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steviewashere · 2 months

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In the Fire of the Sun

Rating: General CW: A dementia fic, that's as much of a warning as I'll offer Tags: Established Relationship, Married Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Future Fic, Wedding Anniversary, Steve Harrington Has Dementia, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Falling in Love Over and Over Again, Yearning, Pining, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bittersweet Ending, Inspired by The Notebook (2004)

For the @steddielovemonth prompt: "Love is a fire that never goes out." (in the most metaphorical sense possible)

💕—————💕

Eddie shuffles through the carpeted hallway of this center once more. He comes in right as it opens for visiting hours. Eight in the morning, sharp. Every single day. And has been doing so for the last few years.

Why?

Simple. Steve’s there.

Has been, actually, for the same amount of time Eddie’s been visiting. They’re both in their late seventies now. Time has treated them nearly equal. Aching limbs. Wrinkled and spotted skin. Grey hair. Crows feet. Though, time gave Steve one extra thing that Eddie will fight God about.

Dementia.

It’s ravaging him little by little. And Eddie bears witness. Began with the minor forgetting, always soothed by words and gentle touches, the praise. And then it was bigger things. Confusion and getting lost and mood swings that were almost unmanageable. It all felt so rapid, even if it was slow. But Eddie was there. For every moment of it. And still is there, just…Not in the same house anymore.

He hates coming through the center, though. It’s so clinical and sterile and depressing. Well, technically it isn’t. The rooms are done all nice, filled with furniture and soft blankets and beautiful fake plants that Steve can water if he feels the need to. But it’s not their house, which was painted by the people they love, filled with knick knacks of their lives, photos of their child and their grandchildren and all their friends. Though, Eddie supposes he shouldn’t complain, if Steve is mostly comfortable here. There’s a few things for Steve to interact with, hobby wise. A piano, some knitting circles, board games, but mostly music. It’s nearly poetic, to Eddie, that music is what dementia patients seems to cling onto the longest. It’s especially poetic considering Steve fell in love with a musician.

Sometimes, while Eddie is here, he’ll play music for everybody. The nurses and doctors and patients alike. Still able to share his gift, even in the face of something so…not dark, exactly, but challenging. Because any moment with Steve is pleasant—even if he doesn’t remember most of the time.

Eddie gets his visitor badge. A little sticker for his shirt. He’s taken up to Steve’s room and waits in the doorway for permission to go in. It could be a bad day, but based on the soft smile received from the nurse, it’s one of the better days. Meaning, Steve’s less irritable, still long term forgetful, but lovely.

Steve looks over to him. The hazel eyes that Eddie fell in love with nearly sixty years ago, soft and glistening. His forehead prominently wrinkled. Hair thin, but mostly there, a light silvery grey. He’s got better hair than Eddie—that can be admitted, his hair is just like Wayne’s now, gone with the wind. At least time hasn’t taken Steve’s beauty.

“Hello,” Steve greets, polite and sweet. His voice is slightly garbled, deep and velvety.

“Hello,” Eddie parrots. He holds out his right palm for Steve to take. Smiles softly when he does so. “I’m Edward,” he introduces, “though you can call me Eddie.” He taps his sticker. Loves the way Steve’s eyes still track his every movement, even with something so simple and mundane. The nurse hangs by Steve’s shoulder, nodding at Eddie when they lock eyes. Eddie smiles bigger at Steve, letting their hands drop. His palm tingles from Steve’s ever glowing warmth. “You must be the Steven Harrington I’m always hearing about,” he says.

Steve visibly grimaces, which is a good sign. A great thing. He groans. “That tastes awful in my mouth,” he states. “Though I can’t—How come that tastes bad?” He looks over to his nurse, but doesn’t get an answer.

“Oh,” Eddie mutters. “I’ve heard some people call you Steve, does that sound okay? Shorten your name like mine?”

He nods. Relaxing. “That sounds great.” Steve smiles. And Eddie is like a sunflower in the face of the sun. Yearning to reach out, to touch, to feel and hold. But he knows that he can’t, or at least shouldn’t. “So…Eddie, you’re a visitor?” His finger taps on Eddie’s chest, on the white word: VISITOR. Eddie blossoms. “You came to visit me, I’m assuming. What are we going to do today?”

Eddie bites back his grin. Steve’s finger is still on his chest. He wonders if Steve even remembers putting it there, part of him hopes that he’s doing it on purpose. He hums, thinking. Though he’s got planned, “We’re going to take a walk outside, if that’s okay. I brought some music for us to listen to while we look around. It’s a pretty day outside, a little chilly, but the sun is bright out there. What do you think?”

“I like that,” Steve enthusiastically says. Which makes the good day even better. “Though I don’t know who you are, you have really good ideas. You seem like a really nice guy.”

“Y’know, I’ve heard that before. From somebody you might know,” Eddie says, offering out his hooked arm. Almost dances in place when Steve wraps their arms together. “He’s a good guy, too. Really good looking. Very kind. Think you’d like him.”

“You should bring him with next time,” Steve says. They make their way down to the front doors of the center. Arm in arm.

“Maybe I will,” Eddie says, even though the guy is already there. “I will if it’s a good day.”

The day really is beautiful. Leaves littering the ground, browns and dark greens, many of them bright yellow. A good color. Everything is just…good. There’s a little concrete path on the side of the center. Nestled really nice to a small creek. It’s quiet.

Steve is a comfortable weight at his side. They step in tandem. Feet matching each other. Eddie makes them stop at the end of the path, walking out to a grassy clearing, standing out watching the subtle ripples in the creek.

“It’s pretty,” Steve murmurs. “Reminds me of fish. For some odd reason.”

“Mm,” Eddie hums. “Makes me think of fish, too, funny enough. The guy I told you about?” Steve nods beside him. The slow up and down bobbing of his heavy head. He’s still got glasses after all these years, they’re kind of crooked. Eddie itches to fix them. But Steve stares ahead of himself, at the water, a little crinkle between his eyebrows. An instinct in Eddie says, Soothe. But knows he shouldn’t. Knows he can’t kiss that away, not anymore. He takes a deep breath to reground himself. “Well,” he begins. “That guy is my husband. Or…No, he still is. He really likes to go on adventures. Loves doing things in silence. And when my dad—“ He means uncle, but that doesn’t matter. “—when my dad was still alive, we’d go out and fish. My husband and I, we’re too old to fish comfortably now, but he was always better than me. Earned him my dad’s respect, tell you that.”

“Your husband sounds fun,” Steve says, smiling with it. “Y’know, I have this friend—“ Eddie perks up at this. Usually, there’s nobody that Steve talks about. But if he’s willing. “—She has a wife. I don’t remember much about her, but I’ve heard she’s sweet.”

Robin, Eddie knows. Of course. He can’t wait to go home and call Robin to tell her all about this. “I’ll have to meet them some time.” He moves his palm from where it hangs loose at their hooked arms, brings it up slowly, and settles it on Steve’s bicep, squeezing. Steve doesn’t move away, thankfully. “Do you want to listen to some music?”

“Sure,” Steve mutters. “I just hope you have good taste.”

Oh I have the worst, Eddie thinks, you’ve told me that before. He walks them over to a nearby bench, still staring out at the water. It’s glistening ripples, the few birds that swoop down to rest, some stray leaves. Pulls out his phone, looks at their playlists he’s left the same over the years. Finds Steve’s. And clicks shuffle. “I think you’ll like this one, actually,” he says.

The first song to play is Billy Joel’s “Just the Way You Are”, their wedding song.

Beside him, Steve hums, settling back into the bench. His eyes are closed peacefully. A small smile to his lips. Face soft in the glow of the sun. Eddie is a sunflower, a sunflower, a sunflower. He aches so bad to trace his fingertip down the bridge of Steve’s nose, on the curve of his lower lip, to kiss him and dance with him and hold him like there’s no tomorrow. Like there’s no tomorrow where he comes back, a stranger.

“I’ve heard this before,” Steve whispers. His eyebrows furrow. He’s still smiling, but he’s focusing somewhere on something. And Eddie wants to comb his fingers through Steve’s brain, pet over the diseased areas, pat the memories, nestle the good that Steve remembers. “I see a face in my head,” he says. Asks, “Can I tell you what I see?”

“Sure,” Eddie whispers as soft as possible. “Tell me all about this face.”

Again, Steve settles. Shimmying further into the bench, taking Eddie with him. They lean back. Like sitting on their couch, watching reruns, eating Chinese takeout, gossiping about their neighbors, gazing at their daughter painting messy pictures of their love—pink and yellow splatters on the coffee table. (Eddie thinks about how those dried paint stains never left. How he never cleaned them. How Steve never complained. He’ll go home tonight and look at them. He will weep.)

“It’s a man,” Steve starts. “He’s white. Clean shaven. Got this bulbous nose and pretty pink lips. Kind of pouting,” he murmurs, chuckling to himself. Eddie snorts beside him. His eyes burn a little. “Dark, dark brown hair. Wavy around his face, kind of frizzy. But it looks like it’s been styled back into a bun, his bangs curled inwards.” Steve takes a deep breath, sighing dreamily. “His eyes…Wow, Eddie. These eyes are probably my favorite thing I’ve ever seen. So deep, big, almost like a deer. They’re shiny with tears. But he smiles at me, I’m warm.”

Eddie squeezes at Steve’s bicep again. He takes a stuttering breath. “The way you describe him…He sounds like a—“

“A painting,” Steve finishes. “He says something to me. Calls me Stevie. Calls me baby. That…I like that.” His eyes flutter open. And he swings his head to the right, looking directly into Eddie’s. “I like that, but there’s also a number there.”

“What’s that?” Eddie kindly asks.

“Fifty. I don’t really know why—Hey, wait a minute,” Steve rushes. He sits forward slightly. His eyes widen. The arm still wrapped with Eddie’s squeezes in a vice grip. “Your eyes…I’ve seen your eyes before.”

Eddie perks up. It’s happening again. Doesn’t occur all that often, especially in the last few months. But sometimes, sometimes his belly flips and his chest flutters and he’s taken back to the clearing that Steve confessed his love in—twenty years old, his eyes alight with passion, hair flopping all over the place. Him beautiful and peaceful. And, yeah, that’s what Eddie sees in front of him now.

“I’ve seen them before,” Steve whispers. He raises a hesitant palm to the side of Eddie’s face. Landing gently. Cupping, warmth radiating from him. He’s still a furnace. He’s the same. The Steve that Eddie fell in love with, he’s here and still inside there, he’s in the palm and in Eddie’s chest. He’s here. Steve inhales sharply. Clarity in his eyes. How he tells a story with just his pupils, the quick darting, the tears that pool in his waterline—Eddie will never know. “Eds?” Steve calls out.

A part of Eddie crumbles to his feet. He hasn’t heard that nickname in so goddamn long. He bites back the sob that wants to tear through him. Instead, places his free palm over the back of Steve’s. Thumb tickling his knuckles. “Hi, Stevie. Hi, baby,” he murmurs back. “How are you, love bug?”

“Eds,” Steve breathes. “I—What are—You look different.” He chuckles, it’s congested, it’s wet. “Is it our anniversary? Please, is it—“ Eddie nods in the hold. Steve sighs, crying slightly with it. There’s so much ache here, it hurts in the sweetest way possible to even have his simple touch. “God,” Steve softly sobs. “I’m sorry that I forgot. Please don’t be mad at me. I promise I tried to remember.”

Eddie squeezes where he’s still touching Steve. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he breathes truthfully. His chest seizes, that sob yearning, creeping. “Just sitting here with you for our anniversary is enough.” I’ll always be here to help you remember, he doesn’t say.

The way Steve relaxes, the relief rushing through him is enough for Eddie. Every single day with Steve is enough. Even in the moments where he’s completely lost in the world, somewhere dark and cold and lonely. Even when he gets angry and lashes out, slamming his palms on Eddie’s chest. Even if every time it makes Eddie physically pulse and hurt. He hurts. He’s a sunflower, a sunflower, a sunflower.

“Okay,” Steve rasps. “Okay, Eds. Okay.” He leans into the warmth of their bodies, sides a single line. Connected. Stitched together by everything, the matter of the universe. “Happy anniversary,” he whispers.

“Happy anniversary, love,” Eddie murmurs.

They’ve got maybe five minutes before Steve is gone again. Back to Steven. To the stranger in his room. A guy who sees brown eyes in his sleep and is unsure who they belong to. They’ve got five minutes, but Eddie will treat them like lifetimes.

He’ll come back tomorrow. And they will remember. And he will ache. But he will love.

“I love you,” he says.

And with the last thirty seconds they have together, Steve sighs, all the emotions under the sun (and Eddie is the sunflower soaking up all that is Steve), “I love you, too.”

💕—————💕

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddielovemonth #day 26 #angst and hurt/comfort #bittersweet ending

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slutforsilverfoxes · 10 months

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Damned Spot

TW: Canon typical descriptions of violence (guns, hand-to-hand combat, McGarrett being McGarrett)

You feel a gentle nudge at your side and you groan softly in protest, nestling deeper into the pillow and the comforting smell of the cologne you bought your fiancé for Valentine’s Day a few weeks ago. Another nudge sends your body shifting again, the pressure more insistent this time, and you open your bleary eyes to find Steve sitting upright in bed, a finger pressed to his lips. You can feel the tension rolling off him in waves causing a bolt of fear to run down your spine and effectively breaking the sandman’s grip on you. You mouth, What is it?, and he holds up one finger in lieu of a response, listening intently. Then he asks, “Did you leave a window open downstairs?”

“No,” you whisper, “never. Growing up with cats made me paranoid.”

Steve eases his legs over the side of the bed, carefully opening the drawer of his bedside table and retrieving his gun and clip. Reaching for his arm as he slides the magazine into place with a faint click, you murmur, “Baby, what’s going on?”

“I think someone’s trying to get into the house.”

He checks his phone, frowns, and replaces it on the nightstand. “No signal,” he reports, looking hopefully at you when you raise the landline to your ear. You shake your head. He stalks over to the bedroom door, then stops with his hand on the knob at the sound of fabric rustling from behind him. Turning to find you tugging on one of his Navy t-shirts, he furrows his brow and hisses, “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You’re staying here.”

“Fat fucking chance,” you argue quietly, racking a bullet in the chamber of your own piece while joining him at the door. “You don’t take me to the range so I can sit up here worrying while you play Super SEAL. Let’s go.”

He puffs out a breath of air, jaw ticking as he considers his options. After a moment, he relents, “Stay on me, and stick to the shadows. If I say run, you run, got it?” You swallow thickly and nod, his eyes softening at the determination and fear swimming in your own. “You remember what I taught you?”

“Keep my finger off the trigger unless I intend to shoot.”

“And if you do?”

“Aim for center mass.”

He tucks you into his body and presses his lips to your forehead, murmuring, “That’s my girl.” Steve quietly opens the bedroom door and steps out onto the landing. With his dominant hand on his weapon, he reaches behind with his free hand and laces his fingers through yours, tugging you closer until your chest presses against his back. Feeling your pulse thrumming beneath his fingertips, he gives your hand a firm squeeze before lifting it to his shoulder. After a quick sweep of the living room from upstairs, he looks at you over his shoulder and whispers, “On me,” then begins your careful descent. Glass shatters somewhere in the kitchen, and Steve can feel your entire body tense as you muffle a gasp against his bare back. He turns at the bottom of the steps, guiding you into the corner there and shielding your smaller form from the wide open space of the living room, then raises his gun in the dark. Pressed so tightly into him, you feel rather than hear his authoritative voice carry through your home. “This is Commander McGarrett of Five-0,” he announces. “Put down any weapons you have, and come out with your hands raised.”

The house goes dead silent, or maybe it’s just impossible to hear over the sound of your blood rushing in your ears. God, you think to yourself, how does he do this every day? The seconds tick by, and the tension hanging in the air is downright oppressive.

Then, an object goes clattering across the floor and all hell breaks loose.

“Get down!” Steve roars, spinning and crushing you into his body moments before the backs of your eyelids go stark white from the flash bang. You force your eyes open as the light dissipates, readjusting to the dark once again enveloping you as time slows to a crawl and the world spins around you. You feel Steve’s palm tapping insistently against your cheek, and you realize he’s been calling your name, trying to get your attention. “Y/N, Y/N, look at me,” he pleads, and you hear a distinct edge to his voice that you’ve never heard before. He’s scared, you realize with a start, bile rising in your throat at the prospect of this man, the very definition of bravery, being scared about what you’re facing. The scene unfolding before you hurtles back to normal speed, and you spot movement on the second floor by your bedroom. Acting on instinct, your index finger shifts onto the trigger and you squeeze twice in rapid succession, gulping in air and staring in disbelief at the body that tumbles down the stairs to lay at your feet.

Your eyes dart back and forth between the landing and the living room where you can hear Steve exchanging blows with one of the intruders. He lets out a guttural roar, and you can just make out his form ramming a figure clad in black against the far wall. Then there’s a sharp crack followed by the sound of deadweight hitting the floor.

“Baby,” Steve says urgently, wrenching the semi-automatic from the dead man’s grip before returning to your side, his hand a comforting pressure on your shoulder. “Get to the basement. They’re going to send a second wave-”

His intuition proves right, the front door breaking off its hinges from a powerful kick and more glass shattering before you hear the thundering of boots across the hall upstairs. “Go! Go now!” Pressing your body to the wall that supports the staircase, you make it as far as the kitchen before the clouds part and the crescent moon illuminates another three men running towards you from the beach, weapons trained on your beloved home. The acrid smell of smoke fills the air as Steve fires a series of shots, trying to fend off the intruders so you can reach the basement for a semblance of tactical advantage, the relatively small room devoid of windows and featuring only a single entrance and exit.

You move into the kitchen, glass cutting into the soles of your feet that you barely even register thanks to the adrenaline coursing through your body, and reach for the handle to the basement door. “I can’t feel it,” you cry, panic flooding your voice while you paw at the wood. “Steve, I can’t find the handle!”

He realizes then, with a rising sense of dread, that he didn’t hear a window squeaking on its hinge. They didn’t need a window to breach the house. It was a fucking drill.

“Okay,” he nods, resigned. “Okay. How many bullets do you have left?”

“Four,” you answer shakily, swiping at your eyes to clear your vision.

He pops off an expertly placed shot, and you flinch when the man’s head jerks back before he crumples to the sand outside. “I’m sure our neighbors have called HPD by now,” Steve says confidently, trying to imbue his strength into you despite the myriad of scenes playing out in his head of how this could all go horribly wrong. “Tell me again what you’re gonna aim for,” he coaches.

“Center mass,” you answer dutifully.

Steve rumbles out, “You’re doing so well, Y/N. You keep your eye on that hallway, okay?” You hear the crunching of glass beneath heavy footfalls, and you take a deep breath in a feeble attempt to steel your nerves. Then shots ring out across the kitchen, the sparks of bullets affording you snapshots of the chaos, accompanied by the soundtrack of blows landing and bones cracking.

As quickly as it started, it’s all over. The longest six minutes of your life. Just about the length of Bohemian Rhapsody.

The thought has a laugh bubbling out of you, and Steve turns at the sound to check on you, the air rushing out of his lungs.

“Baby?” He drops to his knees, cradling your head in his lap and pressing his hand against your chest.

“Hurts,” you gasp out, trying to pull away from the unwelcome pressure.

“I know, my love,” he soothes you, “just breathe through it, okay? C’mon, breathe with me.” Following his lead, you take deliberate breaths, each gulp of air sending a shockwave of pain radiating through your body.

“This sucks,” you laugh again, almost delirious now. “I just picked out my wedding dress.”

“And you’re gonna look so beautiful in it,” Steve croons, pressing his hand even harder against the bullet wound in response to your rapidly worsening pallor. “Keep breathing, baby.”

You take in an obedient breath, and he blinks away tears, joking, “You wanted us to have another thing in common, huh? Matching his and hers scars?” You smile lovingly at him before gasping from the pain, and he continues rambling to keep you conscious, “It’s a through and through, Y/N, you’re gonna be fine.”

“Jus’ a through ’n through,” you slur back.

“Stay awake, Y/N,” he says roughly, jostling his knees beneath your head. The sound of approaching sirens grows louder with each passing second, and you try to memorize Steve’s handsome visage, his features drawn together tightly in concern.

You muse, “So pretty,” as his face comes in and out of focus, and you let out a content hum before closing your eyes, the sound of Steve’s panicked voice blending into the wailing sirens, and then nothing at all.

__________

“Hey, babe,” Danny calls as he walks briskly through the hospital just after three in the morning, lowering his voice when he receives a disgruntled look from one of the few other people in the lobby. “HPD said you were on your way to Tripler.” Seeing Steve decked out in an EMT’s jacket, he quips, “What happened? You ride in the ambulance so much they gave you a souvenir, huh?” Steve turns at the sound of Danny’s voice, his disheveled appearance and red-rimmed eyes a stark contrast to his usual sarcasm and self-assurance. “Woah, hey,” the blonde’s voice drops to a soothing murmur, and he pulls his best friend into a tight hug. “What’s going on?”

“It’s um-” Steve sniffs and smooths a hand over his face, steeling himself. “A tactical team broke into the house-” His voice breaks and he clears his throat, his hand balling into a fist that he repeatedly hits against his open palm before blurting out, “She got shot, Danny.”

The blonde is dumbstruck, unsure of how to ask his followup question and grateful when his partner intuits his fear. “She’s in surgery,” Steve supplies, and Danny releases a ragged breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“How much longer?”

Steve merely shrugs in response, glassy-eyed stare trained on the floor in front of him. He pulls his hands out of the jacket pockets and studies them for a moment before concluding, “She lost a lot of blood.”

“Let’s go get you cleaned up, babe.” Danny guides his friend down the hall toward the nearest restroom. “I’m gonna call the team and let them know what’s going on. And I’ll have Chin bring you a change of clothes. Should I… call Y/N’s parents?”

“Not yet,” Steve intones, letting the rest of his thought go unspoken, then pushes open the door to the bathroom.

He stands in front of the sink for a few moments in a trance, unsure of what to do next until he glances down at his hands again, unrecognizable in their current state. He runs his palms under scalding hot water and scrubs at them ferociously, willing the liquid in the basin to stop running red. After several minutes, crimson has dulled to a blush tinge- the same color as your cheeks when he makes you laugh and the flowers you chose for the table settings at the wedding. He moves to swipe at his pooling tears but can’t bring himself to touch his face. Instead, he pulls out several paper towels, wets them, and dabs at his stinging eyes.

The cool water brings him marginally back to reality, although he’s not sure that’s a good thing given the state of his world right now. Suddenly feeling hot all over, and definitely too hot for this stupid jacket, Steve yanks at the zipper and peels off the heavy fabric. It takes him a few tugs to get the material detached from his bare skin, and when he looks up into the mirror again, he sees why.

On the other side of the door, Danny’s filling Chin in on the vague details he has of the night. “…won’t even say her name. No, I know, but he just keeps saying ‘she’ like Y/N’s a victim in one of our cases and it’s honestly freaking me-” Danny gets cut off by a gut-wrenching howl followed by the unmistakable sound of glass breaking. “I have to go,” he mutters into the phone. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll see you when you get here. Thanks.” He allows himself a moment to breathe and prepare himself for what he’s about to see, then enters the bathroom.

He finds Steve gripping the sink so tightly that fresh blood oozes from the wounds on his knuckles with each flex of his fingers, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he stares blankly ahead into the broken mirror. “Steve-”

“Look at me,” his best friend rasps out, turning so that Danny can see his bare chest, a horrifying canvas painted with your blood. He opens and closes his mouth several times, clearly at a loss for words as he looks down at his hands in disbelief. “Her blood is literally on my hands, Danny. I was- I was supposed to protect her. My baby,” he whispers sadly, and then the dam breaks.

__________

As night creeps into morning, Steve sits in the waiting room with his team members poring over recent case files. He scratches at his chest for the umpteenth time, unable to escape from the hellish feeling of your blood on his body even after a hot shower in the nurses’ locker room and a change of clothes courtesy of Chin. “This is taking too long,” he sighs, slapping a file closed on the table before him and digging the heels of his palms into his raw eyes.

“Steve,” Kono starts gently, rubbing his arm, “why don’t you get some rest? We’ll keep going and wake you up if-”

“No,” he shakes his head, his voice rough with exhaustion and barely concealed rage. “I’m not going to sleep until I hunt down this son of a bitch and take away everyone he loves.” After a breath, he nudges Danny’s foot under the table and asks, “What’s Duke saying?”

“No hits through facial rec or even Interpol. It’s like these guys are ghosts.”

Chin sits up in his stiff hospital chair like an epiphany’s just struck. “What if this isn’t about Five-0?”

“Y/N’s a high school teacher,” Danny says, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “Her biggest enemy is Mrs. Heifer down the hall who never replenishes the K-cups.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, Steve smiles at his best friend and corrects, “Mrs. Hannifer.”

“I said what I said.”

“C’mon, you two,” Kono grins, squeezing their hands on the table. “Chin, what are you thinking?”

“When’s the last time you heard from Doris?”

Steve snorts out an incredulous laugh and answers, “When she got on that private jet a few years ago. She’s never met Y/N. Hell, she doesn’t even know she’s a grandmother now.” He shakes his head at that realization, gnawing at his bottom lip as he considers Chin’s line of thinking. “I’m gonna call Joe. You guys keep working through these files, okay?”

The older man answers on the ninth ring, his voice thick with sleep when he says, “Son, you have any idea what time it is where I am?”

Glancing at the digital clock at the nurses’ station, Steve replies curtly, “Four forty-seven in the morning. Where’s Doris, Joe?”

Steve can hear shuffling on the other end of the phone, and he can picture Joe sitting up in bed, trying to figure out an artful lie. “What’s going on, Steve?”

“There are at least eleven dead bodies at my house right now,” he says by way of an answer.

“Are you sure they were looking for your mother?”

“This wasn’t some intruder block party at the McGarrett household,” Steve snaps, ire overpowering his immense respect for the man whom he considers to be his second father. “They were in tactical gear with heavy weaponry and a clear target. This wasn’t just an op, it was a hit.”

“Christ,” Joe breathes out. “Are you alright, son?”

“No, I’m not,” he answers honestly, voice breaking on the last syllable. “Y/N’s in the hospital.”

There’s some shuffling again, louder this time. Steve can tell he’s getting dressed before he declares, “I’m on my way.”

__________

Joe’s baritone voice sounds garbled as it floats over to Steve’s ears like he’s stuck underwater, and the brunette sits up with a start, realizing he inadvertently dozed off while awaiting his mentor’s arrival. Kono places a paper cup with steam wafting out of it beside him, and he looks up at her gratefully. “I was just about to wake you.”

“Kono, hey,” Steve starts softly, reaching across their makeshift work desk to take her hand. “I just- I want you to know how grateful I am. For introducing me to Y/N and then giving me the push to-”

“Don’t,” she whispers emphatically, fighting back tears. “Save it for your reception, okay?”

He nods, sharing a bittersweet smile with your childhood best friend, before taking a fortifying sip of caffeine and heading towards Joe who’s being briefed by Danny. He pulls Steve into an uncharacteristically lengthy hug, then steps back with a sigh. “Son, there’s something you need to know. Your mother-”

“-never left the island,” Steve finishes the thought for him, spotting a concerned Doris rounding the corner into the waiting area. Then the other shoe drops, an all-too-familiar face stepping out from behind his mother.

“What the fuck?” Danny hisses under his breath at the sight of the two women arriving together.

“Steven,” Doris starts with a sympathetic click of her tongue, arms outstretched as she approaches her eldest. She stops short at the look in his eyes and the tight clench of his jaw. His rage is palpable, and the image of his hands around Doris’ throat flashes unbidden behind his closed eyelids. “They had plans of our house,” he says, his voice barely audible. “They took the handle of the basement door off so we had nowhere to go.”

If his mother is wondering who the we is, she’s doing an excellent job of hiding it. Her shadow, on the other hand, voices the question out loud. “Who was with you?” she asks, concerned. “Are you hurt?”

“My fiancée,” Steve spits out, trying and failing to tamp down the venom dripping from his words.

“I didn’t-” Tears brim in Doris’ eyes and Steve forces himself to look away. “I had no idea, Steven. I’m so sorry.”

“Of course you didn’t know,” he laughs sadly. Meeting his mother’s gaze once more, he says, “You shouldn’t be here. You need to lay low in a safe house until we figure out who’s running this op.”

“You need to play it safe, too, Steve,” the younger brunette speaks up. “Come with us.”

“Cath-” Her name catches in his throat like the shards of glass still taking up residence in the cracks along his knuckles. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Then we’re staying here with you,” Doris says with a sense of finality. “At least until she's out of surgery.”

“Y/N.”

“What, Steven?”

Doleful eyes look up to meet his mother’s, the mix of blue and hazel in her irises an exact reflection of his own. “Her name is Y/N.”

__________

The first rays of sunlight stream through the cracks in the blinds into your hospital room, casting an almost angelic glow on your sleeping face. Steve would find the sight absolutely picturesque if his eyes weren’t laser focused on the steady rise and fall of your chest, terrified that every breath you take could be your last.

The bullet lodged in a tertiary bronchus of Y/N’s left superior lung lobe, just shy of the cardiac notch, your surgeon had explained to him. We were able to safely remove a portion of her lung, and we didn’t see any bullet fragments penetrate the pericardium, the sac around the heart. She’ll have to take it slow and avoid strenuous activity, especially with the rib fractures healing, but we anticipate a full recovery in due time. Steve had done some extensive Google searching following his conversation with the surgeon, but an article detailing the amount of hemorrhage that could occur from damage to intercostal vessels had his skin feeling hot and sticky again, and he forced himself to stop.

The flurry of activity in the recovery ward outside your room is muffled by the drone in his ears, interrupted every so often by the steady beeping of your monitors, proof that you’re still alive. Leaning his elbows against jittery knees, he presses his clasped hands to his forehead and finally breaks the silence. “So… the CIA, huh?”

Catherine sighs, running her fingers through her hair before saying, “I would’ve told you if I could.”

“I see why they assigned you to Doris,” Steve huffs quietly. “You both have the same penchant for half-truths.”

“Steven-” his mother starts, but he cuts her off with a withering glance.

“The least you could’ve done, the very least, was warn me to be on my guard.”

“And what would you have done differently?”

“Reinforce the house. Have Y/N stay with Danny. I don’t know what I would’ve done, because you didn’t give me an option.” He rubs his face roughly and takes a deep breath, trying to ward off the crushing weight of exhaustion. “Look, uh, Y/N’s going to be fine, so you guys really should get going. Get someplace safe.”

The two women nod, standing and gathering their things. Catherine steps out into the hallway, but Doris lingers at the threshold of your room, turning back to her son with tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Steven,” she whispers, her voice cracking on his name. “I thought- I thought if I went back to the only thing I was ever good at, I could keep you safe.”

He rises from his chair to meet her in the doorway and pulls her into a tight embrace, years of questions left unanswered and moments missed passing between them in the span of a few seconds. “That’s not the only thing you were good at, Mom,” he divulges quietly.

She cups his cheek in her hand, and Doris can see the little boy she left behind peek through the hardened exterior of her adult son when he leans into her touch. “When this is all over, I’ll come see you, okay? I want to get to know my daughter-in-law.” I want to get to know you, she thinks sadly, deciding it’s better to keep that thought inside for now. “Stay safe, Steven.”

He nods. “You too, Mom.”

He follows her out into the hallway, calling out for Catherine who stops and turns at the sound of his voice. Jogging down the hall to make up the distance, Steve stops in front of his long-time lover, ex, and almost-wife. “Thank you,” he says awkwardly, now unsure of why he even stopped her from leaving. “For watching out for my mom,” he clarifies.

“Of course,” Cath responds. “She’s family.”

“Right, well, uh-” He sniffs and scratches the back of his neck. “Take care of yourself.”

“You too, Steve.”

He turns to head back to your room, but Catherine’s hand on his arm stops him. “She wrote to me,” the brunette blurts out in a confession. “Y/N, she- she wrote to me, and I found it in my old inbox a few months back.” Her eyes are glassy when she continues, “She, um, thanked me for being there for you all those years before she came into the picture. And the way she talks about you, Steve, God, she really loves you.” Steve drops his gaze to the ground, overcome with emotion, and nods. “Y/N told me about the ring, too.”

His head whips up at that, concern flooding his ocean blue eyes. “Cath-”

“It’s okay, really. I’m glad she told me.” They’re silent for a few moments, then Catherine says, “Look, Steve, just because I’m not in your life anymore doesn’t mean I don’t still care about you. And Y/N… it’s so clear that she loves you. That she’s good for you.”

“For the first time in my life,” Steve reveals quietly, “I know what it feels like to be chosen. For the first time in my life, I feel like a priority.”

“You should be a priority, Steve. You deserve to be happy, and you deserve to be happy with her.” Catherine presses a delicate kiss to his stubbled cheek, and it feels distinctly like a final goodbye. “See you around, sailor.”

She turns and continues down the hall, but Steve has lived a life filled with one too many unanswered questions. “Cath?” he calls after her. “What would you have said? If I had asked, what would you have said?”

Catherine smiles at him, a bittersweet smile that holds years of love, friendship, and fond memories. “I would’ve said ‘yes’, Steve.”

__________

A few days later, you’re enjoying a small, simple breakfast a la McGarrett that tastes like a Michelin star meal compared to the hospital food you’ve been forcing down since waking up from your surgery. “An omelet has never tasted this good,” you moan happily around another bite, and Steve grins at you. “I hope you still feel that way when we get you back home.”

The mention of home has your smile faltering as you recall the destruction that ensued on that fateful night. “Do we still…” You hesitate, unsure of how to phrase your question delicately. “Can we go back home?”

“We’re fixing the place up for you as we speak, babe,” Danny jumps in, sharing a quick look with his best friend. The crime scene cleanup crew had done a stellar job over the past two days, but Steve was insisting on pulling up and replacing the entire kitchen floor, claiming a remodel was past due anyway. No one had the heart to tell him they knew exactly why he couldn’t look at the old linoleum tiles.

“You guys are the best,” you gush. “I was worried we would have to move.”

“No, baby, are you kidding me?” Steve tuts. “Mary and I were raised in that house, and we’re gonna raise little McGarretts of our own there, too.”

“Don’t tell me I have to deal with more of you,” Danny groans, and you laugh before your entire left side smarts and you suck in air through your teeth.

“Danny!” Steve admonishes, and you’re quick to soothe his ruffled feathers.

“Are you two upsetting my favorite patient?” Your lovely nurse, Lani, narrows her eyes playfully at your boys as she enters the room, making notes in your chart of your fluid rate and vitals on the monitor.

“No, ma’am,” they answer in unison, and she huffs at them skeptically. Turning her attention to you, she asks, “How are you feeling today, sweetheart?”

“Less pain, more so discomfort. My stitches are starting to get itchy like you said they would.” She nods and hums sympathetically, then smiles and says, “That means you’re healing.”

“Does that mean I can take a real shower today?”

“Nice try,” she laughs, adjusting the pillow you’re leaning against. “Not quite yet. But Mina will be in soon to take care of you, dear.”

With a pout you ask, “You’re leaving me?”

“You’ll be discharged by the time I start my next shift,” Lani answers, squeezing your shoulder in a sweet gesture. “And Commander McGarrett?” She turns to him, one eyebrow quirked, and the SEAL sits up at attention. “We don’t want to see you in here for at least a year, okay?”

As Steve nods dutifully, Danny jokes, “I mean, really, you oughtta give this guy a punchcard or something at this point. Nine sets of stitches and the tenth one’s free, huh?”

Shaking her head, she calls, “Goodbye, you two. Get well soon, Y/N, dear!”

“What a gem,” you smile, “I love her.”

Danny stands with a soft grunt and announces his departure, too. “Gotta collect my monkeys and drop them off at school,” he explains, leaning in to press a kiss to your cheek. “I’ll bring the kids by later and make sure this guy hasn’t bored you to tears, yeah?”

“You’re a real comedian, Detective Williams,” Steve yells as he leaves, rolling his eyes at his best friend’s ribbing. You reach your hand out towards your fiancé and wiggle your fingers, gesturing for him to come closer. Your EKG lines only allow you to stretch so far, and you fall back against the pillows with a huff. “I don’t like hospitals, Steve.”

“I know,” he responds sympathetically, coming to sit on the edge of your bed and brushing some loose hairs off your forehead.

“I don’t like having all these wires and tubes connected to every inch of my body.”

“Trust me, I know.”

“And I hate having to ask for help. Not even being able to bathe myself? Hard pass. It makes me feel useless.”

“Y/N-”

“And the last time we were in this place, the roles were reversed and I was so terrified that you weren’t gonna wake up and-”

“Honey, baby, angel, light of my life,” he cuts you off gently, squeezing your cheeks between his large hands, “would you just- would you take a breath for me? Nice and easy, just like that,” he instructs, breathing with you. “Thank you so much.”

“Was that your polite way of telling me to shut up?” You smile lovingly up at him, angling your head to press a kiss to each of his palms.

“I would never-” He molds his lips to your forehead. “-ever-” Another kiss. “-do such a thing.”

“Perish the thought,” you snort. “Will you snuggle with me, babe?”

He glances down at the bed, appraising. “Are we both gonna fit?”

You pout at him, dramatically jutting out your bottom lip. “I make it work when you’re in here.”

“You don’t pull your punches, future Mrs. McGarrett,” he laughs warmly, wedging his large frame beside you in the comedically small bed.

You hum contentedly as his arm settles around you, resting gently on your injured side. “Who said I’m taking your last name?”

“Ouch,” he mock cries, hand going to his heart. “Another direct hit.”

“I’m not done yet,” you declare, and he challenges, “Oh yeah? What else you got?”

“My scar is gonna be cooler than all of yours combined.”

His fingers trace delicate patterns along your side and he scoffs, “Is not.”

“Is, too!”

“Who’s gonna be the judge, huh?”

“All of our friends.”

“Nu uh,” he shakes his head. “Unfair advantage. You’ll get bonus pity points.”

“We’ll take pictures. Make it a blind experiment.”

“You’re on, Mrs. McGarrett.”

“What did I just say to you?”

“My last name’s cooler. You’ll come around.”

“You’re so annoying, Steve.”

“I know.”

“But I love you.”

“…I kn- Ow! Okay, okay, I’m sorry! I love you, too! Stop pinching me, you cheeky little- How do you have the energy to do this right now?“

__________

[A/N: Woo baby this one was a doozy, but I’m actually really proud of it? 🥹 Writing this gave me anxiety and then big sad and then big smile for my goofy baby Steve, I hate myself fr. This has been sitting in my drafts inspired by snippets of various episodes of the show because, let’s face it, writing myself into one Steven Jack McGarrett’s life is my guilty pleasure. I love this man sm and I wanted to explore his more emotional side as opposed to the tough and sarcastic version of Steve we’re used to. I hope you enjoyed this lil piece that’s been living rent free in my head for months now 🖤 Also...peep the Macbeth reference 💅🏽✨]

#steve mcgarrett imagine #steve mcgarrett fanfiction #steve mcgarrett x reader #steve mcgarrett #steve mcgarrett x y/n #steve mcgarrett x female reader #steve mcgarrett x you #hawaii five 0 #hawaii five 0 imagine #h50 #doris mcgarrett #hurt/comfort #angst with comfort #angst and hurt/comfort

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that-nerd-who-writes-fanfiction · 2 months

Text

I need a fic where Merlin doesn’t know he’s Emrys and doesn’t know about his destiny, he’s just a good person who sees someone constantly almost dying and saves him because he can’t just sit and do nothing.

Kilgharrah doesn’t exist. Plot holes aside, the bitchy basement gecko can go to hell.

Anyway.

This all takes place during The Beginning of The End episode.

Mordred doesn’t call Merlin Emrys, he just cries out for help (and for his dad). Merlin steps in, the rest of the episode is the same but Merlin is determined to help the druid boy he found. Without crusty dinosaur harping on, he gets to choose the right thing for his own morals and critical thinking. Gaius is unsurprisingly resistant, so Merlin is being extremely careful, then Arthur finds him in Morgana’s chambers while he’s healing Mordred.

Let’s go with Morgana already knows about Merlin’s magic and he’s been helping her too against Gaius’ advice.

Arthur feels betrayed and is upset because Merlin can’t seem to give him a straight answer about anything. It’s all still new to him, but he’s learning that Merlin is good even if he doesn’t answer any of Arthur’s questions about magic or why he doesn’t use spells or anything like that. He’s angry but he can’t punish Merlin and free Mordred without being hypocritical, so he mostly sulks.

In all the perceived lies, Arthur snaps and instead of punishing him, he doesn’t let Merlin leave his side until he tells the truth.

So when Arthur takes Mordred back to the Druids, Merlin goes with him. Iseldir greets them as “Emrys and The Once and Future King” They’re both confused, but obviously Arthur is the future king so Arthur asks who Iseldir thought Merlin was.

Iseldir reveals their destiny that Merlin is the god of magic. Merlin is silent and Arthur is so confused and hurt about why Merlin didn’t trust him.

Iseldir answers all of Arthur’s questions about destiny and the prophecy while Merlin doesn’t say a word. He takes it to mean Merlin is ashamed or something similar about the truth coming out, meanwhile Merlin is grappling with the fact that he supposedly isn’t human. After days of Arthur picking on him for “lying” and all the unintentionally cruel jibes, when Iseldir tries to say Merlin was blessed with his power and that it was something he should be grateful for.

Merlin breaks down in a Percy Jackson style “I’m not a god! There’s something wrong with me! I get that whatever I am isn’t supposed to happen, I know I’m a monster, believe me. I never even learned magic and every time I’ve tried to get rid of it, it’s almost killed me! So don’t tell me that this is a blessing, that this curse is something I should be happy about because it’s the reason I’ve spent every single day of my entire life terrified!” Then he stops for a second and the tears roll down his cheeks, “I’m sorry, but I’m not what you think I am. You need to find someone else to believe in.”

(Skip to the end for a happy ending, this is angsty. Warning for dark!Arthur and major character death)

Arthur thinks Merlin is lying and banishes him on the spot. Iseldir warns against it, but Merlin is just so tired so he doesn’t fight it. He’s left broken and believing he’s a monster, so be leaves to protect his friends.

Until a month or so later Arthur is on a hunt when he gets separated and lost, then injured by bandits. Merlin finds him, (he’s been sent off by the druids for failing this destiny he knew nothing about, in search of a solution but they’re not very forthcoming with information) and Merlin heals him. Then they get all the diamond of the day moments while Merlin is nursing Arthur back to health until he succumbs to infection.

Merlin gives his life for Arthur, knowing that he’ll be a good king. This leads Arthur to become really dark, he kills his father and takes over Camelot, welcoming magic but killing anyone with a different opinion. No one is safe, war breaks out and Camelot falls. When Arthur dies, young and during an uprising, he meets Merlin again in Avalon. Merlin doesn’t recognise Arthur with all he’s become, and Arthur is punished to watch all his people suffer with his old mind while watching Merlin continuously pushing him away because “he’s waiting for Arthur, he shouldn’t be alone when he gets here. He would’ve been a good king, he needs someone to take care of him now.” And it breaks Arthur’s heart to hear it every time.

That’s all I got so far, it could be that they’re both driven mad waiting, Arthur by watching his people and Merlin by waiting for a man he’s doomed to never recognise again. I’m not sure, I haven’t gotten that far.

Or for less angst, hurt/comfort where Arthur has to realise that Merlin is just as in the dark as he is, he really doesn’t know any of the questions Arthur had and he’s probably been looking for answers a lot longer. They work together to fix everything and while it’s difficult, Merlin still has issues with lying to protect his friends (intent/outcome issues) Arthur is too trusting still and they have to deal with Morgause and all the other threats but they overcome it together. Albion is united and they live happily ever after.

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rynneer · 1 month

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Misty Memories Cold

When you wake in Fíli’s bed with no recollection of anything after a disaster in Mirkwood, he’s ready to risk anything, even his uncle’s wrath, to bring back what you had together.

Cold.

You’re cold. It’s dark. You’re falling. Someone reaches for you. Too late.

The water folds in around you. It floods your nose. It floods your ears. Your limbs don’t work. You can’t swim.

Muffled shouts. You open your mouth to cry back. It fills with water.

Choking.

Drowning.

Drowning drowning drowning dr–

You wake with a jolt, sitting up in bed.

Bed?

You pat the sheets around you. Yes, you’re definitely in a bed, not curled up on the leaf litter in Mirkwood.

“I guess it really was a dream,” you whisper, shoulders slumping. But as you run your fingers across the hem of the blanket, you frown. It doesn’t feel like the old quilt on your bed. It’s thicker, softer.

Something is wrong.

You look around the room as your eyes begin to adjust. There’s a fireplace across the room, the dying embers casting just enough light to let you make out the vague shapes of furniture in the darkness. The walls and floor are stone, adorned with plush rugs. The wind rattles the shutters outside the window, hidden behind thick curtains.

This is not your bedroom… and you are not alone. A dark figure stirs next to you beneath the covers. You scramble out of bed but find the floor farther away than expected. You land hard on your side. “Ow!”

You slap your hand over your mouth, but it’s too late. The figure sits up with a groan, rubbing at its face and leaning to peer over the edge of the bed at you. There’s no mistaking that mustache, those braids.

“Fíli? What… where are we?” And why are we in bed together?

Fíli blinks a few times to clear the sleep from his eyes. “What do you mean?” he asks hoarsely, his voice rough. He rolls out of bed and kneels in front of you. “We’re home. In Erebor? You know, the mountain? Big pile of rocks and snow? It’s rather hard to miss.” He raises an eyebrow, trying to coax a smile from you.

Instead, you scoot backwards, putting space between you and the prince as you process his words. “But we were just in Mirkwood,” you protest. “How did we get here?”

Fíli’s confusion turns to concern. “Y/N, that was a year ago.” He shifts closer and brushes a thumb over your cheek. “Are you feeling alright?”

You stiffen against his touch, heart in your throat. Ever the gentleman, he’s never touched you without permission before. But something about the way his palm cups your face feels familiar. “I don’t know,” you whisper, shaking your head. “All I remember is falling into the stream.”

“You don’t remember the elves? Fighting for the mountain? All the time we spent together?” He uncovers a long braid in your hair. “Our wedding?”

“Wedding?!” It’s true, you’ve harbored feelings for Fíli since the two of you met in Bag End. You’d admired him in the book and movies, and to see him for real… it did something to you. But you never thought he would return your affections—how could he? You’re a plain, young woman from another world, and he’s a handsome prince, heir to the throne.

Fíli searches your face, expression unreadable. Finally, he stands, offering you his hand. “Come on.”

You take it hesitantly. His fingers lace through yours, and he helps you to your feet. Strangely, you find that instead of being taller than the dwarf, you’re just level with his chin. But before you can comment on this, Fíli pulls you out the door and down a narrow hallway.

He leads you to a large sitting room, taking you to the sofa next to yet another fireplace. “Wait here,” he orders softly. “I’ll fetch Thorin.”

“Thorin’s alive?” you breathe. “What about Kíli?”

“Kíli would like to know what the pair of you are doing up and chattering in the middle of the night,” replies a voice from behind you. The youngest Durin leans against the wall with his arms crossed, hair still tousled from sleep.

You tip back your head and close your eyes. “They did it,” you sigh in relief. “Oh, thank God, they did it.”

Kíli raises an eyebrow. “What’s going on?”

Fíli pinches the bridge of his nose. “Let me get Thorin first. I would rather not explain this twice.”

“Again.” Thorin paces in front of the fire.

You rub your forehead. “I told you, that’s it,” you groan. “I fell in the water and woke up here.”

Kíli shakes his head. “It makes no sense.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

Thorin flashes you a warning look.

“It was no ordinary stream,” Fíli points out. He sits with you on the couch, his hand resting on top of yours. Every once in a while, he gives it a reassuring squeeze. “It had some sort of foul magic. She wouldn’t wake for days.”

“If it’s magic that we’re dealing with,” you glance at Thorin warily before continuing, “it might be a good idea to talk with the elves.”

“Absolutely not,” Thorin snaps. His lip curls in disgust. “I refuse to invite them to interfere in our private matters.”

Kíli’s eyes brighten. “What about Gandalf, then? Where would we find him?”

They all look to you. You close your eyes, teasing and tugging at the cobwebs that cloud the part of your mind where your Middle Earth knowledge is stored. “He’s… there’s no guarantee we even could find him. Gandalf doesn’t have a home, exactly. He wanders. They don’t call him the Grey Pilgrim for nothing.”

“So we don’t know where Gandalf is,” Fíli starts slowly, “but we do know where the elves are.”

“And Gandalf wasn’t in Mirkwood with us,” you add. “There’s no guarantee he even knows about the enchanted stream—but Thranduil definitely would.”

Thorin crosses his arms. “Out of the question.”

“Did you not make peace with Mirkwood?”

“Peace does not mean friendship,” Thorin retorts. His voice, raised in frustration, echoes off of the polished stone walls. Down another hallway, you hear a door slam. Thorin groans at the sound of approaching footsteps.

“And just what in Mahal’s name is everyone shouting about at this hour of night?”

A new dwarf steps into the firelight. In the dim light, she almost looks like a copy of Thorin. But as she approaches, you can see her features are softer, her eyes rounder, her beard thinner. And there’s no mistaking the Durin glare that she levels at Thorin, her blue eyes just as piercing as they are tired.

You glance at Fíli with uncertainty. He squeezes your hand and leans close to murmur in your ear. “It’s just Amad. Mother,” he translates when you don’t seem to understand.

Dís. You nod quickly.

Thorin looks at you, then back to his sister, standing with arms crossed and an eyebrow raised expectantly. As they exchange words in their rough native tongue, Dís’s expression of irritation turns to one of soft, motherly concern. She comes closer to you and gently brushes away a few strands of unruly hair from your face. “You must be tired, natha.”

“Daughter,” Fíli whispers.

“A bit,” you reply quietly, finding yourself suddenly shy with the full attention of a mother focused on you.

“Poor dove,” Dís tuts. She straightens up and pats you on the shoulder. “Fíli, take your lass back to bed. We will speak in the morning.” Thorin looks like he means to protest, but Dís silences him with an icy glare. Planting a kiss on the top of your head, she pushes Kíli and Thorin back down their opposite hallways. Fíli pats your hand and follows her quickly, his words in Khuzdûl fading as he gets further away.

Finally alone, you let out a long sigh. For the first time, you get the chance to look yourself over, to see what has changed. Your hair is longer, brushing the small of your back. When you run your fingers through it, you find braids styled to match Fíli’s. A dwarven marriage custom, perhaps? There’s a thin, gold band on your finger, too, lined with tiny sapphires that sparkle in the firelight. A little smile tugs at the corner of your mouth; at least you kept some piece of your own marriage customs.

And while Fíli has been bare-chested this whole time, you’re wearing a dark green shirt, no doubt one that used to be his. It’s long enough on you to serve as a nightgown. A blush rises on your face when you realize the deep v-neck exposes the dip between your breasts—and has been exposing it to everyone else this whole time.

“Amrâlimê?” Fíli’s voice from the hallway is soft. He pokes his head into the sitting room. “Aren’t you going to come to bed?”

You gnaw on your bottom lip, suddenly very interested in the fireplace. In anything that isn’t Fíli’s too-kind face. “Do you want me to?” you ask hesitantly.

It’s silent for a few seconds. Fíli sighs heavily and comes to kneel before you, taking your hands in his. “Y/N, you are my wife. Of course I want you to come to bed. It is our bed.” His eyes search yours, desperately looking for the light he knows should be there. “Do I not have your love?”

“I mean, sure,” you reply softly. Your voice is strained. “I just… I don’t understand how I have yours. You’re the crown prince, you’re perfect. And I’m just… me.”

“You are so much more than that,” Fíli murmurs. “You are everything to me.” He kisses your forehead and stands. Before you can say anything, you’re swept up in his arms. Startled, you instinctively wrap your arms around his neck to avoid falling, but he carries your smaller frame with ease.

You frown, remembering your observation from earlier. “Shouldn’t I be taller than you?”

“Ah. Well.” Fili’s chuckle makes his chest vibrate against your cheek. “That’s all that we thought the stream did. Make you properly sized.”

“Properly sized?” you repeat in disbelief. “You call this properly sized?”

“You complained about it endlessly,” Fíli continues. A playful smile tugs at his lips. “Until you realized how well you fit in my arms.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re very funny.”

“I’m also handsome, charming, brave…”

“Shut up.” You smack his shoulder lightly, but hide a smile as you tuck your head beneath his chin. Maybe you can get used to this.

But as he kicks open the door to his—your—room, and you see the bed with its rumpled covers, you tense.

“Y/N?” Fíli’s breath tickles your neck.

“It’s… just a lot, all at once,” you mumble.

He squeezes you, then lowers you gently to the bed. “I understand,” he murmurs.

“You really don’t, though.” Pent-up frustration simmers within you. “When’s the last time you fell into a stream, woke up, and found out a year had passed and you’re married?”

“Are you upset that we’re married?” Fíli asks, his face falling.

You feel a pang of guilt for snapping at him. This can’t be any easier for him. Running your hand through your tangled hair, you shake your head. “It feels like one moment, I was a girl with a crush, and then I wake up, and suddenly I’m a married woman. I’ve missed out on everything.”

“It’s in there, somewhere,” he whispers, stroking your cheek. You flinch away, your body unsure of how to react to his touch. Hurt flickers across his face, but he pulls back. “Can I fix your braids?” he asks. There’s desperation in his eyes.

Recognizing his need to touch you in whatever way he can, you nod slowly, and turn. The gentle, rhythmic tugging as he combs and re-braids your hair is hypnotic, and you find your eyelids drooping.

“There,” Fíli says, turning you back to him. He smiles sadly. “Beautiful as ever.”

Your heart aches. Whether it aches for him, the dwarf searching for his loving wife in the uncertain girl before him, or yourself, longing to be that loving wife, you do not know.

After a moment of hesitation, you lean in and reward him with a quick kiss on the cheek. His beard is prickly against your lips. “I’m tired,” you whisper when you draw back.

The kiss brings a real smile to his face, however small it may be. Fíli pulls back the covers and you wriggle underneath them. You settle into a dip worn down into the mattress from hundreds of nights before. Fíli slides into place behind you, his chest against your back. You stiffen slightly, but force yourself to relax.

“Is this alright?” His deep, quiet voice vibrates through your body.

You nod. He can have a little cuddle, as a treat. As an apology.

He takes that as a signal to test the limits further. You can tell he’s holding his breath as he drapes his arm over your waist. “Is this alright?”

“It’s cozy,” you mumble sleepily, letting the warmth of his body overwhelm you.

Fíli lets out his breath, pulling you tightly against him and nuzzling his face into your hair.

As you drift off, you do your best to pretend you don’t notice his quiet tears.

You began to stir, finding your face pressed into something warm and firm. As you tried to pull away to look around, you were met with resistance. You made a disgruntled noise.

“Y/N?!” Suddenly, a hand yanked your head backwards. Wide eyes searched your face frantically. You just barely registered who held you before he pulled you back in a crushing embrace. “I thought we’d lost you.”

“Fíli?” you mumbled, your voice muffled by his coat. “Can’t breathe.”

He released you, finally letting you get your bearings. The two of you were alone in a small, stone cell. Torchlight flickered just outside the wrought iron bars, casting a dim, orange light into your cell.

A shadow crossed over the door. “Oh, so she is alive. Here, then.” An apple landed on the ground in front of you, followed by a waterskin. “That’s the most you get until tomorrow. Make it last.” The shadow retreated, footsteps echoing down a long hallway.

Pieces began to slot into place in your mind. You nodded slowly. Mirkwood, elves, imprisonment. “How long have we been in here?”

“A few days at most, given how often they’ve brought food and water. But it’s hard to tell.” Fíli seemed distracted, eyes scanning your body. “How do you feel?”

You frowned and patted yourself up and down. “A bit sore, but I think I’m fine.” You untangled yourself from Fíli and tried to stand on shaky legs, your knees instantly failing beneath you.

Immediately, he jumped up and grabbed your waist from behind to steady you. “Y/N?” His voice was soft. “Y/N, please do not be alarmed when you turn around.”

“What?” You twisted in his grasp and looked up into his concerned face.

Up. You had to tilt your head up to meet his eyes. He was big. You tried to back away but the space was so narrow, you collided with the wall after just a single step. “You’re taller,” you stated, almost robotically. “But you’re a dwarf. You can’t be taller than me. I’m supposed to be the taller one. How did you get taller?”

“I did not get taller,” he corrected you. “You got smaller.”

You just stared at him blankly. Fíli sighed, gently taking hold of your arm and easing you back to the ground. He took the apple from the floor and placed it in your hand. “Eat,” he ordered quietly. “You haven’t had any food in days. It was hard enough to get water into you.”

Instead, you rolled it between your palms absentmindedly. “How long was I out?”

“Just over a week. We were trying to cross a stream, and you fell in.”

“Instead of Bombur,” you interjected.

Fíli raised an eyebrow. “If you say so. Glóin managed to snag you,” he continues, “and when he pulled you out, you were… well, smaller. But you wouldn’t wake up. You even slept through the spiders. I was so afraid that you were gone before I could tell you–” he broke off, his voice thick. He tore his eyes away from yours, a blush rising on his face.

“What?” You reached out and took hold of his chin, turning his face back to you. Yet his eyes still avoided you. You crawled closer, kneeling between his outstretched legs. Your traitorous heart pounded hopefully against your ribs. “Tell me what, Fee?”

He shook his head. “No, no, it’s foolish. I shouldn’t… you wouldn’t…” Finally, he looked back up at you. “I love you?” He phrased it as a question, his blue eyes filled with hesitation. It was strangely endearing, seeing the normally confident prince so bashful. Fíli lifted a cautious hand to your cheek, fingers just barely brushing your skin.

Surprise temporarily robbed you of your voice. Mistaking your silence for rejection, Fíli quickly pulled his hand away. Shame and hurt flashed across his face. “Forgive me,” he blurted out, ducking his head. “I should not burden you with feelings you can never return.” He pulled his legs back in and moved further into the shadowy recesses of the cell.

But you crawled after him, refusing to let him go that easily. “Fíli, why didn’t you say anything?” When he remained silent, you wound your fingers up in one of his braids and tugged, forcing him to turn his head towards you. “Why are you so sure that I can’t feel the same?”

A cautious spark of hope flared to life in his eyes. “Because you’re perfect, you’re beautiful,” he murmured. “You deserve so much more than I can give.”

You smiled, eyes tracing his face. The gold locks that framed it, the sky blue eyes, the flushed cheeks. And those soft, pink lips, parted ever so slightly as he awaited your next words.

But words were the furthest thing from your mind. Refusing to hold back any longer, you grabbed Fíli by the collar, lunging forward to claim his mouth.

His eyes widened, then fluttered shut as his hands grabbed at your waist. Fíli pulled you back into his lap and wrapped his arms around you, reaching up to comb through your tangled hair with his fingers.

A rock clanged against the bars of your cell. “Get a room!” came Kíli’s voice, echoing down the hall.

You broke away with a laugh. “This is a room!”

Kíli’s only response was a disgusted groan as Fíli grabbed at your face for more.

#fanfiction #fíli #kíli #the hobbit #thorin oakenshield #dís #fili x you #fili x reader #modern girl in middle earth #amnesia #falling back in love #everybody lives #soft Fíli #angst and hurt/comfort #it gets angstier before it gets fluffier

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cosmic-crybaby · 5 months

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Break My Heart Again - Tommy Shelby x Reader

Summary: After knowing each other since childhood, you and Tommy made a juvenile promise to get married one day. But that promise only turned into a renege when Tommy returned from France. Only he returned a completely different man.

Ratings: Mature, minors DNI

Warnings: Will be stated at the beginning of each chapter

1. Sign Of The Times

2. Would That I

3. The Other Woman

4. Let You Break My Heart Again

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If you would like to be on the tag list, please comment on this post!

#peaky blinder fanfic #tommy shelby #spotify #thomas shelby #tommyshelbyxreader #tommy shelby x reader #x reader #peaky blinders #light angst #angst and hurt/comfort #angst #friends to lovers

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ebongawk · 29 days

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"“What do you want, Rey?” “Stop hunting the Resistance,” she stated. Ben said nothing, his silhouette mostly lost in the night. The mattress shifted, his body rolling to face hers, and she wondered what he might see. If she had any illumination, any shape. Or if, like her, he was only able to face her when she was cast in darkness. “What do you want, Rey?”"

reach for me (my belonging) a reylo AU by makeshiftcandy chapter 1 of 2 | rated E

(art credit to @gizskyriser)

read on ao3

#reylo #rey and ben solo #rey nobody #ben solo #kylo ren #star wars #post-tlj Star Wars #rey x ben #reylo fanfic #rey x kylo ren #reylo smut #angst and hurt/comfort

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wangxianficrecs · 3 months

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much sweeter than by mellowflicker

much sweeter than

by mellowflicker

T, 3k, Wangxian

Summary: Lan Wangji gets married knowing one thing: his husband is his equal. Kay's comments: Sometimes you just need that good-old arranged marriage angst/misunderstandings combo. This one hit really good, with Wei Wuxian trying his best to make his marriage to Lan Wangji work and Lan Wangji just so unhappy with an arranged marriage that he lashes out until he chases Wei Wuxian away and immediately regrets it, because suddenly, his life is boring and lonely again. Wei Wuxian in this story is just a little unhinged at one point. Excerpt: "Am I so repulsive? I get that you can love someone else, but if there's someone to hate, it's not me but your brother!" Lan Wangji flinches, remembering endless fights with Lan Xichen. But it is easier to hate Wei Ying than xiongzhang, who does everything to protect the family. Even if it costs him his own brother. “I don't want to know you," is all Lan Wangji manages. "Yeah, I fucking gathered."

pov lan wangji, arranged marriage, royalty, married lan wangji/wei wuxian, angst with a happy ending, yiling laozu wei wuxian, angst and hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, developing relationship, strangers to lovers, love confessions, getting together, fights, breaking up & making up, hurt wei wuxian, dark wei wuxian

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

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bones-of-a-rabbit · 1 year

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Selkies are naturally quite cuddly, living in such cold climates and being social creatures and all,

so suddenly being on your own, even as a thing, a monster you don’t even recognize as yourself... it sucks!

The want to be held is still there, even if now you have scales and spines instead of fur and plush, heavy coat. At first you’re skittish, shrinking away from others’ touch, barely allowing Eclipse to apply bandages to the gouges and scars now decorating your ugly, foreign skin. You’re afraid, afraid of being hurt again and afraid of being seen as a beast, a blood thirsty monstrosity.

But over time the fear fades, shrinks a little. You’re nervous, anxious, and you feel so helpless and lonely... But with time, you start to feel a little safer- but only around one person. And you want him to know that you’re not scared of him anymore, that you trust him, but some part of you is still nervous.

But one quiet evening on the wide open sea, you can tell that your someone is lonely. You’re not good with words yet, can barely speak a handful of words in his language, but there is another way to communicate your thoughts, those strange and confusing feelings, to him, isn’t there?

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ashesbreadandbutter · 28 days

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🫂 Radiating Justice || Hellsing Alucard Angst 🫂

Word Count: 4,915

WARNING - As a victim I was going through a rough day when I started this. I looked up when SA awareness month was thinking it was this month but it's fine. Close enough if you will haha. April is nearly here and it'll be Sexual assault Awareness Month. April is also my birthday month so there's quite a bit of angst in the air with me right now.

The story includes the talk of sexual assault and abuse so please be aware. To all the fellow victims out there hello, I see you and I am with you.

Check out my other socials and follow if you want and I'm open for commissions so if you are interested in that please dm or comment. (PayPal & Cashapp preferred. I'm open to other payment methods if you prefer them but we'll have to talk about it. Currently working on getting something set up for someone else but since I'm kinda new to everything you'll have to be patient with me. ^^`

👇🏾 Story Continues Down Below 👇🏾

It's one of those days.

One of those fucking days.

The days were his past, the long and vast pit of it plagued his mind. He's in the void, the one that's been hovering over him the the last couple of decades. The one that had formed directly after the Turks.

He remembers no matter how many peoples he's met, no matter how many he's lost or torn up with his very own teeth and claws… nothing ever seemed to actually get rid of his original past.

Even when he was joking, laughing, cackling it always lingered whether he wanted it to or not even if the distractions he had around him now seemed to quiet them from time to time it was still other fucking hell.

They whispered to him, voices much like the one he held so many years ago. Voices that sounded like what he used to, telling him that it was his fault even if he tried to avoid it. Telling him that if he had been stronger back then he wouldn't have to suffer with the thoughts he was plagued with now, that sure it wasn't his fault, not necessarily, but what if he hadn't of been cursed into that world… hadn't of been created at all. If it wasn't that voice it was all the others, the souls of those that he had been made into consuming who had now… practically been able to see his life, who had been forced into watching his pain just as much as he was.

They whispered, voices echoing in the shadows of his subconscious and he watched them do so with dead eyes.

And if it wasn't the whispers, the gasps, the pained and sorrowful looks he received from the dead of those following him it was himself.

At times, when there was nothing else but him, the darkness and that… child, Alucard was faced with being glared at, yelled and cursed at by them for not giving them the strength he now had and he listened… He did so until they gripped at the shirt they were wearing which was dirty, covered in muck and blood and fluids he rather wouldn't think of but what privilege did he have for such a wish?

All he could do was listen to them because after so many years he's come to the understanding that they never had anyone to do such with. He had been forced to live the life he lived now, yes he had cursed God much like this child was cursing him now and had been created into what he is now but Alucard at times wondered just how… his life could have been if none of it happened at all.

And he was pissed because after all these years it was simply too, fucking late.

Even so, when they crumbled to their knees in a ball of tears… shaking, hiccuping, Alucard kneeled carefully before them.

They were so small, so dirty… filthy and yet Alucard couldn't find himself to judge them as he had so cruelly done many, many times now. He couldn't look down on them for being what he was, small and weak and he looks at them with his crimson eyes like the shadow of a wolf in darkness.

His body could still feel pain, just not as it didn't before he turned. The touches always seemed to linger like ghost touching and caressing him, gripping and squeezing him even when he knew no one else was touching him and at times… he almost seemed to trick himself into telling him he enjoyed it.

After all who would he be now if he had never ran into the great and famous Ottoman Ruler Sultan Murad ll? The shit stain who had seemed to plague his mind enough to remind him of his origins even after all this fucking time that has passed. Alucard wouldn't be Alucard… if it hadn't been for him… right?

He was losing his mind. He's been doing so for so long now.

At times his body didn't even feel like his own which was probably why he felt a bit different every time he had the time and chance to choose another. At times such occurrences almost seemed to make him feel better until someone whispered his name, or caressed his body in a way that always seemed to spark his memory in the worst of ways.

He had never touched himself with those memories on his mind, it made him feel sick and even sicker when he seemed to… wish that he could. Sometimes a heat seemed to boil in his gut and after so many years of using his body for many things he had learned the difference between having actual attraction to someone but even that seemed to make things worse at times.

Knowing he wanted to be touched, needed to be by someone, anyone who actually gave a fuck about him versus knowing that haunting touch of that horrid man who only did so for sick pleasure seemed to drive him into an even deeper whole than he already was in. He's had his lovers, the ones he deemed worthy enough to sleep and bed with but something always lingered and it was starting to feel like something that he would never be able to actually get rid of.

It makes him dread his existence, almost as if he thought that maybe he shouldn't have tested the old bag of shit that they called God. Almost, because even with how empty he felt… he was still rather stubborn.

It was like pulling at himself and a part of him was tempted at the very idea as he continued to watch that small child cry and sob before him. Distantly it made him think of some small animal pleading to some beast, like a deer in the hold of a wolf. There was fear, the smell of blood and ash in the air around them and yet as they sat here together in this void there also seemed to be a sense of understanding. Even wolves could be weak, even deer could be strong, nothing seemed to make sense but that…it did.

Alucard found himself coming to a bit of a conclusion of some sort as the voices of the dead whispered to them and for the first time in a long, long time they seemed to actually make sense.

He was broken.

So much so that not only had the spirits around him spilled their blood but he had too and it rained over them as well as himself.

He was broken but not alone as he sits here with the many pieces of himself and fragments of humanity.

‘W-Why? Huh?! Why did it have to be like this?! Why did it have to be me!..’ They bawled like the child that they were and always would be because while they were both Alucard they had enough time to become… their own entity as well.

Crimson eyes stay on them before slowly falling shut and as darkness seems to color his own vision now Alucard reaches out slowly to the child, raising his hands and leading them over before taking hold of them.

They are a lot smaller than he is now and it's honestly rather interesting seeing such a difference. Alucard almost couldn't believe that he used to be so small considering how he presented himself to others now. He feels them jump under the light touch and he briefly wonders if even that hurts and he thinks to pull his hands away but then slowly, they lift their head and for the first time in this moment between the two of them, they look up at him, their eyes shining with tears and Alucard hadn't realized it until now but his also seemed… wet.

He's… crying with them?

He's crying with them.

He hadn't felt like he'd been able to do such a thing after everything, after so many years, he couldn't even remember the last time he's even felt the itch to let out tears and yet here he was now as those usually smug and cocky eyes seemed to water.

He takes hold of them though he doesn't have to hold hard as they immediately shuffle closer now as if searching for the comfort they've never been given and who was Alucard to deny them of such right now of all times. It's like they are both deer now or both wolves with Alucard being the buck or leader of the other now, here to comfort them much like a mother or father would do for a sobbing child that they loved and cared for.

Alucard finds himself with them moving in and clinging to him and his cloak- his garbs that were all black just like the shadows that created his form. They hold him tight, nails digging into what they could and as Alucard sits back on his haunches his moves one arm to slip under their bottom and pull them even closer while his other hand moves to cradle their head, his large hand tangling in messy, inky black hair. The sob they let out at being held so close after all this time is enough to send the mightiest shivers rushing up Alucard’s spine as he clutches them just a bit tighter.

And who would he be to let them cry alone while they were literally in his arms now? So of course, his own eyes look up to the darkness like clouds over them and as tears well up in his own eyes they slide shut slowly. Tears roll down his own cheeks as he holds them, as they sob ugily into his shoulder, wetting the fabric that seemed to cling to Alucard's body and he doesn't care because being wet with tears was a lot better than being wet with other things right now… The child shakes violently, soft cries turning louder and louder, turning into screaming, kicking and hitting as they seem to become overwhelmed with everything they've been cursed into living with within him and Alucard only seemed to soften, hugging them like he couldn't imagine letting go because he couldn't feel the pain of their little punches and kicks but he could feel the pain that threatened to overwhelm him if he let them go now, to break him if he loosened his grip even the tiniest bit.

After everything, this felt like nothing.

He could handle this reaction because no one would understand them but him, either one of them.

It takes a moment, a few minutes maybe or it could have been a couple hours, Alucard at times could lose track of time in this place not that time seemed to matter in any way to him any more. Either way, the child grows quiet, sniffling and rubbing their face viscously into his chest in pain and angst but even though it hurts, everything hurts, they do seem to like being in his arms and held by him like the small child they are. There's nothing he or they could do after all this time.

At least, nothing when it came to regaining the innocence that was lost to them, stolen from them but… maybe, a sense of peace could be fromed. Even just a little if…

He found him.

…

There, hidden in the crowd shaking like the scared little dog he was.

And that's exactly how he should feel.

Alucard slowly opens his eyes once more and turns his gaze in the direction of the piece of shit and he doesn't seem to be the only one as the child lifts their head slowly. Their eyebrows knitted together as an expression on pure rage slowly but surely forms on their lips and once fully there they also turn their gaze to follow Alucard's.

There he was, the filthy bastard. The shadows and other spirits seeming to flicker and move aside to expose him more to the two and as if he can smell the animosity that suddenly fills the air he perks and comes face to face with the crowd and Alucard in particular. The child seems to reel their teeth back like a rabid dog, fangs sparkling even in such darkness and Alucard feels himself make a similar grimace but there's a sadistic look to his that forms as it always did when he was presented with these moments. That sadistic look that seemed to show up when he was fighting on the battlefield though the idea of controlling himself is nowhere in sight like it would be if he was killing ghouls usually. It's bitter. There's unbridled rage just seeing the man, a taste of something similar to oil of his tongue like bile and when Alucard moves to get to his feet he continues to hold the child but now with his one arm under them as he stands to his full height.

Immediately Sultan attempts to run, jerking in order to gather himself only to crash to the groud when a hand grabs his ankle roughly.

It's a phantom hand and not one of Alucard's own per se but one of a spirit in the mass group around them and it dawns on Alucard that they are also… just as furious.

Sure, many had been beasts who were killed by Alucard because they had to be but those who held similar trauma seemed moved by these things. Seemed just as angry as Alucard was and the child, and for what reasons in particular he wasn't sure but after spending so many years with so many souls only to just now learn them for who they were Alucard knew that he wasn't alone in more than one way as well. There were fellow victims in the group, those who had been so viciously abused by Sultan or by someone who held just as dirty of a soul as his and Alucard could hear their whispers, their words of how he should be punished far worst than simply living here with the rest of them.

To put it simply. Many wanted to see him be punished like the vile, disgusting creature that he is.

To be punished like a bad dog, face justice like he was meant to.

That he should be whipped, strung up, raped just as the others had been and Alucard almost felt better at such words as they grew louder and louder, chanting, hisses and snarls filling the air. Even if some of these spirits had their own reasons for feeling such ways one way or another they all wanted him gone. They didn't want to have to share this same space with a creature like Sultan Murad ll and who was Alucard to make them, who was he to allow this man to love even amongst this place without facing the pain that he had caused upon others.

Alucard could be rather forgiving however,

He would never forgive this man.

He couldn't forgive this man.

Wouldn't even dream of it.

And so he takes a step, then another and Sultan begins to screech, already begging, pleading for the life that no longer belonged to him… doing so much crying much like Alucard had done all those years ago, over and over again as he repeatedly cried and begged and pleaded. Seeing such a weak display made him snarl, the least Sultan could do was take it like a man. Something he had said many times himself while he was buried in Alucard's small and tormented body and had he ever had mercy?

No. He hadn't.

So who would Alucard before to have any on him?

When he had killed the man Alucard hated the fact that he didn't want him to just die and be blessed with finding himself at the gates at hell so instead bitterly consumed his blood, his sport, his soul just to have him here and just to torment the man just like he had for many others.

To welcome him to hell while also showing him it in all it's best aspects.

The spirits clung to the fat bastard as he tried kicking, tried fighting off the hands that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at the same time, they dug into his skin and ripped at his clothes until he was just as small and naked and scared as Alucard himself had been and as the great No Life King continued to approach like a giant trailing through a sea of claws and hissing, those spirits made room for him, stepping aside obediently as Alucard made slow steps. Said steps that some how rung out louder that the animalistic sounds around then, even louder then Sultan's screaming which only seemed to get louder as he fought and kicked only to now find himself naked like some wet dog that had been caught in the rain. He tries scooting away, his ass rubbing against the dark floor and his legs kicking and once he's cornered, backed up to a wall like some little bitch, Alucard pauses when he seems to catch the whiff of piss.

Did he…

Alucard suddenly snorts, the wild look in his eyes only growing crazier as he finds himself moving his free hand up to his mouth as if to snuff off his own laughter.

Did Sultan Murad ll fucking piss himself out of pure fear? How precious, of course he did Alucard remembers the smell as disgusting as it is.

How could he not after all the time the man had seemed to find humor in pissing of him after he'd cum in him, after he had his fill of Alucard's young body. The laugh that fills the air is wild, a loud cackle that rung out and filled the air.

“ARE YOU SERIOUS?” Alucard now speaks and the child in his arms jumps a little thought they look at him with sparkling eyes almost as if in awe at that reaction.

“After all this time you can't even fight back?! You can't even bother to get to your feet?!” He giggles as all eyes turn on him and then back to the man who seemed to be shaking in a pool of his own piss. Hell, Alucard hadn't even been aware that the spirits even could piss themselves after dying and yet here he was being proven wrong in the faces of so many. “How pathetic.. You've even allowed yourself to be stripped like some corner whore.” He says, his voice dripping with venom as he continues to storm forward and a few shadows shift and stir behind him, revealing themselves as being his dogs. The shadows that he used so often when it came to killing those who truly deserve it and to say the least, they were starving. Itching the sink whatever teeth and limbs that they could into the man and Alucard could feel them waiting for his permission.

“Should I allow you to be treated like one too? To be raped and used from every orfis like they are?” He asks with a voice so hauntingly chilling that the room feels icy on impact.

I-I'm so sorry.. I never..

Sultan's voice suddenly cries out and Alucard finishes crossing the space between them with a few sudden and big steps which literally made the man yelp and try to squeeze himself into a ball as if he'd be granted access to hide. But no, not here, never here. He deserved to be seen, to be judge, ostracized like the filth that he was and if Alastor was the judge than he would judge this made and he was justice so of course he wouldn't offer him the mercy that he begs for now.

He even tries to meet Alucard before Alucard gets to him as some weak, pitiful attempt at being heard out, listened to and when Alucard stands right before him the man scrambled to his hands in knees.

F-Forgive me! Please forgive me.

Sultan Murad ll says while fucking sobbing, even attempting to move and kiss at Alucard's feet. He plants one and shakily looks up to Alucard to see it's affect on to be faced with… nothing. Not even the smile which had been there a moment ago as sharp, crimson eyes looks down at him like shit on the side of the street.

Quickly the man moves down to give another kiss only to gasp and a foot connects harshly with his jaw, kicking hard enough to knock him back on his ass and make his head spin. His vision is blurred for a second and there's a ringing in his ears and it takes him a minute to realize that he was bleeding everywhere from his nose which was fractured. It's like they weren't even dead. He hadn't expected to be able to feel such pain in the afterlife and now after quite literally getting a taste the man breathes quickly and heavily, cupping his hands under his chin to uselessly try and catch the red crimson which was leaking from him like a faucet. His hands shaking horribly as he slowly looks up and meets Alucard's vicious gaze.

“Don't touch me. You are the very last people I want touching me and you… know that.” Alucard says with a snarl as he now takes the time to lean down and place the child on the floor and understandably so, they hide behind Alucard for protection, not that they actually had anything to fear. They hid but not so much so that they couldn't see.

They wanted to see the show too after all.

“Those dirty lips, those filthy lips and you think that I want them on me after everything I've gone through thanks to you?” He hisses and the only reason he doesn't lunge at the man himself is because he doesn't need to, he had all these eyes around them right now, if you didn't tear him apart than someone else surely would.

“I wouldn't even drink your blood if it was the last bit on this shit fucking rock we call Earth. Don't. Touch. Me.”

He wants to grab him and throw him so hard on the group that his body would basically burst open with broken bones and limbs on impact but Alucard felt done with this trash, this waste of a human soul. And so, he simply scoffs, moving to turn away, gathering that small child in his arms once more and they happily allow him with a little smile forming on their face. Just seeing this was enough to calm them, was enough to give them vengeance, just seeing this man… practically smelling his fear in the air was enough to heal something deep within them.

Alucard however…

Didn't seem to change as he pulls them up and allows them to look over his shoulder at the view, holding them closely and even rubbing their back a little. And with a hum and a short whistle from his lips the spirits around them seem to suddenly jumping at the man startling with the hellhounds who didn't waste any time rushing forward, hungry.

Jaws snap down everywhere they can, fangs and claws tearing into flesh and spilling blood as Sultan screams in agony.

He probably had thought this wouldn't be painful but it was anything but as the hounds tossed him to the ground, and they cries and pleads only seem to continue. They filled the air like music and when the other spirits joined in, rushing to see just what they could get their hands on and tear into, Alucard hums.

There is a bit of satisfaction.

Especially when the man is faced with not just being torn apart but groped at as well, touched fondled.

Alucard wouldn't stop them and as his younger self watches with wide eyes he continues to hold them close as if they were his own child, one he created and to be honest… they basically were. He formed them every day, had been in this space with them alone for so many long and painful years.

No one knew them like he did.

And no one would know him as much as them.

Which was perfectly fine. Screams soon turn to cries, crimson on the floor soon finds itself blending in with semen, cum as the man was used but not only those starving spirits but the hellhounds too. Over and over again like some whore, some slut, just like he had done to so many others.

There's a sense of peace that fills the air over all the sobbing, the crying, the laughing and Alucard finds himself feeling even more so introspective then he had originally. Coming to the conclusion that even this didn't feel like enough to pay for it all.

However, the child in his arms seemed to brighten, shining like a start as they watched this show. It's the brightest Alucard has ever seen them, it's such a pure look that he never thought he'd be able to see in this world and it's warm. So warm, like the shining sun and before Alucard can stop himself he falls to his knees, clutching the child tighter now and burying his head in his shoulder.

The child squeaks and looks at him carefully and he's shaking, it clicks now that Alucard has finally broken, shedding tears from those beautiful crimson eyes of his and they still still for a moment but a soft smile forms on their lips.

Slowly, gently, they move to wrap their own arms around him now, hugging him close and Alucard sobs under the touch.

He's been to this place so many times now and never has he felt like this, never had everything just made… sense, and it was overwhelming having spent so many years with this pain. Trying to hold on to it and deal with it on his own but the thing was that Alucard was anything but alone and they were with him as much as he was with them and no matter how much he tries to ignore them, avoid them, hate them.

And Alucard found himself very grateful for them as he continues to let out tears that had been trapped in him for so, so long and they let him with a smile on their face.

“Thank you.”

They whisper now against Alucard while gently rubbing his back now much like he had done with him as he clung to them like a child would with their favorite toy.

It's like he had finally felt something new, different from what he's been stuck with filling for all this time and he tried to handle such an overload of emotions but simply couldn't.

“Thank… you.”

Alucard says back now while nosing at them, shaking a little less now as they rubbed them and held him close. Never having cried over all of this was one thing but having someone to cry with? Was definitely another.

It's relieving.

Like popping a balloon full of water, and as blood spills behind them Alucard allows himself to but wash with every emotion. And as he continues to cry he feels a wave of euphoria knowing that he's suddenly found a better reason to continue this life of his.

When he pulls back from the void he finds you next to him. Resting calmly against his shoulder, sleeping soundly it seemed. You had been working with him enough now that you two had built a bound and sometimes, you definitely tested your luck and this was definitely one of those times. A tear falls from his eyes, then another because why… are you here? Greeting him after he just took such a journey within himself.

You were so little next to him, so… sweet and kind and Alucard would be lying if he said that he didn't find himself fond of you.

Your bright eyes, and soft lips, smooth skin.. and with such beauty you were also… kind. So caring and loving and it suddenly makes sense as the why you're also here with him right now, practically tucked into his cloak. You must've worried for him. When the two of you met you seemed to nervous, so hesitant and as… cute as it was it was clear you tended to keep a distance from him so.. being here with him now, had to mean you weren't scared enough not to lay and take a nap right next to him and that makes him… smile a little.

He looks down at you for a moment, admiring your lashes and soft cheeks and the way you chest rose and fell slowly and without much other thought he wipes his eyes of their tears and slowly, carefully leans down to place a soft kiss to your forehead. His lips were soft, careful, against her warm skin and he could easily pick up on her natural scent. When he pulls back you stir a little, just a tiny bit and Alucard chuckles, moving his arm in a way for it to slip around you easier and pull you even closer. He goes back to resting his head, leaning it back to look up at the ceiling before slowly letting them fall shut and for the first time in a long time his heart felt…

Light.

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aislynn-wiley1999 · 14 days

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The boys in my Year 7 Fanfic

Ominis: I am angry at everyone and I don’t know why

Sebastian: Everyone is angry at me and I don’t know why

Garreth: Still not good at potions

Fic is on AO3 here!

#ominis gaunt #ominis x mc #sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow x mc #garreth weasley #hogwarts legacy #slytherin #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #angst and hurt/comfort #eventual smut #eventual romance

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steviewashere · 4 months

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Love Should Be Simple, It Should Be Kind

(also on ao3)

wc: 2,869, Steddie Tags: Post Season 4, Post-Canon, Friends to Lovers, Love Confessions, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Steve Harrington's Dad Is an Asshole, Fluff, Happy Ending (Full tags are on ao3, but there's no content warning).

---------

He has to break the news eventually. Steve knows this. As he looks at the plane of Eddie's bare back, flexing whenever he shifts, as it moves to accommodate him bending over to taste the pasta sauce at the stove.

Last night, Steve got off shift from Family Video, broke some minor traffic laws, and had dinner with the Munson's at their home. The excitement of not having to go home to a stale conversation over hastily put together food or a night in which he argues with his dad so fervently, that all he can do is go to his room and lock the door, food forgotten.

They do this every Friday night. And it always brings a flooding warmth to his chest.

But, this'll probably be the last time that they're going to have a late lunch, the day after an amazing dinner. Because Steve had to ruin it. Because he always ruins things. Because he had to run his mouth the morning before. And he ran away, like his dad told him not to.

Eddie turns away from the stove. His hair is pulled up. And his eyes are glowing, somehow, in the low amber light of the living space. They shine like fresh tree sap. And he has the softest smile adorning his features, forcing his smile lines by his nose to wrinkle deeper, his dimples making a faint appearance. He closes his eyes and tosses his head from side to side and chuckles. "Man," he drawls, "wasn't that movie last night amazing?" His head falls back. Features still relaxed. The line of his throat stretched, his Adam's apple ever present.

Truth be told, Steve doesn't remember the movie. Doesn't even know the title.

He was too worked up. He was afraid of what would happen if he was sent to his house.

"The way those special effects looked. Could'a told me it was real, and I'd believe—" Eddie now looks down from the ceiling. His eyes are open. Wide and bulging. Mouth forming a soft scowl. Whatever happiness, giddiness, relaxation, whatever—it's now missing. As he drinks in however Steve looks; he must taste like some cheap wine with the way Eddie's continuing to sour just at the sight. "What's wrong?" Eddie innocently asks, "Did you not like the movie?"

Steve shakes his head and sighs through his nose. Caught. He's been caught. "No," he murmurs, "it's not that." He rubs a hand over his eyebrows and leaves it there as his eyes catch on the worn tablecloth at the dining table. It has holes in places where Eddie probably picked at it. Pen stains from burst ink cartridges. A few tough crusted spots. Little scrapes in the fabric that tell Steve, People eat here. "It's not that," he whispers at the table.

He doesn't see it, but can hear Eddie pad towards the vacant dining chair just across, and plop down. As if the food doesn't even matter. As if he isn't actively cooking. As if he has all the time in the world and all the care in the world and all the sympathy in the world to listen to Steve. To listen to his...problems. All the things wrong with him. All his—

A hand settles on his free one. Eddie's fingers rubbing at veins and warm skin. "Stevie," he gently croons, "what's going on?" Those fingers are dancing over his skin they flip over the backside of his hand and they settle at the edge of his palm where it meets wrist. Steve thinks it's lovely. The way Eddie just dishes out love like it's free. Or like it's easy growing in some paradisal garden. Or like it's something infinite. Like, maybe, Steve is infinite.

He laughs. Steve laughs at that thought. At the hand on his. At Eddie's soft words. At his careful demeanor. At his failed life outside of Hawkins. At the tablecloth that shows what family should be—tastefully messy and worn from time. At his dad's silence. At himself, for asking yesterday morning, when his dad was angry and vengeful, "Did you ever love me?"

And he giggles at the absurdity. That somebody like his dad could love somebody like him. For all his failures and all his misfortunes and all his burdens—the hospital bills and spilled blood and scream-himself-hoarse nightmares. And laughs, again, at his dad's silence to the question.

Steve laughs until there are tears down his face. His hand falls away and his head is tipped back, hair brushing the top of his chair. He looks back at Eddie. And Eddie looks back, like Steve is some wild thing, like some devious thing, like some science experiment that came to life and doesn't know how to live.

He laughs even when his lip quivers and his chest tightens. And stops, finally, when the next sound is no longer jovial, but sad and pained. A sob that dug itself from miles of collateral damage in Steve's chest, rose through his throat like vomit procured from too many vodka shots, and burst open from his mouth as a hideous monster, even uglier than any of those that he's fought the last few years.

"Did you know that my dad doesn't love me?" he asks, reedy and weak. Wet and tinny. Childlike and lonely. "He doesn't love me," he says, as if he can conjure the will for his dad to speak. For the words—I love you—to fall from his mouth.

"Steve," Eddie breathes out.

"He never did. Said that I—Said that I wasn't his son," he spits. Sniffles between words. And almost becomes drunk from the sentiment of what he's admitting. "He—He wants me gone."

Eddie stands from his chair, drags it behind him, and sits impossibly closer. He places both his hands on Steve's shoulders and ducks down to look him in the eyes. And without another moment's thought, he tucks Steve into his bare chest. One arm slung over his bouncing shoulders and the other wrapped securely around his head. Protecting him, it feels like. Shielding him from the worst discovery of his life.

They don't move much at all. Just Eddie shifting his hips every now and then to accommodate the way Steve's body continues to slump downwards. And Steve's whole torso jerking with how hard he sobs. Right into bare skin, over Eddie's heart; and he isn't pulled away, isn't repositioned to make Eddie more comfortable, he just lets Steve do his thing; his heart performing an act of Kintsugi.

Because the softness of his palms meets the grittiness of Steve's hair. His cheek cushions on his skull and he doesn't complain when Steve jostles too much. He squeezes with all his might, keeping them both in the small space Eddie has created.

Because, "I love you," Eddie whispers. "It's not the same, but I love you. I love you, Steve. I love you," he continues to mutter.

At the quietest part of Steve's crying, when he whimpers and hiccups and can't move from the exhaustion, Eddie just whispers, "Be with me. Stay here."

"I can't." He pulls away, sitting up with the same amount of effort to lift a car with his bare hands. "I can't just be somebody else's burden. That wouldn't be fair to either of you."

And Eddie sighs. He takes Steve in. His bloodshot, half-lidded, glistening eyes. The splotchy skin of his cheeks. Moistened and bitten lips. His ruffled hair and slouch to his shoulders. How he picks at the skin around his thumbnails. Small. Defeated. Resigned.

Steve goes to say something when the silence stretches far too thin, but is immediately close-mouthed as soon as palms cool down his cheeks. Eddie's fingers are calloused. And thin. They barely rest. Moving to trace over an eyebrow, under an eye, the eyelid, forehead, smoothing wrinkles, hesitantly pushing in at the corners of Steve's mouth.

They lock eyes.

"Can I tell you something?" Eddie suddenly asks. Steve just hums. And Eddie takes a swift, courageous breath. "When we were in high school together, I used to spend a lot of my time just gazing at you. Not watching. Not glaring. Gazing.

"I'd see the way you shifted on your feet. Your little hand shakes when you were nervous, as if you were trying to get rid of the energy. I'd take in how tired you sometimes seemed—and I'd go to your locker and slip you a note with a little bit of cash for some coffee—"

"That was you?" Steve squawks.

Eddie chuckles. "Let me finish," he whispers. And is met with the smallest of Steve smiles, his little endearing one—not his confident or his bitchy or his won one over smile, just him being him. He sighs.

"I would overhear you talk about your dad. Sometimes to other people. Sometimes to just yourself, and I always could tell those were the toughest days. You know? You just seemed so...so sad. Restless." Eddie rubs his thumbs under Steve's eyes. "And your eyes wouldn't be as bright. I could always tell something was off. But you just went on.

"You went on believing that you were bullshit, when Nancy told you. You went on believing that you couldn't be anything more than your old self, even when you weren't the one reigning in school. You went on without your friends, graduating by the skin of your teeth, face bashed in sometimes, defeated and tired other times.

"Even when you worked at the mall. And then at Family Video. I was jealous of you, sure. But I was also worried for you. You seemed, and I know this whole thing I'm saying sounds really rude, but you seemed lifeless. Just drifting. Unbelieving that anything could stick, and if it did, not for long.

"But I—God, I just looked at you and thought, Who wouldn't love him? Because I did. I still do. And your father is just too horse shit to see what he's missing out on." He drags his hands downwards, resting them on either side of Steve's neck. "I think about if I ever got to love you, how I'd do it."

Eddie's gaze is set on Steve's. His eyes soft, thoughtful, enriching. His voice is gentle, "Like I would wake up next to you in the morning and swipe away the hair in your eyes. I'd count your moles and kiss my favorite one. I'd peck between your eyebrows and gently wake you." His fingers dot the places he mentions. Pressing long term between Steve's eyebrows.

He continues after a breath, "I would go into our kitchen and make you a cup of coffee. Teaspoon of milk, teaspoon of sugar, the way you like it. Butter some toast, fry up a piece of turkey bacon, and scramble eggs with cheese. Because you don't like French toast or pancakes for breakfast, too sweet. I'd bring you your food at the dining table. Pour you a cup of pulpless orange juice. Sit next to you and hold your free hand. I would kiss the back of it and you'd tell me something like, 'Ew, Eds. Your lips are greasy,' but your eyes would be fond.

"Send you off for work. Help cart around the party. Welcome you back home. Turn on a sports game, because you get excited and you get loud and you look younger and you become so vibrant. And I'm not gonna make fun of you for that, because you don't make fun of me when I go crazy over a new album or a new idea for one of my campaigns or when I explain all my nerdy shit to you."

"It's not shit," Steve interjects. Voice soft and enamored. So far away from what it had been just moments ago, hoarse and agitated and incredibly depressing.

Eddie just smiles and continues, "I'd wash your hair for you in the shower. Get on my knees and scrub at your skin like I was praying at an altar. Which—I know I haven't done in a while, but—I'd figure it out for you. And I would comb your hair and whisper soft things and kiss your shoulders. I'd guide you to bed after we have spaghetti for dinner. Blow you or something, I don't know. Sex isn't, like, something we need to do for me to love you.

"And afterwards, I'd clean you up again. Kiss your forehead. And tuck you under my arm. Because you're the kind of guy that wraps everybody else up, but you deserve to be wrapped every once in a while. Every night, if you'd like. Then, we'd wake up the next morning and do it all over again." Eddie sighs, rubs his thumbs in little circles over the part of Steve where his neck meets his shoulder. "I'd never get tired of that. Because I'm already halfway in love with you. And I never think about doing otherwise." He clears his throat.

"My point is, I'd love you. And also, you don't need love from shitty people. Especially when they don't make the effort to show you or even say it. I would happily do it anyway. There are so many people who'd love you better than what he could ever offer."

After all that, Steve is speechless. Can only sit and stare at Eddie. Feel his ever fidgety fingers against his skin. Hear his tiny puffs of breath, neither anxious nor frustrated. All he can do is look, take-in, digest.

But he knows how he feels.

He's been on some dangerous precept. Fall in love with Eddie, which he feels as though he's already jumped over ledge and started doing otherwise. Or fall back and let Eddie love him, however fleeting it may be. Because there's not an option where Steve is without some amount of love, in any form, when it comes to Eddie.

Him and his brash attitude. Thousands of stories. Hundreds of tiny quirks.

Like when Eddie sits on the couch and listens to any song, his fingers tapping out the bass line over his stomach. Or when he hones in on the guitar and is able to map in air where the chords would sit, as if the neck is right there in his other grip, strung across his body. There's the ting he does when writing a campaign idea; pencil resting on his chin, the eraser end running agist the jut of his lower lip. Tugging his hair over his face to hid how compliments wash over him. When he hears a slow song, something more acoustic or soft, he stands in place and just sways his hips—whereas in the car, when it's a metal tape, he's got one hand braced on the ceiling and one on the dashboard, head banging with the jump of the wind.

Eddie's offerings. Making meals. Playing certain songs. Humming when Steve has a nightmare, either over the phone or right under his ear. He acts begrudged by it, but he takes Dustin to the arcade when he asks, or Lucas to basketball practice, even Robin when she wants to go to the bookstore. Maybe it was the near death experience, but he acts first on a lot of his feelings. Apologizes more frequently, when he's done something especially dickish.

And how his love is branded from Wayne, Steve always notices. Because, though Wayne is a quiet and gentle man, he still gives what he can. Offers a space on the couch when Steve wants to join in on the football game he's watching. He hands out the beers, uncapped before he sits down. Serves guests and his nephew first, before himself. And his almost unnoticeable little thing, wrapping an arm around one of their necks, and dropping a chaste dry kiss to the top of their heads.

Steve had asked about it. Eddie just answered, "It's his way of making sure we're there."

And as Eddie hands over a plate of spaghetti, sprinkled with the amount of parmesan that Steve likes, and a cold glass of ice water—Steve finally realizes.

"Oh, you love me,' he whispers.

Eddie's head darts up from where it was looking down at his plate. And his gaze softens when it meets Steve's. "Yeah, Stevie. I love you a lot." Dimpled smile.

"And—And you want me to stay here?" Eddie nods in response. "Oh," Steve mutters. "Wow."

Steve appreciates that Eddie doesn't say anything in return. Just sets his fork down and offers out one of his hands, palm up. The other resting on the table.

He dances one of his hands over the tablecloth and gently places it in Eddie's.

Squeezes.

"I love you, too." He squeezes once more. "I'll find better words to say it."

"Not needed," Eddie murmurs, "stay here, though?"

And what is Steve to do, but nod? He'll have a hell of a time to pack up his bedroom, but at least where he's going, the meals are homemade and the lights are warm, and there's enough love to feel full. To feel, for the first time, like he doesn't have to beg for it.

#stranger things #steddie #fanfiction #steve harrington #eddie munson #now for the tags #post season 4 #post canon #friends to lovers #love confessions #angst and hurt/comfort #fluff

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narrans · 12 days

Text

My Borrowed Son | 12 | Snow Day

Chapter Twelve | Snow Day

The alarm didn’t need to wake him up. He was already awake. Parker was up and dressed reading his papers for class later that day. They were reading some fun books from Mr. Tamplin including “The Magic Treehouse,” “Charlotte’s Web,” and “Fantastic Mr. Fox.” All of them seemed a bit easy if Parker was being honest with himself, but Mr. Tamplin was already ahead of the curve.

He had recommended a few books specifically for Parker that were technically “above his reading level,” but assured Parker that they were well within his level of comprehension. Books like “Eragon,” “The Maze Runner,” and “A Wrinkle in Time,” now filled Parker’s entire room.

His mom had picked out the books on a tablet she gifted to him with his first perfect report card and now Parker couldn’t get enough. For hours, he stared at the screen and flipped through page after page as he devoured the books.

It wasn’t just Mr. Tamplin who was investing in more advanced options for Parker. His science teacher, Ms. Raegan Ocha, had recommended some fascinating biology books as well as some documentaries for Parker to watch. His math class felt fundamental, so Mrs. Cora Doorman-Knowell, supplied additional assignments that now placed Parker at a 7th grade level.

The only one who didn’t seem willing to provide additional studying material was Ms. Kain, who seemed adamant that history was best taught in person and that he could learn with the rest of his classmates. Thankfully, Parker’s mom found a tutor who was willing to help give him some additional assignments.

It made things easier that he could study on his own and had his mother’s help when he needed it. He also had additional tutoring sessions because, as his mom said, she didn’t want him to feel limited and wanted to give him the tools he needed to succeed.

What made everything so great was that his mom never forced him to do the extra assignments. Everything he did was because he wanted to do it – and he loved it. Parker loved learning, and it was only helping him understand the world more. He didn’t find anything else about his condition, sadly, but that was okay. Perhaps, one day, he would learn enough to be a leading scientist to cure and discover more about his own condition.

So, as Parker finished his reading and logged onto his account, a message flashed on the screen that made his heart sink.

“School Closed: Snow Day”

Snow? Wait! It snowed!

Parker quickly leapt up from his desk and ran across the table toward his ladder that led up to the window. He hurried up one hand hold after the next until he stood on the ledge. His heart fluttered nervously as he pushed the curtain off to the side ever so slightly and slipped between the fabric and glass.

The moment he did, he saw it – a winter wonderland.

The snow was already a few inches deep and covered the windowsill as well as part of the yard outside. Big, fluffy snowflakes drifted from the light gray sky that Parker could have sworn was a big as him. He pressed his palms against the frosty glass and watched as his breath fog up the scene in front of him.

Parker loved the snow. As disappointed as he was that school was closed for the day, he was equally as excited to go outside and play in the snow.

He remembered the first time he saw snow. It was late in the day, and he had just finished dinner with his mom when she hurried to the kitchen all excited. She scooped him up and spoke quickly before pulling the curtains and holding him up to the window. His sporadic memory filled in the gaps of him getting dressed in a few extra blankets as his mom brought him outside.

Parker remembered the frigid air hitting him and the pinch of snow his mom gave him as she placed it in her palm with him. He was six or so years old if he remembered correctly.

Parker remembered grabbing one of the snowflakes in his fingers and staring at it in awe. Seeing something so small and so beautiful was mesmerizing. It made him feel, in a weird way, complete. Like things this small were supposed to exist – like he was supposed to be there.

It was a weird, momentary sensation and something Parker would remember for the rest of his life.

“Parker?”

Hearing his name made him jump out of his skin. With his heart pounding, Parker realized he had been drawn into memories long since passed.

“Yes, momma?” he called back as he stepped out from behind the curtain. He saw his mom come into the bedroom with a cup of hot chocolate and a much smaller cup for him. He hurried down the ladder and waved to his mom to let her know where he was. She was bundled up in her stay-at-home robe, meaning that she was working from home today.

“There you are sweetie. I was trying not to wake you, but it looks like you were already up for school,” said his mom. She handed him the small mug once he was settled at his desk. “Sorry. The school called this morning saying school was cancelled. I turned off the alarms, but it seems like you were already up.”

“Yeah, I had to know what happened in the next chapter of Eragon,” said Parker as he sniffled the hot chocolate in his mug. He played with the top of the marshmallow as it blipped beneath the chocolate, leaving little lines on its white surface.

“Oh? Is it a good book?” asked his mom. Parker knew she had already read through the book once before, but she refused to talk about it in fear of spoiling anything for her son. It was frustrating for Parker. It was knowledge she had but wasn’t sharing.

“It’s so good! I just got to the part where Saphira took Eragon away. He rode her, momma! He’s a dragon rider! But what’s going to happen to his uncle? He’s going to be okay, right?” asked Parker. His mom hid behind her mug and smiled.

“I don’t know. You’ll have to read about it and tell me,” she said. Parker’s bottom lip stuck out as his brow furrowed.

“I don’t like that you do that. If you know, you should just tell me. I don’t like you knowing and me not knowing,” mumbled Parker. In frustration, he took a big bite out of his marshmallow and stared at his mug.

Because he was looking down and away, Parker missed the sudden pained look in his mom’s eyes.

Amanda heard that statement and could only think about the biggest secret she had ever kept in her life. Guilt weighed on her mind and on her soul. She wanted to tell Parker everything, and yet she wanted to keep these secrets for the rest of her life.

She wanted to tell him about the fake “condition” she gave him to keep him safe.

She wanted to tell him how he came into her life.

She wanted to tell him about the research she had done about the small people fictions she had found all those years ago when she first found him.

And yet she didn’t at the same time.

In a flash, all of these thoughts, worries, and desires were gone, and she was once again Amanda Silverstein sitting there with her son, Parker, drinking hot chocolate on his very first snow day.

“Momma?” Parker’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. She cleared her throat and looked down at her son.

“Yes, sweetie?” she asked.

“Um… would it be okay if I go outside and play in the snow? And then call Billy and Bailey?” asked Parker. Parker’s mom smiled as she considered her son’s request.

“Of course,” she smiled. “Which do you want to do first?”

“Play! It’s still snowing outside,” cheered Parker as he hurried into his room and pulled out as many layers as he could. He intended to make some fun things to show his friends, and the sooner the better.

Amanda helped get Parker dressed and quickly dressed herself before checking outside and scooping up the miniscule child. The way Parker was dressed reminded her of the kid from “A Christmas Story” when he couldn’t put down his arms. Despite his appearance, however, Parker was still agile and flexible.

The layers he picked kept him maneuverable and warm at the same time. He had never liked feeling too restrained or unable to move freely. It was weird. He was never claustrophobic and, if he was being honest, he enjoyed small and tight spaces. It was the thought of being restrained and unable to move or get away that made him uncomfortable.

Just another odd sensation that crept up in him from time to time.

The sudden rush of cold air from the outside world drew his attention to the present and, within minutes, Parker was outside in the snow making snow angels with his momma.

There were several clear spaces by the house, but slightly in the neighbor’s yard, that were free of footsteps and debris that Parker started his work.

He started by making a daisy chain of snow angels, which his mom took pictures of. Next, he started making the biggest snowboy family he could muster. His mom helped from time to time, but she mostly helped by snapping twigs and finding eyes and noses for Parker’s creations. This, too, was picture worthy.

It wasn’t until Parker walked up to the tree and started climbing the bark and jumping into the snow that he noticed something odd.

Parker’s mom had stepped away for a moment because a client called her and needed some information. So, in the meantime, Parker decided to try and climb around the tree by grasping onto the bark and shimmying from one side to the next.

When Parker made it to the opposite side of the tree, he noticed something that made his hair stand on end. It was so odd that he actually dropped to the ground and rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands.

Footprints.

At least, he thought they looked like footprints.

They were right by the base of the tree and, upon further investigation, led into the roots.

Parker was absolutely taken aback. Shaking all over, he stepped forward and pressed his shoes into the snow and saw that the prints were a little bigger than his, but about the same proportionally.

But… how?

Did this belong to an animal? Or did this belong to someone like him? Was there someone else like him out here in the cold?

His mind began to race and made him feel nauseous. He needed to know more. Carefully, he stepped forward under the tree roots and glanced around. Like a detective, he began combing over the snow covered leaves and along the dirt. Something about the place felt secure to him, and that odd sensation of being watched crept over him again.

Parker whipped around and nearly leapt out of his skin to see his mom leaning over by the roots peering in at him. There was something completely unnerving about seeing a giant, looming eye over him.

Again, why?

This was his mom.

“Parker? What are you doing in there?” asked his mom. He began to sputter over his words as he clambered out of the roots.

“Momma! Momma! I… I think there’s someone else out here!” Parker proclaimed. His mom’s features stiffened as she glanced from Parker to the tree roots.

“Someone else? That’s not possible,” she said. Not possible? How could she say something like that?

“It’s true! Look! There are footprints. They look like mine!” urged Parker as he ran over and pointed to the spots he saw before. At second look, they were filled partially with snow, meaning they had probably been there for a while.

His mom’s eyes narrowed as she knelt further and evaluated the area. Her heart was racing a million miles a minute. Was there someone else small like Parker out here in the snow? Did they leave because they came outside to play? Or were they gone? What would happen if whoever left these footprints found Parker? Would they have the answers he was looking for? Or would something else have happened?

To Amanda, the moment lasted a lifetime. She tried to compose herself as she gazed down into her son’s eagerly awaiting eyes.

What could she tell him?

Was now the time to talk about the truth?

She tried to look calm and confident, but the intuitive child may have seen her flash of fear moments earlier.

To Parker, on the other hand, she seemed a bit quiet and tense and not nearly half as excited as he felt. This was possibly his chance to meet someone his size! Ask them questions about their condition and if they knew anything else that he didn’t know.

“Parker.” Just the way she said his name made Parker feel defeated. “I think these might’ve just belonged to a small critter like a mouse or rat. Maybe even a squirrel? I just don’t know who would be out in cold like this.”

“But… momma…”

Parker looked back at the footprints and, much like the episode of that science show his mom liked, “Bones,” there was that weird reasonable doubt in his mind. Maybe it did belong to something else. Also, his condition was an extremely rare one. What were the chances of someone like him being out in a place like this in a snowstorm?

It was probably just feeling.

Parker sighed and nodded.

“Maybe.”

“Good. Now, I think we’ve had enough fun in the snow. Let’s get inside and get warm; and maybe, just maybe, you and I can read some of that ‘Eragon’ book together. Would you like that?” asked Amanda.

“Yes, momma,” said Parker, feeling a bit defeated. He climbed back onto his mom’s hand and stared at the scene in front of him. The little snowboys. The little snow angels.

Everything was so little.

Parker sighed and pulled his legs into his chest as his mom carried the both of them back into the house. The entire trip back, he couldn’t help but think that his mom might have been keeping something from him. There was something in her eyes that just made her waver.

What was it?

And why?

Parker shrugged it off.

Perhaps, one day, he would ask her about it. Until then, he let himself feel excited that he and his momma were going to spend some time reading on this beautiful, snowy day.

…..

Too bad he didn’t look up into the branches high above….

~~~~~^*^*^*^*^~~~~~

Continue

Beginning

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that-nerd-who-writes-fanfiction · 17 days

Text

Part 2 of the Merlin saves (tries to kill) Arthur fic

(I suck at naming stuff and I'm not putting more effort into the title than the actual fic.)

(Part 1) (Part 3)

—

When Merlin woke, fear coursed through him. Arthur, Gwen and Gaius were sat around him and he was pushed too far back into his own mind. He felt himself lunge at Arthur, hands aiming for his neck, all reservations about subtlety gone.

“Kill Arthur Pendragon!” Fomorroh screeched. “Kill!”

Merlin grasped at reality, fighting desperately again but loosing the battle. Something hit the back of his head and he collapsed again.

———

When Merlin awoke again, it was to only Gwen and Gaius, a smoke canister under his nose that made wakefulness rush through him alongside relief. The distant mantra of ‘Kill Arthur Pendragon’ still rang through his head but he was fully in control of himself.

“What is that? Arthur's socks?” He grinned, looking at Gwen smile in relief.

She stood and pulled the door open, Arthur was just outside looking anxious with a furrowed brow and red rimmed eyes.

“Arthur,” Merlin breathed, the king looked up.

“Merlin.” He whispered, standing and taking a cautious step closer. He looked to Gaius, “is he..?”

“Not permanently. It’s dormant for now, but that’s will only last a day.” Gaius said. He shivered at the thought of being dragged back under its control.

“Arthur, I’m so sorry,” he pushed himself into a sitting position on the workbench, cleared to act as a table while he was being treated.

“What happened?”

Gaius stepped forward and set a bowl of his favourite berries on the table. Merlin slid into the chair and frowned, trying to remember everything.

“The mercenaries, they were hired by someone I know. I can’t remember what his voice sounded like, but I remember knowing him.” He started, “I had my eyes closed so they’d think I was unconscious, the mercenaries were calling the man who hired them “my lord” too.”

Arthur sat down, “The traitor, do you think you’d recognise the voice?”

“Traitor?” Merlin asked, surprised Arthur was willing to think of such a thing.

“We were talking about it before you attacked me, do you not…”

He pinched his lips into a line and shook his head, “I remember fighting for control and using your voice to remind myself that we’re friends, that I’d never want to harm you, but I don’t remember what you were saying. Then… Fomorroh got way too excited about something, like the poison and the crossbow but I could sabotage it with that. It kept screaming in my head but I don’t know what happened next, the next thing I knew everything went dark.” He couldn’t figure out what happened after that.

“You broke free of the enchantment.” Gwen informed him. “Your eyes were gold, then you were shaking and you told us Morgana was controlling your mind with a Fomorroh and then said we should knock you out.”

“Gold?”

“Don’t think on it too much for now.” Arthur’s said coolly, “what happened after the mercenaries?”

Merlin nodded hesitantly, “I passed out for real, then when Morgana woke me up I was hanging from the ceiling by my wrists. She had a sort of… hovel? Like what Dragoon lived in but in the woods. Then she healed me, and knocked me out again. The next time I woke up, she conjured the snake and put it in my neck. Everything disappeared, like I was underwater but with the Fomorroh yelling that I had to-“ he looked down, glancing at Arthur and back to the half empty bowl of fruit on the table.

“To kill me.” Arthur filled in.

Merlin nodded.

“Do you remember anything else?”

He hesitated, thinking about what he could pull from the memories that didn’t feel like his own, “There’s a few things but none of them make any sense.“

Merlin shook his head, brow furrowed in anxious concentration as he tried to force the memories to surface without disturbing Fomorroh.

Arthur sighed, relaxing slightly and dropping his hands onto Merlin’s shoulders, startling him out of his thoughts by kneeling down to meet Merlin’s eyes, “You’re in no trouble, Merlin. You saved my life today, for that I’m in your debt.”

“Does that mean I finally get a day off?”he quipped without thinking.

Arthur huffed, “you can have a free afternoon after all this is sorted out, but we just want to know how to fix whatever Morgana did to you so.”

Merlin swallowed, feeling his cheeks heat. He’d seen Arthur’s charm turned on nobles and members of the court, even Gwen at one point before she and Lancelot married, but seeing it aimed at him was too much. He had no idea how to handle such a thing.

“Take a breath, and just… say whatever comes back to you.” He said, giving Merlin’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “We’re okay.”

Merlin took a breath, as instructed, and thought back to the time he’d been fighting against the snake.

“It would get excited whenever it thought up some plan.” He said, realising he’d said something similar before. “I couldn’t see much of what was going on, I could hear a few words when I got closer with fighting back into control but never anything important. Except for Morgana. I remember… when the knights found me, I didn’t understand why they sounded different than Morgana did. I could hear everything she said even with the snake.”

“You don’t remember what happened when we found you?” Arthur asked with a furrowed brow. The questions helped.

Merlin frowned and tried to focus. “Gwaine called me bog man. He was there, wasn’t he?” He hated how small and uncertain he sounded.

“It was me and Gwaine. Leon and the others had just got back from searching.” Arthur told him.

“You were there?” He asked, knowing Arthur wouldn’t lie but the memories all seemed just out of reach. “Fomorroh kept taunting me, telling me that you’d die believing you’d been betrayed. I managed to get a second of control then…” he frowned for a moment, trying to remember that moment it came back to him. The realisation ached, knowing what he’d missed.

“You hugged me,” he murmured.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “I was happy to see you alive.”

“I missed it,” Merlin pouted. “The first time you hug me and I can’t even remember it, I had a second when you were pulling away but then it took over again. It was more careful after that, keeping me away from control.”

Arthur frowned at him, still knelt on the floor. Merlin almost forgot that Gwen and Gaius were there too, evidently it had slipped the kings mind too because he pulled Merlin forward and wrapped his arms around him. Merlin instantly melted under the warmth and safety of it.

His arms came up and held onto Arthur’s shoulders, fingers curling into his tunic and holding on like letting go would kill him.

“You actually hugged me back this time.” Arthur huffed in a whisper, breath landing on Merlin’s ear and their two heartbeats beating against each other’s chests.

“I’m so sorry, Arthur,” Merlin told him, tears brimming in his eyes and voice thick.

Arthur’s grip on him tightened. “You did nothing wrong. You saved my life, and did all you could.”

Merlin didn’t respond, only buried his face into Arthur’s neck, dampening his tunic with the tears that hadn’t fallen and breathing in the warmth.

“I’m sorry I didn’t notice what was going on.” Arthur whispered.

Merlin shook his head, not knowing the words to say. Arthur apologising never even crossed his mind, he’d never thought about Arthur having something to apologise for.

“You’ve nothing to apologise for.” Merlin whispered, teary eyed and trembling. Arthur’s hands ran up and down his back, rubbing circles into his shoulders and holding him close like just staying there would keep Morgana’s terror away.

‘Dear Gods, please let me keep him.’ Merlin prays desperately to any forces or divine powers that still listen to him.

His grip loosens, his arms tighten around Arthur’s shoulders, palms pressing flat against his shoulder blades. Merlin knows, given any chance, he’d hold on forever and he would never let Arthur go.

But then Arthur pulls away and Merlin has to suppress a pained whimper at the loss. Arthur pushes himself up and sits on the bench beside Merlin, they’re pressed together, shoulder to shoulder. Arthur doesn’t move away and neither does Merlin, Gwen and Gaius are kind enough not to mention it.

———

Thoughts? There's maybe one or two more parts to come but honestly motivation is a struggle at the moment so please be patient

#bbc merlin #merlin #merlin emrys #arthur pendragon #guinevere #gaius merlin #merthur #merlin bbc #fix it fic #merlin fanfic #fanfic #angst and hurt/comfort #a servant of two masters #i’m bad at tagging

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rynneer · 1 month

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Misty Memories Cold

When you wake in Fíli’s bed with no recollection of anything after a disaster in Mirkwood, he’s ready to risk anything, even his uncle’s wrath, to bring back what you had together.

Fíli paces the living room, running a hand through his tangled hair, only succeeding in tangling it further. Shafts of dawn light peek through the window, taunting him with reminders of the sleep he did not get. His head snaps up when he hears footsteps from down the hall. “Y/N, I–”

But it’s not you. Instead, Thorin stands before him, arms folded and looking at his nephew expectantly.

“Where is she? She never returned to our chambers.”

Thorin nods back toward the way he came.

“Is…” Fíli swallows hard. “Is she upset?”

“She came to my door last night, would not say what was wrong, and began to cry.” Thorin raises an eyebrow. “So, is she upset?”

Fíli’s heart sinks. “She was crying?”

“Sobbing would be a better word.” Thorin shakes his head and sighs. “Fíli, what happened?”

Fíli turns his head away, face growing hot with shame and guilt. “I said hurtful things. Foolish, hurtful things.”

“Such as?”

Is he really going to make me repeat it? Fíli steels himself as if he’s the one on the receiving end. “I asked her if it was real. The dance. The kiss. Or if she only did it because it was expected of her. Because people were watching.”

“You are right. That was foolish and hurtful,” Thorin snorts.

Fíli sinks down onto the couch, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead. “I messed up.” He runs his hand down his face. “Some husband I am,” he mutters.

Thorin studies the wretched dwarf in front of him. Fíli is hunched over, shoulders drawn and tight. He stares dully at the ground. Every once in a while, he shakes his head to dispel some thought, mustache braids swaying with the movement.

“You are dismissed from your duties today,” Thorin says curtly.

Fíli looks up, dumbfounded. “But the trade negotiations—as heir, I should be there!” he protests.

“Kíli will take notes for you. Mahal knows he needs to pay more attention during these meetings anyway.”

“But–”

Thorin silences him with a hand on his shoulder. It’s not Thorin, King Under the Mountain, looking down at him, or Thorin Oakenshield, the warrior.

It’s Uncle Thorin. The dwarf who raised him, who held him as a child when he cried, who sang lullabies to him when he thought no one else was listening. The softer Thorin.

“Fíli, make peace with your wife.” Thorin squeezes Fíli’s shoulder and takes his leave.

Fíli watches the heavy, wooden doors shut with a thud, as if waiting for Thorin to change his mind. To return, to berate him for how he treated his One.

But the doors remain closed. There will be no reprieve for Fíli, nothing to stall him before he has to face what he did. He says a silent prayer as he stands and trudges to Thorin’s chambers. As he reaches a hand out to the door, he freezes. Dread of what awaits him keeps him rooted in place.

Don’t be ridiculous, Fíli scolds himself, shaking his head sharply. It’s just Y/N. Nothing to be afraid of.

He knocks first, but receives no reply. With a deep breath, he carefully pushes the door open. His eyes scan the dimly lit room, finding no sign of you at first. Then, movement in a wingback chair facing the fireplace catches his eye.

Fíli takes a cautious step forward. “Amrâlimê?”

You don’t respond to the endearment.

He changes tactics. “Y/N? Can we talk?”

You poke your head around the side of the chair for a second before turning back and burrowing further into the cushions. “Go away,” you mumble, pulling the blanket tightly around you. While Fíli’s frustration had softened over the sleepless night, your surprise and hurt had hardened into bitter anger.

“Y/N,” Fíli closes the distance. He traces his fingers along the chair’s arm. “Please.”

“Go away!” you snap again. You press your face into the opposite arm of the chair and cover your head with the blanket. It’s petulant, you know that, but you don’t care. Maybe it will soothe your pounding headache.

“No, my love,” he says gently, but firmly. “We need to talk.” Fíli settles on his knees so he’s level with you and pulls the blanket off of your head.

You scowl at him, but with his careful, honest eyes searching your own, you can’t hold it long. Your gaze drops to your hands, clutching the blanket tightly. “Still?” you ask at last, voice soft.

“Still what?”

“I’m still your love?”

Fíli gently pries your fingers apart until he can hold them, rubbing them to coax warmth into your cold hands. “Always,” he murmurs. “You will always be my love.”

Hot tears fill your eyes. “Then why’d you have to get mad at me?” You try to pull your hands away, but he squeezes them tighter.

“Oh, no, no, amrâlimê, I was not angry with you.” He reaches up to brush strands of hair away from your face.

Your glare tells him you don’t believe him.

“I was not angry,” Fíli insists. “I was…” He shakes his head while he gathers the right words. “May I speak plainly? Without upsetting you.”

You look at him warily, but give him a tiny nod.

Fíli brings his hand back to your hair, smoothing your marriage braid with his thumb. “I am afraid,” he whispers. “I am afraid that I’m losing you. I am afraid that you have gone somewhere that I cannot follow.”

The tears finally spill over your cheeks. The walls of anger you’ve hidden behind crumble, and you wrap your arms around Fíli. You bury your face in his neck and cry. Your hands claw at his back, desperately searching for purchase.

Fíli immediately pulls you from the chair and into his lap on the floor. “Oh, Y/N.” He kisses the top of your head, patiently waiting for you to find your words again.

“I want to remember,” you sob. “I want to love you the same way you love me. I want what we had. I don’t know what we had but I want it back!”

Fíli hugs you tighter as your chest heaves and breath shakes.

For the first time, you don’t recoil from his touch. You need to feel him. Soft skin over hard muscle, coated in gold curls. The weight of his chin on your head. Every inch of him warming you.

You sniff. “Has it been good?”

“Hm?”

“Our life together.“

Fíli lifts his chin from your head and loosens his grip, encouraging you to pull back enough to look at him. “It’s wonderful,” he says. His eyes grow distant with a faint smile. “We both have our duties as the future king and queen, of course, but I treasure every spare moment I get to spend with you.”

The wistful happiness on his face only makes you feel worse. “I’m sorry I took it away,” you whisper.

“You’ve done nothing wrong.” Fíli returns to the present, hand rubbing gently up and down your back. “We can start over. You are still you. The brave and clever woman I fell for. My little fighter. And I am still me.” He tilts your chin up and kisses you, quick but soft. “I waited eighty-two years to find you. What’s a little more?”

You shake your head, sending fresh tears spilling over. “It won’t be the same.”

“What if it could be?”

You both jump at the voice. Fíli pulls you back into a tighter hold while his eyes grow darker, scanning the room for threats. The protective lion.

The owner of the voice stands in the doorway, studying you with a careful eye.

“I have an idea,” Tauriel says.

“You cannot seriously be suggesting we take her with us.”

Gandalf leaned back in his chair, puffing at his pipe. “At worst, she makes for an interesting companion. At best, her knowledge of the journey could prove useful.”

“At best, she is a distraction and at worst, a burden,” Thorin retorted. He cast a disdainful look at you, standing in the corner. Bilbo had run out of dining chairs. “The girl’s never touched a sword in her life.”

“Neither has Bilbo,” you muttered.

Kíli snickered.

“Well, I, for one, do not intend on leaving a stranger in my home while I am not here,” Bilbo declared, hands on his hips.

“So you are coming!” Nori exclaimed.

“I never said that!”

“If it’s any consolation,” you interjected, “I’m not exactly thrilled to be here either.” The whole thing was starting to give you a terrible headache as everyone bickered over your presence. Or maybe it was the copious amount of smoke filling the dining room. Either way, you needed out.

“Where do you think you are going?” Thorin demanded as you made for the door. “This is not finished.”

“Somewhere where no one’s blowing smoke in my face,” you snapped. You yanked open the door, barely remembering to duck as you exited. Of course, the awkward height of the doorknob makes it almost impossible to forcefully slam the door behind you, but you did your best.

Some of your frustration melted away as you took in your surroundings. Since you’d just shown up on Bilbo’s doorstep, an overnight bag in hand, you hadn’t gotten the chance to appreciate where you were. It was almost enough to take your breath away. Stars scattered across the sky like tiny diamonds spilled over dark velvet. More stars than you’d seen in your life. Fireflies flitted about the garden, flashing and winking at each other in the night. Small, round windows set into the hills, little puffs of smoke drifting from chimneys nestled in the earth, hobbits settling into their evening routines. You plopped down onto the wooden bench just inside the gate.

The Shire.

Damn it.

Middle Earth.

Damn it.

You put your head in your hands and let out a heavy sigh. You didn’t look up when the door opened and shut again, not until you felt the wood of the bench bend beneath you.

“Care for a smoke?”

Of course it was them. The curious little boys. You lifted your head to see Kíli already lounging next to you, kicking his heavy boots up onto the fence. Fíli sat on your other side, offering you your backpack.

“Didn’t want to go rummaging through your belongings just to find your pipe,” he explained as he tossed it into your lap.

“I don’t have one,” you said.

“Ah, that’s alright. You can borrow mine,” Kíli offered.

The smell of the pipeweed was almost sickening. You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Did you not hear me tell Thorin why I left?”

“Something about smoke?” Kíli puffed out a series of increasingly smaller smoke rings. They vanished in the cool breeze.

“To get away from the smoke. Just… never mind.” You shook your head. “Did Thorin send you to make sure I don’t run away and spill his plans to the world?”

“No,” Fíli said, as Kíli said “yes.”

You just rolled your eyes.

Fíli leaned back, lighting his own pipe. “So,” he said through teeth clenched on the end of his pipe. “Not from around here, eh?”

“That’s one way to put it,” you replied with a shrug. “I guess I should get used to it. To this.” You gestured vaguely towards the rest of the Shire.

“It’s not bad,” Fíli remarked. “Peaceful. Quaint.”

“Boring,” Kíli added.

You groaned, putting your head back in your hands.

“I hope you won’t be sulking like this on the road.” Fíli nudged your side with his elbow. “It’d be a bit of a downer.”

You looked up at the dwarf prince. The stupidly handsome and charming dwarf prince. His stupidly handsome and charming brother. Your stupidly handsome and charming favorite dwarves.

Don’t get attached, warned a voice in the back of your mind. You know what happens.

You tried to shut it up, but it refused to be silent. It all flashed through your head—Fíli falling from the broken tower to the ground in front of his brother. Kíli bleeding out as Tauriel leaned over him. Bilbo crouching at Thorin’s side as the king slipped away.

“It’ll be fun, having a lass along,” Fíli interrupted your train of thought. He leaned his head back and blew out a steady stream of smoke. “We’ll watch out for you, naturally. Keep you out of trouble. We would not want you all battered and bruised by the time we face the dragon.”

“You are way more chill about this than you should be,” you said. Absentmindedly, you fiddled with the zipper on your backpack. “Do you actually understand what you’re supposed to do?”

Kíli stretched his arms over his head. The bench creaked in protest as he shifted his weight. “Sure. Get to the mountain, kill the dragon, get the gold. Simple.”

“If you expect it to be that easy, you’re fucked.”

“Ooh!” Kíli’s eyes lit up. “She’s got a mouth on her—I like that in a girl.” He winked, but his mischievous expression dimmed a little when he looked over at his brother.

Fíli’s brow was furrowed. He tilted his head as he peered at you. “You speak as if you already know our path.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. Clearly, they did not listen very closely to the argument between Thorin and Gandalf after you let slip some key information about the quest, things no one else should know. Your gaze fell to your backpack in your lap, not wanting to meet the prince’s eyes. It’s far too modern for your rustic setting. It didn’t belong.

And neither did you.

“Because I do,” you admitted at last. “I read the book. I saw the movies. I know how it goes.”

Fíli’s face lit up. “Do we win? I bet it will be a spectacular victory.”

“Not telling.”

“Come on!” Kíli pressed. “Nothing?”

You flashed him a warning glance. “Look, I’m just along for the ride. I’m not here to change things—if Thorin will even let me come. But I doubt it.” You kicked at a pebble beneath your feet, watching it skip out onto the path worn into the hillside from hundreds of carts and hobbit feet. “I seemed to have pissed him off just by existing.”

“Ah, you’ll win him over eventually,” Kíli remarked with a lazy grin. “He’s a softie at heart, really—oh, hello Thorin.”

You held your breath as heavy footsteps tromped down the steps. How long had he been listening?

Thorin crossed his arms and glowered down at you. His eyes then flickered to his nephews, leaning back casually while you sat stiffly between them. “I want the three of you awake before dawn,” he said finally. “We leave at first light to retrieve the ponies.” With one last, wary glance at you, he turned away.

You finished processing his words just as he put his hand on the doorknob. “Three?”

Thorin halted. “Do not make me regret this,” he grunted.

And then he was gone.

Fíli clapped you on the shoulder, almost knocking you off the bench in the process. “Well, you heard him. Up before dawn.”

“I think I’ll stay out just a bit longer.” You relaxed a bit on the bench as the brothers stood.

“Suit yourself,” Fíli shrugged. When he was halfway up the steps, he stopped and turned back around. “You do have a name, right? We can’t just keep calling you ‘lass.’”

“Y/N.”

“Pleasure to meet you, m’lady.” He winked and vanished inside with Kíli.

All the air rushed from your lungs as the door closed, leaving you alone in the garden of Bilbo Baggins. In Hobbiton. The Shire.

You shook your head.

What did you get yourself into?

#fanfiction #fíli #kíli #the hobbit #thorin oakenshield #fili x you #fili x reader #everybody lives #angst and hurt/comfort #it gets angstier before it gets fluffier

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