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weepingvoidpenguin · 3 years

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One of Your Favorites

Jealous Bucky x Reader

Summary: You have an objective. Get Rumlow to confess. Simple enough, right? No. Aside from his usual condescending attitude towards you, Bucky has made it extremely apparent that he doesn’t think you’re capable of - well, anything, but especially not handling Rumlow. And yet, he is the biggest challenge of this entire ordeal.

Warning: T R I G G E R WARNING!! ATTEMPTED SA, DRUGS, language, light smut. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE DO NOT READ IF SA WILL TRIGGER YOU.

Word Count: 8.3k

“We have good intel stating he’s working as a double agent for HYDRA. Selling information, exploiting tactics, even going so far as to tell them where we’ll be and when.” Natasha scanned the room, making sure she had everyone’s attention during the briefing.

You slouched back in your swivel chair and twisted to-and-fro slightly with your hands gripping the arm rests on either side. It took all of your willpower to act engrossed in her words. And you meant every single drop. You’d been paying attention, sure, but the only issue was the dominating presence two seats to your right and directly in your line of sight to Natasha. You rolled your chair to the left to clear the path for the third time, only for him to block your way without missing a beat. The growl that left your mouth was nearly involuntary. Nearly.

How long would this man act like a child? Despite his graceful and seemingly unsuspecting movements, you were fully aware his placement was intentional. This was not the first, nor did you doubt that it would be the last, time that Bucky acted impudently toward you. Frankly, you’d grown bored of his behavior. It was the same thing everyday. He would act a nuisance during the briefings, speak over you whenever he had the chance, steal the limelight from you and invalidate any concerns or thoughts you shared. The whole charade grew tiring and he had been dancing on thin ice for months now.

You averted your gaze from burning holes through the freshly washed, brown locks and switched your attention back up to the redhead. Thankfully, too, because you managed to catch the end of her sentence just as she locked eyes with you.

“And that’s why Y/N is going to be the one to extract the information from him,” she finished.

You blinked, “Wait, what?”

Bucky straightened his posture and threw a quick glance your way, “Yeah, what? She’s got no heat, couldn’t toast marshmallows if we gave her all day. She shouldn’t lead this, she wouldn’t know how,”

“Well, tonight might be a good time to start learning, then,” Steve chimed in, throwing a wink your way. You smiled and appreciated his aid, not because you needed it but because at this point, you were seething and if you opened your mouth to defend yourself this meeting would go south, quickly. Luckily, Steve always believed you were capable of a great deal of things and knew you strove for more experience so any opportunity to lead or expand was one he thought you should take.

“Besides,” Tony spoke up, twirling a platinum pen between his fingers from across the table, “our little double-agent has always had the hots for Y/N so unless you’re gonna be the one to bat your eyelashes at him and get him alone in a room, Mr. Barnes, we have to use his own flaws against him.” He turned to face you and held up a hand, “Not to say that liking you is a flaw, you’re great Hot-Stuff but exploiting him is our best option indefinitely,”

“Do I have to seduce him?” You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest and raising a brow towards Nat, trying your damned hardest to avoid the unmistakable glare the brown-haired super soldier was sending your way.

“The only thing you have to do is extract any information on him that you can. Get him a little drunk, catch him in a slip-up or two, take note of any inconsistent stories and be on your merry way,” she reassured, “How you manage to do that is up to you,”

“Ooh, extortion,” Clint chirped up from the far back corner, his hands rubbing together maliciously around an arrow he pulled from his sheathe, something you noticed he did a lot when he was uninterested; be it a person, mission, or conversation.

“No. Not extortion,” Steve shut it down and you chuckled at how Clint’s countenance fell into one of disappointment.

“Not yet anyway,” Natasha mumbled and you sighed as she walked around the room and handed each of you a folder with your individual objectives inside.

“But he’s such a pervert,” you grumbled.

“All the easier,”

The rest of the day was drudged with Nat while she taught the pertinence of body language (both yours and theirs), verbal ruses, and overall ensnarement. You bat your eyelashes until you were certain you would catch enough wind to fly away, smirked enough that your cheeks began to ache and raised your eyebrows ‘til you felt the impending wrinkles on your forehead. By the end of the drill you weren’t sure you were even going to make it to the company party from the migraine creeping its way on.

“How’s the bait coming along?” His voice alone caused you to roll your eyes but you paid no mind while you rubbed at your temples and stood up alongside Natasha.

“She’s not gonna be able to lie to me any time soon but she can flirt her way to whatever she wants,”

“Benefits of targeting a narcissistic misogynist, they don’t think anyone can fool them.” Tony belted as he sauntered into the room with strawberries, offering them out to you while he munched on one.

“She’ll still mess it up,” Bucky countered, “Make someone else do it,”

You plucked the fruit off Tony’s tray and examined it, trying to figure out whether you were going to consume it or use it as a weapon.

“I really appreciate your words of encouragement, James. Unfortunately, they’re not wanted, nor are they needed.” You bit into the fruit and glided towards the door, looking over your shoulder at the super soldier, “So unless you actually have something to contribute, I suggest you stay the hell out of my way while I get the job done,”

Nat walked out behind you and handed you a tiny, skin-colored device meant to conceal itself and you placed it in your ear.

“The conversation is gonna be recorded so we can catch any inconsistencies. We’ll all be able to hear what you’re saying so tread on delicate waters but don’t be afraid to shake mountains if you have to,”

You nodded and opened your door for her to enter your room knowing she’d want to help you get ready for the event. Natasha, shocking as it turns out, enjoys company while preparing for events. She would much prefer to be surrounded by people than be alone. You never had gall to ask her why that is. Or maybe you respected her too much to ask.

An hour had passed, maybe two, but you enjoyed the silence between you both. There was no need to fill the empty quiet when it was so comfortable and welcoming. You two spoke without words at times and that was probably your favorite personal skill. Eventually, there came a knock on your door and you opened to find Wanda with her flat iron and make-up bag in tow. It’d long since been decided that your room was the gathering center.

Wanda helped you finish touching up your outfit and you waited on your bed while they finished getting ready. Nat occasionally quizzed you on certain situations and how you should act depending on the tones and moods of the conversation. You tried to explain that you didn’t have difficulty reading a room but Nat tested you all the same.

“And if he puts his hand on your thigh?” She called out from your bathroom.

“Then he loses it,” you practically sang in response.

You were met with a flying hairbrush and laughed at the onslaught.

“You’re not the only one with that mentality,” Wanda called out as well, her iron glossing over thin strands of hair.

“Nat knows I can handle myself.” You sat up on the bed and went over to your closet to collect your favorite pair of shoes to go along with the formal attire Nat selected for tonight. “What a coincidence that we happen to have a company party the same night we have to extract information,” you hollered over your shoulder, moving aside terribly worn shoes while you scoured for the pair you had in mind.

“This objective has been in the works for weeks now,” Nat released the tendril of hair from around the barrel and pinned it to her head so it could cool.

“Wow, thanks for the heads up, then.” You gripped the desired pair and placed them beside your nightstand for later.

“The plan wasn’t solid until we knew for a fact that Rumlow was coming. It’s a company party so it’s not mandatory but once he heard you were making an appearance, it didn’t take very much persuading,”

You rolled your eyes and plopped back down on your mattress, “He’s so annoying, I doubt I can hold much of a conversation with him,”

“Take a shot or two to ease your nerves, if he sees you drinking it’ll put him at ease too. He’ll be more inclined to drink,” Natasha recommended. “But don’t act too out of character. If you were always curt and short with him and suddenly you start acting over-friendly, he may get suspicious. He’s an idiot but he’s a paranoid one,”

You nodded, taking a mental note to have a half-empty bottle in your grasp when Rumlow arrives. If he thinks you’ve already been drinking, he might also consider catching up.

“Y/N? Not uptight for once?” Wanda sarcastically questioned. “I can’t picture it,”

“Oh, fuck off,” you grumbled and in turn received laughter from the two girls. “Besides, of all of us I’m by far the least uptight. Barnes takes the cake for that one,”

There was a beat of silence that you didn’t register before you were met with a response.

“Ya know, he’s not as bad as you paint him out to be.” Nat unpinned the curl from her head and moved on to the next section, “He’s got some serious loyalty and always willing to volunteer first for everything,”

You lifted your head to stare at her reflection through the mirror, “What are you talking about? He’s annoying and irate and lacks a filter,”

“Mmm, irate isn’t the word I would use,” Wanda countered, looking over to Natasha.

Nat shook her head in response, “I’d lean more towards . . . over-protective,”

“Much better,” Wanda agreed.

You squinted your eyes at their image and felt the corners of your lips turn downwards, “Over-protective? Since when are you two defending Barnes?”

“We’re not defending him, per say.” Wanda glanced over to Nat, “We’re just trying to give you a fresh perspective,”

“You could give me a brand new pair of eyes and I’d still see him the same,” you retorted, now leaning on your elbows due to the strain on your neck.

They ignored the comment, “And he’s only annoying to you,”

“You’re telling me he doesn’t annoy you at all?” You asked, an eyebrow raised.

“More like . . . he doesn’t go out of his way to mess with us.” Nat applied a nude color onto her lips.

“So you agree that he goes out of his way to irritate me,” you stated rather than asked.

“That’s been made very apparent,” Wanda responded. “But you have to wonder why,”

You huffed a little and sprawled back out on the bed just to result in staring at the ceiling above. If you looked hard enough your mind would create pictures from the chaos of the cracks and shapes began to form. Sometimes, when the night lay still and life seemed to dwindle at the edges of your reality, you could swear a familiar face fashioned together and your imagination ran wild with the images you’d see. Some that brought a warmth to your cheeks even now.

You shot up out of bed and shook the memories from your vision. Ugh. He haunts you even when he’s not actively tormenting you. How he’s managed to crawl his way so deeply within your skin you had no idea but you fought for control of your thoughts whenever you caught them slipping into that hellhole.

“Or slipping into euphoria,” Wanda chimed in.

“Wanda!” You scolded, crossing your arms, “Euphoria my ass,”

“Yeah, he thinks so too,” she continued and you chucked the abandoned hairbrush back their way.

“Stay out of my head,” you jokingly sniped at her but was met with a low chuckle.

“I didn’t even have to be in your head to know what you were thinking of,” Nat defended and caught your weapon of choice.

“Are you guys done yet?” You rolled your eyes and stretched yourself out before swiping up the pair of heels you’d chosen and sliding them onto your feet.

“Why? Are you in a hurry to see a certain someone?” Natasha teased and Wanda let out an eruption of laughter.

“All right, I’m done.” You made a beeline for the door and threw it open, “Lock up when you’re finished!” You bellowed over your shoulder and made your way to the top floor of the building where all the parties are typically held.

You didn’t run into anyone on the way up and you used that time to calm yourself, prying inch by inch away from the invasive thoughts that called for you in the darkest hours of the night. But, then again, maybe those tormenting thoughts weren’t that bad? You mean, he certainly IS handsome, very much so actually. And he has the most knee-wobbling smirk you’d ever come to know, not to mention those little tricks he does with his knives always manage to entrance you. God, did he know how to use a knife.

On more than one occasion had you caught yourself staring at how his hands encapsulated the hilt of the blade. How they clenched and relaxed, drawing out some of the more prominent veins on one of the extremities; of course, you were even more so enticed by the hand he hid as well. You’d imagined what it felt like to have such strong hands grip onto your thighs and coax you into spreading them open with just a few teasing touches here and there. You couldn’t fathom the front you’d put up would last very long, he was stellar at pulling reactions from you. He’d see you break under his caresses and he’d degrade you like he always did but this time it’d emit a different response from you, one that made you whimper and shake. At that, he’d probably call you a good girl, he definitely seems the type to switch between degradation and praise, and would press his mouth up just where you wanted it the most. You’d try your hardest to be quiet but damn the way that tongue moved against you and the way he’d pull you harder against his face at each sound of pleasure you let slip past your lips. He’d enjoy it, too. Eyes closed as he devours you, he likes to put on a show for you to watch. Give you a memory that’ll slick your thighs later that night if he hadn’t fucked you into a coma by then. He’d make you watch him and if you dared to close your eyes you’d earn a firm, cold smack on your ass. He knows you like when he uses temperature play. He growls a little too, he can’t help his innate behavior. Then, just as the accumulation is coming to its apex he’d pull away abruptly and kiss you straight on your mouth so you can taste yourself and that’d earn him another whimper which would result in another smack that leads to that cold metal trailing its way to your core and just as he pushes the tip of his finger inside-

You cough and straighten your posture as the elevator door opens. When had you leaned up against the back wall of the elevator? Oh Gods, you could feel the slick at the apex of your thighs and you squeezed them together as inconspicuously as you could in fear that you were producing a . . . scent that would be rather difficult to conceal. But the slick only grew worse when you locked eyes with the person stepping into the elevator.

Fuck.

“That’s what you chose to wear?” He asked, a certain venom in his tone that immediately calmed the ache in your heat.

“And what would you have me wear instead, Barnes?” You quipped back, your body facing forward as he took his place beside you in the cramped space.

There was a beat of silence. Then another. “Not that,” he responded.

“Well I’ll make sure to ask you next time since you have such impeccable taste,” you retorted, your eyes yet to abandon the sight of the closing doors.

You weren’t sure of all the effects of the Super Soldier Serum that had been injected into Bucky and all that it heightened but you prayed to any God that would listen that his hearing wasn’t one of those things. You were too preoccupied with attempting to settle the hot pulse beating between your legs to worry about how loud your discomfort came across.

“What do you look so nervous about?” Bucky’s gruff voice prodded. “You can’t possibly be nervous about the mission considering how big-headed you are,”

You took a deep, long breath and held it to soothe you. Had you not been so previously preoccupied, you’d have given him hell for the insult. “I’m not nervous about that,” you sniped and rested back against the cool wall to satiate your burning skin before lifting your gaze to him only to find him already examining you.

“Of course not, I just said that,” he retorted, bringing a gloved hand to his face to rub along his jaw, “there’s obviously nothing for you to worry about,”

You scoffed, “And why is that, Barnes?” Cue the dramatic crossing of your arms.

“You’re smarter than Rumlow and significantly better trained. Overall, he really doesn’t hold a candle to your ability,” He paused for a second, his whole frame tensing until he remembered to relax, “But that’s not really saying much considering it’s Rumlow,”

You hadn’t noticed you raised your eyebrows until you felt your face fall, “Ah, there he is. You had me worried there for a second, Barnes. Thought you might actually try something new and display common decency for once,”

A corner of his mouth turned up subtly and he shook his head. You trailed your gaze down to his hidden hand and stared long enough to burn a hole through the fabric.

“If something’s bothering you, Dollface, go ahead and speak up,”

You weren’t sure what possessed you to say anything, especially knowing how touchy the subject was for him but the words left your mouth anyway, “I don’t know why you insist on hiding yourself,”

He lurched his head back, your statement seeming to have a physical affect on the man and you mentally slapped yourself for saying anything.

“I’m not hiding myself,”

“But you are,” you interrupted, your thoughts coming out in pools of candor, “you aren’t your hand. You aren’t your past. You are you. Presently. You’re not the Winter Soldier anymore. That’s not even the same hand you had back then. It’s not tainted and neither are you. I say drop the gloves,”

“And why would I care about what you say?” He growled, his eyebrows furrowed together and his neck tight in potential restraint.

The elevator dinged and you looked towards the opening doors, “You don’t have to but they don’t look right with your suit either.” You walked through the exit and sauntered over to the others who had already gotten the party started, leaving Bucky dumb-founded behind you. “I need a shot,”

“Already ready,” Tony quipped up, holding the small glass in the air for everyone to behold before bringing his cheek to yours in mock welcoming, “This’ll up your tolerance for the next hour, try to get all your drinking done within that time-frame,”

You pulled away with a warm smile after faux kissing his cheek, “Finally!” you displayed and threw the liquid back in one swift motion, your face scrunching together against your will.

“Yeah, she’s got a kick to her,” he mumbled and handed you a fruity drink to chase it down with.

You went around and said hi to everyone as you recognized most of those present. You made small chatter with those lesser known and drank the liquid in your hand significantly quicker than you’d like to. You excused yourself after you finished the drink and walked over to the bar, scanning the room as you were handed another glass. No Rumlow in sight.

You headed towards the foosball table and gripped the handles after setting the beverage down on the counter beside you. You flinched as a reflection of light caught your eye and at first you thought your glass was the source. Until your eyes fixated on the reflection’s actual origin. To your far right, and up a few steps you found Bucky conversing with Steve, a dull light emitting from his hand. Not a glove in sight.

“So, where’s your boyfriend?” Sam inquired when he filled the opposing spot.

You rolled your eyes, “Bucky’s not my boyfriend,”

“Bucky?” Sam’s tone chirped up teasingly, a knowing look wearing on his face.

Your grip tightened around the handles and you slowly pulled away to throw the little white ball through the circle, your hands immediately twisting the miniscule players around. Your eyes shot back and forth, your sight never leaving the darting sphere. Sam still managed to win the first point.

“Ha!” He shouted in triumph, bringing his finger up as if to scold you, “Don’t think you got away with that comment either, Y/N,”

“What comment?” you questioned and gulped most of your drink before slamming it back down on the table.

You heard your earpiece come to life with quiet static and you tried to keep your face masked. Rumlow had entered. Not a surprise either, the party was finally starting to pick up now.

Sam threw the ball in and you turned the players meticulously this time, brute strength hadn’t helped you earlier so maybe you should take it slow. Steve made his way over to the table and threw his drink back, the liquid trickling down the side of his face before he wiped it away. Sam won the second point.

“I play winner,” Tony chimed, standing beside Steve.

You made a point to catch up and now you two were tied at three each.

“Best out of five?” You proposed, quirking an eyebrow at Sam.

“If you didn’t want to play anymore you could’ve just said that,” he teased and you smirked at him as Tony made a subtle show of handing you another drink and you finished your second. “Loser takes two shots?”

“Deal.” You nodded, knowing you didn’t have much of a choice as a small crowd began to form around you two. Rumlow amongst them.

Your jaw dropped when Sam shot the ball directly into your goal as soon as he’d let the ball go.

“What the fuck?” You shouted, “No fair! That doesn’t count!”

Thor erupted in laughter to your right and you blinked slowly, staring at the gargantuan man.

“It most certainly does,” Sam shouted back, his grin practically touching his ears.

“Sam, take it easy on her,” Bucky muttered from beside him, quickly averting his gaze from yours and his expression loosened, “The brat hates losing,”

“Brat?” You snarled.

Bucky took a swig of his beer, watching you the entire time and you reeled back the fire beginning to form in your chest just to bring your drink up to your lips and chug the entire thing down. You handed it over to Tony who left to replace it.

“Last point,” Sam stated, “It’s not too late to quit now,”

You shook your head and blinked away the feign distortion you were supposed to have. “Just play the ball,”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he teased and threw the ball in.

You wanted to win. Desperately. But you had a character to play tonight and she was supposed to be drunk. So you hit your hand against the corner of the table just as Sam happened to make the winning point. You grumbled and threw him a glare when Tony broke through the crowd.

“Coming through,” he shouted, handing two small glasses to you while you gripped your knuckles in pain. “Noooo, you’re not getting out of taking these. C’mon, take your punishment,”

“Yes, Daddy,” you grumbled and cringed at your own words when the realization hit you. Whatever. You were supposed to be drunk, anyway.

“Daddy?” Tony quipped and pulled the drinks back towards himself, “Maybe you should be cut off,”

“What?” You argued, leaning slightly on the table with your hand and snatching the drinks from Tony’s hold, effectively spilling some on yourself. “See?” You lifted up the half empty shot glass, “This barely counts as a shot,”

“I’ll get her a new one,” Rumlow offered and disappeared before anyone could argue.

“She really doesn’t need another-” Bucky tried to interject and take the shots from you but you twisted around and chugged down the one full glass.

Water.

You looked up at Tony and his smirk was barely noticeable. But you could tell. Bucky nearly ripped the other drink from you but Tony blocked his path and you exaggerated your next drink as Rumlow broke back into the crowd, shot in tow.

“Here.” Rumlow’s calloused hand held the drink up above you and you stared at him with a questioning look. “Open,” he ordered and the fire burning in your chest fought to destroy everything in its vicinity. You bit your lip in refrain but tossed your head back and opened your mouth.

Static broke over your earpiece. Don’t drink that! Wanda’s voice erupted.

Your eyes widened as the liquid made its way down but you coughed hard to stop whatever you could.

Why? Steve’s voice came through right after.

You choked on the liquid and shut your eyes at the way it burned its way down. You reached your hand out to grab someone’s drink to ease the burning and grasped a tall glass and tossed it back. The burning didn’t ease up and you felt a hand rest on your back.

“Are you okay?” Rumlow’s voice rang out and your skin nearly recoiled from the contact, “How about we get you some water?”

You looked up at him when the burning subsided minimally and nodded your head, letting him lead the way to the bar. He parted the crowd and someone took step right behind you to follow when the presence suddenly died out abruptly. You turned around to check who it had been and found no one.

Why? Steve asked again.

Where’s Wanda? Bruce broke through.

You lifted your head and flitted your gaze around the room until you found the familiar Sokovian on the couch, laying down with her eyes closed. You pulled away from Rumlow but his grip on your hand tightened and his steps grew in haste. You whirled your head to yell at him but the way the room swayed with the movement cause you to shut your mouth in surprise.

Didn’t Tony say you would have a higher tolerance?

“Couch...” you muttered, pointing over your shoulder just in case your target was curious enough to ask but the message was delivered.

Rumlow hoisted you up onto the bar stool and stood on your open side, using his body to keep you from falling over. Or to cage you in.

“I don’t feel good,” You rested an elbow on the countertop and held your head up.

“I can’t imagine you would. You’ve been chugging those drinks like they’re water.” Despite that, Rumlow motioned to the bartender and asked for two more.

You giggled and your head lulled forward with the action. You let Rumlow catch you from tumbling over. Why did your body feel so heavy? Not to mention the way everything around you dazed about. You couldn’t catch a single action, let alone attempt to read Rumlow’s body language. But you did happen to notice the way his eyes searched the room before coming back to you.

“You okay?” You rested your forearm against his chest and pushed slightly to allow yourself a better view of his face.

A small smirk, “Am I okay? What about you?”

You smacked your lips and brought the ice cold glass to your lips. That’s not water. “I’m doing reeaalllyy good,” you drawled.

Rumlow chuckled and pushed you deeper into the chair, “I can tell.” He took a sip, his attention never faltering from your body, “Just be sure to pace yourself from here on out,”

You made a show of cocking your head to the side and letting a smile sprawl onto your face as you studied him.

“What?” he questioned, a curious lift in his brow.

You shook your head gently and kept your gaze on him over the brim of your glass, “You’re just . . . not what I was expecting,”

“And what were you expecting?”

Don’t forget to bat your eyelashes. “Worse,”

“Sorry to disappoint,” he jeered, his attention once again cast throughout the room before centering back on you.

You followed his action but quickly came to the conclusion that moving any pace faster than a sloth was going to make you nauseous and you could barely keep a thought together. Your stomach began to rise in your chest and the fear seized your throat shut. Why couldn’t you hold onto a thought for longer than a second? It was like you were aware of your lack of consciousness but could do nothing about it because any thought or bout of panic phased through just as soon as it arrived.

“What are you so tense for, Rumlow? You know you’re not currently on the clock, right?” You teased, your head leaning on your shoulder as you spoke.

He brought his drink up to his lips and finished it off in three gulps, “I’m not tense. It’s just hard to turn it off sometimes,”

You nodded slowly and pushed your drink towards him, “Relax. You know everyone here,”

He shook his head and placed your drink back in front of you before asking for another beer.

“And two shots!” You shouted to the bartender, throwing two of your fingers high up and instantly regretting how fast you’d done it.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” He asked you, a side smirk beginning to form.

You placed your finger over your lips and hushed, “Shh, I won’t tell if you don’t.” You dragged your lower lip down and his eyes fixated to commit the scene to memory. “Besides, I always feel dumb if I’m the only one drunk,”

He motioned to the rest of the party, “Believe me, Sugar, you’re not the only one enjoying yourself,”

“But are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Enjoying yourself?”

Your skin crawled when he placed his rough hand on your barren thigh, “Absolutely,”

Don’t forget what you’re here for. Don’t let the objective slip. Gods, how the fuck were you supposed to retain anything when you were so sleepy? And why was it so warm?

“Hot,” you mumbled, fishing around in your glass for an ice cube to rub on your face.

“Thank you,”

You threw your head back in laughter and nearly earned yourself an up-close and personal view of the floor had Rumlow not wrapped an arm around your waist and held you steady. Once he was certain you weren’t going to toss yourself onto the ground, he parted your legs and stood between them to keep you rooted to your seat.

All the movement had you spinning and you white-knuckled Rumlow’s cotton shirt to keep yourself grounded to something, anything. Red warning lights were firing up in your chest and you tensed with the way your body buckled to the panic coursing through you. Your heart pounded in your ears and danced across your skin, lighting it on fire and making the room too stuffy to bear. Please, no. Not now. Focus. Snap out of it. Come back, stay back. Your breathing hitched and you looked down at the sensation crawling its way up higher on your thigh. Too hot. Everything was too hot, if you didn’t get out of this now you would never-

“Vision!” You cheered, happy to see your friend.

The presence on your thigh recoiled slightly.

“I’m taking Wanda to her room, seems she’s had a bit too much to drink,” Vision informed and you’d only just then noticed the body in his hold.

“Wanda!” You smiled, admiring her peaceful features as she slept in his arms. You poked at her cheek then jerked your gaze back up to Vision. “What? Wanda doesn’t drink,”

She’s not acting, Sam’s voice erupted in your ear and you flinched at the sound.

Vision’s eyes went from you to Rumlow then back to you slowly, “Y/N . . . are you okay?”

You beamed at him and slowly brought up your thumb. “Good,” you responded.

You followed Vision’s gaze back up to Rumlow and smiled at the agent beside you. You guess he’s kind of cute. In a strange, unsettling way.

“She’s had a lot to drink, so we’re just trying to slow down the pace. Aren’t we, Y/N?” Rumlow looked down at you.

You nodded fervently, “Yup!”

Vision hesitated but knew he didn’t pose much of a threat with Wanda in his arms unconscious, so he quirked a smile and walked towards the hall.

Someone get to Y/N, something’s not right, Vision ordered and you lifted your head up to find him. You could have sworn he just left.

“Here.” Rumlow handed you a glass, “Drink this, it’ll cool you down,”

You stared at the glass in his hold and looked up at him, “You drink it first,” you slurred, holding your finger up at him.

He cocked his head to the side but took a swig of the drink and you watched it go down his throat. You shrugged and grabbed at it.

Do not drink that, Nat ordered from somewhere and you looked around in wonder at who she was yelling to.

Bucky, Sit down! Steve growled.

Like hell, responded a voice you knew all too well.

Your smile grew and you looked through the crowd, “Bucky!” You feverishly called, completely expecting to see him before you. Rumlow’s head lifted instantly, his eyes scouring the area.

“I’ve got this, Pretty Boy,” Tony hastily spoke, “How ya doin’, Hot Stuff?” He interrogated and you reeled at the tone.

“Quite well, thank you,” you responded tenaciously and attempted to take a swig of the drink in your grasp.

Tony’s hand shot out and covered the top, slamming the cup back down on the counter and effectively getting the drink all over your dress.

“What the fuck?” You tried to shout but the words came out heavy and required too much energy to speak.

“You’ve had enough for tonight,”

“It’s just water,” Rumlow defended but Tony paid him no mind.

Your jaw dropped open and you glared at the older man. Who the hell did he think he was? Tony’s stare burned through your skull and despite your irritation, you couldn’t help but wonder why he was so pissed.

“Are you mad at me?” You drawled, lulling your head to the side.

“No,” he responded curtly.

“Am I being too loud or something?” You pushed. You couldn’t imagine you were any louder than any other drunken bastard at this party.

“No,”

Get her out of there or I swear to God I will, his voice hissed into your ear.

Your eyebrows rose slightly in excitement, “Mmm, Bucky,” you smiled and Tony nodded.

“’Mmm, Bucky’ is right. Wanna go see him?” Tony offered, sticking out his hand for you to take.

You fell forward into Rumlow’s chest but shook your head furiously none the less, “For what? So he can tell me I’m horrendous at my-”

Oh shit. Your job. The job.

If only your body didn’t feel so heavy and your mind so light.

You pushed off Rumlow’s chest and glared at Tony, “I can handle myself,” you insisted, a new sort of sober tone making its way through that caused him to do a once-over. “I know what I’m doing,”

“How many drinks have you had?” Tony challenged and you fell silent.

Then you felt a tap, and another and a few more.

“Six,” You said, hoping you’d counted right.

Tony, don’t you even fucking consider it, Bucky threatened.

“You could at least change, recuperate and then come back,” Tony offered and you sighed a breath of relief before nodding.

“Deal,” you agreed, “I’m hot anyway,”

Tony gave you one last glance before turning around and blending into the crowd on the other end of the room.

You looked up to Rumlow who’s gaze was still locked on the sea of people, “Don’t you wish you’d taken that shot now?” you tried to jeer, every last word bringing you deeper and deeper.

“Are they always that intense?” He questioned, not turning his attention to you.

“They can be over-bearing,” you admitted, hand grabbing the water from earlier and pressing it up against your forehead, “They consider me the baby so they’re always criticizing and suffocating until I just wished they’d disappear.” You took a gulp, “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the family and I like that I have a cause but . . . they don’t let me do anything. It’s exhausting,”

You let out a long breath and smeared the condensation from the glass onto your chest. Rumlow studied you then, not just your body but your reaction. He was watching how you dropped your shoulders at the confession and how you faced your back to them to block them out.

You plastered your torso on the countertop and tried to slow your heartrate down. You couldn’t be the only one here unfathomably hot.

“Why is it so fucking hot?” You questioned, fanning yourself weakly.

“There are a lot of people around,” Rumlow offered, “how about we go somewhere else? Tony did say you had to change,”

You peered up at him through half-lidded eyes and meekly groaned in compliance. “Fine,”

You lifted yourself away from the counter and gently placed your feet on the floor. You’d touched the ground faster than anticipated. Had the ground always been so close?

“Don’t worry, I gotcha.” Rumlow threw an arm around your waist and helped you trudge towards the elevator.

Where the hell are you going? Bucky yelled and the sound of shuffling could be heard from his end.

We can’t let you leave with Rumlow, Y/N. We’re not even sure you’re acting anymore, Sam stated.

Rumlow pressed the button when you couldn’t muster the strength to do it yourself. The level that your room was on lit up and the doors began closing. You thought you saw Rumlow wave at someone but the mock smile on his face didn’t make it seem like a warm good-bye.

Your legs had all but given out by the time the elevator reached your shared floor.

“Heavy,” you muttered, letting Rumlow carry your weight fully.

“I know, Sugar. We’re almost there,” he soothed and you conceded to the fatigue wearing you down.

Your head hung low and your arm dangled uselessly at your side. The familiar sound of your door sliding open caught your attention but you did nothing. You couldn’t.

“How . . . know . . . my room?” You questioned, each word causing you to pull from an empty well of energy.

“I’ve been here before.” Rumlow tossed you onto the bed and sprawled you out.

“Oh. Ok.” You tried to turn on to your side but strong hands gripped down onto your ankles.

Rumlow sighed and slipped the heels off your feet, examining the pair like he wanted to wear them. You extended your feet until you felt every muscle in your leg stretch to its capacity and let out a groan of pleasure at the release. Those shoes hurt so bad.

“You seem . . . intelligent, Y/N.” Rumlow dropped your shoes onto the floor and slithered to the side of your bed, standing beside it with his hands tucked into his pockets.

A bead of sweat trickled down your forehead, “Hot . . .” you croaked and he nodded.

“You’re right. It is getting kind of hot.” He brought a hand up to his neck and ripped off the tie hanging around it.

Get the fuck out of my way, a growl erupted in your ear.

We’re going with you, Buck, Steve responded before knocking something over.

“So, what I have a hard time understanding is. . . why you’re here?”

You groaned a weak ‘huh’ but even that didn’t sound right.

“You’re good at what you do, you finish every mission successfully and yet you’re underappreciated.” He took a seat at the foot of your bed and placed one of your legs into his lap, “Why do you allow them to treat you like that? We wouldn’t,”

The shuffling in your earpiece halted.

“We?”

He began to massage your calf and brought your knee up to his lips, peppering light kisses on it. “We could use someone with your skillset, babe. We’d take real good care of you,”

The shuffling started again.

Rumlow had made his way onto your thigh at this point and you let out an involuntary moan when he skimmed over a delicate part on your inner knee.

“Ya like that?” he questioned but didn’t wait for a response. He brought a hand up to his temple and grabbed the earpiece. You figured he just hadn’t taken it out from his earlier shift but when he pulled it apart, you understood why he always kept it on him.

“Flash . . . drive earpiece?” Your weak tone tilted a little. “W-why tell . . .”

“I figured I’d give you the option to leave since you seem so . . . suffocated. If you said yes tonight then I would remind you tomorrow. If you didn’t,” he chuckled, “well, you wouldn’t remember anyway.” His hands trailed to your mid-thigh and you squeaked. “I’m impressed though, I’ve never given anyone else as much as I’ve given you tonight. The drug usually works so quickly on others, but not you. It’s kind of hot, actually,”

Sick fuck, Natasha growled through a ragged breath.

The world around you was slow or maybe it was you that was slow? You couldn’t tell, honestly. But when Rumlow moved as if he could predict your actions before you could make them, you wondered whether you were moving at all.

“Don’t worry, it’ll be over soon,” Rumlow sighed.

You shook your head, or thought you did but despite the way your body was live-wired, it remained still against all desire.

Fight. Move.

You managed to push your legs shut but his hand slithered between and spread them open similar to opening a door, but this required much less force.

“Kill,” You threatened and the sinister smile that crawled its way onto Rumlow’s face was vile enough to sink your heart into your stomach.

“Kill is fucking right.” Someone snarled and your door was ripped from its hinges.

Rumlow’s hand jerked away from your body and Bucky seized his open palm, intertwining their fingers and pushing Rumlow’s so far back that they touched the back of his own hand. The cracks were sickening onto themselves but had you not been so weak you would’ve turned from the sight altogether. You really couldn’t fathom how his fingers were still attached at all.

“Lay another hand on her and you won’t be able to use it again.” Bucky spit.

Despite Rumlow’s pain, the sinister smile remained sprawled on his face, “You should’ve heard the noises she made,”

Bucky’s grip tightened and the bones in his palm broke next, “I did,”

Natasha flew in right behind Barnes but completely dismissed the two and headed straight for you with a needle in hand. Your eyes shifted from the needle to Nat’s face and back again until she stabbed it into your upper arm. Ouch.

“Wha-”

“Shh,” Natasha hastily hushed, “Keep your strength, you should be back to normal soon,”

Steve came behind Nat and scooped you up to lead you out of the havoc going on in the room. Nat turned her focus to Bucky and reached over to grab the earpiece from Rumlow. Who knows if his nose will ever heal back normally. You held one finger in the air as Steve stepped over the splintered door.

“Goddamit, Y/N,” Steve huffed, jogging towards the elevator and pressing the floor that led to the infirmary.

“We won,” you croaked out, a small smile on your face and Steve shook his head.

“I’m never going to hear the end of this,”

Steve looked you up and down for bruises but couldn’t find any and you promised you weren’t lying to him when you told him Rumlow did not get very far in his ‘advances’ at all. You had to swear the mid-thigh was the worst that it came to.

Bruce was the one that took a few blood samples and made sure everything was reversing back to normal. Apparently, as soon as Rumlow took you to the bar Tony handed Banner the shot glass that Rumlow gave you and Banner ran analysis on it. The cure was pretty easy to find.

After being given strict orders to lie down for the next hour or so, it had been decided that Rumlow was to be turned in considering all the evidence required to make the arrest was in the flashdrive and everyone was to gather together for a ‘family night’. Whatever the hell that meant.

You were in the middle of debating which movie to pick with Steve when the infirmary doors flew open.

“Where is she?” Bucky nearly shouted upon seeing Bruce.

“That’s my cue.” Steve stood up just as Bucky rounded the corner, “If you need anything me and Banner will be right over there,”

You smiled and thanked him then turned your attention to the super-soldier who just arrived at the foot of your bed.

He didn’t say anything for a while, just looked at you. No, not really. Not at you but through you. A few painstakingly slow seconds went by that way.

“You owe me a new door,” you joked, a half-smile on your face.

“Are you okay?” He asked, finally registering your presence.

You nodded slowly, “I am,”

Then a few more seconds.

Bucky turned his gaze down to his hands, both of them barren and on display for the world to see, before shifting his weight between either foot, “Did he- did he touch you?”

“Not really. Just really liked my legs for some reason,” your attempt at another quip didn’t reach Bucky. He stared back up at you waiting for an answer, an honest one. You sighed, “The damage is more mental,” you admitted, now you were the one not able to look up, “I didn’t like being in this altered state of mind. It’s invasive and . . . scary. He could’ve done things, much worse things but it never got that far or that bad. It was more realizing that I wasn’t completely conscious or present and having that state of mind be taken advantage of, that mostly frightened me. Ya know?”

“More than anyone,” he answered immediately.

You looked back up towards him, finally making eye contact, “But I’m fine now, really. Just a little spooked. Steve wants to do a movie night tonight and I would actually prefer that over being alone.” Your eyes fixated on the way his hands clenched and unclenched on the bar by your feet, “If I’m alone then I’ll get stuck in my head about it. Besides, I consider this a hard victory with a few bumps in the road,”

He chuckled, lulling his head a bit, “You’re too stubborn for your own good,”

You shrugged, “Maybe. How’s Rumlow?”

Bucky hissed and moved over to the side of the bed where he took a seat, “He’s unconscious. And has a hand that he’ll never be able to use again. But other than that, he’s fine,”

You chuckled and Bucky watched how the laugh met your eyes. He liked that look on you. It was one of his favorites.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” You questioned once it fell silent between you two again.

“You called me Bucky earlier,” he remembered.

You scoffed, “I call you Bucky all the time,”

“Not to my face,”

“Not to your face,” you agreed, a teasing smile dancing on your lips and Bucky had one that mirrored yours.

“It was nice. Hearing it, I mean,” he admitted and a wave of warmth made its way to your face.

“I see your hands are exposed,”

He looked down as though he weren’t aware that he’d taken off his own gloves, “These bad boys? A friend of mine reminded me that I’m not my past. I’m my present. Why hide my growth?”

You twiddled your thumbs together, “She sounds smart,”

Now he scoffed, “Oh, it wasn’t a girl, it was some old buddy of mine.” He quirked up a brow, “Unless the person being a girl would make you jealous because in that case it was most definitely a girl,”

You fought against the natural tug at the corners of your mouth, “Is she at least pretty?”

“Stunning,”

“Smart?”

“Genius,”

“Good at her job?”

“Amongst the best,”

“Then consider me jealous, Barnes,”

Bucky chuckled and you watched how the laugh met his eyes. You liked that look on him. It was one of your favorites.

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alpacaparkaseok · 3 years

Text

Heartbreak Ave.

When they’re in love with you but you have feelings for a different member (Hyung line)

→ tags/warnings: SFW, angstyyyyy (like, I’m sorry but at the same time I wanted to write something sad), no, there’s not a happy ending really idk so read at your own heart’s risk, but like really. I was listening to “Manos de Tijera” while writing this so it’s a wee bit heartbreaking

→ a/n: I don’t really write reactions very often but this seemed fun when @sierra-fics brought it up! I actually have one of your suggestions in my drafts, just haven’t finished it up yet. Thanks for the push, though! I love exploring different styles!

read the maknae line version here!

Kim Seokjin

he’s not surprised

it’s probably the worst part for him, the fact that he’s not surprised when your eyes light up as Taehyung waltzes in the room.

he had been in the middle of plucking up the courage to invite you to try out that new Thai restaurant you’d been chattering about when Tae walked in

and you tried - you really did - to pay attention to what Jin had been saying, but you faltered a bit as Tae greeted you warmly and plopped down beside Jin

and Jin just watched, not surprised.

although what does surprise him is how much it hurts

that pain where your heart literally, physically hurts? it’s an exquisite pain, one that takes his breath away

and it doesn’t go away

it doesn’t fade

so he ends up in Namjoon’s studio later that night, and Namjoon knows to wait for him to open up

Jin just stares for a while, blankly at the wall

“Does Tae like her?”

Namjoon already knows who he’s referring to. He’s known about Jin’s helpless crush on you for ages, he knew before Jin himself figured it out

but it’s the way that Jin asks the question so softly, so carefully, that Namjoon realizes with a start that this is so much more than a crush

and Jin looks at him, misery clear in his eyes but also clear resolve visible even as unshed tears glimmer

“Would you really let her go?” Namjoon counters gently. Because he knows. He knows that if Tae got the green light, you'd be swept up in a matter of seconds.

and it’s the way that Jin stares down at his feet, and the tears begin rolling down his cheeks, that has Namjoon sick to his stomach

Jin nods, and when he speaks, his voice shakes but he sounds so earnest that it breaks Namjoon’s heart

“I’d do anything for her.”

no words are exchanged after that for a long, heart-wrenching moment. it’s just Jin, staring down at his feet and quietly sobbing, and Namjoon, pulling him into an embrace.

“I’m sorry, hyung.”

it’s surprising to Jin, just how much that soft phrase cuts through him. It sounds so final.

because at the end of the day, it’s the only solace that can be offered to him.

he lost.

he loved, and he lost.

Min Yoongi

you’re sitting beside him in his studio when the realization hits him like a freight train

sprawled sideways in your designated swivel chair while you stifle a yawn and rub your eyes, Yoongi wonders when he let his emotions get so out of hand

because you’re offering him a shy smile and asking him a question that he numbly answers, but on the inside he’s a total clueless mess

when did he fall in love with you?

it’s something that will haunt him long after you leave that night, rushing out when you get a call from Hobi

for the second time that night, he’s hit with another realization

he’s still reeling from the fact that he’s pretty sure he’s in love with you, so when you gasp and grin when your phone light up with a call, he falters

it’s like being doused with a bucket of ice water, the way you whisper, “oh, it’s Hobi!” and politely ask if you can take the call before rushing out into the hallway

“oh,” he mumbles to himself as the door closes. “it’s Hobi.”

and he laughs.

quietly, darkly. he laughs to himself, at himself, whatever.

because of course it’s Hobi. his best friend, his vitamin. you two deserve each other. of that much he’s certain.

he doesn’t waste too much time feeling sorry for himself; he’s logical enough to see that you two are probably a better match. it’s nothing personal.

so why does he stay in his studio all night, ignoring any calls or messages sent his way?

he’s not sure when he fell asleep, but next thing he knows he’s sprawled out on his little couch and you’re gently shaking him awake

“Yoongo? Did you stay here last night?”

his eyes crack open at the sound of your voice, just enough to be met with your sweet smile

and he, in his half-asleep state, smiles back. he reaches one hand up to gently brush back a strand of your hair, and he swears you lean into his touch

and when you mumble something about Hobi bringing breakfast up, Yoongi is hit with the third realization in less that twenty-four hours.

it’s startlingly simple:

he wants to cry.

so he excuses himself to the bathroom, and cries. sets a five minute timer so nobody gets worried and comes looking for him, and allows himself that time to cry.

then, with machine-like precision, he washes his face and puts some eyedrops in, and goes back out to pretend like everything is fine.

and whenever Jin or Taehyung bring up acting, Yoongi knows. He knows, deep down, that he’s the best actor of all.

because he still loves you

and you will never know.

Jung Hoseok

hobi has never been the most forthcoming with his emotions

he keeps them on lockdown

monitors them with military-like focus

so he knows the exact moment he begins developing feelings for you

(it’s when you brought Bang PD a bouquet for valentine’s day, just to make him blush)

and he knows the exact second when he fell in love

(it was when, after a grueling day at work, you silently walked through his door with his favorite goodies and left without a single word)

(you were wearing a yellow cardigan that day)

(he’s never looked at the color yellow the same way)

if he’s completely honest, he’s sometimes trying so hard to stay on top of his own feelings that he forgets to watch out for where your attention may be drifting

to be fair, you kept your own little crush on Jimin a secret

so when Hobi decides to get over himself and just shoot his shot, he decides he’s all in

and when you arrive at his apartment that night for a movie, you’re shocked to see a bouquet of yellow flowers in Hobi’s shaking hands

“hey” he breathes

you stare at the flowers, then at him

“hello...?” then, with a sinking felling, you point at the flowers. “are those for me?”

hobi smiles broadly. “yeah, they are.” and he hands them to you, allowing his fingers to brush up against yours

it’s electrifying, that small touch

and again, he’s so focused on how electrifying it is that he misses the way you look like you might be sick

pale face, concerned expression

he misses it all, because he’s so nervous but so stupidly in love that he’s just barreling ahead.

gotta get this out of the way

ugh, feelings

and so when he leads you to sit with him out on the balcony, he takes a deep breath and looks at you with wonder in his eyes

and that’s when he notices the way you’re fiddling with your bracelet

not a problem, except for the fact that it’s the one he saw Jimin carefully choosing from an online collection

so when you keep fiddling with the bracelet and avoiding Hobi’s eye contact, he gets it

he takes a long look at all those emotions he keeps in check, and allows himself a moment of self-pity before reaching out and laying a hand atop your own

you immediately stop fidgeting and look at him with wide eyes. he can see with a pang how you’re trying to come up with the best way to let him down easy

so he does the job for you

“I just wanted to say thank you for the other day,” he says, forcing a light tone. “when you brought me those goodies after work. It really meant a lot.”

you blink, confused. “Oh. uh, you’re welcome.”

“and,” he drawls, a well-rehearsed smile clawing its way onto his face, “I wanted to snoop and get the inside scoop about Jiminie. I know he got you that bracelet. did he finally cave and confess to you?”

you look shocked, but you burst out into relieved laughter. “how did you know?”

he didn’t. “how could I not? he’s absolutely whipped.”

and you blush under the stars and begin to ramble, lost in your excitement and joy.

and Hobi watches. smiling. supportive. laughing at the right spots and asking all the right questions.

later, when you give him a tight hug and thank him for the fun night, he lets the words sting as you call him “such a great friend.” he lets them sting, relishing in the pain.

he reminds you to take your flowers home, and you begrudgingly admit that they’re your favorite type of flower.

he didn’t know. but that hurts, too. the fact that he got it right.

Hobi never looks at the color yellow the same way again.

Kim Namjoon

he’s told you he loves you a million times now

every night, in every dream, he tells you how much he loves you

adores you with everything he is

you manage to find your way into his music, his musings, every piece of artwork he comes across

he's never been like this before

never, he’s sure of it

and everyone knows, except for you.

it becomes a strange game for the boys to play, dropping hints at every opportunity, laughing at your confused expression

Jungkook and Taehyung especially enjoy the chaos that they create, making Namjoon groan and grow embarrassed

but you have no idea

or are you just willfully ignorant?

all Namjoon knows is that he’s swimming in his feelings for you, completely lost and on the verge of drowning

but, oh, what a way to die

he’s never been able to stop himself when it comes to you

and he considers himself rather disciplined, but the way you make him feel he could throw caution to the wind and give it all up

so when you end up staying late one night at the apartment, the boys manage to convince you to stay

“there’s plenty of room” Jungkook muses, feigning deep thought. “besides, it’s too late for you to drive back tonight. just stay.”

and while Namjoon wants to kill them all for the way they offer up his bed to you, he thinks he might actually die when you reluctantly agree with a yawn

he knows he should offer to take the couch, but something stops him

it’s like he physically can’t

“I don’t mind sharing the bed” you state, squinting at him while wearing his basketball shorts and oversized t-shirt.

you look adorable. he’s unsure of how he’s even functioning right now, to be honest. he’s melting.

“just keep your snoring in check, loser”

and he’s back to laughing, turning off the light and hopping into bed

you’re so far away

why are you so far away?

“hey” he whispers, the sound so loud in the quiet. the only other sound is the muffled voices of the other members, no doubt down in the kitchen gossiping about the events of the night

“hey yourself” you whisper back, turning to face him

he can see you in the moonlight, his eyes having adjusted just enough.

and he wants to kiss you so badly

so he smiles, heart leaping when you smile back

and he reaches out, gently tracing your jawline.

you say nothing, heart thundering in your chest

because to be honest, you’re confused

why is he looking at you like that?

but you don’t ask as Namjoon takes a deep breath, steadying himself before propping himself up on one elbow and looking down at you with an adoring expression

your eyes flutter closed as he brushes his thumb against your cheek, and he can feel your heartbeat racing

your reaction gives him all the courage he needs as he leans down, lips capturing your own in a long, sweet kiss

and he’s going out of his mind because he finally kissed you, didn’t he?! finally!!

but those are your hands on his chest, and instead of pulling him in closer you’re gently pushing him away

“namjoon.”

he’s never hated his name so much.

“I’m so sorry- I- I thought that maybe-” he stutters, pulling himself upright as you do the same, and he launches out of bed, hands in his hair “I’m so sorry, I swear I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable-”

“Namjoon.” you repeat, and he notices now how utterly distraught you look.

because you’re still confused, but there’s one name rolling around in your head even as you can still taste namjoon on your lips.

“I...” you shake your head, unsure of what to say. “It’s just...”

and he’s looking at you with big eyes, taking in every single word you say. and you want to take it all back, want to let him kiss you until you’re breathless, but your heart won’t let you.

“Just what?” he asks quietly, afraid of the answer. so afraid

“...Jungkook.”

two syllables, and his world comes crashing down around him.

namjoon is silent, avoiding your gaze as he grabs one of the pillows off of the bed and a spare blanket, heading toward the door.

“I’ll sleep on the couch. I’m sorry.”

and he’s gone before you can utter another word.

sure enough, the boys are still downstairs, and they all fall silent as Namjoon appears, throwing the pillow down on the couch.

“Hyung!” Jungkook asks, scrambling over. “Hyung, what happened? What are you doing down here?”

Namjoon can’t bring himself to look at the maknae, not when he can still picture how it felt to kiss you. not when those few seconds of paradise are still on his lips.

“Didn’t wanna wake her up with my snoring.”

because how could he ever be angry at the boy that looks at him like he’s his savior?

m.list || buy me an orange juice?

thanks for reading! if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging so other people can read it! 💖

taglist: @baepsaetay @dreamcatcherjiah @kookie-vuitton @thecaffeinatedscribbles @moon-write @fangirl125reader @heishichoulevi@knjkitten @sacha-cff @vik7797 @eusticenatalie @hesmyphenominiall@miriamxsworld @kayahay @secretlycrazyhummingbird @marianeamine@hqtetsurou @protontippens @beginwithamin @limiworld @jeonyoongi-jimin @buttvi @yoontaethings @sunshinejunghoseokie @delacyrose224@jiminiesmagicshop @hitsussi @fanfictonreader05 @hyungieyoongi @lolalee24

#bts reactions #namjoon reaction #jin reaction #yoongi reaction #suga reaction #hobi reaction #bts hyung line #bts angst #bts maknae line #bts x reader #this is seriously a bummer of a post lol #bts fanfic #bts scenarios

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goingmorry · 3 years

Text

The Art of Domesticity [Trafalgar Law x Fem! Reader]

Synopsis: On a whim, Law decides to indulge you with a hot bath. Feeling lethargic despite your nap, you are more than delighted to take him up on his offer.

Tags: domestic fluff, sexually suggestive themes, male and female nudity, established relationship

Word Count: 2,161

In the depths of the Grand Line, deadly sea creatures swim idly by, patiently waiting for the next unsuspecting shipwrecked pirate to serve as their next meal.

Not long after, an unknown object of immeasurable speed barrels across the ocean floor, whirring past the mess of Sea Kings. Intent on chomping down on the foreign entity, the creatures join together in pursuit.

A yellow submarine, adorned with a Jolly Roger resembling a smiley face and inscribed with the words "DEATH," shakes beneath the water pressure.

The Polar Tang, home to the notorious Heart Pirates, aggressively reverberates in response to the Sea Kings' pursuit, mimicking the chaos inside the ship.

Meanwhile, in the control room, Captain Trafalgar Law stands at attention, face impassive as he calmly assesses the situation. In contrast to the rest of the crew's panicked behavior, Law had complete confidence in his crew's ability to make it out of this predicament unharmed. Right on cue, Law watches as his navigator, Vice-Captain Bepo, expertly maneuvers the ship away from dubious underwater beasts and excess debris. Under Bepo's supervision, Shachi and Penguin carefully operate the numerous controls to keep the sub afloat. In the engine room, Ikkaku and Jean Bart attend to the ship's generators, air compressors, and fuel pumps, ensuring their pristine condition during the onslaught.

After weeks of being submerged, the Polar Tang steadily heads to the surface. And with every second that passes, the distance between the pirates and the monsters increases until the vessel can no longer be seen by their pursuers. Sure enough, having lost sight of their target, it became apparent to the Sea Kings that they were no match for the submarine's speed. Where the ship once was, only faint bubble traces remain.

Unbeknownst to the pirate crew, loud rumbling sounds vibrate across the sea bed, the Sea Kings' roars echoing across the deep oceans, scaring away small fishes that dare to come close.

"We've lost sight of them, Captain," Bepo exclaims, swiveling his chair in Law's direction.

"So it seems," Law says, grabbing the nearby Den Den Mushi to announce their successful escape to the entire crew.

Almost immediately, Penguin and Shachi cheer in conjunction with the rest of the crew's boisterous laughter. To celebrate their victory, the Polar Tang resurfaces, providing an opportunity for the crew to receive some much-needed sunlight.

The turbulent atmosphere moments ago can no longer be found, replaced by a serene calmness. In celebration, the Heart Pirates gather in the upper deck, engaging themselves in various recreational activities. The perfect time to disappear for a bit, Law thinks.

Voicing these thoughts, Law directly addresses Bepo, Shachi, and Penguin. "I'll be in my room."

Shachi nudges Penguin, suggestively wiggling their eyebrows at each other. Bepo curiously looks at the duo, sneaking glances at his captain, while Law scowls at their childishness.

"Don't worry, Captain! We'll make sure no one bothers you two!" Penguin blurts out, earning a swift elbow to his ribs.

"You idiot! Be more discreet next time!" Shachi angrily whispers in Penguin's ear, looking around to see if anyone was eavesdropping on their conversation, before continuing, "They're still in the honeymoon phase."

"More like hornymoon phase," Penguin huffs, causing both of them to break out in uncontrollable giggles. Bepo lets out an innocent smile.

Choosing not to respond since nothing he could say could convince Shachi and Penguin otherwise, Law hurries to his quarters, leaving the two to their incessant bickering.

- - - - - - - - - -

Standing in front of his bedroom, Law raises his hand to give two light raps to the door. He frowns at the lack of response, turning the door handle to reveal your upper body sprawled on his desk. He pauses for a moment before walking over to your slumped form. Upon closer inspection, you were sleeping soundlessly, seemingly unaware of earlier's events. Your head was nestled atop your forearms, an expression of serenity overcoming your features. Sheets of paper and various writing instruments were strewn across the corner of the desk, haphazardly pushed aside to accommodate your slumbering figure.

Law lifts his tattooed hand, gently brushing the stray hair that had fallen on your face. He runs his fingers across your unruly hair, noticing several tangled knots that had formed. Despite your less-than-ideal appearance, however, you never looked more beautiful in his eyes.

Deciding to let you sleep for a moment longer, Law saunters over to the bathroom, intent on running a bath for himself and you, should you choose to wake up in time to join him.

The sound of the water steadily splashing as it fills the tub is enough to rouse you.

Your eyes flutter open, turning around in search of the source of the noise before landing on the ajar door leading to the bathroom. A familiar lanky figure - sporting his signature leopard jeans - crouches over the tub. You couldn't see the top half of his body, but you were pretty sure he was monitoring the tub's water level. Not long after, you hear the sound of the faucet turning, and the water stops. Law stands up, walking over to lean against the doorframe. His golden eyes meet yours in amusement, mouth turning upward in a slight smirk.

"Mmm... Did something happen?" you mumble, voice raspy from your nap. You stretch your arms over your head, groaning in satisfaction before leaning back against the headrest of the chair. Despite the needed rest, you didn't feel as refreshed as you'd hoped. You felt so exhausted, your lips dry and your mouth parched.

Law must have noticed your tiredness in your appearance and voice. He reacts almost immediately, enveloping you in a familiar blue film. "Room," he says in that low tone you've come to love before a mug of water appears on the desk in front of you. You blink at him in surprise, humming appreciatively.

"I... Thanks," you say, gripping the mug between your hands before taking generous gulps. He can be so thoughtful when he wants to be, you think, unable to hide the smile gracing your lips as you do so.

He returns your hidden smile with a smile of his own. "Nothing important," he vaguely adds.

You look at him in confusion before realizing his was response was to your previous question. You nod in acknowledgment, deciding not to pry, before setting the now empty mug aside.

Law walks over to his side of the bed, pulling his cap off to set it down on the nightstand, keeping it relatively safe and away from tonight's activities.

"I ran you a bath. Get in it."

He glances at you before striding over to the bathroom. You cock an eyebrow at his retreating figure.

Before you have the chance to retort, he pulls his shirt over his head, throwing it over to the laundry basket. The sight of his muscled backside, inked with his jolly roger, makes the words die in your throat.

Before you can stop yourself, your tongue peeks out from the corner of your mouth to moisten your chapped lips. Your thirst was for an entirely different reason now.

"Don't keep me waiting." As if seemingly aware of his effect on you, Law disappears behind the door, the sound of clothes rustling reach your ears, no doubt the sound of the remainder of his clothes being shed. You can hear the amusement dripping in his honeyed tone, can picture the full-blown smirk evident on his face.

You reflexively gulp, feeling your body flush in response to his invitation. You've seen Law naked plenty of times by now, you reassure yourself. Have become well-acquainted with each other's bodies. Know firsthand how the heart tattoo inked on his chest ripples under your teasing touch as your hands trail down his chiseled abs. How the sweat glistens his toned skin and how his usually impassive face contorts in pleasure as he thrusts into-

You shake your head to keep the dirty thoughts at bay.

We're just having a nice relaxing bath together, you think, not entirely convincing yourself.

Following his lead, you stroll over to the laundry basket, stripping yourself of your clothing to join Law in the bath. Your head peeks out from the corner of the open bathroom door while the rest of your naked body remains in the bedroom, away from his prying eyes, your nervous gesture making it appear as though you were an innocent virgin.

Adorable, he thinks.

You look at each other expectantly, your eyes admiring his perfectly relaxed posture. His jet-black hair was in disarray, poking out in all directions, evidence of his combing through them in a careless fashion. His arms were stretched to the sides, slim fingers gripping the edges of the tub. His naked upper body was in full display; the dark ink of his tattoos was a stark contrast to the white bubbles that formed on the surface of the water, obscuring the lower half of his body.

You clear your throat, eyes returning to meet his golden ones that were alight with apparent amusement. "Sorry to intrude."

Law chuckles, the sound of his baritone voice echoing across the bathroom walls, only for your ears to hear. When you take a step forward and close the door behind you, his eyes drop to your naked form, shamelessly admiring your breasts and derrière.

"You look like you're enjoying yourself," you say indignantly, pausing right in front of the tub, his brazen admiration of your nudity quickly restoring your confidence.

"I am," he says without hesitation, golden hues darkening with desire at your bold gesture.

Leaning over the tub, you bring your face close to his, lips a breath away from touching. For a moment, you pull back to admire his rugged handsomeness, fingers ghosting over his goatee to his cheek before settling on the back of his neck. Lightly tugging his hair, you pull him in for a chaste kiss, your free hand grasping the edge of the tub for balance. Law has other plans, however, as he reciprocates by licking the bottom of your lips for permission to dive into the wet expanse of your mouth. You let him, of course, moaning at the feel of his demanding tongue as it fights against yours for control.

His hand snakes across the back of your head, grabbing a fistful of hair and tugging, mirroring your previous actions, while his other hand firmly kneads your breast. You groan against his mouth at the display of dominance in his rough handling of your body, loving how depraved he can be when aroused by you.

After what seems like an eternity, his hands gently encircle your waist, coaxing your body to join him into the warm pool of the tub. You oblige, breaking off the kiss to positioning yourself in between his legs, facing toward him. You sigh in contentment at the feel of the bubbled water and the warmth emanating from his bare body. Making an executive decision not to escalate further should both of you decide to forego the bath in favor of more risque activities, you avoid the softness of his lips. Instead, your mouth latches onto his neck, leaving trailing kisses to his jaw before stopping to rest your head at the crook of his shoulder. In response, Law sighs in defeat, hands rubbing reassuring circles against your back. The heated passion of your earlier kiss was replaced with soothing affection.

"Will you wash my hair?" you ask, voice slightly muffled against his skin.

Law looks down at your head nuzzled against him, eyes softening at your vulnerable state. "Honestly, you're hopeless without me," he says before nudging you over to turn around.

You do as your told, adjusting yourself into a comfortable position. His hands reach over the side of the tub for your shampoo, squeezing a sizable portion onto his hands, lathering it up into a foam. His hands weave into your hair, softly massaging the shampoo into your scalp in circular motions, careful to avoid your ears.

You can't help the wide grin that stretches across your face, thankful that your lover can't see your smile from the way you're positioned away from him. Trafalgar Law - a notoriously fearsome pirate, Captain of the Heart Pirates, and a former Warlord of the Sea - is the perfect picture of a doting boyfriend as he methodically applies shampoo onto his girlfriend's head, eyebrows furrowing in deep concentration.

"I love you," you say as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

His hands still for a moment before resuming their ministrations. And though you've said it plenty of times before, he can't help the wild beating of his fragile heart in response to your sincere declaration.

While words fail him, actions don't. Law pulls you into a comforting hug, wrapping his strong arms around your shoulders as you lean back against his defined chest, blissful in each other's embrace.

- - - - - - - - - -

Please like and reblog if you enjoyed my writing! I'd love to hear feedback. 💖

#one piece #trafalgar law #trafalgar law x reader #op fanfic #one piece x reader #one piece writing #one piece fanfiction #one piece imagine #one piece scenario #mywriting

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ohmyeyesmyeyes · 3 years

Note

could you do a marcus rashford imagine where he meets your french family? thought it might be cute x

MARCUS RASHFORD ONESHOT

SPEAK FRENCH?

( WARNINGS: swearing, fluff )

word count: 1.5k

< i think i just posted this because i needed something to post, apologies if it's not up to standard...might rewrite later >

“I can hear you stressing.” You spoke through the silence. It was that quiet it seemed the birds had stopped squawking and all signs of life had halted. You swore if a pin dropped and landed on the carpeted floor of your car you’d still be able to hear it, it was that silent.

Marcus hadn’t been this quiet ever. It was unnerving to say the least.

His eyes were glued to the house in front of him and he was deathly still, only seemingly able to blink every so often. He gave no indication that he’d even heard you speak, so you leaned over the gear stick slowly, nudging his arm gently.

It seemed to do the trick because he snapped his head towards you, pressing one hand to his pounding heart in a whirlwind of panic.

“It’s like you’re trying to kill me, woman.” He breathed shakily, his gaze quickly fixating back on the house looming in front of him, just as his knee started bouncing up and down.

“I did say something but I don’t think you were quite there.” You said, pressing a finger to your temple with an expression of faux concern.

“Really? What gave it away?” He muttered under his breath, seemingly forgetting that you were of such close proximity in the car that you could hear the words.

You rolled your eyes, leaning away from him and making a move to open your car door, but you were stopped by a hand on your arm, dragging you back into your seat.

“What are you doing?” You both chorused in unison, Marcus’s and still gripping your arm.

You sighed, “I’m going into my parents’ house. What’re you doing?”

He, too, sighed, reciprocating your actions, but you knew it held a tone of sarcasm.

“I’m freaking out, that’s what I’m doing.” His eyes were wide, and you pressed your lips together, fighting the urge to laugh because you’d honestly not seen him this nervous in a while. You carefully peeled his fingers off your elbow, linking your hands together.

“You’ll be fine.” You reassured, “They already love you, I promise.”

He swivelled in his chair, hanging his head low to look at you out of the corner of his eye, skepticism dripping from his stare.

“They’ve never even spoken to me.” He pointed out, raising his eyebrows in your direction.

You shrugged, “Doesn’t mean I’ve never spoken to them about you.”

He blinked. Rapidly.

It was rather concerning.

“I…” he started, “When did you speak to your parents about me?”

“About a week ago...on the phone.”

He closed his eyes slowly, letting go of your hand and leaning back in his seat, the palms of his hands pressing into his eyes. The lack of a sarcastic comment was disconcerting to say the least.

“Why are you acting like I told you I left the front door wide open on the way out of the house?” You asked, leaning forwards with your elbows placed precariously on your knees.

Marcus groaned in response.

“Because you were speaking French to them.” Was his answer.

You furrowed your brows in confusion.

“That’s because they’re French.” You stated, shaking your head. “I told you that.”

“Yeah. But now I’ve got to impress them with my French too. Do you know how shit speaking French sounds with a Northern accent? It completely butchers the language.” He complained, screwing up his face as if he was going to cry. He wasn’t going to, but he sure as hell felt like he could make himself do it, especially if it meant stalling for a few more minutes.

You failed to choke back a laugh, this time the sound managing to break past your lips.

“They’re not gonna care how well you speak French or even if you speak French--”

“But--”

“If it matters to you that much I can help you slip it into the conversation.” You offered, slowly sneaking your hand towards the door handle, preparing yourself for a quick escape.

Marcus hesitated, his mouth opening and closing in thought.

“Well...I-Now you’ve made it sound like it doesn’t matter if I speak French or not.”

“That’s because it doesn’t.” You exclaimed, fingers curling around the handle, waiting for him to turn his attention away from you for long enough that you could climb out of the car without being held captive again.

“It does to me.”

“So what do you want to do about it? You’ve got approximately fifteen seconds before I get out of this car, and you’re hilarious if you think you can stop me.”

“That’s mean--”

“Fourteen.”

“WAIT--”

“Thirteen.”

He covered your mouth with his hand, his eyes narrowed accusingly in your direction.

You smiled, and you know he knew you did because his scowl deepened, and he slowly took his hand away from your face.

“Let’s talk about this like adults.” He said, nodding his head as if he was having a one-sided conversation with himself.

“Go ahead...eight.”

“Stop counting down, it’s properly stressing me out.”

You rolled your eyes, resisting your countdown, even if you enjoyed torturing him a little bit.

“Okay.” You shrugged, gesturing for him to carry on.

“Okay…” his eyes glazed over slightly.

“Is anyone home?” You asked, poking him lightly in the arm, and his gaze slid over to you, his lips pursed together in consideration. His eyes snapped over to the house then back to you. This happened a couple of times, and just as it was getting tiring, he spoke.

“You know what? Let’s just go in. Get this over with.” And with that, he unclipped his seatbelt and climbed out of the car, knocking on the window once he realised you’d yet to move, your eyes still trained on the seat he was sitting in moments prior, mind not quite able to digest the sudden change of attitude.

“Weird.” You mumbled, climbing out of the car and shutting the door behind you.

The gravel on the driveway crunched under your boots and as you cast your eyes to the front window, you saw a silhouette move, and it was then that you knew your parents had just witnessed the near entirety of your exchange with Marcus.

Marcus intertwined your hands, pulling you along behind him, and he was the one that knocked on the door. You half expected him to take a little step backwards so he was in line with you, but he stayed put on the step, his arm reaching out behind, hands still collapsed together.

You had half the mind to ask him about the sudden change of demeanor, but before you could spit the words out, the front door creaked open, your mum’s familiar eyes greeting you at the doorway.

“Bonjour, bonjour!” She opened the door, ushering the two of you inside with bright smiles and the scent of fresh wildflowers.

“Bonjour.” Marcus replied, complying with the hug your mum enveloped him in, and you swore you could see any excess tension rolling off his shoulders.

Your mum tilted her head in fascination, eyeing Marcus with a suspicious glint in her eye as he took off his shoes and coat, that smile still etched on her lips.

"Ah, parlez-vous français?” She asked, only taking her attention off him for a split second when your dad came barrelling into the corridor, hurriedly tucking his shirt into his belt before your mum noticed.

“Oui, un petit peu.” Marcus answered, reeking of modesty, and you bent down to untie your laces to hide the smile making its way onto your face.

That was one way to work French into a conversation.

“As if I couldn’t like you even more!” Your dad beamed, holding his hand out for Marcus to shake, wasting no time in whisking him off into the living room, leaving both yourself and your mum in the doorway.

She tiptoed towards you, nudging your elbow to peel your attention away from the two men now conversing quietly.

“Did he get cold feet?” She asked, a curious expression printed on her face.

You shrugged, “Kind of. He wanted to impress you with his French and then had a whole thing about not being able to have proper pronunciation.” You breathed a laugh, fondness bubbling up in the pit of your stomach as you realised he cared about what your parents thought of him more than you originally came to think. You’d always known he did; it was Marcus, but simple things like that really did catch you slightly off guard.

“Your dad was that way about meeting my parents.”

You turned to look at her, eyebrows raised in shock at the revelation.

“Yeah. He really worked himself up. If I’m right, he was on the brink of having a mental breakdown.” She elaborated, before adding, “It’s those ones that you keep.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to hide your smile as she sauntered off into the living room.

You already had absolutely no intention of letting Marcus go, not if you could help it.

#marcus rashford #marcus rashford imagine #marcus rashford oneshot #fluff #manchester united #man utd #marcus rashford x reader #england nt #football #footballer x reader

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haruno-sakura-san · 3 years

Text

So I'm playing around with this idea for a Fic I'm writing called Altered. I'm just trying to get some thoughts down about it. Let me know what you think.

Shikamaru

Tsunade died quickly and painlessly one morning before her retirement. Shikamaru was sure it was the punch line of some cosmic joke at her expense. He wouldn’t be surprised in 20 years he was the butt of a similar one. Both of them hated the job and both worked tirelessly forward. So he supposed it just couldn’t be helped.

The funeral was huge. Kage and shinobi from all villages came to pay respects to the woman who saved the lives of thousands in the war and who’s leadership had come to bring together all the shinobi nations in peace. Each Kage made a speech that was some variant of this narrative, standing in a noble line to the side of her portrait, large enough for the entire gathering to see. On the end, flanking Kakashi, was the only non-hokage, Sakura.

Her frame was small. Smaller than most of the Kage lined beside her, but it was sturdy and unshakable to Shikamaru’s surprise. She wasn’t crying. So often he’d seen Sakura break down, over teammates and Sasuke and strangers, but now of all times her face was dry. She looked strong, respectful, at peace. A mirror of Tsunade’s portrait on display. The perfect apprentice.

“Wasn’t she the one that found her?” Temari asked. She’d followed his gaze to Sakura’s form.

“Ah,” he affirmed, not sure what else to say.

“Must have sucked,” Temari said, and for some reason this made Shikamaru a little irritated.

Sucked. Sucked? Shikamaru knew first hand how much it sucked seeing your teacher die in front of you and having no way to stop. Sucked didn’t even begin to describe it.

Sakura had worn that face when she’d marched into the Hokage’s office, like it was any other day. She didn’t look dazed or broken, but she wasn’t smiling her normal cheery smile.

This was the only clue she’d give as she squared off in front of Kakashi’s desk and said plain as day, “Tsunade passed away this morning. We should begin making arrangements before word gets too far.”

Both him and Kakashi froze.

“Mah, Sakura. That’s not a very funny joke so early in the morning,” Kakashi recovered more quickly than he had.

“It's not early. Its noon. It's not a joke.” She didn’t snap and this shook Shikamaru more than if she’d stormed across the room and slapped her Hokage across the face. Normally she’d snap. But this was just a tired statement of fact after fact.

“How did it happen?” Shikamaru asked, still in shock. He remembered Tsunade barreling in just a few days ago, informing, not requesting, her leave from the hospital for retirement. Kami knows I’ve earned it.

Sakura’s clear gaze turned on him and he felt the weight of his body acutely. Maybe it was that lack of smile.

“A heart attack. It was quick. She was gone before she could feel any pain.”

Kakashi swiveled in his chair, peering out the window at the cloudless blue sky. Not appropriate weather for news like this.

“I see.” Is all he said. Processing, Shikamaru guessed. “Didn’t even get a chance to retire.”

Shikamaru stifled the dry, ironic laugh itching at his throat. Or maybe he just needed a cigarette.

“No,” was all Sakura said.

“Who else knows?” Kakashi now all business.

“Just me and a nurse I trust to stay quiet until an announcement is made.”

Shikamaru felt the floor warp a little. “You were there when it happened?”

This time she did smile. Yeah, isn’t that just the darnedest thing? “Yes. I did everything I could to save her, but there was nothing I could do.”

He knew she wishes there would have been.

“Where is the body” Kakashi asked. Shikamaru winced. The body. Such a careless way to say it.

“It's already been taken care of.” Sakura lowered her eyes to a knot in the wood flooring.

Kakashi let out a weary breath and Shikamaru could tell he wished it wouldn’t have been Sakura taking care of it.

“Sakura,” Kakashi still looked out the window, “We can take this from here. Take some time off and see one of the counselors or be with your friends.”

“With all due respect, there much to be done at the hospital with Tsunade’s departure. I’ll continue working, Hokage-sama.” She bowed stiffly, the Tsunade’s departure hanging in the air. Departure, like she’d just left for retirement and that was that. Shikamaru wondered if that’s what Sakura was thinking. Just that she’d left like planned and she was supposed to carry on. The good little apprentice.

A long moment passed. A battle of wills.

“No,” Kakashi finally said. “You need time to grieve.”

Finally, some of the fire comes out in Sakura. “So do you, but you’re not taking time off, are you? We both have jobs to do here – important jobs - and I’m not going to sit on my ass eating icecream and crying into teddy bears while her hospital goes to shit -”

“Sakura this is not negotiable.”

“I’m fine.” And she does sound fine. “I. Am. Fine.”

They exchange a look loaded with history Shikamaru isn’t privy to. He watches for a moment, then two, wishing he could shrink away and become shadow.

“Thank you,” Sakura says tightly and walks out of the room. If Kakashi gave any sign he assented, Shikamaru didn’t catch it.

“Was it really a heart attack?” Temari says in the present. Shikamaru blinks twice, extracting himself from the memory.

“Ah,” he grunts in confirmation, wishing she’d drop it.

“Seems like it’d take more than that to take her out.” Temari speculates. Again, he’s irritated by her casual tone over the matter. “I mean, she was literally blown apart in the war and she still survived that. The woman was tough as they come. Seems like a little heart attack –,”

“Drop it.” Shikamaru barks, surprising himself. He’s not one to ever take a tone with her, not one to lose control over anything. But the past week has done something to him though, dredged up old memories of Asuma lying still and cold and it frays him at the edges.

Temari opens her mouth to snap back, ever strong-headed, but he interrupts, eyes turning toward Sakura’s steady form, his mind flashing between now and then.

“If Sakura says that’s what happened. That’s what happened.” It's too much trouble to think further than that. So he believes it. He has to. “She did everything she could, so just drop it.”

For now, she does. But he’d be an idiot to think the discussion was completely over.

Sakura

Tsunade was dead. Her teacher was dead. The teacher that believed in her and saw in her what Kakashi and all the rest hadn’t was dead. And she’d just walked into Kakashi’s office and lied through her teeth about every single part of it.

Tsunade didn’t die quickly and painlessly. It took several minutes for her spirit to finally untangle from her body and move on. Sakura watched it all happen.

It did happen suddenly. One breath she’d been discussing retirement plans then next – well. Sakura’s stomach turned. She hurried into the ladies' room and hurled her coffee up.

It’d been horrible. Nothing like Sakura had ever seen. And when it was over, nothing remained of the teacher she knew and loved. The image of Tsunade old, shriveled, blackened – Sakura dry heaves into the toilet again - wrong. So, so wrong and it wasn’t supposed to have happened like that. Sakura presses her forehead into the cool rim of the toilet, not caring how dirty might be. She deserved it. Tsunade didn’t.

Knowing how vain her teacher had been, she’d taken care of it. All of it. So that her teacher would have the dignified death she deserved. She had destroyed any evidence of the truth all on her own. And Sakura would carry it, her secret, until her dying breath.

#potentially a fic #sakura #shikamaru #shikasaku #eventually #but mostly mystery

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pollylynn · 3 years

Text

Offertory—A Season 4 Thanksgiving Caskett One-Shot

Title: Offertory WC: 1000 A/N: No Tell Me More tonight; I don’t know why this lame little scene occurred to me. Set Thanksgiving, Season 4, just after Kill Shot (4 x 09)

He’s sneaking back into the precinct, if you could call it sneaking. But he’s clanking and rustling and creaking. He’s laden down with shopping bags, paper, sisal, string, and otherwise, so sneaking probably isn’t the word for it.

Except she’s not sure what else to call it. It’s clear that he doesn’t want to be seen. He might be terrible at evading detection (he is absolutely terrible at evading detection), but it’s late in the evening. It’s shift change on the night before Thanksgiving, and loaded up like an an industrious little donkey or no, sneaking seems to be what he’s going for.

It’s a surprise to her, to say the least. Going unnoticed in the precinct has never been his MO, and lately—a flush creeps up beneath her collar as she thinks about lately—he hardly even bothers to make excuses for why he’s there early, why he stays late, why he hangs around, even when there’s absolutely nothing going on. And yet, here he is staring, perplexed, at the closed door to the back hallway entrance of the break room. That’s clearly the end game for whatever not-at-all-clandestine mission he’s on, but he’s avoiding the wide open door ten feet away, and in his current state, he doesn’t have a hand to spare.

“Sneaking around, Castle?” She can’t help herself. She’s been sneaking, too, but she’s actually good at it. He spins toward her and jumps a hundred feet in the air, and it’s a wonder he doesn’t clock himself in the face—or worse, clock her in the face—with one of the bags that’s obviously heavy enough to be classified as a deadly weapon.

“Beckett!” He hisses. The stage whisper draws roughly the same amount of attention as stripping naked and yelling Fire would have. Heads swivel in their direction. Faces appear behind the bullpen mesh as people rise half way out of their desk chairs to see who is trying and failing to get away with something. He turns ten shades of red. She, for good measure, turns ten different shades of red. “You’re still . . . here.” He doesn’t sound thrilled about it.

“And you’re back,” she snaps like they’re having who can sound less thrilled competition. “With all your worldly goods.”

He looks down at himself in surprise. The handles of two or three bags are biting into his hand badly enough to turn the skin white, yet he’s looking down at himself as though he’s genuinely managed to forget that he’s carrying what must be forty pounds of something.

“I was just—“ he stammers and tries to gesture but his hands are far from free. He knocks himself in the one with something that sounds heavy and metallic. He swallows down a yelp. “The food drive,” he mumbles. His eyes are on the cracked tile of the hallway as though they’re in the box and she’s finally broken him. “I thought the food drive looked a little . . .” In sync, their gazes swivel to peer through the break room window where a counter, one of the tall cafe tables, huge barrel and several enormous boxes are overflowing. “ . . . thin,” he finishes lamely.

“Right.” She rolls her eyes and relieves him of a bag or three. She manages the door and waves him inside ahead of her.

The unload bag after bag. They stack and re-stack things in and around goods that are already there to make better use of the space. They work, side by side in a silence that’s awkward for no earthly reason she can think of.

“I think that’s—“ He swaps canned yams for cranberry sauce and powdered milk for jarred pasta sauce. “Yep, I think we’re good.”

HIs tone is brisk. It’s aggressively cheerful and it’s clear he wants out of there so badly that she half expects to see his feet making cartoon circles a few inches above the floor as he breaks for the exits.

“You were sneaking,” she blurts. She sounds sullen and ridiculous. “Why were you sneaking food in?”

“I wasn’t sneaking it in.” He’s going for a scoff, but even he’s not convinced. He remembers his fascination with the tile again. “I was just bringing it in when I figured no one would be around.”

She doesn’t say anything. She’s not exactly waiting him out. She’s too preoccupied with the fizzing, unreasonable sense of sense of hurt coursing through her to really be up for interrogation tactics.

“It was the Captain’s thing,” he says quietly. “Roy’s.” He fiddles with the empty sisal bag he’s folded up small. “I wanted to do something, but I didn’t know—“

“Roy.” She smiles to herself. It’s not entirely painless. She remembers last year, the Captain in a ludicrous pilgrim hat, shaking everyone down, uniforms and plainclothes alike, for boxes and canned goods—for cash if they “forgot” one too many days in a row. She remembers him beaming as the volunteers from the food bank made trip after trip to haul away the enormous stash they’d amassed just on the fourth floor. “It was his thing.”

“I didn’t know—“ he breaks off as though he needs to get a look at her before he decides whether or not to go on. Whatever he sees decides him, or maybe it’s just lately that decides him, and he does go on, a little more boldly. “I don’t know where you are with him. With everything. I didn’t want to remind you if—“

“I’ve been thinking about him all day,” she cuts in. She laughs. It’s more than a little watery. “That stupid hat.” She leans heavily back against the counter. “I don’t know where I am. But I was thinking about him."

“Me too,” he says as though that’s it exactly He closes the distance between them. He takes up the unoccupied real estate next to her and leans back. Their elbows brush. The awkwardness dissolves. They stare jointly at the fascinating tile. “I was thinking about him.”

A/N: I wanted them to go for a drink. They would not go for a drink.

#Castle #Caskett #Castle: Season 4 #Kate Beckett #Richard Castle #Roy Montgomery #Fic #Fanfic #Fanfiction #Fan Fic #Fan Fiction #Writing #Thanksgiving

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mxrekai · 4 years

Note

I LOVE the RoyJay Flower x Tattoo shop AU. I can't wait for more :3

Awe thank you 🥺

Here’s part 3 🥰

CW: Piercings, slightly provocative content!

Oh boy, the work and research I had to do to pump this chapter out. I got queasy many times because I can’t really handle needles well, but ayeeee I survived for the readers!

This is not proofread, feel free to point out mistakes are wonky sentences! I’ll gladly rewrite them!

Jason lifted his shirt over his head, removing the piece of clothing that was covering his body.

Roy’s done piercings before, and he’s seen tons of clients shirtless in his years of working as a tattoo artist. But nothing could have prepared him for the greek god standing before him.

He watched with a close gaze as Jason spun around the room and landed in the swivel chair, causing it to slightly turn and direct Jason’s body into the light of the evening.

Roy couldn’t stop his jaw from dropping to the floor.

Jason’s abs glimmered in the sunlight as he put his arms behind his head, presenting his full torso as the muscles contracted and stretched under pale skin that was suddenly a little less pale under the glowing light.

Roy was suddenly hyper aware of what he was doing. Shit, what if he messed up or Jason didn’t like the piercings and did the wrong thing when taking them out? He didn’t want the guy to be in pain, he didn’t want anyone to be in pain (except those who deserve it).

“So uh,” Roy wet his lips. “you know what to expect right? The pain?”

Jason nodded. “Yeah,”

“Okay,” Roy returned the nod while walking over towards his station to start collecting the items he’d need to pierce Jason with.

“Stand up for me?” Roy asked.

Jason did as he was told and rose from the chair, studying Roy’s movements as he came closer to him until he was standing in front of him.

“Do I have permission to touch you?”

Jason couldn’t stop the way his eyes pale ears turned a light shade of pink.

“Yeah, totally. Do what you need to do.”

They both nodded at each other as Jason spread his arms and Roy bent his knees, kneeling down. Roy looked to Jason for permission one last time before tearing the packaging with his teeth and extracting a sanitary napkin with the tips of his fingers.

Jason was not going to think about how hot that was.

Roy came closer with the wipe until it’s moist surface was upon Jason’s nipple, spreading its juice over smooth skin, killing any germs and bacteria that may have laid upon the area. Roy did the same thing to the other nipple, cleaning it as thoroughly as he cleaned the first one. By the time Roy was done both buds were glistening with moisture in the sunlight.

Roy wordlessly picked a marker from the pile and drew two mini circles on both side of Jason’s nipples, checking his work and smiling at it proudly.

“Okay, done!” Roy chimed. “Can you lay down on the waiting couch for me?”

Jason nodded and stretched one last time before stalking over to the couch and laying down.

Roy grabbed a forcep and a quirk, approaching Jason with steady caution as to not spook the man in case he was already scared. Who was he kidding? The man had a face of glee the whole time he was here, it’d be unlikely for him to back out now.

A shiver ran down Jason’s spine as Roy clutched his nipple with the cold metal of the forceps, he could feel a bud pressing up against his nipple from the side, probably the quirk.

“Deep breath in for me.” Roy’s voice took on a serious tone. “This is going to hurt!”

Jason did as the man said and breathed in, holding the air in his lungs, his eyes shut tight as he waited for the incoming pain of a needle being run through his nipple.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little scared. Yes, him and pain were on good terms with each other but that still doesn’t mean he wasn’t worried about the consequences of his actions.

Jason couldn’t stop the whine that escaped his lips as the needle went through his sensitive bud. He watched with lidded eyes as a shiver went down Roy’s spine. He felt cold liquid being sprayed on his now piercing nipple and a towel go over it.

He sighed in relief as he lifted his head to watch Roy put the barrels on, the shiny beads glistened in the light.

Roy repeated the same process and the same structure of words, telling Jason to take a deep breath and piercing the other nipple. He gently placed the barrels on the needle as he did the first one.

“You’re done!” Roy chimed.

Part 4 coming soon!

#Jason Todd #Roy Harper #Jayroy #Royjay #Tattoo shop and flower AU #red hood #red arrow #arsenal #robin ii

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birdiepi · 4 years

Note

hi i really love your fics!! can i pls request changkyun smut/angst with reader interrupting him whilst he’s working in his studio? thank u

Thank you so much for your request! I had fun writing this one, it’s a bit longer than my usual ones, but I hope you enjoy it~

down (m)

~pairing: changkyun x reader

~genre: smut and angst

~word count: 1.6k

~warnings: 18+, thigh riding, fingering, submissiveness, blowjob, just mean!changkyun if I’m being honest, this is filthy and I feel like it might be too detailed but oh well

~a/n: okay just a little side note, I couldn’t resist the quote from love killa soooo yeah :) enjoy

If you had anything better to do with your time, it probably wouldn’t have gone like this. If Changkyun didn’t have a bad temper, then… maybe you wouldn’t have pushed him this way.

He’s slouching in his chair, tapping his hand almost forcefully on the wood of the desk. In the time you have been standing in the doorway, he has raked his hand through his hair for the seventh time.

He’s frustrated.

‘Changkyun?’ you say, edging into the room slowly, closing the door behind you.

‘No,’ he says.

‘You haven’t even heard what I’m going to say yet.’ An arm of yours drapes across the back of his seat. You want to be close to him, he hasn’t said a word to you since you came to visit him.

‘Because now is not the time for interruptions.’

Your arm drops and returns to your side. An interruption? Your eyes turn away, taking a moment to look around the small room. His purple lights brought a sense of bravery to you as it put a haze over your glance towards him.

‘So, I’m just an interruption? I thought you liked it when I came to see you at work…’

His hand froze before it could assault the desk again. Letting out a small breath through his nose, he turned his head to the side, not looking at you but being more direct. Changkyun’s hair covered most of his face, falling into his eyes and curling upon the highest point of his cheek.

‘Look, darling,’ he says, sourly, ‘I’m a little busy right now, if you haven’t already noticed. But I promise, if you be quiet now, I’ll give you something to be loud about later. Okay?’

No. Not okay, not after you speak to me like that.

You move to sit on the edge of his desk, blocking his way to the mouse of the computer. He sits up straight now and looks at you through lazy eyes, one eyebrow raised. It’s a challenge.

‘It doesn’t look like you’re that busy. In fact, it doesn’t look like you’ve gotten anything done since the last time I kindly took it upon myself to check on you.’

You’re being bold and you know it. Trying to brush over his last comment isn’t easy. Your neck is getting hot and you clench your thighs together automatically, all the while trying to remain calm in front of Changkyun. But it doesn’t go unnoticed by him.

His breathy chuckle is soon muffled by his hand before he looks up at you. Snatching your wrist, he pulls you away from the desk to stand in front of him as he swivelled the chair to face you.

You have probably gone too far but you wouldn’t have left without putting up some sort of resistance. You break eye contact with him, cursing the room for being too small to have any excuse for not looking at him.

‘Down,’ is all he says.

Your body’s immediate response – which you don’t fight – is to kneel.

‘Good girl. Now,’ he spreads his legs to lean forward, elbows resting across his thighs, ‘You’re not being very patient today, are you?’

You still aren’t looking at him.

He doesn’t force the turn of your head. Instead he says, ‘Look into my eyes. Straight into my eyes.’

You obey.

Changkyun’s hand reaches out to caress your chin and jaw, despite the harsh tones in his voice, he’s gentle with his touch. You struggle to hold your eyes to his and not get lost in the warmth of his palm.

‘I just, I wanted–’

‘Shh, you wanted my attention. Now you have it.’ His feet move outwards, dig into the floor and drag him closer to you. Your face is now deeper between his legs and your breath almost stops completely. ‘Remember what I said? If you were good, then you could have had your way but since you couldn’t wait,’ he leans close to your face, holding you by your whole jaw, ‘you’re not allowed to make a single sound.’

A whimper escaped your lips. An immediate failure.

Changkyun holds your gaze while he leans back into his chair, tapping his thigh as the first instruction.

You stand, sitting close to him on one of his legs. His hands find their spot on your hips and guide them back and forth. You pull a lip into your mouth in hopes of not making any sound but the weight he’s putting into his push is making it difficult.

His thigh is flexing beneath you. Your legs are already quivering at the sensation. He begins to unbutton the fly of your shorts and presses his thumbs into the skin where your stomach meets your leg.

You almost collide with him when you fold over at the feeling; he knows it’s a sensitive spot for you. A hand flies to your mouth after you realise you let out a half-strangled moan.

‘What did I say, baby?’ A sharp slap meets the side of your hip, making you jolt into his and press hard into his thigh.

He doesn’t wait for an answer and slips his hand into your underwear, his fingers exploring with no mercy.

One of your hands grip his shoulder when one of his digits slip inside you. It’s not long before he inserted two more fingers into you. You bite down onto his neck, earning a growl from deep in his chest. Pulling you back by a firm grip on the nape of your neck, those same fingers of his are shoved into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue.

‘We have to something about this tongue of yours, darling, it’s getting brave,’ he says, his other arm around your back, supporting you as you lean back.

You look down at him through the tears welling up in your eyes. When he finally releases your face, you breathe deeply to try and contain yourself.

Changkyun throws you off his lap, taking less that ten seconds to rid you of the rest of your clothes before standing back to admire you. He kicks the chair and it rolls backwards into the furthest wall.

He points to the floor.

Down.

From below him, you watch patiently as he frees his hard length from his jeans. Placing the tip onto your lips, you kiss him before letting your jaw slacken. All softness is lost. He grips the back of your head and barrels into your mouth until you can’t see anything but a dark purple hue.

The first time he pulls out, you grip his hips, putting your chin onto his lower abdomen and say, ‘I’m sorry, I didn–’

He slips his dick back into your mouth without saying anything, making sure to get a few sharp pounds in before letting you go and kneeling down to face you.

His lips move against yours, laced with desperation. This is the first kiss Changkyun has given you today and you melt into it, realising from this short moment, that this is what he needed all day. He pulls away, pressing a few more kisses to your forehead, nose and corner of your mouth.

Changkyun’s delicacy returned, with half a breath he says, ‘Turn around.’

You do as you’re told, this time with barely restrained eagerness.

He teases your entrance, licking your pussy once before sliding in slowly.

One of your hands fly to your mouth, stifling the groan. The stretch was too much. Your upper body bends into the floor, unable to hold yourself up anymore, your cheek against the carpet.

His hand starts to travel up the length of your back as his pace quickens, the warmth of his palm being spread across your spine.

You want to move your hips with him, but he bruises your skin from holding you so tightly in place, snapping his hips sharply. With every grunt of his, you lost more and more hope of holding in your whimpers and cries.

‘You’re doing so well, baby, it’s okay, let me hear you,’ he says.

The sobs wreck your frame nearly as much as he is. Hearing the sounds you have for him, make his thrusts more aggressive, going deep inside you with an unmatched force.

He pulls you up by your forearm, your back pressing into his bare chest. A wide hand settles around your neck, slightly squeezing from the strength he’s using to destroy you.

You can’t think of whether your words make sense. Everything begins and end with Changkyun as your head lolls back to rest on his shoulder.

‘I can’t anymore, please, I need to – ah! Don’t stop.’

You scream from new stimulation when his fingers go down to rub your clit, in time with his lips latching onto the soft skin of your neck.

Snapping his hips sharply a few last times, you both meet your release.

You fall forwards, catching yourself on your hands, still trembling from the sheer bliss of this man’s touch.

A few seconds of you trying to steady your breathing pass before you feel long arms wrap around your body and scoop you up to sit in the lap of a crossed-legged

stands, still cradling you in his arms, ‘Come, let’s get you cleaned up.’ Changkyun.

He leans down to meet your lips with his, all tenderness and light breathing.

‘I’m sorry for calling you an interruption,’ he says, his fingers brushing across the length of your thigh, ‘I didn’t mean it like that – or to upset you.’

‘I know, it must be hard being in here, day in and day out without proper rest,’ you say.

He rests his forehead onto yours, taking in your scent. ‘You’re too good to me.’ Changkyun

‘Wait,’ you press a hand into his chest and tuck a lock of his hair behind his ear, ‘can we go again?’

~thanks for reading~

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magnoliasinbloom · 4 years

Text

Crash Course Love

Infinite thanks to @anna-swims and @lcbeauchampoftarth for being awesome betas.

AO3 :: Previously

12: Past Tense [Claire]

I’d been dreaming of Jamie.

I had dreamed of his hands roving all over me, touching me, pleasuring me. I thought I had dreamt his hand on my breast, his arousal pressed against my bum, and I shamelessly ground my body on his, in my lust-fueled dream. The sound of his voice had hit me and it had stopped being a dream.

I’d made it become reality. I’d gone for broke and kissed him, and more. What on earth had possessed me to do that?

You’re insanely attracted to him, that’s why.

He hadn’t rejected me, and for that I was grateful. But now paranoia had set in and I was worried about what our encounter would do to our budding friendship. Afterwards, I had felt a little stilted and awkward. He gave no outward sign of discomfort, but was attentive and polite as usual.

But now that I knew what Jamie looked like in the throes of passion, starting a conversation became doubly hard. The roads had been cleared, the snow storm having spent itself in a night. After breakfast with his family and being hugged goodbye by everyone (including my vague promise to Ellen about coming back soon), he had driven me home; the radio was on a little bit loud, breaking up the silence between us. We managed a few half-smiles, a brush of hands here and there, and a promise to call each other soon. We had a wedding to attend, after all.

I had a few texts from Louise and a voicemail, who wanted to go over the flower arrangements one final time, now that the wedding invitations had been mailed and RSVPs were pouring in, including mine. The wedding was set in a few weeks, right before Christmas. The shop was closed on Mondays, but I texted her back so we could meet up later that week. I did a load of laundry. I went over some invoices for the shop. And all the while, in the back of my head, the memory of Jamie’s mouth and hands on me lingered.

The ringing of my phone startled me out of my reverie; Jamie Fraser flashed on the screen, and my heart pounded in double-time. The tension in my shoulders eased and I felt something unclench in my stomach I hadn’t even realized was there.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Sassenach, it’s Jamie. Well, o’ course ye ken that, mobiles show ye who’s calling, don’t they. But why do we always answer the phone like we dinna ken who’s calling, right?”

“Hi, Jamie. You know, you’re right about that. I’ll start answering my phone differently from now on.” I laughed, set further at ease by the Scottish burr of his voice.

“Och, weel, I just wanted to thank ye for accompanying me to lunch. And being so nice to my family. They absolutely loved ye, I think ye could tell. And I wanted to say… sorry. I guess. For the… this morning, ye ken. In case ye were regretting it. Or if ye think I was out of line.”

“Actually, Jamie, I was hoping you didn’t think I was out of line.” My hands fiddled with the papers on the table. “I think I was pretty clear about what I wanted. But maybe you didn’t want to be pawed at and I don’t want you to think that it’s all I wanted from you. You’re my friend, and I wouldn’t want this to come between us.”

“Friend?” Jamie repeated.

“Of course, I consider you my friend,” I said, confused. “Aren’t we friends?”

“Aye, of course, Claire.” He paused. “There was one more thing I wanted to ask ye. As friends, then.”

“Sure.”

“I meant to ask ye out. On a proper date.” Jamie’s tone went up on the last word, making it sound like a question.

“A date.”

“A real one. Not just coffee—unless that’s what ye would like, of course. But I thought perhaps dinner.”

“Yes.” I didn’t hesitate any longer. My fingers gripped the phone tightly, and the swooping feeling of butterflies was back in my stomach, but for a good reason.

“Really?” Jamie asked, incredulous.

I laughed again. “Yes, Jamie, I’m saying yes. Would this Friday be alright?”

“Sounds perfect. Shall I pick ye up at 7? Did ye have anything in mind that ye’d like?”

“Whatever you choose will be fine. I trust you.”

He didn’t know how much.

- - -

For the rest of the week, I spent my days dreaming about my date with Jamie. Date, date, date. A real date. I put in flower orders for bouquets and tended to the indoor plant boxes that held rosemary, parsley, and thyme, but all the while my thoughts were with Jamie.

After meeting Louise on Friday morning for some final wedding details, I left the shop in a hurry, already planning my outfit in my head. Dress up, or seem casual? Maybe a mix of both? As I ransacked my closet, pulling out shirts and jeans and the few dresses I owned, I decided to call Geillis.

“I have a date tonight.” I didn’t even bother to say hello as soon as she answered.

“Ye do?” Geillis Duncan was one of the few people in Glasgow who’d made Frank and me feel welcome back when we were new to the city. She owned a small but popular café near the flower shop. Our friendship had survived my breakup; it dawned on me that we hadn’t talked to each other in a couple of weeks, and she knew nothing about Jamie. I filled her in on some of the details, keeping the most recent private ones to myself.

“So he’s picking me up in like, an hour, and I don’t know what to wear!” I wailed, trying to zip up the back of a dress and giving up in frustration.

“It sounds like ye’re overthinking this, Beauchamp,” Geillis said. “Why don’t I come over now and lend ye my black skirt ye like so much and the yellow top? It’ll bring out the color of yer eyes, I’m sure Jamie will love ye in it.” She was giggling madly at the idea.

“Don’t tease me, Geil, I’m so not in the mood right now. But thank you.”

We hung up, and twenty minutes later she was at my door, helping me with my hair and make-up after I had dressed. I knew there was an ulterior motive to her being at my flat, and she confirmed in no uncertain terms that she wanted to see Jamie herself.

“Geillis, please don’t—”

“Relax, Claire. I just want to see the lad’s whose bonny red hair has ye in such a fluster.”

“You have red hair, you know.”

Geillis clucked. “’Tis not the same, and ye ken it. When will he be here?”

Before I could respond, there was a knock at the front door. It was promptly seven o’clock, and I glanced at Geillis in a panic. She smoothed down the skirt and pushed me towards the entrance. Heart pounding, very much aware that Geillis was peering gleefully around the hall for a glimpse of Jamie, I opened the door to find a very dapper Jamie. In dark jeans, a pressed sky-blue shirt and a black coat. The hues of his outfit brought out the intense sapphire of his eyes as his own gaze raked me over and seemed please at what he saw. I blushed.

“Hello, Sassenach.” He leaned in to kiss my cheek and his fingers lingered briefly on my arm. I caught the scent of his cologne, like tart lemons and spice.

“Hi, Jamie.” We stood there for a few seconds that seemed an eternity, before a loud harrumph and a fake cough from Geillis broke us out of our reverie. Jamie peered into the flat as I quickly grabbed my purse from the kitchen table where I’d left it before.

“Is there someone here with ye, Sassenach?”

“It’s my friend Geillis, but don’t worry, you don’t need to meet her and she was just leaving. Weren’t you, Geil?” I raised my voice for her benefit as I led Jamie out of the flat. “Lock up when you go!” I shut the door on one of her loud laughs; I was sure to hear from her later.

We walked to the stairs and Jamie tentatively reached for my hand. I grasped it firmly and squeezed in reassurance. Traipsing down the stairs, and remembering the last time we had done so together, I felt stupidly happy and shy all at once.

The restaurant he’d chosen was a low-key pub tucked into one of Glasgow’s winding alleys. We ordered wine and the awkwardness that I’d feared after our previous encounter was gone. Jamie and I talked animatedly about our week; my preparations for the upcoming wedding and flower arrangements, and he told me of the distillery and all the Christmas orders they had to fill.

“I was thinking of a new special blend; aging whisky in tequila barrels, not regular oak. The flavor is more complex, so different from what I’ve tasted. I plan to call it something like da anam, two souls.”

“That sounds very different! Where would you get the barrels?”

Jamie spoke of partnering up with several tequila producers in Mexico, as I speared rosemary potatoes with my fork; all the while we poured glass after glass of ruby wine for each other. Conversation flowed between us just as effortlessly.

Over dessert sometime later, I felt the back of my neck prickling. I sensed eyes on me, and they weren’t Jamie’s. It felt wrong, somehow.

I turned my head slightly and found Frank looking at me. He was with Sandy; he quickly bowed his head and shifted his attention elsewhere. I felt my face flush. I swiveled back and dropped my fork with a clatter.

“Sassenach? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t—it-it’s Frank.”

“Where?” He looked around wildly and I shushed him and clamped my hands on his arm in desperation.

“He’s back there, with the blonde. Just—be discreet.” Jamie got a good long look and then leaned in to whisper quietly.

“Didn’t ye say Sandy—his fiancée, with the giant ring ye mentioned. Wasn’t she supposed to be pregnant?”

“She might have had the baby, I don’t know. Her stomach was pretty big last time I saw her.” I sneaked another look.

It wasn’t Sandy.

She was blonde like Frank’s fiancée, but this wasn’t her. She looked even younger, fresher-faced, and was definitely not pregnant.

Cheating, lying, bastard.

I took deep breaths and Jamie ran a hand soothingly down my back. I shivered and grabbed my coat off the back of my chair.

“Jamie, I’m sorry, can we go?”

“Of course, Sassenach.” After quickly settling the check, he stood up as unobtrusively as a six-foot man ever could and pulled out my chair. He put his arm around me as we walked quickly to the exit.

It was inevitable that we pass by Frank’s table, though. The restaurant was a bit crowded and the layout made it impossible to avoid him. As we did, I got up the courage to meet his eye, bolstered by Jamie’s warm hand on my back. He wore a shamed expression, and could not hold my gaze. The woman stared back curiously at us, and I heard her ask him who I was.

“No one,” Frank replied, a slight tremor in his voice. Jamie tightened his grip on me, and I knew he’d heard him too.

Jamie came to a sudden halt near their table; he turned to face me, and with a soft whispered, “I hope ye dinna mind this,” pressed a soft kiss to my pursed lips. I opened my mouth in surprise, and he continued to probe gently. I found my arms rising to encircle his waist, clutching at the back of his coat. I dimly heard Frank clear his throat and murmur something unintelligible. I had ceased to care, though, lost in the fog of kissing Jamie.

Jamie’s mouth trailed across my cheek. “Dinna listen to him, Sassenach,” he whispered as he nuzzled my ear. “Ye’re so much more than ye know.”

- - -

A/N: I finished writing it out, so new chapters will post on Thursday. Finally, a schedule! The whisky in tequila barrels is actually a thing. Can’t find an English link, though. Thanks for all your likes, reblogs, comments. <3

#outlander #outlander fanfic #jamie and claire #CCL12 #/17 #we're getting there #i'm not a drinker

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dannyphantom-rewrite · 3 years

Note

What's "how to get to cracker barrel" ?

Oh now that, that one isn't Actually a wip. It's a short story I finished ages ago that later ended up being inspiration for one of the plotlines in an anthology style audio drama podcast I want to make some day. There's 4 main characters:

The Mckellen sisters Jamie and Lady who aren't Actually sisters but pass rather well for twins since one of them is actually a changeling, Natalie Anderson, photographer and lady's GF, and Gavin Walker, a mage still haunted by the death of his fiance, Caleb Adams, mostly due to the fact that his fucking ghost won't leave him alone.

Art by @unded-bun (click image for higher quality)

I'm leaving out a lot of details, but I'd be happy to fill in the gaps if anyone asks.

I'll Also throw the story itself under a read more here, bc I'm still super proud of it even though it's a few years old now.

A small hotel on the outskirts of Savannah, Georgia. There is a Sonic Drive-in across the busy street. Bright neon lights in the window state, “Open 24/7!” A Greyhound bus is idling in the parking lot. A man, Gavin Walker, climbs off and crosses over to the hotel. He walks easily, but not confidently. Approaching the hotel’s entrance, he spots a cat eating from a plastic bowl in front of the door. The feline is small, and feral. He is black, with white paws. He does not pay Gavin any mind as he enters, only continuing to crunch on dry cat food.

There's a desk on the left side of the lobby. The receptionist smiles kindly as he checks in. Her eyes are tired. Gavin gives her a knowing nod, and travels deeper into the building. There is a sign marked, “Out Of Order.” on the elevator. This is a good thing. Gavin takes the stairs, of which there are three flights. This is also a good thing, because three is a good number. He enters the hallway, which is old, and worn. The walls bear chipped yellow paint, and the floor, faded red carpet. Gavin continues down the hall after checking the time on his phone. It is exactly 11:59PM. He turns the device off and begins to count the seconds. At sixty he has stopped in front of the elevator. The fluorescent light above him flickers. The elevator does not have an out of order sign on it. It is the same elevator as before. Gavin enters.

He presses the button for the first floor. In the lobby the check in desk is now on the opposite side of the room. The lights are off, the receptionist is gone. It is daytime outside now. The bus is gone and the Sonic is closed. The road is vacant. There is a cat outside. She is white, with black paws. She looks up at Gavin as he approaches. They lock eyes, and he kneels in front of her.

“Hello, cat.” He says.

“Hello, Mage.” Says the cat.

She flicks her tail, “What is it you seek?”

“Direction.”

She nods and stands, before making for the road. The Sonic across the street is closed, but it was never empty. A Sonic is not a sit down restaurant. Customers are expected to pull into a parking spot and order over an intercom, and then a waitress delivers their meal directly to their car. Gavin’s pretty sure places like Sonic were more common in the 1950’s, and he knows that drive in diners are a dying breed now a days. The thought gives him a strange sense of nostalgia for something he’d never actually experienced, and he shudders involuntarily.

The cat sits down in the parking spot furthest from the building. She watches as he presses the the button on the intercom, listens, ears swiveling, as they are greeted with static. Looking out of the corner of his eye, Gavin can see something moving within the darkened restaurant. An outline of a figure, only vaguely humanoid. The thing moves like a deranged ape, long, long arms dangling to the floor and dragging it forward. Its back is hunched, legs short and stumpy. Gavin can not see its face, and he does not wish to. The intercom crackles to life.

“WhAt can aH’ do fER ya’lL?” Drawls The Thing in the Sonic. It’s got a southern accent thicker than congeling visera, and the pitch of it’s voice fluctuates wildly. Gavin glances uncertainly at the cat, and she nods.

“I’m looking for Direction.”

“Ahhhhhh……” groans The Thing, “WEll, watch’ Yer goNna wanna dO is hEad doWn the road, bout maybeEEee…..foUr, five miLeS, an’ yer gOnna wanna look fer’ weEl, watch yer gonna wanna fiNd is soMeTHing’ idEaliZed, ya knOw? Like uh, somethin’ kinDa romanticized, an’ a liTtlE faKe in sOme senSe but reAlLy true in anOther, ya follow?”

“Yeah.” said Gavin, even though he did not follow at all.

“Yep,” Continued The Thing, “n’ yer gOnna wanna gEt yourself sOme rasPberRy lemONade when ya get theRe, It’s some gOod shit, lemme tell ya.”

“Alright, I’ll uh, I’ll do that.”

“Good, GoOd, That’s Good. Y'all have a niIiiccceee daaaaaay nooooow.” And then the intercom crackled once more, and returned to spewing static. Gavin released the button and looked around for the cat, hoping, maybe, for some more guidance, but she had long since abandoned him. He started walking down the road, away from the Sonic Drive-In, and The Thing inside, and hopefully towards where he needed to be.

Gavin started to think as he walked, which was not something he liked to do often. He much prefered to act in the moment without much consideration for the consequences of those actions until they themselves became the moment. Gavin did not like to think because he often thought much too deeply, and it sometimes scared him. Gavin thought about a lot of different things in quick succession, he thought about the missing greyhound bus, and The Thing in the Sonic, and wondered if the disappearance of one had to do anything with the appearance of the other. It probably did. He thought about what The Thing had told him to do, and why he was doing it. He thought about why he’d come here in the first place, to this inverted little section of Georgia. And he thought about Liminal Spaces, about busted elevators and darkened hotel hallways and empty stairwells. The air shifted suddenly as a pickup truck speed past him, it had a faded confederate flag on the back window.

Liminal Spaces, simply put, were the areas between one place and another. The small spots in the middle of point A and point B where reality seems to be altered in such a way that the change is almost imperceptible, and yet, it is still enough to leave you feeling so impossibly strange.

Liminal Spaces can also be doorways, if one knows how to properly open them.

Gavin isn’t sure how long he’s been walking down this empty stretch of road, but it’s been long enough that he can no longer see the Sonic Drive-in behind him. It’s not even a dot in the distance now, just gone, as though it were never there to begin with. He keeps going. He walks until his feet hurt, and his legs ache, and keeps going even after that. At some point he sticks his thumb out towards the road, tired enough to risk hitch-hiking, but no cars have gone by since the pickup truck. And at some point he takes a moment to rest. He sits down on the shoulder, and just breathes for a while. And then when he stands again, he sees the Cracker Barrel just down the road. Exhausted as he is, he knows it isn’t possible for him to not have seen it earlier. Gavin decides it’s best not to dwell on that, though, because this is exactly the kind of place where Cracker Barrels can just pop into existence. (Although, as he enters the restaurant, he remains somewhat annoyed that it couldn’t have decided to do it a little sooner.)

The front of the Cracker Barrel is a store selling all manner of things. There's a back corner full of vintage candy, a small section of organic make-ups, and another full of knick-knacks like salt and pepper shakers, and dreamcatchers, as well as the usual crap that tourists like to buy, T-shirts and mugs and what not. Gavin has never actually been in a “regular” Cracker Barrel, so he’s not sure if this is a completely normal thing, but he’s certain that a “regular” Cracker Barrel would not also be selling such wares as bottled crocodile tears and Unicorn meat slim jims. There aren’t a lot of people in the store, and yet Gavin finds it impossible to get a good look at any of them. The people look normal, but they move like extras in the background of a film. The only person in the room with any notable features is the waitress standing by the back. She’s short, and her hair and eyebrows have been dyed a vibrant blue. As Gavin follows her into the seating area he can't help but stare at her hair, and he finds himself thinking that it can’t possibly be dye, it’s too bright, somehow. She smiles at him as he sits, and her teeth are a just little too sharp.

Once he’s seated, she says, “Can I start you off with a drink?” Her voice has a pleasant, lilting tone to it.

Gavin thinks back to The Thing in the Sonic, “A Raspberry Lemonade? If that’s something you have here?”

She nods, and goes off to get him one. Gavin leans back in his chair and takes in his surroundings, trying to relax. The decor in the Cracker Barrel has a sort of vintage, rustic feel to it, there’s things like black and white photos, and old advertisements on the walls. All the furniture looks antique. There are quite a few other customers present. Most of them look like the same nondescript folk from the front, but a few stand out. There’s a woman in the back corner, she’s dressed in black furs and her head is an ember eyed wolf skull. She’s sitting across from a man with the skull of a stag upon his shoulders, the antlers adorned with ivy. There’s something resembling a giant moth sitting two tables away, slowly crunching its way through a Caesar salad. Occasionally, there’s a figure leaning against the kitchen doors, they look as though they’re made up of television static. Gavin’s eyes start to hurt from trying to look at them, so he turns his attention to the menu instead. The waitress returns with his Raspberry Lemonade, and he orders the Country Fried Shrimp.

Gavin takes a sip of his drink and finds that he agrees with the Thing in the sonic. It’s definitely some good shit.

“Funny seeing you around here, Gav.”

Gavin looks up from his drink, almost spills it in surprise.

“Is this seat taken?”

Gavin manages to shake his head.

Caleb Adams pulls out the chair across from him and sits. Gavin stares at him. He’s wearing a T-shirt that reads, “NORMAL HOROSCOPES: Making your day a little more magic whether you like it or not.” Gavin’s not sure if it’s supposed to be advertising for a psychic’s shop or if it’s some strange indie band he’s never heard of. Knowing Caleb, it’s probably the latter.

He finally manages to speak, “You’re dead.”

“Yeah?” Caleb leans an elbow on the table, and props his head up in his hand, his smile never wavers, “And?”

“And- and I don’t know, Fuck, I don’t know.”

The waitress briefly interrupts his existential crisis by depositing his Country Fried Shrimp on the table. Gavin looks down at it and tries to focus on the smell of greasy seafood instead of the dead man sitting across from him.

“You seem confused.” Caleb’s voice sounds uncharacteristically sympathetic.

Gavin nods.

He sighs, frowning “Eat your lunch, and then we’ll talk.”

Gavin eats what he can, but it’s a large portion, and he’s somehow not that hungry. He takes a final bite, and pushes the plate across the table, silently offering Caleb the rest of the shrimp.

The barest hint of a smile returns to his face, “Thanks, but no.” And then he’s frowning again, “Why’re you here, Gav?”

“I just went where I was told to-”

He shakes his head, “No. I don’t mean the friggin’ Cracker Barrel, I mean Here.”

And Gavin doesn’t really know what to tell him. That he’s here because he felt lost and desperate? That he didn’t know what to do anymore? That it doesn’t matter anyway because he’s fine, everything's fine and he’s just tired?

But he doesn’t tell Caleb any of that, he just says, “I miss you.” And he can’t keep his voice from cracking.

“I know you do.” Caleb places a hand over his, “But this is damn near one of the dumbest things you’ve ever done. You knew this place wouldn’t be safe for you.”

He feels numb, “I didn’t really care.”

“Gavin,” Caleb grips his hand now, “Look at me, please. I mean, really look at me.”

So he does, he looks up at him, and finally, meets his eyes.

They have not changed. Death has not reduced the amount of compassion behind them, nor faded the sea blue color. Gavin stares. Eyes are supposed to be a window into someone's soul, a way to truly see into them, and Gavin just stares because Caleb’s eyes are still capable of conveying so much, and he can feel tears running down his face…..

“It’s time to go home, Gav, okay?” He gestures to the window, and the Greyhound bus has pulled up, “Your ride's here.”

And Gavin knows has to force himself to look away and loosen his grip, and he can’t bring himself to.

“It’s alright.” He says, “It’s going to be alright. I’ll take care of the bill, Please just let go.”

And Gavin finally, Finally manages to tear himself away.

He does not feel anything but relief as he leaves, as he boards the bus and settles into a seat. He leans back, and watches through the window as the world shifts and shimmers and is suddenly dark and starry once more. As the Greyhound pulls out of the Sonic parking lot, Gavin closes his eyes, and slowly falls into the comfort of a deep, dreamless sleep.

#southern gothic #tag game #Walker& Anderson #short story #ask #jamie McKellen can and will kick your ass bitch fights the fae on the regular #gavin just needs a nap and caleb needs to stfu lmao

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kazbrkker · 4 years

Text

Chapter 1: Fog of War

Chapter summary: When the transported gas is stolen by insurgents, codename “Saint” is sent to assist Alex. (2325 words)

Warnings: mentions of blood, violence, mild torture.

24 OCTOBER 2019. 0630 "Alex" CIA with Marine Raiders Verdansk, Kastovia

Pain.

That was the first thing Alex registered. The throbbing pain held his body paralysed with every breath he drew. Black started to seep in the corner of his eyes, he clamped down on his teeth, struggling to stay conscious.

A god damn RPG. He'd be lucky if he didn't break anything.

The ringing in his ears smothered the pulses of enemy fire over his head. He watched helplessly on the ground as more enemy trucks infiltrated the compound.

"Watcher to 3-1. How copy?! Alex, do you read- over!"

Hitman 7-5 ran over and grasped his hand, intending to get him to safety while 7-4 provided them with cover. "I got you- I got you, 3-1!"

Alex felt himself being dragged away from his burning armoured truck, only strong enough to watch his legs dig in the gravel. In a blink, a bullet lodged itself in 7-1 and his supporter collapsed onto the ground.

God damn.

Badly wounded, 7-1 struggled to get up. "Who the fuck is this!"

Behind him, a masked insurgent walked from the gas truck and fired, killing Hitman 7-1. Alex only felt 7-1's blood splatter across his bare arm.

The insurgent kicked 7-1's body, confirming the kill. Alex cursed through gritted teeth, his gas mask muffling the angry curse words. The insurgent paid no mind, briefly inspected the dead corpse, eyes wide when the Marines uniform came into view. Panicking, he quickly called for his leader.

The insurgents took the truck filled with chemical weapons and boarded it. "Move out- Go, go, go!" The truck drove away with the chemical weapons.

Bilingual... decent English skills.

Alex ripped off his gas mask, breathing heavily from his wounds. They were so close. "Shit."

The CIA agent swept around, he was the only survivor from the attack. "Echo 3-1 to Watcher."

"Alex! What happened?"

"Terrorist attack- Multiple Marines KIA- Gas stolen- We need EVAC, now!"

"Roger– Tracking multiple Russian forces headed your way. Sit tight. We're pushing to you for fast exfil. Watcher out."

He was in no shape to fight properly, but if he stayed on the ground, he's dead meat. Groaning, he pushed himself off the ground with every ounce of strength left in his systems, wincing.

"3-1 be advised, Hammer 2-1 is circling back to you for exfil. ETA 10 mikes."

Busy putting pressure on his wounds, Alex blindly sprayed his M4A1, getting a few good kills. "Roger that."

"Command is sending Saint, she will meet you back at base for debrief."

"Shouldn't she be in Paris?"

"She's redesignated. Command wants the Aces on this. Watcher out."

Alex sighed, feeling irritated for her. The assignment in Paris was personal to her, and knowing her, Alex could count on one hand how many things could affect her like that. But that's how it is in the agency, you never get to choose.

━━━━ SAME DAY. 0600. CIA with Rangers Unknown CIA Site, "Hostel", Paris

Leaning against the cold concrete wall, she crossed her arm and drummed her fingers in equal parts anticipation and boredom. Her dark hazel eyes were solely glued onto the restrained target sitting in the centre of the room. After three gruelling months, she finally caught him.

Fedir Boucher, a dirty bomb maker.

The CIA agent nonchalantly popped a piece of mint in her mouth as Ruddiger delivered another punch to Boucher's face, another spray of blood dribbling messily.

She crouched, levelling with Boucher. "Give me a name, Fedir, and I'll make it stop."

"Go... to hell," Boucher meekly lets out, a bloodied grin on display. "боягуз (Coward). A weak girl like you couldn't even hurt me if you tried."

Smirking, she dusted her hands and threw a cloth to Ruddiger to clean the blood off his knuckles. Meanwhile, the agent started to strip off her weapons. "Your lucky day."

She took her sweet time detaching the rest of her gear, leaving her weaponless. Her best way of working. "My friend here from the Army, he has protocols to follow so we avoid any international incidents. But I'm... different. I have no rules. I actually don't exist."

In a flash, she swivelled and snapped Boucher's right wrist into half. The screams that followed were raw, each one piercing to their ears.

"If there's anything you're holding back... Now would be a good time to confess." Her voice was calm and accentuated. She wasn't fucking around and this should make Boucher well aware of that.

"You- You need me alive! I am no use to you dead!"

Or maybe he doesn't. She mentally sighed, reaching for her revolver laid on the table.

She loaded a single round in her revolver and spun the cylinder. "You're useless if you don't give me a name in the next 10 seconds."

The agent only held a cold expression on her face. "I know all about the games you play with your victims, tricking vulnerable women and children." She took aim between his eyes, eyes cold.

"What you are doing is illegal!" Boucher hissed, heavily breathing.

She huffed, that's rich.

Ruddiger stared at the scene, eyes slightly widening. He was surprised that this line of interrogation came quicker than expected. Just as the CIA agent placed the muzzle against Boucher's head, he interrupted. "Agent."

Pausing, she lowered the revolver. Eyes still trained on her target, she spoke in a solemn tone, "You should leave the room now."

The absence of a metal door closing made her avert her gaze in surprise. Ruddiger stood rooted in the same spot, hands crossed authoritatively, "Sergeant, if you choose to stay here, whatever happens next must be excluded from your debrief. Can you do that?"

"No, ma'am. I took an oath, I cannot break it."

"Can you take one then?" She watched as his eyes flickered to the HVT on the chair, a cold-blooded killer who denotes bombs for his sole entertainment and now, whoring out for profits.

A decisive nod from Ruddiger sealed the deal. "Let's end this."

"Roger that", she took the lead and slammed the armed revolver against Boucher's temple. Fat beads of perspiration rolled down his temples.

Click, the sound echoed throughout the tiny interrogation room. Boucher squeezed his eyes shut, a shaky breath escaped.

"A name."

Boucher shook his head violently, "I don't know anything!"

Stressing her brows in annoyance, she pulled the trigger again. Click. "You're a very lucky man, Boucher. Statistically, you have a 66.7% chance of living. Are you game?"

She eyed the man, the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed, all signs pointing that he was about to break, "I never made contact with Valhalla!"

Sneering, she tightened a hand around his neck. "Lies! How did Valhalla get the package then?"

"I left it beside a poubelle at Bois de Boulogne! I never saw Valhalla or any of his men! I swear- I swear!" Satisfied with the steel proof sound of conviction in his voice, she forcefully released his face. Glaring, the agent shifted the revolver an inch shy of his right ear and fired twice.

Boucher flinched with every echo. Staring him dead in his eyes, she raised the barrel one last time, expressionless.

Her eyes flickered to Ruddiger, who didn't look bothered by her actions. She fired one last shot, this time, a loud bang escaped from the revolver.

Boucher fell sideways with the chair, thrashing. The absence of blood pooling around his body, or the fact that he remained alive startled the man. He groggily peeled his eyes open, the blinding white light left the woman standing over him to his imaginations.

"I..." He echoed incoherently about the afterworld.

She reached down to him, grabbing his chin. "Blanks. You're not dead, Boucher, fat wish. You're going to rot in a cell for the rest of your god damn life." Her revolver tumbled right beside his face, making him recoil, "But this? Consider this a fraction of the payback for the women and children who died in your hands."

The CIA agent exited the room with Ruddiger. They were met with two other Rangers standing guard at the door. "Did he break?"

"They always do." She smiled, "Said he dropped off the package for Valhalla beside a bin in Bois de Boulogne."

Blaze 0-3 nodded, "I'll call it in."

"I'll do it, I have something else to report. For goodness sake, go get some shut eye. I'll get some trustworthy agents to stand guard." The group grinned at her.

She tapped her wristwatch communicator, "Saint to Actual, Valhalla picked up his package in Bois de Boulogne. We're pulling up street cams for verification, over."

"Copy that, Saint, job well done. I've just received word that your Command has reassigned you. You are to leave immediately for Urzikstan."

"Sir? I retrieved the intel, I can catch Valhalla." She gritted her teeth, careful with her words.

"There's no doubt you will, Saint. This order came from Langley, my hands are tied. You are heading to Urzikstan, agent."

The CIA agent released her tightened fist. She should be used to this at this point, but this assignment... She wanted- needed to see this through. The group of Rangers passed her a solemn look, hearing it through the comms. "What about this mission, sir?"

"The CIA will assign another agent." She pinched her nose bridge and took a deep, controlled breath.

"Request permission to appoint handover, sir."

"Let's hear it, Saint."

Her hazel eyes went in search for Ruddiger, immediately spotting the 6"2 Marine. "Sergeant Ruddiger should takeover, he has been vital in this op."

A deep sigh came from the receiving end, "Copy that. I'll relay it as if it were my own, Saint. Whiskey 5 is en route to Hostel, get ready for egress. Charlie out."

She exhaled deeply, appreciating the Colonel's kindness. It made her reminisce about her times in the Army.

Urzikstan. That was Alex's assignment. She was hardly assigned to missions in such a hostile environment, it was Alex's speciality. They must really need her on this.

Ruddiger approached her, his tall figure towering over her 5"7 one. "Thank you, you didn't have to do that."

She scoffed, fidgeting with her fingers. "Nah. A new agent would take days to acclimate, that's precious time we can't lose. Plus, you've got heart, no better reason than why I recommended you. For what's worth."

Ruddiger noticed the way her last sentence lightly trailed off but didn't press on it. It wasn't his first day here, agents like her don't exactly have a choice. "I'm sorry about this."

"Me too." She mumbled softly, aimlessly fidgeting with her gear. "Just catch Valhalla. You'll be doing us all a favour, 5-1."

"Oorah." He passed a sincere smile.

"It was nice working with you for the past three months, Ruddiger. Appreciate it for... back there." She nodded towards the interrogation room. "I'll be sure to write up an excellent debrief for ya."

Ruddiger casually shook his head, smiling, "Just doing what I gotta do, Saint. But I gotta say, that name suits you well... Ma'am."

He mentally cursed, worried that he was trespassing. Some call signs were extremely sensitive. And based on what he has heard, so was hers. But could you blame him? He was still a little high off the adrenaline from the interrogation. Plus, a part of him would be lying if he wasn't curious though.

The agent merely cocked an eyebrow, interested. Standing before her, he was obviously nervous but didn't reveal much.

Huh, she noted, he'd make a good agent if he wanted to.

"What have I told you, screw the formalities." She said honestly, waving it off and Ruddiger visibly relaxed. "Go on."

Ruddiger scratched at the nape of his neck absentmindedly, sort of a sheepish look on his face. "Well, by the time you were done with Boucher, he was yelling something about saviours when we left the room. He must have thought you were there to save him.."

"Est mon sauveur. My saviour."

"Fitting." He hummed.

The agent only gave a smile that doesn't seem to reach her eyes, "Unfortunately."

━━━━ 24 OCTOBER 2019, 1500 CIA BASE, Urzikstan.

The CIA agent stepped off the jet, hands holding her go-bag. First thing she noticed? The atrocious weather.

Dressed in simple jeans and a loose black tee, her chestnut brown hair was neatly tied in a bun. Yet, she could already feel the stickiness on her body. Fun, she couldn't wait to be in full gear.

Amidst the blazing sun, Kate Laswell stood a few feet away from the landing strip, waiting for her. The agent took off her sunglasses and passed a knowing smile to Laswell.

"Station chief Laswell, it's good to see you again." the agent greeted with a professional smile, walking alongside Laswell.

"Wish it were under better circumstances, Saint."

She glanced around the base, noticing several tinted tentages everywhere. "When is it ever? I read the brief on my way over. To say we've got a big problem is understating it."

"Still not a sleeper, I see?"

She grinned, shutting the door behind her. "I never do on jets, Kate, you know me."

"It's military grade, Saint. It never crashes."

"I beg to differ." She grimaced, a distant reminder that made her skin crawl. "Anyhow. Where's Alex? Didn't the bastard know I was coming? I was half expecting a confetti ceremony the moment I stepped off the heli."

"I sure hope you weren't referring to me. Cause I got you something better." The door swung open and Alex came into view, his middle finger teasingly on display. Upon seeing Laswell, the other CIA agent swiftly retracted it, cleared his throat and pretended nothing happened.

She passed a rueful grin at Alex, rolling her eyes at his idiocy.

Alex was all smiles, spreading his arms wide. He sure was not holding back how happy he was to see his best friend.

"Alexis."

a/n: hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. masterlist here. want to be tagged? let me know!

#call of duty x oc #call of duty x reader #alex modern warfare #john price #kyle garrick #kate laswell #farah karim #hadir karim #oc: alexis #ysr writes: kl #killer instinct #fanfiction #alex cod #modern warfare

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wacem · 4 years

Text

Alone in the Dark

An Until Dawn fic by Wacem

Chapters: 1,2,3,4 Read here or on AO3, where the formatting is definitely correct, because I suck at Tumblr.

Chapter 4

Chris --- 6:18 AM

Old Hotel

After the long dark of the tunnel, the light of the abandoned hotel was like daggers, working their way to Chris’ brain through his eye sockets. He squeezed his eyes shut and found the light filtering through his eyelids to still be too bright, so he buried his face in the crook of his elbow until the raging headache subsided. Phantom images surged to replace what he could no longer see, tugging on the edge of his sanity, and he hummed a tone-deaf tune in a fruitless bid to try and drive them from his mind. The stranger’s head thudding heavily in the snow, glassy pupils dilating as the life eked out of them. A shrill scream, cut abruptly short by a gunshot; Emily’s deathly pale face drawn open in a silent scream as the blood oozed from her empty eye socket. Ashley’s delicate fingers curling and blackening as the fire turned her to ash. A rusty saw tearing through Josh’s stomach, spilling his guts all over the floor; the broken stool where Josh had been, lying in a pool of blood. The hot metal of a gun barrel against the soft skin beneath his jaw; his own finger tightening around the trigger. No, no, no, no, NO!

His lungs were trying to escape from his chest, and his ribs screamed in protest. He turned and banged his head into the doorframe to knock the images out of his mind, and when that wasn’t enough, he banged it a few more times for good measure. Razor blades went rattling through his brain, and he clung to the distracting pain like a life-raft, opening his eyes again. The light boring into his retinas was still quite unpleasant, but it was better than the memories behind his eyes.

He took one moment to regard the humongous wooden beam used to barricade the door back to the tunnel and just scoffed. He was too tired and in too much pain to even try to lift that heavy thing with one hand. The door being closed would just have to be barrier enough.

No, it’s not, the Voice of Ashley Judgment whispered. You know that.

Sighing, he manhandled the thing awkwardly until it was leaned against the door like a pathetic brace. “There,” he huffed. “Nailed it.” If Ashley had been there, he knew she’d be staring at him with lips pursed and eyebrows raised, arms folded across her chest, and fingers drumming disapprovingly on her biceps. “It’s the best I can do!” he protested, his voice cracking ridiculously.

He shuffled across the hallway into a large room he immediately recognized. The rusty saws hanging from the ceiling were a dead give away. The dimmer light was a welcome reprieve to his aching eyes, but the memories that came with it slammed the breath out of his lungs.

Wait! Stop! You can’t do it, Chris. It should be me!

The saws were hanging silent and still in the shadows above him, but he could hear the shrill, metallic whir of them spinning as clearly now as he could then. The ligature burns on his wrist twinged when he saw the ties that had bound him and Ashley still lying on the floor where the others had left them. And the burns on his face….The sacrifice he’d made that had ultimately turned out to be meaningless.

No. He couldn’t stay here. Fresh grief surged up his throat like bile, and he swallowed hard to keep it down. The cold light of Josh's command center filtered through a door far to his right, blinding but safe, and he hurried towards it, skipping with his good leg to get there faster. As he turned to close the door behind him, he could have sworn he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Ashley sitting where she’d been during Josh’s fucked up game, struggling for freedom. He could hear her screams in his head, her pleas begging him not to kill himself.

You chose to save me before. Let me choose this time! Let me choose to save you!!

But when his eyes snapped into focus, there was nobody there. Of course not. That was a lifetime ago, when Ashley had still been alive. She was dead now. A pile of charcoal down in the mines. She wasn’t here. But logic had no place on Blackwood Pines tonight, and he found he couldn’t close the door on her. The apparition, whether supernatural or psychological… he didn’t even know anymore… still gave him some piece of Ashley to hang onto, and he just couldn’t lock her out like that. Keeping his eyes glued to the chair where she’d been, he backed into the safe room until his butt knocked against one of the desks, forcing him to break his gaze and turn it directly at…

A bloody eye socket.

A hoarse yelp exploded out of his chest, and he skittered away from the desk, backing into a wall of metal grating with a clang. Emily! His blood whooshed through his veins, making him feel like he’d explode, filling his ears with a dull roar too powerful for even the tinnitus to overcome. The pile of grave dirt he’d heaped atop his emotions, to bury them until they could safely be processed, exploded into a million pieces, and the horror of tonight all crawled out, muddy and bloody, to stare him directly in the face with one-eyed crystal clarity. Something in his gut broke loose, sending loud scream-sobs racking through his chest and swollen throat. His legs turned to jelly beneath him, and he slid down the wall into a fetal position, rocking and weeping, delicately covering his mouth, and utterly incapable of tearing his eyes from Emily’s horrified face.

Wasn’t your fault, Chris. None of this was your fault.

But it was. He could have done more to stop it. Could have said something helpful. Could have taken the gun from Mike, could have…

Taken the gun from Mike? Seriously? Ashley’s voice laughed incredulously, sending a wave of self-consciousness coursing from Chris' pelvis to the tips of his ears. You know I care about you, Chris, but there’s absolutely no way you would have won that. Mike would have flattened you-- maybe even shot you-- if you’d tried. You saw how worked up he was. Mike killed Emily. Not you.

Chris took the deepest breath his ribs would allow and held it until the pain forced him to let it go in a wavering sigh. He did it again and again until his hands stopped shaking so badly, and he could see without staring through an aquarium of regret. More than words could express, he wanted to pull Emily down from where her body was perched, indecorously splayed on the desk like that. Lay her somewhere more dignified and-- if he was being honest with himself-- less conspicuous. But, while he might have been able to pull that off with both arms at his disposal, there was no way he could now. So there she sat, silently screaming at him for not saving her, and he could only sit there and watch her as an inescapable thought rattled to the forefront of his brain.

Sam wasn’t here.

He didn’t know when or if Sam and Mike were coming back. He didn’t know if they’d find Josh, or if Josh was even still alive. He didn’t know if anyone was still alive, and the thought that he might be completely alone would have been enough to send him into another tailspin of panic if he didn’t already feel so utterly gutted. Everything was drained from him, like he’d been prey to a succubus. There was nothing left for panic to take hold of. He stood wearily and limped over to the swiveling chair in front of the CCTVs, pointedly avoiding looking towards Emily’s body, and gazed over the screens, squinting in the brightness of their light. Jeez… Josh really had set up cameras everywhere. Chris flicked from feed to feed, but there were no signs of life on the property. Wherever Sam and Mike were, it didn’t appear to be anywhere near the lodge.

Chris sighed and carefully, rigidly slid out of his coat and took advantage of the light to get the first good look at his injured arm. With the coat on, it hadn't looked so bad. Some punctures and tears in his sleeve. Minor blood stains that looked black against the blue of the fabric and more blood running down his hand. Overall, an outside observer wouldn't know how horrible it felt beneath the surface. With the coat off, however…. well, that was a different story altogether. The wendigo's teeth had torn much more easily through his sweater and undershirt. His forearm looked like hamburger meat and was deformed. Definitely broken; there was no denying that. The two bones angled and twisted in towards each other, giving his forearm a disturbing spiraled hourglass shape. And, it was still bleeding. The sleeve of his sweater was soaked up to the shoulder. He didn't even want to imagine what sort of mess the shirt underneath it was. No wonder he was so exhausted. On top of everything else, he was also bleeding to death. He unzipped his sweater and awkwardly fumbled at the bottom of his T-shirt to rip off a strip of fabric. This was much more easily said than done, with only one hand. And of course it was his stupid hand. Heaven forbid the wendigo leave him his dominant arm to work with.

Well, that is the one you threw the lighter with. If it only sees movement, of course it went for your right arm, you doofus. You painted a big red bullseye on it.

"Aw hush, you," he muttered at Ashley’s voice, surprised at how defeated his own sounded. "Let me mope in peace."

He tied the pathetic strip of cloth around his injured arm just above the elbow and pulled the tourniquet tight with the aid of his teeth. He considered maybe trying to find something to splint his arm, but he didn't know the first thing about setting bones. Even if he did, he didn't think he had the fortitude to set his own bone. The Hartley clan was known for many things. A high pain tolerance was not one of them. On top of that, there was nothing around to use as a splint, and it had been an ass and a half just to rip one strip of cloth off his shirt. "Fuck it," he mumbled and slowly, agonizingly put his coat back on. His arm lodged a torrent of bitter complaints at all the movement, and he cradled it miserably when he was done.

He was very tempted to just sit at the desk and wait until either Sam returned or the wendigo found him, whichever happened first. God knew his ankle needed a break from walking. He figured the numbness probably meant it had swollen so badly that the tightness of his boot was cutting off the circulation to his toes. But the throbbing in the joint itself wasn't going anywhere, and he was dying for an ottoman to prop his leg up onto. Anything to make his foot feel a little less engorged. He hoisted his leg up onto the desk while he took the cleaning cloth to his glasses, but the desk wasn’t exactly soft or comfortable, and the edge had an unpleasant habit of digging into his achilles tendon.

He pulled out his phone compulsively. The screen was cracked to hell, and the battery was at seven percent. The likelihood that he’d get anything even remotely approaching reception down here was zilch, but he figured he’d check anyway. Maybe he’d try shooting Sam a text. Hey, I know you’re probably fighting for your life against some cryptid abomination right now, but if you could send me a quick reply, so I can stop freaking out, that’d be greeeaaat. But of course, there was so little reception that his phone’s very attempts to find a signal were rapidly draining his battery. He sighed, put it on power-save and airplane mode, and slid it back into his pocket. Eventually there’d be a signal, and when that time came, he damn-well wanted his phone to still have juice.

Meanwhile, Emily’s corpse was still just… sitting there, staring at the ceiling with its one blind eye. Mouth frozen in a silent scream. Chris refused to look at her, but he could feel her there, burning holes into the back of his neck. It made his stomach churn and twist. He could almost hear her voice coming from the yawning cavern of her mouth. Why didn't you stop him? Why didn't you save me? Raw, jagged, quivering guilt slithered its way through his guts, gnawed at the base of his skull like a rat, and dined on his precarious sanity like it was a delicacy. Eventually, the thought of spending even another moment alone in here with her was unbearable.

And that was when he heard something heavy and wooden clatter to the floor somewhere outside the safe room. Chris bolted upright, feeling his quickened pulse in his teeth. Was that the barricading beam? Maybe he hadn’t quite propped it up straight. He knew some of his old action figures at home had a habit of staying upright for months and months only to randomly fall off the shelf in the middle of the night and scare the holy bejeezus out of him. That could absolutely be what just happened with the beam. Right?

Then came the shriek, cutting through all the desperate denial and sending his nervous system into a blue screen of death. Only this time… that sound couldn't possibly have come from just one throat, no matter how supernatural that throat was. Waitwaitwait. You're telling me there's another wendigo?? The old guy didn’t say jack shit about there being more than one of those things! Not cool! Not cool at all!! But the shrieks and the clambering of bony fingers and toes against concrete and drywall crept closer and closer. His eyes darted around the room and landed on the revolver Mike had left behind. Deafening bang. Her eye disappearing into blackness and blood. Chris shuddered, glanced apologetically at Emily's body, and snatched up the gun. The ancient grip aggravated the blisters on his palm, but the weapon's weight was comforting in his hand. Awkwardly, he popped the cylinder to check its ammunition. Three rounds left. Awesome. So… barely any ammo, and it didn't have the stopping power of the shotgun-- hell, he wasn't even sure he’d be able to use the shotgun right now, even if it was down here-- but it was better than nothing. Chris fumbled one-handedly to toss the spent casings, snapped the cylinder back into place, and made sure it was turned right, before hobbling towards the saw room door. At the threshold, he froze dead in his tracks. His blood turned to ice in his veins, and his heart lodged itself somewhere behind his eyes. Long, pale fingers were wrapped around the edge of one of the circular blades on the ceiling. The light from the monitors gleamed in a pair of huge, pale eyes, peering around the mechanism the saw was hanging from. Another Gollum silhouette plopped into the doorway from the access hallway, limbs twisting in a jerky, arachnoid way. The wendigo clinging to the saw twitched its head to one side, staring at Chris with uncertainty. Then its face twisted in voracious hunger, and it screamed.

And that was all Chris needed to see. If he had been a gambling man, he would have bet his life savings-- pathetic though they were-- that his adrenal glands had nothing left in them, that they were useless little deflated sacks sitting atop his kidneys like shriveled balloons. After all, they’d seen more rigorous action tonight than they had the entire rest of his life combined! But if he’d made that bet… he would have lost the farm. Those exhausted little sacks squirted a fresh new deluge of adrenaline into his blood, and suddenly, all of the pain, the guilt, the heartache, everything disappeared beneath an overwhelming animal instinct to run. Common sense surfaced from the deafening torrent of his racing heart long enough to make him slam and lock the door to the saw room. Then he whirled around and fled as fast as his legs would carry him.

Immediately, he heard a loud thud against the door behind him, and he bit his lip to stifle a yell. No time for that! buzzed the adrenaline-soaked Voice of Ashley Judgment. Death is up your butt. Keep moving. Don't slow down.

And, really… she was preaching to the choir, because he hadn't. He was out of the room in an instant, crashing through a heavy door with a peep-slot and slamming it shut behind him. He tried frantically to remember the way back to the lodge, but his brain seemed to be filled with swarming wasps, and he couldn’t think. He could only run. His legs carried him through some winding corridors, into a decrepit room, up a small flight of stairs, through another door, down a hallway, around a corner, and into a freezer. Well, that at least was familiar. Or at least the dead pigs hanging in it were. Without pausing, he continued through the freezer and into the kitchen. Relics and memories of Josh’s deranged little prank flew around him like spectres as he ran. Clues Ashley had found and pointed out to him, there one moment, gone the next. Felt like all of that had happened centuries ago. How quaint they seemed now, in light of the very real danger screaming through the corridors behind him. Something squealed and crashed loudly in the freezer. Shit, they were close. Could he really outrun them all the way back to the lodge? And once he got there, what then? How was the lodge any safer than the fucking safe room?

Well, for one, the safe room has very recently been full of monsters. So… I mean, the lodge wins that point.

Fair enough. He slammed the door to the kitchen and continued running through dark, dilapidated hallways, trying not to trip over debris in the inky blackness. He stumbled into a staircase, and took the steps two at a time-- a feat he knew would make his ankle bite him in the ass when the adrenaline rush simmered down. The cold air slapped at the sweat on his face. His breath tore through his chafed throat in harsh, ragged pants. The cold and the dust made his lungs ache horrendously from within, while his broken ribs jabbed at them from without. For the second time tonight, he intimately understood why people went on runs. It wasn’t for fun. Cause, really, only crazy people actually liked running. It was so that when cryptid abominations were on your ass, you weren’t braying like an asthmatic donkey two seconds into the chase. God, I promise, if you get me out of this, I’ll go to the gym every freakin’ day. Even weekends. Pinky swear.

When he reached an ancient elevator, he chanced a glance over his shoulder. Two wendigos hopped around the far corner, leaping from floor to ceiling to wall to ceiling again like deranged wolf spiders. His mouth dropped in a scream that his throat was too sore to voice. He considered taking aim with the revolver and shooting one of them but thought better of it when he remembered how limited his ammunition was. Each shot needed to count, and blind pot-shots didn’t count. Instead, he took off down the decrepit hallway, trying not to trip over the jutting timber and crumbling plaster of the dilapidated structure’s exposed skeleton. There was an open doorway at the end of the hallway. He didn’t see the steps leading up to it, tripped, and soared through the doorway, somehow managing not to land on his bad arm. Frantically, he went to slam the door shut with his foot. Only then did he notice there was no way to do so; the thing swung outward into the hall. “Dammit,” Chris muttered, scrambling to his feet and over to the much heftier door to the lodge’s wine cellar. It was closed and locked. Just as the group had left it on their way down to the safe room. “Shit!” His hand, hampered by the revolver, was shaking so badly that it slipped clean off the bolt the first time he tried to slide it from the lock. He had better luck on the second attempt. The very instant he’d pulled the door open, something solid slammed into his back, sending him flying dramatically into the basement. He was vaguely aware of a loud, wooden bang, and instinctively put his hands out to catch himself before he face-planted hard on the concrete floor.

The mind-erasing agony in his broken arm made him want to scream, but his chest was full of glass, and he found that he couldn’t breathe. The weight on top of him shifted around madly, and he felt a line of fire slash across his back, then another. Chris tried frantically to turn around and face his assailant or move his arms out from under himself, but the wendigo’s weight had him firmly pinned. The thing slashed at his back again, claws digging deep enough to scrape bone.

He strips the skin off of your entire body, piece by piece.

That unlocked the scream that had been trapped in his chest. A huge, skeletal hand gripped his shoulder tightly enough to draw blood and yanked him back towards the wendigo’s maw… but it freed his good hand in the process. He crossed it up and over the opposite shoulder and turned his head away before squeezing the trigger on the revolver. He recoiled sharply from the discharge, pressing the back of his hand to his ear. He was gonna be deaf before the evening was done; he just knew it. But the claws extracted from his shoulder, and the weight lifted abruptly from his back. He scrambled around to face the monster, holding the revolver in front of him, and using his feet to slide himself further away from the thing.

A wendigo-- just one-- was attached to the wine shelf, staring down at him contemplatively. This one looked different from the one he’d seen close-up before. Its face was broader, more grizzled. Its features were muddled, as though they were rotting away. And it was wearing clothes! Time had worn them down to indistinguishable rags, but they clung to the monster’s emaciated body with the tenacity of a video game heroine’s chainmail bikini. The reinforced door back to the buried hotel jolted in its frame, and that’s when Chris noticed that it had somehow gotten itself closed again. The other wendigo was trapped on the other side, trying to break through it. The wendigo on the shelf shrieked at him, but-- both thankfully and alarmingly-- the sound was muffled by the aftershock of the revolver going off in his ear. And then the thing leapt at him, and his finger squeezed the trigger without waiting for conscious permission. The first shot seemed to have no effect. The second, however…

Well, that was the million-dollar shot.

It nailed the wendigo directly in the eye, bursting it like a grape. The creature shrieked again, recoiling violently back into the wall. Those horrifyingly long claws would have taken off his face as they arced towards the monster’s ruined eye socket, if Chris hadn’t snapped his head back at the last moment. He blinked and saw Emily’s face, pale as death, her eye exploding in the wake of the bullet entering her skull. He blinked again, and she was gone. There was a faint click-click-click, and Chris realized he was still pulling the trigger on an empty revolver.

“Fuck you!” he meant to shout triumphantly, but his hoarse voice cracked unflatteringly instead. He threw the empty gun at the keening wendigo out of spite, clambered to his feet and ran as fast as he could for the stairs up to the lodge.

Now he was in really familiar territory. Considerably less dilapidated. This cellar was almost as familiar to him as his parents', so navigating it in the dark was a piece of cake. He positively flew up the concrete steps, leaping over the broken one like a gazelle. He heard the door in the wine cellar burst apart just as his hand wrapped around the knob at the top of the stairs. He heaved an internal sigh of relief that it wasn't locked. Screeching and clicking followed him up the stairwell, and he slammed the cellar door on all of that noise, leaning against it and panting. After the intense darkness of traversing subterranean passages without a flashlight, he found the moonlight drifting through the dust motes and casting strange and disturbing shadows through the Washingtons' uniquely unsettling decor to be almost painfully bright. He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, flitting his cold fingers delicately over the throbbing bruise on his head.

So. He was in the lodge. Where to, now? Maybe somewhere with no windows? A back door so as not to become trapped? Something heavy smashed into the other side of the door, jolting it agonizingly into his savaged back. Suddenly, Chris found he didn't much care where he went, as long as it wasn't here. He ran forward, zigged right, heard the wendigos burst through the door behind him yet again. Their screeches filled the hallway a couple dozen feet behind him. He ran through the guest room, somehow managing to leap up and over the bed without tripping. Ahead stood the door to the cinema room, and it was open. Through the gloom of the room beyond, Chris saw Sam and Mike's ashen faces appear from around the corner. Holy shit! They were still alive! They looked a bit worse for wear, but still mostly intact. They even seemed to be chuckling at each other over something. His smile immediately died. Shit! They were right in the path of the wendigos up his ass. He’d led the monsters straight to them! FUCK!!

"GO GO GO GO!!!" he yelled as he blasted past them, not slowing down to make sure they did. He heard one of them exclaim something but didn't register what. He was already out of the cinema room and clambering up the stairs. The loud clumping of boots on creaky boards marked Mike running up the stairs opposite him. Oh, God, please let Sam make it out of there. He was halfway through the great room when he saw it. Another wendigo-- the one that killed Ashley-- clinging like Spider-Man to the big metal sculpture hanging from the ceiling. There was a dread about its presence a thousand times heavier than any aura the wendigo stooges behind him could muster. It seemed bigger. Stronger. Deadlier. While the others liked to putz around and play with their food, this one had a habit of going straight for the kill. The stranger's head falling heavily into the snow, eyes glazing and becoming blank. Ashley's headless body, soaked in blood and still warm. No. This wendigo didn't fuck around. Paralyzing fear rooted Chris to the spot. All he could do was stand and stare.

And he wasn't the only one.

Chris heard Mike all but screech to a halt when the latter reached the great room. Then he heard the lighter steps of Sam doing the same.

"Don't… move…" Mike whispered, wholly unnecessarily. "Don't… fucking… move… a muscle."

He wanted to shoot back a "No shit, Sherlock," but his tongue became a fat piece of meat in his mouth, and the words stuck in his throat.

For a small eternity, they all just stood there, frozen, while the wendigo on the sculpture jerked its head back and forth, searching for the prey it heard enter the room. But then something must have happened. Mike suddenly broke out in a run towards Sam, and the wendigo was on him faster than Chris could fathom. It picked Mike up and hurled him across the room like a rag doll. Shit. Shit! Mike might be a murdering asshole, but he was also their best chance of survival. If he didn’t make it...

The stooges chose that exact moment to join the party, drawing the attention of the one Chris was starting to think of as The Alpha away from Mike, and-- whoa, wait a second. Were they fighting? Each other? He wouldn’t have thought they did that. The stooges seemed to have had a synergistic energy between them whenever he’d hazarded a glance back at them. But... but yeah... they were fighting. That’s definitely what was happening. And The Alpha was kicking the other two's asses. It was hurling them all over creation, breaking every damn thing. It was a hell of a distraction. Chris looked at Mike and started slowly backing toward the lodge’s front door, willing the other two to do the same. He thought he saw Mike give a significant look just then, but it wasn’t to him-- because, of course, people like Chris don’t exist as anything but curiosities in Munroe-Land-- and he couldn't see Sam to know what the hell that was about. All he could see was Mike taking advantage of the distraction to pick himself up off the floor and creep beneath the clashing titans overhead. But he was going the wrong way. He was moving away from the front door and reaching towards… a wall lamp? What the fuck??

The Alpha ripped the head clean off of one of the stooges, and Chris felt his gorge rise when his mind’s eye replaced the stooge with Ash. Then someone-- Sam, he thought-- stepped on a creaky floorboard. The wendigo snapped its head towards her and screeched. Then it was gone, disappeared out of view to where Sam was, and then Sam was screaming over a wet, ripping sound. Shitshitshitshit what the hell?? He wanted to see what was happening. Wanted to do something. Make sure Sam was okay, but the stairs were in the way, and his legs weren’t responding to commands. Sam’s scream turned weak and faded into silence, and Chris heard another horrifyingly fleshy ripping sound. He could try to pretend he didn’t know what that meant, but there was only so much denial he could conjure in one night. Sam’s dead. Sam’s DEAD! None of this can be happening!! He could feel his lungs revving up a panic again. He looked pleadingly back at Mike who now had his hand wrapped around the lamp's light bulb. What the fuck?? How can Mike just be standing there, focusing on a fucking wall lamp, when that thing is killing Sam?

Just standing there… kinda like you are?

Chris bit his lip and closed his eyes at the guilt stabbing through his ravaged chest. Yeah. Like I am. Always there when things go tits up, but my presence is never beneficial. Then he smelled it. Gasoline. Had the wendigos broken a pipe in the fireplace? Oh, shit shit shit shit. Did that mean Mike was planning to-- He opened his eyes and saw the lightbulb shatter in the other man's hand. Mike doubled over and groaned, hugging his sides miserably. The wendigo, drawn by all the noise, was on Mike again like stink on cheese. It grabbed Mike by the face and lifted him into the air by it. Chris could feel that same hand wrapped around his throat in the dark of the tunnels. That bizarre moment where he thought the creature looked familiar. The creature wrapping its hand over his head like it was going to rip his head off right next to Ashley’s headless corpse. Then the wendigo tore out their esteemed class president’s guts with two quick swipes, hurling him into a nearby pillar with spine-shattering force. Chris felt a scream building up deep in his chest, climbing up his throat, to be whisked away by rapid, wheezing breaths. This was a nightmare. This was an absolute nightmare.

Blind panic broke the paralysis, and Chris turned and fled out the door. No longer caring if the wendigo saw him, no longer caring what hell awaited him outside, or where the other stooge had gone. He simply could not stay in that room another second and watch that thing tear apart his friends. He couldn't take being a useless bystander to any more death. Hadn't he seen enough?

He'd hardly cleared the front door when the hand of God swatted him from behind with a deafening boom and sent him flying off the porch. His feet clipped a stone wall, and he went flipping ass over teakettle into a snowbank. For a while, Chris could only lie face-down in the snow, shuddering, exhausted, all of the pain returning as the last of his adrenaline was leached by the cold. His head felt like it was filled with sand. A silence unlike anything he’d ever experienced pressed in on him from all sides. Crushing him, like he’d jumped into the deep end of the pool and sunk to the bottom. He only found the strength to push himself up and regain his feet when he felt something viciously beating the air overhead.

He wasn't ready for what he saw.

The lodge was an absolute inferno. And Sam and Mike were still in there. Any hopes he may have been nursing that they might somehow survive the night vanished in the flames devouring the lodge. And the lodge. All of the memories of vacations they’d spent there… the pranks, the games, the hijinks… up in a puff of smoke, soon to be lost forever. Like Ash was. Like he feared Josh to be. And Emily. Like Sam and Mike soon would be, if they weren’t already-- God, the thought that they might still be alive in there, burning to death while he watched on helplessly, it sent a skewer into his stomach that twisted and rolled his guts up like spaghetti. A noise came out of him that barely sounded human as his vision blurred with tears that were both freezing and burning. Were Matt and Jess still alive? He didn't know. Probably not. Mike and Emily had seemed to think they were dead, and they were in the position to know.

Huge embers came streaking out of the blaze, moving in unnatural ways through the smoke. One turned and surged toward him. A shriek cut through his deafness like a diamond through glass, and, in the flying blaze, he thought he could see the face of the devil. It nearly made him fall back into the snow, but he kept his balance on his one good foot by flailing his one good arm. He must be going mad. Either that or he'd died, and this was Hell. He wasn’t sure which thought was more comforting.

But that sensation. A deep whump whump whump chopping through the air and into the pit of his stomach. What was that? It was like the freezing wind had developed a heartbeat that was squeezing him to its pulse. That’s when a shadow intruded across the first light of the sun, and he realized what it was. A helicopter. Help had finally come.

But it had come too late. Way, way too late. Everyone was already dead. Everyone but Chris. And he felt the least deserving of help. How could he be the one getting saved? It was a sick and twisted perversion of justice. He'd just stood by and watched all of his friends die, one by one, without twitching a finger to help. He hadn’t saved a single, solitary one of them. And now here was the cavalry, come to save him.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. He didn't deserve to be alive when all the others were dead.

As the helicopter approached the burning lodge, Chris dropped to his knees, the only part of him that didn't hurt. His good hand pushed his glasses up onto his head to bury his face in his blistered palm, and he wept bitterly as the helicopter gently touched down in the snow nearby.

#Until Dawn #Chris Hartley #fan fiction #elliepollie #wacem scribbles

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