#I will be logging off to replay this until my eyes bleed

[sophielovesbarnes]

Longing

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Angst and a bit of smut

Request: Hiya 😊 I'd love to request something with Bucky please! When they held him captive at Hydra he saw another prisoner (the reader) but he was still in the WS mindset, like not really caring. But once he escaped he started to remember her and he goes back to save her because he felt somethingforher? If that makes any sense lol thank you so much in advance ❤

Author note: Hey! I’m so sorry this took so long, but here it is, i hope you enjoy it,let me know what you think.

Requests are open. 

It’s the fifth night in a row he gets woken up by the same nightmare. He is back in Hydra. He’s on the chair, and his nightmare is filled with screams. The thing is that the screams he listens to are not his, they are someone else’s. He recognizes the screams; he knows he has heard them before, every time he replays them in his mind the memory of y/e/c eyes and soft y/s/c skin floods his mind.

Suddenly he finds himself longing for someone he barely remembers, and it steals all his concentration, he can’t focus, he can’t eat, or sleep, or aim, and it is driving him crazy.

How can he feel something so intense for someone he doesn’t know? 

He goes to the kitchen because he knows for a fact that he won’t be able to get any more sleep, so he drinks, because he hopes that vodka will numb the way he feels his chest rips apart, leaving a bleeding hole behind.

He has to find her; she has got to be real.

“I’m starting to believe you don’t sleep man.” Sam takes the bottle from his hands and stares at him. “Isn’t it a bit early to drink?”

Bucky snatches the bottle back from his hands and gives him a death glare.

“Piss off, shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

“We could ask you the same thing.” Steve adds.

He hesitates but after a few moments he gets to the decision that speaking about it may make things better.

“Can’t sleep.” Steve sits next to him and looks at him with attention. “I keep having the same nightmare, I’m with Hydra and I hear a girl scream, they are torturing her and I can’t do anything about it, and I want to do something, I really do, but I can’t.”

“I just keep thinking about her...” He takes a sip straight from the bottle and then continues. “What if she is real? What if she is not a product of my mind?”

“I hear you man, but we have wiped out every single Hydra facility, there was no girl.” 

“Yeah, I know.” He puts the bottle down, and he rubs his face. “It’s just, she feels so real.”

“Then let’s look for her, maybe she escaped, I mean, you made it out, maybe she did as well.” Steve adds.

“How do we find her?” 

“Same way we found you, we look into their files, we ask around, we find a trail and find her, what do you know about her? Name, age, anything?”

“No, I don’t remember anything, I remember her face, her eyes, but no name.”

“We’ll find a way, Buck, we will.” 

***

Your name comes to his mind one night, and it hits him the same way that waves hit rocks in the open ocean, it drains all the air from his lungs and leaves him heaving desperately trying to recover himself from it.

Y/N Y/L/N.

It echoes in his mind, over and over, the gale of emotions hitting him over and over again mercilessly.

Y/N Y/L/N. 

Y/N Y/L/N.

He remembers your name, he remembers everything, he remembers how fiercely you fought every day, how you never gave up, he remembers your y/e/c eyes filled with fear every time they dragged you to the chair, he remembers how you looked at him, begging for help, he remembers how he did nothing and just stood there watching them torture you. 

He remembers everything, and he has got to find you.

He will find you. 

****

The hardest thing of being a runaway is not being able to have a home, the idea of having strings and a place to call home felt unreachable, every day you are haunted with the memory of soft blue eyes, torturing chairs and echoing screams.

You are filled with rage; they stole your home, your childhood, your innocence; Hydra took everything from you, and you were going to make them pay.

You are a mutant, with the ability to heal any wound and learn everything about any person with just touching them, that’s why they took you when you were only ten.

For years Hydra used your gifts to get information from their enemies and heal the Winter Soldier after his missions.

He was the one who took you away from your home; the Winter Soldier, but your hate has never been directed towards him, you knew his story, you knew they took as much from him as they took from you. 

For some reason you always felt attracted to him, like a magnetic force was calling you, as the years passed your attraction did nothing but grow; until he disappeared after the Triskelion incident, leaving you alone and heartbroken.  

And you stayed there, until the base where you were being held captive was attacked, giving you the chance of escaping, while everyone; including the Maximoff twins, were too busy defending the base you were able to take down the few guards that stayed behind and finally find your freedom. 

It was easy to find your way out of Sokovia, and after that you never stopped running, not even when the Earth was attacked by aliens again, not even when half of the world was turned to dust. 

But then one day people started to come back, families were reunited and the earth seemed to go back to normal, which meant that the last bits of Hydra that were scattered around the world were back as well. 

So you went back to running, changing looks, country and identity every couple months, that seemed to become a routine until one day you saw him on TV, the White Wolf, the companion of the new Captain America, Sam Wilson.

It was him.

The Winter Soldier. 

So he made it out, he is free now, and the fact that he was willing to show himself on open TV meant one thing and one thing only, every single last bit of Hydra was taken down and he had broken down their programming, gaining himself back.

You grabbed your backpack and filled it with the few things you had, getting ready to leave yet another city, you throw the bag over your shoulders and leave the tiny apartment with a mission on your mind.

You had to find James Buchanan Barnes.

***

Since he remembered your name he hasn’t been able to take you out of his mind; out of the sudden he finds himself drowning in your memory, kind eyes, soft skin and plump lips, one day it hits him.

He is in love with you.

He is desperately and irrevocably in love with a woman he barely remembers; he is in love with a ghost and he is willing to do anything to find you.

All they have been able to find is a file, left behind on a Hydra base, there isn’t much, just a log of your reaction to the chair and a picture of you, that he cherishes as his most valuable possession. Every single system Stark owns is now programmed to locate you, Stark created an algorithm (whatever that is) that is supposed to catch any move you make. 

When that happened he would get alerted of your location and finally he would be able to find you.

He was scared of course. 

After all, he was the one who kidnapped you, he stood there watching them torture you, he abandoned Hydra without ever doing anything to rescue you.

So with all of that, what if you hated him? 

Of course you would be entitled to do so, but he knew he wouldn’t stand the hate in your eyes; so he makes a decision, when they find you he won’t do anything to approach you, he just wants to know that you are alive, safe and sound, that will be enough.

“You know that staring at the screen won’t make it work faster, right?” His train of thought is interrupted by the voice of his best friend, he gives a huff in response without taking his eyes away from the monitor. “When was the last time you slept?”

“I don’t know, Tuesday?” He answers absentmindedly.

“Buck, it’s Friday, you have got to stop, this isn’t healthy.”

“I have to find her Steve, I hurt her so bad, and I just need to make sure she's fine.”

“We don’t even know if she is still…”

“If she is still what? Say it Steve.”

“We don’t even know if she is still alive, you were in Hydra for 70 years Bucky, for all we know she could be long gone.” 

“Until the opposite is proven, she is alive, I know she is, I can feel it.”

“Okay Buck.” Steve says softly. “We’ll keep looking.” 

“Captain Rogers.” Announces a robotic voice that Bucky has learnt to identify as F.R.I.D.A.Y. “Thor, Bruce and the Maximoff twins are back from their mission.”  

“Thank you F.R.I.D.A.Y. any updates on the search?”

“Nothing yet, I will inform you as soon as there is a match.” 

Bucky barely registers the interaction, he is lost in your eyes, they scanned the picture and it is now displayed on real size on the screen, he longs to touch you, to trace your soft cheeks and to join his lips with yours. 

“That’s Y/N.” That single comment snaps him out of his train of thought, he turns around and sees Wanda standing on the door. “Why are you looking for her?” 

“Wait, you know her?” He jumps out of the chair and goes to her. “Wanda?

“Yeah I do, she was kept on the Sokovia base with us, she used to heal us after Hydra’s experiments.” Wanda replies. “She was the only kind person in there.”

“How long ago was that?” 

“I’m not sure, but she was still there when Steve and the rest of the team took down the base.”

“Steve?” He asks, with desperation in his voice. 

“We checked the base Buck, she wasn’t there.” 

“Are you sure, maybe they took her with them?” His heart is racing so fast he feels it might escape his chest. “Maybe she was still there and you didn’t see her?” 

“There was no one there Buck, I promise, but this is good, it gives us a place to start.” 

“We have to go there, there might be a clue or something that can lead us to her.”

“Let’s go then.” 

Fifteen minutes later he is in the Quinjet, together with Sam, Steve, the twins and Natasha. He can barely breath and he is so nervous he feels he might throw up, this is the first real clue they have, and even though he is trying to stay positive his mind can’t help but wander around the worst case scenario. 

You could be dead.

He shoves the thought away and takes a deep breath. 

Soon he will see you. 

***

After a lot of meditation you make a decision you are probably going to regret.

You are going to the Avengers compound.

It’s the first place that comes to your mind, if James is working with Captain America again he has got to be there, or at least a clue of him.

It’s a risk of course, you know for a fact that they have very tight security protocols, especially after Thanos’ attack, number two, they probably relate you as an Hydra agent and it can be troublesome to prove the opposite.

You know that it’s your best shot to find him, even if you are not sure if he wants to see you.

But right now your main concern was getting there, without a passport or any kind of document to prove your identity there was no way you could get out of the country, leaving Sokovia wasn’t hard, you had left during the raid and hotwired a car, you spent the next few years traveling from one place to other, eventually your path lead you to Spain, once you were there it became easy to blend in.

But getting out of Spain was a complete different issue. 

First things first, you had to get documents, you also had to plan your escape in a way that went unnoticed by Hydra or any other organization that had you as a target. With the Sokovia Accords the mere fact of being a mutant became a dangerous situation. 

Getting the documents wouldn’t be so hard, you knew that Rodrigo; a habitual customer of the coffee shop you worked on, who later became one of your only friends; had a money laundry business, and that he was well connected with people that could make excellent forgeries, the tricky part would be getting him to trust you enough to tell you. 

But he was the only person you knew that might have that kind of connection, so you had to take the risk. 

So the next day you go to work determined to talk to him, at ten o’clock in the morning he crosses the door and orders his usual cappuccino and a spanish ham tapa. 

“Okay Y/N, it’s now or never.” You whisper to yourself and put a fake smile on your face. 

“Buenos días Rodrigo.” Good morning Rodrigo. You ask with an almost perfect spanish accent.

“Hola Lidia, ¿como estais?” Good morning Lidia, how are you? Lidia was the name you had chosen as an alias, and it was still hard to get used to it.

“No tan bien, he tenido algunos problemas.”  Not so well, I have a problem.

“Lamento mucho oír eso, sabéis que podes contar conmigo para lo que sea.” I’m sorry to hear that, you know you can count on me for anything. 

“De hecho, eso quería hablar contigo, quería pedirte un favor.” Actually, I wanted to talk about it with you.  You sit on the chair in front of him and sigh.

“Lo que sea.” Anything 

“Necesito salir del país, mi abuela se encuentra muy mal.” I need to get out of the country, my grandma is very sick

“¿Necesitas dinero?” Do you need money?

“No, no es eso.” No, it’s not that.

“¿Entonces?” Then?

“Lo que sucede es que no tengo papeles, ni pasaporte, ni visa, ni nada, todo lo he perdido cuando salí de Sokovia.” The thing is that I have no papers, no passport, or visa, or anything, I lost everything when I left Sokovia. His face hardens and he looks away. “¿Conocéis a alguien que pueda ayudarme?” Do you know anyone who can help me?

“No se que te hace pensar que tengo ese tipo de contactos Lidia.” I don’t know what makes you believe I have that kind of connection Lidia. He says with annoyance.

“Por favor Rodrigo, te lo ruego, te juro que no se lo diré a nadie.” Please Rodrigo, I swear I won’t tell anyone.  You beg, he takes his keys and stands up. “Por favor.” Please

“Busca a Gary Rydell, estará en España por poco tiempo, se hospeda en el Royal Hideaway, si alguien puede ayudarte es él, decidle que vais de mi parte.” Find Gary Rydell, he will be in Spain for a couple days, he is staying at the Royal Hideaway if anyone can help you is him, tell him I sent you.

“Gracias Rodrigo.” Thank you Rodrigo.

“¿Y Lidia?” And Lidia?

“¿Si?” Yes?

“Ni una palabra de esto con nadie.” Not a single word of this to anyone. He takes the last sip of his cappuccino and leaves.

That very same day you are at the hotel he indicated, based on his memories Gary Rydell was a tall white man with the bluest eyes you had ever seen, you recognize him walking by the side of the pool, you decide that a straight approach is your best option, you walk towards him and he smiles. 

“Well hello.”

“Hi.” You smile back and run your fingers through your hair. “You are Gary Rydell.”

“That I am, you seem to know my name but I don’t know yours.”

“Lidia Aguilar.”

“Lidia, can I buy you a drink?”

“Sure.” You both go to the bar and order straight scotch for both of you.

“So, Lidia, what can I do for you?.”

“I have a problem, Rodrigo Ballesteros said that you are the right man to help me.”

“Straight to business, I like it, how can I help you?”

 “I need to go to the United States, but I don’t have any paperwork, let’s just say that Lidia is just a couple of years old.”

He takes a sip from his glass and gives you a coy smile.

“What you are asking for can be tricky to get, you need an American passport and ID and those aren’t easy to get.”

“I am ready to pay anything it takes.”

“It would be ten grand.”

“Dollars?”

“Euros baby girl.” He corrects, you knew it would be expensive, but thanks to an Hydra account you had managed to hack, money wouldn’t be an issue. 

“Alright, you got it.”

“But I’m afraid we might need to kill Lidia, it’s easier to get what you want with a name that already exists.” 

“Okay, that’s fine.” 

“Very good Lidia, we have a deal.”

Two weeks later you have assumed a new identity, Gary managed to get one that had your real name, you are now Y/N Talbot, a Californian girl that spent the last few years traveling. You have a one way plane ticket to New York. 

****

The trip to Sokovia ended up being useless, there was no trail of you.

Wanda had managed to find the cage where you were kept in, there was a chair, similar to the one they used on him, the cell was made of three concrete walls and a glass one to keep you monitored. 

Being this close to Hydra made him want to throw up.

The worst part was that he had hit yet another dead end, he was back to square one. 

On the way back to New York, Bucky stays silent, even with Steve’s and Sam’s effort to cheer him up and make him speak. 

When they get to the compound he goes straight to the room where they had all the monitors and a glass board where he had pinned all the clues they had on you and starts to take it all down.

“Buck, what are you doing?” Steve asks with concern.

“This is pointless, we will never find her!” He knocks the board down and it shatters when it touches the floor. 

“You can’t give up.”

“We have been trying to find her for almost six months and we have nothing! We are as close to her as we were at the beginning!”

“Sergeant Barnes.” Says a robotic voice. “There is a match on Y/N Y/L/N.”

“What? Where?” Then an image is displayed on the screen. 

And it’s like he can breathe for the first time in years, you are alive, safe and sound, and more beautiful than he remembered, his memories never did justice to the real you.

He is so excited to see you, that it takes him a while to realize where you are. 

You are on the entrance of the compound. 

****

When you see him a part of you it’s brought back to life, like the final piece of the puzzle finally fell to place. 

He walks slowly towards you, like he is afraid of something. 

You close the distance and look him in the eyes, and then you know it. That you love him and you would do anything for him.

“It’s you.” 

Author note: I hope you guys liked it, let me know if you want a part two 

[scorchviox]

Your Touch [ShigarakixOC]: Chapter 5

Chapter Index

“Why would you do that?” Quivered her voice.

   Shigaraki stared back at her and tilted his head, “Huh?” He genuinely didn’t know what she was on about.

   With eyes closed, she let out a sigh to settle her nerves. All while she chanted a small encouraging mantra to herself, Shigaraki stared at her. When a quick response wasn’t given he always seemed to reach a point of anger, but such an emotion didn’t reach him this time around. Watching Souseiki try to calm herself seemed to bring him a slice of peace. It was oddly satisfying watching the girl try to ease herself into a more halcyon state of mind. Finally, she opened her eyes, a determined shine reflecting in them this time. “Why would you go to the trouble of making people believe I’m dead?” She asked as if it was something she had been reciting in her head this entire time.

   The tranquil atmosphere that held him mere seconds ago vanished into thin air when those words were spoken. A confused expression now darkened his face. “You don’t like your family,” he deadpanned. This was a known fact to him. Souseiki Yabe had an account under the handle QuirklessLeech on a website dedicated to posting rants and anonymously leaving secrets. The majority of her posts were about her mother’s nagging, her father’s lack of presence and parental guidance, then her brothers’ narcissistic personalities. Wouldn’t she want to get away from such a household?

   Souseiki’s features stiffened, her eyes ran over his face, then his eyes as if she were in search of a telltale. Surely he had to be joking with her. What she questioned most of all was his source, but at the moment that didn’t much matter. “Shigaraki,” the addressed male stiffened at the sound of his name, “People hate things!” She said a little louder as she threw her hands in the air exasperated. “I hate school, but I’m not going to blow up the entire building. I hate the way my friends’ chew their food with their mouths open, but I’m not going to rip their jaws out.” She said in one quick breath. Souseiki took another deep breath afterward to calm down, “My parents are too much and my brothers are the crowned kings of assholes, but I love the-“

   “Is that why you wrote: “Fuck, my dad’s such a self-absorbed sack of shit. I get it you’re a fucking spandex-wearing hero with an entire tree trunk stuck up your ass. That’s no reason to attack every single thing you see me do. It would be so satisfying to rip his vocal-chords out and strangle him with them.” Doesn’t sound very loving of you,” spoke Kurogiri with a phone in one hand.

   Shigaraki felt laughter shake his body, but didn’t let it surface as he watched those soft brown eyes turn into the size of flying saucers. His red ones then gazed at the way she opened and closed her mouth. Small, incoherent words started, then stopped themselves from continuing. It reminded him of pausing and unpausing a video game really fast. He watched on and soon a grin was tugging at his lips as he finally heard her find some words, “That wasn’t me!”

   Kurogiri cleared his throat and read out loud the following post, “Stop stop stop breathing. For Christ’s sake, drop dead right now. Why wasn’t I born with a quirk that could make that happen right now? I loathe this bitch.” The misty figure looked up and stared into those wide eyes, “That was posted the next day.”

   “I’m starting to like this,” mused Shigaraki as he rested his head on the back of his hand. The grin widening as he looked to Souseiki with such dark eyes. “That hatred really does run deep,” he cooed.

   “You’re making something out of nothing. Those aren’t even mine.” She said with her nose held high, but such faux confidence never reached her eyes.

   Kurogiri held up the cellphone to reveal to Souseiki that it was, in fact, hers and had the webpage pulled up with her account already logged in. “It wasn’t actually lost in the accident,” he said teasingly.

   Souseiki’s hands quickly became clammy as she looked to the floor in shame, “Okay, obviously that's me, but I’m…if you see they’re not too crazy often.”

   “Just every day. Maybe eighteen hours between each,” Kurogiri pointed out.

   “Let me finish,” she huffed with narrowed eyes, “I’ve obviously never acted out on such emotions,” She tried reasoning with the two, but even though the information reached their ears they didn’t believe she wouldn’t act on the emotions eventually. All she needed was to merely find the courage to do such a thing. It was like sucking up all your courage to confess to a crush. This was no different than that.

   Shigaraki sat up straight, “You can go then,” he said. The smile remained and his voice did not waver. This was him giving her permission to do as she wanted. “Souseiki, you aren’t a prisoner,”

   The room filled with silence as the two stared at one another. “I’m not?” She blurted. In response, Shigaraki nodded. “What do I tell everyone?”

   Maybe asking for advice from the two wasn’t the greatest idea, “You’re good at not talking,” said the blue-haired teen. “There’s the door,” he said as he turned his back to her.

   Souseiki nodded and turned on her heel towards the door. While on the way she yanked a jacket off the coat hanger and walked out. “Souseiki took your jacket.” Kurogiri said the second the door shut, “Should I-?”

   “She’ll be back,” he replied as he caressed a clean glass before him.

   Down the block, Souseiki clung the jacket tighter to her body with every gust of wind that hit her. The night was cold and stung at her bruised skin as she walked along. The unfortunate really was the fact that she had no idea where in the city she was. Souseiki had half a mind to turn tail and ask for her phone back, or the very least directions, but what little pride she had left amongst her embarrassment would not allow her to do so. The brunette sucked teeth annoyed that those two had gotten to her phone.

   No.

   She was infuriated that she never thought to log out of that webpage. What if an actual hero had come to her rescue and her phone went into an evidence locker to be looked into. Her life would then surely be over if such confessions came to light.

   While lost in her own little world, she failed to realize that she had stumbled upon a main road until she bumped into another body. “Watch your step, kid,” Sneered an older woman without giving her a second glance.

   “Bitch,” Souseiki replied under her breath. There was something about adults that made her irritated. Maybe it was the way their voice took a condescending tone when they spoke to her, or maybe it was the way they held themselves with such pride just because they had a few wrinkles around their eyes. Even if this hatred existed, she had to suck it up at the moment, “Sorry, but do you know where the Musutafu Shopping Center is?” Souseiki asked bittersweetly.    

   She was sure a response would be given, but the one she received was far from expected, “Do I look like a GPS? Look it up, brat,” snapped the woman once more before continuing her walk.

   “An actual bitch,” Souseiki muttered to herself again. With no sense of where she was going, she decided to walk along the main road I hoped of finding a place she recognized. Even a hero would be great, so she could get some actual directions.

   Half an hour went by and she finally reached the center of town. With the luck of the unfortunate, Souseiki trudged through the shopping center with sore feet. There was still yellow tape surrounding the corner of the center that was a one-sided battle. The rumble hadn’t been cleaned up yet, but knowing the heroes like Cementoss and her father they would be on it the second they had clearing from the police department. Her father was always one to follow rules at work, but when it came to at home problems he was an entire one-man riot. God forbid she did not respond within a second of his calling or when asked to do something. He and her mother were a complete tag team. When she didn’t get her way dad would step in and assert both of their authority. The two ran the household their way and anything but was defying them.

   Souseiki remembers that she once asked to go to a party and was rejected. This prompted her to sneak out, but once home she got a harsh scolding from her mother, but it didn’t end there. The next day her father took her out on a hike. On a deserted peak, he forced her to train, but all he did was maneuver the Earth so she would fall in deep pits. Souseiki then arrived home with bruised and bleeding limbs.

   Such a punishment only happened once, yet it was imbedded into her memory and burned into her soul. Now her body was in the same state and it was all because of her spandex-wearing father. What a wonderful life.

   From the shopping center on the walk was an entire breeze. She knew every corner from then on. When she finally reached her home she let out a sigh of relief. The lights were still on and she could hear the muffled noise from the television screen. Souseiki walked closer and peeked through the window to see if her mother was awake. By the grace of God, the woman was still up and kicking with the entire family beside her. They all intently watched the television screen. It was a replay of her mother arriving at the scene and her two brother’s running up to her as reporters followed.

   The room was quiet until they zoomed in on Mrs. Yabe, “Did you see that? They got a really good angle of my face there,” she remarked.

   One of her brothers, Seiichi, nodded and shifted his gaze to the oldest male in the room, “Do you think this will give us publicity?”

   Souseiki’s jaw tightened in disbelief, “What the actual fuck?” She hissed quietly as she heard the conversation continue.

   “Any publicity is good, son. Souseiki seems to have finally done right by us,” announced Hero Flux as he stood up. Seeing this, Souseiki quickly ducked under the window and sat on the grass breathing hard. “We’ll be in the limelight for as long as this investigation goes. Don’t bring shame to your names, your agency, or your family.”

   Her eldest brother, Yuu, replied with a strong, “Yes sir.”

   Their chatter soon died down and Souseiki stayed on the ground. Her teeth grinding against one another out of pure anger. If she hated her family before she loathed them now.

Next

[dastardlydutchvanderlinde]

Hosea. Dutch. Gayness. Angst. Pls ❤️

I love you for sending this. This is based on a video I saw @vandermatthews reblogged https://vandermatthews.tumblr.com/post/180245422063

“Next time I’ll slit your throat myself.”

The venom in Hosea’s voice wasn’t something that was heard often insidecamp. Everyone forgot sometimes that this was the man who had first ran withDutch, the only man with the backbone to reign him in. It made sense there wasdarkness to Hosea, but Arthur had never really gotten used to seeing it. 

Sean stuttered. He was the one holding the rifle but there was noquestion over who would wind up bleeding out if it came to it. 

Hosea snarled as he released Sean, pushing the man almost off his feet.He starts to march away, only to spot Arthur, “He’s useless that big sack ofturd.”

“Mhm, I know that.” Arthur responds, mostly because if he didn’t agreewith Hosea that anger would be taken out on him. 

Sean staggers, finding his footing. “I’m- I’m- I’m sorry!” He callsafter Hosea, but the man has already stormed away. 

“Wouldn’t waste your breath.” Arthur says, adjusting in his saddle. “Youand him ain’t ever gonna be friends.”

“What I ever do to him eh?” Sean says, straightening out his shirt sleeves. 

Arthur chuckled. “It ain’t what you did to him.” 

Sean look at him, exasperated. “Now what the fuck’s that supposed tomean?”

Hosea liked everyone in camp well enough, but Sean? There was asignificant frostiness there. There was also one detail about Sean thateveryone else in the camp lacked. 

“You tried to kill Dutch, idiot.” Arthur says, like it’s the mostobvious thing in the world. 

Sean throws his hands up in the air. “Aye, and the bloody bastardforgave me not ten seconds later! Come on Arthur, I’m not the only person herewho’s had a go am I?”

Arthur shrugs. “Guess you could count Kieran as an O’Driscoll, but thenthat still ain’t Dutch specifically. They want to kill us all.” 

“God damn it. Why’s Hosea all up in arms about it still anyway, that wasages ago! All in the past!” Sean says, kicking at the dust. 

There was a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why Hosea still heldthat particular grudge, but if Sean was too dense to see it Arthur wasn’t goingto open his eyes. “Clearly Hosea don’t see it like that.” 

Sean snorts. “Clearly.”

Arthur sighs, gently pushing his horse to move. He had actually been onhis way out. “Look, if I were you I’d give him a wide berth. Just don’t speakto him if you can help it. In fact, just don’t speak.”

“Very funny Arthur, you’re a funny guy!” Sean grumbled. “Where you offto anyway?”

“No business of yours.” Arthur shouts over his shoulder, disappearinginto the night. 

Sean sits himself back down on the tree, vowing to stay awake this time.The camp is fairly quiet, especially now everyone had heard Hosea’s outburst.He’d headed off towards the partially hidden scout campfire and by the soundsof it the rest of the camp had gone in the opposite direction. 

 Lenny had been sat in the quiet of the scout campfire, but one quicklook at Hosea approaching had him standing within seconds. 

“You okay?” Lenny asks the older man, shoving his pack of cards backinto his pocket. 

Hosea waved a hand. “Sure. I just, need a minute.” 

Lenny hesitated, but he’d been within earshot of the little incidentwith Sean. “You… you sounded pretty pissed back there.” 

Hosea sighs heavily, taking a seat by the fire on one of the logs.“Well, I can’t say I was happy to find that shit stain asleep on watch.”

“Went off on him like he’d killed the dog.” Lenny says, and he doesn’trealise how close his made up scenario was to the real reason behind Hosea’shatred. 

It takes every ounce of his self control not to react with violence tothe simple conversation. Lenny didn’t know, he was just trying to be nice toHosea. 

Visibly biting his tongue, Hosea tilts his head down to stare at theflames. “If you don’t mind, Lenny. I’d rather be alone.”

Lenny is backing up before the request has even finished leaving hislips. He knew you didn’t poke an angry snake with a stick if you didn’t want toget bitten. “Of course, Mr Matthews. I’ll keep everyone away for you.” 

“Thanks Lenny. You’re a good kid.” Hosea said, the tiredness he feltseeping into his voice.

Lenny disappeared, heading for the safety of camp.

Hosea had half an hour before his peace was disturbed, and half an hourwas not long enough to cool off.

 The footsteps are ones he knows well, which was the only reason Hosea didn’tthrow anything at the approaching man. 

“Lenny said you were out here.” Dutch breaks the silence, standingacross the other side of the fire. 

Hosea always liked looking at Dutch in orange light, but he can’t lookat him now. If he looked at him now he’d be marching back to where Sean was nodoubt asleep again and shooting the kid without hesitation. 

When Hosea doesn’t respond or look at him, Dutch starts to move,circling around the fire until he was behind his oldest friend.

“Will you ever forgive that poor boy?” Dutch teases, standing too closebehind him. 

Hosea sighs heavily, not in the mood for taking that particularsituation in any lighthearted manner. Dutch never took his dislike for Seanseriously. He wasn’t sure if it was to try and diffuse Hosea’s hatred or if hegenuinely didn’t think it was a big deal but it did nothing to sooth the venomin Hosea’s veins. He considered humouring the question and answering, but itwasn’t something that came easily to him. Forgiveness sure, he could forgive alot, but forgetting? Hosea would never forget how damn close he had been tolosing Dutch forever. 

There’s a weight on his shoulder, and Hosea shifts until his back ispressed against Dutch. Dutch kneads his fingers along tense muscles, his thumbtracing a line up Hosea’s neck. He starts on both shoulders, and Hosea suddenlyfinds himself relaxing, all the tension being eased away. 

“He was just a kid, Hosea. No harm, no foul.” Dutch mutters, nevertaking his eyes off the man in front of him. He should be keeping a look outfor any nosey camp members, but after the chewing out Sean got and with Lennyacting as a warning, he doubts anyone would try to get within sight ofHosea. 

“Not the point, Dutch.” Hosea says, and he tilts his head back, restingagainst the solid warmth Dutch’s body provided. He didn’t need the reminderthat Dutch was alive and well, but… well. Maybe he did. 

Every time he looked at Sean all Hosea could see was the barrel of arifle pressed against Dutch’s temple. He’ll never be able to wipe the coldfeeling that had exploded into his chest, the way time had stood still as Dutchmet his eyes and Hosea had known he was saying goodbye. That he had wanted hislast moments to be with Hosea. 

He’d never not see that when he looked at Sean. 

“He nearly killed you.” Hosea whispered to the fire burning in front ofhim, unsure if Dutch would even hear him. 

The hands rubbing at his shoulders disappear, and then Dutch is in frontof him, kneeling in the dirt so they were eye to eye. 

“Look at me.” Dutch demanded, and even on his knees he was always theone to be obeyed. Hosea lifts his head, meeting Dutch’s gaze.

He moves a hand, grasping Hosea’s jaw to make sure he wouldn’t lookaway. “He didn’t kill me. I’m still here. We’re okay. We are all gonna beokay.”

“I can’t just forget it, Dutch. When you-“ Hosea cuts himself off,clenching his jaw in Dutch’s grip. 

Dutch sighs, and his hand slips around to the back of Hosea’s neck,pulling them in close. “I know. It’s just, folk notice things now. The biggerthe gang gets the more observant they become. Please, please make an effort tobe civil with Sean. I ain’t asking for you to like him, or pretend to.”

Easier said than done. Hosea can’t control the rage that burns up insidehim when he comes into contact with the idiot. “I’ll do my best to avoid him.That’s all I can promise.”

Dutch just smiles and stares at him. It’s the kind of look that isusually reserved for when they’re totally alone, the open affection the man haswritten across his expression is something that could easily get them bothkilled. 

“That’s all I ask.” Dutch says, stroking at the soft hair at the back ofHosea’s neck. 

Usually he’d jump through hoops trying to do what Dutch asked, but thistime, this time Hosea wasn’t sure if it was a request he could abide by.

Dutch nods, and starts to let go of Hosea to back up out of his space.

Hosea snaps a hand out, his fingers closing around Dutch’s wrist andstopping him from pulling away. 

There’s silence for a moment, the pair of them unwilling to pullapart. 

“I can’t-“ Hosea breaks off, taking a deep shuddering breath. It kept replayingthrough his head. He could picture it like it was happening now. The smell ofsawdust and freshly cut wood, money bags heavy on his shoulder, Dutch’s handsfrozen halfway up and his rings glinting in the sunlight. The barrel of the gunleft an indent against his skin, red and angry. Hosea can still see the fear inDutch’s eyes, and he can still imagine what it would have been like if Sean hadpulled the trigger. 

Dutch is waiting for him to finish, patiently rubbing gentle circlesagainst his thigh with the hand that wasn’t threaded through Hosea’s hair.

“I can’t stop seeing it. You, and the gun, and I knew Dutch. I knew youthought you were never gonna see me again.” Hosea whispers to the dark. 

“Stay with me tonight.” Dutch says softly.

Hosea realises they’re so close now that he can feel Dutch’s breath, andhe can’t bring himself to pull away. 

“We can’t.” Hosea hates it, but they can’t. The camp was too quiet, tooclose. They couldn’t risk it. 

Dutch doesn’t see it that way. “To hell with everyone. Stay withme.” 

Hosea knows he should refuse, but even as the words start to form in hismind, the second Dutch’s lips touch his he knows it’s a lost argument. 

Dutch kisses like his life depends on it, intense and needy, and he cannever keep his hands to himself. Before Hosea knows it they’re pressed chest tochest, with Dutch still kneeling between Hosea’s legs. If anyone saw them therewould be no way to explain it. But, with that empty look of fear on Dutch’sface still present in Hosea’s mind, he can’t stop. 

“You’d best never leave me.” Hosea growls as they break apart, clingingto Dutch’s waistcoat in a bid to make sure they didn’t topple off the log. 

Dutch smiles, and he trails kisses along Hosea’s jaw, down his throat.“I’ll try make sure you go first, old man.” 

Hosea chuckles, and he lets Dutch nip at his skin. “It’s a deal.” 

Dutch laughs, pulling back. “Glad that’s settled. Now, come with me so Ican show you how alive we both are.” 

That was a request Hosea had no intentions of refusing. 

[samiam-night]

MariChat May Day5: Captain’s Log (The Baton)

Okay, so I haven’t written fanfiction in a while. A LONG WHILE. And I’ve been sucked into reading Miraculous Fanfic since January, which means I’ve been holding out. So bear with me okay? For @baneismydragon  ‘s MariChat May Collab

________________

Marinette steeples her fingers as she leans across her desk, keeping her gaze stolidly forward as to not stare at the object just inches from her elbows. Her fingers rest at eye height causing her to focus on how light plays on her fingers, the translucency of skin and how she can probably play around dyeing fabric to simulate the watercolor-esque beauty of light and life. Alya would look perfect in the dress, Marinette adds, anything to keep her gaze from slipping. Anything to keep her mind from drifting to…

Chat.

 Ugh. It’s too late now; Marinette should just embrace it like Tikki said. She feels Tikki’s worried buzz a foot or so away, taking slow, quiet bites from her plate of cookies to give her some peace.  It’s not working.

 She leans forward, cupping her face in her hands and lets out a muffled groan.

 “Can my yo-yo do this?” She breathes, jerking back as she grabs hold of Chat’s baton. In. Out. In. Out. She has to remind herself to keep breathing; otherwise, she’ll panic, then things will spiral out of control and turn into a mess.

 “Of course!” Tikki chirps. “But it’s not like you need it. You already keep a diary with a lock of your own creation! You don’t need magic to keep your secrets safe.” She beams proudly at Marinette, and her charge tries to get a sense of relief.

 “But why does Chat have one?” The question is damning for Marinette. When she hears the words escape her voice, she feels the sob clawing at her throat, she hates the threat and demand that tightens her vocal chords. The sound of it scares her, so she tries to play it off with a laugh. “I mean, what dumb boy keeps a diary?”

 “Not all Chat Noir’s keep a diary, Marinette, but it’s asked that they do.” Tikki sets aside her cookie and floats to Marinette’s side. She sits just on top of the computer, forcing the young hero to lift her gaze.

 “Why?” Marinette asks again, gripping the metal too tight, her gaze once again fixed on the glowing paw.

 “Because he’s Chat Noir,” Tikki says as if that should explain it all.

 “And they only do as they’re told?” Marinette is on her feet, kicking back her chair and glaring at Tikki. “Or because he’s bad luck and – and – and all he can do is ju-just wait for something bad to happen to him?”

 Tikki cocks her head to the side, staring at Marinette with a vague curiosity. The hero knows this look; it’s the look Tikki gives when she’s about to throw out some ancient god history-information-whatever that Marinette should have known the moment she put on the earrings.

 “Where do you think your luck comes from?” Tikki asks, folding her arms across her lap. It’s a calm question, one that lines itself with a quiet threat as if to say, ‘do not blame this on me.’

 “You give it.” Marinette waves one hand. “I have it.” She waves the other. “I don’t know!”

 “There’s a reason Chat Noir and Ladybug fight side by side together. They are a balance of creation and destruction, good luck and bad, give and take. You are equals in that sense. You both take what is given. Chat Noir’s gladly give their luck to those who need it more. They willingly take the bad because they believe in their hearts their purpose is to weather the pain. Ladybugs take luck in whatever form it comes in and throw away the bad because they know their luck will help others. Ladybugs are all about helping others.” Tikki soothes as if knowing this is supposed to be a comfort.

 “How do I stop it?” Marinette asks. “I don’t want him taking it from me. We’re a team; we have an equal luck of each kind.”

 “It doesn’t work that way, Marinette.”

 “Then how does it work?” She snaps, throwing her arms out wildly. The baton slips from her hand and clatters to the ground. It pops open, showing a green screen with a list of numbers and time stamps.

 “Whoah! What’s this?” Marinette freezes, hearing Chat Noir’s voice comes from the baton now rolling under her chaise. “Star Date–no–Captain's Log…”

 She dives for it, skidding on her rug. She hears his recorded laugh and finds the wind knocked out of her. She no longer has the strength to move.

 “Okay, okay,” He chuckles some minutes later, causing her breath to hitch. “Log three. And I want to say this super important thing before I forget: My Lady made a pun. Not just any pun. She managed three puns in a single sentence! That’s practically im-paw-sible!” He laughs. “I think she’s warming up to this cat. I can see it meow, Chat Noir and Ladybug getting married under the Eiffel Tower!”

 “Sap.” Marinette glares at the floor, curling into herself. She knows, in the beginning, the logs are short. They’re mere seconds and glimpses of moments long forgotten. She knows there are hundreds of entries in his baton and most of them are locked. She suspects those recordings have mentions of his civilian life. She wants to know more about him, but there’s a reason Chat Noir’s locked the file. There’s a reason why her diary is sealed in its box right now.

 “Dear Diary,” Chat Noir says with a lovesick sigh. Marinette’s lip twitches into a scowl. She’s listened to this recording half a dozen times. “I’ve teamed up with Marinette again today and let’s just say; she’s a very bad actress. Or good, depending on how you see it.” He laughs. “So get this, she’s been acting. ACTING like she thinks I’m this super grand hero–which by the way, I am, no need to tell you that–and it’s kind of a bummer, really. Sure, I have fans, but the first few times I partnered with Marinette, she seemed to be my fan. Not ‘oh I love Ladybug and Chat Noir but mostly Ladybug!’ It was about me.”

 He sighs before forcing out a laugh. “And yeah I know, it sounds narcissistic that I was excited over a fan that liked me more than Ladybug but you have to understand: Marinette doesn’t really talk to me. Not in civilian form. I’m worried she might hate me. In my normal life, she gives away her time and attention like it doesn’t cost her anything like she has all of it and then some to spare. And-“ He laughs again. “I know she doesn’t. She’s always running late for things or caught up in an Akuma attack or doing this or that. But when she’s with someone she’s there, nothing can make her move. And sure she talks about Ladybug but only when her friend Alya forces the issue. She’ll talk about me in a heartbeat.

 “So I was glad, thinking she was mine. My-my fan, I mean. It turns out; she’s an Adrien fan. A BIG Adrien fan. I saw the hearts doodled on the posters.” Marinette can imagine his Cheshire grin and wants to smack it off his face. “She has no room for a poor stray like me.” He swoons. “Anyway, she dropped the act the moment I commented on her doodles. Who knew Marinette could be so sassy?” He laughs. “She reminds me a bit of My Lady with that attitude. I kind of like honest Marinette but I might ask her to pretend to be my fan, her swooning needs a bit of work.” He cackles before the recording abruptly moves to the next file.

 Heavy breathing. Marinette grips the short fibers of her rug as tight as possible between his fingers. Chat curses from somewhere beneath her chaise. “Ah-“ He hisses. “Crap. No, wait, I shouldn’t curse but damn this stings.” He heaves a heavy breath. “I thought the magic prevents us from getting hurt. I thought this suit was practically bomb proof.” He hisses. Marinette can hear the sound of his baton sticking to rooftops and extending. He curses again. “Dad’s going to kill me. My Lady’s going to kill me. I shouldn’t have tried to do this on my own.” He whimpers.

 The baton hits something metal; then there’s a grunt and crash, the tinkling of pottery breaking as Chat groans and hisses. “Ow.” He repeats over and over.

 “Who’s there?” Marinette squeezes her eyes tight as she hears herself on the recording. “Chat?” She hesitates. “Chat!” Marinette can remember that night. Chat had been clutching his side “Oh my god, you’re bleeding. I thought the magic–”

 “So did I.” Chat wheezed. Marinette remembers that day so many months ago. She pulled him through the trapdoor and resting him on her bed that he got blood all over her sheets, which she later explained as a ‘time of the month’ mishap to her maman. She bandaged him, brought him food and water and let him rest in her bed. She sat at the foot of it for the longest time, just watching over his pained sleeping form.

 The following recordings are a series of highs and lows. There are moments he’s never been happier to be Chat Noir and moments he’s injured in some shape or form, crawling to her house.

 “I’m not a real doctor you know.” She hears herself grumble in one of the recordings. It’s her only real complaint when he comes needing a field dressing; she can’t give him the proper care he needs.

 “You’re purrfect, Princess. I’ll be the Cat’s Meow come morning; I just need a little glue holding me together until then.” Chat hums.

 The next recording starts out quiet. Marinette knows it’s been months since his first injury and this one. If she strains her ears, she can hear the chatter of the streets and honking of cars below. She thinks she can hear Chat breathe. “Okay,” He says in a breath followed by the awkward scrambling sound of his baton being moved. There’s an ache in his voice, something painful that draws out the words slowly. “Tonight’s been,” He hesitates, “full of discoveries. I just found out some news from Plagg and something else.

 “I guess I’ll start with the easiest bit: I like Marinette.” Marinette’s breath hitches in her throat again; she’s replayed this part too many times to count. “And I still love Ladybug. That’s complicated,” He scoffs, “all of this is complicated. She’s pretty, beautiful even, did I ever tell you that? And it’s not just physical, though that doesn’t hurt, she has a beautiful personality? Soul? She’s just all around beautiful. I’ve been visiting her for a while now: before patrol, after patrol, after attacks, even if I’m not injured. She’s always there, and we can talk about anything, which is a change from both my lives.” He sighs a little dreamily. “You should see her when we talk, her eyes lock onto me, and they don’t look away, and then I can’t look away. Her eyes have, like, a million shades of blue. How’s that possible?” He’s silent for a three count before he whispers, “I don’t know what to do.

 “And then there’s what Plagg told me.” Chat groans, his voice slightly muffled, no doubt dragging a hand across his face in a moment Marinette is forced to imagine. “There’s a reason I’ve been getting hurt in the suit. It’s partially Hawkmoth’s fault, part Kwamii ‘nature of the beast,’ part my own stubbornness.

 “I take bad luck. I guess that shouldn’t be a surprise, but it is. That’s okay; My Lady needs all the luck in the world to save Paris. I’m already pretty lucky outside the suit, a little extra bad luck won’t kill me,” He exhales sharply as a worried tone creeps in,“will it?” Another pause and he seems almost back to normal.

 “Anyway, what with Hawkmoth akumatizing people like crazy lately- five in one day, who does that- My Lady’s been needing some extra luck to finish those battles, which means extra bad luck comes my way, which weakens the suit. Plagg said it doesn’t always happen; some Chat Noir’s never have to go through this, it just depends on how much we have to fight.” He sighs, and Marinette can imagine him running a clawed hand through his hair. She curls around herself even tighter because if he were beside her, she’d be hugging him and making stupid promises of never letting go.

 “We have to find Hawkmoth,” Chat says, suddenly determined. “If I do that then the bad luck won’t affect as much. I can still be Chat Noir, Ladybug won’t be worried about me, and I can still be around Marinette. Sound like a plan? Great.”

 The following logs are more professional, dates, times, and coordinates of places he checked for Hawkmoth’s lair. He mentions briefly if he’s been injured or if he’s visited Marinette.

 “I think I know what home feels like.” Chat tells the recorder. He grunts occasionally, and Marinette knows he’s jumping across rooftops. The background noise is minimal, something she’s timed perfectly to the early morning. “I guess I’ve forgotten since my Mom disappeared. Damn, this is a beautiful morning, should I go back and wake her? I really want Marinette to see this.

 “It’s, ah, December third, six thirty in the morning and the sunrise is amazing. I’ve, um, just left Marinette’s place,” He laughs awkwardly, and Marinette can just see him reaching to rub the back of his neck out of nervousness. “Last night I got injured more than usual.” His voice is a steadier, which tells her he’s stopped leaping around. “It was awful,” He admits, “And Marinette patched me up, but I wasn’t in any condition to leave so she let me sleep in her bed, like always. This time was different than always. There was the usual stuff; I kept the suit on because Plagg speeds up the healing, I slept on the right side of the bed, against the wall. I wasn’t sleeping, not really. I was in too much pain for that. So Marinette decides to crawl under the covers with me. She tells me stories of her time with Alya or helping her parents in the bakery, petting my head and holding my hand. She reminds me of my mom when I was sick. Mom used to lay in bed with me even though I was coughing up a storm. She was just there for me, like Marinette, and I realize,” He lets out a wistful sigh, “I haven’t felt this good in really long time.”

 Another pause before he rushes out, “Also I purred sometime in the middle of that, so that’s…new. I guess it’s going to be a thing now…”

 “Oh Kitten,” Marinette manages a smile, lifting her gaze high enough to see the glowing green baton beneath the chaise. She’ll have to move to get it, but she still can’t find the strength.

 “December twenty-first,” Chat huffs. “I’ve been at this for hours, and there hasn’t been a single sighting of Ladybug. I’m tailing Juanita Million to see where she goes next, but there’s no point in attacking if Ladybug isn’t here to help fix everything. Hawkmoth needs to work on his puns: Juanita Million-One in a Million, how can he come up with something so terrible? And princess calls my puns bad.” He makes a couple of quiet jumps before continuing.

 “Juanita Million is sort of like Reflecta. She’s changing everyone to look like crystal versions of herself. It’s kind of creepy, really. When she first started attacking she went on a super long villain monolog about how the boy she liked thought she was one of the guys? Or he couldn’t really see her? Or that she was really plain? I don’t know; if I'm honest, I was too busy avoiding her rays to pay attention. No way am I getting stuck in heels again.”

 Marinette can’t help but giggle at that.

 “Long evil rant short, she’s turning people into crystal reflections of her so she can she can shine bright like a diamond? Or that she’ll be the one to stand out? Again, my attention span was not there.”

 “Chat!” Marinette hears her voice faintly over the recording. “Chat Noir! Over here!” She remembers waving at Chat from street level as he bounded from rooftop to rooftop. He was confused at first, seeing an akumatized victim, features faceted in crystal actively searching him out rather than hiding.

 “Princess!” Chat yelps. “Princess, did you get caught?”

 “What kind of dumb question is that, Chat?” Past Marinette grumbles. “I got transformed into glass, and now I’m constantly being blinded by light being reflected off of me.”

 “Well, you sure do light up my life.”

 “Chaaatt,” She groans. “I can’t decide if that pun is still better than Juanita Million.”

 Chat scoffs. “It’s at least a few Kilowatts better.”

 “Chat!”

 “Yes, Princess?” He asks sweetly, Marinette hears her past self sigh.

 “I don’t think Ladybug’s coming anytime soon; I’m worried she got hit in her civilian form-”

 “Like you?”

 “Like me.” Past Marinette confirms. “I did overhear Juanita saying only true love’s kiss can break the spell. It was something along the lines of, true love will recognize you in whatever form you’re in.”

 “Hey, I’m de-lighted to say I recognized you immediately! That watt to count for something!”

 “I’m going to be stuck in this form forever!” Past Marinette continues as if she never heard him. “I mean, what if Adrien doesn’t recognize me? And what? I’ll have to ask him? Without stuttering and flailing and going ‘uh-buh-good-Adrien-noon-after!’ It would be a miracle if I could even manage a ‘Kiss me, if you want to live!’ but that sounds way too Terminator and–”

 “Can I act as his stand-in?” Chat asks. “I-I mean it’s worth a shot. I recognized you out of all the other victims, that’s worth something, right?”

 “I–” She hesitates. “I don’t know. I guess? Just one little kiss?” 

 “Princess,” Chat laughs, “I’m not some frog claiming to be a prince. I’ll have you know I am a cat of the highest pedigree!”

 “You still seem like an alleycat to me.” She huffs.

 “Meow-ch, Princess! That hurts! It’s just one kiss. If nothing happens then, no harm done, but when you do change back, the only thing you’ll be blinded by is my stunning beauty.”

 “Kitty, don’t get full of yourself. It’s just a kiss. Let’s just get it over with, okay?”

 There’s silence for what seems like a lifetime to Marinette. She remembers what happened. Kissing him while he wasn’t under Dark Cupids control was different. He was hesitant and unsure, unable to decide if he wanted a quick kiss as promised or something more. But there was electricity, Marinette felt it too, tingling down to her toes. She expected the world to shift beneath her, she tried to blame it on turning back but her eyes were closed, and she had no way of knowing if that was true. He seemed to be searching for something in her, and she had found herself searching too, holding him tight in an attempt to stay upright as his arms pulled her closer and closer.

 “Oh,” Past Marinette is the first to break the kiss and the silence that follows. She is breathless and panting.

 “Oh.” Chat Noir agrees. “Hey,” His voice cracks a little. “You’re back to your beautiful old self.” A pause Marinette remembers was filled with well-meaning gazes. “You should-uh-hide. Don’t want you turning back again. Who knows if-um- t-true love’s kiss works-uh- a second time.”

 “R-right! I’ll, um, just go hide, then.” Pounding footsteps drifts away from the recorder.

 “Crap!” Chat Noir hisses. “It’s still recording! Well, uh, I guess cat’s out of the bag. I kissed Marinette.” A pause, “Now how am I gonna explain that to Ladybug?”

 Two entries pass, more of the same boring professionalism of previous entries, though there’s a clear lack of mention of whether or not he visited Marinette’s. She knows he didn’t. She waited up every night waiting for him to knock on her trapdoor.

 “It’s um, it’s-it’s,” Chat sounds choked up. “It’s December twenty-fourth. It’s the day my Mom went missing. I don’t really remember how it happened and it really hasn’t been that long. She was just gone Christmas day. They assume she went missing the night before. My father’s already moping in front of her portrait. He’ll be there for hours. He’ll remember me some time after lunch tomorrow. That’s… okay, I think? People all have their own way of coping, and that’s my father’s. I just wish we could; I don’t know, cope together. Instead of losing one parent I feel like I’ve lost both and I know that’s not okay.” He sniffles and then heaves a heavy breath. “I’m, I’m going to go patrol. Hawkmoth attacked with four Akuma's yesterday, and I didn’t have time to visit Marinette. Um, well, who knows what he’s planning. He might akumatize someone again over Christmas, and no one should have a miserable holiday.” He sighs and then mutters, “Even me.”

 “Okay,” Chat lets out a hurried whisper as the next recording begins. “Okay, okay, okay. It’s um, damn, what is it again? Oh! It’s Christmas day!” He cheers. “And, I might be skinned alive by my father any minute, and that’s fine. One of my nine lives can handle it.” He laughs. “Still terrified though, that’s why I’m running back now. It’s – ah – early afternoon. I spent the night at Marinette’s place, again. Didn’t mean to, she was on her balcony last night, and she looked so cute, and I wanted to hash out what happened with Juanita Million, and then we talked and talked and oh! She gave me a Christmas present! It’s a green scarf, and it’s so soft and warm. And of course, I forgot to get her a Christmas gift, so I panicked and kissed her. That went on for a while…” He breathes. “We stayed up playing board games after that, let me just say: Princess is a sore loser. Meow-ch. Needless to say, this valiant knight calmed her down with a series of kisses. It was downright heroic of me to do so. Anyway, Mr. Dupain finds us in the morning, both of us having fallen asleep in the middle of a card game and invited me for breakfast. It was paw-some. It was like being part of a family. Mrs. Dupain-Cheng kept feeding me, Marinette goaded her Dad into a round of Ultimate Mecha Strike III. It was great. I lost track of time, and well, here I am, trying to make it back to my room before Father realizes I’m gone. Maybe I can sneak back to Marinette’s later…”

 Marinette’s trapdoor creaks open, causing her gaze to drift from the glowing paw to the pale hand flipping the door to the floor. A blonde mop of messy hair slowly comes into view followed by the biggest, dorkiest, and darkest sunglasses she’s ever seen. Maman must have bought those for a costume contest because they’re unmistakably feminine and does not belong to its current wearer.

 Chat Noir takes slow steps up the stairs to her room, dressed in Tom’s oversized sweater and pants, he looks like a kitten bundled in blankets. Marinette can see the bruises on his cheeks, the cut on his forehead and the bandages peeking out of his collar. A small little black cat sits on his shoulder, nuzzling into the dark blue sweater.

 “January eleventh,” Past Chat’s voice echoes through the room, causing current Chat to stiffen on his way up. “Marinette and I are dating now. I think. I did ask her, but she didn’t really give me a response. All she said is that it’d be hard with me in costume all the time. But then we made out for an hour, so I think we’re okay.” Marinette stares at present Chat, feeling her cheeks warm. “And I think it has to be this way for a while. I don’t think Ladybug will appreciate me revealing my identity to a civilian when we don’t even know each other. Marinette probably would have said yes to my alter ego, but I can’t justify it when she has all those Adrien posters on her wall. She has a crush on a celebrity, a mask of some kid who doesn’t know what he’s doing. I’m the one who’s honest with her, and I’m glad she likes me, the real me.”

 Present Chat crawls on his knees, closing the trap door before joining her on the rug, lying far enough away that only their fingers touch.

“And yeah,” He huffs. “The irony is not lost on me. I wear a mask too. When the time comes to know who I am, Marinette will already know. No matter the name behind it, I’m still her kitten.” Past Chat Noir giggles as current Chat beams fondly. “She calls me kitten,” They say together. “Isn’t that cute?”

Marinette stares at Chat, feeling his gaze but unable to see his radiant green eyes behind those bug-eyed sunglasses. They skew to the side as he rests his head on the floor, his messy hair falling in waves with gravity.

“Shit,” Chat’s recorded curse causes Marinette’s eyes to widen. “Four Akumas in one day again. It’s, ah, n-nearly two in the morning. And it’s, it’s pretty bad. Before Hawkmoth was sending quantity over quality but it looks like he’s managed to get both this time around. I-crap-I was hit clear across the city from the last attack.” His teeth chatter between heavy breaths. “Crashed through two bridges before hitting a boat and falling into the Seine. The Seine, in the middle of winter, how cruel could this Akuma get? Anyway, the Ladybug cure came by maybe ten minutes ago? I don’t know, it’s fuzzy. Everything fuzzy. I remember they repaired the bridge and the boat but just skipped right over me. And that’s, I don’t know, whatever? You’d think a Ladybug would help a stray cat.” He coughs and breathes a wet rattling breath. “Oh man that hurts. I don’t know if I can even see straight. I hope Plagg’s driving this suit, I hope he goes to Marinette. I can’t,” He chokes on a breath, Marinette can hear the blatant pain. “I can’t just disappear on her. I can’t.” He whimpers.

Marinette scrambles for the baton and shuts it tight before past Chat can say another word. She knows there are a few more recordings after that, but she can’t bring herself to listen to them just yet. They’re too close to the present, too close to how Chat looks right now. She knows the most recent one is what she stopped yesterday when he collapsed on her rooftop on the verge of death.

Yesterday was awful. She can still remember the blood staining the terrace, much more than she thought a person could hold. Marinette remembers being frantic, that she clumsily dressed most of his wounds. When Chat passed out, Marinette transformed into Ladybug hoping to give him a miracle; and it worked, somehow, though she’s still not sure how. He was still in bad shape, but his wounds were closed enough that she could call for help from her Papa and Maman to bring Chat inside and treat him properly.

She had to explain why Chat was on her rooftop. Why he kept visiting, why he was getting hurt, and why he came to her of all people. Some questions she answered truthfully; the others she left unanswered, her distress the only thing they need to know.

“You’re out of your suit.” Marinette whispers, clutching the baton tightly to her chest. How can the baton still be here when his suit isn’t? Will it disappear the moment he touches it? She doesn’t want it to disappear; she needs to know what happens next, even though she’s afraid to find out.

“Your parents needed me out of the suit to patch up everything. I’ll change back soon,” Chat promises. “I’m just giving Plagg a little breather. He’s been trying to heal me all day.”

“And now I’m tired and starving.” The little black kwamii flops in Chat’s hair, raising a paw to his forehead. “Woe is me; I’ll never fix Ad-Chat Noir like this. There’s no Camembert in the entire building. I’m too weak to move!”

“Plagg!” Chat warns. “The Dupain-Chengs are nice enough to let us stay in their home. You could be more grateful.”

“I’d be more grateful if I had some cheese.” Plagg grumbles.

“You had some Brie. Besides, Mrs. Dupain-Cheng already said she’d get you some Camembert. It takes a bit to get to the store, so stop complaining.”

Marinette can’t help but giggle. Plagg abruptly lifts himself from Chat’s hair and narrows his eyes at her. “Something funny, Pinky?”

“Nothing,” She tries to suppress a giggle. “You’re, um, just like siblings. I, I don’t have any of my own but Alya and the twins, they’re like that all the time. You guys really like each other, huh?”

“This lovesick kitten?” Plagg makes a gagging noise. “It’s a miracle I even let him put on the ring.”

“Hey!” Chat protests.

“You gonna talk about the audio journal or what?” Plagg ignores Chat’s protest and floats away, no doubt to where Tikki’s hiding. He says this on purpose, Marinette thinks, to steal away time with the other Kwami and layer the young heroes in thick tension.

She stares at the obnoxious sunglasses, feeling his firm gaze. She doesn’t know where to start. She wants to tell him her identity, wants to promise she’ll stop turning into Ladybug so he can keep his luck. But that’s a stupid argument waiting to happen, she doesn’t want to give up being Ladybug, and he definitely won’t let her.

Marinette wants to lecture him about being reckless when he knows he’ll get hurt. Then again, Ladybug has forced those moments more than a few times.

She wants to hold him, but he’s hurt.

She wants to kiss him, but his lips are split in a few places.

Marinette wants to tell him she loves him but he might not believe her. Not with the adrenaline high of him almost dying and the Adrien pictures she still hasn’t taken down. Not with Tikki hiding somewhere nearby.

“I’m scared,” Those two words slip past as tears break free. “Chat,” Marinette whispers. “Chat,” She sobs. “How can – and you – please don’t – I mean, just be – ”

Marinette doesn’t know what to say.

“Hey,” He whispers, calm and soothing as ever. “I’m here, see?” He reaches out, his fingers brushing her cheek. Oh. She’s never touched his bare hand before. She expects claws and cool material, not manicured nails and feverish skin. “We’re okay.”

“No, you’re not.” She chokes out thickly, rubbing furiously at her tears.

“I’m a superhero,” He says it like that’s supposed to assure her. “We all come with tragic backstories, it’s a membership fee.” Marinette scoffs. 

“I agreed to this life, Princess.” He tells her. “I want to do this.”

“I want you to stay with me.” She sobs.

“I am with you.” Chat promises. “There’s nothing scary in that baton, Marinette. Everything that’s on there is gone. It’s over. I’m here right now.” He shifts, hissing as it aggravates something as he pulls Marinette into his arms. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

“It’s plenty to worry about, Chat! Do you even hear yourself?”

“No, I don’t.” He admits quietly. “I make those entries, and that’s that.”

“Chat,” Marinette starts and stops as Chat holds her tight, burying his nose into her neck and purring, his last ditch effort to soothe away any pain they both feel.

“Play it, Princess.” He whispers into her back between purrs. “We’ll get through this together.”

[milenadaniels]

Soooo, I wrote fic for the first time in 2 years? The thirst for Sterek is strong. Very strong. This is part 1 of a series of at least 2, maybe 3 fics depending on what happens Sunday. 

[Read on AO3]

When Derek had first been caught, after the overwhelming rush of panic and adrenaline that had sustained him through weeks and weeks on the run gave out, he had settled into a brittle kind of numbness. He’d lain in the dirt, bleeding from at least two puncture wounds, but hadn’t felt the pain of the numerous arrows he was vaguely certain were now lodged in his body. No. Instead, he’d been bothered by the cloyingly rich smell of the dirt under his nose. He had felt the burn of overexertion climbing up his upper chest and throat. He felt the pounding of his head as the mild headache he’d carried for days took a violent turn for the worse.

But as soon as he’d hit the ground, it was like the remainder of his awareness had been knocked right out of him. He hadn’t heard how many footfalls slowed from a sprint, to a jog, to stillness around him. He only absently realized that his hands were being pulled back and bound. And though he never fully loses consciousness, he loses all sense of time from that point forward until he reawaken in a cold, nearly airless eight by eight foot room in which he is shackled by what, judging by the horrific burning, must be wolfsbane-laced cuffs around his limbs and neck.

He panics then; he feels that too familiar anxiety and deep fear rise up from his belly into his throat to choke him. He sees a flash of blonde hair, hears the tail-end of a laugh. So he sinks into the pain of his burning skin and lets himself fade again.

He doesn’t know how many hours or days go by like that. He knows he’s being hurt, but only distantly. He sees fists and devices come towards his body, make contact, and then leave again. He sees the anger and frustration on the faces of his captors but feels no fear as a result.

And then she takes over.

He registers that he should be scared. He registers that she never looks angry or frustrated while she’s in front of him - her lips are always curled into an easy smile - and that should terrify him. But he’s too tired. Too weary of this cycle. Of being free, until he’s not; of being safe, until he’s not; over and over it repeats. And he thinks, if he can just let go this time. If he can just fade away - take the hits and let them take what they want - then maybe it’ll end. Maybe he can break this cycle. Maybe if he’d been smart enough he’d have figured that out ages ago...

To which Stiles replies, “Really?” His smile is also easy, but it’s warm. It’s inviting, and soothing, and it instills a sliver of serenity deep inside Derek to see it. “Great plan, sourwolf. Just kick the bucket, that’ll show them.”

Derek’s facial muscles feel like stone when he tries to grin ruefully back at him.

“How’d you find me?” Derek asks lazily. They’re sitting in his camaro, facing the oncoming waves of the Pacific ocean. He probably shouldn’t have driven this far out on the beach, it’ll be hard to get the traction to get back. But that’s a problem for later.

Stiles shrugs, tapping his fingers listlessly on the gear shift. “How I always find you.” He raises his fingers up to wiggle them at Derek, who looks away immediately. “Magic.”

Derek snorts. It doesn’t matter, really.

His window’s been rolled down and the humid, salty air is grounding him. He’s read somewhere that decades and centuries ago, northern people would move south to find coastal climates to heal themselves. It was a good idea to come here.

“How long are you here for?” He asks Stiles, who’s now gripping the gear shift, but drumming the fingers on his other hand on the dashboard in a rhythm Derek can’t follow.

“As long as you need.”

Derek nods. He appreciates it.

“Are you nervous about something?” Derek asks.

Stiles turns to face him. He’s cut his hair back to the buzzcut he had when they first met. It looks weird now against the more angular cheekbones of his older face.

“Nope,” he replies. “Just trying to get you to pay attention.”

Derek turns back to the ocean. The moon is full and bright in the sky, but he feels no pull from it.

“I am,” he insists.

The drumming gets louder, like claws against an empty metal box, and Derek can only count to the crashing of seven more waves before he can’t ignore it anymore.

“Stiles,” he begins, his tone warning. But when he turns to face him, Stiles’ hands are splayed out in the air facing him, and Derek can’t help but count 11.

Electricity, as a tool of pain, makes a comeback. Whatever minor reserves of werewolvian strength he still had are being zapped away with each touch of the current. They give him water, though they haven’t fed him yet. As his body seizes and spasms helplessly once more, he wonders how long the customary wait between meals might be during torture. Is it like on-flight service? Because on flights shorter than 4 hours, he doesn’t think meals are served. Has he not been there long enough yet? How long has he been there?

The buzzing in his skin, in his veins, in his bones dies down suddenly.

“You used to be a fighter, sweetie. What happened to my little Scrappy Doo, huh?”

In a psych class at college, Derek had learned about learned helplessness. There was an experiment where dogs were given electric shocks they couldn’t escape, but when introduced into an environment where they had the power to stop the shocks, they didn’t even try. One half of their crate produced electric shocks, the other half didn’t, and they never bothered to walk around the crate to figure that out. They had just lain down, because in the previous part of the experiment, they’d been taught that the shocks were inevitable and uncontrollable. That lesson stuck with Derek like nothing else in his brief years at college had. Over the years, whenever he’d felt like nothing could change, he would think of those dogs and force himself to do something, anything . Often, it turned out that ‘anything’ didn’t improve his situation any, and sometimes made it worse, but at least he’d tried. So long as he never stopped trying, he could live with himself and whatever was thrown his way.

But he thinks he gets it now. The dogs were right all along. Yeah, they could have walked around and found their way to the other side of the crate. They could have learned in this very controlled environment that they had a modicum of power over their circumstances. But ultimately, they were getting shocked because some guy in a white coat stuck them in a lab and was hurting them for science. There’s no happy ending to that story, only momentary reprieves and hollow victories.

The reason Derek is at Beacon Hills High School in the middle of the night, heart pounding as Jennifer walked out of the teachers’ lounge is because people more powerful chased him through three states, kidnapped him, tortured him, and are injecting him with various substances for science. And for fun. And there is no escaping that. He gets that now. And he no longer feels any shame in the thought of laying down and accepting it. There’s nothing he can do.

Still, he appreciates it when Stiles pulls the fire alarm with an unrepentant shrug.

If his life had room for quiet moments, he might have wondered why the comfort he turns to in his mind is a random teenager he’s strangely connected to yet hesitates to even call a friend. Why not Laura? Why not his parents? Is it pragmatism? Would his mind just not allow the delusion to play out knowing he was speaking to people long dead while technically Stiles could be in this makeshift dungeon with him?

Is it yearning? Some unresolved something that could have been if he’d stuck around, if one of them wasn’t broken, if the other hadn’t been possessed, if, if, if…

Or is it maybe just...habit? That his mind has accepted that, if it were to replay a highlight reel of his worst moments in the past five years, Stiles would feature in almost every one of them, either as the person saving his life, or as a simple source of comfort. Is that pragmatism? Yearning? Both?

But of course, his life does not make room for quiet moments of reflection.

His stomach hurts. He’s sure his entire body hurts, but somehow, his stomach is commanding all his attention. Is it bleeding? Is it punctured? Has it been ripped out of his body? Has he been poisoned?

He’s been mostly aware for a full day now, he thinks, though he has no point of reference for this, really. But Kate’s gone. He’s been given water. And aside from his stomach, it’s been the most pleasant day he’s had in a long while.

When Kate comes back, Stiles winks at him, hands mercifully stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie and jerks his chin as if to say, “let’s go”. So he goes.

The woods of the Beacon Hill preserve are so calm this time of year. It’s the dewy comfort of fall, and also the tranquil stillness of the the world after a fresh snow. It’s spring blossoms and summer humidity. The two - three! - packs are running together under the light of the moon, and the world is just breathing, in and out, unhurried.

Laura has managed to shift into a full wolf and their mom is so proud. They’re running together. Cora is seven years old and trying to keep up on two legs, laughing herself out a powerful gait. And deep in the forest, Derek can hear the happy roughhousing noises of his three betas.

He’s building a bonfire with his dad, and the flames don’t hurt him. When he reaches for another log, a warm hand slips into his palm instead, and his stomach hurts again.

He knows it’s not real. No matter what idyll is presented to him, his soul is too tarnished at this point to ever accept a version of his life where peace is an option. But Stiles doesn’t always come to whisk him off into a fantasy. In this prison, sometimes Stiles comes to him, begging for his help. Sometimes he’s covered in blood. Other times, his eyes don’t belong to him and in those cases, Derek welcomes reality more than the horror show his mind can conjure up.

And sometimes, there is no fantasy. Sometimes his mind is so tired it can’t even provide a utopia. Sometimes Derek dreams in simpler factors - that the door is busted down and there’s a young deputy wielding nothing but a bat on the other side, with no plan, no backup, and no real shot at pulling this rescue attempt off. But because it’s Stiles , somehow it works out: Derek is pulled down from the metal, and they just walk away from this.

No matter the scenario, everything always comes down to numbers. Six when it should be five, eleven instead of ten. He avoids it for as long as he can but he knows eventually his attention will be called to those fingers. They’ll wave cheerfully at him. They’ll squeeze his hand. They’ll splay comfortably across his shoulders and he’ll feel each of the imprints fingerpad on his skin. And he’ll allow it because he craves it, but then the illusion will be over.

Even as that door busts down, and Stiles stands on the other side of it, too fierce and terrified in equal measure, Derek knows he has only moments to enjoy this reprieve. There’s no bat this time, but a gun instead. And he’s not alone, he’s brought the pack with him. Derek watches dispassionately as one by one his tormentors are taken down, none left alive for questioning because his mind is unforgiving and uncaring of the rule of law at this point.

And then Stiles reaches him. His smile isn’t easy or cocky or smug. It trembles as if he’s barely managing it. And then he’s out of view and after a few moments of tugging, Derek falls to the floor, barely thinking to brace himself. His head smacks hard against the cement floor and immediately long fingers are stretching out towards him so he closes his eyes, not yet ready to face them.

“No, no, no, stay with me.” he hears Stiles murmur. “Hey, come on, big guy.”

Stiles’ fingers comb through his hair quickly, efficiently, looking for something, and Derek lets his body relax onto the hard floor, reveling in the feeling of being horizontal for a moment.

“Hey,” Stiles calls. “ Hey. ”

A finger flicks him on the edge of the ear, hard, and he opens his eyes.

“I know you’re in rough shape and I can’t imagine what you’ve been living through for however the fuck long but we gotta get out of here before people get a chance to ask questions. And trust me, these people are really good at making sure their questions are answered. So I need you to wake up now and get to your feet because I can’t drag your 200-pound ass out of here on my own, especially not without getting all eyes on us.”

Derek blinks slowly. This sense of urgency Stiles is projecting is new. He nods, because he thinks it’s expected of him. Stiles nods back and his face loses some of its tension. “Okay, let’s go.”

Stiles leverages himself on the balls of his feet and grips Derek’s hands to pull him up in one, less-than-graceful move. It feels different than the other times. Something’s different. Stiles tries to pull his hands away but Derek grips them tight, breathing hard for a moment before forcing himself to look down.

One, two, three,

“Hey,” Stiles says, tugging at his hands. “Derek. Please, you gotta focus up, man. You can go comatose when we’re clear but we have to get out of here.”

Four, five, six -

“Derek ,” he pleads. “I know you’re there, dude. And we’re so close to landing this plane...or whatever, you’ve just gotta pull up. Come on. Be that guy who landed on the Hudson. You can do-”

“Shh.”

Seven, eight,

“Did you just - did you just fucking shush me in the middle of rescuing you?”

Nine,

“Ten,” he whispers reverently. He wants to brush his thumb across each finger to verify tactually what his eyes are telling him but the minute he loosens his grip, Stiles’ hands slip away to help him stand on better footing.

“So basic arithmetics are a go, that’s great, my man,” Stiles says, sounding only mildly sarcastic. “What about motor functions? How about we give those a trial run?”

He looks up at Stiles and sees him for the first time. His hair is long, he’s got stubble , and his amber eyes are dark and worried. Around them, Derek sees this torture chamber of a room he’s been kept in like an animal. Sees the blood staining the walls and floor and his own body, which he barely recognizes. He wants to explain something, but doesn’t know what. He wants to ask questions but doesn’t know which.

“My stomach hurts,” he tells Stiles, whose face goes through a cycle of difficult expressions before landing on sympathetic but unyielding.

“I don’t doubt it. But we gotta go, so you’re gonna lean on me and we’re gonna haul ass. Deal?”

Stiles takes off, dragging him along before Derek can respond to what, in hindsight, might have been a rhetorical question. Or maybe it wasn’t rhetorical, maybe he just knows that, after all they’ve been through, he may be the only person on the planet Derek would say yes to before hearing terms. The only person he’s learned to trust unquestioningly.

So Derek picks his feet up as best he can. He grips Stiles’ vest with more force than he means to, but the numbness that had kept him company for so long is slipping away with every step he takes. They pass armed strangers that appear to be with Stiles, but Stiles pays them no mind, pushing on further and further until they’re outside and Derek is reintroduced to the pure taste and smell of unrecycled air.

He’s folded into the passenger seat of an unfamiliar car that smells like Stiles, and without meaning to, loses time again.

When he comes to, the sun is rising on the left, and there are no cars ahead of them.

Stiles’ right hand is on the gear shift, and his left is on the wheel, his fingers tapping out a beat Derek can’t place. This scene is familiar, it’s haunting, and Derek shifts quickly until his face is angled out towards the passenger window instead.

“Hey, you with me?” Stiles asks. His right hand leaves the gear shift and settles gently on Derek’s forearm, all fingers splayed out. Easy to count, even without looking.

He smiles. “Yes.”