#not necessarily because of the noise (or at least not entirely) but because you might hurt him

[headofocs-inklesspen]

The thing is, I can watch things like The Last of Us. I grew up on Bones and Supernatural and the Forensic Files, gore doesn’t necessarily bother me.

I just can’t watch them with other people because I do have to routinely pause in the middle of really emotionally intense scenes, like someone getting tortured or having just been fatally shot, just to like get through it.

Because it’s not the violence that bothers me, it’s watching something or someone, even something I know is fictional, in pain that gets to me. Like you may as well just stab me too, while you’re at it.

[anika-ann]

Back and Forth - part 6.1

Part 6 - Back-Up 1/2

Type: series; agent!reader, inhuman!reader

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader    Word Count: 7500

Chapter summary:  In which the rescue party arrives for you and Steve... and Steve reflects back to the time in captivity. With you.

Series masterlist

Warnings: mentions of sensory overload, mentions of mental health issues, canon-typical violence, blood, violent thoughts, mentions of death, mentions of pain and unhealthy relationship to pain, mentions of chronic pan and chronic illness, questionable medical procedures, feels, language

A/N: ALWAYS MIND THE WARNINGS; dividers by @firefly-graphics 💕; moodboard is for the vibes and does not necessarily reflect reader’s appearance

A/N2: To the surprise of no one but me, we're getting anotehr two-part chapter. Ah well.... we get Steve's POV in return! Enjoy ✨

Being overwhelmed was far from a foreign state to Steve Rogers.

In fact, given his history, he would have thought he had seen it nearly all – and not only seen.

Earning enhanced senses, after having lived for over two decades with his sight and hearing impaired due to a long list of illnesses, equalled sudden sharp clarity and cacophony of overwhelming noise of all colours, tastes and smells. As welcomed as the change had been, since his body was finally widely regarded as useful enough, the transformation came as a package deal with an occasional sensory overload even after all the years he had had to adjust.

Enhanced memory, too, came with a price; with a crushing amount of detail laced into heart-warming memories as well the terrifying and painful ones, trapping him in his mind at times, during daylight as much as during night-time when he had less control over his own thoughts.

Assuming the title and mantle of Captain America, be in the past century or in the new millennium, was tied to a whole another source of overload, both mental and physical.

So truly, Steve was rather used to being overwhelmed in various senses of the word, handling it better at certain times and worse at others.

And yet – the past few hours were overwhelming in an entirely new sense, indescribable and as corporal as intangible.

Perhaps it was you.

Perhaps it was him being back to a regular human, even if not quite.

Perhaps it was becoming part Inhuman.

Perhaps it was everything hitting him at once on whole new scale he was not used to.

His brain was in a hazy overdrive by now; a strange fog and clarity, thoughts crawling in and dragging painfully and at lightning speed at once. Onslaught of emotions. Body drained from fighting a non-existent gunshot wound as well as a real one, still processing what he had experienced – and what he had learned.

Steve tried to push it all away and think hard how to help instead,despite your agonized scream still echoing in his ears pilling misery on top of his own – but spite could only get him so far.

The rollercoaster of the past hours was taking a true toll on him; and it was almost ironic that while his body had partially regressed to one of a regular human, it was the emotional and mental load that seemed to drain him hundred times more severely than the physical exertion – and overwhelmingly indeed.

Steve wasn’t one to cut himself some slack often, but perhaps he deserved it this time. And perhaps he would grant himself the luxury – once this endless, horrible experience only fool might call an adventure was over.

Seconds had felt like hours. Hours had felt like days. And every soul on Earth had better believe that Steve had been counting, trying to scramble for any resemblance of control, even as he had none.

Counting seconds, in thousands, hoping you hadn’t been taken too; then, that if you had been taken, that you were close to him somewhere. Then, praying that you were at least still alive, anywhere.

Yet, to have his second and third wish fulfilled brought no real joy and only a speckle of relief, because he had been taking stock; and while he knew you were nearby, he had no idea where you two actually were.

What he had known for quite a while was that something was wrong. He had known the moment when he first woken up, tied and chained – but that wasn’t exactly a new, let alone useful piece of information.

Helplessness and uncharacteristic weakness were everything but a good feeling too. Those didn’t look on anyone; but for a man of his past, feeling like having regressed to the weak body he used to own – and to have that happen in the least convenient moment possible, in the moment where he needed to be stronger than ever – forged the heaviest chain of all. One wrapped around his neck and tightening with every second ticking off.

And the crushing waves of emotion wouldn’t cease coming. Not to you; clearly, understandably.

And most definitely not to him.

Your panicked frustrated voice when you couldn’t project, cutting right through anger and frustration he himself felt but for entirely different reasons. A creeping suspicion he didn't dare to speak of, even as ‘impossible’ was a word Steve barely bothered to keep in his vernacular these days.

Then, your shared shock when the impossible turned out to be true; the briefest feeling of belonging and connection. He gripped onto that and used that to stomp on his doubts, anger and fears – because he had to. For your benefit. For the benefit of you both.

He slipped into the role of a leader because you deserved that.

You needed reassurance and guidance so you could rediscover that incredibly brave and capable person he knew; only to have the rug pulled right under your feet as soon as you found your footing, sending you literally to the ground – and sending Steve down a rapid spiral of chocking panic when he heard not one but two gunshots from your cell.

A heavy thud.

Complete, terrifying silence, interrupted only by his own deafeningly pounding heart before he managed to find his voice at least to defend you with words.

If there was anything to defend still.

The confident leader façade he had put on despite feeling lost cracked like an empty eggshell. A suffocating weight found seat on his chest instead, rage smouldering. His own thundering shouts contrasted starkly to the silent promise he made, to whoever was able to listen – that if Hydra had---  if you were-- he'd tear them apart with his bare fucking hands and it didn’t matter he couldn’t do that now, even if the fire in his veins burned all the hotter for that. He couldn’t do a single damn thing; trapped like a pathetic little human quivering and jerking his body in laughable attempt to free himself from bounds some cruel god had trapped him in.

He barely felt the jolt of sharp pain aside from the initial tug, as something in his shoulder snapped along with one of the many chains, but he did feel a stab of that pain with every other yank, exhausting and fuelling him at once.

You still made no sound; no scream, no whimper, nothing to latch his hopes onto. Had he had the capacity, he would blame the burning of tears in his eyes on the physical pain as not to let Hydra see he cared.

But he was beyond that. That was the damn least important of his problems at the moment. You were at the forefront and if he had thought seconds had felt like hours before, they felt like days at that moment.

And you were still silent.

Steve way beyond caring what information regarding his rather complicated relationship to you he’d give away. But he wasn’t above begging. Not when it was his responsibility to protect. To save. Not when it was you. Not when he hadn’t even had the chance to-

Please.

Please.

The suffocating relief at hearing your voice diluted his panic a fraction, but only accentuated the utter helplessness of his position; his hands literally tied, while you were stuck hanging with your life on a thread and having to help yourself, just so you wouldn’t bleed out in a cell right next to him.

God, the love and hate he had for your spite, for all the fight left in you, even if directed against him as you verbally snapped back. Fuck, so be it, he thought, even as his voice didn’t listen to him at all, barking orders he had wished he could have executed himself. So be it, just hold onto that fight in you.

And then, the most heartbreaking crack in your voice when you begged him.

Begged him not to make you do what you had to in order to survive.

You couldn’t have had the slightest clue about the firm grip you took on his heart that moment, how hard you squeezed and how violently you tugged – and it wasn't important. Nor was Steve’s acute need to grab you, hold you tight and somehow save you, sweep you away, to do the impossible task for you, to take away even the littlest fraction of your burden, somehow.

Projecting to you, as surreal as it was, was ironically the first thing that felt right in the past hours; even as the image of you, frail despite having just proven immense strength, was all kinds of wrong.

Steve hated fighting with you but seeing you there in a pool of blood, he would have taken hundreds of fights. It was almost funny that you hadn’t fought him about going to the gala, only protested in front of Tony – because Steve would love to take on that fight now, travel back in time and for all the sweet moments of holding you and talking to you, he'd let you win that fight and would have never gone to that damn place. Not if this was the outcome. The gorgeous image you had been only few hours prior kept flickering in Steve’s mind like a firefly teasing him to follow, to try to catch it, only for its light to die out and show dark crimson soaking the remnants of your dress instead.

The reason for trying his hardest to be soft when he treated you wasn’t guilt, even as he knew that this, all this wouldn’t have happened if it hadn’t been for him and it laid heavy on his conscience.

He'd treat you with utmost care possible in the conditions anyway; but his conscience made for his shaky hands. His conscience and the sight of you so ashen, a ghost of the stunning woman he had shared a dance with, the stubborn brave woman he worked with. He hoped his damnest that you didn't notice the tremble: he couldn’t afford that. You needed his support. You needed a rock to lean your weight onto even as he felt like a pebble that would fall apart to sand if someone squeezed it in their palm.

And he was so damn proud of what you had accomplished – proud and relieved – his respect for you growing tenfold. Grateful when you brushed over the slip of his tongue, smiling even, showing your humour even when he had let the endearments slip from his lips.

The tug on his heart at that was gentler this time, but no less insistent. The sheer trust in your eyes, the careful nuzzle into his touch when he crossed ever boundary possible because he needed to touch you, was a balm to his soul and acid at once, because maybe this was the only moment he’d get to touch you like this. Maybe that effort was fruitless and you two wouldn’t make it out. Maybe you would, but you’d quit, rushing back to Coulson’s team. Maybe you’d stay, but the wall that seemed to always be between you, preventing you from understanding each other, from listening, from growing closer, would only grow higher.

And yet; Steve revelled at the brief sensations, because he viscerally needed to feel that you were still there, not slipping away.

And then you did.

And so did he, the gaping hole in his chest burning and suffocating even as his flesh seemed unharmed, even if within seconds, his arm wasn't.

Bewilderment. Pain. And then that goddamn hope that this was just him – this was him feeling the pain, a little extra revenge from the artifact that had switched your powers for the effects of his serum. The faint hope slowly cracking as his mind filled with images of you wincing, hunching, grimacing in moments when you had probably thought no one was looking, barely visible but always there after having been hurt in your spectral form.

Then, all worry and wondering briefly forgotten as he preened, bewildered all over again but no less pleased of how high you regarded him, much higher than he deserved and certainly higher than he had ever thought. The threads of connection to you he had felt before solidifying and hardening in a difficult moment.

Understanding, a warm one – and then another, ice cold, turning below freezing. Your barely audible voice responding to questions charged with emotions Steve could barely contain with a battle raging within him. Because you had kept a painful secret. More than one.

Not where I come from.

Determination.

Admiration.

Compassion and affectionate sense of belonging, born anew; the understanding of one achy heart of another.

A promise he wasn’t sure he'd be able to keep when they barged into his cell and yours – and made him slip back into desperation and rage and self-hatred for his inability to project again and protect at least if not save. Steve hated himself for the swirl of pride in his chest when you refused to give up, trying to stall, to make them talk... until you couldn’t be brave anymore. Until you were begging him to stop trying to help, scared for yourself no doubt; but the fear for him, the stubborn conviction that it was your duty to protect the paradigm of perfection and virtue with speckless of recklessness and stubbornness you apparently thought he was, dripped from your quiet breathy voice.

A breathless I'm sorry, Steve, tearing a fresh gaping hole of panic in Steve’s stomach at the resignation in your voice speaking so painstakingly clearly of how you thought these were your final words to him.

“I’m sorry, Steve.”

Fuck everything.

Not in this damn life, not on his damn watch.

Steve squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to goddamn at least try to block the pulsing pain and project again, heedless of your request, not caring if it tempted the Hydra agents in his cell to shoot him again – because there no universe in which he'd just stare into Hydra’s face and listened to your end and did nothing.

And then, at least, overwhelming relief flooding his veins; faster than his actual thoughts, since he was at his wits end.

The realization that it wasabout to be over was dull and intense, sudden as much as unexpected.

He registered the ground shaking under his feet barely seconds before two Avengers blasted through the door of his cell, only having just connected the dots as to what a sudden earthquake could mean besides a movement of tectonic plates.

Agent Daisy Johnson. Quake. The Inhuman with ability to feel and control vibrations, natural frequency of particles in every living and non-living thing. It flashed through Steve mind like a lightning; he hoped she’d quake Hydra agents’ bones apart.

But she wasn’t the one to appear in front of him as the sounds of repulsors hit his ears instead, a deadly shadow of enraged Winter Soldier knocking the two Hydra agents down as they still clutched on their fresh wounds caused by the Ironman himself.

Steve had never been so relieved to see a man in a metallic suit to leisurely walk into the room, his mask clicking open as the dust settled, revealing a half-smile, half-smirk.

The pressure in Steve’s chest, however, barely eased. Sharp pain still radiated from his non-existent and yet very real gunshot wound, as well as the one on his arm, and from the shoulder he had likely dislocated during his most intense fight against the maddeningly unyielding chains; his ribcage felt all the tighter not only for all that, but for the lingering anger and feeling of utter helplessness as he had been stuck and stunned while you had been tortured in ways he didn’t want to imagine but would haunt his nightmares anyway.

It crashed into his mind anew even as it had never left, a wake-up call snapping his from his haze.

Steve was overwhelmed to death and tired just as much, but it was still nothing compared to how injured you were.

And that was why the first thing he choked out through the tightness in his chest and throat, gaze burning into Tony’s irritatingly calm face was:

“She needs immediate med evac!”

“Hello to you too,” Tony hummed with what almost seemed as amusement, eyeing the chains with raised brows, and made his way to him.

Series of cries and crashes sounded from behind the wall, making Steve wince, head snapping the direction just as the ground shook again, a thud and something that distinctly sounded like breaking of a bone amplified tenfold causing his heart to stumble in his chest in fear. He knew sounds of a fight when he heard it; and while he knew that was a good thing – the recue party being able to what you couldn’t at the moment, exactly what he had wished for barely five seconds ago – it didn’t mean his body wasn’t vibrating with need to move to join that very fight.

And Tony was still walking to him calmly, without care in the world but seemingly with all the time there was in it, as if you hadn’t been shot twice, bleeding out, the only thing disturbing Tony from his walk of fame being a stray bullet from a Hydra agent who got punched to his face for the trouble, and that was distinctly your voice whimpering and Tony was just-

Steve yanked at the cuffs stubbornly, gritting his teeth when the action made his shoulder throb, little spots dancing at the edge of his vision – fresh wave of dread and rage pooled in his gut and made his vision laser sharp, much like his voice.

“Goddammit Tony, I’m serious! She’s-”

“We know Steve,” Bucky said evenly, worried gaze trailing over Steve’s body as he himself was twisting one of the goon’s arm behind his back in what Steve knew was a very painful angle. Good, he thought fleetingly, these bastards deserved to suffer. “Johnson managed to hack the cameras with Friday’s help as soon as we located you. The emergency team is ready...”

Almost pointed brief silence followed Bucky’s words, the noise of battle dying out, followed by gentler sounds; shuffling, gasps, voices speaking quietly; worried and disturbed, but firm.

Bucky smiled a bit. “And I'm sure Spectre’s getting medical attention as we speak.”

Steve’s eyes slipped shut as he took a wavering, agonized breath as his own wound cried for attention – but the violence in him, having been brewing for hours now, didn’t subdue. Your screams still echoed in his skull, even with his momentary memory working as one of an almost ordinary human.

He’d never forget that sound – not when you screamed the first time when they had shot you.  Not when you screamed just a few moments ago when they had done god-only-knows-what to bring you more pain.

He felt the curse roll off his tongue, acute desire to swear on Bucky and Tony and others for having wasted time hacking secured feed and watching as the wicked voices from behind the wall hurt you more, instead of rushing to the rescue faster – but in the back of his mind, he knew all too well they had done their best. Because they always did – especiallywhen not one, but two of them had fallen into Hydra’s clutches.

Steve knew that; but a lot of good that had done, hadn’t it?

Couldn’t they have just— if they had only arrived at least a few moments earlier, flown in faster, infiltrated the base more effectively, if Steve had pulled harder, if he had been able to focus a little further and project again, shield you, because apparently, he wasn’t about to bleed out or suffocate upon being shot to his damn chest in the spectral form even if it felt that way-- and had he had set himself on the death road by catching another, very real bullet, it wouldn’t have mattered because at least he’d be able to do something, goddammit, instead of being a sitting goddamn duck.

“Didn’t anyone tell you sleeveless shirts got out of fashion and were never actually fashionable, Cap?” Tony noted, seemingly unbothered and completely blind and deaf to Steve’s inner turmoil.

As Steve snapped his eyes open and shot him a murderous glare, he saw a flash of worry and anger in his friend’s face.

Distantly, Steve remembered that this was how Tony coped when he was overwhelmed himself.

Responding would have been a waste of breath and would have blocked the precious noise from behind the wall, telling Steve that you were indeed being taken care of, probably having already carried away while others took care of Doctor Barret and other excuses for human beings that had been in the cell with you.

You were being treated. You had the serum – or some version of it anyway. You’d be fine.

Even as ‘fine’ was the last word he’d use to describe the utter shitshow that had taken place in this base. Nothing about what had happened here was fine, even as there were fractions of it that Steve would now always cherish; too bad they were overweighted by the ton of things he’d rather never think of again but stuck to his memories like molasses to his fingers.

The pain from your spectral wounds lingered? You had always felt like this, even if no one could see a scratch? Could you still feel the wound from two weeks ago when you had been retrieving the data Hydra had planted now, as you had two actual gunshot wounds to your thighs, so poorly taken care of, wrapped in the missing sleeves Tony was mocking? Was it like that? As if it wasn’t enough that blood was no doubt seeping through the fabric still, and maybe they had pushed against those, poking-

Jesus Christ.

“This might hurt a bit,” Tony warned him, kneeling next to him and frowning at the chains again, clearly wondering about the safest and fastest way to remove them.

Steve automatically sighed a thank you as Tony’s metal-clad hands moved to break the metal with sheer strength, before Steve turned his gaze to Bucky again, the question nudging insistently on his brain; a phantom image of you, dressed in what had been a breathtaking gown soaked in blood, torn and dusty, pristine white cloth coloured crimson around your thighs, face distorted in agony even when he had tried his best to work in the gentlest way possible. God, the undiluted innocent trust in your eyes-

“How long you’ve been watching? What did they— they hurt her further. How?”

Bucky met Steve’s intense gaze, his own disapproving and resigned at once – a silent conversation not longer than two second took place. Bucky clearly didn’t want Steve to know, aware it would only twist the figurative knife in his gut, the knowledge of whatever had happened in the other room torturing him, feeding his blame for simply having sat there while you had suffered.

He was right. But Bucky was just as well-aware of the fact Steve would find out anyway; hell, Bucky probably thought Steve would watch the footage just to learn.

And he was damn right.

So he came to the correct conclusion that it was better to just tell. And Steve was grateful, even as he braced himself for a figurative punch to his stomach.

“Long enough to know not to mess with the artifact. Johson cursed like a sailor when she saw it,” Bucky said slowly, pausing as he cuffed the other Hydra agent. Steve’s eyes kept burning a hole into his head as Bucky glanced at him again, no doubt hoping Steve would change his mind. Vainly – but he hadn’t expected as much. His weary sigh told Steve that. “They restrained her so she couldn’t escape the touch of the artifact, even though they never got to that part. They forced her on her knees. She had to put her weight on her legs-“

Steve gritted his teeth as inferno of pure fury exploded inside him, flooding his strained muscles with power; his hands curled into fists, his left hand, still trapped, breaking the last remaining string on metal on him with ease when he pushed his whole body into a single tug.

He was going to smash their faces.

He was going to break every little bone in the sleazy Hydra bastard who sounded like he was revelling in your cries and he was going to enjoy it-

“Cool it, Rambo,” Tony said flatly, the thinnest thread of satisfaction lacing his voice nevertheless. “We get it, you’re mad as hell, but we need to take care of you too. You can go all John Wick on them later. You don’t have your usual strength, you’ve been shot, have about a thousand cuts, those shoulders of yours don’t look as hot as usual either and you breathe like you have at least five broken ribs,” he listed, surprisingly accurate. Not that Steve cared. He didn’t need to be enhanced nor in full strength to release the violence he was now brimming with; he had seen ordinary humans commit unspeakable crimes with their bare hands. He could do the same if he pleased. And it would – please him, that was. They had hurt you; and then they hurt you further, just because they could, when you couldn’t even defend yourself, when he was right fucking there- “Come on, Cap. Let’s leave this shitshow behind.”

Two of Coulson’s agents whom Steve vaguely recalled by name – Agent Mackenzie and Agent May – strode in, taking the two Hydra agents off Bucky’s hands. Bucky was by Steve’s side in a blink of an eye, helping him up; it honestly surprised Steve how much he had to appreciate that, his legs wobbly, the world a little hazy at the edges of his vision causing him to grip on Bucky’s arm, the pressure transferring to the centre of Steve’s chest and causing him to wheeze silently at the fresh burst of pain.

Okay, shit, maybe giving Hydra hell could be postponed a bit-

“Easy, pal. You’ll be okay, but you really look like hell now,” Bucky said, Steve involuntarily proving his point when his left knee gave out momentarily, the only thing saving him from falling being Tony’s swift reaction as he supported him from other side. When had he got so light-headed? “Yeah okay, maybe walking isn’t the best idea-“

“I’m fine.”

He was. Definitely in an infinitely better state than you.

“Sure you are, pal, and I’m the President-“

“Stark, don’t, the situation is horror-like enough as it is,” Bucky huffed, helping Steve hobble. “You stumble again, I’m carrying you bridal style, punk. Then we figure out how to reverse the effect of that damn thing and-“

“No!” Steve cried out on instinct, energized at once – and earning glances shocked enough to elaborate. “I mean… there’s enough time for that. I’m… not fine, but I’m alright enough. We need to make sure the change is safe first. We… we don’t know how exactly it works. And trial and error is not an option.”  

It was not. There was no chance in hell Steve was going to test whether you’d be able to hold on without the serum with the injuries you had even in a controlled medical environment, and that was just one of his concerns. There were several others.

Where Tony was satisfied with his explanation, Bucky’s gaze lingered on him, a silent question he didn’t have to voice, because he already knew the answer; a fond and exasperated faint smile formed on his face.

You want the healing factor to do its work before you switch it again, don’t you?

Damn right Steve wanted that.

His feet might feel heavy, blood-flow restoring only now as he had moved the stiff muscle, but his brain was still working – and there was no way he’d touch that damn artifact with a ten-feet pole until he knew you were stabilized at least. Preferably later, because God knew Bucky was right; Steve might be aching all over, but you most definitely needed his healing factor a lot more at the moment.

And if there was the slightest chance that artifact might mess with either of you and your powers further, that was just more reason – one Steve would gladly share and point out at the reason – to wait.

The switch would be attempted – for sure.

The chance was probably never going to be a clean zero and the mere idea of staying this way – without an essential part of him, the part of him that enabled him to fight for what he believed in – was paralysing, no matter that he would have had a different and very useful power in return. He imagined that beside the healing factor which you could immensely benefit from, you might appreciate the other quirks too, but would prefer having your powers back still. Even as you were an excellent fighter and could hold your own more than well, with your true power, one that had nothing to do with mutations, being in your mind and heart. But your Inhuman power was a part of you as much as the serum was part of him.

The switch would be attempted – but in the right time.Steve was not going to take another risk, nor approve of anyone else taking it. But for sure - both of you would definitely welcome the return to the norm; at least where abilities were concerned.

If you’d revert to your old ways in your interaction as well remained to be seen – but unlike with the power switch, no amount of prior research or stalling would help Steve predict the outcome.

“Is Agent Campbell with you?” Steve panted, forcing himself to stay focused on the puzzle he could actually help solving. “He’s-“

“-not, he’s already diving into archives and all the retrieved records from the cute little cult-like community of Inhumans they had, researching the artifact,” Tony interjected, a brief smirk audible in his voice. “If anyone can make sense of Jiaying’s notes, it’s him. We know. We might not have not had our head strategist but we can do okay when it comes to it, Cap.”

A tired smile curled Steve’s lips upward.

“Thank you. I know you’re just fine without me,” Steve noted, smile slowly slipping when he remembered another piece of intel they needed to explore. “Can you-- we need to check up on Spectre’s mother.”

Bucky frowned at him in confusion. “They took her too? No other prisoner has been reported in this facility yet.”

Stev took a wavering breath as they exited the building, fresh air feeling like heaven despite the burning in his lungs – and the sight of multiple quinjets as well – and only then explained.

“Not sure. They just mentioned her in passing. Could be that she’s working with them. Could be they used her Inhumans research. Could be she’s in danger or hurt. I’m not sure, maybe they just mentioned her to get a rise out of Spectre. Either way, we need to know.”

“We’ll get right on that, pal,” Bucky assured him, grabbing his arm firmer to help him hop on the jet. “Now let’s get you home.”

A whole medical team was on Steve the second he stepped into the plane. However, as Tony started the quinjet, the ramp rising however, Steve was deaf to the questions asked; something much more important caught his attention.

One of Tony’s brilliant inventions, a modification of his suits, a stretcher designed for the field where wheels were a real inconvenience.

Two field medics; and you.

He only got a glimpse as the group headed towards the quinjet, but he had seen enough.

Unconscious. Ashen. Bloodied. Improvised bandages soaked through with crimson as you had been apparently forced to your knees. Remnants of your beautiful evening gown, one that made his heart beat its way out of his chest and sear, a precious sight to behold, a memory to cherish; the sight and all other senses full of you as you had smiled mildly, as you chuckled, as he held you in his arms, having moved almost effortlessly across the dancefloor.

And this was the price you paid; your punishment for Steve’s and others’ insistence that it would be fine to go to the auction.

God, he was such an idiot.

Arrogant idiot who had thought that if something had gone awry a bit, he’d handle it, especially with you by his side. He had seen the golden opportunity to apologize, to smoothen the rough relationship between you two at least a bit, to make a nice memory with you, so desperate to take a chance to show himself in a better light that for once he hadn’t minded Tony meddling.

This was Steve’s punishment for that arrogance and focusing on his own agenda; and it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair, because you were taking the brunt of the impact of the consequences of his actions – and the lack of it. You were paying the price for his irresponsibility, for his incompetence.

God, how he wished he could turn the clock back.

Like so many times before.

He was sure his lips were moving, automatically responding to the questions of the meticulous medical team eventually. But that image of you remained in his mind, even when he closed his eyes, hazy due to pain medication he didn’t remember receiving.

The fact that it had done nothing to relieve the pain from the wound he had suffered when in his spectral form only made his stomach turn further.

Your pain lingered. And unless his brain was more messed up than he had thought, not only that your pain lingered for days, weeks even, but you also had no relief for it.

Steve just wanted to scream and punch and tear something apart.

“You won’t believe me, but it needs to be said,” a mild voice sounded next to him, causing his eyes to snap open in fright; he hadn’t noticed people moving around. Hadn’t noticed another of his friends arriving. Did you have someone close nearby? They might be operating on you already, despite the risks, so probably not. “Steve, look at me.”

It was hard to resist Natasha’s gentle command, but Steve had been through a lot harder trials today. Yesterday? Both? It had been light outside…

He kept staring ahead, her face, the flash of red hair, appearing on his vision even as his gaze wouldn’t focus on her.

He knew what she was going to say. It was clear as day – and she was right about one thing. He wouldn’t believe her. He couldn’t.

“This isn’t your fault.”

If Steve’s chest didn’t hurt so much and if he wasn’t trying to pretend like he was listening, he’d scoff.

“Listen to the lady, punk,” Bucky added. “She knows her shit. We all… pushed you a little bit to go. No one could have known.”

“We should have.” I should have.

Both of his friends’ faces came into focus as Steve spoke up, uncannily similar concerned expression on their features.

“Maybe. But we can’t change that now – and you know I hate trying to look at the bright side of things just to cover up for the hard dark facts, but we did discover a large base of operations and eliminated it thanks to you two,” Natasha noted and Steve gritted his teeth as he inhaled sharply, his lungs crying out in consequence. “That might have not been the plan, but it still counts. What you two have been through there – and we don’t know half of it, I’m sure – wasn’t for nothing.”

Steve gulped, averting her gaze. He couldn’t say she didn’t have valid arguments; there were good things that came out it indeed, the truth about how your powers worked among them, because at least now Steve would be able to take that into account after you hopefully managed to switch powers back. But that didn’t mean the horrible experience was lessened for it.

It didn’t mean it had been worth it.

“And you did a damn good job patching her up in that situation,” Bucky argued further, only making Steve’s stomach churn. Because that wasn’t true. He hadn’t been fast enough. You did the hardest work. You- “We know enough to understand you managed to project? I mean-“

“She dug out the bullets herself,” Steve said dully, despite the images his mind had conjured about that flaring up inside his head again being impossibly vivid and nauseating.

Bucky’s voice fell silent and Steve took satisfaction – a sick one, one knew – in the horror casting shadows over both Natasha’s and Bucky faces. Good. He needed them to understand. He needed them to understand that despite the state they found you in – precisely for that, perhaps – you were a goddamn fighter.

And he had failed you. 

“She dug out the bullets herself while coaching me through projecting to the hallway so we could get out. Only when that didn’t work, I projected to her and found her barely conscious, but with two damn bullets out and her hands and legs soaking in her own blood. Don’t tell me-“

“She’s one tough agent, Steve, we get the message,” Natasha interrupted his sombre speech flatly, face strict when he snapped his gaze to her; but her voice still spoke of warmth. “We know that and my respect to her only grows with every mission, but that doesn’t diminish your merit. Controlling a power which you had an entirety of few hours – of which most you spent unconscious, I assume – enough to get to her, taking care of her after that, was still hard work. You were both without your usual powers. Clearly, you both pushed beyond your limits. And survived, thanks to each other. But you alone did a good job.”

Steve averted her gaze, his face and the burn of angry exhausted tears probably saying it all: Did I?

I did nothing.

I didn’t do enough.

When she said it like that, it sounded like he had managed quite the feat, but it still didn’t feel like enough. It still felt like a failure on his part; but God, was she right when she said you had outdone yourself, fighting tooth and nail and pushing yourself to do the unthinkable and succeeding.

Steve cleared his throat, hoping to swallow the lump having grown there.

“How did you find us?” he asked, aware his friends would recognize that as clear evasion of digging deeper into the topic.

And hopefully, they’d take it.

Even with that sigh on their part.

The corners of Steve’s lips twitched up a bit at the ridiculously coordinated sound of exasperation and exhaustion from Bucky and Natasha; they were good for each other. Absurdly so.

“Barret was on the shortlist of my suspects,” Natasha explained simply. “For all the sophisticated manipulations and tricks, trying to get our scientists do their dirty work, no one thought of the possibility of us tracking him once we knew he could be the mole.”

“Cocky bastards,” Bucky hummed. “Luckily.”

Steve couldn’t but agree; he might have been pissed at the universe for the team not having appeared earlier, but he didn’t want to imagine what they would have found had they come later.

“How did Coulson’s team get involved?”

Bucky’s sudden grin seemed out of place, but warmed Steve’s heart anyway.

“You’ll like this one. Johnson was keeping tabs on the mission – the gala, that is. She actually recovered a draft of Spectre’s message about the artifact as soon as she found out about the ambush, came barging into the Tower with a few friends at her heels. She still had a cut on her forehead from their own mission. Speaking of tough women…”

Natasha smirked; and Steve’s smile widened, the sign of joy feeling genuine for the first time.

You did have someone by your bedside, even as most of your current team fussed over him, maybe even for that exact reason. Coulson’s team – your friends – were in your corner. Likely in every sense of the world. Good.

His stomach dropped to his feet only when the idea occurred to him that it might be enough for you to draw you back to Coulson. Away from the Avengers. Him included.

Gritting his teeth, he forbade himself to worry about that now. Even if that was the case, he would have to accept it; he’d have to be happy for you. He’d have to. He wouldn’t have a word to say against that decision. He hadn’t exactly done the stellar job of making you feel welcome, and as for keeping you safe-

“That’s good,” Steve said weakly at least, stomping on the unpleasant thoughts, latching onto the bright side – if it wasn’t for Agent Johnson, the rescue party could have been smaller. And slower. He was beyond grateful for the friends you had. “She’s a good friend… and I hope she’s been treated by now?”

“She was. As much as was possible during the flight anyway. And she does seem like a good friend... one who drives Tony crazy.”

Steve couldn’t but grin at Natasha’s sidenote, especially since he heard someone approaching from behind, probably the man in question himself. “Even better.”

“I heard that, Cap! How’s he doing, doc?”

Doctor Shaw glanced at Steve briefly, waiting for his approval, before he secured another butterfly band-aid over the cut on his forearm. Steve just nodded.

“Well, I’ll be able to tell more once we’re at the Tower, but for now, I’m confident enough to say that the patient will eventually make a full recovery.”

“Especially after he gets his mojo back, right?” Tony added, earning a slightly amused raised brow from the man.

“If you are referring to regaining the effects of the serum, particularly the increased accelerated healing factor, then yes, Mr. Stark. I’m hopeful.”

“There’s no rush with that-“ Steve protested instinctively, only for Natasha to carefully wrap her fingers around his left wrist – the least injured non-intimate part of a body she could find.

“We’ll figure it out, Steve. Together.”

And she’ll be fine too, the look in her eyes said, causing Steve’s shoulders to slump and making him internally wince in pain.

“Alright, Captain Rogers. Are you comfortable with me reporting-“

“Yes, Doctor Shaw. Proceed,” Steve said before the doctor could finish asking about sharing his medical information with three other people present, causing the man to smile briefly.

“Right. Your dislocated shoulder is stabilized for now, as is the gunshot wound. I would advise rest, bedrest preferably, and I’d recommend you to respect it this time as the effects of the serum, particularly the healing factor, do not seem to be present.”

Steve pointedly ignored the two piercing gazes and one snort from his friends at the note about him respecting doctor’s orders. He did respect all medical personnel immensely, both as people and professionals – there were simply times at which he couldn’t entirely follow their recommendations.

Doctor Shaw cleared his throat before he continued.

“The cut on your forehead was minor, as the majority of the cuts on your arms, apart from three of them with about two stitches each, they should heal within a few days. We disinfected it thoroughly, but we will monitor the progress regularly, especially for signs of infection. Again, if you could limit straining your muscles by let’s say lifting heavy objects, it would certainly help. As for the injury under your eye and over your cheek, there is no fracture and the swelling is going to disperse within hours. Do expect a bruise, however. Again, my recommendation is to rest. And do not hesitate to report if you feel that you should receive a higher dose of pain medication – I admit we do have slight trouble calculating the dose as we are in the process of determining the metabolization of various medication in the current state of your body.”

He made another pause, frowning, first at his notes in the chart and then at Steve.

“Now, before I leave you to it, I detected no injuries to your ribs or sternum, no swelling or bruising or worse, yet you are clearly in pain, having difficulty breathing. We can talk about fresh higher dose of fentanyl once we get to the base to relieve you, but as of now, do you have any idea what could be the cause for-“

“I’m fine. It’s… my pain is about two on the scale-“ of three “of ten, the breathing it probably just the adrenalin still wearing off. That is possible, no?” Steve suggested, hoping his lie sounded at least a fraction more convincing to the doctor and his friends than to himself.

Now that the pain from other injuries subdued, it felt like someone was drilling a hole not his chest and then poked around once he broke through the bone to the insides; or as if someone shot him. But he couldn’t say that without casting suspicion on you. He couldn’t do that until he had a plan of approaching the issue, preferably with you even if he felt like benching you forever for the stunt you had been pulling at him and the whole team – and possibly you previous team. What were you even thinking?

The doctor eyed him curiously, but nodded at last, clearly satisfied for the moment.

“I’m simply going to take some rest and then I’ll be as good as new,” Steve added, an innocent – but honestly grateful to all the care the medical provided – smile on his lips.  

He would swear Bucky mumbled ‘little shit’ under his breath. Doctor Shaw dared to raise a questioning eyebrow, clearly seeing Steve was trying to butter him up, but didn’t protest and took his leave.

Steve felt three slightly suspicious glares remain, but no one asked. For now.

They were about to land anyway.

Next chapter

Series masterlist // S.R. masterlist

Sorry it took so long, loves, life - eh🥲

As always, any feedback and thoughts shared are insanely appreciated 💗

I hope April has been treating you well - and if not, it's about to change 💕

[ridiasfangirlings]

Hi there! Does GORA ever discuss what happens to Scepter 4 post-ROK? I know it's discussed a little that since there are still strains, they have a job to do. However, after all the strains seemingly go away, would they still have a job? Just wondering if anything canon has been stated. I would hate for Scepter 4 to be broken apart and go their separate aways (especially after that sweet finale where they all declare themselves to Munakata) :( I imagine though they would still be an organization but maybe something that deals with more organized/complex crimes?

I don’t believe Gora’s ever said anything specifically about what S4 would do once there aren’t any more Strains. One thing I think is important to note is they’ve also been pretty vague on the whole ‘existence of Strains post-Slate’ thing as it is. We know that some of the people who were affected when Hisui released the Slate kept their powers and became Strains, so there are actually more now than there were pre-ROK. At the same time though there’s no discussion that I can recall about if those Strains will eventually lose their powers or if it’s just that there will be Strains until all the current existing ones die. If the latter is the case then I think there’s room to consider that S4 may always be needed in some capacity — if there are more Strains who are kids, or babies, then even if S4 is helping with them now there’s always a possibility that they might grow up and use those powers for bad things and need someone to keep them in line. Similarly there would probably be the need for at least some kind of ongoing monitoring for all existing Strains, just to be sure no one decides one day to remove whatever power-dampening device they might have and go rob a bank or whatever. In that case I could see S4 remaining pretty much perpetually, albeit presumably with a smaller budget and smaller force depending on how much activity there ends up being.

If all Strains eventually disappear then I assume that S4 as-is, at least, would be dissolved. I don’t think that necessarily means they all have to go their separate ways (I know Gora kinda hinted at Homra doing something of the sort, with everyone having their own stuff going on, but I don’t think even that necessarily means that they’ve all broken apart entirely and in general I will just go on record with my bias as saying that I really hate found family stories where the endgame is ‘and then the found family splits apart and maybe send each other Christmas cards once a year,’ fuck that noise). I feel like even without Strains and Kings and all that though Munakata remains an ambitious person and I don’t at all see him just deciding it’s time to retire and going off to do puzzles at home for the rest of his life. I could see S4 morphing into its own sort of special force eventually, either in a very specific security niche run by Munakata or even as like political bodyguards (you know, for when Munakata decides to run for Prime Minister, smirking at his opponent the whole time). Considering Munakata specifically chose all of S4 because he thought they were useful I don’t see him letting everyone go so easily, and on top of that everyone joined because they believed in Munakata’s vision — so if that vision takes them to somewhere they didn’t expect so be it, they’ll still follow their King.

[deltaruminations]

incoherent rambling about Dess As Strange Someone

man like. ive always been curious about the idea of dess as the Strange Someone but it's really REALLY driving me nuts lately ever since the idea of her actually being more of the “Eldritch force” (or at least the source of it, or maybe a lure for it) than gaster is has really started sticking in my cotton. like seam never tells us what the Someone said to jevil, just that he started going mad after meeting them, and the SB’s knowledge of their nature as light world objects seems to be coming from the shadow crystals, which aren't necessarily being given out by Someone (spamton found his in the NEO body); so like. what is Someone even saying to them then. are they even saying anything to them or are they just Affecting them in some visceral way. even in spamton's case we don't really know if it was Someone giving him business advice or if it was fucking, Mike or whoever lol. honestly the “garbage noise” on the line has always stuck out to me as inconsistent because if the whole deal with the Phone Friend is that they stopped calling without warning then it doesn't make sense for them to have called one last time right before spamton went off the deep end. so yeah like Someone is maybe a completely different force from Phone Friend, and if they are, then we still have no idea what Someone is saying or doing to these guys lol

and you have the gaster-y bit in lost girl being the same as the gaster-y bit in the “freedom motif,” and spamton spontaneously channeling the UNUSED strings, and the whole thing about the puppet scarf feeling like guitar strings, and pulling strings and making them ring being evocative of someone playing a guitar. and with the latter thing – what if spamton isn't speaking entirely metaphorically there? what if he actually heard some song on a guitar – the ringing of strings – that “ripped up” his heart, or like, was so emotionally overwhelming that it just broke him?

i guess something could be said for the idea of dess being like, this powerful symbolic figure of being trapped and helpless against her fate, kind of a thrown away toy in her own right, but still having a powerful drive or desire to be free; and let's say she's playing or manifesting music from the bottom of the Dark Hole, an act that itself reflects a will to live despite the circumstances, and this is somehow being broadcast out in such a way that, if it reaches someone who's receptive enough to it (someone in a similar position, perhaps) it worms itself into their brain and short-circuits them. like it's not even Trying necessarily to reach these people in particular, or break them – her only motivation is for someone, anyone, to hear her, and in a way she's succeeding. it's just that the Vibe she's putting out is so powerfully relatable to these people and tugs so hard at their hearts that it overwhelms them with such an unmanageable amount of self-recognition and sympathy and inspiration to the point that they all end up self-destructing in their own special ways

idk I guess this all comes back to a question ive been kicking around for a long time, which is whether the SBs (and seam, and maybe rouxls) share all these gaster-y traits and associations because gaster is the one who directly or indirectly influenced all of them (that is, they take on aspects of him as a result of contact with him), or whether gaster shares these things because they're commonalities among everyone influenced by the same force (he didn't influence them so much as he's one of them). is even his leitmotif derived from lost girl, and not the other way around? that might be a stretch but i mean. who knows lol. but it does get back to the idea that gaster is SB-like himself, a character who was literally discarded from undertale (though there could be ways an unshattered wingdings deltarune could have been SB-like and susceptible to something like this too – a shy little brother with no friends, or a darkner based around a weird, maligned font, or so on). and gaster is also arguably self-destructing in his own way, like a secret boss, just on a bigger scale (like. he literally shattered into pieces and that wasn't even the end of it for him. Lol). maybe out of the affected cohort gaster is special because he’s apparently the only one who was able to keep his mind even halfway intact after being “contacted” but also even he is just steadily fucking Losing It. idk I feel like that does kind of add some layers to the general idea of gaster trying to keep himself together (literally ha ha am I right. because he exploded.) and being kind of preoccupied with self-control, seeming to like… put a lot of energy into coming off as rational and calm and collected, etc. as if he knows he's going nuts and he's trying to hide it or deny it or stave it off or something. fucking… memoryhead… anyway

[purpleshadow-star]

Au where, when someone is ready to die, they don’t feel any pain. The more ready someone is to die, the less pain they feel.

tws: lots of talk about death and dying (not technically suicide ideation but could theoretically be read as such), mentions of Neil's torture in the Nest (very vague and brief) and by Lola (not really vague but not explicit either, if that makes sense)

Neil Josten is ready to die.

It’s not that he necessarily wants to die, but he knows it’s coming, and he’s made peace with that. He’s ready for it.

He’s not worried about his impending death. He’s known that he was never going to make it to the end of the year ever since he first signed the papers to become a Fox and put himself in the spotlight, so he knows that, no matter what, at least he’ll have a painless death.

Sure, his experience in the Nest ends up being more painful than Neil wants it to be, but it isn't all that surprising. He might be ready to die, but he’s not ready to die there. Not by Riko’s hand. He refuses. So, there’s pain. But that’s a different circumstance. Someone else is depending on him to live. Neil doesn’t want to think about what could happen to Andrew if Neil doesn’t keep Riko’s attention on him. So, it’s different. He needed to live to ensure Andrew would be okay.

In the end, it doesn’t matter anyway

Once Neil starts getting the countdown, though? Well, he knew he wasn’t making it to the end of the school year, but now he knows exactly how much longer he has. When the day rolls around, Neil is more than ready. He’s been waiting for this moment for months, almost an entire year, really. Sure, it sucks that Neil won’t be able to play the game he loves with his team anymore, and sure, it’s a shock to see Romeo and Jackson and Lola waiting for him, but that doesn’t change the fact that Neil is ready for them. He’s glad that he’ll get to take away this last bit of satisfaction from Lola. She won’t see him flinch. She won’t hear a peep of pain from him when she inevitably tortures him because he’s been preparing for this day for what feels like his whole life.

He’s prepared to die.

So imagine Neil’s shock when he acutely feels the sting of metal that is Lola’s first cut. He’s so surprised that he fails to hold back an audible noise of pain. Only a not so long buried instinct from when his mother was still alive keeps his next reactions in, but his slip-up doesn’t go unnoticed. Lola is behind him, slicing him up, taunting him. Look who’s not so ready to die after all. I’m almost disappointed by how easy it was to get a reaction from you. I was hoping for a little more of a challenge. Tell me, Junior, what do you have to live for? What is making you want to live? Why aren’t you ready to die?

Neil barely hears her. He’s too busy asking himself all the same questions. Just a few months ago, he took an exy ball to the stomach and barely felt a thing. What changed?

Unbidden, his mind wanders to Andrew. Andrew and keys and the Monsters and the Upperclassmen and Wymack and Abby. The Foxes. His team. His friends. He realizes that, at some point in the past few months, they’ve managed to get past the walls he put up. They’ve rooted themselves deep in his chest, and they’re not letting go.

They are the reason he’s not ready for death anymore. The thought of leaving them hurts. He knows it’s necessary. He knows he needs to let them go, or else he would only end up bringing more monsters to their doorstep, but he’s now realizing that he’s not ready to let them go. Have to and ready to are two completely different things, he realizes as his voice is violently ripped from his throat through the burn of a cigarette lighter on his face. He’s feeling this pain because he’s not ready to let go of his new family yet. He’s not ready to leave them. He’s realizing now that he might never be ready.

A few hours ago, Neil was sure he was ready to die. He walked to his death with open arms, ready to embrace a painless, inevitable release. But now, in the midst of unexpected pain and agony, Neil changes his mind. He thinks he wants to keep feeling this pain. He doesn’t want the painless release of death anymore. He wants to fight back. He wants to keep living. He wants to make it back to his team. He wants to make it back to his friends. He wants to make it back to Andrew. He wants to make it back home.

Neil makes up his mind. Even if it means distancing himself from the person he’s lied into existence over the past few months, even if it means becoming the person he’s been running away from for almost nine years now, he’ll do whatever it takes to make it back to his family.

Nathaniel Wesninski isn’t ready to die.

[betweenthings2]

omg i feel so honored! 🥹🥹 i hope you don't feel obligated to write anything thos, i just really enjoy your work!!!

i think 7 is really cute for gatty!

Thank you!! And the only thing I like more than writing whatever the hell I please is writing what people want to read from me, so feel free to send more requests or prompts! My life is a little crazy right now, so things might sit for a bit, but I love requests so much.

I hope you enjoy!! =)

A Kiss...to Shut Them Up

Matty talks. He talks about anything and everything and nothing, often all in the same sentence.

Matty talks. It's generally accepted that he talks, the same way it's generally accepted that matter cannot be destroyed or created, the same way it's generally accepted that the force of gravity on earth is 9.81 meters per second squared. 

Matty talks. Though George would loathe to admit it, sometimes Matty's talking fades into the background like white noise. It is, however, the pleasant kind of white noise and George appreciates it, in part because it's Matty and he loves Matty, but also because he remembers the bad times, the times when Matty was quiet and sullen and getting him to say anything felt like a job and a half.

So no, George doesn't mind that Matty talks, in fact sometimes, he would go so far as to appreciate Matty's seemingly unending chatter, but sometimes, sometimes he wouldn't mind a little bit of quiet. Getting Matty to be quiet is an art, one George would say he's become quite good at over the years. Sometimes all it takes is a particularly inspired bit of production or an intriguing drum bit and Matty will zone out go silent, focused on making something. Sometimes a gentle hand, rested on his thigh or the small of his back, is enough to get him to pause and gather his thoughts. Sometimes all it takes it simply a glance with raised brows. Sometimes it takes more.

George isn't really entirely sure what Matty is talking about now. Matty has been talking for a while now and it's faded into the background as they finish tidying the kitchen from dinner. Well, it had been a joint task, but now Matty is leaning against the counter and gesturing with his half full wine glass in a way that makes George half worried that they'll be cleaning Malbec from the floor, rushing to get to it before Mayhem does.

"…and maybe that's fair in some ways, but I don't think we can always read it as being inherently negative. We lose some of the nuance if we use that interpretation, and, anyway, I don't think that's the whole point. It's more that…"

George zones out. He doesn't really mean to, but he's not entirely sure what Matty is talking about or why an inherently negative reading lacks nuance, and sometimes, he knows, Matty just needs to talk at someone, not necessarily to someone.

"…but there's no point in consuming art that's not interesting and so much shit is like a, a fuckin' hotel room painting and it doesn’t make you feel anything, 's just, like, this neutral, boring-"

George abandons his task--the kitchen is basically clean anyway--and sidles over to Matty, one hand capturing the wine glass and setting it on the counter, the other finding Matty's hip, and kisses him, deep and hard. Matty abandons his tirade against boring, manufactured art (at least, that's what George thinks he's gotten to talking about) and kisses back, open and pliant. He's flushed when they separate.

"'s that a nice way of telling me I need to shut up?" Matty asks, sheepish.

"'s more a suggestion," George says, "that you might need to organize your thoughts."

Matty paints an exaggerated pout across his features and says, "George, love, my thoughts have never once been organized."

George laughs and leans in for another kiss, pulling Matty close as he does.

[veliseraptor]

Potentially sensitive topic but it’s something I’m struggling with: when do you remember fandom really turning against villains and Loki in particular? I sometimes feel like it cannot be as bad as I remember it being, but I remember this culture where we were Bad Fans, y’know? It’s difficult to explain to others. Did I imagine it or do you also remember it that way?

anon, you say this like it's somehow not happening anymore; my #fuck the villain police tag is still very much active and extant, and I don't actually think Loki was necessarily the first example of the thing, just maybe one of the louder ones because the MCU was a bigger, discoursier fandom than many.

in my experience the "if you like villains and especially if you like villains in the wrong way then you are at best questionable and cringy and probably a bad person" thing has been around for...a while? I mean, I honestly don't remember a time I was on the internet where I, as a person who is perennially a villain stan in pretty much every fandom I'm in, wasn't running into it at least a little. I do think it got louder, maybe, around the same time that fandom discourse in general started to take a turn for the moralizing extreme, but pinning down when that was I think is very hard, particularly from this vantage point when we're still pretty in it.

it's also hard for me personally because the MCU/Loki-fandom in particular was only my second really big fandom, so my experience was a little bit of a crash course in what might've been more familiar to people who'd spent more time in megafandoms before. (I was in Supernatural fandom for several years, yes, but I was also primarily in Supernatural fandom pockets that were focused first and foremost on Sam Winchester whump, so I wasn't really paying attention to the other stuff going on that much.) it's difficult for me to compare, therefore, relative to other/prior situations, because those weren't situations I was in; people who were more early mega-fandom involved might have a different perspective.

I think what I would say is if you're worried that you were somehow making up that it was really unpleasant, in my experience you were not; the #fuck the villain police tag might be a long-standing bugbear of mine (the "stanning villains for over a decade" badge first showed up in I think 2017 maybe? so at this point it really should be getting up on "stanning villains for almost two decades and I'm tired" territory. and it keeps going. new fandom same discourse) but the impetus for me really starting to yell about it more had a lot to do with the defeaning noise that was the Bad Loki Fan discourse of the mid-2010s.

it's exhausting as fuck and a substantial part of what made me straight up run out of patience with the entire goddamn conversation. I probably would've eventually reached my "all those things are good, actually" place without it (for one thing, my experiences in Silm fandom helped), but I do think it got me there quicker.

[lotusthewriter]

What I've Done - Chapter 1

Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist (2003)

Rating: T

Relationships: Alphonse (Wrath) & Edward

Characters: Alphonse Elric (Wrath), Edward Elric, Sloth, Dante, Envy; other characters to be added

Summary: "As soon as the homunculus decides to shove these feelings down his throat and take the alchemist to Dante for once and for all, his troubled opponent finally dares to say something that stops the world from going.

“... Al?”

It paralyzes Wrath."

A Homunculus Alphonse Elric AU.

Word count: TBA

AO3

A/N: I thought of this AU back in 2021 and it changed a lot since then, but I was at least able to write the first chapter and hopefully the second will be up soon. The rest of the AU is mostly loose concepts and I'm not sure if I'm really going to finish this story concisely, I was still excited to introduce this AU in writing form.

I will be adding the trigger warnings for the whole AU, not this chapter necessarily. Please read them and try to look after yourself if you can.

TRIGGER WARNINGS - death, repressed trauma, child abuse, physical and emotional abuse, emotional neglect, canon-typical violence, self-sacrifice, suicidal thoughts, blood and injury and loss of limbs. (More might be added)

P/roship DNI.

--

“It’s time.”

Someone like him could easily be spotted and not recognized as a human. Pale skin, purple eyes, purely long, black hair… and in his case, two limbs that don’t belong to this body. Whoever it must belong to, Wrath is not aware.

Everyone else already got to meet the young alchemist that seeks the Philosopher’s Stone. Wrath, however, has never actually left Dante’s mansion until now. When she wasn’t teaching him alchemy, Wrath would be alone in his room, bored out of his mind, but knowing he couldn’t leave or do anything about it.

This is the very first time the homunculus goes on a mission. He’s all on his own. Well, even if he wanted help, he wouldn’t get it: either because they don’t care about him, or they outright hate him. So, he’s not entirely disappointed by being alone. If anything, Wrath has gotten used to it.

He only has one mission: bring the alchemist back to the homunculi, alive. They failed in the first try, but Dante rests assured that Wrath will change the course of fate.

The boy is driven by his want to impress Dante and the other homunculi, so they would finally see that Wrath is worth something. He’s trained a lot to be part of their battles, and he needs to prove himself useful if they want him around.

Thus, Wrath is hidden behind the endless green of the forest, moving slowly, not making a single sound. While Dante receives her former student, he hunts down the alchemist in the wild, knowing he stormed off outside.

“You know what to do.”

It’s simple.

It doesn’t actually take too long to find a presence in the wild, not much far from the mansion. Wrath, already camouflaged, takes a peek where the light touches. Immediately, he detects braided hair, blond like gold, and overall black clothes. From this angle, the alchemist looks… short. He’s young but that was the only detail Wrath was informed of.

The teen appears to be thinking, hands inside his pockets. He’s rather quiet, looking up at the sky. Judging by his low shoulders, the prodigy seems… sad.

Wrath will definitely be detected.

So, he waits.

Observes.

For someone with such lively colors, the alchemist doesn’t reflect on them at all. He’s seeking the Philosopher’s Stone, like every other alchemist who tried, so he must be trying to bring someone back, right?

Before Wrath can even wonder, the homunculus shakes his head to focus instead on his enemy’s movements and noises, to advance in the perfect moment.

After a couple more minutes of nothing, Wrath is a bit surprised when the other boy takes something in his hand. The former can’t see it very well from here, but he hears an opening noise, kind of metallic.

“... Don’t forget…”

Wrath is able to leave the tree, slowly, as the blond’s attention is entirely on whatever is in his hand. The former’s arm has already been transmuted into a blade made of stone, so he can threaten the alchemist with it. If he’s fast enough, that is.

His purple eyes remain focused, whereas the other doesn’t seem to care about the world around him at all. Just this one object.

“... I won’t.”

Wrath does not make a sound.

The perfect spot.

“I promise,” the tired voice speaks out to the above, “I’ll make it up to you…”

Now.

Yet whatever name the alchemist was going to say, is never known.

Because he’s quick to also use a blade of metal out of his right arm, defending himself from Wrath’s attack.

But the homunculus is not going to give up so easily. He’ll do whatever it takes, for everyone’s sake.

The human alchemist is thrown off, panting, eyes wide. Eventually, he seems to calm down as he processes what has just happened, analyzing Wrath and frowning in confusion.

“You’re… a kid,” he notes. “But… you’re just like them , aren’t you?”

Wrath doesn’t reply.

“Wait, your arm is”– the other gasps in realization –“you can do alchemy?!”

Again, the prodigy gets no answers.

Only another fast attack, so the blond can only dodge and even throw Wrath away, but not taking off the latter’s stance. He can barely breathe.

“You don’t talk too much, do ya?” The alchemist tries to joke. “Not even a sad backstory?”

Wrath doesn’t show any emotion, not even annoyance or hatred. He just attacks.

That leads the blond to use the ground to create walls behind walls, only for them to be destroyed by Wrath’s own alchemy. The purple-eyed boy can also create spikes, shields, pretty much everything the other is using to fight. It’s like Wrath knows his enemy from the palm of his hand, despite the fact they’ve never met before.

For most of the fight, the human prodigy is stuck in the defense, never given one second to rest as Wrath is intent on immobilizing him. The alchemist is growing increasingly tired; after all, he’s just a human teenager, doomed by his physical limitations.

In the middle, Wrath realizes that his opponent’s right arm and left leg are made of metal. For one, the latter can transform his arm into a blade like Wrath does. But mostly he could tell by the strength and hardness of said limbs. The homunculus is his very opposite, bearing human limbs in a pale, soulless body, but it’s still the right arm and left leg, too. Wrath never quite understood where his human parts came from. His memories are a haze, he can only remember quick flashes of different moments, unsure if they were from the human he was supposed to be, or his existence as a cursed creature of Earth.

Wrath’s body is mostly hidden by his clothes; after all, he wouldn’t want to be spotted and captured. When he finally has the chance, he uses his shirt to trap his enemy. The latter defects most of the containing shreds, only for two of them to grab his metal arm, and his exhaustion only catches up with him. For the first time in the battle, Wrath smirks, even if subtly. The prodigy has no way out.

As Wrath starts closing the distance between them, the alchemist rages as a last resort. He pulls the other with full force, aiming his metal blade at Wrath’s head, giving the homunculus little time to dodge. Thankfully, Wrath doesn’t actually get hurt, but he stumbles and almost trips as he and the human boy go separate again.

Only this time, Wrath is the one who’s shocked. Maybe because this is his first real fight, and even if he’s a homunculus, getting sliced in the head sounds far from a pleasant experience.

He feels like something was taken from him. He feels… incomplete.

His human and artificial hands have black hair strands in them.

Then it clicks.

Most of Wrath’s hair was forcibly cut. Even just turning around a bit, he can spot the black mess lying in the grass. And for some reason, his enemy just… stands there. He doesn’t try to attack Wrath, even when the latter is now vulnerable.

Wrath feels something intense. Anger.

He knows he’s not supposed to be impulsive. He needs to focus his anger on the right things, and fight for the greater cause. Yet it’s like something boils inside him the more he stares at the lost black hair. Wrath consciously chose to let his hair grow, to be his own person, to be accepted by Dante and the homunculi.

This part of him was taken away from him, like everything else.

Tightening his fists, Wrath seethes and attacks again, but not calculatedly. After remaining silent the entire fight, he growls and yells, except he gets no reaction from the other end, therefore he traps the stubborn alchemist against a tree, left arm trapping him while his right prepares to punch his enemy in the face.

However, Wrath doesn’t hit him just yet.

Not with the way the blond is staring at him.

Golden eyes staring at him with a look so pained that Wrath has never seen in his life. The alchemist’s lips quiver in the same way his human body shakes. Regardless, he isn’t afraid. He’s horrified but… in a guilty way. Mournful, even.

It’s like… he knows Wrath.

As soon as the homunculus decides to shove these feelings down his throat and take the alchemist to Dante for once and for all, his troubled opponent finally dares to say something that stops the world from going.

“... Al?”

It paralyzes Wrath.

His fist is no longer firm.

Something resurfaces.

Yelling.

…

“Al?”

The voice sounds far away.

“Al, can you hear me?”

It’s cold.

“C-Come on, Al, say something.”

Dark.

“Please. Please, Al.”

Metal.

“No…” the voice sobs. “No, no, no!”

It sounds painful.

“I gave up my arm! Give him back! GIVE HIM BACK!!”

The pounding against metal is loud, scary even, especially the inside.

Instead of more angry yelling, there’s only mourning sobs and sniffs, until it quiets down.

“He’s my little brother… please…”

The tears aren’t felt or seen, but heard.

“Al… come back…”

As there’s no other answer, the pounding returns, and the voice growls in frustration.

“No! Al! AL!”

“AL!!!!”

…

Wrath unconsciously stumbles back, far away from the alchemist, this time the one wanting to escape from his painful, grasping look.

… his name is Ed, isn’t it?

The same voice…

Despite Ed’s shock, he still approaches Wrath slowly. He might as well cry.

“Al…”

That.

That name.

It brings more memories.

Learning alchemy, bonding, trusting…

It hurts.

When Ed dares to reach out a hand, Wrath slaps it away and runs away.

“Al!” He hears from afar.

The boy finally yells, “MY NAME IS NOT AL!”

Wrath merges with the forest once again, soon out of the other’s sight. Even if he’s quick to return to the mansion, he can still hear Ed yelling that name far away…

Somehow, Dante’s disappointment is the least of his concerns right now. Instead, it’s that lonely nightmare and those yells of grief, so intense… and so full of love.

--

Next chapter

[lololollywrites]

So I’m honestly looking for help or advice here. I’ve gone my entire life believing that I’m neurotypical, despite never quite feeling like anyone else or fitting in. I just always thought I was... I don’t know. Quirky, weird. It’s mostly been internalized. I doubt my family would agree, for example, despite any one of them being the first to say that I’m a loner with special interests (they don’t know the half of it - not about tumblr or fanfiction, for example) who has carved out my own little niche of the world in which I can feel most comfortable (academia and travel, amongst other things). “Oh, Lauren’s the smart one who corrects our grammar and doesn’t want a typical life and doesn’t notice when men hit on her and can talk for hours about anything and remembers every detail of her childhood! She was reading novels at 6 years old, isn’t that funny?!”

But recently I’ve come across online content about ASD in adult women and how it looks different than we have long been told (and therefore how it gets overlooked and undiagnosed) and, well. It’s been resonating with me. Hard. I’m not necessarily struggling with life, but I’m also lacking a long-term relationship, a core friend group (it’s hard to fully connect with people or reveal my full personality, though part of that is also because I move a lot), and am finding myself more and more alone. Which is okay for the most part. It is. Honestly, the idea of sharing my apartment and giving up decision-making autonomy and even decorative control stresses me out. I’ve tried to work on myself by expanding my comfort zone - I’ve worked at it my entire life, which is why I traveled - but also... what if I could understand myself better? What if there’s more to it? (I did discover that there might be more but it got long, so... sorry in advance. But if you can relate, I would LOVE it if you did read and could help me!)

I just took the RAADS-R assessment (a bit frustrating, as many of my answers would generally depend on the situation and there was no option for that); I tried my best to be conservative and practical with my selections. I still scored a 104. Scores range from 0-227, and a score of 65 is when ASD is considered (and even likely), though obviously one online test is not enough for a diagnosis. Non-autistic people can score as high as 90, apparently (and autistic people can score as low as 44), so 104 is not conclusive, but it’s made me think.

It’s sort of a relief in a way, but it’s also something I don’t think my family would ever be on board with or understand since I’m the “normal”, stable, level-headed, successful one. Which obviously doesn’t preclude autism (honestly many of these traits have helped me tremendously), but there are so many misconceptions out there. And they love me and mean well, but I know they’d also ask why it matters, since I’m 33 years old and have done fine until now. But they don’t know what it feels like to scratch at your skin and never truly feel like you’ve figured yourself out. Why you’re different and why nothing has ever made sense. Why other people are so infuriating.

My traits? Well, they don’t all fit. Or at least I didn’t think so until I started typing them out.

I am easily overwhelmed by social situations (I can’t stand nightclubs and had an anxiety attack before I first went out in college), but I’ve gotten better. I’ve practiced. Interrupting can be a problem for me because I get excited when people say things that interest me. I don’t find sarcasm or jokes or social cues difficult to understand, but I’ve also... practiced. I’m very, very aware of what I say, how I act, and how others perceive me, though this has become more natural with age. I was always so gullible as a kid that it was a joke in my family. I’m compassionate and empathetic to a fault; I believe the best in people, which has hurt me. Textures and noises don’t particularly bother or overwhelm me, but I did once burst into tears in a Shanghai bar because it was too much. Just... too much. I never once believed in Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy and grilled my parents with very specific questions regarding why I should be expected to (though only when my little sister wasn’t around). Despite this, between the ages of 5-7, I slept at the very edge of my pillow so as so leave plenty of room for my parents to take my tooth in the middle of the night and not accidentally wake me, as I knew it would be embarrassing for them and potentially also wake up my sister.

I once slept in an inflatable raft for an entire summer as a kid because I felt like it was a safe cradle. I used to be such a perfectionist that my parents considered homeschooling me. I got in trouble for reading too quickly because teachers thought it was impossible to complete the assignments at the rate I did. I always completed all the group work at school - not because my group mates took advantage of me (though there was a little of that), but because I couldn’t stand what they turned in to me and wanted to do it myself. Travel was my way of proving to myself that I didn’t need the same daily routine; I learned to create my safe space wherever I was in the world. I didn’t want my worries and anxiety to limit my experiences, so I didn’t let it. Then travel just became a new part of my comfort zone. I would self-soothe and reassure myself it would be okay by imagining my new safe space, which would always involve my computer, my Kindle, an internet connection, and being alone. With those things, I’d be okay.

I used to talk so fast as a kid that my mom joked I should be the person who spoke at the end of radio commercials (when they share all the legal disclaimers at high speed). I’ve practiced that too and gotten better, but I always need to be aware of my rate of speech. I went into teaching to sort of... practice public speaking, eye contact, and increasing my confidence (as well as to try to build that natural cadence). And it’s helped. This has always led me to the assumption that yes, see, I’m neurotypical. Everyone has these thoughts and foibles. When I discovered fanfiction in high school I told everyone about it, mind-blown at how miraculous it was, before I realized that people were looking at me funny and thought I was weird. So I stopped. And then discovered online communities.

Even as a 24 year-old, on a Fulbright orientation in an Indonesian hotel, sitting in a circle on the floor in a group of 30 fellow Fulbrighters about to embark on a year-long placement around the country, I apparently talked too much. I had no idea. I was two-months fresh off a year in China and we were participating in ice breakers, sharing advice and travel stories, and I thought I was being helpful. I felt free - finally I was in a community of fellow travelers, and I guess I let my guard down. My family couldn’t relate to all of my China stories and eventually got bored, and I was still processing my experience. I thought that these fellow travelers cared what I had to say. That it was safe. One of the girls I liked (and we did later become friends when she apologized months later) came up to me after one of these sessions and said “As much as I like your stories, Lauren, don’t you think you talked too much?” I was mortified. I totally shut down. I felt pushed to the side in that group - my only real friends, looking back, were the few other loners, including one girl who openly discussed her ASD. We were in contact for years after that and we naturally understood each other. She asked me to talk *more* about China with genuine interest. Maybe that says something.

Anyway. I’m having a bit of an emotional moment right now. I guess this could all be nothing. Or something. I know maybe I should pursue an official diagnosis, but I don’t know if that’s worth it or not. I trust people here. Has anyone else had a similar experience? Or have you self-diagnosed at any point? Does the truth of that label impact your life, and in what ways? Thank you. And sorry for the very, very long ramble. (And that’s something I’ve become accustomed to doing - apologizing!) And I truly hope I haven’t offended anyone or made it seem as though I’m acting like this is a confirmed diagnosis. That’s not it at all - I am very unsure. I just truly would appreciate some guidance. ❤️

[isca-tide]

2x11 is such a fucking good episode. My god. Heart in my mouth the entire time despite knowing what happens. Tim holding the ring with two hands for a second, so reverently staring at this beautiful thing he's found. this little miracle of a lifeline that might lead them to her. Did notice on this rewatch that after they pull Lucy out of the barrel, before Tim checks her breathing, you can hear someone (a woman's voice, I think) say 'she's dead' or something very similar in a very distressed tone. It really doesn't sound like Nyla, so maybe Lopez? There might've been another female officer around behind them. Could've just been background noise they forgot to edit out. Also just the fact that Lopez can't really help them get Lucy out and onto flat ground, but damned if she's not going to try to help guide her body gentle, try and at least just touch Lucy once so she knows she's real and she's there. Nyla tries too but there's even less space for her. Jackson just clinging to Lucy's ankles, carefully placing them down. It's more likely just the direction of the scene, get as many main players in the scene as you can and look like you're helping (or actually help position Melissa in the right way for the shot), but my mind can spin it whichever way it wants thank you very much. And that desperation, knowing you can't do anything but you still want to try (even, sometimes, to the point where it becomes a hindrance) - where you just need to touch the person you're so afraid for, to reassure yourself that they're really there. ack. my poor fragile heart. And Grey already looks so resigned. He's seen a lot. He doesn't want her to be dead but he can't help but have lost that spark of hope some of the others might have. Looking off around them, maybe to see where the paramedics are, maybe just so he doesn't have to watch what he fears could be a futile attempt to bring her back. Armstrong doesn't seem to know what to do with himself. To be hopeful or not. He keeps looking between Tim and Lucy and he's maybe wondering if this is what the doctors were doing when his wife started to slip away that last time when he wasn't there. Lopez looks like she's about to break into tears, especially when Lucy takes a breath.

And Jackson. Oh my sweet boy. His hands are just there shaking when she starts breathing and comes to, and he goes to touch her and hold her but she leans into Tim instead so he just sits there, hands still out, ready in case she needs him, completely broken by relief and the pain of almost losing his BFF. I know some folk have mentioned not being able to hear what Tim's saying to her, at least in the recaps I read, and I think it sounds like 'you're alright, you're alright' just over and over. And how he's cradling her as she breaks down, her hand scrabbling for anything to cling on to until she finds his shirt, and he's just rocking her and completely broken too. He looks off to one side (I'm not sure to who, maybe Jackson) and his expression is just destroyed. He doesn't know what to do aside from hold her and reassure her. Like he's asking for help, or maybe just sharing that disbelief of 'we did it? we found her? she's okay?' The way she just curls into him and he cradles her. It's the same in later hugs they have, he seems to support her head with this desperate tenderness. No forehead/hair kiss but pretty damn close with him sighing into her hair. And the terror in his face when she does that little Mmhmm, because she knows he's been there all night. And the terror in his voice at the hospital when he responds 'too well'. He knows her so well, too well, and he's definitely got feelings he can't understand. Not even necessarily romantic at this point, my little shipper heart aside, but more than he expected and more than he understands and he's floundering so hard. Gah, these stupid fictional idiots and their talented actors. Also Annie was such a talented actor. Her presence as Rosalind, her tailored expressions and the small slips when she loses control. An amazing person gone far too soon.

(okay, I am a little confused how Tim could kick the egde of the barrel but it took them a good while to dig it out to the point they could get the lid off, but this show struggles with time so I'm not going to sweat over depth. also can you imagine if Caleb had buried it sideways or upside down? I mean he did kick it in and I'm assuming righted the barrel, since it probably landed on its side, but that would've just been awful if they uncovered it and realised they had more digging to do. fuuuuu caleb)

[floatingonalowvibe]

always forever - chapter 7

Bernard pov(two days before m/n arrives)

long weeks, unmet deadlines, sleepless nights, all of the things that I'm used to at this point. It becomes the norm after a few hundred years being in the position that I am in. The constant weight of what feels like the entire world, the pressure I have found comfort in. I wouldn't necessarily call it a comfort, more like a familiarness.

The constant work of my job as the Head Elf has become one that I love, but at the same time, I find myself doubting if I ever know what in the world I am doing. With the date of Christmas coming closer and closer every passing second, the work shop and my office become the only things I see for weeks on end.

The brightness and chatter of the workshop become a blur as I go from station to station, making sure everything is alright, working fine.

The only thing that has been racking my brain is making everything go smoothly. My only worry in the world. But, I remember, at the height of my worry, soon, he would be here. Who may you ask? Why m/n of course! His letters have been very prominent on his stress about the world he lives in. His stress, constant reminders of the horrid things, the things he has mentioned to me, things that no person, especially not someone as loving, kind, and wonderful as him should have to go through. The way he talks about it, I can tell it has really taken a toll on him. Not even to mention the years of childhood trauma he has faced. I don't even know the half of it but even the little bits he trusts me with are horrid.

I can't put it into words how excited I am to see him. I can't wait to see how much his appearance has changed, since he told me he started testosterone. I have most likely made Judy’s ears bleed with how much I have talked to her about seeing him. Other than charlie, i have never really made friends with a human, and with m/n, it's an adventure story almost, getting his letters explaining his human life, how things work there, it's very interesting. And in contrast, I tell him all my life as an elf of the north pole. I laugh ( not in a mean way, that’s rude) at his amazement of how normal things are around here.

For these few weeks since Santa had told me that he would be visiting, I couldn't help but think about him. I find myself in the middle of paperwork zoning out, staring at the small trinkets on my desk, thinking of seeing him.

Other than that, I've been working hard at getting things ready for Christmas. It was only a month away, and at the pace we’re going, I can't see us hitting the quota. It frustrates me, because no matter how many times I tell the elves that it's almost time, they never listen, it's like I'm talking to a wall.

(time skip due to lack of motivation/ ability to figure out what else to write)

Finally, a time to sit down.It was the end of the day, at least of me walking around the workshop giving advice to elves that won't listen to anything that is said to them.

I sat down in my chair behind my desk, letting out a small sigh. I slipped off my hat, setting it off to the side. I stared at the pile of work on my desk, feeling something in me wanting to just rip it all up and go home. But i know i can't do that, i needed to get this done, no matter how long or tiring it was.

—-

It must have been an hour or two before I got a knock at my door. I had a few thoughts as to what it might be, maybe it’s judy. What I was not expecting when I opened my door was Curtis.

“Curtis! What in the name of snowflakes are you doing here this late at night?!”

“I could ask you the same thing.” he remarked, giving me a look of pure attitude.

I pursed my lips, looking down on him. “Well, what do you want?” I crossed my arms, already annoyed with what was happening.

“Well, Santa wanted to tell you something earlier today, but,” he paused, “ I forgot, so i'm here to tell you now.” I let out an annoyed noise, throwing my arms up in annoyment.

“Well, what was it?” I can't believe he would forget something like that. What if it was something important? What if it was about m/n??

“ he wanted me to tell you to not come into work tomorrow, due to the fact the m/n is visiting. In fact, his exact words were “ You need to rest up so you don't scare off poor m/n when he gets here”

I could feel my facial expressions change, as I relaxed.

“oh..” I was shocked. I don't know why, but i do know that i 1) never would ever disrespect Santa, And 2) never want to scare off m/n, i want him to feel welcomed.

“Well, I'm going home, and I think you should too.” I said before I turned and closed my door.

I stood in the middle of my office for a minute. How were things going to function in the workshop without me? I can’t just leave, everything will fall apart!I guess ill have to talk to Santa tomorrow.

a/n: omfg im am so sososo sorry for not posting, i just kinda lost all my motivation, and y’know life, she can be a bitch. Hopefully I can get back on track with uploading. also I feel this chapter and the next one will be a bit slow but after that I've got some big stuff coming. Make sure to drink a bunch of water and eat today <3.

[gqycrisis]

44 and 45 please? 💖

44 and 45 - Drunk/High and Hurt/Comfort

It had been a terrible idea from the start.

But unsurprisingly, Ian had learned rather quickly into his life as a middle child of a big family that he was rarely listened to. As an adult now, his husband was no exception to that rule.

When Tami had brought up the idea of a ‘girl’s night out’ for her and Mickey, it had been an immediate no from their respective partners. Lip was thankfully still sober, and Ian might as well join the teetotal club at this point. He still had the occasional drink, but thanks to his meds it would only take a couple of beers or a few sips of wine before he was down on his ass – so understandably, a sober boyfriend for Tami and a lightweight of a husband for Mickey meant they rarely got to properly get smashed.

So the plan was set in motion for Tami and Mickey to drink together, Ian and lip simply weren’t invited – which only stung a little bit.

That’s how Ian ended up spending a very promising Saturday night flopped on the couch like some kind of pensioner with his older brother. They had quickly run out of things to talk about (probably because they already spent so much goddamn time together) so had simply been watching Netflix in comfortable silence until there was a resounding, singular bang on their front door.

Ian turned to Lip with the usual Southside instinct of oh god, are we about to get our heads smashed in? But he was first up, of course looking through the peephole first. Smart man, always expecting the worst.

What he wasn’t expecting however was to be greeted by the tiny image of his husband flat on his back in the front yard, Tami doubled over in drunken laughter right next to him. He’d seen worse through a peephole, but jesus the idiots were wasted.

The redhead gave a quick glance to the watch on his wrist to check that yes, it was in fact barely 8 p.m and Tami and Mickey looked like they’d been on a week-long bender. Fuck.

He swung open the door, brows furrowing when it collided with something . . . one of Mickey's boots, which had clearly been taken off by his inebriated husband and lobbed at the door. Well, at least that explained the noise.

“Are you fuckin’ serious, Milkovich?”

A valid first question in Ian's mind, not quite believing what he was seeing even as he strode over to his drunken mess, towering over him with all of the disappointment of a pissed off parent.

Mickey simply pressed his lips together like he was being scolded, but was soon flopping back onto the floor with laughter again like this was the funniest thing that had ever happened to him.

Despite failing to see the humor of the situation Ian found the corners of his mouth were twitching either way, Mickey’s laughter just too contagious – especially when the smaller man choked out a simple ‘fell’ between wheezes as if offering an explanation for why he was currently rolling around on the floor in the first place.

“Oh you fell? Here’s me thinkin’ you just dropped a dollar or something. C’mere, idiot.”

Tami was thankfully perfectly able to get herself into the house on her own, so Ian only had one fool to deal with – simply grabbing two tattooed hands in his own and hoisting the Milkovich to his feet.

Mickey immediately stumbled forward like he had no support whatsoever, huffing out another laugh against Ian’s chest as if he wasn’t being extremely annoying right now.

“Mickey. Stop fuckin’ around, it’s freezing out here. One foot in front of the other, tough guy,” Ian instructed, attempting to get his partner back on his feet once more. “Would maybe help if you hadn’t used one of your boots as a weapon.”

The one socked foot was actually the problem, Mickey’s drunken mind refusing to let it touch the floor, which he supposed was understandable considering the freezing temperatures.

So onto Plan B, which was to just throw the entire husband up and over his shoulder to carry him inside, scooping up the abandoned boot as he went. Now, it wasn’t necessarily a great idea to hang drunk people upside down but Mickey didn’t seem to mind – either that or he was simply too drunk to notice the whole world had flipped on its axis.

Ian was quick to lug the idiot upstairs before Mickey could figure it out though, dumping him gently onto their bed and working on getting one remaining piece of footwear and jeans off of him.

It took an extremely predictable 30 seconds for Mickey to pass the fuck out after shoving his face into a pillow (Ian’s of course) which only meant the Gallagher had to sleep on the other side which just felt overwhelmingly wrong.

It was barely approaching 8:30 p.m at this point, but Ian found himself perfectly able to doze off either way – he’d blame that on having to carry a dead-weight up to their room – so an early night was not a problem at all.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The second that still-sleepy cerulean hues slid open, Mickey knew he was royally fucked.

The beginnings of a hangover headache had begun to grace his temples and behind his eyes, his throat feeling uncomfortably dry from all of the alcohol. So, so much alcohol.

He smacked his lips together as he awoke properly, noting that the only reason his eyes were open right now was probably thanks to that exact reason – his throat felt like he’d been swallowing glass. Water was much needed.

After glancing over at a still dozing Ian and over at the digital clock on the taller man’s nightstand (2:37am) he threw the blanket off of himself and clambered to his feet.

Immediately his ankle twinged with a red-hot pain so urgent it caused him to stumble back against the bed, huffing out a sound of surprise at his body just... outright rejecting him like that.

The shift of the bed had somehow woken Ian sleep-like-the-dead Gallagher, who was already sitting up like this was a perfectly normal time to be up and about — yawning out a “whatcha’ doin’” when he spotted Mickey lying horizontally on the bed.

“Uh, can’t walk,” was Mickey’s first response, quickly adding to it when he realized just how dramatic it was. “Ankle hurts.”

A complicated look shot over Ian’s features then, like he was having some kind of Sherlock Holmes moment. “Oh, you idiot.”

“Huh?”

“You better not have broken it,” Ian simply said, leaning over to flip on the lamp on his nightstand table before he padded over to join Mickey’s side.

“Broken?” Apparently, Mickey was only able to pick up one word at a time here — hissing out in pain when his husband started to feel around his ankle like a true sociopath. “T’fuck you doin’?”

Ian seemed to be losing more patience by the second. “You obviously went over on your ankle when your stupid drunk-ass fell. I’m checking it’s not broken.”

He very much was checking, squeezing Mickey’s entire foot like he hadn’t just expressed pain — causing Mickey to hiss in discomfort again, smacking at Ian’s bicep like he was tapping out.

“Huh. I think that’s good.”

“Y’think?”

“Can’t really remember. Think it’s sprained, if it was broken you’d probably have some numbness. You’re fucking lucky.” Even a half-asleep Mickey could pick up on that annoyed tone in his husband’s voice, crumpling slightly.

“I know.”

Ian’s only reply was a sigh of absolute annoyance as he stopped off in the bathroom to grab Mickey two painkillers and a glass of water, watching with his arms folded over his chest as the Milkovich swallowed them down with the water obediently looking very much like a wounded puppy. “What?”

Mickey simply shrugged, teeth pressing into his bottom lip for a second. “You’re mad at me.”

“No I’m not.”

“Yeah y’are, you’re doing the face.”

“I’m not mad at you, asshole. Just wish you’d have listened to me when I said this was a terrible idea from the start. Now you’re gonna have to be off that ankle for a coupla’ days, so no deliveries.”

Ian watched as Mickey visibly deflated at that, sighing in acceptance as he reached out to cup his still-flushed face – stroking soft skin with his thumb to try and soothe the guilty face away. “Hey. S’okay, Mick. You’re a dumbass, though. Still on my shit-list.”

Mickey brightened slightly at that, watching now as his favorite redhead propped up his sore ankle with a spare pillow. “No more girl’s night’s out?” “Only if I’m invited this time – someone’s gotta keep an eye on your lightweight ass.”

[danses-with-dogmeat]

Romanced! Male!Companions react to Sole/Lone/Six being unable to walk the morning after.

I’ve got M!Companions from FO4, FO3, and FONV here, but let me know if you guys want me to include anyone else at all! 

Might be just a little NSFW?

;)

Fallout 4 --

Danse: 

     Danse would feel absolutely horrible. After the initial flush on his cheeks at the mention of sex, his expression would turn to one of devastation. There honestly wouldn't be any sense of satisfaction whatsoever at having hurt you, and he would internally berate himself for not being as attentive to you, and as aware of your reactions as he should've been. That day he would tell you to take it easy and he would be at your constant beck and call in an attempt to make it up to you. He would spend all day beside you, working on cleaning and repairing your weapons and armor, engaging in idle conversation, and maybe listening to the radio. The next time you two are intimate he will be exceedingly gentle with you, and will take extra care to ensure you are more prepared for him before really getting into it.  

Deacon: 

     He would feel really bad to have hurt you enough to impact you like this, but also he would feel just a small twinge of satisfaction at having been able to do so. He'll do his best to take care of you after you tell him about it though, spending the whole day with you in bed, just chatting away, playing little games with you, like “two truths, one lie” or 20 questions and the like. When the time does come for you two to be intimate again, he'll have you take the lead a few times in a row to get an idea of your preferred pacing so he can replicate it better and hopefully not hurt you in the future. But, and he's not particularly proud of this, he will ask your permission to tell some of the others back at HQ what had happened. (He just really just wants to see the look on Carrington’s face, and prove a certain something to Glory about his anatomy. But, of course, he wouldn’t use your name if you didn't want him to. Discretion is this man’s forte, after all).

 Hancock: 

     Is it still considered aftercare if it happens the day after you've had sex? Well, whatever it’s called, Hancock would do all that he can to make up for how he had made you feel. He should know better after all by now, he would feel horrible and try to think back to the way you had reacted to some of his movements in an effort to pinpoint what exactly had hurt you so he could make sure to never do it again. If you wanted chems to numb the pain, he'll surely offer them, and besides that, he'll spend the whole day just looking after you. Holding you close, telling you jokes and stories, making you food, maybe giving you a message, just anything to make you feel better. And when you two are intimate again, he'll be sure to make it up to you. Big time.

 MacCready:

     Initially, he might feel a distinct sense of pride at having rendered you immobile with his vicious love, but once his brain wraps around the fact that you're actually in pain, he'll feel pretty bad. Maybe not as bad as he should, which he tries to hide, but it's pretty obvious given his little grin he has plastered on his face all day. But he’ll be sure to take good care of you, grabbing snacks and refreshments before curling up next to you with a couple of comic books, really just taking full advantage of the day off. From now on, when the two of you do have sex, he will try to prevent this from happening again by having you be in control for the most part, at least until he learns your body and its limits a bit better. He still might not completely ease up, but he’ll at least make it seem like he’s not as proud of what he’d done as he actually happens to be. And just a heads up, he may just bring up the fact that he was the one who “loved you so hard that you couldn’t walk” at every given opportunity, so just be aware of that.

Nick: 

     The poor old detective would feel dreadful, this was part of the reason he'd been hesitant to engage in physical acts of intimacy with you in the first place. Even if you assured him it was nothing more than some temporary soreness, he'd have trouble rationalizing being with you intimately for a little while. He would also take an easy day himself so he could keep an eye on you and get you whatever you might need. When you did manage to convince him that you would be okay to have sex again, he would be overly tender and gentle, just to make sure that you know how much your well-being means to him, and to assure you that he would never repeat the actions that had ended up hurting you ever again. As far as he was concerned, he wanted you to wake up feeling good after being with him, to feel satisfied and giddy and maybe just a little tired, but certainly not in pain. 

Preston: 

     Oh lordy, good luck trying to get him to touch you again after he finds out that he hurt you. Initially, his brain would send a little spark of pride to the forefront of his mind when you first told him, but his conscious self would instantly shut it down, disgusted by the fact that it was present at all. He would insist you take the whole day off and would try to keep up on his work while also looking after you in every way possible. You'll really have to work to get him to be with you intimately again anytime soon, as he'll be quite worried about you, and once you do manage to convince him, he'll be extraordinarily gentle and slow. He's very sweet, but you'll have to be patient with him as he pauses with every heavy breath you release, or gasp you take, or moan you utter. Even good noises are scary for him, but don't worry, he'll get back to his usual pace eventually, and now be extra aware of your every reaction to him; which, as it turns out, can be quite handy. 

X6-88: 

     The courser will be conflicted. On the one hand, you were aware that X6’s lovemaking is rough, you've known that from the start, so the two of you wouldn’t be unused to scenarios like this occurring. However, for it to have escalated to physically impairing you enough to prevent you from walking… that made him feel an ache of regret in his chest. Luckily, X6 doesn't miss a thing, and likely will recall which aspects of the night had led to this specific outcome, and he would try to eliminate those factors from future interactions. As for now, he will ensure that you are safe, and as comfortable as possible; he will guard you as you take the day to rest, and will fetch you anything that you require. Normally, when you were hurt, he would recommend paying a visit to the Institute medical facility, but in this case… he would rather try and help you himself if it comes to it. You’re not entirely sure if it’s because he’s embarrassed, or just possessive over certain areas of your body now, but you’d say his crimson cheeks were a bit of a giveaway.  

Fallout 3 --

Butch: 

     On the outside, he would be the prime example of the sympathetic boyfriend. He would apologize and spend the day cuddling with you, playing with your hair, eating snack cakes and drinking nuka cola. On the inside, however, he would feel a certain sense of fulfillment, and would have to consciously hold back the wicked grin that threatened to spill onto his lips at the thought of his lovemaking being wild enough to make it so that you couldn’t walk. He certainly wouldn’t actively try to do it again, but he also wouldn’t necessarily try to prevent it from happening, so just be prepared for anything. But whether or not he’s successful in making you sore again, he’ll fully dedicate himself to caring for you afterwards, ensuring that you’re comfortable and content in his arms at the end of each night. 

Charon:

     The ghoul can’t say he’s surprised, he did warn you that this might happen, after all. His previous sexual experiences have all been initiated by past employers, so most of them have ranged from pretty negative ordeals to downright violent encounters, and though he'll try to leave that in the past, it's tough for him to let go of it completely since it’s really all he knows. That being said, he will still feel bad about hurting you, and will really try to take more care the next time the two of you are intimate. You'll have to work together on communication and focus more on foreplay in the future, but Charon aims to please, and would never purposefully try to hurt you (unless, of course, if you told him you were into it ;). 

Jericho:

     He’ll honestly just grin nice and big when you tell him. Sorry. If you wanted tenderness and sympathy, you should probably look into being with someone else. Jericho would consider this to be an achievement on his part, and assure you that this was a sign that the two of you had really done it right. He might complain a bit about having to stay in for the day, but that doesn't mean he won't still take care of you, in his own sort of way. He'll offer you a drink (or a few), or a cigarette (or a whole pack), and would probably just end up falling back into bed next to you and taking a nice, long nap at your side. He wouldn't really promise to change anything the next time the two of you have sex, but he might try to reassure you that it will get easier with more "practice."

Fallout New Vegas --

Arcade:

     Oh, he would definitely laugh, because it's a joke. Obviously you're joking with him… right? No!? But-- how? He would be confused by this, and too busy thinking through what he possibly could have done to make you physically unable to walk, to actually address the issue. Once he snaps out of it, he'll ask if you're okay and try to keep his snarky and sarcastic quips to a minimum for the day. As much as Arcade loves giving you a hard time in general, this time he'd be too embarrassed to bring it up. In the event that you do mention it, you'd best be prepared for the pink hue that would adorn, not just his cheeks, nor even his face, but his entire body. When the two of you do have sex again, Arcade will be happy to let you take the lead so you can better control the pacing and keep from hurting yourself at all, (which really is just a win-win scenario, considering the fact that he really prefers you being in control anyway.)

Boone:

     His brows would furrow at the news, barely noticeable through his sunglasses, but he would simply set down his rifle and bag and settle back into bed with you. The ex-soldier would curl his arms around you and stay beside you for the remainder of the day, rubbing his arms along your body comfortingly. He’s not big on small talk, but Boone would love to just sit and listen to you ramble all day long. When the evening comes, he’ll be sure to get up and make you both dinner before encouraging you to go to sleep early. Despite his stoic exterior, he's actually quite the tender caretaker. The next time you two are intimate together, he'll consciously focus on being more gentle and controlled with his movements, and certainly won't be shy in making sure you're properly "prepared" for him when he does get a little more rough. 

Raul:

     Aw, the poor old ghoul would feel horrible about hurting you, the ridge above his eyes would crinkle upwards as he flashed you a sympathetic smile. He'd be a little embarrassed about it as well, feeling like it was rude of him to let his self-control slip enough to have ended up hurting you. He'd take care of you for the day, taking the opportunity to tidy up your living space as he chats with you about anything and everything, telling you stories of his life from before the bombs dropped, teaching you some words in Spanish, and telling cheesy jokes to make you laugh. He would give you a bit of time to recover before agreeing to sleeping with you again, and this time he would suggest either you taking the lead, or using a safe word in case his control started slipping again. 

[imagine-darksiders]

A gentle touch.

[Strife/Reader]

Summary: Set three years after humanity is resurrected. Strife shows up unannounced in your bedroom in the middle of the night, which would have been rude enough without him getting blood all over your cream-coloured carpet.

Tags: Blood, injury, PTSD, knife, protective Strife, whump, hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, sharing a bed ;), bandages and cleaning wounds, how not to administer first aid.

-----

You have the apocalypse to thank for turning you into such a light-sleeper. 

Even though the nights of sleeping with one eye open are far behind you and Earth is back on the road to a long and arduous recovery, you'll still jolt awake if your unconscious mind hears something scuttle beneath the floorboards of your freshly-restored home, and God forbid a tree branch should happen to scratch at the bedroom window...

Waking up with the feeling that your heart is three beats from bursting right out of your chest is exhausting, to say the least. And it isn't just you who suffers from the onset of hyper-vigilance.

It was a decidedly cruel consequence that the resurrected humans were able to recall their lives before the end of the world. Crueller still, they woke up to remember exactly how and where they eventually kicked the bucket, and of course, nobody knew that a significant chunk of time had passed at all since the end of the world and its rebirth.

They thought they were still in danger.

In one moment, all they knew was immense and excruciating pain, and then, in what seemed like the blink of an eye, they woke up again, screaming and writhing in the echoes of phantom pain that had occurred almost a century ago.

Three years down the line since ‘The Great Waking,’ and there isn’t a human alive who could claim that they’ve slept through an uninterrupted night.

------

The alarm clock on your bedside table has just ticked over to read '2:36am' when your eyes suddenly snap open and you fling yourself upright in bed, your spine ramrod straight and your ears ringing with a sharp, tinny note.

It isn’t a nightmare that wakes you. At least, not this time.

Worse.

It’s a sound.

An out-of-the-ordinary sound that isn't in keeping with the normal ambiance of your bedroom.

But where...? 

....It's coming from your window.

Tired eyes swivel to the curtains whilst your hand immediately flies out to blindly fumble with the drawer of your bedside table. Once your fingers find the cold, metal handle, you rip it open and plunge your hand inside, rummaging around until you feel the reassuring grip of your most precious possession.

Your trusty bread knife. Serrated edge, nine inch blade, perfect for cutting slices of toast in the morning and for tearing through the toughened hide of a hungry demon.

Peace between the Universe’s species had been declared once humanity was fully introduced to the connected realms, a decision that suited a vast majority of Creation. Hell, however, had offered up a fair amount of opposition to the notion before eventually conceding and agreeing – albeit begrudgingly – to honour the peace treaty alongside angels, makers, undead and the rest.

Even demon-kind knew not to incur the wrath of humanity's strongest and most ferocious protectors, the Horsemen.

But... there are always exceptions to the rule. Some demons just... hadn't gotten the memo.

It wouldn’t be the first time one of them had tried to make an assassination attempt on humanity’s envoy.

Heart in your throat, you grasp the knife securely in your dominant hand and peer through the darkness towards the window. 

Only a sliver of moonlight peeps through a tiny gap in the curtains. In another blink, the light suddenly disappears, and you know better than to assume that the moon has simply ducked behind a cloud. 

Something is standing at your window, blocking out the light.

You think you might actually be sick when you hear the sound again, claws scraping on wood – a sound you know all too well – well enough to send your head spinning into a panic.

Swallowing back the nausea in your throat, you brace yourself, instincts flicking between running for the door and knowing never to turn your back on a demon.

Sadly, the decision is swiftly taken out of your hands. Through the darkness and the deafening roar of blood rushing through your ears, you can make out the distinct sound of your window sliding slowly open.

The knife is a comforting weight in your hand. But it’s less than useless if you don’t calm down and try to remember the lessons that Death has taught you. If the eldest Horseman were here, he’d probably have berated you seven ways to Sunday by now for freezing up and missing an opportunity to better prepare yourself for an attack.

A dark silhouette pushes the fluttering fabric of your curtains aside and pulls itself halfway into your bedroom. 

Whatever it is, it’s big.

Breath catching in your throat, you clasp a handful of your duvet and get ready to fling it at the intruder as a distraction, hoping that it’ll be enough to buy you a precious few seconds to gain the upper hand. You've learned that humans are inherently weaker than demons, but if there’s one thing you’ve learned from Death, it’s that strength isn’t necessarily the deciding factor in any battle. You still have your wits. You only hope the demon has less.

Two luminous, golden eyes turn in your direction and you press yourself backwards into the headboard.

Several seconds drag by in perfect silence.

Then... 

“Hey.”

And just like, that tension leaves your body like a balloon deflating of air and you heave the loudest sigh you can muster, dropping the bread knife into your lap.

“Damn it, Strife! You about gave me a heart attack!”

With a 'whump,' you flop back against your pillows and take a second to breathe whilst one of the Four Horsemen drags himself the rest of the way through your bedroom window.

Strife.

It's only Strife...

Whilst certainly a dangerous being in his own right, you know you have nothing to fear from the Horseman who had all but appointed himself as your friend three, long years ago, all in an attempt to irritate his brother, Death, of course.

At least, at first.

Death was the one who pulled you from the dying Earth and preserved your life-force as you journeyed together on a quest to resurrect humanity, but after he made the jump to introduce you to his 'little' siblings, it had been Strife who'd taken a particular shine to you, and it had everything to do with a compatible, if terrible sense of humour.

That first meeting sparked what was sure to be an interesting friendship between the pair of you.

-----

“So, my brother went and got himself a human, huh?” Strife had teased, pointedly ignoring the withering look he received from Death to add, “Gotta say, I'm impressed, Kid. Didn't think anyone would have the inclination to willingly travel with my brother. But then, I guess...” He trailed off and you could almost see the smirk growing under his mask. “Deathperate times and all that, huh?”

At once, his siblings all groaned out varying noises of disapproval. Fury, the loudest, cocked her hip and shot Strife a frosty glower. “You are singlehandedly ruining our reputation, brother."

“She's right, you know,” you spoke up, trying not to flinch when all eyes snapped onto you once more, “That pun was pretty deadful.”

The brief, startled second of silence was soon blasted apart when Strife threw his head back and barked out a triumphant laugh, while Death slowly turned to look at you, utterly betrayed.

“Ha!” Strife's eyes positively gleamed with mischief, “You're right, human. Guess I should'a considered the reapercussions of a joke like that, huh?”

“I ought to have known introducing you two would be a mistake,” the eldest Horseman grumbled, earning a sympathetic look from War.

“Sorry, Death,” you said with a perfectly straight face, “You want us to get out of your scythe so you don’t have to look at us anymore?”

Strife had howled.

Death, however, merely heaved a long-suffering sigh. Fury's eyes all but rolled into the back of her skull and War just stood there, struggling to keep his lips from twitching at their corners.

And you had looked around at all of them, a little proud and blissfully unaware of what you'd just unwittingly signed yourself up for.

You'd had Strife's attention from that day on.

-----

Shaking off the fond memory, you tiredly will your mind back to the matter at hand.

You reach across your bed and drop the knife back into the drawer before leaning down and skirting your fingers over the wall in search of a switch. The next moment, there's a 'click!' and the room is illuminated by clustered fairy lights that you've draped around your ceiling, forcing you to squint blearily against the intrusion of light as Strife hauls his leg into your room.

“Honestly. How many times have I told you to use the door?”

“S'locked,” he grunts.

You're in the midst of rubbing your eyes to try and stimulate a little life back into your bones, so you miss the way he stumbles a few steps away from the wall and presses a gauntleted hand to his abdomen. 

“Yeah, it’s locked because it's-” You take a quick glance at the clock next to you. “-Two thirty in the morning! Strife, I’m supposed to be up at six to meet Ulthane! What do you need so badly that you'd-... Hey.. Are.. are you okay?”

At last taking a long, hard look, it suddenly occurs to you that the Horseman is... not entirely himself.

He's hunched over, his shoulders pulled in around his neck and his chest rising and falling in long, languid motions. The tattered cowl he wears around his neck hangs loose around his collarbones and it faces the very real threat of slipping off to the floor. At last, your eyes drop to the hand that's clamped over the left side of his abdomen and you blurt out a startled gasp.

In the paltry, pink glow of your fairy lights, you spot an unmistakably crimson liquid dribbling between his fingers, starkly contrasted against the steel-grey colour of his armour.

The next few seconds pass in a blur as you frantically begin kicking off your duvet and scramble out of bed, flying across the room to the Horseman's side.

“Strife! What'd you do!?”

“Oh, that's real sweet,” the Nephilim chuckles wryly whilst he collapses back against the wall and slides down it with a strained grunt, “Why're you – ung... assuming it's something I did?”

Without missing a beat, you snap, “This would hardly be the first time you got hurt because you're a wise-cracking jokester with a big mouth! Now tell me who you pissed off?!”

You drop onto your knees next to him and reach out, fingers hovering tentatively above his stomach. With your focus directed away from his helm, Strife doesn’t bother to hide the way his eyes dart from left to right before they settle back on the top of your head.

“Ah, it was... just some demon, caught me slackin', that's all,” he shrugs, letting you carefully grasp his wrist and lift it away from his torso.

At once, fresh blood gushes from a deep gouge cut into in the dark, leather under-skin he wears beneath his cuirass and you yelp, slapping a hand over your mouth in abject horror.

The sound draws Strife's gaze to you and once he spots the shocked despair on your face, he gives himself a mental kick.

He hadn't meant to... He... doesn't like it when you’re scared because of him.

"Hey, no, no – I'm okay!” he rushes to reassure you, “Don't worry about this. I've had worse!”

“That's not the point, Strife!” you argue, dropping his wrist and carding your hands through your hair, “You're hurt now! And I don't – there's so much blood, and you-” Cutting yourself off, you squeeze your eyes shut and inhale deeply through your nose, willing your pulse to ease so that you can rationally address this situation. 

Another lesson Death had taught you - stay calm in a crisis. Panic kills.

Releasing a long, hard breath, you peel your eyes open again and nod, jaw set. “Okay. All right. I need to.. I need water. A-and I need to see the wound.”

The interrogation can come after you've dealt with... this.

“There's a bowl and flannel in my bathroom,” you announce, getting to your unsteady feet and gesturing towards Strife's cuirass, “Think you can get that off so I can have a look?”

Huffing out a breath of laughter, the Horseman winks at you suggestively and drawls, “An' here I was doin' things the hard way to get your attention. You know, you didn't have to wait till I got myself gutted before you asked me to take my armour off in your chambers.”

A wise-cracking flirt with a big mouth.

As exasperating as he is though, you don't mind it in the slightest.

This is your usual rapport, after all. A friendly back and forth interlaced with the occasional, flirtatious comment. At first, Strife had only initiated it because it drove an over-protective Death up the wall. The eldest Horseman had almost threatened to 'remove Strife's libido' until you'd up and flirted right back, distressing the old reaper even further.

It's funny. It's innocent. But right now, it's reassuring, if only somewhat, that Strife is behaving just like his shameless, old self.

Besides, you can give back as much as you get.

“Well, I had to wait for a good enough excuse,” you retort, “Couldn't come on too strong and risk scaring you off, now could I?”

In response, Strife just chuckles fondly and watches you turn and speed away to your ensuite, oblivious to the warm, soft glow radiating from his eyes.

In less than a minute, you're briskly striding back into the room, a dripping flannel in one hand and a bowl in the other, and he suddenly remembers that you'd asked him to remove his cuirass.

Mission failed.

But you don't even bat an eyelid to find it still in place, assuming that the Horseman can't get at the catches on the sides in his current state. 

In one, smooth motion, you drop down beside him once more and set the cloth and bowl nearby. “Here, let me help..”

The Horseman's pulse sputters when your tiny fingers reach around his torso and fumble with the buckles and straps that keep his armour securely in place. It doesn't pass his notice that your hands are trembling.

“Hey,” he calls, catching your eye for a moment before you go right back to fiddling with the cuirass, “This is nothin’, you know that, right?”

You only press your lips together and hum, clearly skeptical.

You're working fast and in almost no time at all, the straps have been released and you carefully take the Nephilim's broad shoulder, giving it a tug, guiding him to lean away from the walls so that you can start to peel the bulky armour off.

“Nng, hang on,” he mutters.

Reluctantly, you sit back to let him tug his chest piece loose before he simply drops it onto the carpet next to his legs with a dull 'clang.'

Exposed to the soft glow of your lights, your eyes are instantly drawn to the gaping wound that stretches in a horizontal line across the left side of his abdomen. It seems that something really has tried - and nearly succeeded - to gut him. Several inches long and goodness knows how deep, even against the iron-grey colour of his skin, the gash is alarmingly obvious and the blood far, far too noticeable for your liking. It still comes as something of a shock to learn that the Horsemen, barring Death, can actually bleed.

Wordlessly, you pick up the flannel and wring it out into the bowl of water, wondering if he'll mind that you didn't wait for the tap to get warm before you soaked it. It shouldn't surprise you that the Horseman doesn't protest or even flinch when you gently press the wet cloth to the bloodied skin around his wound, nowhere near the gash itself, not until you've cleared away some of the mess around it and determined its real depth.

You don't notice that his eyelids flutter closed once you press the cloth to his skin, nor do you see when their golden light fluctuates in contentment as the fingertips of your other hand press gently to his stomach, the pressure barely enough for him to feel, but enough to keep you steady whilst you daub at his drying blood.

It takes a formidable effort to suppress the shudder that nearly races up his spine. This is the first time he's felt your skin against his without a single piece of armour standing between you.

Creator, you're so soft! Just like he always imagined you would be.

“Jeezus, Strife,” you whistle, abruptly snatching his focus away from the soothing strokes of your silky fingers,“You've made a real mess of yourself. Why on Earth didn't you just go straight to Death? I thought he was the best healer in your family.”

The warm skin underneath your fingertips jumps as the Horseman puffs out a quick laugh, gazing dopily at your temple whilst you wipe at the edges of his wound with small, careful touches. 

“He is,” Strife readily agrees, “But the moody bastard wouldn't be nearly as gentle with me as you are.”

You blow an unimpressed huff from your nose and glance up at him in time to catch his lazy wink. “I can always press harder if you like?”

“Nah.” The Horseman settles himself more heavily against the wall, knocking his skull back against it and mumbling, “Just keep touchin' me all gentle like that. S'nice...”

Quite abruptly, the chatty Nephilim goes silent and the glow from his eyes that had illuminated your face only moments ago suddenly disappears.

“Strife?”

He doesn't respond.

“Hey, Cowboy! Don't you fall asleep on me, you hear?”

There's a long stretch of silence, then, “Won't,” he mumbles, cracking one eyelid open to peer down at you.

Harrumphing, you promptly turn back to the gash in his stomach and wipe the last of the dried blood off his skin, still far from clean, but at the very least, better than it had been.

“Right,” you declare, pulling away to stand up and drawing a decidedly petulant whine from the Horseman on your bedroom floor. “I'm gonna go get the first aid kit from downstairs.”

There’s a shift in his expression and something that hinges on alarm suddenly whistles through his blood.

“I won’t be long,” you promise, "Be right – Hey, woah! What're you doing!?”

Darting forwards, you hastily place your hands on each of Strife's broad shoulders, trying to push him back down as he grabs the window sill behind him and begins hauling himself up to his feet.

“What's it look like ‘m doing?” he answers gruffly, slouching forwards as if the weight of his own head is too much to keep aloft, “Comin’ with you”

Sputtering out a few, incredulous noises, you try to make him see sense. “I’ll bring the first aid kit to you! You need to rest! It's bad enough that you already climbed in through my second storey window!”

But Strife, stubborn as a mule and much, much stronger than you, isn't deterred by your protests. Grunting, he curls one arm over his stomach and takes a step forwards, ducking beneath your light fixture and standing to his full, imposing height.

Even with three years of companionship behind you, you’re still frequently taken aback at how effortlessly the Horseman can make you feel small and fragile when you stand close to him.

Knowing full well that you’ll never be able to force him down again, you allow your hands to slip from his shoulders and fall against your sides like lead weights. You aren’t sure why he’s suddenly so hellbent on following you, downstairs, of all places, but you don’t dwell on it, especially given that you’re far more preoccupied with the fresh blood that has already begun trickling out of his wound to replace the stains you’ve painstakingly cleaned away.

Puffing out your cheeks, you raise a hand and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Strife, please sit down?” You aren’t so proud that you won’t resort to begging, tired as you are and exasperated with his obstinate behaviour. “I’m worried about you...”

All at once, the Horseman stiffens. ‘Oh, now she’s fighting dirty,’ he muses to himself.

Gradually, you lift your eyes to meet his and try your very best to glare up at him, pinning him down with all the stern authority you can muster. For several, slow heartbeats, the Nephilim peers right back at you and you’re almost certain that you’ll lose this battle of wills, which is why it comes as such a shock when his fiery gaze falters, wavering slightly before it promptly drops to the floor near your feet.

It's... rare for Strife to be looked at by someone who isn't ashamed to show that they worry about him.

But the way you're looking at him now? Hell, the way you've been looking at him since he clambered through your bedroom window? You're practically broadcasting your concern.

Strife just... isn't used to seeing that. So he glances down instead, finding the fibres of your carpet particularly exhilarating tonight. Slowly, begrudgingly, he sinks down to sit on the edge of your bed, heavy enough that the frame creaks and groans under the weight of a fully grown Nephilim and he has to hold back a contented sigh at the softness beneath his legs.

From the corner of an eye, he can see that your jaw is hanging ajar and remains so until you give yourself a little shake and throw him a satisfied nod. “Thank you,” you huff before turning on your heel and striding purposefully from the room.

Strife listens raptly to your footsteps disappearing down the staircase, unaware that his hands have curled into tight fists around your duvet.

'It's fine,' he assuages the insistent voice at the back of his head, 'She's fine.'

He took care of the threat. That demon asshole isn't coming after his friend.

You’re only downstairs. He can already hear you pushing open the door to your little kitchen whilst the rest of his senses remain trained on the sounds and smells of the night.

It isn't as though something bad might happen just because his eyes aren't fixed upon you...

Frankly, he thinks he’s being more than generous to allow a full, Earth minute to pass as he taps his heel impatiently against the side of your bed.

Didn’t you say you’d be right back?

...

“Fuck it...”

-------

Perhaps, in hindsight, keeping your first aid kit on the top of the fridge hadn’t been one of your brightest ideas, given that you need a chair to reach it. Then again, securing immediate access to bandages and plasters hadn’t exactly been on the forefront of your mind when you were rebuilding your old home from the ruins it had been left in.

With a grunt, you drop your rickety kitchen chair next to the fridge and clamber up onto the seat. “I have got to find a better place for you,” you grumble at an apathetic first aid kit that sits gathering dust near the wall. Stretching your arm out, you manage to snag it by the handle and drag it towards you-

“The hell're you doing!?”

The violent jolt that shoots through you like lightening nearly sends you toppling off the chair. You let out a yelp, just barely catching yourself on the fridge with your free hand before you whip about to see none other than Strife silhouetted in the kitchen doorway.

“Wh- the hell are you doing!?” you retort, knitting your brows into a frown and clutching the first aid kit against your heaving chest, “Why aren’t you upstairs?”

The Horseman’s glowing eyes are fixed unsettlingly on the chair beneath your feet and rather than answer the question, he ducks under the doorframe and thunders towards you in a few, short strides, leaving you with no time to protest before he suddenly sweeps you up off the chair and into his arms, caging you against a solid chest.

At once, you begin to struggle. “Strife! Your wound! Put me down, you'll hurt yourself!”

But the Nephilim is hardly paying attention. His glare lingers on the flimsy, wooden chair legs for a moment before he flicks his gaze towards the large window above your sink, noting with no small degree of distaste that it isn't even shut.

It’s like you’re inviting danger in.

If you had any idea of the fate he and his siblings are currently trying to protect you from, you might just try a little harder to take better care of yourself.

“Hey!” you continue to protest against his hold but manage to refrain from jostling about too much, mindful of his injury. “For god's sake! What's gotten into you?!”

He offers little more than a noncommittal grunt in response and begins trailing back towards the staircase, casting brief glances at the french doors leading out onto your patio.

'Structural weakness,' he registers, 'Perfect point of entry for anything smaller than a Trauma...'

Shaking his head, he turns sideways to fit you through the kitchen door and takes the stairs up to your room.

After a second, he lowers his eyes to meet yours and finds himself meeting a highly unimpressed scowl. “What?” he asks, the very picture of innocence.

Raising your brows, you snap, “Don't you 'what' me! The hell is all this about? I told you to stay put!”

“You were takin' too long,” he shrugs.

“Too long!?” Indignant, you flick your wrist and rap the first aid kit against his collar bone, “I was gone a minute, max! If you were so worried about me taking too long to fix you up, then why are you moving around and making your injury worse!?”

The light of Strife's golden gaze dims and he turns his head away, staring up towards the top of the stairs and your bedroom door beyond. “S'not me m' worried about,” he mumbles.

It's such an about-face from his usual demeanour that you can do little but blink dumbly up at him and fall still against his chest, your mouth hanging agape.

In silence, the Horseman ducks through the door into your room and sidles over to the bed where, hesitantly, he lowers you down until you're sitting safely on the edge.

In the next moment however, just as Strife drops heavily onto the bed next to you, you slip away and settle on the floor instead, placing the first aid kit beside his boots and fumbling with the latches.

Despite blowing out a rough grumble of disapproval that sounds entirely too much like War for his liking, he lets you go.

Chewing on your lip, you stare at the contents for a moment before snatching up a pack of antiseptic wipes, tearing one out and bringing it up to his stomach.

“You want to tell me why you just exacerbated your injury to rescue me from my kitchen chair?” you ask him, adding as an afterthought, “This might sting a bit..”

When he doesn't reply, you glance up and quirk a brow at the underside of his chin, only to catch him peering back at you from behind heavy-lidded eyes. Then, with a weary sigh, he sags forwards and raises a hand to rub at the back of his neck, looking sheepish, of all things.

Unable to dispel your frown, you blindly begin brushing the wipe underneath his bleeding wound.

He doesn't even wince.

Strife tips his helm towards the bedroom window and slumps further backwards into your mattress, seeming so entirely out of place amidst the colourful duvet cover and frilly cushions.

“Okay,” he mutters, “I uh, I got a confession to make.”

Interest piqued, you make an acknowledging sound at the back of your throat and return your attention to his abdomen.

“Death didn't want us to tell you about this,” he continues quietly whilst you toss the now ruined wipe over your shoulder and pull out a fresh one, “And, to be honest, neither did I. We didn't want you to have to worry, y'know?”

You don't know. And you nearly ask him what you should be worrying about, but you soon let your mouth fall shut and settle for humming curiously instead, trusting that he'll tell you soon enough anyway.

There's a long pause, during which you find the courage to bring your fingers close to the edges of his wound and immediately have to withhold a gag when the motion sends another spout of blood oozing from the cut and dribbling down your wrist.

After a moment, Strife huffs and forges ahead, “Course, War and Fury did want to tell you-”

He's stalling, you realise belatedly.

“-War thinks you have every right to know. And Fury said there's nothin' for you to worry about anyway, cause we've got your back.”

“Fury said that?” you ask distractedly, dropping the wipe and rummaging around for a gauze pad. In response, Strife exhales, a tiny, hidden smile creeping onto his lips. “Fury says a lot of stuff about you that you don't know about.”

Gently, you unroll the gauze and press it against his wound. “Wow, you sure that's your sister?  Sounds like she might've been body snatched.”

“Ha!” The Horseman suddenly throws his head back. “Well, if she has been replaced, I sure as shit ain't going lookin' for the original. This Fury is... she's...”

He pauses, tipping his head in thought before eventually settling on, “She's learning.”

You blow out a long, impressed whistle and he nods his agreement, adding, “Yeah, s'weird for all of us too.”

The room lapses into silence once again as you stretch the gauze across Strife's abdomen and mutter, “Hold this,” before your hands are retreating and the Horseman's slide down to keep the bandage in place.

Reaching into the box once more, you take some bandages and begin to unfurl them gingerly over the top of the gauze. “Not hurting you, am I?”

You miss the soft expression he aims at the top of your head. “Never.”

You're more than aware that he probably won't tell you you've hurt him even if you were to stick your fingers in the wound twist them.

“Sooo~....?” you prompt.

Peering down at you, Strife cocks his head to one side and echoes, “Soooo?”

“What did Fury and War think I should know?”

“Oh. Right...” His reluctance is as painfully obvious as a slap to the face but you're slightly more focused on plunging your hand back into the first aid kit and rooting around for a roll of adhesive tape.

He observes you for a moment, growing more and more certain that despite your curiosity, you aren’t actually paying a great deal of attention to his words. Quite abruptly, he asks, “You listening?”

Emitting little more than a vague hum, you finally snag the tape and run your fingernail along the smooth surface, searching for the ever-elusive end.

“You sure?” Strife grunts skeptically, “Kid, this is kind of important.”

Without missing a beat, you nod your chin towards his injury and reply, “Yeah, well, you're kind of important too, buddy.”

Oh.

Oh, that's...

Strife wracks his brain, trying to pluck an appropriate response from amidst his tumbling thoughts. Part of him wants to scoff – of course he's important! He's Strife! The best, damn marksman who ever walked the realms of existence.

But then, there's another part of him that lurks deep behind the walls of hubris and brass he's been building meticulously for centuries, and it gives a little leap at the sound of your words, delighted beyond measure.

Averting his gaze, Strife lets out a chuckle. “You're getting soft.”

“Ah, I've always been soft.”

His heart thrums. “Wasn't talkin' about you, kid.”

You shoot him a smirk as you stick a piece of tape over the bandages covering his injury. “Well, if you're talking about yourself, then you're wrong again. You aren't getting soft. You've always been soft.”

The Horseman mutters something incoherent, but it's his distinct lack of an articulate response that speaks volumes to your ears.

The slight pressure of your fingers as they prod at the tape with tentative care leaves him mourning the centuries he's gone without knowing such a gentle touch. Rolling his eyes down to you, his smile droops and he sighs, sagging forwards to rest his elbows on his knees just as you attempt to place another strip of tape.

“Strife!” you complain, leaning back, “I need to put more tape on!”

He merely blinks at you languidly and says, “Later. I want you concentratin' on me right now.”

“I've been concentrating on you all night,” you huff, though you eventually concede and sit back on your haunches, peering up at the Horseman expectantly.

Studying your face for another moment, he breathes a long sigh and gestures to his stomach. "I told you a demon did this..."

“Uh huh...”

Solemnly, Strife continues, “So more specifically, it was a Shadow Caster. Been on her trail for a couple of weeks now. Finally caught up with her on some farmlands west of the city...” 

“Okay?” you nod, digesting the information, “And why were you on her trail?”

He hesitates, flicking his eyes between you and the window a few times before he quietly admits, “She was comin’ after one of my friends...”

“Who?”

The look he throws you is so pointed, you suddenly feel like a fool for missing the obvious.

“Ah.” Understanding, you slowly nod your head.

“Yup.”

“But, she's dead now, right?” You gesture to his wound. “You came straight here after killing her.”

Strife's eyes darken further and each time they try to land on your face, they seem to slide right off again and drop to the carpet. “Uh, yeah. She's dead.”

You heave a sigh. “She wasn't the only one who's after me.”

“... No..”

“I see.” Inhaling long and slow through your nose, you tip your head back and slap your hands on your thighs, rubbing at them anxiously as you gaze around the room. “So, do we know how many there are?”

The Horseman eyes you for several, silent seconds. Eventually though, he speaks up. “Got wind of a small group of about four of 'em. Demons mostly, one undead. You and I've got a mutual... uh, friend, who's been keeping his ears to the ground, and he reckons they’re aiming to provoke another war between Hell and Earth by killin' the human envoy.”

“Wow. Talk about sore losers,” you scoff humourlessly, “So, who is this mutual friend?”

Some of the tension bleeds out of Strife's posture once he notices that you haven't immediately flown into a panic. “C'mon kid,” he snorts, “You know I can't expose my source. He doesn't want you know that he cares about you. Thinks you might start askin' for discounts if you thought he was getting' soft.”

“Discounts, huh?” Your lips quirk up at their edges and Strife smacks a palm over his mask in mock distress.

“Ah, hell, I gave it away, didn't I?”

“I bet his name rhymes with Shmulgrim, doesn't it?” you laugh.

Chuckling, Strife leans back on his hands again and replies, “Hey, you came to that conclusion on your own. Technically, I never told you who my source was.”

With the atmosphere in your bedroom gradually becoming lighter and lighter, you follow the Horseman's lead and relax backwards onto your hands, stealing a surreptitious glance at the bandages adhered to his torso.

It's no longer as surprising as it used to be that Vulgrim is invested in the well-being of his 'valuable asset.' The Horsemen are perhaps his best clients, hence the vested interest in keeping himself in their good graces by looking out for their human ward.

Shaking your head with a knowing smirk, you push yourself up onto your feet and glance down at yourself, brushing off your pyjama shorts, only to grimace when your hands do nothing but smear Strife's blood all over the fabric.

“Sorry... for the mess.”

You raise your head at the sound of the Horseman's voice and find him glowering down at the stains he's dripped onto your carpet, his eyes hooded and glum.

Heaving a sigh that you hope conveys both exasperation and affection, you reach out and place your comparatively tiny hand on his shoulder to give the pauldron a reassuring squeeze, drawing his gaze back up to your face. “I don't care about the mess, Strife” you tell him matter-of-factly, “The carpet's just here to stop my feet getting cold in the morning. You're my best friend.”

Ever so slowly, his luminous eyes grow wide with wonder and he lets his jaw drop open to speak, but before he manages to utter a soft, 'what?' you give his shoulder a friendly jostle and add, “So long as you're okay, pal, that's the main thing. Now...”

Trailing off, you move back around the bed and let your fingers slide off the Horseman's arm, stepping up to the bedside table containing your pyjamas, oblivious to how swiftly and easily you've just swept the rug out from underneath Strife's feet. He twists himself around on your mattress to watch you, his eyes as wide as than dinner plates.

Did you mean to say... best?

He – well, he always knew that you considered him a friend! Hell, he'd even go so far as to say the two of you are close friends.

But best?

Best implies that there's nobody – nobody – that you hold in higher regard than him...

'How did I miss that!?' his psyche all but screams at him, 'When the Hell did I get so important!?”

You aren't even looking at him, too busy rummaging through your drawers, as if you have no idea that you've just pulled his heart right out of his chest and now you have it cradled in the palms of your hands.

You could crush the life out of him with hardly a word.

“So, you never did say!” you call out to him as you duck into your ensuite bathroom and flick the light on, hiding yourself from view whilst you change, “How does the master of marksmanship get tagged by a Shadowcaster in the first place? You’re not usually the type to get up close and personal. That’s more War’s thing, right?”

All at once, the threats that demon witch had made against you ring like klaxons in Strife’s head and he has to make a conscious effort to ignore his instinct to leap off the bed and barge into the bathroom just to be sure you’re safe. He hears the shuffling of fabric against skin as you pull off the bloodied shorts and begin to pull on the new ones.

Grinding his teeth, he spits out, “She just.. got me mad, is all. Made me wanna have the satisfaction of wringing her neck with my bare hands instead of filling her with bullets.”

“Wait, seriously?” Your silhouette suddenly appears in the bathroom doorway and and strife glances up, briefly enraptured by the halo of light glowing at your back. A fellow human might have likened you to an angel. Strife, however, knows that none of the feathery bastards could hold a candle to you. 

Garbed in clean shorts that smell distinctly of you, and not copper, you step out into your bedroom. “How’d a demon manage to make you mad? You’re like, the champ of not getting mad. It’s like your superpower.”

“Yeah, well..” he mutters, turning his helm away, “This time, she went too far.”

You’re quiet as you flop down onto the bed next to him, your eyes flicking between his downturned head to the fists that are clenched like vices at his sides, metal claws gripping fistfuls of your duvet so tightly, you’re worried he might end up poking holes in the cover.

Whatever had been said to him must have been bad if he’s this riled up.

Biting your lip, you let out a pensive hum and lean backwards, your fingers brushing over a soft lump near the headboard. At once, your eyes grow wide and your lips stretch into a sly grin as your hand closes over something fluffy and familiar.

Strife is still busy stewing when he’s suddenly brought out of his thoughts by a face that’s shoved promptly into his line of sight. He blinks, drawing his head away to properly see what you’re holding up in front of him.

He can’t contain a chuckle once he realises that it’s none other than your old, toy horse, dangling in front of him with its little, black ears flopping forwards to cover a pair of button eyes.

Allowing a smile to grace the edge of his mouth, the Horseman wordlessly relaxes his grasp on your duvet in favour of reaching out to gently take the soft toy out of your hands, lowering it down into his lap.

“I thought David Hasselhoof might make you feel better,” you tell him, bumping your shoulder against his companionably.

The Nephilim simply smiles, stroking his palm over the horse’s fuzzy mane.

“Hey, Strife?” 

“Mmm?”

You fiddle with your fingernail for a moment, dropping your eyes to the bed and taking a breath before you ask, “What did the demon say that made you so angry?”

It isn’t as though you want to pry. But having your friend turn up at your house in the dead of night with his stomach torn open warrants a couple of questions, in your honest opinion.

The Horseman’s brows knit together underneath his helm and he shifts slightly, twisting away from you further until you can’t even see the lights of his eyes. If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost dare to say that he looks shy. An impossibility, frankly.

When he speaks, his voice is gentle, a far cry from the normal, strident tone you’re used to hearing. “She, uh, she might’ve made a couple of threats about you.. Bad ones.” 

You wait for him to elaborate, but for some time, he doesn’t utter another word, prompting you to ask, “And?”

You very nearly reel backwards into your headboard when Strife whips around to face you. “And?!” he echoes, incredulous, “The Hell d’you mean ‘and?’ Isn’t that enough of a reason?!”

Taken aback, you lift your hands in a placating gesture and stammer, “Woah! I - I just meant... Well, it’s not like I haven’t been threatened before? Just seems like a weird thing for you to get so angry about.”

Without warning, the enormous Nephilim lurches to his feet, the cuddly horse left to tumble, forgotten out of his lap. “Did you not hear me?” he snaps, “She. Threatened. You!”

“A-and that... made you mad?”

“Did - Of course it did!” he all but howls, his voice cracking as it raises in pitch, “She made me listen to all the god damn, sick things she wanted to do to you when she found you! She said - she said, I’d never see you again!” Roughly, he drags his clawed fingertips through his spiky, black hair and exclaims, “Next thing I know, I’m droppin’ Redemption and Mercy, I’ve got her heart in my fist and I’m... I’m...” 

He trails off, knocked out of stride by his own admission. You remain silent, pressed up against your head board with the blankets clutched to your chest.

When he notices you staring up at him, small and wary amongst the sheets, the frustration saps from him like water circling the drain. “So... so yeah,” he huffs, his shoulders slumping and a great wave of shame crashing over him, “I got a little mad! I got a little pissed off. Cause I didn’t like hearin’ someone say they were gonna hurt my friend.”

And with that, he just... deflates, not unlike a punctured tyre. All the hot air inside him is dispelled with every heave of his mighty chest whilst he peers down at you, feeling the weight of your stare upon him. 

Guilt leaves a sour taste in his mouth, rancid and acidic.

You look so.. 

...scared.

Sometimes Strife forgets that to you, he’s an unassailable figure from biblical legend, a bringer of the end days and an ancient gunman with a body count higher than there are grains of sand on the earth. Of course you’re going to be scared of him when he’s raising his voice at you and towering over you like this. And all because he’d had the life scared out of him in the first place.

“I’m sorry, kid. I didn’t mean to -” The words die on his lips and he sighs, defeatedly casting his eye over towards your bedroom window. He doesn’t want to leave you, not without knowing that his siblings have dealt with the remaining threats to your life. But... “I’ll just.. I’ll go.”

Turning his back on you, the Horseman bends to retrieve his discarded cuirass and takes a step towards the window, but a voice, thin as the cobwebs in the corner of your room, stops him in his tracks.

“Strife.” 

The Horseman doesn’t move. he just stares at the darkness through your curtains.

Minutes pass without another word said between you. He remains stubbornly silent, hardly daring to breathe let alone respond to his name, until eventually, he hears a soft huff and rustling behind him.

Footsteps pad across the room and your scent grows stronger as you draw near, wafting over him like an intoxicating aroma before your hand places itself into his palm and he instinctively curls his fingers around it, shuddering at the feel of your soft skin pressed like silk against his roughened hide.

Your tiny, fragile hand... Creator, he really is just a beast standing next to you, isn’t he? The last time he felt this monstrous was..

No. Strife abruptly slams the shutters of his mind down around any thoughts of the Animus. Now is not the time to let dredge up old memories.

Luckily, your voice breaks through the haze and keeps him grounded. “Come on, big guy. Stay here, please?"

“You want me to stay?” he chokes out a laugh, “Even after I scared you?”

“Scared me? What?” It’s your turn to sound confused. “You didn’t scare me Strife, you shocked me. I’ve never seen you this serious before.” 

The Horseman half turns to face you, giving you a glimpse of his warm, golden eyes. “And, I’ve never had a best friend before.” he admits slowly, hearing a soft intake of breath behind him.

“Wait?... I’m your best friend?”

With your hand still in his, Strife steps around slowly to face you, shooting you a quizzical glance. “Uh, yeah? I mean, I don’t exactly have a plethora of friends to choose from, so the competition isn’t that fie- Oof!”

He’s violently interrupted by a soft, squishy body colliding with his. 

You fling your arms around the stunned Horseman’s waist and bury your face into his chest, momentarily forgetting about his injury. Strife, meanwhile, has to employ every molecule of willpower he owns to refrain from flinching, fearing that you’ll let go if he does. He can’t ignore how high his heart just jumped at the feeling of you pressed against him, nor the way his soul soars after realising that you still trust him enough to get this close. 

It’s something that both he and his siblings are all having to get used to, these impromptu hugs. 

Fury had almost flipped you over her shoulder and onto the ground the first time you came at her with your arms open wide, assuming you were going in for an attack. 

War had pulled the most remarkable face, a mixture of alarm and wary delight that caused Strife to keel over in hysterics when you threw your arms around his broad stomach.

Death... Well, Strife hadn’t been around to witness your first hug with his oldest brother, but he imagines it must have been like hugging a block of cold stone.

And Strife? Well, he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the first hug you gave him. It was so tight and comfortable, and for all of a moment, the only things that existed were the two of you. Inside the binding circle of your arms, his troubles couldn’t touch him, the anguish of his sins took a backseat and he became convinced that he could live happily and peacefully until the end of time trapped in your silent embrace.

The sentiment hasn’t dulled with frequency either. Every hug he receives is as powerful and intoxicating as the last. 

This one is no different. 

Strife's large, thickset arms carefully raise to your delicate back and shoulders, where he simply folds himself around you, pushing the nose of his helm into your soft, messy hair and drawing in a long, deep breath, earning your snort of amusement.

“You a big fan of coconut, then?”

“Is that what that smell is?” he mumbles, feeling the world settle around him as his eyes slip shut, “S'different from last time...”

“...Setting aside the fact that you remember what my hair smelled like last time we hugged.. I ran out of apple shampoo.”

“Mmm.” He trails off, humming into your hair, a sound that rumbles straight through you and leaves the top of your head tingling.

It takes your brain another few seconds to recall the injury on his torso.

“Oh, shit,” you hiss, leaning back and instantly finding your progress blocked by the Horseman's sturdy forearms. “I'm sorry, I didn't think -”

“- Eh, s'fine,” he cuts you off.

“It's not! I forgot, you need to be resting it!”

Strife grumbles his displeasure when you suddenly become very wriggly. “Strife, let go. You should be resting, not standing.”

Cracking one eye open, he roves his gaze over towards your bed. “Resting, huh? …. Not a bad idea.”

Without warning, he stoops down, and for the second time tonight, you find yourself suddenly swept up off your feet, bleating out a garbled squawk of alarm. “Stop picking me up! You'll start bleeding again!”

Smirking to himself, the Horseman takes two, loping steps towards your bed and lowers you down amongst the folds of the duvet, taking great pleasure in crawling over the top of you to get to the other side, armour and all. It isn't the first time he's rested in your bed, usually following a long night of playing your video games and catching up on all the human things he's been missing out on, and it likely won't be the last.

The bed springs creak despondently as he lifts his corner of the duvet and flops heavily onto his side next to you, grinning at the unimpressed glare you're shooting him.

“I like your bed,” he announces, burrowing himself deeper beneath the duvet, “You got a lot of pillows. And-”

His hand rustles beneath the covers for a moment before he winks... and slowly draws out David Hasselhoof, wiggling him back and forth in front of your eyes. “There's room for a threesome.”

“Oh my god. Goodnight, Strife!” Your lips quiver until you give in and crack a genuine smile, grabbing a pillow and whapping it softly down onto his helm. You get no resistance from the Horseman at all in retaliation. He merely lays there with his head hidden, black tufts of hair sticking out from behind your pillow as his shoulders bounce around a throaty chuckle.

Leaving him where he is, you roll over, turn off the fairy lights and plunge your bedroom into cozy, unassailable darkness.

A thick silence falls over the two of you, and the back of your neck begins to prickle, sensing without a shadow of a doubt that the Horseman's eyes are open and watching you. Sure enough, you peel your eyelids apart and find that your far wall is faintly illuminated by the golden light that emanates from his gaze.

Rolling your eyes, you resign yourself to a long night of fighting for your covers and kicking a wriggling Horseman back over onto his own side of the bed. And yet... if it's him, if it's Strife, it most likely won’t bother you in the slightest.

The alarm clock on your bedside table steadily ticks over to the three o'clock mark and you finally feel sleep crawl up behind your eyes. Just as you think you might nod off, however, the bed shakes ever so slightly, and behind you, there's the sound of shuffling sheets. It stops just as suddenly as it starts and you snort, chalking it up to a certain, restless Horseman trying to get used to the human-sized bed.

Several more minutes pass.

The shuffling starts up again, then it stops.

The same thing happens again a few more minutes later and your eyes snap open when something cool and solid nudges gently into the back of your head and you hear a quiet sniff before the whole bed shudders as the enormous Horseman laying upon it releases a monstrously low rumble of contentment.

-----

Strife leaves his helm right behind you all night, not that you'd know until the morning however, when you jerk awake to your bedroom door suddenly slamming open and Death thundering inside. He takes one look at his brother laying at your back and promptly begins a lecture that you're fairly certain will be the favoured topic of neighbourhood gossip for some time to come.

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Everybody Talks Too Much (Cassandra Dimitrescu/Mute!Reader)

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T for language, brief violence Summary: Whenever Cassandra gets angry, no one wants to deal with her. Well, no one but you, that is. Thankfully, the middle child appreciates your company... not that she'd ever admit it. Notes: Another self-indulgent fic with a selectively mute reader. This one's a lil different. Sections in italic are mostly indications that the reader is miming actions in order to communicate, though there are a few internal thoughts that are marked as such. Unlike the past two I've done, this takes place pre-relationship, so there's some mutual pining of sorts. I think that's the word.

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Among the many servants of Castle Dimitrescu, there were a number of secret rules to be followed. Guidelines that were never written down, only spoken in hushed whispers, for specific (and dangerous) circumstances. Most could be divided into one of two categories: 1, how to reduce the chances of a Lady of the house killing someone. 2, how to make sure that if they kill someone, it will not be you. Of these rules, there was one that you knew best of all, despite never having been told it. Why? Because you have observed it time and time again. After all, the rule revolved around you. To put it plainly… If Cassandra Dimitrescu was in an awful mood, but had yet to draw blood, send in the mute.

Even now, as you rushed down a corridor, you did not know why this rule was in place. You simply knew that you had been summoned countless times by frantic maidens, to go serve their volatile mistress. Admittedly you did understand their eagerness to thrust the task upon someone else. Cassandra was often considered the deadliest of the Dimitrescu daughters, for she was the quickest to anger, the one with the deepest bloodlust, and took the longest to calm down. Personally, you disagreed, believing that it wasn’t terribly hard to know what she did and did not like. All it took was some observation. It was Daniela who scared you, seeing as she was unpredictable. She didn’t even need to be in a bad mood to want to kill you.

Of course, that didn’t necessarily mean that you saw no danger in working with Cassandra. In fact, you saw a fair bit, such as now: Right as you round the corner, a shiny object hurls past your head, embedding itself into the wall. Had you been walking ever so slightly faster… Well, you preferred not to dwell on such things, especially not when the one who threw the thing was still nearby. Based on the howling laughter and swarm of insects that moves around you, the intended target was Lady Daniela. Across the room is the markswoman herself; Cassandra stood tall, huffing in anger, staring at the spot her sister had just vacated from.

“Damn it!” She yelled, stomping her foot as if the resulting shockwave might do what her weapon had not. Oddly amused, you’re quick to remove the sickle from the wall, careful as to not damage it. It’s a tad dirty, but nothing you can’t fix with your handy pocket cloth. Cleaning as you walk, you slowly move towards your employer, not even bothering to spare her a glance. After all, you had your own rules for dealing with her.

(1: Avoid eye contact for at least one minute after an outburst.)

By the time you make it to Cassandra, the minute has come and gone, allowing you to ever-so politely look her in the eyes when you return her blade. She scoffs, then practically rips the sickle from your hands. This was your job, however, so you made no complaints. Not that you could, at least not verbally. Instead, you gave a short bow of acknowledgement. Afterwards you stood still, awaiting either instructions or a dismissal. Neither came.

“I can’t believe that little shit tried to take my favorite dagger and thought she could get away with it! Agh, the nerve of her! Can you believe this?” Cassandra snapped, turning to you as if you might agree with her. Nod, simple yet effective. “At least you know how to handle a blade. Damn Daniela is lucky she didn’t get any scratches on mine.” Then she pulls the knife in question from its place on her belt, letting it gleam in the light. A soft exhale, head tipping to the side, wow is it pretty. So is the one holding it. Your mind wanders but your gaze does not. Always polite, always ready to serve.

(2: Do not get distracted; she is no patient lover, rather a demanding boss.)

“Cassandra! What was all that noise a minute ago?” Someone called, interrupting your ‘conversation’. The speaker soon appears, being none other than Lady Bela, the most reasonable of the castle residents. Though that meant little, considering the nature of her family. As if to prove your point, Cassandra merely rolls her eyes in reply, refusing to divulge the truth. And so Bela turned her gaze to you, perking a brow. “Feeling up to talking today?” She asked, already knowing the answer. Of course, your hands are already moving, not even waiting for her to finish speaking. This is a game you know intimately.

A hand goes to your belt, moving to pull a nonexistent blade from its sheath. Raising it, moving it forward then back several times, launching it towards the wall- towards the hole left behind. Then shifting, waving your hand in front of your face while exhaling a sharp breath. Flinching. An exaggerated gulp, pretending to check if your nose is still attached, sighing in relief. Lastly, an inclination of your head towards the culprit. Cassandra.

“I was aiming for Daniela. Not that it matters, nobody got hurt,” she stated, confident. Both hands clasped together, then tapping the palms together, mimicking a heartbeat at a reasonable pace. Suddenly a stomp. The beating stops, and you hold your hands next to your ear, as if listening for signs of life. Pause. Three seconds. Worried expression, eyes wide. Finally, fast as a gunshot, the heart beats again, wildly. At this, Bela shoots her sister a look of doubt, as well as judgement. Hoping to change the subject, Cassandra looks to you. “What are you doing here anyway?”

Rubbing your chin, thinking. Squinting for effect. Ah, got it! Both hands go to your sides, lifting the imaginary hem of a dress you aren’t wearing. Waltzing forward, yet in place, with the poise expected of a professional maid. Then the focus shifts to your face. Fear. A silent scream, a hand at your forehead, feeling like you… might… faint. Falling backwards, making a step at the very last second to prevent a real collapse. End scene.

“Someone was scared?” Bela asked, sounding uncharacteristically unsure of herself. When you nod, she does as well, considering the implications. “Why would they send you?”

“I hardly care why, I just want to know who so I can kick their ass,” Cassandra interjects, taking a step closer to you. All you do in response is shrug. Unsurprisingly this is not enough to please her, and before you know it she’s wrapped a hand around your throat. “Give. Me. A. Name. Now.” A perked brow. Thoughts practically telegraphed. ‘What do you expect?’ Opening your mouth, slightly, then wide, back to almost closed. No sound comes out. Obviously. It’s not like you wanted to break your own rule, but in this case you had no choice.

(3: Give her whatever she wants, consequences be damned.)

Luckily for you, Bela acts as a foil to Cassandra, there to smooth the seas. Moving behind you, she reaches into your back pocket and retrieves the notepad you keep there. Then she’s handing it to you while making eye contact with her sister. Cassandra promptly releases you, though she’s clearly not pleased, going so far as to push you away in one last act of anger. Internally you roll your eyes. On the outside, however, you quickly write down everything you know… which isn’t much.

“I don’t remember who it was. A lot of people have asked. This happens a lot.” Then you hand the paper to Bela, who soon looks back up at you in confusion. Too antsy to wait for her own turn, Cassandra yoinks the notepad from her sister’s hands, reading it over several times before reacting.

“What the fuck? Why would they send you to me because somebody pissed their pants in fear? I’m going to kill someone. Ugh, I don’t- this doesn’t make any goddamn sense,” Cassandra ranted, pacing back and forth, looking like she wanted to destroy something immediately. To your surprise, Bela doesn’t look the slightest bit concerned. If anything, she looks amused, and smiles when the two of you make eye contact. Something tells you that she knows something that you don’t. Before you can react, she quietly retrieves your notepad and returns it to you. Then she pauses, thinking, eying you with curiosity.

“Why don’t you go for now? See if anyone thanks you for stepping in, hmm?” She suggested, tone implying that this was absolutely about something else entirely. Still, you don’t care to disobey, and so you bid the two of them farewell with a deep bow. As you leave, you can almost make out part of what they say next. But you’re certain that you must have heard incorrectly. “Showing your favoritism a little too much, sister? If even the servants can see it-” the rest of the sentence is cut off by angry muttering from Cassandra. After that you’re too far away to hear anymore. What a strange day...

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“Hey, you know where Lady Cassandra’s room is, right?” Ygritte asked, casually, definitely not having just been told by someone else that you were the solution to her problem. Pretending that you were unaware of this, you give her a smile and a nod. Later, behind her back, you will mentally add her to your list of people to watch out for. Maybe even decide to refuse to share your biscuits with her. In the meantime, you pretend that you don’t mind whatever task she’s about to dump on you. “Can you bring these books to her? I really have to get back to the kitchen soon, and that’s in the opposite direction…”

Technically true. Something told you that the real problem was that Cassandra had been extra loud the past few days. Regardless, you accept the books from her, leaving before she even finishes thanking you. Why do people do this? I don’t get it, you think. It’s like they think I’m immune to her rage. If that were true, I’d gladly throw myself between her and others. But no, that’s not the case. Hmmph, if only they saw my scars. Shaking your head to clear your thoughts, you keep walking, subconsciously rubbing the spot on your arm where Cassandra had cut you. Well, the worst spot. Being pain tolerant had made her take interest in you, during your first few weeks, but it’s what allowed you to learn her rules. Your rules, really.

Knock. Knock. A pause… three more, much softer. The door swings open, revealing your Lady, whose eyes widen at the sight of you. Tipping your hat (which you are not wearing), you greet her, forcing another smile. Then you present the books, free hand gesturing with a spiral motion towards them. She doesn’t respond. No, wait, she glances at the door hinges, considering closing the door in your face. Now both of you are staring at each other, daring the other to move.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she finally said. There’s a gruffness to her voice that you hadn’t expected. It’s unlike her usual tone, less angry, more tired. Were those bags under her eyes?... No, just smudged makeup. “Don’t just stand there- tell me why you’re here.” Again, you gesture to the books, extending your hands further towards her. This time she takes a half-step backwards to avoid you. Peculiar. “Someone else was supposed to bring them, dipshit. Fucking hell, why can’t anyone around here do their damn jobs?” At last, she takes the books from you, carrying them deeper into your room. Though she does not close the door, you assume that your job is done. Or maybe you simply do not wish to deal with a Cassandra who’s frustrated by your specific presence. Either way, it breaks one of your rules, though you do not remember until it is too late.

(4: Do not leave until dismissed by a member of the family.)

“Where the hell are you going?” The sound of buzzing flies, a blur of motion around you, then the form of Cassandra solidifying in front of you. One of her hands is raised, pressing against the center of your chest. She pushes you, hard, making you stumble backwards into her room. Next thing you know you’ve crashed onto her floor. A tad stunned, you bring a hand up to hold your head, blinking rapidly for a few seconds. There’s the sound of a door closing, and then someone’s trying to help you stand. “I didn’t say you could leave yet. Now c’mon, I’ve got stuff for you to do.” Then she’s guiding you to her bed, making you sit down on the end. Panicked thoughts race through your mind one after another. What exactly was she intending? Thankfully you don’t have to wait long to find out. “Read through these, and-” a pause, like she hadn’t known what she was going to say until she was already speaking- “take notes. Make a summary of the bookmarked sections, or whatever.” Handing you a couple books (neither of which being ones you had just brought to her), she sits on the other side of the bed, refusing to look at you. She does, however, say one last thing, voice barely above a whisper. “Just stay for a while, okay?”

Inside your head, you make a mental note to amend your list of rules.

(4.b: Do not leave until dismissed by a member of the family. If Cassandra asks you to stay, you stay, no matter what. It’s worth it.)

[oneoftheprettynerds]

Worth The Eternity: Dark! Bucky x Reader (Vampire AU + Mob AU + Soulmate AU)

This is for @cherienymphe’s 5K Twilight Renaissance Writing Challenge. Congratulations, keep slaying! I wrote this instead of studying, so pray for my paper please lmao.

A/N: This tired girl tried. 

WARNINGS: something between dubcon and noncon present. Triggering, darkish themes.

Summary of sorts: Ever seen Hotel Transylvania 1/2/3? In this AU, mythical creatures exist and have soulmates and you feel a zing if you are blessed enough to encounter them.

"Boss, we narrowed it down to these core three suspects.” A husky voice, slightly muffled by the sack on your head, entered your ears and you had a hard time being calm.

You had been picked up from your office, specifically the basement of Oscorp Industries while entering your sleek silver car. A pinch in your neck and everything comically blurred. Next thing you know, you are waking up with your entire body sore, your muscles and joints screaming and begging for freedom from tight restraints. Your vision is black, as if you are staring into an abyss and your vision is filled with white and red dancing spots forming patterns, maybe from the hours of inactivity.

Muffled noises of protest and scraping of metal against the concrete floor entered your ears and you realized you are not the only one here held captive. You racked your mind for possible explanations but couldn’t come up with one.

You lived a very simple life, even as the vice president of Oscorp industries. No messing around, no rivalries with other employees, no butting heads with the seniors on the Director’s board. Was this a ploy against the company? Or a domination statement against the weaker species, the humans?

Lucky enough for you, you realized you would soon find out as the sound of a shutter opening and metal clanking noisily filled your ears.

“Took you long enough, Scott. Fill me in.” Another brooding voice reprimanded jokingly and a million goosebumps traveled the path of your skin as you involuntarily shuddered.

“Yes Boss. We tracked the missing sum to the account of this man on the left. He has fourteen other accounts under different names and nationalities, pretty hard to trace but not impossible luckily. This proved he is shady so he’s most definitely involved.”

“This ginger on the right, he made the suspicious call with weird words so we believe he pretty much passed the verdict, calling the shots with the codewords. He has had several surgeries, his face is fucking silicon at this point but his DNA showed us his true identity, Mr. Rumlow here is the Consigliere of The Midnight Moon.”

You sat and listened, piecing together whatever you understood. The pack/mob name more than rung a bell, it scared you shitless. You were quick to catch on, realising that you were caught in an inter species scruffle.

“This shit just got interesting folks. Alright, where does Miss Sexy Legs fit in all this?”

The pencil skirt you wore wasn’t the most modest piece of clothing to exist and the spaghetti straps blouse was a bad choice considering the sheer coldness in this warehouse, the temperature only seemed to go down with the entry of your kidnappers but it’s not like you knew this was going to happen.

You could only assume with your legs on display that you were the one being sexualised and talked about.

“We are not sure about her though, that’s why I said suspects. We have proof the call was made from her phone but the videos show her lending it to a creepy stranger at a café. It might be really good acting but it’s highly unlikely. We brought her in because in the transfer of the stolen cash, her account was an intermediary but it’s a good chance that she was tricked when her phone was borrowed by Mr. Rumlow. Also, she’s a human, you see?”

If it was you being talked about, you felt a jot of relief, just a smudge because at least they were aware you weren’t involved in whatever game they were playing. That didn’t necessarily ensure your freedom, but hey, you were willing to take anything at that point.

“That’s the sweet fucking scent I keep on smelling!” The leader exclaimed as if he made a great discovery, a cure for a pandemic or cancer you’d think. His gruff voice almost had a light, cheery undertone to it, too unlike of a man who was wronged and cheated and was close to murdering someone no doubt. These mobsters are always maniacs like The Joker.

“It sucks that you brought her here. She might not be guilty, but now she knows too much. She’d make a good blood bag though. Maybe I’ll just have a taste, who knows?” The ‘boss’ made a disturbing slurping noise and your heart stopped at his words, a tear almost escaping your eye.

Discussion about drinking blood? You were most definitely in The Vamps territory, your assumption about the inter-species conflict true. You had no doubt you were the weakest in this creepy space, the frailest here, most probably the only human.

“Show me the bastards’ faces.” Like the flip of a switch, the joking man swapped his personality and all but growled. You heard the ripping of cloth and a man gagging, his shrieks muffled. Another flurry of movements and another man retching on the fabric could be heard.

“Well, hello Mr. Rumlow. I must say, brown suited you better.” A horde of chuckles made you widen your eyes, even though only black still filled your vision, as you realised there were at least a dozen twisted, sick men in the room. The fact that they were silent as fuck till now only showed you how disciplined and regimented these soldiers were.

“This one has a pretty face, boss.” You felt the sack ripped off you, and your eyes closed with the sudden flooding of the lights. Your eyes sealed due to hours of inactivity and you kept them shut, afraid to face your tormenter.

A cold hand cupped your cheek and straightened your face that was trying to hide itself in your silky locks by curling in your own neck, the cool metal of rings and insanely icy fingers chilling you literally.

“Open your eyes sweetheart.” A voice called out behind you and you gathered enough courage to face your impending doom, the air as silent as the calm before a storm.

Your orbs opened and gazed into piercing sapphire blue eyes and everything behind this chiseled face blurred. You could swear a ring of pink and red passed over his eyes and you shuddered again, getting overwhelmed due to the eye contact yourself. This wasn’t the usual anxiety you felt while meeting new people, it was somehow both a pull and a push. An inviting comforting pull and a terrifying, ‘stay cautious' push.

You, a self-sufficient woman, who had been independent for as long as you could remember, suddenly felt half; incomplete in a way that you couldn’t fathom. You felt an attraction, a tug towards the man in front of you, and the absurdity of the thoughts and emotions that popped in your brain made you heave on the gag.

Your intellect couldn’t find a reason, your view on love and romance until now completely conflicted. You believed soulmates to be separate pieces of art that complemented each other when together; then what was this broken jigsaw puzzle sentiment you were having now?

Your wide eyes somehow managed to break free of his stare, panicking and looking around to observe, which wasn’t comforting in the least as men with guns and gadgets filled your vision. You were relatively unharmed in comparison to the beaten lads beside you, one with a bruised face and the other with a bloody one.

The handsome man, the Boss’s stare didn’t leave you through the entirety of your searching around, you were sure they saw you as a scared little rabbit, waiting out its inevitable death.

“Lost in her eyes, Boss?” The sideman cracked what he believed to be the funniest joke in existence, earning laughs of the horde of the soldiers around.

 Your eyes went to the Boss’s face, surprisingly when his left your face to glare a nasty stare on his trusted man. His muscular form raised the forelimb, his hand signaling to stop, that effectively quietened the room to a pin drop silence.

With gentle fingers, the man took off your gag and yours lips quivered, throat too dry to make a noise though. You greedily gulped the air through your mouth for whatever reason, maybe just to move your jaw after hours of inactivity.

Maintaining eye contact was challenging, arduous to say the least. It seemed as if he could read you, find everything about you there is to find by studying the flecks in your orbs. His delicate hands, loosened the ties and you were now more so confused, along with the trepidation.

Just what the fuck was going on?

Bucky had almost lost hope, centuries on this planet and no one to love and cherish, no personal confidante, no soulmate. But good things take time, right? And in his opinion, best things take an eternity. He knows this now.

Expect the unexpected was the truest phrase, idiom whatever it was, in this moment. He had spent countless nights wondering about his soulmate, was she pretty? Ugly? Was she even a she or not? Dumb or witty? He made a lot of scenarios of how they’d meet, the kids, reigning together. He entertained the idea of her being from a different species, a nymph, an orc, maybe a werewolf?

And now that he found her, it was a revelation, a surprise honestly. After all optimism got evaporated, after traveling the dark tunnel for centuries literally, there she was, his beacon of light. Finding her was a wonder, and her being a human was astonishing, a possibility he somehow failed to consider, but he was over the moon cause there she was, right in front of him now. A beautiful, stunning lady in flesh and blood, human flesh and blood, with the prettiest eyes he had ever seen. His zing.

He always liked humans, apart from the similar appearances the vampires shared with them, they were always docile and accommodating. In the last few millenniums, after the mythical creatures showed themselves to the world, the humans understood their place and tier pretty early.

They were smart to surrender and be peaceful as all the species came to light, clever to know that even with less numbers they could be overpowered and bloodshed was detrimental to all involved.

He knew he would convert you soon though, your lifespan far too short for his liking, and obviously, now that he found you, you were to rule together. For Centuries.

His happiness was over taken by the realisation that you were not in the most hospitable settings, you were tied and strapped, being preyed on by his men. He made quick work of the restraints, allowing you to breathe by loosening them first. Your scared, trembling form plucked his unbeating heart’s strings, but strangely enough, his brain found amusement and he felt smug. Seeing you tied up and trembling was definitely a turn on for him, noted.

After commanding his foolish men to stop giggling, he leaned closer to you, your aura comforting and intoxicating as he smelled your hair. A divine scent, an addictive one for sure. The goosebumps on your skin confirmed the reciprocation of his connection.

“You don’t know how long I’ve waited for you.” His husky voice, calming but imposing resonated in your ears, his hand tapping your cheek on the other side. Even though the private statement was whispered for you, the deafening silence made every person witness it.

He leaned back, his hands behind his back as he grinned, tone again light like earlier and commanded, “Get her out of here and cleaned up, tell Nat and Wanda, they’ll know what I mean. Then we’ll deal with these guys here, after the lady leaves of course. No scratch on her from this point forward or you’ll lose a limb. Proceed.”  

All three of you, the hostages were going to get ‘taken care of’ but in different ways.

It had been over twenty hours for sure, you were abducted in the early hours of the morning and now the moon was out again, like one endless night. You remember being escorted to a sleek black car; your limbs ached but you managed to keep up. You tried to keep up with the car’s turns, trying to memorize the streets but your head was pounding and eyes were blurry.

You remembered being led to a suite in an expensive hotel like ones where your conferences were held, being taken to room and given towels to clean up. You didn’t change the dress when given another, the attire being a summer dress even shorter.  A woman came a while later named Wanda who checked the forming light contusions and scuffed skin with hands so delicate, as if you were precious cargo. You were, you just didn’t know.

You didn’t eat anything they provided and after hours of conspiring and overthinking, you heard sturdy footsteps. Since your arrival, only women bothered with you, probably the ones the leader sent. But these were heavier, harder.

The door opened and you glanced up to find the leader who demanded your locking up in this fancy place, his eyes travelling on your form sat up on bed, as you mindfully pulled your skirt down. You were anxious the entire day, dreading your future but nothing was like the restlessness that ran through you in this person’s presence.

Maybe it was the fact he was a vampire, or the leader of a Mob or maybe both, but whatever it was he intimidated you, alarmed you, even though you’ve had only two encounters including the present one. You were smart to be scared, he looked at you like, like you were something to eat, your mind told you.

“Hey.” His raspy voice caught you off guard, not having heard a single syllable out of the women the entire day, your questions being ignored the entire time.

You stared at him warily. Your mind having a myriad of emotions and thoughts. You didn’t want to trigger him, besides the place being armed well, he was a vampire, a beefy one at that and you would be stupid to try anything. Shouting and making a scene was no good either, your best option being the lamest one: to talk it out. You refused to become a willing blood bag.

You let out a long sigh, surprising him somehow, “Look, I have money, resources in the business sphere, information, what do you want? I know I got caught in this by accident, but I’m willing to do a lot of things to get out. Name it and I’ll do my best.” You said with your ‘business deal’ voice, the wise, guiding leader voice from your office.

For some reason though, the man found it hilarious. He slapped his hand on his chest, his boisterous laugh echoing. It wasn’t that good a joke if he believed it to be one. Men, ever so condescending.

“Humans, ever so gluttonous. I don’t want your money, precious.” His term of endearment didn’t fall short to your ears, but you had larger things in play here than a sweet nothing.  

“I have other things to offer, name it.” Within your moral sphere, of course.

“You still don’t get it, do you? And you humans boast you have everything figured about us.”

He neared you and you leaned to the inner area of the bed, refusing to get cornered to the wall if things escalate and wanting to have the option of running away, probably in vain though. With each step he took, a new shudder ran through you because of the closing distance between your bodies, it getting triggered in unexplainable ways.

You didn’t need to say words to prompt him to explain, your scrunched eyebrows already doing that mission. “You should feel it too, you know? The goosebumps, the bewilderment in your insides, you’re intoxicated by my very presence too, aren’t you?”

The more he neared, your breaths quickened visibly, his words becoming truer. Your skin heating, mind losing a bit of consciousness. His presence didn’t affect you to this extent in the warehouse, but now? You were putty, almost incapable to think. You tried to roll over to the other side but your plan failed because he caged you with his bulky hands on your shoulder, body diagonal across yours. With how slow and out of it you were, he didn’t even need his heightened speed to trap you.

“Oh, it’s kicking in, isn’t it? The realization, the surge of love and lust? To be held and cherished and be full of me?” He smirked at your trembling form, your chest heaving and weak arms trying to push him off.

“I’ve read humans feel flushed, hot, so let’s get you out of these scraps, yes?” He slid off the thin straps while you mumbled a very unconvincing ‘stop’. Both actions were pretty pointless because he wouldn’t stop, you both knew that and also, he ended up taking the top off over your torso the normal way.

Your hands barely managed to land themselves on his wrist to pull them off, but the foolish limbs ravished in the feel of his cold skin instead. It was like a high you had never experienced and your body wanted more. It was already addicted to the feel of this stranger whose name you didn’t even know.

He unzipped the skirt, your pathetic body no longer even fighting him as he rambled on. “Among us vampires, well not much to tell but we’re all freezing cold when we find our ‘zing’. Like every normal day. Except for the inability to think and the need for their mate’s blood, of course.”

He came back up to kiss you, his body now in line with yours as one hand held your cheek and the other groped your breast. You had an out of body experience, feeling disgusted for reciprocating the kiss but also wanting more of that, more of him.

He trailed down your neck to your collarbone and you gasped for air, your thoughts incoherent. He kissed between the valley of your breasts, removing the bra sometime in between as you heaved. He wanted nothing more than to rest in those swells for an eternity.

As soon as cold air hit your nipples, one was being sucked while other was being pinched. The nameless stranger alternated between licking like a kitten and sucking like a baby on the breasts. Your rational part felt gross but the dominating side was the one experiencing delight.

He kissed down the sternum, to your bellybutton and then hovered above the thin, flimsy underwear. His hands slid down your sides, down the curve of your waist and hooked themselves at the cloth’s side, pulling them down in a swift motion.

Your legs quaked, trying to close themselves but one muscular arm on your thigh was able to hold them off, throw one away from the other. He leaned down and you were pathetically still under his muscles, your lower limbs either not daring to move or not wanting to.

You wrapped your hands around your torso to hide a bit of yourself, but did that really matter in the larger picture of the events unfolding right now?

You closed your eyes, tears already escaping since minutes ago as you tried to accept the reality of what was happening. A cold sensation on your little button caught you off guard; an infinitesimal fraction of time later, an inhale reached your ears.

You looked down, opening your eyes to find the man smelling you, his Grecian nose poking through your folds and taking in sniffs of your intimate part.

“Please sto-”      

“The scent at its source, so fucking divine. I want a taste.” With that, your sentence got interrupted by his words and then by his action as his tongue licked away. It sucked on the bead, delving in the cavity there pretty fucking deep and he slurped away like he pretended to do when you were blindfolded.

Your back arched like a gymnast, hands that were folded across your chest clawing at your own skin, leaving marks behind. His hands were hooked around your thighs and they threw your legs on his shoulder some point in between. When he thrusted three fingers at once, an audible wheeze left your lips, your noiseless gasps now hoarse ‘Aah’s and you could feel him smirk.

There a also a lot of teeth involved with his razor sharp canines that appeared out of nowhere during this and when he thrusted his fingers particularly hard with his teeth nibbling on your sensitive bud, you shamelessly let go of the inside flow.

It felt humiliating and mortifying, your body glowing with the aftereffects of descending into bliss while your mind wanted to cry. Your soul was surprisingly content with what unfolded, at peace. You hated the diversity of emotions you felt, revolted to find even a bit of positive sentiment at your assaulter’s actions.

While your inner monologue happened, the man got up and out of his clothes painfully quick. You tried to sit your up, feebly trying to escape but ineffectively so. Your eyes couldn’t meet the handsome stranger’s nor did you want to see him naked and removed him form your eyeline, making you get caught off guard when his hands wrapped around your ankles and pulled you down, finishing the small distance you managed to crawl up.

His hands left their place as he kissed his way back up your flushed skin, from the swell of your ankle to the swell of your stomach. He licked away the drops of blood around the crescent scratches left by your nails under the intense ecstasy he forced upon you. Then he continued his journey from the swells of your chest to the swell of your cheek, taking you in a fiery, needy yet affectionate kiss.

Your surroundings blurred a second into the kiss, mouth and skin hungry for his touch alike. A thrust had you painfully gasp as you were stretched unlike ever before, impaled to a depth unlike ever before. He kissed away your tears that continued to spill on command of your ashamed mind and leaned back to look into your eyes, a pretty pink passing over them for a fleeting second.

His blue orbs bore into yours and you almost believed he loved you by the intensity of his gaze. At this moment in time, nothing but you two mattered, connected and finally together. How you got here didn’t matter, how unwilling you were didn’t matter. This felt right, felt necessary and was worthy of everything you went through. The rational part seemed to die the instant you two physically connected and somehow, everything and nothing made sense.

But you felt complete.

Your lips captured his of their own accord, and you both smiled into the caress of your lips while he began thrusting, one hand on your waist, the other supporting his weight. Out of breath, he leaned back, still thrusting though, and gazed at you. “Scott back there, he called you pretty, that’s practically an insult. The way you look right now, you’re much more than beautiful. You’re ethereal, my Zing, the loveliest in existence.”

His genuine words tugged at your heart. For some reason you believed him, had confidence in his feelings. Your foreheads connected as he quickened, his hand caressing your skin, the cool against your warm skin soothing. It didn’t take long for you to let go again this time; your previous resolution already dissolved. He neared your ears and whispered, “I want you to scream my name. It’s Bucky.” You nodded absentmindedly, chasing the high.

One particular thrust paired with his canines piercing your skin made you cry out “Bucky!” and you felt him smirking in your neck, lapping the blood. You wilted in bliss and your eyes closed, warmth filling you minutes after. Your eyes were dazed and you felt ‘Bucky’ shift, removing his towering frame from you, a goofy smile on the chiseled face.

With mind free of the aforementioned disapproving thoughts, you checked out his handsome face. It was like you saw him in an entirely different light now.

He gave you a quick peck, his hands cradling your face and he spoke with the utmost sincerity. “You are worth the wait, precious. No measure of time with you will be long enough. But we’ll start with forever to compensate. I’m never letting you go.”