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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 7 months

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When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 9: We’re Friends When You’re On Your Knees]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Y'all, you are not ready for this one. Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, sexual content (18+), murder, Aemond "there are other Targaryens" Targaryen having feelings again (good ones?? not good ones?? both?? who knows bestie, not me!), an unexpected family reunion, must be the season of the witch... 👀

Series title is a lyrics from: "7 Minutes In Heaven" by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: "Our Lawyer Made Us Change the Name of This Song So We Wouldn’t Get Sued" by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 8.4k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

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You watch her from the shadows of the dungeons, rusted iron, phantom echoes of falling water, chilling drafts that come from nowhere and everywhere. She has not yet noticed you. She is beautiful, regal, arrogant, even as she sits gnawing on crusts of bread and the gristle of chicken bones, scraps that Lord Larys throws to her like she’s a pig nosing its way through a trough, an animal that is clever and yet condemned. And if she is livestock, then what are you? A creature of darkness, of nightfall, lethal and treacherous, a wolf or a bat or a spider. You step forward and into a ray of light that cuts across the stones like the path of a comet.

Baela gasps and drops the tibia she’d been working on, cracking it in two, sucking out the dead-blood marrow. Her wide-set, almond-shaped eyes catch on you. She is not afraid; you have never known Daemon Targaryen’s eldest daughter to be afraid of anything. She is fascinated.

“I’m sorry,” she says, crawling across the floor of her cell. She grips the metal bars and peers out at you, kneeling there like she’s praying. You suspect Baela has never prayed to anyone or anything. “I didn’t mean to almost burn you. I didn’t realize you were standing on the steps with him until after I’d given Moondancer the order. It all happened so quickly.”

You cannot appear to be angry. You have no reason to be angry if you are Aegon’s captive. “I take no offense. I wasn’t harmed.”

“No one had any idea the Usurper was here,” Baela says. Still her eyes are bright, entranced. “We believed Dragonstone to be vacant.”

Good. You give her a dismal smirk. “No. Not so vacant after all.”

“Are you with child yet?”

A bolt shoots down your spine like cold lightning. “What?”

“That’s what he’s trying to do, isn’t it?” Baela says. “He wants an heir from you. His wife is dead, his sons are dead. He couldn’t get his claws on me or Rhaena. But you can give him a Valyrian-blooded prince.”

Aegon has never mentioned having children with you. You don’t know if this means he doesn’t want them, or if he does not wish to place demands upon you, or if he is indifferent, or if he believes it to be impossible. “I have nothing to show for his efforts.”

“Has it been unspeakably awful?” And if Baela seeks to console, this is secondary to her personal interest; she is curious, she is absorbed. Her fingers close more tightly around the iron bars. “He’s a drunk, a degenerate. He’s vile. He’s deformed. Has he tortured you? Has he violated you in a hundred different ways? Does he tie you down, does he strike you, does he cut and bruise you?”

And this is the Blacks’ story, one they could never begin to suspect might be fiction: that you are a martyr, that Aegon is a monster. In place of an answer, you give Baela the treasures you have brought her. You pass them through the gaps between the bars: a bottle of ink, parchment, a quill with a point like a blade.

Baela takes these objects, amazed. “You can help me send a letter back to Harrenhal?”

“I don’t know if I will be able to get to the rookery. But I’ll try.”

“The Usurper allows you this much free rein?”

He trusts me. He loves me. He’s bedbound and in agony. “He’s rather distracted at the moment.”

“He’s dying, hopefully,” Baela says. She has already begun to write. And there’s a reptilian sort of coldness that is snaking deeper into you, constricting around your bones, gliding through the blood-slick chambers of your heart, too much a part of you to ever rip out. But now Baela’s face softens. She looks up dolefully. “Moondancer, she’s…she’s gone, isn’t she?”

You bow your head as if this is something tragic. “She did not survive Sunfyre’s attack.”

“Fucking beasts,” she seethes, resuming her writing. “When my father learns of this, he and Caraxes will come to rescue us. And he will burn the Usurper alive.” She finishes her letter, rolls up the parchment, and hands it back to you.

“How will Daemon know that you authored this and under no duress?”

“My signature,” Baela says, grinning. “I end all of my correspondence to him with Your ever-obedient daughter. It is a joke between us. If it was absent, he would notice. His suspicions would be aroused. That is how I would signal if I was ever forced to write to him against my will.”

There is dark satisfaction like a spell shimmering in your arteries, nerves, the void-black pupils of your eyes. You return her smile. “Perfect.”

“Don’t fear,” Baela tells you, and reaches through the rusted iron bars to clasp your hand. You fight the reflex to tear away from her, this woman who certainly maimed Aegon and might have killed him. You find yourself studying her, measuring her height and weight, calculating how much milk of the poppy it would take to end her life. “Cregan Stark is south of the Neck now. He will move heaven and earth to possess you, everyone knows that. Soon we will have Northmen marching through the Riverlands with Caraxes and Sheepstealer safeguarding them from above. And after the Riverlands they will be in the Reach, and then finally King’s Landing to stabilize the capital. The Usurper and Sunfyre cannot fight. Daeron is scarcely more than a boy. The Betrayers are avaricious, overconfident drunks. The Greens will be vanquished before winter.”

“And what about Vhagar?”

“Together, Caraxes and Sheepstealer can bring her down.” But there is doubt in Baela’s voice, yes, a vacillation that is rarely heard from her.

“I hope so,” you reply, one of countless lies.

You take Baela’s letter to the rookery, open it, examine it carefully for the subtleties of her handwriting: slopes and dots and lines. Then you get a fresh piece of parchment and painstakingly draft a very different message. Not a plea for help, but an assurance that all is well; not a summons to Dragonstone, but a confirmation that the castle was found to be unoccupied and is now held firmly by Baela and Moondancer.

And you end the letter before tying it to a leg of the raven trained to fly to Harrenhal:

Your ever-obedient daughter, Baela Targaryen

~~~~~~~~~~

“Please eat something, Your Grace. I beg you.” Lord Larys Strong’s face is creased with servile, attentive worry. On the plate before you is fresh, warm bread and a dish of salted butter. In your bowl is a crab soup thick with vegetables, the broth tomato-based and red like Autumn’s hair, like blood.

“I can’t.”

“Would you like me to bring you something else? I could have the chefs prepare roast chicken, or duck, or boar…”

“No.” You push the bowl of soup away. You and Larys are alone in the Great Hall, seated at the high table which presides over a silent, vacuous chamber. The room was built to resemble a dragon lying on its belly; the entranceway is its mouth, two massive doors edged with stone teeth. There are dragons everywhere, these talismans of Aegon’s house, these creatures that are monsters to some and saviors to others.

Larys studies you closely. His voice is tender. “Your Grace, please. Can I do anything for you?”

You consider him, an enigma that is useful and subtle and dogged in his loyalty. “What is it that binds you so faithfully to Alicent and her children, Lord Larys? House Strong was so favored by Rhaenyra. Her heirs were your blood, no matter how much she tried to deny it. You could have risen high in the Black Council. Make no mistake, I am very thankful for your service to the Greens. I am glad to count you among the greatest of our fortunes. But what inspired you to turn your coat?”

Larys smiles at you. He has eyes like rain, the wavy abundant brown hair of his spurned family. His hands rest on the handle of his cane. “Your eldest brother is an acclaimed swordsman.”

“Yes,” you agree, caught off-guard.

“And so was mine,” Larys says. “House Strong, is it any wonder what we valued most? My father loved Harwin. He was so fiercely proud of him. He was interested in him, he understood him. They would whisper to each other all through feasts, all through tourneys, conspiring, chortling, enmeshed in this synergy that left no air for anyone else to breathe.”

“And your father never understood you.” Just like Bartimos Celtigar overlooks Everett, a son gifted with books and quills instead of horses and swords. “Never even tried to.”

“It is a terrible thing to be in the midst of your family and yet feel alone.”

“It is,” you say, remembering the Blacks’ festivities in King’s Landing.

“Now Lyonel and Harwin Strong whisper to no one,” Larys says, his smile widening into a dark, victorious grin. “And I am the Master of Whisperers.”

You remember the words that Otto Hightower spoke to you as he waited for his execution in the dungeons of the Red Keep: These dark, contagious facets of life change us all. They ruins us. Time, heartache, violence. You become capable of inconceivable things. You would scheme and deceive. You would murder. “Do you ever regret it?” you ask Larys softly. Becoming a sinner, a killer, a kinslayer.

“Never,” he replies. “Dowager Queen Alicent was the first person to ever truly listen to me. To make me feel worth something. Worth anything. To advance her interests in every way possible…that cannot be an injustice. It is the cleanest kind of loyalty. And I have no doubt my sacrifices will be repaid. If the Greens triumph, that is. When this war is over, Alicent’s son must sit the Iron Throne.”

“You mean Aegon.”

“Yes, of course.” But something mournful passes over Larys’ face like a shadow; he peers down at his hands to hide this from you.

He doubts Aegon will live. He foresees Aemond or Daeron inheriting the throne instead. You stand from the table, your chair squealing shrilly against the stone floor. “We should bring the king his supper,” you tell Larys. “He needs his strength.”

Aegon does not like you to be there when the maesters prod at him, scrub his wounds, rebandage his shattered legs. You were once his healer, yes, but now he believes you to be his wife. He does not want to be your patient. He does not want you to see him as a wounded man writhing in bed, as someone helpless, pathetic, weak, doomed.

The maesters are just finishing when you arrive with a tray of buttered bread and fresh soup, steam rising from the bowl of red like entrails that litter the earth once a battle has ended. The maesters are gathering up bloody strips of linen to be burned. Aegon is sobbing; his silver hair hangs in chaotic waves, both hands cover his face.

Your voice is hushed and heartbroken. “Aegon…”

“No, I’m okay,” he says, sniffling, mopping the tears from his cheeks with his bare palms. Then he reaches out to you. “Come here, come here, come here.”

You go to him, sliding the tray onto his bedside table until it clinks against the glass bottles there: rose oil, red wine, milk of the poppy. You climb onto the bed and Aegon’s arms circle around your waist, pulling you in closer as he buries his face in the warmth of your chest, your throat, covering you in hurried, imprecise kisses. Dimly, you wonder what he tastes when he breathes you in; you wonder what colors bloom in the sunless passages of his lungs.

“I missed you,” he murmurs. You can feel the dampness of his tears on your bare skin, the roughness of his scars.

“I was only gone for a few hours.”

“Too long,” he says. “Far too long. How’s Sunfyre?”

“He’s down on the beach, Your Grace,” Larys answers from the doorway where he has materialized like stars at dusk.

“Is he eating? Ambulatory? Wading in the water?”

“He’s…” Lord Larys hesitates. “He seems to be in a great deal of discomfort.” And yes, you know this to be true: Sunfyre the Golden’s wings hang in shreds, his wounds are inflamed with infection, and there is something wrong with him inside as well, a wheezing when he inhales, blood that seeps from his nostrils and his jaws. There’s nothing anybody can do for him. No one can touch him but Aegon, and Aegon can’t leave his bed.

Aegon says to Larys, low and sinister: “I want Baela dead. I want her burned.”

“She is far more valuable to you alive, Your Grace.”

“I am the king and I wish her to die.”

“Corlys Velaryon is her grandsire,” Larys implores. “If he discovers you executed Baela, he may recommit himself to Rhaenyra’s side. He may launch his own rebellion even after Rhaenyra is defeated. If you wish to win and keep the Iron Throne, I advise you to spare her.”

Aegon sighs and glares out the window that overlooks the Narrow Sea, his arms still linked around your waist. You begin to weave his braid for him. “Aegon,” you say gently. “We’ve brought you supper. Please eat it.”

“I’m afraid I’m too nauseated by my own inadequacy. Perhaps later.”

“You want to be well again. And you will be. But you have to eat.”

“I really don’t think I can.”

“Aegon, please.”

“Well…” He glances over at the bowl of soup and then gives you a mischievous smirk. “I suppose nothing tastes better than a crab, does it? Particularly when it is served in bed.”

“Or on the floor of a library.” You smile and kiss him: his pale face, his trembling lips. You finish his tiny braid like a silver chain and tuck it behind his ear. Then you pour him a cup of milk of the poppy, just one pearl-white splash, just enough to sand the serrated edges off his anguish.

“No.” He stops you, a hand on your wrist. “I don’t want to be useless again. I don’t want to be swimming in dreams. I want to be here with you.”

You shake your head. There are tears stinging in your eyes. “But you’re in pain.”

He grins, brushing your hair back from your face. “I’ve been in pain my whole life, Angel.”

And he manages to force down half the soup and two brimming goblets of wine before he sinks beneath the sea of his consciousness, while outside waves crack open against the rocks and Sunfyre leaks viscous threads the color of crimson, roses, flames.

~~~~~~~~~~

“You sent that raven a week ago,” Baela tells you when you bring her your offering, your clandestine kindness: apple cake, black tea. “More than enough time has passed for it to be received at Harrenhal and acted upon.”

You fill a porcelain cup with tea from the kettle and give it to her through the iron bars of her cell. “Perhaps the raven went astray.”

Baela ponders this as she alternates between unladylike chomps on a wedge of apple cake and slurps from the cup. “Maybe my father has been away from the castle. Maybe he’s out on the battlefield with the Stark men.”

Or maybe he believes you and Moondancer to be perfectly well and presiding unopposed over Dragonstone, and therefore not in need of his attention. What a welcome delusion to live under. I’m sure he’d rather be fucking Nettles anyway. You take the empty cup when Baela has drained it and refill it with tea. Baela accepts the nearly overflowing cup gratefully. She has had nothing to drink since she was taken captive except muddy rainwater that pools in one corner of each cell, guided by stone gutters that run along the outside of the castle. The tea is cloudy with cream and laced with sugar; still, her nose wrinkles a bit when she swallows it down.

“Bitter,” she notes distractedly.

“It’s made from leaves grown here on Dragonstone. Formidable, but not very sweet.”

Baela cackles; it echoes through the dungeon. This is the same voice that commanded Moondancer to brutalize Sunfyre, to send Aegon plummeting to the sand. Are her eyes already losing their viperish sharpness, is her heartbeat slowing? “Just like me!” She finishes her cup of tea and eagerly holds it out to you through the bars. You pour it full of the earth-colored brew once again.

You ask her as she licks apple cake crumbs from her fingers: “Why is Cregan Stark so determined to wed me?”

“He wants you. He considers you worthy of him.”

“But he doesn’t understand me. He doesn’t really know who I am.”

Baela shrugs indifferently. “None of us love anyone because of who they are. We love them because of who they make us believe we are.” She sips her tea and blinks groggily. “In any case, he will be your honorable savior, and you will be his illustrious damsel, and when the traitor dragons are dead he will spirit you away to Winterfell to bear his wolf pups. It’s not so bad a fate, I think. Not for someone like you. You aren’t ill-suited to matrimony. You are docile enough. A caretaker, a healer. You seem like the sort of woman who would be content with just one man.”

Yes. If he was Aegon. As you watch her kneeling on the stone floor of her cell, Baela sways and almost nods off, seemingly unaware that she is doing it.

“Burning might be too swift a death for the Usurper,” Baela says, smiling dazedly. “Cregan should have some of the Boltons flay him. They can all take turns wearing his hideous scars.”

“Yes. Skins shed, skins regrown, some of us change them over and over again.”

Baela stares at you inanely. She is beyond comprehension. Then she collapses to the stone floor, the porcelain tea cup spilling from her grasp and breaking into jagged white shards.

You take the key to the cell off the hook out in the corridor and unlock the door of iron bars. You step inside, still holding the tea kettle in one hand. You set the kettle down and drag Baela until she is propped upright against a wall. Her pulse is slow, but still present; she moans feebly as you position her. But it is all for a good cause; you must ensure she drinks the rest of the tea, the witches’ brew of leaves and cream and sugar and a fatal dose of milk of the poppy. Outside you hear a deep, prehistoric rumble as Vhagar flies over Dragonstone and scouts for a landing spot large enough to host her. Aemond is back again.

You angle the spout of the tea kettle between Baela’s paling lips and ply her with a small amount, less than a mouthful, then you rub her throat in just the right place to trigger her reflex to swallow. You know this trick well; you have used it on grievously wounded soldiers. You used it on Aegon after he was burned. You repeat the steps until the kettle is empty. Then you lay Baela flat again and watch her chest rise and fall slower, slower, slower until it stops. But still, you leave nothing to chance. You nick Baela’s wrist with a paring knife from the castle kitchens, until now tucked away in a pocket of your gown, emerald green silk to match the side of this war that you are pledged to. Her blood, unpropelled by the rhythm of a heart, dribbles sluggishly rather than spurts. She’s gone; she’s with her mother and Luke and Jace and the young sickly Viserys and Rhaenys, Otto and Helaena and Jaehaerys and Maelor and Autumn’s silver-haired son that she never had the chance to name. You wonder if the struggle goes on in the afterlife. Perhaps presently Otto and Baela are scratching and yowling at each other in a castle made of clouds.

Upstairs, Aemond is already in Aegon’s bedchamber. They are speaking in whispers when you enter, and you catch only pieces of the exchange: capital, Cregan, marriage, Daemon, crown. Larys stands in the corner of the room, his hands laced atop the handle of his cane. He gives you a reverent bow in greeting. He might not be so pleased to see you once he learns what you’ve done.

Aegon stops talking abruptly when he spots you and gestures for Aemond to go quiet as well, a commanding sweep of his hand. Aemond follows his brother’s gaze to the doorway. His lone blue eye climbs up and down you like a man on the rungs of a ladder. His hair is in one thick braid from his flight; stray white-blond strands that have been ripped free hang in disarray around his stoic, unreadable face. Aemond does not bow to you and never will. He only leers, a silver-haired wolf, a hawk with unhollow bones.

“Hello, Angel,” Aegon says, beaming or at least attempting to. He is frail and pallid and too thin and dripping sweat. There are indigo rings around his eyes like bruises. His legs are swollen, grotesque mountain ranges beneath the blankets. You rush to him and sit on the edge of the bed, feeling his forehead for fever and combing your fingers fondly through his hair.

Aemond sighs irritably. “Anyway, I’d like to torture her.”

“My prince…” Larys urges.

Aegon holds up a palm. “Now now, Lord Larys, let’s hear his proposal. Exactly how much do you intend to torture Baela?”

“Quite a bit,” Aemond says.

“To death?” Aegon asks hopefully.

“I don’t see why not.”

“My prince!” Larys says again. “Please, consider the possible ramifications, she is a prisoner of substantial strategic value, if your mother was here she would caution—”

“I’m afraid that Baela can no longer be interrogated,” you confess, and they all turn to you. There is a long, laden pause.

“And why is that?” Aemond says.

“Because she is dead of poisoning.”

“What?!”

“In her cell. Her body is there now. Feed her to Vhagar or Sunfyre, throw her in the sea, do whatever you wish with her. But she has paid her debt for the harm she inflicted upon us.”

Slowly, a grin splits across Aemond’s face. Larys shakes off his shock and resigns himself to it. But Aegon is neither proud nor reconciled. “You did that?” he says softly.

“You wanted Baela dead.”

“Yes, I did. But you don’t take life,” Aegon says, remembering what you once told him in King’s Landing. His oceanic eyes are stunned and fearful; not because Baela is was murdered, but because you were the one to end her. Because until now he was still able to tell himself that you could somehow escape this war unscarred, unruined. “You preserve it.”

“I preserve yours,” you reply. And when you offer him milk of the poppy—with no fear, for you know precisely how much it takes to kill a man—Aegon refuses it again, taking his suffering pure and sharp like the glass of a mirror.

~~~~~~~~~~

“What will happen to him?” Aemond asks you. You’re sitting on the stone staircase together under overcast midday skies, sipping wine and watching Sunfyre amble lethargically up and down the beach. You aren’t sure what’s made him so restless: his own dire injuries, Aegon in torment within the castle walls, something else entirely, some premonition that only beasts of ancient magic know. At last, Sunfyre seems to have exhausted himself and crumples onto the sand.

“I think Aegon will walk again. Eventually.”

“But he won’t be able to fight.”

You shake your head. “No.”

“Fuck,” Aemond hisses caustically, glowering out over the ocean.

You look at Aemond, needing to ask but terrified of the answer. “Can you win without him?”

“Can we win, you mean?” He smiles faintly, then sobers again. “I think so. Just before I left the Riverlands to come here, I received reports that Daemon had sent his lowborn little child bride away with Sheepstealer. He is trying to protect her from Rhaenyra’s assassins. My bitch of a half-sister has thus done us a remarkable favor. If Daemon is alone, I have no doubt that Vhagar can slay Caraxes. They say Daemon has fled Harrenhal. He’s hiding from me. I will find him, and I will burn him. I will end this war.”

“You need to be with Criston when his army faces the Northmen.”

“Of course,” Aemond says; but something in his face worries you.

There is a high-pitched shriek overhead, a glimmering flash of vivid gemstone blue. You startle and Aemond’s hand juts out, grabs you by the forearm, yanks you closer to him; then he relaxes when he recognizes who it is.

Aemond sighs loudly. “Why the fuck can’t he stay where he’s supposed to be?!” Then he stands, helps you to your feet while he’s at it, and heads down to the shoreline to meet Daeron and Tessarion.

The Blue Queen circles the beach several times, Daeron peering down as if struggling to understand something, his long white-blond hair whipping in the wind. At last Tessarion lands, her claws sinking into the wet sand, ocean froth bubbling around legs. Her long, swanlike neck stretches out towards Sunfyre, soft inquisitive squeals emanating from her jaws. Daeron leaps down from the saddle and strides to where Sunfyre is sprawled helplessly on the beach.

Alicent’s youngest child is clad in mint green—including a cape that billows out behind him in the seaside breeze—and glinting gold accents everywhere, buckles on his boots and the clasp of his cape and even a freckling of studs in his ears. He props both hands on his waist as he scrutinizes the crippled dragon. “Well, you’re not Moondancer.”

“He ripped Moondancer’s throat out,” Aemond says. “And then he ate her.”

Daeron whistles and gazes at Sunfyre admiringly. “I heard that Baela and Moondancer had taken possession of Dragonstone. I came to murder them. But now I see my services are unnecessary.”

“Baela is dead.” Then Aemond adds, nodding to you: “Here is the executioner.”

Daeron considers you, then laughs and assails you with a spirited embrace that nearly knocks you off your feet. “Welcome to the family, Lady Celtigar.”

“She’s the queen now.”

“Is she?” Daeron asks, eyebrows raised. “I was not under the impression that our brother was in any particular hurry to marry again.”

“His priorities seem to have shifted,” Aemond says.

“Can I see him?” Daeron looks around the beach and then up at the castle, shielding his eyes from the greyscale daylight. “Is he not outside with you? What is he doing in there? Not reciting prayers and composing poetry, I’d imagine.”

In Aegon’s bedchamber, Daeron cannot conceal his shock, his dismay; he gawks at the king like he is a three-legged dog, a blinded orphan. He stands thunderstruck at the end of the bed, taking in the vague yet horrifying outlines of Aegon’s shattered legs, the gauntness of his face, the fact that he is incapable of playing any meaningful role in the war for the foreseeable future. You sit on the bed beside Aegon, Aemond lurks by a window, Larys observes intently from a respectful distance, his eyes following every word as they flit through the air.

When Daeron recovers somewhat, he says: “I need to know what to do about Hammer and Ulf.”

“Why?” Aegon replies wearily. “What’s wrong with them?”

“Apparently, Mother once offered them the seats of House Costayne and House Merryweather as compensation for their efforts on behalf of the Greens, and they accepted. But now that’s suddenly not good enough. They’re asking me for the Riverlands and the Vale.”

Aegon turns to Aemond. “Is there anything left of the Riverlands these days? Should we find a new name for them? The Smolderlands, perhaps? The Everything-Is-Dead-Here-Now-Lands?”

“This is serious,” Aemond says flatly.

“I’m entirely serious.”

“Should I just tell them they can have whatever they want?” Daeron asks. “And then when the war is over and we’ve won…you know…pretend not to remember that conversation?”

“They can’t be given territory of any importance,” Aemond says. “They aren’t nobility.”

Daeron amends: “More relevantly, they are devoid of accountability and self-discipline. They drink all day and whore all night, and…oh, I mean no offense, Your Grace.”

“Fine,” Aegon says, preoccupied. There are fat beads of sweat on his bloodless face, glistening misery in his eyes. He gazes sorrowfully down at his left hand where he once wore his golden dragon ring before he lost it the same day he destroyed his legs. You pour him a cup of red wine and he drains it in seconds. You fill another.

“My point is that Hammer and Ulf are increasingly unreliable. I am only halfway convinced they could even show up for a battle before it was over. And yet we need them. Especially if Sunfyre cannot fight.”

“Agree to their requests,” Aemond says. “And if they survive the war, we will deal with them then. Rhaenyra’s faction is the greater enemy. We cannot risk the Dragonseeds racing back into her arms.”

“Lord Larys?” Aegon prompts dimly

“I could not agree more, Your Grace.”

“And on the subject of Rhaenyra,” Daeron continues. “Tessarion and I can take King’s Landing. Syrax is the only dragon in the city now, and Rhaenyra has never ridden her into combat.”

“No,” Aegon says. “We cannot risk setting the capital ablaze and turning the people against us. And Mother is there. Everett is there.”

“Everett?” Daeron looks around, baffled. “Who the fuck is Everett?”

“Angel’s brother. Not the firstborn son. The other one.” And as Aegon explains this, his chest is heaving and his eyes are glazed over. He tries to reposition himself in bed and has to bite down on his lower lip to keep from crying out, hard enough to draw blood.

“Is there anything else?” you ask Daeron and Aemond, a warning in your face. He needs rest. He needs to sleep, to heal.

“No,” Aemond says. He paces towards the door and snatches Daeron’s cape as he passes by him, hauling him out into the hallway. You follow after them.

As soon as he is out of earshot of Aegon’s room, Daeron tells Aemond: “He doesn’t look good.”

“He’ll be fine.”

“Aemond, I think you should prepare to—”

“He’ll be fine!” Aemond snaps.

“You don’t think I’m losing something too?” Daeron demands furiously. “You don’t think I want him to be well again? Of course I want that. But if wishing people to live made it possible, the world would be a very different place.”

“You are needed in the Reach,” Aemond says, and that’s all.

Daeron glares up at him, incredulous, defiant. “This will be over soon. I hope you’re ready for what comes next.”

Then he storms out of the castle, soars down the long stone staircase, meets Tessarion on the windswept beach and takes flight into the southwest where the earth is green but the nights are an inescapable, dreamless black.

~~~~~~~~~~

Aegon is weeping again; you hear him from the hallway. It is after nightfall, and the castle is illuminated only by firelight. Candles flicker; the hearth crackles and pops. In the shadows, Aegon lies with his dragonfire scars and his fractured legs and his useless hereditary magic, tears streaming down his face. You have a vision of what he will look like when he’s dead; you imagine the Stranger reaching up from underneath the bed to seize him with claws like a raven’s talons and drag him out of existence.

“I need it,” Aegon sobs when he sees you, grasping for the glass bottle of milk of the poppy. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to need it, but I do.”

“I’m here, Aegon. It’s alright. Let me help.” You pour him a cup of the bitter remedy, a strange gleaming white like pearl, opal, moonstone. Then you tilt the cup against his lips. Aegon gulps down the milk of the poppy and then falls back into his sea of pillows.

He murmurs, eyes closed as you graze the backs of your fingers feather-lightly over his unmarred cheek: “I wanted to start over with you.”

“You’ll still get the chance.”

“No,” he whimpers miserably. “I ruin everyone. Everyone I’m given, everyone I touch. Helaena, Jaehaerys, Maelor. We don’t even know where Jaehaera is, in Storm’s End, lost on the road, taken captive, dead. Otto, Autumn, Aemond, Mother, Sunfyre. And now I’m ruining you too.”

“You’re not,” you plead with him in a whisper. And not for the first time, you think: What do you require from me, Aegon? Wrath, compassion, healing, children? What can I do to give you hope again? Tell me and it’s yours. I’d do anything. I’d become anyone. “Aegon?” you begin, trying to ask him; but he is already unconscious. He’ll likely be out until sunrise.

You drink cup after cup of red wine and sit in the flame-lit shadows with him, in the quiet, in the liminal space between decisions, envisioned sins and prospective virtues. Then you leave the bedchamber like a ghost, a creak here and a tap there and no other trace. You wander down long, twisting corridors framed by dragons of iron and stone. And at the other end of the castle beyond a door you’ve never opened before is the lair of a very different breed of dragon: tall and lean and ambitious, his eyepatch removed and stowed away for the evening, his long silver hair hanging freely to his waist.

He is wearing cotton sleeping trousers but nothing else. He is seated at his writing desk and scrawling something onto parchment in black ink, a list or a diagram or a design for a new crown upon his ascension to the throne, you don’t know and you have no intention of asking. You have far too many things on your mind already. You feel nauseous and unsteady, you feel like you can’t possibly go through with this. You can’t imagine it. You can’t fathom what he would feel like, taste like.

Aemond steals a nonchalant glimpse of you, having no sense of your inner turmoil. “Can I assist you with something?”

“Yes,” you say simply, sipping your wine under the stone arch of the doorway.

He looks up at you again, his quill suddenly still in his hand. His two eyes are on you, one wide and river-blue, the other a soulless glittering sapphire in a tangle of ruined flesh. And now he understands. There are other Targaryens, he had said. “Take off your clothes. Sit down on the bed.”

You step inside his bedchamber and close the door behind you, setting your empty cup on the edge of his writing desk. You walk to his bed—dark green blankets, gold thread—and shed each piece of clothing you have on, a black gown and everything under it, not looking to see if Aemond is watching you, too anxious, trembling wildly. But you know his gaze is on you when you—standing naked and shivering in the firelight—begin to pull back the blankets and hear the sharp reprove in his voice.

“I did not tell you to hide yourself from me,” Aemond says. “Sit at the edge. Yes, there. Good.”

You perch on the bed and wait for him, your ankles linked, legs swinging restlessly, arms crossed over your chest. Aemond is staring at you from the opposite end of the room. You can’t look at him; you look elsewhere, at the tapestries of dragons hanging from the drafty stone walls, at the thick candles that drip white wax. And this won’t be like lying with a stranger, but it won’t be like lying with someone you want either, because you are profoundly uneasy and monstrously ashamed and perhaps even afraid.

Aemond is approaching now, firelight skating over his smooth, unsinged skin. He is undoing the tie at the waist of his trousers. He yanks them off, revealing himself to you. He is already hard, and he is massive, vast in length and width. The panic hits you like a breaking wave.

“Oh,” you gasp in alarm, unable to stop yourself. Then you explain so he won’t be offended: “I’m not going to be able to take you if I’m not ready.” You rest a hand on your bare thigh, slip it between your legs, begin to stroke yourself the way Aegon does, trying to relax, trying to think of him…

“No,” Aemond says, moving your hand aside. “Let me.”

Obediently, you rest your palms just behind you on the mattress, open your thighs for him, inhale sharpy as Aemond’s long, artful fingers touch you somewhere only one other man ever has. And you’re a traitor, the worst kind of traitor, because it’s working: you can feel yourself opening for him, hungering for him, coating his hand in slick warm wetness.

Aemond isn’t looking at your face. His eye is fixed on the place where his fingers are circling, where he is now pushing two inside of you, and while it happens abruptly and roughly enough to startle you it is not quite painful, or maybe it is, just the tiniest bit, but the pleasure eclipses the pain, the pleasure is a current you are powerless to swim against.

“You can tell me to stop,” Aemond says as he strokes you from the inside with his fingers buried to the knuckles, his breathing labored. “I don’t want you to. But if you tell me to stop, I’ll listen. Okay?”

You nod, and instead of an answer you give him a moan, stifled but unmistakable, dark treasonous forbidden ecstasy. And this snaps something in Aemond, it unleashes a part of him he’d been keeping tied up like an untrustworthy animal, one that could maul or maim or kill. He drops to his knees, hooks his arms beneath your thighs, drags you to him until his lips and tongue are on you with dizzyingly blissful pressure. You fall back onto the bed, one hand twisting into the blankets, the other in his waterfall of unruly silver hair, pushing him even harder against you as he licks ravenously. Aemond doesn’t seem to mind; with each roll of your hips and bitten-back plea his enthusiasm blooms, hums and triumphant chuckles spilling from his mouth as he swallows down the proof of your desire. It’s starting, that swift climb towards a high like nothing else on earth, something Aegon once taught you was possible. You are a betrayer, but with the very best of intentions; you are making a sacrifice, but it feels so much like a gift.

“Aemond, I’m ready,” you pant, your fingers hopelessly knotted in his hair. “You can do it now, you can…” And then you lose your words because instead of rising to his feet, Aemond stays right where he is, his tongue insatiable, his face drenched in your wetness.

He’s going to make me…I’m so close…

“Aemond, what are you waiting for…?”

His lips close around the spot where you are most sensitive and he sucks forcefully, and that feeling like a shuddering, irresistible unravelling strikes you harder and faster than it ever has before, so intense it is almost painful, sharp and commanding, not something he is doing with you but to you, and you know even in the golden haze of the climax that this is not about love but about power, pride, control, worthiness.

He doesn’t stop. He is licking you again, opening your folds with one hand, thrusting two fingers inside of you with the other. You are still feeling the pulsing, involuntary aftershocks of one high when the next begins building, building, building, and when you close your eyes all you can see are waves on the ocean in a storm, swelling to impossible heights and ungoverned by anything except the dubious mercy of nature.

“Aemond please,” you beg in a frayed whisper, bathed in sweat and guilt and frenzied lust. “I’m ready. Just do it, please…”

And then he wrenches you into another vortex and it takes everything in you not to scream, not to jolt awake the skeleton crew that tends to Dragonstone and its surreptitious guests. You are beyond complete thoughts, beyond sentences. You are boneless, your muscles have turned to mist and air, you are entirely under Aemond’s control and that’s where he has wanted you all along.

“Aemond, please, please, please…”

Unable to resist any longer, he stands—wiping the glistening, dripping sheen from his face with the back of one hand—and forces his cock inside you to the hilt. He does not slow down when he meets resistance, and you don’t tell him to. You moan in shock at the disorienting fullness, you cannot help it; it is a feeling on the knife’s edge between ripping agony and euphoric pleasure. It is something you would gratefully die of. He moves within you, deep and quick, his hands clasping your hips. Emotionally, you feel nothing but a razored, perilous, impersonal intensity; in your body, it is paradise.

Again? Again…?!

“Are you going to come for me one more time, Angel?” Aemond taunts you as he thrusts; and that’s Aegon’s name for you that he’s using, and it’s wrong, and Aemond knows that, and there is absolutely nothing you can do to break the spell he’s got you under, you can’t tell him to stop, you don’t have the will to, and if this is about power then you know who’s won out of the three of you, you know who has steel in his bones and lightning cracking in his veins.

It’s different this time, pleasure rising like the tide in your whole body, a peak that is not concentrated so clearly between your legs but everywhere: fingertips, spine, belly, heart.

“Come for me, Angel. I know you can do it.” And then for the first time Aemond leans in close to you, his pristine scarless chest pressed to yours, his lips traveling from your throat to the curve of your jaw, his tongue darting into your mouth before you can turn away, and he tastes like pure, mineral lust, and maybe that’s not just because of what he’s done to you, maybe that’s all he is all the way down, hunger that is never satisfied, a need to consume like fire burns flesh.

You whimper, a desperate vulnerable sound, a pleading for him to finish what he’s started and give you this one last high, just one more, just one, please, please, you’ll do anything.

“I’m better than him, aren’t I?” Aemond demands as he fucks you, and there’s no other word for it. This isn’t making love, this isn’t a meeting of souls, it is using someone else’s body to patch up all your hollows, all the pinprick voids you’ve been walking around with for years, losing yourself one blooddrop at a time until you pass by a mirror one day and think who the hell is that? “I know how to take care of you. I know what you want. I can do things Aegon never could. I’ll make you come again. I’ll give you a prince.”

And he coaxes it out of you like the memory of a dream, more like an ether than something you could name: a shimmering elation all over, a cry you can only muffle by biting down on Aemond’s neck as he pounds into you, and then he at last he surrenders what you came here for, but only after all the rest of it. He fills you with himself, so much of it that you can feel it pouring out onto the blankets, immense flooding wet warmth that gives you no satisfaction whatsoever.

I’m a traitor, you think, and for all the times you’ve changed your skin this is the very worst of them. I shouldn’t have done this. I wish I hadn’t done this.

Aemond lifts himself off of you and rolls onto his back, panting alongside you as you both stare up at the ceiling, drenched in each other’s salt and knowing things that were once so unthinkable. Aemond is gazing over at you. His clear blue eye is tracing your lips, your breasts, your hips, your folds that are soaked with his sweat and seed. You don’t want him watching you. You feel sick knowing he’s watching you. You get up from the bed and begin putting on your gown.

Aemond says: “We should probably try again tomorrow.”

You shake your head. “I can’t,” you reply quietly.

He sits up on the bed, his lone eye narrowed and suspicious. His hair is damp and now flows over his shoulders in disheveled silvery waves. “What?”

“I can’t do this again. I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“So that’s it,” Aemond flings. “Just this once and never again. Never again in our whole goddamn lives.”

“It feels like betraying him. It is betraying him.”

“And what if he can’t father any more children?!”

“Then I’ll be barren.”

Aemond glares, petulant, affronted. “I thought you wanted to help this family.”

“You didn’t do this for your family. You did it for you.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I’m a fucking monster.” He tears off the bed, tugs on his trousers, ties the knot with swift furious hands.

“Aemond, I didn’t say that, I don’t think—”

“You’ve done enough,” he seethes, pawing through a chest of clothing. He finds a shirt and pulls it on, gathers up his things, rages to the bedchamber door. He whips it open and disappears into the nightscape corridor.

“Aemond!” you call after him in a fierce whisper, as loudly as you dare to. “Aemond, where are you going?!”

“To take Harrenhal,” he pitches over his shoulder. And then he’s gone, and maybe it’s your fault, and maybe it isn’t, but either way you are wholly convinced that it is.

You bathe in one of the massive tubs heated by the lava that runs deep beneath the rocky earth of the island, scouring away every trace of Aemond, lathering yourself with soap scented with pine, rinsing, lathering again. Still, you can feel the way he moved inside you with such battering, rapturous force. Still, you miss him, you miss being able to talk to him and look to him and trust that he will protect Aegon in every way he can, for no matter how much envy Aemond is built of you believe his love for his king is stronger.

You return to Aegon’s bed, always so careful now not to jostle his legs, his shattered bones that are only just beginning to mend. You are petrified that he will know somehow—that he will see it on your face, smell it sweating from your pores—but Aegon has nothing for you but seeking hands and contented, drowsy sighs.

“Where’d you go?” he mumbles, still half-asleep, drawing you in closer. “I missed you. I keep dreaming that everyone’s gone. I watch you walk through the doorway and I’m left here in bed all alone.”

“Aegon?”

“Yes, wife.”

“Do you need children with me to be happy?”

He waits a long time before he answers. When at last he does, he chooses each word carefully. “I have never felt a calling to be a father. I’ve never been any good at it. Jaehaerys, Jaehaera, Maelor…they were mine, but they also weren’t, and I can’t explain it. I felt nothing for them except a vague sort of sympathy that they had the misfortune of being born to me. Now, did a lot of that have to do with my relationship with Helaena? Probably. And do I think things would be different if I had children with you? Yes, I believe they would be, to some extent at least. But I don’t need children to be happy. I just need you.”

You say with tears in your eyes and your voice splintering: “I’m so sorry, Aegon.”

He is mystified. “For what?”

“For not being a better person for you. For not being able to cure or protect you. For not being able to end the war.”

“Angel, nobody can,” Aegon says, fingers snarled in your hair, lips to your forehead. Then he smiles; you can feel the warm, playful curl of it against your skin. “Well, except Aemond, of course.”

~~~~~~~~~~

She is there to greet him when he arrives. She creeps out of the shadows like a spider, long limbs and volcanic-glass eyes, whispers like wind in brittle fall leaves and flesh that will never refuse him. She wears black, not for one night like you did but always; she has long dark hair that she never cuts or braids or ties back. Sometimes there are raven feathers in it, sometimes herbs or powders from spells, sometimes twigs and petals, sometimes blood. It all washes out in the cold cryptic currents of the Gods Eye. Once Daemon Targaryen was here, but he did not have a wound in the shape that she could fill, could walk into like a doorway and stitch herself into the velvet-gore lining of his lungs, his liver, his heart. But now Daemon is gone. And Harrenhal has a new king to reign over the city of bones and ashes.

She meets him under the starlight that trickles in through the ruins of Harrenhal, less a castle than an architectural graveyard, less a place of beginnings than of calamitous ends. Her fingernails trace his scar and she tells him it is the mark of a hero. She touches her lips to his sapphire eye and tells him it reminds her of a god. And thus the doorway opens, and Alys drifts through it, silent and resistless like smoke, like a plague.

Perpetual Resurrection, Aemond thinks. He knows they are the words of House Celtigar. He has studied the mottos of every noble house in Westeros; but none speak to him more than these.

She touches him and he sees everything he could be. He tastes her lips and drinks down the smooth intoxicating fire that burns the boy he once was away.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon ii #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader

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anonymityisfunwriter · 2 months

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The Twin Flame - Chapter 40: "Is It Over Now?"

"Was it over then? And is it over now?"

Pairing: Sunshine!Reader x Grumpy!Bucky Barnes The Twin Flame Chapter List | The Grumpy x Sunshine Universe

"Hey, Bucky? Why don't you go in? One of us should be there when she wakes up."

Bucky nods, giving Sam a slight smile of gratitude, "Thanks."

Bucky can't really bring himself to care about anything else. His palms itch with the need to be with you.

That's his priority, not listening to some lawyer strategize about how to get General Ross off your back.

His place isn't out there. His place is beside you. In the small, hospital room. In the uncomfortable, hard plastic chairs at your bedside.

His place is holding your hand, waiting for the moment that you can hold his back.

His place is stroking the hair out of your battered face, whispering sweet nothings into your ear - even if he's not sure that you can hear him.

That's his place - and there's no where else he would rather be.

His eyes never leave you from the moment he walks into your hospital room. He settles into the plastic chair and prepares himself to stay there for as long as it takes, forever if he has to.

His eyes trail your face. Down to the ever growing collection of scars, wounds, and injuries. Some fresh. Some from long ago. Each a tale of the hero you were forced to be. He can't help but wonder: would you have chosen it? Was there any part of you that wanted to be a hero?

There's a romantic notion of being a hero that is so intrinsically you. Leaving the world a better place. Saving countless lives. Protecting people that couldn't protect themselves. The selfless act of putting your life on the line so others didn't have to. He can't picture you ever turning a blind eye, not when people needed you.

On the other hand, he can't picture you ever willingly signing up for this. For the side of heroism that people didn't see. Hurting others, even people who wouldn't hesitate to hurt you. Conflicts that chip away at morality. Losing your sense of self. Looking in the mirror and watching yourself turn into a person you don't recognize. It happened to the best of them.

You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become a villain - wasn't that the saying?

He's not even sure why he's asking himself this. They all knew you weren't given the choice.

His eyes keep trailing down, bringing his focus back to your collection of hurt.

Your hands lie flat against the thin sheets of your hospital bed. The one furthest from him with an IV sticking out of it. His hand reaches for yours. His fingers trail over your hand. It was so familiar to him, just like coming home. His fingers run over your palm, only to feel the new roughness from even more cuts and scrapes you collected tonight.

Your hand is still cold. His own hand covers it, lending the warmth of his super soldier body heat in hopes of bringing you an ounce of comfort. He foolishly wishes that there was a way to lend you his rapid healing, his strength. He'd take your place in a heartbeat. He hopes you know that.

His eyes keep raking over you. The long, jagged scar up your wrist. It still sends a cold shiver up his spine. His gaze trails up, toward the newly restitched graze wound that he tended to in Riga.

There's a thin welt right above it. Another one across your clavicle. Like someone grabbed a piece of piping and was merciless.

The bruise on your cheekbone, the one you wore the night of your reunion and a story Bucky had not yet heard, is now almost imperceptible.

Life had put you through the wringer. That's his takeaway. There was no other way of putting it. Thinking about what you were put through tonight, anger simmers beneath his skin again. Life wasn't fair. Bucky knew that. He wasn't naive. So why did he feel like cursing life itself for being so unfair to you?

You, with a heart that believed that deep down people, that the world, were good.

You, with a warmth that melted seven decades of Bucky's icy walls in an instant.

You, who always saw the very best in him.

You, who deserved so much more.

Your breathing is shallow, soft, and still. It's the only sound in the room other than the steady beeping of your heart monitor. Tonight, he's thankful for both. He's thankful that it's rage brewing beneath his skin and not insurmountable grief. It could have so easily gone the other way. He'll never get the doctor's warning out of his head. Luck runs out.

But not tonight. Tonight, he gets to be grateful that you will wake up. Tonight, he gets to sit at your side once more. Tonight, his twin flame continues to burn.

He lowers his head, grazing his lips against the back of your hand, pressing the most gentle kiss he can muster. It's all he can do, except wait and silently will you to open your wide eyes to look at him once more.

He prays to whoever is listening. It would be the greatest gift. The last one he would ever ask for. For you to wake up. Wake up and look at him with those bright eyes one more time. He'll tell you the truth. He'll promise you forever. He'll promise to never leave again. He'll do it all if you would just open your eyes.

He didn't know what the future held for you two, what life would look like once this was all said and done. But as long as you were still here, he'd find his way back to you. He swears it. You just need to wake up.

Wake up, he begs.

Wake up, he pleads.

Wake up.

A soft swallow of air catches Bucky's attention. Your eyelids twitch. That's his only warning sign.

It's his own warning sign before you violently thrash, coughing and sputtering for air. He reacts in an instant, flying up out of his seat. He reaches for your shoulders, trying to guide you back down before you pop any of your stitches, "It's okay. It's alright. It's just me. You're safe. It's over. You're - you're safe."

"James?" you croak, your chest heaving as you gasp for air.

"I'm here. I'm here."

Your breathing is ragged, shoulders rising and falling like a fresh dose of adrenaline courses through your veins, breathing like you'd been held under water this whole time. "You're here."

"You're awake," Bucky sighs in relief. For the first time since he saw you back in New York, a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "You're really awake."

You look down at his hand, the one that rests on your hand like it's second nature to him. "You're here. You're okay."

He snorts, leave it to you to be worried about him while you were the one lying in hospital bed. "Speak for yourself."

"I live to fight another day," you chuckle, though it sounds more like a soft exhale than a real laugh. You look around the room, there's only Bucky here, sitting beside you. "What happened? Where is everyone? Sam-"

"Sam is okay," Bucky assures you, lacing his fingers with yours. "He's outside, talking to some lawyer."

That catches your attention. The gravity of the situation hits you like a ton of bricks. You're here. In a hospital. People know you're here in New York. They know what you did. You don't doubt that John would sell you out without a second thought. There's nothing that points to a happy ending for you. "A lawyer?"

"Long story. I'll let him explain. I just - I wanted to be here when you woke up. I didn't want you to be alone."

A smile breaks through your panic. He wanted to be there for you. He wanted to be here, sitting in a hard, plastic hospital chair, just to be by your side. "Thank you."

"I'll always be here for you. Always."

Though he brings you a sense of peace and calm in the raging storm, not even he can shut out all the worry and panic caused by the last 24 hours. So you ask again, "What happened?"

"Well," Bucky takes a long inhale, trying to figure out how best to summarize the chaos of the rest of the night. Or as the sun breaking through the horizon told him, the rest of the night before. "For all this talk about how valuable your blood is, you sure are willing to spill a whole lot of it."

You roll your eyes, a small huff of a chuckle leaving your lips, "I guess I should be more careful next time, wouldn't want to lose the one thing that makes me special."

Bucky's eyes snap to yours. Your hand suddenly feels heavy in his hand. "It's not your blood."

"Huh?"

"What makes you special - it's not your blood. It's not your powers. It's not any of that." His words are forceful, as though he's taken personal offense to what you said.

Your head tilts slightly, "James?"

"Have I ever said I'm sorry?"

You're not sure if it's the fact that you've just woken up or if he's genuinely not making any sense, but you're not keeping up with what Bucky is trying to tell you. "What?"

"About that day. The day that Steve left."

Your lips press into a tight line. You're suddenly caught up and you know exactly what he means. You shake your head with furrowed brows. "You don't-"

"I need to say this. Please. I need to say it." All your words catch in your throat, leaving you to wordlessly nod once. "Because I heard everything. Sam left his comms on and I heard everything... I heard Sam screaming, the kinda scream that makes your blood cold, I heard Karli crying. And I heard you say goodbye." His voice breaks as he swallows in a shaky breath. Tears burn and well in his stormy eyes. "And I was standing there on the street, listening to you say goodbye and I realized that I never even said I'm sorry. There are so many things that I never said to you because I was scared, but none of it compared to how scared I was when I thought you were gone."

He holds your hand even tighter, but he never once breaks his intense gaze with you. "And I've done a lot of shitty things in my life, but that was one of the worst. And that day - God - that day, I think about that day all the time. You don't know how many times I wished I could take it back. How many times I wanted to call you back. I've done a lot of shitty things, a lot, but telling you that we were nothing, tell you to go away, dropping your hand when you needed me, turning my back on you... I would do anything to take it back."

You could tell him that it didn't matter, that it didn't hurt, that it was okay, but that's not what he needs to hear right now. He needs you, he needs this, as much as you do. You reach out, wiping away the stray tear that pools in the outer corner of his eye, "I forgive you."

"I lied." He rests his hand on your hand. "And I'm so sorry that I lied. It was real, every second of it, every second of us. I felt it from the moment I saw you in Berlin."

"You remember that." It never occurred to you that the moment was important enough for him to remember.

"It was real," he confesses, his voice a breathy, desperate whisper. "You didn't see anything that wasn't there. It was. It was real. And I will spend the rest of my life trying to show you that it was real. I swear it was."

"It was real?"

"Every second of it," he promises.

When your heart shatters, breaks into a million little pieces, one of two things happens. Hate slowly seeps in, filling each and every crevice until it’s the only thing holding it together. Or you learn to let the light back in. You were both still learning how to let the light back in.

You softly inhale as he inches closer to you, you can almost feel his warmth seeping into you. And this time, he doesn't change his mind. He doesn't pull away.

His head tilts of its own accord, nose grazing yours ever so slightly. He licks his lips as your eyes flutter shut. His lips ghost over yours, so softly you're not even sure that you didn't make it all up.

But you know you couldn't have made it up. Because nothing has ever felt this way. Nothing has ever felt this right. You couldn't have possibly dreamed up this level of perfection. His lips meet yours, warm and sweetly. His vibranium hand skates up your neck, the cool metal sending shivers down your spine. It finds its home cupping your jaw, keeping you as close to him as possible. He kisses you over and over again, breaking apart for breath, only to pull you right back to him.

It wasn’t at all what you thought it would be. You thought it would be like a powder keg, burning everything in sight, a passion that nothing could contain. You didn’t need that burning intensity. That spark would always be there, the flame would never extinguish. That's not what either of you needed right now. Right now, you needed calm, you needed a constant, you needed peace.

The kiss is soft, tender, it’s the most care anyone has ever treated you with. He strokes your cheek like he's making sure you're real, like this is real. Your hand leaves his, your fingers curling around the hair at the nape of his neck.

He hums in contentment. He doesn't care that the railing of your hospital bed is digging into his ribcage, nor that the way he bends toward you makes his spine ache. He doesn't notice any of it. How can he when this is the closest he's felt to whole in over seventy years? How can he notice anything else when the way your hands rake through his hair, tugging it ever so slightly, sends shivers jolting down his spine, when a simple touch makes him groan into your mouth?

"I'm so glad you're okay," he whispers against your lips, offering gentle pecks in between his words. "I can't believe you're here, you're okay."

"It got a little crazy back there," you whisper back. "I thought I was done for. Sharon had it- wait, Sharon! Sharon - she's the Powerbroker - And Karli!"

"We know," Bucky attempts to soothe you. "It's okay. Karli's okay. She made it out."

"You know? You know that Sharon's-" your voice trails off as a shudder wraps around your spine. She plunged a knife in your back, or rather, she used Karli to plunge a knife in your back. She had you. She had it all planned out. You almost lost everything. And if she was still running around New York, you could still lose everything. You'll never forget all those threats she made, to Sarah, to AJ and Cass, to Sam, to Bucky.

"The Powerbroker," Bucky finishes for you. "Yeah, we sorta figured it out when your comms went down after she found you. Then, you went underground, it wasn't hard to put it all together. Karli filled us in on the rest."

"Karli told you?"

"She did. I haven't been told much, but it's over. It's okay now. You're safe. We're safe."

A long breath of relief escapes your lips. That's all you need to hear for you to slump back down into your hospital bed. Bucky smiles from the side of you, brushing the stray hairs out of your face. His fingers lace with yours again, and though you're not sure if it's the exhaustion or the pain medication, but you drift away with him tracing patterns on the back of your hand.

When you wake again, Joaquin is there, listening intently to each one of Sam's whispered words. Joaquin nods again, a tense, worried look on his face.

"Is everything okay?" you groggily ask, softly smiling when you feel the warmth and weight of Bucky's hand resting in yours.

The moment he sees you awake, a bright smile pulls at the corner of Sam's mouth. Sure, Bucky told him that you woke and talked to him already, but this time Sam gets to see you for himself. You're awake. You're safe. "Yeah, nothing you need to worry about right now."

You nod, your eyes flickering over to Joaquin. "Hey, Joaquin."

He smiles, rounding over to the side of your bed. He gently grabs your other hand with a bright smile, "You know, I've got to tell you, I've never had one friend in my entire life scare me as much as you do."

You languidly shrug, "It's a gift."

Joaquin humorously snorts, "I'm so glad you're okay."

"All thanks to you guys for finding me. For a minute there, I thought I was a goner."

"Not funny," Sam grunts.

"Wasn't trying to be," you softly admit. "I didn't think anyone would be able to find me down there. Wait, how did you guys find me anyway?"

Sam juts his chin over to Joaquin. "That was all Joaquin, actually."

You look over to him, quirking an eyebrow. "Joaquin?"

Joaquin's face immediately flushes, he anxiously rubs the back of his neck as he stammers through an explanation. "I mean, I wouldn't- I wouldn't say that. I just- I did what anyone else would've done. It was no big deal. No problem."

"Torres," Sam admonishes in a knowing tone, without another word, Sam's eyes widen at Joaquin and then flicker back at you. "Isn't there something that you're forgetting to mention?"

"Okay, I might've chipped you."

You chuckle, "What?"

"Well, not you," Joaquin elaborates, spinning the friendship bracelet that you made for him around his wrist over and over again, refusing to make eye contact with you. "Your friendship bracelet, the one you made for me, I sorta, maybe, chipped it."

"You chipped my friendship bracelet?"

"I know," Joaquin winces. "I know it sounds so terrible, but you were being so reckless when we were working together-"

"Joaquin," you try to interject.

Joaquin just continues rambling on, talking right over you, "And I was so scared, you know? I was so scared, I don't think I've ever been that scared, but I was so worried that you were going to get hurt or that you'd like go off on your own or- or -"

"Joaquin!" you exclaim, just loud enough to stop his words in their tracks.

He cringes, "Yeah?"

You offer a soft smile at him, patting his hand, "You're a good friend, Joaquin. You saved my life - twice now. Thank you."

"You - you don't hate me?"

"I couldn't hate you," you promise him. "Besides, Tony did the same thing too, you know? He had one on all of us. Mine was in my friendship bracelet. Thor would actually lose his all the time so Tony just started sneaking it into his food. Steve's was in the strap of his shield. Sam's was in his goggles."

"I'm still pissed about that, by the way," Sam grumbles.

"I guess great minds think alike."

Joaquin beams at the comparison to Tony. "You think I'm like Tony Stark?"

"I told you she wasn't gonna to be mad," Sam mutters.

"Any normal person-" Joaquin refutes, pausing when he hears the words leave his mouth. There was nothing normal about anyone in that room. "Never mind, I answered my own question."

Bucky snorts, "Exactly."

"Hey, can I talk to you for a minute?" Sam interjects. His eyes shift to Bucky and Joaquin, nudging his head toward the door. "Alone?"

Your eyebrows furrow as you nod, "Yeah."

As the two of them leave the room without another word, Sam takes Bucky's seat at your bedside. He takes your hand in his holding it tightly. "I have something to tell you. A whole lot actually."

"Okay?"

"But, first, I just wanted to say I'm glad you're okay. You scared the hell out of me - out of all of us."

"I tried to call for you guys, but she busted my comms and it-"

"I know, I know," Sam stops you. "Karli told everything. She told me you fought like hell."

"Is she alright?"

Sam shakes his head, lowering his voice, "We probably shouldn't talk about that here. I don't think anyone's listening, but just to be safe, after General Ross came to pay you a visit. As far as he knows, I left Karli down there for what she did to you."

You suck in a breath. "General Ross was here."

"That sorta brings me to my first point. He's not the only one that came to pay you a visit. There's this lawyer." The panic gripping you makes it impossible to do anything except to wait for him to continue. "He thinks we can get your life back, but we'd have to fight like hell. It won't be easy. We might even lose a few more times, but it'll be your life. Yours. For good, this time."

"What do you think?"

Sam takes a large gulp of air, uncomfortably shifting in his seat, "I think I would understand if you didn't want to fight anymore."

"What other choice do we have, Sam?"

"You could... die?"

You roll your eyes, sarcastically muttering, "Gee, thanks, Sam."

"I meant... maybe you didn't make it," he explains. "Maybe we tell them we didn't find you fast enough. Nick Fury died, too, now who the hell knows where he is? This could be it. This could be your legacy. Saving those people. Saving New York. Stopping the Power Broker and The Flag Smashers. You fought the good fight - up until your very last breath."

"You mean?" your words trail off. A hero's death. A hero's legacy. A chance to leave the world a better place than the one you entered. And your freedom. It was everything you could ask for. You can't lie, it's tempting.

Sam nods once, "Exactly."

"I'd have to go back into hiding again?"

"For a while. Maybe even a long while," Sam concedes. "But - but then you'd be free. No more fighting for your freedom. No more Accords. No more running. You'd finally be free."

"And then?"

Sam shrugs, "You'd have to keep a low profile. A real low profile this time. Probably means I wouldn't be able to see you for a while, but-"

Your eyes snap up to him. "We wouldn't be able to see each other?"

"Probably not," Sam acquiesces. "Not until all this new Captain America stuff dies down-"

Suddenly, all the temptation is gone. You would gain everything while losing everything that ever mattered to you. You shake your head just once, immediately replying, "No."

"No?"

You shake your head frantically, over and over again. "No, no, no. No, I can't - then I'll fight - I'll keep fighting, Ross, the UN, I'll do it. I'll do whatever it takes."

Sam takes your hard, squeezing it tightly. As if to remind you that even he's not there with you, he's always with you. Always. "But I thought you didn't want to fight anymore?"

You smile at him, wiping the tears with your free hand, "I think I just remembered what I was fighting for."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure." You nod. Despite, that weight being lifted off both his and your shoulders, there's a heaviness in Sam's face that has nothing to do with you fighting for your freedom. "Sam? What is it?"

"There's more," Sam solemnly tells you.

"Karli?"

Sam silently shakes his head, "No. The Flag Smashers, the rest of them..."

Dread washes over you. On the outskirts of your attention, you hear your heart monitor spike, beeping faster and faster. "Sam?"

"They're dead," Sam finally says. "All of them except Karli. It's just the two of you now."

"What? I thought - you told me-" All your words end in a soft, broken exhale. You can't process it. After everything, you really wanted to believe that their story would be different. You never thought their story would end like that. "I thought they were going to be okay."

"I know. I know."

"How?" you whisper.

"On the way to the Raft. In the truck. They think it was a remote detonator."

"Do they know-"

"No, they don't know who did it. They have suspicions, but they don't know."

You're stunned silent. The words hit you hard. They're gone. The people you worked so hard to save. Those lives, they were gone. You couldn't save them. It was only you and Karli now. You want to ask how Karli is doing, how she took the death's of her friends, her own found family, but you can't be sure who's listening, and you're not sure you have the strength to hear the answer to that question. And you're sure that she's taking it about as well as you did when you realized your found family was gone too.

Sam squeezes your hand. "I'm sorry."

You sit in silence for a long while. You lost. Maybe not entirely, but you still lost.

There's something in the back of your head, a memory you can't place. Tony, Steve, and Natasha, sitting in the Avenger's Compound, in the common room. The memory doesn't hurt, not nearly as much as it used to. You don't know how, why, or even when, but there's a crack in your heart that feels mended. Not healed. Not fixed - but mended.

It frustrates you, that you can't place the memory. Tony whispering that he could never hate you. Natasha telling you that you changed her story. Steve reminding you that there's always someone looking out for you - even when you think there isn't. You spend days, sitting in the hospital bed, staring out to the New York skyline, trying to remember that moment, but it only comes back in flashes, only finds you in your dreams. It feels so real, yet so distant.

Days past in that hospital bed. Bucky barely leaving his self-appointed spot in the chair beside your bed. Sam splitting his time between the hospital, discussions with the lawyer that you still haven't met, and his new Captain America responsibilities. You don't allow him to feel guilty. You remind him that as his sidekick, you're supposed to encourage his heroism, not keep him tethered to your hospital bed. You're not sure what Joaquin is up to, all you know is that Sam promised to fill you in once you were out of the hospital.

You're almost a week into being bed ridden when your eyes flutter open to find Bucky watching you sleep in an otherwise empty room. You groggily groan, squinting at the bright daylight shining through the window. "Where'd everyone go?"

"Sam went to get your things, to get some food. The doctor said you should be okay to leave tomorrow," Bucky morosely explains.

You chortle, quirking an eyebrow at him. "You don't sound too happy about that."

"No! No! That's not it - it's just -" He shakes his head. "No, it's not the right time to have this conversation."

It's easier to sit up on your own, though Bucky still insists on doing most of the work for you. As you shift upward, Bucky props pillows behind you. "What conversation?"

"The what happens next conversation."

"Oh."

"You'll be going back to Louisiana."

"And you'll be here in New York," you reply.

"Stay with me," he abruptly offers. His words are frantic, desperate, like he fears the moment the bubble bursts and reality seeps in once more. "Then we don't have to say goodbye any more. You said it yourself, you love New York. We can - we can just.."

Bucky's words stop just as abruptly as they started. He doesn't know the ending any more than you do.

"You don't know the end to that sentence," you solemnly point out.

"No."

You reach out to stroke his cheek. "Neither do I."

"You're not staying, are you?"

You shake your head. "As much as I want to, I can't."

There were a lot of reasons why you couldn't stay. Even if there was a part of you that desperately wanted to. You needed to step into the daylight first. You needed to allow yourself to step into the daylight first. You couldn't put off mourning any more. You had to learn to say goodbye. To learn to live with things that you couldn't change. You needed to mourn. To pine for the people you'd lost. You needed to rebuild your own life with your own two hands. And while you didn't know what that life looked like quite yet, you knew you wanted it to be your life. You needed that. Your life. Standing on your own two feet. Even if it was just for a brief moment.

He softly exhales, "Why?

"Because I don't need you to save me," you whisper. Tears well in your eyes. It didn't matter how many times you had to say goodbye, the words never came any easier. They would never roll off your tongue - especially not where Bucky was involved. "I just need you. I need you more than anything and - and I'm - I'm not ready for that yet."

He shakes his head, schooling his expression the moment he sees tear pool in the outer corner of your eyes. He tenderly wipes them away, "I'm sorry, this wasn't the right time to talk about this. I didn't want to upset you. I don't know what to say. Please don't be upset."

You wipe away a stray tear just as another begins to slip down your cheek. "No, no, I'm sorry, I know I was the one that said -"

"It's alright. I understand." He takes your hand, squeezing it tightly. "And if it means anything, I think you're right."

"I am?"

"Yeah, you are," he admits with a heavy sigh. "I think we've both got some shit to sort out, loose ends and all that bullshit. I just - I really don't want to mess this up again."

"Me neither."

He slowly leans in. "I want to be yours. More than anything. And once you're mine, I'm never letting you go, never again."

You smile up at him. "I can't wait."

"Look at us," he chuckles through his own tears. "Being emotionally mature."

You laugh along with him, "No one said being emotionally mature was this hard."

"What if we did something a little immature first?"

You chuckle, nodding along with him. "What did you have in mind?"

He leans down slowly, giving you several seconds to stop him before he presses his lips against yours.

Your breath hitches as he kisses you, pressing the sweetest, most longing kiss he can muster. As he pulls away, he whispers against your lips, "Just wanted to do that one more time."

"It’s really hard to say goodbye to you."

"Well, then don’t."

"James…" you sigh, cupping his cheek.

He kisses the palm of your hand, letting it go for the last time. "I’ll see you later. Okay?"

"I’ll see you later."

In another life, it would have been easier. In another life, Bucky would be by your side and remain by your side.

But more importantly, you know that in this life, and what you hope in every life, Bucky will always find his way back to you. There weren't many certainties in life. You learned that the hard way, learned it over and over. You and Bucky would never be over. It wasn't over then. It wasn't over now. Bucky was your constant, your certainty. He was it. He was it for you

And if you had to let him go one last time, just one last time, you would hold your head high as you had time and time again. You would hold onto the faith that he was your certainty, your other half. Bound to each other in a way that no amount of time, distance, no season of life, nothing, nothing could change.

Sam lightly knocks at the door, breaking your train of thought. He juts his thumb toward the hallway. "You okay? I just saw Bucky leave."

"I told him I needed time."

"Oh."

"I think that was the hardest thing I've ever had to do." A tear streams down your cheek. You wipe it away with a shaky hand. "Which says a lot considering I almost died like a week ago."

"It's not forever. It never is with the two of you. You two have a way of finding your way back to each other. Apparently, my threats mean nothing to Bucky."

"Thanks, Sam." You look over to your packed bags, the duffle bag that held your life for far too many months. You're ready for your life to begin again. You're ready for the next chapter. You're ready to go home. You're ready to have a home, a real home for once.

You hear the faint, familiar ping of your phone. Once twice. Over and over again. 14 times.

Sam raises an eyebrow at you, "Jeez... someone's popular today."

You roll your eyes at him, looking around for your phone. "Could you pass me my phone?"

He does so without another sarcastic remark or quip. You're surprised to see who sent you all those messages. All 14 of them from one person.

"Is everything okay?"

"Yeah," you nod. "I think everything is going to be okay."

Hope blooms in your heart as you read message after message, a reply for every one you sent to him all those months ago.

"I'm okay. Thanks for asking."

"We're okay. I just don't know how to tell you that I miss you more than I should."

"I miss you, too."

"It's not weird."

"I hope you find what you're looking for."

"There is if you want there to be."

"I miss you. I'm sorry I didn't say that earlier."

"That sounds nice. I'd like to see it one day."

"I'm sorry. Apparently, I turn into an asshole when I get scared. Also, apparently, feelings scare the shit out of me."

"I'm not a trucker. Just a little idiotic sometimes."

"I get what you mean."

"I'm here. Anytime."

"We'll talk soon. I miss you."

"P.S. I keep a sunflower in the windowsill of my apartment. It reminds me of you."

You look up from your phone, tears shining in your eyes. You take a large gulp of air to tame your wildly beating heart. A peculiar feels overtakes you, basking over you like the daylight shining through the window, this pain, this grief, it wouldn't be for evermore. "Sam?"

He looks up at you with a slightly confused expression, "Yeah?"

"Let's go home."

The Twin Flame Chapter List AnonymityIsFun Masterlist

A.N.

And that's a wrap on The Twin Flame... Before I say anything else, I just want to say thank you to everyone that stuck with me this far. Originally, this story was supposed to be 10 chapters following the plot line of TFATWS. And it just grew... it grew into something that I'm really proud of. It was a daunting story and there were times that I thought I wasn't going to make it to the finish line, but you guys are just so amazing. Like incredible. I don't know how I got so lucky, but the readers I have are just the best. All of you. Silent readers. Regular commenters. Whether you leave kudos. Funny bookmark tags. The reblogs of crying gifs. I mean that. Every single one of you. I thank all of you.

Moving on before I get any more sappy. We're not technically done yet. (It's me, hello? You thought I was going to end this story like that?) I do have an epilogue that's coming up and some extras that I've got waiting for you. I'm actually really excited to show you guys what I had and what didn't make it in, because let me tell you, it was a lot. A LOT.

And finally, the Grumpy x Sunshine series...at least once a day I think about this series' ending. I'm not quite done yet. And I'm only telling you this because I always get asked. No, this isn't the end for our lovable trio. Surprisingly, I have a little bit more in store for them. It's definitely not a forever series, but I'll be here as long as you guys want me to be.

Thank you. All of you. 💛

As always, let me know what you think! Reblogs and comments are always appreciated! 💛

Taglist: @marianita195 @meli18gonzalez @ludicbouquetfromearth @matchat3a @famousbreadcherryblossomsstuff @valoraxx @blue786sworld @buckyandgeraltsupremacy @geminigengar @ansaturn @ecolle @lexhalstead3 @ybflkmj @mediocre-daydreams @shanye1112 @thegirlnextdoorssister @toomanyfanficsbruh @moonlightreader649 @breathtaking-cynthia @mirikusashes@beans-and-toast @niyahcoca @katiechikin @elxvrr @antiheroxsblog @infamouslyclumsy @krissydclayton93 @buckysbarne @deadheadwbedhead @qualitygiantshoepsychic @whitexwolfxx310 @getosprettyboy @matchat3a @weallhaveadestiny @mostlymarvelgirl @honeydew3064

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crippled-peeper · 3 months

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I think there’s this false belief(hope?) that “passing” and being on T will make the transphobia in your life just go away. I’m not going to deny that it’s easier, - it has been - but as a disabled trans person there are endless amounts of situations where it doesn’t matter at all.

If they have access to my legal documents, or if they’re actively doing surgery on me, and If I don’t even “pass” to a cop, a lawyer, a judge, a doctor, or nurse, or hospital, or either of my parents or siblings, then what does it matter that I pass? What am I being protected from with it?

being a person with a spinal cord injury, metal spine, and bipolar disorder these are the people who actually have material power over me. They are, statistically, the most likely to murder me (specifically family & caregivers). They will always know I’m trans and they will use it against me and it doesn’t even matter that I have a beard or deep voice or flat chest now. They don’t treat suddenly me like a cis person. they already know I’m not one

#personal #ableism #transphobia #passing

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mamajusticetupelo · 11 months

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How to Select the Right Personal Injury Attorney in Tupelo for Your Case

Types of Personal Injury CasesEvaluating the Attorney's Experience and ReputationQuestions to Ask During the ConsultationTrust Your GutFinal Thoughts

Choosing the right personal injury attorney can make all the difference in your case. It can mean the difference between a favorable outcome and an unfavorable one, between a fair settlement or no settlement at all. This blog post will guide you on how to select the right personal injury attorney in Tupelo for your case.

Understanding Personal Injury Law

First and foremost, it's important to understand what personal injury law is. Personal injury law revolves around the legal remedies and defenses involved in civil lawsuits brought as a result of wrongful conduct. This area of law is also known as tort law. The goal of a personal injury suit is to make the injured party whole again and discourage others from committing similar offenses.

Personal injury cases can vary widely but some common types include car accidents, medical malpractice, product liability, premises liability, and workplace accidents. Each type requires a specific kind of expertise, so it's important to choose a lawyer with experience in your type of case.

Researching Potential Attorneys

Once you understand what personal injury law entails, it's time to begin researching potential attorneys. There are several ways to find personal injury attorneys in Tupelo. You can ask for recommendations from friends or family, use online directories, or contact the Mississippi Bar Association for a referral.

When evaluating potential attorneys, consider their experience and reputation. Look for an attorney who specializes in personal injury law, and specifically, in the type of case you are dealing with. Check their track record of success and any recognitions or awards they have received. Reading reviews and testimonials from past clients can also provide valuable insight into the attorney's abilities and character.

Initial Consultation with the Attorney

After narrowing down your options, schedule an initial consultation with each attorney. This is your opportunity to ask questions, discuss your case, and get a sense of whether the attorney is a good fit for you. Be sure to ask about their fees, their case strategy, and their communication style.

Here are some questions you may want to ask during the consultation:

How many cases similar to mine have you handled?

What were the outcomes of these cases?

Who will be working on my case?

How often will you update me about my case?

What are your fees and how are they billed?

Making Your Decision

After meeting with each attorney, it's time to make your decision. Consider the attorney's experience, reputation, communication style, and fees. Additionally, consider your comfort level with the attorney. You want someone who not only has the skills and knowledge to handle your case but also someone who makes you feel comfortable and confident.

Lastly, trust your gut. Choosing the right personal injury attorney is a big decision, and it's important that you feel confident in your choice. If something doesn't feel right, it probably isn't. Take your time, do your research, and make the decision that feels right for you.

Selecting the right personal injury attorney in Tupelo for your case is a critical step toward achieving a favorable outcome. It involves understanding personal injury law, conducting thorough research, evaluating potential attorneys based on their experience and reputation, and trusting your instincts. Remember, the right attorney for you is someone who has the necessary expertise, a proven track record, communicates effectively, and most importantly, someone you feel comfortable with.

#Personal Injury Attorney In tupelo #auto accident lawyer tupelo #18-wheeler accident attorney in tupelo #best brain and spine injury attorney in tupelo #personal injury lawyer tupelo #personal injury lawyer in tupelo

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chiqelatasblog · 3 months

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CHAPTER SEVEN : UNEXPECTED BONDS

-> Ao3 link is here.

-> Chapter Six link is here.

Pairing : Sub Zero / Bi-Han x Reader

Summary : Your brother’s letter heightens your anxiety about the mission, reaffirming your loyalty to the Tengu. However, you’re also growing unexpectedly fond of Bi-Han and his clan, who offer you a sense of openness and acceptance. Caught between these two clans, you feel the pressure mounting from both sides.

Author’s Note : Hi guys, I’m a lawyer in my country and opened my own office after spending four years being part of another law firm. Recently, I’ve started receiving cases, which made me extremely happy. However, it’s also been quite stressful because now all the responsibility lies on me. As a result, I haven’t had much time to focus on this story. I apologize for the delay.

Seven years ago…

“I expected more from you on this mission,” your father’s voice resonated within his study, where you stood across from him. He remained seated behind his desk, his tone devoid of emotion, engrossed in the paperwork he hadn’t lifted his head from since your arrival.

“I apologize for the disappointment,” you responded in the same detached tone. Once again, your failure to meet expectations left your face expressionless, though inside, a storm brewed, betrayed only by the tight grip of your clenched fists. He didn’t bother to acknowledge you; it seemed you weren’t worth his attention.

“Your apologies hold no weight, daughter,” your father remarked, briefly glancing up from his papers. His furrowed brows and exasperated sigh only fueled your frustration. “If you sustain injuries on such a simple task, it’s evident you still have much to learn.”

“It doesn’t hurt,” you retorted dryly, the physical wound on your arm insignificant compared to the emotional wounds his words inflicted.

“I didn’t mention pain. As an assassin, you’re expected to endure,” his voice sent a shiver down your spine, but you held your ground, refusing to show weakness. You had silently vowed to yourself long ago not to falter before him, despite the constant struggle to meet his standards. “Did you dispatch the guards while acquiring the relics?”

Your heart skipped a beat; your hesitation to kill was well-known within the clan. Instead, you focused on incapacitating opponents swiftly, avoiding the irreversible act of taking a life. While others found it amusing, to you, it was a matter of principle. Even as you treated all life with reverence, the notion of ending a human life seemed unfathomable. Life was sacred, and you couldn’t bring yourself to extinguish it unless absolutely necessary.

“I asked you a question, (y/n),” your father’s voice broke through your thoughts, causing you to startle. Your heart raced, feeling as if it might leap out of your chest and into the void once more.

“No,” you responded, your heart sinking as you saw the dissatisfaction etched on your father’s face. This mission had been your first solo endeavor, a step away from the watchful eyes of others. Despite its difficulties, you had managed to complete it and return home, albeit with a wound on your arm. You had felt a sense of pride until you faced your father’s disapproval.

The pride you had felt crumbled in an instant upon seeing his disappointment. Your very existence seemed to be a source of frustration for him. You had hoped to prove yourself this time, only to fail once again, fueling your anger towards yourself.

“You may leave. Summon someone to clean the blood you’ve dripped on the floor. You’ve stained the Iranian carpet,” your father’s tone was dismissive. Tears welled in your eyes, clouding your vision, but you held them back, refusing to let them fall. “Yes, sir,” you murmured, offering a slight curtsy before quietly exiting the room.

You attempted to compose yourself, taking deep breaths as you hurried down the wooden-floored corridor. Despite your efforts, a tear escaped and trailed down your cheek. Hastily, you wiped it away with the back of your hand, fearing anyone might witness your vulnerability. You glanced at the wound on your arm, which had slipped your mind in your eagerness to report back to your father upon returning from the mission.

“Another foolish mistake,” you muttered to yourself, frustration bubbling within.

As you withdrew your hand, you stared blankly at the blood staining your fingers, wondering if there was any point in trying. It seemed futile to change your father's opinion of you, knowing that as long as his views remained unchanged, the opinions of others in the clan would follow suit.

Years ago, attempting to prove yourself to someone who had once ordered an assassin to end your life might have seemed absurd to outsiders, but this was the only home you knew. You had no other refuge. Despite the harsh conditions, leaving the clan wasn't an option; betrayal would only lead to your demise. Additionally, venturing beyond Tengu territory meant entering enemy territory controlled by the Lin Kuei, offering no alternative but uncertainty and danger. Without sufficient funds, survival outside the clan's boundaries would be an impossible challenge.

"Haven't managed to please our father again, have you?" your brother's voice interrupted your thoughts, prompting you to don your emotionless mask once more as you regarded him with distant eyes. He smirked, casting a glance at the wound on your arm. "Looks like you could use a few stitches."

"Do you have something to say?" you asked in a monotone voice. "I'm in a hurry."

"In a hurry, are you?" your brother scoffed, the smile fading from his face. "Quite the rush for someone who just returned from a mission."

"Unlike some, I don't have time to waste," you replied icily.

Your brother's demeanor shifted, his crossed arms and intense gaze looming over you. Despite his subtle approach, you felt the threat emanating from him, sending a shiver down your spine.

Your brother moved with the stealth of a snake, silent and cunning. He left no trace in the snow, always poised to strike with his words and undermine your defenses. Engaging with you was one of his preferred pastimes, particularly as you grew stronger with time. He took pleasure in pushing your boundaries and exploiting any weaknesses he could uncover.

“I suggest you pay attention when speaking to me, sister. The future grandmaster stands before you,” your brother’s voice dripped with superiority as he invaded your personal space, gripping your hair and forcing your head back, making eye contact impossible. “A mere word from my lips could determine your fate here.”

“I am well aware of that, brother,” you replied, keeping your voice smooth and composed despite the pain shooting through your injured arm as he grabbed it, causing a stifled moan to escape your lips.

“I’m warning you for the last time, (y/n). My threats are not idle,” he hissed, leaning in close to your ear. “Our father’s time is limited. When the new era dawns, invest wisely.”

With a slight retreat, he studied your expression, knowing he struck a nerve.

“Who knows, perhaps then your position here might improve.’’

16 Hours Ago…

After bidding goodnight to everyone at dinner, you retreated to your room, seeking respite from the day’s weariness.

As you closed the door behind you, a sense of foreboding gripped you, the hairs on the back of your neck prickling with unease. A faint rustle from the shadows alerted you to the presence of the crow lurking nearby. Silently, you turned the key in the lock, the soft click echoing in the stillness of the room, ensuring your privacy from prying eyes.

Emerging from the darkness, the crow approached you on noiseless wings, its black feathers blending seamlessly with the shadows. With a steady hand, you extended your palm, feeling the cool rush of air as the bird alighted gracefully, its beady eyes fixed on you, the letter clutched in its beak.

After thanking the crow with a gentle stroke of its non-reflective head, you made it vanish from sight. Sitting at the edge of your bed, your legs trembled with an icy fear threatening to overwhelm you.

With trembling fingers, you broke the seal of the letter, revealing your brother’s familiar handwriting. There were no words of affection; he went straight to the point, as he always did.

(Y/N),

The contents of your letter have left me deeply disappointed. What you gleaned from your interactions holds no significance for our clan; I explicitly instructed you to show courage. Your objective is to impress the grandmaster, not to forge friendships. Remember, you are his wife, and as a woman, you must fulfill the duties expected of you. Failing to do so casts serious doubts on your commitment to this mission.

Pull yourself together and reaffirm your purpose. This is not a mere game; seize this opportunity wisely and rise to meet our expectations. If you cannot identify the clan’s vulnerabilities, you must create them, sister. We do not play by the rules; remember, they are our enemies

Think about our deceased clan members, the countless lives lost, the blood spilled in pursuit of our goals, and the sacrifices endured. Consider what we have lost and the burden our father bore until his final days, succumbing to illness brought on by the weight of our legacy… You have the power to mend these wounds, to honor the memory of our ancestors, our fallen brethren, and, above all, to uphold our father’s spirit.

As long as our blood courses through your veins, you remain a Tengu. Do not delude yourself into thinking otherwise.

You were born a Tengu, and you will die a Tengu.

You stared at the letter for several moments, bracing yourself for such a reaction, yet the sting of its words still pierced your heart.

It was foolish to harbor such hopes, as if every lifeline you grasped at was destined to crumble to dust the moment your fingers closed around it. Retrieving the moon from the sky seemed an easier task compared to fulfilling your brother’s demands.

As you reread the final sentences, a bitter laugh escaped your lips, betraying the turmoil in your heart despite the facade of sarcasm. “A member of the clan… How far from the truth those words ring,” you muttered. What significance did they hold in the face of years of disregard?

Despite your efforts to forge ahead and leave the past behind, the pain of past injustices still lingered, resurfacing from time to time. You never sought solace in self-pity or allowed your character to stagnate; your mother’s unwavering support had been a beacon of strength throughout. You neither aspired to emulate your father’s stoicism nor your brother’s manipulative ways. Instead, you longed for a life of honesty, tranquility, and simplicity. The only route you believed would pave the way for such peace was acceptance within the clan.

With a heavy heart, you rose from your seat, steadying yourself against a momentary bout of dizziness. Making your way to the desk nestled in the corner of the room, you retrieved a long match used to light the scented candles. Igniting the letter, you watched as the flames consumed the paper, erasing any evidence of its existence. Meanwhile, with a wave of your hand, you created a small portal to ensure the remnants of the letter vanished without a trace.

Even though you lacked expertise in the art of seduction, you possessed enough insight to recognize that Bi-Han was not easily swayed. His demeanor, as cold as ice, left little room for manipulation. A sense of despair gripped your heart as you gazed up at the full moon emerging from behind the clouds.

While there was no explicit deadline for this mission, your brother's impatience, as conveyed in his letter, compelled you to act swiftly. Time was more limited than you had initially anticipated. Running trembling hands through your hair, you silently appealed to any celestial being who might be listening.

"I don't know what to do. Please show me the way," you whispered into the night, your voice carrying a hint of desperation.

Today…

As your eyes slowly fluttered open, slipping away from the embrace of sleep, you found yourself momentarily disoriented, struggling to place your surroundings. Gradually, the events of the previous night began to crystallize in your mind, causing a blush to creep across your cheeks. It seemed almost surreal to think that last night wasn’t merely a figment of your imagination; never had you imagined the Lin Kuei grandmaster to exude such calm and warmth, even if you lacked the courage to acknowledge it.

The last time you felt such tranquility was in the presence of your mother, her comforting presence serving as a sanctuary where your defenses could lower and your anxieties could subside. To experience a semblance of that serenity after so many years was unexpected, to say the least.

Seeking confirmation that last night wasn’t a dream, you reached out to the spot on the couch where Bi-Han had been seated, now conspicuously empty. The aged leather of the sofa bore the marks of years of use, its surface cracked in places. As your hand made contact, you were surprised to find the leather still warm, causing you to recoil as if scalded. Your gaze then drifted to the coffee table, where a copy of The Little Prince lay, its pages marked. A sense of wonder and warmth washed over you, permeating your entire being from within.

Since nightmares were a recurring part of your life, you had learned to cope with them, but the heightened stress of recent days had taken its toll, dragging your already strained system further downhill with each passing night, until it finally collapsed entirely last night. Despite managing to navigate through the day with intermittent bouts of sleep, the past week had been increasingly challenging. The lack of rest made it difficult to discern reality from the realm of dreams, and the lingering effects of your nightmares persisted long after waking.

It was mortifying for Bi-Han to witness you in such a vulnerable state, particularly since he was among those you least wanted to appear weak in front of. You braced yourself for mockery, humiliation, or dismissal, as was his usual response to such situations. However, his unexpected display of empathy caught you off guard, shocking you even more than your nightmares had.

It wasn’t difficult for you to grasp the significance of this room to Bi-Han; his mother’s library held sacred memories that he cherished, a place untouched by outsiders. As you peered into the room, the reverence he held for this space became palpable. Every corner seemed to whisper of his mother’s presence, each item a testament to her memory. It was understandable why he had been reluctant to share this intimate space with you, fearing that your presence might tarnish these precious memories. Despite your initial surprise at his change of heart, it caused significant cracks in the walls of prejudice you had built against Bi-Han.

Yet, it also validated the fear that had been gnawing at you. The realization that he might not be the man he appeared to be stirred a disquieting uncertainty within you. As a professional, you prided yourself on your ability to separate duty from emotion, but now, you found yourself grappling with hesitation.

Encountering warmth, understanding, and tolerance shouldn’t have affected you so profoundly. Yet, here you stood, in a room where you didn’t belong, enveloped by the scent of aged books, beneath a comforting blanket, confronting a dilemma you hadn’t anticipated.

If you weren’t bound to Bi-Han by marriage, the circumstances might have been different. Here, your abilities could earn you recognition and influence, if only temporarily. But would that be enough to truly belong? You doubted it. If your upbringing had taught you anything, it was that belonging was a privilege rarely afforded to those like you.

And so, you had chosen this mission, seeking a place to belong, tired of constantly questioning your worth. You craved appreciation for your efforts, yearned for safety and peace. Yet, even as you lay your head upon the pillow, the nightmares persisted, a relentless reminder of the struggles that defined your existence. Despite your resilience, you found yourself teetering on the brink of exhaustion, pushed to the limits of your endurance.

The moment you became a part of Lin Kuei, you anticipated that this boundary would be tested, but the crucible where you were challenged came from an unexpected direction. With each passing day, it grew increasingly difficult to view them as enemies, and the emotions you had suppressed began to surface, gradually lodging like a lump in your throat.

Since the day you first entered this world, you had been locked in a perpetual struggle, your feelings dulled and hardened by the passage of time. Or so you had believed. After all, could one truly forget the taste of something they hadn’t experienced in years? It was a cruel realization, especially to confront it in a place ingrained in your mind as the domain of enemy clans.

As your fingers clutched the blanket draped across your lap, your lower lip trembled under the weight of your emotions. The impact of even the slightest semblance of sympathy was profound, rendering you a pitiful figure, huddled on the sofa, knees drawn to your chest, arms wrapped tightly around yourself as if to contain the storm raging within. Despite representing a clan renowned for breeding impeccable assassins, you felt on the verge of crumbling at the slightest touch.

You didn’t want to entertain these emotions, didn’t believe you deserved the warmth and understanding extended to you, despite yearning for it deeply. You were a spy, after all—this facade would inevitably come to an end. You knew better than to get swept away by sentimentality, having prayed for this opportunity to manifest for years, wishing upon every shooting star that graced the unclouded night sky. You couldn’t afford to fail. You simply couldn’t.

Your heart is gripped by the anxiety that permeates your being; while your nightmares had been haunting, this mission proved to be worse than anything your subconscious could conjure. Despite yearning for this task with every fiber of your being, you found yourself unable to acclimate, unable to reconcile with this reality even after a month had passed. Though your brother had advised you to view them as mere pawns in your grand scheme, it grew increasingly challenging to maintain such detachment when confronted with their presence day in and day out. For the first time in years, you were not rendered invisible in the eyes of others; instead, they engaged with you, valuing your ideas and thoughts without reservation. How painful it was to meet the basic standards that should have been commonplace within your own clan.

“Ma’am, are you awake?” Startled by the click of the door, you drew a deep breath in an attempt to steady your racing heart, wiping the cold sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand as Frost’s silhouette materialized behind the door. “Ma’am, are you there?”

“Y-Yes.” You filled your lungs with the comforting scent of books, discreetly checking the corners of your eyes to ensure no tears had escaped, then hastily composing yourself without the aid of a mirror. “You may come in.”

Frost softly slid open the door, lingering at the threshold with an expression unlike her usual stern demeanor. Her blue eyes, as bright as the sky after a winter storm, held a hint of curiosity as she surveyed the room with careful consideration, as though seeing it for the first time. “So, this is how it looks,” you heard her mutter.

Your eyebrows raised in mild surprise; it seemed that this place had been off-limits not only to you but to others as well. While this revelation should not have affected you, you couldn’t suppress the faint smile that graced your lips, nor the gentle warmth that chased away the anxiety constricting your chest.

“The grandmaster said you could be here; I came to accompany you to your breakfast.”

“Oh, aren’t Wuhao and Zhiyu here?” you inquired, referring to your guards. Typically, after your morning meal, Frost would assume the role of guarding, standing a few paces away from you throughout the day until dinner.

“From now on, they will only keep watch at your door alternately at night, and I will accompany you during the day.”

You fell silent, taken aback by Bi-Han’s adherence to your request. You had wanted to conceal your powers and combat abilities until a critical moment, strategically following your brother’s advice that appearing weak and vulnerable would make it easier to approach Bi-Han. Men often perceived strength in women as a threat.

You had believed your brother’s words to be true until yesterday. However, in the time you had spent getting to know Bi-Han, you had observed that he was not easily impressed and seldom praised others without reason. His perfectionist nature placed immense pressure on everyone in the clan to act flawlessly.

Though you harbored confidence in yourself, you doubted your ability to sway Bi-Han, fearing disappointment more than anything else. Yet once again, Bi-Han defied your expectations. Amidst the turmoil of your nightmares, his invitation to spar felt like a lifeline thrown to you in the depths of despair.

During the bout, your focus sharpened, drowning out the chaos within. Every fiber of your being urged you to adhere to your brother’s plan, but in that moment, you craved something that would offer respite from the relentless tide of worry and fear. Each strike, each parry, was a fleeting escape from the suffocating weight of your worries, offering a brief respite in the dance of combat.

As the sparring unfolded, you couldn’t help but notice the subtle shift in Bi-Han’s demeanor. The rigid lines of his face softened, replaced by a hint of genuine enjoyment that sparkled in his eyes. It was a stark departure from his usual stoic facade, and the sight sent a thrill coursing through your veins, quickening the beat of your heart.

“Shall we go?” Frost’s voice broke the silence, jolting you from your reverie. With flushed cheeks, you hastily rose to your feet, tidying up the area before following her. Though communication between you and Frost had waned, even conversing with Bi-Han seemed easier than attempting to engage with her.

As you were going out into the main hall, you heard Frost’s voice coming from behind.

‘’I saw how you fought yesterday.’’ Her voice, which normally had a tone that could be called arrogant, was now hoarse and had a hesitation that showed that she was having difficulty saying these things. ‘’You have been very good.’’

You looked over your shoulder at Frost, surprised by her compliment. Instead of making eye contact with you, the woman turned her gaze to the paintings hanging on the walls, her unusual white hair gleaming in the morning light like freshly fallen snow.

‘’Thank you.’’ You said it in a sincere voice. “I didn’t expect everyone to watch, frankly, if I had noticed you earlier, I probably wouldn’t have put on the same performance.’’

Frost’s brow furrowed, puzzled by your statement.

“Why would our presence affect you?” she asked.

Though a simple question, it carried deeper significance for you. Since losing your mother, you hadn’t opened up to anyone, nor had anyone shown enough interest to inquire about your inner thoughts.

“It’s just… when I know people are watching, I feel exposed to their judgment,” you admitted, your gaze drifting to the serene view beyond the balcony. “I worry about what they might think—whether my stance is weak, if I’m making mistakes, or if I’m not good enough.”

A derisive laugh escaped Frost’s lips, accompanied by the crossing of her arms in a defensive posture.

“Anyone who thinks like that can shove their thoughts where the sun doesn’t shine,” she retorted, her tone defiant. “You held your own against the grandmaster longer than anyone expected, including me.”

"Really?" Despite the hint of hope in your voice, you chided yourself for seeking validation. Still, hearing such words from someone like Frost offered a glimmer of validation.

"Yes. No one here dishes out compliments lightly, even to the grandmaster's wife. So believe me when I say, every move you made in that fight was calculated and purposeful. And you managed to balance the difference in physical strength admirably. Few have ever brought the grandmaster to the ground like that."

As your gaze shifted from the garden back to Frost, her expression remained composed. You offered a small smile, feeling the warmth in your cheeks rise at her words.

“Since we are making some confessions, then I will confess something too. The first week I came here, I saw you training. The drill you did with the ice was incredible, I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

“Oh… Well, thank you,” Frost said, a bemused expression crossing her face as she was caught off guard by your compliment. “It was a move I learned from Master Bi-Han.”

With that, a tentative conversation blossomed between you. Despite lingering doubts and reservations, the icy barrier between you began to thaw, replaced by a neutral ground devoid of prejudice and hostility.

As you reached the corridor leading to the dining room, you spotted Bi-Han exiting the room, engaged in a hushed conversation with Cyrax. His gaze fell upon you, and as he made his way toward you, a peculiar flutter stirred in your chest.

Dressed impeccably in his clan attire, Bi-Han appeared flawless as ever. His muscular frame filled out the fabric snugly, and his jet-black hair, neatly tied back save for a few loose strands, framed his pale complexion. His movements were graceful, akin to the stealthy stride of a predator. It baffled you how someone of his stature could move with such silence.

“Good morning,” you greeted softly. As Frost and Cyrax stepped away, Bi-Han’s penetrating gaze lingered on you, seemingly analyzing every detail.

“Morning,” Bi-Han replied, his tone measured. “I hope you had a nightmare-free night.”

“Yes,” you responded, a small smile gracing your lips. Lowering your voice, you added, “Thank you for last night. You can’t even guess what it means to me. I haven’t had uninterrupted sleep like that in a long time.”

Your words seemed to elicit a response more counterproductive than you had anticipated. Bi-Han’s eyes narrowed with displeasure, forming thin lines, while his perfectly arched eyebrows furrowed in a manner that mirrored his expression. You rooted yourself to the spot, resisting the urge to fidget as you pondered where you had erred. It was too early in the day to wrestle with another concern.

“Now that you know its location, you’re free to use it as long as you refrain from causing any damage,” Bi-Han stated, his voice maintaining a calm tone that belied the tension in his expression. Surprised by his allowance, you blinked several times to ensure you had heard correctly.

“Does that mean I can visit again?” you asked, seeking confirmation.

“I believe we’re speaking the same language,” Bi-Han replied with a touch of mockery in his tone. This detail, which would have irked you initially, now felt oddly comforting. You had learned to discern when Bi-Han was genuinely serious, even when he employed humor or mockery. A smile tugged at your lips, growing more pronounced.

“Thank you, this is very precious to me. Have no doubt that I will approach with respect,” you assured him warmly, your smile widening to reveal your teeth. “Also, thank you for rethinking what I said about the guards yesterday and for coming to an assessment.”

“Consider it’s a trial period,” Bi-Han stated, his expression still rigid as his deep voice retained its composure. “If I find it unsatisfactory, it will revert to how it was before.’’

Despite his stern demeanor, the fact that he had reconsidered your suggestion was a significant improvement in your eyes.

“There used to be helpers in my clan who regularly went down to the city center one day a week,” you ventured after a brief silence. “Does the same thing apply here?”

“Yes, there are people who go shopping to meet the clan’s needs on certain days. Do you need something?”

“No, I have everything, thank you. I just need a little change of environment. I want to go with them for a few hours.”

Bi-Han’s expression soured, his eyebrows furrowing with clear displeasure at your request.

“You are my wife, and as such, we have many allies as well as enemies. The moment you step out of here, you become a target for those who wish to reach me. Besides, let’s not forget how quickly you were poisoned. We still don’t know who’s behind it. Do you want to risk a repeat?”

“I thought I proved myself to you,” you replied, a hint of anger and disappointment coloring your voice. “Stop seeing me as weak. I can take care of myself.”

Bi-Han snarled and took a step towards you, but you met his dark gaze head-on, refusing to back down or feel intimidated by his imposing looks.

“I don’t see you as weak or anything, I’m just stating the facts,” he clarified. ‘’Then are you planning to keep me confined here forever? I’m your wife, not your prisoner. If you think I’m going to spend the rest of my life hiding behind the walls of this temple, you’re mistaken.’’

As the truth of your words hung heavy in the air, you were reminded once again of the painful reality. Yes, your time here was limited, and you would eventually return to your clan.

But right now, you needed a change of scenery. Being confined within these walls only added to the pressure of the mission, and the rift between you and Bi-Han was another unsettling detail. It seemed increasingly unlikely that you would fulfill your brother’s hopes within the given time frame.

‘’When I was in my clan, I faced similar dangers because my father was the grandmaster. I was always a target due to my position. I understand the expectations, risks, and responsibilities that come with it. This isn’t the first time I’ve been in such a situation, and I won’t let fear dictate my life.”

‘’Are you telling me I’m a coward?’’ Han remarked coolly, his voice a restrained hiss. You continued your explanation in a voice that you hoped was polite, lifting your chin in a graceful manner that showed that you were not affected by the cold air that was starting to spread in the air. You didn’t want Bi-Han to feel more provoked by understanding the opposite of what you meant.

‘’No, I see you don’t trust me, that’s all. I wish you would trust me a little in this matter, as in your mother’s library. That’s all I’m asking of you.’’

Bi-Han’s fists tightened on both sides. While his expression became completely illegible, his body was alert and he looked big enough to make you feel small. After taking a smoky breath, his gaze softened vaguely, almost faintly enough to make you stumble.

‘’It’s not my intention to hold you in here either, but I can’t knowingly throw you in there with my own hands, knowing the dangers outside. I have to be careful, the future of my clan-‘’

‘’It comes first of all, I know.’’

Bi-Han took another step towards you, now you were close enough to touch each other. Judging by the clean smell rising from him, he had just been washed. Throughout your time here, you had never known Bi-Han to smell anything less than pristine or to exhibit any behavior that would cause you to avert your gaze. Instead, you were enveloped in his unique masculine fragrance, lingering even after hours of training. It was reminiscent of the crisp, refreshing scent that precedes a snowfall.

‘’You are a very snip-snap, I never thought I could like this feature in a person.’’ Said Bi-Han, he said it in a low voice, more like he was confessing it to himself. One hand went up as if to touch a few tufts of hair falling in front of your face, then realizing what he was doing, he pulled his hand back immediately.

Surprised at the disappointment you felt, but trying to hide your hot cheeks, you averted your gaze from him. The touch of him when you burned your hand during breakfast yesterday was etched on your skin.

As a cryomancer, someone famous for his ice powers, his touch was careful and gentle, while using his powers for a much different purpose this time, rather than taking lives. You liked the fact that he could approach you so differently when he wanted to, even though you avoided admitting it to yourself. More than enough. It was a strange feeling to be deprived of this even though he was so close now, leaving a faint ache in the pit of your stomach as you struggled to maintain your composure.

“Forget what I just said,” you interjected, unable to bear the awkward silence any longer. “My intention wasn’t to stir controversy or tension. I’ll join you for training after breakfast.”

You were about to walk past him when Bi-Han stopped you by grabbing you by the arm with a grip that you could call gentle. His touch was cold, between his fingers that felt like handcuffs, you felt more fragile than you’ve ever been. His controlled power was so apparent that it made you shudder to realize how easily he could inflict harm if he chose to.

“As Grandmaster, I must prioritize the protection of my clan, and you are a part of it,” Bi-Han explained, his breath forming tiny crystals in the air as he spoke. “While your request is reasonable, I cannot grant more than two hours.”

Listening to his response once again, warmth flooded your entire being, akin to basking under the summer sun. Instead of curtly dismissing your request, he made an effort, sincerely attempting to understand and accommodate your wishes. Unlike anyone in your clan, this man you’ve known for just a month consistently surprised you by his willingness to listen and understand.

After a long time, thanks to him, you had a peaceful sleep without nightmares. He granted you permission to use a room he held dear, considered your input about the guards, and reduced their number to a reasonable level. Words alone weren’t enough to express your gratitude; you needed him to understand your sincerity.

Your body surged with intense excitement, as if caught in a small electric current, urging you to do something you’d never done before. Your palms itched with anticipation, a rapidly rising energy overtaking you. Despite your usual controlled and calm nature, you struggled to hold yourself together.

‘’Two hours is quite enough, thank you.’’ Immediately after your words, you stood up on tiptoe and surprised both yourself and Bi-Han by planting a tiny, imperceptibly light kiss on his cold cheek. ‘’I promise to come before I turn into a pumpkin,’’ you added with a playful tone, a reference to Cinderella’s need to leave the ball before midnight in the fairy tale.

Bi-Han’s whole body stiffened, you hoped that he wouldn’t hurt you against your sudden movement, and because of your flaming face along with your brave move, you ran out of there without waiting to see Bi-Han’s reaction.

113 notes · View notes

grippingbeskar · 1 year

Text

salt, ice and fire | frank castle

chapter twenty six - you bring me home

frank castle x fem! reader

warnings: 18+ content minors dni! (car sex lmaooo, mxf nothing you haven’t seen before, its pretty sweet <3) swearing, canon typical violence, mention of scars, injuries, blood, literally packed everything into this chapter its a big one

a/n: wow. this was so rough oh my god. the entire first draft deleted itself and i had to re write the whole thing from memory, so i lost my planned chapter. i really hope i got everything in here, and im sorry for the wait AND how long it is lmao but i just. can’t believe i really finished it. ill rant at the end, but if you only read this part, i love you. thank you for letting me share the absolute vomit that is my brain. you are the best.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“How was the drive?” Franks voice sends a shiver down your spine, even hundreds of miles away through a crappy phone line.

“Boring.” You sigh, pacing around the tiny motel room.

“You were meant to call an hour ago. Got me waitin’ up for you.” He sounds tired, and it makes your heart skip a beat. It’s stupid, but the image makes you a little giddy. Waiting up for you.

“There was… traffic.”

“You get lost?”

“Fuck you.” You bite automatically and he groans.

“So yeah?”

“Yes, Frank. I got lost.” He laughs, the sound managing to take your mind off the dark room you’d managed to secure for the night, the bedside light doing nothing to brighten the small space.

“I gave you a map. It’s a straight shot from where you started.” Rolling your eyes, you look at the map you’d now bundled into a ball and thrown into the trash.

“Who uses a printed map? Seriously, how fucking old are you?” It’s playful and familiar, and all the frustration of driving for 10 hours melts into the bed.

Being a key witness in a now ongoing case apparently didn’t come with any frequent flyer miles, because both Matt and Frank had said you couldn’t risk going through airport security and being flagged in a system, so it meant you had to drive nearly 18 hours to Florida. You thought you didn’t mind road trips, but after today you think it’s only road trips with Frank you don’t mind.

“Maps don’t change, baby. Besides, you’d drive yourself into a god damn tree the second that voice in the car told you you’d missed a turn.” You hate that he’s right— even the thought of that monotone voice droning in your ear for ten hours makes you cringe.

“Whatever. Tell me about something. You said you were going to speak to Madani today?” He’s the one sighing now, and clearly the talk was about as fun as your drive.

“She’s all over the place. Some mishandled evidence fucked their entire case, and Bobby’s lawyers were too well paid to let it go. Murdock said they’ll be able to find more— the appeal’s already been approved cause of how high profile it is, but he’s got no new evidence. He said he doesn’t know if they can get him.”

“That’s… what I expected, I guess.” Frank agrees, and your sudden silence only serves to bring the real issue to hand. “You know where he is?”

“Yeah. I got it covered.” The line goes quiet, and you don’t really know what to say.

On one hand, you want Bobby dead. You know can’t do it- it wasn’t smart, and the last thing you were going to do is drag everything Matt and Madani had worked for through the mud for someone like him, let alone put Sam in danger. Some fucked up part of you is a little mad that it won’t be you, but Frank has every reason to hate him as much as you. You know Frank wants this, and that telling him to stop is like waving a red flag in front of a bull. Your hesitation would only spur him to do it faster, be more impulsive. You don’t want to say anything to put him off.

On the other, you just want him with you. You worry like some love sick child, scared he’s walked out the door and isn’t coming back. You worry he’ll get caught, and end up in the exact spot he was trying to get you out of. You’re scared he’ll get hurt, or worse. Every time you close your eyes you can see him bleeding out, dark red staining your hands until you can scream yourself awake. There’s so many things that could go wrong, and ten hours staring over the hood of your car gives you way too much time to think about hypotheticals.

“It’s gonna be okay.” Frank says softly, and you flop yourself back on the single bed.

“Are you?” He huffs like the question is irrelevant.

“Madani asked about your dad today.” He ignores the question, and you’re too interested to poke him on it.

“Oh?”

“Asked what he knew about your time there. If he ever worked with the Gnucci’s.” A lump forms in your throat.

“You think she knows about the weird... blood stuff?”

“Don’t see why she would. Either way, it’s not gonna matter once he’s dead.” The bluntness of it almost makes you laugh. “He’ll be gone, and no one will come for it. Or you.”

“You don’t have to do this for me, Frank.”

“I’m not.” He pauses, and then sighs. “Alright, I am, but not just that. The shit he said to me in there— the things he said about you. The way he looked at you in there… I watched that shit, and there’s no way in hell that asshole does what he did and lives.”

“What if he was found guilty? Would you of left it alone?” Maybe if you’d been more helpful to Matt and Madani, it would of gone better, and Frank would be here.

“You want me to answer that?” A part of you knew he wasn’t going to let it go. That wasn’t who he was. It shouldn’t make you feel the way it does to know that Frank would kill for you— just to make you safe. It does anyway, and heat flushes over your face.

“Maybe you shouldn’t.” He agrees, a low sound rumbling from his end of the phone. “I spent most of the day wishing you were with me, you know.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Turns out I fucking hate driving.” He laughs again, and if you could listen to the sound all night you think you’d sleep peacefully.

“You remember how mad you were that first time I didn’t let you drive?” Shaking your head, you flick off the lights slide under the covers.

“I was mad because you had a concussion and tried to fucking kill us.”

“Least I was gonna go the right way.”

“You tried switching drivers on the freeway, Castle.”

“Alright, I was a a bit out of it.” He says plainly and you smile so wide it hurts your cheeks. “Wished you were here, too.”

“I bet you did.” He groans, and you hear him shift on the bed. Your bed.

“Too much space in here. Didn’t even know we had this much blanket.” He makes a real noisy show of it, tossing around the blankets you usually roll yourself up in. It’s meant to be a light hearted thing, but for some reason the idea of Frank spread out on your shared bed, one that you’ve both used extensively— it makes your heart race.

“Dickhead.” He groans again, shuffling around some more. “This one’s too small. Probably have to sleep on top of each other if you were here.”

“M’alright with that.”

“Not a lot of room to move, though.” You look around at the room, hardly enough space to stand in the corner.

“We’d figure something out.” You let your eyes flutter closed, humming high pitched at the idea. “What are you thinkin’ about, sweetheart?”

“You.” You admit, and he seems to like it.

“Me too. Haven’t gone a night in this apartment without fuckin’ you in this bed. Drivin’ me crazy.” You hum again, pressing your thighs together to try and dissipate the heat that’s suddenly overtaken your whole body. “You thinkin’ about it now too, aren’t you baby?”

“Yeah, Frank.”

“Don’t say my name like that.” He growls, and you bite your lip to hide your laugh.

“Why not, Frank?” You practically purr the word, drawing it out and saying it all breathy like you do when he’s teasing you.

“Cause you’re gonna make me drive ten hours just to fuck you in whatever dirty motel you pulled off into.” You’re still smiling, but you think if you keep messing with him, he’d do it. He’d drive ten hours, a hundred of them if it meant teaching you a lesson. Or just being with you. “I’ll see you soon. Real soon, yeah?”

“Yeah.” You breathe out, knowing if you keep talking to him your entire plan will crumble in front of you, because you’re half considering driving home just to sleep next to him. “Soon. Be safe, okay?”

The words tumble out, and you try to hide the guilt you feel when you say them. He was only not safe because of you— because you couldn’t finish the job yourself. You’re glad he can’t see your face, because you hear him mumble on the other end and your eyes close listening to him.

“Always. Tell the kid I said hi.” With that, Frank hangs up the phone, and you slide it onto the table right next to the pistol you keep loaded and ready to fire.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Frank pulls the saturated beanie over his head, and it’s probably doing more harm than good at this point, but he doesn’t have a second to really give a shit. His eye-line is perfect— directed straight into the penthouse apartment Bobby Gnucci was driven to three hours ago. He’s been tucked away in the corner of the rooftop for just as long, watching the man pace and yell on the phone.

It had taken him a few goes to get the right frequency to listen in on the calls he was making, but once he had he took as much information done as he could. He’d had enough of watching, and now he was satisfied with the phones calls he’d listened to that the man was alone for the night; not counting his extensive security team layered through the apartment block. Frank felt the familiar hum in his veins, shoving his loaded pistol in his jeans and swinging the strap of a rifle over his shoulder, he headed down the stairs, across the street and slipped into the back of the building.

There’d be witnesses if he didn’t take the right route, and to make this work he needed every chance at an alibi he could get. He was so used to not caring— every time he’d gone into something like this, he didn’t have something to get back to. He had no preservation, no concern for what came after. Hell, if he was honest, he didn’t care if he went out doing something like this. He would of preferred it, maybe even hoped he’d die somewhere in the cross fire.

Even just talking to you on the phone had him itching to get back to you now. He wanted to be careful— something he never really thought of before. A heavy ache in his stomach that twisted something violent when he thought about not getting home, not making good on his promise from a few hours ago, it made him sick. He planned as much as he could, as much as he was capable of, and hoped to God it was enough.

Frank hid his body behind the corner of the wall. He hid his face, too, even though he’d already had Micro’s help shutting out the cameras. He knew it would set off alarms for the security team, but he planned for that. They’d spread out, follow orders that he’d listened to over the radio, three men on all the entries and exits, and then ten through the penthouse. If he timed it right, he could clear the first few levels before the guards arrived.

He didn’t care about making noise now— slamming his way up the fire access while Gnucci’s men no doubt got into position. He’d just past a number 6, and Bobby was on the top floor. 23. He kept going, not hearing any doors open. When he passed 9, the door on the level below him cracked open and he jammed through the next exit he reached, getting into position.

He could hear voices coming from his right, and steadied himself as he turned the safety off his gun. He had a small army of men to get through, but he knew if he could make it, landing the hit on Bobby would be easy.

He wasn’t nervous. Pure adrenaline flooded him, like it always did, and he didn’t think twice before standing out of cover and pulling the trigger.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“How have you grown so much?!” You nearly shout, hugging Sam tighter as he all but latches onto your leg. “God, you’re gonna be my height soon.”

“I missed you!” He says, words muffled in your jacket. You don’t even have to bend really, he’s that tall. It is even possible for him to grow that much in just a month? “Come! I want to show you my stuff. Me and Niko share a room, and it’s the coolest thing…”

You let him drag you around the house, showing you the bunk beds that are set up for him and Nikolai. He shows you books he’s brought home from school, and it makes you smile how chaotic his room is. There’s piles of books and papers everywhere, stuffed under the bed and nearly toppling on the tables. It looks like it’s lived in… like a home, and your heart warms and breaks all at once.

When he finally finishes his impromptu tour, he pulls you outside where the rest of the family has set themselves up, and runs out into the giant back yard to chase after Nikolai. You hardly had a chance to say hello to them, but if you were honest you hadn’t thought of anything but Sam since you saw him.

“Did he show you the bunk beds?” The doctor— Zaed, you remind yourself, comes up behind you on the deck. “He hasn’t stopped talking about showing you.”

“I thought he was gonna explode.” Zaed laughs, and you turn to look at him. He’s still sporting a scar across his forehead, and it somehow makes his older features look slightly hardened. His face was still soft, something about him gesturing kindness, an observation you never made in the months you were locked away. “He told me you made them.”

“It took me weeks. I am not very… handy.” Smiling, you turn back to watch Sam and Nikolai screaming and laughing as they chase each other with Nerf guns. “I am sorry for what happened with the case.”

“So am I. If he’d gone away, you wouldn’t have to stay in Witness Protection.” He nods, turning away for a second only to return and offer you a can of something. “What is it?”

“It’s Russian. You’ll like it— it’s strong.” You crack it open and take a long drink, hoping to drown the rising anxiety that kneads the back of your mind at the thought of what Frank was doing right now. “We don’t mind it so much here.”

“Florida?” He nods.

“We want to stay. Corinne thinks the children— with what they’ve been through, shouldn’t move too much. They seem happy here.” You hum in agreement, listening to the light squeals of the youngest girl, who’s name you haven’t learnt yet, who’s got the biggest Nerf gun of all and is shooting the shit out of both boys. “It was my idea. To offer to take him in. If you are upset, please lay the blame with me—“

“Upset? God, why would I ever be upset?” He blinks in surprise, looking to you.

“You are here with him, and yet you still seem far away. I figured the suggestion was weighing on you. We only offer because… well, we have all grown quite fond of him, and for you— to you we owe our lives. I thought if we could make any of this easier…” You shake your head, finishing the bitter liquid in the can.

“You looking after Sam is about one of two good things I have going right now.” Zaed seems to relax, leaning forward onto the railing as you both stare out to watch the kids. “I think he’s happy here.”

“He is. He misses you, but he is happy.”

“And safe.”

“Of course. I pity anyone who would try to get past Corinne now.” You laugh at the tinge of genuine anxiety in his voice, as if he imagines it, but his eyes are full of admiration.

“I want to talk to him about it… make sure he’s okay, but if he wants to, I think him staying here would be the best thing for him.” Zaed doesn’t answer right away, just lets the echoed laughter of the kids fill both of your ears before he nods simply.

“He will be safe. And I am sure you will learn to love Florida, too, with how much you will visit?”

“What?” Again, a look of surprise crosses his face.

“Sam did not show you the spare room? We have cleared a space for you— whenever you need it. You… it is the least I could do. You saved my life—“

“Hardly.”

“I owe you it. My families life. My own. Whatever you should need here, the door would be open to you.” You have to look away, because it’s too much, and you don’t know when you became so soft that shit like this made you tear up.

“You don’t owe me anything. You keeping Sam safe is everything I ever wanted. I think we’re even now.” You laugh, your throat suddenly feeling a little tight.

“I couldn’t help but notice you arrived alone.” He questions, and you hide your face, unsure if the way you chew on your bottom lip gives too much away.

“Yeah.” No amount of alcohol could drown out the thought of Frank. You hadn’t heard from him in a day. Zaed looks at you, his eyes crinkling as he assess you.

“I thought he was going to drown with you that night. When he saw you go into the water… I recognise that look in a man’s eyes.” It seems so long ago now, and your hand instinctively goes to your stomach, where Frank sewed you up the first time. “He is coming soon, I assume? I doubt he would let you get too far from him right now.”

“Yeah, he’s…” You trust Zaed— but there’s only one person who takes precedent over the people taking care of your brother. “He’s just finishing up some stuff with the case in New York. He should be on his way now.”

“Ah.” He says, his eyes lingering on you in question. You say nothing, just sink a little more of the can. “Well, when he kills the ублюдок, I hope he makes it last.”

Before you can recover and wipe the shock off your face long enough to ask him how the hell he guessed what Frank is doing, Sam and Nikolai are in front of you, and Zaed disappears back into the house.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Frank grunts, a loud nearly animalistic sound vibrating off the walls as he clears the 23rd floor. Every time he breathes out, blood sprays out of his mouth. He can’t tell if it’s his own or he’s just covered in so much that it’s dripping off him. Either way he can’t help it, chest burning for oxygen after he laid the lower floors to absolute waste.

He’d ditched the assault rifle somewhere between the 18th and 19th floors, not even bothering to pull out his pistol. No— he’d fought every single one of them with his bare hands, and anything he could find scattered between dead bodies.

His right hand was fucked, and he’s pretty sure he got shot. Somewhere on the right side of his body, there’s a shooting pain between his thigh and his ribs, but it’s not enough to slow him down. He shoves his body weight into the penthouse door, throwing himself into guards he knows are ready and waiting for him. He reaches for his pistol, shooting three guys in the head before his eyes adjust to the dimmer lights in the room.

He hears them shouting orders, and he kills three more as he crosses the living room. One of them he puts through the TV screen, glass shattering under his hand as he crushes the man’s skull between the hard surface. The other two he shoots, and then moves towards the last four. All of them shield the door to the bedroom— putting their lives on the line for a man who doesn’t deserve the air he’s wasting.

Frank doesn’t have a moral compass when it comes to revenge. Not when it has to do with the people he loves. It’s why he clears the round of bullets in his gun on all four of them in less than thirty seconds, watching the lifeless bodies pile up in the doorway, there isn’t a single moment that he hesitates.

“Bobby!” Frank shouts, his voice horse and so loud he’s got no doubt the dead hear it.

He hears shuffling, and drops the pistol before stomping his way through into the bedroom. He sees Bobby, crawling across the floor in an attempt to reach for a gun dropped by one of the guards, but just as he goes to reach for it, Frank slams a bloody boot down on top of his hand, feeling the crush of bone under his weight.

“Fuck!” He shouts, and Frank smiles sickly, blood dripping from his teeth. “Get the fuck off me, you animal!”

Frank kicks him in the face, two of his teeth flying out and scattering across the carpet. As he rolls over, Frank grabs him by the collar and sits him up, watching his head lull to the side.

“Wake up.” Frank slams his fist into his skull. There was no way he was passing out this fast. Not after what he’s done. “Wake the fuck up.”

His hands shake with how hard he’s holding Bobby upright. So hard he feels the bone of his collar begin to give, and Frank chases the idea. Bobby thrashes, screaming as his eyes shoot open, the sound kicking Frank back into gear. He lets go of his shoulder long enough to pull back, only to drive his fist and crack the rest of his shoulder.

“Help m—“ Bobby tries to shout, but Frank shuts him off with another well placed shove of his weight into Bobby’s stomach, winding him. He wheezes, the pathetic sound something like music to Franks ears.

He punches him again— over and over. Not enough to kill him, though. No, Frank wasn’t done, he was just feeding the thrill. He’d been waiting too fucking long for this, and there was something satisfying about seeing this man— this weak excuse for a man being blinded by his own blood as he cries for someone to help him.

“Ain’t no one comin’ for you.” He growls, and grabs Bobby’s face so it hangs straight. His jaw is slack, but his eyes go wide when he feels the blade at his ribs. “You know that? That there ain’t a single person out there comin’ for you. No one gives a shit about you. You’re alone in here— your life in my hands.”

“Haaa—“ Bobby tries but whatever it is fades out into a scream when Frank slides the blade between his third and fourth rib. Slowly— real fucking slow. “They… they’ll come. Th-They’ll come f-for me.”

“No one’s comin’. Dead. All of ‘em. You’re alone.” He slides it a little deeper, watching the realisation wash over his face.

In truth, Frank wasn’t doing this for him. Sure, it felt fucking good, and Frank was enjoying the sight of the life draining out of his eyes, but he wants him to know why. Why he’s here, why he took out every last man in this building so he knew there was no hope. No one for him to go to.

He knew that’s what it was like for you. Frank couldn’t give you back those years, and he couldn’t take that much time with this— he’d thought about it, but he wanted this to end here and now. He could do this here, for you. Could make him know just how it feels to have all that power beat out of you, and know that there’s no one out there coming to save you.

“Stop…stop!” He wails, and Frank hits him harder. Every crack of his fist sends Bobby further into unconsciousness, and when he manages to stop himself, he shakes him awake again.

He gurgles on his own blood, dark red pools choking out of his mouth. His face is unrecognisable, already starting to blow up as he strangles in a few short breaths.

“I can… I have money. I can p—“ The effort of the words sprays another load of blood out of his mouth, and even though he’s exhausted, Frank laughs.

“You think I want money?” He leans down, yanking the knife out of his ribs and shoving it in again.

“Fuck! What do you—what do you want?!” Bobby wails again. Frank smiles.

“I want you to know that she’s the reason you’re dead. The last thing you’ll know is me— my face, and you’ll know it’s because you ended up just like you made her. Except she got out, and you never will.” Frank loses sense of time, his injuries starting to catch up with him as he yanks the knife out one more time, before slamming it home into Bobby’s skull.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“I’m watching!” You shout as Sam lines up again, taking a few steps back before rushing forward and kicking the ball towards their make shift goal in the yard. You have to admit, for only been playing a few weeks, he’s got a hell of a kick on him.

“See! I’m getting better— my coach says next year I can try out for the first grade team if I keep training!” He’s smiling so big, and then he’s gone again, picking up the ball to take another shot at Nikolai who’s got goalkeeper gloves on, ready to catch it.

You’d be happy to watch this all day, but then Corinne calls out to you, telling you your phone is ringing, and you all but leap over the railing of the deck. When you race inside, you expect to see Franks name, and your heart sinks when you don’t. You knew he wouldn’t be able to call until it was over, but it’s been nearly two days since you’d heard anything. Then, you see it’s an unknown number calling, and your hands are shaking when you disappear into what is meant to be ‘your’ room to answer.

“Hello?” You recognise the voice instantly when she says your name. “Fucking hell, Karen. You scared me. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, but are you?!” She nearly shouts, and you are still coming back to your mind with relief it wasn’t someone telling you Frank was dead. “I don’t even know how you did it, but I don’t want to. The way they found him… Jesus.”

“Wait. What? Karen, I’m in Florida.”

“What?”

“I’m with my brother in Florida. I came up here two days ago after the trial.” She goes quiet, and you can hear the commotion in the background. Remembering it’s a Tuesday, and that she must be at work, it only furthers your suspicions. “Who’s dead?”

“Bobby is. They found him. They found his body— but…”

“Karen, tell me.” All you need to hear is Frank wasn’t found. That he got out of there before anyone saw him. It would be your fault— all of it would be your fault if he was found. You needed to get back, you needed—

“Sorry. Sorry, I just thought… with everything that happened before, I thought it might of been you. Bobby’s dead, but… there’s nearly 50 men in the building with him. They’re all dead. And Bobby; he was hardly recognisable. It took them nearly 24 hours to identify him.”

“24 hours?” Frank needed to get out of New York as soon as he killed Bobby. If the police had been crawling around there for nearly a day… “Karen, I gotta go. Thank you for calling.”

You cut it off before she responds, and call the only number saved in your phone. It only rings twice before he answers, and you could nearly cry when you hear his voice.

“Stop fuckin’ ringin’ me, Murdock. I don’t know shit and I’m busy.” He grumbles through the phone, and you choke out something between a laugh and a sob. “Oh, fuck. Sorry— hey, sweetheart. Was just about to call you.”

“It’s… did the— job go okay?” You try to calm your voice as best you can, knowing that if anyone traces the call he’s done for.

“It took me longer than I thought. Had to get stitched up, then Curtis drove me halfway— passed out for most of it.” Before you can ask, he answers. “I’m fine, don’t do that.”

“You’re okay?” Relief floods your body, phone nearly slipping out of your hand with how hard you were gripping it. “Everything’s… everything’s okay?”

“Come see for yourself. I’m pulling up.” Like a kid on Christmas, you toss the phone and basically sprint to the front door, hearing an unfamiliar truck rumble down the isolated street.

He’s driving, clearly having ditched Curtis, but when he gets out he’s got a limp, and his hand is bandaged. You don’t run, instead you stand in the driveway and soak up the image— Frank; leaning against the door of the truck, sunglasses covering up what you have no doubt are black eyes. Alive. Favouring his left side and still with dried blood on his head, but fucking here.

“You’re hurt.” You say it when you finally reach him, but it sounds pathetic, closer to the tone you’d whimper his name in.

“Don’t worry about it.” He says huskily and reaches out, yanking you forward and slamming his mouth to yours.

The soft touch of his bandaged hand is opposite to the greedy grasp of his free one, the one wrapping around your back and fisting the material of your shirt, pressing so you were flush against him. Both of your hands cup his face, feeling the rough surface of his skin. You lose yourself in the taste of him as your fingers trace the patterns of scars peppering around his head— a constellation you’ve memorised a million times over, and yet it still feels as illuminating as the first.

He groans your name, sliding his hand up to grip your jaw, thumb tugging on your bottom lip. You lean back slightly, staying at close to him as possible. His eyes look you up and down, and there’s a glint in his eye; a hunger that never seems to be satiated when he looks at you. He’s still feverish for it, and it makes your toes curl in your shoes.

“Fuckin’ missed you.” He mumbles against your lips, and it makes you smile against his.

“I can tell.” His other hand forgets it’s injury as he searches your body, gripping your hips and pressing you closer.

“Get Sam. Let’s go home.” He tucks his head lower, mouth kissing under your jaw, and as much as you do want to get the fuck out of here with him, you pull away.

“He’s… he’s staying here.” Frank pushes the sunglasses off his face, looking at you through what is actually only one bruised eye.

“Staying?” You nod. “You sure?”

“I talked to him about it. He fucking loves it here, Frank. He didn’t want me to go again, but you should of seen him with them. They treat him like their own, and he adores them. It’s so much better than anything I could of thought.” Frank wraps his arms around your back and hugs you right, and your eyes flutter closed. “And you can’t just leave. They’re expecting you to come in and say hi.”

“Why?” The way he says it makes you laugh, as if you’d just asked him to drink gasoline.

“Come on.” You tug him by the wrists, and even though he groans and leans on you up the driveway, you both stagger inside and follow the sounds of Sam’s laughter, leaving everything else behind.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──��

“They were being nice.” You haven’t wiped the smile off your face since you slid into the passenger seat this morning. “Well, I slept great. I don’t know what you’re complaining about.”

“Mhmm.” Frank grumbles, clearing having a much worse sleep than you did.

It was sweet, and truely, you wanted to take them up on it. When Frank dragged himself through the front door of where Sam had been staying, everyone had nearly jumped on him. Sam couldn’t contain himself, clearly trying to play it cool but simultaneously thinking Frank was the coolest person he’d ever met. It was sweet, the way Frank was with the kids, the sight making you both smile and want to cry.

Either way, when Corinne and Zaed had offered for you both to stay the night, Frank agreed and all but dragged you down the hallway after dinner. The spare room was nice— set up clearly for two people, and you were only human.

It would have been perfect— had the room not been sharing a wall with your brother and his new best friend. A very fucking thin wall. One that was nearly vibrating with how loud they screamed every five minutes playing some game on the TV. The louder they were, the more it became apparent that neither of you would be getting a lot of sleep, and not in the good way.

Having Frank that close all night but not being able to do anything about it reminded you of the start of this whole thing. How you shared a bed with him but had to force yourself to keep your hands to yourself. It was borderline painful, but eventually you managed to drift off to sleep, not missing how hard Franks hands were gripping your hips like he had to physically cement himself to stop from fucking you through the bed.

When you woke up, Frank had all your shit shoved in the car, and was outside cooking pancakes with Sam. You took your time saying goodbye— making sure to thank both Corinne and Zaed properly, and then promising you’ll be back. Soon. ‘So soon you won’t even have time to miss me’ you’d promised Sam, and he grinned and hugged you before disappearing to get ready for school.

“Where are we going, anyway?” Frank looked to you before shifting in his seat, one of his hands resting on your thigh and squeezing.

“Got a stop to make before getting back to New York.” You’d been driving for a while now— about half way between New York and where you’d left Sam. You turned in your seat, resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

“Don’t be cryptic.” You try to sound assertive, but you can’t seem to hold any resentment when you could feel the warmth of him palm on your thigh.

“It’s close, alright? Promise.” The words eased something in your chest, the same way his smile did when he looked at you.

A small silence drifted between you as a Billy Joel song hummed softly on the radio, and your head dropped, eyes tracing over the bruises left on his knuckles. Your fingers dance around them, careful to keep your touches light. You follow the lines of black and blue up over his wrist, watching them disappear under the arm of his jumper. Your curiosity gets the better of you, and when you push up the sleeve just slightly, you swear loudly.

“Fucking hell! Is this broken?” You pull the sleeve up higher, and you tighten your grip on his wrist when he goes to pull away. If you hadn’t watched him so closely, you would of missed the way he winced, and you let go immediately. “Sorry. Sorry— fuck, Frank. Is this all from—“

“I’m fine. Just a couple scratches.” He says, keeping his blackened eyes trained on the road. It would of been easy to miss— not seeing him without clothes since he’d come back. Bile rises in your throat at the thought he was hurt because of you— because he was doing this for you. Suffering for you. Like he has the entire time.

“Are you lying?” He shakes his head, and you lightly poke him in the side. He hissed loudly, flinching away from you and swerving the car. “Pull over.”

“I’m not pulling over.” Frank groans.

“You’ve been driving for hours, just—“

“It’s fine. We only got a few more miles till—“

“Please.” There must have been something in your voice, some kind of soft vulnerability that even he isn’t used to hearing, and then the car is pulling off the side of an empty highway, dusk rolling over the hood of the truck.

You reach out, pulling the sunglasses off his face to reveal him slowly. This part you’ve seen, but it still knocks the wind out of you. The cut along his cheekbone, not deep enough to need stitches but you know it will scar over. His right eye is a deep purple, the left nearly green. You go to draw your fingers over his face, but hesitate, worried you’ll hurt him. He sees you pulling back and catches your wrist, placing your palm between his cheek and his own hand.

“Don’t do that.” You choke out a laugh, smoothing your hand over and back into his slightly longer hair, pulling him closer over the console of the car.

“I’m not doing anything.” You say softly, something guilty in your voice. When he hears it, he shakes his head at you.

“Can read you like a book. You got nothin’ to do with this, alright?”

“I have nothing to do with it?” You want to laugh. “I’m the reason you were there. The reason all this happened.”

“I would of been in the same place with or without you. This part?” He gestures to himself, his torso that you know all too well is littered with scars. “This isn’t a part you blame yourself for.”

“But it is. My fault.” He opens his mouth but you talk first. “All of this… watching those kids today, watching Sam— all I ever did was put him in danger. And you. It’s better for him to be there, away from all this. Away from me. Maybe now all this is over, it would be better…safer, if you—“

“Stop. I don’t wanna hear that shit. You know how selfish you sound?” You blink a few times, eyes meeting his. At some point he’s leaned even closer, and you can feel the heat of his body thawing you out. “You’re right— I wouldn’t of gone back to New York the past two days if it wasn’t for you. You know why?”

“Listen—“

“No. I wouldn’t of gone back because I would of killed that asshole six months ago and been home in time for dinner. I’ve been doin’ this a long time, and there’s nothin’ you could of done that would of changed how this ended.” He holds your face up to his, rough hands holding you as gently as they could, and his thumb traces the scar just above your eyebrow. “Sam is safe with them, but don’t think for one fuckin’ second he’s better off without you. God knows I’m not. You’ve done nothin’ but good for that kid, and I’d… fucking hell. I’d be dead without you, you know that?”

“No you wouldn’t.” Your voice was so soft it hardly broke the silence, but he leaned in, his forehead pressing to yours. “You could probably jump out of a building and walk it off.”

“Maybe. But now I gotta be careful nd’ come home to you, don’t I?” He smiles, and then kisses you and you forget where you are. Words die on your tongue and are replaced by the taste of him, mind freezing over when he touches you. He does it every time. Every time he manages to take your breath away with one whisper of your name, one swipe of his thumb over your mouth. It’s intoxicating and dependant, something you never thought you’d want, but it feels so good with him. His hands drop to your waist, their pull demanding and needy as he yanks you up and over the centre console and onto his lap.

“I’d do it again. All of it. Kill every single—“ You kiss him again, squeezing your eyes shut, and he groans as you shift on his lap. “Fuck, baby we should wait till…”

“Till when?” You say breathlessly, and despite his words his hands are already sneaking underneath your shirt, his cool hands meeting your feverish skin. You can hardly keep your eyes open, and your hips roll forward again, seeking him out. “I want you now, Frank.”

“Fuck it. Doesn’t matter.” He says and then crashes into you, your back nearly pressing against the dash with how quick he moves. Your gasp of surprise is lost in his mouth, and you can feel the sparks he makes in your chest crackling their way through you, toes curling in your shoes.

Your half bent backwards, legs in either side of his as he keeps your chest pressed to him, both arms wrapping around you to hold you steady. You tug at his shirt helplessly, getting it stuck around his arm and he smiles against your mouth, leaning back to look at you before whipping it over his head.

In the dark of the room last night you wouldn’t of seen it, but now the lights streaming in from the car window, and Franks torso is nearly a rainbow in it— blue, purple and green bruises all up his side, with a short but deep cut on the low right side of his abdomen. He’s taken the bandage off it too early, the stitches still healing, but you can tell it’s expert work. Much better than the botched job you did a month or so back, something he still bares the reminders for.

“Just… just a couple scratches, huh?” He grunts something illegible and hauls you back to him.

“Shut up.” He keeps you pressed close, not giving you a chance to say something back, but then his hands dip lower and you’re a goner.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Yeah. Fuck waiting.

He’s got you here— now, on top of him, and he can’t even fucking think of anything else. Your hands are being so gentle and cautious when he really couldn’t care less about the pain, but you do. You always do.

He wasn’t gonna waste another second, and seeing your eyes close the second he got your pants off and dipped his hands between your legs… it’s pretty much as close to heaven as he was going to get.

You fall forward, Frank catching you with one arm and pulling you close while the other continues slow, teasing circles just how he knows gets you all worked up. Your head tucks away into his neck, and he lets you hide for now, but when he’s got you home— real home, then he’ll be able to look at you as much as he god damn wants.

Your hips move against him, chasing his slow rhythm, and he feels your teeth scrape agains this neck, wordlessly rushing him along.

“You need me that bad?” He says lowly, and watches in awe the way his words wash over you and yank you closer to the edge. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Shouldn’t of left you so needy—“

“Fuckkk… right there—please.” Your voice was so high it cracks a little, and it fucking sets him on fire.

“Get my belt for me, baby.” He whispers, feigning a bit of self control as he watches you quickly fumble with the buckle. The slight brush of your hands could finish him then and there, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut to try and remember why he wanted to wait. He had just one more card to play— one that you’d seen him play a few times before, but he doesn’t think you expect it this time, and he needed some semblance of composure to remember it.

A real house, white picket fence and all, smack bang on halfway between New York and Florida. He couldn’t leave New York, not ever, but he had a new anchor now, one that deserved to have it all.

Frank planned to take you straight home. Make a ten hour drive and keep his hands to himself, but how the fuck could he when you were like this? Looking like you do, touching him so fucking sweet and soft and saying how much you missed every part of him— it was a dream come to life, and one of the few moments he’d let himself go in.

You shuffle as close as the seat allows, your now naked chest pressing against his. He dips his head, kissing your jaw, and he’s suddenly surrounded by you. Arms around his neck, warm and soft as your fingers thread in his hair, both of you moan at the feeling of him sliding into you. It’s white hot and nearly painful, how even with the way you’re dripping down your thighs, it still takes you a second to take him all the way. You wriggle your hips, trying to settle yourself and Frank nips at your neck, slowing your pace just slightly. He can hear you sigh, but you listen. You always fucking do.

“Shit— so fucking good. You can take it.” He hums and runs his hands over your skin. You lean into the touch, and when you sigh again he sinks your hips lower, a short punch of your name bursting from his chest when you slam yourself down. “Fuck. There you go.”

He’s a wreck underneath you, and your hands slither away from his hair to his face when you pull him up to kiss you. As much as he loves the feeling of your hips grinding down ever so slightly right now, it’s this part he loves the most. The slow intimacy of it— how he knows he can stay right here for the rest of the day and nothing will change. He can feel how much you love it, how much care you handle him with, and it cracks something old and hard in his gut.

You shudder as he lifts his hips, keeping your mouths together and kissing hungrily. He’d think you’d both been starved for a year the way you two act, but he’d admit it to anyone that asked that he was gone for you. He knows it well and true, in his chest and in the way you bounce in his lap, moaning into his mouth like he’s breathing air into your burning lungs.

“Fuck— fuck, I love you. I fucking… Jesus Christ, you’re so good. I love you.” He can’t shut himself up, and your breath gets faster. He knows you love it when he talks. “C’mon, baby. Let me see you— wanna feel you. I know you want to.”

“Slow… Frank, you’re gonna hurt yourself—“ You suck in a breath and squeeze your eyes shut. His hands stay tight on your hips, and he feels the pleasure buzz under his palms, your skin nearly alight with it on top of him. “Oh my god, don’t stop.”

He wraps his forearm around you and fucks you harder, any pain and injury burnt out by how tight you are around him, and how perfect you fit him. He’s close, so close that he’s hardly able to kiss you now. You both collide in a mess of tongues and sighs, and when he hears you croak out his name into his mouth, he knows you’re cumming for him.

He can’t hold himself back, chasing you into that high with blinding abandon. It hits him like a freight train, bowing him over you like he’s taken a hit, but it feels so good he can’t register that he isn’t breathing like this. He keeps kissing you until he’s sure he’s going to pass out, and only stops when you pull away, eyes darting to the highway where headlights slowly flicker on the horizon.

“Shit.” You say breathless, and you laugh. He can feel it, the sound shuddering through him from where he was still deep inside you, and your giggles soon turned to something less innocent when you heard Frank groan into your chest. “C’mon. Someone’ll see us.”

“Don’t move yet.” He puts his hands on your waist, fanning them out to reach as much of you as possible.

“Mhmm.” It’s like your body gives out at his request, slumping forward and moulding into him like you were made to fit this way. This was what he was talking about. The way you fit together— something that should be out of the question for him fits so right. “I love you, too.”

“Mhmm.” He copies and feels you smile against his skin. His hands trail up your spine, tracing the line of bones lightly to leave goosebumps in his wake. “What time is it?”

“Who gives a fuck?” You mumble, the words half muffled into his neck.

“I want you to see the house in the light, but you wanna go at it blind, be my guest.” It takes you a second, a scoff coming out of you before you sit up abruptly, making him groan again.

“House? What house? Another safe house.” Frank couldn’t keep a secret to save his life when it came to you.

“It’s a house. Twenty minute drive from here.”

“But New Yorks not—“

“I know. Good thing we got cars, yeah?” Your eyebrows are crossed together, and Franks thumb slips over the small scar he left on your face. The movement shifts your gaze to something softer, and he feels the brush of your eyelashes on his finger as you blink up at him.

“You did it on purpose. It’s right in the middle.” You say softly. “Jesus, Frank. You didn’t have to… I mean you—“

“Take a breath. I didn’t buy it. Was a gift from the US Goverment. One thing those guys are good for is their money. I just picked the spot.” He could nearly hear the rave of your heart, and you crushed yourself into him, words hushed and mumbled into his ear, but they melt him to the core all the same.

He’ll never get over hearing you say things like this to him. That you’re grateful for him, that he’s doing a good thing. It’s like nothing he did before you was ever good enough. There was always the next job, always the next group to track, but nothing would be enough. There wasn’t a light at the end of the tunnel for him. But here you were, telling him that he was the reason you were gonna be alright, and if he squints he can see it. The flicker of something hopeful, and if he holds onto you as tight as he can, he might just live to see it light him on fire.

“Did you say… you said twenty minutes from here. Why didn’t we just wait until—“

“Would’ve ruined the surprise.” You laugh again, and the feeling has him gripping you tighter. He leans closer to whisper in your ear, his voice low. “And I wanted to fuck you here and now. Don’t want there to be a single fuckin’ surface where I ain’t had you.”

“Better get driving then, Castle. Sounds like you got a job to do.” The glint in your eye nearly makes him drag you outside and bend you over the hood, but the kiss you give him after is sickeningly sweet, so much so that he lets you slide off him and back into the passenger seat without so much as a nip of his teeth. “Tha–”

“Wait. Wait til you see it.” Frank said, and something about the way he looked at you had you nodding simply, and watching the trees race by as he sped you home.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You were asleep on the balcony again, and Frank moved as slow as he could to let you stay that way.

In the two weeks you’d been here, he could count on one hand how many times you’d actually slept in the bed. There were no neighbours for miles, nothing interrupting the stretch of sky all the way to the hills. Even Frank had to admit it was a killer view.

He came inside, pouring himself a drink, and a strange pit in his stomach settled after the burning liquid soothed his throat. He can’t seem to kick that feeling when you’re asleep. When you were awake, next to him, there wasn’t anything else he could think about. But alone, walking around a house he owned, a life he might try and live staring him in the face, he felt guilty. There were parts of him he wouldn’t ever get back, but this wasn’t something he thought he’d ever have. Peace and quiet, time to himself. A woman he loved within eyesight, buried under blankets cause she was too stubborn to come inside when it got freezing. He couldn’t figure out why now, of all times, was the time to be thinking of Maria. The weight of the ring around his neck was like an anchor. He knew it was stuck on the bottom of the ocean, but he couldn’t find it in himself to let go. He would sit there, hand cut up and bleeding, holding on for dear fucking life if no one moved him, waiting until he drowned.

Your footsteps were soft, in a way that he knows you can’t help. You tread through the open double doors, and Frank would roll his eyes at the way he could hear your teeth chattering if he wasn’t so distracted.

“You should of woke me.” You say, voice muffled from the mess your head was buried under. He took a step toward you, pushing it back so he could see your eyes.

“It’s late.”

“Couldn’t tell.” He can hear the smirk in your voice.

“You finally frozen to death, smart-ass?” You grumble something in reply, and he catches a few curse words before you look at him again. It’s nearly scary, the way you can read him with one sweep of your eyes. You clock his tone, the way he isn’t leaning into you with his full weight, and squint your eyes.

“What is it?” Frank sucks in a long breath, and kisses you.

He’s a complete idiot. That’s what it is. He can feel the buzzing pulse you wake in him, every movement of your lips on his rooting you deeper in his soul, chipping off ice until theres only warmth. How’s he supposed to tell you, after you’ve just kissed him like that, that he was thinking about his–

“You can talk to me about her, Frank.” You say with your head against his. Not it, her. Before he can ask, you smile a little. Even just a hint of that smile and he’s forgetting how to breathe. “You play with the ring when you’re nervous. It’s actually a bit of a tell.”

“Yeah?” He manages, hands trying to search their way through the blankets for you.

“Yeah. You have a lot of tells. For someone in your line of work, it’s actually a bit worrying.”

“You got me all figured out.” He says and means it, but you just roll your eyes.

“And you lean to the left when you think you can’t make a shot. You think it helps your angle.”

“Who woulda thought you were so observant.”

“You know, I actually did watch you when you were teaching me how to shoot.” Frank smiles, your skin finally under his palms. His hands splay on your back, and you lean closer.

“You were trying to fuck me the whole time. Don’t blame me for being surprised.” You try to whack him but your arms are pinned under the layers. Your laughter carries through him, skittering into his chest until he can’t help but laugh too.

“You came onto me.” He laughs harder. “It was very unprofessional. I was there to learn.”

“Damn fucking right I did.” His voice is low, and you shuffle around under his hold until your hands snake up behind his neck. His hair is too long, but he hasn’t cut it just yet. He tells himself that he hasn’t had time, but truthfully he likes the way it feels when you sift your fingers through the ends of it. Like now.

“You can tell me.” You say again, softer. He’s softer too– more malleable now you were here.

“I can’t help it.” He looks over your shoulder, and you follow his gaze to where the sun is now just starting to rise. “She woulda… woulda liked it here. The kids, too.”

“You think so?” He nods, still staring into the orange sky.

“Probably would of had a lot to say about the inside, though.” You wrap around him tighter, head on his chest. “She was so good with those things. She loved when we painted our house. She had all these colors painted next to each other on the wall. All these different kinds of green. Everyone kept sayin’ it all looked the same but she... she could tell the difference. I could see what she meant when she put the couch next to it and shit, you know? She was real good with that stuff.”

“We could use her help around here. This place is sort of… ugly, on the inside.” He laughed again, his throat feeling tighter as he looked around. There was those same colour swatches, but none of them were coordinated like he was remembering. Pinks, blues, oranges and grays were all mixed together in big, sweeping strikes along the wall, stopping right above where your arm would be able to reach. “What would she have gone with?”

He looks down at you, your face washed in the light of the sunrise.

“The light orange. It looks good with the brown.” He nods over to the couch, an old leather one you’d made him pick up off the side of the road.

“We’ll do that one, then.” You tuck yourself under his chin, sighing.

“I think about ‘em everyday. What the kids would have looked like now. What they’d be doing. How Maria and I would of… raised ‘em. I was away all the time, but I just-”

“I think you would have been just fine.” You say into his chest, and Frank takes a shuddering breath.

“Why’s that?“

“Cause she was in love with you.” His chest tightens, and the grip he’s got on your waist gets a little tighter. “I’m… I’ll never be able to fix…that. It’ll always be with you, and nothing will change what happened, but I want you to know that they will always have a place here. You don’t have to apologize for talking about them– the kids, or Maria. I will never, ever not listen, and it will never be something I don’t want to hear. If they’re always with you, they’ll be with me, too.”

Frank takes two steps forward, and your feet pick up just in time to catch yourself before he throws you back on the couch. He’s never been good with words for things like this. He doesn’t think he should try to shove it all in a sentence, either. Not when theres so much he wants to say, but even more he wants to do.

You lay back, and he moves slowly. He wants you to know every move, every brush of his hand and his mouth is by design. He wants to know every square inch of you inside and out like you know him. He wants his hands to pull the strings, letting you hear all the things his mouth could never possibly form.

“Perfect.” Frank sighs against your mouth, over and over again. It was. You were. Are. The pit in his stomach disappears, pushed out and engulfed by the flames in his chest. There was no room for anything, not a single other feeling or word could possibly fit the way you two fit together. Your fingers tug at his shirt, and he takes it over his head. Your hands run and smooth gentle lines over his chest, over the healing wound on his side. It's jagged and wonky, and it nearly spelt your name. Frank thinks it’s the first time he’s looked down at himself and not hated to see the scars.

He unravels you like a gift to himself, savouring every moment even when you try to shrug off the blanket. You hadn’t dressed since last night, and Frank liked it even more this way. You sighed his name, and Frank shuddered, sealing his mouth over yours again. When his eyes opened for a split second, he could see your face, washed in orange light, and your hair swept to the side. He shut his eyes and kissed you again, the image seared into his mind forever.

Frank had faced a lot of bad things in his life. He had been shot, stabbed, pulled apart and put back together more times than he could remember. He thought he’d seen it all, felt it all before, but there was nothing like this. Nothing made him as weak as your fingers in his hair, and nothing made him as strong as the way you moaned his name. Nothing felt as good as sliding inside you, and nothing felt as empty as when you were gone. It made him lightheaded and brought him to the brink of consciousness, but he knew that this was right.

It could of been minutes or hours that had passed when he let himself go, but no amount of time with you under him would stop him from wanting more. The sun was up now, and Frank had you tucked to his side on the small space of the couch, legs tangled together in the blankets and each other. He felt you shiver against him, and the blankets wrapped around you had come loose. He bent to fix them, and when he moved you did it again.

He looked down, seeing the cold line of metal pressed against your bare back. The ring at the end was hanging over your ribs, and when Frank touched it, it was freezing. Holding it in his palm, it didn’t feel as heavy as it used to, and when he read the engraving on the back, he still felt cold.

Looking down at you, how you rolled over and sought him out even with your eyes closed, he leaned down to kiss the scar on your forehead. Then, like it was the simplest thing in the world, he slipped the necklace off over his head, and placed it in a neat circle on the coffee table next to his head.

They would always have a place here. But it wasn’t them who gave him warmth anymore.

When he tucked himself back under the covers, he knew it was you. It was always you.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

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okay theres going to be an epilogue at some point, but it will probably be small and have very little plot, so this is the end of the main story. so, heres a little rant for you. if you read it, thank you, and if you dont, thank you anyways. knowing anyone is reading my words is a gift enough.

i think i have been writing this series for like 5/6 months ish?? thats fucking wild. i dont have an exact word count, but all i know is its fucking long. i cannot believe i wrote this much about a fictional character, but damn. that is a lot.

basically all i want to say here is thank you. to anyone who has read, interacted, or will read in the future, thank you from the bottom of my heart. it might be a lil dramatic but having people read stuff i write, let alone actually enjoy it makes me so incredibly happy. starting to write on here, and for frank especially, is probably one of the best decisions ive ever made. this series was a struggle to finish for so many reasons, mainly my incredible lack of planning and overall dumb writing schedule, but i have met so many incredible people along the way, and i am just so grateful to have a lil space to share my work.

frank castle will probably always own a giant spot in my heart, so thank you for letting me share my version of him. and letting me add as much smut as i want to this with no complaints bc i fuckin needed it okay!!!!!! i love you all. rant over. series over. damn!

p.s. i am never not going to write frank. dont worry. i already have an idea for my next series lmao!!!!!!!! luv ya!

#frank castle #frank castle x reader #the punisher #frank castle x y/n #frank castle x you #marvel tv #the punisher x reader #the punisher x you #marvel #the punisher x y/n

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wolven91 · 11 months

Text

The Predator Café - Chapter 7

(Trigger Warning: Violence, Injury)

Panic, rage, fear and white-hot fury swirled within Natasha's chest.

The outside world began to fade out until all that was within her sight was that remnant of clothing that was unmistakably her friend's as the edges of her vision became a black halo around this tenuous link to Pip.

She could hear naught but the roar of her heartbeat as she began to hyperventilate.

The next thing she was aware of was being inside the Café, standing in front of her boss. She watched herself as if from above near the ceiling; she demanded if he'd seen Pip enter, he was denying this and shaking his head. She could see herself asking if he was certain. The man confirmed that the smaller Prey entrance hadn't been opened since the lunch time rush.

She 'blinked' and was already halfway home in a full sprint.

Their voice, crystal clear, repeated in her head. '...your 'Prey' won't escape...'; her blood boiled and her jaw ached from clenching her teeth.

Bursting into her home she stalked from one dark room to the other, pacing in impotent rage and fear.

She stopped at the kitchen, the cold pasta still sat in a pot on the hob. Her mind cleared instantly; Pip was in danger and she had to protect him. She was getting him back, there was no doubt in her mind for a single second that she'd get him back or she'd pull their god-damned spines out.

She'd have to be smart about this.

The police were as useful as an ashtray on a motorbike. If she rang them, they'd turn it into a hostage situation that would leave Pip in even greater danger. Her lawyer had even said that they'd never retrieved any of the previous victims alive...

“...fucking ghouls ate the evidence...” she realised with horror.

Her lawyer though? She was capable; she could call in the cavalry while Natasha bought them time on the inside. Natasha had never been one to sit on the sidelines when someone else was in trouble; especially one of her own. She'd learnt over a long childhood in the slums that sometimes one had to take things into their own hands; to stack the deck in their favour.

Their whispering came back to haunt her from the darkness that surrounded her; 'When you’re ready, go to the sub-station near the park. Knock once.'

“When I'm ready? Oh I'll get ready boys. I'll be good ‘n ready...”

===

Pip woke in a cloying darkness that made it hard to breathe.

When he did try to take a deep breath, pain lanced through his side causing him to flinch which only hurt the mammal further. He tried to remain still and take damp shallow gulps of air as he came to realise that he was contained within a sack of some kind.

He assumed he was on the floor as it was hard and cold beneath him. He thought it would be better for whoever had him to believe he was still unconscious so made a point to remain as still as possible while he tried to listen for voices or a clue as to what was around him.

Panic bubbled just below the surface, it threatened to rise up and drown him if not for the mantra that he repeated to himself that just had to keep calm and he would find an opportunity to escape. His entire childhood had been training him through established methods of how to keep safe in a world that wasn't a Prey's.

Many of them were pointless now; stay in lit areas, stay in communication with people, arm yourself. His best hope now was to find a chance to get distance between his captors and either hide where they couldn't reach him or out run them.

A nasally voice, moving closer to where he lay, broke the silence.

“Do we know if she's coming?”

A gruff voice replied a moment later.

“She'll be coming, sooner rather than later. I don't know much about these Humans but they don't look like the kind to give up on Prey.” A mirthless chuckle escaped the gruff voice. “If I haven't missed my mark, I'm willing to bet she'd chase this meat for forever.”

The nasally voice seemed unconvinced and to Pip struck him as a minion rather than a mastermind.

“Yeah, but what if.. what if she-”

“Shut up.” The gruff voice stated flatly.

“If she does anything stupid then we'll have to react to it. This may be your first time dealing with this, but this is how we recruited before. If these humans are what we think they are, it'll be easier to get them to join Predators like us than anyone else.”

“But boss, they aren't exactly discrete, she's taller than you even?”

Pip had used the term 'feral' before in jest or flippancy, but the growl that came from the gruff voice triggered a primitive part of his brain, it was a deep seated fear that ran through his body.

If he didn't get free, he was going to die.

His thoughts were interrupted by a third voice, this one came from further away as if they weren't in the same room as the other ones that had spoken so far.

“Hey boss! She's coming! She's.. got a pipe?”

“You two, go hide in the other room. You two with me, when she gets in, stand either side of her. I don't care what's she's armed herself with, if she fucks around we'll show her that we're the real Predators here, not this 'equals' nonsense...”

===

Natasha marched with confidence towards the substation that sat just outside the limits of a public park. It was a small structure, no larger than her front room and without a second floor she questioned whether it would be able to hold any more than the group of three that had told her about it in the first place.

There was something she didn't know. Either this wasn't their base or there was something she wasn't seeing yet.

It didn't matter; this was her single lifeline connecting her to Pip, there weren't any other options.

She had prepared herself as best she could, it had taken longer than she had wanted it to, but without a timeline she had hoped they had meant they'd keep Pip 'safe' until she could make it. Hey lawyer had assured her that she would inform the police, but begged her not to do anything rash.

Walking up to the substation door, she knocked a single time and stepped back away from it. A weird 'secret knock', but who in their right mind would knock on a door once? She shrugged to herself, it didn't matter; she just had to get inside.

The door unlocked from within as a bolt slid free.

“Come in, Sister.” A familiar voice said from the shadows, this was definitely the place. She steeled herself as she stepped into the 'lion's den'.

Inside a creature that resembled a Weasel hoped down off a crate that had served as its perch to look out of the small grime encrusted window. Normally Natasha would do her best to recall their correct designations and species names, but it didn't even register. She was appraising him; weighing him up as to how quickly he moved, how heavy he was, did he look like he could handle himself? Her time in the slums had given her enough experience to gauge how dangerous a person actually was.

This was a creature that looked like they used; speed, claws and teeth to win their fights. It gave her a toothy grin which faltered immediately as he noticed her expression and flinched from looking at her directly in the eye. He gestured lamely to the metal bat that she gripped in the middle with one hand while avoiding her gaze.

“You- you can't bring that in here... you can't be armed.”

“Ya’ think I'm gonna’ go into a room of Predators unarmed? Do ya’ think I'm stupid?” She snapped back at him, she'd expected to be challenged, but with just a bat she'd be able to talk her way through. Bluff that they wanted her here, not the other way round.

“But.. you..”

A voice called out from deeper within the structure, further away than what should be possible.

“Let her in, she's one of us...”

She gave the weasel a withering stare as she tapped the bat against her hip impatiently.

He ducked his head and retreated to the end of a grey electrical console. It dominated the single room that was the substation, but when he and Natasha rounded the far corner, a metal bulkhead jutting out of the ground was swung open presenting a ladder down into what Natasha assumed was the sewers.

This was not going to plan; she had no interest in going below ground, especially with what looked like a manhole cover that could be sealed closed between her and the rest of the world.

“Ya’ live in the sewers...?” She said disdainfully as she grabbed the ladder and began to descend before anyone could question her resolve. As she reached the bottom of the ladder, a serious voice, which gave her the impression of the ringleader, greeted her.

“Welcome sister. Yes, we may technically live in the sewers for now, it won't be long before we bring our vision of the galaxy to the wider city and world above. We and now you, are not alone with our desires-”

Natasha tuned him out as he continued to drone on, seemingly loving the sound of his own voice and getting high off his own horseshit. She noted that he was a Canid, black and brown colourings with a body that spoke of time at the gym, but he was small, shorter than normal canids. A runt? Either side of her sat two more, totalling four so far, one a felinoid that looked like she'd seen better days with the scraggly pelt of tawny fur and bald spots in her hide. Her partner on the other side of the room; a draconian, was thin with black for the majority of his scales but with blotches of deep red in a chaotic pattern across his visible flesh.

Natasha continued to observe the room as the ringleader went on about a 'new world order' by talking about how it was 'better in the old days'. She could sincerely feel her brain cells dying as he continued to regurgitate words that must've sounded impressive to him but imparted no actual meaning to anyone paying attention.

The room was a definitely part of the sewer system, but it appeared unused based off the floor and walls being clean of any sign of previous water or sewage, it was however, littered with the signs of usage by people; bottles and empty food packages lined the walls along with various boxes and half burnt candles scattered about haphazardly. The room itself was wide and open, the ceiling was however, almost too close for comfort to Natasha, but she gauged that she would be the tallest here by at least a head; only she would have to worry about hitting head against the humming strip lights. The end of the room, behind the ringleader's chair, had a divot in the floor for sluicing liquids away and a tunnel that cut across the room, leading deeper into the sewer system, it made the room into a 'T' shape, preventing Natasha from seeing around the corners into either direction of the tunnel.

She was in look, these lot looked like dregs, deformed and stunted. Was that their reasoning for eating people? They didn’t have the strengths of their brethren so they attacked anyone weaker?

The canid who was currently sitting at the opposite end of the room to the entrance ladder was occupying an aged leather chair that had somehow been brought down into the space. Saying that the only other visible seating in the room were several crates, it struck Natasha that this canid thought himself above those who followed him. The crates that served as seats were reinforced as such as they were each surrounded by empty bottles of beer or cans. What was interesting is that there were more available and visibly used seats than members present.

'Maybe 6 of them?' Natasha thought to herself as she realised the ringleader was winding his speech up as he was now standing with arms wide as if addressing a grand cheering crowd rather than skulking in the goddamned sewer.

Her bat 'tinked' against the cement floor as she dropped her grip from the middle of it, to the handle end and she flatly began.

“Wow...” struggling and failing to pretend any longer.

The sickly canid brought his gaze from the ceiling down to her, lowering his arms down to his sides lamely. Her lack of applause was disheartening to the man. He genuinely thought he'd improved his delivery of that speech.

“Jin, give us some privacy.” He shouted past her; the metal portal she had climbed through closed with a slam and grating lock.

'So much for their plan; my turn.' She smiled to herself, she hadn't been relying on any back up if she was honest with herself. It was always going to be her versus whatever unfortunately bastard that thought they could take her Pip.

“You fella’s took something from me. I want it back.” She demanded with a stony glare. The canid held his hands up in a placating gesture.

“Peace Sister, we only grabbed it so you could enjoy it without anyone suspecting you and so we could all meet. We're glad their meddling didn't get you arrested properly before you could enjoy its succulent flesh.”

The felinoid piped up in a tone that Natasha assumed she meant in a supporting manner.

“It smells so sweet, I can understand why you chose it. I can't wait to sink my teeth into it properly...”

Natasha gripped the bat harder, her knuckles turning white.

“I will not 'share' Him in any way, shape or form. Not with y’all or anyone else, do ya’ understand me?”

The canid gave the human an award winning smile as he tried to reassure her.

“Oh you must understand, until we have enough to go around, we all must all share our prey. We each can support each other, we are a fami-”

“Show me him now.” Natasha cut off the canid. She needed to know he was alive. As long as he was alive she would help him live a life even if he wasn't whole.

“You're right, you're right! Of course, we've taken your food from your mouth and are trying to negotiate while you have no evidence we're sincere. Granc! Bring it out here now!”

From one of the blind-corner tunnels, another runt of a canid appeared with a lumpy sack in one hand. Like the felinoid, this one had mange and looked thin or sickly. He handed off the sack to the ringleader who reached in the bag.

A heartbreaking squeak came from within as he grasped and pulled Pip out in one harsh movement. Natasha's ache from her jaw came back, she could feel her bottom left eyelid begin to twitch with the effort of keeping her face neutral.

Pip looked scared and hurt. The Canid held him by the back of his neck, Pip had grabbed the larger creature's fingers in an attempt to ease the pressure on his body. He had dried blood over his face and he wasn't breathing correctly, as if he couldn't draw in a full breath. His fur was bedraggled and damp, he looked awful, but he was alive and awake; that was enough for Natasha. As he blinked in the sudden change of light, his eyes focused on Natasha and his face showed shock, surprise and fear.

Whether fear for himself, fear 'for' her or fear 'of' her, Natasha couldn't tell.

It didn't matter, he was alive and she was keeping it that way.

“Hand him over.” She demanded again.

“No, we've been more than welcoming to you and we've only received hostility in return. It's time you decide to join us or not.”

“As I said before; He. Is. Mine. I will not be sharing him with anyone, let alone pretend Predators such as y’all.”

This got a reaction from them, the two who had been sat either side of Natasha stood and came closer to her, well within range.

Good. Get cocky, get in close.

“Pretenders?!” The ringleader said incredulously.

“Oh, ya’ disagree? Ya’ll not predators, none of ya’ are! And yet ya’ think ya’ll good enough to take what's mine?! Ya’ bottom feeders! Ya’ll haven’t brought down anything that could actually give ya’ a run for ya’ money. At best, ya’ll opportunistic scavengers and ya’ done fucked with the wrong human.”

As the canid breathed in to retort, Natasha didn't wait to hear any more drivel from him.

She grasped the opposite end of her bat in her spare hand and drove the handle into the ribs of the black and red draconian as hard as she could, utilising her whole body to add force into the jab. The dull 'crack' echoed through the room from the bipedal lizard’s torso as he crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut. She let go of the business end of the bat to swing it in a full circuit, so the felinoid received the full brunt of force that swept the bat from down by her feet right up and into her jaw. Her head snapped backwards in a whiplash inducing motion before falling away and clutching at her face, the scream that came from it was more raw emotion than anything coherent.

At a glance the draconian had fared little better as he remained on the floor trying and failing to gulp air that simply wouldn't come.

The spare runt canid came from the front as he grabbed at the bat with both hands, Natasha was pushed back a moment before moving her arms in a violent jerking motion to push the bat squarely into his snarl, breaking his front teeth. He was stunned for a moment allowing Natasha to follow up with a second strike with the middle of the bat with little resistance. The front of his muzzle crumpled slightly as the majority of his front teeth disappeared when they broke in half and blood burst from the ends of his nostrils.

As she pulled the bat clear of his hands, she swung the handle to hit him in the face in a short pivot, it was then that Natasha was blind sided as she was tackled to the floor by a green blur.

The green blur slashed at her face where her cheek immediately began to burn and ache. The new geckin, previously hidden around the other blind corner, reared back, jaws agape to clamp down on her exposed neck. He was small, but still sharp. As he lunged downwards, the act was arrested by the spiked choker she had donned before her arriving at the substation, preventing him from being able to close his jaws around her throat completely.

Normally she would only wear the spiked collar when going to a concert or other event where she could dress as dramatically as she liked, but she had feared that without something to defend her neck and wrists, she may have been vulnerable to this exact attack. The 'camo' geckin tried to close his teeth around her and pull, but the metal and leather left his attack ineffective and more damaging to himself than Natasha.

As he straddled her, she drove a knee up into his crotch as hard as she could before grabbing the creature and rolling to the side, dragging him beneath her in a reversal. She proceeded to pound into his face with both of her fists; her adrenaline allowing her to wail away into his jaw, cheeks and eye sockets. It wasn't until a kick to her ribs from a new assailant, forced her to roll away with a wince into a low crouch and her fists raised to defend herself.

The Ringleader stalked around his fallen compatriots, the geckin wasn’t moving.

“You idiot! Do you not understand?! We're the only ones in this city that appreciate your desire! You're denying yourself it's flesh!”

Natasha was beyond words at this point, her rage fuelled her onwards; the slight movements of her Pip in the corner of her vision willed her to tear this dog’s head off.

She reached back to retrieve her 'back-up plans' from her back pockets. Slipping the pair 4-ringed brass knuckles over each of her own she stalked forwards towards the enraged alien.

The wild haymaker he threw out was easily redirected; it was trying to disembowel her, but Natasha gave back a quick jab into his chest rather than a grander response. He was shorter than the average canid by a significant margin, but no less dangerous, to underestimate him would be to defeat herself. He took a step back before pushing forward again, he then threw out a series of clawed slashes that did no more than bounce off Natasha's guard as she allowed his assault uninterrupted. The spiked bracelets that donned her wrists, jabbed and gouged at his own forearms weakening his attack as he could simply flail at her. His assault was feral; strong and violent, but without finesse. He’d been used to being the larger one in past conflicts, his self-assurance was evident in his lack of form or skill.

Her initial plan was to allow him to punch himself out, with his inability to end the fight by numbers or taking advantage of an exposed neck, he could only batter himself against her stalwart defence. He had a moment of inspiration however by throwing out a punch into Natasha’s gut slipping through her guard. She doubled over in a moment before twisting at the hip and using her elbow to slam into the canid’s face. He flinched and stepped backwards blinking away stars as his sensitive muzzle burst in a small geyser of blood.

Natasha’s ‘rope-a-dope’ plan was thrown into disarray however when, as the two circled each other, Pip appeared from behind the Ringleader and drove a screwdriver into the flesh of his calf with a rebel yell. Crying out and collapsing to one knee the canid successfully aimed a sweeping backhand that launched Pip deeper into the room away from the brawl.

Natasha saw red at Pip being struck; defence gave way to pure, livid hatred.

Before the canid could prepare himself, he was attacked by a true ‘Predator', one that dredged an icy dread from deep within him; a feeling he was not aware that he could ever experience, one of a Prey.

The metal covered knuckled came up in a south-paw upper punch that snapped his jaw closed and put the former Predator on his back. Natasha pounced upon him to batter solely into his head and whilst the sieged creature attempted to bring his arms up to defend himself, Natasha simply pulled his arm out of the way to land an uninterrupted hit square into whatever was in the way between her and the floor.

This continued for a time, a cathartic, raged filled therapy for Natasha as she paid him back for the upset and harm he had caused for both the Human and her Pip.

It was only when the creature had stopped moving that the drive to hit it drained from Natasha and a sudden overwhelming need to find and protect Pip returned.

Natasha got off the still breathing but bloodied meat that now laid thoroughly tenderised and scrambled over on all fours to the caramel furred mammal that remained still in a heap. She gingerly picked him up; he was still breathing but limp in her arms. She rushed over to the ladder out and turned the handle that would open the hatch once more, it had been locked from the inside.

When she unlocked it fully, the hatch was opened immediately by the collection of law enforcement officers that had crowded around the entrance to the subterranean lair. They however flinched back at the sight of the haggard and still enraged Human crawling from the depth with her face covered in blood. Whether this was her’s, Pip's or anyone else's, none of them knew, but they retreated to allow her to pass and leave the substation. The officers then climbed down the ladder to arrest the occupants within, they had heard the violence from within and expected the worst. Aside from a variety of heavily injured occupants, they were all still alive, albeit some only just.

===

As Pip came back to the waking world, his environment had changed significantly for the better.

Beneath him was a soft mattress that supported his body gently, while the bed itself had his upper half slightly raised. The pillows beneath his neck and head were softer than his own back at his dorm, he thought mildly as he opened his eyes and began to blink the burring away.

Before his vision returned he felt a weight over his shins, heavier than the thin sheet that covered the majority of his body. Hovering over him was a fellow Prey dressed in the uniform of a nurse. Her whiskers twitched as she smirked down at him as she adjusted a bag with clear liquid inside that was connected to his arm via a tube.

“Welcome back Mr Warin, so you are aware; you've been asleep for the best part of two days, but should make a full recovery shortly.”

He blinked and croaked in response from his incredibly dry throat. He tried to swallow to refresh himself as the nurse, satisfied with her work, walked around the bottom of the bed where he suddenly noticed the form of Natasha.

The medical ward he was in was obviously designed for creatures smaller than Natasha; the items, fixtures and beds were all a more ‘normal’ size to Pip’s perspective. However, even slouched as she was, Natasha took up an alarming amount of space, practically overtaking the bottom of his bed where the top half of her slept.

‘She must be sat on the floor while hunched over the bed’ Pip thought to himself.

“We moved the other patients once she refused to leave. The others were distressed despite it being on the news.”

“She refused… What... what was on the news?”

“Her rescue of you Mr Warin? Whatever the misunderstanding was the day before, word is she single handedly removed the beginning of another feral Predator ring. The reporters had followed the parade of police and reported it live. When she appeared like an angel of death, but carrying you; people didn’t know what to think.” The nurse shook her head.

“Tokens of praise and apology have been arriving whilst you’ve both been here. They are starting to take up too much room. I would have raised a complaint if not for the fact that everyone is still hesitant to stay in a room with a human…” The nurse continued, gesturing towards the entrance to the room where a pile of gifts, flowers and tokens of various sizes had overtaken one wall.

“Now you’re awake, I doubt there will be any need for you to stay much longer. You were suffering more from sleep deprivation rather than anything physically wrong, aside from some nasty bumps. We have however stitched up the claw marks on your back, although it is likely they will scar, and your fur may not return.”

Pip thanked the nurse before she retreated from the room to follow up on her other patients. Looking down at the blonde beauty, he recalled what he had seen down in the sewers.

He had described her before as a force of nature, when he had laid on top of her chest and listened to her heartbeat. Now he knew this description was too understated. She had been truly terrifying, her speed went beyond what was right for a creature at her size to be able to move.

He had felt the impacts of her hits, the reverberations of the strikes had made him wince with each blow. When she had been taken to the floor and the Saurian that had been hidden away tore at her neck, Pip had feared the worst.

But nothing could stop her, she was a tidal wave of anger, of something primal... feral, even...

Pip winced at his own thought, that he'd put her in the same category as those brutes.

Placing a small hand into her hair he stroked it through the silken mess. She looked tired, the three gouges in her cheek looked deep and were held closed by white stitches. If he had scars on his back, those would absolutely scar and all because he got into a mess he should have avoided.

His heart broke at the idea he had led her to harm.

A wordless groan of being pulled from sleep escaped her throat.

"Morning beautiful..." Pip whispered.

"Pip? Pip!" She exclaimed, waking up fully and rocking the bed in her attempt to straighten up.

"Ya’ awake! Oh I'm so sorry Pip! It's all my fault, if I'd just left ya’ alone ya’ wouldn't have been taken or threatened and everyone-"

The cascade of apologies and worry that spilled forth surprised him, he was expecting to be the one that was to apologise not for his saviour to best him to the punch, so to speak.

"...Natasha." He said simply, stalling her mid-sentence.

"Sorry." She said meekly.

It didn't suit her.

Pip hated the idea of her not being herself, but he wanted her to say her piece, it was important to her so it was important to him.

"I don’t believe there's anything for you to apologise for, but if you disagree, I accept your apology and want nothing more than to hear nothing else on the matter..."

Her shoulders slumped, as if he had single handedly removed the weight of the world off her shoulders.

“...its me who should be apologising."

"No, thats not-"

"Let me finish... please." He quietly begged.

She fell silent and waited for him.

"I knew better, you didn't." He began with a sigh. "There are... expectations of what is ‘normal’ of you and me, of a Predator and a Prey. But you weren't aware of these and shouldn't be and won’t be held accountable for them. I was, and I deliberately ignored them so I could selfishly spend time with someone I found exciting... Even when I knew and was duly warned, that it would all end in tears.”

He closed his eyes in confused shame.

"I came back and encouraged you because I found you attractive Natasha, I thought you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, even though I knew it was more than likely that nothing good could have come from us spending time with each other. This whole mess is because I didn’t do what I was supposed to…” He couldn’t look at her right now, he had to tell her the truth, to make her understand that she was free from blame, and he wouldn’t hold anything against her when she defended her social standing by leaving him behind. Especially after he had intentionally undermined hers for his lust.

Humans were new to the whole mess; how could anyone blame them? Not him, he would never blame her.

“What a crock.” Natasha stated flatly, Pip snapped his head up in confusion. “Do I not get a say? Ya’ think I didn’t know what people might say when we waltzed off together? Don’t be making assumptions that I’m jus’ some wallflower who ain’t gonna’ say nothin’. Ya’ people got some ‘expectations’, just like everybody else in this universe. Ya’ think I haven’t had to clash with ‘expectations’ before?”

She ‘huffed’ and shuffled closer to the top of the bed before reaching out a hand to hold his chin between her large fingers.

“If I didn’t want to see ya’, I wouldn’t see ya’. If ya’ want to see me, I want ya’ to come see me. And there ain’t nothing anyone else is gonna’ say or do that’s gonna’ change this.”

She released him after making her point and looked away.

“…’Expectations’ my ass. Thought I got away from all that nonsense...” She mumbled to the empty ward.

“So… we’re, okay?” Pip asked, he was stunned she would not only disregard any issue but made him feel slightly put out for attempting to assume the responsibility over the matter.

“I’m frustrated Hun’, but all this has done is tell me that I need to get ya’ home and teach you properly; just how much ya’ mean to me, ya’ daft thing.” She said with a smile as she gazed back to him, putting an elbow on his bed whilst resting her chin in her hand. Her other hand came round and gently ran over his body over the thin covers.

“I think we need to start addressing things directly, no more beatin’ round the bush. Sound good?”

“Sounds good.” Squeaked Pip.

She leaned forwards, her face now dominated his vision. The soft closing of her eyes prompted Pip to do the same as his arms reached up to cup her face as her fingers curled around the back of his head with her nails scratching through his fur. Her lips touched his and whilst her bottom lip gently pressed against his own, her top lip brushed and pressed against his nose due to the difference in their sizes.

His world was one of softness and peppermint. This is what ‘heaven’ had to be like.

===

The journey back to his dorm was uneventful, but while he packed a bag for a stay away at Natasha’s Geegee was beside himself at the idea that Pip ‘hadn’t learnt his lesson’. Pip rolled his eyes and ignored him.

He understood his opinion, it took a verbal slap from Natasha for Pip to also give up on the social contract himself, he’d just wait for the geckin to come round and begin talking to Pip again. He vowed to be there for him when or if he did.

Once they got back to Natasha’s, Pip’s things were placed on the desk while Natasha whisked him off his feet and landed on the bed; laying on top of him and assaulting him again with wet kisses, some pecks and others lingered. He returned the favour; Natasha could feel the small wet pecks across her skin as he tried to match her ferocity.

“Hun’, I hope ya’ ready; because I’ve been waiting to eat ya’ up whole since ya’ walked into my Café.”

#conservationverse #cuddleverse #human #chintian #haso #hfy #humans are space orcs #Trigger Warning: Violence #chipmunk #size difference #sizeplay #sizetumblr

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itwasthereaminuteago · 8 months

Note

Stay safe while flying! 💕

If you still need ideas, how about Matt or Frank giving the other one a back massage? (the innocent when the other is just pent up with stress and collapses on the couch with a defeated sigh kind)

Thank you, the journey home was blissfully uneventful and I'm now fully rested ☺️

Hope this is what you were thinking of...

Matt can sense the dark, oppressive cloud hanging over Frank as his boots hit heavily on each of the stairs on the way down from the roof. He only nods, and that's more than enough communication between them for now as Matt gives him space, lets him slowly shed his dirty armour and clothes and make his way to the bathroom for a shower so hot it would nearly scald his bloodied skin.

Matt busies himself washing up the remaining dishes and cleaning up the kitchen until a few minutes after he hears the faucet turning off. Then he goes into the bedroom, finding Frank laying facedown on top of the covers in a pair of Matt's clean, soft sweatpants.

Matt leans down as he climbs onto the bed, planting a light kiss between his shoulder blades, the tension there obvious and like a beacon drawing Matt to aid. He straddles the backs of Frank's thighs and that prompts a soft sigh from him, giving Matt all the consent he needs.

On first assessment he's not carrying any major injuries, only a slight wash of fresh bruises to avoid, and so Matt gets to work. At the first press of his fingers down his spine Frank grunts as Matt starts breaking down the thick ropes of tension twisting through Frank's muscles. The pained grunts soon morph to long groans of relief as Matt works him looser, the hardness and stress beginning to melt away with the movement. His mouth starts to get loose along with his muscles too.

"Fuuuck…"

"Is this alright?" Matt asks in response, kneading his curled knuckles deeper, right into the meat of Frank's shoulder and pushing out a low sound from him. "Want me to keep going?"

"Christ," he groans out again, shifting his hands up near his head, palms facing down allowing Matt greater access to manipulate and mould him however he sees fit. "Yeah, s'good."

Matt smiles to himself running both thumbs down Frank's warm, naked spine to his lower back where he usually has issues.

"Jesus Red," he hums, and Matt bends down close to his ear.

"Still good?" He says softly, pushing down and out.

"Mm," he swallows. "You should be chargin' for this. Easier money than being a lawyer."

"What about all those people that need my help?"

Frank moves his head to one side. "What're you talking about? I'm people. You're helpin' me right now."

Matt chuckles, "Feeling any better?" he asks as Frank starts to shift underneath him. He dismounts and sits on the side of the bed beside him as Frank slowly rolls over onto his back, tired but now without the strain and sourness present.

"Like fifty bucks." Frank purrs out with a deep exhale, his eyes closing as Matt combs his finger through his damp hair.

"I know you said I should charge but… that little, huh?" Matt teases.

Frank's brows lift a little, as if he's deep in thought and not just about to succumb to sleep.

"Mm, a'right. Hundred maybe… c'mere." He mumbles, reaching blindly for the other man and encouraging him to cuddle up into his side.

"Okay, I can work with that."

#fratt #fratt fic #fratt fluff #request #i love them caring for each other

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minefield-of-a-ninja · 1 year

Text

28 DAYS: CHAPTER SEVEN

Summary: Dean Winchester is an addict and an alcoholic, a USMC veteran, a father, and an older brother. As Battalion Chief with Lawrence Fire & Medical, Dean comes under investigation when he makes a dangerous and impulsive decision, defying his superiors and abandoning the team he is supposed to lead. He is given a choice to go to rehab for 28 days or jail. His lawyer insists on rehab, and Dean begrudgingly abides.

Chapter warnings/tags: mentions of underage sex work

Words in this chapter: 3,100

Author’s notes: Allegedly, the Dean v. Dean scene from “Dream A Little Dream Of Me” was supposed to be John v. Dean but JDM couldn’t make the schedule work. That got me thinking about how else I could use that pivotal scene in this AU. You’ll see that scene sort of sprinkled throughout this chapter.

Thanks for your patience as I adjust to my new work schedule. I have the next two chapters as well — they just need some marinating and beta-ing.

Many thanks to @brrose-apothecary and @stusbunker for pre-reads and for being my friends.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“I do hope he makes it.” Rowena waves as she, Gabe, Dean, and Meg watch Crowley make his way to the exit.

Crowley turns before walking out the door, tossing Rowena a nod before flipping two backward Peace signs to either side of her, effectively telling Dean, Gabe, and Meg to fuck themselves.

“Rude,” Meg murmurs into her coffee as Gabe wraps an arm around Rowena’s slight shoulders.

“Ya know, Ro, statistically, only three-tenths of us make it,” Gabe says. “So it’s better for us if he doesn’t.”

Meg does a spit take of coffee while Dean barely keeps his own in his mouth to swallow. “Fuckin’ savage, Gabe,” Dean chuckles, slapping Meg on the back. “Breathe through it, sweetheart.”

“That smarmy dick — affectionate,” Gabe pretends to assure Rowena that the insult is meant with the best of intentions, “deserves the very best.”

Rowena turns and sniffles into Gabe’s embrace.

There’s a lot of affection within their small group. Dean’s stopped questioning the fraternizing rule, though, because Meg does wonders for the tension in his neck and shoulders with her tiny little hands.

“I’m gonna hit the gym. Anybody wanna join? Dean-o?” Meg tosses her empty cup in the garbage before arching and stretching to make her spine pop and crack.

Part of his recovery from addiction and his injuries is structured and supervised exercises. It’s done nothing for his persistent hard-on, but it helps with boredom, anger, and the satisfaction of succeeding at something, even if it’s not much.

Dean turns his back on Gabe and Rowena’s canoodling. “Sounds good. What time?”

“Ten?” Meg claps her hands together enthusiastically.

“Yep,” Dean answers, dumping his cup into the trash before they go their separate ways — Meg to the women’s sleeping quarters and Dean to the men’s.

It’s been 10 days since the fire. It feels like weeks to Dean. He read once that it takes 21 days to create a habit and 90 to make it stick. He always thought that seemed arbitrary, but he’s starting to believe it because his day-to-day here is quickly becoming routine.

When he gets to his room, he finds Jack in bed with Red Hood Arsenal Vol. 1, covered in candy wrappers.

Dean arches a brow as he yanks his drawer open. “You ever get outta bed this mornin’?”

“Not really feeling social today,” Jack murmurs, gnawing on a piece of chocolate and nougat.

Dean digs around for a pair of basketball shorts and a t-shirt for the gym. “Well, ya should eat somethin’ real before they close the kitchen.”

He shoves the drawer closed before turning to face his roommate.

Jack keeps his eyes on his comic as he replies. “You’ve only been wearing that sign for a day. Have you already forgotten my eating habits are none of your business?”

Dean drops his eyes to the sign around his neck as he tongues the back of his teeth before roughly grinding them.

“Nope. Haven’t forgotten.” His stomach tightens and flips, and his face starts to heat. “Ya know... I just-”

“Still none of your business.”

Jack’s tone, assertive nature, and blunt words make Dean tense. He wants to yell. Yelling relieves tension for him. Punching things also relieves tension, so Dean decides to keep his mouth shut and get dressed to work out, even if he can only punch with one fist right now.

He passes Billie’s office on his way to the gym. Her door’s open, so he pokes his head inside. “Hey.”

She silently and expectantly looks up from her desk, pen frozen in her hand.

“Just...” Dean juts a thumb over his shoulder as he steps fully into the doorway. “Headed to the gym. Thought I’d say hi.”

Billie raises her eyebrows and chin before nodding. “Well, hi.”

Her less-than-enthused response further agitates him. “Man, I’m just pissin’ everybody off today,” he mutters.

“You’re not pissing me off.” Billie carefully sets her pen aside before pushing her chair away from her desk. “Come in, Dean.”

Dean walks inside, feeling rejected. It’s uncomplicated when he thinks about the reality of the last 15 minutes. These people are practically strangers, Jack’s a 17-year-old kid, and Billie’s a fucking shrink so he shouldn’t give a shit what they think. Yet these perceived slights would’ve sent him straight to a bottle of pills or whiskey and searching for pussy outside these walls.

“Your door was open. I just thought I’d say hi instead of just walkin’ by like you don’t exist.” He walks over to her designated visiting area and takes a seat.

“And that’s very kind of you.” Billie settles in one of her chairs across from him.

“So then why’re you just like ‘hi???’ like I’m annoying you,” he asks.

He fully realizes that he sounds like he’s trying to start a fight, but he does nothing to dial it back.

“You’re not annoying me. I wanted to be sure you didn’t need something first.” She pauses. “Did something happen with Jack or Meg?”

Dean shrugs. “Jack acted like I tried to set his stuffed dragon on fire when I reminded him the kitchen was about to close.”

She isn’t making notes right now, which relieves Dean. “Can you expand on that?”

“Well, he brought up my stupid-ass sign.” He flicks the sign making it flop against his chest ineffectually.

Billie nods, appearing to also curb a smile of amusement, which lightens his shit mood for some reason. “That’s what the sign’s for, Dean.”

He scoffs. “To repeatedly remind me that I’m a pain in the ass?”

Billie narrows her eyes and sighs. “No. The signs serve many purposes, none of which are to remind you that you’re a pain in the ass. They help maintain boundaries and remind everyone to focus on themselves and their own recovery.”

Dean chews the inside of his cheek. “So, if the 17-year-old kid I’m rooming with starves to death, I’m just supposed to keep my eyes on my own prize.”

He’s being dramatic. He knows he’s being dramatic. It’s a great outlet, though, with the absence of his other sorely missed vices.

“First of all,” Billie begins to count her retorts on her fingers, “Jack isn’t going to starve to death-”

“I’ve never seen him eat anything but candy!” Dean cuts her off with exasperation.

“Dean.” Billie drops her hands in her lap.

“Sorry.”

Expressing his frustrations and regrets isn’t something he’s comfortable doing because he never learned to do it any other way than physically fighting, fucking, or getting wasted. That’s not BIllie’s fault; it’s just facts.

Billie calmly begins again. “He will not starve. Nor will he learn to feed and care for himself adequately if we don’t let him figure that out on his own.”

Dean sighs, looking up at the ceiling. “Can’t save everybody,” he mutters.

“Correct,” Billie answers. “What else?”

“I need to focus on my own recovery.”

“Yes.”

He brings his gaze back to hers. “Sorry for...” He waves his hand in the air as an explanation. “Barging in, whining...”

“No apologies necessary. You aren’t whining, you have questions. Bucking the system demonstrates healthy curiosity.” Billie peers at him above the tent of her fingers. “You know, some might assume, as a Marine Corps veteran raised by a Marine Corps veteran that you’d follow orders without a second thought. But you don’t.”

Dean stares back quietly. He and Billie have made progress. He trusts her to do what she says she’s there to do. The problem right now is she’s probing a scab he isn’t willing to expose.

“Well, I got people who look to me for answers — my team, my kid.”

Billie nods. “Yes. And you’ve amassed a group of people here who also see you as a leader, and as a natural leader, it’s important to be mindful of your intentions and of the impression you leave on others.”

“When you say it like that, I feel like a fuckin’ asshole.”

Billie shakes her head. “You’re not an asshole. Go to the gym.” She motions to his outfit as she stands. “During our scheduled session this afternoon, we can talk more about that.”

As he gets up and walks to the door, Dean’s chest feels heavy even as his heart spits and sputters.

The gym doesn’t help clear his mind or calm his anxiety. He’s stuck in the spiral of memories from his last argument with John.

“I’ve been back for five days, Dad, can I just get my bearings before you start-”

“Your brother is leaving, and you won’t lift a finger to stop it. All you’ve done is whine about how you’re gonna miss him when he leaves!”

“He got a full ride.”

“And you’re gonna what, help him pack?! Came back from that war as mindless and obedient as an attack dog — good soldier and nothin’ else.”

That’s fucking rich, coming from John, who only ever treated Dean like a soldier. Dean learned so much more about life and relationships over there than John ever taught him.

“That’s not true.”

“No? What else ya got, then, kid? Your car? That’s mine. Your favorite leather jacket? Mine. Your music? Mine.”

John’s ever-panning searchlight of fury has all but lost Sam and is fully focused on Dean. While Dean doesn’t love being under his dad’s scrutiny, he hopes that his presence buys Sam a few more minutes to get his shit together and get out.

“Your entire fuckin’ personality is me and that kid brother of yours.”

Dean’s slumped against the living room wall with his dad looming over him, red-faced, sweating, and spitting rage.

“You’re fuckin’ obsessed with keeping us here. Sam was built for somethin’ better-”

“I’m obsessed?” John rapidly blinks, clutching his left arm. “How the fuck did you handle not havin’ little Sammy on your heels in Afghanistan? You got nothin’ outside of this family, and you know it.”

“You’re fuckin’ drunk and high.” Dean shakes his head and pushes away from the wall. “You need to sit down.”

“Listen here, you ungrateful little shit-”

“Yell all you want, I’m still leaving!” Sam strides into the living room, hoisting his bag over his shoulder.

Dean takes a step forward, and John takes a step back.

“All that shit you dumped on me about protecting Sam? That was your shit.” He pokes a finger into John’s chest. “You’re the one who couldn’t protect your family, and now that we’re adults with our own fucking lives, you can’t handle it.”

“Keep talkin’, asshole.” John is panting heavily, and his face is turning darker red. “You think you know what it’s like to raise a kid-”

“Yeah! I do!” Dean walks John right back to the couch where John drops to sit. “You were never fucking here for Sam, I always was. All you ever did was train me, boss me around — Daddy’s blunt little instrument — I was never your kid.”

“Oh, please...” John groans, his words slurring as he squeezes his arm harder and he drops his chin to his chest.

“But Sam... Sam you doted on. And now he’s leaving. Talk about what’re you gonna do now, huh? What’re you gonna do, John?”

“Dean...” Sam’s voice is hollow.

“Geez, what happened to you between finally gettin’ rid of that cranky old queen and now?” Meg asks.

Dean breathes and grits his teeth as he mentally counts his wall push-ups. “It’s a whole thing.”

He doesn’t want to get into John with Meg. Not right now. The thought of getting into his history with his dad at all makes him feel like jumping out the window.

Meg furrows her brow and nods. “You’re too hard on yourself.”

Dean shoots her a look, thinking she’s teasing him. What he finds when he really takes her in, though, is so raw and delicate that he can barely stand to look at her.

“Yeah, I’m my own worst nightmare.” He completes his wall exercises and eases to the floor for the rest.

“Don’t do that,” Meg says. She stands over him with her hands on her hips.

Dean tosses his hands in the air in surrender. “I’m kidding. OK?” He starts his hip stretches and the pain carries a signal of satisfaction and success to his brain.

“No, you aren’t.”

Dean groans at the stretch. “What’s with you? This is our thing. The self-deprecation thing.”

Meg sighs and drops to the floor beside him to do some of her own exercises. “Dean, you’re one of our 2.1.”

Dean shakes his head. “What?”

“I did the math; three-tenths of seven is 2.1.”

Dean scoffs and rolls his eyes so hard they take his whole body with them. “Are we including Crowley in that seven?” He goes back to carefully lifting and stretching his hips.

“Yeah... better odds for the rest of us that way.” Meg twists her spine so she’s facing Dean with her knees pointing in the opposite direction.

Dean snorts, and Meg chuckles as they watch each other try to get better.

Then her face softens as well as her voice. “You’re gonna make it, Dean. Because you’re a fuckin’ badass.”

Dean swallows back a lump from trying to form in his throat.

“You’re here because of a blip.” She rolls her watery eyes. “You are better than this. You’ll come out on the other side stronger because you’re already so strong.”

Dean draws a shallow, shaking breath. “And what about you?” He’s almost afraid to ask, but she doesn’t disappoint.

Meg smirks. “I figured out one thing about this world — just one.” She twists back to lie flat on her back, looking up at the ceiling as she pulls each knee into her chest. “You find a cause, and you serve it. Give yourself over, and it orders your life.”

Dean nods, rolling to his side. “Sex work and heroin didn’t give you the kinda order you wanted?”

Meg chuckles and switches knees. “At one time, my pimp’s mission was it for me. But things change, right? We learn, we grow... Now?” She turns her head to look at him again. “My cause is getting sober.”

Dean purses his lips. “So you and I’re the lucky two?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

He wishes her insistence that he’s so strong made him feel that way. Instead, he feels like there’s a light shining on his weaknesses. If there was a way for him to be all the good things people claim to know about him and nothing else, maybe he could finally stop hearing his dead dad’s voice in the back of his mind, telling him that he’s worthless.

“We’ve been here for over an hour.” Meg sighs then rolls away from him, to her side, and up onto her hands and knees. “Let’s go eat and chain-smoke before group.”

She hops to her feet before reaching out a hand to help Dean up. He smiles softly before accepting her offer.

“Do you feel akin to Jack?” Billie asks.

It’s their scheduled session in the afternoon. Dean is exhausted. There’s so much talking and listening and correcting — yourself and others.

“I’m old enough to be the kid’s dad, so I guess? Things’re different than they used to be.” Dean shrugs.

“For who?”

Dean drops his head to the back of the chair and sighs.

“You’ve had a long day, I know,” Billie says, and Dean rolls his head to the side and peeks at her with one eye.

“Therapy and recovery aren’t quick and easy.” Billie shakes her head. “If they were, everybody’d do it. Right?”

Dean snorts. “I guess.” He sighs again, this time much less dramatically, then sits up straight in his chair. He clears his throat before moving forward with what he knows he has to talk about.

“Sometimes… we didn’t have what we needed— Sam and I— because Dad was... whatever and wherever, and I did things. For people.”

Billie nods.

Dean is surprised to find her unsurprised by his confession. He thought his juvenile records would be sealed no matter what. Maybe she just knows because she’s a brain doctor.

“I wasn’t a hooker.”

“OK.”

“I just did what I had to do.”

“I understand.”

“Like the time I stole bread and peanut butter from the 7-Eleven and got thrown into a boys’ home.”

Billie nods.

“And the time I let the PTA president suck my dick for dinner five nights a week for Sam and me.”

Billie narrows her eyes slightly, still listening, still not taking notes.

“Or an extra hundred in cash for clothes for the kid who grew outta mine the second he turned 16 just to let the guy on the corner watch me eat out his wife.”

Dean wipes at his nose and then looks out Billie’s windows.

“Thank you for telling me, Dean.”

Dean nods and swings his gaze back to Billie. “It’s just... Meg says I’m this badass, gonna pass outta here with flying colors, and Jack... thinks I’m a nag.”

Billie bobs and shakes her head. “No one’s just one thing.”

“Are we having the ‘not everyone is thinking about you all the time’ conversation?”

Billie smiles. “While you were your little brother’s hero, you were someone else’s prey.”

Dean’s jaw tightens, and he looks out the windows again.

“While your daughter sat broken-hearted on one side of town, you single-handedly carried Cyrus Styne to safety.”

Dean closes his eyes and lets a tear roll down his cheek. “So what’s in between?”

“It’s not about other people’s perceptions.”

Before looking back at her, Dean drags his hand over his face. “Then what’s it about?”

“You had to eat and care for your brother, right?”

Dean nods. “Yeah.”

“What about Emma?”

Dean flicks his gaze up to Billie’s.

“Do you see a likeness between Emma and the teenage boy you saved from her high school?”

Dean smirks. “Besides the fact that was her high school?”

Billie smiles and nods. “Besides that.”

“You think I’m avoiding her.”

Billie tilts her head. “Are you?”

“Dean. Hi. How are you?”

“Hey, Lydia. I’m... OK. Is Em around? She blocked me on her phone. I really need to talk to her.”

Lydia is quiet on the other end of the line for a beat. “Just a minute, OK?”

Dean watches the clock on the wall above the phone tick by almost a full 60 seconds before Lydia’s phone is unmuted. There’s a bit of muffled shuffling at first, then...

“Hi, Daddy.”

Chapter 8

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