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divine-mistake · 3 years

Text

'till death blooms us art

Summary: You’d rather die loving him than never getting to see the sun ever again.

(“Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system. This number is not available. At the tone, please record your message.”)

Characters: Sam Wilson/Plus-sized Reader

Warnings: 18+ (no smut), strong language, Hanahaki AU, angst with a happy ending, weight insecurity, allusions to eating disorders, talk about death, blood, past domestic abuse and trauma, gun violence, original male character, book quotes, anxiety

Word Count: 12796

A/N: Thank you for reading! This fic won the vote during my 500 follower celebration and it's finally out now! This story has a lot of meaning for me, due to it being a bit of a metaphor for disorderly eating. I know that will make some people uncomfortable, but as someone who has struggled for a long time, I want to talk more openly about this kind of thing. Anyway, thanks so much for sticking with me and I hope you enjoy!

main masterlist | AO3 | playlist by @tripleyeeet

—STUBBORN WEEDS—

They are everywhere—covering the space of the sitting room like an overgrown garden made of glass and paint, canvas and pages torn from old waterlogged books, stained mugs filled with decaying brushes. Wanda walks through your room like it’s a maze, her fingers trailing over the air but never touching the art. She’s pretending she’s in a museum, or a gallery, or something fancier than what you could ever appear in, but a twinge of something akin to warmth stabs through your heart at the thought.

“These are incredible,” she says, not looking at you. “How do you do it?”

With a shrug, you bend down and pick up one of the canvasses from the floor, holding it out to look at it.

“I don’t know,” you lie.

White space in the shape of flowers, uneven and missing petals here and there, is outlined in streaks of paint that go every direction, in every different shade, hard edges and soft, blurred lines and covering the entirety of the canvas except for those spaces where flowers once sat, pinned to the medium.

“They are beautiful,” Wanda says.

Your nail sneaks under one of the dried chunks of acrylic and you chip it—a fleck of ultramarine blue falls from the painting.

When you turn, Wanda studies a different piece in careful hands. It’s a glass case, trimmed with shitty, shaky lines of gold you painted on a whim. But inside, between the thick panes, dried flowers painted over are encased in eternity, arranged to match their exact placements on the canvas where your brushes stroked life onto them, around them, through them. Two perfect pieces that once belonged together, separated like an act of Adam against his God.

Maybe they were meant to be together, but no one will ever know their story.

“They’re amateur,” you tell her, laughing. “I’m not much of an artist. It’s just for fun.”

She smiles at you, placing the glass piece down. “You have a talent.”

Wanda takes another turn about the room, another circuit, another spin. She looks at every piece in such focus, taking in every single detail, fingers stretching and curling as if she wants to caress the dried flowers, the dried paint, and feel their meaning. You wonder what she would say if she could read their minds—the art you’ve made. Would your pieces tell her the true meaning behind their existence? Or maybe they would laugh, or cry, or howl in pain.

But Wanda only stares, at the paintings and at you, a small smile on her face like she knows something you don’t. Like she’s keeping a secret. Is she keeping the secrets that the flowers have whispered to her when you weren’t looking?

“What inspired them?” she asks, the very tip of her nail tracing a different glass box filled with dyed petals reconstructed into a larger artificial flower, protected by its own display.

You wring your hands together. “I like flowers.”

She laughs. “That’s obvious. But what makes them special enough to paint? To—To make such lovely art out of?”

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you place the small canvas you’d been holding back on the side table, crossing the room to your bookshelf. Your fingertip finds the spine of a hardcover book you’re too familiar with, pulling it out and into your awaiting hands. Sheets of paper, a little bent and crooked, stick out of the pages.

You crack it open, the dulling white petals of a daisy pressed flat between the crackling spine fluttering from between the black inked words, then fall to the floor at your feet.

“The Devil’s hand directs our every move,” you read. “The things we loathed become the things we love.”

Wanda stares at you as you fiddle with the book, tracing the words of the cover.

“Les Fleurs du Mal,” you say. “The Flowers of Evil.”

Gently and without word, she bows at your feet and picks up the drying daisy, cradling it in her pale hands, but you don’t have the strength to take it from her.

(“Hey there darlin’, it’s just me. I had to run some errands this morning, y’know how it is, so I’m out of the Tower right now. I was just wondering if you needed anything while I was out. Anything—really, anything at all. Even breakfast, or maybe a latte? Just a little pick-me-up. Well, give me a call back if you need anything. If not, I’ll be back soon. See ya.”)

—BETTER TOGETHER—

“Steven Grant,” you say his name like a curse, shaking your head. “This is why you spend three hours a day in the gym.”

Too busy shoving the first bite of his first hoagie into his mouth, Steve doesn’t reply. You roll your eyes, but the smile on your lips gives you away. When he’s finally swallowed, wiping crumbs from his mouth, he looks a little indignant.

“Are you calling me fat?”

“Well, you would be if you didn’t have that serum running through you.”

He frowns, brows furrowed, a little confusion on his face. “I thought it was because I work out three hours a day. And I’ll have you know—”

“—you work out six hours a day between your morning runs and training, I know, I know. I’ve heard it all before Steve.” You groan at the thought. “It’s like it’s your job.”

“It is my job. Saving the world and all that.”

“Okay, you really need to let America know that it’s giving you a complex, ‘cause if I hear one more thing about you saving the world, I think I’m going to scream.”

He shrugs, taking another gigantic bite out of his sandwich. Scraps of shredded lettuce fall out from between the buns and litter his plate. You pick at your own, pulling uneven pieces of sliced onion and stray pickles from the hoagie, content to sit and stare at it instead of eating.

Food is good. You brush the grainy crumbs of bread from your fingers. Food is good, but you just aren’t hungry. And you don’t work out three hours a day. Maybe you should start. Your body feels like a balloon with all your insides threatening to come up in a retch and choke you. Food is good. Food is good. You just have to pick up the sandwich and eat it.

Fingers shaking, you take the sub in your hand and stare at the corner where you mean to take the first bite.

“You good?”

Steve, still chewing, looks at you with concern clear in his crystal blues and it makes you put your food back down on the plate. Instead, you busy yourself with another sip of your water, nodding at him.

“Yeah. We can’t all be Steve Rogers, demolishing two hoagies in less than two seconds, y’know.” You throw in a snort, trying to sound nonchalant. “Wipe your mouth, Captain. You’ve got mayo on your cheek.”

He doesn’t, but him grabbing a napkin to embarrassedly wipe a nonexistent condiment from his face gives you enough time to pick your sandwich back up and contemplate taking the first bite. You’ve just gotta start with the first bite and the rest will go down.

But you aren’t hungry. How can you be hungry when you’re already so full? Stuffed, even. There isn’t room in your insides. All your organs are bursting. It’s so painful sometimes, the expanding of your skin to accommodate. Waves of sickness roll through you, spreading. Your stomach is stretched, bloated, filled with all the swallowed—

“What are you doin’ to my girl, huh Steve?”

The sound of his voice alone makes the ache inside of you dissipate, the nausea escapes from your throat, the anxiety twitching through your hands steadies. Your head perks up, shoulders rolling back as your entire body relaxes, and you look behind you.

And there, dressed in a tight blue polo and a pair of pants clinging to his legs like they were made for him, the very angel who blessed you, the devil who cursed you, the god of the fucking sun and everything it could ever touch, stands before you with a smile saved just for you.

Sam Wilson.

His dark eyes are piercing, like he’s trying to peel back the layers of your skin to see underneath, as he shoves his hands in his pockets and grins with all his teeth.

“Hey honey,” he says—simply and easily and not serious. Never serious.

Your lungs burn. Your mouth feels too dry to answer him.

“Oh, your girl?” Steve asks him, brows a little too furrowed to be joking. “When did she become your girl?”

Sam shrugs, walking toward the empty seat next to you, placing his hand on the back of your chair so dangerously close to your body that it makes you pull in a deep breath. His thumb could brush against the fabric of your shirt, run along the seam of your spine. And, goddamn, it should be illegal for him to look so casual and so unbothered while still looking that handsome.

Like this, you can smell the spice in his cologne, a powerful mix of something you’re sure is designed to drive you crazy.

He looks down at you, still hovering over where you sit, and throws a wink your way that brings heat to the surface of your cheeks.

“Aw, she’s always been my girl, ain’t that right? Tell him, darlin’.”

You stare at Sam for one second too long, breaking away to gaze down at your uneaten sandwich again. With every flutter that Sam sends down your stomach, the heaviness inside it seems to fade away. Your fullness is replaced by a familiar hunger—the rawness of your throat waning as a burning itch takes over. A cough is threatening to bubble up. You choke it back, smiling instead.

“He’s right, Stevie,” you say all bright and cheery again.

Steve meets your eyes with a stony gaze, unreadable, his blue eyes looking gray in the light. Beside you, Sam throws himself down in one of the chairs and pulls up to the table, hand still sitting on the back of your seat. His knees are spread a little wide, thigh resting against yours.

It’s so innocent but your brain thinks it’s so intimate. A lie. A lie.

In the end, Steve relaxes back, his eyebrows lifting as he watches the scene unfold in front of him. He tosses one of the sticky plastic menus toward Sam, nodding at it.

“Order up, man,” Steve says, his tone more neutral than you think you’ve ever heard it in regards to Sam. “But I’m not paying for yours. You’re on your own.”

At that, Sam laughs, full and robust with his face up to the ceiling. He rocks back in his chair, shaking his head, and he looks so beautiful even in the shitty sub shop that Steve drags you to for lunch every other week that it makes you ache and your lungs contract in an attempt to cough.

You swallow it back again, trying to even out your breathing. The itch in your throat is so bad that you almost pick up your sandwich to eat again, but your hand passes it up to take another few sips of your water. It’s cool, clear, refreshing—but it can’t make the tickle of the cough go away.

“So,” Sam starts once he’s finished ordering his own hoagie, “how’s that apartment hunting going? Found anything good yet?”

A frown forms, heavy, on your lips. You pick off a flaking piece of bread from your sandwich, watching it turn to crumbs underneath your fingers.

“It’s going,” you say, but anyone who ever responds to a question of how’s it going with it’s going is absolutely lying and it is absolutely not going—and maybe Sam knows that, or maybe Steve does, or hell, maybe they both do but it makes you look weak to admit that things aren’t going so well out loud.

And you—you can’t admit the truth, so it’s just better to lie about it.

You don’t want to leave the Tower.

“It’s going, huh?” Sam asks, his tone proving that he can see right through you. “You need help looking at some places or something?”

“Well—”

“You know,” he barrels through your words as if they are nothing, “I think I actually know a realtor around here. Maybe he can get you some leads on rentals or something. I could make some calls for you, honey.”

It’s not supposed to—Sam only means well, he always does, always trying to do so much for people—but it hurts to hear. Because you don’t hear him saying that he’s trying to help you out. You hear him saying he doesn’t want you around the Tower anymore.

Because, well, why would he want you there?

To him, you’re just an outsider. A girl who doesn’t belong. Someone who daydreams and doodles flowers on every surface as soon as she thinks of him. And you always think of him.

Before you can think about it, your hand flies to your mouth reflexively to hold back a cough. Instantly, Sam’s leaning closer and that damned hand of his falls soft against your back.

“You okay?”

There’s barely a moment for you to nod, signaling that you’re fine, before Steve’s got on his game face, all hard lines and furrowed brows and thin lips pressed tightly together.

“Hey,” he says, grabbing Sam’s attention. “She’s allowed to stay as long as she wants, alright? The Tower is her home now, too. So there isn’t a rush for her to find a place unless she wants to leave.”

The passion and care in Steve’s voice is strong, almost so overpowering it’s oppressive, and something rises up from within you and threatens to send salty tears careening down your cheeks if you don’t blink them away.

Sam raises his hands in front of him dramatically. “Okay, okay, I get it. I wasn’t trying to run her off or anything, just wanted to lend a hand if I could. Damn, Steve.”

Something changes at the table, then. It’s like a fog, thick and cloying, falls over the three of you and keeps you lethargic—so much so that the only words spoken in the next few awkward minutes are Sam’s thanks when the waiter brings his sandwich by.

You still haven’t even touched yours, and you hope it seems like you’re just waiting for Sam to get his, because Steve’s tearing into his second and by the looks of the mustard dripping down his fingers messily, he’ll be done any minute now.

But as you prop your head up on the table, leaning on your elbow boredly, Sam nudges his leg into yours to grab your attention. When you turn to look at him, he’s got that grin again, all pearly and white with the little crooked gap you think you could stare at forever as long as it meant he was smiling and laughing and happy.

“You gonna eat, girl?” Sam picks his sub up in his hand and gestures at you to do the same. God, he makes you dizzy just by talking. The butterflies in your belly are fighting tooth and nail against your organs, trying to take up all the space, but they aren’t really butterflies. The soft monsters in your stomach leave a taste on your tongue you can’t explain.

“Oh.” You mimic his movement and then Sam toasts his hoagie against yours with a chuckle.

“First bite,” he says, and there’s no thought in your head or balloon in your stomach and no bloated skin to make you second guess yourself.

You follow Sam, sinking your teeth into the bread of your sandwich, and its flavor explodes over your tongue just enough to take away all the bitter, floral, fragrant taste of the daisies that are building up in your stomach, their petals choking you out, downy fluttering things inside you.

(“Hey girl, it’s me. I couldn’t find you anywhere—where you at? I was coming to see if you wanted to grab a bite with me for lunch, maybe at that little Italian place you like to go to around the corner? Or maybe sushi or something? Been a while since I got to go out for lunch, so I thought I’d ask, but I guess you’re busy right now. I’ll catch you later, darlin’. Enjoy your lunch.”)

—NEW BEGINNINGS—

You’ve got to call him. You have to. You have no choice anymore.

Danny is on the other side of the locked door, his fist pounding on the wood and threatening to cave it in from the repeated force. The sound is louder than it should be, really, echoing off the tile of the bathroom you’ve barricaded yourself inside. He’s shouting above the sound.

“You fucking bitch. I’m gonna kill you. I’m gonna fucking kill you. You lied to me? What else are you lying about, huh? You fucking whore. I took you in, I gave you a home, I gave you everything. Fucking fat slut—how many other guys are you sleeping with, huh?”

None, you had answered earlier when he was questioning you in your shared bedroom, his fist tight around your soft arm and squeezing so hard it made you want to scream. None.

But that wasn’t the answer Danny was looking for. And, well, once he threw you onto the ground and stomped to the dresser, clothes strewn around the room as he furiously ripped through it until he found the shiny black firearm you didn’t know he had, you were gone.

But there was only one place to go and that was the bathroom.

Now, trapped inside, you know you have no choice. You have to call him—the man from the coffee shop you’ve been going to regularly for a few months. The man who noticed the bruises Danny always left on you after a rough night. The man who pressed and pried and tried to do anything to get you to open up to him even as you refused over and over again. The man who put his number in your phone because he wanted you to call him if you ever needed him, not because he was a hero, but because he was worried about you.

You press the number two on speed dial. The phone rings.

“Hello? Who is this?”

“Steve?” Your voice is nothing but a sob. “Steve, you were right.”

He doesn’t miss a beat, but you hear the rustle of clothes and a jingle of keys on the other side beyond the static, a sound that makes you almost cry with relief or hope or maybe just stress.

“Hold on,” he tells you. “FRIDAY is pulling up your address. I’ll be there as quick as I can. Are you safe?”

“Bathroom,” you’re able to mumble out from behind the waterfall of tears rushing down your face. “He’s locked out but—but I’m scared.”

“I’m on my way. He’s not going to hurt you. I promise you.”

And then Steve hangs up, and you wish he hadn’t because now you’re left all alone with just a flimsy wooden door, painted fucking white so the blood will show up real pretty when Danny kills you, between you and your boyfriend.

Well, ex-boyfriend if you get out of here alive.

“Four fucking years!” he shouts from outside. “I gave you four fucking years of my life, you stupid bitch. I put up with your dumb fat ass for four years and this is what you do? Is this love? Do you think this is love?”

You figure anything is love as long as it doesn’t look like this. The ring of bruises around your upper arm from Danny’s grasp is already turning black and blue, a sight that makes you flinch.

Honestly, if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s yours. All the cash you were stashing should’ve been hidden better. You knew better. A shoebox up on the top shelf of the closet? Amateur. You should’ve cut a section out of one of your prized books or something. Danny never fucking reads. He probably doesn’t know how. He would’ve never found all the money if you’d stashed it there.

“Six thousand dollars!” he roars, punching the center of the door. The wood bends slightly. “How long’ve you been fucking stealing from me, huh? Fucking bitch. Stupid fucking bitch.”

And then it happens.

Danny’s fist breaks through the first layer of the door with a curse of pain falling from his lips. Then, a laugh. He’s laughing.

“I’m gonna kill you.”

He punches the door again and then his hand is through, wood splinters shattering and flying toward you, and with a scream you shield your face with your arms and duck down. You’re sitting beside the bathtub, squished against the toilet, and you scoot back as far as you can trying to wedge yourself to safety.

But there is no safety here. Danny’s bloodied fingers find the doorknob and unlock it with a click, and it’s over. It’s over. It’s fucking over.

With a kick, the door comes flying open and you’re screaming again at the top of your lungs, throat tearing itself raw. Danny’s broad frame possesses the entire room as he shoulders his way inside, his lips pulled back to show all of his teeth in a feral grin, the overhead lights catching the shine of the sleek gun he’s carrying.

You can’t even look at him. All you can do is stare at his back in the bathroom mirror hanging over the counter, your mind completely devoid of thought.

“Fuckin’ dead,” Danny says, and you don’t see him aim the gun at you. You stare in the mirror, right in the mirror and memorize the pattern of the plaid jacket he’s wearing, how the colored stripes form new colors, how the fabric all blends. It’s a pretty shirt. You bought it for him two Christmasses ago. He looks good in it.

You are going to die.

Then, suddenly, you can’t see the plaid anymore. Instead it’s a gray shirt on a much bigger body blocking out the mirror, and when you turn your head to look, Steve’s there.

Steve’s here.

He’s got Danny in a chokehold, grappling for the pistol in your boyfriend’s hand. Ex-boyfriend. Despite Steve being completely unarmed—he’s Captain America for christ’s sake, a goddamn super soldier, he doesn’t need a fucking weapon—he easily brings Danny down to his knees and onto the floor, kicking the gun away from their bodies and out of the bathroom completely.

“Fucking whore,” Danny manages to spit out, the sound strangled as Steve’s arm buckles over his neck. “You’re fucking him too, huh? I’m gonna kill you.”

“Shut up,” Steve grits through his clenched teeth, pulling Danny toward the destroyed door. “You’re done.”

They disappear from the bathroom in a tangle and thrashing of limbs. Danny curses the whole way down the stairs, struggling to break out of Steve’s grasp you presume. He’s a fighter—that’s what he always said. Dog meets dog eats dog world, he would tell you. You can’t ever trust anyone.

And, well, he certainly proved his beliefs. You had the bruises to show for it. The scars as evidence.

Sitting alone in your wrecked bathroom, still sprawled out on the tile, you stare down at your hands. The lines run deep in your palms, fingers stubby and chubby and not at all feminine. Too small to grab Danny the way he always grabbed you. Too soft with fat to deliver a good punch.

You don’t know how much time passes before a much larger hand enters your vision, slowly, like approaching a kicked mutt on the street, and when you don’t flinch, Steve lays his fingers across your palms. Apprehensively, you grab onto his hand, and he squeezes back.

Looking up, he’s crouched in front of you, the beginnings of a bruise forming on his left temple. With your free hand, you reach out and let your fingers brush over it, but Steve just smiles at you.

“Let’s go,” he murmurs.

“Where?”

“Anywhere but here,” he says, gently tugging on your hand. You hold onto him a little tighter and let him help you up off the ground, his arm immediately sliding around your waist to steady your shaky legs.

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” you say. “The money I saved…”

You don’t even know what happened to it. For all you know, Danny burned the cash. Or stashed it somewhere else.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” Steve says in a soft voice. “I’m taking you back to the Tower. The police are dealing with Danny right now. Can you help me pack some clothes for you?”

And so you sat on the bed among your wrecked bedroom as Steve picked through the messy drawers that had been pulled from their dresser, some articles of clothing crumpled on the floor where Danny flung them in his mad search for your secret money stash. And the gun. You almost forgot about the gun.

Steve helps you pack, his face only a little pinker than normal when you’re shoving your intimates into the black duffle bag he fished out of his car, and then he’s helping you slip on your sneakers and guiding you out of your house.

You don’t say goodbye to it, though. That house. Even after four years, you don’t call it home. In a lot of ways, you’re happy to watch it disappear from Steve’s rearview mirror, hoping you’ll never be back.

“They’re going to love you there,” he says quietly in the silence of the car, both hands tight around the steering wheel. He glances over at you, then back at the road. “You’ll fit right in. You’ll be safe. Right at home.”

But you think Steve is a bit of an optimist. Homes, you think, are for people who are loved.

(“Hey honey, just me here. Look, I remembered you saying something about how you wanted those, what were they called, the fairy lights for your room? The ones that look like Christmas lights? I thought we could go pick some up and I’ll hang ‘em up. You’re too short to do it yourself, girl, you know that. Anyway, give me a call if you want to, or just come down to my room and get me, anytime. I’ll be waiting. Talk soon, honey.”)

—KEEPING SECRETS—

Wanda hums a tune under her breath. “I just can’t wait to get out of this place! It’s been too long. Mission after mission after bloody mission.” She sighs and starts to apply a thick coat of mascara, eyes wide as she stares in the mirror.

“Agreed,” Natasha says from somewhere behind you. The sound of her bare feet on the bathroom tile is the only warning you have before she sidles up beside you, gracefully lifting herself up onto the counter and sweeping various cosmetics aside to make room.

You’re still undressed, standing in your panties and an old t-shirt with a stretched out neck, just finishing up your eyeshadow when Nat taps a black bottle on the marble top near your fingers.

“Want me to do your eyeliner?” she asks.

A few months ago, you would have seen it as an insult—a beautiful, dangerous woman telling you in less words that your makeup looked like shit. Now you know it’s an expression of Natasha’s unending love for you. A willing act of service. A small thing she can do for you.

“Yes please.”

Natasha motions you forward, between her legs, and when she takes your face in her hand you close your eyes.

“Pretty colors,” she says, probably about your eyeshadow.

“Thanks,” you reply, and then you feel the cool wetness of liquid liner right on your lash line as she begins to paint a wing on your lid. “You always look pretty.”

“So do you.” She blows softly on your left eye. “It’s like you never need makeup, I swear. Are you even wearing foundation?”

A smile works its way onto your face. “Nope.”

From beside you, Wanda giggles.

“Slut. You’re so perfect it makes me want to scream sometimes,” Natasha says, tongue clicking her teeth as she finishes off your right eye.

All the breath seems to leave you in that moment. Like someone punched you straight in your gut, your bones like the gel shock-absorbing layer protecting your organs. Your eyes want nothing more than to shoot open, but Nat is blowing cool air over the newly formed wing and you force yourself to relax so you don’t mess everything up.

“I’m not perfect,” you tell her. “Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

“Don’t deflect.” You hear her cap the eye liner and set it down on the counter, then her palms engulf your cheeks. Slowly, you let your eyes open, blinking gently.

She’s staring at you, eyes narrowed.

“Just because I’m beautiful doesn’t mean you’re not beautiful,” she says, simply, as if it’s just easy for her to not compare herself to anyone else. “If you’re perfect, you’re perfect. Doesn’t matter if I’m perfect, too. And that Wanda is perfect. Or that anyone is perfect.”

Natasha takes your chin in her fingers and grabs a tube of lipstick—the one she and Wanda always tell you to wear because it looks so damn good on you.

“Your beauty and your worth doesn’t come from other people.” She runs the silken rouge over your lips. “It comes from who you are, not comparisons to other people.”

And, god, you want to scream at her. You want to shout and tell her that she isn’t allowed to say that to you when she looks the way she does—slim and picturesque and every human being’s wet dream. She doesn’t get to say that you shouldn’t compare yourself, with your heavy chest and your wide hips and all your soft pockets of skin, to someone like her. To someone like Wanda. To anyone else that doesn’t need liposuction with a side of diet pills, please.

You can’t be perfect, because if you were perfect, if you were enough, you wouldn’t be dying in agony every night over someone that doesn’t look twice at your too-large stomach and your too-large thighs.

They’re just trying to make you feel better, but all it does is make you feel worse.

“Look,” you say when she’s done with your lipstick, “I get what—”

In a split second, your chest is wracked with hard coughs, lungs struggling for air. It’s choking you, your own insides, and you’re hacking and wheezing and grasping at the bathroom counter and Natasha’s hands are on your shoulders and Wanda is slapping your back in hope that it will help and someone, somewhere, is saying the word heimlich and you can taste it on your tongue like old wallpaper from the 70s, floral and disgusting and toxic and ugly.

You throw your arm over your mouth, smearing your lipstick. It doesn’t help. Natasha is looking at you, eyes wild. You’re coughing and coughing and you think you taste blood underneath the overwhelming velvet on your tongue.

They’re saying your name. Shredded petals are between your teeth.

And then you break, pushing past them to the toilet, skidding on your knees until you’re doubled over and retching. It’s all burning acid and fresh flowers. Rot and fester and earth and greenery. A pair of cool hands—Wanda’s, you think—rest upon your forehead and move your hair away from your face.

Vomit and daisies leak from your mouth until your stomach is done contracting and your insides are empty. All that’s left is your sputtering coughs that taste caustic and beautiful.

It’s getting bad.

When you finally pull away from the toilet, slumped back and wiping your mouth, the toilet is full of an explosion of crisp white and bright yellow, tinged with the faint pink of blood. Wanda is glancing back and forth between you and the unflushed toilet, horror stitched on her face.

Before Natasha approaches, a glass of tap water in hand, you lean over and flush the petals down the drain. The look you shoot Wanda is pleading, but you don’t even know what you’re asking for.

Everything on the inside hurts, burning like a pit of snakes in your belly, hissing and spitting venom and biting into you like they mean to kill you. Perhaps the daisies have grown fangs. Your lungs feel chewed.

Nat places the glass in your shaking hands, her fingers holding your own as if she knows you can’t do it yourself. She helps raise the glass to your soiled lips and you gulp the water down like it’ll flood the valley unfolding in you.

“Who is it?” she asks, her voice calm but her eyes uneasy. You nearly choke, a hand pressing against the middle of your chest as if you need to feel your lungs as they work to assure yourself of your own survival.

“What?” you barely eke out, throat thick and scratchy. One of Wanda’s hands strokes down your back and she doesn’t speak, only shakes her head.

“Who is it?” Natasha repeats.

You look away.

“God.” Wanda sniffles behind you. “How could we not have realized?”

“Because it doesn’t happen,” Nat says, shifting from crouching in front of you to sitting on her knees on the floor, a hand resting on your thigh. “I’ve never known a single person—until now, I guess—who had it. I thought it wasn’t real.”

“They tell it like a fairytale in Sokovia,” Wanda says, her words just as watery as her eyes. “A story you lull children to sleep with! But I should have seen it. We should have seen it.”

A new abundance of petals tickle the back of your throat.

“All that art,” Natasha hisses, but she isn’t looking at you. She’s glaring down at her lap.

“All the daisies,” Wanda cries. Her head drops against your shoulder. You feel the wetness of her tears.

“It’s okay,” you tell them, but your voice is too small. “It’s okay,” you say, louder this time, tasting the flowers like they are the blood of your bitten tongue.

“Who is it?” Natasha asks again, a begging in her voice you don’t think you’ve ever heard before.

“It’s okay,” you say again.

And with this, Nat’s face changes from one of concern to something of realization—like she’s been struck with a thought she never considered, like she’s seen the future.

“It’s him.” Her jaw is slack, staring at you even as Wanda looks at her with confusion etched on her visage. “You have to tell him.”

“No,” you say simply.

“This is bad,” Nat snaps, as if you don’t know it already. “This is getting bad. You need to tell him or you’re—you’re going to die.”

A laugh breaks through the bathroom, echoing. “How can I tell him? How could I ever tell him that I love him when the simple fucking fact that these flowers are growing—rooting—in my goddamn lungs is proof that he doesn’t love me the way that I love him?”

You lean back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.

“Sam Wilson doesn’t love me the way I love him,” you whisper.

The tips of Natasha’s fingers catch the tears you don’t feel streaking down your cheeks like the screaming of shooting stars, hot and bright and dying.

“It’s sort of beautiful, don’t you think?” Your nails dig into the fat flesh of your thighs, trying to puncture skin. “To make art of your own death. To make something lovely out of something so tragic.”

You can’t swallow it back this time. A cough wracks through you, jostling your bones, and you fold yourself in half as soft white petals emerge from your esophagus and choke you. You grind them against the backs of your teeth with your tongue, trying to mash them into nonexistence, but it’s not enough. You retch another wave of daisies into your awaiting hands.

Wanda calls your name and it sounds broken.

“Death like this,” you rasp, catching your breath, “is the most beautiful way to go.”

Your finger drags over one of the downy petals, a bead of blood catching on your skin and smearing across it like a brushstroke of paint, ruining it.

“Death like this is the only way I want to go.”

(“Hey beautiful, it’s me again. I heard you were going out with the girls tonight—I hope you have fun. I just wanted you to know that if you need a ride back home, or you get into trouble and need a hero, or anything, really, I’m just a phone call away. You need me and I’ll be there, ‘kay honey? I’ll be up if you need anything, at least ‘till you get home. Have fun, girl.”)

—INNOCENCE—

You’re beginning to ask yourself if the mirror lies.

It doesn’t. You know that. You’ve been trying to find the lies in it for years at this point, pinching and pulling at all the places you find are thicker than the women you see on TV, the women you see floating around the Tower, the women you’ve seen on the arms of Sam Wilson. Chubby hands caress down your soft belly, poking and prodding the skin you wish you could make disappear. The mirror never lies.

But you wish it did when you stare at yourself and all you see are the bruises beneath your eyes, the hollows in your cheeks, the drained look in your gaze. The longer you stand there, the less you recognize yourself.

You aren’t hungry anymore. You never get hungry—the flowers filling up all the space in your stomach, coughed up from your lungs and swallowed back in pieces. Perfume is what your mouth tastes like now. Perfume and iron. The vomiting hasn’t stopped since the night your secret was revealed to Natasha and Wanda.

And you’ve never looked better.

That’s the part you hate. The part where when you look in the mirror and you can see the places where those daisies have shaved you thinner. It almost makes you laugh. People say you pack on the pounds when you find love. Maybe they should try having toxic flowers take root inside of them and slowly steal their lifeforce while they watch the person they love never love them back.

It’s a slow process, this death. You wonder which will kill you first—the starvation or the suffocation.

The walk down to the gala is as equally exciting as it is dreadful. You’ve never been to a Tony Stark gala before and you’re eager to dance the night away with your friends. But you’re also exhausted.

Oh well. The makeup helps you look less like a corpse and more like a dancing queen. The dress, which you’re sure someone paid far too much money for, is part of the solution. It’s all flowy and gorgeous as if you are a Greek goddess meant to be worshipped and highlights your figure while hiding all the imperfections the mirror seemed to find.

And when you finally enter the room, classical music playing from the live band and people laughing loudly and champagne twirling about the floor for people to take, the first thing you see is him.

Grin taking up his entire face, lighting up the entire ballroom, dressed beautifully in a navy suit that makes him look utterly dashing, is Sam Wilson.

He’s surrounded by people—women who are better dressed than you are—so with a shaky breath and a pain in your lungs, you quickly turn on your heel and head toward the next familiar face.

“Woah there, doll, where you hurryin’ off to?” Bucky, hair neatly pulled back and wearing a black suit, grabs you by your waist.

“Nowhere,” you blurt. “The bar. I just got here.”

He raises a thick brow at you, a silent question, but when you choose not to answer he shrugs.

“Well I can’t refuse to escort a pretty lady, can I?” With a charming smile, he holds his elbow out to you and gestures for you to grab on. You slip your hand around his arm and grasp him tightly, shooting him a grateful smile.

“Thanks, Bucky.”

But as the two of you start dodging through the crowd of excited party-goers, on your way to the bar in the back, Bucky stops short and gets a look on his face that you’re not quite sure you can describe as mischievous, but it’s close enough to make you frown.

“Y’know what,” he says, glancing over at you with that boyish grin, “I think we should take a spin on the dance floor instead.”

“Oh no,” you tell him, eyes wide. “I can’t dance—”

He snorts. “I’ve seen you dance around the kitchen, doll.”

“I can’t dance in front of all these people.”

“Can’t is a word for losers.” Bucky closes his hand over yours, locking you to his elbow. “Don’t wanna be a loser like Stevie, do ya? Oh Buck, I can’t stop fighting, gotta teach ‘em a lesson. Oh Buck, I can’t rinse out my cereal bowl, I gotta go for a run.”

It makes you laugh, maybe a little too loud, but it eases you just enough for Bucky to pull you into the menagerie of dancing couples, and then he’s moving your hand from his arm and onto his shoulder and clasping your other in his fingers.

“There we go.” His eyes shine like the ocean sparkles under the Tower lights.

Bucky has something magic in him, you decide, after two songs of him swinging you along the floor. He has something magic that makes everything so easy, which is something so admirable after all he’s been through. He has you laughing and smiling and spinning across the room with so little effort you forget all your worries in an instant.

“See?” Bucky dips you in his arms, making you squeal with glee, collecting the stares of the people peppered around the room. “Knew you could dance, doll.”

Panting, you rest a hand on his chest, still giggling. “Only ‘cause you’re so good.”

“Song’s over, Buck,” a new, familiar voice cuts in. When you look up, Steve is standing there, eyes crinkling with his own smile. “I can’t wait for another.”

At that, Bucky rolls his eyes with such drama it has you laughing yet again.

“See? I told you. It’s all can’t this, can’t thatwith Stevie. But fine.” Bucky guides you by the waist over to Steve, passing your hand over, and then gives you one last grin with all his teeth. “I had fun, doll. Thanks for dancin’ with me.”

“Anytime,” you tell him, and then Steve’s adjusting your grip on him. The song changes from the upbeat tune Bucky was twirling you to down to a slower classical piece.

“You doing okay, sweetheart?” Steve asks, his eyes roaming over your face.

“Yeah,” you hum. “Bucky and I had a lot of fun.”

Steve’s grip at your waist tightens a little. “No, I mean in general. Are you doing alright?”

There’s worry there—in the wrinkles on his brow, the blue skies of his eyes, the curve of his lips. You know he’s staring at you and seeing everything the mirror told you. All the gaunt places. The hollow, haunted look you’re parading around. The weight you’ve been steadily losing. You know he sees it.

“I’m okay,” you tell him, and you wonder yet again if the mirror ever lies. You know you do.

Steve sways you gently, more carefully than Bucky had. Steve dances with you like you’re made of something fragile. You still don’t understand why. You don’t know why he ever looked at you and saw something important, someone to protect. Maybe it’s just how he was born to be.

“You can tell me anything,” he says, so seriously that your heart breaks a little.

You move your hand from his shoulder and up to cradle his cheek, smiling.

“I know, Steve. I know.”

And if he pulls you into him, crushes you against his chest, and holds you like that for the rest of the song, no one mentions it. Steve lets you rest your head on his shoulder and, not for the first time, you think this must be how it feels to have a family.

But then the lights in the ballroom brighten a little and a spark finds its way into the music, changing into something jazzy and fun, and someone slaps Steve on the shoulder.

“Alright Rogers, she’s ours now.”

There, dressed like she could kill a man with her heels alone, Natasha has her arms crossed over her black satin gown. Beside her, in a red, flowy dress, Wanda has her hands on Nat’s shoulders, giggling from all the bubbly you’re sure she’s consumed.

Steve pulls away from you with a chuckle, holding his hands up in surrender.

“Alright, alright—she’s all yours, ladies.”

With that, Natasha pounces on you, and the three of you start to shimmy the night away together.

You lose count of the songs you spend dancing with them, sweaty and out of breath and having the time of your life, before you wave them off and step out onto the outside patio where hardly anyone is loitering. You pass up a couple sitting on a bench, cuddled up in the cool air of New York, and leave a man smoking a cigarette to himself.

Instead, you find a lonely bench far away enough from the gala that you can hardly hear anything but the bass strings resounding through the building. There, you sit, and turn your head up to the stars you can’t really see anymore.

“You okay, girl?”

Startled, you whirl around to face the object of your affections, standing behind you with his hands shoved casually in his pockets. He isn’t wearing his usual smile. Just staring.

And then you taste dirt. Freshly upturned soil coated in congealing blood. You cough into your hands and hear him approach, laying a warm palm on your back as you choke the daisies down and down and down, swallowing as many as you can, the pungent taste still ripe in your mouth.

“Honey,” he calls out all smooth and sharp like whiskey. “Honey, are you okay?”

You lick the blood from your lips. Sam crouches before you, gathering your cold hands in his, looking up at you with such a fucking expression that you want to kiss him so solidly he can taste the vines growing up your throat. You want his tongue to taste the soil of your suffering—the flowers of your own doom.

“I’m worried about you,” Sam says, his dark eyes searching your face for something.

“I’m okay,” you tell him, just as you’ve been telling everyone.

“You’re not looking so good these days,” he murmurs, and you recoil.

“Wow.” The hurt in your voice is so palpable it makes you cringe. “Thanks, Samuel.”

You move to get up from the bench, heart twisting, but Sam grabs your arms and cages you there.

“I didn’t mean it like that, darlin’, you know better than that.” He gives your arms—too soft too wide too fleshy too—a squeeze of reassurance. “You’re not painting much anymore either. You think I wouldn’t notice?”

Sam holds your gaze until it’s too much and you have to break away.

“C’mon, girl. Are you even sleeping?” Sam shakes you a little. “Eating?”

The flowers of evil root in your chest. See, you know how this book ends. You don’t need to read the last page to find out. It’s just as Baudelaire wrote, you know: “My heart is lost; the beasts have eaten it.”

Your organs have been replaced by daisies. Sam Wilson won’t love you—not tonight, not tomorrow, and not in time.

So you shrug, forcing your lips to curl into what you think might be a smile.

“I can’t paint. I’ve got too many flowers to press,” you tell him. Sam’s visage morphs into confusion, and he shakes his head slightly. He doesn’t understand. He won’t understand.

You take his arms from your body, holding his hands for a split second, long enough to steal their warmth and imagine what it would be like to hold them every single day, and then you pick yourself up off the bench and give him a wave.

“See you inside, Sam.”

And you leave him there, confusion still frozen on his face, the gritty blood ripping shreds in your damaged throat as you swallow it again and again and again in an attempt not to taste it anymore.

(“Hey, uh, it’s Sam. I was just calling to, uh, y’know, remind you about the gala. You have a date yet? I didn't ask anyone. I, uh, I wanted to ask this girl, but uh, I ended up waiting too long and I’m a little late so… I’ll see you there, honey. Try not to kill me with your good looks tonight, you hear? Save a dance for me, baby.”)

—THE SUN AND ALL ITS STARS—

Dishware rattles into your room, signaling Nat’s arrival. By the time you gather the energy to sit up in bed, she’s already entering, a tray of food in her hands and an icy look on her face.

“Breakfast in bed,” she says monotonously.

You shift and pull your duvet up as she fits the tray over your lap. There’s not much—a sweating glass of cold water beside an amber glass of apple juice, two slices of buttered toast, and some melon she cut up.

“Thanks,” you say, voice strained and weak.

Natasha doesn’t leave, but you wish she would. She seats herself on the edge of your bed, staring you down as you sip on your water. You purse your lips in frustration, but pick up the fork and begin to poke at the fruit.

“Eat,” she says.

“I’m trying,” you grumble back. “Stop staring at me.”

Natasha throws her hands up on the air. “Well if I don’t watch you, you’ll just sit here and waste away,” she snaps. “You’re not eating, you’re not sleeping, hell, you aren’t even coming out of your room anymore. You go to work, you come home, you don’t talk to any of us. Steve says—”

“Steve doesn’t know anything!” you shout, interrupting her. As soon as you do, her eyes narrow into slits and you shut your mouth, gulping. That wasn’t what you wanted to do.

Natasha takes a deep breath. “Steve says you’re still looking for a place.” It’s eerie how calm she keeps her tone. “Leaving isn’t going to stop them, you know.”

Even now, not doing anything but staring at the food in your lap, you can taste them like a funeral home, saccharinely floral, covering the smell of death.

“I can’t stay here,” you say.

“You’re dying,” Natasha stresses. “Please. Please, I am begging, krasavitsa. I’ve not begged for much in this life. But I am begging you to please, please tell him. Tell him or consider the other option.”

Two options in the scale, tipping weights. To die or to have the roots of true love carved out of your lungs, peeled away from where they wrap around your heart.

You stab your fork into the tender flesh of the melon. It gives way so easily, letting the tines puncture it. Natasha stares at you, her gaze heavy. Your fingers fumble with the fork and it falls, clattering, to the tray of dishes.

The blood is too hard to swallow anymore—it builds up in your mouth and stains your teeth red, the petals colored pink when they fall from your lips.

“Okay,” you whisper. Maybe you don’t even say it aloud.

“Okay?” Natasha asks. You nod your head, not looking at her.

“I’ll tell him.”

It takes you hours, it feels like, to gather the courage. With all the energy you have left in your bones, muscles only satiated a little by Natasha’s breakfast, you drag yourself out of bed and to your bookshelf. It’s memorized, the place where your book sits, and you pull it out with a gentle tug of your finger.

The Flowers of Evil, its pages nearly chock-full of pressed daisies that have ejected themselves from your body, eager to find the man you love and spill all your desires to him. You thumb through it, gaze flitting over all the damn flowers that have dried in this damn book, and you close your eyes in order not to cry this time.

You press the book tight to your chest, feeling the desperate beating of your heart echo through it, and you head to Sam’s room.

The walk is long and lonely—the Tower feels empty. Devoid of people. You’re a little glad because you’re sure that anyone could see the sickness painted on your body, the illness from inside you that’s staining your outsides. It’s not anyone’s fault but your own, really. The flowers are too beautiful to supplant.

And now, you’re in front of his door, a fist raised to knock, a loud buzzing in your head that keeps saying no, no, no. But your heart, traitorous thing still hammering away in your chest, it just keeps saying yes, yes, yes, finally.

Sam Wilson doesn’t love you.

But do you have any other choice except to take a garden spade to your lungs and dig them out of your chest cavity, to destroy your ribcage and break through the mulch that makes up your nervous system? Is the only option left to die at the hands of Sam or to wither away until your decomposition will feed the very things that killed you off?

You shudder a breath and knock on the door. And you wait. And wait. And wait.

He doesn’t come. He isn’t there. He doesn’t love you.

The tears come suddenly—unexpectedly. They are hot and stricken and fast. They drip off your chin and careen down your neck and dampen the collar of your shirt and your hands are trembling, grasping your book too tightly, to even begin to wipe them away.

You don’t know why you’re crying. You already know this. Sam Wilson could never love you the way that you love him. Sam Wilson is perfection, you know. He possesses the strength of gods, he radiates love, he’s passionate about every fucking thing he does. He’s beautiful. He’s everything and you are nothing when standing next to him, but you love him. You love him.

Sam Wilson doesn’t fucking love you.

“Well,” you laugh to yourself, “I can either die a fool or live a life without you.”

I can either die in love or live my life not knowing what it feels like to be in love with you.

Something tickles your tongue. You reach between your lips and pluck it from your mouth, letting it sit upon the center of your palm. Blood drips down your arm like a river, violent and sooth.

The daisy covers your entire hand, white petals tinged with pink reaching toward your fingers. The center, all yellow florets seeming to seek out warmth, are so bright and full and so big—these are too big, they could choke anyone, anyone, they are choking you.

And like them—god, just like them, just like these daisies that grow from your lungs and destroy you from inside out—you are heliotropic. Everywhere you go, you’re focused on the sun, looking for the sun, stretching toward the sun.

You need the sun.

So you crumble the daisy in your hand, fist tight, blood still easing from between your fingers. You back away from his door, then turn and break away to head back to your room in silence.

You’d rather die loving him than never getting to see the sun ever again.

(“Hey girl, it’s me. Just calling to let you know that Steve and I got called for a mission. It looks like an emergency, wheels up in ten and all that. I wanted to catch you before we gotta go, in case you wanted to say goodbye. To Steve, I mean. Just in case. Take care of yourself while I’m gone, sweetness.”)

—FAREWELLS—

It happens faster than you think it will. You swear you have weeks, or a month at least. You swear you have time.

Four days later, your knees buckle and slam into the wooden floor beneath you, stomach contorting and contracting, balloon finally bursting. Someone is shouting your name from the common room, something is knocked over, scrambling. You barely hear it over the sound of your own vomiting.

On your hands and knees, you stare down at the lump of flowers you couldn’t swallow back. They’re coated in a mixture of soil and blood and stomach acid, but the sweet perfume scent breaks through the rest and makes you retch again. It smells so sweet. So sickly sweet. Dead people and churches.

Did churches always smell so much like blood?

There’s a hand on your shoulder. It’s pulling your hair from your face. Someone is saying something—something—something you can’t make out over the blood rushing between your ears.

You’re dying. This is it.

You collapse upon the ground, rolling onto your side, arm thrown over your mouth as if that will stop the flowers from pouring out of your body. And when you blink, trying to see through the dizziness, it��s him again.

The god of the fucking sun, your sun, mouth moving frantically as he says things you can’t hear and the little gap in his teeth that makes you feel at home when he smiles at you and his eyes, oh, Sam Wilson has eyes that set you on fire and burn you alive and you’d be happy to die like this, you’re so happy you get to die like this, so thankful that the daisies chose you, so thankful you chose him.

You were right. Death is so beautiful like this.

“It might be too late.”

Helen Cho’s heels clack on the tile of the medbay’s room as she shoos the nurse out with a wave of her hands, shaking her head. He shoots to his feet, fingers already curled into fists, and he shoves them in the pockets of his jacket to hide them.

“Too late?” It’s impossible for him to keep his voice low. “How can it be too late? What even—What’s wrong with her?”

She frowns at Sam, folding her hands together in front of her.

“It’s… rare,” she says. “Some of us didn’t think it was real, to be frank with you.”

His brow furrows. “What is it?”

“A disease caused by unrequited love,” Helen says plainly, staring straight at him. “Typically, the patient finds themselves in what is regarded to be true love, but the feelings are not returned, so they build up. It’s theorized that the stress of that creates the problem.”

Sam swallows and it tastes like vomit. “Unrequited love?”

She ignores him, continuing, “The part that is normally so hard to believe is that flowers begin to grow inside the patient, the roots puncturing their lungs and creating masses that eventually will suffocate their host.”

It’s a bag of bricks to his stomach. A super soldier punch to the gut. A bomb blown up in his face. Sam doubles over, clutching his middle, trying to breathe again. He can’t breathe at all. The flowers. The flowers.

“It seems she was swallowing them in an attempt to save herself,” Helen explains. “It’s what kept her alive much longer than she should have been. But now, I don’t know. It may be too late to save her. If she’d just said something earlier, than the surgery might have been able to stop it, but—”

“Surgery?” Sam asks, still gasping for breath. “What surgery?”

“You can extract the roots,” she tells him, glancing at the sleeping woman in the sickbed. “It’s a difficult procedure but it would have saved her. But, from the very little research we have on it, removing the roots also removes the feelings entirely. The love that the patient has disappears. They aren’t able to ever feel anything for that person ever again.”

He falls back into the plastic chair, his limbs numb. Or, at least that’s what he wants to do. But Sam doesn’t. He steadies himself, crosses his arms over his chest, plants himself so firmly there in the hospital room that he doesn’t think an earthquake can move him, and looks at her.

She’s sleeping, but she doesn’t look at peace. Her eyes, lovely things, are sunken in and it makes him so mad. Her collarbones have shadows beneath them and he feels fury wracking his own bones. And how long has it been since he’s seen her smile?

“Do the surgery,” he demands.

“You know I can’t do that without her consent,” Helen says, sighing.

“Then I’ll wait until she wakes up and get her consent,” he seethes through a locked jaw.

Helen’s face doesn’t change. “She might not wake up.”

“She will.”

Sam doesn’t get it. He understands—in a way—but he doesn’t really get it. He knows why she wouldn’t want to get a surgery like that. But he loves—he loves just as fiercely as she does, and that’s why he understands. Why he knows.

So why did the flowers pick her? Why would they pick her and not him?

Helen glances down at her feet, says nothing, and turns to exit the room. He’s left there in the silence, with the crowing of the machine keeping her alive to punctuate all his thoughts. If there is one thing he hates in the world, it’s feeling helpless.

He lowers himself in the plastic seat, leans his head back against the wall, and closes his eyes.

“You’ll wake up,” he says to her, but he can’t look at her.

Or maybe he’ll wake up and it’ll all be a dream.

There’s a soft rapping of knuckles on the door, and it opens slowly and quietly, and Sam has to lock his fingers around the arms of his chair to keep from jumping up and sending a right hook right at Steve’s face.

“How’s she doing?” Steve has the audacity to ask, has the audacity to look worried, has the audacity to pull up another plastic seat next to Sam.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he mutters under his breath, spite burning his tongue.

Steve glares at him. “Yeah, that’s why I asked. What’s your problem?”

“My problem is you, Rogers.” Now, Sam can’t help but stand, towering over the super soldier. He immediately grabs Steve’s arm and hauls him out of his chair, through the door, and out into the hallway. Steve stumbles, a hand on the wall, and Sam’s nostrils flare.

“How could you do this to her?”

“Me?” Steve sounds genuinely taken aback, but Sam doesn’t buy it. “What are you talking about? Helen told me—”

“I thought you loved her, too!”

He really did. That’s why Steve brought her to the Tower, didn’t he? That’s why they go out for lunch every other week and why Sam never gets a chance to take her out himself. Why he always makes sure to say goodbye to her before a mission, like he doesn’t want to leave her behind. He really thought Steve loved her too. If he had thought for one second that Steve didn’t love her...

“What?” Steve’s jaw slackens. “Not like that! She doesn’t—She’s not in love with me, Sam!”

He pants, unable to catch the breath that’s leaving him like a slow leak.

“Then who the hell is she in love with?”

Steve stares at him, a look that Sam can’t recognize, can’t name, in his eyes. Steve stares at him and smooths his hand down his beard, shaking his head.

“She’s in love with you,” he says, and Sam chokes.

Because all the pretty things in his world lead back to her and man, if she loved him, it would all be so perfect that he would never want to leave it. He would never want to say goodbye. He’d ask god and anyone else who would listen to grant him a deathless life so he could look at her forever, with no end in sight, because he would. He would. Sam would love her forever.

“No,” he says, a dry chuckle escaping his lips. “That can’t be true.”

“It’s true,” Steve says.

“That’s impossible.” He backs up, against the wall, holding his head in his hands and staring at the floor. “It’s impossible.”

“It’s true,” Steve repeats, staring past Sam and through the window of the medbay’s room to look at her, lying so still in her bed. “I know it is.”

“Steve, I’m in love with her,” Sam confesses, an ache in his chest. “It can’t be me. I’m in love with her. I’m so fucking in love with her.”

A heavy hand clasps his shoulder, and when Sam looks up, his breathing unsteady, Steve has a look of regret smeared all over his face.

“But does she know that?”

And, for the first time in years, Sam cries.

(“It’s me. I need to tell you something. Even if it will hurt, even if it will destroy—destroy what we have, I don’t know. But I need to tell you, baby. I need to.”)

—SINCERITY—

Sam Wilson thinks she’s starlight.

When she first arrives she’s a collection of stars and their ashes, explosions and deaths, supernovas and black holes and earthbound meteorites.

What he means by that is she’s covered in bruises but she’s so beautiful, and he wants to gather her in his arms and tell her it’s going to be okay.

Steve introduces her, and Sam tries to bite his tongue, but all his words pour out of him anyway as she holds out a hand to him and he takes it, soft and trembling, and he knows she’s special somehow. She’s special.

“You’re the prettiest thing I think I’ve ever seen,” he says, and he means it, but she ducks her head and tries to hide the little smile on her face.

Sam Wilson thinks the world of you. But even when the bruises fade, you’re still left with all the land and the water and the galaxies hidden in your eyes when he catches your gaze, and he looks at you and he swears that you’re reaching into his chest and taking his heart in your small hands and squeezing him dry. You have realms inside of you, he’s sure, all the worlds and all their wonders. But you—you look at Steve like that sometimes, and then Sam is just grateful that you even let him breathe in your general atmosphere.

He can fly, sure, but he certainly isn’t an astronaut, so this is about the closest he can get to you.

(“Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system. This number is not available. At the tone, please record your message.”)

—TRUE LOVE—

The first thing you see is the ceiling, hazy and sleep-filtered, but it looks just like the ceiling in that bathroom, back in Danny’s apartment, back when you thought the pain of love was bone crushing, before you knew the pain of love was slow suffocation.

It makes you stutter back to life and that sends you into a coughing fit. You can still taste them—the daisies. They taste like the rawness of sunlight.

Hand pressed against your chest, your eyes dart around the room, trying to catch your bearings. There’s an IV in your arm, the bed railings are plastic, Sam is sitting in the corner, the lights are dimmed.

Sam Wilson is sitting in the corner.

You gasp, looking at him, and he’s staring right back at you, a familiar book in his hands.

Sam Wilson is sitting beside your bed, holding The Flowers of Evil, and the look on his face is far from happy to see you. It’s not anger. And it’s not sadness. It just… is. And Sam is never “just” anything.

Even if he thinks that sometimes, like the times when he calls you and says, “It’s just me,” as if he isn’t something special, so important you can’t live without him in your life.

Well, you can’t live with him, either.

After a solid minute, Sam looks down at the book between his dark hands, and he begins to sift through the pages. He stops sometimes, lingers on the sheets of dried daisies that have been pressed, their color leaking onto the text only slightly. But then he moves forward, searching for something. You don’t know what.

“How long have you been here?” you ask, throat sore when you speak.

“How long have you been in love with me?”

Your teeth gnash together, bite into your bottom lip, worry a sore there as he doesn’t look at you. He just keeps flipping through the book as if he didn’t just thrust a dagger straight through your heart, as if it isn’t beating so fast and hard like it’s trying to stay alive. You feel like you can’t breathe and you don’t know if it’s the flowers crawling out of your lungs and trying to get to him or if it’s the fact that he knows.

You can’t answer him.

Sam stops on a page, his finger trailing over the script, and then he begins to read.

“And yet

to wine, to opium even, I prefer

the elixir of your lips on which love flaunts itself;

and in the wasteland of desire

your eyes afford the wells to slake my thirst.”

“Les Fleurs du Mal,” he says, shutting the book with a thump and striking his palm with it. “Baudelaire sure had a lot to say, didn’t he?”

Your mouth is suddenly so dry. There’s a pink pitcher of water next to the bed, just like a hospital would have, and you reach weakly for it. Sam grabs it immediately, pouring you a cup, and passing it gently to you. You gulp what you can down through the straw, hardly breathing.

When you finally feel like you aren’t going to cough your lungs up into your hands again, Sam takes the cup back from you, and embarrassment is a cold shiver down your spine.

He sits back down beside you, looking straight at you. “Do you want to get the surgery?”

Your lips part to speak, but he interrupts.

“Be honest.”

Chewing your lip, you take a deep breath. “No. And I never planned on it, either.” From the corner of your eye, you see his jaw tighten.

“Why not?”

“Because what is a life without the fucking sun, Sam?” The words are spat from your mouth. “A life spent not loving you—not knowing you, not feeling you anymore—it wasn’t worth it. Because I love you, Samuel Wilson. I have loved you since the day I met you and you told me—told me I was pretty for some goddamn reason. And I’ve loved you every day since. I love everything about you and there is not a single iteration of life that I would want to live if it meant not loving you.”

This time, nothing tastes like blood. It’s all just daisies, like they’re populating your mouth, changing the way your tongue works, turning to paste in your teeth. It’s so strong that it hurts. Like you’re eating paper valentines and crying too many tears as you say goodbye to a body in a casket.

But it’s beautiful and lovely and gorgeous because you swear that, somewhere beneath it, you can taste what you think love might taste like.

Sam doesn’t speak and it hurts, but it tosses your book down on the side table and reaches into his pocket and it still hurts. He pulls out his phone. You swallow down the rising earth in your chest.

He pulls out his phone—no, it’s your phone. He turns the screen toward you and punches in your password. You furrow your brows. When did he learn your password? But it doesn’t matter, really, because he just swipes to your call log and pulls up your voicemails. And then he begins to play them.

“Hey there darlin’, it’s just me. I couldn’t find you anywhere—where you at? I thought we could go pick some up and I’ll hang ‘em up. You need me and I’ll be there, ‘kay honey? I, uh, I wanted to ask this girl, but uh, I ended up waiting too long and I’m a little late so… I’ll see you there, honey. I wanted to catch you before we gotta go, in case you wanted to say goodbye. I need to tell you something. Even if it will hurt, even if it will destroy—destroy what we have, I don’t know. I’ll catch you later, darlin’. Have fun, girl. Save a dance for me, baby. Take care of yourself while I’m gone, sweetness. But I need to tell you, baby. I need to.”

The sobs fall from the broken seal of your lips, loud and crashing, like a waterfall. Your hand, shaking and weak, comes up to try to cover your mouth, but Sam lunges forward and catches your wrist in gentle fingers.

He’s looking at you like you’re everything—and you know, you know now that you are—to him.

“You’ve been saying that this whole time?” you ask, a laugh bubbling up from your lungs. No flowers retch up your throat.

Sam smiles, lips pulling back to reveal that gap in his front teeth.

“You haven’t been listening, baby girl. I’ve been tryin’ to tell you I love you for months.”

He rests his forehead upon yours, and as close as he is, all you can smell now is the spice of his cologne. Nothing smells floral.

“I never would have thought,” you whisper. “I was sure—so sure—that you didn’t love me. I thought because of the flowers, I thought that meant for sure that you didn’t love me. I mean, why would you? Why would you ever love someone like me?”

“Honey,” he says, so softly, “you’re starlight.”

Tears flood your cheeks and Sam cups your face in his large hands, wiping them away with gentle thumbs.

Sam Wilson is sunlight. You never considered that you could be starlight.

“Why wouldn’t I love you, darlin’? You’re so good, so gorgeous, so perfect.” He laughs and it makes you laugh too, but it comes out like a sob. Your heart feels lighter. “But you’ve never considered yourself worthy of love before, have you?”

“I’m sorry,” you cry. “I’m so sorry, Sam.”

He hushes you, soothes you, smooths his palms over the planes of your face and over your hair,

“You don’t have to be sorry, baby. It’s okay. You’re okay.” He presses a warm kiss to your forehead and the memory of every single time he’s kissed your forehead like this flashes through your mind, an electric current, and you wonder how you never saw it before now.

“I love you,” you say, and this time, your lungs don’t feel as though they will burst from the pressure, the roots, the vines twined around them. You don’t feel choked by petals. You don’t taste blood in the back of your mouth.

“I know,” he says, “and if you let me, I will spend the rest of my days with you convincing you that you are worthy of love, honey. Because I’m in love with you. I’m so in love with you.”

When he presses his lips to yours, he doesn’t taste like flowers. Not like the daisies that wrote your death sentence. He tastes like golden pools of sunlight, warm and wanting. This is your heliotropism. You are a magnet for him, Sam Wilson, god of the fucking sun.

And maybe he’s phototropic, always drawn to you, moving toward your starlight.

(“Hey, it’s me. Sorry I missed your call! I’m on my way home now, and guess what? I have a surprise for you. It’s a bit ironic, but I think you’ll like it. What do you think of the name Daisy for a baby girl?”)

#sam wilson #sam wilson x reader #sam wilson x plus sized reader #plus sized reader #sam wilson angst #sam wilson fanfiction #hanahaki au #sam wilson fluff #thanks for supporting me!#divine masterlist #the flowers of evil

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shawnxstyles · 3 years

Text

every inch of you

DATE: JUNE 24, 2021

summary: while shawn is struggling to write a new song for his album, you’re hesitant to move to the next stage of your relationship.

requested: yes!

prompt 8 & 18: “I like what I see.” / “You like... my fingers?”

words: 2.6k

warning: fluff, SMUT (f-receiving), a little dirty talk, and more fluff!

note: inspired by Lights On- shawn mendes. this is also the song shawn writes in the story! fast revising.

illuminate!shawn x plus size!reader <3

*imagine 2018 shawn writing illuminate*

—

OCTOBER 2018

This album was going to be the death of him and you at this point. You weren’t writing, brainstorming, or doing any of the work. However, watching your boyfriend struggle to find the right words was stressing you out nearly just as much.

“Shawn, take a break. You’re going to make yourself go crazy. You’re making me go crazy!” You shout with a laugh, rubbing the top of his frizzy head. He leans back on the black, leather couch, turning to face you with a weary face.

You can hear the crashing waves of Malibu waters outside of the glass windows. You two were alone on this private beach, reserved for only Shawn and whoever else he wanted. As of right now, it was just the two of you in this peaceful environment.

“Come on,” He stands up randomly, tugging your arm while walking toward the sliding glass door. You let him drag you outside to the cool waters and through the grainy sand. You’re both barefoot as he begins to pick up his pace until you’re jogging. He halts at a large rock that collects the crashes of the water and leans against it. His blue basketball shorts get soggy on the ends from the up splashes. You were wearing one of his button ups and your shorts, but standing behind the rock so you didn’t wet.

You never really wore bathing suits, you didn’t feel like you needed to. Shawn and you have been together for about a year now, so he understood when you told him you were uncomfortable wearing one to Malibu. He always tells you how beautiful you are, despite your height, weight, waist or hip size. These were all the things he knew you were insecure about, and usually your loved ones would tell you to not be insecure and that they love you no matter what. Not Shawn. He always said it in a way that made you really feel loved.

He would simply let you be insecure. He knows that insecurity is a part of life and he doesn’t think you should be, but he’s not just going to tell you to stop. It’s hard to control your mind sometimes and he knows that. He’s always been different to you than anyone else has, and maybe that’s what made you love him so much.

With this, he’s never rushed you into anything either. You’ve never been with him intimately (nothing much more than a heated make out session) because of your self-doubt. You’re not a virgin, you’ve had your fair share of experiences, but he was just too perfect for you. Your experiences were never good and you were honestly afraid of being vulnerable again.

“Come to the water. It feels great,” The air was slightly breezy and the sky was filled with misty clouds. You imagined the water was near freezing because of it, but still tip-toed your way into it. The current splashes up to your shins, and Shawn was right, it did feel great. The water was twinkling in the hidden sunshine and the thin foam cascaded when it got too close to you.

Shawn gently slips his hand between yours and laces them together. His rough fingertips scratched against your knuckles, but it was calm and soothing like the waves before you. You leaned against the rock with him, the small waves shooting up to your shorts every once in a while. He faces you, with a dreamy look dancing in his eye.

“Kiss?” He asks, lips puckered loosely and patiently. You gave a head nod before reaching his lips, giving him a long peck. You attempted to pull away, but he had other plans apparently.

His hands rested on your cheeks and slowly trailed down until they were at your shoulders. He rubs them calmly, pacifying any stress you might have with the pads of his thumb. Your hands trail through his curls, braiding around your fingertips beautifully.

“God,” He pulls his mouth away to speak for a moment. “you’ll be the death of me.”

You quickly snatch his lips again, never getting enough of his words or his taste. You both are captured in a deep trance for one another’s lips and beauty. One of your hands moves from his hair to the nape of his neck, rubbing softly. Without any words, Shawn pulls you toward the small house with a hand wrapped in yours. The water stains freezingly on the bottom half of your legs, making you chilly.

When you enter the house again, he plops himself down heavily on the leather couch, dragging you down with him. You didn’t like to sit on his lap in a make out session, you assumed it made you both uncomfortable. However, your assumptions were wrong because he positioned you snuggly on his muscular thighs.

You felt the heat crawling under your skin and on the back of your neck. Shawn just continued to kiss you lovingly, like nothing was wrong. You silently appreciated this act as your hands began to tug his curls. He groans lowly against you with a beating chest and fast breath. You were absolutely loving this; you felt comfortable and secure, and being in a different environment made you feel even safer. Almost like nobody knew where you were, or maybe even who you were.

The sensual feeling was observationally mutual. His hands were roaming you, caressing you caringly and you were beginning to feel that throbbing between your thighs. Usually when this happens, you just ignore it and take care of it yourself. But maybe you were ready to take that step with him today. You back away from the kiss and Shawn’s eyes open concerningly.

“Should I stop?” He suggests, lowering his hands from your neck to your waist. His head was slightly tilted and he had a little tint of pink in his cheeks. Possibly from the water mixed with the crisp breeze, or the heat between you two.

“No, please don’t. I actually want you to keep going,” You were trying to hint that you wanted to go further with this, even if it was just a little bit for today. You had thought about this far too much, for who knows how long, and now you felt confident enough to do it. You were overly grateful that Shawn never tried to convince or force you to do something you didn’t want to. He was just so kind and sweet. And cute and adorable. And sexy and hot…

“Are you sure? This doesn’t have to go any further than this if you’re uncomfortable—”

“Shawn, I’ve thought about this enough. I’m ready,” You eye him with reassurance, appreciative of his full consent toward you. Your smile was filled with mild anxiety and excitement and he reciprocated with a goofy grin. Though, there was a small glint in your eye that was hinting he should take it slow. Something was telling him.

“How about we just take it slow today? One thing at a time? There is no rush, baby.”

“Okay, I think that’s better anyway,” You were so glad he said something because you both know you wouldn’t have. Which scares Shawn sometimes because he doesn’t really know what you’re thinking or feeling. He wasn’t going to worry about that right now because he’s positive that you’re sure.

“Let’s focus on you right now, pretty girl.”

He wasn’t worried about his erection suffocating in his pants right now, or his strong desire to fuck you for hours until he couldn’t anymore. He was only focused on you, and your peak of pleasure was his only goal right now. Songwriting could most definitely wait.

Shawn lifted you up and rested your head on the armrest of the couch. He crawled over you and kissed your luscious lips once again. Your taste was possibly the sweetest thing he’s ever had; you were like sugar candy in human form, and he was able to eat you raw.

If you let him, of course.

Which you did because you don’t think you’ve ever been so horny in your entire life.

The way he unbuttoned his own shirt off of you was probably one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen in your life. He plucked off each one, staring at you with a smirk, knowing you were dying because of his teasing. You couldn’t keep your eyes off of his hands. The bird across his skin was fueling you up even more because tattoos were definitely a turn on for you. When he finally discarded the shirt, you mentally argued with yourself if you should cover up.

“Don’t even think about it. You’re beautiful. Absolutely stunning,” Some words made his Canadian accent more prominent and that was also pretty hot to you. Your skin boiled in response to his compliments. He knew what you were thinking just because he knows you. That’s why this feels so right to you; because he knows you.

Shawn begins trailing kisses from your cheeks down to your chest, making your breathing become more unsteady. He licks along your collarbone, slightly nibbling at the skin. You breathe out a heavy sigh, as his soft mouth traces your skin. When he finally gets to your breast, you gasp with a pant. You would feel his smirk against you as his hand works the other one. His tongue swirls around and over the nipple, and you’re so sensitive, you could feel every nerve on his tongue. His callus fingers rub roughly against the opposite one, balling the bud until it’s peaked.

“Oh my god,” Your chest was collapsing and rising unsteadily as your hands gripped his hair tightly. You felt him moan against you, which sent a vibration through you. You rolled your hips against nothing, begging for any sort of friction. “please.”

You didn’t even know what you were asking for, but apparently he did. He continued to trail down your abdomen, kissing every bit his lips passed over. He shot you one last look of consent, and you reassured him once again.

“I could just kiss you all day.”

You were about to start verbally begging again if he didn’t do something soon. Shawn yanks down your shorts, leaving you in just a simple pair of underwear. Your core was aching for some relief, the undergarment being a stressful barrier.

“I like what I see,” His smirk is so wide, you almost felt embarrassed. He tried not to waste time, clearly noticing you were anxious for some pleasure. After all, that was his new goal.

His rough index finger runs down your smooth skin, outlining every curve until it reaches the band. You could feel the coldness from his rings, giving you chills. He flicks it against you, causing you to jump a bit. His hands and fingers were arousing you a little too much.

“I’m gonna take these off now, okay?” He speaks softly with his fingers dancing over your waist. You nodded rapidly, waiting for him to just do something to you. Anything at this point. He peels away the undergarment with awe in his eyes. You were biting your lip, trying to keep the useless whimpers at a minimum. Once the underwear is off, you’re completely bare— and you’re completely comfortable with it.

“All wet for me, huh? I did this to you?” Shawn teases through the same, evil smirk, while caressing your inner thighs with his thumbs. You mindlessly open your legs wider, spreading yourself open. His tongue rolls over his bottom lip as his fingers move up to where you need him most. He traces your silky lips with his fingertips, and the first touch felt like a shock of electricity. You gasped when two of his fingers went in between your folds, massaging delicately. Your moans were muffled by your own mouth as your teeth harshly bit down on your tongue.

“More, please,” You begged shamelessly at this point, wanting him to finger you with everything in him.

“More of what? Words, princess,” You thought if he didn’t touch you more soon, his words would get you off first. He taps your clit a few times and you moan a little too loudly. Luckily, you two were alone.

“Fingers! Ah, please, I love your fingers,” You admitted through gritted teeth. Shawn was a little shocked actually. He didn’t know you liked his fingers like that, and it honestly made this all the more hot. Your pleading was a turn on for him, the indirect pleasure going straight down to his strained cock.

“You like… my fingers?” He said less confidently than before, but still seductively. You nodded rapidly, making him groan with your impatience. His fingers went from tapping your clit to sliding between your slick folds. Your breathing was heavy, but your inhales were short in anticipation. Suddenly, he curled two digits right inside of you and you gasped for at least the third time today.

His middle and ring finger were doing wonders on you. He curled them smoothly as he sunk them deeper inside of you. Shawn’s rings made you shiver from the contrast of their coolness and the humidity you’ve created. Your hand was roughly scratching the top of the couch and your head was slammed against the armrest in bliss.

“M-more please,” You begged him in your sweaty state. Your hair was sticking to your forehead now, and the hairs on your skin were rising the closer you got to finishing.

“Since you asked so nicely, princess,” He looked at you devilishly through his eyelashes and inserted his index finger. You haven’t had this much sexual adrenaline in a long time, and you missed it. You’re glad it’s with someone like Shawn, and not like your exes.

“Oh- fuck,” You whined, squeezing your eyes tightly shut. Your pussy was clenching around his digits as your arousal leaked from you. There was a knot forming in your stomach that was ready to unravel any moment now. Your puffy lips were pulsing intensely, while his thumb reached to rub your clit. The pleasure was so overwhelming and you were sensitive now. Before you could even moan it out, he said it for you.

“C‘mon, cum for me, Y/N,” He whispered dirty and sweetly close to your face as his movements increased in speed. Your hand gripped his arm, right over his butterfly tattoo, and that alone sent you over the edge. The coil in your abdomen exploded as you finished all over his hand. He licks his fingers off, full of your cum and arousal.

You are definitely the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted.

“Shawn,” You start breathlessly. He was really leaving you speechless. Your knees were bent on either side of him as he rubbed you slowly, helping you calm down. “that was amazing.”

“I’m glad. You deserve nothing less,” He leans down to kiss you lovingly, nudging your perspiring nose in the process. He gets up from the couch to get a washcloth for you and you sit up tiredly on the sofa.

“How about a bath, babe?” He shouts as he walks back into the small living room, you nodding sleepily. He cleans you off simply and lazily throws the rag on the coffee table in front of him. He takes a long double-take at his notebook, resting empty and fresh. A pen is squished between the blank pages, full of black ink and inspiration. A small lightbulb, that was once dull, grows brightly in his head.

“I think I have an idea for a song.”

—

Thank you for your patience, and thank you for the request!

#shawnxstyles #thank you for requesting!!#i really like this!#shawnmendesfanfic #shawnmendesfanfiction #fanfiction #anon <3 #requested #shawnmendessmut #shawn mendes smut

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bokutosworld · 3 years

Text

over again | iwaizumi hajime

pairing: iwaizumi x gn!reader word count, genre: 1.8k words, angst + fluff in the beginning. warnings: mentions of death, car accident. summary: he blames himself for the past but you help him take the first step to moving on. a/n: @ricerice i promised i’d tag you in an iwa angst so hope you enjoy this hahah

—

“Iwaizumi!”

Who’s there?

“Hajime!”

Huh?

“Babe!”

Iwaizumi’s blinded by the harsh sunlight when he opens his eyes. Where am I? He hears people laughing in the distance, children running about, and waves breaking at the shore. With an outstretched hand, he feels the texture of hot, grainy sand beneath his touch. The next thing he finds is the warmth of another person’s hands.

“Hajime, get up! This is no time for sleeping under the shade.”

He comes to his senses and his vision clears to make out a familiar face. You were hovering over his body, blocking the sun from his eyes and he could see how you were smiling so happily at him.

He gets up from his lying position and cups your cheeks, thumbs grazing your face so tenderly as if he’s afraid to break you. He tugs you for an embrace, his hold tightening for every second that passes.

Worried, you wrap your arms around his torso. “What’s wrong? Are you ill?”

And that’s when you feel it. Tears streaming down his face and leaving a trail on your neck. Your heart quickens and you pull back to see him silently sobbing.

“Why are you crying?”

He opens his mouth to say something, but no words come out. Because even he doesn’t know the reason why he suddenly broke down. It came out of nowhere, his chest constricting at the sight of you and the overwhelming feeling of longing and desperation.

You’re wiping his tears and he catches your palm, bringing it to his lips. Finally, he smiles, “Nothing’s wrong. Shall we go take a swim?”

—

Is this dèjá vu?

Iwaizumi could swear that he’s been in this exact spot in the exact same time with you. Like he was experiencing it all over again. If he dug around in his mind, he could pull out a similar memory where you were enjoying the feel of the water in your feet and calling out for him to join.

Maybe it was just a coincidence.

He decides to stop overthinking and relaxes his tense body. Approaching you with a smile, he surprises you when he places an arm under your knees and your waist and lifts you with ease.

“Hajime,” you exclaim, hitting his biceps.

He spins the both of you, the water splashing around before letting you fall in the water. You’re completely soaked, hair sticking to the sides of your face when you come up to breathe and Iwaizumi’s bending over his knees as he laughs.

The thing about Iwaizumi is that he has a beautiful laugh, his eyes often turning into crescents and the sound is music to your ears. It’s rare for him to openly show emotions unlike others you know who wear their hearts on their sleeves. You’d have to be someone he was comfortable with, someone he trusts before getting the privilege of seeing the rarest sides of him.

And to Iwaizumi, you have always been that person.

You grab his hand and pull him so he could join you in the cool seawater. It takes a moment before he comes up for air and when he does, he’s grinning with a mischievous look in his eyes. You feel his arm around your waist, pulling you closer until your lips are only a hair’s breadth away.

“Are you happy right now?” He asks.

Humming, you grab at his shoulders and press your forehead to his. “I am.”

“Good,” he says before leaning for a kiss. It’s gentle, it’s passionate, and it captures a million loving thoughts and emotions that neither of you could ever translate in words. You feel him smile into the kiss before breaking apart.

“You taste salty,” you tease to hide how he has just literally taken your breath away.

He chuckles and in your closeness, you feel his heart racing. “That’s your fault. You nearly drowned me in the water.”

Rolling your eyes, you hit at his bare chest and make a move towards dry land.

“I’m hungry! Let’s go get something.”

As he watches you go back to your lounge chair and grab a towel to dry off, the scene before him blurs. He shakes his head, blinks once and twice before you were fading right in front of him. He calls your name and catches you look back at him before all he could see was black.

—

When he comes to his senses, he finds himself laying with his head on your lap. Your fingers are softly brushing through his hair, the gesture ushering him in a state of euphoria and he thinks could go back to sleep.

But then he remembers what happened and he’s up.

“You’re awake.” He senses something was different with how the corners of your lips turned upwards solemnly. Your eyes glossed with something he couldn’t describe.

“How long was I out?”

“Well, you missed lunch. And we’re the only ones left here,” you inform him. Your gaze looking past the vast ocean.

Iwaizumi turns to where you were looking and he’s mesmerized. By now, the sun has set and the sky was turning from clear blue to warm orange hues. He looks at you and his heart jumps, admiring the glow of your sun-kissed skin.

“Have you realized it yet?” You break the silence.

What are you talking about?

You glance at Iwaizumi with a sad smile. When he doesn’t answer, you take it as your cue to continue speaking. “Do you remember when we took our first trip to the beach right after we graduated from high school?”

He listens.

“It was our first out-of-town date as a couple and I was so nervous to be alone with you,” you chuckle at the distant memory. “But you made it easy. You were such a gentleman, you never made me uncomfortable, and every moment with you felt natural.

“That day, I had the most fun that I’ve had in my years of existence,” you turn to him, eyes boring deep in his and you smile. “That was my favorite memory of us.”

As if a lightbulb flashed in his head, Iwaizumi finally makes sense of what’s happened. Why the earlier events seemed so familiar to him.

Because, indeed, they have already happened.

He feels something in the pit of his stomach and he averts his gaze, looking at anywhere but you. He observes how the clouds look superficial, how the waters before him look almost imaginary, how you look alive.

His voice is trembling when he asks, “This is all a dream, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

And for the second time, he cries. Oh god. Of course, this can’t be real. Of course, this was all a figment of his imagination. He’s been praying for this opportunity to spend time with you again.

“It’s good to see you, Hajime.”

Because you weren’t in his life anymore.

He crumbles in front of you, shoulders shaking violently as he weeps for you. He’s saying something but it’s incomprehensible. He reaches for your hand and you take it, feeling the strong grip on your palm.

“Why?” I have longed for you for days, months. “Why show yourself only now?”

“You’re still suffering. And I don’t like to see you hurting.”

“I’m sorry, so, so sorry,” he mutters repeatedly.

You cradle his shaking body. “Shh, Hajime. Stop blaming yourself. It’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault.”

He remembers the day it happened so vividly in his mind. It was unpredictable and it happened in a blink of an eye—he could still hear the tires screeching, could still feel the impact of the collision, could still picture himself with you inside that car when it went flying across the street.

Despite the immediate assistance from an ambulance, the doctors at the hospital declared you as dead on arrival. And when he woke up three days after the incident, he couldn’t believe the news he was hearing. He wanted everything so badly to be a bad dream, wanted to be able to hold you and hear your voice one more time.

Losing you felt like he lost a part of himself too.

“I miss you,” he croaked. “I miss you everyday it hurts.”

“I know.” You hold him close for a while. “I’m only given one chance to visit someone in their dreams so I want to make this worthwhile. Iwaizumi, I want you to move on. For my sake and yours.”

It takes him a while to calm down, only reveling in the moment when he could finally touch you, talk to you, and hear you even if it was only in his dreams.

“I can’t,” he stutters. “I can’t move on. There are pieces of you in everywhere I go, everywhere I look. On my table, there’s still the coffee cup you always used when you come to my apartment. Your toothbrush is still sitting beside mine in the bathroom.

And your parents, god knows I’m thankful for them. But every time, they call to check up on me, I’m reminded of you and how I let you die.”

“It’s not your fault. Stop thinking of that.” Your heart shatters whenever he says that. “No one expected that to happen. And I’m also frustrated and heartbroken that I can’t be with you anymore.”

There’s a long minute where neither of you say anything. The two of you just holding on to one another and savoring the moment.

“I have always dreamt of growing old with you,” you whisper dreamily. “We’d own a house and live there with our children. I was thinking one boy and one girl. I’m sad that I can’t make that happen with you anymore. But you have a whole life ahead of you. I’m still rooting for you to achieve your dreams, you know?”

Finally, he laughs as he’s slowly coming to terms with his reality.

“Forever and ever. That’s how long I said I loved you and that has not changed. Even when I’m already gone, I will always be,” you rest your hand on his chest near where his heart lies. “Here.”

He grabs your wrist and intertwines his fingers with yours before kissing them. He doesn’t want to let go of you again. He’s already lost you once and he’s not about to lose you again, wishing that he could stay in this dream forever.

As he’s about to tell you something, he’s brought out of his unconsciousness and his eyes fall to the empty space in his bed. The sheets feel damp and it’s only when he touches his face that he realizes he’s been crying in his sleep. It’s cold when he reaches out to your side of the bed, thinking back to the nights you slept beside him and he felt content.

He remembers what you said.

Forever and ever. That’s how long I said I loved you.

He wills himself to be comforted by those words, repeating them in his mind like a chant until he finds peace and falls back to sleep. He hopes that tomorrow will be better.

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu imagines #iwaizumi x reader #iwaizumi imagines #haikyuucreations #haikyuucafe #iwaizumi angst #haikyuu angst #haikyuu fics #iwaizumi x y/n #haikyuu x you #iwaizumi x you #iwaizumi hajime x reader #hq iwaizumi #haikyuu!!

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crystalessenceswrites · 3 years

Note

Hi Again! I was wondering if you wrote for the clones? (I'm thirsting for Wolffe!!) If not, that's ok! And if so, I thought maybe something fluffy and a bit hot with Wolffe? I'm a huge sucker for the trope- Reader tries to hide that she hasn't been feeling well and turns out she's pregnant? With twins! She's scared because even though they're committed, it wasn't planned? And then fluff and some love making?? <3333

Hi lovely, welcome back! I am open to writing for the clones, I just haven’t done so yet! I too thirst for Commander Wolffe so you’re in luck! This trope is def very cute, the end turned out more fluffy than spicy, I hope that's alright.

Commander Wolffe x fem!reader Rating: E (18+) Warnings: explicit sexual content, unprotected p in v sex, unplanned pregnancy, swearing (first time writing for Wolffe, may be slightly ooc)

[PART TWO]

There was never enough time. You really should not have been surprised by the revelation, you were at war, but it still sat heavy on your chest. Always needed elsewhere as soon as you completed a mission. Never time to rest, even in transit. Someone always needed your attention for reports, strategic planning or council meetings as the GAR cruiser hurtled through hyperspace. It never left you enough time for him. Thankfully, the stubborn nature of your clone commander allowed him to make time, even if just a spare moment, for the two of you.

“Oh fuck,” you throw your head back against the door as he reaches that spot deep inside you. Pushing you ever closer to the edge. “Wolffe, please-” you’re whining as he grinds up into you, throbbing inside you. He’s always had the uncanny ability to read your body, he knows better than you when you’re close to bliss and he enjoys drawing it out. To think Commander Wolffe was a fucking tease.

“Please what, cyare?” His smug grin slides across your chest following the trail of marks he’s littered across your skin where no one will see. “What does ner jetii need?”

“Please, ‘m so close,” you tighten your legs around his waist, trying to draw him in closer, anything to reach your release, “please, Wolffe!”

He groans into your neck as you tug at the curls fallen loose at the nape of his neck, “well when you ask so nicely, cyare.”

His sudden thrust up pushes the air from your lungs. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream as he pounds into you, all teasing forgotten. He’s relentless as you tighten around him, the coil in your belly threatening to snap.

“That’s it,” he grunts, “come on my cock ner jetii.”

His words and his gloved thumb brushing over your bundle of nerves has you falling apart around him. White hot pleasure rolls over you, leaving you a limp, moaning mess in Wolffe’s arms.

“That’s it, mesh’la. Squeezing me so kriffing tight,” he groans, hips stuttering, his own release fast approaching. “Fuck.” Wolffe manages a few more thrusts before he buries himself in you, spilling himself inside you. Whispered praises fall from his lips as he comes down from his own high. His lips ghost over yours in a chaste kiss as he withdraws, tucking himself away before he lets you down.

Your legs cry out in relief when they meet solid ground, not longer clinging to Wolffe for support.

“Good, cyare?” his hand sweeps over your brow, so tender for a man with such a fierce reputation, even amongst his brothers.

“Mhmm,” leaning into his touch, he chuckles at your blissed out expression.

“Someone’s bound to come looking for you soon, General. Let’s get you cleaned up.” You don’t protest as he helps you redress, though you do moan about how unfair it was he just had to remove his codpiece and you had to strip completely out of your robes for these little storage closet rendezvous’.

“I don’t think jedi robes were designed to allow for easy access, cyare.”

You pout, “you’re probably right.” There was that whole bit about no attachments you were blatantly ignoring after all.

Before the commander can come back with another sharp retort your commlink blinks to life. “Yes?”

“General, General Plo is looking for you on the bridge.”

You sigh, “thank you, Sinker. I’ll be right there.”

Never enough time.

The next couple of months continue much the same. You and Wolffe sneaking away between missions when you can, trying to find solace in each other despite all the horrors you both see on the battlefield. In a war that seems to stretch on forever he is your rock. As he watches his brothers fall, one after the other, you are his comfort. It breaks your heart to be apart from him but there is little you can do to control it. When the council requests you to join Obi-wan and Anakin for a series of missions you cannot object. Instead, you drag your tired self out to the far reaches of the outer rim to help them as best you can.

“You look exhausted, my dear.” Such tact this one possessed.

You roll your eyes, “you don’t look much better, Kenobi.” Though you doubt he has been waking in the middle of the night to empty the contents of his stomach like you have for the past week.

“This war does seem to be pushing us all to our limits.”

“I’ll race you!” Ahsoka sprints by, apparently headed for some target or another with her master hot on her heels.

“Snips!”

Cody chuckles under his bucket, shaking his head as the two disappear into the distance.

Obi-Wan scrubs a hand over his face, “it’s pushed most of us to our limits.”

“What I wouldn’t give to have the energy of a padawan again,” you groan.

“I agree wholeheartedly,” Obi-wan nods, “we should all try to get some rest while we can. We need to break camp near dawn.”

You agree and bid your fellow jedi an early goodnight. With the headache you could feel coming on, sleep sounded like a good idea. As you go to stand the world spins around you, any sense of balance you had gone. You reach for the crate you had been sitting on to try and stay upright but you miss by a mile. Knees giving out you collapse to the floor, the world around you still spinning. You can barely hear Cody shouting over the ringing in your ears.

“Call for a medic! The General’s collapsed!”

By the time you regain consciousness you’re no longer planet side. Obi-wan had been quick to have you medevacked to the closest med-station for testing. The unholy white lights of the station burn your eyes when you finally come to. Your sudden groaning draws Kix back to your bedside.

“General. Good to see you’re back with us.”

“Kix?” You try to focus on the 501st medic instead of the bright lights, “what happened?”

“You collapsed back at the forward camp. We weren’t able to determine what was wrong with the limited medical supplies we had on hand, so General Kenobi called an air lift for you.”

Another groan bubbles up, Obi-wan had been forced to waster precious resources on you. “Were you able to find out what’s wrong?”

The clone’s face falls, “yes.”

You’ve never heard the medic sound so meek before. “Kix?”

“I’m not sure what’s the best way to explain this, General… but you’re pregnant.”

Oh.

“H-how far along?”

“Looks like just over two months,” Kix shifts from foot to foot, pointedly not looking you in the eye. You can’t blame him for being uncomfortable, this isn’t quite the medicine he’d been expecting to practice. He was a combat medic not an obgyn. “We were able to get an ultrasound, would you like to see?”

Nodding, you sit up, your head now spinning for completely different reasons. Kix brings you a datapad displaying the grainy black and white image.

“Kix… am I seeing this right?”

“Yes, general.”

“There’s two…”

“Yes general. You’re having twins.”

Oh fuck.

Kix is a godsend, having worked with Anakin and Rex long enough to know reporting everything may not always be a good idea. The official report on your sudden collapse reads that you suffered from a foreign infection your body had not been prepared to fight, coupled with the battle fatigue, your body had shut down in order to force you to rest. Obi-wan and the council believe it, ordering you back to Coruscant to recover and rest. You knew you would have to tell them; it would not be long until you were showing, but you would much rather deal with the council in person than from your medbay bed.

Before your escort arrives, Kix slips you a disk with a copy of the ultrasound pictures, “in case there’s someone you want to show them to.”

“Thank you, Kix,” he blushes when you give him a quick peck on the cheek, “you’ve done more for me than you’ll ever know.”

You do your best to rest on your trip back to Coruscant but its incredibly difficult when your mind is going a parsec a minute. Besides the council there’s one other person you have to break the news to. While you two had talked about what life would be like for the two of you after the war, this was not something you had discussed. You were not sure if Wolffe wanted kids ever, let alone now. Having twins while the whole galaxy was at war was not ideal. Not when the two of you were expected to put your lives on the line for the Republic.

Panic washes over you when you arrive at the capital to find the wolfpack waiting for you on the tarmac. They’d just arrived back for some long overdue shore leave and Plo had informed them of your sudden illness. Normally you would be touched by how much they cared for you, but now all you can think about is how you are not ready to face Wolffe. Not yet.

You can feel his gaze heavy on your back as you field Sinker and Boost’s barrage of questions.

“I’ll be alright, I just need to take my medicine and get some rest. It shouldn’t be long before I’m right as rain again.” You hate lying to them, but you did not want them worrying unnecessarily either.

It seems to appease them; the pack wishes you well and invites you out to 79’s with them as soon as you’re recovered. Wolffe hangs back, watching his brothers go.

“I’ll walk you back, general.”

“No.” It comes out much harsher than you’d like. The surprise that washes over his face feels like a stab to your gut. “There’s no need, Commander. I’ll be alright.”

His voice drops, brow furrowed together, “cyare?”

“Not now, Wolffe,” you frown, “I just need to go lay down. We’ll talk later.”

But you don’t. You cannot find it in yourself to answer any of his calls or messages over the next few days. Instead, you wrap yourself up in as many blankets as possible and hole up in your quarters while you try to figure out what to do. You watch Coruscant go by from your window. It’s only when Sinker and Boost call that you’re freed from running around in circle inside your head.

“Boost? Sinker? What’s going on?”

“Oh thank goodness you’re alive, General!”

“Boost what are you going on about?”

“The Commanders been going crazy! He hasn’t heard from you in over a week and we don’t think he knows how to handle it!”

Although you and Wolffe did your best to keep your relationship hidden, in such tight quarters it was hard to keep it from Wolffe’s brothers. You’d never outright admitted it to them, but you figured they understood what was going on. You were glad for it now.

“I’ve seen him pace before, but never like this,” Sinker adds.

Oh Maker. “Where is he?”

“The barracks, General.”

“I… I’ll speak with him, alright? Hopefully that will calm him down.”

“Thank you, General! We were running out of ways to distract him!” That was the kind way of saying ways to annoy him to keep Wolffe’s mind off you.

“Thank you, Boost, Sinker.”

“Good luck, General!”

You were going to need it. This was not a conversation to have over the com so you make your way down to the barracks, doing your best to avoid attention when you can. It was not like you weren’t allowed there, but the last thing you needed was more questions.

Boost and Sinker were not lying about the pacing. Punching in the access code to his quarters reveals a tightly wound Wolffe, pacing back and forth across the length if the tight space. His armor has been haphazardly discarded around the room. You’re surprised he hasn’t worn a path into the floor yet.

“General?” Surprise and then relief fall over his face when he catches you standing in the doorway.

“Wolffe, I-”

“What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be resting.”

You’re thrown off by the sudden cold tone in his voice. “I-I came to explain, Wolffe… to apologize.”

“Apologize?”

“I’ve been avoiding you Wolffe,” your voice cracks despite your best efforts to remain calm, “and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have, I just needed to find a way to tell you and I couldn’t.”

His frown deepens, “tell me what?”

“That I’m pregnant.”

“What?” He looks at you live you’ve grown another head.

“I’m pregnant, Wolffe.”

It takes him a moment to wrap his mind around your words, but you can see the instant he does, his mouth dropping into an ‘o’ as his jaw falls slack.

“You’re pregnant? With my… with my baby?”

“Babies,” you correct.

His brain seems to sputter out again, “babies?”

You nod, “twins.”

Before you can blink, he’s got you wrapped up in his arms, spinning you around the room. “Twins. You’re having twins.”

It takes everything you have not to start bawling. Kriffing hormones. You’ve never seen Wolffe this happy. This was beyond any reaction you could have imagined. The awe on his face when he sets you down makes your heart melt.

“This is why you were sent back? Your sudden illness?”

“Well yes… but Kix’s report was that I had an infection. I wanted to talk to your first before anyone else. I just didn’t know how.”

His warm hand oh-so-gently cups the side of your face. You lean into the touch. After even just a few weeks apart you’re starving for him.

“Why were you worried, cyare?”

“We’d never talked about kids. And we’re in the middle of a war. Not to mention we’re not even supposed to be together on the first place… I didn’t know how you’d react…”

His face softens, his amber eye drifting down to your nonexistent bump. “I’ll admit, I’m surprised. It may not be how either of us hoped, but it is a pleasant surprise.”

“Really?”

“Really, cyare.” You cannot help but smile as he pulls you in for a kiss. His lips slanting against your own as he holds you close. “I know there may be somethings we need to work out, but we’ll take it one step at a time,” he murmurs against your lips, hands tracing patterns across your back. “We’ll figure it out together.”

#commander wolffe x reader #wolffe x reader #clones x reader #wolffe imagine #the clone wars #tcw #the wolfpack #nsft #smut #request #crystalessences writes

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qianinterprises · 3 years

Text

Among the Horses {Part One}

Pairing: farm boy!Jaehyun x female!Reader

Other Characters: OC's, Haechan (sorta, kinda, not really), Renjun (sorta, kinda, not really)

Genre: fluff, angst, country au, farmboys and lady's au, falling in love, slow burn, friends to lovers

Warnings: verbally abusive aunt, yelling, degrading (not the fun kind)

Word Count: 3.8k

Overall Synopsis: Being sent to live with your aunt isn't exactly something wonderful, especially because she's verbally abusive and downright determined to turn you into a "proper lady" who a wealthy man will want to marry. However, perhaps living there won't be so bad. After all, you've got a handsome farm boy teaching you to ride horses.

Part One Synopsis: Arriving at your aunts is very challenging and trying. After being put through the ringer with your attire, you finally get a chance to explore the green world, and spend more time with the farm boy who'd picked you up from the airport.

Author's Notes: So I started this a while ago and didn't really do anything with it, but I love it and I really wanna write more so yeah... Also, I've posted this on a03 as well.

Tagging: @treasuretaeil @hachanbaecon @hwangful

A white, dirty pick-up truck pulled off the main road and onto a long, winding dirt road, leading them closer to a grand house that you had only been to a few times in your life. The place you’d be living for the next year or two.

The truck bumped along the loose gravel, crashing over potholes, sending you bouncing on the very worn cloth of the cab, your eyes glancing worriedly to the male beside you, one of his hands planted firmly on the hard steering wheel, the other loosely placed on the stick shifter in the center of the bench.

“Are you sure the tires won’t… fall off?” your voice was thick and laiden with worry.

He glanced over at you, warm brown eyes gazing intently into yours, the opticals flecked with curiosity and amusement. Embarrassment crept under your skin.

“You haven’t been out here in awhile? Have you miss?” he asked, tone filled with friendly amusement.

You awkwardly scratched at your nose, a bit of a nervous habit she’d picked up over the years.

“No. My parents never had the money to travel.”

Your voice was small, etched in nervousness and anxiety.

He cast you a gentle smile as he pulled the truck around a sharp curve in the road, and there it was.

The house was huge, at least three stories high and stretched across the land it was perched upon. The foundation red brick that looked freshly cleaned (it probably had been), a contrast to the pearly white of the rest of the structure. The curves and contours of the slightly oddly shaped house made it more enchanting and nerve-wracking, especially as you grew closer, tires hitting the smooth cement before your driver moved the shifter and parked the truck.

“Head on in, miss, I’ll get your bags.”

His accent was a combination of Asian mixed with southern, an odd mix that somehow seemed so delicately smooth and perfect, especially the way he drawled over the “r’s”

“Miss?”

You’d been stuck in your thoughts, eyes wide as you surveyed the prospects of your new home.

“Right, yes, thank you,” you said softly, moving to get out, the door creaking as it was opened.

Your black, falling apart sneakers hit the tan pavement of the driveway, the hooks of your overalls rattling loosely against your torso as they accommodated your movements; the loose denim legs falling just above your knees as you pushed the dingy door closed.

The male you’d ridden with, Jaehyun, he said his name was, pulled the latch of the truck bed and reached up to grab your mismatched luggage, his sturdy frame pressing into the hot metal of the truck.

“Do you need some help?”

Your voice was small, mixed with worry and hesitation.

You’d do just about anything to prolong the inevitable.

“That’s quite alright, miss,” he began. “You should head on inside. The heat is a harsh place for a lady,” he answered.

You looked down, playing with your fingers, but you didn’t reply. Instead, slowly moving toward the brick steps that would lead to the entrance of the beautiful home.

Anina Lee was a strict lady. She liked things just a certain way and she got them how she wanted. She didn’t tolerate bad behavior or disobedience. And she had a strong dislike for people that got in her way. Thus, she had never been married.

She lived alone, if you count having two live-in maids, a chef, and a stable hand that slept in the barn as living alone.

Alina was your aunt. Your mother’s elder sister who had alienated your mother when she’d married a man of lower class. That same man later had a wife who blessed him with three kids to care for, spending his days fixing the cars of those more fortunate than him, hoping to make a buck for his family.

That’s why you were here. A young girl, coming of age to be married off and starting a family of your very own. Your family couldn’t support you any longer, and as you prepared to move away in hopes of finding some sort of job or a life, your aunt had hastlessly offered to take you in. Your mother had all too happily obliged, hoping her only and eldest daughter would learn a thing or two from the elder woman, maybe turn you into the lady your mother and father had tried for years to make you.

The stainless white door slowly opened and an older woman stood in the frame. She was clearly in her 50s, stress lines drawn thickly in her forehead, wrinkles in the corners of her dull gray eyes, deep lines around her nose and mouth, her neck sagging just a little beneath her sharp jaw. She was a small lady. On first glance one may have a hard time understanding what makes her so fierce. She was small in stature, small in size and in frame, but she had the tongue of a snake, the heart of a lioness, and the skill of a chimp.

“(Y/N)! You’re finally here!”

You stood a good few inches taller than the woman, but that made you more nervous if anything. You made her way up the steps and, as you reached the woman in the door, you were promptly pulled into a proper hug that severely lacked warmth.

“I can’t believe you got on a plane and sat amongst all those people in that ghastly attire. You must change at once!”

The woman’s voice was so shrill it could pierce glass, but you held back the flinch.

“Martha!” the same voice called into the house as she pulled you in, shutting the door and encompassing them in the cool air conditioning.

A larger lady appeared, dressed in stained blue jeans and an ugly yellow shirt.

“Please show my niece to her room and help her change into something more… feminine and lady-like,” her aunt’s voice commanded.

“When you’re finished dear, have Martha show you to my study.”

There was no endearing term in the word “dear.” Simply an icy addition to a perfectly manicured sentence.

You watched your aunts receding form, pencil skirt tight on her legs, black heels sharply hitting the hardwood intimidatingly.

“Come with me, dear. Let’s get you changed,” the larger lady spoke softly.

She was older, maybe 60 or so, her skin dark tan, although you couldn’t tell if it was the sun or her natural skin pigmentation. Her voice was grainy, but soft and endearing. Motherly she’d dare say. And you thought that this woman may actually make living here bearable.

You followed the lady up the grand staircase, up two flights of stairs and down a long hallway until you reached the end. The lady pushed open the thick white door and stepped inside, you following her closely.

Inside, the room was surprisingly rustic. A simple, full-sized bed with an obviously homemade comforter thrown across it. A light gray plush rug beside the bed. The hardwood floors were surprisingly and delightfully bare. One large section of the wall was home to a large bay window that stretched from the ceiling to the plush gray cushion of the bench. There were a few flower paintings and other pointless nicknacks scattered on obsolete surfaces around the room, but you paid no mind to them as your attention was drawn to the lady opening the large mahogany grand dresser and plucking out two cloths.

She unfolded both neatly, placing them on the bed and you sighed. The skirt was long and pleated, patterns of red and white stretched in an annoying kaleidoscope arrangement across the nearly pointless garment and the white shirt appeared to be partly transparent.

“Go ahead and get changed dear, I’ll help you when you finish,” she said kindly and turned her back.

You waited for her to leave the room but it was apparent she had no intention to. Awkwardly, you began unhooking the straps of your overalls, letting the fabric clang to the floor. Your skin heated up, feeling all too exposed before sliding into the skirt, the itchy elastic clinging to your hips uncomfortably. You pulled your stained blue t-shirt off, swapping it for the crisp white one that you feared you’d stain in the next few moments.

The lady turned around, her wide hips bumping into the dresser slightly. The dresser was sturdy enough not to jostle, but it was obvious the corner was sharp and painful. You almost felt bad at the way the lady’s face winced, but it was quickly pushed away as calloused hands began gripping the delicate skin of your arms, squeezing along the skin up your arms.

She tsked and turned around, rummaging through the dresser once again, only to turn around with a black, light cardigan.

You gawked. Why on earth would you wear that atrocious thing in this weather? It was the middle of August! Not December!

“I know. But if your aunt were to see your arms, she’d have a fit. She probably still will,” she said.

You sighed. Your aunt hadn’t changed one bit. Your skin was fragile. The tops of your forearms lightly tanned, a pigment passed on from your father. The rest of your arms and body entirely was light. Lady’s should be gorgeously sunkissed to be beautiful and to be taken seriously.

With a huff, you put on the long black sleeves, the intricately designed cotton draping over your shoulders perfectly. But that didn’t mean it was any more comfortable. You could already feel the added heat seeping onto your skin. You’d be sweaty and uncomfortable soon.

“Now let’s do something about your feet.”

You looked down; your worn socks had holes all through them, mud permanently stained to the sweaty fabric.

Bustling from the room, you were left stunned in the wake of the surprisingly fast woman, watching her round the corner and disappear down the hall to fetch something to apparently “fix your feet.”

You thought you’d do something to speed along the process. The more time spent getting you dressed in these ridiculous clothes, the less time you had to explore the outside world. You made your way to the bay window, taking a seat on the plush cushion that accommodated you nicely. You pressed your back against the edge of the wall and turned your gaze to the picturesque green world filled with surprisingly lush looking grass, dips and hills along the valley, and the tops of trees further off in the distance. All this land was yours for the roaming. You couldn’t wait to get out those doors and go exploring.

The sound of water sloshing in a pot brought your attention back from the window, glancing curiously as the large lady placed the pot down in front of the window.

“Put your feet in.”

You didn’t argue. You were hesitant, but thought better than to argue and have your aunt boil you alive in this pot.

As soon as your dingy, dirty, mud pasted feet hit the water, you hissed. The temperature felt that it could boil the skin right off.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s hot, but your aunt is expecting you down soon and I have to do this as quickly as possible,” the lady said.

Grabbing your left foot, she picked the appendage up from the water along with a suds coated dish sponge and began mercilessly scrubbing away at the tender flesh. You whined and howled, tears pricking to your eyes as your skin was scrubbed and abused by the harsh bristles of the brush. You attempted to yank your foot away, but the tight grip on your ankle prevented much movement. You were stuck suffering as the skin became reddened from the irritation.

As soon as the painful experience came to a close, your now pink feet were dried with a towel before being slid into a pair of eccentrically beaded, golden strapped sandals that accentuated the rest of the over-the-top outfit nicely.

“You seem presentable enough now, although I’m sure the mistress of the house would have a few unkind things to say about your wild mane.”

You tried not to take offense. You liked your hair. It was an untamed mop that curved wildly carefree, blowing in the breeze that picked up the thick tufts.

“Thank you for your help ma’am.”

She bowed at the waist, a kind smile on her lips.

“No need for the ma’am dear. Call me Martha, or Mrs. Rivera if you must.”

And with no more haste, Martha Rivera led you back down the grand staircase to the bottom floor, the tight flats biting at your heels and ankles with every step you took, fighting off the winces that followed. You rounded a few sharp corners, venturing into a large sitting room with an extravagant flat screen high on the wall and couches that looked brand new. Through a dining room, table decorated with a sequined bronze cloth and the finest China you’d ever seen, although that wasn’t really a stretch. Finally, they made it to a large oak door, cracked just enough that you could see your aunt’s silhouette sitting behind an elegant red desk, glasses perched on her nose, pen in hand, eyes married to the computer screen. Mrs. Rivera left you by the door, and you almost spun on your heel and walked away. But of course, that would be too easy.

“Come in child. Stop standing in the doorway.”

Your blood froze in your veins. You pushed the door open and stolled in, tripping over the lion skin rug, stumbling a bit before catching your balance. Harsh wisps of breath rushed past your aunt's lips and the chair creaked as the weight lifted from it.

You straightened your back, staring fearfully into the cold gray eyes that trailed over your face and down your clothes.

The woman began moving slowly around you, manicured nails and boney fingers tracing over the outline of your clothes and jaw, running through your wild mane and down your hands, inspecting the bitten off nails. As she walked, she muttered things like “hair won’t do” and “horrible posture” before she stood back in front of you.

“You simply won’t do,” she said sternly.

The words hit hard. You may have been expecting something like this, but it didn’t make the words hurt any less.

“You look like you’ve been sleeping with the horses. Your nails are pitiful. Your skin is far too light.”

She gripped your jaw, tilting your head up harshly to expose your still slightly chubby neck.

“Can you ride a horse?”

The question was sudden and it caught you off guard, but you answered as quickly as your brain would allow.

“N-no. I’ve never ridden before.”

The woman sighed loudly, hot puffs of air pouring out of her flared nostrils.

“That’ll have to change. Starting tomorrow, you will be taking riding lessons from the stable boy. Every lady should have the basic skills of riding,” her tone was cold and brisk as she looked away and perched back at her desk.

“You’re dismissed. Dinner is at 6. Don’t be late. You may roam the grounds.”

With a wave of her hand, she dismissed her niece and immediately went back to work, not bating another eyelash as you fled hastlessly from the room, your eyes welling with tears as stress and fear washed over you, although more relieved that it was over and you could finally do something for yourself. You’d start by ditching these God forsaken shoes.

You made your way around the back door of the house, more by pure necessity than memory, simply logically thinking the best way around in the expansive flooring. When you made it, a smile broke across your face as you unfastened the painful shoes, kicking them off in a sloppy jumble by the door before opening the heavy door, the heat of the afternoon hitting your face, not that you minded.

As you stepped out, bare feeting meeting hot cement, you stripped the cardigan from your shoulders, draping it over a random, sun baked chair. You tore off through the grass, laughing giddily, breeze blowing wisps of your hair, skirt fluttering delicately over your skin. It would be difficult to do anything in the blasted thing, but you wouldn’t give yourself enough time to strip down into something better, opting to enjoy the last of the day while you could. And you’d start in the bright red barn your eyes immediately fell on.

Making your way through the soft grass that squished under the weight of your feet, you strolled into the half open barn, the soft snorts of animals bringing a smile to your lips. Just because you couldn’t ride, doesn’t mean you didn’t love the animals. You loved horses especially. They were such beautiful and majestic creatures. You’d always wanted a horse, but your family had never been able to afford one. You’d always wanted to ride, and now you could, although you didn’t understand why it was so important to your aunt.

The cool concrete felt rough beneath your feet, stray straws of hay littering the floor. It could have been a picture straight out of one of the Country Living magazines you’d kept hidden away at your parents home.

The first horse you came upon was a tall brown animal, head hung over the stall door, ears perked to attention, eyes trained on the new invader inside the barnhouse. He snorted at you and his hoof hit the barn door lightly in an attempt at getting closer. You stepped closer, slowly offering your hand out, letting the animal sniff searchingly.

“He’s looking for some sugar cubes.”

The voice came out of nowhere, interrupting your serenity, a yelp leaving your lips as your whole body jolted in the sudden fright.

You turned your head to the barn door where your driver was standing, taunt arms crossed over a broad chest, veiled from prying eyes by a lightweight flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His long legs were clad in dusty denim, mud and hay from his knees to the tops of the worn work boots.

“I’m sorry. I just like horses-”

“And you thought you’d come visit them?” he finished your sentence.

You immediately began shuffling your feet, eyes turning back to study the fading paint on the stall to keep from facing him.

Heavy footsteps hit the floor as the male moved closer until he was close enough to touch. His large, rough hand gripped your wrist lightly, bringing it up toward him. You let out a little yelp, riddled with confusion and curiosity until three small blocks were placed in your palm.

“Hold your palm out to him and don’t jerk away,” he spoke calmly, slowly urging you.

You nodded, having some sort of unkempt trust in his words as you turned back to the animal and extended your arm, palm flat, cubed sugar offered to the horse, who greedily munched them right out of your hands.

“His name’s Haechan. He’s a bit of a character.”

You nodded, drawing your now horse-slobbered hand away, opting to stroke the animal's fur from his nose to between his eyes.

“That’s an interesting name,” you said.

He hummed behind you and you heard his boots hitting the concrete as he moved away.

“Do you like animals?” he asked.

You spun around, eyes wide and shining.

“Yes! I love them! Sometimes I prefer animals over humans!”

His smile was gentle as he surveyed your physique, a dusty pink tinting his cheeks, although you thought nothing of it.

“Come on, I want to show you something,”he said, walking past you to the opposite exit of the barn.

You followed close behind, curious as to where he was taking her. Your feet fell back onto the grass, the long blades sliding between your toes as you followed in his wake. As they walked, a white picket fence came into view, not far from the barn, but oddly well hidden beneath the crest of a hill rolling through the land. Once you reached the fence, his hands curled around the boards, hoisting himself up, foot balanced on the bottom board as he climbed up, throwing a leg over one side, then the other, and jumping down. You stared at him in awestruck confusion.

“Climb over, I’ll catch you on this side.”

You didn’t know why you blindly trusted him. You didn’t know him from a random stranger in the town, but you complied, placing your foot onto the same board he had, pulling yourself up and swinging a leg over, then another. The skirt snagged in the boards a few times, one of your feet nearly slipping off the boards as you attempted to keep it pushed down. This proved to be more of a challenge as you balanced on your heels, hands clutching the top piece of wood as you contemplated how to get down now. That is, until his arms outstretched, slightly bent at the elbow, fingers parted, palms facing one another, and you knew what he wanted you to do. Taking a deep breath, you pushed off with your left foot, hands releasing your grip on the fence, letting yourself drop, eyes squeezing in slight fear that you’d soon flop hard against the green earth. But when strong hands caught your waist, arms drawing you in, broad chest breaking your fall, you braced herself against him, feet carefully being lowered until they pressed back into the earth.

“See, that wasn’t so bad.”

His teasing tone had you pulling away, glaring playfully at him before turning and pretending to walk away, leaving him in your path.

At least, until you heard a rustling in the long grass inside the fence.

You squeaked as it grew closer taking a step back as your harsh gaze followed the rustling of the grass, positive a snake would wrap itself around your leg as it dug its venomous fangs into your soft flesh.

Needless to say, you were in for quite a shock when the small head of a brown and white calf popped up from the grass.

And you were sinking to your knees.

The calf moved toward your lowered body, sniffing at your arms until you reached out to run a hand down it’s small head and back, cooing quietly, eyes brimming with unfiltered delight as you wrapped your arms around the baby, stroking the fur of its back lovingly.

“This is Renjun. He’s my little cousin's calf.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to. Your cooes of joy were enough to show every emotion you were currently feeling.

Horrible aunt or not. You could certainly find worse places to be trapped. At least here you had rolling hills of green, beautiful animals to fawn over, and Jaehyun, handsome stableboy who you couldn’t wait to get to know.

#ficscafe #klibrary #kdinernet #supermwritersnet #jaehyun x reader #nct x reader #farm au #farm living #horses #cows #jaehyun x y/n #jaehyun x you #original character #friends to lovers #slow burn #series #nct series #jaehyun series

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keilemlucent · 4 years

Text

lavender latte: ix

(M (for now!)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

chapter 1 || chapter 2 || chapter 3 || chapter 4 || chapter 5 || chapter 6 || chapter 7 || chapter 8 || chapter 9 || chapter 10 ||

masterlist

word count: ~5.1k

beta’ed: @hawnks & @keiqos

the dichotomy of fear and safety

warnings: vivid descriptions of panic/anxiety attacks, bodily injury, blood, ptsd descriptions, dissociation/depersonalization, overstimulation, trauma (please let me know if this should be warned any more thoroughly!)

alright fellas. second half of the mega chapter. PLEASE i read the warnings. please. there’s big moments in this chapter, but there’s lots of descriptions of what is warned.

that being said, read and enjoy 💗

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You didn’t know what to do.

Horror had risen in your throat, intangible poison seeping into the tendons that pulled from your shoulder blades to your fingertips. You were frozen on the couch, Keigo’s babbling mixing with the static of the call.

It was fuzzy background noise to your fear, the same way the press conference had been.

Your nails bit into the meat of your palms, pricks of pain like flint and steel burrowing into your hardened jaw. You had your gaze trained on the ground, but the shuddering of your body was unmistakably unavoidable.

Why are you shaking so much?

You felt like you were trembling hard enough to fall apart.

(Were you cracking open from the inside?)

A knock sounded from your balcony door, an insistent thing that felt dulled and yet too loud. The sound tasted like a bitter herbal medicine you didn’t want to swallow.

All the same, you painfully moved to unbolt the door, the nagging push of the rubber tops of your crutches being a constant reminder of your own state and how you got there. It made your head swim even more.

The moment you unlocked the sliding door, Keigo was into your apartment and onto you.

Keigo had been able to tell you weren’t doing well the moment he landed on your balcony, blinds and curtains open to give the perfect vantage point to see you falling apart.

His heart stuttered as he entered the door, taking you in as quickly as he could.

You were in house clothes, the same ones he’d seen you in a few days ago. Mussed up hair and sunken-looking eyes that were uncomfortably vacant in the glow of the bright LEDS of the TV. You balanced on a single crutch and the back of the couch. Clutched in your free arm, tight to your chest, was the doughy-eyed plushie he’d given you at the hospital.

You looked purely wrung out.

Keigo bit his lip for a moment, not entirely sure on how to proceed.

He’d been trained for it, once, how to coax someone into and out of states of distress. The thought of his own skills and their purposes were uncomfortable against the way he actually felt. The cognitive dissonance was loud, thundering, in his skull as he watched you sniffle.

He acted on feeling.

Keigo’s chest ached as he placed his hands on your shoulder, rubbing his thumbs into your knots of tension, “Can I hold you? Please?”

You dropped the plushie, shoving off the couch and wrapping your arms around his shoulders. If Keigo hadn’t been paying attention, you would’ve fallen, considering the way your lone crutch clattered to the ground.

Your eyes burned as you shoved your face into the fluff around Keigo’s collar, bathing in his familiar, spiced scent and praying that it would calm you. You clutched at the back of his jacket and squeezed with everything you had.

You wanted to speak, say something, maybe explain the fact that you were quickly coming to sob against Keigo and for whatever reason.

But you couldn’t.

Any words and proper speech dissolving when you saw his perfectly healed face and were held up by his perfect healed arms. He was smiling, even if it was stitched with a bit too much concern to be comfortable.

His health should’ve made you feel better, but it didn’t.

The molten realization that seeing a pristine version of Keigo didn’t do anything to assuage how horrible you felt was worse than panic-inducing.

“Oh, dove, it’s okay, everything’s okay,” Keigo assured you, a gloved hand smoothing down the back of your spine.

You tried to rationalize as you quaked.

He’s fine.

You knew that already.

Everything’s fine.

But, it didn’t seem to matter too much in the moment.

You clung to him, bearing a bit of weight (foolishly) on your injured leg. If anything, the pain was grounding as you barely kept yourself together.

Keigo hushed you, tearing off his gloves and tossing them aside to touch you with his bare hands, “Dove, everything’s fine, no need to cry.”

He smoothed a hand over the back of your head, cupping your neck and stroking a thumb over your spine. The action should’ve been comforting, Keigo being there should’ve been comforting, but it just wasn’t.

It made you feel so much worse.

Your quirk spat, his touch burning far back in your throat.

“I-I know,” You leaned into him. “It’s just scary.”

“What is?” Keigo asked, his voice soft like barbed burrs against the shell of your ear. “Talk to me, (Y/N).”

“What do you think?!” You broke down, voice coming out far louder than you intended. “You got hurt!”

It was all you could manage to say.

Keigo paused, not saying anything for a minute.

...

He’d never seen you like this.

Keigo had seen you hollowed by your quirk and injured, yet you hardly cried then. He’d seen you immersed in no-good feelings, clutching a bottle of cheap wine, yet all you had been was maybe a bit vacant-sounding.

Yet, now?

You had him in a vice grip, shaking with the force you were squeezing him with.

He had to try his best to help, right? Show you that he was completely well.

Nothing to fear.

“Dove, I know it’s scary, but it’s okay, I’m okay,” Keigo tried to comfort you with a squeeze and a kiss to your temple. “Everything’s okay.”

It didn’t seem to get through to you at all.

You continued to shake and sob as Keigo helped you to the nearby couch, your crutches in tow with a few of his feathers.

You desperately wanted to explain yourself better. Articulate in a way that made some sort of cohesive, easy to understand sense.

But, the reality was that it wasn’t that easy.

You couldn’t get a single thought straight. Everything was going to fast, yet trickling around your psyche like a thick glue. Your confusion was made worse by your panic.

...

Keigo sat you down, a frown creasing his pretty features.

You hated that you were the root of it.

You stayed tense, shoulders hunched and hands folded in your lap as tears dripped down your cheeks.

And truthfully— honestly?

You felt fucking stupid.

Maybe it was that the rancid, steadily-strengthening storm in your skull had been choking you for over twelve hours.

Maybe.

“Dove, I’m fine, see?” Keigo’s voice grated on your ears.

Shouldn’t it have been reassuring? Shouldn’t it have made you feel better and not worse?

The reminder made your fists tighter. An odd anger boiling at the front of your skull that had your sobs slowing.

You shook your head, grabbing your crutches, and pushing yourself up.

Keigo caught your wrist, squeezing and pulling lightly, “Dove, please, I’ll get you whatever you need. Just sit for a second with me, okay?”

“I will.” You couldn’t make yourself look at him, jaw clenched. “I just need to grab some water.”

“I can— “

“Please. Just let me do it myself.”

You crutched away in as put-together of a manner as you could.

(It wasn’t much.)

Getting to the kitchen, your eyes were blurred with new tears of pure frustration. Your heart hammered in your chest to the point of nausea. Your quirk fired on and off and you desperately tried to calm yourself, especially in front of Keigo.

He’s fine.

He’s fucking fine, you’re fine.

You felt ridiculous.

You swallowed, grabbing a glass from your cupboard and sliding it towards the sink.

You balanced in front of the tap, resting your weight on the front of the counter. You put your booted foot down, not even wincing at the sharp pain. You were beyond caring.

You turned on the faucet, forcing yourself to take more even breaths as you grabbed the glass.

Keigo, meanwhile, had simply unmuted the TV, not even thinking much about it. You usually liked something ambient in the background if it was quiet enough. White noise. But, Keigo didn’t really check the volume, or what was playing. He wasn’t thinking about those details, far more focused on trying to listen to you in the kitchen.

(A mistake.)

The program you’d had on roared from the living room.

You didn’t really hear it until you felt it.

Rumbling of the bass of the speakers.

Cars revving.

Someone screaming, high and grainy—

The sudden sounds ripped through the air.

Ripped right through you.

You jumped, heart stuttering in your chest as your quirk burst to life.

The shock of it all had you nearly losing your balance.

You would’ve, if you hadn’t slammed your hand in the basin of your metal sink for stability—

The glass in your hand, in your fist, shattered upon impact.

...

You didn’t scream, didn’t make a sound as you slowly looked down.

Just slowly let your eyes, narrowed and focused, center on the sudden mess of bloody glass in your sink—

And the scarlet shards that were stuck in your hand.

Keigo waited, feathers keenly reading your breathing from the other room.

It scratched at his damn brain when the sound of broken glass against metal echoed through your apartment.

Your breath quickened shortly after.

At first, Keigo was a bit annoyed.

Just a tiny, tiny bit.

You obviously weren’t doing well, and your stubbornness about getting fucking water just seemed senseless. Especially since you were already injured.

If you’d just let him take care of you—

Keigo sighed, rising from the couch and making his way to the kitchen, “Hey, dove? Don’t bother trying to sweep, my feathers can— “

His voice died in his throat as he rounded the corner into your kitchen, fear growing in his chest.

You were bent over the sink, oddly supported on one crutch with way too much fucking weight on your injured leg.

But, that wasn’t the worst, not close.

You held your hand just over the basin of the sink.

Jagged shards of glass stuck from your palm, little rivulets and streams of blood dripping into the sink below.

Your eyes were uncomfortably vacant, brows creased and mouth just the slightest bit opened, lips cracked.

“Oh, fuck, dove, shit,” Keigo should’ve known better to panic, but the immediate swell of that protective nature (that he needed to think harder about) had him shooting across your kitchen, a few of his larger feathers flying to support your injured leg. You would’ve fallen if Keigo hadn’t wrapped an arm around you for balance.

Keigo couldn’t tell if it was the burning concern he had over seeing you hurt (again), or the tiny pricklings of ire he had that this was entirely avoidable if you had just listened—

He grabbed your wrist, turning it by his firm grip to take in how bad the injury was.

(Secretly, he’d done a bit more reading about injury assessment, since what happened with your leg.)

“Well, I don’t think you’ll need stitches,” Keigo sighed, letting his annoyance bleed into his tone. As concerned as he was, this was just a mess and he was somewhat aware of the fact he was also running a bit late— “Where’s your first aid kit?”

You were silent, head tilted down, eyes wide and on the running blood.

“Dove, first aid kit?”

“...There’s glass in my hand.”

Keigo’s swore he felt his lungs turn to ice, every selfish thought promptly draining.

If he thought hearing you sob was bad, however the fuck you were talking then was a thousand times worse.

Hollow didn’t even begin to describe it.

“There’s glass in my hand.”

Shouting echoed from the TV.

“There’s glass in my hand.”

...

There was glass in your hand.

Shards, just like on the teashop’s floor.

Your quirk spun, trilling to life, far harder and harsher than it had in the past twelve hours of panic. It descended indiscriminately on your perceptions and senses like a swarm of carrion-eating corvids, the shrill, staticy shouting of the TV, their caws and crowings.

You found that blood smelt similarly, a coppery, heady scent that made the backs of your eyelids singe.

It made your head spin.

Then again, anything and everything was hard to sense. Hard to think. Keigo might’ve been talking, you couldn’t tell or care. There was just—

“glass in my hand.”

The pain of your present, weeping wounds should’ve felt sobering, like the echoings of your surgery when you put pressure on your healing leg.

But it wasn’t.

The sting trailed up your arm, eating at your nerves and bone marrow like biting ants and hungry mosquitos.

You wished you could’ve reacted but all you could think of was that was—

“glass in my hand.”

...

The teashop.

Everything was okay there.

Keigo would come in for his drink, you’d make it, you’d flirt, and everything was okay. He’d give you his pretty laugh, you’d watch the blush grow on his cheeks.

...

The tea shop wasn’t an open-wired husk, covered in SHATTERED GLASS glass and ruined. There was no shadowy villain that sprayed GLASS glass into your leg. There was no injury, there was no agony in Keigo’s voice when he first saw you on the cement.

He never left you in the back room, quaking and cut.

Your quirk never spun so hard in the place that was once a safe haven for you.

...

Keigo had never been bloodied in battle. Well, maybe, but you never saw it. You didn’t keep yourself awake with nightmares, caring when you shouldn’t have. You didn’t ever accidentally brand the image of him with a crooked arm and bloody cheeks into the front of your mind.

All that there was—

“glass in hand.”

Simple as that.

...

Your chest was burning, like phosphorus and liquified iron were being poured down your throat to settle and flattening you to the floor.

Everything was okay.

You spun

“(Y/N).”

Keigo.

...

God, he was fucking dumb.

“There’s glass in my hand.”

It all clicked, and Keigo felt a roll of anxiety wash through him.

Tears rolled down your cheeks, your mouth open as you took harsher and harsher breaths.

Fuck.

Keigo would kick himself for not recognizing the scope of it, you, faster.

He sent a feather to silence the TV, another to grab a nearby dish towel, gently wrapping it around your wrist from the bottom. With the most tender touch he could, he covered your hand and forearm.

“There’s glass in my hand.”

You choked on your own breath, free arm wrapping around your stomach.

Keigo knew touching you could make this all worse, so he tested the waters with a gentle palm on your shoulder.

You didn’t flinch or tense, but you didn’t lean into it.

Good enough.

Keigo shucked off his heavy coat, quick as he could, sending his feathers to scatter away and across the tile below. He rested in on your shoulders, watching your reactions with the utmost intensity and a set jaw.

“T-there’s glass in my hand.”

With all the tears clouding your eyes, it was no wonder you couldn’t even see the wound covered. Not that you were properly in your skull, Keigo could tell that now.

He doubted there was much lucid about you.

Keigo should’ve known better. Really. You were his angel— his fucking dove. That protective instinct was so dispersed in his hero work, that them coming alive seeing you injured and panicking was jarring to the point of nausea.

Why had he ignored how you sounded so off on the phone? The weird behavior?

You were just a few weeks out from being in a significant villain attack— Did Keigo really think hugs and kisses were going to mend the wounds he couldn’t see? The ones he couldn’t perceive?

He just had to do better, now.

Something bore down on your shoulders. Weight.

Would you fall?

You remembered how your knees hit the hard floor of the teashop how SHATTERED GLASS glass had dug into your kneecaps. Maybe, they didn’t feel like the same fiery insects burrowing in the nerve-endings of your hands— no, those had felt like thin, metal toothpicks, shooting through the bone like it was a threadbare sheet and not solid.

Something soft pressed against your cheeks.

It sent blessed, blessed heat through your body. The smell— like honey and sweet cream filled your mouth like a gulp of holy water. It warmed the back of your tongue, familiar and sweet.

Keigo.

You remembered him that terrible day too. How good, and solid he was. How his heartbeat was the tempered drum you needed to even attempt to grasp the frayed threads of objective reality through the chaos, shouts, and SHATTERED GLASS—

“There’s glass in my hand.”

“I know.”

His voice.

Similar sensations, the same warmth, like a heavy, quilted blanket wrapped around you. Maybe a hearth, rolling in the late night as a late autumn night rolled by—

You were being pulled down, physically.

It scared you.

“No!”

It came out as shriek like SHATTERED GLASS angry nails against your ears, spitting bile up from the soles of your feet.

The heat washed over you again, “It’s just me, angel. I’ve got you.”

You trusted it, implicitly.

You sank, expecting the same pins to shred your knees again like they had back then.

Expect, it didn’t.

Rather, slowly, you end up on the ground, on your bottom.

Keigo guided you to the floor with the help of some feathers and words of encouragement, not even attempting to get you back to the couch.

He sat you between his own outstretched legs, coaxing you to lean back into his chest. Keigo kept a careful watch on your hand, bracing you at the forearm as to not aggravate the wounds more than necessary.

It took a moment, but you fell against him. Your breathing was still harsh and ragged, but at least you weren’t trying to keep standing.

Tentatively, Keigo wrapped his arms around your waist. You didn’t react negatively, so he took it another step further, resting his forehead against the back of your neck.

“(Y/N), breath with me,” he asked, keeping his voice soft. “Just listen to my voice okay?”

He counted his breaths, keeping them slow and methodical. Considering how his own heart was exploding like a miswired bomb, he needed it as well.

Even if it took a while for it to catch in your skull, Keigo kept at it.

...

Keigo was good.

The images of him bloody and smiling were still bright.

But, he was good.

He was attached to the heat and sweetness around you. It was distracting.

Nice.

“Just like that, nice and steady, you’re doing so well, dove.”

He was good.

Slowly, the pains and barbs around your body dulled, at least by a few fractions.

The lump of panic lodged in your throat eroded and left your belly oddly-weighted and uncomfortable. Though, it was marginally better than whatever you were feeling before.

Slowly becoming aware of your body (and the one so close), you shifted to rest your cheek against Keigo’s temple as your quirk quieted a few decibels.

You sagged back into him, tears at a steady drip, but nothing like they were.

“Keigo?” You asked hoarsely.

He shifted, your teeth shattering as the movements of his muscles felt like so much so close to your own.

He flickered his kind, golden gaze to you, “Yes?”

“There’s glass in my hand.”

The words nearly fired you up again, a sob burying itself like a shortsword in your breast, your head tilting to look-

Keigo squeezed around your waist, a wide feather coming up to shield your face from what you both knew you’d see, “There is, dove. Do you have a first aid kit? Let me patch it up for you.”

Did you really want to see your bloodied hand? The mental image of it still felt so fresh.

It all felt like too much—

“Dove? Stay with me, (Y/N),” Keigo carefully laid his hand around your jaw. “First-aid kit?”

“Oh,” You blinked, focusing back on him again. “Under the bathroom sink.”

...

Keigo was careful not to let you slip away again.

He kept talking, keeping his voice low and soft as he set you onto the couch to clean your hand. The feather shield turned to cover your eyes as needed.

Your hand might’ve looked worse simply due to the white dishrag bleeding red.

He was quick to patch it, bandaging it and wrapping as needed. He’d made sure to tuck your favored plushie, the one he’d gifted you, into your free arm as he did.

He sat between your spread legs, on his knees, as morning light shifted in from the open balcony window. It might’ve seemed intimate to an onlooker— maybe it was.

That was a later thought.

Finally, hand wrapped confidently and securely in medical tape, Keigo sat back, the feather shielding your eyes floating back to his reassembled wings.

You still didn’t look well, maybe worse than used-up and hollowed as before.

Slowly, your injured hand twitched, grabbing Keigo’s wrist and pulling him to the couch.

You tugged him into your lap, burying your face in the front of the shirt of his hero costume.

Keigo settled on top of your thighs, wrapping his wings around the two of you as he buried his nose in your hair.

“We’re okay.”

It was so soft, Keigo hardly heard it.

“We are, dove.” He kept his voice equally quiet, reverent in the gold of the morning. He pulled back to settle and meet your gaze. “You’re safe. I’m safe. We’re safe.”

You squeezed around his hips, pulling him closer in the crimson canopy, “You sure?”

“Positive.”

There was a moment of stillness, then shrillness.

The ringtone of Keigo’s phone screamed from the pocket of his jacket that you still had around your shoulders.

You jolted, pushing yourself deeper into Keigo and wincing, the sound undoubtedly shredding your oversensitive mind and body.

He quickly grabbed it from the pocket, ending the call.

“Do you have to leave?” You asked, weak against him sternum.

Keigo shot off a text, silencing the phone sans emergency alerts and tossed it near his shoes at the door.

“No, I’m not. I’m taking the day off,” Keigo spoke words he truly thought he never would.

“Are you sure?” He knew you knew he was busy.

“Yeah,” Keigo replied quietly, tugging you as close as he could. “I would never leave you like this, (Y/N). Never.”

“You’ve got important shit to do,” you fought, weakly, still melting against him.

“I do,” Keigo emphasized, cupping your face in his hands. “You know what that is?”

You didn’t answer, eyes flickering away, something fragile bore in your eyes.

“Keeping you safe.” Keigo stroked over your cheeks, letting his softest, most careful smile grow. “I’m new to it, but one thing I’m sure of is that I’m supposed to be here when you need me. And I want to be.”

“You do keep me safe—”

“Then, I haven’t done a great job of helping you feel that way,” He kissed your forehead, quickly hushing you.

You were trembling beneath him, unsure of what to say.

Quiet as he could, Keigo spoke once more, the words sounding almost like breath, “I’m sorry I pushed you away. Let me be here, now.”

Truthfully, endlessly, you wanted nothing more. You’d get a therapist, or something, to help with the more pressing, far back concern of obvious trauma.

But now, in the early morning of your golden-lit apartment?

You just wanted Keigo to stay.

You just wanted to fall into him, both you being okay, the only red stains being that of Keigo’s crimson feathers that you adored so much.

He felt solid, as he always had.

You leaned into him.

“Can we nap?” You interrupted your own hush, voice nearly breaking with tired tears. “I didn’t sleep well.”

“I don’t imagine you did,” Keigo winced internally, remembering you must’ve felt horrible since the night prior. “Come on, dove.”

Keigo helped you to your room, gently assisting you in moving aside your plushies. You sipped some stale water from your bedside, a few of his feathers refilling it for you as you were undoubtedly dehydrated.

You sat back on the duvet, Keigo quickly gathering you into his arms, head against his chest. His feathers dispersed around the room, only the small roots remained to be pressed into the sheets.

It was the calm after the storm, mangled pieces surfaced and bobbing on the water of both your minds. But, they could be sorted and dealt with properly later. For now, you settled, blessedly, in the comfort of each other. The shattering thunder was an echo, quieted by the others presence and slow breaths.

The steady thrum of his heart in your ear was the final bit of calm you needed. The blackout curtains of your room kept it dark, light with the tiniest fairy lights across the seam of your walls and ceiling barely giving enough light to cast shadows. Your quirk was properly dormant, though you still felt frazzled.

You were exhausted, but not done yet.

“Keigo?” You asked softly.

He immediately squeezed your intertwined hands, the one laid over his navel, “Yes?”

“I’m sorry I got like that, about seeing you hurt,” It was such a soft admission, unnecessary, but you didn’t let Keigo’s inhale stop you. “I know, I don’t need to apologize, but I’m still going to.”

You sat up a bit, body aching as you faced Keigo.

His lips were parted, half-ready to speak, to comfort you, but you needed to be there for both of you— if only for a moment.

“I also know it’s part of the reality of your job. It’s just hard, seeing someone you love hurt, whether it's necessary or otherwise.”

You both noticed your word choice.

Your lip wobbled as you stroked his cheek, rubbing your thumb over the curves of his face. He looked younger like this, more like his age, eyes widening and soft and truly vulnerable, as terrifying as the prospect was.

“You don’t need to be sorry. I understand,” Keigo assured you, voice shaking as he tugged you down and closer. “It is hard. I didn’t realize how hard until now.”

His breath caught in his chest, followed by sniffling as he buried his face in your hair.

You entangled your legs with him, the weight of your boot a solemn reminder.

“It was more than that too.”

You both knew what you were referring to.

Keigo squeezed you, so hard it almost hurt. You swore you could feel a few stray tears of his wet your scalp, “And that’s okay.”

Your eyes stung, “It was all so scary— “

You muffled yourself against Keigo’s neck as you clung to each other.

“I know, but it’s okay now. You’re safe, safest you could ever be,” Keigo assured you, the wobble in his voice almost disguised. He rubbed at the tension in your lower back, “It’s okay to be scared, however that is and whenever that is, but do you feel me next to you?”

“Y-yeah.” A soft admission.

“Then you’re safe.”

You believed him, implicitly.

You simply held each other for a while.

“Are you just better at coping with all of this?” You asked, the joke feeling light after so much heaviness.

“I’d say repressing, but ‘coping’ works too.”

You snorted, gently.

Keigo stroked up your back, touch like a washing, warm undertow that you were happy to be caught up in.

“I’m sorry for not understanding sooner,” Keigo squeezed, mind drifting unconsciously back to his own past, of that he’d rather forget and most of the time did. “I know it’s hard to communicate, and I can’t imagine what it's like with your quirk. I’m supposed to be smart about this shit, but it looks like I have some work to do, huh?”

“You couldn’t have known. Just adjusting, you know? Communicating and learning,” You replied, squeezing him. “You care so much, Keigo. I can tell.”

Keigo went silent and tense.

“How?”

It was a question posed to both you and himself.

You thought for a moment, through the thousands of moments you’d collected over the months, so many concentrated in the last few weeks.

“It’s how you feel, you know?”

He remained silent, though he knew what you meant.

You felt your tongue rest in your mouth, activating your spent quirk for just a moment and savoring Keigo’s sweetness.

“You taste like honey. Like, warmth on a cold day. Every time you touch me, I feel like I could be anchored in the worst storm, and you wouldn’t shiver, let alone falter.”

Keigo remained silent, squeezing you and burying his face in your hair.

“Whenever you look at me,” you spoke so softly, the words might’ve broken in the air itself, “your eyes soften from solid gold to warm honey. Every time. From that first time, you walked in the shop.”

He remained silent, though his trembling spoke volumes and tomes.

“I can tell you care, Keigo. In so many ways. I can’t ever forget.”

Keigo had never felt so deeply, he was sure of it.

He’d never felt the blessed heat you’d given him, so many times, with your words, and sweetness, and kind smiles before.

He’d never been cherished like a person before.

He was sure that he’d never cared so endlessly and with all of himself before for another being.

The premise terrified him for a moment.

But, all it took was a quick glance down at the tangling of your bodies in the low glow of the room for any fear to melt away.

You were right there with him, the same way he was there for you.

Keigo finally spoke, pulling your face up to his.

Your eyes met, every part of the two of you turning to mush in the hold of the other.

You both felt okay.

And, really, truly, looking into the molten core of him, you felt safe.

So did he.

Keigo stroked his thumbs over your cheeks, brows creasing like he was holding back fat tears, “I love you so much, you know? I don’t think I couldn’t.”

Something, like a steady, new flame—

Something, like all the heat you and Keigo shared (and would come to share) lit through you both—

Like the gentle sun being born once again between the two of you, framed in red feathers and softness.

You replied truthfully, with all of you, burying yourself in him as he tucked into you.

“I love you too, Keigo.”

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💗ko-fi 💗

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buckyskorpion · 4 years

Text

Do Something Bad, Too - Part 5

Pairing: Alpha!Bucky x Omega!Reader

Summary: It’s like every single Alpha on the planet won’t rest until they’ve confessed their eternal wish for you to mother their children, and it’s getting old. Luckily, that’s a problem Bucky might be able to fix.

Warnings: language, a/b/o dynamics, mentions of violence

A/N: sooooo..... lets not mention the last time i updated this fic was four years, and get excited that im finally updating!! woo!! i really hope this was worth the wait, im very anxious about letting you guys down. let me know what you honestly think! love u all, thank u for sticking with me

series masterlist | main masterlist | my ko-fi

You stay in Nat’s apartment in the Tower for the rest of your heat, which lasts an entire week. Nat comes and goes throughout that time to make sure you’re drinking enough water, to make you dinner or run you a bath, or sometimes just to keep you company when you’re capable of that. She doesn’t stay long, though, aware her presence just makes the unbearableness of going through heat even worse. She also doesn’t mention Bucky’s clothes or anything about that first day, which you’re immeasurably grateful for. You don’t think you could talk about it without crying.

To say you’re humiliated is an understatement. Mixed with that is all this guilt and shame and self-hatred for inflicting that situation on you and Bucky. Mostly for Bucky. He had made it so very clear he was only comfortable helping you with the scent thing, and even with that there were boundaries. You had blown through them all by showing up to his apartment, triggering both your instincts to do things you couldn’t control, and now he probably resented you enough to never want to see you again.

You don’t blame him. It doesn’t stop it from hurting so much, though.

You’ve well and truly fucked yourself now. Not only is it omega instincts driving you towards Bucky now, but also your own stupid, naive heart. You miss his giant hands and broad shoulders that block out the world for a second, narrowing your scope to just the two of you. You miss the way you can breathe around him, how the world doesn’t feel so scary and foreign to you when he’s by your side. It’s crazy because you weren’t even close, you weren’t even really friends, but now you never will be because you’re so goddamn stupid it’s actually astounding.

Nat’s plan had not worked. And this time, you couldn’t even blame her for this colossal backfire. This is all your handiwork.

You’re back in your office, returning to work once your fever died down and you could stand to be in the vicinity of other alphas without passing out. Maybe you’re tapping rather aggressively on your keyboard, and maybe all the techies on the floor can hear you sigh and groan in frustration every two seconds and are sending you strange looks through the glass. Whatever, you’re their boss, they can’t say anything. Besides, your boss has requested some rather strange security upgrades and you’re not sure if it’s within your job description to email Tony Stark and say what the fuck?

It turns out you don’t have to, because Tony Stark comes to you. It’s not often he takes part in the day to day workings of Stark Industries - that’s your job, after all. But he comes striding into your office eating an apple and wearing sunglasses during the middle of the day, and points a ringed finger at you.

“You’re back,” he says, and you find yourself glancing down at your baby-blue pantsuit just to make sure you are, in fact, back. Stark takes a very pointed breath through his nose and adds, “You smell terrible. This is great!”

“Great?” You can’t help but sound bitter. Your smell is hardly great to you. Even after sweating out your entire body-weight and taking more showers than is considered healthy, you still smell like Bucky. You can’t escape him - not your thoughts, not your heart, and certainly not the way your skin seems to emanate him like he’s crawled underneath and set up shop. It’s embarrassing and humiliating, because it’s not real, and just serves to remind you of the terrible mistake you’ve made. You hope beyond hope Stark doesn’t recognise the other alpha scent clinging to your pores.

“Yes, great. I need your help,” he says, sitting down in a chair opposite your desk. You glance at the specs you have open on your computer, the strange security upgrades he wants you to make to the Tower, and then back to Stark’s million-dollar smile. It’s unsettling. You feel a headache forming before he even opens his mouth.

“If this has anything to do with these emails-“

“Those can wait,” Stark says, waving a dismissive hand at your computer. He lobs his applecore into the bin beside your desk as if to punctuate his point, then says, “This is a request on behalf of the Avengers.”

“Um,” you say, rather eloquently. Avengers? What on earth could they want with you, unless- you groan, rolling your eyes to the ceiling. “Natasha.”

“She highly recommended your expertise,” Stark says, and that headache brewing in your temples blooms into a full-blown migraine. He stands, smooths out his slacks, and says without room for question, “Follow me.”

This is how you end up back in the residential floors of the Tower, much to your chagrin, which Stark seems to pick up on. The closer you get to Bucky’s floor the more fidgety you become, heart racing and skin turning clammy until you watch the numbers fly by and you leave him somewhere in the clouds above Manhattan. The elevator doors ding open to a floor that seems to go on forever, full of gym equipment and fancy simulation tech you figure the Avengers must use to train. You find Natasha’s red head on the sparring mats, tackling someone to the ground with her thighs, and glare daggers as you follow Stark into the room.

“She’s alive!” Natasha calls across the room, ignoring your death glare for a knowing smirk. Her voice echoes through the warehouse-style gym floor, drawing the attention of the others in the room. The Avengers, and all of a sudden you feel like an eighteen year old kid watching aliens attack New York on a grainy satellite TV in the desert again. This is like meeting celebrities on another level. Steve Rogers finishes wrapping his hands as he walks over to you and Stark, Sam Wilson beside him, and Natasha gives Clint Barton a hand to help him up from the mats.

“What have you roped me into now, Nat?” you ask, not bothering to hide your frustration. You’ve just about had it with her meddling, but you should’ve known it was a pipe dream to think she would stop.

“We know you’re very busy, we won’t take up much of your time,” Steve Rogers says, extending a hand and introducing himself like he needs to. Captain America needs no introduction.

“I know who you all are,” you say, giving them a nod. “And you’re right, I am busy. So why am I here?”

“You and Nat must get along like a house on fire,” Clint says, earning him an elbow in the gut from Nat herself. You grin, all sharp in the way Nat tells you looks scary in a hot way, and watch as he subtly shifts behind Nat as if to hide behind her smaller frame. It’s only then that you register the scents mingling between them, and realise that Clint Barton is Nat’s omega. She grins at you, beatific and serene, as if she can read your thoughts and knows exactly what you’ve just figured out.

“Let’s not hold (Y/n) up any longer,” Nat says, grinning in a way that always spells trouble for you. “She’s a woman in high demand.”

Stark leads them to what seems to be a large empty space in the training facility, but it’s soon filled with hologram projections from a tiny Starkpad he pulls from his pocket. You fall into step beside Nat, using your height advantage to glare down at her and convey the level to which you want to strangle her right now. She just loops her arm with yours and kisses you on the cheek, frustrating your attempts at intimidation before you can even begin. Bloody Russian spies, you grumble to yourself as you come a halt in front of the holograms.

You’re looking at building specs, that much is obvious. Why, though, is entirely lost on you. The structure is a tall hexagonal building reminding you of a panopticon, with security floors in the centre and what seem to be prison cells surrounding them. Details jump out from Stark’s hologram - security cameras, miniature guards patrolling the floors, thermally sealed doors and electromagnetic force-fields on the cells. It’s a prison, you surmise, and you’re starting to get a bad feeling as to why you’re here.

You turn to Nat and say, “I’m not going back in the field.”

She pats your arm with only a tiny bit of condescension and says, “I’m not asking you to.”

“You’re my Head of Security,” Stark says, then gestures to the hologram building, “If you can design impenetrable security systems, surely you can undo them.”

“You want me to help you break into this place?” you ask. The team all nod, and you look back at the intimidating, virtual-blue building in front of you. “It’s a fortress.”

“Yeah, they really upped the anti on security since I was in there,” Sam Wilson says, earning him a reproachful look from Steve. It does nothing to soothe the anxiety starting to thread through your chest. Failing the Avengers doesn’t seem like an option, but from where you’re standing, neither is breaking into this facility.

“I’ll need to know what it is first,” you say, “Then I can try and help you. Emphasis on try. I’m not a miracle worker.”

“It’s called the Raft,” Steve says, his face growing stony and set as he talks. “It’s a prison designed for enhanced persons by Secretary Ross. After Germany, I broke Sam, Scott, and Clint out. But Wanda-“

“We need to get her out of there,” Clint says. You pretend not to notice as beside you Nat discreetly takes his hand, rubbing her thumb across his bruised knuckles.

“Leave the search and rescue to us,” Stark says, and you watch him shift uncomfortably under some inscrutable looks Steve and Sam are giving him, “We just need your help on how to get into the joint.”

“Simple,” you breathe, but only Nat laughs. This seems like an impossible task, but from the look of everyone around you, failure isn’t an option. You’re going to have to make the impossible possible. It’s a good thing you’ve had some experience with that - in the military, trapped into sand-filled corners with no foreseeable way out, it really did seem like you were working miracles to stay alive out there. You swallow past a dry mouth and blink through desert-gunked eyes, say, “I’ll need that Starkpad, and some time.”

“You have forty-eight hours,” Stark says. The hologram disappears in a blink as he throws the Starkpad, no bigger than your palm, which you only just manage to catch. Stark clicks his fingers, as if an idea as just occurred to him, and says, “Oh, I almost forget to tell you! The Raft is underwater. Completely submerged, middle of the ocean, super top-secret. Fun, right?”

Your heart drops to your stomach. Fun is not the word you you would use. Only forty-eight hours to break into the most secure facility in the country, if not the world? This day couldn’t possibly blindside you anymore.

As if the universe is conspiring against you, FRIDAY’s voice chimes in from overhead speakers to say, “Mr Stark, Sergeant Barnes is on his way to the gym floor.”

You feel your whole body lock up, heart seizing in your chest - Bucky? Here? You weren’t prepared to see him yet, or speak to him. What would you say? How could you apologise for one of the worst crimes you may have ever committed, and you’ve killed people? Natasha unloops her arm from yours, tries to soothe you with a hand on your back but it does nothing for the anxiety shooting sparks throughout your blood stream.

“How many times have I got to tell that illiterate Soviet popsicle, he’s not on the fucking team,” Stark grumbles, storming towards the elevators with a scowl. Steve clenches his fists, glaring after Stark but Sam holds him back. He mutters something only Steve can hear which makes him close his eyes and exhale sharp through his nose - frustrated, but calming by the nanosecond.

It’s a shame nobody thought to do the same for you.

“What did you just call him?” you say, ignoring Natasha’s warning murmur of your name as you follow after Stark. Maybe you still have some residually elevated hormones from your heat, or you really are just a lovesick idiot who can’t control her temper, but whatever it is has you absolutely incensed. Stark stops dead, clearly caught off guard by the venom in your voice, and spins on his heel to stare at you incredulously.

“Excuse me?” he says, blinking owlishly at you as you lean up into his space. You’re aware you’re overstepping the boss/employee line, but you can’t help yourself. The rage is brewing, and with each laboured breath Bucky’s scent grows stronger and stronger until it’s all you can smell. It settles over your skin like armour, and the urge to protect that hold on you, to protect him, is beyond your control - it’s primal.

“Don’t talk about him like that, ever,” you snarl, watching with satisfaction as Stark’s eyes turn round and wide.

He glances behind you towards his friends and says, “Are we sure she isn’t an alpha? Sheesh.”

“Tony,” Natasha warns, but it’s too late. You use the palm of your hand to slam into Stark’s solar plexus. You kick out his kneecap and he drops on one knee, wheezing and gasping for air. It all happens so fast you can’t even think about the repercussions of assaulting your boss, let alone what’s driven you to do it in the first place.

“I don’t need to be an alpha to kick your ass,” you hiss, glaring down at Stark who looks up at you like you have, in fact, lost your mind.

At that moment, the elevator dings and reveals Bucky practically seething behind the elevator doors. He storms in, larger than life - in the week or so it’s been since you’ve seen him, you’ve somehow forgotten how physically intimidating he actually is. You immediately step back from Stark’s kneeling figure, feeling the strange need to hide your hands behind your back like a kid caught with the cookie jar. Bucky glances wildly between you, Stark on the ground, and the ring of Avengers in different states of attempting to intervene. He heaves ragged breaths and is emitting a scent that threatens to take you to your knees, too. Authoritative, powerful, protective.

That submissive, animalistic side of you makes you really hate being an omega sometimes.

“Why is she here?” Bucky asks someone behind you, probably Natasha. He swings his, frankly, frightening gaze to Stark and demands with just as much venom as you had, “What did you do to her.”

“Jesus Christ, nothing!” Stark wheezes, clutching at the spot on his chest you’ve definitely bruised. He points an accusing finger at you and cries, “She hit me!”

“I’m so sorry,” you say, feeling your hands start to shake where you clutch them behind your back. You look to Bucky like maybe he can explain, which makes you sick to your stomach because he’s not yours to look towards. Now, more than ever, that is abundantly clear. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“I do!” Natasha pipes up behind you, helpful as ever. Bucky glares at her for you this time, releasing you of his burning-hot stare. His gaze has the power to paralyse you, and you need to get away from him, this, all of it - right now. You don’t get a chance to, however, before Natasha once again sticks her foot in it and says, “She was defending your honour, James.”

“Yeah, and I’ve no idea why. One quick google search should tell you he doesn’t need any-“

It takes you a second to realise the snarling, growling sound echoing through the gym is coming from you. Your face burns as you roll your lips together, cutting the sound off completely. For your entire life you’ve been headstrong and confident, but this whole experience with Bucky from the very first day you met him has shaken your entire self-perception. Everything you’ve known has been turned upside down - it was easy when all alphas were assholes, and you were one omega they couldn’t fuck with. Now, you stare down at your shoes and refuse to look in Bucky’s direction because he’s affected you so much you can’t even control yourself anymore. The worst part is that it’s entirely your own doing, because Bucky made it very clear you aren’t the one he wants, so everything you’re doing right now is just incredibly humiliating.

“(Y/n)?” Bucky’s voice makes you shudder. Looking at him would surely make you burst into flames, from embarrassment of the last time you saw him which you can’t even think about, or from the shame of pathetically defending a man who doesn’t want anything to do with you. He doesn’t even want you here, storming up to ask why you’re in his home in the first place.

“I’m gonna go,” you say, giving Bucky a wide berth as you head for the elevators. You can’t get there fast enough, practically sprinting to press the close-door button as fast as you can.

“Wait-“

And then, the absolute worst thing happens. You almost crush the Starkpad still in your hand from clenching your fist so hard - you have to, in order to keep your hands by your sides and not in Bucky’s personal space. Because just as the doors are about to slide closed, he slips in between them and FRIDAY seals you both in. The elevator fills with Bucky Bucky Bucky, just like your heat-addled brain has been chanting at you since you stumbled into his apartment a week ago.

Bucky stares at you wide-eyed, and you stare back just the same. This could possibly be your worst nightmare come to life, especially when the elevator screeches to a halt and FRIDAY’s dulcet tones hammer your fate home.

“I appear to be having some technical difficulties,” FRIDAY says, sounding confused if an AI can sound like anything. “I’m so sorry, I’m trying to fix this. It seems someone is manually overriding my control of the elevator.”

“Nat,” you groan, in unison with Bucky. So that’s it. You’re stuck in an elevator with Bucky and are being forced to face the music, by the powers that be. The powers being Natasha, a no good meddler who is going to be in a world of pain when you get out of here. Alpha be damned.

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seekingseven · 3 years

Note

Another drabble request: how does Four find out about Twilight's wolf form?

Linked Universe Prompt Requests #8!

Oh, that's a great question! Here's one possible way it could have gone down...

⚠️CW: Alcohol Mention! ⚠️

(You can also read the fic here on Ao3!)

~~~~~~

Four was not the kind of person who spent his evenings in a places like this, and he knew Twilight and Time weren't either.

Maybe that was why he was so uncomfortable.

Music pulsed through the floor, amplified by the tavern's high ceilings and the patrons' warbling voices. Drinks clinked, beer frothed, and lantern light clotted over polished countertops. Across the room, a red-lipped waitress tossed a red-faced patron a pinched smile, the kind that crinkled at the edges with professional, faux patience, and the man let out a wheedling chuckle. A group of boys howled at each other as glossy cards splashed across their table. Behind the bartop, a tenderfaced bartender dropped a stack of glass mugs, and a nearby group of tipsy women had begun to crackle out the Hylian national anthem.

Four pressed his hands over his eyes and tried to cough out the smell of vomit and rotting sweat. No use. Spirals pulsed at the edges of his vision--he was pressing too hard--and he let his hands slide into his lap. The muscles in his neck tensed as he slipped deeper into Twilight's pocket.

This was not what he had in mind when he had decided to follow Time and Twilight on their "quick, fifteen minute errand." He had been right in deducing it was more than that, of course; reports of local children going missing near a known monster hideout hadn't inspired confidence in Four that grocery shopping was all on the two's minds.

But, a tavern?

To each their own, he supposed, but he couldn't entirely stifle the little flame of disappointment in his chest.

Adrenaline gushed through his throat as the world swung around him; Twilight was moving again. Vibrations thudded through the cloth around him. The overhead lanterns flickered crazily, blocked by Twilight's shoulders one minute and blazing down his backside the next. Four shielded his eyes under his hands and stared at his knees. This whole shrinking thing had been a bad--terrible--idea. He could only hope that Time and Twilight had a lower alcohol tolerance than they appeared to.

The movements stop, and Four sighed as the acid in his throat slipped back down. A booming echoed from overhead, and Four couldn't help but wonder if this is what the Minish had to deal with whenever he came to visit.

"Is Mr.Garto here?"

Four's ears perked up; that was Twilight's voice, and that was the name of the man who had first begun reporting the disappearances. Interest piqued, he righted himself until he as peering just over the small slip of space between the pocket and Twilight's tunic. If he turned just enough, he could catch a glimpse of Time's legs and the mahogany bartop behind them.

"He's not here right now," a voice whispered. The muscles crisscrossing Four's chest cinched. That wasn't the sound of a bored bartender, or a dolled up waitress, that was...

"A child?" Time asked, voice thick with its typical lack of tack. "Where are your parents? A tavern is no place for a boy your age."

Silence--at least, between the three parties. The debauched din around them showed no interest in smothering itself for the sake of dramatic tension.

"My parents work here," the voice replied. It was soft, but there was a bristle underneath it; a boy, Four would bet, and a frightened one at that. "My dad's Mr.Garto. Amerigo Garto. He's out right now. If you have questions, then you can, uh, demect them to me."

"Cute," Twilight murmured, voice lowered so that he was its only listener. Four would have rolled his eyes if he didn't happen to also find the childish mispronunciation endearing.

"Very well then," Time cut in. Whatever spell the boy's subtle stutter had cast on Twilight was lost on him, judging from the clipped words and serious tone. "Please tell your father that we would like to speak to him about the abductions. If he has any information, he's welcome to contact us. Here's the postal address of the inn my teammates and I are staying in."

A shuffle of cloth, and the faint sound of a hand bumping a counter. Four pulled his arms over the pocket and strained his neck to the side. The cloth around him dipped under his weight, threatening to give, and Four flinched so hard that he slipped back inside.

"You're looking for them?" the voice came again. "The lost kids?"

Time chuckled. The paternal sound felt oddly out of place in the drunken supernova around them. "Of course we are. We have an idea of where they might be, so we wanted to get in contact with your father to see if he had any more information."

Twilight leaned forward, letting both his pocket and his pocket-sized stowaway swing along with him. "We'll find them for sure. Don't worry."

"You will? Do you think you can find them? My sister and my puppy, I mean."

"Your sister?" Time asked.

"Your puppy?" Twilight added.

The boy's voice seemed smaller, now, lighter, and it took little imagination to envision the pale faced, blue-eyed seven ear old that was undoubtedly cowering under the others' combined stares. "Yes. They were the first to go missing, sir. Sirs. I hope you can find them. Let...let me know if I can help."

Across the bar, someone threw a bottle of wine against the wall. Glass powdered around the purple stain in the wood. Twilight flinched. A gaggle of teenage laughed in their testosterone-saturated way, unabashedly amused at the adults making spectacles of themselves, and Four stifled the urge to slap all of them.

"We will," Time said. His voice was a breath's distance from inaudible. "Take care, little one. We'll speak to you soon."

A mumble of agreement, muffled, and Four clutched the fabric of Twilight's pocket as the world spun on his heel. Left, right, left; he was swaying with each pull and pinch of movement, and he caught only a heartbeat's glimpse at the boy before Twilight and Time exited the tavern.

He looked exactly as Four had imagined him to.

"That's so sad," Twilight murmured, letting the tavern door close softly behind him. "I hope we find them."

"We will. Hopefully Garto gets in contact with us soon. For now, we'll just need to brief the others and see if there are any other locals who might have more information."

"Yeah, yeah. That sound about right."

This time, the silence was real. Only the sounds of feet squelching against mud and dirt interrupted their thoughts.

Twilight stopped. Four gripped the back of his head and hissed as it bonked against the raised metal of Twilight's scabbard.

"Hold on," the rancher began, "I forgot something back there."

"Forgot? What?"

"...something. I'll be back. Don't wait for me."

"Sure. Try to not stay out to long, though."

Twilight assured he wouldn't, then turned heel. Feet against the floor, night air, cold, and then a flush of heat. The air is stuffy again, and the quiet is gone, and Four is peering precariously between gaps in the pocket stitching. He thumps against the back of Twilight's leg as the rancher makes another sharp turn. It's a wonder that the rancher hasn't grown suspicious of the wiggling in his pocket yet.

But perhaps he was too occupied to grow suspicious, because Twilight slowed to a stop and leaned forward on what Four assumes to be the bartop.

"Is the kid still here?"

A grainy voice responded with a huff and grunt. "No, he went outside. Just through the hallway. Something about wanting to play hopstoch."

"Ah, okay. Thank you."

Another snort. "If you find him, tell him to come back inside. It's too dark to be out alone."

Twilight made a sound that could have been construed to be somewhat affirmative, then hurried out the door. The evening breeze, greased with the steam and sweat spilling from the tavern's backdoor, greeted them again. A clink of metal and the cloth ruffling; Four furrowed his eyebrows. What was Twilight up to?

It was the last cohesive thought he would have for a good minute.

The cotton confines around him popped out of existence. Air rushed against his head and through his air as he fell, weightless, and he had barely processed the fact that Twilight had vanished before he thumped against a tree stump. Dazed but unharmed, he sat up, eyes widening.

In the place where Twilight had stood mere moments ago was a massive grey wolf.

A wolf...

Wolfie?

"Who's there?" someone whispered. A figure on the other side of the backyard inched forward, and Four's throat tightened when he recognized it as the boy from earlier. His eyes were red. Little hopstotch stones dangled between his fingers, shining and unused.

The wolf--Wolfie--barked. The boy flinched, squeezing his elbows to his sides. Wolfie barked again, insistent, and wagged his tail furiously. Blue eyes watched silently as Wolfie rolled on his side, then chased his tail, then made an impressive show of chasing a terrified chipmunk through the yard. Gradually, the boy's eyebrows slipped downwards. Wolfie let out another bark. A whisper of a smile pinched at the boy's mouth.

"Where did you come from, big guy?"

Wolfie barked again, advancing further and, when the boy didn't recoil, butted his head against scabbed knees. The boy laughed again. Wolfie's tail wagged harder.

"You're so big! Who's your owner? They must take really good care of you. And you look really strong, too. Look at these muscles!"

The boy carefully closed a hand around Wolfie's paw, then lifted it upwards. Strength roiled beneath an oily coat, and the boy let out a small gasp of awe.

"Wow! You look even tougher than my sister! Hey, wanna play hopscotch with me? I think you would be good at it."

If Wolfie licking the boy's face wasn't confirmation enough, him hopping towards the dilapidated hopscotch court was. The boy laughed with delight and rubbed Wolfie's snout, giggling harder as the wolf licked a wet strip across his cheek.

"Huh," Four murmured, picking stray wood chips out of his hair and grinning to himself. "Looks like we both have a little secret."

~~ Fine ~~ I hope you enjoyed! Thank you so much for reading! [Previous Request] - [Next Request!]

#linkeduniverse #linkeduniverse twilight #linkeduniverse wolfie #minish four #linkeduniverse fanfic #so sorry for the plethora of typos here im just #this fic turned out to be a lot more of a challenge than i thought it would be #haha!#hope you enjoy!#seeking's prompt requests #ope forgot a tag #linkeduniverse four

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whirlybirbs · 3 years

Note

ok i have been reading oya'karir and all i can think about is how condor must be ? famous? like within the rebel ranks? do people know who she is? has she ever met leia? this is so cooL?

✶ ——— WAR HEROES AND DRUNKS ; d.d.

summary: you join din on a bounty. turns out it’s an old friend. din learns more about your reputation during the war. an oya’karir drabble.

pairing: din djarin x sniper!reader, established here

tags: drabble of oya’karir, mutual pining, fluff, din being a good guy

a/n: gif courtesy of @coulter from this lovely gif set! it’s funny anon asked about this because i’d already been working on condor’s backstory a bit more. her and cassian...... (eye emoji) anyways please enjoy this good ol’ fluff between din and his lil’ sniper.

“Where are we headed?”

Your strides match Din’s. His voice is measured.

“Arbra.”

You’ve been to Arbra. Once. On leave.

Once the base at Golrath fell, Arbra became the new home of the Rebel Alliance. Intelligence tended to operate out of this planet during the war, hidden away in the Bon'nyuw-Luq sector. Haven base earned the apt nickname Hole in the Ground from the poor souls stationed there — and though the caverns in which the base had operated out of are now defunct, there’s still a steady presence of war-time veterans who’ve come to call this place home.

The locals, Hoojibs, joined the New Republic after the war — land treaties left them their native subterranean land in trade for a bustling economy top-side within the restriction. The New Republic ensured that city zoning would only occur within a 10,000 square mile radius of the defunct base.

Thus, Haven City was born.

“Arbra,” you repeat.

You can’t help but stiffen — and when the Mandalorian beside you ambles up to the cockpit, you pray that you don’t know the poor bastard whose chain code Din had gotten from Karga. You swing yourself around and up the ladder.

But, things are never that easy, are they?

Your boots meet the cockpit floor as Din settles into the pilot’s chair — and sure enough, once he connects the bounty puck to the navicomputer, a familiar face blossoms to life in grainy, blue holo-light.

“...Son of a bitch.”

Prat Glaxson’s visage stares back at you.

Din, owlishly, turns his head round to eye your reaction.

Immediately, his voice crackles alive.

“You know him.”

Not a question. Din knows you well enough to peg your expression as anxious.

Of course you know him — and it was only a matter of time before the Guild knew him, too. The lieutenant had always had a rough go of it with the gambling. The drinking had started, too, around the end of the war. But, Hoth had struck that feeling in every soldier who’d been there. Glaxson was, on all accounts, a good man. He’d made some bad choices.

Bet against the wrong men.

“He was a Lieutenant,” you say carefully, “Served opposite my regiment.”

Your heart clenches for a moment. You find your fingers twiddling absent-mindedly at the thought of your regiment. Of your Captain.

There’s not a day that goes by that you don’t miss Cassian Andor.

You suppose Glaxson most likely felt the same. He’d nearly lost his entire platoon back on Hoth. Can’t blame him, really, for the self-destructive patterns. You’d been the same way back on Yavin, before meeting Din Djarin. Loneliness and isolation were your drink of choice is all.

Din is quiet for a moment. Then, his gloved hand reaches for the engine start and he flips it off. The whole of the Razor Crest goes eerily quiet. He stays still, listening. Then, Din speaks.

“We don’t have to go after him.”

“No.”

Your bark is sharp. Your hand settles on Din’s wrist.

“If we don’t,” you sigh, leaning back in your seat, “Someone else will. And maybe he won’t come so easy.”

Din’s helmet lingers on you; he’s silent. It’s weighted. Measured carefully as dark eyes scale your face behind his visor. There’s sadness there, tightening your brow. There’s always a sadness in your eyes, though a little less recently. But, Din knows you well enough to see that the idea of seeing old faces is enough to make you feel... off.

But, he nods. He starts up the Razor Crest, and he punches in the coordinates for Arbra.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

Maker, Din never knew you as one to hide behind him.

You were strong and steadfast with intelligence as sharp as the crack of a whip. When he’d first met you, you’d nearly killed him. You held that worn out and modded up DH-447 to the temple of his helmet as it hissed and popped with earnest; and then you’d done it two more times.

Then, there was your reputation.

They’d come to call you Condor for a reason and it was clear that the callsign carried more weight than he was previously aware. He knew that you’d been a prolific sniper during the height of the Galactic Civil War, that your kill count was well into the hundreds. You were a haunt to the Empire, but a hero to the Rebellion.

Now, on Arbra, Din is beginning to understand.

The marketplace is busy despite the hour — as the two of you wind through the stalls, Din can catch you ducking your head every now and again. Eye the ground. Fingers wound tight around the strap of your DH-447. Your headscarf hides all but your eyes.

Din is used to the attention that wearing his armor brings.

However, he’s rarely used to being looked over — and it’s clear that the people of this place have more interest vested in you than him, a rarity alone.

The puck on his hip pings.

You grit your jaw and pretend to be interested in the various salted nerf jerky on display before you as you speak.

“He’s bound to be in the cantina,” you mutter, nudging your head towards the large building down the street, set off to the side with a steady stream of patrons coming and going at the evening hour. The sun has started to set, and the lights in the homes along the city’s walk have begun to glow.

He offers a nod. He leads the way.

It’s half-way to the cantina when he hears it. It’s your callsign — whispered on the tongues of a human woman and Twi’lek male. He can see their heads turn, focused on you, and before he can step in...

“Is it you?”

Your head snaps to the voice. Your eyes are wide.

It’s like you’ve seen a ghost; and it’s like the couple has seen a hero. Immediately, Din is tense — it’s a habit, now. He tends to feed off your energy at times like this. You’re a devilish pair and you work well together. Din accounts his ability to read the tensing of your shoulders as a part of the moving equation.

“Condor,” says the man, “You’re the Condor, aren’t you?”

Suddenly, there are more eyes. Passer-bys. The callsign is a rising whisper. Like the tide, you can feel the attention swelling.

You shift in your boots. You grip your blaster’s strap tight. Your other hand rises, fingertips swaying as you wave your hand and shake your head.

“I’m sorry, I don’t —”

“It is!” calls a man in a faded bomber jacket who ambles forward — his own medallions and ribbons stuck to his chest in pride, “I’d know that DH-447 anywhere, I reckon! I saw you back during the Battle of Hoth — didn’t miss a single shot! An angel!”

Suddenly, there’s a clamor and a cluster and you’re being shoved into the welcoming hand-shakes of veterans and on-lookers and fans, Din realizes. You have fans — people who are chomping at the bit to simply catch a glimpse of you; the faces around you are suddenly so warm, so welcoming and...

... Maker, there’s a man trying to coax you into taking a picture.

That’s when the armored Mandalorian steps in.

You’re uncomfortable.

“We’re here for Lieutenant Glaxson,” barks Din, looming so suddenly over the crowd that had gathered; you settle in his presence, exhaling visibly when the attention flicks from you to the puck glowing in the Mando’s hand, “We’re here so he’ll come easy. We don’t want trouble.”

“She’s a bounty hunter now?” comes a quiet voice.

Your jaw tenses.

Such is the truth — what was left of the Empire would always be on your tail; always willing to pour in what was left of Imperial gubernatorial earnings into a bounty. Revenge was a fickle thing. And still, many a man sought it.

Being by Din’s side gave you an edge. Karga knew — and he’d been paid off by the Covert to keep you off the menu. He’d taken the payment from Din and not asked a single question.

“Is he in the cantina?” you ask tepidly, eyes wandering the faces of the gathered souls.

Some of them are familiar. Faces you’ve seen in passing. Some you’ve no doubt stood shoulder to shoulder with on this very street all those years ago on leave.

Your voice always leaves Din feeling a bit light-headed. There was something to it — your mother-tongue, Mando’a, paints every word all sorts of beautiful. He envies it. He wishes those words rolled just as easily off his tongue.

“Always is, I’m afraid,” says the man in the jacket. His regalia tinkers as he leans on his good leg. His voice sounds sad, “He’s a good man...”

Din nods, beginning to move towards the building.

But, you linger.

You extend your hand, touching his shoulder with a gloved hand. Your bare fingertips grip the familiar shoulder of his uniform’s coat.

“I know.”

You catch up to Din; the tinkering of his armor calms the sudden burst of anxiety that feels like it might eat through your lungs. They burn. You chew your lip.

“Vor’e,” you mutter, nudging his elbow with yours. Thanks.

Din’s head turns as he walks; you can imagine his brows lifting beneath the helm, his lips tilting as he speaks. His tone is enough of an indicator that he’s amused. A handsome look, no doubt, considering that it has you a bit enamored already.

“For what?”

“I thought they’d eat me alive.”

“You never told me you had adoring fans,” the Mandalorian says slowly, words clipped with an edge of good-humor, “I was under the impression it was the opposite.”

You scoff. “Shut up, di’kut.”

“Come on,” he says, the threat of laugh biting at his tone, “You’ve got autographs to sign.”

That earns him an elbow to the ribs. He expels air at the playful jab, chuckle coming out more like a hiss of static than anything. You’re quick to move ahead, leading the way into the cantina.

As soon as you’re through the doors, your headscarf is pulled down. Again, Din ignores the affection that the sight of you brings — all wild hair and striking eyes.

It doesn’t take you long to find Prat Glaxson.

He looks older than he is, only a decade or so Din’s senior. It’s clear the war has aged the man, and alcohol has done a fair share of damage as well.

Poor bastard can barely see straight.

He’s in the back of the Cantina — slumped over a table with a datapad in front of him. He’d fallen asleep watching the races on Canto Bight. You amble over with a sudden motherly charm; your sigh makes Din perk up.

“C’mon, Glax,” you mutter, kicking his boot, “Wake up.”

He waves his hand. He drunkenly stumbles through a sentence.

“Lea’ me ‘lone.”

“Glax,” comes your voice, a bit louder now as you lean over the table. Your palm is planted beside the empty pint by his head, the other hand patting the drunkard down for a blaster. You come up dry, “It’s me.”

“... Who?”

You say your name, then, and it’s like Glaxson has seen the light.

“... God’s above,” he musters as he raises his head and Din can see that the grown man’s eyes have gone all bleary. Glaxon’s voice wavers like he might weep when he looks up at you, “It’s you.”

He reaches for your hand. You meet him halfway. You squeeze.

“It’s me.”

“Su cuy'gar,” comes the rough and mispronounced sentence from Glaxson’s mouth, “You... You taught me that.”

“Su cuy’gar,” you breathe back, nodding; your words are like velvet. It’s clear that Glaxson is enamored with your sudden appearance, and Din watches with a sharpening sense of cautiousness.

“You’ve grown more beautiful, my little bird,” the drunk nearly wails, “You ‘ave. I am happy t’ see you. Cassian would be glad t’ know yer alive.”

Cassian...? Din has never heard that name before.

It’s clear the utterance of it has you feigning indifference.

“Glax,” you say slowly, “I’m here because you owe some bad people money. There’s a warrant out for you — me and my friend here are going to get you some help.”

Glax leans. His eyes fall upon Din.

“Y’ found one a’ yer kin, then, my little bird?” he says, nodding, “M’ glad.”

There’s a pause. Then, Glaxson reaches for the last of his remaining drink, downs it, and ambles to his feet.

“Suppose this ‘as been a long time comin’,” he says, “But m’ glad it’s you, kid.”

You exhale long and hard. Glaxson rises and you nod. There’s turmoil in your posture; and you carry it with you back through Haven City as Glaxson sways beside you. No need for stasis cuffs. Din simply watches — he can see the exhaustion of war in both of your faces as you pass idle chat. You ask about his kids, he asks about where you’ve been the last four years.

“Lots of people want me dead, Glax. That hasn’t changed.”

The Lieutenant laughs at that.

“Always were trouble, little bird.”

Din’s heart clenches when you smile, scoffing at the remark.

This isn’t right. None of this is — and suddenly, Din can feel his moral compass pulling wildly in his chest. He ignores the idea that it’s for you, just like everything is nowadays.

It’s when the three of you arrive at the Razor Crest that Din finally speaks up.

“Wait.”

Your expression is laden with confusion, step lingering as you go to hike it up the ramp into the Razor Crest. Instead, you waver, hooked on Din’s call — and you can feel Glaxson’s eyes flick between the both of you.

“What is it?”

Suddenly, Mando is squaring up with Glaxson.

“Your bounty,” he says slowly, “Is 100,000 credits.”

Glaxson winces. He drops his head. He nods.

However, Din keeps speaking. “Lucky for you, Condor and I here happen to come into some credits recently —”

Your brows furrow immediately, confusion about to spit straight off your tongue — but Din is raising a finger in your face; and you spare him a flustered look.

“We’re clearing the debt,” the Mandalorian rumbles, “No more gambling. Or the next headhunter that comes for you may not be so kind. Got it?”

“Din —”

“Say your goodbyes, Condor.”

And up he goes, into the cockpit.

Your mouth is hung open, eyes wild. Beside you, Glaxson seems just as stupefied. But, so if the way with Din Djarin. You swear the man was going to be the death of you — if not from dragging you along on lethal bounties then from sheer surprise.

“... Nice chap.”

“Peachy.”

And the two of you laugh.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

The goodbye was aching and long; riddled with promises of visits and changed ways. With a long hug, you’d pulled from the Lieutenant and ascended up the ramp. Within minutes you were exiting Arbra’s atmosphere.

You lean against the back of Din’s piloting chair.

Your voice is light.

"That was nice of you, Din’ika.”

Din scoffs. His hands move to prime the hyperdrive, punch the coordinates in for Navarro, and set the autopiloting system. When he doesn’t reply, you take it upon yourself to push the chair and spin it ‘round your way.

Din complies, helmet tilting.

Your face is soft. Kind. Gentle. Beautiful. Your voice is tender.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Would have been wrong to take him in,” Din says, voice sounding far off to even his own ears as your fingers find the dip of his chest plate. Your hand rests there for a moment, gaze lingering on his helmet, “To those people, you’re a hero.”

“Glaxson is a drunk with a gambling problem,” you shush, “We knew that during the war, folks know that now — and I am not a hero.”

Din gives you a look. A micro-tilt of his visor. You roll your eyes. Your hand slips to your hip.

"Shut up.”

Another scoff. This time, Din stands. He towers over you, trapped between your arm and his pilot's chair. Gently, he lowers his head to plonk gently against your forehead. It’s slow and calculated. Not too hard. The tender gesture of affection makes you smile. Din keeps his helmet there for a moment.

If you squint, you swear you can almost make out the curve of a smile beneath the tinted visor shield.

“Any idea where we can get a hundred thousand credits?”

And you laugh.

#oya'karir #din djarin x reader #din djarin imagine #din djarin x you #mando x reader #mando x you #mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x you #mandalorian imagine #star wars imagine

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