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narcolini · 2 years ago

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the last stretch

lalo salamanca & gn!reader, whump, 18+, 1588 words

warnings for major character death, descriptions of blood & injuries

for day 8 of whumpril : dehydration

a/n: just a short one today, and tbh it feels more similar in style to my original fiction vs. my fanfic, so i hope u enjoy! are they friends? enemies? who knows!

tagging: @hausofmamadas @drabbles-mc @cositapreciosa

You’ve been walking for hours, a day, maybe, or two, without getting anywhere at all. As far as you could bare to endure in one direction, and then back to the car, then as far as you could manage the opposite way. Never straying far from the crash site, never letting it out of your view on the horizon. You couldn’t. Lalo wouldn’t let you.

No matter how tired you got, no matter how chapped your lips, how sore your heels, how sharp the headache—it was the same, over and over. ‘Keep looking, carnal,’ he’d say, ‘there’s got to be life here somewhere, right?’

In this particular effort, you’ve managed to find a—well, you don’t know what the fuck it is, really, or what it used to be. Right now, it’s a three-walled structure, with half a roof and enough shade to make it look like a haven.

He doesn’t complain when you suggest taking a break there. Just for a bit, just long enough to relax your eyes from the permeant squint they’ve adopted. It’s probably because he knows that you’d ignore him if he did, or tell him he can go back to the busted vehicle and drink the gas from the tank. Light yourself while you’re at it, cabrón.

Sitting down feels like dying, in a way, it takes everything out of you to do it slowly, and somewhat carefully. If you didn’t put actual effort into avoiding it, you probably would’ve dropped hard enough to break something, right on the tailbone. You probably would’ve shattered from the blood-level dehydration you’re suffering through.

You sigh, testing your head against the brick before settling it there. At first, you expected it to be scalding hot, to singe your scalp the way the sun has, but it’s cool. Cold, even. Long enough in the shade, that it feels like sticking your head in the drinks fridge at Safeway.

‘We’re going to die out here, aren’t we?’ you ask, eyes closed, feeling Lalo sit beside you.

He grunts as he lowers himself, his boots catching on your jeans as he stretches his legs out in front. ‘Oye, maybe. Maybe not.’ He groans again, getting comfortable, because he’s a man of that age and that’s all they do. ‘You should have stayed when I told you to, carnal.’

You laugh, snorting hot air over your desert-dusted face. ‘I should have never fucking met you in the first place.’

‘Come on,’ he croons, ‘we have fun, no?’

Had, past tense. You turn your head to look at him. ‘If we survive, I’m killing you before anyone else.’

He smiles, all in the mouth, unable to lift it into the creases by his eyes. The time you’ve spent out here has got to him, worse than it’s got to you. ‘Alright,’ he nods, ‘if that’s what you want.’

As if he’d go that easy, as if he’d even let you get close enough to try. The only thing that would kill him is—

‘But, I thought you were done with killing,’ he says, and it feels like he’s laughing at you now, not with you. ‘Ya no es divertido, Lalo,’ he mocks, doing the worst impression of your voice that he possibly could. ‘What happened to that, hm?’

You happened, you want to say, you and all your charm and all the bullshit it comes with. ‘The same thing that always happens, Lalo, money.’ And lack of it. ‘You know I never would’ve come out here if I wasn’t desperate.’

He shakes his head, amused by the non-confession. ‘Wow, and I thought we were good together.’

‘Define good,’ you snort, putting your head back to the wall. The cold is helping, you think, making things seem real again. Sharpening the mirage. ‘I think you were the worst thing to ever happen to me.’

You know that he’s grinning. He would be. ‘Is there a prize? I’ve got the perfect place for a trophy.’

‘Yeah,’ you tell him, ‘yeah, I’ll get you a fucking trophy.’ He can put it on the dashboard of his stupid immobilised car.

After a moment, or ten minutes, Lalo sighs. ‘You know,’ he says, linking his hands over his lap, ‘there’s a flare in the trunk.’

‘What?’ You snap back to him. ‘A flare?’

His eyebrows go up at your alarm, face coming alive with false offence. ‘What? I can’t be smart like that? Soy un hombre del mundo, ya sabes.’ He pauses. ‘Y chulo, sí me sientes.’

You tut, putting a lifeless tonto under your breath.

‘There’s even a first aid kit,’ he adds, steaming with pride. As if the contents of his trunk excuses the rest of the shit this chingamadre has put you through, as if it wasn’t his fault that you crashed out in the first place.

‘I think it’s a little too late for that.’ A bandage won’t undo any of this, it won’t even touch the surface.

‘Si,’ he agrees, sighing wistfully afterwards. ‘But the flare can help, no? Oooh,’ his eyes go wide again, ‘maybe they’ll airlift you out.’

‘Or maybe no-one will see the flare at all, and I’ll be right back where I started, Lalo.’

‘Eh.’ He shrugs, waving you off. ‘It’s worth a shot. One of us should get out of here alive, to finish business.’

You look at him, then his arm, broken still, with white bone through the skin of his elbow. There’s red on his forehead too, now, that you’ve seen before, but had forgotten about. Blood dripping down and over his eyes, clotting in the lashes.

He laughs. ‘Y, no seré yo, verdad?’

You nod. It’s not going to be him.

It takes hours, though it can’t have, that’s just how it feels. How slow time passes under the pulsing ache of your head, the dead weight of your feet. It crawls by, slower than you’re walking. Minutes, hours, days. You don’t even care any more. What matters, is you made it back to the crash site. To the car, exactly as you left it, but no longer on its side.

The smoking from the engine has stopped, and it doesn’t appear to have burst into flames the way you thought it might. No exploded gas tank, no shrapnel, metal and flesh alike. Just the car, on four wheels again, with its nose in the ditch. It must’ve fallen somehow, corrected itself in your latest absence.

The initial impact of the crash had burst the trunk open, luckily, not fully, but enough to get both arms in and root around. If there is something in there, you’ll be able to get it free from the wreckage. Probably. You haven’t tried flexing your fingers around anything in a while, so they might snap off completely when you do, dry enough from the heat that they crumble like driftwood at the slightest bend.

You put your thighs to the tailgate, leaning all your weight onto it, because stationary and upright isn’t a thing you can manage right now, and begin digging in the contents of the trunk. You pull out the bigger stuff first—tarp, garbage bags, a crow-bar—and dump it at your feet.

The guy drives around like a cartoon villain, and for what? None of this shit can help him now.

When it’s empty, you find no flare—obviously, there’s no flare—and feel like screaming because of it, like forcing the bent trunk shut and swearing into the sky, but all of that requires more energy than you have left. You’re too tired to call a bastard, a bastard, even when he’s sitting right there in the driver’s seat.

May as well say good-bye, though. If you’re going down that route, all out of options at last.

You pick up a foot, put it in front of the other, repeat. Drag yourself from the back of the car, to the side, world spinning as you make it into the deepest part of the trench.

Before you can peer through the open passenger door, you spot an unnatural shape beneath your shoe. A phone, a fucking, satellite phone. One that’ll get reception, unlike the useless one you’re carrying. Unlike Lalo’s, that’s in his front pocket still, untouched because you were too sentimental to try and reach for it.

You bend, pick up the phone, check the screen—full battery—and laugh. Fuck, it was worth it, then. Coming back here. He was smart enough to carry a phone that could survive the desert when nothing else did.

‘Lalito,’ you say, folding at the waist, free hand on the roof of the car. ‘You might’ve just saved my life, man.’

He’s moved since you last said good-bye. Fallen back from the wheel and to the side slightly. His broken arm sits on his lap now, beside the gun that his other hand had never lifted to his head, you assume. Dead from his injuries before he could finish the job himself.

‘Thank-you,’ you tell him, lifting the phone limply—unable to give it the smug, victory shake that you’d imagined. I won, you think, me, not you. I found the phone first.

He doesn’t answer. You can’t pretend that he does, either, when he’s slumped against the window like that. Chin on his chest, blood over his eyes. He doesn’t spring to life in your imagination like he had done before.

It’s shame, really, because you were just starting to get attached.

#lalo salamanca x reader #lalo salamanca #better call saul fanfic #whumpril2023 #whumpril

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oursecondcousin · 3 years ago

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One Of The People.

Tap the window frame. Judge the acoustics. Devon was still bothered by the buzzing in her right ear. She stepped back and turned into the centre of her room. It was clean. The buzzing panned to her left ear, leaving the right to echo the sound it was now missing out on. All the tidying had been done before I’d even woken up. This London flat was Devon’s safe haven, she treated it as such. A solo palace, where she thrived.

She paid 1,950 pounds a month. A big cost to find peace in the city. A cost that will slowly make her realise that the constant outflow of money to her landlord will make it nearly impossible to save up for a place of her own. The buzzing increased and transposed 12 tones. Tap the window frame. Judge the acoustics. There...wait... yes. The ringing had final given up. She could now hear the silence.

Rap shows weren’t her sort of thing. Nonetheless, Devon thought it would be a cool place to take Finn. He’d expressed interest in the 12 piece rap collective GIRLS LIKE SHOWS on many occasions. Even going as far as stealing the Aux cord at multiple university parties to personally promote the rap groups music. Finn would only survive half a song at most before a swarm of unhappy pop music loving party-goers separated him from the sound system, and on one occasion was thrown out all together to ensure that the glue between the sexes, materialised in the hosts carefully crafted playlist, wouldn’t be disturb ever again. Finn was Devon’s uncool ,but that made him really cool, best friend. I’m fond of him, but I hated GIRLS LIKE SHOWS. Even more so, I hated that Devon liked them as well. I’ve been playing rap music around Devon since we started hanging out but not once did she ever express interest in the poetic verses I offered up. This 12 piece rap collective that Finn & Devon bonded over had the childish gimmick of painting themselves purple! What’s that got to do with Hip Hop?

Finn & Devon met in their first year at Kings College. They studied different subjects, ate at different lunch spots but both grew up in London. They shared a love for books. With Finn it was hard to know if this love was genuine or if he just valued being seen with a book in his hand. For Devon, reading was a ritual, a solo religion. Reading a lot of literature would end up justifying Devon’s whole demeanour to me. She loved ideas that weren’t her own and that gave her sense of connection to the ideas of humankind as a whole and felt autonomy in imagining the imagery that the author laid out for her. This is

how the relationship with her parents worked, they’d set up a life for her and all she’d have to do is desire a certain set of situational factors that would fit into the preexisting framing. Hence this London flat was viewed by Devon’s Mum and then recommended to her as the ‘perfect place to start adulting’, while her Dad would proceed to give Devon 350 pounds every month as a way of finical support and stunting her independence.

I woke up that morning to find Devon starring at me from the foot of the bed. She must had only had about four hours sleep. It was the scent of cigarette smoke that woke me up when she returned from the gig at about five in the morning. She was soaked in the stench of her evening. It was confronting, to the point that it forced to me bury my head into my pillow and search for a new scent in the lining. Devon’s movements on the other hand were delicate as ever, lightly tip toeing around the bed, trying not to make a sound. Almost afraid to wake me if you will, but please know, I’m really nothing to fear. And yes, the sounds alone didn’t bother me one bit, which is impressive, as I’m assuming she’d drank heavily that night- she always did when she was with Finn. Hell, for all I know she could of flown in through the window and violently ripped out her wings all before the smell of the concert gave the game away. The scent just arrived suddenly and I woke up. If you ponder on it for too long it’ll end up haunting you. To just find yourself suddenly, with another presence in the room... That feeling turns me back into a child.

There it was again. Devon’s ear’s, now in reciprocity both screamed. The ringing made her head aggravated, as if it was impossible to sit still. Her only resort was to literally shake her skull as a means to cope- the same movement she used as a sign of appreciation to the rap groups music the night before. What can you do when the problems inside? I could see her urge to throw herself on the floor but she suddenly gained some composure and refrained from doing so. ‘AHHHHH’ Devon moaned to the window in-passionately, trying to expel the sound from her ears. ‘What? What’s up?’ I asked, still getting accustomed with my conscience and the new day. ‘There’s a loud ringing in my ear.’

She had a speedy monotone delivery, now with her knees slightly bent and lent against the mattress at the foot of the bed.

‘How close were you to the speakers last night? My Dad got his tinnitus from standing too far to the left at a David Bowie concert. It’ll probably sort itself’- ‘I know, IT’S FINE. It’ll sort itself out’. Devon brushed me off as if it was my fault. Her tone demanded a moment of silence. Her expression cold, as if she didn’t want a verbal response. Instead just wanting to occupy a time and space that would act as a stage, where she could liberally perform her complaints about the suffering that she’s been forced to succumb to. She jolted her neck away from my direction towards the window behind her, the weight of her head following in quick succession, as if she hoped some magic power would fling me out of the window in response to this movement. Instead it left her awkwardly looking over her shoulder towards the window, leaving me with a profile shot of her face, as if she wanted me to marvel at the extremity of her jawline and not be able to help myself but to reach for the nearest camera.

I could sense hatred. I took the mental photo anyway for this reason. The hate was obvious and awkward. It engulfed the bedroom and bleed onto the mattress. It was as if I myself were that annoying buzzing she was trying so desperately to get rid of, as if I myself had both hands on her temples and were forcefully pressing inwards, trying my best to penetrate her skull with my thumbs. As if it were me screaming inside her ears.

Only then did I realise how tiny this bedroom was. The double-bed took up all the space in the centre of the room, allowing for only two narrow slits of walkway either side. At the window, by the foot of the bed, was a desk covered in organised clutter. Plastic pots and boxes filled high with undistinguishable belongings. The window donned off-white blinds, suitable for a detective to glimpse through in the climatic moment of some murder mystery. I only wish there were some mysteries out there for me to discover. The bedroom window looked out onto a block of flats across the road. The building was so tall and so close that you had to open the window and arch your neck upwards to see the sky. I used to catch Devon in that exact position every time she had a cigarette, her body contorted, gnarled and awkward, but her mind thinking of herself as the main character in a Hollywood film. This is

a mental image I should burn. How dare Polaroid pictures reduce people to their past. I used to take pleasure in looking out to the windows of the flats and just observe another persons miserable inner city existence through another frame. I used to find people watching peaceful, but if you watch for too long you can no longer separate yourself from what you see. Those people, in their houses, and me in this room of mine, made me realise that I too am just one of them. One of the people. Obviously, but devastatingly so. Of course we are all people, and all but people we must be. I just hoped for more when I left Scotland. I hoped for a better life and for something better to be.

The thought of going to live in London made me think higher of myself, but once there, I was just another one of the miserable people. This is why I found it so easy to stay laying in bed for long on Sunday mornings, all before I’d be woken up by some ghost at the edge of the bed.

Devon swirled her fingers on the mattress. I should of busied myself with another task but for reasons unknown I just sat there in bed and observed. I was sucked into the pattern of her actions. It was seductive but with a glint of malice in its intention. The circles she drew with her finger were small, but the motion was fluid, so much so that it made time slow and dangle on the precipice of coming to a halt altogether. Time was at the mercy of Devon’s control. She’s conducting ever note in times symphony. I could feel my heart beat. It was fast. Not the on set of a panic attack, just fast in comparison to the pace of the circles, to the room, just fast in relation to Devon. My heart beat might not of been irregular at all, but the trance she put me under pulled every part of the subconscious into calculated thought. My brain and body were running a race I couldn’t keep up with. I was just out of sync in some way or another that morning. I was made to feel alien to those surroundings, and some how Devon made it so. I could of sworn it. It was her doing. As if she were muttering spells over and over in her head until she’d glued down a solid mantra which would spark control of the bedroom and manifest my demise through making me an infant to an unforgiving terrain. That feeling, as I recall it now is at the edge of my understanding. It’s hard to justify with words. I felt anxious. I had never felt such a thing in Devon’s presence before. It was her cold calm. It gave off a sense of performance that

morning which made me know I was being deceived. Why all of a sudden play calm when you just let slip that your ears are screaming? I wish she kept on complaining. I wouldn’t of butted in like last time. I wouldn’t be quick to comment. I would of allowed her to stage her complaints and I’d be a willing member of the audience, chucking roses on the stage as the curtains closed and be left begging for one more scene. I wish she screamed! I wish see gave into the buzzing. I wished for anything to take over the silence. I would of even taken another beating! It would of granted me some peace, it would of matched my rhythm, the thudding of my heart, the internal drum, and brought me back into the room.

I say another beating, she only ever hit me once. Okay, she hit me a couple times but on one occasion. It took place a week before that morning. Devon was drunk. I was drinking with her. She insisted on me doing so as she felt it looked bad for her to drink alone, so she insisted on baby feeding me the wine bottle. But who else is there to look bad for other than me? And I didn’t care! She got me drunk to help the way she viewed herself. I whole heartedly expressed this to her. She perceived this as an attack on her character and the foundation of her virtues so she proceeded to slap me a couple times. All directed to my face and neck.

To not hit back. To not be the a monster- to be harmless. That’s characteristic of a true gentlemen right? And gentle I am, but pathetic I feel, and horrid is my head for still thinking about her after all this time.

Devon’s index finger stopped tracing circles. She recoiled her hand away from the sheets. Her index finger was then left to drag along behind it, her knees pressed and then bounced off the mattress, as if never even touching the floor. She left the bedroom, as if flying away.

I woke up that morning not knowing why I upset her, but I was desperate to find out. I’d been living with her for two months at that point. I moved down to London four months prior to look for work on film sets. No real plan, just to get involved however I could. I’ve been making tea and coffee for actors ever since. I was only meant to stay with Devon for two weeks. But we started dating and had sex most nights, so me staying over every night seemed fair.

But that Sunday morning, something was different. Maybe she’d had enough of me. Maybe we hadn’t been having enough sex. Maybe that’s what I needed to do to earn my keep in that flat. My heart began to slow a little. Even when we had sex my heart never had a presence like it. Our intimacy was never hot headed and exhilarating like displayed in the countless sex scenes I’ve witnessed actors perform in warhouse studios, surrounded by wooden facade sets, while I’m holding there coffees that will grant them the energy to go again, another take, another chance at performing love in the hopes that this time it’ll appear more real than the last. No, our intimacy was slow, a cunning dance, calculated but not in the clinical sense. Calculated in a way that made me feel as if sex with Devon was in some way connected to the natural formula of living. That there was no other choice but to comply. It felt written in the stars to the point that even a parallel universe would have us meeting at that coffee shop, in the same framing of circumstances, just with our genders swapped or something.

She was meant to be in a lecture, she studied History & Modern languages, which had a year of studying abroad. She desperately wanted a better reason for studying the subject but in truth a year abroad to study in Spain was the most gratifying aspect of the whole thing. As I write this Devon is probably in Spain as we speak, lent over a balcony somewhere- performing her Hollywood dream.

Her Mother is French so was raised in the language at home. Her Dad is German, and would teach her regularly all throughout her childhood, but German was the language that had to be a lesson. Devon’s Dad spoke French and English also but her Mother only knew a few German fraises, and rude ones at that. Therefore, by default, French and English were the languages of the household, with German being the language of the summer house at the back of the garden. Devon’s Dad made it his personal mission to get her speaking the language of his homeland so every Tuesday and Thursday at 6pm, between the ages of nine & fourteen, Devon would have an hour long German lesson in the summerhouse. In the last years of this ritual, when Devon was close to fluent, the 6pm meeting became a lot more than just language recital. They’d read German literature, non fiction, and proceed to argue over the ideas. Sometimes going on over the hour to the point that the

dinner Devon’s Mum had made would get cold. Overtime so did she.

After her parents divorce, Devon latched onto the German language. It became her weapon that she could use in the domestic battlefield against her Mum. At any formal gathering, Devon’s parents would do a great job at putting on a civil performance. However, Devon would start war by speaking German to her Father, something her Mum hated. Devon’s Dad would always be courteous by responding in English but nonetheless this made Devon’s Mum start to resent her only child. To find yourself armed with a weapon of destruction and not to use it as tactical warfare in the domestic battlefield takes a resilience and virtue that Devon will always be blind to. For her, exercising power is no different than freedom itself. Only now do I realise the spell I was under is the same spell she put over her Dad. So anyway, I’d been walking a long the river and went to get a coffee. I was reading Dostoyevsky. She approached me. I looked up from my book and there she was, hovering over me, with the tips of our shoes touching. To keep a grasp on formality I shifted back in my seat and gaged her eye contact but it was unnervingly focused. If I didn’t choose to find it charming it would of seemed nothing less than intimidating. It seemed she desperately wanted to make a friend that day. With every question she asked I could see her desires become more realised and it didn’t seem specific to me. It seemed as if she went to that coffee shop, on that day, missed that lecture, put on that lipstick and would start talking to any man, anyone who was sat in that chair, that my independence up until that point was now a book broken and burnt and that the role I needed to play wasn’t to be myself but to be in her story and be okay with revolving around her axis for the rest time to the point that I’d be begging for the Sun to concave and implode at every given moment.

In the first call and response I had already stated my name and that I had just come down to London from Scotland. It was the way she framed the question. She stated her name so I mimicked this gesture and mumbled mine. She then said in a playful and slightly wide eyed way

“So...what’s happening in your universe?” It was a good tactic. It set a precedent for the rest of the conversation- if your willing to play with the framing then nothing can go wrong. She taught me a

lesson that day. Being coy or shy is to not be fully aware of person infront of you. My Mum tried to install this in me also. Devon’s conversation that day was a breath of fresh air. She was the first person I spoke to in the big city while sober.

I think she liked the idea of a man with a book, I know so. When I admitted to her that I was thinking of giving up on reading I had in front of me she was visibly disappointed. I could witness the ideal framing she had of me in her head start to crack in that very moment. She even glanced around the room to see if she had made a mistake and arrived at the wrong chair.

The first night we slept together plays back in my mind with almost a nightmarish tone. Nothing to do with Devon, she’s objectively beautiful, but my mind has contorted the past into something corrupt. As all memory does, the supernatural quality to the mundane often presses too much of a burden on the mind. We can’t help ourselves but to feed our own fantasies to survive. I’d only been staying with Devon for two nights. I slept on the sofa in the living room. The kitchen and bathroom were down the hall with Devon’s bedroom safely nested upstairs. That night, the first time I stayed over, she’d had an argument with her boyfriend. My memory fails me slightly, but the argument must of been so bad that he didn’t stay over that night. I’d gone to sleep in good time. I had a FIVE A.M start time the next day and was working as an assistant to a particularly difficult actor at the time (I’m always tempted to name drop but I’ll refrain from doing so). The sofa I slept on was originally advertised to me by Devon as a sofa bed, but as soon as I arrived for my first nights stay we realised this wasn’t the case. I wasn’t annoyed at this news particularly. It was hard to be frustrated at Devon, especially early on in our relationship. I was obsessed with her, so this sofa bed ending up just being a sofa that one could sleep on only added a new fun story for us to share. Coming to think of it, we had a big laugh about this that night to the point where it became no longer about the sofa bed and just some abstract short hand that helped us find comfort in each others company. I remember this pissing off her boyfriend but please know that I don’t believe I’m the reason for him leaving that night. I’m harmless and at the time was well intentioned. I wanted a free place to sleep. That was all. I was just one of the people.

On the second night I was willing to learn from my mistakes. I took away the big side pillows to have a bigger surface area to sleep on. I’d decided to sleep in my boxers which I refrained from doing the night before just incase someone came in, but with Devon’s boyfriend gone I felt comfortable enough to do so. Something in me liked being in boxers with the knowledge that Devon was somewhere upstairs laying half naked just like me. The house was quiet. I could hear the silence and feel Devon’s presence. This was a soothing feeling but made my heart beat fast. I struggled to fall asleep for about an hour, but fell deep into the vortex of unconsciousness once I did.

I’d must of been asleep for at least a couple hours. I snapped my eyes open which was queued by a sharp inhale through my nose. I was confused about weather my eyes were open or closed. It was pitch black and must of been around two in the morning. A new scent had entered the room. I popped my eyes open again to make sure I was truly awake wasn’t stuck in some lucid purgatory. I remember glancing upwards at the foot of the sofa. That’s when I saw it. Stood at the foot of the bed was a silhouette nestled amongst the deep darkness of the living room. A feminine outline submerged in a void. A figure that seemed like a projection of my soul state or a guardian of my slumber. However, it stood in the same position as all the ghosts that haunted me from the foot of my bed as a child. It towered over me as I laid half asleep in my boxers.

“Hey” Said the figure. So softly that the sound of the parting of her lips was more dominant than the word itself. She stepped forward, revealing herself to the room. She was naked. That part was almost easy to accept as if it made the whole experience fall even deeper into fantasy and therefore easier to define. I was lost for questions as their were too many of them washing around my brain. I was only able to focus on coming to terms with the image before me, and that was an impossible task. Analysing the present will always force you into the past. Devon lent forward, crept her hands over the arm rest and placed her fingers by my feet. With the sound of silence now given the rhythm of shallow breath she stalked forwards and crawled up towards my torso. I tried to sit up but she interrupted this movement by resting her body weight on my chest. I forgot what intimacy was before that point.

Back to the Sunday morning. Now alone again in Devon’s room, with the privilege of being upgraded to the glory of sleeping in her bed, I felt terrible. I used to feel her presence in that house but once a door was closed it was the division of different worlds. I noticed all the cleaning she’d down that morning. How did she move so many clothes into draws and tuck the hairdryer under my side of the bed without waking me? I must of had a deep sleep. You would think I was the one who went heavily drinking with Finn.

My feet were still wrapped under the bed covers, it must of just gone eleven o’clock. It was definitely time to start moving. My body was sweaty. I felt glued to that bed, I didn’t want to face the world. I didn’t even want to pee. Even the thought of going downstairs felt dangerous. I always felt as if she looked down on me if I slept in. To her, too much sleep was anything over eight hours a night and she saw anything more as overly indulgent and a waste of life. Maybe I’d not cleaned the kitchen to her liking. Maybe our timings that week were set at completely different tempos- hers a heart beat, mine a clock. As I look back at this moment of thought, I believe it to be only right that this was the worst depression I’d ever faced. And it only lasted a mere moment. After my Mum died I still managed to go on walks to the local park with my Dad. But that Sunday I couldn’t move. What spell was I under that morning?

Then, chatter... I could swear it... I heard chatter from downstairs. It was Devon’s voice, and that placed this noise into reality, not just some chatter in the skull. It was definitely her voice, but who on Earth was she speaking to? My Mum would have friends round for a dinner parties throughout my childhood years and me being too shy, no, scared to go down stairs would make me stay glued to my bed. I wouldn’t even leave to go to the toilet, just pee in some open container and empty it out the next day. It’s the images of the mind that we create for ourselves that hold us prisoner, and this chatter from downstairs seemed to chain my ankles to the bed. As I knew deep down what it was. I’d argued with Devon the night before, just before she left for the concert about how much she’d been seeing Finn. That’s why she must of been mad at me that morning. Maybe she never had any ringing in her ear at all but

was using it at an excuse to not show off her annoyance about having to wake up next to me that morning. Maybe I should of stayed in bed that until I saw darkness from the window, but a darkness had already been imbedded inside the house.

But no, I thought. Be a gentlemen. A guest is downstairs with Devon in the living room. A space that you and her now share, and as a member of the house hold you should engage in the current conversation at hand. What are you? A child? Did your Mum raise a coward? Are you that impotent that you can’t get yourself dressed and go offer a guest a cup of tea? I unlocked my legs out from under the bed sheets. Still only in my boxers. I put on a white t- shit and black suit trousers and rocked into my slippers. A laugh... another laugh from the living room. A male voice, definitely a male. The chatter was only getting louder. Maybe they heard my movement upstairs and spoke louder on purpose, a cunning tactic to make me regret my courage and quickly retreat back to the bed. But no, I muttered it to myself. ‘You go downstairs’. I could hear Devon and the male voice painfully clearly now, as if we were in the same room.

‘You said it was a fucking sofa bed’. This statement was followed by a eccentric giggle. As if was some punchline to a meticulously crafted joke, but people only laugh at such mundane things when they are trying to develop a social short hand in order to feel at ease with one another. This sentence was the on set of a distorted dream. This sentence landed like the another slap from Devon that was perfectly placed onto my cheek. This sentence made my brain thick. I physical ducked to move onto a new thought. To go downstairs. To go into the living room. To engage in conversation and face whatever figure you may be met with. Even when you know what monster lurks in the darkness, you should lay eyes on it just to be sure. And then it happened... I heard a buzzing.

At the bottom of the stairs, across the hallway, both of them there, framed by the living room doorway. They had big stupid grins on their faces, laughing about some silly pointless mishap of understanding. Devon standing there, a charlatan, performing for her audience of one. Pretending, with me in ear

shot, that this is the first time she had made this innocent mistake. It still isn’t a fucking sofa bed and never will be! I pivot adjacent to the door frame to get a view of inside the living room. There he was. Slumped down, arms rested wide on the sofa, with Devon hovering over him stood in the middle of the room. The two pillows from the sofa were still on the floor, as if somebody sleeping on the sofa that night needed a larger surface area to sleep more comfortably, only in his boxers. I knew it. How could I of been so blind! I should of left the night before. I was just one the people sucked into the pattern of her actions. I packed my things, left within the hour, and never saw Devon again.

I was just one of the people who would have been told that the sofa was in fact a sofa bed.

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aithne · 2 years ago

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Old Roads: Inquisition

So that ask from @darkspawntaxcollectors that I answered last night has really gotten me thinking about Old Roads and what I would have written had I decided to extend the series through the Inquisition timeframe. It would absolutely been a book-length fic that I 100% do not have time to write, so! Here you all go: an outline of what might have been called Faithless Convocations.

Taking Cullen’s place as Commander of the Inquisition would likely have been Matias, the Templar who was sent to Kirkwall after the breaking of Kinloch Hold’s Harrowing Chamber. He’s a Templar, he’s Fereldan, he has leadership experience, and he has had quite a bit of character development in the form of Shit That Happened in Kirkwall. He’s a darker personality than Cullen, less stodgy and more temperamental, and his personal character arc over Inquisition involves kicking lyrium and also dealing with the issues that taking lyrium was allowing him to cover up and ignore.

Leliana spends less time as Left Hand of the Divine in this version, but she still does become the Hand a couple of years before the Conclave. She brings her partner Amity with her to Haven and then Skyhold. Amity is Tevene and a mage, though she never participated in the power structure of Tevinter since she was part of a now-defunct intelligence organization named the Daughters of Dumat.

I’d skip over the first part of Inquisition except for establishing that the Inquisitor is Reshlyth Lavellan, a Dalish mage who is very not cool with being called the Herald of Andraste. Pretty much everything there proceeds according to the game’s story beats…

…right up until Etain Hawke leads Reshlyth to a cave in Crestwood to meet his Warden friend, who turns out to be none other than Kathil Amell, Etain’s cousin and Hero of Ferelden. Reshlyth also gets to meet Cullen, Zevran, and the three kids--as well as Anders, who’s Etain’s partner and has been staying with the Amell family while Etain was at Skyhold. Kathil happens to be immune to the false Calling because it doesn’t register over the constant screaming of the shadow of Urthemiel in her head. Anders is immune because of Justice.

Someone eventually asks Leliana about this, and she admits that she was actually in contact with the Hero of Ferelden. When asked why she didn’t originally ask for her help, she says, “Because Kathil Amell’s method of solving a problem is to create ten worse problems to take its place.”

Kathil and Cullen help find out what’s going on with the Wardens, while Zevran, Anders, and the rest find somewhere quiet and out of the way to stay for the moment. Kathil, in classic Kathil fashion, is very fucking angry with both the Wardens and the people manipulating them. She insists on going to Adamant Fortress with the Inquisition, and Cullen insists on going with her, because he knows damn well what happens when he lets Kathil out of his sight.

Here Lies the Abyss proceeds as usual right up until Adamant proves not structurally up to Clarel’s last spell hitting a damaged walkway and dumps Reshlyth, Cassandra, Varric, Iron Bull, Etain, Kathil, Cullen, and a badly wounded Clarel off of it, prompting Reshlyth to open a rift into the Fade to catch them. (I like Clarel, so she gets to survive.)

As usual, Kathil becomes Urthemiel the moment she hits the Fade. Fortunately, Kathil has been finally working with the Old God’s shadow instead of against her, so while it’s extremely unsettling to have a dragon with them, disaster does not immediately ensue. They patch up Clarel as well as they can (Etain has some healing magic but more importantly he’s gotten some medical training from Anders), figure out something for a litter for her, and head out to find Nightmare.

Everyone has so many questions here, and Cullen is just like “look, if we survive, you can ask, but right now we need to focus.”

Nightmare taunts everyone, but once it realizes that the Thrice-Bound is in its realm and Moros is likely not far behind (and might be able to use her to invade if she feels like), it starts to panic. Justinia shows up, bringing Reshlyth’s memories with her, and the realm itself starts to fight, warping and shifting and screaming at them. There’s a lot of [cool shit happens here] going on. Possibly a couple of disasters.

Once they find Nightmare and kill its lieutenants, Nightmare focuses on Kathil and Reshlyth, because both of them represent opportunities to get out of the Fade. Kathil is like, “you all go ahead, I’ll catch up” and Cullen panics, because fuck if he’s going to have this happen again. Kathil, with a massive effort, becomes herself for a couple of minutes, they have a quiet conversation, Kathil hands him something, and then Urthemiel folds out around her again and Cullen is like, “Let’s go.”

[cool shit with Kathil happens here. Maybe Moros does show up? Maybe Nightmare and Kathil already know each other?]

Everyone except Kathil tumbles out of the Fade and the rift seals. They deal with the immediate situation at Adamant (including getting Clarel off to the Inquisition’s healers) and then Cullen grabs Reshlyth and Etain and goes “we’re gonna get Kathil out now. I need some insulated gloves and can you do a small rift, Reshlyth?

Reshlyth opens a little rift and Cullen and Etain call Kathil/Urthemiel to it with whatever it was that Kathil gave Cullen, and Cullen reaches into the Fade and grabs her. Turns out that Kathil and Cullen were prepared for this.

Everyone heads back to Skyhold. Kathil is in not-great shape and needs some time to recover, so she convalesces at Skyhold and gets to know the members of the Inquisition. Meeting Matias again is…awkward, to say the least, but Kathil and Dorian are immediately sympatico. She twigs to Blackwall not being a Warden, and is very, very uneasy about Solas. Reuniting with Dagna is definitely a good thing, since they hadn’t seen each other since Kathil crashed at Dagna’s place for a few weeks while she was out of her head post-Blight.

Reshlyth more or less turns around and heads out to the Winter Palace, and comes back with (of all people!) Morrigan and her kid in tow. Kathil is like, “You know what? Let’s get Zev and the kids here. Anders, too. Skyhold’s safe enough for a little bit.” Etain agrees to put off heading for Weisshaupt for a couple of months, since it’s the dead of winter and they’re just gonna get stuck in the snow somewhere anyway.

At this point, plot ceases for a bit and we get to just live in Skyhold with these characters for probably 50k words. Reshlyth recruited the mages, and between them, Dagna, Dorian, Kathil, Etain, Amity, and Morrigan, there is a tremendous amount of magical research going on. Vivienne even gets in on the fun. Zevran more or less becomes everyone’s therapist. The builders working on Skyhold start making breakthroughs in material science as they rediscover elven building techniques and start applying them with modern methods.

Solas is initially extremely put out and angry around Anders/Justice/Vengeance, but eventually calms down and agrees to help them. Between him and Zevran, Anders and Justice start to actually heal some of the trauma that they’ve been through. Etain keeps putting the trip to Weisshaupt off because he’s actually enjoying himself for once and this is the first time Anders seems to be actually getting better since pre-Chantry explosion.

Clarel recovers, in large part due to Anders basically taking over her care. She and her magical ability will never be the same, though, and it’s somewhat obvious that even if she wasn’t hearing the false Calling, her true Calling is almost upon her. She and Kathil kind of become friends, and she does become friends with Morrigan.

At some point, someone figures out that the dude who blew up Kirkwall’s Chantry is being harbored in Skyhold, despite them taking care to not actually call him Anders. Reshlyth and Josephine have to do a lot of very fancy footwork to make that chill out enough that they don’t have an Exalted March show up on their doorstep. Reshlyth, personally, has zero problems with Anders except for the fact that for whatever reason, he’s still Andrastian.

Reshlyth and Kathil have a bunch of conversations. They discover they’re distantly related, which is fairly awkward because, well, Kathil is from Fereldan nobility and Reshlyth is Dalish soooooo that was extremely unlikely to have been a consensual relationship.

All of the kids, Cole, and the various Amell family dogs run around in a pack. There are Shenanigans.

Cassandra gets to know Kathil and forgives Leliana for not mentioning that she knew where she was, because the Hero of Ferelden is not nearly as awesome as she had made her out to be in her head. In fact, she’s kinda scary. She likes Cullen and Zev a lot, though, and thinks it’s very romantic that the three of them are together.

Arbor Wilds happens offscreen, kicking off a series of decisions – is the Amell family going to stay for the fight against Corypheus? Are Etain and Anders ever going to leave for Weisshaupt? The major change that everything in the story has been building to is that Morrigan does not seek out Flemeth, instead allying with Kathil to learn the form of a dragon. Flemeth doesn’t get possession of the Old God soul in the same way (I would need to figure out if she still gets it, or if Branwen (who is Morrigan’s kid’s name in Old Roads) keeps it).

[cool shit happens here]

In the end, to align with the established Old Roads timeline, the Amell family takes off again. They show up again briefly for Trespasser, mostly because I’m interested in what Teagan and Kathil have to say to one another after all these years. Kathil doesn’t live long after Trespasser—she dies sometime between 9:48 and 9:51 Dragon—but I am fairly convinced that Cullen and Zevran help with the search for Solas, and her daughter Cerys is helping run some kind of rebellion by the time she’s in her early 20s.

I actually wish I had the time and energy to write this. This is about a 200k word commitment, sooooo it is unlikely to happen.

#old roads #kathil amell #it was fun to get this outline out of my head

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justanobsessedfangirl · 4 years ago

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The Sacrifice Part 2 - The Maze Runner Minho Imagine

Request from @elizabeth-brown: hey when your requests will be open can you do 'the maze runner' one with minho. where one day when new greenie was coming up he had letter with him. on it there was written that if they sacrificed y/n they would let everyone out. so keepers decided to vote. most of them voted 'yes' so without any emotions Alby kick y/n into the maze. then minho realized his feelings. y/n survived the maze and WCKED took her. after one year she escaped WCKED and ran into the scorch. Minho missed her miserably. y/n searched the safe heaven. and when Group A searched safe heaven they saw y/n and she was so mad. you can end it however you want either she forgives them or not. and please tag me

Masterlist

Part 1

Author’s Note: Thank you guys so much for the kind words! I really appreciate all of it! :)

Word Count: 3.8k

The sun was rising. You stared up at it as you walked, your cracked lips parted, mouth dry beyond belief. The cloth you’d wrapped around your head was already growing warm. Beneath your long-sleeved shirt and jeans, your body was scarred with sunburns. Your backpack hung heavy on your shoulders and scraped against your back painfully. Still, you kept walking through the sand.

Crumbling buildings lined the barren street. At the end, next to an intersection, you saw one that still had an intact roof. You willed yourself to move faster, but your steps continued in the same plodding manner as before. The sun beat down heavier.

A dry wind whispered past, bringing swirls of sand to flight. They looked beautiful in the golden rays of the morning but cut like glass as they whipped past your cheeks. With a grimace, you reached a weathered hand up and pulled some loose cloth farther over your face, squinting your eyes for protection. The sound of your heavy breathing filled your ears.

How familiar that was. How familiar exertion was. Before you could stop yourself from thinking, from remembering, you saw his face. He was by your side, smiling, goading you to run faster. He was betting you that he could reach the doors first.

“If I win, you owe me half your dinner,” came his playful tease, so vividly that you almost thought it was real. If you let your gaze wander, you could barely make out a mirage of him jogging ahead of you.

What was it you’d said, back in that other life, where you ran the Maze and lived in the Glade and weren’t as alone? You smacked your lips together now, looking for any moisture, and croaked, in a hoarse voice, “What do I get if I win?” The effort made you cough. Stopping in your tracks, you doubled over hacking. You expected to see the worn stone of the Maze beneath your feet, but there was only sand. Knives scraped your throat. You tasted blood.

“You can have anything you want,” Minho responded. You lifted your head, hoping for a glimpse of his face and seeing only sand.

Tears filled your eyes. You wanted Minho with you, right now. You wanted to not be alone. You wanted to not be here, to not have made any of these choices, to not have to keep going and keep trying and keep surviving all because of one promise. You wanted to reach the doors -- no, not the Maze doors, never the Maze doors again, the doors to a crumbling building in a crumbling town in the sun-baked, sand-ridden, abandoned Scorch.

Straightening up, you started for the building again. You reached it in a few long, purposeful strides. The door hung half off its hinges. You slipped inside, shutting it as best you could behind you, hoping that would keep at least some sand out. The inside was blessedly dark. The front room seemed kind of like a cafeteria, with a few tables and chairs and a long counter at the back. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up as you remembered the last cafeteria you’d been in. You wanted to spit on this place as payback.

Instead, you walked behind the counter, sunk to your knees, shrugged off your backpack, and curled into a ball. Your head pounded. You squeezed your eyes closed, pressed your palms to your temples, tried to hold back any more tears. The memory of Minho floated to the front of your mind again.

“No need to cry,” you could hear him saying. You could almost feel him tuck a finger under your chin, like he’d done before, and raise your head. “I’m still here.” And then you opened your eyes, hoping to see that cocky grin that would make the whole world would seem a little better.

But Minho wasn’t there. You weren’t in the Glade anymore. You weren’t even with WICKED anymore. You were somewhere in the middle of the Scorch, alone and trying to survive and failing.

With trembling fingers, you unzipped your backpack and pulled out your last bottle of water. It was half-empty. You stared at it numbly. How far could half a bottle of water take you? When you used to run the Maze, a lifetime ago, you never went in without at least one canteen full. Minho had teased you during your first run for taking three. You wondered what he would say now.

“We’ll figure it out together. We’ll get out together.” That’s what he would say. That’s what he had said, right before you went into the Maze for the last time.

I tried, Minho. You wanted to scream it out to the Scorch, let every damn Crank within a hundred miles of you hear it. Maybe Minho would hear it too, back at the WICKED compound, back in the Glade. He said he would find you. You’d repeated his words so many times in your head that they were practically imprinted in your brain. They were like a touchstone, something you remembered for luck and courage.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he’d said.

You’d never said it back. You wished you’d said it back.

You forced yourself to stop remembering and took a sip of water. It was like ice filtering through magma cracks, soothing, soothing, soothing, and then gone, evaporating and leaving behind seething bubbles of lava. You wanted more. You wanted so much more for yourself.

You twisted the cap back on and shoved your water into your bag before you did something you’d regret. Leaning against the counter, you let your eyes close. Fatigue made your limbs heavy, and the warm air settled over you like a blanket. You hoped the sun would be gone when you woke up. Then you would walk, as you had for countless nights, with no real directions in mind, only the understanding that you needed to keep moving or else you would die. Somewhere out there, there was a safe haven.

But in your dreams, there was darkness, and in the darkness, there were Grievers. The Maze walls, dripping with ivy, closed in around you as you ran. Your breaths came short and fast, more from fear than effort. You had no bag, no weapons, just the shoes on your feet and a little bit of hope in your chest. But the Grievers were closing in.

Mechanical limbs whirred, slamming against the Maze floor so forcefully the ground seemed to shake. You whipped your head around, caught a glimpse of them, turned back and ran faster, looked again and saw them even closer. Metal clanged together, the sound of razor-sharp fangs gnashing, slick with slime. A rush of wind sliced past your arm. You tried to move faster, just a little faster, just enough to keep narrowly avoiding the Griever’s claws, just enough, please, just enough to make it to sunrise--

A wave of fire burned a line across your back. The pain was white-hot, so bad you couldn’t keep your eyes open, you were stumbling and faltering and barely moving and the Griever was going to get you, only with your next step you felt nothing but open space and then you were falling and falling and falling.

You hit the ground so hard the air went out of you, and only then did you realize you’d been screaming. A moment of shock passed. Then you shrieked again. Your back burned with pain, but it wasn’t fire, not like you’d thought at first, it was a cut, huge and sprawling and parting the flesh of your back. Blood drenched your shirt. You screamed, blind with pain and fear, waiting for the Griever to finish you off or sting you and send you into a spiral of even greater misery.

Something grabbed your arms, hoisted you up, strapped you down. The Grievers have me, they’ve got me, they’re going to kill me, you thought, even as you felt human hands and heard human voices and saw human faces.

“No!” You caught a glimpse of one of them holding a syringe, a Griever in disguise. Twisting away, trying to avoid it, you let out a scream so loud you thought your vocal cords would be torn to shreds, just like your back, just like the ravaged mess that was left of your back. The needle pierced your skin.

Immediately, your yells dropped off. The people or the Grievers or the Grievers masquerading as people laid you face down on a stretcher. You couldn’t move your neck, or your arms, or your feet, but every step they took as they carried you sent bolts of lightning through your body. Your face was wet with tears, with blood. The jostling stopped. Every nerve in your body rebelled in pain, and then there was a cold hand on your cheek, forcing your chin up. Grinning down at you was the face of the devil.

You woke now with a start, a cool sheen of sweat coating your body, phantom pains chilling your back. Your heart thundered wildly. Acting on pure instinct, you shot to your feet, looking frantically around the room. She would be there, you were sure of it. The devil, with her blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun, her lips painted red with the blood of her victims.

But the room was dark and empty and you were alone.

You untensed with a long, slow exhalation. Tiny daggers still ran up and down your spine, dancing along the scars the WICKED doctors had said they couldn’t fix.

“An unfortunate variable,” the devil had said about the Grievers, “but necessary.”

Necessary.

You spat on the floor, wishing it was her pristine white cafeteria, half-hoping you’d look up and see her standing there so you could strangle her. But that thought was fleeting and your head shot back up in fear, scanning the room again and again to reassure yourself that Dr. Paige was nowhere to be seen.

When you were sure there was no one lurking in the night-shadowed corners, you hefted your backpack onto your shoulders and made for the door. Outside, the desert air was chill and dry. The occasional wind stirred the sand as you walked, footsteps making quiet whispers along the dusty sidewalk. Moonlight paved the way forward.

Goosebumps covered your arms as you replayed your dream, your memories, over again. Yes, the Grievers had gotten you, but not the ones in the Maze. It was the hidden Grievers, the ones who said they were good, and that they were going to save the world, and that you were helping.

“Thank you for participating, Y/N,” Dr. Paige had said. “I’m sure it wasn’t a pleasant experience. The data we gathered on the group’s response to a requested sacrifice will prove very useful, I assure you.” And she’d smiled at you. She’d actually smiled, pointy, predatory canines on full display behind her parted red lips. “The data from your response will also be very beneficial. Thank you once more for your participation.”

You were too shocked. You were in too much pain. The synapses in your brain weren’t firing correctly, still stuck trying to piece together that the sacrifice was some kind of test. An unfortunate variable. “What...what happens next?”

Dr. Paige had already left. Someone lower in the chain of command gave you a nonanswer about your role in Phase One being complete.

“But what happens in Phase Two?”

There was no answer to that question, no matter how many times you asked. You asked when you were stable enough to be moved to your own room, when you were compliant enough to walk the halls of the facility with a chaperone, when you were obedient enough to eat in the cafeteria among the staff members.

“WICKED is good,” they’d say. And then they would smile at you.

You shuffled through the sand. Reaching a hand, which you pretended wasn’t trembling, into the side pocket of your bag, you pulled out a meal replacement pouch with WICKED emblazoned on its side. Even as you ate, you worried. The dream loomed over you like a heavy cloud, and your food supply was dwindling. You wished for a sip of water, just a taste, a small trickle to wet your lips, something to help the powdery bar go down.

You wished you’d started hoarding food at WICKED earlier. It was only when you noticed that change was coming, that the air was electric and the people were alive, that you started to slip items from the cafeteria into your bag. The doctors had stopped ordering you in for blood tests and scans, which they had pretended were for your back, and then they stopped sending you a chaperone. It was almost like freedom.

“Code Green. I repeat, Code Green. All personnel begin preparations for Phase Two. I repeat…” The message came over the speakers while you were in your room, a barebones cell with a cot and a desk. In a flash, you were on your feet, pouncing on the opportunity. You slung your WICKED bag over your shoulders, ignoring the discomfort as it pressed into your bandaged back. Peering through the crack in your door, you couldn’t see anyone in the hall. The lights were flashing in time with the announcement, strobes of green slicing across the walls. Holding your breath in anticipation, you tried the door handle. Unlocked.

Heart fluttering, you pulled it open a crack and slipped through, shutting it gently behind you. No chaperone sitting outside. No guards patrolling. No people at all. You bolted down the hall.

Thinking about it now, as you finished your second to last meal replacement, the perishable food long since gone, you wondered why it was so easy.

Phase One. Phase Two. Thank you for your participation. An unfortunate variable. Unfortunate unfortunate unfortunate thank you for participating thank you for the data thank you for trying thank you for dying. Phase Two, I should have raided the cafeteria will you be in the cafeteria, Minho are you in the kitchen? Where are you where am I why is this happening what is--

Welcome to Phase Two.

You crumpled the meal replacement package in your hand and threw it into the air, letting it fly with the wind.

Minho’s voice was in your head. “I’ll raid the kitchen, the Med-jack Hut, bring us weapons.”

You shook your head and it faded. “I would have done it if you were there,” you said. Your voice was a croak. You cleared your throat and tried, “I would have…” The words floated away. I would have tried harder to survive.

“I tried so hard, Minho.” You thought of your bottle of water, only a few sips left. “I tried to wait for you in the Maze, but WICKED took me.” Grievers and white-clothed doctors and searing pain. “I tried to wait for you at WICKED, but...I think they let me escape.” An unlocked door, no patrolling guards. The vast expanse of the Scorch beyond, and a snippet of an overheard conversation about a safe haven at the end. “I tried to reach the end. But I don’t know if I can do this anymore.” Sand. So much sand. Lightning storms and a burning, vengeful sun, and a throat so dry it hurt. “I can’t do this anymore.”

And still, you walked. Because there was nothing else to do. Because you were a Runner and Runners never stopped. Because you thought this might be another test, another phase, and you wanted to reach the end. Because the mirage of Minho was nearby, talking.

“We’re almost there,” he said. You rubbed your sand-crusted eyes and tried to find him. “We have to keep going.”

Other voices chimed in, pitched low and hard to hear. You hoped you could hallucinate Newt, too, and maybe Zart and Frypan, who had tried to help, had tried, just like you tried. You moved faster, feet cleaving through drifts of sand.

“There it is!”

You missed the sound of an excited Minho. You remembered the first time he’d had a little too much to drink at a bonfire, and he’d picked you up and twirled you around. You’d never smiled so much.

The memory used to be good, then it turned painful, and now you were just numb.

You kept walking. Around you, the city was fading into sand. Ahead stood a tall dune. You wanted to stop and stare and convince yourself to turn around. But you kept walking. Behind the dune, you’d see Minho and Newt and Zart and Frypan and maybe even Alby, and maybe you would forgive Alby, or maybe not, but you would still see him because everyone would be there.

You boot punched a hole into the sand dune, sending streams of gritty yellow dust cascading down the slope. Stepping forward again, you sunk into sand up to your mid-calf. Again and again, and then you stumbled and fell in up to your elbows, and still, you crawled.

“We can do this,” Minho said, from somewhere above or behind or by your side. He was climbing with you, barely out of sight. His playful grin was audible.

“Bet I can beat you to the top,” you said before he could.

“What do I get if I win?” he asked.

You smiled and there were tears in your eyes and sand on your cheeks. “You can have anything you want.” And you climbed higher.

“I want you to say it back. Please say it back, Y/N. Please.” His voice was fading. You were leaving him behind as you neared the top.

Sand burrowed into the lines of your face, past the seams of your clothes, finding every nook and cranny of your body to hide in. It was in your mouth, your ears, your eyes. You struggled to breathe. Your head felt as light as a cloud. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” you finally promised as you reached the empty crest. Still on hands and knees, you peered over the other side of the dune. The slope was empty. Everything was empty.

You rolled onto your back, eyes shut against the fading night sky. Your arm bumped against something stiff. Reaching a hand out blindly, groping for it, you came back with a stick. You looked at it through squinted eyes. Atop the stick was a flag, and on the flag in big, thick letters, the same font WICKED used for everything, were the words, “Safe Haven.”

You laughed. The bitter chuckle was alone in the Scorch. Overhead, the sky was lightening, and soon you would be alone in the daylight of the Scorch, alone in the Safe Haven.

Shrugging your backpack off, you reached inside for your water and the last of your food. The bottle was empty. You didn’t remember finishing it, but you figured you must have. You chucked it to the side, listening as it rolled down the sand dune. You wouldn’t need that anymore. The air grew warmer as dawn approached and you opened your last meal replacement. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you could hear voices. You wondered if you were going crazy, decided you didn’t care because you had tried Minho I really tried I’m sorry please promise me I’ll see you tomorrow please don’t let it end like this please.

You took a bite of the crumbling meal replacement bar and immediately spit it back out. It had soaked up the last bit of moisture in your mouth. You tossed the package to the side, where you’d abandoned your water and your will.

The sky grew pink and orange and yellow, and, finally, there was the sun, high in the sky, and you had no idea how much time had passed while you stared, and you didn’t care. There was no further destination in mind. This was it. And with the sun up there and you down here, you hoped that maybe this wouldn’t count as dying alone.

“There it is!” Minho again. Funny how he kept saying that. And then the voices of the other Gladers chimed in again. You wondered if you would keep replaying that moment until you finally passed. You wondered how it would feel. You wondered if there was water on the other side.

The sand rushed down the sides of the dune in waterfalls. You could hear it, even if you didn’t have the energy to look. It sounded like a whisper. Beneath the whisper was the panting of a group of people.

Runners, you thought. All of the Runners before and all of the Runners after, coming to take me away. Would Minho be among them? Was he dead, like you and like those sad souls who’d been killed by the Grievers (An unfortunate variable, but necessary) and all of the people who’d gotten the Flare, which you barely understood because no one had answered any of your questions?

Why is this happening and where am I going and what do I do and how did I get here and when can I go home, please bring me home, I want to go home and I want to see Minho one last time because I never promised him back and I should have.

“Y/N?”

Minho. You didn’t have the energy to speak or even open your eyes to see the hallucination.

“Y/N!” Feet pounding against sand, then hands on your arms, looping around your back, pulling you close and shielding you from the sun. “Wake up, Y/N. Clint!”

No, Clint wasn’t supposed to be here. Clint had voted for you to be sent into the Maze. You were pretty sure you used to hate him for that, but hate took so much energy, and you just wanted to pretend Minho was holding you until you didn’t have to think anymore.

The people nearby talked unintelligibly, oscillating between murmurs and gleeful shouts. There was cotton in your ears and a blindfold over your eyes and strong hands on your back, propping you up. Then there was a splash of water on your face and the world opened up again.

There was Minho. Better than in your memories, because he was here, in full color, so perfect you needed to squint. He was on his knees and holding you. Above, Clint was pouring water over your head. All around you were Gladers.

“Minho?” you croaked, although there was no question who it was. Dark brown eyes, now filled with tears. Full lips curved up in a smile. Scatters of freckles across his cheeks. Minho.

Minho nodded and pulled you into a hug. “I thought…” he trailed off. Then he laughed, a sound so bright and so happy that the water on your skin felt a touch cooler, the sun on your shoulders a shade dimmer. “I should’ve known you’d survive.”

“There’s no safe haven,” you said, the words bitter on your tongue.

Minho shook his head, still buried in your neck. “We’ll figure it out together.”

Smiling, you pressed a hand to his cheek, coaxing him to look at you. When he did, you leaned in and finally felt at home.

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

Author's Note: I wanted to put a longer, more serious note at the end instead of the beginning so I wouldn't deter any newcomers from reading. I just wanted to say thanks to everyone for letting me try out this style! I'm not very happy with how this turned out but it was good practice. Hopefully, I can use this experience and write better pieces in the future. Thanks again for letting me experiment and for the encouragement. And my requests are always open :)

Tag List: @officialfictionalwreck @elizabeth-brown @newtsgirl-hehe @jjjmaybank @adoregin

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levinneheart · 4 years ago

Text

oversized jacket

➳ sʏɴᴏᴘsɪs: reacting to their crush wearing another guy’s jacket with a TWIST

➳ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀs: Mattsun & Makki (ft. Kyoutani & gn!reader)

➳ ɢᴇɴʀᴇ(s): fluff, slight angst, a pinch of crack, jealously, friends to lovers, accidental confessions(?), mutual pinning but they think you’ll reject them, college!au, slight timeskip

➳ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ(s): swearing, slight manga spoilers if you squint, mentions of bullying, implied toxic masculinity, so-called “nice guy”, mentions of stalker-ish behavior, extremely long, & self indulgent cuz i was emo when i wrote this <3

a/n: this was inspired from this <3 also, this hcs was supposed to include oikawa and iwaizumi but i had to cut them out. i hope you like it e n way <3

Matsukawa Issei

he went to his last class early and was surprised to see you were already there, sitting in your usual chair

this was a first, usually he would be the first to arrived in the classroom and you would arrived after him with snacks in your arms

“i need snacks to survive this long day, you’re welcome to have some.” you’d say to him and you were absolutely right

you and your snacks made him get through the day without a pounding head and a growling stomach as he went home

you were working diligently on something while occasionally popping a cheese-flavored popcork onto your mouth

he assumed you were working on your assignments in advance for subjects he didn’t have as it was your routine

he clears his throat, catching your attention and making you looked at his direction as he greeted you with a small smile

you were practically beaming, eyes lighting up at the sight of him as you greeted him back cheerfully, seemingly in a good mood

he took his usual seat beside you and you immediately laid your head on his shoulder, sighing in content

he didn’t mind your gesture if it weren’t for the pounding on his heart but he was surprised you hadn’t noticed it yet

to him, you were so out of his league– so kind, so generous, so everything of his ideal type and pretty to look in the eyes too

the way that you two wordlessly and unconsciously leaned in for each other’s touch – absolutely no highs

just the comfortable silence of enjoying one another’s presences that he longs in relationships

this feeling scared him – terrified him even since he never felt anything like this for anyone before

little did he know, it was your way of conveying to him with your love language that the feeling was mutual

It wasn’t long before class started and not long till it ends. The clouds were starting to get grey and dark. Seems like that it’s starting to raining too. You usually like this kind of weather if it wasn’t such a hassle to get home. It’s getting cold too, you thought as you rubbed your hands together and snuggled subconsciously against Mattsun for warmth.

Matsukawa, on the other hand, held the urge to slip his arm onto your waist and pull you closer to him, the urge to press you firmly to his broad chest and bury his face onto your shoulder. His fingers twitched at the thought but he shook the feelings away before poking you once as he excused himself to you before softly nudging you off him to retreat to the restroom.

When he arrived, he deeply sighed with a fist clutching his chest to desperately trying to calm his accelerating heartbeats. He told – more like convinced himself that he will confess after class but you being so close to him was making it harder to remember his memorized lines. He could still remember how you smelt like, the scent of your shampoo mixed in with your favorite perfume.

It was driving him mad at how good you smell. He splashed his face with water from the sink before staring at himself, trying to focus before chuckling to himself. He looks ridiculous right now, his face slightly damped and eyes glaring at nothing but his reflection. He’ll be fine, even if you reject him – he could just play it cool and say it was a joke.

⋘ ──── ∗ ⋅⊱◈⊰⋅ ∗ ──── ⋙

When he comes back, his seat was occupied by a fellow male student, laughing with you. This would had been fine as you were quite approachable yet he couldn’t help himself but to eye on the unfamiliar jacket you were currently wearing. you didn’t wore the clothing earlier and it looked to big for you to own it.

His mind was racing with the thought of you wearing another guy’s jacket other than his and his feelings were all over the place; mixture of anger, disappointment, and heartbroken. You never told him you were taken and you never really specify that you didn’t like him so he knew he had a chance.

He firmly grabbed your shoulders and glared daggers at the man before he stood up from his chair, cowering away while you turned around to face him with a frown. “What was that for? He was getting to the best part of his joke.”

“I don’t like him and his jacket on you so take it off.”

“What? No, this isn’t his—”

“I’ll exchanged it for mine.” he cuts off.

��No thanks, Sei. What’s this all about anyway—”

“Please, yn. Don’t make me—”

“No is no, Sei. Besides—”

“I like you. Can you now please wear my jacket?”

You stayed silent for a second, stunned at his sudden confession and jealousy over a piece if clothing. “I like you too but this is actually my jacket.”

“…”

“You’ve got to be kidding me, right?”

“Nope, I tried telling you.” You grinned at him, poking his sides as his eyes widened in realization.

“Oh…” He trails off. “Wait! Did you just say you like me?” This made you chuckle, it made you want to play with him just a little.

“Did I?” You say, teasingly. “Although, I must say: you look adorable, being all jealous over my oversized jacket.”

Hanamaki Takahiro

you and Hanamaki met in elementary school and immediately became friends all the way till highschool

back then, he was smaller than you and got bullied because of his pinkish-brown locks, causing him to be subconscious of it

but you told him otherwise so you protected him and fought against many of his bullies in elementary

during in middle school and highschool though, he grew more taller and confident on his hair because of you

you didn’t had to protect him anymore so you settled on cheering and supporting him from the bleachers during his games

his team would welcome you warmly so it wasn’t a surprise to them that you grew on them, along with Kyoutani

he even developed a soft spot for you, causing you to call him Kyou without any honorifics since you two grown close

at first Hanamaki was ok with it, you’d love making new friends to bond with but the same time he was envious

back then he was your only friend and now, your attention was everywhere but him and you two were seeing each other less

you tend to stick with kyoutani these pass few days, ever since the two of you became classmates and seatmates

and he was gonna graduate soon, leaving you behind to focus on your studies and club activities to be able to graduate

that thought saddened him, he doesn’t want to be apart from you yet he also doesn’t want to chain you down

Hanamaki has now graduated and is working closed by Aoba Johsai, sometimes you’d go in there to buy snacks on your way home or to shelter yourself from the hot breeze of summer air and into the cool temperature of the grocery store.

Either way, he was just happy to see you in one of his jobs and sometimes catching up with you about your life and vise versa. You, however, went there to escape your persistent admirer who just can’t seem to understand why you would say no to him.

It was turning into your safe haven where you can relax and breathe without worrying about him watching your every movement. And today wasn’t one of those moments, you’ve had a sinking feeling on your gut so you stayed close to Kyoutani and asking him to walk with you home.

“Just to be safe, Kyou.” You say as you clinged tightly onto his arm. He grumbled in annoyance but didn’t protest against it, instead he let you gingerly drag him to the usual grocery store where Hanamaki worked. Not knowing that your unwanted admirer was following the two of you.

The sounds of bells ringing alerted Hanamaki of of new customers. “Welcome to— oh, hey Kyoutani and y/n.” He says with a smile, grateful to see familiar faces inside the empty store as usually around this time of night was less busy than in the morning and afternoon.

“I’m going to the restroom, yell when you need me.” Kyoutani informed to you, squeezing your arm before gently prying away from your grasp. You nodded with a smile and leaving you alone with Hanamaki. You stood there still, occasionally fidgeting as you looked around anxiously.

“What’s wrong?” He couldn’t gelp but asked.

“I—” You were cut off but the entrance’s bells ringing and you instantly stiffened at the presence of the newcomer.

“There you are, (l/n). You’re so hard to keep track of. You’re lucky that I’m such a nice guy, going out of my way to do this. And it’s all for you.”

Hanamaki noticed you slightly trembling from the corner of his eyes and as he was about to say something, he was interrupted by a cough from none other than Kyoutani. “Who the fucking hell do you think you are?” He asks, almost growling.

“Her admirer.” The self proclaimed nice guy proudly said.

Kyoutani scoffed before turning to you. “Is this creep bothering you, (n/n)?” He asks, draping a jacket he was holding over your shoulders.

Your admirer look between you two. “I don’t believe you would date someone like this, (l/n). You can do better by dating me.”

“Actually,” Hanamaki spoke up. “they can date whoever they want as long as it’s not you. Now, go before I call the police for suspected illegal activities.” He warned with venom laced in his tone while crossing his arms over his chest.

The boy huffed. “You’re not that pretty anyway!” He hollered at you as he stormed out like a kid throwing a tantrum.

You released a heavy sigh of relief before thanking Kyoutani and Hanamaki multiple times for helping you finally get rib of that guy.

“No problem, (y/n). He was just jealous you two look cute together.” Hanamaki teased, hiding his pain of the new of you being taken.

“We’re not dating.” You chuckled as Kyoutani grunted in agreement.

“And he jacket?”

“It was mine, I told him to hold it for me.”

“Oh.” He paused for a second before laughing out loud. “I assumed you two were dating since the two of you are pretty close.”

“Well, yeah. Didn’t Mattsun-senpai tell you, we were cousins?”

“…”

“Nope, he didn’t tell me anything” That jerk. He cursed.

“Were you jealous of Kyou, Makki-senpai?” You teased with a smirk.

“Yeah, I was! Now, I’m all embarrassed and stupid because I used to like you.” He rambles while you look at Kyou and he shrugs before leaving the store.

“Why didn’t you confess before?”

“You know why!”

“And it only took my oversized jacket to make you confess to me? You’re unbelievable.” You shook your head in disbelief. “I liked you too, idiot!”

“Oh… WAIT, WHAT?!”

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hlizr50 · 4 years ago

Text

Thank You for Saving Me

One of my first. One of my faves.

Spoilers for From Blood and Ash and A Kingdom of Flesh and Fire

Casteel wants to address a few of Poppy's scars that they don't usually talk about

Read on AO3

The room was dark, but he wasn’t bothered. Casteel’s Atlantian heritage meant that he could see anything around him that he cared to notice. He should have been trying to sleep, as Poppy had rolled over to do. She’d said as much not long ago, before he’d successfully distracted her with his lips, his hands, his tongue… all of him.

He grinned to himself, shaking his head. He loved that she found it so difficult to resist him. Surely she knew how easily he unraveled at even the slightest thought of her. That was why he couldn’t help himself tonight. Even though they were to begin the journey across the mountains in a few hours. Even though they were aching and weary from the battle with Duchess Teerman’s regiment.

Casteel leaned his head back against the headboard and cast a sidelong glance at her – the way her hair fell across her shoulders and back, a sharp contrast to that alabaster skin. So soft. So perfect. He let his gaze drift down, eyeing the faint, thin marks that tracked back and forth across the tender flesh of her. His eyes narrowed.

He had never been anything less than completely sincere when he spoke about her scars. He needed her to understand how special she truly was, working against the years of venom that the Duke, Lord Mazeen, and the rest of the treacherous Ascended had used in an attempt to poison her soul, to dim her light. Her scars were beautiful, if only one entry in the long list of things he admired about her. But these long, thin, nearly invisible lines were not the jagged tears from Craven claws and fangs. No, these told a story of a fortitude he understood completely yet could also barely comprehend.

The two of them had rarely discussed Duke Teerman’s “lessons” since Poppy had finally admitted to him that the Duke had beaten her, likely for years. In fact, the last they’d spoken of it was during their journey from New Haven, and that was a lifetime of realizations and confessions from where they lay now.

Married.

And not for the sake of mutual benefit from the power of being Atlantian royalty, but for love. Real, true love. And he needed her to know how he felt – about all of her scars.

“How many times do I have to tell you that it’s creepy when you watch me sleep”

Casteel chuckled. “Well you’re obviously not asleep, so I don’t believe your question really applies.”

“Whatever,” she sighed. “It’s creepy when you stare silently at my back when I’m awake, too.”

“Alright, I’ll accept that,” he answered. And then he reached for her, trailing a calloused fingertip over where the cane had bitten her and swearing to himself when her muscles tensed. “When I realized what he had been doing to you it was all I could do not to kill everyone in that Gods-damned castle.” He moved his fingers up and down the length of her back. If his attention on those particular stripes made her uncomfortable he wouldn’t force his touch. But this conversation was important. He needed her to know.

It was quiet for a few moments, and he wondered if Poppy had somehow drifted off to sleep.

“When did you know? For sure?”

“That day with the priestess, after I prevented her from striking you. I could’ve killed her, too, honestly. But there were too many things that came together… too many signs.”

Poppy rolled over to face him, clutching the blanket over her chest. “Like what?” her emerald eyes shone with surprise.

“Please, Poppy. Did you truly think you were even remotely convincing even one of the many times I asked and you denied it?” the prince laughed humorlessly.

“You always let it go!”

“There was the first time he had me summon you. You and Tawny were both… distraught,” Casteel took a breath. If only he’d known right then, maybe he could have spared her – at least that final lesson. “Then you were holed up in your room for two days. And then there was the night I found you on the Rise. The way you winced when your back hit the wall… when I implied I might report you, and you told me I didn’t know what he’d do, before you could reign in your emotions.”

He reached for her again. Gathering the blanket around her body he pulled her into his lap, tucking her head beneath his chin.

“But it was that day with the priestess. When she said you’d grown fond of the cane. When it was painfully, heartbreakingly clear that you were accustomed to her striking you. And when I asked you point-blank if he hit you… all the color drained from your face before flushing deep red…” he pulled back so he could look her in the eye and let his fingertips caress her cheek. “My heart could have shattered in that moment. I knew what it was to be trapped, knew the shame and the fear of being helpless and not understanding how someone could take such delight simply from causing pain to someone else.”

Casteel planted a kiss on her forehead before pulling her close again. He ran his fingers idly through her wine-red locks – a favorite past-time of his. He loved her hair. It had been so unexpected the first time he saw it; red hair to match the fire within. But the fire had cooled tonight, and he might have thought she’d dozed off if it weren’t for her hand gently stroking his arm.

“Sometimes Lord Mazeen was there,” she offered quietly, and the prince stilled. Of course he knew that, but she had never been so open with this part of her. “He was there… that last time. He… he liked to watch.” Casteel’s chest rumbled with a barely-contained snarl. He had always been so glad – he would even say proud – that she’d hacked the Lord to pieces.

But Gods what he’d give to have the chance to go back and end that monster himself.

“That day… he stood in front of me. I tried to be as modest as possible, as was expected of me. But I had to brace myself on the desk, so I would lean on one arm and use my other arm to cover as much of me as I could. He bored into me with those haunting, hungry eyes as he moved my arm and held both of my hands on the desk so he could see… all of me.”

Casteel could barely breathe, and he clutched his wife tighter to his chest. Had he known that? He wasn’t sure. He knew that the Lord sometimes joined the Duke in his sadistic practice. He remembered Spessa’s End when Poppy had raged against Duchess Teerman’s insistence that the Ascended had been protecting her.

‘Is that what the Duke was doing when he took a cane to my back simply because I breathed too loudly or didn’t respond in a way he found appropriate? When he put his hands on me? Allowed others to do the same?”

He knew that they’d hurt her, but her admission had completely…

Gods, it tore him to pieces.

He felt soft fingers curl around the back of his neck and let out a breath. Her touch grounded him, pulled him back.

“Poppy… I –“

“I think Lord Mazeen was the first one that really made me realize that something was wrong – that their explanations and expectations didn’t make sense. How could my purity and isolation be so important when I saw what was in his eyes… he would have taken me if he knew he could get away with it. He leered at me for… for years!”

He pushed her shoulders back from him gently so he could grasp her face between his hands. He brought his lips to her forehead before leaning into her gaze.

“The Ascended are monsters, make no mistake. But THOSE two… There is not a word strong enough. They were EVIL, Poppy. They hurt you. They tormented you. They took pleasure in knowing that they could do anything they wanted to you for the most miniscule fucking reason and you had to sit and take it. I would burn the entirety Solis to the ground if it meant I could have saved you from that.”

Poppy smiled then. Gods, somehow she still smiled and it knocked the wind from Casteel’s lungs. Her eyes were luminous with unshed tears as she lifted her hands to cover his.

“How many times have you told me that you had hoped to sweep in dramatically and rescue me? After fighting Craven, after Lord Chaney or Duchess Teerman? But don’t you see?” The tears slid soundlessly down into her smile. “You did rescue me. You saved me from the priestess, from the Duke and Lord Chaney. You saved me from a lifetime of ignorance, of being used as a pawn to force an entire people into submission. You saved me from a life of solitude, of never knowing pleasure or love.”

She released her grip on him and reached a hand to move a stray lock of his dark curls out of his eyes, while he used his thumbs to wipe away the dampness still staining her blushing cheeks.

“You weren’t too late Casteel. You saved me. You did.” And then she pulled his head toward her and pressed her lips to his temple. “You’re my hero,” she whispered, and began to pull away. He wrapped a hand around the back of her neck and held her against him, foreheads touching.

“I know that the scars he left on you are not the obvious ones. They are not many, and they are not easy to see, but they are there. And they are beautiful, all the same. You are so strong, Poppy. So brave. I cannot begin to comprehend your ferocious need to explore, to learn, to live, all in spite of them. You had every reason to cower, to slip into a meek existence, but instead you dreamed and you learned and you fought. Every day I am staggered by who you are, and I don’t think there will ever be a moment when I am not in awe of you.” He could feel burning in his throat and his eyes. His voice was hoarse. He so rarely wept, but he couldn’t help but be overwhelmed. “These scars may be my favorite, the most stunning. The Craven scars are a symbol of your blood, your heritage, your survival. But these? They are a testament to your bravery and fortitude. They show the world that you have faced pure evil, looked it in the eye, laughed, and dared it to try again.”

Casteel scooped her from his lap and laid her back on the bed before sliding down under the blanket to face her. He wrapped his arm around her and let his fingers feel the velvety skin of her back, searching for those thin lines.

“I don’t want you to feel fear or shame when my fingers find them. I want you to feel strong and brave and powerful, knowing that you beat them – that they are dead and you are living your fullest life. Can you do that for me, Princess?”

His breath hitched when she smiled softly again before wiggling closer to him, burrowing as far as she could into his chest. Would he ever be able to see her smile and not come undone?

“I think I can do that,” she murmured against him. He smiled and kissed the crown of her head. He breathed her in and allowed his body to relax around hers. Contentment wasn’t something Casteel was accustomed to feeling, but this was the closest he had ever been to paradise. The silence was comfortable, wrapping around them like a cloak in winter. He sighed deeply and felt her head turn slightly against him. And then soft full lips pressed to his chest. The gesture was pure and innocent and earth-shattering.

“Thank you. For saving me,” Poppy whispered in the dark, almost too quiet even for his ears. He didn’t know if he could draw her any further into him. But he would keep her tightly cocooned in his arms, knowing that having her there is what held him together.

And he wondered, truly, if it hadn’t been she who had saved him.

#fbaa #fbaa fanfic #poppycas #poppy balfour #casteel da'neer #poppy x casteel #ao3 #ao3fic #ao3 fanfic #fanfiction #so fluffy #from blood and ash #a kingdom of flesh and fire #akofaf

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afictionalwhore · 4 years ago

Text

Light as a Feather (Oh Baby pt 2)

A/N: There’s been a lot going on, but I finally got it! This was the original plot of “Oh Baby!”, that cuteness that was inspired by my little ones at the daycare, but I got sidetracked by smut. Alas, no smut in this one today, but you can find smut here in pt 1!

Pairing: Hawks x fem Reader

Word Count: 2.5k

TW: yandere Hawks, a bit of angst with a happy (?) ending

☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

It was a clear night, where despite the hazy glow of the street lamps, Keigo could still make out the stars above. The full moon shone down on him, glimmering against his brilliant red wings. It was the perfect temperature: cool, but just warm enough that if Keigo were home with you, he’d have insisted you leave the window open for the crisp night air to breeze.

As he made his way down the empty street, Keigo pouted. He didn’t understand why he had to be out on night patrol. Hawks can’t see at night. His avian eyes were useless at night. His mind wandered to you and your son at home, where he’s much rather be.

Keigo was determined to be the best father for his son (he just knew you would give him a son as soon as you told him you were expecting). He took a whole week off to spend time with you. Of course, the rumors flew about where the great Hawks was during this time, the most popular of them being that he was off having a secret love affair. The commission was able to shut them down almost as fast as they appeared. Hawks had a reputation as Japan's most eligible bachelor to uphold. If only they knew.

When he begrudgingly returned to work, Keigo had grown paranoid about your safety. He knew, rationally, that no one would be able to find you. The most skilled hikers of Everest wouldn't be able to find their way to and from your secluded haven. He knew, rationally, that you would never leave him. You loved him too much for that, and now with your son on the way, you didn't just love Keigo, you needed him.

Prior to his return from his "staycation", as he told the commision, Keigo had plucked a feather from his wings and fashioned it into a necklace.

"Here," Keigo said as he sat you in front of your vanity mirror. He stood behind you to clasp the necklace around the back of your neck. The soft red feather lay tenderly on your collarbone. "I'll be able to sense where you are with this feather. Keep it on at all times. If you need anything, just squeeze it, and I'll drop whatever I'm doing for you."

To test his theory, you carefully ran your fingers over the feather, feeling every babule that made up the vane. Keigo shivered, and stretched out his wings.

"That feels really nice, baby," he said, a pleasant smile stretching across his face. "Like you’re petting my wings. Do it again."

You caught a glimpse of him behind you in the mirror. His eyes sparkled with excitement, and he reminded you of an overgrown puppy. For a second, you could forget he ever kidnapped you in the first place.

Despite the lightness and softness of the feather, it felt heavy, like one more thing to chain you to Keigo, as though a baby weren't enough. For Keigo, however, not only did the feather help set his mind at ease (he didn't tell you he could sense vibrations and know when you were moving), filled him with a sense of pride to see you wearing his feather, as though it were a collar that declared him as your owner. You really were his, and nothing brought him more joy.

The sound of sirens blaring brought Keigo out of his reminiscing. Fire engines and an ambulance whizzed by. Hawks opened his wings, briefly stretching them out before flying after them.

He didn't have to follow for long when they came to an apartment complex on fire. Perhaps a small kitchen fire got out of hand. Smoke poured out the windows of the upper floors, some ten stories above. Firemen and ambulances lined up, and Hawks got to work scouring the apartment for trapped citizens.

Naturally, reporters were drawn to site. As the realization that Hawks was on the scene grew so did the amount of reports. The presence of Japan's Number Two bringing in all the news crews, both local and national.

As Hawks carried out an elderly woman, he was overcome with pain. A pain so sharp, he thought he was dying. He felt as though something was squeezing his chest. A heart attack, maybe? He had never felt such pain in his life. A haunting revelation crossed his mind: the squeeze wasn't just coming from him, it was from you and your feather. There was only one other time you had squeezed the feather Keigo gave you, and that was when baby Takami was on the way.

You weren't exactly sure how you survived the birth. There was no way Keigo would allow a doctor, or even the old village midwife, to come up the mountain to visit you, much less allow you to go down yourself.

It was the longest day of Keigo's life, an excruciating 20 hours as he watched you bring his child into the world. It was all worth it, as he gazed down at the tiny copy of him crying in his arms. Kiego turned to look down at you, your sweat sticking your hair to your face, chest heaving to gather air. Your voice, hoarse from the screaming, whispered the gentle command for Keigo to hand you your baby. Silently, he obeyed. Who was he to deny you the right to hold the child you gave him?

Keigo's heart seized. He didn't think he could be any more in love with you as he was as he watched you with his son, brilliant red wings, a miniature version of Keigo’s own red wings, folded against your baby’s tiny back to fit in the crook of your arm and nuzzle against you. His feathers shifted and shook as he snuggled into you, gazing up at you with honey eyes full of awe.

With all your screaming the excruciating labor, you were for sure your fate as Keigo's wife locked up was sealed. There was no way anyone would come to your rescue, as your cries only served to further prove the local myths of the haunted forest. This, of course, brought Keigo a sense of ease, despite the agony he was in watching you writhe in pain.

"Are you okay, young man?" the elderly woman Hawks was still holding asked. Keigo realized he must look as bad as felt. He smiled his signature Hawks smile and shook his head.

"I'm alright, ma'am," Hawks said. "Just some bad chicken for lunch. Are you okay?" Hawks set the woman down and flew off before giving her a chance to answer his question. He had to get to you. He had to get to his son. This pain was nothing like he'd felt before. Everything else could wait.

He heard the distant voices of reporters behind him.

“Where is Hawks going?”

“Why is Hawks leaving the scene?”

“That isn’t very hero-like of Hawks.”

Keigo was grateful for the woman asking how he felt. She would be a handy alibi in case the reporters asked around the scene before the commision was able to speak up about Hawk's sudden disappearance from the scene.

"It wasn't like there were any villains around," they would say, "Just a small apartment fire and he happened to be in the neighborhood. Heroes are just like the rest of us. They can eat bad chicken too."

Keigo flew through the forest, branches brushing harshly against his face. Every possibility ran through his mind. The “what if”s assaulted him as he raced to reach you.

What if there was an accident?

What if you fell and hurt yourself?

Hurt the baby?

What if someone found you?

Keigo’s heart froze. Your disappearance was gaining some fame on the news once again. It had been nearly a year ago that Keigo plucked you out of your dirty apartment in the dangerous part of town. You had no way of knowing the date, thanks to Keigo’s lack of calendars, and lived telling time passed solely based on the growth of your baby.

What if you left?

Keigo shook his head. You didn’t really want to be rescued anymore, did you? Keigo didn’t think that was the case at all as he recalled the way you stare in wonder at your son, his son, the son that he gave you. You loved your baby, and you loved Keigo.

Keigo slowed as he approached your front yard, a small clearing, fenced in with thin logs that appealed to Keigo’s nesting aesthetic. Inside the fence, your garden proudly stood.

As time passed, Keigo noticed you grew restless. Keigo almost felt bad, grooming you into craving his affection. You didn't get much company outside the cardinals outside the window and the deer that roamed your forested backyard. You must have been so lonely during his long work hours.

Keigo thought that coming home to a nice meal cooked by you, his beautiful, doting wife, was all a man could ask for. That was until he got the bright idea of giving you a garden to grow the food you cooked for him. Keigo battled with the garden, he saw how some of the women at his agency fawned over their plants, and while he wanted nothing less than your constant affection and couldn't stand the possibility that your garden would also earn your care. But he also thought you could use the company during his long and irregular work hours. His rationale was that the more of the groceries you grew the less time he would have to spend away from you at the store getting your weekly groceries.

Keigo slowly made his way through your yard. On closer inspection, there was nothing amiss in your garden, save for the usual deer damage. He couldn’t relax yet.

He walked through the front door, which was closed, he made note of, and was met with unnerving silence. Tucked away in the corner of your living room was the small, upright piano, a chip on the top corner from when Keigo hit the doorway while maneuvering the piano into your living room. The piano was closed, keys covered. Your sheet music was laying on the floor. A sign of struggle?

A vegetable garden wasn't going to last the winter, so Keigo decided to find other hobbies for you to take on while he was gone for an agonizing eight hours minimum. You sleepily waddled into your living room one morning on one of Hawk's rare days off to find him dragging a piano through your front door.

"Do you like it?" Keigo beamed the moment he saw you and your round form from around the piano. "Your garden won't last the winter up here. So I thought you could pick up a few more hobbies indoors." Of course the fact that if you had things to do to keep you indoors and safe while Hawks was out at work would help ease his pain of having to leave you on your own remained unspoken. You knew, but you couldn't be mad. Music would be good for the baby.

Keigo cried out at the thought of never hearing you play again, never coming home to the sounds of your choppy notes as you learned new pieces. The window was open and a slight breeze blew through, billowing your curtains and ruffling your papers on the floor. Ah, just the wind. This revelation did nothing calm Keigo. Why was the window open on a night he had patrol?

He ran to the kitchen. Empty. A plate of food and a small rice bowl sat on the table, all wrapped in foil. A pair of chopsticks laying neatly beside them. Keigo’s heart fluttered. You had set a place for him. Dishes from dinner were stacked in the sink, waiting to be washed as you always stayed up for Keigo to finish with his before setting to washing. The faucet dripped slowly. Plink. Plink. Plink. The sound grew louder, ringing in Keigo’s ears until he screamed. The painful squeezing still holding on to him.

Keigo flew about your house, banging against the walls. He checked every room.The bathroom? Nothing. The bedroom? Nothing. Keigo groaned as he made his way to your neatly made, shared bed, falling on to it. Keigo wept. His head fell into his hands, and his wings trembled with every sob that wracked his body.

After a few minutes, he realized there was only one place left to check. The throbbing pain had never subsided but was only overshadowed by his fear. Keigo felt his heart beat against his chest as he turned slowly to look at the one room he avoided searching out of fear: the nursery. The nursery was directly across from your bedroom. The door was cracked slightly, just enough to let the light inside filter into the hallway.

Keigo was afraid his heartbeat was too loud, that whatever was potentially in the room waiting for him would hear it. His muscles ached as he made his way to the door. As he approached the nursery, his heart grew louder until he was right outside the door. He held the knob in his grasp, clammy and slightly trembling, before giving a push. Keigo wasn’t ready for the sight that greeted him.

There you sat in the rocker with your baby in your arms, his chubby cheek pressed up against your breast. Both of you were fast asleep, the light rise and fall of your chests in sync. Milk dribbled off your baby’s chin like he had just finished drinking. In one pudgy hand, he held a vise grip on your finger. In his other hand, he held Keigo’s feather, as tight as he could as though it was just as much his lifeline as your milk.

Keigo ran to you and dropped to the floor, sobbing into your knees as he clung to your legs. You jumped awake at the weight of Keigo nearly collapsing on you, startling your baby.

You gently shushed your baby, holding him against you to calm him while running your hands through Keigo’s hair to soothe him.

“Keigo, honey,” your crystalline voice rang. “What’s wrong?”

“I thought you were gone. I thought—” Keigo’s cries cut him off. He clutched at his chest, your baby still squeezing his feather hanging from your neck.

“Oh. Oh, Keigo. I’m so sorry,” you said as you realized what had happened. “Here.”

You pried your infant’s fingers off Keigo’s feather. The little red plumage slightly ruffled from being bent into the shape of the baby’s fist. You shook Keigo off you and stood up, adjusting your baby in your arms and turning to the door.

“Let’s go get you something to eat, okay?” You looked back at Keigo and smiled before turning back and walking out the door towards the kitchen. He hurriedly wiped his tears, in a fashion similar to a small child who had scraped their knee, and followed you.

Unseen by Keigo was the glow in your eyes. The first time you used his feather you were too distraught by labor to realize the power you held over Keigo. Rather than heavy chains binding you to Keigo, the feather acted more like a leash tied around his neck. The originally weight lifted, and the red feather hanging gracefully from around your neck finally felt as light as a feather.

#soft yandere #yandere hawks #hawks x reader #angst with fluff?#bnha keigo

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quinintheclouds · 5 years ago

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YES YES YES YES YES

Spoilers for RWBY Volume 8 Chapter 6

THAT WAS SO MUCH MORE THAN I HAD EVEN LET MYSELF HOPE FOR

It really looks like this is the Volume the writers realized how many answers we’ve needed for years and years, and is answering them now. I wish it’d come sooner, of course, but since they can’t go back and fix the pacing or writing, I’m really impressed and optimistic about how Volume 8 is going!

BUT MORE SPECIFICALLY

I would like to GUSH about how they handled the Oscar and Ozpin scenes. We have needed, nay, BEGGED for this sort of development, and it’s finally here. There’s too much I want to rave about so bullet point time!

[Note: I love the farmboy so this wound up longer than expected -- have a read more for your scrolling convenience -- TL;DR at the end]

We got confirmation that Ozpin has been pleading with Oscar to let him take over so he can burden the pain and torture instead. Oscar is the one refusing, choosing to take it himself because he knows Salem and Hazel will be much harsher on Oz. I thought that was the case, but I’m so glad they addressed it because otherwise we’d be wondering why Oz hasn’t offered. It does make me wonder, is Oz still able to take control without asking? Oscar was able to fight it in vol 6, and he’s come a long way.

Hazel is holding back -- at least, Oscar says he can tell that he is. This would keep in line with the battle at Haven, when Hazel was suspiciously playing defense and stalling by letting Ozpin monologue, then letting Oscar give a little protagonist speech... I mean, it sure doesn’t LOOK like he’s holding back. Look at this kid:

moving on before I cry,

Ozpin suggests he take over and try to escape.

Oscar says no, he has a better idea. “This is our chance.”

Oz: “Hm. Maybe you’ve taken one too many hits.” I like this for two reasons: one, because it gives us a taste of the ol’ lighthearted Ozpin humor we’ve missed since he’s been gone, and two, because it shows that he and Oscar think differently. They have different thought processes, ideas, etc. Oz didn’t immediately know what Oscar was planning.

Oscar explains that Salem can’t take on everyone at once, and thus has been sending people to infiltrate all of remnant first, to attack from within.

I LOVE that they had Oscar come up with this, because it is so in line with his character development in Volume 7. Not to mention how in volume 6 he was the one to figure out how to defeat Cordovin’s mecha. It’s cool to see him as a strategist, because while he’s a sweet kid from the middle of nowhere, he’s proven to be really smart and quick.

Plus, this gives him agency. People wanted Ozpin to return and save Oscar, but this is so, so much better. Oscar’s idea, Oscar’s choice, and Oz gets right on board. They’re agreeing to work together, despite their unresolved conflict. “Ozma learned the importance of living with the souls with which he’d been paired.”

AND THEN, A MOMENT I CANNOT THANK RT ENOUGH FOR:

The captions don’t show it, but Oscar AND Ozpin said this in unison. Now, this and the few seconds that follow were a rollercoaster of emotions. Let’s break it down:

When they said this together, I was positively GIDDY with excitement: they’re leaning into the “like-minded souls” thing and calling attention to the situation! Surely this must be a sign that Oscar and Ozpin will indeed both exist when their souls are one, as they are both equally parts of the combination of lives that is Ozma. Well, maybe not equally (yet?).

Then, my elation was replaced with dread. What if this was actually an indication of them “merging” in the way some of the FNDM interpret it will go, rather than how I think it does? Or what if that’s not what RT is doing, but what if the FNDM takes it as a sign Ozpin is taking over?? I can’t last the whole break without knowing!

AND THEN!!! Ugh, this made me so relieved. Ozpin says, in a slightly amused tone of voice with a trace of a laugh, “We certainly are similar, you and I.” YESSSSS more references to them being like-minded souls!! But still having differences!!

“Maybe we have been presented with an opportunity.” I’m really glad they went the route where Oscar is changing Ozpin’s mind on things. Oz no longer thinks he knows best, and is allowing Oscar to come into his own. Now he’s seeing how far Oscar’s come and the person he is.

Related note: The commentary for the vol 7 finale said that it was Oscar’s speeches to Ironwood about fear and trust that made Oz realize he’s been keeping secrets and hiding out of fear, and inspired him to come back. This is so promising for Oscar’s character going forward.

[Side note: Would love more info on what Oscar meant in volume 7 when he said “these memories... you’re back, aren’t you?” because? Is he just referring to the scenes with things like how he talked about Atlas’ history as if he were there, or does he have access to Oz’s memories now? 2 chapters ago we saw that he doesn’t yet know the location of the Beacon Relic. So unless he was lying really well, he doesn’t have ALL the memories yet. So which ones does he have? RT EXPLAIN]

Next,

I would like to call attention to the fact that Oscar smiled here. After Ozpin said they were similar, I was worried Oscar would react the way he has in the past: sad and conflicted about his identity, worried he’s becoming less of himself. But no. Like we saw in Volume 7, THIS is who Oscar Pine is. His development was his own, and we get to see that when Ozpin returned because Oscar had made him rethink his choices. Oscar Pine is more himself now than he’s been at any other point in the series.

It’s really brilliant how the writers have used these last 2 volumes to show that Penny, the robot, is one of the most human characters on the show; and Oscar, the boy cursed to death and rebirth with a soul that was not his own, is one of the most individualistic ones. It’s just really cool how they’re playing with our expectations of the characters. (They’re doing great with Salem, too!)

[Side note: Penny’s soul/aura was given to her by Pietro, and they still have distinct personalities and identities. It’s possible that’s a parallel to Oscar’s situation, but I do feel the merge’s completion will result in one remaining soul/identity - just not a “taking over” situation]

Okay, that’s the last of that rollercoaster I mentioned.

Time to get on a new one!

At long last, this episode finally gave us something we haven’t had since chapter 4 of volume SIX*:

*(I am not counting the one second of "Oscar." *glowy eyes* *Oscar blinks and is back in control* in the vol 7 finale)

OZPIN IS BACK!!!!

First, HELL YES I WANTED THIS TO HAPPEN!!!

Second, wow, they can change really quickly now. At first it took effort and was super visible, then just shook Oscar up a bit with the glowy eyes, and now it seems almost effortless, seamless. The eyes glow and the transition is smooth. I like it.

We didn’t get to hear Oscar’s thoughts after Oz said “Oscar, please,” begging him again to let him take control. So we don’t know whether Oscar allowed it out of pain, exhaustion, their plan, or a decision to trust Oz and work together here. Alternatively, Ozpin may have simply taken over of his own accord. I wish the writers would give us more insight to Oscar’s thoughts, because those scenes already have him talking inside/to his own head, so leaving some of his thoughts out can seem intentional and open-ended, which could mean more dragging out answers, but I think this was fine. Not the worst case of this by far lol

WHEN! HE! SPOKE!

I was hoping for this with all my heart. Over the course of volume 7 in particular, we saw Oscar’s voice, mannerisms, and speech patters start to resemble Ozpin’s. However, he still sounds and feels like Oscar. Going back to Volume 5, heck, even Volume 6 (which is when we last saw Ozpin in control), the voice of Ozpin speaking through Oscar is similar, but distinctly different from how Oscar’s speaking now. So I’ve been theorizing and hoping, and it CAME TRUE! Ozpin sounds more like Oscar now, while still managing to clearly be Ozpin.

Right from the first “Hello,” it was noticeable. It sounded almost like Oscar. I know it’s the same voice actor when one of them is in control (same body, same vocal cords), but that just makes it even more impressive. This is the first time we’ve heard Ozpin’s voice speaking through Oscar since QRWBY yelled at him in the snow in vol 6. And I was NOT disappointed.

“Why do you follow her?” I’ll keep saying it, but he sounds so much like Oscar confronting Ironwood.

“I know how you see me. But her? Look at what she does, how is she the answer, why not stop her??” This gives me serious deja vu to Oscar’s speech towards Hazel in the Battle of Haven (and his speech towards Ironwood in v7′s finale). That speech had given Hazel pause then, and this one does as well, now. Ozpin sounds angrier, though, more aware of just how far gone these people are, but knowing they can change.

Hazel calls Ozpin out for the same thing the FNDM has been, and honestly, it’s been a long time coming. Hazel’s motivations are extremely misguided, Oscar was right to stand up for Oz/Gretchen at Haven, and the show really needed to reinforce the Ozpin-isn’t-bad-actually thing. Now it’s all out in the open. But it’s Ozpin’s response to this that elevated this scene even more:

That’s it. Ozma has spent countless lives fighting a war that may be impossible to win. But if no one tries, no one will survive. The gods will destroy all of Remnant. Still, every single lifetime, he chooses to try. Like Oscar said in volume 5 (about Hazel’s sister but writing-wise also kinda about Pyrrha), “She made a choice! A choice to put others before herself. So do I.” Like-minded souls.

AND THIS!!! Good gods I’m glad he said this. The show went way too long before anyone even questioned the “You can’t” answer from Jinn. Nora mentioned it in passing earlier, which I liked a lot (though this really should’ve been discussed in volume 6, but better late than never). But here? We see that Oz never gave up, never planned on losing, not sending people to a battle he “knows they can’t win.” While Salem is immortal, she is not infallible. Not even the gods were. Salem can be fought. Even Hazel has a moment of hesitation, perhaps even realization, before Salem enters.

Salem manipulates Cinder, offering her the maiden powers she wants so badly, and Ozpin interjects. “You’ll only be helping her bring about the end, for all of you!”

I just wanted to show these shots because again, just as we’ve seen Oscar’s mannerisms become increasingly similar to Ozpin’s, now that he’s back, we get to see the other way around. Look at the surprise and fear on his face. Look at how he widens his eyes and raises his eyebrows instead of narrowing/furrowing them now. Listen to the sounds he makes when tortured or thrown about. Listen to the desperation and earnest passion held in his pleas. He’s no longer hiding -- he’s being honest with the people who scare him most, and truly trying to help them see the light.

[Side note: Cinder is not showing remorse in this scene, but I wonder how she’d react to Oscar, not Ozpin, being tortured. In the same episode, we have Cinder being tortured with a shock collar, AND we have Oscar decide to try to appeal to the humanity left in these villains. Last time we saw Oscar, Salem was torturing him with intense, almost electric magic. She might not care, but I wonder...]

ANYWAY I’m done for now. Have a TL;DR that wound up being long too

TL;DR:

Basically, I’m super happy with the writers for the detail put into these scenes:

they confirmed Oz has been begging to take over and bear the torture instead

had Oscar come up with an idea himself instead of getting rescued or immediately escaping

had Oscar view his dire situation as an opportunity, reminding us of his optimism and capabilities as a strategist

had Ozpin not know what Oscar’s plan was before he explained it (this might change as the souls become one, but it at least shows they think differently)

Oscar’s plan to appeal to the villains’ humanity and infiltrate Salem’s forces from within lining up with his volume 7 character development

had Oz trust Oscar and put his faith in him, which is progress for Oz

Oz and Oscar speaking in unison and agreeing to work together

Ozpin’s comment about them being similar, not the same

had Ozpin take control to speak to Hazel

Ozpin’s speech to Hazel and Cinder as parallels to Oscar’s speeches to Hazel and Ironwood, which CRWBY said were the reason Oz realized his secrecy is out of fear of trust, and Oscar’s points are what inspired him to come back.

Ozpin sounding and acting more like Oscar just like we’ve seen happen the other way around (though with Oscar, he’s holding true to his own ideas/morals, with Oz meeting him there)

established hope for some of our villains to defect, setting it in motion.

#oscar pine #professor ozpin #rwby ozma #the merge #rwby ozcar #hate calling them that lol but it's a useful tag #rwby8 #rwby #quinpost

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harryspet · 5 years ago

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a long way down [3] b.barnes & s.rogers

[Warnings] dark bucky barnes x reader, dark steve rogers, violence, death, heavy angst, the walking dead au, slice of life, domestic steve, vaginal sex (wear protection, please)

A/N: I love how this was supposed to be a one-shot and now I’m finding all the ways to make this series longer and add more drama.

ADULT AND TRIGGERING CONTENT AHEAD

In which your world is shaken again and you’re forced to run back to your first safe haven.

word count: 3.4k

series masterlist

T H E N E X T S P R I N G

“She recognizes you,” You said, watching Peter’s eyes widen as the baby smiled up at him. It was currently tummy time in the living room and the two of you laid beside her, watching her explore her environment, “That’s Uncle Peter, right Margot?”

You watched her little fingers wrap around her little toys as she proceeded to put them in her mouth to taste them. Six whole months had passed since she was welcomed to this scary world and she’d already grown so much, “It’s me, Margot. It’s me,” Peter spoke in a cute voice and the baby proceeded to babble something incoherent, “Bet you I can get her to say Peter before she says Mama.”

You rolled your eyes at that as you continued to watch her, “You will be saying Mama first, missy,” You told her though she was only focused on a bright orange ring toy. You could look at her little face for hours on hours. You hadn’t felt true love until you laid eyes on her.

The long journey it took you to get here only made you love her more. You were lucky that she didn’t come too early. God forbid you needed a c-section or she was facing the wrong way. You wanted her to survive and that’s all you hoped and prayed for. When you lost too much blood and began to pass out, you were still happy knowing she’d be okay.

You didn’t think you would make it. Sharon did her best to give you the best care she could but modern medicine wasn’t available to you. You were sick and on bed rest for the first two months she was alive so now you were enjoying the time when you could move around with her. During the time you were unconscious, Steve had made the considerate decision to name the baby Margaret after some long lost love.

Margaret Rogers.

You refused to call her that and decided on a nickname of your own choosing.

“C’mere, Margot,” You sat up, lifting the baby into your lap, “Let me show you something cool, Peter.”

Peter sat up too, his eyes confused as you removed one of her little socks. She was still happily waving around the toy as you ran a finger down the sole of her foot. Her little toes spread out like a little fan, “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” Peter declared and you giggled.

“It’s called the Babinski reflex. It might go away as early as twelve months so I’m going to savor the cuteness,” You encouraged Peter to try it too and the boy seemed to swoon over Margot. You moved the baby into his lap, continuing to tell him about all the little milestones that Margot was passing.

“She’s like a sponge, it’s amazing,” Peter said, bouncing the little girl in his lap, “Do you get any sleep?”

You nodded, “I’m up by five every morning but I’m used to it now. If she wakes up while I’m sleeping, Steve takes care of her. Luckily, she’s sleeping through the night.”

“Such a sweet girl,” Peter cooed, “I’m sure you’d never cause Mommy any problems.” You were lucky that Margot’s temperament was easy. She got frustrated like all other babies but she wasn’t very sensitive. You thought it meant she’d do well in a world like this.

The two of you spent more time with Margot but your peace and serenity was interrupted when both Steve and Bucky returned home. You always got the feeling that they disliked Peter being around but that never stopped you from being friends with him. Peter probably cared more for you then both of them combined.

“It’s getting late, son,” You heard Steve say, his deep voice trying to be as authoritarian as it could. Steve scared Peter, you could tell that much.

“I’ll go then,” Peter rushed out, handing the little girl back to you. Margot seemed a bit upset at his absence and you held her to you in order to keep her calm. You knew it was useless to argue about this with Steve and you doubted Bucky would have your back.

You stood up from your place on her baby blanket, using Margot’s hand to wave goodbye, “Say bye-bye, Peter,” The little girl only mumbled something incoherent, “See you tomorrow.”

“Bye, Margot. Goodbye, Y/N,” Peter smiled before walking out of the living room. The room went silent as Peter made his way to the front door and tension only increased

Steve walked over to greet his daughter, lifting her from your arms, “Hello, honey-bear,” Margot’s mood seemed to lift again as she recognized her Daddy and Steve’s hard exterior softened. When they were together, it reminded you how alike they looked. He lifted the giggling girl, taking a whiff of her bottom, “You need a change, don’t you?”

“I can do it-”

Steve interrupted you, “No, I’ve got it. Daddy’s gonna change you, yes he is.”

“Wash your hands please,” You told Steve who was too focused on the tiny creature. As Steve walked away to climb the stairs, your eyes met with Bucky’s. Although you liked that he was forced to face the consequences of his actions, you knew that he was still chasing your affection. He was facing his demons in order to get closer to you.

“Catch anything good?” You asked, leaning down to collect all the toys. There was a lake just outside the compound limits that Steve and Bucky frequented for their “time to just be a man” where they liked to go fishing.

“Nothing alive,” Bucky said, following you as you walked into the kitchen. You put the toys into the sink, turning the warm water on in order to clean them. Bucky leaned against the counter and you felt his gaze burning into you, “It’s still pretty peaceful out there, we didn’t run into any walkers. I was thinking we could go out there together, you could take a break like you deserve.”

“Go out there and do what?” You asked, your eyes not meeting his.

“I don’t know, have a picnic or something.”

“Or something?” You scoffed, scrubbing at the toys, “Sounds romantic.”

Bucky’s lips pressed into a thin line of frustration, “I’m trying here. I’m not good at … romantic stuff.”

“To say the least,” You added, “Bucky, I don’t need or want a break. I’m perfectly content right now.”

“You’re sure about that? You don’t have any other needs begging to be met?” You scowled at him, knowing what he was hinting at. Steve had barely touched you since you started showing and, after the rough birth, he wasn’t willing to rush into trying for a boy.

“I’m sure.”

“Looks like both the girls are down for the night,” Steve said, letting out a sigh as he sat in his desk chair. Bucky sat in the chair in front of Steve’s desk, his feet kicked up on the desk.

“What about Sharon?”

Steve rubbed his temples at the mention of the woman, “She’s been working late at the infirmary. She won’t tell me but I know it’s because my attention has been elsewhere,” Bucky was beginning to doubt Steve’s feeling for Sharon in the first place. It seemed Steve was ready to completely let the woman go due to her infertility, “I don’t really care if she doesn’t come back. Y/N and I can handle things on our own.”

Bucky only nodded, his mind already wandering elsewhere. Steve noted his friend's frustration and wondered why the man continued to bother with you. Even after all this time, Bucky still didn’t have anyone else on his mind, “What’s on your mind, Buck?”

Bucky’s fingers rubbed over his facial hair as he thought, “That Peter kid.”

Right away, Steve understood. It had been a topic they avoided despite knowing how each other felt about it, “What about him?”

“You don’t think he spends a little too much time around here? With your daughter?”

Steve didn’t believe Peter was any real threat to his family here. Steve saw him as a distraction for you. Someone who helped you forget your worries, “This is about her, Buck. You don’t want him around her.”

“Fine,” Bucky threw up his hands in defeat, “I think he’s getting in the way of Y/N letting me in again. She has Peter to be there and tell her everything's going to be alright so she doesn’t need me.”

“Tell her not to see him then. Matter of fact, tell him to stay away,” Steve spoke simply, the solution obvious in his mind.

“If she knows I had something to with it, it’ll make things worse. I have to be the good guy in her eyes.”

Steve smiled, a lightbulb going off in his mind, “Shall I be the bad guy then?”

Bucky moved his feet, leaning forward in his chair, “What are you thinking?”

“I still need someone to replace you. Someone to travel and relay messages between our camp and my allies. Peter could fill the position for the time being,” Bucky didn’t think over it long before he agreed. All that was on his mind was winning you back and this would only help his cause, “I need to keep up appearances around here anyways. We don’t need some kid running around here with our girls, right?”

“Right,” Bucky said, his mind on you, “Thanks, Steve.”

“No need, Buck. We have to look out for each other. Besides that, I think it's a good time to ask you to be my second in command.”

Margot was a complete celebrity in Liberty. You couldn’t walk on the street without people coming up to wave or to get a look at her. Margot was good with strangers which only solidified her position as princess of this place.

It was a sunny spring day and you had dressed her in a floral dress and a pink bow. You carried her in one hand and held a tupperware of deserts in the other hand. Sam wasn’t far behind but that hadn’t changed in the past year.

“We’re going to find uncle Peter, yes we are,” You cooed to the little girl who was energized from her latest nap, “And he’s going to love the cookies we made him.”

You eventually got to the barracks where Steve’s group of soldiers usually stayed, you walked through the long lines of bunk beds to find his. As you passed some men, all of them burly and intimidating, they even waved hello to your little one.

As you approached Peter’s bunk you found it empty, only a mattress sitting on top of the metal. All of his comics and textbooks were nowhere to be found. You searched around for the nearest person and found a group of older men playing some dice game, “Excuse me, do you know where Peter Parker is today? He slept over there,” You asked, pointing to Peter’s bunk.

“Packed up early this morning,” The man said, “Think he got reassigned.”

“Reassigned where?” You asked.

“Something outside of the compound. Poor kid.”

Your heart started pounding heavily as you turned back to Sam, “Take me to Steve. Now.”

“He’s on duty-”

“Find him and take me to him, Sam.”

Margot was screaming in your eyes mostly because she sensed how upset you were. As soon as you approached Steve, he swooped the little girl into his arms, trying to calm her, “What the hell are you doing?” Steve asked. He came down from one of the watchtowers, a rifle still strapped to his back, as he saw you approaching with Sam.

“Peter? Where did you send him?”

Steve sighed, “Y/N-”

“Where did you send him?” You shouted back.

“I needed a new emissary and he volunteered to do it,” Steve stated simply.

“By himself? He’s a kid, Steve!” Margot cried louder but your blood was boiling, “You’re going to get him killed!”

“We all have to earn our keep around here, Y/N. Some people put their lives on the line for a chance to live here and then people like you spread your legs for it. That’s how it works, sweetheart.”

“You’re a fucking monster,” You spat at him.

Bucky scoured the camp looking for you for a good hour. You were sitting at the bottom of a big tree, staring out into a small field. Where the field ended, the wall began. Bucky startled you when he suddenly appeared and you were quick to try and wipe away your tears.

He took a seat beside you, leaning his back against the tree. This area of the camp was peaceful, it was no wonder that you had taken a liking to it.

“What are you doing here?” You asked, your face in a frown.

“I thought you didn’t need a break,” Bucky said, avoiding your question.

“This isn’t a break,” You said softly, “You’re supposed to feel relaxed on a break-” As your voice cracked and the tears started falling again, Bucky wrapped an arm around your soldier. You leaned into him and sobbed into his shoulder.

“I didn’t even get to say goodbye,” You tried to speak as you choked on your sobs.

“He’ll be back, I promise” Bucky stated, “Probably sooner than you think. The kid can handle himself.”

“He shouldn’t have to. Margot shouldn’t have to,” You said, “It isn’t fair.”

Bucky rubbed your shoulder, drawing lines on your skin with his fingers, “I know, doll.”

It was like losing your family all over again. It was worse than losing them. At least you knew they were dead. You wouldn’t know if he was alive or dead and, if something happened, you wouldn’t even know how it happened. There were so many things outside of the walls that could get you killed.

You pulled away from Bucky gently, realizing how long it had been since you’d been in his arms. Looking into those blue eyes gave you a weird sense of familiarity. Of home, “Maybe you could talk to Steve? For me?”

Bucky nodded, “Of course, doll.”

You stared at his moment and Bucky noted the way your gaze traveled to your lips. Bucky reached over to wipe a tear from your cheek. He couldn’t hide how attracted to you he was, even when you were crying. Bucky placed a soft, hesitant kiss on your cheek, “Everything’s going to be okay. All I should worry about is your little one.”

You took a deep breath, nodding in agreement.

It must’ve been the emotions or the off-balance hormones because, when Bucky leaned into your lips, you didn’t stop him. In fact, you welcomed that touch. The soft kisses soon became more desperate and hungry. Your lips were angry, demanding as they moved against his.

It shocked Bucky as much as it did to you. Bucky was elated but he had little time to celebrate you being back in his clutches. You were hungry for something and he was going to make sure you were satisfied.

Bucky pulled you into his lap and, as you straddled him you said, “Just this once.”

“Just this once,” Bucky agreed, knowing the opposite would be true.

Your lips devoured each other and Bucky explored your mouth with his hands pulled down the straps of your sundress. As your breast sprang free, he palmed them his hand. The cold of his metal hand sent shivers down your spine but Bucky warmed you again with his mouth. He played with your nipple in his mouth causing you to bite down on your lips.

Your hands ran through his hair as you savored the feeling. As he moved his mouth away, his head tilted up at you, “You’re so beautiful,” Bucky said and you rolled your eyes, leaning down to undo his belt and zipper.

“Just fuck me, okay?” Bucky grabbed you by your ass roughly pulling you into him. He reached under your dress, tucking your underwear to the side as he positioned himself at your entrance. You could feel how hard he already was and the idea of him filling you up was making your mouth water with anticipation.

As you slowly impaled yourself on his cock, your mouth was agape. You realized how full he made you fill, how complete you felt. Bucky held your hips as you began to bounce up and down. Bucky groaned huskily, loving how your face contorted to different expressions as the pleasure went through you.

As you tried to contain your moans, Bucky placed kisses along your jaw and then on your neck. He felt all your anger and sadness as you used it as motivation, moving your body hard against his.

The two eventually met your climaxes together, your body shaking as you rode out the rest of the wave. You breathed heavily, leaning against his body. You tucked your head into his shoulder and Bucky simply wrapped his arms around you.

“Say you won’t leave again,” You whispered.

“I won’t leave you ever again, doll.”

The next day you awoke beside Bucky. You watched him as he slept peacefully, his hand over his shirtless chest and his chest slowly rising and falling. That “just this once” had turned into four times which you were sure he was happy with. You had to admit that you didn’t have that morning-after regret that you expected. Bucky had done such horrible things to you and yet he managed to bring you joy like no other.

You hated that you ran back after resisting for so long but, without Peter, you were once again feeling completely lost. Being with Bucky reminded you of simpler times and, despite the hell you knew it would bring, it was worth it just to feel that comfort.

Suddenly, you heard commotion coming from downstairs, glass shattering and Steve’s booming voice traveled through the air. You shook Bucky awake as you began to throw on some clothes, “Bucky, something’s going on!” You threw on some boots and Bucky put on a t-shirt before the two of you filed out of your room.

You heard your little girl wailing and you followed the sound. You found the front door wide open and quickly ran out of it. As you moved down the porched steps, the sight before you stopped your heart. Steve was holding Margot in one hand and a pistol in the other. A pistol that was pointing at a begging and pleading Sharon.

Bucky tried to grab your hand but you ran towards him, “Steve, what the hell are you doing?” Your eyes widened even more as you noticed that Margot had no clothes on except for a checkered dishtowel and her skin was wet.

Steve handed you the child but kept the gun pointed at the woman. By now, everyone had filed out of their homes and were watching the chaos, “She tried to drown our baby,” Was all he said, shaking with anger.

“I-I would never!” Sharon shouted back, her hands up as she laid on the gravel, “Please-”

“I fucking saw you!” Steve shouted back and you felt Bucky’s arm pulling you away. You stepped back with him, knowing that if the gun went off that you didn’t want Margot anywhere near it.

Your eyes connected with Sharon’s and there was only pure hatred there. She didn’t even look sorry for what she was being accused of, “I was helping! I was taking care of her! You know me, Steve!”

Steve didn’t believe her and you hated that you didn’t either. Was she really capable of something like this? All because of jealousy? Jealousy over a life that you didn’t even want.

“You weren’t even supposed to be in my house!” You watched as Steve cocked the gun, “You’re lucky I walked in when I did. If you had gotten away with hurting my little Margaret, I would’ve dismembered you piece by piece and I would've enjoyed it. Consider this a blessing.”

“Steve, don’t-” You pressed yourself into Bucky, trying to protect the crying child in your arms as the gun went off and the blonde woman fell limp.

Steve tucked the weapon into his belt, his muscle still tense, as he tried not to contain whatever emotions were coursing through him, “Early start today. Everyone get to work!” Steve shouted to every citizen who was listening, “And get her body off my fucking street!”

Silence fell over the small town of Liberty.

Hope you enjoyed! Let me know your thoughts and predictions!

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milstrim · 4 years ago

Text

Flesh and Bone and Heart

Chapter 1: “You have to let go.”

AO3 Link

Everything was bleak. Russet red skies painted a deep orange over every building and skyscraper. Over bodies of sickly green skin and the newly familiar sight of pools of blood stained to sidewalks and walls.

Peter hadn't quite gotten used to the bleakness yet, and he didn't want to. There was still hope after all. Even if he and Happy were the last New Yorkers left in a city of 8.4 million. There had to be other people alive, other groups of survivors across America, waiting for a cure. Because there had to be a way to more than survive this, even if the virus had wiped out the Avengers in a day...

He shook his head of the thought, squaring his shoulders and resuming his vigilant watch from atop the nondescript gray building he had called home the last couple of days. There was hope, and Peter would help the ragtag team that adopted him into their ranks to see it, even though he was sure they didn't see it like he did. There had to be hope after all. Humanity couldn't end because of one mistake. Aunt May couldn't be gone forever. Ned couldn't be a zombie without being allowed to have had a nerd-freak out over the whole thing. Mr. Stark couldn't be replaced by a husk of his former self.

It was impossible for Peter, to stare out at the city every day knowing about the looks the others shared when they thought he wasn't looking. How Happy would stare sullenly. How Sharon would always speak to him a little softer than the day before. Even Kurt, who had been the only one willing and able to match Peter's enthusiasm and attempts to keep everyone's spirits lifted, would drop the act the moment Peter wasn't in the room. He knew. He could hear everyone in their building, after all.

Which was why Peter sat on the building now.

The group had all formed three weeks into the apocalypse, not so easily fitting together but still managing to find how they all worked. His powers definitely made Peter one of the most powerful assets to the team, which was why he was usually on watch or patrolling around for where most of the infected were concentrated. Where once he might have preened at finally feeling so important--so seen--now he wished more than anything that he could shrink away. That his powers weren't needed so badly to keep a handful of survivors away from a fate almost worse than death.

He wished that everything was okay.

Even if it wasn't. And it might never be.

The screen of his mask caught something. Peter readjusted, narrowing his eyes as Karen zoomed in. He relaxed. It was just a small group of normal but infected New Yorkers. As long as everyone inside was quiet and kept up their normal routine, there was little danger there. It wasn't like it was Mr. Stark or those weird portal guys that would've gotten Peter weeks ago had Hope not shown up. They were dangerous, and usually who Peter kept his eye out for. Karen was always on the job tracking Mr. Stark, but the teenager had gotten used to training his eye for the familiar glinting red regardless.

With a quiet sigh released in a huff under his breath, Peter wiggled into a more comfortable crouch, watching the zombies until they filtered away onto a different street and out of his sight.

"Is there a street camera around there, Karen?" he asked, his voice a strained whisper. Two months into the zombie apocalypse the teenager had finally trained himself to make every word small. To treat every sentence like a danger. Sometimes Peter thought it was funny, that he'd had to learn to be quieter. May had always been so loud she'd been confused as to why he was so soft-spoken and he would joke that she was losing her hearing in her old age. But those smile-inducing thoughts would make his features fall with regret and guilt and he'd shove them away as quickly as they came.

"Of course, Peter. Here," his faithful AI responded, the video popping up on his screen. It showed the people continuing to stumble away, so he waved the video away. No real danger. Just a normal, boring, and tense day in the apocalypse.

The high schooler thanked the AI as the video disappeared, forcing his strained shoulders to drop and relax. It was something he'd found himself doing a lot recently. The apocalypse was, well, it was the apocalypse. It was dangerous and nerve-wracking and every breath was filled with a tired guilt that made his chest feel stale. But it also lacked a lot of action. Especially recently. The past two weeks had been a strange mixture of the constant need to be vigilant but with a significant lack of things to do.

It wasn't incredibly hard to get food. Most zombies had moved from being indoors to try and hunt better--like there was really anything left to hunt--leaving supermarkets vacant and easy to raid. It wasn't hard to watch out for infected intruders. Two people were always on watch. Important items were always ready to be moved and Karen kept a constant eye on security cameras around whatever building they were occupying that week. And Peter was left with little to do to occupy his thoughts.

He didn't want to think. Not about his situation. Not about the world. Not about his family and friends. He wanted to fight. He wanted to do.

Sometimes the teenager would try and piece together a semblance of a cure. Many zombies had rotted away completely, and there were vacant labs dotted around New York. He could try his hand at his chemistry knowledge and combat what he could. But every attempt, no matter how promising, had always ended in failure.

Peter couldn't make a cure. He was smart, but he was only sixteen and a half. He was a kid and he couldn't do it.

But there was a different sixteen year-old that maybe could.

Miss Okoye had arrived yesterday, in a shiny ship that had bled out of the air and landed in the open space in Avengers tower where the Quinjet should have been. Peter had been on watch then too, but he hadn't seen the plane land at the building across the city, it was invisible after all. Instead, Karen had alerted him and the teenager had immediately leapt off the building towards the tall and lonely ghost of a tower.

(His first day in the lab had been so tense and awkward. He hadn't known what to say and Mr. Stark hadn't known what to do. Peter had been so nervous he'd nearly burnt his hand off while doing simple wiring. Mr. Stark had panicked so bad--grabbing his hand and having Friday scan it and double-checking it himself when he didn't quite believe the AI--his cheeks blazed red and then Peter had burst out with loud giggles at the panic.)

Peter had arrived quickly and without interruption from a certain flying zombie, with enough time to warn Miss Okoye that Mr. Stark's suit also got alerts when something entered the tower and that they needed to leave immediately. Thankfully, he and the warrior had left before anyone could arrive and Peter had gotten to ride in a super-freaking-cool Wakandan ship. It hadn't quite distracted him from being back at the tower, but he'd let everyone think it had.

Now the group was making a decision. He could hear them faintly a few floors below, their voices murmured and concerned. It was hard to make out what they were saying exactly, but he couldn't quite say he cared. Certainly not enough to have Karen enhance the sound and let him know every word that was being said below. He had found that happening a lot recently. Not caring. At some point everything had become too much and his brain felt much too much like wet tissue paper to try and purse through anything in there other than I wish I wasn't awake. I wish I wasn't here. I wish someone else had survived instead of me. Someone who was ready.

But there wasn't anything else. And Wakanda would be safe, if they managed to make it there.

That was the debate.

Did they go search for a man who'd been thought to be dead and lost days into the apocalypse, or pack up and go to the last safe haven on Earth? Miss Okoye had her goal, with or without them--that, she had made very clear. But the rest of the group was split, and something they had decided when they'd first met was that the group should never split. And so, the debating. The arguing. All in whispered murmurs that had to be stifled to nothing if Peter ever gave the signal that an infected group was nearing too close for comfort.

The teenager hadn't heard much of the argument, hadn't made much of a point to pay attention to it, but he knew where everyone lay. Happy was ready to retreat to Wakanda, and Peter couldn't blame him. He didn't have superpowers, he wasn't trained, and the teenager was sure that it had been quite a blow to not only lose all of his friends but to have to depend on a snot-nosed teenager afterwards. Peter wanted Happy to go too. Traversing the zombie-infested country was a death wish for anyone who wasn't in better-than-peak fighting condition.

Kurt wanted to go. Bucky and Sharon wanted to fight.

Hope wanted to fight, but she wanted Peter to go.

Peter didn't want to go.

He wasn't an Avenger, but neither was she. There were no Avengers left. But he was the Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man. It was his responsibility to help his community, and hiding in Wakanda wouldn't help. If there was a fight, some way to help, Peter would take it.

Finally tired of the silence, he opened his mouth to ask Karen to let him listen to the debate, when a tingle--shocking and cold and running a shiver of goosebumps along his arms--stopped him. Immediately the teenager was on high alert, his muscles tightening in anticipation as he searched for the danger.

"Where's the Iron Man armor?" he snipped quietly to Karen. A screen popped up immediately, showing the armor still in Manhattan. He furrowed his brows. "Okay. Okay. Is it the wizard guys? Karen, search through security cameras nearby and alert the others that something is--"

He cut himself off at a painfully sharp tingle, instinct directing his chin up to stare at the tired russet sky. Except the laziness of it was gone now, replaced now by a fierce fire of ruby red, leaching out from a strange bright spot in the sky. A meteor. Great. The zombie apocalypse, now a meteor, what next? Nuclear war between the zombies?

Karen zoomed in on the meteor heading straight for Manhattan and--no. That wasn't a meteor. Was that--a person? Oh my, God, it was a person.

Said person zipped out of sight just as that thought registered, disappearing among the buildings. Towards where he knew Mr. Stark was.

Peter didn't even weigh his options. A person (alien or possibly already dead) was heading towards the most zombie-infested area of the city. He had to try.

And without a second thought, he slipped off of the building and began swinging.

"You're not going to convince him!" Happy snapped, his frustration bubbling over. The argument had taken up much of the night before and pretty much all day now. All held in stifled and angry whispers that only made the man angrier as he was forced to keep his voice low and repeat what he'd been saying for hours now. "You've known him for months now! You know you can't."

"He's a kid," Hope pushed back, her voice just as steely as when the argument had started. "He doesn't need to be in the middle of this--even if you and Stark thought it was a good idea. If there's a safe haven in Wakanda, that's where he needs to go."

"And lose one of our most powerful members?" Sharon said. "Look, I don't like the kid fighting any more than you do, but we can't really go anywhere without him. I doubt we'd ever even get out of the city without him."

Hope glared at the agent, aghast. She'd been backed into a corner for hours now, but the woman had refused to back down, spitting and snarling her argument through furious whispers and an exaggeratingly patient voice. Her hard stare examined the faces around the table, looking for some sign of agreement that Happy wished he could offer.

Happy had seen what had happened to Tony. He'd been there when Pepper had turned. When Peter had come bounding through the window of the tower and snatched him towards their new semblance of safety while blubbering about his Aunt and his friend and the state of the city. All in one afternoon.

The former bodyguard thought back to that afternoon a lot. It was clearer in his mind more than almost anything in his life. It had been a gray day. One that turned the sky white and hung heavy in the air and cooled the once bustling streets of New York. It had been strange for the end of spring, but appropriate for the world.

Tony and Rhodes had both been infected, along with the rest of the Avengers, that much they'd known since Friday had reported their vitals completely askew. Happy hadn't told Peter yet, but he'd assumed the kid had already known. The entirety of the West coast had been swallowed, but shaky live footage of people's last moments and journalists as brave as they were stupid had been on a repeating cycle of news for the last thirty-six hours. Peter had never been particularly on top of the news, but Happy had heard how he'd begged Tony to go and help the Avengers. He'd remembered the heart-breaking anxiety and the admittance of a terrible feeling from his Peter Tingle.

But Tony had made Peter stay. He'd told Happy to make sure the kid didn't run off or 'stick his nose into anything that he shouldn't.' Happy's best friend had left with a tight smile. Happy had said good luck.

And now Tony was gone.

Or, more accurately, Tony had spread the infection among the entirety of New York in four hours.

Happy remembered a lot about that day, but he still wasn't sure why Tony had come back to the city. The bodyguard couldn't read brain scans, but Friday had said Tony was practically a shell after fifteen minutes. And a shell had no reason to return home.

He guessed the why wasn't terribly important, because Tony had returned, heading straight toward the tower.

Happy had been about the leave, actually. After watching news footage of Natasha--on her own, bloodied and torn and still trying to fight--finally losing an impossible battle, he knew he'd needed to pick up Peter and May. They needed to get to the compound and try to figure out how to keep the world from breaking. With the Avengers gone there had to be another solution. Maybe it was going to be harboring scientists on a heavily fortified government base. Maybe it was going to be finding other heroes, like Fury had done. The world was so big, there had to be more superheroes--but it hadn't worked out like that.

He'd been on the phone.

"I'm leaving now," he'd said to Pepper, stepping into the elevator. "I'll get Peter and May and take them to the compound. I think you should get in the car with me."

"No. I'll drive myself after you in a couple of hours," she'd said, the dryness of grief clinging to her voice. "The governor's meeting with me soon to discuss how to best lock down the city and prevent an infection."

Happy had thought they'd have at least a week or so. The infected Avengers were fast killers, but they were thousands of miles away and hunting their way through the country.

He'd thought they'd had so much longer.

"I don't know how we'll prevent anything without a cure or a forcefield," he'd said.

"Wakanda's providing aid all over the world. I'll hold a meeting with Queen Ramonda and the President this evening to discuss protecting vulnerable hotspots around the country. New York should be able to--"

The phone had crackled as it crashed, whatever Pepper was saying being completely lost to a thunderous boom of glass. His heart had begun racing before he even found the ability to speak.

And then the red. Lights and alarms flashing overhead in a terrifying headache that Happy remembered even now. The fear. The fatigue. The overwhelming wish that everything would just be okay.

But it wasn't. And it likely wouldn't be.

"Pepper?" he'd finally said. No response. "Pepper? C'mon--what happened? Friday, take me up to the penthouse. Now."

The AI obliged, the elevator stopping and shifting as it began to zoom back up.

When the doors had finally opened, Happy had wished he had just left. That he'd just gone for May and Peter hours ago. He knew it made him a coward. He knew it was a betrayal to Tony's trust. To Pepper's. But...

The smell had been strong immediately. Rotting and stomach-churning and burning the hairs of his nose. It was a smell he would come accustomed to in the coming weeks, but then it had been new and terrifying.

The sound had been low. A growl upon the still and charged air. A low hum that had taken him a moment to register past the smell.

And then he'd finally taken in the sight.

And it had been Tony.

But it hadn't been Tony either.

Tony had always had such a distinct posture that Happy could pick him out in the biggest of crowds. His skin was warm and his eyes a deep familiar brown. The suit had been an oxymoron for years. It had meant safety in a lot of ways. It had meant protection and the world and the knowledge that Tony would look out for them, and that he would avenge them if need be. But it had also meant that his friend was in danger. Every damn day. That he had left to go face danger, and that the danger had finally bested him.

Now the suit was the danger. Now it held a rotting corpse, with eyes white and red and veiny. With skin gray and blue and green and grafting off onto the expensive tile floor. Now the arc reactor shined on a collapsed body, twitching in tune with the ringing of the phone beside it.

Bulging eyes had turned to the opened elevator door. Pepper's red hair had begun to shift and turn until a matching pair was facing him.

Happy had pressed the close door button just as he had heard a shouted, "Oh, my God. Mr. Stark I saw you fly in through the window! What--"

The bounding figure of Peter Parker had leapt through the broken window, landing lightly on the shards of glass littered on the floor like sand. Fear had so tightly taken over the excitement held tightly in the kid's shoulders. The imposters had stared. Peter had taken a step back.

And then there'd been a fight.

That was where pieces of the day had gotten blurry. He remembered Peter yelling something at Happy, something about getting out of the building, but Happy didn't remember going down the elevator. He'd rushed out, knocking the couch into Pepper's way while Peter had grappled with Tony. In a flash of panic and skills that Happy hadn't known Peter had had, Tony and Pepper had been flung into the elevator. Peter had grabbed Happy. And they'd swung.

Of course, that elevator hadn't lasted for long. It was a pitiful prison for Tony. No, he'd escaped within minutes. Long enough for him and Peter to get away, but not long enough to warn the city. Not to save May.

Hope's voice snapped Happy back to the argument and out of his hellish memories.

"So Peter comes with us," she said, defeated. "But where are we even going? If he's coming, we're not leaving without a solid and airtight plan."

"There is no such thing," Okoye responded. "Not anymore. Not here."

"But--"

"She's right, Hope," Barnes said, his voice as steely and cold as usual. "The best we can do is not argue and keep moving. When we have T'challa, we'll call for backup and head to Wakanda."

"Sounds like the best plan we'll get," Happy said.

"Great. We'll leave in the morning," Sharon declared. There were nods all around, except for from Hope, who had turned from her arguing to fiddling with the high-tech gauntlet on her wrist, her brows furrowed. And, suddenly, Happy had a bad feeling.

"Or we'll leave right now," Hope said.

"What?" Kurt exclaimed. "Why would we--"

She raised her forearm, displaying the screen on her wrist. "Peter just left. And Karen just alerted me to breaches in the atmosphere."

Oh yeah. Super bad feeling.

"Of course it got worse. How could it not get worse?"

Peter was only halfway across the Brooklyn Bridge when he saw it. The second thing to interrupt the russet sky of the day. A spaceship. Great. Let's just spread the alien virus to the rest of the universe, yeah?

Crouching on top of a bridge spire, he stopped for only a moment to observe the circular ship taller than a skyscraper. It was definitely different than the Chitauri, so he guessed that didn't mean they were going to attack. Of course, it didn't mean that they were going to not attack either. Part of Peter hoped that maybe some friendly visitors had heard of their troubles and were descending with a cure. A more realistic, and more bone-crushingly tired part of him knew that that was most definitely not the case.

With a rallying breath, the teenager kept going.

"Okay. Just gotta make peace with the new aliens and hope backup arrives. Oh, Karen. Send an ask for backup to Hope please? I've got a feeling Mr. Stark is gonna be here."

"Done, Peter."

"Great. Thank youuu," he sung, dipping low and skimming the water for a few seconds before swinging back up and finally making it into Manhattan.

The spaceship was stirring up dust and its gusts of winds were whipping around trash (a months-old Starbucks cup ended up hitting him right in the face, so nature wasn't quite healing like they'd thought). But, most dangerously, it was attracting a crowd. Hordes of zombies lining the streets were snapped out of their trance and were beginning to amble towards the disturbance. Some faster than others, but as long as Peter was quick they wouldn't be the main disturbance of the afternoon.

Karen kept up a map of Mr. Stark's rapidly approaching location.

Peter arrived as the dust settled upon the street, revealing a strange mixture of figures, a low thunder of throaty growls, and the sound of at least one regular guy. The teenager recognized three of the figures, and had expected them too. Iron Man and the Wizards. If they ever lived through this, he needed to tell Mr. Stark they'd be a good band or something.

The other two infected figures were--you had to be kidding. The aliens were infected. Amazing. Thank you, Universe for being ever so helpful.

The man--not infected and hopefully human--let out a strangled exclamation of surprise as Mr. Stark raised his arm, once again on the attack. Peter pulled harder on his web, willing himself forward faster. He was so close and yet so far. Mr. Stark and the wizards were still approaching but he still wasn't even close enough to strike what was he going to do--

A flash of red. With a determined flourish, nothing but a floating piece of fabric declared itself in the street and dove. And then, quickly and efficiently, Mr. Stark was thrown. And now Peter was in range.

The young superhero landed just a little too harshly in front of the uninfected man, not even taking a moment to examine his face as he flicked out a hand at the nearest creature. The wizard's jaw was hanging loosely from his cheeks as he raised his hand, a dangerous path of orange following the trail of his fingers.

At the same moment Peter shot a web at his wrist the fabric wrapped around the zombie's head. Peter pulled and the cloth tugged. He stared at the thing, confused as to what it's plan was--could it have a plan? It was an inanimate object. A floating one, but still--before this time tugging with it. In a strong and swift motion, the wizard zombie was knocked into a car, making the vehicle dent in its doors and fall to the side.

"Nice!" Peter exclaimed as the fabric zipped off the guy's head before it was slammed into the car door, the thing was by his side in a flash, finally allowing him to see it was a cloak. "Woah. Wizard stuff is pretty cool."

"I'll tell you what's not cool," Peter turned towards the new voice, his jaw dropping as the man continued to speak, "sticking around here! C'mon, move it!!"

Bruce Banner--literally Bruce Banner oh, my God. Where had he been? Why was he here now? Wait, did he maybe have the cure? Was that where he'd been or something--grabbed his arm and began running. Confused and shocked as he was, Peter followed, allowing his legs to be pulled into motion.

A shock ran up his spine, but it wasn't fast or strong enough to completely warn Peter of the sparks that turned into a window twenty feet behind him before he could even blink.

Wizard whose face was still attached lunged. Bruce Banner jumped back with a fearful exclamation, backing the two into a nearby car. The zombie's teeth clicked and snarled, its rotten stench burning at his nose and making his eyes water. But the teeth never came, not close enough to bite. To infect.

"Don't eat me!" Dr. Banner yelled. And, surprisingly, it didn't.

It took Peter a moment to realize what was holding the incensed zombie back. Cloakie had grabbed onto its arms, tugging back harshly. The cloak tugged, the zombie chewed the air, the portal dimmed. And then the portal was gone, snuffed out as quickly as it came and leaving nothing but a lolling head on the ground beside Peter Parker and Bruce Banner.

Peter, so numb and so wired on adrenaline at the same time, had no reaction but a small flinch and a hitched breath. Dr. Banner fell, scrambling to get away from the head as he still backed himself into the car, strangled and horrified yells escaping his lips.

"Oh!! Ugh! Ah, ah, go away go away!!" the Avenger said, kicking the head away in his panic. Peter watched it go before turning back to the fight still continuing behind him.

Mr. Stark was blasting at Cloakie, who still held the zombie's headless body as it looped around in the air in a flurry of motion. Peter watched his mentor for a bit, debating on whether he needed to attack and trap him while the man was distracted, or grab Dr. Banner and run, when the decision was made for him.

"Agh!!--" he exclaimed as his legs were tugged and pulled into the air. A confused scream escaped past his lips at the lack of anything physical pulling him, but there was no time to ponder.

Instinctively, Peter stuck his hands to the pavement, grunting as his legs were still pulled straight up in the air. Now essentially in a magic headstand, the teenager could make out the approaching zombies. Mr. Stark, Goatee Wizard, Squidward, and Gray Hulk. Squidward seemed to be doing the magic in this scenario, its hand held out in a probably magic but threatening gesture.

"Hey! No, put me down! C'mon, I'm not good meat, guys. Really. You'd be better off finding some rats or--" There was a crack. Peter looked down at the pavement he was sticking to now crumbling around his hands. "That's not good."

And then Peter was fully in the air, the cement still attached to his stretched out hands and the zombies still approaching.

"Heyyy, guys," he said, trying hard not to look at Mr. Stark. "Y'know, I feel like you just had something to eat and I hate to spoil dinner so I'm just gonna--"

Buzzing filled the air, choking the rust sky in clouds of black. Peter closed his eyes even as the figures stopped only a foot from his face, unable to watch the spectacle and glad to fall to the ground. Wind gushed overhead, a hot air following the streaming wave of ants as they thundered forward.

Remembering that Mr. Stark was there, Peter forced his eyes open in time to see his mentor be completely surrounded and engulfed by a flurry of ants as thick as smoke. The husk of the hero growled and snarled, swinging and snapping at the pests now swarming around him.

The other three wasted away, their soft and rotting flesh eaten completely by Hope's army of thousands, but Mr. Stark still stood, dead yellow eyes staring straight into Peter's.

Mr. Stark didn't recognize Peter. Peter didn't recognize Mr. Stark.

Hope warped back to her normal size, mounting a defensive stance between him and Mr. Stark with her arm outstretched. Mr. Stark's repulsors whined and Hope's gauntlets charged. It took the teenager a split second to realize what she was about to do.

He made to his feet.

"NO!! HOPE DON'T--"

Mr. Stark's body careened. His head rolled, stopping just by Peter's foot.

He couldn't look away.

Mr. Stark had always been such an infinite figure in Peter's mind. Uncontrolled and ungoverned by terrors of death and incapable of causing grief. So the teenager hadn't let himself feel grief, because it was too unreal--too impossible--to feel grief for his mentor. To feel grief for the world, because the world couldn't end like this. He'd repeated that every day. Every morning. Every night. Every minute. Humanity couldn't end because of one decision. One mistake.

But Peter had made a mistake too. He had made the mistake of locking misery and his mourning away, of moving every thought towards something different. Something productive, something positive, something uplifting. He'd made it his role, and his role alone, to keep the group going, no matter how much denying he had to do to get there.

And that had been a mistake, because now there was nothing stopping two months of fear and regret and anguish as it piled and piled and piled. It flooded in like a torrent of mud, slimy and all consuming through his head and his stomach and even towards his limbs until everything was numb and he had only thought left.

Mr. Stark's gone. He's gone. He's gone.

An ant, as huge as he was, grabbed Mr. Stark's head and left.

Peter stared at the spot where it had been, unblinking, breath short, limbs taut. Hope kneeled beside him, her helmet retracting.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "I know you two were close."

He ignored her apology. "There could have been a cure. There could've--and now--"

"I'm sorry," Hope said again. "But you have to let go, Peter. We can't save everybody."

Peter didn't hear her. A new thought replaced the old one.

But why couldn't we save him?

Someone cleared their throat. Peter and Hope turned to stare as Dr. Banner stepped over a now rotten skeleton.

"Would anyone care to explain, please?"

Hope sighed. "Where to start."

2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 |

#whumptober2021 #peter parker #hope van dyne #happy hogan #fanfiction #irondad fanfiction

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wkemeup · 5 years ago

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To Be Happy

inbox request: “is there ever a time where y/n sort of gets overwhelmed with how much her life has changed ?? but in a good way ??” by anonymous ❤️ pairing: bucky x reader chapter word count: 1.5k warnings: none ❤️ 🌹series masterlist 🌹

“Wait, wait! You promised to tell us more about Hydra if we all did the reading this week!” one of the criminal justice majors enrolled in your 20th Century Literature course raised his arm desperately, moments before the end of class.

“I suppose I did,” you nodded, laughing as several other students, even the ones appropriately in the correct course for their major, nodded along eagerly. You took off your glasses and set them on the table. The whole classroom sank back into their seats as if watching a movie.

You didn’t give them much, just enough to keep them interested for more and willing to do the assigned readings. If it encouraged participation, you didn’t mind sharing what you’d learned about Hydra over the years. The kids were fascinated and it earned you a reputation around campus enough to have your classes filled within seconds of registration.

Today, you told them about the secret back room in the Lernaean. It had been a long time since you’d even thought about the club Brock had used to launder money for Hydra, but the kids seemed enthralled at the idea of a hidden door behind the bar.

As you dismissed the class for the day, gathering your things and ready to head home after three lectures and five hours of open office hours, you found a student waiting for you by the door. She held her books tight to her chest, nervously smiling at you as you caught her attention.

“Hi.”

“Hi, Daisy,” you chuckled, throwing your bag over your shoulder. “What can I do for you?”

“Oh.” She seemed surprised by your question, as if she were expecting she wouldn’t get that far. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I was wondering if I could schedule office hours with you? I was hoping you could help me with a paper I’m writing on—"

“It’s a little early to work on the final, Daisy,” you suggested with a smile, gesturing for her to follow you as you made your way out of the lecture hall, “but I appreciate your enthusiasm.”

“Actually, it’s for my women’s studies class,” Daisy blurted out, causing you to pause. You narrowed your eyes on her, waiting for her to continue. She clearly her throat. “Professor Hill asked us to pick a woman in history we admire and write about how they persevered when the whole world was against them.”

“Oh, Daisy,” you started, a little stunned, “I don’t know if I would be an appropriate choice for—”

“My dad was killed by Hydra when I was little,” Daisy explained quietly. “What you did, teaming up with the feds and taking down Hydra from the inside after all they did to you… It’s amazing. I know the CJ guys in this class are all caught up on the Hydra of it all, but I’d really like to be able to learn more about you and what it was like on the inside, why you decided to fight, and how you did it. I already ran it by Professor Hill and she was on board as long as it was okay with you.”

You watched Daisy for a minute, surprised by the confidence growing in her stance as she spoke. This was important to her and there were few people you’d be willing to share those kinds of stories with, but as she glanced up hopefully, you couldn’t help but smile.

“It’s okay with me,” you said, and Daisy nearly jumped off the ground. “You can add your name to the list outside my office for the time you’d like, okay?”

“Yes! Yes, of course! Thank you!” Daisy was already halfway down the hall, waving enthusiastically as she sprinted towards your office. You laughed to yourself as you watched her disappear amongst the crowd of students.

***

“You’ll never guess what happened at work today,” you said as you closed the apartment door behind you, quickly overcome by a wave of cumin and chili powder.

Taco night.

Chopped tomatoes, lettuce, cheese, and tortillas lined the table with tiny bowls filled with toppings and spices. At the edge, a chemistry textbook. You paused, narrowing your eyes.

Peter emerged from the bathroom, grinning wide as he spotted you at the front door. “You’re home!”

“I didn’t know you were going to be here,” you laughed, rushing in to give him a hug.

“Aunt May’s working late tonight and Bucky said ‘tacos’ so I was on the first train over.”

“Obviously.”

“Give me ten minutes and we’re good to go!” Bucky called from the kitchen. He was dressed in an old pair of jeans ripped at the knees and a t-shirt that had gone through the wash a few too many times. It was faded and stretched at the neck, but he was comfortable and grinning wildly as he wafted the steam of the ground beef from the pan.

“I’ll move my stuff!” Peter cheered, lunging for the textbook and tossing it into his bag.

“Are you done studying?” you questioned to which Peter scrunched his nose at you.

“You sound like Aunt May.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

“It’s taco night, Y/n!”

“Yeah, Y/n, it’s taco night,” Bucky chimed in, smirking as Peter nodded along.

“If Aunt May calls over here wondering why I let you off the hook on studying for this exam, I’m blaming the two of you,” you conceded, sinking down into the chair and Bucky placed a margarita on front of you.

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

***

“Wait, that’s so cool,” Peter said, mouth half full of his four taco. “This girl’s writing an essay on you?”

“I guess so,” you shrugged, trying to play it off but the truth was you were far more excited than you let on. You hadn’t had a chance to tell your side of the story outside of the connections you made with the women down at Hope Haven and despite the fact that the only reader would likely be your good friend Maria Hill, it meant something to you.

“That’s amazing,” Bucky nodded, reaching for your hand under the table and giving it a light squeeze.

“Definitely better than that punk at my school who wouldn’t keep his mouth shut,” Peter grumbled, angrily biting into another taco as the hard shell cracked to pieces on his plate. “At least he learned his lesson.”

“Watch yourself, Peter,” you warned. “You don’t need to be defending my honor to a high school senior, okay?”

“Yeah, well, there’s a lot more kids talking about how cool you are anyway,” Peter shrugged casually. “MJ is probably your biggest supporter and most kids at the school are afraid of her so… no more fist fights for me.”

“Well good,” you laughed. “I like MJ.”

“Me, too,” Peter replied dreamily, a little caught up in his head to notice the hearts consuming his eyes. You glanced over at Bucky, laughing quietly amongst yourselves.

It was strange, you realized, this foreign feeling in your stomach. It came up every once in a while in moments like these; where Bucky sat comfortably at the seat to your left, his hand holding yours under the table, Peter sitting across from you going on and on about what colleges he was thinking about applying to.

It was a comfortable feeling, a safe feeling, one you didn’t question whether it would be ripped out from under you or break apart at the seams. Something so simple, so domestic, that most people wouldn’t think twice about, but as you watched Peter and Bucky make their way into the kitchen to clean up, laughing amongst themselves as Bucky swatted Peter on the arm with a dishrag, it didn’t feel so simple. It felt extraordinary.

After all you’d been through, to survive the reign of Hydra, to escape the control of a man who was hellbent on keeping you under his thumb, to come out the other side to a man who loved you beyond what you thought capable, to a classroom full of eager students, to a family you never thought you’d have.

“You alright, honey?” Bucky called from the kitchen, his face softening as he noticed the way you were watching them.

You nodded, brushing away the tears under your eyes and offering him a smile that felt near contagious. “I’m perfect, Buck. Just really happy is all.”

Bucky smiled at that, extending up into his cheeks and wrinkling by his eyes. “Good. Stay that way forever, okay?”

You couldn’t help but laugh, nodding along as Peter came up behind Bucky’s shoulder and muffled out a ‘yeah!’ between bites of shredded cheese. Cheddar scampered along the floor to sniff at the few pieces of cheese that had slipped from between Peter’s fingers, before he turned his head away in favor of the food bowl sitting in the corner of the kitchen.

Surrounded by your boys. Perfectly content. Safe. and Loved.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes

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keelywolfe · 4 years ago

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FIC: A Waffle Lot of Trouble (baon)

Summary: Edge has learned many things since he began his relationship with Stretch, gone to a variety of places, done so many things. Surely he can endure this travesty. Surely he can survive...the Waffle House.

Tags: Spicyhoney, Established Relationships, Domestic Fluff

Part of the ‘by any other name’ series.

~~*~~

Read it on AO3

Read it here!

~~*~~

“Explain to me why we are doing this?”

Edge followed Stretch through the door beneath the glowing sign and the reluctant drag of his boots did not stop his husband’s determined march.

“three reasons,” Stretch said. He did not loosen his hold on Edge’s hand, as if suspicious he might flee if given a chance and Edge couldn’t say he was wrong. “one, because i’m craving horrible unhealthy eats and your cooking, while delicious, doesn’t qualify. two, you’ve never been to a waffle house and it is an experience that everyone should enjoy—”

“Endure.”

“—enjoy,” Stretch insisted stubbornly. “which brings us to the third and most important reason. you love me.”

“I do,” Edge sighed. This wouldn’t be the first occasion that his adoration would take him to strange and sometimes fascinating places for unique meals. They used to do it quite often while they were still dating and Stretch was doing his weekly restaurant reviews for his twitter. Somehow the banquet had dwindled off as he slowly ran out of places in Ebott to review. It was a shame, really, and perhaps he should speak to Stretch about starting up again. There was no reason they couldn’t travel a bit further out of the city so long as proper security measures were taken. It would be enjoyable to find another small hole-in-the-wall or old family business eager to share their signature meal.

From the looks of this place, the food would be better left unsigned.

The booths looked as if they’d been torn straight from an old sitcom, padded red vinyl with the occasional patch attempting, and occasionally failing, to hold the stuffing in. It was a match to the stools lining the long counter, separated by little islands of napkins, condiments, and straws nestled together. The overhead lights were glaringly intense with one in the corner flickering with seizure inducing intensity and in the other corner was a jukebox to complete the scene in searing neon.

If horribly unhealthy food was what Stretch was craving, then he’d found its haven.

“c’mon,” Stretch tugged at his hand to pull him along and Edge’s dragging stride had nothing to do with the cane he was leaning on. His husband led the way to one of the booths, still chattering, “i used to come here all the time before we got together. sometimes when i couldn’t sleep, i’d sneak out and take the late bus out and sit here for half the night, taking up space.”

There were so many horrible things wrong with that statement that Edge couldn’t pick one to start with; the very idea of Stretch alone on the bus after midnight, or him here and equally alone, hanging out with the sort of Human patrons who were eager for cheap, greasy food in the wee hours, or the last indignity, that he’d hidden his excursions from his brother. Anything could have happened and the fact that it didn’t only barely kept Edge’s mouth shut.

Then his teeth ground together for another reason as they halted in front of one of the booths.

The table was the sort of sticky usually reserved for movie theater floors and while Edge tolerated it beneath his shoes, having it beneath his elbows, or worse, beneath Stretch’s bare hands, was entirely unacceptable.

Before he could give voice to one of his many protests, Stretch was already rummaging through his bag, this one with the chemical formula for caffeine boldly on the side. "don't worry, babe, got you covered."

He pulled out a package of disinfecting wipes and busied himself cleaning not only the tabletop, but also the plastic bench seats and even the salt and pepper shakers. Everything on the table got a thorough wipe down and as soon as the seat dried, Edge grudgingly sat. Much as he was relieved that Stretch came prepared, the fact that he knew to be prepared did not instill much faith.

He tried very hard not to think about the state of the kitchen.

Edge picked up one of the freshly wiped down menus to frown at. “You still haven’t explained to me why we needed to come at 3am. We could have come at noon for the lunch special.”

“nah, that’s for soccer moms and octogenarians,” Stretch scoffed. “you come at 3am ‘cause that's when you go to a waffle house, babe! it's a liminal space, a place of transition, where you cross over from one space to the next and—"

“If I’d known we’d be traveling so much I would have worn better shoes.”

“always got jokes, babe,” Stretch snickered. He lowered his voice, leaning in. “but seriously, look around.”

Edge was well familiar with the subtleties involved in a careful awareness of one’s surroundings. Without lifting his head, he looked around the diner. There were only four other customers, all of them with plates already in front of them. One a group of college-age Humans who might have been fashionably dressed up for the club a few hours earlier but now their makeup was running from sweat, their hair fallen and straggly, and simply by looking at them, he had a fair assessment of their current smell. The other person, who looked as if they might have been in prison as recently as last night, was forcefully shoveling what might have been hash browns into his mouth. It was difficult to tell; whatever it was had enough ketchup poured on top to give even Sans a pause and a moment to reconsider. He could very well have been eating shredded napkins beneath that thick layer of red.

None of the Humans paid him and Stretch any mind, so Edge silently wished the man good fortune on his recent parole and returned to looking at the menu while touching it as little as possible.

The door that presumable led to the kitchen swung abruptly open and a harried waitress came through it, coffeepot in hand. She didn’t so much as give them a second glance, only thunked down a pair of heavy white coffee mugs and poured them full to the brim.

“Be back to take your order in a minute,” she said distractedly.

“take your time.” Stretch was already tearing open sugar packets to add to his cup. He took a sip, grimaced, and added several more.

Edge reached for his own cup, already braced for whatever burnt dregs ended up as the primary flavor, when the ancient jukebox suddenly came to life, blaring out a jaunty 50’s style tune about raisins in toast. Edge jerked, cursing softly as he spilled hot coffee over his hand. He hastily stripped off his glove and turned to glare at the jukebox…except there was no one by it. No one else was even looking at the blasted thing.

A light touch on his hand sent him jerking back the other way, to find Stretch holding out a fresh pair of gloves for him with one hand as he continued to peruse the menu with the other.

“Thank you,” Edge sighed out. He dried his stinging hand with a napkin before sliding on the gloves.

"no prob. that happens sometimes," Stretch said absently. "the old waitress here swore the jukebox was haunted. whatcha getting?"

The sudden u-turn from the supernatural to the mundane was nearly enough to add to his whiplash. Edge picked up the menu again with his fingertips, still trying to touch it as little as possible. He doubted if Stretch’s supply of gloves was endless. "If I had blood and flesh, a tetanus shot. Since that isn't an option, I'll settle for the ubiquitous waffles.”

Not that he had any intention of eating anything. He only hoped that pushing it around his plate and perhaps mashing pieces with his fork would suffice. He added a silent prayer that he might be able resist the urge to slap Stretch’s plate away like a poisoned entrée before he carried his husband back out to the safety of their car. It would be a enduring struggle, he was certain.

Sudden shouts rose and Edge jerked again, turning to see that a set of the college-ish humans were engaged in a combination of shrieking and hairpulling, while their companions shouted at them, in encouragement or deterrence, it was difficult to tell.

As quick as it began, it ended, and they all returned to the table, eating their fries and cheese sticks while one held a napkin to their bleeding nose and the other, a glass of ice water against her swelling eye.

“Stretch—” Edge began, low. The best waffles in the world weren’t worth putting his husband anywhere near this sort of danger and certainly not the greasy globs of fried dough that were on offer here.

“hmm?” He turned back to see his husband hadn’t even seemed to notice the brief outbreak of brawling three booths away. Stretch only flipped the menu over and frowned, “dunno, maybe i’ll get the hash brown bowl this time, what do you th—"

He broke off at the sound of shouting from the kitchen, the entire restaurant turning to watch a burly man in an apron storm out, the waitress at his heels. Whatever his complaint, it was difficult to parse around the vigorous swearing, words that might even manage to bring a hint of a blush to his brother’s face.

Might.

What couldn’t be mistaken was his last shout, two clear, concise words. “I quit!”

The gathered assembly watched as the man ripped off his apron and tossed it on the counter, stalking out the front doors and out of their lives.

A long moment of silence, then Stretch grumbled out, “aw, man, not again. why do they always quit in the middle of the night, this is the third time!”

The waitress only stood there, a helpless expression on her weary face. She turned to them, “Sorry, guys, the next cook isn’t in until six.”

“nah, it’s cool,” Stretch sighed and started to get to his feet. “we’ll have to try again another time, babe.”

The waitress began gathering their unused silverware and Edge could hear her miserable sniffle as he followed Stretch towards the door. She was very young, and as terrible as Edge was at guessing Human ages, he suspected if she’d been a Monster, she would have been barely out of stripes. “Don’t suppose either of you cook?”

Edge paused.

In front of him, Stretch also stopped when he realized Edge was no longer following him, the reluctant leash of his hand becoming a stubborn brake. “what are you…” His expression changed, his sockets narrowing. “babe. no.”

Edge said nothing, only looked back at Stretch and watched his growing outrage, “no! you wouldn’t let me work at the haunted house that time! that guy would’ve paid us at the end of the night, we could’ve been their best workers! bet you could’ve gotten a ton of macho men to wet their pants without breaking a sweat!”

“She needs help,” Edge said, quietly. He did not bring up the ending debacle of their haunted house trip that landed them in the parking lot after an unintentional shortcut, a prudent choice when persuading Stretch.

Stretch faltered, looking around him at the waitress. Who was near tears, fruitlessly trying to call someone on her cell phone who wasn’t picking up. He blew out a sharp breath, rolling his pale eye lights, but his faint smile was unmistakable.

“always got to be the hero, don’t you,” Stretch sighed. He jerked a thumb back into the diner. “go ahead, superman, have at it.”

Edge nodded and turned back, walking over to the young waitress determinedly. “Excuse me, miss.”

It was only five o’clock in the morning when the other cook arrived, still bleary-eyed and his hair sticking up in the back. He didn’t ask about the newly shiny cleanliness of the grill, nor the fryers. And the counters. The floor. Even the mysterious dark smudge that forever haunted the smoke hood was gone, but he had no questions. He merely grunted a greeting and took possession of the equally shiny spatula, already reaching for the eggs that were sizzling on the griddle.

Edge removed his spotless apron and hung it on the peg by the door. He gave the kitchen a last satisfied look, then went out the door.

Out in the dining area in a corner booth, his husband was curled up, asleep. His skull sagged back against the worn vinyl padding, his mouth open, and a faint snore escaping on each exhale. An oversized leather jacket was spread over him that was not Edge’s and certainly wasn’t his own, Edge reached for it with a frown, lifting it off him in a jangle of chains and zippers.

“I’ll take that off ya hands.” He turned to see last night’s possible parolee holding out a hand. Wordlessly, Edge handed over the jacket and the Man shrugged into it. “He was shiverin’, didn’t want to bother ya while you was giving Anna a hand. So I kept an eye on ‘im.”

“Thank you,” Edge told him softly. The man gave him a gap-toothed smile.

“Nah, thank you for helpin’ her out,” the man said gruffly, “She’s a good kid, couldn’t afford to the lose the paycheck for the night.”

“Ready to go, daddy?” They turned as the Anna in question, the waitress, came out of the kitchen, coat in hand. Another waitress was already speaking to the other early morning customers, coffee in hand and waffles on order.

“Ready when you are, kid.” The man turned and shuffled to the door, but Anna paused by Edge.

“Thank you,” she said. Tears were brimming in her eyes, unshed. “Thank you so much.”

“It was my pleasure,” he told her, honestly. A few hours of cooking and deep cleaning was soothing to him in its own way, body and soul, and while his leg was beginning to complain, the rest of him felt nothing but deep, almost luxurious peace.

She gave him a happy smile and went after her father.

Edge watched her go, then turned back to Stretch, who was already stirring without the protection of the jacket. “hummzat?” he mumbled out, and when Edge reached out to gently cup his cheekbone in one hand, he learned with drowsy contentment into the touch.

“We can go home now,” Edge told him softly. He did not expect that sleepy look to turn to one of dismay, his sockets going wide.

“but we didn’t get any waffles!” Stretch said, with deep layers of disappointment. It was true; he’d fallen asleep before Edge even figured out the industrial waffle iron.

Edge only shook his head and took a seat on the other side of the booth, “All right then, waffles it is. You were right, you know.”

“hm?” Stretch yawned, “’bout what?”

“I did cross over from one space to the next,” Edge said, solemnly. He kept his expression as straight as a ruler, concealing even the hint of a smile. “A transition, if you will, into a liminal space—”

“i didn’t mean from the dining room to the kitchen,” Stretch grumbled. But he reached out to give Edge’s hand a brief squeeze, his thumb brushing over the ring on his third finger.

“Nevertheless,” Edge picked up a menu, though by now he knew it by heart. “Now. What are you having?”

-finis-

#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus #by any other name

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laceymorganwrites · 4 years ago

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The damn jacket

Word count: 2,210

Pairing: none rlly

Warnings: swearing, mentions of drugs, like a sentence of Mötley Crüe slander xD, um bad structure??

A/N: this is a mess. modern AU, kinda character analysis, idek but it was fun. Inspired by @pirate-shrimp (if any of u catch the MSI reference I will marry u on the fucking spot)

Kid had bar vibes. He was the kind of guy you found sitting in the corner of your local pub, just far away from the others not to be forced into a conversation but also not far away enough to seem lonely.

He was the local phenomena of the man you didn´t want to get close to but whose story you wanted to know at the same time. The guy who pushed people away because he was more scared of hurting them than being hurt.

Hell, he doubted he could get hurt anymore at this point, over the years he´s lost so many friendships, been betrayed so much by the people he considered the closest to him, it was laughable.

Maybe that was why he didn´t let anyone get close anymore, why he always seemed so distant, his thoughts stuck in a past long gone or perhaps a future he knew he´d never have.

A good for nothing college drop out, those were the hard facts he had to face every day.

It wasn´t because he was dumb that he quit, far from it. Kid wasn´t thrown out, he quit himself because college was too restricting for him. There were some classes that were nice enough, but working towards exams really wasn´t his style, he wanted to do something, anything really.

People like him didn´t have it easy, society measured your worth in degrees and results. But what if the way was so much more fun than the end result?

Kid had a lot of jobs to make a living, never staying in one though, he got bored so easily. How could anyone expect anyone to keep doing the same routinized thing for over 40 years? It was insanity. To him anyways.

Being punk, never fitting in, living the life of sex, drugs and rock n roll…. It all seemed so much more fun than it really was.

Kid´s band was a bad ripoff of Mötley Crüe, though some might argue that the band itself was.

Yes, he fit into some stereotypes that he was so sick of hearing: playing in a band, being that eccentric lead singer that caused too much trouble for his own good, though the second part wasn´t true anymore. Lately he just wanted people to leave him alone.

It was nice being a small town band, the bonds with your audience were so much stronger, it felt like hanging out with friends rather than playing a show for money. Kid never wanted that feeling to end, he never wanted to end up like those big bands who lost their spark, who lost that glimmer in their eyes, their racing heart when Killer counted and initiated their first song, the immense feeling of belonging whenever the crowd would sing his words back to him.

This.

This was what he was made for. Passion. That was what was missing when he was studying, he needed to do things, be that sketching or tinkering with his car or writing everything down that was going on in his head.

In truth Kid started writing because it all got too much, too many fake people around him, too many people acting like his best friend and leaving him cold the next day, too many people telling him they loved him and then spitting at him, gossiping behind his back.

A part of him missed the times when he cared, when he was shocked and hurt by this. By now it´s become so common, like the energy drink before work.

Kid didn´t have the dream rockstar life, not the one where people looked so cool shooting up in those movies, that shit was fucked up and society was sick for portraying it like that.

He only had bad experiences with drugs, living in a small town like this he saw the addicts everywhere, sad creatures who couldn´t support themselves anymore, who got dependent on things that destroyed them because nobody would help, because nobody gave a shit about them. Why would they? They were good for nothings who couldn´t work ten hours in some shitty job that didn´t pay them enough to pay rent.

The system wasn´t corrupt? Yeah, bullshit.

The problem he faced was that of a fleeting society, a society that sped up so much, never once slowing down and looking around to see what was out there. They never thought about expanding their horizons.

Schoolings were looked down upon, but at the same time cheered for. It was so strange… the craft was dying but also needed.

Nothing held value anymore, nothing lasted, nothing strove to.

Kid was happy with his life as it was now. He hated being selfish and arrogant but learned that a certain amount was needed to survive, you needed to look out for yourself before you could look out for anyone else. A local rockstar, frequent bar visitor, the best mechanic in town. All those fit him so well but at the same time he looked the part, oh how he hated it sometimes. The acquaintances he made because of his looks, because people spread rumors about him, making him more myth than man, it was pretty tiring.

Especially when they all were disappointed by the rather bland truth.

Not that Kid was bland in any way, it was just that people expected so much more from him, they wanted him to be this rebel, this punk, this heartbreaker.

Expected him to have tattoos and piercings but the truth was that he had such a low pain tolerance it was embarrassing. Yes, he bore every punch and kick he ever got without any complaints because there were parts of him that told him he deserved it, parts that hated him more than anything else.

Just try it��. there´s nothing you can do that I haven´t already done myself, you can´t hate me more than I hate myself.

Ah yes, the typical phenomenon of this generation: being way too soft and overly sensitive.

That was it, they weren´t more considerate and aware of their mental health and other people´s wellness, of identity and morals, of things that got swiped under the rug because ´it was always this way´. Why the fuck would people so desperately try to keep something misogynistic, racist and homophobic up? Just because it existed the majority of time doesn´t mean it was a good system.

Fuck, it never was.

And Kid was sick of everyone playing down those things. So what if he was a fucking crybaby and didn´t get humor? He wouldn´t take this shit anymore, yeah it mostly didn´t affect him but he got angry beyond belief for the people it did affect.

It wasn´t fair.

He couldn´t do anything? It wouldn´t matter anyway? It wouldn´t make a difference? So fucking what. He´d never know if he didn´t try.

Just now Kid finished up his work at the garage, closing up shop for the day. It was a busy day, many people who were driving through came to him to do a check up, others came by for their regular reparation. He loved that busy meant fun in his world. He was so fucking happy that he could do the things that brought him joy, that burned like a fire in his heart. And no, he didn´t care how cheesy that sounded.

Washing his hands and closing the door behind him he called Killer to let him know he was done. Killer was also just now finishing up his shift at the record shop. Now was their time to rehearse, band practice was always the best part of the day, though quite honestly most of the time it was just the guys hanging out and having a good time. And they wouldn´t have it any other way.

Kid grabbed his jacket and locked the doors before making his way to his car.

The jacket. That damn jacket.

It was where it all started. He bought that old thing from his first ever pay at the garage, his boss told him to spend it on something nice for himself, something that´d make him a man. He didn´t ever ask what he meant by that, his boss said weird things at times. But this was true, at least in a sense.

It was the first time Kid ever stepped foot inside of a second hand store and it was like heaven revealed himself to him, it was pure paradise. Just going through the aisles, finding treasures like no other, it became one of his favorite things to do.

The jacket was the first thing that ever caught his eye, the firs thing he purchased. The black leather with the yellow and dark red details, the skull on the back… it was calling to him. Those were his favorite colors, he didn´t even have to think about it before he bought it.

But what about it made him a man? It was just a jacket after all. But that´s where you´d be wrong.

It was so much more than that.

The very next day he started wearing it religiously, he noticed people staring at him at the streets but this time it wasn´t because he was a loser, it was because he looked fucking cool. The jacket boosted his confidence immensely. And it showed.

His boss complimented him and said that from this day on his journey was only beginning, and how right he was with that.

It was the day he reconnected with his high school friend Killer, he didn´t even know he was back in town, let alone working at his favorite record shop and searching for a band to play drums for. So Kid got his first guitar and played it to death, jamming with Killer and searching for others, thus meeting Heat and Wire, the coolest guys on earth.

He grew so much, finding more and more passion in his life, only his jacket stayed the same. He decided that it was time to change that.

Kid went to the crafts store and bought red leather protectors with a quilting pattern, sewing it to the shoulders of the jacket. He also decided to pimp the skull, making it his own personal jacket in painting on the goggles he wore at work, two knives as a cross because it was edgy and of course: his hair. His untamable hair that would never hold up so he got used to wearing any sort of silly glasses, sometimes even the goggles from work. Hair gel was a lie to him, so was hairspray.

He painted bright red flames in homage to his dyed hair, yeah, it wasn´t just a phase.

Everything was coming together.

He grabbed his stupidly large square blue sunglasses that made him look like a dad. Yes, Kid had a dad style. He loved second hand shirts more than anything, not the boring ones, the ones with the stupidest prints, he wore dad shoes like no one´s business and he was proud of it. He was the cool dad, the cool dad with the big car and puns that were so bad they somehow got good again. But damn, did he have talent with words. Screw not being able to formulate shit in speech, that man could write like a god, or rather the devil. Because, let´s be real, the devil sounds so much better on the mic.

Starting the engine, he drove home to at least make some room to sit for his friends, on the way he shopped for groceries too. Now that he was home he got the snacks, drinks and notebooks ready as well as the tons of pens where he never knew which one worked but never threw any away because somehow he thought he´d exchange the mines. Yeah, as if.

He threw on a black shirt and some black joggers before tying his hair up into a tiny ponytail, still his bangs fell in his face as always. It was annoying so he clipped them back with some black hair clips. He didn´t care if he looked stupid with that, at least he could see clearly now.

But getting a hair cut? No way, he looked too cool for that.

Kid opened the door when the others came and sat down on the couch with his acoustic guitar, lately they decided to play around with reimagining their songs after supporting and motivating Kid to sing rather than growl. He had such a nice guttural and gruff voice, these imperfections when singing, the edges just made the song that much more genuine.

Listening to Kid you just couldn´t help but get mesmerized, the way his biceps flexed when he held the guitar, the emotions in his eyes, the way he frowned and squinted whenever the lyrics got emotional and close to home, it made you want to protect him, to keep him happy, to keep this alive, this wonderful world he created for himself.

The others also scribbled down ideas and practiced new melodies, tried out new lyrics and solos. After a while work mixed in with private chats and the night faded into distant, nostalgic laughter and the crinkles around Kid´s eyes that showed how much it all meant to him.

#one piece #one piece imagine #one piece oneshot #one piece scenario #one piece drabble #one piece fic #one piece kid #one piece modern au #one piece writing #op #op imagine #op oneshot #op scenario #op kid #op drabble #op fic #op writing #op modern au

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rwbyvein · 4 years ago

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Firen Lhain: Chapter 605: Smouldering Embers: Part I/III

Cinder opened her eyes. She was in a bed, and aside from the sheet and blanket, she was naked. It seemed liked a small cottage and there was little natural light.

"Oh, you're awake." and old woman stated, and as Cinder looked to her left she realized two things, one that the old, hunched-over woman seemed to have gossamer wings, and two that she was not wearing her eye patch. "Are you feeling all right, dear?" she asked. Cinder just scowled at her in reply. "You are such a beautiful girl, you shouldn't be making faces like that."

Cinder put on a fake smile, "Thank you..." she huskily voiced, "Where... am I?.."

"That doesn't matter as much as how you are feeling." the old woman stated. Cinder's eyes opened widely with shock. She.. was... feeling good. "Other than a couple scars..." the old woman stated, "I heard that there was a miracle healer at the Battle of Haven."

"That - blond - dufus?.." Cinder's gravelly voice asked.

"That's him." the old woman said.

"You - have - to be - kidding." Cinder grumbled.

"I don't know what a beautiful woman like you was doing in a dangerous place like that."

"You... wouldn't?" Cinder asked.

"Maybe I was a young woman at some point." the old woman said with a smile, and Cinder just stared at her. She already knew way too much. "But, you still have a chance to make another choice."

"What does that mean?" Cinder slowly asked.

"Whoever you were fighting for likely thinks you are dead." the old woman stated.

"And, if I was fighting for myself?" Cinder slowly asked her.

"We both know that not true." the old woman said. "Now, who ARE you fighting for? What - are you fighting for?" Cinder could feel the anger overtaking her, but, in truth, she had no answer. "Well, for right now, all you need to do is rest. You did have an exiting night, after all."

"My... dress?.." she asked.

"It didn't survive as well as you did," the old woman said with a sigh, "so, I've commissioned a new one. It should be ready in a couple of days."

"And, just what do I?," she asked, "in the?.."

"Rest, of course." the old woman stated.

With this Cinder sighed and relaxed in the bed. It had been too long since she had just relaxed.

* * *

Jaune slashed his sword at Yang. Yang blocked it with her gauntlets, but a wave of Aura pushed passed the blade.

"Wind slash!" Nora exclaimed, and Jaune stopped to look at her.

"Not wind." Jaune said.

"Then what was it?" Yang asked.

"Aura, I think." Jaune said to her, and Blake screamed bloody murder.

"What was that?" Ruby asked.

"AURA?!" Blake shouted, "Do you have any idea what you are doing?!"

"Just?," Jaune teppidly asked, what Pyrrha taught me?"

"THAT'S AN AURA SLASH!" Blake exclaimed.

"Will you calm down?" Yang asked, "I mean, it's not..."

"THAT'S WHAT ADAM USED TO TAKE YOUR ARM!" Blake shouted, and everyone paused, staring at each other.

"O-kay." Jaune voiced, "Aura is... the only thing... that can cut through Aura." Blake just scoffed at him

"Yes," Qrow voiced, and walked into the centre of the gymnasium, "Aura slashes are incredibly dangerous, but they are one of the best weapons we have against the Grimm."

"And Yang?" Blake asked through her fear and anxiety.

"I trust Jaune not to cut me in half." Yang said.

"Maybe I should practice a bit," Jaune voiced, "on something else?" Blake looked a lot less nervous.

"That does sound like a good idea." Weiss stated.

"I TOLD YOU Glorious Leader was wicked-cool." Nora stated.

"Indeed." Ren added.

"Why don't we have Oscar fight Blake?" Qrow asked.

"I..." Oscar voiced, "get the impression that wasn't actually a question."

"I don't know," Qrow replied, "WHAT - gave you - that impression. Now, Blake fights differently from everyone else here. Could you pull it out?"

"Like this morning." Yang said, and Blake just glared at her as she pulled out Gambol Shroud. She pulled the pieces apart and showed it to Oscar before putting it back together and away.

"Like the rest of RWBY, she doesn't stand still, and uses her line to grapple and swing." Qrow continued, "Keep your head up, and eyes and ears open. And don't worry, she is going to go easy on you."

Oscar nervously drew his cane. It felt so natural as it expanded.

"Remember," Qrow said to him, "Oz said you'll get his muscle memory. That's why it feels so natural in your hand. You just need practice and fitness to use it properly."

Oscar breathed in deeply before looking Blake in the eyes, wo then turned dark. Blake passed a few inches behind him, and he could feel the wind as she passed. He turned to look where she had been, only for her to disappear and pass behind him again. This happened a third and fouth time before Blake stood still, and the two just looked at each other.

"Alright," Qrow voiced, "now it gets interesting. She's actually going to try and hit you."

Blake turned black. Once again she passed behind Oscar, swiping with her sword. The edge couldn't have actually hit him, but he still felt the Aura. Blake stood still, Oscar looked at her, and Blake disappeared once again. Once again she swung without trying to hit him, and once again he only felt the Aura of the attack.

"Alright," Qrow stated, "when I said try to hit him, I meant ACTUALLY TRY TO HIT HIM!"

Oscar audibly swallowed as Blake disappeared again, this time coming from the side. Once again she swung without trying to hit, and Qrow audidbly sighed.

"I was afraid of this." Qrow voiced

"Of what?" Ruby asked.

"She's too much of a softy." Qrow said.

"Do you know how much I've fought?!" Blake asked him.

"Fighting can mean different things." Qrow stated, "In this case it apparently means to not actually try and hurt anyone."

"She was one of the best fighters of the White Fang." Ilia stated.

"Is that so?" Qrow asked, and then turned to RW_Y, "Have you ever seen her try to hurt someone?"

"Of course we have." Ruby said, "Haven't we?.."

"I don't know..." Yang voiced, "bots and Grimm, yeah, but an actual person?"

"Why would I want to hurt people?!" Blake asked.

"I'm not faulting you for it." Qrow said.

"You're not?" Ruby asked, "Because it kind of sounds like you are?"

Qrow then pulled out his weapon as it fully extended into a scythe. "Do you think this is all that useful against Humans?" he asked, and Ruby looked about nervously.

"So?" Nora asked, as Qrow put away his weapon, "What do you do, then?"

Qrow then held up his right hand, "Use these."

"Your... rings?.." Weiss asked.

"Exactly." Qrow stated, "I pump them full of Aura, and... blondie?.." he said, and looked at Jaune.

"Me?" Jaune asked.

"Yang's Firecracker." he stated.

"And Weiss?" Nora asked.

"More of a platinum... ehn..." Qrow voiced, "Look, no offence, kiddos, but I don't really have a good track record with Schnees..."

"Pardon me?" Weiss asked.

"I... guess... I never told you?" Qrow asked, "Your sister is part of the, whatever the hell we are?"

"Fellowship." Ren stated.

"Yeah," Qrow said, "she fell pretty hard to the tinman's rhetoric."

"...rhetoric?.." Blake asked.

"Oh, you know, he's the only one that can save the world, big armies with shiny coats, that kind of thing." Qrow stated.

"You... are saying he can't?.." Weiss asked.

"I'm saying that maybe even he can't do it." Qrow said, and shrugged, "And does anyone think that shutting down the borders will stop Salem?" Qrow asked.

Yang and Nora nervously raised their hands.

"It won't?" Ruby asked.

"Aside from the fact that some Grimm can fly," Qrow voiced, "shutting down the borders only stops the people who are stopped by asking. Smugglers are still a thing, and he's assuming that the criminal/terrorist sort will only walk into Atlas in the most uptight, law abiding ways. He thinks Atlas is a fortress, but... it really more of a shiny prison... something the little bird," he said, pointing to Weiss, "can probably undestand."

"Me?" Weiss asked.

"Is it better than Ice Queen?" Yang asked, and Weiss looked down, unsure whether it was or not.

"Songbird?" Jaune asked, and Weiss felt her heart leap. She looked up at him, unsure if it was true or not.

"Linnet." Blake passionately said, but then looked down, as apparently not everyone knew songbirds as well as she did.

"A songbird?" Jaune asked.

"Resident of the the Mantle Coast." Blake soulfully said, and shrugged.

"Did you hear the passion in how she said it?" Yang gleefully asked.

"Not that I am opposed," Weiss voiced, "but I would like to remind everyone I am a Heron."

"Heron's beautiful coat," Jaune said, "And songbird's enchanting voice."

Weiss felt weak the knees, but bowed only momentarily before standing back to a proper attention.

"I think she likes it." Yang stated, and Weiss nervously looked downward. "Alright, Kitty-Cat and Songbird, and, what I am? Something big-titted and babelicious."

"Maybe a swallow." Nora said, which cause Yang to start snickering.

"We can work on nicknames later." Qrow stated, "But for now, my point was that maybe Blake should get something she won't be afraid to hit people with."

"Like what?" Ruby asked.

"Or get better at hand-to-hand combat." Qrow added with a shrug.

"You are a cat," Yang said to her, "do you have claws."

Blake rolled her eyes, "You know how Faunus work, we only get one visible trait... and my father had the claws."

"And what does your mom have?" Yang asked.

"Ears like me."

"Are they as adorable?" Ruby and Jaune asked at the same time, causing her to blush and looked down and away.

"Alright," Qrow said, "lessons over. You guys can all think about it. NORA, you want your chance to see if you can beat up a scruffy old man?"

"DO I?" Nora eagerly replied.

#rwby #firen lhain #faunus au #pollinated knight

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sophi-s · 4 years ago

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Cost of Kindness

Chapter II: Fear me not

By: sophi-s

Fandom: Darksiders video games

Words: 6373

Characters: Raphael, Original Character (OC)

Warnings: Blood and injury, suffocating, violence, Raphael is sad :(

Summary:

Nicola is quick to find trust in herself and quick to lose it. She doesn't realise however, that the man she fears sees something in her others cannot. And this something is what made him save her life again.

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

Through the few short weeks, the apocalypse has taught the dying Humanity many different things. Resourcefulness, cunning, true strength of unity… and among other things, the cruel life had taught them, was bravery in its purest form. Bravery that isn't simply an absence of fear but the power to overcome it. Stay cool-headed even in the most extreme scenarios, allowing them to face down even the most horrifying demons and either get away mostly unscathed or sometimes even beat them if they were lucky. Without those traits, survival was nigh impossible these days.

This last very important lesson however, Nicola seemed to have quite spectacularly failed to learn. Even as lucky as she was - considering that she lived thus far - she never was the bravest creature in this God-forsaken world. Smart? Sometimes. Ingenious? Sure. But brave? Not really, no. Especially now, as she was staring up at the angel who she decided to trust not even a minute before and who has just ruthlessly murdered a demon with little to no remorse in a very, very sickening way. Her muscles refused to move as though Raphael had already used the spell of paralysis against her as she watched the corners of his mouth, previously quirked upwards in a small smile, slowly descend. His expression in the matter of seconds morphed into confusion when a quiet sob escaped her. This horrifying, agonized screeching was still ringing in Nicola's ears, the demon kept writhing before her eyes and she couldn't help but wonder.. what did it feel like? To have one's life drained like that. Because judging by the sounds the Goreclaw produced, it must've been truly torturous.

"Human…?"

The soft voice of Raphael snapped her out of this strange haze and the sight of his hand extended towards her once again made her heart jump and begin to race. Her mind was telling her that if Raphael wanted to harm her, he would've done it already. Besides, moments before the demon came, he healed the cut on her forehead demanding nothing in return. Only because he could and - for some reason - wanted. But the chilling claws of panic gripping her throat and the fight-or-flight instincts kicking in, screaming inside her head made the voice of reason merely an inaudible whisper drowning in the sea of primal fear of the possible approaching danger. And right now, her body definitely settled on "flight".

"No! "

She yelped and tried to get away but her heels met the corpse behind her and it caused her to trip over the husk of the once frightening demon. With an expression of shock, Raphael retracted his hand as her rear painfully met the tough and damp floor. There was utter horror gleaming in her emerald green eyes, matched by lack of comprehension in his.

"Why are you frightened?"

And he has the audacity to ask why. Nicola thought bitterly as she started to scramble away. At the first glance, Raphael seemed so kind, he was such a gentle soul. Even his face, despite the collapsed cheeks, has the most trustworthy look to it Nicola had ever seen. This kind is the worst. Makes you trust them, lower your guard.. It seems she'd conveniently forgotten about one fact she noticed moments after she found Raphael. He's completely, absolutely and utterly insane. Unpredictable. At first he couldn't even remember his own name or how he got here. Who can guarantee her that he won't have an abrupt change of heart and lash out at her? She wasn't going to take chances. Leaping up to her feet, Nicola blindly runs off into the dark pathway she initially emerged from, her shotgun left forgotten on the floor just as she heard an almost frantic-sounding call echoing from the haphazard hide-out alongside the sound of rustling feathers and cloth.

" NICOLAAA! "

To her, this shout may have as well been a roar of a Fallen that not so long ago nearly succeeded in ending her life. A golden hue on the walls glistening with wetness trembled and started to move. No one had to say that out loud for her to realise that the angel was actually chasing after her. And to think that merely seconds ago Raphael was struggling with standing up properly… The pain of her overworked legs was gone, forgotten. They carried Nicola like a completely different entity, moving on their own, tireless and strong with only one purpose. Get away. Survive. Escape.

How Nicola managed to get to the point where she started her sightseeing tour of the sewers without any source of light and without tripping over all those bodies she found before was a mystery even to her. Even the slickness of the ladder didn't phase her as she pushed the lid off and quite literally pounced out of the hole in the sidewalk like a puma. She only hoped she'd managed to lose her pursuit in the winding corridors. Placing the lid back where it belonged, Nicola immediately booked it for the nearest alley just to be sure.

Once she was more or less hidden, she leaned against a crumbling wall, breathed out silently and covered her mouth to muffle the uncontrollable sobs. She thought that for once she found something that wasn't about to end her where she stood but it seems that the Universe has taken it as a matter of some twisted honor to slaughter every single member of the human race. This is just unfair. Sure, there was a lot of people who deserved to be smited into oblivion by the God himself for what they'd done but if the apocalypse was supposed to be some kind of punishment, then for fuck's sake why does the entire race has to suffer for it?! How is this even fair ?!

It's not. That's how.

Nicola looked up at the night sky glittering with numerous stars, winking at her like thousands of watching eyes as tears spilled down her cheeks, leaving clean trails in the dust and grime. Eventually, her heartbeat started slowing down, her breath evening out and the adrenaline gradually receding from her system. Now she had a moment to clear her head and think. She had no doubts she can be forgiven for running away. Every person in their right mind would do the same in her situation. Nicola refused to die like this.. But on the other hand… This panic in Raphael's voice, the almost childishly innocent smile as he closed the cut on her skin and the gentleness to his every move as he tried to heal a defenseless kitten… God, this is so… so… Nicola couldn't even find the right word. Despite what the angel did to that Goreclaw, no one said he meant to hurt her too. He may be crazy but that doesn't mean he's a psychotic murderer. This was a demon and angels rightfully hate demons! In his mind there was most likely nothing wrong with that. Besides, she gave Raphael no reason to think of her as a target. All of the sudden, Nicola felt unbelievably foolish for running off like that. Raphael saved her life after all. And she acted nothing if not horribly ungrateful. Should I go back? She'll have to anyway. In a hurry, she left her weapon back down there and Haven was short on those… Dang it…

She sighed. It honestly made her feel like a moron. Damned survival instincts… Sure, they were keeping her alive all the time but sometimes they were just so incredibly annoying. Why would they make her run away from someone who protected her even though he had no reason to do so and nothing to gain from it? From the first angel who seemed to care what fate befalls her? Goodness me, this is so stupid… Nicola shook her head and was about to walk back to the entrance to the sewer when she noticed something in an adjacent alley. Seeing a pair of hungry yellow lights slowly moving closer to her, just above the ground made her heart drop. Her sight has long got used to darkness and so it took her only a fraction of a second to notice curved, black horns above them, long and spindly arms on either side of a slender body ending in a long, scaly lube. A snake-like tail…

With a pounding heart, Raphael quickly moved through the sewer that has long ago turned into his hide-out. Tracking down the strange little human who unexpectedly visited him in his "lair" was harder than it seemed. She was way faster than he would have given her credit for. By all means, in her short legs she shouldn't be that quick. Fear does strange things to people.. But why was she afraid? This short meeting was inarguably the most wonderful thing that happened to him ever since he left the White City. He couldn't quite remember how long ago it was but definitely too long for his taste. All he recalled was the horrible, sharp bite every time he repeated the ritual to finish his greatest creation, followed by a short-lived feeling of elation soon to be replaced by deathly cold within the centre of his being. Each time getting worse and worse until he couldn't stand it anymore. Quickly descending into madness caused by never-ending pain and the chill of his damaged soul, the invisible wound in his chest as cold as a forgotten grave, he knew he can't keep doing this. And so, after having lost his purpose, there was no reason for him to stay anymore. He refused to disappoint his brethren.

You've fulfilled your task. They don't need you anymore.

Raphael halted for a moment, blinking to try and chase away the taunting whisper in the back of his head. It is not true.

"You're wrong. They do. More than ever…"

In the premature Endwar, Heaven's Legions probably wished he was with them. But that doesn't change a thing. He's not going back. Not after he failed to save Ithuriel as an unexplainable surge of panic paralyzed both his hands and his magic. It still sometimes haunts his damaged memories… The young warrior slowly languished from a poisoned wound, grew weaker and weaker with every moment and the archangel couldn't move, couldn't even speak to call for help. Just.. stood there and watched unable to act. Until… A painful twinge through his chest made him wince. No. He can never allow something like this to happen again. He cannot fail them.. He refused to let anyone down like that. Ever.

Frankly speaking, Raphael started to wonder when he'd taken to talking to himself. Solitude clearly wasn't serving him… It's been so long since he had anyone to speak to and even longer since his mind felt this clear. This woman, Nicola, told him she is a human. Considering what has happened to the Third Kingdom, Raphael found it hard to believe. But the spark of life in her soul… it really did feel human. She wasn't a fiend from the Black Depths, nor was she of his own kin. Earth was where she belonged. But there was something in her… something so oddly familiar.. soothing. A flame like those burning in hearts of Heaven's people, just somehow fainter. Only a small fraction of it. Maybe her soul belonged to an angel before it was purged by the Well? Who knows?

But that aside, she was still human. And so, it might as well make her the last survivor of her race and the first creature to show him a lick of sympathy ever since he chose the path of a hermit. The Balance was in danger and this human was imperative for its preservation. For the first time in decades, Raphael felt needed. He had a purpose again. No one was forcing him to do this but the words in a caring tone leaving Nicola's mouth and clear concern for his well being even though she barely knew him for a couple of minutes were something he has been so… so dreadfully missing. As confused as he was by her attitude, he couldn't deny that it was… nice. How long has it been since someone expressed clear worry for him? Too long… The archangel wished this odd mortal near even if for just a short moment because strangely enough, her kindness directed specifically to him somehow eased the never-ending suffering and helped him focus his thoughts that kept running rampant without control whenever he couldn't busy himself with something other than the hole in his chest. And now they were focused on one goal. Find the human.

Raphael waved his bandaged hand through the air before him to invoke a spell and frowned when he detected the familiar presence he was searching for somewhere over his head. She must've left for the city above him. Right where she's out in the open for demons to pick out. Why did she run?

She knows what you are. And she is just a human. Of course she would run like a coward.

No. Raphael brushed this poisonous voice off. Believing in a single word it says will mean his failure. If he does, he will be doomed. Forever lost in the depths of insanity. No matter.. Channeling his magic, Raphael warped and reappeared amidst the sorrowful ruins of the city once inhabited by hundreds of humans. A wave of fresh air hit him in the face and for a moment made his head feel like it was spinning. His eyes opened wide when he took a huge gulp of oxygen. He never realised how sweet it can taste. After such a long time in the damp darkness… The stars peered down at him from the moonless sky, shining like shattered diamonds woven into black velvet. Enchanting and stunningly beautiful. If it wasn't so dangerous out here, Raphael would've surely been more eager to leave the dark pit he was stuck in to marvel at the Earth's still present beauty but such as it was… The moment he let his eyes wander across the vast expanse of the Earthen sky, his feathers bristled at the sound of a shrill cry of fear that tore the silence asunder. A cry of a female voice. Familiar voice. It could only mean one thing. His heart skipped.

Rushing towards the source of the scream, Raphael soon discovered the reason right behind a corner. The same human that indulged him in a much needed interaction, that calmed his restless spirit, was now struggling against the tightening coils of a serpentine body of a demon sorcerer which apparently has picked her as its midnight snack. Already feeling a mist of rage fall over his mind, Raphael shook his head to shrug it off for a little longer. Keeping his head as cool as he could, he performed a gesture with his hands as a string of words in his mother tongue slipped past his lips and his vision zeroed on the Shadowcaster.

Nicola was absolutely sure these were her final moments on this horrible, horrible world when the Shadowcaster jumped at her from a nook and wrapped its tail around her to try and strangle the life out of her like a gigantic, twisted constrictor snake, and watch her perish in suffering. What an awful way to die. Seeing the wicked grin of this malformed face as the last thing before her consciousness leaves her for good. Nicola hoped that if she had to die, then at least she would be sent off by a friendly face… But it seems that God denied her even this last, small comfort.. She fought ferociously against the crushing pressure that was successfully preventing her from catching another breath but to no avail. Her lungs felt as though they had been set on fire and her desperate wriggling only made the demon laugh excitedly as it whispered something she couldn't understand. She didn't have to though. Something told her it was nothing nice.. Dark spots started to gather in the corners of her vision and slowly encase her mind in darkness and she has already come to terms with the fact that this time she isn't getting out of this one alive when… the hold the Shadowcaster had on her loosened.

Taking a wheezing breath, Nicola fell over, still trapped in the coils of the scaly body. What? Once her vision cleared out a little, she saw her attacker lying stiff like a statue with its nasty eyes, previously burning with malice, now opened wide in shock and a web of golden lights crawling across its skin spoke for itself. Before any coherent thought could form in her head she was suddenly yanked free from the demon's grasp by an invisible force. A small cry escaped her when she felt a sharp sting on her thigh where the monster held her with its claws and soon she was gently deposited on the ground. Looking up into a pair of big, white eyes blinking down at her upside down from underneath a green, ragged hood.

"Raph-... phael…?"

She gasped to let her crushed lungs expand properly, though she needed no answer. It was him. He did follow her. And he saved her bacon. Again. Nicola truly wanted to laugh. If there were any doubts still left in her mind that Raphael is a friend before, they disappeared at this very moment. You bloody idiot, you ran from a dude who was trying to protect you and almost got yourself killed in the process. Nicola scolded herself inwardly as she struggled to breathe properly. No running again. Although she was most glad to see Raphael, she immediately noticed something was wrong. He was looking at her but without this soft smile. His eyebrows were knitted together in an expression of worry and… guilt? Why the…? And that's when she noticed that his eyes were flicking between her face and the spot on her leg which was quickly starting to grow warm and wet. Craning her neck to see, Nicola nearly choked once she caught the sight of three deep gashes torn into her flesh. And they were spurting about a lot of blood… Like.. a lot.

"You're bleeding… Hurt…"

His hesitant words only confirmed that it wasn't a hallucination caused by oxygen deprivation. Nicola bit her lip and tried to find that healing shard in her pocket but between being nearly choked to death, her empty stomach, sharp pain and seeing that amount of blood leaving her injured appendage she felt too dizzy to keep her head up and laid back down on the ground with a miserable mewl.

"In the eyes of our blessed Father, your days are numbered, foul beast.."

She heard Raphael hiss through his teeth once he looked up towards the place where the Shadowcaster was surely still face planting under the influence of the spell and his troubled frown turned into a scowl. There was this weird sound once more. Oh my God, he's doing it again… Nicola gulped, already preparing for the round two. Even though she was certain now that she had nothing to fear from him, it still doesn't mean she liked what she saw back then when the Goreclaw jumped her. She was already hearing the screeches of the demon even before they could come to be but this time no such thing happened. Something was different. The light that coalesced around Raphael's hand was not green but golden as the magic vibrated through the air once again. Everything lasted but a second. And instead of a series of pained shrieks, Nicola heard a single, sickening crunch. And then silence. Nothing more. Whatever happened, it was quick and mostly quiet. Probably because they were outside and more demons undoubtedly prowled nearby, and Raphael was definitely smart enough to realise that. Thank goodness… Nicola breathed before she saw the shimmering stars swimming before her eyes quickly starting to disappear along with her hearing. Soon, she slipped her eyelids closed in spite of the pain in her leg and found herself sliding into the dark. Hold on. Just a little longer.. Just… a little…

… longer…

If anything could be said about Shadowcasters, was that their skeletons, as flexible as they are, characterize with astonishing brittleness. One flick of Raphael's wrist was more than enough to snap its neck and give it a far quicker and more merciful death than it deserved. He couldn't allow himself for another drain as it would bring half of the Horde bearing down on both him and the wounded human at his feet. Besides, he didn't feel in need of its energy. The human…

Looking down at her, Raphael felt his heart cease for a second. She was lying there on her back, pale and motionless, her intricate green eyes shut. Alive, the blaze in her soul flickering, but clearly unconscious. Blood was still oozing from the wound he himself had made because of the spontaneous decision to wrench her free from the fiend's hold. He wasn't careful enough and failed to notice that the demon dug its talons into her skin. The archangel had seen a fair share of pain. He used to be the head healer back in the White City after all. The number of warriors he'd pulled out of the cold clutches of death was impossible to count. But somehow this was different. The poor woman was defenseless, weak and delicate. She couldn't even fight the demon that tackled her.

Azrael was right. Humans are very, very fragile.. Compared to other races, they were frighteningly easy to crush. Anything could kill them. From eating something wrong, through illnesses, to even falling into the water. Truth be told, Nicola was the first human Raphael had met in person and he didn't want her to be his last. Just stay calm. Don't panic… Not now… Kneeling down next to her, so small in comparison to him, Raphael gingerly peeled the torn trouser leg off the wound and placed his quivering hand over it, concealing the whole thing with his palm. His magic began to flow into the human once again to seal the torn flesh but there was very little time he had.

He barely managed to lessen the bleeding when a sound of a distant roar and a crash of a car being tossed aside, reached his ears. His head snapped up as his eyes darted around, searching for the owner of this cry. He would recognise it even in his sleep, even if the last scraps of his sanity left him. A Trauma was somewhere nearby. No doubt heading in this direction, attracted by the commotion and possibly the smell of blood as well. And a Trauma he couldn't afford to fight right now. Those things are hearty enough to break through his magic and get to him before he is able to put them down. Scooping up Nicola into his arms, Raphael wrapped his dusted wings around both her and himself and with a single arcane word they both vanished, leaving only a trace of quickly dissipating golden glow in their wake.

How long had she been out, Nicola couldn't tell. All she knew that she felt as though someone ran into her with a car. Her breaths were shallow and her heart was beating way too fast for comfort. Groaning quietly, she laid her arm over her face before opening her eyes. To see a dark, damp ceiling gently illuminated by a warm light. Where the Hell-...? The last second before the blackout came back to her like a punch to the gut. The Shadowcaster. Raphael.. With a startled gasp, she shot up, looking about, promptly regretting her decision when the world started to spin again. And to her utter astonishment, she was once again in the small section of the sewers where she met Raphael, settled on some ratty blankets and covered with another one that fell from her chest the moment she stirred.

"Keep still.."

She heard and nearly jumped when she felt a hand fall onto her shoulder and gently coax her into lying down again. And honestly, with how nauseous and weak she felt, Nicola wasn't about to resist and let herself be lowered to the ground. Unsurprisingly now, she saw the familiar scrawny angel sitting cross-legged next to her and staring intensely at her with those big, disturbingly hollow eyes. He brought her back into his hidey-hole? It looks like it.. Why exactly however, Nicola couldn't tell. And there wasn't much she could read from those eyes. A couple of seconds passed. A minute. Two. Five. And he still kept staring. The awkward silence continued until Nicola decided to break it by clearing her throat.

"Uh… what's up, buddy?"

If she wasn't feeling like shit, Nicola would've burst out laughing when she saw Raphael look up at the ceiling confused but she really didn't have strength to explain that this was just an expression. Chucking to herself quietly, she rubbed her eyes with pads of her fingers to clear her blurry sight a little when again her stomach loudly demanded nutrition. And the poor angel who was still looking at the ceiling quite literally jumped away and glared at her abdomen distrustfully when it "growled at him". Seems like angels know as little about humans as humans about them…

"What… was that.?"

Carefully pulling herself up to a sitting position, miserably failing to stop a fit of giggles - even though it pulled her sore muscles over her ribs - Nicola waved her hand dismissively. Any fear she once felt in the presence of Raphael was gone now. Not only did he rescue her twice but the way he was getting confused or spooked by literally anything Nicola did - purposefully or not - was just somewhat endearing.

"I'm just hungry.. I haven't eaten for a whole day.."

"Oh… hungry… hmmmm… Yes.."

Raphael murmured, seemingly a little embarrassed by the whole situation and twisted his body around to reach for something. Furrowing her eyebrows, Nicola tried to shift to see what exactly he was doing back there but she didn't see a lot. At least not until he turned to face her again and very slowly - like he was afraid he would frighten her again - extended his hand to her. And in his palm sat a paper bag where undoubtedly Nicola's sandwich was. Hesitantly, she reached for the packet that rustled encouragingly and a faint, pleasant smell of cheese, ham and pickled cucumbers emerged from within. A nice change from the stench around. It wasn't much but made her mouth water nonetheless.

"Thanks.. though I'd be glad if you didn't go through my things. Okay?"

"Okay…"

He replied with a nod and sat down again, watching Nicola devour - not eat - devour half of her sandwich in a few bites. Goodness, she was so hungry she could eat a horse.. However, halfway through something beside Raphael's thigh caught her attention. There, next to his knee sat a small cat. The same back and white kitten the angel was taking care of before. Looking at her with those blasted big, green eyes with pupils expanded almost to the point where its irises weren't visible and hungrily licking the sides of its mouth. At first she tried to ignore it. But the cursed look cats, especially the little ones, can give! The longer it stared at her, the more sure she was that she doesn't have the appetite anymore.. Goddamnit. Pulling a slice of ham out of her sandwich - the only part that would be of interest to it - Nicola clicked her tongue and offered the food to the kitten.

"Here, little buddy.. Come here."

I'm too soft for my own good. One day, some cat will be the death of her… Carefully and slowly, the kitten approached her, sniffing the piece of meat before snatching it out of her hand and retreating into the safe place behind Raphael to consume the gift. Cats can smell good people from a mile. Looks like she was wrong to ever doubt Raphael had anything but good intentions. Smiling slightly, the angel reached out to the cat and brushed his knuckles against the black fur around a new scar on its back. The loud and comforting purr interrupted only by an occasional swallow rung out and made even Nicola smile as she finished her own food. Even with how meager her snack was, hopefully it was going to last her at least until she finds her way back to Haven. One day of poor eating wasn't going to kill her after all.

When she was done, she peeled back the blanket to examine her injured leg. Nicola pulled a face at the three - even if mostly closed - claw marks on her thigh and the bloodied trouser leg. It didn't look that bad anymore but she could imagine that it would definitely slow her down. The slightest move was causing her mild discomfort. Running and walking anywhere is definitely off the table for now. Still, Nicola much preferred the dull ache that was now in place of excruciating throbbing.

There was no doubt in her mind that this is all once again thanks to the kind, even if a bit unhinged, angel who was now sitting beside her with a quietly purring kitten nested on his lap as he kept stroking its head and back and murmuring something to himself in a strange, melodic language Nicola couldn't understand but found beautiful and enchanting nonetheless. She watched Raphael for a few moments, listening to his deep, soothing voice that made her feel a bit sleepy. After the apocalypse Nicola rarely slept well because of nightmares. And it showed. But before she inevitably dozed off, she felt she had to say something.

"So uh…"

She started, successfully getting his attention, judging by how his eyes shifted to look at her.

"Um… Thanks. For… for everything I guess.."

For a whole minute Raphael didn't answer, simply watched her with his head tilted to the right, a silent question in his eyes. Nicola scratched the back of her neck awkwardly and decided to clarify.

"You know.. for saving my butt two times now, treating me.. And sorry I ran away. I was scared, you got pretty spooky with that Goreclaw back then…"

"Oh…"

He replied with raised eyebrows.

"Forgive me then… I did not mean to frighten you…"

"Oh, no no no, you don't have to be sorry, it's okay! I'm not scared anymore.."

Nicola assured him quickly. Making him feel bad for it wasn't her intention at all.

"Seriously though. Thank you.."

She repeated with a grimace when she tried to shift to a more comfortable position but the ache in her leg made it significantly more difficult. With an empathetic look to his face, Raphael steadied her by returning his hand to her shoulder and moving the other - already radiant with his Heavenly magic - to her wound. The prickly sensation came back, bringing relief in pain as he sighed tiredly.

"This is.. my duty…"

As surprising as it was, Nicola couldn't deny that Raphael seemed to have changed in some way since she found him absolutely deranged. Now he seemed a little more… collected. Focused. Calmer. But simultaneously even sadder and very jumpy. Still, he remained as mysterious as he did before. But maybe if he retains this composure, Nicola could pry something from him about his background. Why is he here alone? What happened to him? How did he get here? There were way too many questions to ask at once but she had to start with something.

"Your duty? You're some sort of a… uh, what shoudma' call it? Doctor, medic, something like that?"

Despite the question being seemingly innocent and harmless, Raphael reacted by turning his eyes down to look at his hands as he flexed his fingers a couple times with a barely noticeable wince twisting his lips. His answer was so quiet that Nicola barely caught it.

"... was… I left.."

"Huh? Wh- why?"

At that, Raphael looked up at her, again with this tortured gleam in his eyes that made her heart squeeze painfully and shyly pointed at Nicola's side.

"It hurts.."

He chimed as she stared at her own hip in confusion. Again, the angel was making no sense. Her side didn't hurt for one, and two, it can't have been the reason why he left… whatever he left to abandon his previous life. A little startled that maybe he knew something she didn't, Nicola probed the place he pointed out but all she could feel was the healing shard in her… in her pocket… All of the sudden she recalled what Raphael told her before.

Hesitantly, she dug the glowing crystal out of her vest and lifted it for Raphael to see better and asked a wordless question which he answered almost immediately.

"The shards… they hurt me.."

This was probably the lowest Nicola's eyebrows have ever descended, making the look of confusion on her face even more blatant. I thought they were supposed to be healing shards? Why would something made to heal one person hurt another?

"How?"

With an expression of anguish, Raphael placed his hand over his chest and took a small gasp of air as if to make his point.

"I created them.. and some of them hurt…"

The revelation made Nicola's jaw fall slack. She'd been suspecting this before when Raphael referred to the crystal as "his" shard but hearing the confirmation almost had her gag. How many times a healing shard has saved either her or someone else from the Tree, she couldn't count on both of her hands. After Ulthane snatched her from the Fallen's talons it took the large one to heal her and make sure she survives afterwards and still it shattered after it served its purpose. At this very moment, no one could ever convince her that the sad, mad angel before her is evil in any way. With a huff of disbelief she shook her head, shifting her gaze between Raphael and the shard.

"Wait, hold up, you made those?! Oh.. my God, I could kiss you, my dude."

A very undignified snort almost escaped Nicola when she saw the face Raphael made. Something between astonishment, horror and curiosity. She remained oblivious to how improper it sounded in his ears. He cocked his head again. Goddamnit. Every time he does that, Nicola just… can't. It constantly reminds her of a puppy looking at some bizarre wonder of nature.

"But.. why would you want to do this..?"

"It's an expression. In other words, I wanted to say I can't thank you enough. How did someone like you ever end up in… like- like this?"

Nicola said "like this" in the last moment before she could say "in such a shitty situation" because she realised just in time how inappropriately awful this sounds, considering they're in the damned sewers. I'll have to learn to stop accidentally making jokes.. For some reason Jones absolutely adored her for it, unlike most of her friends who kept either groaning or facepalming every time and begging her to stop before they kicked a bucket from the sheer badness of her jests. The kitten in Raphael's lap meowed in annoyance when it lost the touch of the angel, coaxing him to keep smoothing out its fur still stained with dried blood. He did, and Nicola didn't miss that he was deliberately avoiding her gaze.

"Long story.. very long.."

"That's alright, we have time!"

The words left her mouth before she could stop them. Her curiosity was just too strong. Besides, Nicola wasn't going anywhere anytime soon with how her leg was fairing (just thinking about how worried Ulthane and the rest have to be made her a little sick) and she honestly doubted Raphael is going anywhere either. But the way it came out made her sound like she was prying to get to something the angel clearly wished to keep to himself. Whether because it was something to be ashamed of or something very unpleasant to speak of. In honesty, Nicola was sure he would scowl at her for this but he simply looked away with a grim look on his face. And it was even worse because it made her feel awful.

"Oh… sorry, if you don't wanna talk about it then it's alright! You don't have to tell me."

"Another time.. rest now."

He hummed and extended one finger towards Nicola's forehead. Before she had time to ask him what he was doing, he lightly poked her right between her eyebrows and all of the sudden she felt unbelievably drowsy. She blinked a couple of times but everything was starting to double before her eyes which were closing all by themselves. With a wide yawn Nicola soon fell into the embrace of magical slumber Raphael called upon her.

He caught her before she could fall down and lowered her onto the blankets to let her sleep in peace. The poor human needed her rest to make up for the amount of blood she lost merely an hour before. Sitting back, Raphael settled for keeping a silent vigil over her until magic wore off. What am I going to do with you? He wondered. For some reason he felt so inexplicably drawn to her and couldn't help it. Something about her was just easing in the pain and warming up the empty void in his tormented soul, even if only a little. The small animal he rescued before rubbed its fuzzy head against his hand and started to knead the fabric of his trousers with its laughably tiny claws that compared to demons' talons were nothing. Still, it stung a tiny little bit. Despite this, Raphael let it curl up in his lap again and fall asleep as well while he watched the human woman and the strange spark dancing within her like a candlelight.

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Chapter II is done! Getting angsty. And say hi to Raphael's kitty. Isn't it cute? :3

Also, here's part 1 if you haven't seen it yet.

#darksiders #darksiders 2 #darksiders 3 #fan art #my art #my fic #fan fiction #raphael #darksiders raphael #darksiders oc #nicola #kitten <3 #Cost of Kindness #CoK #I'm still thinking of a name #for the cat I mean

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