#but i kept him alone for a solid ten turns and he just kept using guard order

[todayisafridaynight]

top ten things i didnt think could happen during the aoki/bodyguard segment Aoki Actually Attacks

[strangermarvelss]

the pain of letting you go- e.m (pt 10)

Pairing: Ex!Eddie Munson x Ex!AFAB!Reader

Summary: eddie has a solo therapy session and a sit down talk with wayne about everything that’s been going on

Warnings: angst, eddie pov, mentions of past trauma and abuse (please don’t read if the topic is sensitive for you), crying, eddie having a breakthrough, wayne being the g.o.a.t and talking some sense into his nephew, cliffhanger ending

Word Count: 3.7k

A/N: part ten of the series is here! can’t believe it’s almost done, it feels unreal. thank you to everyone for the continued support! reminder: if the topic is sensitive for you, please do not read. also, my two years of taking psychology in high school really came to play in this chapter, so if it doesn't make all kinds of sense, be gentle with my fuzzy brain recollection ! one last thing: eddie's backstory might sound a lot like billy's but that's just how i think it would be in this series! enjoy! :) -sava

series masterlist

“Do you want to start by telling me what brings you here today?” The lady in front of him asks, her notepad open and a pen situated between her index finger and thumb. Eddie shifts, readjusting his sitting position on the stiff couch in the spacious office as he looks back at the therapist in front of him.

He did exactly what he said he would. He got home that day that Christopher got in the fight and dialed Jonathan Byers’s home number, asking for the name and number of the therapist he and Will used to see back in Hawkins when their parents were getting their divorce. He thanked the man and hung up, quickly dialing the number Jonathan provided and made the first available appoint for the Monday after Thanksgiving, thanks to a recent cancellation. 

Everything he said that day was true, he wanted to make it up to you and he would put the work in for that to happen. He spent the holiday alone, except for the breakfast he had with Wayne before he went back to bed to prepare for his shift at the plant that night. He mentioned wanting to talk with the boy, concerned about his lack of Thanksgiving plans. Eddie hadn’t really kept Wayne in the loop with everything that has happened between you and him, not wanting his uncle to look at him differently for acting so stupid. He was already beating himself up over the situation, he didn’t need more people he loved to turn against him.

“I’ve been an idiot lately,” he tells her simply, crossing his arms in front of him, putting a barrier between his heart and the unfamiliar woman. She smiles a little, looking at her notes before turning back to him.

“Happens to the best of us sometimes. Care to elaborate?” She questions, raising a brow. Eddie lets out a sigh, before opening his mouth to speak once more.

“I asked my wife for a separation, for a really stupid reason, and now that we’re not together anymore, I-I feel nothing but regret and I just want her back,” he explains.

She takes a moment to write in her notebook, before turning back to Eddie. She examines him for a moment, looking him over and Eddie squirms under her intense stare. Therapy was new territory for him. He often wondered how much better his life could’ve been if he attended regularly as a kid, but with money being tight and his asshole father not seeing the point, it was never a solid option. He probably could’ve saved himself a lot of heartache and trouble if he had a healthy outlet to express himself like this, really talking about his problems instead of blasting music and getting high to forget all the troubles the universe threw his way.

“This ‘stupid’ reason you said…what exactly was it? What led you to want to separate from your wife?” She inquires. Another sigh leaves Eddie’s lips as he braces for judgement.

“I-I’m in a band, called Corroded Coffin. I have this bandmate, his name��s Gareth. He made some silly joke about my rockstar image being ‘tainted’ because I’m married to the only girl I’ve ever dated and been with sexually, and already have a kid. Like I said, it’s really stupid, but, I guess I just…let it get to me.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“Why do you keep asking why?” Eddie snaps a little, already getting a little irritated. “I thought you were supposed to tell me all that. Tell me what’s wrong with me so I can go and make shit better.”

“We have to work through it to get to the root of the problem, first. Together,” she answers him, sending him a sweet smile. He huffs, pressing himself further into the uncomfortable couch. “Now, is what your friend Gareth said true? That you’ve only been with one girl your whole life?”

“Yeah, it is. No one ever looked at me that way before Y/N and I started dating, and it just felt right. Then she got pregnant, and we got married after she graduated,” Eddie explains a bit. 

“Did you feel like you married Y/N out of obligation? Because you got her pregnant?”

He takes a moment to think. To reflect on the entire 8 years you spent together in a romantic relationship, and the years before that you spent as friends. He always loved spending time with you, whether you were friends or more than that. He remembers the time he realized he had feelings for you:

The summer of 1982 was hotter than you both wanted it be, even at night. You and Eddie were hanging out in his trailer, listening to his Black Sabbath album ‘Mob Rules’, blasting it with the windows wide open for the whole trailer park to hear. You both were on your third beer of the night, not wanting to celebrate the Fourth of July at the annual fair Hawkins threw every year thanks to Mayor Kline, but instead just having a relaxing night in the trailer, which is why it was okay for you both to blast the music after quiet hours began.

You were both laughing at some silly joke you said about his neighbor’s cat, the alcohol evident in your system and the fuzziness swirling around in both of your brains making any and every thing sound like the best joke in the world. He noticed how sweet your laughter was, and the way your nose crinkled when you giggled at his jokes, your lips curling into the brightest smile he’s ever seen and how you tilt your head back when you found something particularly funny. 

The butterflies were beginning to swirl in his stomach when you flopped on the bed next to him, laughing so hard he thought you’d pee all over his bed and stain it further, since you’d already gone several times that night thanks to the alcohol in your system. He thought he could just laugh at hearing your laugh for the rest of his life, seeing the bright twinkle in your eye when he turned towards you and heat spreading to his cheeks thanks to the staring. 

The laughter died down, the two of you looking at each other with soft eyes and reaching for each other. He grabbed your arm, running his ring clad hand up and down your soft skin, and you went to brush his growing mane out of his face. He felt his heart beating so fast in his chest, thinking it might pop out of him and explode all over your pretty outfit, which was a low cut tank top and high waisted shorts due to the heat, not that Eddie was complaining. 

It felt sudden when you pressed your lips to his, but he didn’t care all that much as he quickly melted into your touch, bringing the hand that was once rubbing up and down your arm to cup your face gently. The two of you had been friends for a while, but it wasn’t weird to be kissing in that moment. The heat that was created between the two of you as your lips moved against each other felt so nice and comforting. Like it was bound to happen any day. Like Eddie always said: It just felt right.

“No, I didn’t feel like I needed to marry her out of obligation. Her parents maybe think that, since they kept hinting towards it throughout the pregnancy, but I didn’t feel pressured by them or her. I did it because I wanted to,” he finally answers the woman before him. She nods at his answer and quickly scribbles something in her notebook again.

“And why did you want to? Think back at how you felt around that time in your life. What made you decide you wanted to spend the rest of your life with her in the first place?” 

“Being with her made me feel truly happy for the first time in my life. I had a shit childhood and everyone bullied me up until I graduated at my third attempt at a senior year, but whenever we were together, even before we were dating, it felt like I didn’t have to worry about ever being unhappy. I just felt-I felt like maybe life didn’t have to suck as much as I used to think it did.”

“Good, that’s good. I think we’re starting to get somewhere. Can you talk to me more about your childhood?” The therapist asks, readjusting her position in the chair in front of him, crossing a leg above her knee and readjusting her notepad. Eddie’s breath hitches for a moment, swallowing it down quickly after. He never reveled in the details about his childhood too often. The last time he had to was some comment Christopher made about a family tree he had to make for school, and he had asked about where his mother and father were and why he only had one set of grandparents he went to visit during the holidays. It wasn’t a lengthy conversation between him and his son, not like it was when he told you all those years ago. He wanted to save that story for when Chris was significantly older. Please, it all still felt very fresh, as if it was happening yesterday.

“Um, yeah…yeah I can. My mom, she was the sweetest woman. Always did her best to care for me a provide some kind of normal childhood with what little we had. But my dad…he was a total prick. An angry drunk who used to beat us every time we breathed wrong. He and my mom would fight a lot, arguing about money and other pointless shit in the end. But it always ended in him ‘winning’, getting a few too many smacks in and taking it out on me when I would try to defend her,” Eddie begins, his hands clasped in front of him as he leans forward on his knees, one leg bouncing uncontrollably as he speaks.

“One day, thinks got a little too heated between the two of them because he lost his job at the body shop he worked at, being drunk on the clock and all. They got into a screaming match, apparently, because money was becoming tighter and tighter, and when he lost his job, my mom was the only one with a stable income coming in. He…he hit her. No, not hit. He punched her. He was going at her and just hurting her worse than he ever had. She ended up in the hospital, broken ribs and eye swollen shut, but panicking about how much it would cost her instead of worrying about her injuries. But she figured it out and once she was better, she left Hawkins. S-she promised she’d come back and get me, and we’d go live in a city together where we didn’t have to deal with that asshole, but after two months of getting the brunt of all his anger about it, I lost hope. Then six months after she left, my dad got locked up and I was put in my Uncle Wayne’s care.”

She nods at his words, taking in all the information spilled at her in such a short amount of time as she writes faster than Eddie thought anyone could. Eddie’s chest feels tight as his mind brings him back to his past. The pain from his father’s fists and the smacking sound he’d create against his chubby pre-teen face still fresh and the exact reason he was so worried when Christopher got into a fight at school. Sure, Eddie knew how to defend himself against bullies when the time called for it, but he tried to not get physical when he felt the need to get violent. The fight with his son, plus the smack you landed on his face when he was being a jealous dickhead about Steve, took him back to the small house he lived in on the outskirts of Hawkins with his father’s harsh words ringing in his ears and horrible actions making his skin sting.

“Do you ever find yourself running away from conflict, Eddie?” The therapist asks, pulling him out of his thoughts. 

“Um…yeah, I guess sometimes I do. But Y/N and I didn’t have any conflict when I asked for the separation, it was because of what Gareth said,” he replies. She hums to herself, raising her eyebrows a bit a shaking her head.

“But what if it was something deeper than that?” She ponders.

“What do you mean?”

She closes the notebook momentarily, setting it on the side table closest to her chair and clasping her hands in front of her. “What if you had a deeper reasoning, something that didn’t click into place until your friend said the joke. Eddie, with all the stuff you just told me, it sounds like the abandonment your mother caused you to feel could have something to do with this, as well as a bit of self sabotage.”

The abandonment was spot on, with the grudge he still held for his mother for leaving him in the hands of an abusive piece-of-shit still very present. But self sabotage? What on earth could he have been sabotaging? And for what reason?

“I’m going to need you to elaborate further, doc,” he pleads.

“Well, you said you never felt truly happy until you were with Y/N. Things were going good between you, so there could’ve been a small part of you just waiting for things to get bad again. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. So instead of you going through any sort of pain on the receiving end, you initiated the bad stuff before it could happen to you. And running away similar to how your mother did, but not exactly the same,” she explains to him. 

Eddie feels as if a lightbulb went off over his head as he listens to what she says. It all makes sense, because there was always a small part of him that told him he never deserved anything good in his life, words his father would spew at him continuing to stay with him many years later. He finally felt happy and let his head overthink that, not truly being able to soak up the feeling and throwing away the best thing he’s ever witnessed in his life. The words the therapist said, mixed with the insecurity of his lack of experience, all made Eddie feel semi-better about knowing what exactly led him to acting so stupid.

As happy as he was to get to the root of the problem, he felt like even more of an idiot for doing so and putting you through the shit that was going on with him. What if he managed to get this kind of help earlier, before acting on Gareth’s words and being a mini manwhore? What if he just talked about how he was feeling instead of keeping it to himself and letting you suffer in the process?

“That actually makes a lot of sense doc…thank you,” he breathes out.

“That’s why I’m here. I think we’ve made some great progress for today, and I’d like to try and see you once more before your family session coming up in a couple of weeks. Talk to the receptionist out front and see where they can squeeze you in,” the therapist says, standing from her chair and extending her hand to him. He shakes it as he stands himself, digging his hands in his pocket before walking out of the room and out into the lobby where the front desk is located.

—————————————————————————————————————————

Staring at Wayne’s truck in the driveway, Eddie takes a deep breath before turning the engine to his van off. Exiting the vehicle, he takes the few steps until he reaches the porch, climbing the stairs and walking in the front door. Wayne’s figure is relaxing in his recliner, feet extended as he watches a show on the tiny television. He meets his nephews eyes, Eddie giving him a shy wave before setting his keys on the kitchen counter.

“Hey boy,” Wayne greets him, pushing the recliner back into the regular sitting position and standing. He walks over towards the kitchen, his arms extending and wrapping around his nephew quickly. “How’ve you been boy?”

Eddie shakes his head, laughing a little as he looks to the floor. “Not good Uncle Wayne. Pretty far from being okay, if I'm being honest”

“C’mere son, lets sit down and talk,” he gestures towards the kitchen table, the two chairs already situated a bit for people to just slide it, the two men having a habit of not pushing them in. Eddie sits down, wringing his hands together as he rests the against the table. Wayne slides in, taking a sip of his drink as he looks at his nephew. “Tell me what’s been going on with you and Y/N.”

Eddie’s eyes shoot up to meet Wayne's, panic in his face hearing his uncle say the words. Wayne hated gossip, so there was no way someone else managed to tell him the situation before he did, right?l

“How did you-“

“Now you know as well as I do how fast word travels in this damn town. I may not like to gossip, but my ears do perk up when they’re talking about my nephew. I would’ve liked to hear it from you though, so talk to me son,” he explains, cutting the younger man off. 

“M’sorry Wayne, I just didn’t want you to be mad at me and be disappointed in me. I've already put you through enough shit...I-I just didn't want to add onto that,” Eddie admits, hanging his head low in shame, staring at the wooden table and tracing the cravings he did years ago with his fingertips.

“Eddie I could never be disappointed in you, and I mean that.”

“Thanks Wayne, I appreciate that,” he pauses, continuing to trace the carvings. “I really screwed things up with Y/N. I got in my head and let her go…and now I feel horrible. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever done, and you know me, it says a lot.”

“Yeah son, I do know you. And you’re right, that is the worst thing you’ve ever done,” Wayne tells him. Eddie’s eyes widen, staring at his uncle crazily, a breathy laugh leaving his lips. “No, Eddie, I’m serious. I’ve seen how that girl has changed your life for the better, and leaving her like that was just cruel. She and that boy of yours love you so much, but I can’t for the life of me understand why you did it, because I know how crazy you are about her. So what the hell?”

Eddie frowns, hearing the disappointment in his uncle’s voice. He knew how stupid it was letting the one person other than Wayne who has ever treated him with any kind of love that he deserved go like he did, trading the simple family life for the rockstar life he’s always dreamed of. But now that he had that rockstar life, he hated what he gave up in order to have it. Losing you and your son wasn’t worth all the potential record deals and never having to worry about money again. 

“I know Wayne…I know I messed up. But I’m trying to do better-I am going to do better. I just came back from a therapy session, and we’re going to go as a family so I can see just how much this has effected them and see what I can do to be good to them. I want to be back in their lives and come home to my family every night and tuck my son in without him hating me. I want to lay in bed with my wife at night and hear all about her day and hold her in my arms as we fall asleep, then wake up and do it all over again. I never thought that’d be something I could want, much less have, but now that it’s almost out of my grasp?” Eddie stops, feeling the tears fall down his pale cheeks as he tries his best to compose himself in front of his uncle, turning away and rubbing his eyes with his thumb.

He keeps the sobs to himself, not wanting to look more pathetic than he already felt. He knew it was stupid to cry over his own mistakes, but it just showed how much he cared for you and Christopher. He loves you both so much, and despite everything, he wants nothing but happiness for the both of you, whether that includes him in your lives or not. 

Wayne stands from his chair, walking over and taking Eddie’s figure in his own, wrapping his arms around the boy’s shoulder and holding Eddie’s head close to his figure with his free hand. Eddie immediately hugs him back, his face burying into one of Wayne’s legs as he turns his head to the side, looking out at the living room before closing his eyes once more, fresh tears spilling over the edge.

“I don’t want to lose them, Wayne. I can’t,” Eddie mumbles out. Wayne nods, patting his nephew’s head as he tries to soothe him. 

“I know boy, I know. But you have to keep putting in the work. I know you love them, and they still love you, I can see it when I see Y/N around town sometimes with the way she still manages to flash me a smile. So go and be a better man for them, the husband and father they need you to be and get your head out of your ass,” Wayne says.

Eddie smiles a little, pulling away from his uncle and rubbing his tears on his sleeve. He was going to do whatever you needed him to in order to be on good terms again. He knew things wouldn’t magically heal over night and that he’d be welcomed back to his home with open arms next time you saw both of them, so he would wait as long as he needs for you to be ready and let him back into your life. 

That is, if you still really wanted him there.

[imtrashraccoon]

Oh hey, looks like the Reader is being comforted in one of these for once. Slight warning that there is some vague mentions of random people dying in this one, but it was all just a dream...

@owl-bones

First Day, Previous Day, & Next Day.

Bad Sansuary: Killer - Comfort

Word Count: 1,604

You tumbled out of bed with a scream, dragging the bedclothes along in your descent. Your gaze whipped wildly around your dimly lit bedroom and your heart felt like it was going to explode from how hard it was pounding. You couldn't seem to inhale oxygen fast enough and your chest felt like it was being constricted by a large snake.

The screams were still echoing in your ears.

Experiences that were not your own kept flashing across your vision.

You could still smell the potent stench of death and feel the burn of inhaled smoke in the back of your throat too.

You had to shock some sense into yourself.

Struggling to get your legs disentangled from your sheets, you stumbled to your bathroom like a half dead corpse before hauling yourself into the tub and turning the shower on full blast. You hadn't even bothered to get undressed and barely registered when the cold water struck your body.

You don't know how long you sat there.

You felt completely numb.

Your vision was blurry and it took way too long for you to realize that you were crying. By then, you were full on bawling and there was nothing you could do to stop.

You'd just witnessed what could only be described as Armageddon.

The sky had been torn in two and only a void of complete black lay beyond. Earthquakes caused most of the buildings to collapse, fires raged from both the breaking of electrical lines and leaking gas, and the familiar sounds of a once bustling city had been replaced with utter chaos. Children cried, dogs barked, and the sounds of alarm systems going off all at once had been nearly deafening.

But that was nothing compared to the roar of the Void.

You'd witnessed people get sucked into the sky and disappear. Some of them were even people you knew. Their screams of terror and pain still permeated the very depths of your mind even now.

You'd only woken up when you had been crushed by falling debris while trying to flee to safety. You were lucky as you may not have woken up immediately if you'd died from burning to death. It was easily the worst way to die that you could think of and with how real that nightmare had felt, you had no doubt that it would have been just as awful to experience in a dream as it would be in real life.

It had all seemed so real. You'd just seen and experienced things that couldn't possibly be explained as your mind mashing up and connecting old memories. What else could it have been than a nightmare though?

At some point, you were startled by a knock on the bathroom door, that you'd apparently had enough sense in your numb state to at least close.

"hey, angel cheeks? you've been in there for a while... are you okay?"

It was Killer.

You didn't want anyone to see you right now, let alone him. How would he react at seeing how pathetic you looked? Would he laugh? Or would he just stare at you? You didn't even know if he was fully capable of pity, not that you wanted any from him.

"No..." you finally croaked in response.

"do you need anything?" he asked.

You wanted to scream that you did but couldn't bring yourself to. You managed to form a response, albeit rather hesitantly "I... Just...stay with me..."

You heard a light thump and some shuffling on the other side of the door as he sat down and leaned against the wooden surface. He was only quiet for a couple seconds though.

"so, a horse walks into a bar. the bartender looks at him and asks, 'why the long face, pal?'"

When you didn't respond, he tried again. "you know, i used to have a handle on life...but then it broke."

You heard him click his non-existent tongue and he fell silent for a solid ten seconds when his joke had zero effect. "i got a new pair of gloves today, but they're both 'lefts', which is great on the one hand, but on the other, it just isn't 'right'."

"Your jokes are awful..." you finally muttered.

He sighed, "yeah, i know..." He seemed to shift the way he was sitting before asking the question you had been dreading. "did something happen?"

"I...don't want to talk about it right now...maybe not ever either."

"i see."

You didn't say anything else and neither did he for a little while.

"hey...are you decent right now? and i guess my next question is, if you would want me to come in?"

Normally, you would've yelled at him for even entertaining such a thought, but you were so beyond caring at this point. You were dressed in your pajamas, which just so happened to be an old t-shirt and a pair of shorts, although you weren't wearing a bra at the moment. Still, you were covered up enough even with the water causing your clothes to stick a bit more to your skin than usual.

"Yeah, alright. You can come in if you want I guess..." you responded hesitantly.

He slowly opened the door and you noticed he seemed to pause before entering. When he did come in, he did so without looking directly at you, which you actually appreciated quite a bit. He was aware enough to be respectful of your privacy even now it seemed.

He glanced at you in a quiet manner and if he had eyelights, you would've seen how much he was currently studying you. To your surprise, he didn't make any snarky comments, not even about how you probably looked like a half drowned cat at the moment. Instead, he knelt down next to the tub and reached over to turn off the water. At the same time, he cupped your face with his other hand and gently stroked your cheek with his thumb.

With how concerned he looked and the tenderness in this simple gesture, you couldn't help but burst into tears all over again. He didn't hesitate to wrap you up into a fierce hug, despite the fact that you were currently soaking wet. He even stroked your back in a way that while his movements were stiff, was probably the best attempt he could make at being comforting all things considered. He didn't let go until your sobbing had ceased and you tried to pull away from him.

"I'm sorry..." you murmured through lingering sniffles. "I'm a pathetic mess...and now you're all wet because of me..."

He tilted his skull and gave you the warmest smile you'd ever seen on him. "nah, it's fine," he insisted.

You still felt bad but didn't have the energy to argue further.

"here, do you want some help?" He motioned to your dripping wet hair and you immediately realized what he meant.

You shrugged, "I mean, sure? I can wring out my hair on my own though..."

He gently chided you before carefully pulling your hair to one side so he could wring the water out of it. You didn't bother protesting and he took great care not to pull your hair too much while doing so. He then wrapped a towel around your body to help dry you off a bit.

"do you want help changing too, cute thing?" he purred and leaned closer to your face.

Your face flushed a bright pink and you tried to shove him back. "No, please get out..."

He laughed and winked at you. He did leave without further comment though to your relief.

It was then that you realized that you had no dry clothes. There was no way you were going to try and make the walk of shame back to your bedroom in a towel either.

"Um, Killer...?" you called out nervously.

Apparently he hadn't gone far once he'd left the bathroom and he soon hummed in response.

"Would you mind...bringing me something from my closet that I can wear?"

"sure thing, angel~"

You didn't like the smarmy tone his voice had taken on but he was gone before your protests could reach his non-existent ears. The good thing was you didn't have many clothes that most would consider provocative. The bad thing was that you didn't trust Killer as far as you could throw him and he would totally try to find something revealing if he wanted to.

He returned a few minutes later and knocked lightly on the bathroom door. "here, i'll pass them through the door, okay?"

He didn't wait for a response before cracking the door open and sliding the leggings he'd gotten mended for you and an old crop top that you'd once used for exercising inside the room.

"No. You have got to be kidding me."

"oh, whoops, my bad." He then slid a knitted sweater you hadn't worn in ages inside as well. "almost forgot this~"

You took a deep breath to try and calm yourself down. It could've been far worse. Sure, he'd picked out form fitting clothes that you no longer enjoyed wearing, but it was better than being naked at least. You would tell him off later, once you were properly dressed anyways.

Unfortunately for you, Killer just had to make a comment about how cute you were as you walked past the living room. Man, he knew just how to get on your nerves! You were still grateful for his help today though.

Who knew that he actually had the capacity to be comforting, even when you were at your lowest point?

[avaritia-apotheosis]

Nomen Nescio | chapter 1

Out of all of his names, he’s always felt the most comfortable with Danny Fenton. -- Nomen nescio - used to signify an anonymous or unnamed person. Translated from lating, it means "I do not know the name." 5th Installment of the Hey Brother AU

A DPxDC crossover // Read on [AO3]

MASERLIST // Next Chapter → Out of all of his names, he’s always felt the most comfortable with Danny Fenton. It was his identity, who he was and how he viewed himself for a good few centuries. Regardless of how much he’s changed, he’d always believe himself to be Danny Fenton at his core. That the Fentons don’t exist in this universe also means that it’s a handy pseudonym for whenever he wants to remain under radar. Jack Fenton, Mattie Fenton, Jasmin Fenton; all identities he’s assumed in one way or another. Sometimes he’d even parade around as Sam Manson or Tucker Foley. 

(He contemplated going by Vlad Masters for a solid ten seconds before shuddering at the idea. He wanted to remain anonymous, not picked out for having such an obvious villain name.)

After Danny Fenton, he felt most at home with the name al Ghul. It was the name he was given in this life, lovingly chosen by his mother. If it were not for that single fact, he might have discarded himself of the name entirely.

Danyal al Ghul was everything Danny Fenton was not. The prodigal son. The Demon’s Heir. Pride of the League. An accomplished assassin, a proficient killer, the unseen shadow. The name alone cultivated a reputation of fear even without his interference (he blamed Ra’s for that). But it was a name that he’d grown up with. A name his mother chose. A name that gave him a brother. So even if he did not love the name, he still saw some part of himself in it. It was a version of himself he chose to be in this life, for better or for worse.

Wayne was the name that sat heavy and uncertain on his tongue. A name that he did not think of as his own, even when it was offered freely. The name evoked a legacy. Of pioneers, of architects, of doctors, of the forefathers of Gotham in all its smog and glory. Of hope, of justice, of the weak becoming strong to protect those who cannot do so themselves. It was the name of heroes.

And Danny—whether Fenton or al Ghul—was not a hero in this life. In the grand scheme of things, he was barely a hero in the last.

He could be a hero if he wanted to. He had the suit, the powers, and even the backstory. And he was certain worse people than him had turned over a new leaf and decided to pursue the path of righteousness. But the fact of the matter is that Danny didn’t want to.

He’s had that life already. And heroism just didn’t hold the same appeal it once did when he was fourteen and living in a different universe.

But just because he wasn’t a hero in this life, doesn’t mean he’d sit idly by when innocent people are in trouble in front of him.

Shades lowered, scarf firmly wrapped over his nose, and hood up, Danny ripped the emergency doors off the back of a school bus and ushered all the kids out. Just minutes later, a huge chunk of falling debris smashed onto the now empty bus.

Ah, Metropolis. Why did he wanna come here again?

Superman crashed onto the road, leaving a boulder-sized crater into the asphalt. He burst from the rubble unharmed, firing off his laser vision at the giant robot looming in the distance.

Right. It’s because he wanted to see aliens. 

Danny helped the bus driver usher the kids into some nearby safe zone, mostly by making sure there were no stragglers. He kept watch over the battle at the corner of his eye, but paid no mind after Superman bounded into the air, probably leading the robot away from them. 

One of the little kids—maybe a few years younger than Damian—tugged at his sweater. “You were so strong, mister! You just ripped the door right off!”

Danny couldn’t help the grin on his face. He ruffled the kid’s hair. “That’s cuz I eat all my vegetables.”

“Nuh uh! You’ve definitely got super powers or something. Ooh, or you’re an alien like Superman!”

“Cross my heart and hope to die, kid. I’m not an alien or anything.”

Danny scampers off before the rest of the kids start getting ideas. 

He follows the fight as best he could in between aiding in civilian duty, and taking advantage of the chaos to switch up his disguises. It was rare for him to cross paths with a hero when he worked for the League of Shadows, so he was curious at how effective they were in a fight. He’d sifted through the League’s databases when he was younger so he had a basic idea of who the current big names were and their power sets, but it was nothing like watching them battle in real life. 

Superman, surprisingly, kept his distance during the fight. He used his heat vision, cryo-breath, and even resorted to just chucking massive pieces of debris at the robot to keep his distance. Wonderwoman and Green Lantern seem to be doing a lot of the heavy hitting up close, and he thinks he’d seen the Flash zipping around somewhere. 

The robot probably had a heavy stock of kryptonite on it, which means Lex Luthor.

Damn rich people.

The robot fired off two large shells of its weapon. The projectiles flew at high-speeds towards Superman— before suddenly changing course and homing towards…Danny? 

Oh Lex Luthor that bitch. 

Before Danny could even raise his own shields, Superman comes barreling in front of Danny and zipped him away as the shell impacted the earth. Superman let out a low whistle. “Well, that was a close one.”

The rounded shell suddenly popped open, releasing a cloud of green gas. Seconds later, more canisters lodged themselves in the ground around them, covering the intersection in a thick cloud of green smoke. And as if fate didn’t hate Danny enough, a strong wind blew the gas over towards them.

Superman toppled to the ground, doubled-over as he breathed in the gas. Aerosolized kryptonite? How fun.

A couple streets over, Danny starts seeing a bunch of smaller robots roaming around and causing chaos in the streets, further dividing the heroes’ attention.

Danny sighed. “You just had to jinx it, didn’t you?” 

Superman looked at him like he just grew a second head— which hadn’t happened in centuries mind you. Learning how to clone yourself is hard no matter how easy Vlad makes it look. “You need to get out of here,” he shouted between coughs. “It’s dangerous!”

That he actually contemplates leaving Superman here as a hoard of giant spider-robots was enough of a reason to make Danny stay. Those thoughts were the devil talking. And by the devil, he meant Ra’s. “Trust me when I say that you’re probably at the safest place you can be.” Danny slams his palm onto the ground. “By the way, you don’t need air to breathe, right?

“I— well, no, but what are you—?”

A single purposeful tug at his ghostly energy creates a dome of bright green light around them. Those years of solitude gave him enough time to experiment the extent of his powers, both in his ghost form and outside it. One of the very cool things he learned with shields is that he could manipulate the energy and permeability of the ectoplasm in such a way that he could create his very own little vacuum chamber inside. Which meant that he could suck all of the airborne kryptonite out of Superman’s radius. 

There would still be some kryptonite in his system, but at least he won’t be inhaling more of it.

The only downside of all of this is that Danny did have to fortify his own human lungs to be able to keep breathing. He was still technically walking around as a human right now.

“What in the—”

“Oh! Looks like back-up is coming.”

In the distance, the distinct shape of the batwing soars overhead, sending rounds and rounds of ammunition at Luthor’s robot.  There’s an explosion at its front, sending off a chain reaction as both of the machine’s arms are blown off. 

He takes his phone out of his pocket and dials a series of numbers right out of his head. (His phones had a tendency to break, so saving numbers just became too much of a hassle every time he had to get a new one.)

 The call picks up on the second ring. 

 “Hey Bats! Your little superfriend over here got gassed with some kryptonite.” At the corner of his eye, Danny just sees Superman mouth what in the world under his breath. No swearing? Really? Huh, must be the boy scout in him. “He’s safe, but I’d rather you take him off my hand before he starts asking questions.”

(His sharp hearing picks up Superman’s mumbled “I don’t even know what questions to start asking.”)

There’s a brief moment of silence on the other line, before he eventually hears a strangled sigh and a raspy “Copy that, just stay there. Don’t move.”

Danny hangs up and pockets his phone. “Welp, better hang tight Supes, because your knight in shining…kevlar? (I think it’s kevlar) is coming to pick you up soon.” He steps out of the dome he’d created, picking up a fallen metal baseball bat from the ground.

“Wait— ok, putting aside the fact that you somehow have the Batman’s phone number, I am 100% sure he told you to stay put.”

“Yeah, well…” He twirls the bat in his hand, thinking back to that one mobile game he’s been enjoying. “Rules are made to be broken.”

He takes a swing at the nearest spider robot, hard enough to dent the titanium skull. 

***

Ten minutes and thirty-something smashed robots later, Danny flagged down the Justice League to pick up their wayward companion. 

Superman—who begrudgingly stayed put inside the ecto-shield because a) he couldn’t leave, b) even if he could the kryptonite gas just refused to disperse, and c) the League looked like they were wrapping things up soon anyway—breathed a sigh of relief as Flash created a vortex that cleared the air. 

“Thanks, Flash.” And then turning to Danny, he flashed those pretty pearly whites and put out his hand to shake. “And thank you, too, for all your help. Though I don’t think I managed to catch your name there, son.”

Son, son, son. There was a time when Danny was newly born into this world where he flinched at the word, too unused to being called anyone’s son after his parents passed away. 

(At the ripe old age of 92, passing within seconds of the other because Jack and Maddie had been attached at the hip ever since they fell in love. Much to Danny’s surprise, a whole symposium of scientists came to attend his parents’ funeral. He’d always pictured his parents as the weird and kooky scientists no one outside of Amity took seriously. Sure, they revolutionized the entire world’s view of science and the afterlife and essentially found a way to make interdimensional travel possible, but they were his parents.)

(Jack: his dad who drove recklessly but always somehow avoided getting his license revoked, who made a fudge so delicious it could be classified as a sin, and who never failed to be there for Danny whenever he was down.)

(Maddie: his mom who knew a thousand ways to break someone’s bones with just a paperclip, but couldn't cook a single unburned or irradiated meal to save her life, who nurtured Danny’s love of space and helped him build his first flight module.)

(He loves Talia, he really does. She’s his mother, but Maddie and Jack were his mom and dad. Like he was first and foremost Danny Fenton, he has, and always will be, their son.)

Danny doesn’t flinch at the word now. 

It’s one word, and it’ll hold about as much meaning as he lets it.

He kicks the head of his bat off the ground and swings it to rest at his shoulder. “It’s no problem,” he says, completely ignoring Superman’s angling for his own name. “I was getting bored of sightseeing anyway.”

“Sightseeing?” Flash let out a laugh. “You must be fun at parties if your solution to getting bored is smashing robots into bits. Seriously, though, I don’t think I’ve seen you before. New meta?”

Danny tilted his head to the side and shrugged, letting them interpret that answer however they wanted to. It was always fun seeing what people came up with to explain, well, him. 

“So this is your first time in Metropolis, then?” Superman asked, eyes narrowed. Not that Danny was thinking about it, wasn’t Superman’s day job a reporter or something? He could see the gears turning in the other’s mind, pulling out that proverbial red string on the corkboard to piece all his information together. “It’s…not exactly the best first impression of the city, but I’d like to welcome you anyway.”

Danny shook his hand firmly, but didn’t tap into his well of superhuman strength to make a point. “Well, might not be the best but it sure is the most exciting first impression I’ve had. It’s the first superhero fight I’ve seen this close, you know!” He didn’t know how much,if any, Superman already knew about him. And if he was being honest with himself, he didn’t really know whether he cared if Superman investigated him or not.

It could go either way. Dany wasn’t a threat to Superman, and there really isn’t anything that Superman has that Danny would go to great lengths to fight for. Bruce had already given his permission to see Damian whenever he wanted. And with Danny’s own…let’s say semi-calculated heart-to-heart, Bruce was unlikely to change his mind about Danny anytime soon.

He’s learned a lot about public personas since his debut days as Phantom. Bruce was a sentimental person to the core. The paradigm of Danny being some lost, wayward child that was hesitant, but willing, to someday join the family was a hope too alluring to discard so easily.

(Danny didn’t lie when he told Bruce he was bad at planning in advance. But just because Danny’s bad at long-term plans, it doesn’t mean that he can’t capitalize and build on an advantage when he sees one. Call it the al Ghul in him. The Wayne in him, even.)

“Really?” Superman pressed. “I would’ve thought you’d seen plenty in Gotham.” “A Gothamite?” Flash perked, face suddenly inches away from Danny’s to get a closer look. Danny barely resists the urge to pat his face to check if his disguise was still on. “So he’s one of B’s kids? Strange, I don’t recognize this one. Unless he got a new one— which, y’know, is kinda par for the course here. But really where does he keep finding all of these kids?”

“I don’t find them. They find me.”

Flash nearly jumps ten feet in the air at the sound of Batman’s voice coming from behind him. “Jesus christ, Bats! Where did you come from?” 

Danny raised an eyebrow and pointed to the Batwing that’s been hovering above the skyline a little ways away from them. “You seriously didn’t see the giant fighter jet over there?”

“Well clearly not!”

Batman turns to Superman, business as usual. “Are you alright? Any lingering effects?”

“Oh just some weakness but it’ll be gone in a jiff. I got a lot of help from your…friend? Friend, over here.”

Batman grunts, looking Danny up and down for any injuries. There were none, of course. “I didn’t expect you to be here.”

Danny set the bat down on the ground, leaning his weight against it. “Got bored. Got curious. You know how I am when I’m curious.”

“Does your mother know that you’re here?”

Danny’s eyes widened. “She told you?”

Talia specifically requested that Danny not be sent on any missions in or near cities claimed by heroes. Specifically heroes with a strong connection to the Justice League. More than likely it was to deter Batman from finding out their connection to each other until the time was right, but when it comes to Talia, one could hardly say. 

Batman raised a brow. “So does she?”

“Of course she does. She always knows where I am even when I don’t tell her. Probably had me microchipped or something, I don’t know.”

Superman and Flash sent very concerned looks towards them. Danny waved off their concerns with a laugh. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. She doesn’t do that.” 

At least, Danny hoped Talia didn’t do that. There was an unnervingly high likelihood that Talia would have placed a tracker on him at some point, but Danny would rather not think about the possibility. Ignorance is its own form of bliss after all. 

Flash cups a hand to the side of his mouth and whispers to Superman. “I really feel like we’re missing out on something over here.”

Batman grunts again. He inclines his head at Danny. “Would you care to introduce yourself?”

Which brings Danny back to the dilemma he’s had since his rebirth: what name to go by. That’s the problem with having too many names; they can be attached to various distinct and overlapping identities that it’s difficult to choose which one is the best to go by. 

It’s nice to know that Batman wouldn’t dispute him if Danny decided to give a fake name.

Wayne was an immediate no go. He could already see it now: the shock, the surprise, the curiosity, and next thing you know within twenty-four hours the whole Justice League is knocking at his door to learn more about Batman’s new kid. Even if the sound of Danny Wayne didn’t make him uneasy, he still wouldn’t go for it. Yeah, no thanks.

Al Ghul would probably be closer to the truth, but it was a dangerous option to make. The League of Shadows were still a formidable group with a lot of enemies from both sides of the moral spectrum, and Danyal al Ghul had a reputation that would mark him as an enemy on sight, Bat or no Bat.

Which left Fenton as the safest option. It was an unknown name with no added complications. Hell, he didn’t even have to go by Danny if he still wanted some anonymity.

But…

It was one thing to use the name with strangers he’d never see again. Giving that name to people that were connected to him to some degree felt…exposing. He’s never even shared that name with Damian, and he’s closest to Damian out of anyone. 

Which left one option. 

Just fucking with them.

Danny gives an exaggerated bow. “The name’s Nathaniel Edward Mortimer Olysseus, at your service.” He winks. “Well, not for much longer now, anyway.” 

And then he drops a smoke bomb, leaving behind a confused Flash, and an equally amused Batman and Superman.

***

OMAKE:

It’s later on when The Flash is recounting the story to Wonder Woman—and by the small chuckle she gave at the name—did Flash realize the mystery man’s trick.

“Olysseus is one of the many variations of the Greek hero Odysseus,” Diana explained. 

Nathaniel Edward Mortimer Olysseus.

N.E.M.O.

Nobody.

Flash buried his face in his hands. “Can’t believe I fell for that. Should’ve known he wouldn’t say his actual name.”

Superman shrugged. “What can you expect? He’s a Bat.”

[flowers-for-the-grave]

Siren Song

The Mean Gills were thriving. Martyn focussed on building his hourglass whilst Scott had built them a house. And now that it was done, and Scott was out gathering materials, he took the time to get used to the storage system. It was odd, to say the least. He couldn't make sense of it. Although he did have to admit that the chests were at least somewhat organised. Martyn would never admit that it took him a solid ten minutes to get used to the storage system. In hindsight that didn't seem like a long time, but since everyone had twenty-four hours to live, it was kind of humiliating. It was like having fifty days to live and spending one of them trying to make sense of something simple.

He'd just put some stuff away when he heard it. In the distance, a tad bit muffled, he could hear something. Singing?

"Drown me underwater, watch as I flounder~" the song was low and quiet, but it's hypnotic melody caused Martyn to drop the wood he'd been holding. Curiosity held him in a vice-like grip and it refused to let go. "I'll gasp for air, for your touch, for your lips and your hair~," The song continued, slowly building in volume. The voice singing was clearly used to it, as each note was perfect and rich.

"H-hello? Anyone there?" Martyn called out. Nothing. No response. But the song kept playing upon his ears and his ears alone.

"As you pull me up and kiss me, water fills my lungs, is this something you'd miss?" The voice was closer now. Or maybe Martyn had subconsciously gotten closer to it. But he felt compelled to find the source. He barely even noticed as he gradually lost land to tread on and began to dip his feet into the water...

"Who's there?" He asked aloud. But before he could hear an answer, Martyn realised that he'd fallen into the water. The warm water was comforting. It warmed his bones and enveloped him in its embrace. He didn't want to leave. Even though his clothes were soaked and he'd lost his sandals despite not having moved, even though the water was filling his lungs-

"And when you release me and hold me down, the water floods my body, flowing down, down, down~," He was closer now. Martyn ignored the rational part of his mind telling him to swim back up and abandon his quest. But he was determined. And that voice was far too tantalising to ignore. "Down into my lungs and I forget how to breathe, but I see your smiling face and I forget how to leave, you keep me here~" And so he swam. Martyn swam down further and further. He was close to the coral. In fact, he was just skimming the sand at the seabed. Still no sign of the voice.

Actually, maybe he was wrong. Martyn saw a faint silhouette of someone not too far from him. He swam towards them. His movements were sluggish, and more and more water filled his lungs. If he didn't resurface he would die soon.

But he made it. Somehow Martyn had managed to reach them. A figure with a human body, but fins on their arms and legs and one ginormous one on their back, along with webbed fingers and toes and gills in their neck. The mop of cyan hair was familiar. So were the patches of colourful coral that clung to their skin. The jacket that had been torn and was loosely tied around their waist. Shimmering teal scales decorated the merfolk's body. They glinted like gemstones in the warped light illuminating the sea. The figure continued to sing, and slowly Martyn began to recognise more and more things. The way they sang sounded familiar. So were the figure's gestures. And when they turned around, Martyn recognised them in an instant.

"Scott?" His own voice was garbled, and water flooded in through his mouth. but he couldn't help but ask. Martyn suddenly felt light-headed. The lack of oxygen was finally catching up to him.

---

Martyn woke up later. He was in his bed with Scott kneeling down besides him, fretting over his still but newly conscious body.

"Damnit, damnit, damnit! Goddamnit, Scott, why did you do that? If you hadn't opened your stupid mouth to sing then he'd be fine!" Scott cursed himself. Martyn groaned, and Scott's attention snapped over to him in an instant. "Martyn! Are you okay? Can you breathe? Oh my god I'm so happy you're alright-" Scott cut himself off by tightly hugging Martyn.

"Whoa, whoa, sl-slow down. G-gimme a sec..." Martyn sat up and rubbed the side of his head. Scott had put on some clothes, but now that he'd seen the gills and the fins, Martyn couldn't un-see it.

"I'm so sorry about that. It was dumb and I should've thought and-"

"Calm down, Scott. It's fine," He grunted mildly in pain and coughed. Water flew out and splattered onto his clothes. "Wh-when were you gonna tell me you were a..." He struggled to find the right word.

"Siren? Merfolk? I was going to tell you later today, but I guess you beat me to it. A-and I am really sorry about this."

"Don't worry. And besides," He paused and locked eyes with Scott, taking on a grin. "You have a nice voice. And the fins really suit you."

"O-oh." Scott's face was bright red with embarrassment. "And I'll warn you if I sing again. I don't want you trying to drown yourself a second time around."

"Sounds good to me."

[hopeflowr]

Sorry, I love you . Changlix Fanfic

Felix's life goal is to take on his father's farm and make sure his sisters marry well. He has no intention of marriage anytime soon and is very well keen on the idea of looking after horses and reading books for the rest of his days. However, by chance, he runs into a man who has yet to change his mind, and with him, a few life-changing discoveries.

Heavily inspired by Jane Austen's Sanditon.

Calloused hands prove hard work. Felix's father was always persistent with those words. He used it as a tool to persuade him to work harder. A fine grip spoke more than any words from his mouth. The more solid and gruff, the more respect you gained from the men around you and the more reliable you seemed to the young ladies looking for a secure husband.

Although, Felix never cared much for ladies. If you were to ask him about his interests he'd simply tell you three things. He wished to make his father proud, he hoped to look after his sisters until they were in safe hands, and he loved nothing more than to read. Oh, what a delight the fantasy of a romance was on pages.

Not so much in real life, as he had yet to fall in love with someone. His mother continued to push the idea of marriage on him. She wasn't nonsensical with her ideas. To help support the farm he should find a girl with money to her name and offer her sisters an in-law they could confide in. He, however, refused to do so.

He only had one argument. Not until he fell in love. He wanted that heartbreaking, reckless, absurd love that drove a man mad. He wanted to run in a field of lavender with the bees and rabbits, hand clutched tightly around another's as he pulled them along through hues of blooming purples. He didn't care if they never spoke again in the end. If life tore them apart and she was forced to marry another, he would accept it after fighting for as long as possible.

Before Felix settled for a woman he may never be able to worship, he wanted the choice of real love. Even if it lasted a brief summer, he yearned for it. The idea was insanity at best. His mother would fall into an early grave if she ever heard him speak of such things. His father could care less as long as he worked hard. Still, he kept his dreams a secret and tended the farm. So long as he harvested the wheat and herded the sheep he was worthy of praise and exempt from his father's outlashes.

"Felix, won't you put the book down for goodness sake?" his mother implored.

The brunet with a face of clustered dots peered up from the tan pages of his leatherback book. "Ma I've only got ten pages left," he told her, flipping to the next as his eyes flicked back down to finish off the sentence she'd disrupted.

"Felix, listen to your mother. It's breakfast," his father, a rustic old man with growing gray stubble, said.

Felix's shoulders faltered in posture and his tanned hands pressed the back and front toward each other. The words of a hopeless romantic journey closed themselves off from the world he lived and he was subjected to a conversation he'd been avoiding since the day he turned twenty-one. "There's a new lady down near the town square. Arabella, I believe."

"Arabella Giles," Felix spewed as he reached for one of the biscuits his mother was setting down on the dining table. She smacked his hand lightly and he pulled back with a pout. "I have no interest in Miss Giles, Ma."

"Do you hear this Jeffery?"

Felix's father sat himself down and pulled his youngest daughter onto his lap. "Leave the boy alone. He's just come of age. He should enjoy himself as long as possible before getting tied down. The farm needs him without distractions."

"The men in this household, I swear," his mother chided. She and Felix's elder sister, Rachael, finished fixing their breakfast before taking a seat. They held their hands for a quick prayer. One Felix told with a deep voice. Then they began their meal, quiet on the men's side. Felix preferred listening to his sisters.

"Actually, Mama," Rachael spoke. "Papa," she added. The table gave their attention to her. Felix admired her rosy cheeks and the freckles that fled across them like stars. His were far more blotched around his face unlike hers. Men looked much less appealing with freckles. He'd always thought so.

"Go on. I hope for good news." Felix held back a roll of his eyes at his mother's tone.

"Well," Rachael started. She rose her hand above the table and outstretched it for the family to see. A beautiful blue gem sat atop a silver band. Felix's heart melted at the sight. "I've accepted Mister Campbell's hand in marriage."

That man had been after his sister for at least five months. His mother's persistence was no match for him. They'd all seen it coming. He was rich, good-looking, and an earnest gentleman. It was only a matter of time before his sister gave into his charms and accepted. "Oh, my dear child!"

Felix sent his sister a grin as their mother grasped the hand she wore a ring on. "We'll be betrothed by the end of the week if you'll allow. He hopes to discuss the future of the farm with Papa, 'swell."

That couldn't be good. Not for Felix anyway. He stuffed a biscuit in his mouth and slipped away to the stables. His sister would find him after their mother squeezed every last bit of information out of her, and indeed she did. Not even an hour later she found herself leaning against the stables foundation, watching her younger brother clean the hooves of their stallions.

"Ma sounds ecstatic," Felix told her as he stood, dusting his hands off on his breeches.

"You expected anything but?" Rachael teased.

Felix wiped his wrist across his face with a light laugh. "No, I suppose not," he replied. He turned toward his sister. "You are lurking. Do you have something you wish to discuss?"

"John wants to take over the farm and become a distributor for parts of London. He's made a lot of plans."

Felix released a sigh. "Yes, I presumed he had other visions for this place after winning your hand," he muttered.

"Please tell me you aren't angry with me dear brother," she pleaded. She took up his hands with a weak gaze.

Felix shook his head and gave her hand a light squeeze. "Not at all. I just hope you aren't doing this so I have nothing to worry about." It was a great pleasure to own land. Felix's only worth was the farm. If his father sold it, he'd have to find other ways to make a living. Not that he minded. It would simply be a difficult task as he had no education other than what he was taught at home.

He'd take up a hard labor job with a very low wage if worst came to worst. "Do you love him?" Felix queried.

Rachael's smile grew giddy and she nodded in a shy manner. "I do. More than Papa loves the farm. More than you love your books."

"Don't be foolish. You may be able to get past my books but don't think anyone could love anything more than our father loves his herd," Felix protested with a laugh. Rachael nodded with a giggle of her own. "Oh, Rachael. He better treat you like an angel."

"He will. I just know so, Felix." Her voice sounded so whimsical. "I confess, I am entirely smitten."

Felix pulled his sister into a hug. "Yes. It seems so."

"Rachael, your father is ready to take you to Mister Campbell," their mother called from the back door.

Rachael gave an exhausted whisper of goodbye and parted from her younger brother. He could only watch her leave with a forming frown. He detested the jealousy in his heart. To be in love was his only wish. Even for a split second. He shook the thought off and brushed his hand against his horse's soft pink nose. "Oh, to be a lady, Charming," he told the stallion.

The Irish cob with fluff at his feet and speckled black dots around his coat mimicked his owner with a shake of his tangled blonde mane. He nickered at the man. Felix smiled in return. Charming was his pet. He'd raised him from a young foal three years prior. He did not work like the others in the stable. He was for leisurely rides and companionship. Felix's best friend.

He'd named him Charming because for some reason the men with blonde hair were the most preferable in the world. Women fell to the feet of a man with golden locks. Perhaps they thought it expressed riches and good fortune. Felix himself liked black hair. It was pretty and unique. Even more so than the favored blonde.

"How about we finish those pages Ma disrupted us from, aye, Charming?"

The horse whinnied and Felix moved to grab his saddle and reins. They were dark blue. He'd gotten them as a gift from his mother for his last birthday. She said a well-dressed horse caught the eyes of a good country lady. If one good thing came of Rachael's wedding it would be the distraction. Felix wouldn't hear about a lady he should chase for at least a month.

He leaned backward on Charming's back as they set out on the road in the opposite direction of the town. He closed his eyes and let the sun bathe him. Charming was a well-tamed horse. The only time he was remotely rambunctious beyond control was when he was startled by the coyotes and wolves. Other than that, he could easily pass by a snake without worry. He was undisturbed by most of the dangers in life. A lot like Felix himself.

His only nightmare was to be locked down without a chance at experience. He feared nothing. The opportunity was lacking in his area, but given the chance for an adventure, he'd take it up in a heartbeat. It was an outlandish thought. He was nothing but a farmer's boy. They didn't get to think about lavish balls and carriage rides with the love of their lives. They had to settle with the best they could find and make use of it.

Felix was far too stubborn to be a farmer's son. His mother knew it. It's why she pestered him so. "Charming, I fear my time as a single soul is in jeopardy," he murmured.

He opened his eyes and examined the shapes of the clouds above. Olivia, his youngest sister, always enjoyed finding animals and flowers in the sky. Sometimes she made stories out of them. Felix had spent so much time telling her tales he'd made up. Even looking at them then he was creating one he could console himself with. That is until he heard something.

He pushed himself up from Charming's back and searched the area around them. A neigh and shuffling hooves across the dirt path they were riding secured his worries. He had heard a loud yell. Felix squeezed Charming's sides with his heels and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. The stallion shifted from a walk to a trot and then a canter. Together they breezed past the shaking grasses. Up ahead was a man on the road, his arm cradled by the other.

Felix pulled on his reins when he was close enough to see the face of the man. Dark brown hair set in curls beneath a black top hat. His gray vest looked to be made of very fine fabric, although the soil he had found himself on top of dirtied it and ruined the man's astute presentation. Felix climbed off of his horse and frantically made his way over. He dropped to his knees to get a closer view of the man's predicament.

"Are you alright, Sir?"

"My damned horse took off after bucking me," the stranger chortled. A gleeful grin spread across his face as their eyes met. "Nothing but a scratch, my dear boy."

Felix gave him a skeptical smile in return. From the looks of it, the man's wrist had swelled. "My house is nearby. Have my Ma take a look just in case. You may have twisted it, Sir."

"Yes," the man muttered. He looked at his wrist. "Yes, very well then."

Felix helped him up and onto the saddle, then climbed on himself. They rode back to the farm which he hadn't strayed too far from. Of course, his mother and sister immediately tended to the man's wound. They offered cold clothes, herbal medicines to lessen the pain, and even food to the man. Felix had gone to search for his horse and by the time he got back, Rachael and his father had too.

"How do you find yourself in Norbury, Mister Bang?"

Felix set down a glass of water for the man. After nursing the stranger, they'd told him to stay for dinner and rest over the night before leaving. "I find I have gotten turned around. You see, I was on a trip to Balens to discuss business with a friend. After my departure, I suppose my navigation skills failed me in putting me on the right track home."

"Where would that be?" Felix's mother asked.

"Wolford, Ma'am. I'm the Mayor, you see."

Wolford. Felix hadn't ever heard of such a place. Granted, the only place he did know of was London and the surrounding important areas. "What's it like there, Mister Bang?" Olivia questioned enthusiastically.

"Oh, it's a magnificent place, dear. Full of receptions and festivities. A very humble and homey town if I do say so. The wealthy come to see the sea and find a comforting place to settle for a few months to get away from the bustling crowds of the cities."

It sounded lovely. Felix unconsciously leaned forward. "The population may be small now, but I dare say it will grow with time. Although, our goal is not in number but in heart. To spread love and acceptance for all kindred souls."

"What a brilliant place it must be," Rachael gushed with linked hands pressed to her chin.

"You must come someday," Mister Bang said. His eyes moved to Felix. "No, I insist you come. I owe a great deal to you."

"It was no trouble at all," their mother said.

Felix watched the mayor glance at his eldest sister. "I positively won't take no for an answer. You must come."

Rachael gave him a kind smile. "I apologize but I am to be wed by the end of the week. I have no intention of going off for quite some time," she informed gently.

Olivia was too young to go and Felix had to stay and help on the farm. There was no one else he could take. "Although, I think Felix would adore the adventure."

Felix's eyes widened. "Yes! The hero of the day. You must come back with me."

"I can't. I've—"

"Hogwash. Go on and visit. Maybe you'll bring yourself a wife back," his mother insisted.

His father nodded, chipping in with the fact that Rachael's husband-to-be was sending over help and the farm would be in good hands. Felix's eyes sparkled. "Well, if you'll have me," he whispered.

Mister Bang's smile widened incredibly and they began to plan the journey over the rest of their meal. Afterward, they all went to bed. All but Rachael and Felix, that is. He wasn't sure he could do it. Wolford was farther than he'd ever been from home. Not to mention Rachael's wedding.

"I should be here. This only happens once."

"I'll have enough sobbing men pampering me at my wedding. Go. This is the chance you've been dreaming of. You may never get an opportunity like this again," she reasoned. Felix looked at his feet. He wanted to go. "Family means a great deal to you, I know. You'll only be gone for no more than three months. And I'll write every moment I can."

His gaze lifted from the wooden floorboards and into his sister's big brown eyes. "Forgive me for being selfish."

Rachael smiled. "I pray you have the adventure of a lifetime."

[antilocaprine]

Since your last prompt made me sad. For the kissing prompt: 41, because the world is saved.

(Kiss Prompt List)

I will admit this one got completely away from me - it absolutely does not need to be as long as it is, but here we are. Also it definitely starts out very angsty, but it does get better. Please mind the tags. Also check out the full collection on AO3 as I add more of these to compile them in one place.

41: ...because the world is saved.

The car wasn’t even going that fast, and that was the dumb part. Benrey should have had plenty of time - but he panicked. 

He never used to panic, not before the resonance cascade and fighting through a collapsing facility and Xen and dying over and over again. It was run-of-the-mill at the time. Get up, aggravate someone for fun, wander around, drink soda, die, heal, get up again. Normal Tuesday things. 

But then he dragged his battered body up out of the murky goop in the Xen cavern to find himself alone and realized he was tired. And he missed the weird group of humans and human-adjacent people he’d been hanging out with. He wasn’t used to missing anyone or anything, so it was a novel experience, and he decided to chase the feeling - which led him to the most cliche suburban house on the outskirts of a New Mexico city and a very frazzled-looking Gordon who opened the door to a background of screaming, stared blankly at Benrey, said “Oh good, you’re back,” and handed him a shrieking armful of toddler.

So Benrey met Joshua, and found out Gordon had no hard feelings, and things had been…well, nice since then.

But not today. Today, they were in the city for some movie that Benrey could barely remember because he’d spent most of it in a poking war with Joshua to keep him entertained. The kid must have gotten the gist of it, though, because he was running ahead and then back on the sidewalk, yelling about superheroes and explosions in the deepening dusk. Gordon strolled along behind him and Benrey slouched beside Gordon, licking at the ice cream residue that was drying in a line down his wrist.

“Dude, just get a napkin,” Gordon said.

“nuh, this is, uh, seconds,” Benrey explained. “it’s…i’m saving it for later.”

Gordon eyed his arm. “You’re licking it now.”

“yeah? now’s later, from the ice cream, b’cause we had it, uhh, a while ago.”

“It’s been ten minutes. Joshua still has his co- JOSH!”

Benrey jolted from the force of terror in Gordon’s sudden shout, and he looked up to see Gordon lunging for the sidewalk’s edge, where Joshua had just stepped into the street, eyes fixed on something colorful on the center line.

The world slowed down. Benrey’s ear flicked as tires rushed over asphalt up the lane - a car was coming. It wasn’t late enough in the evening for everyone to have their headlights on, but it was dark enough that they should. However, there was no play of light across the street. This car’s headlights were off.

Joshua’s heel connected with the edge of a pothole and he started to stumble. Gordon was running, leaning forward - he was going to be horizontal in a moment, and he also wasn’t going to be able to reach Joshua in time. Benrey could tell that like he could tell the flavor of ice cream he’d been eating. He knew.

It was an easy enough decision to make. Benrey wasn’t human - he could move faster, jump higher, phase in and out of solid objects. This was a problem with a simple solution.

To an outside observer, it probably looked like Benrey flickered as he moved from the sidewalk to the street, scooping Joshua up in the middle of the lane and turning to bring him back. The car was still feet away, and it wasn’t even going that fast -

But they were on a corner, and now there was a truck coming around the curve, accelerating as it drifted over the center line, and Benrey wasn’t expecting that, he wasn’t ready for it, and Gordon was still advancing - if he kept coming he’d be hit by the car, and Benrey and Joshua would both be hit by the truck, and - and -

Benrey panicked, and threw the kid.

Joshua sailed through the air and collided with Gordon, who slammed to a halt and started to go over backward as he fumbled to catch his child. The truck clipped Benrey’s shoulder and sent him spinning right into the path of the car, which promptly ran him over.

Tires screeched, people screamed, and Benrey looked up at what was probably an axle - and then something heavy rolled onto his head and he didn’t see anything at all.

* * *

Benrey woke up in the dark. It was cold, but not frigid. He was laying on his back, and all his parts felt like they were attached. On the whole, he’d woken up in worse places.

Then he tried to sit up, and immediately slammed his head on a hard surface approximately six inches in front of his face. 

“owww,” he whined, and his voice echoed off metal walls in every direction. Wherever Benrey was, it was cramped and closed-in and solid stainless steel.

He’d still woken up in worse places.

It took him a few minutes, but eventually he was able to clip through the metal and into the closest open space. Benrey found himself in a dim room furnished with stainless steel tables, drains on the epoxy floor, a splashguard around the edge of the room, and a whole wall of three-foot-by-two-foot drawers, one of which he had just clipped out of.

Benrey stood up and tugged on the door next to his. It slid open to reveal an elderly woman who was clearly dead.

“gross,” Benrey said, and closed the drawer with a clang.

Something clattered outside. Benrey frowned and walked over to peer through the window on the swinging door. A very young man was sitting at a desk in the hall, a lunchbox open next to his elbow and his mouth full of what looked like chicken salad sandwich. He stared at Benrey, who waved at him through the little square window.

When he didn’t move, Benrey pushed the door open. The guy’s eyes dropped, then sprang back up to Benrey’s face and he made a choking sound. The ID badge clipped onto his shirt had a big line of colored text along the bottom that read “INTERN.”

Benrey glanced down as well and frowned. “oh, yo, what? why’m’i naked?”

The intern wheezed, his face turning an alarming shade of red.

“d’you know where my clothes are?” Benrey asked him.

Still coughing, the intern raised a shaking hand and pointed back into the room, to the wall opposite the one Benrey had climbed out of. The drawers on that wall were much smaller, with precise labels on them. Benrey walked over and ran his finger down the rows until it stuttered over a drawer marked “Freeman.” He yanked it open fast enough that it dropped off the rails, and he struggled to push it back in for a moment before abandoning it as a lost cause. 

In the space inside, there were several bagged items. Benrey pulled them out one by one - his blood-soaked pants, his blood-soaked shirt, his blood-soaked hoodie. Well. Technically it was Gordon’s blood-soaked hoodie, but Benrey wore it better. Underwear, shoes - oh, hey, wallet, that’s nice. The cell phone had blood on it, but he wasn’t sure if that would count as water damage or not. It was scuffed and cracked, but the screen powered on when he pushed the power button. Score. But the clothes were unsalvageable.

He padded back across the floor and pushed the door open a little again. The intern froze with the desk phone up to his ear and his finger hovering over the keypad.

“bro, d’you - you didn’t wash my stuff? that’s not good service, man. zero stars.”

The intern made a slightly hysterical noise, then clapped his free hand over his mouth. Benrey frowned at him, then glanced over his shoulder. He supposed he could just take someone else’s clothes. It wasn’t like they were going to use them. But that felt like it would make Gordon yell at him, and not in a good way. Not the fun kind of yelling, with a smile hidden in it.

“you got more of those?”

The intern swallowed and rasped, “There’s…spare scrubs in the changing room?”

Benrey raised his eyebrows. The intern pointed to another door next to the one Benrey was looking out of. It was smaller, and the room on the other side was dark.

“But - after you do that, you have to sit down and wait for a doctor, okay?”

“whuh?” Benrey let the door to the hall swing closed and opened the changing room door.

“Sir, you - you need to wait for a doctor after you get dressed! You should be evaluated for -”

“myuh, sure,” Benrey muttered, flicking coathangers. He pulled on a loose pair of plain blue scrubs, and found some soft shoe covers that could work as shoes in a pinch. He wiggled his toes against the grippy rubber and snorted.

“Sir?” The intern sounded like he’d opened the hall door. “Sir, do you need help?”

“nope,” Benrey replied, thumbing through his phone’s contacts. Gordon’s phone went straight to voicemail. He called the home phone, and it rang until the answering machine picked up. Benrey hung up and stared blankly at the wall.

He was pretty sure that Gordon and Joshua had been out of the way of the car, but then again, he had thought he was out of the way of the car. And yeah, okay, he would have been if it weren’t for the truck, but he should have noticed that earlier. Could he have missed another hazard? Possibly.

Fuck.

Benrey called Tommy.

Tommy answered on the second ring without a greeting. “Are you back? Where are you?” 

“uh.” Benrey looked around. “morgue?”

Tommy swore viciously in a language Benrey didn’t recognize. “You gotta - you have to get to the hospital. The one on - with the - the bird statue, it’s, um -”

“i know where it is,” Benrey interrupted. Tommy was bad with locations when he was under pressure, and the tense tremor to his voice suggested that was the case. “dunno where i am, but i’ll, uh…find out, i guess.” He swallowed, and forced himself to continue. “is…Gordon…”

“Gordon’s fine - well.” Tommy paused, and there were voices in the background mixed with a tinny announcement. He was on some kind of public transport - a bus or train or something. “It’s, um. It’s Joshua. He hit his head and, um.”

An icy hole yawned open in Benrey’s chest. “is he…?”

“Oh! No, he’s, he’s alive, but it’s - he’s hurt,” Tommy stuttered. “You should - you might be able to, um -”

“yeah,” Benrey said, eyeing the winged logo on the bulk scrubs. “i’ll find them.”

He ended the call and closed his eyes, focusing. The morgue was underground, but the logo on the scrubs suggested he was in the right hospital, which made sense. He couldn’t hear Gordon or Joshua, so he’d have to go looking for them. And that meant he didn’t have time to wait around and talk to any doctors about his “miraculous recovery.”

“Sir?” The intern tapped on the hall door. Benrey pocketed his phone and clipped through the wall.

Being in scrubs in a hospital was actually super useful. Benrey kept his head down and kept moving, listening in each wing for familiar voices, and no one bothered him, even when he ended up in an area of the hospital where no one was in scrubs the same shade of blue he was wearing. 

After a few more minutes of aimless wandering, he remembered some snippet from a TV show about how hospitals were grouped by age - so all he had to do was find the kid’s section, and he’d find Joshua. He listened for children, and almost immediately heard little voices on another floor in the wing across an open quad, green lawns criss-crossed by concrete paths and studded with fountains. Benrey padded through the open area, ducking under the shadow of the colossal bird statue on the roof, and slipped through the door behind someone in a white lab coat. He was used to following white lab coats. Being in a hospital was surprisingly homey.

Once he got up to the right floor, Benrey tilted his head to listen again. Immediately he zeroed in on a familiar voice, speaking with a very unfamiliar edge of desperation.

“Well then, what DO you know? Because it sounds to me like you don’t know ANYTHING right now!”

“Sir,” a calmer voice replied, as Benrey trotted down a hall full of single-occupant rooms with lots of beeping machinery. “We’re hoping to avoid surgery, but he needs time for the swelling to go down. The medically-induced coma is necessary for that. I understand that it’s frustrating to wait, but right now, that’s all we can do.”

Benrey rounded the corner and saw Gordon with his back to the corridor wall, glaring down at a diminutive dark-haired woman who was giving him a sympathetically no-nonsense look. Benrey idly noted that Gordon was a fucking mess - his clothes were disheveled with dirt and possibly blood, one knee of his pants was torn, his hair was coming out of its tie, his hand was bandaged, and his prosthetic had a bright silver line where the coating had been scraped off. 

“If you can’t keep a calm environment for your son,” the doctor said, “you’re going to have to leave the room and wait in the common area for news.”

“No,” Gordon exclaimed, then visibly tempered himself, blinking reddened eyes. “No, I can - I’ll be quiet. I’m sorry. I just -” He squeezed his eyes closed, and his shoulders shuddered for a moment before he took a shaky inhale. The doctor placed a hand on his arm and squeezed.

“We’re doing everything we can,” she said. “The best thing to do right now is wait.”

Gordon’s head was still down, but he nodded. Behind the doctor, Benrey slipped into the room and set his back to the wall, hoping the doctor wasn’t planning to come back inside.

“If you need anything, go to the nurse’s station or hit the call button,” the doctor said, and Benrey huffed out a relieved breath as her footsteps receded. He didn’t look at the bed yet. He didn’t want to see. Gordon was coming back inside, anyway.

Benrey reached out and tugged Gordon away from the door, clapping a hand over his mouth. Gordon jolted, his bloodshot eyes going wide for a moment before they focused on Benrey, and then Gordon crumpled.

“oof,” Benrey huffed, and set his feet to support the sudden influx of weight as Gordon collapsed onto him, his arms coming up around Benrey and squeezing so tightly that he squeaked.

“You motherfucker,” Gordon gasped, his voice ragged and shaking. “You stupid motherfucker.”

“hey,” Benrey said mildly, rubbing a hand up and down Gordon’s back. 

“You fucking -” Gordon pulled back and straightened up, reaching up with one hand to pull his glasses off and scrub the back of his hands across his wet cheeks. Benrey cleared his throat uncomfortably. Gordon’s prosthetic tightened on Benrey’s arm, like he was afraid Benrey would disappear if he let go.

“are you…okay?”

Gordon gasped out a weak cough of laughter, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut. His lips were pulled back in a grimace. “Fuck,” he whispered, then shoved his glasses back on and looked down at Benrey. “I’m - it’s better, now that you’re back,” he said.

Benrey reeled. “uh.”

“Took you a while,” Gordon told him. Benrey looked around for a clock, then realized that wouldn’t help. He pulled his phone out and Gordon made a pained sound at the bloodstains and cracks.

“oh dang,” Benrey said. Almost two days had passed. “was i - did you not change?”

“My kid is in the hospital and you were - “ Gordon swallowed. “Of fucking course I didn’t change. That would - I’d have to leave, and what if -” He cut himself off and pressed his lips tightly together.

And, well, it was probably time. Benrey turned his head and looked at the bed.

It was both better and worse than he’d expected. Better in that Joshua didn’t look scuffed up at all - he was clean, with no trace of blood and only minimal bruising on one cheek. But then Benrey looked at the the machines hooked up to his little arms, the plastic array over his lower face with a tube going down his throat, the hiss and puff of a ventilator pushing air into his lungs -

Benrey ducked his head into Gordon’s chest and breathed. Gordon’s arms came up around him again, and this time Gordon was the one patting Benrey’s back.

“I know,” Gordon rasped. “It looks - bad.”

“what’s - wrong with him?”

“Brain swelling,” Gordon said. “He - we both fell, and I couldn’t - I didn’t -”

“s’not your fault,” Benrey said, knowing that as much as he knew anything. “i, uh. i kinda. panicked. shouldn’t have -”

“If it’s not my fault, it’s not your fault.” Gordon’s voice was firm for the first time. 

Benrey chuckled weakly. “yeah, okay.” He pulled himself away from Gordon and tangled their hands together, dragging him closer to Joshua’s bedside.

“They’re hoping the swelling will go down on its own,” Gordon said, reaching out to push a curl out of Joshua’s face. “They say they don’t - they’d rather not do surgery.”

Benrey hummed and reached out, letting his hand hover over Joshua’s chest, rising and falling with slow regularity as the machines hissed. He moved his hand up to Joshua’s head and let his palm settle gently against the wild mess of curls. There at last he found evidence of their close scrape - there were particles of dirt in Joshua’s hair. 

“can i try something?” Benrey asked, not making eye contact with Gordon. He wasn’t sure it would work, but Tommy was the one who had suggested it, so it might. He’d done similar-enough things before, though always for more obvious injuries like cuts or bullet holes. He wasn’t sure it would work with something like a brain bleed.

Gordon’s grip tightened on Benrey’s hand again. “Will it hurt him?”

Benrey shook his head sharply. “nah, it’ll just…work, or, uh. not.”

“Then sure, I guess.” Gordon sighed. “As long as it won’t make things worse.”

Benrey gave a tight nod, and then stood still, working his jaw. He had to concentrate, fix up an extra-strong dose. If this didn’t work, he didn’t know what he was going to do. Worse, he didn’t know what Gordon would do.

Finally, he took in a deep breath, then leaned over Joshua and tugged the edge of the tube over, opening Joshie’s mouth just enough to sing a burst of brilliantly vibrant teal green sweet voice down his throat. He kept the tone going until he became almost light-headed - he didn’t need to breathe all the time, but he’d gotten used to it, and pushing out that much energy at once was a lot when he was still rebuilding his own body. Benrey ended up sagging against Gordon’s side, letting Gordon take his weight and bring a hand up to steady him as he gasped and watched the monitors. 

Something chirped, and the small screen connected to the electrodes on Joshua’s temples flashed green. Gordon made a broken sound and squeezed Benrey tighter against his side.

“Mr. Freeman?” Benrey flinched at the voice from the doorway. Gordon shifted to look over his shoulder and said something over Benrey’s head that he missed. Joshua’s eyelids had just fluttered.

The nurse stepped into Benrey’s field of view, busily checking the readings on the machines and making sure all the tubes and electrodes were connected. When she looked up at Gordon, she was smiling.

“This is a very good sign. Mr. Freeman. It looks like the intracranial pressure is dropping, which means the swelling is going down. Let me go call the doctor and we’ll see what our next steps are. But between you and me, I think we might be able to wake him up before the end of the day.” She patted the bed and gave Benrey an odd look before she left the room.

“did it…worked?” Benrey asked blearily. He may have used a bit more energy than was advisable so soon after waking up. He felt the bones of his hands trying to poke through, and pushed them back. His ribs emerged from his torso as a result, but that was fine - it was under the scrub top, so no one could see.

Gordon’s voice was choked when he replied. “Yeah, buddy - I think it did. Are you -”

Benrey’s knees buckled as he abruptly lost the connective tissue of his legs, and Gordon scooped him tighter against his side.

“What are you - no, no - hang on, what’s happening?” His hands worked to gather Benrey up and deposit him in the uncomfortable chair next to Joshua’s bed. Benrey felt a little floaty, which might have been the fact that Gordon had just picked him up like he weighed almost nothing - and might have been because he actually weighed almost nothing, since he kept losing body mass.

“s’fine,” he said weakly. “m’fine, i just…lotsa…tired.”

“Shit,” Gordon hissed, and pressed his broad warm palm to Benrey’s forehead. “Did you kill yourself keeping my kid alive?”

“no-uh,” Benrey protested. “i just. need a minute.” He brought one hand up and linked his fingers with Gordon’s again, tugging their joined hands into his lap.

Gordon straightened up when the same slender dark-haired doctor bustled in, but he left his hand linked with Benrey’s. Through half-closed eyes, Benrey watched the doctor pause and squint at him.

“Who is this?” 

“He’s family,” Gordon said with no hesitation.

The doctor’s eyebrows went up, but she didn’t protest. Instead, she launched straight into a full examination of Joshua, checking the machines, shining a light into his eyes, and speaking rapidly to Gordon, who seemed to be keeping up only marginally better than Benrey was.

Eventually she stepped back and tucked her hands into the pockets of her lab coat. “Well, I’d say this is an example of the power of the young,” she said. “It looks like your son is well on his way to recovery. The swelling has definitely gone down, though we’ll have to get some imaging to make sure and check for residual issues. But I’d say we’re out of the woods.”

Gordon laughed weakly and ran his free hand over his face, leaning his hip back against the chair he’d poured Benrey into. “Does that mean - can you wake him up?”

The doctor gestured, and the nurse from earlier came in. “We can remove the intubation, and he should wake up on his own.”

Benrey closed his eyes and drifted for a few minutes, listening to the busy sounds of the nurse disconnecting what sounded like half of the machines and coiling up the tubing. 

“Push this button when he wakes up, or if you have any questions,” she said, then her footsteps tapped out of the room and off down the hall.

“Benrey?” Gordon asked, and Benrey dragged his eyes open. “You okay, man?”

“mmhmm,” Benrey hummed languidly. He felt relaxed for the first time since he’d been licking ice cream off his wrist on a city sidewalk.

Gordon’s eyes raked over Benrey’s face, and he seemed to come to a decision. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” He carefully unlinked their fingers and cast a quick glance at the bed before hurrying out of the room.

Benrey rolled his head sideways and stared at Joshua. He looked much better without the tube down his throat, though he still had the electrodes stuck to his temples and the tube in his elbow and a little tube under his nose that smelled like cold oxygen. He was terribly small in the hospital bed, the white of the sheets washing him out and making him look ashen.

“Here,” Gordon said, and pushed a chilly cylinder into Benrey’s hand. Instinctively, he tipped his head back and drained the bottle of soda without even checking to see what it was. Gordon wasn’t going to poison him.

“Wow, that was - okay, then. Want some food? I have chips and Oreos, so - no, don’t eat the plastic -” Gordon sputtered. Benrey grinned and kept crunching. He needed a lot of materials to rebuild himself if he didn’t want to end up back in the morgue - and then there would definitely be questions.

“thanks, that hit the spot,” he said, tapping at his ribcage, which made a hollow sound. 

Gordon made a face. “Doesn’t sound like enough if you’re still a xylophone. Want more food or more soda?”

“chips please,” Benrey said, and Gordon handed him the bag with a resigned look as Benrey stuffed the whole thing in his mouth, packaging and all.

When he looked up again, Gordon was watching Joshua, his gaze distant. After checking to make sure he actually had leg muscles this time, Benrey heaved himself to his feet and leaned into Gordon, who tangled their fingers together again.

“How’d you find us?” Gordon asked.

Benrey shrugged. “i was in the basement. called your phone, but it was off. called Tommy, he said where you were. the, uh, logo’s the same, so…” He trailed off, plucking at the scrub top. Gordon sighed again and wrapped him up in a hug.

“I’m really glad you’re here, man.” His voice was muffled where he spoke into Benrey’s shoulder. “Thank you for - for helping him.”

Gordon’s arms were so tight around Benrey that he felt his ribs creaking. He wheezed and patted Gordon’s shoulder. “okay, okay. s’not like i saved the world or anything.” He wasn’t the type. That was Gordon’s job, after all.

Laughing, Gordon pulled back and grinned down at him, the exhausted lines of his face crinkling around his eyes. “Are you kidding? You saved Joshua, and you got yourself back, again,” he said, his green eyes shining. “He is my world, and you - the two of you - you’re all the world I need. So yeah - yeah, you did.”

Benrey stared at him, pink sweet voice welling up in his throat. What the fuck was he supposed to say to that? He’d never been anyone’s world. More often than not, people wanted him out of their world.

“oh,” he said, and looked back at the bed to break eye contact.

Gordon’s lips pressed against the side of his face, and Benrey huffed out a burst of coral pink and robin’s egg blue sweet voice in surprise. Gordon chuckled into Benrey’s hair and kissed his temple again. He took a breath like he was going to say something - but then the sheets rustled, and Joshua opened his eyes. 

Gordon immediately darted to lean over him, pulling Benrey with him. Benrey glanced around and found the right button to push to call the nurse, and the room quickly filled up with medical personnel. 

Later, when Joshua had been cleared by a very confused MRI tech who said he’d never seen cranial inflammation completely disappear like that, Benrey dragged another chair into Joshua’s room while they waited for his observation period to be over so he could be discharged. Gordon smiled tiredly at him when he scooted up next to him so they were both leaning their elbows on the bed, watching Joshua’s chest hitch in a much more natural rhythm in sleep. 

Gordon didn’t say anything when Benrey put his head down on his folded arms after a few minutes. He’d sourced a few more vending machine snacks, and Tommy was still on his way back from the same conference that Dr. Coomer and Bubby were presenting at, so he’d promised to bring more food. In the meantime, Benrey was exhausted.

Gordon’s hand came down on Benrey’s head and ran over his crown, his fingers scritching Benrey’s scalp. “You wanna take a nap, buddy? We got time for that.”

“hmngph,” Benrey replied, and Gordon chuckled.

“I’ll wake you when Tommy gets here.”

“or if Joshie wakes up,” Benrey mumbled, eyes closed.

Gordon’s hand stilled, then squeezed the back of his neck. “Yeah, okay,” he said, roughly. “I’ll wake you if Joshie wakes up.”

Benrey dozed off the the regular beep of the heart monitor and the feel of Gordon’s lips on his cheek.

[omegaremix]

High Score Pinball + Game On; Spring 2021 & Spring 2022.

If you were an Eighties child, the video game was the pinnacle of your childhood. On Saturdays, my dad took me to the toy store where I sprinted to the game wall, have me choose any stamped ticket and hand it over the counter to customer service where they stocked all the solid state cartridges in the back. They’d hand me the game of choice and I was golden until next week. If I was lucky, he’d take us to Nunley’s Carousel in Baldwin where it was the final time in my life I’d play old electromagnetic machines and driving games that ran on paper sheets - and even film reels and plastic parts (Atari’s F1). We’d also go to Nathan’s in Oceanside. It, too, had an arcade there. Once we came back from his dietician or from my half-sister in Bensonhurst, he ended up taking the whole family for sit-in Chinese and to the Nellie Bly Amusement Park where for one time only I played Atari’s Superman and Hercules pinball tables.

Sunday was an even bigger event. My pop would drive from (also) Bensonhurst all the way out to Long Island where my family and I lived. He’d arrive anywhere between noon to 1PM and stay for an hour before taking me to the South Shore Mall. I’d have the luxury of two hours and $5.00 worth of quarters to play as many games as I could. Roadblasters, Space Harrier, Chase HQ, Marble Madness, skee ball - you name it, they had it, I played it. Pop would break it up and take me to The Emporium (later becoming Nathan’s and after that a sushi house that closed down in 2010) where they also had an arcade itself. Same time limit, same amount of pocket change. The neighborhood delis and convenience stores also had arcade and pinball machines where I clearly remember playing Seicross, Legion, Double Dragon, Ninja Gaiden, Shinobi, and other games too many to mention. I had the best of both worlds at home and beyond. By the time my grade-school years ended, I replenished the game collection my dad once sold for $50.00 and more thanks to my Dallas aunt and uncle. 

The Brentwood era just started for me and Pop had a heart attack while watching the game. He woke up out of it but later relapsed and that was the end for him. I had to take it upon myself to ride my bike to the mall or the pizzeria in the local shopping center behind the middle school to get my Neo-Geo, Super Monaco GP, or Mortal Kombat fix. With reward came risk: Brentwood wasn’t a safe neighborhood compared to the others. Every day I worried about random newjacks and youngbucks coming up to me for handouts just for being seen. Seven or eight kids waiting their turn surrounded the Street Fighter machines at any one of three stores out of fifteen who had them; some even got jumped and assaulted over them because they were caught cheating. Chain-snatchers got the unsuspecting kids when their backs were turned, and even the resting bitch-faces came up to entice me to fight their boyfriends who tried stealing my bike.

As time went by, I moved on from the scummy parts. Visits to the arcades became less frequented no matter at the mall or the amusement park. The carousels and hot dog places went out of business. Console gaming, however, kept going with the Genesis, SNES, Dreamcast, and Playstation throughout my community college and Stony Brook era. I discovered MAME and VPinball so I could stay in touch with myself. I kept it all going until I was sick of dozing off and throwing my time away while my friends, co-workers, and associates made the best of theirs. I finally moved on from gaming, and all the best for it.

It was more than ten years since I played a game of pinball. The Sopranos to be exact. Almost no place on the island where one was to be found. But that all changed last spring when the Video Game Trading Post opened up Long Island’s very first pinball arcade in the South Shore Mall / Westfield. I was stunned and paralyzed. We never asked for it, let alone couldn’t even imagine happening, but we got it. We lost Manhattan’s Modern Pinball and Greenpoint’s Sunshine Laundromat was never the same after the pandemic, so having the arcade return (to the very place where it all started for me and not having to travel to the city for it) was the pale-skinned redheaded Godiva riding on the fucking horse.

It was amazement at first sight. I enter the mall and the sounds emanating from the dark space tells me I’m close. I finally found it. My soul pushed back because I couldn’t believe it. I walk in and the darkness swallowed me in as all the flashing lights, LEDS, and the brightly-lit back-panels fight to be noticed. For $25.00, sometimes $35.00, it was all-you-can-play. I walk around in the dark vortex and the place was huge of its concrete flooring and aromatic wood smell. All three Black Knight tables, all three Pinbots, both Firepowers, Bank Shot, Evel Knievel, Harlem Globetrotters, Tron Legacy, even Police Force when it was at Vinardo’s. I spotted Big Guns, a game I remember from my Nintendo childhood. To my amusement, it was real having to find that Slugfest returned to the exact same mall I played at during the Brentwood era. The best part? Learning that both High Speed and Nine Ball would make their stay. It would make that next return trip all the more urgent. High Speed was the very first machine I ever scored a million on, let alone three. And Nine Ball? The overall design and sound effects of it was a personal must-play for me.

All throughout last Spring and Summer I’d make the effort to be the first one there and the last one to leave. Noon to 8PM. I made one final trip to High Score- before the year was over, leaving it behind in its former incarnation forever. It’s now half of what it used to be. The other half is now home gaming and memorabilia. I knew it would never be as good after when I first found it and won’t expect it to be better. But I’ll never, ever forget it - just like I’ll never forget the ride to Williamsburg’s Rough Trade, the post-punk / d.i.y. and jazz-fusion finds, the Jewish girl from Queens with the straight shoulder-length hair and green eyes who asked me if I had a copy of KIDS, or the two pale gingers with brown eyes I spent forever with at my store. Another day, another payout.

The alignments had another card up its sleeve. The King of Diamonds would be super-ceded by the Ace. The Boy Harsher show was less than two weeks away and I had to visit the Smithhaven Mall to find me a leather jacket and black hat. I walked out with the hat but no jac-. And, as I was walking out, something caught my eye: a shiny colorful array of neon lights. I stop to look at my right and there it was: a new video arcade I never knew existed. I was shut. I step in and to my immediate right was Baby Pac-Man: a cabinet shaped like an upright with a CRT monitor and small pinball playfield below it. It was a machine I only read about but was curious to seek out. Now, here it is. But, I couldn’t go any further as entry was roped off. But I see the sign at the front desk: $20.00 free play all day. It’s 3PM, I wouldn’t get my money’s worth. But I owed it to myself to come back and visit, and visit I did.

The following Wednesday I came back at noon and paid the frail emo casualty up front my $20.00. Does he have any idea what he’s doing here or what this is all about? He wouldn’t care, really. He’s only here to collect and will elicit a fake half-enthusiastic “oh, uh…that’s cool!” when asked. I’m here to revisit my Atari / Nintendo childhood. Eight hours and no time to waste. Let’s have it.

I walk in and there’s three Pac-Man machines grouped together: the 1980 original that became the first-ever character franchise, Baby Pac-Man and Super Pac-Man. Across from it is Ms. Pac-Man. How shameful they couldn’t include her in the boys’ club. There were vector games in Tempest, Lunar Lander, Asteroids, and Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back in super-sharp and blindingly bright on original CRT monitors. There was Gorf, arguably my very first arcade memory living in Brooklyn. Classics such as Centipede, Marble Madness and Spy Hunter which I haven’t played in its true form since forever. Defender, Robotron 2084, and Berzerk rounded out three of four parts of the Williams epic (Blaster was the fourth). Moon Patrol, Galaxian, Zaxxon, Gyruss, Phoenix, Dig Dug, Vanguard, and Missile Command - games I played endlessly on the home system - were there. Crystal Castles, one I always played on the Atari 2600, felt super-frantic and ultra-responsive on my first time ever playing it. Pengo and Mr. Do! - two games I remember my sis- B-Bomb telling me about - were finally crossed off the must-play list.

I found two extremely rare Nintendo Vs. red tents and with that came Donkey Kong, Donkey Kong Jr., Donkey Kong 3, Punch Out, Popeye, and the original Super Mario Bros. which I always used to play at the neighborhood deli (thanks ma’). Even more impressive was the fact that they had Playchoice machines when the South Shore Mall had them. I walk further and there’s Bad Dudes and the first Double Dragon: agonizingly slow and sluggish as fuck like I remembered it.

There’s driving games such as Super Sprint, Crazy Taxi, Chase HQ, and The Cruisin’ series. But, none more important than Sega’s Hang-On and Outrun, one which my younger bro- and I fought over to play first when our parents took us to the ice cream parlor. Next to those were Virtua Cop and Point Blank which I had zero interest playing because it wasn’t Cheyenne.

Konami, known for some of the best multi-player titles ever, made their presence felt with Super Contra, The Simpsons, Sunset Riders, X-Men, and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles; the final being the gateway and the token example of nostalgia. There was the fighters’ row: Mortal Kombat II, Virtua Fighter, Tekken 4, Killer Instinct, Marvel Vs. Capcom 2, and Street Fighter II; that final one the basis of my early Brentwood years hanging out in dangerous neighborhoods and being harassed by the youngbucks in pizzerias for quarters. How about not one, not - fuck it - four Neo-Geo MVS’s with such games as Metal Slug 4, Ninja Warriors, Fatal Fury 2, and Samurai Shodown all plugged in and more. Three of those four aforementioned Neo-Geo games all happened during various points of my Brentwood era, coincidentally at the same shopping center as the pizzeria and that down-low mom-and-pop video store in Central Islip.

There were pinball tables such as Spider-Man, Stranger Things, and Star Wars: Episode 1, but couldn’t ever compare to what High Score used to have. Foosball, (a rare) Super Chexx, a Ms. Pac-Man & Galaga cocktail machine, and even Alley Cats: a shuffleboard-slash-bowling hybrid were found. Never played anything like it. Sports-themed uprights in NBA Jam, NHL Ice, and Blades Of Steel which I played all of three minutes before walking away from it and headed for Arkanoid: Revenge Of Doh. I was even taken back by seeing games I never knew existed: Warp Warp and Lady Bug. And finally…Smash TV. I wasted an hour of my valuable life on cheap deaths and repetitious gameplay. I’ll never ever recommend it.

I look above and there was a scoreboard with all the high scores and initials written in chalk. Twin Galaxies this wasn’t and thankfully there were no Billy Mitchell sightings. Another thing up above us was a mural of Blaze, Axel, and Adam of Sega’s Streets Of Rage, deemed one of the best and most successful side-scrolling beat ‘em-ups ever. Further back of the arcade I found a bar set-up and a big projector screen behind it for anyone wanting to play Mario Kart on the big-screen. I looked hard enough to find authentic original operator’s manuals of Jungle Hunt, Centipede, Xevious, Asteroids, and Missile Command framed and hung on the wall. I also laserdiscs also framed and hung on the wall near the arcades storefront. Flashdance, License To Drive, Vision Quest, and - I kid you not - Dirty Dancing. Which reminded me…where the hell were Dragon’s Lair and Space Ace? And no Eighties’ fantasy world wouldn’t be complete without at least two small CRT TV’s set up to play Super Mario Bros. 3 and E.T. It was the perfect set-up found in millions of kid’s rooms everywhere. And they still weren’t done.

The one thing Game On had that High Score Pinball didn’t, and this is the major validator here, was the Eighties soundtrack streamed on the overhead. High Score- only had the natural sound of licensed one-liners, PCBs, electromagnetics, and solid states emanating all the bells and hard solenoid knocks of free games. Only once had they brought out a portable speaker blasting Ozzy’s Nineties hits and alternative. Not Game On. Every song was an unforgettable Eighties throwback. It had to be to fit within the nostalgic theme of gaming’s wonder years of the very-late Seventies to the mid-Nineties.

The Seventies will always be something I’ll explore because it’s a decade I mostly missed out on. Exploring and discovering obscure jazz / fusion, soul, groove, and the hits are all a product of my fascination with hip-hop and rap’s sampling culture, console gaming, money shows, chyrons, station i.d.’s, production logos, opening and closing credits, and promos-. The Eighties were different because I lived through them 100% and still remember it clear as day. I can appreciate new wave, synthpop, the new romantics, Billboard hits, freestyle, radio plays, hair metal, and anything else I listened to as part of my Atari / Nintendo childhood. The arcade’s streaming playlist (could they not afford a cassette player?) was paired with the many original arcade cabinets of their time and served its nostalgic purpose, as intended, to its full unbeatable meaning. 

With almost every song played on the overhead there were more childhood memories that followed them. J. Geils Band’s “Centerfold” was my first-ever music memory when my other half-sister played it constantly on our turntable in our family’s second-floor Borough Park apartment. The night my dad threw the Christmas tree out on the porch and my ma’ taking both my younger brother and I to stay at gramma’s for a few days. Riding in the passenger’s seat of our white rusted ‘78 Cadillac Coupe Deville and the bubbled rainbow that formed at the top of its windshield. Being stuck on the side of the Southern State Parkway heading home as my younger bro- and I rode in the backseat with toy dashboards. The trips in my parents rusty beige Chevy van where its crusty steel interior and the smell of petrichor created a viciously sickening mess. The two ‘79 yellow and blue AMC VAM Pacer X’s my parents had. Hurricane Gloria and the week-long power outage. Friday night’s Miami Vice. Saturday afternoons spent in the basement playing Atari and watching WWF and NWA. Saturday night’s Golden Girls where the whole family died laughing. Sunday’s Long Island pop station WBLI’s Top Ten countdown on public access television. Our babysitter’s daughter who was the cutest thing of curly black hair, dark eyes, and tall stature who smelled like sparkle and white plush. My bro- and I taking apart our ma’s floral-print couches and making pillow forts out of them. Dad’s in-wall Akai eight-track player and the overhead speakers. Easter’s various assortment of sweet-smelling wax crayons and activity books. Nights spent watching New York Yankee games on PIX, New York Rangers on MSG, Night Flight and Dance Party USA. Family dinner night at Enzo’s in Bay Shore for minestrone, calzones, and newspaper clippings of Italy’s World Cup victories. Assholes in Chams tank-tops smoking in their garages while working on their prized ‘77 Trans Ams. Playing NES all night before getting ready to ride to Staten Island at three in the morning to pick up my dad’s side of the family.

The more I played the more I immersed myself back into familiar territory that I haven’t visited in decades. It’s an absolute rarity when all the right authentic elements that used to be come together as one and re-create a near-perfect rendition of what the Eighties felt like. It’s not just the soundtrack, the manuals and laserdiscs that supplanted the setting, but the actual aesthetic itself. See the decals on the side of the cabinets and the built-in one-of-a-kind joysticks and steering wheels. The amazing control panel artwork. Plenty of CRT monitors and their rasterized graphics, scanlines, ripples, burn-in, and scrambled graphical glitches. Buttons, plenty of buttons of all types. And no more having to bang on the steel coin doors when those quarters got jammed. Not a burn mark in sight and the smell of old wood cabinets filled the room - exactly how I remembered it all.

It was nearing 9PM. The trip back in time was about to end and the mall was finally winding down. I had to have one last game in before having to walk off memory lane and say goodbye. That idiot kid wasn’t there but was replaced by some cute skinny hipster girl punk with pink hair and ladened with piercings, eager to talk to any cliched grown-up punk dad or fading former Gen-X’er wanting to share a story or two about how they missed those simpler days. I’ll never get the spirit and being of the Eighties back, but I no longer miss them now that I have a monthly pilgrimage to Game On. I retire for the night and head out. She unhooks the velvet rope and clears the way for me to leave with a smile.

“Have a good night!” she says. You know I will.

Heart: “Magic Man”

Eddie Money & Ronnie Spector: “Take Me Home Tonight”

Run DMC: “It’s Tricky”

Cutting Crew: “I Just Died In Your Arms Tonight”

Toto: “Africa”

A-Ha: “Take On Me”

Foreigner: “Waiting For A Girl Like You”

Bananarama: “I Heard A Rumor”

Wham: “Wake Me Up Befoe You Go-Go”

Mike & The Mechanics: “Silent Running”

Michael Jackson: “Billie Jean”

Rick Springfield: “Jessie’s Girl”

Bruce Springsteen: “Dancer In The Dark”

Pat Benetar: “Love Is A Battlefield”

J. Geils Band: “Centerfold”

Simple Minds: “Don’t You Forget About Me”

Tommy Tutone: “867-5309 / Jenny”

Cyndi Lauper: “Girls Just Wanna’ Have Fun”

Pointer Sisters: “I’m So Excited”

Starship: “We Built This City”

Steve Winwood: “Higher Love”

Whitney Houston: “I Wanna’ Dance With Somebody”

Survivor: “The Search Is Over”

The Outfields: “I Don’t Wanna’ Lose Your Love Tonight”

Flashdance original motion picture soundtrack

The Romantics: “What I Like About You”

Scorpions: Rock You Like A Hurricane”

Quiet Riot: “Come On (Feel The Noise)”

Pointer Sisters: “I’m So Excited”

Fabulous Thunderbirds: “Tough Enough”

Steve Perry: “Oh Sherrie”

Madonna: “Borderline”

Tiffany: “I Think We’re Alone Now”

Belinda Carlisle: “Mad About You”

Debbie Gibson: “Out Of The Blue”

Phil Collins: “Sssudio”

Lionel Richie: “All Night Long”

RUM DMC & Aerosmith: “Walk This Way”

Rick Astley: “Never Gonna’ Give You Up”

Bananarama: “Cruel Summer”

Cyndi Lauper: “Time After Time”

Kim Carnes: “Bette Davis Eyes”

Sting: “Every Breath You Take”

Heart: “What About Love”

Foreigner: “I Wanna’ Know What Love Is”

Bruce Springsteen: “Jack & Diane”

Mr. Mister: “Take These Broken Wings”

Bangles: “Hazy Shade Of Winter”

Don Henley: “Boys Of Summer”

Dire Straits: “Money For Nothing”

The Cars: “Shake It Up”

Peter Gabriel: “Big Time”

Bon Jovi: “Livin’ On A Prayer”

Allanah Myles: “Black Velvet”

Culture Club: “Karma Chamelion”

Mike & The Mechanics: “All I Need Is A Miracle”

Starship: “Sarah”

Wham: “Wake Me Up (Before You Go Go)”

Billy Ocean: “Caribbean Queen”

[goldenraeofsun]

Prompt: Jason's Villain Era

Tim watches the Batcomputer screen, every sense on high alert for any sign of danger. According to the hacked Amusement Mile cameras, the place is swarming with goons, though, so Batman, Nightwing, and Batgirl have their work cut out for them. 

Jason, with his sprained wrist, is also relegated to backup duty in the Cave. He’s leaning against the console, a mug of tea in his good hand.

Who would’ve thought after the Titans Tower incident a year ago, they would ever make it here?

It took a solid month of Jason training to overcome the pit rage, spitting insults at Bruce and throwing furniture the whole time. But Bruce never gave up, no matter what Jason hurled at him. He modeled meditation strategies while Jason’s howled in fury, and he brought him food and pillows when the rage kept Jason from eating or sleeping.

Now, Jason swings by the Manor a couple times a week to hang out, pilfer first editions from the library, and spar with Dick.

He even has his own armchair and blanket set aside for Friday movie nights at the Manor. Jason fell asleep during The Hunger Games last week, and Dick got a great picture of him drooling on his shirt that he keeps threatening to blow up and frame every time Jason annoys him.

“Hey,” Tim says, his fingers drumming a nonsense rhythm against his leg. “D’you think you could look over my Gatsby essay? I’ve missed a bunch of classes because of,” he gestures to the Cave, “and I need to get at least a B or I’m going to fail.”

Jason’s gaze flicks to him, and Tim has to remind himself not to squirm. He raises his mug to his lips. “I’ll think about it.”

“Thank you,” Tim says gratefully. “Bruce said you used to be good at English, before – well, before.”

Jason just hums, and Tim turns back to the screen that shows Batman and the Joker in an epic fight. He toggles between ten different cameras, searching for an update on Nightwing.

Pain explodes in his right temple.

Tim tumbles out of the Batcomputer chair with the force of the blow. “What the –” 

“On second thought,” Jason says, twirling the handle of his now shattered mug on one finger, “I don’t think I’ll be helping you with your English homework, kid.” He slides a glock from the back of his belt, and the sound of the safety flicking off might as well be as loud as a gunshot in the nearly-silent Batcave.

“Jason –” Tim has no more words. Shards of porcelain bite into his palms as he scrambles back on his hands and feet, but he can’t look away from Jason’s face, cast in shadow, backlit by the Batcomputer screen. “What are you doing?”

Jason fires. Over Tim's yells of agony, he drawls, “Huh. Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one?”

Tim’s leg throbs as he staggers to his feet, his whole body shaking with more than just pain. 

Jason was better. The pit rage was gone. Tim was supposed to be safe.

This is all a misunderstanding. 

“Jason,” Tim pleads, still backing up, but he’s never going to get out of firing range in time, “this isn’t you.”

“Pretty sure this is me, kid,” Jason says casually as he stalks forward, and Tim has never seen that dead, cold expression on his face before. With the pit rage, Jason burned hot. Never cold. “In fact, I feel more like myself in months.”

Tim swallows. Jason is blocking his way back to the manor. The Batcave exit is at least fifty yards away, beyond the training mats and empty Batmobile garage area. “It’s me,” he tries instead, “Tim!”

“Now, nobody ever called me the smart one,” Jason says as he aims his gun again, “But I got enough little gray cells left to know your name, Pretender. Cuckoo.” His eyes flash. “Replacement.”

Tim’s stomach sinks. Alright, time to fight his way out, since persuasion clearly isn’t working. He readies his stance and nearly topples over again as the bullet hole in his thigh sears with pain.

“Do you know how fucking long I had to wait to get you alone?” Jason continues, looking almost amused at Tim’s attempts to recover. “Three months. A quarter of a goddamn year playing nice, playing house with Bruce and Dick. You should be flattered I went through all the effort just for you. Fuck it,” he strides forward, dodges Tim’s off-balance right hook, and smashes his fist against Tim’s temple, right where the mug hit him first.

Tim staggers, dazed. Tears spring to his eyes, and he can barely keep Jason in sight.

“So much more satisfying,” Jason says smugly. He sweeps Tim’s legs out from under him, and Tim once again falls painfully to the floor.

Jason stands over him, his expression inscrutable. “You put up even less of a fight than last time. Disappointing.” He aims his gun at Tim’s left shoulder and fires. From the white-hot fire licking up his neck, the bullet shattered his collar bone.

Tim blinks woozily up at Jason.

Wow, Dick’s gonna have to enlarge that stupid picture of Jason drooling and project it off the side of the Clocktower at this rate.

Tim passes out.

[zelianthos-capercaillie]

@hashimada-week A sneak peek of my contribution for the HashiMada Week 2023 event Day 6 prompts, “Flowers” and “Sparring”

It’s a Hanahaki AU set in the Warring States Period:

The two grappled on the ground, clawing, biting, kicking, and eye-gouging each other. It was a no-holds-barred fest; the short guttural noises they had been making earlier were now replaced with taunting and taking potshots at each other left and right.

A headbutt landed squarely on a nose bridge.

"Hngh! Not bad. I always knew you were a solid ten—" A swivel of the head to avoid getting scratched in the face.

"Thanks, I—ow!" It was cut off by an eye poke.

"—out of a hundred."

"Ooh, nice one. If only—ghk!" Fingers were inserted inside the mouth in a tearing-off manner, only for them to get bitten. "—if only your techniques are as good as your ‘compliments’."

They were kneeing each other in the groin, grabbing by the balls (?!)—although who grabbed who first, no one would confess was sure—and doing many more acts of pettiness.

At some point, Madara spotted an opening and got on top of Hashirama in a straddle, forcing his right arm down with a wrist grip. He then grabbed the other arm to try and do the same, snarling when there was a painful tug on his hair.

Hashirama kept resisting and tried to take back control by pitching them sideways. Madara mirrored the move, but Hashirama did it again. This continued until the two had rolled deeper into the forest, still tangled up in each other.

Hashirama tried to lodge Madara off of him once more—this time by bucking his hips—but Madara held firm and cinched his legs even tighter. He added more weight by leaning forward and was eventually able to force Hashirama's other arm down by interlocking their fingers together.

This close, they were almost breathing the same air.

"Give up?" The question was practically a wheeze.

"Heh. Give up—" was the breathless answer, "—on me giving up!"

The ordeal should not have winded the both of them; they had done much more strenuous sparring than this, after all. But here they were, panting and sweating against each other, their hearts beating loudly in their chests.

They took a moment to calm down, just staring and smiling at each other.

Madara's smile grew wider as he leaned forward even more, getting closer and closer until the tips of their noses were almost touching. The damn itch in his throat was back, so he had to act quickly.

Hashirama mirrored him and started to tilt his head forward as well, before he snapped his head to the side, finally realizing what Madara had done.

He had weaved a seal using their entwined hands.

The Seal of the Tiger.

When Hashirama locked eyes with him again in alarm, Madara’s only response was a playful wink.

In an instant, huge, roaring flames engulfed the small clearing they had rolled into. Enormous fireballs shaped like dragon heads dove at the ground and fed off of each other’s billowing heat, growing in size and turning the glade into a nightmare of scorched earth and charred wood, with Madara at the heart of the destruction laughing maniacally.

The Mokuton vines that rose up to encase Hashirama at the last second in order to get him out of the blast radius unfurled and deposited him on a nearby tree branch.

Although he was able to get away in the nick of time, Madara saw that Hashirama still got singed in the aftermath.

Good.

"Madara! That wasn’t fair!" Hashirama cried out as the fire died down. "I thought we were going to spar with taijutsu alone?!"

"We agreed to no such thing!" Madara replied in a haughty manner, tossing his hair. "Don’t start making new rules just because you almost fell for a simple Katon, Hashirama!"

Hashirama’s response was to curl up into a ball—how he hadn’t rolled off the tree branch was a mystery—in gloom.

"I can’t believe you tried to set me on fire," he said, as he whispered something else to himself.

"Ah? Speak up, Hashirama, and stop muttering to yourself up there!"

Madara took a step toward him but made a leap instead when towering wooden spikes burst out from below the ground all of a sudden, each one growing another pointed offshoot aiming for him.

Hashirama emerged from another tree branch as the wood clone that was all curled up like a pill bug melted back into the bark.

"Then I guess I’ll respond with my own!" he crowed.

Mokuton briars covered in fine bristles came down from the treetops, their thorns trying to reach for Madara and snag into his clothes. He set them on fire before they could reach him, lest he suffer from another case of the itches. He was not going through that experience a second time.

Madara spat out a loud curse.

"Here I come, Madara!" Hashirama shouted back with glee. The tree branches transformed into wooden hands. "If we’re using ninjutsu, then there’s something I’ve been meaning to test. I dare you to counter it!"

Madara weaved his way out of the demented Mokuton vines as he made the hand signs for another Katon. Two can play this game.

Great Flame Flowers gave chase to Hashirama shortly thereafter.

Madara bared his teeth in a vicious grin. "Bring it, Hashirama!"

[mrcspectr]

wake me (when it’s over)

Summary: In which Marc Spector dreams and often fears the things he doesn't understand.

Title from Wake Me When It’s Over by the Cranberries.

Trying to forget something that you know, It hasn’t killed you yet, but you cannot let it go, I’m trying to exist, trying not to scream, How it does persist, entrapped inside a dream.

Inspired by this fantastic piece that’s been living rent free in my brain for a solid week now. You should absolutely go reblog it because wow.

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: implied/referenced suicide, canon-typical violence, angst

He remembers the Duat, more than anything else.

He tries not to, really. Steven has been informing him, tirelessly, how unhelpful it is to look back on the past. That their time in death was quite long enough for the both of them to live through it all, he figures, and there's no sense in ruminating on the whole thing.

As if he needed the reminder.

The next time he had the body and some.. Alone time, he'd have to remember to get rid of all those self help books Steven had been reading.

They're not self help books, Marc, they're psychiatric textbooks on proven therapeutic methods of processing trauma. And while I’m at it, don’t even think about it.

"Personally, I liked it better when we processed our trauma with a talking hippo."

Would it kill you to take this a little more seriously?

"It might, actually."

Marc.

"I also liked it better when the tapes you listened to kept us awake, because now all they do is put me to sleep."

Marc!

"Okay, okay! I'm done, promise."

They were lying on the worn mattress in Steven's London flat, staring at the ceiling, a cassette tape turning on the bedside table beside them. It was the fourth tape in a set of ten, and they'd been at it for hours now.

Marc moved his head to check the clock radio; it read 2:03AM in a harsh, red light.

"Oh, no way."

Hey, what do you think you're-

Before Steven could think to stop him, Marc pressed down hard on the STOP button, the dull man's voice they'd been listening to since dinner coming to a halt mid sentence.

Thought you were done, hm? Clearly you're not done being a complete tosser!

Turning his head back up to the ceiling, Marc's eyes met Steven's miffed expression. There was a mirror fixed to the wood, enough to see his reflection down to his waist, so that he could see Steven's arms crossed over his chest.

They didn't need the mirrors to communicate anymore, not really. After spending so long not knowing each other, now they traded the body like an afterthought, having conversations out loud and sharing its voice until people on the street started staring.

It was as easy as breathing.

Posting the mirrors around the room was Marc's idea. It's not that he didn't enjoy the way they communicated now, he'd talk to him any way he could, now that he, well, could.

He just liked being able to see Steven's expressions sometimes, the way his whole face seemed to open up when Marc called him buddy. His look of concern when Marc was having a particularly rough day, without him ever having to say much of anything out loud.

Even now, when Steven was very clearly annoyed with him.

He had to keep from smiling. It would only get him in more trouble.

"It's time for bed."

We’re already IN bed. And sure, right when we were starting to make some real-

Marc can't help it now, and rolls his eyes. "You don't actually believe this crap works, do you?"

Doesn't really matter what I believe now, does it? Gotta try something.

The irritation on his face had melted away now, replaced with worry, his eyebrows knit together in concern.

"Hey, I'm the only one who gets to look like that."

Steven ignores the joke, which is surprising considering the nature of it, but Marc notes the measured focus in his tone.

Think you'll have another one tonight, then?

Marc sighed, pushing all the air out of his lungs until he felt his body sink further into the bed.

"I dunno, Steven. I told you, it's always random."

He'd been having nightmares for weeks now, ever since they came home. It was to the point where dread would creep in on him in the late evening, gnawing at the pit of his stomach until nightfall, reminding him of what was to come. He never went more than a few days without one.

Some nights he was pleasantly surprised, sleeping the whole way through with no interruptions. Other nights.. well.

How long's it been now?

"'Bout three days. I'm due."

Well with that attitude, it's no wonder we haven't got to the bottom of it.

"Steven."

I'm serious Marc, I've done all this research and you've made almost no effort to-

"Steven, I'm done talking about it."

Then how about you listen instead, yeah? Ever since we got back, it's like sometimes.. sometimes you're still there, Marc.

He looks away from him, closing his eyes against the cool fabric of the pillow. Sometimes it feels like the mirrors make it harder to hide, but it doesn't matter. Steven always sees him anyway.

Do you still think about all that? Everything that happened back then?

That's not what it is, not even close. The truth of it all, their childhood and all the pain that came with it, feels more like a dull ache now than a nagging wound. Ever since he shared it with him, let him shoulder some of the burden, it was much easier to carry.

He felt lighter, even.

Steven was convinced that, somehow, Marc still carried some of that blame, and he never could find the words to tell him just how easily Steven had scraped that feeling from his bones. How his insistence and his honesty had shined a light on all his darkest places, made him see himself anew.

No words ever felt like enough, so he doesn’t say anything. He hopes Steven understands anyway.

So he lets Steven think what he wants, because it’s easier than explaining the alternative.

It's easier than telling him about the fear that's replaced it. The way he can still feel his knees digging into the sand even now, how hollow he felt looking down at Steven's frozen body, hand reaching out to him.

Even though Steven is back with him, the way he was always meant to be, Marc remembers being in that place without him. Looking at an empty shell of the person who meant the most to him, and how it made him feel empty too.

How he was powerless to save him, and the only solution that made sense was to kneel down and join him.

It was a different kind of blame, a different ache. He was afraid, because now he'd tasted that loss and it clung to him like damp fabric.

Now he was just a man. No longer Moon Knight. No longer anyone’s fist. And it was a painful reminder at times, just what was possible to lose.

Marc?

His eyes snap open again, and he wonders how much time he's spent lost in thought. Only seconds, he hopes.

"Hm?"

You know you can talk to me, right? I mean, I shouldn't have to tell you that, but. Ya know.

He looks up at Steven, and the look on his face is so honest and endearing, he almost forgets the way it all feels. He makes it so easy to let go of things, and Marc is thankful, again, that he left that field behind for now.

Again, he can't help himself, and so he smiles. "Yeah, I know, buddy. I know I can."

Good. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've had the very smart, incredibly unique idea of actually getting some rest for once. Can’t believe you didn’t think of it. You should try it, sleep is conducive to learning you know, and I have a big day planned for us tomorrow, and-”

Marc groaned in mock exasperation, pulling the blankets over their head. He needed to hide the way his grin had started growing the minute Steven began prattling on again. It wasn’t just his, though, but one he was sure they shared.

He didn’t need the mirrors for that.

Good night, Marc.

“Night, Steven.”

He's there again, like he always is, but it's all wrong.

He's wearing the suit. He'd never worn it there before, had he? It was only ever that pale, threadbare outfit, the one he’d worn in the hospital all those years ago, picked out of some long buried memory he’d rather stay forgotten.

Wait.

The suit.

The suit?

Before he’d even opened his eyes, Marc knew it was there, wrapped close around his body. The way it always made him feel just a little trapped, a little claustrophobic. He could take it off any time he wanted, would will it away in a moment when his work was done, but he could never quite shake the feeling that he was suffocating in it.

His lungs constrict at the thought, breath catching in his throat.

When he looks down at himself, the crescent moon on his chest, the hood hanging low against his brow, he thinks the cloth wraps even tighter around him.

Maybe he imagined it.

Okay.

Breathe. Okay.

It’s fine. All I have to do is just. Take it off, right?

Back then, the idea alone was enough to send the armor slipping away into nothingness, waiting in the darkness of somewhere far away until he needed it again. But now, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many times his thoughts echoed the word away, away, away, still, it stayed.

He takes a fistful of the fabric of the cape, pulls it as far away from him as his arm allows, jerking it taut. But it still doesn’t tear.

Panic began to settle just beneath his skin, on the edge of boiling over.

The smell of sand wafts over him, ancient and familiar. Looking towards the horizon, as far as his eyes can make out through their glow, sand dunes and a deep purple sky. The only sound the erratic beating of his own heart.

I’m alone out here.

“Steven? Are you there?”

Marc prods at that spot in his mind where he usually resides, but there’s no response, no presence but his own.

He feels hollow again, a ringing in his ears that he can’t seem to shake.

“Boy, are you gonna be disappointed.”

Marc is jolted back to his senses, turning to address the voice that spoke up behind him. Eyes widening, he sees.. Himself.

But it’s not himself, and it’s not Steven, either.

There were dull, heavy circles under the man’s eyes, but the bright intensity of his glare made him seem too alert, too focused. He wore a black jacket, collar pulled up flush against his neck, a flat cap arranged neatly on his head. His hands were balled into fists at his sides, but besides that, he remained still as stone.

“Not who you were looking for, hm? I mean, kinda. But not really.”

The man chuckles to himself, allowing him what felt like a pitying glance. They were on level ground but Marc still felt like he was looking up at him, somehow.

Marc decides at that moment that he doesn’t like the guy. At all.

“So when do you plan on letting me in on the joke, pal?”

He speaks up again, this time a little less teasingly than before.

“You don’t deserve it, you know.”

Marc blinks in his direction, not sure if he even heard him right. “‘Scuse me?”

“You. Don’t. Deserve. It. What you’re wearing. Do I need to spell it out for you?”

“I- wait a second. Do you even know what this is?” He gestures down at himself, cape billowing out behind him.

“Of course I know what it is, hermano, this ain’t my first day.”

His condescending tone is finally settling in now, and the heat of Marc’s annoyance is creeping up his neck, across his cheeks.

“I don’t even know who you are.”

“Don’t I know it, boss. But I know all. About. You.” He punctuates every word with a step forward, making Marc falter a bit.

“Anyway, doesn’t matter who I am, we’re here to have a conversation, right?”

Marc throws his arms up in exasperation. “There’s nothing to even talk about, nothing to deserve here. It’s a-”

“What, a punishment?” the man spits it out, a bad taste in his mouth. Like he’s thought about this conversation, a thousand times, has predicted every answer Marc could give and picked it apart until he knew the flaws in it by heart.

Marc’s own heart starts racing again.

“Because you’re so good at taking those, right?”

Marc stands in place, says nothing. He knows he’s proving the point with his silence, but the words won’t come to him, the weight of the admission sitting in his rib cage. The man starts to pace around him, a wide circle carved out of the sand by his footsteps.

“Yeah, and that’s the whole problem with you, isn’t it? I am so sick of your self righteous bullshit. Your oh woe is me crap, it’s exhausting.”

“Who even-”

“You can’t just take something for what it is, find the point in it.”

Suddenly, he throws his hands out, shoves Marc back into the sand so hard it cascades out around them. He stands over him a moment, deep browns of his eyes seeming to blacken through his glare, and considers the way the cape fell open across the ground. The need to be close to it is so immediate, so blinding, he drops to his knees, pinning Marc to the ground along with it.

“You bury yourself so deep in shit that you can’t appreciate what’s been handed to you.”

Marc wonders, for a second, if this is what he looked like during all those fights. Frenzied, delirious, a quiet sort of hysteria. He understands now why people ran.

“G-get off of me-”

“Why? Isn’t this what you want? To keep this? Don’t you miss being the hero? You can’t protect anybody without it.”

He grabs a fistful of the cape in his hand the same way Marc had not long ago, gestures with it, knuckles sharp against the black gloves he wore.

“I know you think about it all the time.” He taps a finger of his other hand against his own temple, that ghost of a sneer playing across his lips.

“You may keep your secrets from everyone else, Spector, but you’ll never keep them from me.”

Without warning, he digs his fingers deep into the gauzy wrappings directly over Marc’s heart and pulls, hard. As the fabric rips apart with a sickening noise, he feels a searing pain burning across his chest, like the man’s taken his skin along with it.

And he doesn’t stop, taking piece after piece, scraps blowing away in the wind. Marc tries to reach up at him through his fury, pushing away at his face but it’s no use. Everything feels so heavy, so impossibly far away.

The burn is stronger now and Marc’s in agony, the pain consuming him so completely that when he tries to cry out, tell this man to please, stop, I’ll do anything, you can have it, no sound comes out.

Marc Spector is an open wound, heart exposed to the desert sands.

And he feels the man grip it tightly in one hand, squeezes it as he leans down to whisper in his ear.

“Now it’s my turn.”

Marc!

Someone’s screaming.

Oh, it’s him that’s screaming. How long has he been screaming?

It takes him a minute to come to, feeling eventually dripping back into his limbs. The panic takes a bit longer to subside, his whole body damp with sweat as he starts to regain his hearing.

Finally, he can make out the words leaving his mouth.

“Stevenstevenstevenstevenste-”

Marc, hey, Marc. I’m right here. It’s Steven.

He’s still in bed, but it’s a wreck. Blankets thrown across the floor, sheets tangled up and around his legs. He’s ripped his shirt off at some point, but it’s so soaked beside him that he couldn’t see putting it back on again. He’s not sure where the pillows went.

Breathing slowly returning to normal, heart beating steady in his chest, Marc reaches up, feels the skin intact there.

Letting out a shaky sigh, he looks up at the mirror again.

Steven’s expression is a mixture of horrified and pained. He wants to shy away from it, but Marc knows he won’t fall for that scheme anymore.

Marc. We have got to do something.

[thedreamsmith]

Forged in Dragonfire (Chapter 3)

Summary:  Aemond’s attention is caught by a noble lady with an unusual hobby. Lady Edeline is nothing like anyone he has ever met.

With the sword complete, is this the end of Edeline’s relationship with the mysterious Targaryen prince? 

@mswintersoldier​ @deadbranch​

Upon the morn of the tenth day since the prince’s visit to the forge, Edeline was alight with frayed nerves. She rose earlier even than the house servants, even though Jon had insisted that he would stoke the coals himself. There was no question that the finished blade was any less than perfect – four and ten years of experience, and a highborn lady’s learned self-assurance saw to that – but in the ensuing days since her double life had been revealed to the younger prince, her doubts about his oath to keep her identity hidden had begun to fester.

Despite the heat of the forge, she had donned a thick cloak over her shirt and breeches. A flimsy disguise, perhaps, but at the very least she would be able to hide from sight should Prince Aemond arrive with a gaggle of cronies in tow, intent on catching her red-handed in her unladylike pastime.

Even if he had no solid proof of her activities, if it came to his word against hers, a prince against a daughter of a lesser house, her reputation was doomed. There was no lord in the Seven Kingdoms who would wed a woman who spent so much time in the less-wealthy areas of the city, nor partook in such unladylike activities.

‘Shit.’ She hissed between gritted teeth, the horseshoe she was bending clattering to the floor for the third time in as many minutes.

‘Crone’s tits, girl.’ Jon paused in his work to regard his errant apprentice. ‘You’d think you were waiting for the chopper.’ Her face heated as she bent to collect the offending iron. ‘For fucks sake just leave it. You can make yourself useful organising the stock until that prince of yours arrives.’

For all his bluster, she knew Jon was not truly angry at her. Indeed, she had learned most of the curses she knew from the grizzled smith. A fact she had learned to keep to herself after her father had once overheard her calling her sister Catlina a ‘two-faced whore.’

To this day she maintained that Catlina had indeed been a two-faced whore on that particular occasion, having told their mother that Edeline had been the one to steal a strawberry tart from the kitchen. Regardless of her innocence, her father had tanned her hide so thoroughly that she had not been able to sit astride a horse for a week.

Since she had informed him of her royal commission, Jon had taken to referring to Prince Aemond as ‘her prince’, much to Garrett’s delight and her mortification. She could only hope that he did not do so to the prince’s face.

After shuffling the crates of raw materials around for an interminable amount of time, Edeline was roused from her ceaseless worrying by a familiar voice, so terribly aristocratic in comparison to Jon’s rough drawl.

Drawing her cloak tighter around her, and silently begging her pounding heart to slow, she peeked around the rickety door that concealed the stock room from the front of the forge. The prince had kept his promise, and come alone, as far as she could tell. She could not get a proper look at the street-front from her current vantage point.

‘I come alone; you need not worry.’ He spoke without turning his head, even when she stumbled backwards into a crate of horseshoes, and the ensuing racket caused several mice to scurry away from their hiding place beneath the shelves.

With burning cheeks, she stepped out from the shadows of the doorway, collecting the prince’s sword on her way past the workbench. She had wrapped the blade in oiled hide, bound with twine lest the dust from the forge mar the virgin steel.

Prince Aemond’s face betrayed only the slightest hint of amusement as she approached, his face once again shadowed in the same dark cloak he had worn upon their first meeting. Jon, thank the Seven, had gone back to his work, even though she knew the snooping old bastard was listening to every word spoken.

‘You doubted me.’ He said by way of greeting.

‘Apologies, your highness.’ Despite her lack of gown, Edeline curtsied low, eyes fixed firmly on the stained leather of her boots. Even though her mother had relented in allowing her to apprentice as a smith, she had refused to allow her daughter to spend household funds on the clothes she wore whilst she worked. For this reason, all the garments she wore whilst at the forge were purchased from vendors in the city proper, often second-hand, with the small salary she had earned when she first started. ‘To be discovered here would be…damaging to my reputation at court.’

She still kept her gaze low, despite the fact that she had danced with this man not seven days prior, despite the fact that his breath had warmed her neck as he spoke.

‘And yet you continue to work.’ It was not a question, yet the prince’s tone was curious.

‘I enjoy my work. And I am skilled at it.’ With a deep breath, she presented the wrapped blade to its new owner. Prince Aemond took the parcel with steady hands before undoing it with deft movements. His grip upon the hilt was instinctive, and told her that this was a man familiar with weapons of all kinds, even if the callouses upon his hands had not.

The air between them was still, baited, as he inspected the length of the blade. From beneath her lashes, she caught the exact moment that he saw the gemstone embedded into the pommel, its colour – and why it was there. Almost imperceptibly, the prince stilled, his assessing gaze turning to her, and she awaited his judgement.

‘A blade of unparalleled quality.’ Was he angry? She could not tell. The look in his eye was unreadable as he re-wrapped the sword. ‘You have my thanks, my lady.’ He kept his voice quiet, despite the emptiness of the street around them, and something in her chest loosened. She should not have doubted his word, the younger prince was no oath-breaker, and a gentleman besides.

Her newfound lightness emboldened her, and she resisted the urge to smirk as she accepted the prince’s compliment with a shallow curtsy.

‘Does his highness still wish to test its edge upon my neck?’ A short laugh burst from the young prince, which seemed to startle them both with its abruptness.

‘I do not believe that will be necessary, my lady.’ Prince Aemond reached inside his cloak, then paused, turning an assessing gaze upon her. ‘You speak of testing edges; have you been taught to wield the weapons you craft so well?’

Edeline blinked in surprise, at both the prince’s continued curiosity and the query itself. ‘I have not, your highness. My lady mother’s generosity and patience only stretch so far when it comes to my…pastimes.’

‘A pity. Learning to fight with a sword is much like dancing, surely your lady mother could not complain if you improved that particular skill?’ Her face heated furiously, a sharp retort on the tip of her tongue. She wondered if the prince would change his mind about decapitation if she said it aloud? ‘You should join me at the training grounds, I would be happy to teach you myself.’

An unexpected offer, yet a truly generous one. The younger prince was widely known to be one of the most dangerous swordsmen in the realms. But still…the training grounds at the Red Keep were hardly private, and many gossiping sparrows would see her there. Would the prince’s presence protect her from the rumour mill? Would his invitation sway her parents into allowing it?

Her throat was dry as she spoke – her answer would affect her status, no matter what she chose. To turn down a prince was a dangerous thing indeed, but to be seen training with soldiers and knights…

‘Are you trying to ruin my reputation, my prince?’ Her cheeks were hot, but her gaze fierce as she looked up at the one-eyed prince. Now he smiled fully, silent laughter shining in the depths of his eye. And she knew without doubt that she had been right to purchase that sapphire – even rarer than the gem itself was seeing true humour on the face of the usually serious prince, and the similarity was uncanny.

‘I assure you, my lady, that if I truly wished to ruin your reputation, there are far more enjoyable ways to do so.’ From a man of lesser standing, she would have slapped him for the insult, but Prince Aemond did not have the same reputation as his elder brother, removing the offence and threat from the jest. ‘I will speak with your lord father myself, if that is your wish. I truly believe that you will enjoy learning to fight, as I do. After all, it is not only the men in my family who ride dragons and go to war.’

‘Your offer is most generous.’ Her words were hesitant, still unsure despite finding no deceit written upon the prince’s face. ‘I would be honoured to accept your tutelage.’

‘Excellent.’ The prince placed another heavy bag of coins upon the workbench without fanfare, satisfaction etched into the lines of his mouth. ‘Then I will see you at the training grounds upon the morrow. I hope that this shall not cause any disruption to your business, master blacksmith?’

He directed the question over her shoulder, to where Jon was bent over the anvil. Neither lady nor prince were surprised when the smith answered immediately. Nosey bastard indeed.

‘Of course not, m’lord.’ Who would dare to suggest otherwise? Yet the prince had asked with sincerity. ‘The lady may do as she pleases; I have another apprentice, besides.’ And wouldn’t Garrett be pleased at the extra work? She stifled her smile at the thought.

Prince Aemond made a hum of satisfaction, before offering a low bow to them both. ‘I look forward to our first lesson together, my lady. You have my thanks for the sword, as do you, master blacksmith, for teaching your apprentice so well.’

Jon let out a garbled huff, which meant that the grizzled smith was thoroughly flustered at the praise. She almost laughed at the confusion on the prince’s face.

‘Until tomorrow.’ Just as he had before, the prince turned on his heel and disappeared into the smoke of the street within moments, his new blade tucked possessively within the folds of his cloak. It was only once he was out of sight that Edeline turned to face her mentor with a crow of laughter.

‘’My prince’ indeed!’ She grinned widely, dipping into an exaggerated bow, edges of her cloak brushing the dusty floor. ‘You’re blushing like a maiden after her first kiss!’

‘Fuck off.’ The old smith wagged a set of tongs in her face, which did nothing to reduce her mirth. ‘Looks like the prince isn’t just interested in your skill wi’ steel swords.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Ignoring the insinuation, Edeline picked up the horseshoe and hammer she had discarded earlier and resumed her work. Even her mentor’s coarseness could not douse the inexplicable buoyancy in her chest that had blossomed with Prince Aemond’s words. Nor could the impending raven from her mother, that certain to arrive once her father had spoken with the prince.  

‘I want that entire order of shoes completed before you leave, yer ladyship, if you’re to be off gallivanting with the prince on the morrow.’

With a smile, Edeline hastened to return to her task, allowing the rhythmic motions to absorb her attention, rather than letting her mind linger upon the mystery of the younger prince, and why, out of all the young ladies at court, he had shown an interest in her.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

[marie-dufresne]

Discovering Chivalry

Surprisingly amenable to his new engagement, Heidegger rectifies an insult done to him, and a grievous wrong done to his intended. The timing, however, could have been better.

1973

Josef Heidegger had not expected to enjoy himself at the Dufresne gala. He wasn’t one for shows and charades, so having to pretend to be the beau of a girl he had met three days prior was not his idea of a good time. Rubbing elbows with people who knew they were better than him was even less of an ideal situation.

And yet…as soon as she had come to stand at his side, he found himself comfortable. Artemis joined them for a time and while Josef wasn’t the perfect conversationalist, both Artie and Marie were well versed in the social arts to speak just enough for him without making it obvious they were speaking for him.

When he broke a wine glass in his hand, forgetting his strength, his intended was neither frightened nor annoyed with him.

She was impressed.

“We make our stemware from reinforced crystal,” she explained, “to avoid breakage and save on cost.”

That he could shatter the thing with his bare hand—by accident—was no small feat and he found himself receptive to her praise. Not that he was in a hurry to do it again. It made a damn mess all over his thigh.

Though the night was generally enjoyable, there had been one exchange in particular that had…soured it. An older gentleman, drunk, with three young ladies (hired, by the looks of them) clinging to his arm, full of giggles.

“Well you’re the youngest she’s ever had!” He had laughed, gesturing to the petite woman on Heidegger’s own arm. He felt the way her grip tightened and she gracefully excused them, leading him away from the crowd.

When he questioned what the drunk had meant, she had simply smiled and gave him an affectionate squeeze, resting her curls on his arm.

“You aren’t the first time I’ve been used as currency,” she said simply, bringing him out to a balcony, overlooking the grand party. Here they could be alone without causing scandal or appearing rude.

Letting out a gruff sort of grunt, he released himself from her hold, meaty hands gripping the marble rail.

“And when were you his currency?”

Marie stepped forward, standing beside him, but not touching. “It’s nothing to worry about,” she assured him, “six or seven years ago, I think.”

Heidegger was not an educated man, nor was her a quick thinker, but even he could do basic mathematics. He didn’t know exactly how old she was, but if he had to guess, she was somewhere between nineteen and twenty-three.

Marie could see him thinking, working something out in his mind and she sighed. Placing her little hand over his own.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” she pressed, “but the world of high society and big business is beautiful only on the surface. Are you certain you want to be a part of it? There’s no room for heroes.”

Turning to look down at her, he gave her a firm once over, his eyes narrowing under his bushy brows as he wondered if she, too, was only beautiful on the surface.

“How old are you?”

Marie wasn’t expecting him to ask outright, but she supposed knowing the age of one’s spouse was helpful, so she didn’t hesitate to answer.

“Twenty-one. Plenty old enough to navigate this world.”

Twenty-one. So she’d been fourteen.

He grunted again and the next day he did what any rational man would do.

He beat the man for a solid twenty-minutes.

He hadn’t killed him, though he’d wanted to, but for the sake of his connection to Artie, Josef had held back, shown restraint, and kept it to a thorough maiming. The older man may or may not regain his ability to walk, but Heidegger didn’t really give a shit.

Artemis ShinRa, however, did.

He’d been in Heidegger’s office for ten minutes now, fuming, and unable to come up with anything to say. Finally, he let out a sigh and dragged his hand down his face.

“What were you thinking?”

Heidegger turned up his palms as if the answer were obvious, like he’d done nothing wrong. “The man insulted me.”

“Insulted you. How?”

Harold Davenport insulted everyone. He was known for casually offending and most people took it with a grain of salt and moved on.

When Heidegger said nothing, but pursed his lips in annoyance, unable to meet his friend’s demanding gaze, Artemis sighed again.

“It’s about her, isn’t it?”

When he was met with silence again, he crossed his arms, then uncrossed them, then began to pace. The damage control he was having to set in place because of this bordered on insane.

“Listen. I am…thrilled that you’re getting along with her, Josef. Trust me, the two of you happy together will make all of our plans that much easier, but for fuck’s sake, this is not the time to discover chivalry!”

Chivalry? Well, yes, he had been defending Marie’s honor or…something….like that, but Heidegger’s pride took precedence over that (an immaturity he would grow out of to some extent) so he scowled and sat back.

“He touched something that was mine, so I punished him for it. That’s it.”

Artemis stopped his pacing. Davenport had put hands on her? Not with her consent, that much was certain. If he’d done so by force, he couldn’t fault his friend, as much of a further mess that would make this entire situation. Or…had Arthur Dufresne offered her up one last time? If so, Artie would see to it that Arthur was…properly re-educated regarding the meaning of a contract and the legality that bound the parties to it.

“Last night?” he asked, a fist under his chin, brows furrowed in curiosity.

“No,” Heidegger bit off gruffly, “Before. Before….” he waved one of his hands around “before all this.”

Ah. The third option. Heidegger was a fist-happy fool.

Closing his eyes, Artemis inhaled slowly, keeping himself calm for the moment.

“You beat one of our investors to near death…because at some point in time….he slept with your fianceé. Am I hearing this correctly?”

“It needed to be done.”

“And do you intend to issue this punishment on every man who has been with your new little pet? Because I assure you my friend, the list is quite extensive. I’m on it myself.”

The way that Josef sat back in his chair, eyes glistening beneath his bushy brows, chest rising with an overly masculine need to fight told Artemis that Marie had not disclosed the information of their previous relationship to her newfound partner and that amused him. This had been a business transaction, after all. Didn’t she want all the neat little dotted Is and crossed Ts?

“If you want to take a swing at me, I’m right here.”

“It wasn’t personal,” Heidegger grumbled beneath his beard, “it’s a matter of principle.”

Artemis scoffed, letting out a frigid laugh as he waved his friend away. “Principle? I took you on because you have no principles!”

When Josef’s palms hit the desk, the chandelier rattled and when he stood, towering over his employer, the floorboards groaned and door trembled in its frame.

“I will not be made a fool!” He bellowed, red faced and seeming to grow thicker in his rage, “I will not be laughed at and mocked!”

Any other man may have pissed himself at the outburst, fearful that the man might tear him in two. Had any other man been standing before him, he might have been torn in two. But Artemis ShinRa was not afraid of his loose canon of a friend—not for his own sake—so he did not tremble and he did not assuage.

“Well. That ship has sailed, my friend. You’re marrying a whore.”

And then he strode from the room, listening as a handful of pencils splintered in Heidegger’s grip.

Marie Dufresne herself was just outside the office, just as he knew she would be, and Artemis was not gentle when he clutched her face in one of his hands, squeezing her jaw and rendering her without her ability to speak—or move.

“Get him under control,” he growled, shoving her away and storming from the building, displaying his anger to those who mattered little to him.

[johnhardinsawyer]

“My Cup Runneth Over”

John Sawyer

Bedford Presbyterian Church

4 / 30 / 23 – Fourth Sunday of Easter

Psalm 23

John 10:1-10

“My Cup Runneth Over”

(Sharing the Abundant Life)

All she wants is one good tasting cup of coffee in the morning.  And all he wants is to make said good cup of coffee for her.  He puts the coffee beans in the grinder.  While it’s grinding, he measures out the water and pulls out two coffee mugs (placing 2/3 teaspoon of sugar in each).  He then scoops the right amount of ground coffee into the French Press, pours just enough water in to “bloom” the grounds for a minute, and then pours the rest of the water in – setting a timer for nine minutes.  While it steeps, he pours half-and-half into the milk frother on the kitchen counter and when the coffee has steeped for seven minutes, he presses “start” on the milk frother.  When the coffee is ready, he pushes the plunger on the French Press, pours an equal amount into each coffee mug, carefully stirring so the sugar has a chance to dissolve.  Then he pours the frothed half and half into the mugs.  Sometimes, he gets a little excited and pours too much – the froth piling up on the top and sometimes running down the side.  There can be a lot of love poured into a cup of coffee.  And sometimes, that cup runneth over.

Jesus said, “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.”  (John 10:10)

She didn’t know why, but one Wednesday, she decided to join the exercise class at the gym.  “I’m glad you’re here,” the teacher said.  “Just so you know – be kind to yourself.  It’s okay to move at your own pace.”  Then the teacher began to bark orders to the class:  “All right!  Lift this!  Jump here!  Run there!”  For a solid hour, she moved in ways she hadn’t moved in years and worked muscles that she didn’t know existed.  Even though she did go at her own pace, she felt quite slow and clumsy.  There were people in the class – at least ten years older – who did every exercise with the utmost grace and barely broke a sweat.  There were moments when she wanted to give up, moments when she felt poured out, but she kept going.  When she got done, she stopped in the locker room to wash her sweat streaked face – the words “be kind to yourself” ringing in her ears – and she said to herself, “This is the body that I have – the body I’ve been given – and I’m going to move it as best I can.”  For a moment, her beating heart swelled with pride and she wiped away a tear and smiled.

Jesus said, “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.”  (John 10:10)

Last week, I stood at a graveside, across the street, for a memorial service.  The man whose ashes we buried and his wife who had driven the ashes over from Maine had no children and no extended family.  There were just three of us there – a grave digger, a grieving widow, and I.  After the service ended, the wife talked to me about how hard the past several years have been – her husband’s illness and having to make big decisions alone.  She just needed to get some things off her chest – just needed someone to listen.  So, that’s what I did.  When she was done sharing, she breathed a big sigh – almost a sigh of relief –  thanked me, and went on her way.  The gravedigger and I stood there for a moment and I said, “Well, that was the smallest funeral I have ever been to.”  “Well,” he said, “there’s a first time for everything.”  I guess so, but it didn’t have to be that way.  

Jesus said, “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.”  (John 10:10)

John Robinson turns 100 years old today.  He is the oldest living member of our congregation and will be celebrating with friends and family this afternoon.  Of all of the conversations I have had with John, there is one that sticks out in my mind.  When he turned 95, I was visiting with him and his wife, Phyllis, in their small quiet home not far from here and I asked him to tell me about growing older.  What was it like to have lived 95 years?  “Well,” he said, “when I think about how I could have died on Iwo Jima, but didn’t, every day is a gift.”  Iwo Jima – the horrific battle for a small Pacific island in World War II – took place in 1945.  There have been a lot of days since then and not every one of them has been easy for John – especially when his son died of cancer and John’s wife was in declining health – but still, he could have died on Iwo Jima and every day is a gift.  John’s cup runneth over.  

Jesus said, “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.”  (John 10:10) 

When I spoke with Sarah Stone on Thursday of this week, she was in the hospital, waiting to feel bad.  The T-Cells that had been harvested from her body several months ago and sent to California to be reengineered to fight Sarah’s leukemia were injected back into Sarah’s body on Tuesday.  The way Sarah’s CAR-T treatment works, the reengineered T-Cells cells attack the leukemia cells.  Once the T-Cells go into attack mode, Sarah’s immune system will likely be thrown for a loop and she will start to feel sick – nausea, high fevers, chills, not remembering words – but this hopefully won’t last for long.  To get to this point, over the years, in order to develop this treatment, some leukemia patients did not survive the shock of this immune supernova.  Thankfully, scientists have settled on ways to lessen the negative effects of this.  And even though she will feel bad for a time and it will be so hard.  As of yesterday, Sarah still is feeling pretty good.  But more importantly, she feels blessed – by her family, and her church family, and friends, and staff at the hospital who gave her a red carpet welcome this past week.  Her cup runneth over.

Jesus said, “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.”  (John 10:10)

Jesus had just healed a blind man.  You would think that everyone would have celebrated this miraculous event.  But, because Jesus had healed the man on the Sabbath day – “working” on an official day of rest, and because this miracle was undeniable because the formerly blind man was well known to everyone in the area and it was clear that he was no longer blind, some of the local powers-that-be caused a big stink. The man and his family were questioned at length and doubt was cast upon Jesus and his motives.  But Jesus’ response – which we find in today’s scripture reading from John’s Gospel – was to make sure that people knew what his motives were. . . what his motives are.  

There are plenty of times when figures of speech are used in the Bible – metaphors and similes.  One of the most famous of these figures of speech is when God is referred to as a shepherd and we – God’s people – are referred to as sheep.  Now, as I look around the room, I don’t see any baa-baa sheep with wooly coats, but I do see people who long for a God who looks after them, protects them, and takes care of them like a shepherd who cares for sheep.  According to Jesus, there are those who are actively not seeking the wellbeing of God’s people – God’s sheep.  These so-called thieves and bandits, for example, are not interested in a man who was born blind being healed, or saved, or made whole in body or spirit.  But Jesus has come that we “may have life – a life of love, and peace, and wholeness – and have it abundantly.”

Now, it is important to note that when Jesus talks about “abundant life,” he does not mean that life will always be filled with abundance when it comes to money or material wealth.  There are so many in our world – from the poorest of the poor to those who are just one major car repair or missed mortgage payment away from financial ruin – who still live lives of abundant and amazing grace.  In the original language, “abundant life” is life that is “extraordinary, remarkable”[1] because this is what life can be when it is life lived in and through God’s grace.  

This is the life that the author of Psalm 23 sings about – a life in which God is present with us when all is well and life couldn’t be better and a life in which God is present with us even in – and through – death’s dark valley.  Because of God’s loving and tender care, we are blessed with an abundance of grace at all times and in all places.  Our cup runneth over.  

I feel like I do need to acknowledge, here, that it is one thing to say that we are blessed in all times and places because of God’s love, but it might not always feel this way.  We all have moments in which it feels like our cup is not running over – moments in which our cup is empty and we feel all dried up.  

Just prior to the famous “The Lord is my Shepherd. . . my cup overflows” (Psalm 23:1, 5) lines of Psalm 23, we have the slightly less famous – but maybe more true-to-life lines of Psalm 22:  “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me. . . I am poured out like water. . . my mouth is dried up like a potsherd, and my tongue sticks to my jaws.”  (Psalm 22:1, 14-15). “God, I am sick, and tired, and lonely.  Where are you?”  We should note that both Psalm 22 and Psalm 23 were likely written by the same person – David, the shepherd who became a king.  The unease and anxiety of Psalm 22 and the relief and comfort of Psalm 23 can both run concurrently in our lives, but – by God’s grace – hopefully the relief and comfort win out in the end.  

Sometimes, it is in going through the poured out and dried up seasons of our lives – walking through death’s dark valley – that God grants us the gracious perspective to appreciate the blessings we have been given – to appreciate just how extraordinary, and remarkable, and abundant life can be.  

Where and when is your life extraordinary, and remarkable, and abundant?  I’m sure there are stories you can tell about unexpected blessings, the gifts of love and hope and comfort given at just the right time, the time you found your way or God led the way through to a new beginning or a peaceful resolution, the time when all seemed lost or you were lost but somehow you made it home into God’s loving arms.  It might just have been a fleeting moment or a long and deep connection, but I hope that you have had one of those cup-runneth-over times, one of those abundant, extraordinary, and remarkable times in which you have known God’s blessing and love and care.  And I hope that you may have played a part in sharing some of God’s abundant life with someone else.  

When they got to church, they realized just how long it had been for them.  It had been a long three years – a long pandemic.  Some of the faces looked familiar but they couldn’t remember many names.  Someone different was sitting in the pew that they had always sat in before, so they had to find a different seat.  But when the music began, and the prayers were prayed, and the songs were sung, and the story was told, and the bread was broken, and the cup was poured, it felt like coming home.  And, at the end, after singing about God’s “Amazing Grace,” when someone they did not know looked at them and earnestly offered the Peace of Christ to them, it felt like heaven on earth.  

Jesus said, “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.”  (John 10:10). With God’s help, may we envision a church, and community, and world that is more loving, peaceful, and whole – a life that is more extraordinarily abundant – on earth as it is in heaven.  

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.  

[1] Walter Bauer, A Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament and Other Early Christian Literature (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1979) 651.

[seijorhi]

Fracture

i apologise in advance.

Miya Osamu x female reader

TW non-con, dub-con, psuedo-infidelity, referenced character death, angst, drunk reader, gaslighting, age gap, the slightest hint of nsfw

‘Yer still coming home for summer, right?’

How many weeks had your sister spent lovingly bullying you into coming down? How many hours had you spent listening to her gush over the phone about how excited she was?

And until about three months ago, you’d been excited too. 

Despite the ten or so years between the two of you, there was nobody on earth you loved more than your sister. When you were sixteen years old and your parents passed away in a car accident, she was the one who stepped up to take care of you, putting a roof over your head, making sure you ate, slept and kept up your grades, balancing two jobs to do it. 

And she grumbled and you fought, but she’s the only reason you managed to keep it all together enough to graduate high school, and when it came time for you to leave home for university, she was the one blinking back tears and loudly complaining about you ‘abandoning your poor older sister in her time of need’.

As if she hadn’t sat with you for hours, pouring over your options and gently nudging you in the direction of Tokyo. 

“It’s just a few hours away,” you’d told her. “I’ll come back and visit you all the time.”

There was truth to that. The first six months of uni, you came home every other weekend arms full of expensive textbooks and mountains of assignments to write, but then she met Osamu.

You’ve never seen anybody fall so hopelessly in love as quickly as she had. Miya Osamu may as well have hung the damn moon in the sky for how your sister looked at him. And you suppose you can’t really blame her; he was stupidly tall, broad shouldered and handsome. Even back then his restaurant was a wild success, the man was talented and clearly knew how to cook. Nice was the wrong word to describe him, but Miya Osamu was good, and so long as he made your sister happy, that was enough for you.

And it wasn’t like he was the one to drive you away. 

Osamu liked you – he let you camp out in his restaurant and work on your assignments when you desperately needed a change of scenery, stopping to humour you with conversation if it was quiet. He made you laugh, he was interesting, and the more your sister brought him around, the more you realised that you actually kinda liked the guy. 

Things were just easy between the two of you, you never had to pretend to be anything but what you were.

You were the one who started putting space between you and her. It wasn’t intentional, at least not on their part, but somewhere along the way you’d started to realise that Osamu wasn’t the odd one out anymore; you were. She was building a life with him, and fortnightly visits turned into monthly ones, and then eventually it became once every few months and after that only on holidays and special occasions – their wedding being one of them.

At Christmas, cheeks flushed with alcohol, she’d pulled you into a one armed hug, pouting into your sweater. “You never come visit us anymore,” she’d sniffled dramatically, “I miss you.”

But it was Osamu – fingers laced with your sister’s, a hint of a smile curling at his lips – who’d voiced it. “Come spend yer summer break with us.”

Three months later you’d awoken to a call telling you that there’d been an accident. Your sister was dead.

Weeks pass by in a blur. Your classes are a haze of droning voices and mindless typing, you submit papers you don’t remember writing and you get good marks anyway. Your friends don’t know how to act around you, everything feels surreal, like you’re moving around in a dream, nothing touches you anymore. It hurts, but you’ve wrapped up that pain and put it someplace safe, seeking it out only when you’re alone and you just can’t bear the numbness a second longer.

The trip you’d promised to take back home to Osaka is the furthest thing from your mind, at least until Osamu calls you in the early hours of the morning, a week or so before the semester ends.

“Yer still coming home for summer, right?”

The word ‘no’ lingers on the tip of your tongue. The last time you’d seen each other was at the funeral, his face blank and hollow, eyes rimmed in red. He’d barely spoken more than a few sentences to you, but he’d stayed by your side the entire time, calmly thanking those who came up to express their condolences. 

You’d lost your sister, but he’d lost his wife. 

“Do you still want me to?” you ask him quietly instead. If you were in his shoes, you’re not so sure that you would. 

Yet Osamu sighs heavily, and you catch a faint clinking sound on the other end of the line, like a bottle being set back against the marble countertop. “I just–” but he breaks off and something inside of your chest tugs. “I want ya here. The house is empty… she’s gone and I… I want ya here. Please.” 

How could you possibly say no after that? Maybe you’ve been selfish, so wrapped up in your own grief and misery. You’d assumed that because Osamu had Atsumu he’d be okay. Not right away, of course, but he’d have that support around him – a support system that you were without.

It didn’t enter your mind that perhaps he was struggling too. That he was spending night after night alone in a house etched with memories of her. And just as you’d thought that Tsumu was the one keeping his head above water, maybe he was offering a hand to do the same for you. 

—

He’s waiting for you on the porch when your taxi pulls up on the kerb. The driver’s nice enough to help you with your bags, but Osamu is quick to intercept, waving off the help with an impatient huff that almost makes you laugh.

“Yer here,” he says once he sets them down on the porch, grinning as he tugs you into a warm embrace.

It’s then that you get a good look at him, a proper look – and for a moment, you’re taken aback. You haven’t seen him since the funeral a few months back, granted, but Osamu doesn’t look the way you imagined him to – especially after your call the other night. There’s no hint of pallid skin, no bloodshot eyes with heavy bags underneath or a 5 o’clock shadow on his face. No, even with his dark hair still a mess, dressed in jeans and his Onigiri Miya tee, Osamu looks good. Healthy even, if the way the sleeves of his shirt cling to his biceps is any indication. 

It takes you a second to realise that you’re staring, because Samu chuckles, brushing past you to bring your stuff inside.

“Y’know, most people start with a hello,” he calls over his shoulder. 

Your cheeks heat, a hint of shame curling inside of you. Were you expecting him to be an inconsolable wreck? You know better than most that grief messes with people differently, and it’s not fair of you to judge him, however unintentionally, for not fitting that image of the grieving husband.

It’s a good sign. 

“Hi, Samu,” you reply somewhat sheepishly, following him inside.

He’s already walking towards your old bedroom, the ‘guest room’ now (though you and he both know it’s always been yours), leaving you to trail behind the older man. Your intention is to stop him from going to too much effort, but as you walk past the living room, something catches your eye.

Or rather, the absence of something. Faltering in your step, it takes you a second to realise what’s missing, but as you glance around, brows furrowing in confusion, it hits you. 

The pictures of you and your sister, the cute ones with her and Samu, the old family snaps that used to line the walls and sit on the TV unit, they’re gone. And it’s not just the pictures. The artwork your sister had painted that used to hang by the wall next to the kitchen, the little pot plants she’d doted on like children, hell, the throw that she’d knitted one winter that was always lying on the couch; they’re all gone.

The room feels almost alien without them, unfamiliar and cold. He’d hung up some cool photography stuff to fill in some of the spaces, but instead of homey it just felt… modern. Like the pictures you see in magazines of staged houses that nobody actually lives in. 

And you must have been standing there for a while, because you don’t notice it when Samu comes back to find you still holding your purse, gazing around like a lost child.

“I didn’t get rid of ‘em, if that’s what yer thinking.”

You turn to face him, except Osamu isn’t looking at you. He’s gazing at the walls around you both, his face strangely impassive – except for his eyes. It’s impossible for you to miss the hurt that swims there, the faint sheen they didn’t hold only moments ago. “I packed them away – they’re in yer room if ya want to look through any of it, it’s just…” he trails off, finally glancing back to look at you. And once again, you feel that flicker of guilt slowly eating away at you. “It was painful, seeing her face everywhere.”

Before you left your apartment that morning, you swore to yourself that you wouldn’t cry today – but the tears come unbidden, and one moment you’re standing there staring at him and the next you’re choking on a sob, hand coming to your lips to try and stifle it.

Osamu’s there in a second, solid arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest. He doesn’t say a word (what’s there to say anymore?) he just hums softly, stroking your back with a gentle hand as you fall apart once more.

—

It’s surprisingly easy for the two of you to fall into a rhythm. There’d been some part of you that was hesitant about this whole thing – despite having a relatively good relationship with your brother in law, you knew that the only real connection between the two of you was your sister.

Without her, living in the same space and trying to navigate around the holes that she’d left, you’d expected it to be at least a little awkward between the two of you. But with Osamu working full time, it was kind of a non-issue. Aside from the first day when he’d taken the morning off to help you get settled, he was usually gone before you woke up, and most nights he wasn’t home until nine or ten. How he worked such long hours six days a week without collapsing out of sheer exhaustion was beyond you, but you tried to make things easier for him, cooking dinner for the two of you.

“Y’know ya don’t have to do this every night, right?” he asks you one night, sticking the leftover chicken into the microwave. “I have a restaurant, I can sort out my own dinner.”

You don’t tell him that despite being a rather terrible cook, it was one of the things your sister made sure to do every night in the weeks following your parents’ death. You’d spend most of your day holed up in your room if you weren’t at school, but dinner was the one time you’d sit and talk with her. It became a ritual; something sacred and special between the two of you.

You’re a better cook than she was by far, no comparison for Osamu, of course, but it’s the only way you really know how to help with… whatever this is. 

Instead, you just offer him a wry look from your position on the couch, “And yet, you never do.”

He scoffs at that, a hint of a smirk curling at his lips, “Why would I eat there when I know yer cookin’ for me?”

—

Of course, as easy as it is to slip into living with Osamu, you can’t escape what happened there forever. 

It doesn’t slip your notice the first night you spend there; the spare toothbrush in your bathroom, the decidedly masculine body wash in the shower, or how one of the shelves in the vanity was stocked with shaving cream and cologne and a few odd skin care products. You’d assumed that they were Atsumu’s, spares stashed away for the odd nights he crashed here. There’s another bathroom off the master bedroom, so you know it can’t be Samu’s stuff.

Except you find yourself proven wrong one night, when fresh from your shower and clad only in a fluffy white towel, you open the door to find a shirtless Osamu filling the space, one arm propped up on the doorframe. 

“Anyone ever tell ya yer a bit of a bathroom hog?” he asks, smirking down at you.

And you’re so taken aback, utterly confused as to why he’s standing there half dressed, why it matters how long you take in the bathroom – never mind that the only thing covering you from complete nakedness is your towel – that you can only stand there, gaping like a fish as he laughs, takes you by the shoulders and physically shifts you out of the way as he slides on past.

It takes you until the following morning – Osamu’s sole day off – to ask him about it, clutching nervously at your cup of coffee while he busies himself making breakfast for the two of you. 

“Samu, um, about last night…” you timidly begin. 

He glances up at you from the stove, a single eyebrow raised. “What about it?”

Your cheeks are already burning, eyes darting between his face and the mug in your hands as you struggle to find the right words to bring it up without making things weird. “Well, I-I was just wondering… um, why you were using my bathroom?”

You’re not sure what kind of reaction that you’re expecting, but the dark look that flashes across his face isn’t it. For a split second, your insides clench, terrified that you’ve said the wrong thing–

But as quickly as it appeared, Osamu’s expression smooths over. He exhales heavily, setting down the spoon in his hand as he turns to face you properly, and when your eyes flicker up once more, you realise with a start that it’s pity that’s taken its place. 

And a second too late, the pieces inside your head fall into place.

“Oh.”

Osamu nods only once. “I can’t go in without seeing her lyin’ there… I thought ya knew.”

And it’s like all the air’s been sucked out of the room. She’d died in their bathroom – slipped on the wet tiles and cracked her head open on the edge of their bath, and Samu had been the one to find her. 

Weakly your eyes flutter shut, bitter nausea churning in your gut. How could he stay here, sleep in the next room when–

“Hey, hey, calm down, I gotcha,” Samu’s voice is at your ear, and your head’s spinning, pounding, and you can’t breathe. The mug in your hand tumbles to the floor, your coffee spilling across the wooden floorboards as weak fingers clutch at empty air, and then those arms are around you once more and Osamu’s trying to soothe you.

Breakfast is forgotten as he tugs you towards the couch to sit. And as he holds you, speaks to you in that calm, unwavering voice you try to focus on the scent of him (masculine and earthy, a hint of spice and cedar), the fabric of his shirt under your cheek and the gentle, almost lazy circles he rubs into your side and not the mental image of your sister, lying broken and bleeding on the bathroom floor.

—

It doesn’t take much effort to find the stash of your sister’s things that Samu set aside in your room. You lose hours flicking through pictures of her, smiling through your tears as they dredge up old, happy memories of the two of you.

Even the ones of her and Samu, his arms looped around her waist, resting his chin on the top of her head; she’s always wearing that bright grin that makes your heart ache.

There are a few of the three of you – one from the last time they’d come to visit you in Tokyo and you’d dragged them off to Disneyland. You’re standing between the two of them, beaming at the camera while Samu’s arm hangs off your shoulder and your sister, grinning widely and wearing the minnie mouse ears she’d bought at the first opportunity, tosses up a peace sign. 

Softly wiping away your tears, you set it aside. You’ll have to ask Samu if you can take that one home with you.

—

“What’re ya doin’ tomorrow?”

It’s late, and the two of you are sprawled out on the couch, watching TV with a bowl of snacks between you like the old days when he asks.

“Not much,” you reply. “I was going to go to the markets at some point in the morning and maybe head to the beach after that, why?”

Grey-ish brown eyes flicker across to you, “A few of my old teammates are in town, we’re meetin’ up for some drinks. I want ya to come with me.”

“Oh,” the word slips out before you can stop yourself. “Um, yeah… if you want?”

It ends up sounding more like a question, a fact that doesn’t slip past Osamu if the amused little snort he gives in response is any indication. And it’s not that you don’t want to give up your plans in favour of going with him; you get along pretty well with Atsumu and you’ve met most of his old teammates at least once or twice, it’s just that you’re a little confused as to why he’d want you there to begin with.

They’re all at least twelve years older than you, and while it occurs to you that maybe he’s just inviting you along to be polite (not that that’s ever been his style before) the last thing you want is to be stuck feeling like an afterthought, all but ignored as he and his friends catch up.

“I said I wanted ya there, didn’t I?” He doesn’t wait for a response, “‘sides, Tsumu already asked if you were comin’.”

Which is how you find yourself dressed up for the first time in months, fingers smoothing out the hem of your dress as Samu tosses you a lazy grin from the driver’s seat. “Relax, wouldja? They ain’t gonna bite.”

You know that. They’re good guys, but no matter how much rationalising you try to do, you can’t seem to quell the anxiety eating you up, and the frustrating thing is that you don’t know why you’re feeling it.

He’d neglected to tell you that they weren’t meeting at some bar or restaurant, but at Atsumu’s condo in the city (‘Showy fuckin’ bastard’ Samu’d huffed as he’d pulled up in front of the building), but you suppose it really doesn’t make much of a difference.

“Ya look good,” he compliments, eyeing you for a moment while the two of you wait for the elevator. 

Cheeks warming, you drop your gaze and stutter out a quiet thank you. Apparently unsatisfied, he leans closer, reaching one large hand up to gently ruffle your hair – grinning in satisfaction when you shriek and try to pry it away. “Relax,” he whispers again, the warmth of his breath tickling the bare skin of your neck. “Yer too wound up.”

Distracted by the arrival of the elevator, you fail to notice that instead of returning back to his side, his hand drops to your shoulder.

And it should be easier to do just that once you have a drink in hand. Atsumu greets you with a one armed hug, the only hint of anything out of the ordinary being the way his gaze lingers a beat too long as he studies your face, his eyes sharp and missing nothing. But whatever he sees (or doesn’t see) his expression softens into a smile, “Glad ya came.”

But even as you’re greeted by the others, falling into an easy conversation with Kita and Aran you can’t seem to shift the uneasiness in your stomach. There’s something in the air, a tension nobody really wants to admit to.

And you can’t quite tell if the others are surprised that Samu brought you at all, or if it’s just because you’re a living reminder of a tragedy that’s still fresh and raw, and everyone’s trying to pretend that it’s not. You don’t blame them for it, of course, they only mean the best. But you can see it in the way Suna side eyes you every now and then, how skilfully Akagi skirts anything that could touch a nerve when he comes up to chat.

It’s like they’re all walking on eggshells – though whether it’s for your benefit or Osamu’s, you’re not entirely sure. For his part, Samu sticks close, keeping your drink topped up, an arm slung over your shoulders as the afternoon wears into the evening. 

Yet despite that, the alcohol you’re drinking far too quickly starts to work its magic, filling your body with a warm, pleasant little buzz, and you actually start to enjoy yourself. You laugh easier, giggling when the twins start to bicker, gasping in wicked delight when Suna offers to show you certain embarrassing photos of both of them on his phone (he has quite the collection), even letting Gin and Tsumu drag you into taking shots with them.

And all the while, Samu watches you, a soft smirk playing at his lips.

—

By the time he unlocks the front door and you stumble back inside, you’re absolutely plastered, giggling at nothing and tripping over your own feet.

As always, Samu’s there to catch you, strong, muscular arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you flush against him. “Careful there, princess,” he laughs.

You grin up at him, carefree and heartbreakingly beautiful. For the first time in months you feel light, you feel amazing and you don’t want this to end. Kicking your heels off, you skip inside, leading him by the hand. “Samu,” you call back over your shoulder. “I wanna dance.”

“Nobody’s stopping ya.”

“But there’s no music,” you pout, and once again he chuckles, letting you go to settle back into the leather couch as he pulls out his phone. A moment later a familiar, lively melody floods the living room, and you let yourself become lost to it. It doesn’t matter that you’re drunk and dancing alone, Samu’s dark eyes following your every move, you’ve never felt so free.

Arms raised in the air, hips swaying hypnotically to the beat, you lose track of time. It could’ve been minutes or seconds or a whole hour, but suddenly you’re not alone anymore – Samu’s there with you. His cologne invades your senses, why does he always smell so good? His body’s warm, almost hot as he slots himself behind you, caging you against him. 

“Fuck, baby,” he growls, his voice sending shivers running down your spine. “Yer a little tease, ya know that?”

And there’s something wrong with that, you know there is, but you can’t seem to think of what it is – not when the weight of his hold’s impeding your movement. A pout adorns your face, a soft, almost petulant whine escaping your lips as you try in vain to untangle yourself, “Samu, lemme go. I wanna dance.”

He huffs out a laugh, but that doesn’t sound right either. “Don’t wanna dance with you, pretty girl.”

There’s something hard pressing against your lower back, and his hot breath ghosts over your neck a moment before lips descend to suck on the sensitive flesh.

In a split second, all that blissful, warm, drunken happiness evaporates. Samu groans lowly, his chest rumbling at your back, but there’s a pit of something cold and urgent that’s seeping through your veins, distant, foggy alarm bells tolling inside of your head and you don’t understand what’s happening, but you know that you don’t like it.

You want it to stop.

“S-Samu,” you whine, shifting uncomfortably against his hold. 

This time he listens, drawing back just enough that he can turn you around to face him. And those familiar eyes are hooded and dark, burning with an intensity that makes you want to recoil even as he stares down at you, taking your cheek in hand.

You don’t even realise that you’re crying until his thumb’s brushing away your tears. There’s nothing comforting or pleasant (nothing of the Samu you know) on his face as he studies your fearful expression, but eventually he lets out a heavy sigh.

“She was positive I was cheatin’ on her,” he admits. “Did she ever tell ya that?” He pauses for a beat waiting for a reply, but when it’s clear that you don’t have one for him, he just scoffs, “No, ‘course not. That’d be admitting that not everything about our life was picture perfect, and heaven fuckin’ forbid we do that. Y’know, that's why she wanted ya back here so bad. She needed a buffer.”

Bitterness clings to every word like poison and you flinch, renewing your struggles to get away. Not that he lets you – the moment you start to squirm the arm around your waist tugs you closer, anchoring you against him. The tears come faster, followed by soft, hiccuping sobs, but Samu seems beyond caring at that point.

“Stupid bitch never could see what was right in front of her face. That’s what we were fightin’ about that night; she said she was gonna leave me.”

Your heart clenches, fear pooling in your gut, but Samu just smiles at you, a mockery of sweet tenderness, reaching back to tuck a stray lock of your hair behind your ear. “But you know I’d never hurt my pretty girl, don’t ya, baby?” he asks. “Just want a taste tonight.”

You don’t even have time to suck in a breath before he’s kissing you, cradling the back of your head as his mouth moves hungrily against yours.

And all you can taste is the whiskey on his tongue.

—

You can’t tear your eyes away from your reflection in the mirror, the faint, reddish blemish colouring your neck.

A hickey.

Tentatively, as if trying to prove that it’s real and not a figment of your imagination, you prod at the mark, only to wince at the tenderness. Definitely real.

You’d woken up to an empty house – unsurprising considering it was well past ten and you knew Osamu had work today – with your head pounding and your mouth uncomfortably dry. Wracking your brain, you can’t seem to conjure up a rational explanation for the bruise. Granted, you can’t really remember much of last night, only fragments of being at Atsumu’s place, and certainly nothing after you’d started taking those shots.

Which doesn’t make the uneasiness sitting heavy in your stomach any easier to take, because you know that you hadn’t been cosying up to anybody before you’d lost track of the night, and if it had happened after, then surely Samu or one of the others would have stepped in and put a stop to it.

And that should’ve been more of a comforting thought than it was, because if it didn’t happen at Atsumu’s then that meant it happened afterwards, when you were here with Samu.

Your heart thumps unevenly against your ribs.

Osamu. Your dead sister’s husband, your brother in law. 

A hickey on your neck isn’t just a kiss. It’s not a simple, drunken peck against your lips, it meant that somebody had sucked on the skin, bitten at it, kissed until blood vessels broke – it’s not the kind of thing that happens accidentally. 

A wave of nausea threatens to overtake you, and you barely manage to make it to the bathroom before you’re violently emptying the contents of your stomach into the porcelain bowl. And you know as you collapse onto the cool tiled floor, shaking just a little, that this time at least, the alcohol isn’t to blame.

You know Samu; you trust him implicitly. Whatever happened, it must have been a mistake or something. You’d both been drinking, and he’s still grieving and–

There’s no point jumping to conclusions or working yourself up any more than you already have. You’ll just bring it up with him when he gets home, you decide. 

Yet anxiety and guilt gnaw at you as the hours crawl by, you’re half tempted to pick up your phone and just call him to ask point blank. The clock feels like it’s mocking you every time you glance up, and while you try your best to distract yourself with household chores and then busying yourself with dinner, none of it works for long.

By the time he does stride through the door, a little before ten, you’re an anxious wreck, all but wringing your fingers as you sit rigid and tense at the table. Most nights you eat before he gets home, hunger getting the better of you, but tonight you don’t seem to have much of an appetite. 

“Smells good,” he comments with an easy grin, toeing off his shoes and dropping his wallet and keys by the door.

You open your mouth, but the words seem to get stuck in your throat as he drops a kiss down on the top of your head and walks on past to grab a bowl from the kitchen.

“I’m starving.”

Instead, you just swallow nervously as he pulls out the seat next to you and sits, not wasting another second before digging in. Your eyes quickly dart over to study him, but you don’t see any hint of guilt or unease on his face. He just looks like the same old Samu, a little tired maybe, but otherwise totally normal, and so you force yourself to pick up your spoon and follow suit. 

And he’s never been one to fill silences with meaningless chatter, but tonight the quiet between the two of you feels oppressive, every clink of metal against ceramic echoing too loudly, every chew, every swallow setting you on edge. You can’t even taste the food, your stomach too twisted in knots for you to feel anything but nauseous after a few bites. 

“… Is everything okay?” he asks after a few minutes, and it’s so sudden amongst the tense silence that you visibly jerk, almost dropping the spoon you’d been toying with. 

You glance up to find him staring, brows furrowed in concern, and once again your stomach flips. It’s now or never.

“Um… did anything happen last night?” you ask, your voice barely more than a whisper.

Osamu’s frown deepens fractionally, and he tilts his head as your fingers twist in your lap, “What d’ya mean?”

Did we kiss? The words dangle on the tip of your tongue, but as you nervously meet his eyes, you find nothing but confusion and concern there. And for a moment, you almost speak them, but then Samu’s reaching across the table to take your hand in his, and as his warm palm swallows up yours, you lose your nerve.

“You sure yer okay?”

Whatever happened, he doesn’t remember it and neither do you. 

Smiling tightly, you nod. “Yeah, it’s nothing. Nevermind.”

There’s no reason for you to drag him through the mud for this, you’re already feeling enough guilt and shame for the both of you.

—

You try to put it out of your mind, but it’s not that easy.

Lying awake in bed at night, your brain unwittingly turns over possibilities of what else could’ve caused the mark if not Osamu. Guilt gnaws at you every second that you’re around him and all the while he’s painfully oblivious to it all.

He’s always been affectionate with you, but all those stray, unthinking touches now carry a different weight with them. You find yourself ducking away from them more often than not, pretending that you don’t see the almost wounded look in those greyish-brown eyes when you do. You start to avoid him, finding other places to be whenever he’s home.

And you hate yourself for it, because Osamu’s been nothing but faithful to your sister for as long as you’ve known him. You’re the one acting like there’s something wrong between the two of you, like he’s treating you any differently than he always has when you know that’s not the case.

You know that, but when you catch sight of the fading bruise in the mirror, your stomach twists into knots all the same. 

There are excuses and justifications aplenty, but none of them make you feel any better. You still find yourself sniffling into your pillow, swallowed up by your guilt when you imagine how devastated your sister would be if she knew.

You’d let her husband kiss you. Being drunk and miserable and grieving didn’t change that. Whether he knew it was you or mistook you for her; it doesn’t matter. Maybe it was a mistake, letting him talk you into coming.

Things were still too raw, too fresh. You’d thought that coming here would help, but so far it’s only made everything worse, and unintentionally or not, you can’t kid yourself that your presence is doing anything to help Osamu anymore.

You need to go back to Tokyo.

Somewhat selfishly, you’re tempted to put it off until the weekend, because you know that Onigiri Miya has a stall for the beginning of the summer festival and he’ll be too preoccupied with that to think about anything else – but you just can’t bring yourself to do that to him. 

No, it’s better to rip it off like a bandaid; nice and quick. 

You’d planned on breaking the news over dinner, but as you pick your way through your noodles, you notice that Samu’s quieter than he usually is. Every time you risk a glance up he’s staring at the table, looking entirely lost in thought, and it just doesn’t feel like the right time to bring it up.

Tomorrow, you decide, you’ll cook his favourite for dinner and tell him then.

—

The knocking startles you from your sleep with a jolt. It’s quiet, hesitant almost, but you’ve always been a light sleeper.

“Samu?” you croak out, fumbling blindly for the phone at your bedside to see what time it is. 

The door opens, a crack of light from the hallway spilling into your room as Osamu looks in. “Sorry,” he murmurs, “I know it’s late, but I need to talk to ya ‘bout somethin’.”

He’s shirtless, clad only in a pair of cotton pyjama pants, but he doesn’t look to be in any immediate kind of trouble. Still, he wouldn’t have disturbed you in the middle of the night if it wasn’t something important, so you blearily wipe the sleep from your eyes and force yourself to sit up as he slips into your room and shuts the door behind him.

“What’s wrong?”

He hasn’t bothered to turn on the light, and even with the moonlight streaming in through your window, his face is cast in shadow as he takes a seat on the edge of your bed. And it’s silly, especially considering he’s the one who’s shirtless right now but it’s hard not to flush at the realisation that you’re only wearing a thin, satiny slip. You feel almost naked – he’s seen you in bikinis before, but it feels different here, when he’s the one in your bedroom.

“You asked me the other day about what happened the night we went to Tsumu’s,” he begins, his voice quiet and soft in the early hours of the morning, and suddenly your state of dress is the last thing on your mind. 

Swallowing tightly, your pulse quickens and you still, waiting for him to continue.

And you feel, rather than see, the way he stares at you, inching a fraction closer when you don’t immediately answer. “And I lied. Or I didn’t exactly tell ya the full truth.”

“Which is?” you force out.

Samu’s shoulders rise and fall as he takes a deep, slow breath in and exhales heavily. “You were drunk and ya came onto me, tried to kiss me.” You flinch, a choked sound escaping your throat at the blunt admission, but he’s quick to reach for you, his hand coming to rest on your knee, squeezing it reassuringly. “And in the heat of the moment, I let ya.”

Hot tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but the moment you try to turn away from him, biting your lip and trying to blink back the tears, he stops you. 

“Osamu–”

“‘Cause I’ve spent years waiting to kiss those lips, an’ I’m tired of pretending we both don’t want this.”

And he’s kissing you; soft and sweet and gentle, his lips molding to yours as he cups the back of your neck. You wonder if he can feel your pulse racing under his fingertips as he draws himself closer, groaning into your mouth.

It doesn’t matter that your hands are on his bare chest, pushing at him, hitting him – those muscles aren’t just for show; he’s immovable. The more you squirm, trying to extricate yourself so that you can plead with him to stop–

This is a mistake. A horrible, awful misunderstanding. He’s upset and grieving and not thinking clearly and you have to stop this.

He doesn’t know what he’s saying.

– the more his grip tightens until it starts to hurt and you’re whimpering into the kiss. Your tears are wetting his cheeks, but he doesn’t care, won’t stop and there’s a panic that rises within you every second that you’re entangled with him.

“Don’t do this,” he mutters, breaking the kiss as a sob rips its way free from your throat, “Don’t pretend ya don’t want this, baby. I know ya do. Stop being a little fuckin’ tease.”

He leans back in, intent on capturing your lips again, and in an act of desperation you reach for his face, cradling his cheek in your hand. “Samu, please,” you beg, wide, imploring eyes searching his face for any hint of a reprieve. “You’re scaring me. Stop, please, j-just for a second.”

Just a second, that’s all you need to try and snap him out of whatever the hell this is. One second. 

Osamu stills, his face mere inches from your own, his body hovering atop yours. His breath, ragged and uneven, ghosts over your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake, but you don’t dare move as he leans into the touch, grey eyes fluttering shut.

He sighs, the sound almost like a shiver. “Ya don’t need to be scared, ‘m gonna take good care of my girl.”

He doesn’t give you the chance to say anything else, not as he forces himself onto you once more. You used to marvel a little at Osamu. Tall, handsome and strong, even in his mid thirties; Samu was fit. Now, straddling your waist, pinning your wrists to the wall with one hand, the other palming at your tits, he dwarfs you entirely. He isn’t impatient, not as he kisses you languidly, not as he slides the soft, satin up your thigh, revealing your underwear.

Your hiccuping sniffles aren’t enough to move him, you’re not strong enough to physically fight him off. He doesn’t pay the tearful, breathless pleas sobbed out between kisses any mind. 

Osamu grabs you by the waist and flips you onto your front, lips brushing at the nape of your neck as he smooths your hair back, and you’re utterly helpless to stop him. 

And as his hand runs down your side and he coaxes your hips up into the air, you almost wish that he was rough. Because this pretense of gentleness, glinting steel masquerading as silk – it’s too intimate, and you feel complicit.

Like you’re willing.

Like you want this with him.

An act of love as he tugs your panties down to your knees and hums in quiet satisfaction at the sight of your bare cunt, glistening just for him.

There’s a voice in your head telling you you should be screaming and kicking and snarling like a wild, feral thing, but Osamu’s grabbing at your ass, spreading it to get a better look, his thumb gliding along your slit and all you can think about is the picture he’d packed away, the one of the three of you at Disneyland. 

Samu’s arm slung over your shoulder, and your sister’s bright smile.

He spits; a warm, fat glob of saliva hitting your pussy, and as it slowly dribbles down the only sound that leaves your lips is a soft, broken whine. You don’t fight him when he takes his cock in hand and guides the flushed head, pre-cum already oozing at the tip, along your cunt, you just lie there, a toy for him to move and manipulate however he wants.

“You’ll forgive me for this, I know ya will,” he murmurs, softly squeezing your hip just once as something thick and blunt presses at your entrance. 

But it doesn’t matter, not as his cock sheaths itself inside of you with one hard, brutal thrust, because you’re not sure you’ll ever be able to forgive yourself.

[mypoisonedvine]

𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫 || dark!Bucky Barnes & dark!Steve Rogers x reader

summary: a little fresh air never hurt anyone, right?

word count: 10.3k (yes, OVER TEN THOUSAND WORDS OF FILTH what is wrong with me)

warnings: noncon smut (incl. anal, oral m and f receiving, dp, and spitroasting), bondage/restraint (and a gag), some mild violence, lots of slapping, pussy spanking, forced orgasms, degradation/derogatory language, kinda kidnapping, a touch of stockholm syndrome?, very brief breeding kink, period-typical sexism (this is set in the late 60s but you wouldn't really be able to tell aside from that and the lack of technology)

a/n: the song that plays on the radio, and the song that just so happens to be the title of the fic, is by john lee hooker in case anyone wants the proverbial vibes

You needed a chance to clear your head every once in a while, that's what camping in the woods was for.  It was the perfect time of year for it, too; the leaves were changing, the woodland animals were beginning to prepare for hibernation, and the weather was almost warm with a refreshing breeze that promised to bring the winter chill soon enough.

It was far from your first time in these woods, you knew the drive like the back of your hand by now, just as well as you knew how to hike down to the best places to set up camp.  

You set down your pack and took in a deep breath of the crisp autumn air.  No sounds except for the wind in the trees, the trickle of the creek, and your own thoughts which you found pleasantly blank.  You'd chosen a spot by the creek, where you could spearfish on evenings that you felt especially adventurous, with a nice dirt patch perfect for a fire.  The most dangerous thing about camping in the fall was that the dry leaves could catch flame so easily, so one of the key stages of setting up camp was raking away any foliage from your firepit, lest it become unintentional kindling.

The next order of business was finding a few dozen smooth stones to surround the fire, along with some logs and sticks to burn.  

A knife and flint was just enough to speed up your firebuilding so that you had something solid going by nightfall, shedding your jacket to better feel the warmth as the flames grew and the sun set.

Sure, the woods could feel a little… creepy, at night, for lack of a better word, but it was more tranquil than anything.  Most of the wildlife that was so active during the day stilled and silenced, bar the occasional owl’s hoot, so the loudest sounds were the crackling of your fire and the ever-present trickle of the creek.  You heated your kettle for a cup of chamomile tea, something to help you get to sleep on the admittedly uncomfortable sleeping bag in your canvas tent.

The mug warmed your fingers as you filled and held it, and the steam warmed your face as you took a sip; but the contents warmed your chest, and your soul, as you contemplated the flavors; is it possible that tea tastes better when enjoyed in the quiet woods, mid-autumn?

You were already yawning by the time the mug was finished, so you set it aside and crawled into your tent, shedding the excessive layers and slipping between the fluffy down-stuffed layers of your bedroll.  It was chilly at first but you knew your body heat would make it toasty all too soon, so you ignored the way you shivered as you fluffed your pillow and laid it under your head.

It was dark with only the fading light of your fire seeping in through the thick-weave canvas; and it was quiet, being the middle of the forest and all.  One sound you didn’t expect were distant sirens, barely audible, which made you wonder if something had happened, but you couldn't know what so you didn't pay it much mind as you drifted to sleep.

The next morning came early, of course; as early as the sun rose, warm sunlight flooding through the canvas of your tent.

You enjoyed staying in the bed for a while, not so much because it was very comfortable (it wasn’t) but just because you wanted to relish having no need to get up yet.  No job, no cleaning, no chores… though you were pretty hungry so that inspired you to get up and see about breakfast.

Slipping on a few more layers to protect yourself from the morning breeze, you opened your tent and stepped out into the woods, finding your fire had been reduced to a pile of embers meaning that you would need to find more wood to get it going for breakfast-cooking purposes.  And that’s what you were about to do when you heard a snapping of twigs echo through the woods, making you glance up to the source of the noise.

Your back straightened instantly at the sight of two men, one with short blonde hair and the other’s dark and nearly to his shoulders, walking down the hill nearby just across the creek.  They were still pretty distant, and yet they were much too close for comfort; close enough to see that these were not men one would want to encounter while alone in the woods.

They had new clothes— baggy and loose, almost certainly stolen— but it wasn’t enough to hide where they must’ve come from.  They might as well have still been in jumpsuits with numbers on their chests.

The prison, just over five miles away.  Had they really hiked this far?  You kicked yourself now for ignoring the sirens last night.

You froze as they turned and caught your gaze, the three of you locked in a stare for a brief moment before one of them took a step forward: that was all the cause you needed to run like hell, turning on your heel and starting so fast you nearly slipped on the leaves beneath you.  You heard them call out, chasing after you, but you focused on staring ahead and trying to remember the path back home, or at least to the road where someone might drive by to help you.

A root nearly caught your foot but you kept running, hating that you could hear them gaining on you since it didn’t actually seem to help you run any faster.  You looked back and saw them much too close for comfort, but when you looked back ahead it was too late to avoid the tree right in front of you; you swerved but it still made you slip and almost fall.

But you didn’t fall.  Someone caught you, and grabbed you, and pulled you into his oppressive form.

His arms held you painfully tight as his hand covered your mouth.  "Gotcha," the man growled against your ear, licking the shell of it as you struggled against his grip.  

Everything everyone had told you about why a lady shouldn’t camp alone in the woods suddenly flashed in your mind, your eyes squinting shut as you wished you had listened.  All you could do now was kick wildly, swinging your legs in the air which didn't even do anything.

"Pretty little thing, aren't ya?” he purred as you saw the second man come into view— the blonde one, so you knew it was the one with long, dark hair that must’ve been holding you, giving you such a twisted compliment.  “Just beggin' to be fucked right."

"Don't look so scared, sweetheart, we're not gonna hurt you…” the blonde man explained, “just play nice and we will too."

"Speak for yourself, Rogers," the man holding you snarled.  "Been a long time since I got to feel a pussy, I wanna tear this little bitch up."

You sobbed and writhed as the one apparently called Rogers hushed you soothingly, trying to calm you.  "Hey, just do what we say and it won't hurt alright?  Just take it easy."

He stepped closer, reaching out towards you while you grunted and whined with every kick, smiling in a way that would’ve been soothing in nearly any other situation.  He motioned to his partner who slowly lowered his hand from your mouth, and though your instinct was to scream you just heard yourself panting and whimpering instead.

“Did you hear me?  We’re not gonna hurt you.  We haven’t even introduced ourselves yet… I’m Steve, and this here is my cellmate— uh, friend— Barnes.”

“But you can call me Bucky, dollface,” the man behind you added with a little smile that you could hear and feel with him pressing up so close to your face.

“See, he and I just came from an awful, terrible place—”

“I know where you came from,” you cut him off with a snarl.  “You’re criminals!  You’re scum!”

Bucky just laughed and held you tighter until your arms started to ache from struggling against him.  

“Hey now, you don’t know what you’re talking about,” Steve corrected firmly— not angry, but stern.  “I was framed, I served seven years for something I didn’t do.  You’re innocent, too, right Barnes?”

“No,” he instantly answered, making Steve look disappointed.  “Oh, uh, sure.  Yeah, I was framed.  Real sob story,” he suddenly decided, not sounding like he was trying that hard to convince you.

“Point is, we were all alone for a long, long time, and we thought maybe you’d wanna be nice and take care of us, huh?” Steve offered.

“Fuck you,” you hissed.

“That’s sort of the idea,” Bucky whispered playfully.

“Let me go,” you demanded as Steve’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared, anger finally coming out when he suddenly grabbed your chin and held your face to look up at him.

“Let me make one thing very fucking clear,” he explained, nearly whispering so you were forced to stay still and quiet to hear him.  “You don’t get to pick what you want.  But you get to pick if you’re gonna make this easy, or difficult.”

You spat in his face; he slapped you for that, so hard that your ears rang for a moment while he grimaced and wiped his face with his sleeve.

“Difficult it is,” he announced with ill-restrained loathing, coming even closer as Bucky covered your mouth again to muffle your screams of protest.  “Buck, I’m goin’ first.”

“Fuck you, pal, I was in longer and I saw her first,” Bucky replied frustratedly.  “I’m not gonna take long anyway, you can go after me.”

“I just got spit in my face!” Steve reminded him.  “And the breakout was my idea!”

“Your idea?!” Bucky repeated incredulously.  “What, you think you’re the first guy to think ‘hey, what if we just left prison?’ because trust me, if it wasn’t for my screwdriver—”

Their argument caused Bucky’s focus to slip, that must have been why the hand on your mouth loosened and you could speak again.

"You won't get away with this, my father's a sheriff!" you yelped, interrupting their negotiation.

They both laughed darkly and you instantly regretted saying it.

"Oh, sweetheart, your old man's a cop?  That's too bad,” Steve sighed.  “You know what they say: sins of the father…"

"Fuck the daughter,” Bucky finished with a cold, hollow laugh as he suddenly bit down on your ear making you wince and shudder, tears streaming down your cheeks already.

He tossed you down and pinned you to the ground, his strong, heavy body on top of yours knocking the wind out of you as he began to tear at your clothes and, annoyingly, not seeming to find them much trouble at all.  You whimpered when you felt your pants torn down your legs, hating how exposed and vulnerable you felt, hating the undeniable fact that you couldn’t stop this.

You tried to get up when he reached down to open his belt and jeans, but Steve’s boot came down on your shoulder and held you still again.  Bucky was rushed and brutal as he pushed his pants down and pressed his cock against your ass, guiding it between your legs as you hissed and tried not to think about what was about to happen.

He pulled back briefly to spit on your hole, spreading the forced wetness with the head of his cock before suddenly pushing into you as you gasped and choked on a sob.

"Oh, that's it baby,” he groaned, “scream if you want, nobody can hear you but us."

Already he was thrusting with wild abandon, his hips slapping into your ass as his hot breath came down against your ear and neck, his face pressing yours into the cold ground.

"Fuuuuuck,” he moaned lowly, “so tight, Jesus Christ… fuckin' missed this, went almost ten years without burying my cock in a wet little cunt like this.  Shit, it's even better than I remember."

You just cried and bit down on nothing, pain making violent shivers run up your spine as the width of him split you open, pushing deeper than you’d known anything could go.

Each thrust seemed somehow rougher and deeper than the last, pushing you further past your limits, making your toes curl inside your boots.  He was unabashedly using your body, treating you with less care than some men might a blow-up doll, moaning loudly as he split you open with every moment.

So why did it almost begin to feel good, now that the worst of the pain had faded?  Why was the ridge of his cock brushing over your g-spot just right each time he moved?

He pinned more of his weight on you as he changed his angle slightly, enough to add just that much more brutality to every stroke, the loud slapping of skin echoing through the desolate trees.  You could tell he wasn’t lying about how long he’d been celibate in prison, because he fucked you with every ounce of pent-up frustration, hissing through his teeth and holding you tight enough to bruise.

Everything he did, he did enough to bruise.

“Yeah, take it, bitch,” he moaned when you made a particularly pained noise.

“I thought you said you weren’t gonna take long,” Steve remembered, staring down at the two of you from where he was leaning against a tree with his arms crossed.  

“I’m almost done, you waited this long you can wait five more minutes,” Bucky dismissed, voice a little strained as he kept fucking you.

“Just stop and give me a turn and then you can get back to it,” Steve suggested.

“Nah, no fuckin’ way,” Bucky laughed, “feels way too good to stop.  Trust me, Stevie, this pussy’s worth the wait.”

“Get her on her knees then,” Steve instructed as he came closer to you and kneeled in front of your face; Bucky manhandled your hips into place while Steve pulled your hair until you yelped and brought your head up.  “I wanna fuck this pretty little throat.”

He cut off your protests with another hard slap to your cheek, tugging your hair again as you struggled to hold yourself up on shaking arms.

“Gonna teach this mouthy bitch a lesson,” he explained as he hit you again before using one hand to open his belt and jeans.  “You know what’s gonna happen if you try to bite me, right?  I’ll just knock you out and fuck your throat anyways.  So you’d better make it good if you wanna breathe.”

You tried your best to nod with his fist tugging your hair, gasping slightly when he pulled his cock out and stroked it right in front of your face.  

“Come on, baby, open up— this is the most you’ve kept your mouth shut all day,” he laughed, tapping the swollen head of his cock on your lips until you finally opened them.  The flavor of his skin on your tongue made your lips curl in disgust but he held your jaw and pushed deeper, quickly hitting the back of your throat.  “Fuck, so warm… come on, suck it, make it good for me.”

“She’s gettin’ wet,” Bucky informed Steve with a chuckle.  “She likes it— don’t you, little whore?” he prompted as he slapped your ass suddenly, making you cry out around Steve’s length.  “You like choking on a cock like you deserve?”

You made some sort of gurgling sound, and apparently they took it as a ‘yes.’

"Aw yeah, fuck, gonna fill up this little cunt,” Bucky promised.  Funny thing is, you weren't sure if "this little cunt" meant your hole, or you.

“You’d better not, m’supposed to go after you,” Steve reminded him.

“Fuck, I dunno if I have the heart to pull out,” Bucky admitted with a laugh, slapping you on the ass to make your walls suddenly clench around him.  “I know a sweet body like this just needs to be bred.”

Your sob was louder around where Steve’s girth stretched your lips, making Bucky laugh darkly.

"Oh shit honey, what would Daddy Sherriff say if he found out you got knocked up by a couple'a criminals, huh?  By murderers?"

Steve pulled his cock out just enough to let you sob weakly before shoving back in and penetrating your throat.

"Yeah, you like it don't you?” Bucky continued to taunt you.  “You like being bred by some strangers who caught you in the woods… dirty bitch."

Steve's head fell back as he started to thrust into your mouth faster and harder, the base of his cock flexing against your tongue.  You assumed it was a sign that he was close and it made you hopeful that this would be over soon, but he suddenly pulled out with an exhausted laugh.

"Oh no you don't," he breathed, "not gonna come yet, still need to feel that tight little pussy of yours… if Bucky would hurry the fuck up."

"Fuck, I'm close, I'm close," Bucky rasped.  "Shit, babydoll, this wet cunt is gonna make me come, aren't you so proud?"

Steve held your mouth open and rubbed his cock on your tongue, occasionally shoving two fingers in with it which were salty with his sweat. 

"Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck," Bucky hissed, "oh god, fuck, I'm—!"

He pulled out suddenly, rubbing his cock against your clit as his seed shot onto the ground beneath you.  You sighed with relief although you hated the way your body was actually disappointed, craving more and clenching around nothing in protest.

Bucky was hardly even finished when Steve reached under your arms to pull you up and flip you onto your back, groaning as he settled between your legs and rubbed his cock over your folds.  He didn't waste any time pushing into you, and apparently being fucked by Bucky wasn't enough to warm you up for Steve because you hissed at the sting as he filled you.

"Fuck," Steve mumbled as he grabbed your wrists and pinned them down beside your head.  Already he had begun to pull back only to spear into you again, reaching deeper inside you than Bucky had until you were gasping and choking on nothing.

Bucky stood up and stepped back, pulling his jeans up as he watched you two on the ground.

"You got any cigarettes back at camp, sweetheart?" Bucky asked you, and it was hard to focus on his question but you shook your head.  "Damn," he breathed, pondering for a moment before coming up with his next question.  "You got any candy bars?"

"Do you mind?" Steve hissed, still thrusting into you— a bit slower than Bucky but not exactly more gentle.  "We're kind of busy here."

"No, I don't particularly mind," Bucky smirked.

"Can't you just entertain yourself for a few minutes while I finish this?"

"Why should I entertain myself when I've got this pretty little thing to entertain me?" Bucky smirked, kneeling down beside you as Steve buried his face in the crook of your neck.  "Wanna help me out here, dollface?  I'm still hard…"

He freed one hand from Steve's grip and brought it up to the front of his jeans so you could feel the hard bulge there.  He opened them for you, reaching in and pulling his hard cock out to wrap your hand around it.

Feeling the thickness of it in your palm now, you couldn't imagine how it ever fit inside you.

"Yeah, that's it, I'll teach you how to stroke it right…" he groaned.  "You know how many times I had to do this to myself, just imagining claiming a little slut like you?  Your hands are so much softer, sweetheart…"

His hand tightened around yours and guided every movement, which was good because you had no chance of focusing on anything while Steve was slamming into you and moaning right by your ear.

"So wet," he whispered to you, "so warm.  All mine…"

You felt your insides grip him harder and he smiled, lips tickling your sensitive skin.

"Yeah, you like bein' mine.  You like being owned, I can feel it.  I can feel that this is exactly what you needed.  Is that what you were hoping for when you came out to these woods all by yourself?  That a big strong man would show up and stretch out this pussy?  Well I'm here now, angel, and I'm just about ready to fill you up real good."

A few more thrusts, faster and harder than ever, were enough to send Steve over the edge as you felt each pulse warm you from the inside out.  Steve groaned loudly and buried himself as deep as he could possibly go, painting his come right onto your cervix while you gasped at the sensation.

Bucky stopped moving your hand and looked down at Steve.  "Are you fucking serious— did you just come inside?"

Steve took a moment to catch his breath before answering: "duh."

"How come you get to come inside but I don't, huh?"

"Cause I went second!"

"Yeah, that's some bullshit," Bucky scoffed.

"Will you just leave now, please?" you whimpered weakly from the ground.  "You got what you wanted, now just go."

"Oh, sweetheart, we are nowhere near done with you," Steve promised, sighing as he pulled out of you slowly.

You wanted to try to get up, but your limbs were weak and numb, and your head heavy with confusion.  It made it easy for Bucky to scoop you up and carry you back the way you'd run, your tent quickly coming into view which made you realize how pitifully short your chase had been.

“Looks big enough for the three of us,” Steve noted as he tilted his head to look at your camp.

“We’re not going in yet, I think somebody needs a little creek bath first,” Bucky smiled as he started to set you down on your shaky legs.  “Go ahead and strip, doll.”

You shivered, considering resistance but deciding it wasn’t worth the trouble as you started to peel off your shirt and jacket, then your boots and slightly torn leggings.

They both smiled and watched you, Bucky snorted a little when he saw how hard your nipples were.  “It’s chilly,” you defended meekly.

“Sure it is,” he nodded, “don’t stop, get in the water when you’re done.”

You nodded slightly as you tossed the clothes aside, trying to cover yourself with your arms as you slowly walked into the stony creek, wishing the water weren’t so clear so it would cover you better.

You made a weak attempt to clean yourself, watching goosebumps cover your skin from the cool water.

"Wash yourself up good,” Bucky instructed firmly.  “I don't want any of Rogers' jizz still in you when I take that pussy again."

With a grimace, you washed between your legs and winced when your touch reawakened the sting of soreness there.

“You’re gonna have to push it out, honey, it’s real deep,” Steve grinned pridefully.

You did your best to clean up, not for Bucky’s benefit but for your own, because you hated how it felt to have Steve’s spend still within you.

“How am I supposed to dry off?” you asked nervously as you looked around, knowing you hadn’t brought a towel as you hadn’t really planned on a full creek bath during your trip.  You hadn’t planned on any of this during your trip, shockingly enough.

“You can drip dry,” Steve suggested.

“So you want me to stand naked in the cold for an hour while I dry?” you realized, irritated but still scared.

“Something like that,” Bucky confirmed.  “Unless you want us to keep you warm…”

“I’ll freeze,” you decided, stepping out of the water as Bucky snatched your clothes away to make sure you couldn’t dress.  “Gimme those!”

“Come and get ‘em,” he challenged, leaving you to huff and cross your arms, teeth chattering as the wind picked up.

You couldn’t imagine why they cared so much about testing your will when they’d already proven that they could take you however they wanted.  Perhaps it was just that they wanted to know you’d accepted that.  Better yet, they probably hoped you would participate willingly if you understood that you never had a choice.

Closing your eyes didn’t help, you could still feel their hungry gaze on you; rubbing yourself with your hands didn’t help because it just spread the cold water around on your skin, rather than actually warming you up.

It was probably less than a minute but it felt like half an hour before you relented, walking up to Bucky and looking down to avoid his stare as you meekly requested, “can I have my clothes, please?”

“But I can think of so many better ways to keep you warm,” he whispered as he wrapped his arms around you, Steve moving behind you to press his chest against your back.  You sighed with relief because even this was already making you feel better,  the warmth of their bodies taking out some of the chill while their size blocked you from the wind.  You mewled, ever so quietly, when you felt Bucky’s lips on your neck, your eyes falling shut as your head fell back onto Steve’s chest.  

They showered you in gentle touches and teasing kisses as they picked you up and carried you into your tent, the small space beginning to warm quickly with the heat of three people inside— or was it just you that was getting hot from what they were doing to you.

Steve was groping your tits and pinching your hardened nipples, while Bucky focused most on sucking your neck or biting just beneath your ear.  It was overwhelming, and impossible to ignore though you wanted so desperately not to be aroused.  There were only four hands exploring your body but it might as well have been a hundred because you couldn’t tell the difference, they were touching you everywhere all at once.

"Now, are you gonna behave or do we need to tie you up?" Steve asked quietly.

You shook your head wildly, tensing up just imagining that.  "Then say it," he instructed.

"I-I'll be good," you promised weakly.

Bucky grinned and slid his hand up your thigh, and though you didn’t mean to, when Bucky reached between your legs you tried to shut them and squirm away, it was instinct.

"Ah ah ah," Steve tutted.  "You said you'd be good."

"Think we oughta tie her up," Bucky nodded, feigning disappointment.

"No, please, I'm sorry—"

"Too late for sorry, dollface," Bucky smirked, grabbing a shirt from your pack and tearing it into strips like it was no effort at all.  

Steve held your wrists together for Bucky to tie, and they even tied your legs up bent and spread wide, finishing it off with a gag in your mouth.

Now you were helpless to Bucky pinching your clit, circling it with his thick and calloused finger, applying pressure to it until your eyes watered.  At first it was exploratory, delicate, but once he’d found the most sensitive places he began to rub your clit hard and fast, laughing every time you moaned and flicking the sensitive bud to make your body jolt.

"Yeah, this little cunt's getting all wet, y'like having your pussy played with?" he smirked.

He accentuated his question with a few sudden spanks to your clit that made you jerk and yelp.  The worst thing was that each slap made a wet sound that made you sure you were soaking by now.

“I know you want it so bad, don’t worry doll, I’m not gonna make you wait anymore…”

He caged you in and opened his jeans one more time, the process going much more quickly since he didn’t have to hold you down— you could squirm and cry, but that was about it.  

With a little grunt, he pushed into you, and with how wet you were it actually went it much more easily.  It was by no means painless though, especially since he was already moving and giving you no time to adjust.

"Yeah, that's better," he sighed, grinning as he watched you whine into the gag.  "Now I can really take my time with you, show you how good I can make you feel."

He was certainly more relaxed than the first time, his pace measured and calculated as he made sure his hips met with yours fully at the end of each stroke.  His width wasn’t as challenging in this position but his length certainly was, bumping into your sore and delicate cervix until you were forced to bite down onto the gag to cope.

But, in spite of the pain, or perhaps because of it, something deep and strong was forming inside you, tightening and twisting until it took all your effort not to let it spill forth.

He reached down and roughly rubbed your clit again, forcing a muffled scream from your throat as he grinned down at you.  “Close already, huh?  Good to know I haven’t lost my touch after all these years.”

You almost heard Steve scoff beside you, but it was hard to hear anything when your ears felt like they were full of cotton, only your own echoing heartbeat ringing louder than anything else.

"Yeah, I wanna feel you fuckin' come,” Bucky growled.  “Bet you get even tighter every time."

As much as you wished not to, you fell over the edge, back arching until your chest bumped into Bucky’s where he hovered above you.  He coaxed you along in his words and movements, your walls clenching in a nonsensical rhythm.  More than anything you just wished he would stop moving so you could catch your breath, but his pace never faltered and it felt like you’d never stop coming if he never stopped fucking you.

“That’s it, good fucking girl,” he groaned, “makin’ you feel so good, aren’t I?  Answer me.”

You hesitated, and sniffled, but finally nodded.

Even worse, your clit was so swollen now that he didn’t even need to rub it with his thumb anymore; his cock rubbed against it with each movement, the ridges of his shaft massaging you there until it felt like every part of your body had become the most sensitive place possible.  You shook violently beneath him, each wave of pleasure stronger than the last until you felt like you had lost all sense of time, and space, and really anything that wasn’t being fucked in this tent like the fate of the world depended on it.

"Get outta the tent, Steve,” Bucky instructed suddenly.

"Why?" Steve protested with a scoff.

"I can't come with you starin' at me!"

"I'm not looking at you, dumbass,” he sneered, “I'm lookin’ at her.  So pretty when she cries…"

"Whatever, either way, just go outside please?" 

Clearly irritated but relenting anyways, Steve grunted under his breath as he got up, stepping unceremoniously over both of you.  Bucky sighed with relief when Steve zipped the tent flap shut behind him, turning his attention back to you.  “That’s better, isn’t it?  Just me and you… way it oughta be.”

“I heard that!” Steve called from outside.

“Then stop listening!” Bucky suggested through his teeth before leaning down to whisper in your ear, holding your hips tight so he could fuck you harder than ever.  "I don't give a fuck what he says, I'm coming in you this time.  Not pulling out until I know every drop is in you, wanna see this pussy stuffed to the brim with my come… you want it too, huh?”

Another electrifying pulse inside you made your channel flutter around him, and how cruel that the moan he made actually turned you on more.

"Fuck, that's it, squeeze my fuckin' dick, honey.  Wanna milk all the come outta my cock, don't you?"

You nodded again, hearing him moan in that perfect way one more time before you started to feel him pulse and swell within you, streams of hot come pouring into you.  The amount was pretty impressive since he’d already come once, although you didn’t exactly feel ‘impressed,’ so much as horrified and confused.  And numb, from coming so many times.

Bucky smiled down at you with an exhausted sigh, smacking you lightly on the face a few times to try to rouse you from your blissed-out state, but all you could do was hum sleepily into the gag.

“M’gonna untie you now, you’re too out of it to try anything,” he explained, releasing the gag first before working on your wrists and your legs.  A rush of warm come oozed out of your abused hole when he pulled back, making your face heat up as he smiled and held your legs up to see it better.  “Yeah, filled you up real nice,” he informed you.  He gave a reassuring pat to your thigh before getting up and getting out of the tent, leaving you to stare blankly into nothingness for a while.

Eventually, you knew you had to face the world again, though you were more sure than ever that you weren’t prepared for it.  Grabbing a blanket from the floor of the tent and covering yourself with it, you took a slow breath to try to stabilize yourself.

For how slow time seemed to have passed so far, you were surprised to see the sun setting when you opened the tent flap and stepped outside.  You realized, with a sick feeling in your chest, that they had been using you nearly all day now.  And considering they were waiting for you around the fire, giving you a glance up and down as you emerged from the tent, they still might not stop for a while.

In fact, they’d made themselves very comfortable from the looks of it.  The fire was burning stronger than ever, three logs positioned around the sides of the firepit to sit on; a pot was over the fire, and you recognized the contents as some of the food supplies from your pack.  Best of all, Steve had found your battery radio and adjusted the station, blues quietly playing from the speaker as he used your hunting knife to whittle a stick.

Serves you right to suffer, the smooth voice crooned from the broadcast, serves you right to be alone...

For a moment, the three of you sat in silence as you took in the scene.  But when the wind changed and the heat of the fire no longer reached you, you remembered you had business to attend to.  

“C-Can I have my clothes back now?” you asked Bucky quietly, seeing them draped over the side of one of the logs.

“I think if you get dressed you’ll try to run again,” Steve mumbled, not even looking up at you.

“No, I won’t, I’m too tired,” you explained.  “I just don’t want to be cold.”

“Fire’s hot enough,” Bucky dismissed.  “Why don’t you just lay down a while, hm?  Get some rest.  You earned it.”

You weren’t just tired physically, but mentally, which is partly why you didn’t put up more of a fight before going over to the log and laying beside it, the blanket around you protecting you from the cold ground while you used your clothes as a sort of pillow on the log.

It couldn’t have been that you were asleep, because you could still hear the fire and the radio and Steve’s whittling (a constant reminder that he had a knife), but with your eyes closed and the darkness getting darker it was almost like sleep.  A draining, restless sleep that did nothing to shelter you from the memories of what you’d become.

So, you opened your eyes, staring into the flames instead and venturing the occasional glance at Bucky or Steve; the former always met your stare, the latter would only look up if a sound got his attention.

“You gonna take a turn?” Bucky asked Steve casually, motioning to you by cocking his head.

“Not yet, need a while to... you know, build up some energy,” Steve explained.

“Mind if I have another go then?”

“She’s all yours,” Steve approved, making Bucky grin as he got up and circled the log you were slumped over.  

“Y’hear that, dollface?  All mine,” he cooed, picking you up and adjusting you until you were bent over the log, facing Steve and the fire.  Your clothes kept your naked torso from rubbing against the bark, thankfully, but nothing could spare you from Bucky’s incessant touch, running up your back, over your butt which he spanked a few times for good measure, and finally to your entrance which he pushed two fingers into first.  “Mm, we stretched you out pretty good… you’ll be back in shape by the mornin’, but until then, I just slide right in…”

And he proved himself right with one long stroke that pushed his cock to the deepest parts of you, pushing your hips forward into the log as you tried your best to keep your breathing steady.

He was uniquely quiet this time, still moaning and grunting occasionally but otherwise sparing you from the constant taunts and filthy whispers.  Steve, meanwhile, was doing his best to look unaffected, but the subtle adjustment of his legs along with the increased vigor of his carving made it clear he was distracted by the sight in front of him.

Bucky’s strong hands on your hips were sure to leave marks, fingertips digging into your curves and pulling you back onto him, spearing you on his length.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he sighed, “gonna come.”

And it was actually a relief because this was going to end (for now), which was definitely the only reason you moaned in response.  He got more talkative after that, smacking you on the ass a few more times as he chuckled darkly behind you. 

“Fuck, take it, doll… take all my fuckin’ come.”

It was sort of a meaningless instruction, since you had to, but he seemed to enjoy reminding you that he was about to take his pleasure from your body one more time.  He made a weak little moaning noise, almost pained, as he filled you once again, slumping down on top of you and for the first time really showing signs of exhaustion after coming three times in a day.  You were so out of it that you hardly noticed his weight on you, or the little kisses he gave to your ear, whispering praises that tried your best not to hear.  

He pulled out and came back around to look at your face again, pulling you up slightly by your hair so you looked up at him.

“Such a good fuckin’ girl,” he groaned.  “Open your mouth sweetheart,” he instructed, spitting onto your tongue as soon as you’d done it, then lifting your jaw to make you close your mouth and swallow.

He tugged your hair harder before he kissed you, more possessive than affectionate, but unexpected regardless.  His tongue tangled with yours as he reached down to circle his hand around your neck, feeling your pulse but not going so far as to choke you.

A little groan from Steve caught both his attention and yours.  "You wanna fuck her, Stevie?"

"Oh god, I want that ass, I want that fuckin ass," he answered through his teeth, making you gulp as Bucky laughed.

"Go for it, man," he encouraged, and only a second after he stood up you both heard and felt Steve appear behind you, one calloused hand spreading your cheeks; you whimpered from embarrassment when you felt a finger circle your tight rim, before slowly pushing in.

"Fuck," you whispered, and it sounded much more like a curse of pleasure than you intended.

"Yeah, you want it don't you?" he asked through his teeth, giving you a hard spank that made you cry out.  Bucky slapped you when you didn't answer, grabbing your jaw roughly.

"He asked you a question," he reminded you firmly, the sound of Steve spitting into his hand and coating your hole and his length distracting you slightly.

"Yes, yes, I want it!" you sobbed.

"Where?"

"In my ass!"

Your body put up significant resistance against his swollen head, but it was no match for his rough thrust forward, the tip of him popping inside and stretching you painfully.  You bit your lip but it was impossible to stay quiet when he slid the rest of the way in.

You cried out as he moaned with satisfaction, already moving so much faster than you could handle (which, to be fair, was a low bar).

"Oh my god," he breathed.  "So fuckin' tight…"

The pain was sharp, and it felt like the base of his cock was impossibly thicker than the rest of him since you whined every time he pushed in.

"Aw, does it hurt baby?  That's my cock ruining your little hole, sweetheart…"

"Stop," you rasped, "please… please stop…"

"Nah, I think you like it… I think what you really needed was just to be put in your place, fucked in every hole so you know exactly what you're meant for."

Bucky appeared in front of you again, stroking himself in front of your face, still slick from behind inside you.

"See what a mess you made on my cock, dollface?  I think you need to help me clean it up," he groaned, holding your jaw open to stuff his cock into your mouth and stifle your sobs.  The taste of your and his come was potent and musky on your tongue, his head pushing right into your open throat when you tried to gag.

Steve held you tighter as he thrusted a bit more vigorously, Bucky simultaneously using your throat as he stroked your hair and cheek.  

You couldn’t remember how to do anything but just take it now.  At times their paces synchronized and you felt like you were being filled to the brim at both ends.  Other times they were in a syncopation where one pushed in just as the other pulled out, meaning you had no real breaks at all.

Bucky was too weak to come again, that much was obvious, but he was happy to choke you anyways; and Steve, well, Steve was moaning more now than he had from your mouth or pussy, apparently trying to hold himself back even though he had no reason to try to prolong this— unless he actually wanted to see you in pain more than he wanted to finish?

“You want me to come in your ass?” Steve interrogated you with a spank to your thigh.  “Beg for it.”

You shook your head around the length in your mouth.

“It doesn’t stop until you beg me for it, isn’t that what you want?  You want it to stop, right?”

Had you really fallen into his trap that easily?  

Bucky pulled back to give you the opportunity to meet Steve’s request, and you sucked in a lungful of air before finally whimpering: “Please, Steve… please come…”

“Where?” he pressed, ever-determined to make you remind him where he was fucking you.

“Please come in my ass…”

“If you say so, sweetheart,” he snickered before starting to thrust faster and more erratically, chasing his peak which you prayed was close.  It was, thankfully, though never close enough, and you forgot that the swell of his pulsating cock would stretch your tired hole even wider.

And, you forgot that he had no reason to pull out just because he’d come.

“Fuck,” he groaned, “that was good.”

You tried to kick him away but it was impossible with how hard he’d pinned you down to the log.

“Just stay still and keep my cock warm in this pretty ass of yours, alright?” he instructed, all the while Bucky stared down at you with a satisfied smirk on his face, combing your hair a bit with his fingers.

“You’re tired, huh?” he noticed.  “We’ll get you to bed soon.”

“Will you leave?” you instantly returned.

“We need somewhere to make camp for the night, too.  And since there’s already a perfectly good camp right here…”

“No,” you whined, ���no, you’re never gonna leave me alone, are you?”

“We’ll talk about it in the morning, alright?” he offered.

//

It was truly a testament to how physically exhausted you were that you managed to fall asleep squished between your two personal monsters.

Bucky was behind you, essentially spooning you while Steve had an arm draped over your chest.  And even with the heavy weight on you, physical and metaphysical, you would’ve slept through the night easily if it weren’t for the feeling of Steve running his hands over your body, groping you wherever he could reach.

You opened your eyes but it was still pitch darkness, giving you no distraction from the physical sensations of Steve's fingers delicately grazing over your skin.  Behind you, the quiet stability of Bucky’s breathing made it clear he was still asleep and unaware.

“Steve,” you whispered hoarsely.

“Shh,” he soothed below his breath, right by your ear.  “He sleeps like a rock, we’re not gonna wake him up with a little fooling around.”  

Amazingly enough, that wasn’t exactly what you were worried about.  But you discontinued your dissent as he lightly suckled the lobe of your ear, fingers tracing abstract shapes over your hip.  You heard your own breath catch, and he must have too because he smiled and nibbled on your neck.

You shivered when he started to pull you closer, laying you back to reach between your legs and toy with your overly-sensitive folds.  His fingers found your clit and rubbed it in slow circles, making you writhe and jolt as shocks of pleasure shot through you.

“So sensitive,” he praised darkly, pushing against you harder.  “Gettin’ wet, honey?  Want you dripping before I put my cock in you.”

Bucky stirred beside you, pulling you closer in his sleep though Steve kept a strong hold on your lower half.  It was nearly claustrophobic being sandwiched between them like this, made even worse when Steve adjusted your hips and you felt his cock rub against you.

“Tell me you want it,” he whispered in your ear, cradling your face in his large, rough hands.

“I— I want it,” you whispered back, biting your lip to stay quiet when he pushed in.  You were still sore, but the wetness helped ease his way as he filled you to the brim, groaning softly and thrusting much more gently than you expected.  It was all very relaxed, and languid, and… sleepy.  It was so much easier to pretend that you wanted this when it was gentle and patient like this, when you couldn’t see his face

“You two got started without me?” Bucky interjected, making you both gasp.   

"You seemed pretty busy snoring over there," Steve explained with an unamused tone.  “You know, Barnes, I actually broke out of prison so I wouldn’t have to sleep in the same room as you for the rest of my life.”

“Leave if you want, Rogers, I’ll keep the girl and you can take her battery radio, ya limpdick.”

“Limpdick?  Were you not here for the past twenty-four hours?” 

“Yeah, I was fucking this sweet little thing while you were out there by the fire doing your arts and crafts.”

And just like that, your sweet and gentle sex was gone; Steve was determined to claim you now, fucking you harder and faster until you couldn’t hold back your broken moans.  "Yeah, you like that?" he growled against your ear.  "You like gettin' fucked?  Say it."

"Y-yes, I like it," you gasped.

"We're gonna be on the run for a while…" Bucky mumbled against your skin as he kissed your shoulder, "sure wouldn't mind takin' you with us, keeping our own little pet to fuck whenever we want."

You tried not to stop breathing entirely when he said that, distracted by Steve slowing down slightly, offering some reprieve.

"Been so long without touchin' a woman," Steve added huskily, "I don't know if one day is enough."

"Yeah, plus we've already got you obedient, trained, fucked braindead and full of come," Bucky replied, biting down on your skin to make you whimper and he chuckled happily.

"Are you sure you can share, Barnes?" Steve pressed.  "I know if you had it your way she'd be ripped to shreds by now."

"Whatever man, you're the one who tore her ass up."

Steve scoffed slightly, while Bucky continued.

"You wanna come with us sweetheart?  We'll be real good to you, keep your holes wet and full for a couple months straight at least.  You won't have to worry about a thing, won't have to lift a finger, just keep your legs spread and you'll be peachy."

"Hey, that's what we'll call you: Peach," Steve decided.  "It's perfect, isn't it?  'Cause you're sweet… and soft… and I could just eat you up," he purred.

"Wanna be our girl, Peach?" Bucky prompted.

"No, please…"

You expected anger, you expected them to hurt you, but you didn't expect them to laugh.  "Looks like our sweet little Peach hasn't had a chance to realize how good it's gonna be with us," Steve announced.  

"Yeah, let's show her how much she wants to be our girl," Bucky snickered, holding your hips as Steve started to move inside you again.

Bucky, meanwhile, was grabbing handfuls of your ass and groaning as he rubbed his cock against you.  One finger explored your rim and slowly pushed in.

"Looks like you're still a little loosened up from when Stevie here gave it to you, huh?  He was real mean, wasn't he?"

You nodded, clutching harder into Steve's chest as he fucked you faster.

"Then taking me should be a breeze."

Truly, you had no idea how this was possible.  I'm the dark it all felt like a fever dream, but when Bucky pushed into your available opening while Steve was still fucking you… it was definitely real, the feeling was too overwhelming not to be.

'A breeze' was definitely an exaggeration but it was undeniably easier, especially since being half-asleep made your body so much more relaxed.  You still hissed when Bucky's hips met your ass, you still choked on a breath at the feeling of two cocks buried all the way inside you, but it wasn't from pain as much as being full beyond your wildest dreams

"You were right about this ass, Rogers, goddamn…" Bucky moaned, holding your hips tight and beginning to thrust.

"Fuck, can hardly believe you're takin' both of us," Steve sighed against your ear.  "I know you love it, Peach, I know you love bein' so full…"

Your lips fumbled with the desire to moan a name but not sure whose to say; so instead you just babbled mindlessly, sounded just as dumbfounded as you felt.

But they weren't having any problems speaking, in fact they were more talkative than ever, each whispering in a different ear and making shivers crawl up your spine with every word.

"You're making us feel so good, such a good girl, aren't you Peachy baby?"

"Such a perfect fucking whore, so wet already just from being used."

"Want us to come inside, huh Peach?  Wanna be full of come?”

Each time you arched your back, it only somehow pushed them both deeper, so deep you couldn’t think about anything else anymore.  Bucky was moving at a much slower pace than Steve, such that they would only occasionally thrust all the way in at exactly the same time— and when they did, you heard yourself moan but refused to believe it was you making the sound because it sounded nothing like you, it didn’t even seem like something you would do; enjoying this that much, that is.

“You’re close, huh?  Gonna come for both of us?”

You found yourself nodding, even though they couldn’t see it, but Bucky must have felt it against his shoulder because he laughed a little, grabbing your face and turning you back to kiss you hungrily.  When he moved his kiss down to the back of your neck, Steve captured your lips instead, less dominating than Bucky’s but no less intense.  The moan that undeniably signalled your orgasm was nearly lost against Steve’s tongue, but they both heard it and began to pump into you faster, keeping you suspended in your pleasure.

Steve lost it first, spilling into you with a choked groan and a tight grip on your arms that was sure to bruise.  Bucky was close behind, panting with each hurried thrust until he finally moaned and filled your ass with ropes of hot come, a sensation you never could’ve imagined, let alone predicted you would experience twice in one day.

Bucky rubbed your thighs while he caught his breath while Steve peppered your face in tender kisses, both of them showering you in affection you had no idea how to handle.

“Whaddaya say, dollface?” Bucky prompted as he kissed just beneath your ear.  “Y’like bein’ our little Peach, don’t you?”

You stammered over a few different responses, none of them very good, until Steve finally instructed you: “say yes.”

“Yes,” you repeated instantly.

“I can tell you do, you soaked my cock real good,” Steve praised with a grin you could feel against your cheek and hear in his gravelly voice.  “We’ll head out in the morning, alright?  Soon we’ll be somewhere where nobody knows who we are, what we’ve done… doesn’t that sound nice, Peach?  A chance to start over?”

A fresh start never hurt anyone, right?

//

Months on the run made the night all blend together, you didn’t even know what state you were in anymore and you couldn’t find the energy to care.

It was definitely harder to hitchhike with three people, and a disturbing amount of truckers offered to take you alone but not your companions— and obviously they would never allow such a thing.  At this point, you were better off with the devils you knew, anyways.  At least with them you knew what to expect.

Specifically, you could expect Steve to be aloof and brooding until he occasionally snapped and became possessive over you again, asserting his dominance over you and Bucky however he could manage— usually by covering your body in his marks and every once in a while by covering your face with his come.  You could expect Bucky to taunt and mock you, cornering you into consenting to his relentless barrage of pleasure and pain, over and over again watching you struggle to maintain your sense of denial and disgust, reminding you that you loved being fucked just how he wanted.

In fact, today was a pretty typical day while the three of you crashed in a motel, Steve staying silent and distant while Bucky kissed his way down your stomach that rose and fell shakily with each breath.

“Bucky, p-please,” you whispered, closing your eyes so you could more easily pretend it wasn’t you begging him for more.

"What's that, Peach?  Want me to lick up your juice?" he grinned.

You shuddered and he chuckled as he knelt down between your legs to give a long, slow lick over your sex.  Your entire body jolted when his rough tongue slid over your swollen clit, so he focused there until your legs were quivering and your head fell back.  

"Mm, so sweet…” he cooed.  “Come getta taste a’this, Steve.”

“I’m busy,” Steve refused, turning the page of his newspaper.

“Are you fuckin’ serious?” Bucky sighed, standing up straighter and leaving your pussy ignored; you whined a little, but it fell on deaf ears.  “I’d love to see what you’re reading that could possibly be more interesting than this.”

“There’s an article about us,” Steve answered sternly, looking up from the paper to meet Bucky’s gaze, before glancing to look at you.  “All three of us.”

Bucky huffed and stood up, leaving you naked on the bed as he crossed the room to tear the paper from Steve’s hands.  His eyes scanned the page until he landed on the part Steve must have been referring to.  “Holy shit,” he breathed.  “Look, Peach, you made the papers!”

He brought over the article for you to read, and you sat up straighter when you saw that a photo of yourself had been included alongside the mugshots of Steve and Bucky.

Two escaped prisoners, one missing woman, spotted in woods near Schenectady, NY...

“When is this from?” you asked nervously.

“The paper’s from today, but we were in Schenectady two weeks ago,” Steve explained.  “They aren’t anywhere near us.”

It brought back memories of TV broadcasts you’d seen in hotels, radio news Steve had turned off before you heard too much.  Phrases like ‘statewide manhunt,’ ‘federal investigation,’ and ‘trafficked woman,’ which had once been foreign to you, now represented your deepest anxieties.

Bucky saw the fear on your face and knelt down on the bed beside you, stroking your face gently.  “Aw, Peach, don’t be scared… they’re not gonna find us, I promise.”

“If they did… what would happen to me?” you asked weakly.  You truly had no idea if you’d be returned home and treated as the victim of a crime, or if you’d be arrested and charged as a perpetrator, as a collaborator who aided in the escape and continued flee of two violent criminals.  They’d already gotten you in on a few robberies, even one bank— could you defend yourself by saying that you were forced to do it?  

“Nobody’s gonna take you away from us,” Bucky assured sternly, not quite answering your question but making it clear that was all you were gonna get.  You reached up to rest your hand atop his where it held your cheek, letting your watery eyes fall shut before you looked back up into his enrapturing gaze again.

“Kiss me, Bucky, please,” you whispered, making him laugh and shake his head.

“No, Peachy, I would but I know where that mouth has been.  Steve woke you up in the middle of the night to choke on his cock, thought I wouldn’t hear, huh?”

You gasped a little and Steve crossed his arms where he sat in the chair.  Bucky turned his attention back to Steve with a look of challenge on his face.  “She’s scared, Stevie, won’t you come over here and make her feel better?”

Steve sighed but relented and stood up, crossing the room to stand beside the bed and stare down at you.  For a moment you didn’t know what he intended to do, until he knelt down and grabbed your hips, pulled your spread legs closer to the edge of the bed where he latched his lips onto your slick and swollen folds.

“Oh god,��� you moaned, reaching down to tangle your fingers into his hair, his tongue pushing inside you right away, twisting and thrusting and licking right over your g-spot until your eyes rolled back in your head and your back arched up off the faded quilt.  Bucky grinned as he watched you, leaning down to kiss your neck, then suckle on a hardened nipple, then lick over your hips until finally he bit down on the inside of your thigh.  You yelped a little and felt him smile against your delicate skin.

“I told you we’d take care of you, babydoll,” he mumbled, voice all deep and throaty like it got when he was about to spend an hour reminding you who you belonged to.

Sometimes you dreamed of the life you had before this, of the person you were when you only belonged to yourself, but that life was gone forever and it wasn’t coming back.  Each day you mourned it in a different way.  At first it was just the loss of dignity, then it was the loss at any chance of gaining that dignity back.  You missed your friends and family, but you realized they wouldn’t welcome you back with open arms after this long.

You realized it was well and truly over the first time a man on the news called you an accomplice to the ‘rampant crime spree’ of Bucky and Steve.  Just a few weeks later, the stories changed from two prisoners and their kidnapping victim, to three prisoners.  And yes, you were a prisoner, but the police didn’t see a difference between you and them anymore.  You had no reason to run, no motive for escape.  They were the only thing keeping you alive and free now, even if this freedom wasn’t exactly overflowing with liberties.

So, you accepted as quickly as you could that this was your new life; every morning you banished the memories of who you used to be, and every night you prayed that your lovers wouldn’t be caught.  And it wasn’t so bad of a life to have, even if it wasn’t the life you would’ve chosen for yourself— there was something nice about it, really, never very calm but still having its moments of peace and domesticity.  Like falling asleep in the backseat of a stolen truck while Steve played blues on the radio.  Like sitting in Bucky’s lap as he told you all about the beautiful tropical islands they’d take you to someday.  Like when Steve robbed a jewelry store and told you he’d picked that one because they had the ring he’d seen in a magazine ad, the ring he decided he wanted you to wear from now on.  Like being Mrs. Barnes when Bucky introduced you to his criminal connections, and being Mrs. Rogers when Steve did the same the next night.

Maybe you’d forgotten how to be anything else but their sweet, quiet, obedient Peach, but maybe it wasn’t such a bad wrap after all.