#its so sickening that its hard to find a kind person in the world. you ignore me. i was going to go great lengths to get you a present too

[itgirlgyu]

STRAY KIDS AS SECONDS LEADS.

genre: angst, angst and lots of angst.

word count: 3.2k

warning: religious themes, cheating ( falls out of love), pining, sickening amount of heartbreak.

BANG CHAN

The rumors in the campus were all about how easy it was to fall in love with that one senior, Bang Chan. Why wouldn't it be when he possessed the brilliance of ethereal beings, and treated everyone with kind words. Dimpled smiles lulling you in before his dulcet tone could further hypnotize you. It was truly easy to fall in love with him, and so you did. How could you not when he promised to protect you from any trouble that came your way, uttered saccharine promises of being just a call away.

Endless days you’ve spent being content with the ardent warmth he showered you in, never pushing you away yet never quite pulling you in either. He confused you, and fluttered your heart with similar ease. He showed you vivid glimpses of love through his eyes that his words never seemed to convey. And when he did, it had been too late.

—

"It's my fault actually," Bang chan spoke and you listened; the usual order at last disrupted, and switched to pull over the curtain he had hidden all his feelings behind.

"I just thought I'd have forever," a broken chuckle escaped him, the smile never reaching the corner of his eyes, "How stupid of me right?"

Bang chan doesn't wait for your reply, fearing what you might say; fearing he’d not be able to piece himself together after hearing you confirm what he was saying. He shakes his head seemingly agreeing with himself. You wore a frown on your lips, he didn't like that.

" You don't have to answer me," He laughed, pale hands coming up to fix his scarf to expose his blossoming nose tip, and the reddened lips; a parting gift from the winter night that broke his heart. He took off his right hand's glove, extending it towards you.

"Just promise me you'll find me whenever you think of me," He held his pinkie out, " at least call me."

If it was this very wintry night that broke his heart, for you it was the smile he was trying so hard to keep on his face.

MINHO

Minho had been nothing crude to you. Never allowing a moment of tenderness to slip between the two of you, yet in spite of his cruelty, you had always showered him with your infuriating optimism, and that contagious smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

You had kythed all the love you had saved up for him one day. Placing the innocent manifestation of your verscious feelings into the palm of his hands, and like a tyrant, he threw it away. Stepping on it as if it were nothing but a piece of trash, meant to be chucked out. Without sparing a second glance at the heart he capriciously broke, or the person it belonged to.

The candied smile you always wore on your lips lost its sweetness, so why was it that Minho's days started to taste bitter. The unparalleled shine you emitted burdened him, yet the lack of it in his presence burned him. Confusion, and anguish, in your name, lurking their way through his rib cage capturing his heart into a sinister clasp. If he had never loved you then why did his world collapse when he saw you in the arms of someone else.

—

"I hate you," Minho sneered at you. The sparkling eyes devoid of the glimmer it always donned, replaced a wavering obsidian, staring right at you, " I hate that you went to him."

This unjustified anger coursing through his veins, Minho knows he shouldn't feel, not when he was the reason why you were now in love with someone else. He couldn't help but let the streams of erroneous thoughts run havoc in his mind, provoking him to explode in flames with questions to you asking why couldn't you have persisted if you truly loved him.

Did you even love him? is what he wants to ask, the overwhelming pain of losing you shrouding his ability to think properly.

"I love—"

He didn't let you finish the proclamation of love marred by his name—the knuckle slamming against the concrete of the wall stopped you.

"You don't have to tell me," He seethed, retracting his bloodied knuckles, his gaze momentarily flaunting from the bruise he held and to your fixed stance. The days when you would have come running to tend to his wounds with affection stained tears swimming in your eyes were long gone.

"You show it enough."

CHANGBIN

Changbin is unable to distinguish between the forlorn regret and debris of love you two shared. Like a sickening pattern, in the morning he wakes himself with a promise to let go and move on, and by the time evening rolls around he finds himself tangled in the webs of his guilty conscience. He wasn’t a coward, neither did he ever consider falling out of love a grave sin, but to string along someone with you. Turning blind eye to all the sanguine saturated wounds, and the dewy stares.

Changbin was at fault; he recklessly destroyed the relationship you two built with so much care without your permission, imploring you to believe in the ghost of the love until you grew tired and left on your own.

He had not only trampled on the sacred bond you both had sworn to, as well as for being the bystander when he witnessed you try to piece together the debris all by yourself.

—

Changbin plays with the crumpled up ball of tissue in his hand, the buzzing noise of the fan, and the chattering of all the other patrons in the restaurant near your house fills the silence just enough to conceal the smog of regret that surrounds him.

"You look nice," he says, his eyes still preoccupied with the crumpled ball in his hand, daring not to raise his head to glance upon your face.

You let a breath move past your lips, the rigid notes on your face melting into a frustrated stretch as you rub your temple.

"What do you want Changbin?"

"Can't you-" he looks at you finally, "Can't you give me one more chance?"

Changbin was a coward; he was shameless, begging for another chance even though he lost you himself the first time. He had you to love, to cherish, but left you all alone with his broken promises and confessions of love hanging by a wilted thread from your fingers. Perhaps he had finally embraced integrity when he beseeched for you to give him one more chance to love, mirroring yourself from the days you had been the one in love in that husk of the relationship all by yourself, despite the words that left your lips.

"I have someone I love," you say calmly, "Someone who loves me more than enough."

HYUNJIN

Hyunjin clings onto those halcyon days stained with your presence like he had held onto the hubristic words of others, arrogantly claiming how there must be no one else in this world more perfect for you other than him. Somehow, somewhere along the days he has passed falling more, and more in love with you, he fashioned himself into a person who would fit you, whom you could turn to whenever trouble knocked onto your world. Considering you nothing less of a divination that consumes his day, and night alike.

A shade less striking than what may be named obsession, he would even change the way of the wind if you perchance asked him to. The gaze of yours spreading like an arctic rain shower in the middle of midsummer night echoing in his chest, chanting your name like a hymn of ancient gods.

He loved you, with all his being. But you are not to be captured and caged inside his heart, he wants you on your will, for he shall kneel and accept any conclusion you grace upon him. Even if it was to banish him from ever taking your name.

—

"Then why?" Hyunjin ran his hand through his wet hair, matted in a sudden rain shower. You had never seen him exasperated; out of composure, let alone with diaphanous tears lining his doleful eyes.

"Why can't you love me?" You took a step back, avoiding his piercing gaze despite being strewn with glittering specks of diamonds. It was a genuine question, why couldn't you love him? He was nice, he was beautiful, and he was respectful. He was perfect, in every way but he wasn't him.

"Don't tell me you didn't know I loved you," he whispered in tragic exhaustion, letting the tears fall down, camouflaging themselves in the irenic droplets, "Everyone knows how much I've loved you."

"How much I love you."

The semblance of restraint snapped in half as the quivers in his voice turned into indocile sobs, splintering the very thing he wanted from you in millions of shards. He may not have gotten the same kind of love he seeked of you, but in some way, you had given up a little bit of yourself to him. Albeit not as maddening away he had given himself to you, but you couldn't deny the ache that tainted the ivory of soul. You had loved him, just not as much.

"How come you're the only one who refused to see it?"

JISUNG

Jisung has loved you for as long as he can remember, and you loved him too; just not in the same manner as he did. Neither was it smothered in the fragrance of limerence, nor was it cut by blades of haplessness. He happily relinquished all that he could offer with no avaricious intentions just he could see you frolic with moonshine in your eyes, and the silvers of starlight braided into your hair.

He paid no attention to own throbbing heart, coughing bloods of crimson dilemma, just to keep the tender etch of a smile on your face. You didn't love him, not in the way he would want you to, not in a way his tears begged you to in the nights unbeknownst to your existence, too afraid to unravel in the light of day, or seek solace in someone else.

He might just trade his flesh, and bones if he must to protect the whimsical adoration on your face, so how could he infect you with the repulsive confusion to please his selfish yearning?

—

“I am sorry I didn’t want you to burden you,” Jisung speaks plaintively, his voice thick with grief,” I can’t help it that I love you.”

You want to console him, like you always did when you found him overtaken by the anguish, the ones you weren’t aware that you were the cause of. You stopped yourself from reaching out to touch him, but halted when the doubts of ‘what rights did you have,’ arose.

"If i-" looks down on his hands as if in marvel before looking up at you, "If held you and didn't let you go, would you stay?"

You take his name, looking at him with like those eyes that remind him of the sorrow he has given you and he looks away immediately, shooting his hands upwards in surrender, to make light of the situation.

"Okay leave but don't come to me when he hurts you."

You don't say anything, staring at him with apologetic glimmer tracing the opalescence tears.

He wears an expression on his face as if you're the one who needs to be consoled; needs to be tended, not the shards of his splintered heart, "He won't hurt you."

"I won't let him."

FELIX

The love was destined for him; carved into the trees that watched him grow into a fine young man who could endure the honeysuckle dolor. The only truth he had ever known was the naif nirvanic sound of your laughter, and the fragile vows made to one another with the coruscant skies, and the many shapes of cotton candies floating in the blue ocean above as witness, when you created an adolescent pact of forever being his playmate.

Never knowing as the years went by the currant of the tsunami would leave him in front of you, holding all his love to surrender before you only to witness you looking at another man the same way Felix gazed upon you; brimming with eagerness that could not be contained, and the desire to be wanted.

The carcass of his soul blossoms into new beginnings of vivid life when you rain on them with your melancholia. The cinch in the midst of his chest lets him know the power of unrequited love, and the joys of it when he sees you smile through your tears, even if it's not with him.

—

"Look at me, look at me," Felix begged through his brittle voice. His lithe fingers finding their way to your warmth cheeks; gently wiping away your tears with the back of his hands. In spite of adorning the similar appearance as yours, with his face doused in the same luctus vermillion that embraced yours.

You refused to look at him, shame eating away into your heart piece by piece as whimpers of ignominy left your parted lips.

Felix put his index fingers under your chin urging you to look at him, greeting with a bittersweet smile hiding away all the sorrow he swallowed by himself so you don't have to taint yourself with that filth.

"I'm sorry," you choked out; fresh tears spilling out of your eyes, immediately swept away by Felix's fingers.

He hushed you, pulling you into an embrace that reeked of sunlight, even in the middle of a cold, rueful winter, "it's not your fault," he assured you through melancholic whispers.

"Why would falling in love be wrong?" He asked you, pulling you away from looking at you in the eyes, as if to convey his sincerity.

"I want you to be happy in love," He smiled that smile again, the one he did when he made fake promises that he wasn't in pain, "Even if it's not with me."

SEUNGMIN

Seungmin didn't like you when he first gazed upon you, and he could tell that you didn't find him pleasing to the eyes either, not that he cared. Despite the lack of inclination to get to know each other from both sides, he found his paths crossing yours quite regularly. So out of sheer jade, he named you the black cat of misfortune under his breath. It may have not been the best of days but whenever you were near a pesky little smile would interrupt his daily brooding sessions after that incident.

What he wasn't aware then was that those lingering hindrances you caused to his invincible pattern would seep into his life, even after office hours, haunting his nights with your apologetic sheepish smile followed by every little blunder you caused. Perhaps Seungmin was the bigger fool for swaying by those irksome instances, even when you never spared him a look with those comely, downcast eyes you had kept hidden away from Seungmin behind your bashfulness. So why was the man reprimanding you had the fortune to look into them unrestrictedly?

—

"I am serious about you." Seungmin cuts you off. His vehement gaze piercing through the shallow shell of your body. Your meek eyes fashioning themselves into their piteous state, threatening to spill the opulent tears it had stored away.

"Don't do this seungmin,"

He scoffed at your sorry attempt to conceal yourself from the inevitable, turning his body away in insipid frustration.

"Don't do what?" he queried, rhetorically, knowing you had nothing to defend yourself with. He had you cornered and he could tell that you were aware of the fact.

"I am serious about you," He repeated, staring right into your cowered gaze, "Unlike the man you love."

He was right, of course. He knows the man you have been loving has no idea what felt towards him, and somehow you knew he would never feel the same for you, not when you were a mere employee at his company.

Unlike him, Seungmin was within your reach.

"I can love you," He persisted valiantly, with tenacity dripping from each word, "I love you!"

JEONGIN

Jeongin foolishly assumed that the only feelings he harbored for you were that of unadulterated pity. Even the acceptance of compassion came with reluctance for he had believed himself to care nothing about you. Arresting dusks spent walking beside you amidst the aerial trust that blossomed in your heart for him, he had told himself it was just a time spent for him. Your complaints, your whining, your lame jokes at the expense of the sad excuse of your love life were nothing but a risible nuisance to the younger man.

The seamless transition from being just a companion of the twilight to someone he wants to spend every hour on the clock with, had been too rapid for his liking. Feigning the similar look of apathy whenever you mentioned the name of the person you had given your heart pricking his heart like thorns breaching the boundary of flimsy skin, staining his face with a rosy shade of longing. The chances of you borrowing his gaze for a night and looking at him through the similar hue of love was unattainable, but who could explain it to his heart?

—

"Just tell me one thing before you go,"

You were halted in your way, compelled to look back at the boy, Jeongin, who remained seated on his swing, idly kicking his feet, fabricating an expression of indifference and if he didn't just call you.

"Tell you what?" You inquired, turning around to come face to face with the seated man.

Jeongin jumped out of his seat, striding towards you with newfangled determination in his steps, devising a plan to conquer something you had no idea of.

"What do you see in him?" He questioned, dissuading his step to halt dangerously close to your face. You doubted it was to intimidate you; challenging you to back away. Donning a relaxed expression that played on his face along with the subtle tug at the corner of his lips, confirming your suspicions.

You crossed your arms against your chest, a raised eyebrow to wordlessly ask the meaning of such close proximity.

"What do you think you are doing?"

"Asking a question," he answered plainly with a shrug, stuffing his fingers into his pockets to mirror a similar composure as yours, "Can't I?"

'Of course you can't,' is what you wanted to reply.

Perhaps he read your mind because the next words that left his mouth had the ground shaking beneath your feet.

"Not even when I love you?"

COPYRIGHTS TO @itgirlgyu. Feedbacks are always appreciated.

[ficbrish]

WIP Wednesday

[10Jan2024]

This is from a one shot that's part of my Kinktober collection

"Enough"

Early Act III in the Rivington camp

[tw/cw - Cptsd, breakdown, past SA, light spice. Still writing, so this snippet ends mid-angst]

A kiss should be enough. How could it not be when the person at the end of it was? A kiss; the most precious thing, but dangerous. Tempting. Confusing. Messy. Even more so when they were alone, away from the others. Maybe closing the door to the barn had been a bad idea…

“Astarion?” Vistri panted, pulling away.

“Mmmm, yes? What is it?”

She looked at him with wide eyes. Her body trembled against his.

“Um,” the conflict inside her made it hard to articulate, “Should we—?”

“Slow down?”

She grinned awkwardly, more a grimace, “Yeah.”

He sighed, then breathed deep to steady his heart, “Right. Quite Right…”

“Is that…?”

A visible wave of relief washed over him, and he kissed her forehead with all the warmth in his heart, “It’s okay. Thank you! Don’t fret. Thank you.”

Instead of pushing her away, Astarion held her tighter. Vistri didn’t believe it, even as it was happening. She wasn’t someone others held without payment. No matter how many times they repeated this new pattern together, it never fully set in. Surely, it was just a dream. All dreams slipped away, that was just their nature.

She shut her eyes tight, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, dear.”

“…Okay.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“Okay.”

The hand reaching for her cheek terrified her in a way that fangs at her throat never had. Reflexively, she planted her face in his palm, nuzzled into it. The hesitation inside her was loud, but it was no match for the tenderness of his touch. Confusing. Messy.

Astarion chuckled, “Just look at how we’ve grown.”

She laughed too because it was something to do.

“Are you all right? You’re not here.”

Vistri felt like a bug with its rock lifted up as he searched her eyes. She couldn’t hide. He was staring right at her.

“Hello!” he said with a little wave.

“Hi.”

“There you are, love. I’ve missed you.”

His expression was kind enough for her to say, “I didn’t mean to go away.”

“It happens,” he shrugged, and stroked her hair.

She couldn’t help her bitterness, “I hate that it happens.”

Anger. That’s what took over when her heart started to beat again. Once Vistri let the world in, she shriveled from so much rage. She hated her brokenness. She hated herself for being fucked up. Hated the reason for it, and the people who let it happen. She looked at Astarion and felt sorrow for his brokenness; grief for the way he was fucked up. She hated the reason for it, and the people who let it happen. Despised the cycle he was caught up in.

Gods, she was so angry.

She groaned and burrowed into his tunic like a creature hiding away from the threats of the world.

“That’s the thing, love, it doesn’t really matter how we feel about it. It’s just there. At least it happens to the both of us. We can face it together, just like any cult.”

He felt the warmth of her chuckle through his shirt.

“Why couldn’t the tadpoles be our only problem?”

Astarion sighed, “To be fair, if it were, we’d probably have been made mind flayers long before finding each other. No cult, no special tadpoles. Now that would be a shame, wouldn’t it?”

“I’ll have to give you that,” she smiled, “It’s all worth it if it led to you.”

“How uncharacteristically genuine of us,” he smirked.

“It’s quite sickening, really.”

He laughed heartily, “Disgusting! Vile!”

“Wretched! Absolutely wretched!”

Laughing was another thing that made everything complicated. Dangerous. Laughter weakened their bodies and knocked them to the ground, leaving them panting in each other’s arms. Vistri’s stomach flipped and surrendered under the weight of him. Bliss between lovers longed to be a feast. Hearts in flight felt entitled to all skies. She wouldn’t stop him this time.

Astarion usually didn’t care about himself or anyone else, but when he looked in her eyes and found the responsibility for two souls, he wanted to rise to the occasion.

“Problem is, I’ve already risen,” he muttered to himself.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. Pay me no mind.”

“I’m trying to. It’s very hard, you see.”

“It is,” he smirked.

“Yes, I know. I’m very aware. That’s part of the problem.”

He ground his hips into her, “A rather sizable problem.”

She squirmed and called out his name like it was a prayer, “Astarion…”

Tongue at her neck, he groaned, “How naughty we’re being.”

“Arsehole…” she panted, throwing her head back.

Running their hands along each other was no salve, it only fed the obsessive ache. Like wildfire, it spread around them, threatening everything living.

Astarion regretfully tore himself off her, “No. Yes, You’re right. Quite right.”

The room spun. It spun. It spun. Clinging to each other was the problem, but that’s all they knew to do. Their limitations made them feel base and hollow. Their only comfort was feeling it together, hand in hand.

“Is it bad that we…?” Vistri asked.

“That we what?”

Her tight grip on his fingers felt suddenly breakable. She looked at the floor, like she was trying to count the hay.

“That we get carried away. From time to time.”

“I-…” he thought for a moment, “I don’t think so. Do you think so?”

She was shaking, just a little. Astarion could tell by her hands.

“What if I fuck it all up?”

He saw the look in her eyes that meant tonight was her turn to fall apart. Immediately, he blamed himself, kicking himself for having fucked it all up.

“You won’t, love,” he said in his most reassuring tone. He couldn’t wrap his arms around her just yet, that’s not where she was at the moment. The rain was just beginning to fall; the rest of the storm was on its way.

She shook, “I wouldn’t have stopped you.”

“All right, but I did.”

“But I wouldn’ve! Because…” she bit her lip, as if that could hold it all back.

“Because what, my dear?”

And finally, it burst, “Because I’m nothing!”

It was going to be one of those ugly nights, the boogeyman under the bed having come to visit. She wouldn’t be in control of how it spilled out of her once it was gone from the realm of performance. Her muscles would twist in unflattering ways. Her tone would grow shrill and base, even haggish. Unaware of herself at every moment, part of her would hoard every detail, preserving collected bits of shame to pelt herself with in the morning. The things she said, and how she said them, would embarrass her to the point of pain and ring in her ears for the next few days. Astarion knew it well, having had many of those same nights himself. He’d be there for Vistri just as she was for him.

“Oh, my love, you’re not nothing.”

“But I am!” she shrieked, “Can’t you see that I am!?”

He shook his head sadly, “I can’t give you that. I don’t see it.”

She wept on her knees, rocking back and forth on her toes. Astarion sat next to her and watched, waiting for it to finish pouring out of her.

“I’m a slut,” she cried, “You don-you don-you don’t even pay sluts! They just let you ha-have it!”

Fuck it! He couldn’t stay away. Something worse than usual sat on her heart and broke it. She couldn’t even breathe; she was choking on her own attempts. Astarion rushed to her, kneeling, and gathered her into his arms. His hands grabbed desperately at her face as he tried to catch her eye.

His voice was trembling, begging, “Come back to me, please. Come back to me.”

Vistri was somewhere else, spiraling fast into the hells. Her eyes didn’t recognize him even as they stared directly into his. She knew someone was touching her. She could see that someone was very upset. She just didn��t know what any of that had to do with her.

“Vistri, please! Darling, please!”

Knees on a stone floor in the black dark. Begging.

“Look at me. Come back.”

Begging for absolution. His voice creeping up her back.

“Look at me!”

“I can’t!” she sobbed, eyes shut tight, “I can’t! Enough! I can’t!”

“All right,” he soothed, completely calm again from the moment she spoke, “All right.”

[ceilingfan5]

@taznovembercelebration new start

Barry taps his clipboard with his pen, seriously considering treason. It’s not the first time he’s considered it, but every single day he works this project, it’s on his mind. He stares through the one-way glass unblinkingly and seethes, insides writhing in a hideous battle between ethics and duty, right and wrong, career and prison, if he’s lucky. Honestly, he could get sentenced to death. He’s always been a coward, but maybe it would be worth it to go out a hero, in his own way.

Supers, mutants, people with exceptionalities, whatever you want to call them–they have a very different public image from the one behind the curtains. It’s very curated, delicately balanced, managed with a tighter grip than a multi-billion-dollar company’s social media accounts. The devil works hard, but the government and its pals work harder, because the world doesn’t know it can be like this.

The world doesn’t know how strong they can get.

Barry’s spent a lot of time at this facility. He’s seen kids and adults come and go that shook his definition of humanity, of exceptionality, of possibility–he’s lost count of the times he’s gone home and sat in the dark about his day, and had to force himself to come back in the morning. His contract is air tight and has been for a long, long time, and somehow, somehow he’s been able to push through and keep going. Cowardice. Greed, even. The money isn’t worth it, though, not anymore.

It shouldn’t have been worth it for that kid that could bend reality, or the ice one that destroyed their whole town in an avalanche, or the radioactive guy, or the one that exploded last year. It sickens him that he’s justified this much, this long. That all it took to change his mind properly was her.

It’s hard to count her as fully human anymore. The other scientists often refer to her like some kind of thing, and Barry wants to break their noses about it. Looking at her is like staring right into the sun, the fire of ancient furnace that shouldn’t be run anymore, the heart of a train, pushing, pushing, pushing. She can’t stop burning. She’s more spirit than body, if that means anything. Barry never was religious, isn’t much of a spiritualist. He’s a numbers and fists and proof kind of guy. But there she is.

They keep her locked in a bullet proof cell, take her out to run data, research, understand, and they use her powers to fire their machines, to deepen study and all sorts of bullshit Barry has been complicit in for far too long. The sound she makes is a crackling wail, a horrendous screech that shakes him up, body and soul. They always like to tease rehabilitation for the less extreme cases, but this one, they’re just happy to profit from for eternity?

She doesn’t deserve this. They know nothing about her. She was a person, once, even if she is somewhat less than corporeal now.

He watches her, alone in the observation deck, and she thrashes like a solar flare against the walls. Does she never get tired? He’s so tired. He considers the consequences. He considers freedom for the suffering, choice for the the choiceless. He unlocks the door with his key card and enters the room.

The thrashing stops immediately. She plasters her face against the bulletproof glass, yellow eyes fiery and wide. She’s beautiful, in the scariest way possible. They both know he’s not supposed to be down here right now. She’s curious.

He can’t help but talk to her, even if she’s not going to understand. Who knows how conscious she is, in this form. Surely it shouldn’t be possible, but stranger things happen every day.

“Hey,” he murmurs. He puts a hand on the glass, and watches her draw back, nervous. “S’me again. Sorry to bother you.”

She squints at him, and after a long moment, puts her hand on the glass, too. He can feel the warmth even though six inches of the strongest stuff they could find. It makes something flutter in his stomach.

“I’m tryin’a make a good choice here,” he whispers. “But I’ve been a coward my whole life, and this could get me killed. But that doesn’t matter, does it? Why should I get to be comfortable when you’re suffering?”

She tilts her head, and opens her mouth. A screeching wail comes out.

“Yeah,” Barry says, nodding. “Yeah. But–I gotta be honest here–I’m afraid, you know? I don’t think I’ll even be able to get out of the facility. I have a lotta, lotta skills, but speed isn’t among them, you get me?”

She smacks the glass with a fist. He jumps, but he can’t really blame her.

“You’re right,” he decides. “I should get on with it. You’ve been in here too long for me to fuck around.”

He looks at the control panel in front of them, and bits his lip–it clearly requires three different keycards, and he’s only got the one. He could swipe the others, figure something out, but…no, she needs out now, not in some indeterminate time. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and runs his hands over the panels.

He can hear her pound on the glass again, but he’s busy focusing. He doesn’t use his powers very often–he’s not even registered. But even unpracticed, they’re still strong. His consciousness rockets through the computer, unlocking everything in sight, and he pushes his will hard enough to feel a pop-

And every lock in the sector opens at once.

“Whew,” he says, opening his eyes. She looks at him, uncertain, and he nods at her, smiles. Winks, even. Cheeky. She pounds against the door, and it swings open, and she rockets out–a blur of light and crackling fire. She cackles and circles the room rapidly, a dizzying display that charms him completely.

“Go!” he tells her, urgent. “They’ll be here any minute, you’ve got to get out of here!”

She cocks her head and slows to a stop, hovering, sputtering and sizzling. She’s blindingly bright up close, but there’s so much expression on her face. He knows for certain he did the right thing.

“T̶̟̾̉ḧ̴̯̬͝á̷͓̉n̵̛͖̑k̵̪̊ṡ̷̟͋.̷̣̜̀̕” It’s the first time any of them have heard her communicate, and Barry is flabbergasted. It looks difficult to make words with pure fire.

“You’re welcome.” He smiles, still nervous. He can feel the heat radiating off of her. “Go, though. I want you to find somewhere safe.”

She squints at him. Barry hears the siren kick off, and he winces. He thought he’d gotten it.

“Fuck,” he says. “I hope- I hope you’ll be okay.”

She points at him.

“I know, I- I’ll be alright,” he lies.

She points at him more aggressively, and a spark of flame ignites his tie. Her eyes widen, and she tries to stop the flame, but he has to rip off the tie and stomp on it to cut it out. He’s flushed. Because of the fire, and for no other reason. Surely.

She bounces in the air, anxiously looking at the hallway, and Barry is just about to shoo her again when she grabs him by his jacket and FLIES down the hallway, the posters on the walls igniting behind her. Barry yelps, feeling the flame lick at his clothes, threatening to burn him, but she’s fast, and they zip out of the entire facility faster than a wildfire consuming a whole forest.

She drops him in the grass outside of the facility and he stops, drops, and rolls, his clothes coming off him in burnt tatters, and she laughs at him, her screechy, crackly laugh, and he blushes, surprised by how beautiful she is when she’s happy.

“We should go,” he says, dazed. “They’ll be after us.” Us! He’s never been an us before. Shame he had to become a fugitive to do it.

[mimzalot]

been playing Tears of the Kingdom and have hardly made a dent in the game thus far but I must exorcise some thoughts because I’m gettin zany about the shape of what I’ve seen

the tonal shift. Breath of the Wild was a beautiful but sadly empty game. all your friends are gone. the towns are scattered. the music is scarce. vast expanses of green are still littered with the debris of war. people have learnt to live around the shape of loss, and while years have passed, progress is halted. like the Princess, Hyrule is suspended in time.

TOTK is so lively, comparatively! you find civilians travelling and exploring, you see the results of Zelda’s kind leadership across the land, with every stable knowing her well enough to know that something is awry. Link sings when he cooks and those are songs that we know, songs that insinuate that he has spent time either remembering, learning or re-learning his context in the world after years lost to the war, to his century-long sleep and subsequent memory loss.

the recurring theme of construction and building reminds you that this is Hyrule in a state of repair, finally moving and developing after stasis. there’s a momentum shift. we’re rolling forward again (highlighted by all our bizarre locomotives, by the development of a printing press, and the pace at which news and people travel) and yet the looming threat on the horizon is going to see all of this hard-won safety undone.

so we have the upward momentum of development, and the impending threat of Ganondorf, which creates this spiraling sort of urgency that sees us wanting to protect the former from the latter. the game has created a race within itself. the paranoid threat of the moon falling but rather specifically in this game, on top of bravery and weaponry and the sort, the primary thing that will save Hyrule is... study.

the threat of impending doom is incentive to research. and god, the way TOTK game-ifies research is a nerd’s daydream. you get just enough information to keep your interest piqued, and while you’re doing extraneous tasks your mind is reeling, processing, the same way you do when you study - which is so perfect for a game with a huge open-world like this one. and again, a perfect reflection of Zelda herself. a gameplay style that reflects the feeling of descending down a wikipedia research spiral.

just like Hyrule in BOTW is reflected by its ruler suspended in time, holding on, Hyrule in TOTK is moving forward by looking to the past, urgently studying to find solutions. Princess Zelda is Hyrule. this is her legend. and Link is once more actioning her will. she is wise, and he is courageous enough to trust that wisdom even without all the pieces.

(but what of power? we’ve seen how it turns out, but how did it get there? iunno I’ve only gotten like four 'tears’ so WE SHALL SEE but lord knows I’m ready to feast. Link bears both marks rn, eh? he is corrupted by Ganondorf’s gloom but he has Rauru’s arm. the two are interlinked, the ‘Triforce bearers’ always are.)

this is a story that starts at the end. similar to BOTW, we have arrived at the outcome with no idea how we got here. but BOTW was a personal story, in a way; this is Hyrule’s story now, and the grand scale of a once intimate tale of self-discovery now belongs to a scope far larger than two or six. it’s bouncing back and forth throughout time, tying the past and present and future into one braid. you see the outcome. presumably you cant change it - but can you change the future?

all the while you’re aware that the people living in these flashbacks ought to be long gone. you’re seeing the plot and the history develop in tandem. you feel the dread of knowing what might be coming when you turn over the next page in your book, combined with the horrific knowledge that it’s about to repeat. it’s that perfect, sickening reflection of how it feels to study history: the sadness at knowing that these people are long gone, the gratitude towards their efforts, the fascination with their exploits and accomplishments, the academic pursuit of knowledge for solutions. connection to your past, to your ancestors, to their legacy and how it shapes your own. and just... how fun is it? learning is so fun!

and combining the first-hand accounts alongside the ruins and remains... similar sort of mix of nice-but-sad bittersweetness as BOTW, but a completely different iteration of that poignancy. and I don’t know the full story of it yet but I feel the shape of it just crushinggg down in the bg anytime I’m not playing it.

oh I just. love it. I have so much more to say. but I also have so much more to play. augh. kisses this game on the face

[lycanthian]

worst feeling in the world actually is slowly becoming closer to someone youve wanted to be friends with since you met him and it took four years of high school and midway thru a semester of college for you to start hanging out at all and

and then it hits you like a freight train that you cared so much about wanting to be his friend and being so excited that he was gonna still be around for college because you Like Him not just because hes hot but bc hes really cool and genuinely super kind and has such a unique outlook on life and way of interacting with people and it entrances you and you fall deeper and deeper every time you talk to him because he just radiates warmth and compassion and even though its the same warmth he gives everyone else its unlike anything youve ever felt before and you find yourself thinking about him for weeks and weeks.

you find excuses to hang out and talk when you can. you make efforts to go get coffee or watch a movie, albeit in a group.

you get a small gym group together to work out after class every friday. youve always admired his ethic when it came to working out. youve always wished you could do the same.

he runs some of the heaviest sprints on the treadmill that youve ever heard while you run low on breath running at a speed that once felt normal to you. the next time, he recommend the biking machine. you can see him in the next room over lifting weights.

you stop going after that.

it hits you like a second freight train that hell probably never like you back the same way. past trends have proven that he doesnt swing that way despite how little he ever really talks about it. you dont want to pry.

and you dont want to talk to anyone who knows the guy because youre scared of fucking everything up. you dont want to back him into a corner when you dont know what hed do.

just because youve fallen so hard doesnt mean you want to drag him down kicking and screaming.

even if hes the only person youve fallen this hard for in years. in forever, actually.

well.

as far back in forever as you can get at 18.

it scares you. this is new. this is exciting. this is sickening. you dont have the experience to really frame this. you feel sick for thinking about him all the time.

even if it feels like youre still miles away from he is.

he runs harder than youve ever seen someone run.

youre out of breath just trying to make it to the end.

[the-present-is-a-gift-au]

Chapter 35: In Which Twig Falls Apart

Of course she crossed paths with Darkrai while out on her walk. He wasn't just some hazy presence in the shadows of the forest, either— he was visible as any tree or fern on the trail, hands clasped and subtly wringing ever so slightly as he stood off to the side of the path. He perked up when he saw her, and she immediately turned on her heel and made for home. 

“Twig, if I may have a word—” he began. 

“Nope. Not in the mood to deal with you right now, sorry man.” 

“You’ve been worrying me. I am not fool enough to turn a blind eye to how you carry yourself or how you behave when faced with danger. Will you not answer me and say if you are well? Truly?”

Twig stopped dead in her tracks as she registered just what he'd said. “Did you tell Kip to worry about me wanting to off myself?”

Silence. 

“Great. Great! Wonderful. I can't face him knowing that. Awesome.” She gritted her teeth and took in a long, slow breath. “Why'd you even care? Isn't that kind of the whole point, at least with your plan to rule a world of darkness or whatever? You wouldn't have to lift a finger if I did the deed myself, right—”

“My plans have changed significantly,” he said abruptly, cutting her off. “I find little appeal in ruling much of anything nowadays. The thought of you doing yourself harm is— it's— I take no pleasure in it. It's sickening to think of.”

That gave her pause. Maybe what Celebi said was true, then, if Darkrai wasn't plotting to take over the world again. She changed his mind. But no sooner had those four words entered her thoughts than a bitter sneer found its way onto her face. “I'm pretty sure it's not sickening to think about the world being a better place without me, but okay,” she grumbled. 

Darkrai's gaze snapped to her. “Why do you find that so hard to believe?”

She quirked a brow, looking him up and down. 

“I'm aware that I— I meant with your kinsfolk. I've witnessed your refusal to believe they carry affection for you like they would any other. You've convinced yourself that they're better off without you— I know it too well from what I've seen of your nightmares. Why?”

She squared her shoulders and shoved past him, calling over her shoulder as she turned back home on the path. “Because they are better off without me.”

“They aren't. Grovyle fears your death more than his own.”

She ignored the sting of tears in her eyes. “That's literally just Grovyle. He's like that with everybody. Even the mailman.”

“Celebi sees you as a family member worthy of any sacrifice necessary.”

“Celebi was willing to die to bring back a sunrise she wouldn't get to see. She's sacrificed it all already. It doesn't mean anything to give it up twice.”

“Dusknoir sees you as his own.”

“Dusknoir is everyone's weird wannabe-dad. I'm not special that way.”

“Kip is clearly—”

At the mention of her partner's name, Twig rounded on him. “Don't you dare say anything to me about how Kip is glad to be my friend, or he couldn't bear to live without me, or whatever garbage you're going to pull out next. I know that. I know he was shaking in his boots at every moment when we met. I know I changed that for him. But I also dragged him into my mess with— with almost getting him killed by Grovyle or Dusknoir or Dialga, and lying to him about me being erased from time because I didn't want to see him be sad about it, and dragging him around time and space with me until he wasn't able to evolve for years. Kip might need me, but he doesn't deserve me. He doesn't deserve the world's most lousy excuse of a person as a partner. He doesn't deserve someone who didn't want him to leave on his dream expedition for a couple years because she was scared of how she'd handle living on her own. He doesn't deserve—” Her voice broke, and she struggled to find the words she hated most to say. 

Darkrai watched her pityingly. Something in her ate that up— the fact she was being seen, and seen as something worthy of sympathy even in all of her wretchedness— and something else in her hated the fact that she was stirring up any sense of sadness in someone. That hatred fought hard to come out on top, but the hungry, sorrowful thing inside her lurked close to the surface. 

“Kip doesn't deserve someone who's as messed up as I am dragging him down,” she finally said. 

“I believe he'd beg to differ.” Darkrai’s wide-eyed, worried stare narrowed. “You seem to think very little of the people you call your closest allies, if you believe they bear no affection for you or act in ill-judgment if they do.”

Twig looked away, tears pricking at her eyes. “Shut up.” 

“Do you truly hold so little faith in their words when they say they wish you well?”

“I said, shut up—”

“Why do you act as though they hate you?” 

“Because they should!” Twig shouted. Darkrai flinched back at the ferocity in her words, and something about that made a shard of hurt lodged deep inside her stir with the urge to give chase. “Because I'm the worst thing that's ever happened to any of them! If it weren't for me, they'd be living happily and without a single worry, but they're not! Because of me! Because I'm stupid and selfish and can't get it through my thick skull that they're better off without me, so I hang around and hurt everyone even more than I did the last time I opened my mouth!” She threw her arms wide in a furious motion. “But apparently they're all too stupid to hate me themselves, so I'm the one who needs to hate myself enough that I stay in line and don't be such a useless burden that they realize I'm not worth keeping around!” 

Silence. 

Twig ground her teeth, torn between preening at the sorrowful look Darkrai was giving her or throttling him for giving her it in the first place. She returned her arms to her sides, balling her hands into fists, and turned to leave when a new voice caught her attention. 

“Do you really think that?” 

Twig looked up. 

Oh. There was Dusknoir, Celebi, Grovyle, and Kip— all standing just a ways off from her on the path. Apparently they came to check on her together. Apparently they overheard her spitting those awful things and spilling her guts, and now Grovyle wanted to know if it was the truth. 

She pursed her lips, considering her answer. “It’s true, isn’t it? I’m not… I’m not worth keeping around. I’m not…” Her face screwed up as she began to cry, unable to hold back her tears. “I’m not someone worth caring about, and it’s dumb to think that, but I can’t stop, and… I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m being annoying, I’ll stop, just give me a minute—“

Grovyle stepped forward once, twice— put out his hand and then pulled it back, unsure of how to help despite feeling pulled to it. 

“How can I help?” He asked. 

Twig felt something raw and bloody in her gut itself to get the words out of her mouth. “… Could I have a hug?” 

He opened his arms. Twig met him halfway as he shakily stepped toward her, and she wrapped her arms around him in a numb sort of echo of what a hug should be. His hand trembled as he rubbed small circles between her shoulder blades, then tucked her head under his chin and pulled her closer. 

For the first time since that awful day her past crawled out of its grave and back into her head, another memory returned to Twig. This one was new, foreign in its familiarity and how well it felt like it fit in an empty place in her chest.

(She was scared of the sableye running outside of their hiding spot in search of the trio of fugitives, unable to sleep for her terror at the thought of being discovered, and Grovyle held her like he was now. Twig had felt safe back then. Nothing scary could get her. Not while Grovyle was around. She fell asleep certain everything would be okay as long as they were together.)

Twig wept, then cried, then bawled. There were no words for her to say. What was there to be said? Right now, she had Grovyle to hold her as she wailed and sobbed like a little kid, and Kip rushing over to join the embrace. She didn't care if people were looking at her. She didn't care that Darkrai had vanished soon after everyone arrived and she didn't know where he disappeared to. Nothing mattered right now except for that raw, bloody, hurting thing inside her being washed clean by the tears she shed in her friends’ arms. 

Maybe she wasn't a burden. It didn't seem like you'd hold a burden like she was being held right now. It hurt to think about for too long— that raw thing inside her still sensitive and painful— but maybe she could sometime later. 

Much later. 

She still had so many more tears to shed, and it didn't seem like Grovyle or Kip were letting go of her any time soon.

[imthebadguyyy]

maybe something like interviewer asking her sexist questions and the boys stand up for her , after that interview she feels insecure and the boys comfort her . that's just an idea you don't have to write it !! <33

I hope you like it, and I'm so sorry about the delay 😭 I couldn't find my footing with this one, and I hope it's what you wanted ! Have a lovely day 💙

The One Where They're There For Her

Pairing - One Direction x Reader (6thmember!female!reader)

Fandom - One Direction (Directioners)

Summary - A particularly sexist interview decides to reduce you to just a sexual being and makes no effort to hide his misogyny. But the boys are there to support you.

Warnings - sexualization of the lgbt community, sexist comments, swearing, (honestly I hated myself for writing some of the comments here,and I'm so sorry)

Being a part of the biggest band in the world comes with certain responsibilities. Not responsibilities that come along with signing a recording contract, but those that a person deems themselves responsible for. For example, as the only female in a boyband, a female with a fanbase as large as yours, you took it upon yourself to always stand up for what's right, and to be an ally for the causes close to your heart.

That meant that your social media was often flooded with information about important causes, or your opinions on issues like feminism. Was it always well received? Heck no. There were people filled your feed with hate and comments calling you the most horrible names and labelling you a 'man hater' and a 'bitch' But you didn't let it get to you. On most days. On days like today, it was all you could do to keep it together. It had been a tiring few days, touring, recording, performing and doing an endless amount of interviews and photoshoots. It was safe to say you were on the last of your nerves, having battled your way through a makeup artist who had insisted on pointing out your flaws and had used a shit ton of makeup to cover them up. You had battled a photographer who had not hesitated to tell you that if you didn't look more feminine people would think you were turning into a man.

Before you could retaliate, Paul had dragged him away and told management to cancel the photoshoot, and find another photographer before grabbing the six of you some sandwiches and had let you all go back for a quick power nap at the hotel. Then in about half an hour he had woken you up, to get you ready for another interview. That's how you were here, in a white jumpsuit and a black blazer jacket, paired with black heels. Another day, another interviewer that got on your nerves. But this one, this one was different. This interviewer was different, but also the same. Another misogynistic man who thought he was entitled to stare at your ass and cleavage, and eye fuck you as you settled into a seat in between Niall and Zayn.

Settling in, you crossed one knee over the other, plastering a fake smile onto your face, as the man leaned back in his chair, throwing you a sleazy smirk. Noticing the look, Zayn shifted so you were out of view of the interviewer, but in view of the audience. It was in moments like this that you were a 100× more grateful to have your boys. They were well aware of how sleazy some interviewers could be, having had plenty of experience with them, and Zayn and Louis in particular were very protective about the way you were treated. Squeezing your thigh softly, he leaned back a little, lips settling into a thin line as he looked at the interviewer with a cold look. A little behind, Louis threw the interviewer a dirty look.

"So, One Direction! Congratulations on the album, as you all know its out on November the 22nd, with eighteen new songs, including the singles Night Changes and Steal My Girl Speaking of stealing girls, do you think I could steal your number Y/N? And may I mention, you look ver, very hot in that outfit" The interviewer joked, throwing you what he thought was a sexy smirk. (P.S - it wasn't) Answering with an awkward laugh, you shook your head, as Niall tensed up beside you. "Aww come on, your'e a pretty girl, I'm a handsome guy, let's go out sometime" he pressed on, ignoring the growing anger in Harry's eyes. "That's umm, nice. But no thanks, I'm not going to go out with you" was your answer, as you pushed a strand of hair behind your ear. Picking up on your nervous tic, Zayn moved his hand to rest on your knee, stopping it from bouncing up and down.

"Aww come on baby, what is it? You like girls or something? Because I wouldn't mind being a part of that action either" the sleazebag chuckled, ignoring the disgusted look Liam sent his way. "That's rude" Liam said, while Zayn tightened his grip on your knee. "Oh come on lads, are you telling me the idea doesn't appeal to you? Two women together, mm, makes me all excited just thinking about it, especially if one of them's Y/N" That comment was all it took for Louis to stand up, turning to the man and saying in a voice much rougher than his usual voice, "Alright, that's fuckin' enough, what the fuck is actually wrong with you?" he was backed up by Liam, who stood up, going to tower over the interviewer, whose eyes had lost some of the sleazy look in them. "All you've done since we walked in here is make those disgusting comments about Y/N, and it's sickening. Have some fucking respect" he practically spat.

Behind him, Zayn took your hand in his and pulled you to your feet, noticing the slight glossiness in them, leading you back to the dressing rooms, while Niall, Liam, Louis and Harry stayed back to continue to snap at the interviewer. "That is no way to treat a woman, and not only are you disrespecting her, you also made those god awful events about seeing women together. Your'e a shame to every single person in this room by talking like that" Harry continued, glancing over his shoulder to check if you were okay.

"And no, it doesn't excite us, because we are not assholes, and you are, a disgusting sleaze who does not deserve the job he has. Fuckin loser" Niall chimed in, standing up and storming out. Louis stood up as well, turning to directly face the cameras and the cameramen and sound technicians, who had all looked shocked when the man had made his comments towards you. "I sure as hell hope you have that on record, so you can see just how fucking sexist this industry is to women. Y/N does the same job as us, works just as hard and has the same number of awards, nominations, and records and yet you decide to only focus on her body, clothes, love life and sexuality. Get a fucking life" he spat at the camera, before walking away himself, eventually followed by Harry and Liam, who apologized to the outraged fans before leaving themselves. As they made their way to the dressing rooms they could hear the audience telling the interviewer to apologize to you, their anger at the way you were treated echoing through the building.

Walking in, Harry caught sigh of you curled up in one of the armchairs, with Louis sitting beside you, while Niall and Zayn talked to a furious Paul. "He had no damn right to treat her like shite, and you need to make sure that he knows those comments were un-fuckin-acceptable" Niall was saying, looking angrier than Harry had ever seen him. "And to make those sickening comments about wanting to get action? Can't we sue him for something?" Was Zayn's reply, glancing over his shoulder at you to make sure you were still okay. "We can't sue him, atleast I don't think we can, but I'll have someone let the smug bastard know that he needs to learn how to respect a woman" Paul said, before leaving the room to give the six of you some time together before you had to head back to the hotel.

"How're you feeling darling?" Louis said, moving over and patting your knee so you moved. "I'm okay" you mumbled back, letting Louis settle in next to you, leaning back to rest on his chest. "He had no fuckin right to say any of that, and don't you let it trouble you for a second" Zayn added, pouring out a cup of tea for you and for Louis and Harry. "I don't care about what he said, I couldn't care less, but it was just so frustrating, sitting there and listening to him just sexualize a whole community of people. You've got to be in a really sad place to think of shit like that. That's what annoyed me. You think I give a damn about what he said about my clothes or wanting to take me out on a date? It was the way he was talking, like he was sure any woman would be glad to have him that irked me. He's really tiresome" was your reply, as you reached forward for a sip of your tea. "That's the right attitude love. Haters gonna hate" Harry said.

"I know that. But I just wish I could punch him once, which sounds mean, but he does kind of deserve it" Niall said, earning a laugh from you. Niall was never usually aggressive, and even now, he wasn't particularly rude but it was rare to see him wanting to punch someone. "It's okay Niall, you don't have to. I can do it myself, but I won't" you replied, leaning up to squeeze his hand. "Besides, Ni, if you went and punched him, I'd do it too, and then we'd all go to jail" Liam chimed in, scrolling through his twitter. "Twitter isn't happy either babe. #stopsexualization and #Y/Ndeservesbetter is trending already" he added, showing you his phone. "If it means some of these sexist asses get their heads out of the sand, I'm happy. But I dont want to to think about it now" you replied, cuddling closer to the warmth radiating from Louis's body.

"Okay, we won't talk about it. Do you want to go back to the hotel?" Harry asked, standing up and walking to the door "No I want to go to Nando's. Anybody else hungry?" You asked, to nods of assent from the boys. "I'm starving. Those stupid sandwiches didn't fill me up at all" Zayn said, standing up to grab his coat and wallet. "I know and I'm craving some hot Peri Peri chicken with some fries. Do you think they'd let me put the lemon and herb sauce on the fries?" You asked, standing up yourself, earning a laugh from Louis. "Your'e an international superstar babe, I think they'd give you some lemon herb sauce" Liam joked.

Laughing, the six of you made your way to the car, with Harry and Niall squishing you in between them, as Louis sat in the back with Liam, and Zayn sat in the front with Paul (he was driving thank GOD) "I'm proud of you darling" Harry chimed in suddenly. "I am too" Niall added. "You know I am" Louis said, before Liam added "Always babe" and Zayn turned to smile at you before adding, "We are all proud of you, and we always will be, not only because you do a damn good job of not listening to the haters, but because you do what you think is right" "Awh come on, your'e gonna make me cry" you mumbled, leaning into Niall's shoulder. "Almost makes me feel bad for teasing you about having an extremely low spice tolerance the last time we were at Nando's Haz" you smirked, earning a roar of laughter from the boys.

"That chicken was spicy love!" "It was lemon and herb with no peri peri!" "And it was spicy!"

And just like that, you were back to messing around with each other. Sleazy interviewers would come and go, but your boys were always there to support you. Always.

-------

A/N - Thanks for reading ! I'd also like to apologize on the behalf of this fictitious interviewer I made up, I felt so bad while writing some of this 😭 anyways, I hope this is what you wanted! Enjoy !

Tags - @zaynkissbot @gucci-hazza @bxtchboy69

[wkemeup]

Back to Bourbon Street

summary: When you’re badly injured on a mission, Bucky works desperately to keep you alive. Only, it might not be enough.  pairing: bucky x reader word count: 6.7k warnings: canon level violence, hurt!reader, poison, brink of death cuddling, angst with a happy ending

There is a moment of clarity amidst the chaos of the battlefield; a brief, impossible moment that allows Bucky to take hold of a peace he’s been missing for decades. The perfect storm of violence and adrenaline is one he’s familiar with, something he knows well enough to allow his mind to take a step back and give control to his instincts.  

Left jab. Right hook. Kick. Swipe the leg. Shoot.

The sound of the chopper above is muffled. The shouts of the men rushing at him with weapons and malice are indistinguishable. His body moves of its own accord and this is what makes him untouchable. Even with the Winter Soldier buried to the deepest parts of his mind, Bucky finds a relief in letting go of the control, of allowing an untethered detachment to rise to the surface just long enough to get the job done. 

Bodies in his wake, blood on his hands, and his mind elsewhere.

That is, until you come into view.  

Elegant in your movements, exceptional in your ability, you’re teasing Sam on the coms as you duck under the swing of a mercenary and clip him on the chin on your way up. You’re laughing, bright enough that it carries the several feet away to where Bucky is in hand to hand with a combatant half his size.  

He pauses, taken back by how clear your laugh comes through when the rest of the world seems muffled and distant. It’s not enough to give the scrawny opponent an advantage, because even as Bucky watches you with an awe and disbelief, his left arm snakes around the man’s throat and hurtles him fifty feet away with little effort.  

Amongst enemy lines filled with bad guys and guns, amongst the blinding snowfall and the blistering wind, amongst blood staining crystalized white upon the frozen dirt, you capture the entirety of his focus. Clear as day. Spotlight down from the sky. A wonder to behold.  

You catch his eye and for a moment his heart skips completely because you smile at him. A light breaking through a sea of shadows, wrinkling up by your eyes, a giggle in your chest, and Bucky’s knees nearly give out from under him. 

You must notice the fluster burning hot on his cheeks and you start to laugh; that same beautifully, sweet sound that shouldn’t belong on a battlefield. He smiles back.

But the moment lasts longer than it should. It’s something too kind for the evil you’re surrounded with and it’s taken away in a matter of seconds when Bucky sees the sharp reflection of a blade flicker under the haze of sunlight.  

His stomach drops as if he’s stepped off the edge of the cliff, as if he’s falling hundreds of feet into a dark ravine to the icy waters below, and he barely feels the sharp burn of a bullet as it skims his right shoulder.  

“Y/n!” he screams, wasting no time in firing fatal shots to the men around him before he rushes towards you.  

But he’s trudging through mud and quicksand and his limbs are fighting through the resistance of ocean currents. He’s trapped in a nightmare, he’s certain of it, because his body is failing him in the one place it’s not supposed to. Time slows down as he watches the flash of panic in your eyes.

He’s still a few feet away when the knife embeds itself in your stomach.

Something else takes over; maybe it's the Winter Soldier, maybe it’s something darker that has always resided inside of him, lying in wait, but his vision fills with red as he watches you clutch at the shoulders of your assailant, lips parted in shock, chest heaving as you glance down at the knife buried in your gut. A sickening smile curves up on the man’s face and he drops you to the ground.  

Bucky only vaguely registers the bodies that fall around him as he empties his clip. He can't look at you now, not as blood starts to seep around your suit and drip into the snow, so he focuses the brunt of his tunnel vision to the man wielding the knife. The satisfied grin drops as he notices Bucky raise his weapon. It only takes one shot, but Bucky fires six.  

By the time he reaches you, he’s skidding on his knees into the snow. It soaks into his suit and sends shivers into his spine in unpleasant memories of the ice, but he pays it little mind as he bends down to assess the damage. His hands hover over the blade, almost afraid to touch you, and he resides to keep the knife secure until he can safely remove it.  

“Hey, Barnes,” you mutter weakly and it snaps Bucky from his trance. He looks up to see you smiling at him, though your eyes are fluttering shut. Your breathing is shallow.  

“Don’t talk right now,” Bucky warns you because he can see the energy draining away. It’s happening too quick. The blade doesn’t appear as though it’s nicked any major arteries, and yet, you look as though it plunged straight through your heart.

You chuckle, though it’s faint and you wince in the effort. “Sick of my voice already?”

Bucky shakes his head, astounded how you can still tease him in your position. “You kidding me? Not a chance.”

He reaches up to press a finger to the coms to get ahold of someone, anyone, to get you airlifted out of here, only to find it slipped out of his ear in the struggle. A quick glance back behind him and he knows he’ll never find it amongst the snow. He clenches his jaw and tried not to let the panic show as he looks for yours.  

“Lost mine, too,” you mumble, gesturing to the broken pieces in the snow beside you. One of your attackers must have hit you hard enough to dislodge it and slammed it under his heel to cause that much damage.  

Bucky pulls in a deep breath, glancing up to the sky in search of Sam, only to find a dark cast of clouds carrying over. On the ground, dozens of mercenaries are engaged with the rest of the Shield team and more are piling out from the woodwork.  

“I have to get you out of here,” Bucky resides. He doesn’t have a plan, but he knows it’s not safe where you are. He slips a hand under your knees, another around your back, and hoists you into his arms. He’s lucky the blade is small enough that it stays nestled in place as he carries you away from the field.  

He tries not to think of what would happen if a mercenary caught up with him now. He was defenseless with you in his arms and there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d sacrifice you to save himself.  

The wind whips around the trees, snow stinging on his cheeks as it builds in the scruff on his cheeks. You curl into his neck as best you can and he knows it’s subconscious, that it doesn’t mean much more than you seeking out the warmth of his body, but it doesn’t stop the trace of a smile that pushes at his cheeks.  

“Stay with me, alright?” he pleads, though he’s not sure you can hear him. It earns a tired hum in response.  

A storm is approaching quickly judging by the dark overcast of clouds and the snow on his boots that inches up higher along his shins with every step. If the blade doesn’t kill you, the exposure will, and Bucky starts to pick up his pace.  

The field is nothing but a distant haze by the time he reaches an unmarked dirt road. He must have walked miles with you in his arms, fading in and out of consciousness, waking you up every few paces when your eyes started to flutter closed. The relief is overwhelming when he spots a cabin at the end of the road, obstructed by trees and overgrown weeds. Abandoned.  

“Almost there,” he tells you and you curl up tighter against him. A whine leaves your lips and he picks up the pace.  

Bucky doesn’t bother with picking the lock and slams his foot to the most vulnerable angle of the door instead. It whips open to reveal an empty living room; dark, with cobwebs hanging in the corners and dust upon the mantle. He rushes inside to escape the painful sting of the wind and the snowfall as it piles outside the door. His footprints are already swept away in the impending storm. 

“You’re alright, hold on,” Bucky mumbles, blindly searching around the room until he can lower you onto the couch. He wipes away as much of the dust as he can as he eases you against the cushions. Your face scrunches up in pain and he knows how hard you’re trying to hide it from him.  

He brushes a hand over your forehead and it startles him when he finds it burning hot. He doesn't have a lot of time.  

“I’ll be right back.”

“No! Wait--”

He freezes, stunned when he hears your voice so clearly. Your hand wraps at his wrist, clenching so tight it would have hurt if it wasn’t constructed of solid metal. When he meets your eye, he finds a pain stab straight through his chest, because he’s become so used to your light and joy and charm that the fear etched into your features ruins him completely.  

“Bucky, don’t go.”

His heart splinters.  

“I need to find a first aid kit. I’ve got to clean that wound before it gets infected,” he explains as gently as he can, sinking down to his knees beside you. You nod at his words, but you’re unconvinced.

“I won’t leave you,” he adds with a little more conviction.

His relationship to you is complicated; filled with teasing smiles and playful tension in the sparring ring, late night talks and comfortable silence. You were the first person he trusted in Shield outside of Steve and Sam, the first to make him laugh until his stomach hurt, the first to accept him completely and entirely as the man he is, not who he was in his youth or what Hydra made him to be. You didn’t ask questions, didn’t expect him to be anything he wasn’t.  

He cares for you and he knows, at least on some level, you must care for him, too. He can't imagine that anyone would be as sweet as you are with him if you didn’t. There’s too much violence to overlook, too much evil ingrained into his veins. You don’t seem to mind and Bucky wonders most days if you’re not simply an angel sent from heaven itself with the extent of absolution you grant to him. 

So it’s not a question. There’s no second guessing. He won’t leave you.  

“I’ll be right back,” he presses again, eyes flickering to the knife in your side. “I promise.”

You nod, letting go of his wrist, but he can tell you’re still afraid. He recognizes it in himself, how he’s felt as though if he closed his eyes for even a second, he might convince himself it was all a dream and he’ll wake up right back in Hydra’s cell. He realizes then that you’re wondering if Bucky steps out of your view, he might disappear entirely and you’ll be alone, facing the impending darkness on your own.  

“Hey, remember that summer in New Orleans?” Bucky starts, hoping to ease your panic through the sound of his voice as he slips from the room. “Sam was walking around Bourbon Street with a dozen beaded necklaces and tripping over his own feet?”  

Bucky can vaguely hear you chuckle weakly from the living room as he rummages through the drawers in the bathroom.  

He continues. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen Sam that wasted before. I had to carry him up three flights of stairs to his room.”  

Shifting through old toothpaste containers, wash rags, makeup brushes, Bucky knelt down under the sink in search of anything he can use. He grabs the clean towels and an ace bandage hidden behind the pipes and moves onto the first bedroom. He still needs something to close the wound.  

“Idiot passed out on me before midnight,” Bucky calls out to the living room, stealing a glance at you to make sure your eyes were still open. You smile at him, faded and faint, but he continues on. “You called when we didn’t show up to the bar, remember? You didn’t think you could keep up with Natalia’s tolerance and you wanted to push some of your drinks off on me.”

Bucky is surprised when his lips curve up into a smile at the memory. It was the first time anyone managed to convince him to stay a few days passed the scheduled mission. He always had such a hard time saying no to you.  

“Think that might have been the first night I went out dancing since the forties. It was a little different than what I was used to but the music had the same soul to it,” Bucky continues as he searches under the bed, through the closet, shoving aside old clothes and shoe boxes. He can feel the panic rising, though he keeps his voice as calm as he can manage. His hands are trembling until he finds a small white box tucked into the back corner. Red cross on the top.  

It’s missing a few pieces inside but it’s enough. Relief surges through him and Bucky makes his way back out to the living room.  

“Don’t know if I would have let anyone else drag me away from the bar long enough to get a whole song out of me,” Bucky says as he holds up the kit for you to see and quickly moves to the kitchen to wash his hands.  

“You’re a good dancer, Barnes,” you mutter out feebly, smiling fondly at the memory.  

It’s a good memory, he thinks. A little faded with time, but he can still recall how you felt pressed against his chest, how his left nestled along the small of your back, his right intertwined with yours. Slow movements, swaying gently to the soft strum of the guitar. 

Bucky smiles backs at you, pauses for just a moment to memorize the way your lips curve up so beautifully into your cheeks before he turns to the sink to wash his hands. The water comes out brown for the first few seconds before it clears up. He washes his hands quickly and gathers a bucket of water before he makes his way back to you.  

As he kneels down at your side, he tries to mask the flash of panic that courses through him as he catches sight of the blood seeped into the couch under your back and the sweat dripping down your temples. It’s wet in your hair and you don’t seem to be in much pain anymore. Just tired. Your eyelids fall heavy.

“Hey,” Bucky calls sharply, shaking your shoulder a little harsher than he intended. Your eyes snap open. “You need to stay awake for me, alright? You know I’m lousy at this stuff. Need you to make sure I’m doing it right.”

You laugh, though Bucky can tell it’s forced. You both know he’s lying. He’d tended to wounds of his own far worse than this before. But Bucky doesn’t care about causing himself pain. He powers through it, uses it as a means of strength. He knows how badly this will hurt you and he hesitates as he holds a pair of scissors to your suit.  

“I trust you,” you say so quietly Bucky isn’t certain he even heard it. You nod at him.  

Bucky takes a deep breath as he cuts away at your suit and removes the fabric away from the wound.  

“It’s going to bleed a lot,” he warns. “Don’t let it scare you.”

You nod, staring up at the ceiling as you try to prepare yourself.  

Bucky doesn’t say anything else, because he knows it will make this harder. Your chest rises a little quicker, hands clench into fists, and it takes nearly everything Bucky has not to hold your hand instead of the hilt of the knife.  

It happens quickly. He pulls the knife from your stomach in one fluid motion. You gasp at the sudden sensation, a cry in your voice as you bite down on your fist to keep yourself from screaming, and Bucky presses a towel to your side to absorb the gush of blood and it drenches the cloth in a matter of seconds.  

He removes it in favor of a clean one and drops the bloodied rag onto the floor. The next towel doesn’t turn red as quickly and Buck begins to exhale a sigh of relief. The blood flow is slowing down. It’s a good sign. It’ll give him the chance to clean the wound and stitch you up enough to keep you together until rescue shows up.  

It takes a while before Bucky dares to lift the cloth. It’s heavy in his hands and dripping with blood, but the wound doesn’t appear to be freshly bleeding. Bucky gets to work, humming quietly to himself as he cleans the wound as best he can. He can feel your eyes on him, watching as he tends to the wound and mumbles under his breath, but he doesn’t mind. You’re awake. It's all that matters to him.  

“You really need to do that?” you ask nervously as Bucky begins to thread a needle.  

Bucky shrugs. “There’s a stapler in the office if you prefer that?”  

You laugh, enough to cause a bit of blood to seep out from the cleaned wound and Bucky presses a hand to your stomach to stop the bleeding.  

“Hey! Don’t mess with my work!” he teases, thankful for a moment where you feel more like yourself than you had since he picked you from the snowbank on the battlefield. You nod, trying to contain your smile, though its weak and fading.  

“My apologies, Sergeant Barnes.”

“That’s Dr. Barnes to you,” Bucky quips back, distracting you long enough to slip the thread through your skin. You wince, hand gripping in tight to the straps on his shoulder.

“Yeah?” you mutter out tensely. “What decade did you get your medical degree in, Doctor? Feels pretty amateur from where I’m sitting.”

“You should be nicer to me, doll. I’m the one with the needle in my hand,” Bucky smirks. Only two more threads to go before the wound is closed and you’re taking it like a champ. Pride swells in his chest and he has the urge to kiss you, but quickly pushes the feeling down.  

“Imagine how I must feel,” you scoff playfully, exhaling a heavy breath of relief as Bucky sits back and cuts the thread.  

Bucky grins, brushing a clean cloth over the surface to wipe away the excess blood. “You did good. Try to get some rest now, alright? I’ll be here.”

He lifts a blanket up over your body and lets it lay against your chest. You smile at him again and he’s certain it’s the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen. He stands to clean up the mess around the couch when your hand catches his.  

“Thank you.” You squeeze his hand, rub your thumb over his wrist, something so tender and loving that it nearly jolts his heart straight from his chest.  

“Anytime, doll,” he replies as even as his voice will let him. By the time he finishes cleaning the bloodied rags and rinsing the red stains from his hands, you’ve already fallen asleep.  

Bucky takes his time as he gathers a few stray blankets and lays them down on the floor beside the couch. He knows there’s a room with a decent bed just a few feet down the hall but he meant what he promised you. He wasn’t going to leave your side.  

So, he lays down on the hardwoods, rests a pillow under his head, and stars up at the ceiling; content to listen to the soft sounds of your breathing until they too lull him to sleep.  

***

He wakes abruptly a few hours later. It’s dark outside, nearly pitch black in the cabin, and Bucky rubs his hands over his tired eyes before he realizes what woke him up.  

Quiet whimpers above him, muffled, pained. You’re crying.  

Bucky jolts up in a panic. He kneels beside you to find you curled up on your side, knees tucked to your stomach, tears streaming down your cheeks. You're sweating again, and it drenches into your hair.  

“Y/n?” Bucky begs, hands hovering over you, terrified to make it worse. “Y/n, talk to me.”

“It hurts,” you cry, barely able to mutter the words out. “It hurts... bad. S-Somethings wrong.”

Bucky nods, rushing up to the fireplace to give some light. It takes him longer than it should and he nearly shouts out in frustration before it sparks and a flame bursts onto the wood. It’s a faint flicker, but it’s enough.  

“Let me see,” he requests, and you release the blanket to let Bucky's slide it off of you. He helps guide you to lay flat on the couch and he knows how much it hurts you because you’ve bitten down so hard on your lip, it’s bleeding. You choke back a cry.  

“I know, sweetheart,” Bucky soothes, running a hand down your arm to find you shaking so badly it trembles right into his palm. You’re fully sobbing as he tries to pry your hands away from the wound. “I’m so sorry, but you have to let me see it, honey. Come on now. It’s alright.”

You pull your hands away, clutching them tight into the couch cushions and it's then that Bucky sees the series of large, angry, purple veins extending from the wound. Jagged lines protruding out across your stomach, stretching up towards your chest to your heart.  

Bucky can’t find his breath as he stumbles back. On the ground at his feet, the faint flicker of the knife catches his eye in the dim light of the fire behind him, and he bends down to pick it up. On its surface, hardly visible, is a sticky thin substance; green in color, bitter in its stench. Poison.  

“I’m gonna die, aren’t I?”

Bucky’s eyes snap up to you as the knife slips from his hand. It clashes against the hardwoods and echoes through the painful silence in the cabin, only obstructed by the muffled whistle of the wind outside and your faint attempts to stifle the sob etching its way through your throat.  

“No,” Bucky replies quickly, though his voice wavers. You’re unconvinced as tears slip past your eyes and you drop his gaze in favor of the ceiling tiles.  

“No,” he tries again, firmer as he kneels by your side. He runs a hand over your forehead to brush away the sweat, soothes his palm against your face and traces the line of your cheekbone until you dare to meet his eye again. “I’m not going to let that happen. I’m not letting you die today; you hear me? You’re going to be just fine.”

“Bucky...”

“You’re going to be fine,” he says again, determined. “Starks probably got a whole branch of the military searching for you by now. We both know how much of a soft spot he’s got for you. Hell, I’m lucky you’re the one I’m MIA with. Stark wouldn’t waste an AI suit on tracking me down. But you? Come on. He won’t sleep until you’re home safe.”

Bucky doesn’t know why he’s trying to draw a smile out of you. He’s terrified and he knows you are too, but dammit, all he ever wants to do is make you smile.  

“Tony would send more than an AI for you.”

Bucky chuckles, shaking his head. “You underestimate how much he dislikes me.”

“It’s been better, hasn’t it?” you ask, and he knows you’re trying to distract yourself from the pain, so Bucky nods.  

“It has. He hasn’t tried to kill me lately, so I’d consider that an improvement.”

You smile and Bucky’s whole world brightens around him. Sunshine through the night sky, past the dark clouds and the blizzard outside the window, flowers blooming through the snow. It's perfect. You’re perfect.  

But then the pain sweeps in again and steals your smile away, warps it and twists it until you’re crying so hard you can barely breathe and Bucky is helpless but to watch.  

There’s nothing he can do. He doesn’t know what the poison is, let alone how to counteract it. He doesn't often wish Stark was around, but he does in this moment. He’d know what to do. He could save you, take away this pain, in a way Bucky couldn’t.

He finds himself looking to the windows, watching as the snow continues to fall in blurring sweeps enough that he can’t see the trees beyond the clearing. He figures at least another foot of snow has piled up in the last hour but maybe if he could find the right layers in the back bedroom, he could make himself useful, venture out to find a nearby town or a phone or --  

“Don’t.”  

Your voice is barely a whisper but it punctures straight through to Bucky’s heart.

“Please don’t go,” you mutter out. “I don’t want to be alone when... when I...”

“Hey,” Bucky exhales, shaking his head, “hey, come on. What did I say? You’re not dying today, remember?”

He tears his eyes away from the window, forgets his plan because he knows you’re right. He can’t leave you. He wants to believe that his hope is enough, that his insistence will sway fate herself, but the truth is he doesn’t know. He can’t do much of anything at all, but he starts to wonder if there is something he can do to shoulder even an ounce of your pain.  

Slowly, Bucky slips an arm under your back and gently guides you forward just enough so that he can slide into the space behind you. You mold against him as he eases his way onto the couch beside you, gathering you up into his arms. He runs a tender hand over your stomach along the spidery veins around the knife wound and you don’t wince. It seems to come and go in waves.  

The next wave comes quickly and Bucky holds you through it the best he can. He’s never felt so helpless in his life; arms wrapped tight around you, a hand soothing along your arm as he tries to reassure you that this will pass, that Stark’s on his way, that you’ll be okay, but he doesn’t know if he’s telling the truth anymore.  

You exhale as the pain subsides again and you’re drenched in sweat. Bucky is too, but he doesn’t mind, not if it means he can give you even an ounce of comfort through this. You curl against him, careful of the fresh stitches in your side.  

“I’m scared.” It comes out broken and aching and Bucky’s heart lurches.  

“I know, honey. But I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, alright? I’ve got you. You’re not alone.”  

It’s all he can say.  

His own helplessness makes him sick.  

There’s a prolonged silence and Bucky finds himself keeping a finger against your pulse, just to be sure. He feels like screaming or crying or maybe both, but he exhales a steady breath and tries to calm his heart rate instead because he knows you can hear it.  

“I’m glad it’s you,” you say after a while, voice barely louder than a whisper. It’s faint, fading, and Bucky bites down on his cheek. “I’m glad... that if this is... if this is it... you’re here.”

It breaks his heart, shatters it to pieces. He’d trade places with you if he could, absorb your pain tenfold if it meant you’d survive this, but he knows it’s a fantasy. Bucky Barnes stopped allowing himself to indulge in such dreams a long time ago.  

So, he holds you a little tighter, dares to press a kiss to the crown of your head, and rubs gentle circles along your spine. He can feel your pulse weaken, how it slips to beats a little longer apart, how your breaths fall shallow and he’s not ready to lose you yet. He’s not.

“How about when we get out of here, we go dancing?”

You don’t say anything, but he can feel your smile against his chest, the warm of your breath as you exhale a tired chuckle. It takes nearly all of your energy.  

“Been thinking about it a lot since New Orleans,” Bucky continues. “It could be fun, you know? Get dressed up. Listen to good music. Beautiful woman in my arms. Sounds nice.”

“You should... You should go,” you tell him and he barely recognizes your voice. He clenches his jaw until it aches, brushes at the tear in his eyes you’re too weak to lift your head to notice.  

“I’m not going with anyone but you, so no deal.”

“Bucky...”

“No deal. You or nothing, doll.” Bucky finds himself smiling through the tears. “You’re my only dance partner, okay? Can’t be having just anyone step all over my toes.”

You hum and it’s so faint he can hardly hear it. 

Bucky clears his throat, swallowing back the lump that threatens to choke him. “We’ll have to go back to that bar, okay? The one off of Bourbon Street. Live music only. I can show you how we used to dance back in my day. I’m sure you’ll be wonderful at it.” 

A smile breaks through the tears as he imagines spinning you under the soften glow of amber lights and the reflection of the moonlight through the windows, the roar of trumpets settling in his chest and the echo of your laugh etched right into his soul. You’d smile at him and his whole world would stop spinning. 

“What do you say, doll?” Bucky sighs, leaning down to kiss the crown of your head. He brushes the hair away from your eyes, sticky and wet with sweat.

But you don’t say anything and suddenly, it’s impossibly silent.  

Bucky stops breathing because he can’t hear the crackle of the fire place or the wind barreling against the cabin walls. He can’t hear the heavy snow as it brushes against the windows. He can’t hear your breaths, can’t feel the pulse as he reaches up to your neck, and that silence begins to feel like a void, like he’s screaming, but it’s all inside his head.  

“Y/n?” he chokes out. There’s no reply, but still, as if to break his own heart a little more, he tries again. “Y/n? Please... don’t do this. Come on. Come back to me.”

Nothing.

“No... no no no... don’t give up on me,” Bucky pleads, tears burning hot in his eyes. “Y/n...”

He barely notices as the cabin door is blown open, as the wind screams outside and snow barrels in through the frame. He can’t focus on much of anything else as he tries to move your lifeless body in his arms, trying to wake you from the edge of a paralyzing darkness. He doesn’t recognize the blur of red and yellow as it crashes into the room.  

“Banner! I need the antidote, now!”

You’re being pulled from his arms and all Bucky wants to do is hold on tighter.  

“Barnes, you need to let go of her.”  

The voice is calmer now, gentle, and Bucky allows himself to meet Tony’s eye. There’s a kindness there he doesn’t expect, an understanding. Tony’s helmet has been discarded and Bucky notices quickly he bares the same redness in the whites of his eyes, the same dark circles beneath. Tony’s hand lays upon your shoulder.  

“Let me save her, Barnes,” Tony tries again as Bruce barrels in through the door in a parka a few sizes too big for his frame. He’s clutching a syringe in his hand, desperately trying to hold up the hood around his head.  

Bucky nods numbly and releases you from his hold. Tony and Bruce lower you carefully down to the ground, laid upon the blankets he slept on less than an hour earlier. Tony presses his hand to your chest and an electrical spark jolts through your body. He tries again, and still, nothing.  

Bruce pulls off the cap of the syringe and without hesitation, plunges it directly into a vein and releases the serum inside. He sits back on his heels and waits.  

It's agonizing. The seconds feel like hours and Bucky is certain he’ll never learn to smile again, until suddenly, the purple veins along the knife wound begin to retract. They crawl along your skin and shrink back to the wound until they’ve disappeared entirely.  

But then, the most beautiful sound.  

You gasp for air, chest rising high off the ground before you sink back against the blankets. FRIDAY reports your pulse, says you’re stable, and Bucky presses his hands over his face to stop the sob before it consumes him whole. It’s made of relief.  

“You did good, Barnes,” Tony says as Bucky lowers his hands.  

He’s suspicious of the praise, but as Tony runs a hand over your hair, soothes it away from your face, Bucky knows he meant what he said.  

“We should get her to the cradle,” Bruce says, shivering as he glances back to the door. “Helen will want to fix that wound up and run some tests to make sure the antidote worked.”

Tony covers you with the blankets as best as he can and gathers you into his arms. Bucky tries to ignore the lurch in his stomach as you press your nose to Tony’s neck, seeking out his warmth. He doesn’t say anything else before he flies out the front door, back to the quinjet.

Bruce starts to make his way to the door when he realizes Bucky isn’t following behind. He pauses and glances back at Bucky over his shoulder.  

“How did you know?” Bucky asks weakly, staring at the empty syringe.  

“A few of the Shield agents came back from the field with the same symptoms,” Bruce explains. He scratches the back of his neck. “We wanted to be prepared if either of you were infected by the poison.”  

Bucky nods. He feels empty.  

“She’s going to be alright, Barnes,” Bruce says and he places a comforting hand on Bucky’s shoulder. It surprises him but he can feel the tension slip away as Bruce squeezes the muscle tightly. He gestures to the door. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

***

Bucky’s right hand is throbbing. Blood trickles down from the open scars on his knuckles and it smears into the punching bag. Beads of sand embed themselves into the wounds but he presses on because it’s better than the pit in his stomach, of seeing you laid up in the med wing with wires attached you and a monitor displaying the weak rhythm of your pulse.  

It’s been days since you’ve been home, since the antidote was administered and Helen properly stitched up the stab wound in your stomach, and yet you’re still unconscious, barely breathing on your own. Banner can’t make sense of it, but he suspects it’s because the poison was in your system longer than the others.  

Bucky can’t help but wonder that if he never left the field with you, if he had just stayed put and fought off whoever tried to come near, that maybe they could have saved you. Maybe he’s the reason you're still fighting for your life. Maybe if he wasn’t around at all you'd be safer, you'd be alive.

The bag dislodges from the ceiling and slams into the wall in an echoing thud.  

Bucky sighs, slumping his shoulders down as he kicks at the sand streaming from the bag onto the gym floors. He turns to pick up the next bag in the long line leading from the storage closet when he stops dead in his tracks.  

You’re standing in the center of the gym, still dressed the pale blue scrubs from the med wing, holding onto the edge of a weight machine for support. There is a mark in your arm from where the IV line should be, tape residue around your mouth from the tubes. It’s a miracle you’re on your feet at all and all Bucky wants to do is run towards you, wrap you tight into his arms, just to convince himself that you’re real, that you’re standing right there, but instead, he holds his ground. He’s turned to stone.  

“Thought I’d find you here,” you chuckle, your voice raspy and airy, but it has a strength to it again. It sounds like you.  

Bucky grips his hands at his side. “I didn’t... I didn’t know you were awake.”

You shrug. “Don’t think the nurses do either. Helen might be mad at me when she finds an empty bed in my room.”

“You shouldn’t be here, Y/n,” he says, his gaze focused on the floor. He pushes aside the heavy stone sitting in his chest as he starts to walk towards you to usher to towards the med wing. “I should get you back...”

“What else was I supposed to do when I woke up and you weren’t there?”  

You’re smiling, teasing. There’s a laugh in your voice, and still Bucky can’t help the pang in his stomach. It twists and turns and threatens to consume him whole.  

He rolls his eyes. “Maybe not wander around the tower after being in a coma for four days?”

The smile lingers upon your face despite his tone. It doesn’t seem to bother you at all, doesn’t throw you off your game, doesn’t puncture even a crack into the shield of your charm. No – you smile at him.  

“You broke your promise, Barnes,” you say simply. “I’m here to scold you for it. Think you may owe me a few takeout nights before you’re out of the doghouse.”  

Bucky narrows his eyes, daring to challenge your gaze. “What promise?”  

“You left.”

Bucky feels the hitch in his lungs before the flash of guilt sweeps over his gut. You notice it just as quick because the teasing smile falls in an instant. He stumbles back away from you, slipping out from the extent of your outstretched hand.  

“It’s better that way, Y/n,” he mumbles. “I’m the reason you ended up there.”

“Don’t you dare do that,” you snap, enough so that it startles him. 

You struggle to walk the few steps closer to him, your legs wobbling underneath you and he wonders how you even made it across the tower and down five floors to the gym without anyone stopping you. You reach for his hand and because Bucky can’t bear to see you struggle, he offers his support. You balance yourself on the edge of the weight machine beside him, one hand anchored in his left forearm.  

“Y/n,” he starts, taking in a deep breath, but you cut him off quickly.  

“No. There is no room for the Bucky Barnes guilt parade here, okay?” you argue. “You saved my life, Bucky. You can’t possibly stand there and think for a second that you’re somehow to blame for anything less.”

He shakes his head. The guilt and shame that burns deep into his chest is one he knows well. It lives inside of him, festering, waiting for moments like these.  

“If I hadn’t taken you from the field, if I got that blade out sooner, Banner could have given you the antidote hours earlier and you wouldn’t have—”

“I would have bled out before he had the chance,” you press, pulling yourself a little closer. “Those other agents? They had scrapes, Bucky. Nicks. The poison only started to affect me after you removed the knife. Bruce thinks it reacted to the oxygen in the air. Waiting to remove the blade, closing the wound... Bucky, you prolonged it as long as you could have. You gave me more time, gave Bruce and Tony time to find us. You saved me.”  

Your hand squeezes at the solid metal of his forearm and Bucky knows he can't really feel it. He can only register the synapses faintly, as if they were distant, far away; it reads it like data and numbers, but there’s something in the way the pads of your fingertips press into the divots of vibranium that makes his breath hilt. His stare focuses on your thumb as it rubs soothing sweeps along the crevices and it takes him a moment before he dares to meet your eye.

When he does, all that is waiting for him is that same smile that lit up across a battlefield, that pushed through when you were on the brink of an endless darkness, that cast away the shadows and demons that swarmed in his chest just with the wrinkles up by your eyes. He felt lighter. Safer.  

“Now,” you start, sliding your palm down his forearm until you can intertwine your hand in his own. You curl your fingers around his and you don’t seem to be bothered in the slightest by the harsh chill of the metal. You smile at him and for the first time in a while, Bucky finds himself smiling back. “I believe you owe me a dance, Sergeant.”

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

[the-cult-of-russo]

headcanon for when billy realizes he’s in love with reader? i’m such a sucker for romantic and soft billy😫

I love this. I'm going to go a little beyond just when he first realises too. You'll see. It's turned into more of a 'when Billy's in love with you' headcanon.

I'll break it down into sections once again. It's just easier that way 😌

-

When he first realises he loves you:

Oh man. Billy doesn't realise he's in love until he's so far gone he's drowning in it lmao

He has no idea why he gets crazy ass butterflies in his stomach every time he just thinks about you. No idea why his heart beats all funny when he looks at you or why his chest feels all warm. He doesn't know why everytime he's away from you his chest hurts and it feels like someone's punched a gaping hole right through it. The boy has no clue.

But then one day, he's out drinking with Frank, having a good time. And Frank's been going on and on about Maria, absolutely gushing about her. Billy being the good best friend he is, teases him of course. Sends him an offhand remark with a smirk. And Frank replies with...

"Yeah well. That's what happens when you're in love."

The words feel like a smack to the face. Suddenly, Billy feels like he's free falling, plummeting at record speed towards the concrete from a 50 story building. Because he relates. All the sickening gushing Frank had been doing, Billy got it. He does it himself about you. And Frank's words make everything click into place, Billy's world is suddenly tilting on its axis. Because what if you don't feel the same? Why would you when own his mother couldn't muster up any love for him?

He freaks out. His mind is going to dark places as his heart feels ready to give out. Frank sees him looking a second away from collapsing in a heap on the floor and takes him outside. After some brotherly advice and tough love, he feels a little better.

He still won't tell you though. Of course not, that's just fucking stupid. The fear of rejection runs far too deep in Billy to admit such a thing and he doesn't know how he'd cope if you broke his heart. If he lost the only person he's ever been in love with. So he resolves to keep it to himself. Its kind of nice though, to finally know just what it is that he's been feeling. It was obvious really. People write love songs about this bullshit. The same songs Billy's been listening to like a love sick fool because he gets it. He relates to the words.

-

How he tells you:

Billy won't outright tell you he loves you first. At least not on purpose. There are three likely scenarios that happen.

The first is you telling him you love him first. This is his best case scenario. He blinks warily at you for a moment, dark eyes rapidly scanning your face as he tries to find even the slightest hint of deception. It's not that he doesn't trust you, but he finds it almost impossible to believe anyone would ever be in love with him.

But when he realises you're telling the truth, he's dumbstruck. He's stunned but overwhelmingly happy and he tells you he loves you too. It feels like a weights been lifted, to finally tell you, to know you haven't turned him away. That you actually love him too.

The second way it might happen is him blurting it out randomly. This might happen during or after some amazing sex. Maybe you're both snuggled on the sofa and laughing about something stupid. He just looks at your wide and radiant smile and it strikes him how absolutely hopelessly in love with you he is. How lucky he is to be with you. And his mouth takes on a life of its own. The words tumble from his lips without his consent and he panics.

Total blind fear claws at his chest when he realises what he's said. He fears the worst. That you'll say you don't feel the same, maybe even laugh at him. Yet you don't do those things. You tell him you love him too. He reacts the same as the other scenario. Wary at first until he sees you mean it. And then he's overjoyed and shocked and confused but ridiculously happy.

The last scenario is similar to the other one in that it gets blurted out. Only this time it's during a heated discussion or argument. I made a whole headcanon post about arguing with Billy and another on the kind of things you might argue about.

This isn't a huge fight but most likely caused by something you did that he saw as reckless. Something like you walking home from work in the dark instead of getting a cab or calling him. Is he being overdramatic? Definitely. He knows this. But he's so terrified something might happen to you and it frustrates him that you don't see that. That you have no idea how much it would kill him if you got hurt. And in the middle of all the anger and the blind fear and intensity in the moment, after a biting remark from you, the words get ripped from his chest.

"Because I fuckin' love you, alright?! I'd die if somethin' happened to you! So you don't get to stand there and tell me it's no big deal!"

He's full of barely restrained rage at the mere thought of someone hurting you and he's sad and upset that you don't seem to care much about your own wellbeing.

But now it's a tense silence because he just blurted those words and worst of all, he yelled them at you. It was all going wrong and he hates it. But his panic was kept at bay by his anger, his only outwards reactions being the clenched jaw, the narrowed eyes and the roll of his shoulder. He's steeling himself for the inevitable. The searing pain of rejection.

But then you're yelling right back that you love him too and calling him an asshole and he's never been happier in his damn life. And with emotions still running high from the fight, he tosses you over his shoulder and takes you to the bedroom so he can show you just how much he loves you.

-

Ways he shows you he loves you:

Any of these that don't involve the words 'I love you' he's already been doing a while. But he continues to do so after that hurdle of first telling you passes and he gets comfortable with telling you verbally at every chance he gets.

He loves taking care of you. If he's off work he loves making you breakfast in bed. He loves cooking for you, he's actually quite good at it. He draws you relaxing baths, sometimes joining you and not even for sex. If you've had a hard day at work, he'll put your feet in his lap as you sit on the sofa with him and rub your sore feet.

He often buys you your favorite flowers, always accompanied by a sweet note. When you're both at work, he stops by your work for lunch because he can't stand a whole day away from you.

Since he wakes before you, he often just lays there and watches you. With the sun rising and bathing you in its glow, he watches in awe of how he managed to get someone as amazing as you. He doesn't dwell on these moments for too long though. His treacherous brain has a habit of poisoning anything good. If he lays there too long, his thoughts turn sour as the voice in the back of his head tells him he's not good enough for you. He doesn't deserve you, deserve your love. You'll leave him one day, realise you deserve way better than someone like him. He was an unloved and unwanted child, and that little boy is still there inside of him, hiding behind his bravado and his fancy ass suits. It's a downward spiral he finds it hard to come back from and he learned his lesson long ago. So instead, he allows himself a moment to admire you, appreciate you, and then he gets up for the day.

He doesn't wake you, you look so sweet and peaceful and he doesn't have the heart to. You don't need to get up as early as he does. Sometimes, if he's feeling particularly sappy, he leaves a note for you on his pillow. Letting you know how much he loves you and that he'll miss you while at work.

Gifts are abundant with Billy. It doesn't matter what it is, if you want it then it's yours. If it's expensive, it's yours. Cheap, it's yours. Weird and rare and very hard to get, he finds a way and it's yours. He's also a sucker for sentimental gifts. Jewellery that means something, maybe the date you met engraved on it. Some kind of photo gift with a picture of the two of you.

Billy has a lot of affection to give you. I've talked about this in other posts but he's a tactile person. He always needs to be touching you, reassuring himself you're real, you're safe and you're there with him. He often puts his hand on your neck, slender fingers feeling your pulse under them. It soothes him to do so. There's plenty of kisses on your head, temples, shoulders, neck, cheeks. He can't help it. He also loves stroking your hair. His hand are always attached to you like there's a gravitational pull towards you he can't resist. There's at least one hand on you at all times if you're near.

-

Billy doesn't fall for people easily. It's never happened before you. But when he falls, he falls hard. It's an all consuming kind of love that takes over his whole being.

[klixxy]

Genshin Fic Recs

so... i ventured into the vast world of Google looking for some good GI fic recs... only to find such a pitiful amount that i was promptly devastated. therefore, the solution is to make my own! :D

keep in mind most of these will be ChiLi or XingYun, and yes, i will try not to include smut unless it was one i really really liked. if anyone wants a separate list for just smut (though that will most likely be shorter) i can try to make one later.`

ft. my bookmark comments :)

CHILI

wrapped up in pure gold by beyondwinter

(chili; accidental marriage; chili/childe-centric; 22k words; ongoing)

"Do you understand its meaning, Childe?" He finally asks. There's a hard glint in his eyes, like he's trying to steel himself for his answer.

"Yeah." Loyalty and devotion, right? Between business partners? "I do. It's traditional, isn't it?"

Zhongli's eyes glow a warm amber in the near darkness, reflecting the soft shine of the lanterns. He studies his face with a strange intensity, as though Childe were a piece of high quality Nocticulous Jade being sold for suspiciously small sum and he's trying to find the blemishes that would explain the price. The weight of his gaze should be uncomfortable, boring into him like he can see into the very depths of his abyss-tainted soul, but Childe finds himself preening under the attention instead.

Childe accidentally proposes to Zhongli. Zhongli accepts.

The World is Water by Millereflets

(chili; smut; hurt/comfort; chili-centric; 7k words; oneshot)

Childe doesn't visit Zhongli until it's almost too late.

(my bookmarks: HOW DO YOU MAKE A SMUT SCENE SO POETIC HOLY SHITTTTT)

Set in Stone by seredemia

(chili; fake dating au; angst; some smut?; chili/chiilde-centric; 55k words; ongoing)

What do you do when you write about a certain six thousand year old consultant so much in your letters that it somehow convinces your entire family you're not only dating each other, but that you're also engaged?

In Childe's case, the answer is plain and simple: he goes along with it, of course. Absolutely nothing can go wrong if he makes a contract with the God of Contracts, vowing that the two of them will pretend to be lovers for the duration of his family's stay in Liyue. Afterwards, they'll return as normal and speak no more of this mess. No feelings or complications involved whatsoever.

Contract accepted. A fool-proof plan set in stone. Right?

Private Ledger of the Eleventh Harbinger by JuHuaTai

(chili; humor; getting together; chili/ekaterina-centric; 5k words; oneshot)

“So guess what I did next?”

Ekaterina contemplated not answering, but Harbinger Tartaglia was just… grinning and waiting. It’s honestly rather creepy the longer time passed.

In the end, she gave a long suffering sigh that seems lost on him, “You bought him the Erhu—“

“I bought him the antique, cor lapis based Erhu,”

-

When she first left her homeland for the unknown nation of Liyue, Ekaterina was ready to be many things: To be a soldier, to fell Tsaritsa’s enemies in her name, to bring glory to Snezhnaya and her leader.

Being a receptionist in a cozy bank wasn’t so bad in comparison, but she absolutely can do without the front row seat to Harbinger Tartaglia’s (expensive) love life.

i know i'm where i'm meant to go by paperclips (pastel_paperclips)

(chili; humor; fluff; chili-centric; 12k words; ongoing)

"Childe," Zhongli says suddenly. "I am enjoying myself greatly." Childe’s face breaks into a grin. "Then-" Zhongli gasps, grabbing his wrist and tugging him over to an unsuspecting peddler with a cart full of rocks. "Is that an intrusive igneous pegmatite formed in the Inazuma regions?" Childe’s grin smooths into a small, adoring smile. He has all the time in the world to figure the other man out.

OR: Finding the Geo Archon is on Childe's to-do list but hanging out with Zhongli is significantly more fun.

CHILIVEN

Crumbling Stone by avtorSola

(chiliven; ANGST; PAIN; mind control; zhongli-centric; 74k words; ongoing)

When Morax unleashes his plan to test the Liyue Qixing and his adepti, he does not take into account the stirring of the Abyss Order in the north and the corruption of Dvalin - for why would he fear an organization that works in such shadows? He is secure in his power, after all, unlike his flighty ex, the absentee archon of Mondstadt who rises only when his people are in danger.

But, somehow, the Abyss Order discovers his plan. Somehow, they capitalize on it. And he, the God of Stone who cannot sicken, is struck down - taken by an order bent on destroying all of humanity as Liyue crumbles around him. For even Archons aren't immune to Durin's blood, and Morax is no exception. But then the question becomes - if even Archons may fall to the agony of this corrupting burn - how is their traveling friend Aether immune?

The answer comes from beyond the stars - an ancient malice that knows no kindness or mercy. A malice whose legacy the Abyss Order now bears, seeking to topple all the Archons and their people into the void of utter destruction. And they have begun in Liyue.

Fortunately, it takes a long time to erode stone.

(my bookmarks: IM SCREAMING AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA)

PLATONIC ZHONGVEN

left-behind city by trixstar

(platonic zhongven; angst; ANGST; venti-centric; 1k words; oneshot)

"An associate of mine has just informed me that Rex Lapis, the Geo Archon has been assassinated."

Venti blinks.

Or: Venti and how he copes with finding out he is all that remains.

i circle ten thousand years long; and i still do not know if i am a falcon, a storm, or an unfinished song by birdsofpassage

(platonic zhongven; angst; hurt/comfort; zhongven-centric; 4k words; oneshot)

Venti and Zhongli, and the vignettes of a much-needed vacation around Mondstadt.

(my bookmarks: ; - ;      ;  -  ; )

oh ye with little faith by air_fried_air

(platonic zhongven; angst; hurt/comfort; zhongven-centric; 2k words; oneshot)

Two former archons do a little tour around Mondstadt.

(my bookmarks: why are all genshin angst fics so melancholy.... i feel so empty)

the wind through the mountain tops by glassdrachma

(platonic zhongven; humor; hurt/comfort; zhongven-centric; 21k words; finished)

Boredom brings Barbatos of Mondstadt to bother a certain ex-Archon of the Earth.

(my bookmarks: venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship-)

XINGYUN

the art of exorcism by Agried

(xingyun; ghost au; hurt/comfort; chongyun-centric; 9k words; oneshot)

On the road back from one of his jobs, Chongyun runs into Xingqiu, the wandering swordsman. And then they keep meeting, over and over again. or, alternately; how a ghost and an exorcist learn how to love, one step at a time.

Bane of All Evil by tzitzimeme

(xingyun; humor; romance; chongyun-centric; 24k words; hiatus)

When Chongyun unintentionally offends Liyue's second most powerful adepti, he vows to mend the thorny relationship between Adeptus Xiao and human exorcists-- even though no one has succeeded in currying Xiao's favor for over a thousand years.

His best friend Xingqiu offers to come alone, mainly because he's worried about what kind of trouble Chongyun will run into. Along the way, they receive help from others: Xiangling packs them meals for their journeys, while Zhongli gives them advice on what demons to track.

Childe is just there because he thinks the whole thing is hilarious.

[On indefinite hiatus due to burnout; sorry!]

kiss me slowly (so i don't forget) by xiwangmu

(xingyun; humor; romance; light angst; xingqiu-centric; 8k words; oneshot)

Wangshu Inn Bulletin Board

Guest Message: My best friend whom I harbor affections for kissed me last night, but due to his special condition he does not recall a single moment of it. I am quite conflicted about whether to disclose these events to him or not, because that would most certainly require me to confess my feelings as well. If anyone has experience in romancing boys with excessive positive energy, this one humbly asks you to share some advice.

Reply: Our greatest apologies—although we would like to offer some words in response, we simply cannot decipher your handwriting. Perhaps you may return with a neater message next time?

time trials by idlestars

(xingyun/many ships; humor; modern au; xingyun-centric; 2k words; oneshot)

A modern social media AU.

Xingqiu Teases Demons. Chongyun Almost Cries. [The clip shows Xingqiu, lit by the sickly green of night vision, as he stares bored into a dark room. He’s alone - Chongyun left to see if Xingqiu could lure out the ghosts. Xingqiu glances at the camera, smirks, and then opens his mouth.

“Hey demons, it’s me, yah boy.”]

OTHER/GEN

woe be the wallet of the god of wealth by glassdrachma

(gen; humor; identity reveal; keqing/zhongli-centric; 12k words; finished)

Or, the story of how the Yuheng of the Qixing came to idolize, befriend, and discover the identity of the God of Geo, in that order.

(personal comments: hilarious, made me burst out into laughter multiple times, and was just a masterful piece of writing)

to dream of dust by miao_x

(guili/gen; ANGST; hurt/no comfort; zhongli-centric; 5k words; oneshot)

Some nights, Zhongli dreams.

He dreams of soft light, golden song, and a gentle breeze whispering tales of millennia past. It is warm, familiar, and comforting.

It feels like home.

And then he opens his eyes, and awakes to reality.

(my bookmarks: oh zhongli... made me cry)

To drown in your own tears by C_rin_nyan

(guili/gen; ANGST; TEARS; PAIN; zhongli-centric; 2k words; oneshot)

As Rex Lapis, he had never shed a tear, even as he slaughtered hundreds, destruction following his every step. As Zhongli, he had shed much more than he would like to admit, however.

Or, “Zhongli’s soul gave its last scream long ago, yet even now, the echo of said sound was still strong enough to reach Rex Lapis.”

[scarecrowmilkfog]

♡My Prison Pen Pal♡

Helmut Zemo x reader

Word count: 1,802

Warnings: swearing, mentions of prison and crimes and slight angst to do with his family

A/N: its finally here! I havent writen a fic in a long time so hopefully you guys like this! I tried to avoid using idioms and things like that but message me if you need anything explained or reworded as I know most people aren't native English speakers

@sorcerersofnyc

♡♡♡

His first letter came during the series finale of your favourite show. A rather inconvenient moment, you thought, so it stayed on the welcome mat until you passed through the hall on your way to bed. Picking it up, you figured you'd skim the first few lines then finish it and write a reply before work. Instead, you found yourself writing and rewriting a reply through the night. Somehow this man had managed to enthrall you with only a letter. Maybe it was the way he wrote as if he was some elegant poet whose sonnets would one day be hailed as classics. How he managed to be open and expressive, exuding a welcoming aura, and yet still seeming mysterious. Or perhaps it was simply fated by the stars that Helmut Zemo would capture your heart.

You waited anxiously for his second letter to arrive. After sending the first, you hadn't cared whether you got a response, the whole thing seemed like a bad idea to you. But your mother was insistent that you needed to meet new people and this way you wouldn't need to worry about awkward face to face conversations. Sending the first letter felt like any other chore you do in the day, done with much effort and resignment but forgotten within minutes. But the second? It felt like the most important thing you'd done in a long time. You'd even bought a first class stamp (not that it makes a difference).

You wanted to know more about this intriguing man. No, supervillain. Charged with international terrorism. Jesus christ what the fuck was wrong with you? Were you really falling in love with a supervillain after one letter? But he didn't seem evil to you. He wrote eloquently, somehow his simple and brief description of his day (he'd started reading a new psychology book, you'd have to send him some recommendations) sounded fascinating in his words.

Over time, you started to notice small things about Helmut. The way he crossed his t's, how he signed his name, but mainly that there was a romanticism to his writing. From the way he described his home, his wife, his son to his recipes for Sokovian dishes with small notes and doodles (your favourite was his shepherd's pie recipe where he helpfully noted his mother's assertion that you should always add more than you think you need). It was becoming clear to you that he wasn't the stoic and vengeful baron you expected but rather a soft, lonely and endearingly weird man who you couldn't imagine plotting to destroy the Avengers. Whilst it was his mystery that first captivated you, it was his sweet and sometimes awkward personality that convinced you to keep writing.

It took a while for Helmut to tell you about his family. You had heard on the news back when he first arrested about his motive, so you were interested to hear his perspective on his crimes. But that wasn't what you got. Instead, he told you about when he and his father used to play football when he was young and how they would play a match every time he visited, with Helmut playing against his father and son, who always wanted to play with grandfather. He told you of the songs his wife used to sing, how her voice was always loud and shaky and after years of singing somewhere over the rainbow she would still forget the lyrics and invent her own. He told you how his son was the best pianist he had ever heard. How he could play the greatest rendition of amazing grace and that he had just learnt the theme from swan lake. That he had been excited to practice it on his grandfathers grand piano the day Ultron attacked.

There was something so human about this man. His love for his family, his loss and grief, his plan to avenge his family, it was all so tragic and yet here he was sending you drawings of the flowers from his garden growing up. You wanted to hug him and yet sometimes you felt he wouldn't need it, wouldn't want it. You were wrong.

Helmut Zemo missed his family. He told you so in one of his most recent letters. He missed holding his son, brushing his wife's hair, going for long drives, waking up at 2am to comfort his son, early morning trips to the shops, cleaning up after dinner, helping with homework. Everything he listed seemed so trivial, so meaningless in the grand scheme of life and yet the memories meant so much to him.

You realised then you had never pitied him before. Not that he wasn't deserving of it, just that he didn't seem to need it. But overtime you realised that what Helmut had really needed wasn't revenge or to make a world free from superhumans, it was someone to talk to. Someone to trust. Someone who would understand his pain and not judge it. Perhaps, you thought to yourself, you could be that person.

Fuck.

You couldn't think of how to cope with this. No one you knew had ever mentioned falling in love with a criminal through letters. And as hard as you tried you hadn't been able to find a single romcom with this plot line. You couldn't tell him. You imagined with his seemingly fragile state of mind receiving from basically a stranger professing their love would at best cause him to ghost you. Especially after he confided in you, shared his thoughts and memories.

So instead you continued as normal. You sent him pressed flowers and pictures of your favourite places. Eventually, he asked what looked like, and you spent an hour trying to decide whether you should send a picture of yourself or to just vaguely describe your features. After deciding to send a picture of yourself on holiday a few months before the blip, you found yourself wondering what he'd do with it. Would he throw it away as soon as he got the letter or would he keep it, tuck it away in some book to look at whilst thinking of you?

You also found yourself wondering what he looked like in the real world. You had found pictures of him online, but they didn't feel real. He was never rarely happy. The pictures pre Ultron were clearly taken by paparazzi, so you weren't surprised he rarely looked anything other than annoyed. There were a few though, ones with his wife and son, where he clearly hadn't noticed, and some from when he was much younger and seemed to enjoy the attention. Then were those taken after his arrest.

And so you continued to wonder he looked like. How he looked in the morning, with flowers in his hair or in summer with the sun lighting his face. You wondered what his hair looked like wet, if he ever scrunched his nose in disgust. You wondered what his smile was like.

Over time, you told him more about yourself. The stress of returning home after the blip to no job, no house and your friends 5 years older. Your ex was married with kids and your sister had moved abroad. It was as if you blinked and your whole life had changed. You mentioned how it was your mum who had suggested getting a pen pal, so you could talk to someone new, who was living a different life to you, although she had meant someone in a different country not jail. Since coming back you'd been isolated and stressed with starting a new job, recovering lost information and personal belongings and moving house, so you had thought it might be good to speak to someone who didn't know you, who couldn't judge you. You told Helmut how it had been good, how writing to him had helped you, how he had helped you more than he could ever know.

No, that sounded creepy. How you appreciated his letters.

Too formal. How you hadn't expected to become his friend, but you were glad to be able to say you were.

Helmut was comforting. You knew in your head that your meeting on Friday was nothing to worry about but seeing him say it felt so reassuring. Each one of his letters made you feel relaxed, feel safe. You wanted to make him feel the same. So, as a way to repay his kindness you had told him that no matter what happened, he could always trust you. And it was true. You couldn't imagine a world where you wouldn't do anything for Helmut and although you knew he would never need it, you still wanted him to know you would always care about him, even if no one else did.

Writing to him had become as easy as talking to someone you'd known all your life. You had fallen into an easy routine, you knew when to expect his letters and you knew when you'd send a reply. The routine felt so natural that you even knew what the envelope would look like, always the same off-white with a square edged flap. The address was always the same too. Except on his last letter. Which was strange.

At first, you thought Helmut had been moved to a different prison but after frantically typing the address into Google Maps you realised it was not a prison. Fuck you had no idea what it was, but it wasn't a prison. It also wasn't in Germany.

You sat still, staring at the unopened letter for a few minutes.

You looked up at the door. You thought you heard someone knock. The post had already come and you weren't expecting people. Hell, there wasn't anyone other than your parents who would visit anyway and they would have called first. Now you were sat still, staring at the front door.

"I know you're in there, the lights are on."

It was as if you were a marionette, being moved by some strange force that was slowly pulling you out of your seat and towards the door. You didn't even register that you moved until you felt the door handle on your fingertips. The cold metal caused you to stop, as if broken out of a trance. There was a sudden realisation that if you opened the door your life would never be the same. It was sickening, a mixture of dread and excitement; it reminded you of the moment before a roller coaster drops. You repeated that thought in your head. "Your life would never be the same". Your life hadn't been the same in almost a year. What would be the harm in one more big change. So you did it. You opened the door.

His smile was beautiful.

[thekisforkeats]

Ooh jm + shy kiss for the prompts?

Ohhh good one! I had to think about this a little and actually wrote up a bunch that didn't quite work at first. But! Here it is!

Set somewhere in the first few minutes of 160, in those weeks between arriving at the safehouse and Hazel Rutter. Featuring autistic Martin trying to navigate social situations because that is evidently what I write now.

(Incidentally the term "weak ties" was coined by a Stanford researcher in 1973. Link to the relevant paper. Credit where due, and all.)

(No beta no edits we die like archive assistants.)

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.

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It takes Martin a week to convince Jon to come down into the village with him.

If he's being honest with himself--and he's trying very hard to be honest with himself these days, so he can identify any Lonely-type thoughts--he really just wants to show off his boyfriend to the nice lady at the little shop in the village where he's been picking up essentials.

Martin is a naturally friendly person, or maybe a naturally personable person. This was not always the case; he had to practice a great deal to memorize all the scripts to smooth social interactions that other people seem to navigate without thinking about it at all. It can be horribly exhausting, just going to the shops. It's one of the reasons the Lonely appealed to him; how much easier to just move through life without having to recite all those canned lines?

Now that he's out of its grip, he's come to realize how much those interactions matter. He's been reading a lot on the internet about depression and social interaction, about social circles, and one thing that caught his eye is the idea of "weak ties," those people we're not exactly friends with, but who we see on a regular basis and who help us feel connected to a larger community. People who don't really know us and yet know something about us that helps us feel seen. The bus driver who gives you a familiar nod every morning. the barista who's prepping your order as soon as he notices you in line, the shop lady who tries to keep your favorite tea in stock.

So Martin is trying to cultivate those relationships, to feel part of a wider community, rather than just relying on Jon. He thinks that maybe if he'd had more of that, before, if he'd tried harder to go through the world being seen, he might have handled Jon's coma and his mother's death in some kind of healthier manner.

Maybe not, of course, but he's going to use any tool he can to keep the Lonely at bay.

At any rate, even beyond being very good at social scripts, Martin does genuinely like people, he's a good listener, for an autistic guy he's practically a social butterfly. And Elspeth is a nice lady, maybe mid-40's, the kind of person who runs a shop because she actually likes interacting with a stream of customers on a regular basis. So she's just the sort of person for Martin to practice his "weak tie" skills.

Because, naturally, one of the key benefits of "weak ties" is that they are the sort of people you get to be public about your relationship with when none of your closer friends are around.

Yeah, no, all of the above is just flimsy justification, if Martin's being really honest with himself. He's just madly in love and wants literally everyone within a 500-mile radius to know.

That morning, Martin makes a big show of how badly he wants to spend time with Jon, no really, but he really does have to go down into the village.

"We're out of tea!"

"I don't think we have anything for dinner!"

"But I really want to keep listening to you talk about Scottish history!"

And so on.

Jon gives him a tolerantly amused look, and Martin flushes. Is he that transparent, or is Jon just that good at reading him?

"I suppose I can go into the village with you, Martin," he says, eyes glittering. "Since you're so terribly interested in the House of Stuart. I'd hate to leave you wondering what happened to James II."

Martin would feel guilty, but he can tell Jon is pleased to be "indulging" him, and it's not like Martin hasn't been listening to Jon infodump about whatever random facts Beholding's been given him all week.

They hold hands all the way down into the village, and it's nice, to walk through the place and be seen, together. It's comfortable. They'd held hands on walks before, long ago in London, before the Unknowing, but back then they hadn't been sure what they were, hadn't managed to broach the delicate barrier between "friends" and "something else." Now, they're "boyfriends," and Martin keeps finding himself wanting to go up to each person he sees on the street and shout, "This is my boyfriend, Jonathan Sims!!"

By the time they reach Elspeth's shop, he's feeling a little giddy.

He pushes open the door and the little bell rings, and Elspeth looks up from behind the counter and smiles. "Martin!" she says, and Martin's whole body warms in a very pleasant manner, that this woman he's only known a week remembers him. "Oh, and this must be the elusive Jon." She gives them one of those teasing smiles people give to new couples, glittering eyes and amusement at the silly things people do when they're in limerence.

"Yes," Martin says, and suddenly the words stick in his throat. "Yes, this is... is... umm..." Oh, why has he suddenly frozen like a deer in headlights? Why can't he remember the right words?

"Jonathan Sims," Jon says smoothly, stepping forward to offer the woman his hand. "And yes, I'm Martin's boyfriend."

It occurs to Martin, all at once, that neither of them have said that out loud to anyone else. No wonder he's frozen up.

Elspeth glances at the burn scars on Jon's hand only briefly, then smiles--and it's a genuine smile, not one of those pitying ones people sometimes put on when they see scars like that--and shakes said hand. "Pleased to meet you," she replies. "Elspeth Douglas." She has the Highland accent, but softened; she spent her 20's and 30's in London, she's said, and came back to take over the family store when her father fell ill. The similarity might be part of why Martin likes her--that and the fact that it seems that helping her sickened parent improved her life.

"Ahh, yes. The not-so-elusive Elspeth." Jon actually flashes a grin, which Martin finds remarkable. Since when is Jon... friendly? Well, maybe he's trying for Martin's sake. If so, Martin very much appreciates the effort.

The woman behind the counter laughs, and says, "How can I help you?"

"Oh," Martin manages, his brain catching up and letting his mouth work again, "we're just here for tea and things."

"Of course," Elspeth says. "I'll be here when you're ready."

They turn away, to go deeper into the aisles.

"She seems nice," Jon says almost absently. "Shame about her fa--" He pauses, and frowns. Shakes his head, looking irritated. "You didn't tell me about that," he grumbles.

"No, I didn't. But thank you for trying to keep it in," Martin says.

Jon sighs, lowering his voice. "It's becoming harder and harder to separate what I've learned on my own from what Beholding gives me. How much of my thoughts are mine anymore? Did I actually memorize all those facts about the House of Stuart, or am I getting the... mental Wikipedia page, as it were?"

"Seems like a thing you'd know," Martin comments offhandedly. He's focused on figuring out what kind of rice to buy. He wants to try his hand at sticky rice, which really should have calrose, but Jon likes jasmine rice. Do they get both?

He doesn't want to think about Beholding, and how much of it is Jon anymore. He prefers just thinking about it as something like a smartphone app Jon can use without having to actually have a phone in front of him. He does not want to think about how much of his boyfriend has been potentially consumed by some kind of eldritch thing that feeds on fear.

He really doesn't want to think about the idea that maybe soon, Jon won't even need rice anymore, and will just live off statements, no matter how much he jokes about his partner's "eating habits."

Jon has been talking as Martin's been staring at the rice, but Martin hasn't heard any of it. He's brought back to himself by a squeeze of Jon's hand in his.

"Hey," Jon says softly. "You okay?"

In Jon's voice, Martin hears all the concern that Martin himself has been feeling. He forces himself to look at Jon, and sees bright green eyes staring out of a deep brown face. He realizes he's gotten used to the color of Jon's eyes; before the coma, Jon's eyes were brown, like a deep carnelian, and so large and dark sometimes Martin thought he could fall right into them and be happy drowning there. Now they're green, bright and disarming, and Martin's pretty sure this is why Jon still wears glasses he no longer needs, to hide those strange eyes behind plastic lenses.

Those eyes are looking up at him intensely now, and Jon's brow is furrowed, and his mouth is pulled into a frown in a way that highlights one of the worm scars near his lip, and all of it is adorable, but it's also disconcerting for the contrast between the softness of his voice and the intensity of his expression.

Is Jon as afraid of losing Martin to Forsaken as Martin is of losing Jon to Beholding?

Martin frowns at him for a moment, then sighs. "I just..." He has to look away, back to the bags of rice. "I just... don't like thinking about that. Beholding, and... all of it. I just... I just wish..."

"You wish we could be normal." Jon's tone is still soft, and filled only with love and no sort of guilt or self-recrimination.

"Yeah," Martin says, still staring at the rice.

There's a hesitation, and then Jon says, softly and slowly, "You know... normal people deal with these sort of difficult things, too. There's so much out there that can hurt people... the things we deal with, they're weirder than most of the rest of it, but..."

"Yeah, I know, Jon, I just..." Martin hunches his shoulders. "Don't want to lose you again," he finally mumbles.

Jon hesitates a moment, and then he leans in to give Martin a soft kiss on the cheek.

Martin flushes bright red--Elspeth's right there!--and turns to stare at Jon. "W-what... what was... that for?!"

Jon, too, is blushing. "I just... ah... I just... wanted you to know that... that I'm... here. You haven't... lost me. Or anything."

"Oh," Martin says. "Well. Thank you."

There's a moment where they just look at each other, and then Jon blurts, "...Can I kiss you again? It's just, I haven't all morning, and I really sort of wanted to spend the morning cuddling, but you wanted to come down to the shops..."

"Here?!" Martin stares at him.

"We can go behind the shelves if you like," Jon says, blushing furiously.

For some reason, this makes Martin giggle, and then he leans down to brush his lips to Jon's. Softly, shyly, as if they haven't been kissing each other all week, because he really is terribly aware of the fact that there are other people around.

"Tell you what," Martin says as he pulls back, surprisingly breathless despite how short the contact of their lips was, "let's finish up the shopping and then we can cuddle all afternoon."

Jon smiles up at him. "Promise?" The smile widens. "You're not going to drag me around to introduce me to every villager individually?"

"I was not--!" Martin glares at him, but now Jon's smile has become one of those shit-eating grins he gets sometimes, and Martin can't stay mad at him at all.

"You knew," he accuses, but there's no heat in it.

"I had a hunch," Jon says, humming. "I didn't want to spoil your fun, though."

Martin rolls his eyes, and then reaches out to take Jon's hand again. "Well, then, we'd better get to it. Jasmine or calrose? Rice, I mean."

"Both, I think," Jon says. "I find myself very much desiring normality of late, and rice is a terribly normal sort of thing."

[youryanderedaddy]

Caged bird

Summary: When your prince finally catches you, you are forced to see things his way.

Tw: female reader, kidnapping, abuse of power, slight violence, slight non-con, obsessive behavior, possessive behavior

Locked in (pt. 1)

You, the little concubine, who had managed to so quickly and mercilessly steal his heart, were standing in the corridor – delicate wrists in heavy silver handcuffs, face dirty and dusty, clothes all messy. Your eyes were shining brightly despite the heavy air and your lips were softly mumbling, whispering silent pleads and prayers. Your whole body was shaking with fear, shock and misery. The prince slowly walked towards you, only stopping when the distance between you was nonexistent. You could feel his minty breath tickling the hairs on your exposed neck and it made you shiver like a million of ice-cold arrows trough your heart.

‘’My love, I can finally see your beautiful face again.’’ The man spoke quietly, bordering on a whisper. His fingers were stroking your hair gently, yet still pulling at the ends every time he got to them. “I showed you nothing, but pure kindness and adoration, and what did you do in return?” Suddenly William tugged at your silky locks and dragged you to the wall, finally slamming your frail, tired body roughly against it. He captured your wrists with his own and suppressed the need to devour you right then and there.

“You ran away, my love.” The prince purred in your ear and it made your blood run cold. “You toyed with my endless trust, you broke my heart and left me to suffer all on my own.” He clenched his teeth in an angry fashion. ‘’Damn traitor.’’ Will cursed under his breath, but that did little to stop the tears of raw emotion streaming down his cheeks. He felt so hurt and betrayed by you it was hard to even think about it. “Why? Why did you do it? ” The rage – filled man pushed you further into the stone-cold wall. You looked up at him, almost apathetic towards the fucked up situation. You couldn’t find enough strength in your heart to fill sorry for the pitiful ruler.

“My lord, please excuse my stupid, impulsive behavior. I was unhappy at your palace. The golden walls and honey – colored collars feel like a cage when you are miserable. ” You admitted after a while, staring deep into the prince’s cold eyes. Some pathetic, forgotten part of you still believed that he would realize his faults and the pain he had caused you. “I wish for nothing more than freedom - to be able to travel around the world and explore its secrets, it’s my only desire.” You continued carefully. Every word felt as if you were dancing on thin ice, applying more pressure could result in a big crash of suffocation, drowning and agony. “I also wish to see my family at least once. I beg you, Sir, let me go.” You knew your cheeks were rosy now due to the humiliating nature of your dolorous pleading but you had no other choice. Will looked at you for a second before smashing his cold blue lips into your soft warm ones, in a mockery of the sweet gesture, shared between lovers. His kiss was harsh and desperate, violent, without a trace of passion or consideration. It conveyed all his scattered emotions – sadness, hurt, anger, all mixed together in a sloppy wet mess of tongue and salty tears. By now the prince wasn’t sure who they belonged to.

‘’Dearest, you haven’t seen anything yet.” Will muttered darkly, while holding you close. “But you will. I will make sure of it.”

Three hours later you were still crying on the floor. Your wrists were covered in bruises from the handcuffs and your weak bare feet felt numb to the heavy metal around your ankles. Your pearly white tears were falling to the ground. You were inside a small pitch black room all alone again. Sickening, terrifying and empty, this was your punishment. No amount of tears could change your fate – owned by a cruel master and away from everyone you truly loved.

You were nothing but a beautiful caged bird singing a sad, lonely song.

Caged bird (pt. 2)

The prince sat down right next to you and ran his hand gently across your face. He started humming a sappy song about the kingdom you two had grown up in, about the good old days when everything felt way sweeter and warmer like an endless summer.

“How are feeling today, my love?” Will asked, suddenly concerned about your well – being. But you learned the hard way to never trust a word coming out of his lips. You decided to be honest anyways.

“Sad and perhaps even a bit lost. In fact I think I lose a part of myself every day that I wake up locked in here. ” You answered in a broken voice. All of it was true, you weren't yourself anymore – you refused to eat, sleep or even talk to anyone besides your master and you were getting weaker by the day.

“And why is that, dearest?” The prince replied quickly, his tone on the line between calm and threatening. He tried to control his nerves only this time, since you already looked low in spirits.

“I miss my parents and my friends. But most of all I miss my older sibling, Your Majesty. I really want to see them.” You took a deep breath as you realized how daring and rash your words were. “Sir, excuse my boldness.”

“You are not excused, dearest.” William snapped bitterly and grabbed your wrist in a tight, punishing grip. “Do you know what happened to the person you hold oh-so-dear?” The prince whispered into your ear, enjoying the way it made your whole body still. You shook your head and the man had to fight off the urge to give you a sly laugh as a hint of what you were to hear next. He pulled your beautiful hair up in order for your eyes to be on the same level. “I killed them. I tortured them for hours until they lost all of their energy, body and soul.” The prince pronounced every word slowly and sharply, using it as a poisonous weapon against you. “That stupid punk.” He continued, pleased as he watched you struggle to get out of his grasp, but to no avail. He had you trapped in place and you weren’t going away until you have heard each and every painful bit of truth. “I hated him with a burning passion, you know? He was constantly trying to take you away from me and I just couldn’t stand it anymore.” William smirked viciously. He had officially won. “But don’t worry, my love. He can’t get in the way of our love ever again. No one can, not even you. Even If you try to run away again, I will simply drag you back and chain you up down here until you finally realize there is no way out. Loving me is your best chance and you better use it.”

You couldn’t hear the madman’s ramblings anymore. The big salty tears were suffocating you, you were drowning in them, swimming around helplessly, only to be met with an even bigger wave. All you could do was suffer silently and pray that one day you would learn to love him.

[aithorin]

Chasing You - Thranduil x Reader

Plot: Imagine overhearing Thranduil’s conversation with Tauriel and running away

A/N-This fic is also posted on AO3 under the same username. I will insert a link to it below. However, this is also a slightly different version as I’ve made a couple of edits. I’ll post the updated version eventually on AO3, but for now this is the only edited version. Also, some of the lines in this are from the movies, so as a disclaimer, I do not own any recognizable content.

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21823933

Slight NSFW Warning!

The hooves of your horse thundered in your ear as you pushed it to gallop quickly throughout Mirkwood. All around, the sickened trees passed in a blur, and yet somehow they still managed to loom over you, mocking your troubles with their height. You hunched closer to your horse, looking for comfort, and threaded your fingers throughout its mane. The wind burned at your eyes, causing tears of a completely different kind to well. They mingled with the ones symbolic of your heartbreak, mixing so thoroughly that they became indistinguishable from one another. The wind pulled at both, tugging at them as they trekked down your face. The tears disappeared into the air behind you, the wind having successfully stolen them.

So distracted by your thoughts, you didn’t even notice how the wind had prematurely dried the tear tracks along your face, pinching the skin slightly underneath. All you could focus on was Thranduil. Just the thought of his name sent a fresh wave of tears to your eyes, blurring your vision even more. Moments from your relationship flashed through your mind, and confusion merged with your hurt. You just didn’t understand. All this time he had seemed so genuine. To find out it was all a farce so suddenly only made your anguish sharper. There were no suspicions at all; you had been happy, and you thought that he had been happy too. But as a sob escaped your mouth, you realized that maybe some things weren’t meant to be. Echoes of the conversation you had accidently heard rang throughout your mind, and agony grappled at your heart as you thought about Thranduil’s betrayal.

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

Having finished your chores for the day, you hurried toward the throne room hoping to catch a moment alone with Thranduil. It was difficult to spend time with him considering your relationship was a secret, so every spare moment you had to sneak with him was precious. As you passed by a corridor, muffled voices floated through the air causing your footsteps to slow to a halt. Curious, you crept towards the sound, excitement filling you as you recognized Thranduil’s voice. It was perfect! You’d just wait for him to finish and then maybe you could spend a few moments together. But as the muffled noise turned into clear voices, your excitement quickly diminished as a deep hurt took root within your heart.

“Legolas said you fought well today… he has grown very fond of you.” Thranduil’s deep baritone resonated throughout the room.

A few moments passed before Tauriel stammered, “I assure you my lord, Legolas thinks of me as no more than a captain of the guard.”

“Perhaps he did once...now I’m not so sure.” Thranduil sneered.

“I do not think…  you would allow your son to pledge himself to a lowly silvan elf.” Tauriel stuttered back.

“No, you’re right. I would not.” Thranduil declared, “Still… he cares about you. Do not give him hope where there is none”

At his words, a gasp left your mouth as your heart plummeted. Both of their heads snapped in your direction, but by then you had already turned and fled down the hall. Tears welled in your eyes as you began to understand the meaning behind his words. You were no different than Tauriel. In fact, you were inferior to her being that your station in life was that of a maid. If Legolas couldn’t pledge himself to the esteemed captain of the guard, then there was no hope that Thranduil would ever truly pledge himself to you either. All this time, you were nothing more than a fling to Thranduil, maybe even less. Did he see your feelings as a game, something to be toyed with? The conviction with which Thranduil spoke his words told you more than you ever needed to know. It was obvious he didn’t share in any of the things you felt. A choke escaped your throat as you realized your relationship was nothing but a lie.

Fleeing from the corridor, you ran to the comfort of your room. The door to your chambers creaked open, and light from the hall seeped through to illuminate it. As you stepped inside, you looked slowly around the room. Nothing seemed right anymore. You felt as though you were suffocating, and with a sudden clarity you knew what you had to do. You had to leave. The thought of staying in Mirkwood made you nauseous. Having to stay and look at Thranduil everyday, knowing that he never cared about you, would only break your heart over and over again. Leaving was the only way you had any hope of moving on. You quickly gathered what meager belongings you had, and hurried towards the stables. Climbing on top of the nearest horse, you saddled your pack and took off without a backward glance.

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

The trees of Mirkwood continued to whiz by, the tears continuously spilling from your eyes creating a distorted view of your surroundings. Thoughts raced through your mind as you tried to make sense of the situation.

‘How could he do this to me? I loved him! I gave him everything. My heart, my mind, my trust, my body, everything, and yet in the end he didn’t care at all. It was nothing but a game to him.’ A choked, bitter laugh escaped through the sobs erupting from your throat. Everything just hurt; your heart felt tight, a huge lump in your throat made it difficult to breathe, and your eyes were swollen and tired from crying.

Why, why would he do this to you! You never thought he could be so cruel. Lost in the river of your despair, you failed to notice the sound of legs scurrying across the forest floor until it was too late.

A rustle of leaves sounded to your left before a giant spider leapt from behind the brush causing your horse to rear up in fright. The sudden change in gravity threw you from its back, causing your backside to hit the floor with a hard thud, knocking the breath from you. Letting out a wheeze as you attempted to regain your breath, you looked up just in time to see your horse let out a loud whine before bolting back in the direction you came. By then, the giant spider had turned its attention towards you and moved with a speed that surprised even your elven senses. You scurried back on all fours in terror, the dead leaves crunching beneath your hands. All too soon though, your path became blocked by one of the towering, ill trees that resided in the forest. Still, your arms flailed as you tried to get away, but the spider continued to advance, slowly trapping you in your place. Your breath started to quicken, and terrified gasps resounded throughout the forest. This was it. You were going to die in the forest alone, with the knowledge that no one had ever really loved you. A few stray tears escaped your eyes as you realized just how pathetic you really were. By now the spider loomed above you, its pincers poised above you, ready to strike. Ominous hisses spewed from its mouth, and you squeezed your eyes shut, unwilling to watch it deliver the killing blow. Having accepted your fate, your body relaxed, and you waited for the world you knew to be no more.

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

“I want the watch doubled at our borders. All roads. All rivers. Nothing moves but I hear of it. No one enters this kingdom and no one leaves it.” Thranduil ordered, an unspoken warning in his tone, before walking away with a swish of his cloak.

No sooner had he left the throne room was he stopped by a servant.

“Forgive the intrusion my lord, but I couldn’t help overhearing your order and…” The elleth hesitated.

“Out with it, you insolent child! I don’t have all day! You’ve already overstepped your boundaries, don’t push them anymore.” Thranduil said, his patience growing thin.

“Well,” she began, “it’s just...I’m worried about (Y/N). When I stopped by our shared room all of her belongings were gone. I think she went into the forest, but she hasn’t come back. Will she be able to get back into the kingdom with your order?”

At the mention of your name, Thranduil’s blood turned ice cold in his veins. Where could you have possibly gone, and with all of your belongings too? You wouldn’t just leave without telling him, and you knew better than to go into the forest alone. You weren’t trained in the art of combat, and there were too many dangers that lurked in the forest these days. Thranduil’s mind became laced with panic as he ran through all of the possible things that could have happened to you. Were you lost? Injured? Dead? At that last thought, Thranduil swallowed as a hard lump of fear developed in his throat. He had to find you. Now.

He turned to look at the elleth, the cool facade on his face betraying none of the inward worry that he held.

“As king it is my duty to see to the safety and wellbeing of all that dwell within my kingdom. As such, I will personally see to it that (Y/N) is brought back home safe and unharmed.”

At his words, the elleth visibly relaxed. “Thank you my lord. You are most generous and kind.” With a nod of her head, the elleth bowed her head before walking away to return to her duties.

Thranduil turned to the nearest guard. “You,” he said, “Ready my elk. We leave at once.”

“Yes my lord.”

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

Thranduil raced through the forest, looking for any sign of a trail. Suddenly, a lone horse came barreling in their direction, rearing in a panic. The small group of guards he had with him leaped in front to calm it down.

Grabbing its reins, Thranduil inspected the horse, noticing a pack saddled to its back. Peering inside, he saw your possessions and his expression turned grim. Without a word, he swung back onto his elk and charged down the path the horse came from.

Galloping along the path, Thranduil prayed that you were okay. He would never forgive himself if something were to happen to you. Meeting you had breathed new life into him. For the first time since his wife died, he actually felt happy, something his own son couldn’t even provide him. Every beat of his heart was dedicated solely to you, and if you were to be taken from him like his wife was, he didn’t think he would ever be able to recover.

Deep in the forest now, Thranduil was beginning to doubt that he’d be able to find you when he heard noises coming from off the path. The hiss of a spider, leaves crackling as someone scrambled. His eyes widened as he realized a spider was attacking someone. Jumping from his elk, Thranduil’s footsteps pounded as he ran, and the sound of metal scraping could be heard as he drew his sword. Bursting into a clearing, he saw a giant spider above someone, poised to kill whoever was trapped. As the spider went in for the killing blow so did Thranduil. Fortunately, Thranduil was faster, and blood spurted as he drove his sword into the spider’s back. The spider howled in pain, limbs flailing as the life slowly drained from it along with its blood. All too soon, the spider dropped dead, and Thranduil hurried to push it off of whoever was trapped beneath it.

Rolling the spider’s body to the side, Thranduil was met with the sight of you curled tightly, hugging your knees to your chest with your eyes clenched shut. Dried tear tracks painted your cheeks, and visible tremors shook your body. Thranduil kneeled next to you as a big weight lifted from his chest. You were alive! Scared and shaken but alive. He had made it to your side in time, albeit he was cutting it a bit close.

Right in front of you, Thranduil slowly reached out to place a gentle hand on your shoulder. At his touch, you jumped and started to shake even harder, your eyes still shut tight.

“Meleth nin,” he spoke softly, “Open your eyes. I am here, and you are safe.”

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

“Meleth nin” you heard a soft voice whisper, “Open your eyes. I am here, and you are safe.”

At the sound of his voice, you wanted to let out a sob. It sounded just like him, but you knew that it couldn’t be Thranduil. There was no way that Thranduil was in front of you. He was back at the palace, most likely atop his throne, while you were here, probably bleeding out from a spider bite. That was it you reasoned. You had been bitten by the spider, and now you were going delirious from its venom before you died. It was the only explanation. He didn’t love you. You didn’t want to open your eyes. If you did the illusion would be shattered. At least this way you could pretend that you wouldn’t die alone, and that your love was here.

But when his hand started to shake your shoulder, the possibility that maybe he actually was here started to seem more like a reality. You reluctantly opened your eyes to see his cerulean ones staring into yours, deep with concern. You wanted nothing more than to reach out and hold him, but with the threat of death looming over you gone, you remembered why you left in the first place. You snatched your wandering arms back and lowered your eyes as more tears suddenly welled in your eyes. ‘He isn’t mine’, you reminded yourself, ‘he never was’. Having him be so close yet at the same time so far made your heart clench painfully in your chest.

“Melamin, are you alright? I was so worried I had lost you.” Thranduil whispered.

Deciding to ignore the endearment, you chose to answer the way your relationship now demanded. That of a respectful servant addressing her king. Still looking down at your feet, you replied meekly, “Yes, your majesty. Thank you for rescuing me. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

At your words, his eyes squinted ever so slightly in confusion. Why were you talking to him like that, as though you were just another one of his subjects? Something else was wrong. You couldn’t even look at him. With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the few guards surrounding the clearing leaving just the two of you.

“What is wrong meleth nin? Why can’t you look at me?”

The continued endearments caused the sob that had been stuck in your throat to escape. Why did he insist on continuing the game? Was it not enough that he had taken your heart? Must he continue to squeeze it as well? How spiteful could he be to insist on calling you that?

“Please,” you whispered “Do not continue to jest. My heart cannot take it.”

Thranduil grabbed your hands and with the sudden movement, you finally tilted your head to meet his gaze. Seeing your heartbroken face, he felt his own heart twinge within his chest. He could feel you slipping away and with every passing minute he feared that he would not be able to get you back. “I don’t understand,” he pleaded, “Whatever it is that I have done, tell me, and I will not rest until I have eased your mind.”

His words made your head droop in despair. So he was going to continue to feign ignorance until he could break your heart and see your expression for himself. His insisted cruelty caused the first seeds of anger to break through the dam of your heartbreak. Thranduil might have shattered your heart, but you’d be damned before you’d let him see the effects. You’d get through this conversation, and then part from Mirkwood and put this chapter of your life behind you.

With your newfound determination, you looked at him with your face hard and eyes steely. “Do not think me so naive that I will continue to play along with your game, my lord. You may have fooled me once, but I refuse to let you do so again. You can cease your act of mocking love and concern. Please, just go back to the palace and have a laugh about the foolish maid who believed that a king could ever possibly care for her, and I will be on my way.”

Thranduil stared at you in bewilderment. Where was all of this coming from? Just this morning, everything was fine, and in that short time you now doubted his love for you. What could have possibly happened?

“Whoever has planted this seed of doubt in your mind will wish that they had never opened their mouth,” Thranduil swore gravelly, “I do not know what has caused this skepticism, but know that my feelings for you are honest and true.” He lifted your hands enclosed in his to place a soft kiss upon them.

Looking into his eyes, you were tempted to believe him. He seemed so earnest, but the words that he spoke earlier rang through your mind, “Do not give him hope where there is none”, and your temptations were banished. You let out a bitter laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. YOU were the one who made your feelings toward me clear as day, no one else. If you cannot bring yourself to be honest about anything else, then at least take responsibility for revealing your true feelings about me.”

“I do not know what you speak of!” Letting go of you, he stood from the forest floor and began to circle the clearing in frustration. “Care to enlighten me?”

Crossing your arms, you stood with him. “I heard you. Earlier, in the corridor with Tauriel. With it, the veil from my eyes was lifted, and I am now able to see this relationship for what it is: a complete and utter lie.”

He spun around to face you. “That had absolutely nothing to do with you! It was about Legolas. It, in no way, concerned how I feel about you.”

“It had everything to do with me.” you spoke softly. “If the prince is not allowed to pledge himself to Tauriel, the esteemed captain of the guard, where does that leave me? I am a servant my lord, the lowest of the low, and if the prince cannot be with someone who is far above my own station, why would the king of all people do any different?”

You turned to face him, and saw a guilt stricken look cross into Thranduil’s eyes as he realized the implication of his words.

“Forgive me Meleth. I did not realize the severity of my words when I spoke.” He apologized. He crossed the clearing to stand in front of you. Gently grabbing your shoulders, he looked deep into your eyes, “My feelings for you are earnest and unchanging. You have reminded me what happiness looks like. When you came into my life, I saw glimmers of light that I had not seen since my wife died. The first time I looked into your eyes, my heart thawed and began to beat within my chest again. You are the one who has breathed life back into me.”

Shrugging his hands off, you turned away from him.  “Be that as it may, you must believe it someplace deep inside otherwise you would not have spoken as you did. If it really was a mistake, then you would not care if Tauriel and Legolas were together, but you do.”

“No!” Thranduil protested, “I did not realize how selfish I was being when I spoke with Tauriel. If Legolas wishes to be with her so be it. I do not care.” Turning you back around, he gently cupped your cheek and tilted your head up to meet his eyes. “How could I care if it would cost me you?” He whispered.

Staring into his eyes filled with nothing but love, you felt the weight on your chest slowly begin to lift for the first time in hours. Perhaps there was hope after all. Yet as your overwhelming emotions faded, your mind began to clear, leaving nothing but logic and the cold sting of reality as you reconsidered his earlier words. Casting your eyes to the ground, you said, “As much as it pains me to say it, it does not really matter whether you care or not. In many ways, the words you spoke held nothing but the truth. It’s foolish to believe that we can ever truly be together. I am a maid, and you are a king. This relationship has no future for you surely cannot pledge yourself to me. The people would never accept me as queen.”

Crossing your arms, you turned your back so that he would not be able to see the tears welling in your eyes. “We aren’t even truly together right now. We ignore each other around the presence of others, stealing hidden moments in the dead of night. Do you know how painful it is? To see you look at me so coldly, so uncaringly, in the light of day, yet share in the warmth of your embrace at night. It’s exhausting. Do you have any idea how much it makes my heart ache? All I want is the freedom to speak to you, comfort you, touch you, whenever I wish, but our relationship forbids it! I can’t even send you a simple smile when I pass you in the halls! Too often, I can see the stress of a wasted council meeting etched on your face, and I yearn to soothe you and share in your troubles but I cannot. I did not lie when I said your conversation with Tauriel lifted a veil from my eyes, but I can see that it's different from what I originally thought. I think it would be best for us to part ways right here, and that way we can both move on. Elves are immortal. If I left now, I would be but a flicker on the line that is your life. I’m sure it would not be too hard to forget me and our relationship.” you mumbled quietly.

Thranduil’s gaze turned fiery. “Do what you will. But know this, should you choose to leave this forest do not think for one second that I will ever forget you. Ten, a hundred, even thousands of years from now, I will ache for you every second of every day. Not once will you ever leave my mind.”

His gaze softened, “Please… come home, and I promise we will truly be together, no more sneaking around. I am not ashamed to be with you; we will walk the halls together and share in each other’s troubles as you wish.”

“But your advisors and the people-”

His eyes flashed, “Speak no more of it. Love has slipped from my grasp once before, and I refuse to allow it to again. I am the king of this realm, and if I wish to be with you then the people will have to accept it.”

Hearing his words, you wanted nothing more than to accept, but your doubt and insecurity still lingered near the surface. How could you accept when you knew that you would only hold him back? The people would not be happy, and it would lead to unrest in the kingdom. How could you be that selfish? You couldn’t tear apart an entire kingdom for your own happiness. To make matters worse you wouldn’t even be able to help Thranduil bring about peace. You were a servant for crying out loud; you knew nothing about diplomacy!

As an internal war waged within you, Thranduil noticed the doubt in your eyes holding you back. He could sense that you lied upon a threshold and with one little push, you would surrender your doubts and come back to him. Determined to give you that final push, he glided towards you. Lost within your mind, you didn’t even notice that he had started to move until he had pressed himself against your back. The feel of his hard chest against your back brought an immediate halt to the worries swirling within you. Time came to a complete standstill, and you held your breath in anticipation, nervous yet also excited to see what he would do.

Achingly slow, he lifted a hand to gently brush your hair back, baring your neck. With the back of his hand, he started to tenderly trace a path along the curve of your neck. The hand continued downward, skimming the curve of your breasts to reach its resting place on your belly. Your eyes fluttered closed again in appreciation, and without even realizing, you leaned slightly into him, unconsciously craving to be closer. He bent down, his breath tickling the shell of your ear as he whispered, “Tell me Melamin, what troubles you so?”

You shivered as the heat of his breath hit your neck. As he started to pepper your jawline in featherlight kisses, your mind became clouded, but you still managed to share your doubts with him. “I still worry… of the people’s reaction… to our relationship.” you whispered.

Thranduil hummed in response and raised his hand to caress the other side of your jaw. He pressed himself even closer to you and with it a fire that only he could sate ignited within you. “Tell me, does it feel like I care for their reaction? Let go meleth, and I promise you everything will be fine.”

With that, he used his hand to tilt you toward him and leaned down to capture you in a kiss. It started sweet but soon an overwhelming need took over you. The kiss was transformed into a battle of passion, and you turned around to fully face him. Your hands trailed all over Thranduil’s body, sliding up his chest to eventually twist themselves into his hair. With a soft tug, you pulled him even closer to deepen the kiss. Your lungs burned for air, but you didn’t care. At that moment, all that mattered was him. With every second that passed, your doubts slowly melted away as thoughts of Thranduil consumed your mind. All you could focus on was the feel of his lips and his hands gliding over your hips. You wanted nothing more than to drown in the river of his love.

Breaking the kiss for a moment, you opened your eyes to gaze into his. Seeing the love and adoration he held for you in them, you allowed yourself to be drawn into the torrent, and you let go.

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

Afterwards, as you lay cuddled together on the forest floor, Thranduil reached down to entwine your hands together. Resting his head against your shoulder, he brushed a stray strand of hair out of the way and asked once again, “Come home, meleth nin?”

Without a moment’s hesitation, you replied, “Yes.”

[infernalrevenge]

I've never seen anyone talk about it before and I always love your takes on the characters of RE8, so I'm curious about your opinion on this: what do you think Mother Miranda, the three other Lords and Dimitrescu's daughters would see under the influence of Donna's hallucinogenic flowers at House Beneviento? Their minds are already pretty effed-up and they've most certainly been desensitized to a lot of traumatizing things already, I have a hard time trying to figure out what kind of absolute nightmare their worst fears would look like...

Yooo this is a really interesting thing to ponder over, especially since the characters have different experiences and traumas associated with them, based on what we know from canon. But I love the idea of their abstract fears materializing before them, because regardless of what you've been through there has to be something that really shakes you. A lot of them are probably more mental than physical fears.

Hint: I think all of them have one thing in common, and it's that they fear being powerless.

(CW for generally disturbing content, but nothing described too graphically)

For Mother Miranda, I can imagine a version of what Ethan went through in Donna's portion of the game happening to her, but with some adjustments. She was a grieving mother who did everything in her power and reach to try and get her daughter back -- what if she got what she wanted, but not what she expected? A hallucination of a "successful" revival of Eva that goes horribly wrong, and the little girl before her turns into a giant writhing mass of flesh -- an amalgamation of her former creations -- angry, in pain, and easily able to overpower the priestess. No matter how fast she runs, no matter where she hides or escapes to, it always finds her... and it's hungry.

Alcina Dimitrescu already went through a lot in the game itself, unable to stop her three beloved daughters from dying in her own home, where they were supposed to be safe. She's one of the most powerful people in the whole damn village, most likely even the country or the world... but she couldn't stop Ethan Winters from coming in and killing her family in cold blood? I think her greatest nightmare plays into that, but this time, she actually has to watch them die right in front of her. She has to sit in the sidelines as some pathetic manthing smashes every window to let the biting cold in, and she's literally frozen in place, helplessly watching the lights in her daughters' eyes start to go out. She sees a slow, painful demise at the hands of someone she can easily dispose of if only she could fucking move! But she can't, and she's not sure what hurts more -- her aching muscles from being forced to stay still, or experiencing the sickening mix of heartbreak and grief over and over and over again.

This might be a cop out but I'm putting all the Dimitrescu sisters in the same point, since I think they at least have a similar nightmare/fear. I'm having a hard time deciding between watching their mother be the one to suffer at the hands of a mere mortal, or having the tables turn on them where the predators become prey, though the latter is more fun to play with. They enjoy the hunt, the thrill and all the rewards that come with it. They all have somewhat of a sadistic streak to them (maybe one more than others) but they clearly hate the inconvenience of being hurt. But it's not just an inconvenience when you're the one running for your life, unsure if you're in the clear or still being followed. And at this point, they would've been split up, so they can't call for their siblings' help. They're all alone and unable to fend off whatever could be coming for them so all they can do is run. They just don't know how long that tactic will last them.

Karl Heisenberg may be one of the easiest for me to think of? In a way, he definitely fears Miranda, and it's why he bides his time making such a powerful army and weapons in order to take her down. He knows what she's capable of, and he doesn't want to take any chances. His greatest fear is not just a crushing and embarrassing defeat at the hands of Miranda, but spending an eternity as her favorite subject for vivisection. His powers have been stripped away, all but his immortality, so he really is going to feel every incision, every injection, every painful mutation forcing its way through his body... and Miranda just watches with smug astuteness, notebook in hand as she jots down the horrifying changes take place. At least she found a way to make him useful.

Salvatore Moreau is, let's face it, very traumatized and also very dependent and needy. Still, he's a lord (in title) and he wants to be seen as someone important. He wants to be part of something bigger, even if all he may be is a quivering little fish man. I had the hardest time thinking of something for him, but what I've come up with almost seems like the opposite of powerless: Killing Mother Miranda. Yes, obviously she's the source of his anguish and the reason he is this way in the first place, but he is clearly very attached to her. He would worship the ground she walked on if she allowed it, but he's probably used to being ignored. But what if he hallucinates an uncontrollable rampage in the village, and he has to helplessly watch from inside his own body how he brutally murders the only person who had given him a purpose, the only one who may have given him a chance at salvation? He has to watch how he just utterly tears her apart, and can't do a thing about it. I think it'd do a good job of breaking him even more.

[tarithenurse]

In the eyes

Fandom: Naruto Pairing: Uchiha Itachi x fem!reader Content: Feels. Angst. Loss. Love. Reference to killing (war and murder). Captivity. Sorrow. Hope. Anger. You name it, it’s there. A/N: I just want to say in my defence that this story isn’t my fault. Blame @maladaptive-ninja-returns​...it’s her birthday present (yes, I’m late)!

In the eyes

The steam is long gone together with your interest in the drink when you drain the cup of tea as the black-haired man gets up to leave. The cape hides what he’s missing – if only it was his leg instead – that way you wouldn’t have to keep the distance to the bare minimum, constantly risking him discovering that you’re following him. It doesn’t help to complain, though: he’s alive and mobile...and you have to watch your every move.

Volunteering for the assignment has probably been one of the more masochistic choices you’ve made, but you just couldn’t let the last Uchiha go yet.

For years, watching the kid grow older had kept a wound alive that no one knew about. It festered, saturating you with a sickening, rotten, sadness that never washed off but wasn’t detected by your peers. You should have let it heal. Should have moved on. But there had always been something keeping you from accepting what everyone else had decided must be true.

You weren’t the only one dealing with grief, of course. The life of a Leaf ninja was to say goodbye too soon and then to live with the numbing ache, renewed each time memories stirred.

Before the fourth war, the newfangled gossip of the dead returning was treated as ghost stories by most people until the climax of it all, when too many stood face to face with loved ones. Lost ones. And you were too weak to prevent the hope from being rekindled, so once peace was a reality and all the shinobis prepared to celebrate in the chaotic haze of the aftermath, you made a decision.

That is why, three seconds after the door closes behind Uchiha Sasuke, you get up...

...and sit right down again to avoid pressing against the sharp blade of the person suddenly appearing beside you.

The newcomer’s face is hidden partially under the wide-rimmed hat and the rest behind a dark and tattered cloak. Glancing down, a hand with purple-painted nails slips the kunai into the darkness of the cloak, leaving you with the knowledge that it’s there.

There’s no doubt in your mind that this is a shinobi. Where did you come from? Admittedly, there are others frequenting the little tea house because it’s a popular stop at a major crossroads...even if it mainly services those without national affiliations. None of the rest of the clientele reacts to the scene unfolding discreetly and you have no wish to catch their attention before you know what and who you’re dealing with.

“What do you want?”

It takes a second before you realize the question isn’t asked by you. Another one to recover from the smooth dusk that is the stranger’s voice. A voice with a hint of familiarity in the timbre which you decide must be your mind playing games.

“Nothing. I’m no enemy of yours,” you try to placate them, silently counting the seconds worth of head start separating you from Sasuke, “and I hold nothing of value...you should let me go.”

The tickle of a laugh surprises you. “If I’d wanted your possessions, they’d already be mine. I want answers, Konoha-girl.”

The headband you carry is hidden under your clothes, well out of sight from any prying eyes. Finally giving up on stalking your initial target, you turn your undivided attention to the person who has seated them-self before you.

The little skin you can see is pale, and a few black strands have escaped the slack ponytail and fallen in front of the face where only chin and jawline is visible. As if knowing your annoyance, the head is tipped slightly, allowing you to glimpse soft, gently smiling lips. Kissable. The thought jars you.

“I recommend you give up that wish.” No one should be able to hear the nervousness in your voice...but the stranger smirks. “My business is my own.”

“Not when it involves him,” they says, inclining the hat towards the door where Uchiha left.

You’re out to get him? You almost feel sorry for this fool who clearly doesn’t have a clue about the one-armed ninja’s identity.

“Don’t be mistaken,” the person smiles as if reading your thoughts, “I know who he is and what he’s capable of, after all...he’s my brother.”

Calmly meeting your gaze, the eyes meeting you flash red.

...

“Don’t look an Uchiha in the eyes”. It was the warning that was whispered into your ears as soon as you were big enough to run errands on your own. Naturally, you had to do it, and what met you was not as demonic as the warning stories had made you think – rather, they were kind, and wiser than the smooth face hinted at – although you never looked another Uchiha in the eyes just to be on the safe side.

It was impossible to discern the colour. Some days, they seemed leaden as if the rain clouds were gathered inside the boy too. A few times, in the morning when he watched where his fists struck the wood, the sparks from the cozy fire of the evening before still lingered in the warmest of black. What you loved the most, though, was when the gaze was locked onto infinity and they were soft like liquid.

...

Everything is different: the stuffy tea room with its noisy patrons has been replaced by somewhere deserted that seems to be carved out of grey stone.

How did I get here? Careful to move as little as possible, you take in the new surroundings only to find the place empty and with only one way in and out. A dull cold has already seeped into your feet as you stand there, lost as your bearings have nothing to latch on to – the only light is a torch in a wall sconce to your left.

Feet. They are bare, and a quick pat-down reveals that all of your weapons, your belt, and your headband have been stripped from you too. The sensation is uncanny, akin to nakedness. The logic behind it is obvious as it reduces the chances of a successful escape even if you were to make it out and establish a route.

On the other hand: you’re unharmed and unbound.

Turning, you have no doubt that the wooden door is locked but of course you go over to try, heart frozen near your throat when you push against it with your shoulder. Surprisingly, it does open and the screaming hinges sets the tiniest hairs on your body on end.

“Not wasting any time, Konoha-girl.”

You recognize the voice and the decorated nails on the hand that appears to pull open the door completely, and not just from the rest stop but from years of aching recollections that have been warped by watching Sasuke grow up with this man’s shadow lingering over his life. Over your life.

No. There’s no way. He died. Now your heart jackhammers a frenzied rhythm.

It’s a fool’s hope that powers the jab towards his neck. An idiot’s dream urging you to sprint past him. At least I tried, a bitter thought comments the moment both attempts are thwarted as a rib-crushing kick sends your tumbling backwards and you land sprawled in the middle of the room.

The ceiling is still spinning, it seems, when you sense the man’s presence loom over you. The fingers are cool (and surprisingly gentle) as the curl around the back of your skull, fingers digging into your hair to grant a tight grip to pull you closer by. Very close. A hand’s length separates the tips of your noses and you want to be oblivious to the way his mouth curves softly.

“You’re not leaving,” he whispers, “until I say so.”

Feeling and strength are beginning to return to your arms, including a sharp ache in your chest that grows with every shallow breath which you try to ignore. Should have restrained me, fool...and the thought dies there as everything shifts and the ground swallows your limbs.

“N-no...how...? No!”

He watches your struggles lazily before releasing his grip and sitting down next to you on the hard floor. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

But you did. Wait...no! You haven’t...it wasn’t you...it can’t have been...

“You lie about your identity,” you scoff, regretting the outburst immediately as pain stabs coldly into your side, “so excuse me for not trusting you on this either.” There is a little smile there on his lips, full of sadness and regret that makes your insides cringe momentarily until you have the breath to explain to him (or yourself) why it can’t be true: “Uchiha Itachi has been killed!”

“Yes...and then I was brought back.” He’s impossibly calm as though he’s simply discussing the weather. “Twice.”

Double reanimated? As if! The war had been a horror to live through and would have been without people facing their deceased comrades and family members on the battlefield. However, once destroyed or sealed, none of the animated dead had walked again and all of them had been dealt with properly in the end.

Looking at the ninja, none of the signs of reanimation are prominent. On the other hand...even if they had been, you might not even notice it now that you meet the man’s gaze and the liquid infinity there.

“I could show you...but I’m afraid your mind can’t take the strain in your current state,” the so-called Itachi explains.

Mind, your aching heart still reels from fear of being broken once more, this is all in my mind.

Zoning out everything else, you focus on the flow of chakra within. Calming it, soothing it, until abruptly forcing the flow to revert. It feels as if your very soul drops for a second but the moment it returns to its place, the world is no longer made up of lies and imaginary sensations...and you’re still lying on the ground in a room made of stone, your ribs feeling as if they’re speared by frost. The only improvement is that at least your limbs are free.

And Itachi? Yes, you have to call him that because deep within you can’t deny it any longer.

The official reports hadn’t been released by the time you left Konoha and you’re not high enough up in the ranks as a shinobi to get the juicy information unless it’s necessary for a mission – and since your missions tend to be B or simpler A rank...well, I guess my current mission’s a bust but this is an important discovery!

A silky chuckle refocuses your attention. “Very good...I suppose I must strengthen my genjutsu against you.”

He’s so close, you could touch him. Shifting to lean against the wall, he rests his arms casually on the knees and begins to pick at the chapping nail polish.

“No need to,” you bite back a groan as you roll over to sit up, “I take it that’s how you got me here?” Pretty eyes are watching your every move as he nods in agreement. “Hm. It’ll probably be useless to ask where we are, so...why? Why show yourself now?”

Sitting cross legged, you find the pain lessens if you pull your clothes and arms tightly around your torso, restricting the depth of your breathing. Broken or bent ribs? Not that it really matters. First of all, he would be able to beat you in a fight anyways; secondly, even if you got out of here you wouldn’t know where “here” is; and third (but not least), you don’t really want to run from him.

Rather than answer, Itachi stands up and holds out his left hand for you. Puzzled, you take it. Soft fingers curl around yours and he pulls you to your feet, studying your movements and the twisting facial expressions.

He doesn’t let go.

Not when he guides you out the door and into a hallway shaped of the same kind of stone as the room was made of. Carved from.

Not when he slows down at the sound of the squeaky breathing the pace forces from you.

There doesn’t seem to be many rooms along the winding path. Here and there a door bars the way or you catch a glimpse of a dead-end that looks as though the excavation was abandoned or even disrupted by cave-ins.

You do your best to memorize the path, but frankly, your mind is getting fuzzy from pain and exhaustion. You have no sense of time, just hunger and tiredness weighing you down to indicate the loss of many hours.

“Just a bit longer, [Y/N],” Itachi soothes.

When did I tell him my name? You want to ask or at least protest, but it would be a choice between talking or getting to wherever he’s leading you...and you doubt he’ll let you pause.

A few dozen steps later and a short flight of stairs up, he ushers you through a door into a room that looks like a mix between a kitchen and work station. A fire is the only light and heat source (the smoke venting up through a chimney too narrow to be an escape route), casting a warm glow over the solid wooden table and chairs. Everything else is hewn from whatever mountain you’re inside.

“Sit,” your captor finally releases the grip and points at a chair near the fire and you obediently do as you’re told.

There are shelves and niches almost hidden in the dancing shadows at first holding with boxes, bundles, and various utensils. He knows where everything is, grabbing a few items before returning and laying it out in the light. Bandages. His movements are fluid and elegant, just like you remembered.

He motions towards your upper body, then turns to tend to the fire. “Strip.”

“That’s really not -”

“Some of your ribs are broken. Restraining them will minimize the pain.”

He’s right. Of course he is.

With clipped movements, you pull off the layers until you hesitate at the poor excuse of a bra. Despite the now roaring fire, the cold from the stone still seeps into your body and raises waves of goosebumps and tightens your nipples. It would be easier to apply the bandages correctly without the last bit of clothing in the way, but right now it feels like the only shield left at your disposal as Itachi turns back to you.

“We’ll work around that,” the man offers softly.

He works quietly at first. Hands winding the linen bandages around you adeptly, pausing each time the ministration intensifies the pain and causes the discomfort to escape as stubborn hisses. The purple nail polish is mesmerizing – simultaneously a contrast to the horrific stories of a killer and perfectly fitting the pretty, nearly feminine, traits you see. Especially the eyes. Sure, they’re filled with a bottomless sadness that you don’t feel comfortable acknowledging, but they’re beautiful. Haunting.

“You’re staring,” he hums without looking up.

Shit. “No. I just -...let’s say you’re who you claim to be,” you try to recover, “why’re you back?”

“To be his watcher.”

“Says who?”

This time, he stops and looks you dead in the eyes. “Otsutsuki Hagoromo, the Sage of Six Paths.” There are very few proper comebacks to that, so your captor continues without giving you a chance to think of something, “Otsutsuki told me about the bonds of families and that it can transcend blood. He knows hatred can cause – and has caused – too much harm...but something rekindled his hope that it can be overcome.“

I don’t have an eye on Uchiha constantly, but... “Does Sasuke know?” Returning to his work, Itachi avoids your gaze. “He doesn’t...”

“He’s finally found peace and is on the right path...I can’t risk undoing it.”

Bullshit! “Or you’re a coward who doesn’t have the guts to fa-” the rest is cut off as soft fingers tighten around your throat.

Blood-red eyes pierce your mind, numbing you for an eternity or a millisecond.

...

They were a means to reach the goal but their words still hurt as you followed meekly in their footsteps. Snobbery. Disdain. Considering how proud your two team members clearly felt, they had very little to show for their reputation as Uchihas and frankly, it was your skills rather than theirs that ensured successful missions and still, you never once looked them in their face. Instead, you kept an eye out for two other of the clan.

Where one was, so would the other be. Thick as thieves, the boys had found a companionship that complemented their differences in the same manner as the sun and the moon. But as opposed to your teammates who swooned at the brightness of the sun, you were drawn to the night and the calmness it brought whenever that boy was near – each time he met your eyes, time became meaningless.

...

The two of you sit in silence as the steam from the soup caresses your face. Your mind is blank, slowly starting to pick up on the absence of stone walls – wood has replaced the cold surfaces, making it almost unbearably warm with the bandages underneath your layers of clothes – and a plethora of questions begin to press against your conscious only to be held back as most of your thoughts get derailed whenever you look at the man before you.

Without the hat and cloak to conceal him, it’s impossible to ignore all the details you’ve nurtured in your memory for ages, such as the slight pull of his lips as he thinks or the elegance of his movements now that he gets up and refills his bowl from the pot hanging over the fire.

“Why are you following Sasuke?”

You should be diplomatic. “I could ask you the same.” You’re not.

“I already told you,” Itachi shrugs.

“Well I...I don’t believe you.”

But you do. There’s no denying anymore that this man is who he claims to be and so, why would he lie about his purpose? The sad smile. The quiet mannerisms. The idea that Itachi would somehow transcend death to watch over his little brother? That’s a mysterious intricacy that fits with your memories of him from before that night.

“You do...but something else is bothering you.” It’s a statement, not a question. “Am I not what you expected?”

No, you’re not. However, he’s what you remember with a layer of sorrow added on top. He doesn’t get to be sad. The little spark of anger is what you need. You nurse it, feed it until it flares up hot and bright and consumes your regrets and self-pity.

“Expected? I don’t know what I expected from someone like you!” Your voice is rising, shaking with years of frustration. “Clan killer. Murderer. I never told anyone but I was in love with an Uchiha! That night, I’d gone to bed, finally sure that I was gonna tell him but when I woke up...” Something inside you had broken that day and it still hurts now. “They told me how you’d left Sasuke alive...but the boy I loved was gone and no one knew I was mourning. Each time I saw him -” you can’t hold back a strangled sound and you realize, you’re crying -”I saw the ghost of...” The bowl of floating vegetables looks blurry until you blink angrily. “Ugh! But what does a teenager know of love, right? They’ll grow up. Get over it. Except I knew you were out there still and that you had all the answers. Why? The Itachi I remember wasn’t a mindless monster! I was told a story, but it doesn’t make any sense. If all the monster wanted was power then why spare Sasuke? Why did everyone else have to die?”

The inhalations are shallow and rapid, making you dizzy as you cling to the table and the spoon. It burns in your lungs and cheeks.

“I am sorry for the pain, I’ve caused you.”

Your gaze snaps to his face and you know he’s speaking the truth but it doesn’t matter right now.

“Sorry? Sorry?! You don’t get to be sorry! I missed y-...the boy, I loved was gone and it took ages before I could let go and stop mourning, finally accepting the truth had died with you and now...now you’re here? And it’s all back and I don’t understand! How could you?” Itachi doesn’t flinch as you launch the bowl towards him – he doesn’t have to because your aim is off and it clatters to the floor in a shower of shards and wasted food after hitting the wall behind him. “How? The boy I loved was not a monster! He wouldn’t do what they s-”

The echoes of your wheezing shouts ring through the room after the abrupt stop. Holding your breath, you wait for the ground to swallow you whole or for the man at the other end of the table to react and the fear is colder than the burning in your chest.

“Things aren’t always what they seem,” Itachi eventually whispers, “they were just people who had been wronged and misguided until their arrogance made them blind.”

What? That’s not exactly what you had expected. Without explaining further, your captor gets up, handing you his bowl of food before beginning to clean the mess you’ve made.

“Don’t...I’ll get tha-” you begin.

He only has to look at you.

...

The dew had soaked your toes, cooling and soothing them after each kick that you landed on the wood stump. Pine. The new splinters refreshed the scent as they fell to the ground and you knew that birds would rummage through them in the hope of finding a morning snack once the training grounds were free of people again – they were already gathering at the edge of the clearing except for where Itachi stood.

The realization made you stop mid-kick, gaze locked with his and heart fluttering in your chest. How long had he stood there?

“They’re wrong.” You could barely believe he was talking to you. “Your teammates...don’t listen to what they say.”

Before you could ask what he meant, Itachi was gone and maybe it had all been your imagination running free.

...

Sitting up abruptly, it takes a few seconds for your eyes to get used to the low light of the dying embers. Where am I?

Salt and drying seaweed is heavy in the air, somehow worming its way into what appears to be yet another room of stone. No...it’s a cave. You’re sitting on a bedroll splayed out onto the sand filling the place and you have no memory of arriving.

The dark form on the other side of the fire pit makes no move as you slip a hand underneath your shirt to confirm what you already know: the bandages are gone and there’s only a muted tenderness as you prod at the ribs. How long has it been?

“You’re safe,” Itachi’s gentle voice assures, and you feel your pulse slow despite the ominous situation, “go back to sleep.”

Yes. Sleep...hang on! Shaking your head, you fight the urge to succumb to the fuzziness that weighs your thoughts. “Why’re you doing this?” you mumble.

It doesn’t make sense why the man wouldn’t simply get the answers he want and then dispose of you or at the very least leave you locked up somewhere while he keeps following Sasuke from the shadows. Instead, your captor has put an effort into keeping you comfortable. Feeding you.

“I remember you.” His eyes reflect the red coals as they burn into your soul all over again. “Memories don’t do your justice, though.”

...

There is no world beyond the walls of the garden but a red sheet of sky dotted with storm clouds. The sliding doors have been pushed aside, opening the hallway to the view, and you know the wood beneath your bare feet should be silky from decades of use. You can’t feel it. There are no scents either, no breeze to toy with the soft fabric of your yukata, nor insects clicking from the rhododendron.

“This isn’t real.”

“No,” Itachi confirms from behind you, “but here I can create what you need. Who you need.”

Turning at last, there’s no reason to shy away from meeting his gaze even if it matches the fake sky. He looks real – as opposed to the familiarity of the home of your childhood that surrounds the two of you – and the ghost of a smile kindly tries to hide the sadness.

“...need. For what?”

The black strands falling into his face are strangely dull in the nightmarish light. “Closure.”

“That’s not possible.”

Wanting to leave, to run away and avoid what Itachi intends, you find yourself rooted in place by an invisible force. Even turning your face away is impossible and you pray that he doesn’t understand the well of emotions he must be able to see in your eyes.

“This is a chance for you to say goodbye to the one I killed. The one you...love,” he pauses to scrutinize your expression and you try to remain neutral, “because you do. You still love him.”

“You have no right...” swallowing hard, you fight to keep the words back, “no right t-to claim to know what I need!” Finally, you manage to close your eyes but they snap open again at the touch of his fingertips on your forehead. “This isn’t something you get to fix like -”

...

The world has shifted again and you’re back in the ocean side cave. You can feel how uneven the sand is under your knees and shins even with the bedroll to soften the press and some some the grains have found their way in between your toes...but none of that matters because Itachi is still right before you, his fingers gently resting on your brow.

A pop-and-crackle from the fire pit is the only sound other than your shallow breathing. You know, he knows. Eyes widened in nigh-comedic understanding, it’s as if he sees you for the first time.

“I’m sorry, [Y/N].”

You barely manage to whisper, “for what?”

His fingertips send shivers along your spine as they trace a path, allowing him to cradle the back of your neck in his palm.

“Everything” Itachi’s lips brush your cheek, “for breaking your heart in so many ways and for making you think your love was unrequited.”