t like Jaime. He seems nice enough, as a person. He’s always polite to her, always offers her the same information that he offers Loba. The type of guy that might help a little old lady across the street and barely squint when she pinches his cheek in thanks.

He didn’t question Nyra’s presence – not when she first started coming around, late at night, not leaving until early the next morning. He doesn’t seem jealous either, didn’t bat an eye when Loba declared Nyra hers. Jaime simply rolled his eyes, told her that the next time she seduces someone she might want to let him know so he remembers to make sure there aren’t security protocols against them.

He’s never been anything but nice. It’s just that… well… she guesses it’s hard for her to ignore the relationship she sees between him and her girlfriend.

Loba’s beautiful. Stunning. Showstopping. The cover for her theft is a fashion critic and no one questions it. She takes extra care in her appearance, is in a nail salon every two weeks to have her nails trimmed and painted, her feet buffed and softened. She never has a hair out of place – even after a fight.

Topped by that beauty is her level of success. That she sits at the front of every fashion show, that her word is law when it comes to clothes – that behind the scenes, she breaks the law, and often. She’s one of a kind, at one hundred in every aspects of her life, and Nyra always feels like she’s chasing her. That she’s a cloud that won’t stop, beautiful and puffy and dancing across the clear white sky towards her next goal – and she can’t stop chasing her.

Neither can rest of the world. Nyra knows that Loba will always come back to her – that she never has to worry about her slipping into the beds of very willing third parties. It’s still hard not to notice the way they want her, the way they desire her just as badly as she does.

Somehow, that makes observing her relationship with Jaime even more difficult.

They’re just friends. Nyra knows this. Knows that there are never any lingering gazes between them, that above everything, Jaime respects Loba. That he would do anything for her – not because he’s in love with her but because he loves her. He loved her long before Nyra fell for her and his love has… seniority, she guesses. Something that’s sometimes hard for Nyra to ignore.

She watches them from her place on the opposite couch. Loba’s eyes are glassy with champagne, the bottle sitting among a bucket of melted ice. The glass table has a ring of perspiration of around it, the bucket sweating from the warmth of the room, the chill on the sides. Jaime is more idle, sipping casually at his glass as Loba chats.

“Not all of us can be super hackers, Jaime,” says Loba, toying with the thin neck of her champagne glass.

“I could if I tried,” Nyra boasts, chest inflating as she smirks Jaime’s way.

“I’m sure you could,” he says, agreeably, and aw, fuck, well. There he goes again with the nice shit.

“So humble, meu amor,” Loba says, kicking her feet up onto the coffee table between them. The tips of her heels click against the glass and Nyra glances at her across the way. The look in her eyes tell Nyra they’ll be talking about that later, that she can see from the slope of her shoulders, the weight on her chest that she hadn’t meant her words. That something else is going on.

Sometimes, having a perceptive girlfriend is a bitch.

“If it’s all the same to you, ladies, I think I’m going to turn in for the night.” Jaime says, finishing off the remainder of his champagne. He purses his lips tightly, leaning forward to rest an elbow on his thigh as he sets the flute on the edge of the coffee table.  

“You’re always the same to me,” Loba teases, though her sharp eyes don’t leave Nyra. Not for the first time since they got together, Nyra feels like Loba is looking through her, past the edges of her ribs and to her racing heart, to the soul trapped underneath that has been through too much.

“It is ironic, isn’t it?” She asks, leaning back on the sleek leather couch in her room. She’s shed her favored jacket, long, tan flesh resting over the pure white couch, and Nyra’s eyes are drawn to it. Jaime stands, hands slipping into the pockets of his slacks as he looks at his friend. “On the eve of my parents’ murder, I had no idea what the next day would bring… Tonight, neither does that thing.”

Something terse falls over the room, a tension. Like the haunting of those golden eyes that Jaime displayed on the screen only hours earlier.

“It’s exciting!” Loba cackles, throwing her head back, cutting through the thick tension with the knife of her laughter. “Good night, Jaime. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Jaime tilts his head in deference, turning away from Loba. His wizened green eyes land on Nyra and she sees the question in his gaze, the silent plea: talk to her.  

Nyra’s not great at talking. The door to Jaime’s room closes and Loba rises from the couch opposite of Nyra. With a few strides of her shapely legs, she’s laying on the smaller loveseat that Nyra’s taking up, resting her head in her lap.

Surprise courses through her as she feels her shoulders relax. She hadn’t realized she was tense. She supposes it doesn’t matter though, her body melting beneath Loba. She smooths a hand over the hair slicked down beneath her braids, tight and clean against her scalp.

“So.” Loba says.

“So?” Nyra questions.

“You want to talk about the way you jumped into the conversation, meu amor?”

Nyra huffs. Not really. She would rather not talk about how she’s unreasonably jealous of one of Loba’s oldest, most loyal friends. Her cheeks round, puffing out, and Loba opens an eye, peering at her from the corner. God, she’s so unfairly pretty.

“Are you alright?”

“I should be asking you that.”

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

Nyra giggles and Loba’s plump lips quirk up into a devious little smile. She rolls onto her back, fitting her head more comfortably in her lap. Nyra wishes her hair was out of its braids, that she could run her fingers through the pretty, looping curls, like cursive flowing out of her head. Her face softens after a moment, a fingertip sliding across the apple of Loba’s cheek.

“…I just get a little jealous of Jaime,” Nyra murmurs, voice so low she’s almost certain that Loba can’t hear her. Like she’s speaking to someone she doesn’t want to hear her, like she’s blended into the background, become the one no one wanted to be around. Just as she thinks she might sink into that memory, Loba’s fingers find her cheek, and all of the sudden she’s being sucked out of the memory and into those beautiful gold eyes.

“You know you don’t need to,” murmurs Loba, “he is only a friend.”

“I know. I just… Wish I could be that for you.” Nyra slouches back into the couch, pressing her thighs a little closer together to watch Loba shift with her.  

“Only a friend?”

“Someone you trust with all your secrets.”

Loba’s teasing smile eases into something else, plump lips pulling into what could almost be a pout if she would just push her lower lip out further than her upper one. She slides a manicured nail delicately down Nyra’s cheek and Nyra pushes further into her palm, opening up her fingers on her face. Her eyes flutter shut, relishing in the gentle slide of her smooth hands on her skin.

“I’m nervous about tomorrow,” says Loba, and Nyra’s eyes open again. Loba’s jaw flexes, her eyes distant, far away. Like Nyra’s had just been. “To look into the eyes of the… The thing that killed my father. My mother.”

Nyra folds her hand over Loba’s on her face, palm cupping her white knuckles. Loba’s nostrils flare and for an instant, through her smudged eye liner, her bloody eyeshadow, she thinks she sees the little girl she was when her parents were murdered.

“I’ve waited my whole life for this. But now that it’s here…” Loba slowly shakes her head, seemingly coming back to herself, and she finds Nyra’s eyes. She flips her hand, weaving their fingers together and tugging them down, to her chest. “I trust you, Nyra. With my secrets, with my identity. With my heart. Please know you don’t need to be jealous of anyone. You’re the only one I have eyes for. Okay?”

Nyra nods slowly, squeezing Loba’s hand. Her lips curl up into a gentle smile and she descends to kiss her, to reassure her without words – she’s ready. She has good people in her corner – Jaime included.

[bentnotbroken1fanfiction]

Part XI

It's eleven o'clock on a Friday night when Billy finally says more than a few sentences at a time to Max.

She'd probably be more excited about it if he wasn't looking at her like she killed his dog or something, though.

She'd been in her room, talking to El on the phone, when he'd just walked in without knocking. Which she guesses she shouldn't be that mad about considering all the times she's barged into his room the last few months. But at the same time, she did for his well being. It feels like he's doing it to be a grouchy ass.

So yeah, it still shocks her, but not as much as the words that come out of his mouth.

"You got a lot of fucking explaining to do, Maxine."

She frowns in confusion He hasn't called her that in ...god almost a year? "What's wrong?"

"Were you ever going to fucking tell me that Harrington was taken by fucking Russians?" He asks, "or that there were Russians here in the first place?"

"El, I'm going to have to call you back." She says before hanging up and facing her brother. "Billy, I honestly don't know much about what happened to Steve. Dustin told us some things, but he doesn't know what happened after he and Robin were taken. They never said."

His face kind of softens.

"And I thought the scientists and doctors or whatever told you about them. Like they explained what happened to you right?"

He frowns. "Yeah. I know about… the Upside Down. But no one said shit about commies being under the goddamn mall."

"I'm sorry," She replies sincerely. She kind of feels bad now. "I didn't know you were that out of the loop."

He sighs and his stance relaxes, "Jesus, fine. I guess I'll give you a pass."

"Gee, thanks." She deadpans. "But how did you find out, then? Steve doesn't talk about it."

He shrugs. "He did tonight."

"Seriously?" Wow. That's..surprising.

"Yeah, he was… he got upset about something and then started talking about getting drugged by Russians. He didn't say much more, but…he's…it's affecting him in a bad way."

"Did he tell you that?"

"No," He says, rubbing the back of his neck, "just, I know what it looks like."

She doesn't like the sound of that. "What what looks like?"

It's kind of quiet, but he answers. "Being trapped. In and outside of your mind."

Well shit. She doesn't know what to say to that, so she doesn't say anything for a minute. Billy doesn't say anything either, just looks down at the floor.

"Are you ok?" She asks him, because she can feel the tension shift in the air between them.

"No," He slowly makes eye contact again. "And neither is Steve." Then he turns around and leaves as quickly as he appeared.

Max's hand moves before her brain even tells it to. She dials Hopper's number and brings the phone to her ear. "El." She says into the receiver when she hears the girl pick up. "I know your powers still aren't one hundred percent, but do you think you can find someone? Like to just check on them?"

"Yes." She doesn't even sound apprehensive. "Who do I need to find?"

She takes a breath and thinks about the way Billy looked when he talked about him

"You need to find Steve."

Series now on AO3

(Series Masterlist)

[paintingraves]

guardian angel aziraphale

watches over his disaster of a human, Anthony James Crowley 

(he doesn’t actually have a middle name, he just likes James Bond and thinks a middle name makes him look cool) 

anyway 

Aziraphale is following his charge, as he always does 

guardian angels don’t get days off 

and it’s really unfortunate that they can’t even interract with their humans 

well they can, via dreams, but humans never remember them so what is the point?! 

they can’t even do actual miracles, like proper, corporeal angels. Aziraphale is more like… a spirit, invisible to the human eye, that hovers above Crowley all time of the day. 

he is intelligent, and sentient. if he wished to he could get a corporation, but that is absolutely forbidden 

because that would mean becoming visible in the human world 

maybe even interract with their charge 

and that is Not Allowed, for some ineffable reason. Azirphale’s not going to question it 

anyway 

the other worst thing is he can’t even do proper miracles. he has the slightest, infinitismal influence over Crowley. for example, if the human is faced with an important decision, Aziraphale can nudge him in the right direction; but he’s found Crowley almost always ignores him and makes the wrong choice 

it’s terrible, having him for a charge; very stressful. 

he’s mellowed a bit, become mature, but the teenage and college years were the worst 

above all, crowley loves music; old rock bands like the velvet underground and queen play on loop in his car. the car is an old rocky thing he bought second hand. crowley dreams of owning a vintage bentley, and Aziraphale really wishes he could miracle it for him. 

the point is 

sometimes crowley plays in a band, does little gigs here and there 

(oh ! or crowley could be a tattoo artist? i don’t know. either fit really) 

he writes his own songs, dreams of becoming big. aziraphale is so very proud of him. 

oh he works at a tattoo parlor, dreams of becoming one of the big names and owning his own shop; he’s got the talent for it. 

crowley does not have a good relationship with his parents, though they’ve tried to mend bridges in later years. aziraphale is very proud of that, too. 

anyway. 

currently, crowley is on the phone with a client, discussing her next tattoo design. he’s distracted. he’s rushing, trying to make it in time for work; aziraphale keeps a careful eye on him, and sees the catastrophe before it happens. 

an old lady crosses the street with a bag full of groceries; she is going slowly, so slowly, and as kind as he is, crowley will want to help her; he goes to her and the bottom of the bag suddenly tears, as the lady is in the middle of crossing; crowley quickly comes to her rescue, helping her cross the street to go safely to the sidewalk; the groceries are all sprawled out on the concrete, and the lady says, distressed, that her wallet was in the bag. crowley sees it, right there. the light turns red. cars start roaring. 

you idiot, aziraphale thinks. no. you idiot. 

he hasn’t come this far to watch crowley die 

heaven no 

crowley is still distracted, and tired, and he starts to move towards the crossing again to save at least the purse 

opens wide eyes when a car comes straight a him, honking 

the next minute his back has hit the pavement and his breath is knocked out of his lungs; but someone has their hand curled around the back of his head, protecting it from the impact. crowley looks above him

for a brief instant he sees glowing eyes, lots of them, and a halo; but then he blinks and the man above him is normal. he has white hair, wears tartan and glasses, looks like he’s come out straight from the 1950s, like an old English litterature professor who hasn’t kept up with the times yet. his eyes are the most startling clear blue

“oh, dear,” the man says worryingly. “are you quite alright, dear boy?” 

“ngk,” crowley says. what the fuck just happened? 

almost as if reading his thoughts, the man says, “you almost got hit by a car! you really must be more careful,” he says reproachfully, and crowley feels properly chastised for some odd reason. 

“uh. thank you?” he says. he had? god, he must be more tired than he thought. and the old lady? where is she?

the man helps him up. he is shorter than crowley. he looks unarmed. his clothes are not even dirty or rumpled. 

he smiles at crowley, then gives the little old lady her purse, as if he’d just miracled it out of thin air. 

there’s something off about him, crowley decides. he looks unused to his own body, holds his arms out like he doesn’t know what to do with them, and he doesn’t blink. Ever. 

crowley grips him by the shoulder and turns him around. he is hot, even through his clothes. crowley stupidly thinks of the werewolves in twilight.

“who are you?” he asks. he must know the name of the man - or being? - who saved him, it’s only right. he feels close to him in a way he doesn’t quite understand. 

“aziraphale,” aziraphale says, beaming at him. “now if you’ll excuse me, i really must get going, i have a - an appointment. yes.” 

“with whom?” crowley says, smelling the lie from a hundred miles away. 

“i haven’t decided yet,” aziraphale says. “good bye, anthony.” 

and he vanishes. 

crowley looks around, bewildered, shocked, but he’s gone. no trace of him. a blink and he’s gone, and no one around seems to have noticed. 

(aziraphale isn’t really gone; he’s just gone invisible for a minute, so as to properly freak out about what he’s just done.)

(he’s done what was forbidden) 

(saw crowley in danger and didn’t think; he just leapt, from the ethereal plane to the next, leapt to earth, calling on a corporation at random. it feels so weird to inhabit a body when you’re used to just being incorporeal matter, like thoughts, like the wind. this feels like trapping the wind in a space that is too tight, too suffocating for it.) 

(he’s in so much trouble) 

(but he’s on earth. among them. he’s talked to crowley. oh lord.) 

(what has he gotten himself into?) 

he could help him, he realizes. like this. actually help him instead of nudging him in the proper direction. that never works. like this he’ll have more influence. he can actually be friends with crowley. 

this is a terrible, terrible idea 

he thinks of crowley saying his name, and decides to stay just a little bit longer. just to see.

meanwhile crowley is struggling to understand how the man possibly knew his name. he must find him again. 

[shes-soparticular]

Take Me Back to the Start

Nobody said it was easy, no one ever said it’d be this hard.

A/N: Angsty. Part 1 of 2.

Words: 1813

       Six Days. Six whole days since she’d left. Six days since he’d watched as she’d packed her suitcase, the signature fire in her eyes extinguished by exhaustion. At the time, he’d focused on the fact that it was only a carry on. This was just another game of relationship chicken, testing one another to see who would cave first. If she was really leaving, if she really wasn’t planning on coming back, wouldn’t she have packed more than the essentials? Wouldn’t there have been some final conversation about what would happen with the rest of her things? But there hadn’t been. Only her small suitcase and her sad eyes, disappearing through the front door in heavy silence. In hindsight, it was easy for him to question why he’d failed to say anything to make her stay. Frankly, he hadn’t believed her. It was as simple as that. After a year together, an entire fucking year, he couldn’t imagine that this one fight could possibly be enough to push her away. In fact, it only fueled his anger as he watched her silhouette from across the room. If a stupid misunderstanding was enough to make her throw in the towel, then what were they doing together anyways? So rather than trying to reason with her, rather than apologizing in earnest, he let her go. It wasn’t until he caught that very last glance over her shoulder and saw how truly broken she looked that he fully understood. This wasn’t a game. She wasn’t coming back.

     He'd always said, foolishly of course, that he looked forward to his first real heartbreak. He’d wanted that can’t eat, can’t sleep, heart ripped out of his chest inspiration that every artist yearned for. He wanted that all consuming pain that would lead him to create something deeply personal and timeless. Only now did he realize how naïve he’d been. Only now did he realize that the pain was in fact so consuming that nothing else seemed to matter. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was pick up a guitar or put pen to paper. Honestly, anything that meant venturing far from his couch felt impossible. So with the shades drawn and The Scientist stuck on repeat, he refreshed each of her social media accounts and checked over and over to ensure he hadn’t missed her call. At this point he’d settle for any sign of life from her. Proof that she still existed, that it hadn’t all been one elaborate fever dream. To go from speaking to someone every day about every last aspect of his life, every thought and every feeling, to having no idea if he’d ever hear her voice again? To call it jarring was an understatement. It felt silly to admit, but for the first time after hundreds of performances he finally identified with Mercy. So much so that he almost wondered if that song had been some kind of premonition of this visceral pain. A foreshadowing of what losing this girl could really do to him.

      The condo felt as cold and empty as he did. Yet there were reminders of her everywhere, taunting him around every corner. Whether it was one of her hair ties peeking out from between the couch cushions, the latest novel she’d been reading waiting for her on the nightstand, or her shampoo still leaving the barely there scent of coconut hanging in the bathroom. By far the hardest thing he’d come into contact with was a neon green post-it note covered in her handwriting accompanied by the print of her kiss. Out picking up coffee, be back soon. Don’t write a song about it xxx. She’d stuck it to his sleeping chest one morning, months ago when he’d been home between tour legs. When he’d found it this afternoon, partially crumpled under his pillow, it had sucked the breath right out of him. How could they have gone from being so blissfully happy to complete ruin this fast?

              But the longer he laid on that couch, trapped in his own head, he realized there had been plenty of signs all along. She had always put up this wall to the outside world, this façade of unshakable strength that rarely backed down from a fight. She wore her heart on her sleeve, but it was the warmer emotions that she put on display. Her passion, her temper, her spontaneity, her attitude. But there were cracks forming in those final months, cracks he should have noticed from a mile away. In retrospect, he could see that with everyday they’d spent apart, she’d been retreating further into herself. Every night that he’d only had a few minutes to devote to her, on the nights that he’d needed to ignore her calls completely, she was always a good sport. She always said she understood how hectic tour could be and that she could wait to talk until he had more time. Slowly, her stories about her stressful workload tapered off. She stopped bringing up the guilt she’d been feeling as she drifted apart from old friends. Even the feelings of homesickness she’d always confided in him ceased being a topic of conversation. At some point, her voice at the other end of the line had started to follow a script about everything being fine. Always fine. Those calls had become somewhat one-sided, him going on about the most recent performance, regaling her with stories of whatever city he was currently in. But he’d told himself it was all okay because she sounded genuinely happy for him and her voice always perked up when they talked about plans for his homecoming. They would reconnect when he returned home and ease right back into the place where they’d left off.

              Maybe that’s exactly what would have happened if he’d just said no. If he had said no to the rest of the crew about having one last hurrah rather than going home to his girl like he’d planned. If he had said no to the second and third and fourth drink. If he had said no to the pretty girl that had insisted on dancing with him. If he had had just said no and gone home at any point during the early hours of that evening, he wouldn’t have ended up with some strange girl’s lips on his. Yes, he’d pushed her away. Yes, he’d left immediately after that. But news traveled fast and by the time he unlocked the door to their condo, she already knew. A mutual friend that had never had the best of intentions had been quick to text her about it. The narrative had been started long before he could get home to her and explain himself, before he could hold her hands in his and swear to her it had been an honest mistake. When he’d found her in the apartment, she’d been standing quietly on the balcony, eyes trained on the Toronto skyline. He hadn’t realized it then, but she’d known she was taking in that sight for the last time.

              The fight itself had lasted into the wee hours of the morning. It hadn’t helped that he had been intoxicated and defensive or that she was already in the fragile state of feeling neglected. It had all culminated in an exchange he’d give anything to take back. As soon as she’d threatened to leave, claiming that she needed time and space to center herself, he’d felt a surge of indignation that bubbled up and over before he could rein it in. “After everything we’ve been through, if this is all it takes to make you run away? Then maybe you should go.” That was the very last thing he said to her. The rest of the night was bathed in tense silence until the front door finally shut behind her leaving him alone with his regret.

              By the time he’d awoken the following afternoon, lost in his hangover, it had dawned on him how horribly he had handled the situation. Not just the fight, not just the kiss, but the entirety of their relationship over the past few months. He had taken her strength for granted. Hell, he’d taken her for granted. He let her slip away slowly in the name of his career, all the while putting off her well being until it was more convenient for him to address. The kiss was just the catalyst for her breakdown. Further proof for her gnawing insecurities that maybe she wasn’t one of his priorities anymore. Thinking about it now in the light of day as the tequila fog wore off, he suddenly felt sick to his stomach. Not due to the hangover, but because he’d not only let the love of his life walk out the door, he’d practically pushed her out. At any point, he could have wrapped her into his arms and begged her to stay. He could have told her how deeply he loved her, how profoundly he needed her, if there were even words in existence that could do those feelings justice. It couldn’t be too late, could it? He’d dialed her phone immediately, a total of a dozen times before he gave up on the hope that she would answer. The texts he’d sent her remained unread all six days, though he couldn’t be sure if she’d simply turned off her read receipts. It wasn’t until her best friend Erica replied to him that he was even able to pin down that she’d gone home to Chicago. She’s at my place. She’s okay. That’s all I’m going to say. If and when she wants to talk to you, she’ll reach out. If and when? How could that even be an “if”? He couldn’t live with himself if the last words she’d heard from him were telling her to leave. Of course, in his newfound panic, he’d texted and called Erica numerous times, asking for any help she was willing to give. He was met with radio silence.

              Now, six days had passed and the ache of her absence was only growing stronger. Sharper. Every time he closed his eyes, all he saw was that broken look on her face as she walked out the door. The sound of the quaking in her voice, the soft rasp that revealed she’d been crying for quite some time, played on a constant loop in his mind. These thoughts worked themselves into such a fever pitch that suddenly, he needed any relief he could find. Grabbing his car keys, he figured a drive to Pickering might ease his nerves, bring him some much needed perspective. But as he pulled out of the parking garage and onto the streets of Toronto, he found himself heading southwest. Before he knew it, he was approaching the American flags signifying border control.