#my angst calibration is broken

[qvrcll]

I ALWAYS GIGGLE WHENEVER I READ PREGGY READER X LEON AND YOUR WRITING IS JUST *CHEFS KISS* . AND I JUST HAVE ONE IN MINDFFDDD

So it goes by Leon(i suggest the re4r, cuz he such a pookie😍) and the reader being in a long term relationship, however due to some reasons they broke up. A month later, they were partnered for a mission, and while they were on a mission, they were like so awkward. Not until the reader was slowing down and can't run that much which made leon a bit worried. And the thing is the reader doesn't even know that she's pregnant (OMGGG, IMAGINE THAT THEY ALREADY RESCUED ASHLEY, AND ASHLEY WAS THE ONE WHO TOLD HER THAT SHE MIGHT BE PREGNANT.)

(i need to reconnect with nature im going feral with leon)

wish i was good, wish that i could

summary: following leon’s absence, you fall into a damning pattern. a cycle of something worth nothing. and as you’re paired with him on a mission, everything professional is boiled into that broken, hurting night.

warnings: nsfw mentioned, mentions of vomit / throwing up, pregnancy, major angst / comfort, re4r!leon in mind

warnings: i really don’t know if i hate this or like it, because i was sort of burnt out but this turned out a whole lot angstier than i expected. but i hope u enjoy my dear!! :-]

It’s December when Leon leaves you for good, shatters what imminent ‘thing’ you had calibrated within each other’s sheets, messy and marked with pleasure against the weekend, with your bodies having memorised each scar, each virgule and stir that made your belly itch with that wonted release.

And yet, he tears the warmth of that — those late night, unlabelled presses in the name of a swift, empty sort of business that flushed into a thick-skinned, scary love — in the middle of the night. His boots are lined with some dirt, his jacket sheening with a stain he can’t bother to name, but his fingers are numb and burry with an odd feeling, something that comes and drifts within the crack of his touch, when his hand grips your front door.

And he’s so close.

So close to finding reprieve of this suffocating feeling scratching the vermillion, milky flesh that nested deep against his bones when you called in the night, when you played with the mess of blonde hairs on his head, when your touches meant more than just baseless acquittal.

So close to abandoning this itching feeling that he’s not the right body for you to hold — that he’s rotten and crushed to the bone. Ugly and ill-fit for you to love, not explore with slender fingers. And when your fingers prod against the flesh of his heart, he flinches. Realises, curses and escapes like he’s known best.

And yet, he pauses, clenches his jaw as the rub of your feet squeak against the wood of your apartment floor.

“Leon…?” your voice calls, nimble and picked apart by sleep. Something heavy, he presumes, because he’s counted your breaths, donned them in corollaries in the dead of night and attempted to forget them, mark them as dead on his skin in the same night — but he curses, laughs dryly against his own skin as his heart spikes in the vibrance of your laugh, knowing he’s cursed himself.

“It’s nothing… go back to bed,” he says, says your name later. The chill of him is fresh and unfamiliar, contrasting the heavy night you’d shared with fluctuating breaths and the collision of skin, hot and messy and unapologetic. And yet, he’s collected himself up on staggering bones, marked like chalk and a brittle little thing, as he turns to face you with something grim in his voice, “I need some time alone.”

“What?” there’s ten steps separating the two of you, and you hark any attempt to near him. He feels like he stings. Burns, with that gush of coldness about him.

Still, you need to ask.

“What is it?”

And your breath is bordering on frantic, as you squint, try to find him in the darkness. Try to draw him against your fingers, feel him against your skin and against the cartilage in your chest, deep-seated like a muscle you cannot renounce. But he’s slipping, cleaving against the meat of your chest as something evil, something entirely him in nature.

And it scares you.

“Leon—“

“Just—go to sleep,” he repeats, his tone firm. Some part of him regrets ever coming. Ever answering the frequent ring of your calls in the dead of night. Regrets, in his own mind, the swelter of your fingers against every bare inch of him there is to name. And yet, his body warms at the thought. Tenses, shrivels to nothing at all as he turns to the door.

“Leon, whatever you’re doing, stop,” your voice cracks, somewhere in the middle, parting against the choke that fights up your throat, “Please—just come back to bed.”

The tremble of your voice.

The blink in your step.

The shake in your all.

He notes it all. Commits it to memory. Shames himself for the beginning of it. Prevails it till the end.

His eyes are back on you — two searing beads of cobalt fleshing against you like something sour. Something bloody and bruised. Something spelling ‘penance’ in all the wrong letters.

“Good-night,” he says. Your name, he calls out. And he’s out of the door before you can fight against him to stop.

It’s several weeks after that you muster the courage to ring his line again — some part of you melts against the wooden counter, grips the pliable telephone like a vice in your clammy hands, your heart in your throat as you wait for his voice to smudge against the crackling rings.

And yet, he doesn’t pick up.

You’re hard on yourself for some time later — hard on the fact that you’d assuaged such a war on yourself to not notice his fleeting habituation, his warmth against the click of your knuckles on darkening days slipping into a filthy line of disillusionment as you return to your home. Empty, crawling with the smell of his noisome departure.

And on the other side of something familiar, Leon suffers all the same. That crawling, desperate feeling you’d implemented in him has scratched a dam him, bled him raw and filthy on the tile of his bathroom floor as he gathers the mess of himself with shaky hands. He glances at himself in the mirror, tries to determine just where the man he knew himself to he had lammed.

His ears ring.

His fingers flinch with the bite of his basin.

His eyes sink with a brutal feeling.

He misses you.

Weeks pass and you’re starting to forget the feel of him — the smell of his hair leaves you, the stretch of his smile now strange and off-putting. You mark it down to repulsion, to seething hatred, but you determine the lie in it.

You miss Leon like you miss anything, with the sheer strength of your dying love.

And it’s strange, you think, as you find yourself hunched against the toilet, releasing this morning’s breakfast with little restraint. The choke of it in your throat disgusts you, as the thought of Leon’s touch lingering in this bathroom does too, in frequencies of its own.

And you haven’t gotten half the heart to press the issue.

It’s a month without any form of contact and you’ve lost the smell of him, the touch of him. The thought of him comes as a bore, you fool yourself. The severity of his vision deep like an ocean you’d nearly killed yourself with remembering — and yet, on strange nights, you think of him. Think of the spit of his bones and muscles, of his kindness. Of his habit to mull things over till they were rotten and ugly beyond any chance of reprieve.

It’s a month without any strength in his bones, with which Leon carves a hole into the bed with his weight — he feels aimless, carding through the days with ill health. The alcohol cuts just enough for him, and the food he eats is takeaway. Foreign places, none of those familiar cuisines you would order late into the night.

The thought of it makes him sick.

Makes him choke with guilt and the thought of ‘what if?’

He goes to sleep a ghost against the sheets.

It’s some months when you ditch the self-sorry act in which you brand yourself over the days with — Hunnigan’s line rings once, twice and she picks up with a familiarity in her voice.

Ain’t that easy, you think bitterly.

It’s regular business — she greets you, debriefs you, informs you of the nights callings and of the days prior. Your leave from the enforcement has cost you a flitting pile of work and yet, Hunnigan finds it in herself to press the issue of your health first. She doesn’t know what’s happened between you and Leon, but she knows you. And she knows you in a sense that made the hurt burn like fresh skin, like a wound too bloody to heal.

“And… how are you?” she asks. You answer, something mandated. Something unconsciously revised by your system and yet, she rejects the bait, “How are you, really?

And you cry into the line. Fuel the crackle with the guise of your tears as you dry-heave. The spill of him seeps through your bones, drags memories apart that have longed their stay, that have bided to burn you for good.

And she listens.

She soothes.

She curses him out in the name of everything good, and a dry chuckle leaves you as the poke of everything familiar marks the undercurrents of everything new.

Leon is informed of the mission like it’s something to commit to the bit by. The days training are gruelling and he’s in for a bitter joke when the world is placed on his shoulders — maybe it could’ve been something humorous, but when Hunnigan mentions the word ‘partner,’ he freezes over.

“Partner?” he whispers into the line, baffled. Mulling the idea within his thickset fingers.

“Yes, partner. They will accompany you on your mission to save ‘Baby Eagle’ when the time is right,” Hunnigan replies, leaves no room for reply, “This is final. I’m sorry, Leon.”

He supposes he should be upset, but he’s just perturbed. The idea of a partner comes foreign to him and yet, his brain forces the outline of you against the thought of it. It presses your flesh against his teeth and the smell of your skin when it came to him in bits in pieces.

He feels you like he has for the first time.

He remembers you like he still has you.

He bites his tongue, resumes his activities because the flesh of you is not to keep — it’s just for him to think of when the night darkens into a cold fog too delirious to not think of much at all.

The wait is gruelling.

You’re sweat-marked, ill and pale around the cheeks as you exit the bathroom again. You cannot possibly fathom the prospect of food poisoning on a third-week round, and yet, you feel yourself regurgitating much of it. There’s an inclusion of odd combinations you try; pickles and chocolate, orange juice and noodles. It makes you wonder, makes you think.

And yet it never presses for longer than a moment — nothing to catalyse into concern.

It’s 8’oclock, and the chill of the night is a reminder of your mortality — your arm is caught on the couch arm and your legs are perched against the opposite part of it. Your television blurs with unfamiliar faces, flitting names and tones, and you’re struck with something familiar, deep-set in your bones like fury.

And in a second, you’ve dragged the land-line in your lap, typing his number like the way you breathe.

Tomorrow could very well be your last.

Could be nothing.

It could all go to shit and he wouldn’t know.

He’s got to know.

Your finger dials. You press the cold device to your ear.

You panic. Bite before you breathe. Shut it off and head to bed.

He doesn’t have to know.

You’re being briefed by Hunnigan when you think you’ve been struck dumb by lightning — everything crumbles to less than a resolve when she informs you that you’d be partnered with a fellow agent on the mission.

“Hunnigan, please,” you plead, beg past your teeth as you press the ear piece in closer. Try to determine whether or not she would swing in your favour; maybe botch the appropriate documents and have you work this mission to find Ashley Graham on your own. Maybe then, you’d find some moment of reprieve. Some time to keep the pieces to yourself and not dish it out to strangers in the name of small talk.

But Hunnigan is stone solid in her resolve, as she tracks her glasses higher against her face.

“I can’t change this — sorry. And, good-luck” she says. And her voice is foreign as it’s lost in the whirr of the transporting vehicle that reminds you of where you stand.

You think you go insane with the sight of him.

It all rushes in like a surge in a barge — his smell is intoxicating, metallic in a tinge that’s so upsetting it makes the bone hurt, makes it throb in something you deny wholly. His face is stoic, carded with indifference and yet, it is the one familiar thing in the car, two visionary pools that drown out the prior restriction you had held — perhaps, replaced it for the incredible awkwardness as you try to press yourself into the car door. Maybe even try to plummet out of the window itself, safe yourself the awful taste of his absence so clearly in the molten air.

“Long time no see” you say, your lips carving into something deliciously awkward. Sombre. He glances at you, eyes pinning all feeling against the flagstones you thought you’d destroyed with your own flesh and yet they persist. Persist as the ground he seems to so senselessly drag himself across — like a wounded thing, a creature of pity.

“It’s nice to see you,” he says, because what else does he do? Blink? Breathe? Because that is all he’s been crushing into the empty silence. To try to fill it with something he’s done so effortlessly and yet with you here, it’s manual. Run on baseless intuition that he forgets to live if he doesn’t live in you.

And yet…

The drive there is splendidly awkward, the walk into the church even moreso. You’re briefed every now and then, of pertinent belts on the map where the two of you float like two ghosts against unearthed land. He tracks mud on the floor, you carry blood on your clothes.

You both play your parts well; play it like he wasn’t the one living person to know you like the Earth knew the ocean. Like the sky knew nightfall.

But of course, with Leon, everything is cluttered. Messed into upheaval. Broken into something unsettled, of the past — het up like something that needed destroying and still, the feeling of want lingered in both of you like something to be mended.

It’s a blur when you two take a break — you’ve tracked Ashley and your hips are sore with the exertion of her escapade. You balance yourself against the wall, count your breaths as you try not to disembowel this morning’s contents against it.

Leon notices— he always does — and he comes forward with caution beneath his finger-tips, as he rubs the ball of your shoulder like you’d pounce.

“Is… everything okay?” he asks.

And as you turn to face him, you cough into your hands, swivelling around as tears meet your eye. The feeling scratches against your throat, like those harking nights spent against the tiled bathroom floors. Like those nights felt without the burn of his touch, just the chill of it instead — just the feel of your own bones sick of holding your bones in the place of him.

And you throw up against wall.

He calls your name, in worry, that much you catch in your sickness. The swelter of his touch is against your back, as he rubs it in according rhythms — something so domestic it made the feeling crawl right back into the back of your throat, stabbing the flesh like something cruel made with the press of him.

But he doesn’t relent. He cares for you like he loves you. Like he’s meant to hold you — you both fool yourselves into thinking he doesn’t.

It’s not quick business after that, as Ashley sits you atop crates and offers you water. Leon watches you with familiar, afraid eyes, as his gaze catches like something sharp intrudes his lungs again — it’s only when Ashley presses the idea of something delirious that you two snap out of it.

“Are you pregnant?” she asks. Her voice, nimble, probing and yet, it brings the crash of the world on your shoulders.

You had never seen anyone after Leon.

Only ever let him memorise the grooves against your skin.

Only ever let him in where there had been none before.

And as you meet his eyes, he looks back like he fears you’d disappear if he didn’t.

When the mission is concluded, briefed only a million times, Leon catches you on your scarper back home. In your mind, you’ve executed the plan of a pregnancy test and a mindless solemnity in your sheets, like a broken record. Something hard to break out of — but he breaks the intent of it. He interrupts it and places in a new itinerary.

“Hey, can we talk?”

You stagger against your feet as you look at him with a wounded expression, as if the request itself had done more insult to injury than most things left intimated. Left rotten and swelling at your doorstep the night he left.

“I don’t know, can we?” you bite back. Raise your shoulders. Play the part of the heretic. Hear the voice mocking you.

Idiot. You need this. You need him.

“Please — I’ve been thinking of… you, of us. Of what Ashley said, back then,” his voice starts, breaks, reminds you, “and I regret it.”

“Regret what?”

Your question comes blunt — unintentional. But harboured with something necessary.

“Regret leaving.”

Your heart is in your throat. Your legs throb with an ache. Your body looms with the threat of a dry-heave, but you keep standing. Withstand the blow of his admission.

“Why? Why did you leave?”

Your reply leaves him aimless — bloody, battered and naked for you to see the flesh underneath. If you picked apart the useless, flimsy thing left for display, you’d assimilate his hurt. His fear in loving you, fully, with feeling and the press of destiny like he had dreamt of because if you lost you in the trail of it, he’d lose it all.

“I left… because—because I was scared. Scared of loving you. Scared of losing you.”

“Who said you’re losing me?”

“I don’t — I don’t know. It was stupid. I’m sorry. I’m—sorry.”

He stalks forward, his fears against his feet as he promises yet again. He tracks blood on his back. You track dirt against your feet. You play the part well, of the injured. Of the battered and beaten and of the tender.

You play the part well.

“I’m sorry.”

Of you.

“It’s okay, Leon.”

Of the body you’ve missed to be yours.

“It’s okay.”

And as he crowds your arms, fills it with feeling and the thought of him again, something bleeding in your arms like peace again, here, promising you company across the horizon, a feeling of surety comes.

It comes.

© 2023 qvrcll ! do not repost any of my works on any platform.

[shurisneakers]

bridges break (vii)

summary: steve shuts himself away. you pull him along on a trip of a lifetime in an attempt to reconnect. great plan! except there’s one big secret he’s keeping from you that could change the course of your entire relationship, and there’s no greasy stack of diner pancakes in the country big enough to hide behind.

(road trip!au, best friends to lovers)

Warnings: mentions of death, injuries, war, angst, mental health issues and disorientation, ptsd, swearing, panic attacks, lemme know if i missed anything and I’ll tag it.

A/N: hate mail to j*ss whedon for not making the avengers friends when he literally. could have. like it was right there. and now unfortunately i have to stick to that part of canon like sir you're ruining my found family ihysm. anyway this part mentions tony. (how are we all doing btw how is everyone's life going?)

Previous Part || Series Masterlist

"Fact number 3. Captain America's favourite colours are red, blue and white."

Steve's face contorts. "Absolutely not."

"I can see why they think that," you say through a mouthful of popcorn. "Take a wild guess, why don't you."

"I prefer the stealth suit," he grumbles. "Not that they cared to ask."

"Because you'd tell 'em if they did? King of open communication?" you retort before going back to your phone.

Steve stays quiet. He knows it's a joke but there's a bite to it that he isn't sure you've used before.

"Fact number 4. The shield is calibrated to return to his arm constantly," you continue, however.

"Now that's just wrong," he states. "Sometimes it comes back to my face."

You hold back a laugh. "You've hit yourself in the face with your shield?"

"I wasn't born with the ability to throw that thing around, you know." He can't help a smile. "The serum was the only thing that stopped us from finishing half the army's medical supplies. I had a new broken bone at the end of each day because I caught it wrong."

"What?"

"Broke both my femurs once. Had to lay there on the ground for a couple hours till it healed so I could walk back to the main camp."

You wince. "Steve."

"They always leave that out of the movies," he says dryly. "Wonder why."

"You're insane." You shake your head. "I feel bad for Bucky."

Steve finds himself grinning. "He was convinced I liked doing it."

"Your smile doesn't tell me otherwise," you say, entirely unimpressed yourself.

There was still a tiny scar on his shin. He sometimes saw it when his legs were propped up in front of him. Each time, ghosts of the searing pain shoot up his thigh and fade away a second later.

"Fact number 5," you digress when he doesn't counter your earlier statement, "His favourite food is apple pie."

Steve shrugs.

"I know that's wrong. You like blueberry better."

The corner of his mouth quirks into a tiny smile. "I do."

"Fact number 6," you call from where you lay on the bed. "His favourite movie is Gone With the Wind."

Steve stares at you from the chair, one leg crossed over the other.

"Well?" you urge. "Is it?"

"How many of these are there?" he asks wearily.

"Like, twenty four." You turn back to the phone when he doesn't answer. "Fact number-"

"Please," he says. "No more."

"Fair enough."

He watches you close the tab, dropping the phone onto your chest.

"It isn't Gone With The Wind."

"Yeah, I know."

You continue to stare at the ceiling. It's an easy afternoon, for the both of you to rest. Check out was later and then you were supposed to be on the road again.

"You know, I don't think I've ever asked you that," you say, flipping onto your stomach to eye him. "What is your favourite colour?"

Steve thinks for a second but invariably settles on the first colour that pops into his head.

"Yellow."

"Fun." You pull your phone out from under you and unlock it again. "I'm gonna comment that, hold on."

After a beat, Steve asks, "What'd you say?"

"Told them I have it on good record that Steve Rogers' favourite colour is yellow--" your focus stays on whatever you were typing out-- "and that their list sucks."

"Maybe leave out the last part," he suggests.

"And posted." You give him a thumbs up. "I'll give it five minutes before someone starts an argument with me in the replies."

He's gotten into his fair share of online arguments. It'd dwindled over the years, but there were enough for his PR agent to pale whenever she saw him near a phone.

"Did you actually post that?"

"Huh?" you ask, but it comes out distant as you click dedicatedly at something.

"Are you already fighting with someone?"

"Give me a second." You hold up a finger.

Steve settles on watching you focus on the task at hand.

In a flash, your nose scrunches up all weird. He thinks it's adorable, especially when he catches your eye and you immediately try to get rid of the disgust, disdain, whatever it was.

"What?" He laughs.

"Nothing."

"C'mon," he prods. "I'll tell you my favourite movie."

"That's a trick question, Rogers." You wave the same raised finger at him. "You don't have a favourite movie."

Steve huffs a little at the failed attempt, but his heart swells. Just a little. A normal amount. He represses the everloving shit out of it.

"It's nothing," you repeat, locking your phone again and dropping it beside you. "I just took a Buzzfeed quiz to find out my superhero boyfriend."

Steve's eyebrow quirks up. "And?"

"It's the raccoon." You sigh. "The space raccoon."

"Rocket?" Steve asks. "Yeah, I could see that working out."

"Do you now?"

"I've got a way of contacting him around here somewhere. You think you can wait that long?"

You reach over to throw a pillow at him and Steve laughs when it misses by a long shot.

_____

The clear, unobstructed skies are dealt with by looming trees. Dark, tall and swaying.

Steve loses sight of the road minutes into the woods, watching in awe and trepidation. His ears stay tuned-- he can hear every footstep in a two-mile radius if he really tried, and for a second he really does consider it.

The car moves along slowly, windows rolled down welcoming the freshness. Steve inhales and exhales just as deep, letting clean, crisp air flood his system.

"That's the owner," you sing, pulling the car to a halt by the side of the house.

It's a wooden A-frame, with windows giving him a peek into the inside. A ramp goes up the side and to the back, serving as an entrance and a patio, a pit out front for campfires.

Steve steps out first, doing a quick scan of the environment before you join him. Nothing was wrong. Yet.

You greet the blonde woman dressed in a bright red tracksuit, hair up in a pony and a bandana pushing back flyaways.

One hand on her hip and the other out to meet yours in a shake, she jumps back and forth between Steve and you as you introduce yourselves.

"It's nice to meet y'all," she chirps, eyeing the both of you up and down. "We get a lot of couples out here this time of year. Y'all got lucky with the booking."

"Oh, we're not..." you begin before trailing. "Thanks for fitting us in."

She catches it, however, raising an eyebrow at Steve. He gives her a polite smile.

"Here's the number to the keypad. Just remember to keep the noise down if you're playing music, no smoking, no pets. If you're using the fire pit, pour water over it when you're done."

"Got it," you confirm. "Won't be an issue."

"I'll be a few miles away at our campsite." She looks at him. "Don't hesitate to call or visit if you need anything. My phone's on at all times."

"Thanks." He gives her a smile.

"At all times," she repeats slowly as she backs away. It has you stifling a laugh.

"We'll keep that in mind," he replies. "Have a nice day."

"You too!" she calls out. "Make yourselves comfortable. Have a nice stay."

You wave at her as she gets into her own car, engine whirring to life as she pulls away, but not before sending him another look out her window.

"Wow," you say in awe when her car disappears beyond the trees.

"I know, it's beautiful." Steve isn't even looking the same direction as you are, seemingly having turned towards the house in the middle of the encounter.

You look at him strangely, almost as if you're gauging his reaction. "Uh huh. That's what I'm talking about. The house."

He tilts his head at you and you dismiss it with a shake of yours.

"Come on," you adjust the bag over your shoulder. "I call dibs on the upstairs bedroom."

_______

The sun sets faster in this part of the world, or he just doesn't notice the time slipping by.

Afternoon turns to evening turns to night in a flash by the time he comes back from exploring the nearest surroundings. There's a lake nearby, still and gentle with a paddle boat nearby that he might convince you to go on the next day.

But above all else, there is just overwhelming quiet. He can hear twigs cracking a mile away, the beating of your heart next to him as you walk beside him and every bird that lands on a branch.

You eat dinner out in the open that night, diner food balance don your laps as you sat on the stairs. Steve has a jacket thrown on. He realises he doesn't really need it, but he keeps it on nonetheless.

"Staying in places like this for at least a week would factory reset your brain," you say. "It's dangerous."

"What d'you mean?" he asks.

"Why do you think people who go on vacation sometimes just stay there?" You bite down on another spoonful of rice. "It's the peace. Once you get addicted, there's no going back."

"Have you?"

"Not yet." You shake your head lightly. "I don't ever stay long enough. I've got work to finish that I won't get to otherwise."

Steve finds himself relating a little too much to that. "Yeah."

"My parents liked it," you add wistfully, almost. "The quiet. Our house was silent a lot."

Steve has nothing to say in reply. He supposes that's why he hears you humming to yourself so much-- filling in spaces left behind by other people.

"But maybe someday." You shrug, facing him with a little smile. "It's something to look forward to."

"Today we're in Morocco. Next week we'll be in Lebanon," she says. "After that who knows?"

"Depends on where we're needed next." He takes aim and throws his dart.

"I guess.” She watches it hit the board. “And eventually, we won’t be needed anywhere." Nat looks at him. "That's what we're doing this for, aren't we?"

"That's the goal." He offers her a dart out of his own pile. She turns it down. "Don't know if that's ever gonna happen. Retirement, stability; it seems a long way off."

"The quiet?" Steve asks.

"The quiet," you affirm.

The sky is cloudy, but the moon is bright enough to illuminate the area around you without the support of the cabin lights. You don't say anything much, only tidbits of conversations here and there.

The leaves rustle whenever a draft blows, and once the wind chime that hangs above you both settles down, you are left in the same silence as before.

He can't tell if he likes it or not.

_______

Steve raises his arms above his head and stretches until he hears the usual pop in his shoulder.

The sweater he's wearing rides up his waist, exposing a tiny sliver of skin before his arms drop to the side again. It was cooler outside than he'd thought it would be, even after you'd raised the temperature in the house in anticipation of it getting even worse at night.

"G'morning," you say, sipping from a mug, settled back in a lounge chair on the patio.

"Is it?" he squints at the sun.

"Well no. It's like, one o'clock, but I didn't wanna wake you," you confess. "Thought you'd need the rest."

Something-- and he' can't quite put his finger on it-- had kept him on edge the entire night. His sleep was light, barely there, just in case something decided to show up from the trees.

"Breakfast?" you propose. "Brunch, actually."

"I'll get it," he replies. "It's in the bag?"

"Yeah, there's some muesli for you. Bread's on the counter," you reply, going back to the news you were reading.

Steve steps into the house, bare feet against the cool floors. He locates the duffel bag on the dining table, already left open.

He finds the box of cereal fairly quickly, and as he pulls it out it reveals the supply of crackers, chocolate and marshmallows underneath.

It brings a smile to his face as he reads the label on each one, sifting through a few ready made meals before his sight lands on a box somewhere near the bottom.

Pancake mix, and a tiny, sealed bottle of syrup.

He sends a glance over to where you're sitting unaware, back turned to him.

It takes him about twenty minutes to find a pan, mix up the batter and make enough pancakes to keep the both of you full the whole day.

_____

Tonight, you declared, was the fateful night.

"You can see the stars clearly from the outskirts," you tell him. "And apparently it's not supposed to be cloudy tonight, so yay."

It's a task, but you gather up all the firewood you could find, a big grin on your face as you drop it near the pit. Steve follows behind, carrying even more than you were, amusement on his face.

"C'mon," you instruct, "time to put those arson skills to use, Rogers."

So he does. Puts all his century-gathered knowledge together and creates the best fire he can, steady and would last a pretty long time. By the time he's done, even he's impressed.

"You got the bucket?" he queries. "The owner said it'd be under the kitchen sink."

"Have it right here, filled and ready to go," you confirm, patting at it. "Don't worry, I heard her through all the swooning."

He pokes at the fire to shift around some sticks. "What swooning?"

You narrow your eyes at him. "Don't tell me you couldn't see it."

Steve holds onto the log for longer than usual before declaring, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, my God." You bite down on your lip to prevent a laugh. "I know you're shitting me, Rogers, there is no way you didn't notice her flirting with you."

"Is that what this is about?" Steve's eyebrow creases. "I didn't notice."

"Sure you didn't."

"Swear to God, I got no clue what you're talking about."

"She told you to visit her campsite," you remind him lightly, "at any time, whenever you want."

Steve's face twists when realisation sets in. "I didn't read into it."

"She's got a little crush on you," you tease. "Who can blame her, really?"

"Stop it," he mumbles, attributing the heat creeping up his neck to the fire. "She doesn't."

"Do you usually not notice when people hit on you or--?" you point out, "Because it's been happening on this trip, too. I have eyes, I can count."

"First of all, I didn't get hit on for about, sixty per cent of my life," he retorts. "And when I did, it was hard to miss."

You quirk an eyebrow, throwing a random twig into the flame. "What, no playing coy?"

"The exact opposite." Steve's smile, the one he reserves for the days gone by, is slight to himself. "Sometimes the girls used to just grab me and kiss me. It caused a lotta trouble.”

The boys used to keep track of every time Steve stumbled into his quarters with lipstick smudged across his cheek and genuine excuses for being late being met with 'uh huh, yeah right!'. They thought it was the funniest shit in the world while he painstakingly wiped away at his mouth.

You, however, react differently. A flinch. It's small enough that he probably wouldn't have even caught it if he wasn't paying so much attention.

He's quick to ask, "What's wrong?"

“I dunno. Just think that they shoulda asked first.”

He pauses to think about it for a second. Wonders if that's why he never laughed as much as the boys did.

He can’t think of a response so he lets it go.

"She doesn't have a crush on me." He feels the need to defend.

"Absolutely." You nod. "I completely agree with you."

You laugh when he mumbles something under his breath and it drags a reluctant smile from him.

As dusk moves into night, the clear sky is unfortunately forced covered by clouds rolling in. Not a star to be seen.

"Maybe it'll clear up in a while," he offers.

You sigh. "I don't think so. Damn weather forecast lied to me."

Steve's mouth presses into a thin line. "I'm sure we'll see it along the trip somewhere."

"I suppose," you reply, head turned up to the sky. "I thought we could see it together. I loved stargazing as a kid.” 

“I remember you telling me.” Steve's face can’t help itself, his lip tugging upwards. 

“Yeah, I’d stay up pretty late to wait for my parents so I found my way towards it. I picked up on a few constellations to show them but they were always too tired." Your head inclines, trying to see past the clouds. “Or they weren’t really interested. But eventually, that’s what got me into science, y’know?”

Steve’s mouth tugs to the side unhappily, eyebrows knitting together. He doesn't know how you were so casual about them, each time, after everything. 

You face him again. “Did you ever do it? Stargazing?"

"Not like you, I think," he says. "I can name a few constellations, but that's it."

"You got a favourite?"

"Scorpius," Steve replies. "This kid in my apartment used to point it out to me from the roof sometimes. He liked insects in general, used to chase his sisters around with them.”

A wide smile grows on your face. "That's adorable."

But it’s been years since Walt was long gone; so was his mother and his sisters and almost everyone else in that brick-walled apartment that was falling apart at the seams. 

He clears his throat before he can think too hard about it. "Your favourite changes every time you do this, doesn’t it?"

"It does." You reach over to pull out the supply of marshmallows you'd got along the way. "I can't ever pick one."

"Do you have a favourite star?"

"Yeah," you shoot back, smile changing into a grin, "You."

It's the first terrible joke you've made in days. That fact alone is enough to get a laugh from him. It smells of relief and mixes with a groan.

"Leave one out for the bears," he reminds as you hand him a stick with a marshmallow speared on one end.

"Mighty generous of you, Steven." You hold it over the fire. "I'll make extras for you too. Gotta get that energy in when you're fighting them."

"Yeah, you gotta even the playing field."

The joke brings with it the memory of bright sunflowers that should be picture perfect, but instead, it feels like someone's poured water over the campfire.

His fingers itch, and he chooses to run it through his hair to shake off the sudden despair that threatens to weave its way through him again.

Steve reminds himself that's why he keeps the jacket on.

When he looks back at you, your face has sobered too. It's no stretch to assume you were reminded of the way the afternoon had taken a turn after a mostly pleasant day.

"What happened there that day, Steve?" you ask softly, pulling your roasted marshmallow back from the flame.

"I don't know." He bites the inside of his lip. "Guess I was just tired."

He was, but even you know that wasn't entirely truthful.

"I'm not going to push you," you say, neck craned towards him. "But I think keeping everything in isn't the way to deal with it."

His own treat is singed at the edges by the time he remembers he pulls it back, but he can hardly find it in himself to care. He doesn't even think he wants to eat it anymore.

"Everyone says it's something different. The way I am." Everyone's got an opinion, everyone's dissected him open on every television station, podcast, internet forum. "Everything from possession to being a cyborg."

"Doesn't matter what they think."

"What's your assessment?" Steve turns to you.

"Doesn't matter what I think either." You look him in the eye. "I'm not qualified to hand one out. Different kinda doctor."

But it does. It does matter what you think.

Steve looks at you before looking back up at the clouds.

"We didn't have names for all this back then." He finds it easier to talk about the war than himself. "Mostly just called it shell shock or combat fatigue. Sometimes all it took was thirty days on the field."

He can hear it it still, ringing in his ears. With the flashbacks and the commands he remembers shouting over raining bullets, the only thing missing was the smell of blood stained mud and death lingering close by. He doesn't know how he speaks so easily about it, like a reality he's detached himself from. He supposes it was good. If he re-lived every emotion he went through during those years, he'd go insane.

"The first year out of the ice, they had me meet with a few living World War 2 vets. Some sort of publicity stunt, I don't know." He shrugs. "They thought it'd be good."

Your breath hitches in your throat.

"Didn't really know them, but I knew people who knew them," Steve says. "We talked about what we remembered. Most of it matched up, some of it were things I didn't even know happened."

They stuck him on a plane within two weeks of coming out of the ice and attributed his face going pale and vice like grip on his knees to air sickness. It took a while to get used to being in the sky again.

"One of the guys there, retired Colonel, was talkin' about how one of the privates was gonna get court-martialed for going A.W.O.L. during the war." Steve shifts, tugging his arms closer together. "Just a kid too, eighteen years old. Don't know how they even got past Basic, they always did the vilest shit to get you ready for what's out there."

"I can handle it."

"You're all of four feet tall with twigs for bones, and you think you can handle it just cause your mamma called you a strong boy? Go home."

"I can handle it," Steve repeats, teeth gritting, sweat tearing down his skin. The sky had barely seen the light of day and his muscles already ached in places he couldn't put a finger on.

"Why, cause you got heart? You believe in the power of friendship?" The man's stare hardens like his fingertips. "What those posters sell ya- that's all bullshit, kid. That ain't gonna save you."

Steve's fingernails bruise into the palm of his hands but he doesn't shift.

"This-" He shoves at his chest and Steve is forced to take a step back, heels digging into the soil. "This is gonna save you."

He'd seen this kind of people before. Ones that violence hadn't made softer, just the opposite.

"Your scientist buddy may believe in that good man, boy scout horseshit but out there-" the man points behind him- "out there, Rogers, there are no morals. Would you eat a brother if you were starving? Would you stand on his dead body to pick fruit from a tree?"

Stories of pushups with broken ribs, limbs getting blown up right in front of him. Always hard to talk about the nicer things, the good things in life. Stories shrouded in negativity flow from his heart so easily that he fears that it's become his new normal.

"They called it the war to end all wars. It's what they told everyone, told them their sacrifice would be worth it. You start losing friends once, twice and then over and over again and you start wondering--" Steve presses his mouth into a thin line. "Come out a hundred years later and nothing's changed."

Your mouth is pressed into a hard line. You don't say anything, however.

"That's my assessment." He looks at you. "I think that's what happened there. Thought I'd gotten used to it, letting go of people you care about. Apparently I didn't."

He didn't think he'd have to deal with it again. He'd put it away, locked it in a room with the rest of the memories of the war and when he was forced to break it open again, it just didn't compute.

"We didn't talk about it," he continues, voice clear. "Wasn't really heard of to ask for help. You just... dealt with it. Moved on. Get out of there if you can and get your life together if it all works out."

Some of them dealt with it well. He met Morita's grandson, and from what he heard, the man had lived a good life. He wouldn't talk about the war too often but when he did, it was always about the boys. Others were lost in thousand yard stares and memories he kept locked away, but his grandson mentioned the clementines he always had for him when he visited.

"Have you talked to someone about this?" you lean forward on your elbows. "Anyone?"

"Sam knows a little bit. Buck too, but that's different." That was informal, filling in the gaps from what Bucky could remember and what he wanted to remember.

The VA sessions were good whenever he could attend them. Not very regularly, or a lot; he was always more of a listener than a talker. But it felt liberating to know he wasn't alone.

"There are more specialists out there now." Your tone's shifted from the light one earlier this evening, but he's grateful it doesn't hold the same air of patronisation he's heard before. It's kind. "People who've been through similar things."

"Yeah," he says, chewing on his lip. "I know, but-"

He took the support group job on after Sam, hoping it'd help. Every session, the dull guilt of hypocrisy and the inevitability of someone calling him out on what he was-- a fraud. Trying to help others make sense of a world he couldn't, help them continue when he still hadn't figured out how to move on. A lie.

“They won't- they don’t understand. All they wanna do is take notes and try and figure out what's wrong. What if I don't want to know what's wrong?”

It's like a snap when he suddenly gets what it is, back in the doctor's couch with her opposite him. It's suffocating. He's suffocating.

He blinks hard, turning his head up to the sky.

Stars. There's a constellation hidden up there, but he doesn't know the name.

He could make a new constellation. For the way he can hear you breathing beside him and the spitfire warmth of the burnt-out logs. A constellation, and he'd name it after something you love. Rain on pavement, or videos of penguins falling over. For you and him, and the silence in the between and the words he can't distinguish the meaning for yet.

“Would it help if it wasn't, you know, that methodical?” you pipe up again. "Like talking to me, or to someone else who isn't taking notes."

He looks at you wearily. "Ain't that unethical?"

"What, talking to a friend?" You give him a smile. "No, I think we're within the laws on that one."

Steve's eyebrows upturn, and he waits for you to say something more.

"Not like therapy. Just-- anything. I won’t say anything. But you need to talk it out because I'm worried you're going to implode if you don't."

"I don't know what to say." Where to begin. How to begin. Who is he talking for? How does he do it right?

You look at him with no expectations, but a strong concern. Steve stays where he is, one hand holding a branch, one balanced on his knee.

"What do you want me to talk about?"

"Whatever you want," you promise. "I'd like to hear you talk about what you want to. Even if it's about the forties, or I don't know; the MET Gala or something."

"They invited me this year."

"Of course they did."

"Don't think I'm going."

"Had a hunch."

But something you said rings out to him, forcing him to reconsider.

Steve hesitates. "You want me to talk about the 40s?"

"If you want to," you reply. "Jus' don't want you to feel like you don't have anyone to talk to. Because I'm here, I wanna listen."

Steve chews on the inside of his bottom lip.

And surprisingly, it makes sense that it's all he wants to talk about.

Going to the past is comfortable. It's calm.

"Don't know if I can get it out," he says. "I'm tired."

"Of?"

Everything, really.

"It's been a long day."

"Well, let's get some rest then," you break the silence, offer him a kind smile.

You reach down to repack the uneaten food without another argument. The ball was in his court again, and he knows that eventually he'd have to rally it back. It wasn't fair; for you to keep trying and for him to offer nothing back.

So he says, "Ask me something. Anything."

You look up at him, and his lips slight upwards in encouragement. You let the bag drop back down.

"Okay," you pause, and decide on trying to keep it light for a start. "Tell me something good."

Something good.

Like what? His favourite childhood memory or the song he finally found whose two lines he had been singing to himself over and over in the past month? Something big, with bubbling laughter and strained voices, or small with subdued contentment and blush stained cheeks?

Almost like you can sense his trepidation, you add, "I can go first."

He agrees.

"I," you begin, almost like an announcement, "saw three cats yesterday."

His eyebrows furrow. "Where?"

"Near the museum."

"I didn't see them."

"That's 'cause you were in the gift shop."

"Oh."

"You know what?" You reach over to dig through the bag. "I actually got a picture. I thought you'd might wanna see."

A thorough look at three felines lazing around in the sun is enough to convince him that the small joys of the world have not, in fact, evaded him.

"Okay, your turn," you say after tucking your phone back.

He gives a small 'hmm' in response, head turned down as he thought.

"Tell me something good, Steve Rogers."

He shouldn't be finding it as hard as he does.

"I've always wanted a dog," he settles on. "When I was a kid, all I wanted was a dog."

"You didn't have any pets growing up?"

"Not really, just a lotta strays I used to find along the way." More like Steve sneaking out several hours in a day with his food wrapped in an old handkerchief to feed some new alley cat he noticed while getting beaten up. "Closest we got to keepin' one was this Labrador. Guess his owners couldn't handle an older one so they just drove over to our town and abandoned him."

"Fucking dickheads."

"Yeah." The corner of Steve's lips lift. "We found him near our house. Called him Champ."

"What was he like?" Your chin rests on your palm as you listen intently.

"Lived up to his name." Steve shrugs. "Ma made him a vest out of an old shirt. I wrote our names on the back."

The smile on your face is infectious. "How long did he stay with you?"

"Not long. Couldn't really afford to keep one, so we searched for anyone in the neighbourhood who could take care of him. He left in a couple of weeks."

He neglects to mention how he never saw him again. Broke his whole heart, it did.

You told him to tell you something good.

So he follows it up with, "Buck tried throwing him a stick to fetch and he just sat there. Never tried again."

"What a king."

Steve exhales out a laugh. "My mom got real mad when we both showed up covered in dirt every day."

"How do you manage to convert everyone you meet into a vagabond?" you tease and Steve just shrugs, mouth stretching down in cluelessness. ""Did he grow on your mom?"

"Oh, she loved him. Wouldn't ever admit it, but I knew she was upset when he left. I told myself I'd never get one after that 'cause I'd never seen her that sad before."

As if Sarah didn't know exactly what her son was up to when he stowed half his breakfast into his pocket and left in a hurry. As if she didn't make sure there was an extra portion that she knew he wouldn't be able to finish, even if it meant giving up half of hers.

"Well, I think she would have wanted you to have a dog if you could," you say. "Maybe you could name him Champ."

Steve's mind ruminates over it for a few seconds. "Yeah, maybe."

Because the truth is, she would. Of course she would. Even if he had asked back then, even if things were a little difficult, she'd have found a way to do it for him.

"There's this picture of her I used to carry around with me everywhere."

Your head motions towards him in question. "Your mom?"

"Yeah." It sat on his mantlepiece until now, where it was back in his wallet.

Her in a white sundress, smiling brightly with her eyes squinted to avoid the glare of the sun. It was before he was born, the laugh line hadn't fully formed yet and her face didn't hold the same suffering it did in the years to come. His favourite picture of her.

"I had it in my wallet the night Ultron happened, and in the middle of that mess, it tore." He still remembers staring at it in the kitchen, knees bent over broken glass. The growing hole of despair in his stomach reassures him that maybe if he looked at it long enough it'd go back to normal. Maybe if he sits there enough he'll realise it never happened in the first place and the nausea rising to his throat was just the adrenaline wearing off.

But the call comes and the group has to reconvene and the photo, torn and jagged, finds its way back into his wallet for another day.

"Do you still have it?" you ask quietly.

"I do, yeah." He nods. "Uh... Tony got it fixed. Called it a birthday present and made me swear to never mention it again."

In exchange for not telling him how he knew about the picture in the first place, managed to sneak into his wallet and restore it without Steve ever knowing it left at all.

Your eyebrows slightly furrow. "I didn't realise y'all were that close."

"We weren't." Not really, not as much as the publicity team pushed it anyway. "But we had our moments."

In another world, they could have been friends. Respect certainly. Admiration, even, to a certain degree.

"He's my friend."

"So was I."

Steve trusted him. Would agree without a doubt that he was one of the greatest minds of the century, if not ever.

But what follows him on nights he can't sleep and days he spends thinking of things that could have been differently, is that Tony thought of him as a friend. And Steve, he thought... co-workers, acquaintances even, but friends--

He snaps his attention to you. "You got anything good to tell me?"

"I finally got around to deep cleaning my house," you say and Steve lets out a low whistle. "Yeah, I know right? Threw out all the garbage, got some new succulents."

"Who's watering them while you're gone?"

You pause. "The cute neighbour down the hall."

Steve's mouth lifts. "Cute neighbour, huh?"

"You know the one. You've heard him play the banjo when you stayed over."

"The banjo guy's watering your succulents?"

"Now when you put it like that." Your eyes narrow, eyebrows wiggling.

He doesn't notice it at first-- but there is a lightness that's replaced some of the fog in his mind. It feels almost foreign, sacrilege to admit that he does feel... better. Not good. But better than he had been earlier.

"You and banjo guy, me and the cabin owner." Steve turns to the flame that was beginning to die out. "Who woulda thought?"

"Hottest double dates in town." You poke at his leg with your stick. "They're really more cacti than succulents, so he isn't going to be over too often."

"That's a damn shame." Steve cracks a smile.

"I know." You sigh loudly in mock despair. "He plays at the community centre on Saturdays, guy's got a whole cult following on TikTok. The kids love him."

Steve didn't really try to keep up with the trends but he wasn't unaware of them. His Twitter page was mostly active, often cited as one of the most influential political accounts out there. He could tell when certain trends set in by the way his mentions would blow up, or the way his following would increase drastically. Most times it was better not to check.

"You know," he muses, "there's a whole generation of kids that hate me 'cause of the high school fitness videos."

You turn to him incredulously. "The what?"

Steve shuts his mouth.

Additional scene #2

The office is muted. Beige, white, cream. It's professional but not cold. It's calculated.

There's a table behind the swivel chair Dr Nasser sits on, but he hasn't seen her using it to date.

He's practically memorised the whole layout.

"How was your week?" she asks, clipboard balanced neatly on her leg.

Her hair was thin and pushed back behind her ears, and glasses hung from a chain around her neck. She had to be a few years younger than him, thirties he thinks, and she's got a warm look in her eye.

Steve shrugs. "Same old. How was yours?"

"It was good," she replies like always before looking back down at her sheet. "What do you mean by same old?"

“Woke up, met with people, go back home." Rinse, wash, repeat.

“So the schedule hasn't changed at all in this last month.” She finally writes something. It's rare, he never really gives her a reason to note anything down. “How are we looking on the 'time for yourself' front?"

“Lunch breaks, the occasional weekend," Steve says, picking apart the fake fern in the corner of the room with his sight. "Sometimes I pretend I’m sick.”

She cracks a smile at that. His lips quirk upwards, fingers intertwining and releasing themselves.

"Any updates on the yoga, meditation... anything of that sort?"

“Can't say there is." There are seven leaves. Last time there were eight.

“Have you met any of your friends?”

“Whenever I can.” Steve moves on to the pot in the other end of the room,

The doctor doesn’t show any sign of agreement or disagreement with his method. Only clicks her pen before looking back up at him.

"Are you comfortable Steve?"

He adjusts in his seat slightly. "I am, yes."

"I mean, during our sessions," she corrects gently. "Are you comfortable during our sessions?"

There are nine leaves in that one. Funny, there were eight last week.

"I am," he replies, one arm crossed over his chest while the other rest on the armchair.

"I'm asking because you've been coming here for weeks now, Steve, and all we’ve discussed so far is the weather."

"Cloudy today, isn’t it?” He gives her a wry smile.

She gives him a unaffected one in return.

It's not her fault. She was just doing her job, and unfortunately, got stuck with the world's most emotionally constipated man.

“Why are you here, Captain?” Dr Nasser asks finally.

“You know why, doctor.” Steve's cheek leans on his fingers, leaving behind indents.

“It’s a part of your deal, I know,” she says, “but why are you here?”

Steve’s smile is tight. “What would you want to hear?”

She writes down something on her notepad. Steve's nose twitches.

“Your actual reason why you keep coming back,” she says when she looks back up again.

Steve's brows pull together lightly at her implication, though he has no idea what it actually is.

“Why do you think I keep coming here?” he asks again.

Her head tilts. “I could name plenty of reasons why, but that’s not the point. It has to come from you.”

Steve observes her the same way she does him. A little guilt springs up in him-- she's been trying and he hasn't at all.

He clears his throat, glancing down for a second before back up. “I was told it’s the only way they’d let me come in.”

“To help with the aftermath, you said?” she clarifies, looking at the three total lines she probably had on him.

"Yes,” he replies. “Relocation, search and rescue for people missing after the battle.”

“Right, the Battle of Earth.” Dr. Nasser writes something down. He follows the movement of her pen. “We haven't talked in too much detail about that.”

He doesn’t know what’s there to talk about. Everyone knew what had happened, the details were there in a public forum. Articles upon articles, documentaries upon documentaries had been made in the few months since it had gotten over, and they were still pouring in.

So Steve asks, “What would you like to know?”

“Your side of it,” she responds. "I could read about the battle anywhere. What I’m interested in is your side, how you’re dealing with it.”

Steve wants to smile bitterly at the fact that she only knows what they wanted everyone to know, but he couldn’t tell her that either.

"I deal with it just fine, I think," he says distantly.

"What do you mean by just fine?"

If this was what one on one therapy was like, it's a wonder why he doesn't care for it much.

"Well--" he blinks-- "I'm here, aren't I?"

"Are you happy?"

"About?"

"The win," she answers. "Sad? Angry? How do you feel about the team's success?"

A win? The words rest so disgustingly on his shoulders, the weight of a double-edged sword like everything else in his life.

He got the serum only to watch the closest person he had to a mentor die in his arms. He went down with the plane only to be pulled out in a year he didn’t belong in. He fought a civil war to lose his team, the War for the Stones only to lose half the fucking planet, the Battle of Earth only to lose friends who had become family. He fought and fought and fought and over the years, he started losing himself like sand slipping through his fingers.

Steve didn’t know what win was without the burden of loss. He didn’t know happiness without tragedy, and like mortality and death, they found themselves inseparable.

“We tried our best,” he says. “I don’t think it’s up to me to judge whether we succeeded or not.”

She looks at him with a strange sort of expression, like she's deciding what to make of what he said. Trying to decipher him, like he's some puzzle to be solved.

“If I’m being honest, Steve,” she begins, “from what you've told me, it doesn’t look like you’ve given yourself time to process what happened.”

He did process what had happened and look where it got him. Dreaming of people long gone and stolen cake in army convoys.

“I’m not sure what’s left to think about, doctor.” His voice is level, methodical.

A quick glance at the wall.

A note of the time.

The doctor’s head tilted slightly, staring intently at him. “Do you feel restless, Steve?”

All the fucking time, like an itch at the back of his throat he can’t get rid of.

“Sometimes.”

“And what do you do when you do feel that way?”

“Walk around. Park’s open pretty early. There’s a gym a few blocks away.”

“Physical activity- does it help?”

“It does the trick.”

“Are you restless now?”

His fingers stop tapping against his thigh, tongue in cheek and wry when he asks, “Who, me?”

Her smile returns with the realisation that it may not have been the smartest question, head turned down.

"Why do you think you're restless?"

A glance at the wall.

A note of the time.

"Been that way since I was a kid."

She shifts in her seat, picking up her pen again. Steve's realises it's the first time he's let anything about his past slip.

"Why were you restless as a child?"

His back is still stiff against the futon, and there's thirty minutes to go.

"Had places to go, things I wanted to do," he replies unclearly.

"What's changed since then?"

Well, nothing, really. There were still places to go and things to do and to a certain degree he did want to do them. The rest was...

"My mom's not there to lock the door so I don't walk out at three in the morning."

The corner of her lip tugs up. "How old were you?"

"Seven? Maybe eight." Steve squints.

Either way, he started climbing out the window after that, so it wasn't like he was trapped.

"Where did seven year old you go at three in the morning?"

"Hung out with this neighbour kid of mine on the roof sometimes." Steve shrugs. "If it was during the day I'd go down to the store and spend a couple of hours."

"You'd spend hours at the... grocery store?" she asks, trying to clarify.

"There was a guy there I liked. He always thought I was annoying but he let me stick around." Steve smiles briefly, letting his other arm cross over his chest.

Other times-- most times-- it was with Bucky, who'd also climbed out on his fire escape to silence Steve's incessant rock throwing at his window. They didn't really have any place to go, so they did as any fifteen year old would do; jumped over the gate and into the park to skip some stones across the pond.

Steve's mind sharply wipes away the memory and his focus snaps back to the lady before him, one leg crossed over the other, arms resting on them.

She's already looking at him. He genuinely hopes he wasn't staring at her when he zoned out.

"You know, Steve," she pipes up when he doesn't say anything, "I don't know a whole lot about you even though this is our fifth session."

He exhales deeply through his nose, but his gaze is unwavering.

"But--" she looks down at the paper-- "this is the first time your answers don't seem so calculated."

Steve doesn't have any comment. He watches her twist to put aside the notepad on the table behind her.

"What does talking about the past make you feel?"

"At home."

Her eyebrows quirk up in the slightest, like she didn't expect an answer from him so soon.

"Feels familiar," he says further.

"Easy?" she offers.

He nods.

A glance at the wall.

A note of the time.

"Do you feel more connected to the past than you do with the present?"

Steve wants to get up and leave. There's still seventeen minutes to go.

"I don't know," he replies stiffly.

And just like that it's over.

There is tension in the air, mainly from his side because he knows to her, this had to be a breakthrough.

She reaches behind her to pick up the note pad again, clicking the pen against her thigh as she writes something down. Steve can feel a twinge of annoyance in him.

She finishes scribbling something. He can see she's halfway down the paper already.

"How do you feel about a little homework, Steve?"

Steve's eyes flick down to her notes and back up at her. “Haven’t really done any in the last century or so.”

"It's a small task," she explains, "just to let you embrace that part of you fully before we go forward."

Steve raises an eyebrow.

"Let's do this, shall we? Why don't you create a list of things that remind you of the past?"

"What kind of list?" His voice is a lot rougher than it had been a moment ago.

"Could be anything. List of people, places, things. If you wanna bring it in here next session too, that'd be great." She flashes him a kind smile. "What do you think?"

He thinks he's dug himself a grave here. He was having trouble enough as it was. He could already feel his mind slip past his tight grip and into a spiral.

"I'll try, I guess," he replies almost robotically.

It seems to satisfy her, though. He can tell from the look in her eyes that she’s only the littlest bit exhilarated at the crack in his shell.

“That was a lot, Steve,” she notes, leaning back slightly. “How are you feeling?”

A glance at the wall.

A note of the time.

"I feel fine," he says.

[grigori77]

2022 in Music - My Top 5 Favourite Albums

5.  MUSE – Will of the People

The maddest trio to have ever come out of Devon have returned, completing their magnificent comeback as they again prove they’ve been one of the best things happening in prog rock for a while now.  They’re still clinging to the more electronic sound that’s come to pervade their music for the past decade or so, but this still feels like a glorious throwback as Matt Bellamy and co have brought back the old school HEAVY in a big way here …

Standout tracks: Will of the People, Compliance, Won’t Stand Down, Ghosts (How Can I Move On), You Make Me Feel like It’s Halloween, Kill Or Be Killed, Verona, We Are Fucking Fucked

4.  ARCHITECTS – The Classic Symptoms of a Broken Spirit

They’ve done it again. For the second year in a row, the Brighton metalcore heavy-hitters have delivered a blistering, pitch-perfect album full of riotous bangers, this time peeking in what I could happily argue is THE BEST TRACK they’ve ever put together.  As with their previous offering, For Those Who Wish To Exist, this record probably won’t please their old school fans, but I love this stuff JUST FINE.

Standout tracks: Deep Fake, Tear Gas, Burn Down My House, Living Is Killing Us, Doomscrolling, A New Moral Low Ground, All the Love In the World, Be Very Afraid

3.  FLORENCE + THE MACHINE – Dance Fever

Florence Welch and her astounding band have delivered another masterful opus of epic soundscapes and richly orchestrated opulence, effortlessly showcasing the singer-songwriter’s once-in-a-generation voice and big calibre lyrical and compositional flair, proving once and for all she’s the undeniable QUEEN of the indie rock scene …

Standout tracks: King, Free*, Girls Against God, Dream Girl Evil, Cassandra, Heaven Is Here, My Love, The Bomb, Morning Elvis

*Honestly, I CANNOT choose between this one and King for best track on the album …

2.  EDITORS – EBM

The most criminally overlooked and underrated indie band of all time returns with what I think might be their very best album EVER, packed with pretty much perfect electro-rock belters. They’ve always worn their Joy Division/New Order influences on their sleeves, but this one puts the Mancunian pioneers on notice that these boys from Birmingham are now officially coming for their crowns.

Standout tracks: Heart Attack, Picturesque, Karma Climb, Kiss, Silence, Educate, Strange Intimacy

1.  RAMMSTEIN – Zeit

The German masters of industrial metal have been plying their trade since the mid-90s, and every release has been well worth a spin, but they’ve come a long way in that time, and their previous eponymously titled album was a proper banger, dominated by the best track they’ve EVER recorded, the immortal Deutschland.  It seemed like a tall order for them to top that masterpiece … but they’ve pulled off the impossible, crafting a flawless opus that perfectly encapsulates their discordant-yet-ingenious singular brilliance and, OF COURSE, the incomparable voice of Till Lindemann.  Despite appearances they insist they’ve still got plenty more music to make, but this is the PERFECT encapsulation of Rammstein at their very best.

Standout tracks: Armee der Tristen, Zeit, Zick Zack, Angst, Dicke Titten, Lügen, Adieu

The ones that didn’t quite make the cut:

BILLY HOWERDEL – What Normal Was (the other creative half of A Perfect Circle proves he can do dark, edgy and beautiful electronic rock without needing Maynard); THE GREAT DISCORD – Deam Morte (the gothic-edged Swedish metalheads bring us another winner, with magnificent frontwoman Fia Kempe on fire throughout); AURORA – The Gods We Can Touch (the immensely talented young Norwegian singer-songwriter’s third indie-pop album is another winner); GHOST – Impera (Sweden’s most unique metal band continues to dominate as Tobias Forge delivers more retro-styled brilliance); PANIC! AT THE DISCO – Viva Las Vengeance (Brendon Urie pays fitting tribute to his biggest influences – especially Queen - with this lovingly irreverent record)

Honourable mention:

SPIRITBOX – Rotoscope

The best new metalcore band of the block continue to show they really are the ones to watch with this BLINDING three-track EP which shows that the astonishingly talented Courtney LaPlante and co are DETERMINED to keep experimenting with their sound. Opener/title-track Rotoscope is the undeniable highlight here, but Sew Me Up and, in particular, Hysteria both prove to be thoroughly irresistible earworms too …

[bippot]

All Over Again - Chapter 2: Like Beavers

Story Summary -> When he used to say that he wished he could fall in love with his wife all over again, Bob may have jinxed himself. Yet, the process of knowing her once more wasn't as smooth as he'd used to think.

Honestly, he doesn't know which is worse - his broken bones or the fact she can't seem to forget who he once was?

Chapter 2: Like Beavers Summary -> Bob's memory still hasn't returned, but will meeting (well, re-meeting) his father and best friend help bring some to the surface

Tags -> Angst, Amnesia, Established Relationship, Memory Loss, Airplane Crashes, Major Character Injury, Hospitals, True Love, Love at First Sight, Married Couple

Would you prefer to read this on AO3? Click here!

Previous Chapter -> All Over Again

Back in the day, Bob was seriously shy. Very reserved and nervous at times. He kept to himself more often than not; preferring to spend his time either alone or with his mother, which was why his parents were so surprised that he wanted to go to a summer seminar in Maryland. He'd never been that far from home before, let alone without his parents by his side.

But they helped him with his application and were overjoyed when he got in. He'd got a part time job to pay for the program fee and, before they knew it, seventeen year old Bob was being dropped off at the dorm he'd be staying in for the next week.

His roommate was a loudmouth of the highest calibre, and if Bob was honest, he hated the guy. But that was okay since that guy left after the first day because he didn't realise they had to get up at half five in the morning for a workout.

There were only three girls that summer. Two of them had already banded together and left the other girl out. So, when she had nobody to sit next to at breakfast, Bob not so gracefully sat next to her. He'd never been one to put himself out there, especially not to a pretty girl. But as he saw her by herself, surrounded by other boys who'd made no effort, he just couldn't help himself.

"H-hi, I'm Robert. My mama calls me Bobby - I don't know why I said that... but you can call me whatever you want. I just...yeah." Bob nervously chuckled, trying his best to hold his nerve. "Can I, can I sit with you?" He pointed to the seat across from her, giving her the most polite smile he could manage.

Y/N's lips quirked upwards in an amused expression upon seeing Bob shuffle his feet and fidget with his thumbs. "Of course you can, Bobby." Her soft, smooth tone made his heart flutter and a goofy grin appeared on his face. He took a deep breath and nodded, then proceeded to awkwardly take the spot next to her. "Why aren't you sitting with them?"

With a nod of her head, she gestured to the throng of boys sitting at the tables in the centre of the room, giggling and laughing insanely loudly amongst themselves as they ate. Bob shrugged his shoulders then repeated the question to her about the girls. "Three's a crowd, apparently." Y/N grinned as she shook her head. She glanced over to the girls and gave them a wave that was scoffed at. "They're from the same school so I was DOA to them the second I stepped foot here."

Bob found himself saying, "We could pair up...if you'd like," before he had a chance to even think about being nervous. There was something about her that drew him in, maybe it was her smile, her eyes, or perhaps it was the way she talked, or the way she carried herself, maybe it was all of these things that made him somewhat comfortable around her despite his shy nature.

"I would like that. I'm Y/N, by the way."

The way Bob always used to describe it was that 'they felt right' in his head. In his heart. The moment he met her, he just knew they'd work so well together - professionally, platonically, and not so platonically (although he wouldn't tell her about that last one for the next couple of years). Their relationship was easy, natural even. As if they'd been tiny little molecules that were right next to each other in the very beginning of the universe and would stay that way until the very end.

For the rest of summer school, they were attached at the hip. And once it ended and the pair were forced back to their separate homes in separate states, it was difficult for either of them to stop texting, calling or messaging each other whenever possible.

Six days. That's all it took for Bob to become utterly smitten for what he assumed would be the rest of his life.

His parents couldn't believe it at first. The 'girl' their son was constantly talking to over the Internet was clearly a fifty year old paedophile that was catfishing him. Then, the pair had been video calling one day and his mother burst through his bedroom door to pick up his laundry. "Mom!" Bob whined.

"What, honey?"

"I'm talking to Y/N!" Bob hollered to his mother, his face beet red as he tried to ignore how his friend was laughing at him. His mother raised her eyebrows, confused, but decided to get closer to his laptop screen to see the girl in question.

Oh, so she wasn't a paedophile in disguise! "Bobby, you didn't say your girlfriend was so pretty! Hi Y/N! Nice to finally meet you!" The blonde greeted, waving enthusiastically through the webcam and causing Bob to blush a deeper, more brilliant shade of crimson as she waved back, her cheeks burning hot with embarrassment.

"Hello, Mrs Floyd." she replied bashfully. "Nice to meet you too."

"Mom! Y/N is my friend." Bob insisted as his mother continued to stare at the screen. She'd never seen her son get this loud over a single person before and, in all honesty, she hadn't even known her boy could get like that at all.

It was a lovely change.

Thanks to the ruckus, Bob Senior appeared to see what all the fuss was about and soon joined his wife, the pair of them gawking at the fact that their Bobby had a friend who was a girl. Their notoriously shy and loner son had finally found somebody he thought was worth being around and went out of his way to interact with. The couple exchanged looks of happiness between themselves before leaving Bob to stew in his embarrassment.

Frequent Internet communication was all they had until they graduated and, luckily, both had been accepted into the naval academy. They were on their way back to Maryland.

Not too far from the Academy was a little restaurant that the pair agreed to meet up in once they arrived. Originally, they thought it'd just be the two of them. Once Bob's parents had heard about the plan, they invited themselves. Obviously they wanted to meet the girl Bob had been talking about non stop for the past year.

Y/N had arrived a few minutes before the Floyd's arrived and, as she stood there just about to text Bob, she felt a tap on her shoulder. When she turned around to look at the culprit, her eyes widened and her arms were around him before her mind even made the decision to move. He returned the embrace, resting his chin on top of her head as she clutched onto his shirt, squeezing tightly to show that she was truly happy to see him again.

"You've gotten taller." Y/N smiled as she stared up at Bob, still not completely convinced that this was real and that he was really standing in front of her. He wasn't just pixels on a screen - that much was certain. "You've got some stubble too."

Bob rolled his eyes and pushed Y/N away playfully from where she was standing, leaning back against the wall beside her. "I'm a man now, Y/N. A grown man now." Y/N just laughed and poked him on the side. There was more muscle there than she remembered him having. Weird.

"Where are your parents?"

On cue, Mr and Mrs Floyd appeared around the corner, their faces lighting up as they spotted Bob and Y/N waiting patiently outside the restaurant for them. "Parking was a nuisance! We couldn't find a place! Luckily, there was a lovely old lady who was just leaving as we made our third - yes, third - loop around the lot," Bob Senior began to complain.

Mrs Floyd was quick to slap him on the arm and urge, "Robert, I'm sure Y/N doesn't give two hoots about the parking situation, honey." Then she glanced at Junior and reached out to fiddle with the collar of his shirt. "Oh Bobby, let mama fix it for you."

Hiding her giggle behind her hand, Y/N watched as Bob's mum fixed his collar for him, then put his hair back into place, then licked her finger to get some transparent dirt from his cheek, then... she kept going and going, clearly in an attempt to annoy him until he gently pushed her hands away with a whiny, "Mom!"

For the entire dinner, Bob tried his hardest to keep a blush from his cheeks but it seemed important. His parents seemed to be going out of their way to embarrass him. And Y/N wasn't helping. No, she just shook her head and laughed at it all with a bright smile and sparkling eyes, and it was making him feel even more flustered. It definitely wasn't helping when his father asked, quite loudly, if they were dating already.

Y/N choked on her drink at that question, causing the older man to laugh and lean over to pat her back lightly as she coughed. That reaction was what young Bob argued with when his mind conjured ideas about her liking him back. If she liked him, which was an impossible thought, she wouldn't have had such a visceral reaction. Right? It wasn't that she was startled. No, she was disgusted at the mere notion of dating him.

"Cherry coke shot out of my nose, like, gushed straight onto the table and ruined one of the menus, and I swear my brain just stopped working for a whole minute and a half," Y/N explained with a slight giggle, her eyes alight with humour as she recounted the event.

He desperately wished he could remember that day. Alas, he couldn't. And he hated that. Why, oh why, couldn't he remember it?! Just one moment – just one small, tiny - hell, he'd take something insignificant - a piece of his old life. Just any little thing! A stupid memory, even! A random bit of information about what he was like, anything! Anything at all! But nothing came.

"Sounds sticky," Bob laughed.

"Oh, it was!"

Quietly and filled with something that sounded an awful lot like shame, Bob asked, "That didn't spur me on to make a move, did it?"

"No. No, it didn't. Quite the opposite, really."

That completely wrong sentiment would persist for years. It would only be corrected in their third year at the academy. They'd had flings and one night stands and instances of debauchery, but they were all meaningless relationships anyway. They were nothing but distractions and excuses. Every single one of their friends and classmates knew that, yet the young couple still were ignorant to the others feelings.

Then, one day, one simple day that was not supposed to be anything special in particular, happened to change everything.

"Let's go out, Bobby! Please?!" Y/N exclaimed, tugging at the boy's wrist and pulling him further into her dorm room. He groaned loudly before letting himself flop on her bed, kicking his shoes off as he lay down. "Come on! Live a little! Have a little fun!"

"Noooo, Y/N, we barely get any free time. Why would we want to waste it in a bar?"

"Because I bought a new dress! I need an excuse to wear it! What's more reason than that?" She pleaded, looking up at him imploringly. Bob frowned, his face contorting into annoyance at how much effort he was putting in to not just give in.

Cause it was taking him a lot of mental exertion to maintain his stance when she looked so damned cute. So damn beautiful. He could stare at those manipulative puppy dog eyes for eternity and never grow bored of it. Never. It didn't matter if she was trying to get him to do something, as long as it got the desired results he would follow every order given to him like a good soldier.

"Just put the dress on now."

"Now?"

"Yeah. Why not?"

Good point. She'd bought the thing to entice one person and he was already in her bed.

"Turn around then."

Covering his eyes as soon as he could, Bob waited until Y/N gently pulled his hands from his face, revealing the stunning but effortlessly simple sun dress that she wore. "What do you think?" Y/N asked, turning around and posing dramatically for him, swaying and swirling the fabric around her body.

And Bob didn't react. Not at first. In fact, he froze.

"Jesus Bobby, you can say if you don't like it." Y/N pouted, crossing her arms across her chest.

Bob was staring intently at her as she spoke and she found herself getting increasingly more self conscious under his intense gaze. She shifted her weight from one foot to another, her fingers playing with the ends of her sleeves.

When his stare finally lifted, he blinked slowly once, twice, thrice before clearing his throat softly, a slight flush staining his cheeks. After he regained control of his voice, he spoke softly, almost sounding breathless, "You look... very nice."

It took all his willpower to keep himself from audibly swooning. He knew better than to sound so pathetic, however, he was pretty sure he must've sounded exactly like that anyway. Because Y/N L/N just looked devastatingly gorgeous. Her hair was loose and fell in soft waves around her face, and her eyes shimmered in the dim, golden light coming through the curtains of her dorm room. She looked like an angel.

What he wouldn't give to reach out and touch her, to brush the stray strands of hair that threatened to fall in her face away from her face.

Then, he did it. He stood up from his spot on her bed and stepped closer towards her. Slowly, he reached out and caressed the sides of her face, the pad of his thumb gliding over the apple of her cheeks, tracing a delicate line to her temple before hooking over her ear.

Her eyes closed as she leaned into his touch and felt her heart thump against her ribcage, feeling each beat as a loud echo through her veins. And as she heard the faintest intake of breath by his lips, her eyelids fluttered open and met with his sapphire eyes.

They remained fixed on each other, silently communicating as they continued to stare into each other's souls. "So..." Y/N whispered softly, breaking the silence between them. "You like?"

"Yeah, yeah, I like."

Millimetre by millimetre, Bob lowered his head closer and closer to hers in slow motion. He wanted to kiss Y/N. Needed to kiss her. But the moment the tips of their noses brushed, the familiar and distinct voice of Y/N's roommate was growing louder as she walked up to the door.

"Oh yeah, I'll tell you all about it. Yeah, I'll be literally thirty seconds," they heard and instantly jumped to act like nothing was going wrong. Bang! In surprise, the pair both decided to take a step forward and their foreheads crashed in a clumsy collision, resulting in them stumbling backwards awkwardly and groaning loudly as they clutched at their heads.

Headbutting really gets rid of the romantic vibe, they came to realise.

"What happened?" Y/N's roommate asked as she saw the scene before her, her concern not stopping her from finding her bag and jacket.

The couple just shrugged. Apparently, that was enough of an answer.

"Are you going out tonight? Or is it going to be another one where you two hide away in here watching some lame ass movie and fall asleep before you get the balls to confess your love?"

"Second option," Y/N remarked, her palm massaging her forehead, her other hand resting on Bob's arm. She didn't know whether to laugh or sigh at how true that assessment was.

"You guys suck."

"Don't bring a guy back! I don't want to wake up to grunting again."

Y/N's roommate rolled her eyes, but it soon turned into a sly smile. "I'm not the one who always has a guy in her bed. At least I don't pretend to be oblivious when he wakes up with morning wood," she laughed, and that laugh only got harder when Bob turned a bright shade of pink.

With a wave, the kind where the fingers move instead of the wrist, Y/N's roommate left the dorm room and closed the door behind her. It was quiet for a second.

"You can feel it?!?"

"Bobby..."

Once again flopping on her bed, he fell face first and hid in her pillows, mumbling incoherent curses at being caught. Y/N smiled as she watched him burrow deeper into her sheets, a deep blush spread on his cheeks while he struggled to come up with a believable lie. The truth was, he knew deep down inside that she'd been polite about his early morning indiscretions. He wasn't a fucking idiot.

"What do you wanna watch?"

Chuckling, she slumped beside him and tilted her head towards him, a cheeky grin on her face and a teasing glint in her eye. He glanced over at her briefly as he tried to think of something clever. Unfortunately for him though, he couldn't seem to find anything worthwhile to reply with and she looked so good and they'd just had a moment and, clearly, she didn't mind how his body reacted to hers. All of that culminated into Bob surging forward to smush his lips against hers. She didn't even flinch or try to stop him.

Instead, she melted into him and brought a hand up to thread through his hair affectionately as he braced himself on one arm over her, his hand finding her free one and clutching it right beside her head. He smiled brightly against her mouth as they embraced each other tightly, and she returned the gesture with a content hum. And, all too soon, kissing became impossible since the pair were too busy giggling madly.

There was a certain type of ecstasy that filled the air, the feeling of 'fucking finally!' and of freedom was immediate and really fucking good.

"I can't believe I did that," Bob muttered quietly to himself, shaking his head in happy disbelief. He looked at the woman lying next to him in his bed with a wide, goofy grin plastered onto his face. His expression made Y/N soften and reach up to brush some hair away from his forehead, her hand landing on his cheek and cupping it softly before placing a gentle peck onto his lips.

So they were just kissing each other now? All willy nilly and shit? As soon as he realised that she'd given him a smooch, he was jumping back in for another attack. Then another, and another after that. Every time he thought they'd had enough, he would lean back, instantly regret his decision, and return to kissing her once more.

"Do you, do you wanna...you know?" She asked tentatively, her voice low and husky as she fiddled with the hem of his shirt, her eyes fixed firmly upon his.

He froze for a split second, his eyes widening comically. She'd actually asked him. And she looked nervous, which wasn't something that often occurred to him. He swallowed thickly. The question was obvious – yes. A hundred times, yes. Yet, "I do, I really do - believe me - but can we take it slow? I'd rather-'' he began, pausing for a few seconds to gather his thoughts together, "You deserve all the wining and dining, you know? I want to savour whatever this is and don't want to get too greedy. Just... let's go slowly, okay?" He trailed off, unsure whether what he said was making sense or if she found him completely ridiculous.

But, she simply placed her arms around his shoulders, nudged her nose into his, and whispered, “You're so cute ,” with a soft giggle escaping her lips. He could feel heat radiating from his face, the tip of his ears reddening as he buried his nose in her hair where he stayed for as long as she would allow.

"We got together because your roommate made a joke about my boner?" current Bob exclaimed, causing Y/N laugh loudly as she nodded, a soft grin spread across her features as she reminisced about the good ol' days. "Thank god for morning wood."

They kept joking around for an hour or so. Y/N answered any and all of the follow up questions he threw her way; and when they weren't talking, her hand was constantly brushing the side of his face, or playing with the loose strands of his hair. She couldn't deny that there was definitely something still there between them; however, she was reluctant to push it. She knew there was no guarantee that he would still be interested in her when he met other people, other possible suitors.

Their love had been bashed away from his brain. Someone else could take her place; someone new, someone without preconceived notions about who he was or could be. The man who loved her, the man who was meant for her, the man deserved her, wasn't him anymore. But she wouldn't say that out loud, couldn't bring herself to.

"You getting tired?" Y/N asked sweetly as she noticed his eyes drooping from fatigue, a yawn escaping his lips as his head lulled further into her hand. "Close your eyes, lovely. I'll be here when you wake up."

She tucked the blanket securely around him and kissed him on the forehead softly. "Goodnight, handsome. See you in the morning." His response was merely a quiet 'hm', followed by some grunting as he tried to shift slightly but failed to do so due to his injuries and gave up on the idea. To help him along, Y/N sat back in the chair beside his bed and drew circles on his palm with his thumb like she used to.

In the morning, she was still by his bedside when his eyes fluttered open, the sunlight shining directly into his eyes and blinding him momentarily. Y/N sat back in the chair with her phone up to her ear, speaking in a quiet and calm voice that contrasted the way he was groaning awake moments ago.

"He's awake now, yeah. Woke up two seconds ago." Y/N got to her feet and perched on the side of his bed, wiping the sleep away from the corner of his eyes with gentle fingertips. "Do you want me to get Jake to pick you up? Or Brad, you seemed to like him better?"

Some mumbling was heard from the other line that Bob couldn't understand.

"I can do it if you need me to. No? Okay then. Message me when you're outside, and yeah, I'll be your guide. Yeah, hmm-huh, see you soon, pops."

With those words, she hung up the phone and set it down on the table beside Bob's bed, looking down at him and smiling. "Hey handsome, good morning." She stroked the stubble growing along his jaw with her fingers before leaning forward and giving him a chaste kiss on the forehead. "How are you feeling today?"

"A little sore in places, but overall, pretty alright."

"Anything up there that's different?" Y/N asked tentatively, massaging his temples as she spoke.

"Sorry. Same as yesterday. Still nothing."

Although her shoulders did slump a smidge, Y/N replied, "That's okay. It's okay. I'm just glad that you're alright." That was certainly true. Her stomach was knotted with worry, but she was grateful nonetheless that he was still alive. "The doctors will be in any second, is there anything that you want me to tell them? More drugs or pillows or...?"

"Just water, please. Water would be nice," he told her earnestly, and Y/N immediately obliged, pouring him a glass of water and helping him take a sip. "Do you know when I'm allowed to go home?"

"Probably a couple of weeks because of how broken most of your bones are."

After everything he'd gone through – all his scars, the loss of his movement, the trauma that had occurred to him, Bob just wanted to go home. He had no idea where that was, he just knew that he didn't want to be in a hospital anymore. Sure, he wasn't fond of pain and knew it was in his best interests to stay, but honestly, he had been alert for a day and he was already getting sick of the tubes and the wires and all the nurses and doctors crowding him. He assumed that at home it would be him and his wife, just the two of them together. That would've been a lot easier to deal with.

"Are you going to stay with me?"

"Of course, lovely. There's nowhere else I'd rather be than with you."

"Even when I'm not...me? All of me?"

An audible whimper she couldn't suppress escaped her throat. He looked so fragile and helpless right now. It broke her heart to see him like this, and to have him have some ill founded belief that she would toss him to the side because he wasn't 'her Bobby' right now. Despite how conflicted her feelings were, that was never going to happen.

"You're not going to get rid of me that easily," she teased, running a soothing hand along his bicep, earning a hum from him. "Not ever. Not unless you ask me to."

The way she said those words caused butterflies to swarm inside his stomach, and he couldn't stop himself from grinning. He was beginning to realise that the girl sitting next to him was truly, truly devoted to him, and maybe, some part of his heart still felt the same towards her even though it had no basis to do so.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Cutting the soft moment, the doctor and that annoying whistling that always accompanied his presence appeared at their doorway. "Ah, Lieutenant Floyd. Good to see you're awake," the doctor said with a smile, taking notice of Y/N sitting at his bedside. "Mrs Floyd, would you mind stepping outside while I check how he's doing today?"

Y/N nodded and prepared to make her exit.

"It's Lieutenant Floyd, too," Bob corrected the doctor.

"Hmm?"

"Lieutenant, not Mrs."

"Oh, I apologise, Lieutenant Floyd.

With a smug smile on her face, Y/N walked out with her head held high. He'd been calling as such the entire time, but she'd been too distracted to correct him and, honestly, she didn't think she cared enough to try until Bob had done it for her.

While his check up was going on, Y/N made her way to Phoenix's room to visit with her. As per usual, she knocked and opened the door to find Phoenix laying in the bed, her hands laced behind her neck while she gazed lazily towards the window.

"Need a better view?" Y/N questioned with an amused smile playing on her lips as she leaned against the doorframe and watched Phoenix stare upwards in a trance.

Phoenix turned to look at her with a questioning glance, but then shook her head with a grin of her own as Y/N closed the distance between them to sit on her bed beside her. That grin fell as soon as Nat asked, "How is he?"

"He's Bob." Y/N let out a sigh. "I don't know how else to say it. Even without his memories, he's still very Bob-like."

The words left Y/N's mouth slowly, almost painfully, and Nat could feel herself tearing up a little as she spoke, her chest tightening at every single word that passed her friend's tongue. The words hit hard - like punches to her gut.

"I'm sorry, Bambi. I'm so sorry," Phoenix repeated over and over again. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she couldn't seem to hold back her sobs that had wrecked her so quickly.

"Oh Nix," Y/N cooed, bringing both her arms around her friend and drawing her closer. "It's okay. I promise you that Bob is going to be just fine. He'll heal." She pulled away from her friend and wiped the tears off Phoenix's cheeks with her thumbs. "And I don't plan on giving up on him, do you?"

"No, no! Of course not."

"Well then, there's nothing to cry about."

Lightly, Y/N nudged her shoulder into Nat's arm, which earned a snotty chuckle from the brunette. Phoenix's tears gradually stopped falling while she tried to regain her composure, and she gave Y/N a light slap on her arm playfully in retaliation.

They continued laughing quietly to themselves for a few moments until Y/N's phone chimed with an incoming call. She glanced down at the screen to see who was calling.

"Hi Rob, are you outside? Let me come to you." Y/N stood up and stretched her legs, walking over to the window and peering out of the blinds to see if she could see the hospital from Nat's room.

After scanning the street below and finding a familiar mop of grey hair - that had once been an even more familiar mop of dirty blond hair - she waved goodbye to Nat and walked to greet Bob's father. When he saw her approaching, he stood up straight and saluted her as he usually did to both his son and his wife. Y/N returned the playful gesture in turn, giving Bob's father a small smile before being engulfed in a hug. His strong grip enveloped her and he squeezed her tightly before pulling away after a short while to properly meet her eyes.

"How badly do I need to prepare?"

"He's almost in a full body cast, which is weirdly funny to look at, I'm not going to lie. But..." She paused briefly as Bob Senior's eyebrows raised. "...the memory thing is complicated to explain, but I guess I can explain as we walk up."

She put one of her hands on his shoulder to guide him into the building and began to lead the way as she told him everything he needed to know. From the way he listened attentively; how his eyebrows were knitted together whenever she told him something particularly troubling or shocking; how she'd seen a flash of fear cross his features when she recalled what the doctors had told her; and how he stared through the window with such worry painted, that she knew he wasn't as calm and collected as he wanted to seem.

"Hey, take a breath," Y/N instructed, "Come on, Pops, breathe with me." Her voice was soft, gentle, yet commanding and firm, and the man in front of her seemed to be trying his hardest to follow her instructions. After several repetitions of the exercise, he managed to gain control of his breathing. "Good job."

Senior took his first few feet into the hospital room with heavy steps, each echoing louder than the last. He was nervous, way more nervous than he'd anticipated he ever would be. After all, there was a good chance the relationship with his son would never be the same again.

Y/N returned to Bob's side and grabbed the controls to his bed, pushing the button to raise him enough to sit up. "Another new old person?" he asked her when he realised there was another person there.

"Bobby, this is your Pops. Your dad," Y/N smiled as she introduced the two men.

"Dad?" Bob repeated softly, looking up to his father for reassurance that this was, indeed, a fact. It was surreal seeing his dad, a total stranger, standing in front of him.

"Hi Bobby, can I hug you?"

"Please."

The reply left Bob's mouth so fast, so quickly, that it came out almost incoherent. But it mattered neither to him nor his father as Senior went ahead and pulled the younger man into a warm but awkward embrace. Bob groaned as he tried to raise his arms enough to at least touch the back of his father, but found himself unable to raise more than an inch from where he lay.

All he could manage to do was to rest his chin against his father's shoulder. For some reason that he couldn't quite understand, Bob's eyes began to water as he felt the forgotten, yet somewhat familiar, comforting warmth radiating off of his dad. The warmth seemed to seep into his bones, almost as if he'd experienced it before and this was simply reigniting the kindling within him.

"I don't know why I'm crying," he muttered, blinking back tears that threatened to fall from his eyes.

"Don't worry, I'm right there with ya, kid," Senior chuckled, wiping at Bob's eyes with his sleeve before he got rid of his own tears. Bob let out a small, weak chuckle that sounded almost identical to his father's, shaking his head lightly. He sniffled as Senior sat on the edge of the bed.

For the next few hours, Bob and his father kept talking to each other about everything. The pair bounced from topic to topic like they were old friends reuniting after years apart. There was a lot of reminiscing, mostly funny stories about Bob's childhood that made him laugh so much that he started snorting like a child.

That was until Bob asked, "What about mom? Where is she?"

His father didn't react at first. There was silence for a few moments before Y/N took the lead to answer, "Your mama passed two years ago, lovely," and Bob looked like somebody had sucker punched him in the stomach. Y/N placed her hand gently onto Bob's cheek as he closed his eyes and leaned in to her touch, trying to get some comfort from it as best as he could.

"Oh," He replied quietly, not sure of what else he should possibly say. "I-" His voice cracked slightly as he attempted to continue speaking. "I'm sorry... I guess..." he trailed off awkwardly.

Honestly, it was a lot to take in.

"I, uh, I still get choked up just saying the words out loud," Senior admitted quietly as he ran the tips of his fingers across the cast on shoulder absentmindedly.

"And I don't have a step mom or anything to worry about meeting?"

"No, no, Floyd men have a tendency to mate for life."

"Like beavers," Y/N added with a teasing smile while raising her eyebrow at Bob Junior.

Together, the trio continued to talk with each other about all sorts of things that came to their mind. It was natural to see the Floyd men interact so easily with one another, considering how similar they were in many ways. They talked, laughed, and joked. And it was hard to imagine that Bob's current mind had only come into contact with his dad a mere four hours before; but it happened.

And in that short span of time, he already felt as though he had been a part of that family. Obviously, that was true. Yet Bob, even though he had no connection to or reason why, felt like Floyd. Floyd was his name, Floyd was his father's name, Floyd was the love of his life's name. Bob Floyd was still, at heart, Robert Floyd Junior. He was a Floyd, he knew that for sure.

That wasn't something that could be changed.

"Sweetheart, why don't you take my hotel room for the night?" Senior asked Y/N as soon as he noticed her eyes drooping.

"Oh no, that's okay! I don't want to impose-" she started to politely decline, but Senior shook his head.

"I took an ambien on the flight, and I was out like a light. I knew if I was awake, I'd be shaking in my boots. You know how much of a wimp I am about flying -" Bob's dad's voice got quieter. "Even more so now."

Bob watched as his family exchanged a silent conversation with their eyes, which eventually led to Y/N giving in with a sigh of defeat. “Fine, fine…” she said, “But I will be back as soon as visitation begins."

Her hand cradled Bob's cheek in one smooth motion and pressed a sweet, lingering kiss onto it. For a second, it looked as if she was going to leave one right on his kisser and Bob tilted his head to allow her to do so, but she got second thoughts. Instead, he nuzzled further into her hand and pecked her palm in response.

"I'll see you tomorrow morning.. Try to get some sleep," Y/N spoke before pulling away from her husband to bid goodbye to Senior, who responded by pressing a kiss to her cheek. "Call if anything happens, okay?"

"Will do, Lieutenant."

With one final wave, Y/N left to turn in for the night. She was exhausted, but happy with the outcome of the day and hoped it would help Bobby get answers and clear some of the confusion and fear clouding his mind.

Senior chuckled to himself as he watched the way Bob's eyes followed Y/N's every move as she left his room. He knew his son was completely smitten with her still. It was clear on his face every time she stepped into view.

"You know, I'm glad you swoon over her. If you didn't, well, I don't think you'd be you anymore."

"Have I always had it this bad?"

"Yep, ever since you met her. You came back from that summer school and we couldn't shut you up. It was always, 'Y/N said...' or, 'Y/N and I...' or, 'I was with Y/N when...' You never stopped talking about her, which was odd cause you never used to talk all that much."

Chuckling, Bob rolled his eyes and shook his head. "I wish I could remember, Dad…" He trailed off and sighed. "I keep trying but nothing comes to me. It's not as if there's nothing there, I know there is. It's like every memory I have is fogged over, like it's crossed out or something. Like, I can see that it exists yet I can't reach for it."

He looked down towards his hands as they lay limply on top of the blanket on either side of his waist. Thanks to all the casts, his hands were the only body part that he could see clearly. It gave him hope, however little of it he had left at that moment, as it was evidence of him, his skin, of how much life he'd lived in order for his hands to become so roughened from age and experience.

"You just gotta keep trying," Senior encouraged with a shrug. He paused for a moment as a thought occurred to him, and patted himself down to try and locate his cellphone.

After fishing around, he pulled it out of the inner pockets of his coat and fiddled around with it for a minute or two, mumbling, "When your mama passed, you made this little video for her funeral. Lemme find it... I'm not so good with technology, this may take a while," as he swiped and clicked.

Eventually, he found the video in question and went to show it to Bob. However, once his hand got halfway, he remembered to ask, "Are you allowed to look at screens yet? It might hurt your brain."

"Hangman forced me to watch a football game with him yesterday, so yeah, I'm good."

Huddled together, the Floyd men watched all the old home movies that Bob had transferred onto his father's phone. Every single one was as mundane as the next, but still had them all cracking up. Senior, despite his lack of skills with technology, had spent a lot of the nineties with a camera in his hand.

Bob's dad passed that hobby onto his son, apparently, as the moment Bob took over the control of the phone, he found previous messages he'd sent that were filled with little vlogs and random moments of the adventures he'd been on.

There were videos of Hangman and Rooster and a lady he assumed was Phoenix as they drank beer and hung out at a bar.

There was some of Mickey failing at a video game surrounded by other people dressed in khaki.

There was an uncountable amount of videos of Y/N.

Dates they'd been on. Places they'd gone. Times when he'd caught her singing. Or when she'd filmed him crying at a Disney movie. Or when he'd travelled across the entire country to bring her flowers on base. There were millions of memories stored in those digital files - ones that he wanted to remember but couldn't. The videos would have to do for now.

It was better than nothing.

Next Chapter -> Think About Love

*Click here for my Bob Floyd masterlist (including Rhett Abbott and Miles Miller), or here for the entire masterlist*

Wanna be added to a taglist? Either comment on this post or send me a message!

[whetstonefires]

what does te ne mori faciamus mean? I can find definitions for ne me mori facias from sephiroths theme but I'm having trouble getting a translation for this that makes sense. My guess is something to the effect of we will not let you die? I've been wondering this since I first read the fic but I only just realized I could ask you

a;lkfask;dlf jthat’s my attempt at Latin yeah. i’m not surprised it’s not right! because i...honestly didn’t even try. to make it correct. i just messed with the pronouns in that bit of one-winged angel, had a giggle, and moved on.

i’m...weirdly very proud right now because not only did i knowingly let myself be that sloppy in public, you’ve caught me having done so and i’m not even freaking out! this is probably a mental health milestone lmao.

but yeah the point was it’s the one where the order of events i set up means Sephiroth and Angeal are going to raise hell trying to save their friend.

i actually thought of that fic as being mostly drama and fluff, and only after several people commented on the inherent tragedy of the blood-brothers biocontamination causing a sixteen year old to develop a terminal disease did i notice that yes, in fact, there’s significant angst there. it’s just that compared to the pointless destruction and intense isolation of the tragedy set up in canon, this seemed so much nicer....

[cockslutpadalecki]

Bang Bang, There Goes Paradise

Summary: Despite how hard your tough exterior may seem to outsiders, you’re not made of stone. Knives don’t blunt against your skin. Bullets don’t ricochet. You bleed and cry just like every other pathetic human on this planet. All over Rick fucking Flag.

Characters: Rick Flag x F!Reader.

Words: 2.8K.

Warnings: major angst, smangst, explicit sexual content, oral sex (female receiving), female masturbation, mentions of squirting, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it kids), vaginal sex, cream pie, mentions of aftercare, a little bit of fluff, 18+.

A/N: Based of a song called "Hurts" by Emeli Sande, which is where the title comes from— I know I’ve already written a fic inspired by this song before, but I couldn't get this idea out of my head and had to write it down. I am so fucking proud of the way this story turned out. Beta: @princessmisery666​ but all the general bullshit is entirely mine. While likes are gold, feedback/reblogs are golden. Please support your content creators. My work is my own, therefore I do not give consent for this story to be re-posted or translated to any other site.

It hurts.

The way he pretends he doesn’t remember.

The way he acts like you don’t exist. A mere figment of imagination that sits locked in the back of his mind, hazy like a broken memory from his childhood.

You’re just another member of the team to him now. Another monster he’s taken an oath to protect. No longer out of love, but loyalty to his country.

You tell yourself it doesn’t hurt— that it doesn’t rip a hole in your chest a thousand times every time you hear his name, but it does. It fucking hurts, because no matter how hard you fight to keep the barricade up around your heart, it keeps crumbling beneath your fingertips. This is why you don’t catch feelings. This is why you keep everyone at revolver’s length, ready to pull the trigger the minute they piss you off. But not him.

You let him in like a fucking fool, and now you’re paying the price for your moment of weakness. And all it took was a pretty face and a magnificent cock.

You try to catch his eye across the room, but every time you’re just on the cusp— that very delicate edge of staring back into those stunning brown eyes of his, he shifts his gaze and he’s lost to you once more.

Rick Flag used to be the love of your life.

Correction; Rick Flag is the love of your life.

People could argue that someone of your calibre isn’t capable of love, and honestly? They’re right. Your severe lack of empathy and short temper put you in Belle Reve for a reason, but obviously Waller saw something in you she could use to her advantage. In the beginning it didn’t bother you that you were the teacher's pet— her lap dog willing to do all of the dirty work even Harley wouldn’t sniff at, but the longer you worked amongst the worst of the worst— alongside him, your humanity began to flicker to life and it scared the shit out of you.

Naturally your fear eventually pushed Rick away, until he couldn’t sew your broken parts back together quickly enough.

But despite how hard your tough exterior may seem to outsiders, you’re not made of stone. Knives don’t blunt against your skin. Bullets don’t ricochet. You bleed and cry just like every other pathetic human on this planet.

All over Rick fucking Flag.

“Y/N, are you in?” Waller repeats, her tone curt. Clearly she’s been trying to get your attention for a while. Glancing to the head of the table, you give her a small nod, agreeing anyway despite barely remembering the details of the mission.

“I’m in.” Your eyes flicker towards him, and for a split second, you think you catch him looking back.

-

The mission is a bust. A great big fucking bust.

Two of the team lay dead somewhere in the South Pacific, and you’re sporting a through and through in your shoulder that earned you the mother of all lectures from Flag for not obeying orders. You hate every second of it, feeling like a fucking petulant child as he berates you in front of the entire team. At least he’s talking to you now, your brain unhelpfully reminds you, even if it is in that Colonel voice that makes you equal parts mad and horny as hell.

As he steps away, you meet DuBois’ eye and he makes a gun signal with his fingers, aiming them at the back of Flag’s head in a more violent version of charades. He shrugs, awaiting your response.

The small gesture of playfulness eases your bad mood somewhat, and you give in to laugh softly as you shake your head. You have to take advantage of the light moments whenever you can, even if it is at the expense of pretending Rick’s beautiful head gets blown clean off his shoulders. Balance and all that.

-

Your brief reprieve doesn’t last long once you land back in Louisiana, and you’re shuttled back to Belle Reve. The bus always smells like death and piss, but that’s the least of your worries as you climb on board last, your heart dropping as you notice the only spare space available is— yeah, you guessed it, next to fucking Flag.

Harley and DuBois share a look between them just before you sit down, and you swear you could murder them both for their attempts to coerce the situation.

You gotta hand it to them, it works to a degree. You haven’t been this close to him in weeks. The underlying hint of his faint body wash beneath sweat and dirt makes your damn eyes sting with tears, reminding you of stolen moments behind turned backs and closed doors.

For once, you literally can’t wait to get back to your cell.

-

It sounds ridiculous to call your cell home, but after three years stuck in here, it’s the closest thing you have to one.

Waller makes it clear that even though you’re helping the government, you’re still a prisoner— still a criminal, and therefore you must still be treated as one, so there’s little in the way of personal belongings. But the few things you do have; a faded photo of your mother, a dog-eared copy of Animal Farm and a well-read letter from Rick, you guard with your life. They’re not much, but they’re yours.

At the end of one rare, successful mission, he had discreetly slipped the piece of paper inside the pocket of your tac pants, and since then, your simple routine formed without you realising it had become exactly that.

You run your thumb over the discoloured ink of your name and return to another life— a life you had a tiny glimpse inside of. A time when every letter was etched with adoration. You feel a strange sense of comfort in this private tradition that belongs only to you, silently wishing you could absorb the words from the page into your bloodstream.

You’ve even taken to repeating it in the dark blanket of night sometimes after a bad dream— especially the ones where your subconscious taunts you with images of him lying dead in front of you. Anything to ground you, reassure you that he’s very much alive and well.

A subtle knock pulls from your thoughts. You don’t bother granting them entry, knowing that whoever it is will come in regardless of whether you want them to or not, and that’s exactly what they do. The steel door creaks open, and the last person you want to see fills the doorway.

Rick.

You close your eyes quickly in an attempt to blink away the tears, silently reproaching yourself for being so pitiful. Fuck sake, pull yourself together.

As you open them, your gaze is temporarily pulled towards the camera above the door frame, its slow blinking red light turning black as he nods silently to someone out of sight for it to be switched off. You know all of his tells by now, his commands that need no voice. Your stomach knots, remembering all the times he’d retreat here after a mission needing to fuck the frustration away, the prying eyes of the guards absent from watching every deep seated thrust into your sloppy, wet cunt.

You hear the door slam shut, heavy locks clicking into place. There’s nowhere to escape from him here, no corners to hide within, no shadows to conceal you. It’s just you and Rick, exposed like bone.

“You could at least try to look at me.” His voice is thick, with all the roughness of gravel. Just to placate him, you shoot the quickest of superficial glances his way.

“What do you want, Flag?” you ask, the name sour on your tongue as you turn your attention back to your tac boots, bending over to loosen the laces and slip them off with a soft sigh.

“Cool, we’re back to surnames, I’ll take it,” he jokes, trying to poke fun at the string of insults you fired his way in the jungle, while promising to rip him limb from limb the second you got back onto US soil.

You return to full height, staring at him with pure venom.

“Look, I just came to see how you’re doing.” He eyes the pristine, white bandage wrapped tight around your shoulder. “You took a pretty hefty shot back there.”

“I’m just fine Colonel.” You give him a fake smile— one that doesn’t meet your eyes. Your hands fiddle at your belt, the sound of leather whooshing against fabric as you pull it through the loops sharply.

“Don’t be like this,” he rebukes and you glare at him. “I gotta treat you the same way as everyone else, and if that means riding your ass about stupid shit that’s gonna get you fuckin’ killed then I havta do it.”

“Shoulda got Waller to blow my head off then. Save you the trouble.”

“Why do you always gotta have a goddamn answer for everything?” he snaps tersely, taking a step towards you.

“Don’t you like my smart mouth anymore?” you tease, seductively rolling your tongue across your bottom lip. “Thought you loved it when I wrapped it around that big, fat co—”

“Stop.” Rick raises his finger at you, and opens his mouth again to continue, but thinks better of it as he lets go of a deep breath.

He rubs a hand over his jaw with an exasperated sigh before placing both hands on those lithe fucking hips that make your thighs clench just by looking at them.

“We’re not doing this right now.” He turns as if he’s about to exit your cell.

“That’s it, fuck off and leave me alone. You’re good at that,” you scream at the back of Rick’s head.

He whips around, lips caught in an angry frown as he storms the small distance between you until he’s inches from your face. “Do you really think I wanted to leave? That I wanted to turn my back on you?”

“Your actions tell a very different story.”

“You got it into your stupid head that you don’t deserve what we have.” He looks exhausted as he stares down at you, eyes glassy with tears. “That because of all the fucked up shit you did in your past, you’re somehow not allowed to be happy.”

“And you proved me right,” you snap back. “You walked away, remember?”

“I had to.”

“Had to?” you scoff. “Bullshit. You pretended like I didn’t exist, wouldn’t even look at me—”

“I can’t look at you without wantin’ to fuckin’ kiss you.”

“Then kiss me, asshole!”

Rick needs no further invitation. His lips slam against yours so forcefully you almost stumble backwards, but his hands reach out to grab your hips to stop you. Your uninjured arm weaves its way around his neck and your hand ends up his hair, tugging desperately on dirty blonde locks as you lick along the seam of his lips, urging him to open up. When the heat of his tongue finally laves over the wetness of yours, you can’t help but let go of a lewd moan into his mouth.

The pent up tension between you leaks out in those kisses, but still some lingers and you can almost taste it on Rick’s lips. No doubt he can too. It’s sweet with an underlying bitterness— a need, a hunger to consume the other whole.

He grunts against you, bending almost double to slide his hands under your ass. He coaxed you to jump into his arms and the anaesthetic effect of his kiss makes you forget all about the ache in your shoulder as you do. Wrapping your legs around his waist, Rick carries you to the wall and shoves you against it, the force making you yelp in agony across his lips.

He pulls back quickly, eyes full of concern while his swollen, kiss-bitten lips tell another story. “Shit, are you okay?”

“Fine,” you grit, hissing out a pained breath as you roll your hips against his. “I’m fine,” you reassure him, but he doesn’t look convinced so you dip your head, nipping at his lips to show him you mean it. “Just fuck me, Rick.”

He drops you to your feet long enough to pop the button on your pants, his hand reaching beneath cotton underwear to seek out slick heat. Sinking your teeth into Rick’s swollen bottom lip, you whimper around it, your pussy reacting to his touch like he never left as he buries two fingers inside you, palm flush to your clit.

It’s suddenly quiet inside the cell— save for staccato, laboured breaths, hushed moans and the obscene suck and squelch of your pussy while he finger fucks you. There’s nothing he loves more than foreplay— watching you ride his hand as you try to keep your legs from giving out. He alternates between kissing you and pulling back to watch your face twist and contort around the pressure building and if you know Rick, and you do, he’s not going to stop until his wrist aches and you’re digging your nails into his shoulders.

And like a true creature of habit, that’s exactly what he does. He doesn’t take his eyes off you, gazing in awe while you come, only moving to steal an open-mouthed kiss when you grab his damp t-shirt by the collar and pull him roughly to you.

Retreating his fingers, he makes you suck them clean before he’s kneeling at your feet, tugging the tight black pants down your thighs. You step out of them one trembling leg at a time and once you’re free, Rick kisses a trail back up, making sure to cover your litany of scars with tenderness just like he used to.

He nuzzles his nose against your clothed core, inhaling deeply through the fabric, the unmistakable, decadent scent of you. “God, I missed you.”

He can’t wait. Deft fingers discard your panties while a wet, flat tongue delves greedily through your folds. He grabs at your thigh, and anchors it over his broad shoulder, allowing him better access to your cunt. A half-swallowed scream rips from your throat as your hands find their way back into his hair, gripping tight at the root as he expertly plays your overwrought body like an instrument.

Rick turns you inside out in a matter of minutes, and you’re squirting all over his chin with a stifled cry of his name between poorly sealed lips. The room whites out into static for a heartbeat as you transcend before the sensation of a messy kiss on your still throbbing clit plummets you back to reality. As you recover, he pushes himself to his feet with a wry smile and there’s a part of you that longs to wipe it away with your fist. Instead you tear into his tac pants and pull his weeping cock free, basking in the groan that grumbles in the back of Rick’s throat as you run your thumb over the head, sticky cum clinging to your fingerprints.

You’re back in his arms before you know it as blunt, hot warmth teases at the cusp of your entrance. Grabbing at the sill of the small window above you, you pull yourself up a little with your good arm as Rick waits a beat, making sure your lust-blown eyes are focused purely on him. He sinks tantalisingly slow and deep into your wet heat, eager to watch the way your mouth falls open in a silent gasp as he bottoms out.

He fucks you right against the wall with long, languid thrusts, designed to prolong every second of intimacy, but they soon evolve— once purposeful and precise to wild and erratic as he fails to hold back, each of his deep-seated advances coaxing another orgasm to the surface.

This time, you can’t hold back the scream as you splinter in mid-air. Your legs involuntarily seize around his waist as squeeze and clamp down onto Rick’s cock, walls milking him until he’s tumbling over the edge right after you, your name on the curl of his tongue.

He’s still hard inside you as he carries you the short distance to your bunk, laying you carefully down onto the mattress, and plants a sloppy kiss against your lips as he pulls out, hot cum dribbling down through your puffy folds.

“Mm Rick,” you mumble sleepily when his body heat disappears from above you. “Pl-please don’t go.” Your fingers reach out for him blindly, until he returns with a soft ssh and a warm washcloth to wipe between your legs.

“It’s okay baby, I’m here, I’m still here,” he soothes, brushing a stray strand of hair from your forehead before replacing it with his lips. “I’m not going anywhere.”

***

Rick Flag: @beardburnsupersoldiers @dopeqff​

Forever: @amandamdiehl​ @b3autyfuldisast3r​ @buttercandy16​ @crashdevlin​ @dangertoozmanykids101​ @daughterofthenight117​ @donnaintx​ @danneelsmain​ @dandywinchesterbras​ @deangirl93​ @doozywoozy​ @downanddirtydean​ @foxyjwls007​ @gayasslookinass​ @hoewkeyesblue​ @heyyouwiththeassbutt​ @hoboal87​ @ilovefanfic86​ @jewelswrites-ish​ @joseyrw​ @letsby​ @letsdisneythings​ @mogaruke​ @notyourtypicalrose​ @nik2write​ @novawillowbarnes @obsessivelycapricious​ @pinkshenanigan​ @princessmisery666​ @rattwritesfics​ @sea040561​ @sweeterthanthis​ @slutformarvelmen​ @simpformarvelmenandwoman​ @stoneyggirl​ @warriorqueen1991​ @wonder-cole​ @xoxabs88xox​ @zooaliaa​

[oftincturedwords]

chapters : 1/1 fandom : top gun ( 1986 ) , top gun : maverick rating : t+ chapter warning(s) : ¡spoilers! anxiety attack , panic attack , grief / mourning , canonical character death(s) , crying , etc. characters : tom ‘iceman’ kazansky , pete ‘maverick’ mitchell , mentioned nick ‘goose’ bradshaw , mentioned carole bradshaw , mentioned bradley bradshaw , mentioned ron 'slider’ kerner , mentioned sam ‘merlin’ wells pairing(s) : gen. established iceman / maverick. background goose / carole. additional tags : hurt / comfort , angst , post canon , pre - canon , affection , trust , hugs , affection , etc. prompt : “I can’t breathe, I don’t know what to do— I can’t—“ word count : timeline : set post top gun ( 1986 ) , yet prior to top gun : maverick summary : maverick’s grief sets out to crush him , but iceman is there to as a lifebuoy as his wingman wades through it a/n : this was another prompt challenge given by my sister , she picked the prompt & the characters / pairing whilst i picked hers then we had a half hour to write all that we could thus you can thank her for this angst ! please note i have yet to actually see top gun : maverick ( i have no spare money to spend on going to the cinema sadly even though i am dying to see this film ) thus if there are any mistakes continuity - wise i apologise & please take it with a grain of salt. all i know of this film is what tumblr has shown me & what i have read of the synopsis on wiki… yet i decided to write for it … no beta thus all mistakes are mine. disclaimer : i do not own any right to top gun ( 1986 ) or top gun : maverick. neither am i associated with the production companies , nor any of the actors who portray these characters. i make no money off any of my stories , this is purely for entertainment purposes. read on : ao3 | below the cut

He finds him knelt before Goose’s grave, head bowed low with a hand placed upon the flat surface of the tombstone’s top. Even from this distance he can see the trembling that coursed through Maverick’s smaller frame, the interment hitch of his shoulders and the way the entirety of his being shuddered with the effort to muffle the relentless outpouring of emotion.

Striving to quiet the choked sobs that Iceman can visibly see catch within the other man’s chest, despite there being none else around but him to witness the overspilling of grief.

Hiccuped and stuttering breaths were all that was audible in the hushed atmosphere of the cemetery, no cries nor sobs could be heard. A grief suffered in silence until it couldn't be suppressed any longer, yet before it had overflowed, Maverick had sought out solitude and a solace he could no longer gain, in that of his late RIO and dearest friend.

The forever stinging wound of Goose’s death had been renewed by the passing of Carole, having left young Bradley Bradshaw without either parent. And even though Mav had lost another friend in Carole, Ice knew something more had happened since Mav was here rather than with Bradley. For all Maverick lived up to his callsign and was a cocky bastard, he loved Bradley and never failed to be there for the kid, and losing a parent ( no matter the age of the child ) was a hurt that stung beyond measure when they were of the good calibre that's Ice knew Carole had been.

Which was why when Mav had fled after the wake, leaving Bradley, Ice had seen that the younger man was all right as he knew Mav would appreciate then followed after his wayward wingman.

It was a credit to how well Iceman knew the other pilot that he knew Mav would head here rather than any bar or even the hangers that stored the plane he was so fond of working on. The circumstances certainly helped guide Ice, but too he knew that the bond between Mav and his former RIO was something even death hadn't broken.

Forever Mav seemed haunted by the weight of guilt and memory of his friend that he carried. Staking his career on a certain path to ensure he could be as close as he could to the widow and her child, and being present for every event he could throughout Bradley’s life. From birthdays to graduations to even school projects. And when he couldn't be there physically, he wrote letters and sent Polaroids of his time deployed.

Military approved ones, of course. Meaning there were usually ridiculous angled photos of him with Iceman or Merlin. Sometimes candids of them in the mess or all of them squashed into their small quarters. One Mav had begged Ice to take on deck with Mav silhouetted by the orange and pink hues of the setting sun with the dark outline of his plane at his side.

“C’mon, Ice, it's for Bradley.” Mav had shoved down on the paperback Ice had been reading to look him in the eye.

Ice had sighed, the glare he had aimed towards Mav’s wide, mockingly innocent - looking eyes had softened at the mention of Bradley. It wasn't as if Iceman could deny Goose’s kid a photo, his callsign and reputation notwithstanding.

“Why did you wait until now to do this?” Ice instead asked, but he set aside his book with a quick glance to memorise the page number he was on before swinging his legs off his bunk to plant them on the deck.

“Sunsets and sunrises are the best aboard.” Was the simple explanation Mav had thrown Ice’s way, shrugging nonchalantly in direct contrast to the smug grin that split his features, “Knew my wingman wouldn't let me down.”

Ice had been wholly incapable of curbing the slow smile that upturned his lips at hearing that, unable to refute nor say anything in return to those words. Healing his head, a fondness he rarely felt for others warmed within his chest as he had ducked down to don his boots so he could follow Mav out onto the flight deck. 

They had been chased off by a few of the deck crew afterwards, but the photo had come out perfect according to Maverick, and he had sent it with his next letter.

Sighing through his nose and feeling the muscles along his jaw ache at how tightly he was clenching it, Ice stepped forward. Footfalls purposefully audible and stride confident, traversing the neatly up kept field of grass before the row of graves towards where his wingman was still crouched.

It worked as Ice had wanted in causing Mav’s head to snap up, looking up and searching for whomever was walking towards him. Yet it was the brokenly uttered ‘Ice’ that had his steps faltering at sheer amount of anguish infused into that single syllable. Wretched and desolate it was. Laden thickly by tears and insatiable heartache.

Only for a moment did his misstep before Ice practically ran the rest of the short distance to reach Maverick’s side, slowing only so he could crouch down beside the other. Taking in the tear tracks that near gleamed the in low light of the cemetery, the riverlets a ceaseless wash of grief, Ice reached out to rest his hand on Maverick’s shoulder. Gripping there when his wingman didn't shy away nor flinch at the contact, instead seeming to fold underneath it all the more.

Bowing his head again, Ice felt Mav’s shoulders droop despite the tension that was still laced through every fibre of the muscles beneath. Pulled taut and trembling vehemently from both the physical strain of stress and the emotional upheaval. Ice merely tightened his grip in response, shifting closer to offer a share of strength for Mav to lean against should he wish, or for when his body finally reached its limits. Whatever came first Ice would let his wingman fall.

“I can’t breathe, I don’t know what to do -I can’t—” Mav’s words faltered and stumbled over one another, intermixed with breathless huffs that were poor facsimiles of sobs he tried so valiantly to contain.

“Easy, Mav. Steady breaths.” Ice soothed, voice pitched low yet steely was his tone, not demanding but firm and grounding as he moves his other hand up to grasp at Maverick's exposed wrist whilst his other hand slide along the other's shoulder blades to lay across his upper back and lightly grip Maverick’s other shoulder, keeping up a litany as he did so, “C’mon, you know how, just focus on breathing for me right now. That’s what you can do. In… and out…”

The near hug was steady yet loose, knowing Maverick had a penchant for fleeing when overwhelmed by emotions he wished none else to witness, Ice didn't want to force him to stay and endure if moving or space would ease the hurt and trouble that painted his wingman’s soul.

Keeping an anchoring presence nearby if it was wanted, but allowing Mav to choose, Ice continued to breathe with exaggeration and guide the other man to follow suit. Slow yet consistent, Ice could feel Mav’s breathing ease by measure. Still jarred by the intermittent hitch and inevitable sob, but it wasn't the panicked gasping of before.

And it seemed Ice’s consideration of Mav wanting to be left alone had been an unneeded contengacy for the smaller man melted into his hold once his breaths were no longer staggered and harsh, seeming to deflate against Ice’s secure embrace. An epitome of exhaustion in every line along his near seamless features and angle of his frame.

Ice easily took the other's weight, shifting his arms marginally so he could wrap them solidly around Mav’s smaller frame. Not bracketing, but offering the steadfastness of his touch. Bending his head down, Ice pressed his lips lightly to the top of Maverick’s head before turning to rest his cheek there. Content to remain here until hsi wingman’s tears had run dry, or chose to move away. However long, Iceman would be there.

“She, she asked me to pull his application.” Mav’s muffled voice was welled with sorrow, near strangled by the sheer harshness of his tears yet persistent he ever was to ensure he was heard.

Although Ice hadn't needed nor asked for an explanation, he understood immediately then. What had shoved his wingman to the edge and had him seeking out an unattainable solace. If anyone would grant the best guidance through this it would have been Goose. For any commanding officer could shuffle out the application of their subordinate from gaining entry into the USNA. And Carole had asked Maverick to do it because she knew he could, or at least see it done even if he couldn't himself.

“It was her dying wish.” Mav continued, his breaths growing short again and near hiccuping they were so stuttered, “And this’ll, Ice this… he wants to be a pilot so badly and…”

“And if he finds out, it will break whatever trust is between you two.” Ice added after Mav was silent for a few moments too long, he’s simply been shaking his head beneath Ice’s cheek and swallowing as he tried to give voice to the words Iceman had found for him.

Nodding stiltedly, Mav blinked several times to clear his vision at a renewed wash of tears before brokenly agreeing, “Yeah… Selfish part of me doesn't want to lose that with him.”

Ice stared across the expanse of the empty cemetery over Mav’s head, taking in none of the darkening sky as evening began to fall towards night, a knowing expression highlighted his features, “But you're still going to do it.”

“How could I not, Ice?” Mav said in way of a confirmation to Ice’s statement, his tone desperate, “Carole asked me to. Asked to ensure, to ensure Bradley doesn't end up like...”

The words didn't need to be spoken for Ice to know what Carole had said.

Unconsciously, Ice’s arms tightened around Maverick, unable to find the needed words to comfort and knowing that voicing his thoughts on the matter would do the opposite of help. Neither would he appeal to a pragmatic view of the situation.

“I can’t just ignore it, Ice.” Maverick shifted back, seeming to gather a modicum of what Iceman was thinking, to put enough distance between them only so far as needed for his eyes to meet Ice’s, “I owe it to her, and to Goose.”

“Okay.” Was all Ice said, his tone resolute as he held Mav’s gaze. The low light had his wingman’s irises appearing dark, their usually audacious gleam was entirely absent. Instead replaced by a sorrowful resolve, determined in his plan of action and wholly prepared to accept the consequences.

“Okay?” The single word held an edge of indignation, as if Mav thought Ice was merely placating, but Ice was quick to shake his head to forestall any further words from the other pilot before he continued.

“You don't have the clearance to pull applications, Mav,” Again Ice had to shake his head when Maverick opened his mouth to proclaim some scheme or strategy to see it done, continuing once the other had clicked his mouth shut, “but I do.”

At seeing Maverick’s eyes widened a fraction, Iceman added, knowing his wingman would try to protest dragging Ice into this more than he already was, but he would hear of it, “This isn't you asking me. You’re certain this is what you want to do, then I’m the easiest way to make it happen.”

Mav stared for a long moment, features unreadable except for the tears that still brimmed along his lower eyelashes before an upturn came to a single corner of his lips, eyes alighting with a sharp warmth, “Still trying to prove you’re the best?”

A scoff fell from Iceman’s lips upon hearing that, shaking his head with a degree of fondness he only felt for the other pilot, willing to play into the levity if that's what Mav wanted, “Much as I hate to burst your bubble, Mav, but I’ve already proved that.”

“Yeah.” Mav readily agreed, “Yeah, you have.”

Those words of acceding rather than a continuation of their usual bantered argument over who the best ( the pilot portion was implied yet had as well transitioned towards other things they were good at over the years ) had caught Iceman off guard. All the more so by the conviction that teemed throughout Maverick’s tone and the unwavering focus he held Ice’s gaze with.

In lieu of a verbal response, Ice merely leant forwards to touch his forehead to Mav’s, who let himself be guided and relaxed into the gesture in turn. Eyes closing a moment, each seemed to simply bask in each other’s presence, drawing comfort and stability from one another.

Forgetting the logistics and dawning future for the time, focussing upon the closeness of the other; the gentle pressure of their heads together, the weight of their arms intertwined together, and the ghost-like wisps of each breath taken.

“Thank you.” Mav said then, low yet significant, and Ice felt his own frame relax further at the welling of warmth in his chest. Balming the effects of what he would do for the moment, just as Maverick would do it for Carole, Iceman would do it for Maverick.

“No need,” Mirroring the other’s tone, Ice opened his eyes to see Mav looking back at him as he leant away somewhat to ensure his meaning was understood, “I’ll always have your back.”

[dashielldeveron]

and i’ve gotta crow | takami keigo

hawks x pro-hero! reader. quirk unspecified.

summary: “You’re suffering from amnesia,” says Hawks to you, in your hospital bed.

No, you are not.

“We’re engaged to be married.”

No, you are not.

After an accident that was that bastard Hawks’s fault, you decide to play along with your diagnosis of amnesia, among other things, because how far can you make your former bully bend over backwards for you?

fluff/trickery??? completely avoidable angst, bc reader is a little shit. hawks is a scumbag bully at first. reader is honestly kind of violent. dealing with acne in a scene.

When the first things you saw after groggily blinking your eyes open were multiple IVs in the back of your hand, you flipped over and snuggled farther into your hospital bed to deal with it later, but against your will you were forced to lie flat on your back to stare into the hospital fluorescents.

When the nurse fiddling with your IVs came into focus, he said, “You need to lie on your back. You have deep gashes on your lower abdomen, and tossing about too much could open the stitches.”

That sounded like bullshit, but you were too out of it to care. “Yeah, okay,” you said through a croak, “Oh, fuck.” You wrestled a hand to your throat, massaging it. “Am I waking up from a coma? Don’t let anyone see me until I’ve done my eyebrows.”

The nurse laughed through his nose. “No, don’t worry. You’ve barely been—” He cut himself off and frowned. “The news should probably be broken to you when you have emotional support. I’ll be back soon.”

He left.

Emotional support? Wouldn’t that fucking gash on your stomach be—ooh, ouch, don’t move.

Where’s your phone? Where’s your goddamn phone; where’s any of your personal belongings? If they got crushed, you’re killing Hawks on sight.

Hawks, oh, my God. Where is he? He’s dead. If he still has the audacity to bully you professionally—fuck.

He’d cornered you on patrol earlier—whenever that was—and cut into you in that casually, negging-type way that wasn’t enough to report but enough to make you stay up late and freak out about being good enough. It hurt your chest whenever you thought about it.

But this was the first time he’d gotten seriously physical.

He’d alit on the top of the warehouse next to you, landing what would have been haphazardly for anyone else (the arch of his feet against the edge, his toes barely touching roof) and had crouched next to you, his scarlet wings completely blowing your cover as they stretched and shuddered.

“What’s a little girl like you doing in this part of town?” Hawks had propped his chin on both his fists. “Thought shoplifters were more your calibre.”

“Hawks, this is actually really important to me, so please, please leave,” you’d said, keeping your eyes on the group you could barely make out through the skylight. They’d already been partially concealed by crates, so they were hard to see.

“Someone else give you a tip for their location?” He’d tapped your opposite shoulder with the end of his wing, but you hadn’t even flinched.

“Bruh, you know I’ve been on this for weeks,” you’d said, shifting away from him, “I even shared intel at your last briefing.”

“Is that what you were talking about?” Hawks had scratched his chin. “I zoned out. Usually the little cases female heroes present aren’t in my circle, and I like to unwind when brain power isn’t needed.”

You’d planned to rip his wings out feather by feather while you’d gritted your teeth. “You can’t talk to me like that, Hawks.”

He’d laughed, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. “C’mon, babygirl, have a slice of chill, won’t you? I thought you were one of the cool girls. Relax. I don’t mean anything by it.”

“Leave me alone, Hawks. You’re not gonna bully me into joining your agency. You’re not gonna bully me into quitting being a hero,” you’d said, inwardly screaming, “I’d tell you to go talk to someone who’d fall for your shit, but then, she’d have to suffer, too. So, fuck off into a sewer, jackass.”

“Oof,” Hawks had said, placing a hand over his heart and shaking his head, “You don’t have to be such a bitch, sweetheart. I’m only looking for my better half. Didn’t think it could be you, but I’d thought I’d give you a chance to prove me wrong. Don’t take yourself too seriously; just be along for the ride like the rest of us.”

“Huh,” you had said, and you’d stood and strode to the edge of the warehouse to your harness and rope, and you rappelled down the side of it as stealthily as you came up.

“I’ve been watching you all these years, sweetness, and I know you by now; I know how you really feel,” Hawks had said a bit too loudly while he flew downwards at your speed (braggart). “Strip away all of your busy work, your so-called hero trappings, and we’d mesh together just fine. We may be rough around the edges, but we clean up really nicely, don’t we?”

You’d unclipped your carabiner and stepped out of your harness, stashing it in your pack. “Fuck off.”

You’d moved towards the back entrance, but Hawks had slammed a hand against the concrete wall in front of you. You’d ducked under it and carried on, and he’d grabbed the back of your shirt.

“C’mon, if we didn’t know each other, and our eyes met from across the room at some hero gala, you’d be all over me, wouldn’t you?”

You had swiped his hand away. “I’d be putting a lid on my drink.”

His arms behind his back, Hawks had followed you through the door and behind the exposed pipes and closer to your targets. “Saw you coming onto Todoroki at the last one. You looked fine in his colours, but you would’ve looked better in mine.”

Don’t grace him with an answer; don’t grace him with an ans— “I wasn’t coming onto Shoto,” you’d said, pulling yourself up a couple of pipes for a better view—and you’d hit him when he flapped his wings to hover the few feet you’d ascended, because the noise might alert them.

“Yeah, you just simp for him, right? Then you didn’t step outside your comfortable ice queen act?” Hawks had gripped onto a pipe just underneath your ass. “You’re too much of a natural tease for that.”

How can you report him when he’s the head of his own agency? You guess the commission might listen, but what can they do besides slap his wrist? There’s really no one who can stop him, is there?

You hadn’t replied but instead crawled onto the iron catwalk. If you could position yourself about three-quarters of the way across, you’d be able to effectively activate your quirk and get this over with—wait, why would you think like that? You’d been waiting for this for ages.

A hand spreading across the small of your back had reminded you.

You’d flipped over with fire in your eyes and kicked him away as quietly as you could, but all he’d done was sit back on his knees to grin down at you, army-crawling your way through a dirty warehouse.

Would he take credit for your work again?

You’d shaken yourself. Eat my entire ass, Hawks. And with that, you’d continued inching towards your targets. When you’d gotten into position to watch them, Hawks had merely watched you.

You had scowled. “I’m gonna tear you a—”

“You had a hard childhood, didn’t you?”

A chill had unfurled up your spine, simple as that. Hawks now not only had the annoying air of an arrogant pick-up artist but also gave you an intense sense of danger. You’d moved away from him, regrettably away from your target, but Hawks had followed you, getting closer until his body heat had seeped into yours, a self-satisfied smirk plastered across his dumb face.

“I could take suuuuch good care of you, little girl,” he’d said under his breath, “if only you’d let me. No one else is crazy enough to call me out or want more than the bare minimum.” His wings had folded in on his back, making themselves as small as possible to get closer to you. “If you give in, tell me yes, say please, you wouldn’t have to let any worries cross your pretty little mind. All you have to do is let me in.”

“Yikes,” you had said, sucking in through your teeth, “God, you’re a creep.”

Hawks had slammed you down onto the catwalk, iron reverberating through the warehouse as it struck your head, and your targets had looked up by the time the catwalk hinges had loosened and had come crashing down in the midst of their meeting.

You’re really not supposed to shoot guns inside. Don’t they know that’ll ruin their ears? No matter, really. You had fought them anyway, amidst crates splintering open from whatever they were shooting at you—fuck, that was a big hole. What’s oozing out of that? Gross, don’t step in it.

One with a normal revolver—his arm had given a woody crack when you’d bent it backwards—God, that was nice. Good sounds. If you could sample them into a rap track, you would.

You’d been planning a collab with a popular rapper while you’d hurled yourself at another villain, sawdust flying—just to keep your mind busy, really, but fucking—fucking Hawks had bested whoever he’d half-assed to the ground and had shouted your way.

“C’mere, you little shit—”

He’d scooped you up while you’d been taking care of it by yourself, and he had pinned you down behind a stack of crates that reached the remains of the catwalk, straddling you but keeping most of his weight off, his wings outstretched yet still hidden from the cloud of sawdust rising with deep gurgling on the far side.

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” he’d said over the chaos, spit flying, “You can’t handle this; you’re gonna get fucking killed. I can’t babysit you all the time.”

“Get fucked; I’m the number fourteen hero,” you’d said, deadly still, but twitching in fury, “I can handle anyth—”

“Aww, fourteen. And one day babygirl might reach the single digits.” Hawks had sneered in your face. “If she manages to fuck her way through them.”

Your jaw had dropped, and you pretended to cough on sawdust and kicked him off in the confusion. Hawks had grabbed a hold of your calf, grappling for your thigh, while you’d scrambled to climb over crates to the gurgling mess on the other side; you could handle it, and you would.

You’d slapped his hands away, wrestled out of his grasp again and again, and you’d launched yourself into the dust—

Yeah.

While the fluorescent lights flickered overhead, you picked at a hangnail. You hadn’t braced yourself for the explosion, so, you guessed you deserved whatever was wrong with you now. Big-ass gashes on your stomach. Probably broken ribs. Something felt off in your left leg, besides—oh, ho, what had the doctors thought when they’d seen Hawks’s scratches?

What an idiot.

When the door creaked open, the nurse returned with a mug of water for you, but—what? Who’s that bitch following him?

You blinked, twice. With his hands in his pockets and his nasty little wings tucked in behind him, Hawks meandered to your bedside, his gaze on your throat as you swallowed down water.

God, you’re too tired to deal with him. Let’s get this over with.

The nurse glanced over his clipboard. “I’ve already told your partner this, but I thought you would want him here.”

Maybe if you ignore Hawks, he’ll leave.

“You were very brave today,” said the nurse, “Your work as a hero is greatly appreciated. You’re on temporary leave to heal, though. Like I said, you’ve got three, major gashes on your stomach, and your leg’s broken—the fibula split, if you want to know. You’ll be on crutches for a while. You have four broken ribs, and—” The nurse bit his lip and softened his voice. “You hit your head pretty hard. Nothing’s broken, but you should have amnesia, with the trauma you’ve endured.”

Should have? They don’t know? You sure as hell don’t fucking have amnesia. It barely happens in real life, and it definitely hasn’t happened to you. You remembered every fucking infuriating thing Hawks did to ruin your mission, and if he doesn’t square up—

“I’m so sorry, baby,” said Hawks, grabbing your hand. He stroked the back of it with his thumb, and then he took his glove off to hold you skin-to-skin. “You remember who I am?”

You just stared at him.

“Your fiancé’s been a real presence in the waiting room,” said the nurse, “He hardly stopped pacing the entire time you were in surgery. He wouldn’t even talk to fans.”

Oh, my God.

Holy fucking shit.

“Oops, sorry,” said the nurse, covering his mouth, “I know you were keeping it a secret. Don’t blame him, please; he only told me to be able to see you immediately.”

Shutting your eyes, you took a deep, deep breath. You have been handed a golden opportunity on a fucking Hawks-shaped platter, holy fuck, and by God are you going to take advantage of it. Imagine how much you can fucking humiliate him, how far you can take it. How much you can make him pay for how he treated you, and now, if he says he’s your fiancé, then he’s gonna fucking worship you. You’re going to mould him into your little bitch, and he’s going to thank you for it. And you’ll get endless dirt on him just by seeing his place.

Don’t fuck this up.

Exhaling, you opened your eyes, blinking a bit. You curled your lips into your mouth, biting the lower one. “I remember you’re Hawks,” you said in a nervous voice, “and I remember, uh.”

“Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart.” Hawks squeezed your hand, his tone kind. “It’ll come back in time.”

You clutched Hawks’s hand while the nurse rattled off instructions and gave you your crutches, and Hawks squeezed your hand back, softly smiling at you.

When the nurse left, you turned to Hawks and said, “I’m so, so sorry, but I—I feel like there’s something big missing that I can’t remember.” You scratched your forehead with your free hand, dragging the IVs with you.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Hawks tilted his head, still gazing decidedly down at you.

“Oh, God,” you said, “Oh, fuck. I don’t know. Um.” Take it back. Take it way back. That way he’ll dig himself into a deeper hole. The more lies he has to create, the funnier it’ll be. “Let’s see, I, hm.” You already weren’t speaking like yourself, but you looked upward as you faked combing through memories. “I don’t know how things work chronologically, but the most recent memory I have of you is—it’s after a press conference, and I’ve never been in the building before,” you said slowly, “And I can’t find the bathroom, but some press keeps following me, and I—I faceplant in between your shoulder blades, right between your wings. You—” You lowered your voice, shrinking a little in the hospital bed, “You got rid of them so easily, with just a gesture, and you put your arm around me. You were—” You shook your head, staring at both of your hands. “—so warm.”

Was that too thick? That was too thick, wasn’t it?

His free hand shot to his mouth, and he bit his knuckle. “But sweetheart, that’s,” said Hawks, his eyes watering, “That’s only around the third time we met.”

You know.

“Shit,” you said, widening your eyes, “How long ago was that?”

“Three years.” Hawks squeezed your hand and kept the pressure longer than was necessary. “Three fucking years. You don’t remember anything past that?”

You pretended to be scared to look at him. “I’m sorry; I’m so sorry—”

“No, no, you don’t have to be,” said Hawks, and he leant towards you to lift your chin, rubbing his thumb against it, “It’s not your fault.”

You had to hand it to him: Hawks was a good actor.

But so were you.

***

Hawks disappeared for a while after that, but he manifested the day you were loosed from the hospital, more than giddy to carry all of your shit all the way to your flat. He was probably getting some sick pleasure from watching you hobble on your crutches.

“I can help you, if you lean on me,” said Hawks, giving you an easy grin, “I don’t want you to be in any more pain than you have to.”

“This is something I should do myself,” you said in what was hopefully a tough-it-out voice, “I’d like to be able to walk without depending on anyone.”

“I honestly think you ought to be in a wheelchair.” His wings bristled. “But what do I know? I could fly us to your place, if you like.”

“I don’t like. I’ve gotta concentrate on limping. Stop talking, Hawks.”

You got to your flat, and Hawks had guessed which key opened the door on the first try. Drat! He was already doing a good job of acting like he’d been here before, like he’s not surprised that the number fourteen hero lives in a pretty shitty apartment (you started living here as a student and got too damn comfortable for your own good—plus, you didn’t want your cat to endure the trauma of moving).

Hawks plopped your keys in the bowl by the door with a clatter, and he shut the front door behind you, flipping one of the locks.

He set your stuff neatly on the kitchen table—your purse, your tactical pack, your ropes—and lay your dry-cleaned hero suit over the back of a kitchen chair, and his hands were on you the next moment to guide you to your tacky, sunflower couch. Removing one crutch, he put your arm over his shoulder instead, one hand planted on your lower back above your bandages, and he eased you down onto the cushions.

Hawks then stepped over your legs to sit on your opposite side, and he brought your legs to rest in his lap, his hand gripping your non-casted leg. “Gotta keep it elevated, chickadee.”

You let yourself giggle. Time to get this shitshow started. “Thank you so much for helping me, Hawks; I know I’ve been a real hassle these past few days, and you shouldn’t have to deal with that sort of stress. You’re already under so much. I don’t understand how the commission would let you date anyone, let alone propose.”

“Oh, I know,” said Hawks, spreading himself out on the couch. He shifted himself to face you in addition to accommodate his wings—he was now positioned so that they’d drape over the arm of the couch instead of being squished against the back cushions. That bitch, he probably wasn’t used to couches that weren’t custom made to his special body requirements. Spoiled fuck.

“The commission was really pissed when they found out. Do you remember how, sweetness? Right, I’ll tell you,” said Hawks, running an ungloved hand through his hair before shaking it loose. “You remember up to the press conference with the faceplant. Short version is that you hated me for a good year before something clicked. You started acting awkward whenever I was around, avoiding me, and stuff. Sometimes getting red. I thought it was cute.”

You ducked your head. Flustered. He probably likes easily flustered women.

Wait. That’s not who you are. And he’d like you for who you are, if you’re engaged.

But at the same time, if you’re (gag) in love with him, wouldn’t you be flustered by some of the things he says?

Easy, baby. Take it as it comes. Pick your battles. Go with your gut.

And gut says make Hawks eat shit.

“You think I’m cute?”

“I know you’re cute.”

You’re going to stuff his own feathers down his throat.

“We got together at that dinner Endeavor’s agency sponsored. Do you remember that at all? That place with the purple lights. You’d gotten nervous from the crowd and had gone to take some of your anxiety meds. I caught you in the hall back from the bathroom and talked you down before going back out there.” He grinned sheepishly. “I’d like to say I’m the one who kissed you, but you took initiative before I had the guts.”

Funny. Hilarious, in fact. That was the night Hawks had solidified himself as the Biggest Dick in the World, because yeah, he’d caught you in the purple-lit hallway, but he’d caught you on the way to take your meds, not on the way back. You were talking yourself down from a panic attack and couldn’t argue him away, so he’d followed you into the bathroom, running his mouth and acting like it was an accident when the tip of his wing had knocked your two capsules down the sink.

He’d told you that if you’re a big girl, you’d be able to handle the rest of the night. Or you could leave at any time with him, and he’d make excuses that everyone would have to accept.

Honestly, you’d love to let his fake memory be true, because then, you’d be able to wear purple again without feeling queasy.

Cocking your head, you smiled. “That doesn’t sound like something I would do.”

Hawks let out a light laugh, craning his neck to rest his head on the back of the sofa. “That’s what you said that night, too. About how it felt out of character.”

“Was I good?”

Lifting his head, he raised an eyebrow at you: probably the first genuine emotion he’s shown you the whole time he’s been here. “Hm?”

“When I kissed you. Was it good,” you asked flatly.

“Oh,” Hawks said, his wings puffing out just barely, “Oh, sweetheart, you were amazing. Groundbreaking. Show-stopping.” His tongue flicked over his lower lip, and he shifted underneath your legs, leaning slightly towards you but holding eye contact before carrying on.

You shook your head. “I don’t have the energy to give you the makeout session you deserve,” you said, envisioning drowning him in the bathtub, “I’m exhausted. Forgive me.”

“Always,” said Hawks, “Want me to keep going?”

“You can hardly eat me out when we haven’t kissed yet.”

“I meant,” said Hawks, pausing to visibly swallow (was it real?), “about our relationship, but if you wanna eat—”

“Nah, keep going. So, I started the relationship? I must be crazy. Neither of us have fucking time to sleep, let alone be in a relationship.”

Hawks never shut up about how he was taking time out of his endlessly packed days to spend time with you, how time was precious to him, and if he’s spending time with you, why, then, you’d better pay up, bitch (always accompanied with his hands on his belt, subtly pointing his thumbs towards his cock).

Hawks shrugged with his wings instead of his shoulders. Interesting. Has he ever done that before? “The commission said that, but after I insisted we’d make time, they relented. Eventually,” said Hawks, jerking his head to the side, “Our quirks don’t exactly fit well, so we haven’t worked with each other professionally too often, and, of course, we’ve had to hide our relationship so that we can’t be a public weak spot to each other. Plus, we’re more marketable as eligible, young heroes.”

“Fuck the market,” you said, slumping into the pillows.

“There’s my girl,” said Hawks, grinning with his tongue caught between his teeth, “There’s her spark. I know, baby. I feel the same way, but being made into libidinous body pillows pays the bills, y’know?”

Nodding, you brought one of the couch pillows around for you to hug, and you smushed your chin into it. “Hawks,” you said, so quietly you almost couldn’t be heard over the A/C kicking on, “How long have we been engaged?”

“Four months,” he said, his grin unconsciously fading until he was essentially baring his teeth, “Since the twentieth.”

Taking a moment, you said, “I can’t remember anything at all.”

“That’s okay. It’ll come back.”

“No, I can’t—” You slid your hands through your hair, pulling at it, and you heaved a sigh. “Goddammit, Hawks. I wish I could—fuck. I’m missing something huge. I know I am.” Make him nervous. Make him lie awake at night. “I’m sorry, Hawks. It’s probably something really important, and I—”

“Shh, shh, shh, shh, it’s all right,” said Hawks, and he stood to lean over you, his hands rising to cup your face, and holy shit, his hands cover so much of your skin; is that legal? He’s got hands. “Don’t worry, baby. You’ve had a big day. Turn your brain off. I’ll take care of you.”

Red flag! Big, red flag! Creep! He’s a creep!

Your gaze fell to his jacket pockets. Does he carry date rape drugs on his person?

“Hawks, I don’t wanna inconvenience you any more than I have.”

“I’m your fiancé,” said Hawks, actually looking you straight in the eyes and not breaking, “I want to take care of you.”

“Sure, in the way the mob takes care of people.”

Hawks’s mouth opened slightly, and his eyes narrowed.

Cover it up. “I’m not sorry. I don’t trust your cooking. You’ll poison my spaghetti!” You made a dumb gesture, pinching your fingers together. “Have you seen The Godfather? There’s actually a pretty legit spaghetti recipe in it; it’s not too bad, but it’s kind of watery—”

Hawks brought your hand to his mouth to kiss your knuckles and let his lips linger. “Watch it with me?”

You shook your head. “I’m too tired. I’m going to bed.”

“I’ll join you.”

“No,” you said, “My bed’s not made with your wings in mind.” Fuck off to your own little sex next, Hawks. Get out of here. “If they got hurt, it’d be my fault. Go sleep in your own bed, all right?” Go home. Get mugged on the way.

Hawks sighed, blowing his hair out of his eyes. “If you insist. But you’ve gotta reach out to me for anything you have trouble with, yeah? Memories, opening jars, orgasms, you know.”

“I’m leaving,” you said, reaching for your crutches, “Ten minutes ago.”

***

“You didn’t tell me how you proposed.”

Hawks froze mid-bite of his ramen, but after a quick beat, he slurped the rest of the noodle up. “I was hoping you’d recall that on your own, baby. Get your own feelings about it, instead of me telling you how to feel.”

If you weren’t faking amnesia, you’d fucking break his nose for that. Bastard.

“I imagine once you tell me, the feelings will rush in,” you said, clicking your chopsticks twice for emphasis, “I want to remember everything, and if I don’t, well, I want to fall in love with you again.”

Hawks’s gaze glazed over for an infinitesimal moment. Score.

“It’ll sound goofy once I describe it.” With his wings cramped against the back of the booth, Hawks scratched the back of his neck—a classic move for pretending to be embarrassed. “I’m not exactly known for being romantic.”

Yeah, he’s known for fooling around with anyone who’s glittery, like a goddamn crow. If you’re paying attention.

“Aw, but Hawks, you’ve been nothing but so effortlessly romantic to me since I’ve been convalescing,” you said, rolling up the paper wrapper of your straw and soaking it in the ring your cup left on the table.

“Right, well. I flew us out to the countryside, to this overlook halfway up a mountain. You liked going rappelling there a lot. To practise for missions.” Hawks had some of your habits down, at least. Bet he gets the location wrong, though. “We watched the sunrise. We shared a thermos of tea. I asked you once the sun had risen, but you didn’t say yes right away,” said Hawks, “You jumped off the overlook without your gear, and I caught you. You were furious about it—you didn’t want me to see you overwhelmed. But you said yes.”

Ugh. That sounded about right. That sounded pretty realistic. Hawks was a fucking stalker.

“Fuck,” you said, burying your face in your hands, “That’s cute.” You stretched the skin of your cheeks before releasing, and you returned to your ramen. “Question: did we put the ring into storage, or something? I don’t have the little indent on my ring finger from wearing a ring too long, and I haven’t found anything at home.” Make him sweat. Make him stumble. Where’s the ring, Hawks?

With a flash of his eyebrows, Hawks maneuvered his straw to his mouth using only his lips, looking quite stupid, in your opinion. “Figured you’d ask that at some point. I’m so overjoyed to see you every time that I forget to bring it up. The ring’s been sent off to a high-level, government-backed, support company. I’ve pulled in a favour from the higher-ups. I wanted to turn your ring into something a little more personal and incorporate one of my feathers into it,” said Hawks, taking a moment to slurp his drink noisily, “Depending on how well it goes, I’d be able to help you if we’re separated and know where you are. At the very least—” Hawks ducked his head to give the illusion of staring up at you with wide eyes, his blond eyelashes light against his skin. “—I’d be able to feel your heartbeat. It would bring me great comfort.”

Great, so he’d have a GPS on you at all times, knowing whether or not you went somewhere he didn’t want you to. He’d be able to tell if you went somewhere your non-amnesia self would know about. Great. Phenomenal.

“Hawks, that’s very sweet,” you said, fiddling with the remnants of your straw wrapper, now fizzled out of its snake shape, “Wouldn’t the process hurt you, though? Since you can feel it.”

“Nothing more than a twinge, sweetheart,” said Hawks, holding up his hands, “And I’d bear any amount of pain for your sake.”

You fantasised about beating his head in with the back end of a rifle.

***

When you were told Hawks was waiting for you outside of the recording booth, you told the messenger that Hawks could wait until you were finished with five more takes. You could picture Hawks’s little pout at the news, his feathers bristling despite the closed space, and resigning himself to sit in one of those clangy, metal chairs out front, having to hunch forward so that he didn’t crush his wings.

The idol group adored the ingenuity of bone-crunching as percussion in a song, and along with that and some other combat foley, you were singing the bridge with the rapper of the group (the dance captain would sing your part for live shows). It’d be a good promo for the girl group and for you, and the song, “Spine,” was going to be released as a single as soon as it was polished.

Hawks perked up the moment you stepped through the secondary door to the booth, his eyes brightening and wings spreading to take up more space. “I didn’t think I’d catch you,” said Hawks, standing to take your hands (the cold leather gloves sucked the heat out of your hands), “I’ve got to fly, soon, but I wanted to tell you personally.”

“You’re not pregnant,” you said, fighting the urge to break his goggles/visor/hat thing.

His lopsided grin widened. “Not yet, baby. There’s gonna be a heroes’ gala held at the end of the month, and I wanted to let you know that I’m doing everything in my power to make it a positive experience for you. Here, I’ve got this woman’s phone number,” he said, fishing a slip of paper out of his jacket, “She’ll help accommodate the venue for your leg.”

Stupid fucking bastard man. He probably wanted to pick out your clothes himself, infantilise you and dress you up like a goddamn doll. Deny you your personhood. “I’ll be out of the cast by then.” You slid the paper into your back pocket.

“I know,” Hawks said in a way that was a fucking lie, “I just don’t want there to be any accidents. I can’t have my babygirl any more hurt than she is.” Hawks placed his cold, gloved hand against your cheek, and you, shutting your eyes, made yourself lean into it. “But contact her. She’ll make it the safest place it can be for you, even when I have to leave your side.”

God, galas were great. Big events for villains to ruin. You licked your lips thinking about using a new move you’ve learnt to take a villain down (involving clamping your legs around the villain’s neck to choke him as he crumpled to the floor—your combat coach had banned you from the move after you made her pass out). “Are we announcing our engagement, then? If we’re going together?”

“I’d love to,” said Hawks, “but only if you want to. The ring could be ready by then, if I ask them to rush it—”

“Let’s do it.” If you plunged the ring into icy water, would he start to shiver? Ooh, your ring’s going to act as a fucking bay leaf in your soups for a while.

“Oh,” said Hawks, sighing lightly with his eyes fluttering shut. He pressed his forehead to yours and rubbed his thumb over your cheek. “You have no idea how much that means to me, sweetheart. You are so dear to me, and I want everyone to know it. The best damn thing in my life. Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you said, placing your hand on his face to push him away, “Don’t you have work to do, screw boy?”

***

“Did we have a date?” you asked from the edge of the bathtub.

Hawks dipped the razor in the water, washing off the hair and shaving cream. “We’ve gone on so many, darling; you’ll have to specify.”

“No, I meant for the wedding.” Let’s once again play: Can Hawks Cover His Own Ass?

Hawks dragged the razor down your freshly exfoliated, freshly-un-casted, freshly not-broken leg, starting at your knee. “Nope!”

“No explanation?”

“You wanna get married tomorrow? A six-month engagement is rather short, don’t you think?” His nose twitched. He’d said the scent of your shaving cream irritated his nose. Good.

“I don’t. Why didn’t we have a date for the wedding?” You eyed the actual and literal pile of your dead skin on the towel. Maybe you should make Hawks snort it.

“We were too busy working; you’d said you didn’t mind having a long engagement, so long as I was yours. Then, uh, you know. The accident,” Hawks said with a shrug—with his shoulders this time, because if he moved his wings while he was crouched in your bathtub, he’d soak them, and they were a bitch to dry, apparently. Suffer, you rat bastard.

“The commission isn’t involved in that decision?”

“I thought that was implied,” said Hawks, gripping your ankle to turn your calf to the side, “They don’t want it to be a huge spectacle, so even I don’t know how much of a wedding wedding they’d let us have.”

He’s too damn good at this. If he weren’t a pro-hero, he’d fit right along in a theatre troupe.

You’re going to wring his neck.

You caught him staring at the crotch of your underwear (bone-dry, you might add) while he shaved your thighs, and he spent more time rubbing lotion into your inner thighs than anywhere else. He tossed your dead skin before you could make him eat it, and he scooped you up against your protestations about your weight and capability, humming while he carried you to your bed.

The fucker tucked you in and rounded up your cat to place in your arms (your cat disagreed with him and promptly leapt off the bed).

“Let me stay with you,” said Hawks, kissing each of your fingertips. It’s an order.

Yet you shook your head.

***

“The doctors said you shouldn’t drink,” Hawks said under his breath, taking the champagne flute gently from your grasp.

“But I want to,” you said, sticking out your lower lip, “I’m wearing goddamn heels and a fucking dress. I’ve got on makeup, for Christ’s sake. I’ve done my time; let me drink.”

“Baby, you’ve got to stay safe,” he said, and he set the glass next to some 40s-level hero’s place at the long, white tablecloth. “There’s already press paying more attention to us than usual. You wanna make a fool of yourself?”

“Yes,” you said, lifting another champagne flute from a passing gala waiter, “Who gives a shit about the press.”

Hawks laughed too loudly to be natural before lowering his voice. “Baby, you are gonna be the death of me.”

“Promise?”

***

When “Spine” was released on a cool, spring morning to an excitable audience, you were lurking in alleyways by the docks, searching for a fight. When the music video dropped, you were smashing some guy’s face into a concrete wall. While more and more citizens recognised you and your talent, your work for the community, your connections, your popularity—with your rank steadily rising—you were rappelling down a port sewer to pummel a slime villain into dust.

You wiped his blood off on your pants, hands devoid of anything that could taint. You’d left the ring at home.

***

“You tricked me,” you said, scowling as Hawks pushed you forward, “This isn’t the rock climbing park.”

Once you deliberately smashed your face into the glass door and crossed your arms, Hawks held the door open for you. “Would you have dressed up so nicely for rock climbing?”

“A meta-game challenge,” you said, “to rock-climb in a long skirt.”

You glowered about the restaurant while you and Hawks stood in the lobby, his hand low on your back, suspiciously respectfully. You made no effort to hide your distaste: it was the place with the purple lights.

Over there at the absurdly long bar, Endeavor had drunk flat whisky without so much of a growl at anyone, despite it being his event. Hexagonal tables with lilac tablecloths dotted the floor—you’d hidden in one of the few booths, up against the exposed brick wall—but your hiding place had been ruined once a violet disco ball had emerged from the ceiling. Shiny, wooden floor that had reflected your post-panic attack face right back at you and let every shoe strike it with a clatter. No silence allowed.

The whole restaurant had lavender LED lights running around the walls, swathing the place in a distorted sort of purple haze, and any candles lit on the centre tables had indigo flames—you’d focused on how those might have been made in the process of coming down from your panic attack.

God. You’re going to throw up.

The hostess escorted you and Hawks to a farther back room, this one with booths separated by small, brick walls that didn’t reach the ceiling yet concealed the booths’ occupants from each other—unless you were passing directly in front of one.

Hawks made you sit in the booth first, trapping you in as he settled. He had to be on the edge, anyway, he told you, because of his wings. You’re going to rip them off and boil them in the soup.

The two of you ordered. You don’t remember what. You can only channel so much of your nerves into jostling your leg. This is not cool. This place is not cool. You need to get out.

“Hey, let me through,” you said, nudging Hawks, “Bathroom.”

Once there, you lightly slapped your cheeks a couple of times, trying to ground yourself through physical sensation. No use. Can’t they fucking use normal lights in this place?

You didn’t have your panic meds, because you’ve never needed them rock climbing. You can do it. You’re fine. You’re fine. Your tongue is too big for your mouth.

You took your time meandering back to the booth, coming to a halt at the end of the narrow hallway and ducking behind the corner.

Endeavor stood by your booth, his arms crossed over a flaming chest. You caught your breath at the sight of his orange fire, a comforting contrast to all the damn purple, but still—Endeavor. Talking to your (gag) fiancé.

Without the courage to interact with Endeavor, you listened at the corner for his departure.

“Nah, she can handle her bladder just fine. It’s her nerves,” Hawks was saying, hidden by the bricks, “She likes hiding. She doesn’t necessarily like being in the spotlight.”

“Yet she hasn’t completely withdrawn as Eraserhead has. You’ve picked a strange one to marry.”

From the angle Endeavor glared at him, Hawks must be slumping in his seat. “But that’s what so great about her. And it’s hard to process, y’know, like, she’s finally mine. You follow?”

“Regrettably,” said Endeavor, “Regardless, I offer my congratulations that your courtship finally worked out in your favour. You should have told me sooner.”

Courtship. That’s a funny way to pronounce bullying.

“Eh, I’ve gotta have some secrets, don’t I? Can’t betray my otherwise cool exterior.” Hawks laughed. “I can’t believe I’ve been allowed such happiness. The woman I’ve loved for years is gonna be waking up to me every day soon, y’know?”

Hawks has got to know you can hear him, otherwise he wouldn’t be saying those things. Endeavor must be in on Hawks’s ruse, since Endeavor is Hawks’s closest—actually, Endeavor isn’t the type to revel in romantic shit. Endeavor straight-up isn’t the type to revel. To the best of your knowledge, Endeavor doesn’t genuinely like Hawks as so much as tolerates him; when did they get so close? It must have taken a long time—

Time.

You could feel your IQ dropping as you actually considered: had you been in a legitimate coma? Had you (fuck) genuinely had amnesia?

No, no. You don’t live in Crazytown. Your eyebrows hadn’t been overgrown when you’d woken up in the hospital. You’d only been there a day.

Of course, Hawks is a vain piece of shit and does his own eyebrows, so he might have considered that yours were a piece of pride/insecurity for you and may have done them while you were—did Hawks do his own eyebrows? That spoiled fuck probably had someone else to do them for him. If they were naturally like that, you were going to throttle his ass.

You didn’t fucking have amnesia. Hawks is and always has been a stupid, clammy birdbrain. He’s always been cruel to you. He didn’t fucking like you.

He sure as hell wasn’t in fucking love with you.

Oh, my fuck, what if your memories of Hawks have been fabricated by a coma-addled mind and that—

“Hey, there,” said—said someone, some pale-ass, sleep-deprived freak who startled you out of your head, “Are you all right? You look—I mean, do you need some water? A chair?”

You blinked, yet he wouldn’t come into focus—you were taking in details about him, ones that didn’t fucking matter (chain on his wallet, three rings all on the left hand, a button-down missing the last button, a cloud of axe body spray), but he didn’t register as a human person. He couldn’t; you hadn’t grounded yourself yet. You yourself still had a frazzled, cartoon scribble buzzing inside of your chest, and until you vomited it up, a panic attack may yet still happen.

You can’t deal with anyone new right now.

A spark of recognition crossed the new guy’s face, and he, through a smirk, asked if you were your hero name.

Oh god oh fuck not now

“Sweetheart,” came Hawks’s melodious drawl (registering first his voice, then bodily warmth, then the wingtip covering your ass), “You were taking so long that I came to check on you.” He pulled you by the waist towards him, blocking the guy from seeing your face by pressing it into his chest. “Who’s this?”

Who cares. All you could focus on (sharp and overwhelming, nothing else but) was how fucking incredible Hawks smelled, and at this point, you’d use anything to bring yourself back down to earth. A small voice in the back of your head told you that freaking out to this degree in this particular situation was leaning towards pathetic, since basically nothing happened, besides being in an uncomfortable environment and being accosted by a fan at the wrong time, but you? You did not control the rate at which your brain panicked.

And really, no rhyme or reason played into why your grabby little hands itched for human contact once safe in the booth again, why Hawks’s scent lay on your tongue more heavily than your soup, why the overwhelming sensation of being so fucking spaced out of it threw its entire weight upon your shoulders—you couldn’t find yourself. You were lost.

And in this horrible, purple place, the only thing that’s familiar was Hawks.

When you scooted as closely as you could to him in the booth, keeping your glare towards your lap while you looped your arm under his to snuggle into it, Hawks cleared his throat to say, “What’s this?”

You scowled into his jacket, both hands gripping his forearm.

He set his chopsticks down. “How can I help, darling?”

Growling, you bonked your forehead against his shoulder, dragging your hands down to his.

“Hey,” said Hawks, and he guided your face towards his and stroked your cheek with his thumb, “Did that guy bother you too much before I got there?”

Turning your mouth towards the hand cupping your cheek, you kissed his palm, bit the leather, and kissed it again before burying yourself in his shoulder again.

He rested his hand on the crown of your head. “What’s the matter? Can you tell me?”

“Not sure I can put it into words,” you said, “I think I wanna go home.” You bit the fabric of his jacket and gnashed it between your teeth.

“I can handle that,” said Hawks, “Gimme a moment to get takeaway boxes, yeah? Then we’ll leave, and you’ll be safe. Don’t worry.”

Unfortunately, you were still clutching onto his arm by the time he unlocked his darkened penthouse (because you’re not gonna hold his hand. God), but you slapped his hand away from the light switches.

“Turning them on would be too much stimulation,” you said, “Please don’t.”

Hawks hummed against the top of your head, placing keys and both of your phones on the kitchen counter. “Bed or couch?”

“Window,” you said.

“Window?”

“I’m assuming you’ve got one.”

“I do,” said Hawks, guiding you through his dark apartment, probably past scarily expensive, posh shit. He led you to what was most likely his living room, with the cool, dim light of the night sky through a vast, single-frame, wall-to-floor window illuminating furniture custom built for his wings, but he eased you down onto the carpet, tugging your shirt upwards so that the window would be touching your bare skin on the small of your back.

Hawks yanked his boots off, late, instead of at the door, and he tossed them over his shoulder. He took yours off, too, and once he’d set them aside, he sat next to you against the window, a hand on your thigh.

“Better?”

“Probably,” you said, staring at the triangle of light beige carpet between your crossed legs.

“Need me to talk? You need to talk?”

“Not right now.”

Hawks was a dumbass. He’s such a fucking dumbass. But he’s a dumbass who’s here right now, and he’s interested (?) in you, interested in helping you. And good golly, you have to be touched. Hawks’s offering warmth, freely, potentially lovingly, and all you had to do was reach out to take it, even if you didn’t reciprocate whatever sentiment was motivating him yourself.

Do you really want to take what you have no feelings for?

Hawks lies a lot to Endeavor. To everyone. He might not have been lying earlier. What reason had he to lie?

Guess it didn’t matter, because you were lying.

But good God, you haven’t been kissed in a long time. Haven’t felt safe or loved. You could…you could indulge for a few hours in order to calm down. You could pretend.

The last ten months had proved that.

“Hey,” you said idly, reaching out to grab the inner fleece lining of his jacket to rub it between your fingers, “Hawks, I’m gonna—I’m gonna put my mouth on your mouth. Okay?”

Hawks’s wings ruffled and constricted themselves so that he could move closer to you, and his hand has migrated from your thigh to grip your hip—how could anyone’s hands encompass that much of you? Your fucking hands couldn’t, not in the way his does.

(Bird man big and safe.)

([No, fuck you, don’t think that.])

(BIRD MAN SAFE—)

Shoved is how you’d describe the first few seconds of the kiss, followed closely by wet and you’d think his teeth would be sharper. Your lips didn’t line up with his completely until he adjusted your chin with two of his fingers, guiding it open just barely, as well, so that his tongue could graze your teeth—it took you a moment of processing before parting them, with a final don’t think! shouted to your neocortex.

Birds have a higher body temperature than other animals, on average having a body temperature of 105 degrees Fahrenheit (40 degrees Celsius). The colour of their feathers, of course, affects how much light and heat they absorb, with the lighter coloured feathers—say, red—reflecting more, rejecting outside heat sources.

Yet Hawks gripped you like he’d fucking freeze if he weren’t clutching you, if he weren’t straddling your legs, one palm flat against the cool of the window by your head. The other snaked around you, his forearm lying almost vertically up your back to press down between your shoulder blades, keeping you as near to his chest (he probably didn’t realise it, but his fingers ran across the curve of your shoulder blades where his wings were on his own body.

For some reason, the thought crossed your mind that you weren’t enough for him, because you were too dissimilar.)

Don’t think!

When he massaged your tongue with his, applying pressure sporadically, you returned the action—have you ever seen a bird tongue up close? They’re fucking nasty little things, looking more like a grub than anything else. Thank God Hawks had a normal, human tongue that performed particularly delightful, normal things, like drag across the roof of your mouth and aid in sucking phenomenal hickeys onto your jawline, licking over where he’s bitten and kissed.

Stop thinking about bird anatomy. Hawks has no discernible bird traits except for his fucking wings. He’s not a fucking bird man. He’s just some dude with wings. And not all birds have functional wings; for example, the ostrich and the penguin do not have wings to be used in flight—

Oh, my fuck. Turn your brain off.

Your stomach lurched. That had been something Hawks had told you too often, back before your accident.

It’s what he wants.

Hawks fucking whimpered when you pulled the shorter hairs at the back of his neck, prying him away from your skin with great difficulty—he kept trying to touch you with his mouth and tongue in the process.

“Let me have more,” he said, panting, his breath heavy and just below your ear, “Please.” He pressed his lips to the spot in front of your ear in a weak kiss, having spent himself for the most part. “I’ve missed you so much, baby. I’ve been waiting for you to come back to me for so long.”

“I don’t—” You fake-stuttered, but it turned out you needed the time to put your thoughts into words. “I don’t think I’m back yet. I’m,” you said, taking as deep a breath as you could with Hawks smushed against your chest, “Something’s missing. Something big.” That’s right. Steer it back in his direction. Make the bird man sweat. “I don’t—something doesn’t feel right.”

It took a moment, but Hawks nodded fervently, shutting his eyes. “Of course. Yeah. Yeah, I get it, sweetheart. Can’t do anything when your heart’s not in it.”

Your heart’s not the problem. “Thank you for being so understanding, Hawks,” you said, untangling yourself from underneath him, “Would you just, uh, hold me for a while?”

His wings wrapped around the both of you on his enormous bed, still fluttering with each slow breath he took. Hawks almost looked genuine while he slept, and probably for the best—at least he was getting rest; at least his guard might be down.

You couldn’t sleep. Your mind was racing.

***

“Rank speculation is out,” you said, scrubbing the pumice stone over a patch of dry skin on Hawks’s back and scrolling through the twitter with your other hand, “Take a look.”

He opened the link you sent once he’d safely removed a dead feather that had been lodged in an odd spot in a wing. “Huh. Think I could truly take on Endeavor?”

“Well, he’s got that abusive-to-his-family thing, while you’re rocking the preparing-for-my-wedding look, and he can’t network non-aggressively to save his life.”

“Nor can you.” Hawks shot you a smirk over his shoulder.

“Zoom in on my speculated nine, baby,” you said, flicking away some dead skin with a satisfied/disgusted sneer, “And I didn’t have to sleep my way there.”

“Ah, ha, ha,” said Hawks, “Knew you could do it. Whoever’s told you that is gonna have to deal with my foot up their ass. You’re more than capable of getting there on your own.”

“Which I did. I have.” Wait. Hawks told you that. No, it’s fine. It’s fine. It’s a commonly said, misogynistic comment towards women heroes. Hawks isn’t special. “But having your foot up someone’s ass wouldn’t be good for PR, unless you wanted to advertise that you’re a kinky son of a bitch who’s cheating on his fiancée.”

“I would never,” said Hawks, and, contorting his arm, he grabbed your hand with the pumice stone to kiss the back of it, “But my PR is solid, regardless.”

“If the public knew how much time you had to spend preening these fucking wings, they’d probably appreciate you more. Or call you conceited.”

Hawks hummed. “It’s a necessary evil,” he said, returning to his wingtip to search for dead feathers. “Thank you for helping.”

“No problem. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t get to see how—Hawks, holy fuck. Do you feel that?” You ran a finger near the base of a wing.

“It’s your finger?”

“No, this,” you said, tapping the spot.

“No?”

“My God. It’s a dilated pore of a winer,” you said, already reaching for the tweezers, “Right at the base of your wing. It’s basically an enormous fucking blackhead. I’m popping it. Oh, my God. I’ve never seen one in real life.”

“You’re popping it?”

“You didn’t have a problem with my getting the ones where your costume sits.”

“No,” said Hawks, rolling back his shoulders, his wings spreading with them, “Gotcha. Get on with it.”

“Can I film it?”

“What? No,” said Hawks, “No one can see me preening, let alone dealing with acne.”

“There’s sure to be another hero out there with a wing quirk, right? I don’t know how you can’t feel it.”

“Yeah,” Hawks said slowly, “Since my feathers can feel—I suppose where the wings merge with my skin is pretty numb. I haven’t ever had to think about it.” He licked his lips. “Funny.”

He continued to scroll through his feed and tend to his feathers while you worked at his back. “Bad news: the tabloids got a hold of our grocery list from the last time we went to the shops. I must have dropped it at some point in the store.”

“Oh, so do they know what kind of ice cream we prefer? The horror.”

“No, but they’ve brought in some hack handwriting analyst. Talking about our annotations for each other on the list. Something about how you’re logical and I’m a romantic. The writer of the article is practically swooning.” Hawks pulled out a clot of feathers with his teeth and spat them aside. “With good reason, though. The trashy pictures they snapped of us are hot.”

“Describe them to me.”

“I can show you—”

“No,” you said, concentrating on your work, “I don’t want the image imprinted on my brain. Describe them in your own words.”

“All right,” said Hawks, crossing his legs and placing his phone on the coffee table in front of him, “To start, the flash is on.”

“Oh, fuck.”

“Yeah. We’ve got that distantly surprised look going on. It looks like we’re near the eggs and cheese. You’re not looking at the camera, but I believe it’s in the moment I caught it.” Hawks flicked away a feather and let it fall to the carpet. “My hand’s on your waist. The other’s on the cart. You’ve scrunched your face up in concentration; it’s really cute.”

“Aw, we should get it framed,” you said, wiping away the gunk with a tissue and wadding it up so that no one will ever have to see or touch it ever again.

“Never,” said Hawks, “The first picture of us I wanna get framed should be on our wedding day.”

“It’s coming along quickly,” you said, setting aside the tweezers, “Bit more quickly than I’d thought it would.”

“Yeah, I can’t wait,” said Hawks with a light laugh, and you ducked to rest your head against his shoulder, straining your neck to reach him over his wing.

Hawks clicked his non-nasty, non-bird tongue. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

Sighing, you said, “Turn your head this way.”

He did you one better, since he anticipated your plan. He twisted around, keeping his legs crossed as he pulled you into his lap. His wings initially bristled but wrapped around you when his arms did, and Hawks kissed your cheek, once, twice, until he arrived at your mouth, where he barely grazed your lips, rather letting his hot breath spread over your face—and he grinned up at you with half-lidded eyes (he’d left off his eyeliner today, but the natural marks below his waterline kept his eyes sharp, anyway).

“Kiss me, you fucking idiot,” you said, overriding whatever he was about to do by kissing him yourself, hard and open-mouthed, almost violent in its fervent. Yet Hawks held you lightly, delicately, but still close enough to freeze.

You ran your cold, cold hands over his bare abdomen, pressing your thumb down with considerable force to trace his muscles (he grunted at that, and that’s it; that’s right—make him squirm; make him sweat; make him yours). His finger only toyed with the hem of his shirt that you were wearing, as if waiting for you, which didn’t line up with what you had garnered about Hawks at all, but c’mon, man, come on; didn’t you want this all those months ago? Almost a year, now? Years, if what he said to Endeavor is true? But when he flinched away with a shaky breath once your cold fingers circled his nipple, you knew this was where you were supposed to be: right here, in Hawks’s lap, completely destroying him with hardly anything at all. Nothing but light touches and a strategic flick of your tongue. Idiot man. He must really like you if this is doing it for him.

You slowed and opened your eyes at that thought, frowning, and you pulled away. With the back of his hand, Hawks wiped saliva off of both of your mouths, yours first.

He waited for you.

“If you can’t take all of me, then what’s the point?”

He tilted his head. “I’ll take whatever part of you you’re willing to share.”

“I’m missing something.”

“I know.”

“I want to find it before we get married.” You laid your palm flat on his chest, and he grinned at the cold.

“You can find it,” he said, “I know you can.”

“I don’t know what I’m blocking out,” you said, lying—or maybe you weren’t? Fuck it. “Whatever I’m repressing is really fucking with me.”

“Take your time,” said Hawks, running his tongue over his lower lip. “I’m here for—”

“Hawks,” you said, faking the light of realisation in your eyes, accompanied with a sharp inhale, “I can’t remember your name.”

Hawks’s mouth snapped shut.

“You told me once. I know you did,” you said, moving to cup his cheek after tapping the mark underneath his eye, “but the memory—there’s a blur where you spoke. I—” You cut yourself off, biting your lip. “That, that might be it. I don’t know. Everything else about the scene is in perfect detail. I remember what fucking socks I was wearing, for Christ’s sake. But you. What you said. Maybe it’s something so personal, so intimate, that I’ve repressed it. Maybe it was too much for me to handle.” You cupped his face with both hands now, forcing him to look at you. If you hadn’t been scrutinising him for some evidence of breaking character, you wouldn’t’ve seen the minute quivering of his upper lip. Hardly there, but it was there. “It’s a part of you that I want. Even if I couldn’t handle it before, I want to try now.”

Hawks averted his gaze, even though he couldn’t move his head. And bang, you’ve got him. Hawks’s name was still strictly secret, hidden by the commission, but if he’s genuinely in this dumbass situation for the long haul, if he’s truly in it for you, then he would have told you. Even if he wanted you to continue to call him Hawks, your own fiancé would have told you his damn name.

So, this is it. The way out.

Hawks was going to feel so stupid when he found out you’ve been faking all this time. Good. Let each feather burn.

“Keigo,” he said, staring into your eyes with a newfound determination, “My name is Takami Keigo.”

Oh, shit—you clapped a hand over your heart, your eyes widening. Maybe you could play this off as memory recovery instead of absolute shock? But you hadn’t any memories to recover, probably. Holy fuck.

Where do you go from here?

You tried to say his name but ended up simply mouthing it, and after clearing your throat and coughing a bit, you managed to say it aloud. “Keigo,” you said softly, reaching for his hand, “Keigo, I fucking love you.”

You’d only been kissing him for a few moments before his wings shuddered in a muscle spasm and flung you off to the side.

***

Only a commission higher-up witnessed your wedding. She stood silently to the side the entire ceremony in the courthouse and only shook Hawks’s hand afterwards.

You and your cat essentially moved into his penthouse and adjusted. Your mostly empty apartment stayed leased under your name.

Sometimes, you’d note that you turned your brain off and instantly be hit with a lightning strike of self-loathing—but you didn’t have to consciously decide to be affectionate with Hawks. Being with him came naturally and easily. Probably for the best, since if you had to think about it, you’d screw it up.

You stayed together. Supported each other. Sneaked out to see the other on patrol. Took care, listened to each other. Defended each other. Worked it out.

And now, you stared up at the ceiling fan whirling in your darkened bedroom, Keigo lying on his stomach next to you in the bed as he slept. Your cat catloafed between his wings and nestled into them, rising and falling with each breath he took. Hawks was perfect, always saving the day, working up a routine to mesh with your fighting style and quirk, always charming and easygoing with the people he rescued, indulging you in your ferocity, and Keigo, Keigo whispered sweet and dirty things into your ear when he spotted you in public, made you laugh, worked wonders with his cock, helped you clean up before he even thought of preening himself, held you, and made you feel held. He’s got it bad.

And maybe you do, too.

Hawks was going to feel so stupid when he found out.

[zemossunshine]

Sunshine Chapter 33

Pairings: Zemo x You  Bucky x You

Summary: Falling in love with a villain. This will start sweet and then go very dark.

Tags: Explicit. Mature. Not for minors. Dark. Angst. Knife play. Depression. Suicidal thoughts. Self Harm . Vomiting. Nightmares. Sleepwalking. Torture. Smut. Broken Bones. Blood. Injury. Violence. Rough Sex. Rape. Kidnapping. Spanking. Unhealthy Relationships. Mental Health Issues. Anal Sex. Orgasm Delay. Fear. Blow Jobs. Sexual Violence. Suicide Attempt. Reference To Domestic Violence. Sleepwalking. Memory Loss. Gen Violence. Threats. Manipulation. Manipulative Relationship. Murder. Death. Loss Of Parents. Implied Alcohol Abuse. Threats Of Rape. Non Consensual Drug Use. Emotional Manipulation. Gaslighting.

Warning for this chapter: Kidnapping,  amputation, torture & rape.

I'm going under and this time I fear, there is no one to save me. This all or nothing, really got a way of driving me crazy. I need somebody to heal, somebody to know, somebody to have, somebody to hold. It's easy to say, but it's never the same. I guess I kind of liked the way you numbed all the pain. Now the day bleeds, into nightfall and you're not here, to get me through it all. I let my guard down and then you pulled the rug. I was getting kind of used to being someone you loved. I'm going under and this time I fear there is no one to turn to. This all or nothing, way of loving, got me sleeping without you. Lyrics owned by Lewis Capaldi.

–

A rush of air filled your lungs as your eyes fluttered open, all you could see was a golden haze. You felt warm and comforted inside whatever you had been placed in, so it was a shock when you stepped out onto the cold floor. The same levitating robot came into view, it pulled a pair of black fluffy slippers from its chest, you thanked it. You briefly remembered being told you were going to a castle. Castle Doom, you had never heard of it. Your body had returned to its former state, you supposed it made sense. Your knight in shining armour was magic. You had no experience with or of magic at all, but if Wanda was anything to go by then you knew you were in safe hands. Your milk hadn’t even had a chance to come in, due to going into labour early, not that it mattered, you never had plans to breast feed your daughter anyway, you weren't supposed to live. Daughter. You had a daughter an alive, breathing, survived your powers daughter, you smiled wide. Whoever that man was, he made it possible. You owed him a huge debt. After securing the slippers you were greeted by said man with a fresh steaming coffee in his hands, bathed in a white glow, the same light that neutralised your powers and protected your daughter.

“My name is Victor.” He gestured to a table in the middle of what appeared to be a laboratory. Machines were whirring away, there were several screens, chemicals bubbling all encompassed in a room of dark damp misshapen bricks, roughened stone walls and candles from eons ago lit the room. This was truly a castle, ripped straight from a fairytale castle, or your book about Dracula. It was magnificent. You noticed a shelf with your coffee machine from home on. Weird. Next to it was a bottle of Zemo’s whiskey and a handful of books, books that you had read or were reading. You shook off the unease rising, whoever this man was must know about you and he saved your daughters life. You thanked him, honestly, with sincerity and his bright green eyes dazzled right back at you. You glanced back at the machine you had emerged from. An upright glass coffin, almost like Bucky’s cryochamber but it wasn’t cold.

Victor held out a wheeled stool for you and you sat down and the plopped himself right next to you. He explained that although he was a man of magic, he first and foremost was a man of science. The glass chamber had healing properties and calibrated itself to your DNA. He spoke with a soft tone as he explained his life story. He was the monarch of his country Latveria, but he lost it. He lost the love of his life Valeria. He had vast amounts of wealth and was of genius intellect. You wanted to interrupt him to ask him to elaborate, but you also wanted to hear what he had to say, he was reminding you of someone. He was eerily similar to Zemo. Even the accent threw you for a loop. Their lives were parallel.

He then went on to describe his powers, apparently magic came in many different forms, something you weren’t aware of. But initially he was an inventor and the levitating robot, which he called a doombot made a beeping sound next to you. That explains the machines then. He could manipulate electricity and travel through dimensions. Dimensions? You had no idea what he was talking about. He paused as you moved your head around, you were in a castle with a man who wore armour, ancient armour. Could you have time travelled backwards, quite far backwards? Hundreds, even centuries back? You knew that was possible. But then the technology in here would suggest otherwise. Your eyes fell to the pile of books. Dracula. Vampires aren’t real. Aren't they? Perhaps he found comfort in items from centuries ago because he was in fact centuries old. Yet, he kept his distance, hadn’t intimidated you. Saved your child’s life. He had to be a super hero of some kind.

“I can sword fight too.” he smirked under his helmet. The familiarity he had with Zemo settled you somehow. A shiver ran through you and he flicked his hand towards a fire place which instantly roared into life. High flames that were already filling the room with warmth. Victor saw you were cold and rectified it immediately. Magic really did come in handy, even for menial tasks. The doombot floating behind Victor pulled out a plain manilla envelope. It was your file, you weren’t worried, he obviously knew about you and your powers.

“I find this very interesting. Two pages, a medical report and a handful of photographs. No education whatsoever and yet you work for Nick Fury. Then you were erased, bank accounts, subscriptions, everything. It was then that I recognised your file for what it was. A lie. Do you know why?”

“It was made that way so I’m hidden from Hydra.” You told him encouragingly. You knew the file was a lie, constructed perfectly by Maria. Zemo took care of everything else.

“I assume then, having spent time with Hydra that The Winter Soldier and The Scarlet Witch are treated the same way? Lied to?”

“No.” Your voice was much quieter than you wanted it to be. You weren’t exactly lied to either. You racked your brain, what made you different to Wanda and Bucky? They were living out in the open. Bucky even did public interviews, made no attempt to conceal where he was. Both walked around freely and openly. Neither of them were tracked or monitored, in fact you didn’t know anyone else who was. You remembered Maria’s warning about who you could be and something you were afraid Zemo could turn you into. “I could become dangerous.” Victor would understand that as an enhanced person himself.

“The soldier and the witch aren't then? Every single person on the planet has the potential to be dangerous. Why are you treated this way?” Victor asked dryly.

“Zemo,” You rushed out. “He is very protective.”

“You are protective. Your darling husband-” Victor shook his head, “Is possessive, manipulative and controlling, all under the guise of protection. I can prove it to you, with one question.”

Victor wasn’t exactly wrong, before you could think of a retort, Victor handed you a tablet, the screen flickered through images of properties you had never seen, all with a location attached. Victor ran through each one, with coordinates, the number of bedrooms, how long each one had been in Zemo’s possession. His research was meticulous. He spoke as if he was running through a report, like he was bored. You tried to hide your shock, you knew Zemo had other properties but you had never seen them and there were so many. Victor knew so much about you or Zemo, or both of you.

“Placed strategically all over.” Victor continued, but he still hadn’t asked you a question. The screen went blank before the next image showed the house in Louisiana, then it went back to the blank screen, you knew what was missing, the original house. It was the only other house you knew, how was that proof that Zemo was controlling? You could tell him about that house no problem, you lifted your head to Victor waiting for this apparently inevitable, proof of Zemo being controlling question.

“Where is it?”

You opened your mouth before your jaw fell slack of its own volition. Victor had stunned you into silence, you looked down at the black screen. Victor with all of his abilities couldn’t find it, didn’t have a scrap of information about it. No public or private records. You had mysteriously never even seen the entrance, conveniently being asleep every time, Every single time.

“That was by design, no packaging on food, cars both left and right hand drive, no licences, no currency, nothing.” Victor remarked.

You had never thought about it, not once, your heart sank. You didn’t even know the make and models of the cars. You should have noticed this, you knew the house was well protected but to not know where it was, to have it concealed from you, to not have the slightest inkling, but wait, there was currency once at Christmas.

“America, they had dollars.” You spoke with a quivering voice. America was a big place, not exactly a precise location. You really needed to ask Zemo where that fucking house was.

“Dollars? Everyone had dollars?” Victor asked with excitement in his eyes. Yes everyone did, well almost everyone. Sam, Sarah, Bucky, Oeznik, Fuck Oeznik had currency from all over the world. You shook your head. Even when they played that poker game they didn’t mention currency at all.

“I tried to track your husband's movements from the Raft and I couldn’t, I believe he has taken your daughter there.” Victor sounded sad and you did feel a pang of upset, but he saved her. You were about to die, you both were. Shuri must have shielded Zemo somehow, which was a good thing, that house was a fortress, they were safe there. Not being able to see your daughter was a small price to pay for her life. Zemo wouldn’t have coped if she died, you made the right choice, you ensured Zemo would be happy. You could feel Victor's eyes on you, so you decided to change the subject, take a look around to your new life. Something caught your eye, a number in the forty thousands.

“Is this all the people you have saved?” You chirped, an attempt to lift yourself up.

“That is the amount of sacrifices I have made for the good of humanity.”

The good of humanity? The room spun, you gripped onto the screen with that deadly number on. Victor wasn’t a superhero, he was a villain. He was Zemo with powers, a truly horrifying prospect. You took a shaky breath before you painted a smile onto your face. You sat back on the stool after pulling it away from Victor. You dipped your head with your heart thudding in your ears.

“There’s no need to panic. You have been around trained killers all of your life. I help and hinder depending on the situation, I save lives too. I could have let your daughter die. I could have taken both of you. But your darling husband would have reacted very poorly if his wife and child were taken from him again. I did what was fair, I took one of you. You agreed to come here with me so, I’ll make you a promise. When I give my word, I mean it. I’ll protect the people you care about.”

What the fuck did this man want? How did you even attempt to answer him? He must be insane, he must be, but you weren't about to argue, when he talked through his powers, he could quite literally do anything he wanted to. He didn’t have your power, but as long as he had that shield up neither did you. What the fuck had you gotten yourself into? Was this the worse Bucky talked about, villains worse than Thanos? You had to get out of here, how? You didn’t have the first idea. Zemo would be tracking you and finding a way to get you out right now, you just had to wait and not do anything to anger this man. But even if Zemo got you out, if he could, Victor could come back and take you again and again.

“You are very powerful,” You gulped trying to appease him. “What do you need me for?” It was a reasonable question. You needed to understand Victor, then you could tell Zemo. A remote island in the middle of nowhere was looking more and more appealing.

“I want you.”

Oh, how you regretted asking. He wants me? What for? You weren’t about to ask that. He said it easily, so simply, as if it were the answer to the universe. No answer to that question would bring anything you wanted or needed to hear. His doombot pulled out a fresh steaming coffee, yours having gone cold. You slowly reached for the cup and your wedding ring glittered in the warm light. Hurry up Zemo.

“Perspective Sweetheart. There is electricity running through your body right now, I could make you do anything I desire.” All of the screens around you buzzed with white static, a show of his power. “I could have you on your hands and knees scrubbing my floors for all eternity. I could turn you inside out and hang you up like a chandelier. Walk you around like a puppet, catering to my every whim. You will notice I’m not doing those things. I, unlike others actually respect you.”

Sweetheart? Now we are onto nicknames. Yet his words calmed you, Victor could do whatever he wanted, but he hadn’t, he did have some rather unfortunate imaginative ideas and for some inexplicable reason said he respected you. You took a sip of the coffee, not that caffeine ever did a good job of subduing a racing heart.

“In addition, I will never touch you without your express permission.” Victor sauntered over to the coffee machine, the metal of his armour clinking with every step. He fiddled with it for a few moments before he worked out how to operate it, he could have just used magic, this man was an enigma. He was actively making an effort to calm you, had no issues answering your questions, he could have lied, but he seemed very assured of his ‘word’. That his word meant more than anything else to him. He was something beyond a mass murderer, but there was an underlying tone of benevolence within him. He said he would protect those you loved and he didn't have to. He already had what he wanted Me.. He said he was fair, well then it was fair to make a request and run like hell. You couldn’t see a door, just stone walls, but you just had to keep him down long enough, until you found one.

“You said you are fair?” You challenged and he nodded. “Take the shield down.” You exhaled, you never expected to go against someone like Victor. Your hands shook, visibly, in fact your entire body was trembling.

“Even after you promised to come with me? In exchange for your daughter’s life? I gave you a choice and you gave me your word.” Victor inclined his head as he sat down with his own coffee. It sounded like a threat, yet it wasn’t direct. You hated that everything he stated was true. He took a sip through the small slit in his helmet. Victor rested his elbow on the table in complete disinterest. Then the white shield slowly disappeared.

You immediately and awkwardly got to your feet and clenched your fingers inwards, but no black came. No matter how hard you concentrated, you couldn’t summon your powers. Victor must be stopping you in another way, but he hadn’t moved, he was watching you intently.

“Your powers were never tested, an epic mistake.” He chortled. “As I said before you are protective, an unfortunate limitation on your powers.” He waved his around around the room. “Your powers protect others, so as long it’s just you and me…” He trailed off.

What the fuck? Why did your powers come with so many limitations? You couldn’t hurt anyone you love and now this? Although Shuri did say you could be pushed to hurt someone you love, it wasn’t a true limit, it was one of your own making. How were you this useless? This couldn’t be right, you had only used your powers a handful of times. That first mission, the first time you used your powers, you were protecting Sam. The child in the battle. You protected Zemo and Bucky from gunfire. Protected them all in the warehouse. Mark, you protected fucking Mark. When Bucky used that hideous pain machine on you, you were pregnant, protecting your daughter. It was so clear once you thought about it. All of the times you were alone, with one other person believing you could defend yourself if needed. Zemo. Your mind helpfully added. You were wrong. Zemo was wrong, this was the very reason he gave you your powers, to protect yourself, it was all for nothing. It felt as if your gut instinct was there to mock you. Zemo was going to be furious, something you thankfully would have to deal with later. Would he blame you and your nature again? Perhaps you could even keep it from him, he rarely left your side anyway, so he never had to know.

Where in hell was Zemo? Surely he had asked Wakanda for assistance. Obviously caring for your daughter but still, he left you completely alone once, one time, other than that you were always with someone. He wouldn’t have just left you. Would he? You were so lost in thought Victor had to clear his throat a few times before you noticed.

“I hope that one day you can protect yourself.” Victor handed you a pile of clothes and behind you the bricks shifted. You barely registered his words, mindlessly taking the clothes and stepping towards the opening. Inside revealed a very compact shower, toilet and at a quick glance absolutely no escape route. You were still in the maternity dress Zemo insisted on. You could also feel the itch of dried blood and bodily fluids on your skin. You crossed the threshold, if that is even what it was and the doombot followed. You looked at it and then to Victor with raised eyebrows. Instead of an answer you were answered by the bricks sliding back into place and being plunged into darkness.

–

The shower was much more appreciated than you realised, your hair had never been so greasy, it took quite several shampoos to even feel clean. Victor made sure his ancient castle had modern plumbing. Wearing the clothes that you felt comfortable in helped, they weren't exactly your size but they weren't far off. You stayed a bit too long, hoping that Zemo would have arrived by now. You did keep an eye on the doombot that just floated mid air, doing nothing. It only moved when you started to get dressed, it pulled out a towel from it’s chest, allowing you to dry yourself. Once you had put yourself back together, you knocked on the brick, what else could you do? And called out to Victor. The bricks slid back and a very simple dinner was set up on the table. Your stomach grumbled in response.

You jumped when Victor sat next to you instead of the head of the table. You frowned at him as he quietly sliced his food to fit into the small slit of his helmet. Did it not come off? The doombot hovered next to you, like it was awaiting instruction. You asked it for a glass of water and it remained still. Victor barely moved his head and it flew off into the wall? And came back with a glass of water. Victor could control it with his mind. Your eyes rounded, that doombot watched you in the shower.

“Victor, can you see through your doombot?” Your mouth went dry. “In the shower.” You muttered.

Victor coughed through his mouthful. “What?” You had offended him. Shit. Shit. Shit. Victor took your water and drained it. “What kind of person do you think I am? Who would do that?” Zemo would, did in fact. You decided not to respond. You didn’t even know it was day or night. You waited for Zemo, twisting the ring around your finger. Hours must have passed before Victor announced he was tired. The doors to the glass cabinet opened.

“You expect me to sleep in that? Standing up? It looks like a coffin.” You exclaimed. To prove your point you climbed in without reluctance, before you turned the golden glow flittered around you and your eyes closed.

–

Days had passed in silence. You wanted to go home desperately. You wanted to hold your daughter, you didn’t even know her name. Ozenik asked for ideas but you refused. You didn’t want to imagine or name a child you would never meet. You slept surprisingly well standing up, feeling well rested but parched whenever you were woken up. You missed Zemo, Bucky, Maria, Sarah, Sam and the boys, your life driving around, helping others. You had a million questions and none were for Victor, there was a lot that was kept from you and you needed answers, from Zemo specifically. Had you been manipulated? Zemo had good intentions, he must have his reasons. You didn’t really know what was expected of you here. Victor hadn’t said anything, he didn’t make you uncomfortable, it’s just you had no idea how to live here with him. He had no trouble with the adjustment, he was happy in your presence, you could feel it. Whenever he looked at you, it was with fondness, like he had always known you. He made wide gestures whenever he moved around, which you were sure he was doing for your benefit. You got up again and waited at the wall to use the bathroom, as always his dutiful doombot followed, Victor has told you to treat it as if it were an assistant.

“Can you change this to a door?” You enquired. Victor inclined his head, one of his machines unfolded revealing several other doombots. They approached the wall with sledgehammers. Without ceremony they all started to smash the wall apart. He was destroying his ancestral castle at your suggestion. You thought he would use magic. Another machine whirred away sawing pieces of wood, constructing a door. You watched in fascination as his doombots worked together to fulfil your request. When you exited, dinner had been set up and Victor was on his chair right next to yours.

“You can speak you know, there won’t be repercussions.”

Zemo was obviously having trouble finding you, so you might as well talk with Victor, try to change his mind about the path he was on. You doubted you could get through to him, but there wasn’t anything else to do. “No one has to die.” You stated firmly. Zemo said you were a skilled negotiator, and Victor clearly had no intention of stopping.

Victor scoffed with an abhorred expression. “Yes they do. Out of interest how often did you have to say that to your husband? Or the soldier? Or Maria? Or Fury? Are they all villains too?”

I didn’t say it often enough. “I’m not naïve, I know there are bad people. If you expect me to join you or kill for you, I won’t.” You snapped.

“I’ll never ask you to.” Victor shrugged.

Oh. You couldn’t figure this man out at all. You looked around the room for the millionth time. Where is Zemo? This conversation had already gone on long enough, despite you only saying two sentences and you just didn’t want to be around Victor, not because you were frightened, but because he was making sense. Making you consider things you never had, making you question things you had never asked yourself before and you didn’t like the feeling. You tapped for your fingers impatiently on the table.

“Where are you Zemo?” You whispered.

“I told you where he is.” Victor spoke tentatively. But that wasn’t what you meant. You know the sleepless nights would be hard work, but it had been days. Couldn’t he send someone else? “I removed your tracking device.” Victor said shyly.

“What?” You heard what he said and yet you found yourself unable to believe it. Zemo couldn’t find you without it. You were sure he had other ways but against Victor? You weren't sure anyone could beat him, “Why?”

“You are not a fucking pet or an object.” Victor growled. “You are a human being.” You hadn’t seen him remotely angry, but the tracker pissed him off for some reason. You stared back at him, unsure of what to say. You needed that tracker, there wasn’t any choice in the matter.

Victor was staring at you again. “Speaking of being treated like shit, I have something to show you.” One of the screens changed to a calendar. You blinked unable to believe your eyes, hoping your eyes had deceived you. You hadn’t been here days, you had been here for weeks. Weeks. “You needed to heal.” Victor whispered. Heal? Heal? I would have been fine.

“I need to go home.” You croaked out. Tears threatened to spill over. You couldn’t be found, you had missed so many of your daughter’s first moments. You sank into the stool. You could never go home, you agreed to be here so she could live. You had to be strong.

“Once we find that house, I’ll take you home.” Victor waved his hand so the doombot could offer you a tissue. You kept your head down for a few more moments looking at your wedding ring before lifting your head to Victor. He was still looking at the calendar, refusing to meet your eyes. That’s when you saw it, one date was in red. A date you had ignored, been told to ignore. Your birthday. You swallowed the rising panic. It was a few days away and Zemo hadn’t come for you in weeks.

“I had help finding you and unfortunately I gave Hydra my word.” Victor's voice was laced with sorrow.

“Take it back then.” You implored, keeping your voice as steady as you could. The only sound that filled the air was the metal clinking as Victor turned away from you. Victor was a coward, he promised you to Hydra, like you could be sold, or given away, like a pet. “I thought you said I am a human being?” Victor had made several little digs at Zemo, insinuating that the tracker made you a pet, but he had offered you out to hydra. “You're no better.” It wasn’t that you believed that Zemo was evil, but Victor seemed to be blind to what he was, himself.

That got his attention, he stormed over to you. You didn’t move, what was the point? To induce higher levels of fear? You waited for the pain, for the blow to your face, for the horror to begin. “Your husband used the avengers love for each other, against them, to tear them apart. If I were like him, I would have ran to Hydra informing them of your pregnancy, instead, I kept them away.”

You didn’t even consider your daughter when you saw that screen, a child that might already have your powers. A child you thought, might be hunted from day one. Victor protected her from Hydra, didn’t even allow them the knowledge that you were pregnant. Another thing you had to thank him for, another debt you owed him. The thought alone of Hydra knowing about her, made your lungs seize. A familiar feeling, Your body started to shake, your legs felt like jelly. You knew what was happening, Another terror induced panic attack, but Oeznik wasn’t here to get you through it. A doombot extracted a needle from his chest within your clouded view. Liquid pushed itself through your veins, a gentle warmth spreading from your arm across your chest. Your muscles stopped spasming, Your lungs relaxed, your heart slowed down, the feeling slowly came back into your body.

“What the hell is that? You said you would never touch me!” You half shouted.

“Technically I didn’t.” Victor gestured to the doombot which beeped happily at you. “Serotonin and endorphins. You will be happy here, with me.”

–

No panic attacks, you would never slip into that sweet void again. You needed to stop thinking like that. Never? As if, you wouldn't ever make it home, ridiculous. Zemo was searching for you right now, you had to believe that. In the meantime Victor wanted you to be happy, and he sounded so certain, that would be the case. Even if that meant drugging you to induce happiness. In the grand scheme of things you could be drugged with worse, had been on several occasions. The way he worded things concerned you, but as ever he kept true to his word of no touching, which you now realised meant his exact word. He would never touch you, but his doombots could. They didn’t do anything sinister and were in fact like assistants, passing you the salt at dinner, making sure your slippers were ready after a shower. Passing Victor screwdrivers and wrenches. You didn’t give Hydra another thought, despite the fact your birthday was the very next day. The torture you described as ‘just words’ couldn’t become a reality. Full denial was the only way forward. Zemo would arrive by then. If not, Bucky would, If not, Maria, or Sam or Fury. Just someone. You asked where you were, as once again you hadn’t fucking asked and briefly wondered if there had been occasions, where maybe you had been ever so slightly naïve. You were in Latveria, well what had been Latveria, you were at the very least on earth and not a far away distant planet, it could be found. You also thought your old house could be found. So so stupid. Victor has dedicated an entire workstation to the cause, your old home. It searched for 24 hours a day and also placed alerts on what he called your loved ones, as he promised to protect them. You didn't understand him and didn't want to, the more you spoke to him the more scattered your brain felt. You just sat with a book, not reading it, instead waiting for someone to burst through the door, well wall. A red light pulled you out of your daze.

James Buchanan Barnes - Abducted

Those words flashed on every screen around you, just when you thought nothing else could go wrong. You jumped up and rushed to your glass cabinet, ready to be put under so Victor could deal with this as he promised.

“I’m not going to save him, Sweetheart. You are.” Victor was poised waiting for you.

Me? How in hell were you supposed to do that? You assumed you would never leave this room. Your mouth was moving but no words were coming out.

“You are enhanced. This is what you are supposed to be doing.” A portal opened next to Victor. You were going to be useless, a liability even. This was going to be a catastrophe. You stepped through the into the night. Victor handed you what appeared to be a bundle of black fabric, when you took it from him you saw it was a floor length cloak. You wrapped it around yourself to discover it was weighted, the hood covered your eyes, but whatever Victor made it from you could see through it clearly. Victor handed you a mask that resembled the mask of the Winter Soldier. You conveniently, couldn’t be identified, not that it mattered, if Victor were here then any cameras would be disabled.

“You look like a superhero now.” Victor trilled. A superhero? You rolled your eyes. Victor had far too much confidence in you, this was going to be a disaster. Since when did heroes and villains work together? Since when did villains rescue Avengers? This entire situation was ridiculous. Victor expected you to step up and claim a title you never had, never practised for. He was just throwing you out into the field. Victor’s gold shield surrounded you both before the white shield surrounded him. You were both standing at a large impenetrable door, to a building that according to Victor’s intelligence, held Bucky.

“Don’t we need weapons?” You asked. You both had no idea what you were up against, if you even got past the door. Besides, some other Avengers should be turning up any moment now to actually rescue Bucky because if you were meant to, then you could quite confidently say that you would be leaving empty handed.

Victor’s head whipped to face you. “We are the weapons.”

You scoffed at that. Victor yes. You, not so much. “Alright then, what’s the plan? How are we getting in?”

“Plan?” Victor laughed. “When you are me, you just walk in.” He shrugged. He placed his metal covered palm on the metal door, which towered over him. Victor loomed over you as it was. Victor turned so you could see the pure bliss in his eyes as sparks flew out. The door fell forward with a thump, thankfully Victor couldn’t see your astonished look, well he certainly saw your jaw fall slack. You scrambled to put the mask in place as you heard gunfire. Victor stood still so you could watch as bullets disintegrated as they came into contact with his gold shield.

Victor was unstoppable.

With the shield alone, nothing could touch him, you flinched at the gunfire but didn’t need to. Victor made it so, you wouldn’t come to any harm. He stepped onto the door and into the building without a care in the world, confidence surging through him. There wasn’t even a tear on his green cape, it dragged behind him as unscathed as he was. Whoever these dissidents were they threw knives, grenades, themselves at Victor. He looked around as if he were in a gallery taking in the art, he didn't spare them a glance. You watched him in awe. Your heart was hammering due to being at the centre of a gun fight. Victor jerked his head for you to join him, you stumbled along. You cowered at the attacks on your person. Every bullet, every knife, every movement made by them, was fruitless.

“It’s just a waste of ammunition, honestly.” Victor said with pity, he trailed along opening doors, not seeing Bucky he pressed on. After you had cleared one floor the tension in your body started to dissipate, you were learning to trust this shield. If Victor wanted you as he said, then you had a very small advantage, he wouldn’t let anything happen to you. Well bar Hydra, but you had no intentions of coming to terms with that.

You felt sick to your stomach when you came across Bucky, he was strapped to that heinous machine, the one used to brainwash him. To take control of his entire being, to rob him of his life. A life he was thriving in. That contraption could have a super soldier writhing with the flick of a switch, Bucky’s head was lolled to the side, a film of sweat coated him. They had already used it. Those sick bastards. The shield around you dropped and Victor stood guard at the door. You adjusted the mask to speak and asked Victor if this was Hydra. Victor explained that there wasn’t anyone with the level of training Bucky had, so he was sought after, but government got there first.

“They aren't controlling Bucky like Hydra did.” You panted.

“Aren’t they? Compliance is a condition of his pardon.”

“Don’t say it like that!”

“You mean, how it is?”

“Shut up and destroy this chair.” You demanded. You could not let Victor get inside your mind, this was just too much. Victor gave you a terse nod and waited for you to unstrap Bucky, as you were supposed to be in charge. You mumbled about this all being bullshit as you pulled wires off Bucky, a bit to harshly. You grunted pulling Bucky out of the chair, you faltered under his frame and hit the deck. You didn’t have time to brace before Bucky’s dead weight, dropped right on top of you.

You groaned, but the groan was for this stupid mission, for Victor, for how in the fuck had you been kidnapped again? Did this even class as kidnapping? You agreed to this. I asked Zemo to kidnap me. Your thoughts were being ever so helpful again. Maybe you could just stay here? Just lie on the floor and wait. Bucky would wake up and at the very least you could tell him where you were before Victor inevitably took you back to the castle. You wanted to tear your hair out. You rolled Bucky off. Victor hadn’t said a word, hadn’t laughed, he waited for instruction.

You glanced around. “Where is the chair?” Perhaps Victor has portalled it, to some distant far away land. Victor dropped a small but rather heavy silver and black ball into your hand. It was no bigger than a snooker ball.

“What can’t you do?”

“I can’t fly.” Victor stated then his eyes narrowed. “Actually it would be easy, If I added an electrical current into my-”

“Destroy that too.” You huffed out, pointing at the cryochamber, you couldn’t go there, you just couldn't. You just gave Victor an idea. Then man who had killed forty thousand fucking people. Victor gave you an acknowledgement, accepting your order before he got to work turning another machine into a ball. You wanted to watch, you really did, but there were more important matters at hand. Bucky actually alive, being at the very top of that list. You checked for a pulse while simultaneously watching his chest rise and fall. You had exactly zero medical knowledge, was his pulse irregular? Fuck knows. Should a super soldiers pulse be irregular anyway? You were useless, utterly useless and you didn’t know why anyone would ever let you be in charge of anything ever.

You turned when you felt Victors hand on your shoulder, but were met with someone in a balaclava. Before you could react. Victor hauled the man to his feet. You watched fear take over the man’s body. Your neck prickled with ice, seemingly understanding what was coming before you did. The man opened his mouth to speak and then fell into a puddle of flesh and meat to the floor, boneless.

Victor tore his entire spine out. There was a fully fledged spine in Victor’s hand. You covered Bucky with your body. Victor could rip out spines, full and intact, ribcage still attached, spines. You praised whatever was up there, that you didn’t hear it. You knew Victor was a villain but to see that first hand. Fucking hell. That can’t be possible. Just no. So much no. You wrapped your arms around Bucky as much as you could. Trying to hide him and to hold onto something real, because you were sure that ripping out spines couldn’t be. It just couldn’t not, even Bucky was not that strong. You couldn’t think, you couldn't breathe. You were protecting Bucky, holding your body over him. It was the best you could do. Victor lowered himself down on the floor next to you, to come down to your level.

“He didn’t ask to touch you. You need to get up, the rest are on the way.” Victor spoke softly. “Sit up Sweetheart and protect your soldier.”

Bucky. Bucky. Yes, these people wanted to control Bucky. To torture him, to use him against his will. You didn’t need to ask about spines, it was not information you needed. You kept one very unsteady hand on Bucky’s chest and held the other towards the door. Bucky, just get Bucky out. You focused your mind on Sarah and the boys and how worried they must be. You blew out a breath of air in a pathetic attempt to control your emotions.

Before the first could take a shot, you clenched your fingers inwards and thought only of the pain these people had brought Bucky. In return screams bounced around you. You blinked away the water gathering in your eyes and didn’t stop until, you could no longer hear footsteps approaching. Using your powers gave you clarity, allowed your brain to concentrate. You were here to get Bucky out, anything else that happened could be dealt with later. You had done the same on missions with Zemo, ignored his actions and pressed on. You got to your feet. Victor looked very pleased with you. He hauled Bucky over his shoulder without any sound of struggling. He told you to walk ahead and take down anyone in your path. The gold shield surrounded you and you walked out determined to complete this mission. After stepping over several dissidents sobbing, curled into balls, you walked through the same door you arrived through. The metal door rose up behind victor, he ran his hand around the frame, welding it shut.

You almost blurted out Sam’s name when he touched down in front of you. Victor slowly lowered Bucky and placed him on the ground. As Sam crouched down to, what you could see were the correct procedures for medical checks, you thought you could tell Sam, that you were right here in front of him. Then the image of a spine slammed full force into your mind. Victor had not said he wouldn’t kill your friends. Or specifically not tear out spines. His exact word did not include that. It was in everyone's best interest that you stayed quiet. To keep the peace and to keep spines inside bodies, where they should be.

“Thanks man. I knew this was sketchy. I should have come with him.” Sam sighed with a haggard voice. “It’s been hectic lately.”

Hectic? Your ears perked up. Hectic in a bad way? In a no sleep way? In a, Zemo is on his way, way?

“How so?” Victor asked, voicing what you couldn't. Sam’s eyebrows pinched, his eyes bounced in between you both, through his goggles which you now noticed, were diagonal on his face. His eyes trailed your black cloak and the mask Just like Bucky’s. Sam was making the same choice to stay quiet.

“Superhero stuff.” Sam rose to his feet and puffed out his chest. That wasn't a good sign, you could see that Sam didn’t trust either of you. Victor offered out his hand to Sam, to shake. To show he was an ally and not an enemy. Sam took it and you blew out the breath, you had been holding.

“Dr Doom and this is my……..partner.” Victor nodded in your direction. You glared at him from under the hood. Dr fucking Doom. And partner? This had to be a nightmare. As you seethed, Sam’s arms wrapped around you. Soothing you, encompassing you in an embrace you thought you had lost, you settled into him, clinging on.

“Do you often put your hands on people without an invitation?” Victor bit out. You withdrew immediately, holding on any longer wasn’t worth the risk.

“Possessive, I get it. I know someone like that.” Sam smiled crookedly. Zemo. Your heart swelled at the mention of him.

“Don’t use that word to describe me.” Victor warned. Victor really did not like being compared to Zemo. You pulled on his arm. Sam was digging himself a hole and he needed to get himself and Bucky home without any further damage. Victor bid Sam a polite farewell and let you drag him away. You waited until Sam flew away with a rescued Bucky in his arms before you removed the mask.

“You saved an Avenger, remind me, why you are dangerous again?”

“Did you miss the screaming?” You retorted.

“Did you miss the part where you saved him?”

You had help. But yes, you could say you assisted in a rescue mission. Got everyone out when it was imperative to, the same as your run in with Hydra at that warehouse. As long as you had someone with you, it seemed arbitrary that you weren't put on missions. Even if Zemo forbid it. Your powers were going to waste. Maybe you should have been doing things like this. Helped eliminate threats and build a better future. When you lifted your head to answer Victor you were back in the castle. Another alert was filling the screens.

Rebecca Hilda Zemo.

Zemo? Before you could ask, the words ‘Not enhanced’ appeared underneath it. Your daughter, she had a name, she wasn’t like you. This would be the first of many tests, you were sure, but she hadn’t been born like you. Why would Zemo put this out there for anyone to find? Were they trying to ward off Hydra? Was it a way of getting a message to you? Was this a birthday present from Zemo? If he couldn’t find you at least he could tell you this.

“Do you like the name?” Victor asked. You weren’t sure you would have had much say anyway. Rebecca after Bucky’s sister and Hilda after Zemo’s mother, it was perfect. Tears welled in your eyes. She was safe, safe from all of this. She could live the peaceful life you dreamed of.

“What if I told you, that’s your name?”

“It can’t be.” You quipped and showed Victor your necklace. The necklace Zemo had engraved. You knew your name, you did. Maria told you, once you woke up from your coma. There wouldn’t be any reason to lie. Well unless it was to hide you from Hydra, another layer of protection. But Zemo would have told you, or he would have kept up with the pretence, to not upset you. The questions were piling up again. You were so confused by it all, Victor had turned your world upside down, with just a few questions. Victor asked for your ring and necklace and you refused.

“Sweetheart. Hydra will take those from you.”

Hydra, right. Your birthday. Just a few hours away. What if you got pregnant? Were you expected to have their children? You knew just that thought, confirmed that you had accepted what was going to happen. Zemo would find you, one day, he would save you. It just might not be in time. At least your daughter wasn’t here, she wouldn’t be tainted by Hydra. You handed them over without any hesitation.

–

Much to your dismay, you woke in a room, very similar to the box at the Raft, one of Victor’s doombots was with you. You desperately scrambled to find a way out, your lungs clenching rapidly, your nails scratched at the openings of the door. You begged the doombot for help. This room had many glass windows. You quickly realised they were for observation, Hydra being as sick and twisted as they were, desired you to be watched as you were tortured and humiliated.

A minute for every year you had lived.

You couldn’t pinpoint what each Hydra agent did, it all merged into one. You held back your cries, until it became clear that it egged them on to push you further, to inflict more pain. You stupidly thought that if they saw you were in pain they would sympathise and stop, you just couldn't comprehend how this evil was in the world. You cried out, thrashed, writhed. You screamed for Zemo until you couldn’t scream anymore. You attempted to curl up to defend your body. Your hands had been placed into a device of Hydra’s making, stretching up to your elbows. You couldn’t clench your fingers, if you tried. Not only that Hydra, having known you longer than anyone else in your life, they made sure the door to enter and exit, had another door behind it. Only one could enter at a time. They would close you in before they swapped over.

They kicked, punched, sliced, diced, broke and it still wasn’t enough. You finally knew why you didn’t like guns, because they raped you with them, When they tried to put things in your mouth you bit back, why? Because what else could they do? It was the only power you had in here. They taunted you asking if you remembered it. You pleaded with them to stop and it spurred them on.

You tried desperately to go somewhere else, to dissociate, but they would bang the glass, leer and taunt. Keeping your mind alert and aware of what they were doing. You passed out a few times from the pain and you would wake to them rutting into you. You cried, you howled, convulsed against the restraints, you kicked out and it didn’t end. For your defiance, they put hooks through your feet, shackling you in place. The black within you paced like a caged animal, mocking you, reminding you that you could stop them if the circumstances were right. But Hydra made sure that the criteria was never met. Some even vomited behind the glass at what the others were doing, but together they were a pack of wolves, ready to devour, thirsty for your blood, for your torment, to be safe in the knowledge that could make you crumple and despite being enhanced, there wasn’t anything you could do to stop them.

The smell of burnt flesh invaded your senses, there were pools of your own blood on the floor, you thought their scent would linger on your skin forever, you were unable to cradle your wounds, they were left open. As you imagined the memories from this day would be, open, unable to heal. You couldn’t understand how or why you were still alive, you had met death a few times in here, but Hydra wouldn't allow you to cross over. You expected Zemo to burst through the door. The only thing you were vaguely aware of was the doombot, who wiped away your tears, stroked your hair, but otherwise hovered next you to. You were being comforted by a robot, you held onto the fact that you were not alone. Robot or not, the doombot was on your side, helping you through it all, with a countdown on his chest. Your body was spent, there was no energy left, only to let them do as they pleased. Three minutes. What more could they do in three minutes? That they hadn't already? You didn’t even know what would happen at the end, would they pick you up and deliver you back to Victor? You didn’t fathom this kind of treachery existed. You were confused when the Hydra agent left, all of the others made sure they used every last second of their time. When he returned with a guillotine you told yourself that you were hallucinating. You knew he would have a sinister sneer on his face, but your eyes, would not leave the contraption. He pulled a hook out of your left foot without any care and you couldn’t have been happier, you do not know where you found the strength to kick out, but you kicked for your life. You yanked on your other foot, praying the hook would tear through.

“Your husband killed my brother. Took a piece of my heart, so now I’m going to take a piece of you.”

Zemo? How were you being punished for something Zemo did? How was that fair? You shook your head frantically. Zemo had killed many people, you did know who this man was or, his brother, or if it had anything to do with you, The door opened again and the youngest agent who you saw earlier, dropped to his knees and pulled the hook out as delicately as he could. You tried to tell him to help you but from all the screaming, no sound came out. He rushed around and used a key to open the clamps, closing in your hands. They had been in place for so long, you could barely move. He lifted your hand to the agent fiddling with the guillotine. You were too dazed, you didn’t understand what he wanted. Get that thing away from my leg! Hydra unlike Zemo, couldn't read your thoughts.

“STOP HIM!” The younger agent screamed.

How?

He shook your hand, but his order got the older agent's attention, he picked up the gun he had violated you with earlier and aimed it at his head. Powers, my powers. A surge of black came and you feebly squeezed your fingers inwards. The older man’s body jarred, removing his hold on the guillotine and the blade came crashing down.

Why is my leg in his hands?

Why is there nothing where my leg should be?

Where is Zemo?

The doombot pulled a large sheet out of his chest and draped it over you, The younger man pulled it and pushed the fabric into the stump that was where your leg should be. The doombot pulled the sheet back into place. A portal opened in front of you, Victor stepped through and rushed over to you.

“Sweetheart.” Victor looked at the empty space where your leg should be and looked back at you with wet eyes. “I need to touch you.” His voice sounded strained, almost as if he were in as much pain as you had been.

You must be dreaming, they didn’t take your leg, this was a nightmare, you passed out from the pain and your mind had taken over. Running rampant, envisioning the very worst. Victor said he wanted you, that must include all of you, including your leg, that the man was stroking. Weird, you couldn’t feel it. Legs don’t come off that quickly, you couldn’t even feel any pain, maybe you were in shock. No, no, it couldn’t be possible, this was a vision of some kind. Victor was magic, maybe he was showing you a memory and Maria managed to put your leg back to where it should be. Victor made it very realistic, the sheet was getting heavier, absorbing some sort of red liquid, was that supposed to be blood? You giggled at the absurdity of it all.

“WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?” The young man shouted, trying to manhandle you. Why was he shouting? He was overreacting and ruining the peace in your mind, The peace in your body, they weren’t hurting you anymore, even the black stopped, you were safe, there was no more pain, everything was fine.

You cupped Victors face with your hand. “Victor, this isn’t real.” You whispered to him, like it was a secret. Zemo would never let this happen.

Victor pushed his head into your hand. “Say yes anyway.” Victor pleaded.

You gave Victor a condescending smile and nodded gently, giving him that permission he desperately craved. You don’t know why you gave it, but he seemed very upset. You couldn’t understand why, there was no reason to be upset. Everything was great, you were tired, maybe a nap would help, help you understand why you could feel Victor's rage in his breath across your face, The worry in his eyes, the doombot pulling out bags of blood from his chest. You would wake up and have a good laugh about all of this.

Next Part: https://www.tumblr.com/zemossunshine/691507346401378305/sunshine-chapter-34?source=share

[monsoonblooms12]

Eumoiriety (Ethan x f!MC)

Summary: Four Years of Pooja Sharma's Birthday, from her first year as an Intern to her first year as an Attending.

Eumoiriety: Happiness due to state of innocence and purity💕

A/N: It's my baby's birthday and I went overboard. This is purely self indulgent and since I have zero to negative self control, this turned out way longer than I expected it to. Anyway, I hope you still like it💙

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey X f!MC (Pooja Sharma)

Word Count: around 3.7K (I am sorry!)

Rating: General

Category: A bit angst, A bit fluff

Warnings: None that I saw.

Prompts: @choicesaugustchallenge Day 29 - Birthday

READ ON AO3

Intern Year:

She walks barefoot on the green floor as the dews clinging to grass tips, soothe her like the cold breeze on a summer day.

A few golden rays filter through the canopy that acts as a barrier to the shining sun overhead. When they fall on the grass, the view looks like gold intermixed with emerald.

She wears a white gown, which flutters behind her, as her heart dances with the bees going flower to flower to get their prize of nectar in return for their favour of pollinating them.

There is a calm spreading through her soul, an ease, a slow infusion of tranquillity with her heart beats.

A swish makes her turn. Her eyes capture a silhouette, drifting farther and farther, as if taking her calm along with it.

It's replaced by restlessness.

There is a cajole, a whispered cajole, that urges her feet to run, her mind to think, her heart to wonder.

She follows. One step, and another.

The scene changes.

There are no more trees, no more green with the sun's shine.

At a distance, the waves crash on the sandy shore, their meet with their shore echoing in the silent surroundings.

She looks around and sees it.

The silhouette, now apparent that it was a man, standing with his back to her. He looks unbothered. As if he stole her peace and gave her his unrest in return.

She tries to walk slowly towards, footsteps imprinting on the sand, but the distance never seems to lessen or end.

She tries running, but to no avail.

The waves continue crashing, the footprints continue to get imprinted and the man continues to remain still and silent.

The only change has been in the sky, which is now leaden, dark with humongous clouds.

The thunder begins to cackle.

Once, Twice, Thrice.

She closes her ears with her hands, eyes shut to reduce the impact of the thunderous noise reverberating through every single one of her bones. But the roar keeps getting louder and louder until...

Her eyes snap open, but the echo from her sweven doesn't leave her. She turns around to find her phone ringing, straining her eyes with incredulous bright light (that she forgot to dim). The caller ID is barely registered, but the voice gives away the identity.

It's her sister.

With a flash, all the haze from the peculiar dream gets lost and bubbly happiness takes up the emptied space.

It's their birthday.

The first one since she came here. She had been so busy unknotting the twisted knots of circumstances in which she found herself tangled, that she had forgotten about the once unforgettable occasion of her life.

Maybe she has really lost that childhood she held on so tightly to, she thinks.

But not without a hope. Of a chance to get it back.

Maybe differently.

But the want to relive those carefree days, where the colour of pens you get as gifts, and the decision of who gets the piece of cake with the chocolate masterpiece on it were the only things that held importance. All other worldly, societal woes were secondary, trivial, uncared for.

She wishes her sister and she wishes her back.

3..2..1.. Happy Birthday! To Us!

They scream-whisper together, carrying on the years' long tradition.

The only thing different? They were on their cellulars, ecospheres apart, instead of snuggling and shouting together, and annoying their brother for an entire day.

Subconsciously, a tee-hee escapes her. Thinking about her brother, she takes a look at the clock. Correct 12:03 am on 12th August. If she knows him, he is probably counting the seconds.

At 12:05 am to the dot, another shrill echoes through the silent apartment. Her guess is correct.

On the other side of the screen, sits Idhayan arranging the cake so that Pooja can see the eloquent buttercream designs he has hand made on it.

In the background, there is a blurry motion. It turns out to be Alekhya.

She jumps onto the couch beside their brother, putting an end to his steady concentration.

He makes an irritated face, while she laughs.

And Pooja just watches, giggling alone.

The pang in her chest reminds her, once & once more, about just how much she misses them.

How empty, monochromatic her life is, with all these miles between them.

For the past year, every time any event took a turn for the worse, broke her, or hurt her, she wanted to go back to her safe haven.

The place where the chronicles of her life begun.

Many times, she had found herself convinced (by others as well as her self doubting mind) that she didn't belong here. That she didn't have the calibre, the skills to strive in this fight of dogs, in this race of horses where she felt like a donkey.

Or maybe a snail.

She dreamed of sleeping in her mother's lap when she first found herself in the crossroads of feelings and reason. Making her muddled head clear with words that never crossed the barrier between dream and reality.

When Mrs Martinez died, she imagined herself sitting on the swing, her brother's comfort brownies reduced to messy crumbs, as she let the mountain winds take away the burden of dread that pressed upon her heart.

And the day when Landry's backstab became eminent? She visualized her sister ripping him down, shredding him with knives of words because that's what he deserved.

She knew her father would have made them both coffee like he always did when he came home during breaks from piloting. He would have said a mere few words, which would have been enough for her to see the path ahead.

The mini virtual celebration ends, and the silence settles again. Tendrils of sleep come and go, but never stay.

She is left alone with her thoughts and worries, and a fear of the unknown which is hidden by the curtains of the future.

--------

The day passes like a swift blowing wind in a desert.

It's quiet, too quiet.

And probably for the first time in her life, she adores it. To be away from the hustle of a celebration, which would have been a noise in the cacophony, given the situation.

To get a period of silence for her thoughts to drift away, to think about the unknown, to predict a make or break.

The pages are turned swiftly by her fingers, one of which is clad with a minimal gold ring, another old ritual of hers.

The library harbours the overworked interns, who are now pushing the boundaries of time to find a way to help their friend out.

Their tired eyes pain with the lack of sleep, coffee fuelling through their veins, and mind engrossed in picking up any clue, any line, any tip that could be supportive for them.

Hours pass, no-one utters a word. Pens run on empty notebooks, hands managing to create only messy scribbles. Black and Blue fill the white as if it never existed.

The clock strikes the end hour.

They all get up.

They go home together, for discussions and relaxation.

At the doorstep, everyone enters before her, while she stands still, too engulfed in worries to notice the happenings.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Confetti pops, her reverie is broken.

The smile shines like a jewel in a priceless necklace.

The arrangements are minimal, just champagne, cake and friends, but that's more than enough for her. To make her forget the dark fog of pessimism.

Maybe there is hope left.

-------

Second Year:

12th August.

The day that is drifting closer by the minute.

It has always been Alekhya's birthday for her.

On her phone, In her diary, In her mind.

People might regard it as a beautiful flaw of her nature, the flaw of always placing others before herself.

But to her, the instinct seemed natural, obvious. She had never delved into the whys, and she doesn't want to begin now.

For Alekhya, the circumstances became vice-versa.

And this was the beauty of their bond.

Strong, Pure and Selfless.

They never seem to realize that, though.

They hold onto the strings of simplicity, of sweet uncomplexity. And that is what helps them to bridge the gap between siblings and best friends.

After the tumultuous year, that very much resembled the completion of a voyage through the rough Indian Ocean, where storms ravage through days and endless nights, thunders crack, and waves that scale the heights between the ocean and sky to become mountains of water, crash on the feeble pieces of wood barely held together in the form of a boat, coming back to her origin, her hometown is a necessity.

Especially for her to find that normalcy again.

She survived.

Even though she fell, almost drowned, gasped for a breath more times she could count and nearly accepted her fate.

Until that is, the pale faces of the ones she holds close, the endless stream of tears that scale their cheeks, their breaking hearts, came to haunt her in her reverie and prevented her from closing her eyes & from letting that almost undetectable beat of heart stop.

The wishes from last year come back to her. This time, it wasn't virtual anymore. This time, it wasn't just painted in pixels, but written in buttercream letters, one which she could taste.

This time, the hugs weren't just virtual. They were very real, and very needed.

As she sits amidst the bushes of phenomenal florals, she lets her mind project in vivid colours, the extremities of the last year.

Her heart, breaking into tiny glass pieces, not perceived by the eye but sharp enough to draw blood.

The fear of losing and letting so many others lose along.

The coming close and going away, almost kisses and slide of unassuming hands, those which could easily be perceived as a mistake, but were anything but.

Competing in a nameless competition and almost dying in the process.

Getting the lost love back. Slowly, Gradually. (even if it felt too early to call it that)

And then... Her mind stops as the playful tunes start emanating out along with florescent light from the cellular, and the face of the one who has been a regular image of the thoughts that lull her to sleep.

On the other side, his voice is soft.

She can visualize him in the Diagnostics Office, leaning back on his chair.

Most probably on a break.

The new day hasn't even started for him, yet he remembers that it has, for her.

Their talks are interspersed with comfortable silence. For them, just the knowledge that the person on the other side is still there with them is enough.

All through the conversation, she waits.

In a hope that the irrelevant and unimportant date is written in faded letters somewhere in that brilliant mind of his.

As the line approaches its end, talks slowly halt, she feels a faint pang of sadness.

Maybe he doesn't remember it after all.

She bids her farewell, and as his finger hovers close to the end call button, she hears it.

Crystal Clear but still seeming unreal.

Happy Birthday, Pooja.

Her thanks are intermixed with a light giggle, unable to hold back the pleasure that erupts within her, along with the flutter called butterflies in her stomach.

Maybe there is always hope left, after all.

-------

Last year of Residence:

There have been countless moments when she has asked the time to wait, to slow its rushing footsteps that leave no mark behind.

Sometimes it's a beg, while in other vespertine hours, it's a mindless murmur.

This moment is one of them.

When a handful of sand is slowly released on a windy day, the swooshes and swishes carry them away, farther and farther, leave them with no choice but to fly along.

The minutes were being carried away by the same current, where they had no choice but to pass.

No one had the power to hold it, not even the mighties, the richest, the most supreme.

The conditions now extensively mimic the conditions during her first year.

Just this time, it was textbooks on internal medicine and medical procedure instead of ethics.

The wishes that day are hushed, the minimal party comprising of cupcakes and mug cakes and the gang, christened "The Invincibles" after they successfully tackle one hurdle and another but remain strong and together, in their PJs.

It must be one of the first nights since who knows how long when they spent their time doing an activity that doesn't involve colour coded tabs and complicated biological drawings.

And even though some of them make faux complaints about the wasted time, they all needed this break more than they could express.

The morning sun rays filter through the white curtains guarding the windows way too fast, making them unable to pinpoint the exact moment when the black of the night ceased to exist, when the sky became melanocrysus and when the golden took over the entire stretch.

A single text message pushes her to drop the blanket of laziness, the cocoon she inhabited. Getting up and placing a smile has never been as easy as it was now.

Come Over

------

The condo is inhabited by a stark silence when she reaches there.

She knocks. The click of the doorknob on the other side is almost instantaneous.

His hand wraps around her waist like a reflex deeply etched in his encephalon. For the first time in forever, their kisses are not chaste. Or momentary.

When he whispers a happy birthday wish against her forehead, that's what she would call intimacy.

The purity of the action touches her heart and makes it swell, with an emotion that she predicts will not remain unnamed any longer.

-------

First-year as an attending:

The celebratory vibes are in the air today.

Her stride is confident, heels playing a mellow harmony on the shining floors.

No one doesn't recognize her.

The intern who nearly lost her license to the Head of Diagnostics team, it was a journey that had thrown her off-road a million times.

Sometimes the barriers were pinpricks leaving no marks, and sometimes they were boulders crushing her.

And sometimes, one of these on-lookers would tear down her faith by stabbing her from the back, the cowardice of their soul, being mirrored in the blades of those knives of betrayal.

And yet she stands strong, her resolve unperturbed, as she faces the demons, those of others and those of her own.

It's a fight she has been learning to fight since she was eleven.

To curtain her tears with a glow in eyes, to hide the broken heart behind pretty lies. And just like practice makes one perfect, she has almost perfected the art of having to hide the real her inside.

As she passes the numerous congregations, amalgamations of patients and staff, she is greeted by wishes from old acquaintances whose kindness is apparent in their smile and by wishes of employed enemies, whose disinterest or sometimes blatant hate is too, completely apparent in their voice.

But they are not the ones she is worried about.

Interspersed between these two extremities are people who speak kind and in flattery lines with a sword behind their back.

Those who know how to hide their true intentions in the modulations of voice.

Every time she hears a wish where nothing is apparent, her heart stops for a while.

Strings of thought muddle her head and she tries to figure out the reality behind their words.

Sometimes she succeeds, sometimes she fails.

And sometimes she faces vehement opposition of her tired nerves who ask her to stop caring about those who are passing by.

But she never stops.

Her legs carry her to the Diagnostics office.

Her Office.

The swell of pride, of a fulfilment she last felt when she got into Edenbrook, make her head light.

She tries to stop but gives up the efforts soon.

If she has realized something through the twists of lawsuits and turns of almost dying, it is that if you keep waiting for the turns of the clock to approach a "right moment" for a chance to celebrate, you will probably keep waiting your entire life until your breath is being taken away and all that is left are regrets and missed opportunities of happiness.

So she twirls like a princess in her imaginary ball gown, beaming with satisfaction, and taking pride in giving herself the give of success.

Of making her loved ones and herself proud.

She gets so carried away in the train of thoughts, in which one bougie is connected by another, and one more, that she doesn't notice the person who preoccupies the room.

The halt is so sudden, that she almost tumbles upon the man. Almost.

She manages to get hold of herself, her hand on his back.

He turns, eyes meet.

If someone would have asked her what is cosmic, she would have said "The melt of glowing ambers into ice blue." Sure, she has looked into them more times than she can count or recollect. But every time their orbs meet, the reactions the action produces, she can only give the word seraphic to it.

When Ethan left for Amazon, she would often wonder why is she still keeping the lamp of hope alive. His absquatulation broke her, acted like a spark to her over-thinking mind. She would lie on her bed, eyes tracing the same lines on the ceiling above her over and over again, thinking just what she did wrong. She never reached the end of the path though, never really achieved the answer, even after meandering through a hundred courses of thoughts.

But now, she thanks her old self for living through it all. For not letting that lamp extinguish. For keeping it safe in a little corner of the labyrinths of her heart. Wordlessly, she hugs him, the plethora of emotions becoming quite too much to be expressed in minute syllables.

His whisper next to her ears, the innocently simplistic words induce a shiver in her spine.

But the last word.

4 letters, 1 word.

It hangs in the air like a diamond necklace around a maiden's neck. Like a tiny pendant that shines brighter than all elaborate jewels, all lengthy anecdotes.

It's enough, more than enough for her.

And as their smiles slowly spread like the slow rise of the golden sun, gently letting the rays spread through the humble earth. And those smiles, they shine together, brighter than the Sirius.

Happy Birthday, Love.

-------

Her casual gown, bearing floral patterns, flutters along with the soft grass, she feels a sense of wonder. Whether at the shimmering moon, the stardust spread through the stretch in the woods, or at the simplicity of her surroundings, she does not know.

Her unassuming footsteps walk slow, observant of her surroundings. After walking down the trail, she stops at the clearance.

At a distance, something shines under the silver moonbeams. Her mind beckons her to return back, but her intuition asks her to move on. She listens to the latter's plea.

A small cuboidal box and a bunch of white tulips lay peacefully out of place. She usually would have left it, just in case it was a trap.

But this time curiosity overtook reason and she picks the bouquet up. A small note amidst her favourite flowers.

I love you

No name. No initials. But she knew exactly who had written it. Not because he was the one who asked her to come here, in the heaven hidden amidst the chaos, but because those flourishes of his fanciful lettering would never escape her notice. Even if the only source of luminance was distant fairy lights on trees and the faint moonbeams.

Her eyes travel away from the articles. At a distance, the silhouette stands. The same silhouette from her sweven. But this time, there is no restlessness, no rush, no tension in the air. No thunder cackles and no waves crash. This time the silhouette waits for her, unlike the last time when it was her waiting for him.

He turns, only the shine of his orbs visible. And the shadow of the gorgeous smile that dances on his lips. The last time, his stone mask was too heavy, too powerful for any of them to break or move.

But this time? This time, the mask has fallen off, it has met the end of its existence.

He comes closer, the shadow now a clear image. He goes and picks up the cuboid and hands it to her.

"Open it" He whispers in a soft voice, that disappears as soon as it appears.

She takes it and opens it, as per his words. Everything is perfect and normal.

Except for the space in the middle.

Something sparkles, in silver lustre. Her first instinct is, Diamond? She decided to pick it up

It's a key.

She looks up to him, bewildered. Is it what she thinks it is?

Move-in with me?

She places the box of chocolates down, the key held tight in her fist.

And then she kisses him.

She doesn't have to speak a word, but he understands. After all, why would two intertwined hearts need verbal responses to know what the other one feels?

Only his home, can fill the brick walls of his house with love, and make it a home.

------

They both lay side by side on the lush grass, hands intertwined, hearts beating in unison, silence filling their souls like air fills their lungs.

They look at the stars and the moon. Or more appropriately, the gaze at the starry screen, but the mind plays significant moments from their time together.

Pooja's mind however thinks about the four of her birthdays since she set foot in Boston. The mundane softness of them, contrasting all the birthdays she has had in the rest of her years.

The photo frame of the interns from the first year. The group video call, her life from the second year. The PJ party from the third year. And the key from the fourth.

They are puzzle pieces of the saga of her life, the absence of friends from early years, the gap, the void now filled.

And after years of searching, she thinks she has finally found it. Hidden in the normality, the simplicity, the mundanity of life.

Happiness.

PS: If you are reading this, I am very grateful for you. Thank you for reading and I hope you have a great day🤎

Tags🤎 (Please let me know if you want to be added or removed or if I forgot you):

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@choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

[lilac-den]

How would RO's react if mc had a date and while getting ready asked them "How do I look"? Plss my heart needs some angst ✨

Zeus: Welp, then you have come to the most intricate person for this. They’ll think you’re trying to dress for a proper date - they’ll start helping you select the proper attire. When the MC tells them this is a casual date, Zeus will end up playing dress-up with the MC, telling them to try this and that on. “You request my opinion and I shall not sully with half-hearted attempts.” Zeus won’t take no for an answer.

By the time you two ‘found’ the ‘perfect outfit’, the date is already two hours late and the other side is most likely stood up.

Hermes: If there’s a cup in their hand, it’d be broken by now. They’ll flash a painless smile - cold, reserved. “Pretty good.” Those words are spoken with a tense tightness, like a stretching, thinning thread. They stand up. “Pardon me, I just remember a calibration for one of the gadgets.” They swiftly turn away and almost stomp their way to their lab.

You don’t hear from them for a good whole week, not till you come in yourself to either tell Hermes you’re worried or your date went horribly wrong. Either way, Hermes has mixed feelings about it all.

Dionysus: The poor soul didn’t even hide it; the pain that laces through their expression and the absolute heartbreak in their eyes. They grasp the sleeve of your outfit. “I...” They hesitate, turning quiet. Their eyes turn downcast and soon, they release you. They flash a restrained smile. “You look amazing.” Dionysus holds your hands in theirs. “That person is a lucky one. Very lucky.” They wouldn’t try to stop you - to stand between you and possible happiness is simply unfair.

The moment you leave that door for your date though, Dionysus’s facade drops, and something dies in them, just a little. In their sensibility, they head out for a nightly walk to clear their head from the muddling thoughts.

Ares: They display a strict look, scanning you up and down. “Looks good to me.” They’re not going to try and shackle the MC - they trust the MC enough to know what they want, to choose what they won’t regret. If the MC likes the date, good for them. If the MC decides to date a lot more with the person, then hooray for them.

Ares would, of course, inform them of their feelings if it doesn’t hinder or affect the MC negatively - it’s just to make sure the MC knows what’s laid out instead of having unexpected stuff pop out of nowhere. If the MC chooses the person over Ares, then that’s their choice and Ares won’t be pushing them to consider otherwise.

They made their bed the moment they confess - and they’ll lie in it, even if it means a lifetime of painful longing.

???: They walk up to the MC, close as can be, and reaches out for a loose lock of your hair. They bring it up to their lips, quietly kissing...before they whisper with murderous intent in their eyes. “Like you’re taken already.” Their voice is sharp and sardonic, something painful lying in wait within those orbs.

[hope-to-hell]

Make him suffer, they said, and so I have. Becoming. Helmut Zemo x Reader. Angst, smut, gore, body horror, broken bones. He becomes the thing he hates. Let me know if you want to be tagged in future Zemo stories.

Point one: he was going to die.

I was ready.

I wasn’t.

Point two: he becomes what he always hated.

They’re instruments of destruction. Nothing good ever came of them.

But—

I know. I know. You couldn’t bear to live without me, right?

Point three: everything hurts.

Should have let me— ah. Should’ve, fuck, should’ve let me die.

It’ll be okay.

It’ll never be okay.

And this is how it is: he’s lit up from the inside, every nerve raw, catching on the air with a bright burn like his skin’s all gone (and maybe it is; cell turnover is so fucking high that in the span of days he’s a whole new man). From the outside he looks whole and hale; he’s never been a big man, per se, but he’s always had strength and resilience. He’s always seemed like he would be the last man standing, which is why finding him like that was such a shock you couldn’t breathe.

You’ll be okay.

I won’t. Go. You shouldn’t be seen with me. There’s blood on his lips, and below the shoulders— fuck. One glance and you’re nearly sick; there’s simply no way. He’s in tatters, in shreds; bones standing from his skin like monuments, garlanded with parts of him that never ought to see the light. And yet his face is untouched, perfect, pinched a little like someone cut in line at the cafe. Go home. Make your life.

His mouth says go but his fingers grip so tight in yours that you can feel all the fine bones grinding together under his skin. And so with your forehead touching his like a last goodbye, you do the only thing you can.

I’m sorry.

What— what have you done? And the serum takes him under, the empty syringe falling from your hand and whether this will be a gift or a curse is yet to be seen.

He lives.

Helmut Zemo is a villain, a murderer, a man fond of sweets and coffee on the balcony at sunrise, a secret romantic, a lover with the skill and endurance to back up every little tilt of his head and every filthy suggestion that has your mind reeling. In short, he is a man. Only a man, with all the weaknesses and petty wants of men, all the lust and anger and fear that drive all men to eventual ruin.

Or, rather, he was just a man. Now he is something more, and how he suffers. He suffers with the weight of serum heavy in his veins, stitching him back together. He lies in what was to be his deathbed, only now it is the place of his birth— of his rebirth— the place where the last echoes of who he was are replaced by the messy tearing caul over who he is becoming.

How it hurts.

He is broken in reverse, all his bones slipping back into place, his marrow spewing cells to replace what was lost. Blood pours through him, leaking out at first, until his veins are whole again, until his organs are settled in their places and his skin is sealing shut.

How he howls.

No amount of training or discipline could have prepared him for this, for the pure unrelenting agony he faces. And while he makes the sounds of a man unmade, what can you do but sit in the corner and weep? If nothing else you will bear witness to the consequence of your choice.

And when the screaming stops, it isn’t over. He must learn everything anew. He is frustrated by the endless series of cups he shatters in his too-strong hands, by the doors that pull free of their hinges, by the bruises that bloom along his cock and just as quickly disappear again when he tries— well, it doesn’t much matter. He heals and breaks and heals again because the dose was a shot in the dark, not calibrated for his frame, and so it takes him time to settle into his new existence.

How he lusts.

This new stamina is a gift and a curse, and he releases his frustration into your body; he takes and takes and takes and he is selfish in a way he never was before. He says ride me and he grips the headboard; iron scrollwork bends in his grasp as he tries so damned hard to keep his hands off your body, afraid of what he might do.

Do you really hate me that much?

No. It’s what you thought was right.

But how he burns. When he comes it tears through him like a shot and bruises your insides from the force of his thrust; there’s nothing of the gentle lover left, only pure animal need.

When I was younger, I took my wife on a holiday to the ends of the earth. When I was broken, I scattered her ashes there. And now that I am remade, it all seems so far away. I forget. I don’t mean to.

It’ll get easier.

And it does get easier, more or less. He manages his strength til it becomes second nature. He holds his breath and counts the seconds. One minute becomes two becomes ten and he’s sure he could go for longer. He practices on your flesh, driving you over the brink with care and concentration, listening for the faintest hitches in your breathing, learning and adjusting before you even realize what you wanted him to change.

The hurt recedes. It’s never really gone; it’s an electric hum beneath his skin, the chattering buzz of cells growing and dying.

Helmut? Are you alright?

No. But there’s nothing for it.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. A thousand times over.

I wonder. Is this how they feel all the time? They always seemed so easy with it. I wonder if they can hear the spiders crawling in the walls.

I’m—

Don’t be sorry. Just be useful.

Useful. Right. Your lives are wound around each other like ivy on brickwork; he continues his quest to eradicate the super soldiers but he’s no longer sleeping; he watches and he works, and one day he finds a target.

Pack your bags. We’re going hunting.

We. The automatic we, the easy assumption that you’ll come with him, that you’ll fall into your old routine and

You think we’ll win?

Of course. We are unexpected, and I am—

Not just today. I mean all of it. All this fighting and tracking, all this killing. Do you think it’ll be worth it?

When I’m the last one standing, I’ll let you know. And then I’ll have you put me down.

How it hurts.

[annoyed-galaxy]

Post-Destroy Ending

I bring from the grave of the beyond a fix-it fic serving up fresh angst and some fluff. Mass Effect destroyed my heart and with that major fucking cliffhanger, I just had to write something. But since there's a lot, I decided to break this up into chapters. Well, who knows how many chapters there will be, but just stick around I'm sure you'll have a great time. My writing is still rusty as hell, but I needed to get SOMETHING out. Anyways enjoy this! It's also on AO3 if you want that link.

Go!

It was the last thing she had ordered when she ran off into the jaws of death. He hated watching her go. Hated seeing her run back towards the beam with Harbinger raining down death. Tali had to tear him away from watching her run, dragging him back into the Normandy.

Garrus was on his fourth bottle of alcohol. The other three bottles were littered across Shepard’s nameplate. He ran his fingers across each letter of her name. It had been a couple weeks and Garrus still refused to put her name on the memorial wall. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. And he sure as hell wasn’t letting someone else do it.

They were still grounded on the uncharted world they had crashed into after the blast from the Citadel. While the Normandy was relatively fine, there were still some repairs that had to be made. There was also the issue with EDI. When the blast caused the Normandy to crash, EDI had suddenly collapsed, no longer functioning. Whatever the blast was, it didn’t kill just the Reapers.

The mass relays were destroyed, comm buoys were in pieces, so communication was very limited. Whatever happened back on Earth, whether people had recovered or not, was not making it to the Normandy anytime soon. The Reapers were defeated, but at what cost?

The door to the lounge opened and Liara sat next to Garrus. She grabbed a bottle of wine and began to pour herself a glass. “How are you feeling?” she asked, taking a sip.

Garrus grumbled to himself. He was drunk, his mind fuzzy and numb. “I’m fine,” he mumbled.

Liara nodded, not buying his story, but knew he hadn’t been okay in a while. “Tali has been working on EDI. She also brought Glyph back. In return, Glyph has been helping Tali with bringing EDI back,” Liara explained, hoping some good news would brighten his mood.

He looked at her, his face plates shifting. Part of him was annoyed that she would bring that up, knowing the possibility of Shepard truly being gone was most likely. But he was happy for Joker at the very least. “That’s good,” he mumbled, returning to his drink.

Liara frowned, worry crossing her face. “Garrus...I know you’re hurting, but...” Liara stopped herself. She didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry, Garrus. I know Joker has been talking about trying to make it back to Earth. But with the mass relays out, who knows how long it’ll be until we get there. Communications have been scrambled too.” Liara put a hand on his back. “It’s going to be okay Garrus. I promise.”

He stayed silent. He had nothing to say. He wanted to go back to Earth, back to the Citadel. He wouldn’t put Shepard’s name on the memorial wall until he had seen her cold corpse himself.

After a few minutes of silence, Liara finally decided it would be best to leave the turian to his sulking. She left with comforting parting words.

༻✧༺

“There’s a body over here!”

Her head was pounding. There were noises. Faint. Distant. Her body burned, stung, felt battered and bruised. She was breathing, but it stung. The voices came closer. She could no longer make out words, but she saw blinding lights come into view. She felt a weight lift from her, probably some rubble, and she couldn’t make out any faces. There were just blurred shapes and bright lights.

“Holy shit, it’s Commander Shepard!”

More shapes rushed over to her. Rubble was being dragged off of her. The light began to fade, her breathing slowing. She felt something cover her nose and mouth. Air filled her easily now. Her eyes fluttered shut and the noise faded away.

༻✧༺

“EDI!” Joker cried out as the robot sat up, blinking. He hugged her, tears forming in his eyes.

“Hello, Jeff,” EDI replied, slightly confused. She returned the hug, tentatively patting his back. He moved out of the way, allowing her to stand on her feet. “What happened?” she asked, looking around the room. She was in the AI core, Tali, Liara, and Glyph all stationed behind Joker, watching with held breaths as she was brought back to life.

“The blast from the Citadel took you out,” Joker explained, his arms on her shoulders. “But the Reapers were taken down too. Tali and Glyph have been working day in and day out to bring you back.”

EDI looked back at Tali and Glyph and smiled. “Thank you, you two. I did not realize I had...died.” EDI looked down at her hands, stretching her robotic fingers. “It felt like I had just stopped working. There was no afterlife.”

Joker put a finger under her chin, lifting her eyes to meet his. “It’s okay, you’re here now.” She smiled and took his hand.

“So what did I miss?” she asked, as they left the AI core. Awkward glances were shared between Tali and Liara.

Joker cleared his throat and took EDI to the bridge of the ship, letting her settle back into her usual co-pilot seat. The door to the cockpit closed as Tali and Liara stepped in. “Shepard activated the Crucible,” Joker began to explain. “Whatever it did, it destroyed the Reapers and other synthetic lives including you. But it also destroyed the mass relays and left comm buoys in scrambles. We’ve been stuck on an uncharted world for about a month now, trying to get you working again.”

“We didn’t feel safe, nor comfortable, taking off without you working again,” Liara added, offering a small smile to EDI. “That and the fact that the Normandy is currently offline.”

“You keep the Normandy in full function,” Tali tagged on.

Joker nodded. “Now that you’re back online, we’re hoping to make it back to Earth. The only issue with that is...”

“We don’t know how far away we are, nor how long would it take, or if we could even get there via FTL,” Liara explained, her voice low and sad.

“Is there a specific reason to going back to Earth?” EDI asked, pure innocence and naiveness in her robotic eyes.

Joker looked at Tali and Liara, asking for some backup with his eyes. Tali rubbed her hands together nervously. “We want to try and find Shepard.”

EDI tilted her head. “Is Shepard alive?”

The three of them exchanged looks once more. “We...we don’t know,” Liara sighed. “But Garrus seems determined to find out.”

EDI lowered her head. “Oh. Right. Garrus and Shepard were in a romantic relationship weren’t they?” Everyone nodded. “I will begin to run diagnostics on the ship then, to see what repairs will be required to get us off the ground once more,” EDI said, more optimistic and hopeful. It seemed to work as Joker, Tali, and Liara smiled a little more.

“I’ll let Garrus know,” Liara said before leaving the cockpit. She went to the crew deck, in the lounge looking for Garrus, but he wasn’t there. She went to the other side, the starboard observatory, but he wasn’t there either. She went to the main battery, wondering if he had gone back to calibrating to distract him, but he wasn’t there either. Liara could think of only one other place he would be grieving in.

As she suspected, the door to Shepard’s cabin was open, a somber tune of a piano playing through the speakers as she stepped out of the elevator. Laying on the bed was Garrus, a picture in his hand. Liara could tell it was the picture of the Normandy crew they had taken back on the Citadel. “Good news, Garrus,” Liara greeted, standing next to the fish tank. He looked up at her, his mandibles parting in curiosity. “EDI is back online. She is going to run a systems check and see what it will take to get us back to Earth.”

Garrus sat up, putting the picture on one of the bedside tables. “That’s what everyone wants to do?” he asked, not looking at her, still looking at the picture.

Liara moved closer, sitting on the end of the bed. “Garrus, you’re not the only one who wants to find Shepard. I, for one, do not want to see her name on that wall either. I want to at least see her body if she is...gone.”

Garrus snorted. “Weren’t you the one who recovered her body last time? After the Normandy’s first destruction?”

Liara nodded. “I was. Until I found her, I never lost hope. Even when I recovered her body, I still didn’t lose hope, especially since Cerberus planned to bring her back. I thought it was crazy, but they did it.” Liara smirked. “Death and Shepard are not good friends. She defies him at every turn.”

“I just...I don’t want to put her name on that damned wall. Because if I do, then it may be as well saying she’s gone. I...can’t accept that.” Garrus’s voice faltered, weak and strained. Liara couldn’t hear his sub-vocal very well, but she knew it was worse than his regular voice. She knew the pain of losing Shepard would be hard on him.

“Then let’s hope we can make it to Earth soon,” Liara comforted, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

He silently nodded as she left the cabin.

༻✧༺

Another month had passed by, the Normandy was still grounded, but basic functions were online. Power kept the basic necessities alive, powering Liara’s room where she spent most of her time, using her Shadow Broker resources trying to gauge the aftermath of the Reaper War. No matter how much she tried to get any information, with comm buoys out of commission and them being on an uncharted world, anything she received was scarce at best. She still had received no status about the Citadel, Earth, or what state the galactic civilization was in. The only information she could glean, was what everyone already knew; the Reapers were dead and the mass relays were broken.

Voices were raised in concern about food supplies. There was still plenty of food for everyone, including Tali and Garrus, but supplies would run out soon if they didn’t restock. James, Cortez, Tali, Garrus, and Javik all decided to explore the uncharted world in hopes to find some food. Tali had a scanner in her suit that could identify whether something was poisonous and dextro-friendly or not. The only thing they had managed to find was some berries for everyone except the quarian and turian.

“Great, we’re going to be living off berries,” James groaned, picking the bright red fruits from the bush Tali had just scanned.

“Be lucky we found anything at all,” Tali retorted. “Garrus and I still have to find food that we can eat.”

“To be fair, you guys are the only dextros on board so you’re not going through your supply as fast,” Cortez pointed out.

“Hopefully we won’t run out in general,” Garrus said, looking aimlessly at the horizon. The system’s sun was equal to the sun, Sol, providing the same warmth and light on this world’s surface.

“If we do run out of food, we can just eat one another,” Javik suggested. Everyone turned and looked at the Prothean.

“Of course the Prothean would say that,” James cackled. “Talking about salarian soup and shit.”

“Let’s try to avoid that outcome,” Cortez suggested.

The idle conversation continued as the group continued looking for more food.

“Liara.” EDI stepped into the Shadow Broker’s cabin, her arms behind her back as she waited patiently for the asari to notice her.

“What is it EDI?” Liara looked up from her computer screen, frustration painted on her face.

“I found something. Upon doing an internal scan of the Normandy, I discovered a signal that was sent about two months ago. A distress signal,” EDI explained.

Liara looked at EDI in curious surprise. “Oh?”

EDI motioned for Liara to follow back up to the bridge of the Normandy. Joker was sitting in his pilot’s seat, the seat turned to face the door of the cockpit. His hands were templed together and worry was bright across his face. “Jeff and I have already listened to the signal. I had to clear it up in order to understand it since the signal was so ruined.” EDI explained as she stood next to Joker.

“Keep in mind, it’s two months old,” Joker grumbled as EDI used her omni-tool to play the signal.

There was a lot of crackling in the beginning and then a cough. “Help...” Liara strained to listen to the static in the voice. “This is...Com...mander...Shep...ard. I’m...still alive...Please help...” The signal cut off then with one more cough from the sender.

Liara’s eyes widened as EDI and Joker looked up at her to gauge her reaction. “Don’t get your hopes up. The signal is two months old,” Joker repeated.

“Do you...do you know if this signal was received by anyone else?” Liara asked, her voice soft and quiet. It was hard to determine what her reaction was.

“No. As I said, I just received this signal when I was doing diagnostics on the Normandy,” EDI answered. “I cannot determine if the signal was sent to any available ships or if it was sent to the Normandy specifically.”

Liara crossed her arms, bringing a hand to her chin, stroking it thoughtfully. There was a reason Joker reiterated the fact that the signal was two months old. With no knowledge of whether or not the signal was received by anyone else, there was no guaranteeing Shepard was alive. Liara sighed. “There’s nothing we can do about it. But whatever you do, don’t show it to Garrus. Unless we can find out whether or not the signal was received by someone else, there is no reason to bank our hopes on this.”

Joker nodded. “I agree. And honestly, Liara? As much as I want to hope...I don’t think she made it.”

Liara smiled sadly. “We can only hope she did, Jeff.”

༻✧༺

Not sure if turian heaven is the same as yours, but if this thing goes sideways and we both end up there...meet me at the bar.

She was standing in the forest. There was no child there this time. No copy of herself. She was alone. There were voices surrounding her. She looked around. Her body didn’t hurt. She couldn’t feel anything. There was a bar on the opposite end of the forest. She could have sworn she saw a turian sitting on one of the stools, a bottle in its hand.

Her legs began moving, but like all the other dreams, she moved slowly, felt weighed down by a crushing force of gravity, moving impossibly slow.

Shepard.

She heard his voice again. All around the forest. She reached out towards the turian sitting at the bar. She wanted to call out for him, but her throat tightened and no sound escaped. Fire started to form around the turian and the bar.

Not again. Please. Not again.

Come back alive. It’d be an awfully empty galaxy without you.

The flames consumed the bar and the turian, just as his head turned to look at her; the blue eyes, the blue colony marking across his face, his visor, his mandibles parting at the sight of her.

We’re in this until the end.

She tried crying out, but the flames consumed him and the noise of the Reapers echoed all around her. A bright flash of red came into her view. She felt sluggish as she brought her arms up in a futile attempt to block the beam from disintegrating her. But the pain never hit.

༻✧༺

Six months had passed since the Reaper War ended. Food supplies had started to run short, even for the dextros on the Normandy. Despite all the exploring the adventuring party had done, they still found nothing more except for berries for everyone else. However, progress on getting the Normandy back online was going well. EDI had predicted that the Normandy would be airborne within the week.

The mood on the ship was tense. Everyone was excited to be airborne again. Garrus still kept Shepard’s nameplate close to him. People stopped talking about the possibilities of Shepard’s fate, not wanting to further upset the turian and the rest of her close friends. Games of poker were used to distract crew members from the low running food supplies and the restlessness of being grounded for so long on an uncharted world.

“Man I can’t wait to get the hell off this planet,” James chattered, fixing himself a plate of berry flavored scrap food. “We’re pretty much out of food and have been surviving off of berries and MREs for six goddamn months. We haven’t been getting nearly enough proteins we need in a daily meal.” He sat down at the lunch table where the other crew members sat. Tali and Garrus looked at him pointedly. He lifted his shoulders. “What? You guys still have food.”

Tali scoffed. “Barely. There wasn’t that much dextro-food compared to your guys’ food. So we started running out around the same time you guys did.”

Cortez smiled, offering some hope around the table. “It’s okay guys. EDI said we should be taking off here soon.”

“Yes, but how long until we get to a known system?” James countered. “The mass relays are still screwed and we haven’t even received communications in forever.”

“Not to worry,” piped the synthetic voice of EDI who had just rounded the corner of the mess room. Liara stood next to her, a small smile on her face. “Communications have been reestablished.”

Liara sighed softly. “The only problem is that the communications we do receive are delayed. Say, if something was sent four months ago, we would just be receiving it now, or later. So any news we do get is going to be late.”

“Fantastic,” Garrus mumbled, looking down at his plate. He had barely touched his food and Tali was half-tempted to snag what he didn’t eat.

“Getting communications up at all is a start,” EDI admitted. “As I said, it shouldn’t be long before I can get the Normandy back into full motion.”

“Please hurry,” James begged, leaning back in his chair. “I’m sick and tired of this planet. If we had more resources, I wouldn’t mind living here. But I’m gonna lose it if I managed to survive the Reapers just to die to starvation six months later.”

Cortez raised a glass towards James. “Cheers to that.”

Liara rolled her eyes just as Specialist Traynor rushed around the corner. “Everyone! Come quick! I just received a message from Admiral Hackett!”

Everyone perked up a bit at that statement. Most of the communications they received were garbage or were so insignificant that Liara had immediately deleted them. But a message from Admiral Hackett? This had to be good.

Everyone rushed to the elevator, cramming inside of it before stepping out into the CIC. Traynor rushed over to her computer and pulled up the message. “I haven’t listened to it yet, I just saw who it was from and decided to call everyone up.” Joker was leaning on the opposite side of Traynor, by Shepard’s personal computer. There was a glint of hope in his eyes at the news of the message from Hackett.

Admiral Hackett played a huge part in the Reaper War, commanding the forces that brought the Crucible to the Citadel. If he was sending a message directly to the Normandy, then hopefully it was good news. Or news in general.

The message came up, but the frequency was all scrambled, too much static to even hear words. A few tweaks later and the old man’s voice finally came through.

“Normandy. This is Admiral Hackett. With the comm buoys in disarray and mass relays destroyed, I don’t know if and when this message will reach you, but you need to come back to Earth as soon as possible. Do whatever the hell you have to to make it back.” There was a pause in the message as everyone looked at each other. Then the voice spoke again and the words that came out struck everyone.

“We found Commander Shepard. She’s alive.”

[yoditorian]

lacuna- part 6

din/reader

once again i left my writing down to the wire and did the bulk of this today so that’s why its Like That, as always a huge thank you to my wonderful @brothersdrxke for being my favourite sounding board and reminding me i am capable 

MASTERLIST

word count: 3.2k

warnings: swears, violence/death/murder, reader has a panic attack if you squint (not specifically mentioned and only referred to in one sentence), angst and arguments, we got a little more explicit with the smut this time (with added biting), 18+ no babies thanks

Nevarro’s cantina is always dusty. Something that’s struck Din as odd for as long as he’s been meeting Guild reps there, since the planet itself is all humidity and sulfur.

“You know, I’ve never met a hunter quite as efficient as you are.” Karga smiles warmly, but there’s something about his tone that makes Din’s skin crawl. The way he drawls out ‘efficient’ makes him wonder if he means something else. He hopes he doesn’t get asked anymore questions.

A set of new pucks slide across the table towards him, and Din pockets all five of them without even really looking. An amateur move, one he knows better than, but the longer he stays under the new Guild rep’s piercing stare the more he feels like he’s being studied.

“They’re of your usual calibre.” Karga reassures him as he stands to leave, not fool enough to try and palm off any jobs that nobody else will do.

Though the pucks are heavy in his pocket, you’re the only thing on Din’s mind when he steps into the shadow of the Razor Crest. You always are. He sees you everywhere, welding the outer panels together, meticulously painting the orange stripes “because they’ll look cool, Mando.” He sees you every time he has to rewire the internal electrics, that smudge of engine grease that seemed to be a permanent resident on your cheekbone back at the space station, or with the top half of your body wedged in a wall panel and your ass in the air.

The memories of you building the ship used to make him smile even after the worst jobs. Now they just make his hands shake.

You’ve been haunting him more than usual. Every time he turns around in the ship he calls his home, it’s like he expects to see you tinkering with something in the hull or staring up at the stars from the pilot seat with your feet up on the console. Something the others in the crew used to scold you for, but never him. It was endearing, to see you so at home in control of a ship. Any ship. Like you could speak their language.

Din knows it’s because he hasn’t heard from you since you told him you survived. Not that he really expected you to after he didn’t respond.

He almost did, he wanted to. He stares at the comm for hours at night, turning the stupid little thing over in his hands like it holds the secrets to the universe. Maybe it does. Maybe if he had the guts to say something, to say anything, to you. Or maybe he already knows the secrets of the universe, the one that matters to him anyway, and he’s just too afraid to think about it. He doesn’t contact you, he can’t contact you. Not when he knows exactly what it is he wants to say. It’s unfair to the both of you to speak it out loud.

He’s pretty sure you already know anyway. He doesn’t need to say it, maybe he never did. Maybe you’ve always known. How could you not? He’s never been soft like this with anyone the way he has with you. He’s never made so much space in his heart for somebody else. There’s no way you can’t tell. He feels so much for you, so much, there’s hardly any room inside left for him. It must be so obvious. And if he had any control when it comes to you, he could pretend like you don’t make him want to claw out his own heart and hand it to you. It’s yours anyway.

But Din compartmentalises, the way he always has. He takes a deep breath and packs every thought of you back into the box and stows it firmly away in the back of his mind. There will be time to miss you later.

It’s the worst job he’s ever had. By far. This is one bounty he’s not sure he can bring in.

Cork Gyll’s smile is sickening when he sees Din standing in the doorway of his home. If you could even call it that. It’s more of a cave, with an improvised door of thin sheet metal and a badly constructed bed against the far wall. A small metal crate is tucked just underneath the bed frame, half concealed by a threadbare blanket. Not much else, not that Din was expecting much of anything. The dar’manda sits and regards him for a long moment.

“You were there, Beroya.” He spits the title out like it’s a dirty word. It probably is, in his mind. Din only nods.

He should stun him and cuff him and drag him back to the Crest to freeze. That’s what he should do. But it’s too intriguing. Their situations are too similar. Din can’t help himself.

“Why did you do it?” 

Cork perks up at that. Like he wasn’t expecting to be spoken to at all, like he thought he’d just be dragged back to the noble family that ordered the bounty to atone for his crimes. Crimes Din doesn’t even know the extent of.

He loved her, is the first thing he recounts. A dreamy look in his eyes replaces the amusement at fate’s cruel blow. Is that the same look Din gets when he thinks of you?

He’d loved her to the point of removing his helmet, breaking the creed he’d followed all his life, for this daughter of some Outer Rim noble family he was running security for. Cork reddened at the memories of her fingers tracing his face when he bared himself to her the first time, the second time, and every time after that.

But his eyes grow dark suddenly, an odd coldness sweeps the room, and Din finds his hand inching ever closer to the blaster strapped to his hip. Just in case.

He’d proposed. Of course he had. She’d seen his face so many times and they loved each other and he couldn’t hold himself back anymore, the guilt of breaking the creed had been at war with the space he’d made for her in his heart. But she’d said no. She had responsibilities to her family, to the son of another powerful family on the planet whom she’d been promised to before either of them were even born. She loved him, she loved him so much, but her answer was no.

Cork had panicked for his creed, her answer struck him so terribly in the chest that he hadn’t even registered that he’d drawn his blaster until there was a smoking hole between her eyes. Her beautiful eyes. But that was the way. No one alive had seen his face, and he’d been declared dar’manda anyway. He’d lost his love and his creed by his own foolish hand in the space of a few hours. And now? He’d likely be killed for it too.

The raw pain in Cork’s voice as he recalls what he did to his love is enough to make Din accept what he has known all this time to be true. He could never, would never, hurt you for anything. Not even the creed, he was a fool to think otherwise. No matter what it came down to. He’d take dar’manda over being responsible for your death. He’d take exile and disgrace and whatever else they dealt him if it meant he got to feel your skin on his. Your lips on his. No creed or vow or religion could ever bring him the solace that you do. Duty be damned.

Din moves silently across the room with the cuffs, something tells him Cork will go willingly.

He is so very, very wrong.

Part of his mind is still so absorbed in the story, in thoughts of you, that he notices Cork grabbing a heavy wrench just a second too late. It collides with the side of his helmet, taking out one of his auditory sensors and leaving his ears ringing. Cork takes the opportunity to strike once, twice, three times, at his chestplate in a vain attempt to wind him. He winds up for the helmet again, but Din throws himself onto his attacker before he gets the chance. While not graceful or calculated, it does the trick.

Cork laughs as he’s tackled to the floor, a horrible grating sound in his throat. Din doesn’t hesitate to pull his blaster and fire. The other man flops, lifeless, beneath him. The puck said taking him alive was preferable, but somehow Din’s not sure they’ll mind.

The wrench is still clasped in Cork’s hand, old and rusted but oddly familiar. A Mythosaur skull is carved into the base of the handle, and he knows. He must have taken it from the forge at the covert and stashed it before his exile, suspecting a bounty would be set on him. It’s no wonder the thing almost caved his helmet in. Din rips it off in the privacy of the room to inspect the damage, a dent the size of his fist in the right hand side and the auditory sensor is sparking. He’ll need a whole new one.

It’s as though the Armourer is expecting him, she never seems to be surprised by the state of some of the warriors who walk through her door. She simply directs him to a small curtained alcove and asks that he deposit his helmet on the shelf in the wall when he’s hidden.

“You should not regret it.” She speaks clearly, certainly, after he tells her how he sustained such damage. Din’s not sure he can agree with her this time around.

“He was a vod.”

“He was dar’manda. His crimes could never be forgiven. The vows you spoke for your creed no longer applied to him.” She places his new helmet, forged from the remains of his broken one, on the shelf for him to take. It’s been so long since he got a new piece, Din has forgotten how shiny beskar can be. His face stares back at him, distorted by the curve of the metal, for a moment before he finally puts it on. A perfect fit.

Green Squadron, you’re making your final approach.

It’s still kind of jarring to hear a droid coordinate the drop instead of one of the officers back on one of the rebel cruisers. Just something you’ll have to get used to, you suppose.

Three loud beeps sound from your dashboard and you flick the correct switches to drop out of hyperspace in perfect synchronisation with the rest of the team. The two cadets on this particular training session are a little shaky, but they come back into formation once they’ve reoriented. Until another ship appears out of nowhere, uncomfortably close to your left hand side. The squadron scatters, cadets panicking over the comms as your commander demands to know why it wasn’t caught on the sensors. You’re about to echo the sentiment, until you realise exactly why it’s not running a beacon.

“Green Leader, I know that ship. Request a line.” Your heart is in your throat the moment you spot the mismatched panels, the orange stripes you’d spent hours making sure were even.

“You know it? You’re sure, Four?”

“I built it! Put me on the line!” You don’t mean to snap the way you do, but the longer he stays in range the more danger everybody’s in.

Part of you expects a fight, expects your commander to doubt you, but it only takes another second for your comm light to flicker to life on the dash. You can only pray you can convince him to haul ass before the commander gets antsy and calls you to fire.

“Razor Crest, this is a New Republic drill. Please proceed to a safe distance from the training zone.” You want to tell him it’s good to see him, that he’s alive, but you’re all too aware that every one of the team can hear you. Best to stay professional.

The way your name echoes around the cockpit makes your stomach flip. His voice is soft, like he’s surprised it’s you, the tone barely appropriate for the kind of company you’re in. You don’t look forward to the questions you know will follow this session.

“Razor Crest,” You can’t keep the urgency at bay, “Please proceed to a safe distance or we will use force.”

Stars, you don’t want it to come to that. But the Crest is pre-empire, something you’ve noticed leaves any senior officer more than a little on edge. Hell, you would be too if you didn’t know who was at the helm.

“You’d shoot me down for the rebellion?”

“I would.” You answer immediately, because yes, yes you would. There’s no question. The same way that you’re sure, if it came to it, he’d kill you for his creed. Duty is a far more powerful thing than either of you.

Din sits on the comm silently for a long moment, as if he doesn’t believe you. Or maybe he’s- no. You stop that train of thought before it can even leave the station. He’s not shocked at your admission. He would do the same.

Green Squadron remains steady in formation, but a low order from your commander comes over the team system.

“Lock s-foils. Prepare to fire.”

“Mando!”

Din flies out of reach and on his way the second he registers the blind panic in your voice. It would be beautiful to watch the Crest arc through the stars if you weren’t so fucking terrified you were about to be ordered to pursue. But the order doesn’t come. Instead, Green Leader starts leading the cadets through drills, designating you and Shara to keep guard.

A private comm request appears on your display, and you accept without hesitation.

“So, Mando?” Shara doesn’t sound amused, or excited like she might have in any other situation. She sounds worried. Maybe she’s right to be, you’re still trying to remember how to breathe.

“Mando.” You confirm, but you leave it at that. She doesn’t pry. You’re thankful she doesn’t ask any more questions before you can do something really stupid like cry, or fly off after him.

You find yourself at the inn at Mos Espa as soon as the training run is over. Your commander can reprimand you for taking the A-Wing when you get back to base, a vague excuse about staying on top of your patrol duties has been ready on the tip of your tongue since the moment you decide on the detour. They could handle a few hours without you and your ship.

It’s unspoken, but somehow you know he’ll be there. And he is.

Perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed in your usual room, elbows on his knees and his chin resting on his fists. Just watching the door and waiting for you. There’s deep scratches in the red paint of his armour, chunks missing where it was intact before. He’s got a whole new helmet.

“Fuck, Din, what happened?” You wonder about the injuries underneath the metal. Whether there’ll be new scars to trace, freshly healed wounds to run your lips over in the moments after-

“Don’t call me that.”

“What?”

“Don't use my name again. Ever.” Even with the modulator, you can hear him force the words through gritted teeth. He doesn’t sound angry, he sounds in pain. You’re only more confused as he stands and starts to shed the battered armour, giving way to sheer, blinding rage at the way he sets the pieces down on the table so reverently. Not unlike the way he handles you.

“So I can’t say your name but you’ll still fuck me. You’re gonna make me call you ‘Mando’, but you’ll still take off the helmet and kiss me?” Your hands shake at your sides. You’re so angry. You want him to reassure you, to backtrack and tell you he doesn’t mean it. Maybe you’re too used to the way he’s always been so ready to comfort you, to hold you and fit himself into the empty space in your ribs that you know is meant for him. Instead of the gentle words you’ve come to know from him, he only presents you with silence. Silence and anger on both sides, maybe misdirected, maybe not.

You’ve always respected his creed, his Way. But you’ve never had to like it.

In only his flight suit and helmet, Din stalks over to the doorway with one hand on the side of his helmet and plunges the room into darkness. You don’t hear him approach you, don’t even feel the air move until he’s standing chest to chest with you, lungs heaving. The Hunter. 

Your forehead bumps into the lifted lip of the helmet when his empty hand creeps up your back and pulls you by the neck into a bruising kiss, although he’s quick to send the thing crashing to the floor and free up his other hand to grab at you.

“You don't,” He lifts your shirt over your head, “Know me.”

“No?” You reply, sinking your hand into his suit to squeeze him through his underwear. He growls, like he always does when you do that, and his mouth is hot on yours again. He has always known you, just as you have always known him. However reluctantly.

It’s a power struggle like you’ve never experienced with him. He’s pushing as you’re pulling and every touch is burning and biting, each determined to get your way. Somehow you don’t think there will be any winners tonight.

His every touch cuts you down to your bones, every drag of his fingers as he exposes more and more of you to the night threatens to tear you apart. You revel in the way he’s grabbing you, twisting and turning you just to his liking, and find you don’t miss the softness one bit. Not right now. Your blood still boils at how he’s stepped back from you, revoked the one thing of his you thought you had. Although maybe you never really had it in the first place. 

You don’t give in, you can’t. He’s got you pinned against the bed, smug smile pressed into your neck at your breathlessness, and you sink your teeth into his shoulder. He tastes like salt and metal and you lose yourself in the deep groan that rumbles through him.

Din’s sure you’re trying to break him and, honestly, you’re well on your way to succeeding. Taking him apart piece by piece and leaving him shattered for treating you the way he has. He deserves it. Although he’d argue this is certainly a humane way to exact your revenge. Every touch, every moan and squeal and bite, sends another crack spider webbing through his guard. He’s done pretending every time is the last time, you’ve settled so deep in his heart he’s not sure he could ever dig you out. 

It’s later, in the dark and quiet, when the anger and desperation has faded that you whisper.

“I know you better than I know myself.”

And for a moment, he can pretend that you’re right.

-

TAGLIST (add yourself here):

@brothersdrxke @rebloogggs @keeper0fthestars @remmysbounty @sirianisrock @thevoiceinyourheadx @firstofficerwiggles @1800-fight-me​

[cockslutpadalecki]

New Rules (1)

Summary: Y/N and Dean are strictly “Friends with Benefits”, however she soon finds herself falling in love and does her hardest to keep Dean at a distance to save herself from getting her heart broken, but he can’t keep away which just makes her mission practically impossible.

Characters: Dean x Reader.

Words: 5265.

Warnings: angst, age gap relationship (ish), squirting, female masturbation, multiple orgasms.

A/N: Based on song of same name by Dua Lipa. And yes, this has been adapted from an old fic I wrote for Negan eons ago which has been rewritten and split into two parts. Betas: @winchest09 and @deanwanddamons, but all the general bullshit is entirely mine. While likes are gold, feedback is golden. Masterlists can be found in my pinned post. Subscribe to Patreon and get access to fics, just like this one, two weeks before Tumblr for as little as $3.

The dull buzz of your cell vibrating against your nightstand pulls you from your already disturbed slumber, head slightly fuzzy from the one too many wines you had with dinner. Rolling over, you lazily reach for it and turn it on its side, the glare from the screen completely absorbing every ounce of sleep from your eyes. A too-familiar name flashes across it, and the pit in your stomach begins to flutter. You can never tell if it’s from excitement or dread due to the fact you know exactly why he’s calling.

Dean. 

You tap the screen almost cautiously, and bring it to your ear. 

“Yeah,” you mutter sleepily.

“Hey darlin’.” His voice purrs like a kitten and you know the tone in it instantly— one too many whiskeys as usual. “What’re you doing?”

Glancing at your alarm clock, you notice it’s far too late for this charade, and let out an uptight exhale. “It’s 2am, Dean, what do you think I’m doing?”

“Thinking of me?” he chuckles, and you’re thankful he can’t see you roll your eyes through the screen— you know exactly what thinking is code for.

“De—”

“Come over,” he interrupts rhetorically. 

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“Hasn’t stopped you before.”

“That was before I knew better,” you sigh. “Look, you’ve had a few, go to bed. You need sleep, okay?”

“I need your sweet little pussy,” he cajoles, and the way the word rolls thickly off his tongue down the receiver makes your cunt clench around nothing. Normally, you’d be telling him the same in return, but you remain tight-lipped— he doesn’t need extra fuel to get him even more fired up. 

“You need sleep,” you repeat, choosing to ignore his comment.

“Y/N—”

The way he says your name makes your chest ache, while your mind screams at you to hang up, and go back to sleep, but deep down you know that’ll never happen. Not now you know he’s at home desperate for you when you’re aching just as much in return. But when it comes to Dean, your body and mind are clearly on two very different wavelengths.

“I promise I’ll make you come real hard,” he begs, voice heavy with solicitation.

Sighing deeply, you quickly search for an excuse that would placate him, but nothing would come. However, if you take Dean on his word— which was usually gospel, you could be coming within an hour if you gave in to his dulcet insistence.

“I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”

-

Your obsession with older men began when you were sixteen. Infatuated with actors and musicians twice your age, you adopted the same ideology when it became time to start dating. Purposely seeking out relationships with those of a more experienced calibre, that tenet followed you right into your mid twenties, a small string of ex-boyfriends trailing behind you with the combined age of a hundred.

Dean Winchester was no exception. In his early 40s, he was at the older end of your spectrum of lovers, but with his rugged charm and audacious attitude exuding from every pore, he came across much younger than his birth certificate stated. With the considerable age gap there were moments when it showed— like trying to introduce to bands you’d never heard of, but with the relationship you have, that’s as deep as it got. 

You say relationship, but really, you mean complicated. Friends with benefits. Fuck buddies— whatever you wanna call it, that’s what Dean thought. You, on the other hand, were unreservedly and irrevocably infatuated by him and he knew it— using your inability to say no to him to get what he wants, and after he’s satisfied, you’re sent on your way until he calls again, expecting you to cave in instantly. And you usually do, much to the dismay of your own brain, but you can’t deny the unimaginable electricity and heat between you, pulling you in like a magnet, unable to detach yourself from it.

The first time he caught your eye across the dimly lit bar, raising his whiskey tumbler in your direction as the bartender placed a fresh glass of wine in front of you, muttering almost incoherently of where it came from, you were left completely blindsided. It wasn’t the gesture that made you weak, but the cocksure smirk that followed. 

You met in the conventional way—  you were out with friends, celebrating one of their birthdays, and while Dean had been accompanied by his buddy Benny and brother Sam to “shoot the shit,” as Dean so eloquently put, it was you he spent the majority of the night hovering around. When the time came, you ended up sharing an extremely heated cab ride home before fucking on his couch until the sun came up. 

Neither of you really expected for your rendezvous to lead anywhere, and it didn’t. You stayed friends, occasionally meeting up for a casual hook up, but it wasn’t until a couple of months later when you happened upon each other by accident at the same bar, and Dean spent the night fawning over somebody else that you realised you felt more for him than he did you. Jealousy bubbled up inside you watching him flirt unabashedly with the blonde, and when a offhand comment was made about you being his daughter, you left in a hurry. 

He had called you later that night, after his attempts to bed her had failed, and came crawling to you for release. You knew then in that moment when Dean pushed you up against the wall— not even bothering to take your panties off as he bottomed out inside you, that you were nothing more to him than just a piece of ass when he couldn’t score anything better. Used was the only word to describe how you felt as he fucked you that night— the first time you had ever failed to come for him.

That had been a year ago, and you were yet to learn your lesson. 

Dean still calls in the middle of the night, and you still always answer.

1. Don’t pick up the phone, you know he’s only calling cause he’s drunk and alone.

-

“Seriously, you need to tell this asshole to just keep it in his pants, and stay outta yours.” Your best friend Jo grumbles at you, amid mouthfuls of your homemade bologna. Since you met Dean, she ends up at your apartment most nights, if not for a detailed breakdown of her day and the never ending tales of her boss’ messy divorce, but to eat you out of house and home. In all honesty, you’re just happy for the company. 

“It’s more complex than that,” you grumble. With the back of your fork, you mindlessly move the food around on your plate, despite the gnawing hunger eating away at your stomach. 

Two weeks have passed since you crawled to Dean’s, and you’re still punishing yourself for being so weak. It didn’t matter how satisfied you felt in the moment— Dean deep seated inside you as he fucked away your melancholy. What mattered was the cruel ache that sat in your chest when you left. The one that feels like you’ve been doused in acid, crumbling into pieces the further the distance between you and Dean becomes. 

“You gotta tell him how you feel,” Jo states matter of factly.

You scoff. “I can’t, he’ll laugh in my face. I’m just an immature little kid.”

“Well I’m here to remind you that you’re not,” she clarifies, “and that you’re really gonna have to start using night cream to, y’know-” using her fork, she points it at your face, and swirls it around in circles, “-work on those wrinkles.”

You raise an eyebrow at her, trying to stifle a smile. “Bitch.”

She laughs, lifting another forkful of spaghetti to her lips before steering the conversation back to Dean. “You can’t spend your life pining for this guy. He clearly only cares about getting his dick wet.” 

Listless, you watch her eat, wishing you had the same voracious appetite as she does, your stomach rumbling as if to taunt you further. You let out a little sigh, hating that she’s right. She always is. 

“Maybe I’ll just start dodging his calls until he gets the message,” you mutter jokingly, unsure who you’re trying to convince more— you or the blonde sitting opposite you.

“Ah! You cracked it,” Jo rejoices as you look at her quizzically, and she winks, adding, “you’re finally thinking like a man.” 

You both burst into a fit of giggles as the hunger pangs in your stomach overwhelm you just enough that you give in, and bring your fork to your lips, not before flashing Jo a smile to match hers.

-

An hour later, you wave the small blonde off, watching her drive down the street, as you hug your arms around you in an attempt to keep out the cold before stepping back into the warmth of your apartment.

Letting the door snap closed as you slump against it, a feeling of loneliness washes over you, suddenly wishing you’d asked her to stay the night. 

Get your shit together, your brain berates harshly. Stop acting like a lovesick teenager.

Pushing yourself from the wood with the intention of soaking in the bath with a fresh glass of wine, the sound of three small knocks against the door prevents you from moving more than two steps.

You turn back around quickly, grabbing the door handle and pull it towards you, half expecting to see Jo, but the face you’ve been trying to shift from your thoughts for days stares back at you.

"Dean, what are you doing here?” The shock is evident in your voice. He never shows up at your apartment. 

In fact, you don’t think he’s ever made it to your door— the sidewalk was always as far as he got on the rare occasion he’d actually care to drop you home. You figure it’s a power strategy— if he calls and you go running, he’s in control. But having him standing on your doorstep, it must be so far out of his comfort zone that you can’t imagine he likes it much.

“Can’t I come and see my favourite person?” Dean compliments, flashing you his trademark smirk. He leans forward to kiss you gently on the cheek before stepping inside without invitation, and as he passes you, the heady scent of his fading aftershave highlighted with soft hints of whiskey absorbs into your pores like a damp mist. 

In a daze, you shut the door behind him, and stand aghast at the audacity of the man before you— not only for showing up unexpectedly, but for assuming you were going to allow him inside in the first place. He starts casually looking around, no doubt judging your taste in possessions as you watch him eye with intrigue the Salvador Dali piece hanging above your fireplace. 

“You sure you’re at the right apartment?” you ask, a little guarded. 

The truth is, him being in your home has instantly put you on edge. What’s the motive here? There has to be one. Dean Winchester doesn’t just turn up out of the blue. He simply laughs as he shrugs off his jacket, and hangs it haphazardly on the back of a chair.

“What are you really doing here?” you question, tentatively following his footsteps.

Dean turns, slinking back towards you like a panther with eyes on its prey, tongue tucked subtly between his teeth. As he reaches you, he slowly stoops his head, and brings his lips to yours. “Well, you sure as hell can’t fuck your own brains out.”

Your knees almost give way hearing the words tumbling from his lips, and the combination of his breath on your neck. You strain to speak, but Dean’s mouth is already on yours and his hands are at the buttons of your oversized shirt, hurrying to undo them. 

Y/N, kick him out! your brain screams. Don’t do this. Don’t let him win. Stop him—

Your thoughts are too easily drowned out by the blood thundering in your ears as you hungrily kiss back, snaking your hands around his neck to pull him even closer against you. Dean groans as your tongue slides past his lips, and he suddenly leans down, grabbing hold of the backs of your thighs to lift you up around his waist. 

Everything around you melts into one big blur as Dean carries you into the lounge, practically running to get you to the nearest surface he can lay you down on. The couch is the closest, and he slumps against the cushions as you straddle his lap, accentuating the roll of your hips to make sure your damp cunt catches his swelling length through his pants just right. 

You know you should stop him— the ethical voice inside your head tells you so, but by the time he’s pulled your panties to the side, cock nestled deep inside your pussy, you’re too bewitched by his touch to conceivably think about stopping him from doing anything except fuck you.

2. Don’t let him in, you have to kick him out again.

-

Almost three months pass without a word from Dean, and you’re struggling to the point where you actually crave a phone call at 2am. You even itch for him to show up at your door, and nail you into the couch as you come screaming his name.

Each night you go to bed hopeful that maybe tonight he’ll make contact, but you find yourself lying awake, staring impassively at a blank screen until you fall asleep from sheer exhaustion, tears drying on your cheeks. 

You do what you can to take your mind off of him, even going as far as hooking up with someone else on a rare night out with Jo, but it failed to do anything. Didn’t even come close. His lips weren’t soft like Dean’s, his touch lacklustre in comparison, and the meagre orgasm— which you had to see through, with thoughts of Dean between your thighs, left you feeling more frustrated than satisfied. And as you walked home, leaving your one night stand passed out in bed— still in the same position he rolled off of you into, you resigned yourself to the fact that while Dean is in your life, or lack thereof, you’re destined to be alone. 

You’ve never been so happy to lay your eyes on your parked car after leaving a particularly hectic day at work, beyond ready to drive home, and polish off the bottle of white sitting in the door of your refrigerator. 

With your hand firmly wrapped around the door handle, you bring it towards you as a palm slams against the window, startling you. You glance up, about to give the arsehole a piece of your mind, but the sight of Dean standing beside you knocks you for six, and despite being dressed in a suave black suit, he looks horrendous. His usual stubble has grown to give his beard more definition, but it’s unkempt and in disarray while his eyes are red and bloodshot, not to mention the fact he stinks of alcohol. 

"Dean, what the— are you alright?” you ask shakily, your heart still thumping hard against your rib cage. Stumbling towards you with a lazy smile, the whiskey cloud above his head completely engulfs you. 

“Just,” he hiccups, “great.” 

“Well you don’t look it.”

"You mean, you don’t want this?” He slides his hand down his torso, grabbing his crotch with a smirk. 

“Oh, I’m certain,” comes your clipped reply.

Carefully you open the door, using it to create a barrier between you— the more distance the better, but seeing him look so dishevelled and somehow a little… lost, you take pity on him, and find the next words slipping past your lips before your brain has a chance to register them. “C’mon, let me take you home, you’re in no state to be wandering around on your own." 

What was that about the more distance the better? 

"I’m fine,” he spits defensively.

“Dean, get in the fuckin’ car." 

"No,” he huffs, face stiffening as he stumbles backwards to walk off, but you’re faster than he is in this state, and manage to grab him before he falls flat on his face. 

The whiskey smell is overwhelming, but through the alcohol, you can just make out his own scent — that sweet mix of leather and cologne, and it warms you in a way you wish it hadn’t. 

You struggle against him for a second before he gives up, allowing you to help him to the passenger side without a fight. You pull open the door, and he slumps down into the seat with a sickly groan. 

He better not throw up in the footwell.

You shake your head in silent rebuke, cursing yourself for being so concerned about the cost of getting vomit out of your carpet, as you slam the door behind him and round the car to get in yourself. You glance over at him as you switch on the gas, watching his chest rise and fall with shallow breaths. With his eyes tightly closed, mouth slightly agape, he’s practically unconscious as you slowly manoeuvre your way out of the parking lot.

-

Dean falls onto the couch with a loud thud, your arm aching from carrying him in from the car. As you leave him lightly snoring, you give your bicep a soft rub as you head to the kitchen to fetch him a glass of water. 

The ride back to his apartment was peaceful, but you were so aware of him next to you, it was difficult to concentrate on the road, your thoughts continuously reminding you of what a bad decision it was.

You’re dangling yourself like a piece of meat in front of a starving lion that’s ready to pounce and devour you at any moment. 

Walking back into the lounge, you nudge him gently with the back of your hand. 

“Hey, wake up,” you say soothingly despite the slight grit of your teeth. “You need to drink something.” 

Nothing. 

Letting out a defeated sigh, you decide to change tactics. 

“Oh Dean, my pussy’s so wet for you,” you purr, bending to kneel at his feet. “Aching for your big hard cock.” 

Well, it’s not exactly a lie...

His eyes stay closed, but the sides of his lips pull up into a smirk. 

"I knew it, I can practically taste you from here,” he grumbles, shifting his weight onto his left elbow, his eyes slowly fluttering open. His jade stare keeps you at his feet and you hand him the glass, careful not to let his fingers brush yours. 

"Drink." 

He takes it, downing half in one go, his eyes on you the whole time. You suddenly feel uneasy— like you need to go and take a long, cold shower. 

"So, are you gonna tell me why you’re drunk at five in the afternoon?” you challenge. Dean fidgets against the couch, clasping the glass tight between his fingertips. 

"Nope,” he mutters defiantly before taking another swig, pulling a face as he swallows the final gulp.

“No?”

His lips draw into a tight line. “I don’t wanna talk about it.” 

“Gotcha,” you reply curtly, and push yourself to your feet.

“Stop,” he snaps, reaching out to grab your hand. “Stay.”

You look down at him, trying to gauge and somehow predict his next mood, but his face remains impassive. “Not until you talk to me.” 

He sighs, “we are talking." 

“Forget it, De.” You attempt to snatch your hand from his grasp, but he’s holding onto you too tightly. 

“Okay, okay,” he surrenders, placing the now empty glass onto the coffee table before motioning for you to sit down, which you do hesitantly.

It doesn’t escape you that last time you sat on this very couch, you had your legs spread while Dean had his face buried deep in your cunt. You do your best to make yourself comfortable despite the very uncomfortable heat blooming beneath your clothes as he turns to face you. You can see from the anxiousness in his features that he’s toying with his words— opening and closing his mouth repeatedly, but nothing comes out. 

“I was at a funeral,” he eventually manages to croak, glancing down at his hands to avoid making eye contact with you. 

“Oh,” you say. “I’m sorry. Was it somebody close to y—”

He interrupts, the words coming out like vomit. “I had to bury my best friend in front of his entire family and kids.” 

Benny? 

“He had his whole life together, and poof-” he snaps his fingers, “-snuffed out just like that.” He takes a moment to glance up at the ceiling in an attempt to compose himself, but you can see the way his eyes glass over as the next words from his lips tumble out. 

“I have no-one.”

“I’m so sorry about Benny.” You gingerly reach for one of his hands, and entwine your fingers within his, watching as Dean’s eyes cast down at the simple act of reassurance in his lap. "But you have Sam,” you remind him, and after letting out a deep breath, you finally add, “and me.” 

His eyes flicker towards you— relief with a dash of confusion muddying his features.

Taking a second to look away, you immediately regret your words, wishing they hadn’t come out so… desperate. You glance back, prepared to give him a comforting speech before making your excuses to leave, but everything happens too quickly. 

Dean lunges forward, mouth hot and feverish against yours while his tongue seeks out relief past your lips, as his hands roam your hips edging towards the zipper on the back of your skirt. You find yourself reacting in a similar way— your hands hurriedly peeling off his jacket before urgently reaching for his suit trousers.

You can’t help yourself. Three months you’ve been craving just a slither of his touch, and now you’ve got a taste you’re like a ravenous animal who hasn’t eaten in weeks. 

Breaking the kiss, Dean slides off the couch, this time kneeling at your feet and strips you of your skirt, as you slump back against the cushions, watching him in awe as he expertly tugs the black material down your legs.

In your haste, you grab one of his hands, and guide it against your soaked core, allowing him the opportunity to tease you through the damp seat of your panties. Dean flicks a lazy finger up over your clothed clit, and you buck into his touch, urging him to continue with a frustrated whine. 

He smirks at the sound before pressing his lips to your thighs, placing a soft trail of stubbled kisses against your fevered skin, as the hand focusing on your heat moves to join the other working your panties down your quaking legs. 

Once exposed, you watch Dean pause, eyes trained firmly on your bare cunt before he kneels up, landing sporadic kisses to the small peeks of flesh available to him as he travels further up your torso— a delicate placement on your navel, a hungrier taste to your breast as he tugs your shirt and bra out of his way, tongue flicking masterfully over your pebbled nipple.

Your fingers snake around his neck when he finally reaches your lips, capturing them with prurient impatience. He grinds against you, the heat and thickness of his cock prominent through the fabric of his trousers. You buck against him once more when a perfectly placed roll of Dean’s hips catches your bead just right, and you clutch fervently at his tie, giving it a sharp yank in the hopes your rising coveting is obvious.  

He lets go of a small moan against you before pulling back, his lips still skimming yours as a small unscrupulous smirk spreads across his face.

“You like that?” His voice is crisp, ragged and with all the roughness of gravel, it sends ripples straight down to your core as Dean does it again. There’s always been a deftness to the way his hips move that never failed to take your breath away, and it’s no different now. A strangled inhale catches in your throat as he repeats it for the third time, and on this occasion his thumb accompanies it, rubbing over your throbbing pearl. 

Somehow you’ve forgotten how to speak. 

“And this?” he husks, tongue tugging at his bottom lip while his fingers nestle between your folds, tips breaching your heat until he’s knuckle deep. 

“Fu— ck,” you choke, feeling your eyes prickle hot with tears when Dean crooks his fingers inside you. 

“Right there, isn’t it?” 

You try to shake your head, but it’s no good. You swear he’s intent on breaking you apart one piece at time as his digits retreat before he’s duplicating the movement once more. Each nerve, cell and everything in between seizes inside you at the pressure and Dean’s chuckling against your lips. 

“Knew it.” 

He withdraws his fingers, a tumble of complaints falling from your mouth on a loop before you catch him suckling on them as if they’re covered in honey. It’s entrancing really, watching his tongue dart in and out of his lips while he licks your sweet elixir from his flesh, his jade eyes never leaving yours. 

Leaning forward, Dean’s mouth captures yours once more, the slightest hint of sweet brine clinging to his tongue reminding you of where his fingers have already been, and where you desperately ache for his cock to go. You claw between your legs, reaching for the open V of his trousers, hands eager in their search of the swollen length that feels like it’s been burning into your thigh like a brand this entire time.

Beneath his crinkled dress shirt, you fingers finally curl around his shaft, causing a low growl to rumble from the depths of his chest, and as you pull his throbbing shaft free from the confines of his boxers, his teeth tug gently on your bottom lip letting it pop back into place before he catches your lips in a zealous and messy kiss. 

Wet heat pulses against your own, a frantic pressure manipulating its way through your folds as the head of his cock breaches your entrance, and he slides inside you like he was made to fit. 

You cry into his mouth as Dean moans back, unable to stop himself from responding to the way your cunt spasms around him as he powers his way home, one delectable inch at a time. 

Despite the fervid haste to get you both to this very position, he takes his time in pulling out, making sure you feel every bump and ridge as he does so. You whine when you think he’s going to leave you bereft for good— knowing it would just be your luck to have him inside you for all of five minutes before he came to his senses and saw you out the door, more concupiscent than ever.

But just as unhurried as before, he drives himself back inside you and waits a few seconds— a lifetime to you— before ever so delicately, he begins to move his hips in that same agile way that almost has you coming before he’s even fucked you six ways from Sunday. Carding your hands through his hair, his head droops onto your shoulder, spreading soft kisses and starved nibbles along your clavicle. 

You whimper in delight when Dean suddenly leans up on his haunches, and with his hands curled around the meat of your hips, he practically tugs you off the side of the couch, all the while still impaled on his cock. Your feet lay flat against the plush carpet, knees clamped either side of his hips as he rises up between your spread legs, the shift in position leaving you vulnerable and completely at his mercy. 

The disparity in depth, the change in angle, even the way Dean adjusts the movement of his hips— it all merges into one flawless surfeit of sensations, ones you can barely piece together into a singular coherent feeling.

You know you’re not going to last— three long months without this level of stimulation, you’re going to come quick. And unforgivably hard. 

“Oh shit, De... I’m… fuck, I- I’m gonna... cum,” you keen, back arching off the couch. Dean mutters something in response, but you don’t quite catch it, only feeling the way his grips tightens around your waist and the rhythm of his onslaught increases. 

Three more bestial and vehement thrusts come in hurried succession, each more powerful and damaging than the last. You count each one pillaging your body, your limbs weak as you strain against him, struggling to hold on, but the last of the three is quick to claim you.

You fall silent as rhapsody rips through you, surrendering entirely to it as if you actually had a choice. Dean doesn’t let up, using the moment you’re at your most defenceless to fuck into you even harder, which in turn only causes your delirium to multiply and you find yourself coming again without warning.

You don’t know when you blacked out, but the next moment you’re aware of he is squeezing at your tits. His thumb and forefinger pinch your hardened nipple as he uses the grip to pull you off his cock before slamming home, while the thumb of his other hand is placed perfectly between your thighs, working your clit in a lazy figure of eight.

It’s too much. The overstimulation almost buries you into the couch cushions as a guttural scream bursts from your throat. All the bliss still left inside you squirts all over Dean’s cock, dripping down his thighs and onto the floor beneath you. 

As your body begins to cease its convulsions, his rhythm starts to slow and as if to marvel the mess between your legs, he glances down, a cocky smirk pulling at the corners of his lips. 

“What’re… you so… smug about?” you ask, voice thick and lust-dumb through his deliberate thrusts.

“Knew I’d… make you… cum that… hard one day.”

You return his proud smile as he slumps over you, placing another slew of sloppy pecks to your damp lips. You pull back, begging in his ear to come inside you and as you close your teeth around his earlobe, Dean does just that. 

He empties into your womb, hot and wet, trembling in your grasp. As he leans up on shaky arms, he regards you in a way he never has before— there’s a softness in his features, a longing behind his eyes and when he finally dips his head, he kisses you with an alien tenderness that leaves your lips bruised.

-

You wake the next morning in a daze, bed covers tangled around your feet, jolting upright in an attempt to try to figure out where you are. The dresser is familiar, but it’s not yours and neither is the closet on the other side of the room. 

Fuck. 

You know exactly where you are. 

Craning your head slowly to the right, your fears are confirmed. Dean’s sleeping soundly next to you, laid on his back with one arm above his head, his bare chest rising and falling softly in sync with his shallow breaths. 

3. Don’t be his friend, you know you’re gonna wake up in his bed in the morning.

***

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[phis-corner]

How about #34 and #9 on the fluff/angst list?Ship is yours to decide

34- “Please don’t do this.” 9- “You meant too much to me.” | Platonic Timari

Note: reverse robins au, where Tim was the one captured by Joker instead, choosing to take his own life instead of break under torture. Marinette, having given up LB post Hawkmoth’s defeat, chooses to take up her dead brother’s mantle after seeing Bruce spiral. She is also Bruce’s biological child in this au.

I got reaaaally into reverse robins, and this is the result. 

TW: suicide mention

Her father and Alfred are being increasingly shifty about the Red Hood, abruptly stopping conversations when she enters the room and changing the subject when she brings up the mysterious man who’s been picking off the corrupted people in this city.

So she makes a plan to look into it in her own time, carefully watching and observing to find a free time slot, and seizes the opportunity.

Dad is at a WE meeting because Lucius threatened him with no gadgets for a month if he didn’t show again, Alfred is asleep (because he is actually human, despite all evidence pointing to the contrary), and Damian is in Bludhaven with Jon, both working their respective day jobs as an officer in the BPD and a journalist.

Marinette silently logs into the Batcomputer, bypassing the security on Hood’s file with a little help from Oracle (hey, Steph was being kept out of the dark too, and they were both curious.)

She reads the basic information, and scrolls down to the DNA section.

Her blood runs cold when she sees the information listed there, because how can it be a match?

He’s dead.

Dead.

Captured by the Joker, tortured near the breaking point, before taking his own life with a shard of broken glass to preserve their secrets.

She watched them lower his body into the ground. Watched as his friends and family stood there, under the clear blue sky, which seemed too pretty for such a terrible day.

Watched as his teammates broke down around his grave, as Bruce’s face crumpled when everyone else is gone.

Watched Damian, two weeks later, finally show up and leave a single purple hyacinth, kneeling in front of the headstone and tracing the letter with a single finger, head bowed, before leaving. 

She searched up the meaning of the flower. I am sorry, please forgive me.

She mourned him.

Mourned a brother, so kind and intelligent, who never really knew how much he meant to all of them.

She has her own suspicions about how he was captured in the first place, but pointing fingers would do more harm than good.

Her father spiraled again, after he died.

She didn’t want to do it. Didn’t want to introduce a new Robin, and slowly let the world forget about the second. Robin should have died with Tim.

But Batman will not stop, and as long as he keeps fighting, he’ll need a Robin to hold him back.

Marinette dons the costume, two months after they bury him, and tries to forget that this uniform, his spare, still smells like him.

She’s wearing a dead boy’s clothes.

Alfred helps her make a new one after that first night.

Eventually, he does accept her as Robin. He trains her harder than he did both Damian and Tim.

She pushes through.

And now, four years later, there’s evidence proclaiming that he’s alive.

Alive, and on a killing spree, weeding out Gotham’s corrupt at the very center, strategically taking people out to topple the system.

A laugh escapes her, even as her shoulders shake with tears, because the methods are so familiar, so Tim, that she doesn’t know how she didn’t notice earlier.

She asks Jason to cover for her that night. 

He agrees without any questions, seeing the serious look on her face. Marinette has never been more grateful for the boy she and Dad found stealing the tires of the Batmobile.

After Batman leaves (Robin is benched until Red Hood is taken care of, whatever that means), and she pretends to go to bed, she opens her closet and pushes against the hidden panel in the back wall, revealing a spare uniform.

Robin escapes out her window, even though she knows that Alfred will have been alerted by the window opening.

Too bad for them, though, because she removed all the trackers except the emergency beacon, which can only be activated from her side.

The Red Hood is elusive, but she knows his tricks. She keeps up with him as he turns corner after corner, jumps from building to building, until he stops on the roof of Wayne Enterprises.

“Robin.” He says, helmet filtering out any signs that it’s her brother underneath. “But you’re not really Robin, are you? You’re wearing a dead boy’s clothes.”

She can’t help it, she flinches at how casually he speaks of his own death.

“Tim.” She tugs at the uniform, which has never fit right, despite it being tailored to her exact measurements. “What happened to you?”

“What happened? I died, that’s what happened.” The helmet comes off with a click and a hiss of air, and then it’s just her brother, older, eyes violent green, face twisted into a sneer. “I went off to follow the lead on the Joker myself, since Big Bird shut the door in my face and told me it wouldn’t amount to anything, got myself captured, and ended my own life to preserve their secrets. But you should know all of that, Replacement.”

The nickname is like a dagger to the heart. “I never wanted to replace you, the same way you didn’t want to replace Damian.” She says steadily, staring straight into his eyes even as her heart skitters frantically. “I was keeping Robin’s legacy alive.”

“Robin should have died with me.” 

“You know as much as I do that Batman needs a Robin, and Batman would not stop fighting as long as he lives.” She replies. “I never wanted to be Robin, Tim. It’s been four years, and it still feels like it doesn’t fit. But there was nobody else to do it, no one else to bring him out of that spiral.”

Tim is silent for a moment, so she continues.

“Come home, Tim. Please. We’ve all missed you so much. Dad isn’t the same anymore. No one is. We can be a family again.”

“Don’t you see, Marinette? I was never meant to be Robin, either. I was just that one annoying kid who wouldn’t leave Bruce alone, the one who blackmailed him into letting a second Robin out onto the streets. Even after I moved in, I was just that one kid who never really belonged, the outsider trying to insert himself into a family, pretending that Bruce cared for me as much as he did his biological children. Bruce only allowed me to stay in the Manor because I knew his secret. Damian made no effort to hide his disgust around me. You- you were the only one in that house who treated me like an equal.”

He draws a gun and points it at her, and she hears the safety click off. “But you’re Robin. He shouldn’t have made another child Robin. He should have said no, let the legacy die.”

“Tim,” She pleads. “Please don’t do this.”

Something in his eyes waver for a moment, fading to blue, before they harden into acid green again. “You meant too much to me. Let’s see if you mean enough to Batman too, enough for him to arrive on time.”

The gun goes off with a bang, and she feels the bullet enter through a crack in her armor, burying itself in her torso.  The pain is nothing new, but overwhelming all the same as her entire body seems to be on fire.

The last thing she does before everything goes black is calibrate the beacon to send the signal to Nightwing only, before smashing the button with all her remaining strength.

I hope Flamebird gets them here on time.

There are two reasons why she chooses to send it to Nightwing, and Nightwing only. One being because Damian doesn’t know that Tim is alive, and despite everything, he deserves to.

The other?

She doesn’t trust her father to make it.

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