#anything past the absolute wretched burning need he has to Know. and in a way. doesn't that make him the most devoted to the luxons out

[wizardnuke]

MATTHEW TELL ME LORE ABOUT THE LUXON BEACONS WHAT IS GOING ON WITH THOSE THANGS. WHAT DOES ESSEK KNOW

[redprotons]

First Aid - DoctorRose Bingo

Summary:

Rose ends up hurt on the estate at a time where the Doctor is avoiding her at all costs.

Notes:

warnings: minor description of injury, hint of past turbulent relationship, emotional angst, swearing.

Embarrassed, really. She was embarrassed more than anything. She’d lost count how many planets and people she helped save – not that she ever counted, but still, she knew it was a LOT. She’d faced death hundreds of times, outsmarted aliens; Ice Warriors, Slitheen, the flood. She’d done all that and come out with barely a scratch, and she trips down the stairs… just off of the estate… stairs she’d walked up and down her whole life, and, she was pretty sure,  broken her arm.

God, what a bloody plonker she was, the throbbing pain was well deserved.

For a while she just sat on the steps, staring into space. Part of her thought she was in shock, but shock that she’d been hurt like this, this after everything else that had tried to kill her in the last week alone.

It was her own fault, though.

She’d spotted Jimmy’s mother in Tesco. A wretched woman who she once tried so hard to please, but no matter what she did there was always something wrong. She’d go to sleep crying some nights over dishes stacked the wrong way. And the worst thing was, because Jimmy was Jimmy, she truly believed it was her who was in the wrong – that she was being too sensitive, too much of a bitch, too whiny. Well, she wasn’t such an idiot these days - ha. She strode right up to the hag and gave her a piece of her mind, and maybe, just a little, looking to reassure herself. She launched into how her son was a horrible piece of shit who manipulated women – because she knew she was not the first,  she was just convinced into believing otherwise back then – and bled them dry, and it was no surprise because she was a horrible mother in which her perfect little angel could do no wrong,  and thank God her family got her out before he dragged her down with him.

She was expecting a fight – screams of ‘how dare you talk to me like that!'.

Instead, Laura Stone burst into tears, sobbing uncontrollably.

Jimmy was dead, killed way back in the Auton invasion.

Utterly mortified, she fumbled out an apology and left, her cheeks burning, fully accepting, that from now on until she perished,  she’d have to walk a mile out of her way to the Sainsbury's local further down the road.

It felt weird. She wasn’t sad he was dead… or maybe she was. It was all sort of muddled. She was absolutely in love with him at one point in her life after all – would do anything for him. But the fact it was Jimmy was almost insignificant. No, it was more because someone from her past had died. Someone she knew from school had lost their life to the adventures she lived every day. It made it real; the danger. The fact that she could die, that her mum, that this world's Jackie Tyler, could really die. That Mickey might be dead, but now she would never know.

It was more difficult to convince herself it would never happen to the people she cared about, when it already, in a way, had. And she'd not had a clue.

Maybe Jack had died after all, and the Doctor decided to let her live in ignorance.

It scared her, and that horrid niggle in her stomach lingering from Pete's Jackie's death intensified.

Taking a deep breath in, and an even longer breath out, Rose pushed it all down. Scared or not, it didn’t change the fact that her arm hurt… a lot. She would need to see someone about it and, as much as she had figured out, she had three options.

One, find the Doctor. She didn’t have anyway to contact him, but the Tardis wasn’t parked far away. She could call her mum to let her know something came up, and wait in the console room. He'd eventually come back from wherever he’d actually gone to hide from her. With all the advanced medical equipment on the Tardis, a broken bone would basically be first aid. She’d probably be able to go home for dinner, her mum none the wiser.

Two, call her mum to come and get her. They’d go to A&E, and she’d get patched up the old-fashioned way. And it takes so long to be seen, the Doctor would eventually worry something was wrong… she hoped, and call her. She’d lie, she’d stay a few days with her mum, and, with how he was acting at the moment, she doubted he'd notice.

And three, tell neither of them, and go to the Tardis and see if she could work out how to heal her arm herself.

At this present moment in time, she was leaning more towards three. The Doctor was being weird with her lately. Whether it was because of Mickey and Pete world’s Pete, or the whole France incident, she didn’t know, but he'd avoid her one adventure, then not leave her side the next. There was a dread in her gut that told her it was because he was getting ready to give her the chuck. Which she didn’t really want at the moment, and especially now. The Doctor made her feel safe, despite how much of an arse he could be, and with this sudden reality check, she wanted to be somewhere safe right now. But if he saw her hurt, and from such a stupid accident, it might speed up the process. And also, he was so annoyingly curious and bloody nosy, that he’d know the whole Jimmy story by the end of it, and she was, admittedly, ashamed of that chapter in her life… and sometimes,  with this new-new doctor, she wondered if the same thing was happening all over again.

So, then there was her mum. With Mickey, and now Jimmy, she was extra sensitive. She missed home and missed her family and friends. She’d even made a plan to see Shareen while they were here. But her mum was also nosy, and she would question why she didn’t want to go to the Doctor to get sorted, and then she’d have to say, and then her mum would slap the Doctor into a new face,  shout bloody murder at him, and threaten to cut off his crown jewels if he didn’t clean up his act.

Rose smiled despite herself.

The Doctor would never admit it, but he feared Jackie. Yet, more than Jackie, he feared any sort of social uncomfortableness. In his current body especially. He’d run to the Tardis and never come back. She’d have to get a job, and go back to the Rose she was before him. Which, she now realised, wasn’t that far below the surface as she initially thought.

Grimacing, she heaved herself off the step, walking in the direction of the Tardis.

So… three it was.

“Rose?” the Doctor asked, popping his head up through the grating just as she reached the corridor.

Her shoulders slumped, of course he was there – typical.

She plastered on a smile before she turned around. “Yeah?” she asked cheerfully.

His face dropped instantly. “What happened!” he asked, springing out of the gap in the grating and rushing over to her. His eyes were fixed on one side of her cheek, and she realised she must’ve hit her face as she tumbled. With the pain from her arm, she hadn’t noticed.

“It’s nothing.” she said.

 “It doesn’t look like nothing.” he accused.

  Yeah, well, he hadn’t noticed her arm yet. She didn’t say anything.

The Doctor pressed his lips together. There was an argument there, a demand, but he didn’t voice it. “Come on.” he said instead. “Let’s get that healed up.”

Then he took her hand, the broken one. The pain had already been getting worse the closer she got to the Tardis. She guessed it was the shock wearing off. His grip was sharp, and it really, really hurt. She couldn’t hold back the sob.

The Doctor let go instantly. “Rose?” he asked, the concern, and absolute horror that he’d hurt her, clear in his voice.

But the pain was too much. She’d been trying to be brave – be strong with everything she was feeling, but this was her limit. She started crying. He quickly scanned her with the screwdriver. God, she was so embarrassed.

“Okay, Rose, listen to me you’ll be fine. Rose? I’ll fix this, I promise.” She nodded through her tears. “Just stay here, don’t move. I’ll be right back.” he said, before rushing off into the depths of the Tardis.

When he returned, there was a ratty old gym bag slung over his shoulder. He must’ve sprinted the whole way, because he was out of breath, which he rarely was - all the running he did coupled with his ‘superior biology’ he loved to mention… all the time.

He was really worried.

“Okay, this -” he began jovially, unzipping the bag and pulling out a clunky metal tube cast that looked akin to a torture device crossed with a rusty cyberman arm. “- is the best bone healer of the 97th century, will fix you up in a jiffy.” he explained. “Just need to tune it up a bit and run a scan so it heals you nice and proper.” He beamed at her, an invitation – or maybe a plea – for any sort of positive response.

She felt too awful to muster the effort. She just wanted him to heal her up. She nodded.

The smile slid off his face, and he got to work. He was gentle, oh so very gentle, despite the clear tenseness in his shoulders as he worked – the way his jaw was set.

The machine made an ungodly rattling sound when he switched it on. A wave of tiredness crashed over her, while, at the same time, the pain dissipated and lifted her mood.

“Better?” he asked cheerfully.

She yawned and forced out a smile. “Yeah, thanks.” she said, and saw a little of that tension leave him. She knew he was going to ask, so she spoke before he had the chance. “I better get back to mum’s then.” she said. “She’ll be wanting the milk for her tea.”

“Did someone attack you.” he asked darkly, all preambles gone from his voice.

 Her face fell. She hadn’t thought he’d drop the façade so quickly. Unable to meet his eye, she fiddled with her sleeve. “It’s so stupid.” she said. “I tripped down the steps at the back of Spring.”

The Doctor’s eyebrows shot up his forehead. “Spring?”

“The block with that little post office.” she clarified.

“Ah.” He studied her for a long moment. “And you tripped?”

“Yeah.” She didn’t look up.

“Rose.” From the tone of his voice it was obvious he didn’t believe her.

“It’s true!” she protested. “That’s why I didn’t say because it’s so bloody embarrassing – alright!” she snapped back at him.

He gaped stupidly for the second it took him to work everything out. Why was he so smart?

“It was that loose pave-stone, wasn’t it? That one you yourself warned me about. You’re always careful on those steps since you cut your knee open when you were a child – that’s what you said.” He was mad now. “Something happened. What was it? And more importantly, why’d you try and sneak off by yourself and not tell me.”

“I don’t have to tell you everything.” she bit back on the defensive. “You never do.”

He gaped at her, thrown that she’d brought such a topic up. Admittedly, she was a little startled herself. The conversation stopped and the hum of the Tardis filled the space. But the Doctor had to know. “Did someone push you? And you might as well tell me now, because you’ll know I’ll find out.”

Her fury bubbled over. He was threatening her like she was a Dalek, or a Cybermen or something. “Oh so you care again now? Make up your mind!”

The Doctor’s brows furrowed, then morphed into outrage. “Of course I care! Why would you ever think otherwise!”

She was the one baffled now – surely he couldn’t be that unaware of himself. “Oh, wow." she scoffed, remembering who she was talking to. "Okay, what about Sarah-Jane, you said you wouldn’t leave me, and then we end up on a spaceship where you leave me and Mickey to go… ‘dance’ with some French queen, without having anyway to get back? What about that time in after Rome – I mean we actually kissed, and then on Plass-6 you put me on a different team to you for a whole week, and worse with that arsehole robot Mars-65? And what about now!? You spent the whole time we were on Pete’s world with me, and now were here you’ve been hiding away on the Tardis for days… or wherever you’re lying about being!” she yelled.

 Her breaths came out harsh while he just stood. She hadn’t planned on it all coming out, but it’d been building for so long, and she was so angry at him, it’d just sort of happened. Part of her wanted to apologise, but the other part of her thought, fuck it. All of it was how she really felt, and she shouldn't back down this time. “You know what? I’m going back to mum's for a few nights, so if you want to leave me behind, here’s your chance.”

Shereen took one look at her and hugged her tight. Honestly, it was what she needed. They ordered take-out and stuffed their faces with chocolates watching scary films. It was like she was a kid again. Yet, her mind kept wondering to the Doctor and his stupid puppy-dog eyes. She’d left before he healed the bruise on her face, so every time she laughed, he was there with her.

Oh, please, please, let the Tardis still be there when she got home.

She stayed another two nights at Shereen’s. They had a lot to catch up on, but really, the longer she stayed the more she could avoid the absolution of seeing the empty space where the Tardis was last parked.

As she rounded the corner, she held her breath, trying to prepare herself. The Doctor out of her life for good... oh, what had she done? She should’ve just shut up and said nothing… but it was too late now. She was brave, and she would face this.

The Tardis was still there.

Rose’s whole body unwound right to the core – the soul. He was still here. A smile lit up her face. Her walk turned into a jog towards the most brilliant blue box in the universe. She turned the key, stopping just as she opened the doors. She had to remember how she left things, she needed to brace herself.

He wasn’t there. She tried the usual places, the library, his workshop, the kitchen. Nothing.

“Mum have you seen –“

The Doctor poked his head cautiously around the hallway from the living room, like he’d taken a biscuit from the tin, and she knew he was the guilty party.

All the tension left. She smiled at him. “You’re here.”

Believing it safe, he stepped fully into the corridor. “Well I didn’t have a choice, she’s keeping me hostage.” he said, pointing to Jackie.

“Oh, give over. What are you like, honestly.” her mum complained, thwacking him on the arm as she walked over to Rose and gave her a big hug. “Have a nice time? Feeling better?”

She smiled. “Yeah, I did, yeah. Like we were kids again.”

The Doctor smiled at that.

“Right, there’s dinner in the oven if you want. I’m off to see Bev – she’s down for the week, over in Eltham, that guy she used to date Martin, he’s got a flat down there now, said he’d put her up, and you know what Bev’s like. She’s been asking for you, be nice for her to see you before you run off. Mind you, you know she’ll bring up that year bad-driver here brought you back – twelve hours my arse.” She gave Rose a kiss on the cheek, and reached behind her for the house keys.

The Doctor rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry.” he added flatly.

She gave her mum another hug, grateful that she was making herself scarce so they could talk. “I will, promise.”

Rose could hear the hoover in the flat above, banging against the walls. For a while the two of them just stood watching each other, the Doctor rocking on his heals, his hands deep in his pockets.

“You said a few days. But then when you didn’t come back, I worried something else happened, so I asked Jackie. She told me you were at Shereen’s… been a prisoner ever since.” He gave a half-smirk, an invitation to joke.

She couldn’t help it. She smirked back, just for a moment. “What else did she say?”

His expression turned serious. “That you ran into an ex-boyfriend’s mother in the shops, and she upset you.” He paused, reconsidering whether or not to push on. “She didn’t tell me why.”

Thank you, mum, Rose thought. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

He studied her up and down. “Fair enough.” he said, dropping it, even though he hated not knowing things, especially about her. “It’s not because I care one second and not the next.” he said, throwing Rose off balance. She was sure they'd fall back into the same old routine, where they ran off to the next adventure and pretended stuff like this never happened. “It’s because I care too much, it terrifies me so I run, but I can never stay away for long.”

Rose’s jaw dropped. Her mind whirled so much it became a thick dough of goop. She tried to clear it, snap back. “Why are you telling me this?” she wondered out loud. “I mean we never talk about this stuff.”

The Doctor scoffed. “Why? Because you asked me to leave, Rose, and that’s only one step away from you leaving on your own, and I – I don’t want you to go.”

Okay now her head was really properly spinning.

He nodded to her arm. “I’m sorry I hurt you.” and she heard what he really meant.

She was taking it all in, but apparently, he wanted her to say something. “Am I?” he prodded fearfully.

Her brows furrowed, not putting it together. “Are you, what?”

“Going to lose you.” he said, the slightest crack in his voice, so quiet Rose convinced herself she was imagining it.

She straightened, standing tall. “Depends, if you keep messing me about.” she stated. “We act like we’re together; it feels like we’re together, but then you run off, or avoid me, and leave me wondering what I’ve done, or if I’ve read things wrong. So.” She stared him down. “Are we? No... wait.. do you want to be?”

The Doctor balked, his eyes wide. He shuttered his expression.

“And don’t lie.” she added. “Or say what you think you want me to hear.”

She waited, watching him in apprehension. He didn’t look at her, keeping his gaze on the carpet.

“Yes.” he said at last.

Oh.

She fumbled with her hands, not quite sure what to do next. She hadn’t expected this to happen quite so easily. “Right. Well. Okay then, will you stop running away from me now?”

He nodded weakly. “Yeah.”

Again she waited, but he didn’t look up. “Right, so… do you want to go down the chippy, then we can half what mum made for us?”

He glanced up at her, befuddled, his brow furrowed. “That’s it?” he asked disbelievingly.

She shrugged. “Well… yeah. Unless you have anything to add?”

He shook his head, unable to hide his utter relief. “No... nothing from me.”

“Right, good…. so… chips?”

He beamed. “Chips! Oh, yes!”

Walking through the estate, she felt his hand gingerly brush against hers before he took it. She linked arms instead, so she could snuggle into him. He let out a breath, and she felt the tension leave his body.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” he asked. “You don’t have to tell me what happened, but I need to know when you’re hurt.”

She pondered for a moment, then smirked at him. “Well, my face still hurts a little.” she admitted. “Don’t suppose you’ve got anything for it?”

He smiled at her, true gratefulness in his eyes. “Oh, Rose Tyler, I have just the thing.”

[kurimiaki]

T, R, N and P with Diluc please?

the uncrowned king of mondstadt, diluc ragnvindr.

yandere alphabet via dear-yandere! revisions i made are flaky so. my bad wwwww

cw: dark content, physical abuse, kidnapping, confinement, claustrophobia, extremely unhealthy relationship.

Tears: How do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves?

Just because Diluc may be attending to business elsewhere, does not mean you are free from his heady grasp. Distant yet coddling; his attentiveness is a curse just as much as it can be a blessing. You’re never without security, that much is true. Dawn Winery is his eyes and ears, every single servant wrapped around his finger, wrapping around and constricting you. Self isolation could never be a possibility, not when Adelinde ushers you out of bed without a minute left to spare, always in such a hurry, as if wallowing in utter boredom for days on end is anything of importance. From the very beginning, Diluc had made it a point to ensure your physical health was a top priority to those surrounding you; strict itineraries have maids silently mourning over their packed workload. A plethora of duties— take you on brief walks outside the winery, never longer than 15 minutes, feed and serve meals delicately planned and catered to your health, eyes and ears constantly watching, watching, watching. They keep you like a dog on a leash, no matter how pampered. They do so dutifully. They must. Who could possibly decline such a hefty pay at the expense of silence?

It would be a blatant lie to say your physical health had declined any whilst under his... care, however, the same cannot be said for your mental well being. He can’t, despite how much he hates his inability to do so, prevent your tears. And by the archons, do you cry. Diluc is unable to approach you some days, those days when the illusion of normalcy and domestic living he works so hard to put up simply melts away, when you can do little more than curl in on yourself and wretch into your silk sheets with a litany of tears flush in your eyes. He wills himself to allow you the mercy of a few hours alone, albeit with check ups and that blatant discomfort of his when you wail at the slightest touch to your shoulder. Of course, it’s a different case entirely when such cries are symptom of punishment— whereas Diluc will weakly attempt to comfort you with softened eyes when you work yourself up, flaky and visibly uncomfortable, his resolution is unflinching and unwavering should you choose to act out of turn. Wail, sob, beg and beg for mercy, for forgiveness, his mask of nonchalance will stay firm.

Regret: Would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling? Would they ever let their darling go?

No. Diluc is understanding that the situation he has thrust you into may not be ideal, he anticipates a lack of reciprocation and overall resistance, but he feels absolutely no guilt. In his eyes, this is for the best, the world is much too cruel— who better than him to make that judgement for you? Even if you do prove yourself to be capable of taking care of yourself, (with Diluc himself to measure up to) this Darknight Hero will find every minute, minuscule little thing to prove you otherwise. Just about every one of your shortcomings Diluc will try and use to his advantage, to put himself in a better light. Who else is as capable as he is, who else can prove themselves worthy of your companionship, your devotion, in the ways that he has? The longer you stay in his grasp, not that the possibility of leaving will come otherwise, the more difficult it becomes to prove him wrong. He feeds you with the utmost care, keeps you healthy, entertains you should you need conversation or otherwise, and provides, provides, provides. There may be a lack of freedom on your end, but really, do you have much room to complain? Without him, you may very well be dead. He ensures that point is driven straight to your heart, however many times is necessary until you grow compliant.

His will and rationality is fully reasonable, in his mind, hence why his wishes to keep you by his side shall forever remain solid. Perhaps it is the idea of you keeping close to him that entraptures Diluc so entirely, for he is a distant admirer. He would be contented growing old and without your touch, merely sharing your company for as long as life allows. All the same, he wishes to swallow you whole, skin, blood, guts and tears, if only to keep you with him. It is selfish, but he tells himself that is something of which he is deserving. He must.

Naughty: How would they punish their darling?

Diluc is nothing if not dedicated to his goals, a driven man in everything he sets his mind to. In order to maintain the position he thrives in, he is forever alert, forever adapting, prepared for any strenuous situation thrown his way. Should you push past a line you are never meant to cross, jab at him a tad too harshly, well... it’s not as if he gives no thought as to how to keep you in line. Rarely are you knowing enough of his inner workings to be able to push him past the point of no return, a point where even you, his dearest, are not spared from his wrath. Emphasis on rare, for he is wholly tolerant and gentle with you, to an extent. Any person has a breaking point, and Diluc, despite his detached disposition and stoic attitude, can only withstand so much. He bottles up so much to remain composed, after all. When he snaps, he is unable to hold himself back any longer.

He is not one to take pleasure from the suffering of others. Lest they truly deserve it, is what he’ll tell himself, to at the very least maintain the illusion of normalcy. Sway not from the path of righteousness, forget not the splendor of dawn. His mind is able to concoct the most horrific scenarios he could possibly put you through, for he does the same with his enemies. In a way, when you act out of turn, an instinctual part of him, cultivated after years spent at the whims of the dangerous and unknown, sees you as just that— an enemy. He doesn’t often choose the more unsavory methods to keeping you in line, ie: beating or threatening you with his vision, further keeping true to said threats should you continue. Diluc is wholly capable of restraining the urge to simply slap the snark off of your face (he had done so regardless, once or twice), and much prefers isolating you on his own terms, away from everyone and everything, even himself. It’s a small room, not even on par with that of your shared bedroom, much more similar to a closet or crawlspace.

A room, but a cage all the same. Splintered wood floors, dank cobblestone surrounds you and few cracks in the stone leaves room for bugs of all nature to crawl through, allows the elements to rain hell upon you should you end up locked up during the harsher months. A lone maid, not even Adelinde, the head, attends to you, sparing meek glances should you call out when she gently places a meal of one roll, a piece of meat, and a few shoddily cut slabs of potato. No begging and weeping and screaming you may do will soften Diluc into coming back for you- again, his resolve is akin to that of steel, his will forever unyielding. He decides when you are thoroughly broken in, and when it is time to hold you in kind, he shines through like that of The Darknight Hero the people proclaim him to be. In the end, what is necessary is that he shows you how much better off you are when with him. He’s much too possessive and to a point, coddling, to ever consider discarding you into the wild and at the whims of hilichurl camps and abyss mages alike.

His hold is firm and grounding. Had he always been able to hold you with such ease? Had he ever truly held you in kind, as he does now? He’s warm. A familiar, comforting scent of smoke and acidic wine fills your senses and him, oh, him. He had left you, left you alone, all alone, in that room, not even a room, all alone, and yet you can do little more than gag and writhe and latch onto him with pleas of his name whispered hoarsely— ‘Diluc, Diluc, Diluc’. A cry of your savior.

He can’t look at you, won’t look at you. Won’t give you the mercy, but he couldn’t be angry. Not anymore. He holds you tighter and so flush to himself, with a ferocity narly shown to anyone but you, not in kind, not with this passion. You smell of dust, a husk of yourself. Faintly of his sheets, faintly of iron, of vomit, of filth.

Fresh memories of your betrayal burn hot in his mind. He’s contradicting himself. He cannot relent. It comes out as a whisper, barely even heard to himself, and he curses his very soul the moment it passes his lips.

“Strive to do better. Lest you want your time there to increase tenfold.”

Patience: How patient are they with their darling?

He can bear with defiance and unwillingness on your part, to an extent. He can anticipate as much, for he is not delusional enough to fool himself into thinking your relationship is even somewhat typical to that of a normal couple, no matter how much he wishes that to be the case. No, for the initial few weeks of your captivity (he’s always gotten so mad when you refer to him as such, a captor) Diluc allows you to lash and sob and attempt to reason with him, attempt to soften him, attempt to hurt him. He’ll allow you to do so, but he himself remains impenetrable, unblinking, almost uncaring. He is prepared for about anything and everything, always expecting the worse possibilities as to save himself from further harm. For you, as well, he is constantly anticipating and observing. In hidden, minute little ways. It may even come as a shame to him if the fact that he enforces the maids to note down your every little move ever reaches your ears.

All in all, Diluc’s complete preparation for anything and everything you may throw his way makes him extremely patient, for better or for worse. Difficult to crack, impenetrable, almost— on one hand, the distance he keeps from you to accommodate for your lack of reciprocation may come as a blessing, but it makes it all too difficult to try and pester him into letting you go, to try and understand his goals and motivations in keeping you locked right away. Your complacency is inevitable, sooner or later, Diluc will begin approaching and weaseling his way into your routine in the smallest of ways, gradually and unconsciously causing you to grow fonder of his presence. It’s a slow process, one he had planned from the very moment his wishes of a domestic life with you grew much too much to handle. He loves you completely, yearns for your love, and for it, he will wait as long as necessary.

Blazing red eyes leer down upon you, your shame increasing tenfold for each second that passes subjected to that gaze of his. A fit of expaseration, you will admit, had sent the cutlery dear Hillie had so delicately prepared flying off of the white tablecloth and onto the hardwood floors, further staining the expensive rugs with wines and crumbs and oils from his favorite meal, a concoction of pasta and steak and cheese. He had prepared yours alongside with it, striking tonight as a tad more special than the rest. You didn’t blame yourself for what you did, not when he had proposed something as outlandish as marriage.

He keeps silent, leaning back in his seat, his throne, as if he were a king observing a mere peasant begging for mercy— quite frankly, you should be. But perhaps tonight he will be more lenient, you ponder, averting your gaze to the flickering embers sparking from the fireplace beside you.

He sighs, suddenly, worn and thoroughly put out by your antics, further embarrassing you by his facade of nonchalance. No, you could tell from the way his leather gloves creaked from gripping himself too hard, he was barely concealing his own anger.

“You hardly let me finish my scentence. Come, we’ll continue this conversation upstairs.”

[bmo-galaxy]

Okay but what if they kissed?

But just imagine that Naruto and Sasuke kiss at the end. An honest to god, square on the lips, absolutely intentional kiss. A kiss they choose, a kiss on purpose, a kiss that isn't comic relief or shock value. A kiss to explain what drove Naruto forward all these years. The kind of kiss that shows that even now, even after it all, they choose each other and came back to each other and never, ever forgot. A kiss that’s a promise and a fresh start. 

Just imagine, if you will, for a moment that Sasuke tells him to shut up and Naruto peels himself from the rock, turning with fire in those blue eyes. The same way they burn before a fight, prepared and focused. Those blue eyes have always been Sasuke’s undoing, reflecting only the earnest truth. Every one of Naruto’s emotions is broadcast in those vast oceans. A strong, steady hand shoots out to fist in Sasuke’s shirt and raven is sure he's about to get headbutted again. Naruto wretches him up and leans real close and Sasuke is waiting for the crack and the pain. A pain that never comes.

The kiss isn't soft or sweet or sentimental. Its all sharp edges and teeth and desperation. A peak into Naruto’s soul, a glimpse at his pain, a taste of his anger. Just as quickly as it starts, the kiss is over. Naruto pulls away with a gasp, sapphire eyes fluttering open. All the fierceness and fury deflates from Naruto and the blonde’s shoulders sag. His fist is still gripping Sasuke’s shirt, but it loosens until it sits flat against the Uchiha’s chest, right over his heart. Eyes falling closed, Naruto basks in the steady beat against his palm. You’re alive, you’re alive, you’re alive and you’re here.

"You have no idea how long I've waited to do that," Naruto admits this in a husky whisper before he can stop himself. Disbelief colors his tone and the blonde shakes his head like he can't believe this is happening. “This is like a dream,” he continues, still quiet and heartfelt. A part of the blonde is embarrassed and wishes he would shut up, but Naruto is just too tired. Mind, body, soul; every bit of him is exhausted, but more than anything, Naruto is weak with relief. Leaving his tongue loose and his inhibitions lowered. 

Sasuke struggles for words, struggles to breathe, struggles to understand. Where was the strike, the anger, the hatred for everything Sasuke has done? Why does Naruto look so fucking happy? Bloodied, mangled, black and blue and beaten. Sasuke will never apologize for his actions, standing by hatred for the Leaf and his dedication to his late brother. Naruto, though... 

Naruto, who followed him to the ends of the earth. Naruto, who never gave up on him, even when everyone around him did. Naruto, who stood up to him over and over, proudly proclaiming to be his friend every single time. Naruto, who was prepared to lose his dream, his home, his life; and was prepared to do so smiling, just happy to have a future with Sasuke. 

Why, Naruto? Sasuke implores silently, watching happy tears streak down the blonde’s cheeks. Why, why, why, why--

"Why?" Is all that Sasuke can think and all he can get past his lips. The one great mystery: why would someone like Naruto, now surrounded by love and praise, chase after Sasuke so relentlessly, the one person determined to cut their ties entirely? Naruto looks up at him with sparkling, vast blue eyes that don't hide anything. A clear, cloudless sky. Every corner of Naruto is laid bare in front of Sasuke, who resists the urge to turn away. Those damn blue eyes have always been Sasuke’s undoing, the one thing consistently able to shakes Sasuke’s resolve and fill him with yearning. 

"Don't make me repeat myself, you know why," Naruto chuckles, bashful and blushing now. He scratches his cheek and glances away. "I figure that made it pretty obvious."

Sasuke almost smiles, almost relents his intense stare, because he does know. Far as he tried to run from the truth, he does know why Naruto did all of that. Just like he knows why he was never truly able to sever their connection. Sasuke needs to hear it though, needs to hear the truth he's known for years and years. Why would Naruto do any of it other than-- than-- than--

"Why, Naruto?" And the blonde can tell that the raven is asking about much more than the kiss. Sasuke is asking about everything and Naruto only has one answer for that question. Naruto’s flush darkens, the anticipation and passion and intensity in Sasuke’s gaze is setting the blonde on fire. A wild, uncontainable hope flares in the fox’s chest, seeing all of his own desires reflected in Sasuke’s eyes. 

And Naruto would swallow thickly and say the three words he's always held in his heart, always believed in, always protected against anything.

"I love you," Naruto whispers and Sasuke’s heart stops, time stops, everything stops. There’s only Naruto and his burning sapphire eyes. "I love you, Sasuke. That’s why. That’s-- That’s always been why."

It’s the answer Sasuke expects and knows is coming but somehow still knocks the breath from the raven. There it is, the undeniable truth neither had ever uttered out loud. The truth Sasuke hid from. The truth Naruto never let disappear. Against all odds and by some miracle, Naruto loves him. 

Naruto loves me, Naruto loves me, Naruto loves me.

"I love you," Sasuke says like a prayer, whispered on the edge of his breath. Uttering the confession makes him feel faintly lightheaded and a breathless chuckle slips from his lips. "I'm sorry it took so long."

Naruto laughs, high and clear and beautiful. A pure sound that kisses Sasuke’s ears and soothes his soul. For a second, in this moment, everything feels alright. Naruto punches his shoulder gently, a fond and affection gesture that’s nothing like the blows they traded an hour ago. 

“I really must have rocked your shit for you to be apologizing to me,” the orange ninja teases, smiling brightly. Sasuke rolls his eyes at the comment, shaking his head slowly. Everything is different but nothing has changed. This is still comfortable, familiar, soothing. As if no time has passed at all. 

“I’ll make one exception, don’t get used to it,” he needles back. Naruto copies his eyeroll and fights down a giggle. There’s a beat of silence, a moment to bask in the glow. Everything they need is here and even though wounds ache, neither is rushing to locate their comrades. They’ll find us eventually, they both think silently, content to enjoy their moment alone. Naruto scoots a little nearer and Sasuke leans a little closer. One shaking, hesitant arm reaches out to wrap around Sasuke’s waist. The raven haired nin stills initially, survival instinct telling him to run run run before he gets hurt, or overtaken, or killed.

Naruto doesn't hurt him though. Despite everything, in spite of everything, Naruto never hurts Sasuke. Naruto is safe, gentle warmth. Even his heaviest blows somehow felt like a fond caress. Naruto is just good, plain and simple. So, the raven relaxes into the embrace and wraps his arm around Naruto too. The embrace is awkward and sticky, both are covered in grime and sweat and blood, but they don't care. Trembling fingers cling desperately. Tear streaked faces press into necks and shoulders. Their last and first embrace, a new dawn breaking over them. Naruto’s mouth finds Sasuke’s ear and the blonde’s voice warms and deepens with all of his love and gratitude and relief.

"Welcome home, Sasuke."

A sob rises, rises, rises in Sasuke’s chest but he swallows hard to keep it down. It’s easy to remember the last person to say those words to him, easy to imagine his mother in the kitchen as he leaves for school. Everything has been darkness from that day, broken up by brief, startling moments of light. Moments with Naruto, working as a three man team and growing together. The dawn has broken and the warmth of Naruto’s sun is a beacon in the shadows, a breath of hope and fresh air after a long winter underground. 

"I'm home," Sasuke replies because it’s true. Naruto is home. Not his first one, but certainly his last. 

[lethargicsunlight]

Dabi X SpookyQuirk!Reader "Conflagration" (mini) (Part 8)

(See the other parts on my directory! LINK)

It's happening again.

The fire.

Bark on a nearby tree has turned black, crisscrossed with cerulean streaks; like lightning, glowing from within. Embers spit and sizzle, arcing down to the scorched earth from the branches and dancing on the thermal winds that send the blaze into organic, breath-like spirals.

It's loud. You've never heard anything like it. The very air was as though bellowing  with emotion; tearing it molecularly apart to feed a frenzied beast. Between the cacophony and the sapphire hues--you reach for serenity. To pull apart the pain that keeps you tethered, and move past it.

This was your third time visiting this place.

The second had been like the first, stuck and swallowed by the flames and waking up in a cold sweat.

But not this time.

Determined to change the fate of this vision, you let go of trying to struggle and sink into the scenery. It's wretched--the pain insurmountable despite how you remain absolutely lucid as something you can't fathom rakes through your flesh down to the bone. You can see and you can't see all at once.

Your eyes are closed, but you also know what the fire looks like--what the burning foliage looks like. You know there's a stream nearby, even though your body won't move towards it. You know there's someone that was supposed to be here..

But they never came.

It's their fault.

These thoughts aren't yours. These memories aren't yours. Finally everything seems to mount until at a fever pitch, and your essence finally blends in--syncing with the environment and becoming part of it.

Why didn't he come?!

If he had... just this once..!

I could've shown him!

It was a little boy's voice; echoing through the smoke that rose from burning trees and boiling streams. Broken, angry, and sad.

Finally, the world begins fading to black like dropping ink into a glass of water; transparent at first, but then its pitch darkness.

And at the vision's end, all you can feel is cold.

----

This time when you wake up, your body is buzzing. Your arms and chest quake uncontrollably, and you grab for your phone to check the time. It's 2:45 AM. You try to set it down carefully, but instead it clatters unto the wood of the bedside table.

You force yourself to rise and sit at the side of the bed; shaking hands massaging your scalp as you stare at the floor.

This wasn't a coincidence anymore.

At first, you thought this was some subconscious dialogue your own mind wanted to share with you; a warning as you kept finding yourself closer and closer with the League of Villains and Dabi in particular. Seeing as things had turned out, however.. there was no warning that could sway you. Your mind's previous interpretations of 'right' and 'wrong' had evolved, and you could no longer look at the world in the black and white spectrum as it wanted you to.

So why?

You can put two and two together. You were being burned, or rather, whoever you were projecting from had been. And, seeing as how Dabi was littered with burn scars..

It's really amazing you hadn't figured it out till now.

The broken and sad voice of the boy echoes in your mind and it takes a full second to convince yourself that it's not happening again as you fidget, and eventually stand up. There's no way you can go back to sleep now. Instead, you begin to get dressed. You needed to go outside and be somewhere other than this room.

Since you had shared a kiss with the elusive metal firebrand, you had both promised to be more open. Unfortunately though, while you had plenty of confessions for him.. he had little. Not for being secretive, but more because he spent most of his time focused on what needed to be done. He admitted to some personal pleasures, but they were far from anything he 'loved' or 'favored' for more than short-term. Whether that was hobbies or even people. He never kept anyone close, and even the League was often just at arms length.

When it came to his past though, he was always short about his answers and quick to go into his usual manifesto.

"So.." You start, a little awkwardly as the two of you are making headway back towards the base. It has almost felt like a game of twenty questions, as he relinquished to finally asking you about your life and quirk. 'What was it like as a kid?' 'Did you have parents?' 'Was it scary?'

"Those scars..? How did you get them?"

You can see a shift in his posture then, and his eyes narrow as he focuses forward. "Something that happened quite a while ago now. It's a reminder of my purpose.. but it's nothing more important than that."

Your eyebrows dip in, and you know it probably is more important than that, but you don't push. "Oh.."

There's a flash of guilt in his eyes as he recognizes the disappointment in your voice. "It's because of this hero society." He spits the venom laced words, trying to pivot your attention to something else. "They're hypocrites, and they need to be torn down from their shiny pedestals. They think they're invincible because this twisted society protects them.. but we're going to stop that."

He looks at you, eyes hard and hot with malice and determination. "Right..?" He asks you, as though his interpretation of 'we' was actually intended for the two of you alone, rather than the League and its entirety.

"Right."

You're still shaking as you make your way downstairs. You're surprised to find Shigaraki and Kurogiri both there; the latter at the bar and the former with his face lit up by a monitor in the corner.

"Y/n?" It's Kurogiri announcing your presence, fiery yellow eyes unreadable despite the concerned sound in his voice.

"Sorry. Had a hard time sleeping again, I just need some air." You say, making your way towards the exit.

The bell sounds a familiar jingle upon your departure, and you don't notice Shigaraki turning in his chair to stare at the door as it closes.

Kurogiri goes about making you some of that tea he mentioned weeks back, and eventually he brings it out to you; still piping hot and tasting of medicine. It helps, but you never bring yourself to admit to the misty man what you had been dreaming about. You make the excuse that you may have overused your quirk, or weren't used to the extended effects of your new abilities and it affected your sleep. That was good enough for him.

When you return to your room in the hopes of getting the last few hours of rest, you first stand outside of it--wondering if you should take a few steps more down the hall to a certain door. The discovery of your mutual feelings encouraged you--but it was still so new. You feared confronting him about the dreams might turn him away and make him cold again.

Instead you sluggishly return to bed. When chasing sleep didn't work, you grabbed the sketchbook from your bag and used the light on your phone to sketch the fire.

When the image felt empty, you added a silhouette of a boy in pain.

[captainsimagines]

To Topple A Giant || Chapter Six

Summary: You had made it your mission to destroy even the smallest evils. When the opportunity arises to finally take down your own family after years of gaining their trust, you reach for it. And so does Steve, the man who represents a symbol of everything you hate.

Pairing(s): Steve Rogers x Reader || Avengers x Reader

Part 6 of 10 ~ Mini-Series

Warnings: This story contains mature themes and discussions such as extreme canon violence, strong language, emotional angst, mentions of Endgame deaths and recoveries, sexual situations, and emotional/physical abuse. All trigger warnings will be listed before the chapter. This is purely fanfiction.

Warnings in this Chapter: physical assault; mentions of past sexual assault (brief); abusive parental relationship; canon violence; ANGST; mentions of attempted suicide; mentions of drugs, drug smuggling, and human trafficking; bullying and harassment; SMUT (unprotected sex; hair pulling; ass smack!; ALL THAT GOOD CONSENT; talking a lot during sex lol); 18+ ONLY PLEASE!

Word Count: 21,400+

A/N: ya’ll my timeline is completely fucked (age wise)... like... anything remotely romantic happening between Steve x Female Reader happened AFTER Infinity War when the reader was already 19-20. I just realized that my years were off in a certain flashback......... so yes, everyone knew the reader while they were still in their teens but they’re literally 26-27 present day so don’t think too much of it lmao i can’t really fix it now lol

~

An Avengers Safehouse, 2023, 10:45 pm  

    Every door was closed and locked for the night. You had made sure of it. A distraction now would ultimately destroy any other chance you might get, and this chance was already overdue. 

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you jogged down the hallways to the common room you knew he was in. He had been catching up on his reading for the past two days now, a small pinch of solace during this hectic week. 

Your feet were heavy, invisible anchors shackled to your ankles and dragging you lower to the depths of that personal hell you had been burning in. Glancing over your shoulder, you measured the distance between you and your room, chest beginning to feel tight as your lungs forgot the taste of air. It was like you were walking to your own personal execution, flesh and bone ready to disconnect from your essence. But you weren’t walking toward anything dangerous - you were walking to him. To speak with him. To be with him. 

You knew you saw it when everyone returned from the heist. He wasn’t himself - he regretted not using the stones for himself, possibly - you truly didn’t know why. You enjoyed the reunions and getting to reconnect with everyone. Grasping and holding Wanda in your arms was outright magical, to touch one of your best friends after nearly accepting the possibility of never doing that again - you had a similar reaction when you collapsed into Peter’s arms with the weight of those five long years. 

And you knew Steve was grateful as well, he had to be, but his exclusion of you hurt. You had shrugged it off the first time - perhaps he was tired, wanted more private time to catch up with Sam and Bucky, to be with his friends as you were with yours. The second time he dismissed you, it was during a dinner. The seat beside you was empty, it wasn’t even that close to you, and he decided to skip dinner altogether. 

But the third time, the most wretched of times, had shown you that something was truly wrong. This wasn’t the Steve you had grown close to these five years. He was distant, cold, a completely changed person that only spoke when absolutely necessary. 

It was a nightmare, one of the worst ones you ever had, and Friday had alerted the only other room near yours - Steve’s. The knocks were loud, frantic in their purpose, and Friday unlocked the door. You were shaken awake, tugged into a chest that wasn’t as firm as the one you remembered, and soft whispers of ‘you’re okay, you’re alright’ drowned out the sounds of your panicked whimpers. You reached out to stroke the person’s face, eyes snapping open when you realized it wasn’t him, it wasn’t Steve. 

‘Bucky?’ you had whispered, hands still stroking his face as he held you. 

‘It’s me. You’re okay, you’re alright.’

‘Where’s Steve? Is he okay?’

Bucky immediately tensed, expression turning somber as he tried to give an acceptable explanation. 

‘He’s… he’s not coming, doll.’

‘What do you mean he’s not coming? He always comes, he-”

‘Doll, hey,’ he shook his head, biting his bottom lip. ‘He’s not coming.’

The broken question of ‘why?’ had tumbled from your lips until Bucky’s rocking had calmed you enough to fall back into a deep sleep. And the next morning, Steve announced he was moving from the safehouse and back to his apartment permanently. 

And it made no sense considering you two were on wonderful terms just a few weeks ago babysitting Morgan. It was like he flipped a switch and erased you from his memory. 

You deserve an explanation. You deserve to have your questions answered, to see the look in his eyes as he tried to explain himself, to witness his fumbling as you caught him off guard. You deserved to know.  

“Why are you avoiding me?”

The common area was illuminated by a soft, yellow light from the lamp in the corner of the room, the moonlight only shining over the kitchen. Steve sat on the lone couch near the soft light, book in his lap and already half-way read. 

No one really snuck up on him - no one had the chance to with his enhanced hearing - but you succeeded. The book nearly fell from his lap, a hitch in his breath alerting you that he really wasn’t expecting anyone. He set the book down on the nearby table and slowly stood up. “I’m not avoiding you.”

You will not cry right now. 

You scoffed, “So, leaving a room when I walk in is just a common occurrence now? What about avoiding me completely? You don’t say good morning, you don’t tell me hello, you don’t even sit near me anymore-”

“It’s late, and these briefings have really taken a toll on me, agent.” Steve sighed and avoided your eyes as he walked right past you and into the kitchen. 

He hadn’t actually done it, but that certainly was a slap in the face. The invisible shackles wrapped around your ankles were pulling harder, drowning you in your grief.

You mindlessly whipped your head at him, watching as he grabbed the milk carton and proceeded to do absolutely nothing with it. You clenched your teeth, “Agent?” 

He did not immediately correct himself. The room was now deathly silent, minus the quick breaths under your nose. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Don’t make this into something it’s not.”

Your forehead strained from the pained expression you held, tears brimmed and burning as they threatened to fall. You walked towards him and tried to keep a steady demeanor, anger drowning your veins the quickest it ever has. “What is it then? ‘Cause you’ve been calling me by my real name for the last five years! You’re my friend!”

Everytime your name slipped from his mouth it made you like him more. His presence was no longer uncomfortable or forced, but rather calming and needed. This friendship was built high and mighty these five years, walls seemingly strong. You worried there was true vulnerability in those foundations.

Speaking to Rhodey or Bruce just wasn’t the same as speaking to Steve. Helping him take out the trash, buying coffee for one another, asking the other what they wanted to watch on television. But now your name was absent from his voice, restrained and gutted from existence as if to purposely hurt your now healing mind. 

Steve ignored the desperate portion of your argument, “It’s time to focus on the new threats this world faces-”

“What are you talking about? Why are you shutting me out like I’m not important to you?”

His jaw tensed, eyes still distant. “I’m not shutting you out. I’m saying we need to focus on the fights we thought we left behind-”

“You mean my dad? Because I’m pretty fucking sure he’s looking to only kill me.”

“Don’t joke about that-”

You had no physical control now. The anger was at its boiling point, seeping through the corners of your eyelids and corners of your mouth. “Joke about what? Why are you not letting me in?”

Steve gripped the counter, head hanging low but voice powerful enough to shake through you. “Stop interrupting me!”

A solitary tear hit the floor beneath you, voice now wobbly and unsure of its chosen words. “What happened to you?”

Steve remained silent for only a moment, hands still gripping the expensive granite. “Nothing happened.”

He ran his right hand down his face to relieve some of the tense muscles. He continued to speak.

“Now that everyone’s back and the same threats are picking up where they left off, I’ve got bigger problems on my hands.”

You scoffed again, “Oh, so now Scott’s time heist has another negative consequence?”

In a matter of a millisecond, Steve turned suddenly and was now towering over you. Your back instantly straightened. “Don’t be smart with me. You know what this means.”

You just looked up at him, eyes slightly fogging up but the rest of your face still determined. You spoke low, searching his face for any indication that he would swing. No, he wouldn’t. Ever. “Spell it out for me then. I’m still seething from not hearing my first name yet.”

Steve ignored your quip, “Now that your father’s back, we need to finish what we started.”

You stared at him in disbelief, “You don’t think he’s actually going to pick up where he left off, right? Not now!”

“He already has. Fury notified me through a secure channel,” Steve declared, stepping away from you as his mind finally rewired. 

You instinctively wrapped your arms around your torso, “No…”

“Business as usual.”

Your voice raised an octave, desperation now dousing your plea of ignorance, “No, you’re lying. You’re a goddamn liar!”

“Calm down, agent. This isn’t the time-”

It was your turn to crowd Steve, stepping toward him and pushing him backwards. Your mind told you to not touch him, that he never touched you, and that it was horribly wrong. But his blank face prompted another push, your body acting on its own will. 

“Agent? Agent! Steve, what the fuck is going on?”

His voice was deeper, “If you yell one more time-”

“You’ll what?” 

Neither of you spoke. In that moment, you wondered if anyone had heard this fight as you and Steve weren’t exactly being quiet. You knew your voice traveled down several hallways and his strong one practically shook the floors. So you pushed that thought to the back of your cramped brain, head held high and eyes boring into Steve’s.

“Now that you got your old friends back, I’m useless. Is that right?”

His eyes widened, “Where in the hell is that coming from?”

“I’m right, right? You don’t want to be my friend anymore, I was a rebound all these years?”

Steve started shaking his head, eyes closed as he tried to calculate the best possible response. He could feel his lungs burn, almost like they did before the serum, and he realized he was throwing himself into a panic attack. It tickled its way up his throat, clenching the sides and dragging its nails across the sensitive surface.

You were still speaking.  

“You know, you’re still pissed that the first name I spit out to Fury when I went undercover was yours. You never wanted to help me with it.”

“Don’t start-”

You knew you shouldn’t have continued, this argument proved childish since he first called you by an old, nameless nickname. But it seemed he had no intention of apologizing or providing you with an explanation for his sudden absence.

“You’re still fuming about it. You’re still fuming about your image being ruined. Good ol’ Captain America as a secret, undercover drug dealer!”

Steve finally showed proof of cracking, hands gripping his hair harshly. “Y/N, I said don’t start! I’m finished!”

But you persisted, now screaming and countless, frustrated tears tainting your red cheeks. “You can’t fucking stand me because I tarnished that fucking star on your chest! I made you look bad to a bunch of fucking criminals!”

Steve grabbed the nearest object, the coffee maker Tony had bought for their six year formation anniversary, and flung it across the room. It shattered into the wall, leftover cold coffee staining the peach paint, the glass littered over the floor. “That’s enough!”

The sound of its impact made your stomach churn. You were frozen in place, almost certain that Steve would throw you next, and your legs were suddenly cold. “Who are you?”

“I don’t know anymore,” Steve choked out, tears forming in his eyes as well. His chest rapidly raised and lowered, his breathing becoming erratic. Even he wondered why no one had come to check up on you two.

For the sake of Steve’s sanity, you whispered your next reply. 

“You hate me that much-”

“Y/N-”

And you were suddenly overpowered by a sense of calm acceptance. “You hate me so much that you can’t even stand to look at me.”

“Please...”

“I’m finished, too. From now on… you’re my Captain. I’m just an agent. I’ll answer your call to help fight. That’s it.”

You had thought he would drop to his knees and apologize. This Steve wasn’t your Steve - not that Steve or any part of him was ever yours - but it was almost impossible to comprehend such a blank set of emotions from the same man who helped you with laundry, remembered the captions of your photo posts and teased you about them later, or casually sketched your outline in his sketchbook. He began to disregard your kindness, your presence, your voice the moment Wanda held Vision’s face as he whispered his goodbye, as she got her closure, as she had to say goodbye for the thousandth time. 

But nothing could prepare you for his quick acceptance of your offer.

“I think that’s for the best.”

You nodded slowly, arms falling to your sides. It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did - hell, you didn’t love the guy - but he was so much more than just a colleague now. You had literally saved the world together. He was your shoulder to cry on and you were his. Did you love him? 

“Just so you know, I wasn’t faking any of it.” 

Steve looked as if he was going to say something but closed his mouth. You swore you could see his bottom lip trembling, but he remained still. He stared anywhere but your face. 

You turned to leave, body ready to give away and tumble into the mound of pillows calling your name. But you held yourself up at the doorway, turning back to Steve and meeting his eyes - he was already watching you walk away. 

You swallowed hard, “And I’ll be the honest one here, tonight - you were the only thing stopping me from putting a bullet in my head for five years.”

Present Day, 2025, 7:02am

     You awoke startled, your gasp a little raspy as it sounded off in the quiet room. Your internal clock was already stressing you out, letting you know that you seriously had to get up now, even before your alarm rang. 

Dread swam in the pit of your stomach, swirling the pound of breadsticks you had last night. Yesterday had been your last ‘in between’ day, the last day to truly map out your next steps before you actually had to execute them. You would see everyone today, tomorrow, and the next - the next the final, the endgame. 

You rolled over and glanced at Steve. His bed was empty, sheets folded and pillows fluffed, and the bathroom was open and empty. 

With a pinch of your eyebrows, you groaned as you flipped your legs over the side of your bed. You stilled, but there was no other sound. 

Steve really wasn’t here. 

For a second, you were angry. You couldn’t believe he literally left you alone, after basically defiling you and you himself, on a day that would for sure strike a major nerve in your crippling anxiety. It was low, like you were left to pick up your heels and proceed with the walk of shame down the hotel hallways.

But then the next second, you were relieved. You could take this moment to relive last night, to hatch out every single detail, to somehow make sense of just what the hell happened. It had been so fucking hot, so fucking overdue, and god, did you want to do it again. Steve’s absence allowed you to squeal in both delight and disbelief. 

You had fondled… had sex with?... humped?... your literal Captain. Sure, you had crossed a boundary in this ten-year friendship and rivalry, a boundary that was now completely exed out and erased really, but it wasn’t literal sex. Right?

It was certainly something if you had learned one thing from Sex Ed 101. Intimacy was intimacy. Yeah, you and Steve shared… intimacy. 

It took all your willpower to shrug off the rest of the blankets and start getting ready. There wasn’t much to do except hope that your guns didn’t jam or Seda didn’t ambush you. Quickly shooting off a text to Wanda, you waited for her much needed call. 

‘Hey, what’s up?’

You let out a long hum, face lifted toward the ceiling as you thought about how you would phrase last night’s events to her. “So, like, I’m gonna kill myself.”

‘Back up. Explain?’

“Ahhhhh, Wanda! I fucked up. We fucked up.”

Wanda’s voice sounded frantic, ‘Did the mission go wrong? Where’s Scott? Steve? Torres?’

You groaned, stomping your foot like the literal child you were. “Wanda, me and Steve did something last night.”

Wanda was silent for a few moments, her quick breaths evening out as she collected her thoughts. ‘Are you trying to tell me, that while trying to tell me you had sex with Steve last night, you made it sound like we would have had to all suit up to save your asses all the way across the country?’

Grateful she couldn’t see you blush, you responded as if you were trying to still keep the events a secret. “Well, when you put it like that!”

‘Did you and Steve actually…?’

“No, no! But we… touched and stuff.”

‘Is this high school? Spit it out.’

It was basic instinct to inspect the room again before you admitted it. “We sort of just, got each other off. Like, handjobs and such.”

Wanda let out a sound that resembled both a groan and a chuckle. ‘High school.’

You threw yourself back into bed, rolling around and throwing pillows all over the place. “It was so hot.”

‘You don’t need to give me the specifics.’

“Who else am I supposed to talk with? Bucky?”

Wanda choked on her laugh, ‘Okay, okay. I see your point.’

“What does this mean?” you asked both her and yourself. 

‘I’m gonna tell you something that you might not like to hear, okay?’

“Ugh, don’t scare me.”

Wanda chuckled before she continued, ‘This doesn’t surprise me.’

You practically strained your back from snapping up from bed so quickly. “What do you mean ‘you’re not surprised’?”

There was slight shuffling on the other line. ‘I owe Peter fifty dollars.’

You huffed loudly, “What do you mean by that, Wanda?”

Wanda sighed, ‘Look, we weren’t here during those five years. We weren’t here to see you two together. But Bruce told us how you two were during that time. Even when you were ignoring each other for months after, you didn’t hesitate to protect each other.’

You shook your head, as if she could see you. “He abandoned me for a good while.”

Wanda interrupted, ‘You saved him at the height of your fighting.’

You rolled your eyes, “He’s my Captain, of course I saved him.”

‘You didn’t have to.’

Your thoughts were flying at a hundred miles an hour, colliding with one another at top speeds. You opted to forgo that memory. It was shelved, to be revisited later. 

Changing the subject to a much less dramatic topic, the phone call lasted for another fifteen minutes before you seriously had to finish getting ready. 

The talk helped. But it didn’t answer any questions you had. The answers lay in the one place you really didn’t want to explore right now. Maybe after breakfast.

      Scott stumbled out of the elevator with very sleepy eyes, fingers still digging into their corners as he made his way to the hotel bar. Steve was seated in the farthest chair from the entrance just casually sipping orange juice. 

“What was so urgent that I had to wake up before my alarm?” Scott groaned as he slid into the seat beside him. 

Steve’s eyes were glued to his drink. He was bouncing his leg wildly. “I’m sorry, I just…”

It didn’t take a genius to know that when someone was nursing an orange juice in the hotel bar, head hanging low and with a massive pout, there was something incredibly wrong. “Shit, I’m sorry. I’m just cranky when I have to get up early.”

Steve waved his hand, “No, don’t apologize. I get it. I mean it.”

Scott ordered his own glass. He spread his lips into a thin line, “Did you want to talk? I’m a great listener. I could listen to Luis go on for hours on end.”

“I need to tell someone.”

“I’m all ears.”

Steve hesitated for only a second, downing the orange juice as if it was a shot. He ordered another. “I kissed Y/N last night.”

“Are you serious?” Scott’s eyes widened and he gurgled his juice on accident. He didn’t know what to say. Congratulations? 

“And we messed around a little bit.”

Now Scott tilted his head to the side and gave the super soldier an amused glare. “Messed around? What is this, the third grade?”

Steve cringed, “I hope to God no third graders are messing around.”

His juice was long forgotten now. “Then call it like it is, Captain. You ‘serviced the Venus’, you ‘made whoopee’, you -”

“That’s calling it like it is?”

“Am I wrong?”

“Very. We just… touched and stuff.”

Steve’s awkward hand gestures caused Scott’s lip to twitch itself into a weird smile. “You ‘cleaned your rifle’? You did the ‘loop-de-loop?”

“Where in the hell are you getting these things from? You think we actually talked like this back in the forties?” Steve covered his ears and lay his forehead against the counter. 

“Sorry, sorry. I was just having a little fun.” Scott apologized, trying to make eye contact even as Steve’s head was lowered. “Sorry, no fun.” Still, Steve remained sheltered. “Damn, man. Did something else happen that you’re not telling me?”

Finally, Steve turned his head to look at Scott but left it resting against the counter. “I feel like we crossed a line.”

“You technically violated the mission code of ethics, but.”

Steve snapped up and covered his face with his hands, index fingers pinching the corners of his eyes. “But kissing her didn’t feel wrong. Holding her didn’t feel wrong.”

Scott was in the middle of a rom com. He had to be. There was always that scene where one of the partners freaked out because they themselves didn’t know their own feelings. They would cower in their own little world for about fifteen minutes, or at least fifteen minutes of screentime, and then gain the courage to talk it through. Scott was just that random friend who happened to ask what was wrong. 

But you and Steve were his teammates. The two of you had helped him get his family back. You had been so excited to try out the time machine, shutting everyone else up as they bullied him for simply having the idea. Steve risked his life for him more times than he could count in the past two years. He always suspected something was wrong between the two of you. But no one was brave enough to openly speak about what had happened that night. He just knew what Sam had told him - ‘It’s none of our business. They’re both acting like children. But Steve, even though I love him with all my heart, royally fucked up.’

“Then why are you so worried? Steve, I wasn’t around those five years. Only you know your relationship with her.”

“I don’t deserve it,” Steve mumbled.

His ears were playing tricks. He had gone deaf. “Huh?”

Steve explained further, his face falling with each new confession he spoke verbally. He hadn’t even discussed these feelings with his therapist. Granted, he only spoke of you when you were being a pain in his ass, but romantically? “I don’t deserve to touch her, to have her, to be with her. I left her alone at her most vulnerable, and that you were here for so you know.”

Scott shook his head, “But I have no real say in that. Like I said, only you know what you feel.”

He finished his juice and leaned back in his chair. He clapped a hand on Steve’s shoulder and they both turned their attention to the tiny television mounted on the wall playing the morning news. It was hard to believe that a couple years ago, Scott had completely fangirled over being in Steve’s presence. Now he was one of his closest friends. 

His next thought seemed to register slowly and he cleared his throat awkwardly. “Wait, did you leave her to wake up alone?”

Steve paused and bit down on his tongue. “I, may have done that.”

Scott nodded as he received the confirmation. “You know, Bucky and Wanda have a bet going on over which of you will kill the other first. I think you tipped the victory to her, man.”

Steve returned the slap to the shoulder and stood up. “Thanks, Scott.”

He followed Steve out the entrance. “I don’t feel like this conversation is over, but you gotta go back up there. I’m always here if you want to talk.”

Steve sent him a genuine smile as he walked backwards to the stairs instead of the elevator. “Don’t bring it up.”

Scott saluted him, “I may be an idiot, but I’m not stupid.”

“That didn’t make any-”

Scott clicked the button for the elevator and waved Steve off, “It’s from a show my daughter used to watch, hey, you know what, forget about it.”

    Steve doesn’t quite know what propels him up the stairs instead of the elevator, but it’s probably the need to burn at least one calorie before facing the music. It was an idiotic move leaving you alone to unravel such a major change, and Steve was tired of running. The amount of times he claimed he could ‘do this all day’ and yet, he let the final battle dictate his life afterward. He was just so tired of running from things that required him to stay, and staying for things that destroyed his mental health. 

Scott carried the conversation as they reentered the room, finding you already dressed and smiling bright. But that smile was directed at Scott, a brilliant smile that Steve had been the recipient of just yesterday. 

God, he really fucked up, didn’t he?

“We got a plan?”

It was like clockwork, movements fluid and known. The three of you were slightly out of it, missions depleting in urgency and all. The last mission you had been on in the last two years, besides the ones your father sent you on, had been to a base in Prague where you ran a two-week surveillance on a doctor who was trying to recreate the super soldier serum. Even then there wasn’t much of a physical fight and you were mainly there to assist Sam and Bucky. 

“We’ll get there by 9. You’ll have to shrink down before we even pass the gates.”

Scott drafted the specifics in his notebook, taking careful notes on what he was to look for inside your father’s office. He was instructed to hack the keyboard to list the most used formations of characters, scan for fingerprints, and work through the paper files your father hadn’t yet had time to put away. Once a password was figured out, then the hacking would commence during the rehearsal dinner. 

“Y/N and I will be led through the estate by Seda, no doubt. Once you hear that we’re seated and enjoying breakfast, you can start your deep search.”

Scott added the finishing touches to his suit - upgrades from both Hank and Tony, before he passed of course. 

“Anything I should know? I’m going in blind while you guys have some experience with this crowd.”

You attached the camouflage mic to the back of your neck as you responded, “His office hallway doesn’t have cameras. Neither does the inside. You, as well as Steve and I, are under strict orders to not kill anyone.”

Scott squinted his eyes, “I wasn’t planning on doing that anyway.”

You chuckled, “These are violent people, Scott. In order to win, we need to play the part. Which means unless we say the safe word ‘widow’, you can’t intervene.”

Scott searched your face for a joke, the briefing you all had before you shipped out replaying in his head. You had mentioned Seda shot you and that your father basically hated you, but to see you serious now - it was a little unnerving. Sure, he fought aliens and faced off against some of the most evil forces in the universe. But this was family, and when it was family with the evil gene, it made everything much more horrible.

“Okay.”

You all gathered your equipment and headed down to the car. Steve safely hid the shield in the trunk, foregoing any additional weapons than those already attached to his person. He couldn’t risk Ernesto’s men randomly searching the car during breakfast. 

You were already waiting in the passenger seat when Scott gripped Steve’s arm as they finished loading the trunk. 

“You protect her, alright?”

Steve swallowed the lump in his throat. He knew Scott wasn’t doubting his ability to do so, but his trust was being enlisted. There wasn’t even a second option. 

Steve would grip the heavens by their feet and pull for the creation of even more fallen angels just for you. 

“I will.” 

     The drive to the estate was a lot less stressful this time. Only because you knew who to expect now. You wouldn’t be catching up with your sister until tomorrow, and you already had an idea what your father was scheming up. The three of you just drove in silence, Steve at the wheel and Scott in the backseat. 

You thought, maybe Steve didn’t fully regret what happened after all. Leaving in the morning was for sure a dick move, but his attitude wasn’t one of someone who would simply ‘hit it, and quit it’. You took pride in what you knew about your Captain, about Steve as a separate entity, and you always expected the best from him. 

Anyone who thought or assumed otherwise was an idiot.

Scott had shrunk down and prepared his own mics as Steve drove onto the deserted dirt road. There were dozens of cars parked outside, but it looked as if their owners were all workers. Considering the wedding was only two days away and the rehearsal dinner was tomorrow, the workers multiplied and were working overtime. Leave it to your father to make the finishing touches at the last minute. 

Once again, Seda stood outside to greet you and Steve. He looked extra chipper this morning, his aging face contorted into an almost painful smile. And you knew that whenever he smiled at you, he wasn’t harboring the greatest intentions. 

“Good to see you again!”

You slung your arm through Steve’s, unconscious to the fact that Scott stood on your shoulder and hid behind strands of hair. You responded, “Careful, you’ll get cavities with that much sweetness.”

His smile fell slightly, and he looked away to roll his eyes. “Must be contagious considering you’re so full of sugar!”

“You’re weird when you’re nice.”

“Now, I was just about to say the same thing.” Seda held his hand out to Steve, delighted in the strength of his grip. “Captain.”

Steve smirked, a dangerous glint settling in his eyes. The longer hair and beard really did make him look like the anti-Cap. “Sir. Are you joining us for breakfast?”

Seda turned to walk through the open doors. “Of course. Ernesto’s business is as much mine as it is his.”

You let out a tiny snort, “Don’t think he would agree.”

Seda rotated on his heel so quickly the sound of the squeak echoed through the vast mansion. He held his finger out at you, that famous scowl you had grown accustomed to finally making its appearance. “Bite your tongue.”

In an instant, Steve gripped your cheeks and chin with one hand, holding you still to look at Seda. He hated this. He wanted to fight them now.

While you were held in place for him, Seda stepped closer. You could feel the heat of his breath. “I carried this empire while he was dirt.”

Steve’s hand was loose, but his wild look could easily be mistaken for anger toward you. 

Seda’s eyes were cold, filled with an undeniable amount of hatred and selfishness, like he wanted to see you beg for forgiveness. No matter the countless times when any other human being would be crying for mercy, you never did. And Seda despised this skill with all his tainted soul. 

“And look where that got you. Right back in second place.”

For the second time this week, Steve wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole. 

Seda’s facial muscles flinched, but he kept his composure. There were too many outside workers wandering around, instructed already to keep their mouths shut about who employed them and were to be paid under the table. With his own tongue bitten, he muttered almost achingly. “Breakfast is this way.”

Letting go of you after Seda turned back around, Steve gently massaged the sides of your chin for a few seconds as you walked. Turning your head quickly left and right and passing a room with no traceable cameras, you caught his hand and pressed your lips gently to his knuckles. Before he could truly enjoy the gentle gesture, you pulled away. And he knew you had to. You had to.

Scott took his leave, jumping onto the nearby potted plant and connecting back with Torres. 

Breakfast was served on the large patio near the west side of the estate. It overlooked a massive man-made lake, rocks circling the bank, and multiple lake chairs facing it. The estate was well hidden away in the forest, tall pine trees enveloping the illegal nature of all that was said and done. The clouds were creating a dark overcast that meant it was going to rain later, maybe soon, and it was going to be heavy. The crew outback had constructed a massive wooden canopy ‘tent’ that extended from one side of land to the other. So if it did rain on the day of the wedding, the only evidence of it would be the wetness reflecting off the soft violet lights they were just now hanging. The tables were set up, minus the chairs and wall decorations, and the staff were barely constructing the floor. 

By instinct, you had already clocked the easiest exit routes and hiding places. The warehouse near the lake looked sturdy - two windows wide enough to shoot from. Steve would have to crouch down low though, so perhaps the wooden table could serve as a temporary shield. 

There had to be a way to casually bring that shield to both the rehearsal dinner and wedding without raising red flags. 

Seda paused and excused himself. While Steve entertained the questions of some of the men casually strolling through, you reached into your pocket and pulled out some new tech you had been dying to finally use. Tony had messed around with so many personalized gadgets for everyone. Peter had his flying spiders, Clint had his flying stars and arrows, and you had your flying butterflies. Little metallic wonders with life-like wing speed that recorded its surroundings and transcribed for your report later. 

It flew gracefully, circling around the tables and even stopping on the window’s edge for a natural effect before flying near Seda and whoever he was talking to. It fluttered and settled, a small light emitting from its antennas. It would fly back once the subject chosen finished speaking. 

While you waited, you wandered. You hadn’t really explored this estate since you were a child but from what you remembered, there was always something new to discover. As a kid, you had asked whoever was present, ‘Is this real?’, ‘Was it alive before?’, ‘How old is this?’.

Roman busts, paintings hanging and stored alike, the ivory tusks. Didn’t seem like your father was collecting much these days. Dust was settled and undisturbed and the stuffed animals needed a serious scrub. You honestly wouldn’t be surprised if your father had stashed away the damn tesseract at one point or another. 

“Oh, yeeesss,” you whispered, scurrying to the trunk hidden below the pile of discarded tablecloths and curtains. No one else ventured to these rooms, and although there were priceless items stashed away here, they normally functioned as the children's playrooms. There was more money to be made selling drugs than selling ancient artifacts. 

Just like many of the other rooms, this room was basically abandoned. No evidence of swiped fingers or anything. Your attention was drawn to the black trunk, scratched up on the left side and lock practically useless. If you remembered correctly, your iPod shuffle and middle school diary should be in here. 

As corny as that sounded, perhaps the diary had something inside you could work with and use to help aid in the mission. 

The trunk creaked and moaned as you lifted the lid open. You blew the excess of cobwebs away, scanning the corners quickly for any live spiders. Just in case. 

You did, in fact, find the diary. But only the first ten pages were filled out and dated, detailing the story, and quote, ‘2011, what a stupid number! Can’t anything but violence happen?’

Yes young Y/N, you thought to yourself, 2012 was one hell of a year and infinitely worse than stupid little 2011. 

The mountain of miscellaneous items was astounding, swirling up the childhood emotions you seriously missed. There was just something about random, mix-matched, old items that made you giddy. 

When Shield returned Steve’s belongings that had been locked in storage or in the museum when he was pronounced KIA, you were the one bouncing up and down behind him as he opened the boxes. He’d inspect the old watch, pencil set, photographs, clothing item, whatever and then pass it over to you. And he’d pretend to act annoyed by your interest, but the fact that you wanted to learn more about Steve and his life before the war - it was humbling. 

‘Hey, Y/N. You want to know how much porn I just found on Seda’s personal laptop?’

Your whole body was overcome by shivers. You nudged the mic to turn it up louder. “Scott, what the fuck?”

He tried to contain his laughter. ‘My mission is to hunt, gather, and hack. You’ll be pleased to know I got more than just their internet history.’

“Ew.”

A small, red velvet box shoved in the upper left hand corner caught your attention. It’s engraving showed none other than ‘Oxford University’ and that was enough to conclude this too was stolen. You chuckled at how ridiculous this all was. 

Believe it or not, the most legal things in the estate were the stuffed exotic animals and tusks of ivory that had been collected before the nationwide bans. 

This small box contained a few dozen coins from ancient Rome, all of different faces and years. 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” you mumbled, finger-fishing through the box. You made a mental note to instruct your team to also seize and catalog everything that was stolen here. Give Fury more of a headache. 

The figurehead on one of the coins made you pause for a second. The artwork was not as professional as much larger engravings found on the other coins or artifacts, but the features were proud. It was of a man, curly hair and beard to match, with a prominent and strong nose. If you squint hard enough, the hair and beard were Steve’s, absolutely as he had it groomed right now. Last time Steve had grown his hair out this long he was on the run. Guess he really missed the rugged look. 

But that nose. Strong and long and definitely punched to the brim many times before. The last person to set it had been Clint - and the reset had left it looking slightly crooked. Just like the man on the coin. 

“What a beak you got on you, Rogers,” you smiled. You shut the box after pocketing the coin. Making sure everything else was in place, you exited and checked your mic for any unusual activity. You could hear Steve casually speaking and Scott humming under his breath. 

Your little butterfly was spinning in a large circle until it spotted you. It reattached itself to your belt discreetly. 

Seda marched back, looking more annoyed than when he had first greeted you. “Shall we?”

Similar to how he was situated back in his office, comfortable and relaxed in his element, your father sat closest to the lake around the round table, no doubt enjoying the breeze aimed in his direction. The table was full of various foods - mostly fruit and drinks - but there were sides of meats and bread hidden in the pile. 

Ernesto looked like an innocent old man bathed in the colorful array. He was eighty-two (if you count those five years, then he’s only seventy-seven), and it wasn’t just the fruit that made him seem innocent - with the absence of a scowl or a gun in his unbelievably steady hand, he looked like every old man on the planet. An old man with a secret. 

“It’s not everyday you get to dine with the Captain America!”

Already his voice annoyed Steve. But as eloquent as ever, he responded lightly. “It’s an honor, sir.”

Your father sipped his juice, waiting until you were both seated to continue. “So polite, I remember how it used to be.”

Steve shrugged, “The good ole’ days.”

“Exactly. You see, I’m hoping to bring those good ole’ days back.”

“Gonna run for office?” you quipped, reaching over to pop a grape into your mouth. 

Keeping his eyes trained on Steve, your father retorted. “Your jokes aren’t that funny, Y/N.”

“I think I’m pretty funny,” you mumbled through a funny frown. 

The sooner you get some valuable information, the sooner you could leave. At least, that’s what Steve had been reciting in his head as he bit his tongue at your attempt at being funny. “What did you have in mind?”

Ernesto stretched, motioning for the men behind him to pass him some documents from a nearby table. He passed them to Steve, completely ignoring you. “You see, I’m thinking of expanding business. Not just here in the U.S and in Mexico, but across the Atlantic.”

You resisted the urge to sneak a peek at the documents. So you opted to keep him talking. “Woah, you’re not thinking of toppling White, are you?”

Ernesto scoffed, “You think I have a death wish? No, I’m thinking of joining forces.”

You played dumb. “What?”

Seda squinted, stepping forward and gripping your wrist mid-air, evidently stopping you from popping another grape into your mouth. Steve turned his head to stare at Seda with a real and deep grimace, basically instructing him to let go of you as soon as possible. Acting like an asshole when your father was the instigator was one thing, and he hated that he had to bend over for him. But Seda wasn’t in charge, nor would he ever be again, and his hand on you didn’t have to be tolerated. Yes, he knew to keep up the asshole act, but obsessive and protective boyfriend fit the bill as well, he assumed. 

Reluctantly, Seda got the message and let you go. He answered your question after a few awkward seconds, “Expanding into Europe means we dominate the world. Everyone knows that. Europe is the epicenter.”

Oblivious to the whole stare down, you resumed your questioning. “And we come in, where?”

“Your missions - they take you across the ocean, yes?” your father chimed in. 

“Sometimes, sir. We’re away pretty often.” Steve answered. 

“Then that’s perfect. All those opportunities to smuggle my product on your company planes.”

You scrunched your eyebrows in deep thought, almost like you were doing the math in your head. “I doubt the quinjet would pass a weight inspection, Father.”

Ernesto raised his hands in mock offense. “Your Captain here should be able to pull some strings, no?”

Hiding his discomfort, Steve shrugged like it was no big deal. “It would certainly be a difficult task but we can pull through.”

No. Steve has never handled the product, he has never seen the product being moved, he has never signed off on anything pertaining to said product. Fury did - Fury set up everything, he made sure to keep Steve out of it, he protected the shield, he protected Steve. On your word.

Ernesto knew you were the one handling it. He knew Steve wasn’t anywhere near it since you made it abundantly clear that he only green lit the passage routes. 

He was doing this on purpose. Testing Steve’s loyalty in a way. Tying any Avenger’s gadgets to the smuggling, especially transportation methods that were rarely, if ever checked when entering a foreign country, was a violation.  And this violation would then make every Avenger a drug smuggler - a real one - and no one, not even Torres could back you up.  

Blinded by this possible reality, you countered with the best argument you had. “He’s ‘Captain America’. Which means he stays within our borders.”

Ernesto paused mid-drink, a grin forming. He stared at you in surprise, “I’m sorry, did you just give me an order?”

You backtracked, breath still steady. Steve tried to mask his worry by also drinking. “No, I’m trying to help you. What about Ramirez?”

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

It was silent for a long while. Steve knew better than to come between the uncomfortable glares you and your father were sharing. Ernesto’s answer was confirmation enough for your proposed theory.

He ventured a glance at Seda, who was already looking at him. Confusion rattled him to the bone, but before he could dissect any possible assumption as to why, your father snapped his fingers. 

Seda moved too quickly. He always followed Ernesto’s orders like they were holy commandments, but he had seriously wanted this. He was the muscle after all. 

Seda picked you up out of your seat with the force of one hand, fingers gripped under your chin and squishing your cheeks painfully. With his other hand, he pushed your back forward and held you down on the table. The impact of your body had shattered the plate beneath your chest. But that pain was minimal compared to the elbow digging in between your shoulder blades. 

Almost as quickly as Seda had pounced, Steve was standing. The sound of every gun on the patio cocking rang in his ears, but god forbid that be louder than the sudden squeal that had left your mouth from the force of your assault.  

“See? I give the orders,” Ernesto said, still sitting casually in his seat. “Now, test me again.”

      “There are worse ways to go.”

Natasha was always so calm during these types of situations. A blank face that disguised the true fright she really felt, a mask in other words. But Steve knew the only reason she did that was for the benefit of those around her, regular civilian or superhero alike. She would always keep such a calm demeanor, voice steady and eyes boring into one’s soul as if to transfer whatever inner peace she could find. 

When he had found out Bucky was alive, unresponsive and an empty shell of a man HYDRA had made him, he crumbled into the panic attack he had long awaited. Being thrust into the 21st century without a lick of his past was one thing. But to barely start getting used to this new world, only to be handed the most crazy plot twist of his life, well, it was enough to destroy whatever progress he thought he made. 

And while he rocked himself through it, massive shoulders poking his jawline uncomfortably as he curled in on himself, Natasha had simply laid a cup of tea in front of him and retreated to the other corner of the room, no words exchanged. Good, because he didn’t want to talk about it. 

“Is everyone on?”

The planes were being loaded at the fastest rate they could, the only remaining Avengers on land being him, Natasha, and Clint. From what he could see.

“I gotta go get Banner. You head on over to Clint.”

And they functioned like that for the next few minutes, grabbing civilians along the way and praying they themselves would make it to one of those planes. The sudden shower of bullets crushed the hope of that, and Steve stared down at Pietro with an immense guilt about not getting there sooner. 

Losing a teammate, even if that teammate was recruited just a day ago, always hits hard. But they were the Avengers, and if any comic book or superhero movie had been right, then no one ever really died! Yeah, fat chance. 

Steve counted as many heads as he could. He saw Natasha off to the side, and Clint had just stumbled on, and Y/N was-

Wait, where were you?

Steve grabbed his shield and hooked it onto his back, running off the plane and back onto the floating land, ignoring Clint’s yells of ‘get the fuck back here, Rogers!’

“Does anyone have eyes on Y/N?”

The responses were no help; Rhodey had circled the city twice over searching for you, and there was no sign. Maybe you were with Wanda, maybe you were on another plane, maybe you were with Thor and he promised to pick you up and protect you once he catapulted himself - 

‘I’m gonna need you to get your ass back on that plane, Capsicle,’ Tony yelled, interrupting himself as he made painful contact with falling debris. 

Steve was on autopilot, scared out of his damn mind. He never wanted this job, he never wanted to continue working for the government, it was just war after war after war. He just wanted to find Bucky, he just wanted to settle down with a fucking cat or something, he just wanted to live the life he missed out on. But he was also hell bent on saving everyone he could. A sick satisfaction of using the serum’s gifts for what he was built for, a science project and weapon of war. He hated it, he wanted to shrivel back down to his ninety-pound self and pay a goddamn penny for a movie screening again. 

But he had a job to do and he was one of the few people on earth who could actually accomplish it. So, no - Steve will not quit when people need him. He’ll just have to bear it some other way; belt in between his teeth as he clenches down. Because Steve would literally destroy himself for any of his teammates until he was nothing but a pile of discarded remains. 

“What the hell are you still doing on land, Captain?”

He whipped his head to the side and found you, holding a frightened looking dog in your arms, smudges of rubble covering your cheeks and bodysuit. “Oh my god.”

You stomped over to him, the dog clutched to your chest and a tiny limp in your step. “Answer me, Rogers!”

Steve only stared, blinking quickly until an invisible boot kicked him back into gear. His voice was high-pitched as he screamed at you. “You went back for the dog?”

Your face contorted, “Of course I went back for the fucking dog!”

A ridiculous thing, an utter masterpiece of work you were, a vice that gripped him by the throat and would always press down tighter until he was gasping for breath. You went back for the damn dog, and he was about to break down crying not knowing where you were. He just lost one teammate - he couldn’t lose another.

“Well, let’s go!”

Your voice seemed to shock him back into Captain America mode, and as the city leveled and the ground started to break apart, he hoisted you up and onto the plane while making the leap himself. 

     At this point, Steve would blindly agree to anything. If it meant pulling you out of this, he’d do it. He found himself negotiating instantly, like any other hostage situation he had dealt with. “I’m sure our planes can handle a few extra pounds.”

Made sense for Steve to agree - wasn’t like it was going to happen anyway. But the mere thought of having him take the fall for this entire mission going sideways, well, it had ignited the stupid part of your brain. You could have blown this whole mission. You could have blown it all because your father had been doing what he does best: taunting you. And you let it happen. 

“I have already sent word to White that your Captain will be working with him now, too. Anything to topple Ramirez from the top three.”

You lifted your head to glare at your father. “Why didn’t I get a say? I’m as influential as you two!” You grit your teeth. “You did this without consulting us first. So, then what was this?”

Seda applied the full force of his weight, his elbow now pinching into the muscle and causing you to see black spots. You tried to restrain your scream, but it escaped. A few birds left their perch, flying away from the high-pitched noise.

Steve saw red. Bursting flames that climbed and licked up to formless heights and blurred his vision to the point he was pre-serumed, standing small and physically weak again. And pre-serum Steve would happily accept the punches he had coming if he dare intervene. But even if this red was bolstering hot and clawing at his flesh, stepping in now would mean chaos. He couldn’t do anything, he was restricted, strapped down by your own rule, and helplessly watching as your face twisted in pain. 

He felt his heart tearing in two, and yet his face remained calm. Calm and collected. 

“See this as a means to inform you.”

If Seda were to push down again, you figured you’d go out fighting. “A coup? Father, you shouldn’t have.”

“Do we have a deal?” 

If he hooked his arm under the left side of the table and threw it at the correct angle, he would blindside your father and throw Seda off balance, allowing you to take him down. But there were men posted to both his sides and behind him, guns already cocked like they had suspected Captain America to react negatively. 

Scott had to be hearing everything, the poor guy, but you had also instructed him to let you be thrown around like a ragdoll, that you were used to it. Knowing Scott, he would honor your word as scripture for the sake of the mission.

Steve couldn’t stand to look at you in pain anymore. A small part of him wanted to yell, ‘Well stop talking and he’ll get the hell off you!’, like it was ultimately your fault, but he swallowed that shallow thought and bargained instead. “I’ll be needing a copy of your word. For insurance purposes.”

If there was one thing Ernesto respected, it was a man with his own personal agenda. “I knew I liked him, Y/N. A man who knows what he wants and how to make sure it lasts.”

You reached over discreetly, finding Steve’s hand to squeeze tightly. He squeezes back.

The next few minutes were a blur, really. You passed it with pinched eyes and a few uncomfortable moans as Steve and your father wrote up a formal agreement. 

Seda removed himself after Steve signed. You tried not to think too much of it; the contract can be considered void. Torres would look into it. Steve will not become truly involved. 

Your father excused himself and Seda after the pen left paper, leaving the both of you alone.

Steve wanted to hold you, to shield you with his own flesh and bone, to remind you he was on your side. That he would always be on your side. 

The men who escorted you were deep in their own conversations, guns still raised but minds momentarily distracted. So he reached for your hand, an involuntary chuckle escaping him as he saw Scott’s miniature self hiking up the arm he had just grabbed. Your grip was loose, like your mind was elsewhere. 

You all entered the car and buckled up without alerting the men of any wrongdoings. Scott waited until you drove past the cameras and the estate grew smaller in his eyes to return to his normal size. 

They were both worried, eyes meeting in the mirror as if to communicate it. You were so silent, so still, simply looking out the window. Their voices were slightly distorted, far away calls for your attention and you were drowning, suffocating and forgetting that when caught in a riptide, you need to swim sideways and not directly to land-

One quick sob was all it took for Steve to check his mirrors and turn the car into the crowd of pine trees, burying the three of you in their depth and providing temporary solace from the outside world. Your throat burned and itched with the need to cry harder, but you stopped yourself. 

This had happened before. You’ve been subdued and taunted before. Hell, worse has happened to you and you always seemed to hold in the tears until you were in the comfort of your own room or in Natasha’s arms. 

But there was no single room for you to run off to and there was no more Natasha-

It took a moment to register that your seatbelt had been unbuckled, Steve had exited the vehicle, and Scott was already tugging you by the underarms and into the backseat. You were then squished between the two men, with Steve manually tilting your head to rest on the expanse of his chest and Scott with his arms wrapped around your waist to mimic a massive bear hug. 

They let you ride out whatever broken sobs your body produced. There were few tears and your breakdown was amateur at best, but you still broke. There was no point in trying to diminish its importance. You were here, and you had both fresh and dry tear streaks, and it was important to feel. 

At least that’s what Steve had been reciting for the past two minutes as he ran his fingers through your hair. 

You sniffed and wiped your cheeks, rolling your eyes at yourself. “I’m sorry, this is really embarrassing.”

Scott leaned back to stare at you in pure disbelief, “You have every right to scream, to cry, to tear this world apart. You have a right to feel.”

You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to believe him. 

If Scott wasn’t here, perhaps Steve would allow himself to cry with you. His masculinity was intact, thank you very much, but Scott didn’t need to console two people at once. So he swallowed his pain, secured it back into the safe within his heart that was specifically constructed for you, and held you tighter. 

Out of nowhere, Scott patted your thigh multiple times like a child begging for attention. “We need comfort food. We’ve all had a rough day and it’s not even two o’clock yet! Nothing some french fries and burgers can’t fix!”

It had slipped your mind how little you had actually gotten to eat. Just a few sips of coffee and some grapes. Wasn’t your fault there were more important things to focus on. 

“Can we get, like, a massive tray of fries?” you smiled. 

Scott’s eyes lit up. 

Lots of things are so simple. Or, in theory. Boiling water is simple. Doing laundry. Pumping gas. 

But then there are those simple things that are just not so accessible to everyone. Like, it was simple for Bruce to learn and teach theoretical physics. It was simple for Peter to catch a bus with his bare hands. It was simple for Thor to call upon thunder and lightning and for Loki to cause some mischief. 

For Steve, eating his body weight in fries was simple. 

For Scott, opening the ketchup packets without his thumbs sliding was simple. 

For you, stealing Steve’s fries was simple. 

Maybe because he didn’t stop you. 

     It’s crazy how just a few hours with some close friends made every problem in the world seem nonexistent. You were replenished, in a sense, ready to put any embarrassment and self-hatred behind you in preparation for the rehearsal dinner tomorrow. Everything up until now was child’s play - now, there were no restraints. You were instructed to strike on the wedding day as that was the day the shipment was moving, but if anything truly dangerous occurred tomorrow, Fury had given the green light to shoot.

It would have been a blessing to just have one more quiet night in, maybe enjoy some more special alone time with Steve. There was a conversation to be had, feelings to be discussed, an argument to start. There needed to be screaming, and crying, and eye rolling - all needed to happen. 

Yes, that would have been great. 

Steve launched the shield across the room the second Scott pushed open the door, the crack of bone and vibranium sounding off. Scott had already unclicked his gun safety, weapon pointed directly at the intruder - who had collapsed to the floor with a bleeding shin clutched in between his hands. You didn’t even realize your gun was also out and cocked. Instinct - skill you had acquired from Natasha and Rhodey. 

Sometimes you wish you could forget how to hold a gun altogether. 

Ramirez was on the floor, having only released a loud howl when the shield connected. He just panted lowly, eyes squeezed shut. He desperately tried to raise his hands. 

“Please… don’t shoot.”

Steve stepped forward, shield braced and covering both you and Scott. You stayed near the door in case Ramirez had any other friends visiting. 

You turned on your mic and hoped it patched through. “Widow.” 

“How did you get past security? How did you know which hotel we were at?”

Ramirez looked over at you, eyes pleading for help from Steve’s questions or from the physical pain. You really couldn’t tell. 

“Answer the questions, Omar.” You used his first name - that told him you were serious. 

“Someone took their smoke break.” He breathed in uneven cycles. “I followed you the first day you arrived.”

Completely baffled, you looked to Scott for some answer he clearly didn’t have. 

“That’s not possible. Our people swept the area, we had eyes on you and-”

Ramirez interrupted shyly, “You had eyes on me. Not my connections.”

“Your men were followed, too.”

Although he was groaning, he still responded as softly as possible. “Connections, mija. They aren’t all a part of the mob.”

Every guest who checked in and out of the hotel were screened for that week. Every employee was vetted. 

“If you’re wondering who it was, I’ll save you the time and say it was simply a passerby who didn’t even enter the hotel. Just followed, then made a U-turn.”

Scott scoffed and lowered his gun, “If it really was that easy…”

Steve kneeled to be eye-level with Ramirez. “Then that means Ernesto already knows about Scott and Torres.”

As quickly as Steve declared this, Ramirez shook his head. “No! I’m not on Ernesto’s side anymore. Haven’t been for a long time!”

“Prove it.”

Ramirez stared at you, eyes pleading for trust. He didn’t look all that intimidating. Short black hair, wrinkles minimal and clothes well-pressed, slim and dark skin clear of any blemishes - he looked like every guy who you would see at the bank. He remained pleading even after Steve patted him down. 

Still kneeling and leg slightly extended to relieve some of the pain, he started to explain himself. “I know when people are acting.”

“What?”

“When you pressed the gun to her chin,” he motioned his hand between you and Steve, “you held her hand.”

Lowering your gun and dropping your shoulders, you released a deep sigh. “You were behind us.”

He agreed, “I was behind you.” He inspected the room with a small smile, glancing at all three of you in amusement. Once his sight rested on Steve, he tipped his chin up and smirked. “I heard you could pick up Thor’s hammer.”

“Oh my god,” you mumbled, annoyed, and turned to check the hallway. Your mic was muffled, but you swore you could make out the voices of Torres and Sam.

“Any man who can do that is good, right?”

Scott nodded, “According to legend-”

Steve blinked at him, “Scott.”

“That little gesture of care, plus the cell phone videos I saw you in from two years ago-” Ramirez started, but was interrupted. 

Steve squinted, “Saw us where?”

“The phone videos on Youtube.”

You stepped back into the room, stuttering over your words. “What phone videos? Be clearer.”

“You defended that child. The - the spider child,” he pointed at Steve, wincing as he shifted his leg. “And you got into that bar fight, busted someone's head into the floor.”

“No, PR made sure they were deleted. Hill said there was no trace of them-”

“My two youngest daughters were fifteen at the time. They knew about the video the minute it aired. They saved it.”

Scott sighed, shaking his head at the memory of having to bail both you and Sam out of jail. It was a nice turn of the tables, though. “...We didn’t factor in the possibility of teenagers screen recording?”

Ramirez chuckled, “Seems not.”

     It was certainly an eventful night for PR. A complete disaster they had to cover up and twist for the media. There were four Avengers mixed up in this chaos, and since the perpetrators didn’t quite succeed in kicking your asses, PR might just finish the job for them. 

On one side of town, Steve was responding to an urgent call from Happy asking if he was in the vicinity. Peter had been visiting a study group in Brooklyn, careful as ever, but still stumbled upon bullies. Steve lived close and instead of ringing the whole team, Happy put his trust in the person Tony would have also called. 

It was a scene he hoped he would never have to witness again. To see such cruelty months after the final battle, a battle everyone knew the kid played a major part in, it tore Steve apart shred by miserable shred.

Peter was crouched against an alley wall, shielding his face with his arms as five boys around his age pounded away. He appeared to be clutching his phone, the line still connected with Happy, and he was begging them to stop. 

Steve had never run so fast. He dodged a few cars and strollers along the way, mind fogged with desperation and anger. He now knew how Bucky felt when he saved Steve from all those alley fights back in the day.

It didn’t even register in his mind that he had pulled at least two of the boys away and threw them into the opposite wall, or that he had clutched one's throat so tight that Peter’s thumbs were now digging under his clenched palm with the plea of ‘Cap, let him go!’.  

He dropped the boy, no more than seventeen, on the ground and stepped away to inspect Peter. A busted lip, what looked to be two purpling eyes, torn clothing, and bruises along his ribcage that showed through the new holes in his shirt. The five boys all stood and cowered backwards. 

They shouted and name-called, spit on the floor and taunted the two superheroes. It wasn’t until Peter leaned into Steve’s chest and pushed him back that Steve realized one of the boys was recording the whole thing. 

Against his better judgement, he let them go. There wasn't anything beneficial to be done besides file a police report - not that it would do much anyway. 

He took Peter back to his apartment and called Happy himself. He stitched the nasty cut on the kid’s forehead. He fed him some soup and crackers. He gave him some spare clothes that had shrunk in the washer. Peter’s smile was so broken as he interrupted the silence while Steve cleaned away the dry blood, a simple explanation of ‘I obviously couldn’t fight back’. 

And fuck, Steve knew the kid was right. 

On the other side of town, the night had started pretty nicely. Two beers in and your conversation with Sam was littered with constant laughter and childhood stories. The bar wasn’t that crowded for a Thursday night, just a few regulars and a small office party.

Your conversation was interrupted by two men who had clearly been holding their tongue. First they harassed you for being Avengers and destroying the city every other week - which granted, was a pretty reasonable argument. You let that one slide. But then they hassled you on who you employed: an ex-con who was clearly only abusing his influence on Hank Pym, a mental woman who took an entire town hostage because she was obviously evil at heart and a witch (‘fuck her children, what about mine?!’), and a teenager who had murdered a true superhero who was only trying to warn and rid the world of him. 

You and Sam remained seated, jaws clenched and hands wrapped tightly around your drinks. If you ignored them long enough, they would go away. The bartender will surely throw them out, they were becoming too rowdy. You were better than them and there was absolutely no need to freak out over words. They were just words. 

“I say we head on over to Queens and pay that sweet Aunt of his a visit!”

Sam let out a quick and prepared sigh, “Shit.”

He threw the first punch, launching himself at the biggest of the two men and hitting the ground. You leaped over the bar counter and tackled the second guy before he could join Sam’s fight. He was clearly caught off guard, arms fumbling wildly as he tried and failed to keep his balance. But your sudden momentum caused his decline, and you were hammering your fist down onto his face like your life depended on it. 

Sam quickly took his gun from his pocket and threw it across the room. He couldn’t risk either of the guys getting a hold of it. He rolled onto all fours before sweeping his leg to trip the guy as he attempted to stand. He shuffled and grabbed one of his arms, legs wrapping themselves over the dude’s shoulders and squeezing his neck. If there was one thing Natasha had taught her friends, it was how to subdue a man with just the thighs. 

The brawl lasted maybe a good two minutes before other customers stepped in and separated you. Out of anger, you kept kicking and struggling. It wasn’t until the doors burst open and police drew their batons that you realized you royally fucked up. Everything was eerily silent and out of pure personality, you scooted away from the remnants of the fight as discreetly (but most obviously) as you could. 

You were booked, charges later dropped. Sam’s mugshot showcased a thin smile, like he knew the record would be expunged within the hour. Yours displayed a cocked eyebrow and slightly pursed lips. 

Yeah, PR didn’t have a nice night.

     “What about the videos, Omar?”

Ramirez gave you a sincere look, “No one on Ernesto’s team risks their reputation like that. You have his rage, but he doesn’t have your morality. Save the next question, I know what you two were fighting about.”

Even if you did get caught and the videos went viral, there was no way the world could know your connections. “The world doesn’t know about my family connections. Fury made sure to never input it into Shield’s database.”

“Imagine how terrified Ernesto was when the Russian spilled all their secrets.”

“Natasha,” Steve asserted. “Her name was Natasha.”

Ramirez bowed his head, “Natasha. I’m sorry.” He turned back to you. “You were barely starting out when that happened, no?” 

You were getting impatient with no backup. “Your point?”

“You’re working against him, aren’t you? You’ve always been working against him.”

You raised your gun again and stalked toward him. “Choose your next words carefully.”

Again, he raised his hands in defense. “I’m not with him. He doesn’t know I’m here, neither does White.” 

There was a long pause as you all pondered over his admission. Even though you vouched for him just yesterday, there was still so much to consider before jumping to his conclusion. “I think they’re plotting to kill me.”

Steve chuckled under his breath, “We know.”

Ramirez reacted like he was just slapped in the face. “You know?”

After a long train of thought, Scott interjected with his own idea. “That plot of land you bought - it’s not for drugs, is it?”

“I mean, half of it is for drugs.”

“Omar,” you demanded.

“Yes, yes. But the other half is entirely unrelated.”

Scott motioned for him to continue, “Enlighten us.”

And the small, proud smile on his face gave you the feeling he really was telling the truth. “It’s a refugee camp.”

Steve stuttered, “Drugs and refugees?”

Ramirez pushed himself toward the nearby chair and hoisted himself up. “I know it sounds crazy. Trust me, I know.” He let out a pained hiss. “But the Mexican government has already approved it. Well, if you can call it a government. They’re one of the few who still haven’t recovered from everyone coming back.”

“So, what? Are you making the refugees work for you?” you questioned. 

Ramirez widened his eyes. “What? No, no! The drugs are for income. For food, shelter, medicine, todo lo demas!”

Steve huffed, “Let me guess. The drugs aren’t real and anyone who finds out the truth will turn a blind eye.”

“Exactly.”

It was obvious why Ramirez wanted someone to know about the possible scheme. But why that someone happened to be you and your team, you honestly didn’t know. By logic, if you had been playing your father all this time, wasn’t it reasonable to assume you had or continue to play Ramirez?

“And you’re telling us for what? To save your ass?”

Ramirez countered with a question of his own, “Why are you here? After what Seda did to you, I can’t believe it.”

“Stop, just stop.” You were about done with all of this.

“You’re here to arrest us, right? I’m assuming I’m included.”

You raised your head, trying desperately to depict true regret in the stare you gave him. “I’m sorry.”

He sadly shook his head, “Don’t apologize. I know why you’re doing it.” He turned to Steve. “I’m just asking for a favor.”

“What kind of favor?”

“Protect my daughter.”

Your jaw dropped lightly as you heard his selfless favor. “Your daughter?”

“Her name is on the deed. I think Ernesto wants my land.”

“And once you’re taken out, she’s the only thing standing in his way.”

“Either he marries her-” he took a long pause to breath in deep. “Or he kills her.”

“Take her off of it?” you stated with confidence since it was more of a suggestion than a question. 

A deep frown etched into his face. “She’s somewhere in Asia right now. I need her signature. And all the forgers haven’t called me back.” He sighed and reached down to grip his bloody shin again. “She won’t make it back in time for the legal route.”

Steve nodded in understanding. He surprised you by setting the shield down on the couch. “Then we won’t let anything happen.”

“Promise me.”

You started to express remorse about the situation but were immediately cut off. “We aren’t in the business of making pro-”

“We promise.” 

You turned your head sharply, eyes round and mouth dropped. It was all you could muster up to show Steve your shock. He ignored your judgement, even if he did just break one of the top ten rules on the ‘what not to do as a superhero!’ list. 

Finally, uniformed officers scrambled into the room with their weapons drawn. Torres led them, hair all disheveled and cheeks pink.  “I’m so sorry. The connection was hacked and the cameras were delayed-”

You moved to stand near him, “It’s okay. Hey, we’re okay.”

Torres kept eye contact with you for only a second more, not really accepting that his tardiness should be casually swept under the rug like that. He immediately signaled for his officers to arrest Ramirez. “Get on your knees.”

Ramirez raised his hands and tried to stand. “With all due respect, your Captain might’ve broken my leg. I can’t kneel again or else I might cry.”

You tugged at Torres’s jacket and whispered. “Joaquin, just take him in for questioning. But you gotta release him-”

His eyes rounded. “What? We finally got him!”

“You have to release him. He has to be at the wedding.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered after a long pause and internal struggle. 

Just like that, Torres and his officers hoisted Ramirez up and dragged him from the room. For him to risk coming here, with no backup (according to security cameras and his word) and trusting his gut that you weren’t dirty - he must have been telling some truth. Steve followed Torres out, leaving you and Scott to report back to Sam and Bucky. 

Steve had only made it down the hallway when Ramirez stumbled into the wall. “Stop here, please.”

Steve was immediately defensive. “I’m not going to apologize for protecting my team.”

Ramirez didn’t seem to mind that he would be having trouble walking at the wedding. Granted he didn’t play a major role in the actual wedding, but he still needed to be present during the shipment transport. He inwardly thanked the fact the rehearsal dinner was only for close family. “Captain. Joaquin, is it? I know you heard everything I said. Mexico is your homeland. Your people.”

Torres allowed Ramirez to lean on the wall without his help. “I know my roots.”

“I wasn’t lying about the refugee camp. And I know you’ve done a lot in that area of work.”

“How do you-” Torres stammered, eyes flashing to Steve with worry. 

“Mijo, I have connections all over the world. And because I’m not an evil son of a bitch, I tend to keep them.”

Torres looked from Steve to Ramirez debating on whether to entertain this conversation any longer. But if training taught him anything, it was that if the suspect is talking, keep him talking. He motioned for his officers to leave them. 

“What are you getting at?”

“Ernesto knows about the camp. He knows the size of land. He knows my connections. He will kill me for it.” 

Steve mumbled, “Ernesto doesn’t seem like he’s much into the business of helping the less fortunate.”

Ramirez takes a grand leap here, Steve thinks, because the next words out of his mouth completely blindside him. It seemed like even saying them also left a bad taste in the criminal’s mouth. “You have to swear not to tell Y/N.”

Stepping forward and looking down at the injured man, Steve had to restrain himself from yelling his response. “Excuse me?”

“We can’t let her know right now.”

Torres held the same expression as Steve.

“You expect me to keep a secret from my partner? About her own father?”

“For the sake of your mission - yes, I know you’re planning on intercepting the shipment during the wedding - you cannot tell her until the day of the wedding.”

Steve hates that his reasoning is valid.

“Can’t tell her what?”

“The shipment isn’t a ‘what’. It’s ‘who’.”

“A hostage?” Torres almost yells because this changes the landscape, the game, the whole entire mission. 

“Multiple.”

“No, he’s not - he can’t be,” Torres is stuttering now, phone in his hand and about a dozen numbers he needs to call. 

Still, Ramirez seems like he’s telling the truth. Or at least, that’s what his body language tells Steve. “I would not lie about this.” 

Ramirez takes a deep breath before hanging his head in what looks like shame. “Ernesto is planning to kill me, marry or kill my daughter, and use the land to traffic humans.”

It immediately clicks with Steve. The reason why Ramirez was being edged out, the reason why your father wouldn’t tell you where the shipment was currently located, the reason business was going to boom in Europe. 

Ramirez continued, “Drugs are big business, Captain. But the sale of human lives…”

“The shipment - where is it?” Steve asked. 

“He wouldn’t tell me or White. That’s why we have to wait until the wedding. We can’t risk-”

Torres ended a phone call Steve hadn’t even known the kid had been on. He hooked Ramirez’s arm around his shoulders. “Okay. Let’s get out of here.”

Ramirez accepted the help, limping a few steps down the hallway before turning back to Steve. “Trust me when I say I know your partner, Captain. She can’t know right now. She’d kill him.”

But wasn’t that what you all wanted?

Flustered and quite overwhelmed with everything that had happened this morning and afternoon, Steve took a few minutes in the quiet hallway. 

There wasn’t much for him to do. Except set up security - because if there was one thing Steve was definitely going to do, it was see this whole mission through. 

The rest of the team back home would be briefed in the next few hours. And since Torres would be giving the briefing, everyone would know that this was a major secret kept from you. It would eat away at everyone, especially Steve. 

Digging into his pockets for his burner phone, he dialed the one number he thought you would be satisfied by.

“Maribel, hey. It’s Steve Rogers. I need a favor.”

     It wasn’t hard for Steve to conceal secrets. He was trained in code, intercepted Nazi messages during the war, and negotiated the safe return of hostages more times than he could count. 

Not telling you this would perhaps bite him in the ass in the long run, and there would most certainly be a dreaded argument in his future. But when he truly thought about it and what it could possibly mean if you seriously went out of your way to end this mission quicker than it was planned - the best possible choice was to keep this secret. 

Either he could tell you right now and have you do with it what you will, or he could tell you on the day of the wedding when all bets are off and the mission could be a success. 

That’s all the both of you have ever wanted, this he knows for sure. Getting rid of these people, getting rid of your father with help from the Avengers and their close connections, was worth more than a petty argument with the top crime boss who would never change his ways. It was best to stick it out, and tell you when the time was right. 

Because he will tell you. He promises himself that. 

After discussing the day and the rest of the plan over video chat, it was concluded that Sam and Bucky would be flying out a day earlier than planned. Having Ramirez simply waltz into the hotel when someone was having their regular smoke break was much too insane to ignore, and the more backup you guys had tomorrow and the next, the better. 

Scott took his leave after triple-checking if you were alright. He even offered to have a couple drinks with you down at the bar. You declined, excuse being that you would drink tomorrow at the dinner. 

Shrugging off your jacket and shirt was more painful than you hoped. It felt like someone had punched you with all their strength smack-dab in the middle of your fucking spine. Which, come to think of it, kind of happened? The pressure Seda applied was meant to subdue in the most awkward and painful of ways. He was trained to do so. Still, removing your bra should have been a simple task and instead it hurt like a bitch. 

The warm water from the shower relaxed the strained muscles as best as it could, and you only suffered minimally while applying your shampoo and conditioner. It was the hair drying and brushing of the hair that would prove difficult. 

Giving up halfway, you opened the bathroom door and peeked through, hoping Steve decided to stay in for the night. He was simply lounging on his bed, back pressed against the headboard as he watched Finding Nemo on Disney Junior. He was already dressed for bed.

“Steve?”

He glanced at you, worry etched on his face as he took in your embarrassed expression. “What is it?”

You opened the door fully, pajamas already on and a wet towel in your hand. You blushed madly. “Could you help me dry my hair? It hurts when I raise my arms.”

Steve was out of bed the second he heard the word ‘help’. “How bad is it? We can always fly in Dr. Cho to get you checked out-”

You giggled, passing him the hotel hair dryer. “I’ll just pop some advil every few hours and annoy you for a massage before tomorrow’s dinner. That sound good?”

He didn’t want to agree. If you were actually in severe pain, it wasn’t helpful to you or the mission. He cursed himself for not relieving you of Seda’s elbow sooner. 

“If you say so.”

You turned back to the mirror and gripped the counter, fingers tapping away as Steve grabbed the essentials. He used one of the hand towels to squeeze the excess water from your tips and separated your hair into sections. He blow dried your hair for a couple of minutes before deciding to alternate with the brush. 

The brush was shaped like a cylinder, the bristles much softer than that of other brushes he’d seen. 

“Just use it like any other brush. But once you get close to the tips, start twisting it. It’ll make my hair wavy.”

Steve nodded, doing exactly as you instructed. It was fifteen minutes of pure laughs and jokes as Steve styled your hair like some seventies movie star. He had always enjoyed the culture from that time and even if the show wasn’t actually set in the seventies, it was one of his guilty pleasures to watch That 70’s Show with Wanda. 

     Once finished, the two of you brushed your teeth and finished the rest of the movie in comfortable silence. He didn’t want to become distracted by something new so he shut off the television and turned to you, all snuggled up and scrolling through your phone. 

It was now or never. 

His voice was tinier than he hoped it would be, “Do you regret what we did?”

You were lying on your side facing Steve, phone plugged into the charger. You looked up, voice as equally tiny. “Oh, we’re talking about it now?”

Steve smiled, “You haven’t exactly brought it up either.”

“Well,” your chuckle came out as a huff. You put your phone back onto the bedside table.  “No, I don’t regret it.”

“You don’t?”

“Did you want me to?” you sounded surprised, but Steve knew you well enough to know you were only teasing. 

“No, I just-”

“Do you?”

“You gotta stop interrupting me,” Steve sighed. You raised your eyebrows. “I don’t regret it.”

You bit your lip and sat up straighter so your back was also leaning against the headboard. “So we both don’t regret it.”

“God, you annoy the hell out of me, you know that?” Steve admitted, kicking off his sheets and presenting what looked to be both a sad and honest grin. 

You laughed, kicking the sheets off as well and dangling your legs over the side. “Do I! You only remind me every damn day!”

Steve softened his voice once more, grin still present. “And yet, you never take a hint.”

You craved this playfulness and if you could continue like this for the rest of the night, for the rest of your lives, you would. But you remembered that there was a real conversation to be had. About the last seven years, the last two years, the last couple of days. Whether that conversation remained civil or evolved into an argument, it had to happen. 

“I guess we both act like everything is past us when it clearly isn’t. What should we do?”

Steve hesitated, “Do you want to fight?”

You shrugged, “I think we need to. I don’t plan on not speaking to you for months after if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

He huffed an involuntary laugh, body leaning forward slightly, “I hope not.”

You shared small smiles from your sides of the room, the air growing thicker but not uncomfortable enough to leave the room altogether. 

Steve decided to speak first. “I was stupid. And I made the wrong fucking choice. I was the biggest goddamn idiot on the planet to do that to a friend.” 

You chewed on your bottom lip, “Yeah. All of that’s true. But you still haven’t told me why you did it. You just gave me a half-assed apology because Sam forced you to, and you wonder why we never had our nightly girl talks again.”

“When I apologized, I hardly meant it.”

You nodded sarcastically, “Good start, Steve.”

“No, I-” he laughed, getting up to sit beside you. “I realized that I was truly, actually sorry… when you gave me your blood.”

You cringed, looking away from him and at the random monitors. “It sounds horribly cryptic when you say it like that.”

He smiled big, “It wasn’t even a mission. And if I recall correctly, you told me you would only help me again if we were on a mission.”

“Oh.”

He scooted closer to take your hand in his. “No, not ‘oh’. I was in and out of it but I can clearly make out when I’m getting a blood transfusion.”

“You weren’t gonna die-” you rolled your eyes, absentmindedly drawing circles on Steve’s knuckles. 

“Recovery would have been a hell of a lot harder.”

“I wasn’t the only volunteer-”

“You were the first.”

“So you’re interrupting me, now?”

Steve's smile never faltered. He leaned in and squinted playfully. “How does it feel?”

Pursing your lips, you surrendered. “Go on.”

“You won’t believe me when I say that I truly don’t know why I quit on you. I was just tired.”

“Tired of me?”

“God, no,” he responded quickly. “Tired of myself.”

“Steve…”

He stood up again. Running a hand through his hair, he took tiny steps back and forth. “We brought everyone back and they didn’t know they had been gone for years. I had to tell -” 

He swallowed hard, holding back tears. “I had to tell everyone Nat sacrificed her own soul for theirs.”

“Steve, we could have done it together. I was by your side,” you stood up as well, reaching out to grip his forearm. 

“And then Nick told me about your father. And how he was just picking up where he left off. Like Nat’s sacrifice meant nothing. Like it still means nothing.”

You sighed, a disappointed pout on your face. “So you took it out on me?”

His shoulders fell in defeat as he gently slapped his arms down over his hips. “I have no other excuse.” 

He didn’t try to sugarcoat it. It was the truth. No matter who asked the question, no matter how much he thought about it, the answer truly was that Steve had no excuse. You were the one thing connected to the evil of the past that he so desperately wanted to leave behind. “And then the world was just… we didn’t fix it.”

“How can you say that?”

He explained further, “People moved on. Five years was a long time and we just mucked it all up again.”

“Do you feel like Nat’s sacrifice wasn’t worth it?”

“She died for us. And the world was so chaotic the first few weeks. There were no breaks, there was nothing we could do but… watch.”

You could see where he was coming from. “Pepper has donated so much money. Created foundations. Bruce is locked in his lab all day trying to help slow down the sudden CO2 emissions. Bucky joined the Avengers for a fresh start. And Wanda-”

Steve pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Oh, god, Wanda.”

“Steve,” you stepped in front of him and tried pulling his hands away. He let you guide his arms back to his sides. “You can’t just blame yourself for something we all did.”

A tiny puff of air left his lips before he forced a smile. “Can’t I?”

“You tell this to your therapist, right?” you teased, happy to see him break slightly as he rolled his eyes. “You blame yourself, but I’m saying you don’t have to.”

He traced his index finger down from your shoulder to your wrist. “I shouldn’t have left you alone.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.”

And you believed him. The world could explode and erase you from existence and you would still believe him. 

“I feel like saying ‘sorry’ doesn’t cut it.”

“I’ll work with whatever you can give me.”

And God, Steve thinks about how beautiful you look in the muted light of his bedside lamp, hair still a little frizzy from the hair dryer and the most radiant smile. So… soft. Again, the only sound besides your easy breathing and slight whistle was that lamp, the most annoying, fuzzy sound. Everything just felt so hazy, so tranquil, so… and yes, he’ll use the word again: soft. He could stay in that moment forever, where you were his and he was yours. 

“What are you thinking about?” 

Steve shakes his head, wonder drowning out all other senses as he focuses on you. He steps closer, enveloping you in a tight hug, mindful of your bruised back. Before he could overthink this moment, to ruin it with the side of himself he was trying to lose, he leaned in to capture your lips in a most chaste kiss. 

It had been a long time since Steve had kissed anyone. The kiss you shared yesterday was the catalyst, but this was a promise. His last kiss was before the snap while he was on the run and trying to avoid responsibility. But it wasn’t like someone before wanted to bask in the warmth of Steve Rogers - no - there was actual emotion to this kiss. 

An ache swelled in the middle of your chest, hammering surely and true. Your mouth falls open the same time Steve inches his hand up your neck, allowing for the kiss to deepen and last. 

His heart was breaking and repairing itself all at once. Breaking for the time he had lost, repairing for the time he had gained. He needed you, wanted you, lost himself in your touch. That same ache in your chest grew in his, pulsating and heavy. His fingers crept into your hair, curling themselves in the loose strands.

He swears you were born for this - to be willing and wanting and breathtakingly good at kissing. He’s so desperate to feel more of you, to taste more than he thinks he deserves, and he almost whines when your fingers also start to tangle in the hair near his neck. 

“Steve, are you sure we should be doing this?” Your voice prompted him to kiss deeper, apply more pressure in the fear that you would change your mind - change your mind about him. 

Almost immediately, red flags propped up and he had to force himself away. He didn’t know your dating history, he didn’t know if you ever emotionally recovered from your assault, he didn’t know. He cursed inwardly for last night, keeping a respectable distance as he checked. 

“I won’t do anything you don’t want to do. I promise you that.”

His voice was thick like honey, smooth and true in the honest words he was saying. 

You had been hesitant for a long while after what had happened to you. You couldn’t stand the simple touch of anyone besides Natasha. But she helped you through it, she shared her own experiences from the early Red Room days, and she had never officially recognized your recovery - she didn’t have to as long as you knew in your mind and body that you had. 

‘The dreadful experience will be a part of you, but it will not ever control you.’ Her words were like prayer. 

But Steve’s touch was natural and wanted. You never shied away from him, not ten years ago and certainly not now. He would never hurt you, you knew this, and he was double-checking to confirm it. 

“I only want you.”

His face resembled a literal question mark, like he didn’t quite accept your admission. Like it was hard to believe you wanted to be with him after everything he put you through. “Do you want me?”  

“Yes. Honest to God, I’m just going with what feels right.”

“That’s just a nicer way of saying you’re thinking with your dick.”

Steve couldn’t contain the burst of laughter that left his lips and hit yours. He pulled back and smiled, eyes crinkling at the sides. “I promise you it’s not that.”

You cupped his face and drew tiny circles on his flushed cheeks. “Hm, so you don’t know what you’re doin’? Thought you always had a plan.”

Steve rolled his eyes, “And apparently I’m always brave.”

“And righteous.”

“Downright patriotic.”

You grinned up at him, your toes sore from how long you had been bending them to hoist you up. “So, your plan?”

Steve kissed you once, twice, three times. “I don’t have one.”

“Pretty brave of you to admit that.”

Steve’s smile dropped slightly to showcase a more serious emotion. Still, his eyes held the most genuine quality. “I just want to be yours.”

You pressed up against him, tiptoes straining and fists clutching his shirt. The kiss was desperate now, as were the both of you. You gasped in between each long peck. “All this time? Why didn’t we say something?”

Embracing you once more, Steve led the two of you to the foot of his bed and fell forward. He landed on top of you, weight nowhere near actually crushing you. His legs were slightly parted, his knees touching the lateral sides of yours. Accepting that the both of you had played a role and delayed this portion of your relationship - Steve was a coward, he knew this, but hearing you say that you also realized your mistakes made him feel weirdly glad. Like he wasn’t alone in this.

“Tell me if you need to stop,” Steve breathed in your neck, kissing the depths of your collarbones and the points of your shoulders. 

“Never,” you whispered, gasping a moment later as he sucked particularly hard. You reached below and tugged the end of his shirt upward. He took it off quickly and before resuming his conquest on your neck, he tugged yours off as well. 

It functioned like this for another ten minutes, strong kisses and gasps and whines, before you were both down to your underwear and simply petting each other higher up on the bed. 

Steve pulled away abruptly, a blush spreading along his neck and down his chest as he thought about the best way to phrase his next sentence. “I didn’t really pack any condoms.”

You actually snorted, pushing away loose strands of your hair as you looked up from beneath him. “Woah, how far did you think you were going to get here, Rogers?”

He was used to the sarcasm, but oh my god did it do something feral to him while in bed with you.  He suddenly flipped you over, holding your hips above his as you settled yourself. It was like a case of whiplash, and before you knew it, you were placed on top of him to grind down and do all the work yourself. 

“Seriously?” His voice was light but raspy, both a sweet question and a warning. 

You grind your hips down on him, feeling the way his hard cock rubbed against your clothed core. Last night was different - you could feel the heat of him, the initial size not lost on you whatsoever. But here you were actually seeing the thick outline in all its glory, a small wet patch forming on his briefs near his twitching tip. “Years of sleeping in my bed only to want to fuck me now?”

He rolled his hips up, his palms beginning a slow and steady pace smoothing alongside your stomach. You relaxed right away, even though it felt like your insides were going to turn upside down, and you rested your hands over his to help guide him. 

“You gonna let me?”

 And fuck, if that wasn’t the hottest fucking thing in the whole world. His palms continued their tracks, reaching up to cup your breasts through your sports bra.  You got the message, giggling as you lifted your arms up. He lifted it up and over your head, throwing it to the other side of the room. Steve immediately attacked, lifting himself and readjusting your hips as well. He sucked your left nipple like a goddamn professional, swirling his tongue around the tight nub and using his teeth only briefly, delighted in the sharp hitch in your breath as he did so. He moved on to the other one, repeating the same process and grinding your hips down on him to match. He trailed quick pecks along your chest and up your neck, his hand finding its way back to your hair. Just below your occipital, so very sensitive, and he tugged your head back at an awkward angle. He kissed his way up, stretching your neck out, and you adjusted to the burn as quickly as the pleasure from it came. 

“Fuck,” you breathed out, mind scrambled but still coherent enough to remember you were on birth control and clean. “I have the shot.”

This had Steve reeling, balance now off as he flipped you once more, hips coming down to meet yours as you thrust upward looking for some relief. The thought of spilling into you with no barrier had to be one of the kinks he didn’t know he had. 

“Safe word?”

You rolled your eyes and shoved his shoulder playfully, “Really, Steve?”

“Safe. Word.”

It wasn’t like you were about to tie each other down for your first time together, but you knew what was flying through his mind. He needed to know you felt safe during whatever the two of you did tonight, make sure you felt calm and at ease and relaxed. Steve would rather die than hurt you physically. 

“Widow.” You paused, smirking up at him as he accepted your decree. “Great, now I’m thinking about Natasha and that time she entered the compound in just that little, red bikini-”

Steve thumbed your bottom lip, then carefully shoved it into your mouth and placed it over your lax tongue to get you to stop talking. Your jaw instantly relaxed and you waited a few moments before locking eyes and enclosing his thumb in your lips. You sucked and swirled your tongue around it, pushing slightly so it rested on your puckered lips. Steve rolled his hips down again, his heat meeting yours in a mash of uncoordinated thrusts. You spread your legs to allow him more room. He had to remove his thumb in fear he would come right then and there.

He inched down lower, hands reaching down to cup your ass and lift you up slightly. He kissed all along your thighs, up to your hip bones, expertly avoiding the one area he knew you wanted him. His beard scratched and poked on your delicate skin, tickling you as he moved closer to your center. This would most certainly hurt in the morning, but nothing a little lotion and vaseline couldn’t fix. You mewled embarrassingly loud, a long drawn out sound that caused Steve to involuntarily rut against the mattress. It had been so long since he had been with someone. But this someone was you. He honestly didn’t know if he could hold out for as long as he wanted. He slowly peeled off your underwear. 

“Where do you want me?”

You lifted your head from the pillow to look down at him, eyebrows furrowed and cheeks incredibly red. “Games, Rogers?”

Steve growled and hoisted your open legs on his shoulders, pulling you closer so that you could feel his stuttering breath. “I’m the one playing?”

His question didn’t quite land considering his sudden manhandling had your eyes rolling to the back of your head and momentarily blinding you. After such a harsh day, the roughness of this particular situation shouldn’t have been so well received by your body. But it was consensual, it was with someone you trusted, and you were also in control. Just knowing that made you crave it. 

“If you don’t get your mouth on me-” you started, trying desperately to move your hips closer to his mouth. And god, did he want to dip lower and suck your glistening heat under his waiting mouth. You were positively dripping, all shiny and welcoming. He hadn’t ordered dessert with dinner, and hey, this would do nicely. 

But your quick quips ignited the Steve that would pick you last during training line-ups. He would leave you for the end, without a team, foot tapping rapidly on the floor as you glared at him with an amused smile. Then he would act like you were the last choice he just had to pick, which you were, and you’d lose the first match on purpose to ruin his scoreboard. It always worked like this, he knew, but did he ever pick you first the next time? No, your bothered attitude excited him too much.

Now, with an impatient attitude bolstering underneath his body, he found himself raising his hand a few inches up in the air. “Stop sassin’!”

The slap echoed after it connected against your bottom, the angle at which it impacted clumsy and inelegant. He smacked the side, surprised by the sharp scream you exhaled. As quickly as he acted, he pulled back. “Oh my god, I should have asked first. I’m so sorry.”

You opened your eyes, the soft light illuminating the room still too bright. You shook away the white spots from your vision. You seriously didn’t know if that was an orgasm or simply a tidal wave of intense pleasure. Still, you were sort of out of it as Steve’s voice tried to draw you back in. 

You looked down at him, “Do that again.”

Steve blinked quickly, unknowing if he truly registered your words correctly. “Are you sure?”

“I didn’t think I’d enjoy that. But oh my god, do that again.”

Steve hesitated and to ease into it better, he decided to not keep you waiting any longer and attached his eager lips to your gleaming ones down below. You fluttered your eyes shut, surprised by how quickly he found your sweetest spot, and you rutted against him harder as the minutes flew by. He swirled his tongue in tight O’s and figure eights, teeth barely scratching but when they did, sent you flying upwards. But he just gripped onto your thighs and readjusted you on his shoulders, fingers digging in almost painfully. His beard burned the inside of your thighs, rubbing deliciously and uncomfortably. He shifted his soft and wriggling tongue to that special spot on the inside of your left lip, his fierce grip not allowing you to shift away as he ate. The hands that were clutching the bedsheets now flew onto his scalp, gripping his hair tightly and you pushed him in deeper. Steve groaned from the pleasant sting, cock straining in his briefs as he rutted into the air. 

The pressure was too much and you wanted him off of you and on you at the same time. Moaning so loud it was deafening, you didn’t notice he lost his grip on one of your legs to connect his palm back to the side of your ass. 

“God!” you yelled blissfully, one hand leaving his head to slam back into the headboard. He repeated the action, his own moans vibrating on you and sending you to a different plane of existence. Each slap grew in strength and he alternated sides, his mouth never leaving your sweet center.

He was sweating now, dying to touch himself and get you off at the same time. He circled his hips mid-air, the friction against his briefs not enough and all too much. 

“Fuck, I can’t believe you like that,” he whined. 

You chuckled through desperate moans, “Are you judging me right now?”

“I’m judging how fucking wrecked it makes me,” he admitted, mouth now working overtime and ready to lead you off the edge. He worked faster, tongue now assaulting your clit eagerly. Steve can feel both his pulse and your pulse gaining momentum, thrumming away inside his skull and vibrating deliciously as he brought you closer. He suspects you’ve got a few good seconds before you’re coming on his mouth. 

“Steve… Steve!” you begged, hips bucking awkwardly against him. He wrapped both arms around your thighs again and headed for the finish line, humming against you and basking in the glory of your end. You broke around him, the scream you let out causing the heat in his stomach to tighten and spread to his own thighs. You wiggled fiercely, attempting to get away from him as he continued to lick you. He made sure to leave some of your release behind, even if his lips and chin told another story. 

He set your legs back down on the bed with him still in the middle. He could still see how shiny you were in between. Selfishly, Steve maneuvered to get himself out of his briefs and settle back in the middle. There, he took pleasure in simply viewing himself, strained and practically purple with desire, at level with your wet mound. 

“You’ve been practicing, huh?” He snapped from his dirty thoughts and looked back at your blissed out face. You also had a soft luster on your skin.

Steve chuckled, hands gripping the sides of your hips to massage them. “Not recently. But the USO girls were just as tuned up as I was at the time.”

You grinned wide, “Now that’s something I didn’t know about you. You fuck ‘em?”

Steve reached down to grip the base of his cock, the pressure building and he seriously didn’t want to blow his load before you both took the next step. He willed himself to calm down before he responded. “Yeah, but please don’t go tellin’ everyone.”

“Who knew you were such a slut?” you teased, voice dripping with such intensity that Steve shut his eyes to drown in it. You wrapped your leg around his waist and tipped him over, coming back to rest your hips atop his. Hands sprawled along the expanse of his chest and unclothed heat now rubbing along his bare cock. Steve tipped his head back, a deep groan rising from the middle of his chest as your drenched lips parted to swallow the thickness of his cock. You rocked back and forth, your sensitive clit nudging his tip every so often. You had already come once, and you reveled in the simple fact that this must be torture for Steve. “Tell me, Steve. How do you want me?”

Steve short-circuited. 

“Doll, I want you in every imaginable way,” he whined, bucking his hips. He grinned when his short movement caused you to whimper. “I want you on top of me, doing nothing, as I fuck up into you.”

You let out a ragged gasp, hips moving faster. You were practically dripping along his cock. Steve continued, “I want you underneath me as I fold you in half and your ankles are dangling in the air. I want you on your stomach as I use your hips how I want.”

Your eyes were wide, the blush on your cheeks extending all the way down to your naked chest. This was so surreal. Just last week you switched his special sugar for salt and watched him literally sob and almost throw up as he sipped his morning tea. 

“But I also want you to hold me down and fuck me however you see fit. I want you to steal my control, I don’t want it. I just need you.”

His voice was wrecked, choked whimpers caught in between his syllables and eyelids fluttering slowly. You shot down to kiss him hard, hands tangling in his hair and hips grinding long and slow. You were rewarded with a sticky bead of pre-come from his sensitive slit. You were already milking him and he hadn’t even entered you yet. 

“Y/N, are you sure?”

You detached your lips, forehead now resting on his and your breaths intermingled. “I’m sure.”

He didn’t know what willed him to flip you over so fast, whether it was the serum or his desperate need to sink into your tight warmth, but he succeeded. His gaze was intense, like he was trying to find any hesitation he so didn’t want to find. But there was none. Your eyes were bright and happy, and he had only seen this look a few times. He felt incredibly lucky to experience it now. 

“I’m sorry I lost you,” he spoke without thinking. Because he truly was sorry, he was so fucking sorry. But to have you here, so vulnerable and allowing him to see you so defenseless, he felt like he didn’t deserve it without telling you once again that he was sorry. 

You gave him a toothy smile, cheeks rising and causing the skin by your eyes to crinkle. You guided his head down to plant his lips on yours again. It was innocent enough for the circumstances, just a gentle press with slow movements. 

You pushed him back to meet his eyes. “I probably should have held on tighter.”

He knows the color of your eyes, but never in this lighting. He knows the sweat of your body, but not when it mixes with his. He knows your talkative mouth, but never pink and swollen in a pleasant pout. He knows your voice, but never when it calls out his name while you writhe underneath him. He knows you now, all of you, open and vulnerable for him.

Steve presses one more deep kiss on your lips before positioning himself better in between your legs. He lifts you up slightly, bending your knees and spreading your legs so your feet are planted on the mattress. Then he slowly guides himself into your tight heat. 

It’s incredibly overwhelming for both parties. He hadn’t exactly prepared you with his fingers and his size is a little much. He was thicker than anything you were used to, and the sting left you wanting him to move already and pause to settle for maybe an hour. It’s like he read your mind because he moved even slower as he pushed deeper, head dropping to the curve of your neck, gasping against your skin. You tried to encourage him, rolling your hips and hooking one leg around him. The sting still overpowered any sense of pleasure, so you rolled your hips against his to try and better adjust for yourself. 

He grasped onto the side of your hip tightly, “Doll, if you don’t stop doing that I’m not gonna last.” 

You blushed, slightly embarrassed, “I was just trying to get comfortable quicker.”

Steve groaned and planted a few sweet kisses to your heated neck. “Do you want to stop? I can work you out one more time before we do this?”

You turned your head slightly to kiss across his cheek. “I want you now. I just need to adjust first.”

Steve nodded quickly, pressing in more and pausing to let you roll your hips. He bit his lip harshly, a cracked gasp escaping every so often as you worked yourself on him. Once he was fully seated inside of you, he closed his eyes and just held you. 

He tried not to think of anything else other than you. How you felt, how you smelled, how you sounded. Who you were, who you became, who you will be. He was swallowed in you and he didn’t ever want to leave that abyss. 

A rush of heat settled inside your stomach, maddening and burning with such intensity it was practically speaking to you. “Steve, you can move. I’m ready, please move.”

He’s as deep as he can go and you’re both breathing hard and he loves you, he loves you, he loves you. As far as declarations of love go, this was perhaps the most graceless, but he knew it was sincere and real. Steve felt a moment of unrelenting panic, like he had just accidentally verbally admitted it. But he hadn’t, and selfishly enough, he would keep it to himself for as long as he could until he himself could come to terms with it. 

There are definitely going to be marks on your skin once you’re done here, but you couldn’t care less - not when Steve just let go of his worries and started to thrust in and out of you, deep and slow. He meets you with a long kiss, hips picking up their pace as you match his rhythm. His hands grip your hips tighter, every thrust working deep into you and prying desperate moans for him to savor. 

The drag as he pulls out leaves you lightheaded. And as he pushes back in, it leaves you with a burst of satisfaction at the base of your spine. You can’t even form words as you’re reduced to a stuttering series of ‘uh-uh-uhs’, fully in the moment and fucked stupid. All you could do is push your hips forward and up to meet him halfway, match your moans to his, clench around him to draw out that choked sob from his throat that he tries and fails to contain. You tried your best to ignore the slight pain in the middle of your back, and the sting and stretch down below made sure of it. 

He was stammering around every syllable of your name. Breathy moans followed. 

“Steve, faster, please baby.” Steve stuttered in his movements, eyes squeezed shut as he registered your request. He followed through, however, lifting your hip in one hand and turning you at an angle that made him hit deeper and in a special spot you didn’t know you had. No one had reached it, not even when you played with yourself, and your squeal of delight alerted Steve of his accomplishment. Each pleasurable noise encouraged Steve to maintain whatever rhythm he had going. So he hit it over and over again, working at it hungrily, ignoring his shaking arms and praying the serum could be useful for more than just bullets and super speed. 

“You feel so fucking perfect. So fucking great,” he panted, watching your face as it contorted into a silent scream. You were coming again, hands braced on his biceps as your voice failed to warn him. You clenched and unclenched around him, head thrown far back into the pillow as your chest ripped with the sound it was harbouring. 

You had never come from penetration alone and you bet the fact it was Steve bringing you to climax was definitely a main factor, but it was so damn intense that your legs gave out and simply flopped onto the mattress. Steve stopped hammering into you for a minute, breathing heavily as he allowed you a cooldown. 

“I didn’t feel that coming, I’m sorry,” you laughed, arm coming up to cover your eyes. 

Steve chuckled and removed your arm, “You good?”

You were still seeing white spots and your head was slightly cloudy, but the knowledge that Steve hadn’t yet come fueled you. And the possibility of him coming inside you kickstarted another wave of desire in each of your vertebrae. 

“Yeah, I just have one favor,” you stated honestly, wiggling uncomfortably. “Could you flip me over? In this position, you’re really pushing down on my bruise.”

He moaned shamefully from the greedy thought of having you on your stomach. The angel on one shoulder chastised him, telling him to flip you over for the sake of your comfort. But that little devil, greedy and seeking his finish, told him to flip you over and fuck you into the mattress. He compromised. 

He flipped you over and helped you place a pillow just below your hips. He watched as you threw your hair to one side and bent your arms at the elbows. Hands now placed below your head and hips wiggling in front of him, Steve parted your legs and sunk into you again. 

“Yes, fuck, yes…” you mewled, hips raising ever so slightly to drag him in deeper. Steve watched the area where you were connected, wonder clouding his mind as he dipped deeper, deeper, until his hips connected with your bottom. He wasn’t used to this position and he never really thought that he would enjoy it so much. It was like he reached new depths, your pleasure could only come from the way he rolled his hips - yeah, he needed to put you in every position his mind could fathom. 

His jaw went slack as he pulled out and pushed back in, hair sticking to his own forehead and mouth feeling dry and watery at the same time. 

He fucked you in earnest, hoping he could draw out one more orgasm from you. You were putty beneath him, hair now mangled and sticking with the sweat on your neck and back. You were a repetition of ‘yes, yes, yes’ and ‘fuck please, fuck, please!’, sloppy in all senses. He didn’t slow down because one: he was chasing his finish, and two: you didn’t tell him to. 

You were a whimpering mess, a tiny pool of drool forming beneath your mouth and on the sheets. It wasn’t like you didn’t try to swallow it - you physically couldn’t. 

Steve was growing erratic now as his end neared. He fell over you, none of his weight actually on you as he wrapped one arm under your stomach and the other hand sneaking its way to your clit. His cheek was planted on your back and in that moment, he remembered your growing bruise. So he lifted his face back up and planted several wet kisses over, inbetween, and alongside your shoulder blades. The soft gesture had you tearing up from both adoration and heat. You fisted the sheets underneath you and met Steve’s ruts as best as you could. 

He rubbed quick circles over your clit, relishing in the feeling of your velvet walls pulsating around him. “Come for me, doll.”

You didn’t know if he could hear himself begging, but he repeated that sentence several more times before you spoke. It was like you chose for him. “Come inside me, Steve. Please, please, please!”

That strung-out whine of yours did it. Steve pressed his mouth against your skin with a breathless groan as he spilled into you in long spurts. Simply feeling him coat your walls with what sounded like a painful cry had you coming for the third time tonight. You didn’t have enough energy to vocalize it so just pushed your head into the pillow and prayed you could still walk tomorrow. 

Steve’s heartbeat is in his ears as he comes down from his high. He enjoys it for a few more seconds before finally snapping back to reality, lifting himself from you and slowly pulling out. He groaned deeply as he watched his spent drip from you and onto the pillow hoisting you up. He wrapped a hand around himself to milk whatever else he had as he watched. 

You two lay beside each other for several minutes, chests heaving and blood settling to its normal speed again. 

You glanced to your left and giggled as you witnessed Steve’s blissed out state, tip of his nose still pink, eyelashes creating such a lovely shadow on his cheeks, cock giving a few spent stutters as the rush of blood found another body part to supply. 

He turned to you as well, a lazy smile greeting you. “We’re good at that.”

This time you laughed loudly, throwing yourself over his chest and hugging him close. He laughed with you and kissed the top of your head as he enjoyed the feeling.

After another couple minutes, you both decided it was time to clean up. He resisted the urge to laugh when you stood up, legs wobbly and chest still trying to catch full breaths. You looked drunk, eyes glossy and hair disorderly. The look suited you, really. 

You thought the same about him. 

Steve swore he was about to crumble when you both returned from the bathroom and you headed for your own bed. It was a betrayal for only a millisecond before you commented on how you were not sleeping in soiled sheets and that he could ‘obviously’ join you in your bed tonight. You kept talking, telling him how you weren’t necessarily a cuddler but you would sacrifice one night for him. But ‘do not be alarmed when you find me on the other side of the bed in the morning!’, and the good ache in his chest swelled once again. 

     Once, in 1935, when Steve was seventeen and too weak to breathe in a lick of clean air, the pneumonia eating away at his lungs and taunting his mother, who was rotating between cold and hot rags; that 1935 sickness was one of the few times he was hopeless. Sure, he pulled through because he’s Steve Rogers. But not being able to breathe really scares a person, and so he didn’t feel hopeless - he was hopeless. His own body betrayed him and made his mother, who nursed him while Bucky worked extra shifts at the dock to help her with groceries, cry like a blubbering newborn - well, Steve was forced to put his faith in God. It’s what his mother would have wanted him to do.

And when he couldn’t reach far enough to grasp Bucky’s trembling hand, when he watched him fall into that icy ravine to his supposed death in 1944, he was hopeless. Completely obliterated from the bottom of his heart, up. 

In 2018, when he lost the ultimate battle and saw half the world disintegrate, and the itchiness spread itself far and wide to all the crevices in his crumbling soul, pouring into crack after crack after crack - there was no need to even label himself hopeless anymore. He hadn’t had hope in anything after he caused the destruction of one of his only true 21st century friendships; not since he dropped that shield at the feet of one friend while he walked away with another. There was no hopelessness - simply less. 

But now, with you in his arms and treading lightly along his second chance, his heart was bursting with the possibility of relearning the definition of hope, craving to feel human again - to feel like Steve Rogers again. Sure, he may still believe his glass is half empty instead of half full, and he was pushing the ideals of that shield far too much down the line, but Steve swore the awe in your eyes was the hope he had lost. 

He couldn’t believe you were the host of it all along. 

So he settled in his new home, in his new hope, praying God would let him have it, and closed his eyes. This Steve, who was asleep for over seventy years and was robbed of the life he was supposed to live. This Steve, who wished he could erase all the lost time filled with stupid tantrums and half-assed apologies and pretend it never happened. No lies about ‘maybe it helped you two grow!’ He had poisoned his happiness years ago and god forbid he would let himself do it again. 

This Steve, who only wanted to protect and be protected. Steve, with all his heart, his mind, and his soul, burning brilliant.

~

A/N: man i know this is long but i literally write the chapters in sections and i don’t realize until I paste them together omgggg xxMoni

Taglist: @dumb-ass-writer @justab-eautifulmess @supraveng @mycosmicparadise @missnighttigress​ 

[chaseatinydream]

pirate king (25) || atz

The door to the sickbay creaks as you enter.

Yeosang is the only one lying in the cots, the other injured crew having cleared out to give the navigator some space and reduce the risk of infection. That must explain why there’s nobody here, but that’s all the better for you.

You pull out a small chair and sit next to Yeosang, mentally preparing yourself for what you’re about to do. The sickbay is dark so you can’t see Yeosang’s face very clearly, but you reach for his fingers, giving them a tight squeeze.

He doesn’t respond.

You exhale, gripping his hand tight as you study him for a moment. He’s so silent, so still that you can count every eyelash that sweep his cheeks, watch the way his chest rises and falls as he draws weakened breaths. His skin is a waxy white, pale and bloodless, and you raise a hand to trace every part of his face.

His skin is unnaturally cool under your fingertips.

For minutes you simply sit there, watching him. It’s a silent, intimate moment, your fingers intertwined with his, you breathe when he does and wait for it to happen. Only when your hearts start beating in tandem do you finally apologize.

“I’m sorry, Yeosang-hyung.”

You remember the first time you had met, when he’d taught you how to address different people on board, when he comforted you before your first battle. A man of immense intelligence, great knowledge and a sagely wisdom. A person of infinite kindness, compassion and innocence. Your crew mate. Your family.

You bend down and rest your head next to his, hand in his. For some reason, you already know what is going to happen, you can feel it in your veins, from the way his every breath begins to weaken, from how every heartbeat is slower than the last.

You won’t be able to save him in this stage with only a limited offering of your energy. Pouring what energy you have into his body, in your emotional state now, is only going to mess his body up even more. You’ll wait, wait of his body to completely drain of his own energy, let his entire body still before you return him what he gave you; the gift of life.

An eternity passes.

Yeosang is approaching death.

A strange calm washes over you, as if you’re standing at a beach with the tide lapping at your feet. You watch in silence as Yeosang’s life slips away little by little, like sand in an hourglass, falling away with every passing second. It’s almost time.

“Thank you.” You whisper to him, gazing at his shut eyes as the sound of your heartbeat seems to meld with his. Something in you reaches out, like a wandering, probing hand, flowing through your joined fingers, up Yeosang’s arm and into his body. You search for him, an intangible soft warmth that you can only describe as pure, holding onto it as tightly as you can. “Thank you so much for saving a wretch like me.”

A part of Yeosang’s inner consciousness shifts, something in him starts to struggle to awaken, as if he can feel what you’re intending to do. Of course he can. Both of you are now connected almost as intimately as any two human beings can possibly be. The two of you are physically touching, you inhale when he exhales and your hearts beat together.

There’s only one last thing left for you to do.

“No!”

You can feel him thrashing against your hold on his soul, even if he doesn’t physically move the least. The most primal part of him, his subconscious, his memories, his character, his morals all rolled into one, the part of him that make the man before so wonderfully and uniquely Kang Yeosang. It’s fighting against you, because it knows what you want to do.

You want to redeem yourself.

You can feel his heartbeat weakening from the strain of pumping blood through his entire body, the way his organs are slowly starting to shut down one by one. The tie his soul has to his mortal body is fluttering weakly, struggling to hold on as he desperately tries to survive. You’ll wait, wait for his heart to stop.

Every heartbeat echoes in your ears, each one growing fainter and fainter.

“I’m sorry, everyone.” You murmur softly, closing your eyes. You remember Wooyoung’s face of utter betrayal, the way he had been afraid of someone he would once have died for. You see the bloody back of your captain as he endures the whip. “I’m sorry, Captain. I’m sorry, Wooyoung. I’m sorry that this is the only way I can make amends. I promise after this… you won’t ever have to deal with me again.”

There’s a final thump, and then absolute silence.

Yeosang is dead.

You can feel it begin to happen. Every life supporting reaction in you slows all at once, the magical energy used to power your own body being drawn away from your limbs, gathering right above your heart like a small flame. The warmth grows steadily, until you feel like there’s an actual candle being pressed against your bare skin, and then the liquid heat suddenly streams down your arm and into Yeosang, leaving a cold, freezing sensation in its wake.

Ice seems to fills your veins, frost creeping over your body starting from your toes. At first, it’s merely uncomfortable, but then it soon grows into a painful, cold burning in your flesh. You ignore it and press on.

Suddenly you feel Yeosang’s body jerk upwards like a miracle come true, the whoosh of air entering his lungs, a loud, powerful heartbeat echoing in your ears. Ecstasy fills you, but then the draw changes.

Like a riptide, where your energy had once been streaming into him, the tides suddenly shift, and you feel his survival instinct desperately drawing on any source of energy it can get to save him.

The only one it finds is you.

Equivalent exchange. A life for a life.

A dam breaks in you and in a second, you feel the energy that was once flowing through you being torn away by him. You don’t fight back, letting him take everything from you have, weariness flooding through your limbs. Something snaps in you and you feel something warm trickling from the side of your mouth, but you’re too tired to care.

Sleep… Just let me sleep…

Suddenly, colours and shapes swirl together in front of you, voices echoing here and there, fading in and out. You’re confused for a moment, before the bright, vivid streaks flash before your eyes, and you’re one with the man that is Kang Yeosang.

You walk down a set of marble stairs, arms laden with thick, heavy books. You’re dressed in an expensive, fine wool coat and a pair of reading glasses perch on your nose, through them you see a maid scurrying across your path. She stops immediately upon seeing you, bowing low with a basket of laundry under her arm.

“Young master.” She greets politely, but you can see her glance away shiftily. You frown.

“Where is Father?”

“On another voyage, young master. He left yesterday.”

Disappointment sinks in your chest. That’s the third year you haven’t seen your father’s face. But you force your face into a smile. “I understand. You may go.”

The maid bows again and scurries off.

Years pass in mere seconds, flashing past your eyes.

You’re older now, sitting at a desk and poring over navigational books as you jot down notes on paper. You need to study hard and become a navigator fast, so that you can finally be of some use to your father and accompany him on his voyage to hunt down the legendary Pirate King. A knock sounds at the door, and you remove your glasses, glancing at the door.

“Come in.”

Another maid walks in, bowing before you. “Master will see you now.”

Ecstasy blooms in your heart, it’s been six years already, and you’re finally going to see the face of the man you call Father. When you stand and walk over to the door, there’s a new spring in your step, a joy that you can’t shake off. But before you can leave the room, the maid taps you on the shoulder and passes you a tin of creamy beige colouring.

“For your…” She gestures at the birthmark beneath your eye, and your heart sinks for a moment.

Darkness swirls before you, and then you’re at sea once again.

You’re standing on the deck of your father’s ship. The red rose emblem on this sail has been shredded by enemy cannonfire, as has the mizzenmast. The Pirate King stands before you, younger than you had ever expected, a young boy almost your age. He points the musket at your father, and for a moment, fear runs through you.

“Please, spare me and my men.” Your father begs and anger fills you at how he, the commander of one of the best privateer fleets in the Royal Navy, is bowing to a mere pirate. But the young pirate simply chuckles, loading the musket in his hand.

“Why should I?”

“I can offer you a trade.” Your father offers, almost desperately, and you see the pirate’s eyebrow raise. He pauses in raising the musket.

“What can you give me that I can’t take for myself?”

“A navigator.” Your father declares, and your heart sinks in your chest. “If I give you my navigator, let me and my crew go.”

The pirate’s eye narrows and he adjusts his eye patch. “Is your navigator not one of your crew?”

“No.” Your father says, with so much surety. He’s giving you away to a band of merciless pirates, who might enslave you, torture you, even kill you. Fear shoots through you.

“Father-”

“Shut up, boy!” Your father snaps at you and you can only fall silent, the Pirate King turns to look at you appraisingly with a single green eye. He contemplates the deal for a short moment.

“Throw in your navigational maps and we’ll make it a deal. If you refuse, I can always let Wooyoung play target practice with you. I assure you he’s itching for something fun to do.”

Your father’s eyes darken, but he can’t refuse the offer.

“Fine.” He spits, shoving you over roughly. You lose your balance, but the captain catches you.

These aren’t yours. There are Yeosang’s memories.

Then the noises and shapes flash past your eyes too fast for you to make out anything anymore, and you feel your own heartbeat starting to slow as Yeosang’s becomes more steady. You’re so tired, all you want to do is close your eyes and rest…

The door opens.

“Captain, I was thinking we could try to- What in the world are you doing!?”

San’s scream is hazy, as if you’re deep in sleep already, but you can hear the frantic desperation and horror in his voice once he realises what you’re doing. You hear the sound of something being knocked over in the background, but you’re too tired to care. Then something thick and hard shoves you hard to the side, off the chair, and you don’t have the energy to move. You merely topple off the chair, crumpling to the ground like a rag doll.

“Chin Hae! Chin Hae!” This is Wooyoung’s voice, you register sleepily. The shackles on his wrists dig into your back as he supports you against him, just like the time you got shot. You’d never tell him this, but getting shot in the ankle was one of the best things that ever happened to you.

Ah, you’d wanted to ask him why he wore the shackles, but you suppose you’ll never get the chance now. Your tongue feels too heavy to move but you force it to anyway, desperately needing to ask one last question before you can go in peace.

“Is Yeosang okay?”

You see his mouth move before you, eyes wide with terror and worry, but you can’t hear him. The purple in his hair is starting to return, peeking through the henna he dyed his hair with. For a moment, you think that may be your favourite colour in the whole world.

“Stay… Please… Don’t… You need… Stay awake…!” His words fade in and out. Something wet and warm falls on your cheeks, but you don’t know what it is. Is he still angry with you? You need to apologize to him, then you won’t bother him anymore.

“Sorry for lying… Love you, Wooyoung…” You murmur sleepily, and every muscle under you stiffens in shock.

“Chin Hae-” He begins to say, but then your eyes close. It’s warm here. You could just stay this way forever. The world around you finally fades into nothingness.

And then everything turns white.

The roar of the ocean fills your ears.

You are sitting at a beach. The same beach you see every time you close your eyes. The beach you reach every time you try so hard to gain your memories.

You’re here once again.

Your feet dangle in the cool water as dark brown runs with every lap of the tide, your fingers absentmindedly playing with the sand as you feel each and every grain beneath your rough, slightly deformed fingertips. It’s late at night, the stars have come out, a sprinkling of diamonds in the inky black sky. You stare at the necklace around your neck, the tiny clear cut crystal taunting you with its contents.

He’s coming.

You feel him before you see him, his footsteps sending vibrations through the fine grains of sand as he moves towards you.

“I didn’t expect you to see me off, ******.”

His name is in a language you can’t speak any longer, not with this tongue. He smiles fondly at you, his eyes twinkling like stars in the sky.

“You won’t tell them?” He asks, but he already knows what you will say.

“They won’t understand.” You answer, gazing at the sea with a look so fond and yet so sad. His smile becomes a little wistful as he gazes at where he can’t reach.

“They’ll try to stop you.”

Your smile matches his exactly, eerily identical. “I know.”

“I wanted to do it for you.”

The way he says it makes you know it’s so much more than just a simple action, more than just a parting gift. You look at him, and an aeon of understanding passes between you from your shared gazes alone. A smile curves at your mouth.

“Alright.” You breathe into the night air.

His face is nothing but a foggy memory, browns and greens swirl where his features should be. But his eyes. His eyes glow such a unique shade of green, twin pools of liquid viridescent emeralds, one that nothing and no one else in this world can replicate. You love him so much, more than the human tongue could ever describe, the opposing force to everything you are.

Your other half.

How could you ever forget him?

In his hand, he raises a dagger and presses the tip against your chest.

You press your face into his neck, a sad smile on farewell on your lips, his other arm embracing your body, pulling you tight against him. You’re leaving your other half behind, your very soul screams, but its call is too strong for you to resist.

“I wish you all the luck in the world.” He says softly, his voice caressing your ear more tenderly than any lover’s embrace. You nod, burying your face in his chest, seeking his comfort.

“I'm scared.”

“I love you more than anything else, ****.” He whispers intimately into your ear, his voice warm and strong as it has always been for as long as you've existed. His thumb brushes against the crystal on your necklace, burning and etching words into the cold silver.

When he pulls away for a moment to look deeply into your eyes, you feel a single tear fall down your cold cheek for the first time, tracing a dark line in the brown of the clay.

“I will be with you every step of the way.”

The blade sinks into your chest.

[dropssofjupitter]

Red as the Dawn

Pairing: Dramione

Summary: It has been 3 weeks since Hermione Granger died in a freak accident at Malfoy Manor. Consumed by his own grief, Draco blames himself for his beloved’s death, and gives in to the destruction devouring his mind.

Word Count: 3.7 k

Warnings: Angst, mentions of death, mentions of blood, arson

Masterlist

A/N: This is my entry for the Dramione Death Fest on A03 because I am, first and foremost, an angst writer. This fic has not been beta read. Any mistakes or inconsistencies are my fault and mine alone. - I accidentally deleted this fic when trying to edit it, so this is fun

Draco was in tatters.

He was erratic; slashing portraits, throwing plates, burning the hedges that bordered the walkway in front of the mansion. The house-elves avoided him, his own mother, for once, didn’t know how to calm him down.

He spent his days wandering through the mansion, destroying whatever the house-elves had fixed the night before. He went from room to room, upending tables, tearing curtains, ripping apart books.

Each day he reigned over his realm of self-destruction, and each day he paused before one door. He would walk up to it, determination draining from him with every step. Some days he would simply stare at it, and then move on, leaving it untouched. But other days he would let his hand rest on the doorknob, his forehead pressing against the cool wood, and let his memories take him away.

“Honestly Draco, I don’t understand why we can’t just put my study with yours. It’d be much simpler.”

“Because, Granger. Your workspace is absolutely filthy, and I don’t want that mess bleeding onto my side.”

Hermione scoffed, indignant. “It is not filthy.”

Draco stared at her, his hand resting on the doorknob to the room that would henceforth be known as Hermione’s study. “Ignorance is not a good look on you Granger,” he stated simply, opening the door and slipping through before Hermione could throw one of the numerous books overflowing in her arms at him.

She shuffled in after him, a retort that was poised and ready on her lips dying as soon as she saw the room. “Merlin’s beard,” she breathed out, turning in a wide circle.

A mahogany desk sat against one of the walls, a large ornate office chair seated behind it. On the desk sat a nameplate, perched towards the edge and accompanied by fabulously extravagant bookends. Parallel to the desk was an entire wall fitted with four wondrously large bookcases, two of which had already been filled with research books, journals, and memoirs that had previously been in the Malfoy library. Illuminating the entire room was a wall filled top to bottom with windows. Enchanted ivy climbed them from the outside, and multiple house plants hung and floated around the windows. Assorted chairs, benches, and even a couch decorated the remainder of the study, all enchanted to immediately conform to the users body.

Draco would never admit it to her, but he had taken weeks out of his schedule to personally design the study. He had haggled with construction workers over the prices of installation, and had even acquired his mothers help in absolving some of the blood curses placed upon the books that now filled the room.

“Do you like it?” he asked cautiously, hands clasped tightly behind his back in order to hide the nervous twisting of his fingers. His eyes bounced between her eyes, to her hands, to the books about to fall from her arms, and then back to the look of awe on her face. He would do anything in his power to make sure that she always looked as wonderfully happy as she did right now.

“Do I like it? Draco, its stunning!” She replied, a soft, incredulous laugh slipping from her lips.

He nodded his head, looking around the room. “It’s alright.”

She looked back at him, a bright smile lighting up her eyes. “Thank you, truly.”

His heart skipped a beat. His hands stopped twisting. A smile snuck its way onto his face despite his better judgement. “You’re welcome.”

“Draco, darling?” Narcissa called, her hand placed delicately on the staircase railing. “Are you alright?”

Draco’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing and his lips turning into a snarl at the realization that he was interrupted once more. His hand left the door, and he turned sharply on his heel, walking swiftly past his mother in a swirl of black cloaks. “Perfectly adequate,” he replied with a sneer, returning with vigor to his previous path of destruction.

Narcissa sighed, her eyes looking forlornly towards the study. In the background she heard a crash echoing out from the living area. She flinched, hand inches away from the handle, and moved on.

~~~

Draco paced the halls of the manor like a caged animal. He walked, up and down, left and right, until he had patrolled the entirety of the manor over 20 times. Then he moved outside.

His feet slowed, ever so slightly. His breathing evened. And the feeling of an unknown pressure against his chest lifted, just a little. Here, he was free from the endless onslaught of memories. Here, he could relax and relent under the night sky.

His feet led him to the maze that decorated a small portion of the yard, his hands outstretched and brushing against the hedges as he passed them. He inhaled, deep and pure, and let his body carry him to the center of the maze.

There was a small stone bench in the middle, weathered from years of sitting stationary upon the ground. A pond bubbled nearby, magical fish of every variety content to swim in its waters.

Draco sat down on the bench, the tension leaving his body as he tilted his head up to look at the stars that littered the heavens. He closed his eyes, a soft smile perched treacherously on his lips. And then his heart twinged with a memory, and his peace was ruined.

“Draco keep up! You’re going to miss it!” Hermione called out, already yards in front of Draco as she ran frantically through the maze.

“Really Granger, is it that important?” Draco called back, feeling a laugh bubbling to the surface as he watched Hermione get swatted by an overgrown hedge.

“Oh just come on you twat!” She replied, a laugh slipping from her lips as well.

Draco turned the final corner, a goofy grin chiseled onto his face as he took in the scene before him.

Hermione had a muggle telescope set up to the side on the bench, already pointed at the sky and calibrated correctly. Astrology books lay strewn haphazardly around the mini safe haven, and a blanket was laid across the grass no more than a few feet away. She stood behind the telescope, bent at the knees as she peered through it.

She glanced up, her smile returning as she saw Draco. She waved him over to the telescope, excitement seeming to exude from her very being. “Well come on!”

Clasping his hands behind his back, Draco sauntered over, walking as slow as humanly possible.

Hermione, seeing this, waved her arms in exasperation and ran behind him, placing her hands on his back in an attempt to push him forwards. “You absolute prat!”

A deep, low chuckle escaped Malfoy’s mouth as he turned his head to look at her. “Why Granger, whatever do you mean? I’m walking as fast as I can!” He placed one of his hands on his chest and looked at her, appalled. “Are you claiming me to be a dishonest man?” he asked, incredulous.

“Well, I’m certainly not calling you an honest one!” she retorted, still hopelessly attempting to push Draco closer to the telescope.

He laughed again, relenting and continuing willingly towards the contraption. He hummed, contemplating his actions before bending down and peering through the eyeglass. “I don’t see what the excitement is about, honestly. It’s just the sky. We’ve seen it hundreds of times in - oh.” Draco’s thought was cut short as the stars began to rain down, trails of wispy ethereal light painting the inky blackness of the sky in their wonder. He moved away from the telescope, his head instead tilting up to look at the sky without the object’s assistance.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Hermione breathed out, her eyes trained on the sky as well.

Draco looked over at her, his heart beating erratically against his chest as a soft smile creeped onto his face. He watched as the heavens fell in her eyes, as her beauty built cities in his mind and tore down any deities previously known to man. He watched, helplessly, hopelessly, as he fell for her. Mind, body, and soul. “Yeah,” he breathed out, hands itching to intertwine themselves with hers as he watched her face light up. “It is.”

Draco opened his eyes, once again staring up at the stars that littered the heavens. He felt a now familiar ache return to his chest as tears began to blur his vision.

“You always were able to see the beauty in everything,” he whispered to himself, eyes wandering down to the corner of the stone bench. His hands ghosted over the initials carved there only weeks before. H.G. Hermione Granger. “Even in a monster.”

He felt a stray tear begin to slide down his cheek, and he quickly wiped it away, standing abruptly and walking towards the exit of the maze. Before he left, however, he turned. Gazing upon the place that had been so painful for him to exist in. Without a second thought, he lifted his wand, eyes staring at the cursed stone bench as he set the haven on fire.

He saw his mother run out of the mansion moments later, collapsing to her knees as she saw the destruction that her son had wrought, saw his true nature. He walked past her, pausing just behind her, and turned his head. She looked back at him, tears in her eyes along with an emotion that caused Draco to grit his teeth in anger. Pity.

He didn’t want, nor did he need his mother’s pity. He turned sharply, walking back into the darkened mansion and slamming the door behind him. Let her watch the wretched garden burn. Let her inhale the ash with every cry, and scream for the house elves as she desperately tried to put out the flames that he had created. He was done receiving her pity. And he was done avoiding his own.

With his anger rising and his emotions high, Draco stalked up to the study that he had avoided for so long. A concentration of magic that Draco hadn’t even known existed within him burst towards the door in his high emotional state and knocked it off its hinges. Without a second thought, Draco stepped into the room.

His mind went blank. His eyes took in the room, a thin layer of dust covering the objects. He saw photographs of him and Hermione decorating the walls, pictures of her parents, the plants that she had meticulously cultivated for so long in order to test their in a new sleeping drought. His eyes roamed over the bookcases, overflowing with double and sometimes triple stacked books, scraps of parchment sticking up from where she had found something of note in her research. Quills were set about in no particular order in the room, essentially guaranteeing that she would be able to have one handy at all times, just in case.

Draco inhaled, and his face crumpled. It still smelled like her.

The intoxicating scent of honeysuckle and cedar that he had come to know so well was stuck in the room, circulating over and over with nowhere to go. It filled his senses, overwhelming his mind and making everything else . . .muddled. He tried to take a step backwards, but his legs were weak. He stumbled.

His eyes slid over to her desk, and his breath caught in his throat.

A letter was perched on the edge of it, caught in between the two bookends that he had gifted her long ago. His name was written on the front in her messy handwriting. Hesitantly, he reached out towards it, his fingers smoothing back the folds in the envelope as he stared at it. Had this letter been here for him this whole time?

He flipped it over and was face to face with the glaringly red seal on the envelope. He dropped it.

Draco looked down at her body, convulsing on the floor. Red bloomed on her stomach, spiraling and twisting in intricate patterns as it soaked through her clothes. He had said many times that Hermione looked ravishing in red, but not this kind of red. This red was hot, and dark, and sticky. This red drained the color from her face every time it grew more vibrant.

He rushed over to her, falling to his knees and sitting in the puddle of her blood that had harrowed him so. His mind was racing, or was it numb? He couldn’t tell. He pulled out his wand and hoarsely spoke a healing spell. “Vulnera Senentur.” Nothing happened. Frantic, Draco tried it again, his voice stronger now. “Vulnera Senentur!” Nothing.

Hermione weakly opened her eyes, moving her lips in an attempt to speak.

“Shh,” Draco hushed her. “Save your strength Granger. You’ll be at St. Mungo's in no time.” His thumb caressed her cheek as he turned his head towards the door, calling for his house elf. “Winky! Winky I need you!”

Desperation filled his being. He couldn’t apparate her, or he would run the risk of splinching her. None of his healing spells or diagnostic checks were working. He didn’t know what to do.

Hermione raised her hand, wincing as she placed it on one of his arms. Her mouth moved again, and a hoarse whisper of his name escaped.

He looked back over at her, leaning his head down and touching his forehead to hers. “It’s okay Hermione, it’s going to be okay. Can you tell me what hurt you?” He shifted his weight, slowly and cautiously dragging her body into his lap. One of his hands ran over the cut in her stomach, and he grimaced.

“Draco. .” she whispered again, her hand moving steadily up his arm until she was able to cup his face. Her lips curved up in a small smile and she dragged her thumb over his cheek.

He leaned into her touch, looking down at her with hot, angry tears in his eyes. “Don’t you dare say it Granger. Don’t you dare say goodbye.”

“We both. .” she inhaled sharply, and it sounded wet and coarse. The cough that followed caused a small splatter of blood to find purchase on his shirt. “We both know that I’m not getting out of this alive.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he replied, his voice wavering as his own hand reached up to wipe the blood off of her chin. He cleared his throat, hands shaking as he gingerly held her face. “You’ve gotten out of worse scrapes than this. Bloody hell, you had Potter and Weasley for friends, the amount of pure chaos that follows those two should have gotten to you long ago.”

She laughed, her face growing paler by the second. “I’ve always been curious,” another deep, shuddering breath, “you know? I mean, this is the one question that I’ve never been able to answer.” She paused, and it almost looked as though she was staring past Draco and up at the ceiling. Her eyes were unfocused, her hand fell slightly on his face.

He brought his other hand up to hers and held it against his cheek, knowing what she wanted, and knowing what she deserved. She deserved an answer that would make her happy, that would make her peaceful. She deserved an answer that held just as many mysteries as the question, and one that was just as fantastical as the world she had been brought into.

“I. .” his voice caught, and he cleared his throat again, tears falling from his eyes. “I always liked to think that we never actually die. That our magic just gets passed on to some new witch or wizard. Someone like us.”

Her eyes focused back on his face, and her smile seemed content now. “I’d like that,” she said. Her voice was weak. Her breathing was shallow. Her hands and face were growing cold to his touch. “Maybe,” another wet cough shook her body. “Maybe our magic can find each other again. Like soulmates.” Her smile was shaky, and her eyes were beginning to shine with tears.

“Draco,” Hermione said, her thumb weakly running over his bottom lip. “Thank you for showing me what it’s like to be loved.”

And then she was gone.

Her body went limp. Her hand fell from his face. Her eyes, once filled with an undeniable brightness and eagerness to learn and solve and question, were dull and void.

“Hermione?” Draco called out, his voice breaking. His hands were shaking. He was frantically running them over her face, her hands, trying to elicit some sort of response from her.

“No... no no no no.” Tears were streaming down his face as he picked up the wand that he had discarded earlier on the floor. He dropped it twice before he was able to properly hold it, and even then, his hands were shaking too much to perform the wand work required for the diagnostic spell.

Frustrated, he threw it across the room and gathered her body in his arms. He leaned down and touched his forehead to hers, willing for her to open her eyes and lecture him over the proper way to stir a wolfsbane potion, or to hit him and call him insufferable. To do anything.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please I . . I can’t . . I don’t know what to do without you.”

Draco hadn’t realized it then, but he knew it now.

When Hermione had died, he’d died with her.

He looked down at the letter on the floor beneath his feet, and stooped down to pick it up. He flipped it over in his hands, looking once more at the bright red seal. The image of Hermione, on the ground, covered in her own blood came back to him, and he closed his eyes, gripping the letter in his hands like a lifeline.

Even if it hurt him. Even if it somehow caused him more pain than he was already feeling, he had to know what she had written to him.

Carefully, he opened the letter and unfolded the parchment, his eyes watering as he scanned the page.

My heart,

I had hoped that you would never receive this letter, and never have to feel the pain that you are going through right now, but alas, it seems inevitable.

I suppose that I should explain what this is, though I would wager that you have already guessed. Upon my death, however likely or unlikely, I had arranged for a letter to be sent to you. I updated the letter weekly, of course, to keep things recent and up to date. However, lately, I have been writing a letter to you every day.

It’s not necessary, in fact it’s far from that. It’s . . well I suppose it’s simply because I don’t entirely know how to fit everything into one letter. If you wish to read them, they should be stashed in the top left drawer of my desk.

On to the main purpose of this letter. To put it simply, I love you.

I’m not exactly sure when it happened if I’m being honest. Whether my affections began when we were forced to work together for a project in the Ministry, or when you had somehow memorized my caffeine schedule so thoroughly that it no longer surprised me when you brought me my morning coffee. But it happened.

I imagine that this is of no shock to you, considering that we are currently engaged, but I also know that you don’t hear the words enough. And I know that you doubt, every day, whether or not I will finally ‘come to my senses’ as you have put it before, and leave you for something or someone else.

If it wasn’t already evident, let me put it more clearly. I am yours, Draco Malfoy. Body and soul. I have been and always will be. I love you more than you will ever know, and more than I would ever care to admit.

And if I know you well enough, which I do, I know that you are blaming yourself for whatever has happened to me. Please, for your mother’s sake, mine, and your own, don’t. Know that I could never, ever, blame you for anything that has happened to me.

You are the one mystery in my life that I will never get bored of, the one puzzle piece that finally completes me, the one constant that I never want to change.

I can guarantee you. In my last few moments, all I will think about is you and the happiness that you have brought me. I will relive our first kiss, and your proposal. I will relive the day that I moved into the Manor, and that tea that I had with your mother where she showed me your baby photos.

And if I am so lucky, you will be there with me. And I will get to see you one last time. I will get to memorize every feature of your face, and your temperamental eyes. I’ll be able to run my hands over that scar on your bottom lip, and tell you how much you mean to me.

But most of all, I want you to learn how to be happy again. I want you to smile when you remember me, and correct my work when you go through my research. I want to be remembered as I am.

All my love, and so much more,

Hermione

Draco smiled weakly as he finished the letter, his legs finally giving out as he collapsed onto the floor.

He heard footsteps behind him, and moments later his mother’s arms wrapped around his shoulders. “It’s like she never left . .” she murmured, tears falling down her cheeks.

He looked up at the study once more, taking in the piles upon piles of research and notes and musings that covered the room. There, in that moment, in that place, he swore he could hear Hermione laugh at something snarky that he had said, and feel her hand on his shoulder.

“I don’t think she ever will.”

.

.

Add yourself to my taglist!

[song-of-asystole]

Crime and Punishment - Soukoku oneshot

Summary:

A demon once whispered to him of crime and punishment. He hadn’t paid it much mind – how trusted can a demon be?

His crime, among others, was betrayal.

The only aspect of the crime he left overlooked turned out to be the most crucial one – the punishment.

And the demon stays amused by the most pathetic Raskolnikov in existence – Dazai Osamu.

or

The author being an absolute nerd for Dostoyevsky and overanalyzing Soukoku��s relationship. Enjoy Dazai’s late-night thoughts!

TW: death, implied suicide

Author’s note:

I’m taking a break from my usual writing (which I’m super insecure about), so I’m writing this little fic because I hope you will be kind to me. Also, I just needed some comfort and BSD is my go-to place for that.

There’s a couple of references scattered across the fic: the obvious one about Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment, as well as The Brother Karamazov and The House of the Dead. Yes, I’m aware I’m a huge nerd.

I actually got really carried away and I wrote 2 more chapters which I’ll post on AO3. Of course, this chapter will be up there too, I’ll put a link down below, so please give feedback. :D

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30342828

Enjoy!!

A demon once whispered to him of crime and punishment. He hadn’t paid it much mind – how trusted can a demon be?

Dazai Osamu’s crime, among others, was betrayal. He betrayed the miserable life he had led in Port Mafia, the life that had devastated him on the days he remembered he had heart under that cold, colorless ribcage of his. This life, if one may even call it that, deprived Dazai of a childhood, of innocence, of cleanliness: his hands stained crimson red and his thoughts painted pitch black. Would letting go wash away those dark colors, reveal the truth underneath, which was unknown to him? He did not know, but something had to change.

And so he escaped, with the night cradling him and the smoke of a burning car covering his treacherous silhouette. He had fled the winter of his life, days of bloodshed and sin out of sight and out of mind, looking forward to a promisingly bright spring. Betrayal is an ugly thing, but he had never cared much for looks.

The only aspect of his crime he left overlooked turned out to be the most crucial one – the punishment. Never had he dreamed he would feel guilty.

What am I really even guilty of? Wanting to see the light? Wanting to do good for once in this wretched life I lead? The days I spent swimming in the dark waters of despair deserved to see the end. Am I a monster for wanting happiness?

Hard as he tried to reason with his guilty consciousness, it never left him. It just kept gnawing at his thoughts, making him remember what, nay, whom he tried to forget.

The red-haired calamity.

The manipulator of gravity.

To Dazai, the giver of life.

Nakahara Chuuya.

At the time, Dazai could’ve never fathomed the concept of missing the redhead. Sure, Chuuya was important to him – as much as a person who knew everything about you could be. The two knew each other from the tip of the head to the end of the toes.

He could never not be important. Such noise is rarely ignored, Dazai mused jokingly.

Chuuya was what brought him life. The constant cheating, stealing and killing tramples the soul until you cannot make anything of what’s left. It’s what makes Dazai long for death – he’s seen the depths of this cursed city that squeezed his heart to the point he wanted to throw it away. However, Chuuya – just saying his name made Dazai feel warm – he saw it too. He felt it the same way Dazai did. He might act harsh with all his stomping, yelling, and destroying, but underneath all that is a gentle, nurturing nature that he hides. It’s a detriment in his line of work. Having someone understand meant a lot to Dazai. Maybe their partnership was even built on this silent understanding, among other things.

However, Chuuya was not nice. Don’t ever mistake Chuuya’s sensitivity with kindness. Sugar and spice was not to be in the same sentence as his name. He has always been… rough. Sometimes it served as a wake-up call to Dazai. It helped put things into perspective, but it also helped put things into bad perspective. Not a single morning did these two share without a fight – verbal or physical. Dazai didn’t mind it much at first. After all, teasing Chuuya did work like a drug for him. With time, however, the blade of their words never became dull. It only sharpened. Words like poison flung around the apartment, sentences like spider-webs sitting in hidden corners of the bedroom. Love – they never dared call it that, but, oh, what a burning love it was – love, the most sacred of all emotions, was a chore until it became a war. Eventually, Dazai couldn’t find his peace even in the arms of a lover.

So, his craftiness started turning wheels again and – he escaped. Not a word in the evening, not a trace in the morning, only confusion and hurt spelled over Chuuya’s heart.

Dazai knew it was cruel. He never felt right about it. He loved Chuuya, after all, so the best thing to do, he concluded, was to forget.

The demon laughs. Punishment has been passed.

Presently, Dazai Osamu spends his night awake, staring at the dirty ceiling of his room, as the most pitiful of the world’s Raskolnikovs.

Why can’t he seem to forget a man he once loved, a man he soon grew to hate, a man he betrayed in order to find happiness? What twisted force of nature is dragging his thoughts back to the time he was at his lowest? Why is it that now, when all hope of reunion between the lovers is lost, he finds himself longing for the infamous Port Mafia executive Nakahara Chuuya? Why did the ashes find their way back into a flame after he committed the worst of all sins – betrayal of trust and love?

The demon chuckles once again and in a sing-songy voice he says, I told you, Dazai-kun. To love thy neighbor is impossible. The man himself is the ugliest of all God’s creations – how could anyone love such a creature up close? Even the Father won’t cast a glance at him. It takes distance, Dazai-kun, and you’re not exempt from this rule of human nature.

It is irksome, yes, how right the demon seems to be. It is certainly irksome, Dazai feels, as the demon’s words carve into the left chamber of his stone cold heart. What even was it that made Dazai hate Chuuya? Hate Chuuya… it used to seem so impossible and yet, along with Odasaku’s death, it drove him to plan and execute a high-scale betrayal of the entire Port Mafia.

It would take years before Dazai could understand the intricacies of his past with Chuuya at Port Mafia. What mattered now – truly, the only real thing in this world – was the fact that he actually loved Nakahara Chuuya.

Oh. There. He thought of it. For some reason, he didn’t want to think of anything else but that. It wasn’t scary, as he thought it’d be, all those years ago. He finally broke the lock in his lungs and there it was: all that air he never let himself breathe. What was it about that mere word that made two Port Mafia executives shy around it, avoid it like the authorities, dance around it as if it was bonfire in the festival night? Why had they never let the simple four-letter word into their little sanctuary when it so obviously belonged with them? The fear he once felt seemed foolish to him now.

I guess we do learn as long as we live, he whispers in the dark room to no one in particular.

He felt a rush trying to sweep him up, make him stand. However, where would he go? To Chuuya? As if. He hurt Chuuya in unspeakable ways even during the time they spent together. He has no right to show up at his doorstep or in his life. Ever again.

Even if he did, how would that end? They squeezed each other’s hearts dry and called it love. Every day felt like torture, but they swore it was sweet. Why, why, why did they cause so much pain? Was it truly the only method to make them feel alive in the house of the dead? Did the right answer slip between their fingers at some point?

The question Dazai had been stuck on was, Is there any way he could forgive me? If, once in the future, I looked him in the eye and told him the truth – would there be salvation pouring from his lips? Or would he rightfully convict me for my crime?

Thus, Dazai fell into slumber, like every other evening for the past four years. The bed will never feel comfortable to him because it always seems to be missing something, but Dazai will keep denying it. His little room doesn’t even look like a home, but Dazai will tell you that he just can’t be bothered to unpack and decorate. His heart, cold like a Russian blizzard, has not known warmth in a while, but he will tell you it’s incapable to do so.

Those are the only three lies Dazai Osamu tells people and himself – until the night comes again and unlocks a little door in his brain.

[stormyweaver]

Borrowed Time || Chp. 1

So my latest hyperfixation has been this show on Netflix called ‘Swee/t Home’. It’s a live-action South Korean adaption of a webtoon comic, and seriously if you’ve never heard of it before, at least watch the first episode. If you aren’t hooked, gosh, I don’t know what could make a person want more! But you don’t have to have seen the show to enjoy this I think, but again I’d highly reccommend checking the series out. I adore every single character and I’ll probably be writing more about them all, but for now I’m focusing on Pyeon San/g-wook because h-he’s my fave... He’s basically a mysterious drifter who dolls out justice in his own badass way, and he’s amazing and a super complex character. 

MAJOR SPOILERS FOR EPISODE FIVE, YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED:

This is after Sang-wook kills the pedophile he was hired to find, and then drags his body outside while bringing two other victims who had died to a monster inside the apartment building. It was pouring raining and my brain instantly went: how can you have a out-in-the-rain scene without sickness? BLASPHEMY! Anyway hope y’all enjoy!

The timing might have been slightly comical if he didn't have a splitting headache. Or, was it a concussion? That... nurse had mentioned something similar, but he truly hadn't paid her any mind. Why would he give someone so prying the time of day in the first place? He hated being touched without his permission, no matter the reason; maybe she had simply been trying to help, but there was absolutely no way in hell he was going to let her continue treating him as if he was some weakling.

No, he only... felt weak, due to all of the stress. He would bounce back eventually - he inevitably did. Though he could never fully comprehend why, his body had an uncanny ability to heal faster than most, and bestowed him with a strength that most people only ever imagined themselves possessing. It had served him well over the years, made him capable of surviving on his own for as long as he'd needed to, aided him in carrying out the tasks others simply didn't have the stomach for. It had of course, had it's downsides - there were injuries and ailments he simply couldn't knock in a matter of hours, and those instances where he'd been forced to finally allow his body to rest were intensely irritating.

A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead as he staggered through the dirtied hallway and, sensing that he was finally alone, allowed himself to lean bodily against a flyer-littered wall. His breath was coming in short, harsh pants, almost bordering on wheezing, though his teeth instantly grit at the idea. He wasn't weak-- damn it, if Jae-heon had just left him out there to die, he wouldn't be feeling like utter, completely useless shit right now. The zealot likely loathed him just like the rest, if not fear then at the very least an intense dislike. Only his 'vows' or whatever meaningless word of God had made him keep the gate open. He swallowed- or rather, made an attempt to, and was unsurprised to find that the action was mildly painful. Pair that was the throbbing near his sinuses, the malaise, and the general feeling of being lethargic, it wouldn't take a medical professional to inform him that he was unwell. What was that old saying? Something about only fools catching a chill from standing out in the rain? Nonsense. But... well, he wasn't about to start pondering old proverbs with a pounding headache. At least he wasn't getting a nose bleed. Just a stuffy one. It took Sang-wook longer than he would have preferred to stand up straight again and continue limping down the walkway, but eventually he did, coming to a stop on the corner of a vacant room. He could practically hear his limbs creak as he perched himself on the edge of a step, and one hand automatically slipped into his jacket pocket. Some habits were harder to break than others. And if ever there a time he truly needed a smoke... With the lit cigarette between his lips, he began to ponder what his next move would be. He had technically finished his business there; no other reason to remain other than the fact that fucking monsters were roaming the city. Of all the positively inconvenient bullshit - monsters. Not that he had any real plans after taking care of matters. He never did. Being a drifter meant not making attachments, not allowing himself to get roped into anything unless it was related to his main task. And yet there he was, with an apartment full of people who either saw him as a thug or a threat or, for some irritatingly insane reason, a person to be pardoned. A laughable concept at best. He didn't even want to be pardoned - he didn't regret the things he had done, to begin with. And wasn't that one of the key steps to getting into heaven? Being repentant for your sins? Well, that was already one big strike against him. Just how did that damned nosey priest expect him to continue on, then? Why had he been so adamant about "saving" him? Why? A trail of smoke filtered past his nostrils, nose absently wrinkling as the thoughts only served to frustrate him all the more. What the hell was he going to do... He brought the stick to his lips again, but his breath caught pre-inhale, mouth forming a deeper frown than normal. A small pin-prick had been stinging the back of his nose ever since he'd woken up, but so far he'd been able to ignore it. Until now. He sniffed harshly, once, twice and, thinking that was that, but the moment he closed his lips around the cigarette, he inhaled harshly through his nose. "hH'KGSHHh!" The sneeze jerked his head down sharply, though he managed to keep it relatively quiet. The last thing he needed was some passerby hearing and having the guts to try and approach him. Though containing it hadn't done his headache any favors, and his teeth had nearly snapped the cigarette in half. Hell, he couldn't even smoke in peace. What was the point of still being alive, again? "You shouldn't be smoking," Ah, there it was. Sang-wook didn't need to glance up in order to place the voice - he could smell the self-righteousness from a mile away. Or, he would have, had he been able to smell anything at the moment.

Resisting the urge to sniffle, he made no attempt at offering even a semblance of acknowledgement towards the other. Not that it would stop him from poking his nose where it didn't belong, so it came as no surprise when Jae-heon stood directly in front of him, gradually lowering himself until he was seated similarly to the other with a soft grunt. Sighing, Sang-wook plucked the useless cigarette from his lips and tossed it to the floor, swiftly crunching it beneath his boot. "I'm not,"

Jae-heon hummed in acknowledgement. "I don't say it to judge," Sang-wook wasn't sure why he felt the need to clarify, but his gaze did flit over to the other's general direction for a moment. He could see the glint his blade gave off out of the corner of his eye. Curious. Although he didn't doubt the other's skill, he just didn't see a point in taking it with him everywhere. But that was ultimately his choice, and he didn't have the mental capacity to bother pondering why he did so. "How are you feeling?" The scarred man barely lifted his eyes to Jae-heon, who gestured with his chin towards the direction Sang-wook had originally walked from. "Yu-ri took a look at your head injury, right? Is it serious?"

The only response he gave was a meager shrug. Sang-wook wouldn't willingly give information about how he was feeling when it didn't matter in the long run. Whether he was fine or slowly bleeding out, what difference would it make? You shouldn't be alive in the first place; why does he care? God, thinking made his head throb. Couldn't he just be alone in this god forsaken complex for more than a solid minute?

He heard Jae-heon sigh, noted him shift slightly, but still kept his gaze glued to the floor. "What you did... I can't agree with your actions," Sang-wook almost scoffed aloud. Was he really expected to listen to a lecture about right and wrong? His attention was already split, anyway. The itch sparked in his sinuses still burned, not having been satisfied with the weak excuse for a sneeze, and every facial muscle was tensed as he worked to smother the sensation into submission. At least he always happened to look stoic, so he doubted the other would notice. Still, hearing Jae-heon gear up for a sermon of sorts didn't bode well for his waning resolve. "But I do understand why you did what you did. The others might not - they might still see you as something that you're not-" "What would you know about what I am?" Sang-wook interjected sharply, a scowl evident on his features. Admittedly, it hurt to talk, and he internally cringed at the trace of hoarseness in his voice. But he didn't like anyone thinking of him as some misunderstood wretch worthy of some kind of redemption. He wasn't a hero, he wasn't a villain, not good or evil - he simply was, and he never needed to be more or less than that, didn't need to satisfy anyone's opinion of him. Jae-heon glanced down momentarily, looking as if he were trying to gather his thoughts. Speaking could come as easily as breathing at certain times, and yet there were moments were every point of diction managed to fail him. "I'm not here to pity you. And I wouldn't claim to understand you. Every person has their reasons for what they do - and every person has to stand with those reasons before the almighty. I'm not here to judge," The scarred skin beneath Sang-wook's eye jumped slightly. "Then what are you here to do? Whatever it is, you're wasting your..." He had to pause, throat constricting momentarily before he sighed unevenly through his nose, "... breath. You should be more concerned about yourself," Jae-heon couldn't help but quirk a miniscule smile at that. "That isn't God's way. Besides, I wouldn't still be alive if I had decided to be selfish," His thoughts shifted to Hyun-su, Mr. Han, Ms. Im and Ji-su - he had all of them to thank for his life, for making it this far. People who, while they may not have shared the same faith as himself, had believed that sticking together and looking after each other was the way to survive - was the right path. No matter their differences, they chose to be selfless, and that was what had led them to finding the other survivors. Sang-wook didn't reply, mainly due to the fact that he wasn't sure he could safely do so without breaking his concentration. Though it didn't matter - Jae-heon continued anyway. "You didn't have to bring back Min-Ju and Su-ung. I won't ask you why, because to me, what matters is that you did. That means something," When Sang-wook didn't respond again, Jae-heon opened his mouth to continue, only to be silenced when the other opposite him took in a sharp inhale and twisted off to the side. "hH'GKxnt! h'HCHGnt!" Jae-heon blinked for a moment, not really startled by the sneezes but seeming to examine Sang-wook with a little more scrutiny, to which the the other flashed him a glare. Unfazed, he continued to gaze at the other. "You look pale. You should be resting," Sang-wook simply scoffed, cringing at the phlegm lining his throat. He desperately needed to sniff back the moisture threatening to breach his nostrils, but his pride held the action back as Jae-heon continued to press the issue. "You're up and about after having passed out - and you were in the rain for a good while. You might be getting sick," And if he was? What the hell did it matter? Sang-wook wanted to press both heels of his palms against his eyes and grind until the pressure behind them lessened at least a little. He was exhausted, and fatigue suddenly swept over him like the storm clouds still raging outside. Everything felt heavy and sluggish which, for someone with normally such sharp senses, was more than off-putting. It felt wrong. He felt wrong. Why was the good Christian wasting time worrying about whether or not he was ill when there were literal monsters still roaming the apartment? As if sensing his turmoil, Jae-heon finally moved to stand back up, katana blade resting by his side. "You should go see Yu-ri - at the very least she can give you something for your head," He began to turn away, paused, then uttered something that made the skin on the back of Song-wook's neck prickle uncomfortably.

"Take care of yourself," Jae-heon’s retreating footsteps seemed to echo unusually loud, and it wasn't until he could no longer hear them any longer that Sang-wook finally indulged in a thick, pitiful sniffle and allowed his head to drop into his waiting hands.

[random-thought-depository]

The Star Trek TOS episode Space Seed was on TV Saturday; the episode with Khan (the genetically engineered “superman” Khan, not the guy who built Data Khan).

And a thought occurred to me. So, in the episode they comment on how Khan has “magnetism” and he’s portrayed as charismatic and seductive (both in the sexual/romantic sense and in the more general sense). Personally I didn’t really see the appeal, he seemed like basically just an unpleasant violent narcissist to me, but then I guess some people are into that; I guess he might appeal to the sort of person who really likes Donald Trump.

But I had a thought... OK, Khan is supposed to be a genetically engineered “superman,” created to be superior to ordinary humans; stronger, smarter, etc.. And a lot of physical attractiveness is features that indicate health and genetic fitness. So maybe Khan would look unnaturally handsome. Like, maybe he has super-symmetrical facial features and absolutely perfect skin and teeth and he moves with the speed and grace of a natural Olympic-level athlete and Julliard-level dancer and so on. He doesn’t look that way to me, but we can apply the logic fans have applied to Klingon foreheads and the rubber suit Gorn in TOS and assume what we see on the screen is an imperfect reflection of what Khan “really” looks like. Maybe a lot of Khan’s charisma is just halo effect from him being unnaturally handsome! He has such a big ego and is so proud of his own cleverness and “natural leader” personality traits, I think it’d be funny if a lot of his charisma is really something stupid like that and he’s smart and observant enough to realize it and deep down it bothers him a little!

Mmm, concept:

It does bother him. He uses it, of course. Charisma is a powerful tool and weapon; to refuse to use it out of petty pride would be foolish. And he really is charismatic in the ways he’s proud of being. He really is smart enough to figure out what makes people tick and use that knowledge to manipulate them. He really does have the drive, ambition, vision, and aggression of a natural conqueror, and people sense that and respond to it. He really does impress people with his intelligence and strength. It’s hard to untangle all this from the boost his charisma gets from his unnatural beauty, and to try is at best a matter of blue sky curiosity, at worst indulging one of his few gnawing goblins of self-doubt. Khan is smart enough to know what his charisma is, and pragmatic enough to use it to its full potential.

Still, deep down it bothers him to think that some of his charisma is something that stupid; to think that a difference of a few millimeters of bone and tissue here and there might have made him less successful. Khan relishes bending people to his will with his mind; knowing that something as stupid as “deep down that person wants to please me because I’m beautiful and it feels good to be liked by a beautiful person” is part of the “recipe” taints his triumph, makes him doubt himself. It’s one of the few sources of self-doubt Khan has.

Not everyone responds to Khan’s unnatural handsomeness the same way. A significant minority are actively repulsed by it; they find him too handsome, too perfect; they find it uncanny valley-ish, creepy. And some people just don’t seem to notice physical attractiveness much, or just don’t seem moved by it. And sometimes people are uncomfortable with the feelings Khan’s unnatural handsomeness creates in them and this makes them hostile to him; that happens especially often with men. Khan relishes dealing with people who don’t respond positively to his beauty, manipulating them, bending their minds and hearts to his will. With them he knows it’s a true match of wits and personality; with them his victory is pure.

On a certain level, deep down, Khan envies people like Adolf Hitler, who were charismatic but physically unattractive. They could be secure in the knowledge that their power came from the strength of their minds. When he was younger he once half-seriously considered mutilating his face or getting plastic surgery to make himself uglier, just to make manipulating people more of a challenge, but that was a foolish idea, and he no longer entertains it with any seriousness.

His fellow “superiors” have the same unnatural beauty, and he sometimes wonders if they have the same feelings about it. He’s discussed the matter with a few who he’s closest to, but it’s not something he talks about much.

He tells himself that people responding to his beauty are just responding to his natural fitness to lead in a roundabout way. He asks himself rhetorically why people desire to please and serve beautiful people, and he answers his own question thus: partly because beauty is correlated with health and genetic fitness, and therefore with intelligence and sanity! This leadership-selection strategy is not conscious, but natural selection has carved it into human behavior at the genetic level. This makes him feel a little better, but still... He knows well how sloppy such intuitive heuristics are, and the idea of owing some of his success to something so loosely connected to the strength of his mind bothers him a little. It bothers him, mildly and secretly but persistently, like a cigarette burn under his shirt.

Sometimes Khan wonders if some beautiful women, Marilyn Monroe for example, felt something like the way he feels. To consider this thought gives him a strange feeling; it makes him feel an empathy based on shared suffering of a sort, and he’s not used to empathizing with normal humans that way.

Khan is good at empathizing with people in the sense of cognitive empathy, of knowing how they think, of course. It’s an important part of his charisma; to manipulate people it really helps to understand them. Some conversation with a normal and observation of them and he can often predict their reactions better than they can. But the sort of empathy that comes from shared suffering ... he’s not used to feeling that toward normals. He’s really not used to feeling it toward anybody, because he’s experienced very little suffering. There was the suffering of defeat at the end of the Eugenics Wars, of course, and ... that was about it. He grew up pampered and privileged, surrounded by his creators, who treated him like a prince and told him he was special, better than most people, the next step in human evolution. He had tremendous power and privilege for most of his life. His perfect body has only ever known two kinds of pain, injury-pain (rarely) and exhaustion-pain (mostly only mildly); he has never felt a headache or a back-ache or anything like that, he has never been sick. Even the suffering of defeat was mostly an abstract intellectual and emotional pain; only at the very end was he in any sort of direct physical danger. He has been in battle, he fought hand-to-hand during the coup that first brought him to power and during the chaotic last days before he fled from Earth, he has directly killed people in combat ... but that was more exhilarating and fun to him than anything else; his creators gave him the temperament of a brave warrior.

Once, early in his rise to power, Khan tortured a prisoner by burning them with a lit cigarette. How the weak little thing squirmed and squealed! Afterwards, he tried burning his own arm with a lit cigarette, just to see what it felt like. The pain didn’t seem so bad to him, but then his creators made him resilient enough that he doesn’t need to coddle every little injury, and they adjusted his nervous system suitably, gave him a high pain threshold.

Sometimes Khan does experience a pang of sad visceral empathy toward the unfortunate. He imagines what it would be like to be one of the wretched of the Earth: poor, slow, stupid, weak, sickly, ugly, awkward, wracked by physical and emotional pain, tormented by hunger, thirst, heat, cold, chronic pain, sadness, anxiety, fear, loneliness, impotent anger, shame, sexual frustration, battered about like a leaf in a storm by forces they can’t understand and can’t effect, used and tricked and abused by people smarter or stronger or just higher-status. That ... that must be awful. In his own arrogant, condescending way he really does want to help the normals. He really does want to fill full the mouth of famine, and bid the sickness cease. He intended to make the world orderly and peaceful, and to make sure everyone had the food, shelter, clothing, medicine, etc. they needed and lived in what he considered reasonable comfort and dignity. He created as close an approximation as he could of those conditions within the domains he controlled. They say he was the best of the tyrants.

He’s a convinced elitist, but it would only have been temporary. If he’d won, within a few generations everyone would have been a superior, like him. With time the process that created him could have been made cheaper, made available to everyone who wanted to make a child; if he’d won he’d have made that a great civilizational project, as important as the fusion reactors he saw providing endless cheap energy by burning the deuterium of the oceans and the great vaccination and infrastructure-building campaigns he intended to launch in Africa and Asia and Latin America and the asteroid mining and the... No more need for an elite of superiors when everyone is a superior. And no more arthritis, or depression, or ... so many bad things would have disappeared into the history books when the last generation of normals expired peacefully of old age (joining war and poverty, which he intended to banish into the past much sooner). And in the mean time he’d have seen to it that the last generations of normals lived in as much comfort and dignity as their flawed bodies and limited minds permitted.

And that would have only been the beginning! He looked forward beyond that, to future generations that would be as far beyond him as he was beyond the normals - further! He looked forward to a future of - who knew, immortals seemed like the next obvious step. And after that perhaps god-like immortal minds freed from the limitations of flesh, building for themselves vast magnificent new bodies of silicon and steel in which they would outlive the stars. He probably wouldn’t have seen it, as perfect as his body is it still ages. He wouldn’t even have outlived the last normals. Like Moses, he would have led his people to the border of the promised land but died outside its gates, it would have been to his successor or his successor’s successor to lead them through into the land of milk and honey and dwell there with them. But, perhaps, huddled around one of the last black holes at the end of the time, sipping Hawking radiation to power slow thoughts that took a thousand years to think, there would have been beings that remembered him, that saw his face and touched his hand in the staggeringly distant era when they were still human and had chosen to keep the memory of that as the stars burned out and all through the long bright joyous festival in the cold of the ultimate night. That concept pleased him.

It was not to be. Well, he doesn’t blame the normals too much for rejecting him. The way he figures it, most of them just weren’t smart enough to understand what he was offering, and getting angry at them for that is like getting angry at a non-verbal autistic for being unable to speak.

Once, when he was a child, he was walking alone through the expansive beautiful pleasant garden of his creators’ compound, in the pleasant cool of evening after a hot Indian day, and he found a bird with an injured wing. He supposes Dr. Hibbert’s cat must have mauled it and then gotten distracted by something and wandered off. One of its wings was bloody and wounded and broken and twisted, dragged against the ground as it walked. When he walked toward it, it walked away from him as fast as its little legs could carry it, and then it tried pathetically to fly, flapping its wings furiously and impotently. The sight of it filled him with a queasy mix of revulsion and pity. His first impulse was to run away from it, and his second impulse was to seize a stone and put it out of its misery, but his third impulse, the one he chose to obey, was to capture it and try to fix its wing and tend to it and feed it until it healed. It tried to escape from him as he tried to capture it, and it struggled furiously as he seized and held it, beating its wings furiously and scratching at the air and his hand with its claws. The panicked, vital thing in his hands revolted him, and its claws scratched his fingers and drew blood, but he forced himself to be as gentle with it as he could, to bring it inside and clean and apply antibiotic to its wound and reset and bandage its wing as it tried to escape his grip. He knew it was only natural that it would fight him and try to escape from him; it couldn’t understand that he was trying to help it; its brain couldn’t be much bigger than a peanut, far too small to contain the knowledge of what he was trying to do for it, too small to contain anything but that which was immediately relevant to its wretched and limited life, the search for food and the avoidance of and flight from predators and the building and tending of a nest and mating and laying and tending of eggs and tending of any young that might hatch from them. If it thought at all about what was happening to it, it probably thought he was trying to eat it, or more likely its struggles were simply instinctive, and the process of setting the wing and cleaning and bandaging the wound must have caused it pain. He set its wing and cleaned and bandaged its wound despite its efforts to escape him, and then he put it in a cage Dr. Pretorius gave him and he fed and tended it until its wing was healed, and then he took it into the garden and let it fly away, to continue its wretched and limited and meaningless life in the wild. Perhaps it lived to its kind’s version of old age (perhaps 15 years, he looked it up, and he has an almost eidetic memory) and knew a few moments of something like joy now and then, or perhaps it was eaten by a cat the next day.

When he thinks of the defeat that forced him to flee from Earth, deep into the dark, he thinks of that bird scratching his fingers as he tried to help it.

They say he was the best of the tyrants.

He killed more people than Hitler and Stalin.

------

Note: this is a model for, like, approximately Space Seed period Khan; Wrath of Khan period Khan has known real suffering intimately and would be a lot more bitter. Negative character development lol. Especially as the whole “we couldn’t tell two completely different planets apart” thing in Wrath of Khan is so absurd that I kind of headcanon that would actually happened is that Khan wanted revenge for his wife’s death, decided he’d rather be the ruler of a populous world than the leader of a 72 person village, tried to MacGyver up a small starship to reach a civilized world, ended up crashing on the much less habitable next planet out in that solar system, and in true Hitler/Trump-like fashion blamed somebody else (Kirk) for the consequences of his own overreach and disastrous failure.

[mochalattea]

It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything.. but I’ve “come home” to dl again recently, and in reviewing some of the stuff I’d written in the past, I wanted to write a response to something I wrote a few years ago.. as choppy as it is, I’m trying to get my creative gears turning again.

Winter whipped up around her, in violent gusts of relentless snow and ice that pelted her frigid body. She’d gotten her wish: to succumb to the cold and watch the inky black figure of the being accompanying her vanish in the white-grey distance. Her fingers curled weakly in her gloves, feeling hot enough to burst under the pressure and cold. The storm quieted in her ears as her senses dulled and eyelids grew too heavy to keep open.

There was hardly any reaction at all when a tall creature encroached on the tree-lined path. A faint flickering up of her eyes came when she sensed it, but over the rim of her glasses with her consciousness already slipping, she couldn’t make out the long white hair which elegantly whisked around. Nor could she see the golden eyes that were so inhuman. No—this entity shrouded in billowing maroon robes was hardly perceived at all. A mildly intrigued snap of his fingers sounded and got carried off by the winds; lost, now. He disappeared just as inexplicably, leaving her stuck in time, slumbering through the storm.

                                                            ❈

There was no dawn, nor midday, nor dusk, nor night when she awoke to the oddly gentle sound of glass—ice?—shattering. The snow and ice that built up on her back weighed on her, now that it was no longer suspended over her in a delicate, timeless cocoon. There was only stormy winter and ambiguous white-grey that blurred the division of land and sky.

When she looked up, it appeared that there were eyes in the sky. Dozens of single, unpaired gold eyes blinking at different intervals; what would have been surrounding skin and eyelid blended in with the expanse of cloud. Fear jolted through her spine as these eyes began squeezing shut and popping, audibly, until the illusion broke and sky returned to normal. Dizzied and repulsed by the sight, she coughed hard enough to expel blackened bile, rolling slightly from her front onto her side, and gasped against the cold snow as the snow that had encased her crumbled off of her.

Her clothing crunched as she moved, stiff like cardboard with the slightest bit of give. She had no sense of the time that had passed. Had it been moments? Her brain reeled wildly. Days? That’s impossible. Years? Even more so. Suddenly, it came back to her—those fading memories of a black coat drifting over the banks, being peppered with white snow, freshly falling. Her stomach churned again, and she wretched once more, but nothing except strings of saliva came up this time. Tears pricked her eyes. Terror gripped her, as hot as an iron pressed into the small of her back.

   …I don’t want to fade away and disappear!

Shakily, she began to move. Her fingers stung, ballooned and swollen from the conditions that they were dumb, and hardly braced against the ground beneath her as she struggled to rise to her feet. The trees shuddered; sheets of snow collapsed from branches and landed thickly on the banks below. The howling of the winds were sick laughter. The bare branches chattered against one another in the wind, mocking her.

                                                           ❈

It was unclear how long she ran in the winter. The winds hushed her cries, muting her until her voice was hoarse and dry. So thoroughly oppressed by the weather, it played with her relentlessly. Frost creeped into the bridge of her nose and tears froze on her cheeks as quickly as they fell from her eyes.

At last she stumbled upon her destination and threw herself against the heavy oak door, the closest one she happened across, up an abundance of stairs. A newly installed one that must have been a renovation completed during her undetermined absence. Her arms were paralyzed and uselessly fell to her sides. Again and again, she hurled her shoulder against the door, uncaring as to how bruised and battered she became, until it opened, and in through the doorway she fell.

It is a wordless encounter. She only sees the fine tailored dress pants and polished shoes before black begins to eat at her vision.

Reiji’s eyes fix on her. His lips press into a thin line. He gives a wry laugh, bending down to clutch the collar of her jacket and drag her up on her knees. “Oh? I see. So on the brink of expiration, you thought of nothing other than returning to my side.” His voice is measured, but the words sound unmistakably barbed to her ears. They are neither whispered nor hissed.

The door shuts firmly, hitting her feet in the area it sweeps across. She doesn’t flinch.

His hands worm their way under her armpits and lift her until her feet dangle freely with no ground beneath them. He chuckles against her ear, nose pressing through her hair—matted from the wind and overgrown since she’d last been in his presence. Fear, too, was something the cold has numbed her to.

“Did you think this would please me? I know not whether to praise you for returning to your senses,” his nails dig through the layers of fabric nearest to her flesh, “or to wring your neck the rest of the way myself.” He drops her. “I have absolutely no need for an expired vessel.”

Her legs fold in on themselves and she collapses under her own weight. She pools onto the now-wet carpet of his study. She breathes choppily, still unable to muster words, but finds the sights and smells familiar comforts that make her weep. Reiji leaves, going into an adjacent room after muttering that her reaction was so undeniably human, giving her time to collect herself some. The study is blurry through her tears, but she can tell it is much like she remembers it. A fire burns in the fireplace.

“Stand on your feet and come along, you unbecoming thing.” He stoops some once he returns and helps her along to the bathroom. The process of shedding her winter wear is a painful one, and he scolds her, speaking of the very real possibility of the fabric bringing her skin off with it. Perseverance prevents this, and a new set of dry clothes are swapped out for the wet and weathered ones. The warm knits crunch faintly as he brings them around her shoulders, the threads not used to being stretched after sitting unworn for so long. Reiji removes her glasses, polishing them with a square from his pocket before placing them back on her face.

He next sets about working through her hair. “Well, I suppose even at its best your hair tangled easily, but this…” Starting at the crown of her hair is futile, and so he changes tactics, swiftly bringing the comb through the matted ends. He speaks few words otherwise, aside from the reminder for her to keep her head up, occasionally slipping his gloved hand under her jaw to level her head as it tips forward from fatigue. Once he finishes and can see her hair cascade in limp waves past her shoulder blades, halfway down her back, he readies the scissors.

Locks of her hair fall in coils onto the floor. Slowly, her head feels lighter as her former hairstyle is restored, the ends of her hair narrowly kissing her shoulders. She’s shaking, from the cold and exhaustion, as he brings his fingers down the short length of her hair and curls the side pieces in to frame her face.

“It is finished,” he says, “your appearance is as it should be.” His smile is somewhat pleased—but who’s to say that it’s more of a matter of admiring his own handiwork or the final result itself. He ushers her back into the study and into his armchair as he retreats back into the bathroom.

                                                           ❈

The fire is warm, almost too much so, as she finds herself sitting more at an angle to protect her legs from the immediate heat coming off of the hearth.

She looks around the room, languidly surprised at its abnormal state of disarray. Books are off of the shelves and sit in thick piles. Skimming some of the titles on the spines, she recalls them as having been recent additions to his ever-growing collection not too long ago, yet now they are in need of repair. She averts her gaze, not wishing to question how much time has passed and how it’s even possible that it’s been long enough for her to witness such decay. At Reiji’s desk are more books at various stages of being restored and rebound. Stained pages being aligned and pressed between wooden blocks, ready for glue to be applied. Another book has a threaded needle sitting atop of it, ready to be bound by hand. There’s paper and card used to stabilize covers, and odd bottles and jars of glue.

Still finding her at a loss for words upon his return, he accepts her silence. It’s a return to normalcy. Before, he’d grown accustomed to her company. Something about it is nostalgic to him. He readies another kettle of water so that he can remove the glue from the loose pages soaking in a shallow container on a side table.

Once the kettle starts whistling and he removes it from the burner heating it. A nice aroma fills the room as his tea steeps. After he tends to his work, using the rest of the boiled water on the pages needing glue removed, he turns towards her and starts across the room, cup and saucer in hand. “The temperature is less than ideal for drinking, so I no longer need it. You, however, will not protest to drinking it, I trust? Your tolerance for hot beverages was always quite low.”

“You didn’t have to go to the trouble…” Her first words.

He sighs. “Good grief, must you make me repeat myself?” He sets it down on the table beside her chair. “You have increased my workload plenty with your reappearance. This is simply not allowing my previous efforts to go to waste, understood?”

She nods meekly.

“Speak of your gratitude in a way that is acceptable. Open your mouth; use your voice.”

She thanks him, taking the cup and saucer to her lap before bringing the cup to her lips.

“Very good,” he praises. He swiftly returns to his desk again, beginning to handle the wet papers and scrape the seams clean.

                                                           ❈

Time passes. After she’s had her fill of warm tea, she begins to doze, and finds herself slouching in her chair. She’s never out for very long, and once she’s up again, she watches how he is always switching tasks, seeming to make quick work of the array of books that are repairs in progress. He pulls thread through perforated pages in slow, strong motions. She nods off again.

Eventually he finds himself at a standstill, waiting for glue to set, letting wet paper dry, and weighing down a leather cover that he retouched the gold lettering of. Only then does he bring his attention back to her, still seated in the chair he set her in. He notices that some colour has returned to her cheeks. Her lips and eyelids are no longer an icy purple either.

He saunters over, bringing himself to her level. “Well, how are you feeling? Your condition looks noticeably improved. Come now, sit up properly. You are a lady, after all.”

She’s easily coaxed into shifting in her seat once his words stir her.

He’s so close to her now; the hand she’s had on the armrest is where his falls to, covering it delicately. “Your temperature, now…” He brings his other hand to her hair, smoothing down the back of her head so that her forehead presses against his, and his fingers and palm settle against her neck. “…Could be improved.”

She musters a half smile.

His voice falls to a whisper; softer, gentler. The tone she was hoping he’d greet her with. “Warm yourself soon, for cold blood is as unappetizing as cold tea.”

[consumedkings-archive]

ancient names, pt. xvi

A John Seed/Original Female Character Fanfic

Ancient Names, pt xvi: that colossal wreck

Masterlink Post

Word Count: ~6k idk man i barely go here 

Rating: M/Mature; lots of blood and stuff but nothing steamy.

Warnings: blood and guts, mentions of self-harm, mentions of sexual assault, Kian is a creepy fucker and he needs to die so he gets his own warning, dog on man violence. Uhhhhh idk how shotguns work so I did my best, don't @ me. Elliot does go full feral in this and I'm not sorry.

Notes: I so hope y'all enjoy this chapter. I'm not gonna say too much about it here, but please know that every comment, like, kudos, whatever—even the tiniest bit of knowledge that y'all enjoyed it just makes me so incredibly happy. It was a bit of slog at some parts but I'm so excited to get it out for you. <3 Special shout-out to @starcrier who provides incredible input and support while I try and glean even a MODICUM of her talent; ilysm!!!

As well, @baeogorath has been such an absolute DARLING, allows me to send them memes at like 3am and scream at them about all of my feelings. And @lilwritingraven, who has been SO supportive and helpful and just all around the biggest sweetheart a gal could ask for, thank you BOTH sm. <3!

The first thing that she recognized was the desperate need to breathe. 

The second was that she was wet, exceptionally wet, her lungs filling with water over and over again, like dying a thousand times without the actual reprieve of death. Two strong hands gripped the front of her shirt, pinning her under the dark surface. Elliot thought, I’ve been here before.

Those hands gripping her hauled her out of the dark, wheezing and coughing up water, and tossed her onto the riverbank like a dead fish. She might as well have been, for what it was worth; when she managed to open her eyes, the world blurred and melted around her the way water swept over a window in a carwash.

“So glad you are awake,” Kian said from in front of her. He stood in the water just past his knees, and as he made his way out and over to her, she blinked rapidly to try and clear her vision. Elliot sucked in the biggest lungful of air she could, and all of the water that had been sitting in her mouth and throat caught and ripped, forcing her to lean and choke it up. “You were sleeping for quite a while, you know, Elliot. Had to make sure you slept all of it off.”

Her name coming out of his mouth felt like a violation—sticky, wet, ruined, a thing she had not allowed him to use, and yet he did anyway. She hadn’t given him permission to know her, and it felt different still than when Ase had used her name; like a weapon being wielded against her.

They gave me so much, she thought desperately a while her body thrummed with pain, searing hot through every nerve-ending as if they’d all been rubbed raw and exposed. They gave me so much of that shit, so much more than Ase ever did. How long was I sleeping it off? Fuck fuck fuck.

Kian’s fingers gripped her throat, slotted just under her jaw, and he pulled ; hauled her straight up with brute strength until her bare feet— when had they taken her shoes?—scrambled against the slippery river bank.

“Her dress fits you well,” he continued admiringly as he held her there. His words dragged her attention back to herself; she wasn’t in her own clothes, in fact, but in a long, dark cotton dress, high-necked and slim fitting. It looked like the same dress that she had first seen Ase in. “In fact, if your hair was just a little darker, and your eyes not so fucking blue, I would think you two could be sisters.”

Dead, the wind whispered. Humidity crept under the fabric, stifling and tenacious. Dead woman in a dead woman’s clothes.

“W-Where—?” Elliot managed out hoarsely. Her own heartbeat, so loud that she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to hear Kian, thrummed violently in her ears as panic started to really settle into her skeleton. “Where—John, and Boomer—what the f-fuck did you—”

“Now that you’re awake,” Kian continued conversationally, as though she had not spoken at all, “we can start.”

His grip loosened and then released. She barely managed to keep herself upright. The world lurched dangerously beneath her feet, and for a second, she thought she was going to have to throw up; the sensation subsided, and she swept her gaze in a single circle around her.

No John; no Boomer. Only darkly-clothed, silent figures, watching. Each face—some as old as a grandparent, some as young as what she thought could only be ten, and many of them somewhere in between—regarded her with the same kind of glassy-eyed curiosity that came with a circus attraction.

“What the fuck,” Elliot said, her voice hoarse and cracking in distress. “What the fuck did you—where are they—?”

“I’m only going to give you one tip,” Kian said. “Stop trying so hard to talk. You’ll burn through all of your adrenaline, mor.”

He had passed her up the riverbank. The intent of it all was very clear: he anticipated that she would follow, because he had something that she wanted and she was in no state to claw her way through all of them even if she wanted to. The knowledge of this—the understanding that Kian knew exactly what hand he had, and was going to play it—filled her with another sickening wash of dread.

The redhead stopped at the top of the bank and looked at her over his shoulder. “Are you coming?”

Shivering, Elliot wadded the hem of the dark dress up in one hand and struggled to the bank. Kian let her. He let her catch herself, dirtying her hands and the dress, practically clawing her way up as her heart rate fluctuated earnestly and without pattern in her chest, and when she made it to where he stood she could see the treeline ahead of them. Dark, drenched in nightfall, the pines murmuring every time the night’s chilly breeze rustled the branches.

“They’ll—” Talking caused pain to splinter through her jaw, radiating in spiderwebs up behind her eyes. “His b-brothers will—”

Kian waved a hand. His voice was light when he said, “They are busy.”

Fuck. Despair welled in her chest. Elliot swallowed thickly and said, “What are... What are we...”

He stared at her. She had the distinct sensation of being an ant, trapped under the searing beam of his magnifying glass, raising burns all across her skin. Then, he reached down to the ground, and from a bag, he procured a handful of papers; when he pulled them out, the familiar scent of her home wafted from them.

“You have lovely handwriting.” He scanned the page. “I hope you’ll forgive my snooping through your home. I couldn’t resist. Let’s see here: sounds like our little bunny was struggling with insomnia, feeling alone. Angry with your therapist for saying you were displaying—” Kian lifted a finger to indicate the importance of the word. “— significant signs of post-traumatic stress disorder, including—”

“S—” I want to die I want to die. The pages of her ripped journal sat in his hands, even greater a violation than the sound of his name. “Stop—”

“—intrusive memories, loss of time, irritability and aggressive behavior, self-harm. Is that where those scars are from? Hm, and… 'Sometimes, I wonder what it would have been like if I didn’t let this happen to me'. Is that guilt ?” Kian clicked his tongue. “Do you feel guilty, Elliot? For what that man did to you, those years ago?” And then he paused, glanced back at the paper, and said, “Forgive me. It was one year ago. Not that far gone, I suppose.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but no sound came out; something gripped her lungs, restricted their movement, until she thought she was going to pass out.

He had been in her home. He had touched her things. He’d stood among the things that were meant to be hers, rifled through them, found her journal and ripped the pages out. She’d taken up journaling about what had happened—not to torture herself with the reality of her situation, but in an effort to understand who she had become, to feel less like a stranger in her own body.

And now he held it in his hands, and there it was: everything that she was, just that small, just that insignificant. The entirety of what she was clutched in the hands of a psychopath.

“I hope she’s fucking suffering.” Elliot ground the words out, and Kian quirked a brow at her inquisitively. She plunged onward, reckless and vicious from her pain, “I hope Ase’s fucking rotting in hell, suffering, and I’m glad they blew her fucking brains in.”

Something dark flickered across Kian’s expression. It may have been a trick of the light; the clouds passed over the moon, blinking the world into darkness for a few minutes before the nighttime wind pushed them forward again. Elliot couldn’t tell if it was real, what she’d seen on his face, but she hoped it was.

But he didn’t say anything about her venom. Instead, he said, “Ase and I used to play a game together.” His tone was light, casual; he dropped the papers back into the bag dismissively, as if they were nothing. “I would give her a three-minute head start. She would run into the woods, and I would try to catch her. She was the perfect prize.”

A strange kind of affection welled in his voice. It was love, Elliot thought with a sickening kind of realization, in his voice—and it only made her more grateful that John had busted through her spine with a shotgun shell, the knowledge that maybe Kian was suffering even a tiny bit as much as she was.

Kian continued, “Now, because of you, she is not here to play the game; you will have to be my prize, Elliot.”

She was going to be sick. She wished that he would have just killed her, rather than this—this waking nightmare, this actual fucking living hell he was going to put her through. Elliot sucked in an unsteady breath, and when Kian gestured at the treeline, she turned her gaze there. It was easier to look at the sturdy line of pines than at his wretched face.

Hot breath fanned across her ear. Kian’s hand came up to the back of her neck, holding, gripping, the way a father would when he prepped his son for a baseball game. She heard the words like a sick comedy in her head: Come on, champ! You’ve got it! But his mouth was right on her ear and he said, “I hid your man out there for you.”

John.

“He’s—not,” she managed out. “Mine.”

Kian huffed out a laugh against her temple. “Then it should be easy for you to hide from me and not worry about finding him.”

Bluff called. Fucking cultist.

He stepped away from her, heading to the half-moon curve of cultists waiting idly by. Silently, Elliot tried to count them; she wanted to know how many she could kill, and how fast, if she got a gun in her hands, but the splitting headache blurring her vision uneasily made it difficult to keep track.

One of them put a shotgun in Kian’s hand. He checked the ammunition idly.

“Start running, Elliot,” he called without looking at her. “Your time starts now.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“What took you so long?”

John thought he had to be dreaming. He was certain of it, somewhere in his brain, because Elliot’s voice hummed warmly against the skin of his neck and she pressed up against him like a feline eager for his attention, and that wasn’t her. Was it?

“You’ve been sleeping so long,” she murmured into him, all sleep-warmed skin and soft lines. “Aren’t you going to wake up?”

Yes, he thought, because he wanted to open his eyes, because he wanted to see her like this. He’d worked hard for it. He deserved it, didn’t he? Yes, I’m going to wake up.

“John.” Elliot purred his name, sweet and decadent. She was so warm. “Wake up.”

“Okay,” John said, because he knew that he was ready. But the world stayed dark. He tried again: “Okay, I will.”

Her lips brushed against his pulse. He felt her fingers traced the Sloth scar on his sternum, meticulous, memorizing, slender and warm and affectionate.

“Don’t you trust me?”

“I trust you,” he managed out, “I trust you.”

Like lifting the floodgates, he pushed his eyes open. And it was a push; the effort it took to open his eyes was astronomical, like someone had suddenly stuck him under slow-moving lava that swallowed him up, ate away at the oxygen around him and weighed down his lungs in their attempt to let him breathe.

There was no Elliot. Only the slow, dark pulsing of pine boughs overhead. For just one split second, John felt relief; he was fine. Somewhere, but fine.

And then a piece of the sky lifted and peeled, drifting away. The trees bent and warped around him. He tried to struggle to sit up, fighting the urge to coil up into a tiny ball.

He said, miserably, “What the fuck,” and something at his hip buzzed static. The sound sent jolts of white-hot panic searing through his body.

“Hello?” It was a radio. A thick, dark voice came through. John didn’t pick up. He thought it sounded like Kian.

“Fucker,” he managed out, hauling himself to his feet as the world see-sawed beneath him.

“John Seed.” The voice came again. “I know you can hear me. You should be waking up any minute now.”

John wished he was still asleep. The dream had been better than this. At least in that, Elliot was—

Elliot. The last thing he remembered was her frantic hands trying to undo his seatbelt, and then her warmth getting ripped away from him, and then someone's hands on his shirt and—

“Fuck.” Bad news. Bad. “Fuck fuck fuck. ”

Steadying himself on a boulder, he came around into the clearing, trying to see through the trees. It was no good; the world pulsed and bled around him, smearing like an oil painting, and he realized with a sense of dread pitting in his stomach that they’d drugged him. Hard. The same way they’d drugged Elliot when she’d been crying into the ground like she was going to fly off.

That he knew what was going on did little to abate the irrational panic flashing through him, electrical pulses pounding through his body every chance they got. It made everything too much —the sound of the wind, the murmuring of voices that he thought maybe weren’t there, the feeling of the night on his skin. Yes, he felt it, like a garment of clothing, sitting just on him; he couldn’t tell where he ended and the rest of it began. 

“I let your beast loose,” Kian’s voice crackled, seething with delight. “Gave her a head start, too.”

His fingers itched to grab the radio that had been clipped on his belt. He thought, I shouldn’t let him know I’m awake —

“Hey, fucker,” he snapped, his finger pushing down on the walkie button. His words kept slurring on their way out of his mouth, but he plunged onward anyway. “Come out here, huh? Love to chat face to face.”

Well, he’d never been that good at impulse control, anyway.

“On my way already,” Kian murmured silkily. “See you soon, friend.”

And then it went dead.

John spent what felt like an eternity staring at the face of the walkie talkie before he thought, Hey, that’s my fucking radio. And then: fuck, I can’t fight him right now.

He blinked furiously, trying to refocus his vision as bright colors started to bloom and bleed out from the ground. John kept telling himself that it wasn’t real, that there was no way it was real—and then he understood Elliot’s very real fear that night he’d tried to pull her down the hill. What had she seen then, he wondered? What had she been looking at?

“John?”

He hesitated, because the last time he’d heard Elliot’s voice it had been a dream. John’s base instinct was to stand very still, exceptionally still, which didn’t feel very still at all because he was drugged up through his fucking eyeballs and he wanted to puke.

“John—”

When she broke into the clearing, Elliot’s voice was frantic. Her hair had been let loose around her face and she was wearing a dress and bolting barefoot through the woods. Oh, John thought, a little panicked, oh, I’m dreaming again.

“Fuck,” Elliot said, her voice breaking. Her hands fluttered aimlessly, like she couldn’t figure out a place for them to land. “You don’t have Boomer?”

Maybe not dreaming, after all.

“Sleeping,” John replied, intelligently. “I was—”

Elliot stared at him as she drew closer, her eyes razor-sharp and clear and quick. The sliced right down to the core of him, but what was new, anyway? Stupid deputy, his brain chanted, sluggishly. Stupid, pretty, dumb deputy.

“... drug you?”

John blinked owlishly at her. He wasn’t in very much pain, which was good, but it probably was all going to hit him when the drug wore off and it was harder and harder to keep his attention focused; it was getting to the point where it was like being very drunk , where keeping his eyes open was becoming more and more of a chore.

Elliot snapped her fingers in front of his face. “John, focus.”

“Whose dress?” he managed out, gesturing at her.

Her eyes flickered uneasily. “Dunno.” She brought her fingers to her lips and whistled, high and fast, and John groaned; the sound rattled around in his head, echoing over and over again, splintering behind his eyes.

“Why?” he hissed. “Why are you—”

“Shut up, you fucking baby.” 

Yeah, definitely not a dream.

They stood there in quiet for a moment, waiting; in the distance, John could hear a faint barking.

“He’s out there,” Elliot said, relieved. “They probably have him tied up, if they were able to get their hands on him. John—”

The blonde stopped suddenly, and he turned his gaze back to her inquisitively. She looked very much like she wanted to say something; her lashes flickered uneasily and she swallowed thickly.

“You have to get him, John,” she said finally, which didn’t sound like the thing she wanted to say.

“I’ve got a radio,” he supplied helpfully; on instinct, he reached for her, and she didn’t flinch back when his hand found the juncture between her neck and shoulder. Warm, he thought pleasantly, hazily, the breath spilling out of his lungs like a waterfall. “It’s the one from the ranch. We can—radio Joseph and the others.”

“John, I need you to listen to me,” Elliot began, reaching up to put her hand over his. Her skin was warm, but she shivered—John realized very suddenly that she was soaking wet. “I need you to get Boomer. He’s over there somewhere, close enough to hear a whistle. You can whistle, right? Or just—say his name, he’ll respond to that too.”

“‘M drugged,” he replied. “No good. Besides, he doesn’t like me.” The last half came out petulant. He thought very little of Kian’s voice crackling through the radio, or that he’d said he’d be there soon, or that someone had drugged him and left him in the middle of the forest. All he could think about was the problem being presented to him: Elliot was asking him for something, and he couldn’t give it to her.

“You have to,” she reiterated firmly. “You told me you’d do anything I asked.”

“I did,” John insisted. “Don’t you remember? I f—”

“Shh!”

Elliot grabbed his hand and yanked, hard, hauling him into some thicker brush. The whole gesture of it had his vision spinning like a slot machine.

“John, you have to go,” she whispered furiously. The sound of heavy, leisurely footsteps thudded somewhere a little ways away. “Please. You said. ”

“We can both go,” he whispered back. And then, because she hadn’t recognized his good fortune earlier: “I have a radio.”

“I can’t,” she replied. Her voice broke a little, slipping past a furious hiss and cracking on an emotion that John didn’t want to know. “I can’t go.”

“Why?”

“I have to—” Elliot paused, her gaze flickering tiredly. “John, I have to take a break, I’ve—I’m so tired.”

He paused. “I’ll wait, too.”

“You need to go.”

“I don’t want to. I’ll stay, too, and we’ll go together—”

“No,” she insisted. “Fucking— God you are so annoying—”

John heard, very faintly, the low and threatening click-click of someone pumping a shotgun. He paused, and Elliot did too, and then she pulled him forward by his shirt and kissed him hard. She tasted a little like river water, but mostly like her, and the warmth of her mouth against his made heat bloom all over him like he was green and Spring, again.

“John,” she whispered against his mouth, nearly inaudible, “please. Get Boomer, radio your brothers. We’ll catch up on the other side. I—”

Another couple of footsteps echoed in the stillness of the night. All of the birds and wildlife had fled; they knew there was a big, bad predator out in the evening, and John felt that knowledge twisting something violent and wretched inside of him.

“Do not fucking die,” he hissed at her. “You’ve stayed stubbornly alive for this long. Do not.”

She nodded faintly. “Yes, boss.”

He went to move, but she stopped him, lifting a finger to her mouth; each beat of his heart rumbled violently in his ears, and he thought he might pass out if he didn’t get moving fucking soon; each second spent crouching still and silent in the brush was swaying him viciously back and forth, trying to get him to face plant into the ground.

Elliot, back against the tree, let go of his shirt. She mouthed, Go, and then darted out, quick and fast and taking with her all of the vibrant sound and warmth in the world.

John's legs lifted him to a standing position. It felt like operating heavy machinery; every movement ground through his skeleton laboriously. But he was going; gripping the radio, trying his hardest to sprint, when he heard the sound of a shotgun shell pelting the earth in one sharp, gritty blow.

And then a familiar voice: “Where are you, little rabbit?”

Please.

Everything in him was telling him to turn around. Screaming at him—but he knew that was exactly what Kian wanted, too. To have them both there, in the same place, to make one of them watch the other die.

So, he didn’t.

He kept going, and when he got far enough away to be convinced that Kian was preoccupied with Elliot, he stopped and looked around. The night was eerily still and pulsed dimly around him. He glanced down at his feet; the grass reached up and around his shoes, coiling around him, trying to hold him down.

“Fuck,” he hissed, hurriedly stepping forward. “Find dog. Radio Joseph. Boomer?”

He kept his voice low as he crept through the woods, fiddling clumsily with the radio as he moved. When he found a channel whose numbers looked vaguely familiar—and familiar was a stretch, considering that accessing just about anything in his brain was like feeling someone’s face in the dark and guessing who it was—he pressed down on the talk button.

“Joseph? Jacob? Somebody?” He let off the talk button. “Boomer?”

No barking. Was Elliot drugged too? Had they been hallucinating the dog barking? 

John had just begun to give up on the idea of doing anything other than wander aimlessly in the dark woods when he made it to the edge of the treeline and saw the dog. Unfortunately, the beast was tied up to a wooden stake, growling low and threatening the two men as they walked idly around him and to the van, busying themselves; soft music played from the car. They seemed to be waiting patiently for Kian to finish whatever it was he was doing. Killing Elliot?

Fuck, he thought hastily. Gotta hurry.

He watched as one of the men set his gun down on the bed of the open van, stretching and chatting conversationally with his companion. When he wandered back over to Boomer and said, “Here, doggy,” the Heeler lunged viciously and set off barking, teeth snapping. He sighed.

“Stupid dog.”

They turned back toward the road, and John made his way closer to Boomer. If he could get that lead unclipped—if he could do it without them noticing…

“Fucking shithole,” one of the men said, backs turned to him as they lit a cigarette that got passed between them. “Can’t wait to purge this place and get out.”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, do you know…”

As their conversation drifted, so did John’s attention. He slipped out from the cover of the underbrush; instantly, Boomer’s eyes were on him. His hackles went up, and John lifted his hands, keeping them open.

In hindsight, he’d probably feel stupid thinking about this moment. The dog wasn’t holding him hostage. But it felt a little like he was, anyway.

“Hey,” he whispered, creeping closer. “Gonna let you off, beastie.”

Boomer eyed him, eyes flattened back against his head.

“You wanna get ‘em?” he continued, glancing over at the men as he reached for Boomer’s makeshift collar, clipped onto the lead. He didn’t know what kinds of gestures or phrases Elliot used to get the dog to do what she wanted. He only knew that Boomer did , sometimes without her saying, and so he said again, more urgently, “You wanna get ‘em, beast?”

The urgency of his tone seemed to spark something in Boomer. His ears pricked forward. John’s fingers found the lead clipped around his collar, pulled on the little metal clasp, and let it drop to the ground.

Boomer watched him, expectantly.

“Well, go on,” he whispered, gesturing. That seemed to be all that was needed; the cattle dog darted forward, teeth sinking into one man’s leg and yanking hard enough to unbalance him and pull him to the ground; the dog's head thrashed violently, ripping out of him guttural snarls.

John blinked, and thought, holy shit, is this what he’s been like this whole time?

There wasn’t a lot of time to spend thinking about it, because the other man was whirling angrily, shouting something, and then his eyes landed on John.

They both looked at the gun sitting on the tailgate of the van at the same time.

“Fuck,” John hissed, lunging forward and grabbing wildly; he wasn’t entirely sure that he even stayed upright, the strange back-and-forth pull in his head having only abated a little, but he reached for the gun and snatched his hand back, fumbling with the safety.

The whole thing felt like an eternity —comedically so. While the sounds of Boomer mauling the unarmed cultist echoed in his ears, John’s fingers clumsily switched the safety off and he fired recklessly; the bullet barely grazed the cultist’s calf, and as the man reached for him, John pulled the trigger again. Once, twice, three times, the bullets planted themselves in the man’s chest, jerking him back with each impact.

A heavy thud echoed in the night as the man slumped to the ground. Boomer had handily dispatched of the other one; his mouth was red and wet, and when John struggled to his feet, he saw that the man’s throat had been ripped open.

“Nice,” he breathed. Boomer regarded him warily, unimpressed with the compliment. He quickly shuffled the safety back on and tucked the gun into the back of his jeans, pushing the tailgate of the van up. When the dog whined, low and uncertain, he glanced back at him and sighed.

He pulled the tailgate back down. “Load up. We’re gonna get her back.”

Boomer leapt up into the back of the van, nails sliding on the hard plastic. It took John about five minutes of rifling through the pockets of the two men to find the car keys. While he wasn’t entirely confident in his ability to drive, he had just planted a couple of bullets in a man, so he supposed he'd be fine.

As he climbed into the driver’s side, he shut the door and settled in and carefully, meticulously slid the key into the ignition. The van purred to life as though John’s last week hadn’t been an entire fucking series of absolute fuckhead jokes, and he let out a breath.

The glint of something blue and reflective in the cupholder between the two front seats caught his eye. He glanced down, blinking.

“Hey,” he said, reaching down. “My sunglasses.” Tucking them into his shirt, he checked the rearview mirror and gently, gently pushed the car into drive.

"Alright, beastie," John muttered. "Let's get this ended, huh?"

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The concussive blast of bullet meeting wood rang in her ears; chips of bark and the guts of the tree showered her, the shot echoing just above her head, and she thought, fuck, I just want to be dead already. She was so tired; moving was a luxury that was not afforded to her anymore, each gesture as she struggled to her feet tipped and fettered by the bruises and wounds that littered her body.

Finding John had taken about fifteen minutes, fourteen minutes and fifty-nine seconds of which had been spent agonizing about where to look first. She didn’t recognize where they were, or know her way around, and she was barefoot and soaking wet and shivering and she just kept thinking about how badly she wanted to lay down.

We’ll go together. Fuck, John was so stupid. She might have actually had a moment to breathe if he’d just listened to her and did as she said. But that wasn’t ever how these things went, was it?

A calloused hand closed around her wrist and yanked her to her feet. For a second, in the blurring, thrumming night, between the whispering voices in the wind and the lurching of the great beast hunting her down, Elliot saw the dark fabric of a button-up shirt and thought, it’s John, it’s John; he came back me and now we’re going to get out.

“I win,” Kian purred.

His voice bled through her skull, stretching and warping as the agony crashed over her in a scalding wave. Kian’s fingers wound iron-like around her wrist, holding her there, and his other hand came up to grip her chin; playfully, he shook her head back and forth, like he was trying to jostle her out of deep sleep.

“Don’t look so sad. I’m not going to kill you, Elliot.” He regarded her with something like amusement, eyes glittering dark and obsidian in what little moonlight had managed to seep through the tree cover. “Do you know what mor means? It means mother. We’re going to keep you for It, and when it’s time, we’ll slice you open. You will make It so happy.”

She gripped his wrist as hard as she could and tried to push his hand from her face. Kian had discarded the shotgun in favor of having both hands to grab her, and as he gripped her face—the wide, calloused crux of his hand covering her mouth while his fingers reached the dip of her jaw—she thought, Something has to be done.

Elliot had promised Joey. Even if I have to fucking die for it. She had promised, and that meant it had to be done.

Muddling through the panic, Elliot squirmed under his hand, opened her mouth, and bit down as hard as she could. The disgusting taste of hot copper flooded her mouth instantly; the webbing between his thumb and pointer finger wasn’t meant to take teeth ripping and tearing, and she was ripping and tearing; even with the limited mobility she had, she wrenched her head anyway she could, intent on taking some piece of Kian with her.

A wretched kind of sound came out of him. He tried to yank his hand back off of her face, and she bit down harder, anywhere her teeth could catch and grip. If she could hit bone, she thought; if she could sink her teeth right into the marrow of him, maybe then she would have felt like she got some repayment for what he’d done.

Kian yanked his hand free, gripping his wrist as crimson streamed down his palm and arm. His eyes were wild and dark; for a split second they stood there, staring at each other, two beasts nursing wounds and waiting for the other to make a move.

Elliot grabbed the front of his shirt and hauled him forward, slamming her face into his. It would have been nearly impossible to bodily force Kian’s to move had he not been clutching his wounded hand, and for that she was grateful—grateful, she would tell herself, around the ricocheting stars of pain blurring behind her eyes, using the hardest part of her skull to bash into Kian’s nose and mouth.

And then she ran.

The gun was around, somewhere, dusted in pine needles and nightfall; like a needle in a haystack. She heard someone spitting behind her, and she thought, I hope I broke your fucking nose, you piece of shit, just before she ducked into a thick bustle of brush and behind a rock.

Around her, the world blurred and fuzzed black. She tried to furiously blink it away, but every second spent standing still meant that her body was suddenly remembering how tired and overworked it was, how much she had done, how much she had suffered. We could stop now, the tired little girl inside of her said. We should. We should stop now.

But Kian had said it himself; he wasn’t planning on killing her. She wouldn’t get rest even if she gave up. He might have changed his mind after she’d bit through his hand and headbutted him, but—

That wasn’t a chance she could take. Not for herself, and not for Joey, and not for the girl she had been that night in her apartment, either.

Heavy footfalls echoed just a few feet away from her. Her mouth was still flooded with the taste of Kian’s blood. As she made her way to the other side of the boulder she’d taken refuge behind and peeked out, she thought, I’d do it again, given the chance. I’d rip him open with my teeth if I got the opportunity. Give me the fucking chance.

Moonlight spilled through the trees and into the clearing they had just been in as the wind pushed clouds out of the way. The glint of dark metal, threatening, caught her eye; the shotgun was there, with hopefully at least one shell in it—one that she could put straight through Kian’s ugly fucking face.

And he was nowhere to be seen, either. Even as she leaned further out, trying to see around the boulder, she couldn’t see him crashing through the underbrush; she couldn’t hear him, either. Just the sound of the wind, pine needles skittering across the ground, a twig snap and—

A second too late, Elliot’s pain-addled brain realized the breaking branch was just behind her. Fingers fisted into the hair at the back of her skull and dragged, hauling her out of the underbrush and back into the clearing, tossing her like a ragdoll. All of the already-battered ribs shrieked on impact, and she wheezed out a breath that had blood and spit flickering across the forest floor.

Tired. She was so tired. So tired, and the world blurred and tried to fizz and pop out of existence around her, a sticky-wet hand forced her eyes forward.

Blood streamed down Kian’s face from their earlier collision. When he grinned at her, his teeth were stained pink, red seeping in the gaps.

“Hello, little rabbit,” he ground out, pushing away her scrambling hands and pinning the left down. “You put up quite a fight.”

Elliot tried to search in her spatial memory—what was left standing of it, anyway—for where she had seen the gun. But it was getting harder to breathe, and to think, and Kian’s fingers dug into her jaw and cheeks. An awful, animalistic noise came out of her at the pressure—it was a whimper, but unlike anything she’d ever heard out of herself, unlike anything she’d known she was capable of making.

“I wonder—”

His voice came out in a low murmur, spit-slicked and venomous, his nose grazing the slope of her cheekbone.

“—will you feel guilty about this, too? When I drag you back kicking and screaming, and make you watch as I cut each of those fucking hillbillies open? I know some of them got out. I'll find them, too.”

It had to be close, she reasoned through the haze in her brain; the gun had to be nearby. She’d just been looking at it. Her body was trying to give up; Kian’s fingers pinning her wrist down and bruising her neck, his words hissed out against her skin, were all tripping that strange little trigger in her brain that finally wanted to give up fighting and do something else.

Quit.

“ Mor,” Kian purred against her skin. “Mother, you’ll be so good for It, I know you will.”

Joey, clutching her tight. “I never doubted you’d be able to get me out.”

“It likes it best like this, you know.”

John, mouth so close to her ear. “I said, it’s a good thing you’re more devil than woman.”

Each second that ticked by, filled with Kian’s voice, the fingers of her one free hand inched. S he felt them close around cool metal.

“It likes the ones that fight back.”

She gripped the gun hard, and swung.

It collided with a heavy-handed thump against the side of Kian’s face, and he jerked back. He still straddled her, but with room between them now, Elliot could lurch forward, bowling as much of her weight into his midsection as she could to push him off of her and send him reeling back into the hard surface of the boulder.

Her fingers worked fast as she struggled to her feet. Pure adrenaline, pure muscle memory, as she flicked the safety off, cocked the shotgun, and pulled the trigger.

It clicked.

Empty.

Kian barked out a laugh wet with blood. There was a wound on his temple that was bleeding, now, and as he struggled to sit up more she could see him wince—the collision with the boulder hadn’t done him any good. Elliot pulled the trigger again, and again, and each time it clicked she found herself getting angrier and angrier. Filling with poison, up to her brim, like someone had just uncorked it.

“It’s empty, mother,” Kian rumbled at her. “You think I brought any more ammo than those two shells?” He spat blood out of his mouth and cocked his head, regarding her with dark eyes. “I told you, I’m not going to kill you.”

I’m not, like he still thought he had won. Pure, vibrating fury radiated through her body. This was supposed to be her victory; this was supposed to be her revenge for Joey. For her life. For her.

It would be. It’s mine, she thought viciously, this fucking moment is mine.

“Yeah, well,” Elliot spit out, digging her fingers into the metal, “can't say the same.”

The weight of the gun was not unlike a bat; so when she took the barrel of the gun and swung it like one, it felt familiar. Just like when she was ten, playing rec-league softball, only this time the bat was an empty pump-action shotgun and the ball was Kian’s head.

When the dull impact send vibrations rattling up her arm, and Kian keeled to the side, wheezing and biting out something venomous in Swedish, Elliot gripped the shotgun harder and swung again.

And again.

And again.

Each collision brought it closer to the satisfying, wet crunch of blood and bone on the redhead’s face. Elliot couldn’t have counted how many times she swung if someone asked her—or pinpointed the exact moment that Kian stopped moving, stopped breathing.

She could only think about the way he’d planted his words right against her skin, gripped her, I win.

Do you know what I get to do with things that belong to me?

“Nothing,” she ground out, when her arms burned and ached and her vision fuzzed with exhaustion. “You don't get to do anything.”

“Deputy?”

Blood spray littered her face. She was sure that her teeth were stained red, too. Each breath heaved exhaustively through her body, rattling, and when she turned her head to the source of the voice, she saw John and Jacob standing at the edge of the clearing; lights blurred through the trees, the sound of trucks and voices echoing in the still night air.

Boomer darted out from behind them, immediately pressed to her legs. She held the shotgun loosely in her hand.

“El,” John said, softer than Jacob had, “It’s me.”

Her gaze flickered back to the brutalized corpse in front of her. She thought, faintly, that there was no way her life was going to be normal after this again, but that was okay. She’d promised Joey.

If I have to die for it, I will.

She’d done it. And maybe she had died for it.

Jacob had taken a few steps toward her as the thought echoed in her head. Slowly, like she was a stray dog snarling over a cow bone. When John moved to follow, she saw Jacob put his hand out and stop him.

“Put the gun down,” Jacob said, his voice still and calm. Elliot blinked tiredly.

She wanted to do it. She wanted to let go of it. But that girl that she had been—that girl who had cried under the blanket fort, who had thought, I don’t know how I let him do that to me, the girl who had sat on the floor of her bedroom in Hope County and blinked through furious tears as she struggled to understand herself—no longer wept; that girl was furious, and so Elliot gripped the gun tighter.

As though it made it any less of a weapon, she said, “It’s empty.”

Jacob looked at Kian’s face, bashed-in. Obliterated. “I know.”

Boomer whined at her feet, nosing her empty hand quietly and gazing up at her with big, brown eyes. Something strange washed over her, an emotion that made her lip tremble and her eyes burn. The Heeler nuzzled her hand again, and she sucked in a shaking breath as finally— finally, finally —the tears stung down her cheeks.

She dropped the shotgun. John said her name, and Jacob dropped his arm, and she realized that it was relief she was feeling now.

Only vaguely aware of Jacob kicking the shotgun away from her, the world blurred as Elliot felt John’s hands cradling her face. Each place where his fingers traced the bruises from Kian, that pulse of relief ran stronger through her body until it was overstimulating, overwhelming. When John kissed her, it was almost frantic—she could taste the blood in her own mouth, his fingers tangling into her hair as he kissed her again and again, until her lungs ached with the need to breathe. But each kiss brought her somewhere else. It took her somewhere that she didn't have to think about anything except John in that single moment.

“Hey,” John said, their noses brushing. His movements were sluggish and uncoordinated, his voice still slurring a little. “I have you. Right here with me, El, don’t go anywhere.”

“Yeah,” she managed out. Her voice wobbled, and she sucked in a sharp, stuttering breath. “John—”

His thumbs swept across her cheekbones, smearing more blood than they wiped away tears, and as the sound of voices echoed dimly around them, she lifted her hands and gripped his wrists. Through the coppery tang in the air, she could smell his cologne; her lashes fluttered and John pressed their foreheads together.

“It’s okay.” John murmured the words, tugging her against him, into his chest. “It’s all over now.”

No, she thought as his arms circled her, pulling her closer, Boomer barking at anyone who wandered near.

It’s not even close.

[charlastor-hoe-6]

Hellfire {Charlastor}

{Okay so I have been wanting to write a fanfic that deals with Hellfire and Charlastor for so long, like you seriously have no idea and hearing the beautiful project from Rainbott, where I heard Alastor sing Hellfire instantly gave me the inspiration back.

I did struggle on deciding with the setting for this. My original plan was to have it take place in hell with them both being demons. But then I changed my mind. While Alastor isn't a complete priest in this story then he is still a very godly man. He meets Charlie at a party that was hosted by her family. When he saw her something in him changed. Also, yes I know Alastor is asexual but he is still capable of those feelings and desires which is why I thought that it would be even more interesting that nobody has ever made him so sinful before and he just grows obsessed with her through hatred and love (even if what he's feeling can't really be called love xD) but yeah I hope this explains it and I really hope you'll enjoy!}

Beata Maria

You know I am a righteous man,

Of my virtue I am justly proud,

Alastor sighed quietly to himself as he looked at the fireplace in his huge room. It was rare of him to show an expression besides his smile. In fact he had never ever showed nothing but his smile in front of those other imbeciles but something wasn't right and he hated that. There was a deep pain and desire eating him from the inside. Something that made him feel crazy. As of late someone had taken over his mind, more precisely, a woman, yet that woman was on his mind and just wouldn't leave him alone. No, he was the one who was always supposed to be in control. Things weren't supposed to be this way! He turned around, his back facing the fireplace, and he started pacing around in his room.

Beata Maria,

You know I`m so much purer than,

The common, vulgar, weak, licentious crowd,

He stared back at the fire after a few moments. The feeling being way too tempting to refuse. Those burning flames reminded him of his sins for falling for that beautiful, yet wretched temptress. The day he first saw that golden haired woman, something changed inside of him. He was an all powerful man. He was always higher and better then anybody else. But when he saw that bright smile. He was caught off guard

It wasn't a facade, that smile and joy were completely real. Seeing her dance and laugh so joyously made his heart clench in his chest. When he asked her to dance with him then her smaller hand in his felt so right and seeing those brown eyes stare into his own made him feel so weird and ever since after that dance he wasn't able to get her out of his head.

Then tell me, Maria,

Why I see her dancing there,

Why her smoldering eyes still scorch my soul,

Alastor felt as if he was truly losing every ounce of his sanity, going more and more insane with this feeling deep inside of him. He didn't want to experience these feelings. His entire life he had been better to feel so pathetic. Like any other commoner would. But here he was. It made him sick with need, sick with the feeling of wanting to have the girl close to him. He hated it. He absolutely despised it. God knows he wanted to get rid of this sickening feeling inside of him. This was, oh so wrong. He couldn`t have these stupid feelings towards her. This stupid girl who had made a great man such as himself, weak at his knees.

I feel her,

I see her,

The sun caught in her golden blonde hair,

Is blazing in me out of all control,

The more he stared into those flames, then the more he saw the girl's smiling face. This girl was tainting him, teasing him, tearing him apart. He felt as if he was burning from inside and out. It was unfair! He shouldn't feel like this. No, he couldn`t feel like this! Though he hated himself even more for feeling such a need towards that girl. He needed her more than anything as of now, yet he wanted nothing more than to get rid of her as well for doing this to him! Though even death sounded as too blissful of a punishment for that temptress.

Like fire,

Hellfire,

This fire in my skin,

This burning desire

Is turning me to sin,

Ever since that fateful day she had haunted him day and night. He couldn't pull himself free from that witch's clutches. That girl was to blame for all of this, not him. None of this was his fault nor would it ever be. Everything had gone wrong ever since he first met her. How Now he was so needy, obsessed and lustful. It was only because of that one witch. He didn`t understand why and Alastor hated things he didn't understand and had no control over.

It`s not my fault,

I`m not to blame,

It is that cursed girl,

The witch that set this flame,

Alastor had never felt a need like this before. He felt no attraction towards anyone. These lustful feelings were completely new to him and he didn't understand them. Why did she have to come his way and ruin him in such a way? She was disgusting. She was a demon in his eyes. This need. This indescribable feeling of lust was unexplainable to him. He wanted the girl under him, screaming his name, looking up at him with such love in those gorgeous brown orbs. The girl showing her that she needed him just as much as he wanted and needed her. Even though those thoughts only managed to anger him more, This was wrong wrong wrong. This was all wrong!

It`s not my fault,

If in God`s plan,

He made the devil so much,

Stronger than a man,

Yet there was one thing that he was sure of. He wasn't to blame for these feelings, this damn desire clawing at his soul. It was the girl's fault and only hers. Everything had gone wrong since their first encounter. If she wouldn't have tempted him that much on that fateful day, then wouldn`t be in such situation right now because of her. He was strong and all powerful and he would end up winning in the end.

Protect me, Maria,

Don`t let this siren cast her spell,

Don`t let her fire sear my flesh and bone,

Of course, he just had to see the girl smiling and laughing in his mind. Those visions plagued him non stop and drove him insane. He could see her do those sedutive moves, skipping and dancing around, all of that had made him feel so filthy. He wanted this teasing to stop. More then anything! He wanted this temptress as far away from him as possible. He truly counted himself to be far above over such disgusting, sinful desires. Every single other woman he had met left him feeling indifferent, why couldn't she have been the same way? He hated how much he wanted nothing more than to have the girl wrap her arms around him, look up at him with those beautiful orbs. He would do anything to feel those soft lips against his, but he couldn`t give in. No he just couldn't. He had to make god see that he was indeed worthy of him and he was, he really was. Until that girl came along and ruined absolutely everything.

Destroy Charlie!

And let her taste the fires of hell,

Or else let her be mine and mine alone,

A quiet growl left past Alastor's lips. No matter where he looked he was haunted by that damned girl, but especially in those mesmerising flames.Everything reminded him of the girl. He would get the girl and own her. Oh yes he would. He would take her all for himself, since the girl made him feel so dirty then he had every right to return that feeling. But he would make it so much worse. He would destroy her. He would make the girl feel the same way as he did. That gorgeous, yet damned girl would love him too. He was planning for her to feel pain and insanity that he was forced to feel because of her. Most importantly he would make the girl love him. Because he loved her. He really did, even though it felt like such a sin.

Hellfire,

Dark fire,

Now, my darling,

It`s your turn,

It would be Charlie's turn to feel this agony Now it was her time to feel the pain she made him feel for all this time. Alastor would make the girl pay for everything she had caused him with pain and torture. But eventually that pain and anger would be turned into love and adoration. Yes, the girl would look at him with hearts in her gorgeous eyes by the end of it.

Choose me or,

Your pyre,

Be mine or you will burn!

He looked down at his shaking hands that held the napkin. The only object of her's that he had in his possession. He glared and gripped it tightly in his hand, before throwing it into the fireplace in anger. It burned quickly, just like his darling would if she didn`t choose him, as her one and only. Oh but her suffering would be so much more slower and painful. So much more enjoyable for him. God would get rid of those not worthy. He felt a bang of pain in his heart as he grabbed onto his chest. The need to have the girl was enormous. He just wanted the girl right now, hugging onto him with her slender arms.

God have mercy on her,

God have mercy on me,

But she will be mine,

Or she will,

Burn!

The man fell onto his knees. This weakness made him feel more sick then anything but he would be the one to laugh by the end of it. He would take that temptress and make her all his. Yes, he would give the girl two choices, either she would be his and only his, or she would be suffer a fate worse then death itself. Either way the girl would only be his forever. No matter what she would choose. He would get all of her love, all of it and the girl would yearn for him. Go insane for him and his very presence to be near her. They'd be one in body and soul. They would be together, before he completely lost his mind. A deep sigh left past his lips as he forced himself to stand up and sat down at his bed. Soon, so soon he would let his plans unfold. If he were to fall into darkness, then he would make sure to drag her down with him, so they would be together forever.

It was her who had made him feel this sick desire so she would be the one who would have to deal with the consequences.

After all, love really made a man do crazy things.

[imreallystressed]

nothing is okay /j (pt. 1?)

word count: ~2000 pairings: general angsty platonic DLAMPR, more specifically platonic roceit and the creativitwins, and some angsty (platonic) anxceit because we’re here anyway.  warnings: angst! so much of it. angry virgil, yelling, self-deprecation (thanks ro) and the like, crying, remus and his remusy ways, spoilers!! if you need something tagged shoot me an ask! notes: WOW this got out of hand. im almost definitely continuing this oops!! also while this is not meant to be unsymp virgil AT ALL, it could potentially be perceived as such just because we don’t know his reasoning. if you want it tagged let me know! there is. a cliffhanger. at the end,, but it is 100% optional and if you want to imagine a happy ending go for it!! ill write one too, i promise, but i need a break oops next! AO3 LINK

“Right,” Roman had said, or something along those lines, and then he had sunk out. Left. Always too scared to own up to his mistakes, and always too arrogant to even admit he made them.

He had sunk out, ended up in his room, because it was the only place he could ever feel safe anymore, what with the looming threat of his brother, who only came with some fun and terrifyingly complicated emotions he always chose to ignore. He’d never related so much to Logan.

He was in his room, and then he was in his bed, the tears in his eyes and guilt cloying at his chest making every movement feel clipped, like the whole world was moving at three frames per second, jumping around instead of the steady stream of ideas his room usually provided. Yes, his room was safe. But he was so, so alone.

He’d collapsed into his bed, wrenched his hands in the soft duvet until he swore he could feel the fabric tearing, and there he’d stayed for God-knows-how-long. He would guess somewhere around the three hour mark, at least since Patton knocked on his locked (always locked) door and he’d given no answer. Then again, Roman always had a way of losing track of time, helplessly locked in place as the hours flew by.

It had been, in fact, three hours and twenty-eight minutes since Roman had done his sort of... controlled free-fall into the bed, and hadn’t moved. His face had a print on the side, likely from the sequined pillow that he had fallen onto by chance - he hadn’t noticed the uncomfortable prick of plastic shards until he got up, rubbing his face with sore hands. He had, in fact, torn the cover of his duvet, but it was nothing he couldn’t imagine away when he was feeling better, or even take a needle to.

His head still felt stuffed full of cotton, but the feeling of guilt worming its way around inside his chest, up his throat was all too sharp. His first course of action was to apologise.

After that, well.

He would burn that bridge when he got to it.

He made his way over to the attached bathroom, splashing some water on his face with sluggish movements, trying to cool off his burning eyes or clear away the redness on the right side of his face. The water helped, however little, and he felt marginally better, more clear-headed at the very least.

Of course, with his senses now unimpaired, he was able to hear the yelling.

At first, it just sounded like some general voice - vaguely Thomas, but could also just be a stock audio of a man shouting into a microphone. Just under that, though, when Roman blinked tightly and focused a little more, was a faint gravel, oh-so-familiar, one that matched neatly with a grinning face and easy banter - Virgil. Virgil was yelling.

Roman dried his face roughly, irritating his skin more, and zoned out completely as he waited in front of the mirror for the red blotches to fade. Virgil’s voice faded in and out, sometimes stopping entirely. Roman couldn’t tell if someone else was interrupting him or if he was just that out of it.

Finally, after what felt like an hour of choppy-but-definitely-not-pleased dialogue and the sound of waves and misplaced bits of the conversation from earlier washing over his head, myriad colours and shapes dancing across his vision, Roman glanced back up at the mirror.

He looked normal - or, well, the normal from the past few months. Before that, there might’ve been a little more colour in his cheeks, or light in his eyes. He smiled, just to test it, and found his smile both reassuring and wholeheartedly wretched. Pretty, yes, enough to fool anyone looking, including himself - but just that. Pretty. Nothing behind it, no real emotion.

Roman straightened his sash. He could work with pretty, right?

“Don’t touch me!” shouted Virgil’s muffled voice, and Roman opened his door.

The first person he saw was Remus, lounging on the sofa cross-legged, his smile just as deranged as usual but his eyes pinched, like he was making a real effort to keep up his... peppy attitude. God, Roman could relate.

Then Patton and Logan, who both brightened upon seeing him, if you could call relief brightening. They were standing next to each other, but several feet apart - almost like they were ready to move, hold someone back. Patton wore a peacemaking smile that was obviously slipping off his face, his glasses sliding down his nose. Logan looked significantly more composed, his hands clasped behind his perfectly straight back (the only straight thing about him, Roman thought automatically) instead of hovering, like Patton’s. Like Remus, his mouth was set in a line normal for him, but his eyes were lidded slightly, not quite glaring but certainly not approving.

And then, of course, like the centerpiece in an odd stage, Virgil and De- Janus. Janus’ stance was defensive, pulled back with his hands raised by his sides. Virgil’s stance was none of that - he’d leant forward, hands thrown out beside him, gesturing wildly. Janus’ face was unreadable, eyes conveying some sort of sorrow, possibly, but mouth set in a classic smirk as he met Virgil’s eyes.

Virgil looked absolutely furious. 

Roman’d seen him angry, sure, plenty of times. A lot of the time directed at him. But he’d never seen Virgil truly upset. Like end-of-the-world, life is over, “I’m going to stab you to death with a kitchen knife” upset.

Roman stepped into the living room. Patton threw him a brief smile - a real one, not a “please don’t kill each other on the carpet” smile. Logan gave him a nod, and raised one eyebrow in a silent question, which Roman answered with a smile. His fake smile, but a smile nonetheless, and Logan didn’t seem to mind.

Virgil barely seemed to register that he was even there, continuing whatever point he had started. Roman heard a lot of words, angrily shouted, but none of them that he hadn’t already thought about.

Janus glanced over at him quickly, almost unwilling to look away from Virgil, and gave him a tiny smile, or just the ghost of one. Roman felt a tiny shred of guilt fall away from his chest.

Sudden movement caught his eye, and then Remus was next to him. His smile was gone, and instead of looking insane and slightly worried, he just looked like... well, like Roman.

Back in the beginning, right after the Split, both Roman and Remus were told, separately, that they tended to mirror each other. Completely subconsciously, one would copy the tiny mannerisms of the other. According to Logan, it was painfully obvious, especially when they stood next to each other.

Some far-off part of Roman’s brain wondered if he was doing that now.

“They’re fighting,” Remus said.

“To answer your question, I do have eyes,” Roman responded instantly, forcing down a panicked wave of nostalgia and memories of Thomas’ carpet on his face.

Remus didn’t laugh, but the side of his mouth did quirk up a little bit, and Roman felt like they were kids again, watching Logan and De- Janus debate.

“Oh please, like you’d know anything about being honest with feelings-”

There went that happy thought.

“How long have they been like this?” Roman asked, in part to distract himself from how dry his mouth was all of a sudden.

Remus screwed up his face. “Ugh, time. Long enough for a horse to bleed out.”

Roman blinked at him.

“Like two or three hours. You know I suck at time. We both do.”

Roman had to suppress his flinch at that one, turning his gaze back to the two in the center of the room. “Two or three hours? And they’re still going like this?”

“Oh, you should’ve seen Virgil when he first found out. Entertaining stuff,” Remus said, but it lacked his usual screech of laughter.

“Has anyone tried to interrupt?”

“Almost got decked.”

Roman sighed. “If I asked to talk to... Janus. Alone. Would Virgil kill me?”

“No. You’re the only one he hasn’t actively screamed at.”

“I was in my room this entire time, of course he hasn’t-”

“Or about,” Remus continued. Roman avoided his eyes, suddenly finding the ground very interesting. “In a negative way.”

Remus nudged his shoulder, and headed back for the sofa. Roman didn’t have time to shove away the feelings box that time - but he did have the foresight to hide his reaction to it.

“Janus!” he called, before he could talk himself out of it. Both Virgil and Janus paused, and suddenly Roman had four pairs of eyes on him - Remus was fiddling with some kind of string contraption that Roman really hoped wasn’t going in his room later. “Can I - can I talk to you? Alone?”

Janus looked back at Virgil and then to Roman again, his expression a closed door, and took a step towards him. Roman gestured to his room, and Janus made a beeline for it without hesitation. By the time Roman was closing the door, Patton had already clasped his hands on Virgil’s shoulders.

The last thing Roman saw before he shut the door was Virgil’s face, utterly heartbroken.

“If he asks you to pick a side, don’t,” Janus said the moment the handle clicked.

“Huh?” Roman responded, very eloquently. “Oh! Uh, sure?”

“It’s- he’s already mad at Patton. And that’s my fault.”

“It’s really not,” Roman responded instantly. Janus gave him an expectant look. “I assume he’s mad at Patton for... being your friend? Or something. And that’s fine, I don’t know what happened, but it’s not your fault, right? ‘Cause Patton made that choice and he seems to be sticking with it, and that’s his choice, not yours. So- yeah.”

Janus looked absolutely baffled, and Roman realized all in a rush that nothing he had just said made any sense, but Janus interrupted him before he could say anything.

“I- thank you, Roman. I appreciate it,” he said softly, and wow, did he actually understand any of that?

“No problem,” Roman said, rushing on. “I wanted to apologise. I didn’t - I shouldn’t have made fun of your name. It was mean, and I was lashing out, and I’m really sorry, and it’s actually a really cool name and I didn’t know you were into mythology-”

“Roman.”

Roman shut his mouth so fast there was an audible click.

Janus looked slightly pained, glancing around the room awkwardly. His tongue was moving inside his mouth, but he wasn’t saying anything, like he was thinking of the right words. Roman toyed with his fingers nervously, waiting.

“Okay,” Janus said, and Roman’s head shot up. “I accept your apology, even if I think it was unnecessary.”

“I-” Roman began, but Janus held up a hand to cut him off.

“I apologise too. Comparing you to Remus was low blow, and it didn’t make much sense anyway. Neither of you are evil. You’re nuanced.”

“We weren’t,” Roman mumbled.

“You are,” Janus repeated, frowning. “Years of personal growth have that effect.”

Roman smiled faintly. “Thank you.”

“Just common courtesy-”

“Not for that. But that too, I guess.”

Janus met his eyes, and they shared some kind of look, before he looked at the door again, sighing.

“I guess I should get back to that.”

“I can ask him to calm down.”

“It won’t work, and he has a right to be upset,” Janus said, pointedly avoiding Roman’s silent question. “You should sit with Remus. Make it obvious you don’t want to be involved, and we part as neutral.”

Roman frowned a little bit - neutral certainly didn’t sound good - but nodded anyway.

Janus opened the door.

(stop reading here to avoid the AngstTM cliffhanger and come up with your own ending :7)

(i can’t put another break so we’re using parentheses babey!!)

They stepped into the living room, eyeing Patton, Logan, and Remus, who all wore different shades of “distinctly guilty”.

The room was quiet.

Virgil was nowhere in sight.

[lost-eternity]

Matchup Requests *CLOSED*

This was done as a trade instead of a standard match up, hence why I am permitting it. :)

Matchup for @stormra​

okie dokie I match you with...

I have to admit, this was a bit of a difficult one. It was really between Charles Grey and Sebastian. And it was close. But a few small details caused me to lean towards Grey instead of Sebby. I’ll explain why later on.

First of all, your love languages mesh rather perfectly

Charles Grey’s (inflated) ego causes him to thoroughly enjoy the praise and affection you lavish upon him

He enjoys being treated as a prince and has no inclination to returning these affections

It’s a selfish love but weirdly enough, it works

He also doesn’t give enough craps to care for society or propriety to be embarrassed or ashamed of your advances

He is quite inept at displaying physical affection and his attempts are half-hearted at best

It’s that blasted ego again

But he does try. In his own little way

He may (attempt to) awkwardly cook something for you, or more likely than not, force you to take fencing lessons

He always wins

And he goes really hard on you claiming that you would never learn if he went easy

It’s laborious and by the end of each session you are close to collapsing from exhaustion

Insert a lewd joke here, “Oh, my dear, if this is how easily you tire, I better condition you for my bedchamber...”

Yeah, it turns out he is a complete pervert sometimes

But fencing is one of the few ways he can actually express himself

Which seems a bit paradoxical if that expression is affection or love

But it is kind of cute.

He is determined to teach you, and although he may not be the most outwardly affectionate, the amount of time and effort he invests in you is enough to tell you how much he cares

He is a very busy man you know, running missions and odd errands for the queen

His free time is extremely precious for him 

So the mere fact that he is spending it with you is a lot more monumental than most people would assume

But you are smart enough to realise this

And that is one of the reasons I did not pair you with Sebastian. 

Sebastian is a lot more how shall we put it... salacious. His flirting is subtle in public but that bastard would do anything to make his lover blush, testing the limits of society and still managing to get by without being caught... somehow. It’s his way of exercising control and I think that would really clash with your love language. 

~

So,

Charles Grey is also a rather chipper fellow. 

Like "chipper" may be an understatement 

Excitable puppy man is more like it, at least when it comes to fencing... or maiming... the dude has weird hobbies

But he really understands your desire to travel. He is full of jittery energy that he uses releases running errands for the Queen, travelling across all of the UK. And really most of Europe running diplomacy missions and handling sensitive cases

He would probably be hesitant to allow you to accompany him

But you'd wear him down eventually 

Grey really understands your wanderlust, he has a hard time focusing on monotonous tasks or locations as well

So he may allow you to join him

With one *small* caveat 

You have to defeat him in a fencing duel first 

Which is absolute shit. But you understand where he is coming from.

That ego of his leads him to consider himself the best swordsman in Europe, if not the world

He figures that if you manage to strike him down then you could handle yourself with anyone 

And that is no small task

It seems entirely daunting and near impossible (which is probably another reason he assigned it)

And that brings me to my next point. 

Charles Grey needs some who is open minded and chill enough to out up with his shit

But also stubborn and outspoken enough to shut him down when he tries some spectacularly stupid

Which is why you would work well with him. Not only does your nonchalance perfectly foil his constant energy and inquisitive nature, but you also have set your boundaries and know when to shut down schemes and ideas

So yeah

You begin training extra hard

For maybe like a day

Then you give up

It's hard, everything hurts, you are exhausted, and all you MIGHT get out of it is one lousy trip

So you begin putting training sessions off

"I'm not feeling well."

"I'll start once I finish this book"

"Oooh, it's too late now"

To say that Grey would be discouraged and slightly hurt is an understatement 

His passion and life blood is fencing. He has worked really hard to get to this point and the fact that his significant other takes no interest in it wounds him

This could definitely be a point of discourse if your relationship 

But you have to remain open with each other and talk it out

That is the most important thing. Communication. And let's be honest. Charles isn't not going to say shit 

He is "too manly" or too egotistical to admit his feelings

You'd have to be the one to approach him on the matter

But I feel like you would. You are used to hearing problems from your friends. You know when something is wrong and better yet, you listen 

After a talk, he understands that it may not be the fencing specifically you are disinterested in

But you just struggle to maintain motivation 

And from that moment on, Charles Grey becomes your personal cheerleader 

He's the mom at a soccer game freaking s c r e e c h i n g and going "that's my girl!" whenever you win a match

He takes pride in all he does, and he is proud of his protégé

He never allows you to lose motivation and is (annoyingly) insistent about the fencing 

Which again, could lead to some arguments if you resist

But he is doing it from a place of love because he can see how miserable you are cooped up in the same place

He knows you

And finally, the day arrives that you set to duel Charles Grey himself. If you win, you get to attend some of his missions with him (others are too sensitive to risk being seen by a civilian)

You are understandably nervous, but also introspective. Honestly it is probably a tidal wave of emotions far too complex to convey with words

But ill try 

Let me just....

This morning was like most mornings.

A heavy fog blanketed the docile countryside, most animals just began to shake off the effects of the previous night's slumber. 

Commoners rose with the peeking rays of the sun, beginning to perform their routine tasks before the last of the fog had been burned away by the heat. For most people this day was completely, utterly, ordinary.

But not for you. 

This day meant everything. This day meant your freedom. 

You had risen before even the sun, shedding your skirts in exchange for ivory fencing gear, exchanging your fan for a rapier and your hats for a meshed mask. This had been your life for the past year, and would continue to be so until your final breath.

But today. Today was different. 

Today determined your future. And quite frankly, your sanity. 

And all you had to do was defeat your lover in close quarters combat. A monumental task in-of itself. Half of your acquaintances thought you mad, the other half patronized you, treating your struggle as a desperate cry for attention. They simply couldn't understand why a lady would go through such trouble as to challenge the country’s greatest swordsman. A woman's place was in the house, and in home is where she is complete. Why would she bother her pretty little head and sully herself in the wretched world around her? That was a man's job, such trifling affairs should be of no concern for a lady.

"She is odd, that one." They would say. But they didn't understand, how could they? 

Raised under the constrictive hand of the patriarchy, they were forced into complacency. A complacency so culturally ingrained that they themselves never sought to question it. Or, those that did often keeled to the whims of man's iron fist in fear of social ostracism and reputational backlash. 

But you were different. 

From childhood you felt the pangs, the longing to not only see but experience both the beauty and sorrow of the world around you. To learn and ingrain yourself with the cultures, to explore every nook and cranny of your planet. You could never understand why those around you seemed so content with living and dying inconsequentially, never experiencing the midnight sun or the sweeping winds of the steppe. Dying without ever truly living. Merely existing in their self-made reality, completely ignorant to the bright, beautiful world around them.

Why stay put when you can travel?

Why exist when you can live?

These questions, along with the persistent voice of your instructor (and fiancé), kept you focused and motivated. All of that training, all of those hours of arduous, grueling work had lead to this moment.

You stood within the fencing hall, the lack of bodies usually present caused the room to echo with each clicking foot fall on the tile floor. It was wide, empty, and entirely unwelcoming. It felt like a stranger to you, despite the year of training you had completed within its walls. 

Before you stood a similarly dressed figure, its face obscured by the dark meshing that covered the helmet. 

It was entirely impersonal.

A faceless enemy in a sea of a faceless crowd. 

But you knew better. His posture was all too familiar to you. The slight tilt of his head, the pitch of his shoulders, the strangely comforting steady hand in which he held his weapon. This was your lover, Charles Grey. And your opponent. 

It was definitely surreal. He rarely ever wore his mask in training. The absence of his characteristic gloating smile and talkative nature felt almost lacking. It was rare that he would be so quiet... so solemn. But he was just as aware of your current situation as you were. And how much it meant to you. 

Without a word, he raised his weapon and the battle commenced. 

It was an intense battle

With every blow he performed, your parried and dodged

With a feline grace, you danced up-top light heels, twirling and spinning in an almost melodic fashion 

Metal clashed against metal, each crack ringing through your ears

You had trained enough with him to know that he had a tendency to leave his left side unguarded and exposed

But he also trained with you to know that you can forget to guard your knees

And as the minutes tick by, marking one of the longest conflicts you had ever had with him, exhaustion sets into your bones 

And you falter

The blow is lightning fast, you hardly have a chance to comprehend his movements 

But his hips are besides yours, his knee hooked behind your leg. 

He pushed you backwards with his forearm, causing you to fall backwards, only to trip on his knee and slam against the ground

Something cool and metallic is pressed to the back your neck

You don't need to look to know it is the rapier and that you have lost

The sound of you two's laboured breaths echoes through the empty chambers

Several seconds tick by as the two of you gather your thoughts 

...You... lost

You finally turn yourself around, noticing that Charles had removed his fencing helmet

Damp silver hair sticks to his forehead, matted and plastered across his face

For a moment, a look of sorrow flickered across his handsome features, only to be replaced by that typical cheeky grin

"You lost, luv. Better luck next time, eh?"

You never really had much of a plan

But seeing that smug expression kicked your instincts into overdrive

With one fluid scissor sweep, you dislodged his balancing, a well-placed kick aiming where the sun don't shine toppled him over entirely 

And then he was on the floor next to you, his face contorted in an express of pain 

You were quick to discard his weapon and straddle him, keeping his wrists pinned above his head to the floor

"Lesson one: never trust your opponent"

You parroted this line to him, one he had told you many of times

He only managed a pained grunt in response

Chuckling, you apologized with a chaste kiss which he all too eagerly accepted 

He was probably just being theatrical to get more kisses

You did not have much time to ponder the situation before a polite round of applause erupted from a nearby alcove

You nearly jumped out of your skin

You did not notice the shawled figure, cloaked in all black, like a walking shadow 

The figure took a few steps forward, emerging to the light 

And that is when you realized who it was

Queen Victoria herself

By her side, astute as always was the man you practically considered a brother 

Charles Phipps

By now, you were extremely aware of the suggestive position you were in

Straddling Charles Grey, your hips against his, his wrists clasped tightly in your hands and pinned above his head

And oh, gods that insufferable smirk with which he was regarding 

"As you can see, your majesty, my darling is highly... proficient." Grey practically hummed

You quickly scrambled to your feet, unsure how to handle yourself in the presence of a queen

Turns out, Grey had invited her to witness your duel in hopes of securing you a position under her employ. Either as an emissary or housekeeper. 

According to Phipps, She was quite impressed by your performance, even though you lost

The only other person she had seen to be able to keep pace with Grey was Phipps... and a certain blonde who shall not be named

And that is the story of how you became the head maid for the Queen herself and an emissary on par with Grey himself, running missions as a husband-wife warrior squad, haha

~

You two probably met in an odd way

I’d say for a fact that you were attracted to Sphere music hall

It’s like that place was made for you

Semi-modern concert style music hall which people hailing from all backgrounds and classes intermingled together in harmony

Divinations and readings were done for free and in return, each patron was given a bracelet depicting their star sign. 

As a matter of fact, a lot had to do with the star signs. 

Meditations were conducted in between hours and food served

It was a really great place to go, somewhere you fit it because you had always been an outcast

Forced to keep your craft a secret in fear of retribution from the church, you usually made coin as a street performer and singer

It was not a lot, but it was certainly enough to keep you off the streets

Unfortunately that also meant you were constricted to the same place

Your family had consistently tried to marry you off to some rich white dude

Well, rich(er)

But you did not want to be wife and then a stay at home mother

That was somehow worse than your current situation

Also your opinionated and confident demeanour often scared off potential suitors

It was a serious problem because apparently women were supposed to be soft spoken and weak. 

But you on other other hand, never showed weakness

It was far too “masuline” apparently

So you decided to strike out on your own and try to make it as a singer

Easier said than done

In the music hall, you truly felt free to express yourself

Its charismatic leader put major emphasis on the stars and night sky, he was extremely introspective and the two of you instantly hit it off (I considered matching you with Blavat instead of Grey but I kinda feel like you two would work better as friends)

You were completely enthralled with his demeanour and exuberance

And you consistently attended the hall as it was the only place you felt you truly belonged, no one casting judgmental stares, no whispers behind your back, and most of all, you felt a sense of camaraderie that you have never felt before

And as a result, you fell victim to the cult

Initially, the Queen garnered concerns over the existence of this Music Hall and the traction it was gaining. As a result, she sent out her very own Charles and Phipps to scope out the place before sending word to Ciel Phantomhive

Infiltrating undercover as guests, the Queen’s handy butlers began an inspection of the area

There they ran into you

Literally

You were in the middle of entertaining a small portion of attendees with a song at the behest of Blavat himself (he was actually looking to hire you as a backup singer for the Starlight Four but you were not aware of this)

You were reaching the crescendo of your song when a drunken man slammed into you

You uttered an apology but he seemed rather intent on making himself a nuisance

“Watc’ yaaaa, yaaa stoopid *hic* bitccccc”

You took a few steps back in response as he staggered forward, raising a palm as if to strike you

Before you could react, a flash of white covered your vision

A man stood before you, sword drawn and dawned in a blindingly white coat

Silver tresses rolled down his back, as he glared up at your attacker from behind attractively long lashes

How he managed to sneak a rapier into the party was completely beyond you, yet here he was

“Now, didn’t your mama teach you manners?” He cooed, a slightly maniacal smile across his lips

“Yoooou wanna go?” The man sneered, “I can tak *hic* you pwetty boooy”

Of course, this scene began to attract attention

The murmurings and pleasant violin music had all but stopped as thousands of eyes turned to face you

Blavat had to step in, nervously defusing the situation

He had the drunkard escorted out and moved to confiscate the weapon from the white-clad man only to get the think pointed at his throat

“A man’s worth is in his sword. It would be cruel to take that away from him.”

You were entirely unsure if he was being literal or making a dirty innuendo with that statement

Regardless of his intentions, he was promptly thrown out as well

Much to the chagrin of a separate, similarly dressed man who seemed down right exasperated with his partner’s trigger happy (blade happy?) tendencies. 

You decided to follow this peculiar stranger out and thank him for what he did

You found him trying to crawl through a window, seeking re-entry into the part.

“Uh, excuse me...” You called to him as he fiddled with the lock on the window. You had no idea how he managed to climb up that high in such a short amount of time, but he had perched himself rather precariously on the window sill.

“Not right now, luv.” He called back, “I am busy.”

“I just wanted to thank you for what you did back there. I could have been hurt.”

He paused, not once looking back at you. “Right. Who are you?”

You were rather taken aback

He literally just saved you, how could he not remember you?

“Look, if you aren’t going to pay me the mind to even look at me, I won’t take the effort to thank you.” You huffed and turned to walk away

“I wouldn’t go back there if I were you.”

His voice caused you to halt in your tracks. You spun around to stare at him incredulously. “Excuse you?”

God, those silver eyes were breathtaking as he gazed at you, practically oozing with a feline grace

“Those people aren’t good people.” He stated in a matter-of-fact tone

“Oh? And what do you know about them?” You retorted defensively

“More than you, obviously.” He finally managed to pry the window open. “Her majesty has good instincts. She knows this place is dangerous, else-wise she wouldn’t have sent me.”

And with that weirdly convoluted and vague sentence, he slipped back inside and disappeared

You were left to ponder the meaning of his words

Her majesty?

This bloak knew the bloody Queen?!?!

What else did he know?

What could possibly be so bad about the hall?

You decided to call it quits early that night to process. You never thought you would ever see him again, or so you thought

~

You had been doing your research, sticking your nose in places you probably should not have

Blavat, someone you once considered a close and trusted friend almost seemed menacing to you

And he definitely picked up on your closed off body language

But you knew that something fishy was going on during those “private” events. Only specific people were ever invited (AKA not you)

It all just seemed really sus

And you were determined to find out

So you snuck in

Having spent many hours in the hall, you were aware of certain passages and entrances that others were not

And you were able to sneak in without much issue

But you weren’t able to see much

A heavy smoke filled the air, smelling pleasantly of posies and roses

Your eyes began to droop and heaviness set into your lids

And you fell asleep

You woke up, with the concerned and slightly perturbed face of Blavat staring down at you

Well, shit... busted

“We had a nice thing going, y/n. And you just had to ruin it.” Blavat stated callously. “You know those events are private.”

And with that, you were barred from entering the music hall... permanently

This was definitely rather devastating as it was the only place you could truly be yourself without fear of rejection of prosecution

But now you were more sure than ever that something was amiss in that hall

Why else would they be so strict?

You were probably only left alive because they knew that whatever gas they used to put out those in attendance also affected you before you could see anything incriminating

And so you began trying to locate that mysterious man in white 

He seemed to have more answers than you did

It did not take long to figure out his name and occupation. Charles Grey. Butler to the Queen herself

He must have been quite the impressive butler to be going out on scouting missions for the Queen and not just serving tea

Regardless, gaining an audience with him was nearly impossible 

So you would just have to attract his attention...

Somehow

Given his affinity towards sword fights, you were sure that a loud brawl outside the palace itself would almost certain garner his attention

The real question was, where in the world would you get people foolish enough to pull such a stunt and risk getting arrested

Sooo, maybe not that

You might have to work backwards

Ask around and find those that may be acquaintances with him

Which was a lot harder than it looked

It took days of searching, but you were eventually sent to speak with a mortician who according to your contact “knows everyone who is no one”... whatever that meant

It did not take too long to find out

This mortician was... eccentric to put it in the most polite of terms 

But he was definitely connected with Britain's underbelly 

Which you assumed is where the “everyone who is no one” comes from

You came in hoping to pay him off, to which he blatantly refused, instead asking for you to make him laugh

Which was an odd request but one which you were willing to comply if it meant breaking the case

You spent hours trying different tactics to no avail

Until you sang a very dirty and very perverted song (Most likely “God’s Loophoel”. Yeah, actually don’t look that up, it is exactly as it sounds)

He seemed to enjoy that far too much as his cackles were absolutely thunderous

In tears, he kindly revealed to you that he was familiar with this Charles Grey and could pull a few favours to get you in contact

But he never said when, nor did he ever say where

But he did ensure word of your snooping reached the ears of Charles Grey who surprised you in your own home whilst you were halfway dressed

He initially was very cross with you poking around, scolding you and chastising you saying that it was “no business for a lady”

But you shut him down pretty quick

And afterwards, the two of you hit it off and decided to make evening tea on Sundays a staple thing

Grey would inform you about the progress of the Sphere Music hall and in return, you would keep well away from it

It worked out for the two of you

But word of your sniffing around had also reached the ears of one certain earl and his own demonic butler

I would be careful about what questions you ask and where you poke your nose

We wouldn’t want it to get bitten off, now would we?

this was a lot of fun to write, I hope you enjoyed reading it, dear. Let me know what you thought