#blood search warrant from anywhere | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lackadaisy-headcanon-supply-unit · 1 year

Note

Sitting in your requests box

Could I possibly ask for a Viktor & Reader (either familial or platonic, please) headcanons or a oneshot where Viktor (reluctantly) comforts the reader after a bad dream? (I know this is probably OOC for Viktor but. but. Cat dad)

We do love Dadktor in this household.

Cracked Glass

Viktor wouldn't call himself a father, or at least not a very good one.

Although his daughter's letters were all signed off with love, he could feel the bitterness beneath the lines, the cold regret of his silence in every "merry Christmas" or "please write soon". He could see the deep indents in the paper as the years dragged on, where shy curiosity about his absence turned to frustration. As Alena's curly handwriting became neater and clearer to read, so did her feelings towards him.

She loved him to bits, but she just wanted some sort of proof that he loved her back.

Viktor would have given it if holding a pen was more familiar to him than holding a gun was. If ink and blood were switched. If he wasn't embarrassed that his daughter's English and overall prose was better than his own. If he believed that anything he could say could make any of it better.

It wouldn't. A single letter from him would warrant a landslide of questions, open up cans of worms and shaken booze he'd rather keep closed and in his own flask.

A father would have done so regardless of the consequences. Viktor would not have considered himself as such, no matter how much the pain of it trickled down his tight throat and heaving chest.

In times like this, he chugged whatever illicit beverage was closest to him.

The last bottle of Sunset Rose Cocktail.

Slightly better than radiator fluid, the drink that felt like downing shattered glass, disgusting enough to take his mind off things.

Mrs May would probably scold him for drinking one of the last bottles they had. However, Viktor knew her well enough. Her hardened gaze would soften, as would she. She'd leave him be with a saddened smile and a sigh, then go and sit in a leather booth off to the side or return to the upstairs office. Anywhere that would remind her, and all of them, of Mr May.

And Viktor would continue to drink.

His guts—even after being hardened by years of questionable nutrition choices in the trenches, prison and even the speakeasy itself—protested loudly. Cracked glass indeed. No one would miss it.

He was doing the joint a favour.

It was mainly empty, anyway. The employees they could spare—and there were a few—had been sent on last minute liquor searches. Usual customers such as Mr Sable had supposedly been held back by meetings in the real world. Horatio had fallen asleep by the door, or so the loud snoring from outside implied. Zib and his group were lounging on stage in a depressing silence and drunken stupor.

The rest of the gun-savvy staff—very few, maybe two or three—left behind were those recovering from avoidable injuries. At their head was Viktor himself, reluctantly manning the bar. Feared gunslinger to an old tabby locked behind the counter with weak knees, the permanent head of the stragglers.

None of the other runners were happy with their predicament either. They were visibly restless, pacing the floor and muttering to themselves as if it would heal their injuries any faster. No one wanted to end up like Viktor: that was common knowledge, and offended him just a little.

The only one who was actually resting did so off to the side, a twisted wrist bandaged up in strips of linen. Their head was buried between their arms, sleeping soundly.

Viktor had been watching them for a while out of the corner of his eye. Y/N, he vaguely heard someone call them.

They were one of the speakeasy's new rumrunners, small and fluffy—although to be fair, that was what most of Lackadaisy's youngsters looked like to him.

The only difference between them was the amount of tolerance he had in regards to each one. Ivy was at the top of the list, Rocky was at the bottom, and that ginger Calvin kid was lost somewhere in the middle because he never really built up the courage to stay in Viktor's presence for longer than a minute at a time.

Y/N stirred, then shivered, and finally woke up with a start. Glistening beads of sweat and wide, terrified eyes sparkled in the light of the cavern's lamps, dimmed to save on the bills.

They looked around, and finally locked eyes with Viktor. He looked down and away, put away the empty bottle and continued to polish a shot glass. Both the glass and the rag were comically small between his paws, and it took him all of his concentration to avoid crushing either.

He didn't hear the rumrunner slowly pad up to the counter, pull up a chair and only paid attention when they cleared their throat.

"Vat?" he asked, gruffly. The growl was unintentional.

"Can I talk to you?" asked Y/N. "I had a bad dream…"

A bartender needs to look like someone the patronage can tell their troubles to, Mrs May had told him many times.

It of course insinuated that he looked nothing of the sort. Other members of staff often joked that smiling properly would kill him one of these days. Vinegar, they called him, sour old Vinegar. They thought he wasn't listening, of course. He never gave any indication that he ever did, but Viktor heard it all. The cave's echoey atmosphere was the bane of secret rumours and the friend of those defamed by them. Neither brought any sense of victory when accomplished, but oftentimes were the only things worth latching onto in times of trouble. Viktor never confronted any of the stories about him. Many would think that he simply didn't care enough to. The claw marks on the underside of the bar begged to differ.

No smile, and few public clues or knowledge about his past. Sensible patrons and staff members would see that as reason enough to distance themselves from him. There were always exceptions.

The groggy-eyed feline slumped into the stool before him was one of them.

Viktor gave Y/N reluctant permission with a dismissive wave. He turned to the lines of bottles and glasses behind the counter. He had cleaned them religiously and multiple times that evening alone. One more time wouldn't hurt.

"I had a nightmare."

He hummed, rearranging the whiskey.

"I was on a run, alone. I don't know why. There was no one at all, not even in the speakeasy. I… I think everyone was dead…"

Dead.

That was a word he didn't hear too often—ironic considering his line of work—and least of all from the mouth of a kid. Oh sure, Rocky weaved it into poetry and aggressive patrons spat it out when they cursed out God over their drinks, but the thought of applying it to the rest of the staff, so bluntly, undisguised?

He stopped to properly listen, ears cocked.

"I was driving the car alone down a road by the river—I don't remember exactly where—and it was dark. There was nothing in front of me, nothing behind me, only under. The ground was made of glass everywhere I looked and the further I drove, the more it cracked. I couldn't stop and I couldn't get out. I just had to keep driving."

Their voice shuddered and broke, cracking like the road that haunted them. Viktor had since abandoned the shelves, electing instead to lean against the counter. He listened even more carefully. Politely, granted, but listening nonetheless.

"And then it split. I fell and I crashed down into freezing black water and I could get out. I couldn't swim, I just sank. Like a rock. I can't remember how I woke up. I think… I think I died too…"

The rumrunner's eyes glanced up towards Viktor. They were glazed with a glassy sheen, and…

Raspberries!—to borrow an expression from Ivy.

Were those tears running down their cheeks?

Raspberries indeed.

"My pop died during a run from the cops," they said, sniffling. "We don't even know why. Ma said he was trying to provide for us, he probably stole something. The feds chased him down to the riverbank and he lost control. They found the car the next morning and I… I can't end up like him, I can't die! My ma and sisters need me, we need the money! I can't leave them, I can't…"

They furiously wiped away the streams of tears that had only gotten bigger and wetter as they spoke.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have told you all this, you probably don't care, I'm…"

They hung their head, almost in shame.

Viktor said nothing.

He poured them a glass of whiskey—you never knew—and then he did something he never did before. He laid his paw on their shoulder.

The cat looked up again. Their expression twisted with somehow even more fear than the prospect of drowning did. Viktor didn't expect anything less, nor anything more.

He didn't pull away. Despite their grimace of fear, he could see the softness in their eyes.

Viktor wasn't one to use his imagination that often; what use was dreaming when a bullet could hit you any second? The only fantasy he had conjured up was his daughter stepping off a boat and running down the gangplank into his arms.

She had that same, soft look.

In Y/N, he could see Alena.

It was a semblance close enough to melt his heart. A little.

"It gets better," he told them gruffly. "It's not real."

He was never good with words, and used them sparingly. Tonight, however, they seemed to be enough to slow the flow of tears.

Y/N blinked up at him. "Really?"

A childish response to be sure, but one that Alena would have probably replied with as well.

Viktor's throat tightened. "Yes." He coughed. "Now; bar is a mess, and broom only need one good hand. To work."

The young feline smiled and hopped over the counter. "To work," they echoed.

They downed the whiskey with an enthusiasm only rivaled by Ivy's own and snatched up the broom. They darted between Viktor's legs and fluffy tail, sweeping shards of broken glass up and away. With a beaming grin and a theatrical bow, they demanded him for another task, claiming they could take anything on even with a broken wrist.

And for the first time in what felt like—and probably was—forever, Viktor smiled back.

#🦉mod iphiko #lackadaisy #lackadaisy & reader #lackadaisy reader insert #viktor #viktor vasko #lackadaisy viktor #oneshot #oneshot on the rocks

68 notes · View notes

ironclawallosaur · 2 years

Text

Concept: urban fantasy where all law enforcement is forcibly converted to being vampires upon getting out of the police academy.

Why? Because they physically cannot entire a private space without 1. the owner's invitation, or 2. a warrant (the state giving them an invitation over the owner's objections). Public areas are by definition not somewhere they need invitation, but semi-private areas like smaller stores can sometimes pose issues if the owner didn't also set out an obvious written invitation.

(I bet that's totally invisible, too—they come back to a favorite coffee shop and while nothing looks different, the sign got taken down, dusted, and replaced by the minimum wage new hire who has no ownership of the store and technically can't invite anyone anywhere, so now they're stuck at the entrance)

Other benefits: these vampires have a typical advanced healing factor / super sense / general all around +1 to all stats thing typical in modern vampire stories, which means that "I was in fear of my life" excuses are a lot harder to make stick. They also pick up on inconsistencies in blood spatter awfully fast because blood strikes them as Intriguing.

Drawbacks: vampires require human blood, and can only consume liquids. There's a huge, quiet fear of biting-type police brutality becoming a big problem, though because the overall thrust of this is "nothing is more dangerous than a politician or administrator with a clever idea" it's more of a fear than a reality.

Also, while most vampire hunter clans were approached to Not Fight The Law, one group out and out refused. As far as the public is aware they're some sort of domestic terrorists.

No, the public has no idea this has happened—and there's very serious, magically-enforced gag orders preventing the news from going further than immediate family—though they're getting an overall gist that something's up. On that, religiosity has been going up—vampires are repelled by Faith, so a fugitive from the cops will always find shelter in a church or other holy site, cars with prominent religious icons rarely get stopped, and major holidays see the cops lethargic. This is not restricted to Abrahamic religions, and someone with sufficient faith in a nonreligious institution could use an artifact of that—a BitCoin Bro dead convinced that the coin will Always Go Up could use something with a BC logo on it as a ward. This is because vampires operate in a Fear niche that faith damages, and also because it's funny.

I figure the best way to do this would be "recently dropped Masquerade" so modern history can create modern institutions without worrying too much about butterfly effect.

Other notes:

human blood is metaphysically necessary, but dietarily a vampire can stretch a donation or two with pig's blood and smoothies

the bigbrains behind this basically made it mandatory and then went OH SHIT WHAT IF WE DID SOMETHING BAD and enacted a bunch of strictures to prevent Vampire Cop Uprisings

I dunno if this is nationwide (it is more or less set in some big city in the US in my mind) or just citywide, but it would affect all of any agencies within jurisdiction

FBI is not vampires

cops can no longer eat donuts :(

various other services like firefighters or search-and-rescue are not vampires, or anything else, overall, but have been playing around with various other Fantasy Kitchen Sink creatures—I have a strong mental image of a S&R werewolf

vampirism can be cured, and anyone who leaves the police force generally is, to prevent spiking the number of vampires

the cure isn't perfect, some changes will linger

these vampires are biological, living beings, and genetically compatible with humans, but their kids don't inherit anything special except a risk factor for weird blood diseases

they can cross running water but standing on top of a sufficient volume of running water grounds out various abilities

so better hope you know where the major pipes and stormdrains are... lmao

the vampires are probably polymorphs into some kind of bat creature because I'd like to draw that

but they can't turn into mist or anything like that

obvious thing to do is make some kind of procedural

No idea if I'll ever do anything with this but it did get me from groggy light sleep to fully awake just to write it down so, y'know.

#story ideas #urban fantasy shenanigans #vampires #this is the second weird vampire setting I have nesting in my head and it's very different #send help

1 note · View note

shiningdesignersreflections · 4 months

Text

Chapter 3: Candied Cherries

Narrated by Sorika.

~Content Warning: police brutality~

Narrator: Father once told me there won't be any darkness in the world if the light is strong enough.

Narrator: But the moon was exceptionally bright on the night he passed away.

Narrator: That night, he just came home from an official trip, even bringing back a can of special candy cherries with him.

Narrator: Someone pounded hard on the door.

Narrator: He opened it, and a battered woman stumbled in.

Female Stranger: Please help me, sir! Several strangers just broke into my house and threatened to beat my husband!

Narrator: He immediately grabbed his coat and weapon and left.

Narrator: Oddly, I found the candy cherries too sweet to the point of bitterness.

Narrator: Later, a squad of stern officers came to the house, led by one of my father's colleagues.

Narrator: Their leader shoved me aside without a word as the rest swarmed in and began searching the house.

Sorika: What are you doing?

Lead Officer: We're on official business. Please cooperate.

Sorika: Why are you searching my home? Who authorized this?

Lead Officer: We have a warrant. Your father was just shot dead trying to rob and assault civilians!

Narrator: What?

Narrator: I felt dazed and stunned.

Lead Officer: Of course, we couldn't believe he would do something like that at first.

Lead Officer: But when we got there, the hostess told us your father broke in, hurting her parents and husband.

Lead Officer: We were forced to shoot him before he could cause irrevocable damage to the victim.

Lead Officer: According to the hostess, he wanted to take a precious design sketch that was their heirloom.

Lead Officer: So we're here to search for incriminating evidence.

Narrator: An officer came up to him with a box in hand. The lead cop opened it, saw what's inside, and grinned.

Lead Officer: We found it. It's not his first offense, alright. This design sketch is proof he must have stolen it.

Narrator: It all dawned on me at that moment.

Sorika: That's our heirloom!

Narrator: I lunged for the design sketch only for the cops to push and hold me down on the ground.

Narrator: Their leader loomed over me, ill intent seemingly flickered in his eyes.

Lead Officer: No wonder he adopted a slum girl... You're his accomplice! You're coming with us!

Narrator: That woman seeking help was in cahoots with them.

Narrator: They set my father up and killed him because they were after the priceless diagram.

Narrator: Shortly after, the sunflowers in the garden withered, and every room in the house was ransacked.

Narrator: The jar of candy cherries was also shattered.

Narrator: The cherries spilled out all over the floor and were crushed, leaving stains resembling dried blood on the dusty floor.

Narrator: Since then, I never had another candy cherry.

Narrator: I was homeless, wandering life anew.

Choose "Where are you going?"

You: Was there anywhere you could go?

Narrator: Anywhere but Pigeon.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 4

#sorika #shining nikki #chapter 3 #transcript #ssr designer #candied cherries #content warning #trigger warning #police brutality #death #lies #loneliness #light #dark

0 notes

caranelguild · 1 year

Text

January 29 - 30, 2IY 1

Experiencing the likely death of your family and your own certain death all in the span of five minutes is a lot for anyone to take in, and Gali is certainly overwhelmed by it as our adventurers take stock of their situation. Four assassins, three now corpses piled in the doorway and one bound - and trying to work open a false tooth to access a suicide pill!

Nur and Roy prevent this and begin an interrogation while the others search the corpses. Little is discovered on either path, though Arlex exchanges her common shortswords for two of the ambushers' Dharaki-steel scimitars, the region being known for its metalwork.

Ultimately, the captive bites through his own tongue and chokes to death on blood and the gag Nur shoves in his mouth.

Gali's family house has been ransacked. The ambushers have been lying in wait for her. It is clear that the scrolls from the throne, the one of which will reveal the locations of its pieces, have been requisitioned by the Resh Khan. Beyond being an immediate problem, this means the empire will soon be on the trail of the relics as well - to assemble the throne for its own designs!

"You told us stories on our journey here," says Roy to Gali, "of your family. You mentioned that your sister, who was spearheading the translation efforts on the scroll, used to read under a willow tree by a pond. Could you take us there?"

"Perhaps your family has survived," adds Nur. "If there's anywhere they would have fled..."

Gali recovers some of her presence when given a purpose, though she does not hold to the hope Nur encourages her in. She heads off into the benighted city.

(Nur sets fire to the home and catches up as the others follow.)

Her path winds into poorer, denser districts, and slowly begins to descend into lower places, dotted with small community ponds, hardly larger than puddles, around which tiny parks have been assembled by the locals - small gardens, humble benches.

Gali guides the group to a pond larger than most, large enough to warrant a narrow dock for children to dive off of to swim. On this dock sits an ancient dragonborn, naked and puffing from a hookah pipe. Nur is unable to get them to share. The dragonborn has a cognitive disability, but as Zilybar and Arlex search the willow tree Roy and Nur are able to get a little bit of information from the local.

The dragonborn remembers Sarai, Gali's older sister - though their memory struggled to place her in time, thinking she was her mother back when Gali's family lived in the area. Sarai spent time by the willow tree, but only at night - which confuses the dragonborn, since didn't she come to read?

That's when Arlex uncovers a box buried shallowly under a knuckle of the willow's roots. Inside are two journals, one in the common language and the other in Gali's native dialect. They seem at first glance to be translations of the needed scroll!

The group immediately heads for the city wall. Here, they are stymied for a time by a locked sally-port with mechanisms too large for Zilybar's thieves' tools. Ultimately they take a small gate instead, Nur using their shadow to unlock the first door from within. Soon enough, the gang is outside the city and heading for their rendezvous with Trek and Trevayne and the UFO. They travel through the remainder of the night.

Gali accompanies them on board, but asks to be let down in a nearby city. She can't help but wonder if any of her family did escape the retribution of the Resh Khan, and seeing as that entity now possesses the ancient scrolls, she thinks she can keep an eye on the empire's progress towards assembling the scattered throne and keep our adventurers posted.

While on board, she is able to help the crew make some sense of the translated scroll. Evidently, five pieces of the throne had been carefully distributed around the continent: both armrests, parts of the backrest and the seat, and a crowning element. The best clues are parsed out as follows:

LEFT ARM: That upon which our lesser arm calmly rested was given to the armoured ones, who filled their barrels with clear water from our cellars, spending half their mercantile proceeds upon this simple substance for their dusty trek home. All living beings should find water [life] where they find sleep. So that our arm does not rest, I have done this.

RIGHT ARM: That upon which lay our great arm has passed along the coast in the swift ships to their powerful harbour, to make peace with the gods who killed our brother’s daughter. So that our arm may be upright in justice, I have done this.

BACK: That upon which we reclined in comfort has been sent far from us, to those who carry their [seat backs?] with them. They do not need what we send them; and so we send it. It shall be forgotten and unused, a punishment it deserves for its purpose apart from its use; for its use we should have had it destroyed. So that we may be uncomfortable in power, I have sent it away, and so that we may be uncomfortable out of power, I have not destroyed it.

CROWN: That which shaded our head has passed from our world into the bosom of another. It knew the sea, once, but we have sent it to taste its salt and understand its vastness so that it may know-as-truth. So that the sun which shines on all beings great and small does not forget our head, and so that we do not forget that which gives us life, I have done this.

SEAT: That which held our weight in stability has been sent to the remnant, which has shrivelled as a consequence of our hubris. It will be sustained, which we do not imagine as anything but a punishment, for we know ourselves. It has suffered but the cracking of its skin, and by preserving it, we know we condemn it to feel the dissolution of its being. But it will survive. We cannot know if that is better, but we can make no other choice. So that we understand that nothing is stable and so that we remember that existence is suffering, I have done this.

Gali's knowledge of Dharak helps our adventurers put some initial pieces together, but they are unable to get any clear cut directions. Closest to specificity is the clue for the left armrest: it is likely somewhere in the vast steppes to the east, known as the Dead Lands. Folklore from Dharak and the steppes (Nur is from there) tells of a sort of armadillo-people. Steppes superstition tells that these spirits are connected to oases.

After parting from Gali, the UFO flies to the western border of the realm, where Arlex knows to find an outpost of her order, there to ask after further clues.

#a scattered throne #dnd #d&d #chapter 30

0 notes

random-yandere-fandom · 3 years

Text

Caged Part 1

It has come to my attention that I haven’t written for my favourite genre ever yet. Angst. Enjoy this or not, I want some tears at the very least.

This is for the wonderful villain Au! Inspired by @nicebonescomrade

Warnings: self-harm, thoughts of suicide, abuse, a bit of gore, a lot of self-hate

I’ve never put warnings before because I believed they weren’t needed as everything else I’ve written is rather tame. So please tell me if I missed any.

Part 2 Part 2.5

Something was off. Off in a way even your unconscious mind understood was alarming and unsettling, and so with a bad feeling in your gut and a dry mouth that you couldn’t ignore you opened your heavy eyelids.

It was way too bright. You didn’t remember your room ever being this bright nor your bed ever feeling this... rough? You also didn’t remember your bedroom having a whole damn ocean in it or beside it or anywhere near it, at least not one that looked like this. Confusion made you afraid and fear made you cautious as you took in your surroundings. You had a feeling you knew this place, so maybe you had been here before? Despite waking up on a beach there are no footprints near you as if you didn’t even walk to the place you are standing on now. You aren’t drenched in water, despite the water lapping at the shore not too far away from your little spot. There are too many things that don’t make sense but they should and you should be at home and you should be getting ready for the day and- a cough builds up in your throat and you’re reminded of your thirst.

Staggering a bit you notice only one way you can go in search of drinkable water or even better, civilisation with something that might actually taste good.

It is only when you near a city that you finally recognise your surroundings. Admittedly, you should have noticed at the first waypoint, but you had just assumed that whatever happened before, past you had decided to go to some park that was Genshin themed. Wouldn’t be too weird for such a thing to exist, you were sure lots of people would spend hundreds of dollars to step into the world of their favourite game. At least, a replica of that.

But no, you had been way too hopeful and maybe still a bit tired and hungry, the water in the stream you found only somewhat keeping you awake. Staring at the imposing walls you questioned your sanity, blinking slowly as you realised what you long since had known but denied.

So, you were in Genshin. The video game. No wonder the slimes looked so real from a far, they were real. You could have tried petting them. Well, you’re sure you can do that later.

If you really wanted to live here you would have to start making plans, make money, rent a place and then finally meet the characters you’ve only watched through the screen. No matter how scary this revelation was, you couldn’t help but admit that it was exciting. You hadn’t decided yet if that was a good or a bad thing.

It was bad. There was no other way to put it or sugarcoat it and you refused to blame luck - or, lack of it - for it. You don’t know what you did wrong, either. Was your walking style that horrendous that it warranted this? Surely not? You remember Mondstadt to be friendly, accepting of travellers, easy-going, a fun place to be. You hadn’t expected them to get all worked up over something you didn’t have time to comprehend yet.

So was this just some super weird and super realistic nightmare? Probably not, if the pain in your left leg was anything to go by, not mentioning the terror caused by being struck with a goddamn arrow, sharp and etched into your flesh, brought there by the fucking anemo archon. There was blood trickling from the wound and with each step you took you could feel the arrow moving beneath the skin. You were kinda in a rush though, so there was no time to remove that thing or treat the wound otherwise.

You had been bewildered when the citizens started to curse you, throwing whatever they could get a hold of at you, a plate shattering directly behind you as pieces carved themselves into you. Amongst them were the very people you loved, that you gushed over, glaring at you so fiercely that you feared they would jump at you any second. You had never thought that these kind people could look so horrifying.

They clearly didn’t like your flabbergast and pained state and before you knew it they started cornering you with the crowd that had formed by now. They ignored your pleas and questions, their faces blurring behind tears as you decided to book it out of there.

You had thought yourself lucky to catch sight of Venti, who looked up curiously at the commotion. If anyone could get you away, it was him.

It didn’t even take a second for his innocent and cute face that you knew and adored to twist into a horrid scowl. The dread grew, your body refused to move further and you could feel yourself trembling. You wanted to bolt away so desperately, but his eyes kept you shackled to the ground. How ironic for the archon of freedom. Hearing the crowd approaching, panic filled you and noticing your intentions the bard was quick to move. Before you knew it, pain shot up your leg and you screamed. You had no time to look at the cause, but the bow in his hand told you enough. You had to get away, now. Finally, you turned and dashed away as good as you could, adrenaline blinding out your injuries, shouts and threats filling the streets behind and beside you until it felt as if they were coming from everywhere, the hateful words burning into your confused mind.

If it wasn’t a dream, what was it? Why was this happening? If you knew the cause, you could change it! Surely, then your favourite characters, no, people, would be happy! You could laugh and dance and sing and make up!

If only they would tell you! If only their screams and cries weren’t so non logical, cursing you an imposter. You would change!

Just please, let them stop chasing you, glaring, kicking, slashing, insulting, hurting you! Get them of your tail, let you rest a little longer, let the wounds heal and your mind silence because it was so loud and fast and you feared you wouldn’t hear them in time to run if this kept up.

Your dreams are haunted by flames, licking at your feet and laughing as you stumble in pain, mocking and cursing, tears seeming to scorch your face and no amount of clawing at them makes them stop. When you wake up there are marks on your face you were sure weren’t there before. The fear of the fire consuming you stays even gaining conscious.

They keep you on edge, you tell yourself, make you ready to flee at any time. You’re reminded of the time a knight with blue hair almost stabbed your heart if you hadn’t jolted awake from a nightmare in time. It was Kaeya, your mind supplies and your heart aches at the memory.

They save your live. And they take away from your soul, slowly burning away at its edges until there is nothing left to save.

You still don’t know what caused this. Maybe you were at fault? Maybe you should let them end you? Maybe you should do it yourself?

You freeze at the sudden thought, tears welling up as you notice how hopeless you’ve become. You had been running so long to survive. Was that fire inside of you that wanted to live, turning against you, now? Was it going to incinerate you until all that you were was gone and forgotten, or worse, would the fire be celebrated? For consuming you, for ridding this world from you?

Deciding you need a change you leave the nation of freedom, or hypocrites, as you’ve been calling them, and make your way to Liyue. You had feared their land, the unknown, more than you had feared the Knights of Favonius and treasure horders. There were patterns that you could follow, that you could use to escape with the help of waypoints, but that wasn’t worth your will. Hopefully you’d find some peace.

And someone to call you your name, you haven’t heard it in so long and maybe it is the only thing left of the old you.

The pattern you noticed this time was not in your favour.

Again, the same heretics, but this time you had seen the statue. A statue that resembled you to the T. You finally were beginning to understand what your crime was. What you had done wrong.

You didn’t like the answer. Hunted for resembling a face of stone. Hunted for the way you look. Hunted for the crime of your existence.

It was worse than you imagined. Crueller. You wondered if that god had brought you here because you looked like them and if they enjoyed seeing the archon of geo slash at your left leg, reopening more than just one wound. What was it with the archons and your left leg? Was there some kind of target painted on it? Should you scrub it of until there is nothing left? Until your skin turns red and starts to tear from your own hands, revealing flesh and blood and even deeper down, bones? Would they stop then?

You didn’t know. But you were willing to try.

You had gotten good at this. The running, the hiding, the suppressing of feelings and thoughts that stood in the way of making it to the next day. You caged the terror, the bitterness and anger in your heart with an empty promise of letting them out the moment you were safe.

You didn’t know how you were still able to add to the enclosure, terror and bitterness were for those that had something to lose or those that had lost something in the past. Had you? You try not to think of a time before the hunt because every time the content of the cage grows, harder to ignore, harder to contain.

Anger was for those that loved. You think you loved once, but they had torn at your heart, making it spill all it had on your escape. Each of them, Jean with her sword, Lisa with her electro, Xiao with his spear and many others had used their weapons to steal a bit of your body in form of blood and from your heart in form of hope.

Anger was for those that loved themselves.

Anger was for those that knew they were treated badly, unjustly.

You don’t know if you deserved to be angry.

You did not deserve to be angry.

You think, even though it hurts and your head pounds in protest at the memories, back to when this was a game. One you played for fun. You made them fight your battles for fun. You made them bleed for fun. You forced them onto bloody battlefields, even the children, all for your entertainment. You were sick. You were horrible. You had done this to yourself.

This must be their revenge. You did this to yourself. It doesn’t matter that you loved them if those feelings never reached them. It doesn’t matter if you spend time on making them stronger when they wish for peace because surely they do. Maybe they wished for peace in the same way you did now, before deeming the thought to be selfish and burying it under the rubbish that has become your mind.

Accepting this new life of being in constant pain because you were always wounded, always had a new scar in the collection, was easier done than you had thought. It was almost painfully easy to fall into the habit of running, eating, sleeping and then repeat.

The only happiness you could find was in the slimes who seemed to love you. You had discovered their kind nature after some time in Liyue. Back in Mondstadt you had been too fearful to get close to them, but you had reached a point were if you die, you die, and that’s it. You were still hesitant to follow them into any hilichurl camps, even though they seemed friendly enough.

You did not deserve it. You had killed them in game, for materials and for fun. Mocked them when their attacks were weak and cheered when they disappeared with nothing much left behind. You wonder if you tore apart families and friends and those are the times you feel the worst.

You can see it, still. The way their bodies disappeared after you were done with them. The way there were always new ones to take their place, only for you to destroy them again. Maybe it was also the shame that kept you away from them. They respected your need for space, letting the slimes bring you medication and food. That only made you feel worse, but the little part of you that wanted to live accepted the gifts with tears in your eyes.

It also allowed the healing touches of hydro, the warmth of pyro and the coolness of cryo. It appreciated the shields of geo and traps of electro placed around your sleeping place to guarantee your safety. It allowed anemo to carry you while medicine and flowers were grown by dendro. Your safety and comfort was all provided by them and the walls you had build around you slowly cracked for them to see through.

The part that wanted to live allowed them to fight in your place when you are found again, it allowed you to watch as your friends are torn to pieces as you can do nothing but watch as they sacrifice themselves for you. You don’t deserve this, you want to scream, but the sounds are choked by sorrow and tears. They are worth more than sacrifices, but your body doesn’t move as it is carried by anemo.

You curse the part of you that wants to live and beg it to let you die. For the first time since you had caged your emotions you are truly angry, wrath igniting inside you, only to be overshadowed by your sorrow. You’re sorry. But you are a coward with no strength to protect what you love. And so you turn away their gifts in hopes they run as you do, to flee at the sight of you because being with you means death and you don’t think your love and life are worth it.

You are not worth it.

You are, in their eyes.

You are guilty.

They love you either way.

Loving you will kill them.

They’d gladly give their lives for you.

You cannot accept anyone’s love anymore. Slowly, you mend the walls surrounding you to hide what can not be repaired. Maybe it’s better that way.

You are getting reckless, Ninguangg notes. Before her lays a map, markings and arrows showing your routes and escapes. You are getting closer and closer to civilisation, despite their danger for you. You are not dumb, she has to admit. Being able to not only avoid her but also all of Mondstadt and Liyue for so long means you are capable of reason. It only makes the insult to the Creator worse.

But you won’t live for long, she muses. They had finally managed to get all they needed to make sure you wouldn’t get away this time, with the help of the traveller they had finally made out your means of escape. They are going to count on it. On your cowardice. On your will to live.

A small smile decorates her and the others that attend the meeting, surely their creator would be pleased with their work once its done. One more day and your dirty blood would finally flow one last time.

615 notes · View notes

animetingzz · 2 years

Text

I need you

Bela Dimitrescu x Shifter! Reader

Warning! Angst and gore, mentions of torture.

“Honey i just don’t get why you want to try and kill one of the four lords? THEY’RE LORDS! Are you sure you’re ready for the consequences when you fail?” The woman glares at the man, her spineless coward of a husband who was once brave and confident. There was a time where he’d follow her anywhere, he’d do anything for her and vice versa. “You don’t understand Stefan! This is my sister! They laid their filthy hands on her and stole the life from her! What did she do but serve them unconditionally?! What warrants such a fate?!” “THEY’LL KILL YOU! Make a public example of you! What then?! What shall I do then?!” “Stop making this about you! This is my sister we’re talking about and if I don’t avenge her who will? You certainly won’t and I can’t stand by while they drag more innocent souls to their deaths!” The door shuts with a resounding slam as Stefan breaks down at the prospect of losing his beloved wife. “Forgive us Mother Miranda . . .”

The plan was simple, get close to the Lady and earn her trust. There were rumors of a dagger powerful enough to strip the life of the wretched matriarch she just couldn’t pin down where exactly it resided. Gaining the trust of the nine foot tall Beauty proved to be more difficult than naught, the head of the castle always away for business or busy with one of her daughters, showing her the ins and outs of their business as she’d soon have a partnership role. That’s what led Alina to her backup plan. If she couldn’t get close to the matriarch than she’ll have to take something from her that will absolutely destroy her; Her daughters.

Getting close to Cassandra was nothing short of impossible. The deranged middle Dimitrescu only had blood and carnage on her mind, death was sure to follow anyone who dared to get close. Daniela also proved to be difficult seeing as the girl was impetuous. Often acting without a single thought the youngest Dimitrescu could switch up her moods so swiftly it was impossible to read her. Stories of her erratic outbursts whispered through the halls, a maid getting her face slashed for making a simple mistake. She too seemed to operate on pure destruction. That left Bela; eldest Dimitrescu and heir to whatever winery they operated. Perhaps the most poised and collected of the three, she too had her moments of terror but she spent most of her time in her study reading any and everything. Her thirst for knowledge was the one thing Alina could work with.

“Come onnnnn, you’ve read that book like a million timesss. . .” (Y/n) whines, crawling into the blonde’s lap and trying to muzzle her way under her book and into her neck, much like a cat in search of affection. Bela, still absorbed in her book hums softly, placing a kiss atop her head without breaking her concentration. “I want to spend time with you.” (Y/n) nuzzles into her neck, breathing in her scent with a sigh. She smelled of amber and bark with a slight iron undertone. Bela finishes the chapter and sets her book down, turning her attention to the girl in her lap. “Alright I’m all yours now.” (Y/n) grins brightly and all but drags Bela out the study. “We’re going to have so much fun!” On their way down the hall they run into Alina, Bela’s personal maid, carrying a load of laundry. “Oh Alina, I’ve been meaning to tell you, the nights are getting far too cold so you’ll need to make sure there’s enough firewood in Lady Bela’s room each night. I needn’t remind you the consequences should you fail as I’m quite fond of you.” “Yes lady (y/n). I shall get to it right away.”

(Y/n) proved to be another wrench in Alina’s plan. After she had settled to get close to Bela she realized she’d also have to gain the trust of the resident hunter/ executioner. (Y/n)’s whole purpose was to get her hands dirty and the girl showed absolutely no remorse over it. Was everyone in this castle fucking mad? Legend had it (Y/n) wasn’t even fully human, where’s the surprise in that? (Y/n) was always at Bela’s side, only leaving to hunt, gather supplies from around the village, and carry out executions. Alina couldn’t quite pin what exactly (y/n) was and it scared her. She was swift like the daughters but never burst into swarms of murderous flies. She ate the same as the three but didn’t actively drink blood. Was she perhaps another one of Miranda’s freaks? She’d have to find out some other time because now fate seemed to be on her side. Lady Dimitrescu was leaving for business and (y/n) was going out for a hunt. Daniela and Cassandra would be in the dungeons all day torturing those poor souls (y/n) dragged in the previous week. “They’ve been scouting the castle grounds.” She had said. Anyone with ill intentions was tortured and eventually put to death. That left Bela who had opted out of torture for the day and insisted she read in her study. Alina knew the girl hadn’t been sleeping too well and thus her senses dulled. The knife she’d heard about tucked away into the apron of her uniform Alina did her normal duties, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. She wasn’t a complete idiot either she had the perfect plan. Open the window to weaken the flies that made up Bela’s structure and stab her with the knife to render her healing ability from kicking in. She’d then lock her in the study and let nature take its course. She’d then rush the dagger back to its rightful place and stage an attack on the castle, wounding herself would likely keep her out of suspicion.

Something’s not right. (Y/n)’s gut was screaming at her to abandon her hunt and return to the castle. Her wings twitched nervously and she hissed lowly. The herd of deer she had been stalking for half the day just ahead. She readied herself to pounce, in her panthera form she’d make quick work of the poor deer she’d get her claws on however the nagging feeling that something just wasn’t right prevented her from following through. Then she heard it, the shudders of weakened breathing and the slowing of a heart beating. Bela was in trouble. With the sound akin to that of thunder (y/n) took to the sky, trying with all her might to get to the castle in time. She didn’t even shift back to her human form as she raced the halls, listening for those cursed sounds. When she located the door she all but tore a hole through it, immediately sweeping Bela off the floor and rushing her to another room. Her thoughts running wild. How did this happen? If only I’d been here. I’ll kill whoever’s responsible. Cassandra and Daniela burst through the door shortly after. “What the hell did you do to my sister?!” Cass sneered, already quick to blame with her sickle pointed at the Hunter. “Cass calm down! If she’d done it she wouldn’t have rushed her here.” Daniela reasoned, her eyes brimming with tears. “I don’t know who did this but someone’s head is going to roll for it.” (Y/n) said with absolute venom lacing her words.

The days to follow were filled with so much tension. All the maids were lined up and cross examined, most had strong alibi’s while others seemed a little shaky. Nonetheless the incident was ruled an accident by Lady Dimitrescu per (y/n)’s pleas. Bela fell into a coma whilst her body worked to recover at an alarmingly slow pace. Her room on complete lockdown, no maids, not even her sisters or (y/n) could see her. It hurt to not be able to see the girl she loved but (y/n) knew it was for the best. Trust was very low these days and whoever tried to kill her could still be in this castle. (Y/n) remembers the conversation she had with Lady Dimitrescu the week after the incident. “Whoever tried to kill Bela knew what they were doing. They waited until you and I were away for business and Cass and Daniela would be busy in the lowest parts of the castle. They also left the window open and locked her in her study. I have a list of maids I want to observe but I must ask of you a favor my Lady.” Lady Dimitrescu takes a puff of her cigarette with a hum, she was very livid over the whole situation but her outward demeanor remained calm, frighteningly calm. “I’m listening child.” (Y/n) looks up and makes eye contact for the first time that night, her eyes red from crying and flooding with pure retribution. “I want you to announce that the incident was an accident. I can observe everyone better if they know we don’t suspect any foul play. I would also like to request that Bela is put on strict lockdown, with you being the only one to be in contact with her. I’ll assign all her maids elsewhere.” Lady Dimitrescu mulls the thought over for what feels like a century. She wanted whoever tried to kill her daughter to pay for their crimes, that much she had in common with (y/n) but to cut her daughters off from their sister? In these trying times where Bela was literally fighting for her life? “My lady, I only ask because she may try again if she had access to Bela.” (Y/n) assures as if reading her mind. “Granted, you have 14 days to figure out who tried to kill my daughter. Should you fail, well, it’s going to be a dark night in the history of castle Dimitrescu.” (Y/n) nodded, the indirect threat lingering over her head.

Ten days and nothing of significance. (Y/n) groans in frustration. She’d observed every maid and none stood out, none seemed the least bit suspicious and it bugged her to no end. Deciding that some time outside the castle would help clear her head she decided to head for the village for supplies. She hadn’t had time to hunt lately so she figured buying from local butchers should be enough to feed the Dimitrescu’s until she could get out to hunting again. On her way to the local butchers she passed the pub, the siren call of whiskey oh so enticing. One drink. She thought, one drink would be enough for her after all she wanted to remain level headed. “I still can’t believe she’d throw away years of marriage. . . ” a man babbled, slumped on the table he sat at with tears and snot running down his face. The pink shade to his face indicated this man was well passed drunk. (Y/n) paid him no mind as she trekked further into the pub. “I told her not to go . . . Told her death would surely follow. You can’t kill a Lord.” (Y/n)’s ears perked up at this, forgoing her drink she closed in on the man, blood boiling. “What’s this about killing a Lord?” The man gasps in surprise, stumbling back in his seat and hitting the floor. Fucking drunks. “My Lady. . . What brings you to here?” (Y/n) loomed over the man, her foot coming up to rest on his throat, forcing his back into the ground. “I have very little patience for formalities. Cut the shit and tell me what you know about the attack on Castle Dimitrescu.” The man spilled everything, his wife’s sister, her plan of revenge, the legends of a dagger that was strong enough to kill a Lord. His fear fueling him to empty his soul. (Y/n)’s eyes flashed an angry gold, so one of the maids made the attempt on Bela’s life. She dragged the man with her to castle Dimitrescu and before the Lord herself.

Alina could barely lift her head as the sounds of manic giggling drew closer and closer. She could hear whimpering on her left and the rattling of chains at his futile attempt to escape. “Well well well what do we have here?” An airy voice taunted and out of the swarm Daniela materialized, a crazed smile graced her features, lips coated in blood and gore. “Ah yes. . . A spineless man thing who can’t stop spewing nonsense. Cute if you weren’t so hopelessly weak. Oh and you?” Daniela directs her attention to Alina, a mischievous glint in her two toned eyes. “The bitch my sister trusted, what a terrible judge of character that one. Do you want to know what we’re going to do to you?” The sound of yet another swarm approaches, Cassandra appearing with an array of new tools. “Enough talking Dani, let’s show these scum what happens when you bare your teeth at castle Dimitrescu.” The torture lasted for days as their screams echoed the halls. Cassandra and Daniela doing the most without granting them the sweet release of death. A week passed, than another before it was time to publicly execute them. (Y/n) mulled over a few ways to make an example of the couple. She wished Bela was awake so she could give her input but the blonde was stuck in her coma. Lady Dimitrescu finally allowed her daughters and (y/n) to visit her and (y/n) spent most of her time laying next to Bela in her Panthera form, trying with all her might to produce enough heat to accelerate her healing. After finding out about the dagger being stolen Lady Dimitrescu begged mother Miranda for an antidote. The woman agreed and had an antidote prepared the very same day. She warned them however that the affects might take awhile, “could be days could be months”. All they could do was wait. You could always just post them outside the castle walls and let the crows have at them they’ll succumb to their injuries and it’ll send a message that there’s a fate far worse than death. (Y/n) remembers Bela telling her that on one of her first executions, helping the girl send a clear message to the village. No one messes with House Dimitrescu.

There was peace once again in the castle, albeit a strained peace. Tensions were still high as Bela had yet to rise from her coma. Cassandra had started getting more violent, lashing out at anyone and anything with her hair trigger temper. Daniela grew more quiet, opting to read more these days rather than partake in any activities that would have her leave the castle. Lady Dimitrescu still managed her business and frequent meetings with the Lords but she spent smoked more and ate less. (Y/n) never left Bela’s room, after making an example of that wretched couple she curled up beside Bela and just laid there. She didn’t eat and she rarely slept. She spent her days talking to the comatose blonde in hopes that something would stir her from her deep slumber. “You wouldn’t believe it, it was the biggest deer I’d ever downed, you would’ve loved it.” Tears flowed like a constant stream, ceasing to end down (y/n)’s face. “Please wake up Bela, I need you, I . . . I love you.”

~End

Requested by @wolfie22900

AN: I’m so sorry to make this so sad but there may or may not be a second part to this, depending on how I’m feeling…

#bela dimitrescu #cassandra dimitrescu #daniela dimitrescu #re8 dimitrescu #re8 village #castle dimitrescu #alcina dimitrescu #resident evil village #bela dimitrescu x reader #re8 angst #sorry yall

142 notes · View notes

honeypiehotchner · 3 years

Text

Looking Too Closely (Bucky x Fem!Stark!Reader) -- part three

I did not expect to get so invested in this damn fic but here I am :))

Summary: The one in which Tony invites you to the “family dinner” but you sleep through it. Also, the “Father Test,” as Tony calls it.

Warnings: angst (what’s new?), talk of food/eating (so sorry, I should’ve tagged this a lot sooner!), medical stuffs (needles, blood being drawn)

A few hours pass by slowly as you doze, floating in between sleep and consciousness, both places completely unsoothing to you.

You wake abruptly when FRIDAY’s voice echoes throughout the room. “Do Not Disturb overridden by Tony Stark.”

With a groan, you sit up, listening to Tony knock — though surprised that he even does.

“Come in,” you sigh.

The door swings open and Tony opens his mouth to speak, but stops when he sees you on the floor. “What…” He glances between you and the bed, giving you an incredulous look. “What’s wrong with the perfectly new bed I gave you?”

“The least of your concerns should be that I’m taking a nap on the floor,” you deadpan. “What do you want?”

“Dinner will be ready in a few,” he says, still looking at you all concerned. “We have a family dinner once a week to...build rapport.”

You raise an eyebrow.

He continues. “You live here now, so...you’re invited. Wanda and Pepper will be there. Bucky, too.” Tony pauses. “Bucky didn’t bother you earlier, did he?”

“Nope.”

“Okay, good.”

“You bothered me, Tony.”

“Right,” Tony nods. “Sorry about that. I shouldn’t have brought that stuff up. I should’ve just been happy that you’re okay.” He pauses again, like he’s having trouble putting all the words together. “I am, by the way. Glad you’re okay. I’m sorry you went through that.”

“Thanks,” you say slowly. “You don’t have to worry about it.”

Tony offers a half-smile, half-grimace, because what you don’t know is that he has FRIDAY currently working on a full, extensive background check on your mom. And you, but your mom is top priority. Ever since the conversation in MedBay earlier, he’s been worried. For your safety — both past, present, and future. But he’s also worried about who you really are — and the worst worry of all is that you might not even know.

“Anyway, dinner in a few,” he says. “Nothing fancy. Come as you are, all that bullshit.”

You snicker at his reference.

He tries not to think of it as too much of a win. “Oh and,” he points to the bed, “it really is new. No one’s slept in it before you. And you can adjust the settings on it — softness, heating, cooling, all that. Just,” he pauses again. “FRIDAY, will you show Y/N the control panel?”

“Yes, Mr. Stark.”

Your eyes widen when a hologram appears next to the bed, projected onto the wall. There, all the settings — and many more — that Tony mentioned are shown.

“When you get it set where you like, FRIDAY can save it for you,” he explains. “Just for whenever you feel like sleeping in a bed again. I guess.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, looking over at him. “Really, thank you, Tony.”

“No problem, munchkin.” He smiles fully this time as he leaves, closing your door. And to your surprise, he activates Do Not Disturb again.

Food is the last thing on your mind, so instead you head over to the hologram on the wall.

You spend the next hour and a half fixing the settings. Once you get it just right, though, you lie down and you sleep.

Soundly. For five hours.

+++

When you wake again, you’re confused and disoriented to find yourself sleeping in a bed. But you love that your back, shoulders, and hips aren’t screaming in pain for once.

One glance out the window tells you that you’ve definitely missed the dinner Tony invited you to, but you don’t care all that much. You’ve met everyone individually. You didn’t really need or want to go to a big dinner. It seemed pointless.

But, unfortunately, you are hungry, so you drag yourself out of bed to go to the kitchen in search of something resembling food.

One glance at the clock in the hall tells you it’s just past midnight, so you relax even more, knowing you won’t encounter anyone.

Or at least, you hoped.

There, leaned against the kitchen counter, straight up guzzling a glass of water, is Bucky.

At least it’s him, you think.

Bucky smiles gently when he sees you coming. “Hey.”

You offer a slight nod and a quiet “Hey” in return, going straight to the fridge.

“Oh, the plate in there is yours,” he says. “Top shelf.”

You look up and spot it, your eyes widening as you grab it. Did they eat monstrous portions here or something? It must weigh five pounds or something crazy.

As if reading your mind, Bucky says, “Sorry there’s so much. I think Tony went overboard.”

You blink down at the food. Tony made you a plate? You expected Pepper to do it, if anyone. Quite frankly, you weren’t expecting it at all. You figured they wouldn’t even notice your absence.

Bucky wordlessly steps to the side, giving you access to the microwave. It even looks expensive, which makes you snort. It’s touchscreen. Of-fucking-course.

“We missed you at dinner,” Bucky says. You didn’t know he liked to talk this much.

“I fell asleep,” you confess with a laugh. “Tony uh, showed me the controls for the bed.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows. “No more sleeping on the floor for you, then?”

You shrug.

“I sleep on the floor most nights, too,” Bucky continues, taking in a deep breath. “It’s just…”

“Normal,” you finish quietly.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “It feels normal.”

You turn back to the microwave, opening the door a second before it beeps. The food is warm enough now, you guess. Where the hell are the forks, though?

After opening two drawers, Bucky realizes what you’re looking for. “Here.” He opens the drawer across from you and pulls out a fork.

“Thanks,” you murmur, taking it from him. “Night.”

He nods and gives a slight wave. “Night.”

+++

The next day, Pepper stops by your room with a ton of clothes, shoes, and a phone.

“Uhm, thanks…”

“I know it’s a lot,” she smiles gently. “And if you don’t like anything, just let me know. Or if I didn’t get anything that you need, let me know, too.” She pauses. “You don’t have to do it now.”

“Okay,” you sigh, trying not to feel overwhelmed, but it’s hard. There’s like...fifteen bags on your bed right now. Not to mention the boxes of shoes that are stacked on the floor. And the new phone, still in the box, that you’re holding in your hand.

Pepper points to the phone. “It should have my number, Tony’s number, and the rest of the Avengers programmed in there. You’ll see one named Happy, that’s just Tony’s assistant, just in case. You don’t have to talk to everyone on there, but they do have your number as well. It’s all a precautionary thing. Oh, and the phone can be tracked.” She pauses, lowering her voice. “Just a heads up. In case Tony goes crazy.”

You smile at that. “Thanks.” As if he hasn’t already gone crazy and driven you closer to insanity, too.

“Speaking of Tony,” she says. “He’s willing to do the paternity test whenever you are.”

“Okay,” you nod. “Is today good?”

Pepper blinks. “I don’t see why not.”

“Okay, just...I’ll put some clothes on first.” You’re still wearing what Wanda gave you.

“Yeah, of course,” she nods. “I’ll let Tony know and whenever you’re ready, you can just ask FRIDAY to take you to the lab.”

“Okay.”

Pepper leaves you be, while you get dressed, and it takes you a lot longer than you were expecting.

There are so many clothes.

After finding something somewhat comfortable (and because you’re tired of looking through the bags), you grab your phone, though it feels foreign having it in your pocket.

“FRIDAY...where is the lab?”

“If you head to the elevator, I’ll take you there.”

“Thanks.”

“Of course, Y/N.”

Following FRIDAY’s orders, you head to the elevator and step inside. The doors close and the elevator begins to move, and when it stops, the doors behind you open.

“Welcome to Mr. Stark’s lab.”

Hesitantly, you step off, and you’re met with blaring music.

“Really?” You scream, and Tony lifts his head. “AC/DC? Really?”

The volume lowers a little while Tony replies. “You know your music. I’m impressed.”

“I’m disappointed,” you say. “I prefer Pink Floyd.”

Tony smirks. ‘Another Brick in the Wall, Pt. 2’ begins to play. You hate that you grin, but you do.

“Much better,” you comment. “Pepper told me to come here?”

He nods. “Right, the Father Test.”

You snort. Of course he calls it that.

“We’ll have to head down to MedBay to do it. I’ll be done in just a second.” He taps something on the screen before looking back up. “Did Pepper give you your phone?”

“Yeah.” You pull the device from your pocket and wave it. “Thanks. You didn’t have to.”

“I’m not gonna leave you stranded without a phone,” Tony replies. “Also, just for the foreseeable future, don’t leave the Tower without someone. Preferably without me.”

You furrow your eyebrows. You hadn’t thought about leaving and going anywhere until now. “Why?”

“Well, for one, you have an arrest warrant,” he reminds you. “They won’t question it if I’m with you. Which is why it needs to be me — Steve is also fine. But, let’s say, if you left with Bucky, they wouldn’t hesitate to grab both of you.”

“Wasn’t he pardoned or something?”

“Doesn’t mean no one holds a grudge against him.”

You nod. “Right.” Then, you reel back. “So you’re not going to turn me in?”

He shrugs. “I believe you. Even though you won’t tell me who stabbed you.” He taps something else, then drags the screen, and a hologram appears right in front of him.

You roll your eyes. “Because I don’t know who they were. I told you.”

“And I still think you’re lying,” he retorts.

You glare at him through the hologram.

A few more minutes pass where all that fills the silence is Pink Floyd. You’re not complaining, but even Tony’s breathing is grating to your ears.

Once he’s finally finished with whatever the hell he was doing, he heads to the elevator, and you silently follow him.

+++

This time when you enter MedBay, it’s empty, aside from the on-site doctor, Dr. Cho.

“Here for the Father Test,” Tony quips, smirking when Dr. Cho rolls her eyes at him.

You like Dr. Cho already.

“Alright,” she says, putting a pause on what she was doing. “It’s just a simple cheek swab and a little blood.”

“Blood?” You ask. You hate having your blood drawn. Not because of the needle, but because of the idea of your blood being drawn out of your body and used for things you’re unaware of.

It’s creepy.

“Just a small amount,” Dr. Cho assures you with a soft smile. “It acts as a double-check for the paternity test. The cheek swab can give us a general yes or no, but blood is definitive.”

You agree, you just hate it.

First is the cheek swab and Dr. Cho lets you do it, probably sensing your anxiety. She refuses to let Tony do his on his own, but that probably has something to do with how much of a child he is.

Tony gets his blood drawn first, and it is too short for your liking, because once he’s done, Dr. Cho preps you.

Your head is turned the other way while she wipes your skin. Tony moves into your line of vision, and you’re ready to tell him to fuck off before he teases you, but he doesn’t.

He just talks to you.

“Barnes told me you fell asleep yesterday.”

You furrow your eyebrows. “Yeah. That’s why I missed dinner. He said you made a plate for me?”

“I did,” Tony nods. “I didn’t want you to go hungry.”

“I could tell,” you snort. “There was enough food on the plate to feed four of me.”

He chuckles. “Did you at least eat?”

“Yeah, I did,” you say. “It was good.”

“Good. How’s the bed?”

“Really good,” you say. “Thanks for showing me the controls and stuff.”

“No problem,” he shrugs. “Nat asked me earlier if you’d like to train with her and Wanda.”

“Train?”

“Yeah, train, workout, whatever you want to call it. Barnes and Rogers usually run if that’s more your speed, Wilson, too, when he’s here.”

“Who’s Wilson?”

“Sam,” Tony fills in. “Falcon.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“He’s in...Louisiana right now, but he should be back here in a few days, so you’ll meet him.” He pauses. “But...stay away from him.”

“Why?”

“He’s...flirty.”

You nearly wheeze. “Are you joking?”

“Nope,” he shakes his head. “I’ve been meaning to say that about Barnes, too. I don’t care if you talk to him. I think it’s good for him — and you. But don’t…” He waves his hands in an ambiguous manner.

“Tony, the absolute last thing on my mind right now is a boyfriend, but even if it was, why would you have any say in it?” You counter.

“Because I know them, and I don’t want them anywhere near you,” he says, like that’s the end of it. “All done, Dr. Cho?”

“All done,” she confirms, and that’s when you feel her pressing a Band-Aid over your skin.

Your head whips around. You didn’t even feel the needle go in or out. What the fuck?

You look back at Tony with a small smile. “Well played.”

“You’re welcome,” he smirks. “Though, I wasn’t kidding.”

You roll your eyes. “Not even Nat or Wanda?”

He looks surprised, but still shakes his head. “Still no.”

“Darn. My plans have been foiled.”

This time when he looks at you, he smiles.

As the two of you are walking to the elevator, he says, “Want to help me in the lab? I’ll let you control the music — just this once.”

You almost say yes, but you’re not really in the mood. “No, thanks though. I really should go through all the clothes Pepper brought me.”

“Ah, right,” he nods. “She told me she went shopping.”

“Yeah…” You exhale. “She went.”

You step onto the elevator after him, and he presses the floors for you and the lab.

“You know, Wanda might help you sort through the clothes if you ask. She might wear whatever you don’t want.”

“Oh, okay. I’ll ask.”

“She’s training right now, though.”

You nod. “Okay. It can wait, I guess.”

Tony rocks on his heels. “I could really use an extra set of hands…”

You roll your eyes. “Fine.”

He grins. “You still want to control the music?”

“There’s no way I’m letting you play AC/DC the whole time.”

#looking too closely #tony stark #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x fem!reader #bucky barnes x stark!fem!reader #bucky barnes x fem!stark!reader #bucky barnes x stark!reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #james buchanan barnes #james buchanan bucky barnes #oooohhhh why the blood draw #oooohhhhh #interesting #i'm so sorry in advance LMFAO

241 notes · View notes

spvce-cowboy · 4 years

Text

gentle things

ch. 2 of i’ll be here in the morning (the mandalorian x fem!reader)

previous- ch.1: “a strange beauty”

next- ch.3: “reunion”

rating: mature

8.5k words

warnings: mutual pining, masturbation (f), alcohol, descriptions of gore

summary: after a few months on the Crest, you find yourself growing closer to your new companions.

a/n: the gay agenda is finding a way to slip a dolly parton song into a star wars fanfic, i rest my case.

Most mornings you wake to the child’s soft cooing. Occasionally, the sound is met with a low, modulated voice, that murmurs incoherent phrases in response. It somehow puts your heart to rest before you even remember where you are.

It’s strange, you’ve been a resident of the Crest for a handful of months now and it sometimes still takes you a few moments each morning to reorient yourself. You blame it on the strange limbo of hyperspace—it always throws you off for at least a day or two, and you swear your dreams are more vivid after. Sometimes you wake up panting for no reason at all.

You’re adjusting pretty well. A bit strange having a roommate/boss who doesn’t acknowledge your presence beyond the occasional but respectful nod. But it’s way better than you could have possibly imagined when you first started turning the idea over in your head. Granted, that was when you were about elbow-deep in his chest cavity, trying to fish out pieces of the shoddily constructed weapon that broke off inside him. You needed the first way out that presented itself to you, something you and Am’ile both agreed with, and well, when opportunity strikes or whatever.

Your first evening on the Crest, you asked the Mandalorian where you should sleep and he just shrugged, handing you a single, scratchy blanket with a “this is all I have.” Later, when you pass his bunk as he’s taking a nap, he’s curled in on himself on a bare cot and you realize that threadbare piece of fabric was literally all he had. You don’t bring it up, but something in your chest softens towards him after that. There’s a new quilt folded neatly on his bunk by the time he returns from his first mission.

Your second day onboard, you found a metal table in a junk heap and pushed it against one of the walls in the engineering bay. You spent the better part of an afternoon figuring out how to weld it to the floor. The medical supplies went on top, then you pushed your pillow and your rolled-up mattress underneath. Sure, there was technically a second cot in the Crew’s quarters, but you wanted to give the Mandalorian his privacy whenever possible. Besides, as long as there wasn’t too much turbulence, your set-up was pretty great.

After a few missions, you’ve visited enough markets to buy an ample supply of blankets, sweaters, and pillows to keep you comfortable on the floor of the ship. It’s freezing most nights, especially in hyperspace, and cocooning yourself in as many warm things as you could manage helps stave off both the chill as well as the occasional home sickness. The collection you’ve amassed thus far is in a various mis-match of pale jewel tones that remind you of Am’ile’s house. You didn’t realize that until you’d piled them all together on your bed and you couldn’t help but laugh at yourself a bit.

The child loves your soft things, happily snuggling up with you for naps while waiting for the Mandalorian’s return—though you suspect he’s just grateful for the new company. A consistent presence while dad’s away. You’re happy to give that to him.

The new routine is comfortable, the company is nice, the work is relatively easy. And, stars, the things you get to see. It’s honestly more than you could have ever asked for.

When your eyes blink open it’s already around eight in the morning. You’ve landed on Nevarro where the Mandalorian has already been gone for a day, attending some kind of “extended business meeting,” as he put it. Yawning, you eventually roll out of bed and stumble into the fresher, blearily rubbing the sleep out of your eyes with the spray’s cold water. Stepping out, you wrap your towel around yourself. In the tiny metal mirror suspended over the sink you pat on some lotion onto your face, eyes still heavy.

Reaching for your toothbrush, your knuckle grazes one of the Mandalorian’s facial razors. You wince, flicking your hand before examining it. A tiny nick. Sucking on it for a second to stop the blood flow, you glance at the Mandalorian’s side of the cabinet.

It’s strange to see the most banal traces evidence of what he is, who he is, behind the all that beskar. Like the facial razors—to think he’s in here, maskless, shaving his face, while you’re playing with his kid or whatever just a few steps away. To think he takes a shower every day—er, well, you’re not sure about that one, but at least when he’s on the Crest—stepping out and wrapping a towel around his waist in order goes about his little tasks.

You swallow, removing your hand from your mouth and grabbing your toothbrush before your mind can wander anywhere else. You brush your teeth particularly well that morning.

The day is pretty typical from there. After feeding both yourself and the child breakfast, you settle on the floor of the hull with the small metal ball he’s obsessed with. You place him a few feet in front of you, he sways slightly on both feet before plopping down to mirror you, hands stretched forward in an demand to be put in your lap.

“Let’s do some of the exercises, yeah?” You know you’re essentially just talking to yourself as you hold the ball in the air, but you might as well make the effort anyway. Am’ile was no stranger to kids like him, or at least that’s how she put it—something about her people and some other group, the specifics completely slipped your mind. She didn’t really elaborate and you knew not to press.

Even though you don’t know much, you do try to mimic Am’ile’s drills-disguised-as-play at least a few times a day. He only seemed to do what you asked during those sessions when you weren’t looking, distracted by cleaning or studying whatever book you’d picked up hours later. You would always find the little ball in strange places, definitely not where you’d last placed it, and certainly out of the child’s reach.

At least it was good to know he was partially pretending to not listen to you. You could work with partially.

The kid has been fussy since waking, refusing to focus on any of the things you were trying to prompt him to do. Yesterday, you spent a bit too much time at the markets with him—growing sick of protein bars, you initially set out trying to find something closer to tasting like home. Really, you just liked getting out of the Crest so you could see all those people.

You’ve amassed a collection of language dictionaries, trying to do some fast learning and even faster practicing to get your way around. Sometimes the vendors are kind and help you stutter your way through disjointed sentences in their native tongue, others just huff and immediately switch to Basic as soon as you start talking. You don’t mind either way.

The marketplace as a whole is new and exciting, the clatter and clamor of movement, laughing and snarling, voices raised in argument and lowered in the smallest exchange of intimacy. So far removed from the quiet slopes of Am’ile’s home and—

You don’t let the rest of that thought happen, quickly scooping the kid up and wrapping him to your chest with a long swath of fabric.

“I’m goin’ a little crazy in here too, little guy,” you mumble, pulling your satchel over your shoulder. “Your dad should be back in a while—let’s try to find a contact for supplies until then, yeah? Shouldn’t be too hard.” A total lie, it was way more difficult to find what you are looking for than you initially thought. You were particularly looking for a cauterizing instrument that was a bit more sturdy than the glorified cigar lighter the Mandalorian was currently using. Besides basic med-kit stock, it was nearly impossible to find anything more advance under the radar.

Yesterday was half-heartedly spent searching the markets in search of someone who might be tapped into Republic supply runs, which rendered you, predictably, empty-handed. Now you were on to your second best option, asking around the closest cantina where you could find the instruments you were looking for for without raising too much attention.

Okay, so maybe the Mandalorian specifically told you to keep out of the bars when you’re traveling without him. But you managed just fine on your own yesterday in an arguably more crowded environment. You’ve also dealt with… far worse than that hunk of metal could ever possibly imagine. You’re more than capable on your own. Still, you make sure to strap a dagger and a blaster to your belt before heading out.

You make quick work hurrying to the cantina, making sure to cover your head with the hood of your tunic and conceal the little one as much as possible. Basic survival instincts usually warrant drawing as little attention to yourself as possible, being a young human woman traveling alongside a small green wizard creature is pretty much the opposite of that.

He, predictably, doesn’t take very well to the concealed swaddle you’ve confined him to, and the two of you are in a constant back-and-forth of you attempting to wrap him up and him making quick work of wriggling out of any cover tactic you try. If it weren’t for those damn ears your life would be so much easier.

The bar has the quiet hum of activity, occasionally interspersed with a loud chatter of conversations rising to some kind of boiling point. You maneuver yourself to the counter and try to get the attention of the bartender, holding the kid to your chest until he squirms his way upwards and settles with his chin on your shoulder, one of his ears slipping out of the head covering you’d fashioned and thwapping you in the neck. You’ll deal with that in a second.

You’ve only just caught the bartender’s attention when the doors slam open. The clamor of the cantina quiets momentarily, and you see everyone shift slightly to eye whoever just entered. The two new patrons seem to be in the middle of an argument, voices low in secrecy but tense with frustration.

“I’d know that green mug anywhere.” With that you finally turn, heart dropping with anxiety. It’s the Mandalorian and a companion, a human man. The man’s voice, a deep bellow, is warm and inviting in a way that shouldn’t make you freeze completely as he addresses the kid. He then looks you up and down, pausing as the Mandalorian continues stomping forwards. You freeze anyway. “Ah—this is that girl you mentioned? Your caretaker?”

“She’s a medic,” the Mandalorian sharply corrects the man without moving to look at you. He quickly returns back to whatever conversation was initially at hand as the man continues his brisk stride towards a table at the back. There are three people already seated there, but by the time the Mandalorian arrives they have all left in a scuffling hurry. Neither of the men acknowledge it, just immediately slide into opposing sides of the booth. “Karga, this is ridiculous--I’m not a Republic spy, why would there be this many hoops on a bounty you’re just handing out?”

“I’m not just ‘handing it out,’ Mando, I’m giving it to you because I know you’re the most capable,” the man, Karga, addresses the Mandalorian then directs his attention towards you. “Come here, girl. Let me get a good look at you, I’m curious.” Turning to the bartender, he barks out an order for spotchka. You walk towards the table. There’s too much attention on the three of you to resist, you wouldn’t want to make things more complicated for the Mandalorian anyway. The bounty hunter’s voice almost immediately overrides his, low but gritty with anger as you slide into the booth beside him.

“I can’t—Karga you know I’ve never done something like this. This high-profile. Going deep-cover for a job isn’t something I can do.”

You feel Karga’s eyes on you, it’s brief but piercing. You busy yourself by looking up at the woman who serves you a small glass of the bright blue liquid, quietly thanking her.

“It’s all the fobs or nothing. The signal will be broadcast in a few hours’ time—they won’t expect something like this to be conducted semi-publicly. Keep monitoring the broadcast, but save that fob for last,” Karga places three fobs in the center of the table, then slides a forth a few inches removed from the rest. He can tell the Mandalorian isn’t convinced—stars, even you can tell he isn’t convinced. Karga heaves a sigh and makes a stab at reassurance. “You can figure it out. You’re the only one I can trust to get this done. The most capable.”

The Mandalorian’s hand slams down on the table, you jump, quickly looking between the intense but even staring contest going on between Karga and the infuriated bounty hunter. Slowly, and with more than a bit of melodrama, the Mandalorian drags the fobs under his hand towards him, slipping it into his pocket without breaking eyes from Karga’s.

He turns heel so quickly his cape whips behind him. You scurry after him as fast as you can manage.

You can still feel the frustration steaming off of the Mandalorian the whole walk back to the Crest. You keep quiet, trailing behind him by a few steps—you desperately want to ask what was wrong. Your mouth stays firmly shut.

Boarding the Crest, the Mandalorian immediately scales the ladder into the cockpit. After a few minutes you feel the Crest shutter into the air, quickly shooting into the empty sky and then hyperspace. You sigh and grab a book, turning the kettle on to make some caf and settling in your bed to an eye on the kid as he toddles around the expanse of the hull.

Hours later, when the child has exhausted all possible forms of entertainment, usually consisting of live wires and exposed paneling that you tug him away from, he begins to get fussy in a way that means he’s tired but refuses to sleep. It starts with the occasional whimper that quickly crescendos into a full-blown fit. You know all the warning signs at this point.

The little terror had a bit of a habit of doing this—once the Mandalorian and you are in the ship he refuses to fall asleep unless you two are in the same room. A part of you knows this is a symptom of separation anxiety—which you in no way can blame him for, given the circumstances of their bond—but the cockpit is just about the last place you want to be.

It’s not that you’re scared of the Mandalorian, or anything. It would just be… incredibly awkward with the mood he’s in right now to attempt to lull his kid to sleep in his presence.

“Listen, buddy, your dad is super grumpy right now so—" The child just starts crying even louder, little fists balled up to pound futilely against your chest, trying to push you away. “Okay okay okay! I get it. I get it.” You sigh, biting your lip and looking down at the kid, then up at the ladder. The kid starts screaming. “Yeah, yeah. Alright.” You begin the climb up.

“Hey, sorry he’s being a little sensitive again,” you say as your head pops up onto the pilot’s deck, miraculously managing to pull yourself into the room with one arm holding the squirming kid against you. The floor seals shut behind you once you haul yourself over the edge.

The Mandalorian just grunts in response and continues flipping through radio channels, seemingly growing more frustrated with himself the longer it takes for him to find the frequency Karga directed him to. He’s in the pilot’s chair, back turned to you, shoulders hunched in concentration.

You settle into the copilot’s seat, resting the kid on his back on top of your legs. He settles almost instantly, big eyes no longer filled with tears.

Rolling your eyes with a small smile, you tickle him lightly until he starts giggling, then scoop him back up into your arms, allowing yourself to slide back in the chair a bit. You stare out into the bright darkness of space, blinking back at the stars as the child coos gently in your lap.

“A coded civilian station, is he fucking crazy?” The Mandalorian mumbles to himself in his continued litany of abuses he’s slung Karga and the greater universe’s way since returning to the Crest.

The longer you’ve been here the more he’s started to do things like that, just talking into the air without the expectation of a response. You begin to think that that’s just the way he acts when it was just him and the kid. Though you’ve noticed that he has been cursing way more than he did when you first met. That might be a little bit your fault. Oops.

You look down at the child and rub one of his ears, leaning down to press a kiss at the crown of his head. His little three-fingered hand catches your hair and pulls. Wincing, you resist the urge to jerk your head back. Instead, you extend the pad of your index finger and lightly wiggle it against his button nose. He sneezes and lets go almost immediately.

You let out a triumphant “ha!” then shake your head slightly and twist your face in a playful scowl. The kid resumes his giggling, batting at your hands when you try to tickle his tummy.

Glancing over at the angry hunk of beskar seated beside you, you notice he’s paused with his hand hovering over the radio’s controls, his head turned slightly towards his right shoulder to silently regard you and the child.

You quickly divert your gaze back down to the kid, resuming rubbing his ears as his eyes slowly, devastatingly slowly, ease shut. Only to snap open again with a playful babble, hands reaching up again for the free entertainment of the hair still attached to your head. Shit. You sigh. The Mandalorian goes back to flipping through the channels.

More static and garbled languages you’ve never encountered before. You try to ignore the pounding of your heart—that was probably the longest you’d ever seen him grant you any kind of attention—and keep trying to lull the child to sleep. As quietly as possible you try to stand, scooting around the copilot’s seat to gently bounce the kid in the limited space to the back of the cockpit. He’s quieted significantly, just enough that you could probably get him to sleep on your own, as long as you don’t jostle him too much on the descent back into the hull. You’re about to head down the ladder when—

The Mandalorian pauses momentarily on a channel that’s playing music. The opening swell of the first verse is unmistakable. Your chest fills with a certain warm feeling, pounding with memories you had long since tucked away.

“Wait,” you say it without thinking. Without even processing that the words left your mouth. “Wait, could you go back? That… that song…”

Wordlessly, he clicks back to the previous station. The cabin is filled with the music, a warm and bright voiced female vocalist smoothly intertwined with her male partner. The melody is plucky, something you could dance to—and have, more than once—and it’s overly saccharine in its pure, absolute joy in itself. But you suppose the cheesiness is part of the charm. You relish in it regardless.

You do something to me that I can’t explain. There is a memory that surfaces just as quickly as it disappears. You couldn’t have been more than four. Your father, spinning you around by your pudgy forearm. It’s his laugh you remember most of all, something boisterous and full-bodied. You are dancing around the kitchen of a home you can’t remember, the floor dappled with light from the pieces of stained glass your mother had dangling from the windows. Hold me closer and I feel no pain. You smile to yourself, bowing your head down at the little one, quietly murmuring what lyrics you remember, rocking your hips in a gentle little dance. It works, the kid is fast asleep by the last chord.

The song ends, the disc jockey begins speaking in yet another language you don’t recognize. The Mandalorian quickly turns the volume down, lest it wake the child. He has reflexes fast enough to startle you, luckily your jolt does nothing to bother the baby in your arms. You gently place him in the pram, hovering beside the pilot’s seat. You slide the shield doors shut to keep out the noise and step back.

“Thank you, Mandalorian,” you say it softly, but you can see his helm bob slightly in a nod of acknowledgement. You take a deep breath and begin to head towards the ladder as he resumes flicking through the stations.

“Hey,” the Mandalorian says your name. You pause for a moment, then turn. He clears his throat—the sound comes out as a rough crackle over the modulator. If you didn’t know any better, you would think he sounds a bit nervous. “You can uh… you can just call me Mando, you know. The full thing is a bit of a mouthful.”

You blink once, then nod. Turning heel you, mercifully, scale back down the ladder with as much grace as could be mustered, despite your shaking hands.

That night, when you touch yourself, you shove the blanket he gave you against your nose and mouth. To keep quiet, you tell yourself. It smells like his soap.

Days after the radio incident, you can’t help but occasionally find that you’re singing the song to yourself as you go about your chores. It just seems to pop in your head as soon as you open your eyes, and it’s just stuck there, but you’re not very mad about that.

Mando has landed on some bitterly cold planet that was made up of little more than ash and a thick red fog. He had left late last night/early this morning to start his hunt, telling you in a little scribbled note to expect him back in two days’ time. He has really bad handwriting, it’s strangely amusing.

You decide to deep clean the hull: washing the floors, doing laundry, organizing what meager new supplies you were able to gather from Nevarro. As you did, you sang to yourself. Out loud. Just for the pleasure of it.

Your mother taught you kulning, as was tradition for the young girls on your home planet. Your father taught you the low-bellied croon of the casino singers. When things were still good, you would sing for your parents friends at the parties they would throw and your father would play the piano. You wish you had more memories like that. It’s hard to recall anything through the foggy barriers of the past fifteen years, it makes something in your chest ache to even try.

Am’ile’s radio was for emergencies only, not wanting to draw unwanted attention with the signal. It has been ages since you’ve had access to one, ages since you’ve heard music that didn’t come from your own mouth. That was why you’d started the nightly calls at Am’ile’s because before that grassy little planet… well, speaking was barely an option. You’d seen too many girls hurt for things far less than murmuring a tune.

To sing in the way your mother taught you, with the whole of your body. To make yourself so boldly known. It was all you had ever wanted.

You start putting together dinner for you and the kid as the day winds down. Mando had a barely functioning hotplate that you were able to make the best of, having bought some fresh produce at the far more hospitable planet the three of you were stationed at the previous day.

The stew cooks while you finish up the rest of your work, slicing bread and setting up a little dining area for your and the kid because, frankly, why not go all-out? It’s good to treat yourself to the small, gentle things. Even when on an unforgiving rock hurtling through space. Especially then.

You hop in the fresher while you wait for the meat to get to the proper temperature, twisting your body to keep your hair out of the water’s blast. In the enclosed space, you feel a less self-conscious and allow yourself sing a little louder than the under-the-breath, partial-hum you’d managed throughout the rest of the day.

You don’t hear the hull opening between that and the fresher’s spray.

When you turn the water off, you recognize the sound of the last few mechanisms of the hull door stealing itself back in place. Anxiety settles in quickly as you dry off. God, please let it just be Mando please. There’s the sound of something heavy being thrown against a wall. You wince.

A low voice. “Pretty little bird you’ve got singing in here, just for me?” Then a wet crack. “Mother fuck—"

Your heart lurches in your chest as you quickly pull your clothes on, cracking open the fresher door to peer out into the hull. Mando is standing over the body of a target, now crumpled to the ground, holding a bleeding headwound with two long, thin hands. He nudges the bounty with the butt of the weapon he had presumably just used against the man’s skull. The man gives a choked moan, completely incapacitated.

“Do you…” your voice sounds far too small. You blink, inhaling and starting over. “Do you need to bring him in alive or do you need my—"

“The carbonite will stop the bleeding,” Mando’s voice is gruff. You nod, even though his back is turned to you, watching from the safety of the doorway as he leans down and lugs the whining body into the chamber. Once the bounty is sealed away, you step back out into the open.

Mando pushes past you almost without recognition, limping heavily.

“Hey—hey!” You trail behind him, reaching out to touch his arm. He flinches. “Could you at least let me do my job?”

He regards you for an extended beat, then readily sits. It’s more of a controlled collapse.

“Is it your leg?” You ask, kneeling beside him and helping him peel off what armor you can. He shakes his head.

“It’s just more of a bruise I—my side, my hip. Onto the top of my leg.”

You nod slowly. “Okay, can you get to the fresher yourself or do you think you’ll need help? You have to rinse off before I treat you.” There’s an almost clay-like layer of red dust on his clothes and armor. It would be impossible to treat him properly without getting most of it off.

He wordlessly extends a gloved hand for you to help him up, you oblige—albeit struggling a bit with his weight. Once standing, you hover beside him on his limping walk to the fresher until he gives you a short: “I’ve got it.” You back off, returning to tend to your dinner while you wait.

When he emerges again he’s only wearing a sleep shirt, his mask, and a towel, the fabric held at the hip by his clenched fist to expose an already bruising thigh. He sits on a crate with an audible wince, easing himself back to lean against the wall slightly.

Your throat constricts as you move to his exposed side, but you try to breathe evenly enough to maintain an air of professionalism. Which gets increasingly difficult when he, with another sound of sharp pain, pulls up his shirt to reveal a series of small, shallow punctures traveling up his flank and over his hip that slightly weep with a mixture of blood and the cold water on his skin. He holds the shirt, just below his pectorals with his opposing hand, allowing the towel to drape over his lap while still revealing the side you need to work on. You can see the faint cut of his abdominal muscles, tracing south alongside a thin trail of dark hair leading--

“Shotgun pellets,” his voice stops your thoughts before they can get any worse. You’re partially thankful. Glancing up, you furrow your brow in confusion. He clarifies, “they’re a uh… a projectile type weapon. He was fighting dirty and desperate.” You nod, looking back down. The worst of the spray was able to score the skin right above his hip, but most of it had just bounced off his quad, leaving a series of raised, purpling welts. It was superficial at worst, but still not the best to look at. He seemed to read your mind. “Beskar was able to deflect them for the most part. I’ll be fine, just cauterize the worst of it.”

“The more you use the cauterizer the more of a chance you have of the scar tissue getting infected, you know. That’s some business you want no part of,” you say, digging through your kit for a pain ointment and the bacta you were able to refill on Nevarro. The more you looked at it, the more foolish of a blow for him to have taken it becomes. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re doing this on purpose,” you’re muttering it to yourself before you can fulling think through the implications. When he doesn’t say anything, you glance up at him. “That was a joke.”

“You need to work on your material, then.”

You laugh, shaking your head to yourself as you get to work. It’s easier to feel more confident around him the longer you’ve acclimated on the Crest. You have a bad habit of using snark as a defense mechanism. The more you work with Mando, the less you’re able to keep that up. It feels nice, you can relax slightly when you’re given the reassurance of him reciprocating the conversation.

You finish pressing the last of the bandages against his side. “The pain stuff I used should start sinking in soon, it might burn for a bit beforehand but it’ll get better after a few minutes.” He nods, pulling the towel tightly around his waist before standing and limping back into his quarters. He returns, fully dressed, putting a little more pressure on his leg than he did before he left. You quickly, desperately, find a way to conceal your staring.

“Hey—I have a surprise for you,” you turn to the kitchenette, busying yourself by testing the stock with a messy sip. It’s not… the best thing you’ve ever made in your whole life, but it’s the closest thing to the meals you made with Am’ile that you’ve had since you left your old home. It smells lovely, enough to have filled the hull with the smell of the herbs you used. “I thought it was just gonna be me and the womp rat so I made dinner, if you wanna eat with us that is.” You pull out the bottle of wine you bought from one of the storage drawers, a slight heat rising to your cheeks. You hold it up triumphantly anyway. “I really just needed an excuse to buy this for myself. But I totally understand if you’d rather eat upstairs by yourself.”

“Thank you,” he says hesitantly. “I’ll… I’ll stay while you eat. I can take mine to the cockpit once you’ve finished.”

“Would you want to have a glass with me, at least?” You hold the wine bottle by the neck at your side. He’s grumpy. Part of you wants to find some way to fix that, knowing it would be hard for you to let yourself enjoy the rest of the night with him fuming over something just upstairs. “I’ll cover my eyes. It’ll be like when I brought you your meals, while you were fixing the ship. No peaking. I promise.”

He takes a moment, before nodding slowly, for some reason you’re kind of surprised he agrees. Maybe that’s why your smile is so big. Maybe it was the fact you’d already cracked the bottle open for a few sips before taking your shower, the warmth of it at the bottom of your stomach making it much easier to playfully prod at the bounty hunter. Probably a mix of both.

You kneel beside your bed to gather another pillow, placing it across the makeshift table you’ve fashioned out of two crate and one of your blankets. You turn to bring the rest of the food to the table, three wooden bowls and a plate for the kid. You’re in the middle of separating the meat from the broth for him when you glance up at Mando, who is still standing exactly where you last saw him. He points to the tuft of fabric you had placed on the floor for him.

“What’s that for?”

You’re not sure if he’s serious or not. “Um, comfort?”

He doesn’t say anything, just cocks his helmet slightly to the left.

“Alright, old man,” you roll your eyes, refilling your cup . “Suit yourself.”

Mando pauses for a second longer before easing himself onto the pillow. He says your name softly, almost to himself. “This looks… really great. Thank you.”

“Well I wouldn’t take it to heart too much, chrome bucket. I was planning on hoarding all this for me and the kid. You just came back at quite the opportune moment,” you grin cheekily up at him before tearing your piece of bread and dipping it into the broth.

He reaches across the makeshift table and picks up his cup. You’ve repurposed the tops of two of his thermoses to make them. He examines it in his hand for a moment before speaking.

“Were you singing that song that was on the radio, yesterday? When I came in?”

“Yeah,” you laugh, shaking your head to yourself as you reach over the table and grab the cup in his hand to fill it with the wine. “I haven’t heard it in ages, you know? Any music at all, honestly, but especially that song. It was one of my dad’s favorites,” you detract before either of you could linger on that last statement. “It’s been in my head all day. I was meaning to ask you, when it comes to the radio—it probably wouldn’t be a good idea for me to listen while you’re on the job, yeah? Tracing signals and all that?”

Mando mulls it over for a second, accepting his cup from you and staring down at it. “I’m not sure. Better safe than sorry, but I could ask around about getting a uh… one of those new portable ones.” You don’t want to tell him that those newfangled portable radios have been a thing since you were in the cradle—something about his technological obliviousness was oddly endearing. “I’ll ask around and see if there’s some kind of blocking signal we could install. If you’d like one, that is. I’d like to take a sip, now, if that’s okay?”

You nod, immediately putting your hands over your face. You know you could just squeeze your eyes shut like oh, maybe a normal person might? But to be honest, it was a little funny to do. To act this silly in front of one of the most effective killing machines in the galaxy, who you have somehow convinced to attend a quaint family dinner. Might as well mess around a bit with it, yeah?

You hear the hiss of the mask resealing but you don’t remove your hands from your eyes. “It’s good wine,” he remarks. “You can look now.”

Removing your palms from your face, you blink your vision back to clarity, reaching for your cup again. Your mouth is already growing warm in the way that let you know that when Mando meant good he also meant strong. You have to agree.

“The people on Am’ile’s planet would make this crazy strong liquor out of these peaches that only grew in the valley where we lived. The village that was closest to us got super wealthy off of the stuff--honestly I can’t stomach anything too sweet anymore after it, spent an equal amount of time coming up as it did going down, if you get what I’m saying.” You screw up your face at even the thought of the syrup-like drink. “The orchards were super beautiful, though. The tallest foliage in the valley and they were maybe only a few heads taller than you. All types of critters living in the roots—that little one loved it.” You gesture to the child, who was grabbing as much of the dish’s meat as he could in his stubby three-fingered hands. The rest of his plate remained untouched. “Am’ile and I used to take walks through it all the time, especially when I first got there. It was too dangerous to go into the forests by yourself so I would spend ages in the orchards if she wasn’t putting me to work, just for a change of scenery.” Your mouth kind of just keeps running. It just feels so… nice, to talk to someone without having to try and stutter your way through a new language. That and the liquid courage in your cup made you unapologetically chatty. “She had so many little trinkets and things from her travels as a Republic medic, but only like ten books tops, all on medicine. I literally have the things memorized at this point, they were the only things to read.”

“You could go back at some point, if you want. When there’s a lull in jobs I could probably drop you and the kid off, spend a few weeks with her while I keep hunting,” Mando casually picks up his glass again, and you automatically cover your eyes with your hands. You’re still smiling, just with a little weight behind it.

“No, no that’s okay. Am’ile would get in too much trouble with the locals, for good reason. It isn’t safe for them and—to be honest, Mando, I don’t think the kid could take being separated from you for that long,” you pause for a moment. “But that’s incredibly kind of you to offer, thank you. I mean that.”

His mask hisses back in place. You ease the index and middle finger of your right hand to peer at him playfully before lowering your hands again. It’s a gentle spar between the two of you, an easy rhythm to settle into.

“Your med-station,” he nods towards your table/bed set up, looking particularly messy in comparison to the hull you’d spent the day cleaning. “It’s…”

Your heart drops, ready for the scolding. “Ah—uh, I’m sorry.” You look down at your plate—even if he couldn’t see the heat rising to your face, you try to hide your embarrassment by stabbing at another bite of food. You glance up at him sheepishly. “It’s the only place on the Crest that’s tucked away enough, I didn’t want to get underfoot.”

“No, no.” He shakes his head. You swallow. “I like it. A good idea. It’s like a reminder whenever I leave, not to do anything too stupid.”

“Oh, well,” you’re not sure why that catches you off guard so much. You honestly had no idea he even processed your presence since you’d first moved in besides the occasional medical assistance you provided. “I’ll make sure to put the more intimidating syringes front-and-center the next time I organize it.”

And he laughs.

Well—so, okay. It’s not a full laugh, more like a few low releases of air, but there’s a clear smile behind it that you can definitely hear. It’s enough to have you slightly grinning to yourself the rest of the meal.

By the time you’re finished, you’re a bit hazy off the wine and incredibly sleepy. You lean back slightly and yawn, looking at where Mando has settled the kid on his lap. “Sometimes I wish I could just snap my fingers and he’d just go to sleep. There’s too much energy in that little guy.”

“I can take him for the night,” Mando is currently engaged in a gentle dance of keeping the little one’s hands away from the food you’ve portioned for the bounty hunter. It’s more amusing than it should be. “If you could just help me take this upstairs I’d be more than happy to.”

You nod, clamoring to your feet and grabbing his bowl as he climbs up into the cockpit with the kid. You follow and place his dinner on a clear spot on the console.

“Where are we going next?” You ask, glancing over the control panel as if you had any idea what all those flashing lights and strange looking scanners meant. You should really pick up a flight manual at some point, just for the basics.

“The last fob,” Mando sighs. “Canto Bight. This—this is going to take a while, just warning you now. I still have no idea how I’m going to pull this off.”

You nod, yawning. You’re still a bit tipsy. “Okay, well, I think I’m gonna go to bed. Good luck brainstorming.” The food sits warm and heavy in your stomach. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt this full. It’s nice.

He gives a small nod acknowledging what you said, then goes back to grumbling down at the control panel, pushing buttons and examining scanners. You lean down to kiss the kid goodnight from where he’s babbling in the co-pilot’s seat, then climb down the ladder and change into your night clothes, setting the lights in the hull to night-mode as the Crest rumbles into the sky. Climbing into bed, you wrap your biggest blanket around yourself, the chill of hyperspace already settling in the air.

You have a dream. A bad one. One you’ve never had before and don’t know if you’d survive again if you did. It starts with you already crying. It’s one of those full-body, hiccuping sobs that usually rouses you from your sleep before things gets too bad.

Mando is gone, so far gone not even the comlink your finger is hovering over would be an option. You know this because the dream starts with him calling you. When you answer, there is only the sound of a hard, driving rain.

You’re holding the child against your chest and he’s screaming into your ear but you know if you actually lift him away to look at him he’ll disappear into the rain, too, so you drop the communicator and turn and there’s blood all over the floor and you have to clean it, you do. You have to so maybe he’ll come back and so you’re here, mopping up the blood on the hull’s floor as the child wails the loudest you’ve ever heard him cry and you try to choke out reassurances through your own crying because.

Because the gore is on your hands and your elbows and on you and on the floor once its gone it’ll be okay it’s so dark but it’ll be okay and streaking across the front of you and your face where you’ve tried to wipe it away please go away because it looks just like when.

Looks just like when.

You wake up in the middle of screaming, gasping for breath, one hand pressed against the top of the table above you and the other curled into the mattress. It’s the first time that’s happened, waking up like that at least. The dreams are different each time and occur at different frequencies, but they always crescendo at the same point. Usually you just wake up, eyes slowly sliding open and fixing to whatever is directly in front of you as your vision slightly blurs. How banal it usually is, how banal it feels, adds to the cruelty. You’re mostly still able to go to sleep after, at least there was that.

Not this, though. This is that hand-scratching-at-your-own-throat kind of terror, the kind you’ve usually only seen in the holo-dramas. You haven’t had a nightmare like that for so long, so maybe the surprise of it is what made it so much worse—that it wasn’t just you. Maker, you can still hear the child’s squalling in your ears. That sound of raw, primal terror that—

You feel your stomach lurch. You scramble to the fresher, emptying the contents of your stomach into the toilet.

Half anxiety, half afraid to close your own eyes, the dull thrum of raw energy does little to calm itself once you manage to shove the door of the fresher close. You let the metal rim of the toilet cool your face as you sniff, scooting back to lean your back against the wall, pulling the sleeve of the sleepshirt you’re wearing up your palm to wipe your eyes.

A low voice says your name urgently. You look up, dazed for a moment, before the door is cracked open by four broad-knuckled fingers. Your hand flies out, catching the handle before Mando is able to pull it the rest of the way open. He barely has time to get his hand out of the way before you slam it shut again.

“I--sorry,” you croak. “Please um… please don’t come in here.”

“Are you okay?” His voice is rough with sleep. You cup your hands over your knees and lean your forehead down to rest against them. When you don’t answer, he speaks again. “Was it, was it about before? Before Am’ile?”

“I—I haven’t, for so—I haven’t… Before… It was…”

“I know. She told me, it’s alright, I wouldn’t have asked I just… I thought it was something you didn’t want to talk about but I--”

“I’m not a charity case,” it sounds snappier than you intended it to and has absolutely nothing to do with anything he’d just said. At this point you’re just talking to yourself, it seems like he knows that. “That’s not why Am’ile pawned me off on you. I’m okay, I didn’t need her supervision anymore. I’m, I’m okay. It’s taken a long time but I am now so I don’t know why--”

“No,” and he says your name forcefully, cutting you off before you can continue. He repeats himself, this time softly, before: “It’s alright.” Does his voice sound… warmer? Even through a layer of reinforced steel? “I want you to feel safe, here. Comfortable. I don’t care, it’s okay. I just thought you were hurt.” He clears his throat. “I have them too, the dreams. So you, you don’t have to worry about hiding it. Them.” You don’t know what to say, so you say nothing at all. Closing your eyes, you lean the side of your face into the door separating the two of you. It’s so silent on the other side you think he’s left, so when he speaks again it’s all the more surprising. “And she didn’t pawn you off. I need you. Here.”

Something in your chest does a complete backflip. Your stomach is fluttering so ferociously you have to clear your throat before continuing. “Okay. Yeah, um. Thank you,” you wince. “I’m gonna freshen up and then get the little one out of your hair—er, beskar.” Idiot idiot idiot.

“It’s alright, you didn’t wake him. If you want I can… I can sit with you, until you fall asleep.”

“Okay.” You say it softly. “That would be really nice, actually. Thank you.”

You quickly brush your teeth, then open the door the door slowly. Stepping into the hull and closing it behind you, you pad back to your mattress. He follows a few feet behind you quietly—it’s moments like these you’re grateful for his reserved nature. You don’t have the energy to try and brush things off by filling the silence with mindless chatter.

Kneeling beside your mattress, you wordlessly offering him an armful of your pillows. In the low light of the Crest’s night mode, the beskar helmet looks nearly featureless, save for the gleam of light that arcs up its surface as he looks down at what you’ve offered him.

“Could you—” your voice breaks. Heat rises to your face as you clear your throat again. “Is it okay if the kid um… slept with me? It was… some of it was about—”

“Yeah, of course,” Mando takes one of the pillows from the top of what you’ve offered him, tossing it at the ground of the opposing wall and then slipping out of sight as he goes into his bunk. He returns with a the child, standing above you as you crawl into bed, wrapping you blanket around yourself, setting up the pillows as you normally do for the naps you take together, preventing any accidental rolling-over. Mando crouches to place the kid beside you, then stands and settles where he’d dropped the pillow previously. You take a moment to look down at the child, running a thumb over the edge of his ear, before kissing his soft forehead where you normally do. He wrinkles his nose in his sleep, making a soft sound and twitching his ears before wiggling slightly to resettle. You rest your head back on your pillow. The specifics of the dream are already starting to drift away. It’s a small mercy, but it’s enough.

“Hey, Mando?” You lift your head, the low light reducing the man to a dark, featureless outline.

“Hm?”

“Would you mind if… um… would you mind if I just touched your hand? Just so uh… if I wake up I can know you’re there?” As the words spill out of your mouth, an unbearable heat rises to your face.

There’s the sound of him shifting, getting to his feet with a grunt. Then he’s right there, sitting with his back to the wall, just a few inches from the top of your head. Tentatively, you reach out your hand, resting your index and middle fingers against his palm. And it’s his palm, His palm, warm but rough with callouses, resting on the floor beside his extended leg just for you to be able to close your eyes, even for a little bit.

It takes a while but it works. Right as you drift back to sleep you think you feel his hand gently wrap around the fingers you’ve offered him. You really think you do.

a/n: thank you all for the engagement thus far !! it really means so much to me.

that said i am .,..... beyond excited about the next chapter for two reasons of equal importance: fancy parties and Very Jealous Mando. my favorite things 😌

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din and grogu #mando and grogu #grogu #reader insert #i'll be here in the morning #i'll be here in the morning ch.2 #fanfic #star wars fanfiction

294 notes · View notes

extasiswings · 4 years

Text

And part 2. Part 1 is here. Also on ao3. See, I said you could trust me.

Eddie feels like an asshole.

He hates fighting with Buck, inevitably regrets everything he says when tensions are running high—and they had been. He’d been blindsided the night before when Christopher had stopped him before bed and asked dad, are you dating someone? He’d been avoiding that conversation, hadn’t been ready to have it, hadn’t even known how to start it. And even though he stumbled through it successfully enough, he was still—

He hadn’t slept well, spending the night staring up at the ceiling stewing, uncomfortable and upset for reasons he didn’t even really understand. It was just—what the fuck? Buck can go out with whoever he wants, including apparently Taylor Kelly, and that doesn’t warrant a conversation about what that means for his own relationship with Christopher, but he felt the need to put himself in charge of talking to Chris about what Eddie dating means?

Eddie’s not going anywhere, he’s the parent. Buck’s the one who doesn’t have to stick around, the one who can walk away whenever he wants to, who can fall in love with whoever he wants and leave—

It’s not fair. And on some level he knows that. But—what was it Buck said after everything with his parents and Maddie? That it’s easier to lash out at the people you know will forgive you?

...yeah, it’s easier to fight with Buck than look too hard at why exactly he’s so upset at the idea of Buck not always being there.

But after the shift, he doesn’t feel any better. He just feels like hell. And as he sits in his truck thinking more about why he hadn’t wanted to tell Christopher in the first place, he pulls out his phone and makes a call.

It’s easy. Simple. There’s no yelling, no drama.

He tells Ana she’s a wonderful woman—which is true—but that he’s just not in the best place to be dating—which is mostly true—and she says she completely understands and wishes him well, and that’s the end of it.

It ends and he’s not sad—it barely even registers—which really says about all there is to say. And Eddie goes home and thinks about how the hell he’s going to fix things with Buck.

He still doesn’t have a clear plan the next morning, but he figures starting with coffee can’t hurt. He knocks on Buck’s door just before eight—he has a key, but with everything...well it’s easier to knock.

Buck opens the door looking rough, unshaven with dark circles under his eyes, and stops.

“Hey.”

Eddie swallows hard and holds out the coffee cup like a peace offering.

“I broke up with Ana,” he says, and Buck takes the coffee, stepping aside to let Eddie in.

Although, that doesn’t stop him from asking—

“Before or after you bit my head off yesterday?”

Eddie winces. “After. Last night.”

“I’m sorry,” he adds after a beat. He and Shannon never said that much, more often than not fell into the don’t apologize, just sleep it off school of fighting, which rarely fixed anything, just let things get pushed down to fester until some future barb cut deep enough to uncover them again. But he wants to say it. He needs to say it. So, he does.

Buck looks down at the coffee cup, takes a sip in the silence—then he shakes his head.

“You didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.” His voice is hollow, accepting, and Eddie hates it. Because he doesn’t want to be right, he doesn’t care about technicalities, about accuracy. There have been times when he’s needed to play the I’m his parent card—usually when he needs his parents to back the hell off—but it’s not something he likes to do. It’s not something he’s ever enjoyed doing.

Especially not with Buck.

“Maybe, but—I still shouldn’t have said it like that. So. I’m sorry.”

Buck looks at him for a moment. “I’m sorry, too,” he says finally. “Whether he knew or not, you’re right that how he feels about you dating—that’s something for the two of you to discuss and it wasn’t my place to bring it up. I overstepped.”

“I want him to be able to talk to you,” Eddie replies. “I know that there may be things that come up sometimes that he won’t want to talk to me about and I want him to be able to talk to someone he trusts if I’m not it, I just also don’t want you to feel—”

His tongue ties itself in knots as he looks away, searching for the right words, but they’re all a mess in his head and his throat, a tangled snarl of thoughts—I’m afraid that I’ve been leaning on you too much feeds into I don’t want to lose you which twines through I don’t know what I’m doing—all too much to spit out.

Buck has a strange look on his face when Eddie looks back.

“Obligated?” Buck fills in, and his tone is unreadable.

Eddie shrugs. “I’ve been doing this alone for a long time,” he says. And I’m tired, he thinks.

The strange look doesn’t go away—Buck’s brow furrows like he’s trying to figure out a complicated puzzle.

“You know you can trust me to stick around though...don’t you?”

“I—” It’s dangerous, the highwire he’s walking on, the thin line between I want and I shouldn’t, the whisper reminding him that he never gets to keep the things he wants.

“Eddie?” Buck prompts.

“I don’t expect your next serious girlfriend to be super comfortable with you helping to parent someone else’s kid, no,” Eddie admits, and waits for the other shoe to drop.

But it doesn’t.

“You’re an idiot,” Buck says. And Eddie blinks.

“What?”

“I said you’re an idiot,” he repeats. “If you think I wouldn’t pick Christopher over some random hypothetical woman—and they are all only hypothetical right now—if you think I would get serious with someone who refused to understand that you’re in my life, that he’s in my life—I—you’re an idiot. Why wouldn’t I put him first?”

“His own mother didn’t.”

“Yeah, well—I’m not Shannon,” Buck’s voice is steady, and his eyes soften as he adds— “You let me into his life. You let me be part of your family—you’re my best friend and I know I’m not his dad, but I’m not just going to walk away from that. I love—”

Eddie’s breath catches. Buck cuts off and looks away, clearing his throat.

“—Christopher,” Buck finishes.

Eddie’s pulse is racing, blood rushes in his ears, and he tries to breathe and put his world right, return it to the balance that existed before he thought Buck was about to say—

It was a stupid thought anyway. He has no reason to think it, but he can’t stop wondering—

“Why did you break up with Ana?” Buck asks. The question cuts through Eddie’s reverie and his throat closes for a moment. Because he’s been turning that question over in his head for hours and while the answer is simple, it also feels...messy. Especially in this moment. Like it leads down a path he’s afraid to examine too closely, a slippery slope that goes...he’s not sure where. But he owes Buck honesty, so he swallows hard and admits—

“I realized I didn’t want her to meet Christopher as my girlfriend. And I didn’t think I ever would.”

Another odd look flickers across Buck’s face.

“She seemed kind of perfect for you,” Buck says. “Pretty and smart and stable—”

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees. “But she wasn’t what I wanted.”

“So...what do you want?”

A single word whispers through his mind, catches in his throat. And maybe he is an idiot, because he can be brave when it comes to any number of other things—running into burning buildings or downed helicopters, scaling walls and talking down impersonators who steal firetrucks—and yet, when it comes to this—

“I—”

Buck sets the coffee down and takes a step forward, then another, closing the distance until he’s close enough to touch, until Eddie can feel the heat of him.

“What do you want?” Buck repeats quietly, his gaze searching, and Eddie still can’t manage to make the words come. But something flickers in Buck’s eyes before they settle on resolve and he nods.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

Buck laughs and Eddie doesn’t have a chance to ask why before he’s being kissed.

Oh.

And words may be difficult, but that he can do.

“For the record,” Buck says when he pulls back. “I don’t want to date anyone but you.”

“Well, that’s convenient,” Eddie replies, and pulls him down to kiss him again.

When they tell Christopher, they tell him together.

#chapel writes #buddie #buddie fic #eddie diaz #evan buckley #911 fic

102 notes · View notes

growup-thatbeautiful · 3 years

Text

drive is out now!! It’s a Post Season Harringrove Hurt/Comfort and I’m pretty proud of it. Read it on ao3 here or below the cut. Likes and comments are very very much appreciated :))

Billy doesn’t drive after starcourt. Something about being behind the wheel makes him sick with memories that he can’t understand. They’re abstract and totally unreliable.

But it’s kind of always been like that for him. He's used to having gaps in his memories, except most of the time it’s because of trauma. Or that’s what Joyce tells him and the rest of them whenever they have nightmares about things they don’t remember happening.

He's been living with the Byers and El. He tries to be useful around the house, doing whatever he can because he really doesn’t have anywhere else to go. It’s hard, though. It seems like everything he does, he does wrong. He never had to learn how to fold sheets or clean dishes. Not only was neil hargrove terribly homophobic, but also misogynistic, which is a word joyce taught him because she teaches all her kids that stuff. And he’s one of her kids now. So, yeah. Neil never had Billy do the chores because “he’s not a true man, but he sure as shit isn’t a woman.”

It's alarming how quickly this odd family replaces his old one. Neil seems miles away. Neil doesn’t try to look for Billy, and that’s fine as far as Billy's concerned. He's got scars to cover up the ones Neil made. no need to dwell on that when he has so much other trauma to process., right? Kind of.

He does check up on max. Asks her if neils pulling any of the shit he used to get from his dad. double checks for bruises hidden under makeup or long sleeves, and never finds any. Good.

Joyce is good. great, even. She doesn’t blame him when he breaks a dish because he heard a noise. She listens when he says he needs some alone time, and she knows when he’s just saying that. She gives good hugs and has no problem giving him Jonathan's old room to stay in while he’s off at college. leaving Hawkins behind him, calling every night anxiously awaiting the return of It. Nothing happens, and eventually they relax. Or they try to. That part of billy’s been broken for a long time, though.

So Joyce starts fading into memories of his mom, and he tries not to blame her.

Again. He's never had a great memory anyway. He does remember his mom telling him that boys don’t marry other boys when he was five and told her he wanted to marry his best friend. Then she told him never to tell his dad. It's strange, because he can’t remember her saying that she loved him, even though he’s sure she did. Did she? Huh.

At least the painful memories he gets to keep. Neil beating’s. Beating up on Harrington that night he didn’t know what was going on. The car crash before his mind was taken from him. Max’s terrible scream of “Billy” mixed in with the ear-ringing pain. Waking up in a hospital with starburst scars across his body. Skin that isn’t his. They remind him not to get to comfortable, remind him that the kindness he’s being shown isn’t well earned.

Because Billy knows he wasn’t worth those hospital bills and sleepless nights. All he’s done to the people here is hurt and scar and he’s seen them with the deepest kind of fear in their eyes. Fear because of him.

Everytime he goes down a path like this, he tries to stay clear of everyone. Because. They all tried to hide how much hurt he’s caused. They don’t blame him like they should.

He didn’t know any of them well before. But he knows El didn’t always carry around that police badge or look up at every siren, praying for a familiar face only to be disappointed and try not to show it. Because if Billy survived, couldn’t the more-deserving Hopper? Apparently not.

He knows Joyce didn’t always search for Will in every setting and have those folded up pictures of the two men that died because of all the shitty things that happened. Because she can’t stand to forget their faces or not carry that burden for just a second.

Will didn’t always get quiet every time a draft went through the room or refuse to go out that front door first. Because so many things have been ruined for him.

The rest of the kids didn’t always jump at every noise or bunch together for every corner, carrying lucky momentous and items. Because God forbid they have a break.

He doesn’t see them a lot, but Nancy and Jonathan definitely didn’t carry around an emergency kit everywhere they went, packed with medical supplies and Nancy’s choice gun. Because they’re going to be there to help if anything tries to take another person they loves away.

Some part of Billy reasons that it’s not all his fault. He wasn’t one of those scientists or government agents that started the whole thing.

But he did enough. Enough to warrant all the shit that he’s going through. It’s not the healthiest way of thinking, he’s aware of that, but it helps him get by.

No matter how hard he tries, though, there’s always someone at the house that finds him. Curled up into a ball, dry hitching sobs and no tears because “Hargrove men don’t cry.” Billy gets damn close sometimes, but the fear that Neil’s going to come out from the cracks in the wall and kick him where he lays is too real.

There are usually soft words.

“We don’t blame your here, honey. That wasn’t you, that did all that stuff. And I’m not going to let anything else bad happen to the people under this roof.” Joyce’s strong and sure voice, only breaking at the edges.

“I know what it’s like to have him control you like that. I know better than anyone else, and I know how scary it is. Mom says it’s over now, though, and I can’t feel It anymore. I would tell you first if It came back.” Will never says anything more than that, which is comforting in itself. It’s nice to have someone else.

“They lost. You’re here. I’m here. Will’s here. It is safe.” El’s statement is simple, but she makes it easy to believe.

He believes them until he gets another new memory of what he did. The Mayors blood on the floor. Heather’s petrified screams. Standing before that thing and feeling nothing but a perverse sense of but awe and, buried beneath that, a screaming sense of horror and the constant feeling of slipping in the sand.

There are times, like right now, when he doesn’t want someone to make him feel better. He wants someone who can drive him away from here and sit in an empty parking lot and smoke away the thoughts. Someone like Steve.

He would do it himself. He would. But he can’t. Can’t get over that fucking gas pedal. So he calls Steve.

They’ve done this enough times for it to make sense for Billy to have Steve’s number memorized. And his work schedule. And to know when he with Dustin or Robin or any of the others on one of those group outings Billy can’t bring himself to go to. There are too many sad faces, too many broken homes.

It doesn’t matter what he wears. It’s just Steve, and they’ve gotten past the point of caring about things like that.

Which. Is obvious to anyone who looks at Billy, not that he sees anyone. He’s lost a lot of weight. Muscles that used to be defined are gone, replaced by scars. He can’t get them back yet, because he’s not strong enough to lift any of them. And because muscles like that can hurt and hit. His eyes are surrounded by heavy bags, bloodshot and tired. The new callouses on his hands are mostly scars from anxiety ridden breakages, and the pained nails are because El wanted to try the new dark blue out. His hair is greasy and flat, nowhere near what it used to be. It hangs around his shoulders in curled waves, so far from where he used to be.

He doesn’t even try to smile to the sad reflection in the mirror.

Steve doesn’t honk when he arrives. The first time he did that and the noise sent Billy spiraling, and Steve had felt terrible, cussing up a storm that actually helped Billy out of it. Luckily, it was just Billy home and no one else was there to witness they’re collective train wreck.

Before he leaves, Billy grabs something from the bathroom and stuffs it in with the rest of the random shit he brings.

Billy slides into the passenger seat, leans his head back against the headrest, and says, “So, Harrington, how you been?”

Steve, mercifully, looks the same as always. He looks good, the asshole. It’s a relief that he’s still able to feel that fire Steve lights up. Different than all the other King’s from California. A few more scars, but they all have that. His shades are pushed through his hair, brown strands flopping over lazily.

“Same as usual, so fairly shitty and on the brink of breakdown. You?” It would be a normal conversation if Steve wasn’t completely serious, corners of his mouth only ticking up when Billy reaches over and bats at the band-aid charm hanging from the mirror. A joke from Billy to say sorry for, you know, almost beating him to death for no real reason.

“Oh, you know.” He doesn’t need to say more for Steve to get the idea. It’s the same way they’ve been feeling for months now.

“Yeah.” The car ride over isn’t far from the Byers’ house, and they spend it in almost silence. Some pop station is playing low on the radio.

“This the shit you listen to, pretty boy? I expected more than this.” It’s an attempt at normalcy, something that they’ve slowly been working up to.

“At least I don’t blast out my eardrums every time I want to listen to music,” replies Steve quickly, smile evident in his tone.

And it’s normal. It’s them. The way they were before it all got so messy. For that brief moment, there’s no winter night or july 4th. For a brief moment Billy can entertain a reality where he went to the find Steve instead of a fight. A world where Steve, with those pretty eyes and snap remarks, could hold his hand and stop him from doing all the bad things in the future.

But the moment passes. Steve clears his throat and looks forward at the road.

They arrive to the quarry, water at the bottom glinting, tossing, teasing. The car doors slam shut, and they slide up on to the front of the car. Billy pulls his last minute grab out of the bag and hands it to Steve.

“I want you to cut my hair.” Steve takes the scissors and towel in his hand, looking at Billy.

He doesn’t ask if Billy’s sure. Billy figures that Steve knows at this point he wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t real. If Billy wasn’t sure. Steve cards a hand through Billy’s hair. It feels. Good. Real good.

Steve starts cutting, and Billy winces at the sound of the scissors closing around his hair. His past.

“I like to think it isn’t just part of me.” The comment comes out of nowhere, surprising Billy more than it surprises Steve.

“What?” Steve’s voice is calm, the sniping of the scissors is methodical.

“The anger. The aggression. The tendency to hurt. I like to think it’s not in my nature, but my nurture.”

“I don’t think you’re violent.” It’s a laughable statement.

“You’re joking. Did you forget most of last year? I’m the one with the bad memory here, Harrington.” Billy can practically hear Steve’s disapproving mother’s frown behind him.

“That wasn’t you.”

“Right, sure, whatever, bullshit. But what about…you know. Last winter.”

“What happened before that?” asks Steve patiently.

“Jesus, you’re worse than Joyce. My dad sent me after Max. Found her at Byers’ place with you. Hurt you a whole fucking lot.”

“Is that all he did? He just told you to go after her?” Billy ignores the way his stomach does flips when Steve runs a hand through Billy’s hair, straightening it out.

“So you’re my fuckin’ therapist now? What do you want me to say? He kissed my head and sent my on my merry way? That’s now how he works. I’ll admit, I was saved by his new wifey. He can’t use me as a punching bag when she’s standing right there, not like he did with mom. Nothing I couldn’t handle. Nothing worse than what you’ve done to me. And the insults weren’t too bad either. He forgot to call me a fag.”

“Oh. Shit, Billy, I-“

“It’s fine,” cuts in Billy, hating the pity in Steve’s voice. He’s not the one who should have it.

“You didn’t deserve that.” This time it does make Billy laugh. It’s a hollow and haunting sound, an echo of his charming boyish laugh.

“Sure I did, dipshit. You’re probably one of the people who knows best why I did, in fact, deserve it.”

“So then I’m the best person. to tell you that you aren’t that person. You haven’t been that person since you left him and all of that shit. Let me ask you something. Do you want to hurt people now?”

“No!” Billy startles himself with his sudden enthusiasm, and Steve jumps a little behind him. Steve is quicker to recover, though, and he runs a hand through the hair he hasn’t cut yet. It’s soothing. Billy barely resists the urge to lean into it. Ask for more.

“Did you ever want to hurt people? Like really, truly want to see them hurt?” Billy has to think about the question. Steve deserves an real answer.

Flashes fly through his mind, bringing on too familiar emotions. Anger, a need to make someone, anyone, feel the way that he’s feeling. Fear that not having this power over people would make him weak. Horror at what he’s about to do. Detachment, painful as he grinned and laughed.

“I just wanted to have control. Take some of the hurt I was feeling and give it to other people. It was a rush that I was addicted to. The thrill of the fight, the feel of flesh against my fist, the look of blood on my knuckles. I liked fighting, still do. I didn’t like hurting people.” Steve puts the scissors down on the car hood, fluffing Billy’s hair and sliding down next to him.

“I’ve been on the wrong side of the fists of two people I’m now okay with,” admits Steve. “Believe me, I know now to take a beating. I’ve been heartbroken by two other people I’m close friends with. I forgive too easily.”

“So you’re a compulsive truster and I’m a compulsive fighter. What a pair we make, huh Harrington?”

“Yeah.” agrees Steve, bumping his shoulder against Billy. “What a pair.”

Maybe it’s the haircut. Maybe it’s the sunlight confessions. Maybe it’s how carefree and happy Steve looks. But Billy feels lighter. Like there was this unspoken weight he had been carrying around that no one knew about. Or everyone knew about, but couldn’t help.

The thing is, Steve didn’t even say anything. He didn’t promise a better future, he didn’t say that he was safe. He shared some of the personal pain they all carry around.

“I don’t think I ever said sorry. I am sorry, you know. I. I didn’t-“

“I know. I’m sorry too. Someone should’ve known. About you.” Steve leans closer, and Billy chalks it up to the night chill as the sun settles below the glistening rocks.

“I was good at hiding things I didn’t want people to see.”

“Yeah, well you’re not alone there either.”

“You good at hiding, pretty boy?” Billy’s eyes flick down to Steve’s lips, and, is Billy imagining it or is Steve looking at him the same way?

“Apparently not good enough,” jokes Steve. His smile falls off of his lips, and he leans minutely closer. If Billy wasn’t paying attention to all of Steve…

The way his hair glows white and gold in the sunset. That wrinkle between his brows. The way one of his eyes is a little darker than the other. How he smells like cigarette smoke and that fancy hairspray, even when his hair is blown from the wind.

The way he looked that night. Cool and collected, then terrified and fighting for his life. So beautiful in the harsh starlight and then so abstract in the broken kitchen light.

Before he knows what’s happening, Steve is filling that gap. Kissing Billy like he’s trying to sooth the pain from their past. Maybe he is. Billy wouldn’t put it past him.

His hand finds a way to Steve’s hair, the same way Steve’s been running his through Billy’s now shorter hair. He curls it into the strands, holding on tightly. Soft.

The way Steve sighs his name takes Billy away from it all. The pain. The memories. The lack of memories.

They lay out under the stars for a few minutes, but Billy knows Joyce will freak out if she can’t find him. Not because she doesn’t trust him, he has to remind himself, but because she doesn’t trust others.

On the drive home Steve plays that pop stuff again, and Billy gives him the appropriate shit for it, a smile on his face the whole time. His fingers laced through Steve’s.

They arrive at the house, and Steve declines to come in. Gives the excuse that his parents will be waiting up when they both know it’s not true. Billy can’t blame him. Billy understands needing to be alone, needing to get away.

Billy leans through Steve’s window and wished that he could kiss him goodbye. Well. The teasing will have to do.

“Night, King Steve.”

“Goodnight, Asshole.”

If Joyce gives him a knowing smile at the door, Billy doesn’t smile back. Probably.

He definitely does. Maybe he deserves the smile. If Steve thinks he does.

#steve harrington x billy hargrove #harringrove fan fiction #harringrove #harringrove fanfic #harringrove fic #harringrove fandom #harringrove stuff #harringrove au #stranger things #billy hargrove fic #billy hargrove #steve harrington fic #steve harrington #stranger things fic #stranger things post season 3

26 notes · View notes

change-the-world-someday · 4 years

Text

Don’t You Go

@ogmilkis asks:

hey i love your writing b (your last one(all of them really) was *chefs kiss*)💕 would you be willing to do 10 from the John Mulaney promt list?? no specifics i just wanna see what you do with it 😂

A/N: You're very kind about my work, thank you :). Keep sending these requests in, guys, they really help my imagination run.

Prompt: 10. “I am very small and I have no money, so you can imagine the kind of stress that I am under.”

BAU x GN!Teen!Reader (Platonic)

Summary: Your parents are linked with four murders around town. However, things aren’t as rosey as they seem in your house...

⚠️TW⚠️ Child abuse mentioned, General Criminal Minds things, Murder mentioned

Masterlist

—•—

You shift in the uncomfortable seat, your wrists aching from the handcuffs. You play with your hands, fiddling with the ring on your right hand, twirling it and shifting it up and down your middle finger.

You weren't planning on being caught. Hell, you weren't planning on stealing in the first place, but life has a way of twisting things and somehow pulling the worst from every situation. You just needed something to eat and drink.

The door opens and your head snaps up and two people walk in. There's a younger, pale woman with blonde hair and an older man who's more tan with grey, swept-back hair. They take a seat opposite you and the man opens a file.

"So, Y/N L/N, the only child of Sandy and Darren L/N. Do you mind telling us why you were stealing from the store?"

You sit back and sigh. You don't say a word. The woman who asked the question huffs, making the older man place a hand on her shoulder.

"Okay, let's try something else," he starts. "JJ, do you mind leaving us for a few minutes?"

The blonde, JJ, nods and stands, leaving to presumably stand behind the one-way glass you’ve been staring at intently since you were forced into the interrogation room.

"My name's Dave Rossi. Now, why did your parents hide you from us? I mean, surely you know your parents are under investigation..."

Your attention is grabbed by this, and though you try not to show it, Rossi picks up on the subtle shift in body language. "Wait, you don't know?"

You speak up. "N-No. I b-barely see them."

Rossi raises an eyebrow. "Is that why you were in the store, trying to steal some food from the top shelf?" He bites back a smirk as he remembers how you were caught—you were trying to reach the top shelf and fell into it, crashing to the ground and your backpack opening, spilling out stolen food.

"Look, I'm very small and I have no money, so you can imagine the kind of stress that I am under," you scoff out, still playing with your jewellery. Rossi leans forward a little, trying to close the gap between you.

"Don't your parents give you money for food?" Rossi asks. You shrug.

"They spend it...elsewhere," you reply and try to stop fidgeting. "I don't see them, and they don't tell me anything."

Rossi nods and pulls something out of his pocket; a key. "They must hurt." You nod and lean forward, letting Rossi unlock the cuffs. You smile a little, muttering a quiet 'thank you' before you rub your wrists, soothing them. That feels better.

"Are they ever around?" Dave asks. His tone of voice has shifted from slightly harsh to softer, almost fatherly. You shake your head and Rossi sighs. He leans back.

"Is there anywhere you can stay while we investigate your parents?" You shake your head again. "Okay. We can keep you here until the shopkeeper decides if she wants to press charges. We can make sure you're fed, too."

Rossi gets up and walks out, leaving you behind. He bumps into his team in the other room, who was watching through the one-way mirror.

"What are we going to do?" He asks Hotch. The unit chief sighs.

"The shopkeeper doesn't want to press charges. Y/N’s known for stealing small amounts of food from shops around town. They tend to just ignore it since they know what their parents are like. I say we keep them here, make sure they’re comfortable at least, and then we can see what Garcia's pulled up on the parents." Hotch gives the rundown and the team nod.

Suddenly, his phone rings. He picks up. "Garcia? What have you got?"

He puts her on speaker. "Sir, it turns out Y/N’s parents are related to the distribution of heroin around the country and guess what? Three of our four victims were involved in it too," she explains quickly, keyboard clacking in the background.

"And what about the fourth, baby girl?" Morgan asks.

"She knew the mother."

"It did seem that the fourth victim was a more personal attack. She was stabbed fifteen times more than the rest," Spencer pipes up. Hotch nods.

"Okay, thanks, Garcia," Hotch thanks and hangs up, turning back to his team.

"Morgan and Prentiss, I want you to go to the house with a warrant and search top to bottom. Check Y/N’s room, too. JJ, release a statement to the press that we want to find these two. Dave, you're with me. We'll search the town and go over the crime scenes, see if there's anything the police missed. Reid, I want you to stay with Y/N. You're the youngest and they'll probably be less standoffish with you. Try and ask them some questions about their parents and the fourth victim. JJ, join him after."

Everyone goes their separate ways and Reid goes back into the interrogation room. You look up and relax a little, seeing it isn't the local PD.

"Hi Y/N, I'm Spencer," the young man introduces himself. You nod.

"Hi," you mumble.

"Do you want anything to eat or drink? We can get you pretty much anything," Spencer asks. You think for a minute and nod.

"C-Can I have some...ramen, please?" You ask shyly. Spencer gives a bright smile and nods, quickly texting JJ to pick something up.

"Can I ask you some questions please?" The doctor asks. "You don't have to answer any if you don't want to, but it could help us."

You think before nodding, messing with your ring again. "C-Can you..." You trail off.

"Can I?" Spencer asks.

"Do you have...something I can mess with, p-please? The ring's hurting my finger." Spencer nods and digs into his pocket, pulling out a set of keys and handing them over.

"They okay?" You nod. "Okay. Do you know Caitlyn?"

Silence. You’ve stopped messing with the keys. You nod. "How?"

"She...She's my friend. She told me..." You pause. "She told me she'd help me get away."

Spencer nods. "Get away from where?"

"My...my parents," you finish, messing with Spencer's keys again.

"Did your parents ever...come home with blood on them?"

You look down and nod. "When did that start?"

"Erm..." you think, "a-about a month ago. I wasn't allowed t-to ask." Your hands start to shake. "They...they..."

"Hey, Y/N? You're okay. Everything's okay," Spencer starts to reassure you. "They can't get you. You're okay."

You let out a shuddering breath and nod. Suddenly, the door opens and you jump out of his skin. It's the blonde woman from before, and she's holding a cup of ramen, steaming, with a plastic fork sticking up in it.

"Spencer? Hotch wants to talk to you," she says. The young agent nods and leaves, letting JJ take his seat. She hands you the ramen and you give a grateful nod, slurping it.

"S-Sorry," you mutter. JJ gives a soft smile and shakes her head.

"It's alright. I don't mind," she replies. You nod and continue eating, only stopping to take a breath now and then. In five minutes, the food's gone.

"W-Where is everyone?" You ask after a little while. JJ looks up from her phone, pausing the video you’re watching together.

"Well, Spencer's with Hotch, and the other one you've met, Rossi, is talking with the police to see if we can get you a bed set up in here. It would mean you don't have to go to the cells and you don't have to sleep in that chair," she explains.

"Hotch?"

"He's our boss. His name's Aaron, but Hotch is his nickname. Do you have a nickname?"

You shake your head. "N-Not really. My parents call me names, but n-not a nickname."

"How about N/N?" JJ asks. You think about it for a moment, before a small smile breaks out on your face.

"I-I like that," you mutter. "Yeah."

"N/N suits you, kid," a voice says from the door. You look up to see Rossi. He's holding a folding camp bed in his arms. Behind him is a sterner-looking man with a blanket and pillow. "We've got you a bed. None of us want you to go to your parents' house, and CPS can't come until morning."

You nod and lean back, playing with something in your hands.

"What you got there?" The other man asks.

"K-Keys," you reply. His eyes narrow.

"They're mine," someone says; Spencer. "I gave them to them to play with."

"S-Sorry. You c-can have them b-back. I'm s-sorry," you stammer out. Spencer shakes his head and walks over.

"It's okay. I don't need them at the moment," he reassures you. You nod.

Suddenly, radios flare up and almost everyone bolts out the room, leaving behind you and Rossi. Your eyes widen.

"W-What g-going on? D-Did I-"

"No kiddo, you haven't done anything wrong," Dave cuts in as he makes up the bed. "We've just had a hit on your parents..."

—•—

Part two anyone? Let me know if you’d like to see it :). Also, let me know if you want to be on my taglist. Just drop an ask :)

TAGLIST:

@ogmilkis @spideygirl2003 @ssebstann@herecomesthewriterwitch @garcias-batcave

#platonic bau #bau #criminal minds #platonic bau x reader #bau x reader #gender netural reader #gender neutral!reader #male reader #male!reader #female reader #behavioural analysis unit #behavioral analysis unit #behavioural analysis unit x reader #behavioral analysis unit x reader

575 notes · View notes

plaid-shirtsandvibranium-arms · 4 years

Text

Those Linked by Destiny (1)

Summary: Bucky, Sam, and Natasha are on a mission to once again defeat Hydra who this time had opened a time portal that unleashed monsters and beasts that were extinct for centuries for good reason. On the way, they try to recruit the only remaining person who had any knowledge on how to defeat these creatures. Her kind also almost extinct. A Witcher.

Fandoms: Avengers, The Witcher

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Witcher!OFC (Female)

Warnings: Angst (coz this is me), Dry Dark Humour, Violence, Gore, Lots of Blood, Burning Sarcasm, Lots of Cussing

A/N: Hello, beautiful creatures! I’m back with a new hurricane of a crossover. This continues on from my completed series There’s More Than One Way To Start An Apocalypse (AvengersxSupernatural) but this can be read by itself. I made this an OFC instead of an xReader since I needed to be specific with how the Witcher character looked. I hope you enjoy and I welcome all kinds of feedback.

No permission is granted to repost my work. Tumblr is the only place I post my writing. If you see it anywhere else please report it.

Masterlist

1: Returning a Favor

The sun was preparing to set when Sam, Bucky, and Natasha reached the small sleepy town. Their clothes were starting to scratch and bite at their skin from the sweat and grime of trying to make it to their destination on foot. They had been taking back roads and keeping to thick forests to keep hidden from Hydra and the monsters they had unleashed. It hasn't always gone smoothly for them.

The Avengers and Team Free Will had split up to tackle three major missions; hunting down every remaining grace powered monster created by the Archangel Michael, re-establishing the Avengers initiative and operations, and this new unfamiliar threat. They had discovered that Hydra was back and had opened a portal that unleashed creatures that were wholly unknown to even the Hunters.

The trio was tasked with gathering as much intel as they could and searching for a friend of Natasha and the Nephilim who they said was the only person who could help them. It had taken them eight months to track down someone who was practically a ghost.

They were all on edge and nearly losing hope, but finally they got a lead on an exact location. It took nearly two weeks to reach the town after a particularly nasty encounter with a cluster of monsters. They were outnumbered and had no knowledge about the enemy to even properly fight. They barely made it out alive.

Sam sat on the forest floor with his back to the trunk of a tree clutching his open abdomen. He was bleeding on the grass and the first aid they had been continuously applying on him was the only thing keeping him alive at this point. They needed to get him patched up properly. Bucky switched his legs to lean more on his left as he crouched behind thick shrubbery beside Natasha. Judging by the sharp pain from his other leg, he was sure it was broken. The female assassin wasn't any better off having taken multiple large slashing wounds to her back.

Bucky suggested that they go back to Avengers headquarters. It was Natasha though that insisted this is where they needed to go. They needed to lie low, heal, regroup, and find backup, but they were running out of time. The more time Hydra was left alone, the worse it was going to get. Bucky was skeptical, especially with Sam clinging on to his life, but he knew that Natasha was in fact right.

In front of them was a medium sized log cabin tucked away in the forest with a garden and a small greenhouse out back. Bucky's enhanced senses could pick up common vegetables and herbs like tomatoes, carrots, and basil, but he also caught whiffs of plants that smelled like exotic flowers of some sort. The house was still fairly close to town with only a 45-minute drive but it was miles away to the next house.

The serene silence of the isolated area was disrupted by peels of laughter from a group of children that were running around the garden. Their hands and clothes were stained with either paint or dirt. Some more gleeful that they had both. Bucky frowned.

Were they supposed to seek shelter in a daycare?

The children would surely be scarred for life if they saw the Falcon bleeding out nevermind who his two companions were. His worry for his friend’s wellbeing clouded the Sergeant’s capability to grasp why this was where they needed to be.

The slow crunch of tires on the dirt road followed by two soft beeps disrupted Bucky's tired brooding. A mini bus parked beside a weathered brown truck in the driveway. A woman came out the back door clutching a child, that was practically a baby with how small it was, securely to her chest. Bucky couldn't see her face, only her slender figure and the wavy hair that fell down her back in a mess of random pastel colors that seemed to be popular with the youth these days. Her short yellow sun dress flowed with each movement she made.

Bucky's doubts at Natasha's plan grew. How could this hipster possibly help them? The low groan of pain from behind reminded him that they had no choice at this point. They were here now and Sam needed urgent medical attention. He would just have to trust Natasha a bit more.

He watched as she instructed the children to put away their art materials and wash up. He watched as she hugged or petted each beaming child as they boarded the mini bus. He watched as she carefully strapped in the baby in his designated seat while exchanging conversation with the middle aged driver who smiled warmly at her. He still couldn't see her face, but he could hear her laugh at something the driver said. After a final wave the bus full of energetic children started to pull out of the driveway.

Bucky's doubts continued to gnaw at him, but now for a different reason. This woman seemed so kind and carefree. Must they really disturb her peaceful life for their chaos? He turned then to voice his worries to Natasha, but before he could get a word out he felt an unbelievably strong force hit his chest and propel him backwards. He was forcefully pinned to a tree with the air knocked clear out of his lungs.

His first instinct was to fight back, but opening his eyes after the attack he froze when he met with the most peculiar yet mesmerizing pair. Round almond shaped and framed with thick heavy lashes were eyes the color of bright molten gold with irises in dark slits like that of a cat's. He would swear they were contacts if he didn't notice how they stretched and dilated as they retained their murderous gaze on him. Her hair fell like a cloud around her face softening her sharp bone structure and the snarl on her gloss covered lips.

So enthralled was Bucky at her unique features, that it took him an embarrassingly long time to register the double bladed axe she held easily with one hand outstretched flush against the skin of his throat. One small flick of her wrist and Bucky would be bleeding to his death in minutes.

"Why have you brought him here, Natasha?" she said, her voice even and low. Bucky noticed a European accent but he couldn't quite place which particular area.

"You know me?" Bucky met her unfaltering glare with his own.

"Everyone knows you, Winter Soldier," she sneered. "Everyone knows all of you."

Bucky scowled at the name. He didn't appreciate the tone she had when she said it. There was an obvious disdain and anger in her tone that he wasn't sure was warranted.

"Easy, Prima. We need your help," Natasha tried to coax her but she did not advance in case she gets provoked.

"And if I refuse?"

"Well then I'm cashing in that favor."

There was a long tense silence before his throat was reluctantly freed. He rubbed the shallow angry line it had left. The woman with cat-like eyes sighed as she swung the large weapon to hook over one shoulder like it weighed nothing. She rolled her eyes before she turned and gestured for you all to follow.

Bucky noted how Natasha's shoulders sagged in relief. She was worried that her contact might decline. They each took one of Sam's sides and practically hauled his barely conscious form to the cabin. They followed the woman into her home, the receding skyline bouncing light and shadow on her figure. It wasn't even ten minutes ago that Bucky was hesitant to disrupt this woman's very normal life, but normal people don't just carry battle axes let alone have the skill to wield it.

"Natasha," he whispered. "What exactly is she?"

Natasha had told them a little about Witchers in between dashing from town to town, but it amused Prima that Bucky was still thoroughly surprised when they actually met her. Clearly she didn't go into the specifics.

He could hear the smirk in her tone despite still having her back to them. She had heard his hushed question despite walking far ahead of them and decided to answer.

"Perhaps we can discuss my nature when your friend is no longer seeping Water Hag poison from his wounds."

"So that's what that thing was. How do you know it's Water Hag poison?" Natasha grunted under Sam's weight.

"I can smell it and that's the only reason I'm granting you this favor."

Prima rushed inside her home ahead of her guests, going quickly to the kitchen to pull out a large tarpaulin from under the sink. She was definitely going to help them but that didn't mean she was going to damn well leave an Avenger to bleed all over her precious furniture.

She opened the chest that doubled as a coffee table and pulled out thick worn blankets. She was already laying these out on the floor by the fireplace by the time the rest of them came through the front door.

Bucky surveyed the room as he entered. It was a force of habit to commit every detail to memory when entering a new environment. Normally it could mean life or death, but in this instance it was pure curiosity with a healthy mix of suspicion.

From the outside, the cabin had looked a decent size but from the inside it looked much bigger. He thought that perhaps it was too much space for someone he presumed was living alone.

The house was a mixture of modern and rustic decorated in wood, metal, and splashes of vibrant color here and there. A gray short hair cat perked up in attention from its bedding as they entered. The main floor was open with no walls dividing areas and a set of stairs led to a spacious loft that again had no partitions. Large windows lined the walls providing an almost 360 degree view to the outside. It was almost like being in a glass box, but he knew for a fact that those windows were heavily tinted outside providing the utmost privacy. The state of the home told Bucky a lot about its owner.

"Lay him down here," Prima said pointing to the makeshift cot. "It's best he is by the fire. We need to keep him warm."

Natasha and Bucky gently laid down their friend as instructed. Sam groaned as the material pressed on his injuries and Natasha made quick work of cutting him out of his ruined tactical gear with her knife. His body relaxed the slightest bit after being freed but this also meant that his wounds opened again to spill more of his blood on the tarpaulin.

"It's worse than I thought," Prima murmured. "Take this and apply pressure to the worst of it. I must prepare a few things."

Natasha nodded as she took the towels from her. She rushed through the back door and from its opening, Bucky could see that she went straight into her greenhouse. She was back within minutes carrying a small woven tray filled with plants he couldn't even begin to identify. The cat followed closely on her heels, the small bell on its neck ringing softly.

She headed straight for the other end of the room to what he initially thought was a library and craft area. Looking at it closely now he could see not only books but a wide array of jars, bottles, and small boxes. She grabbed two containers from the shelves and dropped its contents into a wooden bowl. She began mashing and mixing them together quickly before pouring the strange yellowish liquid into glass vials. She grabbed a few more bottles from the shelves before making her way to kneel by Sam's head.

"Help me sit him up. He needs to drink this."

"I'm not sure about this, Nat," came Bucky's worried tone as he eyed their host with narrowed eyes.

"Bucky!" Nat warned. They didn't have time for this.

"What the hell is even in that?"

"Sergeant Barnes, would you like me to educate you on the finer points of alchemy before or after we save your dying friend?" Prima argued, her jaw clenching. "Clock is ticking, Sergeant. The choice may well be taken from you soon."

Bucky's teeth gritted together as his whole body tensed with the decision. His brow was in knots, but ultimately he knew there was only one decision to make. He cursed under his breath but moved to heave Sam into a sitting position.

Prima uncorked one of the bottles and tipped it over Sam's lips carefully making sure that he took every drop. His face scrunched at the taste but his eyes remained closed, too exhausted to open them. His breathing started to speed up until they were shallow huffs and his temperature steadily rose.

"What the hell's happening to him?" Bucky fumed but Prima held out her hand to halt him as she carefully watched Sam's reactions with her strange cat eyes that were now narrowed into slits.

The air in the room was thick with tension and the only sounds were that of Sam's heavy breathing that was rapidly growing more laborious. When it seemed like he was at the height of his torment, Prima acted fast and shoved a second vial of clear liquid to his lips. He almost choked on the liquid but by some grace of the gods he managed to swallow it all.

After the last drop had gone down his throat, his eyes shot wide open before fluttering close as he dropped unconscious against the pillows. Bucky panicked when he couldn't hear his heartbeat and was about to lash out at Prima again when suddenly a faint thump that was fighting to get steadier met his ears in a manner that was uniquely stubborn like Sam.

Prima took a hand to feel his sweaty face and was relieved to find that his temperature was dropping closer to normal. They were past the worst of it now and she was grateful he took well to the potions. It was a gamble. Humans were not meant to take in Witcher brews. She could have just as easily killed him.

"He should be fine by morning. We must allow the potions do the work for now. I'll keep watch in case he needs another dose."

She grabbed one of the other bottles in her stash and tossed one to Natasha who easily caught it. The assassin raised a quizzical brow at her.

"Take only a small sip, Natasha. Pour the rest of it in the bath upstairs and take a long soak. It should help close up your wounds. You are welcome to rummage through my drawers for clean clothes."

"What happens if she takes more?" Bucky asked.

"Well all her injuries and even scars from her childhood will cease to exist. Every broken bone and illness will be cured," she shrugged as she relaxed against a wall stretching out her legs in front of her. She closed her eyes to allow the tension of the last hour to ease off her body as she absentmindedly stroked the cat that had now curled up contentedly beside her.

"That doesn't sound so bad," Natasha mused before carefully taking only the small sip she recommended.

"And then you die," the Witcher chuckled allowing a sharper than usual canine to peak out from her smile.

Bucky was not amused despite Natasha chuckling at the comment before making her way up the stairs. He was understandably wary of anything chemical to be put inside his body after what Hydra had done to him. Their host seemed to somehow sense this so made no move to offer him any concoction for his injuries.

"Bathroom's through the door behind you should you fancy a shower, Sergeant. There should be clothes in the cupboards too but they might be a tad tight. I'll go into town in the morning to purchase more appropriate wear for you and your friend. First aid kit is under the sink."

Bucky gave a small nod as he silently walked to the door she gestured to. As he meticulously washed the dirt and fatigue from his body, he found his thoughts straying to their unusual host. He had realized that her accent was classic old European, with the kind of vocabulary that prim and proper upper-class citizens used. What did not make sense though was how a European socialite would have the practiced ease of wielding a battle axe. Her cat eyes alone tipped him off that she was not merely human. The more he thought about it, the more everything he knew so far contradicted with each other. He was no closer to figuring her out when he stepped out of the bathroom adjusting the shirt and jeans that clung to him.

He saw the Witcher sound asleep on the floor, her head lolled to the side and her mouth softly parted. There were a million questions he wanted to ask her, but he couldn't bring himself to disrupt her peaceful sleep. He instead made his way to crash on the sofa. Sleep came to him as soon as his head met the arm rest. He drifted off with the Witcher's eerie eyes the last on his mind and a nagging feeling that there was something about her that was strangely familiar to him.

Masterlist | Tags are Open

66 notes · View notes

seonghwa-is-babie · 4 years

Text

What we've been missing (pt. 4)

Tw: violence (kicking, slapping, hitting someone with a bat) abuse (emotional and physical) hospitals, cursing, shouting, crying, mentions of injuries from violence, flinching. Pls be careful reading if any of these are triggering for you and pls let me know if I missed anything

Ateez x male hybrid reader

So, sorry this took so long, I had a massive writers block, but I hope this long part can make up for it

Taglist: @jonghoshoe @little-precious-baby @twancingyunhoe @sansbun @yunhofingers

Yeosang finally got back home after a tough walk there, feet hurting from carrying his wounded body. He didn't come back to a sight he liked though

Wooyoung trying to calm down a sobbing San, jongho typing on their computer, probably something related to y/n. Mingi holding seonghwa and Hongjoong trying to get through to yunho, who seemed to have gone into a state of shock.

Never had he seen the puppy eyed man so empty of life "g-guys?" their heads turned to Yeosang, yunho immediately getting up, anything but friendly intent in his eyes

Those eyes were proven right when the tallest harshly grabbed the other's shirt and started screaming at him "how could you let this happen?!?!?!" Yeosang could see the tears streaming down the older's face

"yunho stop! He did his best to protect y/n" Hongjoong reasoned "it's still his fault that y/n isn't here right now!" Hongjoong pushed himself between the two before a serious fight broke out "yunho! We can argue about this later, right now, we need to find y/n. Focus on what's important!"

Yunho regained some of his common sense back, eyes widening with shock "I-I'm sorry Yeosang, I just.... I don't know what to do"

"it's okay, we're all a little out of it anyway" Yeosang said as he was guided to the bathroom to get his wounds cleaned up by Hongjoong

"Yeosang, before you go, do you remember the car's license plate that they used?" questioned jongho, the older nodded "can you write it down? I'm gonna call a hybrid rescue centre, but they'll need something to track y/n with" Yeosang thought back to the scene, remembering the licence plate to the best of his abilities, and wrote that down

"thanks Yeosang this'll definitely help them get y/n back sooner"

⏳

Meanwhile with y/n, things weren't looking that good for him, he just arrived at his former owners' house, to him it was more like a big scary mansion.

"come on little guy, let's get moving" but y/n didn't even shift, frozen by the fear and trauma the mansion held inside.

The man sighed "alright boys, lift him up, I don't have time for this" the men moved towards the hybrid, to which y/n shrunk back further into the car, he would have shifted if it wasn't for the collar they put on him.

Though he resisted heavily and scratched them deeply, he couldn't stop the men from grabbing him and restraining his movements. "let me go!" he thrashed around

"now since when did you become so bold, tabby?" he froze at the nickname, slowly turning to look at the person he feared ever encountering again. "you thought you could just run away from us without any consequences? Oh wait, you probably don't even know what that means" the woman spat "Well then, looks like I'm gonna have to teach you physically then"

⏳

"you little shit!" a kick came from the man before him "you think you can just leave like that?!" another kick "after everything you still haven't learned to obey?!" a slap was next "I-I'm sorry master-" the hybrid was loudly interrupted by the wife of the violent man "you do not speak unless told to! You worthless tabby!" it resulted in another kick, this time from the woman, who's heels were much sharper than her husband's, resulting him starting to bleed

The slapping and kicking, along with the verbal abuse, continued until y/n was knocked unconscious, either by blood loss or exhaustion, they didn't know

"pathetic" the man took the unconscious hybrid and took him to a separate room "now no one shall see what we'll do to you" he took out a bat as y/n was beginning to become conscious again, and immediately fear took over the boy. The man swung and hit him right on his ribs, he wouldn't be surprised if he had many broken bones by now. The hybrid coughed up blood "w-why are you d-doing this" he was grabbed by the man "because how else am I supposed to use my new tools?" he threw him back onto the ground harshly "and what did I say about talking?!"

⏳

The beating continued for hours, until their doorbell interrupted "ugh, what now?" the man let go off y/n and cleaned up his hands, which were covered in blood "don't you dare make a single noise to alert anyone, I can do a lot worse than this" it was the last thing y/n saw before he fell unconscious again

"hello, What can we do for you?" the woman opened the front door, trying to sound as sweet and innocent as she could "ma'am we've had an informant tell us you kidnapped a hybrid and are now keeping it in bad condition" an officer said, a whole crew stood behind him, ready to force their way into the house

"now why would we ever do that? We're just content by how we're living now, without any hybrid" the man said "than, you wouldn't mind if we looked around your house" that made the couple freeze in their steps "w-well, you don't have a search warrant so-" he was interrupted by the officer taking out a paper "we do have one, actually"

The couple started to panic, well aware of the state the hybrid was in if someone found him "I-I will not allow you to enter my house! Who are you people anyway?!" the officer signalled the crew behind him to start moving into the house "hybrid rescue centre"

As the crew walked in, the couple was promptly arrested. Seeing as they weren't expecting anyone over, they didn't clean up the blood from y/n. The captain and fellow officers searched around the house for the hybrid

"captain! I found the hybrid, but he's in pretty bad shape, we'll need a stretcher to carry him" the captain heard from his walky talky "good job, get him to the ambulance" the officer did so, receiving help to carry y/n onto the stretcher and get him out to the ambulance "contact the owners, tell them we got him back"

⏳

Meanwhile, the members were sitting around anxiously, waiting for the phone call that would determine y/n's savety "what if they don't get him out of there?" the others looked at mingi, their hearts breaking at the sight of the taller, tears threatening to fall out of his eyes. Jongho went to hug him "they'll get him out of there" he said determined.

At that moment, the phone started ringing. Hongjoong went to pick it up "Kim Hongjoong speaking, how can I help you?"

"yes, hello, this is the hybrid rescue centre, we're calling to inform you your hybrid has been retrieved" Hongjoong's eyes lit up at that, the others followed suit "unfortunately, he suffered several injuries, with multiple fatal ones, so he'll have to stay here for a few days until his wounds have healed"

he wanted to tear up at the mention of his kitten getting hurt, by the people who were supposed to take care of him nonetheless "I-I understand, we'll come see him as soon as possible" he hung up "well, what happened?" wooyoung asked "they got y/n back, but..... He has a lot of injuries, with a couple of fatal ones, so he'll have to stay at the centre for a few days" their faces morphed from excitement to sorrow at the mention of his injuries "well, what are we waiting for? Let's go see y/n"

⏳

As they arrived at the centre, they saw one of the officers waiting outside for them "you must be y/n's owners, come with me" they followed him into the various halls "how is he?" yunho asked anxiously

"he's in a stable condition, but he hasn't woken up yet. We managed to get the custody papers from his former owners however, we'll hand them over to you soon"

As they finally reached y/n's room, they started to feel fear, just how bad did they hurt him? They opened the door and like the officer said, he wasn't awake yet. The hybrid was covered in bandages and had several bruises, it was enough to make them tear up "y/n.......I'm so sorry, this is all my fault" Yeosang broke down on his knees in front of his bed "if I just protected you better, this wouldn't have happened" his sobbing broke the other members, who started crying as well "it's not your fault" a soft, quiet voice said, as Yeosang felt his hand being held. He looked up at the hybrid and saw him looking back at Yeosang "y/n...." he held his hand, afraid to hurt him if he did so anywhere else

"are you okay, kitten?" seonghwa asked concerned as he kissed the hybrid's forehead "......I'll be okay, don't worry about it" Hongjoong went over to seonghwa's side and held y/n's hand "but we do worry about you, and that's okay for us, because from now on we'll take extra good care of you" the hybrid gazed up at Hongjoong with eyes that could hold the galaxy "really?"

"yes kitten, really" he stepped aside to let the other boys through to y/n, and one by one, they all came up to him, talked, cried or simply were just there with him in that moment. The only one that who was left, was yunho, who'd been relatively quiet throughout the whole day

"yunho, are you okay?" the older lifted his head up, tears streaming down his eyes. This worried y/n "yunho, what's wrong?" said person started walking towards his bed and collapsed in front of y/n "I-I thought- I thought I lost you"

"I-it all happened so fast, I thought I'd never see you again" he sobbed and carefully embraced y/n, being careful not to hurt him "I'm okay now yunho, see, I'm here with you now" he tried him cheering up, and it worked a little bit as his sobbing died down into small sniffles and hiccups.

"I'll be okay, Yunho. It's just a few small injuries, right?" the others tensed at how y/n seemingly brushed off his injuries "....The doctor said you'll have to stay here until you're healed, would you like one of us to stay here with you tonight?" he nodded at seonghwa's question" is there any member in particular you want to stay with?" of course all of the members hoped to be chosen, but they'd keep it fair and go along with y/n's wishes "......can Hongjoong stay tonight?"

"off course, it'll be like a night at the studio" the hybrid smiled widely at Hongjoong's comment and nodded. The rest of their visit was filled with talking and cuddles. Before it was time to leave, seonghwa took Hongjoong out the room, to talk "I'm worried y/n isn't telling us the truth about his wellbeing"

"so you noticed too" seonghwa nodded "it's just.....the way he brushed off his injuries like they were just small bruises, something doesn't sit right with me" Hongjoong understood where he was coming from, the hybrid's behaviour was definitely not something they were expecting from someone who could've died if the rescue team took too long "I'm not asking you to find out what he's hiding from us, I just want you to take care of him when his walls do come down"

⏳

"are you sure you're comfortable, Hongjoong, I don't want you to wake up with an aching back" said person smiled reassuringly "I'll be fine y/n, besides, if my back does start to ache, I can always sleep on the other bed, for now I just wanna be close to you" Hongjoong said as he took y/n's hand and held it gently "even after everything, your hands are still so soft, kitten"

They went to sleep rather peacefully considering what happened that day, but it all came crashing down eventually. Around one in the morning, y/n woke up from a nightmare about what had happened and by shooting up as fast as he did, caused his ribs to hurt as they were still fractured by the beatings he went through.

He started to cry, it only adding more pain to his already hurting ribs. The crying eventually reached Hongjoong's ears as he woke up "kitten....what's wrong, why are you crying" he went to pet y/n's head, but the hybrid flinched away "d-don't hurt me!" the sentence broke Hongjoong's heart. Just how much did his former owners harm him?

"y/n, it's okay I'm here" the older said as he slowly sat down on y/n's bed, carefully grasping his hands and caressing them with his thumbs "hey....look at me, its gonna be okay, they're gone now" he calmed down after a couple of minutes, his panic dying down into sobs "I-it hurts" Hongjoong looked a bit confused, but also very concerned at the hybrid "what hurts, kitten?" y/n took one of his hands back and placed it on his ribs "here, I got up too quick and it hurt a lot...then I started crying and it started to hurt more"

Hongjoong fully got on y/n's bed, swinging his leg over the boy so they were on either side "did it hurt before that too or is it just starting to now" he looked away, guilt slowly settling down into the boy ".....before that too..." this is what he was hiding, he's been hurting all this time and he didn't want anyone to know "I just- you guys already looked so stressed out from having me taken away, I didn't wanna add on to that" Hongjoong carefully took the hybrid's head, one hand settled on his cheek, the other gently petting his cat ear

"kitten, we really don't mind that kind of stuff. You mean a lot to us and your health is really important to us. So please, when you are hurting, either physically or mentally, please tell us" y/n nodded as Hongjoong brought his head into the older's chest "it's gonna be okay kitten, soon enough you'll be all better and ready to come back home with us"

120 notes · View notes

maybankiara · 4 years

Text

THESE WICKED GAMES WE PLAY

pairing: Rafe Cameron x Implied Fem!Reader

summary: Barry decides he needs to get money back from Rafe, one way or another. When you become a part of the bargain, Rafe decides that’s enough.

w/c: 3.2k

t/w: kidnapping, canon-typical violence, toxic relationship

a/n: this is basically something straight out of an action movie (...or obx). not proofread so will probably contain typos, but i’ll get around to doing that. it’s midnight. sorry about the formatting, i did this on my phone.

masterlist | tag list

written for @whormotional

Your boyfriend deals coke, alright. It's something that passes by unacknowledged for the sake of whatever relationship you're trying to keep in place, with your college and his college and whatnot.

When it comes to dating Rafe Cameron, "easy" is the last word you'd use to describe it.

(You often wonder - why stay? What is it that's keeping you around? Then you see him lying in bed next to you, eyes closed and messy hair covering them, and you see the boy you fell in love with. You hope he's still somewhere in there, waiting his turn on the surface.)

(It's hope.)

That exact hope is what you're clinging to as you walk through the cut, looking for your boyfriend. It's summer and the North Carolina heat is dry, palpable, as your shoes are already warm against the pavement.

A kook is not welcome to the Cut.

You keep one of your hands in your pocket, the other one to your ear, dial tone turning to voicemail for what feels like the hundredth time.

'Fuck.'

Another five minute break. You slip your phone back into your pocket, turning on some music to tune out the voices of people around you. They all seem to be taunting you, even if you don't stick out like a sore thumb without your fancy car - even if you know nobody is taking notice of you.

Rafe doesn't do this often. If he plans to go MIA for the day, he'll shoot you a text in the morning and let you know. He'll call you in the middle of the day to see if you're doing okay.

He'll care.

Well, not today.

It's nearly eight in the evening and you haven't heard from him since late last night. As far as you know, neither have Topper nor Kelce. The Camerons don't know shit about Rafe anyway, so that's a dead end in the start.

It doesn't warrant you searching for him through the middle of fucking nowhere. The centre of the Cut, the part of it that's looking semi-decent, is long behind you. Your feet are uncomfortable on a gravel road, grass too dry to grow anywhere

The next few moments happen in slow motion and fast forward at once. You feel a hand on your bicep, and you see that you're standing genuinely in the middle of nowhere, and the air feels cold in your throat. The song in your ears has ended and all you hear is the hum that's an aftermath of loud music, and someone's footsteps on the gravel.

The hand gripping you spins you in place, and you feel warm metal against your back.

You don't fight back. You freeze.

The person in front of you is your height, and he's got a bandanna covering the lower half of his face. You see that his hair is black and tied up in a ponytail, and you look into his eyes, but all you remember about them is how fearful they make you feel.

Another metal is pressed against you, this time cold, and on the bare flesh of your neck.

'Get in the van.'

A door slides open and you're dragged into the van, frozen still. The man jumps in behind you and someone holds your hands behind your back. The engine hums and the door slides shut, and the moment the metal blocks daylight, your brain catches up.

'LET ME OUT! YOU FUCKIN' PSYCHOS! WHAT THE FUCK!'

You scream your lungs out and push forward, rashly enough that the person holding you back doesn't have time to harden their grip, and you slip free. In front of you is the man with the bandanna, and all you see is your right hand pushing into his chest as your left reaches for the door. He falls -- you open the door -- the van swerves, and you fall back into the arms of the person holding you earlier.

'LET ME GO!' you scream again, reaching forward like a tied bull, but the grip is tight this time around.

'Shut the fuck up, bitch,' says the one with the bandanna, rising from the floor.

The road is bumpy and you keep fighting to maintain your balance. He wipes the corner of his mouth where a trickle of blood dripped from, and you wonder for a moment if you hit his face, or he got it in the fall.

'Let. Me. Go.'

'Aren't you going to bargain, you fuckin' kook bitch?' The bandanna is off, you notice only now, and you have a vague feeling as if you've seen his face before; your body goes stiff. 'Yeah, I know who you are. Country Club's pussy.'

Your brain works as if on speed -- Country Club. Rafe. You've heard only one person call him that.

The lump in your throat is heavy to swallow, but you do it anyway, straightening your back as much as the van in motion allows you.

The urge to spit in his face is almost too much to take.

'Rafe will kill you, Barry.'

The grin with the golden teeth he flashes you makes your stomach churn. Chills run down your spine, but you keep your teeth clenched, and eyes full of spite.

All it does is make him laugh. 'He doesn't have it in him.'

There's something cold on your throat; cold and sharp. Barry slides the blade across, pressing just tight enough to make you feel the hints of pain, but not enough to hurt you.

You keep your chin high, even if the tremble has already betrayed you.

'Your boyfriend owes me money,' he says. His accent is dirty--pogue--and sleazy in a way that makes you want to throw up. 'A lot of it.'

'You know he's going to pay you back. He always pays you back.'

The pressure on your throat increases in a moment. Your whole body clenches and you bite down on the inside of your lip, feeling the blade cut into the skin.

'Oh, he gon' pay back, alright. Where is he?'

You stare at him for a moment, waging your options. 'I don't know. I haven't heard from him the whole day.'

Barry's eyes squint as he leans into your face, close enough for you to smell tobbaco and weed coming out of his mouth. The pressure on your neck dissipates, enough to let you breathe.

'Fucker better not be dead in a ditch.'

'He'll pay you back,' you promise.

He glances you up and down, and you feel as if someone is throwing filth all over you. He licks his lips as they stretch into a grin, and he nods to himself. 'Yeah. One way or another.'

If there is a God, you pray to him.

Rafe is losing his mind. He knows he's fucked up.

There was a call-in last night, a delivery to some of his college friends on the mainland. They were throwing a massive house party, and a lot of people needed a supplier, and it was easy to just call him.

He caught the last ferry over, drove three hours, all without telling you because he knew you'd worry -- and there should've been no reason for you to worry.

He wasn't going to stay, or drink, or do coke.

But he did. He did all three of the things he told himself he wouldn't.

By the time he woke up, it was nearly three in the afternoon, his phone had been smashed the night before, and there was no way to get a hold of you. He sat into his car and shot straight for Kildare, looking for you at home and every place he could find, until it was Topper who told him you'd went looking for him.

In the Cut.

A certain kind of darkness he'd never felt before washed over him. You weren't answering your phone when Topper called, and it didn't take long for Rafe to get back into his car and ignore all the speed limits on his way to the cut. He didn't care about being seen -- all he wanted was to be wrong. To roll up into Barry's backyard and for Barry to have no idea where you could be.

That's what he wanted. And when he got there, and no one was there, he waited. He'd wait until fucking Barry came back and he can make sure he didn't do anything with you.

Rafe fucked up, but he knew that if Barry had done anything to you, he'll fuck up to the point of bloody hands and time behind bars.

And he wouldn't hesitate.

So when Barry doesn't answer his phone and Rafe sees his van roll up, but it's someone else in the driver's seat, and the van is rocking unnaturally, the darkness falls over his eyes again.

He doesn't see red. He doesn't see black.

He sees Barry's face when he walks out of the van with you behind him, a drip of dark red on your neck, and he lunges.

You don't comprehend Rafe until he's at Barry's throat. It's a flash of blonde and a polo shirt and mutli-coloured shorts, and then Barry's down and you recognize the grunts and the hair and the clothes, and then you're screaming his name.

Someone comes behind you and places a hand over your mouth, grabbing your tied hands with another. Someone else jumps out of the van and onto Rafe, knocking him into the floor.

Your screams are muffled, but you bite the hand on your mouth and they're loud again, until you're hit in the face. The pain is numbing -- dull and painful sound of flesh against flesh echoing in your skull. You've got a hand covering your screams again, and you stumble backwards.

Next to you, on the ground, Rafe is pushing himself up with a streak of red coming out of the left side of his hair. He looks at you and you see the rage and the fear all in one -- "Y/N.'

You try to say something, but it hurts when you move your mouth, so all that comes out is a whimper.

He reaches for you but a guy smacks him on the side of his face. Rafe stumbles towards you, hands outstretched, but the loss of balance is enough for the guy to pin him against the wall, gun to his temple.

You scream.

The guy hits you again, and you smell copper.

Barry gets himself off the ground and presses the heel of his palm to his temple, and a mixture of blood and dirt remains on it. He spits blood and wipes his mouth, wiping the rest of his face with the bandanna. His left eye is swollen and there are a few cuts from Rafe's rings scattered here and there, bruises already starting to form.

You glance at Rafe, and you see him struggling to get to you. Even with a gun to his head -- he doesn't stop trying.

Another whimper leaves your mouth and the guy holding you pulls your head back, to the point where it's painful, and Rafe screams 'HEY! LET GO OF HER YOU FUCKIN'---'

Barry slaps him across the face. You hear skin snap and Rafe grunts in pain.

'Shut your damn mouth, Country Club.' He comes closer and takes over the gun, letting the other guy hold Rafe in place. 'Your girl over there seems to be ready for some f--'

'I've got your money.'

'Now we're talkin'.'

A satisfied grin stretches across Barry's features, whereas Rafe's neck tenses, veins looking as if they're about to burst. He glances at you for a second, as if he's trying to tell you something, but you don't get it -- you're barely standing on your feet.

The gun travels from Rafe's forehead to underneath his chin, pushing his head backwards.

No. You surge forward, the moment's weakness allowing to to take two steps closer until Barry waves his free hand and there's something cold and circular pressed into the back of your head, and you whimper again.

Rafe twitches, but is pushed back.

'Nu-uh, that ain't how we doin' this. Gimme money, and y'all loverbirds walk outta here alive.'

The threat makes your bones shudder; 'Please.'

You don't know if you're begging Rafe or Barry or God, but one of them has got to answer.

Rafe catches your eye and nods at you, tears streaming down his face. He's no less afraid than you are -- somehow, that hurts even more. 'I won't let anything happen to you.'

'Yadda, yadda, yadda. Pay up, Country Club.'

'It's in the glove compartment,' Rafe says.

'Everything?'

'Half.' Rafe tenses again, and you see a flash of bravery across his features. 'I'll give you the rest when you let her go.'

Your boyfriend laughs, a maniacal laugh you've never heard before -- desperate and high-pitched; the laughter of someone who laughs in the face of danger.

The gun on your head moves from back to the side; you can almost hear it sliding.

It's even colder on the bare skin of your temple.

'If you hurt her, you'll never get the other half of the money,' says Rafe, poison dripping from his voice.

Barry contemplates this for a second. 'You're not the one in position of demands.'

'I swear.'

For a moment, Barry's moment tenses on the trigger finger, safety off. Your chest tightens and you're convinced he's going to shoot, and you can't even move -- but he doesn't.

The breath that passes your lips is shaky.

'I know where y'all live,' concludes Barry. 'You either gimme the money now, or I come take it.' He glances at you, checking you up and down, and Rafe squirms in the guy's arms at the sight, a hand covering whatever he's saying. 'I won't let her off easy come next time.'

You watch as the guy lets go of Rafe, now only Barry's gun pressed to his chin keeping him in place. He walks over to the truck, opens the passenger door and the glove compartment, and takes out a wad of cash.

Some part of your heart sinks, and seeing the way Rafe is looking at you, he knows it, too.

The cash is placed on Barry's empty hand. 'Damn, kid. Y'all delievered.'

'Let her go.'

'You're not in the position to make demands.'

'You promised---'

'And I shit on my promises, wipe my ass with 'em, make sure it's sparkly clean,' snaps Barry. The gun is cocked, a crook in Barry's elbow as he's inches of Barry's face. 'You better give me the other half or it ain't gon' be promises I wipe my ass with.'

Rafe gives in. He tells them about the secret compartment he had installed in the back of the truck, the one not even you knew about. There's a wad of cash in there equal in size to the one Barry gave to someone for counting. You're shaking, trembling, feeling your knees are about to give in; all you can feel is that, and the gun pressed to the side of your head.

It ends up being almost a third more than Rafe owed him, but Barry takes it all anyway.

They let you go first. You've still got a gun to your head as you roll down the passenger window and get into the truck. Barry promises Rafe to blow your brains out in case of any funny business, and leads Rafe to the driver's side.

He places a hand over yours, but you pull it back.

You see his heart shatter.

When the guns are away, Rafe drives the two of you out of the Cut, just driving around the island. You don't want to go home -- he doesn't want to go home. For a while, you don't talk, save for the one time he asks you if you're okay. You shake your head and he says he's sorry, but sorry won't change anything.

Sorry won't take away the feeling of a knife to your throat, or a hand hitting your cheek, or the gun ready to bang.

He pulls up at a gas station, refills the thank, goes into the store. He comes out with a bag full of snacks and two bottles of water, looking as if nothing happened.

'How can you be so calm?'

Rafe starts the car and comes onto the road, taking a long time to answer. 'Because you're okay.'

You feel like you've been slapped in the face. 'Is this a normal thing for you? Being beaten to a pulp, a gun to your head?'

'No,' he says. While you can tell it's the truth, it still doesn't make it okay, how easy he's done this. 'I fucked up, Y/N.'

'You fucked up, alright. Where did you get that money from? Did you go rob a bank today, that's why you were gone and I was the one who got my ass handed to me?'

'Please don't do this.'

'Do what?' You watch him avoid eye contact; you watch the arch of his brows, the slope of his nose, the curve of his Cupid's bow, and wonder if you'll ever be able to see him the same way. 'Rafe, you're a fuckin' drug dealer. I don't want to have anything to do with that.'

'You don't have to,' he offers, speeding up a little. 'We could just keep separate---'

'WELL HOW'S THAT WORKING OUT SO FAR!'

Rafe swerves and the truck hits the side of the road, jumping you to a startle. You clutch onto the handrail above your head -- Rafe turns the wheel to the other side -- a car coming in your direction honks and moves out of your way -- Rafe gets the car in control.

Your heart is beating fast, and you're done.

'Take me home.'

'Y/N---'

'No,' you say, your hand a barrier between the two of you. 'Just... don't. I've tried to ignore that part of you, but I'm over that.'

'You're breaking up with me,' he realises.

(It shouldn't hurt; but hope died when you saw the boy you loved on top of another man, beating the shit out of him.)

'Yes.'

He doesn't argue -- knowing him, he'll call you later, when he's given you space and you've had the chance to calm down.

You know each other too well.

(Hope died when he was the reason why there were moments when you thought you wouldn't see your family again.)

He drops you off at your home, doesn't even turn the engine off. His hand catches yours before you leave and he says he's sorry once more, with tears staining his cheek, but you shake your head and rip your hand out of his.

This has been a long time coming; you can no longer live in a lie.

(The Rafe you fell in love with is gone.)

★

tagging. @jjtheangel @teenwaywardasgardian @thelocalpogue @jjmaybanky @sacredto @chasefreakinstokes @drewstarkey @thatsme-johnbookerroutledge @margaritatimebaybee @outrbank @yourlocalauthor @justawilddreamerchild @snkkat @mynamewontwork13 @sunwardsss @storiesbymads @koufaxx @drewstarkeyobx @ilovejjmaybank @jjmaybanksbaby @mahleeyuh @starkeymarkey @nicolewithasoul @kiarawilliams127 @butgilinsky @bricksatanakinswindow @starlightstarkey @copper-boom @starrystarkey93 @hotel-colson @stargazingstarkey @outerbanksbro @anonymous0writer @annedub @outerbongs @jjandreidsgirl @jjmaybanqs @kaitieskidmore1 @maybanksbaby @yelyahryan

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron imagine #outer banks #obx #obx fic #outer banks imagine #obx imagine #my fic #my imagine #f: obx #c: rafe #tuserscout #bricksatans

340 notes · View notes