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subwaysurf45 · 3 years

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Love You to the Moon and Back

summary: Bucky notices you’re feeling down after a bad injury, he does his best to help.

words: 3817

warning: depressive episode, doctors, mainly fluff!

pairing: Bucky x Reader

Masterlist!

Bucky could tell you were getting bad again.

And it hurt him to see you like this but it always happened after a big mission, your job was traumatizing and it took a toll on all of you. Bucky knew he had his days but he also knew when you finally let yourself slip it was really bad.

You were a very headstrong person, you didn’t like letting people see your weaknesses or just you being hurt in general. So it sucked when you had broken your shin and witnessed a school of kids get blown up by a bomb, maybe sucked is an understatement but it was what you always said.

You had pretended to be a teacher because there was supposed to be a hit on most teachers at a private school, so when the school blew up before everyone was out of the building- including you -it left the memories very crystal clear. There was no way of saving everyone so you saved yourself, and the feeling of selfishness had never been more apparent than right now. You were lying in bed with a cast on your left leg, your left leg was on top of the duvet while the other leg was under.

A tank top and shorts was all you wore even though you were cold. A pillow was placed between your legs down by your shins to keep the injured one elevated, Bucky had stuck it there the last time he came in to check on you.

Speaking of Bucky, he walked into your shared room in the compound.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Bucky cooed as he gently opened and closed the door without making any sound, you had become hyper-aware to sound and light so a loud noise or a flash of a camera could send you into a state of hysterics. Bucky sat himself at the edge of the bed at around your midsection, you were lying in the middle and facing him. You barely said hello, all you could muster was a groan that had the same rhythm as the word hello. “How’s my girl doing?” Bucky rubbed your thigh very carefully.

It was so obviously a rhetorical question, you were absolutely shit and he knew it. You both just stared at each other and Bucky seemed to get the message, he nodded and looked down. The room was so dark from the lights being off and the curtains being pulled you barely registered that Bucky had a plate of cheese, apple slices, and crackers. Bucky saw you turn your nose up and he knew you would, you had been like this for what felt like weeks.

“You have your two appointments today, you wanna use the crutches or the wheelchair?” Bucky asked as he gently caressed your thigh, a little hum came after a few sections to clarify this wasn’t rhetorical.

“I don’t know,” you mumbled into your pillow.

“Okay…” Bucky held onto the last syllable, he glanced over to the wheelchair and crutches. “How about you have a little snack and then when you got food- and I’ll get water -you can make your choice. You also know you can switch and I’ll be glad to grab it for you, alright?” he did a few quick pats on your thigh before setting the plate down on the bedside table, he grunted as he stood up and stuck his arms slowly beneath you. All Bucky did was sit you upright to eat, you had gotten better at eating and now didn’t need motivation to eat but just a little push at the beginning to keep going after the first bite. Bucky also found if he ate a few pieces from the plate you’d be more inclined to eat the rest.

“Thanks,” your voice was low and barely audible.

“No need, pretty lady,” Bucky got right beside you and grabbed the plate, he placed it between you and let you choose the first piece. “So, you’re at the doctor at two and then Doc at three-ten, do you wanna nap between for a little or for a while after?” he just took a cracker and plopped it into his mouth.

“No, no nap between, I wanna sit outside Doc’s office like before to make sure I’m not late.” You mumbled and stacked a piece of cheese on an apple slice. Doc was your therapist that was assigned to you a little while before your injury, Bucky wasn’t the only one who got nightmares and manic episodes; you probably got them more. Bucky knew he couldn’t go into your therapy meeting, he could physically go in but it went against his morals, this was your time to be alone and completely vulnerable to a human that you only see one or twice a week, he didn’t want you to sugar coat anything just because he wa sitting there.

Bucky nodded and hummed before pulling the notebook out of the bedside table’s drawer, your combat backpack which you used for everything between missions and a picnic in the park was curled over itself in the corner of your room. Bucky picked it up and headed back to bed to let it rest there as he packed. He did this when you weren’t injured, Bucky had sadly realized your memory was a little shot from the amount of bootleg brainwashing and head injuries. You’d constantly forget about appointments or missions, or even the date.

“Baby, I told you, your birthday is today, that’s why I got flowers.” Bucky said and pointed to the counter with the bright flowers on it.

“No…” you rubbed the front of your head. “My birthday isn’t today, I forget the day- but it’s not today, I swear.”

He slid in your journal that you used to write down lists and memories, you had used a guitar pick as your bookmark even though you can’t play anymore. Sometimes when you’d show up to a therapy session you’d forget what you wanted to say, it hurt him when he’d walk you there and you’d be saying the list of things under your breath with your eyes closed. Nightmare, mom, picking my nails, ankle, nightmare, sand, flowers.

“We gotta go soon, anyways, wanna get ready for the day?” Bucky softly asked, there was no nice way of telling your loved one they needed to shower.

“Sure,” you looked down at the plate and grabbed the last of it before getting up, the apple and cheese was just curled in the palm of your hand, as you walked over you shoved it all into your mouth because you knew you had to shower and you didn’t like soggy cheese.

“I’ll keep packing your bag, and I’ll fill a water bottle for you.” Bucky had been your human crutch as you walked to the bathroom, you had an itch down in your cast that was bugging you.

Tony had wanted to add tech to the shower to help you stand because putting pressure on your left leg hurt after three minutes and seven seconds- not that you were timing to see how long you could go without collapsing. You had said no to tech and just asked for a bar, Bucky even thought it would be cool but it was all up to you.

Bucky helped you slip out of your clothes before leaving you be, he knew he would have to check on you periodically because you were too stubborn to ask for help if you had fallen or couldn’t get in the shower. You gripped onto the metal bar and helped yourself slip in, you turned the water on right away.

You liked warm, long showers. You just let the water hit your skin as you stood in front of the shower head, the water pressure was high so you let the bullets hit your face when your eyes were closed. Your hair got wet as you stood there, you reached for the bottle of shampoo and expected it to be where it always was. The was getting into your eyes and when you squinted to see where the bottle was everything was double, as you reached for the bottle you had actually reached for the fake double and knocked the bottle off the ledge. A loud thump rang through the bathroom and it sounded like a bomb.

There was one second of silence before you heard scrambling from outside the bathroom door, all at once you could see the door swing open by its shadow through the curtain. The curtain was pulled back so hard a couple of ringlets holding it up were ripped off.

“Baby?” Bucky yelled before he registered you were standing upright. “What?” he breathed heavily, he was completely expecting you to be passed out on the floor with a cracked skull.

“Shampoo bottle,” you said meekly.

“Oh, thank god…” Bucky sighed to himself as he reached down to pick it up. “Are you hurt at all, did you fall?” He placed the bottle back on the ledge which made him reach across your naked body, on his way back his hand touched your shoulder then went to cup your cheek and move your head to look at him.

“I’m all good, babe.” You smiled, an exhausting smile.

“Alright, back-is-packed, finish up and I'll help you over to physio, alright?” Bucky closed the curtain to give privacy but waited for a verbal answer.

“Perfect, thank you.” You grabbed the bottle again, your heart ached for him to be in the shower with you, it was something you did all the time before you were injured.

“Don’t thank me, pretty lady.” Bucky reached for the door and opened it, before he could walk out, your voice quietly called his name, he could barely hear it over the water in the shower. “Yes?” he replied with the same softness.

“Stay here with me, please.” the ‘please’ came after a beat, and extra plea.

“Always,” Bucky sat on the toilet seat and gave the company you needed as you tried to stick your finger down your cast to itch that one spot on your leg.

*****

Soon enough you were sat in the physio room, Bucky was off to the side with paper work in his lap and a binder in your backpack he packed for you. You liked the moral support when you were here because you never really had the best experience with doctors, Bucky would act like he wasn’t even there. That was a good thing, he did need to be the hovering boyfriend all the time because that can get tiring for both parties. He’d look up and listen to the doctor near the end, Bucky would write down the exercises and when to do them so he could gently remind you later.

“Alright, you’re gonna get a new cast next week,” the doctor smiled at you, when you didn’t pick up on the excitement the doctor’s smile faded. “That means three quarters done!” Bucky had looked up and smiled, even clapped a couple times.

“Then I have to learn how to walk again,” that was an exaggeration but it didn’t feel like one.

The doctor gave a knowing look, “why do I feel like you’re already walking without the crutches?” You didn’t say anything because it was true.

Your leg was examined and x-rayed, Bucky held onto your necklace as you went in. Your mind faded in and out as the doctor spewed ‘doctor stuff’ at you, you just didn’t have the care to listen; but Bucky did. He’s the type of guy to take notes and research later.

Bucky would look over and see you looking at the floor, not even paying attention. He knew he couldn't get mad at you, you both dealt with injury very similarly. But something about seeing you shut down entirely made his heart ache, he wanted to reach out and lift the corners of your lips up into a smile because they seemed like they were being weighed down, he couldn’t remember the last time you smiled and real smile. He hadn’t been going on mission to keep you company, but now he knew his most important mission.

He walked you over to your therapy session that was still in the building, your Doc would come to the Avenger tower. He’d walk you right to the door of some random debrief room and kiss you goodbye. Bucky would hold your shoulders and gently rub your arms to hype you up before going in, he gave his little speech and said the same thing after.

“You know I love you, and I know it’s hard.” he’d then kiss your cheeks and forehead. “I’ll be right here when you’re done, don’t even sweat it, pretty lady.” He then wouldn’t leave until the door closed and he heard muffled voices.

The tower was right in the heart of the city, everything he needed was right there and a walking distance away. He slipped on a long sleeve and his gloves, he knew you took the backpack but you also had reusable bags, he took a few and headed out into the summer heat, it wasn’t humid today which was great but it wasn’t cold either. The tote bag was slung over his shoulder, all that was in it right now as a list.

flowers

chocolate

card

stuffed animal

To call Bucky a romantic would seem weird to someone who only knew of him from the news or a museum, you knew him as a total hopeless romantic. Even in the 40’s, Bucky was the type of person to keep their walls up until he really got to know and trust you. It would normally be one little thing that would allow him to truly be himself around someone, he let his guard down that day you were walking to the restaurant he made a reservation at, Bucky placed himself so that arm or hand you’d hold would be his right but when you caught on you walk around him and looped both arms around his left, metal arm. After that, he was goner.

He’d leave little sticky notes everywhere, a blue square paper in the coffee mug that read: ‘make sure you only drink one cup!’ or another on your shampoo bottle: ‘you look great naked ;)’. Bucky knew the little things mattered to you and vice versa, he knew that grand gestures didn’t mean anything without a little kiss that came before.

The flower shop smelt great, Bucky didn’t know much about plants but he knew which ones you’d like. He was thinking of putting one on each bedside so whenever you’re lying in bed- which was a lot -you could look at some pretty flowers. They were a nice shade of purple and the stems were not too long, Bucky bought them and put them gently in his tote bag before heading over two stores to the grocery store you always shop at.

He was envyus of your clean eating, you’d eat what you want but you’d shop at fermer’s markets and organic stores. Bucky didn’t know it made a difference. He went to the frozen section and found chocolate covered strawberries. Bucky picked up a little pack of eight and headed to the front. There were also flowers there but they didn’t look nearly as nice. All he wanted was a very simple cute card with a blank inside, they were easy to find. It was cream coloured with a little sketch of a fuzzy, brown teddy bear holding a yellow balloon. All it said in dainty cursive at the top was: “look at you go!” Bucky knew this was perfect. Near the cards were little toys and stuffed animals. He found a bear that looked eerily similar to the one on the card but without the balloon.

As he walked into the Avenger’s tower the bag was full and he had enough time to spare to set things up. Bucky headed to the rooms and made the bed, he changed the sheets as well because he knew you liked them when they were crisp. The teddy sat right in the middle with the card next to it. Bucky had written a little note that covered the entire right side of the card. He got a bowl from the kitchen and filled it with ice, he also found that white wine you liked and stuck it on there with the strawberries just to keep them cool but not melted.

Bucky glanced at his watch and felt almost giddy as he realized it was time to head over to the conference room, he had to work on not giving it away when he’d first see you with his wide smile. The walk to the room was quick because of how fast Bucky was walking, he turned the corners sharp and almost jogged down the hall down the meeting rooms. He only stood there for about three seconds before the door slowly opened, Doc had opened the door and helped you out. Bucky’s smile turned into complete worry when you walked out holding a tissue to your nose, your eyes were red and puffy. Bucky also noticed that your fingernails were red and bleeding, that was one habit you were currently trying to break.

“What’s going on?” Bucky asked in quiet disbelief, his eyebrows almost touching.

Doc gave a curt nod, “we talked about a lot of things,” her answers were always so vague.

You sniffled and waited for Doc to leave down the hall, Bucky was still looking at you. His hands held your shoulders and gently massaged the answer out of you.

“It was a good cry, I needed that.” you sighed from exhaustion.

A little piece of Bucky’s heart broke, if you needed to have a good cry then you could have told him, he would’ve listened. Bucky started to go back and see where it went wrong, if he was too overbearing and if this whole afternoon he had planned was created at a very wrong time. He wanted to ask what he did wrong but what came out was different. “Well that’s good to hear, I know Doc is good at that- helping you out.” His words were true but something about the delivery made it seem uneasy.

“I just-” you looked to the ceiling and hoped to find the words you needed written there. “I like flushing it all out to her because I won’t see her for a week and I don’t need to keep up with what I’m feeling. I always cry to you but Doc is just really good at explaining how I feel, you’re there to validate it and make me feel soothed.” You held his left hand as you both walked down the hallway. “I feel lighter, like, I feel better.”

“That’s always good, sweetheart,” Bucky made sure you were putting weight on him because you didn’t bring your crutches but you really should have. “I have a little treat for you,” He turned to face you when you both stood at his door, Bucky kept his hand on the door handle. “I know it’s been a rough few weeks but I hope you know I love you all the same, and all I see is my strong, beautiful girlfriend.” Bucky saw your confused face, as he opened the door to reveal a dim lit room with flowers, wine and a teddy your eye welled up with tears again.

You gasped and put your hands on your chest, “for me?” your voice shook as you walked in, you peered into the ice bucket to see your favourite wine and some food as well as a card beside the ice bucket, under the teddy. Tears flowed down your face as the feeling of being overwhelmed washed over you, you could barely string a sentence together. A hand waved the gifts all away, “too much,” was all you could muster.

“No, baby,” Bucky smiled, he walked over and pulled you into a hug. “Nothing will ever be too much for you.”

He let you cry in his chest for a very long time, you both ended up sitting on the edge of the bed as he stroked all the way up your back. His hand would bunch up your hair as he went up to your neck. His lips were right at your ear, all he whispered were sweet nothings and a calming ‘shh’ once and a while. When you had a little composure Bucky reached for the card, as you read it your lips trembled even more. A hand stayed glued to your heart as your body warmed at loving words, you could barely read it with blurry vision from the tears but it still seemed crystal clear. Your finger traced over the signature: ‘love you to the moon and back, Bucky’. And you crumbled again, your forehead hit his chest as you cried away all the pent up emotion you thought you flushed out at your therapy session.

With all the crying you were so tired, Bucky had thrown on a movie you two could watch while enjoying your strawberries and wine. You only had two and half a cup before you were snoring on Bucky’s shoulder, he tried to nudge you a couple times but nothing worked at all. He watched the movie on his own and saved the last two strawberries for you in the morning. You didn’t even wake up at him getting up and leaving the room. When he came back he got you out of your day clothes and into something comfy.

*****

You woke up to the sun hitting your back, when your eyes opened they focused on the flowers and a smile graced your face. It was the first time in a long time since you smiled with your eyes, a little giggle even slipped out.

At that sound Bucky walked out of the bathroom, “well there she is,” he smiled wide.

“What does that mean?” you wiped the drool from the side of your mouth, “I had a nap, a really good one, too.” You seemed to be bragging.

“A nap? Baby, it’s eight.” Bucky raised his eyebrows.

“Ya, I fell asleep at about five so I had a three hour nap, no biggie.” You rolled on your back and stretched out, your gaze moved back to Bucky when you heard a giggle, “what?” you laughed back.

“Eight in the morning, the next day. Your three hour nap was actually a well deserved fifteen hour hibernation.” Bucky joined you on the bed.

“That’s why I feel so good,” you sighed, you looked over to Bucky and swatted his chest at his little smirk. “Don’t think like that.”

“I bet I can make you feel just as good-”

You cut him off with a kiss.

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jomamaofficial · 3 years

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You should have said something: Finale (Bakugou x fem!Reader)

A/N: HELLO BESTIES, IT'S YOUR *lmao I just realised I wrote sentimental here instead of CRUSTY here* CRUSTY TOE HERE. Now please, for the love of whoever's up there, PLEASE READ THE TRIGGER WARNINGS. I'm not going to dawdle along because this was the finale you all were waiting for, so enjoy. Social Media & LinkTree & Discord Server TW: Very gruesome descriptions of: Death, Burning, Heavy cursing, Blood, Abuse. Masterlist Taglist: @spicy-therapist-mom @speedmetalqueen @silentw-lkr @loki-an-idiot @clickbait-official @captainchrisstan @kamalymaly @idk-sam @runrabbitrun3 @power-house-fan12 @mrslawliet @memeingcheetah27 @lonleyweeb77 @midnight-storm Word Count: 1743

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Sirens flooded the scene, police cars blinding passerbys. Ambulances rushed to the location, paramedics pushing their way through the crowd of people, the heat travelling the smell of iron across the streets of Musutafu. Firefighters reached the estate, dragging people away from the hazard, eyes gawking at the uproar of fire. The house was engulfed in flames, crying voices piercing through the ears of those who looked on. Ashes here and ashes there, belongings erupting into soot and red embers.

A body was heaved onto the stretcher, blood staining the white cotton.

“The heart rate is lowering, I repeat the heart rate is lowering.”

The static noise from the walkie talkie was merely another addition to the tumultuous screams and orders.

Wind ran through his hair, panic stricken over the nurse's face who ran as fast as her environment could let her, the heavy but precious, bleeding body straining her arms and staining her hands.

The door was held open, commands being barked at her.

The reporters bombarded her, obstructing the nurse’s view. She shoved past them; her heart hammered in her chest inspecting the monitor, her movements speeding up as she reached her destination. The body was rushed into the ambulance, attached to pipes and machines.

It was the last thing the public saw before the door was shut and the sirens fled away.

Trending headlines and hashtags spread like wildfire.

Masaru switched on the TV, his wife finishing up her dinner in the other room.

“I am now live at the Bakugou-L/N estate. Word from our information team has come out and the fire has been going on for twenty minutes, however these twenty minutes were enough for Prohero Ground Zero to be sent to the emergency room after a local found him covered in burn marks and injuries inside his already smoking house. Prohero Y/HN is nowhere to be found and all forms of contacts have been shut off. I am now handing over to Tanaka-san who is live at the-”

Switched off. Masaru sat there glued to his seat with his fingers pressing on the power button.

Hope came crashing down and you could only stare at the broken screen of your phone, tiny glass particles spewed on the floor.

Your skin was boiling up but your blood ran cold. Your throat dried up but your tears were wet. You couldn’t feel anything but his nails, digging in through the layers of clothing you comforted yourself in.

If you could go back in time, you would have. If you could stop yourself from dialing Izuku’s number, you would have. Anything, anything would have been better than this.

Silence. And you still had the urge to cover your ears. There was nothing to look at apart from your only form of communication. Everything else was black. And the traitorous phone that gave you away was dissipating as well. It faded away from your sight, leaving you a wide smile on your face. Too wide. Stretching from one cheek to the other, your lips were quivering, forcing it to stop. But it didn’t stop. It was getting wider and wider and it was hurting but could you stop it? No.

You couldn’t stop anything. Not this marriage, not this moment, not your own body.

He pulled on your hair and you couldn’t even stop the pain. He crushed your face between his hands, searing pressure building up in your skull and you still couldn’t stop him. He shouted and he screamed and it was slowly seeping into your skull how loud he really was. Nothing would stop. You couldn’t stop it.

You were useless. Your shrieks were useless because he drowned them out with his own voice.

His words were barely comprehensible. You could either focus on the warm blood trickling down your hairline, or him.

But that took energy. And right now, trying to stay alive was sucking all of the energy out of you.

“YOU FUCKING BROKE RULE NUMBER THREE, YOU FUCKING WHORE.”

Rule number three spiked your interest. Not because you remembered what it was. It only drew your attention to him amidst all the repeated curses and the names and the agony, ‘rule number three’ was something new.

Why would you understand rule number three though, you couldn’t even understand why you were smiling, giggling underneath your breath.

“And out of all the people you could have gone to”, he sucked in a breath, squeezing your cheeks. He could feel your clenched teeth fighting against the strength of his hold.

“You fucking went to that useless cunt Deku”, Bakugou spat out, a crazed glint in his eyes as he felt your face shake and crumble under his grip.

“Where is he now huh?” he scoffed, a breathy laugh escaping from the depths of his body.

“WHERE THE FUCK IS THAT PATHETIC BITCH NOW?” Screaming once again, he activated his quirk, missing you by a hair. The flames mocked you, free to move, free to grow.

“Is he gonna come and get you now? See your precious ‘Izu-kun’ anywhere?” he derided, smiling at the blackened area his palms left on your shoulders.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’M SORRY.”

Your tears said it enough, tears that were mixed in with the sweat and blood that dripped from your forehead. All you wanted was someone, someone who would hold you and stroke your head and clean you up. Someone who would take him away from you and let you live in a fantasy where you weren’t wrong anymore.

You apologized in the false anticipation that he would stop, and caress your face and pepper it in small kisses. You apologized in the false anticipation of thinking that’s what he needed all along. Just an apology.

So when he pushed you off of the sofa, your knees igniting in irritantance and bruises, you could only look at him. And when he crouched down in front of you, tilting your chin upwards, your heart almost fluttered at the thought that he would pull you into a kiss. A warm kiss where you would feel at home and feel loved.

The sad part was that you knew that you would forgive him if he kissed you once.

But the worst part was that you knew this would never happen. And it didn’t. But you were happy to live in your delusion. Because your delusion masked the sheer force at which he defiled your body.

The lethal blaze mirrored the lethal blaze that ignited his eyes. And this was the last time you’d ever see such hate, and animosity in them.

With your hands shielding you too late, all you saw was a blinding light shining through you, filling every crevice in your body with a scorching glow. But then it was extinguished by the darkness.

Alarms were going off in your head, telling you to breathe quickly and panic and scream and reach out and find something to see. And you did. And it entertained him.

So small and so vulnerable, scrambling around beneath him to try and escape. But he had you under his grip. And he wasn’t going to let you go until you remained lifeless under him.

Smoke infiltrated your lungs, forcing you to flail and writhe on all fours. You were heaving, trying oh so very hard to breathe in the oxygen that limitlessly surrounded you.

But you were useless. And you couldn’t breathe to save your life.

Coughing and slobbering, kneeling in front of him, you begged.

“Please, forgive me.”

“Please, I’m sorry.”

“Please, I didn’t mean to.”

“PLEASE, MAKE IT STOP. PLEASE JUST MAKE IT STOP.”

The fumes were stabbing at your throat, filling your head with fog.

And your world was running slowly. The noise was slowed, darker and deeper, slurred beyond understanding. The agony was slow; equally as painful, but slow. It gave you little breaks in between to piece everything together, bit by bit.

Growing up, your world was black and white: heroes were benevolent, there to serve the society and protect them whereas villains were malevolent, there to wreck the balance of society and harm them as they pleased.

Growing up, the first people you relied on were heroes. Even as the Number 3 Hero, Y/HN, you relied on your colleagues who worked day and night to ensure the safety of the country you served.

Maybe that was your downfall. Blindly trusting heroes as if they were some sort of untouchable deities who could never harm. Because here you were, taking the last few breaths with your world spinning around you and being snatched away from you.

And it wasn’t at the hands of a villain that you were dying. It was at the hands of your so-called superior, the Number 2 Hero: Ground Zero.

Ground Zero; the hero who everyone respected but feared. His snarl, his anger, his drive. The very hero who was found in every treacherous battlefield. He was the same hero who took on anything he found that threatened the life of the citizens he made his duty to protect from harm's way.

But who would take him on when he caused harm to you?

No one.

It wasn’t the smoke, or the burns, or the bleeding that caused you to take your last breath. It was the realization that no one would save you.

The pulse under Katsuki’s fingers diminished until it was nothing. And he cried. Veins standing out in livid ridges, his eyes seared in rage as they watered and dripped down his face, cooling his body in the circle of fire he put himself in.

If he wasn’t trained to suck his guilt up every time his hands were responsible for someone’s downfall, he would have been consumed in his own self loath…

But what was the point of feeling guilty when you deserved it?

It was because of you Eijiro broke up with him. And he internally promised himself he would always stand by this.

Blinking away his tears, he channeled all the remaining energy he had, letting his anger flow through out of his body.

His wrists were giving in but he swore it was the final time. Just one more blow. One more big blow.

Silencing his cries underneath the deafening roar of his explosions, he clenched his jaw, pressuring his body on and on.

No one would find you now. No one would know.

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tricksters-captain · 3 years

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Bucky Barnes imagines - Some Sunny Day Part 6

AN: And it all comes to an end....

Overall Summary: Before the Blip, you and Bucky were close. After you both returning and Tony’s funeral, you decided to go back to your home town to spend time with your family. When duty calls, you return.

In this chapter: An attack in Manhattan brings the gang back together for their final fight against Karli. (Based on S1 EP6)

(PART 1) (PART 2) (PART 3) (PART 4) (PART 5)

Pairing(s): Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader, Sam Wilson x Platonic!Reader

Word Count: 3,897

Warnings: Spoilers for episode 6, Violence, some strong language, fluff

“Hello?” You put the phone on speaker as you answered it.

“I got a hit.” Sam informed you. You looked towards Bucky who had just put both your bags down by the couch.

“What is it?” You asked.

“Karli’s in New York. I think they’re gonna hit the GRC meeting.”

“Makes sense.” Bucky tilted his head, pressing his lips into a thin line.

“Right. We’ll suit up and meet you there?” You moved toward your bag to get your things.

“With these new wings, I may even beat you.” You could practically hear Sam’s smirk through the phone. You hung up and immediately started to change.

By the time you were kitted up and ready to go, the news had announced the GRC meeting had gone into a complete lockdown.

“Guess Sam was right.” You switched off the tv and picked up your final knife.

To get you down to the building quickly, you hijacked a motorbike. When you arrived there were swarms of news anchors and cops.

You dismounted the bike and headed to the front of the crowds.

“I’m almost there.” Sam’s voice came through on your coms.

“What’s the plan?” Bucky asked as he walked beside you.

“Karli’s gotta be close. Keep your eyes open.” Sam ordered. Your eyes began to search the surrounding areas.

“Well, it could be anybody.” Bucky mumbled. He was right. Karli had a huge following, she didn’t even need to be here but you were praying she would be.

“And by the way, I called in some backup.” Sam informed you both.

Then, at that moment, a stranger approached the both of you.

“Excuse me, sir. Are you supposed to be here?” The man asked before reaching to his face and removing the illusion mask. “It’s me.” Sharon was revealed underneath.

“Sharon, what the hell are you doing here?” You asked, looking around to see if anyone had been watching.

“Relax. No one’s looking for me here.” Sharon assured you both.

“Is that Sharon?” Sam had recognised her voice over the coms.

“Unfortunately.” Bucky retorted.

“Hey, Sam. I thought I’d get the band back together.” Sharon made herself known to him.

“Thank you. You’re risking a lot coming here.” Sam thanked her.

“I hear pardons aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.” Sharon tried making light of her being back whilst still being a fugitive.

“Depends on the therapist.” Bucky proclaimed. You ignored the comment as you continued to survey the scene.

“They’ll move on the building soon. Be ready.” Sam warned you as he grew closer. And he was right. Within the building, gas was let off which set off a panic. The building had to be evacuated.

“(Y/n), Bucky, what’s going on on your end?” Sam had entered the building through the window where the hostages were being ushered towards the stairs.

“Nothing. All quiet.” Bucky told Sam.

“No one’s moving toward the building.” You added as you patrolled alongside Sharon and Bucky.

“Karli’s not coming in. She’s trying to force everybody out.” Sam had realised Karli’s plan. You looked between Bucky and Sharon. Time for you to go in. yourselves.

“You guys are gonna have to do something.” Sam’s voice came through as you entered the doors. “Don’t let ’em out of the building.”

“Oops.” Sharon said after realising you just let out several people.

“There’s one of em.” Bucky pointed across the building to an impressively large guard. “I’ll get the evac.”

“I’m with Bucky.” You followed Bucky towards the stairwell.

As you were just around to reach the stairs, a woman came forward with a phone.

“Mr. Barnes, it’s Karli.” She handed the phone over to Bucky.

“I’ll go.” You let him take the call and continued to pursue the hostages.

You reached the underground parking lot in time to see the hostages being loaded up into police trucks.

You knew you couldn’t take on all the guards at once and you’d only cause a panic with the hostages, forcing them to run off in different directions and you weren’t even sure which guards were Karli’s and which were the GRCs.

You clocked the large guard from before that Sharon was meant to have gone after. He was applying some sort of lock onto the back of the trucks.

As the final guards climbed into the trucks, you took your shot. You silently ran up behind the large man and forced yourself up onto his back, your hands grabbing onto the guards face. He cried out as he threw you off but the connection was just enough to use your powers.

You fell to the floor, his memories tunnelling through your head like a bullet. He sent his boot into your stomach several times before leaving you. The trucks had already driven away and you remained on the floor so he didn’t bother with killing you.

You searched his memories for Karli’s plan.

“Sam.” You wheezed. “I know what Karli is planning to do.”

“What? How?” Sam responded through your ear piece, sounding concerned.

“She used her powers.” Sharon piped up. You looked around the garage to see her hiding behind a large concrete pillar with her eyes on the guard.

“I’m sending you the coordinates for their rendezvous now.” You typed over the coordinates on your arm pad.

Bucky finally made it down to you and helped you from the floor.

“You can’t fight anymore. You gotta sit this one out.” Bucky told you as the look of exhaustion was obvious on your face.

“Shut up and get moving.” You weren’t having any of it. You moved towards the bikes and Bucky climbed on in front.

You pulled out a small syringe from the inside of your jacket and Bucky cocked an eyebrow at it.

“In case of emergencies, right?” You stabbed the syringe into your thigh and injected the serum. It was a serum that Bruce Banner had worked on with you for these dire times. It gave you enough energy after using your powers to allow you to fight again. There were only a handful of them and the come down afterwards was worse than anything you had experienced but it kept you in the game when you needed it most.

Bucky set off on route to the hostages.

You gripped onto him tightly as he sped through the alleys and roads.

“You better speed things up, Sam. The choppers about to take off.” You heard Sharon warn Sam.

“Bucky?” Sam called out through the coms.

“I don’t fly, man. That’s your thing.” Bucky wasn’t going to be any help now that he was almost at the rendezvous point anyway.

You spotted the trucks up ahead along with large concrete road blocks.

“Drop me here.” You told Bucky as you were far enough away for them to not have seen you yet. Bucky did as he was told before speeding off ahead.

You ran down the sidewalk to keep yourself hidden. The flag smashers should be too busy dealing with Bucky to realise you were going after the trucks.

You reached one of the trucks only to find it the locks were impenetrable. It then didn’t take long for one of the super soldiers to find you. You ducked as she sent her fist towards you. You pulled out your knives, one in each hand, and began to attack.

Suddenly, a fire rose beside the truck.

“Bucky!” You shouted out as you fought. You knew only he could open those doors with his strength and his arm.

The soldier managed to get a grip on your shoulder and tossed you across the street like a pillow. You groaned as your body collided with the concrete.

“Morgenthau!” You recognised the voice as it cried out Karli’s name. It was Walker.

You pushed yourself to your feet and ran back over to the fight. Bucky was desperately trying to open the doors to the truck and John had started to attack Karli.

You lunged forward as John hit the floor, surrounded by the soldiers.

One broke away to fight you.

You growled and grunted as you brought forth all the power you had in you to fight the soldier.

Bucky had saved the hostages inside the burning truck and had come through to help John also.

You grew distracted when you witnessed Bucky falling into the building site.

The soldier took advantages of your loss of focus and managed to put you to the floor with a solid punch to the side of your head.

You vision went spotted and blurred and your head pounded as you lulled on the ground. You were unsure of how long you were lying there when you felt someone take your arm and drag you along the concrete towards one of the trucks.

Karli pulled the drivers door open and shoved you into the passenger seat before climbing in herself. She reached across you and crushed the handle so you couldn’t get out.

Your vision began to clear just as Karli threw herself from the vehicle.

The truck crashed through the gates and down onto the scaffolding. You clung onto the seat as you leant back to stop the truck from moving any further forward.

“Stay calm!” You snapped at the screaming hostages but the truth was you weren’t feeling calm yourself.

You could see Bucky beneath you.

It was one high drop.

You wouldn’t survive this fall. Not sitting in the front. Not at this height with the weight of this machinery.

“Fuck.” You cussed under your breath as your heart thudded against your chest. Bucky could see you inside and he felt his whole body tremble.

You locked your eyes with his. You didn’t want to go. You only just got him back.

Suddenly, the truck shifted again but this time it was being dragged backwards. You glanced to the side view mirror to see John trying to save you.

You couldn’t help but gasp when the flag smashers tore him away from the truck. They all tumbled down to the pit. You squeezed your eyes shut as the truck rolled forward again.

You were thrown forward onto the glass of the windshield when the truck abruptly stopped.

You opened your eyes to see that Sam had finally made it.

“Cutting it a little close, aren’t we?” You let out a shaky laugh as relief washed over you.

Sam managed to get the truck up safely. You escaped through the drivers door and embraced him.

“Looking good.” You smiled at the suit. Sam only winked before taking you down to Karli.

He threw the shield, hitting each flag smasher as he put you down.

“You of all people bought into that bullshit?” Karli looked beyond betrayed at Sam’s new look.

“I’m trying something different. Maybe you should do the same.” Sam retorted.

Just as you went to step forward, smoke bombs were sent down on top of you. It gave Karli the chance to get away.

Fortunately, Sam could use his goggles to track them.

“Hey, Sharon. We’re underground. We entered the tunnel on William. Heading south.” Sam informed Sharon on your position as you all made your way through the tunnel. “Looks like they split up. Here.” Sam stopped at an intersection.

John took off without a word. Bucky looked back at you and Sam.

“I got it.” He sighed before following.

“I’ll head this way. Don’t hesitate to call if you need me.” You broke off in the opposite way to Bucky and John whilst Sam went up ahead. You kept your guard up as you silently made your way around the place. It was like a maze and you had kept running into dead ends.

You cussed as you wished you had the app for the flag smashers in order to receive any news. It was the only way them and you would know the new meet up point.

“(Y/n), we found Karli’s team.” Bucky sent you the location. You hesitated to follow as a bad feeling began to seep into you. “(Y/n)?” Bucky questioned if you could hear him.

“On my way.” You replied, ultimately deciding to join back with Bucky, ignoring your instinct.

When you reached Bucky and Walker, the soldiers had been apprehended.

“Good job, boys.” You congratulated them. “Sam? Any news?” You asked over the coms.

“I’ve got Karli. She didn’t make it.” Sam’s news made your stomach drop.

Karli didn’t make it. She didn’t make it.

“Hey, come here.” Bucky pulled you into his chest after he saw your face drain of colour. All that was playing through your head was the girl’s memories of Karli. Karli playing with the children, her smile, her laughter, her passion.

You forced them from your mind as you made your way to the surface. Ambulances, cop cars and the press had all moved location from the GRC meeting to there.

Your eyes followed everyone’s gaze as Sam came into view.

He flew down to the ground with Karli’s body in his arms.

You felt Bucky slide his fingers down your wrist and take your hand, squeezing it tightly.

When Sam’s feet touched the ground he was ambushed with questions from reporters. He approached the senators without answering any of them.

He was thanked by them before he asked about the relocating plans.

“Our peacekeeping troops will begin relocating people soon.” He was told.

“The terrorists only set us back a bit––”

“––Stop calling them terrorists.” Sam interrupted

“What else would we call them?” They questioned.

“Your peacekeeping troops carrying weapons are forcing millions of people into settlements around the world, right? What do you think those people are gonna call you? These labels, “terrorists,” “refugee,” “thug,” they’re often used to get around the question, why?” Sam started,

“Those settlements that happened five years ago, do you think it is fair for governments to have to support them?” They argued against him.

“Yes.” Sam spoke honestly.

"And the people who reappeared only to find someone else living in their family home, they just end up homeless? Look, I get it. But you have no idea how complicated this situation is.” They tried to put Sam down but Sam wasn’t walking away.

“You know what? You’re right. And that’s a good thing. We finally have a common struggle now. Think about that. For once, all the people who’ve been begging, and I mean, literally begging for you to feel how hard any given day is… Now you know. How did it feel to be helpless? Now if you could remember what it was like to be helpless and face a force so powerful it could erase half the planet, you would know that you’re about to have the exact same impact. This isn’t about easy decisions, Senator.”

“You don’t understand.” They grumbled.

“I’m a Black man carrying the stars and stripes. What don’t I understand? Every time I pick this thing up, I know there are millions of people who are gonna hate me for it. Even now, here… I feel it. The stares, the judgment. And there’s nothin’ I can do to change it. Yet, I’m still here. No super serum, no blond hair, or blue eyes. The only power I have is that I believe we can do better. We can’t demand that people step up if we don’t meet them halfway. Look, you control the banks. Shit, you can move borders! You can knock down a forest with an email, you can feed a million people with a phone call. But the question is, who’s in the room when you make those decisions? Hmm? Is it the people you’re gonna impact? Or is it just more people like you?” Sam paused. “I mean, this girl died trying to stop you, and no one has stopped for one second to ask why. You’ve gotta do better, Senator. You’ve gotta step up. Because if you don’t, the next Karli will. And you don’t wanna see 2.0. People believed in her cause so much that they helped her defy the strongest governments in the world. Why do you think that is? Look, you people have just as much power as an insane god or a misguided teenager. The question you have to ask yourself is, ‘How are you going to use it’?”

You smiled widely at Sam as he finished, walking away. He really was Captain America.

“Sorry, I was, uh, I was texting and so, all I heard was, um, a Black guy in stars and stripes.” Bucky teased the man as he approached you.

You wrapped your arm around Sam, half embracing him as Bucky patted him on the back.

“Nice job, Cap.” Bucky smiled.

“Thanks.” Sam took the compliment.

“Sharon?” You smile dropped when you spotted Sharon trying to perform her own medical procedures beside a car.

“Your blocking my light.” Sharon hissed as she fiddled with her wounds.

“We gotta get you to a hospital.” Sam frowned at the state of her.

“She’s not gonna listen.” Bucky stated flatly.

“It’s not the worst thing that’s happened to me all week.” Sharon admitted, avoiding the mention of the hospital.

“Told you.” Bucky quipped.

“Uh, Cap?” A man came forward, interrupting for a moment.

“I think he’s talking to you.” Sharon turned her face away to not risk getting recognised. “Look, I’m sorry for how things ended down there. For what it’s worth, suit looks good on you.”

“Thanks.” Sam chuckled.

“All right, look, can we get out of here, please?” Bucky ushered Sharon to move.

“I didn’t forget my promise.” Sam turned to remind Sharon of his promise to get her a pardon before he left.

You decided to take Sharon back to the apartment and fix her up there. You had enough supplies and the experience to do an adequate job of it.

“What now? Back to Madripoor?” You asked Sharon as you cup open her top.

“Seems like it.” She winced as she spoke.

“Sam will get you that pardon. You might as well stick around.” Bucky returned to your side with a bowl of water and a cloth.

You worked in silence for a few minutes before Sharon realised something. She had been watching Bucky watch you.

“You finally slept together, didn’t you?” Sharon smirked as it hit her.

“Oh my god.” You groaned, rolling your head back.

“I mean I knew something was different...” Sharon’s smart mouth was quickly shut as you pressed into her wound.

“I’ll get us something to drink.” Bucky excused himself as he felt a blush creep up his neck.

“Bout time.” Sharon murmured but it was the last she mentioned it after the glare you shot her.

Sharon didn’t stick around after you stitched her up. You understood why but you were still hesitant to let her leave.

As she did, you started to really feel the come down effects of the serum.

“Hey. Hey.” Bucky caught you as you began to sway on your feet. He sat you down on his coach and placed his hand on your head. “You’re burning up.”

“It’s the serum.” You reminded him. It had been a long time since you used it last.

Sweat covered down your forehead and soaked your clothes. Your body ached, it felt like it was on fire, and your head was hammering.

Bucky helped you remove your clothes before wrapping a thin blanket around you. He fetched a cloth to rest on your forehead as you laid back.

His face twisted into a grimace as you began to scream and whine, writhing in front of him.

And there was nothing he could do but watch.

The pain of the serum leaving your body was excruciating. Bucky brought over the bin as you had flimsily pointed to it. You curled over the side of the couch and threw up.

Bucky brushed your hair away from your face with his hand and held it behind your head.

“I forget how bad this got.” Bucky confessed as you choked.

The rest of the night was spent like that until you eventually fell asleep against Bucky’s bare chests whilst he held you. The coldness of his metal arm was refreshing against your burning skin.

In the morning, you woke to the news that the captured super soldiers had been blown up on their way to the raft.

It was announced there were no suspects but both you and Bucky knew exactly who was responsible.

Zemo.

“There’s somethings I gotta do today.” Bucky told you as he brushed his lips against your hair.

“You want me to come with you?” You asked. You were weak but you were better after suffering through the night.

“No. It’s something I gotta do it on my own.” Bucky intertwined his fingers with yours as you rested against him.

“Okay.” You nodded. “But I’m here if you need me.”

“I know.” Bucky kissed the back of your hand before pushing himself off the couch. “Now let’s get you in the shower because you stink.”

You laughed as Bucky helped you up.

Bucky told you in the bathroom about his neighbour. He offered for you to see the memories you had missed since you last used your powers on him but you didn’t want to be informed on every thought/memory he had during the time you were away.

He told you what his plans were. It had been a long time since he had been this open.

You spent the rest of the morning cleaning yourself and then the apartment. Bucky helped before you finally encouraged him to get on with his day.

He didn’t return until late.

He walked through the door and you could see his hands were shaking still.

You didn’t say anything. You just hugged him.

The days went by and soon enough you were being called by Sam again.

He had invited you for a little celebration down at the dock. So, you travelled back down to Louisiana and back into Sam’s home town.

The children instantly went for Bucky as you both arrived. You laughed as he chased after them with a cake in his hands.

“Where is everybody?” Bucky asked them.

Sam and Sarah embraced the both of you warmly and an overwhelming sense of love flooded around you.

Pictures were being taken with Sam, the food was amazing, the beer was cold and it was a beautiful evening.

You were stood against one of the wooden pillars, watching Bucky speak with Sarah, a couple kids dangling on his arm. You smiled and took a swig from your bottle.

“Don’t get soppy on me now.” Sam joined you, sipping on his own beer.

“Me? Soppy?” You scoffed, shaking your head.

Sam rolled his eyes as he draped his arm over your shoulders. You leant into his embrace.

“I visited the memorial for Isaiah in the museum.” You confessed.

“Yeah?” Sam cocked his eyebrow at you with a smile.

“It’s a great thing you’ve done for that man.” You praised him. “I’m proud of you, Captain America.”

Sam clutched his heart with his hand dramatically.

“My god!” He proclaimed.

“Shut up.” You nudged him with your hip. You both laughed before making your way down the dock to watch the sunset.

Bucky joined you.

It felt good to be there. It felt like home.

AN: To be continued?? I’ll probably leave this fic here for now but I may continue it on in the future.

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mymelodyheart · 4 years

Text

Miles Between Us Chapter 9 ~The Mediation~

Previously in Light Vs Dark ...

Tears streamed down her face as he grabbed his phone and keys and made his way out. He couldn't get out of the cottage fast enough. His heart hammered, his ears started to ring, his lungs squeezing out the last air. He'd hurt her. He'd seen the bruises with his eyes, and now she's crying because of him. He needed to get out fast to clear his head.

She followed him closely behind. "Please tell me where you're going, Jamie. At least give me that," she pleaded.

He couldn't stand to see her tears anymore or hear the plea in her voice. He was doing what's right for her because he loved her too much. He wasn't even sure where he was going or if anyone would be safe in his presence. All he could think of was how frightened his sister had looked at him and the bruises he'd inflicted in Claire's arms. He needed to get as far away as possible, away from the people he loved.

He got into his car, slammed the door, and started the engine.

Claire banged on his window, her face wet with tears. "Don't do this, Jamie. We can fix this together. Please don't go. I'm begging you."

If you wish to read this on AO3, here is the link.

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The sun blazed through the windows, but instead of feeling delighted with the promise of a beautiful day, Claire felt hollow.

Earlier, moving on autopilot, she'd numbly climbed out of bed, showered and gathered all the will and strength she could summon and prepared to face the day. Though a part of her would rather curl into a ball under the duvet until Jamie returns, she made a Herculean effort to stay positive for sanity's sake. It should have given her comfort knowing Jamie was safe after Willie had informed her he'd been spotted at three in the morning at Lallybroch's driveway in his car and was now resting in his childhood home. But her eyes would prickle with tears every time she stood still and stared into space. So Claire kept herself busy, feeding Jamie's pets, letting them out of the house, doing a bit of laundry and setting up her work station for the day on the dining table. Currently, there were things that needed attending to, like her own work, and anytime soon, Willie would be arriving.

She was just about to open her laptop when there was a knock on the kitchen's back door.

She knew it was Willie. "Door's open," she croaked.

Willie walked in and stopped. A line formed between his brows, reminding her so much of Jamie she felt the beginning of tears welling up. "Hey, how are ye?" he asked.

With more enthusiasm than she had in her, she gave him a small smile. "I'm hanging in there. How's Jamie?"

"He's asleep ...last time I heard from ma."

"How about you? You look like you didn't get much rest either."

"Knackered," he replied, shoving his hands into his jeans' pocket. "The bloody git sent us on a merry chase. And now he gets to sleep the whole day while I'm left to pick up the slack at work."

Claire knew Willie was trying to make light of things. Needing to move, she stood and made her way to the kitchen, having the sudden urge to keep her hands busy. It would have been easier if she'd asked Willie to take her to Lallybroch. But there had been a reason for her decision to stay put. She needed to remind herself, there's a probability her presence could make Jamie's condition worsened after having seen his reaction to her bruise last night. Even if in the light of day, nothing seemed good enough excuse to be separated from him.

"Would you like something to drink? Coffee or tea?" she offered. "I could use a strong cuppa."

"Coffee would be grand."

Conscious of Willie watching, she went through the motion of taking out cups and switching on the coffee machine. When she opened the fridge to retrieve some milk, she accidentally nudged one of Jamie's magnets on the door, sending a post-it note to slip down. Automatically bending down, she picked up the piece of paper from the floor.

As she turned it the other way round and read it, a cross between a sob and a laugh broke passed through her mouth. It was a note Jamie had written to her just the other day.

Gone to work. Bought some croissants, and they're in the bread bin just in case Adso gets his grubby paws on it first. Can't wait to see you later. Missing you already. Love you. X

"Oh, damn it." Claire leaned over the countertop, pressing the note with one hand on her chest. "I-I can't do this."

Willie came up behind her and touched her elbow, gently turning her to face him. "Ye cannae do exactly what, Claire?" he asked, a look of concern etching his face.

"Pretend Jamie is fine." She squeezed her eyes shut, and when she opened them again, she let out a lungful of air. "When we first met, he was in a good place. And I have this strong feeling that I am making his condition more frequent and worse."

"No, Claire ...dinnae speak like that."

She glanced down at Jamie's note, and when she felt prickles behind her eyelids, she slipped the piece of paper in her jean's pocket and shook her head. "How can Jamie and I be together if I'm the one triggering his nightmares and anxiety? Before I came along, his episodes were a rare occurrence. And now here I am making that classic mistake of attempting to fix a man." Her breathing suddenly became laboured, like she'd raced ten miles. "I wish I could be by his side. I know it's selfish wanting to be with him right now when I'm the reason for his distress. But I do. On the other hand, logic tells me, it's probably a good thing all those memories he hasn't dealt with are finally coming to the surface, so at least we have something to work on. I just wish there was a less unpleasant way for Jamie to handle all of these." She glanced out the window, unseeing the beautiful view in the sun.

When the silence dragged on for too long, Claire turned to face Willie and was surprised to see him smiling. "Cannae ye see it yet, Claire? Ye are not making Jamie's condition worse. In fact, ye have been helping him heal all this time."

She frowned. She was confused. "What do you mean? I don't understand."

Willie took the portafilter and began filling it with coffee for her. "Ye said it yersel'. The suppressed memories are coming to the surface." He shrugged as he worked the coffee machine. "Meaning, after all these years, Jamie can finally confront them head-on, deal with it and lay it to rest once and for all. Isn't that what his dreams are trying to tell him? He's forgone dealing with grief and issues that it had nowhere to go to except present itself as this monstrous nightmare and panic attacks. And then ye came along, and somehow, ye've extracted more out from him than all his therapists put together."

A nervous laugh gurgled from her throat. "I might have been able to do that, but at what cost? Jamie could've hurt himself last night." She'd worried at the speed he'd taken off, thinking if anything grievous had resulted from it, she would have been so utterly devastated, she'd blamed herself. "He needs professional help, Willie. It can't go on like this."

"He does," he agreed, pressing the button on the coffee machine. "But Jamie needs you too, more than ever ...even if he believes he's a danger to ye."

"But he didn't hurt me."

He pushed the stop button on the coffee machine. "May I see the bruise?"

"Of course." She rolled up her sweatshirt sleeves. "I told him I bruise easily. I have an iron deficiency which I'm taking supplements for."

Willie studied the markings on her arms. "They're not that bad."

"No, they're not. I tried to convince him, but he won't listen. I only need to pinch my skin, and I bruise. It's a symptom of being anaemic."

Willie sighed. "Jamie won't be easily convinced, though. Weel ...at least not until he's calmed down."

"He used to have a therapist. Why isn't he seeing one now?" she asked, curiosity getting the better of her. "I know he's against taking pills for his condition, but surely talking to a professional would help him a lot."

"He has nothing against seeing a therapist ..." he replied matter-of-factly as he handed her the coffee. "...just a particular one."

"Oh!" She took the cup from Willie and watched him make another one for himself. "May I know why?"

"Her name is Geneva Dunsany. She's the only available therapist in Broch Mordha. She took over Jamie's former therapist after he left for England." He paused to look at her. "Ye see ...a few years back, my da remortgage Lallybroch and then when the recession came, our family was hit hard financially and had trouble paying the bank. To cut a long story short, Jenny, our meddling sister, knew Geneva was infatuated with Jamie. Since Geneva comes from a well-off family, Jenny thought by playing matchmaker, she would solve everyone's problems single-handedly. Ever since then, my sister has been trying to get them together. So when she heard Jamie's therapist left for England, she encouraged Geneva to take the job even though she already had one in another town. Jamie is quite perceptive, though and knew what our wee sister was up to. Hence he refused to see Geneva."

"That's a bit sneaky."

"Ye can say that again. Geneva might have a wee crush on Jamie, but I dinnae think she's aware of Jenny's meddling, even though they're friends. Jenny thinks she's doing Jamie a favour by finding him a lass who lives here and can help him with his condition. Jen is practical like that."

"I've met her, actually. The therapist that is. We were introduced ...just before I went back to London," she explained, thinking back to the day when she first met Jenny and Geneva. And she's beautiful too, she thought grudgingly. Although Jamie had never given Claire reason to feel jealous before, every muscle in her body had gone rigid, hearing Willie's account on Jamie's would-be therapist. Jealousy continued to roll in like a lick of a flame as the image of Jamie pouring his heart out to a beautiful woman burned hot in her guts. The sudden urgent need to see him made her want to sprint out of the cottage at full speed, but a dose of decorum kept her rooted on the spot. "So, Jamie wasn't interested, huh? Not even the teeny, tiniest bit?" she squeaked, annoyed at the sudden change in her voice.

She thought she saw a muscle twitched along Willie's jaw, but she must have imagined it. Looking like he was sucking the inside of his cheek, he shook his head. "No. Never. And ye have nought to worry about, Claire. Jamie only has eyes for ye."

She swallowed the bitter taste of doubt. "Not worried," she lied, sipping her coffee. But in the true sense of the word, she already felt loads better after the enlightening conversation with Willie. It had taken the edge off her worry over Jamie's condition, even though she still couldn't erase the thought of Jenny pushing Jamie towards Geneva.

"Maybe ye should attend a therapy session with Jamie ...at least initially," he suggested, eyeing her closely as if trying to read her thoughts. "That way, it would put Jamie at ease, and Geneva would realise he's taken already."

Claire slowly placed her cup on the countertop. "Why do I get the feeling this meddling thing is inherent in your family?" she asked, feigning disapproval.

Willie put his own cup down. "Not inherent, Claire. I have my own selfish motive. Ye're the best friend of my Annalise, and I wouldn't be helping my cause if she finds out I've done nought to help ye." When Claire gasped, he grinned. "Kidding aside, even if Annalise wasn't my girlfriend, I want ye to know, I really like you for my brother."

Claire could barely see through the tears she hadn't been aware that was building up. "You sound so sure."

Willie placed his hand over hers and squeezed it. "Are ye sure about my brother?"

"With all my heart," she whispered.

"That's all I need to know."

..........

Jamie slowly opened his eyes and took in the familiar surroundings of his old room. His heart throbbed when he realised the last time he'd slept here had been on New Year's eve, with Claire tucked snuggly on the crook of his arm. Bracing himself up on his elbows, he heard his mother talking to Jenny and his da downstairs. They were probably in the kitchen discussing his state.

He rubbed his face with one hand, feeling the beginning of a day-old stubble, exhaustion washing over him in waves. A mixture of self-loathing and guilt rose within as he replayed the incident from the night before. He couldn't decide what pained him the most, the bruises he'd inflicted on Claire or the fact he'd left her in tears standing in his driveway.

When he'd taken off from his cottage, his heart had been heavy and thoughts dark, not having had any clue what he wanted to do or where to go, only determinedly pushing himself to get as far away from Claire as possible. A few hours later, he'd found himself parked outside his childhood home after Willie and Murtagh had woken him up in his car. So far, he'd only talked to his older brother Willie, and he hoped it would be enough to keep the rest of his family's questions at bay.

Sitting up, he realised he was still in his clothes. He searched for his phone and found it on the nightstand. Swiping the screen, he saw he had a few missed calls from clients and a voice message from Claire. Willie must have switched his phone to silence.

I should call her, he thought. It wouldn't be that difficult. Her voice would soothe him, and her lack of judgement would make him feel like he's on solid ground. He could show his worst, and he knew she'd still be there, smiling and soothing him with words, just like last night. Every hour that passed without seeing her or hearing from her put him a little more off centre, and he could see how too reliant he was becoming on those breaths of fresh air that sprung from her. He shook his head. She was too precious to be with someone who had this nonstop ugliness embedded in the insides of his head. It would only be a matter of time before he dragged her into his hell. He couldn't do that to her.

He was about to tap on Claire's voice message when he was alerted by a double knock on the door.

"Jamie, are ye awake, son?" It was his father.

"Come in," he answered, his voice still hoarse from sleep.

The door opened, and he saw his mother walk in first with a mug of tea. "My darling boy," she smiled, placing the hot brew on the bedside table. "I thought ye could use a bit of something warm in yer belly. How are ye feeling?" She stooped down and kissed him on the forehead.

Jamie scooted back to the headboard to make space for his mother while his father took the chair. "Exhausted," he said honestly. Although he'd slept all morning, it hadn't been a restful sleep.

His father, Brian, cleared his throat. "So ... what's going on with ye, lad?" he asked, cutting to the chase as usual.

Ellen sent her husband a warning glare before refocusing her attention back to Jamie. "Whenever ye're ready, darling," she reassured him, patting his thigh. "Willie vaguely told us what happened, and Jenny is beside herself thinking she triggered yer panic attack yesterday. And Claire ...ye never told us she's here. She's worried sick about ye."

Jamie sighed. "What's there to tell." He leaned back and stared at the ceiling. "It wasnae Jenny's fault. It's just the same old, same old. The only difference this time is, I made a stupid mistake getting Claire involved with me. And I'm hurting her in the process."

Ellen briefly looked at her husband. "I find that hard to believe, Jamie. Ye're such a gentle soul, ye could never ever hurt a fly even if it's bugging ye to bits. Did ye two have a fight? Did Claire say ye were hurting her?" she asked Jamie gently.

"No. I just know I am."

"Oh, darling ..."

"So that's it ..." Brian raised his hands in the air before letting them drop to his sides. "Ye're giving in to this condition ye've fought hard against all yer life when the chance for happiness finally present itsel' to ye because ye THINK ye are hurting Claire. Is that what ye're trying to tell us? Because believe ye me, we didnae raise a violent or abusive son. So enlighten us ...where in heaven's name is this all coming from?"

"Brian!"

"It's a futile fight," Jamie blurted before taking a deep breath. "Trust me ... I'd like to have what ye both have. But at what cost? Look at the state of me. Is this the kind of man Claire deserves? She's willing to turn her life upside down for me, and for what? Only to find out later she'd saddled herself with a mentally ill man. So perhaps it's for the best she lucked out early before its too late for either of us."

His mother moved closer to his side and took his hand. "So let me get this straight. Ye're staying away from Claire because ye like her a lot, and ye're afraid to hurt her." Pain clenched tight on his vocal cords, incapacitating him to answer, but she interpreted his silence as a yes. Even though it's far more complex than that. "Oh, sweet lord, how youth is so wasted on the young," she clucked.

"Aye, perhaps." He rubbed a hand behind his neck. "But trust me, I ken fine what the problem is."

"Oh, is that so?"

His father's sarcasm wasn't lost on him, but he ignored it in favour of the pressure sinking into his chest. "I ken I hold back a lot from everyone, and I ken too that's wrong. When things get too much, I keep my mouth shut. And I dinnae realised at first that suffering in silence damages, instead of helping. Though it's easier said than done, I'm working on it. All I ever wanted was no' to be a burden or be the cause of anyone's pain. Claire deserves more."

Ellen sighed. "Jamie ...Jamie ... ye're never a burden. Ye're a delight, and we're so proud of ye. Ye need to understand, ever since ye were a wee bairn, ye've always needed a purpose, like fixing everyone's problem because it gave ye satisfaction to see ye've righted someone's world. Whenever someone was hurting, ye're always the first to reach out." Her shoulders lifted in a shrug. "I thought it was endearing at first until it began to take over yer life. The trauma you've gone through only amplified yer true nature to a point it wasnae healthy anymore. And the guilt that came with it when ye can do nought and thought you've failed ...almost destroyed ye every time." She shifted on the bed. "Jamie ...ye have to stop denying yersel' a chance for happiness because ye're afraid of hurting or failing someone. Pain is part of life. It's inevitable. Though it's good of ye to think of others first, sometimes, it's also good to let others carry that burden for ye and help ye. Running away because ye're afraid of hurting someone is no' gonnae to do anyone any good. Ye'll only end up hurting yersel'. And when that happens, who's going to help ye?"

His mother's logic made sense, but the chatter in his brain continued to hold its ground. "Claire's been through a lot, ma."

"And so have ye, son," Brian interjected, firmly.

"But what if I make things worse for both of us?"

"Oh my sweet boy, what if ye end up happy together?" Ellen smiled. "I ken a crystal ball would come in handy right now, but because we dinnae have one, the only way to find out is to take the risk and hope for the best. Just like what Claire is doing."

Jamie shut his eyes for a while and pictured them together. Every fibre in his body was screaming to get in his car and drive back to Broch Mordha and start making it up to Claire. But his mother was right ...he needed help. He didn't want to put Claire through all that misery again, so he decided right there and then he would start attending therapy afresh. It was the way forth, and he'd held off attending therapy for too long, which might have worsened his condition. But first things first. He needed to be in the right headspace to start doing anything.

"Fine, I'll call the clinic later for an appointment but do ye mind if I rest some more. I'm still feeling a bit off."

The chair scraped the wooden floor as Brian stood up. "Aye, of course. Ye look worn to a frazzle."

Ellen reached out and pulled Jamie into her arms and kissed him on the cheek. "I'll be downstairs if ye need anything." She got up and ruffled his hair as if he was still a wee boy. "And I've made leek and tattie soup in case ye're hungry."

"Thanks, ma."

His parents were just about to walk out when Jenny strode in. "Hey."

Jamie rubbed his forehead with his fingers. "Jenny, can we talk later? I'd like to be alone for a bit."

Brian and Ellen gave his sister a warning look as they left the room, but she just shrugged. "I promise this willnae take long. Please, Jamie?"

Jamie waved a hand. "Fine. What is it?"

He watched his sister retrieve something from her jeans' pocket. "Mrs Fitz from the Airbnb gave me this. One of her clients staying over her place left an Oxford Mail newspaper a couple of weeks ago. As she was browsing through it, she came across Claire's name." She handed him a newspaper clipping. "Looks like yer wee girlfriend is an heiress."

"What? Let me see that."

Jamie skimmed through the short article about some property in Fox Lane, Boars Hill in Oxford. It said it was formerly part of the Berkeley Castle Estate. The original part of the house had been designed by the celebrated architect Sir Ernest George for Lord Berkeley, a family ancestor from her mother side. The house had apparently garnered loads of interest among the local rich after being recently vacated by a local MP. It mentioned the original owners' name as Henry and Julia Beauchamp, deceased, and the heiress as Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp.

Was this the South Lodge property Claire had been talking about she'd inherited from her parents? He hadn't really given it much thought ever since she'd casually mentioned it. This was a far cry from the cabin in the woods he'd envisioned.

"Three million pounds for a house!" Jenny broke through his reflection. "Doesn't it make ye wonder what else she inherited?"

Jamie looked at the paper again. That's what the house is worth? Ach, Christ! Even the Oxford gossip found its way to Broch Mordha. He knew Claire would be mortified if the news of her assets became everyone's favourite topic of conversation.

Folding the note, he handed it back to his sister. He saw Claire a little differently now. All that money in the world and all she only ever wanted was a place to belong to. Suddenly he felt awful for leaving her last night. He shook his head at his sister. "Not a word about this to any of yer mates!" he warned her. "Or else ..."

Jenny's eyes widened. "What do ye take me for?"

"A babble merchant," he ribbed, unsmiling. "Now, let me be."

"Ye're no' angry at me still, are ye?"

"No," he sighed. "I'm just exhausted."

"Can I do anything for ye?"

He puffed out a breath. Jenny was looking at him earnestly, and he knew she only wanted to reach out. "Aye, in fact, ye can. Ye can arrange that appointment with the therapist for me."

She smiled, seemingly happy to please. "Right on it. If ye need anything else ..."

"Aye, aye, I'll let ye know."

Jenny left, and somehow, he felt a little less heavy in the heart than he did when he woke up earlier. Grabbing his phone, he tapped play on Claire's voice message.

"Hey, it's me. Just letting you know how much I miss you. I felt a little sad earlier, so I wandered into a cafe in the village centre after Willie left. They had this upbeat music playing in the background. It's an old song. Probably from the eighties or nineties, I'm not quite sure. It's pretty cheesy, but it brought a smile to my face. And now I can't get the music out of my head. Maybe if you listen to it too, it will bring a smile to your face. It's from Rick Astley, Never Gonna Give You Up." There was a pause before she spoke again. "Right, I'll let you rest. Willie told me that's what you've been doing. I'm going to take Rollo out for a walk now and try to get some work done. I'll text and send you a voice message later. I love you."

Ah, Sassenach! He swiped the screen to phone her, but his phone beeped and died. Ah, shite! He wanted to go and see her now but stopped. He had to take steps to make himself better first. He needed to put in the hours to help himself. She deserved the extra time he would put in because she's not getting half-arsed from him again. But for now ...

He scrambled out of bed and opened the bedroom door.

"Ma!" he called out.

"What is it, dear?"

"Do ye still have all yer old music from yer university days?"

"Anything in particular?"

He cringed inwardly. Ah, fuck! "Never Gonna Give You Up by Rick Astley?"

He thought he heard females sniggering downstairs.

Dear Readers,

Thank you so much for your patience with the previous chapter and, mostly, the feedback and beautiful comments. I hope this latest update felt a lot lighter to read. I'll keep this short as I'm drained today; nevertheless, I wish you a great weekend.

Looking forward to reading what you think of this update. Take care always, and keep those love vibes rolling. Much love. X

#melodyheart #wonderwall #milesbetweenus #claire beauchamp/jamie fraser #claire beauchamp #jamie fraser #outlanderfanfic

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zackcollins · 4 years

Text

if you met me first ch. 2 || mathew barzal

chapter 1 || masterlist

Author’s Note: This was originally supposed to only be one part. Then I got an anon asking if I could write a part two because they’d like to see what would happen after the ending of the first part. Ask and you shall receive! But, uh... my stupid brain decided two parts wasn’t enough so, uh... they’ll be at least three parts. Knowing me though, they’ll end up being more than three. I hope you guys are okay with that (*insert sweat smile emoji*). GIF credit to chavelier!

Warnings: I don’t think there’s anything but feel free to tell me of anything deserves a warning. I’ll add it for you!

Word Count: 2.8k+

Title: If You Met Me First by Eric Ethridge

Additional: The reader is still gender-neutral. I made sure not to change that because I like consistency when there is more than one part and the previous part starts with a certain gender for the reader. Also! I’d like to thank @matbaerzal . I included something about a shorthanded goal for the Islanders but I don’t know much about their penalty kill alignments. She helped me with that by telling me some of the guys that are usually on it. She gave me five names but I ultimately picked Scott Mayfield. I’m not entirely sure why, if I’m honest. His name just spoke to me the most, I guess. Hope all of that’s okay and hope you enjoy this!

You sat there for a moment, phone gripped tightly to your ear. Mathew was breathing rapidly, starting to seem somewhat frantic. You sighed and bit your lip as you squeezed your eyes shut.

“I have feelings for you too,” you said, though it came out sounding like one word because you were so nervous.

You heard Mathew’s breathing even out as he let out a soft sigh. He chuckled before the line went dead. You dropped the phone on your lap and felt tears prickle the corners of your eyes. You sat there for a moment, wondering how you could ever have been so stupid to trust his admission. You felt betrayed by the person that mattered the most to you.

Not wanting to deal with anyone other than yourself, you turned your phone off and shoved it in your desk drawer. Anybody that wanted to talk to you could wait until you were done wallowing in the self-hatred of everything that had just transpired.

Needing something to distract yourself, you decided to deep clean your apartment. Twice. You wanted to make sure your mind was occupied so no thoughts of Mathew crept in. You also wanted to make sure that you didn’t miss anything from the first time.

When you were sure everything was cleaned, you washed the two weeks worth of laundry that had been gathering in your bedroom. It took you two hours to wash it all but you managed to get it done. It took an additional twenty-five minutes to fold everything and put it away but the laundry was finally dealt with after you had procrastinated it for the last week and a half.

When you needed a break from your chores, you switched on the television. You needed something to numb your mind and body; something to switch your thoughts off. Whatever deity existed must’ve been out for vengeance because the thing displayed on the television when it came to life was a rebroadcast of the Islanders vs. Flames game from that afternoon starting from the beginning of the second period. As much as you wanted to switch it off, something inside of you told you that you had to watch it.

As the second period progressed, you noticed that Mathew was playing with more enthusiasm and grit than you were used to seeing from him. He had bodychecked multiple Flames in an attempt to steal the puck from them. It had worked a few times but it led to an interference penalty on one occasion that Mathew looked none to pleased with. Luckily for him, Scott Mayfield was able to steal the puck from TJ Brodie and score a beautiful shorthanded goal short side on Cam Talbot. When the camera cut to Mathew in the penalty box, he was knocking his stick against the door and smiling with a relieved look on his face.

Your heartbeat sped up at that and you felt your stomach somersault. You cursed yourself for having a positive reaction to seeing him happy after what he had done to you. He wasn’t worth your time if he was going to toy with your emotions like he had, no matter how great of a friend you thought he was.

On the television, Mathew had exited the penalty box right as you had managed to get yourself under control. Josh Bailey had the puck and noticed Mathew behind the Flames defence. Josh quickly passed it to Mathew and Mathew sprung into action, skating toward Talbot. You gripped the arm of your couch, feeling every emotion you had tried to suppress hitting you all at once.

Mathew made it to the hash marks before he was hooked from behind by Rasmus Andersson. The referee shot his arm up and blew the whistle as soon as Talbot grabbed the puck after it trickled off Mathew’s stick. You sunk into the couch and covered your face as the referee pointed to centre ice.

You looked up as the referee was placing the puck on the faceoff dot on centre ice. You felt your entire body fill with dread as you watched Mathew skate in a circle by the Islanders bench. You didn’t know if you could handle seeing Mathew take a penalty shot. Yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to change the channel or turn the television off. Something was compelling you to watch this and you were too weak right now to fight against it.

When the referee pointed to the puck and blew the whistle, Mathew quickly handled it on his forehand before skating down the ice. As he got closer to Talbot, he switched the puck to his backhand, then his forehand, then his backhand again and moved slightly to his left. Talbot froze briefly, opening his five-hole in the process. Mathew took that opportunity to hammer the puck in through Talbot’s five-hole on his backhand. Talbot tried to close his five-hole but all that succeeded in doing was pushing the puck over the line with his skates. The referee pointed to the net and blew the whistle. As Mathew went down the bench for his fist bumps, you noticed that he looked directly at the camera with a smirk on his face. You weren’t sure why but you couldn’t shake the feeling that he had directed that at you specifically. Your stomach did another somersault at the mere thought of that.

The rest of the second period was rather uneventful. A couple penalties got drawn by both teams but no powerplay goals or shorthanded goals came of them. You were somewhat dreading the third period, unsure if you could handle any shenanigans that Mathew would inevitably get up to. You still felt compelled to watch the game and you were still too weak to fight against yourself so watch the game you would.

As the third period started you heard a knock at your apartment door. You found that odd because you hadn’t been expecting anyone. You wanted to ignore it because you weren’t in the mood for visitors but the knocking became insistent. You grumbled to yourself as you walked across the room and through the foyer to open the door. You had really regretted not looking through the peephole as soon as you laid eyes on the person on the other side.

“Mathew,” you exclaimed, taking a step backwards in surprise.

What surprised you even more was that he looked like he had been crying. As much as you didn’t want to see him right now (even though this was your first time seeing him face-to-face), you couldn’t in good faith leave him out in the apartment hallway while he looked the way he did. Your grandmother, who had been a therapist, would come back from the grave and smack you for being inconsiderate to someone that so obviously needed your help.

“Can I—“

“Yeah… yeah,” you interjected, somewhat absentmindedly. You stepped back further so Mathew could enter. “Let’s go.”

Mathew smiled weakly as he brushed by you. You blinked a few times and shook your head to make sure this was really happening. When it was clear that it was, you carefully closed the door and latched it. Even though Mathew had been an asshole earlier, something inside of you told you he posed no threat and that whatever he wanted was something that needed privacy.

When you turned around, you bumped your shoulder into Mathew’s chest. Mathew quickly reached out because you had stumbled a little. His face shifted from the anguish you get after a good crying session to guilt. You assumed the guilt was for standing too close to you and causing what happened to happen.

“Sorry,” he said, voice strained. “I didn’t mean… I just didn’t want to go into the apartment without you. I feel like it would’ve been rude because I don’t live here.”

You blinked when he took a moment to remove his shoes and place them on the shoe rack beside him before he followed you into the living room.

Mathew sat on the couch beside you and motioned in the direction of the shoe rack.

“Was… was I not supposed to do that,” he asked, voice a little concerned.

You quickly shook your head, holding your hands up.

“No,” you said. “Wait. I mean yes. Fuck.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose and sighed before looking at Mathew again. He looked confused but he was still looking at you intently.

“You were supposed to do that,” you said, sighing again. “I’m just not used to people doing it on their own volition.”

Mathew nodded and opened his mouth like he was going to reply but he quickly snapped it shut. His head swivelled to look at the television and that’s when you noticed that you had left the rebroadcast of the game playing. And, from what you could tell, Mathew had just scored.

You grabbed the remote but Mathew placed his hand over the top of it, blocking the power button. You tried to yank the remote backwards but something about the way Mathew was looking at you made you drop the remote onto his lap. Mathew smiled, although something about the way his eyes flicked from you to the television and then down to the remote told you the smile was a façade to hide how he was really feeling.

Not wanting to push Mathew and make him uncomfortable, you focused your attention back to the television. Just as you did that, you heard Mathew shift beside you. You briefly glanced at him but all he did was point at the television and smile while looking nervous. You raised an eyebrow but remained silent.

Just as you focused back on the television, Mathew scored his hat trick goal. You felt your heartbeat stutter and your stomach do a flip. When you looked at Mathew, he was staring intently at the television but you thought you saw a few wet lines on his cheeks. You went to say something but the announcer screaming Mathew’s name drew your attention back to the television.

When you looked, two minutes of game time had passed and Mathew had potted another goal. Your heartbeat faltered and your stomach did what felt like its millionth somersault of the day. As you watched everyone celebrate with Mathew on the television, you felt tears prickle the corners of your eyes.

You were watching the Flames fumble through a powerplay when you felt something nudge your leg. You glanced down and saw Mathew’s hand sitting on your thigh, palm up. You took the hint and placed your hand in his. Even though he had been an asshole earlier, you had felt the need to forgive him when he decided to come all this way to see you, even if he hadn’t actually said sorry yet. Actions spoke louder than words.

Mathew squeezed your hand, which made you look at him. He smiled softly, cheeks shining from obvious tear stains. You wiped away the tear stains right as the announcers screamed Mathew’s name again. You both looked at the television and saw that he had scored his fifth goal with only thirty seconds left in the game.

Mathew grabbed your other hand and squeezed them both. As the end horn sounded, Mathew dropped your hands and nodded towards the television. You raised an eyebrow but focused your attention where he had directed.

As the teams skated off the ice, a reporter pulled Mathew aside. He took his helmet off and placed it on the top of his stick.

“Mat,” she started, pausing when the crowd roared with a chorus of cheers and boos. She and Mathew both chuckled.

“You had the game of your life this afternoon. Was there anything that motivated it?”

Mathew put his glove in his mouth and nibbled on it for a moment. When he was done with that, he took the glove off so he could run his fingers through his hair. The reporter didn’t seem phased by the delay as she stood there, holding the microphone in front of Mathew.

Mathew sighed and bit his lip as he put his glove back on. He leaned against the top of his helmet and looked at the reporter.

“The person I’m in love with loves me back,” he said, smiling softly. “I needed to impress them.”

The reporter smiled as she looked at Mathew.

“They better be impressed. You scored five goals and had two assists,” she said. “Go get them, Mat. I won’t keep you any longer. Congratulations again. On your game and your relationship.”

The television screen suddenly went black after that. You turned to Mathew and saw him holding the remote, his finger on the power button. He quickly threw the remote to the side and you both jumped a little when it crashed into the glass top of the coffee table.

“Sorry,” Mathew mumbled.

You put your finger on his lips and shook your head.

“Don’t,” you said, dropping your finger. “There’s nothing to apologize for. I just have to ask one thing.”

Mathew looked at you and raised an eyebrow.

“Why did you hang up after I told you I felt the same way?”

Mathew sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“I called you during intermission,” he said. “Coach caught me with my phone and told me to hang up or he’d bench me for the rest of the game.”

You felt tension you didn’t know you had been holding onto release from your body. Mathew ran his thumbs across your wrists and you relaxed a little more. You melted into the touch and shifted closer to Mathew, dropping your head against his shoulder. Mathew took that opportunity to wrap his arm around you and run one of his hands soothingly along your back. You sighed and wiggled in closer to Mathew’s touch.

The two of you sat there in silence. You were taking in the moment of finally being cuddled against the man you loved more than anything. It felt better than any of your wildest dreams. It made you feel complete. It made you feel happy.

“I’m happy too,” Mathew said, kissing the top of your head.

You hadn’t realized you had said that out loud but you were glad that you had. Hearing Mathew affirm your feelings made you feel ten times better. It made you feel better knowing that he wanted this as much as you did.

“Why wouldn’t I want this as much as you? You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. It just took Tito telling me that every person I’ve ever dated had a carbon copy of your personality for me to notice.”

Realizing you said that out loud made your face heat up because of the response you got. You buried your head as far into Mathew’s neck as you could. Mathew chuckled and lifted your head up so you were looking him in the eyes.

“Hey,” Mathew said, tapping your nose with his finger. “It means I like your personality type. And, more importantly, I like the original the most.”

You felt your stomach do a somersault for the nth time that day as you looked at the pure expression on Mathew’s face. You smiled as you brushed a piece of Mathew’s hair out of his face. Mathew leaned into the touch, humming softly.

Your eyes darted down to his lips and then back to his eyes. Mathew nodded and that was all it took for you to surge forward and connect your lips with his.

As you kissed, your mind went blank. You couldn’t think of anything but the fact that you were kissing the man that you had waited what felt like forever to kiss.

When you pulled back, Mathew was panting slightly and some of his hair was stuck to his forehead. You swallowed and ran your fingers through that hair to brush it away. Mathew shivered and leaned forward a little. You leaned forward and rested your forehead against his. Mathew puffed a breath against your swollen lips, which caused you to shiver.

You pulled back right then to yawn and stretch your arms above your head.

“Sorry, I—“

“Fall asleep on the couch with me,” Mathew said, laying down on the couch and moving as far over as he could to make room for you.

“Don’t you have to get back to the hotel,” you asked, though you did lay down and cuddle against him.

Mathew chuckled and shifted around a little. You patted his shoulder when you were comfortable. He kissed the top of your head and slung his arm around you.

“Nah. We’re in our bye week right now. I don’t have to get back until tomorrow when I check out and we fly to St. Lucia.”

You hummed and closed your eyes.

Your eyes shot open a minute later when your brain registered what Mathew had said.

“I get to go to St. Lucia?!”

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whitecrowapothecary · 4 years

Text

Like A Dream

Jaskier has had dreams for as long as he could remember- of monsters and magic and all the things that go bump in the night. He dreams of golden eyes and silver swords and honeyed ballads.

AKA the modern immortal/reincarnation AU no one asked for but I’m writing

Read it on AO3 here!

There’s music around him. Coming from him, his throat warm and honeyed with the lyrics he sings. Not him- the bard, the unknown man who captures his mind at night when he closes his eyes. He- they- are playing for an audience. Jaskier is used to this, the wayward looks, captured attention, but it’s… new. There’s an instrument in his hand he’s never learned to play and lyrics on his lips he’s never written, clothes resplendent of another time, another world, and he drinks it in with abandon. Full, flowing skirts, jackets made of the richest silk brocade in all colors, though all are muted compared to the bright, rich amethyst ensemble he seems to have donned for the performance.

He’s deep into his set, if he should call it that, singing about a fishmongers daughter just to get a laugh out of the crowd when his eyes catch on a small, insignificant detail. Jaskier sings and sways among the royalty around him, but all he can see is gold with flecks of amber, curious cat eyes watching him from the shadows. He takes a step closer, then two, then three until he’s propelling through the crowd, and just as a jaw covered in a neat snow white beard is unearthed from the shadows, a blare sounds, and the image shatters.

He gasps awake, clutching at his chest and trying to quell the shaking of his hands. Sweat sticks his hair to the back of his neck and his forehead in small curls which Jaskier rakes a hand through. On the nightstand, next to the bed, his phone vibrates, clanking softly against the wood until Jaskier scoops it up and hits answer. There are only a handful of people who will actually ring through.

“What, Pris?”

“Ah, woke you up huh? Touchy touchy. You haven’t forgotten about our brunch date, have you?” The voice on the other end is perky, far too awake for Jaskier’s liking right now.

“No, no of course not. You aren’t here yet, are you?” He slips from bed, grimacing and rummaging through his closet for something to wear, phone pinched between his ear and his shoulder.

“Almost, a block away.”

“Shit, okay, let yourself in?” The woman on the other end hums, amused, and Jaskier hangs up. Leave it to him to fail to set an alarm for something like this. He drags his sorry carcass into the bathroom, intent on getting a shower. He feels cold and sticky for all the wrong reasons, and when he looks at himself in the mirror the blue in his eyes is offset by the purple bags underneath. It’s… not an attractive look for himself. The hot water pounds against his back when he hops under the spray and he groans, letting it wash over him. Praying it’ll wash away the dream that seems to cling to him, digging at his bones and refusing to leave.

He’d had the dreams for as long as he could remember- at first they were nothing more than terrors, dreams of hideous, foul smelling creatures with sharp claws. Claws that regularly tore into the soft flesh of his belly, or the tender meat of his thigh, leaving him to wake up screaming and thrashing in bed. His parents, bless them, had tried everything to help, from heavy medication to therapy to a stint in a mental facility, but nothing took the monsters away. Medication only trapped him within his dreams, unable to wake up until he was well and thoroughly taken apart, and therapists only insisted the monsters were representations of some trauma he’d sustained as a child. The stay at the mental facility, well, that was more a break for his parents than thirteen year old Jaskier.

He’d learned to hide them, since then, to hold people at arms length and keep them from seeing what he truly was. The monsters rarely followed him into real life, but on the occasion he saw mention of a kikimore on the news, or a striga cropped up in Germany somewhere, well, it was all too easy to flip the channel and pretend. Now though… it was becoming harder and harder to leave his dreams behind when the sun came up. The dreams had shifted when he was almost eighteen, from monsters hunting and maiming him to something else- instruments and performances and gaudy, awful clothing he had no name for. Days spent walking and walking and walking, sweating under the sun but grinning like it didn’t bother whoever was in his dreams. It was harder still, to pretend that the performer in his dreams didn’t have his hands, his wonderful, skillful fingers, or the voice he’d spent years fine tuning.

He’s knocked from his reverie by the sound of his front door opening and clicking shut and the smell of food drifting in. His stomach growls loudly, protesting it’s current situation, and Jaskier hurries to finish his shower and get dressed. He’s got a towel in hand, scrubbing at his hair when he pads out barefoot and spots the blonde currently tinkering with his tv remote. Her blue eyes are bright, friendly, and she motions to the spread of food currently piled on his coffee table.

“Got you coffee.”

“Thank Melitele.” He makes a beeline for it, not caring the way it burns his tongue as he gulps it down. That draws a laugh from his companion, and he throws himself onto the couch, settling his legs across her lap and tossing his towel onto the chair nearby. He’ll get it later. “You’re a godsend, you know that Priscilla?”

A small smile plays on the woman’s lips, colored by rouge lipstick, and she raises a brow. “I do, but it’s nice to hear. Did you not sleep at all last night, Jaskier?”

“Ah, I’m afraid my muse kept me up, as usual.” He grins at her, reaching out to snag a strawberry from her plate before bending to get at the french toast on the coffee table. It smells absolutely divine, and maybe some food will make him feel more like himself and less like a shell of someone else.

“You really need to learn how to prioritize sleep.” Priscilla says, shaking her head fondly and digging into her eggs. He hums, half paying attention to the news on the screen. It’s nothing new, stocks going up and down, the latest in sports, and something about him, actually. Talking about his newest single that’s put him up in the top ten- Her Sweet Kiss. Jaskier clicks away before they can play the music, drawing a laugh from Priscilla. “You know, you never told me where the song came from.”

“Didn’t I? A whirlwind affair in Europe, during my last tour. She was… incredible, shall I say? Truly someone never forgotten.” He’s bullshitting and Priscilla knows it. The song had come to him, as most do now, in his dreams. Ringing through his ears in a voice so close to his he can feel his throat burning when he wakes up. She doesn’t press though- she knows better than to push Jaskier too far. The glassy, far away look he got when thinking about whatever it was that inspired his songs was sad, old, and lingered on Jaskier’s face the rest of the day. Jaskier focuses on eating now, barely tasting bite after bite and only stopping when his stomach is full. Priscilla does much the same, but she chatters through the melancholy.

Jaskier stops himself on a random show, listening to Priscilla but staring at the screen. It’s something nonsense, talking about old instruments, but his hand stops mid bite, the french toast falling back onto his plate with a wet smack. He stares, wide eyed, at the wide, oval bowl of the instrument and the short, sturdy neck. The strings, there are more than a guitar but not nearly enough- no, his had more. Six pairs, one singular. His?

“-ier? Jaskier, what is it?”

“What is that?” His voice sounds strange, words twisted faintly by an accent he’s never had before, and he sets his plate down as Priscilla looks between him and the tv.

“An instrument? You put on the show.”

“But what kind?” At this Priscilla frowns. She doesn’t seem to know either, and she shrugs reluctantly.

“We could ask Essi, I’m sure she knows more. Why, do you recognize it?”

“No.” He says softly, switching the tv off. He ignores Priscilla’s worried look and goes instead to put on socks and shoes, grabbing his jacket and pulling it on. It’s big, engulfs his frame, but there’s something about it he couldn’t get out of his head when he’d seen it in a thrift shop off of 28th. It’s also entirely too hot outside to need it, but he feels naked without it, and the hood will give him a better chance at remaining hidden. Not that that happens much anymore. Priscilla has the food cleaned up when he steps out of his room, and she swings her keys around her finger, lingering near the door.

“Where are we going today, my famous friend?” Jaskier rolls his eyes, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Anywhere but here. I think I’ll go mad if I hide in bed anymore.”

“That’s the spirit! There’s this new music store on Madison we could check out, and then that little bistro for a late lunch-” Her words fade from his ears as they merge into the crowd outside of his apartment building. He slips on sunglasses, nondescript ones he’d gotten from a random gas station, and prays that today he looks like anyone else. With Priscilla at his side, arm looped through his, no one pays much attention to the couple wandering down the street, chattering away. Jaskier feels a rush of gratitude for his friend, for the unwavering presence she is in his life. He’s not sure how he would have managed his budding fame without her, or handled being recognized everywhere once his face and name and music became more common knowledge.

“You’re the one who wrote the songs.” A rough voice reminds him, teasing.

“Yes, well, I didn’t expect them to break into my HOUSE for an autograph!”

“Get better doors. And a guard.” He drowns in those eyes, an endless pool of gold, and he reaches up to brush a stray lock of hair away, a smile stretching his lips wide.

“Why would I need anyone other than you?”

Jaskier stumbles over a crack in the sidewalk, pitching forward, and it’s only Priscilla next to him that keeps him standing. He rights himself, cheeks pink, and laughs despite his heart pounding in his chest.

“Ah, rather clumsy today. I probably should have had more coffee.”

“Or more sleep.” She counters, Jaskier laughing again and nodding in agreement. More sleep is definitely what he needs. A nice, dreamless sleep. Maybe if he gets that, he’ll be able to function like a human being again, instead of walking through the world with half a mind stuck firmly in fiction. The music shop is a quaint, cute little building tucked in a strip of other quaint buildings, and Jaskier ducks into the dim light of the shop. There are rows and rows of cds, vinyls, movies and more, and his eyes track along them all, taking in the sights and colors. There are plenty of instruments on the wall, guitars, basses, a couple of keyboards and a few sets of bongos even. There seems to be little rhyme or reason besides the alphabetical arrangement of the displays, and Jaskier spends his time wandering while Priscilla goes straight for the vinyls.

He’s near the back of the shop, by the counter when he spots an instrument on display behind the glass display. The sight is enough to make him freeze, and he stares at the smooth wood, the graceful curve of the instrument, finding that his fingers have begun to twitch. This can’t be a coincidence.

“Do you play?” A voice breaks through to him, and he has to blink a few times before he can focus on the man standing before him. His dark hair curls rather attractively, falling around his face and framing rather striking hazel eyes. Jaskier’s countenance sours immediately, and he squints suspiciously. It takes the man a moment, but he grins wide when he recognizes Jaskier. “Dandelion! A pleasure to have you here.”

“Valdo. This is your shop?”

“It is indeed, opened it up after my last album.” He’s proud, almost annoyingly so, but Jaskier begrudgingly has to admit the shop is rather nice. His eyes wander back to the instrument behind Valdo, and Valdo raises his brows. “You never said if you played. Would you like to hold it?”

“You’d let me?”

“I’ve seen how you care for your guitar. I’d warn you it’s expensive, but I know you’re good for any damages.” Jaskier snorts as the other man goes to grab the instrument, and his fingers drum against his thighs. “Do you even know what this is?”

“Not a clue.” Jaskier’s hands are reaching for it as soon as Valdo holds it out, and he tucks the strap around his body. The neck settles into his hands, fingers resting on the strings, and a line of tension holding his body razor tight snaps.

“It’s a-” The soft sound of Jaskier plucking out a melody stops Valdo short, and Jaskier closes his eyes to ward off the dizziness.

A fire crackles merrily in front of him as he plays, tinkering away at a tune with his notebook close by. He isn’t sure about the harmony of the piece, the way the notes blend together. There’s something missing, and he can’t figure out what it is. He stops with a heavy sigh, scrubbing at his face and wracking his brain.

“You’re missing the lowest note in the harmony.”

“Pardon?” He looks up, sees the sensual curve of a small smirk on a very ruggedly handsome face, and those eyes, always those eyes staring back. The man comes over, reeking of pine and metal and home, and reaches to softly pluck at one of the strings. The note rings out and Jaskier latches on.

“Try.” The man whispers, and Jaskier does, drawing the note into his harmony and grinning at the fully bodied life it brings.

Jaskier’s head is spinning when he finally opens his eyes again, Valdo staring at him with unabashed surprise. Priscilla is at his side, hand on his elbow to hold him steady, and he glances down at the familiar way in which his hands hold the lute. Because that’s what it is- his favorite instrument, the thing that made him coin and granted him fame and found him a-

Jaskier’s heart cracks in his chest, and his breath punches out of him in one big whoosh. He lifts the lute over his head, pressing it back into Valdo’s hands before turning to bolt out the front door of the shop. He doesn’t know where he’s going, merely that he has to get away, to find somewhere safe. He feels a thousand eyes on him, whispers following his frantic fleeing, and he ducks into an alleyway, hiding behind a trash can and pressing his back to the brick wall. There’s a stitch in his side from his frantic running and his hands won’t stop shaking as he rakes his fingers through his hair. The song rings through him, as fresh as the day it was written, and the lyrics come to him unbidden.

He’s crazy. He’s well and truly crazy, because there’s no way what he’s seeing can be real, but it’s so vividly him, buried so deep in his heart that there’s no way it could be fake either. His breath comes from him faster and faster, and tears blur his vision as he folds his knees up to his chest and rocks. Priscilla finds him that way, huddled in a ball amongst the trash, sobbing and muttering to himself, and she uses the large hood of his jacket to hide his face as she gets him home. Jaskier has calmed enough to get himself up the stairs when they manage to stumble their way back, and his chest aches from the pounding of his heart.

The tremor in his hands hasn’t abated yet, but the mug that’s pressed into his hands doesn’t shake, so he just enjoys the warmth that it brings him. Priscilla seems at a loss for words, but Jaskier knows what she wants to ask. “Just say it, Pris.”

“What happened? You haven’t been yourself all morning- first with the tv, and then the lute in the shop? Jaskier, I’ve never seen you like this.”

“I have dreams.” He says, voice so soft it’s almost lost in the sound of his heartbeat. “And lately, I can’t tell what’s real and what’s not.”

Priscilla reaches out, touching his shoulder lightly, and her face is soft, sad. “They’re just dreams. What you do here, the music you make, that’s what’s real.”

Jaskier nods, but his heart is plummeting in his chest and he doesn’t know why. Priscilla’s words should be a comfort, someone rooted in his reality telling him that his dreams are just that- dreams. The result of an overactive imagination. That’s all they are, all they’ve ever been. Jaskier tries not to let the thought suck him down somewhere he doesn’t want to go, but it’s near impossible to fight the tide rising in him. “They’re just dreams.”

He takes a sip of his lukewarm drink to find that it’s tea- the stuff he usually drinks as a last resort before bed time. It’s never worked before, but Jaskier downs the rest of it and hopes that this time, it will. Priscilla waits until he’s finished to take the cup, and when she comes back she’s holding a very large, very lute shaped object in her hands. Jaskier frowns, confused, but takes it from her anyway, tracing fingers over the lacquered wood. It’s smooth and warm under his touch, and he finds himself picking at the strings just to hear the sound. “Valdo said that it was yours.”

“I didn’t pay him.”

“He knew you’d say that. He said, and I quote ‘I’ve only been holding it for him.’ Whatever that might mean.” Jaskier schools his features into careful indifference, trying not to let his discomfort show. What in the hell does he mean by that? He’s going to have to go back to the shop and talk to him to find out, but he’s not inclined to leave his apartment for the foreseeable future. Priscilla, sensing the mood has gone down, ruffles Jaskier’s hair and gives his shoulders a squeeze. “Take some time, Dandy, get some sleep, then come back.”

Jaskier makes a soft noise in his throat at the silly nickname, but it’s sweet and Jaskier has never told her to stop. He watches her duck out of the apartment with one last look his way, and once the door clicks shut, locking behind her, he grips the lute tighter. He hasn’t ever played formally- has never been trained, and while a guitar is similar, there’s more strings than ever and he expects to fumble.

He doesn’t.

His fingers know what to do even without his brain, and he hums along to the melody from before. Here, in the safety of his apartment, he plays and plays until the song is firmly committed to memory and he’s written down the lyrics to go along with it. A song about the monster of the wood, a cruel, hungry creature with the head of a deer, stalking him in the night.

“You need to listen to me-”

“I’m your barker, for better or worse. How can I bark if I never see anything?”

“You stay alive for a day longer.” His hands shake with anger, chest burning with it, and the man in front of him, golden eyes fierce and animal, glares back just as hotly. They’re nose to nose practically, and his head pounds in time with his heartbeat as his hands come up, shoving the man away and watching in shock as he goes.

“Go then. I’ll be here, tending your fire and watching your horse, as that is all I am good for.” He turns then, but a hand grabs at his arm, turning him around on his heel. He pulls against it, fights to be released, but Geralt’s hand bunches in his shirt above his heart and holds him. “Geralt-”

“For better or worse, Jaskier.” His eyes meet gold, molten and scalding, and he’s speechless at the sincere intensity in Geralt’s gaze. “I would rather it be better.”

“You don’t get to decide that-” Geralt cuts him off with a kiss, lips hard against his own. It’s awkward, a bit painful, but Jaskier tilts his head, pulls back a bit and Geralt responds in kind. He kisses, Jaskier decides, like a man who has been kissed not nearly enough, and he commits himself to fixing that immediately. Geralt’s grip loosens in Jaskier’s shirt, but Jaskier’s hand comes up to bury in snow white locks, keeping him close as his heart rockets into his throat.

The strings of the lute dig painfully into his fingers when he comes to, and he shakes himself, releasing his tight hold and groaning when blood rushes back into the pads of his fingers. He tucks the lute back away in its case, not wanting to look at the flowers painted onto the wood along its wide belly. He tells himself not to touch the lute, to leave it alone so that all this will go away, but the longer he sits on his couch, leg bouncing and tv on some awful movie the more his fingers itch to play.

Instead, he forces himself to get up, to pull out his vacuum and mop and cleaning supplies. He spends the afternoon scrubbing down every inch of the apartment, puts away his laundry, and even tidies up his desk, which is a rather artful disarray of papers. Some, like Priscilla, call it a mess, but Jaskier knows where each piece of paper goes, and he prefers it stays that way. Cleaning can only distract him for so long, and once the smell of lemon cleaner becomes too much he caves, grabbing the lute and ducking out onto his balcony.

The sun is beginning to descend on the city, and he allows it to warm his bones and loosen his muscles as he plays. Each song that comes from him is new and old and entirely his, each rich, resounding note a piece of him. The instrument is no more a stranger to him than his guitar, or his flute, or any of the other instruments he’s picked up and enjoyed along the way. Its weight, the feeling of the double strings pressing under his fingers is home to him, and he plays long after the sun is set. There’s a reckoning, a righteousness within this instrument that calls to the deepest parts of Jaskier’s soul, and he finds himself crying with no real reason as to why.

He cries silently, holding the lute close to him and staring out over the city. Cars rush past his building, far below, and somewhere nearby a dog barks. But it’s all background noise- it’s nothing compared to the harsh intake of his breath or the way that it shudders out of him. When he can’t stand it anymore he retreats back inside, leaving his lute on his dresser before stripping down and crawling into bed. There, buried under blankets and utterly, terribly alone, Jaskier closes his eyes and dreams.

“You’re alive.” A low, rough voice breathes behind him. He turns, but he already knows what will be waiting for him, and he can feel his face lighting up in a grin.

“Geralt! Of course I’m alive, how could the world bear to part with me just yet?” His heart jackrabbits in his chest at the sight of the man before him, clad as always, in dark armor and a stormy, conflicted expression. Well, the expression is new. The armor, not so much. He finds himself smiling for no real reason as to why, but Geralt’s face is open and honest and terrified, and he can’t keep from reaching out to gently touch his cheek.

“There were rumors- about a bard, having been murdered by a beast.”

“As if I could be harmed by a beast with you protecting me.”

“But I wasn’t.” Jaskier takes a step forward, cupping his witcher’s cheek and smiling when Geralt leans into the touch.

The dream dissolves as Jaskier shifts, drifting between consciousness and unconsciousness. The latter wins out, and his body drifts away while his mind slips again.

Blue eyes stare at him through the mirror. It isn’t a great mirror, small and cracked and woven with imperfections, but he won’t need it for long. He only needs to make sure his hair is presentable, his golden doublet unmarred by any stains, and that his smile, when shown just so, is as charming and delightful as always.

“You’re fussing.” Geralt says, and Jaskier knows, his heart knows that voice and the hand that slides over his hip better than anything. He finds himself leaning back against a strong chest, laughing and tipping his head back.

“Some of us care for our appearance before a performance.” An amused hum, and then lips on his neck, gentle and sweet, kissing a trail up toward Jaskier’s waiting lips. He sinks into the kiss, turning as Geralt’s arms come up and around him, careful not to crease Jaskier’s clothes.

“How long will you be gone?”

“Most of the night. You’re free to come, love. I’m sure they’d love to pester the White Wolf himself.”

“Mmm, pester is right.” The warmth in his chest is softer now, with no edges of anger, and he knows what this is. It’s love. Pure and unfettered by doubt.

That same warmth burns in his chest when he jerks up in bed, leaping from under the covers to run into his bathroom. The mirror he has now is perfect- gleaming with the fresh cleaning he’d done just today and showing his reflection without any defects. The same blue eyes stare back, sweeping over the same lips, the same cheekbones and nicely shaped jawbone. The same messy, tousled brown hair as the bard in the dream. As him . Whoever he was- is- is long gone- left behind in another life completely. That isn’t him anymore, it can’t be, but when he thinks, and thinks hard, they’re there. All the memories, the times in between his dreams. The first time he’d seen Geralt, sitting in the back of a tavern refusing to meet anyone’s eyes, to draw any unwanted attention to him. The feeling of his hair, so devoid of color, twisting around his fingers as he washed blood and viscera from them. His friends- Priscilla, in her blue and red ensemble with the poofy shorts, Essi, a near twin to Priscilla, only shorter and plumper. Valdo, his rival, the troubadour who writes songs without any meaning but somehow comes out on top.

Valdo.

Jaskier scrambles for his phone, dropping it twice before finally swiping open the screen. He has his number, more to make sure he never answers than anything, but now, now he needs it more than anything else. He hits dial without letting himself think, holding his phone to his ear and shifting nervously from foot to foot. The line rings and rings, and just as he thinks it'll go to voicemail he hears a soft click.

"Dandelion? It's nearly three in the morning, what could you-"

"I'm not crazy."

"Debatable." Valdo's voice is amused, but when Jaskier doesn't respond he quickly grows serious.

"You said you were keeping the lute for me." His words are rolling in his mouth, voice mangled by an accent that he can't seem to keep away or bring back. He hears a sharp intake of breath, and then a long, shuddering sigh.

"I was, Julian. For far, far too long. Meet me at the diner on Broadmoor." The line goes dead and Jaskier is left to get ready, a long, long dead name ringing in his ears.

-*-

There are three diners on Broadmoor. Jaskier curses his luck, but only one seems to have the lights on and so Jaskier heads that way first. He pulls on the door and is hit in the face by the smell of stale coffee and hash browns. He glances around, searching, and spots Valdo in a booth back in the corner. His face is drawn, hair a mess, but he has a cup of coffee waiting For Jaskier when he slides into the cheap plastic booth. Valdo slides the mug toward him and he clasps it in his hands, sniffing lightly. He debates putting sugar or cream in it, but he needs the caffeine too badly right now to care much about the bitter taste. Valdo watches his internal debate with a raised brow, leaning back in the booth and sighing.

“You remember.” Jaskier accuses, wincing at the way his tone sounds. Valdo takes it in stride, tilting his head in a small nod and sipping at his coffee.

“I always have. I didn’t know if you would this time around.”

“This time?” Valdo nods again, and Jaskier is quickly becoming frustrated by the non answers. “Valdo, what the fuck is going on?”

“Reincarnation. You’ve heard of it before, yes?” Jaskier nods, and Valdo continues on. “There are some of us who keep coming back. Not always with memories, not always whole. I seem to have no problem keeping them, but others like Priscilla, or Essi, or-”

“Are they really reincarnations?” Jaskier frowns- how much is it reincarnation if you’re just the same body without knowing if your consciousness is the same?

“I said that, didn’t I?” His glare is enough to set a house on fire, but Valdo doesn’t fold under the pressure, instead waving for menus to be brought over. “For decades I was unsure why. Why us? Nothing seemed to connect us together, just random strangers being brought through life. Until I found out you came along as well.”

“You’re saying that I’m the link?”

“You know us all, have some kind of connection. You are the one constant in each of our lives.”

“But the others, they don’t remember?”

“They never have.” Valdo orders something for the two of them, waving away Jaskier’s protest, and plows forward in his conversation. “You don’t always either. I’ve held that lute for the past two reincarnations, neither of which you retained memories for. But you remember now, or are beginning to.”

“Yes.” Jaskier’s voice is a whisper, and admitting it, saying that it’s real takes a weight off his shoulders he didn’t know he was carrying.

“Tell me how?” It’s phrased as a request, and Jaskier nods, staring at his coffee to try and ward off his tears.

“I was seventeen when my dreams started feeling real- performances or days on the road, nights spent stitching wounds or bandaging cuts. Lately they’ve-”

“Been bleeding into your waking hours. Like when you played in the shop.” Valdo’s interrupting makes irritation flare in the back of his mind, but he tamps it down. He’s only trying to help, and is filling in more details than Jaskier would have gotten on his own. Their food comes then, and Jaskier watches as some kind of breakfast scramble is placed in front of him. It’s heavy with hashbrowns, eggs, bacon and cheese. It looks awful. Jaskier digs in hungrily, groaning at the heavenly taste- shitty overnight diners always have the best food. They eat their food in relative silence, too hungry and tired to care much to continue with something else in front of them.

This all seems fake, too good to be real. Valdo’s instant reassurance of what he’s feeling, what he’s dreaming, it has to be some kind of con, some way to get dirt on him. He expects the other man to laugh any minute, to call him crazy and tell him he needs serious help. He’s waiting for a punchline that isn’t coming, and it makes him anstier and anstier by the second. It explains so much- the old, old memories he has of a time before electricity, or running water, of nobles and peasants and monsters. Of witchers and sorceresses and bards. There are newer memories too- of him in a diner much like this, sitting across from a man with white hair and shining golden eyes. Of dancing in a club to his own music, standing alongside all the others in a rally, holding a sign protesting the inequality that ruins his life while cameras show his face. Through it all, his companion is there- a silent, steady presence.

“There’s- a man. Who I am desperately in love with, no matter who I am.”

“Your witcher. White hair, cat eyes?” He doesn’t need to nod for Valdo to know the answer, and he grins. “His name is Geralt of Rivia, though Rivia is long gone now.”

“Is he…”

“Alive? Of course. They, unlike us, do not die.”

“They?” He doesn’t even get a chance to let Valdo talk, his vision going blurry and ears ringing.

“C’mere asshole!” Jaskier laughs, darting away from the witcher intent on catching him. It isn’t Geralt- his hair is dark and cropped short, voice smoother, less gravelly. He’s also much, much more expressive.

“Catch me if you can!” His lungs hurt from running and laughing so much, and he squeaks as hands grab the back of his doublet and yank him to a stop. Jaskier squirms as arms wrap around him, and he pouts, letting himself go deadweight. “You aren’t supposed to use your witchery powers, you know.”

“Oops.” He’s let go then, and Jaskier shoves the other man lightly, grinning.

“Ass. Maybe I’ll go find Eskel, at least he follows the rules of the game.”

“Rules are for peasants.”

“Then you should fit right in, Lambert.” He dodges a swat to the back of the head, laughing and disappearing further into the keep.

Valdo is staring at him expectantly when he blinks, the stone walls and cold breeze fading away from his mind. His food is lukewarm in front of him, and he takes a big bite just to avoid having to say anything yet. Valdo is too smug for his own good though, and he sits forward, grinning.

“Jogged your memory, eh?”

“Shut up.” His insufferable grin only grows bigger, and Jaskier wants to smack it off his face or strangle him. Either would work, honestly. “Is there some way to contact him, or any of them?”

“Not unless you’re a government official, or happen to know someone who had a pest problem. But, there is something that might work.”

“What?”

“Your songs. I'm sure you've already written new ones with the lute- release them in an album. If they’re listening, which is near impossible not to with your reputation, they’ll find you .”

“What if they don’t?”

“Then I suppose you’ll have to bed a government agent.” Jaskier scoffs, wrinkling his nose, but Valdo wags his eyebrows and he can’t help the laugh that bubbles up from his chest. He falls into silence then, staring down at the rest of his food, and his voice is soft when he finally finds the courage to speak.

“Thank you. For keeping it safe.” When he glances up, Valdo’s eyes are bright, shining with relief.

-*-

Jaskier does what he does best- he writes a few songs, then writes a few more, until he’s bursting with music and lyrics and ideas. He gets himself into his studio and doesn’t leave until he’s recorded an entire album, with his lute being the main focus. It brings with it a new, exciting kind of charm that his producers eat right up, a kind of mystical energy that isn’t present in any of Jaskier’s other songs.

It’s also a release- he lets go of the monsters that haunted him, bringing them roaring into his music instead and letting them run wild. His dreams are still plagued by memories, but the more he plays, the more he tries to remember, the easier it gets. Turns out when you stop fighting against a piece of yourself, letting it in is much, much easier. The music videos are his favorite part of the whole process- he crafts one specific to each song, embedding as much of a message as he can in the hopes that one of the witcher’s will see. Will see him and know him, and extend a hand.

He tries to look up the witchers, to see if there’s any kind of way to find them online, but Lambert is too common a name and he has no clue what last name he would use, if any. Eskel’s name yields less results, but still too many for him to narrow down, and he’s left back at square one for them. Geralt’s name? Now that pulls up results.

‘ The witcher, most formally known as Geralt of Rivia, is one of the world’s only practicing monster slayers, and a bit of a recluse. He was last spotted hunting some kind of sea serpent along the mediterranean, and then boarded a plane bound for America.’

‘Geralt of Rivia, White Wolf, was allegedly seen decapitating a local woman at a train station in France. When questioned by police, they were informed that the woman was a bruxa who had been preying on locals. Mr. Rivia was released without further incident.’

That article makes Jaskier laugh, and he prints it out to tack above his desk on his cork board. Leave it to Geralt to scare everyone around him while doing his job. Any article related to Geralt gets its spot on the board, actually and he’s fairly certain he looks like a stalker, but they’re his only glimpse into what Geralt has been up to. It makes the pain easier to handle, knowing he’s just been too busy to seek Jaskier out, and certainly not ignoring the neon signs that are his music. Half of them are Geralt’s exploits, after all, and if he doesn’t recognize them then Jaskier has failed to faithfully recreate them.

But the songs work- somewhat. In a small town somewhere in the midwest, a witcher hears Jaskier’s music, and begins to hunt for his white haired brother.

Jaskier, in the meantime goes about his life, bouncing from interview to interview, one of which he’s in now. The chair is somewhat uncomfortable and the lights are a little too bright, but the woman interviewing him is new, nervous, and he does his best to put her at ease.

“You’re doing great, love. What were you saying?”

The woman blushes, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear before asking again. “Your newest album, it pulls away from the bouncier, lighter tone of your second album. Why?”

“Good question. Writing fun music is wonderful, lovely, but I, and I’m sure you’ll be surprised, have my own fears. Monsters that haunt my dreams, who begged to be put into song.”

“So the songs are based on dreams?”

“Now you’re catching on.” Jaskier winks, drawing another giggle from her, and he leans back in his chair, tilting his head. “No one can tell me they don’t dream of dark and twisted things sometimes. Of wanting a knight in shining armor to come save them.”

“That’s an incredible way to put it. Are any of the monsters in your songs real?”

“Oh yes. The leshy, or leshen is a forest spirit that is said to roam the deepest parts of a forest. There are also ghouls, terrible hunchback creatures who stalk battlefields, and basilisks, large winged creatures with iridescent scales and scalding breath.”

He sees his interviewer shudder, and his gaze goes soft, a wistful smile tugging at his lips. “Where did you hear about these monsters?”

“From a friend, years ago.”

"Do you still talk to them?"

Jaskier's eyes find the camera, and it's a terrible cliche to spike the lens, but he does it anyway. "We lost contact a while back. I'm hoping that… through my music, I can find him again."

"Well, I'm sure your fanbase can help!"

"That they can." Jaskier grins, glancing back at the interviewer, and he hears someone yell cut behind them. He stands, shaking her hand and giving her a quick hug. He murmurs a few words of encouragement, and when he ducks into the room they've designated for him he tells his producer to send her something. Flowers or a gift or anything. She handled him like a champ. It's thankfully his last interview of the day, and he grabs his lute, which he brought just in case before ducking out the door. He makes his escape from the building out onto the street with relative ease, slinging his lute across his back to navigate the crowds easier. The amount of times he’s had to refuse security before they learned was more than he could count. He's stopped a few times by fans, asking to take pictures, and he glances at them on his phone once his Twitter dings.

@dandelion stopped and took a picture! Best day ever!

The rest of the post is filled with heart eye emojis and hashtags, but Jaskier stares at the photo. The awful stripes and swirls on his button up are reminiscent of a bowling alley floor, but his jeans are cute and his boots top the whole outfit off. He thought it'd looked cute when he put it on, and is pleased to see that others agree. He looks better in general- the bags under his eyes are all but gone and there's a confidence in the set of his shoulders he hadn't noticed before. Like knowing who he is has completed a puzzle he didn't know he'd lost a piece to.

He tucks his phone back into his pocket as he skips down the steps to the subway, whistling merrily the whole time. The public transportation in the city had to be his favorite thing in the world, aside from jelly donuts and Geralt's eyes. It makes going from place to place a snap, and he doesn't have to constantly tell people he can't drive when they ask where his car is. The train is running a minute behind, as usual, but Jaskier books it down the rest of the stairs and through the turnstile, jogging up just as the doors slide open. People file on quickly, taking their seats, and Jaskier moves to step on when he spots snow white hair.

That in itself isn't unusual- plenty of old people ride the subway, but it's a man who looks no older than his mid thirties. He's dressed in all black, jeans and a heavy sweater, and strapped to his back are twin swords, their pommels shining dully in the fluorescent lights of the train. A duffle bag hangs from one shoulder, nondescript, but a pale, scarred hand hovers over it protectively. Jaskier is aware he's staring, holding up the train, but his feet are rooted firmly in place as his head begins to pound. The man- Geralt- irritated by the lack of movement turns to see what's going on, golden cat eyes cold and hard. The sight sends vertigo crashing through Jaskier so wildly that he feels his knees give out, and his vision blurs as he collapses onto the ground.

-*-

"No, no. He's fine. Don't hold the train for us." A voice, rough and low and heavenly drifts through his consciousness and he groans, burying his face in a warm, nicely toned chest. Strong arms wrap around him, holding him, and he sinks into the embrace without really thinking. When he moves the arms tighten around him, holding him closer, and he finally rouses.

He cracks an eye open to see an officer in front of them, debating with Geralt about getting him medical care, and he groans, sitting up and plastering his best smile on his face.

"Sorry love, my sugar dropped again. Was I out long?" The officer stops when he speaks, and Jaskier tilts his head curiously. "Tell me you didn't call them, you know I don't want the attention."

He looks up at Geralt, false frown on his face, and Geralt shakes his head. "Another passenger. I told them you were fine."

"That I am! I'm very sorry for the confusion, I just got off of a rather long interview and was a bit hungrier than I expected." The officer looks between them, brows furrowed, but tucks his notepad away and nods reluctantly.

"If you're sure you'll be alright."

"Feeling loads better already! Sorry again Officer!" Jaskier watches until the officer leaves the platform, and then shoves his way out of Geralt's arms. Geralt lets him go without a fight, sitting on the bench and watching as Jaskier paces the length of the platform, ranting. He's speaking in a language he knows but doesn't know, but it's better than letting everyone else hear him.

" I dreamt about you for years! Years, and the first thing I do is pass out when I see your goddamn face. Son of a bitch." Jaskier glares accusingly at him, but the corners of Geralt's mouth tug up in a smirk and Jaskier can feel his heart going a mile a minute. " I could have broken my lute, or-or been cut in half by the doors all because you were on the subway you big old insufferable-"

" You dreamt about me." Geralt's voice is soft, fond, and Jaskier loves and hates the way his voice curls around elder speech. " Jask, I didn't know you'd come back."

" Didn't- didn't KNOW? I am, and I am going to brag here, insanely famous, Geralt. Like on the news famous. How in the WORLD did you not know?"

" I don't watch the news."

"Of course you don't- of course I would get the one witcher in the whole wide world who doesn't watch the news ." He's cut back into English at some point, and he stops, fists clenched as Geralt stands up with his palms out. It's something he's seen Geralt do with Roach a thousand times when she's being antsy, and it drives him up the wall. "I am not a horse , Geralt, I am your fucking barker."

"You're acting more like my horse right now." Geralt is close enough now Jaskier can smell the soft cologne he's wearing, and his knees go weak again with the fact that he's actually here.

"You jackass -" Jaskier launches forward, throwing his arms around Geralt's neck and pulling him down to kiss him senseless. Geralt takes it in stride, scooping Jaskier off his feet and spinning with the momentum. He's careful of Jaskier's lute, but his hands are strong and firm as Jaskier is thoroughly crushed to his chest, held so tight that neither of them seem to be breathing. Jaskier doesn't care- his feet are off the ground completely, a fistful of white hair in his hands again and Geralt's lips on his. He has a beard, neat and taken care of, and Jaskier's other hand slips down to cup the side of Geralt's neck, thumb brushing through the coarse fibers.

Geralt is the first to pull away, Jaskier tipping forward blindly to kiss him again, huffing when Geralt smiles and bumps their noses together.

"Train is coming. As much as I've missed this, I'd rather not miss the next one."

"Tell me you aren't leaving me." Jaskier presses their foreheads together, eyes closed to keep any potential tears at bay. “Please.”

“I have to check into my hotel.”

“Geralt of Rivia, if you think for one minute you aren’t coming home to sleep in my bed you’re a fool. Fuck your hotel room.”

“It has a jacuzzi.” Geralt laughs when Jaskier pulls back to glare, and Geralt holds onto Jaskier’s hand, guiding them through the throng of people and onto the train. Geralt motions towards a seat, but Jaskier stays plastered resolutely to his side and just rests his head against Geralt's shoulder. He sways with the movement of the train, but Geralt’s arm is around his hip, holding him steady as the train goes around a curve and slows a bit. He feels more at peace with Geralt next to him than he has in years, and he’s drifted off to sleep when Geralt moves just a bit, dipping down to whisper in his ear. Elder speech brushes against him, trailing down his spine, and his eyelids flutter as he leans in to hear him better.

“What stop do we get off at, Jaskier?”

And oh, if hearing his name from Geralt’s lips isn’t sublime. “Two more.”

“ You were asleep.” Jaskier chuckles softly, turning his head and kissing him lightly.

“ I’ve lived here for years. I know how long I have.” His elder isn’t nearly as pretty or fluid as Geralt’s but he seems to enjoy it all the same, pupils widening at the sound, the sight of Jaskier’s lips moving. He feels like prey being hunted and he loves it. True to his words, two stops later Jaskier is the one to lead them off the train and up the many, many stairs to the street above. His hand never leaves Geralt’s, afraid that if he lets go the man will disappear into the crowd and leave him alone again. His apartment building isn’t far from the station, and he has to pass through three different checkpoints before he’s even flagged into the building. All of the security guards eye Geralt with barely hidden suspicion, but Jaskier is either oblivious or doesn’t care. The hot, possessive kiss that Jaskier pulls Geralt into while waiting for the elevator is answer enough.

Jaskier’s head is spinning again by the time they make it to his door, and he sags against it, panting lightly and trying to get his key in the lock. Geralt’s hand comes up, guiding the key in as he stands just close enough for Jaskier to be intimately aware of every inch of him. Jaskier gasps, shakes against the door and finally manages to shove it open. He hurries into the room, past the kitchen and into the living room. His lute is slung onto the cushions gently just as his knees give out again, and he catches himself on the arm of the couch, Geralt at his side a moment later.

He can’t feel his legs- he really, really can’t feel his legs, and he isn’t sure that it should seem like such a good thing. Geralt is a hard, hot presence between his thighs, and he arches up into Geralt’s touch, whimpering his name. He wants, he wants so desperately and he feels like he could fall apart at any moment, his breaths coming faster and faster as Geralt grins down, at him teeth sharp and glistening and begging to be buried in flesh. He reaches up, brings him down and kisses him, lapping into his mouth just to taste and let a fang scrape against his tongue.

His chest is heaving when he blinks from his memory, and oh, oh he’s embarrassingly, frustratingly hard. How in the hell does he explain something like this? His knees smart from where they’ve hit the floor and he pitches himself forward, out of Geralt’s surprised hands, his palms slapping against the wood of his floor as he pants. It’s better than letting Geralt see him, worked up over nothing. But he doesn’t get the chance to even think of a lie- he hears Geralt’s sharp intake of breath, the soft huff of a stunned laugh. Geralt is on his knees next to him before he can move, lips on his neck and teeth digging just so into the pale, unmarked flesh. Jaskier keens without meaning to, the noise spilling from his lips, and his cheeks flush when Geralt makes a triumphant noise, pulling back and using a hand on the small of Jaskier’s back make him sit back.

“If you say anything smart, Geralt, I will throw you off my balcony.”

“You don’t have to hide from me.” Is all he says instead, and he takes Jaskier’s hands, guiding him to sit on the couch while he takes care of Jaskier’s lute. Jaskier watches, knees pressed to his chest to hide his slowly dwindling erection as Geralt hunts around his apartment, breathing deep and seeming pleased at what he finds. He lingers briefly by the bedroom door, but seems to think better about exploring there just yet. Instead he reaches up, undoing the clasp across his chest and letting his swords slide from his back. He places them on the coffee table and pulls his sweater up and over his head. Jaskier watches it all, eyes wide, and he jumps as the sweater is tossed at him. He catches it with only a minor fumble, pressing it to his face and breathing deep.

He can almost feel the growl that rumbles through Geralt at the sight, and he grins, toothy and bright, sniffing again. It’s easy to lose his train of thought at the sight of Geralt- Modern clothes suit him well, from the cut of his jeans to the way his t-shirt shows off the rather lovely shoulder to hip ratio he has. Practically perfect. What really arouses him, and this shouldn’t ever be admitted out loud, is the amount of weapons Geralt has on him. There are two pistols tucked into sheathes under his arms against his sides, at least two knives tucked into each boot, not to mention the swords he’s already discarded.

“How do you draw the pistols with your sweater on?”

“I don’t.” Geralt’s voice is amused, and he reaches to unbuckle the leather harness, silver rings glittering along his fingers. There are no fingers that are bare of rings, whether they’re smooth, simple bands or ones studded in small spikes. It’s… ridiculously attractive and Jaskier fears for his heart at this rate. The holsters slip off of his shoulders and they too are left on the table with his swords, though he doesn’t go for the daggers in his boots at all. “You’re staring.”

“I’m allowed to.” He breathes out, reaching a hand out as Geralt pads over. His fingers splay against Geralt’s chest as the older man leans down, kissing him slowly, the warm metal of his rings sliding across Jaskier's cheek. Jaskier shivers at the sensation, making a soft noise as he stretches up further to try and get closer. Geralt pulls back too soon, always too soon, and Jaskier groans with disappointment.

“Tell me what happened when we came in.”

“Do we really have to talk about that now?” Geralt leans back, eyes searching his face, and Jaskier sighs dramatically, tugging Geralt to sit next to him on the couch so he can lean against his chest. "I wasn't born with my memories. I had- it feels stupid to repeat this all- I had night terrors as a child."

"Of monsters." Jaskier nods, pressing Geralt's sweater to his face and speaking through the fabric.

"Particularly of me being eaten by them. When I got older, graduated high school, they shifted focus. They showed me, or the bard I thought was haunting my dreams, following you, performing at a banquet, being chased by a farmer's husband. Within the past few months they got worse. They slipped into my daydreams, took them over, until I could hardly go outside without seeing something that would set them off."

"Is that what happened on the platform?" Jaskier shakes his head, sighing.

"I don't know what that was- a reaction to seeing you again, after only seeing you in dreams maybe? All I remember is getting hit by the worst vertigo I've ever felt, and then I was waking up in your arms. This last time- I'm not sure. I really don't want to keep collapsing though, my knees won't be able to take it."

His joke is weak but Geralt chuckles anyway, pressing his nose into Jaskier's hair. "I'll get you kneepads."

"My hero." He feels a rumble go through Geralt's chest and that brings a smile to his face. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Tell me about you, what you've been doing. I, for one, have been struggling with my memories and made it as a musician. But you, last of the witchers, are impossible to find info on."

"How do you know I'm the last?"

"Internet speculation. Don't worm your way out of this." Geralt sighs heavily, shaking his head and muttering to himself before Jaskier turns and plops himself into Geralt's lap so Geralt has to look at him.

"Eskel and Lambert retired a few years ago. Contracts are few and far between."

"What do you do then when you aren't fighting monsters?"

"I… Translate." Jaskier doesn't think he's heard right, and he tilts his head.

"Pardon? Was my very sexy boyfriend about to tell me something even sexier?" Geralt raises a brow at the word boyfriend, but Jaskier can see that he's pleased by the automatic assumption that they're together. Like they were never apart at all.

"I interpret. Mostly for doctors offices or business meetings. I'm occasionally called to the field when researchers need help."

"What languages?" Geralt doesn't say anything, cheeks flushing a faint pink instead. Jaskier grins then, pleased as all get out, and he leans forward, bumping their noses together and watching the way Geralt's pupils open wider at the contact. "What languages, Geralt?"

"There- aren't many I don't know."

"Someone's been busy."

"I had time. And language barriers make hunting harder." Jaskier laughs at the defensive tone to Geralt's voice, leaning their foreheads together and laughing until Geralt kisses him to shut him up. And even then he giggles against Geralt's lips, wiggling when Geralt tickles at his ribs.

"No wonder your elder is good." Geralt huffs out a laugh, shaking his head and leaning back so he can look at Jaskier, gaze sweeping over Jaskier's face slowly.

"My brothers and I are the only ones fluent."

"In the world?"

"There are small elven communities hidden around, but other than that, yes."

"Where are your brothers?"

"Somewhere in the midwest." Geralt says it with a shrug, as if it isn't a big deal. "They move frequently."

"Too used to being on the Path." Jaskier muses, though it's truer than he might realize. “What about you, where do you settle?”

“I don’t.” Jaskier tilts his head, thinking about that. He isn’t sure why Geralt would ever settle down, since he’s the last witcher active apparently. It would make sense for him not to have any place to call home, but the thought bothers him. A lot more than it should.

“You have a home here, if you want it.” He whispers, heart in his throat, and Geralt’s whole demeanor softens. His eyes look more amber in the setting sun coming through his balcony, and Jaskier leans forward, lips brushing Geralt’s at the same time his phone rings. He groans, intent to ignore it, but Geralt’s fingers dip into Jaskier’s back pocket to pull it out. He hits answer, holding the phone up to Jaskier’s ear as he glares.

“Jaskier, who the fuck are you kissing?”

“Hello Priscilla, nice to see you again, I’ve been just dandy since we last saw each other.” Jaskier takes the phone from Geralt, pressing it to his ear on his own.

“Jaskier, Twitter is in an uproar, there are pictures everywhere.”

“Naughty pictures?” Jaskier puts the phone on speaker while he moves over to Twitter, scrolling through the thousands of tags he’s gotten in the past two hours alone. They’re all the same picture, which Jaskier saves immediately, some better quality than others. There’s him in his bowling alley button up, held aloft in Geralt’s arms, kissing him senseless. It’s a rather artistic photo, the contrast between his bright colors and lute and Geralt’s stiff black clothing and threatening swords. “Ah.”

“That’s all you have to say? You haven’t seriously dated anyone since high school and that's what you say?” Priscilla is pissed, rightfully so, and Jaskier winces.

“Look it’s not that I didn’t want to tell you, I just-”

“I asked him not to.” Jaskier can hear the sharp intake of breath over the phone from Priscilla when Geralt talks, and she’s much more pleasant this time when she speaks. Traitor.

“Oh. And you are?”

“Geralt.”

“And where are you from, Geralt? How long have you been dating my best friend?” He sees Geralt’s lips quirk in a smile, and he rolls his eyes, letting Geralt do the talking. At least that way he isn’t getting yelled at.

“Rivia. We’ve been seeing each other for a few years now, I would say.” Jaskier snorts at the lie, except well- it isn’t really a lie. They’ve been together for years and years over entire lifetimes.

“Rivia?” A distant quality overtakes her voice, and Jaskier winces, clapping a hand over his ear as Priscilla squeals. “Jaskier, please tell me you aren’t dating Geralt of Rivia.”

“Uh.” Geralt’s lips twitch upward as he raises a brow at Jaskier’s hesitation, but Priscilla is laughing, wheezing out little breaths, and Jaskier waits for her to calm down before he answers. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No, no it’s just unbelievable.”

“Hey!” There’s offense in Jaskier’s tone, and Geralt’s hand rests on his hip, squeezing lightly. Jaskier shudders at the touch, scowling, but his witcher is the picture of innocence. “I guess the cats out of the bag, eh love?”

“Mhm.” Gods Jaskier has missed those little sounds, the answers but not answers.

“You have to say something on Twitter before your fans break the site. And introduce us properly.”

“Right, right. Dinner okay?”

“Only if I get to pick the place.”

“Deal. I’ll call you later, okay?” Priscilla gives an affirmative and hangs up, Jaskier tilting his head at Geralt with his brows raised. “So, Geralt of Rivia, ready to be official with a popstar?”

“Not really. But with you? I’ll manage.” Jaskier rolls his eyes, moving to tuck himself against Geralt’s side. Geralt’s arm snakes around him, hugging him a bit closer as Jaskier raises his phone.

“Say cheese!” He grins wide, waiting until Geralt isn’t glaring to snap the photo. It’s a good one, Geralt’s eyes liquid and warm, the corners of his mouth tilted up in the smallest of smiles. It’s definitely going to be his wallpaper. Jaskier posts it onto Twitter with a simple caption.

My knight in shining armor.

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #modern au #reincarnation au #immortal geralt of rivia #flaskbacks #popstar Jaskier

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softer-ua · 4 years

Text

Two Left Feet, And One In The Mouth

Pt. 1

Lying there catching his breath seething Katsuki became suddenly aware of the feeling of melting iceberg quickly soaking his back, every drop replacing his already spread thin patients

Katsuki knew he need to hurry up and fix things with Deku, that he should go change into the spare clothes he kept in his office, that he had a much better chance of winning Deku over if he played nice with his friends, and he knew Shoto was only turning his hoodie into a impromptu sponge to piss him off and distract him from actually accomplishing any of that.

He also knew that it was fucken working.

Jumping up he felt his hoodie’s new weight pulling on him, the bastard had soaked him all the way through and the hoodie's fluffy inside was only making it worse, gross dirty floor water was fast spreading all the way down his pants and even through to his front.

Kasuki was seeing red, the only thought in his head was a vision of the Icyhot bastards head on a pike.

And that's how 15 minutes later he found himself standing in the meeting room sporting a few new bruises and dripping a puddle onto the floor, as he argued with ‘Lightning Mcqueen in glasses’ that he shouldn’t have to take the sole blame for ‘blowing up half the lobby’ or the charring on the lower branches of the lobby’s new ‘just set up yesterday, took all day to decorate, Sato ate half a snickers cheesecake just to get it in here, Tamaki and Ochako were so excited to put the star on, blah blah blah’ Christmas tree.

Those were clearly fire singe marks, not explosive blowback, and he told Mirio as much as he turned to blatantly ignore Iida. He also told him it was absolutely bullshit they had a tree up in the first week of fucken November!

Katsuki didn’t care to admit most of this blustering was to avoid admitting the main reason ‘a little bit of water set off a top ranking pro’ was because his brand Fucken new, curently one of a fucken kind, limited edition Hero Deku tee was hidden under his hoodie.

It was supposed to be part of the nerds Christmas present. His dad had just given it to him last night for a trial wear before they made the actual order to have enough made in time to be advertised and auctioned off to raise funds for the nerds favorite holiday charities.

Katsuki had planned to show up to dance practice in it after patrol and then do some photos together to boost the word about the dance and the auction.

Now not only was Deku not talking to him, but if he showed Deku this gross wrinkled mess he’d probably never speak to him again. Today officially sucked and all because ChargeDolt and RedRot couldn’t keep their fucken mouths shut... and some other things that were definitely not his fault either.

Eventually Mirio and Iida seem to tire themselves out and let the group go with a warning to expect their already packed schedules to be slammed with several hours of community service and outreach.

And of course Mirio asked Katsuki had to hang back because the universe hated him today. And of course he was given some more bad news because why would anything ever be easy?

Deku had been switched to evening patrol for today with Tokoyami, and Amajiki had agreed to take his place for the first half of the morning and Uraraka would join him after lunch

Katsuki wanted to bitch that they couldn’t reschedule because they had stupid dance practice, but between Deku not wanting to talk to him, no ‘don’t stay mad at me’ surprise, not wanting to explain to Deku what happened to the lobby, and not even a half baked explanation or apology in mind for why he said what he did Katsuki just grunted his acknowledgement and went to change into his costume. If anything he was getting off easier like this. At least Amajiki was on of the few extras he could stand.

_______________________________________________

If Mirios plan for punishment was to guilt him to the core by saddling him with a semi sulking SunEater, then he was an evil genius. Cause it was working, Katsuki hadn’t felt this all around ashamed since.… well probably only like a year but still.

Amajiki was one of the few people who Katsuki actually respected as a hero and a person, not only did the fellow pro have a kick ass quirk that he used creatively but Katsuki had grown to (begrudgingly) admire the hero for how up front he was with his anxiety and how hard he worked through it. It kinda reminded him of Deku and his oddballness and how the nerd used it to his advantage to become the symbol of hope.

Katsuki had been expecting a half mumbled lecture and a maybe even prodding about therapy. The nervous nellies' unusually strong(for them) vendetta with the hero world was it's slacking in mental healthcare or whatever.

So after struggling through about four hours of sullen silence, (that was also infuriatingly familiar, apparently heroing wasn’t all the nerd had learn from his senpais), Katsuki snapped with a screech like an overly taunt fiddle string.

“I’m sorry about the fucken tree! If it’s not replaced by the time we get back I’ll do it my goddamn self, happy?!” Katsuki had been expecting Tamki to give a quiet nod or retreat into himself more, depending on how he took his offer. He definitely didn’t expect to be glared at

“You think I’m upset about the tree?” Amajiki tilted his head in confusion. Maybe they should talk about Katsuki seeing the team's therapist more. Monthly was the minimum everyone on the newly forged Heros Union of Honor had to attend but Katsuki was clearly needing more support right now. Maybe it was the holidays? A good portion of them were going biweekly now for that reason.

HUH was more than an agency. It was a newly emerging code of ethics board. You were expected to be worth the honor of being called a hero when partnered with HUH, and that meant getting your mental health to its peak was a priority.

That didn’t mean everyone (or really anyone) was perfectly mentally fit, just that mental health was a priority. Other agencies had taken notice of how differently they operated even within their first year, and since then a few had even sent their heroes through the HUH program to learn how to operate more like them. They were quickly taking up the void the Hero's Commission had left.

“I’m not upset about the tree, I’m upset because you hurt my friends and fellow hero partners-“ Amajiki was rudely cut off as he caught a gauntlet to the chest, thank god they’d gotten smaller over the years.

“He’s your business partner, he’s MY hero partner, has been since before we agreed to join this agency.” Katsuki thundered.

Why everyone on the board had to call each other partners was something Katsuki didn’t understand, but he refused to let them slip up and start tossing around the phrase Hero Partner. They were all business partners,something anyone could become. A Hero Partner was a major commitment, and Katsuki had the signed legal waivers to prove it.

Amajiki stopped and looked at Katsuki fully, really taking in his teammates' rattled appearance.

Katsuki had been doing well, dare say even flourishing within HUH, so today’s outbreak was nearly out of character at this point and still Katsuki didn’t appear to be calming down any. If anything he was only growing more tightly wound.

Yes, Amajiki was upset with Katsuki but he’d remained silent during their patrol more so the blonde could have some time to think, but it didn’t seem to have done him any good. Amajiki fought through the nervousness that crawled under his skin and begged him to just let the explosive guy be.

Mirio had asked him to talk with Katsuki, under some false impression that Katsuki respected him more, but before this moment he’d figured it was better to not butt in. He hadn’t been around when this morning’s incident happened but he could see another one brewing.

Amajiki shuffled side to side for a second considering his options. He could just send Katsuki home early, even put him on leave until he got cleared by the teams therapist. Or he could do what Mirio suggested and reach out to a struggling teammate.

Therapy was good, but therapy with a support network was better.

“GroundZero, let’s take lunch. I think we need to have a talk-“ Amajiki put up a slightly trembling hand to silence the blonde. Straightening his back and furthering his resolve he pushed forward. “-This isn’t really optional, we neeeed to have a talk, and about more than this morning's incident. I wanna talk about your hero partner.”

Katsuki’s argument died on his tongue. He shoved his hands in his pockets with a grunt and jerked his head to signal to Amajiki to take the lead.

Katsuki knew he wasn’t gonna like what came next but he tried to reminded himself that he trusted and respected Amajiki, and that meant hearing him out when asked. It’s what Deku would do, so it’s what Katsuki would try to do.

#my hero academia #bnha #boku no hero academia #kacchan #bnha bakugo katsuki #bakugou katsuki #dekubaku #bakudeku #bnha fanfiction #I’m sticking with GroundZero cause that’s who was envisioned when I first wrote this lol #I struggled keeping the same vibe as part one #but like I wrote it a forever and half ago and just posted it so I wouldn’t have to look at it in my drafts anymore lol #I hope those of you who liked the first part aren’t to disappoint #I have the next part written but I might change it depending on the reaction

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calmlftv · 4 years

Text

girl, put your records on. - m.c.

description: you are the owner of a popular local bakery, and lately, life’s been a little bit hectic. thankfully, the cute record store owner next door seems to know the perfect solution!

word count: 2.5k

warnings: n/a!

w/n: here’s part 1 of my record store!michael au! this is probably the cutest thing i’ve ever written so i hope u enjoy it 🥺

taglist: @spicycal @castaway-cashton @irwinkitten @n-ctarinenga @thesubtweeter @ashisonthefloor @ashtonsos @loveroflrh @bestyearssos @treatallwithkindness @bestyearslftv

****

The lock clicked as you tugged the door open, being sure to let it fall shut behind you and double checking the lock before you continued into your bakery, disabling the alarm while you made your way to the back, flicking on the light switches on your way.

It was around 3 a.m., your usual time to come in with your messy bun and leggings, the old and flour covered apron being pulled on over your jacket. Tying it around your waist, you walked over to the office, propping open the door and grabbing the thick binder of orders you had stashed on a shelf. It made a loud thud when you tossed it on a workspace, the shiny silver reflecting the bags under your eyes as you hovered over the papers, eyes scanning the details and photos you had printed for every order you have.

This bakery was your pride and joy; you started it while in high school, selling your baked goods to other students for a dollar a piece as you struggled to pay for your car and groceries for your family. It quickly became a second job as you perfected your recipes, locking them away in a dusty old trunk under your bed when you would leave for the day. While still in college you got your first lawn sign, planting it outside your home on the main street of your town, and you quickly made enough to buy a second building; it was set to be demolished but you refused to give up on it, keeping up with your studies and home business until you essentially paid for the building four times over.

Your opening day for your building was beautiful, some friends from school helping out between classes until it got its feet under itself. Customers from your high school start up came by, new faces jumped in line, and before you knew it, you found people waiting outside our doors at 6 a.m., waiting to be let inside to get their breakfast pastries or pick up their orders early on.

It was amazing. You were humbled, you were happy, you were keeping a roof over your own head and paying your hard working employees.

Along with this though, you were stressed.

Well, maybe more than stressed. “Overwhelmed” seemed like a better word to describe how you felt.

Business was booming, and you had more orders in the works than you had ever imagined having. Recently you had put together the binder you were going through, making it easy for your bakers and yourself to stay on top of the orders that kept pouring in every day. Along with that, you had bought and installed more space and fridges for your kitchen, and now you were coming in much too early to prepare display case items. You worked your tail off in the morning, so your workers didn’t have to; they had enough on their plates.

Getting your stress out in a healthy way was something your therapist always pushed you towards, so you finally took his advice. You mixed together the cookie dough for the day in the big stand mixers, you kneaded dough for your bread and doughnuts by hand, every ounce of muscle you put in shedding a layer of stress from your shoulders.

Evidently, your neighbors enjoyed your baking as much as you did, especially the sweet record store employees to your right. You dropped off extra goods when you could, but lately it’s been baskets, one dropped off right next to their cashier as soon as the doors were unlocked, and you were sure it was always a different variety of them every day; no matter the kind, you always made sure to attach a cute little note to each basket, thanking them for their work and reminding them of the discount they get at your store should they ever need their sweet tooth filled.

On this day in particular you snuck out the back door as usual and dropped off your basket of goodies, the cashier being someone you hadn’t seen the last few days. He was blonde and had a pair of black glasses on, a light blue denim jacket and black t-shirt adorning his chest as you quickly dropped everything off and made it back to your shop.

And somehow, within the few minutes you were gone, all hell had broken loose.

“Darling,” your head baker and assistant manager said, immediately pulling you aside to chat. “There’s been….some accidents.”

A sigh passed through your lips and you tugged up your hair into a ponytail, immediately jumping into fix-it mode. It took hours of your blood, sweat, and tears, but you finally settled in with a piping bag in your hand, very carefully fixing some of the accidents that had occurred. From the front entrance you would hear your bustling employees boxing and ringing up customers, the occasional bit of laughter filter through to your ears.

Everybody was happy. And that was all that mattered to you.

It was a much quieter time of the day when the bell dinged, your associates up front cheerily greeting the new customer while they cleaned up the display areas, a curious laugh escaping one of them as you set your piping bag down. Another hand cramp was taking over, and you needed a break.

“Hey, Cupcake?”

The familiar nickname from your front shop workers made you raise your head, meeting their eyes from the doorway that marked the end of the kitchen.

You smiled at the young high schooler - Tilly - standing in the doorway, her warm smile being your response. “There’s someone up front asking for you.”

You nodded and jumped up, happy to have a distraction from your sore hand. When you got closer to Tilly she dropped her volume considerably.

“He’s cute, Cupcake, you need to get his number.”

A chuckle escaped you as your cheeks turned pink, shaking your head at the well meaning associate and patting her shoulder.

You were expecting a gentleman, maybe someone returning the basket from your record store deliveries.

However, you weren’t expecting the cute man that came with it.

It was the cashier from that morning, a basket in his hand and a beanie now pulled snugly over his head as a blonde fringe was pushed to the side. You hadn’t noticed in your rush earlier but his eyes were gorgeous, the most stunning mix of greens and blues that you had ever seen; that, combined with his seemingly nervous shifting, you were melting before you even spoke.

“Hi,” you greeted, walking up to him with your signature warm smile. You had hair falling out of the ponytail, strands and baby hairs flying almost every which way as you did your best to tame them. “I’m Y/N, the owner of this little shop.”

The man smiled in return, showing his teeth as he held out a hand, which you in turn took. “Hey,” he greeted just as warmly. “I’m Michael, I own the record shop next door.”

“Oh, good to meet you, neighbor!” You said cheerily, knowing it was your own fault for not getting to know him sooner. Your eyes drifted to your basket, his pale and slender fingers seeming to drum a beat on the bits he was holding. “I see you got my gift this morning.”

Michael blushed, handing you the basket. “Yeah, we did,” he said kindly, letting you take it and place it on the front counter. Tilly almost immediately scooped it up, happy to bring it to the back and clean it - and gossip with the others about Michael, no doubt.

The gentleman cleared his throat. “Uh, we really appreciate you bringing things by,” he thanked. “But, um, I just wanted to...I um-”

He was flustered obviously, a pink tint on his cheeks as he met your eyes. “Sorry if this is awkward or an over-step, but I uh, I just notice that you bring us things when you’re really stressed, and we’re totally happy with it, but the baskets every day kind of...have me...worried.”

The fact that a complete stranger can tell when you’re stressed, and took notice of your habits, made you blush, your hands connecting in front of you. Michael was full on blushing now, his cheeks more red than the light pink that they were. He had reached back to rub a hand on the back of his neck, a couple of cloth bracelets sitting on his wrist.

“Um,” you stammered, also flustered but for different reasons. “You know...I have been kind of stressed lately.”

The man’s eyebrows shot up, surprised that he was right as you chuckled lightly. “Um, we’ve had a boat load of orders just slam into us. Lots of different things, too, and this morning when we were taking some cakes out to finish them, a couple of them got dinged up and we’ve been fixing them all morning.”

The way you were wringing your hands was probably more than enough evidence of your stress, the very thought of everything you had to complete filling you with a small amount of anxiety as you talked about it. However, Michael stood and nodded along, a reassuring look on his face as he leaned against a display case. He seemed like a great listener, something that made you smile.

“That does sound stressful,” he agreed, his hand shoving in his pocket while his other pulled out his phone. “I’m, uh, not sure it’ll help, but if you ever want to talk…” He turned his phone around a new contact information page pulled up as he sheepishly smiled. “Maybe we can go get coffee together and talk about it?”

You couldn’t hide the smile that tugged on your life, the nod following quickly after. “Yeah! Yeah, um, I’d love that,” you said, joy leaking into your tone as you took his phone and entered in your information.

“Great! Cool,” Michael said, watching you type in your personal and work phone numbers so he can reach you through both. When he took his phone back you were both beaming. “I’ll, uh, call or text you, then, and we can set a date? I know the owner of the shop just down the road, so we can definitely go there.”

You nodded, your beaming smile still on your face as you tucked some of the loose hair behind your ear. Michael matched your smile and thanked you for the goodies again, bumping into a couple of customers as they were entering because he was still looking at you.

While another associate helped those customers, you quickly ducked into the back, Tilly and everybody else surprising you at the doorway, making you laugh.

“Come on, everybody, my love life isn’t that exciting. Get back to work!”

Michael sat in his office, leaning back in his chair as he thought about the interaction he just had with the cutest woman he’s ever met. His phone was in his hands with a blank text on it, the girl's name in the recipient line as he tried to figure out what to say.

He wouldn’t ever say it was normal for him to be asking cute girls on dates like that; in fact, with most of his interactions with women, he was too nervous to make any sense, but somehow, that girl had given him a weird sense of confidence.

Ultimately, he kept it simple, letting her know he was excited about the date and asking what times would work for her. Immediately after it sent he opened his group chat with his boys, letting them know he had some news.

Immediately he had a response from Calum.

So...meeting tonight?

Michael affirmed the text and then quickly put it away, getting through the work day while he texted the baker girl next door. When he finally got to lock up he couldn’t get to Cal’s fast enough, knocking on the café door rhythmically and beaming when his best friend opened the door.

“Hey mate,” Cal greeted, letting him step inside before quickly pulling the door closed. Michael quickly went to their usual table, Duke lifting his head from his bed by the counter.

“So,” Cal said, moving to the counter to make Mikey some tea. “What’s this big news announcement?”

Michael chuckled and shook his head, watching from his seat at the table as Cal got to work. His friend groaned but respected the silence, the two warmly greeting Ashton and Luke as they showed up.

Once they were all seated with their usual drinks and food the conversation flowed, everybody talking about work and swapping stories of difficult and amazing customers. Eventually, Calum repeated his question, Duke now settled in his lap as the dog napped.

Michael chuckled and beamed. “Boys,” he said, watching them all focus on him. Luke leaned forward practically on the edge of his seat. “I have a real date. With a real girl.”

Immediately the other three cheered, all of them congratulating their friend.

“Who is it?” Ashton asked, grinning as he picked up his coffee.

“That cute bakery girl,” Mikey explained. “The one with the shop by my store.”

“Fuckin’ finally,” Luke said, leaning back against his chair as he brought his heads up, lacing them and leaning his head back against them. “You’ve been talking about her forever, man.”

Michael reached over and shoved Luke’s shoulder, the blonde man grinning. “Fuck off,” he said, Luke sticking his tongue out before picking up his drink again. “I told her we could come here, to Cal’s, and she agreed. She’s free tomorrow so we’re gonna meet after she closes.”

The boys were all smiles, every single one of them ecstatic for their friend. The conversation continued to flow well into the evening after that, all of them reluctant to say their goodbyes.

However, Michael went home with his phone buzzing, you and him talking about anything and everything; it was the most comfortable he’s been with someone since meeting the boys, the two of you clicking in a way that he just wasn’t used to. It made him very eager to get to know you, and very happy when you seemed to show the same feeling.

When Michael finally noticed the time he sighed, knowing he should be responsible and go to bed. The two of you said your goodnights, a kissy face emoji attached to yours that made him blush before he turned over.

On the other side of town, you were doing the same, quite content with how your day had ended. Despite the horrid start, you were very happy to have met Michael, and your stomach flipped whenever you thought of the date he had promised to take you on. No other person had ever made you feel that way, so you cherished it, knowing Michael was going to be the sweet boy you’d keep forever.

Maybe this was the start of something that would last forever.

#5 seconds of summer #5sos #michael clifford #michael clifford au #5sos au #business!sos #record store!michael

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penninstitute · 5 years

Text

CASE #0140719

Statement of Emma Livingston, regarding her colorblindness and her artist neighbor. Original statement given July 19th, 2014.

Everything I see is a shade of grey. Trees are grey, the sky is grey, et cetera, et cetera. I was born like this, unable to experience color from the moment I was born, but it never hindered my ability to function as a human being.

I can tell colors apart by the different shades, but it truly is quite hard to when some are so similar. I know yellow is lighter than red, but in my eyes, red and blue look almost completely the same. Well, looked.

I’ve come to learn what colors look like. I know red is warm and blue is cold. But I came through to this knowledge in quite a… strange and rather scary encounter. I mean, I wouldn’t be writing this if I didn’t think it was that bad. But I saw color. And not with those fancy glasses that they make nowadays. But with my own eyes.

I recently moved to New York for a job. I’m just a simple temp, but I wanted out from my parent’s home in Alabama and to move in with my girlfriend, who my parents despised. I think they despise me too, especially now that they know I have an interest in women.

My girlfriend and I lived in a surprisingly decent building for the price of the rent. It was homey but a little tired looking, but nothing a little bit of redecorating couldn’t fix. We had a neighbor to our left, a little old woman named Belinda, who was probably more of a mom than mine ever was. She made Ari and I cupcakes every other week. Ari is my girlfriend, by the way. Belinda was a sweet woman. She isn’t dead or anything, but Ari and I don’t live there anymore. I’ll get to that soon.

The apartment to our right was empty for about six months after we moved in. Apparently a single mom lived there, but moved out to live with her family in Florida after the death of her nine year old son. Tragic accident, I heard. But this isn’t about that woman, but the man that moved in.

He was weird. I don’t like to be rude, but he really was. Ari told me his pale skin had an almost green, sickly tone. She said his hair was a strawberry blond, whatever that means, and had blue eyes that were puffy and red as if he was always crying. He looked like a disaster to her, and also to me. I felt pity for him.

Oh, I should mention his name too, shouldn’t I? I think it was Frank. Frank Cyrus. Or Sylvester. But I’m pretty sure it was Cyrus. From my limited interaction with him, I learned he was an artist. He worked as a curator at the Met, he said, and was often so inspired by all the works there that he incorporated a lot of things in his own work.

I appreciate art as much as I can. I can look at a painting and appreciate the handiwork or realism gone into a piece of work. But I can’t exactly appreciate the use of color in something like the Mona Lisa or whatever.

Frank would show Ari and I whatever knew creation he’d make whenever we’d see him. It wasn’t very often, but we’re good neighbors, and we try to communicate as much as we can with our neighbors to let them know that we’re good people.

But something about Frank made me want to not be nice to him. I know, I know, it’s really mean of me to just dislike someone because of their vibes or whatever, but God was he unsettling. One time, I was coming home from work, tired and in pain from my new heels I got for my birthday.

The hall was quiet, the fluorescent light illuminated the decades old carpet and the paint that began to peel from the walls. A light that was just above Frank’s door was burnt out which unsettled me even more.

As I pulled out my keys, movement in the darkness caught my eye. I blinked and shook my head. It was nothing, probably something in my head. I fumbled with placing the key in the lock, now that my hands began to shake with unease.

The voice from the darkness is what made me drop them. It sounded like Frank. But… different. Something was off.

“We should call Edward to fix this light, shouldn’t we, Emma?” Frank asked.

“Y-yeah, we should,” I said, in an attempt to not sound alarmed. But I was pretty alarmed. I bent over to pick up my keys, only to see them not there. There was a familiar jingle to my right.

I turned to see Frank holding my keys in his hand. It looked wrong. It.. It looked like how in movies, hands look when smashed by a hammer or something. It was so strange. It made me feel nauseous.

“You dropped these.” He smiled widely and stretched out his arm. I heard a sickening pop in his elbow. His wrist made a soft click as its fingers bent unnaturally to dangle the keys between his thumb and index finger. I gingerly accepted them from him.

“Thank you, Frank.” I gave him a quick smile, shoved the key in the lock, and bid him a good night. My heart beat thunderously in my chest as I closed the door behind me. I’d never had such a peculiar encounter before in my life. When I told Ari about it, she almost got up to go have a very strongly worded conversation with Frank, but I stopped her. Maybe I should have let her.

A couple weeks passed and I hadn’t seen him. I was thankful, but there was something in the back of my mind that made me feel bad for Frank. I don’t know why.

It was about two weeks ago when it happened. I had a day off that day, one that I was going to spend lounging around the house as I awaited Ari to come back so we could have a date night. There was a soft knock at the door around five. It was odd, as Ari didn’t get off until five-thirty. I guessed she might’ve gotten off early, and I eagerly hopped up and headed to answer the door. But when my hand closed around the doorknob, turned, and pulled the door open, no one was outside. I blinked and furrowed my brow.

I leaned my head out of the doorway and looked around. Nothing looked amiss. Then there was a creak of a door slowly opening. Frank’s door. I don’t know what came over me in that moment, but with a sudden urge I stepped out of my apartment and walked to the entrance of my neighbor’s apartment. It was pitch black in there, and I know that this next thing sounds so stupid. Something an idiotic horror movie protagonist would do. It’s a decision I don’t even remember making.

I walked into the apartment. As my foot touched against the wooden floor the dim lights flickered on. I didn’t touch a switch at all, it just… happened. I looked around the living room of Frank’s apartment, which seemed so strangely bare. Only a television and a couch, nothing more. I remember I called out for Frank, but I didn’t get a response. Every feeling flowing through my body was telling me to get out of there but I just… couldn’t. My body was almost moving on its own. I slowly drifted towards the bedroom, my heart pounding heavily in my chest. When I pushed open the door, my eyes almost popped out of my skull.

Color. It was full of color. I don’t know how else to explain it. There were canvasses everywhere, on the floor, on the walls, even on the ceiling. Colors. I felt nauseous, it was so… overwhelming. But it was beautiful. There’s no other way I could describe it, I’d never seen anything like this before. Can you imagine going through life without seeing such beauty?

My eyes flashed across the room, taking in each grotesque, surrealist painting. The imagery itself was unappealing to me, hideous bodies bent in unfathomable ways, patterns covering all of them or behind them in the background. But the use of color astounded me and left me sobbing in the doorway. I don’t know how long I spent standing there, crying, trying to name all the colors I saw. But my attention was interrupted as I saw him.

Frank. On the floor. I don’t know how long he’d been there, I didn’t notice him. He was naked, every inch of him covered in that colorful paint, his body bent in unhuman angles. His spine was twisted, his legs tied into a knot. His face was long, distorted, the jaw crooked, almost resembling Picasso’s “the Scream”. He was still breathing.

I screamed. I ran out of there as fast as I could, my fight or flight, finally kicking in. I sped to the phone and dialled 911.

Ari came home soon and helped me through the police’s questions.

They did find Frank’s body in a similar state as I did, but dead. They said there were no paintings, though. The only paint was the stuff on Frank’s body, painted in patterns. They still don’t know how it all happened, I’ve called the station a few times but never got a word. Nothing on those paintings, either.

I feel like I’m crazy, but I’m not. Ari and I moved to a new building later that week. We’re fine now, I’m fine now. Got a therapist and everything. Ari bought me those colorblind glasses after I’ve rambled about the colors for hours on end. I haven’t touched them. I don’t think I want to see any other colors but those impossible ones again.

FOLLOW-UP NOTES

- Quite obviously, a colorblind individual cannot just suddenly start seeing color like this, which makes me doubt the statement to an extent.

- Ms. Livingston refused our request for a follow-up interview.

- Frank Cyrus did exist, although records on him are minimal (save for an extensive criminal record). He seems to have dropped off the face of the earth.

ARCHIVIST’S NOTE: This statement was rather difficult to digitalize. The scanner refused to work properly, and had to be transcribed the old-fashioned way from paper to computer. When the scanner was used, flashes of headache-inducing, swirling colors would appear on the screen of the computer. Blair and I had to unplug the scanner and the computer to get it to stop.

#statement #0140719 #tma #the magnus archives

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akinkbyanyothername · 5 years

Text

BTD Fanfic: Strade x Reader

Um, so I don’t really expect anyone to read this but, I wrote a shitty fanfic (~5000 words) about Strade and MC. It retells the BTD story focusing on an MC who is a huge brat but also scared of pain/death/blood. I do use a lot of dialogue from the game, especially when writing bloody scenes because I’m actually not that into blood, guts, and gore. I’ll probably put it on AO3 when I have the time to properly reread and add to it. But until then, *blows kiss into the void* this is for you~

The most important hole in this story is your mouth! So hopefully anyone can enjoy!

Kinks: Non-con, Blowjobs, Torture, Boot-Licking, Kidnapping, Drill, Light Bondage

You looked up at the wooden sign saying “The Braying Mule”. You could hardly believe you managed to drag yourself out to a bar, especially alone! You walked into the bar with a small feeling of pride that was instantaneously replaced with anxiety. You knew it wasn’t possible, but you were convinced this was the loudest place on earth; the laughter of the patrons mixed with the ringing in your ears was deafening. You stood near the entrance paralyzed, until you turned around, listening to your body’s overwhelming urge to run away. You were just about to exit when you felt a large, rough hand on your shoulder. Your whole body jumped as you let out a squeak of fear.

“Didn’t mean to scare you buddy!”

You turned around to look at the owner of the hand and cheerful voice. You couldn’t help but be drawn to his oddly endearing toothy smile.

“Oh no... it’s alright!” Your words were accompanied by the thoughts, “There I go... trying to be as polite as possible even though this guy fully touched me without asking.” You gave a sweet smile, continuing to follow your natural instinct to be likable and avoid conflict “I just startle easily, sorry!” You could’ve sworn his cheeks flushed after you said that, but the crappy bar lighting made it hard to tell for sure.

“Come sit down with me!” With his hand still on your shoulder, the man led you to a table with a couple empty beer mugs. “Sit right there. I’ll get you a beer, it’ll help you relax!” You barely had time to process before he sat you down on the chair and went off to the bar. You were definitely uncomfortable with a stranger being so pushy, but you couldn’t bring yourself to stand up and leave. No, no, that would be too rude. Besides he was buying you a drink, you didn’t want to risk hurting his feelings. You could feel yourself getting frustrated with your inability to be assertive when you were overwhelmed, but before you knew it the man was back.

“Here, drink up!” He placed the beer in front of you as he sat across the table.

“Thanks so much!” You replied, matching his enthusiasm.

“So, what’s your name?”

“My name’s Alex!” You lied as you gave him another smile. You had rehearsed giving out a fake name to strangers and done it a handful of times, so it was almost automatic. “What’s yours?”

“So polite! Name’s Strade.”

You noticed him eyeing the beer he bought you and considering he just called you polite you felt the need to at least sip it. You tried to hide the disgust on your face as you took a gulp, god you hated beer.

“I’ve never heard the name Strade before, it’s cool!”

“It’s German!”

“Oh! A friend of mine is taking German classes right now! She told me the word for butterfly is schmetterling.” You felt a little dumb saying that so you took another swig of beer hoping to avoid sounding any more foolish.

“I’m impressed, few people know any German! I could teach you more.”

His last statement sounded suggestive somehow, but you were sure that couldn’t be right because you sounded like an idiot and no one would flirt with you. Suddenly you were very thankful for the beer. You drank more of it quickly trying to distract yourself from being flustered.

“Do you like it?” He asked raising a brow. He must’ve noticed your shift from barely touching it to chugging it.

“Yeah, it’s really good, thanks!” You lied again. Honestly the beer tasted like garbage, but you couldn’t say that, it would be too mean. Either way, you could feel yourself getting tipsy, so you told yourself you were thanking him for the distraction.

Suddenly an alarm on your phone went blaring, with the notification “STUDY!” attached to it. You let out another squeal as you scrambled to turn it off.

“SHIT THAT’S RIGHT! I HAVE A MIDTERM COMING UP NEXT WEEK!” You thought to yourself as you stood up.

“Sorry, Strade, I have to go study, I have a test next week! It was nice meeting you, and thanks for the beer again!” You were fully aware that you sounded like a total nerd, but school was really important and you didn’t want to risk your grades. Truth be told, you weren’t sure how you would’ve left Strade if you didn’t have an excuse.

“Ah, good luck on your test, have a good night, bud!”

You left the bar more relaxed than when you came in. It was later than you expected and you checked your phone to figure out which bus to take back to your place.

“Trying to get home?” You let out a full on scream as a familiar, but unexpected voice came up behind you.

You turned around to look at who it was, but as you did so your phone was knocked out of your hand.

“What the hell?!” Your instinct to be polite was overruled by a mixture of fear and anger.

Faster than you could process, Strade grabbed your shoulders and bashed you into the brick wall of the bar. His hand covered your mouth as you watched him stomp your phone. “Don’t worry, you can come home with me~” he purred into your ear. “...Are you going to come quietly? Or are you gonna make me work?”

This was so fucked up. You had come out to a bar ALREADY ANXIOUS OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND, but you pushed through because you told yourself “What’s the worst that could happen?” The realistic answer, according to your therapist, SHOULD have been, “I feel uncomfortable and leave”. But APPARENTLY that wasn’t the case. APPARENTLY the actual fucking answer is “I GET FUCKING KIDNAPPED!” As these thoughts raced through your mind you bit down on Strade’s hand, grinding your teeth with as much force as possible.

“Wow... Lebhaft! <3″ He mused dreamily.

You glared at Strade with as much hate as you could muster as he back handed you across the face. Hitting the ground, you felt a sort of heat rise up from your pelvis into your chest and manifest on your cheeks. “Who knew being hit could feel so good?” was what your body was saying but your mind was focused on “If this guy wants to kidnap me, I’m not gonna make it easy.” You looked up at him and let out a pained cough. You opened your mouth to start screaming, but you were winded by a heavy boot digging into your sternum. Instead of insults, a pained wheeze escaped your lips. With so much force, you swear it could have dislocated your shoulders, Strade grabbed your arms and zip tied your wrists together. You writhed viciously under his boot as you tried to escape, but it was to no avail. The only thing your struggling seemed to do was make him smile wider.

Effortlessly, Strade pulled you onto you’re your feet and shoved you into an expensive looking car. Feeling the air starting to return to your lungs you prepared once again to scream, but were muffled by a piece of duct tape being slapped onto your lips.

“Don’t make so much noise now.” He cooed, holding your chin up, forcing you to look into his eager eyes. “Save it for when we get back to my house” he whispered, gently stroking your cheek before he punched you in the jaw. Everything went black after that.

You woke up disoriented on the floor of a cold, dark room. “What the-? Where am I?” Were your immediate thoughts as you slowly started to regain consciousness. “WAIT IS THIS-!?” You violently jerked forward trying to stand up, but immediate regretted this as the tight ropes binding your wrists to a pole bit into your skin. Your words, “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!” came out as more an incoherent screech as you became acutely aware of the duct tape on your mouth. Fuck, why did your jaw hurt so much? Suddenly, you heard loud thumping coming from a set of stairs behind you.

“What’s this I hear?” The ominous words echoed in the darkness before you were blinded by the lights being switched on. “You’re already awake!”

It took a moment for your eyes to adjust, but once they did you were staring at the worst case scenario. Fueled by sheer hate you attempted to let out a slew of words that would have made the devil proud.

“Sorry what’s that buddy?” Strade asked before excitedly ripping the duct tape off your mouth. “You’re gonna have to speak up!”

“FUCKING PSYCHO!” You pushed passed the pain in your jaw to let out words that had been dying to escape. “WHERE AM I?”

“Don’t remember?” He asked almost innocently. “We were having a chat. And I thought to myself, I would love to get to know this person better. So I brought you home!”

He put a hand on top of your head, ruffled your hair then gave it a firm pull. A bolt of heat shot up into your chest again. Doing your best to ignore your body’s betrayal, you jolted forward. You tried to bite at his hand, knowing full well this would cause the ropes around your wrists to dig deeper, but you couldn’t just LET him treat you this way. “GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME YOU!”

He let out a pleased laugh. “You were so polite at the bar, but now you are so full of energy!” He licked his lips. “So many surprises… I can tell we’re going to have a lot of fun together.” You could feel your fear starting to grow as he said the word “fun”.

“Before we get started, you want something to eat? Drink?”

“What the hell?” You were so thrown by his offer, but it did make you hone in on your churning stomach. You hadn’t eaten much yesterday, and drinking a beer on an empty stomach might have been one of the many reasons you felt so nauseous today. However, as much as you might have wanted food, your pride wouldn’t let you admit it. “NO! I DON’T WANT ANYTHING FROM YOU!”

For whatever reason, your response made him more cheerful. “You’re so eager to start, so am I!”

Strade pulled out a large hunting knife and you couldn’t help but let out a terrified scream at the mere sight of it.

“Ah, Schatzi! You’re already screaming for me~<3”

You couldn’t think of a time when being easy to startle was THIS much of a curse. “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!” Every word out of your mouth since you woke up was shrieked, but you would be damned if you didn’t put up a fight. As he started to approach, you wildly started kicking your legs, in an attempt to keep him way.

He paused for a moment to admire your futile actions, his face growing redder and redder. “Niedlich~” He leaned down and pressed the cold blade under your sleeve.

“W-What are you saying to me?” It was getting harder and harder to yell at him as the knife against your skin allowed your fear to override your anger. For whatever godforsaken reason, you suddenly remembered him offering to teach you German. You made the dumbest comment in human history as you tried to alleviate your terror, “This isn’t helping me learn German!”

Strade burst out into laughter, “BAHaha! Good one buddy!” You tried to forget about the knife as he jovially put his free hand on your shoulder. You felt proud of yourself for a moment, maybe you calmed him down? He rested there for a second, looking down into your eyes. You gazed back, searching for some semblance of humanity, but he simply smiled and shook his head, “Your clothing’s still in the way.” He began to forcefully cut off your clothes. You wanted to resist more, or at least make a snide remark, but feeling the blade occasionally graze your skin was enough to trigger your freeze response. It was only a matter of moments before you were there in your underwear, shivering.

Strade leaned back and took a good look at you. If you weren’t already naked, it would’ve been like him undressing you with his eyes, which honestly would have been preferable to him using a fucking knife. You wished his long stare only made you uncomfortable, but you couldn’t help but feel your cheeks starting to flush.

“ahhhhh~ You’re so…” He paused, searching for a word you REALLY didn’t want to know. “Unbroken.”

Yeah, you DEFINITELY didn’t want to know that. “W-What the hell? If any part of me WAS broken it would’ve been from you!” Your sass didn’t have its usual bite to it, but it was something.

Strade let out another laugh as he bent down to his knees, inches away from you. Terrified didn’t begin to describe how his presence made you feel. “Oh don’t worry...” He said rubbing his calloused fingers over your soft thigh. “I’m not going to leave you this way.” Goosebumps appeared on your skin as he continued to caress you. “We’re going to have a very intimate experience.” He licked his lips, “I can’t wait to hear more.”

“More what?!” flooded your head before he lowered the knife to your thigh. The cold metal against your skin was paralyzing, “THERE’S NO WA-!“ Your panicked thoughts were interrupted by the searing hot pain of the knife slowly dragging up your leg.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Your scream echoed throughout the basement as you broke out into tears. Your whole body writhed, trying to cope with the blinding agony. God, for someone who talked big, you sure did you have a low pain tolerance.

“You’re so sensitive” He panted. You could barely hear him over the ringing in your ears, but from what you could tell, he was getting excited. He held down your squirming leg, eyeing it for a second before raking the knife through you skin again. Another piercing howl left your mouth as you shook violently. You shut your eyes tight as tears continued to stream down your face.

“Ah… I’m getting too excited…” You heard him breath heavily. “Oh no… look how much you’re bleeding…”

Those mere words made you feel lightheaded, you had a horrible phobia of blood and you most certainly didn’t want to look. Strade must’ve picked up on this because before you knew it his fingers were prying your eyes open, “I said look!”

The room started to spin as you tried not to focus on the bright red blood spilling from your wounds. You had absolutely no words, just feelings of sheer horror.

“Mmm. You’re not gonna last like that.” If he wasn’t inches away from your face, you probably wouldn’t have understood him. “Would you-“, your hearing cut out, you really were about to faint. A hard slap against your face made your eyes shoot open and a moan escape you lips.

“What the hell was that?” you thought to yourself. Were you seriously turned on by that?

You could feel Strade’s hot breath on your stinging cheek. “Did you… like that?”

You instinctively looked away. “Of course not…” Your voice was so weak; you weren’t sure how convincing you sounded to him or yourself.

“You really shouldn’t lie.” he said, grabbing your hair and forcing you to meet his gaze. You felt everything, from your toes to your ears, heat up and you couldn’t believe it. Your body really was a filthy fucking traitor. “I’m not lying!” You insisted, this time with a little more pep. He just stared at you with his blushing cheeks, before standing up.

Your whole body tensed, terrified he was going back for the knife, but instead he reached for his zipper. The fact this was a relief to you was disturbing. “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME?” You screamed internally before externalizing a shrill, “NO!”

You tried to look away, but he grabbed your face. Before you could protest further, you noticed he was holding the knife in his other hand. A string of curse words flew through your mind. “Open up ~<3” Strade chimed as he pushed the knife into your mouth, facing the blade upwards. You reflectively opened your sore mouth wide with a whimper trying to avoid being cut. He shifted the knife to the side and stuffed the head of his cock in your mouth.

“I know you like to bite.” He flashed the marked-up hand you had ground down on when he was kidnapping you. You felt a twinge of victory before he grabbed the back of your head with it. He gave a hard thrust deep into your throat causing you to gag. He let out a satisfied groan. “Will you bite again?”

You wanted nothing more than to hurt him back, show him you weren’t helpless, but… your eyes shifted to the knife and you shuddered. You started feeling faint as you imagined the inside of your mouth getting sliced up by him. Noticing you were distracted, he shoved deeper inside of you causing you to be present with the ACTUAL fucked up scenario you were in. You made a sort of muffled scream as you felt your anger growing. How could you possibly win in this situation? It was so unfair! You shot Strade the dirtiest look you could manage and in return he gave you a smug grin as he withdrew the knife. He buried both his hands into your hair and slammed more vigorously. Tears started welling up in your eyes as you choked on his cock. God you felt pathetic. He looked down at you fondly, “Suck it, Schatzi~” An involuntary whine of fear and pleasure was the only noise you manage to make, why did you find him speaking German so… so… sexy!?

His rhythm was becoming steadier and you knew what that meant. You desperately struggled to pull away from him, but he kept ramming down your throat with more and more panting and grunting. Your pained, exhausted jaw and desire to spite him made you consider biting down again, but the image of a knife down your throat stopped you. “FUCK!” You screamed to yourself as he groaned, holding your head firmly against himself. The feeling of his warm cum sliding down the back of your throat made you sick. Tears steadily rolled down your cheeks as you felt like you were suffocating. He admired the view of you stuffed full of him, desperate for air before pulling out with a dreamy sigh. Immediately you coughed and sputtered up a mixture of saliva and semen on the cement floor. You were suddenly very aware that was the only thing you had eaten today.

“Ahhhh… you’re a lot of fun.” He crouched down to your eye-level. You flinched as he reached out to softly pet the side of your face. The gentle sensation flooded your body with warmth. Fuck, how much longer did your body intend to completely ignore sane reactions? You weren’t going to give in though. Through ragged breaths you managed, “D-Don’t… touch me…” Strade chuckled as he stood up and tousled your hair. “Why don’t you have a rest, hm?” With that he straightened up and thumped back up the stairs, leaving you in the dark.

As soon as he left, the pain from your leg demanded attention. You looked down, noticing that the blood hadn’t completely dried. It was so disgusting. “I’m going to kil-” You couldn’t fight the wooziness that washed over you. Your body slumped against the pole and your eyes closed, leaving your threat unfinished.

You were woken up abruptly by someone kicking your leg. The pain jolted you forward pulling you against your binds, “Wha… Ahh!” You slowly came back to your senses and realized where you were. So everything last night really wasn’t a horrible dream.

“Still sleeping?” Strade asked with a smile, looking you up and down. “Aren’t you looking chipper? You’re all fresh and ready for a new day!” You weren’t sure in which world your state would be considered fresh. “So, how about something to eat?” He bent down and waved some sort of energy bar in front of you.

You felt a surge of nausea overcome you, remembering the vile taste in your mouth from yesterday. You took a few deep breaths trying to calm yourself down. Honestly, food was a probably good idea, you were starving. But…You shifted your eyes from the bar to Strade; all the deep breathing in the world wouldn’t have quelled you hatred.

“No?” He asked, picking up on you animosity. “Suit yourself!” He unwrapped the bar and took a large bite. “Mmf- you know-“ He waved the bar. “I feel like we’re really getting to know each other.” He took another bite. “Hm. I know it hasn’t been long. But this sort of mmf…experience...it speeds things up.” He kept chewing and leaned closer to you. “It’s the adrenaline. You’re excited. I’m excited.” He leaned even closer. “We’re sharing something very… personal.” The way he delivered that last line made you incredibly nervous. “BAHaha! You look a little scared ~<3” You shot him a vicious glare, trying to mask your fear.

“Ahhhh! Haaa… I can tell how you’re feeling. You’re all tied up, on the floor. Some guy’s basement. And who knows what I’ll do to you? Helpless. Right?”

You wanted to shout “WRONG” but your voice escaped you, something about him seemed more sinister than yesterday.

“I’ll give you some control. What happens next is completely up to you!” He turned around to gather a few items form a nearby table. Your heart was racing wildly. “Here’s your choice. What’ll it be?” He held up a hammer in his left hand and a drill in his right. “Hammer or drill?”

Your breathing became sporadic and your eyes widened in fear. There was no way this was happening. This couldn’t be real could it? You blinked really hard a couple times to make sure this wasn’t just some fucked up nightmare. But there Strade was, holding up a fucking hammer and drill, waiting for you to decide… but there was no way that was going to happen. You weren’t going to let him win; you weren’t going to give him that satisfaction!

You could see his smile turn into a frown at your refusal, and fuck you knew that was bad new, but you did it. You managed to get that unnerving smile off his face! However, your victory was short lived. His grin returned as he stepped closer to you, “You don’t want to choose?” He rested his boot on your mangled thigh for barely a moment before grounding it down. You let out an ear piercing shriek as your cuts began to ooze blood again. Enjoying your voice, he continued to roll your leg under his foot.

“Can’t take it hm? The responsibility of choice…” He leaned down. You maintained furious eye-contact showing that you weren’t going to back down. “I suppose some people… Weren’t meant to have any control.”

Those word were the last straw. The absolute vitriol that had been building up inside of you since you woke up burst out. You spat directly onto his face and yelled, “GO TO HELL YOU FUCKING PSYCHO!”

“Haha… haaaaa…” That fucking blush creeped back onto his cheeks as he stood up. He leered down at you, licking his lips, “You act so sour but…” he paused, turning around to the table with his tools. You could hear clinking and clanging as he searched for… something. He twisted back around, this time with the drill plugged in and a pair of pliers. “You weren’t like this at the bar…” he mused, crouching down close to you. You tried to steel your resolve, looking directly into his amber eyes. He stared back, unblinking as he set down the drill. You couldn’t help but recoil as he moved his free hand towards your face. He let out a satisfied sigh at your reaction.

He rubbed his thumb softly against your lower lip, but before you could even think to bite him, he abruptly grabbed your face. You let out a squeal of surprise. He squeezed his large hand together forcing your cheeks to dig into your teeth. With your mouth held open he inched the pliers closer and closer. You let out a whimper as you tried to pull back, but he held your head firmly in place. He clamped the pliers against the tip of your tongue; your whole body started to tremble. A pained cried filled the room as Strade yanked hard. He roughly pushed his dirty fingers all over the surface of your slippery tongue. It took everything you had not to heave at the revolting taste. “You’re so wet, Schatzi” he moaned playing with your spit.

You felt your heart skip a beat as he called you that name again; why did you like it so much? This was so beyond fucked up. You closed your eyes, trying to distance yourself from the situation. For a second, you thought it might have been working, but then you heard the sound of the drill whirring in the air. Your eyes bolted open as you desperately pulled against the pliers. You gagged as you shook you head from side to side, “NO!” He slowly lowered the tip to your tongue, teasing it. “NONONONONONO”, your protests had become nearly incoherent. He pressed the drill down, shredding a hole smack-dab in the middle of your tongue. The scream you let out was blood curdling. You didn’t even know you could make a noise that horrifying. Mucus mixed with your tears and blood trickled down the back of your throat. An inhuman gargling noise was all you could make as he detached the drill bit, leaving it in your mouth.

“Ahhhh…” Strade huffed. He dropped the pliers on the floor, he didn’t need them anymore. Your tongue wouldn’t fit back in this way. He lazily started to move the drill bit back and forth with his fingers causing blinding pain with each movement. “S-ST-HOP” Your words were almost as sloppy as the fluids dripping out of your mouth. He chuckled before ripping the metal out of your mouth. A strangled screech caused everything to bubble at the back of your throat. Your whole body convulsed uncontrollably from the torture. You couldn’t take much more of this, but… how could it possibly get worse? Your question was promptly answered as Strade stuffed the head of drill into your mouth. “THANK GOD HE REMOVED THE DRILL BIT!” was your first thought, your second was, “THIS FUCKING HURTS!” He roughly pushed it in and out of your mouth, aggravating your wound, before pushing down on the power button.

The vibrating sensation filling the back of your mouth was like a fucked up switch for your body. The whirring sounds flooding your ears brought a sort of comfort; the fact you couldn’t put together a coherent thought brought some semblance of peace. The thrusting of the drill against your bloody, slobbery tongue started to feel… good. Your eyes fluttered open and closed; you couldn’t help but whimper as it shoved deeper into your throat.

“There you are~” he purred, using his free hand to stroke your cheek. God why did his touch feel like a gift?

It wasn’t long before he replaced shoving the power tool down your throat with another, his own hard cock. Your head had already been thoroughly rattled by getting drilled, so you didn’t resist. You weren’t thinking anymore, just acting. You had been a bundle of nerves flipping from fight, flight, and freeze since you met Strade and it seemed your body had another impulse it wanted you to follow. You were doing your best to bring him pleasure: rubbing your cut-up tongue all over his shaft, making obscene moans of pleasure, and looking up at him with helpless eyes. He placed his hands in your hair, ensuring you kept up with his rhythm. He placed his boot between your legs to give you something to rub up against, as if to give you a reward. The both of you pushed up against each other in tandem, until he reached his climax. You could feel the inside of your mouth become even stickier. You tried to pull away, but Strade held you in place, “Swallow it.” He growled. Something about hearing the harsh command made you remember that this wasn’t your choice.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Your thoughts were definitely coming back online. The fluids in your mouth started to slowly spill out around his cock, falling onto his boot between your legs.

He must’ve been able to tell from the way your eyes changed from glazed to bright that you had regained some fight. He laughed as he reached down and plugged your nose. “Swallow.” He repeated, giving you no other choice. You really didn’t want this to be the way you died. Reluctantly you gulped down the semen, blood, saliva, and tears pooling in your mouth. It was so thick and pungent, how did you not notice that before? You felt mortified when you realized cum had been a consistent part of your diet for two days. It took all of your willpower not to retch.

Strade pulled out of your mouth, giving his typical toothy grin. You desperately gasp for air. “At least it’s ov-“, before you could finish your thought he abruptly stomped on you head. You bashed your face on the concrete and felt your nose start to bleed. “Clean it up.” He demanded shoving his dirty boot into your face. You were so disoriented from the impact that you hardly understood him. Your blurry vision started to focus on the filthy shoe in front of you. For fucks sakes you weren’t going to do this anymore!

“NO!” You screamed, but he didn’t seem to have much patience for you. He started to grind his other foot into the back of your skull. It hurt so much, everything hurt. You wondered if Strade still considered you unbroken; you shuddered at the possibility that he did. Was that what this was? A fucking test?

You tried to look up at him to give him a dirty look, but he wouldn’t allow it; he just kept you firmly planted next to his foot. This was so unfair and aggravating, because you could just feel his giddy eyes boring into you expectantly. You unwillingly placed your mangled tongue against the cold leather of his shoe. The pain made you hiss and retract. You felt pressure mounting against your head as well as his dirty shoe forcing itself against your closed lips. The slimy mixture started smearing onto your mouth and you opened up trying to prevent it from getting worse. The salty, metallic taste made you gag as he pushed his boot against your tongue. You felt so humiliated, was this your life now? Throat-fucking some psychopath and being rewarded for it with objectification and death threats? You seriously considered if this or death was better… you weren’t so sure.

You felt Strade ease up on your skull as you licked the remaining mess off his boots. Finally allowed to look up, you shot him a hateful stare. “Happy now?” is what you tried to say, but it came out as some sort of distorted version of that due to your fucked up tongue. He seemed to have no problem understanding you though, as he gently pet you head and smiled, “Very happy, Schatzi!”

#boyfriend to death #btd #strade #btd strade #strade btd #fanfic #bratd

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himiko-yumehellno · 5 years

Text

Saiouma Week Day Four: Music

Title: Do You Daydream of Acceptance?

Summary: Kokichi has Maladaptive Daydreaming Disorder, which means he's gonna have his head in the clouds for a good part of his life, even if he doesn't want to. He wouldn't be surprised if Shuichi leaves him once he finds out... But will he?

Words: 2142

Note: Note: I saw the word "music" and was like "ah, yes, MADD time." Cause!! I see so many fics in so many different pairings talking about the ships dealing with depression, anxiety, and sometimes other mental disorders. But Maladaptive Daydreaming Disorder? Not so much! So screw that, us maladaptive daydreamers deserve our happy endings too. (Oh, and btw, if you're wondering how I got MADD out of a music prompt – most madd-ers, including myself, daydream while listening to music.) Hope you enjoy!

+++

Kokichi was pacing again.

To be fair, it wasn't like it was anything new to Kokichi. Whenever he got home to his dorm room after school, he'd go to his room, plug in his earbuds, and pace while listening to music on YouTube. It was normal, it was routine, and... And it was something he'd been doing for years.

Kokichi stopped halfway through the song, pausing it as he plopped down on the floor to switch over to social media for a few minutes. Typing in a tag and scrolling through it for a few moments, Kokichi had inspiration again, and he jumped up to continue pacing again.

Maybe... Maybe "pacing" was the wrong word. Sure, it was pacing, but that wasn't all he did. Sometimes Kokichi danced, sometimes he'd act... But most of the time, he was pacing, making movements and saying lines that went with the masterpiece of a plot in his head –

The sound of a doorbell startled Kokichi out of his thoughts. Pausing the song again, this time a bit more irked, Kokichi marched through his dorm, took a moment to compose himself, and opened the door with a fake smile already plastered onto his face.

"Ooh, heey, Shuichi! To what do I owe the pleasure?" Kokichi asked, poking his cheek with one finger while he batted down his irritation at being interrupted. He checked the clock on his phone; Shuichi never took too much of his time up, but maybe if Kokichi hurried him along...

"Ah, nothing much!" Shuichi smiled at him, and Kokichi returned it with a grin, but the next words out of Shuichi's mouth both ruined and inspired any genuine feelings behind it. "I was just wondering if you wanted to hang out today? I was thinking about a date at the carnival?"

The carnival. It was in town for the week, and though Kokichi had already gone with DICE, going with his beloved would be awesome. Kokichi'd been hoping to go with him since the carnival opened! He just wanted to see if Shuichi would ask him first, and now he had.

But... There was just one problem. "Ooh, is Shuichi asking me out on a date instead of the other way around? How bold, Shuichi! But, I'm a very busy person. Will it fit in my schedule, I wonder?"

Shuichi's smile started to fall, as if he knew what was coming next. "I... Was thinking about going now, if that's okay."

Kokichi's grin disappeared, and as it did, his grip on his phone tightened. Kokichi pulled out his earbuds, but he knew he understood what Shuichi said.

That wasn't nearly enough time to mentally prepare, and shove around when his scheduled daydreaming would be. So Kokichi, inwardly sighing with a heavy heart, picked up his metaphorical mask again and beamed his best sad grin at Shuichi, hands behind his head. "Sorry, but that won't work out! Unfortunately for you, I've got a lot of supreme leader business to –"

"Kokichi, I know that's a lie." Shuichi cut through his lie, and Kokichi's face fell only for a moment. Ignoring Shuichi's determined look, the kind he only got when he was serious about something, Kokichi switched tracks to a different story.

"You got me! I'm actually decoding the next Rosetta Stone; Korekiyo asked me to do it and you know I can't say no to someone as scary as –"

"That's a lie."

"Okaaay, so I was actually baking something and if I leave it in the oven too long it's gonna burn, so if you'll excuse me –"

"Kokichi."

Shuichi called his bluff one final time, and Kokichi gave it up. Kokichi's shoulders slumped, and as Shuichi took a step forward, face full of concern, he took a step back.

"Kokichi, what's wrong? Are you sick?" Shuichi asked softly, and Kokichi practically jumped at the chance to lie and leave, but before he could even do more than open his mouth, Shuichi was muttering to himself, "No, that doesn't explain why..."

Frustration bubbled inside Kokichi like the bubbles in his favorite soda. "It doesn't explain what, Shuichi? Having a busy schedule?"

Shuichi froze for just a moment, eyes wide, and Kokichi swallowed. Teetering on the edge of two choices, Kokichi wondered for a heartbeat if everyone felt like the world was tilted when they had the opportunity to open up to someone, but banished the thought with the next movement Shuichi made, which was to take a step back, looking over him curiously.

Kokichi knew he could have pushed further, poke the metaphorical bear of temper some more and made Shuichi leave, but something inside him was tired.

Maybe this time, he'd let Shuichi push back.

... Kokichi checked the time again. Seven minutes had passed.

"Kokichi," Shuichi began slowly, but Kokichi didn't meet his eyes. The hallway wall seemed very interesting right now. "Are you okay? Whenever I bring up something to do, if it's not a few hours away, you shut the idea down. And I know you stay up late, a lot later than what's healthy, and... And I see you muttering to yourself sometimes, or doing something that doesn't make sense in the situation. I know it could all just be a part of who you are, but...

"Are you okay?"

Are you okay. Are you normal, more like. Shuichi, like the detective he was, had laid out a good handful of his symptoms, of the things he couldn't always cover up or handle, and Kokichi didn't move.

... So, is that it?

Kokichi knew Shuichi was growing uncomfortable with the silence; the shifting and fidgeting he did would have made it obvious to him, even if they hadn't been dating for over a year now. Kokichi raised his free hand, eyes going to the door, and a memory of soon after they started dating came to mind.

"Are you really sure you'd wanna date a liar like me? I doubt you'll want me once you really know the true me – if you can manage to unravel my lies, that is, nishishi!"

"Yes, I'm... I'm sure. And unless your 'true self' is a murderer or something, I won't leave you just for you being yourself. That would be just wrong."

"... Oh really? You promise then? To stay with me even if you find out the horrible secrets of who I really am?"

"I – ... Yes, I promise. I love you, Kokichi.

... Hah. "I love you, Kokichi." Kokichi knew it was a lie, the promise Shuichi made. No one wanted to stay with someone who dealt with something as "obviously fake" as Maladaptive Daydreaming Disorder. No one wanted to deal with someone who spent half their life in a world they made up.

"Kokichi?"

Ah. So he hadn't left yet. Alright, might as well tell him and get this over with, since Kokichi knew how this was going to end anyway. How... Boring.

How... Typical.

"Nishishi!" With a giggle and his fakest smile yet, Kokichi lunged forward, grabbing Shuichi's arm and pulling him inside the room. Shuichi stumbled as Kokichi shut the door behind him, quickly spinning on his heel and leading the way into the living room.

"Ah? Kokichi?" Shuichi's voice betrayed his surprise, while on the outside Shuichi appeared quite calm, the only indication of concern his raised eyebrows and glances around the room. He followed Kokichi slowly, shuffling to the couch that Kokichi plopped down on; Kokichi was already scrolling through his saved photos, looking for a specific one. "Kokichi, what is it? Did – did something happen?"

Yes, I developed a mental disorder years ago as a coping mechanism, thank you for your concern, Kokichi snarked back in his head. He stayed silent through, even when he found what he was looking for and jabbed his phone at Shuichi for him to take.

Shuichi flinched, but after a moment of staring between the two, he gingerly took the phone, perching himself down at the edge of the couch cushion as he read. Kokichi turned away, gazing at the solitary window his dorm provided, waiting for Shuichi to understand.

He knew the words by heart. He knew the explanation by heart, he should say. He got used to having to explain it to therapists over the years, and having to pull up sources for the ones that scoffed at him. Heck, if Shuichi wanted, he could probably rattle off the url for the webpage of the the scientist who put a name to his disorder.

But Kokichi wasn't going to do that. As he heard Shuichi take a deep breath, Kokichi closed his eyes, waiting for the rejection, the mocking, or the storming out.

Hey, maybe he'd get all three this time. It had been a while since he got that reaction... Not since...

"So... You have... Maladaptive Daydreaming Disorder?"

Kokichi didn't open his eyes. "Yeppers!"

"And that's why you've been doing all... All the things I talked about earlier?"

"... Yep!"

"..."

"Okay, thank you for telling me, Kokichi. I'm glad I get to understand you a bit better."

All at once, Kokichi's eyes snapped open wide, he shot up to a sitting position, and his jaw dropped open like a fish's mouth. He didn't know how he felt – relieved? Happy? Loved? – but something was going on with his emotions, and Kokichi had to take a deep breath to steady himself, feeling light despite how heavy his heart had been just a minute ago.

"You... You don't..." Kokichi didn't care if Shuichi could see right through him right now. Kokichi blinked at Shuichi, as if the situation were a fuzzy dream that would disappear if he just woke up, and as Shuichi reached for his hand, a concerned frown on his face, Kokichi finally found the words to express his shock.

"You really don't care? Shuichi, this – this is – a, a, a DICE member left because they didn't want to deal with that! With... Me! Why on earth would you... It doesn't... It doesn't..."

Kokichi trailed off. Swiftly, Shuichi moved to put his arms around Kokichi, and the smaller boy buried his face in Shuichi's shoulder like it was second nature.

"I'm really, really sorry, Kokichi," Shuichi breathed, just loud enough for him to hear, and Kokichi tensed, heart skipping a beat before Shuichi kept it going with his next words. "You shouldn't have had to feel like this was something you needed to hide."

... What. Kokichi stayed there for a heartbeat. Slowly, shakily, he brought his own arms around Shuichi, and though his face was still pressed against his boyfriend's chest, Kokichi mumbled out, "You still love me?"

"Wh – of course I do!" Shuichi's voice was surprised, but there was still that undertone of "why the hell are you asking me this?" that Kokichi expected of him, and Kokichi choked out a laugh as Shuichi continued. "I wouldn't... Kokichi, I..."

Kokichi took a deep breath. Pulling away from Shuichi, Kokichi grinned, and not even he was sure whether it was fake or not. "I knew my beloved wouldn't leave me! I was just testing you!"

Shuichi pulled back as well, though he kept his arms wrapped around Kokichi. Something danced in his eyes – pity? Love? Kokichi couldn't tell.

But the shock was wearing off now. And with the lack of shock came all the previous emotions Kokichi had before he opened up.

"Welp, alright. That's enough mushy business for one day!" Kokichi beamed at Shuichi, jumping off the couch and turning to face him while clapping his hands. "Now, I'm gonna ask this of you as polite as possible, so listen up, Shuichi."

"Ah?" Shuichi shifted on the couch, straightening up and giving Kokichi his full attention. "What is it?"

Kokichi gave him one of his creepier grins, and said very, very slowly, "Get the fuck out of my dorm room so I can daydream, and do not breathe a single word about this to anyone."

Shuichi jolted back, but after a moment had passed where Kokichi didn't move and gave him the opportunity to process his request, Kokichi felt his heart flutter as Shuichi laughed. "All right, I'll do that. I'll see you later, then?"

"Totally!" Kokichi held his hand out. "Buuuut, you gotta give me my phone back, beloved! Don't tell me you were trying to steal it!"

Soon, after a series of apologies from Shuichi, and a return of reassurances and pushes from Kokichi, Shuichi was out of his dorm, and Kokichi was able to sigh in relief as he returned to his bedroom, checking his phone again.

Hm. Fifteen minutes.

And it seems that Kokichi had lost his train of daydream in that time.

...

Maybe he'd listen to some love songs this time.

#long post #my fics #drv3 #saiouma #saiouweek #oumasai #kokichi ouma #shuichi saihara #madd #actually madd #fic #sorry for the late fic!#i had a very bad day and had to push this back #but it's here now and i'm really proud of this!#himiko cast original post

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mushroommouth · 5 years

Text

Growth isn't always linear

Author’s note:

Surprise! This isn’t a sequel. I’m still planning on taking my time with that one.

This is, however, a spinoff one-shot about Aaron shortly after Jake’s death. This one’s a little darker because… it’s about Aaron. I want to say that this isn’t meant to excuse Aaron for anything he did. What he did was wrong.

This is, however, an exploration of his character and possible redemption, but, as the title says, growth isn’t always linear.

CW: Death, implied animal death, implied animal abuse, implied and referenced child abuse

—

Aaron killed everything he touched. It’d been that way as long as he could remember.

The first thing that comes to mind is the Walkman. Aaron wanted to play with it so bad—Jake loved that stupid thing so much. So Aaron cried and cried until Donna told Jake to hand it over. When Jake refused, Donna snatched it from Jake’s hands and smashed it with a hammer.

“Then no one can have it.”

She dropped the pieces back in Jake’s hands. Jake ended up fixing it over time. It was held together with tape and whirled pathetically, bit it worked. For what it counted, Jake didn’t give up.

The second was an accident. Jake won a goldfish at the county fair, which his class attended on a field trip. He snuck it inside and began to set up the tank in his room. Aaron snuck in after him (as Donna took off all the locks in the house a long, long time ago). Jake froze and turned his head slightly, staring wide-eyed at his little brother in horror.

“Don’t tell Mom.”

That wasn’t something that even came to mind with Aaron. He instead ran up to the plastic tank, reaching for it with grubby fingers. Jake immediately held his hands out to block his little brother from reaching the tiny fish.

“No! No, don’t touch him. I’ve got to go get food and real supplies,” Jake looked back up to the door. “Just… I’ll be right back. Don’t tell Mom, and maybe you can help me name him or something. Just don’t tell Mom, and please don’t touch him.”

Aaron watched with a small grin as Jake dug up his wallet from its hiding place and walked out the door. Aaron looked at the fish tank, and back at the door. He wouldn’t TOUCH it, but Jake didn’t say anything about just watching the fish. So Aaron walked to the kitchen, grabbed some chips and walked back to Jake’s room. Aaron sat over the tank, peering in the top as he shoved his face with chips.

One fell in the tank and Aaron jumped. He looked over his shoulder, making sure Jake wasn’t back yet. Once satisfied Jake was still some ways off, Aaron shoved his hand in the tank to try and grab it. He didn’t mean to knock it over. Aaron tried to fix the situation but it was too late.

When Jake came home, he didn’t even seem surprised. Just crestfallen. Jake shoved the supplies under his bed and instead picked up the tank, looking sadly at the floating fish. Aaron felt his face heat in shame. Shame turned to anger.

“Mom wouldn’t have let you have it anyway!” Aaron cried before storming out of the room.

The third—and most damning—was Aaron’s brother himself.

Aaron had anger and aggression problems.

His elementary school teacher told Donna so in an impromptu parent-teacher conference.

“He doesn’t get along with the other kids. He keeps to himself at recess and tends to…use his hands instead of his words.” The teacher seemed sheepish, shrinking under Donna’s glare. “I talked to some other teachers found some highly-recommended therapists—”

“Are you saying I raised my son bad?”

Aaron looked up to see Donna stand up. She began screaming at the teacher and grabbed Aaron so tight that it left imprints from Donna’s nails. In the end, Donna had Aaron switch classes entirely. He remembers his mother making the teacher cry.

Aaron might not have had friends, but he had his brother. And Aaron had his anger and rage which only got worse as Aaron got older. Jake…got the brunt of that. More times that Aaron could count, he took out his aggression on his older brother, beating him red, black and blue. Donna simply turned away.

Well, she turned away until Jake finally left. And Aaron’s life turned into a living hell. Years turned into decades. Aaron grew up and nothing changed. Nothing ever changed.

He ended up finding where Jake ended up, years and years later. On a cold day, Aaron showed up on the doorstep. Luckily enough, Jake himself opened the door. Aaron couldn’t hide his smile, anticipation and rage making his heart race with glee.

“Miss me big brother?”

—

The car ride after Donna bailed him out was completely silent. Aaron felt sick, sitting in the backseat. Donna’s face was completely deadpan. Aaron forced himself to speak, cringing at the fact he sounded like a little kid.

“Mom? What’s going to happen to Jake?”

No response. Aaron swallowed, waiting a few minutes before trying again.

“Do you know what happened to him?”

No response. Donna didn’t even turn around.

“Are we- are we going to the funeral?”

With that, Donna slammed on the breaks, pulling the car over, swearing profusely.

“Why would we go to the funeral, Aaron? You killed him. You don’t belong there.” She looked up into the rearview mirror, watching Aaron curl in on himself. Donna sighed before speaking again. “Listen, it was bound to happen eventually. I’m just surprised it didn’t happen sooner.”

Aaron turned his head to look out the window, tears beading up. Donna rolled her eyes.

“Took him long enough anyway.”

—

Donna never fixed a problem. Whenever she faced something she didn’t like, she got rid of it and replaced it. She never had anything beyond plastic plants after she overwatered one when Aaron was little.

When Jake’s dad walked away, Donna got a new boyfriend.

When Jake didn’t turn out the way Donna wanted, she had Aaron.

When Jake died, three months later, Donna replaced him with a cat. She returned home from work the next day holding a box.

“One of my co-workers found this cat eating trash outside their apartment.”

Donna dropped a box into Aaron’s lap, causing Aaron to tense up. He opened it carefully. Big eyes simply glanced up at Aaron lazily in turn. Half of its long fur was matted down, especially around the stomach. It was missing an eye and an ear, though it was long-since healed over.

“Quit your moping.” She waved her hand dismissively. “It’s old, so no one will notice if it…disappears, anyway.”

Aaron cringed, looking back down at the cat. It simply leapt off of the box, stretching. He opened his mouth to speak but Donna interrupted.

“I’m out of town for work this week.” Donna continued. “Since you don’t, you know, have a job, I left a fifty on the counter for food or… whatever cats need.”

She picked up her duffel bag, looking over her shoulder at her surviving son.

“I’m taking the car. There better not be anything out of place when I get back, or I swear to God…”

And without a goodbye, she left.

—

Aaron sat on the floor next to his bed, eyeing the cat. He raised his hand to pet the cat, which in turn bit him.

“Ow! What the fu- ugh, you stupid little rat.” Aaron knocked the feline off his bed. It glared at him before stretching again as if it knew that was going to happen.

Aaron glared back, watching as it left the room.

And Aaron was alone again.

He stood up, looking around his room. It was messy, but devoid of any decorations. He never really had… any interests. His room reflected that. There was a college poster on the wall for some time, but after he dropped out, he ripped it down. The only picture remaining…

A shattered frame held a family photo. It was old—so old that it was taken by Aaron’s father. Jake was holding a screaming newborn Aaron as Donna was mid-lecture on how to hold the infant correctly. It was the only picture of Jake that remained hung up in the house.

Aaron swallowed a lump in his throat. Jake was gone, and it was his fault. Of course it was. He shoved his hands in his pockets, walking to the end of the hall to the long-since sealed door.

Donna finally re-installed the lock after Jake moved out. Well, not the correct one. Instead, a padlock stopped any entry to Jake’s room. What Donna didn’t know was that Aaron knew where the lock was. He dug into the soil of one of her plastic plants, providing an unused silver key.

With one swift move, Aaron unlocked his older brother’s door. He took a deep breath before pushing it open.

—

The room, just like the life he left behind, was just like how Jake left it. Music sheets were spread across the desk. The Walkman was there, too, as a paperweight of sorts. A layer of dust covered everything.

Aaron looked at the music posters that lined the walls, faded with time. He walked around the room, carefully not touching anything—until he tripped on something. He fell on the bed, a layer of dust shooting up. He sneezed a few times, rubbing his eyes until he decided to check what he tripped on.

It was a shirt.

Not just any shirt, but an early Problem Sons shirt. It was a plain white t-shirt with the band name written poorly in marker. Aaron swallowed a lump in his throat.

Problem Sons, huh?

Jake didn’t have problems. He didn’t know what problems were. Donna hated him, sure, but… the death itself haunted Aaron. What has kept him up since then was how loved Jake was. The kid was screaming, calling Jake ‘dad.’ Jake’s roommate—Dan, he thought—seemed to fall apart inside as soon as he saw Jake’s body. He only kept it (somewhat) together for the kid. Aaron was sure about that.

Jake was loved. Aaron didn’t know what that felt like.

So he snapped. He dug his fingers in the shirt, ripping it apart; the room felt like it was closing in. It was too much. Aaron stormed out of the room, returning with a bat. Jake might have been gone. But his presence wasn’t, and it had the nerve to mock Aaron.

He ripped the room apart, leaving no part intact. Dust and plaster hade the air hazy. Aaron screamed and cried until his throat was raw. His cries turned to wheezes as he slumped to the floor, curling into his knees.

Aaron really did it, huh. Jake was dead and it was his fault. He might have hated Jake, but he didn’t want this. He never wanted this—any of this. Aaron was unsure how long he spent on the floor of his older brother’s (now destroyed) room.

Something soft nudged his shoulder.

Aaron turned his head, wiping snot and tears to see the cat nuzzling him. It came up and licked the scruff of Aaron’s face. Aaron laughed a little and sat up. The cat took a step back, but Aaron scooped it up. After a moment of hesitation, the cat sunk into Aaron’s arms, purring loudly.

Aaron tensed and looked down at the cat in surprise.

“You’re like me, aren’t you?” He asked quietly. He lifted one of his own hands, the cat sniffing it cautiously before biting it again, this time much gentler. It—no, she. It was a girl cat, Aaron knew that much—was a little shit. Aaron laughed again before setting it down.

He knew what he had to do.

—

Within hours, the house was completely ablaze.

Aaron heard the sirens of firetrucks in the distance but didn’t want to take his eyes off of his handiwork just yet. Donna would be mad of course. There was no coming back from this. Besides, Aaron didn’t want to come back from this.

The house- his sanctuary and his prison- would be gone in a matter of minutes.

Aaron held the cat tighter, which squirmed slightly in his grasp to get more comfortable. He swallowed, unsure to laugh or cry. Instead, he nudged the cat with his face. The sirens were getting louder.

“Let’s find somewhere and finally start our lives. What do you say… Tom?”

The cat didn’t recognize her new name, but she seemed ready to go along with whatever. Besides, they had time—just the rest of their lives.

—

“Huh.” Dan Fuller set down the newspaper, pushing his plate of waffles out of the way. “Uh, Jake?”

“Hmm?” Jake asked as he took a sip of coffee. It immediately phased through him, splashing it on the chair and onto the floor. “Oh dammit.”

“Dammit!” Milo repeated with glee, smoosing his eggs with his hands.

Jake cringed. “No, no! Sorry. Milo—don’t say that. That’s a bad word. Your dad just made a mess.”

As Jake got up to get some paper towels (and a toddler fork for Milo), Dan cleared his throat.

“Um, did… you know your mother’s house burned down?”

Jake paused for a moment. His whole form shuddered for a second- just a second- glitching slightly. “Huh.”

“’Huh?’” Dan repeated.

“Was…” Jake cleared his throat, unsure what to say. “Was anyone hurt?”

“No, but the house is beyond repair. They’re bulldozing the lot next week.” Dan said, watching Jake closely as he began to clean up the coffee. “Are you…okay?”

Jake seemed deep in thought but shook his head to clear whatever kept him so distracted.

“What? Oh, yeah. Good riddance, right?” Jake forced a dry laugh. He finished cleaning up the coffee and threw away the paper towels.

“Do you… want to talk about it?” Dan asked hesitantly.

“Not really. How about we try this drinking thing again?” Jake smiled, turning his head so Dan could meet the corner of his eye. Dan chuckled slightly.

“Okay, but this time make sure you only have de-caff.”

#AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH #AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH #I DONT EVEN HAVE WORDS JUST SCREAMIN #U STARTED AN AARON REDEMPTION EVEN HOW ARE YOU SO PERFECT #made for me #fics #ghost jake #aaron #donna #submission

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squirrel-moose-winchester · 6 years

Text

Chapter 18

Pairing: Dean x Reader AU

Word Count: 1482

Summary: With October ending and the holidays underway, that only meant one thing for Dean Winchester. It meant returning to his childhood home and spending time with his family. It meant listening to his parents, especially his mom, ramble on and on about when he was going to find himself a nice girl, bring her home for the holidays, and then eventually get married and have children. However, Dean wasn’t ready for that sort of commitment, so in order to get his family off his back, he comes up with an elaborate scheme! But like the saying goes, “sometimes lies become truths.”

Chapter Warnings: TONS of fluff and a bit of angst.

A/N: Sorry this took so long! Also, sorry this one is so short. None the less... I think it’s a pretty could installment. It really get’s you thinking! haha. ENJOY!

By the time you and Dean pulled into the driveway, the sun had already set, and all the lights downstairs were on. And by the looks of it, everyone was home. John’s Impala parked in the garage as usual, Mary’s Sedan behind it, and a rental car was parked by the sidewalk, leaving a parking space for Dean in the drive way.

Your nerves came flooding back and Dean grabbed hold of your hand almost instantly. “You’re going to be fine. You have nothing to be worried about. Trust me.” He could practically read you like a book. He knew the look on your face when you got nervous.

“Easy for you to say,” you grumbled, Dean chuckling softly before bringing your hand up to his lips. The notion was endearing.

Dean flashed you a smile, your eyes locking together, and your stomach flipped. It was something about the way he would always look at you that made your heart full, and it scared you a little just how much you loved him. How much you were in love with him. There was no doubt in your mind that he was your forever. Your lover and soulmate wrapped into one.

“Let’s get going. I bet they’re having dinner. And you know what that means?”

“You’re always hungry?” You answered, obviously kidding.

“Ha Ha. Very funny. No. It means pie!”

“Pie?” You questioned.

“Yeah. Mom knows I’m coming home tonight, so of course she’s going to make pie!” Dean revealed as if it was common sense. Which it was now that you thought about it.

“Dean, you need to see a therapist. No one should love pie as much as you do.”

“And no one should love that weird show you watch as much as you do. What’s it called again? Paranormal? Super Freaks? What?”

“Don’t you dare insult my show!” you warned. “It’s called Supernatural you jackass!” You corrected, laughing as you punched his arm. Dean laughed along with you, trying to block your attacks.

You and Dean got out the truck, but the conversation was still in tact. “So what is so great about this Supernatural show?” Your lover asked.

You rolled your eyes, having told him a million times what the show was about. “I’ve told you! It’s about two brothers that fight monsters, demons, just… anything and everything Supernatural. It’s such an amazing show! The bond and love the brothers have for each other is just—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. These brothers… they’re not… you know, together-together are they? Because one, their brothers, and two that’s g—”

“Dean, no!” You gawked at him, unable to believe he make such an assumption. “That’s incest! Disgusting!”

“Hey! I’m just asking. You’re the one loved watching it,” raised his hands up in surrender before grabbing the bags from the back.

“Dean, it’s about family. How they never turn their backs on each other and how they are each other’s strength. How the hell did a thought like that even cross your mind?” Dean took a breath, but before he could speak, you started talking again. “You know what, don’t answer that,” you giggled, Dean smiling. Honestly though, I think you’d really like it if you watched it. You actually remind me a lot of one of the main characters,” you confessed.

“Oh yeah? And which one is that? Is he handsome?” He asked. “He has to be if he reminds you of me.”

“His name is—”

“Dean!”

You couldn’t get the character’s name out in time. You jumped and let out a soft yelp when someone shouted Dean’s name from behind. “Oh—oh my! Is that… Y/N! Oh my! Y/N!” Mary came running out the door, quickly embracing you into her arms. “Sweetie, I am so glad you’re hear!” Her hold on you tightened as she swayed you lightly.

“I’m glad I’m here too,” you giggled, the sound coming out a bit strangled.

“Mom, you tryin’ to kill her? She needs air!” Dean laughed.

“Oh yes. Of course. I’m so sorry,” she twittered. “Dean, my sweet boy. You have no idea how happy you made me. I’m glad things between you two are back to normal,” Mary expressed, engulfing her son in her arms.

Mary lead the way back into the house where everyone was at the table having dinner. “There’s my boy!” John bellowed, his smile wide, and beer bottle in his hand. “Oh! Y/N! What a wonderful surprise! Looks like I get to have both of my daughters here!” He cheered.

His words warmed your heart. There was no one you’d be more proud of being the daughter of. John and Mary were amazing parents and even more amazing humans. Although no one is perfect, but they were close to it for you.

Sam and Jess chuckled before getting up from their seats to greet you and Dean. Jess came running, jumping into your arms, her high pitch squeal nearly causing you to go temporarily deaf. “I can’t believe you’re here! I’m so happy!”

“Me too,” you snickered. She was too much, and you loved it.

Sam and Jess switched places and Sam gave you a big hug, lifting you off the floor. “Glad my brother isn’t as much of an idiot as I thought he was,” he teased.

“Have a seat, have a seat!” Mary quipped, already making each of you a plate of food. Once she set the plate in front of you, your stomach growled, catching everyone’s attention.

“I guess I’m hungrier than I thought…” you muttered, smiling.

Everyone laughed, Dean grinning at you like he’s won the lottery. “That’s my girl!” He leaned in, kissing you on the lips in front of everyone.

At first you fell right into it, love spelled by his touch, before realizing you had an audience. “Dean!” You pushed him away, “there are others in the room.”

Mary was smiling ear to ear, more than enjoying the sight. She could feel the love overflowing in the house. If she had to admit, this was her dream come true. To have her family in her house together again, her loving husband by her side with her sons, and the women they loved. What would make it even better was if she had grandchildren running all over the place. Then it would no longer be a dream, it would be her heaven.

In the middle of dessert, right after Dean shoved an enormous bite of his pie into his mouth, he asked, “Mom, what was it that you needed to tell me?”

“Dean, could you chew your food first?” you grumbled good naturedly.

The upwards curve of Mary’s lips dropped for a split second, and a sense of seriousness glossed over her eyes. If you weren’t paying attention, it was easy to miss, but unfortunately for Mary, everyone noticed. She gave a week smile, looking to her husband in silent communication.

“Uh…” she began.

“How about we talk about that tomorrow? We’ve got one surprise tonight,” he smiled over at you, “how about we save the other for the next day,” John intervened.

Everyone agreed, glances caught between each other. Something wasn’t right. Whatever news Mary had to share definitely wasn’t going to be good. It put you a little on edge. Was this about you? Had you done something wrong? Or worse… was she feeling unwell? Considering all the times she’d push Dean to find a girlfriend, to come over for the holidays, spewing on about how she wanted grandchildren as soon as possible… was there a chance that she had a reason for nagging on Dean so much all that time? Was time an issue?

After everything was cleared off the table, dishes washed, Mary and John bid their goodnights and headed off to bed, while you, Dean, Sam and Jess ambled into the living room. It was Sam who spoke first.

“What was that about? What news?” The youngest of the brothers asked.

“I don’t know. Mom called a few days ago telling me to get home as soon as I could. Said that she had something very important to tell me. Or something she wanted to tell us? I’m not exactly sure. She wasn’t specific,” Dean replied.

“I hope everything is okay,” Jess said.

“Me too,” you agreed.

“You know what…” Sam stiffened.

“What?” Dean asked warily.

“Mom recently gotten something in the mail from the hospital…” his throat bobbed as he gulped. “What if something is wrong with mom? Or dad? He did have that stroke a few years back.”

“Sammy, don’t think that way. I’m sure mom and dad are fine—” Dean’s grip on your hand tightened. You knew he was lying. He was scared. He hoped that Sam was wrong. Very, very wrong.

“Yeah, they look healthier as can be,” you added.

Then there was silence. Everyone hoped you and Dean were right.

Did you like it? Please Reblog/Share and/or leave feedback! I would really appreciate it. Feedback is FUEL!

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pythagoreanwhump · 5 years

Note

Ooh you got a BTHB card! Can I request 'tortured for information' with whomever you want to write about? It's one of my fave tropes and your writing is great :) -S

Of course! It’s my favorite trope as well! So sorry that it took so long for me to get to it

CW: Drowning, electricity, contemplation/attempt of suicide (not related to mental health)

“The list, where is it?” The interrogator has his fingers tangled in David’s hair, holding his face mere millimeters above the water.

“Wh-” David coughed, “What list?”

The interrogator dipped his head suddenly, not enough to push his face under, but David still let out a panicked gasp. “Oh please,” the interrogator said, “You know exactly what I’m talking about. The NOC list.”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” David closed his eyes and tried to push back against the hand in his hair.

“Fine,” The interrogator pushed his face back under.

David drew in a quick breath before the cold water hit his face. He started struggling immediately even though he still had enough air for another minute at least. He counted in his head. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three… He relaxed after he got to twenty, using all of his willpower to breathe out. His ears pounded and the sound of the bubbles breaking surface seemed to reverberate through his skull. For a second, he thought the interrogator saw through his ruse and would keep him under for longer.

“That wasn’t very long, maybe we could try for more next time.” The interrogator started pushing him under again, stopping with the tip of his nose touching the water. “Unless you have something to say?”

“Nope, still no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Let’s try for a minute now,” The interrogator said, “not very long, really, but it’ll get worse if you don’t talk.”

David was pushed into the water again. This time, he wasn’t ready for it. The water flowed up into his nose and burned all the way down to his lungs. He struggled in earnest, hands pulling against the zip-ties, close to drawing blood, and legs kicking frantically, trying to get a footing on anything to push himself up. The more he struggled, the more air escaped his lungs.

The interrogator was true to his word, counting exactly 60 seconds before he pulled David up. “Is it worth it?” He asked as he dumped the limp figure onto the ground.

David’s body was racked with deep coughs, the water coming out of his mouth seemed more than could humanly fit into his lungs. Of course it is. If he gives up that list, that’s 63 other people tortured and killed. 63 families destroyed without any explanation. “I don’t know of any lists,” He squeezed out. He did. He had it memorized in his head. 63 names, aliases, and safehouses. 63 of his brothers-in-arms that he had to keep safe.

He forced himself to exhale the next time he was pushed under. The air bubbles bobbed up to the surface and the water rushed into the vacuum of his lungs, the pressure pushing any remaining air floating up to his lips. Somehow, his chest was freezing from the cold water and burning at the same time. When the darkness crawled into the edges of his consciousness, he let it take him.

“Dammit,” The interrogator pulled David out of the water and slammed him to the ground. He didn’t even bother to do proper resuscitation, just slammed a boot into David’s chest and waited for him to cough the water up himself.

“Even-” David’s words kept getting interrupted by coughs, “Even if I did know what list you want, I’d have forgotten by now. Did you know that drowning can mess up your brain? Maybe you wanna try talking to me nicely.” He tried for a weak smile.

“Well, I see you’re talking. Let’s try something else. Something that wouldn’t give you the chance to kill yourself.” The interrogator dragged David up by the back of his shirt and dumped him on an inclined board.

The blood rushed to his head as his hands and feet were bound tightly at his sides. “You gonna let me take a nap now? Mind bringing me a blanket? Kinda cold from getting soaked when you tried to drown me.”

The rag that was supposed to cover his face was shoved into his mouth instead. He retched. It tasted of blood and sweat, the bit of moisture on it dripping down his throat. Before he could spit it out, another rag covered his eyes. Even without seeing, he heard the sound of pouring water come closer.

The water filled his nose, not flowing down to his lungs like before, but completely sealing his airway nonetheless. There wasn’t much of it, and he instinctively coughed, almost thinking that it would be enough to expel the water. It didn’t, the air bubbled out from his chest, making the cloth on his face shifted a little before the pressured spray of the hose pushed it back down, sealing firmly over his face again. He strained against the leather straps holding him down, trying to pull some air into his lungs, but only water came rushing in and pouring back out. He heard his own heart pounding, threatening to shatter his eardrums.

“Ready to talk yet?” The interrogator moved the hose off his face but didn’t turn the water off. Some of it still landed on his face, making him flinch, thinking it’s starting again.

David shook off the soaked rag sticking to his face and spit out the one in his mouth. “You’d make a very bad memory therapist,” he tested the bonds again. “Still not remembering ever hearing of any list.”

A punch landed on his nose. He blinked away the water clinging to his eyelashes just in time to see the next strike coming, again coming straight for his nose. He knew it’s about to get significantly worse, being drowned with a broken nose was something he’d only experienced once before, and he had no intentions of ever going through that again. Seems like he will have to today, though.

Or not. David craned his neck to see what the interrogator stepped away to grab. He heard the crackle of electricity and expected to see a cattle prod, but apparently the Soviets considered it beneath them to use such crude tools. No, they had a sophisticated device with a mess of different colored wires and knobs of various sizes. When the electrodes were attached to his body, he tried his best to not think about the pain. He stared at the controls on the box, trying to decipher the Russian words written in a tiny script.

It didn’t quite work. His interrogator tapes electrodes onto his temples, the thin metal plate fitting perfectly onto the smooth skin. He flinched when the interrogator grabbed his hand and spread his fingers. He hissed in pain when an alligator clip was snapped on the sensitive flesh between his pointer and middle finger. He was still wet from waterboarding, and he knew that the thin film of moisture coating him will make the pain cling to his skin. He shuddered.

“You look like you know what’s coming, so I won’t explain,” the interrogator adjusted the controls and put his fingers on the main knob. “Last chance before I turn it up. The list.”

David couldn’t tear his eyes away from the switch. “Ah, now you’re getting the memory therapy thing right. Electroconvulsive therapy is pretty high tech, but I’m not sure you’re trained to use it. Better not fry my brain and make me forget even more.”

The interrogator slowly turns the knob, steadily increasing the voltage. The tingle turns into a burn, and then becomes unbearable. The wooden bench creaks from the leather straps being strained against.

When it ends, David’s eyes barely flutter open, gaze empty. For a moment, the interrogator feared that his brain was actually fried, until his pale lips parted and he spoke. “You are a really bad memory therapist. I’d ask for my money back, but I never paid.”

#BTHB #bad things happen bingo #tortured for information #espionage whump #electricity #waterboarding

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literarytrashcollection · 5 years

Text

The New Recruit (4/?)

AN: This story is kind of slow moving, but there’s a reason for it all! It will all come together soon! I hope y’all are enjoying the snippets of Bucky as the Winter Soldier between Steve going down in the ice and Steve coming back up!

Thor shared his information with the rest of the Avengers. That brought on a whole new slew of questions, ranging from the ones I’d already asked (“Is she your niece then?”) to some questions that I hadn’t even thought to think (“Is it possible that she’s actually Loki in disguise?”). Tony and Bruce’s testing became even more in depth. Loki was supposedly dead, but if it really was his blood in my veins, it gave them something to look for, no matter the quantity.

Steve seemed to thaw a little the more time I spent at the tower. We reminisced about the war and the time before it. I helped fill him in on the time he missed between going down in the ice and coming back up, stuff that the Avengers were either too young to know. Bucky would never admit it, but we both knew he was always lurking, always listening.

It took me telling another story of one of his abduction attempts for him to finally come out of the shadows, stalking towards me slowly until he finally just sat down next to Steve quietly. He looked mortified as I told Steve about the different times the Winter Soldier had tried every different tactic in the world to get me to come home with him.

“Well, enough of this darkness for one night,” I laughed nervously. Bucky was all but physically restraining himself from breaking the arm of the chair he was in. Steve bid us a good night and I stood to head to my room when I fully took stock of Bucky. “Buck?”

He glanced up at me sheepishly. “I hurt you, so much.”

I nodded. “Yeah, the Winter Solider did. I hear he’s gone though. This new guy, Bucky, I hear he’s pretty nice.”

He looked back down at the floor. “I guess.”

I held my hand out, despite my monkey brain telling me that he was still dangerous. “Come on, where’s Steve’s Bucky? The ladies’ man, the adorable idiot who let me escape the SHIELD facility over a glass of water?”

“Wiped from my brain, thanks to HYDRA.” He chuckled darkly, ignoring my hand. I huffed a sigh and physically grabbed his hands, hauling him to his feet. “Who’s this? Just yesterday, you would’ve lit me on fire for shits.” It was meant as a joke, but there was nothing but sadness and self-loathing in his voice.

“Yeah, maybe I was a little callous with you.” I mumbled, pulling him with me to the kitchen. I sat him on one of the bar stools and started rummaging around in the cupboards and fridge until I had everything I need. I leaned over the counter with my back to him for a long moment before turning to him. “I told myself that you were still him. The Winter Solider, turned good. I didn’t stop to think that instead of them just changing your programming, they actually took it out. I wanted to believe that you were tangible evidence of the bad guys who hurt me. I was wrong, okay? And you don’t deserve that.

“Steve and I have been talking a lot and he talked to me a lot about your recovery. I should have been more understanding.” I said, holding his gaze. “I fell for you hard in the sixties, when you pretended like you left HYDRA. You were faking, or maybe they’d just programmed you to believe that you had and all of this other shit. They turned you into old Bucky. I harbor a lot of heartbreak from that.”

His face seemed to age in front of me, like this information took years off his life. Tentatively, like he still wasn’t sure of his own strength, he reached across the granite island and held my hand in his flesh one. “I remember. They would have gone to any measure to get you.”

“I…” I sucked in a deep breath and started mixing ingredients together for a pie crust. “I went a little crazy when you flipped a switch and were suddenly the Winter Solider again. That’s when I swore love off. That’s when I changed my identity, moved to some tiny Canadian mountain, just hid out. When you came out of hiding again, I had to see you for myself.

“That’s part of why I’m here. A big part is because I want to use my powers for good and the way things have been the last few years, it seems like the Avengers need all the help they can get, but a small part of me, a sliver of my heart, just wanted to see you.” My voice cracked a little on the last word, tears welling up in my eyes.

He pulled my hand across and pressed his lips to my knuckles lightly, despite the flour that dusted them. “I’m so sorry, Y/N. You deserved better.”

“We both did.” I sighed, taking my hand back so I could knead the pie crust to within an inch of its life.

He was quiet for a long time. “Do you bake when your stressed?”

I looked down at the flour coated counter and the rolling pin I’d rolled the crust out paper thin with. “Yeah, I do.” I huffed a hysteric laugh. “Raised when women belonged in the kitchen and all that.”

He stood slowly, stiffly, and walked to the fridge. He got out a bag of plums and started cutting. “Don’t tell the others, but I do too.” He smiled shyly, bumping my shoulder with his. “Therapist said that a non-violent form of stress relief could be right up my alley, might help get my head back on straight.”

I watched his fingers do the nimble work for a few moments before I went back to my own work. We made a spiced plum pie that we shared in the living room while we watched bad Lifetime movies.

London, England. June, 1963.

I puttered around my apartment, tidying up. Dishes had begun to accumulate and laundry was starting to pile up. So I rolled my sleeves up and began to clean, no longer willing to live in the filth that my depression had allowed me to revel in. Each day, watching the mess build hurt me to the core, but I couldn’t physically make myself clean it. I would watch the flies circle half eaten sandwiches in disgust and yet never raise a finger.

Today, I finally fixed that.

Halfway through the dishes, the doorbell rang. I was happy to ignore it. It was probably just some door-to-door salesman or a missionary or something. I stopped only to turn my music up louder and continued my cleaning, singing along to the Beatles.

The doorbell continued to ring though. After the fifth chime of it, I dried my hands and opened the door, ready to level the annoying guest with a rant to end all rants. As soon as my eye settled on a neatly combed, nicely dressed Winter Soldier, my throat closed. I slammed the door on him before he had even said a word. I knew it wouldn’t help anything, if anything, just make him angrier. But it would buy me enough time to pack a go bag and get a head start.

“Y/N! I need your help, please!” His voice cried through the door and I hesitated, my hand freezing over the bra I was ready to shove into my bag. “I escaped. But they’re after me.” He sounded like he was leaning on the door now, his voice broken and tired.

I grabbed my gun, holding it behind my back as I slowly pulled the door open again. Upon secondary inspection, I realized that he had a fat black eye, his lip was split, and his suit jacket covered a growing red stain, centimeters from his heart.

“Y/N,” he breathed and I could see hurt in his eyes. Hurt and fear. I stepped back and waved him in slowly, tucking the gun into the waistband of my trousers. I closed the door behind him and stared, not speaking. “I promise, I’m not here to hurt you. I broke free. I…” he took a deep breath, head tipping back like he was trying to contain tears. “Yours was the only name I could remember, the only person I could think of who could help me.”

“Strip.” I spat. He blinked at me and a tear or two did fall down across his stubbly cheeks. Slowly, he removed his clothes until he was down to his underwear. I didn’t hear the heavy weight of a gun or any other weapon as he sat his clothes down. “Sit.” I was a little gentler this time, gesturing to the couch behind the coffee table.

I walked to the kitchen, retrieving the first aid kit I kept on hand. When I returned, he was leaned back against the seat cushions, eyes closed and mouth agape, snoring lightly. I heaved a big sigh and cleaned up the wound on his chest. He was still a super soldier and would still heal much faster than any human, but I sterilized what appeared to be a knife wound and dressed it. I threw his clothes in with mine to be washed and finished the dishes.

Bucky woke up as I finished preparing supper, meat loaf and mashed potatoes. He stumbled into the dining room in his underwear, plopped down in a chair and stared at me with bleary eyes. He didn’t speak through the meal, but by the end, his eyes had opened more and he was sitting up straight, rather than the slumped shape he took as he shoved food into his mouth without tasting it.

“How’d you escape?” I asked as he stood, rinsing his dish in the sink. I followed after him, mostly out of nerves. The kitchen held lots of weapons, weapons he could use to bring me back to HYDRA. I watched him out of the corner of my eye as I poured us both a stiff drink.

“I was sent on a mission. Here in London. I saw you in town and all of… a lot of my memories came back. Trying to kidnap you nearly a decade ago. You, during the war. Steve. It was enough for me to get away, enough for me to remember all the bad that HYDRA has done and break their bond on me.

“So, I followed you. Made sure you were still uncompromised. One of their agents caught up to me and roughed me up, but I still beat him and then I came here.” He leaned against the counter like it was the only thing holding him up. His gaze out the window never faltered, he never even blinked, like the second his eyes closed, he was back in that hell he came from.

“What was your mission?” I asked, pushing the glass towards him. He accepted it gratefully and took a testing sip. He licked his lips, collecting the extra alcohol off them as he decided he liked it, then knocked the rest of it back in one swallow. “Well?”

“You. Again.” He mumbled, head falling in disappointment. I felt my muscles all tighten, flames erupting across my skin as I clenched my glass so hard, I felt it strain under my fingers. “But, I’m not him anymore,” he said quickly, eyes snapping to mine as he stepped closer to me. He was still in his underwear, still vulnerable and weaponless. Not that he needed a weapon. The glinting metal arm would be enough to grab me, hold me, kill me. “I’m not the new fist of HYDRA. I’m not their Winter Soldier. I’m just… I’m just Bucky again. It’s like waking up flipped a switch and now I’m myself again.”

“I want to believe you.” I mumbled, the flames receding slightly.

He took another step forward and I tried to step back, blocked by the pantry. This close, I could see that his black eye was completely gone. I could see the dark smudge of eyelashes that shadowed his icy blue eyes that were full of emotion and fear and loneliness. I could feel the air stir as he breathed, the warmth from his skin. He felt real again, not like the robot sent to abduct me from Berlin. “Then, please, Y/N, believe me.” He whimpered, his flesh hand coming up to touch my face.

My anger melted. My fear took a step back and I allowed Bucky to touch me. He stroked my cheek, caressed my hair, ran his fingers over the fabric of my blouse and then my trousers. He took another half step forward and wrapped his arms around me, hugging me against his bare chest. It took me a moment, but I slowly coiled my arms around him too. He broke down against me, sobbing pitifully about the sheer torture he was submitted to at HYDRAs hand.

He told me about the beatings and the eletro-shocks used to wipe his memory. He told me about how every day was a fight for his life, a fight to come out on top so he wouldn’t be killed. He wanted to live, he wanted to be a man again, not just a tool. We ended up on the floor of my kitchen, limbs tangled together as I comforted him.

“Your face kept me alive, Y/N.” He whispered after a long twenty minutes of him hiccuping through the last of his sobs. “I was… enamored by you during the war. You were a hero to me. Your face, the thought of you and your strength, it kept me alive.” His eyes were puffy and rimmed red from the tears, but I could see the truth in them.

“You can stay here, for the time being.” I finally told him, my fingers stroking his hair as he rested his head against my shoulder. “We’ll need to leave soon though. If you tracked me down here, if an agent found you, then they’ll find us both.”

He nodded slowly. “America. It’s mostly off their radar. They’ve got a few agents out there but it’s not enough to cover the whole country. I know where to go.” He spoke softly and my heart thumped brokenly in my chest for him.

“We’ll go to America.” I nodded, tucking his head under my chin. We would go to America and I would protect him from ever being hurt by them again.

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