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zoeykallus · 2 years

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hey! I really love your posts, I was wondering if you could do bad batch & rex reactions to the reader having an anxiety attack. you can use any pronouns!

Hey! Why thank you! Love to read that :)

I could! And guess what, I'm doing it ;)

Bad Batch + Rex reacting/handling/taking care of x Reader with Anxiety

x GN Reader (with romantic background)

Warning: Anxiety Attack/Anxiety

Also Comfort/Fluff

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Anxiety attacks come in a variety of forms. In this list, I will go into my own experiences, since I can write about them best and there are simply too many triggers to go into all of them. Let's see how our favorite clones deal with it.

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Your chest tightens, you find it hard to breathe. You feel dizzy, fear has you in its grip. Your muscles tremble, you feel cornered. There is an overshadowing fear that weighs you down and makes you feel physical heaviness.

Hunter: Of course, he immediately senses that something is wrong. Even though he may never have witnessed an anxiety attack before, he can sense the fear that surrounds you, your heartbeat changing, even the smell coming from you changing. You don't even have to be right next to him, just in the same room or a few meters away from him and he notices that something is wrong. He looks around, but at first glance he can't see anything that could trigger your fear.

Anxiety attacks, he's heard of them before, but it takes him a small moment to realize that you have one.

"Cyare?"

He addresses you softly, approaching you cautiously.

"Look at me."

He smiles encouragingly at you, his hands moving carefully to your shoulders, but he doesn't place them heavily, just touching you lightly to make contact.

"You need to breathe dear, breathe with me".

He demonstrates, breathing deeply in and out, over and over until you do it yourself.

"All is fine, you are safe, I am with you".

He is patient, takes his time, no matter how long it takes. He speaks kindly to you, assures you that he will stay with you. It doesn't matter how long it takes or what the trigger was, Hunter is and stays with you, always ready to be your rock. He respects you on a deep level that few ever experience, nothing could keep him from being by your side.

Once you have calmed down, he suggests that you come directly to him next time. He asks you not to try to hide from him or keep these attacks a secret, he wants to help you, always, whenever you need him. He holds you in his arms for a long time until you are truly yourself again.

Echo: has experienced this kind of thing firsthand several times since the Citadel, usually when he had to get on the examination table. The machines make him nervous, trigger anxiety, evoke very unpleasant memories, of pain and helplessness.

He knows you well by now, can see immediately from your face that something is wrong. When you show the first symptoms, he knows almost immediately what is going on, even if he is surprised that you are experiencing it. Echo is compassionate but calm, he knows how much frantic or nervous behavior around you can make an attack worse, intensify it.

Echo slowly sits down with you. He radiates calm, carefully reaching for your hand and holding it in his. He begins to tell you something, in his deep voice, in a calm way, he starts with something relaxed, the description of a beautiful place he once saw. He describes what he feels when he sees certain things, warm sunshine, the whisper of a stream, the smell of fresh cool water, the gentle sound of tall grass rustling in the wind, the fascination over the most colorful songbird he has ever seen.

As you slowly calm down, he begins to tell you something more lively but joyful, something funny from his past, a joke about one of the batchers that you can laugh at.

Echo stays with you no matter what he may have done before or if he is done with it, he takes time for you, lets you lean on his shoulder and assures you that he is always happy to do this for you when you need him and he means it. He knows how it feels, better than most, he can understand you.

Wrecker: May seem crude at first glance, but he actually has very fine antennae and a very big heart. He senses your problem thanks to his empathy, almost like Hunter, but with Wrecker it's more instinct than sense.

His massive figure leans toward you, making himself smaller to seem less threatening, even though you would never find him threatening anyway. He speaks softly to you, assuring you that you are safe, calling you by every sweet pet name he has ever given you, going all out to care for you. When you allow his touch in that moment, he gently rubs your back and asks you to take a breath.

"You got this, Mesh'la, I'm here with you".

He adores you and to him you are a delicate being, no matter what you think of yourself or how others perceive you. If you let him, he carries you in his arms, your arms wrapped around his shoulders, your face hidden against his neck. He talks to you, gently, understandingly, lovingly, letting you feel the soothing vibration of his voice across his chest against which you are leaning in his arms. He does this for hours if needed and he loves doing it.

Wrecker is always alert to your emotional world, he wants you to be happy and he is willing to do anything to ensure that. He is ready to be there for you day and night, even if you tear him out of the deepest sleep, he will turn to you and take care of you.

Tech: is constantly, practically 24/7 mentally busy with some technical problem he wants to solve, in addition to everything else he does. He can be empathetic, loving, but he has absolutely no antenna for it, his perception is very different from practically every other person. He will not immediately notice that something is wrong. Eventually, if it happens more often, he will recognize the symptoms, but the first time, it has to be pointed out to him, by you or another witness to what is happening.

Of course, at first he wants to draw on the wealth of knowledge he already has, but he adapts to the situation, especially to you, because after all, you are the most important person in his life. After he gently but firmly instructs you to breathe with him and gradually brings you out of your shortness of breath, he makes you a cup of tea, sits down with you and begins to talk, which is what he likes most and he knows that you often like to listen to him.

He speaks more quietly, more slowly than usual, one hand gently on your knee to make contact, your head leaning against his shoulder - of course he has taken off the armor plate on his shoulder and arm, also the chest plate so you can lean against him comfortably.

"My love, if this happens again" he finally says gently "Then please get my attention, you know I often get busy with so many things at once and get tunnel vision. But I want to and will always be there for you as best I can. I want you to know that you can count on me when you need me."

Crosshair: Is not exactly the typical example of empathy and affection, even if he possesses both to some extent, hidden. But he is very alert, usually nothing escapes his eye. Not even that there is something wrong with you, he sees the subtle changes too. He loves you, in his own way. Your relationship is very physical, but quite loving. He has gentle tendencies, but apart from you, no one knows them for sure.

In the first moment he is confused, because he does not immediately understand what exactly is going on. His first thought is What happened? Who hurt you? The protective instinct is awakened, because no matter what Crosshair says and does, this instinct is very strong with him, so strong that he is more than willing to inflict pain on others and even kill. This can be flattering but also quite frightening, depending on the situation.

But right now there is no physical, visible enemy that he could blow the lights out of. He sits you down, gets cross-legged in front of you.

"Kitten, you gotta breath, don't faint on me, 'ya hear?" he says somewhat snarky yet gentle.

His raspy voice, as always, doesn't miss its mark tickling under your skin.

"That's not how breathing works, come on, we'll do it together, deep breaths in and out, in and out".

He wipes a few tears from your face with his thumb.

"See, there you go, I knew you could do it".

Crosshair doesn't seem very patient, but he is. He will always have time for you when you need him and will always be there to help you. Once you've caught yourself a bit, he pulls you onto his lap into his arms.

"I got you, Kitten"

Rex: Has seen this a few times, fought with many soldiers in the field, seen some of his brothers strugglen from time to time. He knows what your symptoms mean, even though he may not know where they come from in your case.

Rex is the born protector, the caretaker and he shows it now. He takes his time, with calmness and patience, he speaks gently to you, gives you a feeling of security and tells you clearly that you do not need to be shy. In his eyes you are always something special, his affection goes deep and is unshakeable. If Rex loves, then from the deepest soul.

He gently strokes your hand as he talks to you, giving you time to slowly catch yourself.

"Cyare, I am here with you, I will not leave you alone".

A warm hand travels to your cheek, nestling gently against it and he searches your gaze. Warmth, affection, strength, gaze at you from the amber of his eyes. You know you are safe here, you can feel his loving gaze deep into every fiber of your being and feel the fearful turmoil inside you slowly subside. Rex is there, he is always there and always will be, he assures you and he sticks to it.

At any time of the day or night, he is always ready to be your strong shoulder, your retreat and protector. He has the patience of an angel, when it comes to your well-being nothing is too complicated or time consuming for him.

"You are safe with me, always"

@chxpsi @andyoufollowyourheart @clone-whore-99 @brynhildrmimi @kaliel2310

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ehay · 2 years

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Yennefer and Tissaia are reunited after some time away.

#jedi au #tissaia de vries #yennefer of vengerberg #mercisnm #star wars #inspired by the recent fic of #tipsyassam #angst and romance #i am STILL freefalling in this au #send help

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pinkykats-place · 1 year

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Quirkless Omega Deku x Alpha Baku

AO3 Fanfic Recommendations

Disclaimers!

None of the stories linked below are mine.

Some contain mature content … pls read tags.

Art not mine - credit to @insinirate

Note: if you read any of these stories and like them, please leave a kudos and/or comment for author!

A Mate’s Worth by GreyLiliy

Summary: Katsuki came to the Omega Shelter as Kirishima’s moral support. He wasn’t looking for a mate nor licensed to claim a mate from there. It should have been a quick, boring trip. But then he ran into Deku—someone he hadn’t seen in close to eight years—in that same Shelter for Abused Omega. Walking away alone had never been an option.

Complete | 36 Chapters

Rated - Mature

Can't Control Myself Around You by @mirachadoodles

Summary: Katsuki is on a rescue mission when an unfamiliar scent pierces the chaos. He obsessively searches for the source.

Complete | 10 Chapters

Rated - Explicit

if you can't find the morning light, i'm here tonight by yabakuboi

Summary: Katsuki was never sure what happened to his childhood friend, quirkless Izuku who had presented as an omega and was whisked away to a traditional matchmaking house. Katsuki never saw him again after that, and tried to convince himself it was for the best. Many lonely years pass before he finds Izuku in the last place he ever wanted to, in the middle of a battlefield with a child clutching to his shirt.

{One Shot}

Rated - Mature

Instinct to Protect by DNLX

Summary: Katsuki Bakugo feels the inexplicable urge to protect a young victim of the omegan sex trade, someone who reminds him so much of Deku. But Deku is dead, he has been for years. Katsuki needs to stop remembering the past and focus on Isami, the omega he decided to basically adopt.

Complete | 30 Chapters

Rated - Mature

Always Yours by Gemsom

Summary: Bakugou’s life had always been tied to Midoriya’s. He fought it every step of the way, but he is so tired of fighting. After a villain attack takes Bakugou uncomfortably close to Midoriya’s new apartment, he’s decided that he’s had enough.

Staying away from Deku isn’t keeping him safe, and the sweet siren call of his scent is too strong to ignore.

Complete | 6 Chapters

Rated - Explicit

Mating Dance by AestheticAcoustic

Summary: Pro-Hero Ground Zero just broke into the top ten. To celebrate, his friends drag him to a strip club. There, he spies a familiar face working the pole, and working it beautifully. It's Izuku, who he hasn't seen since slamming the door in his face in middle school. Katsuki's greatest regret was always that day. Maybe now he can apologize and make-up for it.

Complete | 11 Chapters

Rated - Explicit

Yoga Moves by SassyYah

Summary: As part of his therapy, Katsuki attends a yoga class and meets the only omega to ever catch his interest. The green-eyed omega, Izuku, demonstrates how to use some of the props and Katsuki decides he needs to see more of this hot dork. Izuku is surprised to have hero Dynamight in his class but is even more surprised by what Dynamight says to him.

Incomplete | 24/? Chapters

Rated - Explicit

My Idol by MissLorali

Summary: Pro Hero Katsuki, a secret super fan of Idol Deku, gets the chance to meet the omega of his dreams after saving him from a villain attack.

{One Shot}

Rated - Explicit

Take my freaking bento! by MiraChaDoodles

Summary: In which quirkless omega Midoriya Izuku unknowingly asks Bakugou Katsuki to court him.

{One Shot}

Rated - Teen & Up

When We Meet Again by RohanBerry

Summary: It's been years since Izuku has seen Kacchan, but one chance encounter leads to texting, which leads to calls, which leads to a date, which leads to some rather nasty online comments. Thankfully, Kacchan is around to make sure Izuku knows his worth.

{One Shot}

Rated - Explicit

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chirp-a-chirp · 1 year

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Toa and MC declare their love for one another. MC rushes to hug him; Toa’s eyes widen and his body stiffens.

Toa: W-what is this? *MC snuggles closer* I don’t deserve this.

MC: This?

Toa: You. I’ve done nothing beyond—

MC: Toa, stop. You deserve all of it. *Holds Toa in a loving embrace. After several moments…*

Toa: You don’t have to keep hugging me if you don’t want to.

MC: I want to. I’m making up for lost time in your life.

Toa: *Wraps arms around MC, melts, kisses top of her head* Thank you.

*Be right back. Made myself cry writing this post 😭

#court of darkness #voltage otome #voltage games #otome romance #otome mc #toa qelsum #voltage inc #give this man all the love he deserves #angst and romance #angst and feels

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serendipitouswasteland · 1 year

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Because it is Your Fault. It is All Your Fault.

Note: this was transcribed from my AO3.

ship: byler pov: third person written: July 5, 2022 first published: July 5, 2022 word count: 1,514

summary: Will has had enough. He just can't take it anymore. So when Mike says that thing, he finally snaps.

This summer has been...rough. All that Will has wanted is to play DnD with his friends, but they've all been too preoccupied with their girlfriends.

Girlfriends.

It's not that Will has anything against girls in particular. In fact, he loves girls. He thinks they're awesome. But...just...not like that. Not like Lucas and Dustin do. Not like Mike does.

Today, Will has come up with a plan. He woke up extra early and set up the DnD table in Mike's basement while he and Lucas were still asleep. Then, he got dressed in his Will the Wise costume and turned on the stereo, the adventure music filling the room, waking up Mike and Lucas just as he had planned. They've been playing for a short while now, and Will is having a blast, but he can tell Mike and Lucas aren't having the most fun with it all. Still, he keeps going. After all, they're in the middle of a campaign. It's not like they had anything else to do anyways with it raining.

"Do you guys hear that?" Will starts. "It sounds like...thunder. But no, wait, that's not thunder. It's...a horde of juju zombies! Sir Mike, your action!"

"What should I do?" Mike asks Lucas, trying to sound enthusiastic.

"Attack?" Lucas questions, clearly not in the mood.

"Okay, I attack with my flail," Mike says, his voice monotone as he rolls the dice.

"Whoosh! You miss. Your flail clanks the stone, the zombie horde lumber towards you, and...the juju bites your arm. Flesh tears! Ah! Seven points of damage."

"Oh, no, my arm!" Mike says sarcastically. "Lucas, look my arm!"

The two snicker, and Will is hurt, but—

"Sir Lucas, the zombie horde roars! Do you fight back or do you run?"

Lucas is about to answer when the phone rings.

"No, it's a distraction!" Will says quickly, standing up, still in character. "A trap. Do not answer it!"

But, of course, Mike and Lucas dash to the phone, Mike grabbing it and the name coming out of his mouth stinging Will in the heart.

"El?" Mike asks, but his tone quickly changes, Will's face dropping. "No. Sorry, not interested. Telemarketers," Mike says and he hangs the phone back on the wall.

"Maybe we should just call them," Lucas suggests.

"We can do that?"

"I think so."

"Yeah, but, what would we say?"

"We will say nothing! The Kuishar tribe still needs your help," Will shouts.

"Alright, then," Mike starts, and that's when the worst thing happens. "I'll use my torch to set fire to the chambers, sacrificing ourselves, killing the jujus, and saving the Kuishar. We all live on as heroes in the memories of the Kalamar."

"Victory," Lucas says, holding his hand up to which Mike high-fives him.

Never has Will not wanted to play DnD.

That was, until now.

"Okay. Fine."

Will harshly sets his staff on the table, quickly ripping off his hat.

"You guys win."

He turns off the music.

"Congratulations."

"Will, I was just messing around," Mike says in that voice, and Will could slap him for it.

Will continues to remove his costume, his clothes from the day before underneath.

"Let's finish for real. How much longer is the campaign?"

"Just forget it, Mike," Will says as he gathers his things.

"No, we want to keep playing, right?"

"Y-yeah, totally," Lucas says, but Will can tell he doesn't mean it.

"We'll just call the girls afterward."

"I said forget it, Mike, okay? I'm going home," Will says, heading toward the stairs.

"But...come on, Will," Lucas says trying to stop him.

"Move!" Will yells, shoving Lucas out of the way and rushing up the stairs and to Mike's garage.

"Will, come on!" Mike says, following Will outside. "You can't leave, it's raining. Listen, I said I was sorry, alright? It's a cool campaign. It's really cool. We're just not in the mood right now."

"Yeah, Mike! That's the problem. You guys are never in the mood anymore! You're ruining our party."

"That's not true!"

"Really? Where's Dustin right now? See? You don't know and you don't care and obviously he doesn't either and I don't blame him! You're destroying everything and for what? So you can swap spit with some stupid girl?"

"El's not stupid! It's not my fault you don't like girls!"

Ouch.

Will, at first, is taken aback by Mike's words, but then, he's angry. So, so angry. So angry that he drops his bike and the tears he's been holding back start to flow from his eyes uncontrollably.

"Of course it's your fault! Are you kidding me? How could you have never once noticed? It's not that I don't like girls, Mike! Trust me, I've tried. I have tried so many times, but no matter who it is, no matter what the girl looks like or what her personality is like because for some reason that I wish I knew, believe me, my entire life I haven't been able to keep my mind off of you. So I'm sorry if me not having a girlfriend has become a 'problem' for you, but it is a hell of a lot harder when you wish you had a boyfriend who just so happens to be your straight best friend! I mean, did you ever even consider that?"

Will's words stop, still ringing in the air as he looks at Mike's face, and then he sees it. He sees that Mike is hurting, too. Guilt washes over Will, and the next words that slip out he shouldn't even be saying, but—

"I'm sorry. I should go." Will turns around and is about to pick up his bike when...

"Hey, hold on! Just wait!" Mike grabs Will's wrist turning him back around to face him again. "Can you please let me say something?"

"What is there that you could possibly say that would—"

Oh.

It's not words.

Mike places his free hand on Will's cheek, the other still holding onto his wrist. Then, he kisses him. Soft and sweet and warm and real. Will doesn't necessarily kiss Mike back, though, because he's not exactly sure how. This is, after all, his first kiss, and Mike knows that.

Or, he should.

Mike takes one step forwards, bringing his and Will's bodies closer together, and that's when Will pulls back. He doesn't know what he's doing.

"Will...?"

"I...you..."

"Will, I'm sorry."

"For what?"

A pause, a deep breathe, and then, "Everything."

Mike rests his head against Will's, his lips almost brushing his nose. Will is breathing deeply, a world's worth of words caught in his throat. So many things that he wants to say, but only a few of them slipping out, creating incoherent sentences.

"The swings...Halloween...the time when...I...you said...El...because then...you..."

"Will?"

Will just stares at him. He couldn't possibly respond to him right now. Not in a complete sentence, anyway.

"Okay, um..."

Mike searches Will's face and eyes looking for something, anything, to prompt him to continue with what he's about to say.

"...Will, I..."

Another pause, a glance away and then to Will's lips.

"...I love you...I am in love with you."

Will stares at Mike. He's still trying to get his thoughts together, but he's not sure if he's even having any. One second his brain is moving a thousand miles a minute, the next, it's almost as it's empty.

"Will? Say something?"

...

"I don't know how to kiss."

"Oh," Mike says, pausing for a moment before what Will is saying really hits him. "Oh, shit. Shit, that was your first kiss. Shit, Will I'm so sorry I should've– I should've asked and– oh my god I'm so..."

Mike bursts into laughter, his worry still clear as he rests his head against Will's once again.

"You don't have to ask," Will whispers, barely even audible.

"Yeah?" Mike asks, his voice earnest.

"Yeah," Will says, a breath he didn't know he'd been holding escaping his lips.

Mike kisses Will again, this time making sure to guide him through it, but even Mike isn't sure he knows what he's doing. After all, he's only ever kissed one other person before, and that was a girl. Is kissing a boy supposed to be done different than kissing a girl? Mike doesn't know (it's not), but he's doing his best to figure it out.

But it's...hard, because Will isn't helping. His mom did tell him middle school would be awkward. He just didn't think she meant this.

"Will," Mike mumbles against Will's lips, still kissing him.

"Hm?"

"I'm gonna go tell Lucas that I'm taking you home."

...

....

"You're staying the night?" Will asks with a gulp at the end, and Mike looks at him flustered.

"Um, I mean, yeah, if that's...if that's okay, I mean, I know I've done it a hundred times now but if because we kissed that make sit awkward then—"

"No, yeah, I mean, of course you can. You always can."

"Always?" Mike asks, that earnest tone still lingering around.

"Um, yeah. Yeah, always."

"Okay," Mike says, and he smiles.

That smile. It's not just any smile. No. It's the smile. The one. That big, cheesy grin.

And Will feels himself falling in love all over again.

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stargliders · 3 months

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Dancing With a Ghost (KakaSaku)

My last entry for KakaSaku Dead Dove Week 2024 (prompt: "Lobotomy"). The dove is extremely dead. This one goes out to my fellow angst and horror fanatics...

(Check out other awesome entries @kkskdeaddove!)

Rating: E

Summary:

There was nothing else they could do. The talk therapy had failed. So had both rounds of electroshock. (The lightning Kakashi wielded all these years—had it made him immune? Even as Sakura watched his toes and fingers rattle against the table?) But a doctor in Kirigakure, Shizune explained, had recently invented a procedure that settled the overactive zones in the frontal lobes of the brain. Maybe, just maybe, he could be happy again.

Read the one-shot on AO3

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ronearoundblindly · 1 year

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A Forced, Fresh Start (3/3)

Steve Rogers x Super Soldier!Reader

Dénouer (see previous or series)

Warnings: a painful/disturbing process that reads like torture but is a chosen treatment, arguments, angst, fear of the future, illusions to past Hydra abuse, and implied smut. This work is entirely 18+, sorry, kiddos. MINORS DNI for this tale! WC 4k

Summary: Autumn is deprogrammed in Wakanda.

Anticipation is part of the problem.

That’s why Bucky left you and Steve in the dark about the deprogramming process. If you knew how the Wakandans would break your conditioning, you might fight it, or rather, fight it more than your mind and body already will. You might trick yourself into thinking you’re healed. You might bury the words deeper because you are trained to protect them, to obey them, to keep them bound to you, to keep you bound to them.

But knowing an attack is coming and knowing what the moves are…those are different beasts.

“Is that really necessary,” Steve blurts while two Dora Milaje follow Ayo’s instruction to strap you down to a similar machine to the Hydra and compound chairs.

The women simply continue from your wrists to your ankles before a thick belt lashes your torso against the seat.

Steve stares at your shaking hands.

“She’s volunteering,” he reminds, heading toward Ayo who waits behind a console reading your vitals.

“Captain Rogers, you are an observer here,” she pointedly reminds, “a guest.”

Steve wouldn’t dare disrespect the warrior, Wakandan or not. This is a favor. They do not have to help you, but they are out of deference to him and your situation.

“Steve,” you call, though it wafts around like a whisper.

He’s by your side again instantly.

“Rosie, I’ll be right here the whole time.”

“Did Buck ever tell you how long this took?”

Steve shakes his head. “I don’t think they went this—“ his gaze rolls over the room “—intensely with his, but we’ll get through it, ok?” He grabs the tips of your fingers around the armrest’s end. “It’ll get easier, and then you’ll be free.”

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes, but you’d be shocked if such a bad liar could manage that kind of naivety.

Ayo barks for him to move. It’s time to start.

Day one only establishes your baseline, which is good because you and Steve only landed in the quintet two hours ago after a long flight.

Ayo reads out your words, and you change. They wake you. Ayo reads all of your words but the tenth, and you signal when the crawling under your skin subsides. You still change when she recites ‘enchaîné.’ They wake you again. Even after a twenty-eight-minute gap, the word still works, so Ayo begins once more, waiting slightly longer from when the crawling stops to finish the sequence.

You don’t change. The Soldier doesn’t wake.

It’s not foolproof, however, and throughout the long afternoon of words and waiting, you have to be jolted back to yourself nearly a dozen times. You’re exhausted and practically immobile by the time Steve gets you both back to your hut, letting Maple in from her run with the goats.

“You need food,” he mutters, almost to himself, as he gathers anything edible to offer you. He says he’ll plan better tomorrow. He’ll have things ready.

For now, it’s clear that you are in no state to go out in search of a meal, and he refuses to leave your side. Steve allows you to eat so little only because he can see fatigue weighing on your shoulders. He fills numerous containers with water, setting them close to you, ready throughout the night, then helps you change for bed.

You don’t say much. You can barely speak.

Steve has to wash your face by hand, scrubbing at the crusting streaks down your cheeks from old (and new) tears.

“Ok, sweetheart, it’s time to rest.”

This is the first night you two will share a room since the incident, and as excited as you are to be near him, your whole being is a frayed, live wire. So far, you’ve had just enough caring touch to not be overwhelmed. He’s not wrong; you should rest before the scale tips you toward panic.

No chances are taken. The only way Steve feels absolutely comfortable sleeping beside you is for you to wear foam earplugs and for him to wear an actual muzzle over his face. In fact, he wears a recovered mask from Bucky’s restraints when he was the Winter Soldier. It serves its purpose. Steve can’t speak.

Without both safeties, he can’t be sure he won’t activate you again. You both know he will never forgive himself if he repeats that mistake. It’s been hard enough to convince him that having a dream is not his fault. He couldn’t control it any more than you could control your reaction.

You’re here on the other side of the planet to change that, you remind yourself. His masked face and your deprived sense are temporary. The pain of the process is temporary.

The lasting impact on your lives? Unknown.

Tonight, though. Tonight you get to sleep in Steve’s arms again.

Day two.

The least distance between each trigger word is tested.

Avant-guard, Quatre, Larmes, Mer, Vigne, Charmante, Fin, Trente, Négligeable, Enchaîné.

You are kept buzzing on the cusp of activation for sixteen hours and receive another nine jolts to wake you. You are testy, fighting not to lash out at Steve’s incessant babying.

“What can I get you? What do you need? What can I do?”

You have a restless night, fearful of the next session.

Day three.

Avant-guard, Quatre, Larmes, Mer, Vigne, Charmante, Fin, Trente, Négligeable, Enchaîné.

You’re being whittled down to bone by the repetition. Your only reward is the quiet, foggy respite of watching the room through her eyes before you’re woken again and again.

Ayo holds a conversation in front of you with General Okoye that peppers in all of your words, hundreds of extra phrases in between, and it still changes you.

Body fine but mind in tatters, you charge through the entrance of your hut fuming with no outlet.

“What can I get you? What do you need? What can I do?”

You struggle to keep down food. You fight sleep until it swallows you.

Somewhere in those few hours, you had a nightmare, Steve mentions over breakfast, one where you spoke rapid-fire Russian and didn’t respond to his or Maple’s attempts to soothe you. All you know is that 'tired' doesn’t cover the feeling inside you.

Day four.

Avant-guard, Quatre, Larmes, Mer, Vigne, Charmante, Fin, Trente, Négligeable, Enchaîné.

You cry whenever a single one of them is spoken out of context. Ayo says them out of order, but your body seizes and hums with anticipation anyway. Eventually, the hum never stops.

You’re drained and flattened, rolled out and stretched so thin the daylight peeks right through you, and yet, you keep going.

You can’t stomach food at all, already full of bile and rage and pent up annoyance. You are living the nightmares now. You are dependent on ten words. They simply threatened to control your life before; now they enslave you every waking minute of the day.

“What can I get you? What do you need? What can I do?”

Part of you wants to strangle him, but instead, you grip Steve like a vice as the big spoon for entire night, sleeping or awake.

Day five.

You are broken finally but not in a good way.

The treatment calls for the repetition of all but the last word. You stay suspended in the warning buzz of activation, your body fighting in favor of transition solely for a respite. It hurts. You feel sick, but the change can’t happen without the last word. It’s like being dangled over a cliff and left waiting for the frayed rope to snap.

If only you had a knife…but would you cut the cord, cut your restraints, or…?

There’s no room for coherent thought while your brain fights and flies at the same time. Fear collides with the empty euphoria changing brings, if only for a second. Resistance dances with prepared obedience. Every real and fake memory you have replays at once.

All day. All night.

Ayo has different people come in to say the nine words, rotating throughout the hours in shifts because Steve refuses to be part of it.

Avant-guard, Quatre, Larmes, Mer, Vigne, Charmante, Fin, Trente, Négligeable.

Repeat.

Avant-guard, Quatre, Larmes, Mer, Vigne, Charmante, Fin, Trente, Négligeable.

Repeat.

Avant-guard, Quatre, Larmes, Mer, Vigne, Charmante, Fin, Trente, Négligeable.

Steve snaps, but you still argue with him to let it happen. Something has to happen.

It gets to the point you’re begging for them to just say the last word in any language you know. You shout the last word to yourself, but it can’t work on you. In a last ditch effort, you plead with Steve.

It comes out as a hateful growl. “Say the fucking word or go!”

The Soldier should be suffering, not you. You’re trying to kill her. You want her to die. He doesn’t have the instinct to kill. He doesn’t have the balls to torture you to make it better.

With heavy, downturned brows, Steve agrees that he can’t do it and leaves.

He’s only gone for a few minutes to feed himself and Maple.

Another several hours go by, and Steve is visibly agitated. He advocates for your comfort more and more as the day drags on, escalating from gentle suggestions to fervent requests to belligerent demands. By then he insists—yelling a tirade of everything but curses directly in Ayo’s face—that you be left time to recover. You are half-grateful and half-annoyed by his attitude.

His arguing delays getting on with the bad bits so you can make real progress, and each time he laments how tired you are or how weak the treatment makes you, you believe it, too. If he doesn’t think you can take it, maybe you can’t, maybe you will never be rid of the Soldier, maybe you’ll always be haunted by the horrors of Hydra.

Ayo relents, keeping her sharp gaze on you as Steve unstraps you from the chair and guides you outside.

He’s allowed to walk you through the village square, though why they still describe it as a village is beyond you. Wakanda is an amazing mix of past, present, and future (or at least, it’s futuristic), and their local centers of commerce are no different. Steve was right to think a distraction would help.

The hustle and bustle of normal life washes over you. It grounds you in reality while lifting your soul up with hope.

One day, you’ll have this. You’ll begin again. You’ll be normal. You’ll start fresh. One day, the pain will be worth it. One day, you won’t even remember the anticipation, much less feel it race beneath every square inch of your skin. You won’t be a slave to ten simple words.

That future is hard to fathom while strapped to a chair, even voluntarily, but the man holding you—the man by your side through all this—has faith you can do this. Steve thinks you’re strong, and you believe him.

Stalls with food and fabrics line every alley. Bright colors rain down from every surface and coat every corner.

Smiling faces. Animated faces. Two-sided conversations are everywhere. They listen to each other. They’re all choosing how to spend their day, their lives. They aren’t afraid of the words being spoken. It’s wonderful. It’s downright magical compared to your cooped-up existence in the compound.

And then some children bolt across your path.

It startles you. You gasp, so focused on what else there is to see that you truly did not notice them, enhanced senses and all.

A mother steps forward to scold the kids, and Steve’s grip on you tightens.

He starts pulling you away. You don’t understand why.

“I’m ok. It’s fine. I was just caught off guard.” It’s not as if you broke someone’s nose again, and none of these children can suspend themselves from ceilings like Peter Parker can.

“We should go,” Steve replies through a tight jaw.

You glance back over your shoulder and finally get it.

The woman is pregnant, a mother in every sense, round and proud as she should be, and that’s when it dawns on you.

Steve doesn’t think you’re strong.

He assumes the mere sight of children or an expectant woman will shock you—upset you even—and doesn’t care to ask. He keeps leading you away, faster and faster until you’re shut back into the treatment room.

Heaven forbid you be far from your chair. How dare you watch the average life of a human. You don’t belong there.

“Let go of me,” you shriek, ripping your arm from Steve’s grasp. “I said I’m fine.”

“I thought—” he tries.

“I know what you thought, Steve, but I’m not going to freak out seeing a mother!”

“We’re not there yet in the—“

“They are just kids. Playing kids.”

“—we haven’t tested—“

“I am not a prototype weapon, Steve. I know what people look like versus targets.”

He raises his voice then, eyes fiery. “WE DON’T KNOW THAT,” but Steve immediately cowers to correct himself. “Not until this is finished.”

That’s it, isn’t it? He doesn’t actually know if he can trust you. He doesn’t know what the fragile, broken thing in front of him is, and he’s tired of waiting for you to show him. He’s impatient and exhausted, just like you. He doesn’t want to sleep in a muzzle anymore. He wants his own home back. You’re the one prolonging this.

Except you’re not.

“Then let me finish it,” you bite back. “Quit stopping Ayo every time she pushes me. That’s the point.”

“Rosie, you don’t have to—“

“—I DO HAVE TO. I do have to be pushed and in pain and screaming and crying and whatever it takes.”

“Not like that. You don’t need to torture yourself.”

“She has to DIE,” you burst, feeling a fire in your belly that threatens to consume you. “The Soldier has to die, Steve, and if you can’t watch it, then don’t. You don’t have to be here.”

Dejected, his arms go limp and he looks from you to the Dora Milaje waiting patiently by the chair. He looks about to argue until his eyes find your furious face and twisted features again.

“You’re right,” he admits softly. “I can’t.”

Steve leaves through the same door he rushed you through.

He’s waiting at the hut when you finally return, sitting at the foot of the bed with Maple resting against his lap.

He’s sorry.

Steve tells you to take a break and rest. What happens if you push yourself too far and stretch too thin? You don’t look well. Because you are sick. Because you need treatment and that’s what this is. He’s worried. The whole point is for this to be safe.

Maybe he only likes you because you’re fragile and dainty, but you can’t stand to be those things anymore. You don’t want to be weak. This isn’t going to work if he hopes you’ll be the same person without her in your head.

“Do you even want me to get better?”

“Of course,” Steve shifts back, offended.

A bitter taste floods your mouth. “Then stop sabotaging me.”

“You wanted me here,” he bites like a wounded puppy.

A darkness unrelated to the day’s pain follows, something deeper and disturbed. “Then maybe that was her, and she wants you. You want her. You fucked her.”

“You don’t mean that, Rosie. You know that’s not true.”

“Neither of us knows who I am without her, so if you won’t let me go through this to get rid of her, maybe she is who you want.”

“I love you,” he blurts simply, heavily.

“That’s just it. You don’t know me, Steve. Stop trying to control me like they did.”

You couldn’t hurt him more, not even with all the blades and points of your garden tools, yet you relish someone hurting other than you. There’s been so much pain forced on you. It feels good to share though it shouldn’t.

“So I just go,” he muses, leaving you unable to tell whether that was a statement or a question.

“You should be able to make your own choices…as should I.”

“Well, if my being here isn’t helpful…”

While he hesitates, you choose for him. His protection only shelters the Soldier. He should go.

You have to embrace the change coming and let go of all the rest. Right now, that includes Steve Rogers, no matter what that means for the two of you in the long run.

It hurts to hold steady to your choice, but what great burden is that drop of pain in this ocean of misery?

Your beautiful dog comes to your side, giving you strength.

“Maple stays.”

Week six.

Each moment has been a test of your free will. The tears and struggle don’t make you doubt your decision, but they stop you from reaching out.

Does he hate you? Will he be there when you return? Are you welcome in your home? Do you have a home anymore?

Being alone, picking your path forward, knowing you can do anything and go anywhere…you can’t remember the last time you felt this, or if you ever have.

“Avant-guard. Quatre. Larmes. Mer. Vigne. Charmante. Fin. Trente. Négligeable. Enchaîné.”

Spoken back-to-back—no breaks, no hesitation, all the way to the end—and nothing happens.

The emptiness is blissful. You are not banished to a corner of your own mind. The air in your lungs is yours to breathe. Your trembling hands are yours to hold.

You’ve been on the cusp of this moment for the last eight days. It’s here.

Ayo’s announcement that you are free pierces through the ecstatic rush of blood past your ears.

Today is Day One in the life of Autumn Rose Barnes, and you are alone. Free and alone.

There’s no pomp or ceremony. You take the next transport to the States, packing what little is left in your hut and ordering Maple to your side. She hates the flight, but that gives you an excuse to cling to her thick fur for the hours-long trip. You desperately try not to form expectations for seeing Steve.

All you have to show for your behavior is you, only you, and it’s bittersweet.

Are you enough?

You feel so horrible for making him go—though his absence was necessary—and apprehension swirls around your empty stomach.

It’s all a mess. You thought all this was messy because of Hydra, but it’s just…life.

You used to know that. Faintly. Somewhere, way back when, you knew, but you’ve punished yourself for being the cause anyway.

Life is just messy.

Maple thrashes during landing, ready to escape, and you can’t blame her. You feel the same.

It’s time. You’re here.

Bag over your shoulder, knuckles blanched in your death grip on the strap, you step off the ramp with your eyes glued to your feet, and instantly, boots pop into view.

Blue jeans, a black sweater, and a bright smile greet you.

“Hi, I’m Steve Rogers,” he says, sticking out a large hand for you to shake.

It takes you by surprise. He’s joining you, meeting you exactly where you are, and starting over.

You put your hand in his, riled almost to tears at the warmth and comfort of that simple contact.

“Well, that’s funny,” you begin softly. “That’s her last name.”

You tick your head to Maple who steps up on Steve’s shoe to look straight into his adoring gaze. As an afterthought, you add your name.

“What a coincidence—“ he plays along “—that’s my best friend’s last name.” Steve lets your hand slide from his. “Must be fate.”

“Must be,” you whisper back.

He’s not so sold on the act when he squats to pet Maple. She happily licks his hand and face, accepting any and all rubs and butt pats, whining when he addresses her as ‘Maymay’ (as only Steve does).

She barks excitedly when Steve rises, reaching out again.

“May I take your bag, Rosie? Um, if it’s okay to call you that…”

You look down again to hide a quivering lip and hand over the duffel. “I’d like that.”

Bucky is outside the landing pad, beaming with open arms and a cheeky line. “He’s insufferable when you’re not here. Never leave again!”

You jump to hug him, not caring to continue any game of formality.

You rumple Bucky’s hair while Steve grumbles, “jerk.”

Bucky hugs you, too, pinning you tight to his broad chest. “Punk,” he replies directly into your shoulder then mutters an additional, “I’m proud of you. Welcome back.”

Steve politely walks you to the door of your old private apartment, the one you moved out of once you two got together, the one you returned to after the incident two months ago. It feels as cold and lonely as the holding cells downstairs.

You stare at the threshold, blank, nervous, and resigned. You did prepare for this, but the reality is unbearable.

“Something wrong?”

You listen for a hopeful tone, an invitation in his words, but Steve schools his voice well.

“No, I…I…” You turn to face him, wide eyes exposing every raw bit of your soul. “I’d like to come home.”

“You are home,” he offers slowly, waiting. He’s done assuming. Steve is going to make you say it.

“That room is not my home.” You keep staring, your brain screaming so loudly you think perhaps he can hear.

He is still your home. If he’ll have you, he is the only home that matters.

While you chicken out of saying that, Maple saunters down the hall straight to Steve’s door, pawing at the entry when her parents don’t follow.

“Right,” Steve sighs with a soft smile, “can’t keep my girls waiting. You’re both probably tired.”

You kick yourself, watching ever-patient Steve walk you into his space like you have earned your place here again. He deserves to know, but the words are stuck in your throat, sharp and too impactful for their confines.

You try to open your mouth. You try to push forward.

Steve beats you to the punch.

His door shuts behind you, bag dropped on the floor, Maple off like a shot to her cozy spot on the couch, and suddenly Steve crowds you against the wall.

“Don’t ever make me go again,” he growls low, intense without aggression. “I need you. I want you. This is where I belong, Rosie, please.”

His warm hands find your waist.

Your eyes dart from his to his lips. Heat creeps up your body, a hum, a buzz, anticipation.

This time it’s welcome; it’s exquisite and crumbling the walls around you.

The tension of his movement forward soothes you, pressing your head back, loosening your tongue.

“You are my ho—“

Steve’s lips crash into yours, heavy and insistent.

It’s a blur of limbs and moans all the way to the bed. You’re on a mission, both of you, a mission to prove you are equals in your devotion. You straddle him in the same bed, in the same position as that night, but Steve is wide awake and excited. Now, you are you and ready.

He doesn’t rush or take a backseat. He savors your touch and attention. Even when you pause, there’s a rush of unsaid praise between you. Needy kisses cover hushed apologies. Passionate, intimate connection blooms in the melding of your bodies.

You and Steve, home, yourselves, safe, and happy for the first time ever, a beginning to a whole new life. Both beautiful and built from great strife, you and Steve have helped each other in unexpected ways. You are both better for it. You are both better for each other when you let go of the pasts you think define you.

You can exist in your home, with no muzzle, no earplugs, and completely free. You promise yourself you'll eat and feed him right after some much-needed rest.

Comparatively short and sweet...in the end at least. I know that a lot of times we think of Steve as perfect, and of course, I am guilty of writing him that way at times because it is comforting. For this though, I wanted to highlight how being protective and being supportive are not always the same thing. Steve is so protective of Reader that you can't grow or heal without space, and that is naturally going to be incredibly difficult for Steve Rogers.

I hope you enjoyed this tale, and as always, comments, likes, and reblogs are much appreciated. Happy New Year, everyone!

[Series Masterlist; Main Masterlist]

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jikookao3recs · 1 year

Note

Hello Lily. How are you? I hope you’re well.

Idk exactly how to formulate my question so I’m sorry if it’s a bit unclear. I’ll try my best. 😳

I was wondering if you know any fics that are romantic with angst. Now, you’re probably telling yourself “huh…every single one of them”.

But I’m talking real romance like the one we see in the really romantic movies you know? Like Titanic type of romance but slightly more light-hearted and sweet.

And the angst would be some really good angst that could make me cry. And a happy ending of course.

This is probably a nightmare for you to answer, I’m so sorry 😳🫠🥺🙈 please don’t feel obligated to find something I’m aware of the problem this question is.

Anyway, I hope you have a lovely day, evening or night depending on when you read this. Thank you for all your recommendations. The world needs more lovely people like you 🤍✨

Hi 💕 I really don't know how to answer this one, haha. But I will also try lol so here are some:

Blind Switch by Charmander

Tonight You Are Mine by plvtoe

Walking Through a World Gone Blind by annie_vi

Where'd You Learn That? by renniewren

we hurt and heal the same by decodingfate

Armed With a Spray Can Soul by annie_vi

idk, I probably failed haha

#jikook #jikook fanfic #jikook fanfiction #jikook fic #angst and romance #jikook fic rec #kookmin #kookmin fic rec #kookmin fanfic #kookmin fic #bts fic #fic rec

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summersnow82 · 2 years

Text

Somethin' Bad - Part 12

Author's Note:

Thanks for sticking with me, y'all. All the kudos, likes, reblogs, bookmarks, etc. - they really mean a lot to me. I didn't plan on this being a slow burn, but here we are.

I'm not sad about it. I've finally figured out an ending, and we'll get there when we get there. I'm enjoying these two and their building chemistry.

Thanks for reading!

Part 12

Travis blinked. Did he hear her properly or was she just… saying it? Like it was so easy to say. It had taken his family months before they could even use the word “werewolf”, and here Annabelle was stating he had a supernatural problem like she dealt with them every day.

Maybe that’s what you see when you deal with inter-dimensional time travel.

He shook his head. Before the werewolf curse he would’ve found her a nice padded cell and some anti-psychotics, but now? Well, now he was inclined to believe her story, and tell her everything about Silas and the curse. He’d seen too much to start drawing lines in the sand, and he needed all the help he could get.

“Travis?” Annabelle tilted her head to the side, brow furrowed in concern. “You okay?”

“Hmm?” He blinked. “Oh. Yeah. I just… you talk about it so… easily.”

Annabelle shrugged. “It’s not necessarily easy, but I’m used to it by now. So will you tell me what you know about that beast out there?”

He took a deep breath, and met her eyes. “Werewolf. It’s a werewolf.”

Travis told her everything: about Eliza and Silas Vorez, the Harum Scarum fire, the good intentions of his niece and nephew, and the horrible, bloody result. It spilled out of him easier than he’d expected, but then, who else could he talk to about this? Annabelle was either certifiably crazy or she was very sane with potential knowledge he could use. Either way, it was weirdly comforting to share this with someone else who wasn’t his family. Someone who wasn’t asking why he hadn’t done a better job and taken care of the problem already. Someone who wasn’t looking at him with their entire life hanging in the balance.

Travis suddenly felt exhausted. Covering everything up for years, going through the same routine every full moon only to be chastised the morning after, barely sleeping because the nightmares were so vivid he’d wake up screaming, always covered in the foul smelling wolf blood.

… and there was always so much blood.

He closed his eyes, trying to push the onslaught of emotions and memories back, but they surged forward, overwhelming him completely.

“We know you’ll take care of it, Uncle T.”

“...sorry excuse for a son...”

“Next month, buddy.”

“Pathetic. Useless.”

“I don’t think I can do this anymore, Uncle Travis.”

“If you really cared about this family...”

“TRAVIS!”

He was on his knees before her, clutching Annabelle’s shoulders so tightly he knew he had to be hurting her. Her eyes were wide with concern, and he let go immediately, clattering into his desk chair to get away from her. He stumbled backwards, and he heard her call his name, but he kept going, backing further away until his back hit the wall behind him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He held his hands out in front of him as if to prove he wasn’t a threat. Is this how Sean felt? He squeezed his eyes shut, apologies still falling from his lips.

“Travis? Travis!” He opened them to see Annabelle in front of him, her hands wrapped around his own. “It’s okay, all right? It’s okay. I’m okay, you’re okay. It’s all right.”

What is wrong with me? He struggled to breathe, shuddering in and out. Annabelle was still speaking – something about panic attacks, anxiety, how this was all completely normal. He wanted to believe her; more than anything he wanted to believe her because if she was right then he wasn’t as screwed up as he thought. But you know better, don’t you? His mother’s voice crawled from the back of his mind, and he shut his eyes trying to block her out along with the onslaught of abuse he knew would quickly follow.

“Travis.” Annabelle was cupping his face now as she knelt before him. Deep brown eyes focused solely on him. “Travis.” She leaned her forehead against his, her hair drifting around him like a silk curtain; she grounded him in her touch and scent: sugar, coffee, and his Irish Spring shampoo. “You’re okay, you’re okay,” she kept repeating softly, still holding his hands. He was raw and open, like a fresh wound, but despite his vulnerability he still felt safe; it was an odd sensation.

He tilted his head back, and she pulled away just enough to study his face. “I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice barely a whisper.

“Shhhh,” she soothed, moving one of her hands to his wrist. She turned her eyes to the clock on the wall, and he followed her gaze.

“What are you-” he began, and she shushed him again. It was the boost he needed because his brow furrowed in frustration. “Don’t - ” he tried again, and this time she raised a finger to his lips, silencing him immediately.

“Travis Hackett,” she levied her gaze at him, speaking softly, but firmly, “I get you’re used to being in control all the time, but if you could just hush for a few minutes, and let me take care of you I sure would appreciate it.”

He blinked, stunned. Typically Travis was the one taking care of everyone else; when was the last time someone wanted to take care of him? Yet here she sat, this perfect stranger treating him like… like…

Like I matter.

For as long as he could remember, Travis had been the fixer in the family. He was the one who stood strong when everyone else was falling apart, the one who sacrificed his wants, desires, and needs for the good of the family, the “hero” and the “big brother”, and the “good boy.”

…and yet…

Here in front of him, monitoring his pulse, was a woman he barely knew who continually kept trying to make his life easier. Sure, she was feisty, and tended to push back half the time, but he enjoyed her assertiveness. It was refreshing for once to not have someone looking to him for all the answers, but instead challenging him, provoking him, intriguing him.

… and she could’ve left at any point.

“Why didn’t you run?” He asked, and she shot him an agitated look.

“And leave all this?” She said sarcastically. She sighed, rethinking her approach, and said, “Compared to some places this is a five star resort. Shelter, central air and heat, indoor plumbing, a bed, food, showers.” She paused. “Not having to worry about being raped or murdered in my sleep.”

His eyebrows shot up, but she didn’t acknowledge it, and he didn’t comment. Instead she changed the subject. “Favorite color?”

“Huh?”

“Color. Your favorite. What is it?” She looked him in the eye, arching a brow. “And no ‘green’ or ‘orange’ nonsense. I want to know the exact favorite color.”

He frowned. “Blue.”

Annabelle sighed, eyes flicking back to the clock. “Cobalt? Cerulean? Sky? C’mon, Travis. You had a box of Crayolas as a kid, right?”

He smirked. “Slate blue.”

She smiled, eyes still focused on the clock. “Very nice. Mine’s lilac, followed by sapphire, then sea foam. Favorite food?”

Travis’ brow furrowed again, but he didn’t argue. “Is that a doughnut joke?”

Annabelle chuckled softly, shaking her head. “No, but there’s no shame if that’s the answer.”

He gave her a small smile he was sure she missed. How long did she need to stare at that clock? “Waffles.”

Her eyes flickered shut for a moment, and she made the same sound she’d made sipping her coffee. “I love waffles. Pancakes. Muffins. Carbs in general. Favorite movie?”

“You have a lot of time to think about things like this?” He asked, and she smiled at the sass in his question.

“I sleep in a jail cell, Sheriff. I have a lot of time to think.” She said it with a smile, but he swallowed hard, the knot in his stomach returning. She pulled her hands away, staring at him hard. “When was the last time you went to the doctor?” The grimace on his face was answer enough. “Your pulse might as well be a freaking gazelle. How have you not had a heart attack?”

“Too much to do before I die,” he grumbled. She reached up, taking his chin, making him look at her.

“Dealing with the supernatural is hard enough. You’ve got to take care of yourself. How are you sleeping?”

“While laying down, typically,” he groused.

Her eyes narrowed. “Right. Diet?”

He glared at her. “Does rum count?”

Her mouth pulled into a tight line. “Are you a pirate? No, of course it doesn’t count. Good grief, Travis, has it been like this for six years?” He stared at her, and she sighed releasing his chin. “Okay, okay. Have you at least eaten today?”

“Does rum - ” she clapped her hand over his mouth.

“Let’s get you something to eat.”

---------------------------------------

The North Kill county jail didn’t have a lot to offer for sustenance, but Annabelle didn’t let that stop her. She’d moved around the break room with an air of confidence, a woman on a mission. Travis watched her prepare instant oatmeal and grits for the two of them and Sean, and then he followed her to the cell block.

Honestly, he had no idea why he was allowing her to take the lead, but in some ways it was… nice. He spent so much time clambering for control because the world was going to shit around him, or it was the only way to get respect, but this… this felt different.

“Eat that,” she ordered, pointing at the bowl she’d handed him. “It’ll be terrible cold.”

He rolled his eyes, sighing hard. “Is she always like this?” He complained to Sean. The blonde man still needed a shower, but looked remarkably better than the last time Travis had seen him.

Sean cracked a small smile, taking his own bowl from Annabelle through the bars. “Mother hen? You have no idea.”

“Hush, and eat,” she commanded once more. She sniffed her oatmeal with another happy little hum, and then attacked her food with vigor.

The meal was simple, but good nonetheless, and Travis did feel better afterwards. He ate quietly, keeping his distance from his prisoners, but he listened to their conversation in earnest.

Werewolf. Silver. Full moon. Curse. Cure.

They tackled each issue thoroughly, working through theories, ideas, and previous experiences for reference. Upon occasion one of them would ask Travis a question, and they’d both turn their eyes to him expectantly. If he had the answer, great, and if not, they’d theorize some more. No blame, no anger, just information to process. It became more and more obvious this was not their first rodeo with werewolves, but it was their first with this specific curse.

“So, you’re saying,” Travis began slowly, breaking their flow, “you’ve seen variations of this curse?”

Sean and Annabelle exchanged glances, both shrugging. “Kinda, yeah.”

“New world, new rules,” Annabelle said.

“This is actually one of the better ones, honestly,” Sean said. “One we saw you would actually transition to a real wolf. The werewolf aspect was more of a symptom.”

Annabelle nodded. “Another, you turn for the full moon, and the night before and after.”

“Another, you get infected, that’s it. No cure, but you have more control. It’s like the wolf if part of you. Depending on your strength and alpha status, you can even shift without the moon.”

Travis stared at them. “Exactly how many werewolves have you known?”

Again, the two exchanged glances, waffling for an answer. “Twenty?”

“Thirty?”

“A lot.”

Travis’ head was beginning to hurt. This was all a bit much. “How many wolves do you have in this area now?” Sean asked.

He sighed. “Three that I know of, but the night you two arrived there were two more.” Travis closed his eyes trying not to think about the woman he’d shot. He’d gone back the next day, and the body was gone. What remained… well, it seemed whatever wolf was in the area had cleaned up for him. “I shot one, but I don’t know about the other.”

“Four wolves,” Annabelle breathed.

“Five with him,” Travis gestured to Sean. Annabelle looked pained at the thought, and Sean refused to make eye contact with either of them. “Y’know,” Travis began, feeling guilty for the mood shift, “you know, I can take the cuffs off now. You’re not a threat in there. Even take a shower, if you like.” Sean looked uncertain, but Travis was focusing on Annabelle. She was smiling at him like he’d said the perfect thing - like he was her hero.

He hated how much he enjoyed that reaction.

“I guess… I guess that’d be okay,” Sean finally said, albeit very, very quietly.

Travis escorted Sean to the shower – cuffs still on in case they had any more surprise guests. When they returned, Annabelle was curled up on her cot, fast asleep. Travis paused, surprised, and Sean clocked his gaze.

“It’s a good sign she’s sleeping. She only does that when she feels safe. Otherwise, it’s a struggle,” Sean said.

Travis snorted. “She was just giving me a hard time about my sleeping habits.”

Sean looked over his shoulder at the older man. “Her issue is about survival, not trauma. You know what it’s like to sleep in your boots every night because you might have to run, Sheriff?”

Travis turned a steely glare to the other man, ready to snap back a quick retort, but the look in Sean’s eyes told him he wasn’t trying to pick a fight. He was trying to offer important insight into their situation. “You know I can’t let you out of the cell unsupervised until this is over, right? It’s too risky.”

Sean nodded. “But does she have to stay?” He inclined his head towards the sleeping woman. “I mean, she won’t complain, but…”

“She told my niece she was sleeping on the cot upstairs.”

Sean winced. “Ouch. Not the best look for you, man.”

Travis nodded, giving Sean a tap to let him know he could continue walking to his cell. “Not really sure what to do about that, honestly.” He uncuffed Sean before he opened the cell door, a silent sign to the other man he wanted to do right by them. Sean walked into the room without issue, and watched Travis lock the cell door. “I’ll, uh… I’ll be back tomorrow morning. Need anything before I go?”

Sean shook his head. “I’m good. Thanks for the shower and the clothes.” Travis nodded. Instinct told him to reach for the other man’s hand and shake it, but he kept his hands by his side. Gratitude and civil conversation was not what he expected, but it was a big relief. The knot in Travis’ stomach loosened ever so slightly as he turned, striding out of the cell block without locking Annabelle’s cell door.

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calliopewayne · 1 year

Text

Too Many Tears

7:05. Smallville is five minutes late. No matter. If my instincts are right . . . and I’m usually never wrong . . . Clark Kent is probably saving a horde of orphans from a burning building. From day one a small part of me always suspected Clark Kent and Superman are one and the same. Though I never could prove it before. He comes on with that big, innocent farm boy routine, but I can see right through that faster than a speeding bullet. Clark Kent is the worst liar in the cosmos. How many times is he gonna use the excuse ‘I forgot to return a DVD to Blockbuster,’ when he flees to go save the day? Pathetic.

That kiss sealed his fate. No man can kiss like Clark Kent, and trust me I’ve kissed a fair amount of super frogs before I met him. It took one kiss from the Man of Steel and I knew in my bones, that my boyfriend was masquerading as a vigilante in his spare time. I think of Superman going missing after Nightfall nearly struck Earth, and my blood runs cold.

It’s okay. Nightfall is in the past. Clark is no longer the walking poster boy for amnesia; he is back to full strength, or at least I think he is. Flying headlong into an asteroid the size of a small planet, had to have done some long-lasting damage. But he’s Superman! The Nightfall incident happened weeks ago. If there was any damage to be worried about, surely we would have seen some signs by now? Then again, kryptonite is about as predictable as a hangover and twice as deadly. There is no telling what sort of effect a planet-size of kryptonite . . .

Cut it out, Lois. You’re supposed to be angry with him, not a worried mother hen. He lied to you. Plain and simple. A loud ding beeps in the apartment and for a heartbeat, I think Clark is here. But then I realize it’s the timer on the oven letting me know the chocolate chip cookies are ready. He better have a good excuse for keeping me on the sidelines. I do not bake for just anybody.

I take the cookies out of the oven and set them on the counter. I scan the clock by the microwave again. It reads 7:15. Maybe he ran into Intergang goons with Apocalypse tech. They did quite a number on Superman last year; he was missing from work for a week after they shot him with guns from Apokolips as hot as his heat vision. I won’t be surprised if they left permanent scars on the Man of Steel. Or worse, he completely forgot about our date and is spending the night with Wonder Woman. The idea is so preposterous I laugh. Clark is no cheater.

I busily start to rearrange the living room. I shove the mini sofa towards the spherical window that has a great view of the city below. You can see all the way to the Daily Planet from here. It is the perfect spot to cuddle up together and confess I know his secret.

Finally, there is a tentative knock at the door. I can’t get to the door fast enough. Before I open I do a quick survey of my outfit. Sparkly Superman dress. Check. Subtle makeup that would make Diana of Themyscira look like a middle schooler. Check. I rethink the Superman dress and dive into my closet to change into a sensible violet dress that Clark has liked on numerous occasions. In my haste to change, I knock over the lamp by my bed and it crashes to the floor.

“Lois?” Clark's voice echoes through the closed door. “Is everything alright?”

“One second Smallville!” I call into the next room loudly, but even if I whisper I am dead positive he can hear me. He could hear me call out for him even if I’m across the world in Timbuktu. He’s fifteen minutes late, he can stand to wait five more minutes. I can see him in my mind’s eye as clear as day leaning against the door, twiddling his thumbs impatiently, those azure eyes burning a hole into my door. He sure could burn a hole in my door if he felt like it.

Once I am certain I am presentable I open the door and immediately chastise myself for being overdressed. Clark Kent stands on my doorstep wearing a pair of loose torn jeans and a Daily Planet sweatshirt. His messy black hair a total rat’s nest. Horn-rimmed glasses sit askew on his face as if he just ran into a wall and forgot to fix them. Sunken eyes peek through the glasses and I stifle a gasp. Doubt creeps into my mind. His eyes are so swollen and red he looks like he fought a horde of bees and lost.

He gives me a once-over. “I thought we were staying in tonight?” His bushy eyebrows quirk together in confusion. “Not that I’m complaining Lo, you look good enough to eat,” His cheeks turn crimson, in that adorable way they do every time he is embarrassed. “Not that I would eat you,” he quickly adds turning as red as an apple. “I’m not a psycho carnivore.”

Great. My fancy dress has tipped him off this is no ordinary date night, and he’s freaking out now. “Tell that to the endless amount of cows you’ve devoured,” I joke, trying to diffuse the tension that has sprung up between us. An impenetrable steel wall as strong as Superman grows ever stronger between us.

My joke does the trick, and my Superman smiles cheekily. “What can I say?” he shrugs. “Hamburgers are food for the soul.” He remains standing awkwardly in the doorway, and I realize with a pang I’ve scared the poor man.

“Are you going to stand there all day?” my voice comes out sharper than I meant it to. “Fly right into my humble abode,” Superman hangs unspoken between us. His face twitches with unease but he doesn’t comment on my word choice and makes himself at home on the couch.

I wander back to the kitchenette and set the chocolate chip cookies - his favorite - on a silver platter. Sweat trickles down my neck. I can feel his gaze following my every move, trying to figure out what is different about tonight.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” he compliments, ever the gentleman. “Much roomier.” I pour two glasses of wine, taking my good time, knowing what is coming next. He knows me way too well. Sometimes it's a curse to date your best friend. Double trouble when he’s a flying alien in red and blue that can see through your clothes.

Alien.

What does that mean for us? Would we even be compatible together? I am as human as they come. He’s a god from another planet. Scratch that. I’ve seen that god drool in his sleep and speak fluent elvish on Tolkien night. If Kal-El of Krypton were a god, he would be the god of dorks.

Would we even be able to start a family? Not that, having children is a deal-breaker for me, I would be a terrible mother. But I know Clark has his mind set on being a father someday. What if we are compatible after all and I’m left alone with super triplets? Super triplets that fly like Peter Pan.

“Lois, are you mad at me?” he asks after a long pause. I stroll back into the den, and blindly hand him a plate of cookies, not able to see anything in my head except mini Supermen flying around the house causing mayhem and utter havoc, while the man of the house is off saving the world, leaving little old me alone with the terrible terrors. Clark fingers one of the cookies eyeing it doubtfully, “These aren’t poisoned are they?”

“Have a little faith Clark,” I smack him in the midsection. He flinches like any normal person would when hit. But now I know he’s faking. “I am not Poison Ivy.”

“No, you’re a lot scarier than her,” he points out. His gaze drifts towards the window, and his expression grows distant and unfocused as if he’s looking all the way to Gotham. I half expect him to come up with another lame excuse and dash out on me. Yeah, sorry C.K., Batman is not gonna save you from me tonight. He takes a tentative bite of one of the cookies, and his face scrunches up with disgust.

“You hate them,” I say bluntly. To his credit, Clark swallows the whole cookie down without a fuss, but his face turns green, the color draining from his pale cheeks. Clark looks like he wants to throw up, but is too afraid of my reaction. “Just say it, Clark, I’m the worst cook in the galaxy!” How could anyone mess up chocolate chip cookies? I followed the ingredients to a T, or at least I thought I had.

He looks up at me and smiles. “I didn’t fall in love with you because of your cooking Lois,” he laughs. “But in the future maybe double-check your measuring spoons,” he licks bits of melted chocolate off his fingers, and my heart soars. “I think you put too much baking soda in the mix.”

I slip onto the couch next to him, and he wraps a reassuring arm around me. “Maybe I should just leave the cooking to you, Smallville.”

“It can’t hurt to learn a few dishes,” Clark grins at me. “I’m a swell teacher,” he accentuates each word with a trail of kisses down my neck. I tense up. I can’t unsee the super big S stuck between us. Every touch is a reminder of his betrayal. Every kiss, a reminder he never trusted me. We’re supposed to be partners. Partners have each other’s backs. But he doesn’t have the balls to open up his oh-so-kissable, big mouth and tell me the truth. I am not dumb. Give me a little credit Clark. I can’t believe Perry hasn’t caught on yet, or maybe he has and is turning a blind eye.

I jump off the couch. “I know you’re Superman!” I blurt out.

To his credit, he doesn’t so much as blink. I suppose working closely with Batman has taught him a thing or two about poker faces. And then suddenly he lets out maniacal laughter that makes me wonder if the Joker gassed him.

Clark finally stops laughing and leans over, resting both arms on his knees. “Lois, you’re hysterical when you’re drunk.”

Anger boils in my veins. He knows as well as I, that I don’t get drunk. Us Lane girls know how to hold down our liquor, unlike a certain playboy I am not gonna name. “The gig is up Smallville. You can’t lie to me any longer.”

“I never lied,” Clark’s face grows red. Funny. Rumor has it that it is virtually impossible for Superman to blush, but they don’t know him as I do. I glare at him. He rolls his eyes in response. “This is getting old,” he grunts, his face coloring with irritation. “Remember the time you jumped into Niagara Falls to prove I was Superman?”

“How can I forget?” I snap. He made me look like a deranged idiot. I don’t know how he managed it, but he saved me without so much as a blur. But, I’m never wrong.

“And who saved you?”

My mouth forms a thin line, the words dragged out of my throat. “You did.”

“Hmm,” Clark nods, smirking in amusement. “And was I wearing spandex or flaunting primary colors?”

My shoulders grow tense. Clark has never been shy about his hate for Superman’s corny, outlandish outfit. His exact words were, ‘what kind of grown-ass man flies around wearing red spandex over tights?’ It was all part of his charm. Part of this facade he insists on keeping up. The spandex is a bold and smart choice. No one would be looking too closely at his face in that getup, that’s for sure.

“Goddamnit Smallville!” I cry out. “How stupid do you think I am?” I roar. “You don’t need the suit to be super. You’re not Shazam!” His freaking mother already confirmed my suspicions. She has brains as well as balls, unlike a certain son of hers. The alien with a small brain has a death wish. If he doesn’t fess up soon he’s going to see exactly how vengeful Stiletto can be.

I take a deep breath to cool my nerves.

Clark’s face smolders with anger. “I am sick of you comparing him to me.”

“Who? Shazam?” I play dumb. “I hear he’s at least honest with his lady friends.”

“No. alien,” he says in a low whisper, rife with tension. “You will never be satisfied with an ordinary man.”

How dare he. “I am not some obsessed bimbo pulling at your cape,” I seethe. “I loved you before you decided to scar the world with your fashion massacre.” I watch his face carefully for any sign of resentment, a flush of embarrassment. Something. Anything! He remains stone-cold and distant. There’s a tautness to his shoulders that tells me he’s fighting an urge to dash and cover.

And then the corner of his mouth quirks up, tentative at first, and then brightens. I dare to hope he’s finally going to pull his grown-up pants on. “Lois do you not realize how ridiculous this is?” He raises his voice unnecessarily. “If I were Superman I won’t live in a dump in Suicide Slums,” he explains. “I won’t have to worry about human things like paying taxes or eating. Superman doesn’t eat.”

“We both know that’s a lie you tell the press to make you seem more exotic.” I press my lips together. “You’re the biggest foodie in the galaxy!”

Clark laughs. “Yeah I am,” he agrees. “But have you ever seen Superman eat?”

I want to scream ‘YES’ a million times over. Superman scarfs down entire pies and galleons of ice cream in one sitting. He always knows the best place to get Chinese food and its not anywhereon this continent. He gets moody if he doesn’t eat breakfast.

But no. I see the trap Clark has carefully laid out. I can’t answer that question without making up tall tales. I personally have never seen Superman eat so much as a cookie. He’s too busy flying around the world to stop for snacks.

“You’re impossible!” I growl.

“Look whose talking,” Clark matches my tone. “I’m not the one mixing up my boyfriend with an alien.”

There’s that word again. It keeps creeping up on me. Alien. Freak. Monster. Abomination. All words Clark has used to describe Superman in the past. I brushed his cynicism under the rug and chocked it up to classic, bruised male ego. But it’s more than that. Clark can’t admit he’s Superman because that would mean he’s admitting to being an immigrant from the stars. In his mind the ‘alien’ card is one way ticket to Lonesomeville. He wants nothing more than for things to stay normal between us.

Rao, help me. I wish I didn’t know him so well.

I roll my eyes and grit my teeth. I imagined this night playing out differently. Once the truth was out he was supposed to wrap me in his strong extraterrestrial arms and confess his undying love to me. We could have finally flown together with no secrets between us. He could have shown me his favorite restaurant in China that he always gets take out from. The night would have ended at his Fortress, the only thing keeping the cold away his steaming flesh against me.

But that won’t be my Clark. At least not in this universe. Clark was afraid of change and above all, rejection from those close to him. Rejection from strangers on the streets, that no doubt he knew by first name, even if they won’t bother to see the man beneath the caricature. But I’m not just anybody. How can he not see what a miracle he is? I don’t care about his alien visa. But something tells me, even if I spell it out for the idiot, he’d keep me at arm’s length.

“Can Superman do this?” He strolls into the kitchenette at an achingly normal pace and returns with a carving knife. I bite back a comment about Mr. X-Ray Vision knowing exactly where to find my collection of knives.

Clark raises the knife up. Too late I realize his intentions. “No!” I dash forward. With no hesitation he slashes the blade across his arm. Blood pulses through the wound, turning his sleeve crimson.

“Shit,” I gasp, dashing to the kitchenette and grabbing a towl. I silently start to recite the alphabet in my head. A stands for amnesia. D. Death. E. Extraterrestrial. M stands for Mook. K. Kryptonite. S. Smallville. My racing heart starts to subside around letter ‘W.’ Wreck. I suck in a ragged breath. Nightfall irrevocably wrecked Clark.

“You have a fucking death wish!” I swear, pressing the course fabric against the wound.

His hot blood soaks through the towl and drenches my fingers. Red and thick like a human’s. I swallow and blink a few times, the tears lodging in my throat. I refuse to let him see me cry. I should slap Clark or let him bleed to death. The fight is slapped out of me at the sight of his blood. It’s a reminder that Superman, despite appearances, isn’t truly invulnerable. But this is all my doing. I might as well have been the one holding the knife. I pushed him before he was ready. Martha warned me to be patient with him. He will tell me on his own terms when he was good and ready. But ‘patient’ and Lois Lane do not mix well together.

“Tod you ‘m not Zuper-mun,” he slurs his words, gaze growing unfocused and dejected. ‘I’m not sure I’ll ever be Superman again’ his gaze all but screams. A stranger stares back at me. The absence of hope is a foreign look on Clark. The Clark I knew would never harm himself. He valued all life. Except his own apparently.

To my utter horror, my eyes grow hot, tears welling in my eyes quicker than I can blink them away. “I’m sorry,” I choke out. “There was no need for such drastic measures.” I pry the words out of my scratchy throat, folding the crimson towel to a clean side. Clark grimaces as a press harder on the wound. The blood flow has trickled to a stop. I scrounge around the bottom drawer of the side table and pull out the first aid kit I keep there for emergencies.

“Superman is dead,” Clark says in a small, faint whisper, but I still hear him. My chest tightens at the hopelessness in his voice. I suppose from his perspective Superman is dead. He’s nobody without his powers.

Superman is sitting right next to me but he’s too far gone to fight his worst enemy: Himself. Silently I dress the wound, rubbing alcohol on the tender flesh and wrapping gauze around it. “Superman isn’t a hero because of his powers,” I point out. “Superman is an ideal to strive for,” I comb a loose curl out of his face. “He has the heart of a hero. Even without powers, he’s a beacon of hope,” I smile. He’s the friend that lifts you out of the darkness when you’re alone and scared.” With each word I utter Clark’s face grows greener. “He’s a voice for the oppressed and always does the right thing, even when it’s difficult.”

“I wish I could be that man for you,” Clark says dejectedly.

“You already are.” I cling onto Clark, relishing in the feeling of his sturdy, very real, beating heart against my chest. I wipe at my eyes, but new tears tumble down my cheeks before I can wipe the old ones away.

Clark cups my face and forces me to meet his eyes. Gently with the back of his thumb, he brushes a stray tear out of my face. “You’re my hero, Lois Lane.”

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