#checking up on each other in the middle of the night and spilling their darkest secrets to each other

[maxmayfieldirl]

I need the four main boys being soft together it will heal me I swear

[fourmarkdove]

Upstate.

Title: Upstate. | Masterlist

Summary: When the Captain learns you’ve kept a secret all these years, he’s more furious than he’s ever been.

Pairing: Syverson x Reader

Words: 5.5k

Warnings: 18+ Smut. Angst, breeding kink, daddy kink, size kink, rough sex, dirty talk. Infertility/PCOS. 

A/N: Had this in my drafts forever and sort of forgot I wrote it. Comments are welcome! Thanks for reading!

~

It wasn’t supposed to take this long to get pregnant.

It just wasn’t.

You went on the pill shortly after you met, which wasn’t the most glamorous story, but that one drunken pounding against the ladies bathroom wall just days before he was set to ship out set the tone for your relationship. At least in the beginning.

He did two more tours after that. The first time he was on leave, he dropped to a knee, all suntanned and scruffy, after dinner at your favorite little fish shop on the pier.

“We haven’t known each other so long, but your sweet voice on those phone calls, babydoll. They keep me goin’ when I feel like there’s not much reason to.”

That last time he promised, “We’re gonna settle down for good. You an’ me an’ our brood. Daddy just has some unfinished ass to kick, but don’t you worry, sweetness. Nothin’ but picket fences and backyard barbecues soon as I get back.”

You said of course you’d marry your coarse, burly soldier and there never was a happier man who swept up his girl on that pier in a yellow sundress.

You never thought you’d see the day when your hardline, take no bullshit, don’t give em’ an inch Captain would shed a tear - let alone in public - but he did just that the moment he turned his shoulder and saw you in the just barely off-white dress.

He swept his woman off your feet, saying he wanted to be a gentleman and treat you right. But you knew by the intensity of his gaze and how he barely glanced at the pretty white lingerie before he started tearing it off your body that he was going to have trouble being gentle. Not that you minded. You had no regrets when it came to this swollen beast of a man filling every hole, manipulating your body in unnatural positions because you were smaller and he was strong as a horse and built like a brick wall. He’d pin your wrists to the bed above your head and gorge on your heaving tits, or grip behind your knees and have your feet bouncing behind his thick neck, until you were a sweat slick, foul mouthed whore begging for more of his meaty shaft pounding you into a moaning, senseless mess. You thought growing up there’d be something magical and pure about being a new bride dressed in white giving yourself over, blushing and shy, to the man you promised to love forever.

The reality was so much more visceral. All you wanted for days on end was his thick body forcing your thighs open, his hands gripping your flesh, fingers leaving bruises on your hips, crushing kisses that nearly made you faint, the salty taste of his sweat and cum dripping from your lips and cunt, rolling down your thighs, smeared onto the teeth marks he left around your nipples and on your ass like a soothing balm. The only soundtrack in the house was the grunting feral sounds over you as if he willed his very being into yours through the force of each veiny thrust. And the lewd slapping of flesh against flesh, sometimes muted just a bit by the rough hair trailing down his torso leading to his monster cock. The sound of his thighs clapping against your ass and thighs as he fisted your hair and drove himself into your cervix never ever got tiresome.

When he’d get too close, he’d devour your cunt, biceps and forearms flexing and lifting you to his face, swallowing every drop of your slick mixed with his, swirling his thick tongue over your sensitive clit, feeding the mixed liquids back inside your slit. He’d drop to a knee and spread you over his shoulders if you didn’t make it to bed, or in bed, he’d trail down your body, nipping and biting, picking up your skin between his teeth, flashing those blue eyes up at you. He loved going down on his woman maybe even more than burying his throbbing cock, so he’d always glance up to see your lashes flutter, eyes roll back, lips part and scream silently as he gorged on your sex. His beard scratched between your thighs and made you that much more sensitive but fuck you loved it and he loved marking you. He’d sink his sharp canines into the crease of your thigh and bite down just hard enough to make you cry out and arch for him.

By the time you were begging to come and whimpering his name like a prayer, he’d force his heavy, uncut cock all the way inside and start grinding, flexing every muscle in his core powering the grunting snaps of his hips into yours, seeking both of your release. And his mouth would get so filthy pressed to your ear.

“Gonna fuckin’ fill you up with all this cum. Not gonna be able to walk straight for weeks. That’s right spread wider for me. Fuckin’ give me that cunt. You’re gonna take it all like a good girl aren't ya? Get you all round - knocked up with my seed over and over. All that thick cream in these balls is just for you. That’s right. You want it? Milk it, babe.”

He growled and groaned, slapping his balls against your ass, all of the things that made you gasp and close down on him. You’d come first. Always. pulling the head of his cock right up against your cervix. He’d keep thrusting through your orgasm and his followed quickly after.

His big body could crush you under his weight but you loved it, practically demanded it, so he’d half roll off, resting mostly on his side and forearm and hip, while he panted into your hair on the pillow. But you wanted him all over your skin. The musky scent of his, still rolling down his hot skin, sweaty and thick with pheromones and sex, from working so hard to get both of you off over and over, you had no way to explain how you loved it - except by licking up the side of his neck and suckle kissing behind his ear while he panted into the pillow, his bicep and forearm heavy across your chest or around your hip, still holding you possessively.

He’d chuckle, still panting and turn his head on the pillow. Voice still rough from the beating his vocal cords took while he growled, huffed, groaned and barked instructions to you, he’d whisper in those quieter moments.

“Insatiable, kitten. Gimme a minute. Daddy knows what you need.”

You’d turn over in his weighty, tree bough arms and nuzzle into his hairy chest, feeling his thumping heartbeat hard and steady under your fingers. Tree trunk legs could pull all of you into him, and he’d fold you into his center, so not a single inch of you would have to touch sticky bed sheets when he rolled over onto his back. Thick fingers spread across your back, soothing over your roughed up skin, lifting your hair off of your sweaty neck, until the cool air in the room and his perpetually hot skin balanced to the perfect temperature somewhere in the middle.

It went on like that for three, six, nine months once he was home for good. Only two things changed as the months went on. His chocolate curls grew and spilled onto his forehead - which you loved to run your hands through - and you conceded the beard stays if the curls do too.

You came off the pill immediately, from that first night he came home, and never went back to it.

“Sweetness, don’t stress about it,” he’d coo gently, finding you curled up in bed or in the bathroom, sitting alone in the empty back bedroom in the new house. He’d try to squeeze the sadness out of your body every single month with his huge bear arms.

“It’s fun to try again, ain’t it?” he’d wiggle his eyebrows, and make you giggle through the tears. The more playful he was about it, the harder he leaned into trying everything he could to make it easier on you, so that meant a lot of research on websites. He never in a million years thought he’d be reading up on ‘luteal phases’.

He never had to be told twice that you might be ovulating. You’d whisper it to him sometimes he’d sense it. In bed, he’d smell that wet heat before you even backed your ass up against him, wiggling your aching core against the base of his raging erection. Slipping his big hand down your tummy and into your panties, he’d slide a long couple fingers through your slick heat, spreading your pussy lips achingly wide before withdrawing his hand and wrapping his other arm around the front of your shoulders.

“Mmph looks like you’re ready,” he’d groan, checking the viscosity of your juices. Spreading your slick between his fingers, he’d lick at it, gripping you tighter as you’d smirk and work your hips mercilessly on his dick.

That one taste would be enough to work him into a rutting frenzy though. “Got damnit, I need a taste,” he’d growl, climbing down and burying his face between your thighs. His mouth and beard would come up glistening with your juices and he’d look positively lust drunk on the stuff. Spreading his knees, he’d hoist your thighs up onto his, spreading your knees over his hips, so he’d be able to have a perfect look at your swollen cunt.

Pupils dilated and breathing hard, he’d pinch the hood of your clit and stroke it between his finger and thumb, making you squeal and writhe, pulling your own hair. He was in awe of your pussy every time he actually looked at that tiny, suckling hole - how in the world did you manage to stretch and accept his girthy cock? It had to hurt, right? It HAD to. Gripping your hips, he pulled you up to himself, one forearm supporting under your ass, and the other around your back. Touching foreheads, he nuzzled you lovingly.

You kissed him hungrily, sinking your teeth into his bottom lip before letting go. Hair mussed and giving him the darkest look, rolling your hips in his lap, you purred deep. Much to your confusion, he was the one to slow things down, smiling in his gorgeous blue eyes, kissing over your forehead, temples, eyelashes, nose, each lip.

“I wanna give you everything, babydoll,” he sighed, dropping his head to kiss over your shoulder.

Arching your back, you had him grip onto your hands and ease you, still spread over his hairy thighs, back onto the bed.

“Put a baby in me,” you demanded. He huffed out a sharp breath, puffing out his cheeks, before plunging two thick fingers into your cunt, scissoring his fingers to stretch you out. You shrieked and moaned in pleasure, arching deeply.

He could have been gentle but those five little words; that demand of yours. You were his new CO and when he received orders, he ploughed through at a punishing pace.

“Gotta prime these walls,” he grunted, thrusting his fingers in and out, turning his hand so he could rub sloppy juices spilling out of your cunt. Leaning over, he pressed his palm against the mattress next to your head and did something near a one handed push up, coming nose to nose with you.

“Why we gotta prime walls, baby?”

You whined as he flexed and slipped a third thrusting finger into your slurping cunt, begging for something larger to grip onto.

“We prime…” you panted, clawing across the tense muscles in his chest, “because you’re gonna… paint my walls… with your seed.”

Giving you his tongue, he withdrew his fingers and smeared his fingers over his precum-leaking meaty member. Just pushing it down to the right angle and you arched, digging your toes into his tree trunk thighs as you accepted his cock into your aching insides. You cried out, tossing your head back, but that just made him latch onto your throat and thrust into your cervix like a battering ram.

You screamed his name two, maybe three times, and he bared his teeth, growling and swearing, struggling to hold on, planking on his forearms desperate not cum yet while your smaller slippery body, squirmed and writhed under him. One second you were hissing and gasping, sinking your teeth and nails into his shoulders or biceps. The next you’d sob and dig your feet in, because you were so stretched and so sensitive. If he could just hold on that second longer, you’d grab at his ass, let your thighs open up and release your massaging death grip on his cock still buried as deep as he last thrust before you clamped down on him to begin with. Then he slowed just a bit to kiss your panting mouth as the orgasmic shockwaves relaxed. Your deep purr indicated you were ready for more, so he’d catch under your knees and fold you in half, pounding your body at a different angle.

When it was time, he bore his teeth and groaned, burying his face in your neck, getting sloppy with his thrusts until the last two that were exceptionally deliberate, seeding white hot cum directly to the source, his slit ground mercilessly against your cervix, for a direct shot at emptying himself into your womb.

When all was said and done, you’d toss him a pillow and he’d kneel between your legs, pushing the pillow under you to keep your hips elevated. Hooking his arms under your thighs, he kissed all around your sensitive mound. Kissing inside your thighs, he could thumb your swollen lips apart and see how completely full he’d filled you, to the point of leaking, but neither of you minded. If it wasn’t too tender, he’d clean you up with his tongue before lying down with you again, closing your legs, and drawing both your knees up over his hip.

You assured him every time that the pain was hardly anything as you shuddered and clung onto his imposing frame. It was only the last couple of months that instead of giggling and demanding ice cream in bed after what you both agreed was the best sex anyone on the planet was having, you just wanted to be held.

“Shhh, shhh... I got you, sweetness,” he’d soothe, drawing up blankets, rubbing you all over. He’d tuck you into his chest, and you’d curl up even smaller, your soft little body trembling against his twitching muscle always felt amazing before. But not when it came with tears. You hid your face away when he asked what was wrong, but he felt the little puffs of held breath and silent tears falling into his chest hair.

Finally, finally, one night spent cradling you in his arms and kissing your tears away, he convinced you. And you didn’t just break your silence.

You shattered.

“Doc told me years ago... it isn’t... I’ll never have…babies of my own. My hormones are all wrong for it. She said shots, maybe IVF but… even conceiving… even if possible, it’d be…”

The worried lines around his eyes and across his forehead smoothed out as he stared at the blinking red light on the smoke detector above the bed. He stayed quiet, putting an arm behind his head.

“I hoped I would have found a better way to tell you all this before now.”

“You knew before we met?” His voice was uncomfortably calm. “Five years ago.”

“Yes, but I didn’t mean to—“

“Ya kept it from me. No indication whatsoever there were problems on the home front, though.”

“I hoped I wouldn’t ever have to say anything because we’d somehow be pregnant by now and—“

“Ya let me think everything was fine. Told me, “Come on home, soldier. Let’s try workin’ on that family again.’ And I did. Every tour. I came crawlin’ home to you.”

Sitting up against the headboard, he flicked on the bedside lamp and scratched his beard, eventually dropping his upturned hands on his thighs, displaying his defeat.

Even though you wore his shirt from the night before and he was naked, barely covered by the bedsheet, you felt entirely exposed. You wanted to dissolve into liquid and melt into the floor or shed your skin and slink into a nook and never come out again.

His wide eyes plead with you: ‘give me something substantial to grasp onto. Toss a rope and a damn good reason for all of the lies to a drowning man.’

There was only one reason, but you couldn’t bear saying it out loud. You couldn’t the entire time you knew him.

Slipping his hand behind your neck, he thumbed your chin up to look at him. “You thought I wouldn’t want ya if I knew, huh.”

Your bottom lip quivered but he didn’t let you collapse into yourself. Looking over your tense, teary, flushed features thoughtfully, he stayed silent. He had a way of looking still as a sheet of ice while a raging current boiled just underneath. That kind of stillness gave those under his command confidence because even amidst chaos, he made solid decisions. Ones that saved their lives, kept them out of harm's way.

In that moment, you felt no confidence. Sitting on your knees expectantly, you trembled all over. He moved his thumb down from your chin as he inhaled audibly, and furrowed his brow exhaling forcefully, wrapping his massive hand around your throat.

The moments waiting made your ears hot and the blood rush to your face. Tightness crept across your chest. You broke the silence first or you’d have lost your mind.

“You’re angry.”

He chuckled ruefully and went placid in an instant. “Angry. Mmm... Yes, that is one way to describe it, darlin’. Never more so, as a point of fact.”

Swallowing down tears, if he wouldn’t let you drop your head, at least you could close your eyes.

“No.” His calloused thumb stroked up and down the side of your neck. “No—no, you don’t get to do that. Not with me.”

“Please, Sy!” You burst, holding onto his wrist with both hands. “Please say something! I can’t take it!”

He sniffed and took his hand back, rubbing them together instead of touching you any longer. His broad shoulders lifted and dropped. “Not quite sure what to say.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He couldn’t look at you, not entirely, so he arched a brow and gave a sideways glance. His voice was rough and deep with more emotion than either of you anticipated. “I was uh… unapproachable?”

Lifting your head from your hands, it made your heart shred into a pulp seeing the lifted brows and pained expression tensing his features. “What?”

“Unapproachable,” he graveled, cursing the emotion that made him choke up. “Fuck. I know I can be direct. I been tryin’ real hard to be gentle with you. Did I give the impression you couldn’t, ya know, tell me things?”

“No, of course not, Sy. I tell you everything.”

His smoldering ember pile only needed a breath of fresh air before it came roaring to life, consuming these new logs you’d placed on top.

“Gotdamn it. You knew this was important to me. The way you carried on, let me believe we had a life together. A future. With our family. Do I even know you?”

Smoke from the fire burning inside him made your eyes sting and water.

“Please, stop it, Sy,” you pleaded, pulling away from his grasp. “Please!”

The flames of anger - or was it hate - turned his pupils dark and made him somehow appear even larger with each deep breath.

“How do I know where the lies stop and you begin?”

Embers of his rage floated in the air and easily took to you like the driest kindling. You exploded unlike you never had before. Fists balled and panting, you squared your shoulders up and shifted your weight.

“You know what? Fine. Here’s the truth: I was barely 18 when the doctor looked at me and said, ‘consider adoption’. I wasn’t even thinking about kids then, only why I had cramps every month but no period.

“We’ve tried correcting hormones for years with so little success I’ve felt like a goddamn science project while my friends moved on, grew up, got married, raised families. Do you know how devastating it is to slog through one of those baby showers? Everyone is so warm and happy, celebrating new life and how their bodies produce something amazing.

“Meanwhile, all I can think about is how if I were to conceive by some fucking miracle, the chances of miscarriage are so high, it’d make more sense to plan some kind of memorial for a child I’ll never meet instead of a cute little fucking baby shower.

“And it’s the one thing you asked of me! What kind of a woman am I that I can’t give you the one thing you wanted?! A broken one. With a broken womb. So yeah, be upset with me. Hate me, Sy. But I promise you’re never gonna catch up. I’ve got years’ worth of a head start hating myself.”

Eyes bleary and completely heartbroken now that he knew your secret, your head dropped and you held it in pain from the headache that exploded from the tension.

You didn’t wait even thirty seconds before he nudged your head back up again with his knuckle. Your chest ached so badly from barely containing the sobbing. The moment you saw his arms were already open waiting for you to fall into, you gasped and let the tears come.

You leaned in an inch and he scooped you up the rest of the way. Helping you settle into his lap, thighs spread over his, he cradled you tenderly to his bare chest, wrapping you up in his entire upper body. Burying your face into his neck, you mewled his name softly when his lips pressed behind your ear.

“Sy, I—“

“Shh shh shh…” his baritone was so deep, you could feel and hear it as he dropped his head low to speak close like it was your own secret space to be alone together. “I’m sorry, sweetness. I know, babygirl, I know. Shh shh…”

Rubbing circles over your back, he gave you time to release through deep sobs some of that suffering you’d been dragging with you.

“I’m disappointed, shh—disappointed we can’t have our own, ‘course. But I think I’m more disappointed that you been upset this whole time over somethin’ we coulda sorted out together. Years ago. Babydoll, it breaks my heart to think of you bein’ this sad. Makes it a hundred times worse if you were upset ‘bout lettin’ me down. And you usin’ that ‘hate’ word in the same breath to describe the love of my life… Geez babygirl, that tears my heart right out my chest.”

Tears streaked down your cheeks. You pressed your palms against his hard as rock chest while he encircled you in his long reach. Tears rimmed his blue eyes as you wordlessly attempted to work out if he planned to let go or hold onto you. Eventually, you collapsed into him, exhausted.

“Look at me, Sweetheart. It’s important. What? Louder. Deep breath and one more time? Oh. No, I know it’s gonna make you cry more but imma make it better, I promise. Lemme see my girl. There she is.”

You sniffled and rubbed your eyes with the back of your hand. Your lips and eyes felt swollen from crying, and your hair was a mess, but he smiled in his soft blue eyes and stroked it back.

“Kids, no kids, doesn’t matter. I wanted you. Ask Parker or any other CO I work with. That very first night I saw you I said, “Imma marry that girl,” and here we are. But since we are married, I wanna know the things goin’ on inside ya. Not just ‘how ya feelin’, are ya hungry, are ya horny’ type stuff.”

You scoffed, kissing his cheek softly. He squeezed your hips tightly, lifting you closer, up higher on his pelvis, angling slightly back onto the pillows. He didn’t want you to get the wrong idea, but your heat, wiggling in his lap, and that you were starting to let go of some things inexplicably made the blood rush to his groin. You’d feel it in a second if he didn’t adjust your seating situation and lie back with you a bit.

“You’re not ‘broken’, sweets. And I don’t ever want to hear ya talkin’ ‘bout my girl like ‘at. You’re all woman, an’ the only one for me. You locked that right down in that pretty blue dress down on the pier years ago. Was it yellow? Nah. Really? With the little red… Huh. Color blind or not, this heart ain’t even mine no more so best be lookin’ after it. Yeah, you can cry now. Come here, babygirl. Daddy’s got you.”

When most of the tears were shed, he thumbed the dimples right above your panty line, just under the back of his lifted shirt you wore. Soothed very nearly to sleep, your fingers wound their way through his hair. He sighed letting his head fall back into your hands; he always loved when you scritched him like a puppy. Wrapping both hands behind your thighs, he held you in place, pressed to him and straightened up his neck when he really enjoyed what you were doing to him.

“Right there?” you cooed softly, raking your nails through his hair, down to the nape of his neck.

“Mmph,” he grunted affirmatively, tipping his chin down. He found one button on the shirt you wore straining against the fabric, exposing your bare skin right in front of his face. So he nuzzled into it. The unexpected tickle of his beard when he kissed inside made you gasp and arch back.

“Hey!” you squeaked and a mischievous smirk flashed across his face. He looped a finger inside his red flannel, releasing the fabric right below your belly button.

His eyes flashed up at you again as he pressed his mouth to your belly, swirling his thumbs in circles over your hips when he slid them inside the oversized flannel draped loosely on your body.

You closed your eyes, curling your fingers in his hair, and listened to the sound of the deliberate, wet kisses he placed from one hip to the other.

Hugging just under the curve of your behind, he ran his scratchy beard against your sensitive skin, but you still cradled the back of his head to you just the same. Finally kissing down to the apex of your sex, using his tongue to moisten the spot first, he placed a slow, suckling kiss that made your clit pulse and hips jerk involuntary.

“Sorry,” you mewled, pawing his hair. His jaw tensed and head lifted just slightly when your body responded so abruptly.

He nuzzled your skin and arched a brow up at you. “Don't be sorry, babygirl. Are you gonna let Daddy make ya feel good?”

A darkness fell across your features hearing that particular pet name for him. You tugged the shirt together.

“I don’t think I can do this, Sy. It’d be the first time not trying for... I can’t think about the… the emptiness. Feels like I’m giving something away too soon.”

“Hmm,” he hummed thoughtfully, collecting your hand from his shoulder. “Tell me what you need and I’ll get it for you.”

“Time… I guess. And you. Fuck, Sy. I must sound crazy. The way I’m talking, it’s like somebody died.

Here I am going on when you’ve actually witnessed people die.

I don’t want to diminish what you’ve been through with my nonsense.

Of course we need to do this.

We need to do this.

I want this.

I need you.

I need us.

I need this.

Fuck me, Captain.

Fuck me senseless.”

You made quick work shrugging out of his shirt and wrapped both arms around his thick neck. Fisting the mattress, he shouldered your ribs so quickly, it knocked you right off balance and onto his arm. Gripping under one of your thighs, he used that massive upper body strength of his to lie you back gently onto the mattress, holding your whole body up with just one arm.

As he eased you down onto your back, you went quiet and he leaned on his elbow to look down over you.

You stared up at the red blinking light on the smoke detector a long time while he pressed his large forearm down against your chest, between your breasts, and spread his palm over your sternum, attempting to give you an anchor point. Your arms laid limp, one above your head, one at your side, almost like you were having a nightmare except wide awake.

He’d seen that vacant look in the eyes of fresh infantry grunts after their first real battle and brush with death. But he never thought he expected to see it stateside, in the eyes of his wife.

Doing what felt natural to do, after all he was trained for it, he dropped his voice and redirected your attention.

“Eyes on me, darlin’. I know you’re feelin’ pretty rough inside. Grief is grief however it comes. Yeah, it’ll take time. But that’s why you’ve got your Unit to fall back on. Unit of two, you an’ me. Makes us a pretty elite team. I’ll do some of the heavy lifting for ya now that I know what we’re working with. I need ya to stay with me though, yeah?”

“Unit of two. I like it. Will you ever… Oh Sy, will you ever touch me like that again?”

He frowned, wrinkles lining his forehead. “Sweets, hell nor high water gonna keep me from lovin’ on you.”

*

Three months later, you returned home from a walk with the new puppy to find Sy standing in the front lawn, one hand on his hip and the other waving at the delivery truck to keep backing up.

“More wood?” you called from across the street over the roar of the diesel truck lift dropping green treated lumber along the side of the house. While your husband signed off on the delivery, you crossed to meet him in the grass with the puppy under your arm.

Looping a sweaty arm around you, he pulled you in by the hip and kissed the crown of your head.

“Thank ya, sir. See ya’ next Saturday,” Sy smiled behind his reflective sunglasses, shaking the driver’s hand.

“Next Saturday?” you repeated, glancing over your shoulder at the new pile of lumber that had been dwindling as he completed projects. Or at least it was. “I thought the treehouse was done, my love.”

“Oh, it is. Come have a look see.” He dwarfed your hand in his, taking you to the sprawling backyard. His truck was parked at an angle on the lawn with his tools laid out in the back and sketches drawn all over sheets on the hood.

Leaning in with his hip, he showed you his drawings, motioning with his hands as to where they should be or already were in the yard.

“Swing set? Done. Slides over there? Done. High and low bars - also done. Rope bridge, climbing apparatus, bouncer thing, treehouse, done.”

Tilting your face, you bumped your head against his chest appreciatively and he smirked. “I want to build out chairs that flip down on the deck. Not sure on the height is all. I don’t suppose you have any input?”

“All the social worker has said is to plan on three siblings from upstate. Two boys and a girl, between the ages of 5 and 10. Sorry I don’t have any help as far as height goes. I think we are more than ready for the little ones next week, Sy. Why don’t you come inside and cool down with me?”

Scratching the back of his neck, he glanced over his shoulder at the freshly installed fence blocking the neighbors’ view. “Better idea, babygirl. How ‘bout we give those swings a try first. Should hold both our weight, I reckon.”

Arching a brow, you folded your arms across your chest, pretending to be annoyed. “Oh, you ‘reckon,’ hm?” you repeated, patting his sweaty chest through his tank top. “Bear, we already have a sex swing upstairs.”

“Yeahhhhh...” he drawled, giving you his most sly smirk, “but this one is outdoors.”

“Captain! I can’t believe you!” you gasped, touching your imaginary pearls before pushing off the wall of muscle your husband provided when he folded his arms across his chest, launching yourself into a dead sprint across the grass toward the swing set. “Ladies first!!”

He chuckled, and jogged behind. “’Course, babygirl.”

~

Masterlist

[muresetivoire]

Moony × Reader

Word count: 3577 words

Genre/Warnings: Fluff/Angst

If you want you can check out some more on wattpad (:

As I ran along the corridor, late for class, I bumped into someone with a loud ouch. "I'm so sorry" "Hey its no problem, let me help you," a soft voice responded. As I reached for my potions home work, a hand brushed mine. Remus John Lupin, my rival. The only person who's intelligence rivaled mine. The person who makes my life living hell. The sweetest gum-drop to everyone, loved by all. However, I'm not "all."

"Y/N?" he asked, looking at you with those big brown eyes. "I'm fine Lupin," I respond as I grab my book from his hand. "At least let me-" "I said I'm fine." He slowly gets up, and offers me a hand. I huff and shove it as I stand. "You know I was only trying to help y-" "I'll see you in class Lupin," and with that I storm off, leaving a very confused boy.

Now you're probably wondering, what makes one hate Remus Lupin, the sweetest guy, the glory of the marauders. Well let me tell you, not much.

My mother and his were the very best of friends, there by, we became best friends. Every holiday, every weekend, every opportunity we got, we were at the Lupins. Remus and I grew close. He shared his love for reading with me, a love I always had but never felt so confidence to share with him. From fantasy to romance, I read it all, but I never shared it with him. The vulnerability I felt knowing he'd see what I enjoyed, what I loved, what I wanted, it was too much. His mum told my mum about his "illness." He thought himself a freak, a monster. He would cry about it, the pain he felt, the embarrassment of scars. To me, he was all but an angel sent from heaven, beautiful and pure.

Before we began Hogwarts, we made a promise to never leave each other's sides, to remain best of friends, no matter the houses or the circumstances. As it turned out, we weren't sorted in the same house. Everyone was shocked knowing that studious Remus was sorted in Gryffindor while me, odd-ball and awkward, was sorted in Ravenclaw. At first we were both shocked, but we kept the promise.

Until one faithful day.

Now while I never shared my love for reading with him, I did share everything else. My love for baking, knitting and potions, you name it, he knew. We shared our darkest secrets with each other. He shared his insecurities about his scars, and me my insecurity about being "fat." We made plans to open a book/tea shop, he would supply the books and I the tea, obviously. He knew everything about me, except for my reading and I knew everything about him. And for that, I loved him, but he never loved me.

In the beginning of the first year in Hogwarts, in the middle of a potions class, we were presented with amortentia. Why we were presented with such a complex potion at such a young age, I couldn't tell you. Perhaps Professor Slughorn was feeling cheeky. I smelt him in it. I smelt the soft worn out pages of the books that he read, I smelt the roses he always grew, his chocolate he always carried and something entirely him. After class, we met at the lake, our place where we'd meet and study. As I approached him, he seemed really tired, as usual, and something I thought I never imagined he would posses, anger, raw and bitter anger.

"Hey Rem, you alright?" He turned to me with puffy eyes and tear stained cheeks. "Rem oh Gods, whats wrong?" I rushed towards him and slowly wiped his tears away. "Talk to me, please," I asked softly while I wiped all evidence of tears. He looked up at me, those beautiful kind eyes, eyes that held so much emotion but always the best ones. "I don't want to talk about it," he said batting my hands away. I awkwardly fixed my glasses, "Okay well whenever you're ready, you want to start studying for our potions exam?" I began to unpack my bag when he got up, fuming. "You know what, yeah I do want to talk about it" I sat up, completely confused. "Remus?" "Y/N how is it, the one person, the one person who hates reading, detests it, passes every exam without fail? And not just passes, but tops every class. How?"

I sat there gaping, "Well I-" "Don't lie to me, don't you dare." I stood up, a feeling of anger consuming me. "What do you mean Remus? I study just like you, just like everyone." He grunted and groaned, "Stop lying to me," he screamed, "I read everyday, I study all the time, and yet you, you get all the awards, all the academic glory" I feel myself begin to heat up and tears begin to form, tears I begged not to fall. "What do you want me to say Remus? That I cheat? That- That I use spells to make me remember? Is that what you want to hear?" He stares at me, his gaze hardening. "I'll give you one chance, and one chance only, tell me the truth." I step back, gaping, confused. "I already told you Remus, I do the same as you, I study." He looks to me and says in a tone I never believed he could conjure, "Fine, if that's what you want to tell me, don't talk to me at all." "Remus you can't be serious." The tears I tried my best to hold, began to spill furiously as his words made me crumble. "Y/N, I don't ever want to talk to you, I don't want to see you, I don't want to study with you and I sure as hell-" "I smelt you in the amortentia today," I blurt surprising myself. "You what?" "I smelt you, the chocolate, the roses, your books," I say sniffling. He laughs, a cruel sarcastic laugh, "Oh really? Me? You must be joking?" I stare at him, confused and hurt. "You think I'd ever smell you, or like you. Y/N you're bloody lying to me, I could never like, or for that matter, love someone as hideous as you." My eyes begin to gush now. How dare he? The one person I trusted, my best friend. "Remus you don't-" "Oh but I do," he said while he picked up his bag and looked at me. "What about our plans?" He looks to the school, "I could never work with someone like you Y/N, I've never disliked someone as much I dislike you now." He begins to walk to the school, "Remus wait I-" "Leave me alone forever Y/N, and don't come here anymore, I have other plans here, plans that don't include you." With that, he walked away, leaving me, my tears streaming, my glasses foggy and my heart broken.

So you see, I never really hated him, but I obliged to his wishes. We never met again, he hung out with his friends, James and Sirius and Peter. As for me, I hung out with the first person I spoke to in Hogwarts, Andromeda Black. Now, Andromeda and I are two very different people, but we shared a love for potions . She knew of my love for reading, she saw me reading on my first night at Hogwarts. We became quick friends, and she soon became my best friend. She's like a sister to me, but I never did tell her about Remus.

After I left Remus on the corridor, I ran and met Andromeda in potions. "Hi dearie, saved me a seat?" She laughs and moves her bag. "Students, please note, today we will be brewing potions in pairs," the class sighs, "pairs that have already been chosen." I sigh loudly. "Cmon its not that bad, you could be paired with that cute Hufflepuff guy." We laugh softly. Remus and another guy run in and swiftly sit down. Professor Slughorn begins to call the list of pairs. "Andromeda Black and Xenophilus Lovegood," with that Andromeda groans and gets up. "Y/N Y/L/N and Remus Lupin," and my mouth fell open.

Remus came to my seat and we began to collect and prepare the potion. No one knew the potions name, only its ingredients. However, these ingredients seemed familiar but it never clicked. I felt his eyes stare through me. From the first year to the fifth year, my body didn't really change, I still remained a "fat girl" but hey I grew some boobs. Does he still think I'm hideous, I thought. I shake my head and we work in silence. "So how are you Y/N" he asks softly. Those beautiful innocent eyes stare right through me. Nope, not happening. "I'm fine Lupin" "Quite the tumble you took today, I-" "Let's just finish this okay?" He shakes his head and we work in silence. He seemed, nervous? Sad? Distressed was the word. After finishing the potion, we all gathered at the front. Dread began dawn on me as I fit the puzzle pieces together. "Now, who can tell me the name of this potion hmm?" "Amortentia , sir," I say in a soft voice.

"And Y/N can you tell me what happens when you smell this potion?" "You smell things that you like sir," I answer shakily. "Very good Miss Y/L/N, please, do us the honours of smelling the potion first." Dread fills me, but I still walk towards his desk. Please, I silently beg, please. "Well Y/N what do you smell?" I inhale the the aroma. "I smell- I," I gulp, "I smell roses, chocolate a-and books." Professor Slughorn applauded and awarded Ravenclaw 20 points and I return to my original place. I feel his eyes on me, but I only feel pain. After four years, how can I? As class is dismissed I begin to rush outside, but he grabs my hand. "Y/N please wa-" "Let go of me Lupin" "Y/N, please I-" "Lupin let go of me," I hear my voice break with emotion. He hears it too and let's me go.

Later that evening, at the brink of dusk, I sit in my room reading. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, a favourite of mine, and one of Remus' too. I sighed and stared out the window. Its been four years Y/N, pull yourself together. Those four years were one of the most brutal years. Thank goodness for Andromeda, without her I'd be so lost and defeated. After that day where Remus and I fought, he moved on well, he was constantly surrounded by his friends and well I, I was alone. I spent my time helping Madam Pomfrey. I learnt how to conjure spells to fix injuries and how to fix bones and so on. Although Remus and I stopped speaking, I never told anyone about his "illness," but I did help make the potion to control it, Madam Pomfrey taught me how to. He didn't know this either, not that he'd care or want to talk to me or- Pull yourself together Y/N, he forgot about you, he kept his promise and you did too. I sighed and began to turn in for the night, my mind racing.

To say I avoided Remus for the next week was an understatement, I ran from him. I spotted him the corridor, I ran the other way. Saw him in class? Sat away from him. Saw him in the library or lake? I'd be gone before he could say quiditch. It hurt, but I needed to do it, our last conversation played in my head over and over again. I couldn't bear his venom again, but I missed him, but could I manage without him? Hell yes.

On the Sunday that week, I walked down the stair well of my common room, wearing a fluffy sweater and cozy joggers. It was exactly midnight and I'd gone avoiding Remus perfectly. The heavy monsoon of October interrupted my sleep, but otherwise the school was sound. I crept down and checked for anyone. No one, lovely. Now I know what you're thinking, Y/N what on earth are you doing? Its bloody midnight. Well, I'll tell you. I was going to read. Due to my hectic schedule and lack of free periods, I spent most of the day working. But at night, it was the only time I read. I grabbed my wand and made my way to the library, my footsteps muffled by the pitter patter of the rain.

As I reached the library, I sighed in relief. No hiccups on the way, thankfully. However, the scent of chocolate lingered in the air. I tensed but brushed it aside, he was here today Y/N, I said to myself. I shook my head and began to search for a new book. I gently tapped my wand against a lantern and held it. Tonight was a mellow night, I wanted some excitement, a bit of comfort. I sighed, laughing to myself as I grabbed Pride and Prejudice from the bookshelf. I made my way to my reading nook, a cozy little spot, very hard to find, between the ends of the furthest bookshelves. As I read, my eyes became droopy. Five minute won't kill me, I convinced myself. As my eyes grew heavy and began to shut, a loud crash jolted me awake.

Who on this bloody earth would be in the library at this hour, I thought to myself. I extinguished the lantern and hid between two bookshelves. I held my breath and counted silently as I heard footsteps approaching. I exhaled slowly as I heard them fade away slowly. I stood up and sighed, picking my book from the ground, making my way back to my nook. Or I would have, if it weren't for the hand that grabbed me.

I spun around and was promptly shoved against the bookshelf, a warm lean body pressing into my cold soft one. They covered my mouth but I saw no hand, their other hand trapping my hands above my head. They slowly removed their hand from my mouth, and removed their cloak. The warmest brown eyes, eyes filled with emotions I've only read about, met mine. "Remus," I exhaled in a mix of shock, hurt and relief.

He stared at me, those big thoughtful eyes watching my every move. He took his hand and fixed my glasses that slipped down. "Hi Y/N," he said softly. My heart caught in my chest and my throat felt thick with emotions. "Let go of me Lupin," despite me being a larger girl, Remus was still stronger, by a lot. "Cmon Lupin, let me go, I'll leave and you can have your private time," I begged looking into those beautiful hazel eyes. "If I let go," he whispered softly, his breath tickling my ear, as he leaned in,"will you let me talk for a minute?" My heart hammered, "Yes." He slowly let go of my hands and stepped back. I sighed with relief, and then shoved him and ran.

I ran out the library, down the hall. I heard him calling my name but my tears that streamed my face answered why I couldn't stay. After four years, I never did stop loving my- the big goof. I reached the end of the corridor and ran onto the lawn, a stitch forming in my right side. I gasped as I felt myself begin to freeze in the cold rainy night. Bloody twit used a hex on me. He approached me with a vigor and I stared at him, tears streaming, and my heart hurting.

"What the hell Remus, let me go," I gritted as I tried to move. He took my wand away and held it. "Look, I just want to talk, I'll let you go but please, please listen to me," he pleaded. How could I ever say no to that beautiful boy? I nodded as best as I could and he unfroze me, my wand still in his hand.

I stared at him, my tears flowing in torrents, just like the rain, "What do you want Remus? I did as you asked, I left you alone," I shout over the boom of thunder. He looks at me and I saw tears flowing down his face too, "Tell me the truth Y/N" "Remus I di-" "No Y/N, tell me why you wake up every night, why you sneak off to the library every night." "I-Remus b-" "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, his voice cracking, "You made everyone believe you were uninterested, bored by reading. You lied to me," I sobbed. "I didn't want you to-" "To what Y/N to judge you?" he stepped closer to me as the rain and soaked our clothes. "To what, think you a nerd? Like me?" "No I-" "Y/N is that really what you think of me, well than-" "I lied because I couldn't let myself be vulnerable around you," I say as I sob looking away, "Remus, I- I didn't want you to see what I liked or what makes me cry, or angry or happy," I sniff as thunder booms, making us both jump. "Then why did you tell Andromeda?" I gape at him, "Yeah why?" I felt my anger build up, "She found me reading one day Lupin, I don't have to explain myself to you," I huffed as I began to walk away. "I smelt you, in the amortentia," he admitted, his voice thick with emotion.

"In our first year, I smelt you," he said, stepping closer to me,"I smelt green apples, like your perfume, cookies, like what we baked, and books. Books." I stand staring at him but he continued. "I smelt you but you never told me about how you read, why you'd come to class tired, or why you stayed up all night. I thought you trust me Y/N" "I did Remus and I do," I cried, "I just couldn't afford to be vulnerable around you." "Wh-" "Because I love you Remus," he stared his mouth ajar, "I've always loved you Remus, I love that you trust me, that you showed me everything, your likes, dislikes, loves, hates, the good and bad." The thunder boomed but I continued, "I didn't tell you because I was scared Remus, it felt like sharing a piece of my heart with you, and I didn't know if I wanted to share so much, knowing that you didn't love me." I sob miserably as tears flow slowly down his cheeks.

"I'm sorry Y/N, I never meant to hurt you," he cried stepping closer to me,"I know what I said that day, and I've never forgiven myself for it," he said as be wiped his eyes, the thunder rolling. "I'm sorry and I know I hurt you, I thought you hated me," "Remus I-" "I thought you hated me and preferred Andromeda to me." "Rem, you were my best friend, and I loved- I still love you," I admit, defeated, "I didn't want to show you everything, I didn't want you to hate me." He holds my hands and intertwined our fingers, "How could I hate you when you're my love?" he asked, as he crashed his lips to mine.

My eyes widened but I slowly melted into his embrace. He dropped my hands and pulled me in gasping softly. His hands wrapped around my waist and mine, tangled in his chocolate locks. I never felt such passion, such emotion, emotions I only read about. I felt tingling sensations stretch across my body but his touch soon soothed it. He pulled away slowly, both of us gasping for air. "I've always loved you Y/N," he said as he pulled me close, his hands wrapped around my waist,"I'm sorry I hurt you, I'm so-," I silence him kissing him softly, "It's okay Rem, I would have probably gotten mad too," I said sniffling. He chuckled stroking the small of my back. "Well, I think of a way I can make it up to you." "Oh?" I sniffle as I look at my beautiful boy. "Y/N, you are the love of my life, I love, love, love you," he holds my chin and and makes me look up at him. Raindrops and tears mixed and fell down both of our faces. "Be my girlfriend, and maybe one day-maybe one-," I kiss him and he sighs, relieved. "Yes Rem, I'll be your girlfriend."

He hugs me and kisses my forehead. We hold hands and walk in the rain, talking and laughing. "So how on earth did you know that I read in the night?" I ask him. He laughs and pulls us into the corridor, sopping. He shows me the marauders map and explains it. "I'm sorry I spied on you," he apologised blushing. He held my hand and led me back to my common room. When we reached, I turned to him. "Thank you for the walk Rem, I'll see you in class today?" He smiles his signature gorgeous grin, "How about we skip today?" I laugh and I kiss him, "Whatever you want Rem, Whatever you want."

[waywardwrestlewritingwaif]

Whisky Secrets (sequel)

Here's something different. Before I ever thought about posting fanfic here, I used to write things inspired by fanfic I found by some of the incredible writers I found on tumblr. I've never posted any of them but I've really felt like writing something for Aleister Black/ Tommy End lately.

So I reached out to one of my original favourites on this site, @ghostofviperwrites and asked her if she'd mind if I published this sequel I wrote to her story Whisky Secrets. She gave me the ok (for which I thank her very much).

You absolutely have to read her piece first or this won't make any sense. It picks up literally at the point where hers leaves off and the entire premise is based on what she wrote. I think this goes in a very different direction than what she had in mind, though.

Since this is an old story, some of the characters are very different than they are now. It was set at around the time I wrote it. Based on events in the story, it's pretty clear when that was.

It's a bit dated but I hope you enjoy.

Pairing: Aleister Black x OFC (hints of Roman Reigns x OFC)

Word count: 7,031

Content advisory: graphic sexual content, language, incidental roughness that some might find stressful

You rested on the sofa for too long, knowing that you had to get to work, that you were already behind on an assignment that was due that afternoon. As much as you desperately wanted to cling to the scent and the feeling of him being there with you and the idea that he might someday want to be there with you for longer, you knew that you were only wasting time by indulging in a fantasy. Once again, you reminded yourself, he saw you as a friend, a landing pad after he was finished his adventures. And so you dragged yourself to the computer and tried to focus.

It was a fluff piece you’d been hired to write: places for new residents of Orlando to meet people. You’d accepted it because the pay was good and it had seemed easy. But what the hell did you know about meeting people? You’d barely met anyone and the only ones that you’d call friends were the ones you met when you’d done an in-depth profile on the WWE and their development territory NXT. Of those, only Aleister had remained close and even then, you couldn’t say that the two of you had ever properly opened up to each other. Nevertheless, you’d stayed in touch with a number of them, occasionally meeting for coffee or drinks. None of this was in any way useful when it came to recommending locations to connect with strangers.

You’d tried to start the article the day before but now when you opened the file, you discovered that you’d only come up with a half a dozen corny titles and one word of text:

When?

The word was too painfully appropriate.

When were you going to run out of luck and be unable to find further work as a journalist?

When were you going to admit that what kept you here, rather than moving to another state and pursuing more secure work, was the fact that you were in love with a man who was only interested in your capacity as a friend and caregiver?

When was your hopeless love going to break you beyond repair?

Annoyed with yourself, you deleted the word and tried to start again. You could meet people at the gym classes that were ubiquitous in this city. You could meet people at get-togethers for shared hobbies like hiking or pottery or basically anything. No one had to meet people by getting thrown into their orbit and being unable to extricate themselves.

About half an hour into your resentful hammering on the keyboard, you were startled by your doorbell. For one sweet instant, you imagined that it was Aleister dropping by to pass some time with you. Then you realized that he never came to you without an invitation unless it was dead drunk in the middle of the night. Even when you invited him, it was only every fourth or fifth time that you asked that he agreed to come over and watch a movie or go for a walk in the nearby park. There was no way it was him at your door at eleven o’clock in the morning.

In fact, the person at your door was Bayley, chipper and warm as always, returning the spare laptop you’d lent her a few weeks before.

“Thank you so much,” she beamed, thrusting the computer into your hands. “You are a lifesaver. I’d have lost my goddamn mind if I hadn’t had this while mine was in the shop.”

“It was nothing,” you insist, smiling at her unconstrained warmth even though you didn’t feel very positive about your life at that moment. “Do you want to come in for a minute?”

She nodded cheerily and stepped across the foyer. You never really knew how you fit in with the women of WWE, even though you’d spoken to many of them in depth. Bayley stood out because she was determined to be your friend despite your introvert’s reluctance. And, indeed, she was irresistible. Much like her in-ring character, she cast sunshine wherever she went and her glow was contagious, even in your darkest and lowest moments.

You motioned her into the kitchen, offering her a choice of lemonade, iced tea or water. Her eyes immediately fell on the empty whiskey bottle you’d left on the counter, her expression growing more serious as she focused on it.

“Getting started early?” she cajoled.

“A friend left that here,” you replied guiltily.

She narrowed her dark eyes as she looked at you. Sweet and optimistic as she was, Bayley was not naïve. She knew exactly what friend had left the bottle behind and she knew how you felt about him.

“I’ll have a glass of lemonade,” she said, the smile slowly returning to her face.

You joined her and the two of you jokingly touched glasses before drinking.

“So, a few of us are getting together tonight,” she said hesitantly. “I thought you might like to join us.”

Your first instinct was to ask if Aleister would be there, but you thought better of it. Instead, you responded, “Well, I have an article I need to finish.”

Of course, your article was due by the end of the afternoon, which meant that your evening was free regardless, but part of you wanted to be at home in case Aleister came staggering over again.

Bayley’s jaw set in a determined expression you’d only seen from her in the ring. “We’re having a party for Roman, to celebrate him going into remission.”

Well now you felt like a bit of a bitch for making excuses and didn’t know what to say.

“It won’t just be wrestlers there. Some other journalists are even coming. And I know that it would mean a lot to him if you were there.”

When you’d done your article on the WWE, you’d interviewed Roman Reigns and he’d been incredibly generous with his time. He’d even contacted you after your interviews to confirm that you had all the detail you needed. He was the face of the company and had done everything possible to make sure that the company had provided what you required. He’d clearly wanted to make sure they’d left a good impression and you couldn’t help but be impressed by his PR skills. Although you knew it wasn’t true that it “would mean a lot to him”, you were touched by the idea that he remembered you and might like you to be there to celebrate his great news. At the same time… you needed to be there for Aleister.

“Look,” Bayley insisted, “I’m going to text you the details for the bar where we’ll be. It’s not a big deal, just a bunch of us getting together to be happy for our friend.”

There was no way that you could refuse that, so you shyly thanked her as she gulped the rest of her lemonade and made for the door.

“I’m serious,” she said as she departed. “You work so damn hard you deserve a night off. Finish what you’re doing and come have fun with us.”

As soon as she’d left, you once again sat down at your computer. Before you could return your attention to your work, however, you couldn’t resist checking Instagram.

Someone had tagged Aleister in a photo on Instagram.

Yes, you were that pathetic that you always checked.

With trepidation, you clicked the link to look at what was there. As it too often did, the notification came from an airbrushed-looking woman, her collagen-enhanced lips pressed against his. She looked arrogant and proud, while he looked smug and inebriated.

“Guess who I got to hang with last night?” the caption gloated.

You knew damn well what “hang” was a euphemism for. He never cared that the Barbie dolls he hooked up with advertised their conquest on social media. He was single and hot. Why should he care if people knew that he always scored with the sort of women other men lusted after? Why should he care that it ripped your heart to shreds every time you saw him with another woman so unlike you in every way?

The woman had posted a few other photos of the two of them together, embracing. Every part of her magazine-ready body was on display, save those parts that would have gotten her in trouble. Her artificially perfect breasts were spilling out of a tiny tube top while her endless legs were shown in their full glory between the edge of a skirt that likely required her to trim her pubic hair and the sky high heels that raised her enough to press her lips to his without having to stretch herself awkwardly. She was nothing like you, with your unkempt hair and loose, bohemian dresses, your comfortable ballet flats and blandly natural face. She had all the glamour that you lacked and he ate it up.

The images of the two of them cut into you like a laser and, for once, all you desired was to break free from the pain of feeling. A few minutes later, when Bayley sent the text she’d promised with the details of where you could find the party tonight, you immediately responded.

“I’ll be there. I promise.”

To hell with Aleister and the designer women he adored, you told yourself as you returned to your article with a vengeance. Tonight you were going to do whatever it took to break the spell he had cast over you.

*

It was just after nine when you found yourself teetering to the entrance of the bar where the party was taking place. It was marked only by a subtle sign, no words, just a stylized anchor, and it was hidden away on a tiny street that was hardly more than an alley. In your fit of pique, you’d finished your article two hours before your deadline and then, having examined the options in your closet and found them wanting, headed out and spent entirely too much money on a new dress that clung perfectly to your breasts before flaring out to highlight the movements of your body, while covering just the bare minimum to maintain decency. You’d also picked up a stylish pair of ankle boots with heels higher than you were used to and that posed a legitimate threat as you made your way down the roughly paved road to the speakeasy-style bar.

A little further down the alley, you see a couple leaning against a car, taking turns swigging from a liquor bottle. The woman is one of those glamorous animals that makes you so insecure, laughing in drunken delight in a way that only confident people can. In one quick movement the man spins her around and bends her over the hood of the car. He immediately takes out his cock, stroking it a couple of times before he thrusts into her, one hand on her back while the other holds the bottle that he continues drinking from. And it’s a moment before you realize that it’s Aleister, fucking away at a woman whose name he won’t remember in a few hours.

The sight makes you want to curl up and die, makes you want to say that you’ve made a mistake and run along home so you can bawl your eyes out while you wait for his inevitable drunken arrival. But, if nothing else, the damage that you’ve done to your credit card in order to make yourself look just a bit more sexy and edgy than usual, as well as the glasses of wine you had already consumed to fortify your courage, push you forward. This is a test. In order to pass, you need to be able to ignore the man whose indifference is killing you and enter the world of others, where someone who wasn’t up to the standards of the rarified model girls might be willing to give you a second look.

Aleister doesn’t even glance up as you enter the bar a few feet away from him, can’t feel the dark weight of your eyes on him or the force with which you tear them away as you step through the door.

As soon as you do, you are once again frozen with the idea that you’ve made a mistake. When Bayley characterized this as a “get-together”, you’d assumed it meant a group of people spread out around a few tables chatting away and toasting Roman’s health. Instead, what greets you is a basement club full of people with a dance floor alive with writhing bodies. You recognize a few journalists but for the most part, the space is taken up with every WWE and NXT star you’ve ever heard of. It’s a convention of beautiful people and you can’t help but feel dowdy even in your overpriced finery.

You slowly descend the stairs, fully intending to look around, say hello to a few familiar faces and then bolt for the exit, but you’re immediately greeted by a familiar voice that fairly shrieks. “Oh my god woman, just look at you!”

It’s Sasha Banks, standing at the edge of the stairs with Bayley, who gives you an exaggerated round of applause.

“Miranda, you look amazing,” Sasha continues breathlessly. “Seriously, you’re putting everyone to shame.”

You don’t feel like you’re putting anyone to shame, least of all Sasha in her body suit that hugs every curve of her perfect little hourglass, but you blush at the compliment.

“Come on,” Bayley gushes, “we need shots to celebrate your hotness!”

She pulls both of you through the crowd to the bar and somehow is able to get the bartender’s attention almost immediately, ordering two rounds of tequila shots because, she tells you and Sasha, there’s no point in getting just one round when you know you’re going back for seconds. The three of you toast and toss down the shots and then immediately do so again and you have to admit that you’re feeling the warm glow already. Sasha, apparently feeling something herself, wraps her arms around you and once again reassures you that you are devastatingly beautiful.

Another shot is thrust into your hand, this time by Dash Wilder, who’s arrived with his Revival partner Scott Dawson. Wilder has always been attractive to you, so you give him as radiant a smile as you can manage and you swear he blushes a little just before he downs his shot. Dawson is hugging Sasha and Bayley close to him, allowing Dash to edge a little closer to you and you’re feeling a little high on yourself when another voice cuts through your circle.

“Miranda? Holy fuck I can’t believe you’re here!”

Roman Reigns pushes right through the bodies close to the bar and grabs you firmly by the shoulders, his eyes gradually focusing on yours. He’s grinning with an intensity that clearly comes from his being a little past feeling no pain but it doesn’t hamper the thrill it gives you when he wraps his arms around you and nearly crushes you in a hug.

“I mean, shit, I don’t think I’ve even talked to you since you did that interview,” he pouts. “Thank you so much for coming.”

You smile as another shot is pushed into your hand, biting your lip self-consciously. You down about half the shot before Roman grabs it from you and finishes it, breaking up with laughter. He signals the bartender for another round, keeping an arm around your back until the tray of shots arrives. You’re all toasting each other and you wonder why you ever questioned yourself for coming here because this is exactly what you needed.

“Come dance with me,” Roman chuckles, grabbing your wrist and pulling you towards the dance floor. He’s clearly floating on a sea of drunken bliss, goofing around and happy to have someone to have fun with, someone he didn’t expect to be there. Even if you wanted to resist his offer, you couldn’t because, while he isn’t doing anything that might hurt you, his grip is strong enough and the rest of him powerful enough to compel you forward.

The two of you deliberately dance like complete nerds in high school, awkward movements and ironic posturing until you’re both laughing so hard you can barely stand. It’s then that you realize that you’ve become the focus of some attention; Roman goddamn Reigns, the face of the company, the locker room leader, the man who everyone has come to celebrate, is dancing with you. Most of the people here have no idea who you are but because you’re with Roman, you are somebody. Basking in the subtle attention and envy, you close your eyes and allow yourself to get lost in the music, swaying to the beat until you feel a large pair of hands on your hips.

You open your eyes to see Roman pulling you closer to him with a devilish grin before spinning you around and pulling your back against his massive chest. You continue to move but at a slower pace, your movements limited by how close he’s holding you and the sensual way in which his body moves against yours. Keeping one arm loosely around you, he lets his other hand fall against your thigh, lightly playing with the hem of your dress. It makes you gasp.

“You never responded to any of my texts,” he murmurs gruffly in your ear.

You remember at least half a dozen messages asking if he could clarify anything or if you needed any additional material for your article. You hadn’t needed anything else but you suddenly feel terribly rude for not answering.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, “you were very professional and I should have at least told you that I had what I needed.”

His voice drops even lower as he speaks. “I didn’t mean to be professional about them. And I was hoping that you didn’t have everything you needed.”

He pulls you up and firmly against him and for the first time you can feel his hardening cock through his pants. You can’t help but thrust your hips into him, barely able to process what’s happening to you. The two of you are still ostensibly dancing, although it’s more like a rhythmic grinding to the music as he reaches down and pulls the hem of your dress up, rubbing your thigh and then your ass as he presses his lips into your neck. His hands are everywhere on you and you’re aware that your entire lower body is basically on display for anyone who cares to look but you don’t care because it feels like you’ve won the lottery. You moan at the feeling of his growing excitement against your flesh, both his large hands grazing up the front of your thighs and for a moment you think that you’re ready to beg him to take you right there when you’re violently spun away from your dance partner, a bruising grip on your arm.

It’s Aleister, eyes incandescent with rage as he tells Roman, “I need to speak to her for a minute.”

Roman looks confused and tries to speak to you but Aleister drags you away and a gaggle of women immediately descend on Roman, desperate to take your place.

Aleister flings you against the wall, glaring at you with an intensity that you’ve never seen outside the ring.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growls.

“I was dancing before you interfered,” you snap back at him, rubbing your arm.

“Dancing?” he repeats with derision. “That’s what you call that?”

“I was having fun.”

“What the hell are you wearing?”

For the first time since you saw him with his woman of choice outside, you feel ridiculous, like a girl trying to look glamorous by donning her mother’s clothes.

“I wanted something a little different.”

“A little?” he hisses back. “Do you realize what you look like? You’re all tarted up and letting some guy grab at you and get you half naked in front of a bar full of people.”

“What I look like?”

“Everyone could see practically your whole goddamned body. They could see what you were letting him do to you.”

“You mean to say I look like a whore.”

Aleister crosses his arms and glances away, refusing to confirm what you’ve said.

“So what, Aleister? So what if I’m letting a man touch me and show me that he wants me? Who cares who else sees? Maybe that’s what I want!”

“Are you so stupid that you think he wants you for anything other than a one night stand?”

The accusation stabs at your heart and your confidence but you’re determined not to let him see that.

“Again, so what? Maybe I’m happy to have this big, gorgeous man want me. Maybe I’m fine bringing him back to my place for a few hours of fun because at least it means someone is thinking of me as a sexual being for a change.” You pause, knowing the danger of what you’re about to say but unable to stop yourself. “Maybe I’d be fine if he just took me outside and fucked me over the hood of a car.”

For a second, you think that Aleister is going to strangle you. The look on his face is like the moment before the sky erupts in thunder and lightning. Truthfully, you expect that he’ll turn on his heel and walk away from you and never come back, and perhaps that’s what you need him to do so that you can get over him.

Instead, he grabs you, pinning you to the side of his body and pulling you towards the door. His movements make you stumble, and the more you try to resist him, the more ungainly you look.

“She’s dead drunk,” you hear him assure a few people, “I’m going to make sure she gets home.”

And while it’s true that you are drunk, you’re not nearly as drunk as he’s making you out to be. The second he has you outside, you try to twist away from him and go back, only for him to wind you closer, pulling you off balance so that you look even more inebriated.

You hear him whisper to Seth Rollins, who’s observing the spectacle through the corner of his eyes. “Look, tell Roman that she’s falling down drunk and I just had to get her home. No disrespect meant.”

Seth has a confused expression on his face but nods and tells him, “Sure thing.”

Realizing what Aleister is doing, you once again try to rush past him, but he blocks you, gripping your arm and pulling you after him so that you really do appear pathetically unable to take care of yourself.

“Why the fuck are you doing this to me?” you shout at him, figuring that there’s no reason to worry about who might hear you, there being no further you can sink in their estimation. “Why can’t you just let me enjoy myself?”

“Jesus, Miranda, you’re loaded. You can barely stand up.” He emphasizes this by jerking your arm forward, which almost causes you to keel over onto your face. “You’re just embarrassing yourself.”

“No,” you insist, pulling yourself to a halt. “I knew what I was doing. I knew what I wanted. Sure I’m a bit tipsy but-“

“You don’t want that,” Alesiter snaps, threading his arm through yours and continuing down the street. “You don’t just want to whore yourself out for a night because you think it might help your self-esteem.”

“You don’t get to decide what I want, Aleister.” You’re crushed against his side and he’s moving so quickly that your feet only graze the ground every third or fourth step. “Let me go. I’m sick of playing the surrogate mother for someone who’s incapable of seeing me as a real woman. I want to go back there. I want to have someone make a show of wanting me. I want to get fucked so hard I can’t walk tomorrow.”

Aleister shakes his head like a parent frustrated with a misbehaving child. “Stop it. You’re being ridiculous.”

“So let me be ridiculous!” you yell back, trying unsuccessfully to extricate yourself from his grip. “What the hell is it to you? Are you worried that for once I’m not going to be there when you need a place to collapse at four in the morning?”

The two of you reach the corner where the alley meets the street and he swings you to face him, glowering at you with a terrifying expression, gripping your biceps so hard you know you’ll be bruised in the morning. He says nothing but stares at you until he whips his arm out and hails a taxi seemingly out of nowhere.

He launches you, there’s no other word for it, into the back seat of the car and snarls your address to the driver as your tears start to fall. The cabbie is noticeably uncomfortable with your quiet whimpering and seems confused by the fact that Aleister does nothing to comfort or engage you. He sits with his arms folded, scowling, until you arrive at your building. Reflexively, you reach for your purse only to have Aleister swat your hand away and pay the driver himself. You try to keep pace as he yanks you towards the door, but stumble because of your unsure footing in these strange heels and because your vision is glazed by the tears you’re fighting to hold in.

When Aleister pins you against the door and rummages through your purse to find your keys, it somehow feels more invasive than Roman gripping your ass for an entire bar full of people to see. You feel, for a moment, that he is looking at you with tenderness. But when the door opens, he simply guides you through it. As you hear it click shut, the last of your strength, physical and emotional, gives out and you drop to your knees, finally allowing the tears to fall. It’s a full-on ugly cry, punctuated by guttural, anguished sounds you’d never allow anyone else to hear. Despite everything, you desperately want to hear the door open again behind you and to hear him say that he’s realized he loves you.

But no, in the end, he’s just found it gross that the woman he sees as his caregiver might have another side. He found you pathetic in your overpriced dress and shoes. He knew that you were desperately trying to act like something you could never be: like someone who could compete with the perfected Instagram beauties he fucks every night. You could never be that. He knew that you were just a sad little woman decked out in a gaudy outfit. You’d never be that sexy, desirable person who stopped men dead in their tracks, no matter what your dance with Roman had temporarily led you to believe.

You’re on your knees for what seems like hours, choking on tears and snot and trying to restrain yourself from howling. Just as the sound overpowers you and a low wail escapes your lips, you’re startled by a pair of arms, familiar, tattooed arms wrapping around your waist from behind.

“Shh. There’s no need for any of that,” he grunts into your hair.

And while you’re shocked and thrilled that he actually stayed behind to make sure that you were ok, it’s also even more humiliating that he’s seen you fall apart so spectacularly. Your body feels limp with defeat and unable to react at all as he gathers you up and carries you into your bedroom, setting you gently on the edge of the bed. He rests his hand on yours for a moment and you’re able to stem the flow of tears until he stands up and heads back towards the door. This time, you’re determined to hold in the worst of your misery until you’re sure he’s gone, even though you can’t stop the tears from running down your face.

But after a few minutes of straining to hear the door close, you see Aleister return, a damp washcloth in hand, and he sits once again beside you on the edge of the bed. He presses the cloth, cool and soothing, against your cheeks and then holds your chin as he delicately wipes it across your face. It takes you some minutes to realize that he’s removing your smeared makeup, cleaning you off so that you look good as new, so that you look more like the plain girl who lets him into her home in the middle of the night, his touch filled with a tenderness that you never imagined him capable of. When he’s satisfied with his work, he tosses the cloth aside and wraps an arm around you, pulling you close against him. The sweetness of his friendly gesture makes you want to cry all over again but you choke it back, knowing that you’ll have plenty of time for that when he’s gone.

“Can I stay here tonight?” he whispers, the sound of his voice making you feel weak.

You nod and roughly pull back from him, unsure of your ability to stop yourself from throwing yourself at him and begging him to wreck you. You fumble with the zipper of your boots until Aleister slides off the bed and onto his knees and removes it for you. He glides his hand along your calf, up to your thigh and then moves to your other boot. As he slides it off, he presses his head against the side of your knee, giving the skin a light kiss before rocking back on his haunches. You know he’s being gentle with you because he feels sorry for you. He finds you pitiful, which is even worse than finding you asexual.

The feelings are too much for you to take and all you can think of is that you want to get into bed where you’ll be safe and where you can sleep off the nightmare your evening out has become. You clumsily shed your dress, stockings, bra and panties without thinking much of the fact that you have an audience. Why should it bother him seeing you naked, after all? Normally, you put on some nightclothes but you don’t even have the strength to bother. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see that Aleister has turned his head towards the door. He’s embarrassed for you, the way you would be if a parent or sibling was undressing around you.

You crawl under the covers with a grumbled “good night” and immediately start to feel yourself drift off. You’re jolted back to wakefulness when Aleister climbs in beside you. In all the time you’ve known him, as many nights as he’s come and collapsed on your sofa, you don’t think he’s ever seen your bedroom. Now, having seen it, he’s apparently happy not to leave it, indulging in the comfort of your bed without even asking permission. It makes you a little self-conscious that you’re nude but it’s hardly the most humiliating thing to happen to you tonight, so you let yourself ignore it. If you can just fall asleep, this night will be over and you can begin the process of trying to forget it.

It’s only a matter of seconds, though, until you feel his body pressed against yours from behind, one hand coming to rest flat on your stomach and pushing you back against him so that you are acutely aware that you are not the only person naked in the bed. The hand on your stomach flutters downward until his fingers are moving lightly over your pussy, like he’s plucking the strings of a harp. His other arm wraps around your shoulders and keeps you flush against him, close enough that you can’t mistake the feeling of his erection against your back.

He presses his lips and tongue against your neck, making you whimper as you try to keep your heart rate stable. Your little noises seem to motivate him further, his touch becoming more insistent and one of his legs snaking over yours, pulling it back to give his hand greater access.

“Such a little fool,” he murmurs, his fingers stroking insistently along your fleshy folds. “Thinking I don’t see you as a sexual being.”

He sinks his teeth into your shoulder, making you cry out- more from the shock than the pain. His mouth continues to move around your neck and shoulders, nipping and sucking on the skin there, his grip on you tightening until it’s nearly painful.

“What are you doing?” you manage to ask.

“Leaving marks,” he says matter-of-factly.

You’re at a loss for what to say, but are saved from having to answer as he pushes two fingers inside you, his thumb rubbing slow circles over your clit. You’re embarrassed that he must have felt how wet you were just from being in his presence but he says nothing, quickening his pace and giving satisfied little growls when his touch elicits gasps and cries of pleasure from you.

It’s pity, you remind yourself; what he’s doing to you, he’s doing it because he feels sorry for you and because he’s drunk and horny despite his encounter earlier in the evening. But the thought gets whisked away as he brings you closer and closer to what you’ve desperately needed from him for so long. You let out a little shriek when he removes his hand, unable to believe he’s so cruel as to bring you to the precipice and then deny you. But he simply flips you onto your back before pressing his fingers inside you once more, watching your reactions to be sure he’s hitting just the right spot before burying his face between your legs. His tongue, lips and fingers work together like an orchestra. Your knuckles are white from the force of clenching on the sheets and you’re biting down so hard on your lip to muffle the sounds you’re making that you’re worried your teeth will end up permanently embedded. He unexpectedly raises his head and stills the movement of his hand inside you and the shock is almost enough to make you start crying again. You look down at him, his eyes sparkling in the low light with an expression you can’t read.

“Why won’t you let me hear you?”

Because you don’t want him to know how good his merciful little gesture is making you feel. Because you don’t want to admit to yourself that it’s better than you’d imagined. Truthfully, whenever you’ve thought about the mechanics of sex with Aleister, you imagined that it would be fast and rough and hedonistic, much like his other sexual encounters seem to be. But he’s chosen this moment to take his time, to focus on his partner, rather than go for a quick, dirty fuck in a darkened corner.

You don’t tell him any of this, instead croaking out, “I’m shy.”

He raises himself up and over your body with the effortless grace of a serpent, pressing his head close to yours and kissing along your jawline.

“What do I have to do to make you not be shy?”

“I don’t know… I just… am.” You wriggle a little under him, turning your face away when he looks directly into your eyes.

He cups your face in one hand and runs the other, still wet with your juices, over your breast, teasing the nipple and making you shudder involuntarily.

“Am I moving too fast?”

You shake your head, not quite trusting your voice.

“Is there something that you’d enjoy more? Something you want me to do for you?”

You give him another little shake of the head.

“You don’t have to be shy with me. Whatever you want, I want you to tell me so I can give it to you. Anything.”

For the first time, he kisses you on the lips, his tongue, that still tastes of you, slides against yours and the hand at the side of your face slides to hold your neck, cradling your head so that you don’t have to tense any muscles to stay in that position. Your body has nothing it needs to do but experience the sensations he’s creating. Of course, you still answer his kiss, hungrily flashing your tongue against his, reveling in the light scrape of his lip ring against your lips. His hand glides back down between your legs, and even the proximity is enough to draw a couple of little mewls of pleasure. You feel him smile a little against your lips at the noises and he pulls away from the kiss.

“Am I making you feel good?”

You nod as he starts to work his fingers around your entrance once again.

“Do you want my mouth down there again?”

You nod even more vigorously than the first time but he shakes his head.

“Tell me. Say it out loud.”

You open your mouth to do so and he immediately thrusts his long fingers into your g-spot and your clit at once, making you yelp in pleasure. It’s almost enough to make you cum on its own but he eases the pressure before you reach that peak.

“Yes?” he asks again.

“Yes, fuck, yes!”

“Then let me hear you. Please.”

He returns his attention to your core and has you making all manner of unholy noises in short order. He expertly teases you and then holds back, so many times that when he does finally take you over the edge, you feel like you might pass out from the intensity of it. Your gasps for breath sound cavernous in the quiet room.

He keeps the palm of his hand firmly against you as he leans forward and presses his lips into your neck, letting out a satisfied purr every time an aftershock rolls through your body.

When he’s satisfied that you’ve fully come down, he raises himself up on his arms, giving just the hint of a smile when you grab onto his biceps to steady yourself.

He’s so rigid that he doesn’t even need a hand to guide himself into you. He simply presses forward in one slow but sure moment, his eyes closed as if it’s a kind of religious experience, not opening them until he’s fully seated inside you. It’s been long enough since you’ve been with anyone that the feeling of being stretched draws a little whimper from your throat. He remains still, his eyes open and bearing down on you with a delirious kind of excitement, aching prick twitching inside you, desperate to proceed but waiting for a signal that he can.

And it’s at that moment that you allow yourself to think that this isn’t pity or a drunken mistake, that he’s as hungry for you as you have been for him and that what’s happened tonight has just served to connect a circuit. The fiercely possessive look in his eyes as he watches you, the fury when he thought someone else was claiming you, the need to mark you to make you his, the flush of pure lust on his face and chest… it is just a little frightening, something you suspected was in him but never that it was focused on you. But you’ve always known you could handle his darkness if he let you in. So you thrust your hips a little and wrap your legs loosely around his waist to show him that he can continue. Just as he starts to move, he cups your face and presses his mouth to your ear.

“You deserve so much better.”

“Stop trying to make those decisions for me,” you moan, feeling your insides flutter with his movements.

“I’ve never felt anything like that jealousy.” He’s staring into your eyes as he confesses. He lifts one of your legs over his shoulder pressing deeper inside you and gasping at the feeling. “Knowing that everyone could see how sexy and beautiful you are… And I’m an idiot for waiting for that to happen before I did anything, I just…”

He grimaces and slows his pace a little, obviously trying to prolong the sensation.

“You mean it?” You have to ask because you still can’t quite believe that this has been on his mind for all this time when he’s shown no sign of it to you.

“God yes,” he answers through gritted teeth, once again allowing himself to move faster and more urgently.

You can’t completely banish your fears that he’s going to regret this in the morning and just shut you out again but every second with him is pushing them further away. You lace your fingers through his hair, nipping at the shell of his ear as he lets out his own stream of desperate, lusty noises, running your nails gently down his back as he approaches his crescendo.

His head drops to your chest and he cries out as he releases inside you.

“Fuck I love you, fuck I love you, fuck I love you.” He repeats it like a mantra that brings him back down from his high, saying it a final time as he looks into your eyes.

Slowly, he rolls onto his side, gathering you close to him like he thinks an errant breeze might carry you away.

“I have…” he begins quietly, “… there’s a lot that goes on in my head… Bad things, I guess. I thought you’d run away. Or that I’d pull you down with me. I still don’t know that won’t happen.”

He looks so vulnerable that it makes your heart hurt but at the same time you have to stifle a smile.

“Well I’d rather you let me try to deal with it. I’m a lot tougher than you give me credit for being.”

His expression grows a little guilty and he nods. He wraps his arms tighter around you and you do the same until the two of you are lying in your bed, wound around each other.

[wkemeup]

A Twice Broken Man

summary: Knowing what will happen if Hydra ever captures him again, Bucky asks the impossible of you. The road to recovery is not an easy one.  pairing: bucky x reader warnings: smut (18+), canon level violence, mentions of torture, PTSD symptoms (nightmares, dissociative episode), suicidal thoughts, trauma recovery a/n: this is the dark and sad one I was warning you about. please check the warnings

There’s a hand on your forearm, a slight squeeze, and it takes you a minute to register that it is Bucky’s hand, that it is his thumb brushing in sweeps over the goosebumps on your skin. It’s cold, calloused, still as gentle as he’s ever been, but there’s a nervousness there, a hesitancy, and it runs like ice in your veins.

Time stands still for an impossible minute and you realize you’re taking too long to respond. Ocean blue eyes search yours with a cautious concern and you’re certain you’ve never heard anything worse than the request Bucky has just asked of you. Your stomach wretches as the words echoes in the back of your mind, threatening to tear you to pieces.

He parts his lips, hand trailing in gentle sweeping motions down your arm, and he asks again. 

“Sweetheart please. I can’t go back to them. If it ever comes to it, I need you to do this for me.”

You close your eyes. Tears sting over the bridge of your nose. He should have waited for another time to ask this. Not when you’re both laying between sheets, bare and flustered, hearts still racing, the feel of him lingering between your legs.

It’s an impossible question but he’s asking it anyway.

He’s asking for you to end his life.

You know his history with Hydra, spent enough nights curled up against him under the thin layer of cotton sheets and against the damp sweat of his chest to see the damage they’ve caused him, heard the screams from his lips and seen the tears in his eyes. 

Decades of pain, of suffering and humiliation, of agony and loss. 

They broke and mutilated him. They ripped him from the inside out.

Maybe you shouldn’t be surprised, shouldn’t feel this kind of twist at your heart because maybe, on some level, you understand. If you had gone through what he had, maybe you’d be asking him of the same thing.

“Bucky, I... I can’t...” you say, voice so soft you wonder for a moment if he’s even heard you. There’s a disappointment in his eyes, a sadness etched into every feature on his face, and you know that he had.

You curl your arms tighter under the pillow, tucking the side of your face against the cushion to brush away the tears he’s already seen. There’s more than just shock and desolation plunging through your chest like the sharp edge of a blade; there’s anger, too, and you grit your teeth to keep it from spilling out.

Bucky brushes the cool metal of his fingers along your cheek, wiping away the lingering evidence of your tears and the refusal dies on your tongue. It’s in the way he touches you, watches you, like he cherishes every moment. 

He does.

The anger fades and you’re left with heartbreak.

“Only if Hydra ever gets a hold of me again,” he reminds you.

He says it like it’s a far distant possibility, like his request is only precautionary, like it might not ever come to that. But you know he thinks about it more often that he admits. It’s the frequent theme of the terrors that come for him in the dead of night.

“You can’t ask that of me,” you whisper. You can barely meet his eye. Not with how desperately he’s watching you.

“Steve would never understand. He wouldn’t be able to do it.”

A sharp sting punctures through your chest.

“And you think I could?” You’re colder than you intend, harsher too, and the heartbreak of it reads on his face.

Bucky sighs, leaning in to press his lips to your wrist. Warm, pillowy soft. He’s patient with you, kind, even in his darkest moments and somehow that makes it hurt more.

“I think you know me better than anyone, sweetheart,” Bucky says sadly. He smiles but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes and he starts to play with the ends of your hair, twirling it around his fingers, sweeping it behind your ear, almost lost in the feel of you. Fingertips trail over the bare skin of your back, gentle patterns before he continues. “You’ve seen the worst of my recovery. I can’t-- I won’t survive it again, Y/n. If it goes south tomorrow and the team can’t get me out in time, you’re the best marksman we have.”

You shake your head, lower lip quivering as the tears well in your eyes. He leans forward and presses a kiss to your forehead. It’s gone too soon.

“I can’t go back to them,” he says again because he’s already decided.

The muscle aches in your jaw before you realize how tight you’ve clenched it.

“It would be saving me,” he urges, almost begging and it breaks your heart. The warmth of his breath is hot against your shoulder the closer he pulls himself against you. The cool metal of his left arm rests around the small of your back, his lips kiss at your shoulder blade.

“Baby, please.”

Tomorrow would be his first mission against Hydra operatives since his pardon and joining the Avengers nearly a year ago. Steve was careful to keep him away from anything that could possibly trigger him, regardless of the words that had been erased from his subconscious, because even he knew that there was more that could trigger Bucky than just a series of Russian words. It wasn’t just the Winter Soldier he was worried about.

But Bucky was ready, he told you, and you really want to believe him.

Finally, you nod, because you never knew how to say no to Bucky. You never really wanted to until this moment. How could you deny a man you loved with every part of yourself? He held your heart in the palm of his hand, your secrets, your intimacy, your soul. It was all his.

The relief melts through his muscles and you feel the curve of his lips against you. He pulls himself closer, murmurs how much he loves you under his breath before he drifts off to sleep.

You don’t sleep much of all.

***

Bucky's request goes unanswered for nearly two years.

He never tells Steve about what he asked of you. The two of you never speak of it again and still, it lingers.

It’s always on your mind. It’s the first thought to rush to the surface when Hydra’s name is evoked in the debriefing room and you have to control the race of your heartbeat before Natasha’s perceptive eyes pick up on it.

You wonder each time as you strap your weapons to your suit and load onto the quinjet if this was the day you’d destroy the other half of your heart.

It’s agony, but you hold it inside.

You deal with the pain of it by sitting closer to him in the hanger, hip to hip, until your thigh sits at the length of his. You lean against his shoulder, wrapping your arms around his to tug him as close as you can manage and he’ll press a kiss to the crown of your head, letting it brush over your hair. You hold his hand as long as you’re able before you step foot off the landing pad and you’re thrown into the chaos of enemy fire.

You savor every moment.

But it’s the nights before that hurt the most.

It's when he’s inside you and the headboard clicks softly against the wall with every roll of his hips. It's when he kisses at your pulse points, wetness of his tongue and the heat of his breath against the chill on your skin. It’s when your walls clench and a breathless moan escapes him, his eyes fluttering closed, hand gripping tight to the bedpost.

There’s a twist in your heart evert time he shudders above you, when he whispers through bated breaths that he adores you, that your tightness is like heaven to him, and his fingers circle at nerve endings between your legs that sent a rush of heat through you.

Pieces of you shatter even as you find your high and he releases inside you with rushed and uneven thrusts, even as he drops his body weight onto you and you worship the pressure, the heaviness of him sinking you into the mattress.

It hurts even with skin glistening, a damp layer of sweat on the line of his hair, as he smiles at you like you were made of sun and stars and galaxy. 

He likes to rest in you for some time after you’ve both finished, just studying you, tracing his fingers over your jawline, a simple kiss to your cheek, before he’ll slide out to disappear to the bathroom to wash his release from between your legs.

You never feel as empty as you do when he pulls away.

He loves you. You know that.

But he breaks your heart.

And so you hide the tears from him before he returns, wondering if you just had your last night with him, wondering if you’ll ever feel the pulse of him inside you again, or if tomorrow would be the day he’ll ask the impossible of you.

***

It happens on a Thursday and you’re entirely unprepared for it.

What was supposed to be a straightforward data hack of an unmanned Hydra base in Warsaw quickly turned into a full-scale combat zone in a matter of seconds. Hydra agents flood through the halls like they’re peeling out from behind the wallpaper, coming in from all angles. You’re overwhelmed before you can call for reinforcements.

Steve is on your left, Natasha on your right; each fighting off three agents on their own, collecting nicks in their suits, scrapes to their exposed skin, and bruises underneath. Energy draining fast with another round of combatants ahead of you, you search for Bucky over the shoulder of the man charging at you with a knife in hand.

You side step him easily, elbowing him hard enough in the middle of his back to pull a pained grunt out of him. Eyes dart across the floor, seeking out long brown hair and the shine of silver reflecting under florescent lights.

You’re distracted.

Sharp pain burns in your thigh and you looked down to find a knife embedded in your leg, the sinister grin of the man at your feet below. Red oozes from the wound and stains the black of your suit, but you don’t feel much of it. Adrenaline is too high for that now.

You let out a guttural shout, yanking the knife from your muscle and plunge it down into the man’s neck. The blood that bubbles in his mouth doesn’t faze you, nor does the quick spread of red in a pool at your feet.

You leave footprints behind in the mess as you sprint out in search of Bucky.

It’s hard to breath without him. It feels like punctured holes in your lungs and anvils on your chest. Your hands are sweating, heart pounding, and you don’t think before you shoot the three men advancing on you from behind. They stumble to the ground in a heap and it does nothing to ease your panic.

“Bucky!” you shout over the gunfire, but there’s a part of you that knows he won’t hear you.

You rush into the adjoining hall where he was supposed to be stationed with Steve but got separated once the sirens began to scream and red flashing lights flickered through the hallway. Hydra agents must have jump between them, forcing Bucky to retreat while Steve was pushed in your direction.

There was no answer on the coms when you call for him.

The handle of your gun is burning hot in your hand. It stings against your palm and you’re certain it will blister, but when you release your grip long enough to check, your hand is clear, save for the red splatter stained on your skin. 

You try not to think of the fate of this gun as you sprint through the double doors at the end of the hall where the light outside is blinding.

With a hand shielding your eyes from the sun, you spot the Hydra agents’ aim their weapons and you dive behind a barricade of supplies. Bullets embed themselves into the wall behind you, denting the frame.

Cocking the hammer of your gun and releasing a bullet casing, you suck in a deep breath. It takes a moment before air fills your lungs, but when you step out to fire, you freeze in your tracks.

Two men carry Bucky limply towards a cargo truck, each holding onto an arm as his feet drag along the dirt behind him. Blood coats down over his mouth, spilling in violent sweeps from his nose and his eyes are falling heavy, head bobbing. He doesn’t notice you and you’ve never seen him like this before; mangled and heavy, like a rag doll.

“Bucky!” you scream, voice cracking in the effort and you fire three shots at the Hydra agents around him. Only one falls to the ground and another quickly takes his place, the others protected by a shield of technology your bullets would not pierce.

Your cry seems to get through to him because Bucky’s head jolts up, blood coughing away from his lips and he looks up with wide, fearful eyes, to realize where he’s at, who’s hands are on him. You can see the panic from nearly fifty feet away.

He fights back but it’s not with his usual smooth, calculated movements, where every hit has a purpose and each step is intentional. No, this time it’s feral, unnerved. The scream that leaves him is broken and laced with a fear you’ve only heard in the dead of night.

You try to step forward, but a reign of bullets fire in your direction and you throw yourself behind the barrier. From the ground, you spot a single opening between the cases shielding you from Hydra’s fire and you toss your handgun to the side. You yank the rifle from the latch on your back, adjusting your position to get a better shot through the crates.

Through the scope, you can see more clearly and you’re not sure if this is worse.

Bucky sees you, eyes locking on your position and there’s only a second of relief before a taser is plunged into his side and his whole body starts to convulse. Your hands shake as his eyes roll back and his body falls slack. You lose sight of ocean blue and you can’t breathe.

You fire four rounds at the men around him and one by one they drop, heads snapping back in the impact. The victory is short lived before four more dart out from the shadows to replace them. You shoot again. More come.

“Steve, I--” your voice trembles into the com, “They’ve-- they’ve got Bucky.”

You barely register Steve tell you he’s on his way.

There’s too many of them. Too many to slow down on your own. There's no time to wait for Steve.

You step out from behind the barricade and it seems Hydra is no longer interested in you as they attempt to hull Bucky into the back of the van.

He’s struggling against them, weakened by the electricity in his veins strong enough to bring down an elephant. It's like he’s moving through water, resistance against his limbs and heavy weight on his body.

It’s when he meets your eyes from across the lot that the final splinter in your heart snaps and it shatters like glass. You see it on his lips, the pleading. The blue of his eyes glazes over; he’s scared – no, more than scared – he’s petrified, and his whole body is trembling.

Now, he mouths, or maybe he’d screaming. You can’t tell. Please, do it now.

You shake your head. Your hand is gripped so impossibly tight to the handle of your gun that your muscles ache from it. Tears blur your vision and you blink them away. They burn as they clear the grim from your cheeks and run to your jaw.

You try to tell him you can’t, that your hand is shaking so badly you’d never be able to aim properly, not even sure your body would allow you to even aim a weapon at him to begin with, but he’s asking again, he’s begging.

He smiles for you, subtle and aching, but he nods, tries to tell you it’s okay. He tells you he loves you and time moves impossibly slow as harsh hands shove and pull at him and he does his best to fight back.

You’re running out of time and he knows it. He’s growing more desperate, pleading on an endless loop.

Please. Baby, please.

Do it now.

I’m ready, honey. It’s okay.

Shoot!

Your finger moves to the trigger and it’s never felt as heavy as it does in this moment. You’re crying and it’s near impossible to see, but you watch as Bucky nods vigorously, trying to encourage you, urging the love of his life to spare him from what is about to happen.

I love you.

You can do this.

It’ll be alright.

Do it now, honey. Please.

But you can’t.

The gun falls to your side and Bucky stills almost instantly. 

You can’t quite read the rush of emotion on his face because there’s too much of it but you can still see the panic, the surge of unrelenting fear, the shock of betrayal in his eyes. He fights harder now, shouting out, though his voice is raspy and his body is falling weak.

Gunfire rings out next to you and you realize Steve is at your side. You don’t know how long he’s been there but as Hydra agents shove Bucky into the back of the cargo hold and out of sight, you fall to your knees and the look Steve sends you is one of disbelief.

He’s furious. He’s scared. He’s devastated.

It’s everything you feel.

Steve sprints off after the van as it accelerates down the street, but you know it’s useless. He can chase it for miles but he won’t catch up. His stamina will only last so long.

You’re alone for a while, out in the open lot, with bloodied bodies around you of the men you’d killed. Some laying in piles, red pools oozing out from under them.

You hardly notice Natasha sink down next to you silently, her hand slip over yours and squeezing just enough to ground you. You nearly break down completely when you spot Steve rushing back towards you from the end of the road.

Alone.

“What the hell was that?” he snaps, panting, hands shaking out of rage. You don’t respond because you simply don’t know how. He’s pacing now and Natasha warns him to calm down, but he can’t. “What happened, Y/n!?”

“There were too many of them,” you try to explain, hating how shaken your voice sounds. “I tried to pick them off but they just kept coming back and--”

“That’s not what I’m talking about!”

Steve grits his teeth, voice wound tight in a coil. His hands clench and release at his side. He takes a deep breath, straightens his back and glances to the open road where Bucky was taken.

“I saw you aim the gun at him.”

You feel the jolt puncture through your chest before Natasha even has a chance to flinch. You grip at the fabric of your suit over your thighs and you try to remember the feel of Bucky’s hands, but you can’t. He’s already lost to you.

You look up to Steve and his face is red. He doesn’t understand. Just as Bucky said he wouldn’t.

“Steve, I--”

“What the fuck is the matter with you!” he shouts, throwing his arms in the air. He can’t stand still. “Why would you—What were you thinking?”

Natasha pulls herself to her feet, trying to calm Steve with a brush of her hand over his shoulder but he shoves her aside. He points a finger at you but his hand is shaking, so he wraps it into a fist. Curse words die on his tongue as Natasha pulls him a few feet away, speaking quietly to him, calmly, and you don’t try to listen in. The ringing in your ears is too loud for that.

“Why would she--” Steve starts again, but Natasha grabs his hands, trying to pull his attention.

“Steve, stop--” she urges but it’s no use.

“I thought she was gonna--”

“Calm down, Rogers.”

“She had a gun aimed at his head, Nat!” Steve shoves her away, running his hand over his mouth. He doesn’t know what to say. You almost killed his best friend. Steve doesn’t usually lose control like this. It’s a foreign feeling in his body and it doesn’t sit well. “Why would you--”

“He asked me to,” you confess, voice so soft you can barely hear it so when Steve silences, it surprises you. You look up at him, tears glossing over your eyes and you stand under shaky legs. “He’d rather die than be subjected to Hydra’s torture again, Steve. He didn’t think he could survive it a second time, but I—I couldn’t do it.”

“No-- No, Bucky wouldn’t--” he turns to Nat, seeking answers he wouldn’t find. “He wouldn’t.”

You look to the ground. There is nothing that will make this easier.

“He would,” Natasha says. Steve won’t stop pacing and she sighs. “He knew what would happen if Hydra ever got ahold of him again. They’ll try to take his memories. They'll torture him, throw him in that goddamn chair. They’d break him all over again.”

Steve nearly collapses against the outer wall of the building, unable to hold himself as the truth of your confession sinks in. The pieces were all there but Steve was too stubborn to see them. 

Bucky’s trauma hadn’t healed nearly as much as he thought. He just wanted his friend back. It was all he ever wanted. It blinded him from who Bucky was today, to his pain and suffering under the surface. 

Natasha grabs onto Steve’s hand, seeking out your own as well. She squeezes it lightly as it reminds you of Bucky. That, somehow, hurts worse.

“We’ll find him before they can put the triggers back in his head,” Nat says sternly, like she actually means it. But Natasha is a world class liar and you wonder if she believes it herself. She squeezes your hand again and your feel like your bones might snap. “We’ll bring him home.”

***

It takes nearly five weeks before you find him. 

Five weeks of hell you could have spared him of.

You wonder if he’ll even be himself when you see him, if he ever will be again. You wonder if he will forgive you.

Steve takes out nearly twelve men on his own before you have a chance to fire. The vengeance running through his veins is enough to keep him going. You follow behind on unsteady feet.

Steve has a kind of hope you never learned how to carry. He believes that finding Bucky will be enough, that bringing him home and rescuing him from this place is the same as saving him.

It’s not.

There’s more than just the imprisonment of these walls and the torture of vile men that he will need to be freed of. There’s something this place roots deep inside of him that breaks and tears at his core until he feels like he might cave in on himself. It was what he was afraid of. It was why he asked of you what he did.

“I’ve got a heat signature matching Bucky’s description in a cell four down from here,” Nat says from behind you, eyeing the small monitor in her hand. She points to the right side of the wall and Steve takes out a guard just as he turns the corner. He’s past the point of asking questions before he shoots.

The hall is empty by the time you reach the cell Nat is referring to. Steve’s hand juts out to the handle and he snaps off the locks with the brunt of his gun, but Natasha stills him quickly with a grasp on his shoulder. He pauses, looking to her through furrowed eyes and she nods towards you. A silent warning for him to stand down.

You don’t know how she learned to read you so well, but you're grateful for it. Steve nods, lips pressed to a thin line and he steps aside, pressing his back to the wall by the door and standing guard. Natasha smiles softly at you, doing the same.

“We’ll be right here,” she tells you because you need the reminder.

The grip of the door is cold under the heat of your palms and the creak of the hinges is near deafening. You wince as you pull it open and it nearly slams closed behind you as you step inside from the weight of itself, but Steve shoves his boot between the frame to keep it propped open. None of you know what to expect and the Winter Soldier himself is not out of the realm of possibilities.

The moment you see him, it’s hard to stay steady on your feet. Your knees lock, legs feeling like putty and you lean against the wall for support.

Bucky sits in the far corner of the room, knees pulled up to his chest, stare facing the opposite wall. He doesn’t notice you as you stumble closer, trying to choke back the tears welling behind your eyes.

It’s like he’s catatonic. His arms wrapped around his knees, metal hand clamping onto flesh wrist where the skin is red and raw beneath.

You sink down by his side and still, he doesn’t move. Blue eyes locked on concrete over your shoulder and you swear it’s like he sees right through you. You lick at your lips, breath caught in your throat and you try to reach out to touch him but can’t seem to let your hands fall to his skin, to his muscle, to metal.

There are open wounds on his face; a large scar running from the center of his forehead to his left temple that is red and angry and likely infected from the swelling, and various cuts and scrapes and discoloration along his cheekbones. You can see jagged marks peeking out from under the thin layer of a ratted shirt they gave him after they must have stripped him of his stealth suit.

“Bucky,” you choke out, voice thick with tears and he doesn’t even flinch. You clench your jaw, biting down until you taste copper in your mouth. Sniffling back your own pain, you try again. “Sweetheart, look at me. We’re gonna bring you home. Steve and Nat are right outside the door, okay? You’re safe now, honey.”

He doesn’t so much as blink.

“God, what did they do to you?” you whisper. It’s not a question you expect him to answer.

Without thinking, your hand reaches out for him, hovering over his forearm for a moment before you touch him.

It happens in a split second.

Bucky’s head snaps to you, eyes wide, fearful, and he lunges at you, sending you onto your back as he climbs on top of you. His hand snakes around your throat before you can stop him and your nails dig into the concrete below. 

Bucky’s eyes hold no recognition as he stares down at you, still lost, still glazed, and you wonder if he thinks this is a dream or some kind of cruel game.

“B-Bucky,” you gasp, clawing at his hand but it’s solid and metal and it does no use.

Your legs squirm under him but he holds them down easily with his weight around your waist. He pushes down harder on your windpipe and your lungs burn like fire. Your head is pulsing, face red, and you swat up at him until you see a slight flicker of realization before he shoves it away.

He’s in there – you know it – but he’s trapped; locked behind a trauma response or a dissociative state or something but he’s there. It means you can get through to him.

From the corner of your eye, you spot Steve rushing into the room but you hold up your hand, warning him to stay back. He pauses, unsure, frantically eyeing Bucky as he squeezes at your throat, but you wave him back. He doesn’t leave the room but he stands still.

Vision starting to tunnel, you reach up to Bucky’s face. Your movements are no longer wild and panicked, and you brush the hair shielding his eyes behind his ear. That seems to startle him but he doesn’t shove you away. Your palm rests tenderly against his cheek and your thumb brushes delicately along the bruising along his jawline.

His eyes flicker to yours, confused, and they dart around him for a moment, breaths heavy in his chest. Your hand falls away from him as your body weakens and you can vaguely make out Steve’s footsteps as he sprints forward and suddenly the pressure on your throat releases and Bucky’s weight leaves you.

You suck in a harsh breath and it burns. 

It feels like shards of glass in your windpipe and you jolt upright. Vision restoring quickly though in blurred haze and black spots, you realize Steve hadn’t even made it halfway across the room. 

You turn sharply to find Bucky scrambling away from you, hands shaking violently, a world of emotion on his face he didn’t have just moments before; fear, devastation, guilt, relief.

Blue eyes meet yours and he breaks down almost instantly. His whole body racks with sobs and he tries to hide himself, shielding his face with his forearms as he curls up to the corner but you crawl towards him. You don’t try to speak because you know the coarseness of it will only make this worse, but when you gather him into your arms, he comes willingly.

His head rests against your shoulder, his right arm clinging around your waist and he holds his left as far away from you as he can manage. Tears are wet against your skin and he’s shaking as he cries, “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” on an endless loop.

You kiss his forehead, hoping to calm him, to tell him it’s alright because your voice is useless and you don’t dare test it. Your breathing comes in through raspy gasps and Bucky flinches with every damaged inhale.

Steve waits from the center of the room, just watching, and his eyes are burning red, hand shaking at his side. You don’t know if Steve’s ever seen Bucky like this before, but it devastates him. It breaks him.

It breaks all of you.

***

Bucky isn’t himself for a long time.

It takes weeks before you can convince him to leave your room to eat something in the kitchen or go on a walk around the compound.

He’s lost weight and muscle mass from his time at Hydra and even more since then. He barely speaks and when he does, he can’t meet your eye. You try to wear sweaters and scarfs that cover the bruising on your neck, but he knows it’s there. His eyes burn with tears whenever he catches a glimpse of his handprint upon your skin.

It doesn't help that Cho barred you from speaking for nearly an entire week and when you finally do again, it comes out broken and rough and Bucky flinches when you first say his name.

***

One month home and he still won’t touch you.

It’s not because you broke your promise to him and he tells you as often as you’ll hear it. It was too much, he says, he never should have put that on you, and yet, you can’t help but feel responsible for every scream in the middle of the night, every cry he tries to hide from you, every flinch away from your touch.

He won’t touch you because he’s terrified of losing control again, of attacking the woman he loves and he doesn’t know how to reconcile that.

So, he keeps to his side of the bed and withers his way out of your embrace after you’ve fallen asleep. It hurts him to do so, but he’s not sure he has another choice. He’s terrified he’ll snap again at any moment and you won’t be able to wake him up this time.

***

It’s two months before you see him smile again.

You’re sitting on the couch together, a generous space between your bodies you do not challenge and Sam trips over the edge of the table, spilling his bowl of popcorn high into the air before it lands in sweeps along the floor and over his back. Tony is practically in tears and you’re biting your lip for Sam’s sake, though you can’t help the grin aching in your cheeks.

You look over to Bucky and the corner of his lip twinges. It’s subtle and it fades almost instantly but it was there. He meets your eye for a moment and he pushes out another for you. It’s tight and forced but he’s trying.

You smile back and remind yourself not to reach for his hand.

***

Bucky never tells you, or anyone, what happened in his five weeks held by Hydra. He attempts to ease your conscious by telling you they never attempted the chair again or the trigger words, but somehow that hurts more. It leaves you wondering what else could have happened to hurt him like this, what could possibly be worse.

Fury grants your request for leave while Bucky recovers and you spend most of your days trying to peel away the darkness he’s holding onto. It’s thick and heavy and clinging onto him for dear life but slowly, inch by inch, shadow by shadow, it releases him.

When enough light can peer through, he starts to let you touch him again. It’s nearly three months after he came home.

You give him warning each time, letting his eyes watch as your hand comes to him and lands upon his skin. He needs the time to prepare for it. It takes him a moment to ease into it and remind himself that your touch is wanted, craved even, and he relaxes after a moment and asks for more.

It starts out with holding his hand and moves to playing with his hair. He prefers behind the one to touch you. He likes when you let him run his fingers in loose patterns over your back. It’s something he always did before, though that feels like a lifetime ago to him.

***

Eventually, he asks if you’ll shower with him.

It’s a big step, one that surprises you when he asks but you agree without hesitation.

“I want to get better,” he says timidly, standing in the bathroom fully clothed in three day old pajamas. He struggles to meet your eye but when he does, the blue is aching with shame. “I know you won’t hurt me but I... I can’t explain it. I don’t know why this is so hard for me.”

“It’s okay,” you remind him, careful not to step forward and invade his space. “You just tell me what you need, alright? Tell me if it’s too much.”

He nods and his hands play with the ends of his shirt. He hasn’t been bare before you since he was taken.

“I can go first, if you want?” you offer, gesturing to your clothes and he nods, thankful.

He's seen you naked before. You’d been together for a few years before he was taken but something about this feels different. It feels new, almost like the first time.

The air is cold against your skin as you pull the cotton t-shirt over your head and let it slip to the floor. Your nipples pebble against the chill and you notice Bucky’s eyes drawn to your chest. It doesn’t embarrass you. You like the way he watches you and it reminds you of the days before he was taken.

You smile at him, nodding for his turn.

Bucky takes a deep breath and tugs his metal arm through the sleeves of his shirt before pulling the rest over his head and letting it fall down his right arm. You realize then why he kept himself from you for so long.

A gasp in your throat, hand darting up to cover your lips, your eyes fall upon dozens of faded scars lining his chest and stomach. You imagine there’s more on his back, but it’s not the scars themselves that scare you. It’s the patterns carved against him. Deliberate and meaningful.

They spell out words.

Monster

Hydra

Soldier

Asset

Killer

Some in English, some in Russian you don’t understand and you bite down hard on your cheek to keep from crying. This isn’t about you, you tell yourself in an attempt to will your tears away, and you lower your hands to your sides.

“I wanted to tell you,” he mumbles, eyes on the floor.

“It’s okay, honey,” you say and you feel like a broken record, but you do mean it.

You take your pants off next, then your underwear, and Bucky follows suit. Neither of you are shy about your staring because despite the pain and the trauma, you miss each other like nothing else.

Bucky steps aside and you turn on the water, feeling for the temperature for a moment until it’s at the warmth you usually prefer and you ask Bucky to test it before he steps in. He does so and nods to you. He steps in behind the curtain and you give him a moment, trying to center yourself before you follow.

“Y/n?” he calls nervously, like he’s afraid you’ll leave if he doesn’t have eyes on you.

“Right here,” you tell him and you push down the tightness in your chest to step in behind him.

The steam is warm against your skin despite Bucky blocking the stream of the water, but you don’t mind. The relief on his face, the relaxation evident in his muscles is enough for you.

You spend the next ten minutes washing his body. You tell him exactly what you’re doing before you do it and where you’re trailing the gentle motions of the cloth before you get there. His eyes are closed the whole time, a sign that his trust is building again, and you wonder as you brush over the faded scars along his back, over the word ‘devil’ carved into his shoulder blade, if Tony could find a way to remove them.

You move onto washing his hair and he has to bend down a little for you, but it makes him smile. He sighs as your fingers work the shampoo through his hair and he turns to face you as he rinses it into the water.

He’s watching you now as you condition his hair, just studying the way you purse your lips as you work, noticing the line in your forehead as you concentrate. He’s reminded of the small things, the good things, and he lets go of another shard of darkness embedded in his chest.

He lets the water rinse through his hair, leaning back into the stream of it. When he’s done, you move to reach around him to turn off the water, but his hand gently lands on your wrist to stop you.

“I could...” he paused, licking at his lips, “I could I wash you, too? If you... um... if you want?”

He’s never been so nervous with you before, so unsure of your love for him, your eagerness to have his hands on your body. He doubts whether you want him, whether you’d even allow him to touch you. The bruising faded from your neck and his eyes still flicker there.

“I would really like that,” you say, as soft as you can manage and you don’t miss his sigh of relief.

You cherish every moment of his hands upon your body, in your hair, on your scalp. Calloused fingers running along with soapy residue along your skin, over your curves. You try not to focus too hard when he brushes over your breasts. He lets you clean yourself between the legs as he steps back with a pink blush in his cheeks.

You don’t mind. Having him this close is enough. He runs the water over your shoulders, soothing away the suds, and you close your eyes in the feeling. It’s been so long since he’s touched you and it’s like a reprieve. It’s heaven. It’s always heaven when it’s with him.

When he’s done, he holds you under the water with him and it’s the closest you’ve been since he’d been back. Chest to chest. Flesh to flesh.

When you feel his length harden between you, he clears his throat awkwardly, and steps away from you. He’s embarrassed.

“Bucky,” you croon sweetly, gingerly running your hand down his arm until you intertwine your fingers. He looks over to you, eyes drifting down to your chest, and he bites his lip. “Bucky, it’s alright. Let me help you feel good.”

He’s unsure, but he’s hard now and he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from your breasts.

“Let me do this for you, honey,” you ask again and his cock twitches. He bites down hard on his lip and his right hand carefully reach out to set on your hip, just feeling, exploring.

It takes a moment, but he nods, almost pleading. He steps aside so he’s facing the wall, making room for you under the water so you don’t catch a chill.

You watch his face the whole time, reminding him you’ll stop the second he asks you to as your hand trails along his thigh before you wrap your fingers around his cock. He hisses at the sensation, flinching at the touch because it’s been so long and you’re almost certain he hasn’t even touched himself since he’s been home.

He asks you to keep going and you do. It doesn’t take long until he’s wobbling on shaking legs, panting and thrusting into your fist. You sooth your free hand against his back, running in gentle strokes up and down his spine as you work him over. His fingers press so deep into your hip you’re sure it’ll leave marks, but you don’t mind at all.

He comes suddenly with a gasp, his release coating the wall and he follows your pumps with lazy thrusts as his cock twitches in your hand. It’s quicker than usual and you can see the pink burning in his ears, but you kiss at his shoulder, gently running your hand along his shaft until he’s given all he can.

He rests his forehead to the wall, catching his breath and you gingerly pull your hand away, rinsing it off in the water as his cum trails down to the drain.

Bucky doesn’t say anything after that but after you step out of the shower together and dry your bodies, he lets you hold him for the first time in months under the smooth surface of clean sheets. You kiss at his hairline and his cheek bones and he sighs contently, curling closer to you with every press of your lips.

He's still in your arms by morning.

***

“You should leave me,” he says a few weeks later and it tears your heart in two.

He’s lying on his side, metal arm tucked under the pillow as he faces you and there’s tears wet on his cheeks. It’s nearly three in the morning and he woke up screaming for the eighth night in a row. He’s noticed the dark circles under your eyes you’ve gained like permeant stains upon your skin. He sees the drain it takes from you to care for him and he hates himself for it.

But he’s selfish. He loves you too much to walk away. He’s withering you dry and he still wants more. He needs you to be the one to do it, to leave him, because he simply can’t.

“Please,” he cries, shivering and you tuck yourself tighter to his chest, unwilling to let go. “I can’t--  I can’t be the one to do it.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you tell him, sternly, like it’s a fact and it is.

“I’m a mess, Y/n. I’m falling apart and I’m bringing you down with me.”

You don’t care, and you tell him so.

He's been getting better. He doesn’t notice his progress because it’s clouded in his nightmares and hyper vigilance and paranoia, but it’s there. You try to remind him, show him, as often as you can that any step forward counts as progress, no matter how small, no matter how many steps back. He’s still gaining.

You run your fingers gently along his jawline. The bruising once upon his face long healed and the scar his forehead only a faded memory. Even the jarring words across his chest are nearly gone thanks to Tony’s laser tech. It would need a few more treatments but they’d vanish completely.

He looks like your Bucky again.

“You’ve got me, baby. Nothing will ever take me from you, do you understand? I’m yours,” you say and he exhales a breath that releases the tension in his muscles. He pulls you against him, his hand running along your back.

“I love you,” he murmurs into your hair because he doesn’t know what else to say to express the gratitude, the love, the relief inside him, so he settles on the truth.

He will always find ways to convince himself he’s not worthy, that you’re better off without him, that his love for you will never be enough. It’s part of the trauma etched into his DNA, but he’s learning to push those thoughts aside.

It gets easier with your help and soon, when you tell him he’s safe, when you tell him you love him, when you tell him you’ll be by his side as long as he lets you, he starts to believe you.

***

The first time you make love again, Bucky thinks he might actually survive all that’s happened to him.

He’s learned to accept touch again, learned to give it and crave the feeling of you wrapped in his arms. It’s like heaven and it ignites in his chest, forcing more of the light to shove away the darkness still embedded inside him.

He wants this, and he tells you over and over again because you’re terrified to push him too far; and he wants to do this for you as much as himself. He wants to touch you in places that make your lips part in a breathless gasp, that get your eyes fluttering shut, that have your hands clenching in the sheets and in his hair. He wants to bring you something other than pain and heartache.

He wants to bring you pleasure.

Bucky's body remembers yours well, so he knows how to touch you to draw arousal between your legs. You squirm under him and he chuckles for the first time in a while. It’s a sound so sweet you have to stop the tears from welling in your eyes, though it’s long forgotten as he sinks two fingers inside you with ease.

You grip onto the flesh of his right shoulder, nails digging into his skin as he pumps his fingers, curling right at the spot that makes you whimper and latch onto him tighter. You try and utter his name but it falls on your tongue. You can’t think much of anything with his hands on you like that.

“That’s my girl,” he says, drawing shivers up your spine, “come apart for me, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

He slides in a third finger and before you can adjust, he’s rubbing at your clit with the heal of his palm in rushed circles. You can hear the wetness around his fingers as he picks up in pace, and soon you’re clenching around him, gasping, panting, on the edge and it could be enough to send you over, but you want him.

“Need you,” you tell him, pushing his hand away and he looks up to you, confused. Pulling his face down to yours, you kiss his lips, something you’ll never take for granted again. You smile as he pulls away. “Please, baby. I need you. All of you.”

He’s hesitant at first, unsure, because he only cares about making you feel good right now after all he’s put you through, but when he follows your eyes down to his cock, he finds that it’s standing painfully hard against him and dripping in precum. He’s aching for you, desperate to be buried deep inside, and he’s not sure he can deny you.

Bucky doesn’t want to hold back anymore, he decides, as your fingers comb gently through his hair. He doesn’t want to hide from the woman he loves.

He lines himself with your entrance and you clench around nothing, just at the feeling of his tip brushing against your folds enough to draw such a sensation. He shudders above you and when his eyes meet yours again, they’re filled with a kind of love, a longing that you knew in him before he was taken from you.

He remembers fucking you, leaving marks and driving you into the mattress with quick and harsh thrusts but he doesn’t want to do that tonight. He wants to this to be slow. He wants to feel every moment, every clench, every gasp he can elicit from your lips. He wants to know all of it.

He wants to memorize you all over again.

When he sinks into you, the stretch is like the first time.

He doesn’t last nearly as long, but you don’t mind. It only takes a few minutes before you’re clenching around him, clinging onto his shoulders as you come. There’re tears in his eyes when he releases into you and he rolls his hips lazily to yours, stretching out the feeling as long as either of you can manage.

He falls down on your body and tucks his face to the crook of your neck. The shaking of his shoulders startles you at first and you pull his head back to find him crying, eyes red and lips trembling. Your heart lurches because you think you’ve pushed him to do something he wasn’t ready for, but instead, he smiles, leaning in to kiss you chastely.

“There was a time I never thought I’d see you again,” he sighs, pressing kisses to your cheekbones, to your nose, to your forehead, “but you’re here. I’m here. I didn’t think I’d ever come home to you and here you are. My girl.”

He wipes at the tears slipping past your eyes before you can realize you’re crying. He never once talked about his time held in Hydra’s captivity since he’s been home. He avoids it narrowly at every chance, pushes out a smile and finds a way to dodge the subject. He’s handling it, he tells you, and you only believe him half of the time, but something feels different tonight.

The way he’s looking at you, you can see the light behind the blue in his eyes. It’s like a faded navy hanging above a sunset, somewhere where the stars are collecting, peppering amongst the darkness, and shadows are casting the sun into the night. He’s beautiful.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, not sure what else to say.

“It’s not your fault, baby,” he says and there’s truth in his voice, sincerity. “I’m sorry I asked of you what I did. It wasn’t right, to put all that on you, and… hell… if you’d gone through with it like I asked, I would’ve deprived myself of this. Of being with you, here. Of surviving again.”

He kissed your forehead, pulling you impossibly close against him. He’s still inside you and though you can feel him soften, it’s the fullness of his body connected to yours that relieves you, that reminds you that he’s here with you.

“Don’t ask that of me again,” you beg, curling into him. “Don’t ask me to lose you like that. I won’t do it. I need you here with me, okay? I need you to be here.”

“I know, baby. Never again, I promise.”

You’re home in his arms and he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t flinch. He’s content, safe, and he nestles his face into the crook of your neck, breathing in the smell of you he’d lost when he was gone all those weeks. He’s memorizing you again, learning to recommit every piece of you to memory. It was all that kept him alive when he was gone.

It’s something he never had when he was captured in the war and after the fall. He never had something to hold on for, to cling to, to keep his mind focused on anything outside of the unrelenting torture.

So, he savors the feel of your body wrapped around his, the smell of your hair, the soft touches of your fingers as you run them in gentle patterns along his back, the hum of your voice; it’s all his saving grace, every piece of you.

He knows he’s a mess. He fully realizes how broken he is and he’s crumbling at the seams, especially after these last few months, but you never once turn him away, never even consider that he is as irredeemable as he thinks he is.

It’s the reason he thinks he might just be alright.

One day.

Maybe not today, because there’s still pieces of darkness clouding around him, but he’s able to see through the fog of it again. It’s something, and your sweet voice echoes in his ear, reminding him it’s the process that counts, no matter how small the steps.

Thank you so much for reading! ❤️ If you enjoyed this fic, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi account ✨

[sarahjkl82-blog]

Artistic Instinct: Chapter 3

Header thanks to the lovely @yespolkadotkitty​ 

Summary: Marcus Pike and OC Anushka Pierce have been selected to work on a 5 eyes (Australia, Canada, NZ, the UK and US) intelligence team to track down art forgeries as a part of taking down an international white terrorism cell. Marcus is trying to escape his broken heart, Anushka is just trying to escape what the world expects of her.

Word count: 3,200

Warnings: Language.

Pairing: Marcus Pike x reader (OC)

This comes with a MASSIVE THANK YOU to the lovely @yespolkadotkitty , who read, re-read, pointed out the constant flipping between tenses and gave me the confidence to try to write something!This is the first thing I have written since angsty poetry as a teenager. Apologies if it is shit! If an artist falls in love with you, you will live forever.

Genereux Philip

Chapter 3

Two years earlier

After a year’s secondment to Interpol at Stephen’s request, you and Jasper Kelly had settled into life in Lyon. Whereas in London, you’d had to hide your relationship, here you were freer to live together and not need to keep up appearances. You had just taken the ancient funicular railway up the steeply sloping hill with Jasper, having enjoyed a glass or two of kir royale from one of the many cafés of Vieux Lyon, the warmth from the alcohol heating your belly and the bite of the blackcurrant still sweet on your lips. Your fingers interlaced with his, without having to care that you might be seen as he stroked lazy circles on the back of your hand absentmindedly as the car was hauled up the hill by the thick wires. 

Looking out across the city, resting on the white balustrades in the shadows of Fourvière, the view took your breath away. It didn’t matter how many times you saw it, it consistently changed depending on the light, the weather and your mood. Those typically French rooftops softly peaking, reaching for miles around you as the Rhône and Saône snaked lazily around the centre, cradling the rabbit warren of a city in its arms. The warmth from Jasper’s arm had disappeared from your waist, with you barely registering its absence. When you finally clocked that his hand had abandoned your side, you turned to find him holding a small box in his hand.

“Please don’t do this, Jas. You know we can’t,” you pleaded quietly, a cold wave of anxiety rushing through your body. 

“Nush, will you marry me?” Jasper Kelly’s eyes locked onto yours, a man determined to make you his. He’d had enough of your belief that you couldn’t make your relationship official. That Mi5 would have your guts for garters and you’d never be allowed to work together again. Now, he wanted to make it truly official. By the laws of the land official and you were still pushing him away. 

“I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life stroking your hair on the sofa, curling around you in bed and kissing your forehead whilst you’re reading.” 

“You can do all of that now.  You do that all now. You don’t need to marry me to continue to do that. Please, Jas. We’ve been through this. I don’t know how many more times I need to explain this to you or if there even is another way of explaining it.” you fretted anxiously as a lump gathered in your throat.

Your heart then shattered when you saw Jasper’s head drop with grief. You didn’t want to hurt him. The thought of doing it was completely abhorrent but how could you explain this to anyone? How could you be someone’s fiancé when the two of you could only exist in fleeting moments whenever and wherever you couldn’t be seen? You’d been partnered with Jasper from your first day in Stephens’ office as a rookie when your heart was slightly less guarded than now and whilst you’d worked together for close to fifteen years, you’d spent just over a decade hiding any sign that there was anything more than a professional partnership. You’d never met each other’s families as anything other than colleagues for fear of admonishment and relocations or worse through work. It was all an imperfect game of hide and seek. 

Hephzi, the woman with whom you trusted your deepest darkest secrets, had no idea that you’d had anything more than a professional relationship. Your mum had positively gushed over him and even said in front of Jasper, what a good husband he’d make, looking pointedly at you. Stephens had muttered something to Jasper once that he wondered whether the pair of you were anything more- Jasper convinced you that he’d made it sound light and easy. Nothing that would ever infringe on your ability to work together.

However, Andy had spotted how steady everything was in Sainsburys when the three of you were picking up beers together after a late night working session. Jasper had unthinkingly swept the mass of hair off your back and kissed you tenderly on the point where your neck and shoulder met as you were waiting to pay and the way you’d leant back into his touch, a calmness and love radiating through your face told him everything. He was the only one who had any visual evidence that this wasn’t just someone to crawl into bed and take your frustrations out by grinding together until the world ceased to exist as anything other than short term sensations. No, this was tender. This was long term. These were two people who just worked in every sense of the word. You hadn’t even realised that Andy had any sort of idea until after Jasper had died- that he’d kept the knowledge of that moment to himself, never mentioning a word. 

“I can’t keep living my life like this, Nush. I want to be able to live normally. Not constantly in the shadows as you think we have to be.” Jasper pleaded, “I want you to meet my mum as my girlfriend, my fiancée, my wife. Not as my bloody work colleague. Life doesn’t begin and end at work.”

“I don’t expect you to have kids. I don’t expect you to ever step down from the work that I know you live for. I just want us to be a team in every aspect, everywhere. Not covertly. Constantly hiding in the darkness to be able to sneak a moment here and there,”Jasper pleaded with you, trying to catch your eye.

You closed your eyes tightly, wishing that you could be million miles away from there, “If that is what you want, I can’t give you that, Jas.” You struggled to hold back the tears as you mumbled,  “You deserve for all of your dreams to come true and to have the life that you imagine but the one you’ve described isn’t a future I can be a part of.” 

“For one thing, I... I know kids are a big thing for you and I can’t make you give up on that dream to be a dad.You know that work will always be my baby and a huge part of our work is being untraceable- we make this official, have a family and we instantly put each other and any maybe babies at risk of being hurt by unscrupulous characters.” 

You’d stood there, shoulder to shoulder with Jasper in silence. The city was no longer in focus as your eyes spilled hot, salty tears. Everything hurt. Everything ached. 

“What are we going to do, Jas?” You turned to face him with your tear streaked face and trembling chin, “Where do we go from here?

“I’m not sure,” Jasper whispered, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, “I just want to hold you and never let go and pretend that you said yes, or pretend that this never happened so that we can go on going through the motions that this is what we both want.” 

Jasper used his thumb to wipe the tears away from your cheeks, staring deeply into your eyes.

“You are right though,” he added, his jaw tensed. “I want all of you to myself, Nush. The thought of returning to London and having to hide again makes me feel sick to my stomach. I’m too old and exhausted to keep playing these games. We need to make a decision before we head back to the UK.”  

You stumbled past him, the uneven ground carving into the thin soles of your pumps as tears stung your eyes. There was a small road with barely any pavement winding its way down the hill that your feet followed, not knowing where it would lead but your mind was elsewhere as the wind blew in your face, and a desperate sobbing carried on the breeze behind you. 

✪✪✪✪✪ 

Walking across the airport concourse, you scan the area for the man you’d only met less than twelve hours earlier. Initially, you are searching for someone who fills a sharply tailored suit perfectly but then it clicks. The meeting isn’t until tomorrow morning- he, like you, has probably run home to grab a change of clothes and a carry on bag. Bollocks! Perhaps you should have accepted a lift to the airport from him. Surely, he can’t look that different? As you head closer to the EasyJet desk, scanning the airport crowds left and right for a handsome, middle-aged man, you finally clock him. He’s slightly leaning against a wall reading a paperback, concentrating on the text with his dark eyebrows furrowed and pinching his plump bottom lip between his thumb and the knuckle of his index finger. How the fuck does someone still look so neat even in just jeans and a hoodie? A genuine smile crosses Marcus’ face, the lines around his eyes crinkling deeply, as he spots you walking towards him. 

“Hey! Sorry this was so last minute- I received the email about this meeting whilst you were in the bathroom sorting the burn on your hand. How is it doing?” he enquires passing you your ticket. 

Pouting as you examine the back of your hand, “I don’t think it quite requires an amputation at the neck yet, Sir.”

Marcus scrunches his nose up with the chuckle he releases at your terrible joke, his dimple flashing in his cheek. You can’t help but relax your face into a slight smile. 

“We need to create a mandate that no one calls me Sir in our office. Makes me feel old,” Marcus jokingly grumbles. 

“I’m not saying a word,” you say as you swing your rucksack over your shoulder, heading towards check in. 

Marcus’ eyes widened with a mock hurt expression, “Hey, low blow.  You’re not that much younger than me!” He grumbles, “Way to kick a man when he’s down!”

With those words, you turn back from the desk with a wink and a small grin that make Marcus’ heart flutter. 

✪✪✪✪✪ 

Despite the quick hop over from Stansted to Lyon, Marcus had made sure that you’d got seats with extra legroom. “Are you always this thoughtful, or just trying to make a good impression?” You almost said trying to get into your knickers but managed to maintain appropriateness bearing in mind that this poor man had been your boss for barely a day.

“I aim to not be a dick as much as possible,” Marcus counters. “Listen. You went a bit pale when I invited you to come with me today. It must be really strange having a new boss after so much time with Stephens. I hope you didn’t feel that I forced you into coming- I would hate for you to feel uncomfortable around me.”

Your face drops a little and you shake your head slightly, “It wasn’t that, Sir, I mean Agent Pike-”

“You can call me Marcus. I’m not keen on those formalities - and we’re on our own time now, although we’re travelling for work!” He huffs and chuckles, watching for your response.

“What about Sir Agent Marcus Pike? That work?” you tease mercilessly, your eyebrow arched and barely glancing at him as you flick through your iPad at the agenda for the next day’s meeting.

“Yeah, that works. My Mom would be delighted for me to be a Knight! Put me in your phone as that,” Marcus plays along, enjoying the friendly banter that seemed to have built between you. “Anyway, I interrupted you- what were you about to say?”

“I didn’t feel forced, Marcus. We may have known each other for less than half a day but please understand that I would have told you in no uncertain terms that I would be uncomfortable travelling with you had it been the case,” you firmly state looking directly in those hypnotic chocolate brown eyes. Marcus gazes straight back entranced, softening his gaze, feeling astounded that you were focussed on him. 

“Do you want to talk about the real reason then?” Marcus gently pries, “I mean, there’s no way anyone gets to our age without ghosts or baggage, and a problem sha-“

“No.” Despite Marcus guarding his feelings well, you can see that he’s surprised by the sharpness of your tone. Marcus unconsciously folds his arms across his chest and a wave of guilt floods your mind as you know that it’s a defensive move, protecting himself against you.

“Where are we staying when we get there?” you try changing the subject and softening your tone even though a bitter metallic taste was stinging the back of your throat. 

You watch Marcus awkwardly fumbling in his pocket that was restricted by the seat, searching for his phone “Uh, I think it’s the Mercure Lyon Centre Beaux-Arts- it was booked earlier by Andy. We’ve got separate rooms but they’re next to each other- I hope you don’t mind the proximity?”

You shake your head, trying to stay quiet, wanting to avoid upsetting or irritating your new boss any further. 

✪✪✪✪✪

Marcus rolls his bag into his room after wishing you a goodnight at the door to your room. He hangs his shirt in the cupboard, and grabs his grooming bag, walking into the bathroom with the intention of a long, hot shower. 

His mind is spinning with thoughts of you. Something about you intrigues him. He wants to know everything and yet you veer wildly between a cool, hard nosed professional and this warm, gently-teasing ray of sunshine. He feels like every conversation he holds with you, he manages to take a couple of steps forward and then roughly a thousand back. 

Between the stilted conversations and the colour your face had turned in that earlier meeting, he is genuinely worried about how your relationship will eventually pan out. Will you always hold him at arm's length? Would he be ever entrusted to Andy levels of closeness? Marcus rubs the furrows in his brow as thoughts of you zip around unrestrainedly. 

You had been put forward as being unparalleled in your knowledge of art, forgers techniques and a multi linguist to boot and whilst your intelligence was obvious, would you ever let him get any closer? Andy was so obviously fond of you and had sung your praises from the rooftops - but there was something you were hiding.

Stripping down to his pants, he turns on the shower, relishing the pressure of the jet on his wrist as the water rushes out. Marcus sheds himself of his underwear and steps under the torrent of gloriously warm water. 

Allowing it to cascade over him, he stands there, permitting the water to rinse him free of everything. Apart from you. As he shut his eyes, all he can see is the shine of your dark hair and those almond-shaped eyes of yours. He’s known you for less than half a day and it was as if you had already tattooed a permanent image of yourself in his brain. Squeezing a blob of shampoo out into his hand, he brings it into his dripping wet curls, massaging the liquid through his dark roots. 

Of course this would be the moment that a knock sounded sharply at his door. Quickly rinsing the suds from his hair, he grabs the available bath sheet, wrapping it tightly around his waist before walking to the hotel room door. In the seemingly short seconds of his jumping out of the shower, his visitor has disappeared from the hallway. Just as Marcus cranes his neck to squint a little further down the hall, a buzz comes from his phone, alerting him to a message.

Sorry- knocked, then heard the shower. Gone to find food- let me know if you don’t like or are allergic to anything. Be back in five or tell me to piss off if you don’t want anything, Nush x

Your name lit up the screen. With a kiss at the end. Exhaling a deep sigh and shutting his eyes tightly, Marcus doesn’t think he could ever tell you to go away. 

Surprise me, M

✪✪✪✪✪

A little more than five minutes later, you turn up at Marcus’ door holding a bag stuffed with a selection of saucisson sec, Brie de meaux, cornichons, artichokes and a couple of sticks of pain de campagne. Your rucksack clinks suspiciously with a couple of bottles of Côte de Rhône, which makes Marcus’s eyes light up. 

“That was a quick recce! Good choices here though!” He remarks, impressed with your finds as he takes the bags from you. 

“I know Lyon well. Was seconded here for a while with Interpol’s art crime department.” you offer with an anxious sideways  look at Marcus as you break off a hunk of bread, hollowing out the soft centre and shovelling it into your starving mouth. 

Please don’t pry. Please don’t pry. Please don’t pry.

You see a gentle acknowledgment from the other agent’s eyes. Now knowing better than to press you further, Marcus instead grabs his iPad, “Wanna watch a film?”

“Sure, what’ve you got?” You ask absentmindedly when really you’re far more concerned about filling your growling stomach, “Actually scratch that, you choose. You’re the head of an art crime department, your taste can’t be that terrible.”

“Hah! Do you treat all your co-workers so nicely, or am I just special??” Marcus teases whilst enjoying the ease that seems to have developed with the appearance of the food, “So, Sharknado 3, then?”

“Ah, my favourite of the trilogy!” You play along as Marcus’ beautifully deep chuckle reaches your ears. 

Marcus and you settle on either end of the sofa, the food spread between you on the coffee table and the water glasses filled with wine. The iPad set between the two of you plays Roman Holiday and whilst you both initially rave about the level of beauty from Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck, you both fall into a calm, comfortable silence, absorbed by the romantic comedy. Every now and then, you feel a soft pair of eyes on you, which you occasionally catch to send small lopsided smiles back.

As Ann walks away from Joe reluctantly on the screen and Joe lingers after her departure, you stretch and gaze around the room. Your eyes fall upon a broad chest that is steadily rising and falling and your ears prick at soft snores as Marcus breathes in. Knees cracking as you rise from the couch, you shake each leg out and stretch slowly with a small squeak as your joints finally decide to be in a position to move again. Moving quietly over to the bed, you grab the quilt and lug it to the sofa, pulling the covers over Marcus’ peacefully sleeping frame. 

✪✪✪✪✪

As the door softly clicks shut, and slightly disturbs his rest with a cool breeze that carries the smallest hint of your perfume, Marcus could have sworn that you’d kissed your fingers then touched it to his brow. The soft brush of your fingertips a gentle memory on the creases of his forehead.

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If you’d like to be added or removed, please let me know! I don’t bite hard and am always up for chats.

[gracelessfighters]

don’t feel (3)

JJ Maybank x female reader

Masterlist

Part one // Part two // — // Part four

Summary: JJ comes to check on you after the disastrous kegger, finding you doing chores in the early hours of the morning

Word count: 1.9k (shorter than the others as its more of a filler chapter)

Warnings: abuse, mentions of abuse, blood, swearing, (nothing else?)

——- I am in no way romanticising abuse if you have any issues with my writing pls message me

A/N: this isnt my best i’m sorry but reading through it i wasn’t sure where to change it, and because its acting as more of a filler it’s not hugely important anyway - but next part should be all fluff i hope so i’m looking forward to writing it :)) // as always feedback is appreciated

“I can explain!” You exclaimed, hands out defensively as your parents stood up from your bed.

Both your mum and dad crossed their arms, the tapping of your mum’s foot being the only noice in the room for a few seconds, “Okay then young lady, explain.” Your mum said expectantly.

“I needed some fresh air, and I knew you were asleep downstairs mum,” you looked at the floor away from her piercing gaze, “so I didn’t want to wake you and left through my window I’m sorry.”

“You ‘went out for some air’ looking like that?” Your dad waved his hand at your outfit and ruined makeup, his eyebrows raised.

“I- um, was wearing this already and I was upset.” You knew your excuse was getting progressively worse, the lies you were telling getting harder and harder to believe, but you still wanted to try.

Without warning your mum’s hand connected with your face, “Don’t lie to us! We’re not stupid.”

You cupped your face in shock, trying to hold back the tears that were already threatening to spill out of your eyes. “I’m sorry, what can I do to make up for it?”

“Stop lying to us for one you little bitch.” Your dad spat at you, grabbing your wrist in an excruciatingly tight grip.

Your mum nodded her agreement, not even caring about the look of pain on your face as your dad began dragging you along towards the bathroom.

“Get cleaned up and then go and clean the pool.”

“But its the middle of the night-“

“You said you wanted some fresh air didn’t you? At leat you’re being helpful by doing this.” He shoved you into the bathroom, ignoring the way you tripped over your feet and fell, hitting the edge of the sink with your head on the way down.

The door slammed behind you, and just like that, the floodgates seemed to open for what felt like the fiftieth time that night. How do you have enough water left in your body for even more crying?

You lifted your hand up to where it had come into contact with the sink, pulling back when you felt a warm liquid, and even though your vision was blurry from the tears - it was obvious it was blood.

“Shit.” You reached for the sink, pulling yourself up from the floor so you could properly look into the mirror behind it.

Realising you had to fix this up before it got worse, you ran the tap, splashing some cold water on your face to get rid of some of the make up and combat the tears, and went into the cupboard searching for a clean piece of cloth to hold up against the wound.

Standing in front of the mirror, a small towel held up against the cut to stop the bleeding, you examined yourself and the only words that could describe you right now was ‘a fucking mess’.

After several minutes you removed the towel, happy to see that the bleeding had slowed almost completely, and so began clearing the rest of yourself up, starting with removing the make up stains across your whole face. Once you felt and looked less like someone who had been crying for the whole night, you quietly left the bathroom and changed into some leggings and an oversized sweatshirt. You didn’t want to go and do some chores at this time of night but you weren’t going to upset your parents again as they had almost gone easy on you tonight.

Heading downstairs you heard your parent’s bedroom door shut, one of them had probably been waiting to make sure you go outside.

You had never liked the shed where all the pool cleaning stuff was stored, it was something about the spiders that lived in there that had always freaked you out, scared one would fall on you if you moved something. Taking a few deep breaths to try and prepare yourself, you stepped into the small wooden building, sidestepping over a broken spade and grabbed the equipment you needed.

Your pool wasn’t huge like some on this street, but it was still big enough to be a pain in the ass to clean, you threw the equipment on the floor, grabbing a net to remove all the leaves and bugs that had fallen into the water and began the cleaning process.

It took about 10 minutes to remove all the debris, and as you turned your attention to brushing some dirt off the walls, you heard movement behind you. In most situations you would assume this was one of your parents, but for once without a doubt you knew it wasn’t them as you were facing the house and there had been no movement inside.

Your heart was racing, this was like some sort of crime show where you get murdered and left to bleed out in your pool - no you weren’t going to let your thoughts head down that road, it was probably a cat or something, yeah something harmless, you slowly began to convince yourself.

You began to turn around, the brush you were holding close to your chest ready for its debut as a weapon if needed, when your heart leapt out of your skin at the tall figure you were met with.

As you lifted the brush, ready to strike, you realised you knew the figure, his deep blue eyes staring at you, a small smirk playing at his lips.

“What the fuck!” You say, wary you can’t be any louder in case your parents hear, “Did you follow me home or something?”

He held up his hands in surrender, “I didn’t follow you home, but I might’ve asked someone where you lived.”

“That’s not any less creepy JJ if I’m being honest - why did you come to my house?”

“Well I was going to make sure you were okay and maybe play out a rom com situation where I talk to you at your window, but instead it seems to be one of the classic porn scenarios, not that I’m complaining.” He smirked at you.

You roll your eyes in disgust, “Get your head out the gutter. And as you can see I’m fine so please leave.”

“I hear you say fine, but it’s the early hours of the morning and you’re cleaning a pool, as well as some sort of head injury that I can feel by the way, so I’m going with you’re not fine.” He raises his eyebrows at you in question.

Fuck, you’d forgotten about that recent development, annoyed there was now someone you could never hide your pain from, for better or worse.

“I’m cleaning because after my disaster of a night, I couldn’t get to sleep so I thought this would help clear my mind, and its a small cut from where I fell in the bathroom and hit my head because I’m clumsy. That good enough for you?” You were almost proud of how easily you could lie to people, but in fairness you had fell in the bathroom so that one wasn’t exactly a lie, more of an omission of the whole truth.

JJ nodded to himself, “We’re gonna have to talk about it at some point.”

“Talk about what?” You asked, worried he might’ve not believed what you’d said and was making theories about your home life.

“The soulmate thing.”

“Oh,” you breathed out, “yeah probably, although there’s not much to say.”

He let out a small chuckle, “Well this is going to be harder than I thought, you’re not one for being emotional and open are you?”

“Not really no,” you couldn’t help but laugh a little at yourself, “but I understand we might need to get to know each other now.”

“Great.” He stepped towards you, smiling, “Should we start now?”

“We’ve already clarified I’m cleaning a pool, do you need your eyes checked or something?”

He raised his eyebrows at the way your words dripped with sarcasm, “I think my eyes are fine baby, I guess we’ll have to reschedule to tomorrow then.”

“I guess we do.” You respond, trying to ignore the way your stomach fluttered when he called you baby, especially because he was clearly trying to get a rise out of you.

“Alright, can you surf?”

“How will that help us to get to know each other?”

“You learn a lot surfing with someone, and it means we spend most of the day together - so can you surf?”

You consider telling him that you couldn’t, but you were actually pretty good and this could be an opportunity to show him up - and because he was your soulmate you really did want to get to know him, you were just too stubborn to admit it at the moment.

“Yeah I can blondie, hope you’re ready to be put to shame.” You laughed.

“Oh I cant wait,” he smiled at you, “I’ll meet you at the beach at ten?”

“Ten’s good for me, and hey maybe we’ll both actually sleep before then.”

“Alright,” he looked like he wanted to step closer to you but instead settled on a small wave, “I’ll see you then.”

He gave you one last smile before turning away and heading back out of your garden, and as you watched him leave and thought about your “date” tomorrow your heart quickened.

——

As JJ walked away from you he smiled to himself, he had never met someone like you - anyone he’d ever been with he either hadn’t got to know or they didn’t excite him in the way he wanted. The only person he’d ever considered to date was Kie as she knew some of the darkest things about him and stayed around and she joked around with him nicely, but he realised pretty quickly that she was better to have as a friend.

He’d only ever seen you a few times, and in the past week or so at that, but he was loving every minute he spent with you - your fiery attitude and sarcasm seemed to compliment his personality pretty well. And god when you laughed, he felt like there was nothing bad in the world and he wanted to do everything in his power to make you laugh, hopefully brightening your day and definitely making his day better.

There was one thing that he was worried about though, which was you seemed to be injured as often as he was, and you definitely weren’t going to be open about in the same way he hated talking about his dad. What if your family life wasn’t great either? If that was the case, it’d be hard for either of you to heal in the way you wanted with reminders of other people hurting someone you loved.

Loved. He couldn’t believe he was already thinking about that when he barely knew you and was terrified of love and the thought that people wouldn’t love him back. But he’d be an idiot if he let this opportunity pass him by self sabotaging the relationship.

So, with a slight spring in his step at the thought of your date tomorrow, he walked to the chateau, keeping the image of you laughing at the front of his mind.

tag list: @outerbongs @jjaybank @bailspogue @outerbankslut @ilikealotofpeople-younotsomuch @alexa-playafricabytoto @teamnick @k-k0129 @do-not-talk-to-me-i-am-awkward @thoughtsofthestars @http-cherries @n1ghtsh4d3-67 @thesurfingsnail @lonely-kermit @oopsiedoopsie23 @overly-b @lus-shh @xlittlemissydjx @asaks6082 @copper-boom @danicarosaline @deathcompass @jellyfishbeansontoast @butterfliesinthenightsky @iamaunicorn4704 @my-soul-is-the-moon @diverrdown @thorsangel​ @saintkore​ @prejudic3​ @ponyboys-sunsets​ @starrystarkey93​ @teenwaywardasgardian​ @celestialmaybank​ @kaylinfayezink​ @pixelated-pogues​ @otrbnks​ (i think this is everyone pls tell me if i missed you cos i’m dumb)

[aidanchaser]

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Everyone Lives AU

Table of Contents beta’d by @ageofzero @magic713m @ccboomer @aubsenroute @somebodyswatson

Chapter Fourteen The Thief

Even after a few weeks, the tent still smelled like cat litter, and Harry wondered, not for the first time, if he should have asked his parents for their family tent. He had never considered that camping would be part of the hunt for Horcruxes, but Hermione had. She had thought of everything.

Ron returned from the creek and dropped the bucket of water he had gathered onto the table with a heavy thud. The water sloshed over the edges and spilled onto Hermione’s notes.

Hermione jumped up, taking Rita Skeeter’s thick book with her. “Careful, Ron!”

“Sorry,” he grunted, but there was no concern in his apology, and there was no forgiveness in Hermione’s pursed lips as she moved from the table to her bed.

Harry didn’t blame them. They had been living in close quarters, moving campsites every few days, and snatching food and news where they could. Between hunger, radio silence from the Order, and no progress on the hunt for the remaining Horcrux and the sword, they had all grown tense and weary of each other.

“I’ll check the wards,” Harry said, though Ron and Hermione were not paying attention to him.

The fresh air was a relief from the oppressive scent of cat litter, but there wasn’t anything more interesting outside. It looked just as it had when Harry had walked the perimeter of their campsite an hour ago.

The earth was carpeted in crisp brown leaves that rustled as Harry walked. He did not try to muffle his steps; he, Ron, and Hermione had concealed their campsite well. Outsiders could not see their camp, could not hear them, and — after a troubling incident at their last campsite — could not smell anything inside their camp.

The sun was low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the forest. It was nearly dinner time, and Harry wondered what to do about food. He’d been able to use his father’s book to find herbs for seasoning, but he hadn’t found much food to go with them. Last night, Ron had brought back a pair of rabbits that had been the basis for a meager stew, and Harry hoped he could get as lucky tonight. He looked and listened, but saw no signs that there were any creatures nearby. He wondered if the wards that kept people away would also keep animals from venturing too close.

Harry sat down on a half-rotted log and pulled his jacket closed. He watched the sun slip behind the trees and wondered what they would do when winter came, when food was even scarcer and the weather more dangerous.

He rubbed his forehead and tried to massage out his headache. He blamed his hunger for it, not his scar, but it was hard to tell the difference.

At least the dreams of his father had stopped a week ago. Though there had been no news about James printed in the Daily Prophet, there had been a short article in The Quibbler that had told readers how James Potter had been taken by Death Eaters and that his family was desperate for news. There had been no information about Lily and Remus, but Harry hoped that the article proved that they were alive. Only Lily and Remus had known what had happened to James, so who else could have told Lovegood?

Harry was about to stand up and make another walk around the campsite, when pain surged suddenly, sharp and hot. He squeezed his eyes shut and the sounds of the forest around him vanished, replaced with the creaking of old floorboards.

“Give it to me, Gregorovitch.”

The elderly man with thick white hair and a grizzled beard hung suspended in the air, just like that woman over the Malfoy’s dining table. His face was blotched and red — and eye-level. He thrashed in vain.

“I have it not,” he gasped. “No more! It was stolen! Many years ago!”

He stepped closer. Candlelight flickered in the man’s wide, terrified eyes.

“Do not lie to Lord Voldemort, Gregorovitch. He knows… he always knows.”

The vision of Gregorovitch dissolved into darkness, then was replaced by Gregorovitch’s back as he hurried down a dark corridor, a hand-held lantern lighting his way. He threw open the door to a workshop, where rough-hewn branches rested on a work bench and woodshavings had been swept into uneven piles on the floor. The lantern light fell on the window sill, where a young man with thick golden curls perched. With a laugh, the young man fired a Stunning Charm, and disappeared into the darkness.

And then the vision of Gregorovitch suspended by his ankle returned.

“Who was the thief, Gregorovitch?”

“I do not know! I never knew! Just a young man — please, no — please —”

The man begged for his life, but he was silenced with a flash of green light.

Harry returned to the forest, breathless and hot, despite the cold and damp weather. He laid still for a moment, and waited until the pain receded and he could move again. Leaves and damp earth stuck to his face and clothing when he did finally sit up. He brushed them away as best as he could and returned to the tent.

“Find any food?” Ron asked hopefully.

Harry shook his head and took off his jacket. He still felt warm from his vision. “It’s alright — I’m not hungry. You can split what’s left from this morning.”

Hermione looked up from her book and stared at him with a hard, cold gaze.

“What did you see?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“You’re pale and sweaty. What did you see?”

Ron perked up again. “Was it anything about the Order?”

Harry rubbed a hand over his face. “No. It was nothing, just — he caught up with Gregorovitch. And killed him. That’s all.”

Ron deflated once more, and Hermione frowned.

“Harry, you shouldn’t —”

“Yes, Occlumency, I know,” he snapped. Harry sat down on the bunk that he and Ron shared. “It’s not like I want to watch him murder people across the continent.”

“I think you do,” she said. “You want to know what he’s thinking, what he’s up to.”

He knew the anger that flared in him was not only with Hermione, but with Snape who had once scolded him similarly, but his frustration burst out of him just the same. “Maybe I do, Hermione! Maybe I like knowing that he’s not murdering my dad or capturing my mum! Is there something wrong with that?”

“I think you should be asking why you’re having these dreams again. You didn’t have them at all last year. Don’t you think it’s a bit suspicious that Vol —”

“Don’t say his name!” Ron interrupted with a shout.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “You’re being stupid, Ron.”

“It just feels jinxed, alright?”

Hermione sniffed, but didn’t argue with Ron. They’d had the argument many times already, and no one had come away satisfied.

Instead, she said, “Don’t you think it’s suspicious that You-Know-Who would stay out of your head all year last year, but now that he’s failed to capture you, despite all his control over the Ministry, you’re seeing into his mind again?”

Harry had thought about it. He hadn’t had much else to do except think about his dreams. He just didn’t like the answer he’d come up with.

“I don’t think he’s doing it on purpose,” Harry said. “Sirius said that when he tried to take over my mind it hurt him. He can’t bear being too close to me when I… when I think about the people I love. It worked in Godric’s Hollow, too, when he was… you know, torturing my dad. I was able to shut him out with Mum’s help, and I felt how it hurt him as he pulled away from the connection.” He thought it was also why he didn’t dream his way into Voldemort’s mind on the nights he had slept next to Ginny, but he didn’t dare to say that in front of Ron.

“But why would he start going into your dreams again now?” Hermione asked.

This was another answer that Harry didn’t like. He fidgeted with his wand. “I think it all started now because he split his soul again. It was the first dream I had, of him trying to make the sword into a Horcrux. I think it weakened him more than he’s realised.”

“So you really think that the sword…?” Hermione swallowed.

Harry shrugged. “Regulus seemed certain it wasn’t, but he didn’t explain what happens when an object rejects a soul fragment. I guess it’s never happened before.”

“Maybe it burned up?” Ron poured the bucket of water into the cauldron with a bit more care than he’d shown earlier. “And we don’t have to worry about it anymore?”

“You can’t destroy a soul!” Hermione abandoned The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore and pulled Secrets of the Darkest Arts from a stack on the table. “That’s the very reason that Horcruxes work.”

“Then what happened to it? You’re the one who said you can’t fix a tear in your soul unless you feel guilty about it, so what, it’s just floating around out there somewhere?”

“I don’t know! I can’t read about something that’s never happened before!”

The book fell open in her hands, and Harry saw the familiar runes and casting diagrams that Hermione had been poring over for months. His stomach turned as his dream from the middle of summer rose to the surface of his thoughts.

Ron turned to Harry. “What about you? Can’t you dig through his mind and find out what happened to it?”

“I’m not a Legilimens.” Harry didn’t like the defensive note in his voice, but he couldn’t help it. He looked away from Hermione’s book and focused on Ron. “I can only see into his head when he’s really angry, and I can only see what he’s currently thinking about. Don’t you think I’d have dug around to find out where my dad is if I could?”

“I still think this connection is dangerous,” said Hermione, “and if you know how to close it off, I don’t understand why you wouldn’t!”

“You don’t think it’s important to find out why he wants Gregorovitch? You haven’t found any leads in your research, so this is all we have.”

“Well, if your way is working so well, what does Vol —”

“Don’t!” Ron interrupted.

Hermione let out an exasperated sigh and closed her book. “What does You-Know-Who want with Gregorovitch? And how does it help us?”

“He’s looking for something,” Harry ran his hand through his hair, “something that was stolen from Gregorovitch. The thief looked familiar, but I can’t think why…”

Whatever Voldemort was truly searching for, neither he nor Harry were having much luck on their quests. The parallel made Harry uneasy.

“I thought he wanted a new wand,” Harry said, “but in that case he wouldn’t have killed Gregorovitch. Maybe he wants a wand Gregorovitch had already made?”

“Don’t start with that again.” Hermione rolled her eyes.

Harry clenched the edge of the bed. “My wand did something, Hermione. I’m sorry you don’t understand it, and maybe Ollivander doesn’t either, but something happened when we dueled, something outside of my control. It recognised him, Hermione. He knows that, or he wouldn’t be hunting down this thief, he’d be hunting me.”

“Just because you and You-Know-Who believe something happened to your wand —”

“Cedric saw it, too.”

“Well, then let’s just write another letter to Cedric and ask what he thinks!” Hermione stood and folded her arms across her chest.

Harry knew that Cedric’s silence had hurt Hermione as much as it hurt him. Still, he felt the need to defend Cedric.

“Maybe he can’t write to us if he’s being watched, but if we could go to the Ministry and ask him —”

“Yes, that’s much safer than writing letters if Cedric’s being watched.” Hermione’s laugh was sharp and derisive. “Besides, you know we don’t just put ourselves at risk by doing that. We would endanger Ron’s entire family if he’s seen. Truly an excellent plan, Harry. It’s as well-thought out as your idea last week, which was not much more than walking up to the Lestrange estate and asking if they have Helga Hufflepuff’s cup!”

“I don’t see you coming up with any better ideas!”

“Does anyone want to know what I think?” Ron asked.

Harry and Hermione both went silent.

“What do you think, Ron?” Hermione finally asked, though her words were still as sharp as they had been with Harry.

“I think if we can’t get a hold of Cedric, we ought to find Regulus. He knows more than we do.”

“Yeah, Regulus has been really helpful so far,” Harry grunted, and rolled over in his bunk, turning his back to Ron and Hermione.

He did not see how Regulus, who had refused to come to Godric’s Hollow, who had not helped them escape Grimmauld Place, who had an entirely different secret mission from Dumbledore, was any help to them. His story about the locket had been interesting and enlightening, but Harry couldn’t help but feel that Regulus was still lying about something, that he hadn’t told them everything. Regulus’ secrecy bothered Harry as much as Cedric’s silence.

Harry spent the rest of the evening in his bunk, listening as Hermione and Ron portioned out their meager food supply and debated who would take first watch. Harry felt like a poor leader, sulking in his bed, but it wasn’t as if he had anything helpful to contribute.

Their trip to Godric’s Hollow, which had been entirely his idea, had been a waste — a waste that had cost him his father, and possibly his mother and Remus. There had been no Horcrux and no sword. They had come away with nothing but Rita Skeeter’s book, and if it had anything helpful in it, Hermione hadn’t told them yet.

And Hermione was right. None of his new ideas were any better.

Harry had already discussed with Ron and Hermione each of the memories Dumbledore had shown him. Together, they had dissected every place visited and every word spoken, but nothing yielded clues about where a Horcrux might be. The orphanage from Tom Riddle’s childhood had been torn down, Borgin and Burkes’ was too risky a place to keep a Horcrux when one of them might sell it unwittingly, and Hepzibah Smith’s home was currently occupied by her descendants, who had no connection to the Death Eaters.

They had revisited Regulus’ theory that the cup was with Bellatrix Lestrange or Pyrites. Both, however, had spent most of the last sixteen years in prison, and their homes would have been scoured for Dark objects. It was unlikely something like a Horcrux, and all the protections around it, would have been missed.

Harry must have drifted to sleep amidst his thoughts, because the next thing he knew, Ron was shaking him awake to tell him it was his turn for watch.

With bleary eyes, Harry rolled out of the bunk and pulled his jacket back on. He kept his wand at the ready and stumbled outside the tent. The night was brisk and cool, and Harry sat down on the same log he had collapsed on earlier that day. Overhead, a half-full moon illuminated their campsite in a pale glow. The trees looked like dark skeletons, leering in the night. Harry shivered and pulled his coat closer.

His stomach ached with hunger and he regretted turning down dinner. There was nothing in the darkness to distract him from his pain, both physical and mental. It was good news, really, to know there was nothing out there, but Harry yearned for something to occupy his mind, to pull his thoughts away from the weight of his impossible task and his overwhelming hunger. Though it was unwise, and surely Hermione would scold him if she knew, he pulled the mirror out from his jacket and breathed Ginny’s name into it.

Harry’s reflection was replaced by Gryffindor Tower.

The lights in Ginny’s dormitory were dimmed for sleep, but Harry could still make out the mural on the ceiling and the shape of the red canopy over her bed. The curtains were pulled closed.

Harry’s chest ached unexpectedly. Though the mural was different, the colours and style were identical to his own dormitory. The bed curtains, too, were the same shade of red, recognisable even in the dim light.

Harry wondered how empty his own dorm must be. He and Ron were gone, but Neville would be there, and probably Seamus. Had Dean tried to return to Hogwarts? If he had, surely they wouldn’t have let him stay.

He thought about how different things would be if there hadn’t been a prophecy, or if instead the prophecy had been about Neville. Would he be there in that dormitory? Or would he have hunted Horcruxes with Neville, or maybe stayed with his parents to fight?

It wasn’t right and it wasn’t fair that he had to be the one on this quest, that he had to be the one hunting Horcruxes, that his family had to suffer for a choice Voldemort had made years ago.

Light flickered in the mirror, brightening softly. He heard footsteps, and Ginny’s curtains parted.

She had a worn flannel pulled over her, and her red hair was unkempt. She blinked blearily at something outside of Harry’s view.

“Helen?” she whispered. “You’re only just getting in?”

“Oh,” another voice answered, “sorry to wake you. I had Astronomy you know…”

Ginny reached for the wristwatch on her bedside table, and she must have seen Harry in the glass. Her shock was brief, and she looked back at her roommate with a neutral expression.

“It’s nearly four.”

“I stopped to check in on those third years who had detention with the Carrows.” Helen yawned. “I’d better get some rest. We have Dark Arts first thing tomorrow — er, today.”

The curtains rustled as Helen got into bed, and Ginny grabbed the mirror. The surface went dark, and Harry heard a few quick whispered incantations. When her wandlight filled the surface of the glass, Harry noticed that her hair had been brushed out.

He couldn’t help but smile. “Hi.”

“Bit late for a chat,” but she matched his grin. “Everything alright?”

“I just wanted to see you.”

She scrunched up her nose. “Gross.”

He laughed, and it felt like coming up for air. He couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed. “Didn’t you want to see me?”

Her smile faded and her eyes wandered away from him, onto some distant point beyond her bed curtains. “All the time. But every time I find myself wishing you were here, I’m also really glad that you aren’t. It’s awful, Harry.”

Harry understood. He also wished that Ginny were here with him, but he would have been devastated if she had been at Godric’s Hollow. He remembered her offer to help him hunt Horcruxes as soon as she was of age. He fervently hoped that this quest wouldn’t last that long. He didn’t think he could stand this running and hiding for another year.

“That bad?” he asked.

“I can’t even say, ‘At least Snape isn’t teaching anymore,’” Ginny said with a weak, broken laugh, “because the Carrows are worse than anything.”

Harry searched for a more comfortable seat on his log, unsure what to say. He wasn’t used to this side of Ginny. “Worse than Umbridge?” he asked.

She bit her lip, and Harry didn’t need anymore than that to understand.

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugged, and he watched her pull herself together into a more familiar Ginny: strong, flippant, and irreverent as ever. “What about you? Murdered the Dark Lord yet?”

Harry tried to laugh again, but the question wasn’t as funny as she had intended. “We’ve run into a few… challenges.” He told her about their inability to destroy the diadem, their sudden run from Grimmauld Place, and the attack in Godric’s Hollow.

“We didn’t even come close to the Sword,” he said. “And without that, we can’t do much.”

With a confidence Harry didn’t share, she said, “I’m sure your parents are alright.”

Frustration burned inside Harry. His parents were not alright, not even a little bit. Alive, probably, but not alright… But he didn’t want to talk about his parents, and he didn’t want to argue with Ginny, so he let her comment slide. Instead, he asked her what she knew about Gregorovitch.

She shrugged. “Nothing more than what we talked about at the wedding. Are you still having those dreams?”

Harry ignored her question. “He’s looking for something that Gregorovitch had, but was stolen. He’s got to track down this thief. I wish I knew what it was he was after, and why.”

“If it doesn’t have to do with Horcruxes, is it all that important?”

“You sound like Hermione.”

“Good. I’m glad someone with you has some sense, because I know Ron doesn’t. The faster you find and destroy those Horcruxes, the faster all of this is over.”

“And what am I supposed to do? Storm Hogwarts and steal the Sorting Hat to get the Sword? Raid the Lestrange and Pyrites’ estates until I find some stupid cup?”

Ginny pressed her lips together. “Fine. Run off to Germany, then, if that’s what you want.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then what do you want, Harry?”

Even in his exhaustion, hunger, and anger, he couldn’t bring himself to lash out with what he really wanted. Not because he had any sort of restraint to his temper, but because his wants were not something he was quite ready to voice, not even to Ginny.

They were the same wants he had seen in the Mirror of Erised when he was eleven. He’d kept them to himself all these years, hoping that he would eventually grow out of them. But he hadn’t. He was still a stupid child, wishing he could change the past.

Harry bit down on his tongue and looked out into the night. The sky was still dark, and he wondered how much longer until his watch was over. He wondered how much longer until breakfast.

“I should let you get back to bed,” he said. “Sorry I called.”

When he looked back down at her, she was glowering at him. “If you’re so sorry about it, why’d you do it in the first place?”

“I didn’t mean that —”

“Didn’t you? I grew up with six older brothers. I know when I’m being left out.”

“You’re upset that I’m leaving you out of a dangerous quest because you aren’t of age?”

“I’m upset that you’re keeping secrets from me.” The acid in her voice was not uncharacteristic, but Harry was not used to being the target of it, even when she was frustrated with him.

“I’m not keeping secrets, I just… I don’t want to talk about some things.”

“Do you want me to help or not? I know I can’t do much, but I want to do something, even if it’s just listen.”

Harry rubbed his eyes. “I promise when I’m ready to talk, you’ll be the first one I talk to. Is that enough?”

“I don’t have much choice, do I?” And the mirror went dark, and Harry was left staring at his own dim reflection.

He replayed the conversation, trying to think of what he should have done differently. He wasn’t sure. Part of him knew he had misstepped, but he also felt like Ginny had overreacted, though he couldn’t even identify why she was so angry, let alone find a measure of how she ought to have responded.

He sat in the cold, mulling over their conversation for the duration of his watch, until the sky finally began to lighten. It transitioned from deep violet to soft lavender and finally turned dull grey. The grey seemed static and unchanging, and gave the forest around them an eerie feeling, shadowless and vague in form. When the sun finally broke the horizon, the tent opened.

Hermione came out with a cauldron in one hand and Rita Skeeter’s book in the other.

“Quiet night?” she asked as she knelt beside their makeshift firepit.

Harry made a noncommittal gesture, then waved his wand to bring over some of the larger pieces of wood he and Ron had gathered the other day.

“We ought to move sites today,” Hermione said, and set the cauldron up over the fire. Soon, the smell of fresh coffee wafted through their camp, and Harry’s stomach twisted painfully.

“We can use the Cloak to get some food,” he said.

Hermione pursed her lips. Harry knew that she didn’t like the risks of using the Cloak, but he didn’t like wasting their Polyjuice potion.

“Have you had any ideas for where to go next?” she asked.

Harry shrugged. “I still think we should talk to Cedric.”

“We wrote three letters, Harry. Either something’s wrong and the Order doesn’t know it, or he can’t talk to us safely and showing up at the Ministry is too big of a risk!”

“Well, unless you’ve found something in Rita Skeeter’s book, we don’t have any other options. We’ve been wandering for weeks, Hermione. We need to do something.”

Hermione looked down at the heavy text. “It’s… not a lead exactly.”

“Wait — you really found something? And you didn’t think to bring this up yesterday, when we were discussing what to do?”

She clutched the book against her chest as she used her wand to portion coffee into three battered tin mugs. “Discussing is one word for what we were doing,” she mumbled.

“Hermione!”

“You won’t like it.”

Harry was desperate enough to like anything that might give him a clue about what Dumbledore wanted him to do. Even if it came from Rita Skeeter.

With a sigh, Hermione handed the book to him. She had her thumb in a chapter titled, “The Greater Good,” located near the beginning of the book, and indeed it noted that Dumbledore was hardly eighteen at this point in the biography.

Hermione was right, as usual; Harry did not like the information in Rita Skeeter’s book. Skeeter described how Dumbledore’s mother had passed shortly after he had finished his education at Hogwarts. He had been forced to abandon travel plans in order to return home and care for his younger siblings. In true Rita Skeeter fashion, she questioned Dumbledore’s compassion for his brother Aberforth and sister Ariana, and described Albus as someone interested in nothing more than his own achievements. She suggested that he resented this return home, and Harry thought that it was unfair to suggest that having complex feelings made Dumbledore a terrible person.

But that wasn’t the worst of the chapter. Most damning was her description of Dumbledore’s relationship with Gellert Grindelwald.

Harry’s stomach turned, not just with hunger, as he read how Dumbledore had developed a friendship with Bathilda Bagshot’s nephew, before Grindelwald would go on to become one of the most feared wizards in the world. Rita Skeeter had included copies of letters between the two young men, in Dumbledore’s own hand, discussing how important it was for Muggles to be ruled over by wizards. It was for their own good, of course, but that only made Harry angrier. Rita Skeeter even suggested that Grindelwald or Dumbledore were responsible for Ariana’s death. She claimed that this abrupt end to their flourishing friendship in the wake of Ariana’s passing was the very reason Dumbledore had waited years before confronting Grindelwald, and that inaction made Dumbledore personally responsible for the deaths of thousands across the continent.

Harry struggled to bury the anger and indignation that welled up inside of him. He wasn’t very successful. “Why did you want me to read this, Hermione?”

“Do you see the mark at the bottom of Dumbledore’s letter?”

Reluctantly, Harry flipped back to the letter. He fought against the revulsion that welled in his stomach as he skimmed its contents until he found what Hermione was talking about. There, in place of the “A” in Albus Dumbledore’s signature, was a triangle with a sort of eye inside of it.

“Isn’t this what Lovegood wore to the Weasley-Delacour wedding?” he asked.

“It’s also in the book that Dumbledore left me in his will. The Tales of Beedle the Bard. I can’t find this sign anywhere in my runes or syllabary books, though. Do you know what it means?”

“Krum said it was Grindelwald’s sign. Maybe Grindelwald stole it from Dumbledore.”

The note at the bottom of the letter mentioned there were more letters and photographs in the middle of the book. Harry turned there, to see if the symbol was repeated elsewhere, if there might be another clue. Instead, he found a photograph of two young men, one with close-cut hair and the beginnings of a goatee, the other clean-shaven with long curls that bounced as he laughed. Harry stared at them. Fresh from his vision just last night, he recognised the young man instantly: the thief from Gregorovitch’s memory.

Though Harry had a feeling that he already knew what he was looking at, he checked the label on the picture. It was, as expected, Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald, arms around each other, laughing. Harry was all too familiar with the fondness in young Dumbledore’s face as he smiled at Grindelwald. It was the same fondness Harry had felt towards Cho, towards Ginny, and towards Cedric.

Harry knew, suddenly and certainly, that this very relationship, this one intimate summer, was why Dumbledore had been so wary of Harry’s relationship with Cedric, and why Dumbledore had warned Harry against writing encoded letters about Horcruxes to Cedric. Dumbledore’s own letters were proof of his regret.

Harry tossed the book back to Hermione. It landed on the ground with a loud thud and skidded dangerously close to the fire before Hermione snatched it back up.

“What is it?” she asked.

But Harry didn’t know how to answer her. He was having a hard enough time sorting it all out in his own head. He got to his feet and paced along the edge of their warded campsite.

Last year, Harry had seen first hand how Remus and Sirius’ suspicion had torn apart their friendship. He had been determined not to make the same mistake, and that had led him to trust Snape, despite all his instincts and evidence. He had trusted Snape because Dumbledore himself had trusted Snape.

One of the last things Dumbledore had said to Harry was, “I have not always trusted the right people, and it has left me with my share of regret.”

Dumbledore had been too trusting, had put his faith in Grindelwald and in Snape, but Remus and Sirius had not been trusting enough, and had ruined their friendship so fundamentally that seventeen years had not been enough time to reconcile.

So where did that leave Harry?

Was he right to keep faith in Cedric? In Regulus? Neither of them were here, and he had depended on them both so much more than he could describe.

“Harry,” Hermione said in a careful voice, “Dumbledore was young when he wrote that letter. He was a different person —”

“He was as old as we are, wasn’t he?” Harry snapped back.

Do you know what this old man has sacrificed in his quest for justice?

Had the locket known about Ariana somehow? About Grindelwald?

Harry rubbed his scar as it prickled. Regulus had said that the diary and the locket could only have learned information fed to them. Maybe someone had fed the locket a story about Dumbledore, something to make Harry doubt him.

Harry didn’t want to doubt. He wanted to trust. He wanted to have faith in his friends, in the man Dumbledore had become.

What was it the Prewett brothers had said? ”A man like that doesn’t get to be a man, not even to his friends.”

He sank back down onto his log and hung his head. He had no choice but to admit that he did not truly know Dumbledore, and never really had.

And now he was faced with a choice: Did he trust Dumbledore, who had given him this quest, who had taught him about Horcruxes and how to destroy them? Dumbledore, who had once loved Grindelwald, and had been afraid of Harry’s relationship with Cedric. If Harry chose to trust Dumbledore, did that mean he had to trust that Dumbledore had been right about Cedric? Or could he somehow trust both of them?

He didn’t know how to talk to Hermione about this without getting into another fight. They were so tired and so hungry all of the time. He wished he could talk about it with Dumbledore, or even with Cedric. But all he had was Ron and Hermione.

Harry ran his hand through his hair and stared at the campfire. “Why are we doing this, Hermione?”

She blinked at him. “Why are we hunting Horcruxes?”

“We abandoned our families. We abandoned our friends. Why? Because Dumbledore asked us to?”

Her lower lip trembled and her eyes watered as they did every time their conversations got close to her parents. But she tightened her hands around the book and swallowed down her tears. It was a familiar transition to Harry by now, to watch Hermione go from grief to determination with an ease that he envied.

“Because this quest is important. Because we didn’t want to put anyone else in danger. Because we don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

He ran his hand through his hair. He had hoped she would have had a better answer than that, but he supposed that there wasn’t one. The fewer people who were at risk on this quest, the better. He had known it all along, but he had just wanted Hermione to tell him something different.

Ron came out of the tent, drawn straight to the scent of fresh coffee. He downed it quickly, despite it being fresh off the fire.

“What’s the plan today?” Ron asked.

Harry let Ron and Hermione debate where they would go next. He sipped his coffee in silence and tried not to think about what he knew had to come next.

After some discussion, they settled just outside of a small village in North Yorkshire. Harry used the Cloak to slip into town while Ron and Hermione set up the campsite. He left money on the counter in exchange for food and snuck a copy of the Daily Prophet. He would have preferred a copy of The Quibbler but those were subscription only, so they would have to get lucky finding one.

Harry flipped through the paper as he returned to their campsite. His face was not on today’s front page, but there was a sheet slipped into the folds of the paper with his photograph and the reward for his capture: ten thousand Galleons. On the back of the sheet were his parents, Remus, Sirius, Hermione, and others in the Order. Harry couldn’t decide if James’ presence on the list was good news or bad news. It meant that the Death Eaters had not publicised his capture, which meant that they probably still had a plan for him.

Harry returned with the food, and soon the smell of eggs and sausage filled their campsite, thanks to Hermione’s hard work. She was good at Charming the food to stretch it, so that what Harry had bought could last them over a week instead of just a few days.

“So what next?” Ron asked as they ate.

Harry swallowed down a bite of eggs and tried to swallow his annoyance with it. It wasn’t like they had gotten any better ideas since he had asked that question before they had moved campsites, or last night, or last week.

Well, Harry did have one new idea, but he didn’t think Hermione would like it anymore than she had liked his other ones, so he said nothing.

“What do you know about this symbol, Ron?” Hermione asked, and showed him the letter from Dumbledore.

Ron shrugged his shoulders. “Never seen it befo — Oh, is that the same one Lovegood wore to the wedding?”

“Supposedly it’s Grindelwald’s sign, but somehow I can’t see Lovegood wearing it for that reason. And Dumbledore’s using it here, long before Grindelwald rose to power. So it must mean something else…”

“It’s not in any of your books? You brought a lot of books.”

“If it was in my books, I would have said so.”

“Are you sure? Did you check all of them?”

Hermione slammed The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore shut. It cut through the silence of the forest, and Harry hoped their protective charms had been placed properly.

“Yes, Ron, I checked all of them. But I will gladly check again if it would make you happy. No one else seems interested in doing any of the work on this quest, I suppose.”

“You’re the one who brought the books!”

“And I’m the one doing all the cooking and picking campsites and setting watch —”

“I’ve found plenty of our food!”

Harry reached for Hermione’s bag and dug into it. He had sort of hoped she was too involved in her argument with Ron to notice, but she quickly turned on him.

“What are you looking for, Harry?” It was strangely accusatory, rather than curious.

Harry didn’t answer her. He searched through the bag, feeling past her stacks of books, until his arm was fully inside. Finally, his fingers brushed the cool metal band. He pulled out the diadem.

Harry stared into the blue jewel that sat between the eagles’ wings. “We don’t have the Sword, and we can’t get into Hogwarts for basilisk fangs without alerting Snape. What are our other options?”

Ron looked at Hermione.

She bit down on her lip. “We’ve been over this. Horcruxes are very well-protected. It has to be something with incredibly rare counters or cures.”

“Such as?” Harry prompted.

Hermione looked between Ron and Hermione. “Well — Fiendfyre, for one, but none of us could use it because it can only be countered by someone who’s been Burned by it before. And cockatrice blood is fatal just by inhaling its scent, but it’s also a Class-A Non-Tradable substance and some say it will even combust if you try to contain it. Yes, there are ways other than the Sword of Godric Gryffindor, but they’re all just as difficult to get and more dangerous to have!”

They had reached this part of the conversation several times. The trio had talked circles around destroying the diadem and finding the cup. There was no safe starting point. They had to commit to one path, and no matter what they decided on, it was going to put them at risk. Harry couldn’t see any other choice.

While Ron continued to argue with Hermione about who in the Order they might be able to talk to about locating the Lestrange estate, Harry thought about the symbol in Hermione’s book, and the risks he was asking of Ron and Hermione. He thought of the bounty on Hermione’s head, just for being associated with him. He thought of the ghoul in Ron’s attic, and how that lie was the only thing keeping Ron’s family safe.

Harry stared at the diadem in his hands and thought about his parents, captured or missing, and how alone he felt.

It wasn’t just because he had lost his parents. It wasn’t because he was fighting with Ginny. It wasn’t just because Cedric had abandoned him. Even now, sitting by the campfire, while Ron and Hermione argued about how to ration their food, he felt painfully alone.

They didn’t have the weight of destiny, of being marked by Voldemort. Maybe it was childish to wish it away, but Harry also understood, far better than he had at eleven, exactly what his scar meant. It was not a path anyone could walk for him.

A year ago, Cedric had told him, “The prophecy only says you have to face Voldemort. It doesn’t say you can’t have help.”

But his parents had tried to help, and it had only hurt them. Ron and Hermione were here, trying to help, and wherever they went next would put them at risk.

Harry rubbed his thumb over the blue gem. Maybe Cedric had been wrong. What did Cedric know of prophecies, anyway?

Harry tucked the diadem into his pack. He knew what he had to do. He also knew that Ron and Hermione would never understand it.

Later that night, Hermione woke him for his turn at watch. He waited until she was sound asleep, then grabbed his pack, scribbled a quick note, and he left.

[softballum]

So here’s something no one ever asked for. I’ve never written fic in my life, but heres 2k words of my ramblings.

I thought about this all day yesterday and had an idea for a ‘fix it’ for after Monday 1st’s episode. I really thought Ben might actually confide in Callum but I guess not. 

Anyway, hope you enjoy if you do read it!!

I’ve Got You

He’s been squeezing his eyes shut for what feels like hours now. The rooms pitch black and for once its completely silent in and out of the flat. Callum can only hear his own anxious breathing and the faint mumblings of the buildings plumbing. The t-shirt he wears to bed offers him no comfort like normal. Its scratching the back of his neck, the stitches feel like they’re burning into his skin. He’d managed a few pints with the lads earlier and was content with how the night had gone. The alcohol would normally make him drowsy, make him yawn till his bones ached and he carried himself off to bed. Right now though, it's like he can feel it buzzing in his veins, angsty to get up from the horizontal position he’s in.

He can’t sleep if he knows Ben is supposed to be next to him. Sometimes he’ll briefly wake up in the small hours of the morning and brush his hand across the mattress. Just to feel Ben’s warm skin beneath his fingertips. Some days he still can’t believe that what he has with Ben is real, that he wants to spend the most vulnerable hours of his day, lying next Callum. He knows he’s overreacting. Ben had let Callum know he’d promised to put Lexi to bed tonight and spend some much needed, quality cuddling time with her. He’ll have let her stay up a little longer so he can read an extra few pages of Lexis favourite fantasy. Unique character voices and all. Or he’s sat having a cuppa with his Mum. Kathy fretting over him with extra cake she’d made for the cafe that morning, knows its Ben’s favourite. It’ll be as simple as that. Nothing for Callum to worry about. 

But he knew he got a weird vibe from Ben this morning, shooing him off like that. Ben didn’t want to be a hindrance to Callum making new mates and now he’s avoiding him. He goes to pick up his phone from the bedside table almost knocking it off completely. He squints when he unlocks the screen, the brightness edging on his irritation. He opens up his text conversation with Ben, the glasses wearing emoji in his contact grinning at him. He sees that Ben still hasn’t replied to his earlier message about when he’d be home. He contemplates sending another, starts tapping on the back space with a loud sigh.

“He doesn’t need you checking up on him, you idiot. You ain't his mother” he mutters to himself, scowling at the wall in front of him. But Callum just cares, cares with his whole chest and he hates the thought of Ben avoiding him. After Ben’s confessions and brash words in the middle of the square the other night, things have been a bit…off kilter between them, but it won’t stop Callum from caring about him. He knows Ben still has this hard exterior up and its only being built higher the more he believes he’s not worth Callum’s affections.

Callum jumps when he hears the flat door slam a moment later, startling him from his thoughts. He waits for the increasing volume of Bens feet up the stairs, but they don’t come. Callum lies on his back holding his breath. His eyes darting about the dark ceiling like it will give him the answers he’s looking for. After a few unnerving seconds, the heavy thumps of Ben’s boots make their way on to the landing. Callum open’s the bedroom door with a gentle touch not wanting Ben to think he’s been clock watching his arrival back to the flat.

“Ben…?” He says it so quietly, he struggles to hear it himself. “Ben.”

Ben sees the change in light of Callum walking closer to him out the corner of his eye. Whipping his head up to meet the creased expression on Callum’s face.

“Hi, you alright?” He signs as he speaks. “Lexi enjoy her story yeah?”.

It takes Ben a moment to put it together. He clears his throat, teetering on the edge of nervousness.

“Yeah, she’s great..yeah” he answers, still glancing at Callum’s hands in mid air.

“I text you earlier. Didn’t want to leave you on your lonesome too long if I was out. Didn’t think you’d still be at your Mum’s.” He makes sure Ben can see his mouth move with each word, but even he can feel himself rambling.

Ben’s staring, mouth just slightly agape in concentration but he’s not caught a word. He blinks harshly against the little light coming from the living room lamp. His head is bursting. The ringing in his ears is still ever present and it feels like it’s pushing down on him from above. The pressure is too much. His hands feel cold but his palms are clammy. They’re balled up into fists, shoved deeply into the pockets of his leather jacket. He can’t even feel the pain of his nails digging into the calloused flesh. Hands that not all that long ago were holding a gun, punching some thugs and driving the get away car for him and Phil. He can feel his breathing picking up, leather jacket sticking to the back of his neck, like a bad dream following you around. He knows he needs to put on a show now, best lying performance of his life. Show Callum that everything is as it should be. Take his hand and lead him to the bed they share and at least try and get some rest. He can do that. He can. He’s lied to Callum about dodgy jobs and his family life so many times already, hidden his darkest secrets from him time and time again, it should feel easy. Easier than this. He needs to get away, run to the bathroom or grab a glass of water from the kitchen. Anything to get out from under the careful gaze of Callum. If he’s not looking straight at him, maybe, just maybe he could get away with the facade. But he’s stuck to the floor, his boots suddenly weighing an absolute tonne. He feels nauseous now and the room is spinning, seconds away from being sick. Doesn’t know whether its because of his ears or if the need to lie to Callum for the umpteenth time that week, is finally catching up on him. It was different when it was about Keanu. He could just push and push and it worked, for a time. It’s different now though. He needs Callum, needs him so much even he doesn’t realise. He can’t just push him away anymore, he agreed to be better, but right now he can’t do better.

“Phone Ben? Did you get my text?” Callum’s thumb hovers over his other four fingers, motioning to him.

Ben blinks again. Swallows hard, his throat dry and scratching. Concentrate, he thinks.

“Uhh no sorry. Not picked it up for hours.” Another lie, good. He drags it out his jean pocket ready to chuck it on the kitchen counter, forget about it and got to sleep with his boyfriend and pretend this night never happened. His thumb knocks the lock button though, the screen lighting up the picture of Lexi as his background. There’s a text from his Dad.

“Remember. Not a word to Callum.”

He feels himself choke, throat constricting. His eyes sting and he’s breathing harshly through his nose. He’s squeezing his phone so tightly, the bone of his knuckles could simply tear through the skin on the back of his hand. He’s getting hotter and hotter now, the rage bubbling up underneath the surface. His muscles all cramping up at his frustration. The remaining adrenaline from earlier only adding to his impending outburst.

Callum swears everything is stuck in slow motion. He sees Ben’s eyes focus on his phone, reading the same line over and over again, quicker each time he scans over the screen. Then his expression changes. He’s never seen Ben like this. Vulnerable, upset, cocky, confrontational but not this, he’s never seen him like this. He hesitates to react, doesn’t know what Ben will do or say next. No idea what could have been on his phone to make him like this. Panic starts to set in.

A sharp moment later. Ben lets out an aggressive scream, all his emotions finally coming up to the surface for air. His throat feels like its bleeding but its no match for how his head feels. His phone suddenly rips out of his hand and makes a heavy thud against the fuchsia-coloured wall of the flat, narrowly missing a photo frame. It rattles to the floor, the screen smashed and blacked out. It’s how Ben feels, bashed about and empty underneath it all.

Callums shocked into action then and runs to him, socked feet padding over the length of the living room. Ben’s pacing now. All shadows and amber street light, seeping in from the curtains. His hands grab his ears like he’s trying to pull them off. Huffing through gritted teeth, droplets of spit gathering on his lips. Eyes red raw as he scrunches them as tight as possible, defiant not to let his tears spill over and down his cheeks. Callum grabs his elbows and Ben starts to sob, noises only a broken, young man could make when he can’t carry on anymore. His cries wrack his chest, desperate to get a breath in but his emotions pull him deeper. Callum’s eyes are darting all over Ben’s figure trying to work out what could possible have happened to him and why he’s crumbling in his hands.

“Ben. Its okay, I’m here. What is it? Whats wrong?” His subconscious is using his police and army training to keep his voice as level and calm as possible,  feeling anything but.

Ben continues to cry hysterically, his shallow breaths echoing in the small space of the flat.

“Ben, please? Please let me help you. Tell me. Whatever it is”

There’s silence for a split second and Callum thinks he’s imaging all this, but Ben’s body is still trembling under his hold.

“I can’t do this” Its barely a whisper and Callum wonders if Ben even realises he’s spoken out loud.

“You what?”

“I can’t do this Callum. I can’t. I can’t do it.” And shallowly, for a moment, Callum thinks he’s talking about them. But that’s not Ben, he wouldn’t be upset like this, he’d act the hard man and pretend he’s only being that way for the protection of Callum. No, this is different.

“You can’t do what Ben? Whats happened.” He trails his hands up to the back of Ben’s, still gripping on to his ears. He tries to gently prise them away from the sides of his head. If he can’t hear or look at Callum, he can’t communicate and Callum needs Ben to know he’s there for him.

Ben slowly glances up, still huffing in short pants. His face is blotchy red and wet from his cries.

His hair is all over place, in tufts from where he’s been grabbing at it in frustration. Callum thinks he hears his own heart shatter when he finally sees his face, Ben has never looked this broken before. Callum thinks if he lets go of the sides of his head now, he might just fall apart like fine china. This is not a Ben he’s ever seen.

“I can’t Callum” he repeats.

“Cant what Ben!?” Ben can see it from Callum’s expression what he’s asking him but that’s the only way he can tell.

“I can’t hear Callum.”

“What? I know you can’t hear Ben! What are you on about?” Ben concentrates on Callum’s lips through his blurred vision.

“No Callum.” He hiccups out a broken sob. The words are right on his tongue, but its like a bad taste in his mouth. He just wants to swallow and get rid of it, but what else can he say. He takes another second, the air between the two of them fully charged. Callum just stares at him in anticipation.

“I’m deaf. I can’t hear you. At all.”

The floodgates open then and Ben is back to harsh, violent cries. His lips curling in and his eyelashes soaked with thick tears. Callum holds on to him, his mouth hanging open in shock. Ben crashes into him, head straight into Callum’s chest, balling up the cotton of his t-shirt in his hands, holding on for dear life.

Callum just holds him. Wraps one arm around Ben’s back, the other cradling the back of his head, fingers brushing through the short hair there in an attempt to soothe his boyfriend. He stumbles a little with the sheer amount of weight Ben is pushing on him. Can feel his chest tighten too, his vision becoming blurred as a stray tear rolls its way down his flushed cheek. He’s scared, scared for Ben and what this means for him. But Ben’s strong, they’re strong and Callum will do anything to see him through his.

He dips his head so his mouth meets the crown of Ben’s hair. He presses a small kiss there, silent and soft.

“Shhhh.” He hushes. “I’ve got you Ben. I’ve got you.”

[mychemicalficrecs]

Any fics that are similar to Wicked Little Town by xofunghoul on ao3?

I haven’t read this fic, but based on the tags and summary, check out these two lists:

Frank And/Or Gerard Are Parents

Frank/Gerard Small Town AUs

Wicked Little Town. by xofunghoul, 26k [WIP], General Audiences. In a small town in New Jersey where nothing much happens, Gerard Way runs his family's diner with his best firend Ray and he thinks his life is going nowhere special and is fine with it until Frank Iero, a young single dad of twin babies moves into town and shakes things up a little with his witts and big green eyes.

In A Pretty How Town by fleurdeliser, tuesdaysgone, 23k, Explicit. Single dad Frank Iero moves with his son to a new town. Everyone is nice, but the mayor, Gerard Way, is positively too good to be true.

Nightswimming by waxjism, 141k, Not Rated. My Teenage Romance

home is where i call the ghost my own by greencacti, 42k, Teen And Up Audiences. "Gerard almost laughed. Confirmed: he was such a mess that even fate itself couldn't predict how he was going to fuck up next. It was honestly poetic. " Or, urban legends start coming to life around Gerard after his family moves to a tiny, forgotten desert town and he meets an odd being with glowing eyes, a lip ring, and shitty taste in horror movies on a strange night in October.

How To Move (Back) To New Jersey by gerardsjuarez, 39k, Mature. Due to hair-related business ventures, Gerard and his family move to a creepy, rural town appropriately named Sabrina, Oregon. With no further information on this new town other than a young boy died in the house he moves into, he ends up making out with the leader of - what the locals call - 'the wrong crowd'. No matter how hard he begs, no one tells Gerard why he can't ask questions. That is until the previous occupant of his house lets him know the truth.

Sweet Home... Minnesota? by Helena_Hathaway, 28k [WIP], Mature. Recently dumped Gerard makes the decision to head back home for a little while. The reason he left his hometown though is because he’s just not suited for small town life. There’s nothing there for him, but he’s run out of choices. It’s not that the people aren’t nice, it’s just that they’re all suffocating. Apparently there’s a new guy living in town, which is practically unheard of. Everyone seems to like the new resident, Frank, but Gerard can’t think of a single reason why anyone would move to middle-of-nowhere Monroe. Despite the peculiar choice, Frank is there, and he’s there to stay. The only problem now is the fact that Gerard is straight, but he’s falling for a guy. The new guy to be specific.

I Never Told You What I Saw in the Dark by dadtrickstump, 7k [WIP], Not Rated. Then the door slammed shut, all the wind stopped, and the room was dark yet again, save for the very faint glowing of the knife in Gerard’s hand. He looked down at it and sucked in a breath, carved into the handle in Frank’s quickly scribbled handwriting, was a message on each side. “Stay away from me. The more time you spend, the more they know.” And on the other side, “But if you do decide to stay, I won’t let them get you..”

chemical spill by asphaltworld, 8k [WIP], Not Rated. The darkest secret of the freelance art world is that furry commissions are some of the best-paying gigs. Gerard needs money, so he does what he can. You can only draw so many enormously bulging tiger crotches before burning out, though. Maybe it's time to get a Real Job.

Bend Like Daisies by imessedupmylastone, 9k [WIP], Teens And Up Audiences. He looked charming and wild, and screamed trouble all over but there was a little voice in the back of Frank’s head that kept repeating one thing to him over and over. This dude had taken all the life in the town for himself.

Deadwood by bandbitch00, i_have_no_one_to_blame_for_this_but_me, 13k [WIP], Teen And Up Audiences. Two brothers move to small town on the coast of Oregon from New York City. Just as they learn to adapt, they start to realize not everything is what it seems. Some of their new 'friends' aren't the kindest, or the most human. They don't like their new living situation in the slightest. They start a new high school, detached from reality just enough to realize somethings up.

[klanceficatalogue]

Hi! Thank you for everything you all do! :) I was just wondering if I could rec one of my fics, please? It's called 'Good Times' by ItsYaBoiKeith (PetalsAndPurity). It's a band au - Keith works at a guitar shop and Lance is the lead singer of a band. It has a lot of angst but also enough fluff to balance it out. It does touch on a couple of heavy subjects though so if anyone does check it out pls read the tags first! Thank you

Good Times by ItsYaBoiKeith (PetalsAndPurity) (20/20 |91,107 | Teen And Up)

"Who the fuck do you think you are?!" Keith pushed Lance into the wall.

"Lance McClain, singer, songwriter, rockstar," he muttered, the corner of his mouth tilting up. "Who are you? A groupie?"

Keith thought he had the lead singer of 'Paladins' all worked out; he was arrogant, rude, and a complete asshole.

That is, until Keith finds himself stranded out in the middle of the night after yet another argument with his brother and his brother's new fiance. When it's Lance that comes to the rescue, Keith realises that actually, he might not be so bad after all.

-

(Or, another angsty Voltron band AU in which Keith and Lance don't want each other to find out about their private lives, but somehow manage to spill all their darkest secrets to each other anyway.)

(curtis / shiro, minor keith / oc, past adam / shiro, past lance / nyma)

// drug addiction // major character injury // attempted rape/non-con // panic attacks

[holy-kingdom-of-faerghus]

Tales of the Brazen Sword

Prompt: Classic mode, Blue Lion route where Felix died during the war, and Dimitri raises his children on stories of Felix’s conquests before admitting that he knew him first hand. 

Note: Somewhat angst… but with a surprising and happy ending

Ever since Lambert was young, he had heard stories of Felix: The Brazen Sword. Felix was, as his father claimed, a brilliant swordsman with brash tendencies who preferred action over “idle chatter.” In fact, he was the man that Lambert’s middle namesake had been taken from.The man was swift on the battlefield and could cut down dozens of enemy troops within mere minutes-- something he knew not many men could do. He was, as the King described him, a flurry of different shades of blue and glinting silver, when in combat. His single goal in life was to defeat any foe who dared to stand before him and to be the best swordsman in all of Fodlan. 

But, despite his obvious skill in battle and his stoic nature, Felix was also a loyal friend. Despite all the trouble his prince had caused him, Felix had remained loyal to the royal’s cause-- never straying from the path that his highness had paved. He wore a mask of cold indifference and insisted on doing nothing but honing his skills with the blade-- Dimitri swore. Though, the naive prince would later find out that the hardened swordsman only did so in an effort to protect his people and his highness from any harm. And that the prince would soon come to realize his reasonings when it was far too late-- for it was these reasons that caused the vigilant swordsman’s fall.

One night, after a long and taxing day, Dimitri coaxed his thirteen year old son to bed with promises of a bedtime story.

“Tonight Lambert, I will tell you of Felix’s final conquest. In fact I think you are quite familiar with the tale- however, I have never told you my account of it.” The king told his son softly, a fond smile on his face as he stroked the childs blonde hair. “It was a hectic afternoon, the sun was beating down among the troops and everyone was tired from storming the streets of Enbarr.” Lambert gasped-- he did indeed recognize the tale. “We could taste victory on the tip of our tongue-- morale was high and we realized the long and bloody war was coming to a close,” he licked his chapped lips before continuing. “I hadn’t lost anyone incredibly dear to me-- not since the former Lord Fraldarius’s death; so I was confident that we would all make it through.” The man laughed bitterly, tears welling up within his sole eye, he gripped Lambert’s hand tightly. “How foolish I was.” Forgetting his status, the young prince ripped off his covers and clambered onto his father’s lap, wiping the tears from his eyes.

“It’s alright father, you needn’t tell me this story-- I do not wish to see you cry.” Lambert consoled.

“No, no; I will tell you this tale son, you deserve to hear it.” Dimitri took in a deep, rattling breath. “As I was saying, Byleth-- that is the Archbishop-- had ordered Felix and I, (Lambert gasped at the revelation), to lead the charge.” Dimitri took a moment to blink away his tears. “It was absolute chaos, your Uncle Sylvain and Uncle Ashe were supposed to be watching our backs. But we had underestimated the number of reinforcements the Emperor had waiting. The plan had failed-- it became a free for all. Felix… oh Felix.” 

“Father… it’s alright, I think Mr. Felix would be glad to hear you speaking of him in such a way.” This statement did nothing to console the grieving king, instead it made him weep more.

“If it had gone as planned… you would be addressing Felix as ‘Uncle’ not Mr.” he confessed, “but it all went awry.” After a few more moments of sniffled filled silence, the story continued. 

“I’ve always been particularly vulnerable to mages-- barely fast enough to dodge their most basic spells, let alone their more advanced ones. But Felix had a much leaner figure than me and thus had an easier time avoiding them.” Dimitri explained, once again taking in a slow, shuddering breath. 

“We were both doing so well, most of the mages had been defeated, though it proved to be incredibly taxing on our bodies. Our foes were incredibly quick on their feet-- practically dodging our every swing, we had to work thrice as hard as usual to just defeat one of them.” His father gulped as he prepared to retell his childhood friends death. “Even… even Felix, who worked five times as hard as anyone in the army- even harder than me, had been exhausted. And he could tell I was too.  So… so when the third wave of reinforcements came he… he told me to jump on Ashe’s wyvern. He told me to end the terrible, pointless war. He said that he could handle the next wave of soldiers-- that Sylvain would come to aid him if he needed it.” 

A river of tears spilled from his father’s eye and Lambert couldn’t do anything but watch and offer his silent comfort.

“I could see it all from the wyvern’s back. Felix fighting tiredly, desperately; pouring his heart and soul into each skillful swing, the blade a silver blur as he slashed furiously. His pale skin was flushed red and he was stained with blood-- from both himself and from the Imperial soldiers. And I- I watched as this warlock-- I can remember her expression vividly, she had this insane, blood thirsty look in her eye as she cast her darkest spell. She summoned hundreds of large, violet spikes, ones that I’ve only ever seen dark mages use, and in an instant she had impaled Felix with them. Oh Seiros-- I can still hear his screams.” 

Lambert was horrified at his father’s gruesome description of Felix’s death-- though he could not deny his absurd fascination at the topic. 

“I-I jumped from the wyverns back and rushed to him-- it must have taken half a minute or so, but he was still alive. I slaughtered the bitch-- ahem, pardon me-- the witch who had dared harm him and knelt beside him. He had so many puncture wounds-- even Mercedes would not have been able to heal him. I could do nothing but beg him for forgiveness-- for not mending our relationship when I had the chance… do you know what he told me?”

The thirteen year old heir lifted his head, silently inquiring what it was that Felix had said.

“It’s pathetic really,” he had said, “that only now you apologize for all your wrongdoings.” Brushing a tear from his eye, Dimitri continued with his recount. “But… I forgave you a long time ago so it’s pointless really. Since I won’t get the chance to say it again… I’m sorry Dimitri. It’s a shame that my old man had to die, that the Fraldarius line can’t protect the royal family anymore. So take our relic… so at least… even after death we can serve you.” 

“What! He gave you House Fraldarius’s hero’s relic?” The king chuckled and nodded. “Wait… so what is their relic anyway? Oh, is it his blade? Or another lance like yours?” 

“No, it’s not a weapon like the other lines, in fact… it’s a shield, the Aegis Shield.” Dimitri discarded his regal cape and revealed a shining golden shield from beneath it. “In the distant past, the Fraldarius and Blaiddyd line were connected through marriage… from that union a royal child was born, so we carry the Fraldarius crest within our bloodline.” He gently set the shield onto the bedding, encouraging his son to inspect it closely. “Now Lambert… when you were born we had you checked for a crest-- as is royal protocol. Surely you can imagine our surprise when you ended up with the major Fraldarius crest over the minor Blaiddyd one-- especially after we had added Felix’s name to your own.”

Lambert let out an audible ‘huh’ at his father’s words before narrowing his eyes in concentration.

“Is- is that why I’m not heir to the throne?” He questioned, a calculating shine overtaking his warm brown eyes. His father nodded, averting his gaze as if he was ashamed.

“I know you must be upset--” Dimitri began before he was abruptly interrupted. 

“Upset?” Lambert declared incredulously, “why would I be upset? This explains so much! That’s why all my tutors teach minor politics and the inner workings of territory government! Why, I have such frequent field assignments to Fraldarius territory… Heck, it even explains why I’ve had to meet with the heirs of House’s Galatea and Gautier so often… But what does that mean for House Blaiddyd? What of the Kingdom?”

King Dimitri cracked a smile, seemingly relieved that his son was taking the news so easily. 

“Well, your brother, Rodren, will be taking the throne; yes, he has a Crest of Blaiddyd, so you needn’t trouble yourself with worry.” His words struck a chord within his son, who blinked his bleary eyes and scooted off his father’s lap. “Ah, have you grown bored of our conversation already?” The newly realized Fraldarius heir nodded and smiled tiredly.

“Thank you for telling me father…” 

“Of course it was your right to know as Fraldarius heir.”

“No, I meant, thank you for telling me Uncle Felix’s story… and for the shield. I hope I can live up to his legacy…” With those last words exchanged, Lambert fell into a deep slumber, leaving Dimitri to stare at his son in awe. He brushed the blondes hair back and pressed a kiss to his forehead, picking up the Aegis Shield and placing it on a nearby chair. He stood up and made to leave the room before freezing in the arched doorway and looked back towards his son.

“I’m sure you will, Lambert, I’m sure you will.” And for a mere moment, Dimitri could have sworn he had heard Felix’s voice say “he already has.”

[alyssa-ward]

Little Deaths Part 2

Vaguely following from [ HERE ]

Alyssa sweeps through the woods of Elwynn with reckless urgency, swift stride carrying her along well known paths she’s traveled many times into the darkest parts of the forest.  The black cloak she wears, voluminous hood pulled up, her bright red hair tucked away and hidden beneath it.  A simple dark bandana wraps about her mouth and nose, keeping her fair skin from giving away too much, leaving little but the hazel of her eyes exposed.

The faintest of rustle in the woods to either side of her as Vix and Haag prowl at her side.  Tonight the Warlock searches for prey.  The previous night’s episode wears on her, the flare up of her addictions, the illness and pain that came with it.  Some of her addictions, the need to open herself to the Nether, to feel fel flood her veins, are physical.  Some of them, the need to have power over someone, to hurt and hear them beg, are mental.  Tonight she plans to fulfill all of them, buy herself time away from her needs so she can focus on work until the upcoming festival has passed.

A panicked scream up ahead, what sounds like a woman, shouts of ‘get away from me!’ pick up her pace, shifting into a jog as the Warlock follows the sound.  Bandits and highwaymen often make camps this deep in the woods, never truly fully ferreted out.  The shouts ahead suggest she’s on the right track to finding them.

Alyssa slips off the path, stepping behind a tree as the sound of running and crashing of bushes from up ahead, driving towards her reaches her ears.  Peering from the darkness, the woman who shouted earlier comes into view, running at full speed along the narrow path as though her life depended on it.  Aly lets her pass, she’s clearly a victim here, not the one she wants.

Quickly behind her, another figure, this one a taller man, with dark short hair, charcoal scrubbed over his forehead and around his eyes, a bandana not dissimilar to the one Alyssa wears about the lower half of his face.  Dressed all in black leathers, clearly in pursuit.  “Go,” she whispers under her breath.  Like a missile, Vix flies from the woods on one side, taking the man’s legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground.  Haag darts out from the other side, stepping over the knocked down man, talons sinking into his shoulder, and a strong headbutt from the gnarled bony skull knocks the man out.  Her babies have strict orders not to hurt her victims more than necessary.  That’s for her to do.

The Warlock steps out from the trees, moving to the falling man to crouch beside him, checking his pulse.  A glance up and she finds herself locking gaze with the previously fleeing woman, a little ways down the path, paused looking back.

“Don’t…” the unknown woman starts.

“Run,” Alyssa snaps back.  “You’re safe if you run.”

“But…” she looks for a moment like she might protest, casting a worried look at Aly and the man on the ground, before turning and sprinting off down the path and out of sight.  Somewhere in the distance in the opposite direction, the shouts and yells of what is no doubt further bandits in pursuit.  That doesn’t worry Alyssa, the woman has her head start, and she has what she needs.

Slipping an arm under the fallen man, she hauls him partially over her shoulder.  He’s too heavy to drag far, but fortunately she doesn’t need to.  Her workout sessions and additional training sure help here though.  She lifts her free hand, the onyx talon already glowing vibrant green as it starts to suck life from the world around her, plants withering and dying  to either side of the path.  Sleeve falls enough to show the line of fresh carved runes on her arm, blood running green as each activates in sequence, tearing open a demon gate in front of her, and dragging him through.

A few people close to Alyssa know about the gate she’s built behind her home, a permanent waypoint she can always return to.  None of them know about the other one, that leads to her little private sanctuary.  She steps through, dragging the man behind her, stalkers at her side, and it closes as quickly as it opened, leaving nothing in Elwynn but a dead patch of woods, and abruptly ending drag marks in the dirt.

She gets the man to the chair in the middle of the dusty basement she uses, quickly securing arms and legs to manacles attached to it.  A slap across his face to try to bring him around some, though she doesn’t bother taking a good look, still prep work to do.

“Chasin’ an innocent woman through the woods?  Y’goin’ t’deseve everythin’ y’get tonight and more.  Tsk.”  Alyssa says, as she turns away from him to move to a small shelf in the room, pulling out a leather unfolding pouch from it, and a simple metal tray.  She opens the pouch, withdrawing tools, scalpel, forceps, pliers.  Her blood sings already at the chance to let loose on someone she feels so morally justified in destroying.  “It’s goin’ t’be a long night.  F’you, not f’me, be a good night f’me.”

“Wait…”  The man groans out, eyes trying to focus on the back of the woman in front of him.  Her hood down now, her fiery locks spilling across her shoulders.  “‘Lyssi?”

Alyssa’s blood turns to ice in her veins, her movements freezing.  The blade she’d picked up slips from fingertips to clatter off the stone floor as she slowly turns back towards the man.  A sudden tremble in her form that she’s not entirely sure what to do with as she steps over to him again, reaching up to yank down his bandana to get a better look at his charcol streaked face.  It couldn’t be.  None of this is right.  Why would he…

Her voice cracks, all her malice and vengeance collapsing beneath fear and guilt.  “Rem?”

[dammitadolfnomorecake]

Caramel Skin Under A Vanilla Sky prt 30 full draft. Let's launch this chapter into space and forget it exists

Laying on his back, Lance stared up at the roof of the command room of the Telula. How long it'd been since he'd left the Atlas, he had no idea, only that his tears had run dry. Once again he was alone. Once again his heart was broken by the one he'd loved. Only... this time was different. This time there was nothing to live for. Planning a hundred juniper berries wouldn't make Keith come after him. Planting a million wouldn't ease his broken soul. The fragile web of trust they'd spun had been torn to pieces right before his eyes. Keith had not only lied to him, he'd spilled his deepest darkest secrets to his mother. That explained why Krolia hadn't spoken to him before the meeting, she was probably silently judging him, waiting for the right time to admit she'd known he was naive and stupid all along. She couldn't let someone as dirty as him be with her only son. The Galra prided themselves on strength, where as he wasn't even able to make it through most days without something startling or panicking him. What good was he anyway? No one listened. Shiro hadn't wanted to hand over control of the meeting, but he'd taken it away like he deserved a place there, and like he deserved to be telling any of them how to do their jobs. However long he'd been gone, it'd been long enough for his heat to come. Long enough for his body to be screaming out for Keith's touches. His kisses. His soothing scent and warm arms. Keith was always so damn warm. It didn't matter what he'd thrown at him, Keith's arms were always welcoming and loving for him. His soft lips pressing kissing to Lance's temple, with nibble fingers carefully stroking his hair. Keith's touches had been his everything. Only his hold felt right against Lance's broken and battered body. Keith had moulded him into something more than he had been. And now when he reached out his hand, there was no one there. The only person he could blame was himself. With the engines running on 15 per cent power, his comms were off, the navigation system was off, leaving the space around him silent. He only needed enough power for gravity and life support. Letting his ship drift, he hadn't checked his position in vargas, perhaps quintants. He'd vaguely remembered pointing his ship towards his usual hunting grounds after messaging Shiro, Daehra, Th'al and his mother so she wouldn't kick up a fuss over his sudden disappearance. She'd fussed way too much over him as it was, so he'd been the perfect son and lied through his teeth over how "nice and quiet life was", and how "risk free" his job was. Yeah. It fucking hurt to lie, but what exactly could he say? Groaning heavily Lance rolled to his side, the view just as unappealing. When he could bothered moving his sticky body from the floor, he'd find a rebel camp to drop the Telula at. It held everyone's personal belongings, something he didn't think about when he'd bolted. All he'd wanted to do was put as much distance between him and Keith. Maybe if they'd talked before, he might have been able to find some way to understand... but he'd opened up to him. He'd let him in. He'd let Keith infect him, change him... rescue him. He didn't want to go back to step one. Not again... He didn't want his nightmares back. He didn't want to wake up alone, or huddled in the corner of the room bleeding with no memory of how he got there. How could he be with Keith after he broke his trust? He'd told Keith he'd needed honesty. Keith who gave him everything else, but the one thing that his broken mind needed. They'd had sex. He'd opened up... literally. Perhaps it wouldn't have stung so badly if it hadn't happened on the heels of that night. * Keith's scent haunted him. The whole ship seemed infected by it. More often than not he'd turned to look to Keith, only to find Allura in his place. He didn't miss Allura. Each conversation he had with her reminds her that she was only a hallucination, and an annoying one at that. Lance couldn't say he'd done a good job of reestablishing himself. His injections were all over the place. His stomach was only accepting minimal amounts of food, and his period hadn't come yet though he felt bloated as hell. Yet he wasn't able to find the effort to care. Keith was gone. Even if he was to turn his ship around and fly back to the Atlas, Keith would have realised by now how much hard work he'd been, and how far Lance had dragged him down. Naturally the pain hadn't passed. The tiny flicker of hope left him unable to wash Keith's scent off his pillows. He missed him. He missed so quiznakking much that his mother would have beaten him black and blue for the number of times he'd cursed the universe for giving him Keith. Wherever he was, Lance hopes he was safe. He hoped that Keith wasn't doing something reckless, or impulsive. That he'd been able to get Lance'a point across in regards to tracking down those responsible for all the disappearances near Ghazex. Lance wished he had the courage to go running back to Keith, but he was so ashamed of how things had played out. He'd shown enough of his shameful sides to Keith... but left alone in this self imposed solitude... he couldn't help but want Keith by his side even if it was to say goodbye. Landing on the far side of Sucrulia, it wasn't Lance's favourite place in this sector of space, but it was the place he was to rendezvous with Th'al at her request. The place was almost all sand and rocky outcrops that reminded him far too much of that shack Keith called home, even the colours were more Earthy than a lot of places out there. No one was around for miles, given this was the desert side of the planet, so until Th'al arrived all he had for company were a few tumbleweeds and a whole lot of creepy purple looking cacti, that were the only unEarth like things there. The other side of Sucrulia was lush, there were ports all along the coast line trading in all kinds of exotic herbs, and spices, and the whole feel of the place was like the golden days of piracy on Earth. That's why they were meeting in the middle of the stupid desert. No one from the other side of the planet came here. No on from the other side of the planet could get out here without the use of a ship. A thick valley of sharp obsidian waiting to murder anyone stupid enough to attempt their way through. Lance had a stupid plan. A very stupid plan, and Th'al was key to it. She'd been pissed to all quiznakkary when he'd suddenly reached out after a phoeb out of contact. It'd been risky firing up his comms, but he'd wasted a whole phoeb without accomplishing anything other than drifting in space, lazily patrolling between bouts of self loathing and remembering he was technically wanted man so had to lay low... not that really stopped him. He couldn't stop his whole life just because he'd been kicked to the curb again. A revelation that'd come after a tremendous amount of self wallowing, tears and Keith's pillows. Lance hadn't been able to bring himself to evict them into the vacuum of space. Th'al kept him waiting for a while quintant. By the time the female bounty hunter showed up, the cacti population had diminished slightly thanks to boredom and his favourite blaster, many now sporting smiley faces that didn't make them any less creepy. Landing her pod next to the Telula, Th'al was just as intimidating as he remembered. Her dark hair pulled into a tight bun, that reminded him of his third grade teacher who'd reduced him to tears over his English, as she strode down her pods loading ramp with her blaster raised in his direction. Raising his hands as if he was actually surrendering, Lance hung his head as she started to scold him. It wasn't like he Th'al were best buddies, they were simply both in the same line of work and had similar ideas on not killing each other over a bounty "What the stars, Leandro! What did you do this time? Daehra was blowing up my comms. Something about you upsetting the Atlas? And why would you return out here? Were you born stupid?" "The jury's still out on that one" "Of all the stupid things you could do. Do you know the Atlas is on the move? There's been talk of Blades being sighted" Great. Shiro hadn't listened, or he'd opted to listen to Keith over Lance and now they were invading his space and threatening the undercover mission Lance had strategised for himself. He needed to get back out to the outpost, and what better way than to be escorted by a hunter handling a bounty? If Keith were there with him, the half-Galra would have already lost his shit over it and deemed it all an unnecessary risk. Then probably would have told him he loved him and fretted over Lance getting himself chopped into tiny pieces, something Lance didn't particularly want to happen but when your heart's just been broken all over again, you don't exactly care for you own wellbeing. "I told them not to interfere. I even gave them a full briefing over how coming out to our little corner would only make things worse. So you can't pin all of this on me. Besides, it's not like I actually wanted to go back to the Atlas..." "Yeah. Yeah. I don't need to hear your life story. I still think this plan of yours is weak" That's because it was "Aw, Th'al. This is why you're still single. I'll have you know my life story is far more interesting than you could ever imagine" Raising her blaster to line the shot up, Lance snorted at his friend "You can shoot me if it'll make you feel better, but I've got a full suit on under these clothes" "Dammit. Fine. Whatever. Don't think I won't shoot you in the foot the moment you get annoying" "I know you will. Are we good to go?" "Of course we are. I'm not some amateur like you are. I've messaged Daehra over the Telula. Thanks for that by the way, she's been blowing up my comms trying to find out if you're alright" "You know how she gets. And you know I needed to lay low. We should probably get out of here if you've already messaged her. The Blade members she's with have an annoying tendency of sticking their noses in where they're not needed or wanted" Glaring at him, Lance was on thin ice when it came to Th'al's patience. Moving to walk past her, he was grateful that she didn't shoot in the foot just yet, though he was sure her desire was strong. With the pod being on the small side, Lance set himself up in the passenger seat of it with a spare holopad while Th'al piloted the ship away from the Telula. Activating his girl's shields remotely, it was a weight off his shoulders to know that everyone would be getting their personal belongings back sooner rather than later. He'd even triple checked that she was in perfect running order for when his team arrived to retrieve her. They'd probably be annoyed that he wasn't there, but this mission needed to come before all the craziness of his private life, and he needed someone more objective than his team to assist in it. They cared too much. They'd blame themselves if something was to happen, which he couldn't be responsible for. No matter what happened the fall out needed to land his shoulders alone. Th'al would leave him if worst came to worse. She'd take her pod and flee before the first shot was even fired. That's what he needed. None of this self sacrifice bullshit. Tapping his fingers against the holopad, he felt something light hit him in the side of the head "Stop tapping so loudly" "I'm not tapping loudly" "If I can hear you, you're tapping too loud" Rolling his eyes, Lance tried to play off the panic that formed at the unexpected strike. He could deny it until he was blue in the face, but without Keith there, his nerves were a fucking mess "I'm sorry. I'm just checking the area. I haven't been able to with everyone deciding they suddenly needed to come after me. I didn't want the data signal registering too close the Telula" "If you hadn't got yourself into this mess, than none of this would have happened" "I know. But on the plus side, when you hand me in you'll have enough money to do... whatever it is you do" Waving his hand, Th'al simply ignored the gesture to continue in the same flat tone "This is true. And I won't have to hear your voice... It almost makes me wish I could wormhole straight there" Huffing at Th'al, it'd be easy for an outsider to think that she truly did hate him, and wasn't secretly a softie under all her creepy armour. He'd seen the glittery blankets and soft toys on her bed, plus anything strawberry from Earth turned her into a mess of love and compliments. Not that they actually got their hands on Earth rations that often. She liked Erathus even less than he did "You're so mean. You're picking on me without even letting me know how your side of the mission went" "What's to let you know? You changed your strategy. That boyfriend of yours got into your head and now you're being stupid again" "Keith isn't my boyfriend" "Mhmm. He's out here. They say that there's going to be a meeting between the Galra, that Earth crew and the head of the police, and government on Erathus" Lance's eyes widened, gaping as he looked to Th'al. This wasn't what he wanted at all. There could be nothing good from a meeting like that... He'd fucking told them. His voice higher than normal as he squeaked "What? Are you joking!? Please Th'al, tell me that you're joking" Laughing happily, Th'al was a bitch "Your face was priceless. How would I know what's happening over there? I was busy thanks to some dumbarse dropping off the universe for movements" Oh thank god for that. Even as a joke, that was fucking cruel. If anything happened to the others, he'd never forgive himself... especially Hunk and Shay. He hadn't even stayed at their damn engagement party, too busy being coddled by Keith... Fuck... If anything happened to Keith because he'd run off... that... he couldn't survive that. Keith was doing so much good in the universe, or he had been until Lance had waylaid his plans and forced him to run off with him "Don't worry. The Atlas isn't really out here. Blade members are though. Been asking rebel camps if they've seen you" Lance scowled hard, realising she'd read him like a book and played him harder than Pidge going at Killbot Phantasm 1. Maybe he should have ejected himself into space while he'd had the chance. It'd be less painful than knowing Th'al could see right through him "You've been fucking with me from the moment you landed, haven't you?" Shooting fucking fingerguns at him, Th'al smirked. Fucking fingerguns. That was his thing! "Yep. Consider it payback for being a little bitch" "You're the bitch. Are you serious about the Blades being out here?" "Yep. Worried your little boyfriend is going to get himself into trouble?" "Keith isn't my boyfriend. And I seriously thought he was smarter than this. This isn't a fucking game" "Daehra said "he's been quite upset since you left". Should I pretend to care and ask what happened?" God. Keith... He could be so stupidly bullheaded. He'd nearly gotten himself killed trying to recover Shiro from Kuron... and then there was that time that Matt told them about, when the dickhead tried to get himself killed. Thanks to Th'al, his heart was beating way too fast, a thick heavy weight sitting in the bottom of his stomach, which might have something to do with the bloating "Nope. You can sit there and shut up" "Someone's sensitive. Have it your way then, "Loverboy Leandro"" Without Th'al bitching at him, Lance's stupid mind had decided to fixate on Keith. The harder he tried to pay attention to the holopad, the more he found he couldn't. His own holopad was on the Telula, he hadn't been able to delete the photos of him and Keith on it, instead he'd wrapped it and left it with a note to Keith. It wasn't exactly hard to lose focus on his mission. He'd be going in alone, before Th'al sent word out. His injection schedule was gone. His mask was gone. His ship was gone. His accidental husband was gone. Their relationship was over but that didn't mean Keith wasn't at the forefront of his thoughts. If he could stop whoever was behind this, Keith wouldn't even need to be involved. Keith would be safe... so would the others, but... Fuck.... he was hopelessly and thoroughly miserable without Keith and his stupid not-mullet. Hearing that Keith was worried about him wasn't exactly surprising, for a while he'd kind of been worried about himself too, but the voices in the back of his mind were quick to speak up. Quick to remind him how fast fucking weak and useless he was, and that he had no right feeling all warm and glowy over Keith when he'd been the one to walk out on the half-Galra. Still, he was only kind of human and a slave to the emotions that Keith had pretty much ripped back up to the surface. He couldn't even fall back to his doses because not a single loose pill, or untainted vial remained in his room, Daehra and Keith had got to them all. Settling in for a long trip, it proved to be just that. Th'al was far more stubborn than him, the woman keeping her silence purely to prove she could, leading to an exceptionally long trip because two could play that game and his Mumma didn't raise no quitter. * Using Zac's program to charter the magnetic fields, the outpost was unfortunately still standing. A dozen half face masked, full rest armour, armed officers were standing near the area landing for the outpost as Th'al landed her ship, Lance half tempted to make a joke over the welcome party, but he had the feeling it'd fall flat between himself and Th'al. Their silence had lasted until Th'al accidentally broke it by cursing her communicator when it started to ring. She hadn't liked losing to him in the slightest, much like Rachel when it came to pretty much everything, yet unlike Rachel Th'al had been allowed to shoot him in both the leg and shoulder with her blaster. Only grazing shots for the sake of appearances, but enough for him to nearly lose control of his emotions. Still, he wondered if he should find it strange that the two blast shots hadn't affected him as badly as when she'd punched him in the face to split his lip and blackened his eye. He'd very nearly panicked himself into oblivion when she'd touched him. His stupid healing was already taking care of the wounds too fast, not that it dulled the pain. His body much more astute to pain now that his medication had been adjusted, and he couldn't simply get high to mask the symptoms. Dressed in his bloodied civilian clothes, there was no point wearing a body suit into the outpost. One of the first things they'd do would be check him for weapons, tracking devices and recording devices. As a "prisoner" he needed to look like he'd put up the fight of his life. Going in unarmed, and armour free... Keith would kill him. So it was a good thing he actually wasn't. The cuffs around his wrists weren't actually fixed in place, a small canister on sleeping gas hidden in the locking mechanism. The insertion of the metal key would shatter the thin glass encasing the gas. Th'al had been holding out on him for the whole damn trip, springing her invention on him quite proudly as she slapped them around his wrists. There wasn't enough gas to knock out a crowd, but one or two Galra on the other hand... He literally couldn't wait to try it out, the potential applications if they could mount it to his suit would be just too good, or if he hollowed out rounds in a more traditional gun... so maybe he hadn't thought that one through, but the potential applications. It all came back to those two words... and the whole surviving what came next thing. The way he figured it, Th'al had already posted she'd claimed the bounty and was delivering him personally on the hunter boards. She'd waited until the last moment to do so to prevent anyone coming after them, plus his time dated beaten and bloodied face photograph proved she'd "subdued" him, and indeed had had held him in her custody. Giving him one final look over, Th'al aimed her blaster at him "Right. Out you get, time to stop bleeding on the floor of my pod" This was Th'al speak for "I've done a damn good job, but I'd like to leave in one piece so I need you off my pod before they decide to just blow us up. Every offence meant" "Thanks for this" Th'al frowned at him "I don't know if you should be thanking me. I'm about to deliver you to your death" "I'm not going to die here. You know the plan" "I know you're a fool. Relying on the gas to knock them out, then taking their weapons... What if they don't touch the cuffs?" "Then I'll smack them against a wall or their faces..." "Leandro..." She really must think he was going to die because she'd never given him such a concerned look as she was right now. Softening his features, Lance let out a soft sigh. Why did people always have to go and get emotional at all the wrong times? "Th'al. We've come this far. I can't let this continue happening. What if you're taken? What if it was your friends and family? They took my friend, they killed another... Now Earth is involved... I can't let people keep getting hurt. For our little space in the universe, I need to do this" "You're a fool" "Yeah. A stubborn idiot who's a bit of a dick. That's what my husband would say..." Th'al widened at his soft confession. Lance hadn't meant to let it slip... or maybe he had. He was hurting and all he wanted was Keith to be safe, so that not all of this was for nothing "You're married?" "To Keith... By accident on Daehra's planet. He broke my heart but I can't stand the idea of him ending up to chopped into pieces and left out here. So I need to do this, and I'm going to do this. Let's head down before they storm the ship and arrest you for being an accomplice instead of a delivery woman" With Th'al's blaster against his back, Lance hunched his shoulders and kept his head down, being the best battered prisoner he could. Normally a bounty hunter would sign their catch over to the authorities, or on personal delivery, they'd escort their catch in and sign over rights. That wasn't quite how it played out. Reaching the small army waiting for him, a large outpost officer grabbed him by the hair, bending his throat back as he was gut punched for his trouble. Gritting his teeth, Lance received a second blow for not crying out like they wanted "I'll be taking my payment before you kill the merchandise" Four of the men behind the one holding him up by his hair raised their weapons towards Th'al. Th'al moving away from him as she aimed her blaster. The man holding him growling "I suggest you leave before we arrest you" "I demand my bounty. I acquired the target" Pulling his blaster from his hip, Lance felt his hair being torn before he was stumbling sideways and landing on his knees painfully, the man holding him activating the blaster into its extended form "Leave" "Fuck this" Raising her blaster and her free hand, Th'al stepped back "Expect to hear from Erathus. This is not how business is conducted" Glancing between the men with weapons aimed, the man who'd just made the silent threat to shoot her, and Lance, Lance gave Th'al a tiny nod. Knowing her she'd find a way to still get paid. No one would take a bounty if they weren't going to get paid, especially over such a large sum. Lance was personally more concerned with her getting out of there alive... And not taking another blow to the gut in case they broke the vial in his cuffs before their group was down to a more manageable number. Still on his knees, he watched as Th'al jogged up the ramp to her pod... oooooh fuck... they were actually doing this now. Better late than never with the panic, but not at all would have been preferred... He was seasoned professional... his mother was going to slap him senseless with her slipper when she found out "It's a little late for panic. You made a mistake coming here" The clicheness of the man's line almost made brought a smile to Lance's lips. Bad guys were stupid. They were always stupidly stupid... Lance kind of missed the organise mess of murder that was the Galra... almost... maybe just Zarkon. At least had a reason for being a bad guy "Technically, that's still to be de..." Smacking him in the jaw with the butt of the blaster, Lance flinched as he bit the inside of his cheek "Did I say you can speak?" Spitting out the bloodied salvia gathering in his mouth, Lance continued "... cided. Now, take me to your leader?" "I... what... shut up. You're in no position to be making demands" "Idiot says what?" "Huh? What did you say?" Eh. It was close enough. Smirking to himself, Lance was smacked in the face with the butt of the blaster again. Losing his balance, Lance's hands went out to stop himself from ending up on his side, his cuffs no longer protected... The Cuban not thinking about how fragile fingers were until the man in charge brought his boot down on them, Lance howling in agony as the digits on his left crunched, the unprotected skin tearing as they broke, the officer taking an extra few ticks to relish the pain he was causing before finally releasing Lance's almost disfigured hand. Being down a hand hadn't been part of his plan... "Take him inside. Make sure you lock this thing up properly. They want it in one piece" "Aw. Don't you fella's know how to make a man feel special" was what Lance wanted to say. Actually anything quick and witty would have been better than the weak whine he let out as two hulking officers hefted him up. Between everything done to him within the last varga, his felt physically drained beyond words, leaving him limp as they started to drag him towards the entrance to the facility. If someone wanted him in one piece, then they wouldn't in a rush to murder him right away... Maybe his plan wasn't all rubbish? This unseen person who wanted him alive could hold all the answers to everything that had been happening in his area of space. Who they were and what they wanted... he couldn't even imagine. They had to be both rich and connected to run an operation like they had been for so long under the radar. Plus, they had to come from a long bloodline or they'd never have been able to inject themselves into the Erathus terraforming without raising suspicion. People couldn't simply turn up and build a city like the Erathian capital if no one out there knew of their family name. There were thousands of people involved in creating and building a city. The level of corruption in Erathus meant having people in every aspect with their ears to the ground, or they'd miss the pulse of the people. Government and police industry infiltration were basic entry level aspects when it came to low income earners, but when it came to the ambassador and police chief... yeah. Someone big had to be out there. Quietly proud of the scorch marks on the walls left behind from their last visit, Lance kept his mouth shut and forced himself to breathe through his nose. If he could have, he'd have bitten the inside of his cheek to keep from talking, but that would only make his aching mouth feel worse. As it was, his mouth tasted strongly of blood. The unwelcome irony coppery tang sliding down the back of his throat, while his bloodied face assaulted his sense of smell for a largely unappealing situation. He was practically suffocating on it all, his lungs screaming at him to open his mouth and gasp down air, but there was no way in quiznak he was giving his captors the joys of his suffering further than he already had. He was Leandro, and he had a job to do. Reaching the cells of the outpost, the room was dull. They'd stopped to throw him through the scanners, take the usual photos, then straight through with no actual paperwork being done. A single red circular light sat above the doorway of the hallway to connected the two areas smoothly. On both sides of the hall were seven barred cells. Prisoners needed no privacy, and once they were locked in, officers didn't particularly care if they inmates killed each other through the bars, as long as they made the effort to look like they considered prisoner safety. Feeling his feet tangle as tried to stand him up, Lance managed to trip despite being in their hold. Angered at the accidental action, the man to his left jabbed him hard in the ribs, causing him to momentarily lose his breath as the man to the right ignored his coworkers antics in favour of dragging Lance further forward. Making it to the end of the hall, Lance could barely see any of the red glow that shone lazily over the first few cells. Somewhere in the distance was a steady kind of dripping, and as far as he could tell there were no windows. With the man to his right releasing him, it took the stranger a few ticks to open the old fashioned lock for the cell door. Old fashioned key locks were only susceptible to lock picking if you could access the face which you couldn't here due to the size of the bar gaped, and by being quiznakking ancient it prevented hacking programs from hidden technology. It was brilliant really. Lance was always all for giving credit where it was due, and this definitely deserved a small clap. Opening without a creak the bars were clearly heavy as evidenced by how much force needed to be applied to get the damn door to move. The officer had to release him completely, push on the door and fight to hold it open as he looked to his teammate. Giving the officer a nod, Lance was propelled forward into the near blind darkness of the space, both officers clearing the cell doorway before the door boomed shut in a way he wasn't ashamed to admit turned his knees to jelly "Any funny business and we will slit your throat" There might have been men on both sides of him, and another four following their trip as they walked painfully slow, but what were all six of them going to do? He only had so much area around his throat. Lance didn't imagine them being the kind to wait so everyone could take a turn "Perfect prisoner. Scouts honour and all that. Thanks for the room guys. Love the uh... darkness. Right. I'll just be here. You guys do your job" Watching as they left, Lance finally allowed himself to grimace as the door closed. Shaking his aching fingers, he screamed as hand landed on his blasted shoulder. Flinching and ducking away, he raised his bound hands somewhat pathetically. The most he could do was bleed on his assailant "Shut up you, idiot!" "Keith!..." With wide eyes, Lance blinked half a dozen times hoping Keith would vanish like a hallucination "...Oh...no... what are you doing here?!" Crossing his arms, Keith didn't look terribly impressed. Probably because Lance had groaned out the second part of his sentence, and the cuffs Keith were wearing didn't really allow him to cross his arms properly "What am I doing here? What are you doing here?" What the... hold up. What? Why was Keith here? He was supposed to be off with the others... and not taken into captivity by the bad guys "Me?! What am I doing here?! This is my mission, Keith!" "Your mission?! You disappeared!" "I didn't disappear. I left. And now you're not supposed to be here... you're complicating things" Throwing his hands up, Keith sounded... snarky and pissy in a way that was kind of hot. Turning, Keith paced a few steps away before turning back to him "I'm complicating things? I thought you'd been taken! I've been looking for you for movements! And are you bleeding? Why are you always bleeding?! Didn't we talk about this? About all of this and agree that you were going to be careful? How did you even get here? Did you fly here?" Keith was going to get them both killed... these cells were probably bugged... "Of course I'm bleeding, my friend betrayed me, shot me and hauled my arse out here" "God! This is why I can't take my eyes off you! Do you even have a plan?" "Of course I do... did... do you have to keep yelling a me?!" "Yes! Do you have any idea how worried I was about you!" "You were worried! I was worried! This is the last place I wanted you to end up! What would you have done if they'd chopped you up, Keith?! Huh?" "I don't know! What would you have done if you ended chopped up?!" Lance spluttered. He was the one in the right here, not his idiot husband who wasn't supposed to be here! He wasn't emotionally ready for any of this! He was supposed to find someway to keep Keith safe... not be stuck in a near black cell with his husband! This was not the plan. This was not the plan at all! "I have a plan, dumb arse! I'm not about to... Quiznak, Keith... you... gargh!" Lance went to throw his own hands in the air before remembering the cuffs... and the very broken hand. Still, his hands went up enough to make him yelp, Lance losing his train of thought as Keith strode over to him. Reaching for his hand, Lance jerked back instinctively. Ignoring the action, Keith's fingers gently slipped under his broken own. The touch sending Lance into a damn near panic attack at the pain, both also with the warmth and comfort it brought. He didn't want Keith locked up in here with him, but after everything, the idiot had come after him. Keith had come after him... and while he was still mad, Keith wasn't dead. Lifting his hand, Keith turned it slightly to examine the skin, Lance assuming it was something Galrary inside his accidental husband that allowed him to see better than he currently could "What the quiznak is this?" "Broken hand... pretty much the only thing not going to plan... other than you know, my fucking husband showing up. Seriously... why Keith?" Keith ignored his question to growl out a question of his own "They broke your hand?" His broken hand? Keith was getting stuck on that? Keith didn't get to ask questions. He wasn't supposed to be here... so why was Lance letting himself be drawn in by him? Why did he feel slightly happy that Keith was angered over his injury? Right. Had to be the blow to face... maybe triggering that bit of brain damage...? He was mad at him. Mad... "Yeah... busted my mouth up too..." Yep. Totally mad at Keith... "Quiznak, Lance... Here. Come here, there's a bed thing at the back of the cell" And now he was following Keith to the back of the cell... Stupid traitorous emotions. He didn't need being fussed over by Keith. No matter how goddamn relieved he was to see and smell him again. Keith had shown up and derailed his mission. He only had a tiny bit of gas. He didn't have a suit. He couldn't protect Keith when things went down. He couldn't even protect him by leaving him, Keith's presence made that obvious. "Lance?" Standing in front of the thin cot, Lance realised Keith was waiting for him to sit down. It was almost like Lance was a completely different person. He didn't know how to think, feel or act around Keith now. He couldn't just laugh everything off. He couldn't crack a joke because Keith would see right through that "Do you need help?" "I can sit on my own, Mullet" "Then sit down. Let me look at your hand... I can't believe they broke it" "I can't believe you can't believe it..." Yeah. His brain damage was definitely in play here because even he was wincing at his own failed jokey tone. A joke he'd told himself wouldn't work. Quiznak. He was going to have to sit... which he did with a long groan. Everything hurt now that the weight was off his feet "... I'm fine. I'll heal..." "You're not fine. I can't believe your here... you weren't supposed to be here" If Keith was looking for a fight, the best Lance could manage was a mental shin kick "Like you were..." "You were missing. You left the Atlas and dropped into nothingness. I searched everywhere for you! Daehra and Lucteal talked to some friend of yours who said you were ok, then the next time they talked you were missing. Do you know how worried I've been?" "I wasn't missing. I was on the Telula" "Which wasn't out here? A whole phoeb Lance... I spent a whole phoeb thinking... thinking you were already dead... thinking the last thing between us was me breaking your trust because I'm a fucking coward" That wasn't playing fair. It was even less fair when Keith crouched down in front of him, sniffling softly as the smell of wet pine mulch met Lance's nose. Frankly he was kind of amazed he could smell anything other than blood after being hit so damn hard. Keith was crying. He wasn't allowed to cry... and now Lance was tearing up. A feared bounty hunter and the prince of Daibazaal crying in an outpost cell sounded worse than a bad joke "Keith, don't cry..." "How can I not?! Do you know how many times I've thought about you? How many times I... I know I should have told you, but at first I was scared and then I... didn't think about it. I didn't mean to tell her, you know I didn't. I wouldn't do that to you..." "Mullet, you need to calm down. Everything is being recorded right now... they're not going to lock us up without recording what we do and say. Sit down properly and take a breath... and be careful with my hands" Keith let out a shaky hiccup before sitting, resting his forehead against Lance's thigh as he shook his head "How are you so calm right now? They broke your fucking hand... and some arsehole shot you..." "I'm not calm at all. You're simply panicking enough for the both of us. Plus, it really fucking hurts to talk, but I did have a plan, and I didn't plan to never come back from this hellhole. I know you probably want to break out right now, but you need to trust me Keith" "I do trust you... I've always trusted you" "Good... don't touch my cuffs. My hands hurt. Now what we're going to do is sit and wait. You know I have those freaky healing powers, so I'm going to get both us out of here when the time is right. Understood?" "I... yeah. My team knows I'm here... does... I..." Keith was such a mess he was talking way too much. Lance wasn't so cold hearted that he'd kick him even further when he was this down... but he did need him to be the more rational one until he'd started healing "Keith. We're being recorded. Now isn't the time to be discussing this. I need you to pull yourself together again, and man up. The bed isn't much but it'll have to do. You need to get some rest, and so do I. All of this other stuff can wait for now" "I... yeah. Your right. I'm sorry... I'm so fucking sorry" "I don't know if I've forgiven you or not, but I'm not letting either of us die before we can talk about this. So come up here and sit next to me, or you can take the bed and I'll take the floor. They're waiting for someone to arrive..." "I thought they were waiting for you" "Unfortunately I'm not the last guest to the party" Keith let out a little snort, leaning back to wipe at his face as he did, or at least that was what Lance gathered he was going. He couldn't see jack shit in the dark "Did I ever tell you how much I fucking hate parties?" Keith's voice sounded slightly lighter, more hopeful. Like he was starting to pull himself from his slump "Maybe once or twice?" "Good. Good... as long as you know" "I think the whole universe knows. I know things look like quiznak right now, but we're going to be ok. I promise I'm going to get you back to Kosmo" "And I'm going to get you back to... me?" Nudging Keith with his boot, Lance permitted himself the tiniest of smiled at the thought "Maybe. We will be talking about this. All of this. I think you're dick for getting caught, but I'm struggling to think of anyone else I'd like to be held prisoner with... Now I'm going to get some rest. You should do the same. I have the feeling this is all coming to ahead and we're about to learn what all of this has been about"

[producerguk]

pendulum

→ pairing: jeon jungkook x reader 

→ genre: angst.

→ warnings: swearing.

→ word count: 3,5k 

:: the one where you get your heart broken after some rumours. 

→ a/n: this is the first piece of writing i’m sharing. i would also like to thank @kathrynwynterbourne, @btsflufflysmut, @pinqaliqo, @blueliab, @rilakoya and @jimins-light for helping me during the process. i hope you enjoy it.

→ playlist

 Sitting alone at the table designed for eight, you'd lost count of how much wine you had. You weren't a lightweight, far from it, but lately, wine was the only drink that could calm you down. And boy, did you need to be calm.

It's not like you hadn't been warned. In fact, from the moment you announced his name to your parents, you knew you were doomed. Of course, a flicker of recognition appeared in their eyes, just to assume the darkest tone you'd ever seen less than ten seconds later. 

 But you were young and completely enthralled by the way he'd looked at you across the room, his doe eyes shining brighter than any star in the night sky. He made your stomach flip when he touched you, his warmth sending shivers throughout your whole body. You were completely in love with the way his hands ran through your hair in the middle of a movie marathon, his chest so still and comfortable under your head, much better than any pillow you could ever buy.

You loved the way he sang while making breakfast, swinging his cute butt to the beat playing in his head, with nothing but sweatpants on. Or the way his eyebrows scrunched together when he was in deep thought, a little pout forming on his sweet lips, that never failed to stop time.

You fell even more in love when he would notice that you weren't fine as soon as he saw your face, asking right away what was wrong but not pressuring you into telling him, just bringing you closer and wrapping his arms around you, letting you sob into his chest. Even more when he came home and would just throw himself around you, in any way he possibly could, as if he’d been gone for years and not just a couple of hours, not letting go until he was dead-ass hungry or something.

You didn't even fight often but when you did, it was over silly things like who would get the last serving of food, who had cheated on the game or who loved who more. You were happy when your parents abandoned their judgments and opened their hearts to the man who had yours right in his hands. And it didn't take long until he had theirs as well.

So you just couldn't wrap your mind around what had happened or why. And that's why you were fighting to keep your eyelids open after so much alcohol and so little food. You needed an answer and the only way you could get through with the confrontation was if you had no filter on.

Your butt was already numb from sitting in the chair for so long, but you only moved to the couch when the wine ended. Your heart was broken and you were butthurt, but you’d be completely damned if you spilled a single drop of the red remedy on your recently bought white couch.

You turned the TV on just to check the time since you had thrown your phone right into the wall when you read the rumours, smashing it as if it were your own head instead. Because you were told that would happen sooner or later, and yet you chose to stick with your feeling.

Your eyes locked on the white pixels, making your heart race. It was a little past three in the morning and you hadn't heard a single thing from him since all hell broke loose right on your doorstep, not even two days ago.

“I’m so fucking stupid,” you mumbled to yourself, throwing your head back on the arm of the couch and curling up into a ball, letting all you kept inside rush out on your face through tears.

You cried yourself to sleep that night, with nothing but the white noise of the TV to keep you company.

You were awakened by the smell of recently brewed coffee and bacon, but you didn't open your eyes. The sour taste on your mouth reminded you of all the bottles of wine you had chugged alone and the reason behind it, quickly setting that awful weight on your chest and over your shoulders, even though you told yourself you were already numb. The sound of footsteps soon followed until it stopped right beside you, although you kept your eyes shut in an attempt to delay the inevitable.

Cold fingers soon ran along your scalp, while his other hand brushed soft patterns on your arm, his cologne intoxicating you and his warm lips leaving soft kisses on your face. For a moment, you almost smiled. For a moment, your heart raced, with the warm feeling on your belly causing shivers to run through your body.

“Hey, I made you breakfast,” Jungkook said when he noticed you had opened your eyes, subtly rejecting his warmth as you clung more to the fabric of the couch than his embrace.

“Thanks,” you murmured, bringing your knees to your chest while he offered you the mug of coffee, an anxious look painted on his bare face.

You took your coffee strong and without sugar, so anything slightly different from that could ruin your whole day. He knew that from the first time he dared to surprise you with breakfast in bed, the drink so sweet that it almost had you spilling it all over your white bed sheets. Now, anytime Jungkook would decide to make you a surprise involving coffee, he’d watched expectantly to see if it was to your taste. He loved to see you close your eyes and inhale the scent as deep as you could, the warm drink settling in your stomach and eliminating any trace of sleep left.

Jungkook let out a breath he didn't know he was holding when you eagerly took another sip, unaware of how badly you wanted to get rid of the sour taste.

“Your friends were here yesterday?” he asked softly, wiping away the stains of mascara under your eyes.

“What?” you asked, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“The bottles of wine left on the sink”, he explained, giving you a sweet smile. “I mean, I know you could drink it all and probably not even get a bit tipsy, but you don't have any reason for that, right? It just makes more sense.”

You could nod and give him a smile and a made up excuse your friends certainly would back it up. You could pretend nothing ever happened and keep yourself happy, on the same routine you had grown so fond of. You would get over it eventually, you knew you could.

Jungkook was offering you a way out of all the heartbreak and pain. You both knew that. His eyes were still wide, and he couldn't stop biting his bottom lip. His anxiety wasn't over the coffee. He knew you were aware of what happened and that didn't surprise you one bit; it's not like you had been hiding it, anyway.

“You wish, huh,” you mumbled, giving him a half-assed smile that didn't meet your eyes.

You could, but you wouldn't.

It wouldn't be fair to yourself to live a lie for someone else. It wouldn't be fair because it was against everything you believed in. It wouldn't be true.

“So, when were you going to tell me?” you asked, putting the mug down on the rest table. He didn't say anything, locking his eyes on the wooden floor. “Or you weren’t going to? Because you didn't.”

“I didn't mean it, I-”

“You what, Jungkook?” Your tone was higher, but you didn't mind. “You fucked her by accident? You were forced? For fuck’s sake, just take responsibility.” His head snapped at you, his eyes filling with tears, gulping hard at your words.

“Can I explain?” he asked, mimicking your position with his knees close to his chest.

“Go ahead, there's nothing I want more,” you said, not even flinching when his eyes met yours. You were numb, despite what his touch and caring led you to believe.

He took a moment to arrange his thoughts, but you didn't take your eyes away from his figure. You should’ve guessed this was bound to happen, no matter what he led you to believe. Jungkook was much more than you could’ve had. He was beautiful, talented, successful and gentle. Heads turned every time he walked into a room, eyes fixating on his every move as if just blinking could tear them away from never-ending happiness. He just had this aura of peace around him, that seemed to embrace everyone around him, even if in situations like this one. He could make anyone drop to his knees with so little as a tilting of his head. He could have anything he wanted handed to him in a matter of seconds. Jungkook could have anyone.

You should've known better.

“I’m not going to give any excuses,” Jungkook started, shifting on his seat. “And I don't want to hurt you more than I already did, so please, if it's too much just tell me to stop and I-”

“Get this over with,” you interrupted him, ignoring the uncomfortable warmth on your chest. “I don't want to know everything, but I deserve to. It's the least you can do.” He flinched at your harsh words, not failing to notice your cold tone.

“I thought I didn't love you anymore.”

His eyes didn't move away from yours, watching attentively to your every reaction. It was your turn to flinch, close your eyes, and take a deep breath. Biting your tongue to not cut him off again, you tried to ignore the tight grip his words left around your neck.

“I thought I didn't feel the same anymore. We saw each other every night, fucked every other day and that was it. You didn't talk to me like you used to, or-,” he sighed, trying to sound as distant as he could.

“We talked about everything, Jungkook. Don't try to blame me for your fuck ups,” you interrupted him, voice filled with anger. “Or did you suddenly forget about all the nights I sacrificed my sleep to listen to you rant about how fucking awful it is to get paid to live the dream?”

“It’s not about me, though,” he continued, ignoring the way your eyes carved holes in his head. “You never talked to me about anything. Every time I got the chance to learn about your day, you’d shut me out. I wanted to go out, but then you’d be sleeping like a fucking bear. I wanted to be with you and you were out with your friends; and you didn't even bother to invite me.”

“How could I invite you when you’d fall asleep five minutes after you got home? Did you want me to fucking overwork you? What the fuck, Jungkook.”

“It's not about that!” He screamed, staring at you wide-eyed, his chest rising and falling rapidly with his erratic breathing. “I thought you didn't love me anymore, so I didn't want to love you at all! I fucking begged Jimin to take me with him to one of those motherfucking clubs he's always at. I drank more than I probably should and I found a girl completely different from you. She wore those dresses that are supposed to be sexy, but it ends up leaving half of her ass uncovered, and she bit her lips like it was supposed to be fucking hot, though it was pathetic, at best. And she was everything you would never be.”

You didn't interrupt him this time. You were too busy fighting your own tears to try to fight him. His words lacerated your heart. They tugged so deep into your heartstrings that you weren't sure you could ever recover.

“So I went and I fucked her. In the bathroom, on Jimin’s car and at her house. I wanted to get you out of my system because I was sure you already had me out of yours,” he didn't stop when tears traveled down his face or when his voice cracked, almost as if he was the one being choked and not you. “But I couldn't because you were on my mind all the fucking time. I didn't even cum once, for fuck’s sake.”

“Stop,” you begged, your voice not louder than a whisper over your sobs. “Please.”

You were both crying your hearts out in front of the other. You wanted nothing more than to close the distance between you and feel his warmth against you, his arms wrapping so tightly around you as his way of telling you he would not, and he could not, let you go. You wanted to kiss him and to apologize for ever letting him think you didn't want him. You wanted to embrace him and promise him that everything would turn out okay, that you both could get through that and grow together.

But the only thing you did was hug your own knees and drop your gaze to your jeans, not able to hold his and your own feelings anymore.

You didn't know how much time had gone since you begged him to stop, but by the headache threatening to settle, you figured it had been a lot. The silence between both of you wasn't in any way uncomfortable or unbearable, despite everything. It was probably because he was still there, you thought. If you stretched out a hand, he would take it. If you closed the distance, he would take you. If you kissed him, he would kiss you back. If you said that you loved him, he would tell you he loved you just as much. If you said it was okay, he would never let you go.

You knew why he did it, even though you didn't want to acknowledge it. You knew you had shut him out after he came back from tour because you felt you could never be enough for him, although he would stay up all night, despite the time zone he was in, talking you out of your worries through FaceTime, just so you could see he meant every word he said.

But when he came back beaming with happiness and so full of stories and passion for everything he’d seen, you couldn't help but feel disposable. You could never give him such happiness. Then, you believed he could never love you as much as he loved his job.

So you went back to going out almost every weekend with your friends, filling the emptiness you felt with alcohol and food and came home to an empty bed, because he was still working for the comeback. On his free days, you were too busy with paperwork that you willingly let accumulate, or going through awful hangovers that kept you within a foot of the toilet, and a teasing Jungkook to take care of your mess.

He never questioned you once. Instead, when you were too drunk to make it to the bed, he got up and took you, making sure to give you pills for headache and a whole bottle of water, cuddling with you after you succumbed to sleep. So you thought he didn't care that much with the way things changed. You chose to believe he didn't mind at all.

But now, hearing his sobs and staring at his swollen face, you wanted to beat yourself up for it. Because you were just as much at fault as he was. Yet, you couldn't bring yourself to say something.

“You saw it on TV?” he asked, his voice raspy and cracked, wiping his tears away.

“Your fans mentioned me like crazy on a tweet and then Yoongi texted me saying he was going to beat you up.”

“He tried to,” he said, with an embarrassed smile. “But Jin cut him off and took me out of the practice room before anything happened.”

“I would’ve told him he didn't need to, but I smashed my phone before that.” You told him, looking back at the wall that had to face your anger.

“I’m not surprised, you were always hot headed,” he smiled, truthfully this time.

“You're not wrong, but come on, if you were in my place you would've done worse.”

“She snapped a photo of me, somehow. I didn't see when she did, but then Jimin broke down the door of my studio shoving his phone at my face and then all hell broke loose.”

“What was her name?”

“I don't know,” he said, scratching his neck. “I don't think I asked.”

You were doing good, so far. It amazed you how you could still keep a civil conversation with him. The tears on your face had dried and although it felt like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders, the air surrounding you didn't resemble harmony.

Would he have ever told you if he hadn't been taken by surprise? Or would he have let things go on like before he had fucked her?

“I was trying to figure out a way of telling you when Jimin almost broke half of my shit. Taehyung almost hit me, too.”

“Yeah, it's not like you didn't deserve it,” you laughed, taking a sip of your now cold coffee. “But it shouldn't have happened.”

“None of it should,” Jungkook said, sitting more closely to you, throwing his head back on the couch.

“It did, though,” you reminded yourself when he took your hands in his.

You were so weak for him, and he fucking knew that. Jungkook could probably shoot you and you would forgive him, jumping in his arms at the first chance you got. His lips were red after all the crying, and yet all you could think about was to drown yourself in them, in him.

He leaned down to press a kiss against your forehead and the uneasiness settling in your belly made you remember no matter how badly you wanted him, you shouldn't.

Had he done that to her, before he left her house? Jungkook said it’d been just a fuck, but did his heart race when he was fucking her? Did he leave marks on her body? Did he moan for her like he did for you? Did he remember how she moaned his name? Did he fuck her like he fucked you?

The hands wrapped against yours had roamed her body, touching her everywhere. The lips still pressed against your forehead had been on her lips and god knows where else.

You backed off, not able to shrug the feeling. Jungkook seemed so broken when you got up, his hands still where yours were supposed to be. You found yourself fighting the tears back once more.

“What can I do to make it right?” He asked, his voice cracking.

“You can't,” you forced yourself to sound certain.

You wouldn't be able to live with yourself around him, no matter how brief their encounter was. He had been with someone else and that fucking broke you. You would see the faceless woman every time he touched you. His warmth was what could heal you, but how could he touch you without bringing her ghost back to haunt you?

“____, please, there must be something I can do,” Jungkook begged, getting up from the couch. “I’m so fucking sorry. I’ll do anything, please!”

“I can’t do this to myself,” you let out, wiping your tears away angrily. “I’m just gonna see her every time you’re around me and I already have too many ghosts haunting me to hold yours too.”

“You won't do it alone, I love you,” he tried, leaning against the wall. “I’ll do everything I can to make you forget this, I swear.”

“I love you too, but I have to love my sanity more, Jungkook,” your voice cracked and you weren't able to look at him anymore.

“I love you more than anything, please,” he begged once more, his voice no louder than whispers followed by choked sobs.

“You can sleep here, I’ll stay with one of my friends,” you were desperately trying to find your wallet, cursing your drunk self when you found it on the dining table.

“I love you so fucking much.”

“I’ll have my things out by the end of the weekend, okay?” you announced, opening the door.

“Please.”

“I don't hate you, Jungkook,” you said, trying to comfort him while forcing yourself to get out of the place you used to call home. “But I can't do us anymore.”

You wanted to say you understood and you forgave him. You wanted to say you loved him and nothing he did could ever change that. You wanted to say he would be okay.

“I’m sorry,” was all you said, before closing the door behind you and allowing yourself to collapse in tears outside, fighting for air.

The vision of him leaning against the wall with his arms wrapped against his own frame and ugly tears staining his face fucking killed you. You couldn't deal with having caused him such pain.

You forced yourself off the wall and ran out of the apartment complex because you knew you were on the verge of knocking the door down and taking him in your embrace.

 “It's gonna be okay,” you mumbled to yourself, hugging yourself.

[vaguewriting]

vague fic fragment #2

solangelo hospital au: the doctor and the angel of death

1.

They say that it takes three times to form a pattern. For Will, it took about four different occasions before he noticed.

There was nothing particularly exciting that happened that first day of the pattern, Will only remembering his arms overflowing with supplies as he restocked each bed in the emergency room. Nearly half of the beds were full that day, all minor issues and nothing that Will had any reason dealing with, not when there were so many other doctors running around. There were enough people running around that the walkways weren’t exactly clear (which Will realized, shortly after the first occurrence, was a fire hazard and should be cleared out) and Will had just made his way across the room at the time of the first occurrence.

He’d glanced back at the small crowd, recognizing most of the faces as relatives of some of the patients, when he noticed someone who stood out. Amongst the bright colors and floral patterns of the crowd, Will saw a shock of black and white. His eyes fell on dark clothes and a leather jacket, locking with the obsidian gaze of the other man. His eyes widened fractionally, as if surprised to have been noticed. Will blinked, feeling a strange tightening in his chest, and when he did blink, the man was gone, along with the ache in Will’s chest. He glanced around the crowd, searching for the darkness in the bright colors, but the man seemed to have vanished.

Will rubbed his eyes, deciding he would use his down time to grab a nap in an on-call room, because clearly he was tired if he was imaging pretty boys in the middle of the hospital. But first, he had a fire hazard to clear up.

2.

The next time it happened, Will almost didn’t see him. Will had been in the waiting room, delivering the terrible news to the family of one of his favorite patients. He turned away, barely able to keep the tears from spilling over his cheeks. As he went, he noticed a familiar dark shape walking towards him.

Will kept his eyes down, not wanting to engage anyone at the moment, feeling as though the air was cooling as he went. He glanced up just before the man in the leather jacket brushed past him, their eyes locking for long enough that Will could recognize him, and he continued walking past.

Will felt the sadness drain from his being, replaced by exhaustion setting into his bones. He packed up his locker and made his way home, feeling as if he were being followed by a man with the darkest eyes he’d ever seen.

3.

Will hated night shifts. He hated how quiet it was in the hospital, and he could never sleep well in the on-call rooms. He would spend his time walking laps around the hospital, listening for pages and checking in on a few of his patients. On this particular night, the hospital was nearly silent. Even the emergency room was quieter than usual, not a single patient having arrived for over two hours at least.

Will had stopped at one of the nurse’s stations to take a break, chatting quietly with one of the newly hired nurses. They weren’t sitting for long before one of the screens in front of them began to flash, alerting them of a coding patient.

Will flew out of his seat, calling back, “Grab a crash cart!” as he ran in the direction of the patient’s room. The first thing he noticed when he came through the doorway was the dark figure standing next to the bed, hand resting on the forehead of the patient.

Will jumped forward, pushing the man aside and beginning CPR. “You’re not allowed to be in here,” Will said to the man. He looked shaken, though his eyes stayed locked on Will rather than the old woman in the bed. His hand covered his arm where Will had grabbed him, like he was surprised by the contact.

The nurse burst into the room, blowing past the man as if she didn’t even see him, pushing a crash cart to Will’s side. Will accepted the cart, moving to restart the patient’s heart with the paddles.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, or how many times the shocks were attempted, but he knew that another attempt would be pointless. Will took a step back from the bed, eyes drifting across the room, sliding right past the nurse and landing on the empty space where the man had been.

“Where did he go?” Will asked aloud.

“What do you mean?” the nurse asked, turning around. “Who?”

Will stepped around the bed, heading for the doorway. “The guy that was standing here. He was just right here, where did he go?”

“There was no one here, WIll,’ the nurse called after him as he rushed out into the hall. “Will! Come back here, you have to call time of death!”

Will walked back into the room, shooting a look at the nurse. “You’re absolutely sure you didn’t see anyone?” The nurse nodded. Will sighed and glanced down at his watch. “Time of death: three thirty-seven.”