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spvce-cowboy · 4 years

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a strange beauty

chapter 1 of i’ll be here in the morning (the mandalorian x fem!reader)

next-ch.2: “gentle things”

rating: Explicit

5.8k words

summary: The Mandalorian crashes on an unknown planet. Severely injured, he follows the sound of singing until he, literally, lands in your lap. A trained medic, you begrudgingly decide to help the bounty hunter in order to continue evading a dark past.

warnings: Violence, descriptions of gore, masturbation (m), brief panic attack description, hurt/comfort, angst/fluff, suggested sexual assault, canon divergent (post-season 1), slow burn, eventual smut

a/n: i wrote this after reading the Rough Day series by @no-droids as well as @cptnbvcks ‘s fics. i continue to be inspired by their work so i must give credit where it is due ! my first reader insert/mando thing so let's see how this goes !! thank you for reading <3

What he hears first is song.

It’s nearly night on the unfamiliar planet. At first he thinks the sound is some kind of bizarre hum of wind. He’s crash landed and between the hole in his chest and the blood in his eyes, he can barely stagger forward, let alone think things through, as he stumbles out of the smoldering Crest.

It stuns him, for a moment. On the verge of it all ending, the pain vibrating through his body, and he literally falls into some kind of melody so haunting he can’t help but think he’s already in some cruel kind of afterlife. Underworld would be equally fitting, he deserves that more.

He tries to pull in a breath. The sound that leaves him could only be described as a gurgle. It’s followed by a cough. Something hot and metallic tasting comes up with it, coating the inside of his mouth and dribbling over his chin.

Maker, he’s screwed.

He hadn’t realized how much worse it was going to get until he was finally safe in the Crest. In a daze, he opened the med-kit only to find the last Bacta treatment in a shattered mess. In the fresher, he tried to stuff some remaining gauze into the gaping hole on his right pectoral. He really tried not to pass out. He wasn’t successful. He wasn’t sure if it was the exhaustion or the knife wound, but every breath exited in a fluttering wheeze he was barely able to push through. It must have punctured a lung. Fucker was able to get right up under the armor.

Delirious with blood loss, he could barely register the one-handed climb into the cockpit and typing in whatever coordinates first come to mind before he blacked out again. It was in and out from there. He thought he entered Naboo, somewhere safe and familiar and not teaming with others who’d like to do much more and worse than he had already weathered, but a glance at the red-orange slicked control panel told him he was quickly approaching an uncharted planet. His hands were uncontrollably shaking, covered in his own blood and who knows who else’s. He had no idea if the Crest has the ability to dampen the landing but it was too late to start asking favors of some higher power now.

“Sorry, kid.” It’s all Mando could think to say, voice barely registering over the modulator.

The child was fast asleep already. He had to mend Mando’s spine in order for Mando to drag himself back to the Crest once the smoke of the battlefield had settled.

Mando’s entire body was still vibrating from the energy of it, probably the only thing keeping his heart beating. He was barely conscious long enough to slide the shields shut on the child’s cradle before impact.

It had been a long day.

He woke, miraculously still breathing—if the futile gasps trying to be made around a collapsed lung could be called something like that. He swung his heavy head around, blindly grasping the child’s cradle and pulling it behind him. The child was still asleep—unharmed save for a dent on the side of his crib that sputtered with an occasional spark. It took Mando a moment to register the alarms blaring, the flashing lights and acrid smell of scorched plastic and metal.

He doesn’t remember staggering out of the Crest. Just that now he is in a field of some sort, staggering forward with the kid’s cradle following close behind.

It is only then that he hears the song.

An idyllic hillside stretches before him, tall grass dotted with small, yellow wildflowers reach to meet a light fog. In the distance there’s the shadowed suggestion of mountains. If he didn’t know any better, he would really think this was Naboo. Mando can’t even begin to comprehend how his brain is able to process any of it. Really? You’re about to take your last handful of breaths and you’re taking in the flowers of all things? Though maybe he isn’t, if he is able to. His head begins to fill with a kind of static where nothing makes any sense.

He can hear, at least. Very well. Well enough to recognize that there is some kind of singing, some kind of song, reverberating through the sensors of his helmet loud enough to bring him back to reality.

A song isn’t necessarily the right word for it—there are no words, or, at least, no words Mando could distinguish. Sound, more like. Melodious sound. Long, whooping notes of crisp sound. A siren’s call. So he follows the singing.

Mando doesn’t know how long it takes to reach its origin—between his quickly blackening vision or the equally disorienting fog, it is hard to navigate the expanse of green before him, let alone determine the time it takes to see the slight silhouette in the distance. Once he does, it’s a stumbling, panting race to reach it before his legs give out. Mando falls once, then pushes himself up. He doesn’t have the ability to call out around the useless, deflated bag of tissue leaning against the right side of his ribcage, so he keeps pushing forward. And it’s like he’s running in a dream, the pace as which he lurches forward, trailing blood and gore behind him. And he’s trying to move but he keeps almost falling and the figure is getting closer but it isn’t moving and he’s half certain he’s hallucinated it all and this is it. It’s over. All this for almost nothing and what about the kid. What about this kid if it’s over and. It’s over and. And.

And it’s you. Standing there. A long dress lifting slightly with the breeze. Your back is to him, hair swept over and through itself in an intricate braid. When you turn, your face is already contorted in shock.

And still, you are the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

The Mandalorian falls to his knees, colliding with the ground before he can even process losing feeling in the lower half of his body.

He can’t stop having dreams about a skinless figure.

In it, he is Din again. For the first time in a long time. He knows this in the way one just knows things, in dreams.

He can’t stop having dreams about a skinless figure.

He is kneeling before it, in defeat or prayer he does not know. It is one in the same, either way.

He can’t stop having dreams about a skinless figure.

It touches his face gently. When it does, he vomits ticks or leeches, depends on the day. They spill into his hands and he is left there. Staring at them. Writhing, they slip through the fingers of his cupped palms. He always wakes before they reach the ground.

On waking, the first thing he notices is that the grass is trying to reclaim the house.

He knows that he is in a house because of the soft mattress beneath him, pressing up and into his body as if in some kind of forgiveness. It’s a single room cabin, a dirt floor, a single bed, a kitchen to the far wall. Incredibly bright with three windows of varied size above the sink. As he opens his eyes, the first thing he sees are sparse but tall green stalks brushing the leg of a sturdy looking olbio-wood table, a messy collection of bloodied bandages, glass bottles, and bowls resting atop its surface. A flower dots the top of only one of the stalks, its petals no bigger than the nail of his thumb. He hears two soft voices, speaking from somewhere above him. Darkness clouds his vision as soon as he realizes he is awake.

When his eyes open again he is already in the process of sitting up, holding his shoulder with a grunt. He fully gains consciousness in the middle of the action, in time to barely recognize a cry of surprise as something clatters to the floor. He swings his head around, right hand automatically going to his holster despite the burning pain the motion conjures. Empty.

He turns sharply and it’s you. It’s you, again, looking all the more surprised at his sudden waking than you had when he was dragging his half-dead body towards you.

Your hands are pressed against your stomach, the wooden bowl of some sludge-like salve at your booted feet. Your eyes are wide, frozen as if he had a weapon to draw. The skin beneath them is puffy and discolored with exhaustion. Your dress is now smeared with what he can only assume is his own rust-brown blood. The dress presses tightly against your chest with your heavy breathing. Mando’s gaze catches there, for a moment, in spite of himself, before traveling again to your face. Wide eyes, plush lips slightly parted--your hair is in a loose bun that has barely managed to contain itself, escaped pieces gently framing your face. You’re one of the most beautiful creatures he has ever seen. His resolve hardens immediately because of it.

You press your lips together firmly in annoyance, almost in tandem with Mando clenching his own jaw. You stoop low to snatch the bowl and pestle from where they lay at your feet, irritation radiating off of you in waves.

“You’re taking my bed, Mandalorian.” Your voice is steady for the most part, but falters slightly with his name. It betrays the fear in your eyes, nearly masked by the tightness in your tone. Regardless, you persist. Straitening with the bowl pressed between your hip and forearm, you gesture with your free hand towards where he is still reaching for a non-existent weapon. “It is unbecoming to start our acquaintance with threats.”

“I was here with a… a companion,” his voice sounds absolutely ragged over the vocoder. Mando whips his head back around to scan the room, heart pounding. His shoulder feels like it is on fire. He begins to struggle to his feet. He fails.

“The little one is fine, resting.” You blow an offending strand of hair off your forehead with a frustrated, upward huff. “You’ve been out for days. We’ve been up every night trying to keep you breathing. Frankly, I could care less if you choked on your own tongue.” Your voice gets less biting when you’re facing him directly, as if the courage for your snark is dependent on not being able to see him. You continue, “Am’ile, however, is an old friend of an acquaintance of yours. You’d care to show her a little more respect.”

With another huff, you’re turning away and pushing through the piece of fabric that functions as a door. He watches you as you reappear through the wide window stationed just above the kitchen sink. Mando sags against the bed’s simple headrest.

There are little pieces of stained glass that have been strung from the tops of the windows, dripping down like raindrops. He watches them for a moment, clattering into one another. Mando swallows, shaking his head. He tries to take a few deep breaths before attempting to stand once again. He isn’t successful.

“I wouldn’t test that one, Mandalorian.” This voice is much older, slightly raspy in a way that automatically demands a lowered head or a knee pressed into the earth. A long-fingered hand pushes past the fabric still swaying from your exit. An elderly Bardottan woman enters, regarding him a moment. The child coos in the arm she cradles him with, his hands reaching out towards Mando. The Bardottan smiles, wobbling over to the bed and laying the child at his side. “She doesn’t like it when kindness is taken for granted.”

She turns, pulling out a chair from the table and sitting down with a sigh. He can tell her age by the halting way she walks, one four-fingered hand resting against her lower back, her leathered yellow-green skin’s pale stripes dulled by time. “Am’ile Dovalien of Naboo. I am an old friend of Caraynthia Dune, from her Republic days,” she takes her time with her words, and then even more to regard him. “You’re looking rough for wear, Mandalorian. I’d ease up on that shoulder before you put all the girl’s work to waste.”

An old friend of Cara’s. He doesn’t know why it’s surprising by any means. Cara’s discussed her time before the war enough, and it is not like she is… inhibited, he guesses, is the right word…by the Way. So of course she would have “old friends.” Good friends. Maybe it’s surprising because he feels like there are similarities between the two of them that he has not shared with anyone else, odd to think she is able to having something that he does not.

“Who is she? The girl?” The words leave his mouth abruptly, before he can think them through. They hang there for a moment before Am’ile answers.

The Bardottan says your full name, he’s noticed she has a habit of doing so. Between that and her syrupy accent, it lends anyone she mentions in the conversation a kind of regal stature that he can’t help but admire. “She is my student. I hope she didn’t… frighten you too much. It’s rare we get visitors from outside the local village. You’re the first of her kind she’s encountered in almost six years now.”

The child chirps, clambering onto Mando’s chest. The pain is sharp and immediate. The man makes a sound he can’t control, using his good arm to pull the kid off and tuck him into his side. “Thank you, for all of this.” He’s ashamed he didn’t manage to get it out sooner, his lips pressed together firmly under the beskar. “I… I had to retreat before I could complete the job. I don’t have many credits on me but—"

“Do not, Mandalorian,” Am’ile shakes her head. “I would be insulted if you do.” She stands with a struggle, using the edge of the table to help herself up and waddling to his bedside, extending both boney arms for the child. Mando does what he can to help prop him back into the crook of Am’ile’s elbow. “Keep resting, if today’s treatments take well, you can start repairing your ship by tomorrow morning. The locals are a secluded people, they do not like strangers staying for very long.”

“Thank you,” he says. She hums something low in her throat in affirmation, flicking her hand in Mando’s direction with her back already turned. The fabric of the door only stills after a few minutes of swaying.

After your first—well, technically second—encounter, you don’t really make conversation when you come in to check on Mando’s healing and clean up the medical station Am’ile and you had established on the kitchen table. It’s all matter-of-fact, from the tilt of your shoulders to the set of your jaw. When you do directly address him, he notices that you stare at the space just above his helmet, never into the t-shaped visor. Never right at him.

He deserves it, he supposes. Never one for talking unless necessary, he’s fine with the complete silence interspersed with: “Okay breathe in, breathe out,” as you check if his stitches can hold, or “try and stand up, walk around the table” hovering a few inches away in case he falls. It seems like Am’ile is the one who takes over the more internal matters, coming in to check on his lung capacity, if his ribs were healing in the proper place.

Apparently the child had to mend the worst of it, now all that was left over was a grinding, bone-deep soreness that comes with being put together from the inside out, as well as some particularly nasty scrapes, the surface remnants of the near-fatal stab wounds. The child had tried to heal those, too, later that morning, but Mando pushed his tiny hand aside, just as he had done the first time.

“No need to waste your energy, womp rat. Save that up for someone else,” he pats the kid’s head as he say this, placing him on the ground with a wince to toddle around the room in search of trouble.

You have your back to the both of them, washing a bowl once filled with Mando’s dirty bandages. You pause as he says this, head tilted slightly over your left shoulder as if contemplating turning around. After a beat, you seem to reevaluate and continue washing the blood out of the bowl, scrubbing at it with a brush heavy with soap. You’re wearing a different dress now, looser, cinched at the waist with a green-brown apron. You dry the bowl with the corner of your apron and start on the next object, a gleaming pair of surgical scissors.

It seems as if you’ve just come from a bath, hair wet and tucked behind your ears as you work. When you first entered, he thinks he heard you mention something about it, now that his condition had stabled. It was mumbled so quietly he almost believes he’s imagined it.

He wants to ask you where the glass hanging from the window is from, how you managed to string it up so perfectly that when the suns get to a certain place, as they were in that moment, it sent a kaleidoscope of colors onto the floor. A kaleidoscope of colors that dapple your face in such a beautiful pattern he half expects he’s in the middle of some torturous spice-dream.

When you turn to leave again, Mando turns his head to stare forward, feigning sleep.

When Am’ile confirms that the treatments have taken well, pointing out all the signs to you as you stand back with your arms crossed and nod intermittently, a diligent student. A part of him is okay with being a living anatomy model as long as it means you actually looking at him.

Once given the clear, he spends the next two days working on the Crest. It was, thankfully, in much better shape than he thought. A bit difficult to go about making the repairs the first day with one of his arms in a sling, but breathing is easier and the deep pain has been replaced with a dull ache that is less difficult to push aside for the time being.

You bring him meals and check his stitches at the crash site—you seem to continuously clarify that you’re only doing this because Am’ile’s hips cannot take the inclines of the hills anymore. Every time you hike up the grassy slope towards him you seem to get a little bit braver, looking him evenly in the eyes for short periods each time.

He’s grateful to see you each time. It’s been a long time since he’s eaten anything that wasn’t from a cantina or a freeze-dried bar. Even though he eats quickly, pushing his helm just below the tip of his nose to do so, he savors it all the same. You turn your back to him as he eats for privacy, playing with the child.

His third morning working on the ship, he gets up at dawn. He’s restless and wants to finish the build as soon as possible, get out of here before Greef Karga starts getting antsy with his absence. A very small, very weak part of himself also knows the longer he stays, the more he becomes a threat to a place like this. It’s too warm. Too gentle. He doesn’t belong here. Something about his presence is disruptive. He just knows this.

Mando still can’t bear the weight of the beskar against his bad shoulder. He pulls on the button-down tunic Am’ile had asked him to wear in order to get better access to his stitches with a wince. It’s a dark green kind of fabric, loose enough to fit both him and the bulk of his bandages comfortably. He’s still a bit light headed on his way to the Crest, but once settled beneath the hull he’s fine.

You come up with breakfast at around the same time as the previous day, setting it on the ground a few feet away from him as if he were some kind of cornered animal you were trying to lull into some sense of false security.

The child babbles something unintelligible from your arms as you turn your back and sit down in the grass. The child had been spending nights with you and Am’ile in the neighboring cabin, since Mando had taken the cabin you’d been sleeping in previously. Am’ile told Mando it was so he could get the rest he needs, without having to worry about the little one. One glance at the way you act around the kid makes it plainly clear that you’re absolutely smitten. It’s hard not to be.

Mando eats quickly, lowering his helmet and turning to give you the clear. You don’t respond, too consumed with attempting to thwart the child’s attempts to catch a hopping bug the size of your palm. You’re wearing a tank top and long, brown cargo pants, seated with your legs crossed and leaning forward every so often to plop the kid back into your lap every time he toddles too far.

There’s a moment where he allows his eyes to trace the elegant curve of your shoulders. Something in his throat tightens. Shaking his head as if to clear it, he pushes himself to his feet and resumes the task at hand. Leaning down to pick up a replacement panel, he straightens with a grunt.

“What are you doing?” Your voice surprises him enough to drop the paneling. It barely misses his booted foot. Small hands wrap around both his biceps, pulling him back. “Stars, stop that you’re gonna—”

And suddenly you’re in front of him, a whole head shorter yet already fussing over him like some family pet. You keep talking to yourself as you do so, maneuvering him to sit with his back leaning against the Crest, kneeling beside him as you pop the buttons of his shirt open. It’s like you started in a moment of complete vindication, and how have to keep up the act despite a deflating confidence. “I feel like the best bounty hunter in the galaxy could maybe use some common sense after getting fresh stitches, just a thought but you obviously could care less…”

You keep talking, he knows that because he sees your mouth moving, but after that last word your hands are against his chest, unwrapping the bandages to check the punctured skin underneath. Your bare hands, on his bare chest. Any possible thought he could have formed after the fact left his head instantly.

He couldn’t even remember the last time someone had touched him, especially like this. Before, when you and Am’ile started patching him up, he was out cold. When you checked on his healing wounds the day before, you had politely asked him to remove his shirt and bandages with an undeniable warble in your voice, standing with your hands clasped behind your back and only glancing at his chest before instructing him to refresh his gauze.

They are soft and a bit colder than he’d expected. So soft. One hand is wrapped around his right trapezius, thumb resting in the dip of his collarbone, and the other cupping his left ribs as if he was trying to get away somehow. Something in him instantly stills. You keep your hands like that as you observe the wound. You give another huff,

“Don’t move.” You turn away, scooping up the kid and walking back down the hill.

He’s not sure if it’s in obedience to you or pure shock, but by the time you return, mumbling something about Am’ile taking over babysitting, he hasn’t moved a muscle. You dab on another layer of ointment, rewrapping his bandages. Satisfied with your work, you sniff, placing your hands on your hips to look back up at him. “What do you need lifted?”

Mando blinks, pausing long enough that you narrow your eyes, chin raised. “Well?”

After a beat, he gestures to the panel he dropped earlier. You both work together, in complete silence, for the rest of the day.

When both suns sit low and heavy in the horizon, you raise your hand to your to your forehead and squint at the place where they are held by the two ragged lines of distant mountains. “It’s a strange kind of beauty, isn’t it.”

He looks at you, looking at the suns. When he doesn’t say anything, you wipe at the sweat and grease smeared across your forehead with the back of your forearm. Wordlessly, you brush your hands off on your pants twice before turning back down the hill.

Mando continues soldering wires. He only pauses an hour or so later, when he hears the song again. He puts down his tools and sits in the grass with his back to the Crest, staring out and into the mountain range before him, the two rocky faces cupping two entangled suns, one indistinguishable from the other. The song is as sweeping and ethereal as when he first heard it, heard you. He takes off his gloves, closes his eyes, and runs his fingers through the grass. He curls them into fists.

Later that night, he has to stumble out of the house and into one of the fields in order to keep the thoughts silent. He has the dream again, it is always impossible to keep sleeping after. He’d been up for hours at that point, trying to breathe through bursts of absolute, vision-blurring panic.

Usually he rests in hour-long bursts, whenever the time allows. He’s gone days without it, to the point that it’s more comfortable to refuse it than give in. It always gets worse when he allows himself to sleep at night. Whatever it is, it always gets worse.

But there’s nothing to fucking do here but think.

It’s the bed. There’s something maddening about your mattress. He hadn’t been touched by another, skin to skin, in so long--the trails of fire your gentle hands left made something in his lower abdomen squirm, restlessly. Hopelessly. Without thinking, he lifts his cock from the waistband of his pants.

Nothing in him can keep the images out. The curve of your knuckles brushing his collarbone. His hand rises in a hard stroke. The low hum you gave once you pushed aside his tunic, unraveling the bandages. Eyes searching for damage. Another stroke, this one even more forceful than the last. The light from the glass against your skin, against the elegant curve of your throat. His thumb comes up to catch the head, already seeping with pre-come. Your gentle palm, dwarfed by the bicep it was pressed against yet steady and determined all the same. He’s so hard it’s excruciating and—

That first morning. The way your chest pressed and swelled against the tight fabric of your bodice, your breasts nearly pushing themselves up and over the gentle ivory neckline with each inhale.

“F-fuck. Fucking sick,” he chokes out in horror as he finishes, his cock pulsing in his hand, his releases onto the damp ground before him. Shame settles itself in place of the writhing desire in his stomach. It is a much deeper feeling, he realizes, as he lowers himself with barely enough energy to tuck himself back into his pants, wiping his hand on the grass already wet with dew.

The girl is just trying to piece you back together and this is all you can think? But he really can’t remember the last time he was touched. With such kindness. Your hands were the softest thing to grace his body for as long as he could possibly remember. He already knows that this, whatever it is, will be devastating. Absolutely devastating. For this reason, something in him will cling to it for as long as he can.

The cold ground welcomes him, it’s the only measure he is given to realize his skin has quickly grown feverish. He almost falls asleep, right there on the ground. But there’s a gentle cry, from the neighboring house, just across the field from his—er, your—cabin. A gentle cry that quickly turns into an all too familiar hiccuping wail. From where he is curled on the ground, he can see right through one of the house’s windows as a lantern flicks on.

It’s just your silhouette, backlit by a warm orange light. You pace in small circles, bouncing the child on your hip, occasionally leaning your head down in what he could only think is to whisper something, just for you and the child. To press a kiss to the dip of his wrinkled forehead. He calms quickly afterwards, but you keep walking anyway. It’s a strange beauty, being able to watch your two forms, the way they bend and lean into the other, rendered indistinguishable by the lantern’s low light. Mando stays there for a long time.

“What is that sound?”

It’s almost nightfall again, the next day. Both Am’ile and Mando are seated at the table in your cabin. The Bardottan woman is playing a card game across from him that he’s been silently observing as they wait for one of his final treatments to sink back in. No bacta, here. Am’ile informed him on his first day. Too isolated of a planet. Her remedies are equally good if not better treatment, just needing some patience.

The singing has started again. It’s the only hint of your presence he’s gotten since the morning, when you unceremoniously plopped a plate of food at the food of his bed and told him you had informed everyone to steer clear of the cabin so he could take his time eating without “that thing on your head.” It was the best meal he’d had in a long while, sugared bread with a fruit jam and a piece of meat that tasted like some kind of mutton.

You start singing right as the healing muscles in his right shoulder have started to go warm and tingly with the salve Am’ile applied. When she doesn’t remove her gaze from her cards, he asks her again.

“What is that sound?”

Am’ile glances up, regarding him for a moment. She says your name, softly, turning her horse-like head towards the window to stare out into the gently moving grass, the empty orange of sunset turning the cut faces of the mountains a dull purple. “It’s a traditional song, from her home planet. It’s how they would call in the seasons, pray for the weather they needed to survive—the people here ask her to sing at nightfall. They say she summons a calm night. When she first arrived it… took some negotiating to allow her to stay.” Am’ile has the gentle, warbling voice of an old grandmother. There is another note from outside, long and slow and beautiful, ending in a sharp, high whoop that reverberates against the sides of the hills. “We look after their children when they go for hunts, it’s how we pay for our place here. This planet has been untouched for centuries, but the beasts are fierce. Would put any Endorian boar-wolf to shame.”

“And why is she here, with you?”

Am’ile is quiet for a moment. Her gaze remains fixed out the window. “She is escaping from a new kind of debt, Mandalorian.” The phrasing hangs in the air, static with its own weight. “The, ah… ex-Imperial officials who turned into warlords after the Civil War...” She looks like she does not want to continue any further. Mando waits in silence. She caves, they always tend to.

“The girl was a nursemaid, by label. They have drugs now, that tell your body you are with child. Lactation, pain of the body so deep it keeps you complacent. It’s a fetish for them, functional for their wives with babies they want nothing to do with. Miserable existence. Caraynthia Dune and I did much work trying to free as many girls as possible years ago, when she was still a soldier. I’d given up the fight, started this farm—began working as a healer for the locals, a peaceful people. The girl found me herself. I still have no idea how. She’s a fighter. Stronger than most any I’ve come across.”

Am’ile’s eyes grow sharp in a way Mando never expected they could. He’s taken aback momentarily, she can’t see his hands flex from under the table. “I have trained her to the best of my abilities, she’d be accepted as a distinguished medic at any Republic facility without a bat of the eye.” She doesn’t have to see Mando’s face to know that he’s in the process of rolling his eyes. “The girl is in danger staying here—they don’t care about what they’d consider to be former cattle as long as they don’t mock the warlords by staying sedentary. She may not be an engineer, but she’s professional--one of the best medics I’ve trained. Kindest, too. You’ll need someone to look after that lung,” Am’ile leans forward, resting a boney elbow against the table and extending a long forefinger to circle the space in front of Mando’s chest. She continues, “Amazing with children. Can hold her own well enough in a fight. Please don’t ever tell her I’ve told you this, but she has asked me to ah… propose this to you. Since the first night of your arrival she has asked to help on board. I know you’ve been looking for a… a… caretaker. The girl is it, Mandalorian. I know you’re an honorable man. I know you would treat her fairly, with kindness. It’s what she deserves. She’s all you could possibly ask for.”

The words hang in the air for a long time. Mando leans both forearms against the table, looking down at his loosely clasped hands. He takes five breaths, then looks back up at Am’ile. “One of the best medics you’ve trained?”

“The best,” Am’ile smiles to herself. It appears as if she already knows his answer. “Without hesitation, the best.”

“With that bedside manner?”

There is a beat of complete silence. Then Bardottan woman bursts into gleeful laughter, nodding her head as she does. The joy of it is enough to fill the entire room.

Mando looks down at his hands and allows himself a small, private smile. It was the closest thing to: yes. Absolutely, yes, that he’s brave enough to voice.

He can’t stop having dreams about a skinless figure. In it, he is Din, again. For the first time in a long time.

He can’t stop having dreams about a skinless figure. He is kneeling in prayer.

He can’t stop having dreams about a skinless figure. She touches his face gently. He reaches out to her.

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #reader insert #i'll be here in the morning #i'll be here in the morning ch.1 #fanfic #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din and grogu #mando and grogu #grogu

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stuckybarton · 3 years

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One Punch One Kiss

Summary: You find a different option to relieve your stress and the fact that you might just be in love with Bruce Banner. Warning: Profanities. Mild Violence. Slight Angst, Self-Depreciation. Grammar Errors. Not Beta’d. Characters: Unnamed Female Character x Bruce Banner Words: 3,092 A/N: So this happened. Lol. Masterlist

It been well over months now since you've found yourself in care of the so-called Earth's Mightiest Heroes, The Avengers. It was far from the life you once lived.

The poverty of the slums, where fighting was always the way to survive another day. It was always survival of the fittest for someone like you. One of the many reasons why it took so long for you to intergrade with the team. Your "power" wasn't that much special compared to the rest of the bunch.

You were a mixed martial artist, finally getting out of the bottom of the barrel but a freak accident left your hands, your tool for survival, barely able close into a fist anymore--you can barely even open them back then too. You find yourself mixed with the wrong crowd and after one too many experiments, you've gain this so-called mutation that lets you punch anything effortlessly. But it doesn't come without a price.

When the adrenaline dies down, you are left with an indestructible fist, but the pain was never far behind. Hands that would last the rest of time, but the pain, the burning torturous pain was something you can never get used to. It was better to dip your hands in lava than the excruciating pain. The insistent throbbing on each finger made it hard for you to open your hands, as much as you were capable of opening them. There there are nights were you want nothing more than to end things, end your suffering once and for all.

But out comes one Bruce Banner.

A man that has known about the demons pestering your life. Having to fight his own every single day as he tries to control the big green monster he calls his other self.

He had helped you so much. From physically helping you maintain the pain you had to endure post-mission, helping Tony Stark with designing the perfect gloves that could potentially lessen the pain you had to experience after each mission. Then there was psychological and mental help.

You were never one for meditating. Always using your fist to forget about your problems as much as possible. But without that stress relief, you were left to Bruce's method.

One hour every single day. Whether it was Bruce having a big research or in the middle of a debriefing. They would take time out of their own schedules just for the one hour to bring semblance to their frail state of minds.

Somehow it does work.

In either your room or in Bruce's room. An hour long meditation with nothing but the sound of white noise brings a momentary peace in your mind, while also making you realize something you try so hard to ignore.

You were in love with Bruce.

Madly, deeply, and crazily enough to be in love with the first man to have every taken care of you. You're fucked, that much you have known for yourself since the realization had occurred.

Now you're left with making sure to make as many excuses as you possibly could to avoid Bruce and your daily meditation. Everyone in the compound knew what you were trying to do, but knowing you and knowing how the aloof Bruce Banner could be, they try to mediate the situation without getting themselves too involved.

"What's up, One-Punch Woman." Tony's usual nicknames annoyed you when you first started out, but as time goes by, you just find yourself getting used to it. You got to talk to Peter about letting Tony watch anime. He gets more material from those.

"Today's not the day to piss me off Tony." You muttered.

You had enjoyed the momentary peace inside the training room. With only the resounding echoes of your first against the punching bag, the rapid breathing escaping your lips, and the low hum of the air conditioner. This was your compromise for not joining Bruce with meditating.

"Come on, Rocky." Tony's hand resting on your shoulder angered you. You hated anyone, aside from Bruce, from touching you.

"Get your hands off, Stark."

Your fist continued to collide with the punching bag, but every single time Tony would try to intervene. Either trying to pull you away from the punching bag or pulling the punching bag away from you.

It took all the control out of you to stop yourself from using Tony as your punching bag instead. Every deep breath you took, the resolve was slowly fading away and your hands were now screaming at you to stop pain finally coming in full waves.

"Stark, I am warning you."

"I'd stop if you tell me why you're avoiding Dr. Banner. It's affecting his productivity if I'm being honest."

And that was the straw the finally broke the camel's back. Punching Stark right in the jaw, but his nano-tech was quick to protect him from punch, but the impact left him stuck right through the walls and everything was now on high alert as F.R.I.D.A.Y placed the training room on lockdown.

"I told you to stay the hell away from me, Stark." You spat, now thinking of a way to get the hell out of the training room without anyone, especially the particular man, coming to see that you were falling apart all because of your god damn feelings. "F.R.I.D.A.Y. open the doors." You demand but the AI refused only wanting Tony to give the command.

"The hell is wrong with you Y/N?"

Now coming face to face with an Iron Man suit of Tony, the last thing you would want was to ruin the reputation you have made with the team. The unproblematic one. The one that would rather keep to yourself than argue with anyone on the team.

"You! Get the hell away me." Your voice grew hoarse as the genuine anger begins to manifest.

One punch, that was all it would take to shut the hell out of the man and you could escape the confinements of the training room.

"Open the doors, Tony. I'm not really in the mood to deal with you and the rest of your fucked up group."

"Well, you're part of this group whether you like it or not. So doesn't that make you just as fucked up as we are?" Tony was actually pointing his beam at you and it made it more evident that you didn't belong here in this group as much as Bruce had assured you were.

There would always be this power dynamic that you will never escape from. May it be the slums, the laboratory, or this compound. You will be nothing more than a tool for them to use and to exploit.

"Stand down, Y/N. You're being hysterical."

That was when you finally snapped, running towards him, clenched fist swung but it never met his face, instead a green being came quick to block your hit.

"It's okay, Y/N." Hulk assured--or was it Bruce. You weren't certain anymore.

Eyes trained towards where you fist has landed. Landing right onto his ribs, had he been in his normal body, you were sure you've fracture a few ribs or worse, punctured his lungs or heart in the process.

When your eyes trailed upward, the gentle look on the Hulk's face scared you. Even he was worried about and everything you had been doing for the past few days as you avoided Bruce.

You didn't flinch when his larger hand tried cupping your cheeks, instead nestling more into his touch. You had it bad. But it was enough to calm you down for the moment. Bruce was your peace.

"Breath, Y/N."

Slowly, you see him turn back to his normal self. Never once did his hand leave your own. Both hands now cupping your cheeks as he stared at you.

"Can you do that for me?"

You nodded, never breaking eye contact. You breath, you tried you best to calm the heart you never noticed was beating to fast as you slowed your breathing.

"You got me..."

Indeed you do. He was here, even after the days you've tried ignoring him, avoiding him, and downright pushing him away. You still got him.

"That's all that matters..."

You nod, eyes now stinging with the unshed tears. You were afraid of losing him. You feeling for him that presented itself to you now, you didn't want to lose it. You couldn't depend on anyone else in this compound but him. Your only sanctuary in your state of mind. Your Survival of the Fittest mentality scrambling at this man that would give you the world even if you so much as ask it from him.

The Strongest Avenger, but was the most vulnerable in your presence.

"F.R.I.D.A.Y. open the door." Bruce requested as he pulled you to his chest.

With the AI following, you caught glimpse of the mess the Hulk had made through the wall just to get it. Wincing at what Tony would have them to just to pay for the damage of it.

Their journey has been silent. The only sound you could hear, or at least tried to focus on was his heart. The rhythmic calm beats against your ear made you focus on your own breathing until you arrived in his room.

Bare as Bruce's room was, it brought you a calmness of the familiarity it had with you. Not much decorations aside from the diplomas and achievements, one picture still stuck out the most to you in his array of achievements. It was a picture of you and Bruce. It was post-mission in the Quintjet, one bud on each of your ear and you still remembered the two of you were listening to Lofi music at the time. What made the picture so memorable was the sight of the two of you grinning ear to ear while icing your aching hand after going head to head with a colossus from who-knows what planet.

You still remember why the two of your were smiling. There was a bet between Tony and Rhodey that you wouldn't be able to take on the giant and had waged a hundred dollars each because they were just that confident. Yet a minute later, you've just punched the alien once before it run as far away from you as possible. Being owed two hundred dollar and just the bragging right you were having had a smile on your face and Bruce was quick to join along in the merriment of the moment.

"What's wrong, Y/N?"

Returning back to the present, the worry in Bruce's face was still evident but you pulled away, cheeks warm at the realization that the man had been shirtless this entire time and you were leaning on his chest all throughout.

"Nothing." You muttered, now unable to meet his eyes now.

"The hole you've punched Tony into isn't much of a nothing." His words, as agitated as you knew he was being at the moment, was calm.

"Tony is just being annoying." You tried to reason. "He was getting on my nerves and deserves it." You added knowing very well that if it wasn't for Bruce, Tony would more than likely be enduring a concussion or even brain damage at this point.

Just the thought of that happening brought a knot right into your throat making you incapable of swallowing. Had it not been for Bruce, you were sure you would need to pack your backs yet again and leave the compound. God know what the rest of the team would think of you if that happened, or what what they would do to you as retaliation.

"But it's not just because of that." It was as if Bruce can read your thoughts. All he wants now is just confirmation.

"It has nothing to do with you." Lie.

"Then what is it? You've been acting weird for the last few days. You're blowing me off and using every excuse in the book to get away from our meditation and away from me. So this definitely has something to do with me."

You didn't have an answer to him. Fear overcame telling him the truth, making him understand your worries.

"Just say it. Say that the other guy is scaring you and be done with it."

You blinked confused with what he was saying.

"That's not it." You assured, finding the right words was hard.

"THEN WHAT?" As the green tint quickly appeared on his skin just as quick as it disappeared, your adrenaline was still high from the incident in the training room, fist already already ready to defend yourself if he loses control.

Never once did you raise you hand at Bruce. Never once did you face with in your attack stance. But never once did Bruce raise his voice at you. This was affecting him just as much as it did you.

"I'm a monster, Y/N. I know that more than anyone else. All you had to do was say so and be done with it."

"You're not a monster, Bruce. You never were in my eyes."

"Yeah, avoiding me makes it so convincing." he snorts turning his back at you, a shirt already in his grasp. "Just say it, Y/N. I can take it. I'm not a child anymore that can't handle the truth."

Biting your lips, this was worse than you have actually anticipated. You watched Bruce ramble on and on about why he was a monster and why you have every right to avoid him. But that wasn't what truly had you speechless. It was this, this man that was aloof as he was had done nothing but bare his heart of to you. Show he was just pained as you were with this situation you've placed yourself in--placed the two of you in.

Was it still the adrenaline or your stupidity, you really didn't know as you surged towards him, lips mashing against his own. His lips was soft against your own. The taste of coffee and hint of mint. And just like that, the words in Bruce's mouth stopped and he was left just as stunned as your were for what you've done.

"I, I don't--I...I don't hate you, Bruce." you stutter, eyes refusing to meet his own yet again. "It's opposite really."

"Say it, Y/N."

"I love you, Banner." You muttered finally looking at him. "I love you and I know for a fact that you wouldn't want to be seen anywhere near me."

"What?"

"You're you. Smart, Got a good sense of humour. You care about me more than my parents ever did. You're the first person here in the compound that treated me more like a human instead of this asset or experiment."

It was now your turn to ramble on about why you don't deserve him. You knew very well why and whatever reason that would try to oppose those beliefs were quick to be stomped away. That was how your mind works, you don't deserve things, you work hard for anything and everything.

"Y/N close your eyes."

You blinked at the sudden request, but the smile that now rested on Bruce's face assured you slightly. But knowing him, knowing he would be the last person to hurt you, your eyes finally closed.

In the darkness, you tried to calm you mind. As much as your trusted Bruce, the unknown scared you, the reason behind this situation worried you. to be this vulnerable in front of him, to be this defenceless.

The last thing you would have expected to happen was his lips against you own. Breathless, you open your eyes to see Bruce's own closed as the kiss continued. The gentle hands that had calmed you down in the training room were once again there to calm you don't. Gently you find yourself pulling more into the kiss, aching hands rested on his chest. The calm heart now coming alive against your fingertips.

Pulling away, Bruce opened his eyes, breathless just as you were and the uncertainty of just what happened finally becoming more an more evident. It was just how you would accept it at this point.

"Hope that's clear enough for you." Bruce muttered, now his own eyes refusing to meet your own. "Why you think so low of yourself? You're part of this team because you value civilian's safety more than our safety, more than your own safety that it's sometimes so annoying because I worry about you and your lack of safety."

You blinked, how the hell did this happen. One minute you were both self-deprecating yourselves, then the next minute it was lips and cheesy lines of admiration for one another.

"I'm not perfect. Far from it, but just seeing you avoid me. It makes it so hard for me to ignore my own thoughts. Maybe they were right." Bruce shrugged.

You shook your head, as much as you knew he wouldn't see. He really didn't know his worth, the irony that you yourself couldn't do the same. The smile just couldn't help but finally escape your lips before you head find solitude in his chest. The sound of his beating heart could do nothing but give you a calmness you didn't think you would need in your life.

"Can we start over." You whispered, the dysfunction that was the two of you wasn't ideal and you knew whatever this might end up becoming, it wouldn't be easy. Nothing was ever easy when it comes to the life they were living. But you knew you could make it work.

"What?"

Pulling away from him. You gentle punched his cheek seeing his lack of effort to block it. He knew just as much as you did that you will never hurt him intentionally.

"My name is Y/N Y/L/N and I love you, Dr. Bruce Robert Banner."

Shaking the man's shaking hand, you smiled as his hands held onto your own tighter and accepting the shake of hand.

"Nice meeting you, Y/N." he started, voice shaky. "My name is Bruce Banner, and I love you too."

With the smile only growing you both of your faces, you leaned once again for a kiss. Things will be alright between the two of you. A few bumps in the road would be a certainty. But you'll work on it. You both will.

"Who do you think Tony would start hounding first about the trashed Training room?" You asked after a second of silence between them.

"My guess is me. Might take a while to live down what just happened."

#Bruce Banner x reader #bruce banner x you #bruce banner x y/n #bruce banner angst #bruce banner one-shot #bruce banner imagine #bruce banner imagines #bruce banner one shot #bruce banner one-shots #bruce banner one shots

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wkemeup · 4 years

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By Any Other Name (16)

series summary: When Special Agent Bucky Barnes is tasked with infiltrating the notorious gang Hydra and gathering evidence against its leader, Brock Rumlow, Bucky finds himself drawn to the woman who doesn’t seem to belong in this world of violence, the wife of the head of Hydra… you. pairing: bucky x reader chapter word count: 6.1k warnings: torture, gun violence, kidnapping, arson, a whole shit show and a wild ride from start to finish i am so very sorry a/n: to anyone who listens to the series playlist, a reminder that Slow Mover has been on there from the start and the second half of the chorus was a direct warning for this chapter 😅 🌹series masterlist 🌹

This wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t supposed to go down like this.

You paced along the small length of a cold, dark office in the back of an old textile factory Brock used to manufacture Cerberus. Heels long forgotten to the top of the table, your bare feet touched on concrete, over small rocks embedded in the ground and the cracks of the floor. They poked and prodded at your skin, weight sinking puncture marks to the balls of your feet. It was something, at least, because with the rushing race of your heartbeat, it was hard to feel much of anything else.

You didn’t know where you were or what happened to James in the blackout. You assumed he was arrested like he was supposed to be, that they made a show of it for the Hydra crewmen in the effort to protect his identity for when this was over. You hoped, anyway.

But if you knew James - and you knew him well - you didn’t suspect he would comply to much of anything when you were missing and in the company of your husband.

“How in the hell did this happen?!” Brock roared, storming into the office with several men on his heels; Zola, the scientist in a white lab coat with subtle red discoloration along the sleeves, and the two men who held James down in the basement that night as Brock nearly beat him to death, Kohl and Sanzetti.

“I don’t know, sir,” the blonde one, Kohl, replied, to which Brock answered by throwing a right jab straight to his jawline. He staggered backwards, into the filing cabinets as Brock growled at him, almost feral.

“Then why the fuck are you talking!?”

You froze at the corner of the room, watching as your husband cleared the desk of its supplies, aggressively throwing papers and coffee mugs and the computer monitor itself to the floor. You winced as the screen cracked and paper slowly drifted down through the air to land delicately amongst the mess.

Brock was panting, red in the face, as he leaned against the edge of the desk, gripping at the corners until his knuckles were sheet white.

You’d never seen him like this before; panicked in a corner and lashing out. You would have felt some kind of satisfaction if you weren’t within the crosshairs of his rage.

“I may have some answers for you,” Zola’s mousey voice spoke from the doorway. He pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose as Brock shot him a kind of glare that could have killed a man. “If you allow me one moment?”

With that, he disappeared back into the warehouse.

“Fucking hell,” Rumlow grumbled, shaking his head. “You’re all fucking useless.”

Kohl and Sanzetti were talking quietly amongst themselves, eyeing Brock suspiciously; low, murmured voices of men with loyalties to the highest bidder, the man with the most power, and suddenly, Brock didn’t hold that position.

You watched as your husband started to finger at the weapon strapped to his waist, touching over cold metal like it was a comfort, like he it was an extension of himself, violence at the palm of his hand.

You had to get out of there.

“Brock,” you called, voice dry in your throat, arms folded over your chest protectively as he glared at you for daring to interrupt his brooding. “Maybe I could step outside for a moment? It’s a little cramped in here and—”

“No fuckin’ way, baby,” he shot back, waving his hand at you dismissively. “There could be feds casing this place! You’re not going anywhere. I want you right where I can see you. How else am I supposed to protect you?”

He spat it at you like a threat.

You clenched your jaw until it ached, nodding enough for Brock to divert his attention. He wore a forced smile, a dead kind of look in his eyes that slowly fell away to a cold, hard, nothingness as he stared down at the desk again. He didn’t care to protect you from anything. He was a selfish man at his very core and even with you feeding into his ego, he would throw you to the wolves it meant saving himself.

“You know what I don’t understand? How the hell did the FBI got access to our shipping logs?”

Your lungs burned, like fire had lit a match deep within your chest. Had you stopped breathing?

“That shit’s been under lock and key for decades,” Brock continued as he straightened his back, cracking his neck to the side, “ain’t that right, Sanzetti?”

“Yes, sir.”

Brock gritted his teeth, a sharp exhale from his nose. “So, logically, the only way that information could have been leaked was if the feds had an inside man.”

Sanzetti exchanged a nervous glance with Kohl before nodding slowly. “Yes, sir.”

Brock’s hands suddenly slammed down to the table in a fit of rage, the sharp echo of it startling straight to your chest and skipping over a beat.

“Someone better start talking!”

“I believe I can assist with that, sir.”

Zola appeared in the doorway again, a proud smirk on his face and you took a step forward, cold pavement under bare feet. Zola waved at someone beyond the door and he slid into the room, taking his place at Brock’s side and waited patiently. He glanced up at Brock like he was a man to be admired. It made you sick.

“This better be good, Zola, or a I’m going to—”

A body was thrown to the floor at Brock’s feet, heavy and lifeless, with a black canvas over his head and ropes tied at his wrists. Blood trailed down his neck and onto the concrete.

You stared at the body, heart in your throat, breaths like fire to your lungs. You swallowed back the scream before it passed your lips.

“What the fuck is this?” Brock snapped, nudging the body with the toe of his wingtips.

“This,” Zola replied, bending down to remove the canvas, “is the man behind Hydra’s undoing.”

The canvas was ripped away, tossed to the far corner of the room and you bit down hard on your cheek. Thick coppery liquid pooled in your mouth as you stared down at the mess of blood matted through dark brown hair, ocean blue eyes shut, unconscious as your husband pushed himself from the desk.

James.

Zola pulled a water bottle from his bag and slowly began unscrewing the lid. He gestured for Kohl and Sanzetti to keep James secure, even amongst the bindings, and he dumped the water onto James’ face.

You dug your nails into your palms, your forearms, your thighs, leaving behind puncture marks you couldn’t feel, even with the red staining to your fingertips. The anticipation was torture, watching the water fall to James’ face, washing away the blood and soaking his hair, until he woke suddenly, coughing violently and flinching away from the stream of water obstructing his breathing.

“Ah, he wakes!” Zola jeered.

James wrestled to his knees, though he didn’t get much further, not with Kohl and Sanzetti holding him down. Wide, panicked eyes shot around the room, catching his bearings, until they landed on you. There was a moment of stillness, a slight relief only long enough to confirm your safety, before he thrashed against his bindings.

There were no more pretenses. There was no cover to protect. It was only survival now.

“What the hell are you going on about Zola?” Brock groaned, watching as James fought against his men, shoving shoulders to knees and grunting in the strained effort. He was unfazed – curious, maybe – at his own right hand bound at his feet, the mark of a traitor branded to his name.

Zola stepped forward, handing Brock a series of photographs. He eyed the short, rounded scientist suspiciously before he snatched the stack of photos from his hands.

From behind your husband, all you could see was the way he tensed upon a single glance down to the evidence in his hands, shoulders melding to stone as he flipped through the pages, a fire in his breath. When the scorch of red touched his ears, a low growl in his chest and a tight clench of his fists along the photographs, you knew this could only end violent and bloody. Brock held little capacity for honor or mercy. He’s killed men for far lesser offenses than this.

Brock tossed the photos to the desk as if they had burned him. Some scattered along the floor, others laid upon the surface. Taken from a distance with an often blurry figure at the center, set in varying locations ranging from the cherry blossoms around D.C. to the streets lined with brownstones in Brooklyn; always the same man in focus.

James.

You stepped forward, touching the image of James in a black suit, a man different than the one before you; shorter hair pushed back away from his eyes, a brightened smile on his face, a youthful glow in his stance. But what drew your attention wasn’t the lightness in his demeanor, the laugh so clearly present on his lips, or the lush of greenery in the background, but instead, the shiny gold badge draped on a thin metal chain around his neck, sitting at the buttons of his jacket.

Oh God.

“Meet Special Agent James Buchanan Barnes.”

Your knees would have buckled out from under you if it wasn’t for your grip against the desk. Heart stammering, hands shaking, panic running course through your veins, you stared at James from the far end of the room, though he kept his gaze on Brock, hardened features and stone-cold expression. He didn’t bother to deny it.

“FBI, huh?” Brock questioned and Zola nodded slowly.

“He’s been feeding them information from the start,” Zola confirmed, placing a series of small metal wirings into Brock’s hand. “We swept the house shortly after word of the raid began. He had bugs planted everywhere. Didn’t take long to weed him out as the culprit once I started looking into his history. He was a ghost before taking this job. He didn’t exist two years ago and that... intrigued me. So I tapped into the security footage records from Quantico and well... seems as though he fooled all of us, sir.”

Brock chuckled, low, humorless as he examined the small listening devices in his hand, pushing them around with his finger until he closed his hand to a fist, crushing the bugs and dropping their broken pieces to the floor. He wiped his hand along his thighs as if ridding dirt from his skin.

“I never took you for a traitor,” Brock sneered, slowly pacing along the room, cracking his knuckles out in front of him, making a show of it as he stretched his hands with every click. “I have to say I’m surprised… and well, a little disappointed. We could have done great things together, Karpov – oh, sorry, Barnes.” Brock chuckled to himself. “You were damn good, too. So eager. So willing to do what needed to get done for the glory of Hydra. What a goddamn shame...”

James just stared up at him, allowing the unkept disdain to rise straight to the surface. Jaw clenched, hands to fists though they were tied at the base of his back, skin red and raw under the cut of ropes. He barely even flinched as Brock barreled a closed fist straight to his left cheekbone.

You gasped, hand clamped over your mouth, tears brimming in your eyes from the terror coursing through you, but James was calm, so impossibly still as he slowly turned back up to face Brock.

“Nothing to say for yourself, Agent?”

James spat a glob of thick, crimson blood to the floor, some of it dripping from his lips to his chin. “Go to hell, asshole.”

“Oh, so he can speak!” Brock laughed, though he jumped back abruptly as James grappled against his bindings, lunging towards him only to be pulled back gruffly by the collar of his shirt. He narrowly clamped his teeth around Brock’s hand. “Fuckin’ hell!”

Brock raised a hand, fist clenched and rings reflecting in the dim lighting of the room, and you quickly turned your head before you saw him take the swing. The sound of knuckles to bone was enough; it warped in your stomach, pushed bile up your throat and clamping your jaw was no longer enough.

The adrenaline was seeping through the cracks, tears burning in your eyes, lump throbbing at your throat. You opened your eyes again to see James swaying unsteady on his knees, held by the front of his shirt by your husband as he punched him again and again while his men stood back and watched, while they laughed.

Blood dripped from James’ lips, sliding down his chin, his neck, pooling at the concrete beneath him. You couldn’t watch this again.

You had to do something.

You had to stop this.

“Brock?”

“I’m a little busy, baby,” he grunted, throwing another hit to James’ cheekbone, reopening the long, jagged wound that had healed in the weeks since the basement. The ring on Brock’s middle finger broke through skin and James cried out, shouting as he hunched over, pressing his cheek to his shoulder to stop the bleeding but it only soaked into his shirt. Pools of red in its wake.

“Brock, just—wait!” you tried again, voice shaken.

“Why? You want a turn?”

Wide eyes bore into his as he paused for a moment, looking back at you earnestly, and – dear God – he was serious. Your gaze flashed to his closed fist, staring at the red coating his broken knuckles and dripping down his wrist.

“We should get out of here,” you gasped, desperately avoiding the panic the quickly surged through James’ face, though he kept himself motionless. “Before his friends find us... we should go.”

Even from the corner of your eye, beyond the blood and swelling on James’ face, you could see the confusion, the horror, as the words left your lips. You knew your husband better than anyone else in this room, so you knew there was no scenario where he would allow James to leave this room alive; not unless his own self-preservation outweighed his need for revenge.

So, you’d stay with Brock, go with him far away from this factory, away from James and his team, to corners of the world you’d never see the other half of your heart again. You’d stand by your husband’s side and keep up this disguise for the rest of your life. You’d wear a dozen different masks, staple a smile to your face, and learn to be content – complicit – again. You’d do anything if it meant James survived this.

“Brock,” you whispered, taking another step forward like you were approaching a feral animal, cautious, calculated movements as not to set it off. You slowly reached out to him, close enough to slowly wrap your hands around his and carefully pull him to your grasp. Gentle, tender movements as you held his gaze, the blood of your lover warm on your palms as you guided away the monster’s fist.

“Let’s go,” you urged. “You and me. We’ll get away from all of this. But we have to leave now.”

There was a stillness in Brock, a slow drawl of his eyes as looked from your intertwined hands to your face; a moment of reprieve, maybe something like relief, and he pursed his lips together to a soft smile.

Then, he released James’ shirt and your whole heart fell crashed to the floor; concrete to his jaw, his arms bound behind his back and unable to catch himself. He groaned, withering against the cold of the ground, trying to push himself back to his knees, trying to catch your eye and beg you to stay, beg you not to leave with the same man you’d been desperate to escape from.

“Okay, baby,” Brock cooed, his free hand sliding up your arm, pulling goosebumps like ice and venom along the way until he cupped the side of your face. You held your breath, allowed him to kiss you, push his tongue into your mouth, and you held back tears, realizing you’d kissed James for the last time. Brock had already swept his touch away from you.

You could feel James’ eyes burning on you, desperate, begging, but you couldn’t look at him. The second you did, you knew you’d lose your resolve completely. You couldn’t allow that to happen.

Protect James; the way he protected you, the way he protected Peter. This was how you save him. Go with your husband. Take the life you were dealt and deal with the consequences.

You were prepared to make that sacrifice. Until –

“Just one thing before we go.”

Brock swiftly yanked a pistol from his waistband and in those seconds, your world seemed to move in slow motion; like limbs underwater, pushing against resistance, like you might be able to reach out and stop it in time if you were only faster than time itself.

The barrel pressed to James’ temple.

The unlatch of the safety followed; deafening, echoing.

There was a burning in your lungs long before you realized you were screaming.

“NO!”

You clamped your hand over your mouth, muffling yourself under trembling hands as time came speeding back up to you.

Brock froze, head slowly turning to you with a hardened expression of disbelief, of fury and fire and rage burning behind his eyes; a flicker of something darker hidden in the flakes of green, a realization, maybe, and you were certain a single look could have killed you.

You quickly dropped your hands and closed them to fists at your side to stop the shaking.

“Do we have a problem here, baby?”

There was venom to his voice. He spat the pet name at you like an insult.

You cleared your throat nervously, trying to find your breath but your eyes flickered to James. There was crimson coating over most of his face, the cold barrel of a gun pressed against his temple, and he was watching you, terrified, but never for himself – no, his fear was for you. His drive to protect you was always stronger than that of his own.

It was something you had in common.

“He’s a—a federal agent,” you tried to reason. “You don’t—you don’t want to give them more to charge you with. You kill one of their own and they’ll hunt you down. They won’t stop until they find you.”

Brock’s stare could have torn right through you, unnerving and cold as ice, like blades to your skin as they drew blood right at your heart. But then, seemingly out of nowhere, he lowered the weapon and you exhaled a heavy sigh of relief.

“Fine,” he shrugged, far too calm for the man you knew. He brushed the barrel of the gun against his thigh, examining it up against the light. It was the calm before the storm and you could sense the lightening long before the thunder when his eyes snapped to you. “Why don’t you do it?”

Before you could take another breath, Brock bounded across the room, grabbed a painful grip of your wrist and yanked you towards him. His grasp cut deep into your bones, would surely leave behind bruising and you watched as the marks of his fingers left discoloration in their wake.

He slammed the gun in your hand, cold metal to the burning heat of your palms, forced your arms out straight, pointed the barrel at James.

“Stop,” you gaped as you tried to push out of his grasp but there was no give on his hold; no release as he caged you, forcing a violent weapon to your hands and aimed at the one man you’d give your life for.

“Go on, baby! Shoot.”

You shook your head, trying to squirm out of his hold but it was like fighting with a wall. “Brock, let me go--”

“You wanted to be part of Hydra, didn’t you? This is Hydra, baby! Welcome to the fun!” Brock shouted, a laugh in his voice, amused, as his fingers dug bruises to your shoulders. “Now... shoot him!”

Your hands were shaking, the barrel of the gun swaying in your grasp. Your eyes caught James and you were shocked to find him calm, waiting patiently on his knees. There was a determination there you didn’t quite expect, a simple kind of realization. His gaze pointed down at his left shoulder before it returned to you.

You furrowed your brow.

“What are you waiting for?” Brock grunted. “No one is coming for him. We’ll dump the body before the feds can find us. No one will miss a fuckin’ narc.”

James was staring at you and you could barely make out the blue of his eyes over the swelling, behind the steady stream of blood on his face. He was breathing heavy, gargled, like there was blood in his throat, too, and God, it was worse than that terrible night in the basement. You choked back a cry, trying to bit it down before your husband could see your tears.

You wanted to scream, to run, to use that goddamn gun on Brock himself, but you wouldn’t get more than a few feet before his men took you down. There was no way out of this. James seemed to know that, too, because there was a slight nod of his head, impossibly subtle that not even Brock seemed to notice. You parted your lips in shock as blue eyes flickered to his shoulder again before returning to you.

The realization hit you like a sucker punch to the gut.

No.

“I’m growing impatient, baby,” Brock groaned, squeezing hard at your shoulders and causing you to recoil under the strain of muscle. “If you don’t take the goddamn shot, I will and I’ll make a damn mess of things; might empty the whole clip and I know how you women are about keeping things clean.”

You shivered as the heat of his breath touched your neck, disgust and rage surging through you and you struggled to find your breath.

James nodded at you again. Your heart thunderous in your chest; it pounded in your ears. You could feel the pulse of it in your temples, through your finger tips and you slowly slid your pointer to rest against the trigger.

“Good girl,” Brock praised, his voice laced in a thick, unrelenting poison.

James held your gaze the entire time and you wished you could have known what was running through his head in that moment, because all you could think about was how scared you felt how terrified you were that this was it, that you’d already used up your time with him.

He nodded again, the curve of his lips so soft you almost missed it. That sweet smile of his, the one that convinced you trust him more than a year earlier, the one that lifted the storm clouds and walls you’d surrounded yourself with, the one that you dreamed about at night. It was small and only an ounce of what you knew it to be, but it was there.

“Shoot him, baby,” Brock urged in your ear, but his voice was distant, muffled, because you kept your focus on James, on the sense of calm on his face, the trust in his eyes.

Brock was miles away when you were with James.

You took a deep breath, and on the exhale, you pulled the trigger.

There was barely anytime to watch as the bullet tore through the fabric of James’ shirt, as the impact nearly knocked him over, as the blood splattered out onto the white walls behind him, dripping down in deep crimson stains.

Hands shaking violently as the weapon was pulled from your grip, you couldn’t look away as James’ eyes started to lose focus, how they drifted away from your own, and started to flutter, how he could hardly hold his head up.

You barely registered the push of angry hands shoving you to the door, a painful grip on your wrist, bones crackling under the touch as James slumped down to the floor. Your body was not your own as it was dragged on unsteady; a vicious ringing in your ears and a muffled voice shouting at you with malice laced in his tone.

Vision tunneling. Blurry. No – tears in your eyes. You nearly tripped over something on the floor, foot catching on something heavy and it took a moment before you realized it was James’ body Brock dragged you over.

You glanced back in horror, unable to pry Brock’s grip from around your wrist, to find blood pooling around James as he struggled to find his breath. The bare of your feet touched over warm, slippery crimson as Brock shoved you forward; red footprints in your wake.

Brock turned abruptly at the door, swinging you sharply behind him, and fired his weapon in two consecutive shots; ones that were muffled to the ringing in your ears as Kohl and Sanzetti fell to the floor, vagrant stares in their eyes and bullets lodged deep into brain tissue. You barely flinched, your focus solely on James.

He wasn’t moving, his gaze fixing on the wall far beyond you.

The pool of red under him was growing.

“You wanted to go, baby?” Brock sneered, yanking painfully on your hand, his rings cutting into your skin and you felt something pop. “Let’s fucking go!”

Red and blue lights flashed into the building and Brock cursed loudly, dragging you along as he sprinted to the back of the factory. James disappeared from your view and all you were left with were the bloody prints on the bottom of your feet.

The cold air slammed to you like a wall, shivers trembling up your spine, rocks and dirt to the bottom of your feet as Brock led you through the wooded overcast of trees running along the property. It was too dark back where you were, the street lights barely illuminating the front of the factory, let alone the long, winding, dirt path at its rear.

Police cars were parked by the entrance, lights flashing, men and women in uniform with weapons attached to their hips, some in their hands, as they slowly entered the building. You wanted to scream, to beg for help, but you knew the second you did, it would divert their attention to you and they might not reach James in time. You couldn’t allow that to happen.

Branches poked at your sides, scraping your skin and leaving prickles of blood in their wake; stones puncturing at your bare feet, leaves and dirt sticking to the mess of blood drying underneath. You nearly tripped over an exposed root before Brock shoved you up against a tree, hand slamming down over your mouth as a patrol car zoomed by up along the road.

No one saw you.

No one would.

At the end of the tree line was an unmarked car sitting alone in an empty parking lot. Brock pushed out ahead of you, pulling a key ring from his pocket and unlocked the vehicle. You paused, staring at him, wondering why the hell he had a getaway car stash out a mile away from the factory.

“Get in the goddamn car,” he growled, yanking your hand like you were a child and whipping you around the trunk. Your hip slammed to the rear lights and you let out a whimper, though Brock paid it no mind.

He shoved you to the passenger seat, slammed the door behind you. He slid over the engine and dropped in behind the wheel himself. Headlights off, he threw the shift into drive and drove away like it was nothing at all, like there weren’t dozens of policemen and SWAT teams and FBI patrolling the area.

The low vibration of the engine was deafening. Your hands were shaking in your lap so you tried to curl them to fists, nestle them under your thighs, but nothing seemed to make it stop. Dried blood on your feet, ringing still burning in your ears, and you turned your attention to the side of the road, watching the blur of trees out the passenger window.

You tried not to think of James.

Along the way, you must have lost track of time, because you were suddenly pulling into the driveway at the end of your estate. You’d lost nearly twenty minutes just staring out the window, lost within the ringing and the panic in your veins, and you stared up at the home with narrowed eyes.

“What are we doing here?” you asked, turning to Brock suspiciously. “This will be the first place the feds will come looking for you. We should--”

You bit down on your tongue because beside you, Brock was laughing to himself. Chin to his chest, wide smile pushing at his cheeks, like he was genuinely amused. It wasn’t a look you saw on him often. It was... unsettling.

“Brock?”

He looked up at you, crooked smile on his face, as his right hand slowly slid up your arm and nestled along your neck, fingers scratching at your scalp and they interwove into your hair. It was an intimate gesture, a tender one, and you tried to fight against how quickly you tensed up, how your muscles conformed to stone, but you knew he could feel it.

“We should go,” you tried again, voice low, cracking in the effort. Your throat was dry, like sandpaper.

He only smiled back at you, though it didn’t touch his eyes. Something was wrong.

Your heart started to pick up in pace, your breath becoming shallow.

“You can stop pretending, baby. It’s just the two of us now.”

His hand gripped tight to your hair, pulling out strands and a yelp from your lungs, and he slammed your head to the dashboard. Once, twice, until darkness came in and washed you away.

***

You woke to the smell of gasoline.

It burned in your nose, the tang of it bitter on your tongue, pushing down into your lungs with a sharp intake of breath. You started to cough, violent and dry heaves as you tried to find clean air, and that was when you felt the resistance at your wrists.

Vision still tunneled, unforgiving darkness, like you were looking through the thin fabric of a black mask, you found your wrists bound to a single, wooden chair; tied down primitively with electrical wires. You tugged against it, only for it to rub raw into your skin, digging deep into the crevices, pulling a hiss from between your teeth. You tried to push forward but there was a series of wiring wrapped at your chest, holding your shoulders to the back of the chair.

“Welcome back, baby.”

Snapping your eyes abruptly to the sound of the sudden voice, you saw Brock sitting on the corner of the couch, stretched back into the arm rest with a cigar in his hand, legs crossed over one another.

“Guess I knocked you out a bit too hard, huh?” he snickered as he started to light the end of his cigar. “You figure out where we are yet?”

Your head was throbbing, black spots covering most of your vision, but they were slowly fading away. You could make out the soft blue color of the couch he was sitting on, the coffee table with stained rings upon the wood in the shape of old mugs, the greenery hanging by the windows, the colorful bindings of hundreds of novels lining the shelves surrounding you.

A room that had held you safe for so many years. Four walls that shielded you from Hydra’s claim. A place where you could be yourself without fear of repercussions, where you found respite and grew to love a man who now laid in a pool of his own blood miles away.

Your library.

“Ah, there it is,” Brock jeered, taking a long drag from the cigar, his wet, cracked lips circling around the wrapper as he inhaled. He held your eye as you stared at him, wide and stunned, before he removed the cigar and slowly blew the smoke to your face. The thick cloud of grey touched your skin and the bitterness of it stung in your lungs as you tried to cough it away.

“What the hell are you doing, Brock?” you rasped, chest burning from the smoke and the sting of gas in the air. There was a container at his feet, a bucket filled high with thick, dark liquid, and you could see his reflection in.

“Getting justice,” he replied with a shrug.

“Justice?” you scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Are you insane?!”

The mask you’d worn was long cracked and dismembered to pieces at your feet. There was no hiding your distain, no reason to pretend that your relationship was anything other than hostage and captor; certainly not with the wires binding you to a chair and the blinding pulsing in your head from where he’d knocked you out cold.

“Maybe,” he shot back with a sickening grin. He waved the cigar at you, eyes trailing over your body, the hem of your dress riding up high on your thighs in the struggle. He smirked. “I see you’ve decided to drop the act, as well.”

“Oh, fuck you,” you spat, rolling your eyes.

“Ouch. That stings,” Brock whined, hand mockingly clutching at his heart. “Didn’t know you were so unhappy, baby. I gave you the world, didn’t I?”

“You took everything from me, you fucking asshole!” you shouted, voice raw and hoarse. “You forced me from my career, from my friends. You stole my money, my inheritance, my—my freedom! You tricked my sixteen-year-old cousin into a goddamn drug trafficking ring and threatened to beat him within an inch of his life! You kept me locked up in this house for years and tied me to your arm at those miserable fucking parties like I was some accessory you could show off for a few hours before you threw it back to storage! You destroyed my life!”

“Funny,” Brock chuckled, completely unfazed. “I recall you signing the marriage certificate yourself. No gun to your head or anything.”

You shook your head, chest heaving with heavy, painful breaths. “You lied to me. You used me.”

Brock only shrugged, a slight purse of his lips as he tapped the end of the cigar and grey ashes fell to the cushions of your couch.

Your stomach was heavy, lined with stones; your gaze focused on the muddied imprint on the tips of his shoes, the dried blood on the soles of his feet, the same blood that stained your bare skin, where you’d left footprints behind.

James’ blood.

“We could’ve had it all, baby,” Brock sighed, taking another drag from the cigar. He blew the smoke to the ceiling. “You and me. We could have ruled Hydra together. You could have been my queen.”

He paused, a heavy sigh as a cloud of thick, grey smoke passed by his lips. The cigar twirled around his fingers as if manipulated by string.

“But you just had to go and start fucking my hitman, didn’t you?”

It was the full force of a train whipping along the outer curves of a mountain, plummeting you to frozen rapids amongst the free fall. Ice water to your chest, in your veins.

The hardened glare slipped from your features, replaced by widened eyes, parted lips gaping in the shock of it, panic and fear; exactly what your husband wanted from you. He wanted you afraid, trapped. It was how he always wanted you.

You couldn’t find your breath, much less your voice, so all you could do was watch as Brock pushed himself up from the couch and started to pace along the room. He slid his fingers along the shelves, pulling books by their bindings and watching as they fell to the floor, open pages stepped on by muddied wingtips.

“You know,” he drawled, picking up a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, examining it as he flipped through the pages before he tossed it over his shoulder. You winced as it hit the ground. “I never understood your obsession with this room. All these old, boring books written by old, boring people; thousands of dollars of my fortune... wasted on fairytales.”

Your stomach was still lodged in your throat, hands gripping painfully at the arms of the chair. Your wrists were raw, red, and there was a burning sensation there, a tingling, and you realized the wires had cut through your skin, dipped in blood. It didn’t hurt nearly as much as the pounding of your heart in your chest, your ears, down to your fingertips and toes.

“You spent so much time in here. Figured it must be something special…. but it’s just another fuckin’ room,” Brock continued, passing by the series of plants hanging by the windows.

In one swift motion, he grabbed a pot hanging from the ceiling and threw it across the room. You flinched, the shock of it forcing several skips in your already racing heart, as it collided against the wall and shattered to the floor; a cloud of dirt circling into the air above it.

Behind you, Brock snickered as he began kicking over the plants behind you, tipping them from their place on the windowsill and dumping them from the shelves. Flowers and greenery amongst the dirt and pieces of broken ceramic, lying on the floor as he dug his heels to the roots, smashed the petals under his wingtips and kicked at the remains.

You could hear the floorboards under his feet whine as he paced behind you but you kept your gaze forward, not daring to turn around. He paused then, a heavy exhale as he turned his attention to the couch, smirking from behind your shoulder.

"You fuck him in here, too?”

You bit on your tongue, tears burning in your eyes you could no longer contain.

“Huh?!” Brock bounded across the room, thunderous steps and he gripped ahold of your shoulders until you yelped, turning away from him as best you could. “You fuck that traitorous son of a bitch in my house?!”

You recoiled as he screamed to your ear, eyes closing shut as tears slipped down over your cheeks. Brock chuckled to himself as he pulled away, pleased by your reaction and he wiped his hands on his thighs, as if to rid you from his touch.

Despite the bindings, you were shaking; hands trembling, breaths labored and uneven, jaw clenched impossibly tight to stop the chattering. You weren’t made for this the way Natasha was, or Sam, or Steve, or James. You weren’t an agent of the FBI. You weren’t trained as an army ranger or learned how to withstand torture the way James did that night in the basement. Brock hadn’t even raised a hand to you and you were in pieces.

You were a literature professor at Columbia. This wasn’t your world.

“I don’t know how long you knew he was a fed but frankly, I couldn’t give a shit at this point.” Brock bit the cigar between his teeth, holding it steady as he knelt down in front of you. His breath was sour, like old smoke and day-old bourbon, and you flinched as his fingers reached up and grabbed a sharp hold of your jaw. “All I know, is that you were in on this somehow. You gave me up. Didn’t take long to figure that out once our buddy James was lying bloody on that floor and you wouldn’t let me kill the bastard myself.”

You swallowed, trying to pull yourself from his grasp, but his fingers dug in further.

“I was surprised at first,” he continued, words garbled from the cigarette nestled at his lips as he ran his free hand through your hair, “but then I remembered how Karpov volunteered to take a beating for that punk ass cousin of yours. I remembered how you reacted that night in the basement, how you begged me to stop and I realized... he did it for you, didn’t he?”

Your blood ran cold. You couldn’t speak.

“It opened my fucking eyes, baby!” Brock shouted right to your ear, causing you to flinch. “All those times he was watching you from the corner of the room? Shit, I thought it was harmless. The guy wanted to fuck you. So what? Half my men get themselves off to the thought of it. But him? No... this was different. That fucking moron actually fell for you... and you know what is so goddamn funny about it all? You fell for him, too, right under my fuckin’ nose.”

Tears were openly sliding down your cheeks, touching onto Brock’s fingers as he held your jawline in place, forcing you to look him in the eye. His stare was of ice, heartless, a vicious envy in the green of his eyes.

A single beat. And then, “imagine how fun it was for me to force you to shoot him.”

“You’re a monster.” It came out broken, harsh and aching. Images of James lying still and bloody on the floor of that factory haunting you as you closed your eyes.

“Yeah?” Brock chuckled humorlessly. “At least I’m not dead.”

Cold, unforgiving eyes stared back at you; seething, red.

And yet it ignited something in you.

“James Barnes,” you started slowly, finding strength in his name as you stared to the eyes of the devil, “is ten times the man you will ever be.”

You waited, watched as Brock’s mouth curved up to a smirk, baring teeth behind dry, cracked lips, and you spat.

He flinched at it landed on his cheek, wet and dripping down his jaw. He started to laugh as he wiped it away, flicking away the saliva to the floor and wiping the rest on his suit pants.

“Was.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What?”

“You mean ‘was,’ as in past tense,” Brock jeered, planting his hands on your forearms, face inches from yours. “James Barnes was ten times the -- blah blah blah. You killed him, baby... or did you forget?”

No.

No, you shot him in the shoulder, right where he told you. You were certain of it. It was a clean shot.

But there was so much blood. There shouldn’t have been so much blood...

God, why was there so much blood?

You weren’t trained like he was. You weren’t an expert marksman like Natasha. You could have missed without realizing it. You could have shot two inches to the right and hit an artery. He could have bled out alone in that room before the cops got to him in time. He couldn’t actually be–

Your heart rate started to pick up, thunderous and burning a lump in your throat. Breathing coming in uneven, rushed, shallow, and you looked up to Brock with wide eyes, only to find him turning his back to you, slowly making his way to the bucket by the couch.

“His friends aren’t coming for you,” he taunted, picking up the container of gasoline and dumping a steady stream onto the couch beside you. You held your breath, trying to turn away from the stench of it, but it was too powerful. Brock only laughed.

“You think that because you were his plaything that they’ll give a shit about you? You’ve been a part of Hydra from the start, baby! You stood in the shadows and watched from your fuckin’ ivory tower! You knew everything that was going on in this house and you kept your mouth shut like the good little girl you are!”

You shook your head, panting because your breaths were coming in faster than you could take in air. “You threatened me! You threatened my family!”

“You were still complicit to hundreds of crimes,” Brock shrugged, dragging the container around the room and spilling puddles of gasoline along the hardwood floors. “You are Hydra, baby, whether you like it or not. You are not worthy of redemption. You are not better than me. You are and always will be Hydra to those feds and they will leave you to BURN!”

There were splinters in your palms from how tight you were holding the edge of the arm rests. Your whole body was rigid, like stone, as you watched Brock douse the shelves filled with priceless books, first editions and cherished copies, with gasoline.

He always held a resentment for this room; the fact that you had a place within the cold, unforgiving nature of this home to feel safe in. It mocked him, infuriated him, that he couldn’t control every ounce of relief and happiness you were allowed in this world. You’d found that for yourself outside of him. In this room. In James. In yourself.

And he was going to set fire to it all.

“Brock,” you choked out, terrified, “wait.”

“I think I’ve waited long enough,” he shot back, tossing the rest of the gas onto the plants behind you, letting it seep along the floorboards. He threw the empty container to the side of the room, against the bookshelves to your left and pulling down several novels along with in. They splashed into the gas, their pages soaking in the fuel.

“Don’t do this,” you begged, voice barely above a whisper, too lost, too broken behind the lump in your throat. You tugged against the bindings, fighting the restraints, until blood dripped down your wrists and stained the hardwood floors beneath you.

Brock winked as he leaned on the door frame, pulling the cigar from between his teeth and blowing out a cloud of smoke. One final drag before he flicked it to the floor, almost in slow motion as it spun and twisted in the air.

It landed amongst the gas, and then, it burst into flames.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you

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ficforce · 4 years

Text

Little Lady Part 4

Joker/52 x Reader SFW Before Series one

A shudder ran down Y/N’s spine as she felt dark, glass-covered eyes land on her, she could always feel it when Giovanni looked at her by the way her skin crawled, “Did you have fun, Y/N?” There was no point in pretending she didn’t know that he knew where she had been all afternoon and with a defeated exhale she turned on her heel to follow him to his office. The tiny hairs at the back of her neck stood up as they got closer to his office – she knew he was already there. Her Captain. Giovanni was not her Captain; he was just accommodating her presence there for someone else. Taking a breath before walking into the office behind Giovanni, she immediately spotted the large man stood in the middle of the sparse room, his green eyes dull as he stared at her. Y/N tried to ignore the sound of skittering feet and buzzing wings; the shelves all around were filled with vials of insects. She didn’t understand Giovanni’s obsession with bugs. “He trusts me.” Not waiting to be told to speak, not needing the prompt, the woman began her report, “Jo- Five-Two trusts me enough to share personal information, it’s skewered and he plays it off as being stories about monsters and lions. I am certain I could get him to show me where he resides in The Nether, even get information on what he is doing.” “We’re not interested in what he’s doing, complete your mission.” Her Captain took a step toward her and it took everything in her power to not move, to not react or show even a hint of fear, “Does he still believe he’s special? That he’s different?”

“Yes.” She felt goosebumps all over her body the second he was close enough that she could feel his body heat. He leaned down to speak behind her ear, “Are you different?” It was a loaded question, so heavy Y/N thought her knees would buckle, “Are you special?” “No. I am part of a group, we are a collective. We are one, sharing the same thoughts and protecting the Church.” Her voice was monotone, almost dead as she repeated the words he had beat into her over the years. He knew best though, he did this to protect her… so that she didn’t get burnt up with everyone else. The Captain brushed his finger along her cheek, watching as she didn’t even flinch, “Then complete your mission, Five-Two.”

x- - “What’s the news, Licht?” Joker closed the door behind him as he entered the little underground hideout, “You look into the kid I riled at the Rookie games?” He watched as the young scientist mixed up a few brightly coloured liquids, his tongue poking out as he got it just right. “He’s recently finished his final year of training, Mr Devil’s Footprints has a reputation,” Tilting his head back he grinned at the other, “How was your date?” They fell into easy conversation, drinking coffee and messing around with the formula of a new weapon Joker could use if in a pinch. The younger man poked and prodded until Joker told him more about Y/N - he liked to keep her all to himself but he also enjoyed bragging about how sweet his Little Lady was. Maybe one day he would introduce her to Licht and clue her in on what they were doing; she always seemed to understand more than he thought she would. Maybe she would understand that he was searching for the truth, he was trying to figure out why the world sucked and then he would fix it. “I tried looking her up. Y/N doesn’t have much of a history - she seems a little boring for someone like you, Joker?” He shook his head, “Normal house, normal school, joined the Fire Force, average graduation and then joined Company 3,” smoke from his cigarette formed into the letters ‘A to B’ before shifting into a heart, “Maybe I like boring? Maybe I like the simple things in life?” “You’ll want a wedding and babies next, how you gonna save the world?” Licht watched Joker choke on air and the long-haired man told him to shit up; though the scientist couldn’t miss the other’s blushes.

Two weeks passed since their rendezvous at the hotel and Joker hadn’t managed to catch Y/N alone at all. If he had thought she were capable he would have suspected she was avoiding him, somehow able to give him the slip but she wasn’t that skilled. She had always jumped or gasped when he appeared out of nowhere. There was always someone with her, she never seemed to be where he was used to her being… When he did get a chance it was too perfect. She didn’t even scare when he stepped up behind her in the hallway, “Hey, Little Lady.” Y/N turned her head to look at him over her shoulder and smiled, “Hey, stranger. You been busy or something?” “Me?” The man blinked at her dumbly, “I’ve been trying forever to get you alone, I was gonna ask you on a date but I couldn’t get the chance,” taking her hand he gave her a gentle tug, “So now I gotta kidnap you.” That was all the warning he gave her before telling her to go get changed and meet him outside. Joker waited for her in the alley, brushing a stray hair from his black sweater and patting at the appliqué ‘J’ he had sewn on himself. It was his favourite casual top and he knew it was soft for cuddling in; he hoped to get lots of those. She was taking too long… Tying his hair into a ponytail and adjusting his bandana over his eye Joker decided to go and check on her. Barely two steps forward and he saw her around the corner, “Wow…” The woman had put on an outfit that flattered her perfectly, his purple eye couldn’t stop admiring her, she’d dressed up for him and was even wearing the purple scarf he had ‘helped’ her choose. “I thought you were kidnapping me.” No sooner had the words left her that Joker was making good on his promise to take her out. Y/N was surprised that he had taken her to a rooftop of an abandoned building a few blocks away - there, she found he had set up a table and two chairs. He even added a white table cloth. “You… this is…” There was a bottle of wine in an ice bucket and two glasses waiting for them, “This is perfect.” Y/N looked at him as he grinned, he was drifting smokey love hearts her way and she wafted them away with a small smile, “I suppose this makes up for the trouble you got me in with my Captain.”

“That bird faced geezer,” the man pulled a chair out for her and tucked it in as she sat, “You can handle him.”

“Giovanni isn’t a problem,” Y/N leaned her elbows on the table and then rested her chin on her fist, “He’s just useful.”

Joker’s smile dulled a little, leaning back in his chair, “Useful?” That was a very strange way to talk about her boss, “What’s he do? Lay you eggs?” “Joker, who do you think replaced the monster that ran away, the one from your story?” His eye narrowed and Joker looked at the woman seriously - this wasn’t right - she seemed different. Usually, she was cheery with him, usually, she would fall into a small rant about the idiots she worked with and then they would talk about anything and everything. She wasn’t being as open, her body language was stiff and her tone was off. “It was just a story, Little Lady, I guess they just stole another one… Are you okay?” Maybe the sunset dinner was too much, he’d overstepped and was messing things up. She’d dressed up for him and here he was dressed in his casuals, “I can take you somewhere nicer if you wa-” “Did you ever think about the poor little monster that took your place?” Y/N’s jaw was tensed as she stared across the table at him, he glanced down to see her hands were fisted on the edge of the table. The sensation of adrenaline rushing through him was unwelcome, he shouldn’t feel this way when he was with her. Joker poured them both a glass of wine and took a sip to try and calm his sudden nerves, “I just wanted to get out of there, Y/N.” “Sorry,” All of a sudden her body relaxed and she reached across the table to hold his hand, “It’s been a hard week and your story kind of freaked me out - I had a few bad dreams.” “Dreams?” Taking another sip he nodded, “I didn’t mean to upset you, but don’t worry about that stuff, I’ll protect you, Little Lady.”

Y/N smiled gently at him, “I don’t think you’re a monster. I’ve really enjoyed being with you, Joker, at first I really didn’t know what to think - you scared the hell out of me and I panicked… I really thought that was it for me but then you rescued me from that closet.” He could have left her there to die or even killed her himself, “I didn’t appreciate the stalking either but you were just trying to get my attention, right?” Y/N got up from her seat and headed to the edge of the roof, the sun was going down and Tokyo was lighting up in front of them. “I really love watching the city, so much movement and life, the lights are so pretty too… And the sun always feels so warm, even on cold days.” Something still felt off but Joker got up and stood behind her, his arms either side of her body as he held onto the rail, “You’re one of the only people I know who appreciates something as simple as traffic at night and sunshine… You’re right though, I wanted your attention - I followed you around like some lost dog and you were kind enough to pet me.”

“I was looking for your weakness, to see what made you work and how to get past your defences.” She felt him laugh against her back and she turned around - his arms wrapping around her waist loosely, “You shouldn’t laugh, I might be serious.” She was saying some very strange things tonight. “You’re making me nervous, and not even because you dressed up so nice for me.”

“I wanted you to remember me looking my best.” Joker opened his mouth to speak, his expression confused at her words before it morphed into disbelief as he felt a sharp pain slide through his ribs. A shuddering breath escaped him, slowly his gaze turned down to focus on her hand wrapped around the hilt of a knife. “I want you to remember me looking pretty, being different and feeling almost special to someone.” Y/N twisted the knife sharply; his punctured lung being skewered and torn before a rush of blood began to soak into his sweater when it was pulled free. “I want you to see what the monster that replaced you could have been if she’d been left with her family. You said you wanted to get out of there, that the world sucked - and you’re right, it does suck. It sucks because I lost my family, it sucks because I was forced into a deep, dark hole and told to survive. It sucks that I had to fight and strip away anything that made me unique. And Why?” Somehow she had been able to keep her voice level and her tone calm, she cleaned the blood off the nice with the corner of the table cloth.

“Because you wanted to get away.” Joker’s arm stretched out to grab her, fingertips barely brushing her clothes as she stepped back out of his reach. He stumbled and fell onto his hands and knees, crimson painted the cement beneath him and the man coughed up blood and fluid. “The Holy Sol’s Shadows really are monsters. I hate them, I hate all of them and it really fucking sucks, Five-Two. It sucks that I wait in the dark, trying to fit into the collective, thinking the same way, doing the same things but no matter what… the Captain always finds fault with me.” The Captain? His hand clamped over the bleeding wound in some sort of attempt to stop the bleeding, “Y/N… I… you can- ugh…fuck…” “I can what?” Y/N pulled her chair out and sat down to watch him collapse onto his side - gasping like a fish on dry land, “Run away? They’ll just get a new ‘Five-Two’ and I’ll put some other kid through this hell. You tainted the number; no matter who takes our place they will be ostracised.”

“L-little… La-” spots danced in front of his eye, his vision blurring as he began to lose consciousness. “I… I loved - I l…!” Joker gagged as blood and bile forced its way up into his mouth. “I’m not your ‘Little Lady’ or Y/N. My name is Five-Two and if you really loved me - you’ll die.”

Y/N picked up her wine glass and took a drink, “I knew that there was no way I could face you head-on, it’s why I ran the first time… I didn’t plan on getting myself caught but you tried to offer me comfort, you showed me a steak of kindness and I knew then and there that was the way to beat you. To sit and play a nervous rookie whilst you pretended to be a hero.” Watching him drag himself over the floor to get closer, she tipped her glass to allow the expensive red wine to pour onto his head and run down his hair to join the blood under him. “You’re not a monster.” The woman placed the glass back onto the table and stood to leave, “Monster’s don’t fall in love or care so much about a world that sucks that they want to fix it… you never belonged to the shadows. I’m sorry you don’t get that happy ending you wanted.”

Though his ears were filled with the sound of rushing blood and a too rapid heartbeat, he could hear her walking away, Joker tried to reach out, wanting so badly to stop her - to save her. What had he done?

He was going to die but all he could think about was how Y/N was going back to that place, how he had ripped the sun out of her hands to bask in its light. Why did the people he met, the people that helped him… why did they always have to die or suffer just because of him?

He was cold. And it was getting dark… A brief thought swept through his mind like smoke from his cigarettes; He wondered if she still had his card. x - - The End

#joker/52 #reader #fire force #enen no shouboutai #enn enn no shouboutai #garth ennis

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statticscribbles · 4 years

Text

Beat

Summary: 💀Zach Dempsy/Male Reader; Reader never said anything about being abused and Zach gets a call from Hannah that reader is in the hospital unconscious

TW: Abuse

You have a missed call from Zach on your phone. You groan from under the covers and pull your phone over hitting the call button.

“Hello?”

“Hey baby, what’s up?”

“Nothing just saw I missed your call..”

“Yeah I was worried.”

“You don’t need to be, I’m fine, just got into it with my asshole neighbor.” You were relieved your neighbor was actually an asshole, not that you met him; your father prefered to keep you on a tight leash when it came to interacting with the neighbors. You preferred not to lie to Zach that much, despite the entire reason for your lying in the first place. You father was abusing you, you’d become his punching bag in the last year of middle school. It had only been soft slaps, or a harder shove, screaming about messing up grocery shopping or when he misplaced something. It had evolved over the first years of high school; it was never anywhere you could accidentally expose; always on your stomach or back, your chest, or legs. He’d only ever broken your arm, it was after he’d hit you two days in a row and you had already been weak.

When you started dating Zach, your father seemed to have no issue you were gay, the issue was in that you had someone who would be seeing your whole body. While you had hoped it would mean your father would switch back to the verbal abuse over the physical one he seemed to favor; of course this is not your luck. He seems to increase, almost daring you to expose him, for Zach to see. You’d wanted to tell Zach, over and over you’d come close but you knew it was better to not say anything. He wouldn’t be able to do anything, and neither would you. All that would happen is Zach would know exactly whose hand had been around your throat or hitting your eye and jaw.

He couldn’t restrict your time at school or your friends, as much as he was desperate to. You knew he’d love nothing more to keep you in the house until you’d stopped being a decent punching bag.

-You can hear your father yelling through the wall and you want to get up and leave but you’re so tired and sore from the beating he’d decided you’d done something to warrant from yesterday. You had actually managed to relocate your shoulder, well you’d thought you had until your dad had shoved you back after you’d thought you fixed it, aware of how it burned and the muscles screamed that it had not been fixed. You choke, unsure if you want to gag and vomit in pain or scream in agony. You’ve had worse, you know you have because your breathing is still stalled from what you’re assuming might’ve been a fractured rib.

You stagger up, you know he’ll be coming in soon and you know laying down is worse, there’s more surface area to hit. If you’re up standing and then fall he’ll leave you alone, if you start out on the ground he’ll just keep hitting till he smells blood.

You can hear the shouting still for a moment and you cringe, you hate this part, you’re standing in the doorway pretending you’ve just heard something, or maybe you’re going to the bathroom, but it doesn’t matter.

Not when all you can feel is heat in your leg. When his hands feel cold against your skin and you can smell he’s been drinking. You stagger into the wall and he takes the opportunity to force your head into it, you swear you can feel the cracks in the pain form.

-Hannah’s in your face when you open your eyes. You assume it’s a dream and huff, trying to push her away. She’s peering at you in that way you’d catch her staring at Clay; like it was something she missed. You knew she was your friend, she was such a kind person, you can feel her lifting your arm, turning it in her cool fingers. You smell antiseptic and you can see her trying to move something by your face, from the corner of your eyes, you shover her away; nothing changes, and you can still see her soft brown hair. You can taste blood in the back of your throat. You remember Hannah Baker is dead.

-Zach arms are tangled in the chair by your bed. You’re not aware of it, not right now, still unconscious, still in a coma. The doctors had said it was best. You knew what that meant. While everything was warm and then cold, when they had to cut you open to fix the punctured lung, no time for proper anesthesia, you just felt Hannah’s fingers brushing you.

“Who called..” You can barely recognise your own voice and Zach’s neck and shoulder crack like the plaster in your bedroom does.

“Who called who?” Zach hovers nervously and you try to shake your head.

“Nevermind; i thought someone called to, tell, you…”

“No, although I got an archive post…” Zach hovers the phone in front of you, you just see Hannah’s face smiling back, her arms wrapped around your shoulders.

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skzafterdusk · 4 years

Text

lee minho + "And July"

request from the Dean Title Track List

tags: vampire!reader, immortal!minho, daddy kink

The sun has already set; you can tell that much. If it hadn’t been for the darkening cracks in your closed blinds, you would have never noticed the way the room around you has grown dim. You could turn on the kitchen light, flicker on a lamp in the living room, but you were almost petrified in your spot on the kitchen counter; your right leg bent so your arm could rest on your knee, and your left leg dangling over the edge. Any bruises you probably had on your face hours ago have already healed, the pain long gone, as well.

Minho’s body is just in eyesight from where you’re sitting. Splayed out and unmoving, you pay close attention to this heart in his chest that remains still. You’d snapped his neck hours ago, but you count down the moments.

10 metaphorical heart beats…

9…

8…

7…

The silence should be deafening with not a single breath to inhale. But you quite enjoyed the feeling. Even after years of being undead yourself...to not need the oxygen in your lungs...but to prefer it. Odd.

5…

4…

You like to wonder if this time will be different. So many shows would like to have you believe that coming back to life is like crashing into your own body, the sudden way one wakes up after dreaming of falling to their demise. Minho never came back in that manner.

3...2...1…

It’s always the first beat of the heart. The first noise to fill the apartment in so many hours. Then it’s the rush of blood as they circulate through his veins. And he takes his first breath...his lungs fill with a mighty gulp of air...but he remains still. And it’s the softest sound, but you can almost make out the flutter of his lashes when he blinks his eyes open. And thus, Lee Minho has come back to life, yet again. And the fun shall continue.

“Good!” You exclaim, moving your stiff joints to hop down from the counter. On the impact of your bare feet hitting the floor, it’s met with the crunch of some snack-like food; chips, perhaps. But the crumbs under your feet are of no importance as you make your way through the doorway and into the living room. That is when the comparatively softer bed of broken chips turns into a gravely path of broken glass. Never the most comfortable, but you’ll live.

Minho is just beginning to stir, sitting up in his spot and going to nurse his head as if he suffered from a night of drinking heavily, to the point where his body screamed at him in agony from the inside out.

“You’re awake,” you say cheerfully, a too innocent grin on your lips.

The man huffs as he rubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms. “You bitch.” Such a simple statement that holds the weight of his anger.

Anger, of course, that can only spell fun for you.

“You’ve called me much worse.” Your statement only holds objective truth.

He’s finally able to stand up, slow at first, but his energy seems to flow through him once his eyes land on you. Are you the predator or prey? It’s usually so hard to tell, really.

He stalks towards you in an instant, making sure to crowd your space and look down at you from under his nose. “Why the fuck did you kill me?”

You shrug with a scoff, electing to move past him and further into the living room. You’d left it in disarray after you guys had begun fighting. Drinking glasses hurled at walls, chairs and tables strewn about. You go to turn on that lamp, the only one still managing to stand after the hurricane that is you and Minho.

You’re not entirely sure what his excuse is, but immortality has left only two states of mind for you: insufferable boredom or rollercoasters of emotions. Clearly, one of them sounds more entertaining, yes?

The warm light of the lamp illuminates the chaos around you. Your voice, as you answer, doesn’t necessarily fit the current state.

“You were getting annoying. You probably would have tried to stab me if I hadn’t gotten to you first.”

Unfortunately for Minho, though, is that in some places, stabbing is quite...exhilarating.

The immortal other seems to be at a loss for words, since he decides to go to the kitchen rather than come up with a response to your excuse.

“All the time I was out and you couldn’t bother to clean this place up?” grumbles Minho, searching through a cabinet before finding the prize, a bottle of whiskey.

You turned your nose up at the sight of the bottle. You hated the taste of whiskey, and you hated even more the way Minho’s blood tastes after he had his fill. It was a sure way to make sure you didn’t feed on him, which must be the payback for...well...yknow.

“I didn’t make the mess by myself. We clean it together if you’re so worried about it.”

He doesn’t even bother getting a glass (possibly he wouldn’t be able to find one), just tears the cap away and starts taking swigs.

“Only thing I’m worried about is how I’m gonna get you back for snapping my neck.”

You roll your eyes as you lean against the wall adjacent to the kitchen doorway. He’d turned on the dim fluorescent light. The scar on his lip and cheek are still there because his bruises don’t heal quickly like yours. No matter for you. You’ve always preferred the look of him a little beaten up.

“Think this through, babe,” you start. “If you try anything, you’ll be stuck with this messy place until I can wake up.”

He makes sure to take a longer drink before slamming the bottle on the counter. Again, as he stalks towards you, he almost looks like the predator, like he’s capable of doing any real harm to you. He’d get pleasure out of it, regardless.

His grip is firm when he grabs your face, fingers digging into your cheeks until they plump up and pucker your lips.

He spends a long while just examining your face, eyes flitting to your lips, searchin your eyes, observing and appreciating the slope of your nose. What he sees makes him smile; it’s a sadistic premonition for the near future, the dark behind his white teeth.

“How about I whip out the cuffs? Know how much you hate being tied down.” His breath already smells like the cursed wood barrel that stored his whiskey, but you make sure to keep your face cool, so as not to show him how he’s already getting under your skin.

“Please, you love it when I scratch you up. No need to torture yourself, as well, daddy.”

His smile drops immediately at the pet name, eyes of fire suddenly bursting with fury. “Told you never to call me that.”

You shrug. “Not my fault you can’t handle your own kinks.” He snaps your head back until it meets the wall. The angle is awkward enough for it to not cause much impact, unfortunately. “Aw,” you coo. “Did I make daddy angry?”

His hand goes down to close around your neck, just under your jaw. The air you’d been breathing cuts off immediately. He already knows it doesn’t make much difference to you, but the pleasure still starts to travel south, waking your core to the possibility of what Minho might do to you in his fit of rage.

“You’re so lucky you’re already dead. How would you and your filfthy mouth survive otherwise?”

Your time as a human started fading by the end of your second decade as a vampire. It wasn’t much of a life, and Minho had known exactly why. A survivalist like yourself knew when to speak and when to keep her mouth shut. But being at the top of the food chain...well…

“And you’re lucky you found me.” You bring a hand to rest against the hand fisted around your neck. You can feel the pulse of the veins in that hand. Maybe he didn’t drink enough to make his blood taste so strongly of the alcohol. Maybe you’ll be able to bypass it. “You know how boring your immortal life would be if I hadn’t come along?”

He laughs loudly, but no humour resides in its hearty sound. His jaw is clenched, grasp growing stronger around your neck. Cutting off circulation to veins that need not produce new or fresh blood. You’d say his efforts were all for naught, but then that wouldn’t take into consideration the way liquid fire seemed to drip from your pores in anticipation.

“Do you think I enjoy being killed?”

“Don’t make it sound like I do it that often, daddy, be reasonable.”

If you were a human in this moment, everything would have happened like a blur in front of your eyes; the way Minho dragged you from the wall, throwing your body to the floor -you probably wouldn’t have noticed the shards of glass that broke through your clothes and cut through your back-, how he suddenly was on top of you, taking one of the bigger shards and pressing the jagged edge to your throat. One wrong move as a human, and you would have been dead.

But you’re not, and the thrill that comes is not of terror, but of excitement. See? Had you been wrong?

You can feel his semi-hard length against your stomach. It makes a smarmy grin grace your lips, challenging eyes looking at his. “Fucking knew it. Daddy gets so hard-”

“Do you ever stop talking?”

With a nod, you answer matter-of-factly. “Yeah, when you’re dead. Then I don’t have anyone to play with.”

The glass must have cut Minho’s hand, for soon the sweet smell of iron fills your nostrils, and the crimson drips to the point of the glass that meets your skin. Automatically, your fangs elongate from your gums, and your mouth begins to salivate.

“Let’s stop fucking around,” you suggest, voice a mere hiss. “And let’s play some games.”

Minho doesn’t see the world as you do, doesn’t get the advantage of the same reaction time. That’s why he isn’t able to stop you before you can rip the glass from his hand and sink your teeth into the heel of his palm. It’s not the best place to bite from, but the skin there is always easiest to puncture, and the blood likes to flow freely there.

The first mouthful of blood is always bliss, so satisfying like jigsaw pieces slotting into place. It’s so euphoric, you remember you’d have tears in your eyes your first few feeds. Immortals like Minho are rare, but they’re the best source to feed from. His blood doesn’t taste any better, but he’ll be around way longer than any human can.

He grinds his hips down, looking for friction, pleasure. You pull away, reveling in the blood that slides down your throat, before sitting up, your faces breadths apart.

“Looks like daddy wants to play.”

“(Y/N)...” he only calls your name like a warning, seemingly somewhere between anger and pleasure. He still wants to have an upperhand.

Maybe tonight you’ll let him. As an apology, of course, for killing him.

#skz #stray kids #lee minho #lee know #dean title track series #stray kids x reader #stray kids imagines #stray kids headcanons #stray kids smut

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morningfears · 5 years

Text

In the Ring

Rating: PG-13 (There’s blood and violence!)

Summary: Calum hadn't been the same since she left. He was a shell of the man he once was, bitter and angry at the world. It was his fault, he knew that, but it hurt to know that she was no longer around. So when Calum gets to fight the man that encouraged her to leave, he’s out for blood. Her unexpected appearance, though, leaves him desperate for something else. | Underground boxer/vaguely mechanic!Calum. Ft. Descriptions of blood and violence. Language.

Word Count: 8.8k

A heavy copper tang hung in the air, thick and threatening to suffocate the horde of jeering spectators as they crowded the main floor of an abandoned warehouse. None of them seemed to notice the bitter stench of sweat and blood and if they did, no one said anything about it. Despite the harsh winter wind raging outside, despite the snow piling on the roof and the ice lining the roads, the warehouse felt akin to the center of the sun as they all crowded the makeshift ring and eagerly awaited the main event. They’d seen the up-and-comers, seen the cocky assholes who had nothing better to do than beat the shit out of one another, and now they were foaming at the mouth as they eagerly watched the makeshift tunnels for their champions to appear.

Illegal liquor, likely brewed in the dingy basement of the warehouse, coursed through their veins as shifty-eyed men spewed vitriol at one another. The liquid courage only served to fuel the flames of their bloodlust and kept them all hanging onto the edges of their seats as the clock ticked closer to midnight. These men, each with more money riding on this fight than any other, choked on their liquor as the women they’d dragged along shifted uncomfortably on their heels. The few children in the crowd, young adults by any other standard but children in the eyes of the fifty-somethings surrounding them, steeled themselves to watch their friends endanger their lives for a few hundred dollars as the chiming of a bell signaled five minutes until showtime.

The chiming of the bell echoed through the building. It carries with it the bitter stench of blood and sweat and enveloped every surface in the dingy old warehouse. Not a single room, not a single nook or cranny, offered a respite from either the sound or the smell and they burned themselves into the ears and lungs of all who dared enter the building. They left a mark on each of the inhabitants, chipping away at the decency of their souls until nothing was left but darkness.

The locker rooms, in another life filled with signs of humanity, were dark as the few remaining florescent bulbs struggled to illuminate even a portion of the vast, empty space. There were no windows, no exit doors, no alternate routes of escape. The smell was even worse there, decades of sweat mingling with new blood, but the familiarity was sickeningly comforting to the two men who paced the opposite sides of the room. A patchwork of sheets hung in the middle, dividing the room where a wall once stood before it was knocked down and stripped of actual, valuable copper, but it does little to mask the movements of either side.

Calum, as he paced the floor in the black gym shorts that had become his signature, could clearly see his opponent’s silhouette. He was illuminated by the cheap lanterns the promoters had set up to give their bare bones teams (most often a friend with a first aid kit) room to patch them up after the fight and Calum felt his blood beginning to boil. He’d never been one for senseless violence, every punch was thrown only to ensure the quick end to a fight, but he was itching to take a swing at him, itching to send him away a bloody mess, and the anger that consumed him almost scared Calum.

However, the thing that truly did scare him was the sound of her voice. Though she was speaking quietly, her voice barely above a whisper as she breathed soft words of comfort, she might as well have been yelling. Calum could pick out her voice anywhere, could hear it even when it wasn’t meant for him, and it made him stop in his tracks as fear shot down his spine. The anger that he’d felt building for weeks was still there, thick and bitter in the back of his throat and clouding his vision red, but the fear that she’d see him as a monster immobilized him. Her opinion had always mattered more to him than anything else and the thought that she’d see him for what he truly was, what he had become in her absence, sent bile creeping up the back of Calum’s throat.

A perfect storm of emotion roiled in the pit of his stomach. There was just enough blinding rage, just enough paralyzing fear, to keep his heart racing and the adrenaline flooding his veins as his manager placed a careful hand on his shoulder. Calum could hear the two minute warning bell, ringing hollow and loud and echoing through the humid halls, and he knew that it’s time to move. They were all waiting for him, waiting for the star of the show to enter the ring, and the icy prick of anxiety that he felt as he held out his hands for his royal blue gloves, something akin to stage fright, surprised him.

Calum had been doing this for far too long. He’d been fighting for longer than he ever imagined he would and it had long since gotten old. He didn’t register the jeers anymore, he didn’t register the taunts or the teases. He barely noticed the eyes on him and would be lying if he said he cared. The stage fright he felt the very first night, the fear and anxiety that saw him retching into a bucket and earning the laughter of what felt like thousands, no longer lingered in the pit of his stomach. This was standard now.

But tonight, knowing that she would be there, watching with wide eyes and bated breath, Calum felt the pinpricks of stage fright puncturing the protective armor he’d managed to build around his mind. The only pair of eyes that mattered, the only spectator that he has ever cared about or will ever care about, would be standing by the ring and he didn’t know how to handle that.

She’d only attended one match in the years that he’s been fighting. It was long ago, just after he’d gotten good enough to remain standing for longer than one round but before he could count himself among the champions, and it had upset her so much that the pair of them never broached the topic again. He thought that was partly why they fell apart, his desire to remain in this world and her need to avoid it, but he couldn’t be sure. All he knew was that she’d managed to avoid this dirty warehouse for years, had managed to avoid stuffing herself into a seat beside some fifty-something creep and watching as he got the shit beat out of him.

He didn’t like it, didn’t really want to think about it, but he understood why she decided to make an appearance.

Calum’s opponent, the man in red that he spotted walking down the hall just ahead of him, was once his best friend. Once upon a time, the pair of them had been inseparable and where you found one, the other was sure to follow. They spent nearly every waking moment together and swore that they would continue to do so for the rest of their lives. So it only made sense that Calum would end up falling for his best friend’s sister. After all, she was the only girl that he saw regularly. She was the only girl that he knew would be able to handle what was essentially a package deal and he was the only guy that her brother trusted enough to be near her.

The pair spent two blissful years together, in love and happier than anyone had ever seen either of them. They completed one another in ways that they hadn’t even known was possible and were two sides of the same coin that seemed destined for forever. But the future had always been contentious and their plans for life after graduation always seemed to be at odds.

Calum didn’t mind staying in their hometown. The idea of working in his father’s garage, living just a few streets over from his parents, and one day having children of his own didn’t scare him like it did her. To her, the idea of remaining there forever, stagnant and decaying, was like a waking nightmare. She wanted more for herself, wanted more for Calum, and she struggled to convince him to join her when she decided to move to Los Angeles for university. She begged him for months, cried until she had no tears left to cry, and spent every waking moment attempting to convince him that that would be the best move for their future. But when he refused, when he decided that leaving wasn’t an option no matter how hard life got, she had to let go.

When she broke up with him, Calum became a shell of the person he once was. When she left town, he became a recluse. The only time anyone managed to catch a glimpse of Calum was if they popped into the garage near closing time and even then, they only caught him if he couldn’t convince someone else to deal with the situation. Calum cut contact with almost everyone in his life, save for his parents and sister.

His best friend had been the first to go.

Calum hated him for encouraging her to leave. Calum hated him for encouraging her to leave him. Calum hated him for being angry that he wouldn’t pack up his life and move to California. Calum hated him for calling him a coward and telling him that he was wasting his life. But most of all, Calum hated him for not understanding why he couldn’t just pack up and go. He hated him for not understanding that he wanted, more than anything, to be by her side but that he couldn’t hold her back.

Calum hated him for being her brother first and his best friend second.

He knew that the anger he harbored for his former best friend wasn’t fair. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that his anger was irrational and to continue holding onto it was petty and childish but he couldn’t seem to let it go. His life had crumbled over the two years she’d been gone, broken down bit by bit until all that was left of him was the steel frame of anger and bitterness that kept him standing, and he had a sinking feeling that seeing her would be like taking a sledgehammer to what was left of him.

It had been two years since he’d seen her face, two years since she’d been home, and Calum could only imagine that she was there to see the fight because of him. He could only imagine that she’d done her best to convince her brother not to go through with the fight over the phone and failed so she made the drastic decision of hopping on a plane. He could only imagine that she was just as afraid to see him as he was to see her.

Again, the realistic portion of his brain told him that she’d moved on. It had been two years, after all, and she hadn’t given anyone any indication of her desire to return to her former life. Her brother visited her for holidays, opting to soak up the California sunshine instead of subjecting her to the biting winds and miserable cold of her former home, and he gave minimal updates to anyone who asked. Conversations about her suddenly ceased whenever Calum stepped into a room but, through friends of friends of friends, he’d heard that she was doing alright.

After she left, he imagined her life without him on nights that he couldn’t sleep. He imagined that she’d go off and earn straight A’s, get herself on some dean’s list and stay there until she graduated. He imagined that she’d find happiness, real and true, in whatever form that happened to be. He imagined that she’d grow into the person she had always wanted to be, all poise and prestige and power that she could use to change the world for the better.

He always told her that if she were a color, she would be yellow, good and bright.

She always told him that it was up to them to be the good they wanted to see in the world, otherwise nothing would ever change.

The moment that she left, everything changed and nothing had felt even remotely good since. His world, once full of love and laughter and light, felt empty and dull. Though she had always included him in her definition of good, he realized the moment she left that he was never even okay.

As he stepped into the tunnel, staring ahead at the crowd without truly seeing them, Calum thought that maybe for some to shine others must suffer. As the roar of the crowd began to reach his ears, the announcer telling them all to make some noise for their reigning champion, he thought that maybe his pain was necessary for her success. But as he began his walk, head down and eyes focused on the ground, the rational part of his brain told him that that wasn’t true.

She wanted him to succeed, she wanted him to be happy and live a full, fulfilling life. She wanted him to shine beside her and revel in the positive changes she made in the world. She wanted him to help her make those changes. It was his own pride, his own doubt, his own fear that kept him from doing so.

The suffering he’d endured was his own fault.

The moment he stepped into the ring, Calum lifted his head and tried his best to keep from looking around. He focused on the opposite corner, watched the stool that his opponent would soon occupy, to keep from searching for her. The knowledge that she was there was enough to set his body alight, enough to make him grit his teeth and wish for it all to just be over, but he still hadn’t seen her and he knew that the moment he did, it would all be over.

Despite his best efforts, it was as if the two of them were opposite ends of a magnet. His eyes were drawn to her the moment he so much as turned his head and he felt his breath catch in his throat as he met her eyes for the first time in two years. He felt a surge of regret wash over him; regret that he ever said no to her, regret that he ever stepped foot inside the warehouse, regret that he ever even loved her in the first place. She looked so broken, her once bright eyes dull with sadness. He could see the redness that told him she’d been crying, could see the bitter disappointment and burning anger buried deep within her, and he hated himself for doing that to her.

Calum had never been one to step away from a fight but in that moment, that was all he wanted. He wanted to run. He wanted to tear off his gloves and bolt for the nearest exit but that wasn’t an option. He couldn’t leave then, couldn’t give up, not when his admittedly misplaced anger was still winning the battle of hearts and minds. So he tore his eyes away from her, steeled himself in his own corner and let his manager talk at him as the announcer began to speak.

“In the black shorts, we have your reigning champion. Standing tall at six feet even and weighing in at one-hundred and eighty pounds, the heavy-hitting, king of mean; Calum “The Sensation” Hood!”

The announcer paused, letting the crowd cheer and jeer at their own will, and Calum paid it all no mind as his gaze drifted to her once more. She was standing near her brother, hand on his shoulder and nails digging into his skin as she begged him not to go through with the fight. Calum watched her mouth move, her lips forming desperate pleas to just let it go, and he ached to hear her speak to him once more. But before he could even consider giving up, Calum watched him nudge her away. He could see him gesture for his manager to get her out of the ring and Calum knew that the two of them were on the same page; they had to do this, they had to fight.

Calum’s eyes stayed glued to her as she climbed off of the stage. He watched as she stood beside another figure from his past, another old friend that he pushed away after her departure, and it pained him to see her digging her nails into her palm as the announcer continued speaking.

“And in the red shorts, we have your challenger. Standing at six feet and one inch tall, weighing in at one-hundred and eighty-five pounds, the quick-tempered brute; Ashton “The Beast” Irwin!”

The jeers grew louder and rang in Calum’s ears as he shifted his gaze from her to face Ashton. Though they lived only miles away and frequented the same bar and the same gym, they did their best to avoid one another. Calum, with his misguided anger and bitter resentment, and Ashton, with his justified anger and feelings of abandonment, had come to blows before. Shortly after she left, and even closer to the time that Calum cut Ashton out of his life, they met in the ring for the first time. It had been a blood bath, neither of them able to leave the ring on their own, and had been so bad that word spread around town.

Wherever the two of them went, whenever they occupied the same building, every eye in the place was on them just in case they tried to pick up the fight again. No one would’ve intervened, they both knew that, but they had enough respect for their families that they kept the fighting confined to the ring. They both itched to get back in together, to continue where they left off, but they’d frightened the townspeople so bad that they were barred from fighting one another. Now, with two years of experience under their belts and a need to crown a new champion out of the two of them, they were picking up where they left off.

Only this time, they were both acutely aware of her presence.

Ashton didn’t want her to see this, he didn’t want his little sister to watch him pummel the love of her life, but she insisted. As Calum had correctly suspected, she’d spent weeks trying to dissuade Ashton from going through with the fight. After Luke, one of the few people from home she still kept in touch with, called her to let her know about his plans, she nearly got on a flight that day. She remembered how bad the first fight was. She remembered the phone call from Luke, the tears that they shed and the curses she leveled, and she still wasn’t sure who she cried for the most.

Regardless of her meddling, Ashton was convinced that going through with the fight was the only option he had. He was convinced, or maybe he was trying to convince her, that finishing this fight would mean being able to move on. He was convinced, or maybe he was trying to convince her, that finishing this fight would free them both to potentially become friends again.

She wasn’t convinced that either of them would make it out alive.

When it became clear to her that neither Ashton nor Calum would be the one to say ‘uncle’ and give in, she shoved as many of her things into a carry-on bag as she could and took the first flight home. She hoped that her presence would be enough of an incentive for Ashton to come to his senses but seeing her, a stranger in her own home due to her reluctance to face Calum, only seemed to spur him on.

Now, she stood in the crowded warehouse with Luke by her side. She could see Michael, one of the few people that had managed to keep some semblance of contact with Calum, across the way and she offered him what she hoped came across as a smile. The bitter stench of illegal liquor, sweat, and blood filled her nose and left her lightheaded. She was stood in a pool of what she hoped was water but, judging by the rusty tinge, realized was at some point blood.

Time seemed to crawl as the bell, signaling the start of the round, rang. The sound, so close to her, felt so far away as it vibrated through her body. She felt as if she was an outsider looking in, a spectator to her life rather than the one living it, as she watched Calum and Ashton circle one another. She had listened to Ashton’s manager in the two days she’d been home, had listened to the plans the two of them concocted and the moves they planned for him to use, but none of the planning they did seemed to have stuck as Calum broke the stalemate and threw the first punch.

Calum’s gloved fist connected with Ashton’s jaw with a resounding smack. The sound rang in her ears and she recoiled as if she was the one who had been hit as Ashton staggered back. And from that moment, from the moment the first punch was thrown, it seemed as if neither of them would stop.

Round after round, bell after bell, punch after punch; the match dragged on. Those who bet that Calum would knock Ashton out early on had long since ripped up their betting slips, stormed out in fits of anger as their usually quick to end things champion let the match run its course. Those who bet that Ashton would fold Calum in the fourth round had joined them, standing in the frigid winter wind with cigarettes in hand and curses on their lips. Those who bet that the match would last until one of them dropped dead, they clutched their betting slips in vice like grips and watched the white tarp bloom with patches of red.

Droplets of blood and sweat land on her, staining her pale pink sweater and dotting her cheeks, but she couldn’t bring herself to care as she watched the pair of them stagger. Ashton could no longer see out of his right eye, it had swelled shut somewhere around round four, and his left was soon to follow. Calum’s nose was almost certainly broken, blood dripping down his chin and torso, staining the mat and spraying those standing too close to the ring every time he tried to breathe.

Everyone left in the crowd was watching with bated breath, the jeering and shouts of delight having stopped when they all realized that they would be witnessing yet another blood bath. The room was eerily quiet. The only real noise was the sound of gloved hands hitting skin and grunts of exertion, save for the occasional gasp as one of them took a harder than normal hit. Luke held her hand tightly in his own, allowing her to dig her nails into his palm and squeeze his arm as she stared at the scene before her. He knew that she wanted to look away. He knew that she wanted nothing more than to leave and never look back, but she couldn’t. No matter how upsetting he knew this was for her, she’d be even more upset if something happened and she wasn’t there to witness it.

Calum was exhausted, running on fumes and desperately wishing for Ashton to just drop, but he knew that that wouldn’t happen. Ashton was, and always had been, persistent, stubborn to a fault and determined to go out with his head held high. And Calum knew that it wasn’t his fault they ended up here. The anger that once blinded him, the anger that raged in the pit of his stomach and was only satisfied when his fist met Ashton’s face, had started to ebb and he felt the guilt replacing it as blood began to drip into his eyes.

The guilt that he felt the last time the pair of them came to blows, the guilt that he felt when he watched her leave town with tears streaming down her cheeks and disappointment in her eyes, the guilt he felt when he realized that he’d ruined her life just as much as he’d ruined his own; it all crashed over him like a tidal wave as Ashton threw a haymaker and hit Calum square in the chest.

Calum met her eyes and even through the blood and sweat that clouded his vision, he could see the tears coating her lashes. He could see the dots of blood on her clothes and the blood on her palm from digging her nails into her skin. He could see the shaking of her limbs and the blood on her lip from biting it all night. He could see the fear in her eyes, a fear that she was going to lose someone she loved, and he knew that it was over.

Even if he won the fight, he’d still lost.

Calum had never given up a fight but for her, he’d do anything. Without losing eye contact with her, he let himself fall and remained on the ground in a pool of sweat and blood. He didn’t so much as twitch when his manager yelled for him to get up. He didn’t acknowledge the jeering of the crowd or the counting of the referee. None of that mattered.

He struggled to keep his eyes open and waited for her to understand. She stood there in shock, her mouth open and poised to rush to the ring, but he could see the recognition in her eyes. He could see the realization that he’d taken a dive hit her and as soon as he knew that she realized he had done it for her, he let his eyes slip shut and the exhaustion pull him under.

Ashton staggered in the center of the ring as Calum fell to the ground, confusion clouding his brain as he stared down at him. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he hadn’t hit him that hard and that Calum wasn’t as badly injured as him. He shouldn’t have fallen, not so easily, and Ashton didn’t understand what was happening as he waited for Calum to stand. It felt as if time had paused, as if someone had placed them in slow motion, and it still didn’t register that he’d won even as the referee grabbed his arm and lifted it above his head.

It took hearing his manager shouting at him, feeling the older man shake him with a sort of pride that Ashton hated, to return him to the moment. Every muscle in his body ached, he could barely see, but he knew that it was finally over.

Ashton watched, blood and sweat obscuring his vision, as Calum’s manager climbed into the ring with Michael hot on his heels to help lift Calum. They managed to stand him between the two of them, both with an arm around his waist and him with one on either of their shoulders. Calum was limp between them, barely conscious as they pulled him out of the ring and guided him down the tunnel toward the locker room, and Ashton only felt emptiness as he watched them go. He thought that this would feel better, that it would feel like a victory, but it felt more like a loss than anything.

The roar of the crowd around them, the cheering of those who bet on Ashton and the swearing of those who bet on Calum, faded into nothing as she climbed into the ring with Luke right behind her. Ashton groaned in pain as she hugged him, not noticing or even caring that a bright red stain had started to blossom on her sweater. She had a towel in one hand, soaked with water, and a bottle of water in the other and Ashton didn’t have the heart to swat her away as she began cleaning blood from his face.

She didn’t move more than a few inches from Ashton as Luke and his manager helped him out of the ring. She kept dabbing at wounds, wiping away blood and frowning at already blossoming bruises, and Ashton knew that her mind was racing with a million different ‘what-if’s’. He knew that was desperate to get back to the locker room, knew that she was desperate to get a glimpse of Calum and see that he had at least regained consciousness, but he also knew that she felt as if her loyalties laid with him now.

The moment they stepped back into the locker room, he was ready to send her across the room to check in with Michael. When they stepped inside, Ashton was half-certain that the darkness was because of his swollen eyes but when Luke asked her to find another lantern, he realized that the locker room was empty and Calum was gone. Though it was hard to see much of anything, Ashton could tell that she was staring intently at the wall of sheets that divided the room. He could see the slump of her shoulders, the way she looked so deflated, and he could tell that she was disappointed and anxious. She wanted nothing more than to know that Calum was alright, or that he would be, so he nudged her away when she turned to him and attempted to reach out with her towel once more.

“Go,” he breathed, struggling to choke out the word before he coughed and spit more blood into a bucket near his feet.

When she glanced at him, hoping that he meant what she thought but still uncertain, Ashton nudged Luke’s leg. Luke nodded at her without looking away from Ashton and waved the first-aid kit in his hand. “I’ve got him,” he assured her as he cracked open the worn box and began rummaging through its contents for the antiseptic. “Calum lives in the apartment above the garage. Michael’s probably there patching him up but if he’s not, the key’s hidden behind a fake doorbell.”

She glanced at Ashton once more, met his eyes, and when he nodded, she returned the gesture. She wanted to hug him but didn’t want to risk hurting him further so she laid a careful hand on his shoulder before she bolted out of the locker room. She didn’t really care how she looked, covered in blood and frantically shoving through the still gathered crowd. Some of them attempted to stop her, congratulate her for her brother’s win, but she paid them no mind as she shoved her way out of the building. The garage was right down the street, barely a two minute walk, and the frigid air was something that she desperately needed to clear her head.

Although Calum had been under the impression that she hated him, that she had to for his refusal to continue their fantasy life together, she knew that she could never. She’d often found herself wondering why. For a long time, she found herself curious as to what could make Calum choose a life of pain and violence over one freedom and love, but she could never hate him for choosing to stay. She’d often wondered why he shut down after she left, had often wondered why he shut out every person in his life and became one of the biggest recluses in their hometown, but she never hated him for it.

She thought that it was because he didn’t love her. She thought that he shut down and let her go because he didn’t want to keep up the charade anymore. She thought that he gave up his life after she left because he no longer had to pretend for her sake.

She thought that he he never loved her like she loved him.

Despite that, she always knew, even before she saw him again, that she still loved him. Whether it was because he was her first love or because they really were meant to be, she had loved him for most of her life and she was certain she’d love him for the remainder. Seeing him again, meeting his eyes and watching him take a fall just to end her suffering, made her realize that time and distance had done nothing to quell the intense love she had always felt for him.

If anything, she loved him more now than she ever had.

She didn’t know what she expected to find in his apartment. She didn’t know what she expected him to say, if he could even speak. She didn’t know what she even wanted from him but she felt the overwhelming need to see him and she was grateful that Ashton understood. The animosity between Ashton and Calum had gnawed at her for the past two years and it pained her to know that those two, once closer than brothers, had now nearly killed one another on two different occasions. She hoped that this would be the end of it, that even if they could no longer be friends, maybe they could at least look at one another without feeling blinding rage.

But most of all, she hoped that this was what let Calum return to his former self.

The sweat that had gathered in her hairline felt frozen as she climbed the stairs to reach Calum’s apartment. The two minute walk passed far quicker than she thought it would, though she imagined it was because she broke into a sprint the moment her feet carried her out of the warehouse. She took the stairs two at a time and only had to knock once for Michael to throw open the door.

Michael looked surprised to see her and paused in the doorway to stare at her. He didn’t move for a long moment, eyes wide and mouth dropped open, before the sight of her shivering sent him scrambling to invite her in. “Wow,” he breathed, his voice clearly conveying his surprise at seeing her on Calum’s doorstep, “I saw you, earlier, but I… It doesn’t matter, hi.”

“Hi, Michael,” she breathed as she fell into the hug that he offers her. He had once been one of her closest friends and it pained her to see him as a stranger. They were both silent for what felt like a lifetime, taking in the no longer familiar sight of one another, before the emotions weighing on her chest and the tears pricking at her eyes sent her searching for something else to focus on.

She allowed her gaze to rake over the living room. The walls were bare, a muted tan that Calum swore he’d never have in his home, and she was surprised to see not even a hint of his family in the form of photos or decoration. His couch was the same dark brown one that she remembered from his parents’ home and she thought that they must’ve given it to him and gotten themselves a new one when he moved into this place. Nothing about the living room screamed Calum, nothing about it screamed home, and it hurt her heart to realize just how much had changed in the past two years.

“He’s in his bedroom,” Michael told her as he watched her scan the room and her frown deepen by the second. “He’s awake and he’s fine, just tired and sore. I, uh, I think he’ll be surprised to see you. He didn’t expect to see you tonight, none of us did.”

She shrugged, not really interested in explaining herself to him, and hesitated for a moment before she glanced down the short hallway to Calum’s bedroom. “This feels like a bad idea,” she whispered, mostly to herself but somewhat seeking validation from Michael. She knew that she shouldn’t be there, knew that Calum had spent two years isolating himself from anyone and everything that could remind him of her, but she needed to know that he was alright.

She needed to see him.

Michael stared at her, eyes piercing and brows furrowed, before he shook his head. “Nothing has been the same since you left,” he informed her, his voice quiet. “Calum isn’t the same person that you were in love with and I know you’re not the same person he loved but I think it’ll be good for both of you. Even if it’s just to get closure, I think you need to see him.”

Michael watched her stare down the hall, fear in her eyes and shoulders slumped, before she nodded. She nodded resolutely, steeling herself as if getting ready for battle, before she breathed a quiet thank you and began to wander down the hall. Michael watched her disappear down the hallway before he stepped outside and took a seat at the top of the stairs to give them at least some semblance of privacy.

She stood outside Calum’s bedroom for what feels like hours but, in reality, was only a few minutes. She stared at the door, cracked just enough to see the darkness inside, and picked at a loose string on her sweater as she attempted to gather the courage to enter.

It felt strange, not being able to just waltz into Calum’s room with a smile and a giggle when he would inevitably reach out and tug her into bed with him. The weight on her chest presses down harder, heavy and leaving her short of breath, as she stared at the blackness beyond the door and wondered what she’d find. She wondered if he’d be angry with her. She wondered if he’d even speak to her. She wondered if he’d tell her to leave and stay gone.

She wondered if he’d missed her as much as she’d missed him. She wondered if he still loved her like she loved him. She wondered if things had been different, if she’d be lying in bed with him rather than standing in the hall too afraid to even knock.

She wasn’t left to wonder for long as the click of a lamp illuminated Calum’s bedroom. The first time she head his voice in two years was to hear him say, “Stop thinking and come in.” She hesitated for a moment longer before she pushed open the bedroom door and stepped inside.

The bedroom was just as bare as the living room. Same tan walls and no decorations. His furniture was, as she expected, the bedroom suit from his parent’s home and barely managed to fill the room. There was a bass in one corner, dust coating the shiny black instrument, and a collection of vinyl in another that looked as if it hadn’t been touched since it was placed there. The room looked barely lived in, lifeless and cold, and it was a direct contrast of everything she ever knew Calum to be.

But she supposed that Michael was right. Calum was no longer the same person she loved once upon a time, just as she was no longer the person that he loved.

Seeing him lying there, bruised and bloodied, brought tears back to her eyes. It pained her to see him like that, broken and beaten, and she wanted to look away but the moment her eyes met his, she had no choice. Calum frowned at the tears tracking down her cheeks, frowned at the sobs that she attempted to choke back, and breathed her name as a quiet sigh. “Sit down,” he urged, voice quiet and rough as he gestured toward the bed.

She kept her gaze locked on his as she crossed the room and took a seat at the foot of the bed. Though this was the closest they’d been in two years, it felt as if they were farther apart than ever. Neither of them knew what to say, neither of them knew where to begin, and the silence they shared was awkward. It had never been like that between them, had never been hard for either of them to express themselves to the other, but she supposed they were strangers now and that it made sense they could no longer speak so freely.

The only thing that she could think to say was, “Thank you.”

Calum knew what she was thanking him for. He knew that she was expressing her gratitude for him throwing the fight. He knew that she was grateful he ended things before either he or Ashton got too seriously injured, so he nodded. He nodded and watched as she dug her nails into her thighs, scraping at the denim of her jeans and struggling to find the words to speak.

He knew that he owed her an explanation. When she wanted to leave, he never really told her why he refused. He told her that he wanted a small town life and that he felt comfortable here but that was never really the case. It was always the case that he didn’t want to hold her back. He didn’t want to follow her to California only for her to realize that she could do so much better. He didn’t want to be the reason that she never lived up to her full potential.

He didn’t want to slow her down.

Calum wanted to explain all of that to her, he wanted to tell her that he only ever wanted the best for her, but the words wouldn’t come to him. He couldn’t find the words to tell her that he loved her, that he’d always loved her and would always love her, so he settled for, “I’m sorry.”

He knew that it didn’t even come close to what she deserved, that it didn’t come close to being enough, but it was a start. And when she nodded, when she whispered, “I’m sorry, too,” he could feel his heart breaking.

He’d spent the last two years wishing for this moment, waiting for her to come back to him and for them to fall back into their old routine. He’d spent the last two years hoping that she didn’t hate him, hoping that she loved him enough to come back to him someday, but the moment felt nothing like he ever imagined it would.

He’d heard Michael’s warning and though he hated to admit it to himself, no matter how much he still loved her, he loved the her he once knew. If she still loved him, she loved the him she once knew. They were strangers now, separated by two years and a thousand miles, but he wanted desperately to return to what they once knew. He desperately wanted to reach out for her, to kiss her and feel the heat of her body pressed against his. He desperately wanted to love her, to settle down with her and live out the future he always imagined. He desperately wanted to just know her again, to be amazed by her light and her grace, but he felt as if he has no right to ask for that.

It had been him who refused to be good he wanted to see in the world. It had been him who caused the negative change.

“I’ve never been in the position of not knowing what to say to you,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion as she leveled a watery smile at him.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Calum assured her, his own voice betraying the pain that he felt. “You didn’t do anything.”

“I left,” she breathed, her heart breaking as she turned her head away from Calum to stare at the carpet. “I knew how much it would hurt you and I left anyway.”

Calum shook his head at her words, shook his head at the guilt he knew she felt, and said, “You did what you had to do. You were meant to change the world and you couldn’t do that from here. I understood then and I understand now.” He hesitated for a moment, his hands shaking and choking on the bitter sadness settling in the back of his throat, before he continued. “There was nothing here for you and I don’t blame you for leaving. But I couldn’t go with you.”

“Why?” she asked, her voice cracking as she lifted her head to glance at him once more.

Calum stared at her, his heart breaking at the tears tracking down her face and the quivering of her lip. He wanted to tell her everything, wanted to tell her that he was afraid and selfish, but he couldn’t. He knew that if he told her the truth now, she would only blame herself. She would hate herself for the spiral he’d fallen into and he didn’t want her to live with that guilt. He didn’t want her to feel anything other than happiness so he lied to her.

He told her what he knew she’d been thinking, what she had been afraid of hearing, for the past two years and hoped that it was enough to keep her away.

“I tried to think about a future with you,” he began, willing himself not to break as he blinked back his own tears, “but I couldn’t see it. We wanted different things. You wanted a big city and you had a million plans and I didn’t fit into any of them.”

“Plans change, Calum,” she whispered, her heart breaking as he worked to confirm the theory she’d held for two long years. “Plans change and futures are whatever you make them. We were happy. We could’ve made it work.”

The pleading undertone of her words made Calum’s heart clench. He hated himself for doing this to her. He hated himself for lying, he hated himself for making her think that he could ever imagine a future without her in it, but he knew that it was necessary. He knew that she needed to move on and forget that he existed so that maybe she could have the future she’s always dreamt of so he shook his head.

“No,” he whispered, “we couldn’t have. We were never meant for forever. We were convenient. You liked me because I was the only boy your brother didn’t scare away. I liked you because you were the only person who didn’t give me an ultimatum when it came to my friendship with Ashton. We were never supposed to last as long as we did.”

Calum bit his lip to keep from taking back every word he’d spoken as she exhaled. She sounded, and felt, as if she’d just been punched in the stomach, as if she were the one who’d just gotten out of a fight, and Calum wished he’d let the fight continue. He wished that he’d let Ashton finish him off. He wished that he’d given up a long time ago because it would hurt less than watching her cry because of him.

“You don’t mean that,” she whispered, voice barely audible as she glanced up at him. Her lashes were wet with tears and she was struggling to breathe as she attempted to keep the sobs at bay and Calum wanted to tell her that she was right, of course he didn’t, but he couldn’t.

“I do,” he sighed, his voice clearly conveying the exhaustion he felt. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, though he only wished she knew just how sorry he was.

“Don’t,” she choked, her jaw set and her hands clenched into fists as she stood from the foot of his bed. “Please, don’t. I loved you. I still love you. I know that I do and I’ve always loved you. It wasn’t convenient or easy. It wasn’t because I had no other choice. I loved you because of who you were. It was because you were good and kind and smart. It was because you cared, because you wanted to see the world become a better place. It was because you meant something to me. We were supposed to be forever and I don’t know if you’re just a really fucking good actor or if you’re playing some bullshit game but you can’t tell me what we felt wasn’t real.”

Calum was silent for a long moment, weighing his words carefully as he contemplated his response. He’d gotten better at hiding his emotions over the years. He’d gotten better at pretending that he was fine when he was a wreck. He’d gotten better at masking what he wanted in favor of what he thought he needed.

And he thought that he needed her to be alright without him.

“It might’ve felt real back then,” he shrugged, “but it was sixteen year old bullshit. We didn’t know anything about the future. We didn’t know anything about love. You can look at the past however you want to but you shouldn’t lie to yourself.”

As soon as the words left his lips, she stopped in her tracks and stared him down. He met her gaze, head on, and could feel his resolve crumbling. He wanted nothing more than to tell her that he didn’t even believe his own bullshit, wanted nothing more than to ask her to lie with him and love him. He wanted nothing more than for her to ask him to come back with her to California because this time, if she asked, he’d say yes in a heartbeat.

But before his resolve could turn to dust and before he could tell her that he’d only ever wanted her, that he’d only ever seen a future with her by his side, she nodded. Her shoulders slumped in defeat, her eyes filled with tears and her hands relaxed. He could see the blood staining her nails from where she’d dug them into her palms. He could see the shaking of her shoulders and the quivering of her bottom lip. But he knew that he’d won. He knew that he’d convinced her that her greatest fears were not unfounded.

He knew that she believed him, even if he didn’t believe himself.

“When?” she asked, her voice cracking and sounding smaller than he’d ever heard her sound. When he tilted his head in confusion, eyebrows scrunched, she continued, “When did you realize that you didn’t love me?”

Calum hated himself, he truly did, but the lie slipped off his tongue easily. “I don’t know if I ever did love you.”

And that was all she needed to hear.

She nodded at this, a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding rushing out in a sharp exhale. She could feel the pain in her chest, could feel the burning anger and disappointment and upset bubbling in the pit of her stomach, but at least she knew now. At least she knew now why he so adamantly refused.

“I hope nothing is seriously injured, Calum,” she breathed, her body on autopilot as she wipes her cheeks and sent him a tight, lifeless smile. “I’m sorry for bothering you. Good luck with everything.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered as he watched her reach for the doorknob, “I wish things had been different.”

“You can’t help what you don’t feel,” she shrugged, her voice muffled as she covers her mouth. “But no matter what, I’ll always love you. And I hope that, one day, you find someone to really love and you make them as happy as you made me when you were pretending. Goodbye, Cal. Take care of yourself.”

Calum watched as she left his room, his eyes fixed on her back as she disappeared down the hall and stepped out the front door. He stared at it for a moment, waited until he knew she was gone, and turned off the lamp. He never wanted to lie to her, never wanted to cause her any pain, but he knew that her life would be better without him in it. They were strangers now, no longer meant for one another, and he didn’t even want to begin to think of what would happen if she realized that he still loved her.

She was made for the world, made for things much greater than loving him, and he knew that it would’ve been selfish to keep her for himself. She deserved to be loved and to love in return and he only hoped that one day, even though he’d lied to her, she’d find it within herself to forgive him. And maybe one day, after they’d both grown and matured and learned to love, they would be lucky enough to find one another to try again.

But until then, until the universe decides to reunite them, they both had to live with a lie.

______________________________________________________

Author’s Note: If this looks familiar, I wrote this sometime last year and published it on a different blog but it’s mine. I just wanted to experiment and write like no one would read it so I did. I really enjoyed this. I love a boxer AU.

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stattic-writes · 4 years

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Beat

https://statticscribbles.tumblr.com/post/639099629845233664/masterlist

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diary-of-deadweight · 5 years

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Being op isn’t all it’s made out to be.

Summary: you’re strong, hella strong, so strong that your aspirations of becoming a hero are dwindling until a bald hero makes his appearance.

Authors note: this is a BNHA x opm crossover fic that I’ve been wanting to write for a while but had to get some shit out of the way first, hope you enjoy this.

Ever since your were a child in kindergarten you always wanted to become as great of a hero as your idol, who didn’t live in Musutafu like most heroes but in a once populated town called City Z; it all started during recess just as Billy Beale, the class bully, followed by his nameless goons, was about to kick sand from the sand pit into your friend’s eyes for the hell of it, you stepped up to protect them by putting yourself between Billy and them as you punched him in the gut with your small chubby fist that sent him flying further then you’d expected.

Billy’s goons were left stood there, faces unsettlingly pale as they watched their group leader being punched harder then normal, scared stiff as identical dark patches expanded across their trousers from fright as they got laughed and pointed at for pissing their pants by the other kids in your class while you looked at your tiny hands in awe and shock as if they held all the answers you’ve been searching for, whilst also taken back at how much power they held without trying; that was when you found your calling to become a hero like your idol like many other quirk possessing kids across Japan and a hero is what you’d be even if the odds were stacked against you.

Even if you did get in trouble for engaging in a ,obviously, one sided fight and a scolding from your parents that were soon subsided by them not being able to be mad at you for long, especially when you were jumping up and down, waving your arms wildly screaming, “I HAVE A QUIRK! LOOK AT ME MOMMY, LOOK DADDY! I HAVE A QURIK!!”

Flash forward 13 years later and you were perched upon a wooden bench in a flowerless garden downtown just as a gust of early January air came by, making you involuntarily shiver in your heavily layered form as it brushed the honey brown leaves littering the street an inch across your peripheral vision as if it was playing monopoly with itself as a second draft of winter air ruffled the bare naked trees in the nearby area, the sounds of bustling city life just barely reached your ears, leaving you with a sense of serenity which was greatly appreciated while yet a tad unnerving thanks to your constant run ins with the League of villains that left you with less the pleasant memories and all within the spam of your first few months of attending UA none the less; they started out as nothing more then a dysfunctional group when they made their grand debut in the USJ in hopes of killing Allmight, only to find you, your classmates, Aizawa and pro hero 13 instead which lead to an all out brawl ,after standing around all stiff limbed and breaths being caught in your throats at the sight of villains somehow infiltrating a disclosed location; only to be bested by Allmight who finished off the nomu, with some minor help as you punched the brain dead bird monster off of an injured Aizawa and into a wall while knocking some lesser known villains off their feet by the blowback of the punch itself earning you some praises from fellow classmates and heroes alike which, at the time made you feel all warm inside, now didn’t make you feel as if you achieved anything really the more time that passed by and the more times you’ve ended things with a singular blow making you scream to the heavens, scaring off some birds in the process, “WHY DOES IT ALWAYS END WITH ONE PUNCH, DAMN IT!!!”

After the disaster that taken place in Kamino Ward, leading to Allmight’s retirement after giving all for one a farewell gift in the disguise of a knuckle sandwich and a unforeseen future that sent everyone in a blind panic to find the next symbol of peace meanwhile the villains lurking in the shadows took this as a blessing to wreak havoc, resulting in the percentage of villain activity to skyrocket more then ever before, unsettling the civilians even more then they already were came the introduction of the big three during a relatively calm day of school, well as calm as it could get, only for Mirio to offer a challenge to fight everyone in your class singlehandedly which peaked your interest greatly as you thought that you’ve finally found your match after defeating Midoriya, Bakugou and todoroki during the sports festival awhile back, coming out with your skin unscathed, your sports wear a complete mess of rips, punctures and burnt cloth that it was absolutely baffling to everyone in attendance, some believing that it all came down to your quirk being the solution and leaving it at that.

Turns out that not even the great Mirio Togata could take you down as you exhausted him easily with your unlimited stamina, insane durability at everything he threw at you and godlike reflexes, countering his attacks with those you’ve picked up from tv with your photogenic memory even if he switched strategies form time to time, all with a blank look on your face that left him struggling to figure out your next move as throughout most of the fight you just stood there with the patience of a saint. Needless to say that your ambitions of becoming a hero were at an all time low at this point as you found yourself becoming less and less committed to your craft to the point where even your most oblivious of classmates were starting to notice the dying fire within your heart, the loss of feeling such emotions as happiness, excitement, fulfilment, exhilarating among other positive emotions but most of all...you can’t remember the last time you’ve felt the heart pounding, adrenaline rush a fight could bring...you didn’t feel much of anything as you once did 13 years ago ever since coming to terms that you were practically unstoppable to overcome that you don’t think that even Allmight could beat you in an arm wrestling match!

Which all lead up to where you were now, sat upon that bench, now digging through your pockets for the class transfer papers just as a bald male in his 30s, dressed from head to toe in a orange jumpsuit, matching set of ruby red gloves and boots with a white cape that fluttered and swayed behind him in the breeze as he made a checklist of how his day went wrong which he spoke out loud as there was no one around to glance at him with concerning or creeped out looks “I lost sight of Genos, my phone is dead so I can’t contact him or nothing, on top of that,” he stopped his chatter to inhale air deeply into his lungs, “HE HAS ALL THE GROCERIES!!”

“Oi, old man,” you said just as you looked over your arm that was resting against the back of the bench, “mind keeping your thoughts to yourself, that would be greatly-“ your breath caught in your throat mid-way your rant as you got a good look at who you were unknowingly scolding, eyes widening as memories of your childhood flashed before you in snapshots.

A man stood before what looked like remnants of a monster dressed in a orange jumpsuit, red boots and gloves now stained with the monsters blood, white cape flapping in the wind, a shiny bald head complete with a deadpan face, after getting a little girl out of the crossfire of the monsters attack in record time, proclaiming to the self proclaimed vaccine man that he was a hero for fun before proceeding the kill him in one blow. The man you wished to follow in the footsteps of. The hero known as capped baldy...not really a name that screamed hero like names such as Allmight and Midnight but it screamed hero to you

“Oh my god...am I dreaming? Capped baldy in Musutafu!!!” You then squinted your eyes into slits as your voice dropped a octave “ you ARE capped baldy? Right?” He only grunted in response, not really expecting to find his first fan in...what did you say? Musutafu? Well...he was a looonnnggg way from home just for some sales shopping that might never happen again; You squealed for the first time in a long time since you were a child as you ran over to him within a blink of an eye, leaving him momentarily stunned as he regained his bearings as when you called him by his hero name that he became civil with overtime when he saw that there were other heroes with even shittier names then his own.

“I-I’m a massive fan of your work!” You began, already feeling yourself shake in the presence of your idol as you hoped that it wasn’t visible, “I’ve watched you fight monsters ever since I was a little child and from then on I’ve always wanted to be just like you when I grow up” you concluded as you peered up at him to notice that he had a shadow casted upon his eyes.

“Trust me kid you don’t wanna be like me...having a lot of power in your possession can only lead to a loss of many things, I don’t feel the thrill of entering battle anymore, my heart doesn’t pump as fast as it use to...I’m stuck in a constant state of melancholy.” he stated as he saw a lot of himself in you, when he was is middle school he wanted to be the strongest hero there ever was, then when he turned 23 he trained so Intensively that his hair fell out. He didn’t want you to wish upon the same fate that granted him the ability to incapacitate or straight up kill a being in one punch no matter how strong they are. He just couldn’t, you deserved better then that.

“That sucks because the second I turned 5 my quirk-“ He quirked a brow at the word, never having heard it up until now, “my power ,basically, when I punched this little asshole but ending up sending him flying further that I thought I would’ve...ever since then I’ve managed to defeat villains, students heck even heroes alike with a single punch that my ambition to becoming a hero has vanished chunk by chunk, piece by piece until nothing of it remained. It started to become less and less of a priority to me that I went and asked for a class transfer form hero course to general studies because it’s gotten that bad,” you paused as you felt the tears began to build up steadily within the corners of you eyes, inhaling deeply you asked the one question you’ve been meaning to ask him ever since you were little, “how do you cope with it?”

A silence hung between the two of you as a gust of air battered your frames, whipping your hair and his cape wildly before calming down once more, the sound of your heartbeat was just about the only thing you heard in the deafening silence besides yours and his semi-synchronised breathing, the rustle of trees and bushes; your hands began to felt more clammy as time passed on quicker and you swore you felt a bead of sweat trail past your temple, almost phasing out entirely until you saw the bald mans mouth move.

“Come again?”

“I didn’t, if anything I try to live my best life even with my overwhelming strength, I’m still looking for someone who I can take on without killing them in a single punch, I’ve met so many strong opponents who could easily surpass me yet I could still lay them out flat with out trying as if they’ve never progressed at all...but the take away from this kid is that even though you may be the most powerful person in the room doesn’t mean there isn’t someone out there who will push you to your limits, so it takes months, years, decades, try and hold out until then even if your tried from the same thing from dusk till dawn. All you have to do is have patience, until then you can kick everybody’s ass to your hearts desire.” You both shared a chuckle at his finishing statement just a monotonous voice rang out from behind the caped baldy.

“Sensei! I’ve seen to have lost you awhile back and for that I apologise greatly for” the male bowed low, letting get a right good look at his synthetic blonde strands before he stood back to his full height, his eyes reminded you of Mina’s eyes as the whites of his eyes were completely pitch black, making his golden orbs pop out, his face was smooth as a babies bottom, his cybernetic body obviously went through some upgrades since the last time you saw him on tv,unlike his sensei, Genos was wearing some casual civilian clothes so he wouldn’t get spotted in public.

“Ah no need to be so...you, anyways we should better get back to city Z in case there have been any sightings,” Saitama said nonchalantly as he waltzed over to his companion, shopping in hand, before turning back to you with a minuscule smile upon his usually bland face.

“I hope to see you again someday kid, when we do we shall see who’s stronger, sound like a plan?” He rose a brow awaiting your response,

“Your on baldy and I’ll win for sure” he smirked at your eagerness before fishing his for something before whipping out a piece a paper from almost nowhere, scribbled something upon it before hanging it to over to you just as the pair took their leave.

You looked down at the price of paper which read:

‘You’ve got spunk kid, gimme a call someday when your feeling confident enough to spar. - saitama’

Below it was a combination of numbers you presumed was his number, a wide spread grin appeared on your face as you tried to control your excitement form leaking out and making you look like a right weirdo, you pocketed the slip of paper into your coat polecat before taking out the class transfer papers out of the other one, looking at the form you remembered his words.

“Even if it takes months, years or even decades...all it takes is a bit of patience” with that you tore up the form into pieces, tossing them up in the air like confetti, watching it fall to the sidewalk like fresh snow before making your way to school and bumping into a skittish Midoriya who asked about your change of personality and all you said was as you looked up into the grey cloud clad sky with a smile.

“I had an epiphany from an unlikely source”

#opm imagine #opm imagines #opm x reader #bnha imagines #bnha imagine #bnha x reader #anime imagine #anime imagines #anime x reader #midoriya izuku imagine #midoriya izuku imagines #saitama imagines #saitama imagine #genos imagine #genos imagines #bnha #mha #opm #one punch man

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brooktrout96 · 4 years

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Hospital Hero

Character A and B are severely injured, but A forces themselves to wake up and take B to the hospital who is in the worst shape and barely alive. At the hospital A drives all the attention to B. And then they can’t do anything anymore but to stand there and desperately watch as the med team helps B (reviving/ inserting IVs/intubation/etc.). It’s only when A is pushed out of the room that their body finally gives up on them and collapses, and the medics just realize. Ties into Sleepy Y/N

Gavin x Platonic Reader

Gavin pushed himself to save his human partner after she got shot. He rushed Y/N to the hospital, the adrenaline was pushing him to make sure she lived but once the doctor pushed out of the room he collapsed as adrenaline wore off

The plan was simple, they would disguise as a brother and sister interested in buying Red Ice and then the two of them would bust the drug ring that the three of them were working for months. That was when everything went FUBAR. A leak must’ve happened and as soon as the two of them entered the room where the buyer would’ve been, they were set fire upon and attacked by grunts that got a few good hits on Gavin, but Y/N was worst off. She was hit in the side of her chest with a bullet or two, eventually Gavin was able to rushed over to her and then he made his escape with her out to the waiting vehicle

Nines,” Gavin said the nickname of his android partner quickly as he loaded Y/N into the back of the vehicle. “We need to get to the nearest hospital or ER right now.” Gavin got into the back as he kept pressure on the wound

Gav.” Y/N groaned in pain as she looked at her partners, eyes drooping. “Can’t feel arms.” She mumbled. “Hurts so much.” She said to him as she lost consciousness. They made it and after Gavin explained to the staff what was going on, they went on the offense and began to treat her. He followed the doctor as the nurse wheeled her into a room and began to set up an IV with fluids and a blood bag as they were getting ready to take her into surgery.

Now go! Your other partner is waiting for you.” The doctor said as he pushed Gavin out of the room. Gavin took one step as the adrenaline finally wore off and he collapsed from the injuries that he had sustain, they weren’t as bad as Y/N, but the pain finally hit him.

~***~

The smell of antiseptics and flowers enter Gavin’s nose as he opened his eyes as a nurse hovered over him.

Good, you’re awake, Mr. Reed. You gave us quite a scare when one of the other nurse stepped out into the hall way and found you collapsed on the ground.” She smiled, and Gavin nodded as she handed him some painkiller. “Here you go something to numb the pain.” Gavin swallowed the pain killers and took a sip of water. The nurse left, and Gavin redressed in his bloodstained clothing, he look over to the clock and saw he was out for two hour, and then went to find out how Y/N was doing

GRPS: Mission Blues

Write that moment when all the characters are waiting in a room, whether this be in the hospital or back at the base or someone’s house. They wait for hours, waiting to hear about Character A, feeling as if they can’t even change their clothes or wash A’s now dried blood out of their hands. (Maybe A could have been in a horrific accident or could have been in the middle of a mission gone wrong.) Suddenly, the person who was allowed to accompany A, or their emergency contact/family member comes bursting through the door as they excitedly yell: “They’re awake!” or “The surgery went well!” or “Everything’s going to be okay.” Ties into Hospital Hero, and Sleepy Y/N

Gavin was pacing the room as he waited with Y/N’s brothers for new if she was alright. It was his fault; she was this way if he had only listen to her. She would be fine and next to her brother playing in the snow and dragging him and Hank into a snowball fight

Gavin’s POV

It had been a long twelve hours after Y/N’s and mine mission went south and she got shot in her side and I rushed her to the hospital and she was dragged into emergency surgery. I looked around the waiting room and saw the RK brother waiting for Hank to return with some news on her condition. I need to go home and change but I can’t not until I find out if Y/N is okay. This was my fault for not bring bullet-proof vest like Y/N suggested. We wouldn’t be in this position. Caleb, I think, I can’t tell the RK800 apart approached me with an concerned look on his face and then which every RK unit he is, he opened his mouth

Hey Gavin, I honestly think you need to go home and recover. Y/N will be okay.” Then I angrily glared at him and said

No, this is my fault that she in this position. I’m staying until I find out that she’s alright.” A hazy memory of an incident back when I was a beat cop with Lisha, and I think Eli flash in my mind. I let out a sigh. “Sorry, I know your worried about her too, but this feels like had I just listen to her before we went undercover and took bullet-proof vests. She wouldn’t be in this mess right now.” I said as I shook my head

Hey, this is her first injury in a long time that wasn’t her fault, right.” The android asked. “I mean from what Hank mention she use to be as reckless as Connor was before he deviated. Throwing herself into the way of danger just to catch the culprit. I mean it became less when Connor arrived and then even less when the rest of us arrived and you and Conan became her partners, right?” I smiled at the android as Hank entered the room and walked toward the five of us as we clamored to hear what Hank had to say

The surgery went well, they were able to remove the bullet from her side and staunch the bleeding.” The five were about to cheer but Hank stopped them. “But they put her in a induced coma, so she wouldn’t feel the pain. Tomorrow, they will pull her out of it, and then keep her here for two weeks to observe her and make sure nothing went wrong. Then she be able to go home but she’ll be on bedrest for eight to twelve weeks depending on how quickly her body replenishes her blood.” We let out a cheer then I let out a sigh that I had been holding

GRPS: Mission Gone Wrong

A character with broken ribs gets caught in a surprise attack that results in them getting a blow to their chest. It flat-out knocks the wind out of them, so they’re left in a heap on the ground, fighting just to breathe, but the grinding of their ribs makes it even harder, and when they finally do manage to inhale again the pain just intensifies that much more. Gavin x sister! Reader

Y/N.” Gavin screamed as he watch the Rogue android grab her and held a gun to her head as Gavin reached for his gun and eventually the Rogue tossed her into a wall and she was gasping for breath and every breath hurt

Hold it, you are under arrest.” Y/N said to their perp with her gun drawn. She hadn’t realized at the time that their perp was an android and he grabbed her in a choke hold and she couldn’t break free of his grip. His arm was right below her lungs and he held a gun to her head. She was wheezing, barely able to breath as Gavin negotiated with android and eventually the android didn’t want to listen anymore and threw her into a wall and took off.

Go after it, Gavin. I’ll be alright. Back up is on its way.” He nodded and took off, but he was worried about her. Being thrown into a wall must have broken some ribs because that looked like it had to hurt.

Y/N POV

I told Gavin to chase after the rogue android and he did just that. I just laid in a heap trying to get air in my lungs. Every small breath wasn’t enough, I took one large breath and the slight pain I was feeling intensified as I groaned in pain and even that hurt. I heard something; I assume Gavin called for backup after I was grabbed by the android. My eye sight is going fuzzy, I can’t see anything, the pain it is getting hard for me to breath. I looked up and saw someone standing over me and then darkness

3rd Person POV

Gavin returned back to check on Y/N after losing the android. She was out of it and in pain, he didn’t need to be an android to know that, but he was worried about moving her for he didn’t know if the android holding her like it did and being thrown into a wall broke anything. The pain coursed through his body from the chase and his moment of klutziness, but he wasn’t worrying about his injuries, right now.

Y/N come on. Stay awake for me. The ambulance is almost here.” He was just worried about his human partner. A voice echoed in the room

Connor are you sure this is the location that Gavin relayed to us.”

I’m sure Colin.” Connor voice echoed as the duo walked into the room where Gavin and Y/N were. Connor looked at Gavin and Gavin began to explain

The prep which we found out to be a Rouge, he got a jump on us and was able to grab Y/N. I was able to negotiate the android to free her, but it threw her into the wall and she told me to chase after it, but I lost it and then came back to check on her.” He looked down at Y/N. “I was worried about broken ribs. So, I decided not to move her until someone could look her over.” Connor scanned her, and Gavin was right about the broken ribs

She has four broken ribs, two on each side and one is close to puncturing her lungs. I hope that moving her won’t cause it to move and puncture her lung. The ambulance is here, you need to be check out.” Connor said as he watch the paramedics lift his sister on to a gurney.

I’m fine, it’s Y/N that I’m worried about.” He said as he joined the paramedics in the back of the ambulance as it head to the hospital.

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mytwilightimagines13 · 5 years

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Size doesn’t matter, buddy (Felix Volturi) part 4

word count: 1247

A bright yellow Porsche screamed to a stop a few feet in front of where Bella paced, the word TURBO scrawled in silver cursive across its back. Everyone beside Bella and Alice on the crowded airport sidewalk stared. "Hurry, you two!” you shouted impatiently through the open passenger window. Bella ran to the door and threw herself in, while Alice took a spot on the backseat. "Sheesh, (Y/N)," Bella complained. "Could you pick a more conspicuous car to steal?" The interior was black leather, and the windows were tinted dark. It felt safer inside, like night time. You were already weaving, too fast, through the thick airport traffic sliding through tiny spaces between the cars as Bella cringed and fumbled for her seat belt. "The important question," you corrected, "is whether I could have stolen a faster car, and I don't think so. I got lucky." You said smirking. "I'm sure that will be very comforting at the roadblock." Alice trilled a laugh. "Trust me, Bella. If anyone sets up a roadblock, it will be behind us." you hit the gas then, as if to prove your point.

“How did you get changed, (Y/N).” Bella asked suddenly, making you almost crash. “I’m sorry. I just really need some distraction right now.” She apologised. You shook your head. “No, it is fine. I guess we all need some distraction, ehm.” You started, bringing back the memories of your human life.

“I was born in 1917 in quite a wealthy family. I had everything my little heart could ever desire, but I was the lack sheep of the family. I was stronger than most of my brothers and cousins. I was almost as strong as my dad, whom had served in the army and was even called the friendly giant. He was a very large man with a lot of strength, even for a human. I am sure if he would have been a vampire he could have given Emmett and I a run for our money.” You said chuckling, remembering the sweet man that was your father and how he would pick your mother and sisters up with ease.

“Even though I was the black sheep, my family loved me no matter what. The troubles started in when I went to school. It wasn’t quite common for women to have education back in the day, but my parents were wealthy enough to send my sisters and I along with my brothers to school. We had a large family you see. With 4 boys and 3 girls. I was the youngest one and very much protected, that was until my brothers were also send into the army and my sisters all married. People thought I was a freak for being so strong with my height and everything. Men were intimidated by my strength and it made my parents feel frustrated that by the day of 21st birthday I still wasn’t betrothed. So I ran away and joined the circus.” You said chuckling darkly. You looked into the rear view mirror to see that Alice was still concentrating on the future.

“One night, some drunken men cornered me, not believing I was as strong as I claimed and beat me. I could hold them off for a short while, but five against one isn’t a fair fight. One held me down by my arms while the leader beat me to a pulp and the rest were calling me names. I was barely breathing when they were done with me, and I had permanent damage to my hearing and sight, probably even a punctured lung by the feeling of it. That is when Carlisle found me. He was doing a routine check up on all the artist from the circus. The owner of the circus was a fair man and wanted only the best for his artist. Carlisle smelled the blood and rushed towards me. He held my hand and probably whispered something to me before biting down. The venom was even worse than the beating. The zinging fire that burned through my veins oh so slowly, it only made me wish for death.” You said biting your lip, almost feeling the pain once more. You shook your head and gave Bella a small smirk. “I got my revenge, believe me. I will safe you the gory details. But I did make sure the wives and children of those men were taken care off. I send them money from time to time. And ever since then I have been living with Carlisle on and off. There have been moments were I lived as a nomad, feeding off other scum. Wanting, no, needing the taste of human blood. I am afraid I am not as strong as Carlisle or my sister Rosalie.” You finished. Bella remained silence, processing what you just told her.

"Do you see anything more?" you asked Alice after a short while driving in silence through the landscapes of Italy. "There's something going on," Alice muttered. "Some kind of festival. The streets are full of people and red flags. What's the date today?" "The nineteenth, maybe?" Bella spoke. "Well, that's ironic. It's Saint Marcus Day." You muttered. "Which means?" Bella asked, earning her a dark chuckle from both Alice and you. "The city holds a celebration every year. As the legend goes, a Christian missionary, a Father Marcus, Marcus of the Volturi, in fact drove all the vampires from Volterra fifteen hundred years ago. The story claims he was martyred in Romania, still trying to drive away the vampire scourge. Of course that's nonsense he's never left the city. But that's where some of the superstitions about things like crosses and garlic come from. Father Marcus used them so successfully. And vampires don't trouble Volterra, so they must work." Your smile was sardonic. "It's become more of a celebration of the city, and recognition for the police force after all, Volterra is an amazingly safe city. The police get the credit." Alice said. "They're not going to be very happy if Edward messes things up for them on St. Marcus Day, are they?" Bella asked. Alice shook her head, her expression grim. "No. They'll act very quickly."

"He's still planning on noon?" Bella checked. "Yes. He's decided to wait. And they're waiting for him." "Tell me what I have to do." You kept your eyes on the winding road the needle on the speedometer was touching the far right on the dial. "You don't have to do anything. He just has to see you before he moves into the light. And he has to see you before he sees me or (Y/N)." Alice explained "How are we going to work that?" A small red car seemed to be racing backward as you zoomed around it. "I'm going to get you as close as possible, and then you're going to run in the direction Alice points you." You explained and Bella nodded. "Try not to trip," you added, smirking playfully. "We don't have time for a concussion today." Bella groaned in response.

"There," Alice said abruptly, pointing to the castle city atop the closest hill. Bella stared at it, fear in her eyes. You stared at the ancient sienna walls and towers crowning the peak of the steep hill, and felt a weird feeling in the pit of your stomache. Like something huge was about to happen. Something lifechanging.

"Welcome in Volterra, Bella" you announced in a flat, icy voice.

#felix volturi #demetri volturi #volturi #jane volturi #Caius Volturi #aro volturi #Marcus Volturi #volturi imagine #twilight #twilight imagine #cullen

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fandomsnerd · 4 years

Text

broken bones

(Cross posted with AO3)

There was blood dripping off his fingertips, falling with an almost rhythmic splatter against the ground. It stuck to his skin, running down his arm and pooling against him, slowly turning the dirt to mud. A sticky mud stained red from his blood. He did not know exactly where it was coming from, he did not think his fingers bore any cuts yet. Or maybe they did, and he was just too numbed to feel them.

The soft dripping seemed to reverberate around his skull, adding to his already throbbing headache. The pressure was so great that he feared it might split open at any moment, brain matter spilling into the dust alongside his blood.

He didn’t know how long he had been lying there for. Time seemed almost like a trivial matter, of little relevance compared to the pain he was in, every part of him, it seemed, screaming out in agony.

The pain came in waves, not truly subsiding between them, but seemingly numbing when his mind became too overwhelmed to truly register the state he was in. It would shut down, just for a moment. He had no idea how long those moments were, how long the numbing gaps between agony lasted, it could be seconds, minutes, hours. He had no way of knowing.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

It hurt to breathe. Every inhale, his rasping breath dragging itself in between the broken mess of his ribcage. When he had mind to, he hoped the damage was not severe. He hoped no splinters of bone pressed in too deep, puncturing the lungs. That would be such a slow death, painful and drawn out.

When he had energy to, he hoped for something quicker.

His vision had long gone fuzzy, unfocused eyes staring blankly out. If he truly tried, dragged his mind in and tried, he could for a moment focus enough to register the site before him. Pick out the forms his captors, silhouettes illuminated in the glow of the fire. They were sat so casually, back to him, no fear nor care given to the man who lay dying mere few meters away.

If he truly focused, pulling his vision even further in, he could see his wrists, rubbed raw against their confines. The rope was wound so tight, cutting into the flesh, pressure pushing on bones – he wondered if they would ever truly heal or if the damage would be irreversible.

He wondered if he would ever get the chance to find out.

At least he did not feel them, his wrists existing in the numb void beyond his current conscious existence. His world narrowed so tightly in, centred on the pounding beat within his skull and the heavy rasping pull of his broken ribs.

His head felt so heavy, he wanted to let his eyes fall shut, let himself slip into the welcoming darkness.

He worried that if he did, he would never open them again. So instead he let his gaze drift upwards. Let his unfocused stare lose itself in the expansive darkness of the night sky instead of the sweet relief of unconsciousness.

A stuttering cough racked itself up from within him. He choked it out, tasting blood on his tongue. Perhaps a lung had been pierced, perhaps he would die, here and now. Deep dragging breaths slowly turning shallow and desperate, chest and mouth welling up with blood. He would drown, suffocating in his own blood beneath the stars.

The stars seemed so far away. At least, he thought, he would die beneath the beauty of a clear night sky. He apricated that. It felt… poetic.

A spark of panic bubbled up within him, a final grip of terror over the reality that this could be it, his final night alive, his final night in existence.

He did his best to push it down, losing it under the waves of pain and numbness, it would be a waste to spend his final moments panicking.

He did his best to let his mind wander, disappearing into the darkness, unable to deal with reality any longer.

His eyes continued to grow heavy. Soon his blinks seemed to last longer than the gaps between them. He was losing the will to keep them open, struggling to remember the reason to force them back open. He had just let them slip back closed, unsure if he would even bother to push them open again when he heard it. Muted cries, someone, somewhere, shouting.

It sounded so far away. As though it was underwater, it was happening somewhere, certainly, but not here, not where he was, in his bubble of numbed pain and darkness.

He heard the crack of bone, heard the crunch of his fingers snapping, before he even felt the pain. Eyes snapping open, barely having time to register the sight of heavy leather boots pressing down on the delicate bones in his hand before their owner is sent sprawling, thrown prone against him.

He had thought he had been in pain before. It was as though his body was on fire, a choked scream ripping from his lips, as the figure disrupted every numbed nerve within him in their mad scramble to regain their footing.

For a moment his entire world was pain, nothing else mattered. Nothing else existed. And then there was blood. Blood that was not his, raining down on him, he felt it splatter against his neck, his face, some dripping and falling into his mouth, still twisted open in pain.

He registered the drop of the body, saw the head hit the dirt before him, stared back into glossy, unseeing eyes. He registered it, but he did not understand what it meant. He did not understand what was happening.

A hand grabbed the scruff of his neck, tugging him up. He screamed again, kicking out and twisting with energy he had not known he still possessed. The figure relented, lowering him back down to the earth, where he sat, panting, eyes screwed shut, closing out the world. His ribs screaming out in pain. Gods above he hoped his lungs where still intact.

The figure moved, he heard them do so, coming round before him. He heard a shuffling, felt a warm breath ghost over his face. He did not look. He did not want to know. He could not deal with who or what was before him.

“Jaskier.”

Tired eyes snapped open, meeting familiar, shimmering yellow ones staring back.

The look of concern was less familiar.

“Jaskier.”

He did not know how to respond. Exhaustion, momentarily staved off, came swarming back. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth.

“Are you- where are you hurt?”

He shrugged in response. The simple movement jostling his dammed ribs even further. Where was he hurt? It would have been easier to list the places he wasn’t. He let his eyes shut, let himself teeter on the edge of the darkness once more.

Probing hands disturbed his rest, cutting lose his bonds, flicking over his body, taking note of each bump and bruise lining his broken skin. They stopped when they reached his ribs. He heard Geralt suck in a sharp breath. Fingers prodded, gently, running against the bones, feeling for sharp edges or broken shards.

Seemingly satisfied the hands continued onwards, checking the rest of him. Circling tired wrists, forcing them to move, to return the blood flow. Forcing curled hands to stretch, damaged bones and strained muscles screaming out at the movement.

Bandages where applied, to the worst of the bleeding. Others where wound tight around misplaced bones, in an attempt to push them back into place and hold them still, where they belonged.

He was lifted then, upwards, deposited hard against Roach’s back. Fingers scrabbling for the edge of the saddle, he had just enough mind to attempt to use his good hand to stabilise himself, keep himself from falling and breaking even more.

He needn’t have worried. Geralt’s large hand not loosening its firm grip on his thigh, until the Witcher had pulled himself up, into the saddle behind him.

Strong arms reached round, tugging him back against the firm chest behind him. One stayed, holding him tight and still, even as the horse started forward. The jostling step likely to have more damage to his rips if not for the arm helping keep them steady and still.

Here, finally safe, he lets his head fall back, hard against the Witcher’s shoulder. Lets his eyes fall shut, and finally allows himself to slip into the simple calmness of unconsciousness.

#the witcher #my fics #whump #sad boi hours once aaaagaaaain

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sinsbymanka · 5 years

Text

Update: Girl with the Arrow Tattoo Chapter 34!

Chapter 34: The Rebirth

Full Story at AO3

(Remarkably little angst. Mostly fluff and existential crisis. You’ve all earned it after the last few chapters.)

Finding her had been a miracle. Maria’s small, crumpled form had barely been visible underneath the snow clinging to her hair, her clothes. When Varric spotted crimson in the beam of his phone’s weak flashlight, he raced toward it without thought, wishing, hoping, wanting… praying they weren’t too late. Her form felt stiff as ice beneath his fingers, worse, she didn’t respond to her name in his mouth, didn’t move until he tightened his hold on her.

The instant his fingers curled into her shoulder, she made a small, broken sound. Not quite a whimper, but not a scream either. She shuddered under his hands and bucked against his grip weakly. Her eyes gazed ahead, unseeing, into the darkness while she struggled helplessly against him like a bird beating her wings against a cage. His stomach dropped, his fingers gently circling her delicate wrists while she tried to push him away. A quiet sob escaped Maria’s lips and…

It broke him. Just a little. He wasn’t ashamed to admit it.

“Maria, stop.” He pleaded into her freezing ear. She shivered, but some of the fight seemed to bleed out of her. “It’s just me. It’s just me, we’re gonna take care of you, baby.”

Her faint struggles began to cease so he released her wrists and gently wrapped his arms around her waist, cradled her to his chest. “I won’t hurt you.” He promised to the shivering, half-conscious miracle in his arms. “I won’t ever hurt you, Maria.”

Somewhere above them, Nyx cawed loudly, repetitively, sounding the alarm for the entire rescue party. Maria collapsed against his chest with a broken, weary sigh that could have been his name, but he couldn’t tell. There were other voices calling to each other in the darkness, growing awareness that someone had found something, although who or what was still unknown. They could only hope.

But hope had gotten them this far.

“Varric!” Dorian’s voice cried out from the slope somewhere above him. “Varric, where in the blighted hell are you?”

“Here!” He pulled his face away from Maria’s chilled skin to yell up over his shoulder. “I’ve got her!”

He pressed his lips against her temple, one hand gently pushing back the stiff, frozen hair framing her face. He could taste the iron of blood on his lips, her skin frigid underneath his mouth. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” He whispered softly.

Cassandra sent up a prayer of weary gratitude. Dorian appeared beside him like he’d emerged from the shadows themselves, his gleaming dark eyes exhausted and panic stricken while he examined the shuddering woman in Varric’s arms.

“Venhedis.” Dorian cursed. “Where is Blackwall?”

“I can carry her.” Bull rumbled.

“Perhaps. However, we did remove five bullets from your body. I am uncertain if you should even have joined us.” Solas reached past Varric and laid a gentle hand over Maria’s shoulder. The elf’s frown said everything Varric didn’t want to know. “We need to get her back. I cannot treat these injuries, I lack the skill…”

“Don’t die, you.” Sera blurted, half command, half plea. “Fix her up, right? Elfy shite magic can…”

“Here.” Blackwall leaned down low, arms extended.

“Wait.” Solas ordered. His eyes were glowing, a soft green light flickering. “I can dull the pain, put her to sleep, and remove the blood from her lungs so she doesn’t drown in it. It will make travel easier, the rest…”

Varric could feel the magic working, Maria’s form melting against his, boneless, finally giving into exhaustion and unconsciousness. Solas pulled his hand back and nodded briskly to Blackwall. “Now.”

Varric didn’t want to let her go. The last time he let her go she… he bit back the recrimination, reminded himself that the snow was only up to Blackwall’s knees instead of his ass, and the most important thing was to get Maria back to camp before she finished dying on them. He shifted and she slipped out of his arms like water until the human lifted her, gentle as a sleeping child, into the air. Bull peered down into her face, rumbled something Varric couldn’t quite make out.

“She will be fine.” Cassandra stated firmly. “Andraste is with her.”

Nobody could ignore the triumphant certainty in the Seeker’s voice. Varric almost bemoaned that Cassandra could come through this with renewed faith in her Maker, in some sort of crazy plan. But Maria Cadash survived the vortex, time travel, a demon, a dragon, and an avalanche. Varric… wasn’t quite sure what to even chalk that up to beyond divine intervention.

“What would be more helpful than Andraste at this moment would be modern medicine, a healer, and removing these clothes before she succumbs to frostbite.” Solas remarked dryly.

“Cold. Bitter. Biting.” Cole murmured. “Endless. Alone at the edge of the abyss. Falling. Frightened.”

“We’ve got her now, kid.” Varric reassured him as their search party began the perilous trek back. “We’ve got her.”

“Yes.” Cole agreed fervently. “They tried to burn her. Bury her. But the ashes were warm and the stone belongs to her family’s hearth. He didn’t know she’d rise.”

“Get her down.” The doctor ordered tersely. “This damn woman. If she’s not falling out of the bleeding sky, she’s stumbling back with hypothermia and Maker knows how many broken ribs.”

Blackwall lowered Maria onto the cot with great, tender care. For a perfect moment of stillness, it was just Maria alone on the thin bed like a sacrifice left unattended on an altar. Then both the doctor and healer swarmed over her, checking her pulse, listening to her labored breathing.

“You’re not going to believe this.” Bea trembled beside Varric, his hand on her arm the only thing restraining her from elbowing both healer and doctor out of the way. She had one fist at her lips, white knuckles pressed to paler lips. “This isn’t her idea of a good time either.”

“Coulda fooled me.” The doctor huffed, pulling the zipper on the sodden, blood spattered jacket. “I’m gonna need a knife to get these clothes off her. They’re soaking wet.”

Maria’s head lolled to the side and Cole produced his switchblade nearly immediately. The Elven healer snatched it with a reproachful, wary gaze in the kid’s direction before she began sawing through the thin cotton t-shirt.

“I do not believe we need an audience for this.” The Seeker said sternly. Varric deigned to ignore her even though he knew the statement was meant for him. “A few of us should stay, but surely…”

“Ria isn’t modest. Or shy.” Bea muttered, eyes fixed on the pale skin slowly exposed under the tattered shirt, more blue and purple than cream. Varric’s stomach rolled at the mess of bruises and scrapes.

“Varric.” Cassandra snapped impatiently. “I will not risk your…”

If she accused him of leering one more time he’d…

“But he’s seen her bare.” Cole interrupted, confused. “Warm. Wanting. Willing and wicked and…”

Well, he could always count on Cole. Bea rolled her eyes and shot Varric a rather reproachful glare, but honestly it was almost worth it to hear the sharp click of Cassandra’s jaw slamming shut.

“Do hold that thought. I’ll be rather interested in it if she doesn’t choke to death on her own blood.” Dorian shoved past, holding a sturdy pile of fleece blankets.

“She’s not… she can’t...” Bea’s voice cracked on the words, swinging helplessly around the triage scene unspooling in front of them.

“Not on my watch at any rate. Not after getting us out of that Tevinter shitstorm.” The elf muttered, peeling away the stiff fabric. Her hand glowed as she pressed it to Maria’s skin and paused, seeming to listen to her injuries. “Five fractured ribs of varying severity. At least one punctured her lung.”

“Sparkler is being unnecessarily dramatic.” Varric soothed with a stern, warning glance leveled at the Tevinter witch’s back. “She’s going to wake up spitting fire, you watch.”

He didn’t know if he was trying to convince Bea or himself. Maria looked just as small as she had the first time he saw her, unconscious again, although at least she didn’t appear to be flickering in and out of reality itself this time. Back then, he’d felt bad for the poor woman who had been pulled off the mountain and he certainly hadn’t wanted anything to happen to her, but now…

Varric couldn’t bear watching her lay so still as the doctor shouted about lacerations on her head, the healer’s hands glowing blue to stitch up bone and lung. His stomach twisted into anxious knots, thoughts spiraling, conjuring scenarios where she never woke. Where he never held her again, never…

“Lacerations are minor. Burn on her palm.” The doctor rattled off to the healer. “If you can fix her ribs, it’ll be the hypothermia to worry about next.”

“Can’t help there.” The Healer muttered as she worked. “Not trained to do anything about that. I could try raising her blood temperature but I’m as likely to cook her…”

Bea shuddered and the doctor took the switchblade, hacking at the waistband of Maria’s jeans. “I need a warm compress. One of you bleedin’ witches need to heat up some water and shove it in a damn bottle.”

“No need to be rude.” Dorian huffed. “Vivienne…”

“I will search for a container, since you are full of hot air darling. See if you can heat those blankets up a bit, hm?”

“All these clothes need to come off. They’re soaked through.” The doctor pulled the ruined denim away from Maria’s hips, a cruel parody of the way Varric once peeled them off. He shut his eyes for a steadying moment and swallowed against the rising tide of complex, terrifying emotions.

“There.” The healer said gently. “She’ll be sore for a few days, at least, but she’ll live. Come here, feel.”

Bea tugged against his iron grip and Varric relaxed his hold enough to let her slip through his fingers. He opened bleary eyes and watched Bea press her palm over her sister’s gently rising and falling abdomen. The terrible rattle had ceased, vanished into the ether. Bea’s shook her head, voice small. “She’s so cold.”

“Not for long.” The doctor muttered, pulling one of the gently steaming blankets from Dorian’s arms and pinning Varric with his piercing, slightly insane gaze. “You’ll do. Come here.”

Varric hesitated. Just long enough for a rather large, he’d bet solid money Qunari, arm to shove him forward. Varric scowled back at Bull, but the doctor kept talking, “Body heat to insulate. You’re rather sturdy and you’re not too tall for the cot. Up you get.”

Oh. Oh shit. “What?” He asked, the question semi-strangled, the thought of curling up next to Maria’s solid, albeit frozen, form enough to render him temporarily, and possibly for the first time, speechless.

“Absolutely not.” Cassandra scowled, flushing pink to the very roots of her hair. “It is inappropriate and scandalous. The Herald…”

“Right then. She’ll just freeze solid while we argue about propriety.” The doctor declared waspishly. “We can hope holy Andraste thaws her out.”

“I certainly don’t want to end up on the wrong side of Cassandra’s ire…” Dorian looked entirely too smug for Varric’s comfort level. “But this seems like an excellent idea. Finish unbuttoning that shirt, Varric. Better shuck the pants too, you’ve got snow all over them.”

“Ugh.” Sera sniffed, turning her face pointedly away. “Not watchin’ this show.”

“I cannot…” Cassandra’s voice raised, the start of a rather fine shouting match nobody had time for.

“I’m sorry.” Bea’s voice didn’t rise at all. It stayed perfectly, completely level. The hair on Varric’s neck stood up regardless and he spared a glance for the woman staring Cassandra down with abject fury. “I thought my mother was dead. Please. Continue arguing about the fucking scandal while my sister loses her toes.”

Cassandra’s mouth moved, but nothing intelligible came out. Satisfied, Bea turned her sharp as knives gaze to him. “Pants off.”

She’d given a steely command, one that left no room for negotiation. When Varric didn’t quite move fast enough, Bea’s voice dropped even further, to what he suspected was an even more dangerous octave. “I’m not asking again.”

Varric wasn’t certain she’d actually asked the first time. “Andraste’s ass.” He grumbled, reaching up to begin unbuttoning his shirt, hastily discarding it on a stack of crates. “Can I keep my damn boxers on or are we…”

Bea promptly made up her mind to ignore him. “Roll her onto her side.” The doctor advised the healer. “Gently. No use jarring that head.”

“Varric.” Vivienne’s voice trilled from behind him and Varric swore under his breath. “I take it since you’re undressing that means you’ve finally come to your senses about this outfit.”

“Everyone’s a damn comedian as soon as the dwarf gets naked.” Varric huffed, unbuttoning his pants. “Let me know if any ladies see something they like.”

In front of him, they shifted Maria’s nearly nude form onto her side, covering her with the first steaming blanket, lifting the barest corner for him to slither in beside her. Somehow, this seemed far more intimate than the fact that his mouth had been slanted over hers, their tongues twisted together, his face between her legs and his hands cupping her gorgeous breasts. Perhaps it was simply the aching vulnerability, the mottled fresh bruises covering all the skin he’d traced and kissed.

Maybe it was the blissfully empty expression on her face making her look so much younger, the fresh faced girl in her old photos. The one whose life still may have worked out the way she wanted in a better world, a kinder one.

If she was brave enough to face down a fucking dragon, he could lay beside her, keep her warm. That had to be the easier job. He definitely shouldn’t be envying her the heroic showdown with the demon that nearly snatched her away.

As calmly and smoothly as he could, with false confidence born of years hiding inner turmoil, he slipped onto the stiff cot and curled against her while they draped a blanket over them. She was icy, freezing to the touch against his skin. His hissed at the initial contact, but he ignored the discomfort and gently, careful of the newly mended ribs and all the terrifying bruises lining her skin, draped his arm over the dip of her waist. He shifted his hips until they fit snug against hers and slipped one arm slowly under her neck.

The sharp bite of something ever colder than her skin sent him swearing. He shifted, gingerly withdrawing a tarnished silver chain from the space between them, the glimmering pendants nothing more than bits of ice against his fingers.

His eyes focused on them with a start, at first in stunned disbelief, then in bewilderment. They weren’t pendants or charms, they were rings, a full damn set of wedding rings. There was a diamond large enough to make any debutante swoon and two plain, serviceable bands, a man’s and a woman’s.

Bea made a choked gasp, hands freezing in the motion of smoothing the blanket over Maria’s shoulder. “Sodding Ancestors. I thought they’d be gone for sure, I thought…”

Varric gently slid his fingers along the chain, trying to ignore the sharp burst of curiosity. There was zero chance that Fynn Dunhark legally married Maria Cadash, that information would have been in the court records and media coverage for sure. But… he could see how legalities didn’t matter. Not when you were young, not when the woman you loved agreed to take off from everything she knew and make a new life somewhere else.

Fynn Dunhark may only have had Maria Cadash for a short period of time before his untimely demise. But, he’d fully had his woman, no half-baked life full of lies and secrets. Varric would have sacrificed a lot for that same certainty.

He’d have taken a bullet too.

Varric unclasped the necklace with a deft twist of his fingers and deposited the cold chain in Bea’s extended palm. She closed her fingers over them and brought her tight fist to her lips. “I didn’t realize she was wearing them. She’d have been… she’d have been fucking devastated to lose them.”

The tremor in Bea’s usually nonchalant voice told him that Maria wouldn’t have been the only one distraught.

“It’s alright Mittens.” Varric angled his form around Maria’s, tipped his forehead against her hair, and closed his eyes. The scent of smoke and iron clung to her, a heady perfume of desperation and sheer, impossible survival. He fought the urge to press his palm more tightly over her abdomen, to drop his lips to her freckled shoulder and kiss each spot with silent, worshipful gratitude.

To drop even lower and gently press his lips to the interlocking triangles of the carta branded on her shoulder. To make a silent, desperate promise that this time, that part of her life was over. There’d be no going back, no matter the cost. Not after…

But this wasn’t the time, this wasn’t the place. Dorian balanced his warm bottle of water on the opposite side of Maria’s neck and very gently brushed his tanned fingers over her cheek. Varric smoothed away the scowl that twisted his features and the matching possessive lurch in his thoughts. Hopefully before anyone noticed.

Instead, he splayed his fingers gently over the soft curve of her stomach. He focused on the gentle rise and fall, the ease of her breathing, so unlike the way she’d labored and gasped in his arms. Without much thought, and certainly without attempting to examine his motives, Varric brushed his thumb lightly, repetitively, in a small arc over her cold skin.

Solas layered another blanket over top of them and looked to the doctor. “You said there was a burn in her palm?”

“Odd one. Don’t see how she could've done it, but I guess I’ve got to get used to her doing weird shit, don’t I?”

Bea snorted in abbreviated, but clear, agreement.

“May I?” Solas asked cautiously.

“Be my guest.” The doctor muttered. “Not much I can do for it with our general lack of supplies and I’d rather the damn healer deal with her brain than burns.”

“Just swelling.” The Elven healer’s fingers lingered over Maria’s head, eyes continuing to monitor Bea’s barely concealed anxiety. “Nasty bump, that’s all. She’ll be right as rain, you’ll see.”

With a mumbled apology, Solas’s hand lifted the blanket. Varric stilled his thumb, watching as Solas gently turned Maria’s palm in his. Varric could see the burn even through the halo of Maria’s hair, perfect and pristine, a spiraling pattern like a rising sun.

Varric fought back his own shudder. “Chuckles, that’s not an accident.”

Nothing so beautiful ever was. Solas ran his own fingers over it and frowned tightly. “Unfortunately,” He confessed, “I suspect you are correct.”

“What is it?” Cassandra asked, peering suspiciously over Solas’s shoulder.

“The mark of the magic she survived in the vortex.” Solas ran his own thumb over her palm. The second he did, the burn illuminated with a dull, gentle flicker. Varric swore he saw flakes of golden light dancing under Maria’s skin through her veins. “That demon pulled it to the surface, perhaps in an attempt to wrench it from her.”

“It looks almost like the symbol of the Chantry.” Cassandra supplied with a rather firm amount of conviction lacing her voice.

She was right, to a point. It was certainly a sun, Varric would give her that, but beyond that Maria's brand bore little resemblance to the great glowing suns of the Chantry. Her’s had delicate, intricate knots laced within it. A pattern within a pattern, looking more like something Daisy would doodle than anything else.

“A coincidence, nothing more.” Solas curled Maria’s small fingers over the mark like she clasped something precious within it. “It must have caused her great pain to have it brought to the surface like this.”

He knew. He’d heard her screaming. Unable to help himself, he brushed his thumb over her skin again, an unsaid apology for leaving her at a monster’s mercy.

“She’s tough.” Bea tightened her grip on the rings on her hand and lifted burning eyes to Solas. “Ria is tougher than anyone I know.”

Solas smiled, both kind and sad. “Of that, I have little doubt. We would not be here otherwise.”

She awoke in pieces, not all at once. The first thing she noticed was the searing heat surrounding her, warmth bleeding through every inch of skin except the tip of her nose, which felt frozen solid. The blankets covering her were heavy weights keeping the sweltering heat in.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so warm, so cozy. She considered opening her eyes, but that seemed… too hard. Her head throbbed in warning so she kept them shut, shifting slightly off an aching hip to…

It was that tiny movement that revealed the second, more important thing. Maria Cadash was not alone in this horribly uncomfortable bed. Someone’s heavy arm rested over her bare skin, her wiggling pressed her firmly against a broad, immovable chest, rough hair prickling her skin. She froze, keeping her eyes shut resolutely, trying to make sense of what had happened.

Her first thought, one that nearly had her leaping from the bed, was that she’d fallen asleep in Dwyka’s bed, fallen into this pantomime of intimacy while she’d been asleep. It happened before, and somehow that was always worse than laying perfectly still until dawn, waiting for the sun to rise to make her escape.

But the hand on her stomach was different than Dwyka’s. Undoubtedly Dwarven given the size, but less weather roughened, the callouses in the wrong place, and draped gently over her waist. There was nothing possessive about it, only warm reassurance.

Fynn, her gut clenched as his name rattled in her head, but that wasn’t right either. Fynn’s hands had been strong, ages practicing the piano at his mother’s insistence after all, but they’d never grown rough with any kind of manual labor or…

Writing.

Those were callouses from pen and pencil, she’d developed some of her own during her school days, before she’d decided that fighting and crime left better paying marks instead.

With that thought, bits and pieces began to drift back. Their desperate kiss in the kitchen. His broad arms effortlessly lifting her off her feet, his mouth…

His amazingly talented mouth. The very thought sent a spike of heat right through her in spite of her aching head and stiff limbs. Somebody must have spiked her drink, because clearly she’d been drunk, she couldn’t even remember the main event. Out of all the terrible things that happened to her, that seemed most unfair. If she’d made the critical error of falling into this horribly uncomfortable bed with Varric Tethras, she wanted to at least have the good bits to cling to.

Why was her bed so uncomfortable? Sodding hell, she felt like she was sleeping on a prison cot. She shifted again, as gingerly as she could, brain trying to fire off what exactly to do next. She needed to open her eyes, needed to break this spell, send him packing, and yet…

And yet.

She was so tired. Her eyelids felt heavy, her limbs leaden. His breath was warm on her shoulder, his forehead tucked against her hair. She was pressed tightly against him and he felt solid against her, a bulwark against the darkness nibbling at the edges of her mind. She’d been so afraid, so alone, and he…

Emotions she didn’t quite understand bubbled to the surface, fear squeezing her throat. It had been so dark and it hurt. She was so confused, her addled mind trying to keep up, and she didn’t…

“I’ve got you.” Varric whispered against her temple. “I’ve got you.”

Everything else returned like a punch in the gut. Haven. The templars, the dragon, Corypheus. Her march through the snow to her doom. Her eyes flew open, startled, taking in the cold dark night surrounding them. In her line of sight, Bea curled up in a tiny ball, her head resting against Bull’s solid chest. He slept too, leaning on the pole holding this makeshift shelter up, eye closed. One arm wrapped around Bea’s shoulders, the other around Sera’s while she snored lightly.

Alive. Alive, they were alive and so was she. She closed her eyes again, dizzy with relief. If they were alive, then it would be okay. It had to be.

She could go back to sleep. It would be so damn easy to.

Behind her, Varric shifted near imperceptibly and Maria’s breath hitched. Sweet Ancestors, his bare legs were tangled up against hers too and…

Maker. He couldn’t be completely naked, could he? Her mind struggled to process the feel of him, but she was still wearing her damn underwear, the underwire of the bra poking against her uncomfortably to remind her of that fact. He had to be wearing his.

How in the void had this even happened? How had Bea allowed this to happen? Her little sister could hardly be called part of the Varric Tethras fan club.

Boxers or briefs? Maria’s inner voice questioned, off on it’s own little tangent while she struggled to make sense of the crazy series of events that ended up with her snuggled up quite cozily to Varric fucking Tethras.

She shifted again, pressing back gently. Boxer briefs, she thought. Had to be. She twisted her hips again, just to be sure…

“Princess.” Varric huffed gently in her ear, voice sleep roughened and deliciously husky. He pressed gently on her stomach and stifled a low laugh in her shoulder. “You keep moving like that, I can’t be held liable for what happens next.”

She fought back a delighted shiver without much success. She felt Varric’s response in the loose sweep of his fingers up her abdomen and the slight pull of his hips away from hers. She felt more loss at that than she wanted to admit. And a brief, electric jolt that was only barely smothered by fatigue.

“Are we safe?” Her own voice came out hoarse.

“Seems that way. Been a whole twenty four hours since we ran out of Haven, beautiful. No sign of anything chasing our ass. They probably figured we’d starve or freeze to death without them having to lift a finger.”

Maybe everyone should have to sleep next to Varric, then, because the man was a furnace. She twisted to sit up and winced immediately, every muscle protesting the sudden movement. Her chest ached, her stomach ached, her arms and legs and…

The world tilted, spun, fuzzed a bit at the edges.

Varric sat up far more successfully than she had, but she still managed to curl to face him. His amber eyes were dark in the weak light flickering around them in the darkness, lanterns and firelight, his glorious chest completely bare.

Touch. A part of her commanded greedily. Her hand responded without her permission, lifting into the fraught, tense space between them. This all felt so surreal, part of a dream, and perhaps she hadn’t quite woken…

“Careful with that one.” Varric’s eyes flicked to the palm of her hand and back to her eyes. “You’ve got some magic stuck in it.”

Her fingers curled closed, protectively, and she pulled back. Yes. She remembered the sun caught in her palm, her flashlight in the darkness. With her fingers against it, she could feel it there, one more ache among all the others.

He’d burned it into her skin. Seared it to her flesh. Her heartbeat spiked, fear prickled through the exhaustion. “He put it there, he did something to me, he was...”

There weren't any words. Varric could probably find them, but they escaped her. He’d been like a solid black hole in the universe, like a wound oozing pus and infection, like every nightmare she’d ever had all rolled into one.

“I know.” Varric whispered, gently placing one of his hands on her shoulder and lightly guiding her back down. “We know. We know who it was. What he is.”

“What?” She rasped. Varric sighed and made to tuck her smoothly back under the blankets. He was going to get up, going to leave her in the darkness and the cold with nothing but her thoughts and fears, oblivion circling the edges of her vision. The next word fell from her lips before she considered it fully. “Stay.”

For a split second her words landed into the silence with all the elegance of a ticking time bomb. He stared at her, taken aback by the request she assumed. Certainly unsure how to handle a sick, broken creature clinging to him so selfishly. But she swallowed the tension, quirked her lips into the best smle she could manage. “Keep me warm and tell me a story.”

Please. The unsaid word echoed in her chest.

“It’s a shitty story, Princess.” Varric sighed, but he slipped back beneath the blanket, careful to leave a scant inch of sizzling air between their skin. “But I’ll try. It started with Hawke…”

Varric spun Reyna Hawke into being as smoothly as if he’d done it a thousand times, conjuring the witch out of the freezing night air so vividly, Maria could see her the way he did. This wasn’t a woman lighting her own pyre in the ashes of Redcliffe, crazed and wounded with a manic gleam in her eye. This was a heroine. A champion. Varric’s champion.

He told the story from where he’d entered it. Pulled out of bed by a panicked three in the morning phone call, shambling up to the ritziest areas of Kirkwall. The shattered glass from the broken window, the light from the silent alarm still blinking steadily. The first Hawke sister, bruised and shaken but otherwise unharmed, the second smelling of smoke and charred dwarf while an elf calmly stitched up his own wound.

Following the Carta to, of all places, an ancient temple hidden in the Vinmarks. A temple that locked them inside and forced them into the Deep Roads before they could escape. Their desperate fight through the things of nightmares, and Hawke’s blood being the only thing that could open the door.

It unlocked more than that. Much more.

And in spite of herself, as he spun the tale, she ended up closing that distance between their bodies. She wasn’t sure exactly how it happened, it seemed to be a magic of it’s own, magnetism or perhaps gravity. She didn’t press against him, not like she desperately wanted to, but she couldn’t ignore the soft heat leaching from him to her.

Couldn’t ignore the way his voice lulled her back to sleep.

“I swear.” Varric murmured softly into her hair. “We killed him, Princess.”

No they didn’t. But she was too tired to argue.

“I’m sorry.” She thought he whispered. But it could have been a dream, one she slipped back into effortlessly.

The next time she woke up, it was to bitter shouts. There was a weight at the end of the cot, but nobody under the blankets beside her. She was completely, utterly, alone. Clearly, she’d hallucinated Varric Tethras’s gentle arms curling around her, his searing warmth, his muscles and…

She raised her hand to her head, rubbing her face briskly.

“Ria?” Bea’s voice asked cautiously, breathless with hope.

“Bea.” She answered groggily, opening her eyes. It wasn’t Bea’s face she met with, but the lined and weary one of Mother Gisele. She swallowed, swinging her eyes down to the bottom of the cot where Bea sat, still as a statue, looking more a mess than she’d ever seen her. Eyeliner smudged, hair askew, lips pale.

“Are you awake this time?” Bea asked, frozen in place. “Really awake? Varric said you were before but you were out of it still and…”

“Varric?” Her tongue nearly tripped on the word, a surge of heat rising up her face. “He was here?”

“They all were.” Gisele soothed. “You are dear to many people, Herald. You’ve had a steady stream of them wishing you well.”

“What would you have me tell them?!” Cullen’s voice roared. Maria fought back the flinch and pushed herself up, trying to stare into the darkness past Bea.

“We must find a way!” Cassandra snapped back, a pale figure in the dim firelight.

“Please!” Jospehine cried out. “We must use reason!”

“Don’t mind them.” Bea dismissed the humans with a wave over her shoulder. “They’ve been at it for hours. How are you feeling? How’s your head? Still remarkably thick?”

“Shut up.” Maria replied automatically, the banter familiar even as her throat scratched out the words like she hadn’t spoken in ages. “Where are my clothes?”

“Ruined.” Bea supplied unhelpfully. “But Harding said she had a spare outfit of her own in her camera bag. It’s probably the closest we’ll get to anything fitting you. Hold on, I’ll go find them.”

As if she’d simply been waiting for something, anything, to do, Bea jumped into motion. She fled into the darkness before Maria had time to ask where exactly her little sister had gotten the coat she was wearing. The thick, buttery leather was far more familiar than Maria wanted to admit.

“You need to rest.” Giselle said gently. “There is no need to get up quite yet. After all…”

Giselle tipped her head almost playfully to the heated argument happening just outside between Cassandra, Josephine, Leliana, and Cullen. “It does not appear we’re going anywhere quickly.”

“We have time to waste?” Maria asked, pushing herself impatiently into a fully seated position despite Gisele’s tutting disapproval. She clutched the blankets tightly around her shoulders and breathed through the ache in her muscles. Bad, yes, but not the worst she’d ever pushed through.

“Thanks to you, they have the luxury of arguing. You prevented our enemies from following, but with time to doubt… well, it is easy to blame.”

Bea reappeared, tossing a bundle of clothes on the cot. “Right. So, I’m gonna warn you that you look like a bannana someone’s kicked around, that’s how fucking bruised up you are.”

“I’m sure I’ve looked worse.” Maria muttered, dropping the blanket and reaching for the sweater. Even in the flickering lantern light, she could see the marks covering her pale flesh. Deep bits of purple and blue, shadows deepening them into black in places.

“I’m not.” Bea admitted, folding her arms around herself and watching Maria as she struggled to manage the fabric with her stiff limbs. Finally, impatiently, Bea stepped forward and grabbed it, thrusting it over Maria’s head. “Here, before you strangle yourself.”

“We don’t have that!” Cullen yelled.

“She is not saying we do!” Leliana snarled back.

“In-fighting may be as great a danger to us as Corypheus.” Giselle sighed.

“I don’t know.” Bea sniped under her breath while she gently tugged the sweater over Maria’s battered torso, taking extra care to straighten it and meeting her eyes with a weak grin. “To my knowledge, our humans have zero dragons and the demon has one.”

“Where is it?” Panic clawed at Maria’s throat again. “The dragon and Corypheus, the red templars, where…”

“Nobody has figured out where the fuck we are.” Bea answered. “Varric can’t get his network up and running for more than ten minutes at a time, although to be fair he’s been snuggling you and trying to work for most of the night. For as good as he claims to be at multitasking…”

There was his name again. And her chance to ask. She plucked the material over Bea’s shoulders pointedly. “What’s this?”

“It’s mine now.” Bea declared, wicked eyes dancing with relief and mirth. “Jealous, Ria?”

Gisele cut in with practiced diplomacy. “There has been no sign of Corypheus, his dragon, or the templars. Perhaps he believes you are dead, and thus is satisfied. Or he believes we are helpless and lost.”

Gisele sighed. “It could even be that he plans another attack as we speak. We do not know the demon’s mind, only our own fears.”

Maria swung her feet off the cot and pulled the leggings on over her aching limbs as quickly as she could. Jumping from the cot to finish the job was a mistake, the rush of blood to her head making her stumble into Bea. Her sister’s arm wrapped around her waist. “Easy.” Bea whispered. “This was… this was bad, Ria. You really should lay back down.”

“I’m not gonna sodding sit here and listen to them arguing.” Maria spat between her gritted teeth, fighting the dizziness back where it came from and finishing the job of putting her damn pants on. “This isn’t helping anything.”

“Another heated voice won’t help.” Gisele advised, a gentle voice laced with steel. “Even yours. Perhaps especially yours.”

“I agree. The last thing we need is one of your infamous tantrums, Ria.”

She was going to kill Bea. She glared into her sister’s face, holding onto her and pulling on one of her soggy boots, the only clothing left from her misadventure, it seemed. Gisele picked up where Bea left off. “They are struggling to lead because of what we survivors witnessed.”

“Well, it can’t be worse than what I saw.” Maria snapped, pulling on the last boot.

“Don’t you dare.” Bea shoved Maria, hard, back onto the cot. Caught off guard, Maria stumbled back onto the thing. It creaked precariously, but before she could turn her temper on Bea, Maria realized her sister’s face was flushed and splotchy, tears threatening in her eyes. “Don’t you dare.” Bea hissed, diving into Varric’s coat pocket and pulling out something glimmering, shining in the dull light. Instead of handing it to her, Bea threw it. The necklace and her rings landed in Maria’s lap.

Maria blocked out the human’s arguing and focused on Bea, preparing to argue with her instead. She opened her mouth, but Bea stopped her cold. “I saw you die, Ria. I thought I buried you just like I buried Nanna, Dad, and Fynn.”

The well of grief under those two sentences stretched endlessly. Bea ripped her eyes away from Maria’s and stared up at the tarp above them, blinking rapidly. Guilt thudded hollowly in Maria’s chest and she curled her fist around the necklace.

“Bea…”

“Shut up.” Bea seethed. “Shut up. I thought I lost you, I thought… fuck.”

Bea whirled away and Maria stood, intent on following her. “I need a fucking minute.” Bea shouted back, voice thick with unshed tears. “Stay fucking put for once in your damn life and give me a second to breathe.”

Wretched, Maria watched Bea stumble back out into the night. Gisele sighed, watching the slender form vanish. “It is difficult. For all of us, although for her I fear it was far worse. We left our defender behind to save us all… and we lost her.”

Maria hadn’t been defending anyone. She’d just been trying to survive, blindly acting on gut and instinct. It had been a desperate last stand, nothing more, nothing heroic or courageous. “I wasn’t…”

Gisele overrode her voice patiently. “And after all hope had fled… she returns. This is miraculous by any standard, and your actions appear more divine intervention than standard heroics. The longer we examine the darkness behind us, the more our trials seem ordained.”

“That’s crazy.” Maria folded her arms around her aching torso, trying not to shiver. “Nothing about this has anything to do with faith or…”

“It does seem insane, yes?” Gisele asked sweetly, piercing Maria with her dark eyes. “What ‘we’ have been called to ensure? What ‘we’, perhaps, must come to believe?”

That ‘we’ of Gisele’s was very pointed and Maria wanted nothing to do with it. She didn’t believe in their Maker, their Andraste, their Herald. Maria never heard the Stone sing or heard whispered guidance from her Ancestors' tombs. The Elven creators apparently abandoned the world long ago, and Maria wouldn’t be surprised if everyone else hadn’t followed suit. They were alone, carving out their destinies with nothing but switchblades and shaking fingers.

“What ‘we’ believe doesn’t matter.” Maria glared, standing from the cot and steadying herself for just a moment. “What we’re about to do is freeze to death if someone can’t get their head out of their ass. I’m not waiting for the Maker to intervene.”

She turned her back on the infuriating woman and took careful, measured steps to the edge of the tent. Outside her meager shelter, she saw the Inquisition’s leaders surrounding a campfire, all wearing various expressions of distress, their silence simmering with resentment.

Fuck. Fuck. What the fuck were they supposed to…

“Shadows fall…” Gisele’s throaty voice carried from somewhere behind her, loud and clear as a chantry bell on Sunday as she moved to stand beside Maria. “And hope has fled. Steel your heart, the dawn will come…”

“What are you doing?” Maria hissed under her breath, piercing Gisele with a reproving glare, flinching as the four humans turned to stare. Gisele smiled, mysterious and sly, sailing past Maria without a word of explanation. She continued to sing an old song, a song Maria swore she’d heard in bits and pieces, a Chantry hymn floating out of pretty wooden chapels in Ostwick. “The night is long, and the path is dark… Look to the sky, for one day soon… the dawn will come.”

Maria gambled semi-professionally and knew she was rather good at it. Still, she’d have never placed money on what happened next in a million years.

It started with Leliana’s clear, bright soprano joining the chorus. Then, Maker’s balls, Cullen. Soldiers. Refugees. Chantry sisters. Children and witches and templars, all of them. The sound roared louder than the ocean, enough to drown the dragon’s screech still echoing in her head, and they were staring at her like she had an answer, like she could do something, anything.

Some of them dropped to their knees like she really was an idol carved of stone, an altar to worship at. Her panicked thoughts insisted she should have fled after Bea, but when she looked behind her to see if that escape route was still open, she saw her sister had returned in silence. The slouched form in the darkness, arms crossed, looked torn between amusement and grave concern.

She could almost hear Bea scoffing about humans being outrageous. Maria tightened her grip helplessly on the rings in her fist, wishing for all the world she was somewhere else. Anywhere else.

The song ended, the night sky hanging onto the last piercing note. Gisele turned her dark eyes back down towards Maria, triumph sparking in them as people cheered. “An army needs more than an enemy.” She declared softly. “It needs a cause.”

Gisele lifted her hands, prepared to preach a sermon to the masses. “My fellow children of the Maker…” She began fervently. “We have survived the trials put in front of us, endured the terror of…”

She stared, agog, until she felt the light press of a hand against the small of her back. She looked up to pin Solas with her bewildered gaze.

“A word?” He asked politely.

“Only if it has four letters.” She protested weakly, staring back out in stunned disbelief at the crowd.

“Come.” Solas said gently, guiding her into the shadows. “We have much to discuss.”

“She’s a wise woman. Worth heeding, at the very least. Her kind understand the moments that unify a cause… or fracture it.” Solas muttered, almost to himself, although Maria understood he was attempting to instruct her.

Maria shivered, although if it was from the cold or existential dread, she couldn’t tell. Solas noticed and extended his palm. A smooth, elegant flick of his wrist summoned a ball of flames, blue and beautiful, in the space between them. Maria stepped closer to the warmth, grateful for it.

“Can you help me escape her?” Maria asked, only semi-joking. Solas’s fond smile was the only answer before he shook his head.

“The magic Corypheus used against you. The spell that embedded that mark in your hand… It is Elven.”

Maria lifted her right palm up, still clutching the rings within it. She unfolded her fingers and stared down at the intricate, beautiful sun burned into it. “It looks Elven, I guess.” She muttered, shifting the sparkling rings to reveal the elegant loops. “Not that I’m an expert.”

“It is the magic that has been inside you since the start, pulled to the surface.” Solas explained clinically. “I assume it is also the magic that created the vortex, the same spell that caused the explosion that destroyed the conclave.”

And now… now it was inside her. “Fantastic.” She muttered.

“Do not begrudge it so much.” Solas advised. “I suspect without that magic in your veins, you would have perished then as well. As to how Corypheus survived… that is a mystery.”

Solas sighed and hunched his shoulders, staring down at the snow consideringly. “The only thing that is not a mystery is how people will react when they discover the origin of this magic. Perhaps people will not look past the fact that it is the symbol of the chantry, but there must have been a tool, one he used to harness it, and if it is found…”

“Riots.” Maria sighed. “The elves have it shit enough in all the cities of Thedas.”

Nanna used to say it could always be worse when they complained about not having enough money to buy nice clothes or go to the movies. They, at least, could afford food and their bills even if they had to work to the bone to do it. The elves… well, there was a reason they were shoved into the alienage projects. Nobody wanted to look at starving children.

“This is a fucking mess and elves are an easy target.” Maria murmured.

“I agree.” Solas’s voice was laced with approval. He placed a gentle hand on her aching shoulder. “But we can control this narrative. We can tell the story we wish to tell.”

“Solas.” Maria jerked her chin over her shoulder. “There’s a woman back there preaching a sermon about a dwarven criminal with elven magic in her hand at the head of a human religious movement. I can’t control any of my own story.”

She hadn’t been able to in years.

“Corypheus attacking the Inquisition changed it. Changed you.” Solas insisted. Maria shivered again, but this time it certainly wasn’t from the cold. “You are their guide. You are their savior.”

“I’m not.” Maria protested, wrenching away. “I’m not, don’t you dare go human on me, Solas, or I swear…”

“There is a place in the North. I have seen it in the fade, a place hidden by magic that waits for a force to hold it…”

“Is there anything useful in the fade?” Maria asked skeptically. “Maybe a way to get the network up and running so we can call for help?”

“Varric Tethras will never get our communications up and running without additional technology.” Solas insisted smoothly. “The witches alone, our power, interfered too much. Perhaps, if we had not found you he could have rigged something together, but the stronger you become, the more you recover…”

Solas reached for her palm, covered it with his own. “The technology we have with us cannot override your magic. Not any longer. I suspect he is beginning to identify the problem as well. If anyone could fix it, I suspect it is Varric, but he cannot do so here.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Maria blurted out. It would have been better, apparently, if she froze to death or simply died in the avalanche.

“But your magic is, perhaps, the only key to finding our path. Go north, lead them forward. Your magic can unlock our safety, I know it.” Solas pressed. “Only you can do this.”

“I can’t.” Maria’s voice broke and she shook her head. “Solas, I can’t.”

“You must.” Solas’s lips pressed into a thin line. “But you will not do it alone. We are by your side.”

“They won’t listen to me.”

“On the contrary.” Solas smiled, soft and proud. “I believe you are the only one they will listen to.”

Three days. They followed Maria through the mountains for three fucking days. Varric thought he’d never forgive her for their forced march through miles of snow, directly into the bitter, biting wind of the north. There was, after all, only so much a man would do for a pair of beguiling eyes no matter how sensuous her curves. Varric Tethras had nearly reached his damn limit.

In fact, he’d had it with Maker damned everything. The network that wouldn’t connect them to the satellite, no matter what he tried. He couldn’t feel his toes. And he was simply sick of the endless, bleak, whiteness of it all.

One more day, he thought darkly, trudging after Maria’s crimson hair. One more blighted day, then he was refusing to go one more step.

Which, of course, was exactly what he’d said to himself yesterday.

“Can you all honestly not feel that?” Maria asked over her shoulder, perplexed.

“There are lots of things I can’t feel, Princess.” Varric growled. “Would you like an enumerated list?”

She sent him a withering look. Varric glared back, unimpressed.

“Darling, all I can feel is that energy coming out of your hand. It’s like standing in the middle of an orchestra.” Vivienne, somehow, still looked elegant in her snug fitted peacoat. The splashes of red templar blood almost formed a chic pattern. She’d be a perfect villain for one of his stories. If he didn’t freeze to death first.

Maria cautiously approached a cliff. Varric watched, warily, as she danced rather too close to the edge for his taste. If she fell to her death one more time, he wasn’t rescuing her, right hand to Andraste.

“Please do not fall off that precipice.” Dorian snapped, in tune with his thoughts. “I, for one, do not wish to be the person informing Cullen we allowed you to plummet to your doom.”

Maria ignored him, reaching out to brush snow from a large stone pillar overlooking the abyss. A matching one, almost like they were man made instead of natural, sat some distance away. Her ineffective swiping revealed something carved into the surface.

“Runes.” Solas smiled down at her, proud as only an old teacher could be. “Well done.”

But Maria seemed to be entranced by the shapes in the rock. She tipped her head to the side, examining them curiously. She brought her gloved right hand to her mouth and used her teeth to rip off the fleece fabric. Varric caught the slightest flicker of light in her palm before she pressed it to the stone.

The runes lit up gold, glowing gently, flickering with power. A gust of wind surged past them all, so fierce he temporarily grew concerned it would topple Maria right into the yawning abyss. Instead, it lifted her hair around her face, whipped past them into the chasm, bright lights dancing within it.

Varric’s breath caught in his throat. The lights seemed to sketch out a bridge, one that turned corporeal before their very eyes. It was made of stone and marble, hanging above the abyss implausibly. The magic picked up speed, circling in clouds in the air, puffs of glitter exploding to reveal walls, towers, trees, gates, all pulled from nothing but thin air.

“Andraste’s blushing buttcheeks.” Dorian whispered. “Who hid this?”

Who wouldn’t? It was something from another age, from a fairy tale, a fortress fit for a queen, pristine and intact, waiting for someone to unveil it, someone to call it back to life.

Not a queen, a part of him supplied. A princess. His princess.

“Skyhold.” Solas supplied quietly. “Welcome home, Herald.”

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