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joelsrose · 7 days ago

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Guns and Roses: Chapter 6

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Guys this is my favourite chapter so far PLS ENJOYYY AND LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK plsss

TW: physical recovery, PTSD, trauma, blood, mentions of death

Summary: you confront the challenges of recovering from the attack, dealing with a broken leg and the necessity of relying on others for care. An unexpected figure emerges to support you.

please listen to this song as you listennnn fits the vibe perfectly

The last thing you remembered was pain—excruciating and unrelenting, tearing through your leg and radiating up your spine. It was all a blur of chaos—those men, the feeling of being overpowered, the crushing weight of helplessness. Then there was Tommy’s voice, the desperate shouts, and… Joel.

You jolted awake with a sharp gasp, your breath catching in your throat. The world came back in fragments—the lights above were dim, casting a hazy glow over the room, and there were voices, soft and distant, just beyond your understanding.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” a gentle voice cut through the haze, drawing you back to the present. It was Maria, leaning over you, her expression a mixture of concern and relief. She was by your side, a cool rag in hand, gently dabbing your forehead. “You’re safe. You’re okay now.”

Your eyes darted around the room, wide and unfocused, trying to make sense of where you were. The space was cluttered with old medical books, shelves stocked with bandages and other supplies, and the faint smell of antiseptic lingered in the air. “What… what happened?” you croaked, your voice weak, throat raw from disuse.

Maria’s hand rested gently on your shoulder, anchoring you as she spoke. "You got hurt, but you're going to be okay. We've got you, and you're safe here, I promise." Her voice was calm and steady, laced with a warmth meant to soothe, yet the worry in her eyes betrayed her. It was a quiet, lingering fear, as though things could have taken a far darker turn.

Your thoughts spun in a frantic blur, grasping desperately for fragments of memory. “Is Tommy… is everyone okay?” The words tumbled out, urgent and unbidden, as the chaos replayed in your mind. All you could remember were the screams—Joel collapsing, clutching a stab wound in his leg, crimson pooling beneath him, spreading like a relentless tide.

Was he still alive?

The thought left you cold, a chill sinking deep into your bones, twisting in your gut like a knife. Nausea clawed at your throat, a sickening dread that threatened to swallow you whole.

“Yeah, everyone’s fine,” Maria reassured you, her voice a soothing balm over the raw edges of your fear. Relief washed over you in a rush, loosening the tightness in your chest. You could breathe again—deep, shaky breaths that seemed to draw you back from the brink, grounding you in the present.

“Tommy just stepped out,” she said, her tone gentle, trying to fill the space with reassurance. “He’ll be right back. He’s been here a lot and… so has—” She stopped abruptly, the pause heavy, as if you were too fragile to hear what came next.

“Who?” you asked, your voice quiet and rough, oblivious to what she was about to say.

Maria’s gaze met yours, hesitant for a heartbeat before she continued, “Joel.”

His name hung in the air, unspoken but heavy with meaning. “He’s been here every day,” she went on, her voice gentle. “Sleeping in that chair, even with his bad back. He only left about an hour ago—I practically had to force him to go home and rest.”

“Oh,” you breathed, the sound barely audible. The thought of Joel being here, keeping vigil while you lay unconscious, was almost impossible to fathom.

Why?

Was it guilt that kept him close?

You blinked, struggling to absorb the reality of her words. “Days?” The question tasted unfamiliar, heavy as it fell from your lips, the weight of it settling in your chest like a stone sinking to the bottom of a deep, dark lake.

How long had you been out?

“Yeah, honey,” Maria nodded, her hand smoothing over the blanket covering you, as if to reassure you with the small gesture. “But you’re okay now, I promise. The worst is over.”

With that, you nodded, surrendering to the pull of sleep as it reached out like an old, familiar embrace. You drifted away, slipping back into its depths with Maria by your side.

•••

People had come and gone, each one offering their reassurances and relief that you were okay. Tommy, Ellie, even a few of the patrolmen had stopped by, voices mixing together in a blur of well-wishes and murmured conversations.

But he hadn’t been here—not since you’d woken up. It gnawed at you, that empty space where Joel should have been. Your gaze drifted to the chair, its emptiness almost taunting, as though it knew who was missing. You could picture him there, sprawled out, his familiar form slouched back, the hardness of his jaw catching the dim light, as if sleep might take him at any moment. But the chair remained vacant, a silent reminder of his absence.

You lay propped against a stack of pillows, just as the doctor had instructed, your leg elevated in a makeshift splint. The “cast” was a patchwork of salvaged materials—wooden splints, thick strips of cloth, and pieces of an old brace, all bound together with whatever scraps could be scavenged. Vague flashes of pain flickered in your memory, the white-hot agony as they’d set the bone while you were only half-conscious. Even now, the thought of it sent a shudder down your spine. Everything blurred together—you must have blacked out from the pain. You had no recollection of how you’d made it back to Jackson. Perhaps they’d explain it all once you were stronger, but for now, the mystery lingered, hovering just out of reach.

Now, Tommy and Maria sat beside you, their presence a quiet comfort. The doctor—a woman in her late fifties, her graying hair pulled back in a loose braid—handed you a small bundle of pills wrapped in cloth. “Alright, here are your pain meds,” she said, her voice kind but firm. “Take these every day, okay? And don’t overdo it. If the pain gets too bad, you let someone know.”

You nodded, the instructions making you feel small and helpless, like a child being told what to do.

You nodded, barely listening as the doctor went on.

“Do you live alone, or…?”

“Yeah,” you replied, the word slipping out almost automatically. The reminder hit you like hard, the starkness of it unwelcome.

“Okay,” she continued, her gaze shifting to Tommy and Maria with a practiced look of concern. “You’re going to need someone to look after you for the next few weeks, at least. You’ll be on crutches, and getting around won’t be easy. The fracture was pretty nasty.” She glanced at the injury, her glasses perched low on her nose as she inspected it. “We did our best to set it, but you’ll have to take it slow for a while. The bone needs time to heal—and it’s not like we have proper casts and X-rays anymore.”

Maria's voice broke the silence, reassuring and no-nonsense. "We’ll take care of her, Doc. Don’t worry about that.”

The doctor gave a final nod before leaving, and Tommy and Maria helped you ease out of the bed, every small movement sending a jolt of soreness through your leg. It was a painstaking process getting you dressed and bundled into Tommy’s truck. The ride back was bumpy, every jostle a reminder of just how fragile your body felt right now.

•••

The house was quiet when you arrived, the air cool and still, carrying that unmistakable sense of emptiness that lingers when you return from a long absence. The familiar scent stirred something inside you, a reminder of what was left behind. It took both Tommy and Maria to help you inside, steadying the crutches under your arms and guiding you carefully through your home. Once you were settled on the worn couch, Maria draped a blanket over you.

“We’ll make sure you’ve got everything you need,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Tommy and I will check in every day. Ok?”

You offered a small, grateful smile, though it didn’t reach your eyes. The emptiness gnawed at you again, that absence like a weight pressing on your chest. And even though you didn’t say it, you couldn’t help but wonder why Joel hadn’t come to see you—why he hadn’t been there when you opened your eyes.

The question hung unasked in the silence, drifting in the air like dust suspended in the afternoon light.

•••

It was harder than you’d anticipated. True to their word, Tommy and Maria stopped by every day, but it was clear that Maria was struggling. Her pregnancy symptoms had worsened—nausea and vomiting so severe that some days she couldn’t even get out of bed, much less come over to help. Tommy did his best, but he was stretched thin, torn between caring for Maria and trying to be there for you.

When he showed up alone one morning, his face etched with worry as he helped you down the stairs, you knew something was off.

“Hey, kid,” he greeted, his voice softer than usual.

“Hey,” you replied, forcing a smile even as you leaned heavily on the crutch, each step sending a dull throb through your leg. It had only been a few days, and you were still getting used to it—the pain meds took most of the edge off, but a deep, relentless ache lingered, a constant reminder of how far you had to go.

“I got some bad news,” Tommy said once you were settled on the couch, his expression hesitant.

A pit formed in your stomach. “What is it?” you asked, your voice trembling despite your attempt to keep it steady. You couldn’t help but think of Maria and the baby. “Is it… is it Maria?”

He shook his head quickly. “No, no, she’s okay. As okay as she can be, anyway. The nausea’s been pretty rough lately.” His voice trailed off, and you could see the guilt etched on his face as he ran a hand through his hair, which looked more disheveled than usual. The dark circles under his eyes told the rest of the story—he probably hadn’t slept in days.

“I know I promised to be here every day, help out with whatever you needed, but… it’s been harder than I expected. She needs me more than I thought, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it here as often.”

“Tommy, don’t be ridiculous,” you said, your voice a little too sharp. The lie came easily, out of habit more than anything. “I can take care of myself.”

But you both knew that wasn’t true.

You could barely manage to get out of bed on your own, let alone keep up with the daily tasks piling up around you. “Take care of Maria. I understand, trust me,” you said, offering him a reassuring smile, though it felt a bit strained at the edges.

Still, you couldn’t help the sinking feeling that crept up inside you, a sense of being a burden that you couldn’t quite shake.

Tommy frowned, his gaze softening as he looked at you. “Darlin’, you’re in no shape to be alone,” he said gently. “But don’t worry—there are plenty of folks who can come by to check on you.”

“Who?” The word came out sharper than you intended, a hint of bitterness cutting through. It wasn’t really anger, just a raw insecurity that twisted inside you. You didn’t have anyone—not like Tommy and Maria had each other.

“Well, there’s Ellie… and Joel,” Tommy began, his tone almost cautious, as if even saying Joel’s name might be too much. “He’s… well, he hasn’t come by to see you yet, but—” He hesitated, the unspoken words hanging in the air like a fragile thread.

“He hasn’t come to see me,” you repeated, the words falling flat in the quiet room.

It wasn’t a question; it was an unspoken hurt that hung in the air.

“Why not?” you asked, even though a part of you wasn’t sure you wanted to hear the answer. Joel didn’t owe you anything; the past few months you’d spent together had been anything but friendly. So why did you expect him to be here? Why did his absence sting more than it should?

Tommy hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck as though searching for the right words, his gaze skirting away from yours. “He’s been… around,” he began slowly. “Been checkin’ in with Maria and me, makin’ sure you had everything you needed. But he…” Tommy hesitated, his voice dropping as he searched for the right words. “He just wanted to give you some space while you adjusted. Thought it might be what you needed.”

It was clear Tommy was struggling with the conversation, likely because of the awkward position he was in—Joel being his brother, after all. But there was something else behind his reluctance, something unspoken. After the attack, Tommy had seen firsthand just how far Joel was willing to go to save you. He’d watched his brother fight with a desperation that bordered on reckless, doing whatever it took to keep you alive.

Now, Tommy saw the truth clearly, piercing through Joel’s carefully maintained indifference toward you. He chastised himself for not seeing it sooner, for how thinly veiled Joel’s façade had always been. The reality of it all came to light after the attack, when Joel’s restraint shattered—he fought for you with a fierce, unyielding desperation, never once leaving your side. In those moments, his cold detachment dissolved, and the depth of his feelings bled through, unmistakable in the way he tended to you, as though keeping you safe was the only thing that mattered.

But it wasn’t his place to say anything; that was a conversation Joel needed to have with you. Tommy could only hope his brother would find the courage to speak sooner rather than later, though a part of him doubted it. He knew Joel too well—knew how stubbornly he kept his guard up, even when his heart was on the line.

“Oh,” you said softly, nodding as if the explanation made sense. “Okay.” You tried to believe him, tried to convince yourself that it was just Joel’s way of being cautious, of giving you the space you needed. But as it always did, doubt crept in, clawing its way up from some dark place inside. Old wounds had a way of reopening, their whispers cutting through the fragile comfort you tried to build.

What if he doesn’t really care? The thought sank its teeth in, a quiet voice reminding you of every time you’d been left behind, every promise that had turned to dust. The doubt was relentless, clawing at the edges of your mind, whispering that maybe, just maybe, you were fooling yourself. That Joel's absence was a choice—a choice to keep his distance, to keep you at arm's length, even now.

You looked away, swallowing against the tightness in your throat, wishing you could silence the voices that told you to expect the worst. Because sometimes, it was easier to accept doubt than to hope for something different.

After all, wasn’t it always the same? People keeping their distance, claiming they were doing it for your own good? It was a wound that hadn’t healed, a scar from years of being left behind. You told yourself not to think like that, not to read too much into it—but the hurt had a way of seeping in, even when you tried to hold it back.

If only you knew how much he did care—if only you remembered the lengths he had gone to, the sacrifices he made without a second thought. The men he had killed to save you, his hands stained with blood that wasn’t his own. The miles he trudged, his body battered and broken, fighting exhaustion and pain as he pushed forward because stopping meant losing you. How he had almost bled out for you, a deep wound gushing crimson, his vision blurring as he clung to consciousness with sheer stubbornness, all for the chance to see you breathe again.

If only you knew the hours he spent by your bedside, his rough hand wrapped gently around yours when he thought no one was watching. How he would sit there in the dark, his thumb tracing idle circles against your skin, his quiet vigil a testament to the depths of his worry. You didn’t see the way his shoulders sagged with relief whenever your chest rose and fell steadily, nor did you hear the whispered words he spoke when the night was at its darkest—words he could never bring himself to say when you were awake.

If only you knew how his heart shattered the moment he saw you kiss Sam. How the sight of it hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from his lungs. He had to step outside just to breathe, to force himself to swallow the bitterness that rose in his throat. The jealousy burned hot and fierce, a mix of anger and hurt that tore through him as he watched Sam linger too long, his hands on you against your will, and Joel could’ve killed him right then and there.

If only you knew how his heart stopped the very first time he saw you, that instant when his gaze fell on you and the world seemed to quiet around him. It was a feeling that terrified him, a pull he didn’t understand, as though he’d been struck by something he hadn’t even realized he was missing.

“So, you’d be alright with him coming around?” Tommy asked, his voice gentle, almost hesitant, as if testing the waters. “He’d just help you up and down the stairs, morning and night, like I’ve been doing. He wouldn’t have to stay a second longer than you’re comfortable with.”

You hesitated, the thought of Joel being here, in your home—your sanctuary—sending a jolt of unease through you. The idea of him seeing you this vulnerable, laid bare, made your stomach twist. It would only confirm what he already thought about you—that you were clumsy, helpless, always in need of saving. And now, because you were his brother’s friend, he was stuck picking up the pieces.

“Tommy, I don’t want him to go out of his way,” you said, forcing your voice to sound steady, though uncertainty laced your words. “I can handle myself,—”

The words had barely left your mouth when your hand slipped, knocking the glass of water off the edge of the table. It hit the floor with a sharp crack, the water spilling out in a widening puddle, and you winced at how your body tensed, too slow to catch it.

Tommy raised an eyebrow, giving you a look that said more than words ever could.

You sighed, slumping back against the cushions. “Fine,” you muttered.

“Good,” Tommy said, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “He’ll be here tonight, then. And Maria and I will still drop by once she’s feeling a bit better.” He flashed you a grin, his eyes warm with relief. “But listen, kid,” he added, his tone growing playfully stern, “if you ever die on me, I’ll kill you myself.”

You returned a smile, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes; your mind was preoccupied with the thoughts swirling in your head. Deep down, you knew you couldn’t keep refusing help, no matter how much you hated the feeling of being a burden.

•••

That afternoon, you did anything and everything you could to distract yourself. You read the same page of a book over and over, the words slipping away before they could take root. You scribbled in an old notebook, your handwriting growing messier with each line, the sentences trailing off into nothing. You even watched the people passing by your window, their faces unfamiliar, their footsteps echoing in the stillness of the day.

But no matter how hard you tried to push it away, the thought of him coming around tonight lingered in the back of your mind—persistent and unwelcome. It gnawed at you, that quiet anticipation twisting itself into anxiety.

What would he say? Would he say anything at all? How would he act?

You wondered if his touch would linger, like it sometimes did in those fleeting moments when you weren’t sure if you had imagined it or if it had been real. The uncertainty wrapped around you like a thick fog, leaving you on edge, caught between hope and fear. Would he bring warmth or distance? The question hung heavily in the air, refusing to let you find any semblance of calm.

You shifted restlessly, your leg aching from the hours spent sitting still, but you didn’t know what else to do. Nothing seemed to quiet the thoughts racing through your head, the uneasy flutter in your chest. All you could do was wait, counting down the hours and distracting yourself with anything that kept you from thinking about the fact that, soon, he would be here. And you weren’t sure you were ready to face him, to face whatever came next.

•••

You hobbled over to the mirror, the crutches clicking on the worn floorboards with every step. The reflection staring back at you made your breath catch in your throat. You looked awful—scratches and bruises marred your face, a dark purple mottling your cheekbone. Your hair was a mess, barely held together by a loose braid, and your eyes were shadowed with deep, dark circles. You didn’t recognize the girl in the mirror, bruised and battered, looking like a stranger you’d crossed paths with in another lifetime.

You suddenly felt a stab of self-consciousness that took you by surprise, the thought prickling at the edges of your mind. Why did it matter what you looked like right now? You shouldn’t care—but still, the feeling lingered, a quiet discomfort crawling under your skin.

You hadn’t expected to be seen like this, so vulnerable and broken. There was a time when you’d been self-reliant, stubbornly independent, but here you were again, needing someone… needing Joel.

Your thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a knock at the door, breaking the stillness of the room. You glanced at the clock—7:00 p.m on the dot.

It was Joel.

“Come in,” you called out, your voice catching in your throat as you angled your body toward the door.

The door creaked open, and there he was, filling the doorway. Joel stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over you with a quick, assessing look. His eyes flicked to the crutches, the bruises on your face, and then back to your own eyes. For a moment, he seemed to hesitate, as if weighing what to say.

“Hey,” he said finally, his voice low and gravelly, as though the word itself carried more than just a greeting.

You nodded in response, unsure of what to say, the silence between you heavy with unspoken things. There was an unease that hung in the air, not quite tension but something close to it— And yet, seeing him standing there, his expression guarded but not unkind, stirred something in you - deep and unsettling

“Didn’t mean to keep you waitin’,” Joel added, his eyes lingering on the scratches along your jaw.

He stayed near the doorway at first, the corridor stretching between you like a gulf neither of you knew how to cross. “It’s okay,” you whispered, trying to sound casual, but the tension in your voice betrayed you, your hands gripping the crutches for support. There was too much unsaid, too much hanging in the air between you both.

Joel took a few steps forward, his gaze never leaving yours. That’s when you noticed the limp, the subtle hitch in his stride that he tried to shrug off. Your eyes flickered down to his leg, and your eyebrows furrowed with concern. He was hurt—there was no mistaking the way he winced as he moved, a slight grimace crossing his features that he tried to mask with a tough exterior.

“Just a graze,” he said, catching your gaze before you could look away, his voice dismissive. But the tightness around his mouth, the way his jaw clenched with each step, betrayed him. It wasn’t just a graze, and you both knew it. Did he forget you’d seen him get stabbed? The memory of it was still vivid—how he’d staggered, the blood soaking through his jeans.

You didn’t know what to say. The air between you felt thick and stifling, almost hot, like there was too much pressure building and nowhere for it to go. His presence filled the room, and the space between you seemed to shrink and stretch all at once, charged with everything you weren’t saying.

Joel’s gaze swept over you again, taking in the bruises, the cuts, the exhaustion etched into your face. It made his chest ache in a way that was almost physical, like someone had squeezed his heart and wouldn’t let go.

When Tommy had told him you’d woken up, the relief had been overwhelming, nearly knocking the breath out of him. But it was quickly followed by a familiar pang of worry—worry that he wasn’t ready to face you, that the things he had said to push you away still lingered too heavily in the air. The memory of his last words to you was a constant knot in his chest, a reminder of how his fear had driven him to build walls between you… and of the bitter regret that came afterward, unyielding and sharp.

That was why he hadn’t come to see you. Every day, he found himself at your door, his hand hovering just inches from knocking, but doubt tightened its grip, pulling him back each time. It wasn’t until Tommy asked him to step in that he finally crossed the threshold. Joel knew the truth had dawned on his brother—the way things had unfolded left little room for secrets. But Tommy had kept his silence, letting the unspoken truth linger between them, and for that, Joel was grateful.

He took another step closer, and you noticed his gaze softening just a fraction. “How’re you holdin’ up?” he asked, his voice quiet and hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure you wanted him to ask. There was a vulnerability in his tone that made your heart race.

He crossed his arms over his chest, a gesture that, unbeknownst to you, was a silent act of restraint—as if by folding himself inward, he could physically prevent his hands from reaching out to trace the bruise on your cheek or gently comb his fingers through your hair. It was a protective barrier, not against you, but against his own unruly impulse to close the distance between you.

You met his eyes, trying to read the expression in them—trying to make sense of the storm brewing in your own chest. “I’m managing,” you replied, though the waver in your voice told a different story.

“Good,” Joel said, but the word came out rough, like it hurt him to say it. He took one more step, as if testing the waters, trying to bridge the distance between you. But even with the few feet that still separated you, it felt like there was an entire world keeping you apart.

“You ready for bed?” Joel asked, his voice low, but softer than you remembered.

“Yeah,” you replied, your stomach tightening as you remembered why he was here. The weight of his gaze felt heavy on your back as you began the slow journey toward the stairs.

The climb was harder than usual, each step sending a dull throb through your leg, and the silence between you seemed to grow thicker with every inch. Joel was close behind, his hand hovering near your back, as if he wasn’t sure whether to touch you or let you handle it on your own.

You were almost halfway up when your crutch slipped on the edge of the stair, your balance giving way beneath you. You let out a small gasp as you stumbled forward, and in an instant, Joel’s hands were on you—strong, steady, catching you before you could hit the ground.

“Sorry,” you breathed, the word slipping out almost inaudibly as he held you. Embarrassment washed over you, a warm flush rising to your cheeks as his touch made you feel exposed, vulnerable. His grip was firm, his fingers pressing into your arm with a quiet desperation, as though he was afraid to let go. You were close now—closer than you had been that day at the lake, when the water blurred the lines between you. His scent wrapped around you, familiar and heady, pulling you back into a moment you weren’t sure you wanted to escape.

“You’re fine,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes lingered on yours for a moment longer, his brow furrowing slightly as though he wanted to say something else. But he didn’t, instead he helped you regain your footing, guiding you up the rest of the stairs with a gentleness that made your chest ache.

When you finally reached your bedroom, you hesitated in the doorway, a strange sense of vulnerability washing over you. Joel’s presence here, in this space that had always been yours alone, made the room feel smaller somehow, more intimate. It was the first time he’d ever stepped inside your sanctuary, and you could see him taking in the details of your world—the faded quilt draped over your bed, the stack of books teetering on the nightstand, their covers worn and pages dog-eared from countless readings. His gaze lingered on the half-open drawer, where a few shirts had spilled out, as if it were a glimpse into your life, a life he had only touched from a distance. You felt a flutter in your chest, a mix of embarrassment and something deeper, more meaningful.

He turned to you, helping you sit on the edge of the bed, his hands lingering at your waist before he stepped back. You watched him as he took another glance around the room, his gaze moving from the old, threadbare rug to the small collection of trinkets on the dresser—little things you’d kept over the years, reminders of the life you’d built even in this broken world.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from him—the way his jaw tightened, as if he was struggling to hold something back, the way a few strands of hair fell over his forehead, unkempt and tempting your fingers to brush them away. Your head throbbed, and you wondered why you were thinking these things—was it the medication clouding your mind, or was it something deeper, something you’d been avoiding for far too long? There was a tension in the set of his shoulders, a heaviness to his stance, as though he was carrying a weight that wasn’t his alone, but yours as well.

“You take your meds yet?” he asked, his voice breaking the silence, “Doc said two at night.”

Your brow furrowed, a small frown forming as you looked at him. “How do you know what the doctor said?” you asked, the question slipping out before you could stop it.

Joel’s gaze flicked to yours, something unreadable flashing in his eyes before he glanced away, his jaw tightening again. “Tommy told me,” he said after a beat, but there was something about the way he said it—too casual, too quick—that made you wonder if that was the whole truth.

The silence stretched out between you, thick with things neither of you knew how to say.

“Yeah, they’re in that drawer over there,” you said, motioning with your hand. Joel walked over, pulling open the old wooden drawer, and you couldn’t help but notice the way he groaned softly as he bent down. The sound made something tighten in your chest—a sudden urge to help him, or to do something, though you weren’t sure what.

He straightened up with a slight wince, returning to you with the two pills in his hand. Just as he reached your side, your stomach betrayed you, grumbling loudly in the quiet room.

Joel raised an eyebrow. “Have you eaten dinner?” he asked, his tone almost challenging.

“Not hungry,” you muttered, brushing off the question, reaching for the pills.

“That sound says otherwise,” he shot back, his eyes narrowing. “Have you eaten anything today?”

“Too tired to cook,” you said with a shrug, trying to make it seem like it wasn’t a big deal. “I’ve had coffee.”

“Coffee isn’t food,” he retorted, the frustration slipping into his voice. He didn’t seem to notice how close he’d gotten, his presence filling the space between you.

“Joel, it’s fine. Just gimme the meds,” you insisted, reaching for the pills. But he pulled his hand back slightly, just out of your reach.

“No,” he said, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “Not lettin’ you starve to death. I’ll be back in a bit. You okay here?”

You stared at him, a protest forming on your lips, but the look in his eyes made it die before you could speak. There was a stubbornness there, a refusal to back down. It was the same look he always had when he was dead set on something, and you knew you weren’t going to change his mind.

“Fine,” you muttered, sinking back against the pillows. “But don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“I won’t,” he said, though the corners of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. And with that, he turned and headed for the door, leaving you in the quiet of your room with a strange warmth curling in your chest that you didn’t quite know what to do with. As you listened to his footsteps fade down the stairs, you found yourself staring at the empty doorway, wondering why the thought of him coming back made you a tinge nervous.

You lay in bed, the quiet ticking of the clock blending with the distant sounds of pans clattering downstairs. The noise echoed faintly through the house, and you couldn’t help but think of Joel, moving around down there. The thought of him in your kitchen—cooking, of all things—felt oddly domestic, almost jarringly so. You stared at the ceiling, your mind wandering back to the last few hours, trying to piece together why he was being so… nice.

It wasn’t that you doubted his capacity to care; you had glimpsed his protective nature before, you had seen it in the way he interacted with Tommy and Ellie.

But this—him going out of his way to make you dinner, staying when he could have easily kept his distance, when he could have helped you up to bed and left within minutes—felt different.

You couldn’t help but question his motives. Was it guilt that drove him? A sense of duty? Or was it something far more complicated, something unspoken that seemed to pulse in the silence between you?

You shook your head, trying to dismiss the spiraling thoughts. After all, Tommy had asked Joel to look after you; it wasn’t like he could have said no. But even that explanation didn’t fully quell the uncertainty brewing inside you. The nagging feeling lingered, urging you to confront the reality that maybe, just maybe, his care went beyond brotherly duty.

The smell of cooking began to drift up the stairs, pulling you out of your thoughts. It started as a faint hint of spices, then grew stronger, filling the room with the warm, savory aroma of whatever he was making. Your stomach twisted with a mix of hunger and something you couldn’t quite name, a flutter of nervous anticipation that made you shift restlessly against the pillows.

A few minutes later, you heard the sound of the stairs creaking under Joel’s weight as he made his way up, and your pulse quickened. When he appeared in the doorway, you could see the steam rising from the bowl he carried.

“Here,” Joel said, his voice low as he stepped closer, placing the bowl carefully on your lap. His touch was surprisingly gentle, the kind of care that sent a quiet ache through your chest. You felt the warmth of the bowl seep into your skin, a small comfort against the chill that always seemed to linger.

“Joel, you didn’t really need to do this,” you said, your voice softer than you intended. There was something vulnerable in the way you spoke, almost as if you were trying to deflect the tenderness behind his gesture.

It was no big deal right?

“It’s nothing,” he replied, brushing off your thanks as he turned to find a seat. “Just eat.”

You didn’t expect him to stay, but he pulled up a chair from the corner of the room and sank into it, his gaze fixed on you. There was a quiet intensity in the way he watched, a kind of tension that coiled tightly between you both. As you took your first bite, you became painfully aware of the bruises on your face, the dark circles under your eyes, and the tangled mess of your hair. You felt exposed under his gaze, the awareness prickling across your skin.

“Is it alright?” he asked, his voice laced with a softness you’d never heard from him before.

You swallowed, the flavors rich and satisfying, better than you could have hoped for. “Yeah, it’s perfect,” you said, and though the words were simple, they carried a weight you hadn’t expected. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

He gave a half-shrug, his eyes drifting away for a moment, lingering on the worn floorboards beneath his feet. “You kinda have to learn when you’re not just feedin’ yourself,” he said quietly, his voice shifting into a tone that hinted at a past he rarely spoke of. The words hung in the air, delicate yet weighty, creating an invisible thread between you that tugged at something deeper, something unspoken.

You could sense the layers beneath his casual remark, the unguarded glimpse into a life filled with responsibilities and sacrifices. It made your heart race, drawing you closer to the vulnerability he often kept hidden. In that moment, the silence between you felt charged with meaning, echoing the unsaid stories you had yearned to hear.

You saw a flicker in his eyes, a shadow of a life that felt far away and unreachable. He was talking about before, about a time when he wasn’t alone. When he had someone to take care of, someone who depended on him.

“You used to cook for someone else?” you asked, your voice quiet and almost hesitant. “Your… wife?” The words slipped out before you could stop them, and a pang of anxiety gripped you. For a brief moment, you feared you had overstepped, that you’d messed up the one time Joel had allowed himself to share even a small piece of his past.

Joel’s expression shifted, a flicker of something deep and raw passing over his features. He shook his head, his jaw tightening as if bracing himself against the words. “No,” he said, the word coming out low and rough. “My daughter.”

The room seemed to hold its breath, the silence pressing down on you both. You hadn’t expected that answer, hadn’t expected the weight it would carry. There was a depth in his voice, a quiet pain that spoke of a love that had been lost, and the hurt that came with it. It hung in the air between you, heavy and unspoken, like a wound that had never quite healed.

Your chest tightened, a swell of emotion rising within you—part sympathy, part quiet understanding. It explained so much—the way he kept a watchful eye on those around him, the way he cared for Ellie with a fierce yet unspoken tenderness, the protective instinct that lingered even when he kept his distance. You saw it clearly now, the echo of the father he used to be.

“I didn’t know…” you started, the words faltering as you tried to find something, anything, that wouldn’t sound hollow or empty. But what could you say to a man who had already lost so much?

Joel just gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, as if he didn’t expect you to say anything. “A long time ago,” he murmured, the edge of his voice roughened by the years. “Feels like a different life.”

And with that, the silence settled in again, but this time it felt different—more like an understanding shared in the quiet spaces than a chasm between you.

The rest of the meal unfolded in a comfortable silence, the kind that didn’t need words to fill the space. You were both absorbed in your own thoughts, though neither of you realized that they kept circling back to each other. Joel’s gaze flickered toward you now and then, watching with a quiet intensity as you ate. He noticed the slight tremor in your hand as you lifted the spoon, the way your brow furrowed with each careful bite. There was a vulnerability in those small, deliberate movements—in you—that tugged at something deep within him.

When you finally finished, you set the bowl aside and offered him a small smile. “Can you…?” You hesitated, feeling the weight of the request, even though it was a simple one. “I need some help getting to the bathroom.”

“Yeah, of course,” Joel replied, practically leaping to his feet, his eagerness almost surprising you. He moved quickly to your side, his hand steadying you as you stood. There was a tenderness in the way he supported your weight, his grip firm but not overpowering.

“Thanks,” you murmured as he helped you down the hall, your voice quiet against the stillness. After brushing your teeth, you leaned on him again as you made your way back to bed, each step a little easier with him by your side.

Back in your room, you sank beneath the blankets, the day’s fatigue and the weight of the medications settling over you like a heavy fog. It was time for Joel to leave, and you could feel the air shift—an almost imperceptible change in the atmosphere now that his task was complete.

“You gonna be okay?” he asked, concern lacing his words.

“Yeah,” you replied, nodding slightly. “Thanks again, Joel.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said, his tone almost dismissive, but there was something softer in his eyes. As he turned to go, his hand reached for the small lamp that cast a warm glow across the room.

“Can you… keep it on?” The words tumbled out before you could stop them, a quiet admission that made your cheeks burn with embarrassment. “Just… for tonight.”

Joel’s hand froze mid-motion, and when he looked back at you, his gaze softened. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Of course.” There was a faint ache in his chest, the idea of you lying here in the dark, alone and scared. It stirred something fierce in him, an urge to stay—to sit by your bedside, to wrap his arms around you and promise that you’d be safe. But he didn’t. Of course, he didn’t.

“Alright,” he said, his voice low and gruff again. “I’ll be here tomorrow morning.”

“Okay,” you murmured, leaning back and resting your head on the pillow. “Goodnight.” Your voice was soft, barely more than a whisper, drifting through the quiet room.

He nodded and turned, the soft creak of the floorboards marking his departure. You listened to his footsteps as he walked down the stairs, each one growing fainter. The house felt colder without him in it, the warmth he’d brought with him fading into the night.

Your thoughts drifted back to what had just happened. The way Joel had opened up, even if only for a moment. The glimpse into a past he kept guarded, the vulnerability he’d shown in sharing that part of himself with you. It was rare, and it was real, and you could sense that something had shifted between you.

As you stared at the dim glow of the lamp, a quiet ache settled deep in your chest—a longing for something unspoken, still taking shape in the silence you shared. It lingered in the spaces where words had failed, in the glances that spoke more than you dared to acknowledge. But beneath that yearning, there was also a wall—a familiar fear tightening around your heart, warning you against letting him in again, only to be hurt all over again. The possibility of reopening old wounds kept you guarded, even as the ache for something more refused to fade.

•••

The next few days passed in a quiet, unexpected rhythm—something that felt almost like domestic bliss, though you hardly dared to call it that. Joel came by every morning and evening, helping you with the mundane tasks that had somehow become monumental—getting you out of bed, steadying you on your crutches, making sure you didn’t push yourself too hard. He never said much, never offered any explanations for why he was being this way. But his actions spoke louder than words, a silent devotion that was as confusing as it was comforting.

He made you breakfast and dinner without a word, the smell of sizzling eggs or simmering stew becoming a familiar, almost soothing part of your day. There was a quiet care in the way he placed the plate in front of you, the way he made sure you ate before he’d allow himself to sit down. It was in the little things, the quiet gestures that spoke of a protectiveness you hadn’t expected, but found yourself welcoming all the same.

You noticed how easily you had grown accustomed to it all—the sound of the door turning, signaling his arrival; the faint scent of his shampoo that lingered in the air when he leaned close to help you; the warmth of his hands, rough but steady, as he guided you out of bed in the morning and back into it at night. You found yourself looking forward to the soft murmur of his voice, the way his presence seemed to fill the room without overwhelming it.

And it scared you, just a little—how you had almost become too comfortable, too used to this new normal. There was a part of you that knew it couldn’t last, that eventually, things would have to go back to how they were before. But for now, you allowed yourself to savor it, to sink into the simple pleasure of having someone there, of not feeling so alone.

It was easy to pretend, in those moments when he was near, that the world wasn’t as broken as it was. Easy to forget, if only for a while, that this wasn’t really yours to keep.

Little did you know, Joel felt the same. Each time he came over, it was as if he was easing into a life he hadn’t known he still yearned for—a life where caring for someone wasn’t just a burden but a choice he made every day. In the quiet moments spent helping you up the stairs or preparing a simple meal, he found a strange kind of solace. It was a way for him to show how much he cared without having to say the words aloud, words that felt too heavy, too close to the heart he kept so tightly guarded.

He poured his feelings into the little things—into the way he made sure your coffee was just the way you liked it, the way he lingered an extra moment to tuck the blankets around you at night, or the way his hand would steady your shoulder as you wobbled on the crutches. It was in the way he watched you when you weren’t looking, his gaze softening with a tenderness he wasn’t sure he had any right to feel.

Joel had never been good with words, especially when it came to emotions. But this—this quiet care—was something he could offer, a way to be close to you without crossing the unspoken lines that had kept him at a distance for so long. It was as if, in these simple acts, he could bridge the gap between you, express everything he couldn’t say in a way that felt real, solid.

With each passing day, he found himself wanting more—wanting to linger a little longer, to find more reasons to be near you, to close the distance between you inch by inch, to press his lips against your wounds and soothe the ache beneath them. But even as the lines between you began to blur, he couldn’t help but wonder if you felt it too—the subtle shift, the quiet understanding that had nestled itself in the spaces between the familiar routines. Sometimes, he thought he saw it in your eyes, a flicker of recognition, as though you sensed the change but weren’t yet ready to name it.

•••

Just like the nights before, Joel had helped you into bed after making you dinner. He had left your room a while ago, and now you lay there, your mind racing. The memory of his touch lingered—the way his fingers had brushed against your arm as he steadied you, the warmth of his hand lingering even after he’d pulled away.

The lamp still cast its soft glow across the room, a gesture you’d grown to appreciate. Joel hadn’t tried to turn it off since that first night; it was a quiet kindness, one he hadn’t spoken of, but it said more than words ever could.

You tossed and turned, struggling to find a position that didn’t worsen the dull ache in your leg. You’d only taken one pain pill tonight, ignoring Joel’s gentle reminder to take two, as the doctor had instructed. It had been a mistake. You told yourself you could start cutting down, but the pain pulsed deep in your bones, each throb growing sharper and harder to ignore. Reaching toward the side table, you fumbled for the second pill, but your fingers froze when you realized the glass of water was all the way across the room, just out of reach.

“Fuck,” you whispered under your breath, frustration flaring within you. With a burst of determination, you threw off the covers and opted to hop across the room on one leg, leaving the crutches behind. But the instability of your injured foot and the darkness of the room conspired against you. Suddenly, the floor slipped out from under you, and you fell hard, the impact twisting your leg in a way that sent a shockwave of pain coursing through your body. A sharp cry escaped your lips, the intensity of the agony so overwhelming that tears sprang to your eyes, blurring your vision as the world around you tilted dangerously.

It took a moment for the world to stop spinning, and when it did, you realized Joel was suddenly beside you, his arms wrapping around you before you could fully process what had happened. “Hey, hey, you’re okay,” he said, his voice steady yet edged with panic. “What were you doing?”

His eyebrows were furrowed, worry unmistakable in his brown eyes as they searched your face for signs of injury. His hands moved to cradle your shoulders, his grip both firm and gentle, as if he was afraid you might shatter at any moment.

“Joel, you’re still here?” you gasped, your voice strained as you tried to focus through the pain.

“Here, let me get you up, slowly,” he said, already lifting you, his movements careful and deliberate. He helped you back onto the bed, then quickly fetched the water and pain pill, bringing them to your trembling hands. You took the pill, grimacing as you swallowed.

Joel’s questions came in rapid succession, his worry evident in every word.

“Are you okay? Do I need to get you to the doc? What the hell happened? Why were you out of bed?”

His voice shifted between concern and frustration, each syllable laced with an urgency that made your heart race.

“It’s nothing, Joel,” you murmured, though your voice lacked conviction. “I just needed water, and it would’ve only taken a second.” You glanced at him, your brow furrowing. “But… why were you still here?”

His expression faltered, a hint of flustered uncertainty passing over his face. “I—well, I stay,” he admitted, almost reluctantly, his words tumbling out in a way that revealed more than he intended. “Just for a while. Till I know you’re asleep.”

There was a vulnerability in his admission, a softness that contrasted sharply with the tough exterior he usually maintained.

You blinked, taken aback by the confession. “You… wait for me to fall asleep?”

The thought of Joel—gruff, guarded Joel—sitting quietly for hours, just to be sure you were safe, sent something rippling through your chest.

“When I hear you snoring, I know you’re asleep, and I can step out—”

“I do not snore!” you shot back, despite the way your heart quickened at the thought. But the hint of a smile tugged at his lips, softening the hard lines of his face.

“Yes, you do,” he said, his voice gentler now, almost teasing.

You scoffed, shaking your head, though the warmth of his words lingered. “Well, thank you… but you don’t need to stay.”

Joel’s eyes darkened with something serious, something almost vulnerable as he said your name softly. “Imagine if I hadn’t been here tonight. You’d have been on that floor till morning.”

The reality of it sank in, the thought of lying there, helpless and in pain, with no one to hear you. You swallowed, the tension in the air thickening, the weight of his concern pressing down on you.

“I think I should stay over,” he continued, his voice steady but carrying an undertone of resolve. “At least for a bit, until you’re more stable on your feet. Only if you’re okay with it.”

There was no denying the sincerity in his eyes, the way his gaze held yours, unflinching and unguarded. The quiet worry etched into his features told you everything you needed to know—Joel wasn’t just offering to help; he needed to be here, to be sure you were safe.

Was this also part of his brotherly duty to Tommy? Or was this something more?

You just nodded, taking another sip of water, the tension still crackling softly in the air between you. “Okay,” you murmured.

“I’ll be on the couch,” Joel said, his voice quieter now, as if he were offering you reassurance rather than just stating a fact. “You need anything, you just holler, alright?”

“Goodnight,” he said, lingering in the doorway for a heartbeat longer, as if making sure you were truly settled.

“Goodnight,” you whispered back, the word barely more than a breath, but it felt like it carried more weight than usual. You watched him turn and walk out, his footsteps fading as he headed down the hall.

As the house fell into a familiar stillness, you lay back against the pillows, letting your eyes close. The sound of Joel settling on the couch echoed faintly through the walls, and you took a small comfort in knowing he was still there, just a shout away. It made the darkness seem a little less daunting, the ache in your leg a little more bearable.

•••

The next morning, as you sat in the kitchen, something caught your eye—a splash of color at the center of the table. Turning your head, you saw a vase filled with roses, their petals a rich, velvety shade of deep red, almost brown, offering a gentle contrast to the morning light streaming through the window. A smile tugged at your lips—a sincere, unguarded smile, the kind you hadn’t felt in a long while.

“Look,” you called softly, glancing toward the stove where Joel was busy cooking. The familiar sight of his broad back moving about the kitchen had become a comfort, a routine you had come to cherish. “Someone brought roses—my favorite.”

Joel glanced over his shoulder, his expression carefully neutral. “Yeah?” he said, though he was well aware of the flowers.

He had been the one to bring them, after all.

“They’re so pretty,” you continued, reaching out to brush your fingers over the soft petals, inhaling the sweet, delicate fragrance. “And they smell amazing. I’ll have to thank Tommy and Maria the next time I see them. They really brighten up the room.” You smiled to yourself, the thought of their kindness warming you. It was a small gesture, but it felt significant, a reminder that even in this harsh world, moments of beauty could still exist.

Joel just nodded, his back turned to you as he poured your coffee. “Mmhmm,” he murmured, the faintest hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“They’re real pretty,” Joel said, but as the words left his mouth, his eyes weren’t on the roses—they were on you. There was a softness in his gaze, a warmth that made something flutter in your chest. You didn’t notice it at first, too focused on the delicate petals and the sweet scent that filled the air. You just nodded, your smile widening as you breathed in the fragrance again.

“They really are,” you murmured.

Joel didn’t say anything, merely offering a quiet grunt of acknowledgment as he handed you your coffee. You wrapped your hands around the cup, relishing the familiar comfort of its warmth, blissfully unaware that he had gone out of his way to find those roses for you. He had spent months listening to Tommy talk about you, absorbing all the little details—your favorite things—and carefully keeping them tucked away in his mind.

•••

The day passed in a blur of familiar routines. Joel was out on patrol, as he often was when he wasn’t at your place, leaving you to settle into the rhythm of the day. Tommy and Maria dropped by in the afternoon, filling the house with a brief burst of warmth and lively chatter. You noticed how Maria’s baby bump had grown, her hand instinctively resting on it with each movement. There was a radiant glow about her that made the future feel almost hopeful. You tried to soak in the comfort of their visit, letting thoughts of a future baby wash over you. It stirred a yearning deep within for the dreams you once held—of a husband, a family, and a home filled with love.

That evening, after dinner, you and Joel lingered downstairs longer than usual. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting dancing shadows on the walls as you found yourselves drawn into conversation. Joel had become more talkative lately, his gruff demeanor easing into something softer, almost companionable.

You’d asked him about patrol, and he’d shared more than you expected—details of the day, the quietness that hung over the forest, the way the world felt almost too still. There was an openness in the way he spoke, a willingness to let you into his world, even if only a little. It made the space between you feel smaller, more intimate.

But when the night grew late, you finally retreated to your room, slipping under the covers with a lingering sense of unease, one that would often creep up on the dead of night. But tonight, as you lay there, the dark seemed to press in closer than usual.

The memories came back with a vengeance—visceral and hauntint, vivid flashes of pain and terror. You could see the look on their faces, those men who had tied you up, the glint of cruelty in their eyes, the sound of their mocking voices. The memory of your leg snapping, the sharp, blinding agony, and the sight of your own blood pooling beneath you—all of it rushed back in fragments, relentless and suffocating.

You were caught in the grip of a night terror, your heart racing like a drum against your ribs. Sweat soaked through your clothes, your breaths coming in ragged gasps as you thrashed against the sheets. You felt trapped, unable to wake yourself from the nightmare, your body locked in the awful, helpless fear that had consumed you then.

In the dream, you were calling out for help, your voice echoing in the darkness, but no one could hear you. It was like screaming into a void, each cry swallowed up by an unforgiving silence. The world around you was twisted and wrong—faces you recognized lay lifeless on the ground, unmoving. Tommy, Maria… Joel. They were all gone, and the sight of them sprawled out in the dirt, blood pooling beneath their bodies, filled you with a terror so deep it felt like you were drowning.

You kept screaming, clawing at the darkness, but there was no one left to answer. The emptiness swallowed you whole, pulling you down, down, until—

Suddenly, a jolt of sensation ripped through the nightmare. Someone was shaking you, pulling you back from the abyss. The darkness shattered into a blur of movement and sound as you struggled to orient yourself. The nightmare's suffocating grip began to loosen, and you gasped for air, blinking furiously to clear the lingering terror from your mind.

“Hey, hey! You’re okay—wake up,” a voice urged, rough and panicked. You blinked up at Joel, his hands on your shoulders, shaking you gently but urgently, his face etched with a fear that was all too real. “It’s just a dream,” he said, his voice low and steady as he tried to calm you.

Tears streamed down your face, hot and unrelenting, as if all the fear and pain of the nightmare were pouring out in a flood you couldn’t control. Your chest heaved with each breath, the sobs wracking your body as you struggled to come back to reality. It was like the terror had followed you, clinging to your skin, and no matter how hard you tried to blink it away, the images still burned behind your eyes.

Joel’s grip on your shoulders tightened, his touch grounding you, anchoring you in the here and now. “Hey, look at me,” he said, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “You’re safe. It was just a dream. I’ve got you.” He reached up to brush the tears from your cheek with the pad of his thumb, his movements gentle, as though afraid you might shatter.

The tenderness in his gaze felt almost too much to bear, the concern etched into the lines of his face stirring something deep inside you—something raw and vulnerable that you weren’t sure how to face. You didn’t know what to say, couldn’t find the words to explain the depth of the fear that still clung to you. All you could do was cling to the sound of his voice, the warmth of his hands, and the quiet strength that held you together even as you fell apart.

“You were all…” you gasped, the words tumbling out in a broken, frantic rush. “You were all gone… and they—they had me tied up…” The rest of the sentence fell away, your voice faltering as the horror of the dream clung to you, its shadow still lingering in your mind. The words didn’t make sense even to you, but they spilled out anyway, desperate and raw.

“Hey, hey, you’re alright, sweetheart,” Joel murmured, his voice a soothing rumble that felt like a balm against the jagged edges of your fear. If you had been more conscious and less consumed by terror, you might have realized the weight of the endearment he used—how sweetheart fell from his lips so naturally, as if the word itself had been created just for you.

He shifted closer, his hands cupping your face with a tenderness that took you by surprise. His thumb gently wiped away the tears that continued to streak down your cheeks, the contact grounding you in the moment. “I’m here. Nobody’s gonna hurt you, I promise.”

His gaze was steady and unwavering, holding you in the present, as if willing you to believe him. In that moment, the world felt small, contained within the warmth of his touch and the low, steady cadence of his voice. It was enough to make you feel anchored, as though the terror that had gripped you was beginning to ebb away, leaving only the thrum of your heartbeat and the safety of Joel’s presence in its wake.

Little did you know, that night haunted Joel just as deeply. It wasn’t just your cries that lingered in his mind—it was the echoes of the past, bleeding into the present. The screams of Sarah, the look of terror in your eyes, even Tess's pained expressions—they all mixed together in the haze of his own nightmares. The memories twisted and blurred into a chaotic swirl of pain, death, sorrow, and loss, each one clawing at him in the darkness.

He’d often wake up in a cold sweat, his heart racing, the remnants of those horrors gripping him tight. But there was one thing that kept him grounded, something that offered him a small measure of comfort: the sound of your soft, rhythmic breathing drifting through the quiet house. It wasn’t just a reminder that you were safe—it was a reminder that he hadn’t failed this time.

The past still weighed heavy on his soul, but the knowledge that you were there, alive and still fighting, was enough to keep the darkness at bay… at least for a little while.

Your breathing had finally begun to steady, each inhale less ragged than the last. Joel stayed by the edge of your bed, his hand still resting on your shoulder, waiting for you to give some sign that you were okay, that he could go back to the couch downstairs. But instead, your gaze met his, the tears still glistening in your eyes, unspoken words trembling on your lips.

“Could you…” you began, your voice wavering as you struggled to get the rest out. “Could you stay?”

He frowned slightly, his brow furrowing in confusion. “I’m already downstairs,” he said softly, as though reminding you of his usual spot. “You know that.”

“No, I mean…” You swallowed, your voice barely above a whisper, almost afraid to say the words out loud. “Here. With me.”

The request hung in the air, fragile and tentative, but the meaning was clear. Joel’s eyes widened ever so slightly, the surprise flickering there as if he hadn’t expected you to ask.

You caught the hesitation in his eyes, and suddenly, all the harsh words he’d ever thrown at you seemed to come crashing down at once—burden, useless—echoes of moments when you’d felt like nothing more than an inconvenience. Your cheeks burned with shame, and you dropped your gaze, stumbling over your words. “I mean… sorry, that was stupid,” you muttered, the regret already tightening in your throat. “It’s just my meds talking.”

“No.” His voice was firm, cutting through the fragile air between you. You looked up, and the expression in his eyes had changed—there was no trace of doubt left, only a quiet resolve. “I’ll stay,” he repeated, his tone gentler this time. “If you want me to.”

You nodded, and Joel didn’t hesitate this time. He moved around to the other side of the bed, his features softened in the glow of the lamp and the pale wash of moonlight that spilled in through the window. He dipped into the bed, settling carefully beside you. Even as he gave you space, you could feel the warmth radiating from him, a steady comfort that made your chest tighten.

You turned toward him, your voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you, Joel. I know I can be… a lot. I—”

“Hey.” He cut you off gently, his voice firm but soft, as though he was willing away the words before they could take hold. “Don’t do that.” His eyes found yours in the dim light, steady and unyielding, and the way he looked at you made your breath hitch, like he saw past all the broken pieces you tried to hide.

“You’re not a lot. You’re—” He paused, the words catching in his throat as if he hadn’t meant to say them aloud. “You’re someone worth looking after.”

His voice was low, roughened by the weight of things unsaid, and for a moment, you were too stunned to respond. There was no pity in his gaze, no trace of frustration or burden—just a quiet sincerity that sank deep into your bones.

You swallowed the lump forming in your throat and gave a small nod, your voice trembling as you whispered, “Okay.”

He reached out through the darkness, and your breath caught in your throat as he brushed a strand of hair from your forehead, his touch warm against your skin.

“Now try to get some rest,” he murmured, his tone soft and almost tender, like a promise wrapped in warmth.

As you closed your eyes, you felt the quiet reassurance of his presence, the way he stayed close enough for you to hear his steady breathing—the rise and fall grounding you, a reminder that you weren’t alone.

Not tonight. Not with him here.

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theartistisme43 · 4 months ago

Text

Chapter Two: The Smell of Copper and Disinfectant

HOSPITAL, BLOOD, PANIC ATTACK, AND GUN MENTION TW:

There was a dense ringing in SMG4’s ears as he floated in a void of numbness, he could hear a distant beep every now and then, and muffled, discombobulated talking…

4 didn’t know where he was, or what was happening… Every time he tried to figure it out, something pulled him into a deeper rest, but he could feel himself getting closer to a light every time he attempted to gather his thoughts.

All he remembered was creating tomato soop, and then… Nothing.

4 tried to get out of whatever state he was in, but he felt trapped and unable to move, as if he was being weighed down by something, almost like…

Sleep paralysis?…

Was he asleep?

The more he thought of it, the more he could hear, the more he could feel, the more he could think.

Just like a knife, memory cut into him.

“I’m sorry, I have to do this…”

BANG!

With a gasp, SMG4 shot up in bed, making Mario almost fall back with a gasp of his own.

4’s eyes refocused as his mind began to process where he was, as they tiredly scanned the area around him.

All of his friends were here, scattered around in his hospital room.

Just as 4 intended to speak, a sharp, horrible pain made him hiss in reaction. He looked down, seeing a gauze pad that was secured by tight bandages wrapped around his chest and back to hold it in place. 4 could feel how tender his skin was under the medical wraps.

“…wh…” He found his voice as he winced hard.

A gloved hand took his, as Mario looked at him with love in his eyes… And an air of sorrow to them too.

“Miei cari Quattro... ero così preoccupata!” The red plumber embraced him, avoiding his wound.

SMG4 enjoyed the hug for a moment, but wondered what all the fuss was about, he couldn’t remember what happened for some reason… Did he have a kitchen accident or something?

“SMG4!” Meggy exclaimed, coming to hug him too. “You’re awake!”

4 attempted to use his right arm to pat her back, but it hurt far too much for him to move it, so he used his left to do it instead.

“What happened?” 4’s question made almost everyone in the room uncomfortable, as a few of his friends avoided looking at him.

Meggy sighed, willing herself to say… Something bad from what 4 could gather from her face.

“SMG4… Do you… Not remember?” She asked softly.

“No, please tell me..” 4 said. “I can handle it, whatever it is..”

“SMG4.” Meggy began, brows furrowing. “SMG3 shot you…”

4 paled, the ringing in his ears returned as his heart began pounding.

Like a train, feelings of grief, betrayal, and heartbreak came hurtling into him.

Now he could remember.

SMG3’s eyes were cold and empty, the way his face looked was like something straight out of a horror movie.

SMG4 tried to brush it off by mentioning his newest meme, but 3 didn’t care, merely raising his gun with the intention of killing 4.

And he shot him.

Watching him bleed out as he lost consciousness…

SMG4 was hyperventilating as he clutched himself, suffering through a panic attack as the previous day’s events became clear.

The very person he had come to trust, come to love, stabbed him in the back. And why? Because he got bored of being good? Because being evil was much easier for him?

“SMG4, it’s going to be okay…” Meggy tried to vocally help him through his attack, but all of the emotions he felt were relentless.

SMG4’s brain couldn’t register anything as a monsoon of thoughts and questions rendered all of his senses useless.

His fingers were practically digging into his skin as his chest heaved, eyes staring into nothing.

All 4 could see in his mind was SMG3’s terrifying expression as he watched him lay there helpless, his own blood pooling around him.

But suddenly… He was encased in warmth, a safe feeling he had felt many times.

Mario held SMG4 close, letting him clutch at his shirt as to not damage himself anymore, like the other times he helped him through past panic attacks.

The meme guardian rode the aftermath of his attack, coming back to reality with heavy yet softer breaths.

“There we are…” Mario muttered. “I got you.”

4 had pushed his body too hard, his ribs hurt slightly from his rapid sharp breaths, and this didn’t help with his still tender injury.

Mario saw something in 4’s eyes fade.. He didn’t know if it was exhaustion, or… Hope leaving him.

As 4 returned to sleep, Mario still held his hand, his heart breaking as he watched someone who was so full of life feel so defeated…

��Gli farò pagare la pena per averti ferito, Quattro, te lo prometto. Non avrò pace finché non lo troveranno..”

Mario had tried to whisper only loud enough for 4 to hear, but his quiet promise was understood by his green brother.

Luigi looked on in concern, as he watched his twin brother begin a tread down a darker path... Grief considered, he wanted 3 to pay for this too, but this just wasn't right... This wasn't Mario.

"Come on guys." Meggy whispered. "Let's let SMG4 rest."

Their friend group had quietly, one by one, left the room, but Luigi stayed put. He joined his brother's side, placing a kind and comforting hand onto Mario's own.

Hurt, angry, tired eyes glanced down, and then up to Luigi's face.

Luigi looked back with a soft and concerned look in his, as Mario silently brought his hand down to his side, away from Luigi's hand.

It would be a fight to get Mario back, but Luigi was willing to do whatever it took to save his brother from his own rage.

"Sono qui anche per te, Mario. Non dimenticarlo mai..."

#smg4 #smg4 fanart #smg3 #smg4 fanfic #hospital tw #panic attack tw #gun tw #blood tw

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late-to-the-magnus-archives · 6 months ago

Text

Revelations Part Two - a Malevolent fic

Tears welled in Odd’s eyes, dripped down his cheeks as he played. And just as he had hoped, as he had gambled, he felt the King in Yellow’s presence. Closer than usual. In fact, allowing Odd to feel him directly. In fact—

“Why do you weep?” said that deep voice, which buzzed through the ground even when quiet.

Odd let his violin peak, crescendoing to a high, tremulous note—and then he cut it off, letting out a shaky breath. “It’s been a week, huh?"

Part of the Surrogate series. Written with @sepiabandensis

AO3

----------------

Carcosa was quiet.

It was a nervous kind of quiet. Nobody fully understood what the hell had happened, and the rumors did not clarify. Some said an attack. Some said an invasion. Some said somebody overcharged Faroe in the market and now everyone was boned.

Larson was pissed. He’d missed it! Some kind of craziness, the Saint nearly killed, and he’d missed it! The fuck!

The Librarian didn’t know, either, and kept flipping to different images which only confused him more. Larson only knew he was now confined to two places: his room, and the archives. There wasn’t even family dinner happening at the moment.

Whatever went down, it had been big.

He would find out. Somehow.

Eventually.

Odd was just glad that, relatively speaking, everyone seemed to be okay?

No one had seen Parker or Sunny yet, but when he’d swung by their room with a plate of food, he could hear them talking within. There was warmth, comfort, joy—he’d had to sit down for a while, behind a nearby plant, and just let the feeling of relief wash over him.

Faroe was not doing well. Odd suspected she had a case of broken heart, and that was something no one could really fix.

Not that he didn’t try. He found her and Nibbles out in the lower garden and settled beside them with his violin, playing a rambling song, focusing on being steady and grounding. Before long she’d scooted over to lean against him, a tricky proposition when playing the violin, but Odd had managed.

She gave him a hug when he finished. He’d need to keep an eye on her. She wasn’t okay.

Arthur… Arthur was the tricky one. Arthur had slipped into a kind of full-body, all-encompassing grief that Odd didn’t know what to do with. He’d healed Arthur’s bruised jaw, and Arthur had not even fought or complained which was…

Perhaps that was why this was so jarring.

I am the King in Yellow.

Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay.

Odd should not be here for this.

But the claim made sense in a weird way. It did. John was too… similar. One could make jokes about being cut from the same cloth, but Odd could find the echoes of the King in John’s voice, his mannerisms, everything else. Though just how this could have happened…

No one told Odd to leave.

Arthur was still, so still. “No,” he said patiently, too patiently. “You’re John.”

I am, said John. But I am also the King in Yellow.

Arthur was too still. “Okay.”

That’s all you have to say? Okay? And John (King?) was too amused about this earth-shaking conversation.

“I’m not in the habit of feeding your bullshit,” said Arthur, who’d somehow gone even more still.

It all felt like something fragile on the edge of a knife—balanced, but for how long?

Arthur, John soothed, voice going to melted chocolate—and this time he must have triggered something, because Arthur’s face went pale, his lips pressed into a tight line.

“Don’t,” Arthur warned. “Whatever it is you think you’re doing, you’re not the King. You’re John.”

I remember Lilly, Arthur. She matters. She’s why I chose my name.

And the stillness shattered like ice in a pond. “Then why the fuck are you bringing it up, huh? It doesn’t matter!”

Silence, as if waiting for that pond’s ripples to still. If you lost your memory of life as a father and husband, would you be the same?

Arthur’s gasp was painful.

Odd should not be here. He swallowed, wanting to look between the two but only able to focus on Arthur, who hunched as if in pain.

“How could you say that?” the man whispered.

Because it’s true. I’m John. I’m your John. I haven’t lost anything—even if I am fucking embarrassed about how the last months have been, John added in a mutter.

Arthur laughed weakly and wiped his eyes. “You have been… a handful.”

A grunt.

“Fucking possessive. ”

Silence.

John’s hand was lightly tracing runes on the bed—nothing wild, ones Odd had seen used often for crowd control and other tense times. All they did was take the edge off wild emotions.

But Arthur didn’t know he was doing it.

Arthur, said John. We need to talk to Hastur. We can’t both… be here like this.

“We’ve managed for most of Faroe’s life,” Arthur quipped.

Odd got up, moving silently to gesture at John’s hand and shake his head.

John’s eyes snapped up, following him; sharp, confused.

Trust him, he mouthed.

John’s eyelids flickered. Then he stopped.

Whew.

We can’t both be King. And if Sunny ever comes into himself, it will be three of us. It will be a disaster.

Arthur sighed and un-kidney-beaned. “I don’t think it’s going to be nearly as big a deal as you think.”

Oh, won’t it?

That question, that challenge, asked that way, made pain flit across Arthur’s face for some reason. “Yeah. You’re stuck in me, remember? There’s no threat to the power structure here,” he said a little bitterly.

I crushed the assassin.

Odd’s eyebrows shot upward.

Arthur’s eyes went wide, a strange contrast to John’s gaze through them (which was focused on Arthur’s hand). “What?” said Arthur, flexing his fingers. “But… how?”

Arthur believed him. That meant something.

I extended my essence from you. It’s why you passed out.

“Extended… John, what are you talking about?”

We need to talk to Hastur.

“John. Extended? Passed… I…”

You don’t remember much until Parker.

Arthur rubbed his jaw and winced. “No, but… you can’t do that.”

I did. And I made him suffer.

Arthur’s expression changed. This wasn’t his own hurt; this was concern. “John…”

He nearly killed you. He’s lucky I let him die.

Okay, now Arthur was edging toward afraid. “Maybe we should talk to Hastur.”

Odd knew he would regret saying anything. “I think that’s a good idea. Tensions were high, things… happened, a lot of things that people don’t really understand yet. He may have some insight.”

Arthur hunched. “Yeah. Confirmation, right?”

You’re wise, Odd. I see why he likes you, said John with loftiness bordering on condescending.

“Oh, quit it,” said Arthur, popping that kingly bubble at once. “I’m sorry. He’s going through a phase, apparently.”

A phase!

“Don’t we all?” Odd said, mildly, but at least it seemed Arthur wasn’t quite afraid anymore. “What a time to get your memories back, though.”

Arthur hesitated. “I really passed out?”

You… stopped.

“Stopped?”

John fell silent.

Arthur pursed his lips, thinking, then nodded. “So I scared you, is what you’re saying.”

I did not say that.

Arthur placed his right hand gently on his left. “I got scared after the poison. You stopped, then. I was fucking terrified, John. I thought I might have lost you.”

John took that in silence.

“Poison?” said Odd quietly.

“Someone tried to kill John.” Arthur pressed that left hand to his chest, over his heart. “Fucking almost managed. We haven’t figured out who yet, either.”

So this was court intrigue, in the home of a Great Old One. Huh. Who knew it would feel absolutely shitty?

(But damn, would it make for good songs later.)

“Let’s go find him,” said Arthur, rising, swaying, sitting again. “Fuck.”

“Maybe a medic?” suggested Odd.

“No, we… we’ll just… some healing magic, maybe?” said Arthur.

John hesitated. I don’t feel comfortable casting magic through you right now. Not until we… are sure you weren’t harmed.

“Medic, then,” Arthur conceded.

“I’ll help you get there,” said Odd, and did, and left him there in the hands of conjured nurses, who fussed over Arthur as if he were their favorite chicken come home to roost.

Odd wandered off to find Hastur.

Hastur was rarely around this time of night—usually a few more hours before he’d show up absolutely torn to hell and back—but who knew? The last couple of days had been a little unusual.

Carcosa didn’t really travel in the normal sense, as far as Odd could tell; when it was in-between places like this, one couldn’t just jump out a window and find themselves somewhere in the Dreamlands. It was mist out there, aggressively nothing; it wasn’t overly pleasant, and staying away from the far walls was a good plan in general.

But Carcosa wasn’t in-between now. It seemed they’d landed.

Out there, a stunning night silvered somewhere new. Hill country, evidently, which meant the Lake created open space where there had been none before. Twinkling lights far, far away indicated a city of some sort, though there was no way to be sure just what it was.

The stars gave some indication: they were far east, way further than Odd had ever followed the Path. The wilderness of Mhor was not kind to foot traffic. What were they doing out here?

He had a suspicion. Namely that this was far, far from anyone who might show up at the gates, begging for an audience, while Hastur tried to mitigate this calamity.

Odd didn’t bother sitting; he stood, proud and tall, tucked his violin under his chin, and he began to play.

The song that wept from his violin made his previous ones look like the first forays into music by a child. It arced and danced, it screamed the way Parker had when Sunny did not respond, it sobbed with Faroe’s grief; it reflected Arthur’s music, borrowed and transformed, threaded through with Arthur’s pain as his family fell apart, and his best friend’s suffered, and he feared for John.

“Why do you weep?” said that deep voice, which buzzed through the ground even when quiet.

Odd let his violin peak, crescendoing to a high, tremulous note—and then he cut it off, letting out a shaky breath. “It’s been a week, huh?”

What had to be a half-step for Hastur closer, but was more than the length of Odd’s body. “Yes. It has. Why do you weep?”

“Lots of things to weep about right now,” Odd said, reaching up to wipe at his eyes. “My friends are hurting. Faroe is devastated—I can just tell she blames herself, because she’s ten and she doesn’t know any better. Arthur blames himself, because the assassin or whatever-the-fuck was sent after him. Parker thought Sunny was gone—though the last time I swung by to check on them, I heard them both talking. But that’s going to be a hurt that lingers.” He took a shuddering breath. “Where’d you take us?”

For a long moment, the only sound was breathing. “I don’t know why I hesitate,” Hastur mumbled as if to himself, then finally answered. “Far east, at the edge of the Hungry Sea.” He moved closer again—barely an inch this time, hardly noticeable.

Oh. That was very, very far. Odd nodded. “Pretty far from any potential enemies, then.”

“Yes.”

“Does that mean you’re going to take a few nights off from zipping away and fighting people?”

Hastur went dead still. It was funny, after seeing Arthur do the same thing; one had to wonder if they came to that response independently.

A beat. Only breathing.

“How do you know that?” Hastur said, low, and it wasn’t threatening, exactly, but it wasn’t super friendly, either. Wary. Tense.

Odd was very, very far from anyone that would find him, assuming there was a body left to find. “I’ve seen you come back some nights, torn to shit,” Odd said, voice even. “There have been rumors going around for a bit about you being on the warpath, but I didn’t believe it until I saw it myself. It can’t be directly related to Faroe, or Arthur; you wouldn’t be subtle about it if it was. You’re not just… conquering. Any number of people would have said that the places you went to had changed hands. And you’re very, very careful to be hidden while you do it. So.”

“So smart,” Hastur said as if to himself, barely audible, and he moved yet closer. Almost in reach now. “A keen observation. You are correct… and it seems you’re wise enough to keep this to yourself, as well, since no one has approached me.”

“What good would it do to blab?” Odd shrugged, helpless, but made no move to step away. “Arthur would be furious if he knew, I’m sure, but he’s got enough on his plate. Dis is brilliant, but this is almost certainly not under her purview. That would leave me tattling to Dagon, and while he’s a trusted member of your court, I don’t know him—either he’s already in the know, or he’s not, and those are decisions best left to you.” He took a breath. “Except for this one. This… What the fuck is going on?”

A beat. Only breathing.

“You leave me at odds with myself,” said Hastur, and the curling of the finer tips of his tentacles said he was serious and making a joke at once. “Do you have any idea how things would have gone for you in years past here?” Those tentacles rose, still not touching, but now—at some distance—on either side if Odd, not caging him in, no, but communicating that they could. “I suspect you do. One with your talent and intelligence—and evidently, ability to see through at least some of my wards—would know what it means, ordinarily, to approach a court such as mine.”

“I told you in our first conversation: I never, ever would have left this place,” Odd said, and his voice only trembled a little bit. His eyes darted, taking in the tentacles creeping around him, but he stood firm. “In years past, I don’t know that I would have even survived my introduction to your court. I haven’t forgotten what it is you can do, Your Majesty. I know what a dangerous game I’m playing. But down there is a little girl—” He swallowed through the lump in his throat. “There is a very sad little girl that I want to make sure has her dad, because from the way you speak, it seems like you aren’t sold on this ‘restful sleep’ at the end of a few years business. It seems like you think you have no choice.”

Something changed.

Odd had no way to know just what, but something he’d said had hit home. The golden eyes behind that mask were wide, gleaming.

There were few times in life when the weight of someone else’s decision thickened the air like oncoming storm. This was one.

Odd took a deep breath. “I want to help you,” he said softly. “I could have fucked off. I could have written the Songweavers, I could have done a million other much smarter things than corner a Great Old One, throw secrets in his face, and demand answers. I have been thrown in the middle of this situation without a lifeline, without a gods-damned clue what the fuck is going on, but I have a feeling that no matter how we slice it, Faroe is going to get hurt. I want to protect her from that as best I can.” The rest came out in a shaky, horrible sigh. “Please.”

The god shuddered. That was a thing to see. “You wish to help her?” As if he needed it absolutely verified.

“The only thing I know for certain about this whole situation is that you love her,” Odd said softly. “And fuck, I barely know her, but I think I might love her too. She’s easy to love.”

“I do love her. Odd. Walk with me.” He slowly moved past Odd onto the balcony, which silently unfolded before them into neat, Odd-sized steps.

He followed, tucking his violin beneath one arm, aware of the sting of the cold air against the tear tracks on his cheeks. Beneath them the badlands of Mhor stretched, dizzying, silver.

If he was wrong… There were worse places to die.

Hastur had done something. No sounds from the city reached them now. Starlight made him void, a golden cloak and white mask floating in writhing darkness. “She needs all the support I can find for her,” Hastur said slowly. “A thing I am… inclined to reward well.” A volley, to see what Odd would say.

“I don’t give a shit about reward. I want her to be safe.” He eyed Hastur, a brief frown on his lips.

And that seemed to have cinched this decision. “Odd,” said Hastur in a calm, unremarkable tone, “in five years, I am going to die.”

Odd stopped walking.

For a long, long moment, he eyed the god beside him; his expression was neutral, though his eyes were sharp, calculating. “That doesn’t make sense,” he said, at last. “Gods like yourself… You don’t age, you don’t get sick. How do you know?”

Hastur seemed to be watching the stars. His mask was turned up, reflecting starlight. “Because the same Outer God which dropped you here as a joke has promised to kill me at that time.” He let a moment pass as if to let Odd parse that.

That information hit like Odd had been punched in the gut by a tentacle.

“My entire goal until that time is to ensure she is safe.” Hastur hardly needed to say who she was. “Along with… this strange family I seem to have gathered. She is a child, Odd. She will still be a child when I die. I must give to her a Dreamlands that will not seek to end her life, but will vie for her favor. I must.” He finally turned to Odd. “How do the humans say it? I’m… not my own man at the moment.” His chuckle was dark, and bitter.

“You really are dying,” Odd said, almost a whisper. “That’s why you’re leaving at night, and not telling anyone. You’re dealing with other powers you don’t have direct alliances with yet.”

“Yes. They will ally, or they will die. I will not leave her a trail of enemies—or opportunists.” Hastur bent lower, mask near. “And I do not tell my strange little family. Nor will you. They would grieve; they would fight against it, uselessly hurling themselves against that which cannot be stopped. I rather they are prepared, as best I can make them, so they may stand safe and strong when I am gone.”

Odd took a shuddery breath. “That’s why you keep mentioning that you don’t have time. And the way you spoke, on Faroe’s birthday.” He ran a hand over his face, up into his hair where it passed over the nubs of his shed antlers; he took a brief grip of his main antlers, the prong still sensitive after the shed. “When are you going to tell them?”

“At the end. I will give them time to yell, demand, blame, weep.” He sounded sad, but amused, like he expected nothing but the wildest drama. “But not enough time to damage themselves, or attempt anything that could garner his attention.” One tentacle neared Odd, then pulled back. “I tell you this in confidence. I tell you this because she will need support. Help. Friends.”

“That’s going to be a disaster. They’re…” He let out a shuddering breath. “There’s no good way to handle any of this. You’re going to die. Fuck.”

“There is no mitigation,” he said quietly. “And I dare not try too hard, lest he turn his attention to them instead.” His voice tightened. “Every moment I have with them is… become something beyond price or value. Perhaps this is why I have spared you—and yes, that is the right word. You know how it would have gone. But I never before appreciated… helplessness. And the terror of oncoming doom.”

Odd couldn't handle this. He turned away, looking instead toward the expanse of Mhor below. “So… what can we do, then?” He said at last, the tears welling up again.

Hastur’s sigh was deep. “I don’t know. I’m doing what I can, without inviting opportunistic attacks. Beyond that, I don’t know.” A smile touched his voice. “Does that frighten you? To hear one of my stature saying such things, admitting such things.”

“It makes me feel a lot of things,” Odd said thickly. “You… I spent most of my life scared of you, and others like you, but mostly just you. And you’re going to die.” He took another shuddering breath. “Fuck me sideways, that Outer God has a sick sense of humor. Another finger curls on the monkey’s paw, and—” He let out a bark of a laugh. “And I am focusing on myself, because I’m upset, and I’m not even important here. We have to figure out a way to keep Faroe safe in five years.”

“I have a way,” said Hastur, who, whatever else he was, definitely still was arrogant. “I am inviting you to join it.” Yet he’d already showed himself adjustable. Perhaps the arrogance was… not as concrete as it might have been.

“Sure. Talk to me. I’m already in this far, may as well say I do, right?”

Was that relief? Odd had been watching this strange body language for a while now. That was relief.

“My plan has several steps,” Hastur said, turning fully toward Odd now, as though the act of telling him was more interesting and more exciting than all the stars and all the arid beauty of these wastes. “She will be too young when I go; fifteen, with all of Carcosa on her shoulders? No. There must be a buffer, and that is where John and Arthur come in.”

“John’s not your offspring,” Odd said. “He has your memories. What is he?”

“A rare thing called a Forgotten One. He is a piece of me, unwillingly torn away.” A pause. “So is Sunny.”

Holy shit.

“Okay,” Odd said, soft. “That… makes sense. I know about Forgotten Ones. It tracks for Sunny.” His brow furrowed. “But John… You’ve claimed John as your offspring, not as a fragment. And he seems far too independent to be a true Forgotten One.”

“He is. He’s been with Arthur Lester for over a decade. He’s grown. Quite frankly, he’s doing things Forgotten Ones are not supposed to be able to do, but then, Arthur himself is something of an odd specimen, too.” Hastur must not have told anyone this. He was lower now, mask almost on Odd’s eye-level, tentacle-tips twisting. “I have announced him as offspring so he has a claim to step up—with Arthur—and fill the gap until Faroe is old enough to take her place. Parker and Sunny… were not in my original plan, but my hope is their brand of wisdom and their camaraderie will give the kind of aid John’s prickliness tends to evaporate.” He couldn’t seem to help himself. “Even the transformation of Carcosa is part of this. Soon, I will change it back to welcoming for all, and it will be clearly at her request, earning her favor among merchants and travelers that will not be quickly forgotten.”

“You really have changed,” Odd said, very quietly. “All of this, for them. For her. John must have split off… what, more than twenty years ago now? And since you adopted her… you changed.” Absurdly a small, helpless laugh bubbled from him, even as he sniffled and wiped at the tears that dripped down his cheeks. “It would be just my luck, I suppose.”

“I…” It figured a being wired like this might not realize he’d changed, or how much. “I… for her, I would change.” Hastur considered. “For her, I suppose I have. Arthur experienced both sides. I’m afraid I wasn’t very kind to him in the beginning.” And that felt like an understatement. “What would be your luck? You weep again.” And again, one tentacle came near as if to catch those tears, then pulled away.

“Vulgtmog was watching the situation with Arthur closely, you know? We know how he was treated. I was… gods, I was just coming into my adulthood then, going out on my own for real. And even through all that, he forgave you—and that man is keen. He wouldn't have forgiven you if he didn’t believe it.”

The god… colored. It pulsed in waves, undulating; and even in the starlight, it seemed to be kind of purple. “I was not subtle in what I did to him,” he said quietly. “Perhaps only one like Arthur could forgive John and… myself.”

“Maybe. He’s something, alright; I’d be half-convinced he was mad if not for the fact he’d probably be enjoying himself much more.” Odd let out a choked sob, scrubbing at his eyes with his hand. “Poor bastard. He’s never going to forgive you, after. He’s going to think he could have done something. And you’re going through all this effort, just to never—” He stopped, choked silent by tears.

“He may,” said Hastur quietly. “But he will be alive to do so—and our daughter will be safe.”

Odd’s chest shuddered with the effort to keep calm; he tilted his head back, toward the stars. “Fuck me. I spent over twenty years running from the sight of gods, and then as a joke I am dropped in the lap of one that maybe, after all this time, would be worth worshiping; and you’re dying.” His voice broke—into a laugh, into a sob. “What a cruel fucking joke.”

Hastur pulled back. Not up; he seemed determined to stay at eye-level now, so the impression was almost like a train backing away. “You…” He stopped. “You… what did you say?”

“Just feeling rather sorry for myself, Your Majesty.” Odd said; abruptly he sat on the edge of the magical walkway, tail curling around himself, violin in his lap as he buried his face in his hands. “The irony is getting to me, is all. Find a god who’s worth it, and whoops, he’s marked for death. Don’t even get to enjoy thinking about—about worship or any of that before it’s just—” He made a gesture, like skipping a stone across a lake. “Gone! Don’t know why I thought it would be different. Been like that since I was born, you know, at least some things stay consistent.”

“You would…” The ancient, terrifying Lord of Interstellar Spaces seemed to have forgotten how to speak. “You…”

“Explains why you didn’t do anything. You didn’t want to leave me feeling shitty when it all happened; I get it.” Odd let out a sob. “Carcosa was always meant to be my last stop, because I just… I knew that once I got here, I wouldn’t leave. I wouldn’t want to. And as it turns out, maybe you would’ve been worth it all along, and I could have been—” His voice cracked and at last Odd decided that words would no longer do. Instead, he set his head on his arms and cried.

Another flash of purple over that dark hide, almost like some sea creature. Hastur reached. Hesitated. Considered. And then said a thing he might never have said in his long and selfish life: “May I touch you?”

Words were definitely hard right now. Odd nodded, head in his hands.

It was the gentlest touch. Stroking his hair first, then raising his chin. Hastur had produced a handkerchief. It was as gaudily gold as anything he’d ever made, and delicately, he dabbed at Odd’s face.

It wasn’t funny, really. “Are you still willing to help my daughter?” said Hastur.

“Of course I am,” Odd said, snotty and teary and feeling like absolute shit. “I’d decided already. Just… The irony isn’t lost on me, is all.”

The touch—warm through silk—lingered. Slowly tending. “You could still come to me. If you wished.”

His brow furrowed. “I thought… but you said no.”

“I said no to simply taking you. Melting your mind to make you worship me. I will not do that to you, Odd. Ever.”

Odd sniffled. “Reassuring. That meant a lot. I appreciate it,” he said, trembling. “But I don’t know what this means. I don’t know what it is you’re asking of me. If it was before, I could make a pretty compelling guess, but now…” His voice cracked. “You’re dying.”

“Nothing can stop that now,” Hastur said softly. “But I could still give you such good things until all is said and done.”

“Good things, huh?” Odd cracked a fragile smile. “It’s not going to make it so you can stay, or ensure I help out. You don’t… have to. I’ve committed, for Faroe if no one else.” He shuddered. “Gods, this hurts. But if it will make you happy, why not? What do either of us have to lose?”

Hastur tilted Odd’s face toward him. “Will you let me make you happy?”

Which was an incredibly vague question, all things considered.

And all things considered, Odd was all-in. “Who am I to say no to you, my King?” he said, smiling.

“I don’t care what time it is,” Arthur snapped again. “We’re seeing him now. This is a whole new development.”

We should wait until breakfast! John said again. This is ridiculous! It’s three in the morning!

“I don’t care,” said Arthur again, and pushed open the enormous throne room doors.

Music slid over him like warm oil, and he inhaled.

Hastur sat on his throne. It wasn’t time for Court; he wasn’t performing for anyone, but draped there like a cloak, tentacles largely limp, except for the tips which moved in time to—

Odd, who sat on a stone ledge right by the throne, making music.

The bard smiled as he looked up, his fingers working on his lute in a rolling melody that flexed and sighed. “My King,” he said, nudging one tentacle with his foot; he did not stop playing.

Hastur seemed to stir as if from deep meditation. “My own,” he said, and held out one enormous hand. “Come to me.”

Arthur stood there.

He’s holding out his hand.

“Is he okay?” whispered Arthur. “He sounds weird.”

Fucking… how should I know? Yes!

Hastur chuckled, low. “Come.”

“Okay,” said Arthur, slowly approaching. “Why?”

“Because I wish to have you near me,” said the King.

Arthur exhaled slowly. “We need to talk to you about something.”

“Of course, my own.” And Hastur paused. Looked over at Odd.

It was a distinctly… considering look.

Hastur, said John, his gold fuming, his voice rising. I am the Ki–

Hastur grabbed them, and Arthur yipped.

“Hey,” Odd said, and promptly whacked one of Hastur’s tentacles with his tail. “You know he doesn’t like being grabbed. Be nice.”

“Ah, true,” said Hastur. “I’m sorry, Arthur.”

Arthur stared in his direction. “Did you hit your head, or something?”

Hastur chuckled again.

I… hey! I wasn’t…

Hastur put them down.

I am the King in Yellow! John blurted out with significantly less drama than he’d planned.

“Yes, you are,” Hastur agreed, which deflated whatever was left.

“Would it be best if I leave?” Odd stretched out a bit, toes flexing in his boots.

“Not at all,” said Hastur.

“John remembers,” said Arthur. “Everything.”

Hastur stilled. “Everything?”

From before. Everything. All. Of. It.

Hastur picked them up again, but this time to bring them close and study.

Arthur didn’t wriggle this time. “Is he okay? He said something happened.”

I murdered the assassin, growled John, and I did it too quickly.

“John,” said Hastur slowly. “Exactly what did you do?”

A good question, really. I…I reached.

Hastur waved his enormous hand just beside Arthur, almost like brushing away cobwebs.

Arthur shuddered, inhaled.

[“He’s all right,” said Hastur slowly, “but you are very lucky. He didn’t tear. John… you grew.”]

John huffed. [I have been. It’s nothing new.]

[“This is.”]

“Excuse me,” Arthur said tartly.

“It’s personal, between the two of them,” Odd said, hushed. “About John. I’m sure he’ll fill you in after.”

You’d have known if I’d hurt him! You’d have felt it! John blared, and fear made his voice slightly higher.

“Yes,” said Hastur. “I don’t understand what I’m seeing, though. Don’t do that again until we know, John. You’ve stretched him.”

A pause.

“He what?” said Arthur.

What the fuck does that mean? said John.

“When I know, I’ll tell you,” said Hastur, and put them down with a sigh. “It’s always something with you two,” he added, and his tone was fond.

Arthur smoothed his robe down. “So. That was less upsetting than I feared.”

But… but I… I am the King in Yellow! John said.

“You always were,” said Hastur.

John didn’t seem to like that. When you put it that way, it doesn’t seem so momentous.

“Oh, it is momentous,” said Hastur. “So is this: Odd, for your first city-wide performance, do you want help? Or would you like to charm my people in their entirety all on your own?”

Arthur blinked. “Performance?”

“Odd is particularly talented,” rumbled Hastur, “and our city needs… help after the events of the last few days. If he performs, spirits will lift. This is guaranteed.”

“So it’s not on me,” said Arthur with clear relief, then caught himself. “I’m sorry, I… I don’t mean to be rude.”

“Hastur and I have been talking. You’re shouldering a lot already, Arthur; it’s about time you had someone who could help, at least in this regard.” Odd smiled, warm, leaning back against the tentacle that rested behind him. “I think it depends on how grand a spectacle we want it to be. I can certainly perform myself, though we’d likely need some magical enhancements for my voice and instrument; not to say I wouldn’t enjoy a backdrop of accompaniment, but I’m more than capable of handling it alone.” He paused, tail flicking. “I’ll take care of it.”

“You shall have the greatest stage,” said Hastur like melted chocolate. “The best equipment. All will love you when they see you.”

Arthur, he’s leaning into him.

“Of course, that’s a given,” Odd laughed, low. “Hey. Will you give Arthur the day off? He and Parker might enjoy walking around the city, enjoying the rest of the festival. With protection, obviously, though I think John might be able to handle it.”

Arthur blinked.

Hastur hesitated. He looked at Odd. So gently, he touched Odd’s cheek. “That is wise advice.” It wasn’t agreement, but it also wasn’t a shut down.

“I… I haven’t done… anything like that since John,” said Arthur very quietly, and that swung the jury.

“Then it shall be so,” said Hastur. “And then…” He stopped.

“What?” said Arthur. “Then what?”

Hastur looked at Odd again. “We’ll see if there are to be more celebrations after. Go rest, both of you. It has been a trying week.”

Arthur, he’s—

“Thank you,” said Arthur softly. “Can we take Faroe into the city?”

“Not as she is,” said Hastur. “Disguise would be necessary. Let’s temporarily table that.”

“Temporarily,” said Arthur firmly. “She needs to see things outside of this place.”

“Of course, my own,” said Hastur. “Off you go.”

Thought he’d be more upset, John grumbled as they left.

“Don’t you think we’re really damn lucky he wasn’t?” said Arthur, and the doors closed.

Hastur looked at Odd again. “The evening has left me drunk.”

It didn't sound licentious. It sounded… pensive.

Odd strummed his lute, picking a song back up. “Good drunk? Emotional relief drunk?”

“Drunk enough to consider something perhaps… extreme. But then, you like extreme things, don’t you, Odd?” said Hastur.

“With consent and discussion, yes,” Odd said, tail flicking. “And with someone who is sober.”

Hastur couldn’t smile, per se. He managed anyway, a full-body thing. “Good. When I am sober, let us discuss your marking.”

#malevolent fic #malevolent au #surrogate series #surrogate fic #arthur lester #john doe #kiy malevolent

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lunarcovehq · 6 months ago

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Baby, it's all I know That you're half of the flesh And blood makes me whole I need you so So take these broken wings And learn to fly

TAKE THESE BROKEN WINGS - PLOT DROP

TW Violence, Gore, Blood, Physical Assault

It was the first truly warm day of the year. The temperatures had reached the mid 70s (that's around 23°C for those who use Celsius) and, as the sun began to set, the warmth wafting in from the water brought along a thick mist that clung in the air, casting an eerie sight over the small Rhode Island town that only grew eerier as one Aiyla Baysal began her walk home.

The banshee had worked late and, now, a quarter past 10, the fae wandered the lonely streets of Sunny Harbor back to the small cottage she called her own. But, as she rounded the bend, the banshee found herself overwhelmed with the urge to scream. Collapsing onto her knees, a desperate and soul shattering cry rang out into the night. A warning that someone was about to die and someone almost did.

At the same time, across town, over in Celestial Hills, a doorbell rang for the past has a way of repeating itself and, as Meena Raja descended the steps of her manor, she found herself stopping short at the door. Her stomach dropped at the sound of a rather distinct thud and the faintest murmur of her advisor who was now coughing up blood. In less than a split of a second, Meena was at Aaliyah Rose's side. But, the damage had already been done. The Clan Advisor had been attacked. Aaliyah Rose's chest had been carved away at with what appeared to be a stake of sorts. Her now exposed heart still beating, but slower now than before, within her chest. Someone had attempted to rip Aaliyah's heart out the way Meena had once received Theodore's supposed heart in a box. But, rather than finish the job, they left her advisor on her doorstep with a note that read-

Your husband and his Council let me take the blame for their misdeeds and now your advisor will take yours.

But, if that wasn't bad enough, Aaliyah Rose would not be the only attack that night. For as the Fae Queen and banshee screamed, a masked figure made their move. Grabbing the fae from behind, they slashed at Aiyla Baysal's wings with an iron knife. Another blood-curdling cry broke from her lips as her knees gave out from under her. Her sight flooded by an illusion her attacker wanted her to see.

Rather than the misty streets of Sunny Harbor, Aiyla found herself on the Town Green back in 1992. A crowd was beginning to form around the coven advisor of the time, River Cassidy, who stood up on the front steps of the Town Hall, watching in silence as the crowd shouted obscenities and questions at her. How could this have happened? How could the hunters have gotten in?

But, rather than answer them, River's gaze locked onto that of the Supreme and Mayor, Yasmin Badawi, who was attempting to push their way through the crowd. "Either you tell them or I will," River warned. But, before River's could utter the truth, the clan leader, Theodore Moore, began to usher the crowd back- Everyone stay back. Stay back- while Yasmin acted as if River had gone mad. River, it's okay. I know you didn't mean to let them in. Just stand down. But, River hadn't been the one responsible for the hunter attack. She had been the only voice in the room who had urged them not to go through with it. The sharp pains in her head from all of the town's peoples memories she had absorbed for her Coven leader mixed with their shouting became too much to bare and, before anyone could stop it, River lunged at Yasmin. But, before the advisor could reach the other, Saskia Alders intervened. She grabbed onto River, using the strength of an alpha to hold her back, as the Fae Queen, Hazal Kaplan, casted an illusion over River to subdue her. They dragged her away. Aiyla watching through the vision as River Cassidy was taken into a backroom as the others decided what they should do with her. The truth, they all decided, would result in anarchy and chaos. A vote was cast and a verdict unanimously made to save their own skin. River no longer stood with them and, while they didn't feel that it was right to strip the witch of her magic given everything she had done for them (and the fact that she was currently holding all of the other residents forgotten memories of the attack in her head), they banished her. She was to leave Lunar Cove and never come back. The Alpha, Saskia Alders, would later announce that River Cassidy was the one to let the hunters in and had tried to attack them all. But, out of self defense, they fought back. River Cassidy was no more and would be pronounced dead the following day in the papers. While, the real River Cassidy lived on, out there, somewhere, having been sacrificed as a pawn in a much bigger game the leaders had been playing.

As the illusion came to an end, Aiyla's vision went dark. The fae leader collapsed on the street as her attacker vanished into the night, leaving behind a note of their own-

Your kind created the Catalyst and now every supernatural will pay the price.

REMINDERS

This will be the last plot drop before the event which is our masquerade event starting on 5/4. These plot drops are completely optional for your character to react to. We also hope these plot drops will inspire starters and different threads to be had between your characters. Please feel free to continue any plot drop threads before this and react to what you would like.

For the fae: There have been multiple attacks tonight. Any banshee in town likely spent the whole night screaming, having either found their Fae Queen through sleepwalking or woke up the next morning with a sore throat. If you are in the Fae Court, your leader has now been attacked. Also, written in the blood of the Fae Queen on both the outside of the Daily Drip & the Selvi house in Sunny Harbor is a note that reads "If you thought you saw the last of me, think again". A message from the Fae Queen's attacker who has been working with the Catalyst.

For all Vampires: Your advisor has been brutally attacked and is currently recuperating at the Moore Manor. Feel free to have your characters react in any way you'd like.

For the Council: Feel free to HC out the Council Meeting and discuss where the remaining leaders plan to go from here. As for Aiyla & Aaliyah, it’s up to you if you feel they’d be released from the Hospital to join the meeting or if they’d call in or sit this one out. Royce may be still out for this one as well.

For everyone else: Feel free to react to both the attacks and the foreboding message you may have stumbled upon in blood outside of your local coffee shop.

And, as always, we hope you have fun!

#lunarcoveevent #lunarcoveplotdrop4

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im-poe-dameron · 2 years ago

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CELESTIAL SERENITIES

➔CLONE WARS ARC #02: DUTY AND DAMNATION

a/n: we're back with chapter two! how is everyone feeling about the kenobi series? cause i am being torn to pieces. so i had a good chunk of this written and then went through the stage of re-reading it...only to go "damn this is good op should finish it" so here i am finishing it. i hope you enjoy the ongoing journey of these two! this takes place during the attack of the clones arc as does the next chapter.

summary: you left intending on staying away from him, but new information surfaces dragging you two back together in the most brutal of ways.

word count: 8.8k+

pairing: obi-wan kenobi x fem!reader (name astra is used but it's still a reader insert)

warnings: not explicit, angst, cussing, horrible explanations of star wars politics, violence, near death experience, more angst.

previous chapter | next chapter | masterlist

He knew you were gone before he even opened his eyes. The steady thrum of your energy in the room had vanished long ago—leaving a cold emptiness behind he’d only felt once before. At first he didn’t want to wake up, because he knew once he did…you wouldn’t be there. Except then he felt the warmth of the sun streaming through the window, turning the blankets into a cocoon of heat that felt too uncomfortable to remain under any longer.

With a sigh, he shifted until he was sitting up in the bed—an ache forming in his body. Only to be faced with an empty room. You left. Taking along everything you brought with you. That all too familiar feeling of the knife you wielded in the past, sliced through his heart again—twisting his insides and reminding him of the pain strewn throughout his past. Last night shouldn’t have happened…he knew this. Yet he didn’t regret it; not even for a moment.

He found himself sitting naked, on the edge of the bed—his fingers digging into the sheets as memories from only a few hours ago replayed in his mind. It didn’t feel real, to have so many moments play out like a holofilm only to be met with no true image of you in the flesh. No matter how much he tried to force the mental blocks in his brain to shut out the images, he couldn’t forget what happened. How you sounded, felt, looked underneath him.

Sighing again, he ran a hand down his face—the sting of tears pricking his eyes. What had he done to drive you away? To make you want to turn tail and run from what you two shared.

Except he knew what did it. The very same thing that made you flee before and while he felt like you’d taken a piece of him with you, he understood why you did it. Why you felt you couldn’t truly be with him. After all, the Jedi Code was to be followed and it was up to him to make the choice of keeping with it…or keeping you. A decision this drastic shouldn’t be made while he was still in the midst of waking up.

So, with a groan, he stood on unsteady legs and reached for his clothes. The sooner he was out of here and on his way back to the Temple, the better it would be for the both of you. He just wished he had the chance to say goodbye—one more time. He never got that before; the small opportunity to wish you luck in your life and hope that wherever you went…you were thinking of him. It wouldn’t have healed the already open wound, but it would put his mind at ease to know you were safe.

The beep from his comlink drew him out of his weary mind; the reminder of what he was returning to now taking precedence.

“This is Obi-Wan,” he said, reaching for his robe that was tucked underneath you in the night. A stab went through his heart at the realization that it still smelled like you.

“Master, are you there?” Anakin’s voice came through, the urgency in his tone shifted Obi-Wan into the demeanor he was known for.

Serious once more.

“What did you do?”

A disgruntled sigh crackled through the small speaker. “Why do you assume I have done something?”

“You wouldn’t be contacting me otherwise.”

“Master Yoda said he needs to speak with you,” Anakin said. Something echoed in the background, the shouting of a man’s voice calling to younglings.

He figured Anakin was back at the temple, although he could say with certainty he wasn’t participating in any training that was occurring. “Did he say what about?”

Latching his lightsaber by his side, he glanced at the room, noticing small things that weren’t there last night. Cracks went along the same wall he had pressed you up against, each one formed when his control had slipped. Heat spread through his face, skin tinging red, as memories of what happened replayed in his mind. The both of you had lost all sense of your wits, the drug taking control for the remainder of the night. Whoever had slipped it into your drinks would need to be questioned, but he had half a mind to assume the Separatists were behind it.

However the sound of Anakin’s voice coming through the comlink again gave him something else to worry about.

“He said it had to do with Senator Amidala, nothing more than that. I tried asking him to clarify.”

“I will be there shortly,” he replied, heading towards the door.

He didn’t wish to leave so soon—the urge to stay and wait for you to eventually return nearly overtook his need to get back. Yet something told him you wouldn’t be returning to this room for that very reason. You knew the lengths of his stubbornness; knew he was determined when it came down to things and so with a resigned last look, he left. Shutting the door behind him. The echo of the lock clicking felt like a stab wound to his heart.

If he had the time, he’d spend the day searching for you. Ask more about the years you spent away from him. Only things would be better if he allowed you to disappear altogether like you wished.

Heading down the empty hallway, he once again shut out the memories that seemed to be branded in his mind. The walls within were forcefully put up as he did his best to stop grappling with the array of emotions that attempted to break through. There’s a reason Jedi never fall in love. A reason he tried not to fall in love, but like the inevitability of his determination—you had split his resolve in two.

Obi-Wan only hoped that it wouldn’t happen again.

The echoes of people in the Jedi Temple sounded like home to him. Familiar and soothing in a way that he could never quite describe. His arms hung at his side, the swish of his robes brushing against the floor as he walked towards where Master Yoda would most likely be. All the while he attempted to wrangle the ongoing confusion that stuck to him, into a box. Effectively shutting it out in case Master Yoda decided to see into his mind as they spoke.

It wouldn’t cease the emotions altogether, but it would put his mind at ease for the moment.

“Good afternoon Master Obi-Wan.” He was startled by someone walking beside him. Shifting slightly, he was greeted by Shaak Ti leading a small group of younglings down the corridor alongside him.

“Hello,” he said, forcing a friendly enough smile on his face.

“Is everything alright?”

Holding back the slight flinch of his body, he simply nodded. A small gesture to hopefully ease her worries long enough. At least until she left him to be alone in his thoughts again. His worry of Master Yoda finding the small sliver of pain in his mind increased with every step—the knowledge that he did not look well now shoving its way to the forefront. He felt weary. As if he was walking on a path with no end in sight and no map to guide him.

“Yes, everything is fine. Why do you ask?”

“You seem lost,” she replied.

Before he could convince her she was in fact wrong, a youngling tugged on her sleeve—diverting her attention elsewhere. However that didn’t stop him from nearly pausing where he stood and turning back towards the entrance. He looked lost. Probably because…he was lost. Last night reminded him of a time when he had his doubts about what becoming a Jedi meant. The only time he allowed himself to imagine a life walking a different path altogether—one with you beside him.

Somehow in one night he’d gone from being a fearless Jedi with a purpose, to the young boy on Corellia who barely knew enough to survive.

“It seems they are in a rush to get to training,” she said with a smile—watching the younglings walk on ahead of her.

“Good luck.” That time he did wince. The words sounded like a dull echo of sentiment. One that she gratefully ignored; merely responding with a smile and a wave as she was tugged ahead.

Rather than dwell on the feelings he couldn’t change, he continued on towards where the younglings' education was taught. Master Yoda would no doubt be there, the familiar tinge of his Force energy coming through the quicker Obi-Wan walked. The quicker he managed to find out what was required of him, the quicker he could find a place to clear his mind. A long meditation session would help. Only the second he stepped into the room, the sight of younglings with their lightsabers drawn and helmets on, he knew the matter would take more than a few minutes.

Mentally he closed off his mind, shutting out any prying eyes from seeing the muddled mess that were his thoughts.

“You asked to see me Master Yoda?” He spoke, drawing the attention away from the younglings.

Turning slowly and leaning on his cane, he nodded—holding his hand up for the younglings to pause. “Focusing on balance next we will be,” he said, allowing them a chance to rest for a moment.

“Anakin informed me you were concerned about Senator Amidala?”

He nodded. “To Naboo she must go. Keep her safe, your padawan must.”

“Anakin is trying to get her to agree, but she is quite stubborn.” He figured this is what he would be called to talk about. The part of him that continued to think about you was relieved. At least now he wouldn’t have to reveal his thoughts; ones that would certainly have him be questioned as a Master and a Jedi.

“Not another way there is in protecting her. Agree she will have to, but this is not why I asked for you.”

“Is there another matter you need me to oversee?” he asked, hoping that something would help him take his mind off of you.

Yoda nodded, his cane tapping as the younglings began their new exercise for the day. “To the archives you must go in search of a file. Important it is. A plan that now must be altered there is, and you will oversee it.”

“What sort of plan?”

“There is an agent of the Republic that needs to be notified.” The voice of Mace Windu coming from behind him only furthered Obi-Wan’s need to fortify his mind. He could protect himself against Master Yoda, but Master Windu was a different story altogether.

“If you don’t mind me asking…what exactly is an agent of the Republic needed for?”

Mace motioned for him to follow. “We weren’t given the specifics, but this goes beyond even Chancellor Palpatine. They were given the mission orders by Bail Organa, but we’ve just heard word of a shift in the vote. This could prove to be dangerous ground.”

“What will I have to do?”

“Their record is in the archives. Tell them I have sent you and they’ll give you the documents you need. We need you to find them and inform them they must return to the Republic at once before they are found out.”

He was right about one thing. This job would keep him busy for the remainder of you being on Coruscant. In a way, he was thankful. The incessant thoughts of what occurred last night would surely drive him insane if all he had to do was continue to be a bodyguard for Padme. Anakin could handle that job. It would give him an opportunity to finally feel like a Jedi again—perhaps find a way to no longer feel lost.

“Can I trust you to handle it with the utmost discrepancy Obi-Wan?”

“Yes,” he replied.

Bidding his goodbyes, he headed towards the stairs, the archives down below where he was standing. Finally, he had something to keep him within the walls of the Jedi Temple. Anakin was off attempting to convince Padme of how important protecting her was; thus allowing him a moment of not having to worry about him. Of course, he always worried. His padawan had gotten into more trouble than he did as a child—that he was almost positive about.

“Don’t be too hard on him. From what I can remember you were quite a bit of trouble yourself.”

He nearly stumbled—grasping onto the railing to right himself as your words flooded his mind. It shattered his resolve, tore down the walls he spent so long building, because in the end he could never shut out the memory of you. He could try just as he’d done before, and yet nothing worked. You were like a siren calling out to him in the night—begging him to join you in the dark waters of his mind. Only this time he wanted to give in. Relinquish himself to the sea and swim after you.

“Stars,” he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut to alleviate some of the dizziness that swept over his body. Something in him resented the fact that he continued to shove down his emotions—ignoring their existence to hopefully feel better.

Taking a deep breath, he managed to swiftly walk the rest of the way towards the desk where Jocasta Nu sat. She smiled as he approached, setting down the holopad she was reading from.

“Master Kenobi, is there anything I can help you with?”

Once again he slammed down the small inkling of fear that rose up in his mind. A reminder of what even the memory of you did to him.

“Yes hello, I’m here on orders from Master Windu regarding an agent of the Republic.”

She nodded, picking up the holopad and sifting through the data that showed itself. “I do remember what you’re talking about. It wasn’t too long ago that the case was reopened. The vote must be the cause of that.”

“Reopened?” he inquired, following her down the pathway to a small table.

“Yes. This agent is not the first to work for the Republic and certainly not the first to be sent into dangerous situations such as the one they’re currently in.”

She moved away from him, gathering a different holopad before transmitting the information she needed. He only caught a few words here and there as it flashed on the screen, but one in particular caught his eye. Their home world. Obi-Wan figured it was his eyes playing tricks on them; just the thought of you coming through one more time. Yet a sharp tug in his gut told him…he might not be wrong.

“Do you know if this is the same agent as before?”

“I do and no. But I do believe they come from the same planet as the one before them.”

He sat on the chair, leaning forward as he scrolled through the information page by page. “What was the last agent's name?”

She shook her head. “That I’m afraid has been taken out from the records. Privacy for the family after what happened to them.”

His throat constricted at the thought. Air struggling to get to his lungs. He was being ridiculous—thinking that you had something to do with this entire situation. Except then he recalled last night. The way you strayed from answering his questions, each one being directed back at him. All he really knew was that you were a bounty hunter, but lies could have come easier to you than he expected.

“And…do you know the name for the current agent?”

Jocasta pointed to the file he was looking for. “They are given a choice of which name they’d like to be called after giving their true name. This one said the same thing.”

He felt like the remaining air was punched from his lungs as he stared at the name blaring up at him from the screen.

ASTRA — STATUS: UNDERCOVER

There’s a reason you didn’t give him the truth, a reason why you kept your cloak on until no longer possible. You weren’t a bounty hunter, nor were you here for a simple mission. You were an agent of the Republic, disguised as a hunter for those that they saw as the enemy, and out of all the names…you had chosen the one he gave you. Not your true name, nor the name of your family, but something that kept you attached to him.

He blinked, hoping that the data would somehow change and yet it continued to remain the same. The orders from Mace Windu told him he was to hunt you down and explain the situation—how things had changed. How you were about to enter dangerous territory. Somehow you’d gone from the innocent young woman on Corellia he cared deeply for, to someone who was able to deceive those who wished for the Republic’s ruin.

Obi-Wan wasn’t sure if he was more stunned or proud.

“Is that all you needed?”

He coughed, peering over at Jocasta. “Yes. Yes this is everything. Thank you.”

Glancing at the documents he found himself at a loss for words still. How was he meant to find you in the middle of Coruscant? When he could barely keep track of his own padawan. Letting out a sigh, he ran a hand through his beard—flicking through the file and discovering that you began your time with the Republic a year after the two of you parted ways. Why you chose this path was a question he wished he could ask you.

Except how could he ask such a question when it was clear why you hid it from him. Nobody was supposed to know. Not even him.

According to the documents there was no way to reach you, which left him with the difficult task of finding out where you were meant to be within your job. Closing down the file, he transferred it to the holopad beside him—knowing he could possibly get in trouble for taking things without Jocasta’s permission. But he needed it if you were ever going to believe why he tracked you down. Slipping it into his cloak, he made his way through the archives until he was back at the staircase.

“Please remain safe dewdrop,” he muttered under his breath, knowing that whatever you were sent to do was dangerous enough to inevitably cost your life.

He just hoped he’d find you before that happened.

The heavy footsteps of Count Dooku echoed behind you as you walked down the hallways of the facility. Your blaster was at the ready—attached to your right hip—as you kept watch for anyone who may have infiltrated the place. While that scenario was unlikely, you wouldn’t put it past someone to try. After all, he was the sole cause of Senator Amidala’s situation and supporters of hers would risk their lives to cease his actions.

“Astra,” his voice seemed to bounce off the walls, causing him to seem louder than he actually was.

“Yes?” you asked. Turning slightly you managed to get a good view of him in your peripheral vision.

“Make sure you stand guard outside while I speak with Lord Sidious.”

“I thought Jango–”

His hand raising cut off your words. “Jango Fett has…different responsibilities given to him. You’re now to be my personal guard.”

You knew better than to ask him to clarify. The agonizing burn of his lightsaber cutting into the side of your leg was a fresh enough memory to have you biting back your words. Arguing with Count Dooku never went well. In all honesty, it was easier to stick your neck out and offer for it to be sliced open. One way or another—you would be suffering in pain. Nobody went against him for this very reason and you had learned this lesson the hard way.

“Yes sir,” you said.

It would be so easy to draw your blaster, shoot him and end it all here. There would be no impending war, no more pain caused by the side that reveled in death—in the agony of others. All there would be was your demise. Yet somehow it felt worth it in the end. The previous agent before you attempted the same thing. Kill who was at the top and finally put an end to all the suffering, but in the end they were met with a fate worse than death. You knew by trying even something remotely similar to that would cause you to wish you were dead.

Except there was a truth you had yet to even admit to yourself. You were already dead.

You died the second you left Obi-Wan to wake up in your room alone; the message was clear to him once he found you were gone. There would be no future with one another. No possible outcome where he could love you as freely as you wished and in the end it caused you to feel something you soon realized the agent previous to you felt. Death was a kind solution to the painful anguish of a broken heart.

“Fucking coward,” you mumbled under your breath as the door shut behind you with a resounding bang.

Even as you stood there, watching the empty hallways, you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. All for one simple reason. What would Obi-Wan think if he found you dead? What would he do? You’d never seen him angry before, but part of you wondered if he’d finally snap—break away from the perfect role he fit himself into. Or would he simply blame himself? You supposed that was your worst fear in the end. The thought of him living out the rest of his days, wracked with guilt because of you and your actions.

No matter how much you wished you could tear this evil up from the root, you still wore their symbol on your arm. You made a pledge to both the Republic and to the Separatists that you would enact their orders when told to. They were two sides of a coin and you simply had to flip it to see where your future resided.

The sight of familiar armor heading towards you caused you to shove away any and all thoughts about your pain—locking them tightly behind a shut door in your mind. Jango Fett had his helmet underneath his arm, blaster attached to his hip, and walked towards you with his usual eased gait that made you itch under your skin. It’s not that you loathed him—nor did you wish him to leave—you tolerated him to the best of your ability. Except even that became a challenge when he seemed intent on finding out what exactly went on in your head.

“Stuck with guard duty I see,” he said, his lips curving up into a smirk.

You willed yourself not to turn your blaster on him. “Doing Count Dooku’s personal bidding I see.”

Tutting under his breath, he smiled. “Don’t be jealous.”

“I’m not.” Your eyes narrowed at him. “Let me know when you get bored of doing his errands and I’ll let you play guard again.”

The slight shift in his demeanor wasn’t drastic, but you caught it. The twitch of his eye, his smile dropping ever so slightly. While you preferred to avoid Jango altogether, you had to admit it was quite a joyous sight to press his buttons—giving him something to chew on while you remained impassive to his taunts. A part of you wanted to laugh at the quick way his hand fell down to his side, his fingers shifting as he fought against shooting you. He knew as well as you did that you earned your right to stand there. Count Dooku put you both through the ringer—nearly killing you in the end—and in the end neither of you could argue against who belonged and who didn’t.

You both did in your own twisted way.

“How long until he’s ready to depart?”

That perked your attention. “Depart?”

“There’s been talk about an army—” He was cut off when the door opened, Count Dooku soon re-entering the hallway.

“Ah Jango Fett,” he said, ignoring you altogether. It didn’t phase you—not when this had been the case for years. “Have you come with news?”

“I have sir.”

Before he could begin telling the plans, Count Dooku turned to you—the look in his eyes clear. You were to leave them be. After all, hearing this conversation was not a part of your duty as a guard, and so with a stiff nod you walked down the hallway—your mind reeling. If the Republic was building an army that meant they must know what the Separatists were up to. As far as you knew you were the only spy and yet somehow they managed to figure out this information before you could relay it back to them. You couldn’t worry about the how though…not now. Not when one thing suddenly became vibrantly clear to you.

The coin had been flipped and it seemed your future had finally been decided.

Rushing down the hallway, you slipped outside and headed towards your quarters. If Count Dooku needed you back he would let you know through your comlink, but for now you had to send word to the Republic of what exactly was about to happen. If they didn’t know about the droid army…if somehow they didn’t know about Count Dooku being a Sith…they were screwed.

Fumbling with the lock on your door, you slipped into your room and rushed towards where your separate comlink was stored away. When you were given the mission to remain here, you created a literal hole in the wall of your quarters, the comlink being stuffed inside along with an extra blaster. In case you had to escape quickly in the night, you always kept a bag packed. Your Republic pin, still attached to an old jacket of yours that you used to own.

The familiar static met your ears once you flipped the switch to turn it on. You only had a finite amount of time before you were called back and so you did your best to rush things.

“This is an agent of the Republic. If anyone is listening…I have news about the Separatists.”

Exhaling, you clutched the comlink tightly in your palm, your ears keeping track of every shift and movement you heard on the outside of your quarters. If you were caught you would die. This you knew the moment you took the mission. Which is why you did your best to remain as careful as possible over the years. But how could you be careful about this? How could you not attempt to get back to the Republic after learning about what happened?

The constant static finally broke—someone’s voice coming through. “This is Obi-Wan Kenobi. What is your name?”

You felt as if all the breath was knocked out of you at the sound of his voice echoing back to you. Had you woken up in a dream? Surely, he wasn’t receiving your comlink, but someone else pretending to be him. Except then he came through again the same question of who this was now setting your brain back into motion. It was him… He was somehow close to Geonosis, which meant that maybe you weren’t entirely alone in this situation after all.

Scrambling with your comlink, you managed to get through again—the echo of footsteps coming down the hallway towards your quarters now louder than before.

“This is Astra…” Taking in a shaky breath, you didn’t wait for his response. “There’s talk of an army being built for the Separatists. They’re forming an alliance with Count Dooku as I speak. ”

“Astra,” his voice sounded softer now—as if he was in disbelief that you were on the other side of this call. “I tried to search for you on Coruscant—”

“There’s no time.” The footsteps were practically pounding in your head, the noise of them causing your hands to shake as you blurted out the rest of your information. “A larger droid army is being built to come after the Republic and I can’t—”

A loud bang on your door had you nearly leaping into the air from the sheer shock alone. With a shaky breath, you rushed to turn off the comlink, shoving it back into the hole before replacing the painting over it. Whatever happened now would be Obi-Wan’s choice and whether or not he could transmit a message in time. He couldn’t take on everyone alone, let alone with your help. Shifting, you opened the door to see Jango standing on the other side—his helmet now atop his head.

“Don’t tell me. We’re switching places,” you said.

A dry laugh echoed through the modulator. “You’re needed back.”

“What for?”

“It seems we’re going to have guests arriving soon.”

Fixing the cloak at your throat you attempted to remain as impassive as possible. “What guests?”

Jango shrugged. “Guards aren’t meant to know things like that. You’re only meant to stand there.”

“What a bunch of bantha shit,” you muttered, allowing him to walk on ahead of you. The longer you took the more time you would be able to give Obi-Wan to reach the planet's surface and get out word to whoever.

However, it seemed that even Count Dooku was able to piece together the puzzle that even you had trouble with. Coruscant and Geonosis were too many parsecs away to be able to travel it so quickly—which left the Jedi with the impossible task of getting here before things got out of hand. However, you already knew of one Jedi who was on the planet's surface and you could only hope that the people within this facility didn’t find out about him before you had a chance to track him down.

Jango led you down an unfamiliar hallway, towards where you figured Dooku would be. It looked darker than the others and while that didn’t exactly come off as odd, you were still keeping your guard up in case you weren’t actually being led to guard. He walked fast, your pace having to be hurried in order to catch up to him, but the sight of Viceroy Gunray standing beside Dooku made you pause.

You’d seen him here before. The fact that he was the one who worked with Dooku to assassinate Senator Amidala didn’t surprise you in the slightest. You’d always known they were in league together. However, the Republic didn’t and you’d pay good credits to see their reaction at finding out Count Dooku wasn’t who they thought he was.

“Welcome back Astra.” Dooku’s voice made your stomach turn.

“Sir,” you said.

The room held a circular table large enough for everyone to sit at and as you quickly took a scan of who sat where, you realized…they weren’t simply planning to take down the Republic. The plans projected in the center of the table made your chest tighten with fear. It looked like a planet in itself. Yet how could that be possible? You’d never heard of a planet that was made rather than formed by nature.

He doesn’t state where he’s going or why, he simply gestures to you—reminding you of your place.

Wherever they’re headed feels like it takes an eternity to get there. Although you wondered if that was merely your panicked mentality getting the better of you the longer you were there. Obi-Wan was in the facility somewhere. Yet getting to him felt like an impossible feat. He said he went looking for you on Coruscant…even after you left him and you had to shove down the ache in your chest. This job would only work if nothing interfered—that’s what you promised the Republic when you said yes—but the longer you tried to forget about what your heart wanted…the more you saw his blue eyes.

It seemed you couldn’t rid yourself of him even if you tried. He was engraved in your heart deeply, embedded in the very fibre of your bones.

“Look alive,” Jango muttered behind you as he took the lead, leaving you to trail behind—your blaster loosely dangling in your hand.

“Fucking bucket head,” you spit under your breath.

Thankfully everyone was far enough ahead of you to overlook the words you said more to yourself than anyone else. Every manner of curses were listed in alphabetical order in your mind while you walked, but then you felt it. The sharp tug on your cloak—stopping you for a brief moment. Your head swung to the left side of the corridor before you caught it, the sight that nearly stopped your heart. Obi-Wan was slotted between a gathering of wires, a slight smile tugging on his lips as he no doubt heard every thought in your head—an agreement passing from you to him.

He was here…he had found his way back to you.

Only your short reprieve of joy was short lived as you remembered the plan that was to be set in motion. Shaking your head at him, you shoved a single thought his way in the hopes that he was listening.

You need to go!

Unable to stop, you didn’t see his reaction to your words. He’d have to figure out where to hide until you were finally set free from your duties. However—you feared there wouldn’t be time to see one another again. Not after what you overheard and saw in the room. They were planning for something even greater than what you originally expected; greater than what the Republic believed.

“Wait here,” Jango’s voice rudely ripped you out of your own head as you were left to stand guard in a room with Dooku’s supposed guests.

They talked in a language you could not understand, which gave you a chance to gather your thoughts. Obi-Wan would no doubt be attempting to contact the Jedi Order at this time, explaining the situation. Except you could only hope that they arrived on time…before Dooku discovered the lone Jedi wandering his facility. There was nothing you could do. The Separatists truly believed that you were on their side; that your future lay with them and to break that trust now would be to sentence yourself to death.

You felt it before you heard it. The alarm in the room shook you to your core as your sense of calm went to utter shit within seconds. You weren’t sure how long you’d been standing there, but in that manner of time Obi-Wan had been found.

Glancing at the people in the room, you watched as their attention quickly turned to the hologram of Dooku in front of them. The door slid open—droids pushing you aside as they took over—and you didn’t hesitate to slip back out into the hallway. You knew where they would keep him, where Dooku usually kept his prisoners, but there’d be no way to get to him on time. Not when Jango Fett was coming around to your left, his blaster raised and aimed directly at you.

“I always knew it,” he spit out through the modulator.

“Knew what?” Perhaps if you remained calm you would make it out of here alive—preferably unscathed.

He dropped the blaster to his side, his arm slamming against your chest and shoving you back into the wall—the pressure on your throat light but firm. This was him reminding you as Dooku did of your place. He could kill you…easily. Yet he didn’t.

“You’re an agent of the Republic,” he hissed in a low tone as droids marched down the hallway.

“What and you aren’t?”

A dangerous question to ask at this time, but you couldn’t stop the smugness from spilling out into your voice. You knew what he did. The army he was going to tell Dooku about.

“What the fuck do you mean by that?”

Your lips quirked up. “Don’t tell me you helped create an entire army out of the goodness of your heart.”

Even though he still wore his helmet—you felt the shock go through his body. “How did you–”

“You may work for Dooku, but you and I both know you’ll take both sides if it comes down to it. You’re just like me, Fett.”

“We’re not alike,” he said even as the pressure on your throat became lighter. “You pledged your life to the Republic.”

“And I pledge it to the Separatists. You were there. I just want to see who wins and who loses before I take my true stance. Wouldn’t you do the same thing?”

His arm fell to his side, your words finally taking hold of his mind. Though they were outright blatant lies, you could see his demeanor shifting in the way he viewed you. No longer as a pitiful person who couldn’t defend themselves. But rather someone who saw the angle of both sides. Both light and dark and in between the balance that you stood in—just as he did. There was no one without the other, you knew that, and today the Jedi would win but tomorrow may turn out to be a different story.

“They found a Jedi,” he said—his voice back to normal. “One who followed me here. Do you know him?”

“What’s his name?” The panic set in your bones. You knew who they found, who was no doubt now sitting in Dooku’s prison.

“Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

You shook your head immediately. “Never heard of him.”

“Good,” Jango replied, his head turning to see the last of the droids out. “Because they’re sending him to the arena.”

Your heart plummeted. “What for?”

“Dooku wants a show.”

The beeping of his comlink cut him off before he could tell you the rest. Leaning back against the wall you barely caught the tail end of the conversation—the words Jedi and Senator all you heard—because your mind officially landed on the worst scenario. Not being able to see him again before all of this went down wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. No…that was beat by the thought of never seeing him again ever. They were going to kill the man you loved.

You could no longer think straight let alone act as if you were okay.

Jango left you alone, his new orders pulling him away as you tried to come to terms with one fact. Obi-Wan would be dead before the day was over and he’d never know how you truly feel about him. He’d die…thinking you left regretting that night.

“Obi-Wan you’ll be the death of me,” you whispered, fighting back the hot sting of tears that pricked your eyes. They were words you said to him at one point in your life, a joke meant to make him smile, but the gravity of their truth now pressed heavily on your shoulders.

There was no time to grieve your situation, no time to panic. All you were left with was the option to find him—to save him from his condemned future. Even if it killed you in the end.

They were tied to posts, awaiting their deaths and you never felt more helpless. The battle had begun as you rushed towards your place near Dooku, beside Jango. While a part of you felt relieved that Obi-Wan managed to get himself away from the post—attempting to take down the Acklay or at least run from it—another part of you felt your chest tighten with every passing second. This could be it. The cause of his death and you’d have no way to save him without destroying the cover you built for so long.

Shouts of glee echoed throughout the arena, frying your nerves and causing you to gasp at every turn. Obi-Wan managed to duck out of the way as his padawan and a senator were atop the back of the Reek. They would all be fine…they had to be. If not for your sake then the sake of the entire Republic.

Turning as a cry came from beside you, the glow of a purple lightsaber stopped you in your path. A flood of relief filled your veins at the sight. Only to realize…you were wearing armor that held the Separatist’s symbol. The Jedi didn’t know who you were—your cover so deep for a reason—which meant you’d be dead within seconds if you didn’t get out of there.

The Jedi turned to Dooku, his attention focused solely on him, and you quickly leaped over the railing of the balcony landing on the ground of the arena with a cry. A searing pain spread down your leg to your ankle, but you didn’t have time to dwell on it. The arena was slowly being filled with Dooku’s droid army and Jedi were starting their attacks. Yet even as you pulled your blaster out—pretending to look like you were on the opposite side—you were frantically searching for one man.

A lightsaber scraped against your armor, the metal thankfully blocking you from gaining a new scar. You had to move, get towards him, but he seemed rather busy fighting against droids that attempted to surround him.

“Obi-Wan!” you shouted, your voice swallowed by the shouts and screams around you.

Yet he still heard you—turning around within seconds and heading your way. It was the sight of a Jedi attempting to go after you that stopped him in his path. You were still undercover—still a soldier for the enemy—but neither of you could be parted for long. He knew that better than you. So…you ran. Ducked beneath the Jedi and headed towards him.

Blaster fire was coming from all directions, encasing you in a hell of what felt like your own making. This was it. This is what would kill you. It seemed only right after how you had treated your life and how many wrongs you did without any chance of righting them. Even you had to laugh at that realization. Except if this was it...why were you still fighting like you had a chance to escape? Why were you so adamant on the fact that you would make it out of this battlefield alive?

You knew why, and he stood feet away, dodging fire and swiping his lightsaber through the air towards a group of droids that looked to have been heading your way. Really they were going after the Jedi you escaped from.

He was the reason you were there in the first place. Watching as he twisted his weapon in a way that you could never understand, you caught your breath and prepared yourself to head back into battle one more time.

To everyone else it looked as though you were following orders from the enemy's side. Taking position to bring down the Republic, but to him it looked as though you were fighting only those that came your way. You said plain and simple that things were far more complicated than you could explain when you saw him again—his questions soon being silenced by your lips. Yet that wasn’t the truth at all.

Obi-Wan noticed it first when Anakin came hurtling towards you only to be kicked to the ground a hit from the butt of your blaster landing on his head. Enough to disarm, but not enough to wound or even cause long lasting harm. He would live with a headache for quite some time, but he would survive nonetheless. You claimed things were complicated, the records confirming your words, but he saw it clearly now. How your eyes lingered on him for longer than you possibly even noticed.

You were fighting for the Separatists to save the Republic.

It seemed that seeing the file, seeing you here, never quite struck him until now. You were truly an agent of both sides while still looking like the enemy, and he couldn’t stop himself from watching as you fought so fluidly he’d think you were holding a lightsaber.

You were brilliant, was the first thought that came to his mind. How you managed to live this way for so long, lie to those you cared for, lie to him, he would never know. It only took him seconds to realize…he loved you still, but that was soon erased from his mind when he noticed the predicament you were in. Taking on two Jedi at once and attempting to come out alive in the end. If he were to come to your aid it would be clear of what you were to him, how he longed for you. They would know that he’d broken his code and yet even as the shame ate away inside of him now—he didn’t care what they thought.

No, he did the only logical thing he could think of as droids came towards him for yet another attack.

He leaped in the air, taking the lead in front of the other Jedi—all who seemed to be lacking a blue saber—and signaled for them to give this fight to him. He was the warrior, trained in combat given the nature of his kyber crystal color, which is why it was no surprise that they took over in attacking the droids. Leaving you all to himself.

“Tell me,” he said, striking a parry at you in the hopes that he gave you enough time to dodge the simple attack. You did, grabbing for the blaster at your side that you knew had a slower release time. He’d be able to block the attacks from miles away without seeming like he was merely attempting to pass the time until he could get the both of you out of this arena. “Why didn’t I know about your allegiance with the Republic?”

His elbow slammed into your chest, forcing you to stumble backwards into the wall behind you, the blaster falling helplessly to the floor only to be kicked away. Pain lacing the spot for a few moments, before you were pushing that down as well. You barely heard his question over the sounds of the battle, but the words settled into your mind. Burrowing deep until there was no denying the fact that he knew what you were up to now. Your eyes widened in shock, but you only had a few seconds to process what was happening before he was bringing his lightsaber down in an attack that could potentially maim you.

Rolling out of the way you reached for a different discarded blaster on the ground and pulled the trigger without thinking. Never did you think that you would be fighting him of all people and yet it seemed fair due to your history. Each move was meticulously thought out within a short span of time, the battle soon morphing into a dance of two lovers. He lunged only for you to backtrack, finding your footing and using the armor attached to your forearms to protect you against the lightsaber.

Pure beskar. The Separatist’s liked to keep their weapons well protected.

“How did you find out?” you asked in a whispered breath once he was close enough. “My comlink call wasn’t what revealed it.”

His lightsaber was blocked by your metal, his face now close to your own. “I was sent to find an agent of the Republic and instead found the name…Astra. You used it. After all this time–” He stumbled back when you kicked towards his legs, shooting at him only to have it blocked.

“Ye–Yes after all this time.” Wincing from the small slice he managed to get towards the unprotected portion of your shoulder, you fell to one knee and fired three more shots his way. “Don’t tell me it was only that.”

He flipped away from the blaster fire that was sent his way. “You don’t always look at your enemies in such a reverent way do you, because if so—well—consider me jealous.”

You bit back the scoff that attempted to rise up. “Obi-Wan–” Grunting when his elbow slammed into your back, you tried to breathe through the pain. “You noticed?” you gasped.

Kicking his shin with enough force to send him to his knee you grappled for his lightsaber and watched in triumph as it flew through the air only for Anakin to catch it. Still that gave you enough time to wrangle him to the ground, your knee pressed to his neck and vibroblade—that had been attached to your thigh—ready to slice into his chest. You could do it. Easily enough. Lodge the weapon into his heart and be done with this constant pain that you lived through, but then you had to glance up at his face. Your eyes seeing the same emotions that waged war within your mind, reflected back at you through a brilliant blue.

“Dewdrop,” he breathed, fear nonexistent in his form, but rather being replaced by something else—an emotion too dark for even a Jedi to harbor. Desire, longing. “How could I not? When it’s how I look at you.”

The breath was knocked out of your lungs from his words alone, but it was the lightsaber going through your side that had you crying out in pain. Falling to the side you felt as if every nerve in your body was on fire. You realized in that split second that you only had a limited amount of time to tell him how you felt—how you’d always feel. Yet all you could think about was that stupid joke you had procured earlier.

This is how you would die, before the very man who you promised forever to years ago. Dying without righting any of the wrongs you had done.

Smiling briefly, your vision blurred as tears streamed down your cheeks. Someone was standing over you—the shadow of their figure felt like a comfort to you—only to realize that it was someone you knew well. An old friend you figured had been lost to you forever. Stretching out your hand you allowed yourself a moment for the smile on your lips to deepen, reaching your glassy eyes as someone called your name from a distance.

“Qui-Gon,” you breathed, head falling against the dirt covered floor. “I’ve missed you–” A searing pain in your side caused you to scream, a sob tearing through your chest and echoing in your ears.

Obi-Wan watched as ships descended from the sky and quickly ordered Anakin to grab your blaster and his lightsaber as he gathered you in his arms. He didn’t care if anyone saw him carrying a bounty hunter for the Separatists to safety. He would not leave you to fade away on this battlefield, not when you could be saved with some bacta and rest. Questions would arise about your relationship to him—why he was so insistent on saving you of all people—and he would give them their due diligence when the time came.

For now he was determined to keep you from leaving him again.

Your whisper of his former master’s name left him jarred to say the least, but that didn’t stop him from grabbing a kit in the corner of the ship as it took off into the air.

“You had to stab her?” he asked, the harsh words directed towards Anakin who offered his help in wrapping your other wound.

“She was about to stab you herself Master.”

“I had it under control.” Pressing the needle into your skin directly beneath the wound he injected the bacta into your system, focusing on controlling his emotions at the same time. Damn you and your recklessness, and yet he felt he must damn himself as well. For not paying attention to what was going on around him. Letting out a breath he turned to Anakin who was focused solely on making sure the bandage was tied properly around your shoulder. “Thank you,” he said, softer than before.

“You’re welcome, Master.”

Obi-Wan knew that a fight was to be had still, and the thought of leaving you here on this ship alone left him with a sour taste in his mouth. Except there was no getting around that fact. Running a hand down his face he nodded at Anakin to focus on something else as he rested for a few moments beside you. Watching as your eyes fluttered while you dreamed about who knows what.

“My darling dewdrop,” he whispered, pressing a hand to your cheek. “You do know how to drag me into trouble.”

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, savoring in the memory of your laugh echoing in the back of his mind. A moment of his past resurfacing for a moment as he fondly remembered what it was like for it to be the other way around. You’ll be the death of me Obi-Wan Kenobi. Words you had said on a whim years ago on Correlia now felt too real to the situation at hand. He wanted to deny it—say anything else would happen, but now, as he watched you fight for your life, he knew you had spoken the truth.

He would be the death of you.

Sooner than either of you wished.

#obi wan x reader #obi wan x you #obi wan x y/n #obi wan fic #obi wan kenobi #obi wan kenobi x fem!reader #obi wan kenobi x you #obi wan kenobi x reader #obi wan kenobi x y/n #star wars #my writing

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randomshyperson · 4 years ago

Text

Wanda Maximoff x Reader - Dating is still only about love

Summary: Based on the prompt received in AO3 "Reader is a lot like Bucky. Bucky saves Reader, and recruits him to the Avengers team. Reader and Wanda begin to develop a relationship, but it is shy and awkward because Reader is from 1940." ///////////// Read on AO3 too

Words: 3.914k (one) //

Warnings: 13+ Fluff and a bit of language, mentions of torture.

Notes: I think this turned out to be more about the 1940 reader in love than anything else, but I hope you enjoy it.

Part II (Special Smut request)

////////////

You are dancing to Glenn Miller in a bar in Brooklyn. Your parents would kill you if they saw you now, spinning in the arms of a stranger. But you laugh, and move your body to the music.

And then you see Bucky and Steve, entering the place, and you let go of your partner and run to hug them.

- Hi, boys! - You greet them with a smile that they respond to.

- Someone is cheerful. - Bucky jokes looking at your slightly alcoholic state.

You fake a serious expression.

- Are you implying that your superior is drunk, Sergeant Barnes?

Bucky laughs at your imitation of an authoritative voice, and you turn to Steve, who looks mildly annoyed.

- Hey, Rogers. Why the long face? - you ask, and he shrugs. You can tell by Bucky's expression. He had been rejected from the army again, and you let out a sigh and decide to cheer him up. - Come on, Steve! Let's dance!

You pull him by the hand before he can refuse. And eventually, he laughs. Bucky joins you next, and the three of you spin around the room, your steps out of sync as you laugh.

/-/

You try to move but there is something holding you to the surface where you are lying. And then you try to scream for help, but there is something in your mouth that prevents you from doing so.

You widen your eyes with surprise when a man dressed in white appears in your field of vision, and he fits something cold to your head.

You grumble against the tightness in your mouth, but he just gives you a mocking smile.

- Vital signs? - He speaks in German. You close your eyes tightly when a light goes on in front of you.

- Stable. - Says a second voice in the room that you don't know where it comes from.

- Good. You can apply now.

And then you feel your veins burn, and you scream, but your scream is muffled by the object in your mouth. The pain chokes you until you can't see anything anymore.

/-/

Someone is pulling you. You blink to regain consciousness, but it takes a long time. You are tired, but there is a feeling that is in your body that you don't know.

- Hey, Y/N. - You hear someone calling, and then you take a breath trying to remember. - Can you hear me? Can you walk?

- Bucky... - You grumble and accept the arm he offers you to get up. - Where the...?

- We don't have time, we need to get out of here.

And then you are running out of the compound where you were being held prisoner. Bucky is wearing the same clothes as you. And then you see Steve, but he looks nothing like the Steve you knew. This Steve is tall, and muscular, but still has the same gentle look as your friend. But you don't have time to ask.

-/-/

You haven't rested for a long time. But that's okay, you want to help your country win the war. You want to help Steve, and you believe in him. And so you and Bucky jump on a train for him.

- Watch out! - You warn your friends, and they just shrug as they smile.

And things go well for about five minutes, and then one of the Hydra soldiers has a gun pointed at Bucky, and the next second you are jumping on the man.

When Bucky goes to help you, a second man appears. A grenade explodes ripping out half the compartment and you hear a whistle in your ear. You manage to knock out the man who pinned you down, but then someone kicks you in the back out of the train. You grab the metal bar, and when Bucky is thrown out, you hold him fast.

You see Steve run up to you two, his hand outstretched in the air to reach you. And then the iron breaks and you both fall.

-/-/

You wake up in a jolt, in a cold sweat. And there are chains on your wrists. You let out an angry grunt.

No one tells you who these men who test you are. And every time you scream or try to free yourself, they inject something that makes you lethargic, and vulnerable. And then they electrocute your mind, and you forget any flash of memory that might appear.

As long as you don't remember who you are, you accept every command they give you.

-/-/

You use a pillar of the building next to you to protect yourself from gunfire. You are starting to get annoyed.

Your mission is to eliminate the Winter Soldier, or divergent soldier, as your leader has begun to call him.

But he is being particularly difficult to eliminate, especially since there is a man with a shield and a woman with a machine gun protecting him.

And then you use bombs, and disarm them. The men who came with you keep them busy while you run towards your target, and throw him to the ground with a blow to his ribs.

You arm your knife, but he gets up quickly, fending off every attack as skillfully as you do.

And then he hits you in the face, and your mask falls off. You have a gun pointed at his face next, but the completely shocked look on his face makes you hesitate.

- Y/N?

- I don't... - You find yourself talking, but then there is a second explosion that distracts you, and then the man disarms you.

You strike back, knocking him to the ground. But you run away, and on your way back to the Hydra establishments, you say that you have lost sight of him.

-/-/

You are being punished. Again. You've been failing a lot in your tests, and you've been unstable for weeks. You don't want to obey any of those people, you want to go back to the man on the road who knew you and ask him about your life.

And then there are shocks in your head, but you don't forget. And then they throw you into a cell, saying that the madness from hunger will take away any memory from you.

But then there are loud noises that you think are coming from bombs. And then the man in the road is in front of your cell, and he rips the door off with a metal arm, and reaches out to help you up.

-/-/

It takes time to get your memories back. But it happens. And you cry a lot when you remember everything.

You remember your hometown, your parents, your pet dog. You remember jogging down the street from your house, and playing ball with the kids. You remember punching a boy in the face because he pushed Steve Rogers off a swing. You remember delivering a frog you found on the sidewalk into Bucky Barnes' hand. You remember finding Bucky and Steve kissing in the alley behind your house and remember promising to keep it a secret when they cry.

You remember entering the US Army before Bucky. You remember the training, and the battles, and most of all the war. And then you feel your heart fill with warmth and longing when you remember the dances. So many parties where you went jazz dancing, most of them with Bucky and Steve.

You lose your breath when you remember Hydra. When you remember the experiments, and the murders. But Bucky holds your hand, and assures you that you are the same girl who danced with your two best friends at the prom even when the most handsome young man in high school asked for a dance, and assures you that you are not what Hydra wanted you to become. You repeat the same words to him, and you hold each other for a while.

-/-/

Bucky wants you to join the Avengers. He has been a member for a few months, and then he rescued you, and he doesn't want you to just hang around like him. He wants to help you, and he wants you to have a home.

When you nod in agreement, he hugs you.

-/-/

- Here is your room. - Said Bucky as he led you down a long hallway in the Avengers compound. He held your bag, even though you said there was no need for it.

You entered the space, and you let out an impressed hiss. It was definitely better than the motels and well, any place you had actually been sleeping in all these years.

- When you're ready, come meet the rest of the team. - He said as he left his suitcase on the bed. He flashes you a smile before leaving.

You look around, still impressed. It would be strange to call this place a home, but you were willing to give it a try. Besides this, your best friends were here. There was nothing to be scared of.

-/-/

You were wrong.

Everything was perfectly under control, you smiled and waved politely to all the Avengers, and even laughed at Tony Stark's jokes. And then you met Wanda Maximoff, leaving training and arriving late for your introduction to the team and looking absolutely stunning.

- Hi, sorry I'm late everybody. - She said as she entered the room. And then her gaze fell on you, and she gave an embarrassed smile as she held out her hand. - I'm Wanda, I think we're going to be door-mates.

Unable to form a coherent sentence, you just smiled awkwardly, shaking Wanda's hand, and hoping that she didn't think you were a complete idiot.

And then Bucky and Steve finished introducing you to the team, and everyone went back to their activities.

You let your gaze linger on Wanda, before quickly turning away, blushing. It was amazing how unlucky you were. You had barely arrived, and already you had a crush.

-/-/

Things are going well, you think. You got along with everyone on the team, you did well in practice, and you had a secret crush on Wanda. Maybe the last part wasn't so good, but you are optimistic.

You eventually realized that Wanda was quite anti-social, and didn't talk much with the other team members.

That might have made things difficult, because if she had a close friend, you could ask this friend to speak well of you.

You grumbled to yourself as you cooked your dinner. You were used to preparing your meals, and almost always the other avengers joined you. When the food started to smell, they appeared.

- Great! Y/N food. - Tony said as soon as he entered the room, and you giggled. You were stirring the sauce when Wanda came into the kitchen. She smiled at you as she walked towards you and you tried to hide your nervousness.

- Wow, this looks tasty. - She said, looking at the contents of the pot. You smiled, handing her the spoon in your hand. She then tasted some of the sauce, and let out a satisfied groan. You tried not to stare so hard at her lips. - This is delicious.

You just nodded with flushed cheeks, and Wanda gave you a curious look before turning toward the table.

You decided that you had better do something soon or she would think you were completely crazy.

And then that night, after dinner, you called Bucky up to your room.

- You have to help me with something! - you told him as you walked in. You slumped in your chair, tapping your feet on the floor in nervousness, and he sat down across from you.

- What was it? Did something happen? - he asked worriedly.

- I need to ask a girl out!

You look surprised. And then you laugh.

- I thought it was something bad. - He grumbles, leaning back in his chair.

- It's not bad, it's terrible! - You replied, running your hands through your hair. - I have no idea how to ask a girl out! In fact, I never knew how to ask anyone out. The boys did it in '36s.

Bucky laughs at your desperation, and you bury your face in your hands.

- Hey, calm down. - He says, straightening his posture and looking at you tenderly. - I swear dating is still as hard as it was in the 40s.

- Was that supposed to make me feel better? - You grumble as you take your face out of his hands and look at him. Bucky laughs.

- I was going to say that, regardless of the era, dating is still about liking someone. - He replies. - It's scary, but you can do it. Why don't you try inviting her over as a friend?

You stand thoughtfully for a moment.

- I don't understand. - You say. - How does the date work between friends?

Bucky laughed again.

- It's not a date, Y/N. - he says. - It's just a hangout among friends.

You frown.

- But I like her.

- Wow, you're difficult. - Bucky scoffs lightly. - People in this century go on unromantic walks together all the time.

- That sounds like a lie. - You retort with a smile, Bucky laughs. - And how will she know that I like her?

- You tell her.

You let out a nervous laugh.

- Worst possible idea. - You grumble as you throw your back into your chair. - Besides, I haven't seen you date anyone since '35. I think I'll ask someone else for advice. - You mock lightly, and Bucky rolls his eyes humorously.

- I've been busy. - he says. - By the way, have you ever seen what they call dating apps? It's creepy.

You laugh and nod, and Bucky moves to reach for his cell phone. He spends the rest of the day showing you how dating works in this century, and you laugh a lot.

-/-/

You made too much hot chocolate. Maybe it was on purpose.

What is relevant is that you are walking toward Wanda's room, carrying a mug for her.

Bucky was in the kitchen with you, and when he got some of the drink, he said that the opportunity for you to make conversation with Wanda was right in front of you.

So here you were, trying not to look so anxious as you knocked on the door.

When Wanda opened the door, she was wearing a sweatshirt and looked comfortable and very pretty. You thought you were staring, so you hurried to say:

- H-hi. I brought you some chocolate. - You say and Wanda looks surprised, but smiles.

- That's very sweet, thank you. - She says to you as she accepts the drink. You feel your cheeks heat up as your hands rub together for a brief moment.

And then a noise you knew well can be heard, and you let out a surprised exclamation.

- Wow, you like Sweet American Family? - you asked excitedly when you noticed the old sitcom you used to watch playing on the in-room television.

Wanda raised her eyebrow slightly in surprise, and then gave you space to enter the room, and your body just followed the cue automatically, too excited about the show, without really thinking that you were walking into Wanda's room.

- Do you know it? - She replies with surprise and you laugh as you approach the television.

- Of course I do! - you reply excitedly. - I used to watch it with my parents.

Wanda takes a sip of her drink while you stare at the television.

- Watch it with me, then.

It takes a second for you to register the invitation, and your heart races, but you nod with a smile, and watch Wanda sit on her own bed, and pat the duvet for you to join her. Trying not to look like a complete mess, you follow her.

You watch in silence for a few minutes, and a joke later you are used to Wanda's presence.

- So how accurate is this show? - She asks with a smile, leaving her mug on the small table. You sigh thoughtfully.

- Well, we didn't used to eat in our rooms. - You comment, watching the scene on television, and Wanda nods looking interested. - But they got the bad food right, and the tight clothes and weird social rules.

Wanda giggles and goes back to watching. And then the episode switches to a romantic scene, two teenagers talking at school.

- Wow, that was scary. - You comment watching the boy try to invite the girl for a walk.

Wanda looks at you curiously, wanting to know more. You smile.

- The kids used to wait for us in between classes. - You tell her. - And they were very obvious about it. Usually the whole school knew that you were going on a date with someone.

- Have you been on many dates?

You giggle.

- I didn't like the boys at my high school very much. - You confess. - But I liked to dance. And so they called me to dances, and I said yes. And then I was enlisted, and I started hanging out with the soldiers. It was fun.

- Sounds like great. - She comments with a smile. - In a way, it seems like it was easier.

You let out a surprised exclamation, laughing lightly.

- Wanda, no way! - You respond with humor. - It was horrible! Scary! And all the dates were ultra official, and people expected you to be engaged! Bucky told me that nowadays people go out as friends? That is impressive.

Wanda laughs, and leans on the bed crossing her legs and turning completely toward you.

- But people aren't as romantic as they used to be! - she smiles back. You imitate her position, while you ignore the TV show to talk. - No one seems anxious or shy about going out anymore. There are no flowers, or requests to hold your hand. People just text you to get laid.

You feel your cheeks heat up a little, but laugh at the comment. And then you have an idea.

- I would like to invite you to something. - You say, surprising Wanda suddenly. You swallow your nervousness. - A proper evening out, like the one you saw on TV.

-W-what?

- A date, Wanda. - You clarify with a blush. - But it's okay if you don't want to...

- I do. - She interrupts with a shy smile. - I'd love to go for on a date with you.

You smile, looking away. And the credits music for the episode begins to rise.

- When do you want to go? - you ask her, twiddling your fingers nervously.

- As soon as possible, I'm excited. - She says with a smile, and you let out a giggle. Then you get out of bed.

- Okay, then, Miss Maximoff. - you say with a smile. - I need time to organize this, so I'll pick you up here in your room tomorrow at seven?

- Sounds great. - Wanda agrees with a smile.

You nod slightly before leaving the room. When you are walking down the hallway, you can't stop smiling.

-/-/

Wanda was wearing a simple, blue dress in the same 40s style when you picked her up. You choked in surprise, thinking she looked absolutely stunning. And she blushed and thanked you when you told her so.

Tony lent you one of his classic cars, and you drove to the sounds of old jazz toward the carnival that was set up in town that week. You didn't notice Wanda looking at you as you hummed the song.

The park was very busy, and they had many entertainment options, but you made sure to ask what Wanda wanted to do.

You competed in the bumper cars and laughed every time your cars hit each other. Wanda threw her head back laughing, and everything seemed to go in slow motion with the image.

And then you went on several other attractions, and then she pointed to the Ferris wheel.

You both let out excited sighs as the cabin began to rise.

- Wow, this is amazing! - She commented excitedly, you agreed as you looked down, seeing the ground getting farther and farther away.

- The Ferris wheels were smaller. - You say, and Wanda lets out a giggle.

- Are you going to tell me you are afraid of heights now?

You laugh lightly and look at Wanda.

- If I had, and I had accepted your invitation, would I look braver? - You retort sheepishly. Wanda bites her lip thoughtfully, but still smiles.

- Why does it matter, are you trying to impress me?

You look away in surprise, and feel your cheeks heat up. Well, Bucky had told you to be honest after all.

- Only if it's working. - You retort with a slight insecurity in your voice. Wanda smiles though.

- Oh, believe me. It's working very well. - She answers finally, and then you two are on the top.

You try not to blush so much at Wanda's affirmation, and you bite back the smile on your lips. And then she asks you about the dances of your day, and you almost forget to be nervous.

And then you walked side by side off the Ferris wheel, and you took her to see the shooting games, and when you hit all the targets, she whispered that being a trained sniper should be considered cheating. You won many tickets, and you carried the big teddy bear you won for Wanda.

You take her to eat cotton candy, and you laugh as you share the flavors. And then you think you have seen all the toys and are walking back to the car, smiling.

Wanda keeps the teddy inside the back seat, but doesn't get into the vehicle. From your position, the distant light of the Ferris wheel partially illuminates the parking lot, and Wanda's green orbs catch your eye.

- Did you enjoy the evening, Wanda? - you ask her as you approach. She is leaning on the car door, and smiles at you tenderly.

- I loved it. - She confesses. - I didn't want to leave.

You chuckle shyly, looking down at your shoes.

- We can do it again. - You say. - I could take you dancing.

Wanda lets out an excited exclamation.

- Please, I'd love to. - She says, smiling. You think your heart will explode with happiness.

You are silent for a moment, and then Wanda straightens her posture, slightly shy.

- I think we missed something on our walk.

- What? - You look at her anxiously, but Wanda smiles tenderly.

- You didn't ask to hold my hand.

You let out a shy little laugh, coming closer. You stop a step away from Wanda, and hold out your hands. Wanda smiles, and raises her hands to yours. You let your hands fall together at the front of your bodies, waving them lightly as you kept they together.

- How did these walks used to end? - Wanda asks softly, you think that the closeness is preventing you from thinking correctly.

- I would lead you to your front door. - You say. - And you would decide if I deserve a kiss on the cheek.

Wanda smiles, blushing. She looks away quickly, and sighs lightly. You were going to ask if everything was okay, but her sentence makes your mind shut down.

- I want to kiss you now. - she confesses. And then she brings your faces together until your foreheads rest against each other. - Is that okay?

- Yes.

And then the distance is broken. Wanda kisses you on the mouth gently, and you sigh at the sensation. You think that maybe you shouldn't kiss like that on a first date, but your tongue asks for passage and Wanda accepts. And then you have her pressed against the car.

It feels good, and it makes your heart race, and it's the best you've felt since 1940.

#wanda maximoff #wanda x reader #wanda x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wandaxyou #wandaxreader #marvel imagines #oneshot

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damiano-mylove · 3 years ago

Text

Condescending Bitch

Pairing: Thomas Raggi x reader

Wc: 2.5k

Cw(s): swearing, kissing, crying, probably typos (as per usual, tell me if it sucks)

Summary: Reader breaks up with their boyfriend and Thomas consoles them.

Masterlist

If honesty be a virtue, you'd be virtuous to plainly say you'd fallen out of love with your boyfriend and you had done so a while ago. It wasn't deliberate, it was a gradual fizz wherein you found your heart warming for someone else. You felt horrible about it and that guilt had been eating at you. There was no cheating, but you didn't think you'd be able to avoid it for much longer. Not to mention, it wasn't only the non-existent feelings, Luca was just an asshole when you weren't blinded by love.

There comes a time where one must throw in the towel, and now was that time for you.

You couldn't do it at a restaurant; knowing Luca, he'd cause a scene. You couldn't do it at some meeting place; it would ruin that place forever and ever to both of you. And that shit's just not fair.

In the end, you couldn't make the decision. So you put every single item of Luca's clothing in a bag (and a couple things he'd left around your flat), and drove over to his house while you still had the nerve. You'd gathered and lost the nerve a couple times before, but the plan was already in motion now. Hell, there was no plan, but whatever you were raring to do was up and running.

You drove straight to Luca's mother's house in record time. Time flies when you're laser focused.

"Y/n!" Luca's mother exclaimed joyfully as you entered the kind looking house. How someone like Luca came out of Mrs. Batali was a wonder in and of itself. Once Mrs. Batali spotted the bag in your hand, she frowned. "Has something happened, Bambino?"

Somehow, the hardest part of this breakup would be bidding goodbye to Luca's mother, and not Luca himself. You sighed, "I'm sorry, Signora. Luca and I have been having issues for a while now."

"Oh, don't be sorry, Bambino." The older lady's kind smile returned to her face, which struck a heart string you hadn't even known existed. Mrs. Batali swayed toward you, in all of her vanilla scented goodness. She hugged you around your neck loosely, which you returned around her wide hips. "You're always welcome for dinner and a roof. Don't let the stupid boy stop you from seeing me."

God gave two gifts to this world; one of them was Mrs. Batali.

A smile cracked across your face as your chest continued to tighten and hurt. You loved this family like your own, and you loved Luca at some point. So many memories were made in the throws of this relationship, and it was all going to be thrown out the window by you. But it was too late now.

"Ti amo." Mrs. Batali placed a kiss to your forehead which made your smile even more genuine. She patted your shoulder, finally releasing you from her motherly grasp. Sadly, she raised her arm to the stairs to Luca's bedroom. "I'll be down here, if you need me."

You smiled once more to the older lady and bowed your head in silent thanks. If you uttered a word, the word would lead to tears. It seemed the two of you knew this.

It was the last thing you wanted to do right now, but you had to seal the deal.

Without your consent, your feet began moving toward the stairs then up the stairs. Your heart beat in sickening rhythm with your footsteps, but your heart seemed more heavy than your feet. It was ridiculous. You were ready to throw up, pee, or meltdown - you didn't know which one, if it was one at all.

At long last, after walking down the longest hallway of your life, you stood in front of Luca's closed door. You remembered all the times you'd breeze in, going straight into Luca's arms for a kiss. His breath wasn't always good and he was a bad kisser, but he made you feel infatuation. Now it only seemed a fraction of what you felt for the other person. Yes, God, that was why you had to do this.

You knocked. Your heart was deafening.

"Come in!"

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You pushed open the door, feeling like you were having a heart attack. Luca smiled brightly at you from the light of his computer. Then he laid eyes on the bag. Don't know how, it was dark as fuck in the room. And smelt of cheap body spray and dirty clothes.

"Hey, Babe, I wasn't expecting you," Luca smiled, trying to act off the bag of his clothes and gifts in your hand. You flicked on the light as he stood up to close the door behind you.

This room is fucking disgusting. It was truly noxious.

"Alright, Luca, sit down, we've got to talk," you told him, putting on your bravest and thickest voice. It worked because the air in the room changed. The air grew thick and impossible to breath. It could've been cut with a knife. Luca sat on his bed, hands in his lap. You placed the bag on the ground and sighed, "We're breaking up."

For a second, he was unresponsive. Luca didn't say a word until he looked you in the eye, what felt like a full minute later. His bottom lip quivered. "You're dumping me?"

"You can tell people you dumped me, I don't mind," you quipped, trying to make the situation better. You did not, in fact, make the situation better. You potentially made it about thirteen times worse.

"No, you're not." Luca stood up again. Your breath caught in your throat. "We're not breaking up."

He took a few quick steps to you. You stood your ground, trying to be as brave as possible. Your mask was slipping. The last thing you wanted right now was for Luca to see that you were cracking under his gaze. That would be fucking horrendous.

All of a sudden, Luca barked out a laugh. He looked like a madman. "This is about that Thomas bitch, isn't it?" You didn't answer, and your facial expressions gave nothing away. Then Luca snapped, "Isn't it?!"

"If you want to fucking shout, we can shout," you seethed. Luca blinked angrily at you. "We're adults - act like it."

"You're a condescending bitch."

"And you're an ugly prick, but I've never complained about that. You've called me a condescending bitch about 3 times and a flat-out bitch more than a dozen," you recalled quickly, with venom dripping off each syllable. It shut Luca up. However, he began to cry. You felt nothing but hatred now. "You're one pathetic bitch to be crying over the girl who you treat like a fucking doormat." Luca only cried harder. No sympathy. You spun on your heel and opened the door.

Without a glance back, you left.

Mrs. Batali smiled at you on your way out and gave you a freshly baked bun, which you thanked her profusely for.

It didn't take long for reality to set in, however. The adrenaline faded as you drove back to your flat complex. You began crying at the wheel and completely broke down in the car park. Tears streamed down your face like rivers, snot clogged your nose. Your mouth tasted horrible so you started to eat the bun Mrs. Batali had baked. It was so good that you started crying harder.

How the fuck could you do that? At this point, you were too sad to give a fuck about sobbing in a car park at 6 in the evening. You just threw in the towel of a year long relationship, in the blink of an eye. Like it was nothing and meant nothing to you whatsoever, which wasn't true at all. You felt like a horrible person.

Your chest clogged up with emotions and stale air, your throat grew a lump that you couldn't swallow down. Now you were the pathetic one. Crying in a shitbox car over your ex while eating fucking bread.

A tap on the window scared the Jesus out of you.

When you looked at the source, the other person was looking right back at you, looking worried and confused. Leave it to Thomas to look sad just because you were sad. Thomas looked so fucking good even though a blur of teary eyelashes. He made the hand crank motion, so you rolled down your window.

"Are you okay?" Thomas asked. You just started laughing. What a stupid fucking question. Thomas began chuckling, realizing how stupid it was himself. "Fair enough. Fancy a cup of tea and a chat or shall I leave you to your car bread?"

How the fuck could he make you laugh in times like these?

You smiled then shooed him away from your car door so you could open it. He obliged and moved back, for you to get out, still with bread and keys in hand. Thomas furrowed his eyebrows as you two began walking back to the flat complex you both lived in. "Aren't you going to roll up the window?"

"How the fuck is anyone meant to steal it when all the windows are up?" It was your turn to earn a laugh from Thomas. Thomas' laugh hit your ear like honey. The sort of honey that your mother gave you to cure your sore throat before nursery. It was soothing and just the right thing for the situation.

As you walked up the stairs with Thomas, you realized he was taking you to his flat. To be fair, he was the one who offered you tea. What's he going to do? Offer you your own tea?

Thomas unlocked the ugly blue door of his flat that everyone in the building had a copy of. The second you both walked into the flat, warmth enveloped you, along with sandalwood and spices from Thomas' extensive spice cabinet. He must have been cooking earlier because it smelt Heavenly. Everything was in perfect place with just the right amount of mess and disorganization to make it seem like a home.

"I'll put the kettle on, sit anywhere," Thomas instructed after you both took your shoes off. You were wearing ratty trainers while Thomas was wearing perfectly clean Vans.

You nodded and flung yourself on one of his couches with a sigh. The couch was soft, warm and welcoming and you felt tired from crying and yelling and just the day in general. It was a shit day, that started with your toast burning and ended with this shit. A nap would really do good.

However, Thomas had other plans entirely. He placed a purple mug, full of tea with what looked like your golden ratio of milk and sugar. Thomas was your best friend, of course he knew your golden ration. You knew his. With a smile, you sat up which allowed Thomas to sit beside you and drape his arm over the back of the couch.

"Feel like telling me why you were crying in your car?" Thomas asked. You laughed lightly and sipped the piping hot tea.

"Broke up with Luca about-" you checked a clock. "-30 minutes ago."

As horrible as it sounds, Thomas' face lit up. His facial features remained the same but his beautiful green eyes lit up like candles in a dark room. "Is that so?"

"He called me a condescending bitch."

"So he hasn't gotten a new script," Thomas smiled. You chuckled lightly and sniffed. Your nose was still clogged from all the crying. You just didn't feel like blowing your nose like an elephant in front of Thomas right now. "He'll never get the chance to get a new script for you now."

"Thank God above," you sighed out with a laugh to your words. Thomas smiled. "I'll miss his mum though. Wonderful lady."

Thomas sipped his own tea and you discretely moved closer to him. It wasn't as discrete as you'd thought because Thomas picked up and moved a bit closer to you with a stupid smile on his face. "So how'd it go down?"

Like friends do, you told him everything, down to the detail. All but Luca being right, with Thomas being the other man who'd stolen your heart. That wouldn't be a key detail here because the last thing you needed today was to dump your boyfriend then directly after scare your best friend away from you forever.

But he wasn't scared off by you telling him Luca though you were leaving him for Thomas. Thomas actually smirked at that part, like the thought amused him. You didn't think anything of it actually, except for how cute Thomas was when he was smirking.

Eventually, the conversation faded and you were hip to hip with Thomas. With a sigh, he rested your head in the crook of Thomas' neck. His feather soft hair tickled the side of your face but you wanted nothing else for the moment. The scent of Thomas' cologne was prominent when you were this close to him, but you weren't going to complain about that. His arm fell from the back of the couch to around your shoulders.

Feeling Thomas' head turn to you, you looked up at him. Thomas' hand lightly squeezed you arm. Your breath hitched in your throat as you thought you were imagining Thomas observing your face.

Those gorgeous green eyes that you could stare into all day were scanning your face gently. They landed on your lush lips, then back to your eyes. All it took was a small nod for Thomas to lean in.

It was slow. It was slow, but undeniably sweet. The passion was palpable the minute your lips met his, just as you had been dreaming of for months now. His pillow-like lips were perfectly moisturized, but not over-saturated. The lip balm he used was strawberry flavoured and you'd never admired strawberry flavoured lip balm as you were in this moment.

As suddenly as it began, it ended.

Thomas leaned back for a second, looking guilty. "You need time to get over Luca, this is wrong."

"I've been over Luca for months." You placed a kiss to his lips, which Thomas accepted for a second, then backed out of again. You groaned. "Thomas, Luca was right. I'm in love with you."

In a stunned silence, Thomas' cheeks turned bright red. A broad smile grew on his face and you felt confident in your confession. You meant it, surely, but now you were confident that you did the right thing in telling Thomas.

"I've been in love with you since we went to the Capitoline." Thomas' voice cracked as he made his confession. Your heart bustled with warmth. He'd been pining for you all this time just to watch you run with Luca.

You couldn't take your aching heart. Grabbing Thomas' face gently, you pressed your lips to his again. He gladly returned this kiss with fervour and renewed zeal. Nothing else mattered while your lips were joined with Thomas' lips. Nothing would ever be able to induce the utter happiness and peace you'd felt in this moment.

After the kiss lasting for a while, Thomas pulled you to sit on his lap. He cupped your sweet face gently and smiled into your brilliant eyes. He kissed your nose. "May I tell you something else, Y/n?"

"Anything."

"I don't think you're a condescending bitch."

#måneskin #maneskin #thomas raggi #thomas maneskin #thomas raggi x reader #thomas raggi fanfiction #manskin fanfiction #x reader

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sirthisisa-wendys · 3 years ago

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Spoils of War (Part 7): Ran Haitani x Fem!Reader

wc: 1.4k

tw: NSFW

previous chapter ⟽ masterlist ⟾ next chapter

song recommendation:

The dawn finds you in the arms of your lover, eyes shut and breathing even. With a touch of warmth from the rising sun, you feel your stiff joints stir into motion, bringing you out of your torpor and back to life.

Your hips remind you of the night before, the ache running through your nerves like a bad memory of something you desired so much. Wanted so bad.

You wanted it so bad that you even woke Ran out of his sleep, your mouth trailing below his waist and to parts you'd only dared to allow him to guide. But the way he grabbed your hair and hissed was so divine, so sinful that you'd swallowed him down gladly. Every second there was well spent, and your reward was even better when Ran got his hands on your hips.

"Mmmmm..." Speaking of that same devil, he rolls onto his back briefly, grunting before curling himself behind you again, cradling your figure in his arms like a breakable treasure he'd sought after for years. "How do you feel, my love?"

Why is it when he's asleep you can muster the courage, you can manage to be seductive and think about your trysts without shame, but the second Ran comes to life, you're thrust into the shadow of nervousness?

"I feel fine..." you breathe, heart pattering under his palm. "Just a little sore." Ran hums gently, kissing your neck - his favorite spot to attack, it seems.

"Need me to help you around today?" You bristle at the thought of maids seeing you cling to Ran, his obvious skill in bed displayed in the way you can barely walk.

"No," you whisper, sitting up slowly. "I'm fine." You leave Ran in the bed, dragging yourself to the bathroom as gently as possible without knocking your hips around.

"Today's the sacrifice," Ran announces, walking in behind you. "You'll find that there are a lot of things you might not be used to seeing, but I know you can handle it."

_____________________________________________________________

Blood.

A river of dark red, almost black blood flows from the slain, unblemished ox and into a wide-rimmed bowl, filling it until the container can take no more.

And Ran stands with the knife in his blood-covered hands, splattered in it from his head to his bare waist. Your obvious shock was attended to by Rindou, who placed a hand on your shoulder and said, "This is how things are."

But Senju explains the purpose to you moments later, her mouth curled up into a wide smile. "It's an offering to the gods for a fruitful marriage. The unblemished ox represents the new marriage. The blood is the life of it, and everyone is affected by its success."

Even worse, Rindou takes the bowl and dips a hyssop plant into it, standing on the dais and flicking it twice. All of the elite members gathered got at least a speck of blood on them the first time, and the second time, everyone had two or more splatters. You flinch, feeling the blood running down your face and chest since you were in the first row, but this is a ritual that is required, so you bear it with no complaints. The second part comes as a surprise, though.

You're ushered into a raised tent right outside the field where you were covered in blood and musicians await you and the other's arrival, ready to play at any moment.

"Sit right here," Ran urges you, grabbing your hand with his bloody one. "Next to me." You oblige, taking a seat in the grass slowly. Your hips scream out in pain from the night before, but you grin and bear it, leaning into Ran for support.

Rindou enters the tent once everyone is seated in a circle, his hands full with a bowl of something that's not blood, thankfully. And starting with Taiju, he passes the bowl around, each person taking an item out and eating it. Ran's eyes shimmer with excitement at the vision of the offering, his fingers digging around the bowl of brown shriveled things before plucking two fat ones out and handing one to you.

"What is this?" you whisper, examining the thing with curiosity.

"It's a plant we eat to be close to the gods," Ran replies excitedly. "This only happens once a year, but every second is magical. Eat it, and you'll see."

Close to the gods...

You place the plant in your mouth and bite down, the earthy texture making you frown and almost gag. You swallow it down with a little effort, though, and watch the musicians begin to play a slow, grounding tune. Ran pulls you close to him, pressing a tender kiss into your hair before humming along.

The effects waste no time settling in.

First, the world becomes a little less... sharp. Things have fuzzy edges, swirling patterns of fabric, and even Taiju's hair seems to dance a little to the beat of the music.

Then the music becomes colors. Pinks, blues, greens, yellows... every note that is played becomes color and fills the room.

"Ran," you whisper, eyes glued to the menagerie in front of you. "Ran, the colors--" Ran doesn't answer you; his eyes are closed, fingers tightening on your shoulder. And when you turn back to the scene before you, the musicians fade away slowly into darkness.

Your eyes flutter shut while your head leans back, the world fading into complete black and night.

_____________________________________________________________

"You can't catch me!"

Your feet slam against the grass as you follow the voice of someone you know, running around the knoll without a care in the world.

It's evening, and as your vision adjusts, you can see the blonde hair of the child ahead of you. Footsteps echo behind you, and you feel adrenaline eating at your synapses like you're about to take off and shoot into the sky.

"Y/n! Bet you can't climb a tree!"

"Bet I can!" you exclaim, stopping as you watch the blonde boy pull himself up by the low-hanging branches.

"Hey, wait!" A voice calls out behind you, but you pay it no mind. The face of the boy ahead of you is barely visible past the large leaves, but you know him very well. You would even gather that you're friends, and the voice behind you is that of a friend as well.

The boy above blows a raspberry at you as you climb, hands steadying themselves on each branch. You even get close enough to reach for the boy's ankle, but as you stand on the branch and lift up on your toes, you hear a loud snap.

Your screams precede the fall, and the fall precedes the harsh jarring of your head against the root of the tree, and the jarring precedes the blacking out.

_____________________________________________________________

You jerk awake, panting heavily in the semi-darkness. Your head hurts, your face hurts, but you shake the bad dream off, adjusting to your surroundings once more.

You're in your bed, slightly uncovered and sweating, but alone nonetheless. Last you remember, you were in the tent with Ran and the others, so how...

There's not enough strength in your bones to move from your seated position, and you feel some sort of dismay at missing out on the rest of the ritual. Had you blacked out? Or did you fall asleep?

A shifting sound by the door catches your attention, and the door creaks open slowly. Ran slides through the opening with a serious face, but when he sees that. you're awake, he brightens up immediately.

"Hey," he coos, walking to your slide slowly. "How are you feeling?"

"My head hurts," you admit, rubbing the back of your neck where you'd felt the jarring sensation in your dream. "Had a really bad dream, too."

Ran looks over at you with concern in his violet eyes before raising his brow. "Would you like to talk about it?" You clear your throat, trying to decide whether or not you should even mention what you dreamed about.

"I dreamt about..." You pause, looking away. "I dreamt about falling out of the tree." Ran straightens up a little, then wipes his face with one hand.

"So, you remember now."

"Only a little bit," you answer. The air between you stills, and for a second, you wonder if you made the right choice to tell Ran at all.

"That means the spell is weakening."

"Spell?" You look at him suddenly, furrowing your brows. "What spell?"

"The one that's keeping you alive."

#ran haitani x reader #ran haitani #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo revengers #tokyorev x reader #tokyo revengers smut #tokyorev smut #Spotify

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marvelyhp · 3 years ago

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Still you

Chapter one: Lion's den

Sypnosis: Y/n decides to help the avengers despite their betrayal two years prior and her life makes a big shift once again.

pairing: Y/n x Bucky Barnes and some Y/n x Sam Wilson

word count: 3,452

warning: slight mention of sex, cursing.

note: I have this idea for a mini-series but I'm not sure if it will be liked so I guess I'll see where it goes. constructive criticism welcomed :)

Side note: if anyone wants to be tagged, you can leave a comment or message me :)

_______________

My knife pierced the air. A hand grabbed my wrist before I could strike the skin with the blade. The attacker threw me aside, spiraling me around. With my hand still in his grip, my left hand shot out to hit him on the temple. A grunt was heard from what I knew to be a man.

A hand collided with my ribs as they released my right hand. The air in my lungs was momentarily thin when there was pressure behind my knees, causing them to buckle. I refused to go down alone. My hand shot out to grab his neck in the dark, a small smile of triumph emerged on my face as I grabbed it. A mess of grunting and shortness of breath mixed with the sound of our bodies landing heavily on the ground. Rolling over while holding him tightly, I managed to get on top of his heavy build. My legs were spread beside his hips, sighing against the floor as my left hand pressed against his chest to prop myself up. I quickly pressed the kitchen knife in my right hand against his throat. I narrowed my eyes, trying to focus on my attacker's face despite the lack of light in the living room.

I was panting when I could place the color on his eyes. Steely blue orbs stared back at me, an emotion I couldn't decipher was shining deep. Sweat ran down his eyebrows and perspiration glistened on his forehead. There I was, staring at the man I'd thought of for two years. I held his gaze, unable to look away and so did he. However, I was the first to break eye contact as my eyes roamed over his face, finally pausing on the lush curve of his lips. They were slightly open, breathing heavily. I hoped to hide how my breath caught, looking away when the images of his mouth doing more than breathing interrupted my mind. I tried to think about everything that had happened to recapture the initial hatred and disdain I felt for the man in front of me two years ago.

I noticed the way his hand was bent in front of our bodies, a clear sign of defeat as he breathed rapidly from the struggle, just like me. I looked into his eyes once more as I thought about the precarious position we were both in. However, I did not move. The trust between him and I had been broken a long time ago, something my body would have to understand. I couldn’t trust him and I would never do so again. Just when I thought we were alone, another voice came from the apartment's voice.

"That's why I told you to go first, Manchurian Candidate. She always had a soft spot for you. See, Romanoff?" Tony Stark's irritating voice invaded my living room. The sound of his voice interrupting the fantasies I was engaging in my head. Annoyance coated my mood knowing who was in the house and the fact that someone else was on the line, listening and probably seeing everything. I so didn't miss this. I flatly ignored any kind of indication that he was standing near me while still staring at Bucky's face. Taking him in for the first time in two years.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, confusion and irritation filling my tone. It was mostly irritation since they broke into my apartment, in the middle of the night during the best sleep I've had in a while. Yes, I was definitely annoyed. I looked at James, who was still pinned under the weight of my body. A weight I was sure he could flip at any time if he wanted. I resisted the urge to snarl.

"We came because we need your help." Of course, they did. Why else would they come? I fought the unpleasant feelings that threatened to resurface and just stared at him. His breathing had slowed down from the strain earlier. So did mine. I noticed that our chests were moving at the same rhythm and part of me asked if it had anything to do with us, with how well our bodies knew each other. If they remembered what I thought had happened. I tried to focus on his responses rather than the way his warmth felt against my core, the skin of my thighs, and my hand pressing against his chest. Instead of the way the curve of his body felt against mine. Instead of his lips and the way they felt on my skin, tracing every inch of me. My right hand pressed against his stomach, the feel of his hard muscles and the heat seeping through my skin made me hyper-aware of our position. I mentally slapped myself before letting a humorless laugh escape my lips. I noticed the way his eyes focused on me.

"Why didn't you knock?" I cussed myself. After all this time they come looking for me, just for help and the first thing I tell them is to knock on the door. It was a ridiculous remark because even if they had, I wouldn't have opened the door. I had to give them credit. They remembered quite well how angry I left the compound. On top of that, they remembered enough about me to know that I didn't trust anyone enough to open any damn doors. Well, if I was giving away credits, some could be given to Stark. It was a smart move to put Bucky in the lead because as much as he hurt me, I could never hurt him. Oh, and how I tried that day. I had two years to think about what occurred, to think about everything. I tried to hate him and I failed miserably. I tried to forget it and it never worked. I could never forget that he had been the only one who had not treated me as a threat or maybe he only thought so. He knew what I had been getting off from. Either way, it didn’t matter. Stark would’ve been stabbed for sure.

"Would you have opened it?" The question came in a mocking tone. I became alert when his right hand took mine, pulling the dagger away from his neck. I forbid myself to feel any kind of sympathy when I saw a thin red cut where my dagger had been, a single drop draping at the end. I was ripped out of my thoughts when my breathing hitched. His left hand brushed the bottom of my thigh, hidden out of Tony's sight. My breath caught in my throat as his hand settled on my smooth skin, his fingertips digging into my thigh.

"No, probably not." My voice came calmer than I thought. Even then, I realized that he was out of breath and I hated myself for it. how conscious I was of him. The skin under his palm was burning, a blazing trail following his every move, every touch. The hotness was beginning to spread the more he gripped my skin. My breathing became more and more erratic once his hand started rubbing the outer part.

"Well, that's enough lovebirds." Tony's voice shifted me back to where I was and the situation surrounding us. So, I did what I should have done a while ago. I sprung up from his body, welcoming the cold rush of air I felt cooling the hotness of my skin. The hand he used to rub me was now rubbing the cut on his neck gently. I turned to flick the light, the brightness stinging my eyes for a second before I turned my head towards Bucky.

In a swift movement, he was standing beside me. The ocean of his eyes looking straight into me. Memories of us invaded my brain before a deep disdain grew in my chest. I ignored every emotion that I didn’t understand —neither cared to— swimming in his eyes. I cursed myself as my body still felt flushed with the way he looked at me. A warm sensation pooling in my lower abdomen. I looked away, a scowl creeping onto my face as I laid eyes on Stark´s form. Everything I felt and desired to forget was whisked away by it, my hate for Stark coming in full bloom.

I couldn't help but distort my face in a frown. He had undervalued and underestimated me so many times before I had no more sympathy for the mortal. I never pondered why I had faith he would ever consider me part of his team, of his family. I clearly tried giving too much compassion to the human race.

“You want my help? You?” my finger pointed towards the red and gold suit standing in the corner of my dining space. A snort flew past my lips as a humorless laugh came deep from within my chest. This definitely had to be an emergency. That, or the man was a masochist and he finally discovered what makes him tick after two years.

“Believe me, failed human, I’m not happy about this. However, I do accept you’re the only one, besides Wanda, able to kill enemies with a wider range.” He looked physically hurt to be saying the last part. He had never been good at admitting things about people he never liked.

I kept my face impassive but the truth of how I felt when I heard those words was different. I was suddenly taken back to the times where this was a daily occurrence. Where I was shunned, verbally abused, and not wanted every day. Not only by Tony but by Hydra and just about everyone. I thought about my so-called family back home. About all those times I- I couldn’t even continue. My resentment and hatred for Stark erupted in me, bringing back years of unsaid words and silent tears in the corners. I tried to calm my rapid breathing and the itching in my hands to stab him.

“You can go to hell, Stark.” I stalked off towards the kitchen, knowing if I stood there any longer this would result in a bloodbath. something to create space between us was needed. I let the knife drop with a clank on the sink. I allowed my body to rest against the counter, my hands gripping the edges. Exhaustion made its way quickly through my body though not as heavily as before these days. The alertness and adrenaline in my body numbing the feeling.

“Unfortunately, that’s where we’ll all go if you don’t help us. We need your powers to save the world, falsie. Your time to shine,” his smile was forced and the trust he wanted me to feel was nonexistent. “Oh, and has anyone hinted you look like shit over here? What have you been doing these past two years? Not a glow-up I presume.” The last words were muttered but he knew I would hear because of my god-like abilities.

I was hurt at every word he said but I was mad at myself for letting him affect me. Both feelings moved lively inside me, both wanting attention right this moment. I couldn’t let him see how hurt I was by his words because I knew that was what he wanted. I wondered how his life with Pepper Potts was. But a part of me thought that was irrelevant since he hadn’t liked me since the moment he saw me. His distaste and distrust had been clear since the beginning. He thought he was better, more morally right. Even then, I had never put cared ones in danger, but he had.

As mad as I was, he was right. The bags under my eyes were dark and prominent and they were sign enough of my lack of sleep. Exhaustion had taken a toll on my body. Getting two or four hours of sleep was becoming more and more difficult to withstand. I was aware of how much weight I had lost since I saw them but paranoia wasn't exactly your friend if you were hiding from killers and triggers for your mind. Having to run every few months and hide was becoming tiring. I was mentally and physically exhausted. The desire to tamper with my memories and make me forget became increasingly stronger as days went by but I knew I couldn't. I needed to remember every deed I had done and I needed to remember how I felt while I did it. I felt obliged to suffer for them.

“Fuck you.”

“So touchy,” he sat in the gray chair of the black dining table beside the door. His fingertips stroke the tip of the snake plant in the center of it. I just stared. Hostility irradiated from my person and expanded across the room. The tension in the air strong as a chokehold. “I have deprecating nicknames for everyone. Don’t feel special.” I wanted to punch that fucking denigrating smile right out of his face. He knew what bothered me the most. He knew my insecurities and I felt an instant disdain flare-up in my body towards James. I wanted to punch them but I opted to be more civilized and not act like exactly what he thought I was.

“I didn’t escape Hydra after 60 years so some asshole with an overinflated sense of self-worth could treat me like the scum of the earth. Sorry, metal can but you’ll have to shove your world-saving mission up your ass.” I snapped. So much for acting civilized.

“The kitty’s got claws. Was wondering when they would say hello.” He puckered his lips, a mocking gesture soon followed by the rise of his eyebrows. He looked towards Bucky, wiggling his brows. A whistle interrupted the sudden silence filling the room. Before I could even register, the desire to climb across the counter and smash his face against it flourished in me like poisoned vines. Before I could complete the action, Bucky’s voice reached my ears.

"Y/n, please. Thousands we’ll die if we don’t fight this war. If you don’t help us, we will die.” Bucky stepped closer to the counter, hands resting against the edge.

“What makes you think I will prevent that?”

“Even if we don’t win it, it will lessen the casualties,” his eyes bored straight into mine. “We need you.”

I need you.

The sincerity in his voice and the pleas of help smudged all over his voice softened the raging anger inside my heart. Unsaid words hanged around us like leaves falling from trees, already softening the walls I had built around my heart. Doubts surfaced.

My wish to leave Tony fend for himself battled with the faces of those who defended me at some point in my stay in the Avenger’s tower and while I was on the run with both Steve and Bucky. Steve and Natasha had been weary of me, as I expected they would but they warmed up to me. We were not exactly brothers and sisters but they tried to help. I had thought of them to be friends or something close before I found everything out. Wanda had tried to understand me and be there. She had not been involved in anything. And Vision, he had always been an ally and never doubted my loyalty. He never knew of the plan either. Banner didn’t talk much and T’challa was a friend. Tony was the person that made my life a living hell and turned everyone against me.

I tried to understand him, at first. I thought he was trying to protect his team, his people. I was a potential threat and I understood that but I never implied or acted as though I wanted to hurt them like he made everyone think. Every time he had a chance, he would mention disloyalty or my so-called shady behavior. Yes, I had problems trusting my own mind after Hydra, but I never wanted to hurt the people my brother trusted and the people who gave me a home. I knew what triggered the memories and the episodes of countless tortures, experiments, and missions made for and by Hydra. I was also aware of who I killed and T’challa helped with the rest. He thought my actions to protect myself -and them indirectly- made me a menace.

After some time, I knew I would never win his favor and change what he thought about me. How he saw me. So, I stopped trying too.

A war raged inside me. I felt conflicted. For one, I didn’t know how everyone would react to seeing me after two years, especially when I didn’t leave on the best terms. Two years in which they knew nothing about me and never tried to. It had stung that none of them tried to find me or followed me after I left devastated that night. But Bucky, Bucky hurt the most. I thought he felt towards me or at least cared for me but I was mistaken. I had left hope brew inside me when I shouldn’t have. We all know hope is a dangerous and deadly thing to feel.

I still got over it or concealed it with everything else to forget. I was used to being treated as means to an end since I was born and survived it all. I was not about to let my world crash and burn for a man and some people I lived with. Even then, I didn’t want to return. But if what Bucky said was true, millions of people would die. The Avengers could die and the world needed them. This was bigger than me and everything that had happened with us.

“I have one condition.” My jaw was set and my tone firm, regret already pulsating through me.

“Absolutely not!” Tony’s reply came fast and clashed with a serious “You name it.” coming from Bucky. I looked between them, trying to decide who I wanted to pay attention to first but decide Tony wasn't worth a damn minute of my time. My eyes settled on Bucky’s blue ones, my voice dead serious.

“I don’t ask for trust because I know I will not give any of you the same but I ask to not be doubted,” My voice took a cutting edge but we all ignored it. “I want to be informed of every detail regarding the situation and the mission, just like everyone else. The moment you all know something I don’t. I’m out.” They both knew how serious I was about this. I promised myself I would never subject myself again to what happened two years prior. The feelings of emptiness and low self-esteem I felt were not something I wanted to deal with. Not from people, I swore would never affect me once again. I could very well torture myself but I was not going to let a team led by a buffoon that thought he had me pegged since he saw me make me think I was nothing.

Bucky knew exactly why I asked for this. He knew how I felt and what led to this as he was just as much in the spotlight as I was. I didn’t trust him, not after everything but I knew he wanted to help and right his wrongs so he would keep his word.

“Now wait a minu-“

“You’re right. If you are going to risk your life for us, you have the right to know.” He lowered his gaze. His words felt heavy with something a feeling I didn’t recognize nor wanted to.

“You can’t be serious about this, Cyborg.”

“She’s right, Stark. I’m sure the team will agree.” He looked at Tony sideways, irritation stretched across his face. Bucky’s voice was definitive. The sharp edge in his voice shut Tony up, who rolled his eyes and cursed under his breath. I ignored him as I muttered a quick ‘one minute’ and walked to my room. After changing into a black t-shirt and some jeans, I slid on my leather jacket and put on some boots. A bag of clothes and essentials was made quickly before I stepped out of the room.

When I emerged, Tony was sulking like a five-year-old boy beside Bucky while the man shook his head repeatedly towards him. A sigh escaped Bucky as he pressed his finger to the bridge of his nose. I repressed my urge to laugh at the scene in front of me. Once they saw me, both their face recovered and their postures composed.

“Let’s go.” I said nonchalantly, grabbing my keys.

And just like that, I was walking into the lion’s den once more.

#bucky x female reader #bucky fic #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #james buchanan barnes #the winter soldier #marvel #bucky barnes x reader #mcu fanfiction #marvel fic #james barnes #marvel fanfiction #bucky x oc #romance fanfiction #angst fanfic

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acourtofsnakes · 4 years ago

Text

Gaa’tayl - Rogue Chapter 4| The Mandalorian x Force Sensitive! Reader

Summary: After making your decision, the race is on to try and save Mando’s life. But when things start to go south, a part of you breaks open that you hadn’t let yourself feel for a long time. How will it change you? And how will it shape whats to come?

Warnings: Injury detail/blood, first aid, little bit of swearing, hint of angst? some very faint fluff, pining thoughts because who wouldn’t, it’s Mando

Trigger warnings: beginnings of a panic attack, vicious thoughts, flashback to attempted suicide, personification of depression/negative thoughts using triggering - please be careful, my inbox is always open if you need to talk♥︎

Word count: 5394

AN: This chapters easter egg hint: Can you find the quote originally said by a purple grape with an affinity for shiny stones?👀

Also, gif isn’t necessarily relevant to the main plot of this chapter but... you’ll see why we have hands as a gif.

As always, credit to whoever owns the gif. I usually find them on Google or Pinterest, so message me if it’s yours ♥︎

Rogue Taglist: @snipskixandbeskar @weirdowithnobeardo

Mando’a Translation: Gaa'tayl - Help

Blood.

There was blood everywhere.

In your hair, over your clothes.

It was coating your neck and your face. You could taste it. Coppery, hot.

~Screaming was still echoing around the street, heart-wrenching cries of those who had just seen their loved ones forced into the air and torn apart by the explosion. The smell of metal and smoke mixed with the stench of blood and burning flesh.

Blood.

You could taste it.

Your parent’s blood, maybe your own. The taste of it was in your mouth.~

Your heart thundered in your chest as you stared down at the Mandalorian.

You’d been watching him, knowing you needed to decide and then he’d gasped. And just… went still. You felt his blood pulse out under your hands and then he was just quiet.

You couldn’t hear his ragged breathing anymore.

Was he…

~You pushed your hands against your mothers neck, desperate to feel for the pulse that you’d felt for the last 12 years of your life.

Nothing. There was nothing there. She was dead. Your mother. Your sweet, strong mother who sung you lullabies and taught you how to dance… was dead.~

He couldn’t be.

You dared to risk lifting a hand from the jagged hole in his side and pressed your fingertips against his neck. You knew there was a small slither of skin here, you’d seen it yesterday as he leant forward to look at something. You pushed your fingers deeper into the rapidly cooling skin of his neck, waiting. Hoping.

There was nothing.

No, no, there had to be. There had to be something.

You swallowed, calming yourself enough to concentrate. You ducked your head down, like it could help you focus on the skin beneath your fingers.

There.

Some kind of choked noise escaped your lips as you felt his pulse, weak and fluttering, but there. Undiluted fear ran through your veins. This was on you now.

And so, the clock was reset.

You wasted no time, ripping off your cloak and using the length of it wrap around his waist. It was nowhere enough, not enough pressure for a tourniquet or anything even remotely close because of the armour lining his body. However, it would serve to try and soak up some of the blood.

You wrapped your arms around him, pulling the Mandalorian to sit up. Then rose into a crouch and hauled him up so you were both standing.

Only to immediately collapse as your knees buckled with the lightning bolts of agony that speared across your ribs. Fuck. Right. Broken ribs. Stars exploded across your vision but you sucked in a deep, painful breath. We’ve dealt with worse. This isn’t about you know. Get up.

You dragged your feet back under you, pulling the Mandalorian up again, holding his weight against your good side.

Prey helping hunter.

In, out. A shallow, slow breath that didn’t hurt quite so much, and then you began to walk, half dragging the Mandalorian along with you. You couldn’t manage any more than a slow walk, your own injuries and pull of his amour and dead weight threatening to drag you down again.

No, no. Not dead. Unconscious. He’s unconscious. Get him to the ship, clean it, spray it with bacta-spray, cauterise it, bind it. That’s all you need to do.

You repeated this like a mantra as you walked back through the street, through those puddles of light.

Get him to the ship, clean it, spray it with bacta-spray, cauterise it, bind it.

You repeated it again and again, even when the skies opened and rain lashed down, loosening your grip on the shiny metal and dragging you both down.

Get him to the ship.

There it was, such a welcome sight you might have cried. You fumbled on the arm that you’d slung around your shoulder, pressing buttons on his vambrace until the ramp opened and soft light and warmth called you inside.

Hunter and prey stumbled up the ramp, and you just got him inside, managed to lay him down in front of a big heavy crate.

You took a moment, darkness threatening to overcome you and a ringing in your ears. You shook your head sharply, pushing it off and then dropped to your knees, looking over his body. The wound was on his side, in between where the front and back plates of his armour were attached.

Thank the Maker. You didn’t know what you would have done if it was closer to his armour. You unsheathed your knife, frantically cleaning it on your damp tunic and then quickly cut away a patch of fabric that was over and around the wound, gritting your teeth when you had to coax the torn threads from the hole.

Which had been acting like a dam. Scarlet blood immediately began to flood from the jagged flesh, soaking the floor below him, your hands.

You blinked, unable to stop staring for a second. How did so much blood come out of someone?

Memories hounded at your shoulders, threatening to drag you under, toward a market square, a dusty floor.

Clean it.

You nodded to yourself, the order in your mind and then scrambled to your feet. A quick search revealed some clean rags and a half full canteen of water. You grabbed the cauteriser and the med-kit on your way back to him, resting it beside you like it was sacred and then you turned to the wound. You wiped your hands on your knees, then dipped the cloth in water, beginning to gently, but quickly dab away the blood.

Bloody water pooled beneath the Mandalorian, so you hurriedly shoved your cloak under him to soak it up so he wouldn’t be lying in water.

Spray it.

Your hands shook as you turned to the little metal box beside you, so much so that it took you 3 attempts to open the latch. Despite the situation, you couldn’t help the exasperated sigh at the rubbish of scraps of bandage that were mere threads, empty wrappers, all littering the top. Really, Mando?

You pawed though the med-kit, turning out empty wrappers and.. nothing else.

What?

There was no bacta-spray. No bandages. Hell, there wasn’t even a needle and thread for you to stitch the damn skin together. All you had was a bunch of wadded up fabric from a rag and some water. Why didn’t this man have any medical supplies? He was a Mandalorian for Maker’s sake. He probably had an injury list to rival yours, yet he didn’t even have so much as a needle?

You groaned, lifting a shaking hand to your face for a moment, breathing shallowly through your nose as another wave of agony seared through your ribs and the old injury in your shoulder.

Your shoulder.

The one that was clean. Bound.

That’s where the last of the medical supplies had gone, used on your own injury when he brought you away from Sorgan.

You looked up at his unconscious form, horror in your expression, in your heart. The wound was weeping still, deep, surely missing vital organs because he would have been dead instantly in that alleyway.

You didn’t know what to do. You couldn’t risk getting a medic from the town, one because he didn’t have the time, and two because… well, they’d sell you out. Know who you were, the bounty.

Your heart began to beat faster, it usual rhythmic thumps turning frantic, uneven.

It was your fault that there was nothing to save him.

You couldn’t breathe.

Just like it was your fault he had been hurt in the first place.

You couldn’t save him.

Darkness swirled inside you, recognising what was happening to your body.

He was going to die… because of you.

Just like your parents. And everyone else after.

With no warning, you chest constricted, steel bands wrapping around your lungs, crushing them from the inside out with a pain deeper than your cracked ribs. A roaring surged through your ears and suddenly the ship was spinning in circles.

The beast, that poisonous beast that slumbered within you lifted its head, scenting your anxiety and fear and it purred with sick delight. Your spiralling was like a siren call and it crawled up, up, up and that seductive velvety voice that hounded you, began to whisper to you inside your head, “Hello, darling. It’s been a while.”

No. No not again. Not another dead body, not another tally against your name.

“Murderer. Murderer. You killed your parents. You killed your friends. You killed everything even remotely good that’s ever been in your life.”

A sob began to build in your throat, an extra pressure that had you gasping for air, hunching over the floor-

“Look at you, crying. So weak. So pitiful. You deserve every single person that’s ever come after you, deserve every ounce of pain that you’ve been dealt. You call yourself a wolf, but you are a monster.”

It was right. That chasm of fear and darkness that always stayed with you was right. Of course it was. It had been right all those years ago, and the words it was whispering into you like silken poison were true.

“Exactly, my darling. I am born of that savage beast in you, remember? You created me, you formed me from the truth and knowledge that everyone you touch dies. You have tried to deny this part of yourself for so long, darling, so, so long. But you will never escape it. This is your destiny. To kill those that come near you. ”

You shook your head, tears flooding down your cheeks now as you wrapped your arms around your middle. The movement jolted your ribs, but it’s lick of fiery pain barely made it through the agony in your chest. I can run from it. I can escape it, you’re wrong, you’re wrong!! That’s not my destiny. I can make up for it, I can be good, I AM good-

A silken laugh and then a soft sigh, like it almost felt sorry for you, “Dread it. Run from it. Destiny arrives all the same. And now it's here. You have let the Mandalorian get hurt for you, and now he will die.”

No… no. No, not him. He can’t. He saved me, he’s good, I can see it. He has a son. I deserve the death sentence, but not him. Please, someone, anyone. Save him, please save him-

“No one is coming to help you, darling. You have finally done it. You have killed a father whilst his son sleeps just down the hallway.” It purred, caressing the inside of your head with claws, “Give in, darling. It’s time to give in. You eluded my call once before, but that won’t happen this time. Your pretty power won’t save you now, not now you pushed it away. Come to me.. escape the pain, finish what you should have gone through with years ago…”

An irresistible darkness reached out a hand, dropping the memory down onto you before you could stop it.

~~A glass vial, a shimmering poison you stole from the market.

Rain, pounding down around you as you looked up at the moon.

Water, crashing below the rocky outcrop you stood on.

Burning, a feeling like liquid fire inside you as that sweet, shimmering poison slipped down your throat.

I’m sorry.

A final look at the moon, so big and beautiful as you turned around, your heels hanging off the end.

Goodbye.

Wind, rushing past your ears.

The icy crush of water as it devoured your body, pulling you into it’s shadowy depths.

The fire turning molten, slipping through your blood, devouring you as the water has, coaxing you to close your eyes as your body melts from the inside out.

Quiet, a heady quiet as you succumbed to the beast in your chest that was purring with glee.

Nothing.”~~

And then… something echoed within you. Caught the attention of the beast.

“No. Not again.” It’s snarl was predatory, dangerous.

The flashback came easier this time,

~~A hum began to fill the cottony silence in your head, waking you.

This wasn’t right You weren’t supposed to wake up, you were supposed to be free from the pain and the destruction you caused.

Easy, it seemed to whisper, relax. It is not your time yet, you still have much to experience.

Protest flooded your body as you started to feel your limbs again. You didn’t want this, you didn’t want to come back. You didn’t deserve to.

“Yes, you do.”, it whispered. “It will be tough, there will be more pain and running, I’m afraid, but it will start a fire within you, that will only grow to serve you. You will triumph over this fear, you will become the warrior that you have always been. There will come a time, when things will change. You will do something you wouldn’t normally do, you will save one that deserves to be saved. Rules will be broken, and something new will be forged. Two lives will be forever entwined. Awaken now, and begin again.”~~

Heat began to envelop you, coaxing your stiff limbs to relax, drawing focus in your mind and making you come back to yourself. The rain beating against the outside of the ship, the smell of blood, two pairs of floppy ears at your side as they looked up at you.

You turned your head, blinking through your tears at the Mandalorian, who’s life was hanging by a single thread.

Your body shuddered as you leant over his unconscious form. A tight feeling curled in your chest, whispering to you.

Let me out. I can save him.

You shook your head, you couldn’t. You’d hidden it away for so long, such a long time. You didn’t even know what to do

Let me out. Let me save him.

You sobbed, a soft noise of defeat, a noise of relief, and you moved your hands to on his side. You whispered out loud, “Save him.” and then… let go

A deep, primal surge took over your body, shaking it, making goosebumps rise to your skin, a feeling lance through your spine. It wasn’t a pain… more a like a release of tension as ever cell in your body thrummed.

You shuddered from head to toe, feeling the cage that you had spent 20 years building shatter like nothing. Just like that. Not forcing its way out, no clawing to be let loose.

It was gentle. It overrode the malignant beast of darkness and despair, smothering it in light.

Powerful, of course, for being shut away for so long but… gentle. It was the energy that roamed through the galaxy, flowed in every single living thing, connected them all together.

It slipped from the cage you had bound it in, humming in delight as it was allowed to join with you again.

Free.

It rolled out of you in waves, rattling the walls, the boxes on the floor.

It made the lights flicker on and off as it bumped up against the walls and the floor.

That power healed your ribs as it poured out of you, and then honed itself, as if knowing you didn’t possess the control that was needed.

It swept down your arms, caressing you like a comforting sweep of a hand, soothing you. You felt it glide over your knuckles, slip along and over the Mandalorian’s body like silk and then…

His wound healed. The ragged flesh knitted back together and the blood seeped back into the Mandalorian’s body where it belonged. It replenished him, saved him, leaving only a red line behind, a scar.

That power, now having done its job, slipped from your body and left you spent. Shattered. With its final act, it whispered a sweet song of sleep and safety to you.

With a soft noise, your eyes fluttered shut and you collapsed forward over the Mandalorian’s now relaxed form.

A caress of your hair began to coax you from your slumber.

Long fingers, pushing into your hair at the crown of your head, and trailing through slowly all the way over to the back of your neck.

You hummed softly, shifting your head because the pillow beneath you was hard and cold.

The hand stopped and the next drag of fingers through your hair was slower, hesitant in a way. When the fingers brushed over your neck, you melted, a sigh drawing from your lips.

You didn’t want this to end, especially when those same fingers caressed your face, brushing the strands away and you felt them tug slightly, as if lifting a piece of your hair, memorising the colour and the softness of it.

It was safe here. You could relax. It was warm and cosy, even if the pillow beneath you was hard. And smelt faintly of metal. Weird. Oh well. You nuzzled against the coolness, humming again.

Somewhere above you, there was what sounded like a soft chuckle. A caress of your forehead that trailed down the bridge of your nose. It traced over the swoop of your lips and then along your jaw, like they were mapping your features. The touch was so tender, so sweet that it almost bought tears to your eyes. You had been alone for so long, so very long and almost every encounter you had was violent.

People didn’t touch you to be kind. They touched you to kill you.

A thudding impact of knuckles instead of a warm arm around your shoulders.

The sting of a knife edge at your throat instead of soft lips trailing over your skin.

Ropes and cuffs digging into your wrists instead of familiar fingers linking through your own.

It wasn’t even a sexual or heated touch that you missed, it was anything. You craved it, the tender familiarity of someone using touch to tell you how much you meant to them, that they cared about you.

And this… this phantom tracing of your features spoke of a touch that was almost a little unsure. A touch that was mapping something for the first time, drawing attention to the tiny little features you didn’t even know you had, but someone was admiring and drinking in. It was a little hesitant, a little shy but… achingly sweet.

Outside of this haze, something started to call to you, coaxing you to open your eyes. Your eyelids fluttered, your head clearing as you moved and the hand was then gone.

No, you wanted to whisper. Don’t stop.

It might have been hours later, but you became aware of the noises of the Razor Crest. The familiar hum of engines and instruments. You could distantly hear Grogu’s happy cooing as he played with Duru. Right beneath your head, you could hear steady breathing, muffled slightly by a helmet.

By a helmet.

Your head snapped up, eyes widening as you stared down at the floor.

Mando was breathing. Deep, even and steady intakes of air that lifted his chest, filtering through his lungs.

You made a soft noise, looking down at his side. You picked up the blanket and peered at the ragged tear in his underclothes.

Nothing.

The stab wound in his side was gone. Healed.

You’d done it… You saved him.

You slumped back, rubbing your hands over your face with a soft sigh of relief. You were shaking all over though and you felt… unhinged in some way. Almost painfully exposed. You had broken something, something inside you that had taken years to build.

The only way you were able to survive was by shutting away that part of you, that pure, natural power that you could still feel echoing in your bones.

And the constant pain that you had was gone, no more tightly wound tension now that it had been freed.

It had to go back in, had to be built into a cage that was stronger, more impenetrable. You didn’t know why it had taken a man who you don’t really know, bleeding out in front of you to rise from the ashes.

A man who you killed for without second thought. You always through yourself into a fight with no hesitation, but last night, or earlier or whenever it was, you had fought differently.

That wasn’t a frantic dance of survival, where your life was the crescendo and Death was the orchestra. No, that had been precision. Cunning.

You had shed the claws and snarl, grown fangs and poison. Wolf to Viper.

The bounty had been your prey. You struck, and you killed.

For a man you didn’t even really know.

You swallowed, scratching at the itchiness of your face. Stop. Do not even go there. Don’t. At least not yet.

Red flakes fell from your face, reminding you of the layer of grime and blood that was dried onto your skin.

Right. You needed a shower.

You checked back on Mando, satisfied that he was okay and then you went off for a shower and to potentially drown yourself.

You returned a short while later, carrying a bowl of warm water, a small towel over your arm and a canteen of water tucked into the crook of your elbow. The dark creature in you was silent, oddly silent and you wondered if it would remain that way.

Best not dwell on it and encourage it to wake back up.

You picked your way across the floor around storage boxes and tubs of things to where you’d left Mando.

To find him sitting up, grunting a little at the apparent stiffness in his lips. His head snapped up when he heard you, his body relaxing, “You weren’t there when I woke up, I didn’t know if something had happened to you.”

You couldn’t help the slight chuckle as you reached his side, sitting down next to him against the crate and setting out all the things you’d brought with you. “Easy… I had to have a shower, I couldn’t even recognise my own face with all the blood and dirt on it.”

He leant back against the crate behind you, watching you, “I know.. I stirred a couple hours ago and nearly had a heart attack. I thought… You were passed out next to me and I couldn’t reach you to see if you were breathing, I was too stiff. I thought..” He seemed to swallow back his next words, his hands tightening into fists on the blanket now on his lap.

Your heart stuttered in your chest, that raw honesty in his rasp. He’d thought you had died.

Just like you thought he had.

A certain atmosphere settled around you, getting tighter and feeling… different. You could feel the heat rolling off of him through your chilled bones, even with the layer of beskar over his body.

You cleared your throat and held out the canteen. “Here. I bought you some water.”

Mando reached out to take the water from you, gloved fingers brushing yours and you noticed the blood that had soaked into them was dry now. “I never pegged you for the healing type.”

Honey, you have no idea.

You laughed, shrugging, “You live a life like mine, you end up getting battered more times than you can remember. I’ve had to fix myself up so many times, you were a walk in the park.” You grinned, teasing him but your expression was strained. You could still taste his blood.

You cleared your throat again and reached beside you for the bowl of water before placing it between you “I found some gloves upstairs when I was looking for a towel… I didn’t know if you’d want to change them.” You bit your lip, eyes flicking over the helmet, that tension still there, lingering. Then you remembered. “Oh, shit. Sorry.” You turned around, facing your back to him to give him privacy.

There was nothing for a few moments, and then you heard the bowl drag closer to him. There was a soft tug of friction, leather sliding over skin and dropping to the floor.

Your spine tightened slightly, knowing that his bare skin wasn’t far off. You could never turn around though, you wouldn’t do that to him. It didn’t stop your breathing from turning shallow, and you just prayed he couldn’t hear it.

Water splashed, and suddenly, an unbidden image burst in your head. Mando’s bare hands, dipping into the warm water, rubbing the washcloth over his palms and knuckles. Beads of water sliding down his fingers and the bare, smooth skin of his wrist. Was his skin tan? Smooth or scarred? You wondered if he had any freckles on his hands. Perhaps not, if they were in gloves all the time. Did he take them off when he was truly aloe? Let the golden light of the sun kiss over his knuckles…

What.

The fuck.

Was that.

Your eyes widened as you looked into the corner of the room, heat flushing your neck and chest. Why, in all the stars had that popped into your head? This man had been on death’s door, you had saved him, turned yourself inside out and now you were mooning over the sound of him cleaning his hands? Get a grip, girl.

“Done. You can turn around..” His voice floated over to you, soft and you waited a few moments before you turned back to face him, praying the dimness of the cargo hold was enough to hide your flush. “Thank you.”

You shook your head, taking the dirty gloves now that the other clean ones were on his hands. “Oh, no, you don’t need to thank me. They were just gloves.” You couldn’t look at him, instead laying the gloves down, resting them both on top of each other so that the fingers and thumbs matched up.

Mando shook his head, “No… not for the gloves. I mean – yes, for the gloves too but… For saving me. You didn’t need to, but you did. You could have walked right past, but you fought that asshole, you killed him, for me. And then you saved me..” His voice was still rough, and that atmosphere flickered again, encouraging you to raise your eyes to him.

He titled his head, a hand drifting to his side, “Speaking of which… How?”

You blinked, fought to keep your expression even, “How what?”

Mando’s head remained tilted, “How did you save me? I looked earlier when I woke up but… there was only a scar there. Like it was weeks old, not hours.”

You’d already thought this moment in the refresher, “Oh, that. Uh, I had some bacta-spray left over in my bag. I kept it for emergencies…” You kept your voice casual, pausing now and then as if thinking it over. Expect this part, you didn’t need to feign the quieter tone, “My mother taught me which leaves and flowers could be used for healing, to speed up healing times. My… father worked a rough job and sometimes he would come home with deep cuts and bruises and mumma would always fix them…” You cleared your throat, “I had some left over too.” Your skin felt hot, uncomfortable. You hadn’t intended to share past the point of, “to speed up healing times,” but something about his silence had felt encouraging.

He was still watching you, and you had no idea if he believed you or not. However, his voice was softer as he simply said, “Thank you. I didn’t deserve it, for what I’ve done. I’m forever.”

“Ooh.. You would have done the same for me, I’m sure...” You laughed a little but it was uneasy, unsure where this was going, that tone in his voice and the intensity of his words. You remained focused on your task of playing with the gloves, that courage that sung through your blood everyday had vanished, leaving you unable to look at him, even if you could feel the visor of the helmet boring into you.

He leant forward and seconds later, freshly gloved fingers tilted your chin up so you had to look at him, “Exactly. I would have. I did, that’s why he hurt me… so...” He reached behind him, for one of those many pockets and pouches on his body, fumbling for something.

You frowned, tilting your head, “What are you doing? You’ll pull at your wound-“

Mando pulled something out from his back, holding them out to you and presenting them like a fucking prize.

Your bounty puck. And the tracking fob.

What the fuck was he doing?

You jerked back out of his touch, the wolf snarling in you as your eyes flicked up to him, “Seriously? You’re bringing that up? We just went through all of that, and you’re coming back to a fucking bounty puck? I knew I was just a bounty, but you could have waited until you could walk at least.” Your voice was a snarl, but benath that… a hurt.

He made a soft noise, shaking his head as he once again read what you were thinking, that you had misunderstood. “No, no, I don’t mean that…” He took a breath, and then he gently pulled your hand so it was palm up. And placed the tracking fob and the puck in them. He closed your fingers over them, his voice so soft that the modulator almost didn’t filter it through “Destroy them.”

You jerked in surprise, your breathing catching in shock, anger fizzling out of your body as quick as it had crashed into you, “What? Mando, this… the money it would get you... I can’t.” You tried to push it back to him, to get him to take it. It meant a lot to you, of course it did but he was being ridiculous. “I’m just your bounty.” You hadn’t meant to repeat it, it just slipped out. It wasn’t like it was a lie though. You were. Even though you doubted he had ever had his bounty save his life before.

You were surprised to hear a soft growl rumble in his throat, “Stop it.” He kept his gloved hand wrapped around yours, heat leeching through the leather and into your skin. “You were, in the beginning. But as soon as I heard that asshole talking like that about you…” He shook his head, swallowing his words yet again though they reminded honest, “You saved my life. That means something to me, especially in my culture. A lot of people would have left me there to die. But you didn’t… And I apologise for everything I’ve done. If you’ll forgive me and let me, I’d like to help you.”

Well. Fuck. That was the last thing you expected. He… wanted to help you? What did that mean? What could he do for you? You bit your lip, toying with the idea, staring down at the devices in your hand.

You’d been alone for so long. Maybe… maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe you could… let him. But the way everyone seemed to die around you… you only had to look at tonight as proof enough.

He shouldn’t do this, it was a mistake.

You looked up, lips parting to form the words that would push him away, make him realise you were saving him from making a mistake.

Only for him to read you like a damn book again. He plucked the bounty puck and tracking fob from your hand, grasping them in his fist and then with a soft grunt, slammed them into the solid floor beneath you both. They instantly cracked, sputtering a little almost like shock and then completely shattered when he slammed his fist down on them again.

Mando made sure they were destroyed, then looked back at you and you could have sworn you could almost see the cocky eyebrow raise under the bucket on his head.

You surveyed him, looked down at the remains on the floor.

The symbol of hunter and prey destroyed.

You took in a deep breath, lifting your chin and meeting the beskar gaze of the man ahead of you, your threads of your lives somehow more entwined. “Okay. I accept your apology… and your help.”

Would he be the first person that didn’t succumb to your curse?

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#the mandalorian x force sensitive! reader #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #din djarin x force sensitive! reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian #din djarin #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal #TW #Trigger warning

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warrioreowynofrohan · 3 years ago

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Aredhel, Reborn

This is a fragment that I started putting together a long time ago, and it stops in the middle, but my writing isn’t cooperating right now so I’m posting it as-is for @tolkiengenweek . It’s a sequel to my two previous Aredhel pieces (but not my Aredhel and Eöl one, which isn’t in continuity with it). Hopefully I’ll manage to follow up on it.

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Aredhel leaves the Halls, permitted to return to life for no reason that she can comprehend. She has not sought mercy for herself, though she has asked it a thousand times for her son and been met with a deafening silence. She chooses to return because Fingon is doing so, and he might not be able to bring himself to go if he left behind both of his siblings as well as his dearest friend. Turgon should have returned - would have been permitted to return, yeni ago, not tainted by kinslaying as his siblings are - but he is being stubborn, out of some mix of reluctance to face the survivors of Gondolin and reluctance to face the Lord of the Waters.

They reenter life to be almost immediately caught in their father’s embrace. Through all that follows - returning to Tirion, reunion with their mother and cousins, an apology to the Lady Eärwen that clearly terrifies Fingon more than any battle he’s ever fought in - the world seems faded and distant to Aredhel, as though some part of her fëa had never left the Halls. She cannot stay in Tirion, she cannot seem to hold the thread of a conversation with anyone, even her parents and brother. She knows, distantly, that she loves them, but it all seems so far away.

Her aimless feet take her to Valmar, and she find herself at the one place in the Blessed Realm that is shunned by Eldar and Ainur alike, climbing from the foot of Ezellohar to the two broken skeletons that were once the purest light in the universe, and as she collapses to the grass she feels, for the first time, a connection with the world. How did you do it? she whispers. How do you continue when what you hold dearest has been turned to darkness and ruin and ash? And something connects within her mind, something that never did through all the years in the Halls, never did during her return to Tirion, though all the reunions and necessary, distant apologies. Her feet carry her south and east, to the seashore and the white city, the city of pearls.

She does not go to the throne room of the king and queen, but to the docks, cloaked and hooded and unnoticed, seeking for faces she remembers. She finds one, working, holding a small curved knife in her hand that she uses to shell oysters.

Aredhel raises her hood, sees the Telerin woman start at the sight of her, and falls to her knees. The knife stops its work, poised in midair.

“What are you doing here?”

“I…I wished to apologize. To say that I was wrong.”

“So? What does that mean? What will that mend?” The woman lays down the shelling-knife, goes to a ship, and picks up another meant for carving wood. She lays the blade to a piece of wood lying nearby and the hands, their movements so smooth and deft when shelling oysters, begin to shake, leaving jagged, uneven cuts, leaving it useless. “I built the ships your people so wantonly destroyed, shaped them as you Noldor shape steel, and now I live again, but that which gave me life has left me. We did not hoard them and hide them in vaults, we sailed them and lived aboard them until they were more our home than the shore, and all you left to us were blood and ash and tainted memories.” The tremors through her body come in waves now, and her voice is choked. “My life was the least of what you stole from me. And now you seek what? Absolution? Resolution? This does not end for me. Why should it end for you?”

Aredhel hunches in on herself. “I surrender. What would you have of me?”

“Why come here, and not to the king?”

Olwë wouldn’t do anything to me - for Uncle Finarfin’s sake, if not for my own. He wasn’t who I attacked. He wasn’t who I killed.

“I thought you had more right. I…I know what it is to be betrayed by one whom you trusted. I know what it it is to see what you love dearest cast into ruin. And if I had - him - apologizing to me, truly and sincerely, as I am to you” - her voice breaks - “I would bury a knife in his guts.” She is shaking. “I came here because I didn’t know what else to do. Only that I needed to do something. I surrender. Say what you want from me, and you will have it.”

The Telerin woman just looks tired. “I don’t want your blood. What use would that be? I don’t want you locked up. What good would that do anyone? You cannot give back what you have taken. You cannot restore what is destroyed.

“Leave us in peace. Go.”

Aredhel goes.

....

She flees to the wild lands she once loved, which no longer feel so narrow as they did in the years of her youth, before Gondolin and Nan Elmoth and the Halls, before she knew that duty was a chain and love was a chain. Fear, too, is a chain, as she find when she wanders into the woods of Oromë where she once hunted with her cousins and stops, trembling, as the treetops cut off the sky, frozen, her thought a thousand miles away in drowned lands where the forest went from wonder to horror to prison. She works her way stumbling back to the light, her arms clutching at branches and tree-trunks to pull her onwards, until she emerges again into the free air.

She goes, instead, to the open plains, where she can run and ride and hunt, and take joy in feeling alive again, with a heart that beats and mouth that tastes and limbs that ache. In time she returns to the forest, first to edges and sun-dappled clearings, later to the denser woods in autumn when the leaves turn yellow and brown and fall to create openings where light and warmth enters, and nuts and fruits and berries surround her at every turn. Regaining the woods in summertime takes longer, where leaves create deep pools of shadow, and it is longer still before she wishes to be in the woods after nightfall, looking up at the stars.

(She no longer wears white. She dresses in greys and browns and tans, and in plain or woodland she might be mistaken for part of the landscape.)

She cannot say, for certain, how much of her escape is driven by avoiding walls, and how much by avoiding people, avoiding the need to hear or speak of (or hear people deliberately and delicately not speak of) a son she cannot defend and will not condemn. Did she shun the woods because they felt a cage, or because it felt that at any moment a pale-skinned, black-haired boy might step out of them with a present for his mother of hazlenuts or newly-caught game or skillfully-carved wood? A boy who is gone, who is become something she cannot and will not name.

Fingon finds her, from time to time, with uncanny ability, though he was never her equal as a woodsman. They share meals, wanderings, conversations light or serious. He does not tell her to return, though he speaks often of their parents and at times ventures to say how much they miss her. She does not know how to explain. Fingon can feel that their positions, failing and pardoned and returned and grieving for the lost, are the same, but it does not feel so to her. He fell in battle, and with a host of heroic deeds to his name. Her father fell in combat, the greatest one in the history of Arda. She died because she trusted the wrong person, loved the wrong person, ran off, was irresponsible and impetuous as always, led an enemy back to the one safe home she still had; her place in the First Age’s history is the dislodged rock or careless shout that starts an avalanche. Turgon has never blamed her for Gondolin’s fall, but that is because she never spoke to him while they were in the Halls, never knowing what to say. I am sorry that my son existed? She isn’t. She isn’t. She isn’t. She is only sorry that his father orphaned him, left him alone among strangers in a strange city with no parent to guide him.

One morning she awakes at her campsite to find her father there, tending the embers of her fire. She does not know how he has found her; he is gifted in scholarship, in diplomacy, in governance, in craftwork, in all the arts of war, but not in woodcraft or tracking or the arts of the wildnerness (save, by necessity, of keeping thousands of people alive in bone-chilling, soul-numbing temperatures).

They speak a little of other things, of her life in the woods and his in Tirion, but he cannot long restrain the question he has come to ask. “Aredhel, can you not come home?”

She offers the easier explanation first, the other being too painful to place in words. “I don’t want to go back to be pitied as a failure.”

“We all failed, dearest. Every one of us.”

“You did not. Not like me. You died fighting Morgoth and every Elda and I expect every Vala respects you for that. Fingon died fighting a balrog. My younger cousins died in battle. Even the philosopher did better than me! I was one of the most eager to go, I killed people in order to go, atta, and I have nothing to show for it, no achievements, nothing to boast of, and I will not go back to be petted and pitied and patronized, I won’t -” and she knows she still sounds like a spoiled child even now, when the others have grown wise and thoughtful and penitent.

Her father simply looks at her, long and quiet, as if trying to perceive all the words she has left unspoken, and they finally struggle to her lips.

“I don’t want to know what they all think of him. I do know what they think of him. I don’t want to be consoled for what my son did or became by people who didn’t know him and can’t understand him, and to know they are thinking of it every time they look at me, I’ll hate them for it and it will break out and I’ll cause trouble for everyone again - ” she’s stopped looking at her father, not wanting to see in his eyes his opinion of such a grandson, not wanting to feel the wrath against him that would come from it. “Why does everything I love fall to evil? My son, Tyelko, Curvo, my - ” she cannot bring herself to say husband, “- him? Do I have no judgement, no discernment? Am I being punished? I loved him when he killed me, I love my son and my cousins yet, and I don’t want to explain or to justify or to live among people that hate them -”

She is weeping now, and her father pulls her into an embrace. “You did not deserve this, Aredhel. Not what happened to you, or what happened to your son.”

“I don’t know.” Her voice is quiet now. “I think, sometimes, it is all of a piece. If you do evil to gain something, whether it be ill in itself or not, it will burn you when you find it. As with my cousins and the gemstones. I killed to gain freedom from limitations or constraint, and when I took it it burned me.”

#tolkien #the silmarillion #aredhel #fingolfin #fanfic #tolkiengenweek #cw trauma

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singingcroissants · 4 years ago

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Patch Me Up

Hello, I’m back friends!! Things have been so busy lately, but I couldn’t stay away for too long! Of course I wrote this at 11 pm instead of translating Homer like I was supposed to be lmao. This is probably terrible but I figured I’d post it bc why not ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Enjoy!

Warnings: language, blood/injury, cheesy a$$ fluff

Note: This fic is aged up, as always!

Eyes heavy and muscles aching, you turn your key in the door.

The routine after a big fight was always the same: kick your shoes off, fumble through your dark apartment, and try not to think about whatever shitshow you just survived. But tonight, your side stung a little too much, and the blood seeping through your white t-shirt sent a shiver down your spine. Once you locked your door, you shuffled over to the bathroom sink to take inventory of your wounds. Lifting your shirt with a wince, your suspicions were confirmed. It was a shallow cut, you wouldn’t need stitches...but it was a pretty long gash, and it was definitely aggravated from rubbing against your shirt. In addition to the knife wound, you had a large bruise on your cheek, and your arms were peppered with little bruises from where the attacker grabbed you. Suddenly you froze, bile rising in your throat at the reminder of his pockmarked face and sadistic grin. Refusing to linger on the memory for too long, you splashed some water on your face, but grimaced when the action sent a searing pain into the laceration across your rib. Your vision turned white for a moment as you swayed, briefly losing your balance. Leaning your back against the bathroom wall for stability, you slid down to sit on the cold linoleum floor, head back, as you rubbed your knees in an effort to busy your shaking hands. Suddenly aware of hushed breathing coming from the doorway, you looked up, startled. To your surprise, Five Hargreeves stood in the doorway, watching you coolly. You two had a complicated relationship, constantly competing to be savior of the city. Over the 5 years you had known each other, you had never seen him smile; he was all business, all the time. What he was doing in your house on a Tuesday night, however, you couldn’t say. You were pulled from your thoughts as you felt his eyes on you.

“What happened?” He asks after a pause.

“On my way home from work I saw the Baxter Street gang following a young woman down 5th avenue, and I tried to take them on my own.” You hesitated, your pride wounded. “...It didn’t go so well.”

Five rolled his eyes, and muttered, “Yeah, I can see that.”

His jaw clenched and unclenched as his gaze slid over you. You watched him back intensely, surprised to catch a momentary glimpse of alarm in his eyes as he took in your bloody shirt and bruised cheek.

“Stand up,” he commanded.

Confused but too tired to argue, you began to rise to your feet, but not without muttering an indignant “What are you even doing here?”

To your embarrassment, the moment you stepped away from the wall you faltered, and he blinked across the room to catch you before you hit the ground. With his left hand resting on your back, and his right gripping your hip beneath your shirt, he guided you to an upright position wordlessly.

Through your haze of pain, you noted deliriously that he was making a suspiciously low number of snide remarks about your current position.

He lifted you up effortlessly and sat you on the countertop.

“Can I take this off?” he motioned to your shirt. Trying very hard to ignore the blush spreading to his ears, you whispered a faint, “Yes.”

The electricity skyrocketed when your eyes met, the tension of the moment visible in the slope of your shoulders, and Five’s bobbing adam's apple.

In a swift motion, he lifted the shirt up and stoically began cleaning your wound. You searched for any sign of concern in his face, but he showed none. Silently he worked, your heavy breathing and the buzzing electric lights the only sounds in the bathroom. Once he had disinfected the gash and carefully wrapped bandages around your waist, he quickly straightened and removed his sweater. Clearing his throat, he looked away and said casually, “Put this on.”

However grateful you were for his first aid skills, you began to grow shy at Five’s unceremonious kindness towards you. Fidgeting with the hem of your bloodstained shirt, you stubbornly said, “Oh thanks, but I’m actually perfectly comfortable in this. It’s actually designer-”

“Put it on,” he interrupted, his tone rising. A voice crack betrayed his attempt at austerity as he reigned himself in once more: “I’m not going to ask again.”

He left you staring, sweater in hand, as he turned to face away from you.

“Fine, fine... Thank you,” you conceded. You slipped off your soiled shirt with a wince, and put on Five’s sweater. It was soft -really soft- and smelled like leather and pine. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Echoing off the wall came a muffled and surprisingly gentle “You’re welcome.”

“You can turn around now, Robin Hood,” you called, in a half-hearted attempt at sarcasm. You had hoped that in using your usual nickname for him it would ease the tension in the room, but it did the opposite if anything. But maybe, you thought to yourself, the tension wasn’t necessarily unpleasant.

The two of you made your way to the couch in your living room, and within minutes Five had helped himself to your kitchen and returned with steaming mugs of tea.

Now you sat, side by side, staring into the swirling vapor rising from your cups.

Five broke the awkward silence: “You shouldn’t have tried to take on that gang by yourself, especially when you’re not prepared. That stab wound was worse than it looked, y/n. You could have been seriously hurt.” He hesitated,” Or worse.”

“Since when do you tell me what to do, Five?” you responded, heat rising to your cheeks. “You’re not my partner, you’re my competition. And what do you care, anyway? If I died, you’d have everything you ever wanted! They’d hand you the fucking key to the city!” Your emotions overtook you, exhaustion having decimated any boundaries you might have clung to otherwise. “So why the hell are you on my couch, and why am I wearing your sweater, and why does it smell so good?”

Shit.

To your surprise, Five Hargreeves laughed. He sat in front of you, mug of peppermint tea in hand, laughing. Miracles do happen, you joked to yourself, awestruck.

His laughter slowed, and your face burned bright red in the soft glow of your table lamp.

“Do you really not know why I’m here?” he asked in a low voice, suddenly more serious.

You shivered.

Closing the distance of the couch, he reached out and caressed the bruise on your cheek after a brief moment of hesitation. The uncharacteristic warmth in his eyes made yours shimmer with tears, and you weren’t quite sure why. It had been a long time since anyone looked at you like that.

“I’m here because not only would I care if you fell into harm’s way, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. It’s impossible not to notice you when we’re both out there, trying to keep everyone safe. You’re brave, and strong, and kind. To be honest, you’re the reason I keep fighting for this city, your selfless desire to protect and care for others...I just never knew how to tell you. It didn’t seem right. But when I heard you had gotten hurt, I imagined the worst, and I just... well, I just had to tell you.”

Your heart swelled, and suddenly he was kissing your lips, his eyelashes fluttering against your cheek. One hand rested on your thigh, and his other was combing through your hair. The moment was tender and new and so very fragile, the opposite of everything you had known about Five Hargreeves. He shifted his position and leaned down to place a gentle kiss on the bruise on your cheek. You leaned into him, finally allowing yourself to give in to your fatigue from the evening’s events. Five quietly took you into his arms and began rubbing your back, calming you even further.

Normally physical touch made you shrink up, but somehow the man beside you was learning how to break down your barriers at lightning speed. Perhaps you had been closer to each other than you realized for quite some time.

In all the excitement, you felt your eyelids begin to flutter closed as you fought to stay awake.

“Darling,” Five whispered, “You can fall asleep, it’s okay. Let’s just rest.”

That was all that you needed to hear. You drifted off in his arms, his chest rising and falling slowly beneath you. The stinging in your side drifted to a dull ache, and your tight muscles began to slowly unwind themselves as you slept. And it felt good.

Now that you know what it’s like to be taken care of by someone, you don’t think you can ever go back to your old “post-fight” routine.

Five knows you won’t have to.

#five hargreeves #number five #five hargreeves x reader #five hargreeves imagine #five Hargreeves fanfic #five hargreeves fluff #tua fanfiction #umbrella academy #soft five #five x reader fluff #can you tell i like sleepy fluff scenes

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thefallennightmare · 4 years ago

Text

Vas Prizrak-Sixteen

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader. Slight Steve Rogers x Reader

Words: 2108

Warnings: swearing, some smut if I’m feeling frisky, tiny bits of fluff, and a whole lot of angst.

Summary: Bucky and Reader’s life in Wakanda had been everything they ever wanted. But when they are told about the fight that was on it’s way to them, they fear that life would be dusted away for good.

A/N: This is a pretty long chapter so I had to write the final fight scene in two part! Also, I’ve been tossing the idea around that once this series is complete of writing some one shots every once in awhile showing how reader and Bucky have adjusted and what not post endgame life.

TAGS: @mggpleasedontlookhere @grey-force-jedi @austynparksandpizza @lovelyladymayyy

“Bucky?” I questioned for what felt the fifth time.

Even if he was standing in front of me, in his flesh form, I still could believe or trust what I was seeing. I had been seeing him in my dreams, hearing his voice in my head, for so long. What made this time any different?

What made it different, was when he stepped towards me and laced our fingers together. The coolness of his vibranium fingers brought so much life and light back into the darkness that had been my soul for the last five years.

“It’s really you?”

Bucky lifted my hand to his cheek, a silent way of telling me that he was in fact here. The hairs of his beard had tickled my palm while my fingers danced with the ends of his hair. The five years in the snap hadn’t changed him one bit, still looking devilishly handsome since our last morning together in Wakanda.

I, however, had changed so much. I could see in the way his eyes drank in my appearance that he had so many questions.

My body tingled with goosebumps, desire pooling deep within my core, and it clicked that I felt what Bucky had been feeling. So with silence between us, I slowly stood on my toes to reach his plump lips, smacking together with unforgotten ease. Bucky’s hands snaked around my waist, pulling me so close, heat radiating off of him. When my fingers sprawled on his chest, I could feel the warmth immediately.

His tongue found its way into my mouth, exploring every crevice and dancing with my own. Bucky lifted me with ease, his vibranium arm underneath my ass, and when I locked my legs around him that was when we decided to pull away. Our foreheads rested against each other.

“You’re back,” I sobbed, tears falling down my cheeks onto his face.

He nodded, brushing away the tears.

“I’m back, doll.”

I kissed him again, slightly hungrier than the last one, wanting to savor his taste to memory.

“Buck?”

We both turned our heads towards Steve, who looked dumbfounded that it had worked. Our plan had worked.

Reluctantly, I dropped to my feet allowing Bucky to give Steve a quick hug.

“I hate to cut all of our reunions short but we’ve got a huge fight ahead of us.”

Sam’s voice crackled in our coms

“Believe it or not, I missed you too Sam,” I smirked.

“What’s up, Marshmallow. New hair?”

I realized that my hair was still flaming around my head. Ignoring Sam’s comment, I gave Bucky my full attention once again. The smile that played on his face brought immediate guilt, however, when I saw Steve standing behind Bucky.

“Bucky, I-.”

Steve stepped between us, knowing what I was going to confess.

“Later.”

Suddenly, Thanos’ army screamed with the want to fight and kill, bringing me back to the reality that lay in front of us. So as I laced fingers with Bucky, I gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

“We have a lot of things to catch up on when this is all over.”

Bucky nodded, swinging his gun from his back.

“You and me, doll. Till the end.” He promised.

Steve looked at us with a stern gaze, silently asking if we were ready and we both nodded with our answer. Before I called forth the fire, I slipped the mask back over my face which earned a questioning eyebrow raise from Bucky.

“Is that mine?” He asked.

“Uh, yeah. I went through a dark time after you disappeared,” I admitted with a slight shrug.

“And that?” Bucky motioned to the ink on my left arm.

“Do we have to do this now?” I semi whined. “We’re about to fight for our lives.”

He held up his hands in surrender but mentioned that we would be having a discussion later.

The fire spread fast to my fingers, hair still ablaze with flames, and with a final wink towards Bucky, I flew straight up in the air hovering next to Sam.

“Seriously?” His eyes were wide with confusion.

I merely shrugged and looked below towards our army, new and old members, with a proud smile. When Steve had mentioned the plan to me weeks ago, I thought he was crazy. There was no way we would be able to get everyone back from the snap but we did it. He promised that he would bring Bucky back home to me and he delivered on that promise. Which is why I owed him the greatest debt I ever owed to anyone.

Steve called forth Mjolnir with a deep yell. “AVENGERS! Assemble!”

Sam and I flew together towards one of those flying monsters, with one hand still helping me fly I used the other one to send a large fireball towards it. It landed directly into its face but did nothing to phase it.

“Son of a bitch,” I muttered. “Sam you’re on your own. I’m going to need both hands for this one.”

With both feet planted firmly on the ground now, I spread out both hands towards the herd of aliens that came sprinting my way. Shot after shot of flames incinerated them before they even had the chance to touch me.

Sensing danger, I looked towards Bucky and noticed that one of the large aliens was inches away from him, ready to attack.

“Bucky!”

I flew over to him and as I landed in front of him, I placed a large fire wall around us to protect us. The alien had run right into it, falling to the dirt in a pile of ash.

“That’s new,” Bucky smirked.

“You haven’t seen anything, yet.” I gave him a quick peck.

Turning my back to him, I noticed a small fire burning next to us. I shook out whatever nerves I had and decided now would be the best time to try this out. I had read about fire manipulation but was too scared to try it out.

Letting out a deep breath, I focused all of my energy on the small fire and with the guidance of my fingers, they danced along with the flames as I guided it towards an alien that had started running towards us.

With a few seconds of peace, I noticed Bucky trying to blow a strand of hair out of his face and chuckled. Quickly running my fingers through his hair, I tied half of it up in a bun so he could see.

“You’re always looking out for me,” he said.

I hadn’t had a chance to say anything back, something attacking me from behind. Falling hard to the ground, alien nails clawed their way into my back causing a banshee scream to fall from my lips.

“Y/N!”

Snarling teeth snapped at my face, trying to take a chunk of my flesh. I saw a glimmer of metal out of the corner of my eye, noticing Bucky had thrown me a knife. With fast reflexes, I snatched it up and stabbed it into the aliens head.

“Ugly mother fuckers,” I cursed after throwing the dead body off of me.

Bucky gently helped me to my feet and winced when he saw the wound on my stomach. I immediately reassured him that I was fine.

“It’s an old one. I cauterized it earlier to stop the bleeding,” I said while pushing his hand away.

“CAP! What do you want me to do with the gauntlet?”

Clint's worried voice sounded through our coms.

“We need to get them back to where they came from,” I said into mine.

“We can’t. Thanos destroys the quantum tunnel.” Tony’s informed us.

I cursed and looked over towards Bucky. “We’re fucked.”

“No we’re not. We’ve got another time machine,” Scott reminded us.

The sound of a corny horn tune played throughout the battlefield and Bucky gave me a confused glance. I merely shrugged in response.

“Anyone see an ugly brown van out there?” Steve asked.

Bucky nodded behind me. “Y/N and I see it. You’re not going to like where it’s parked.”

We noticed that it was parked directly in the middle of Thanos’ army so we knew it wasn’t going to be an easy task keeping Scott safe while he tried to get the van working.

Bucky and I continued to fight side by side, not missing a beat. I blasted fire ball after fireball to countless aliens, keeping them from getting close to us.

The sky above cracked with missiles falling from Thanos’ ship, raining down towards us. Clapping my hands, a fire shield erupted from them and I held it up towards the missiles, protecting Bucky and I from them. They exploded once they touched the shield.

“Y/N! I could use some help over on this end!” Steve’s voice demanded through the coms.

Looking towards his voice, I saw that he had started to get run over by a group of aliens. Guiding a large fire that burned an old part of the Avengers compound to the aliens, Steve gave me a nod of thanks when they all burned at his feet.

“Marshmallow! You’ve got a second?”

Hearing Sam’s voice, I gave Bucky my attention for a second asking if he would be fine. He gave me a simple answer by raising his gun, killing an alien that had snuck up on me from behind.

Suddenly I was flying through the air over towards Sam. “Whatcha need?”

“The van is about to get over run with a hoard of them,” he nodded below us.

“I’ve got something in mind but I’ve never done it before,” I admitted.

“Do it,” Sam yelled.

Nodding, I spun my hands in a circle, over and over again, using the already burning flames to create a large tornado; a fire tornado. Using all of my focus, I guided it towards the horde of aliens that were seconds away from attacking the van. They screeched as they spun in the flames, turning to ash.

“Holy shit that was cool,” I muttered.

I knew that they were endless possibilities of what I could do with my powers, I never knew exactly what I could do.

Suddenly the missiles from Thanos’ ship had changed their trajectory, shooting at something in the atmosphere. Sam and I looked at each other as we both flew closer to what it was shooting at.

Carol Danvers appeared, flying herself into the airship, causing it to crumble within. Once it had fallen into the waters below, I descended down and came to a stop next to Steve.

“We need to help Carol deliver the gauntlet to Scott,” He said.

I looked around at the battle scene and had an idea but I was unsure if it would actually work. I had read about it years ago and the last time I tried it, I ended up leveling an old abandoned city in Russia.

“I might have a way but I’m not sure if it will work.”

I filled him in on my plan and was surprised when he didn’t give me a crazed look. He believed that I could do it.

“You need to focus, clear your mind and focus on that,” Steve assured me.

Sucking in my bottom lip, I slowly nodded agreeing that I would try to do it.

“Hey guys,” I started to speak into my com, “I have a way to stop all of the aliens and the large worm things. But I want to apologize beforehand in case I burn any of you to death.”

“Excuse me?” Sam spoke.

“The last time I did this it didn’t end well,” I defended.

“Doll, do it. We’ll be fine.”

Bucky’s voice calmed the last nerves I had left and with a quick nod to Steve, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. My hands raised to my sides, all of my focus and thoughts on bringing the flames from Hell below to the surface. The ground shook violently below my boots and letting out a long breath, my eyes snapped open with darkness encasing my pupils and I floated in the air. Flames bursted their way through the ground, setting Thanos’ army ablaze almost immediately and guiding the largest of the flames to the worms in the sky, they burned to black ash; raining down around all of us.

I couldn’t relish in the moment that I had finally pulled it off correctly because my body had felt weak, my unconscious taking over. My eyes rolled to the back of my head and I started falling from the sky, body limp.

“Y/N!” Bucky bellowed.

#bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes and reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes and reader #the winter soldier #the winter soldier x reader #captain america #captain america x reader #steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #marvel #avenger

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even-after-a-millennia · 3 years ago

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hold me close then let me go

For @nilefreemanweek2021 and the prompt Family. Nile doesn’t just see the immortals she hasn’t met when she dies. She sees her dad too. You can read it below or on my ao3 account here. Gen | Rated T | 1.4k

The knife felt hot as it sliced through Nile’s neck. She choked, falling to the ground.

“No! Medic! Man down!” Dizzy shouted, rushing to Nile.

Nile could feel Dizzy’s fingers wrap around the wound in her neck as her blood spilled on the warm floor beneath her.

“No, Jesus! Medic!” Dizzy screamed, her voice cracking. “Stay with me!”

She pulled Nile’s helmet off her, her head now resting on the woven rug. “Oh my God! Jesus, no. Stay with me. Look at me.”

Nile tried, but her vision was getting hazy. She reached out with her hand and tried to grab Dizzy’s arm, but her hands didn’t have any strength left in them.

“Nile. Nile! You’re okay, it’s okay. Stay with me. Just look at me. Look at me.”

Her hand bobbed up and down in the air, helpless, until Dizzy’s hand covered hers.

She felt a tear run down her temple. Could hear Dizzy was still talking, though she couldn’t make out the words.

Then the light came and everything else faded away.

She saw flashes of a train, a man drinking from a flask, two men holding each other closely, a woman with short hair and tired eyes, and bubbles rising from the sea. Then the light came again.

And standing before her was her father.

“Dad?” she asked, her voice small.

“Nile,” he said, his voice awaking a thousand memories. “You’ve grown. I missed you.”

“Dad,” Nile said again, her voice cracking as she launched herself at him.

He caught her and let out a huff of air.

“You were definitely not this tall the last time you did this,” he said, holding her close.

“It’s been fifteen years,” Nile said, clutching at him.

He was in his civies, the ones he wore when he was on leave at home.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “It has been a blink for me. I knew it was you, though. You look like your mother did at your age.”

Nile sobbed.

“I died, Dad,” she cried.

His hand started to rub up and down her back. “I know, love. I’m sorry.”

“It was horrible,” she said, her voice breaking.

She suddenly felt less stable in his arms.

“Dad. What’s happening?” she demanded, looking down.

“I don’t kno-”

She bolted upright in a hospital bed, gasping. She looked around, half-expecting to see her dad there, but she was alone. Reaching up to touch her neck, she felt gauze and tape in the way.

She let out a sigh and closed her eyes.

It only got worse. Dizzy didn’t want to be around her. The other women turned on her. Everyone looked at her like she was a freak. And she was going to be shipped out to be tested more.

All of it was too much. She could still feel her dad’s arms around her, even as she walked through the base to where she would be leaving from. Pulling up Frank Ocean, she let his words wash over her, taking over her brain until there was nothing left but, “I will always love you… how I do.”

But then there was a woman, the woman that she had seen momentarily in her vision when she died, with the tired eyes. Andromache the Scythian, apparently. She disarmed Nile in one movement and everything went black.

Nile woke up in the back of a Humvee, going across the desert. She looked around, took in that the woman was driving, and kicked the back door of the Humvee open, rolling across the sand.

She ran, then a searing pain went through her skull for a moment before the light swept her away.

“Dad,” she said, looking at him with all the fear and confusion that she was feeling. “I don’t know what’s happening-”

And she gasped awake.

The woman was standing there, Andromache, and Nile realized, “You shot me.”

“I did. I need you to get back into the car, please.”

Nile could feel panic sinking in. “No, this isn’t real. None of this is real.”

Not her coming back to life from being dead. Not seeing her dad.

None of it.

Then came the bombshell.

“You can’t die.”

Nile fought that, both physically when she fought Andy in the plane, and mentally, until she saw with her own eyes her arm and leg healing. It was a little easier when she met the others, to know that she wasn’t alone in this.

“We dream each other. They stop when we meet,” Joe said.

“Why?”

“I believe it is because we are meant to find each other,” Nicky said. “It’s like destiny.”

“More like misery loves company,” Booker said and Joe grinned at him.

Nile looked at Andy. Their eyes met and Andy motioned to Booker.

“What he said.”

“And… before you guys wake, do you… see people who passed before you did?” Nile asked.

Nicky cocked his head to the side.

“Have you been experiencing that?” Joe asked.

Nile nodded. “My dad has been waiting for me each time.”

Booker reached for his wine and chugged it. “No,” was all he said.

Andy shook her head.

“We do not,” Nicky said, seeming to answer for Joe and himself.

“Alright.”

But it got harder again when they were attacked and Joe and Nicky were taken. She saw the carnage that Andy was capable of, the damage that she had learned to do after millennia of fighting.

Nile didn’t want to be that person.

She was almost to the train station, checking the gun Andy was going to use for bullets.

And there weren’t any.

“Shit,” she whispered, putting it all together. “Andy.”

Admittedly, shooting herself literally in the foot might not have been the best way to prove she could regenerate. But it worked. She got to the building. She got in the elevator.

Then came the waiting.

Dad, she thought, looking skywards, I could really use your strength right now.

“Hands! Let me see your hands,” one of the guards said.

She did, the gun barely out from behind her back before two bullets ripped through her chest.

“Hi Dad,” she said to him. She let the warmth and light of the afterlife cocoon her, let the sight of her dad strengthen her resolve. “I think I’m doing something really stupid.”

She woke, then fired, hitting each of the guards in the head with a bullet.

Nile took more hits, but nothing lethal. Some were willingly taken, to save Andy from getting shot instead.

Then it was just her and Andy at the broken window.

And Merrick.

“Hey, Nile,” Andy said, a small smirk on her face. “Do you think he speaks Russian?”

Nile frowned, then realization dawned and she shot in Andy’s direction, took the bullet Merrick shot, and watched as Andy whirled with her ax until it sunk into Merrick’s neck. Jumping up, Nile put herself between Andy and the gun Merrick was trying to point, taking one more shot to the chest as she heaved them both out the window.

“SHIIIIIIIIII-”

“We keep meeting like this,” her dad said dryly.

She laughed, because there was nothing else to do.

“Yeah. Turns out I can’t stay here with you,” she said. “Not yet, anyway. But I’m glad I get to visit.”

He smiled and opened his arms. “Me too, Nile.”

She walked into him, feeling safe for the first time in a while.

Then she woke, and everything hurt. Repairing nearly every bone and organ in her body hurt.

“Ow,” was all she could say to encompass it all.

As they drove away from the carnage they had created, she took deep breaths in and out. She hadn’t wanted to be that person, but to save Andy and the others, she had become what she didn’t want.

You come from warriors, Andy had said.

Yeah, Nile thought, echoing what she had said then. I do.

And she had a feeling that if she continued down this path, she would be seeing her dad quite a lot. It was a bittersweet thought, one that was paired with mental and physical pain. He had been lost to her for so long and now she didn’t have her mom or her brother either. She had a glimpse of him, in between moments of death and life. Would her mom and her brother join him someday, in that bright space?

That would have to be enough until her true end.

And in the meantime, she thought, looking around at the other bloodied immortals in the vehicle, this could be alright.

#nile freeman #nileweek2021 #death tw #temporary character death #andromache the scythian #andy #fanfic #my fic

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princess-of-riviaa · 4 years ago

Text

My Captain

Pairing: Captain Walter Syverson x Reader

Summary: You are the only one by his side to heal him after Captain Syverson gets attacked in the field. As an army medic, you do your best to stay professional, but Syverson makes it a bit of a challenge.

Warning(s): gore, injury, mentions of suicide, handjob, blowjob, dirty talk, slight voyeurism/exhibitionism

Word Count: 3,930

A/N: Apologies for no gif, i couldn’t find any that fit this scene and I didn’t want to settle for a random one of Sy, so I put nothing:(

The door to the bathroom slams open as you half-limp to the bathtub, your captain struggling to remain conscious. Syverson is a big guy, even for military standards, but your thorough army training allows you to help keep him on his feet, though you struggle to do much more than that. You place him in the bathtub but accidentally lose your grip at the last second. He falls with a cringeworthy thud that is sure to leave a deep bruise on his glute.

“Shit, I’m sorry--I lost my grip,” you get out as you hurry back through the captain’s main room--damn, his quarters are way nicer than yours; he’s living like a king in comparison to your shared dorm--and find his emergency aid kit. There’s enough gauze and stitches in it to cover his wounds. You rush back to the bathroom and turn on the faucet. Hot water comes pouring out, instantly filling the room with steam.

Syverson’s eyelids droop. That’s a worrying sign, especially since the skin around his mouth is still blue.

You reach for your swiss knife on your belt--the last clean weapon you have--and slice open the captain’s bloodied shirt. He isn’t much help in getting his clothing over his shoulders and down his legs, but after a minute or two of awkward struggling you toss the ruined clothes in the corner to deal with later.

By now the tub is halfway full, sloshing around Syverson’s legs as you maneuver around his body, trying to clean out the wounds on his arms before stitching them shut with half-shaking hands. You’ve dealt with wounded soldiers in the field before, too many times to count, but this is different. This is your captain, your leader, the person you and the rest of your unit turn to for guidance on anything and everything, and he’s bleeding out right in front of you--while simultaneously suffering from hypothermia.

Syverson mumbles something, but he speaks too softly for you to understand him. Still, the sound of his voice gets your attention and you look up to see his eyes closed. You tap his cheek three times to get him to wake up again.

“...fucking hurts,” you hear him mumble.

You nod. “I know, but it’s almost over. You just gotta hold on, okay? Keep your eyes on me, okay?”

You turn your attention back to his bicep, pulling the thread through your last stitch to his bullet wound. You sigh in relief just as you see the water begin to stir. One glance down at Syverson’s body tells you that his legs are shaking--he’s shivering.

“I shouldn’t be… shiverin’ … in hot water, right?” He struggles to get out through waves of fatigue and pain and cold.

“It’s good,” you assure him. “Shivering means your body is warming up again. You were too cold to shiver before. The blood loss wasn’t helping either, but your wounds are closed now, so that should help.”

Silence passes between you. He makes an obvious effort to keep his eyes open and not let his teeth chatter. You watch as the color in his face returns to normal, a lively red filling his cheeks and lips again.

You begin to rise to your feet. “Okay, I’ll wait in the room--”

He grabs your hand before you can move. You stare down at it, your brain trying to process the sight in front of you. He didn’t just grab your hand. He laced his fingers through your own. He holds your hand with a desperate grip, a terrified grip. Syverson has never let himself look like anything other than a god of war in front of his men. But right now is different. Your captain is in enough pain to make him scared; ten minutes ago he was giving death a stare-down, so you can’t entirely blame him. It’s just… alarming. You’ve never seen him look like this before. He’s never seemed so… human.

Just one more thing to add to the neverending list of things that makes Syverson hot as fucking hell.

“S-stay,” he whimpers out. His voice is so weak that you suddenly feel bad for ogling over him, even if it was only for a few seconds.

“I won’t go anywhere,” you promise him and move to sit beside the tub.

The water fills with blood and dirt and grime quickly. You have to drain the tub and refill it twice before the water is anything close to clean. By that point Syverson is back to his senses and refuses to tell you how bad the pain is, no matter how many times you remind him that you’re the medic and it’s crucial that he be honest with you.

I ain’t dying, so quit acting like I am, is all he says.

Now that the mood in the room has settled, you can no longer ignore the fact that your captain is completely naked in front of you. You force yourself to keep your gaze on his wounds, refusing to look anywhere south of his chest, but the temptation is still there. A taut warmth makes its home in the pit of your stomach. It takes everything in you to not focus on the… particular body parts you can sneak into your peripheral vision.

Stay professional, you scold yourself.

“I’m dirty as all hell,” Syverson says suddenly, breaking the tense silence. He nods towards the sink. “There’s a sponge under the sink. Hand me it, will ya?”

You find it easily, though hold back from laughing at the fact that Captain Walter Syverson owns a pink shower puff.

“Don’t you dare.” He scowls as he takes it from you and begins to scrub his arms clean of dirt, careful to avoid his fresh stitches.

You hold your hands up innocently. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

“You were thinking it.” Syverson struggles to reach his shoulders and winces as he stretches to scrub his back.

You move to sit behind him and tell him you can do it. He offers you the shower puff and you slowly, gently begin to clean his back, mesmerized by the artpiece between his shoulder blades. You’ve never seen Syverson completely shirtless before, so this is your first time seeing the tattoo. It’s two rows of dates written in thick Roman numerals: 08.12.1980 - 09.11.2001. You’ve seen these kinds of tattoos before. They’re in remembrance of someone you’ve lost, usually their birthday to their death date. You get the urge to ask Syverson who died, who he lost, but you know him well enough to know that he’d be grateful if you didn’t pry. So you stay silent, instead continuing to scrub his back and the parts of his arms he missed.

Once his back is clean you move back to his side and start to clean his legs, starting at his ankles and working your way up. You’re so focused on the water and soap in your hands, in every scar and fresh cut your hands rub against as you clean him, that you hardly hear him speak.

“It was my brother,” Syverson says.

You look up at him, not knowing what he’s referring to. “What was?”

“The tatt,” he confesses. “I know you saw it.”

You’re quiet, resisting the urge to voice every question you’re thinking right now. You never knew Syverson had siblings, let alone a brother that he’d lost.

“Thank you,” Syverson says as you make your way to his knees, your heart racing faster the further up his leg you move.

You pause. “Why are you thanking me?”

“You didn’t ask about it,” he explains. “Most people are too curious to be respectful and shut their mouths. And you didn’t look at me with pity when I told you it was my brother. Everyone does. I fucking hate it.”

You shrug. “It’s your story. You shouldn’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“You’ve lost someone,” he realizes.

You’re quiet. It’s hard to grow up in a military family and not have lost a few people. Of course you’ve lost someone. Doesn’t mean you ever want to say the words out loud. But Syverson told you, and it’s only fair. “My cousin. He, um… he killed himself.”

Syverson doesn’t say anything, just nods, but the look in his eyes when he holds your gaze… you feel seen. You feel like he’s heard everything you didn’t say. It’s a weird feeling. Not bad, but not exactly good either. But it helps.

You return to cleaning his legs. You move as slow as you can, making sure to clean over every inch of skin twice, but it’s only a matter of time before you make it past his thighs and have nothing left to clean but his navel.

“Um…” Shit, your breathing is unsteady. He can no doubt hear the nerves in your voice. You avoid his gaze as you ask, “Do you want me to…?” Do you want me to clean your navel? I’ll happily clean your cock too, just say the word.

Instead of answering he grabs your wrist and draws your hand and the shower puff towards the pit of his stomach. Your heart skips a beat. Two. Fuck, you can feel how wet you are suddenly. For the first time you let your gaze drop to his manhood. He’s blessed with a good eight inches and thick girth, so thick you have to wonder how the hell he can get inside a woman without splitting her in two. Dark hairs curl above the base of his shaft, and his balls look heavy and smooth. Heat rushes to your face as you feel your mouth begin to water. What the hell is wrong with you? You have no doubt that Syverson is aware of exactly which part of him you’re staring at, and you can practically feel him gloating. Still, you can’t bring yourself to tear your eyes away from him.

“Sy--”

“I want you,” he confesses.

You swallow, unable to meet his gaze. He’s delirious from the blood loss, or maybe the heat in the room is getting to you and you’re hallucinating--

“I’ve wanted you since that night you walked in on me and Captain Gonzalez,” Syverson continues, and his words bring back a flood of memories that, until now, you’ve managed to suppress.

You’d been wandering to the captain’s quarters--you were bringing something to him, but now you can’t remember what it was--and stopped to knock on his door when you heard the sound of someone moaning in what you thought had been pain. So you’d opened the door, your mind switching from Sergeant to Medic in less than a second, and froze when you saw what was actually happening.

Captain Gonzalez, one of the three captains on base, was on her hands and knees. Her black hair--normally combed back into a perfect low bun--was knotted and sticking to her face with thick droplets of sweat. Her eyes were closed in what could only be described as pleasure so intense it’s borderline painful. She gripped the bedsheets in front of her like they were a lifeline while Captain Syverson fucked into her from behind like a dog in heat. The muscles in his stomach and arms flexed with each thrust, and the way his brow furrowed in concentration on top of the animalistic grunts he made with each movement made you gasp. Luckily, Gonzalez didn’t hear and therefore didn’t open her eyes amidst her blissful orgasm, but Syverson heard. Syverson looked from his lover to you. His pace didn’t stop, merely slowed as he held your gaze. And then, when he realized you couldn’t seem to look away, he sped up his movements, pounding into the other women with such strength and intensity that the headboard banged against the wall. He was putting on a show for you. A predator toying with his prey, making you completely aware of every ounce of power inside his body. Making you aware of everything he was capable of, the pain and pleasure he was able to make someone drown in. For several seconds you stood frozen, unable to walk away from this side of him. He was the pure embodiment of strength and dominance--though there was nothing pure about it. You raced out of the room as soon as your brain figured out how to work again. You didn’t dare look back.

You thought he’d forgotten about it. You thought you’d imagined him catching you. You thought the entire encounter had been a dream.

But Syverson’s words make your worst nightmare come true.

You pull your hand away, dropping the shower puff and letting it bounce on the surface of the water. “I’m so sorry, I never meant to walk in on you--”

“But you were glad you did,” he says. “I can see it all over your face. You haven’t been the same around me since that night. You barely look me in the eyes anymore. Because you liked it, right? Because you liked watching your captain fuck someone, liked knowing I can make a woman scream so easily, huh? Tell me, did you touch yourself to the thought of me when you went back to your dorm that night?”

“Syverson--” you begin.

“Would it make you feel better if you knew I jerked off to the thought of you, too? The way you looked at me, that cute little blush on your cheeks and your eyes glued to my body--fuck, it left me unsatisfied even after Gonzalez had had her fill.” He lifts his hand from the water and grips your chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing you to look him in the eyes. He searches your face for something. “I want you, and I know you want me.”

You open your mouth but he beats you to it.

“Am I wrong?”

You hesitate before shaking your head, admitting what you always swore you would keep secret. “But you’re my captain.”

“I don’t care about rank,” he insists. “Not in here. Not right now.”

You swallow, unable to walk away from him. You want this--god, do you want this with him. You didn’t realize how much until that night you walked in on him, but it was undeniable after that. And you’ve spent too many nights since then getting yourself off to the thought of him fucking you just like that, doing your best to muffle your moans into your pillow so as not to wake your roommate. You’re tired of just using your own hand to find your release; you want to know what it would feel like with his fingers between your folds instead.

“I want you to touch me,” Syverson says. “But I won’t force you. You’ll only do this if you let yourself.”

You hesitate. You don’t even know where to start. “H-how?”

“The way you’ve thought about doing since that night.” His voice is barely more than a whisper, but it sends shivers down your spine and steals the breath from your lungs.

Before you can talk yourself out of it you lower your hand into the water and wrap your hand around the base of his shaft. He’s long enough that his tip breaks the water’s surface. You can see how red it is, and you can’t tell if it’s bath water or precum making his tip shine, but you want to taste it nonetheless.

“Fuck, you’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted to see this,” Syverson curses. “How long I’ve wanted to feel your hand wrapped around my cock. Go ahead, baby, move your hand up and down.”

You’re hesitant at first. Even once you begin to move, your hand is shaky and unsure. Syverson wraps his hand around your own--fuck, he makes your hand look so tiny, it’s almost laughable--and guides you up and down his cock at a pace and grip that he prefers. He closes his eyes in pleasure. The sight of him like this--open and vulnerable and lustful and godlike--makes your thighs clench together. You almost lose yourself in the sight of the blissed-out expression on his face before remembering that you have a task to do and you turn your attention back to his shaft. He drops his hand back to his side and lets you continue. You take pride in the fact that you know how to do it now, and when he releases his first “fuck!” and a deep moan quickly after, you’re practically glowing with pride. Or you would be, if the sight of him and the sounds he’s making only for you weren’t so arousing. You speed up your ministrations and even add a second hand to the water to begin massaging his balls. You’re not entirely sure what you’re doing--you’ve never actually been physical with a guy before--but you’ve watched enough porn to know the basics. Syverson’s breathing speeds up and he throws his head back. You watch with lustful adoration as his abs clench and unclench with every breath he struggles to take.

“Does this feel good?” you dare to ask, your voice breaking through the quiet in the room.

“Shit, baby, you’re gonna make me cum if you keep that up,” he growls.

The way he says baby with that Texan accent of his makes you swoon. How can he make such a simple word sound so dirty?

Your hand moves up and down his shaft twice, three more times before he squeezes your wrist to make you stop. You freeze, thinking you’ve done something wrong. When you look up at him, his blue-eyed gaze is on you.

“I ain’t wasting my seed in this bathwater,” he says. “The only way I’m coming is if it’s inside of you.”

Your eyes pop. The alarm must be written all over your face because he’s quick to explain himself.

“Your mouth, baby,” Syverson says. “I wanna cum in your mouth.”

His candor leaves you speechless. Your entire face is burning with an intense blush and your mouth is dry. You know you won’t be able to answer him verbally. So instead you turn towards the drain and pull it up. Syverson’s gaze is so intense that it burns a hole in the side of your face, but you can’t bring yourself to look at him. He’s turned you into shaking putty, but you’re not complaining. The way he makes you feel wanted more than any other woman with just his words, the way he makes you feel sexy and powerful with the way he looks at you… it’s definitely startling, but it’s addicting too.

“When I’m healed,” Syverson begins, “and I can actually move without it feeling like every bone in my body is breaking, I’m going to fuck you.”

He’s not asking for permission. He’s telling you. There’s something so dominant about that. It makes your toes curl.

“I need to be inside of you, darlin’,” he continues. “I need to know what you feel like when I enter you, need to know the sounds you make when I fuck you to your fifth orgasm. You got that?”

You finally bring your eyes to his and nod. Somehow your body is burning up yet covered in goosebumps. Have you ever wanted someone with the intensity that you want your captain?

The last of the water finally drains out of the tub and you hop inside. Syverson is large enough that it’s a tight fit with the both of you, but you manage to fit between his legs. You move to your hands and knees, staring at his cock just inches from your face.

“Put me in your mouth baby,” he moans.

And you do. The salt of his precum hits your tastebuds instantly, but it’s not a completely horrible taste. You manage to fit the majority of him inside of your mouth, something he’s clearly surprised about.

“Fuck baby, have you done this before? Let other soldiers fuck that perfect little mouth of yours?”

You don’t answer, instead just focus on not gagging too much around his shaft. You don’t succeed for long. By the time you pull back and take in a deep gasp of air, spit is running down your chin and your eyes are watering.

“You’ve no idea how fuckin’ hot you look right now,” Syverson says, sounding like he’s under a trance.

His filthy words spur you on and you put him back in your mouth. You begin to bob your head up and down and move your hand along the base of him, which you still can’t manage to fit inside your mouth. He only lasts a few seconds with you in control. You jump when you feel his good hand move to the back of your hand.

“Can I fuck your mouth?” he asks.

You moan in response, and you hope he knows that means yes.

He knots his fingers in your hair and begins to move your head along his shaft at a much faster pace. You can’t breathe through your mouth anymore and instead focus on getting air through your nose as your eyes water again. Syverson makes a sound you’ve never heard from him before--a sound of someone tumbling over an edge, a sound of losing control and loving every second of it--and a second later your mouth is filled with the warm, salty taste of his cum. You swallow every warm drop that falls against your tongue.

It’s only when you finally pull away from him that you realize the gravity of what you’ve just done. You just gave your boss a blowjob. You just bathed him while he was completely naked. You just admitted that you have a crush on him, even if you didn’t use as many words.

“Shit,” you breathe out.

“What is it?” Syverson asks, still fighting through his haze of pleasure.

“I can’t believe we just did this,” you admit. “I can’t believe I just…” You can’t even say it out loud. What had you been thinking?! You hadn’t been thinking, that much is clear.

“No one has to know,” he assures you. It doesn’t make you feel any better. So he adds, “And if someone does find out, which I’m sure as hell won’t happen, I’ll tell them the truth.”

You frown. “The truth?”

“That I came onto you,” he says. “And with me being your superior, you didn’t want to say no.”

“Syverson, that’s not true--”

“No one needs to know that,” he assures you. “I ain’t gonna let you get in trouble for this, alright? You gotta trust me.”

Well… he’s never let you down before. He’s kept his promises. He’s a good, trustworthy leader. You have no reason to not believe him. But still… “I can’t let you take the fall for this.”

He shrugs, then winces, instantly regretting the nonchalant movement. “The worst that’ll happen is I get probation. I won’t be able to go out to the field with y’all for a month. You’ll probably be under Gonzalez’s jurisdiction for a bit. That’s all.”

“That sounds serious,” you say.

He just brings his good hand to the side of your face and brushes his thumb across your cheek. “I knew the stakes when you carried me in here, Sergeant. I took the risk anyway. I’m gonna be the one who takes the fall for it. But trust me when I say it’ll be okay. I ain’t letting anything happen to you.”

And with the way his blue eyes shine with sincerity, you can’t help but believe him.

***

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