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saskiacornelli · 3 months

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Quotes that made me feel shit

“Our love wasn’t the kind of love that was written in the cards… it was the kind of love that burned them.”

“Do villains have hearts baby?”

“Always a rebel, forever a soldier, one as a lover, the other don’t bother.”

“Always a rebel forever soldier, one as a lover, the other forever

“I fed them chaos… …so they swallowed me whole. “

“I prefer the men who lurk in dark, dusty corners. After all, that’s where all the secrets lie.”

“You only think I’m perfect because you haven’t seen my soul”.

“The thing about the people who know how to ignite your rage are usually the only people who also know how to put it out”.

“A smile is strong enough to conceal sadness, because it’s easier for people to acknowledge that someone is happy, rather than offer sympathy for another’s desolation.”

“She wasn’t pretty or attractive. She was damn right lethal and she fucking knew it.”

“I was a Doll, but I wasn’t made of plastic. I was constructed of the names of all those who’d wronged me…”

“All three of us lived with damage. None of it made sense, the pieces didn’t fit; until we met each other.”

“Love will never die if it exists on the lips of death.”

“Once you’ve tasted the bitter tang of sin on the tip of your tongue, you’ll do everything you can to drink from its poison for the rest of your life.”

“I live for chaos. I bathe in it, dance in it, and fuck in it”

“People who know too much are walking time bombs, ready to explode and exploit at any moment. They have too much control.”

“You are brutally beautiful in your own way”

“Knock knock, bitch now let the devil in”

“Stuck between a rock and a hard place, so I dug her fucking grave screaming, this bitch can’t be saved”

“Fuck love, but it’ll fuck you too…”

“I’ll take away your sadness with my deranged madness.”

“The most beautiful faces hide the darkest souls.”

“Could the same hands that end lives be the same ones to make mine come alive”

“In the dark is where wilted flowers grow, they get watered with the blood of his enemies and the fluid from my broken heart.”

“A wish is just a sentence that’s said aloud in the hopes of it coming true.”

“You’re not just a switch for my humanity, you’re a goal trigger for my rage too.”

“I’d much rather sleep in darkness. It’s where my thoughts reside.”

“My knight was darkness, fighting fire with fire- I fought darkness with darkness.”

“In our world of shattered reflections that look back at us, I’m the girl who wants to dance with the devil.”

“I was light, and I was pure until I wasn’t.”

“Your mind is like your very own diary, locked and sealed between the gushing of blood that is being courted through the fibers of your cranium.”

“The devil should run.”

“I was made for war, not for love. I don’t want to break people. I want them to be broken already. I don’t want to feel that way, but I can’t help myself.”

“Love is savage, love is blind, love is something they may not find…”

“The most crippling pain

That comes isn’t from losing your lover, it’s from losing something that was so precious that you didn’t deserve it to begin with.”

“Some angels have the devil on their side…”

“Love doesn’t care who it destroys to get what it wants.”

“His eyes were the entrance to Hell, and every time he looked at you, he would draw you in closer to the burning iron gates.”

“Lost can be whole again once it has been found.”

“To rare for earth, too doomed for heaven.”

“If he wants a show I’ll give him mayhem.”

“I don’t care if I will fall in love with a devil, as long as that devil will love me the way he loves hell.”

“He set fire to the world, but never let a flame touch her.”

“His love is aphotic, but she’s willing to drown in it.”

“He held a darkness that could never be touched. She carried a light that could never be seen.”

“A dream is just a nightmare wearing makeup.”

“There’s no price to power; there’s just blood.”

“He told me he loved me. And that may be true, but the only thing left between us, is broken and strewed.”

“Till death we don’t part because even if we do die, our souls still continue to find each other.”

“This world was all fun and games right up until the finally came.”

“I’ve always been one that would prefer to dance with danger than walk with the mundane.”

“To all the fuckers who said I would never amount to anything.

*grins*

Sup.”

The devil furnishes his darkest souls with the prettiest smiles.

And as I was in the darkness so darkness I became.

Most people want to be the sun that lights up your life, but I’d rather be the moon that shines don on you in your darkest hours

Our love tore everything apart… including each other

Tricksters don’t have hearts. They just pretend they do.

Trouble never looked so fine

She knows who she is. She just forgot it for a little while.

Tell the wolves I’m home

Family ain’t who your born with. It’s who you die for.

What if the same hands that soothe me are the same hands that harm me

I kind of want to eat u rn

Later. I want to play first

My karma may be a bitch, damn that bitch is beautiful

I was the trick that they could never play.

She was the greatest game of all…

There was elegance that comes from being carved from the ashes of all the darkness that surrounds you in the world.

You start as dust, and you end as dust. At least that’s what I always thought.

I wasn’t someone who needed protecting… they were.

People whispered his name in fear. I screamed it when he was in between my thighs.

You may be a princess on the streets and people may fall to their knees in your presence, but in here? You’re my little fucking toy, and the only one kneeling will be you.

I was her weapon but she forgot to protect her heart.

She wore a thousand faces all to hide her own

Who needs enemies when you have memories that torture you all the time

They say drowning is the most peaceful death, I can imagine why.

To protect a monster, one must be a monster

The darkness has always lingered inside me, I’ve just subdued it by feeding it my fears

When you’ve been raised by monsters, they teach you how to exist with them

A killer’s love is as violent as the art in which they take lives.”

Cheers to more bodies dropping. As the old saying goes, may they all rest in pieces.

He exists within darkness so that I can be the light to guide him home

She can see through people. Their lies, their secrets, and the decayed skeletons they try to hide in their closet

In or messed-up way, the Cherry will always symbolize our bond. We grew as a pair from the earth and shared the same flesh and blood. When one is disconnected from the other, we rot and die. I rot…. And die

Betrayal is a poison , and once you taste it, you can’t get it out

My life is full of messy people who don’t always make the right choices

Before he was the Devil’s pet… He was mine.

They killed lots of people, but they would hug me if I’m crying

She was fearless, and crazier than him. She was his queen. And god help anyone who disrespected his Queen

I’ve seen the devil more than I’ve seen god

The prettiest smiles hide the darkest secrets

The prettiest eyes have cried the most

The kindest hearts have felt the most pain

You thought you could live like a saint but forgot that you’re claimed by am Antichrist

Beauty is the deadliest curse of all because it tricks you into thinking you’re attracted to it

People don’t just disappear, other people just stop looking for them

There was a women who also sought the light but it burned her and she fell into darkness

I’ve always loved messing with people who try to hard at life

They wanted to own me… I just wanted to survive them

He wasn’t cold to be cruel. He was cold out of necessity to survive a brutal world.

I think I scare him as much as he scares me

The foe, the weapon, the ruse, the liar

Not all soulmates are lovers

Bloodied and broken with the kind of torment that breeds, but never dies.

A story about two souls destined to be together, but who are trapped in bodies that hate each other

The stories would never die… not until the real one at least has been told.

It all started with a game. The kind of trickery that poisons your heart because it knows the mind is week

A daughter, a friend… a liar

To the people that fuck red flags. Saddle up.

Hades hollow has a secret, and like the bones of our ancestors that live beneath the waters here, it should stay dead.

He had eyes that matched the gates of hell and an air about him that made all the warning bells inside my head go off

I have to know what freedom tastes like on the tip of my tongue

The worst part about regret is the fact that you do t know when it’s going to hit you.

The only people who get killed are those ignoring the signs.

Diavoli dell’oceano (The devils of the ocean)

Who you are today will not be who you’re going to be tomorrow

He was everything bad that no one should ever want, much less a Queen

There are whispers that go through the streets, and all of them begin and end with us

Bloodied and broken with the kind of torment that breeds, but never dies

Make the high and mighty low arrogant creatures down you go

If I can't have you, my love, I'll destroy you!

if he loves another and gives his heart, then magic will appear and everything he loves will die

Sleeping flame, I summon thee / To your form return / Make the night as bright as day / And burn, baby, burn!

Break my heart. Break it a thousand times if you like. It was only ever yours to break.

When it comes to the high seas. Not all monsters lurk beneath the surface

Never break in somewhere unless you know the way out

The only ones that aren’t afraid are the monsters

It’s always the prettiest girls who think they’re ugly

"If it's death that I've chosen, then so be it. Let it flow through my veins."

Sometimes you think you want to disappear but all you really want is to be found

I was so lost in hatred and revenge. You stole what was left of my heart

You think no one loves you, and yet you attracted the devil babygirl

Evil queens are just princesses that were never saved

If you treat me like a game, then I’ll show you how it’s played

If I can’t have you my love, I’ll destroy you.

Beautiful boy, you don’t even realize that some people look at your madness and see nothing but grace and brilliance

Why should I apologize for the monster I’ve become? No one ever apologized for making me this way

If I can still breathe I’m fucking fine

Didn’t your mother ever tell you to never shake hands with a demon

Never hide your bad side to make someone stay, show your bad side and see who will stay

People don’t change. They reveal who they really are

Someday someone will break you so badly that you will become unbreakable

I’ll never be that me again

Fuck death till us part. Hell better lock its gates if I ever loose you.

To the girls who think that the grim reaper will fuck like a god

When we’re young we’re taught the distinction between a hero and a villain, good and evil, a savior and a lost cause. But what if the only real difference is who’s telling the story

I found my own light when you left me in the darkness

Hell is empty and all the devils are here

The people that are the most broken and the saddest are the ones that would do absolutely anything for anyone else.

Sweet as sugar cold as ice hurt me once, I’ll break you twice

She wanted to feel loved without feeling like she was begging for it

She’s fading away slowly and not noticing

She passed her hardest moments alone when everyone thought she was fine

He’s not gods disciple he’s Lucifer’s little bitch

Don’t enter the den of wolves and ask not to be bitten

You’re my heaven and I’m your hell

I want toxic. I want madness. I want someone who makes me question my sanity

They say even monsters have weaknesses

Yeah, he is a liar. But he’s a liar that loves you

To the girls who fall for villains… Their hearts are only black until you tear them out

He was always there to take my hand… even if it was to lead me straight to hell.

Every time you fall, I’ll catch you. Even with blood on my hands

You’d lose your mind trying to understand mine

And suddenly, sadness turns to anger

My mother didn’t raise a fool. A psychotic cold-hearted bitch, but not a fool

Some children are simply born with tragedy in their blood

Quietly she fell apart

I wanted to feel love without feeling like I was begging for it

Personally I’m both fucked-up and misunderstood

But it made you stronger

I was a child

I didn’t need to be stronger

I needed to be safe

I feel like it’s my anger that has helped keep me alive

Being raised by cold eyes taught me not to cry

Run, and when you come back burn this place to the ground

So heartless yet so full of feelings

I have slit throats far more beautiful then yours

A part of me always knew you weren’t villain in my story

They were the product of every nightmare you were told as a child, only now, they don’t go bump in the night.

They throw parties to conceal your morbid games, and leave behind the chaos that can never be tamed.

My biggest fear is that you see me the way I see myself

Abuse can feel like love.

We are all born beautiful. The greatest tragedy is being convinced we are not.

The problem with trauma is it leaves its scars behind, so it knows exactly where to find them again when it comes back. And it does, it always comes back.

Yeah I’ve done some pretty horrible things to survive but unlike you poor, delicate, (insert there name) I deal with my shit. You wouldn’t last one day without everyone fawning over you.

I am the object of his art, his desire, and his depthless scorn

When you make someone fall in love with the darkest parts of you, there’s nothing you can do that will scare them away.

This shadow ruined every expectation I had of seeing the light

I fell so deeply that I’ve found myself in the devils lair being feasted on from the dark god himself

Humans don’t need to decorate themselves in gory make-up and fake blood to be scary. It’s the insides of us- the darkness that lurks beneath the surface that’s what truly fucking terrifying.

The fun has only just begun little mouse.

When he walks through the room, it’s like the darkness cringes to him. He is darkness.

They’ll soon realize that I sit on the fucking throne, and their nightmares, bow to me.

You might be a psycho, but you’re my psycho, and I’m yours

To the world, she is formidable.

To me?

She is the world.

I was certain I would never love him. And now that the rain has calmed, my resolve has shattered, and I’m left with a screaming heart and a silenced world

For centuries. Both of us wearing different faces, inhabiting different bodies. But the same souls, colliding over and over, until this planet decides to crumble and our souls have nowhere else to go

Parsons Manor will always be destined to be the house that burns and takes lives

I always thought I would be protected. Untouchable. I thought I was unbreakable, but I’m the right hands, anyone can be fragile.

When love grows where have was planted, you don’t get flowers. Just thorns.

Pretending your demons don’t exist doesn’t make them stop chasing you… only slows the race.

He saw the devil in her beauty, she saw the beauty in his darkness

Life was nothing more than a mask used to forgive someone for all the wrong they did. Love didn’t exist. Obsession did.

In darkness, even the violent burn of hatred could lead you home

Cunning. Unexpected. Not to be fucked with. Gentle but not soft.

Forgiveness wasn’t a currency I’d ever spend. If you crossed me I’d simply make you pay.

People don’t tell you their lies. They show them.

In sin, and until the last drop, long live the EKC until our hearts stop

I’d felt the thunder of her dark side over the years, but I was yet to taste its rain.

The weight of love can be trained to straighten you, or it will be the anchor that drowns you.

Love is like cocaine. Easy to snort, hits fast, but then you realize it’s not worth it.

Betrayal is a wound that most girls cannot forget, it cuts deeper than love itself. That’s why it lingers in our blood as a reminder to us that men like (name) exist, and why at the end of the day, they’ll only ever be some guy you thought you loved

To love a beast, you must be a best.

They say you could feel the shadow of death before it took you. And tonight, that shadow was here

If I wasn’t so tired, all I’d be able to feel are the new wounds over my heart.

The hardest part about sharing any kind of trauma with people is sometimes, we don’t want to give the ones we love the pain that we’ve held on to

What’s your favorite food?

If you let me taste you, it might just be you

I am strong. I am wild. I am a survivor

Are you still a survivor if you can’t remember the darkest part of your memories

Hit him hard and hit him deep. Strike the heart and make him weep.

Mater et luna voco, redde unde exierunt, Cinis cinerem. Pulvis sunt pariter

This women came straight from the pits of hell. She’s strong, smart, and cunning.

I heard true love never dies, but your love killed me.

She was wild but loyal

She was like the moon, part of her was always hidden away.

She was wild but loyal

She was the type to fall in love with the stars and everything that was beautifully unreachable

Her angel eyes saw the good in many devils

The devil furnishes his darkest souls with the prettiest smiles

He came into this alley as the predator. He’ll die as the prey

To defeat a monster, you have to be twice as monstrous. To love a monster, you have to share your soul

They took too much. Left too little. I had nothing to lose, until him.

My mind is whole, even if my soul is not.

She’s resistive and unattainable. She has everyone yearning for her attention, only to feed them crumbs

I’ll pain the town red just like they painted the streets with our blood

The time for secrets is over. Tell my story. Save your soul.

I thought love would rip my heart out.

I thought it would set me on fire.

Instead, it turned me to ice.

I’m still the twisted monster in the night while your the honest hero in the light

Mentally, I was a slut. Physically, I was terrified of intimacy. Spiritually, I didn’t like men.

You walk a fine line between macabre and uncharacteristically psychotic

Seduce and destroy

You can play hard to get all you like. I fucking love the chase.

And I like to run

Let the games begin baby

With the fallen, I rise

With the broken, I cry

With the lost, I find my own

With the outcasts, I am home

With the forgotten, I remember

With the chaos, I am centered

With the wrong, I find the right

With the exiled, I will fight

To all the book sluts who go feral over masked strangers that fuck like they kill… I got you

She was the sea. Calm but so deep

She was like the moon, part of her was always hidden away

Take my hand, take my whole life too and dance with me in the dark

The Devil and I get along just fine

Divine violence

A Prophecy of Secrets & Poison

Secrets are cancer, so here’s a truth. I know yours. They were never meant for you!

It’s crazy how trauma makes you push people away when all you want is love

If they tried to take her from him, he’d rip the world apart with his bare hands. And for some reason that didn’t scare him

She’ll know all my secrets except one: that I’m in love with her

In the trauma of my death, I became the Aglaeca. Those who died by the monster's hand had already been warned. They made their choice. Just as you did.

They say I’m emotionless. I’m not. Because I hated her.

It’s giving little red riding hood if she loved the wolf

They created a monster and asked why I bite

He wanted to play games… but forgot who he was playing with

Love is a theme park, so let’s burn this bitch down.

They say true love never dies. But they never cut deep enough

She tried to hide her demons… so I ripped her apart to get them. Wonder if they tasted the same way they did all those years ago

They had the kind of love…that should never exist

#quotes #quoteoftheday #books #booktok #relationship #toxic love #toxic relationship #toxic people #forbidden love

4 notes · View notes

adelaidedrubman · 2 years

Note

"15. The scene that will give you, personally, the most joy." !

thank you mari!!! i decided to make this a fun little vaguely set in non time specific wildfire piece, nothing serious all just based on the joke that jestiny’s true soulmate is the noble opossum.

summary: mary may does some pest control. jessie ends up with a pet that isn’t really a pet. (set vaguely in wildfire. no pairings, implied references to johnjess but john is not in this one, just nice folks being bothered.)

wordcount: 2.7k

warnings: (humanely executed) animal death (not the opossum). references to canon typical gore. mary may pov and the occasional daydreaming of jestiny murder that entails. disclaimer opinions expressed not my own, everyone stay safe and do not approach wild animals.

“— ’cause come to think of it, what were they gonna do with a bunch of fucking pumpkins anyways? I mean, seriously? The fuck can you cook with pumpkins? Not to mention —”

Mary May let out a long exhale to steady herself. She hoisted the weight of the varmint rifle onto her shoulder. She balanced it in place with one arm while the hand of the other reached to situate the protective covering in place over her ears, hoping it would help to drown out the grating squawk of Jestiny’s rambling as well.

“— much fucking work it is to hollow out a pumpkin? Then they’re still gonna have to go through the hassle of canning —”

Damn. No such luck.

Still, the noise was better dampened than it had been, and she tried to tune the rest out by force of willpower as she focused on the rattle of the trash bins shaking from the skittering within.

“— that much you can even make from it, anyways...”

Fall’s End had a pest problem.

The bin wobbled, something heavy thudding against its side.

A very serious pest problem.

“...peggies going to all that fucking work so that — what? John Seed doesn’t have to spend the apocalypse without pumpkin spice lattes?”

Some of the pests, she was allowed to shoot.

There was a clack of sharp nails drumming against plastic — the quick flash of the lid popping open, and her eyes followed the darting blur of gray that emerged until it was scurrying between her sights.

A crack of gunfire, an oddly tension easing slam of the butt of the rifle against her chest in blowback. She glanced up from its scope, looking to see the dying twitches of the large rat laying on the ground beside the trash.

“— much you wanna bet all the gutted corpses of so-called ‘sinners’ hanging up around here are actually just folks who didn’t get his coffee order right? Ha, come to think of it —”

Jestiny had not flinched at the gunfire. As best as Mary May could tell, she hadn’t even paused her monologue.

Mary May noted the slight ring that vibrated in her eardrums even with the shield of her muffs — it would have to be absolutely deafening for the redhead, wouldn’t it?

“— spent all his damn money on a stockpile of fuckin’ artisan crafted organic coffee beans or something, and that’s why they have to steal shit now instead of just buying —”

It would make sense, actually, to think that she couldn’t hear herself speak.

She grunted, adjusting her stance and glancing to the side, taking notice of the man emerging from the church in the distance to investigate the sound of gunshots.

She held her palm up in a half-wave to the Pastor.

“Pest control,” she shouted in explanation, nodding towards the body of the rat bleeding out on the ground. “Rats have been rooting around the garbage like crazy lately. Gotta take care of it before they worm their way inside and get at the food supply,” she added, pulling aside one muff of her ear protection. “Think there might be something bigger in the mix too. Racoon or skunk or something. Fucker keeps waking me up in the dead of night making a racket squealing and banging around out here. Always scampers off before I can run out and catch it.”

Jerome nodded, settling into place beside her. “Do you need any help?”

“Just the company’d be nice,” she answered, darting her eyes towards the redhead, who barked out her own form of greeting then proceeded to catch Jerome up to speed on her musings of the day as Mary May tried to tune her out. “Sorry about all the noise,” Mary May added, before pulling the trigger to produce another sharp pop of gunfire.

The plump body of another rat fell to the ground from its place peeking out beneath the lid, landing with a soft thud.

She gave a satisfied hum, glancing to her side to note that Jerome still kept his hands pressed firmly against his ears even as the boom of gunfire faded, while Jestiny once again hadn’t bothered to shield hers at all, or stop talking.

( — Jesus fucking Christ, was she even human — )

( was she? )

She paused briefly to rub the sore spot on her shoulder, trying to ease a tightness from her muscles that continued stubbornly settling deeper with every stray word she caught from the woman beside her.

“— wonder if John teaches his pumpkin and people carving classes at the same time for the sake of efficiency. Regular fuckin’ Martha Stewart of corpse mutilation —”

She pulled the trigger as a particularly large lump of gray dashed along her field of vision, satisfying deafening crack and recoil pushing her back — too far, she realized as her shoulder jerked towards the ground, and her foot slid beneath her.

Not pushed, she was being pulled — a hand was gripping at her shoulder to yank her back, throwing her down with a harsh impact of rocky ground against her shoulder blades.

There was a shatter of glass, and she looked up just in time to see the pellet strike the window of her spare bedroom and splinter it, a blotch of bright copper hair — the woman who had thrown her down, she realized — streaking across her vision a second later.

“Are you fuckin’ crazy?!” the redhead shouted over her shoulder as she ran forward towards the garbage cans Mary May had been targeting.

“Are you alright?” Jerome asked deep with worry, rushing to her side to slip a supportive hand under her back and lift her to sit upright, scanning her for injuries.

“Are you fucking serious?” Mary May grumbled in reply, unsure to whom.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Jestiny screamed back at her, crouching down beside the dumpster. “The fuck do you think you’re doing? Shooting like that?!”

“The fuck do I —” She felt the impulse to reach for her gun again. “I’m shooting rats, like I have been all morning!” she barked, brushing the dirt from her clothing. “The fuck are you doing?!”

“This is not a fucking rat!” the redhead screeched as her hands shot behind the garbage, auburn brow wrinkled with some strange mix of fury and panic. “This is a fuckin’ opossum you almost killed over here!”

What?

“What?” she spat, leaning forward.

“I said you almost killed a fucking opossum, you fuckin’ lunatic!” she briefly shot her head to the side to snap, before directing her attention back in front of her. “Look at him,” she cried, pulling from behind the dumpster to hold in display the most hideous excuse for an overgrown rat Mary May thought she’d ever seen, with its coarse gray fur and long, bald tail. She shuddered as Jestiny brought the rigid body of the creature into her lap, limp pink tongue rolling out from long rows of sharp teeth to fall atop the bare skin of her leg. “You scared him so bad he’s playing dead.”

Mary May scoffed, pushing herself up to stand with Jerome’s supportive hands following her. “Well move out of the way so I can make it more than just an act,” she said, bending to reach for her rifle. “That must be the big fucker who’s been causing me trouble.”

Jessie’s eyes bulged, her jaw dropping to flash a look of shocked offense. “You cannot kill a fucking opossum.”

“I can,” she replied flatly. “It’s just another one of the vermin roaming around. I don’t care what kinda big, special rodent it is. It’s a nuisance, and a threat to our food supply.”

“Opossums are fuckin’ marsupials, Mary May!” she growled, jerking her head forward and baring teeth in a snarl. “Not rats!” she added with a glare, before looking down at the animal in her lap with softening eyes. “The females have pouches, even. Like kangaroos,” she said with a beaming smile, running a hand over the exposed belly of the creature. “Looks like this little critter is a fella, though.”

“A kangaroo sized rat,” she nodded, deadpan. “Real fascinating, Dep.”

“Very interesting. You seem to know a great deal about opossums,” Jerome added with a nervous smile and a tone of disarming praise one would expect to hear used to appease a child throwing a tantrum as he took a few careful steps towards the redhead.

Mary May wasn’t entirely sure if it was Jestiny or the opossum that hissed at him. Either way, he stopped in his tracks.

“And you can give us an earful on everything you know about ’em later,” Mary May said, putting a hand on her hip. “But right now I gotta deal with the one rifling through my trash.”

Jessie threw a protective arm around the creature, scooping it up to cradle against her chest. “No fuckin’ way,” she ground out. The opossum’s shiny pink nose twitched, sniffing at the woman’s chin then breaking its paralyzed act to crane its head further and rub against her jaw. “Over my dead body are you fucking killing this opossum.”

Was that supposed to be a threat instead of a bonus?

“Don’t test me, Rook.”

“That’s a fuckin’ order,” she barked, rising to stand as if it gave her some authority, opossum still held to her bosom. “As a fucking law enforcement officer I am ordering you to not touch a hair on this guy’s little head.”

“Rook —”

“Deputy Rook, to you.”

“Do you seriously expect that to fly?” She cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t have any authority to tell me not to kill vermin on my own —”

“He’s not vermin,” she interrupted, looking down to press a kiss to the creature’s head. “You know how rare opossums are around here? I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen one. They aren’t native to Montana,” she said pointedly. “This little guy must be a transplant from down south somewhere, like me,” she chuckled, scratching behind the animal’s tiny rounded ears.

Mary May thought that was the first time she’d ever heard Jestiny mention anything about where she was from.

She thought about suggesting Jessie and the opossum both leave and go back home.

“As far as I’m concerned, that makes it an endangered species around here,” Jessie said resolutely. She patted the opossum’s back at the statement, and its sharp little claws dug into the denim of her overalls to pull itself up them, crawling up her chest to sit perched on her shoulder, as if taunting the bartender. “And therefore under my fuckin’ protection as law enforcement.”

“You’ve have to be fucking kidding me.”

“I’ll arrest you Mary May, I swear to —”

“This isn’t the sort of thing we should be letting ourselves get upset over. I’m sure we can —”

“I’m not gonna sit around and let that thing eat all our food and spread disease all over town until our resistance is taken down by a fucking opossum,” Mary May said firmly, stepping past Jerome.

“Opossums have low fucking disease rates, thank you very much! They’re fuckin’ immune to rabies!” she shot back. “They eat shit like ticks that do spread diseases, in fact! So tell Hank here thank you for the lack of Lyme disease goin’ around!”

“Hank —?”

“Be more likely to catch something from that stupid fuckin’ show dog y’all are always fawning over for whatever fucking reason than this little guy,” she grumbled, scratching the animal’s chin. “And he’s fuckin’ cuter, too.”

Mary May shook her head. “You think that thing is cute?”

Jestiny cocked her head in what appeared to be genuine confusion.

“Well, yeah,” she answered, flicking her eyes towards the opossum. “Just look at him!”

She pulled the animal from her shoulder by the tail, allowing the hairless length of it to wrap in a coil around her arm so that he hung upside down by it, grinning up at Mary May with wide rows of glinting pointed teeth as he swung suspended.

Her stomach turned. “Is this one of your shitty jokes?”

“I’m serious,” she huffed, pushing out her bottom lip. “I’ve always thought opossums were adorable,” she insisted. She turned her arm so as to reel the creature in by the tail and flip it over, so that it now rested balanced atop her forearm as she gazed at it.

“I mean, the beady little eyes.” The animal looked up at her, making an affectionate chittering sound as if in response. “That long pointy snout,” she added, tapping a finger against its pink nose. “The big ol’ grin with all them sharp teeth,” she continued, trailing her fingers back to scratch between its eyes. “Those tiny grabby hands,” she laughed, craning her neck until the opossum reached out to grasp her nose with bony, clawed fingers. “So cute,” she squawked, extra nasally from the pressure of the fingers gripping her nose.

Mary May stared in silent awe for a moment. “You know, Rook, I think this is somehow both the most and least I’ve ever understood you.”

“Well,” Jestiny cleared her throat, finally breaking the adoring gaze she’d held with the opossum to swing her head towards Mary May. “Only thing you really need to understand is that this little guy is sticking around for good.”

“Not in my fucking —”

“You know,” Jerome whispered to the bartender in subtle interjection, stepping towards her to speak under his breath as the redhead resumed cooing at her overgrown rat. “I think this could actually be good for her.”

Mary May shot him a look of disbelief.

“I used to minister to prisoners, and some of the prisons I would visit had programs that allowed the inmates to take in shelter animals, and keep them as pets,” he explained, looking over his glasses at Mary May. “Having something to care for really helped them. I saw many of those who were struggling suddenly develop a new sense of responsibility and kindness. There’s even evidence it helps with rehabilitation into society,” he murmured. “A pet could be good for her.”

Mary May squinted at the Pastor. “Isn’t you thinking to make that comparison in the first place a sign she should be in a prison?” she replied. “Not in my fucking bar with a —”

“Jerome!” the redhead chirped, suddenly right in front of them and shoving the opossum once again hanging off her arm into their faces. “You think he’s cute, don’t you?”

“He’s —” Jerome coughed, adjusting his glasses with a nervous laugh. “Noah must have put them on the arc for a reason.”

“Well, I’m not as generous as Noah,” Mary May said, crossing her arms. “You wanna invite a opossum into your own house? Fine by me. But as long as you’re staying in mine, you’re not bringing in a dirty, ugly trash animal as a fucking pet.”

“Pet?” Jessie scoffed, her shoulders shaking with laughter. “Don’t be fuckin’ stupid, you can’t keep an opossum as a pet. They’re wild animals.”

“Are you —”

“Hank here isn’t meant to be a pet,” she shook her head, holding the opossum close to her so that its skinny snout pressed against her cheek. “We belong to nobody, and nobody belongs to us,” she shoved her chin up high in the air to whine in an unnatural falsetto. “We don’t even belong to each other.”

“You also don’t belong in my bar.”

“Breakfast at Tiff —”

“I got the reference.”

“Pretty okay movie, right? Doesn’t live up to the book, but…” she shrugged. “Anyways, you don’t have to worry about Hank and me,” she said, tucking the opossum into the front pouch of her overalls, then tilting her head to nuzzle her nose against its, as the animal looked back up at her. “He’s not a pet. He’s just gonna hang out with me.”

“Not in my —”

But the redhead was gone, skipping through the back entrance to the Spread Eagle before she could finish the statement.

Mary May sighed, clicking the safety on her rifle and hoisting it over her shoulder to carry into the bar with her as she followed the woman — thinking better of it, as she reached the door, propping it against the wall instead.

“Jerome,” she paused in the doorway to turn back and address the Pastor, eyes briefly falling to the rifle again. “If I go to jail for killing her, try to see to it I get sent to one of the ones where they let you keep pets,” she said, turning forward. “Normal ones,” she added with a shiver. “Not opossums.”

He nodded, gravely, smile falling.

Some pests she was allowed to kill.

Some she wasn’t.

#writies and wordies #oc: deputy jestiny ellen #local writer does everything in her power not to work on chapter 16 #fic: pest control

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stonerzelda · 2 years

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If i disappear one day i didnt die it just means i got sick and tired of supporting this disgusting platform. Like this shit might make me finally leave the internet forever bc there is nowhere left to turn lol

#tumblr was the last place left that still held some semblance of the old internet days #but now its being drowned to death too by the pieces of shit that run this place and allow transphobes to get women killed.#this is the only social media i cam stomach anymore and now its kind of breathing its last breaths so. congrats staff. burn in hell❤

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whirlybirbs · 3 years

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( this chapter’s gif by @august-walker from this beautiful set ! )

✪ — VACANT MIRRORS ; B.B. | 4/?

summary: you formulate a plan, meet steve rogers, and bucky goes on a date.

pairing: bucky barnes / f!reader

tags: set before & during tfatws, friends to lovers, therapy positive, trauma healing techniques, ptsd mentions, the normalization of anxiety disorders, and a good ol’ slow burn

word count: 6.8k, mother of pearl

a/n: this ended up being mostly a filler with a lot of romantic growth - i had to break this chapter up from the unce unce unce clubbing that coming up, so please enjoy!

( PREVIOUSLY | AO3 | MASTERLIST | NEXT )

MOSCOW, 1975.

In all the years that James Buchanan Barnes has had a heartbeat, he’d come to know the sounds of grief well.

War taught him a lot of things — that they were all just little boys playing with guns, and that no matter how many times you thought you’d be ready for the vomit-inducing pungency of violence, you never were. In the end, you’d do anything to save yourself; you’d crawl through the thick of death and debris a million times over if only to cling to the shredded tatters of your own humanity.

You would kill someone else’s son for the sake of your own mother.

War was disease that devoured every part of you — it was gunpowder snuff and carved flesh. That sickness — inky and desperate — had sunk deep into this heart during the war, and it crescendoed to the sounds of mothers clutching dead sons. The sounds that followed death were like a hollow opera. Waning and wailing.

In the raucous wake left by warborn grief, Bucky drowned everytime.

To the Winter Soldier, the operatic quality to the sounds of grief were as insignificant as a child’s rhyme.

He did not drown. No, he waded through the waves, comfortable in the cold and unphased by the stinging cut of loss. That was not something he could comprehend. After all, there were orders and there were targets, and everything in between was absolute.

He was the disease that devoured all.

He’s holding a gun to Andrei Kuznetzov’s head in a dining room with ornate trim — with silverware as delicate as scalpels that tinker against fine china. The carpets are red, the curtains are red, there’s blood on the table cloth. The guests continue to eat. Kuznetzov’s wife is screaming, red nails dug so deep into the dining chair’s arms it’s carving out the fabric. War dogs, like him, keep her rooted in her seat, and her tears find polished boots. She’s begging and bartering but the man with Kuznetzov’s life in his hands is not listening. He is eating his veal, bloodied meat dancing between his lips. He takes a sip of wine as his medal emblazoned chest glimmers in the light of crystalline chandaliers.

The spoils of war.

His smile is stained red.

There is no deal to be made.

The Winter Soldier pulls the trigger.

NOW.

His eyes are open.

Panic is the first emotion he feels, and it seizes him up quickly in its grasp. He doesn’t know this view, he doesn’t know where he is, not again, not again, not again —

Then:

“Good morning, sleeping beauty. Did you know you snore?”

The relief that the sound of your voice brings is immediate, and just like that he remembers. He’s laying on the bed. You’re sat up across from him at that small desk in the corner. He reaches as he rubs his face to thumb the edge of the pillowcase. He exhales tightly.

He’s fine. His name is James Buchanan Barnes. He is not longer the Winter Soldier. He’s in his Brooklyn apartment. He is fine.

When’s the last fucking time he’s slept in a bed?

He sits up, scratching his neck as he does. You lean back, half rotated in the desk. Before you is a mess of papers and his laptop — and on top of the keyboard sits his notebook. It’s open to the page where all he’d been able to figure out about Innessa was scrawled in his chicken scratch.

Bucky swings his legs over the edge of the bed and immediately his back complains.

“How long was I out?” he asks, voice hoarse with sleep. He moves to part the curtains. The room blooms with warm morning light.

You offer an apologetic smile into the vanilla sunshine. “Three hours. I wanted you to get some shut eye. You were starting to look a little overwhelmed last night—”

“You click too fast,” he waves, standing and immediately rolling his neck to the side. You watch as the man, before as peaceful as a sleeping pup, now regains his usual thinning veiled level of threat. Bucky is dangerous — it shows in the way he holds himself. He cracks his neck, rolls his shoulders, and groans. He exhales again, posture sagging a bit, “I couldn’t keep up.”

You’re standing now, socks padding against the hardwood as you eye his cowlick with a budding bloom of affection. With his notebook between your index and middle finger, you offer it out. You cling to your empty coffee cup in the other.

“I didn’t peek,” you say warmly, “Pinky promise.”

His laugh is more like a hot puff of air. Bucky manages a look that feels like an emotional dethaw.

“Thank you.”

You lead the way to the kitchen, stretching your own back as you go. You��d been up all night — this is your third trip out here for yet another cup of coffee. The pot has been on for too long, though, and you know the coffee sitting there is beyond bitter. You’re moving to dump it down the sink when Bucky grumbles.

“Don’t.”

“You want it?”

“No,” he mutters, reaching for a mug, “But I don’t want to waste it.”

“Wow,” you chirp, “The Great Depression just jumped out.”

“Yeah,” he snorts, yanking open the fridge to search for something to eat, “It does that.”

“Well, grandpa,” you hand him the steaming cup and set out to make another pot, “You’re also living on Depression Era rations — might I suggest some Dolly’s? Because I’m starving and I’ve been up all night and I think that means I get to decide where we get breakfast.”

Bucky’s look is soft — but you don’t see it. You’re too busy scooping sugar into your cup, too busy nudging him aside to grab the milk. He’s rooted there in the kitchen, watching you move about. You’re comfortable. There isn’t a trace of anxiousness in you, not in this moment, and he tries to remember what it looks like.

Your eyes find his and he clears his throat.

“Earth to Sergeant Barnes?”

“Don’t start,” he groans, albeit playfully, “It’s too early.”

“Oh, what? Too early for me to grill you on why you didn’t tell me that little laptop in there was on loan from the FBI? To one Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th?”

His face falls.

“Don’t worry,” you raise a hand quickly, leaning against the counter as you sip your coffee, “I figured that out before I did anything massively illegal.”

Bucky rubs his face as he takes a sip of his coffee — the bitterness is enough to slap him awake. He winces, swallows it back, and remembers the taste of instant coffee made in helmets on the line in Bastogne. He can smell snow, and the acrid sting of mortar smoke. Suddenly, he’s craving a cigarette.

That hasn’t happened in a while.

Bucky clears his throat. “Did you find anything?”

You frown slightly, lips pulled as you hide your inward disappointment — you push off from the counter and shake your head as you brush past him. Like a loyal dog, Bucky follows. Into the bedroom you go, and Bucky’s again surprised he managed to get any sleep at all in that bed. Maybe it was the comfort of having someone else there, or the genuine exhaustion that had finally choked him out after hours of trying to understand what the hell you were even doing on there.

You plop into the desk chair and snatch up a piece of paper littered with notes.

“I couldn’t do much of my usual snooping,” you explain gently as you gesture to the chromebook, “This thing might have been given to you in good faith, but they’re watching you pretty closely. So, I worked a little magic and ended up running a virtual machine. Gave me enough wiggle room to avoid the malware and keystroke trackers. Even still, I wanted to be careful, so I just did a little looking.”

“Looking?”

“I can’t dig deeper on Innessa, I know where to dig, but I can’t,” you frown, “Not on this laptop, and definitely not on my personal machines. I’ve got the GRC breathing down my neck, and the files I need to poke are very much off-limits.”

“So, what? We’re shit out of luck?”

“No, not entirely,” you stand up and motion to the paper in your hands; your tone is tight, “I know a few people who can help, but getting to them is going to be the hardest part.”

Bucky takes the paper, squinting at the writing as you settle on the edge of the bed next to him. You take a sip of your coffee and watch as his blue eyes dart across the notes; you point to the name scrawled across the top.

“There’s a club in lower Manhattan, but you’ve gotta know the right people to get in,” you mumble, scratching your cheek as a creeping sense of embarrassment bubbles up behind your words, “It’s in the basement of an old computer repair shop. It’s like a blackhat networking event, but with strippers.”

Bucky squints at the paper and reads the name. “The Glass Cannon?”

“Yeah,” you huff, crossing your arms tightly as you stand, “That’s the one.”

Bucky looks up from the paper, attention now rooted on the pacing you’ve begun to do across the room. Back and forth. You’re holding your coffee like a lifeline, gaze far away. That anxiousless way you’d been holding yourself before is gone. Now, he can see the tensing in your shoulders, in your fingers. You’re suddenly nervous.

Bucky stands. His voice is gentle.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” you snap almost immediately, “Just, y’know. Worried. I spent a lot of time there when I was younger. Did stupid shit. And now I’m about to waltz in after six years like I haven’t put that part of my life behind me.”

“We don’t have to do this,” he says immediately, moving to stand closer and halt your pacing. The invasion of your space forces you to look at him. His fingers glimmering in the morning light. You follow the line of his figure up to his eyes. The emotion there makes your heart clench. You can’t pin it down, and it’s gone in an instant.

“It’s the only way we’re going to find Innessa.”

“You don’t need to put yourself in situations like this for me,” he says, stressing the for me part in both expression and tone. The depreciation makes you wince and you’re fast to shake your head.

“That’s what friends do, Bucky,” you stand your ground, but you know there’s more to your reasoning than that, “Plus, she’s a bad guy. And I know you said I technically wasn’t the sidekick, but—”

“You’re not the sidekick—”

“I know,” you huff, nudging him gently with your arm, “But, I wanna help. Do some good.”

“You do enough good,” he mutters, “You’re a good person.”

Your words fail you at that — and your mouth parts but nothing comes out. Bucky watches with an expression as solid as rock as you blink and look away. His hand, the one of flesh and bone, finds your wrist as you tighten your grip on your mug.

The touch, though far too tender for you to handle, feels like fire.

Like a slap in the face, you’re reminded of how handsome Bucky is.

You slap that thought back, trading volleys, and remain quiet.

His tone is stern. “I mean it.”

“Well,” you finally muster, tone dipping sardonically into a cruel peel of humor, “Just wait until you see me in my natural habitat. Maybe the tequila shots will make you second guess that.”

“I didn’t know we were going out drinking,” he chirps as he raises an eyebrow, “Am I going to need to get you a leash?”

“We’re gonna have to try and blend in as best we can. People are going to know me — if they try to pin me with the GRC or the feds, we aren’t going to get anything on Innessa. They probably won’t even let me in the building if they suspect something’s up, after all not everything that goes down in Glass Cannon is kosher.”

“This is already sounding like a bad idea,” Bucky mumbles as he crosses his arms, “I’m stating that for the record, by the way.”

“Well, I think standing around and working ourselves up about this is even worse of an idea,” you chirp back, moving towards the door to muscle on your shoes, “So I say we feed ourselves and don’t worry about this until Thursday night.”

“Thursday.”

You nod.

All of a sudden, Bucky’s eyes go wide.

“Today is Sunday.”

You freeze, hand on the doorframe. You shoot him a wide-eyed look at the sudden flare of panic that’s shot up through him. “Yea, Bucky, today is Sunday.”

“Shit.”

“What?” you nearly cry as he disappears into the bedroom once more. You hear his closet open, then a clatter as he grabs something like keys — you nearly run directly into his chest when he strides back into the kitchen. He’s shouldered on his usual leather jacket, and in his hands is another.

He’s got keys in his hand.

“C’mon.”

He shoves the jacket into your arms and you frown.

“What the hell?” you cry, doubling back to snag your phone and bag as Bucky moves to the door, “What is this?”

“Put it on,” he says, holding open the door for you as you follow him into the apartment hallway.

You raise a brow and stand there as he locks the door.

“Why?”

“Because,” Bucky mumbles, rubbing his face as he widens his strides to the stairwell across the hall; before you know it, you’re desperately trying to keep up as he bounces down the steps — light on his feet like the boxer he is — towards the lower level of the apartment complex, “We’re late.”

You groan, trying to shrug on the jacket that smells like Bucky as you follow — a smell you’d come to know as clean laundry and sandalwood. Must be something for his hair. He never wore cologne, that much was apparent. The jacket is big on you, especially on the shoulders. You were swimming in it, trying not to trip as he held the door open to the garage.

Suddenly, the air is cooler. Immediately you wonder how much his rent is if he had access to a ground level garage. Call it NYC instinct.

“Bucky,” you nearly whine, throwing your head back, “Where are we going?”

Before you get a reply, you run straight into his back. Bucky grunts, moving to grab both of your hands and push you to the front of him.

Sitting in the spot is a motorcycle.

It’s a jet black Harley.

Bucky is handing you the helmet on the back seat as your mouth moves in disbelief. “No way— no, I’m not getting on that thing. I’d rather sell my kidneys. Stop, stop — ow, Bucky — you haven’t even said where we’re going!”

He’s muscling the helmet onto your head and through the flash of the visor you can see a real smile, the sort born out of his never-ending amusement towards your fickle sense of humor. His fingers are nimble against your chin. He takes the time to strap it on, adjust it, and give it a gentle tug. Bucky taps the matte black helmet twice, then flicks the visor down.

“We’re going upstate.”

◦ ◦ ◦ ◦

It takes two hours to get to Elmwood Senior Living.

You spent the first forty-five minutes clinging to Bucky’s waist with your eyes closed — no fault of Bucky’s, really. It was different from riding in a car by miles, and you had your own qualms with driving. You couldn’t be in the passenger’s seat anymore. Not after the accident with Jaimie, when Mom disappeared. Being out of control made you itch; and it’s not until the fifty-minute mark that you ease up on the panic and remember who the man is that’s driving the bike.

You trust Bucky. You trust him with your life.

Once it’s open road, winding up towards the Northern part of the state, it gets easier.

Bucky can feel your grip around his waist loosen just a bit — and it’s enough reassurance that he stops looking back in the mirror every fifteen seconds. It’s enough permission to open up on the throttle, and the bike roars alive. Your immediate reaction is a gobsmacked yelp, the sort that’s pulled from a jolt of shock, but then comes the laugh.

Bucky’s own quiet chuckle rumbles against your chest. You hold on tighter, but this time with open palms against the thrum of his ribs.

Halfway through the trip, he pulls into a McDonald’s.

You drop your ass onto the parking lot’s curb as he leans against the bike and houses a burger. You laugh, eyeing him candidly as you take a large bite from your own lunch. Bucky is a mess with it — cursing quietly when he ends up getting ketchup on his jacket.

“Shit.”

“Jesus, Bucky,” you mutter, “Did you even taste that thing?”

“Barely,” he clears his throat and starts picking at his fries, “These things taste different now. First time I ever had McDonald’s was right before bootcamp.”

“How much was it? Five cents?” you snort, leaning back and dropping a fry into your mouth.

Bucky watches with a half-smirk. “Fifteen, but nice try.”

He spends the next five minutes on his hand with a wet nap, trying hard to get the grease out of the delicate plates along his palm. You watch, as you knock back the rest of your soda, as his eyes crinkle tightly in frustration. His mouth is pulled tightly into a fine line. For the second time today, you’re reminded of how handsome Bucky Barnes is — and how fucking stubborn he is, too.

“Want help?”

“No,” he mutters, trying to get a spot between his thumb and index finger, “I got it.”

“I have smaller fingers,” you sing-song, gathering up his trash and your trash and crossing the parking lot to the bin; upon returning, you waggle them in his face, “Good for hard to reach places.”

Bucky absolutely hates that can feel his blush hit the tips of his ears at the comment.

He’s glad you’re too preoccupied with his hand to notice. You’re watching, like you always do, with respectful awe. To you, this part of him is a bit like a treasure — you find it beautiful and intriguing and incredible. It’s clear in the way you watch the mechanisms turn and tighten that you aren’t frightened by it.

It unsettles Bucky every time.

Finally, once he’s finished under your watchful eyes, he leans to muscle that helmet back over your head. You groan, squinting tightly.

“C’mon,” he knocks your helmet with his knuckles, “We’re almost there.”

The rest of the ride is wide open space, farm land and mountainous peaks looming far ahead. It’s warm, and the sun is hot on your back. The wind is howling around you and it sends your jacket collar flapping against your neck. Your chin rests neatly on Bucky’s shoulder, trying to get a view of the road ahead.

Elmwood Senior Living is tucked into the back of a suburb.

The two of you weave through a neighborhood or two, dancing under the shade of age old maple trees. They cast long, scattered shadows across the pavement as kids play on their lawns. A dog barks somewhere in the distance. Over the hill, church bells ring. Sunday service has ended.

Bucky rolls into the parking lot, past the large sign with swirling lettering. Suddenly, things make more sense. Suddenly, you’re struck with a sinking feeling of grief. Nostalgia. Mourning. But, happiness.

There are folks sitting outside, basking in the sun, tethered to walkers.

Bucky’s wrists crank back weathered knuckles, and slowly the bike rumbles into an open spot. Extending his legs, Bucky balances the bike with ease. You take that as your cue to swing yourself off the back clumsily, hopping a bit. Bucky leans, kicks the stand down, and with significantly more grace than you, swings his leg over.

You’re shrugging his jacket off when he speaks.

“He’s going to be different than how you imagine him.”

You exhale slowly, draping the jacket over the bike’s seat. You peel the helmet off.

“I’ve sort of pieced that together.”

You can see the slight discomfort hanging in his posture. You reach and touch Bucky’s arm.

“Come on,” you nod to the entrance, covered by a shady overhang where someone is helping a family member out of their car, “We don’t wanna be late, huh?”

His eyes soften. Bucky nods.

You walk side-by-side into the lobby of Elmwood Senior Living and it’s like time slows down. It halts in a warm, sunshine colored still — full of chatter, full of humanity, full of wisdom. The room is framed by big windows, by plants, by a man in a U.S. Navy ball cap. He’s stationed by the door, watching the comings and goings. The main desk, where a young woman watches, sits in the corner. You follow Bucky with a content little look. He notices.

He stands a little closer at the main desk. The girl, who looks like she’s incredibly out of place with her blue hair and piercings, is younger than you thought. Highschool, maybe. She offers Bucky an excited smile.

“Took you long enough,” she chirps, moving to sort through a bin to her side with key fobs.

Your brows raise. You spy calculus homework on the desk.

Bucky snorts. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

He notices the same problem set you so, and purposely leans over the desk. Suddenly, you’re seeing flashes of a more boyish version of Bucky — one that reminds you of a man with siblings. Bucky taps the paper, jutting a chin to the girl as she tries to swat his attention away.

“How’d you do on that test?”

“I got a 96,” she chirps pridefully, laughing, “Thanks for the help, nerd.”

You’re watching the entire exchange with a smile, backing up a bit to toss a curious glance over your shoulder. There’s a dining room through open doors — and looks like lunch is just wrapping up. Folks are moving around, back to their rooms or upstairs where you can hear the beginnings of a seated aerobics class begin.

Bucky nudges you with his hand.

“Thanks, Sarah,” he says and waves the key she’d handed over.

The girl with the blue hair scoffs. “Say hi to grandpa for me, Bucket.”

You laugh out loud as Bucky quickly flips her off. She’s quick to do the same.

You follow him around the corner, grinning ear to ear. He spares you a sheepish look, then rolls his eyes.

“What was that?”

“She’s a good kid,” he offers, eyeing the key with the grey little fob attached, “Reminds me of my sister.”

Your face softens. “Sister?”

“Her name was Sarah, too,” he says quietly, boots landing softly on the blue carpet. He’s navigating the residential wing like he’s done it a million times. There are rooms with flowers outside, with holiday garb, with little photos and keepsakes. Each room holds a lifetime of personality — the sound of Jeopardy lulls along in the background.

You hum. Bucky sighs.

He meanders down a long hallway where a different door is — this one heavy and locked by the little keypad. Bucky raises the key fob to the device and the door buzzes.

This side of Elmwood is quieter.

Down the hall, Timmy Dorsey and Sinatra play quietly over someone’s record player.

There aren’t as many folks in the hall in this wing, but doors are open and nurses flit about. Around the corner, there’s a loud conversation going on about lunch — and you watch as Bucky weaves towards the nursing station. It’s a room overlooking the common area with windows. Inside are three women.

One of them immediately jumps when she sees Bucky.

“Oh, good! I was meaning to talk to you—”

“Everything alright?”

“About the same,” she breathes as she stands, moving to grab at a Bucky’s arm with a sense of motherliness that makes you smile, “But, meals have been a bit difficult lately.”

“No kidding,” he mutters, rubbing his chin, “He just doesn’t wanna eat?”

“He thinks Peggy is coming home,” the woman whispers with a pained smile as she begins to lead you both down the hall, “He thinks your grandmother made dinner for him.”

“Right,” Bucky nods, “Doesn’t wanna ruin his appetite.”

“Exactly.”

You take note of the conversation, muddling through your own confusion. You’re quiet, though. This isn’t really your conversation to have. Bucky seems to be relaxed more — even humming slightly to a song that plays across the hall from the room the nurse is knocking on.

“Mr. Carter?” she calls gently, “Your grandson is here to see you, and his…”

She looks expectantly at you. You bawk.

“Friend.”

“Right,” she smiles and pushes open the door.

It’s like a little slice of home.

Sofas, chairs, photos on the walls. There’s a record player in the corner, a television, a coffee table stacked with books on the second world war. There’s a dresser covered in baubles and warm light coming in from the window overlooking the street. It reminds you of your grandparents’ sitting room — everything looks so lived in, so comfortable, so alive.

And then, below the light of the window, is a hospital bed.

In it is Steve Rogers.

Not the one you know — no, this one has lived a full life. This Steve Rogers has fallen in love, owned a home, settled down. This Steve Rogers has years of wisdom settled into his face, years of well-fought fights in his joints. His blonde hair has gone shock white, but his smile is all the same.

“Bucky.”

The way Steve says his name is like the man beside you holds the world.

To Bucky, he can hear a new weakness. A new exhaustion.

“Hi, punk.”

The nurse offers a little wave to you as Bucky ventures into the room, stripping his jacket off and moving to scope out the minifridge in the small kitchenette beside the bathroom. She leaves the door open, and you smile to her softly. Bucky rummages, poking his head up.

“You want a drink, Steve?” he asks, tone almost like he’s feeling out the lucidity of the man across the room, “There’s some of that lemonade I brought last week in here.”

“Sounds good,” he says slowly, “Please.”

You feel out of place — not unwelcome, but… it’s clear that Bucky has come and gone from here a thousand times now. He knows to get the glasses out, to get a straw, to turn down the record player on his way over. Doris Day’s voice lowers to a soft croon. You watch with heavy eyes.

“I brought someone, Steve,” Bucky says, “She’s a big fan.”

“Oh?” Steve asks with a slow look to the corner where you’re standing, “That musta broke your heart.”

Bucky snorts as he moves to swing the hospital bed’s tray over Steve’s lap. He places the lemonade down, then the other glass on the nightstand. He’s quick to move the armchair closer to the nightstand, and gestures for you to come over. Bucky’s hands guide you by the shoulders as he plops you into the chair.

“She’s one of the good ones,” Bucky says, “Reminds me of you.”

“No kidding,” Steve says slowly, offering a hand that shakes, “Steve Rogers. It’s a pleasure.”

You exchange your name with a shy look, shaking that hand with reverence and gentility. “It’s an honor, Mr. Rogers.”

“Please,” he mumbles, moving to slowly take a sip of his lemonade, “Steve is fine.”

Bucky moves to take up a post on the opposite side of Steve, in the sun. “You’re losin’ weight, y’know.”

That earns him a wave of the hand.

Bucky leans back and sips his lemonade. He waggles a finger and you watch the two begin to go back and forth.

“No, no,” he swallows, “No, you don’t get t’ shrug me off—”

“M’fine, Buck,” a sigh, “Really.”

“Mhm,” he narrows his eyes, “You’re startin’ to look like the Steve I knew before the serum.”

You lean back, hiding a quiet smirk behind your hand.

“I was wondering when you were gonna show up an’ pester me,” he says with a tired look, “The only peace I get around here is when Peggy comes home.”

Your eyes jump to Bucky. He’s watching you.

“Peggy?” you ask gently, “Is that your wife?”

A proud smile washes over his face. “Still knocks me for a loop, too.”

“Steve,” Bucky’s voice is gentle, “Peggy won’t be coming around for a while. Remember?”

There’s a look that flashes across Steve’s face, then. A mixture of sadness, of confusion, of panic. It’s clouded with a furrow of his brow, hidden by a tilt of the head. He looks at Bucky, mouth pulled in a fine line.

When he finally speaks, his voice is sad.

“That’s right. I forgot.”

“S’alright,” Bucky taps his head, maintaining an air of nonchalance, “That’s why you got me.”

“And why you’ve got her, no doubt,” he turns to you with a winning smile and offers his hand again, “Steve Rogers. Nice to meet you.”

You take it, you shake it, and you introduce yourself once more. Your smile is patient and understanding. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Steve.”

Bucky breathes a sigh of relief. Steve smiles, tossing Bucky a look that borders on mischievous.

He sips his lemonade and clears his throat. “How is Sam?”

“You ask every time,” Bucky mutters, “And every time I have the same answer.”

“Sam?” you ask slowly.

“Wilson,” Bucky finishes, “Bird man.”

“You mean Falcon,” you correct, shooting him a stern look, “The Falcon. Are you ghosting The Falcon?”

“I don’t know what that even means, so maybe,” Bucky leans back and crosses his legs, “I’ve been busy.”

You roll your eyes. Steve saw. He smiles.

“I’m gettin’ why he keeps you around.”

Your face is smacked with a look of pure joy.

“C’mon on now,” Bucky cries, nearly indignantly, “No flirting—”

“M’ not flirting—”

“I know that look, Steve—”

Steve is laughing.

Bucky has a stern look in his eye. “You always do this—”

“I’m not doin’ a damn thing—”

“And you better keep it that way, old man,” Bucky shirks, voice splintering into a laugh in a way that you’ve never heard before, “I swear, this is how it always goes.”

“Always the bridesmaid, never the bride, huh, Buck?” you ask gently, leaning your cheek into your hand.

Steve laughs loudly at that.

Bucky spares you a smile — the sort that’s drenched in good humor and sunlight. It makes your lungs flutter, and you ignore the buzz in your fingers at the sight. You hide your laugh into your cup of lemonade, resigning to be a quiet counterpart in the conversation.

The two of them go on to chat about small things, then chat about old things. From the Commandos, to HYDRA, to amends, to therapy, to Peggy, to the itch the starch of their old dress uniforms used to bring. It takes a bit, a few redirections on the way, but it’s clear by the end why Steve Rogers is in Elmwood’s memory unit.

It makes your heart ache.

And if a super soldier is bed-ridden…

The two of you say goodbye around three in the afternoon after Bucky helps Steve shave.

The walk back to the bike is quiet.

Bucky speaks first.

“He’s dying.”

You chew your lip, eyes on the pavement. You match his slow stride, bumping your elbow with his as you walk. It’s still warm, and the clouds hang high in the sky. When you look up, Bucky’s watching you. You sigh.

“I’m sorry,” you finally muster, “I am.”

“Don’t be,” he says, grabbing the jacket from the seat and holding it up, “He’s lived a long life.”

You let Bucky hold out the arm for you, and you press your hand through the sleeve. He helps the other side on, and you zip it up to your chin. When you turn around to face him, there are tears in your eyes.

They snuck up on you. You hadn’t realized it until Bucky’s face fell, until the first one fell along the weathered leather of the jacket. You blink, raising your brows as you swipe them away, and offer an apologetic look.

“I’m happy,” you say, “Y’know. He has you. But, he’s a man out of time. Even now. That makes me sad.”

Bucky’s quiet for a while. He’s leaned up against the bike as you turn and watch Elmwood from the back of the parking lot. There’s a big part of you that feels heavy with guilt — and though Steve was in good spirits when you left, you can’t help but ache to provide him with more company. It’s clear that seeing Bucky means a lot to him, and that in turn it means a lot to the man beside you.

“Come on,” Bucky says then, “Let’s go home.”

You nod, let him muscle that helmet onto your head one more time, and hold on a little tighter back to the city.

◦ ◦ ◦ ◦

You don’t see Bucky until Tuesday.

In all honesty, it feels weird to not hear from him for two days. At the very least, you expected some sort of phone call — but you remind yourself that you’ve been okay alone for a long time. There’s no need to throw all your work on being comfortable by yourself out the window for Bucky Barnes.

It’s tempting, though. God, it’s really tempting.

You hate the ache in your chest when you finally see him lumbering towards the cafe counter before your appointments. You hate this new feeling — so you shove it down and ignore the way his fingers brush yours when he hands you your latte.

He is ignoring it, too. He’s been ignoring it.

No use in thinking about it though.

“You got plans later?” you ask him in the elevator after your appointment, tilting your head, “Apparently there’s a Lord of the Rings marathon tonight on FX.”

Bucky stiffens — and immediately he can feel the hot sting of anxious regret flood his cheeks. He clears his throat, tucks his hands in his pockets, and toes the ground. You watch with a confused look. Then he speaks tightly.

“...I’ve got a date.”

You could have caught flies the way your jaw fell open.

“Oh. Oh!”

You blink, readjust your expression, and swallow down a sharp stab of rejection.

Bucky clears his throat. “It’s… I wasn’t going to but, Dr. Raynor—”

“No, no,” you wave your hands and shake your head and try to seem genuine, “No, I’m happy for you. Is this one of those Christian Minglers?”

Bucky groans. “Shut up.”

“Okay,” you say, “Okay! Just, uh, be careful. Y’know? And call if you need anything.”

The elevator doors open, and Bucky walks side by side with you through the well-lit lobby. He holds the door open for you, and you pass through with a pained look at the ground. He lingers, though, rubbing the back of his neck as you wait for him to say what’s on his mind.

“Thursday,” he says, “I’ll stop by.”

“Yea,” you say, waving your hand, “Whenever.”

But, that doesn’t end up happening.

No, Bucky Barnes shows up at your apartment doorstep at 10pm.

He’s clutching takeout and a six pack of beer and wearing a horrified expression that screams of guilt and exhaustion. No, Bucky buzzes the door to your apartment and basically croaks that he’s here — he’s asking if the marathon is still on while you buzz him up.

“Third floor,” you say into the buzzer with a smile, “Come on in, old man.”

When you open the door, you have to laugh — because his hair is a mess and there’s still a trace of lipstick on the corner of his mouth. Whereas jealousy threatens to flare, his incredibly regretful expression tamps it down. You cock a hip, eye him up and down, and jut your chin out.

“Get laid?”

Bucky rolls his eyes so hard you’re surprised he didn’t break something.

He pushes past you, moving to drop the beer on the counter and place the takeout gently down by the basket of fruit.

“I’m here for the cat,” he grumbles, “Not your witty commentary, sweetheart.”

You’re moving quietly to the sink and gathering a paper towel with a smirk as Bucky looks around, admiring the decor and aliveness of your apartment. When you turn around, he’s already pried a beer from the pack and popped the top off with his vibranium palm.

He winces when you reach up to swipe the coral lipstick from the corner of his mouth.

Then Bucky settles, letting you clean off the mess.

“Mhm,” you hum, “Right. Was it at least fun?”

“She had fun,” he mutters into his first sip, “It was a lotta tongue for my first night out in nearly a century, though.”

You wince. He nods with a sardonic smile that tells you everything about how the date went down — and you’re relieved. “So, I take it you're not calling her in the morning?”

“No,” he shakes his head, “Nope. No, and I’ve decided no more dates. That was enough for me.”

You wince and pluck a beer from the pack. Wordlessly, Bucky gestures for you to hand it over. In one smooth motion, he twists the cap off with his hand.

“That bad?” you ask, eyeing him critically.

“I decided halfway through,” he says as he moves to take the takeout from its bag, “I’d rather be watching Lord of the Rings with you.”

That stops you into silence. It’s like someone’s taken your own words and gagged you with them — and you’re left floundering for breath you never even realize you lost. You know he means it. You know it because he won’t look at you, because that sort of confession isn’t easy for people like you two. So you take those words and you glue them in a lonely locket and keep them close to your heart.

Poke’s entrance saves you a mouthful of broken words — he comes in, trots up to Bucky, and hollers.

Bucky laughs.

“Nice to meet you, too,” he mutters, eyeing the cat that’s eagerly rubbing himself along Bucky’s leg.

You wipe your face, sip your beer, and move to the pantry across from the kitchen island. You come back out with a bag of salmon treats — the good ones — and offer Bucky the bag. He takes it, eyes still on the calico, and crinkles it a little.

You lean against the counter and watch Bucky kneel.

“If you keep it up long enough he might even let you hold him.”

He lights up at that.

You laugh.

You move to grab plates and forks and knives and groan when you open up the first box to see Pad Thai — you make a mental note to properly thank Bucky for this. You meager dinner of reheated pasta really hadn’t hit the spot. This will, though. You can tell from the smell alone.

By your knees, Poke chirps.

“He’s cute.”

“I never took you for a cat guy.”

Bucky snorts.

You make a plate and flick his head as you walk by. “You’re missing the start of The Two Towers.”

“I’m going to be confused, aren’t I?” he asks as he stands and begins making himself a plate. He watches as you settle onto the couch and sip your beer, “I was too busy being turned into a cyborg to read the books.”

You laugh out loud. It shocks you.

“Was that a joke? Did Bucky Barnes just make a joke?”

He’s smirking. He rounds the counter with his food and settles next to you. Poke is following him, eager to curl up next to his new friend.

“I can be funny.”

“Funny lookin’.”

He elbows you on purpose. You snort into your beer.

There’s a comfortable moment of quiet between you, and you clear your throat.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly, “No problem.”

More quiet, and he’s still watching you. Then, he asks what’s been on his mind for the last three days.

“You got a plan for Thursday?”

“I’ve got anxiety, Buck,” you exhale, swigging your beer and turning the television up, “I always have a plan.”

#vacant mirrors #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x you #winter soldier imagine #tfatws imagine #marvel imagine #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes/reader #bucky/reader

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miyagihawk · 4 years

Text

why’d you only call me when you’re high? pt. 2 | eli “hawk” moskowitz x reader

part one

here’s part 2 by popular demand! based off the arctic monkeys song and amazing request by @deadbeatharlz <3 thank you guys for the support on part 1 im so happy you liked it :)

warnings: self harming behavior, LOTS of swearing, alcohol and drug abuse, sooo so angstyyyy buckle up

summary: it’s been 3 months since your last night with hawk, and you haven’t been yourself.

word count: 3,062

The past 3 months have been rough. Maybe the worst you’ve ever been. You fell into the deep hole that you dug yourself. The hole of loving Hawk Moskowitz.

You never thought you’d be one of those people who let unrequited love devastate their whole being. In fact you always thought the whole heartbreak thing was pathetic and melodramatic. Until it happened to you.

You hate yourself for letting him have this effect on you. But there’s a pestering voice in the back of your mind that reminds you: it’s all your fault. He didn’t ask you to love him. It’s just easier to blame him for your downfall.

Parties, drugs, alcohol. Sex with people you don’t even know. High on the same drug that compelled him to call you in the night.

You’ve become so desperate to forget him that you ruined yourself. It hurts your pride to be the whiny heartbroken girl who let a stupid boy’s rejection shatter her self worth. But the hole is too deep and there’s no hope trying to grasp onto the dirt walls to get out.

The worst part of it is that he sees it all. At school, (if you even go) he looks at you like the scum of the earth as he passes by with his little karate gang. When you end up at the same party, he’ll have a disgusted expression on his face and leave as if he can’t bare to look at you.

Tonight is one of those nights, and you watch him from across the backyard as he goofs around with his friends. He hasn’t noticed you yet, hence why he’s even still here and not on his way out the door to get away from you.

“If you stare at him any longer, I think he’ll shoot up into flames,” your best friend Robby hands you a cup, and you don’t hesitate before downing its unknown contents. The burn in your throat makes you hum with content.

“That’s the plan,” you take your eyes of off Hawk to look at Robby. You gesture to his own cup in his hand, “Are you gonna drink that?”

“Easy there, Y/N. We got here 5 minutes ago,” he warns, but holds out the drink towards you anyway. Robby’s always been worried about you and your habits, but he knows how you can be when you’re told no.

You swallow down the drink in a few seconds, ignoring his remark. “5 minutes? I can beat my record!” you cheer sarcastically, and start walking to the kitchen in search of a keg. Robby follows closely behind you, a wary look on his face.

The fuzzy feeling starts to take over your body as you throw back drink after drink. It’s the buzz you crave every second of every day because it just makes you feel so good. Everything is happier and your cares feel so far away. Hawk feels so far away.

You sit on the couch next to Robby in your dazed trance, drunkenly rambling to him about random things. He glares at anyone who comes near you and looks like they would take advantage of you in your state.

Robby really hates you like this, but he can’t help but feel protective over you. He’s not even a fan of parties; he really only goes to keep an eye on you. You’re grateful even though you act like you hate it when he babysits you.

“Heyyy pretty Y/N! Want some?” Yasmine approaches where you sit, a joint held between her fingers. Her eyes are drooped and she sways as she stands.

You reach out to take the blunt, but you feel Robby push your arm down. “You’re already drunk. That’s enough,” he says sternly, making you roll your eyes.

“I can do what I want, Dad,” you taunt, and take the joint from Yasmine. Smoke fills up your lungs, immediately giving you pleasure. Robby just shakes his head in disapproval as the air around him becomes hazy.

“I’m going to the bathroom. Stay here,” he orders, getting up from the couch.

You nod, but of course, you don’t listen. The sound of splashing from outside sets off a lightbulb above your head and you feel like you’re floating while you walk to the backyard.

Right as you step out of the house, you make eye contact with none other than Hawk. He gives you a distasteful look like always, before turning back to his group. Asshole.

You just scoff and stumble towards the pool, where a couple is making out and a few people are drunkenly playing with the water like little kids.

Reaching the edge of the pool’s rim, you let yourself fall in with a splash. You feel the pressure in your ears start to build as you sink to the bottom. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re cross faded, but being underwater feels like a world of bliss.

The loud music of the party is muted, creating a sense of serenity. The legs of the other people in the pool make you laugh to yourself, sending bubbles from your mouth to the surface. It’s glittery and pretty and you want to stay forever.

You don’t know how long you’re under there for, but you don’t notice your lungs running out of air. It just feels good to be alone for a second. Next thing you know, you feel your eyes start to droop closed; a strange peace overcoming your body.

A loud thrashing noise in the water makes you wake up with a gasp. You swallow too much water as you feel someone grab hold of your arm. It’s all a blur and you’re being pulled up to the surface, taking you away from the tranquil world you were just in.

The music is pounds against your ears again and the air is cold on your skin. You feel your body being laid down on the concrete of the poolside, but everything feels numb. You just feel sleepy and you want to close your eyes again.

“Y/N, hey, wake up. Wake up,” a voice makes your eyes shoot back open. Someone is looking down at you, with a hand shaking your shoulder. Your vision is somewhat blurry, but the mohawk gives it away. It’s him.

You suddenly become aware of the large amount of water in your lungs and you turn over to your side to cough it up. After you get it all out, you notice the people at the party looking at you with eyes of pity mixed with judgement.

“What the fuck were you doing? You could’ve died, are you fucking stupid?” Hawk curses, but even in your inebriated state you can hear a hint of worry in his voice.

You sit up to face him. He looks angry; his clothes and hair are as wet as yours.

Maybe it’s the lack of oxygen in your brain, or maybe it’s the marijuana and alcohol, but you just feel the urge to laugh. So you do. Like a complete maniac. The way he probably just saved your life like he cares is sickly comedic to you.

His face twists in confusion as you break out into a fit of giggles. “Are you serious? You’re fucking insane, Y/N,” he gets up, shaking his head at you. He gives a glare to the people staring, and they look away in fear.

You think he’s going to leave like usual, but he surprises you by grabbing your arm to pull you up. People whisper amongst themselves as he drags you through the backyard, going through a gate that leads to front of the house. You trip over your own feet, still feeling dizzy from almost drowning, but he just pulls you along.

“What are you doing?” you ask, tugging on your arm to try and release it from the tight grip he has on you. You’re both dripping chlorinated water, leaving a track of drops on the concrete below.

“You’re going home Y/N,” he says sternly. You two arrive at his car and he opens the passenger door. “Get in.”

“Hey!” a voice yells from the house and you both turn to see Robby rushing towards the car. He looks pissed, and now you remember him telling you to stay put. Shit.

“Robby I-”

“Don’t get in there with him Y/N,” he says, sending a death stare to the boy next to you.

“I’m taking her home, Keene, so back the fuck off. Get in Y/N,” Hawk snaps, clenching his fists.

You keep quiet, not wanting to add to the fire already starting. They loathe each other; if not because of the karate rivalry, then because of you. To Robby, Hawk broke your heart and made you spiral. To Hawk, Robby is the piece of shit who he thinks is your boyfriend, and he won’t admit it but he’s jealous.

“You’re not driving her, asshole. You’re probably as drunk as her,” Robby reaches to take your arm, but Hawk pulls you back.

“You don’t know shit about me, Keene. I’ve been sober for three months, so yeah, I will drive her,” Hawk picks you up like you’re a doll, placing you in the passenger seat and closing the door. You don’t resist, you just feel tired and your head starts to pound as if the mix of drugs in your system are punishing you. The window’s down, so you can still hear the two boys loud and clear.

I’ve been sober for three months, his voice echoes in your head.

“Oh so now you care so much about her? It’s your fault she’s like this!” Robby raises his voice even more, starting to move towards Hawk threateningly. You begin to feel scared that a physical fight might actually break out, but you don’t know what to do.

“I’m not the one who almost let her die a few minutes ago, am I? Just fuck off, we’re leaving,” Hawk dismisses him, walking around the car to the driver’s seat. You’re surprised by his self control to not throw a punch, especially with his reputation.

“Robby, it’s okay. I just want to go home. I’ll call you, alright?” you reach your hand out of the window in reassurance and he takes hold of it. Hawk clenches his jaw as he turns on the engine.

“Promise you’ll be careful? I’m sorry I left you,” Robby furrows his eyebrows in worry. When he came out of the bathroom, someone filled him in on what happened to you and he almost had a heart attack.

“Promise. And it’s my fault,” you hook your pinky with his, before the car pulls out of the curb and separates you from your best friend. He watches you guys drive away, an anxious expression etched on his face.

The whole situation has sobered you up pretty well, and now you’re left with a throbbing headache, wet clothes, and awkward tension. You hate it. Being sober. You miss the foggy feeling that prevents you from thinking too hard about things. But now you’re inches away from the boy who broke your heart, all by choice.

You don’t know why you agreed to go with him, but did you even have a choice? You’re confused by his actions. He acts like he hates you but he jumps in a pool for you. He yelled at you but he’s driving you home. It all makes you overthink and it causes your head to ache even more.

You hold your head in your hands to try and ease the pain as Hawk drives quietly.

“You good?” he breaks the silence. His voice is softer compared to how he talked to Robby minutes ago.

“Head hurts,” you mumble.

“What were you doing back there? If I didn’t get you out, you’d probably be in the hospital right now,” he says. You peek at him through your hands and his eyes are on the road.

“I don’t know,” you sigh. “It was just peaceful. I didn’t really even think about breathing.”

He scoffs. “Well that’s just fucking stupid. You’re lucky I noticed you were under for so long.”

“Well thanks,” you reply quietly, feeling like a little kid being scolded.

There’s a couple beats of silence before he speaks, “What happened to you?”

The question makes you sit up and look over at him. “What are you talking about?”

“The old Y/N wouldn’t even touch a drink. You’re different,” Hawk taps his finger on the wheel in thought. His icy blue eyes quickly glance at your confused look before returning to the road.

“You happened, Hawk.” You pinch your temples in frustration. Anger starts to bubble up in your stomach at his criticism. At the mention of “old you”.

“I didn’t do this to you,” he shakes his head, as if trying to convince himself of his own words.

“You did,” you raise your voice, making him flinch. “You know it.”

“What, because I stopped sleeping with you? I didn’t make you fall in love with me, Y/N. You did that to yourself,” he spits, sending a knife to your heart and making you see red.

“You knew I loved you way before I said it. But you still stringed me along, didn’t you? You knew I would pick up everytime you called. You knew that I would let you into my bed because I was the girl who loved you no matter how fucking shitty you were!” you fire back, vomiting out words that you’ve wanted to say for months. The alcohol in your system makes you bolder than usual, but you’re grateful for it.

He’s at a loss for words at your outburst so you continue, “I didn’t ask for this Hawk. Loving you. I’m sorry that I’m such a burden and that you hate me so much that you can’t stand being in the same room as me. But please just answer me this and I’ll leave you alone forever. I’ll leave when we show up at the same party and I’ll even hide in the halls so you don’t have to see my face.”

You pause, choking on your words. You didn’t even realize that the car is already parked in front of your house and your clothes are halfway dry.

“Why don’t you love me?” your voice cracks as you spit out the question that has caused you to throw yourself away. The question with an answer that could dissipate your self worth in a mere moment.

Hawk finally looks into your glassy eyes with shock. He could’ve never anticipated what you asked him and his mouth runs dry.

“I told you, I- I don’t deserve someone like you loving me,” he swallows, but you shake your head.

“That’s not what I asked.”

He blinks slowly, trying to come up with an excuse. Any excuse, to avoid telling you the truth. You can see the inner conflict on his face, the panicked speed of his running thoughts.

“You should go home, Y/N,” he deflects, turning away from you. Putting on his mask to keep you from reading him like a book.

“I’m not going until you tell me,” you demand.

“Just get out of the car, fuck!” Hawk yells, slamming his hands down on the steering wheel. It makes you jump a little, but you’re too angry to fear the flames in his eyes.

“Why can’t you just tell me!” you fire back. “You came to me almost every night, so why do I feel something that you don’t? Is it me? Is there something wrong with me?”

“What do you want me to fucking say Y/N! That I do love you? Fucking fine. I love you. Is that what you wanted to hear? Just get out.”

I love you.

The same words you said that made him leave.

“You don’t even mean that,” you blink back your tears.

His voice is softer now, more gentle. “If I didn’t mean it then I wouldn’t have said it.”

“You said you needed me and then you left me,” your voice shakes and you hate how pathetic you sound.

“I-I didn’t leave you,” he stammers before taking a deep breath. “I left because you wanted something more than I could give you. I would’ve felt like a selfish asshole if we became more than just sex, Y/N. You deserve someone like Keene and yeah he’s a pussy but he’s good. Better than me.”

It feels like every piece in the puzzle is being put together. Everything makes sense. He does love you, but he was just afraid. He can’t be near you because it hurts too much to see someone he can’t have. Somehow, you can’t find the anger you’ve held against him for these past months; you just understand him now.

“I’m sorry, alright? For everything. For treating your feelings like shit. All of it.”

You swallow, thinking about his words. It all feels too much and the truth is now looking you in the eye, demanding an answer. You love him, but he dropped your heart on the floor for you to pick up every shard. Is one sorry going to magically fix everything?

“I- I don’t know what to say,” you admit, and he nods in understanding.

“You don’t have to say anything. Let’s just... move on. And you get better... I hate seeing you like this,” Hawk scans your red eyes and dilated pupils. “We’ll get to a better place and you and me, we’ll be good.”

It’s bittersweet, but he’s right. Being together now just because he loves you back would be a huge jump that would only end in broken hearts and toxic cycles. It would be foolish. As much as you want him, the only person who can fix you is yourself.

So it’s a meet up at the top of the mountain, when you’ve both made the journey from opposite sides.

“A better place,” you reiterate, before placing a light kiss to his cheek and leaving the car with a new sense of closure.

a/n: that was longer than i planned and a freaking roller coaster!!!!!!! im not sure if there should be a part 3? lmk what you think maybe it’ll just be short. but hehe i added robby into the mix he was so cute. ty for reading!

taglist for people who wanted part 2 :) ty friends for the support <3 @littlered6307 @deadbeatharlz @spiderman-berries @axastasiasstuff @r0-xie @estupidteen @hawkwhore @idkwhatishouldput4

#eli moskowitz #hawk cobra kai #cobra kai #cobra kai imagine #cobra kai x reader #eli moskowitz imagine #eli moskowitz x reader #hawk imagine #hawk x reader #cobrakai #hawk moskowitz

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stetervault · 3 years

Note

Hiii! Been delving into Steter now, in the year of our lord 2021, even though I never really did when I was active in the fandom years ago and I was wondering if you'd have some longfic recs for the ship? Like, fics that are Classics(TM)? But happy endings! And I'm not super into those in which Stiles is still underage 😬 do u have any recs? Thanks!

Welcome to the Steter fandom! I definitely have some long fics to rec, some of them are super old lol, and I'll stick to ones around 20k or over, and most of them are finished. And hmm, considering the ship, and a lot of fics like to start off in season 1 where Stiles is still technically a teenager, I'll try to limit these to ones with Stiles being at least 16/17 before anything starts happening, and only 18+ if there's explicit content. I hope that's okay.

drowning in the sea of you by Corpium

Beacon Hills was perfect for Stiles growing up, but now, with werewolves, hunters, and an anxious best friend running around, it's turning into a place too chaotic for an empath like Stiles to handle alone. And pain killers can only go so far.

Wake Me Up by ToAStranger

Stiles has been in a coma for six years. Now he's awake.

Tremors by Corpium

(Stiles has a taste for him now. All Peter needs to do is wait.)

Surviving Peter and the Zombie Apocalypse by Nopennamesleft

Its the end of the world and Stiles has run out of luck. He saves a werewolf from certain death. Will they begin to rely on each other to survive or will the wolf just eat Stiles for a midnight snack?

Bite Down by EclipseWing

In which Stiles is forced to survive the zombie apocalypse with a sociopathic murdering werewolf for company.

as you are by veterization

Stiles runs straight into a tree and suddenly, things are... different. Namely, he's in a world where Peter Hale is his boyfriend.

Call My Name by KouriArashi

After moving to Beacon Hills, Stiles starts having recurring dreams of a man in some kind of prison, who needs his help. Things get so bad that he ends up in Eichen House, where he finds out that the man is real.

Devil of Mercy by KouriArashi

Peter's heard people talk about what it felt like when they saw their mate for the first time, from those who actually believe in the mystical bullshit. Like a magnet, like gravity. Peter just feels... sharply curious.

Whiskey is My Kind of Lullaby by taylorpotato

Peter is a simple saloon owner on one of the outer planets between the Aaru Belt and the Olympus Galaxy. He’s done with trouble. Done with adventure. So fucking done with rustlers. That is, until a cute young outlaw named Stiles wanders into his bar. Peter has this problem where he can’t seem to resist charming narcissists (perhaps because they remind him of himself). And when said narcissists turn his life upside-down, the worst part is he’s not even that upset about it.

Proposing To Strangers by moonstalker24

At the end of a strained relationship, crime novelist Stiles chooses to hide from the world inside a bar with far too many motorcycles outside it for comfort. Here he'll meet the man of his dreams, eat food and propose marriage, all within the first five minutes.

Peter doesn't know who this kid is, but he's cute and looks like he could use a break. So he feeds him. He's not expecting a marriage proposal, but with what comes after, he doesn't really mind.

Stiles Stilinski, Disaster Chef by Guede

The zombie apocalypse forces Stiles to learn how to cook.

The Will by Guede

We are gathered here today for the reading of Gerard Argent’s will.

On the Importance of Lunar Influences in Gardening by Guede

“Oh, it’s you again,” Stiles sighs. He puts down his basket and drops the bunch of onions into it, and then dusts off his hands. “Can’t you get your own strawberries? I mean, I have it on good authority that wild strawberries? They’re a thing. They exist. They’re out there.”

“But Stiles,” says the werewolf dangling by one foot from the tree, sticky red smears around his mouth and all over his fingers. “Your berries are so juicy, so ripe. Those ones in the woods are mere passing indulgences compared to the royal feast you have in your garden.”

Genii loci Stiles and his father run a community garden, and it’s all good, except for the werewolf who keeps sneaking over the fence to raid Stiles’ strawberry patch (and the hunter who’s constantly hanging around his father).

Runes and all kinds of things by FeelingsDusk (WIP)

Enough is enough. Stiles is tired of being always a last choice when he always tries to do his best for his precious people, so they better get their act together or face being left behind.

The things in the Argent's basement get nearly fatal, the Sheriff finds about the supernatural, Allison can have a wicked, wicked mind and Peter Hale appears to be everywhere.

Oh, and Stiles can't seem to stop breaking the laws of physics with his magic.

Sanctuary by DiscontentedWinter

The Hale Wolf Sanctuary isn’t just for wolves.

It turns out it’s for Stilinskis as well.

Out Of The East, Never See The Sun Rise by neglectedtuesday

In the beginning, there are three absolutes.

One. Stiles is a god, forged of starlight and collapsing galaxies and he is eternal.

Two. Peter is human, fragile bone and viscous blood and he is temporary.

Three. Stiles and Peter are in love; love that claws its way inside one’s heart like fish hooks; all encompassing love that is beautiful but dangerous.

Stiles is a god. Peter is human. They love each other.

Three absolutes.

You Had Me at Canapes by LadyArinn

Stiles doesn't mean to sneak into the Hale wedding, and he certainly doesn't mean to have cliche coat-room sex with the bride's uncle, but what had happened, happened, and it wasn't like he could just leave. At least, not until he got to have some of that cake.

Infinite Space by DiscontentedWinter

Stiles needs Peter's expertise to help stop the latest threat to Beacon Hills. And, as the pack falls apart around him, he might even need Peter for more than that.

Hook, Yarn, Sinker by pprfaith

Stiles is happy with his store, his hobbies, his friends. Peter's just trying to figure out how to raise his nieces and nephew without fucking them up too badly.

Paths cross.

Open Wounds by Guede

Talia got out of the fire with Peter, but everyone else died. Years later, they’re still struggling with injuries, but they’ve at least settled in with oddball werewolf Stiles. And then other werewolves start showing up. Familiar ones.

Bittersweet Creek by Guede

When Stiles finally steps off the westward trail to California, he’s the last of his pack. He starts building a den, but then he finds a dying man next to a burnt-down house and it turns out he’s not really much of a settler, after all.

For Great Justice! by Green

Stiles is a vengeance demon, drawn to Peter just as he's waking from his catatonia.

"Whoever did this? We will make those fuckers suffer. I promise you."

Bone Deep by ShippersList

A body in the woods, a mate, and a long-awaited revenge.

Peter had no idea how his life would change when he followed the strange pull in his chest.

Love What is Behind You by KouriArashi

Basically what it says on the label. Hunger Games type fusion. Stiles doing way better than anyone anticipates. Peter finds him intriguing. Ruthless, devious assholes working together to ruin bad guys, as the Steter ship is meant to be.

Soothing the Burn by Therapeutic_Steter (WIP)

Peter is burnt out and breaking down. Stiles notices and offers him solace, along with the one thing he wants most: Pack.

Til Death by Bunnywest

“How long do we have to find him someone?” Stiles asks. “Two weeks,” says Derek, eyebrows pulling down even further. The fierceness of his expression tells Stiles just how concerned he is. “He marries, or he goes to the camps. And you know what your father told us,” Scott reminds her. The camps……aren’t camps. Peter either finds a wife, or he dies.

Ink Blossoms by Triangulum

"So, you're going to ruin your niece's baby shower with flowers in the wrong color?" the florist, Stiles, asks when they reach the counter. He pulls out a binder and starts flipping through it.

"Not ruin. Mildly inconvenience," Peter says.

"Right, messing with a hormonal pregnant woman seems like a great plan."

"To be fair, her fiance and the father of her baby is my ex-boyfriend," Peter says. "And we weren't broken up when they started 'dating'."

Stiles looks up at him in surprise. "And you're still getting her flowers?" he asks.

"It's under duress, I assure you," Peter says. He absolutely wouldn't be here if his alpha hadn't ordered it.

"Well, shit, yeah, let's get you some purple revenge flowers," Stiles says.

After You by FlyAwayMeow (rjaejoo)

It’s true that sometimes what you want the most, you can’t have and that you’ll miss what you once had all along when it’s finally gone.

After breaking his engagement to Chris, Peter heads to New York to start over. He meets Stiles, a young author at his publishing house who helps him piece his confidence back together. When tragedy strikes, he discovers how to finally let go of his past and have the family and future he's always wanted with the pieces already in his life.

love me lights out by veterization

Stiles and Peter get snowed in together. (Or: what happens when you accept phone calls from people you haven't spoken to in over five years.)

Uncle Peter Doesn't Date by Mellow (SweetCandy) (WIP)

“Oh don’t lie, you love it.” Peter purred and winked at his newest arm candy, who spluttered for a few seconds, before blushing like a 16 year old virgin. Considering how young he looked Laura wouldn’t be surprised if he was actually 16. “Shut up Peter!” Bambi squeaked, still flushing and averting Laura’s eyes. “Well, anyways, I’m,” ‘Bambi’. “Stiles. Stiles Stilinski, pleasure to meet you- again.” Stiles smiled sheepishly, obviously nervous. Stiles Stilinski. Definitely a stripper then.

Or: Laura was prepared for whatever piece of armcandy her uncle had decided to show up with, what she hadn't been prepared for was Stiles Stilinski...her uncle's boyfriend.

Under the Songbird’s Wing by mia6363

Captivity easily destroys the will of escape. It can break the fiercest of animal. It can strip the most regal man and woman down to nothing but animal needs.

Captivity can, if met with unwavering determination, shape a person into something unimaginable.

Stiles is sixteen when he's captured. Stiles's first thought is, "I won't die here."

Baby Whisperer by twothumbsandnostakeincanon (somanyofthekids)

“What. Is that.”

Scott looked up at him, apprehensive.

“Her name’s Lily.”

Stiles stared at the fuzzy head peeking out of the papoose.

“Her. Her name. That is a real live human baby. Oh my God-”

“Actually I don’t know if she’s human?” Scott said with a confused frown. “Becca didn’t say.”

“Who the fuck is Becca?!”

Sacrificial Lamb by Bunnywest

The Alpha has a scruffy beard, unkempt hair and dazzling blue eyes. The scar on his face is raised, running down his cheek like a twisting, gnarled rope. Stiles knows that it came from the blade of Kate Argent herself, and that the Alpha got it fighting in the battle where Kate killed his lover, cutting his head clean from his neck, if the stories are to be believed.

The Alpha lets Stiles look his fill, before indicating that Stiles should take the other couch, and Stiles does so, his father’s words echoing in his ears. He can do this, can be pleasant and amenable. The lives of his people may depend on it. The Alpha spends long moments surveying him, before saying, “I like you, Stiles.”

You don’t know me, Stiles wants to blurt out, but he bites his tongue.

The Various Triumphs of Mischief Bilinski by Whispering_Sumire (WIP)

"Hello, Chris," sings a honeyed voice from behind.

Chris' attention snaps toward the intruder, his gun already out of its' holster and aimed at whoever it is — a boy, apparently, with braided russet hair, a red jacket, and wise eyes. He's wearing a gas mask, but Chris can tell by the way his eyes crinkle around the edges, the way sun-burnt sand swirls in his irises, that he's smiling.

Chris cocks his gun.

"You killed my father," he says.

"No offence, but he totally deserved it," the stranger agrees with cheerful solemnity.

"What the hell are you doing in my home?" Chris demands. The kid is perched on a windowsill in Chris' office, as nonchalantly as if this were something he did every day, as if they were familiar.

"I was just wondering," the kid speaks softly, fond amusement sewn through with a peculiar resignation, "how you'd feel about putting down some nazis?"

[Or: The one where Stiles goes back in time and subsequently fucks with everything.]

A Curious Magic by Triangulum

Overall, Stiles is very well-known in the supernatural community. It’d be hard not to be, not with how his reputation has grown like wildfire. He knows and is on good terms with nearly all the fae that reside in the preserve, the asrai that live deep in the lake, the Ito pack, the vampire couple that lives over in Beacon Valley (they buy an ethically-sourced food supply from Stiles), as well as almost every other supernatural entity in the area. But Talia Hale doesn’t like him, and a werewolf pack tends to do what their alpha tells them to.

So it’s a definite surprise when the wards at the edge of his property trip, the tingling down his spine telling him it’s a werewolf, the lack of burning sensation letting him know there’s no hostile intent. Stiles, in his office in the second floor turret, sets down the amulet he’s packing up for Marin and moves to the large window overlooking the front of his property. He’s expecting to see an Ito packmember, even though they nearly always call in advance, and is surprised to see a man that he recognizes as Talia’s brother, Peter.

Light in the Dark by cywscross

It still surprises Stiles sometimes, how easily he’s adapted. Seven months in a world filled with train tracks and soul-sucking fae, and it feels like he’s never known anything else.

Or, the one where diverting the Ghost Riders from Beacon Hills to prey on a different town only succeeded in setting them free.

Vengeance Looks Good On You, Sweetheart by cywscross

Just because Scott refuses to see the Argents for what they truly are - prejudiced serial killers sitting proudly on a mountain of innocent corpses - doesn't mean Stiles will. It's about time someone did something about the Argent Empire anyway, and what a coincidence - summer vacation is just around the corner.

Or, the one where Gerard Argent kidnapped the wrong fucking person to torture. Stiles has never subscribed to the policy of forgiving and forgetting anyway, not when razing the problem to the ground and salting the earth for good measure has always been a far better solution in the long run.

He doesn't expect to have company.

#rec list #teen wolf #steter #stiles stilinski #peter hale #fanfic rec #akielosrises #ask

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fandomvariousness · 4 years

Text

Finally

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x reader

Warnings: angst, mentions of violence & death, nsfw content

Summary: reader finally sees her lover Eren after the team retrieves him to the airship, yet he’s not the same. Will she bring him back?

Word count: 3.2k

A/N: Forgive me if some details are inaccurate, this is my rendering of the situation, so some things may not add up!

Finally.

Finally, the day you’re going to see Eren again.

You shivered with anticipation, thinking about the letters that were going sparse, until there were none. You’ve been inseparable, supporting each other every step of the way, but Eren had to deal with unthinkable, horrible things along the same steps too, and you couldn’t take all of it away – the burning hatred seeped into his brain, numbing his senses and compassion.

He offered no explanation in letters as to why he’d stopped writing so often, and you didn’t ask for one – he’s in enemy’s land, surely he has his reasons, but deep down you knew he was pushing you away.

What were you going to say to him? Will you hug him? Will he hug you? You had no idea, and it was killing you.

Your adrenaline was over the roof. Everything around you was destroyed, splintered, ground to pieces – Eren did that.

It seemed that you lost it when you realized that Eren had transformed without the care of hurting innocent civilians – his sense of revenge was stronger than anything else. You haven’t been able to approach him yet, to look into his mesmerizing jade eyes. You suspected Captain Levi has positioned you away from him on purpose – who knows how you and Eren would’ve reacted to each other’s presence after so long.

You felt the insides of your stomach turn as you hooked your cables on the airship and zipped-lined towards it. Just a minute ago you saw how Mikasa made it inside, dragging Eren along. You heard a commotion above you – Captain Levi was cussing Eren out. The casual.

You felt how everyone stopped whatever they were doing as you were climbing on board – secretly, they all wanted to know what will happen once you two meet again. That’s how powerful you two are. Were.

Out of breath, you stood up, regaining your posture, your rifle still in hands as you finally looked at him: if not for the emerald sheen of his eyes, you wouldn’t have recognized this ragged, miserable man with a chestnut resembling that of a lion.

You stared into each other, the unbearable grief that consumed you rendering you immobile. Quickly, your vision worsened, tears blurring your eyes as you realized there’s nothing behind those of Eren. He looks at you, yet doesn’t say anything, doesn’t feel anything.

“Move,” Captain Levi muttered and lightly pushed you aside.

You tore your gaze away from Eren, breathing shallow breaths as you stumbled towards the wall, leaning on it.

And then you heard the shot.

It was unbearable. One fleeting moment, one slightest miscalculation, and she’s gone. Sasha is gone.

You kneeled beside her tomb with your head hanging down, hot teardrops sinking into the pale stone. Everything was always shit, but now… now it’s pure hell. You sobbed and raised your head to look at the cloudy sky, cutting off the air flow, trying to pull yourself together.

“Hey,” Jean approached you, Connie not far behind. “Come here.”

He crouched down to your level and placed his palms on your shoulders reassuringly, helping you stand up.

Eren was nowhere to be seen. He kept to himself in his quarters, but Captain Levi forbid anyone to properly visit him anyway. He thought Eren’s unstable.

But you thought the opposite. Eren’s perfectly stable – the deadly precision, calculation and determination fueled his conscious, revenge-fueled decisions, and frankly, you were afraid. He wasn’t thrashing around like he would years ago, screaming and tearing everything apart, consumed by fury – he knew what he was doing now.

The last time you laid eyes on him was during Sasha’s funeral, but it seemed that he wasn’t even there. His body was, of course, but his mind was fleeting somewhere else, somewhere where he could continue plotting the utter extermination of every last one of his enemies.

It’s going to be hard, bringing him back. Hell, you didn’t even know if it’s possible – he truly looked like a goner. But you were going to try, because there isn’t any other living being in the world you love more than Eren Jaeger.

You sat on your bed, facing the one that belonged to Sasha. She would tell you to stand up and go straight to Eren and whoop his ass for ignoring you.

You sank your teeth in your lower lip as you stood up and made your way towards Captain Levi’s office.

“Come in,” his low voice muttered after you knocked. He rolled his eyes when he saw it’s you.

“What is it?” he asked, his desk already stuffed with a bunch of paperwork.

“I need to visit Eren.” you realized how selfish your request sounds in the midst of everything, but you couldn’t help it.

“No.” he answered after a few seconds of regarding you, without any care in the world. “You’ll just wind him up.”

Your heart skipped a beat – if Captain Levi thought that Eren still feels something for you, then maybe it’s true.

“Please, Captain, I –”

“Stop whining, brat.” he hissed, silencing you.

There was a wall of miscommunication between the two of you as you stared at each other, trying to convince one another silently.

He put down his pen after a few moments and leaned back in his chair as he sighed slowly. “You’re gonna do it anyway, aren’t you?”

You shrugged ever so slightly as you stared at nothing in particular.

Some more silence passed. “I’ve not yet decided on giving you week’s-worth punishment for insubordination, but go. Get out.”

“Thank you, Captain.” you bowed your head to him quickly, suppressing your smile as you basically ran away.

Levi rubbed his forehead. “Stupid brats.”

As you approached the door of Eren’s room, your heart pounded against your ribs so hard, you truly thought they’re going to crack. Yet here you were, standing within a step from the door, eyeing the little crack of light that emits from within – it’s not completely closed.

You lifted your trembling arm and knocked softly, then once again, harder this time, thinking he may not have heard it.

“Eren?” you whispered weakly after you got no reply once again.

You gulped and pushed the door further, stepping in – empty. He’s not here.

You released a breath you didn’t realize you were holding as you stepped further, looking around. The whole room looked almost untouched if not for the sack of a few items he brought from his old room. Your eyes flicked towards a stack of letters on the desk – your letters.

Your lower lip quivered as you approached them, picking one up – not even opened.

Pain and anger spun like a vortex inside you, bringing hot tears to your eyes. How important must’ve been the reason that he denied you the slightest explanation?

The letter dropped back to the desk as you flinched, hearing the door shut behind you.

Gasping quietly, you turned around, seeing him clearly for the first time since a couple of days ago. He stood there in all his cool, newfound glory: hair long enough to be messily gathered in a bun, naked torso adorned with chiseled abs, V line protruding from his waistline, and pants that hugged his muscular legs.

He had a toweled hanging over his shoulder – that’s where he’s been, in the showers.

You didn’t know what was the exact reason for the hot blush that crept to your face in a second – the fact that Eren is even more attractive than you remember, or that you stood there like a mute, with your jaw basically on the floor.

His own gaze was unreadable – he watched you like a hawk as he approached the chair and draped the towel over its back, stuffing his hands in his pockets afterwards.

You snapped awake, glancing at the letters behind you, and then back at him. “You never opened them.”

“You need to forget me,” he spoke, staring directly in your eyes. “I’ve only have a few years left anyway, if I’m lucky.”

It hurt you how assured of his words he was as you turned your body from him, desperately trying to calm down. He stood there just the same when you dared to look at him again.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked, failing to conceal the tremble that laced your voice. “I’ve told you countless times, I’m with you until the end, and even then.”

“That’s exactly why.” he raised his voice just a bit, reminding of the old Eren you used to know. “I can’t bear the fact that you’re okay with… all this.”

You covered your face with your palms momentarily before stepping a couple of steps closer to him. “Did you honestly think I’ll go down with this scheme of yours?”

“I’m determined to make it happen.”

“Eren, don’t be stupid!” you couldn’t control yourself anymore. “I’m not some… weak maiden in need of constant attention! I’m your partner!”

“You want to be partner of the monster that I am?” he asked, a faint hint of disappointment in his voice.

You sighed, closing your eyes. “Eren…”

“I’m a murderer.” he said as he lessened the space between you a little more, trying to impose his truth on you – you could almost feel his breath on your skin, what made another shiver run down your spine.

You opened your eyes abruptly, because you knew he expected that you won’t be able to even look at him after what he’s done. His jade eyes were the same as before as you drowned in them.

You couldn’t help as you placed your dainty palms on his ripped upper arms, the tips of your fingers jolting with electricity. Eren felt that too, for you heard him draw in a sharp breath.

You were going to say something, but right now you couldn’t focus on anything other than your skins touching again, after all this time. You gulped as you gathered courage to lightly stroke down to his forearms.

“You’re not a monster.” you spoke again. “You’re just a hurt boy who can’t help but hurt others.”

He stayed silent, because he knew it’s true. You always did this to him – always had one last argument that made him shut up. His eyes became glassy as he looked down in shame, gripping your own forearms in his calloused palms.

“Come here,” you mumbled as you wound your arms around his neck, cradling him, as his own arms snaked around your waist, head buried in the crook of your neck.

You were only hugging, but it felt ecstatic. You gripped him tightly, swearing to yourself never to let go again. You felt a few wet drops run down your shoulder, yet Eren didn’t release a sound – you knew he was holding back.

“I’m sorry for everything.” he whispered. “You don’t deserve this.”

“Eren, you’re never getting rid of me.” you whispered into his hair before planting a tender kiss on his head.

He released a breathy laugh, tickling your neck. You nuzzled into each other more, and then you felt his lips on your neck, pecking it lightly, immediately blazing flames in your lower region.

You arched your neck back, providing him with an easier access to your skin. You couldn’t suppress a small gasp as his hot breath trailed up to your jaw, along with his longing-filled kisses.

“I missed you.” he whispered against your jaw, before pecking just below the corner of your lips.

Your mind was already in shambles. “Believe me, I missed you more.”

Your lips finally collided: desperate, needy, hungry. His fingers dug into your hips, aligning your centers as your palms slid down to the either side of his neck. You moaned into his lips between the famished, open-mouthed kisses as he gripped your behind, trying to savor it all.

Your palms were running down his chest on their own, exploring every crevice and scar, some old and some new, still unexplored. You felt his hand slide under the hem of your shirt up to your ribs, leaving a scalding-hot trail in its wake.

You rutted your hips against his automatically, getting needier with every passing second, your hands hooked around his neck again, holding on for dear life.

Your jaw slacked as he sneaked his hand under your bra, his fingers coming in contact with your hardened nipple. He drew back a little so that he could see your flushed face and hazy eyes, a light sheen of saliva reflecting from your slightly lolled out tongue.

“More, you say? Just how much?” he teased, his eyes darting from your eyes to your lips repeatedly, the corners of his lips upturned ever so slightly.

“Really, really much,” you whimpered before he discarded you of your shirt and bra, his hands roaming down your sides as he sucked on your jugular, your hands buried in his hair, ruining his bun.

“Jump.” he said between the wet kisses as you felt his hands under your thighs.

He made his way towards the bed before gently dropping you down on it, feeling the tent in his pants become unbearable, almost painful. How could it not, when you lay sprawled out under him, hair messy around your head like a halo, all the while needy breaths escaping your lips?

You knew exactly what you were doing to him, but you wanted to drive him crazy, to make up for all the painful time you’ve spent apart. You started wriggling out of your leggings, your gaze never leaving his eyes. He unbuttoned his own pants before they slid to the ground, revealing a formed tent under his boxers.

Suddenly, he grabbed you by your calves and yanked you closer, forcing a yelp from you. Second after his lips crashed on yours again, making their way down, passing your neck, collarbones, stomach, until they reached their destination.

You found it hard to breathe as he kissed your inner tight, getting closer and closer to where you needed him most.

“Eren,” you whimpered, your eyes closed, hands gripping the sheets. “Please…”

You felt him smile against your thigh before his tongue flicked against your clothed clit lightly, coaxing another high-pitched moan from you.

You put the back of your hand against your mouth quickly, embarrassed at the sudden reaction. You felt the bed shift before you opened your eyes and saw him parallel with your own body again.

“Don’t,” he asked as he removed your arm from your face. “I want to hear every little sound you make.”

He kissed you once before making his way back, hooking his fingers on your panties and sliding them down painfully slowly. The cold air on your skin peppered it with goosebumps, yet when you felt Eren’s face lower to your center, your body ignited once again.

A moan got stuck in your throat as you felt Eren’s slick tongue go all the way from your entrance to your clit, circling it, literally driving you crazy.

“Eren,” you moaned, the back of your head buried into the mattress as you wound your hands through his hair, completely ruining the bun, his chestnut hair falling to the sides and framing his face.

His fingers dug into your thighs as he pleasured you with his tongue, awakening the passion in you that was dormant during his absence.

Eren loved the taste of you on his tongue as he sucked on you, holding down your squirming hips. He knew you were close; he remembers everything your body language tells him.

“E-Eren, I’m gonna—” you choked out, confirming his observations.

You felt cold air hit your slick folds as Eren drew back, quickly discarding himself of his last piece of clothing before he leaned down, planting a sloppy kiss on your lips.

“Ready?” he breathed into your lips, receiving a nod.

The burning sensation followed his dick breaching your entrance, stretching it out after so long.

“Fuck,” he groaned against your mouth, having forgotten just how good your pussy feels.

You choked out a groan as you wound your legs around his waist, urging him to plunge deeper, despite the slight pain that strains you.

“This good?” he asks between his heavy breathing as he makes his way deeper into you.

“Yeah, yeah,” you nod quickly, your voice out of tune.

He finally hits your cervix, staying like that for a few moments, allowing you to adjust, peppering your neck with kisses as your chest rises and falls heavily.

You kiss his lips as you place a hand against his buttocks, urging him to go on. He goes back to the point of pulling out before hitting you deep again, building up his pace as he does so.

Your mind is getting hazier with each thrust – it seemed that the room turned into a sauna as you could almost see the huffs of air that escaped both of your mouths.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he groaned against your ear as he pinned your hand above to your head, intertwining his fingers with yours.

He was barely controlling himself as your pussy clenched around him – he probably never had to restrain himself with you as he does now, regarding the absence of your touch for such a long amount of time. You’ve never been apart that long, and he hoped you’ll never be again.

“Eren!” you screamed, sensing your release fast approaching as you wound your hands around his neck.

He pounded into you hard, bringing some steamy memories of your times before for a moment.

Finally, you fell, arching your back, your stomach gliding against his, as every nerve of your brain exploded. Eren continued thrusting into you until a few moments after you felt his own release spilling inside you.

He moaned against the crook of your neck, planting a few kisses. He rolled to your side and faced the ceiling with his eyes closed, until they snapped open again, hearing you sniffle.

Guilt washed over him like a tempest as he leaned on his side, gently gripping your waist as you covered your eyes with the back of your forearm. “Did I hurt you??”

“No!” you yelped and removed your arm from your face, placing your palm on his cheek instead. For a moment you were so frightened he would blame himself for something he didn’t even do.

“No,” you repeated, more softly. “I’m just really happy you’re here.”

He leaned his forehead to yours, worry leaving his body almost visibly. He sighed as he brought you closer.

You tucked a few of his locks behind his ear, making him look a couple years younger. “I love your hair.”

Eren chuckled, his eyes still closed in the afterglow bliss. “Captain hates it. He said –”

Then it dawned on him. “Wait, how did you get here?” he leaned on his forearm as he looked at you, genuinely interested, amusement threatening to widen his smile any moment.

“I simply asked Captain.”

Eren raised an eyebrow. “And he let you?? Just like that?”

“Well,” you trailed off. “He did mention something about a punishment for insubordination…”

“Unbelievable,” Eren whispered, as he sunk back into the mattress, quiet laughs emanating from his chest, as you drew shapes on it with a stupid smile on your face. “And you still came.”

“I’ll be fine if you visit me at least twice while I’m behind bars?”

You two laughed even harder, and this moment, this tiny moment in the vast space surrounding everything, was perfect.

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softnoblecyno · 2 years

Text

Falling to You

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, The Witcher (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion Characters: Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Additional Tags: Inspired by Fanart, Alternate Universe - Merpeople, MerMay, Near Death Experiences, Drowning, i mean he doesn't but it's close, Pre-Slash, Angst, Fluff, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Jaskier | Dandelion's Parents Being Assholes, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Bad Time, Good Person Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion's Lute, it goes thru some shit, Language Barrier

for mermay in the @thepassifloradiscord

on ao3

Jaskier leans back on one hand in the grass, running his fingers through the blades as much as he can while still supporting his weight. He swings his feet out in the open air, tapping his heels back against the rock face of the cliff and gazing out at the undulating ocean, waves constantly being broken and reformed. He snorts. Doesn’t that sound familiar.

He’s a mile from the Pankratz estate, too exhausted to go any further. He should find an inn and rest for a few hours, at least, but the prospect of moving is too much. He doesn’t know why he’d thought this trip to Lettenhove would be any different. They never are, but Jaskier can’t help but have hope every time, it’s who he is. No more, he thinks. This was the last time.

He’s been a successful Oxenfurt-graduate bard for five years now, living out his dreams and traveling the Continent, performing songs he wrote himself and becoming semi-well known and loved for them. It’s nothing to scoff at, that’s for sure. He’d thought that this time, now that he’s an accomplished adult who’d put in the work and gotten real, tangible results, that coming home would be a good idea. That his parents had beckoned him home because they missed him, because they wanted to hear about his life and let him prove that his happiness meant something.

It would appear that no matter how popular Jaskier became, no matter how happy he was, his parents would never be satisfied. They would always be distant and mirthless, and they would always want the same thing. Come home, Julian, his mother’s words echo around him. Haven’t you satiated this ridiculous fantasy of yours by now?

Those cold-blooded assholes would never see it as a career, much less as something worthwhile. They had ordered him to stay the night, so that in the morning they could work things out as a family with fresh eyes. But Jaskier knew what that meant. It meant coercion and an arranged marriage to ensure heirs and boost their status and clerical work and finally agreeing to take over the estate when his father passed.

Leaving in the middle of the night was easier than every other time he’d had to convince himself inside. This time was the final straw, the fact that they would never support him finally solidified in his brain. He didn’t have a family anymore, he didn’t want one.

And so Jaskier had walked until his feet ached and his eyelids were too heavy to carry on. He’d sat down right here at least an hour ago and he hasn’t moved since. While it may contain a lot of painful memories for him, Lettenhove is beautiful. He loves it, truly. If things were different, Jaskier thinks he would have a home here. Somewhere to come back to between his travels, somewhere to recharge and meet with his real loved ones. But things aren’t different, and so this is all he will get for quite some time.

The sun is just beginning to rise over the horizon, its shape constantly molded by the waves it’s peaking over. He’d left just after the sun set, and he wonders how many of those hours he’d walked and how many he’s been sitting like this. He watches as the sun climbs higher, takes deep, steady breaths and lets all of the pain go in pieces. Those thoughts will come back later, and he will obsess and worry but no matter what all of that is behind him for good. The only things he needs are his rucksack, at his side, and his lute, in his hand. Jaskier leans forward and strums it absentmindedly as he watches the sunrise, his thoughts finally turning blissfully blank as red bleeds into oranges and pinks.

It’s been awhile since Jaskier has played just for the sake of it, not songwriting or practicing, just to relax. To have fun. His lute is his comfort right now, and it’s mostly a waiting game, something for him to do until he finally convinces himself that he needs to lay his bedroll out and go to sleep.

Perhaps, given that he walked all night instead of sleeping, it was unavoidable that his body would choose for him. Jaskier nods off, just slightly; his chin tips down toward his chest and his shoulders lose their tension, subsequently resulting in a loosened grip on his lute. There’s one thick moment where he enjoys the lapse, his body heavy and it feels good to give in. As soon as realizes what’s happening, however, he jerks himself up straight, flailing to keep his body from collapsing forward and into the ocean.

And it’s exactly that which is his literal downfall.

read the rest on ao3!

#witcher #the witcher #the witcher netflix #witcher fic #witcher netflix fic #geraskier fic #geraskier #jaskalt #fic #ficrec #my writing

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thatgoblin · 3 years

Text

Drown

Zemo x Reader Fic

Summary: You’re on a team with Bucky, Sam, and Zemo to hunt down and find super soldiers or scientists trying to make them. When split up from the group, you’re attacked and put in danger. Zemo to the rescue.

Warning: Near death experience, drowning, vomit, hospital

Words: 1623

The last thing you remember is splitting up from the group.

You, Sam, Bucky, and Zemo were once again hunting down scientists who were selling super soldier serum. Somehow Bucky had made a deal with the Wakandan’s and Germany to have Zemo out of prison, but working for them. If he tried to flee, he’d go back with the deal broken. If he didn’t follow orders, back to prison. The whole affair was simple. Also the tracker they implanted in him would keep him under tabs as well.

The four of you had searched through an abandoned water treatment plant that your leads had taken you to. With your psychic powers, you were able to judge that the people giving you the information weren’t lying that the scientists were there. What you weren’t able to do was see their minds directly and know that it was a trap.

As soon as you strayed from the group, you were jumped and knocked in the head.

You weren’t sure how long you had been out, but it couldn’t have been that long. Groaning, you push yourself up to your hands and knees before reaching back to feel the giant goose egg on the back of your head. There wasn’t really any bleeding so stitches weren’t necessary. Standing up, you take in your surroundings as your stomach falls. There is a large, grated pipe but that is it. Looking up to see the light source you saw you are maybe 12 or 15 feet down a shaft with smooth walls. The top has a similar grate to the pipe that was in the hole with you, meaning as soon as water started to come in, you were trapped.

“Hello!? Can anyone hear me!?” You scream, checking your person to find that your weapons and tools are gone. Whoever it was that had captured you had even taken your boots as well. All you can do is stand there in the bottom of nearly freezing cold water, barefoot, and scream.

No one is answering. Had they been captured as well? You hope not. A quick pull on the grate of the nearby pipe shatters any hope of possibly trying to get out that way. There is no way you can pull it out, you didn’t have Bucky’s strength. The grate at the top is probably locked as well. The only way to find out for sure would be to wait for the water to rise till you could test it, but even then you’d be screwed in the likelihood that it was locked.

“Bucky! Sam! Hello!?” You scream. “Somebody help!”

Just like you feared, after a bit of yelling, the water was turned on. It didn’t rush out at full blast, no, it wasn’t going to be a fast death.

“Help!” You keep screaming despite the water nearly drowning your voice out. After just barely five minutes the water is up to your waist, stoking your panic. “Bucky! Sam! Please!”

Tears were starting to come as the water is up to your chest. You could swim and hold your breath for at least 5 minutes, Nat had made sure you could swim sufficiently as well as hold your breath in case of being on a boat or the open water when she had trained you when the Avengers were still together. But would five minutes be the difference between living and dying?

Treading water, you watch as the grate comes closer and closer to your head. Still, you keep yelling for help.

“Sam! Zemo!” You scream as you have a few feet left between you and the grate. “Help!”

Footsteps thunder towards you, giving you hope as Zemo came into view.

“Get me out of here! Please!” You cry as you are able to grab the grate.

“It’s locked,” Zemo says, going right to work. “I can’t shoot it, it’s too thick.” You watch as he looks around before putting a finger to his ear piece. “James, I need you in the well room. Y/N is locked in a large water well and I need help.”

“Check the lockers! Maybe there’s bolt cutters!” You cry, panic pressing on your chest just as much as the water was. “There’s gotta be something!” Zemo is quick to follow any suggestion, checking everywhere in and out of the room.

“Damn it James, where are you!?” He curses as he comes back empty handed.

“Zemo,” you choke as you press your face to the grate, trying to keep breath. He drops to his knees next to you, grabbing your hand and holding it. It was a small comfort as you took the biggest breath you can before the water covers your face.

“Shit,” Sam hiss as he and Bucky run in. You can hear them yelling and see Bucky and Sam trying to pry the lock open. Zemo never lets go of your hand, even as you squeeze it with both of yours, your lungs burning as your vision becomes spotty. Air forces its way out of you in choking coughs as your body tries to breath. You try to keep a hold of Zemo’s hand as he yells words you don’t understand at you, but it was getting hard very quickly to keep your grasp.

On the edge of blackness, you can hear the three men yelling your name as your hands went limp. It was painful and also strange. Like you were floating with knives stabbing your from the inside out. Before you could succumb to whatever entity would be waiting for you, the grate was lifted and you were pulled out.

“Y/N!” Zemo cries as he starts to perform CPR on you. “No, no, no. Now is not your time,” he growls. You can hear him, you can hear and see all of them. Sam is trying to get a medic evac for you as Bucky is right next to Zemo, saying your name and begging you to come back.

Instead of floating away, leaving everything behind, you feel someone behind you shove you towards your body with a tired sigh. ‘Not yet.’ The voice says.

In a flash of light you are back, jolting up and coughing out the water. Zemo rolls you to your side as your lungs work to get the water out and air in.

“Oh thank fuck,” Bucky breathes, helping Zemo hold you as your body began to wake up.

“That’s it, keep coughing it up. Good y/g. Good y/g,” Zemo says as he rubs your back. “They need to go to a hospital. They have swallowed enough water to have secondary drowning, possibly.”

“Helicopter is on its way,” Sam says. Looking around, you aren’t back to fully functioning. You’re light headed and dizzy, nauseous and weak. A moment later, anything in your stomach came up, making Zemo hold you on your side longer.

“Spit it out, don’t breathe it in,” Bucky says, going as far as to dig the sickness from out of your mouth to make sure you don’t choke.

“They’re here, we need to get them outside,” Sam says, motioning them. With help, Zemo lifts you into his arms to take you to the medic, Bucky following closely behind.

Passing out again, you don’t remember much. There were brief flashes of looking up to see Zemo’s worried face next to Bucky’s and Sam’s, the doctor’s that work on you, even the night sky as you’re wheeled into a hospital.

It wasn’t until you are settled completely in the hospital room that you wake up completely. There is the steady beating of the heart monitor and soft voices beyond a door. You try to swallow, but feel something obstructing you. It’s a tube taped to the outside of your mouth, leading in and down your throat. Had you been so bad that they had to intubate you? Looking down, you see the wires and IV taped to your hand as well. Well, you had nearly died, so it was called for.

“Welcome back to the land of the living.”

Were you not so lethargic, you would have jumped at the voice. Looking over to the chair next to you, you see Zemo. Sitting in the god-awful hospital chairs with a book in hand, he looks like he’d been killing time at a bus stop and not waiting on you to wake up.

You raise your free hand slightly, the tube making it impossible to talk. He places a bookmark between the pages he was reading before setting the book aside to stand.

“The doctor said you’d have the breathing aid in till you woke up,” he says, moving close to the side of your bed. Picking up a pad of paper and a pen from a side table, he hands it to you.

‘Where B+S?’ You write.

“They went after the scientists. Once you were here and stable, I volunteered to stay behind with you. It wouldn’t be in your best interest to wake up to a strange place with wires and tubes inside you,” Zemo says. “I’ll call the nurse to let them know that you’ve woken up. I imagine that you aren’t very comfortable with the breathing tube.” You nod slightly, hoping to be able to talk. Once the call button is hit, you scribble onto the pad before tapping Zemo’s hand.

His eyes dart down to your words before a soft smile forms on his face. “You’re welcome, Y/N. Besides, I didn’t want to lose the only member of the team I liked,” he says with a wink.

The last thing you expect is to be Zemo’s favorite, but if you have to tell the truth, you don’t mind it so much.

#baron zemo #zemo/reader #fanfiction #zemo x reader

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painless-innit-colourful · 3 years

Text

'Blind Trust'

AU where Tommy loses his memory temporarily on being resurrected, and when he leaves the prison, he has no idea who he is or who he can trust. Tubbo's nowhere to be found (not that he even knows him). Jack wants him dead. Ranboo's the only one he feels safe with. TW for vague references to the abuse of the exile/prison arc, and a bit of blood.

Something happened to him, he’s pretty sure.

He remembers pain. He remembers fear. He remembers a feeling beyond both of those things, a ripping sensation, a great agony, a fearsome sense of loss. He seems to remember a feeling like being ripped apart, and then reassembled, only like it happened a hundred times, fracturing him to pieces, nothing but apathy for any parts of him lost along the way. He thinks he knows what it’s like to be caught in a seemingly endless cycle of neither existing or not. The ache in his bones, the pounding in his skull, the itchy tremor beneath his skin - he imagines this is what death feels like. He imagines that he’s known death, tasted it, danced in its cold hold, and somehow, evaded it, somehow let go.

But that would be crazy.

Only there’s one more major issue.

Whatever happened, he can’t remember.

Panic rises; he pushes against it, disliking the familiar sensation of drowning. He takes stock of what he does know. The green man he was trapped with, he’s not nice. The green man that let him out… He’s not nice either. Without even knowing why, he’d stood, shaking violently next to his rescuer, and whispered “You left me. You left me in there with him.” He can’t even remember if that’s true.

There are items in his pockets, things in the tatty backpack on his back. He has food. He has blocks. There are no books, no labels in the clothes, no receipts or cards or papers. Nothing that tells him anything about who he was. Is. The items are too heavy, too many random things, what’s he gonna do with all this random paraphernalia? Too much, too little. Nothing that he feels any immediate attraction or attachment to. Nothing that gives him a clue as to who he is. If he’s anyone at all.

There’s a trident, mixed in with the assortment of random blocks. He puts the bag back on his shoulders and holds it with one hand, weighing it against nothing but the pain in his heart. It evokes a lonely feeling. It smells like salty water. It tastes like tears.

He soars through the air, and if he closes his eyes, he’s somewhere else, flying over a calm sapphire ocean. The water is still, the air is heavy, the stars are so near. He’s one of them, part of the sky, just another light for the uncaring mortals below, going about their business as if nothing has changed, as if he wasn’t once part of their society and now he’s nothing but dust, no tears shed, no love lost, as if he never mattered, as if he won’t be missed-

The ground reaches up to meet him, and he crashes into its embrace, and something inside him is terribly, terribly broken. He can’t have been like this before, whoever he was. There’s blood, bloody fingers touching a scrape the length of his back, and it seems to multiply, running down his forearms, over his eyes, pooling beneath him as if to pronounce him dead then and there. He scrambles away, and it reaches for him, tendrils like vines trying to claim him, undo him already. He’s been reborn, delivered from whoever this body belonged to before to this new life, but whatever has given him the chance is already taking back their gift. He rifles through the backpack looking for something to wrap around his wound, something to hide the bloodstains, something to make it go away, please make it go away-

He comes up with a high vis jacket - bloody hell, was he a lollipop man? - and it’s barely anything but it certainly distracts from the crimson, so it’ll do. His trousers are stained an unnecessary shade of red, and he’s panting with an unnecessary terror. He isn’t under attack. He isn’t being attacked. He isn’t going to be killed.

With an uneasiness that feels unearned, he walks along the wooden path ahead of him, away from the imposing black building that threatens to suffocate him with helplessness everytime he looks at it. There’s a petite, yellow building decorated with purple flowers, round like globes and sweetly-fragranced. He reaches out to touch one, to hold it in his hand, and it seems to disintegrate between his fingers, a tiny explosion of colour that withers into nothing like a candle being extinguished. He steps away quickly before it starts turning red too.

Speaking of red, he backs directly into the perimeter fence of a ruby-red monolith, striped and vaguely-rectangular in shape. He’s about to turn and retreat from that too (before he breaks anything else), when he spots a man, standing stoically by the door, wearing a high vis jacket. Before he knows it, the boy is pushing through the fence and approaching with a vain curiosity. ‘You’re dressed like me!’ He wants to call out, because this man is the first that doesn’t immediately strike him with the urge to run for his life.

Confusingly, the man doesn’t react immediately to his approach, gaze directed ahead with a thousand yard stare. He is surprised, naturally, when the man’s head turns sharply and looks him in the eyes. “WELCOME BACK TO THE BIG INNIT HOTEL TOMMYINNIT!! IT IS GOOD TO SEE YOU AGAIN…”

“AAH-!” He shrieks, flailing violently backwards and falling on his ass. His breath comes out in short pants.

“YOU SURE WERE GONE A WHILE TOMMYINNIT… WE MISSED YOU…”

Was that his name? What is this crazy guy talking about? The words were summoning scraps of memories that reached out to each other, trying to build bridges and webs between each other, colouring the gaps between themselves with bright blues and warm greens and soothing beiges; yet the webs collapsed as soon as they formed, like they were made by the world’s most ineffective spider. At least he knows he had once belonged here now…

“What are you making a fuss abou-” From the building emerges a nearly bald man wearing hi-tech glasses, and the boy is hit with two knee-jerk reactions. The first one, a sense of camaraderie, the urge to smile and joke and tease. And the second is the blaring of his danger sense like a nuclear siren, screaming at him to run, get away, get away quick and hide.

“What the f-” The man roughly taps the blue side of his glasses, leering at the boy. “...No- What the fuck.”

“I don’t know anything!” The boy throws his hands up, instinctual surrender. “I don’t have anything!”

“What are you-”

“Why are you saying that?” He squeaks, fear clogging his throat.

The man swipes his hands through the air, cutting the boy off. “No, shut- Bigger elephant in the room, why are you alive?”

He freezes, his body dumping all the adrenaline he thought a boy his size could hold into his bloodstream, his limbs tensing to sprint away. Any second now the weapons would come out, the red would return, he can’t do this, he can’t do this, he can’t do this-

“You’re dead- You’re dead! You died!” The man’s voice is rising until he's almost shouting, yet the frightened boy stops backing away, because something doesn’t make sense, this doesn’t seem like a threat- No, this is- this-

“I grieved for you.” Their eyes meet, and despite the statement, the glare from behind the red and blue lenses is cold and unforgiving, and it sends a shiver through him. “You’re not back.”

“I- I don’t know what you mean…” He raises his hands defensively, but instead of swinging, the man just laughs with a sound like rolling thunder.

“Oh don’t play dumb with me Tommy. No one comes back-” He catches himself. “I mean, most people don’t come back.”

“I- I don’t understand…” He mutters. “I… died?”

The man crosses his arms, scoffing with immense disapproval and scorn. “You wanna speak up? Or d’you want to keep playing stupid? Because I’m not an idiot Tommy. Do you take me for a fool?”

“I don’t know what’s going on!” His hoarse whisper comes out as a shout, and his hands fly to his hair, gripping the strands like they're a rope someone would use to rescue him. “I can’t remember what’s happened, and you keep saying I’ve- died- and nothing makes sense and I don’t even know who you are…” His voice cracks and breaks as he struggles to get the words out, process their meaning, determine their level of truth. Then it shatters, dropping to barely above a whisper again as his knees shake with the effort of keeping him on his feet. He chances a glance at the man’s expression, apprehensively waiting for his judgement, and is met with a glare to rival Medusa’s.

“You don’t know who I am.” His tone is level, and yet, threat runs through it like a river, threatening to catch him in the rapids, pull him under and fill his lungs full of lies, or his own blood, or worse. The man reaches up to push his glasses back up his nose, and the boy flinches back onto the main path. “You are so… selfish.” He opens his mouth to counter, but no sound comes out. “You’re selfish! Shit like this… This is why you deserved this. This is why you should’ve stayed dead.”

Why does that hurt so much? He wants to reach through the fog in his mind, knock down the walls and see this man as he should’ve. Their history- It's all in there somewhere! Somewhere, locked away, inaccessible, painfully so. He hugs his arms to his chest, they are already bloody, he realises, the bandages to protect his bleeding heart.

“I mourned you! I grieved for you, and now I remember why I wanted you dead.”

That's it, he’s gone, he's scrambling along the path, he’s clumsily vaulting the gate, grazing his knees, tears staining his cheeks, hands gripping his sides, nails breaking skin, heart and feet thudding the rhythm to a song he barely remembers, ‘Stay alive, stay alive-’

Terrified and confused and so, so weary, he runs until he can no longer see the black building, or the yellow one with the flowers, or the red one that feels so familiar in a hopeless way. He follows the hills and dips of the wooden path, feet falling into familiar grooves as he winds along the peaks and troughs, past peculiar buildings and strange establishments. Eyes watch him as he goes, their murmured exchanges commenting on his appearance or his desperation or no doubt what he’s done, what he can’t remember, how bad he’s been. He’s a freak, he thinks he hears someone say. There’s more red: twirling vines undulating down towers or wrapping tendrils around infrastructure. It reaches for him; it beckons to him with a hissing voice. He dashes harder: he wants away. From everything, and everyone.

He runs until his lungs hurt, until his legs are screaming at him to stop, and he all but collapses outside a brick house. He’s on his hands and knees, although he doesn’t remember falling, and he touches his head to the floor like he’s praying, and that’s when he hears the solitary voice:

“Tommy?”

Oh shit a brick.

“Please- I’ll go, please just- Let me go-” The words barely make it past his raw throat. His eyes meet that of the enderboy’s ahead of him, and he feels frozen to the spot, and it sends another shot of panic through him. He doesn’t know how much more he can take. “Please- Just let me go.”

The boy with his half-and-half complexion and fascinating eyes approaches, palms facing Tommy - for that’s got to be his name by now - like he’s closing in on a skittish cat. “You’re- Oh… You’re-” He’s slack-jawed, and then he suddenly snaps out of whatever awed trance he’s slipping into, and comes even closer. “Tommy? Are you alright? It’s only me, it’s-” He seems to cringe slightly, for some reason. “-It’s Ranboo.”

“Ranboo.” His mouth forms the word, tastes it. It tastes… sweet. Not sweet like honey but like… a cake. Time slows, the world stops spinning like a top, and the ground settles beneath Tommy. There are no warning sirens harmonising with this boy. His heart rate slows gradually as the much taller boy crouches by his side. “You’re- You’re here…”

“Ranboo,” He says quietly. “Why is everyone looking at me like I just came back from the dead?” The question echoes in the immediate quiet, and he fears the answer to an irrational degree. “Um…” Promising start. “Obviously you know what happened, I mean- Or what everyone thinks.” He amends on catching sight of Tommy’s changing face, as his heart sinks further towards his stomach.

“Ranboo.” He takes a shaky breath. “I can’t remember anything before- before- before the big black building and some green fucker- I don’t know what happened, I don’t know why people hate me, I don’t know what’s going on-!”

“Whoa, okay.” One of Ranboo’s hands, the black one, lands on his side, the touch sending an involuntary shiver through him. “Do you… Do you remember me?”

The question is innocent enough, but all the muscles in Tommy’s body tense again, preparing themselves for the next mad dash downtown. There seems to be a terminal ahead, he could change direction and lose him-

“N- No.”

“Right, okay,” The older boy chuckles to himself. “That explains a lot actually.” Tommy’s danger sense flickers. “What- What do you mean?”

Ranboo’s smile is not cruel, nor does it inspire machiavelli; it’s kindly and soothing. “You and I… We have an on-off friendship. I don’t think you’ve properly decided whether you like me or not.”

“Why don’t I like you?”

He shrugs, looking bemused. “Would you believe me if I said I have memory problems too?”

And Tommy actually chuckles at that. “Maybe.” He swipes at some of the tears drying tracks into his face. Ranboo watches the motion intently. “...Are you okay?”

“I-” He pauses, a thousand answers taking their turn on the end of his tongue, before what comes out is: “No. I don’t remember anything, I barely know my own name, I- people hate me and I don’t know why, and- Everything hurts. Listen to me, Ranboo, I have these terrible- like, flashes of something, where everything hurts and it feels like I’m being ripped apart but the whole world is dark and cold and- and-”

The whole world is not dark and cold, though the outside of Ranboo’s jacket is. It must look a peculiar sight, he supposes, one teenager holding another, both sitting down on a public highway, but it’s happening.

It’s happening, he realises. It’s real. Someone’s holding him.

...Okay.

“You’re alright.” Ranboo murmurs, and Tommy leans into the hug, bringing his arms up to place weakly around Ranboo’s middle. “You’re okay, you’re alright.” The words surround them in the quiet, sentinels standing guard against the rest of the world.

“I’m not.” He replies involuntarily.

“Okay.” Ranboo concedes. “But you will be.”

A long moment passes, and then Tommy speaks again, for a reason he can’t grasp. “Ranboo, I- don’t seem like a very good person. This guy - I think I used to know him - he called me selfish, told me he wished I’d stayed dead. I don’t think people… like me very much.” But to that, Ranboo only shrugs.

“I wouldn’t believe that.”

“Why not?”

“You’re a bit rough around the edges, but you’re alright really.”

“I’m alright?”

“You’re human. As messy and mortal as us all.”

It’s as if in that moment, the floodgates open. Tommy suddenly remembers himself. He knows the pattern of the flag of L’Manberg, he knows Tubbo’s preferred way of having his coffee (no milk, two sugars), he knows Wilbur’s favourite songs and which ones Techno will throw a sword at you for singing. He knows - partially - why Jack hates him, and incidentally, who Jack is. He knows that he died, and how, and what and who he saw beyond, and why he was stuck there in the first place. And he knows all the details of his complicated relationship with the boy whose arms he’s currently occupying.

And he pushes it all away. He snuggles closer to Ranboo, closes his eyes, and leaves it for later, logical operation be damned.

Turns out a blind instinct can be right.

#hi and welcome to 'fic editing on a phone is a PAIN'#but hey! this is my life now. exams have begun so i'm editing fics when i should be revising in class #shoutout to pain for putting up with me wanting to strangle the tumblr mobile app just now. her patience. 100 #dream smp #tommyinnit #jack manifold #ranboo #allium duo #crim writes #so i wrote this last night. writing marathon with my sister. and y'know what? i'm da'mn proud a this #so enjoy!#(and please rb/leave comments please and thank you :)#right. mac'beth. what am i doin'?

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wrctings · 3 years

Text

enjoy some jean hurt/comfort <3 i have such strong feelings about supportive boyfriend jean, i believe he has self-esteem issues so he would always do his best to try and lift his partner’s spirits because he knows how painful it is to feel like you aren’t good enough

Your fingers gently ran upon the horse’s rough brown coat, lengthily stroking its muscular neck, then flank, petting your trusted companion with all the care you could snatch away from a whirlpool of unresting thoughts. Coming to the stables whenever you had a short break and needed to clear your head had become a habit of yours soon after you first joined the Cadet Corps, finding that caring for the troops’ horses was, of all jobs, the one that better succeeded at putting one’s mind at ease. Though you couldn’t sneak out food—Sasha’s joy being worth the risk!—, unlike when designated for mess duty, nor glimpse through slits in cupboards and doors to your curiosity’s content like whenever you were assigned to cleaning, visiting the horses always came with a sense of peace cast on you by the presence of the loyal stallions that would affectionately nudge your raised hand or acknowledge your presence by a quiver of the ear, watching you walk up to them with a profound and voiceless understanding in the depth of their dark pupil. You had jointed the military for the sake of humanity—but sometimes, the weight of what lay ahead for young Cadets such as yourself hunched over you so heavily that the urge to get out burned every sore muscle in your body. Your experience in the field amounted to a near-death mission with your fellow 104th soldiers; a mission during which you had barely been able to get a hold of your actions, let alone your fear, so how could you trust your abilities knowing that all you'd ever done was memorize information, practice hand-to-hand combat and learn to ride a horse, only to find yourself barely able to twitch a frightened limb when you confronted Titans for the first time? When tumbling down into the flames of hell, what could you do? What would you do when you’d have to go back?

“I guess today’s just not too good,” you murmured to your horse, your hand absentmindedly running over its nape; your gaze dropped, out of focus. “And look at me, taking care of you when I might send you to your death... I wish I could promise you that I’ll always protect you, but the truth is, I don’t have the faintest idea what it’s like out there,” you admitted so quietly, the horse’s audible breathing must’ve drowned out your sorrowful confession. “I guess today’s just not really good.”

You attempted to give the animal a reassuring smile, but it came out crooked, disheartened. Your hand slipped from its side, and your body gave in, sliding down into a sitting position.

“Y/n.”

Just as your eyes had closed, your breath slow and shaky, out of tempo, you were called back into the picture you so desperately hoped to abscond; if only for a minute’s eternity, if only for an instant’s strike of oblivion...

But there, hope itself came to you.

There was the tranquil earthy path that wind up to the stables, the green crowns of leaves nodding off in the late afternoon breeze, shuddering lazily, and the horses shaking their mighty manes. And there was Jean, at the front of the picture, setting on you hazel eyes bright with concern and taking a seat beside you.

“Jean? What are you doing here?”

Jean, whose sole name crushed your heart into a billion sharp pieces, leaving you trembling with terror in the middle of the night, when the story would repeat itself all over again in the dark, when you saw yourself coming face to face with Titans again, paralyzed with gut-wrenching fright... Because what if when the time came, you wouldn’t be able to save him?

“Hey, I could ask you the same,” his hand instantly rubbed your forearm, the young man pressing a worried kiss into your temple. “I... I don’t know, I felt a bit weird. I thought I’d come here and hang out with the horses for a bit.”

“Join the club,” a sad chuckle of yours brushed Jean’s jacket, your head falling upon his shoulder, which he made available to you by slouching his tall frame; his fingers still worked their way over your arm, circling comfort into your tired body.

You wrapped your other arm around Jean’s torso, silently asking him to come closer, and he took you in his arms, pulling you toward him, his lips leaving an imprint on the top of your head. “I’m here.”

“I’m sorry. I... To tell you the truth, I have no idea what’s going on. Does any of this even make sense?”

Jean’s eyes widened, as if you had stricken a blow to his chest; he had never heard you—the luminous, hopeful, and kind you—talk with such blunt defeat breaking the usually inspiring melody of your voice.

“Of course it makes sense, Y/n. You feel down, so you came here, it’s—”

“That’s not what I meant, Jean. I mean, what we do, does it even make sense? Lately, it seems we’re not going anywhere. We barely survived last time. Look at me, am I in any shape to fight Titans? I can barely hold myself together. Back there, when I saw them this close I... It’s like I forgot everything we were taught. I wanted to run and hide, hell, I didn’t even think about humanity. When I joined, I wanted to make my life meaningful. But what if the truth is, there’s no chance at winning, and everything, including this—our lives, this fight—is nothing but a waste of time?”

The arms holding you tightened, as if you were threatening to slip away from them any instant, swept away by the wind, blown to pieces if Jean let you go...

“You know, Y/n, I was shitting myself back there. I had no control over the situation, and even less control over myself. For all that big talk... I was a coward,” Jean's smile arched in a sad curve, armor of pride crumbling down. “A coward, through and through. I wanted to save myself, and you guys too, but my fear was stronger than anything else. If Marco hadn’t been there to knock some sense into me, I don’t know what stupid thing I’d have done.”

“Hey, you’re far from being a coward,” your heart squeezed painfully at the thought of your boyfriend’s self-doubt, and you broke away from his grip to run your thumb over his cheek, tracing there the paths that guided your words straight to his tormented soul. “You overcame your fear, without you leading us, we wouldn’t be here today. You’re braver than you think, Jean.”

“But so are you. You may think you didn’t do much when we confronted those Titans, but that’s far from the truth. Remember how you helped Armin come up with a plan beforehand? And when you made sure to check up on everyone after we made it out alive, and how you chose the safest route to get us out? And you’re amazing in training. That time none of us knew what we were really in for, but now we do. Next time, you’re going to show these monsters how we do it in the 104th, yeah?” Jean’s kiss trailed on your forehead before leaving a soft prickle upon your lips, his hands resting on your back like the warm breath of an everlasting fire, thawing the icy swords of despair that pierced through you. “To me, you’re already everything I wish I could be.”

Leaving a quivering thank you on the back of Jean’s hand, where you kissed it intensely, the whinny of a nearby horse suddenly took you both by surprise, bringing the stables back to life all around you.

“Look, the horses agree with me,” Jean’s fond smile met your gaze, the boy gesturing toward the talkative animal.

“I love you.”

“Are you talking to me or them?” The boy grinned, playfully pushing your head with his.

“Although I’m very fond of these horses, I have to admit there’s one among them I love most of all. That would be you, horse-face,” you smiled back at your boyfriend, pulling him into another kiss; lighter and youthful, like you were meant to love at fifteen, in a world less cruel.

“I love you too. It’ll be dinnertime soon, do you want to go?” Jean offered kindly, taking your hand in his to help you get up.

You followed the track leading you away from the stables, Jean’s arm securely put around your shoulders, keeping you by his side, and he took care of talking your affliction away with some funny thing he had noticed in the boy’s barracks, of course covering the subject of Bertholdt’s sleeping position thoroughly.

Hope, some might say, is what one holds dearest to heart regarding the future—one’s dreams, one’s projected happiness, the ticklish and fizzy feeling one might encounter when trying to glimpse a distant good time in the fleeing fabric of time. Or maybe hope is that one overwhelming pang to the chest—the one pushing you forward when all seems lost, making you hold on for dear life with all broken set of nails because what if something you’d never heard of yet might be worth all the goddamn pain? Maybe hope doesn’t belong in a shape, or a dream, or something one might grasp; perhaps hope is, after all, just that one pang. A pang strong enough to keep you going for another day, and then another one. For you, it came from the boy who sat beside you and gave you something to look forward to; something as simple as the wish to see him the following day.

#jean kirschtien #jean kirschtein x reader #jean krischtein imagine #jean kirschtein fanfiction #attack on titan fanfiction #attack on titan x reader #aot x reader #aot imagines #snk x reader #snk imagines #writing #my writing

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daringyounggrayson · 4 years

Note

Could you do 25 or 30 for Bruce and Dick? I’d really like for you to make Bruce say those words to his son!

I think we would all like to see that! oh, and for this one, I’m mixing things up: Bruce took Dick in as his ward but never went on to adopt him.

25: “You know I love you, right?”

30: “I love you, okay? I’ll say it as many times as you need to hear it.”

AO3

"Mr. Wayne!” a photographer calls, waving his arm toward their small group as they try to make their way inside. “A picture of you and your sons, if you wouldn’t mind?”

“Sure!”

On cue, the four of them turn toward the camera with easy smiles.

“Oh, sorry sir.” The photographer directs this at Dick. “Could I just get his sons for this shot?”

Dick doesn’t blame the reporter, honestly. He was probably assigned to get pictures of the Waynes, and when you google the Waynes, Dick’s name doesn’t pop-up—at least, not under family. And it makes sense; he was never adopted, so he’s legally not part of the Wayne family. Dick’s relation is just a small, unimportant detail. And to outsiders, especially people outside of Gotham or people who simply don’t keep up with Wayne Family News, Dick looks like more of a family friend, if anything.

It’s an honest mistake, and Dick doesn’t take it personally. Unfortunately, that doesn't make it any less awkward.

Dick glances at Bruce, trying to decide what to do. This evening will be long enough as it is, and if Bruce would rather let it go and get through the photos as quickly as possible, Dick wouldn't blame him. And it’s not like Dick needs his face on another magazine.

Bruce tightens his hold on Dick’s shoulder, decision made.

“If you don’t mind,” Bruce pipes up with a charming voice, “I would like Richard to be in the photo. I did raise him for a decade, after all.” Bruce laughs to ease the tension, and Dick joins him to tell the photographer it’s okay.

The photographer’s eyes go wide, face going slightly pink. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize. I, er, here—” he holds the camera up “—smile!” The camera flashes twice. “Perfect. Have a nice evening!” And then the photographer is gone.

“I think I’m going to run ahead,” Dick says. “Find me when you can.”

“Dick, you don't—”

“It’s fine, B. Seriously.” Dick grins.

Bruce frowns.

Dick shrugs and ducks away from his group, heading toward the building. He ignores the flashing of cameras and calls from the various photographers, and he ignores the three pairs of eyes that dig into his back as he goes.

oOo

All in all, the party was uneventful and the four of them excused themselves early after receiving an alert that Scarecrow had been spotted on the other side of town. If Scarecrow hadn’t been spotted terrorizing civilians with fear gas, Dick might’ve been able to enjoy the free ticket out of the gala.

“Shit,” Tim mutters.

“What?” Dick asks, not taking his eyes off of Scarecrow.

“Forgot to grab a new rebreather. I still have the busted one from the other night.”

Dick pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a breath before grabbing his own rebreather. “Here.”

Tim pushes it back toward him, shaking his head. “It’s fine. I messed up; I can deal with the consequences.”

“I’m offering you the solution,” Dick insists, pushing back. “We don’t have time to argue. Take the rebreather so we can move in.”

“I’m not a kid anymore, I don’t need you to protect me like I’m,” Tim looks away, down, “like I’m Robin. Besides, I think we both know that I’ll be able to handle fear gas better than you.”

Dick clenches his jaw, then relaxes it. Not the time. “Maybe, but I’m in charge right now. So: take the rebreather or you’re playing look-out for the rest of the night.”

Tim’s head shoots up, eyes scanning Dick to see how serious he is. Tim takes the rebreather, shoving it into his belt. “Happy?”

“Thrilled. Let’s go.”

oOo

If anyone had to get gassed, Dick’s glad it was him. Even though he has an objectively bad reaction and treatment isn’t always effective, he has more experience and can deal with it better than his siblings. During and after. On top of that, Tim was and continues to be his responsibility; his top priority was getting Tim home safe. From those perspectives, it was logical for Dick to take the lungful of fear toxin.

Then there’s the selfish, probably more powerful perspective: Dick can’t stand seeing Tim on fear gas. The screaming, the tears, the things he says, the inability to comfort him and take the pain away. It’s awful to see once, and Dick’s seen it countless times, in real life and in nightmares. He’d do anything to avoid it—for Tim’s sake and, when Dick’s being honest, his own. He knows his family probably feels the same way about him, but that just means they’d act out of selfishness too.

Tonight, Dick had more say, so Tim got the rebreather and Dick got more than a lungful of gas.

“Sorry again,” Tim mumbles, passing Dick a fresh ice pack. “About the rebreather.”

Dick takes the ice pack and presses it against his right shoulder, which he agitated at some point during their fight with Scarecrow. “’S fine. Knowing you, you’ll triple check next time to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“No kidding,” Tim mumbles, running a hand through his hair. He stifles a yawn. “Need anything else?”

“Nah.” Dick starts reciting pi in his head, trying to drown out the voices he knows aren’t real. “Get some sleep. And good work tonight.”

Even with the gassing, he and Tim were able to take down Scarecrow fairly easily. It’s nice to know that the two of them can still work well together, even when the circumstances aren’t entirely ideal.

“Thanks, you too.” Tim bounces on the balls of his feet and fails to stifle another yawn. This time, Dick yawns too. “You don’t want company or anything?”

“I’m good. Besides, I’ll probably just try to sleep until Alfred is happy with the blood work.”

Tim shrugs and takes a few steps backward. “If you change your mind.”

“Night, Timmers.”

“Night.” Tim turns around and makes his exit.

Dick throws his good arm over his eyes and tries to sleep.

oOo

Unconsciousness comes in waves, broken by adrenaline spikes and Alfred or Bruce checking on him. But no matter his consciousness status, Dick’s reality is shadowed and manipulated by voices and figures, hallucinations and lies that feel like absolute truths. It’s hard to tell the difference between sleep and wakefulness, but the shaking is a good tell. He doesn’t usually shake in his nightmares.

He's in his room, lying in his bed and shaking. He doesn’t remember coming here, but that doesn’t say much. He’d been having a dream, something that felt real, but wrong. Something adjacent to reality.

A camera kept flashing in his face, the photographer morphing into something less and less human. And Bruce, Bruce had been there. Yelling at him, telling him to—

No. That hadn’t happened, and now that he’s awake, Dick can barely remember the lies.

Dick kicks at his sheets, trying to reach the cool air above them. At first it’s a relief, but soon it’s not enough because he’s hot and sweaty and something keeps telling him to run. He glances out the window, trying to figure out if he could survive the fall—

No. He’s fine. He’s fine.

Dick pushes himself upright, takes some deep breaths, tries to recite pi.

He jumps at the knock on his door.

“Dick?” the door creaks open to reveal Bruce, who enters the room before Dick can answer. “What are you still doing here?”

“I—” Dick feels hot, his palms are sweating again and he can feel his heart pounding against his chest, trying to escape. He blinks, twists the skin on his forearm until it hurts.

Bruce is in front of him, sitting down on the bed. “I trained you to be a detective. Can’t you piece together the clues? You’re not wanted. Get out of my house and stay away from my family.”

Dick shakes his head, fists his hair. The room feels like it’s getting smaller, twisted and darker. Louder. Wrong. This is a sign, but Dick can’t remember for what. “But you—no. You trusted me with Damian, you said—”

What had Bruce said? He’s a master manipulator when he wants to be, needs to be. He might’ve trusted him with Damian, or maybe, just maybe, he was only trying to protect Alfred in case Damian had been given orders to assassinate them. He’d already attacked Tim, after all, and keeping that fact in mind, Bruce would have needed to consider safety and who he’d be willing to lose in order to protect someone else. Dick’s death and its repercussions would have felt minuscule if it meant Alfred would be saved.

Hands tug at his wrists. It’s three fourteen. The voice is lying.

“Shh. Take a breath.” Dick tries, but it’s like his chest has stalled. “Tell me how many posters are in your room.”

“There’s—”

“Take them and go. I don’t want any trace of you left in this house.”

“Dick, you’re alright. Take a breath.” Hands are on Dick’s shoulders, trying to restrain him. He brushes them off, tries to get to the window. “I’m out of patience. I won’t be subtle any longer—I’ve regretted taking you in from the moment you moved in. Go!”

His fingers barely brush against the window’s lock before he’s slammed into the ground. His shoulder pops, making him grunt.

“You’re not thinking clearly. Focus. Wait it out.”

Dick struggles against the weight on top of him, but it doesn’t give, not even when he resorts to biting. The hands simply shift from his chest to his stomach, and his attacker doesn’t even make a sound.

The voices in his head build up. There are millions, all shouting conspiracies at him, all of them sounding too true. His heart pounds so hard that it must be bruising his chest, and he’s so hot that his brain must be about to melt. And, and—he can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He’s going to die. This is it—he’s going to die.

A hand forces his head down, and it’s not until then that he realizes he’s been slamming it against the ground in an attempt to silence the voices.

“Shh, shh. You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

“Leave! Jump out the window, you’d be doing everyone a favor!”

Dick tries to lift his head again, but the hold is firm. There’s not enough room to hit it against the ground, there’s not enough room to shut the voices out.

“No one will miss you!”

The familiar feeling of a needle slides into his arm.

“Shh.”

Something happens. The room shifts, he shifts, and he realizes that he’s no longer shaking. It’s a sign.

The hallucinations shift into a nightmare that feels too real.

oOo

Dick wakes up to nausea and a headache. He tries to move his hand to rub at his head only to find that he’s been restrained. Bad night then.

He opens his eyes and turns his head. There’s an empty chair by his bed and the bedroom door is cracked open.

“Bruce,” he calls.

Damian steps into view, pushing the door open a little wider. The quick response tells Dick that Damian has been listening from the hallway. “Father is answering a call from Kent. Would you like me to collect him?”

"It can wait.”

Damian still hasn’t entered the room, and it makes Dick wonder how much he’d heard last night, how much last night has to do with the distance, the hesitance. He doesn’t remember seeing Damian at all, but he probably came back when Dick was still in the Cave. And even if they hadn’t seen each other, it’s not like Dick’s bedroom is soundproof.

“Everything okay, kiddo?” He can remember Bruce having a handful of especially bad reactions to fear gas from when Dick was a kid—they’d been terrifying, seeing Bruce like that had made them terrifying.

“Of course. You are the one who was incapacitated.” Damian tugs on the sleeve of his sweatshirt, pulling it halfway down his hand. “But you are alright now?”

Dick quirks his lips into a smile. “I’m fine.”

“Good. I imagine last night was quite difficult,” Damian begins. “Titus woke up several times.” Damian tugs on his sleeve again, he looks like he wants to ask something.

Damian’s head turns abruptly, and whatever he sees causes him to take a step back. Into the hallway, he says, “Richard is awake.”

Now that he’s paying attention, Dick can hear Bruce’s footsteps. Bruce pauses outside of Dick’s bedroom, and he and Damian exchange words in quiet voices that Dick can’t understand. Then Bruce steps inside and closes the door behind him.

“How are you feeling?” Bruce asks.

“Lucid,” Dick starts. Bruce tilts his head, expectant. “Not great overall, and I still feel a little on edge, but I think the worst of it is over.”

“Hnn.” Bruce looks him over for a moment, trying to confirm Dick’s self-evaluation. He must pass because soon Bruce is taking off the restraints.

“Did I . . .” Dick tries to think back to last night and work out what was nightmare and what was hallucination and what was reality. “Did I try to jump out a window last night?”

“Yes. I had to hold you down until a sedative was administered. After that, we decided it would be safer to use restraints until the toxin wore off.”

Dick sits up as the last of the restraints are removed. He stretches his ankles and wrists. “Did the antidote not work or something?”

“It either wore off early or the toxin was stronger than usual. Possibly both, considering how you reacted to additional doses,” Bruce explains.

Dick frowns. “How many doses did you give me?”

“Three. You probably won’t need a fourth, but we’ll check your blood in a few hours to make sure that the traces still in your system are gone, or at least decreasing.”

Dick groans and slides back down against his pillow, draping his arms over his face. The fear toxin antidote, while helpful, isn’t without side-effects. With three doses, those effects will stick around for days.

Bruce, the bastard, has the audacity to chuckle at him. Dick blindly throws a pillow at him, smiling when he hears it meet its target.

Then, “Are you hungry?”

“Not even a little.”

Bruce runs a hand through Dick’s hair. “Sleep.”

He doesn’t have to be told twice.

oOo

Dick wakes up alone again, but this time the chair is gone and the door is completely shut. It’s a good sign, and since Dick isn’t currently disoriented, very much preferred.

It’s much later in the day now, a little past noon, but he knows he could very easily close his eyes and sleep for another few hours. Possibly until the next morning. But to his misfortune, his stomach growls in protest.

With a dramatic sigh that no one can hear, he gets out of bed, quickly showers and dresses, and goes downstairs to find something to eat.

"I was just about to check on you," Alfred says when he spots him entering the kitchen. "How are you feeling?"

Dick shrugs. “Tired.” It’s a side-effect of the antidote, but the nightmares probably hadn’t helped. “Did you guys have lunch already?”

“It would seem that everyone has gotten a rather late start to the day. We were just about to settle in for a brunch of sorts.”

“Do you need help?” Dick asks.

Alfred points toward a tray of what looks like buckwheat pancakes. “If you could bring that tray into the dining room, please.”

Dick hums and grabs the tray, carrying it into the dining room with Alfred behind him. He’s just setting the tray down when Titus storms in, running into his legs with a force that threatens to knock him over.

He takes a step back with a small laugh, reaching down to pet Titus. His tail thumps against the ground as he takes a seat on top of Dick’s feet.

“Master Damian!” Alfred shouts, setting a bowl of fruit down on the table.

“What’s up with you, buddy?” Dick asks the dog as he bends down to pet him better. Titus doesn’t usually tackle him, especially not when they just saw each other the day before. “What’s goin’ on?”

Alfred tsks to the room at large.

“Yes, Pennyworth?” Damian asks when he eventually reaches the room.

“What have I told you about animals in the dining room, especially during meal times?”

Damian rolls his eyes, prompting another “Master Damian!” from Alfred. Dick almost laughs, but the adult in him tells him to stand up and keep his mouth shut.

“Titus, come,” Damian says.

Titus whines.

“Titus, come,” Damian repeats.

Titus obeys, tail low as Damian leads him out of the room.

“And please gather the others before returning.”

Damian mumbles something under his breath that Alfred claims to have heard. Despite the resistance, Tim comes into the room a minute later, so Damian must’ve done as Alfred asked.

“Morning,” Tim says. He juts his thumb toward the hall. “What’s Damian mad about?”

“Oh.” Dick huffs a small laugh. “Titus ran in here and Alfred kind of went off on him.”

“Ugh, and I missed it? Bummer.” Tim takes a seat next to him and steals a piece of fruit from the bowl. “Feeling any better? Bruce said you had a rough night.”

Sometimes a little fear toxin exposure can be so mundane and minuscule that it isn’t mentioned the following morning. Dick wishes this was one of those times.

“Yup.” Dick taps his fingers on the table. “What happened to your ankle? You didn’t report it last night.”

Tim looks down at the ACE bandage wrapped around his left foot. “Oh. Just an old injury that started acting up this morning. I can still kick your ass at sparring later, though.”

Dick snorts and grabs one of the buckwheat pancakes, deciding he can’t wait any longer. “You wish.”

oOo

Breakfast is uneventful, aside from Dick literally falling asleep on the table. Bruce shakes him awake after everyone’s finished eating and then drags Dick down to the Cave to check his blood levels. Titus joins them, pressing himself against Dick’s legs and nearly tripping him as they make their way down the Cave’s stairs.

One blood test later and they learn that the toxin levels haven’t budged. Bruce decides to give him another dose of the antidote.

“Fourth time’s the charm, right?” Dick says.

“Hnn.”

Bruce sets a timer on his phone, just like he used to do in the early days. Draw blood, antidote, set a timer, draw more blood. That had been the routine for so much of his life.

Although, Dick supposes, they hadn’t really had antidotes back then; they’d had attempts at treatments. Desperate attempts to manage symptoms. There was no testing to guarantee their effectiveness or safety, and their chemical makeup had been based purely on theory and desperation. It was better than nothing, but it was risky, so they took precautions: monitoring each other not only for effectiveness but also for the inevitable side effects.

Dick will never forget the time an “antidote” caused his throat to swell up and chest to stall. The timer had only had a minute left, too—they’d increased the time after that, and Dick hadn’t complained about having to wait the whole time for almost a year.

These days, monitoring isn’t always part of the routine, and when it is, it’s mostly to check for effectiveness. But since this is Dick’s fourth dose in a relatively short timeframe, his risk for adverse effects is higher and he needs to be monitored to make sure he doesn’t keel over. Bruce will probably force him to stay at the manor until all side effects of the treatment subside, longer if new side effects arise.

“Have you been able to get any restful sleep?”

Dick jerks as he’s pulled from his thoughts. “Uh,” he starts, needing a second to process what Bruce just said. “No. Not really, no.”

“Someone can patrol in Bludhaven while you recover.”

It’s an offer, Bruce trying to be helpful. Dick knows that, but something makes it feel like an order, proof that Bruce thinks he’s incompetent.

“I’m fine on my own.”

Funny how Dick’s still trying to prove that, after all these years. He remembers when he was eight and first moved in with Bruce, how he’d been adamant about not needing a parent, not needing Bruce, but he became attached anyway. He’d told himself Bruce was a want, not a need, but that hadn’t been true, not in the early days.

Then things shifted. He grew up and no longer needed Bruce, but he’d wanted him. Dick had lied to himself again, telling himself that Bruce was the last person he wanted. The lie was easier to believe on some days than on others, but it had been even harder to convince himself that Bruce felt the same way. That even if Bruce didn’t need Dick, he wanted him.

That feeling of uncertainty, insecurity, had been with Dick since he was a kid, and it had persisted and worsened as he’d gotten older. It had been exacerbated after Two-Face nearly killed him and Bruce promptly fired him from being Robin. He was twelve and lost back then, and in what he now knows was just his twisted, hurt kid-brain, he’d convinced himself that Bruce didn’t need nor want him, as Robin or anything else.

Back then, he’d been certain that pity and guilt were the only things stopping Bruce from tossing Dick out onto the streets. He’d felt like a burden, and he’d hated everything about his life in those moments. So, he’d done the only thing he could think of—he ran.

And Bruce—Bruce didn’t chase him.

That was—maybe is—the important bit, the part that Dick still thinks about. Not the initial rejection, not being fired—that Bruce didn’t come after him.

After all, that’s what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? For Bruce to prove him wrong, for Bruce to chase after him, fight for him. To want him.

Bruce fought for Jason, then for Tim and, eventually, Damian. It’s clear that they are and always will be wanted, and Dick knows it’s stupid, but he doesn’t always know if that’s true for himself. At the end of the day, his brothers all have Bruce’s name, and all Dick has is a man who stopped being his legal guardian when he turned eighteen.

Dick is useful, even needed on the rare occasion, but he’s not always sure that he’s wanted. And he desperately needs to be wanted.

“Something’s . . . bothering you.” Bruce’s brows are furrowed, searching Dick’s face and trying to find the clues that will tell him what went wrong and where.

Dick scratches behind Titus’s ears, looking at him instead of Bruce. “Just the toxin.”

“Hnn.” Bruce sits down next to Dick, grunting slightly as he settles. “I imagine that the photographer’s comments last night didn’t help.”

Sometimes Dick hates how well Bruce knows him.

“It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Maybe. But fear toxin twists things, and it’s been known to draw on recent events, especially the latest versions.”

Dick says nothing, just nods in acknowledgment as he attends to Titus.

“Dick, you are my family, in every sense of the word. And I . . . I was bothered by the comment last night that implied otherwise.”

Bruce reaches over and squeezes Dick’s knee, and Dick wonders how much he’d said last night when the fear toxin was in control.

“You know I love you, right?”

“Yeah, I know. It’s just—” Dick sighs, leans his head against Bruce’s shoulder, squeezes his eyes shut. “Sometimes I don’t.”

Bruce shifts. He cups the back of Dick’s head and pulls him toward his chest, pressing a kiss into his hair. “I love you, okay? And you are wanted here. So, so wanted.” Bruce holds him in a tight hug and traces circles into his hair. “I’ll say it as many times as you need to hear it.”

Dick hugs him back and nods into his chest. It doesn’t fix everything, but it makes it better. And sometimes that’s all anyone needs.

#dick grayson #bruce wayne #tim drake #damian wayne #nightwing #batman #red robin #robin #batfamily #fear toxin #elizabeth writes

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imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl · 4 years

Text

Unexpected Places (Pt. 07 of 11)

Pairing: Ivar the Boneless X Reader/Bjorn X Reader

Word count: 1.9 K

Summary: As a princess, you've lived in a golden cage all your life, always a piece on someone else's game. But everything changed when the Norsemen came crushing down on Wessex, like waves in a violent storm. Their king spared your life and decided to take you with him to his kingdom, in what felt more like a rescue than a kidnapping. There, you were not only confronted with a completely different culture and lifestyle, but also with two of his sons. The oldest one has his eyes set on you, but it's the youngest one, Ivar, who gets who claimed your attention since the first sight. And he seems to have an unnamed interest in you. Of course you hoped whatever that was would pass, but when unexpected feelings start to flow a different way, things begin to change.

<- Previous part (06)

Next part (08) ->

{Vikings Masterlist}

Honesty

“(Y/N), wake up.” A faint, weak murmur fills your ears. You're still under water though, floating away. “C'mon, wake up.” A sudden motion makes you bounce, a movement too abrupt to someone who's drowning. That's when you acknowledge the air filling your lungs. Not too much, but enough to bring some relief. You can't be under water. People can't breathe under water. “You won't die, hear me? Not from the cold.”

Ubbe. What's Ubbe doing here? Closing your eyes tightly, you feel like you're climbing back to the surface, back into consciousness, forcing your eyes to open. The first thing you notice is the cold, piercing, attached to your bones. Then, you realize you're being carried. “What...” You mumble, clenching your shaking hands into fists.

“There you are.” Ubbe happily says, walking fast. “We're almost there.”

“Almost where?” The lightning suddenly changes, and everything gets a little darker.

“What happened?”

“She was at the lake. The ice cracked and she fell.” Ubbe says.

“Get a warm bath to her room now!” You recognize Aslaug's voice. “Bring her close to the fire.”

The moment you're put down and feel a source of warmth, you push yourself closer, but arms hold you back. “Not that close.”

“Shit.” You curse, hands hovering above the fire. It comes back suddenly. The woods, the lake, and the ice cracking under your feet, swallowing you. How you got out, however, you have no idea, but you figure it was Ubbe. “Damn it.” You're shaking like a leaf, wishing you could sit inside the fire.

“(Y/N).” Someone calls, and when you look at your side you see Ivar and Hvitserk, both looking worried. Ivar moves faster though, dropping to the floor next to you.

“Are you alright?” He asks, hands cupping your face.

“I'm cold.” You mumble, laughing at how stupid it sounds. “I'm freezing.” Giggling, you feel as Ivar pulls you close, your body collapsing on his chest. It makes you blush, if that's even possible given how the cold has penetrated your bones. Shaking against him, you place your forehead on his neck, welcoming the warmth emanating from his skin. “Sorry, I'm soaking wet.”

“Don't worry.” He says, a hand caressing your hair. You don't know exactly what's going on, but Ivar is like a second fire right now, and you have no intention of letting go of him.

“Here,” Hvitserk mutters, and you feel a piece of fabric being laid around your shoulders.

“Alright.” Ivar fixes the blanket, rubbing your back. “You'll be fine.”

“Let's leave them,” Aslaug says in a low voice, and you notice Hvitserk and Ubbe walking away. “I'll send someone to call you when the bath it's ready.” Her voice fades away as she speaks, and then there's nothing but the low noises of the fire.

Slowly, you feel yourself warming up, the shakings finally surrendering as you sink more and more into Ivar. You don't want to think about what this means, so you barely move, not wanting whatever this is to end just yet. You almost died today. Drowned, frozen, whatever. But you did think that was the end of it. And life has so much to offer, you'd hate to lose all of its endless possibilities. Death will come one day, but first, you want to live.

“What happened?” Ivar asks, his voice barely a whisper.

“I didn't know I was at that lake, I just... I wasn't really paying attention then I heard a cracking noise.” Taking a deep breath, you remove some hair attached to your face. “Then it broke right under me and the water was so damn cold.”

“(Y/N),” Aslaug calls, and, hesitantly, you move away from Ivar, sitting up straight. “Come take your bath. You need to warm up.”

“Alright.” Nodding, you glance at Ivar before pushing yourself up.

The bath is a blessing, and you couldn't be more thankful. The warm water cleans the ice that fixated itself on your bones, and you relax in the tub. Aslaug, of course, wants to know exactly why you ended up on the frozen lake, and you have no choice but to tell her what you heard. But you beg her not to speak to Bjorn about it. You can deal with your own problems, and you don't want to make their already delicate relationship worse.

After you're clean and warmed up, she allows you to leave the bath and get dressed. You're eager to leave this episode behind and never again you'll set foot on frozen water. As you leave your room with Aslaug, her maids left to drag the tub away, you meet Hvitserk coming from the opposite direction.

“Ice lady.” He says, smiling.

“I'll leave you two to talk and go find my husband,” Aslaug mutters, and you sigh to know she will be speaking to him about Bjorn.

“How about not calling me that?” You tell Hvitserk, crossing your arms. “I almost died.”

“But you didn't.”

“Hvitserk just...” Complaining it quite useless. He'll probably only make it worse. “Fine then, call me what you like.”

“It looks like I won this battle then.” Raising an eyebrow, he gives the girls passing by a glance. “What was that, by the way?”

“What was what?” Running a hand through your hair, you still have a threat of hope he might be talking about anything else.

“Really? Do you expect me to ignore you and Ivar hugging like that?”

“I don't know what that was.” Shrugging your shoulders, you sigh. “But I'm willing to find out. It's better than think too much and end up with wrong conclusions.”

“Ivar is in his room, in case you want to know,” Hvitserk says in a low voice, walking closer and giving you a glance that always makes you want to punch his jaw. “And he was very worried about you.” And he walks away, leaving you there like an idiot.

“You're putting some effort into ruining this friendship, aren't you?” Rolling your eyes, you turn on your heels and start making the way to Ivar's room, walking fast and eventually leaving Hvitserk behind.

You were feeling brave until you're at Ivar's door. Then you wonder if this is a good idea. Some things are better left alone, and Ivar is a complicated person. But still, you can't bring yourself to walk away, so you knock three times, not sure if you want him to answer. But you hear footsteps, and seconds after the door is pushed open. It still takes you by surprise how tall he is, and those blue eyes still send shivers down your spine.

“I left my necklace here.” You mutter, feeling a little stupid. “Earrings, bracelets...”

Silently, Ivar moves aside, giving you space to walk in, so that's what you do. “They're where you left them.” He mutters, but gestures at the table he has set near the fire. Following his gesture, you sit down, hands hovering over the fire. “Ubbe said he saw you wandering through the woods.” He starts, settling down on the chair across the fire. “He called, but you didn't listen.”

“Yeah, I was just... Trying to run from my own thoughts, I think.”

“What happened?” The question is the same as earlier, but it means something entirely different. This isn't about the ice cracking, it's about what led you into that situation. Raising your eyes from the flames, you find Ivar's intense stare as he leans forward, the fire illuminating his features.

Taking a deep breath, you decide to tell him. “I heard Bjorn and your father talking and when I caught my name I decided to know what was that about and... Bjorn said something about a prophecy that says he'll marry a princess and guess what? He thinks I'm the princess.” A humorless laugh escapes your lips.

“Bjorn wants to marry you?” He states, cupping his hands together, anger taking over this expression.

“I don't care what Bjorn wants, only about what I want and I surely don't want him.” It sounds mean, like you despise the man. “I won't be told what to do, not here, not anywhere else, I'm done with being just a piece on somebody else's game.”

A smile creeps through Ivar's lips, and the anger slowly fades. “That's good to know.”

“And... Ragnar said he kept me alive because he promised my father.” Looking down at your hands, you decide to share this with him as well. “That if I didn't get used to Kattegat he'd just send me anywhere. He wasn't thinking about any prophecy.”

“So you're not into Bjorn?” Ivar asks, and you stand up, rolling your eyes.

“I wouldn't have fallen into a frozen lake if I was.” Running a hand through your hair, you tell yourself not to keep bringing that up. The talking or the lake incident. Both things are better if forgotten. “I thought it made things obvious.”

“I've been seen women falling for Bjorn since I can remember.” Ivar says, resting the clutch on his lap. “Some had him, some were left with a broken heart. The older he gets, more women chase after him. Can you blame me for thinking you would be one of those?”

Turning to look at him with both hands on your hips, you chose to be honest. As honest as you can, because there are things you don't understand, things you can't put into words. “In the boat, sailing here, for a moment I thought Bjorn was... I don't know, he was being nice to me. But it didn't take long for things to... Change.” The moment you saw Ivar for the very first time, something went off... Or on, inside you. You don't know what, but suddenly Bjorn was already on second plan. But you're not bold enough to tell him that. “Then he knocked me down with a shield, made my mare bolt up a slope, and now the lake... It wasn't directly his fault but I didn't like him talking about me like I'm just a thing that he thinks belongs to him just because someone else said so.” You get angrier with every word, as the memory of everything he said comes back. Moving to the table, you grab a cup and pour some drink for yourself, taking long sips. “I'll belong to whoever I chose, and only if he wants to belong to me as well.” You only realize what you said when you can't take it back anymore. Taking a deep breath, you drink what's left before putting the cup down. “Sorry, I needed to give vent to my anger.”

“That's alright.” Ivar stands up, slowly making his way over you. “It's good to know you won't bow down. You're more Viking than some people I know.”

“More Viking? Please, I can't even hold a sword properly.” You're about to move away when Ivar's hand comes to your waist, holding you as he did on the day you almost fainted because of the head injury. It clouds your mind immediately, and when you turn back at him, your faces are only a few inches away.

“You can still learn if you want and if you don't...” His hand moves away, coming to caress your cheek instead. His fingertips are cold, but they leave a trail of fire on your skin. “I'll still admire your bravery, Christian princess.”

The way he says it makes you smile. For the first time, it doesn't come out as an insult, or in a sarcastic way. Could Ivar accept you, despite the differences between your worlds? Right now, it feels like he can.

@multific @revolution-starter @crackhead1-800 @youbloodymadgenius @clown-boyyy @kitten0394 @castielsangelx-blog @goldlion07 @midnightmystic @readsalot73 @xvxcarolinexvx @momowhoo @fangfoxy @msrawog @walkingonshunshine @alytavzla @anotherfan07 @heavenly1927 @alexhandersen-marcoilsoe-fandom @msrawog

#ivar the boneless imagine #ivar imagine #imagine ivar #ivar vikings #ivar the boneless #ivar fanfiction #imagine ivar vikings #imagine ivar the boneless #ivar the boneless fanfiction #ivar the boneless x reader #imagine vikings #vikings imagine #vikings ivar #ivar vikings x reader #ivar vikings imagine

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javier-pena · 4 years

Text

bloodstain

Chapter 2 of The Hunt

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!reader

Word Count: 6.2k

Rating: Mature

Notes: First, let me start with saying that at this point taking a bullet for Dani @javierpcna doesn’t feel like it would be enough. She literally drops everything whenever I send her a new or revised chapter to look over and i cannot thank her enough! I kinda surprised myself with how quickly I finished this chapter, but that’s also thanks to Dani because the highlight of my day is sending her small snippets of what I’ve written and having her reply with “?????”. I also want to thank all of you who read the first chapter and left comments and sent messages, it means the world to me! I was so nervous about sharing this with you all, but I’m so glad I did. And finally, let me end this with saying happy birthday, Chrisann @darksber!!! I hope you have a fun birthday and I hope you enjoy the second chapter as much as you enjoyed the first one.

masterlist | join the tag list

The snow comes over night. The cold, clean smell is the first thing your mind registers, even before it has time to make you feel confused about the strange bedsheets wrapped around you. And then you remember.

The screams.

The blaster shots

The fire, the blazing heat engulfing you, burning your skin.

Those men on their speeder bikes, laughing, looting, taking whatever the fuck they want.

And you, unable to stop them.

The feeling of cold, all-consuming despair makes a shiver run down your spine, makes you curl up in a tight ball beneath your blanket and shake so violently it makes you feel sick. Then you cry, and with the tears comes the heat until you’re so hot you feel sweat collect at the nape of your neck and run down your back in icy beads. After yesterday, you hadn’t expected there to be any tears left, but there are, so many, and they don’t stop, they seem to be endless, like a river flowing, rushing, tumbling over rocks and down a precipice, drowning everything in its way.

You hate those men, you loathe them, you want them dead, torn apart by wild animals, you want them dead after they beg you for their miserable lives, you want them dead and forgotten. That anger and that lust for revenge that seem to take up every cell and atom in your body are what finally helps you to stop crying. They don’t help you to calm yourself – you are anything but calm – but they help you to focus your rage on one goal: kill them all.

Because with the memories of the pain and the despair and the utter helplessness you felt yesterday (and still feel today) comes the memory of him. The Mandalorian. And remembering him means remembering the hope you felt when he offered his services, when he pledged himself to your cause. Shit. You shake your head. He did no such thing. He accepted a job. He only cares about the money, he doesn’t care about the cause. Yes, he will help you achieve your goal, but he’s emotionally detached from it. And you need to remember that. You need to remember it for your own sake because as soon as you assume anything else, it’ll get messy.

And he terrifies you. He terrifies you so much, especially in the light of day. Because the morning sun makes him feel real, solid, and so much more dangerous. And you have a feeling you shouldn’t keep him waiting.

You finally sit up and roll your neck and shoulders to relieve the pain the previous day’s labors have left behind. You couldn’t defend yourself against the Mandalorian, even if the muscles in your body weren’t screaming with pain. You don’t know what’s wrong with you. You don’t know why you would trust a complete stranger like that after everything that has happened to you, why you would trust a complete stranger who could snap your neck like a dry twig. Being around him feels like being constantly held at gunpoint. One wrong move and you’re dead.

But you need him.

Maker, you need him.

You get out of bed and stretch, then run your hand over your face to dry it off. There is a bowl of water on a small table next to the bed. You have to break the thin layer of ice that has formed on the surface, and when you splash it on your face, it is freezing, but at least it makes your burning cheeks feel numb and it eases the stinging in your eyes. You know you look a mess, but you don’t care. You get dressed in your soot-blackened clothes and then leave the small room. You have no idea if you’ll ever sleep in a bed again.

***

The morning air is icy cold. Two suns have risen, but the third one still hides behind the trees. The air is foggy, misty, and clouds of smoke pass you by. The settlement is already busy. In a shop next to the inn, a man heckles with the vendor in a raised voice. Two farmers lead a small herd of tauntauns down the street, while everyone tries to get out of their way. In the distance, a child is crying. It smells like fire and snow and life. You hate it.

The everyday noises are overwhelming to you; the melody of a hammer hitting metal in a nearby forge makes your skull vibrate, the voices of people talking makes you want to cover your ears with your hands and yell at them to shut up, the reverberations of the tauntauns’ claws against the frozen ground makes you want to take cover somewhere and hide until nightfall.

But you don’t run or hide or even just turn around to take a breath. Instead, you focus your attention on the Mandalorian.

He is waiting for you outside the inn. A thin layer of snow has collected on his shoulders, a sign he’s been standing motionless for a while. Even though the morning sunlight is pale and makes everything look hazy, you see him clearly. So clearly that you have to squint your eyes when you look at him. His beskar armor glistens from the sunlight it reflects, so much that the people on the street turn their heads to look at him. The wisps of smoke rushing past shroud him, but it’s not enough to dim the dancing shimmers. He carries a long staff strapped to his back, a kind of spear you’re pretty sure he didn’t have with him the previous night at the inn. And his face is hidden behind the helmet again, which probably shouldn’t surprise you, but it does. All of this just makes him look wrong. He looks so out of place standing in the middle of this dirt-poor settlement it makes you want to pretend you don’t have anything to do with him.

So you focus on what’s behind him. In one hand, he holds the reins of three orbaks, in the other a small bundle. He presses it against his chest like he’s holding a small child, not a lifeless piece of cloth. The orbaks are big, wooly beasts, dark grey in color, with two long, dangerously pointy tusks hanging from their mouths. Two of them have saddles strapped to their backs, the third one is laden with crates, saddle bags, even two long guns. The more you look at it, the more weapons you spot. What does one man need so many for? So much baggage will just slow you down. The bandits already have a day’s head start and travelling on heavily loaded orbaks will give them even more of an advantage. But this is probably the best the Mandalorian could do – the settlement is so poor, not even merchants sell speeder bikes – who would be able to afford them?

You shudder and wrap your arms around yourself, painfully aware that the fire destroyed everything except for the clothes you’re wearing. But they’re not enough to protect you from the bitter cold. You can see your breath hovering in a pale cloud in front of your face when you exhale slowly, you can feel the snowflakes on your bare lower arms as you walk toward the Mandalorian. You have no idea how he can stand there like the cold is nothing to him. Beskar doesn’t protect against low temperatures. To you, this is just further proof of how much he’s not human.

“Here,” he says, as you stop in front of him, holding the bundle out to you.

“What’s this?” you ask with a small nod at him, the bundle, and the orbaks. You don’t take it.

The Mandalorian looks behind him, then back at you. “Supplies,” he says.

You take the bundle from him and untie the chord that’s tightly wound around it. Folding back the thin cloth, you unwrap a long, dark brown leather cloak with fur linings and a thick, woolen scarf. The scarf looks itchy but feels very soft against your skin and the coat lies heavy in your arms, like a dead animal. The sight of these clothes leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, and you don’t move to put them on. Instead, you stand there, pressing the unwrapped bundle against your chest, and look at the Mandalorian with raised eyebrows.

“What’s this?” you repeat.

He doesn’t reply, just nods and makes a gesture with his now empty hand, motioning you to hurry up.

You don’t. You just look at him, shivering more and more with each passing second. You’re not sure if it’s from the cold or from the anger you’ve been feeling since yesterday, since waking up this morning, since unwrapping the bundle; everything is stoking up the fire, feeding your flaming rage

“Listen,” you start. You try not to let your feelings get the better of you, but it’s impossible. You don’t quite know yourself why this small gesture enrages you as it does, you just know you need to set some boundaries right now. “I don’t need your pity,” you continue. “I don’t need you to look out for me. I can take care of myself.”

The Mandalorian huffs. “This isn’t a gift,” he says, his voice completely level. “I’m paying for it with your money. I’m not forcing you to wear it, but if you go on the journey like that,” he nods at you, “you’ll freeze. You’re no use to me dead.”

You feel heat rush to your face and settle in your cheeks. Without another word you put on the coat and tie the scarf around your neck. The coat rests heavy on your shoulders, weighing you down. It’s a size too big, but snug, and you stop shivering immediately. You run your left hand along the right sleeve under the pretense of fixing it, but you just want to feel the material under your fingers. It’s softer than it looks, which just serves to make you feel embarrassed and … stupid.

You feel stupid, so, so stupid. Did you really expect him to make you a gift? To look out for you? To care for you? You hired him to do a job and he’s just making sure you stay alive long enough to pay him. Much like the owner of a racing stable would do with his fathier. You scold yourself for having misread the situation. You blame it on the exhaustion you still feel, on the trauma you lived through, on the need for human connection you had no idea you even felt. There is no way to come out of this situation without feeling like a fool, so you just decide to ignore it. After all, it’s best if you just forgot about the whole thing. All you need to do in future is to be more careful around him so you don’t misinterpret his intentions again.

“Supplies?” you ask to distract yourself.

You wish you could see his face when he says, “Were you just going to follow them on foot with no food or weapons?” Because it doesn’t sound as if he’s mocking you, even though he should be. Hell, you should be mocking yourself. But he just sounds genuinely curious, as if this is a discussion about a topic you’re both not emotionally invested in, not a question of life and death.

“No,” you answer slowly, then look away. You have to admit you hadn’t thought about it yet, you were too focused on the idea of hunting those men down that you didn’t even consider you needed tools, supplies, food, and a means of transportation. “Thank you,” you add.

The Mandalorian gives you a curt nod, accepting your words of gratitude. You’re glad he doesn’t press the subject, any subject really.

Without him, you would have been dead within a day.

***

It is still snowing when you and the Mandalorian leave the settlement behind. As you begin your journey into the unknown, tiny snowflakes settle in the fur of your orbak, making it appear white instead of dark grey. It blends in perfectly with your surroundings, where everything is light shades of blue, grey, and brown. And white, so much white. You squint your eyes and yet the light still stings to the point you tear up. You envy the Mandalorian his tinted visor and you wish you had something similar to protect yourself. Alvorine’s three suns hang low, their pale blue light filtered through hazy clouds. Everything you see is blurred and too bright to look at directly – it makes you feel vulnerable and exposed. Even as you enter the cover of the trees, their bare branches do little to help keep out the light and the snow and so you lower your eyes to your reddened hands holding your orbak’s reins as you trust the Mandalorian to lead the way.

The air is cold this morning, so cold you tie your new scarf over your mouth and nose and still feel it sting in your throat. Your face, still raw from crying, stings too. Your hands are frozen shut around the reins and you can’t feel your fingers. When you try to move them, the action is painfully slow. You shiver despite the heavy coat on your shoulders as you sit hunched over to give the cold air less opportunity to cover your body with icy touches. You would never admit to it out loud because you’ve already embarrassed yourself enough for one day, but the Mandalorian was right – you would have frozen to death within a few hours of leaving the shelter of the settlement.

You raise your head briefly to look at him riding ahead of you, but he is the brightest object in a 10-mile radius, you think, brighter than your orbak’s fur or the snow-covered ground. Back in the settlement, you already noticed how the suns’ light reflects off his polished beskar armor, but out here in the forest with nothing around to distract your gaze, he is like a homing beacon, like a bright, blazing fire lit in complete darkness. This brazen display makes you shiver; he is on top of the food chain, too quick and powerful and deadly to hide his presence. He could be spotted from miles away by someone on a sentry tower and yet the person keeping watch wouldn’t stand a chance. The Mandalorian would catch them sooner or later, no matter how well they were trying to hide. Nothing can escape him, so there is no reason for him to hide his presence, to sneak from cover to cover like a thief in the night.

He frightens you.

What is also bearing down on you is the silence surrounding him, you and your orbaks. Yes, there is the sound of their hooves against the frozen ground, the swoosh of their fur every time they shake their heads, the soft thud whenever they brush up against a branch, making snow glide to the ground. But that’s it. That’s all you hear. The Mandalorian travels in complete silence. His armor doesn’t squeak or thump. You cannot hear the sound of his slow, steady breathing. Even his hands lie completely silently on the nape of his orbak’s neck, the reins resting against the worn leather of his gloves. And you envy him those gloves because the further you travel into the forest, the colder it gets, and the stiffer and more unresponsive your fingers get.

You cannot recall the last time you felt this uncomfortable. You wish there was something to distract you from – well – everything. Yes, you’re grateful the Mandalorian doesn’t ask you personal questions because you buried your old life beneath wet soil and dirt yesterday, and with it you buried any desire to share it with a complete stranger. He also doesn’t ask you about the men you’re hunting, and you feel like he doesn’t have to because he just knows. Maybe he talked to the people back at the settlement, maybe it’s the years of experience he’s had hunting people for a living or maybe it’s just instinct – he knows where he needs to be going, he knows what kind of equipment to bring along, and he knows what the best strategy is to catch his quarry.

You don’t know any of these things. And the more you stray from the bare minimum of human civilization and into the wilderness of Alvorine, the more you realize you wouldn’t stand a chance without the Mandalorian. You would’ve frozen to death if he hadn’t given you the coat. Or you would have starved, or died from exhaustion from trying to carry all your supplies yourself. You would have gotten lost and eaten alive by a wild beast. Or you would, by some miracle, have caught up with the men, but would’ve gotten killed by them because you didn’t bring a weapon. By the look of it, the Mandalorian brought enough for a small army. And the more you think about it, the more you are prepared to admit that you were never seriously planning on going after the bandits. You are prepared to admit you were just looking for a way out so you wouldn’t have to live with the pain. One or two rash decisions made from a place of hurt and despair, one or two unplanned steps can mean death on Alvorine. While wallowing in your revenge fantasies, you weren’t thinking about Brea – you were just thinking about yourself.

But somehow – and this time you’re convinced it’s because of his instincts – the Mandalorian offered you a chance at success, one you might not even have wanted. He listened to the people in that inn and decided helping you with your cause is the right job for him. You’ve never heard of a Mandalorian like that. You always assumed they were only interested in money or the thrill of chasing down the rich and the powerful, in letting them know that no amount of credits can keep them safe. But here he is, content with spending a week or more in the forests of Alvorine, hunting down base criminals for the ridiculous amount of 240 credits. It doesn’t add up. And you would ask him about it if he wasn’t an unapproachable, withdrawn man, covered in impenetrable armor. You would ask him if he didn’t terrify you so much.

You wish you could talk to him about … something, you just don’t know about what.

But he makes that decision for you. “Are you hungry?” he asks.

His voice cuts so unexpectedly through the silence that you flinch. It somehow surprises you that he is real and not just a concept you’ve made up in your mind, and idea to help you live out your fantasies of revenge and vengeance.

When you don’t answer, he turns his head to look at you. You squint when you return his gaze, trying to make up your mind whether you are hungry or not (something that feels impossible when all you are is terribly, terribly cold), but then he pulls on the reins of his orbak and brings it to a halt in the middle of the path. He glides down from the animal in one swift movement; a small cloud of freshly fallen snow rises up when his feet hit the ground but there is still no sound and this is starting to unnerve you. It takes him a few steps until he’s next to you, the top of his head reaching your shoulder, even though you’re still mounted high on your orbak, and then he says in a rough, almost unkind tone of voice, “I asked you a question”.

And you remember the deal, you remember having agreed to doing as he tells you. It’s just, you don’t have an answer for him. So you just shrug.

He grabs the rein of your orbak and you finally – finally! – hear his movements make a sound, a low creak as the leather of his glove brushes against the leather of the bridle. The orbak shakes its shaggy head but he doesn’t flinch. His visor is directed at you and you know he expects an answer from you. He’s growing impatient, you can tell from the way his shoulders tense as he lets his gaze wander over your body.

“You’re hypothermic,” he observes, and as the words leave his mouth, so does the air you’ve been holding in and you start shaking uncontrollably.

Now that he’s pointed it out, there is no denying it. You’re cold, so, so cold, frozen and raw, you can’t feel your own lips, your nose, your cheeks. Your fingers are lifeless lumps against the coarse fur of your orbak. If the animal would decide to bolt at this very moment, you wouldn’t be able to hold it back. You’re not even sure you could climb down from the beast right now. Of all the deadly dangers of Alvorine it’s the cold that has finally gotten to you. It’s laughable, and you would laugh, if you could feel your face.

“Can you dismount?” he asks you then.

This is a question you can answer. “I think so,” you say, even though you know you can’t. Your legs are like two solid bricks of ice, too stiff to be moved.

“Do it then,” he says, and it sounds so much like a challenge that you’re determined to show him you can do it.

He doesn’t watch your pathetic display though. He lets go of the rein and walks to the third orbak that is carrying most of your supplies. You’re grateful for that because as soon as you try to dismount, you feel your body tense even more until you glide down from the orbak with a disgraceful plop and land in the soft snow with a force that knocks the air from your lungs. The sounds you make draw the attention of the Mandalorian back to you, but he doesn’t rush to your side to offer you help. Instead, he turns his attention back to the task at hand, looking through one of the bags strapped to the pack animal. You’re convinced he rolls his eyes under the cover of the helmet.

You try to get up, and you manage after two fruitless attempts. Your legs are shaking, but at least they’re supporting your weight. Walking on them is another topic you’re not prepared to cover yet. And then you feel it again, that hot sting of embarrassment you felt this morning, trying to make itself known by speeding up your heart rate and adding a feeling of nausea to your general discomfort. You push it down without batting an eyelash. There is no reason to feel like this, especially if you compare yourself to the Mandalorian. Not everyone can be a ruthless killing machine, immune to environmental influences.

Then he’s back by your side, and with a gruff, “Hold this,” he pushes a heating pad into your hands. You’re not sure at first if it’s switched on because you don’t feel anything, but when you move it around in your hands looking for the on button you notice it’s cranked up to the highest setting.

“You need to tell me when you’re cold,” the Mandalorian continues in the same gruff tone of voice, while he unscrews a flask.

Once it’s opened, he pushes it into your hand with such force you stumble backwards. Your whole body tenses at the contact and you realize you’re completely alone with him. There is not another living soul around for miles except for the three animals next to you, and they won’t come to your aid if he suddenly decides to kill you. And he could. He is so strong; you had no idea how strong until he pushed you back like that with a motion that didn’t seem to take any effort at all. And with another effortless motion, he could close a hand around your neck and squeeze until there is no air left in your body. You wouldn’t stand a chance.

“Drink,” he orders.

You do. It’s a hot liquid – tea, you think – but with a bitter taste to it. It warms you up instantly, much quicker than the heating pad does. You still can’t feel your fingers.

“Just tell me next time,” he repeats. “Losing a finger to hypothermia is a nasty business.”

And now you do feel embarrassed again. You’re a burden, you’re slowing him down. You already lost a quarter of an hour because you can’t handle a bit of cold. It’s not surprising he usually works alone. No one is able to keep up with him, least of all you in your weakened, exhausted state.

But you can’t turn back. You refuse to give up so easily.

You nod to show him you’ve understood his instructions. Then you let your gaze wander around, looking for something to distract you. You can feel heat rising to your cheeks, and it has nothing to do with the warm drink or the heating pad. You know it doesn’t because you’re still shivering. But you’re not going to apologize to him. For some reason, you feel like he would just brush it off, act like it’s no big deal. But it is to you, and you wouldn’t be able to bear him acting nonchalantly. The other possible response to an apology from you would be him trying to comfort you and you definitely. don’t. want. that. The mere thought makes your heart beat so rapidly it feels like it’s going to explode any second. The mere thought of one of his hands resting on your shoulder in a comforting gesture makes you want to run. You don’t want him to care for you because it’s entirely at odds with his character, his whole being. He is here to hunt and kill, not to hold and comfort. And this is what you need right now – a killer, not a caretaker.

You take a few steps, walk past him toward a fallen tree to calm your nerves. The deep breaths of cold air you take make you cough, but he doesn’t even flinch. Good. You’re usually not like this, you’re usually not someone who can’t take care of themselves. After all, you’ve lived on Alvorine your entire life, you know how harsh the winters can be and how dangerous the cold is. But yesterday’s events broke something in you, and the realization that you might never recover from it begins to dawn on you, take hold of you with a grip icier than the snow clinging to your worn-out boots. The weight of what happened to you slams into you with full force and you have to lean against a tree, its rough bark scraping uncomfortably against your cold, bare hand.

And then you see it – the bloodstain. One single, impossibly small, impossibly red bloodstain on the virgin-white snow. And everything stops.

You lurch forward and fall to your knees to examine it more closely. Yes, it’s definitely blood. You raise your head to look around, but you can’t spot anything out of the ordinary, just trees and snow and your own footprints. Your breath comes in short, labored bursts, and you suddenly don’t feel cold anymore. In fact, you don’t feel anything at all.

“What is it?”

The Mandalorian is there, crouching by your side. You point to the small, red dot, and he raises his hand to touch his helmet. His body grows rigid as he examines it, all the while not moving an inch. You don’t want to hear his verdict, don’t want to hear the conclusion he’s come to. That bloodstain stirs something inside you, a panic with such deep roots you feel it taking over your entire body, growing like weed, choking all other feelings, all life out of you.

Something in your body language must have given away this panic you feel, because suddenly the Mandalorian turns to you and says, “I need you to calm down.”

You nod, unable to speak. Then you turn your head away from him and throw up.

“Hey,” he says, and something in his voice catches your attention. It sounds almost … soft.

You turn back to him, running your hand over your mouth. “I’m sorry,” you apologize.

“I’m going to look around,” he tells you. Then he raises his hand as if to comfort you, but you flinch away from him. His hand hovers outstretched between the two of you for a brief moment before he lowers it again. “Just stay here. Try to eat something. I won’t be long.”

He pushes himself off the ground, towering over you. You stand up too, your legs shaking, but before you can embarrass yourself more by stumbling into him, he takes off in a slow-paced run and you stare after him until the trees swallow him up. And then you’re alone. Alone with three orbaks and your panicked mind.

It’s not Brea’s blood, you tell yourself.

But what if it is? a different voice asks.

It’s not. It snowed during the night, and we’re too far behind those bandits. It can’t be hers.

It can, you know it can. They could have left her here to die.

There would be more tracks.

Then why are you panicking? Why did you throw up?

You can’t argue with that. Instead, you sink to the ground again, bury your head in your hands, and scream. You scream so loudly that even though the sound comes out muffled, the orbaks still move their heads nervously. A few trees away, a flock of birds takes off, chittering in disapproval. You scream until your lungs begin to burn, until your throat stings, until you feel like you’ve just sprinted ten miles. Then you grow quiet.

***

When the Mandalorian returns, it’s almost dark. You’re not freezing anymore because you spent the last two hours or so pacing up and down the path through the undergrowth you’ve made earlier, your mind racing with scenarios of him not returning before nightfall. You fear the nights on Alvorine and you know you should have told him about the dangers these forests hold. Because how could he have known that it’s almost impossible to survive a night out in the wilderness? Almost because if anyone could do it, it would be him.

When he returns, the pauldron on his right shoulder is smeared with dirt and his chest is heaving with silent pants, but he’s alone. You’re simultaneously relieved and disappointed.

“We’ll make camp here for the night,” he decides without so much as a greeting.

You open your mouth to tell him how dangerous that would be but then close it again when you remember the nearest settlement is miles and miles away and you wouldn’t reach it in time before nightfall. You don’t have any other choice.

He sends you to collect some wood while he moves to tie up the orbaks. You scold yourself for not having done that earlier when you were waiting for him, but you had hoped it wouldn’t take him quite as long and he would be back sooner. As you move around, picking up the driest branches you can find, you glance over at him from time to time. He is lost in his own task, tying the reins to nearby tree trunks, patting one orbak’s neck, then scratching another one’s muzzle. They trust him, stand completely still in his presence while he circles them, examining them for any injuries or anything that might cause them discomfort.

Finally, curiosity gets the better of you. “What did you find?” you ask, as you break a big, dead branch into two parts.

“Nothing,” he replies in his brusque fashion you’re slowly getting used to. “A dead animal.”

You nod, then focus on the task at hand. Your small discovery and subsequent … breakdown? … panic attack? … you don’t know what to call it, has already cost you so much time. You could’ve covered twice the distance today if he hadn’t stopped here because of you. But … this isn’t a rescue mission, you keep forgetting about that. This is a quest for revenge, and those bandits will be there, no matter how long it will take you to find them. It doesn’t matter if it takes you two days or two months to reach them.

“Did you eat?” the Mandalorian asks you, interrupting your train of thought.

You shake your head and he sighs. Then he reaches into one of the saddle bags and pulls out a ration pack, tossing it to you. He proceeds to clear away the snow around the small pile of wood you’ve collected before doing something with his arm, so flames shoot out of the vambrace, igniting the stack. You can’t help but stare in fascination because you’ve never seen anything like it.

It doesn’t take him long to get a fire going. You grab one of the two bundled up, coarse blankets from the pack orbak and spread it on the ground next to the heat source, huddling up close for warmth and protection. You tear open the ration pack and begin to eat.

“I should’ve told you before, but it’s dangerous out here at night.” Your mouth full, you watch as the Mandalorian sits down opposite you, the fire between you. The warmth spreading through your body and your steadily filling stomach make you talkative. “There’s monsters in these woods.”

He chuckles softly but you’re sure it’s just your imagination. There is no way you could’ve heard a sound like that over the crackling fire. But before you can ask him about it, he raises his hand to remove the dirty pauldron from his shoulder, and you’re so distracted by that piece of steel being lifted off the body it usually protects that you stop thinking altogether for a moment. It’s stupid, you know that, but a part of you still thinks he might be a machine, and seeing that pauldron being removed from his shoulder feels almost forbidden, like you’re the audience to some ancient, sacred ritual you have no right to observe. You lower your gaze to the flickering flames.

“I’ll keep an eye out for those monsters,” he assures you, and you’re not sure if he meant for it to sound mockingly, but it doesn’t.

You still don’t think he fully believes you.

“Alvorine is a dangerous planet,” you tell him in a quiet tone of voice. “It might not seem like it compared to what you’re used to, but to us the dangers are very real.” You’re still not looking at him, but there is no point – you can’t see his face anyway.

“I believe you,” he says. “But fire is usually enough to keep the monsters at bay.”

As a response, you nod, even though you’re not sure he’s watching you. So you finally raise your head again to look at him. The pauldron is back on his shoulder, but his gaze is directed at the orbaks.

“I’m going to feed them,” he tells you. “They’re getting restless. Try to get some sleep.”

You nod again and stretch out on the cold, hard ground. Shivering, you pull your coat tighter around yourself. The fire is barely warm enough to keep your fingers and toes from falling off, and once it dies down, there won’t be anything keeping you from freezing to death. Briefly, you’re considering pulling the blanket out from beneath you to use it as a cover, but then you wouldn’t have anything to protect you from the cold ground. With a sigh, you close your eyes, trying to ignore the discomfort. Instead, you focus on the sounds around you, on the branches brushing against each other when a cold breeze tears at them, on the orbaks huffing impatiently and almost nervously, and on the crackling fire, the heat that makes a piece of wood snap in half ever so often. And then you hear another sound, footsteps, and your eyes snap open again.

The Mandalorian towers over you, and it’s the first time you were able to hear him approach. Instead of feeling proud of yourself, you bolt upright, adrenaline pumping through your veins. Whatever happens next, you know you don’t stand a chance against him. He slowly leans down, and you try to get away from him, but your muscles are frozen stiff and don’t cooperate. His arms move as if to grab you and a strangled cry escapes your throat.

But it’s just a blanket, just the other blanket, and he wraps it tightly around your shoulders. “Here,” he says with a low grunt. If he noticed your alarm, he doesn’t comment on it.

You look at his helmet reflecting the light of the dancing flames, and you wish you knew what was going on beneath it. Is he offended? Annoyed? Or maybe just as cold and exhausted as you?

“What about you?” you ask, grabbing the coarse material to hold it tightly against your body.

“I’m not cold,” he answers, standing up again. “Get some sleep. I’ll wake you before sunrise.”

You watch him walk back to the other side of the fire and settle down on the cold ground with just his cape to keep him warm. And for the first time since you met him, his stoic presence doesn’t fill you with dread or panic or trepidation – he just makes you feel calm.

tag list: @bella-ciao, @chattychell, @darksber, @filthybookworm, @frannyzooey, @khalysa, @leannawithacapitala, @magicrowiswritingstuff, @mothandpidgeon, @mbpokemonrulez, @mrsparknuts, @mxsamwilson, @mylifeofcalculatedchaos, @pescopadral, @piscespussybabe, @something-tofightfor

#the mandalorian #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #mando x reader #star wars #din djarin #pedro pascal #fanfic #the hunt fic #lmao i'm still a coward though and currently asleep #tw: flashing gif

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vanserraseris · 3 years

Note

END OF PART XIV - I feel like I should say that things don’t really get any happier?? A few years have passed since the last part and Eris is a little ooc. Just a warning that there are mentions of character death and blood. Thank you to everyone who reads.

omfg i am SO sorry it took me forever to get this part up. anyway im crying

Prince of Ashes. Part XIV.

masterlist.

Eris sat on his stool once more, the old wooden legs creaking under his weight. He was well aware that the small, ugly tavern was well below an acceptable place for him to be, but he’d needed a break. Pity, Eris thought, that he hadn’t been able to find one. He shook his head, little pieces of broken glass falling from his hair and onto the sticky bar top. He felt blood dripping down the side of his face and wiped it away with the back of his hand.

The female behind the bar had pressed herself up against one of the shelves, had put as much distance between the two of them as was possible. Eris simply pushed the glass in front of him towards her, no emotion in his voice as he said, “I’ll have another, if you don’t mind.” Her brown eyes widened before she whirled around, quickly grabbing the already open bottle of cognac behind her. With shaking hands, she poured the drink into his glass.

Eris could hear her rapidly beating heart and scowled, bringing the glass to his lips and draining its contents. The female rushed to refill his glass just as the doors to the tavern opened. Eris didn’t turn to see who it was, he didn’t have to. He recognized his friend’s scent, scrunching his nose as he wiped at more blood that dripped down his face. Eris’s ears twitched at the sound of Lagos walking towards him, his boot-clad feet crunching the broken pieces of glass on the floor.

Eris tried not to breathe in too deeply as Lagos pulled a stool towards the bar, the wooden legs dragging through a pool of blood, it’s iron scent burning through Eris’s nose.

“Have you been doing that all day?” Lagos sounded very disappointed as he sat down.

Eris wasn’t entirely sure whether Lagos was talking about the drinking, or about the two dozen faeries he’d killed. It didn’t really matter, his answer remained the same, “Just started.”

“It’s unlike you to drink without company.”

Eris raised a brow, turning his head in his friend’s direction, but looking past him. Eris stared at the dead faerie slumped against the dark wood of the bar as he spoke, “Are you here to join me?”

Lagos sighed, moving so that Eris could look at him instead. “I’m here, Eris, because Rufus told us where you’d be. He’s worried, we’re worried, and you won’t tell any of us a thing.”

Eris scowled, turning away from him to face the female behind the bar.

She was staring at him differently now, the fact that she recognized who he was evident in her lovely features. “How much for the whole bottle?”

“Ten coppers,” she said, voice clear despite her obvious nerves.

Eris shoved his hand into the back pocket of his brown pants, placing ten gold marks on the table instead. “I’m buying the bottle and I’m buying your silence.” Eris made sure there were flames in his eyes as he looked at her.

Eris hadn’t known that the rebels he was looking for would be sitting in the tavern he’d entered. They’d paused at his arrival, their loud talking turning into hushed murmuring as he’d sat at the bar. Eris had seen the leader, had recognized her from the large scar over her brow, and wished he hadn’t. They’d all put up a good fight, would have made excellent warriors had they not chosen to fight against Beron.

Eris had decided to spare the young female behind the bar, the only survivor, because she’d reminded Eris of his mother. She placed the bottle in front of him, nearly dropping it as she said, “Yes, my prince.”

“I think it would be best if you left,” Lagos advised, tilting his head towards the door.

Eris only briefly watched the female as she grabbed the gold, as she scrambled out of the tavern, stepping over a dead male as she practically ran away from the bar.

Eris sniffed, swirling the cognac in the bottle as he slowly pushed his full glass towards Lagos. Instead of speaking, Eris chose to lift the heavy bottle to his lips.

“You aren’t going to find happiness at the bottom of that bottle,” Lagos muttered, running a hand through his long, dark hair. The gold tattoos on each of his fingers seemed brighter than usual in the gloom of the tavern.

Eris rolled his eyes, “I’m not trying to find happiness.” He raised the bottle in his friend’s direction before he took a long drink, “I’m trying to drown my sorrows.”

Lagos furrowed his brows, “I think you’ve had enough.”

“I’ve definitely not had enough.” Eris shook his head, the scent of blood making him dizzy. Perhaps if he drank a little more, he wouldn’t be able to smell it. “I finally understand why Cato was always in such a foul mood, though.”

“Eris—”

“The High Lord has me taking over some of his duties,” Eris waved a hand, eyes scanning the small space around him, looking over all the dead faeries. Eris hadn’t known the extent of what his father had been making Cato do all these years, had never bothered to ask his younger brother what his duties had been outside of questioning prisoners at The Forest House. Being in Cato’s shoes as Beron worked to find his replacement had Eris feeling absolutely dreadful.

Lagos took a deep breath, “This is what Cato did?” Of course Lagos would be horrified. Eris had been sent to the small town outside Calchas to find the steadily growing rebel group, and had been ordered to kill them if he did. Rebel groups in Autumn seemed to be getting more and more popular; Eris wasn’t surprised.

Eris faced his friend, looked into his dark brown eyes. “Horrible enough to drive anyone mad, isn’t it?”

“It would explain why you yelled at Rufus this morning.”

“Fuck off, Lagos,” Eris snapped, “Honestly, if you’re here because Rufus is worried, you’ve come here in vain.”

“I’m here,” Lagos snarled, “Because if Rufus can’t get through to you, I’m not sure anyone else can.” Eris couldn’t count the times his friends had tried to talk to him after Lucien had left Autumn, after Cato and Owain had been killed. Eris hadn’t wanted to talk to them, had pushed them away when they tried.

Eris huffed a humourless laugh, “You don’t have to worry about me, I’m fine.”

“Evidently,” Lagos grabbed the bottle from Eris’s hand just as he’d been about to bring it to his lips, “Of course you’re fine, Mother forbid anyone worry about you.” He slammed the bottle onto the bar.

“Don’t start with this shit again,” Eris was tired, he’d had a long day, he didn’t want to listen to anything Lagos had to tell him — he’d heard it all before.

“This is an intervention,” Lagos waved his hand, “I’m intervening. I’m not going to sit here and watch you drink, following your father’s orders as you try to win a throne you’ve never wanted.”

Eris wiped at the blood on his face again. “Who says I don’t want it?”

“You!” Lagos raised his voice a bit, “You’ve been saying it since I’ve known you!”

“Well, I changed my mind,” Eris ran a hand through his hair, he’d given this issue much thought lately.

“I’m going to steal my father’s crown and I’m going to rule Autumn.” Beron wasn’t good for this court, he’d always been too selfish, too power-hungry, too cruel. Maddox wouldn’t be a good High Lord, he was better off leading the Royal Guard. Priam was just as likely to abandon Autumn as he was to rule it well. And Rufus didn’t want the throne, even if Eris thought he would be the best one on it.

Lagos sounded frustrated as he said, “And how do you plan on doing that?”

Eris flashed his friend a smile, “Not sure yet, but I’m a patient male, Lagos. I’ll wait another 300 years for that crown if I have to.” Eris had never been humble, it was easy for him to see that he was the only reasonable option, the only one of his brothers who could be a decent High Lord after he got rid of Beron.

Lagos sighed, reaching out with a hand, “Eris—”

Eris growled when Lagos placed that hand on his arm, “Don’t touch me.”

“I’m taking you home,” Lagos snapped, no longer touching him though, “Obviously, we need to talk. Unless you’d like to fight this out, just like we used to.”

“Tempting,” Eris lifted his chin, “But I just spent a good hour fighting out my anger.” That, and Eris had never beaten Lagos in a fight, and they’d fought countless times in the years they’d known each other.

“Fine, let’s just,” he held his hand out to Eris, an offering, “Let’s go home.”

There was a time where Eris would have taken his friend’s hand without question. Lagos, who had stayed by his side for nearly three centuries and was in danger because of it. Eris looked at Lagos and saw a brother, just another brother he could disappoint, another brother he could fail. Eris pushed his stool away from the bar, “You’ll have to drag me there,” he declared as he stood up.

Lagos rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, “Don’t fucking test me, Eris, I’ll do it.”

Eris waved a hand dismissively, “Go ahead.”

Eris hadn’t truly believed Lagos would do it, but when he fell to the ground, the back of his head smacking against the hardwood floor of the tavern, he guessed he’d been wrong about how much shit Lagos was willing to take from him before he snapped.

“What the fuck?” Eris snarled, kicking out one of his long legs.

“You fucking asked for it,” Lagos said through clenched teeth, his arms around Eris’s torso as a bright light flared around them.

Eris vaguely realized that Lagos had winnowed them somewhere, most likely to the yard outside his cottage.

Eris and Lagos tumbled and rolled in the long grass, fists flying. They were both punching and hitting and swearing, Eris was keeping a tight leash on his flames the whole time, still self aware enough to prevent burning one of his best friends. Eris heard Micah, would have recognized his voice anywhere, as he called out to them.

“Following orders blindly,” Lagos growled as he tried to pin Eris underneath him, “Being horrible to Rufus, ignoring your mother.” They tumbled a little more in the grass, “You’re better than this.”

Eris pushed Lagos roughly with one of his hands, “Am I?” Eris didn’t really think he was, not after all the things he’d done. Eris wasn’t a good male, that much he was certain of.

Before Lagos could respond, he was wrenched off Eris by a livid Widge. “I can’t believe you would fucking do that.”

Eris sat up, raking a hand through his now messy hair. He couldn’t remember the last time Widge had been angry, and almost felt bad for having played a part in it. Micah got down on his knees beside him, placed a hand on his shoulder, it took all of Eris’s strength not to shrug him off.

“You can’t seriously be angry at me,” Lagos growled, staring up at Widge, incredulous. “Our friend just killed over twenty people — decent, hopeful, hard-working people — because they wanted to overthrow the worst High Lord in Prythian, and you’re angry at me?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Widge started, “But I think we’re all old enough to use our words instead of our fists.”

Micah shook his head, looking at Lagos with furrowed brows, “This isn’t what I had in mind when I said we needed to work things out.” Eris stiffened at the thought that his friends had been discussing him when he wasn’t there, but Micah continued speaking, anger clear in his tone. “I’m certain this was uncalled for, Lagos.”

Lagos threw his hands in the air, “You’re on his side?” Lagos seemed more surprised than hurt, “Why are you on his side, Micah?”

Micah sighed, his other hand coming up to rest on Eris’s arm. “Because he’s upset.”

“I’m not upset, why would I be upset?” They all seemed content to ignore Eris as they continued talking.

Lagos snorted, “Right, that’s the reason.”

Micah flushed, opening his mouth to respond, but Widge spoke first. “I think everyone needs to just take a breath,” he helped Lagos to his feet.

“You can take a breath, I’m not done speaking,” Lagos muttered.

Widge looked slightly panicked as he brushed some dirt off of the other male. “Enough, Lagos, just… just stop for a minute.”

Lagos ignored him, turned to face Eris, brown eyes glowing gold, “I always saw through your unbothered, arrogant, asshole act. Always. Tonight, I could not.” Lagos shook his head, “Keep the mask on long enough, Eris, and you forget what’s underneath.”

Eris held his oldest friend’s gaze, “There’s no mask.” Eris wasn’t some secret hero, he wasn’t some misunderstood male with good intentions, “I’m just my father’s son.”

Micah tightened his hold on Eris’s shoulder, “Lagos,” he said in the tone he usually reserved for ordering soldiers around, “Leave him alone.”

Lagos didn’t look like he wanted to leave Eris alone, he looked like he wanted to hit him.

Eris couldn’t blame him, but he felt oddly at peace knowing that he’d probably pushed Lagos too far. “I’m leaving,” Lagos muttered, “I’ll return when you snap out of whatever mood you’re currently in,” that statement directed at Eris. Eris wasn’t planning on snapping out of his mood anytime soon, but he watched as Lagos winnowed away without another word, jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

Just as Lagos left, Micah placed gentle fingers on Eris’s chin, moving some of Eris’s hair to look at him closely. “You’re bleeding.” He didn’t need to ask the question he so clearly wanted to, Eris knew what he wanted.

“One of the faeries I killed tonight threw a bottle at me,” Eris mumbled as Micah tilted his head to the side, trying to get a better look, “She had a very good arm.”

“It’s very unlike you to follow such orders,” Micah’s emerald eyes looked troubled.

Micah wasn’t wrong, Eris had gotten very good at talking his way out of orders he didn’t like. Eris felt blood trickle down the side of his face, and Micah leaned closer to him, pressed the clean sleeve of his shirt against Eris’s brow.

“My father doesn’t trust me.”

“Do you want him to?” Micah stopped pressing his sleeve against Eris’s face, his hand replacing the fabric as he held onto Eris, his thumb resting gently on Eris’s cheekbone.

“I need him to.” Eris hadn’t realized how close he’d gotten to Micah.

“What is the cost?” Eris shuddered when Micah’s thumb slowly stroked his cheekbone, “What will it cost you?”

Eris knew the cost. He hadn’t been determined enough, hadn’t been focused enough on becoming High Lord all these years. He’d liked spending time with his friends, liked spending time with Rufus and Lucien. He’d liked trying to charm pretty females and handsome males, liked getting wasted on faerie wine and pixie.

He needed his father to trust him — that was the first step in taking his crown — and that meant Eris needed to get his hands dirty, needed to follow those orders with a smile on his face. Eris knew what it would cost — his friends, his brothers, his mother — and he was prepared to pay the price. Eris looked into Micah’s clear green eyes as he answered, “Everything that matters.” Micah bit the inside of his bottom lip, nodding once.

Eris froze when Micah inched closer to him, their noses almost touching, eyes half-lidded. “Eris, please—”

Eris didn’t really want to hear what Micah had to say, so he simply decided to close the distance between them. Eris tilted his head, mouth slanting across Micah’s, eyes fluttering shut when he didn’t pull away.

Micah’s lips were soft against Eris’s, the hand cupping Eris’s face was firm as he pulled Eris closer in a breathless gasp. Eris’s tongue brushed against Micah’s, and Eris felt some of the control on his magic slip.

Eris lifted his hand, tangling his fingers in Micah’s light brown hair, everything about the other male familiar. He decided that this would be the last time, his other hand fisted in the blades of grass by Micah’s hand.

With one final tender kiss on Micah’s lips, Eris pulled back, resting his forehead against Micah’s, eyes closed. “I need to sit on that throne,” Eris bit the inside of his cheek, tasting blood. He loosened his hold on Micah’s hair, “Maybe then I can fix this court.”

Micah pulled back, moved his hand so that it rested against Eris’s neck. “You do what you have to, Eris, but I don’t — I know I am selfish for it, but… I don’t think I can sit back and watch you.”

Eris’s eyes snapped open at the sound of Micah’s wavering voice. Micah wasn’t selfish, he was anything but selfish. Eris hadn’t been expecting Micah to be so upset, his cheeks were flushed, tears streaming down his face. Eris had to remind himself that this was for the best, that if he stayed away it would keep him safe.

“Don’t waste your tears on me, Micah,” Eris murmured. He would have kissed them away if he didn’t think it would make things infinitely more difficult.

Micah took a deep breath, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, “I need to go.” Eris felt the sudden urge to beg him not to. Instead, he just sat frozen as Micah stood to leave.

Eris stared at Micah’s feet as he walked away. He vaguely heard Widge trying to stop him, had nearly forgotten that Widge was still there. He ripped at a patch of grass, loosing a long breath.

Eris was still staring after Micah when Widge dropped down to sit beside him. “They’ll be back.”

“I don’t want them to come back,” Eris snarled, “I want to get rid of you, too.”

“I don’t think it matters what you want,” Widge ran a hand through his copper hair, “I mean, obviously it does,” he cringed. “What you want matters, it should always matter, it’s just that I think you’re lying.”

Eris wondered if it was possible to both want them to come back and want them to stay as far away from him as possible. “You’re not leaving?” Eris asked, turning to face Widge.

Widge flashed Eris a small smile, knocking his shoulder into Eris’s. “Not a chance.”

“I’m going to lean on you, then,” Eris muttered.

Widge shifted closer to him, “You can lean on me whenever you like.”

Eris crossed his arms, kicked his legs out in front of him, and slumped against Widge’s much smaller frame. “Everything I touch, I turn to ash.”

Eris felt Widge shake his head, “That’s not true.”

“It is, though,” Eris sighed, “Over two centuries of friendship just went up in flames.” Which Eris had to keep reminding himself was what he had wanted.

“They’re just worried,” Widge said, sounding very sure, “They’re also probably too proud to admit that they’re also a little afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” Eris wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know the answer. The last thing he wanted was for Widge to tell him that they were all afraid of him.

“Afraid of losing you.”

Eris stared at his boots, the brown leather stained with blood. “Oh,” he said, feeling rather stupid for not having anything better to say.

“And I think you should know, Eris,” Widge continued, “That you’re nothing like your father.”

Eris didn't think that was true, but he was glad someone thought so all the same.

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