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thewestern · 2 months

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Chapter 28

It was about lunchtime when the Newfy Four rolled into Edge City, and Grace, for her part, was wondering if there was a place to get, like, a sandwich around here. Waffles this morning had fallen through for some reason, after Kitty had talked them up. The Mick made scrambled eggs instead, which to be fair were fluffy and delicious, but not quite sufficient for soaking up the five-or-so Pack Lights she’d consumed the night prior. So a burrito or something would’ve really hit the spot. And then maybe for dinner they could order from that new Indian place whenever they got back from whatever this was. Grace was always thinking two meals ahead.

Zeke was also hungry, but the feeling didn’t consume him in the way it did Grace. Maybe because he was more accustomed to it. Or perhaps it was the sight of this strange place eclipsed his senses. You see, Zeke had never seen a Western film. Why would he have? (Ask your nephew, or whoever the next person you talk to who’s under twenty-five. Bet you twenty bucks they haven’t either.) Nor had he been to a rodeo or a square dance or even a kitschy, cowboy-themed steakhouse. So, apart from some tertiary sources, such as an Old West-themed episode of Sponge Bob Square Pants, he had no cultural frame of reference for this facade. Of course, it was laid out like any small town, with storefronts arranged along either side of a Main Street. But Zeke had never been to one of them either. Sure, his ancestors had great-migrated up from the postbellum south. But he was a mid-major city slicker, born and bred. So happening upon a place like this, a single-prostitute Potemkin village with a podunk patina, Zeke may as well’ve landed on another planet. It’s a funny feeling, to be a stranger in a strange land, and one that’s harder and harder to come by, in a world where everybody’s been there and done that. Come to think, closest you can probably come, assuming you’re a jam band virgin, is finding your nearest show. You don’t even have to by a ticket. Just wander around the parking lot. The natives call it Shakedown Street. It’s quite a bizarre bazaar.

As for the Mick, this wasn’t his first rodeo. (For a matter of fact, as a boy he’d been a champion mutton buster.) And while he hadn’t seen it all, he had arrived at the age — call it a quarter-life crisis — when it sure as hell seemed like he’d done. Every movie a remake. Every episode a rerun. Every song a cover. Every painting a print. But, alas, he couldn’t stop watching or listening. Don’t stop or you’ll die. Thus here he was Edge City. Just another place he had to be.

Kitty pulled the station wagon to a stop outside the General Colin Powell Store. Parking in EC was a breeze. She opened her driver’s side door first, and all three cascaded after in clockwise order, stepping out onto the thoroughfare. This would have been the appropriate time for a tumbleweed to come tumbling across the frame. Rather, the unmistakably skunky odor of a different kind of weed altogether wafted toward them from the other side of town. Led by Grace, like a cartoon wolf following her upturned nose toward an unprotected pie on a window sill, they ambled anachronistically toward it, until the yurt came into clear view. With smoke billowing out of the reservoir tip of its bulbous moon roof, as well as seeping from the seams in the canvas walls, it looked like a goddamn sweat lodge in there. As if somebody had opened up Pandora’s Hot Box. Approaching the structure now in earnest, Grace fell back behind Kitty, who looked to Mick, as if to say, you do it. And so he did, opening the French-Indian doors with both hands so that the fog enveloped him like the smoke monster from Lost, his and Kitty’s favorite show to watch during their collegiate courtship, quite often after smoking a bowl themselves. It didn’t linger, however. Rather it dissipated to reveal the only way this was ever going to end.

Ah … drag, said the Mick, as sincerely as somebody could say something like that. It was genuinely how he felt, and not to mention about all he could muster, seeing a lifeless form hanging there above him.

(For those of you perverts wondering about the logistics of all this, the genuine John Brown gallows had been rolled into the yurt from outside the jail. To be clear they didn’t come with wheels. Uncle Ernie had them affixed for sake of conveniance. If he only knew.)

The as-yet-rising haze obscured everything above the knee. However, like the Wicked Witch — or more like that poor Oompa Loopa who offed himself … IYKY — he could identify the body by the kicks. Boots, more like. Billy’s trademark Tims. Then the pants, which looked comfortable enough for eternal rest. Velour loungewear, quite baggy and sagging well below the waist. Soon it became clear that the track jacket matched, which … you already know. Co-branded embroidery Wolffenbeir x Roc-a-wear collab. (Since he had it made on spec, this was a one-of-one piece, not unlike Billy himself.) On his breast, he wore a tall tee, another wardrobe staple. (Inspired by various luminaries of business, notably Steve Jobs, as well as such O.G.s of the rap game as Run D.M.C and N.W.A., Billy had taken in his final months to fashioning a uniform of sorts out of this bespoke sweatsuit and garishly large white blouse. One less decision to make every morning — although, more routinely he roused in the early-to-mid afternoon — would afford him more time for making money moves, as he explained to an as-yet unmoved Yayo-L).

Shining brightly around his neck, right below the hangman’s noose, was a twenty-one link silver chain. Encrusted with diamonds, a waning lunar countenance, wearing sunglasses and a wry smile. (This he only busted out for special occasions.)

The dregs of the marijuana cloud lifted to reveal his death mask. He must have hollowed out the stuffing. For they had, at long last, located Bertha. Sitting atop Billy’s presumed head, like a pagan crown of thorns.

The Mick looked Billy up and down. Had he ever seen a dead body before? IRL, obviously. Rather than, how did we get here, or where does one go when one dies, that was the question that sprung to mind. Perhaps an attempt at parsing this real-time traumatic experience from the bibliography of carnage one can reasonably assume to have compiled as a consumer of popular culture in the violent cross-section from late eighties action canon to early aughts internet snuff. He hadn’t, was the conclusion at which his internal monologue arrived. However, of course, he had. His grandfather had died in his sleep one night. The following morning all the grandchildren were brought in to say goodbye. How had he forgotten that?

Grace, as a self-professed, last-of-her-dying-breed butch bull-dyke, didn’t consider herself a hugger. Apparently, though, death brought out the lipstick lesbian in her, since she bear-hugged the closest person to her, which just so happened to be Zeke, into whose ample embrace she buried herself. For his sake, this turned what would have otherwise been quite a melancholy occasion into perhaps the happiest of his young life. Although he was on the inside overjoyed to have Grace fallen into his arms, and he in turn right back into love with her, Zeke had the good sense to project outwardly a solemnity deserving of the moment.

Kitty, for her part, responded not by thinking of her own feelings. That’s no shots at the others, either. It’s just that Kitty was a different cat. Nor, however, did she think of Billy, but rather of his mother. For we reserve our thoughts for those the dead leave behind, as did she when she said:

We should get him down.

No, please don’t.

And there she was. Hildy.

Crime scenes aren’t to be disturbed. (Suicide has been almost universally decriminalized in the developed world. For a fact, so-called right-to-die statutes legalising physician-assisted euthanasia are increasingly de rigueur. However, it is still often considered an unwritten Common Law crime, even in some U.S. states, which could prevent the victim’s family from seeking damages from some or other culpably negligent party, assuming of course the deceased had been of copis mentis.)

Irregardless of whether the investigation in this case seems perfunctory. Deep down even I knew this day would come. Studies have shown suicide to be hereditary, paternally in particular.

(As to which parties Hildy’s referring, best leave that for you, the reader to parse. Suffice it to say though that having suicidal tendencies were about as close to a family tradition as the family Wolff had, apart of course from Der Sonntagsessen. Hell, they all thought about it from time to time. [Often during Der Sonntagsessen.] And while most didn’t fully commit — commitment issues were another common-held family trait — maybe they dipped their toe in now and again. Maybe leave the car running in the garage, just a little bit. Catch a buzz. Or what about seeing how those meds compliment one another — would it really be so bad? Hey, how long can do you think I hold my breath in this infinity pool. Half-hearted attempts. Heck, even the dogs got in on the act. Now, naturally, we can’t know for certain the extent of their intent to cause self-harm, but they were both known for ingesting foreign objects. Clothing accessories such as stockings or mittens, household appliances including a chunk bitten off a vacuum cleaner, as well as various other small items, were a staple of their diet. One of them once ate an incandescent light bulb. Swallowed it whole without it breaking. To a pooch of lesser means, this would have no doubt spelled a death sentence. But not to these two, because each time they ‘et something they weren’t supposed to — between them their cadence was around semi-quarterly — Hildy would pony up to co-pay the five-to-fifteen thousand bones it took to have the something surgically extricated from their abdomens. She had written the habit off as a garden variety eating disorder — also hereditary to Hildy, albeit on the maternal side. However, more than one psychiatric veterinarian hypothesized that with each incident, the canines perhaps expressed an intent. One of hope that their owner would cut her losses, put them out of their misery and thus release them from this prison which were their deeply inbred bodies and utterly meaningless existences, as man’s best friends to a woman never had any use for one.)

I bet she starts a lot of conversations with, Studies Have Shown, thought the Mick, aghast at this lady’s la-di-da reaction to discovering her dead son, as were they all four except for Kitty. Just that morning, she had already heard Hildy deliver her maternal lament. Like she saw it coming. Kind of how newspapers pre-write their obituaries for super old or terminally ill famous people, which Kitty had heard somewhere they did.

Sorry for your loss, said Grace, perfunctorily. Still she was clutching onto Zeke, who would have absolutely offered a more heartfelt condolence, were it not for the fact that on account of his being shown such affection by Grace, he may never speak again.

Oh, don’t be sorry. Not for me, anyway. Be sorry for my little boy. If you can summon the sympathy. I know for our lot it’s in ever-shorter supply. Sure, it’s true he had every opportunity, but believe me when I say he never stood a chance. Maybe because I failed him when I handed him those opportunities. Or maybe I overestimated his capacity to seize upon them. We were so different in that way. While in other ways we were perhaps too similar. Such that we never really found peace with each another. But I loved him. Maybe I wasn’t the mother he wanted. They say becoming a parent changes you, but they never specify how. But I did love him, in my way. And more than that I always wanted the best for him. For us. I still do. I wish him the best.

It was part eulogy, part confessional, part passive aggressive diss track. All Hildy. Her all over. And she didn’t shed a single tear as she delivered her remarks. Not because she thought she shouldn’t give in to her emotions. Rather because she physically couldn’t. Her ducts had been long since dammed up, probably as a side effect of some or other cosmetic procedure. Or maybe the well the well had done dried. After all, ahe used to cry all the time.

There’s a note.

The Mick had sat down to collect himself at the computer desk, where Ernie’s Edge City employees would clock in and out and file complaints against him with HR. The monitor glowed white with a word processing document.

Perhaps you should delete it. Whatever he said, I’m sure he didn’t mean it. Do me a kindness and contact the proper authorities. I’m in mourning.

With that, Hildy peaced the fuck out. She gone.

The Mick, for his part, took her words to be the sad coda to this entire strange saga. He was ready to get the hell out of Edge City, return to his life of brewing beer and never think about any of these people again, hopefully. But before he did, he wanted to read what Billy wrote. He had spun into his life like a fucking tornado. But the Mick still felt he owed him the courtesy of hearing out his last fucking words. And, hey, maybe then he could learn something from all this.

Ahem.

Suicide Cypher

Bars by B. Wolf

(Spit to the tune of Stan by Eminem)

Dear Missus I’m too good to listen to my son

Here’s my last pitch to you

You can’t pass on this one

Nah, I’m just playing, though

I ain’t saying it’s your fault

That’s on some bitch made shit

That ain’t your boy at all

He’s just tired, yo

This grind’s got him tripping

When’s a pimp ‘sposed to sleep?

If you can’t ever let ‘em catch you slipping

I learned that shit from you, mom

I took that shit to heart

But living up to it’s like this beat

Shit go so fucking hard

So I’m gonna hit you with this fire

‘Fore they pon me in the flames

See you in hell, Hildy

Now say my mother fucking name

Okay. So much for learning something. But more than ever did he feel sorry for him. And as well for her. The feeling would prove to be fleeting.

#novls of tumblr #kamala harris

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real-jane · 3 years

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drifting (1)

[cw!bucky barnes x female!reader]

summary: bucky saves the life of a woman when she’s buried in an avalanche. faced with the possibility that his cover might be blown, bucky must keep the woman alive, and try to keep her from finding out who he is… or what he’s done.

how long can he hide?

warnings: canon-level injuries, bucky has a tenuous grip on reality, panicking, etc. this is bucky post ws, pre cw.

word count: 5k+

a/n: and now for something entirely new! this is the first chapter of what should be a ten-part series. there are no physical descriptions of the reader, and marginal use of y/n. i hope you enjoy. :)

series masterlist

***

The mountain moans before the surge of snow breaks free hundreds of feet above the treeline. Bucky’s cabin is protected from the worst of it by a bank of rock, but the road is immediately consumed by the massive drift. The skier he has been watching out his window make their way across the great white expanse goes down with the sluff. They’re buried in an instant.

He is out the door before he can think of tuning the radio to search and rescue’s frequency, geared up, hatchet and shovel in hand. The clarity of the Colorado skies gives the sun license to taunt him. It is so intensely bright out that every bump could be the tip of a ski, or the flap of a coat. He trudges through the snow; whoever this person is, they are lucky it was only powder. He witnessed one other slide a few months back, when a whole icy slab slid down the mountain like a glacier, taking several small cabins with it. Still. The first person he sees in ages, the first to make it close enough for him to become nervous, and… he doesn’t want to think about it. If this person dies and he could’ve done something to stop it, he’ll never be able to live with himself.

It’s hard enough as it is.

The cold fogs his goggles, but he knows this mountain by feel. He lashes his rope around the trunk of a particularly thick pine, and hooks it to his harness. Bucky closes his eyes, and listens.

There… down about fifty yards, near a copse of naked aspen trees. Squirrels chitter, annoyed that their scavenger’s ground is gone. A little further on, a crow alerts. Bucky peers around the clusters of needles and trunks. The bluish black feathers gleam as the concerned corvid picks at something near the base of a flimsier tree.

There is no doubt about his rope reaching the crow’s treasure, but it will be a trick scrambling back up again. Still, Bucky moves as efficiently as he can. Except, he can’t quite feel his toes. He hasn’t been able to find good boots in his size, yet, so his own boots have been beaten to hell. Risking their longevity to dive into the aftermath of an avalanche isn’t his brightest idea, especially when the snow reaches up to his waist, but he wills away the thought of losing his only shoes in favor of praying the crow found the downed skier.

By the time he carves a path through the snow, the black bird has uncovered something bright blue and shiny. Round. He isn’t ten feet away, but he’d know the curve of a plastic helmet anywhere. The crow hops up the twisted tree trunk, and chirps down at him in annoyance. The man shovels the surface snow around the blue plastic. Fuck. She’s unconscious. She’s… her lips have a blue pallor, but at least she’s thoroughly bundled.

Slack mouth, hollow eyes–hers, no hers, no–she’s in his crosshairs and then she’s dead, eliminated–

Bucky gasps, wrenching himself out of the waking nightmare. I didn’t do this. He pinches the fleshy part of his hand between his thumb and forefinger until the ache is sharp, something he can focus on which isn’t a dark memory. He pushes away the watery panic and sniffles. His eyes burn, but the woman at his feet has a flush to her cheeks. She’s alive. She’s alive. She’s alive.

“Still with me?” he growls. First time he’s spoken out loud in so long, it hurts.

He rips his glove off and presses two fingers to her neck. Her pulse is slow, but she’s alive. He makes quick work of digging out her torso, which is slumped against the tree trunk. She’s lucky, he thinks. She could’ve been at the bottom of the mountain by now, spat out over the precipice of the craggy rock formations. The crow hops down closer, and stares intently at the woman, turning its head from side to side. She squawks at Bucky as if to say, finders keepers!

“Good girl,” he whispers to the crow. The bird makes a noise which sounds a lot like mhm.

By the time he uncovers the skier’s legs, her breathing is deeper. He is spurred on by the gentle puff of steam from her nostrils on every exhalation. He can’t tell how old she is, but from the look of her gear, she’s an experienced skier. Everything she wears is thermal, omni-tech, ‘pro-spirit’, blah blah blah–things with brand names even he could recognize after months of sneaking into summer cabins all over the mountain. When he reaches her feet, Bucky winces.

Legs should not bend that way. One of her boots didn’t unclip from the ski like they were meant to when trapped, so he takes extra care to loose it from the snow. Try as he might, he can’t release the latch. He smashes the plastic binding with his fist. Her foot slackens. A faint moan pushes out of her lips, and her eyelashes twitch. No way her leg isn’t broken.

He ties a loose knot into his rope so he can have both hands free. With the greatest concern for her neck, Bucky removes his coat and ties it so her head is stabilized and unable to fall to one side or another, but also so it doesn’t choke her. Then, he lifts her beneath the arms and leans her back against the tree, so he can turn around and haul her on his back. He drapes her arms over his shoulders and grasps her wrists together, until he’s sure she isn’t sliding. He assesses his path.

It’s steep. He can’t climb, and hold her. There’s no way. But there’s several downed branches poking out of the snow, and he brought a second length of rope… yes. That could work. His brain whirrs. Adrenaline spikes. Bucky lays the woman gently down again, cradled by untrampled snow. He climbs back up to the aspen trees and slashes through several viable branches with smoother bark, with his hatchet. Once he collects three long pieces of wood, he weaves his surplus rope between the ends, criss-crossing them together so they bind tightly into a crude sled. The woman is none the wiser when he lays her on the thing, and secures the last of his rope across her shoulders and hips. The last thing he does is tie the end of the rope to his harness.

Then, he trudges back up the mountain. He’s thankful for the warm sunshine because the air is brutal, but he still works up a sweat pulling the two of them. The exertion keeps him grounded, but it fights the cold for dominion in his fragile grasp of reality. Being this cold feels like home, the place he was shattered apart, severed from himself. You can’t go home again, the sticker on the back of his notebook says, nicked from a little convenience store in Nowhere, Colorado. He can’t go back. He can’t go back in.

The crow follows behind him all the way to the cabin, supervising.

***

He stares at her once she’s safely stretched across the sofa.

What have I done?

Someone’s going to be missing her. Someone will be looking, and when they find her with him, he’s done for. And worse if she dies… god, she better stay alive if he wants any salvation. Keep her alive, he has a chance. To… what? Explain himself? Or–or–no. Keep her alive, because he can, because he can choose, this time. Better than alive. Get her stable, conscious, and help her to safety knowing she’s never been in danger from him.

She shivers. She is soaked through. There is no way he can help her out of those clothes; for one thing, he has no idea the extent of her injuries beyond the mangled leg, so he could do her worse damage trying to warm her up. But she can’t lay there, freezing.

Bind her leg so the bone is set.

Keep her warm.

Try to get her to wake up.

That’s all he needs to do, for now.

Her leg is easy enough to wrap in a shredded flannel, stabilized with paint sticks pilfered from the pantry. Bucky cuts the strap of her helmet to take it off, and puts his own fur-lined hat on her so she has at least one dry thing for comfort. The quilt off the bed (after shaking out the dust) makes for more temporary warmth. Bucky builds a small fire in the hearth in the hope that she stops shaking. It takes very little to light the fire; the wood is so dry that it sparks up right away. He doesn’t usually have a fire in case the smoke is seen, but he’s confident after listening to the steady stream of chatter on the CB radio that there aren’t crews scanning the area.

Then, he waits, letting the radio babble at his elbow just in case.

He scribbles in his notebook, beneath an entry about the family of raccoons living behind the woodshed outside–Found a woman. She is alive. Broken leg. I did not do it. Found a woman. She is alive. Broke her leg. I did not do it. Twice, always. Once for the event. Twice for clarity. Here’s what happened. Here’s how I was involved (or not). And repeat. He found raccoons, he left the raccoon family a hunk of stale bread. Most of his journal involved animals or items he found, or discoveries as he ran, long before he found this cabin. But he stares at his own writing, with his jagged letters almost indistinguishable unless you know what he is trying to say. He traces every letter of his latest finding.

Bucky had been prepared to grab his pack and run down the slope the moment he spotted her on the distant crest, in the direction of the summer rentals he occasionally pilfered for food. If she had gotten much closer, he probably would have slipped out the back door. The snow would’ve smothered her. He wouldn’t have known, and then… then, it wouldn’t be his fault, but she would be dead.

She is alive, he reminds himself, carving through his own script with the ballpoint pen.

She comes to, slowly. Long after his notebook is concealed in its hiding place. It takes several hours in front of the fire before she attempts to open her eyes again. He’s sitting at the table when she does, and the sun has fallen behind the surrounding peaks, making the sky pink and orange. Bucky sees her move out of the corner of his eye, and it makes him jump, knocking over his chair. She rips the hat from her head and looks around frantically; when her eyes train on him, he holds up his hands to show her that he is unarmed.

“Stay still,” he says quickly. “You’re hurt.”

Her eyes widen. She opens her mouth but nothing comes out at first. “Avalanche?” she whispers. He nods. “I remember the rumble–how bad is it?”

“Your leg is broken.”

She shrinks back as much as she can against the pillows, studying him with fearful eyes. “Who are you?”

“I-I’m not gonna hurt you,” he tells her. He blinks away a rush of emotion, a wave of pain. She’s afraid–she shouldn’t be, he couldn’t hurt her. He saved her. I saved her. Bucky puts the dining table between them, folding his arms across his chest to still his hands.

“You’ve been here about three hours,” he says. “I saw you go down, and um.” He gestured outside like that explained anything. “I’ll get you something dry to put on. Didn’t want you to be cold, but. You weren’t awake.”

She puts a hand over her mouth. “I’m–did you call? For help, or–”

“No phone.”

“My pack?”

“Wasn’t there.”

“My phone’s gone,” she breathes. The woman peers down the length of the couch, where her leg is propped up on several pillows. She winces. “Did you wrap my leg?”

“Yes.”

She nods, swiping at her eyes. Bucky looks around for anything he can offer her–something to stay her own panic. All that grabs his eye is the little radio.

“I’ve been listening to the search and rescue channel,” he explains, “and roads are blocked. You can listen.”

She’s still across the room, and he’s nowhere close enough to hand her the radio, but it’s all he has to offer her and he wants to beg her to take it. He has no idea what he’s going to do for her either, he’s given it zero thought other than the basics of keep her alive. But he knows what it means to be out of control, and vulnerable, and… she nods, and he bites back a cry of relief. Bucky sets the radio on the coffee table. She seems so scared, he can’t help himself.

“Don’t be afraid,” he murmurs. The woman takes the little radio in hand and shivers.

Bucky winces. “Can I get you new clothes to put on? They’re mine, but… they’re clean.”

He doesn’t wait for her to say yes, or no, or anything. He retrieves a few garments from his go-bag in the bedroom; he hasn’t been able to go back to the cabin with the washing machine since the snow started falling, and his clothing stash has dwindled significantly. But he’s made do, scrubbing his clothes clean in the kitchen sink with bars of soap. He can’t stand being grimey. The feeling of clean fabric keeps him sane. If he’s clean, he’s himself. He’s grateful for this habit when he lays a pair of sweatpants and a black henley on the coffee table, along with one of his better pairs of socks, for her to put on.

She’s got her ear pressed to the radio, but she appears at least a bit less worried.

“How do you feel?” he asks.

She manages to sit up on her own, but she is clearly still dazed, the way she has to blink several times to focus on him. “My head is foggy, but my neck feels okay, um. Do my irises look fine? Like, dilating at the same time?”

Bucky is forced to look her fully in the eyes. He studies her irises, which are surrounded by a burst of color so striking that the firelight dances in them like metallic flecks. But her right iris is blown wide. He shakes his head. Her face falls.

“God. I’m—I need to go to the hospital.”

“No way to get you there,” he says with regret.

She rubs her cheeks. “So, I’m stuck.”

“You can stay here until the snow melts. There’s food, and… I’m–”

“Are you trustworthy?” she asks, point blank. “I know what happens to women who are trapped with strange men, and… if you’re gonna wait until I’m asleep to try something, I’d rather you dump me out in the snow again so I can die on my own terms.”

Bucky shook his head rapidly. “I’m not gonna kill you. Or. Whatever else you’re implying.”

“So, you live all the way out here with no car, no phone, and no radio, for… fun.”

“Something like that,” he says softly. He can’t stand to look at her anymore. The insinuation he might do anything to harm her cuts between his ribs. Bucky gestures to the back of the house. “When it’s safe, I’ll help you back down the mountain. As soon as it’s safe. Promise.”

Sure, Barnes. You’ll help her back to civilization. Then what?

“What if I’m more hurt than you can handle?” She seems like she’s in far better shape than someone should be after being submerged in snow, but she’s just as emotional as he is, and the thought that she might take a turn for the worse is… well, it’s worse.

“Cross that bridge if we come to it.”

Even though she’s watching him like he might lunge at her at any second, she bites her lip and considers his promise of safety. Then, because she doesn’t have a choice– “...Okay.”

Bucky points down the hall. What else can he offer her to assuage her fear? “You can take the bedroom. Plumbing works, so. You can clean up when you want to.”

She frowns. “Where are you going to sleep?”

Bucky points to the couch.

“I can’t take your bed,” she protests.

“I sleep here.”

“Oh.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Don’t suppose you have any pain medicine.”

“No.”

“Great. Um. I guess… If I’m stuck here, I’ll change. If you can turn around, or–”

“I’ll leave. Be back in an hour.” He doesn’t wait for her to react to the suggestion; Bucky skirts around the couch, and picks up his coat from where he dropped it, once she was inside. He jams his hands through the sleeves and he’s hit with a wave of flowery sweetness. Fuck. Smells like her. Of course it does.

“You sure?” she asks, peering at him over the back. He holds up his wrist to display his watch. He’s out the door before more can be said. Bucky focuses on the sounds of the pinewood forest surrounding the place which used to be a haven. He hears nothing but the indignant greeting of the concerned crow, and the faint rush of wind through the bristled branches. And his blood, thrumming in his ears.

***

When he returns from doing laps around the perimeter of the property (and listening for any sign of an S&R helicopter, which never comes), her wet clothes are laid out on the floor in front of the hearth, and she’s standing. Her posture is uncomfortable, uneven as she leans against the mantle. She’s still wearing her snow pants. She glances at him when he comes back in, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Can’t change my pants with my leg wrapped up,” she explains, frustration evident. But her knees are sagging, and her energy is flagging… and she crumbles in slow-motion. He’s there in an instant. He catches her, left arm around her waist. She freezes in his hold, both hands gripping his immovable forearm in panic.

“Careful,” he breathes.

Whatever adrenaline she had before to be so alert has faded away. Her head lolls back against his shoulder. His blood pressure rises. She’s alive. She’s just hurt. Alive. Hurt.

I didn’t do it.

Bucky carefully switches arms, and he feels her stomach muscles relax once she can feel the give in his skin with her shaking fingers. She tugs on his sleeve.

“Help with my pants? Don’t try anything.”

Bucky says nothing, but he eases her to sit on the couch. Then, he unclips his knife from his belt and holds it out to her.

“I can’t do it myself,” she murmurs.

“Just hold it.”

For good measure, he opens the blade and locks it into place, and turns the handle toward her. She wiggles her fingers, but she can’t lift her arms. He sets the knife in her palm and closes her fingers around it. She watches him through slits, but the corner of her mouth turns up.

“You try anything and I’ll slit your throat,” she threatens weakly through gritted teeth. She can’t keep her eyes open.

He kneels at her feet. There’s truly no way she could slide the pants off the way he wrapped her lower leg, even though he pushed up the pants before doing so. He glances up at her face, but she’s got her eyes shut so tight from the pain that she’s not paying attention to him. Bucky curls his fingers into the cuff of the pant leg and rends it at the seam, from hem to waistband, exposing the length of her skin to his view. His mouth goes dry. She opens one eye, and catches him looking at the little sliver of her body which is now in view.

“Bare hands, huh?” she peeps. “Well.”

“Lift up,” he whispers.

She does so, and he yanks what’s left of the pants down her good leg. They’re ruined. He pulls her feet through the legs of his sweats, and then up–the fabric thankfully fits over the makeshift cast, but he can’t slip the waistband under her butt even when she tries to raise her hips again. She nods her consent for him to lift her up. Bucky grasps her wrist and directs her hold to the front of his shirt. She curls her fingers into the waffle weave as he lifts her so she’s standing on her good leg. Then, he pulls the sweats up, and ties the string so they’ll stay anchored above her hips. The knife falls from her fingers as she sways into him. Bucky wraps an arm around her waist and retrieves it from the cushions, closing the blade again. He tucks it into her pants pocket.

She sniffs a laugh when he’s done. “Thanks for not… I dunno. Making a joke about this. Getting me out of my pants or something.”

He understands her meaning clearly, but long gone are the days where he made those kind of comments, for the benefit of women who have since passed away, or long forgotten him… and he’s not too keen on thinking about the fact that he just saw her bare legs, so he just shakes his head. She’s still in peril, he’s attempting to stay calm… it’s not the time to dwell. He’s not even sure what his body would do if he did.

“Warm enough?” he asks.

She looks up at him through heavy eyelids. “Yeah. James, right?” Bucky flinches. She pats his chest. “‘S your dog tags in the fire? ‘James B.’ ‘S all I could read. I’m Y/n. Figured you can know, since you gave me a knife.”

There’s no possible way she can stand on her own anymore; the fact that she’s still talking is miraculous in itself, and temporarily pushes panic from his mind. Bucky clenches his jaw.

“Open your eyes.” He is marginally grateful to see her corneas dilating at the same time. “Should wake you every hour or so.”

She looks ready to pass out. “What was that about a bed?” she mumbles, letting her eyes flutter shut again. Bucky helps her lay down, but it requires him to cradle her neck with one hand, and lift her knees, to elevate her leg. She groans; her knuckles strain to grip his shirt for purchase, like she doesn’t realize she’s doing it. He’s captive, leaning so close to her that he can feel her breath on his cheek. He slips his thumb into her palm and works her fingers open.

When he does work her hand free of his shirt, she traps his hand against her stomach–something spasms in her arm or back, and it sets her whole body on edge, making her grip his fingers for dear life. Bucky pales.

He kneels. She calms, but slowly. It gives him far too long to study her features. Far too long with her touching his skin. He has unrelenting goose bumps, he wants to rip his hand out of her hold, but her brow furrows and her lip disappears between her teeth, and he… he can’t do it. Even the temporary madness of being touched is not a good enough reason. It might drive him to the brink. But he can’t pull away until he’s sure she’s calm again, and then… he has to do something, because there’s no way he can spend the rest of winter close to another human being, he can’t–he can’t have someone depending on him, because he can’t afford to be pinned down. He has to be able to run at the first sign of someone looking for him.

He can’t do that when there’s an injured woman clutching his hand. Knowing her name makes it so much worse. When he didn’t know it, she was just a circumstance to overcome. Maybe that’s her plan, insurance to make certain he doesn't kill her like she implied. Well… not implied. She was fairly blunt about it.

How close to the mark she is, and yet…

She finally lets her body be overtaken by exhaustion, and he tucks the quilt around her legs. He’ll let the fire go out overnight. Cold, but necessary. Nothing to track.

Bucky sits by the dwindling fire. Sure enough, the smallest sliver of his dog tags shines from the ashes. He uses the poker to break apart the log, which is all but charred, and sift through the remnants of his prior burn while the last of the flames die down. Nothing remains of the newspapers with suggested Soldat sightings, the passports with his covers, the files, the hospital bracelet, nothing… except the piece of metal he had hucked into the fire as hard as he could while his body went into deep withdrawals months ago, for the heady drug cocktail he had been subjected to on his last emergence from cryo-freeze. Why did it have to be that, sitting there out in the open and easy for her to find?

She knows his name, now. He’s James, to her. James is a Brooklyn boy who loves his mother, and talks his way out of trouble. It’s… it’s okay if he’s James, to her, he thinks. Maybe if she uses that name enough, he’ll believe her.

***

The door of the cabin latches as quietly as Bucky can manage with hinges which haven't been oiled in decades. She counts out the seconds until he’s been gone for five minutes. Then, time stretches on so long that the moon dances from one window to another. He must be coming back, she reasons. But she has no basis for that thinking, because what reason would he have to do so? Maybe he just walked out into the snow, to let the cold take him. He hasn’t been hostile towards her… the weight from the knife in her pocket assures her that he is very aware of his potential impact on her, so surely he won’t leave her there forever. She hopes. But he’s a loner, and she’s a liability.

But it’s him.

As best as she can manage with aching muscles, she creeps a hand between her collar and her breast bone until she feels the thin, cool device hiding in her sports bra. The screen adjusts to the darkness of the room. She thumbs the number into the touchpad and types out a message, but her eyes can barely focus through the pain searing up her leg.

10-S reporting. Caught in a snowfall event, leg broken. No other injuries. Safe at current coordinates. Unsafe road conditions, extrication unlikely until snow melts.

His reply is almost instantaneous.

Confirmed. Do you need supplies airdropped?

Negative. My cover will be compromised. I have help.

She swallows. Hard. For a fleeting moment she considers not telling him, but…

It’s him, Steve. You were right.

Are you in danger?

Asset is inactive.

She hopes that conveys the whole of her feelings, aka: ‘I don’t know if I’m safe, but he isn’t actively trying to kill me, and based on the fact that he dug me out of the snow I’m probably safe for now’ is a bit too complicated to text in an official report. She imagines Steve’s face when he receives the message. Will he be relieved?

Is she relieved? Can she afford to be complacent, to sleep when the Fist of Hydra is feet away? Does she have any choice? Her head pounds. It isn’t supposed to be like this. She wasn’t obliged to meet him, just do surveillance from afar, but the mountain had other plans. Waking up to him jarred her as much as the realization that he is afraid, too.

She’s only seen him in grainy photos before now–a ghost, a shadow before the fall of some world leader, captured only through a lens and never seen thereafter. He certainly looks a lot more human, in person, the way his bloodshot eyes hardly keep her gaze. He is so layered up, nobody would ever suspect what he hides beneath his left sleeve. She felt it, the immovable metal given to him by the worst of humanity. But he was so gentle, he–he switched arms when he felt her tense. Is that who she’s been looking for? Not the myth, but the man Steve Rogers insisted was still in there? He’s so attuned to her fear that she notes the way he hurries to ease her worries. Steve would want to know. Once her head isn’t competing with her leg for the most painful part of her body, she’ll tell him. James is still in there, and he’s fighting.

The tell-tale crunch of snow outside the cabin makes her hastily stuff the phone back down the front of her bra. She quiets her breaths, listening to the man who saved her do his level best to be quiet, but he settles in the armchair at the end of the sofa heavily. He sighs like his lungs haven’t taken a single gasping breath in ages. She ventures a peek at him. Bucky observes her, the bright moonlight glinting off his eyes and making them flash. His face is stricken. He realizes she’s awake and frowns.

For a single moment, she’s worried he knows, but–

“There’s a cabin a few hundred yards North,” he whispers. “No painkillers to be found, but there’s a bottle of whiskey in my bag that they won’t be missin’. If it gets too bad for you.”

She gives a small nod.

“You okay?”

“Hurts like hell,” she murmurs.

“What does?”

“Everything.”

He huffs, but she can’t be sure if it’s a laugh or concern. “Sleep. I’ll wake you in an hour.”

“James?”

She doesn’t know why she’s reaching out for more conversation with him. Maybe she let his enlistment photo make a little nest in her brain over the months of searching for him down every tabloid-sighting rabbit hole Captain America sent her through, but this is not James’ cabin, and he just hiked almost an hour to try to find her something to dull her pain, and… whatever she expected when she found him, this isn’t it. A scared man, hiding out in the cold, who… who would dig her out of deep snow. Save her life, keep her warm. Answer her concern about her own safety by giving her his knife.

How could this be the man the world was hunting?

James Buchanan Barnes has his eyes averted, but he’s waiting. He looks at her when she doesn’t immediately follow up with another statement; his shoulders hunch forward. He’s making himself smaller. Not threatening.

“‘M hungry,” she says softly.

He scratches his cheek. “Okay.”

Much later, deep into the night, after being served a sleeve of crackers and managing only a few before the pain and exhaustion was too much, she falls asleep once more, while the most wanted man in the world watches the dials on his timepiece spin to the tune of the rolling S&R prattle. The distant voices through the crackling radio speaker becomes a comforting white noise.

When dawn breaks, and Bucky steps outside while he thinks she is still sleeping, she ventures to look at her phone. There is only one message from Steve, dated from the night before.

Bury him.

***

Chapter 2

message, comment, or reblog to be added to the tag list! :)

tag list: @peterhollandkait @abitgryffindorky

#bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #bucky x female reader #bucky x reader #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #drifting by real jane #drifting

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blog-of-a-multitude-of-fandoms · 2 years

Text

Reunited- Bucky Barnes

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Characters: Bucky Barnes

Warnings: N/A

Request: Anon- Bucky Barnes and “I put everything on hold for you”

Word Count: 1070

Author: Charlotte

As they saying goes ‘tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. You couldn’t have agreed any less with that status. When you first met James Buchanan Barnes, you fell head over heels and your courtship was completely perfect in your eyes. He had a kind and loving heart, and made you feel good about yourself in ways you hadn’t without him. You couldn’t have imagined life without him, not even when he was to head off to war, you felt unstoppable, and would have sworn that he would come home to you, and you only felt that confirmed when he proposed to you before he got on the train to leave for the army.

By no means were you naïve. You knew the dangers of war, even with the main fight far away from you, you were not blind to the damage it was causing but the fog of young love forbade you from thinking that even war could get in the way of the two of you. How blind you had been. He didn’t return to you and the reality of that never truly set in, such an intense pain could not be felt without destroying you. Steve apologised for losing him, for not having done more but you didn’t blame him, you were just grateful that he was safe.

Your life crumbled from that day. Who you had been as the future Mrs Barnes was lost with your fiancé, and you were just left as a shell of the person you once were. You needed a distraction and Steve introduced you to his friend Peggy who was able to find you a job and once he disappeared, you only went deeper into it.

Once the war ended, the rumours of something continuing to rumble under the surface and as people had once believed the research into super soldiers weren’t put on hold. You had nothing else to live for and put yourself forward for being a guinea pig, not caring about what happened to you. You didn’t die though, you suffered the experiments, but you came out as a new you, still damaged by the pain in your heart, still grieving and anger-filled but now with unknown levels of powers. The scientists had put you through strenuous tests after to see what had happened to you, and as your powers became clearer, you did what your fiancé had always done best, fought for the little guy.

You’d never be Captain America, but you were a hero to New York, able to use your powers for good, keeping your head down in fighting crime, never getting close to another person again. One power they hadn’t anticipated was longevity. It wasn’t clear at first, not until everyone around you had aged a decade, and you looked like not a day had passed. With every year it only became clearer that you were still physically in your mid-twenties whilst everyone else continued to age. Over seven decades later, you could only be grateful for having not made connections as those you had grown up with were mainly passed, whilst you looked like you were still in your prime.

It felt like you would be hero for eternity, keeping to yourself but helping all that you could. One night you returned to your small apartment and flicked on the tv to see that Steve Rogers had exited the ice and all the past came back. You didn’t contact him. You couldn’t but after he was making headlines for a few years, you no longer had a choice as he had heard of the woman with powers in his hometown and investigated. He could have never imagined that it would be you. You reconnected reluctantly but dismissed him whenever he mentioned Bucky, not believing him when he told you he was still alive and not willing to let yourself get hurt again.

Steve knew how much you cared about Bucky and wasn’t going to let you continue to dwell in the pain that had consumed you for nearly a century. He invited you to the Avengers Compound, just for a chat, and you agreed, not realising it was a set up. You sat with him sipping at your coffee when the door behind Steve opened, revealing the man you had mourned for longer than you had been by his side.

“Bucky,” you croaked, the mug from your hand dropping, shattering onto the ground below you.

“Y/N,” he said, a pained smile curling onto his lips.

Every emotion that you had tried to bury deep down within you all that time ago reappeared and you lost all control that you had tried to cling onto. You pushed your chair away from the table, storming over towards the man you had never believed that you would see again.

“I thought you were dead,” you shouted. “I thought that I would never see you again. I put everything on hold for you.”

Bucky and Steve exchanged a look, having not had any idea that you would react like this, not knowing why you would shout at him.

“I have never stopped loving you,” you said, still shouting but tears beginning to fall down your cheek. “I could never stop loving you.”

As the sorrow you had tried to hide for so long surged from within you, Bucky reached out a hand to gently touch your shoulder, forcing you to make eye contact with him, both of you in tears.

“I’ve always loved you, doll,” he smiled tearfully.

You let yourself break, falling into his arms, in a tight, long missed embrace. The two of you stood entwined together for longer than normal, neither of you wanting to let go of the one thing that had been missing from you. The hug stretched on as Bucky guided his hands down your arms to hold onto your own hands, but paused when he felt something on your finger. He looked down at the small stone sitting on a simple band that had not been removed since he had placed it there all those years ago.

“You still have your ring,” he whispered, surprised that you had kept it for so long.

You shrugged your shoulders. “Getting cold feet after all this time, Barnes?”

A small laugh escaped him.

“I still stick by making you my wife even after the longest engagement.”

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absent-o-minded · 3 years

Text

Another scene that I haven't scene any discourse about is when Simon goes to give his Dad the money back.

Best buckle up friends, because hO HO bOY, tHe pLOt THiCkEns:

It's a really layered scene, and one of my hopes for Season 2 (Netflix, my firstborn is yours, you want to announce S2 so badly it makes you look stupid) is that the relationship between Simon and Micke, and just Micke as a character, will get explored a bit more. But in terms of the scene itself, there is a lot to talk about here:

From the slivers we're fed throughout the series, we're able to understand that Simon and Sara both have a strained relationship with their father. See Ayub: "Everytime you see your Dad, you get all depressed." In Micke's very first appearance, we as an audience align with Simon and Sara's pre-concieved disgust over their father through the subtle nods to his unhealthy lifestyle - The close-up of the cigarette dish and Micke hastily tipping them into a mug, the discrete empty bottles he slips out from beneath the coffee table, the way Simon puts all of the lighters in the dish as if it's a pre-learned habit, his flat being messy. Young Royals is a tapestry, where all of these subtle, implicit details are interwoven with eachother to create this intricate artwork.

But between the very first scene with Micke and this one, something has changed. My interpretation of Micke agreeing to supply Simon with alcohol was that it was a desperete cry for validation as a reliable and "cool" parental figure. That doesn't justify his action, it was a stupid move on his part, but I think that he just wanted to finally appear trustworthy to Simon. But here, in this specific scene, here it's different.

O' how the turns have tabeled.

We see Simon already anxious and apprehensive to even re-approach his Father to give him the money because he knows the roads of his reactions, likely because of his alcoholism and addiction, Simon is use to heightened, influenced, highly-emotionally dependant reactions, and what we expect is that he'll open the door and his dad will go ape-shit knwoing that his son stole his stuff, and initially even I was scared for him. When he first opens the door with his low-toned "Here." and timid outstretched hand and Micke suddenly grabs him by the arm and pulls him in, I was fully expecting his Dad to explode, as is the unfortunate stereotypical characteristic of Alcoholics/Addicts seen in Media.

But once again, YR defied the conventional stigma that surrounds addiction and curb stomped my heart even more by having Micke ask "What the hell are you up to? Are you using?". Do I think that he was too physically aggressive and didn't need to put his hands on Simon? Yes, he didn't need to do that, but I think that it alludes to his disorientation. Instead of being consumed by the acknowledgement that Simon stole from him, being in a BAD STATE already mind, the source of his distress is coming from the worry that Simon has started using. Micke is someone who is riddled with regret and hates how he fucked up, and eventhough he does need to improve, he's worried that Simon is becoming like him.

He has a spurt of aggression where he pushes his son against the wall, but then he looks at Simon's (jUsTIFiED) annoyed and scared expression, and a fog is lifted from his eyes and a wave crashes into him like collapsing bricks and his tight fists unclench, his shoulders relax and he looks remorseful, he lowers his hands on his shirt and he hesitantly touches Simon's cheek and says "Please tell me you're not using. Huh?". And i think that Simon's age here really comes into play when he replies "What the fuck do you care?". To Simon, this whole exchange is just fucking weird, because why does Micke care? He hasn't shown any care before, so why now? And even after Micke says how it's not recreational and he needs the medication to function, Simon reminds him "You couldn't even stop using for mine and Sara's sake."

We're told and visually shown that Micke is a lousy excuse for a parent, but this tiny moment here means so much, because we're shown that Micke cares. Beyond the eyes of Simon, beyond his absence and comparison to Linda (BEST Mum, BEST Mum, BEST MUM <3), we are given a tiny thread of sincerity and genuine, un-alcohol influenced care. It's not for personal gain or benefit, it's not an apathetic excuse to appeal to Simon, it's not a disingenuine reason for his absence - He's actually afraid of Simon becoming like him, because he doesn't want his son falling down the same wormhole that he did.

The fact that the scene ends in Micke taking a step back and Simon shoving the money in his chest before walking out and slamming the door behind him, and Micke just stands there and let's the money fall is *sobbing broken chefs kiss* because it elevates Simon's individual story so much and I am just so happy that he is not an extension of the main romantic relationship and has meticulous complexities and layers laced into his story.

If you subjected your weary eyes to all of this - I am sorry and I propose marriage as a consolation because this was the prime ramblings of a lunatic.

#young royals netflix #young royals #tw swearing #omar rudberg #yr #please in s2 let simon and sara be okay #please #if anyone would like to discuss this even more or debate it nicely #or even if you just want to message me and scream about Young Royals #i am all ears and trembling limbs #edvin ryding #frida argento

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yandere-society · 4 years

Text

The Devil in the ICU

Pairing:

Synopsis: You’ve rarely spoken to your neighbor Jimin, but he’s always been kind to you. When you get into an accident that lands you in the ER, you’re grateful to see who’s taking such good care of you. It isn’t until later that you start to wonder… will you ever be leaving the hospital?

Word Count: 6.6k

Warnings: Blood, murder/death, yandere themes, stalking themes, needles/IVs

Admin: @psycho-slytherin

Request:

How did you wind up here?

As you slump back into your bed, with him lying on the floor next to you, a hazy thought informs you that it must look like a scene straight out of Romeo and Juliet.

Although, you think ruefully, glancing down at the sharp shard of glass clenched in your fist, I don’t think Juliet would have done this.

“Merry fucking Christmas.”

~Three weeks earlier~

Taehyung, leaning against the doorframe with a steaming mug of coffee in his hand, looks as handsome as the day you married him. “Have a good day at work!”

You give him a quick kiss, shivering in the brisk morning air. “You too. Remember that we have that dinner tonight!”

Tae laughs. “Is that what we’re calling the awards ceremony? You know you’ve earned bragging rights.”

“Shush!” You boop him on the nose before turning and making for your car. On the other side of the fence, you can see your neighbor Jimin step out onto his porch. He catches your eye and, as Taehyung goes back inside, you smile amicably and nod at Jimin before getting into your car. You see him at his front door every morning, and he’s always friendly.

On your drive to the university campus, you think about tonight’s dinner. You’ll be presented with an awards for Arts Education despite being one of the youngest professors in the university’s faculty. You were thrilled when the dean of the school contacted you for the honor.

Once you park, you speedwalk to your first class of the day and burst through the door. You soon find yourself looking at twenty students, some bright-eyed, some more zombie-like.

“I’d apologize for being late,” you say, “But at this point I don’t think anyone is surprised.” The more awake students laugh, and you sling your bag onto your desk at the front of the room. “Let’s get started. Yoongi, you’re up first for workshop. Why don’t you stand up and read?”

Of all of your students, you think Yoongi is the most likely to pursue his career in creative writing.

He nods and stands. You can see his hands trembling as he clutches the paper.

When he sits back down after reading his poem, there’s a smattering of applause. “Very nice,” you say. “Now, who’d like to offer their feedback?”

~~~

Hours later, you dismiss your last class. You can’t wait to go home and tell Taehyung all about your day.

“So this one kid really decided the best move, instead of asking for an extension, was to plagiarize Twilight. Fucking Twilight!”

Taehyung laughs as he buttons up his shirt. “What did you tell her?”

“Ugh, I hate to report anyone for plagiarism, I told her to write something new and turn it in for half credit.”

“No wonder your students love you. I think you’re personally responsible for all of the creative writing majors on campus.”

You finish zipping up your dress. “Probably. Let’s get going, yeah?”

“Your wish, my command,” Taehyung says, gallantly bowing you out the door. You giggle as he opens the passenger side door for you. “For real, Y/n, want to get away for a weekend to celebrate? This is a nationally recognized award!”

“Hm…” you pretend to think. “Maybe we could go somewhere warm and sunny, with lots of beaches.”

Taehyung interlaces his fingers with yours, lifts your hand to his mouth, and kisses your palm. “Whatever you want. Christmas is coming up, maybe we can travel somewhere for the winter.”

You smile and look out of the window as Taehyung begins the drive. The ceremony is being held at a hotel twenty minutes away. And in a few weeks, you’ll be spending Christmas with the love of your life somewhere warm.

Under the twinkling night sky, everything feels so peaceful. Suddenly, you see a flash of light overhead. “Tae! A shooting star! Look-”

BANG. You hear the sound of crunching metal, feel a violent jerk, and everything goes dark.

~~~

“When she wakes up, start her on 20 milligrams of morphine. If her blood pressure is still low, go ahead and add saline to the IV. She shouldn’t need a transfusion unless anything opens up again.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Doctor. Are you in the hospital, then? Was there an accident? “Ugh…” You blink hard in the blinding light. You’re woozy, and your mouth tastes like copper.

“Y/n! Doctor, she’s awake!” You hear a familiar voice, and feel a hand grip your own.

“M-Mom?”

“Y/n. Thank heavens, you’re awake.” Your mom’s voice is strained and thick, as though she’s been crying. When your eyes finally focus on her, she’s sniffling, and her eyes are bloodshot. She’s wearing a formal black dress – did she come straight from the ceremony?

“What happened?” You croak.

“You were in an accident,” your mom says, her voice breaking. “A bad one. We weren’t sure if you would make it.”

You wince. That doesn’t make sense, and the cost of a hospital stay isn’t in your budget. “Where’s Taehyung?”

Your mother is silent for a moment too long, and you feel your chest grow tight. “Mom, where is Taehyung? He was in the car with me!”

“He… he didn’t make it. I’m so sorry,” your mom whispers. “The doctors did everything they could.”

No. “You’re lying.” Of course she is, she has to be, he’s your husband, he can’t be gone. “Don’t lie. He’s fine.”

“Y/n, baby…”

“No!” You weakly pull your hand from her grip. Angry tears form and begin to spill down your swollen, tender cheeks. “You’re lying!” Please, you beg inside your head, please be lying. Not Taehyung. He’s healthy, strong, smart, he has to be fine.

You can see unshed tears shining in your mother’s eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

“We weren’t going that fast,” you say desperately. “It can’t have been bad.”

“You broke a leg and a rib, fractured your collarbone, and punctured your lung,” Your mother says quietly. “They said you were lucky to have no brain damage.”

You sit back, stunned. It’s true, you’re wrapped in bandages and the parts of your skin that you can see are black and blue. When you lift the blanket, you can see a small clear tube protruding from your chest. Still, it’s impossible. You had only been driving for a few minutes. “What happened? The accident?”

“I-It was a hit-and-run,” your mother responds shakily. “They T-boned your car and drove away. There were witnesses, but no cameras and nobody got a license plate. They put out a notice for the car.”

You swallow. Despite your injuries, it seems like you’re unable to feel anything at all. Please, no…

There’s a soft knock at the door. “Y/n?” You look up and through the dark fog in your head you feel a tinge of shock.

Standing in front of you, wearing blue scrubs and a mask, is… your neighbor.

“Jimin?”

Jimin nods. “I’m sorry for what you’re going through. I just need to adjust your IV – are you in pain?”

“No- yes.” As soon as the word escapes your mouth, feeling spills back into your body. Fuck. Suddenly you can’t breathe, your chest feels like it’s on fire, and your leg… “It hurts really badly.”

“Let me increase the morphine dosage.” He steps towards the machines and IV to which you’re hooked up and fiddles with some buttons.

Your heart feels as though it’s stopped on Taehyung. You refuse to believe it, and so you refuse to grieve. “I didn’t know you were a doctor,” you say to Jimin. Your voice sounds like a robotic copy of itself. Out of the corner of your eye, you see your mother glancing at you with worry.

“I’m not, I’m a nurse,” he replies.

“You take good care of her, you hear?” Your mom says to Jimin, clearly understanding your silent signal not to bring up Taehyung. She was lying – he has to be fine.

Jimin nods firmly, the ghost of a smile on his face. “Yes, ma’am. She’ll be up and about soon, but for now she needs rest.”

As your mom rises slowly from her chair beside your bed, she grasps Jimin’s hand in hers. “Make sure she’s okay.”

“I will.”

Once your mom leaves, your eyelids feel heavy. Your brain is foggy with distorted thoughts of Taehyung. Why can’t you remember anything? “What time is it?”

“Three in the morning,” Jimin supplies.

That surprises you. “It’s been hours.”

“It has.” “Do you know what happened to the awards ceremony?”

“The… what?”

Of course he doesn’t. Why should he? You sink as far as you can into your pillow, wishing only that it would suffocate you. It feels like there’s an all-consuming black hole in your chest, clawing at every part of you. Taehyung. Taehyung. Taehyung.

“I’m sorry about your husband,” Jimin says gravely. “I met him several times. He was a very kind man.”

“He’s not gone,” you reply stubbornly. He can’t be. “I just need to get better and get home.” Tae will be there.

Jimin pauses. “We’ll do our best.”

“Thank you.”

“The doctor will be back in soon,” Jimin adds. “I can give you something to help you sleep after.”

“Oh, you’re an angel.” After everything that’s happened, you don’t think you can ever sleep again. At least, not until you’re with Taehyung. Surely, the doctor will be able to tell you the truth.

The doctor comes in, a middle-aged Black woman who introduces herself as Dr. Greene. She walks you through your injuries and the path to recovery. “Luckily, they could have been a lot worse,” she says, eyeing your chart appreciatively. “You should be discharged in two weeks, give or take. After that, it’ll be a while still with your leg in a cast. You’ll have to come back for more check-ups. And as soon as your lung heals, we want you to start physical therapy to counteract all the bed rest. Do you have any questions for me?”

“Where is my husband?” You ask desperately. Behind Dr. Greene, you see Jimin’s face has turned stony. “He was in the car with me, his name is Kim Taehyung–”

“Your husband has passed away,” the doctor says simply, quietly. “I’m sorry.”

At last, with this authority figure having sealed his fate, you allow yourself to cry for Taehyung. Loud, animalistic sobs tear from your chest until your abused ribs and lungs can’t support you anymore and you collapse, screaming silently into hands that hurt to lift.

“Y/n…”

“It’s not fair. It’s not fair! It should have been me.” The two of you were only on your way to the dinner because of you. It’s your fault. Your fault. Your fault. “It should have been me!”

You feel fingertips lightly touch your aching shoulder. From his earlier position near the doorway, Jimin is suddenly right next to you. “No, it shouldn’t have. And it’s not your fault, Y/n,” he says.

“Grief is natural and necessary, really, for the healing process,” Dr. Greene adds. “But Nurse Jimin is right, you shouldn’t blame yourself.” She looked back at her chart. “Jimin, you’re on call for the night, yes?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Keep an eye on her pain levels. Y/n, if you’re uncomfortable or need anything during the night, press this button and Jimin will come check in on you, alright?”

You nod numbly. You don’t care. You hope you do die during the night, so you can at least be with Taehyung.

Jimin leaves and returns in what feels like both an hour and two seconds, holding a clear bag full of liquid and a bottle of pills.

“Take one of these to help you sleep. This is for your blood pressure – it’s still low – and we’ve added more morphine.”

You simply hold out your hand for the bottle, shake out a pill, and swallow it down without water. Why would you need water when the love of your life is gone?

“Remember, press the button if you need anything,” Jimin says. “I’ll be right here for you.”

“Mm.” You turn over as much as you comfortably can and almost immediately fall into a hopefully dreamless sleep.

If only you were so lucky.

The crash. The moment of the shooting star. Over and over and over again.

“Y/n! Come on, baby, wake up!” You can’t see anything, but you can hear his voice. “They’ll be here soon, you have to hang on for me, okay?”

“Help! Somebody help! No, she’s worse than me, hurry up!”

“Miss? Can you hear me?”

“Shit, he’s coding!”

“Y/n?” You feel yourself being gently shaken, and still half-dreaming, your body gives a great shudder from the accident. “I’m sorry to wake you. I just need to take your vitals.”

“Blue,” you reply, barely able to form the word. You saw it. “The car was blue.”

When you look up, you realize that it’s not Jimin, but a nurse you’ve never seen before. She pauses for a moment, clearly perplexed, before she blinks.

“Oh! You were in a car accident?”

“The car was blue,” you continue, scared to lose the thought. You’re a professor of writing at a top university, you should be able to express yourself more fluently. But your words seem to escape you before you can capture them. “License 7-H-L.”

“Oh, my… the nurse looks around before grabbing a pen clipped to her scrubs and scribbling the numbers onto a notepad beside you. “You’re a regular detective!”

“Where’s Jimin?” You ask. You don’t know this new nurse, but at least you trust Jimin.

“Oh, his shift ended,” she replies. “He’ll be back tonight! In the meantime, can you tell me how you feel?”

“I’m… dizzy. My heart…” You can hear it pounding hard in your ears, far too quickly, and leaving you lightheaded. Your whole body hurts, centralized in your leg and chest, far worse than last night.

“Your blood pressure must have gone back to normal, let me get that saline off for you. How’s the pain? Your morphine should have worn off by now.”

You wince. “Bad.”

“Okay, I’ll adjust that.” The nurse fiddles with your IV before turning back to you. “I think your mother will be here soon. In the meantime, is there anything I can do for you?”

“Actually… can you tell her not to come?” A wave of guilt tries to wash over you, but it’s overpowered by the darkness already inside. “I just want to sleep today. She shouldn’t bother.” You pause. “I don’t want any visitors.” “Ah- sure thing, whatever you’d like,” the nurse chirps hesitantly. “Oh, and… what happened to your hair?”

“What do you mean?”

The nurse points. “You’re missing a chunk of hair, I’m guessing from the accident. Hey, maybe when you get out you can try a new style!”

“Yeah, maybe.” You lay back down and stare at the ceiling, wishing only that it would fall apart and crush you. What’s the point of anything without Taehyung? But… what about your students, your classes?

The day passes in a blur, and your intermittent napping keeps you barely aware of your surroundings. You don’t dream of the crash again – it’s a blessing, but at the same time you wish you could remember the rest of the license plate. You finally awaken for real once dusk has settled on the hospital.

You press the button, and immediately Jimin is in your room. “What can I do for you, Y/n?”

You take a deep breath. “Can you please bring me a pad of paper and a pencil?” You were a teenager when your father passed away, and writing was the only thing that saved you then. Perhaps it will be your healing salve now.

“Sure, there’s paper right-” Jimin pauses beside your bed before handing you the pad of paper. “Here, sorry. And you can use one of my pens. How are you feeling?”

“Groggy,” you reply. You’re surprised by how weak your grip on the pencil feels. “Numb. It hurts, but…”

“I’ll make a note for the doctor. Don’t worry, I promised your mom that I’d help you get better. Your lung should be healing soon,” Jimin says. “But I need to change the bandages on your chest tube, if that’s okay?” “Yeah.” You forgot it was there, the clear tube coming out of your chest. It’s held in place with bandages, which Jimin carefully removes before cleaning off your skin and placing new ones down. He’s wearing a silver locket that you’ve never noticed before. It suits him, shining against his skin.

“Thank you,” you say as he finishes taking your vitals.

“I’m happy to help.”

The next week passes in a blur; between crying fits for Taehyung, assuring your mother that you’re alright, scribbling down everything on your mind, and forcing yourself to sleep simply to avoid the reality of waking hours, you barely have a second to consider your own healing process.

It isn’t until Dr. Greene beams at you that you register: physically, you’re feeling a lot better, and after a week of bed rest and god awful depression, you’re ready to try hobbling around.

“Looks like you might actually get out a few days early,” Dr. Greene says. “We’ll be able to remove that chest tube tonight.” Beside you, your mother begins crying with relief.

“Wonderful.” It’s still hard to smile, but you manage a weak attempt. Later that day, you hear a bit of commotion in the hallway, and soon the nurse brings in a huge basket of cards, flowers, and stuffed animals.

“Woah… what’s all this?” With effort, you sit up and take the offered basket. The sweet smell of the flowers is a welcome change to the cold sanitation of the hospital.

“From your students!” The nurse says happily. “Some even sent you books!”

“Aww, they’re sweet.” You flip through one of the books and notice that all your advisees have signed the title page and scribbled well-wishes in the margins of the chapters. Their kindness and love sparks your first real smile since the accident.

You spend the day reading, counting down the hours until your chest tube is removed. When you’re finally wheeled to the OR and numbed up so they can sew the hole in your chest shut, you feel relief. Your leg is still in a cast, but at least your body is fighting for you.

That night, you’re drifting off to sleep when you feel a painful tugging on your chest, right where your stitches are. “Mm?” You blink sleepily and see Jimin’s silhouette standing over you.

“Ah, Y/n. I’m sanitizing your wound so it heals well, don’t mind me. How are you feeling?”

“I’m a little sore,” you reply honestly. “It’s not too bad, though.” “Let me fix that for you.” You can see Jimin’s dark figure change something on your IV. “That’ll help you feel better.”

“Thanks,” you mumble, feeling sleep begin to overtake you.

“It’s my pleasure, Y/n.” That night, your dreams are choppy and chaotic. At one point, you dream that your body is on fire; at another, you’re back in the accident but instead of Taehyung, it’s Jimin. The sun has barely risen before you bolt upwards. “Gah!” Your throat is burning, dry, painful – it feels like you’ve swallowed sand.

It must be extra early, because Jimin is still there. He rushes to your bedside. “Y/n? What’s wrong?”

“I- who are you? I need… water…” you croak, your vision swimming before you. You don’t know who this man is, and you don’t know where you are. You can vaguely feel yourself falling backwards.

“Okay, let me get you some- wait, Y/n!”

~~~

You awaken with Jimin, Dr. Greene, and another nurse standing over you. Packed in bed beside you are several ice packs. Even so, you feel your body sweating.

“What… happened?” You manage. Your tongue feels thick in your mouth.

“You woke up with a bad fever. It’s lucky Jimin thought fast and worked to cool you down.” Dr. Greene said. “We’ll have to keep you monitored for longer than we anticipated.”

“W-Why do I have a fever?”

Dr. Greene’s brows knit together. “I… I’m not sure. We’ll keep an eye on you for the next couple of days and see if anything changes.”

Your fever goes up and down throughout the day, occasionally spiking dangerously enough that the monitors around you begin to beep in alarm. Around noon, Jimin comes in with water and a bottle of pills. He’s wearing a lopsided Santa hat along with his scrubs.

“Merry almost-Christmas. Here, take two for the fever.”

“What are you doing here?” You ask weakly. Even in your fever-addled mind, you remember he only comes at night.

“My shift changed. You need more urgent care anyways, and I volunteered.”

You swallow down the pills and nod. “Thanks.”

“Your bruises have improved,” Jimin observes, lightly touching your face.

“I guess. Fuck.” You feel the sudden urge to douse yourself in cold water. “I just want to get out of here.”

Jimin is quiet for a moment. “Have they found the car that hit you?”

“How would I know?” You feel a wave of dizziness hit you, likely brought on by a heartbeat that never seems to slow down. “Jimin, please…” Save me.

“We’ll see how you’re doing tomorrow,” Jimin says. “For now, you should stay awake. What’s your favorite color?”

“Uh, green.”

“Favorite food?” You can barely think. “Sushi.”

Jimin grins. “Favorite neighbor?”

You try to summon a chuckle. “Whichever one is saving my life.”

“Fantastic. I’ll see you later tonight. Your mother should be in here soon – let me adjust your pain meds, we kept you off of them from the fever but they might just help.”

The night feels eternal; you can’t sleep a wink, and your mother stays with you the whole night. Your fever continues to climb and although at first your breathing is rapid to cool you down, by the time the sun rises it feels as though your lungs have stopped working entirely. You don’t know if that’s normal for a fever.

“Doctor!” Your mother calls for what feels like the thousandth time.

Dr. Greene hurries into the room, Jimin right behind her. “Is it her fever?”

“No, it’s…” Your mother points wordlessly at your hands. You can’t see what she’s talking about, but when you raise your hands you see your fingertips are blue. You can’t think. You can’t breathe. You don’t care. Everything is fuzzy, so fuzzy… the monitors are beeping again, but you can barely hear them. You’re gasping for air now, choking on nothing. You can’t breathe.

“Doctor Greene,” Jimin says loudly, “I think she’s overdosing.”

“Lord, you may be right. Get the Narcan!”

Jimin darts out of the room and returns just as your eyes begin to flutter closed. Taehyung…

~~~

There’s a cliff. Taehyung is there, you know it. You just need to jump. The moment you start walking, though, it’s almost as if you’re being pulled away from the edge. No! You open your eyes. Has it been minutes? Days?

“Dear god,” your mother says breathlessly. “She’s awake.”

“How on earth…?” Dr. Greene wonders, wiping her forehead. “Jimin, props to you for your quick thinking. But an overdose? How?”

“Doctor, it’s possible that with her weakness and weight loss, plus the fact that we held off the morphine for several days, an average dose might have caused her to OD.” Jimin suggests. His voice seems to carry more authority than even Dr. Greene’s.

“Yes, perhaps… but the fever?”

“Hm…” Jimin reaches forward and prods at the stitches on your chest. You immediately flinch, your raspy voice yelping in pain. “An infection. Possibly blood poisoning.”

“You know, you really might be right,” Dr. Greene says thoughtfully. “It’s not impossible. Okay, we’ll start you on an antibacterial and switch to lower-grade painkillers.” With this note, Dr. Greene and Jimin file out, leaving you with your mother.

“Momma, did you ever find the car?” You ask, gripping her hand urgently. The owner of that car killed your husband; you want them brought to justice.

“No, sweetie, I’m sorry.”

“What about the license plate?”

“Well, none of the witnesses saw it-”

“No,” you shake your head. “I- the nurse wrote it down. On…” you point to the notepad beside you. “The first page.”

Your mother picks up the abused pad of paper, filled with random journal entries and doodles, and flips to the front. “Y/n, there’s nothing here. It’s blank. Maybe you dreamed it?”

“What? No.” You’re sure that the nurse wrote it down for you. “Check on the floor.”

After a brief but thorough search, the paper doesn’t turn up. What had happened? You can’t possibly remember the partial plate now. Shit. And even so, it was a literal fever dream – you could have made the numbers up.

“Y/n, I’m going to go for an early Christmas dinner at Aunt Ella’s, but I’ll be back tomorrow morning, okay?”

“Sure, mom.” She’s barely slept, after all.

The next several days pass and you gradually begin to recover. The lab tests confirmed your blood poisoning, and you feel more grateful than ever that Jimin managed to catch it early – it could have killed you. It’s now been more than two weeks since the accident, and finally the doctor tells you that you’ll be ready to go home soon. As Christmas approaches, you’ve heard holiday music float through the air and bows and wreaths appear in your hospital room and down the hall. Even with the holiday cheer, the loss of the license plate weighs heavy on your mind.

“Merry Christmas Eve! Time to get up and try walking around!” The afternoon nurse says cheerfully as she helps you out of bed. With your heavy green cast making your leg feel detached, you clunk around while holding the nurse’s arm. You near the window, which overlooks a parking lot decorated with dirty snow, and gaze down onto the cars. Can you ever feel safe in a car again?

“Which one’s yours?” You ask the nurse absentmindedly, suddenly struck by another bolt of grief. Her life is normal. She has a car and goes to work.

“That white one right there next to the blue Prius,” she replies, pointing. You mindlessly follow her finger, when suddenly –

Blue. You clutch at your chest and stumble backwards, nearly falling if she hadn’t caught you. “That’s…” No, it can’t be. But in your heart and deep, deep in your memory… “Can you read the plate number on that blue car next to yours?”

“Uh, it’s a little too far away,” she replies, squinting. “I think it’s Jimin,’s though, I always see him pulling in just as my shift is over.”

Jimin. “Does it look dented at all?” You manage. “His car?”

“Ah… a little? I’m not sure.”

Jimin does have a blue Prius, you know that from seeing it in his driveway every day. So why, today, did the thought strike you so violently?

“You know, I think I’m tired. I’m going to lay down.”

“Oh, okay. Do you want some water or to go to the bathroom?”

“No. I just want to be alone.”

“Okay.” The nurse looks worried, but leaves you settled back in your bed. Night falls quickly and you hear a knock on the door. Jimin lets himself in, a bottle of pills in his hand.

“Hey, I heard you’ll be getting discharged soon,” he says cheerfully. He’s still wearing the Santa hat.

Blue. “Yeah, hopefully.”

“Awesome. Well, you need to take these,” he says, shaking two pills from the bottle in his hand and handing them to you.”

“What are they for?”

“They’ll help you sleep and let your blood vessels dilate to regulate your blood pressure.”

“Mm.” You wash them down with his offered water. Almost as soon as you swallow, you feel your body rebel against you – you lean over and vomit onto the floor. The smell makes you gag and you feel everything you’ve eaten come up a second time, the stomach acid burning your throat.

“What- what did you give-” you can’t finish your sentence as your stomach convulses again. Jimin rushes over to you with a bucket and you lean into it, retching. You continue dry heaving long after your body is completely emptied, while Jimin rubs your back reassuringly. “G-get the doctor,” you croak.

“Are you going to be okay alone-?” “Yes. Please, just…” your body shivers as he gets up and leaves. What did he give you? You’re doubtless that those pills caused your vomiting. Just the thought sends you back to your bucket, although you’ve no more left to give.

“What on earth happened?” Dr. Greene says, rushing in. Jimin is close behind her.

“He gave me pills…” you gasp as your body tries to vomit again. The muscle contractions leave you feeling boneless. “They made me throw up.”

“You’ve got no known allergies on file…” Dr. Greene says, consulting a chart by your bed. “Jimin, what did you give her?”

Jimin produces a bottle clearly labelled DOXEPINE. “Just to help her sleep, she was asking for something earlier.”

Your heart drops. “That’s not-” you’re interrupted by another gagging fit. You want to scream at your body that there’s nothing left, but you can barely speak. “Not the same-” fuck.

“She must have a sensitivity to the Doxepine,” Dr. Greene says thoughtfully. “Jimin, make sure she stays hydrated. If she keeps throwing up we’ll need to keep her longer for observation.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Ngh… no…” Dr. Greene leaves before you can tell her that that wasn’t the same pill bottle.

“Here, drink this,” Jimin says, offering you a bottle of water.

“What did you give to me?” You ask, panting. As soon as the water touches your tongue you reach for the bucket, your body rejecting it immediately.

Jimin blinks innocently. “Sleeping pills.”

“Fuck off, that wasn’t the… same bottle.”

“Y/n, you’re sick and grieving, it’s understandable that your eyes are playing tricks on you-”

“No. You… poisoned me!” You summon what strength you have left and swipe at the nurse, who’s now leaning over you. Your fingers catch the silver chain around his neck, and the motion knocks the locket open.

Fluttering out of the locket and onto your bandaged chest is… hair?

No, not hair. Your hair. The color, and texture… it’s exactly the same.

You’re missing a chunk of hair, I’m guessing from the accident, the nurse had said.

Not from the accident. Almost in slow motion, your eyes travel up to meet Jimin’s.

“Y/n, you’re acting erratic.” As if nothing happened, he plucks your hair from the bed, tucks it back into the locket, and straightens his Santa hat. “I’ll have to tell the doctor to consider sedatives. Merry Christmas, Y/n.”

“No-” Your stomach contracts once more and by the time you look up, gasping for breath, he’s gone.

You spend another sleepless night in the hospital, growing more paranoid by the minute. You refuse to eat or drink anything you’re given – you’re still nauseous, and what if it’s full of sedatives?

When dawn breaks on Christmas Day, you’ve never felt less cheer. You’re concerned about Jimin; the car is surely a coincidence, but the hair? And the pills?

“Y/n?” Dr. Greene knocks on the door. “Merry Christmas. How are you feeling?”

“I want to get out of here,” you respond immediately.

Dr. Greene smiles. “We’ll see how you do moving around today. How’s your nausea?”

“Better,” you lie. Anything to leave. You can handle nausea at home.

“Wonderful. Well, Nurse Jimin will be taking care of you today, since your other nurses are off duty. Press the button if you need anything.”

You nod, shivering. Should you tell Dr. Greene? Before you can consider it, though, she’s left the room.

Hours later, Jimin pops his head in, his Santa hat crooked. The locket is still swinging from his neck.

“Hey! Dr. Greene said if you’re doing well by the end of the day, you might be discharged for tomorrow!”

You stare at him. Can he really pretend nothing is wrong? “Great.”

“Let’s get you up and walking around.” Jimin offers you his arm. At first you don’t want to take it, but your legs are too weak on your own. He slowly leads you out of your room and down the hall before circling back. You pass another window overlooking the parking lot and there, in the same spot, is the blue car. From this window, you can see much better.

“Which car’s yours?” you ask quietly.

“That blue Prius next to the white one,” he says cheerfully, pointing.

Finally, when you squint you can read the license plate: 7HLC946.

7HL. Your body stiffens. It’s the same car. Then, that means… you swivel slowly until you’re staring at Jimin, who’s still looking out of the window. He killed your husband.

He leads you back to your room. You feel frozen, and not from the wintertime. When you go inside, you hear a soft click. Your eyes widen. He locked the door.

“How are you feeling?” he asks softly from behind you.

“F-fine. Perfect,” you reply, your voice shaking.

“You know, you really have to stop getting yourself in trouble,” he says, strolling to the bed and smoothing down your sheets. Your eyes dart to the locked door. If you made a break for it with your cast, he could still beat you to it. “Every time you’re supposed to get discharged, something happens, and then who has to save you?”

“I’ve recovered,” you say firmly. Is it an ego thing? He wants credit for doing his job?

“Before, you always had your husband to save you,” Jimin says, standing. His eyes are drilling holes into you. “Do you know why he’d always see you off at the door?”

“Wh-what are you talking about?” “It’s so I couldn’t even look at you. He was always around, but not this time. And this time it was me that saved your life.” Jimin is advancing now, still smiling serenely. Your heart pounding, you back away, your cast clunking against the floor.

“It was you,” you whisper when your back hits the window. “Your car. You hit us.”

“Almost gave me a heart attack when I saw you remembered my plate,” he says now, examining his nails. “Lucky I saw it before your mother did. How is she, by the way?”

“You… you killed my husband!” Your scream is more animal than human when it rips from your throat. You’re fully prepared to leap at Jimin and take the life he took from Taehyung when he pulls out a syringe.

“Shhh…” he says, stepping forward. “What did I say about sedation?”

Your blood runs cold. You don’t want to know what’s in the syringe, or what he’d do to you if he injected you with it.

Caught between him and the window, you freeze. You have to get away from him. You turn around and swing your heavy cast at the window.

With a painful CRASH, the glass shatters. Shards fly everywhere, several of them catching and slicing your skin. You hear commotion outside and below as you shoot for the window and try to grab onto the windowsill. You nearly sob when the glass in your grip breaks off the windowsill. Almost… just like your dream of the cliff, though, you’re dragged back from the escape. Jimin locks one arm around your neck and pulls you away from the window.

You feel a sharp prick in your arm and, seconds later, your muscles seem to melt. If Jimin weren’t supporting your weight you would have fallen. Shit. What did he do to you?

“It’s for your own good, my love,” he says, carrying you to the bed and tucking the blankets in around you. Your tongue feels too heavy for your mouth; you can’t speak, and you can barely move your arms.

There’s a loud banging on the door. “Y/n! Are you alright?”

“One second,”Jimin says to you before striding to the door and opening it.

“Jimin! What happened?” The voice belongs to a doctor you don’t recognize.

“Hey, Dr. Kim. Y/n started being combative and went for the window. Luckily, I got her calmed down and back into bed.”

Help. Your vocal chords won’t respond to you. “Hhe…”

“Goodness. We should get her moved out while the window is being repaired.” “I agree, but she did just fall asleep and she hasn’t slept in a while. I suggest giving her an hour.”

“Alright, well, please keep an eye on her.”

“Sure thing, Doctor.” Jimin shuts the door and locks eyes with you.

“I’ve waited for you for a while, you know,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. His position pins down your left arm, but your right is still free. If only you could move it. “You never got sick, or hurt. I checked. You never even came to visit.” Jimin continues smiling, but his eyes are cold. “That wasn’t very nice. It’s your fault that I had to make you come visit.”

“Stuh… you,” you gasp, forcing your head to clear. “Psy…” Let me go, you want to scream. You’re straining with the effort just to lift your head.

“I know, I know, why didn’t I just talk to you at your house? Well, your guardian was always there. But here, I’m in control. And I’m the one that can save you.”

You can sense feeling returning to your arms. If he keeps talking, it might give you more time to recover from your paralysis. Luckily, Jimin seems so relieved that he can finally tell you everything that he doesn’t seem close to shutting up.

“Do you know how many times your mother has thanked me for saving your life? How Dr. Greene said I was her favorite nurse?” Jimin caresses your cheek, becoming more animated as he speaks. “Even you, Y/n, you called me your angel.”

You try to bite him when his hand gets close, but your jaw muscles are slack. C’mon…

“And you’re right, I am your angel. I’m your guardian angel, and I’ll always keep you safe.” You can almost lift your hand. At his words, he leans in to kiss your forehead and with enormous effort, you use the same moment to lift and swipe your bloody hand, still gripping the jagged glass from the window, at him. The glass catches Jimin right in the neck and he gasps and sputters, pressing a hand to his throat as bright red blood gushes from the wound, spattering you and staining the bed. Meanwhile, you collapse, your strength entirely spent.

Jimin staggers upright, hand outstretched towards you. When he tries to speak, his voice is a mere gurgle.

“Y/n- you… no…” with that, he falls to the floor. You see him try and fail to rise again before Jimin sighs and is still at last.

How did you wind up here?

As you slump back into your bed, with him lying on the floor next to you, a hazy thought informs you that it must look like a scene straight out of Romeo and Juliet.

Although, you think ruefully, glancing down at the sharp shard of glass clenched in your fits, I don’t think Juliet would have done this.

“Merry fucking Christmas.”

#yandere society #yandere jimin #jimin #bts #bangtan #nurse!jimin #jimin x reader #park jimin #yandere jimin fic #yandere!bts #yandere!jimin

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watch-grok-brainrot · 4 years

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CQL Characters as Teas I’ve Had

This started because @needtherapy knows I'm a tea nerd and wanted an idea for what tea would lwj tell wwx he is... So pick a tea that suits the characters well she basically told me... and this spiral out of control... oops. sorry not that sorry. this is another tea post no one asked for... except maybe needtherapy. but she didn’t ask for THIS MUCH of it.

Wwx: onyx -- this is a tea i got at a tea festival last year from a guy based in chicago. it’s made from a white tea cultivar but made into a black tea. it’s really yummy and pretty deep. unorthodox for sure but still rooted in tradition and well crafted.

Lwj: aged fuding silver needle white tea -- if wwx is a onyx, then lwj is the traditional tea made of the same stuff. delicious. traditional. respected.

Jc: a young sheng puer -- needs to mature a little. Astringent. Need time make the edges soften some. the astringency sometimes make me think of zidian.

Jyl: lotus scented fuzhan - mellow, smooth, round bodied and fragrant. Same feel as jyl's steadiness and kindness (fuzhuan is a heicha, same category as puer) it’s a scented tea so sometimes tea snobs will look down at it. but it’s REALLY good so their loss (i’m looking at you ep 3-27 jzxuan)

Lxc: aged white tea cake, over 25 years old. it’s respected and almost legendary but not necessarily pretentious.

Nhs: ducksh*t oolong - amazing tea. Ridiculous name. The farmer probably named the motherbush to deter buyers. kinda like nhs’ YiWenSanBuZhi title.

Nmj: muzha tieguanyin - strong flavor, took a little time to grow on me, classic though (not to be confused with anxi tgy, btw. very different teas. same cultivar though, iirc)

Jgy: hunan bloolong - this is a tea made from a cultivar usually used to make oolongs that was processed as a black. A named coined by harney and sons in nyc. While the tea might be decent and the concept good, it's inevitably tainted by the inexplicably awful naming. Just like jgy is tainted by his evil deeds even if he had lots of potential.

Jzxuan: jinjunmei - modern and well received. Quality but also very pricey. sometimes i wonder if it’s worth the price...

Lqy/mianmian: farmer’s choice baozhong -- i get mine from a shop in seattle. it’s a light oolong that’s floral and refreshing. i love this tea. i love mianmian. it’s not a particularly rare and definitely not pretentious. but it’s good and definitely one i love to drink.

Wq: there is a tea that i get from a vendor in chicago called “Black Dancong Champion” that’s made from a Mi Lan Xiang (Honey Orchid Fragrance) cultivar and allowed to fully oxidize. it’s a delicious tea that’s won best tea award at a competition before. wq is the best doctor of qi shan and definitely not 100% traditional so i think this suits her. also the cultivar has such a pretty name which also suits her.

Wn: so... this is a weird tea story but i have a tea that my dad’s high school buddy picked in yunnan. the best leaves were made into something i can’t afford. he had some cast-off leaves that he asked the tea master to process anyway. and then when we were in chongqing in 2017, he gave me about 300g of it. it’s PHENOMENAL tea but he kinda waved his hand at it saying it was second rate stuff anyway. that’s kinda what wen ning is. he’s amazing as a character -- loyal, interesting, sweet. but the cultivation world as a whole doesn’t appreciate him. it doesn’t make him any less good though!

Lsz: modern chinese lapsang suchong. The name suggests strong smoke (aka the Wens) but it's actually really soft and fruity.

Ljy: high grade jasmine green made from tender buds from an early spring harvest with jasmine flowers added and sifted out at least seven times. i love this tea even if it’s “flavored”. i like its personality!

Jl: pre-qingming dragonwell - soft green tea. maybe described as nutty in flavor? you don’t get too many brews from it. first flush (hence the early spring picking) and tender. i think in a lot of ways this tea shows how young the leaves are -- just like jl shows how young he is in many parts of the story.

Oyzz: lychee tea blended with rose buds and honeysuckle buds. He's simple but delightful. (idk if this is a blend people can buy? i take cheap grocery store lychee and blend in rose buds and honeysuckle buds i buy when i’m in china... i really like a good rose and lychee combo but it’s a bit too sharp when blended and the honeysuckle does a good job of mellowing it out... this is also the ONLY tea i blend myself.. it’s just a thing for me. idk why)

Sl: aged glutinous rice scented puer - i like the texture of the tea and i also like how it ages well.

Xxc: jinxuan/milk oolong -- a cultivar that makes a really nice round tea. it’s slightly creamy in mouth feel and scent. there are milk oolongs have have milk flavor added. THIS IS NOT THAT. This is WAY BETTER.

Xy: unaged ripe puer - some people like it i guess? idk why. seems like a bad idea.

A-qing: london fog (Earl grey latte with vanilla and sugar) -- soft and yummy but don't screw it up or it may not be good. also not actually pretentious tea.

And for the antagonists:

Wzl: twinnings or bigelow earl grey. passible. doing the minimal work to get purchased. i don’t hate it but i also don’t love it. acceptable go to in hotels and restaurants when i forgot to/can’t bring my own tea.

SuSh*t: lipton. He's not good tea. Passable cold brewed I guess.

Jxzun: instant tea mix. >.> probably flavored. i’m not sure if i would even consider it tea... (i’m thinking a beverage like crystal light peach tea. i mean, i used to drink it and i’m not gonna judge people for drinking it but it’s not really a thing i would choose to consume anymore... but i’m a tea snob now...)

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gamerwoo · 4 years

Text

[Tales from the Pack] Hansol: Fire and Ice (Part Three)

Characters: Hansol x female reader

Genre/warnings: werewolf au, fantasy, angst, a little fluff sprinkled in there, implied death/suicide, minor character death (i mean i think they count as minor??? but they’re major to me 🤧)

Word count: 1,649

Summary: You’ve always been one to let your emotions get the best of you – your power reflects that – and you’ve never been good at expressing them. That’s why you always thought you’d be awful with a mate, but you never thought things would be this awful.

a/n: things in bold are in english and things in italics are memories/dreams

Previous | Next | Fire and Ice Masterlist

Your first memory was when you were about three or four. You were on a boat with Jiung and your parents. They smiled at you and spoke to you in a slight accent. You knew you looked different from them, and so did a lot of your siblings, but you knew that despite that, they were your parents. They made sure you always knew they weren’t your birth parents, but you loved them like they were.

You didn’t like looking at the water, so your dad held you down in the boat where most of the passengers were to keep from the sea spray while he told you how this was how him and your mother brought the two of you home with them. Jiung, though, loved the water, and your mom held him outside to watch the waves and taste the salt. You cried because you didn’t want to be away from your brother, so your dad brought you back up to the deck to find him. You still hated the water, but it wasn’t so bad with Jiung beside you.

You were eleven and had excitedly greeted your parents when they arrived home with your new little sister -- you already had five others, not counting Jiung. You didn’t understand why they had so many kids, but you grew to love them all like siblings -- Jiung was always the most special to you, of course.

You learned they knew a number of different languages since you had brothers from China and Thailand, and sisters from Brazil, Poland, Tanzania, and now India. They all had two things in common: they were adopted because bad things had happened to them and they needed a better home, and they all spoke Korean. You and Jiung were taught the language as well.

Even after you’d learned of your birth names, Jiung decided he liked his Korean name better because it was what he had grown up being called. He was Jiung, not Jerimiah. You wanted to be just like Jiung, so you decided the same.

You were fifteen, and your eyes shifted to red as you stared at yourself in the mirror. You were sweating and shaking, and you called out for Jiung as your nails turned into sharp claws that scratched against the sink.

Your brother rushed in and almost stumbled backwards when he saw you staring in the mirror with fangs jutting out over your bottom lip. Your parents came in soon after and gasped at what they saw. You turned from the mirror to look right at them, your eyes wide with fear.

But your family didn’t run away from you as you cried from fear and confusion. Instead, your brother rushed toward you and held you in his arms as you tried to make sense of what was happening. Then your mother and father joined the hug, and promised things would be okay.

And you were suddenly back to normal.

You felt someone shaking your leg, and your heavy eyelids managed to open enough to see the person: Chanseong. His eyes were red and puffy, and he was dressed in layers of sweaters and jackets like he’d be going outside for a long walk.

You couldn’t manage to sit up. Your body felt like jelly, and you were on the verge of going back to sleep again.

“_____?” Chanseong’s voice was hoarse as he spoke to you. Everything kind of sounded like you were underwater, too. “I’m…I’m leaving.”

“L-leaving?” you repeated, your tongue feeling like rubber when you tried to say anything.

“I’m gonna go find Jiung’s body,” he continued.

There was a tiny part in the back of your brain that knew that was the dumbest and worst idea. Alarms were going off, screaming to stop him. But it was all overpowered by whatever you inhaled, so you were still in a dream-like state.

“Why?” you asked, fighting to keep your eyes cracked open.

“When a wolf dies, their mate has to lay with them for the next 24 hours,” he explained, “so I’m going to do that for him.”

“B-but…hunters ‘n’ stuff,” you mumbled.

Chanseong shook his head, “That won’t be a problem. I have a backup plan. They won’t be able to torture me if I’m already too far gone.”

“Then…w-why bother?”

“I just–” he stopped, choking back tears, “I need to be with Jiung, _____. There’s nothing else for me.”

“But…Rika…”

“Rika’s stronger than me. Rika had Jiung to help her.”

“Chanseong–”

Chanseong cut you off, placing his hand gently over your mouth, “Goodbye, _____.”

You felt his lips pressed against your forehead. They were cold. He straightened up and stood from the bed, walking toward the door.

“Try not to give anyone too much trouble, especially Hansol. You know your brother would want him to watch out for you, so let him.”

With that, Chanseong opened the door and left, and you were consumed by the darkness again.

You stood in the large space of your backyard, staring at a shadowy figure through the fog. They looked far away, sitting on their knees. When you sniffed the air, you knew it was your brother.

Immediately, you ran to him. You remembered what you were told: he was shot; he’s dead. You had to save him. If you didn’t nobody would. Jiung was too self-sacrificing, so you had to be the one to help. You couldn’t lose your brother.

When you were a few yards away, you stopped dead in your tracks. Jiung was still kneeling, but you could see his body riddled with bullet holes and blood soaking his clothes. He had one right in the middle of his forehead with a trail of blood dripping straight down his nose before it trickled off to the corner of his mouth and down his jaw. You knelt in front of him, crawling on your knees until you could wrap your arms around him. You sobbed into his shoulder, begging him not to go. But he stood, stared blankly down at you, and walked away into the fog, leaving you alone.

Alone. You were alone. Your biggest fear was always being alone. When you were were old enough to comprehend that you were abandoned by your birth parents at the age of one. When you were thirteen and you were worried your parents and brother would forget about you in the sea of brothers and sisters. When you were fifteen and started showing signs of being a werewolf, and you were sure your family would disown you. And even after establishing a large pack, you were terrified of ending up all alone. You knew you couldn’t handle yourself if you were alone.

But you suddenly felt warmth in your hand. You looked down to see that the dark grass covered with fog was clearing to a pretty green with blooming flowers. You stared at the hand in yours before following up their arm to see Hansol, looking back at you with his golden eyes. Behind him, the sun broke through the grey clouds, warming your entire body. But despite his cold power, your hand was the warmest part of your body.

You just stared at him, wanting to scream and yell and kick his teeth in, but you couldn’t. You couldn’t even bring yourself to rip your hand away from his. In fact, you moved closer to him, resting your head on his shoulder. He didn’t let go of your hand, rubbing your knuckles with his thumb.

“You’re not alone,” you faintly heard Jiung’s voice.

You weren’t alone.

You jolted up with a gasp, sweat beading on your forehead. You could smell Jiung clearly still, but noticed it was because somebody had put you in one of his sweaters. You wanted to cry because it still smelled like him, and you didn’t want that smell to fade. You pulled one hand up to the collar, bringing it to your nose to inhale the scent deeper. The pain in your heart grew, yet the scent was still comforting so you couldn’t bring yourself to take off the sweater.

The warmth in your other hand didn’t fade as the dream did. You looked down to see someone really was holding your hand. Following their arm, you saw Hansol staring at you with concern as he sat on the edge of the bed. His golden eyes from your dream studied you carefully.

“You started crying and mumbling Jiung’s name,” he told you softly. “I brought you something of his to see if it helped, but you kept crying, and I didn’t want to just leave you here, so I…”

His voice trailed off, unable to read your expression. You still felt a lot of things toward Hansol, but you weren’t sure which was more prominent. You couldn’t help but feel the strong imprinting pull, but you also felt all of that anger toward him for letting your brother die. You were conflicted, and it made your head and heart hurt.

“Do you want me to go?” Hansol asked slowly.

You didn’t reply because you didn’t even know the answer. You just laid back down on your side with a huff, but you still didn’t pull your hand from his.

Hansol let out a soft sigh as he stood. But as you felt his hand slipping from yours, you tightened your grip. You didn’t even know why you did it, but you did, and you refused to let go.

He stopped and looked at you, trying to see any shift of your mood. But you were still scowling at the wall. However, your grip didn’t let up, so he just sat back down.

And that’s how you stayed: sitting together in silence with his hand in yours and his thumb still rubbing your knuckles.

But you weren’t alone.

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duskandstarlight · 4 years

Text

Wings & Shadows

Notes: I had a few of you asking me for Azriel’s POV during Wings Flames & Shadows and eventually the idea stuck! This is set at the end of the fic, when Azriel finds Cassian at the Winter Court to address the fact that Nesta is Cassian’s mate. I loved writing this and I really hope you like it, too. It was strangely easy to get into Azriel’s head for this one <3

For those of you who want to refresh your memories of what happens in WF&S then you can descent into this smutty pit of hell here.

Let me know what you think! And just a friendly reminder that if you like what I write I’d love you to reblog so it can reach more people--thank you <3

Wings & Shadows Azriel POV

Despite being alive for over half a millennia, Cassian had never truly learnt to master his emotions. Whilst Azriel had honed the true art of a cold, blank mask from a young age, the general’s hazel eyes had always been a pathway straight to his heart if you knew where to look. But since the war—since living with Nesta—those underlying expressions had become something else entirely. Something stark and intensely sad. Something more distant and troubled as he worried over the ghost of a girl he had once known and loved.

That was not to say that Cassian did not attempt to hide the torment that wanted to wrangle its way across his features whenever he was forced to leave Nesta. Usually he laced over the agonised expression with barked, easy laughter and arrogant, drawling banter, but for the entirety of their trip to Kallias’s Winter Court, Cassian was… not present. Oh, he still plastered on his carefully orchestrated blend of fake, wide smiles and deathly calm as he usually did—a combination that should not be possible (although Azriel supposed Cassian had always defied the impossible)—but it was as if a light had flickered out somewhere and none of it rang true.

Rhys had clocked it immediately but knew better than to comment. He had learnt to keep his mouth shut when it came to his mate’s sister, even if it meant that Cassian’s duty to protect was reliant on muscle-memory and reflex rather than calculated assessment during a court visit. So his High Lord’s eyes had only flickered with faint starlight, the way they always did when a cog turned and clicked into place in his mind, before he turned back to congratulate Kallias and a glowing Vivianne on their pregnancy.

But given Azriel’s presence in Illyria the night before their trip to Winter, he knew just how fiercely every troubled thought and every laboured breath of Cassian’s was consumed with her—with the too slim female he had left behind. The female who was most likely slipping back into the lifeless husk she had been before Azriel’s hands had run over her body and Cassian’s mouth had lavished love and adoration with every press of his lips to her bare skin.

When the three of them had finished, it had only taken one look at his Cassian’s face and the outstretched wing he had thrown over Nesta’s body for Azriel to know that he should keep his distance. He had trodden dangerous ground when he had willingly engaged in that tryst—if it could even be called that. Whatever humming energy that whipped between Cassian and Nesta was certainly not just fucking, even if they wanted to pretend that was all it was. In the past, he and Cassian did not make a habit of discussing their shared social conquests, but slipping back into that brotherly familiarity had felt… tenuous this time. And whilst all memory of Nesta had been erased from Azriel’s skin, vanilla and jasmine still remained entangled with Cassian’s pine and musk, like the imprint of a frozen memory in time. Of when Nesta had been awake and glowing. Of when Cassian had wrapped her in his wings—protecting her from the trauma he seemed to know would come knocking as soon as he left her again.

But after three days of subtle distance to let Cassian cool off, all Azriel had achieved was an icy chasm of separation between he and his brother and a look on Cassian’s face that was so tortured Azriel couldn’t believe that nobody else had stepped in to ask what was wrong.

That was not to say that Mor’s chocolate brown eyes weren’t shimmering with concern or that Feyre hadn’t examined Cassian for a touch too long, but neither of them had dared to broach the subject. And whilst Mor would have usually probed Azriel for more information or fretted to him about what they should do, that easy familiarity between them had been severed.

Azriel could not see it ever being mended.

So, perhaps it was Azriel’s own grief that had him seeking out his brother on that third morning. Because even though his own heart was battered and aching, Cassian’s was worse. Azriel had learnt that the moment Cassian had sunk his teeth into the pale column of Nesta’s neck as she shattered between them—a mate territorially claiming his mate.

Mates. They were mates, for fuck’s sake.

Azriel should have known. He had suspected, of course, that Nesta Archeron was not just a female who’d managed to get under Cassian’s skin. Azriel knew Cassian better than anyone, after all. His brother had more female conquests than anyone he knew, his sexual appetite ravenous, yet Azriel’s shadows hadn’t needed to whisper to him in order for Azriel to glean that Cassian had not bedded anyone since Rhys had returned to the Night Court. Had not even glanced a female’s way since his eyes had first locked with the eldest Archeron sister in the mortal realm and snarled at her that he saw someone who had let her younger sister risk her life everyday whilst Nesta stayed safely at home. And even as Cassian’s eyes had gleamed feral as she had dismissed him, Azriel had known then that Nesta was not just another opponent. That she was in fact, most likely, the only person who was evenly matched to the male who was rumoured to be a warrior-God given flesh.

And maybe if Azriel’s judgement hadn’t been so fogged with Mor’s rejection then he would have been clear-headed enough to clamp down on his arousal and refuse to engage in a game of strip poker that could only have gone one way. But Azriel hadn’t been thinking straight. Had only thought about how even if Nesta was too gaunt, she was still undeniably devastating: her curves sweeping; her breasts full and aching. She had tasted like sin and distraction, and when her smoky grey eyes had turned from closed off to vulnerable and eager to please, his shadows had eddied out of control, flinging themselves out wide as he spilled onto her chest, her stomach...

That had been the final straw for Cassian.

Azriel didn’t blame him. He would not have had the same self-restraint himself.

The bitter winter air was sharp enough to burn when Azriel stepped out onto the otherwise deserted balcony of the breakfast room. Cassian’s wings should have been tucked in tight, but it was obvious that he was too far into his head, even as he seemingly stared out at the landscape before him. At the rolling slopes of white that stretched out for miles and miles until they were cut off by the green stripe across the landscape, where the pine trees of the forest lined the horizon.

Scuffing his shoes on the stone to alert Cassian of his arrival, Azriel stepped beyond the magical shields protecting the palace from the elements outside. The fiery crackle of pine logs was replaced by the crisp, bracing scent of winter as Azriel’s long legs carried him smoothly to the stone balcony wall to stand beside his brother.

He did not glance sideways at Cassian. Did not risk it, as he asked bluntly, “Did you want to do it?”

Cassian’s chest jerked and Azriel knew he was holding in a huff of breath—or more likely, a snort. A ginormous polar bear stepped out from between the snow-dusted pine trees, and together they watched the way the animals fur rippled with power and unimaginable strength as it padded across the ice covered fields. “Obviously,” he drawled.

Azriel’s sharp look was enough for Cassian to finally turn his head.

“You’re mates,” Azriel stated. His voice remained deep and lifeless—simple—but his words were soft and private. Only for he and Cassian.

Pain struck across his brother’s expression, the movement so swift and blinding that Azriel felt his heart clench. Shadows coiled and whispered around his ears, but Azriel silently ordered them to cease and they became quiet. “Yes,” Cassian forced out between gritted teeth.

Fists curled and uncurled at his friend’s sides, as if waiting for the questions and the derision, but Azriel only dipped his chin. “I suspected,” he said, “but when you initiated it all, I thought you couldn’t be, because there would be no way that you’d allow me to join you both otherwise.”

The grunt that emitted from Cassian’s throat curled downwards at the end, threatening to turn into a growl. Those fists tightened again and Azriel wondered how soon he’d have to blend into shadow. “You both wanted it. I wasn’t going to let you do it without me, was I?”

The torturous truth in the words hit home. Had Azriel been too blinded by his recent conversation with Mor to have judged what was right and what was wrong? But… no. Azriel had scented that room—the consensual desire thrumming between all of them. And he had not forgotten the look Cassian had shared with him that had told Azriel he was game—the raised, taunting eyebrow.

“You know I wouldn’t have done it without you,” Azriel replied carefully. “Nesta wouldn’t have done it without you.”

Cassian’s silence vibrated with a tense energy and Azriel understood the words his brother still could not voice aloud: he needed to be home with his mate. To check that she was ok. How could the others not see how badly Cassian was faring? He looked as if he had barely slept. Dark rings hung beneath his eyes as sharp as bruises and the agony wrought upon his face was so fierce it made Azriel’s shadows cluster to his brother, tendrils coiling out towards him.

His brother did not acknowledge them, even as one curled around his shoulder—a cold, gentle hand.

“Does she know?” Azriel asked.

It had been something Azriel had already considered. Feyre hadn’t recognised when the mating bond had snapped into place for she and Rhys and she had been human just like Nesta—had not grown up knowing about the bond and what it meant. Azriel couldn’t bring himself to ask Cassian when he had understood what he and Nesta were. There were so many times that Azriel had suspected that something far greater than lust or even simply love existed between the two of them. But then the war had finished and Nesta had become… empty—a byproduct of grief and death—and any obvious hope on Cassian’s part that the two of them might become something more had disintegrated into ash.

Steamed breath clouded the sky as his friend exhaled. The sound was bitter, somehow. “You should have asked, Does she care?”

“She cares,” Azriel replied, not waiting to pause for breath or to even blink. He had seen the way they interacted together now after all—how their bodies blended into one being, as if they had orchestrated a dance that only they knew. “Her eyes have this hollow quality most of the time. But sometimes, when she looks at you, it’s as if you have woken her up.”

Silence again as Cassian stared fixedly out at the expanse of white—at the fae that were bundled in thick furs and holding on tightly to leather reigns as they guided velvet-antlered reindeer and their curved sleighs through the snow.

“She’s good for you,” Azriel continued, offering up a truth—a blessing he knew his brother so desperately craved.

He was pressing far more than he usually did. Azriel was often a male of few words, but it was not often he saw his brother this lost. And Azriel supposed he had been privy to something nobody else had besides Cassian—a Nesta that was not sharp and prickly but open and unguarded in a way that had both hurt and given him breath. Azriel had seen the light spark back in her eyes when Cassian had bowed to kiss her. But Azriel wondered if Cassian knew how much she had woken him up, too. How for once, Cassian had not tried to be anyone but himself.

His brother’s brow furrowed with what Azriel translated as disbelief. “She doesn’t let you pretend,” Azriel clarified simply, in a tone that was not up for discussion.

A muscle ticked in Cassian’s jaw, but he merely crossed his arms tightly over his broad chest. The leather of his armour creaked, the sound swept away with the moaning of the wind. “It was hard not to be territorial,” he admitted eventually, glancing quickly at Azriel.

It was an apology, Azriel realised and a chuckle left his lips before he could stifle it. Cassian’s eyes widened in surprise. It was not often the Shadowsinger laughed so easily, but Azriel couldn’t help it. Cassian had certainly been restrained beyond measure, but there had been times when every muscle in Azriel’s body had been braced for Cassian to launch himself across the room and throttle him.

But Azriel did not bother saying any of that, even as his lips curved at the memory. He only pushed away from the railing wreathed in frost-covered ivy. It signified an end to the conversation but more importantly, what had occurred between the three of them—a clear line that would not be crossed again.

“Who knew you were so restrained,” he deadpanned, his voice falling into a near drawl that had Cassian barking a laugh. Rhys had asked Azriel to travel to Illyria in order to gather the latest intelligence from the camps and report back on the latest whisperings of the rebellion. He was already late. So he only nodded at his brother as his power swirled around him, ready to bleed him in and out of shadow until he arrived where he needed to be.

“I’ll see you in a week,” he told Cassian, and then everything went dark.

Tags (let me know if you want to be added/removed): @arinbelle @superspiritfestival @sayosdreams @perseusannabeth @mylittlebigplanet @biggestwingspan-az @bellsqueen @ekaterinakostrova @bookstantrash @prophecyerised @rainbowcheetah512 @awesomelena555 @wannawriteyouabook @iammissstark @lovelynesta @melphss @nestalytical @darkshadowqueensrule @laylaameer01 @a-trifling-matter @grouchycritic7794 @thalia-2-rose @champanheandluxxury @swankii-art-teacher @princessconsuela02 @lavendergoomsltd @little-diyosa @princessofmerchants-reads @jeakat @sjm-things @imwritingthesewords @nestable @inejbrekkxr @silvernesta @inyourmindeye @amelie775 @iwastoowildinthe70s @helen-the-weirdo @pizzaneverdisappoints @wishfulimaginings @trash-for-nessian @my-fan-side @sophilightwood @hatemecozuaintme @vidalinav @onceupona-chaos @inardour @thesunremembersyourface @teagoddess99 @dontgetsalmonella @jungtaekwoonie-is-life @finallyrosie

#acotarfanfic #acotar #acosf #acosf spoilers #nessianthreesome #nessian/Azriel #Azriel/Nesta/cassian #Nesta/Azriel/Cassian #nesta x cassian #cassianfic #nessian #nessianfic #azrielpov #azriel fic #embersandlightfic #wingsflamesandshadows #habitsfic

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asweetprologue · 4 years

Text

drown all my shadows

Octoberfest 15: Lost (whumptober #20) - Last one!!

Jaskier wakes in a fog.

His immediate first impression is, in a way, a lack of impression. The world around him seems featureless. He’s standing, though he doesn’t remember standing up, or walking here in the first place. The fog is thick around his thighs, sending up slow, curling whisps whenever he moves his hands. It’s not much better elsewhere, filling the air and turning the world into an opaque canvas of white. He can’t see beyond his own outstretched hand, everything lost in the gloom.

It’s unnerving. The world is dampened around him, like there’s cotton stuffed in his ears. Jaskier doesn’t know how he got here. He and Geralt had been together - on a hunt? There had been a cabin - a woman? a witch? - and they’d given chase, following her into the woods beyond…

He remembers nothing else. His memories are as foggy as his surroundings. One moment he’d been running after Geralt through the forest of craggy, blackened trees, and then next thing he remembers is opening his eyes to this barren landscape. The silence around him is so intense he can hear his own heartbeat rushing in his ears, deafening.

Half just for something else to listen to, Jaskier says, “Hello?” His voice falls flat in the fog, eaten up by the mist. No one answers. “Geralt? Hello?”

There is nothing. He does a once over of his surroundings once again, but in every direction all he can see is white. It’s almost like being in a box, surrounded by walls on all sides. Feeling panic starts to worm its way into his chest, Jaskier takes a few steps forward. He can’t explain why he feels dread curling through his stomach. It’s just fog, he tells himself. But it doesn’t feel like fog. It feels empty and oppressive and cold, clinging to him and tugging at his clothes and his feet. Something equally cold and empty echoes through Jaskier’s chest, a spot of fearful loneliness that he has always worked hard to keep at bay.

With no other recourse, he walks.

There are no features to the landscape that he can distinguish. The fog is endless; he may as well not be moving at all, for all it changes. The ground under his feet is a plain gray dirt, but he has not stumbled upon a single plant or animal since he’d started walking. It feels quickly as if hours have passed, though it also could have been only moments. There is no way to mark the passage of time or how far he’s walked. There’s no sun in the sky; the fact that he can see at all suggests that it must be there, but the fog has swallowed it along with everything else. He can only put one foot in front of the other, occasionally calling out to anyone who might be near.

It could have been minutes or hours or days, but eventually something does change. He thinks he’s imagined it, at first, but as he moves closer there’s no mistaking. There is a shape in the fog, something just slightly darker than the rest of his surroundings. He can’t make it out, but Jaskier moves towards it with a burst of enthusiasm that borders on fear. As he nears, the fog dissipates enough for him to make out the outline of a figure.

“Oh, thank fuck,” Jaskier says, relief sweeping through him. Even if this person is as lost as he is, at least there will be someone with him. Anything to help assuage the nervous, lonely thing inside him. “I thought I was the only one out here, are you alright?” As he approaches, he can see that it's a woman, her yellow dress faded with age. Jaskier practically runs to close the last few feet between them, reaching out to put a hand on her shoulder. The dress is soft under his hands, but extraordinary cold. At his touch, the figure shifts like water under his hands, turning in his direction.

She has no face.

Jaskier screams, but the sound is consumed by the fog like all the others. He falls back, scrambling away on his ass. The thing that looks like a woman but has no face does not follow him, standing perfectly still. The flat expanse of smooth skin where her features should be does not change in the slightest or react to him in any way. Jaskier stumbles to his feet and runs back into the fog, desperate to escape the horror of it.

His heart does not stop pounding, no matter how much distance he gains. It’s impossible to tell if he is gaining distance. And it isn’t long before he stumbles across another figure, practically running into it. The man is the same, utterly devoid of features, a personless person shaped thing. Jaskier feels the terror gripping him wind tighter and tighter as he turns and immediately finds another faceless figure in his periphery. The shells never react to him, but for some reason that is more frightening than if they’d tried to attack him.

Jaskier runs, not stopping to assess the shapes he sees blurred through the fog. He’s panicking, he knows, but he can’t stop. He’s alone in this horrible fog with these empty people. There’s no escape; no matter how far he runs, there’s no thinning of the mist.

Finally he collapses, curling into a tight ball in the thickest part of the fog. Gasping into his knees, Jaskier thinks, frantically, that he might be trapped here forever. Who would look for him? Who would even know where this is? No one at Oxenfurt would think anything of his disappearance, his family haven’t seen him in decades. He has fans who will forget him, patrons who will mourn the loss of his art but move immediately on to newcomers. As he thinks, Jaskier feels the fog closing in tighter around him, kissing his cheeks and clutching at his shoulders. It’s so cold, in a bone deep way that scares him as much as the faceless people. No one will remember him, no one is looking for him -

Geralt, he thinks. Geralt will look.

It’s such a relief he almost cries with it. No matter what Geralt has said in the past, they’re friends, and Geralt is the most noble man Jaskier knows. Geralt would not write off his disappearance. Geralt cares about him, and he will find him. Geralt will come.

And suddenly, as if summoned by sheer will, Jaskier finds a familiar hand thrust into his face.

Geralt’s eyes are wide when Jaskier looks up, and it’s so good to see him, so good to see anyone that Jaskier fails to spring immediately into action. Impatiently, Geralt shakes the hand in front of him. “Jaskier,” he says, insistent. “Take my hand.” So Jaskier does.

Instantly the fog retreats, as if blown back by a strong blast of aard. The forest comes into focus around them, the spindly arms of the trees reaching up towards the pale blue sky. Jaskier is pulled to his feet, Geralt’s hands settling on his upper arms as he is given a thorough once over. “Are you alright?” Geralt asks, gruff but clearly concerned.

Jaskier feels a bit faint, weak in the wake of his terror. “Ah,” he says faintly. “M-Mostly, I think. Yes. What was that, Geralt? Where was I?”

Geralt frowns, glancing around the forest around them. It’s quiet, but in the way forests often are in the fall. If he strains, Jaskier can hear the rustle of animals rooting through the fallen leaves that coat the ground around them, the soft calls of birds and the chirp of squirrels and chipmunks. “The witch was kidnapping people,” Geralt says. “Do you remember?”

Jaskier nods slowly. It’s coming back now, without the fog leaking into his brain and obscuring his thoughts. “People from the village. We chased after her, when she ran from the cottage. She -”

“Hit you with a spell,” Geralt finishes. “Yes. It put you in some kind of… in-between place. Managed to get her to tell me what it was, before I killed her. It feeds off of people’s loneliness. She used it to strengthen her magic.”

“There were others there,” Jaskier says, feeling nauseated as he remembers the blank stares. “They had no faces.”

“Already gone. Eaten up by her magic,” Geralt says, gently. He’s smoothing his hands up and down Jaskier’s arms now, a grounding gesture that Jaskier is grateful for. “It wouldn’t have happened to you. I found you easily, once I got her to tell me the spell. People care about you. The spell only feeds off of lonely people.”

“I knew you would find me,” Jaskier says. He feels tired, exceptionally so. Like the fog sapped up all of his strength, both physical and emotional. “Fuck, Geralt, it was awful.” Unable to help himself, Jaskier leans forward until he’s resting his forehead against Geralt’s shoulder, fingers tangling in the familiar leather armor.

To his surprise, strong arms come up to hold him tightly. Jaskier sighs, relief sweeping through him as Geralt’s warm palms press into his shoulders. “It’s alright,” Geralt says, in the same tone he uses on Roach when he’s trying not to spook her. Jaskier would take offense if he didn’t feel so much like he might be spooked. “I would never have left you there.”

“I know,” Jaskier says, tired but content. “I would never forget you. I’m never lonely with you.”

Geralt squeezes him tightly, once, before releasing him, though not entirely. One hand still rests on Jaskier’s shoulder, just at the joint of his neck and collarbone. “We should get back to town. Are you alright to walk?”

“Yes,” Jaskier says, though exhaustion rests in every bone. “Bit of a fright, that’s all. I’m perfectly hale and hearty.”

To prove this, Jaskier turns and starts away, not even sure that he’s going in the right direction. A hand catches his wrist as he does, and he turns back to Geralt with a questioning look. He’s met with a soft expression, one he’d rarely seen before on the witcher. “I’m glad,” Geralt says. “That you’re not lonely.”

Jaskier finds himself smiling, warmth flooding through his chest to finally chase off the cold from before. “Never with you, dear. Never with you.”

287 notes · View notes

whump-town · 3 years

Text

Will You Take Me Home?

Here is some heart-warming fluff to make up for what I did with the cancer fic. I would do it again so I’m not sorry but I do feel remorse for hurting you

Word Count: 5055

Retired Hotch’s Birthday

The normal temperature of the room outside his nest of throw-blankets and heating pad causes goosebumps to break out over his exposed arm. He groans, not even bothering to check the caller ID as he puts his phone to his ear and answers “Aaron Hotchner”. His voice has taken on the gravel of disuse, fogged by the painkiller-induced nap he’d accidentally fallen into. If he was following his doctor’s orders, that wouldn’t happen. His body would have acclimated to the drugs and the pain wouldn’t leave him so exhausted that he can hardly keep his eyes open when it dulls to throbs. Which, he’s not aware of just yet, but is the very nature of this call: his detrimental habits.

“Sleeping beauty,” the other person greets and he leans back against the pillows behind him, rolling his eyes. The phone rustles and Hotch shakes his head as he hears the faint scratching and rustling of keys at his door. “I knocked four times,” he’s informed. “I was starting to think--” the door comes free and Hotch doesn’t even look up. “I thought I was going to find you dead in here.” The call ends and from the other side of the couch, he hears, “which, by the way, would be a hell of a thing, you know? Dead on your own birthday.” He closes his eyes but feels the cushions get pushed down, the telltale sign she’s leaning over the back of the cushion overtop him. “Speaking of which,” she beams. “Happy Birthday, old man.”

He looks up at her, taking in the full effect of mischief he could only hear before. The expressive lines of her smile spread across her face and it’s a distinct moment when all he can think about is how truly awful things had been between them at the beginning. How mean he was, really, because it wasn’t her. It was his own inability to trust. Yet, here she is before noon on his sixtieth birthday leaning over his couch and no doubt about to start a pot of coffee that she’ll consume over three-fourths of. Suppressing the smile tugging at his own lips, he raises a more important matter at hand. Far more pressing than why it is that she’s letting herself into his home. “How long until they come?”

Retired doesn’t mean born yesterday (whatever the opposite of that is, really). He’s not around the office anymore but given Garcia’s questioning last month of his favorite cake flavor, Dave’s inquiry into his schedule for this week, and Emily’s early arrival he knows exactly what they’re doing. To her credit, Emily pretends she doesn’t and she might be more convincing if he didn’t know every tell she’s had for the last two decades.

“Who?” she asks. “How long until who comes?” He just looks at her. A stand-off, really, to see who caves first. They’re assholes so this could go on forever and if she were looking for the thrill of watching him break and she would press on. She cracks but not because he’s better at this game, just because she’s excited. “You have an hour. I’ve been sent to get you ready so you’re not a crabby old bastard when they arrive.”

He groans, sinking back into the couch and pulling his blanket up over his head. Effectively locking her out. Well... not really. She just leans further over him, not caring when he grunts tries to burrow farther away. “Come on,” she shakes his shoulders. “Aren’t you the least bit excited? Penny made you those cookies you like and Derek is bringing Hank, who, I might add, is very excited to see Hops.” And she’s only buttering him up because-- “I’m not supposed to tell you this because it’s a huge surprise but Dave left this morning to go pick up Jack. He’ll--” she can’t even get it out. He peaks out, just the top of his head so he can narrow his eyes at her. To see if she’s just fucking with him, using his feelings against him but he sees only sincerity. She grins, she knows she’s won. “So up and at ‘em old-timer! You’ve got a gaggle of people to entertain!”

Old-timer? He’s four years older than she is. That’s not what he comments on. “Gaggle?” he repeats back to her, grunting as his knees protest his standing. “Really showing your age there,” he mumbles and steps out of the way of the pillow she throws at his head. “What?” he defends. “You said it, not me.” He shakes his head, heading back to his room and leaving her to entertain herself. Which she will and he can hear her rustling around the coffee machine. Nearly surprised that she doesn’t complain he still hasn’t set up the Keurig she got him for Christmas (which they are rapidly approaching him having owned now for a year).

Though he isn’t sure how to express it anymore, he’s excited to have them here. Even if he knows that it will get overwhelming, he can’t deny that the night will end far too soon and he’ll find himself missing them all over again. But that’s not what’s important. In an hour (less than that knowing Penelope and her strict party-throwing agendas) he’ll have them all right here. Reid with his never-ending knowledge, quizzing him on the book recommendations that Hotch has been slowly working his way through. With Derek and Savannah and Hank, the latter of which can’t pronounce Hotch and it makes his heart do a funny little thing when the toddler sees him and screams in pure delight “Hops!”

JJ will pour in with Henry and it’ll be like old times watching Henry and Jack slunk off together (and they all pretend like they don’t know they’re smoking pot in the backyard). Emily and Dave force him to mediate the same four fights that they always have and then they’ll stick around long after the others have gone home to talk about whatever comes to their minds.

And Penelope.

His house is about to be flooded with baked goods and meals in containers because despite being alive as long as he has, she denies the notion he can feed himself. She’ll organize them in specific ways and each will be labeled in her neat handwriting so he can tell what’s in each. Most of them will be vegetarian because she’s worried about his cholesterol (and the environment) and a few will be spicy and chicken will make its way into a few of the dishes. He’ll thank her and kiss her cheek and she’ll remind him like she always does, that all he has to do is ask. He won’t but he does appreciate how much she cares. As smothering as it can be.

He showers quickly, giddy in a strange way to get out and be properly ready when the others arrive. Not too quickly, the last thing he needs is to bust his ass while Emily is here. She is far too comfortable with herself and with him and he knows that she will come in here if she hears him. The other thing about that woman is that she might have a distaste for constantly being touched but she can put that aside to annoy him. Which has created this weird mind-game thing he knows he’s losing when he doesn’t even notice her encroaching on his personal space.

Everything is a battle with her.

He decides to save himself the trouble of being bullied and searches through his dresser for a pair of jeans. He owns maybe two pairs of jeans both purchased forever ago and just to help him fit in with the parents at Jack’s school during field trips and soccer games. He stuck out like a sore thumb when he was a kid and he knows he still does but he won’t be the reason Jack gets weird looks. Emily had raised an eyebrow at that (why he had even divulged this to her is beyond him) so evidently it didn’t really do the trick but Dave assures him he looks fine and Garcia thinks he looks like a DILF so… he’s fairly certain that’s good. He’s not really sure what that means but he’s learned it’s better not to ask her to clarify.

Emily is fixing the couch when he comes out, the apartment filled with the scent of the coffee she’s brewed while he was showering. “You’re going to burn the house down with this thing,” she tells him. She holds up his heated blanket as it offends her. “You need to go to the doctor, there has to be something they can do.”

What surprises him isn’t her apparent anger-- with Emily, it’s a diversion. Her anger is rarely that, it’s to distract, and right now he knows he’s to perceive her anger and not the way she fears for him. The way that she can’t say “I love you” like the others but can, instead, be outraged that his body has been working against him for so many years. She’s not angry at him for needing to be tucked up in that blanket all the time, she’s afraid of a vascular issue that might kill him or that he’ll leave untreated until they’re all being reunited at the closest general hospital. Waiting for a doctor to tell them that he waited too long or that his heart can’t handle another surgery or a million other things.

He takes the blanket from her, clumsily folding it over and tucking the cords into the folds. “I have gone to the doctor,” he assures her. Not for that specifically but he did bring it up. He leaves it at that for now and she understands that means maybe later. It’s not worth getting into and he doesn’t feel like thinking about George Foyet and his knife today.

“Hey,” Emily hums, smirking at him. “Your ass looks really nice in those jeans.”

He stops dead in his tracks, frowning as he looks back at her but just as he’s about to inquire what, no doubt, awful thing she’s done to make her feel the need to compliment him to compensate for it, the apartment door opens. They both turn to the noise and Garcia steps in and freezes when she notices the two of them standing there.

Looking at the bags full of things she has in her arms and then to Emily and then to Hotch she sheepishly smiles. “Happy Birthday?”

With a sigh, having accepted this defeat a while ago, Hotch steps to help her with bags. He tries to hide his amusement but he cuts Emily a glance, three bags in his left hand and more still coming, and he can’t help it. Garcia turns back just as the smile eats its way up his face and he shakes his head. For a split second, he can see her apprehension, the way that her fear of going overboard or embarrassing herself washes over her before she carefully masks it (and to think he gets all the shit about masking). “Thank you,” he whispers so sincerely that he has to avert his eyes. Adding softly, “you know, you’re the only person who ever cares to make me celebrate it?”

Which just makes her sad. “Sir,” she whispers frowning. “You deserve the world, do you know that?”

He blushes, shaking his head, but he can’t get the words out in his shock.

“Oh,” she tsks. She stands on her toes and pulls him down so she can wrap her arms around him. “I love you.”

Emily makes a sound of disgust behind them and he’s glad for the distraction before all this undue attention gives him a heart attack. “Bleh,” Emily rolls her eyes. But she brightens when she sees the red Tupperware container holding the cookies. “Are those the--”

Garcia sees Emily zero in on them and hands them right to Hotch, holding them to his chest. “Are not for you,” she says to Emily with a nod of her head.

So Emily just looks to Hotch and he passes them to her with a shrug and weakly defends, “they’ll go stale if she doesn’t eat half of them.” They’re his birthday cookies but she’ll get her hands on them anyway. If not today then the next time she lets herself in. If not her then Reid when he gets bored and wanders over here for entertainment. If not Reid then Dave then Derek… you get the point. He’ll never finish them on his own.

Garcia lets it go because she knows that’s how he is and because she has a crapload of other things to make sure he eats. He leaves her to mess with his fridge, it’s better to let her do her thing. She’ll move his almond milk to the side door because that’s its proper place (even though he’ll move it right back) and come in about five to ten minutes to fuss with him about a specific something she notices he’s lacking. Today it will be the complete lack of breakfast foods in this house when she knows for a fact that his doctors are giving him hell about eating more than once a day.

He’ll have no excuse, never does, but she won’t give him a chance to provide it either way.

Reid arrives next and actually knocks and waits for someone to let him in, something none of the others will do. He sheepishly offers Hotch the books he’s artfully wrapped in a newspaper and Hotch ignores it for a moment to hug him. If they don’t do it now Reid will just wait in anxious anticipation for it because he knows it’s what people do and he likes being hugged by Hotch but he doesn’t know how to initiate it himself.

“The Sultan of Brunei spent $27.2 million on his 50th birthday,” Reid tells him as soon as Hotch lets him go. “Michael Jackson was there,” he says with a nod. And Hotch smiles and listens to him anxiously work his way around the point that he’s trying to make. Which is that by the standards of the Sultan of Brunei, this party will be exceptionally small and quiet… the way Hotch would want it to be.

They are still standing at the door, talking about what the act of giving a card means. The way that the stories get warped and it thrills Reid to slide the pieces of that puzzle together through-out various cultural ideals until you have them. And that America has a very strange, above-average affinity for birthday cards.

Derek nearly hits Reid with the door when he comes in. Too distracted with a squirming Hank on his hip and Savannah behind him fussing with him for not knocking. He brightens the second he places his eyes on the two of them, a face that Hank matches perfectly upon seeing his favorite people.

“Weed!” the toddler greets throwing himself into his godfather’s arms. Reid takes him happily, laughing at how tightly Hank holds onto him. He just loves that Hank never gets tired of him. He could still see Hank every day for a month and Hank would still greet him with the same enthusiasm as the first day.

Derek is kicking his shoes off, offering Savannah his hand so she can do the same when he notices Hank still excitedly talking to Reid. That’s by all means not abnormal but-- “Hey,” Derek mumbles Hank. He nods his head to Hotch who is standing watching Reid and Hank with a bright, wide smile. “Don’t you have something for Hops?”

Reid puts Hank down before the toddler can start to squirm and Hank immediately glues himself to Hotch’s leg. No one knows why it’s just what Hank likes to do but not just, in general, he only does it to Hotch. He stands for a few seconds, both arms wrapped around one of Hotch’s legs, face pressed into the material of his jeans, and Hotch stands still to allow him to do it. Hops is a nickname he has no control over, the same way that Reid doesn’t fight that he’s been “Weed” now since Jack was two and stumbling over his name.

Hotch got off easy. When Henry was younger he just sort of kept his distance from Hotch. Hank… just really loves him.

“Is that a hot wheel?” Hotch asks softly when Hank finally peels himself away enough to offer the bright toy clutched in his hands. Hank beams up at him and stretches to hold it higher, trying to get Hotch to take it. “Oh wow,” Hotch gasps, shaking his head and pretending to just be so impressed by this toy so severely dwarfed in his hand. “Do you know what colors these are?”

Derek holds his hand out for Savannah to take and guides her through the house. Moving them to the kitchen to talk with Garcia and Emily knowing that he won’t be getting his son back this afternoon. Both because Hank won’t want to leave Hotch or Reid’s side and because Hotch and Reid won’t want him to leave. The Hotwheels was entirely Hank, they spent twenty minutes finding the perfect one when all Derek needed from the store was stain. Though they all agreed to no presents because Hotch would already hate them invading his home with cake, they all got him presents.

The others all got him books because that’s what they know he likes and he really does love to receive books. They’re fun entertainment and they all say something about how not only they perceive him but also the sorts of things that they like and he… well, he loves that.

Derek built him a new bookshelf. It’s sitting in the back of the truck and he’s waiting on Will to get here to drag the thing in here. Derek had noticed two weekends ago that one of the shelves Hotch uses in the hall was bowing under the weight of the books on it so he’d made something to replace it. Thin but heavy-duty-- he’d considered all the ins and outs of the current shelf. Things he didn’t like about it until he has a higher shelf that doesn’t stick out so obscenely.

Which doesn’t matter, really, Hotch will love it either way.

Hank keeps “Hops” distracted while the others pull dinner together. Emily is set to ice the cake but she’s awful and she’s sent to sit in the living room with the other three. Hotch is sitting in the recliner, Hank sitting on his knees and telling him about what he did in preschool this week while Reid pokes through the bookshelf Hotch keeps by the door.

JJ knocks as she comes in but still lets herself in. Henry is bummed to see Jack isn’t here yet but he’s quickly distracted and swept right back out the door to help his father and Derek move the bookshelf into the house. They don’t really need Henry’s help but it’s an effective way to ensure Hotch doesn’t try to help. Not because he can’t but because… he’s old and they don’t want to break him.

They’re just buying time, anyway, until Jack and Dave get here.

With them comes the party…

Hotch only puts Hank down to hug Jack, biting down his tears when he realizes that his son now stands just as tall as he is. Probably bound to be taller. He’s grown out his blonde hair in college and just as Hotch is opening his mouth to ask about school, how seeking out that Master’s Degree is treating him, he spots--

“A puppy!” Hank shouts.

Jack smiles timidly, stepping back to show his father the dog still held back by Dave’s hold on her collar. “Her name is Scout!” Jack kneels down, beaming up at his father while the thrilled puppy licks his face. “Do you get it?”

Oh, he gets it alright. Emily had snitched him out two weeks ago (to his own son, of all people) and admitted she was a little worried. He still doesn’t think there was ground for her fears. It’s not abnormal for him to shut himself out and if his therapist doesn’t think he’s any crazier than normal then that should mean he’s fine. At least, that’s how Hotch feels about it. That’s ignoring the way that everyone else feels. Which is that he’s visibly more on the edge and jumpy. That he gets irritated in public spaces and his anxiety is getting worse despite starting therapy and medicine he swears is helping.

Jack had done his best to get through to his father but sometimes Hotch makes those conversations like talking to a brick wall. That conversation had ended rather badly, honestly. Jack had yelled, shouting mindlessly that he’s twenty-five and he’s too young to have to be taking care of Hotch like this. Too young to have to fear that each day he’ll receive that phone call and the crazy thing is that Jack wouldn’t even be surprised-- everything about Hotch’s life is damning proof to the fact that he acts impulsively, reckless, and without care to his own well-being.

Jack had called later and he’d apologized, they both had. It had been careless on Jack’s behalf, Jessica had explained to him at sixteen some delicate things about his father. He’d come to understand just what it means for everyone around Hotch to love him. The way that his mother had tried to stifle that urge in his father and Jessica and Dave and Emily and Derek and everyone who has ever loved a man like Aaron Hotchner has tried to walk him back off that ledge. But it’s as if he was born there and you can move him but you can’t take that fundamental calling away. Can’t wash his darkness away.

Jack had spent his entire childhood likening the characters around him to his father, just pulling at strings to understand the man. Sometimes he’d earn himself a smile and other times a grunt. He’d bring his father the books or replay scenes in movies all to just see his reactions to know if the man he sees his father as is the same one Hotch sees himself as.

Freshman year of high school they’d read To Kill A Mockingbird and he’d thought his father to be a man like Atticus Finch. In many ways, he is but he keeps coming back to that book. Until during that heavily apologetic phone call, Jack had laughed and realized his father might be a bit like Atticus Finch but he’s a Boo Radley. The recluse that always represents unwavering good.

Hence Scout.

What had driven Boo Radley from his home? Little Scout Finch.

He lets them into the house, not really sure what to say. “You know,” Hotch mumbles, shaking his head. He watches the puppy eagerly work her way around the others. Snaking between legs and nearly knocking Hank over in her excitement but the boy is around enough dogs to only laugh harder. “You could have just got me a… gym membership of something.”

Derek huffs at that and now, he’s sitting in his living room watching his closest friends snickering at his son’s clever book reference. With a sigh, he leans down and offers his hand to the puppy, frowning when her first instinct is to lick him. “Hi, Scout.”

Jack squats down, petting Scout while she continues basking in Hotch’s attention. “You don’t go to the gym, dad.” Jack rubs behind her ears, smiling when Scout doesn’t divert her attention from Hotch. She’s zeroed in on him and he’s fairly content with that. “Besides I got Scout from that program that they run in Richmond.” There’s this dog training thing they do down there that his friend actually works at. Scout failed her training-- as it turns out she’s a bit of a reject. They’d tried to start her out as a service dog but she’d been too smart for that too. Too eager.

Hotch raises an eyebrow at that, not liking the sound of what he thinks is happening. Those dogs are expensive and it’s already enough that she’s a German Shephard. “What do you mean?”

Jack glances at Dave, “well…”

Dave steps up and soothes it out. “I made some calls and Jack’s friend helped us out. Scout is a reject from two academies, a failed service dog and from the police dog academy in Richmond. So she’s too smart for them to just send anywhere.”

Great, Hotch thinks.

“It’s perfect,” Emily snickers. “Hotch loves to take care of things and now he’s essentially got a toddler again.”

“She is potty trained,” Jack offers quickly.

But Emily is right and the idea is brilliant. Hotch does like to take care of things and having Scout will prompt him to start taking walks in the morning again. It might help him implement a strict eating routine, place him in the kitchen to feed her. He won’t go do things for himself but he will take her to the dog park and sit there until she’s tired. Throw balls for her to retrieve and (what had been the killing stone) is that she’s far too smart for her own good. She’s got other training. Senses anxiety and depression and is very protective.

Hotch frowns down at Scout, she’s placed her head on his knee watching him as he takes this in. Hank is leaned up against her side, fingers trailing through her short fur, and she’s entirely unbothered by it. She’s only worried about Hotch and Hotch is worried about her. He’s never had a pet before. Jack had a goldfish he fed occasionally but… there’s no way that counts.

“Thank you,” he says softly, rubbing at his fingers anxiously and frowning when Scout smacks his hand with her nose. He sighs and puts his hand on her head, scratching like he thinks she wants. Too distracted to note what she’s effortlessly just done. Put off by her clinginess, he’s not even thinking about the curling hot ball of nerves in his stomach. His mind does wander but she nudges him again and he sighs and keeps patting her head.

Dinner goes well and Scout and Hank are glued to his sides. Hank to his left feeding him chips and Scout green beans which Hotch sees and chooses to ignore. Her immediate allegiance to him is a little strange, she’s not too bothered with Garcia or Derek no matter how hard he tries to win her over (feeding her green beans just like his son). Scout does like Hank, Henry, Jack, and Reid. She takes to them like it’s nothing. She’ll go from ignoring Derek’s attempts to get her to sit to trot right over to Reid and lay over his feet.

Hotch does enjoy that, it’s funny.

They funnel out slowly after eight. Hank has already fallen asleep in Hotch’s arms and Savannah has to wipe his tears up and shush him back to hazy contentment with the promise he’ll see Hops soon. Derek will probably be over in a day or two to make sure that the shelf is holding up well and to transfer the books and he’ll bring Hank along to distract Hotch to do it.

JJ and Will trickle out not too long after. Henry and Jack conspire together to get Dave to take them for ice cream and he caves-- Jack promises to text him before he falls asleep to tell him where he landed for the night.

Garcia takes Reid home, won’t let him take the subway back at this hour and Hotch doesn’t even have to ask they just know to text him when they get home safe. He promises to eat the food Garcia left and she already has the date in which he should run out marked on her calendar. She’ll give him a week to bring back the Tupperware before coming over here herself and seeing what he has and hasn’t eaten.

Emily sticks around until ten. The two of them picking up meager things and she promises to come by early tomorrow and the two of them will go to PetSmart to figure out what kind of food Scout should be eating.

And before he knows it…

“I guess it’s just me and you then.” Scout tilts her head at him. “You want to… go to bed?”

He’s not really sure how the dog thing works. TV has shown him plenty of times they’re not supposed to sleep in your bed so he makes her a blanket bed of her own and marks down a dog bed on his list of things to get tomorrow at the pet store. He tells her goodnight and then blushes at how silly that sounds.

He’s in bed, changed into pajamas, and yawning into his book but he’s committed to reading a chapter every night. He hears her get up but he still jumps when his bedroom door is opened. She doesn’t wait for a command and doesn't listen to his “no” before jumping up into the bed alongside him. He’s trying to grumble, to get up but she lays right across his hips. Turning her head to look up at him and he gives up. “Only tonight,” he says.

Tonight turns into the way she sits between his legs, when they’re listening to the guy at PetSmart help them pick out food. To the way she looks up at him when he tries to estimate how big she’ll be to get her a properly sized bed. Which ultimately turns into him giving up and Emily hiding her smirk at just how whipped he already is.

Tonight turns into every night and if his nightmares stop coming as frequently because she’s laying atop him he doesn’t say anything. If he starts going out more and the team starts picking out pet friendly places to meet him for lunch or to have a coffee break then he also doesn't say anything but Scout is right there.

So… what exactly does it take to draw Aaron Hotchner away from the ghosts? A puppy.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #penelope garcia #spencer reid #derek morgan #jack hotchner #hank morgan #savannah hayes #jennifer jareau #will lamontagne #henry jareau #david rossi

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quazartranslates · 3 years

Text

Welcome to the Nightmare Game II - CH60

**This is an edited machine translation. For more information, please [click here]**

[<<< Previous Chapter | Table of Contents | Next Chapter >>>]

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Chapter 60: Purgatory Reunion (XII)

It was getting late at night, so reason told Qi Leren that it was time to rest, but the warm night wind was rare in the Underground Ant City, and the person sitting beside him was the lover he had met after a long separation. Qi Leren felt no drowsiness at all, as if he could talk to Ning Zhou all night.

They did talk for a long time, and even Ning Zhou, who has always been taciturn, said many things about the past.

"Winter swimming in Neverland? That’s too cold!" Qi Leren was stunned by Ning Zhou's hobby, and his teeth chattered with cold when he listened.

"...Fortunately, it wasn’t as cold as when we were ashore." Ning Zhou said and added seriously, "Really."

Qi Leren was skeptical. Even though he had been baptized by Maria's power and had a strong resistance to low temperature, Leviathan had left a psychological shadow on him in their fight underground. Under that terrible temperature, it seemed that the human soul would be frozen and crack. Neverland was in the polar regions, and the temperature of the polar night was also terrible. Even the polar days weren’t much better.

Enjoying swimming in the winter in Neverland... It was really a hardcore hobby.

"It must be very cold once you come out. After going under? You must freeze as soon as the wind blows, right?" Qi Leren is getting colder and colder.

"If you wipe your body with ice and snow first, it will soon heat up," Ning Zhou said.

Qi Leren was really shaking now, rubbing his hands and saying, "I feel cold now!"

Ning Zhou immediately reached over and wrapped his rubbing hands: "Is it still cold?"

Qi Leren froze, and the body temperature of another person was warm against his hand, which made him really shiver. The two people were motionless together, holding hands together for a long time without separating.

Ning Zhou's eagle flew in from outside, and landed on the railing of the terrace. It walked from one end of the railing to the other with his head held high, and then turned and walked back in a different posture. However, no matter how coquettish and enchanting it was, these two people ignored it. It was so angry that it began to tell the time: "Two o'clock, two o'clock, staying up late to die suddenly, endangering health!"

It really spoiled the mood, and Qi Leren glared at it gloomily: "It's late, we should go back to sleep."

"Hmm."

Actually, both of them didn't want to sleep. But considering each other's health, they left the terrace tacitly, crossed the living room, and came to the two bedrooms that were side by side.

Two bedrooms separated by only one wall.

"Goodnight," Qi Leren said with difficulty.

"Well, good night," Ning Zhou also said.

I said good night and should go back to my room to sleep, but a feeling of reluctance overwhelmed him. Qi Leren looked at his toes and said, "Sweet dreams."

"...You too."

It was really time to go this time, but after a few hours, they could sit together for breakfast again. Compared with the long separation before, such short hours were just a blink of an eye.

But they were still loath to give them up.

"What do you... what do you want to eat tomorrow?" Qi Leren asked.

"Anything's fine," Ning Zhou said.

The evening breeze blew all the way from the open door of the terrace to them, and the first light from far away projected the gauze curtain on the clean marble floor. The soft mood was like a lingering love song playing continuously, while they were like people sitting aimlessly on the bus in the afternoon, listening to the little love song drowsily in the warm sunshine, half dreaming and half waking, only thinking about this song. Don't wake up from this dream. Don't wait for the bus to reach its station.

"Then... then I’ll go to sleep." At this moment, Qi Leren restrained many impulses, such as telling him he was afraid to have nightmares, admitting that he still wanted to talk, and kissing Ning Zhou's beautiful blue eyes.

He tried to treat this relationship in a mature way, and he also tried to make himself behave properly enough. Therefore, he held this treasure carefully, and only wanted to hold it firmly in his arms, but he was afraid that he would break it if he tried too hard.

"Well, then goodnight," Ning Zhou whispered.

Qi Leren had already rested his hand on the doorknob and pushed open the bedroom door. The imaginary gentle love song finally ended when the bus stopped, so he said softly, "Goodnight."

Ning Zhou also opened the door of the other bedroom. He said, "Goodnight."

This long farewell was finally over. Qi Leren, who closed the door, put his head on the door panel, cleared his mind, and pressed the weight of his body against the upper half of the door.

Qi Leren had the illusion that he had thought a lot, but felt that he hadn't thought anything. He wanted to recall the farewell with Ning Zhou just now, trying to find some inappropriate action, but as soon as he recalled it, he was knocked down by shy emotions.

It was probably that talking with Ning Zhou had relieved the mental stress he had been feeling. Now, Qi Leren really was a little sleepy. He dragged his tired feet and fell on the bed, slowly moving towards the side against the wall until he reached the innermost part of the bed.

He had seen the layout of Ning Zhou's bedroom before, and the bed was on the side against the wall. That is to say, at this time, they were only separated by one wall. If you spoke while in a dream, maybe the other person would hear it.

Thinking this, Qi Leren couldn't help laughing.

A brain washed by love always made the people who had fallen in love do some strange things, and Qi Leren was no exception. He slept in the bed on this side against the wall, reached out, and quietly drew a heart on the cold wall.

When he realized what he was doing, he flung up the quilt and covered his face.

What the hell was he doing? Qi Leren let out a cry in his heart, half ashamed and half collapsed, and spontaneously formed two debate teams with an abnormal split in his mind to start quarreling about the topic of love.

Qi Leren felt obliged to be more mature, especially when it came to falling in love. He was four years older than Ning Zhou! Ning Zhou, who was only twenty-one this year, should still be a boy in college in the real world, and he had already entered the workforce. In terms of experience in love, both of them were tragically equal at zero, but Qi Leren had lived in the 21st century with modern information and open communication. His theoretical level beat Ning Zhou, who was almost equal to the man living in the medieval Vatican. Moreover, when studying, Qi Leren had still had many experiences of being chased by girls.

Even Qi Leren himself felt very strange. When boys the same age as him had been affected by hormones and began to desperately want to fall in love, he had not been attracted to the lovely young girls, and of course, he was not attracted to the same sex. Although sometimes he had seen friends showing love, he had had a feeling of "love is really good", but he had never started a relationship with someone he didn’t like purely to seek this feeling.

Maybe, before he realized it, he had been waiting for someone who was destined to appear, but the world was too big, and there were too few people one could meet in his life. How lucky would he be to find the right one?

But he had met him. This romantic miracle had consumed his whole life's luck—so that there was something wrong with his beloved’s gender—but he still felt lucky.

He should cherish this luck and protect Ning Zhou.

Along the way, Ning Zhou had really suffered too much. I really hope to make him happy... Half-asleep, Qi Leren finally fell into a deep sleep with this thought.

He had a dream.

It was not an endless near-death experience, but a very relaxed and happy dream.

In his dream, he "flew" in the blue sky and rode on the back of a black dragon.

The black dragon carried him from the ground, blasted away the land and mountains that blocked them, passed through underground lakes and flowing red lava, and they broke free from the bondage of gravity and marched fearlessly toward the sky.

The world was bright, clear, peaceful, and beautiful.

The wind under the clear sky blew his hair, and Qi Leren pushed the unruly hair on his forehead to the top of his head, watching the vast world under the rising sun, breathing the air that had no bloody smell, and being as happy as a child.

Flying at such a high height, the world under his feet was like a large sandbox, and the river reflecting the light of the sunrise spread from one end of the earth to the other end, like a ribbon shining with silver and blue light. In the vast wilderness, the earth was like an emerald carpet, but when a gust of wind blew, the carpet turned into green waves, rushing forward one after another. The peak of the mountain near the horizon was covered with a thin layer of ice and snow, but the foot of the mountain was full of colourful wildflowers...

The dragon flew over this reborn land, casting a cloud-like shadow, and then the sun shone brightly.

They flew too fast. In the blink of an eye, they have already passed through deserts and plains, and were still flying farther to the east. They might even fly over the vast sea and the fog at the end of the world, or they might fly towards the place where the sun, the moon, and the stars were located.

Where on earth were they going? The Qi Leren in the dream didn't know. He only feels that they were like this world...

Becoming one.

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theimprobabledreamersworld · 3 years

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40. “Have I ever lied to you?” With Janus and Patton?

I've finally written it! 😄 This one is slightly longer than planned, but I had fun finishing it after a few days of writer's block! I don't know how good it is, but I hope you like it! 💚🖤

General writing taglist: @psychedelicships @jwillowwolf @red-imeanblue @lost-in-thought-20 (If anyone would like to be added to the general taglist, let me know!)

Read it on Ao3!

Have I Ever Lied To You?

Pre-romantic Patton/Janus

Janus stared out of the window, watching the rain hit the glass drop by drop before streaming down and pooling onto the balcony of his apartment. He sighed as he held the hot coffee cup in his hands looking at the steam as it fogged up the glass, he drew a smiley face in the condensation, but it didn’t improve his mood. He hated the rain, primarily because it made his hair all messy. It was also what the weather was like when his best friend Patton left five years ago, and he never heard from him again. It didn’t help that he started developing a crush on him not long before he had to leave. Janus tried to shake that thought out of his mind, he never stopped feeling guilty for not being there for Patton… but there was a good reason. He always clung onto the hope that they would be reunited again, but as every year passed, that hope began to flicker and burn out.

He grimaced as he took a sip of his now cold coffee and walked into the kitchen to pour it into the sink. He boiled the kettle to make a fresh cup; but opened the cupboard and sighed once more as he realised he was now out of coffee. He slumped down in defeat wondering if this day could possibly get any worse. Janus dragged his feet as he slowly grabbed his coat ready to head out. His mind was too full of memories of the past and regrets, needing to go out was the last thing he needed, especially when he wanted to just wallow in his emotions. He took a deep breath and opened the front door with the minimal amount of enthusiasm possible.

As he locked the front door and turned around, he heard a crash, and it took him a few seconds to realise that he was on the floor. Not only that, but he was pinned down under a guy who was roughly his age, to say he was baffled was quite an understatement. Janus had to admit, this guy was pretty cute. His auburn hair sat on top of thick rimmed glasses, he couldn’t help but notice the light covering of freckles on his cheeks and the bright blue polo shirt. He was too busy staring to notice that the guy was frantically trying to talk to him.

“Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going! Are you okay? Are you hurt? I didn’t mean to hurt you; I was too busy watching the rainbow made by the rain!” It took Janus a few seconds to figure out where he had seen this person before, the puzzle pieces slowly came together and when the last one slotted into place, his eyes widened in shock. He knew that he had just ignored everything that he had been asked, but he needed to check before he made a fool out of himself.

“… Patton? Is that you?” He had to hide the smile from his face just in case it wasn’t him. The shock on the other guys face was enough to confirm his suspicions as he smiled with such vigor back at him.

“… Janus?! Wow, what are the odds huh?” He got off of Janus and held out a hand to pull him up. He gratefully took the opportunity and lingered holding his hand for as long as possible. He smiled at Patton before he was nearly knocked back onto the ground again with a forceful but endearing hug, something he’s been longing to experience for so many years now. He sank into the hug and clung onto Patton like he was some kind of cruel apparition taunting him. Patton broke the hug first but kept his hands on Janus’ shoulders and at this point, he honestly didn’t care that he was getting drenched from head to toe. He was right where he wanted to be.

“So, how have you been? It’s been a while, huh?” Janus couldn’t help but notice that Patton was kicking a small stone, refusing to look up at him. He must still remember what happened the day that he left, and he felt his heart crack just a little bit. The only consolation was that he could explain his actions from that day.

“Ehh, yeah. I’m doing good. Pretty busy which isn’t unusual for me. Believe me, I’ve been thinking about seeing you again for the longest time. How are you doing?” He saw that Patton was slowly looking up at him, almost in relief that he hadn’t forgotten about him.

“Yeah… I’m good… Do you really mean that? You’ve been thinking about me?” There was an uncharacteristic glint in Patton’s eye, like he was fighting the urge to either laugh or cry, trying to find a lie in Janus’ genuine truth. He used to lie a lot and hide truths behind sarcasm, but he grew out of that over time.

“I meant every word, Patton. You have no idea how much I’ve missed you… Have I ever lied to you?” He stepped closer to Patton, he knew that question would lead to the thing he both wanted to confront but wanted to run and hide from at the same time. The fact that Patton’s eyes were tearing up and glimmered in the rain showed that he was thinking the exact same thing.

“Only once… The day I had to go, move away with my parents… Where were you? You were the only person I wanted to see before I left, but you were the only person who wasn’t there… I’m sorry. That’s not fair, but you meant so much to me. You still do, and you always will.” That small crack in Janus’ heart was breaking more and more with every word, with every shake in Patton’s voice as the hurt he must have been harboring just poured out into the street and merged with the falling rain. He wrapped Patton up in a hug, and he felt the desperate clasping on Patton’s hands around him. He whispered to him how it was okay, that he was sorry, that he wasn’t going anywhere again. It didn’t take long for the sobs to turn into quiet sniffles and Patton pulled himself out of the warm embrace with a grateful smile on his face.

“I can assure you, Patton. There’s no one that feels worse for what happened that day. I have beaten myself up every single time it rains, the guilt and sadness has consumed me constantly. The thought of never seeing you again made me want to scream and search the world to find you.” He had to bite his lip to stop himself from crying, there were too many tears for what should be a happy reunion.

“Look, I can explain what happened… I had ordered a gift for you, but I had to go into town to get it because it was custom made. Then the bus didn’t turn up and traffic was a nightmare since the rain caused the road flooded. By the time I finally got back to your house… you were long gone.” He could help but think how cute Patton looked again as he started to get excited and bounced on his feet slightly while covering his mouth with his hands.

“You… You were getting me a GIFT?! Oh my goodness, I love that!!” Janus took a deep breath in, he had kept it all of this time, just in case this miracle ever happened. He clasped the small square box before slowly removing it from his bag. He took Patton’s hand gently and then placed the box on his palm delicately.

Patton looked over with a look of surprise on his face. Janus nodded, urging him to open the box. He lifted the lid off as carefully as he could. Patton gasped and Janus had to admit, he forgot what it looked like after all of these years. It was a bracelet combining their two favourite colours. The body of the bracelet was a mix of blues, some light, some dark like the night. Then threads of gold were wrapped around, creating a beautiful combination of the two colours which symbolised their bond. There were three charms that summed them up too. A paw print for Patton, a small snake for Janus, and a heart in between them. He couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across his face as he saw how stunned Patton was.

“I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in my life… This is gorgeous Janus. I love you! Can you put it on for me?” Janus’ brain was buffering for a second… Patton just said what? Did this mean that he had feelings for him too? He could think about that later, he needed to hide the blush spreading across his face and he delicately took the bracelet and tried to open the clasp. His hands were too wet from the rain, and it kept slipping from his grip. He laughed and smiled when Patton giggled too.

“It’s way too wet out here, how about you come into my place? We can dry off, get some take out, watch some Disney movies, and catch up on everything? I think we have a lot to talk about.” He held his hand out and Patton nodded before taking it. Hopefully, this would be the beginning of a happy ending for both of them. He looked behind him briefly, Patton was stood perfectly in the middle of a fully formed rainbow as the sun broke through the clouds. He took out his phone with lightning speed and snapped a photo while Patton wasn't looking. Maybe rain wasn’t so bad anymore. Janus turned back, and as he unlocked the front door, he couldn’t help himself from whispering under his breath.

“I love you too, Patton.”

#thomas sanders #sanders sides #sanders sides fanfiction #ts fanfic #patton sanders #janus sanders #fluff

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poundstonaira · 3 years

Text

Asta x Pregnant Reader - Worries

Word Count: 1700+

The usual, cold, wet, white snow fell on the tip of my nose right when I looked up at the dead, dark sky which did nothing but made endless amounts of frozen ice fall onto the ground and my coat that covered the rest of my clothes along with my impregnated body. It was ruthlessly freezing cold, my body felt like it wanted to break down every time I moved a step in the thick snow. I kept my hands in my pockets because I knew the moment I’d let my hands be exposed to this weather, they'd only be numb and useless when I needed to make a call.

I know my fiancée is either still playing Ghost of Tsushima, Resident Evil 3 remake, or Apex Legends with his step-brother to which he is probably raging at because he is not that good at first person shooter games. He’s better off still playing fortnite at his big age which is really sad to say. I still love him though, I just wish he would spend more time with me, especially when I’m sad. That would be really nice.

Ever since I started this accidental pregnancy, Asta has been very distant towards me, it’s like he’s scared of me, or that he’s nervous to talk to me. Everytime he would see my bloated, round stomach, he would freeze as if he was nervous or just stare at it in fear. I mean, it’s been 3 months since I’ve started developing but, shouldn’t he be used to it already? He told me not to end the pregnancy because he was ready and will do whatever it takes to the best father he could but if that's the case, why does he act all hostile every time he’s seen my stomach? Not once has he ever rubbed it, kissed, it or even spoken to it. Does it really take that much time to process that your fiancé is pregnant with your child? I’ve been thinking for a couple of days that it’s even cut into my diet and mental health, making me more confused and needy of this situation. It’s like I can’t even tell if I’m overeating or it’s my hormones making me over think like this.

_Wait. What was I outside in this freezing cold weather for again? Oh, that’s right. I was supposed to buy some snacks that Asta and I wanted. At least the corner store is right in front of me. I was in such a deep state of thought I wasn’t even looking up. Silly me. _

…

5 bags of Hot cheetos, 4 packs of sugar cookies, 20 bars of kinder chocolates, 6 packs of Cadbury chocolates, 2 jars of Nutella, 120 Freddo Chocolates, 6 packs of Battenberg cakes, and even more snacks that I’m carrying in this big ass bag.

When I left the store, I was brutally greeted with the familiar feeling of the cold gust of wind along with the snow hitting my face, causing me to cough a bit. The distance between the store and our home wasn’t a short one but, it definitely wasn’t a long one, it would usually take me about 10 minutes to get home but with this snow it would probably take double the amount. Not that I mind or anything, it’s not like Asta’s waiting for my return or that he cares. And it definitely doesn't seem like he cares that this pregnant fiancé is out in a blizzard buying snacks for him and herself. The only thing my ash-blonde husband probably cares about is his game he’s playing or whatever he’s fixated on.

As I began carrying my body through this dangerous winter weather, I heard my phone ringing through my bluetooth headphones, I let out a heavy sigh, letting me see my breath come out as cold fog. I quickly picked my phone out of my pocket and saw who was calling me.

To my surprise, it was Asta. Along with 50 messages and 4 miss calls. At this, I hastily picked up my phone and answered him.

“Asta I-”

“Where are you?” My green-eyed fianceé asked me with a serious tone which was different from his normal, cherry voice. I started to sweat, getting a bad vibe from his tone of voice.

“I’m sorry I-I was just at the store p-picking up some things… Uh… I’m on my way home right now-”

“What was taking you so long!?” I heard him shout, making me jump a bit because of his tone of voice.

I suddenly froze at his question with my eyes widened and my gut having a bad feeling. I didn’t know what to do or say, I just froze in my spot, letting the snow and winds hit me like I was nothing. I didn’t have an answer on why I was out for so long. Hell. I didn’t even check what time it was when I left the house. The reason why I went outside in the first place was to take a walk and to buy some snacks no matter how bad the weather was. I was so much in deep thought to know how Asta felt, I only thought about what he was doing and whether he cared or not.

“I-I just wanted to go on a long walk and buy a few t-things, I didn’t-”

“It’s dangerous out there! It’s even more dangerous that you’re pregnant and you are going out in such dangerous weather... Do you even know how long it has been?”

“No… Asta, listen-”

“It’s almost been 2 hours! I was waiting for you to come back, I was so nervous… Seriously! I thought you were kidnapped or something. I was in the living room the whole time, waiting for you, I was going to meet you to come pick you up but, I didn’t know where to go because I didn’t know where you were…”

“Asta…” Was all I could say. I was seriously at a loss of words, I was in such a negative and grumpy mindset that I didn’t even know that he cared. My fianceé is such a bouncy, and weird individual that I didn’t even know he would care that I even put my pregnant body through such weather, since there are intense risks to that. This whole time I thought Asta only cared about playing video games and only helping when he needed to. Guess I was wrong.

I felt my body shake as a tear slipped out of my right eye.

“I-I’m sorry, Asta. I’ll be home right away.”

… As soon as I opened the front door to our home, I was quickly embraced with strong, muscular arms around my body, making my drop the bag of snacks I had recently bought.

“You scared me… do you know how dangerous it is for you to go out in that weather all alone WHILE you’re pregnant? Anything could’ve happened to you. Anything…You really had me worried and I didn’t know where to look, that’s why I didn’t come outside, I was scared I wouldn’t see you...” Asta muttered into my neck, still holding me tight.

There was really nothing else for me to say at that moment. I could hug him back, making contact between my wet coat and him.

“I’m sorry Asta, I won’t put myself through such dangerous weather again. I-” I was then interrupted by him pulling me into a long kiss before he pulled away to rub my head.

“That’s enough. Go take a relaxing bath and sleep. You could catch a cold.” Was his response for cutting me off.

“Then what am I going to do with all these snacks I bought?” I asked him which made his eyes pay attention to the extra large bag full of snacks, his eyes then glimmered and he started to drool with the thought of devouring all of them.

“Yummy…”

I smiled at his usual antics.

…

After I took a bath in steaming hot water, the both of us were now cuddled up on the couch, watching endless amounts of animes that we queued up on Netflix while consuming our snacks. When we have these moments, I most of the time forget that my weirdo of a fianceé put something inside of me. I remember staying focused on the moments where we were just escaping the ruthless blizzards that are outside of our homes, trying to cause chaos. None of that bothered me anyway, I just remember the feeling of Asta holding me tight and his head croaked into my neck, picking up my scent and occasionally leaving a few love bites there. Although he doesn’t show it, I can tell he’s excited for the birth of our child as well. He may not kiss, touch, or talk to my stomach but I know every time he embraces me, it’s a sign that he loves me and that he’s ready.

“Are the snacks good?” I asked him, giving him a small smile as I watched him chew on the chocolates.

“Of course they are!” He replied in a cheerful manner, making me give him a small smile to which he quickly blushed at. I honestly adore how he gets all flustered at the small smiles give him.

After he finished the snacks in his mouth, I felt Asta’s hands snake around my round, bloated stomach, before he slowly rubbed it. I jumped a bit but I then realized that this is what I wanted, what I wanted for a while now.

“But do you know what's even better?” He whispered in my ear, making me shiver in excitement a bit.

“Yes?” I quietly replied.

“My own child growing in_ your _stomach. The possibilities of their genes and what they could be, whether it could look like you or me… the more I think about it the more excited I get. Even though I didn’t mean for this to happen, I am more than happy to do what it takes to care of our children.” Asta finished, kissing my neck.

I felt that same tear slip out of my right eye again because of his warm, trusting words. I didn’t feel nervous about anything anymore. Because I already know that I’ll be fine.

This pregnancy should be nothing to worry about.

“Thank you, Asta.”

#black clover #black clover x reader #asta x reader #black clover scenarios #asta

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hysterialevi · 3 years

Text

Hjarta | Final Chapter

Fanfic summary: In an AU where Eivor was adopted by Randvi’s family instead, he ends up falling in love with the man his sister has been promised to despite the arranged marriage between their clans.

Point of view: third-person

Pairing: Sigurd Styrbjornson x Male Eivor

Author’s note: Holy shit I can’t believe it’s already the last chapter. Thank you guys so much for sticking with this story from the start, and for sending me wonderful comments/messages of support. I really had fun writing this fanfic and interacting with you all, so I hope you’ll enjoy this last part of Hjarta. This story seriously means a lot to me, and it makes my day to know how many of you liked it. Stay awesome :)

This story is also on AO3 | Previous chapter

THRYMR’S TOMB

A WHILE LATER

“Eivor!” Sigurd called out through the storm, forcing his way across the snow. “Are you there?”

The prince shielded his face from the frost with a protective arm and squinted, desperately searching for his lover as he wandered blindly through the fog. The young man had disappeared from the battle not too long ago, and seemingly taken Kjotve’s fate into his own hands. What became of either of them still remained a mystery to Sigurd, and as more time passed by, he found himself feeling increasingly worried for Eivor’s life.

“Eivor!” He repeated a tad louder this time. “Say something! Can you hear me?”

Much to his relief, a faint voice answered from a distance.

“...I’m here, Sigurd...!”

Inching closer towards the voice, the older man ventured deeper into the mist and peered forward, only to spot the outline of a familiar shadow trudging in his direction.

Eivor was sauntering underneath the sun’s blurred rays with a slight hiccup in his step, and fresh blood clinging to his axe. His face seemed to be wiped clean of all the energy that once burned in his eyes, and yet, he appeared to be... at peace.

A calming aura could be seen blossoming from his heart like a single flower in a barren field, and in a strange way, it almost looked as if he had completely forgotten about the war. Not a single hint of dread or terror weathered his blissful expression, and the ribbons of sunlight dancing above him only added to his soothing demeanor.

Sigurd picked up his pace and began jogging, eagerly rushing to rejoin his lover.

“Eivor...!” He said with a sigh of relief, immediately pulling the man into a hug. “There you are.”

Eivor allowed his head to sit on Sigurd’s chest, giving himself some time to breathe.

“...Sigurd,” he whispered out of exhaustion, “...I did it. I actually did it.”

The prince continued cradling the younger man in his embrace, providing him with a sense of warmth amidst all the snow.

“What happened to you, Eivor? Where’s Kjotve? I saw you run off with him earlier. Is he dead? Did you... did you kill him?”

Eivor nodded and closed his eyes, not even bothering to say a word.

“Truly...?” Sigurd asked, staring at the other man in disbelief.

Could it really be possible that the battle was already finished? It hadn’t been too long ago that the prince was barely evading death’s grasp, and now, the storm had suddenly passed. Part of him found the news too good to be true considering the path they used to get here, and yet, something in Eivor’s tone rang with sincerity.

Sigurd tightened his grip on the smaller warrior and chuckled out of elation, nearly breaking into tears. “Then it’s over. The war... is finally over.”

He brought a hand to Eivor’s chin, lifting it gently so that he could see his face.

“What about you, my love? Are you well?”

The Wolf-Kissed displayed a subtle smile, radiating as if he were the moon itself.

“...I am. For the first time since that night... I’m okay.”

Sigurd returned the smile and cupped the back of Eivor’s head, pulling him close so that he could plant a kiss on his forehead.

“Good.”

Staying snuggled in each other’s arms, the couple took some time to enjoy the peace as the storm steadily died down around them, allowing more and more of the sun to break through. The crippling mist that had built up during the battle was slowly beginning to fade, and soon enough, nothing but a vast blue sky remained hovering above them.

Unbeknownst to Sigurd however, a third party had already found them and walked in on their brief reunion, but had not yet announced their presence.

In the distance, Arngeir quietly watched the scene in front of him unfold with a sense of shock clouding his mind, causing him to gawk incredulously. Even though he suspected that the prince would be somewhere in the vicinity with his son, he did not expect the two of them to be enwrapped in such a loving embrace.

...How long had they felt like this, he wondered? Was their bond something that had been ignited due to the recent string of battles, or had this been carrying on ever since Styrbjorn first arrived?

The jarl was honestly at a loss. He held no disgust in his heart for the peculiar couple before him, but he couldn’t deny that he was taken aback. Despite his knowledge of Sigurd and Eivor’s friendship in the past, he never would’ve guessed that there was something deeper between them.

Though, the more Arngeir thought about it, he supposed there really was nothing peculiar about their relationship. The knot that intertwined their fates was made of pure, genuine love delivered straight from the hands of Freya, and to his surprise, he just couldn’t bring himself to interfere.

It was something he hadn’t seen in ages thanks to the horrors of this war, but now that it was over, Arngeir figured he may as well let his doubts die with it.

He had had enough of tragedy.

Turning on his heel, the jarl decided to leave the couple alone and returned to the other half of the island, ready to inform his clan of their miraculous victory. He still didn’t know whether he’d tell Styrbjorn about his unanticipated discovery or not, but one thing was for certain.

Kjotve’s kingdom had finally fallen.

In spite of all the obstacles Styrbjorn’s people faced, his entire bloodline had been struck down, and his throne had been left unattended. No one in Norway would ever hear of his clan again, and his fortress would be left to crumble under the weight of the absence that consumed it.

The barbarian king was vanquished. Just like his legacy.

~~~~~~~~~~

THE NEXT DAY

BJORNHEIMR, THE LONGHOUSE

Sigurd placed the last of his belongings in the crate sitting before him, reminiscing as he stood in the middle of his chambers. It felt like a lifetime ago that he was first packing his things in preparation for the journey to Bjornheimr, and now, he was getting ready to leave.

After ages of enduring this war and accepting it as his reality, the prince had suddenly found himself in a world where Kjotve was no longer a problem, and his clan had been reduced to ashes in the wind.

A new era had been brought about thanks to their victory at Thrymr’s Tomb, and the kingdom now celebrated in harmony to honor the peace that had finally been restored.

Despite the jovial mood of his people however, Sigurd admittedly didn’t know how to process the whole situation himself. Part of him rejoiced due to the fact that he’d never have to deal with Kjotve’s cruelty again, but he would’ve been lying if he said he didn’t have his regrets.

He didn’t come out of this unscathed, after all. The Raven Clan may have emerged victorious from their fight against the barbarian king, but there were still many wounds that needed mending... including Dag’s loss.

Sigurd still remembered his last conversation with the man as if it happened yesterday. Even though Dag proved to be a traitor in his final moments, the prince just couldn’t bring himself to discard the memories they once shared, or the fondness that followed. In his eyes, the fallen warrior would always be that same little boy who kept him company as a child, and pulled him away from the darkness when his mother passed on.

As for the Dag he executed, Sigurd would remember him as no more than a fragment of his childhood friend, and the result of a man who had been crippled by his own jealousy. He would be a reminder for the prince to never fall prey to his demons, lest he lose the soul he had fought so long to preserve. It was what he owed his parents after all these years, and to himself.

Letting out a remorseful sigh, Sigurd shook his head and silenced the thoughts that threatened to encompass his mind, not willing to entertain his grief any further. He would never forget the loved ones he had lost during the events of this war, but for his own sake -- he had to move on.

Lifting up the crate with a soft grunt, Sigurd secured the box in his arms and began striding towards the archway, only to stop in his tracks when he noticed someone waiting for him.

At the moment, Eivor was standing on the other side of the door with his hands linked together and his head hanging low, clearly disheartened by Sigurd’s upcoming departure. His gaze swept in the floor in an attempt to avoid confronting the absence he would soon have to accept, and even the sight of the prince himself wasn’t able to lift his mood.

“Eivor...!” Sigurd greeted. “You came.”

The Wolf-Kissed stepped tentatively into the room, staring at his lover as if this was the last time they’d ever meet.

“Of course I did. I wanted to see you again before...” his expression sank slightly, “...before you left.”

Sigurd took note of the shift in his lover’s mood and placed the crate down for a moment, gently gripping Eivor’s wrist in a comforting manner.

“Eivor,” he said in a gentler tone, “...you know I have to go.”

“I do. I just wish you could stay longer. We spent so much of our time worrying about the people we lost that... we forgot we still had each other. But now that you’re leaving, it’s all I can think about.”

Sigurd lifted a hand to Eivor’s cheek and brushed away a lock of hair, tucking it neatly behind his ear.

“You can still come with me. You know that, right? I realize we’ve had this conversation before, but if you truly want us to stay together, I can arrange that.”

In spite of his sorrow, the younger man remained staunch in his decision. “I’m sorry, Sigurd, but I must remain here. As much as I wish I could go with you, Bjornheimr needs me. My father needs me. I’m the only family he has left apart from Randvi, and she’ll be gone too.”

Sigurd nodded sympathetically. “Very well. If that’s what you wish.”

Eivor paused briefly, switching to a different concern on his mind. “...You will visit me, right? This won’t be the last time I’ll see you?”

“Of course not,” the prince reassured. “I can’t say when I’ll have the chance to return to Bjornheimr, but -- I promise you -- as soon as the opportunity reveals itself, I’ll be here again.”

The other man didn’t appear any less forlorn, but accepted the promise nonetheless.

“I’ll be waiting. But until then...” Eivor leaned forward, pecking a goodbye kiss on Sigurd’s lips, “...stay safe, my love. I wish nothing but happiness for you.”

The prince pressed his forehead against Eivor’s, cherishing their last few minutes together.

“The same goes for you. My duties may require me to start a new life in preparation for the throne, but I’ll never forget everything you’ve done. Thank you. I mean it.”

Taking a few more moments to bask in each other’s company, the two of them simply cuddled in silence before separating the embrace, and retreating to the shells they so often wore around the rest of the village.

The sun had managed to climb to the top of the sky’s apex by now, and most of the Raven Clan were already gathered at the docks. The longships were fit to set sail after an entire morning’s worth of preparations, and their people were eager to return home. The only thing they needed now... was the presence of their prince himself.

“I suppose it’s time for me to leave.” Sigurd noted somberly, reluctantly taking hold of the crate once again. “Care to join me for the walk to the ship?”

Eivor concealed his pain with a friendly veil and stepped to the side, allowing Sigurd some room to walk through the doorway.

“After you, my friend.”

~~~~~~~~~~

A LITTLE LATER

THE DOCKS

Walking alongside one another as they headed towards the shore, Eivor and Sigurd strolled silently through the village with a bittersweet relief resting in their spirits, clouding their minds like the smoke of a cold pyre.

It brought them both great joy to see Kjotve’s reign finally come to an end, but they couldn’t stop themselves from wondering what waited beyond the horizon now that the war was over.

Was this the start of Sigurd’s life as a future king? Would he and Randvi truly be the rulers of Norway one day? How was he even going to raise a family? The prince had never planned to be a father, and a part of him wanted to scream at the thought of being forced to hide his true emotions once again.

He didn’t want to forget Eivor, or the things they experienced together. These past few weeks had been some of the best and worst moments of his life, and he dreaded the idea of allowing their bond to fade into a distant memory. But for the sake of his kingdom, Sigurd knew he had to leave the man behind if he wanted any chance of becoming a decent leader.

It was his duty, after all. Styrbjorn had managed to keep his end of the promise in regards to battling his addiction, so the prince figured it would only be fair if he upheld his own. Personal thoughts and desires no longer mattered within the realm of royalty. From this day on, Sigurd would be living to serve his people -- not himself.

“There they are.” He remarked, gesturing towards the end of the pier. Eivor followed Sigurd’s line of sight, only to spot Styrbjorn, Arngeir, and Randvi all waiting by the longship.

“So this is it then,” he said, already missing the prince’s company. “This is where we part ways.”

Sigurd shared his partner’s disappointment, but tried to keep a strong face nonetheless. “For now. You and I will be separated for some time, but I’ll visit you as much as I can. And you’re always welcome in Fornburg too, should you ever wish to come to me instead.”

“Thank you. I’ll consider it.”

Eivor placed a hand on the side of the prince’s arm, saying one last thing while he still had the chance.

“...Wait, Sigurd. Before you go.”

The older man came to a pause, giving Eivor a curious glance. “Yes? What is it?”

The Wolf-Kissed stuttered, admittedly unsure of where he was taking this. He didn’t have anything in particular he wanted Sigurd to hear -- he just hoped to keep him around for a little longer.

“Erm, n-nothing. I just wanted to say I love you.”

Sigurd smiled warmly at the comment despite Eivor’s awkwardness and chuckled lightly, attempting to comfort him.

“I love you too, Eivor. Never forget it.”

Leaving the younger man with those words, Sigurd carried on with the task at hand and sauntered towards the ship, placing the crate down by the boarding plank as one of the oarsmen came to assist him. Meanwhile, Styrbjorn greeted the two men with a cheery temperament, happy to get things going.

“Sigurd, Eivor!” The king exclaimed jovially. “It’s good to see you both in one piece after the battle yesterday. We lost many warriors during the assault at Thrymr’s Tomb, but now, we at least have the luxury of saying that their deaths weren’t in vain...” he turned to the Wolf-Kissed, “...and it’s all thanks to you, my boy.”

Eivor bowed his head in a humble manner. “I only did what was required of me.”

Styrbjorn let out a soft laugh. “Nonsense. Sigurd has told me of the tenacity you displayed on the battlefield. You showed great courage, and you fought with honor. It is thanks to your efforts that Kjotve now lies in a frigid tomb.”

Arngeir joined in. “Indeed. Had it not been for your valor, we would all still be bound by Kjotve’s chains. Varin would be proud of you, Eivor. And Ulfar too.”

“Thank you, father.”

Eivor brought his attention to Styrbjorn, trying his best to hide the sorrow lurking within him. “...So, I imagine you’ll be departing soon?”

To his surprise, the king appeared to have other things in mind. “Actually, there is something else your father and I would like to discuss first. Something that concerns you and my son.”

Sigurd froze at that, already suspicious of where this was leading. “...W-What do you mean?”

Arngeir stepped forward, hesitant to speak any further. “Forgive my being candid, but we are aware of the relationship between you two.”

Eivor instantly felt the color drain from his face, and he could’ve sworn he saw his own soul fleeing from his body.

“You-- what?”

“Do not be alarmed, my son. I am not here to pass judgement. Only to offer a proposal.”

“But... how? How did you find out?”

Arngeir crossed his arms in thought. “Yesterday, during the battle. Sigurd and I left the fort in order to search for you. We noticed you had disappeared at some point, and feared you may be in danger. Though, by the time I stumbled upon you, you had already found your way to the prince.”

“That means... you saw us...”

“...Embracing one another, yes. I apologize, Eivor. I did not mean to intrude.”

The young man exchanged glances with Sigurd, terrified to see the outcome of this discovery. “So, what does this mean for us? Are we to face punishment?”

Arngeir shook his head. “No. Quite the contrary, actually. I realize it isn’t my place to speak about this -- and for that I am sorry -- but I admit I shared this news with Styrbjorn once we returned, for I had an idea in mind that I wished to broach.”

That caught Sigurd’s attention. “An idea? About what?”

Styrbjorn provided the answer. “About this alliance, of course. You see, when we first arranged this marriage between you and Randvi, we did so with the intention of forming an ironclad bond. A bond born out of love. We believed it would be a way to ensure that our clans never fell apart, since our families would be intertwined from that day on. Clearly however, we were mistaken.”

The jarl nodded in agreement. “Indeed. It seems that the bond we were looking for... had been between you two all along.”

Arngeir trailed off into silence for a moment, considering his next words.

“Listen, both of you. Styrbjorn and I had a long conversation yesterday once I revealed my discovery. We discussed many things pertaining to this alliance, and after our talk, we came to the conclusion that... this marriage is no longer necessary.”

Sigurd’s eyes widened in shock. “Wait, are you saying that it’s over?”

“Ultimately, the choice lies with you. If you wish to end this marriage, and if Eivor decides to go in Randvi’s stead, then I have already told Styrbjorn that I have no qualms with it.”

The prince immediately looked at his lover, radiating with a newfound hope.

“Eivor...! Think about it. You could join me, just like we wanted.”

The Wolf-Kissed glanced at Arngeir, double-checking with him first.

“But what about you, father? Are you certain about this? I don’t want to abandon you.”

The jarl gave him a reassuring pat on the arm. “Do not fret, Eivor. You’re not abandoning anybody. If you choose to stay with Sigurd, then Randvi will remain here in your place. Neither of us will be alone.”

Randvi suddenly jumped into the conversation, encouraging her brother to follow his desires.

“Go on, Eivor. It’s okay. Father and I will have each other. We’ll rebuild Bjornheimr, and return this village to what it once was. By the time you come back, this place will be thriving more than it ever did. In the meantime, go with Sigurd. A new life awaits you in Fornburg. Don’t let this opportunity pass.”

“She’s right, Eivor,” Arngeir said. “All I’ve ever wanted for any of you is to be happy. If you believe that being with Sigurd is best for you, then go.”

The young man stumbled over his words, rendered completely speechless by how this scenario had turned out. When he awoke this morning, he never imagined that he’d be given the option to freely roam the kingdom at Sigurd’s side, living with him as if they were family.

If anything, Eivor fully expected that he would be bidding the prince farewell, and left to wallow in the melancholy that had formed in his heart during this past month. So much anger and regret had taken control of his spirit’s reins ever since the news of Sigurd’s departure, and now... it was all gone. Just like that.

“I... I don’t know what to say,” he replied. “...Thank you, father. You can’t imagine how much this means to me.”

A gleeful expression spread across the jarl’s face. “I’m glad, Eivor.”

Randvi wrapped her arms around her younger brother, pulling the man into one last hug before saying goodbye.

“We’ll miss you, little cub. Take care of yourself, and each other. Alright?”

“We will. I promise.”

The woman gave him a playful shove. “Then get out of here. And make sure to knock plenty of skulls. Let the world know who we are.”

Eivor chuckled at the response, grinning from ear-to-ear. “The Bear Clan’s name will be fluttering from the lips of every bard in Norway when I’m done. I assure you. Until then, farewell, and thank you for all you’ve given me.”

The Wolf-Kissed walked over to Sigurd’s side, openly taking hold of his hand for the first time since they met. The prince’s eyes were twinkling with a vibrant ray of hope at this point, and a familiar sense of contentment had finally returned to his soul.

“Come, my love,” Eivor ushered. “Fornburg awaits.”

~~~~~~~~~~

LATER THAT DAY

Steadily gliding across the ocean’s hills, the longship broke free from the harbor and began heading out towards the vastness of the open sea, prepared to deliver its occupants back home after a long and arduous battle.

Petals of snow could be seen dancing along the surface of the vessel’s billowing sails, and in the distance, the sun’s light shone through the mountains, causing the water below to shimmer with a glittering streak.

Birds soared in harmony with the wind that guided the longship’s course and left a trail of feathers in their wake, accompanying the warriors who sailed beneath their wings.

All the creatures of Midgard seemed to band together in celebration now that the age of war had perished, and the earth cried out in relief due to the lack of blood littering its soil.

As for Eivor, the man simply rested against the longship’s walls and marveled at the view in front of him, listening intently while Sigurd entertained him with tales of Fornburg’s wonders. The prince spoke of his home with a great fondness and constructed vivid images using only the movement of his hands, painting a clear picture for his companion.

Meanwhile, the oarsmen behind them burst into song and began reciting a number of sea shanties, singing heartily as if they were performing for the gods themselves. Their voices rang merrily into the sky like a horn of victory, and the world around them seemed to bloom with revival.

It was the start of a new dawn. After countless years of pointless death and suffering, the clans in Norway had become united under one crown, and Kjotve had paid the ultimate price. His name had been blotted out with the stain of a mad tyrant, and his victims had been released from their ethereal chains in the afterlife.

Most importantly though, Eivor no longer felt the need to hide who he was. The fantasy that once haunted him in his dreams had become a reality, and now, he was free to love Sigurd as any man would love his wife. The times of fear and judgement were over at last, and the alliance between their peoples had been reignited with a different bond.

Their relationship would be the foundation of many things to come, and just like Ingrida once said, they had finally found their way home after decades of straying from their fate.

It was what the Nornir planned all along, and the one thing Varin always wished for his son -- the one thing he could never achieve.

Freedom.

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