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shreddedparchment · 4 years

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A Wife for Thor Pt.05

10/28/2020

Preparations

Pairing: King!Thor x Reader Word Count: 6,652

Warnings: angst, slight smut?, language, fluff

A/N: Thank you everyone, for putting up with my emotional ass. After some thought, and when I was feeling better and not so sad (?), I really didn’t wanna make those of you keeping up with the story wait for the next chapter. I hope you all enjoy this one and if you happen to reblog, thank you so much for helping me spread my work! xoxo

Please DO NOT repost my stories on any other blogs or sites.

REBLOGS are always welcome!

The city is lively with beautiful Asgardians rushing about their daily lives. In the time since it’s completion, New Asgard and its inhabitants have settled into a routine. New lives on a planet now once again full of growth, community interaction, and celebration when the time is right.

“We’ll give you a proper tour tomorrow.” Brunnhilde says, reaching forward to tap the shoulder of the man driving you both. “Stop here.”

“Wait, aren’t you coming with me?” You ask, startled as she throws open the back door of the sleek black sedan.

“No. I have other things to prepare for the wedding and then I have to check in on my Valkyrie. Your escorts will meet you at the shop.” Brunnhilde assures you.

“But-”

“Bye!” She smiles at you and slams the door in your face.

You sit there, confused and at a loss. Your anxiety begins to mount when the driver, a handsome young Asgardian man with long braided black hair, clears his throat and draws your attention to the front.

“Shall I drive on Your Highness?” He asks, glancing in his rearview mirror at you.

“Um…” You’ll never get used to that stupid your highness stuff. “Yes.”

“Very good, Your Highness.”

“Can’t you just call me, Y/N?” You ask, feeling awkward.

“No.” He says, a smile on his face. “I cannot. I can see why his Majesty has chosen you.”

You’re surprised by this statement, and you’re pretty sure it’s insolent maybe? You don’t know because this is all new to you, but you don’t really care either way.

“Why?”

“You don’t remember me?” He asks, as he drives down the street.

As they pass, the Asgardians stop in their walking or talking or errand running to watch you drive by. Some of them smile with excitement, even moving with the car a few steps before stopping.

They’re all dressed normal. Asgardian garb abandoned to fit in on Earth. Not all of them. Some still wear their own clothes. Some of them wear a mixture of both. It’s a mish-mash of two cultures and you understand the need for a human Queen a little more.

“No.” You shake your head, giving the driver your full attention.

“I didn’t think you would.” He admits, smiling still. “You were very nervous when I first drove you up to the palace. Quite literally shaking in your pretty shoes.”

Was he your driver then too?!

“Alas, I understand his Majesty’s choice because you were the only woman that sat in my car and spoke to me. You may not have been aware enough to remember me, but you were very kind. Very concerned about me despite the stress you were in.” He looks in his rearview mirror again, meeting your eyes. “My wife gave birth, by the way.”

“Oh!” Your mind is struck with an unfocused conversation, hazy but you remember the pregnant wife. “I remember!”

You’re way too excited about remembering and the driver chuckles.

“Was it a boy or a girl?” You ask eagerly.

“A girl.” He smiles. “We’ve named her Luta.”

“Congratulations!” You exclaim gently, so happy for him.

“Thank you, Your Highness. I’ll tell my wife you said so.” He promises.

“I’d love to meet her.” You hope, leaning forward to get a better look at the side of his face.

“I’m not sure that will be possible. You’ll be terribly busy, and my wife is also with our little girl.”

“What if I came to pay her a special visit?” You really want to meet her.

“If you could find the time, Your Highness, my wife and I would be happy to receive you.” He smiles.

“I’m sorry if you told me last time we met, but what is your name?”

“Armod, Your Highness.” He tells you, turning down a second and smaller street.

The people are still dense, gathered around stalls and smaller shops as Armod drives a little slower to keep a careful eye on the families attending what must be an early morning market.

You take it in as quickly as you can, devouring the sight of these beautiful people and in return they turn to watch you go by.

They turn to each other, have quick and silent—to you—exchanges before a few of them begin to turn and wave.

Nervous, you wave timidly, smiling because you can’t help it. It isn’t a conscious decision.

The side street is so packed with stalls that it makes it impossible for people to follow the car at the speed it’s going, even reduced.

You’re a little grateful. You don’t want to get mobbed without someone else here to dilute the excitement.

“The people are very excited to see their future Queen.” Armod explains, “Forgive them their exuberance.”

“I hope I don’t disappoint them.”

As the crowd thins out, and Armod pulls the car into a gentle stop, he shakes his head, “Trust me, Your Highness, you won’t.”

Your car door opens. Into your view slides a pale white hand, luxurious suit jacket sleeve barely hiding the equally expensive white button-up underneath.

“Your Highness,” greets a familiar voice.

Taking his hand, Loki pulls you from the car, helping you stand and even reaching down to adjust the long train of your right sleeve.

The dress is sparkling blue, a body-hugging gold silk dress underneath the top sheer voile blue layer on top. The right sleeve is long, ends at your wrist, with a train that flows down at an equal length to that of your skirt. The left side is sleeveless.

You’re nervous about the deep V of your bodice, the scrunched-up shoulders of your dress carefully balanced there but too precarious for your liking.

With he sun out, the chill in the air isn’t so bad, but here in the shade of what must be the bridal shop, you shiver.

“You look lovely.” Loki smiles.

“I look stupid.” You counter, feeling very exposed and not at all pretty with how tight the dress feels.

“Allow me to politely disagree.” Loki takes your hand and leads it around his elbow as become aware of the people gathering around to catch a look at you. “I think the crowd would agree with me.”

“Can we go inside, please?” You beg, waving at the small group as other begin to flock from their spots at distant stalls to join the crowd.

“Of course.” Loki taps your hand then escorts you into the shop.

You relax a little once you’re inside and warm.

A middle-aged looking woman moves towards the two of you, her hand subtly stroking a large fold of crimson fabric on the low center shelf before she reaches you and then dips into a low curtsy before rising and grabbing her hands to hold at chest level.

“Good morning, your Highnesses!” She exclaims, gushing to an embarrassing degree.

“Good morning, Gorm. How are you?” Loki asks politely.

He doesn’t seem truly interested in her answer, but he waits kindly while she flusters with the honor of his polite concern.

“I am much better now that you and our King Thor’s lovely intended have arrived. Such an honor to meet you, Your Highness.” She says, addressing you directly.

“Thank you.” You reply, startled by her a bit. “It’s so great to meet you.”

“Tell me, Gorm, have you received His Majesty’s instructions on the dress we’d like?” Loki checks.

“Oh, yes, Your Highness! I’ve been working non-stop on several options since I received them.” She assures him, gesturing back towards a doorway past a long wooden counter with a modern cash register and signature pad for credit cards.

“Excellent.” Loki smiles. “Now, while I hate to do this to you, love—do you think you can handle a few hours alone with Gorm to do your fitting?”

“You’re leaving?” You ask, once again shocked, just like with Brunnhilde.

“I’m afraid I have several other things to do for the wedding and with the Earth and Asgardian ambassadors eager to have the wedding as soon as possible, I have to take every chance I can get to run these errands. Not like I have anything better to do…” Loki’s voice is slightly bitter, but only for a moment before he taps your hand again. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back long before you’re finished. Gorm doesn’t leave anything to chance with her gowns and this one is the most important one you will wear in your life. We have to get it right, don’t we Gorm?”

Gorm is already nodding, her blonde graying hair flowing like waves across her shoulders as she does. “Oh, yes, Your Highness. I will make sure that not only will the dress fit His Majesty’s expectations, but you too shall feel beautiful and like the dress was made just for you, Your Highness.”

“There you are.” Loki smiles. “I’ll be back.”

He pulls your hand up to his lips to kiss your knuckles before letting it go and moving towards the door, leaving you and Gorm to stand awkwardly for a few moments after the door shuts behind him.

“Shall we?” She gestures back towards the doorway and since there’s no way to get out of this, you fix her with a nervous smile and nod.

“Yes.” You sigh, and follow her, making sure to hold onto the counter as your round it so that you don’t trip on your train.

~~~~~~~~~~

Stomach absolutely growling, you slip your arms through the sleeves of the dress you’ve pretty much settled on.

The past five hours have had you step in and out of two other dresses three times, and this one a total of eight times. Each time so that Gorm can make alterations to length and cut and detail.

It’s surprising to you that this particular dress should need so much maintenance when it’s the simplest of the bunch.

You’d fallen for it almost at first sight but had tried the other two more frilly dresses to appease Gorm since Thor had requested something feminine to counteract the armor you’d be wearing on the day.

Armor you had no idea would be required in your wedding until Gorm explained the necessity for bodices without much flair.

“Alright, Your Highness,” Gorm smiles at you, holding the dress low and open for you to step through. “Once more, and then I think we are done.”

You let her slip the dress over you, layer after layer of smooth satin with one final crepe layer on top. The dress is eggshell white, soft, and easy on the eye.

Some white fabrics nearly burn your retinas, but this one is pleasant to look at.

It stops just around your shoulders, leaving them exposed. The neckline curves down with your bust just a little making the top look like a heart, the point of which is followed all the way down with a line of stitched white buttons.

They’re purely decorative because behind you is where Gorm stands to zip the dress closed.

She closes a small clasp and then folds out the layers of skirt around you.

It’s not as long as the blue dress you wore here today. Simpler and easier to walk in. The sleeves themselves are long, which you appreciate very much in this weather. Every bit of the dress now settles along your curves just right.

“Oh, this was the right choice, I think.” Gorm smiles wide. “You look beautiful, Your Highness. His Majesty is a very lucky man.”

You smile in return, flattered by her words for a moment because you forget that Thor has been with Jane all morning. As you remember, your smile falters then fades as the worries you had this morning come rushing back.

“You don’t like it?” Gorm asks, reaching down to stroke the long and beautiful skirt.

“Oh, no. I love the dress, Gorm. I’m just…worried about His Majesty liking it.” You smile at her, to reassure her. She’s done such amazing work. You might have her make all of your gowns from now on. Unless…?

“Gorm? Were you the one that made the dress I came in wearing today?” You wonder.

“No.” She shakes her head. “I’m afraid I did not have that pleasure.”

“How much of an imposition would it be if I made you my sole dressmaker? His Majesty has bought me some gowns to wear when appropriate, but I don’t feel like they’re my style.”

“Oh, Your Highness! It would be an honor to be your personal dressmaker!” She’s so flustered that she excuses herself and vanishes into the front of the shop to get her water.

You turn your gaze onto yourself in the mirror, all three angles looking back at you.

The dress really is unbelievably beautiful. You would never have thought that this dress and its style would have looked good on you, but it fits around your curves so seamlessly. This dress was literally made for you and it’s very noticeable.

As you turn around one final time, a small chuckle from the doorway pulls your eyes away from your reflection.

“I’m glad to see you haven’t put up such a fight over this.” Loki moves towards you, stopping a few feet away with his arms crossed over his chest.

“You should have seen me wrestle with the other two.” You sigh. “Can we go? I’m so hungry.”

Almost as if on cue, your stomach growls.

“Yes.” Loki nods. “We can go. I’ve got lunch waiting for you back in the palace.”

“Is Thor back?” You hop off the box you’d been standing on, grabbing your skirts and then dropping them to cascade around your legs like a milky waterfall.

Loki’s smile falter. “I’m afraid not. But don’t worry, he’ll be back soon, I’m sure.”

You’re so disappointed you wander away from him into the dressing room to change back into your blue dress without giving him any sort of answer.

He’s got you in the car, your forehead resting against the glass of the window, lost in thoughts of Thor and Jane when he speaks to you again.

“Might I ask you a favor, sister?” He probes gently.

Him calling you his sister makes your stomach tumble.

You have a brother! How can you ever explain this happiness?

“Sure.”

“I hope you don’t find me insolent, but-” He hesitates, thinking about the words he’s about to say hard before he meets your eyes and that seems to strengthen his resolve. “Don’t fall in love with Thor. Not yet. Don’t let him pull you in right away.”

“You think he’ll leave me for Jane?” You wait, watching as Loki thinks through your accusation.

“Not exactly, but yes. I suppose that’s a possibility I hope you can avoid.”

For a few minutes while Armod drives you back to the palace, you say nothing. You consider his request and the honest concern that he seems to have for you.

As Armod pulls into the large multi-car garage at the back of the palace, you turn to Loki and stare sadly.

“I can’t make that promise, Loki.” You shrug. “It’s already too late for that.”

“You love him?” Loki realizes.

“No!” You deny, “Not exactly. I don’t love him yet, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t very fond of him already. He-he kissed me last night.”

Loki’s brow furrows.

“A lot actually. He begged me to try and love him just as he would try to love me. I promised him I would try.” As if you’ll need to try.

You’re already hopelessly possessive over him. Maybe not him as a person, but rather those kisses he gave you. Those are your kisses now. Those thick arms he held you in, those are your arms—your hugs!

And now he might be in the United States giving those very things that are now yours alone to Jane who wouldn’t even marry him?

“It’s too late.” You reiterate, feeling absolutely lost.

“Come on, Your Highness. Let’s get you a late lunch.”

~~~~~~~~~~

If there isn’t a trail across your floor after all of the pacing you’ve done today, you’d be surprised.

“This won’t make him come back any faster.” Brunnhilde points out.

“Do I really have to model the wedding dress for him?” You ask, twisting your fingers nervously as you move up and down your room.

“I think it would be good for him.” Brunnhilde explains. “And yes. He won’t see your armor until the day of the wedding, but the dress will help make it more real for him. He needs that. So do you.”

“It’s already real for me Brunnhilde.” You lift your thumb nail to your teeth and nip, like a nervous pup, stopping at the heavy doors of the balcony.

They’ve been thrown open and the chilly air filtering in makes you shiver.

“Hilde.” Brunnhilde corrects, then moves to take a long wine-colored woolen shawl and drapes it over your shoulders as you stare out at the bustling city.

You can hear laughter, lots of merrymaking. The Asgardian people know how to enjoy their free time, but you’ve seen how hard they work too. As a whole. Loki assured you on the way home that there are just as many lazy time wasters among them as there are humans.

“Why are you fretting?” She sits at the desk, staring up at you with curious dark eyes.

“Because he’s been with Jane all day.” You lash out.

It’s not a scream, just pure exasperation. And immediately, you feel sorry.

“I’m sorry.” You sigh, dropping your hand but pulling the shawl around you tighter.

You notice it finally.

“Oh, thank you.” You really feel bad now.

“You’re acting like you’re already in love with him.” She teases, not caring one bit about your little tantrum.

Through the corners of your eyes you look at her, avoiding her piercing look.

“Y/N…?” She wonders, leaning forward to get a better look at you.

“I don’t love him, alright? I just…” You sigh. “No one’s ever kissed me before.”

Your feel your neck and ears burn, scorching with embarrassment as you admit just how much of a maiden she’d found for him.

“So, you really are a virgin?” She gasps, leaning almost her entire body along the desk to look at your face.

You frown at her. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“No.” She hakes her head. “No, not at all. You’re just so…well, you’re beautiful.”

The laugh that slips through your lips is sudden and honest.

You stare at her, shaking your head because you don’t believe her one bit.

“I’m serious!” Hilde assures you, smiling and amused by your reaction. “It’s a little bit of a shame that you haven’t been fawned on before.”

The sprinkle of sadness in her voice exposes her real meaning and it wipes away all traces of flattery.

“You mean, it’s a shame that I haven’t been with someone who will really love me because they choose to? And not like Thor because he has to?” With a bit more desperation, you look for Armod’s car, needing to see Thor.

Everything that happened last night feels like a dream. Made up in your mind to make it easier to marry Thor. Was it a dream?

You don’t remember him telling you goodnight. You have the vague memory of falling asleep with your head on his shoulder but you’re not sure how real that is with how hazy it feels.

What if his kisses had been a hopeful wish?

You bite your bottom lip, the heat and weight of his lips still fresh in your memory.

It can’t have been a dream. It felt so amazing. You could never have imagined the way it felt for him to invade you the way he did, pulling your body against his.

“He doesn’t come by car, y’know?” Hilde says, sitting back in her seat.

“What?” You turn to her, eager for explanation.

“Thor?” She gestures at the sky outside, drawing your eyes away from the city in the distance and up to the stars. “He flies here on Earth. It’s faster than flying by plane, but not by much. He’ll be going straight to his room as soon as he gets back.”

“Oh.” Your disappointment is suffocating and because you have no reason to keep freezing to death, you close the balcony doors.

With the cold shut out the heat from the hidden vents in your room saturates your shawl and envelopes you in a cocoon of heat.

“He might not want to see me tonight.” You accept, knowing that even if things went as best as they could have, Thor will still be heartbroken.

Having to give up on a relationship he had been so invested in? Even if he’s been unhappy with it lately, it must be difficult.

“No. He might not. But he has no choice. The wedding is in three days, so we have no time to wait for him to be ready to see you. We need approval on the dress.” She explains, leaving no room for argument.

Which is a shame because you would rather not see him all torn up about Jane. Not that you wouldn’t like to give him comfort. But you doubt that seeing you is something Thor would want. Not when it’s your fault that he has to break up with Jane to begin with.

“You know what? I’ll go check to see if he’s back. Gorm already sent us the dress. I’ll have Estrid help you put it on.” Hilde rises, moving out of the room without waiting for you to agree.

Five minutes later, Estrid moves into the room, her arms cradling your beautifully crafted wedding dress.

“Shall I do your hair too, Your Highness?” She asks, and lays the dress on your bed, the color such a beautiful contrast to the deep plum colored sheets.

“My hair?” You look in the mirror and the fancy thing they’d done with it this morning is falling apart. “No. I’m okay, Estrid. Thank you.”

“Very well, Your Highness.” She smiles kindly then moves towards you and takes your shawl.

You turn for her and she begins to unzip your blue dress, your mind on Thor and the mood he might be in when you see him again.

~~~~~~~~~~

The hesitation is in more than just your fist, hovering over the dark wooden of Thor’s bedroom door. It’s tall. Taller than it probably needs, sitting within a stone arch decorated with stunning golden engravings.

You’re not sure why Brunnhilde left you to do this alone. Loki is busy with something secret that he doesn’t want to share with you yet.

Not wedding related. He says it’s important and it involves you to some degree, but it’s not necessary for you to know until it’s necessary for you to know. Which is a circle-jerk kind of logic that you’re kind of annoyed by.

He’s nicer than previous opinions of him have made him seem. You suppose that has to do with the growth he’s made since he was last on Earth.

New York hadn’t been a great time for Loki, and he could only go up from there.

Brunnhilde had also neglected to tell you how Thor was feeling. Or looking? Either would have been great before you committed to coming up here on your own.

Thor’s bedroom is at the highest point of the palace. That is, highest save for the last floor which is mostly a defense tower full of weapons and a constant guard to keep Thor and his future wife safe. Which is now gonna be you.

Unless you go into his room and he tells you that he can’t stand being without Jane and rejects you and this pretty dress and you have to go back home to live just as you had before you met him. Only now with his kisses in your mind, his massive body pressed to yours, you won’t be able to get over the future you’d been promised.

How had you gone from refusing to marry him to wanting nothing more than to be his wife and even if all he was able to give you was one of those stupid kisses from last night, you’d be satisfied?

You drop your hand, almost with your mind made up to give up and just go back to your room because you don’t think you have the nerve to go through with seeing him today.

The part of you that disagrees, that remembers last night and wants more lifts your hand and knocks on his door.

In shock, you wait until his voice comes through and finally take a breath.

“Estrid? Is that you?” Thor’s voice sounds tired, not broken, but you can hear the weight in his heart by the sound of him.

You open the door and peek in, just one eye and the room is astoundingly beautiful.

If you weren’t so scared of what you’ll find in Thor, your jaw would drop ant the stunning image. To the left are two doorways, one is open, and you can see a large bathroom within. At the center of the room is what looks like a small kiddie pool, recessed into the floor, but probably deep enough for Thor to stand in?

There’s a part on this floor that’s shaped strangely from the outside and wonder if that’s what it is. The floor is dark stone tile, smooth and probably treated for waterproofing. Along the far wall of the bathroom, you can see a long wooden bench, dark oak like all of the other woods in the room from what you can see.

The toilet must be somewhere to the left where you can’t see from where you stand.

The other door is shut but since there is only an ornate set of drawers to the right of it, you assume that inside must be a large closet.

To the right of the room is a large bed. Large bed. You’ve never seen one so big.

It must be a California King? Which you’d stumbled upon in your search for mattresses when you’d first moved into your home. An accidental find and completely unnecessary.

That is, until now, when the thought of Thor laying in your very normal sized bed flits across your mind and suddenly the large King makes much more sense.

The bed is covered in soft looking gray flannel sheets. The comforter is gorgeous too, luxurious in its cotton ball soft appearance. Black with golden swirls and lines stitched across the top and bottom. The number of pillows is silly. All sizes too. Large ones at the very back and then several smaller ones until the ones at the very front are for mere decoration only.

Despite the more rustic look of the walls in the dark oak and stone base, the bed and furniture is slightly more modern in design. The headrest is cream white, ridged, and padded, as is the foot of the bed, but flatter than the headrest.

Two bedside tables hold various books on one and a lamp on the other. Behind the bed is a wall with a great big tree carved, flowing the length from top to bottom.

You swear you’ve seen that somewhere before.

The entirety of the wall opposite the doors to the room is made up of windows. Each window has been thrown open and the floor to ceiling curtains flow in the cool breeze.

They avoid the small breakfast table, laden with an untouched plate of the chicken you’d had for supper. On the other side is a large heavy looking desk. It’s sturdy. Big like Thor with papers and scrolls and folders. A laptop sits shut at the center and in the chair turned to face the left side of the room sits Thor with his shoulders hunched, elbows on his knees, hands supporting his face as he keeps it covered.

His body tells you everything you need to know about how he’s feeling and though you hate it, after so much worrying about what you’d find in here, you’re grateful to finally set eyes on him.

“It’s not Estrid.” You say gently, afraid to speak any louder and disturb him more than he already is.

His head whips towards you, faster than you expected.

Your hands go numb with nervous energy as he stares at you, his electric blue eyes scanning you very slowly from head to toe, then back up again. He takes his hand as he does so, covering his mouth with it, stroking his beard slowly as if fixing it.

Taking the opportunity, you note the plain jeans he’s wearing, the white t-shirt that stretches across his wide chest and strains to keep him covered. The hem of his sleeves struggle to keep his biceps contained. His golden hair is windswept, short as it is, it sticks in all directions.

He looks so good, so perfect, except for that sadness on his face.

You can’t bear to ask him anything about her.

“Gorm is lovely.” You tell him, forcing a smile and a quick nod.

He meets your eyes with his own, dropping the hand he’d used to shield his mouth and allows both his hands to dangle between his knees.

“She’s the best in the city.” Thor nods, devouring your dress again.

He suddenly rises and you teeter backwards with the sudden rise.

He steps towards you, his feet falling heavy on the floor.

You really like the way he struts towards you. There’s a slight sway to his hips.

Lips feeling dry and cracked, you freeze as he moves past you at the last moment.

The sound of him sitting on his bed pulls you around to look at him and he sighs, reaching his right arm up towards you.

With a swallow, you move towards him. The luscious short train of your skirt follows in your wake, flowing like water.

When you’re within reach, his places his hand on your waist, pulling you closer until you’re standing before him. He takes his other hand and places that on your waist too, making your breath shallow.

He looks up to meet your gaze.

Hands balled into fists; you wait. You’re not sure what he needs. What you need from this moment. You’re only sure that you’re glad you don’t seem to have dreamed up last night.

“You look beautiful.” He says, voice penetrating into your chest to restart your heart at double the speed.

“It’s a little simple.” You observe, remembering the other much frillier options.

“It suits you.” He lets his hand trace down along the side of your hip, stealing your breath before sliding his hand back up to your waist.

He gives you a little shake and you reach out to place your hands on his shoulders to keep from losing your already fragile balance.

“Brunnhilde told me that you were very anxious today.” He sounds worried, his brow puckered, eyes crinkled at the corners from concern.

You shrug for him, intending to play off the exact amount of worrying you’d done today because you don’t want him to know how invested you already are.

“I ended it with Jane.”

“You don’t have to-” You begin, but Thor makes a dismissive noise in his throat and cuts you off.

“I owe you an explanation.” He nods. “When I gave you that ring on your finger, I became your intended. Officially ending things with Jane was only out of respect for who we were when we were together.”

“Thor you really don’t have to tell me about your breakup with Jane. It’s private. It’s before me. Whatever happened between the two of you today is now in the past.” You sigh, trying not to think about what kisses might have been shared.

Maybe more?

You make a mental note to never hold it against him if he ever tells you that he slept with her today.

He was hers long before you agreed to marry him.

“I want to be honest with you.” He sighs. “I want us to be open with each other. I want us to talk about anything that may be troubling us.”

“We will.” You nod, giving his shoulders a small squeeze. “I promise.”

“Then tell me what you were worried about today.”

You already regret your promise.

“I thought about what you must be feeling. Wondered if you might change your mind.” Answering honestly is actually cathartic. Though you usually do it on reflex, choosing to do it feels nice.

Thor only watches you, waiting for you to get it all out, his large hands caressing the sides of your waist and making you tingle.

“Keep going.” He urges you gently.

“I’m embarrassed.” You admit, and Thor’s face relaxes a moment, the beginnings of a smile curling his lips.

He doesn’t prompt you again, just waits.

There’s a peace in this silence of his. An acceptance. A sense of time to just be.

“I was afraid that I’d imagined last night. I don’t remember falling asleep. I just woke up and it was this morning. And last night was so…” You stop, realizing that as much as you’ve thought about last night today, for Thor if there are any kisses that he wants to hold onto today, they’re probably from Jane.

This fact suddenly hardens your heart and resolve. You reach to grab his wrists to pull his hands off of you, but he doesn’t budge. You couldn’t move him if you pushed as hard as you can.

“It doesn’t matter.” You brush it off. “You probably want to just be alone and I was told that you need to approve the dress? So, tell me what you think, and I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Have I upset you?” He asks, face shifted back into that slight pout he’d been wearing before.

“N-No.” You shake your head.

“Then why do you want to leave so quickly?” He demands, voice rising in pitch at the end.

“I just…after today, I just thought that maybe you’d want some space?”

“Then you aren’t angry with me?” He checks.

“No.”

He leans forward and presses his head against your stomach, eyes shutting as his arms wrap themselves around you and pull you closer.

You don’t quite know what to do with your hands, so you stand there, holding them over his shoulders, fighting the desire to hold him back.

“I’m so tired.” He admits to you, and it settles in your heart.

You drop your arms, resting them against him before you embrace him, hands splayed along his wide back.

He exhales, relaxing against you. “Thank you.”

“For what, Thor?” You whisper, too overcome with all this hugging to speak any louder.

“For hugging me.”

Your heart breaks for him, and you hold him tighter.

“May I be honest with you about something?”

“Yes.” Here it is, the truth about Jane and him today.

“These moments with you have been the most enjoyable and special moments I’ve spent with anyone in a long time.”

Does it really matter if he slept with Jane today? Kissed her? Hugged her?

Was he this sweet with her too?

“I love you in this dress.”

You sigh, the first three words of that declaration sending your heart into a frenzy.

“You do?”

“I do.”

You smile, liking that very much.

Thor’s blue eye shifts with electricity, literally, and he pulls you down onto his lap with a demanding grip on your waist.

Your arm is still around his shoulder, the other moving down to rest over his hand which he brings around to rest on your lower belly.

“Are you happy?” He wonders, catching your fingers within his.

“Relatively.” You nod. “I’m still worried.”

Honestly, right?

“Why?” He laments, caressing your waist.

“I’m liking you more and more too quickly.” You sigh. “I don’t want to disappoint you or the people. I want to do well. Both in our marriage and with the kingdom.”

Thor caresses your side, then slides his hand down further, large hand sliding along the fabric of your dress down over your thigh.

There’s a subtle tickle between your legs. It startles you and you have to physically force yourself to relax.

“You’re already better than anyone else I might have chosen.” Thor whispers, leaning in closer until his lips are pressed to your ear.

You remind yourself that you made him promise not to do anything he doesn’t want to do. No forcing himself to be affectionate if he doesn’t feel it.

“Thor…” You gasp, just a flurry of the air left in your lungs.

“I’ve been thinking…” He admits. “Since I left you last night, about how we might be able to prepare for our wedding night.”

How do you breathe again? Where does the air go?

“Do you trust me, cherub?”

That pet name hits you just as fiercely as it did the first time and all you can do is nod.

Thor suddenly throws you back over his arm onto the bed. Landing with your head on the pillow, you gasp, chest rising and falling dramatically as you struggle to catch your breath again.

He leans down and hovers over you, waiting as you do, staring into your eyes.

“I’ll make certain you know this is not a dream.” He promises, then leans down to press his lips against yours.

You sigh, grateful for his taste as if it were a drug, removing an ache you’ve been feeling all day. Your arms come up on their own, trapping his torso down on yours as his hands trace your sides slowly.

This time you’re the one seeking more, pressing the tip of your tongue against his lips until he opens them and kisses you back.

He inhales your kiss, breathing in until you hear the vibration of a moan rip through him into you and you have never felt your body burn this way before.

You want him to make more sounds like that. Over and over if possible.

He pulls away too quickly, making you lift your head to follow him, but you fall back onto the bed, gasping for breath.

“Do you really trust me?” Thor checks again, his hands moving down along your sides until they stop at your hips, hands flexing and squeezing.

You’re shifting on his sheets, body squirming from energy you don’t recognize.

You know that he probably needs to be close to someone like this after today. After whatever he lost with Jane, even if he won’t let you see just how much it really hurt him, he probably needs this closeness.

“Yes.” You breathe.

With one hand he reaches down, staring into your eyes as he does. He finds the bottom hem of your dress and flips his hand underneath, then takes hold of your ankle.

He turns to face your feet, sliding down to the end of the bed then removes the flats you’d switched into, along with the thick socks you’d found to fight the cold.

It’s so chilly in here you shiver.

“You won’t be cold for long, cherub.” He promises.

After dropping your shoes on the floor, he rises then crawls onto the bed to where your feet are, grabbing hold of your ankles to pull your legs open a little.

“Easy.” He tells you gently. “You’ll still be a maid on our wedding night. This will be just a taste.”

He flips your skirt over his head, disappearing from view.

You push yourself up onto your elbows, curious and just as nervous until you feel the pressure of something wet slide up along your slit and you throw your head back, an uncontrollable moan ripping through your lips.

You hadn’t realized the taste would be for him.

#king!thor x reader #thor x reader #arranged marriage au #royal au #marvel fanfiction #king!thor x reader fic #king!thor x reader fanfic #king!thor x reader fanfiction #thor x reader fic #thor x reader fanfic #thor x reader fanfiction #thor x you #king!thor x you #a wife for thor #a wife for thor pt05

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sevlgi · 3 years

Text

the florist

requested: no

group: dreamcatcher

pairing: jiu x fem!reader

genre: angst, questionable fluff

contents: hanahaki!au, florist!jiu

warnings: death

synopsis: When you find a beautiful death sentence clustered in your lungs, you can only visit the legendary florist. But is JiU herself as strong as she seems?

a/n: hiatus who? we don’t know her 🤡 i was actually gonna post this when it struck 12 on december 1st for me, but tumblr’s telling me it’s already december, so here we go!

word count: 3.3k

In all the years that the Hanahaki Disease had existed, there had never been a cure. And on the day that you coughed up the first blood-stained carnation, it became certain that you weren’t about to be the one to break the record.

You considered yourself to be decently cautious about the disease. After all, since you were a child, the only love lesson that you had ever been taught was to never, ever, be the first one in love. Your mother drilled that lesson, telling you that love was a poisonous thing to be avoided at all costs until you believed her.

And yet, you were stupid enough to allow her to wreck you, to allow yourself to become consumed by her.

It was unexpected, to say the least. Lee Siyeon had been a close friend for years, the two of you meeting during college, and she had been in love with someone else since then. You knew Bora well too, actually, and had always rooted for the two to get together.

Had it been anyone else, you would’ve still held the hope that your love could be returned, but Siyeon despised you with all the might of her soul ever since she had found out about the yellow petals floating in the toilet bowl at midnight. Had it been anyone else, you wouldn’t have faced the sheer mortification of begging Gahyeon for the address of the person who saved her.

“Y/N...” she had hesitated when you asked her. Siyeon’s younger sister was the only person that you knew of who had survived the disease without getting the dreaded surgery, but she was incredibly touchy about the subject. Indeed, you didn’t even know who she had fallen in love with so many years ago.

“Please, Gahyeon,” you begged, chasing to maintain eye contact with her. “I can’t die like this. You-- you won’t let me, will you? Not when it’s your sister.”

You didn’t want to guilt-trip her like you did, but it worked. Gahyeon texted you an address and a name, the ping noise of the notification sounding more like your saving grace than anything. “You can’t tell anyone else once you’re healed,” she warned. “She’ll know who you are as soon as you say my name.”

To outside eyes, the Love Blossom looked like a normal flower shop. The narrow storefront, sandwiched between a coffee shop and a bookstore, was painted a faint pink and chipped with green on some edges. There were flowers stuffed everywhere you could see-- exploding baskets on the windowsills, colorful wreaths hung everywhere, even a huge L and B made of blooms on the window.

Even when you pushed the door open, it gave no indication of being anything other than a flower shop. The scent of flowers was heavy, some rock song playing from the peppy pink speakers dangling from the ceilings. “Hello?” you called out, hands tightening on the strap of the bag slung over your shoulder. “H-”

Suddenly, you coughed out again and held your sleeve up to prevent any flower petals from fluttering out; the constant itch in your throat only served to make you more anxious to find the florist that Gahyeon had referred you to. “Is anyone there?”

“Hi!” You yelped and jumped back when an invisible door just next to you randomly opened, the shelf concealing it nearly colliding with your face. “Oh, I’m sorry! Were you looking for me?”

The girl who opened the door looked like the literal manifestation of sunshine; her smile took up half her face, the brown of her half-moon eyes seemingly lit from within. She balanced a flowerpot on her hip as she bowed to you in apology, long hair almost sweeping the floor. “Are- are you JiU?”

“Yep!” She moved to set the pot down, cocking her head slightly to take you in. “How can I help you today?”

“I... I’m a friend of Gahyeon,” you explained, watching as the smile on her face lessened slightly in understanding. You fished out the plastic bag from your purse, the almost-dry crimson inside overpowering the yellow petals. “Can you help me?”

The brunette accepted the bag, flashing you another bright smile as she opened the secret door again. “Well, let’s take a look. Follow me, please, and call me Minji.”

The narrow doorway led to what seemed to be her living quarters, or maybe an apothecary; the walls were almost completely covered by the forest-green painted shelves lining them, mismatched books and trinkets filling the spaces. Incredibly detailed drawings were tacked everywhere, a ladder folded behind the hidden door, presumably to access the blank walls up near the ceiling. A loft area was most likely where she slept, though she led you to a large and cluttered desk to examine the flowers you had given her.

“Yellow carnations. These symbol rejection and disdain, you know.”

You winced at the girl’s bluntness, though it wasn’t meant as a jab, still staring at the multitudes of drawings tacked everywhere. “Yeah, I know. Gahyeon told me.”

She smiled at the mention of the younger girl, setting the bag with your blood down to fiddle with a notebook. “I taught her well, then.”

“Taught her?” You watched her shift jars of petals around on the shelves, scribbling something down on a sheet of ironically pink and cutesy paper. “I thought you healed her.”

“Well, the Hanahaki disease doesn’t heal easily,” Minji responded, gesturing for you to follow her into a tiny kitchen area. “It took months, actually, and she spent almost every day in here. She might as well have become an apprentice, with how much I taught her.”

“Months?” Fear rose up in you at that, apparently not affecting the other girl as she hummed. You’d been in one of the later stages for a good couple of months now, though you couldn’t tell which one without visiting a doctor. “Minji, I don’t have months.”

She raised an eyebrow at you, tying the strings of her apron behind her. “Well, are you willing to get the surgery? Spend thousands of dollars and go through such a rigorous process, and then be left with a cold heart and unhealable scars?” At your silence, she chuckled, tying her hair up in a plait. “That’s what I thought.”

You sat on the stool at her kitchen table, watching Minji busy herself at what looked like a stovetop, albeit littered with glass bottles and half-hearted bouquets. “What makes you certain that this’ll work, then? How’d you even learn to help people like me?”

Minji bit down on her lower lip, the dark red color remarkably not transferring onto her pearly teeth. “Well. My mother died from the disease, so I was originally going to study it in school. But I had to help Gahyeon somehow. When she fell in love with someone who’d never love her back... I couldn’t just watch her die.”

Smiling slightly, you watched her scatter the same petals as you had coughed up into a pot, freshly plucked from stems that she threw onto the counter next to her. “What about you? What’s the story behind “rejection and disdain”?” she asked suddenly, smiling prettily. Something about her was a bit ethereal in the kitchen’s LED lighting, though maybe it was the fact that she was literally saving people that doctors couldn’t.

“Ah. I fell in love with Siyeon,” you answered, placing your hand into your chin as you watched her work. “She loves someone else, and I got between them. It’s not her fault.”

Frowning, Minji uncapped a jar that smelled strongly of rose, practically upending it in her pot. “Gahyeon’s sister? Does she know that you’re going to die because of her? I’ve met her before, and I didn’t think she’d be so cruel. ”

You nodded silently at that. The whole reason you were in such a predicament was that you loved Siyeon and she hated you; there was no way you were going to ask her to turn her entire heart on its head just to save you. It was unlikely that she’d want to do so at all, anyway. “I’m sorry, Y/N,” the brunette sighed sympathetically. “Love really hurts sometimes.”

“Yeah,” you smiled drily. “It’s just all too literal for me.”

“Hey, Minji!”

The girl turned from her flowers to wave excitedly at you, her smile painted bubblegum pink this time to match the faded apron she wore. She held trimmers in her hands, clumsy with the thick gloves she wore. “Y/N! Good to see you again, come in?”

“Yeah.” You smiled just seeing the interior of the shop, as decked-out as it had been in your first visit. Instead of the purple theme last week, Minji seemed to have gone with yellows, the peonies and roses tainting the cold air. The apartment, however, looked the same, almost comforting in its maximalism. “I’m done with the vials,” you mentioned, taking the freshly-washed glass bottles out of your bag along with a fresh bag of bloody flowers.

“Did they help?” Minji asked, accepting both with a quiet “thank you”. “Gahyeonie always told me that they taste terrible, but sugar cancels out all the good properties.”

“They aren’t that bad,” you lied, sitting down at the same spot in the kitchen and opening your bag. At her questioning look, you explained, “Oh, I thought I’d bring my laptop this time and keep you company. You said you were bored last time...”

Part of you wished she would turn you away, just so that you wouldn’t become attacked to someone who’d eventually leave you behind too. But she smiled, turning on her stove and hefting the same ceramic pot on as she did the last time. “That’s perfect, Y/N. When you’re done, you can come help package some bouquets for a break, okay?”

You nodded, sighing in content at the smell of flower petals boiling once again in the shop. “Okay. Thanks, Minji.”

“No need to thank me,” she replied, turning back to the ingredients that she fiddled with. “No need to thank me at all. How’s Siyeon?”

Shrugging, you swept some papers off the table to place your laptop down. “I don’t really know. She doesn’t talk to me. I only have contact with her through Gahyeon now, but it’s not really like I want to talk to the person killing me.”

“I wish you wouldn’t say “killing”,” Minji pouted, teasing you with a long flower stem. “It makes me think that you don’t believe you’ll live.”

“No, I trust you, I--” You stopped in your tracks when you realized that the other girl was joking, rolling your eyes before turning back to your computer. “Real funny, Minji.”

She giggled, placing a mug of coffee on the table beside you. “I like to think I am. You can call me Minji, by the way. Only customers call me Minji.”

Instead of responding, you sipped at your coffee, falling into a comfortable silence once the florist turned back to her stove. With the cool fall sunlight streaming in through the window and the heavenly aroma inside the kitchen, you suddenly thought that you could get used to a scene like this. More than that-- you liked it.

A good 4 weeks passed without incident. Your weekly visits were always filled with musical laughter and pretty grins whirling by in an instant. Minji only looked more beautiful each time, the pain in your chest somehow lessening each time you saw her wave to you with all the enthusiasm that Siyeon lacked. Part of you wondered whether the bitter concoctions that Minji had you drink were the thing at work at all, but you continued to take them, and you continued to improve.

Of course, everything good had to come to an end.

“Y/N,” Minji gasped as she kneeled next to you, hands hovering over your body as you hacked again, red dribbling from your lips to the floor. Your fingers curled weakly around your phone, tears escaping your eyes with how hard you squeezed them shut. “Gahyeon called me, what happened to you?”

With the clusters of carnations fluttering in your lungs with every breath you took, you weren’t able to respond. The other girl seemed to realize that, digging through her bag for something. Before she could take anything out, though, you wheezed for air again, throat swollen to the point of suffocation.

She acted quick, turning you onto your side to let full blossoms slip from between your lips. The yellow blooms were dauntingly bright against the dark wood, almost a serene picture if not for the violent crimson staining the petals. Tipping a vial of golden orange into your mouth, Minji ordered, “Swallow. Come on, you can do it.”

As soon as the poppy syrup was gone, your eyes fluttered shut and you slumped against your arm, breathing rattled but steady. Sighing, the brunette wiped a remaining petal from your lips, sliding her hands below your knees and your neck to pick you up. “You’re going to be okay. I’ll make sure of it.”

When the sun began shining unbridled through the cracked curtains of your bedroom, you woke from the longest sleep since you started choking at night. Someone had taken the liberty of folding the clothes scattered across your chair, as well as placing your fully charged phone, a purple-colored glass of liquid, and a note by your side.

Y/N,

I have to go back to the shop, but Gahyeon or I’ll stop by later today to bring you some more medicine. Next time, call me first!

xx,

Kim Minji

There was a ridiculous smile on your lips just holding a pink piece of paper imprinted with the girl’s kiss in lipstick, as well as a remarkable lack of flowers in your lungs. Indeed, you couldn’t taste copper coating your tongue, or feel petals stuck to the back of your throat, and it felt even better than you had remembered.

When you checked your phone, you realized that a certain contact was missing, A phone number that you had long since given up on contacting. There was a gap in your carefully curated picture gallery, Siyeon’s pictures with you taken off your wall, too. In their places were various pictures of Minji and Gahyeon, sometimes together and sometimes apart. In one of the selfies, you noted with a grin that someone had scribbled a Sharpie mustache over Minji’s face.

Since when had the florist replaced her in your life, and since when were you absolutely okay with that?

Minji smiled as soon as she noticed that the door to the Love Blossom was already open, the lights on inside the shop and some sweet smell wafting out. You hadn’t talked about the time she saved you in your apartment, but ever since then, the florist had noted that you were opening up more. You were happier, more willing to crack jokes and visit her on your own accord. “Y/N, is that you?”

“Morning, Minji!” you answered, spinning out of the apartment with a grin. The apron that Minji usually wore to make her syrups was tied around your waist, the faint pink of it white with flour. You held the door open for her and moved to take her jacket off for her, a gorgeous smile on your face as you did. “I let myself in early to make you some bread, I hope you don’t mind!”

“I never mind bread,” the brunette laughed, her heart already warm when she inhaled honeyed air. “Today isn’t a checkup day, though? You stopped by 3 days ago, did you run out of syrup or something?”

You pouted, in a remarkably good mood as you twirled around the kitchen. The counter was finally free of flowers and glass vials, replaced instead by a huge bag of flour and trays of golden-brown pastries. Minji didn’t remember having those supplies, but she wouldn’t put it past you to restock her kitchen just for fun while she visited her friends. “What, I can’t come and see my friends? I’m off work today, so I thought I could bake for you and learn about your bouquet orders.”

Sighing in false exasperation, Minji patted you on the head and tied her hair up to start working, flipping the sign on the door to read “OPEN”. “Of course you can come and see me whenever you want, it’s just rare that you come by like this.”

“I guess we’ll have to change that then,” you shrugged, plopping three pastries on a plate for the other girl. The kitchen looked like a completely different place without the usual bloody petals scattered all over the place, and to be honest, Minji loved the change. For once, she wasn’t in charge of saving your life-- she was just a florist, and she was just your friend.

There was no way she could keep the smile off her face, not when you sang exaggeratedly into a filling spoon, and not when you baked all the things she mentioned that she liked.

Something felt tight in her chest when she inhaled air perfumed by butter and roses, but Minji could only smile. For you.

The next time you baked for her was bittersweet. Once again, you were already in the apartment when Minji came back from her morning visit.

“I’m healed,” you sobbed as you catapulted into her arms, a slight poof of flour exploding when your chest met hers. Minji stood still in shock, hands resting softly on the small of your back as you cried, “Minji, I’m healed. You saved me.”

“For real?” she whispered, pulling back to cup your face in your hands. You nodded tearily, makeup-tinted tears mixing with flour as the other girl hugged you again, something clogging up her throat as she tried to breathe. “I... I’m so happy for you.”

You grinned despite your tears as you brought a cake out of the fridge, the pretty lavenders and blues of the frosting somehow reminding Minji of a goodbye. She turned out to be right. “They’re forget-me-nots,” you explained when you gestured to the pretty piped flowers on the cake. “Um, so you don’t forget me.”

“I could never forget you,” Minji blurted, feeling a sting at her own nose. “Come back sometime, okay, Y/N? You don’t forget me either, got it?”

“I won’t.” Despite all the sincerity in your gaze, your promise was hollow to the florist’s ears. You were already tugging on your jacket again, leaving her standing in the middle of an all-too-clean kitchen with a beautiful cake in her hands. “I’m sorry, Minji, I have to get back to work. But I’ll be back soon,” you smiled, watching her carefully for a reaction.

Minji nodded, knees almost trembling as she watched you turn back to wave one last time. “Okay.”

As soon as the glass door slammed again, she rushed to place the cake down, tucking her face into the crook of her elbow as she was hit with yet another uncontrollable fit of coughing. She crouched, free hand gripping tight on the legs of the table near her to steady herself as flower petals dotted with red fluttered softly onto the ground.

“Mallow,” she recognized as she scrambled to pick up the purple-veined blooms, vomiting out yet another. “Mallow...”

Scooting back so that her back could hit the kitchen cabinets, Minji watched the candles atop the cake burn out, blood dripping from her lips onto the pale fabric of her sweater. She didn’t care, though, as she stopped a shallow breath from escaping, finally remembering the meanings of the flowers in her shaking hands.

“Consumed by love.”

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starkerisendgame · 4 years

Text

A State of Undress

Loosely inspired by this post by @starkerobsession. The basic premise being that Peter wears Iron Man panties under his Spidersuit. This takes place during and following the iconic rooftop scene during Homecoming. I decided to post it to this account because I’ve been sorely neglecting it since making my other main. I also said on Discord this was gonna be short. As always; that idea got fucked pretty quickly. Big love to everyone on Discord who hyped this up.

TW: Slight angst | Undernegotiated sex/kink | Power imbalance | Referenced D/s | Underage

Humiliated doesn’t even come close to covering how Peter feels. Thoroughly checked and put in place, there’s nothing for him to do but retreat to the edge of the rooftop, sitting on the ledge and curling over himself to watch the people milling about in the streets.

Would they care? He wondered miserably. Would they wonder where Spiderman went? Will they miss him? Will they be okay without me?

Stupid. That last one is stupid; of course they’ll be okay without him. They have people like The Avengers. People like Tony. They have the police and the general good people amongst them willing to help.

They don’t need Spiderman. The only person who needs Spiderman is...Peter.

He looked down, trailing his fingertips over the ornate pattern that curved and stretched from his fingertips to his shoulder. It was the last time he was going to touch it. The last time he was going to wear it. He risked a glance back at where Tony stood near the hovering suit, on a connected call to Happy.

It was undoubtedly going to be the last time he saw Tony, too.

Like he could sense he was being watched, Tony turned smoothly on his heel, dark gaze finding where Peter had cowered in the corner like a scolded dog. His expression was both impassive and telling, teeth pressed firmly together and brows level as he motioned for Peter to come closer.

He didn’t dare speak as he pulled himself to his feet, arms and thighs still aching, stomach still taut and rolling where it had felt like his arms were going to be ripped off like in the movies. He didn’t dare to lift his gaze when he got closer, staring at the polished black oxfords that Tony wore.

“Happy has clothes for you. You’re gonna change in the car, and then because I’m nice and an adult, he is going to take you home”. The unspoken for good lingered between them, terse and volatile, and Peter closed his teeth down over his tongue as his eyes burned with tears, reaching up to tug the mask over his face so Tony wouldn’t see them.

Tony took a step away, the suit lowering to mold to his form like water flowing through the curves of a landscape, and then they were both masked, Peter finally lifting his gaze to those glowing, cerulean slits. He’d always thought the suit looked kind of adorably grumpy, but now it just seemed cold and impassive, scowling at him from an arm’s length away, as out of reach now as it had ever been.

Tony’s head tilted, like he was about to say something, before he seemingly changed his mind and made a finger-crooked ‘follow me’ motion, striding to the edge of the root not far from where Peter had been and stepping off it with simple, dramatic elegance. Peter, needing momentum to swing, jogged after him and jumped, arching like a diver before he twisted, letting a web snake out and propel him onwards.

He relished in the feel. It would be more or less the last time he ever did this.

He followed Tony, but took an extra building or two’s liberty along the way, just to draw out the feeling of sailing through the air, of the comfort of the suit fitting against every curve, every line of his body. The joy was over in seconds though, as he landed on the asphalt next to the SUV, where Happy stood waiting and where Tony had only just landed.

Peter tugged the mask off, eyes wet and cheeks ruddy with tear-tracks. Happy’s mouth opened, then closed, and he looked away, brows pinched and mouth downturned. It made Peter breathe out a sigh of relief, though he knew the additional scolding and rant would come when he was trapped in the car with no escape.

“Clothes are in the back. Dress quickly” Tony instructed him, tugging open the back door of the SUV. “Knock on the window when you’re decent”. And Peter was vaguely surprised, because he’d expected Tony to just...Leave. But then, maybe Tony was sticking around to make sure that Peter didn’t try to take anything from the suit.

Sniffling, he wiped his eyes and ducked into the car, pulling the door shut behind him. Whilst it was a spacious vehicle, it was no Limousine, and he had to remain ducked over and folded up as he reached to press the pressure sensor that would disengage the form-fitting suit. It fell away from his shoulders with a soft sound, and he instantly felt cold and exposed, instantly missed its reassuring texture.

He was tugging the suit down around his hips, trying to keep his balance, when the cool air blew on the topmost slope of his ass, and he cursed.

Fuck.

How could he have forgotten? The moment Tony said he wanted the suit back, it should have clicked in his mind. It had, in some way. He knew he was only wearing underwear beneath the suit, but he’d forgotten which underwear. The sleek fabric was a cross between a thing and panties, the front enough to cover his slender cock but the fabric diminishing as it hugged his hips and sank into the groove of his ass. What covered his tight little hole was barely more than a string.

Red was outlined with rich gold, and a detailed arc reactor nestled just at the top of his assline, where the small of his back sloped into the parted curve of his cheeks and where the last of the fabric dwindled. On the front, just under the jut of his hips, two blue strips to resemble the mask’s eyes stood out against the burnished red.

Peter let out a soft whine and shifted back onto his haunches, trying to squirm out of the suit in the limited space. He was thankful that the clothes Happy had picked out were far too big - The shirt looked like it would come down to his thighs, and the garish pink sweatpants were thick enough that they would obscure Peter’s shameful secret from view.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck” he chanted, risking a glance over his shoulder. The windows had been tinted, and Tony had his back to the car, but Peter still tried to hurry, leaning backwards and kicking his legs as he fought the fabric down his thighs. He was leaning fully backwards now, one hand braced on the arm-rest of the door as he scrabbled to undress. He was just kicking the suit away from his ankles when his weight shifted, shunting as his hand slipped and his head whacked off the lower portion of the window with a dull thunk.

He groaned in pain and shuffled, trying to regain his balance when there was the soft click of the door lock, and his heart raged against his ribs as the door bracing his weight suddenly disappeared and he fell backwards, head lolling out of the vehicle and nearly between Tony’s thighs, giving him a perfect, upside view of his clothed cock as his own thighs and arms splayed for grip.

“You shoulder consider a career in quick cha- Jesus Christ”. Tony’s voice was sharp, stunned, and Peter cringed, a ragged whimper of defeated humiliation hitching in his throat as he forced himself to tip his head forwards a little, look past the rise of Tony’s groin and up his shirt, to where the older man was staring unabashedly at his own cock, at the red and gold and blue that stretched over it.

And then he was looking down, meeting Peter’s gaze with dark yet electric eyes, and Peter flushed, letting his head ball back and squeezing his eyes shut.

“Happy” Tony barked tersely. “Take a walk. I’ll text you”.

“What? Boss, I can’t just-”

“Take. A. Walk”.

Footsteps, fading.

Peter daren’t open his eyes, trembling where he lay as the silence seemed to stretch between them like a piece of elastic at the point of breaking. He’d seen the panties in the window of a women’s lingerie store, limited edition and the last pair. It had been sheer chane that they’d fit him, and sheer luck that the girl behind the counter hadn’t even bothered to ask him his age or who he was buying them for.

“That’s all you were wearing under the suit?” Tony asked after a moment, voice strained and low, and Peter risked a short, curt nod, not wanting the make the scenario any worse by accidentally headbutting his ex-boss(?) in the cock. The silence continued for a beat. “And you bought those. Personally. You chose them, and you chose to wear them”.

He nodded again. No sense in lying. What could he say otherwise? His Aunt had bought them for him? May hadn’t bought him underwear since he’d turned ten. And she certainly wouldn’t buy him a set that verged on a thong.

Silence. Peter risked opening his eyes, gaze finding and fixing on the brief peek on Tony’s zipper for lack of anywhere else. He didn’t want to disturb this by moving, didn’t want to shake Tony out of his distracted or rage-induced silence and unleash whatever verbal lashing Tony was going to unleash. He did shuffle a little though, bringing his thighs closer together, trying to tuck his legs up a little to cover his indignity.

“I didn’t know you’d see it” he mumbled after a moment, cheeks flared red and voice weak, breathy. The overwhelming sense of you fucked up threatened to overlap him, envelop him. It had never actually occurred to Peter that Mr. Stark might actually ever see it. Since that day before the whole ‘Civil War’ shebang, Tony hadn’t set foot in the apartment, much less his room.

And Tony had never seen Peter in anything less than the suit. He’d even built an undersuit for it, a thin sort of spandex-like wearable for under the suit so he’d be less exposed when getting in and out of it, though Peter rarely wore it for the sake of quick changes. He was deeply lamenting that decision now, though, when Tony’s gaze still hadn’t moved from his barely covered cock, his fingers flexing then fisting at his sides.

“You’re wearing my face on your crotch” Tony announced again, and Peter cringed. He probably shouldn’t mention the arc reactor on his ass, then. When he dared to look back up, he noted with surprise that some of the view from before was now obscured by the black fabric of Tony’s pants. And the man hadn’t stepped closer. Which meant that...

Tony Stark was hard. Or...Hardening. To the thought of Peter wearing Iron Man underwear. He blew out a harsh breath and squirmed a little where he lay, jolting heat coursing through his body at the notion. “You...You know you’ve always been my hero” he weakly defended. As if that made this whole scenario any better.

“Martin Luther King is also a hero figure, but I’ve never seen anyone wearing a thong in his likeness” Tony pointed out, and Peter’s cheeks erupted like a volcano, flaring hot and red. He gave a mumble in response, fingers flexing against the frame of the car where he’d gripped as he fell. “Is that why you agreed, when I asked for your help? You wanted to fuck me?”

Peter scowled, head tipping forwards to furrow his brows at Tony past the rise of his cock. “I agreed because you’re Tony Stark. Nobody says no to you; least of all someone that idolises you. I was excited. I was flattered. You wanted my help and you were offering to help me be Spiderman. What was I gonna say, ‘no’?”

Although, he’d tried to. He’d had homework, after-all.

“Did you own these, back then?” Tony asked, one hand lifting to rest of the open door, fingers flexing around the metal. Peter huffed, but shook his head.

“No”. No, these he’d bought only a few months ago. An impulse buy. He drew a breath and tried to push himself up, but as he began to a hand fell to his shoulder and pushed him back down. Something thrilling shot down his spine, lips parting as he relaxed back under the touch, looking at where Tony fixed him with a dark, almost unreadable gaze, except for how his pupils were blown and his breathing had deepened.

“Mr. Stark. I’m- I think I’m humiliated enough. Right now” he gathered the courage to say after a moment where nothing else happened, and Tony’s fingers flexed against his shoulder, teeth audibly grinding together. Beneath the silk blend of his slacks, his cock twitched. It stole the breath from Peter’s lungs and he didn’t dare lift his gaze for fear of shattering the moment.

“You always make things so difficult, kid” Tony breathed out, almost like he didn’t mean for Peter to hear it. And then louder; “I’m trying to do the right thing here. I’m trying not to be like- I’m trying to be better than Howard. I’m trying to be responsible and you’re there between my legs wearing Iron Man panties”. Peter was so stunned he couldn’t think of anything to say in reply, brain grinding to a halt.

“Mr. Stark?” Was all he could manage in a bare whisper, and Tony’s fingers dug gently into his shoulder before releasing, sliding up and over the extended column of his throat, touch featherlight. For all that it was gentle, it scorched a path of heat along the skin, forcing Peter to swallow heavily. He felt like he was frozen glass, fragile and liable to shatter at the slightest pressure. He was confused, slightly turned on, and a little afraid.

“You’re too pretty. I should have taken one look at you out of the suit and found someone else. Not least because you’re a kid. Look at me, I’ve just destroyed your life, broken your heart, and I’m thinking about...” He trailed off, nothing but a ghost of a whisper, and Peter swallowed.

“Thinking about what?”

“You” Tony answered simply, but the meaning behind the word was anything but simple, and it sent a thrill down his spine, gaze once again falling to find where Tony’s cock pressed against the zipper of his slacks, not fully hard but invested in the situation none the less. He thought about it carefully. He wasn’t an ignorant child - He knew the power imbalance between them. Knew that the age difference was deplorable. Knew that Tony would be taking extreme advantage of him, especially after this.

And yet.

“I would” he whispered after a moment, soft and hesitant. “Even...I still would. I’ve always wanted to. I know it wouldn’t get me the suit back. But I’d do it anyway”. And above him Tony’s teeth ground and he swallowed, gripping the door tighter, gaze darker than obsidian.

“This is why you shouldn’t be around me, kid. I’d let you” Tony managed roughly, voice no more than a strained rasp. It made Peter’s head spin, rapidly re-thinking, re-evaluating any and every interaction they’d had post this. Had Tony thought this when they met? Was he thinking about it when they were shut safely away in his bedroom? Would he have done something then, if it had come to light?

“Then let me” he rushed out before he could second-guess it, drawing his hands away from the edge of the door to reach slowly and shakily for Tony, who hissed a breath and reached for him, then stopped, fingers clenching around air as Peter lay his palms on his thighs. The muscles were thick and taut beneath his palm, near trembling like a startled horse as he slowly slid them up. He’d never done anything like this before, not with anyone, but he kind of knew what felt good on himself.

And porn made it look easy enough, even though he was old enough to know not everything in porn was real. Still, he knew enough to close his grip around Tony’s zipper, dragging it down awkwardly until a large hand wrapped around his wrist, stilling the motion. He couldn’t really see Tony with his head lolled back like this, but his sinking heart when Tony pulled his hand away lasted only a moment, before Tony dragged the zipper down for him.

Peter breathed in, out, let his head fall to the side. They were so openly exposed here. Anyone could walk past at any moment, or a street camera could turn there way, or-

“JARVIS. Smoke and Mirrors, please” Tony rasped above him. Peter watched the still deployed suit turn, the hologram activate, and the air around the entrance to the alley shimmer. He didn’t have to question it, he knew that meant a real-time projection of the ‘empty’ alley was now being deployed. Anyone walking past would just see an unwelcoming, empty space full of garbage bins and litter.

“If you’re doing this because-”

“Mr. Stark,” Peter interrupted, fingers flexing against his thighs. “I know this is conceptually wrong. I know this won’t get me the suit back. I know this doesn’t mean anything. But just...Let me”. It came out more as a plea towards the end, high and breathy as he fought the urge to cry again, and Tony fell silent above him, grip and stance relaxing.

He reached for Tony again, fumbling with how to approach it, when Tony’s hands moved as a buffer and took over, reaching down into the dip of his slacks. Peter’s throat went dry and his heart hammered as he watched the fabric move, watched as Tony drew out a sizeable, mostly-hard, flushed cock. It made his entire body ignite, tongue peeking out to slide along his lower lip.

Tony Stark’s cock. In his face, about to go down his throat.

He made a soft sound, low in his throat, and reached for it as Tony stroked himself slowly, pushing into the curl of his fingers. His cock was on the thicker side, curved and cut and sticky at the tip when Tony made his own guttural sound in response and angled his cock downwards. Peter shuffled, got comfier and without a better range, and tipped his head up, breathing out before he closed his fingers over Tony’s.

He damn near cried at the fact of what he was doing as he shifted, nuzzling up against the underside of his cock and the thick swell of his balls, still confined in his slacks. Tony breathed out heavily above him, cock twitching beneath their grip, and Peter did it again before shuffling backwards further, pulling down until the sticky-wet tip brushed over his parted lips. It was kind of like a gloss, smooth on his lips and mostly tasteless when he licked them, and above him Tony grunted, pulling his lower lip between his teeth.

“Kid, we-”

Peter pushed his head forwards and up, sucking the tip into his mouth like a popsicle and hollowing his cheeks. It worked, anything Tony had been intending to say cut off with a hiss and one of his hands pulling away, down to cup Peter’s cheek while his other squeezed his cock. Peter kept suckling, pressing his tongue flat over the rounded tip for lack of any better ideas. It was big and warm and soft in his mouth, and he briefly imagined in sliding down his throat, filling his mouth.

Several moments of soft sucking passed, and he pulled his head back a little before pushing it back up, copying what he’d seen in porn by sliding the spongy tip in and out of his mouth, licking at it whenever it pushed back between his lips. Tony’s hand stayed on his jaw, gentle and without pressure, but his other hand moved in short, alternating little pumps, stoking the pleasure that Peter offered.

“Is this your first?” Tony whispered above him, and Peter pulled slowly off Tony’s cock, mindful of his teeth as he licked his wet lips and nodded. He didn’t get any response after a brief pause, so he sucked Tony’s tip back into his mouth slowly, flattening his tongue to the bottom of his mouth as he let his lips pop over the flare of the tip, until he began to work at the length. He kept pushing until his neck ached from the angle and it felt like his mouth was too small to take anymore, eyes closed and focused on the feel of it.

Tony’s hand wriggled free from beneath his own, cupping Peter’s jaw gently, thumbs rubbing a circle, before they slid down and back, cupping his head and taking its weight so his neck was no longer straining to hold it up. Peter moved both of his hands up to wrap around what his mouth couldn’t take, not wanting the experience to falter into sub-par. He knew he was nothing compared to the rest of Tony’s long list of lovers, knew it couldn’t be all that great compared to the other countless blowjobs Tony had ever received, but Tony hadn’t stopped him yet, and it spurred him on.

His own cock was achingly neglected as he licked and sucked and nodded his head, doing his best to form a tight, wet, warm sleeve for Tony’s cock, but he squeezed his thighs together and ignored it, focusing on referencing every piece of porn he’d ever seen or read and all of his own jerk-off sessions as he worked Tony’s cock. His mouth and the top of his throat already ached a little, but it was easy to ignore. His arms had burned since the ferry, anyway.

“Fuck, kid” Tony uttered above him softly, stroking through his hair, and Peter gave a muffled sound around his cock in response, high and keening. Tony’s hips jerked forwards and Peter half-gagged in surprise, even though Tony hadn’t moved more than a half-in forwards. It made Tony groan above him, fingers tightening in his hair, and Peter had to squeeze his thighs until they trembled not to reach down and take care of his own drooling length.

He tried to take Tony’s length deeper, pressing his tongue down and pushing his head forwards, but it only went a few more inches in before he was gagging, his throat feeling like it was completely closed off. Tony’s hands were gentle as they pulled him away. “Easy, kid” he soothed above him, tugging a thick handful of curls before Peter sucked in a breath, swallowing around what he could take. He began to move his hands in earnest, mindful of the lack of lube as he applied a little pressure and pumped each time he sucked down.

For all he could swing around all day, he was losing breath quickly at this, though he supposed it was more down to the sheer emotional wring of the situation and the fact that it was his first time. Tony didn’t seem to care either way, grunting above him, fingers tight as he fought the urge not to fuck forwards. It was sloppy, over-careful and inexperienced, but Peter could taste the salt on his tongue, could feel the gooey-thickness of tell-tale precum.

He’d lost count long ago of how long they’d been there, the sounds of the city faded well into the background as Tony twisted his curls around his fingers, as Peter felt the heavy slide of skin over his tongue. He had no idea of how many minutes had passed since they’d started, only focused now on how his panties stuck uncomfortably to the wetness that leaked onto his own hip, on how Tony’s cock seemed to twitch and pulse on his tongue here and there, a sign Peter knew meant Tony was close to orgasm.

He sucked harder, closing his lips over the soft skin, pushing himself until each thrust was uncomfortable and threatened to make him gag again, but Tony was cursing above him, hips stuttering now, single-focused on the wet, warm channel around him. Peter mewled as Tony’s thrusts became sharper, a little less careful of his abilities, and the signs began to culminate. Tony’s heartbeat spiking, his cock suddenly stiffening and seeming to swell over his tongue, a sharp rasp of his name and then a flood of salty, thick cum to the back of his mouth, sliding down his throat so his breath hitched and he spluttered, convulsing around Tony’s cock, Tony, who groaned as fucked forwards, chasing the flex of his throat.

Tony rode his orgasm hard, milking his cock with Peter’s throat until it seemed to relax on his tongue again, hard but not as raging as it had been before, and he slowly began to pull out as Peter snuffled and jolted and swallowed on sore muscles, lips dark and wet and swollen when he finally sucked in a gasp of air, letting Tony’s hands carefully tip his head forwards. He spluttered as he heaved for breath, the taste still rich on his tongue as Tony stooped a little and coaxed him into sitting up, into leaning back against a strong thigh.

“Easy. You did good. You’re...Okay”. It was an awkward but soft attempt, and Peter let his head fall back into Tony’s hip, looking up at him through wet lashes, suddenly hyper-aware of his own undress and his own arousal as Tony’s cock began to slowly soften in his peripheral. Tony looked suddenly stilted and tired, and Peter ducked his head again, bracing himself for the second lecture of the day.

Instead, Tony’s hand slid up into his hair, gentle as he stroked through the messed up curls, tender it slid down his jaw to wipe away a glob of drool from the corner of his mouth.

“I should...Get dressed. Happy won’t be...Happy. With waiting so long. And you’ve probably got stuff to do” Peter whispered after a moment, surprised by how rough and scratchy his voice had become. It almost hurt to talk.

“...No” Tony murmured after a moment, and Peter frowned, head tipping back again. Tony’s gaze, when he met it, looked torn and heartbroken, but determined. Steeled against his own internal rage of emotions.

“No?” He echoed fearfully, dread rising in his gut.

“No” Tony repeated, then looked up and away. “We’re going to get in the car. Fully. And I’m going to show you what a blowjob is meant to be like, while you wear those fucking panties. And then...You’re going to get dressed, and we’re going to go to the Tower. We’ll...Figure this out. Like adults. Reasonable adults. Well. As...Best as an old pervert and a fourteen year old can” Tony breathed, frowning at the end, though Peter’s lips were already curving upwards.

Hope.

“Fifteen” he corrected, like he had on the rooftop, except now he was smiling.

#fanfic #starker #starker fanfiction #starker fanfic #starker cc #starker cu #starker smut #ironspider #ironspider fanfiction #ironspider fanfic #ironspider cc #ironspider cu #ironspider smut #tony stark/peter parker #peter parker/tony stark

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whirlybirbs · 4 years

Text

✧ — THE DARK HAS COME. ;

summary: the time has come. the shift has come. maul readies your exit from mandalore. (a tie in with my other fic of emancipation and trust, set a year after — set during s7e10)

pairing: maul x ex-servant!reader

a/n: i keep thinking about how our king SNATCHED this weeks episode by the throat. here’s some light angst. if you’re confused, give of emancipation and trust a read to catch up on these two’s relationship.

Things are changing.

Maul knows it.

It’s like a feeling that clouds the air; a chill that settles deep in his bones. It’s like a feeling of lead in the pit of his gut, or the prick of anxiety across his skin.

The danger that hangs heavily in moments like this is the unknown — what happens next is not set in stone. If anything, it’s simply a feeling riding on the wind. One wrong move will tip the balance, sending the future cascading towards an outcome as unclear as the feeling in the back of his mind.

You’re angry with him.

Understandably.

You’re not stupid — you know there are larger things falling into place; and you know enough to know it’s dangerous to be tied so tenderly to the Mandalore.

It’s your devotion to the Zabrak that has you snarling as you load a trunk of your belongings into the small Allanar class freighter on the transport deck. Anger rolls off you like a lava flow, biting at his senses through the force. It hurts to stand so close. It burns.

Maul, with his hands behind his back, opens his mouth to speak as you pass.

“I do not wish to speak to you,” you snap without sparing him a single glance, “Because I will say something I regret.”

Beside Maul, to the sides of the deck, Rook and Saxon shift tightly in their boots. Even the Mandalorians, his two closest Lieutenants, know better than to step in and aid you in the effort of moving your few belongings onto the ship.

Lest you be patronized.

“Sweet one —”

“Are you hard of hearing?”

Maul exhales tightly through his nose. You bend, gather up one last trunk, and haul to towards the loading ramp of the jet black freighter.

In moment likes these, he wonders when you’d picked up on his biting unkindness. Perhaps it was the product of months spent together — an intimate understanding of one another. Surely, he’d picked up on your mannerisms as well. Patience, mostly.

A thing he’s attempting now.

With one wave of a gloved hand, Saxon and Rook are dismissed.

It’s with immense relief that the two nod, pardoning themselves from the long balcony and press through the stained glass doors towards the West wing of the Sundari Palace. The sunset casts a golden hue across the side of the palace, painting the sky colors he once found himself marveling.

Not now. No. Now, as night creeps in along the horizon, Maul only sees foreshadowing.

You set down the last trunk with a heavy thud.

With that, your home and your place within the Sundari Palace has been upped and moved.

All you can do is stand there and stare.

Your eyes are turned up to the palace, and Maul realizes now that your anger has melted away — traded in for grief. Loss. Fear. Mourning. Tepid and slippery. It flits about your spirit, hiding in the homes of your heart.

He notes the glimmer of melancholy gather in your eyes. It makes his soul ache.

Maul sighs.

“Come here.”

Your eyes land on him as your chin wobbles — and suddenly, Maul understands. As easy as breathing, he understands the hesitation. He understands the loss. He understands you don’t want to leave.

You don’t want to leave him.

“I.. I could stay,” you whisper as you near, a hand finding his; one last plead, “You’ve taught me how to fight —”

“Yet, this fight is not yours, sweet one,” it’s soft, “You know that.”

His eyes, golden as the setting sun, flick across your face. Your gaze is still stuck on the grand visage of the palace in the setting sun.

“I feel like a coward,” you whisper bitterly, “Running. While the others prepare for what’s to come. While you prepare.”

“If Kenobi does come,” Maul speaks slowly as his eyes tether themselves to your snarling look, “And if he brings Skywalker... I need you to understand —”

A hand reaching for your cheek draws you to him.

“Ensuring your safety is the most important part to all this.”

You swallow the lump in your throat as your gaze drifts back to the palace.

“This, too, will pass,” Maul rumbles, “And when it does, I will join you — and we will begin again...”

You nod slowly. You understand.

In a horrible way, you know this is how this all must play out. This is his battle — this is the darkness of the force rising up to greet him like an old friend. The shift in the balance comes and he is ready with a steady hand to see to it that the outcome is survivable.

The complexities are lost to you. For now.

He’d kept them quite hush.

“... Until then, Crimson Dawn is yours.”

Your head snaps back to him.

His expression is kind.

“... What?”

Your voice nearly gets stuck in your throat at the sheer shock. Immediately, your eyes are jumping around the Zabrak’s face to find any source of humor — though as rare as it is anyways. You find nothing. Just even-toned gentilty as his hand lifts to brush the curve of your elbow.

“Dryden Vos has extended his hospitailty — and while staying with him, you will serve as the syndicate’s leader in my absense...”

“Maul...”

“Don’t argue with me,” he says with a warm sort of amusement, “The pieces are already moving into place —”

“I can’t do this — not without you.”

“Yes, you can. You have. I have said it before — do not discredit your intituion. You’re dangerous. Cunning. Fit for the role. I trust you more than any other... This is why I need you safe.”

There’s a hesitation as his words trail off.

“I need you safe,” he picks the words back up again, tone softer now, “So I need not worry.”

You exhale; and you move to reach and find his waist. The look you both share is sad. The look of two lovers about to be pulled apart and thrown into the darkness. Things are changing. You’d rather ride out the change by his side, but...

It’s not possible.

You press your nose to his shoulder as his hands sweep up your back in time. Lashes flutter gently as you shake your head. The Palace looms over his shoulder, feeling colder now than it did moments ago. Hollow. Changing.

“I don’t like this.”

It’s a whisper. Scared. Quiet. Like the woman he once spoke with all those moons ago on Zanbar.

“Nor do I,” he mumbles, “But promise me that you will keep your head down. No matter what occurs here in the coming weeks.”

A slow nod. Maul’s hands find your cheeks as you lean back.

You exhale tightly through your nose.

“I will.”

“Rook will escort you to Vos’ ship,” Maul rumbles, “It’s a yacht. I have been assured it will be terribly comfortable —”

“It’d be better if you were coming with me.”

The kiss that is placed against your brow is gentle. The Sith sighs.

“Soon.”

“... You don’t know when, then?”

Maul rolls his jaw. Then, he shakes his head. You’ve stuck a pin in his dodging. And while he’d give anything to reassure you — he knows he cannot. There is nothing promised in the rise of the Dark.

Still standing close, you rest your hands flat to his sides as you speak. You try your best to sport a confident tone, but it bleeds with loneliness and heartache.

“Then, I’ll count the hours. And when you do return to me, I’ll simply not let you leave my side for double as long as you take.”

The laugh he gives is tipped with remorse.

“Incentivizing my absence?”

“No,” you mumble, “Trying to make it bearable.”

Silence slips between you. It makes a home. You wonder if this is how it will be — quiet and cold and lonely. Worry and anxiety will occupy the space in your bed where he sleeps. It’s different. New.

You part with a kiss — one that pulls at his heartstrings and makes him wish away all the things to come.

“I love you.”

You can’t help the way you wince when the words slip from his lips.

You linger, pulled away as you watch Rook emerge from the Palace — his hand is still in yours. You squeeze.

“I love you, too.”

Things are changing.

And that’s the last time you see the Maul for months.

#maul x reader #of emancipation and trust #darth maul x reader #maul imagine #darth maul imagine #maul x you #tcw imagine #star wars imagine #tcw season 7

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pixelated-pogues · 4 years

Note

awww number 7 from the sunset list for rafe🥺

Hi, bb, I wasn’t sure if you wanted the fluff or the angst, so I decided to go with fluff. if you want the angst one, let me know and I’ll be happy to write that one as well!

Prompt: “Wait no, don’t take kissing away from me.” Paring: Rafe x reader Warnings: mentions of alcohol, soft boy Rafe, so readers discretion is advised ____

“Hey Y/n,” Topper’s voice greets through the phone almost instantly when you accept the call. You groggily sit up in your bed, pulling your phone away from your face to check the time.

“Topper, why are you calling me? It’s almost two in the morning,” you groan, curling back into the plush covers on your bed, your eyes naturally falling closed due to the comfort your blankets give you and the fact that you’re half asleep.

“I know, I’m sorry,” he apologizes, a distant string of profanities ringing in the background on his side of the phone. “It’s just that, Rafe is hammered and won’t stop begging me to call you so that he can talk to you.”

“Oh god,” you groan, rubbing your eyes with your free hand. Rafe told you that he was going out for the annual “boys night” which you typically don’t give a second thought until you get phone calls like this one. It’s no secret that Rafe enjoys going to parties, which is no big deal, but he’s always a wildcard when it comes to being intoxicated.

“Hey, hey Top, did you call her? Did she answer?” Rafe’s voice fills your ears, his slurred words earning a goofy smile from you as you can imagine him clumsily approaching his friend.

“Yeah, she did. She’s right here,” Topper states. There’s a brief amount of shuffling before you hear Topper say something about not dropping his phone.

“Y/n,” Rafe excitedly exclaims into the phone. “Hi, baby.”

“Hi, love,” you giggle, rolling over to pull your blankets back over your body. “Are you having fun?”

“Well, yeah but-,” his sentence is cut off by a string of giggles and you cringe at the sound of something falling over. “Topper, calm down. I’m not going to drop it.”

“Rafe,” you state, returning his attention to you. “What did you want to talk to me about? It’s late and as much as I love talking to you, I’m really tired.”

“Oh, right,” he mumbles. “I miss you. I know it’s really late, but can you come pick me up? The guys won’t cuddle with me like you do.” You can hear the pout in his voice, a glimmer of hope radiating through his pure words while you silently debate whether you’ll give in to his request or not.

“I’ll think about it,” you promise, smiling at the gentle cheer he releases due to your words. “Can you hand the phone back to Topper for me? I need to talk to him real quick.”

“Yes ma’am,” he replies, his voice naturally falling into a thick southern accent. He shuffles on the end of the line, mumbling a clumsy goodbye before handing the phone over.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Topper,” you greet again, sitting up in your bed. “Rafe requested that I pick him up. Should I come get him or is he going to get distracted and want to stay by the time I get there?”

“Um,” he pauses, his own voice slightly slurred due to the alcohol they’ve all been consuming. “I think it’d be good. He’s being really clingy and I think that that’s more your forte than mine.” You can’t help but laugh at the boy's words, swinging your legs over the side of your bed so that you could put on more presentable pajamas before making your way to Kelce’s house.

You wordlessly let yourself into the house when you arrive, under Topper's instruction. You easily pinpoint where they are due to the rambunctious voices echoing through the pristine hallway. Just as you’re about to walk towards the noise, Topper appears from the kitchen with a six-pack clutched in his hand, nearly jumping out of his skin at the sight of you.

“Hey, Y/n,” he greets animatedly, pulling you in for a quick hug before walking towards the noise, nodding for you to follow. You draw closer to the racket, a dull headache already setting in due to the sheer volume of the chaos your about to walk into. The boys cheer at the sight of Topper returning with a fresh round of booze, incoherent words being thrown while he simply laughs in return. “Look who I found,” he announces, stepping out of the way to reveal you to the group, your eyes immediately falling on Rafe whose face immediately lights up at the sight of you. You inwardly cringe at the sight of him drunkenly making his way over to you while the rest of the boys continue hollering incoherently. Boys night is chaotic.

“Y/n,” Kelce cheers, followed by several other guys simply cheering your name while you simply giggle at their antics. “You joining in on the fun?” The guys around him look at you expectantly, silently urging you to say yes as one of them scrambles to find you a drink.

“Not tonight,” you laugh, nearly losing your balance as Rafe’s body clumsily collides with your own. You take a minute to steady him, before returning your attention back to them. “I’m just here to take this one home.” You pat Rafe’s chest gently, straightening up as he outs nearly all of his weight on you. He sloppily presses a kiss against your cheek, ignoring his friends’ groans at the fact that you’re not staying.

“I’m going to ignore the fact that you all like my girlfriend more than me,” Rafe slurs, sending them a “threatening” glare with his eye half-open. You shake your head in amusement, patting his chest again before taking a second to discard the drink in his hand.

“Let’s get you home, yeah?” His attention settles on you immediately, a bright smile on his face as he follows you to the front door.

“Rafe, you have to help me out a little. You weigh a lot more than me and I’m not strong enough to handle your dead weight,” you command after the third time of stumbling due to him leaning his full body weight on you and barely picking up his feet.

“What’s the fun in that, princess,” he slurs, giggling when he trips over his feet, earning a sharp intake of breath from you. You’ve barely made it to the front door at this point, the simple task of walking seemingly too much for your brute of a boyfriend.

“Fine,” you huff, halting your movements entirely. Rafe grunts in confusion, staring down at you with a dopey smile on his face, patiently waiting for you to continue. “If you’re not going to help me, I’m not kissing you until you’re sober.”

His body immediately straightens up at your statement, his eyes widening in shock as if you’d just told him that you wrecked his bike. “Wait no, don’t take kissing away from me. I’ll help, I swear.” ____

A/N: I want a drunk boyfriend Rafe in my life.

Sorry for the delay! I hope you like it!

taglist: @thelocalpogue @kitluvs1 @maaybanks @thatsme-johnbookerroutledge @drewstarkey @maybankdreams @ssjiara @bluebirdsbluebells @spilledtee @outcrbanx @maebanks @poguemacking @tomfreakinghollandneedsaoscar @outerbongs @ilovejjmaybank @marvel-writer

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron obx #rafe obx #rafe imagines #rafe blurbs #rafe cameron blurbs #rafe cameron imagines #outer banks #outer banks imagines #outer banks blurbs #obx #obx imagines #obx blurbs

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1dcraftawards · 3 years

Text

November Author of the Month...

Drumroll please.... our November Author of the Month is none other than the incredibly talented...

@all-things-fic !

Congratulations to a wonderful author, Liz! You can check out our interview with her below!

1.Did you start writing fanfiction for One Direction, or was there another fandom that you wrote fanfiction for before this?

I have one fic that I wrote for One Direction Fanfic Archive, that will never see the light of day. It was really awful, but everyone starts somewhere. I’ve shared it with two people on Tumblr and we just laughed about it.

I’ve also written a Niall Horan fic which has been flagged for how explicit it is, which is quite laughable as it’s tame in comparison to the Harry stuff (eek!)

2. How old were you when you started writing fanfiction?

I was a teenager when I first started writing fics. I don’t know if I would consider it “proper” fanfic though as it was riddled with cliches.

3. What’s been your favorite fic that you’ve written to work on so far?

For the longest time I was proud of the second part of Divorce Harry and specifically the second part. It just felt real to write. I can’t even explain what it is about that piece.

I think at the time it stemmed from an ask I received where I was asked if I was a parent - I’m not - but this someone said I portrayed aspects of a marriage and how children can tip the balance really well.

The sheer bitterness of two people in love and the juxtaposed feeling it brings was an interesting dynamic. Being bitter and in love? How? It happens. You love someone, but bloody hell don’t you hate at the same time.

And I think on the hand Quarantine Harry is the opposite side of the same coin. I love it because it’s so happy. When you’re smitten and basking. Your baby waking you up at 3am and meeting your husband on the landing with the freshly made bottle is a time to enjoy because you’re doing it together.

But soon enough the third child is sprawled out in your kingsize bed and their foot is pressed against your ribs and you're tired. This isn’t me saying the two stories are linked (I do get those theories quite a lot haha)

4. Do you prefer AU or OU?

Definitely more of an OU gal. I’m massively into writing things “realistically” because I think it’s so relatable and helps draw readers in more so. Especially if the writing uses and references visuals that readers are aware of.

5. What’s your favorite trope to write?

Would we call a long-term relationship / established relationship a trope? If so then this is my favourite. Writing characters who know how to push each other’s buttons, knowing what they can and can’t say to get the other going. Being able to write two people who can share as little as a glance and know what the other is feeling.

Sprinkle a bit of angst on the top for good measure.

That’s my kryptonite.

6. What’s your ideal space to write in?

I tend to write when I’m in bed quite a bit, usually really late at night and on my phone rather than my laptop. Often lying in the dark. Sometimes first thing in a morning.

7. How do you get motivation to write?

This one made me laugh considering I’m unable to finish a single piece of writing at the minute.

Pictures are quite inspiring. New images of Harry can usually start something in me. The images of him in the whacky joggers for example from set have inspired a scene in Quarantine Harry (who knows for which part just yet!).

8. Do you typically like to listen to music when you write? If so, what do you listen to?

Very rarely listen to anything when I write, I tend to like silence really. Sometimes this is so I can dictate into my phone.

9. Your dialogue is some of the best I’ve ever read on tumblr, how do you plan conversations in your fics?

Thank you for the compliment, it’s really nice to read that you think so highly of my dialogue. I don’t really plan them - conversations or my fics. I’m quite visual in how I write, so anything that you’ve read I’ve most likely had it play out in my mind and typed it as it’s moved. For dialogue I tend to speak out loud as I’m typing to try and get the pacing right for the conversation.

No, I don’t try to do a Manc accent… Just in case anyone is wondering haha!

10. What is your writing process like?

I write what I see and then hope it fits. Honestly it’s pretty chaotic. The only time I tend to plan is when I’ve got a lot of different scenes written and I need to know if they’re suitable for an update or what order to place them.

Then I read through them and think about the characters and how they would be a certain time and move the documents into another document. Then I close all the tabs and cry cause my motivation is nonexistent.

11. What’s been your favorite scene to write from Quarantine Harry?

One that hasn’t been shared haha! I’m joking (maybe).

From part one my favourite bit has to be the part where she makes up with him by taking him a cuppa and he gets a dig in about how she hasn’t brought any biscuits with her. Also the bit where he says “come an’ love me” meaning he wants to cuddle. I’m quite conscious I don’t really ever write soppy fics, so when I’m writing “fluffy” aspects they’re more so everyday affections. Like, you know someone is properly in love with you when they’re doing the washing up cause you’re busy, or they’re taking out the bins on bin day. That kinda thing.

From part two absolutely the entirety of the morning where she takes the pregnancy test. That was the part I had as clear as day and I worked backwards to the opening scene. I really loved the idea of Harry knowing his partner is pregnant before said partner knows. Him knowing his lovers body like the back of his hand so much so that he’s able to pick up on the smallest of things. I knew I had to write it.

And how he casually suggested she took the test, by pressing a kiss into her back. His face finding that test and then being an insufferable sod and pleased with himself cause he’s in the know about the outcome before the MC.

12. Is there a schedule you follow in terms of when you write? Or are you more impulsive and just write where and when you can?

So impulsive it’s actually embarrassing. I cringe at myself. I know I’ve mentioned this loads but I really write what I see. So if I’m not seeing anything, I’m not writing. It’s quite frustrating.

13. What is one thing you wish you would’ve known before you started writing?

To not talk about your writing before you’ve finished it. I feel like I massively let people down when I post sneak peeks and then I can’t deliver because life gets on top of me!

14. What do you prefer writing, multi-chaptered fics or one shots?

One shots and then if they develop into something more that can be exciting!

15. What's your secret to portraying such a complex and interesting relationship between your main characters??

Personal trauma…… *tumbleweed at another one of my poorly thought out jokes*

I’m a bit stumped on how to answer this one. I think being well read(ish) helps you create complex characters and relationships, not saying that I am but I’ve read a fair few books. Life in general helps too, sometimes personal relationships. Just growing up. My fic when I was younger was nowhere near the type of things I’m writing now but I’ve got a couple (okay, more than a couple!) of years on myself since then.

I think just apply your own lived experiences and call upon emotions you may have felt through certain times that you’re writing should you have experience it.

Partly I also think so many of us are a little bit nosy. Sometimes we all kinda want to be the fly on the wall in the home of couples to see if everything is a rosy as it seems or as intimate. Or whether it is just raw passion with a couple of arguments thrown in for good measure.

16. What Harry era/mood/look/vibe/song/etc. do you get most inspired by?

What’s weird is my favourite era of Harry is 2014, but I wouldn’t want to write him like that. The current Harry is quite marvellous. I’ve never known anyone like him, he really is fine wine (the real album title…. ‘we’ll be a fine wine’)

If you’re asking what mood I like to see him in, it’s either when he's pensive and looks a touch pissed off with a crease to his brow or when you watch his joke his eyes before he’s even said it and he’s amused/pleased with himself.

His current look, mainly late 2019/2020 is quite something (hence the quarantine fics)

I tend not to get inspired by his songs but my two faves if I had to pick would be Woman and TBSL. I think they’re massive Scorpio energy and would make great premises for a one shot sometime!

I’m not sure if I even answered this how you wanted it answer but hopefully it was something haha!

17. Who or what inspired you to start writing?

I’ve always loved writing, I think it’s because I do a lot of it with my line of work. The person that gave me the push on this site was actually an account called @meetyourmouths. The lovely Iz is no longer on tumblr but she wrote a Harry piece that just made me think ‘fuck it’ and I posted Practicing. If you go to that piece the authors note makes mention to Iz.

I would also say @stylishmuser was one of the first people to reach out to me and be encouraging which has always stuck with me. Massive love for, P and still talk to her all these years on.

I’m now sat here thinking about listing all the lovely lovely people who have been so nice to me both in regards to writing and outside of it and I’m conscious I’m not mentioning them. The troubles of being a bit of a people pleaser. Hopefully those people know I love ‘em… You know?

18. Some readers are wary of leaving feedback because they're unsure how the writer will take it, how do you personally like to receive feedback? Do you want to be critiqued, or would you like to just know if they did or didn't enjoy what they've read?

First thing I’d say is please don’t ever think as readers you can’t be negative. Sure there is a way to present the feedback to the author cause writing can be quite personal, but everyone has room for growth.

Just come chat to me. Can be about anything and everything. A simple ‘loved the update’ to ‘this bit was rubbish’. I’m open to all feedback.

One thing to remember is there are a lot of writers out there so there is something for everybody. If a fic isn’t for you there are tons out there waiting for you to go and grab ‘em!

19. Is writing a hobby or do you have aspirations of writing professionally outside of fanfiction?

I used to think it was mainly more so a hobby, and I do still lean towards this. However, now I’m not so sure. My problem is I tend to have long spells of not being able to find balance in my ‘real life’ job and the extra-curricular stuff.

I’m dragging myself here but I don’t think my fics have much plot to them. I’m more so about writing the everyday life and I don’t think there is a market for that really (unless you have something explosive happen somewhere).

20. And finally, What's your purpose for writing? What do you hope to accomplish?

For a while I wanted to write Harry being insufferably British. I found it quite hard to find writings that I thought wrote him using Britsh-isms (is this even a thing?) and types of phrases that are common over this side of the pond. I wanted to put that out there for someone who may have once felt like me.

Mostly, I just want to put pieces out that take people elsewhere, even if only for a couple of minutes. A lot of the world is a bleak place, if you find my little corner on tumblr and it makes you smile, that’s achieved something, hasn't it?

#author of the month #aom #November2020 #aomnovember2020

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dindjarindiaries · 4 years

Text

Thunder - Chapter 8: Hail

summary: Time winds down until Frankie has to leave Luciana, and suspicions start to grow as to what’s going on between them.

warnings: anxiety attack, angst, fluff, mentions of death, references to sex

rating: R

word count: 4.82k

masterlist

chapter 8: hail

Waking up the next morning, Frankie’s almost certain he’s ascended to heaven. The warm glow of sunlight’s peeking in through the window of the guesthouse bedroom, bathing the woman who lays asleep on his chest in an angelic light. Frankie feels more at peace than he has in a long time, even with the prospect of what’s to come nagging at the back of his mind. He knows he wouldn’t rather be anywhere else than where he is in this very moment—even in the air.

But then, it all sinks in: he’s still here, with Luciana, in the guesthouse, in the morning—and not with everyone else.

Frankie curses under his breath and gently starts to sit up, stirring Luciana from her sleep. She looks up at him through her lashes, eyes half-lidded in a way that Frankie thinks is adorable but can’t dwell on right now. “It’s the morning, Luce,” Frankie informs her, his voice soft yet panicked. “The guys could be up, and they might be looking for—.”

He’s cut off by Luciana leaning in swiftly to kiss him, her hand brushing over his cheek in a way that makes him forget everything else he’d been worrying about. When she pulls away, she stays close, her nose brushing against Frankie’s as she looks him deep in his eyes. “Relájate.” Luciana adds a gentle kiss on the tip of his nose. “It’ll be fine. We’ll just say we woke up early and decided to go for a walk—and we brought the umbrella in case it rained again.”

Frankie takes a deep breath and nods to agree, earning a smile from Luciana in praise as she kisses him one more time. “You always think on your feet,” he tells her, earning a soft chuckle as she moves off of him. She frees herself from the sheets and stands, and Frankie can’t help the way his gaze admires her body once again. In this light, where it’s brighter and even more angelic, he can see more of the outline he’d tried to burn into memory last night, and he can’t help his heart from beating faster at her sheer beauty.

“Now, don’t relax too much, Morales,” Luciana warns Frankie, pulling him from his trance. “I don’t think we have time for another round before things start to look more… suspicious.”

Frankie ignores the blush on his cheeks as he shrugs, starting to untangle himself from the sheets. “Are you sure ‘bout that?”

Luciana raises an eyebrow at him as she starts getting her clothes from the night before back on. “Don’t insult yourself like that, babe. I’m sure you could last much longer than what we’re being given.”

Frankie scoffs and shakes his head, trying to hide his smile of amusement as he also dresses himself back up. Once they make the room neat to the way it’d been before—including new sheets as provided in the closet of the room—they walk out hand-in-hand to the main part of the guesthouse. Frankie reaches for the umbrella and, before he can reach for the door, Luciana pulls him into another kiss. It’s deep and full of the desperation of not knowing when they can share another, lips parted and tongues dancing like their bodies had during the later hours of the night. Frankie’s hand cups her cheek as they pull away, a thumb brushing over the skin there as he watches the light dance in her brown eyes. “I love you,” Franke confesses in a voice that’s hushed yet honest, “and one day, the whole world will know it.”

“All in time,” Luciana assures him, a phrase that he knows he needs to hear because the guilt of not being more public with their relationship has started to eat away at him. She gives his hand a squeeze and presses a kiss to his knuckles. “I love you, too.”

They share a gaze for a few lingering moments and then they open the door of the guesthouse, making sure none of the guys are around before they pretend to return from a morning spent walking through the trails of the surrounding wood. Thanks to their chemistry not only as lovers but also as friends, it’s easy for them to begin making light and casual conversation, making things look natural as they walk back up to the main house. Once they walk inside, they’re met with surprised exclamations from the guys who sit around the kitchen table, except for Santiago who works some eggs in a pan on the stove.

“We all thought you were both asleep, gonna be honest,” Benny admits, drawing a sip from his water with a raised brow.

“Us? Up later than you?” Luciana lets out a playful scoff as she teases him. “You should’ve known better. We were up early and decided to go for a walk. It’s beautiful around here.”

It’s true, Frankie thinks to himself, wishing he could say it to Luciana. My view this morning was really beautiful.

“I’d say that surprises me, but it doesn’t,” Tom mumbles, a small smile growing on his lips as he looks between the two of them. “One day, we’ll switch it up on you.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Luciana demurs with a chuckle. “Maybe after you’re done with bootcamp.”

And, as much as that’s meant to be a joke, those are the words that make Luciana’s mind take a darker route the rest of the day.

It continues just like the day before, the majority of it spent down at the dock—swimming, boating, kayaking, whatever else to have fun and cool off in the midst of the summer heat. She’s allowed herself a few extra drinks, which she realizes now likely wasn’t the best choice. Luciana sits here in one of the Adirondack chairs, taking a moment to bathe in the sun as she watches the boys toss a football around in the shallower part of the lake, and lets herself think too much.

She’s the only one being left behind. Luciana will have to stay here while her brothers—including one by blood—go off to serve, losing any kind of the contact she’s had with them ever since they all met and gelled together. This includes the love of her life, a man she’s known for longer than the rest aside from Santiago, someone she’s not sure how to live without anymore. Even before the love bloomed, he was the crutch she didn’t realize she was leaning on, the other half that kept her in check and balanced and excited to grow in life. Luciana knows she’s been the same thing for him. She doesn’t often think about what could happen to him while she’s away—not just in the line of duty, but in his mind and his heart. She knows there’s darkness there that even she hasn’t gotten to fully explore, hurt from the things that’s happened to him that he shouldn’t have to deal with on his own. Now, he has to be alone.

Her gaze jumps from person-to-person as they jump and move around in the water—from “grumpy” ol’ Tom, to young, wild, and free Benny, to less-wild-but-still-kinda-crazy Will, to her dearest and fiercely protective Santi, and finally to her entire heart, the caring and kind Frankie—and she can’t help picturing what would happen if this was the last time they were all together. If something happened and she lost one of them, or even all of them. If this little family of theirs that’s dysfunctional yet beautiful in its own unique way was harmed in any way, shape, or form. Luciana’s not sure how she’d be able to carry on. Picturing a life without them, one without Tom or Benny or Will or Santi or Frankie, is enough to knock the breath right from her lungs.

And that’s exactly what it does. Suddenly, Luciana—the one who’s been revered as never being afraid of anything—feels more fear than she’s ever experienced before in her life, and now she can’t breathe.

I can’t breathe.

Luciana tries to take a deep breath but it stalls. The place where she’s supposed to feel the soft rise and fall of her chest is instead engulfed in burning flames, feeling as if they’re full of sand as she tries to get the air in. A cold sweat breaks out on her forehead as she blinks a few times, trying to compose herself because she doesn’t want to break down like this, to show that she’s weaker than everyone thinks she is. But then she tries to breathe again and she still can’t.

She moves to sit on the very edge of her seat, hoping that’ll help somehow as she tries to expand her lungs. It does nothing. Instead, the heaving of her chest becomes more obvious, the cold sweat providing a glare of the sun’s rays, and she realizes she’s drawing attention.

“Luci?” her brother’s voice calls to her, but it feels far away, much further than the few feet he stands in the lake away from her. “You okay?” Santiago comes closer, stepping out of the water as his brow furrows in concern. Luciana looks at him and sees his eyes widen upon viewing the horror in her eyes and the evidence of struggles that go deeper than he was anticipating.

She shakes her head.

Santiago runs over, now, kneeling in front of Luciana and taking one of her hands in his. “What is it, hermanita?” he panics, his free hand touching her cheek and grimacing at how flushed it is. “How can I help?”

“I can’t breathe,” Luciana manages, the image of her brother blurring before her thanks to the tears of fear, shame, and stress that cloud her eyes, now. “I—Santi, I can’t breathe.”

Luciana sees Santiago bristle with more panic as he turns and addresses something to the boys that Luciana can’t take the time to listen to now, fully capturing their attention.

And when Frankie sees what’s happening, he just about feels his heart drop out into the water. It takes everything in him not to sprint over full-speed and take Luciana in his arms right then and there, instead rushing out of the water with the guys to better see what’s going on. Frankie instantly recognizes the behavior because it’s something he’s not unfamiliar with: an anxiety attack.

“Don’t crowd,” Frankie instructs the guys, shooing them to somewhere further off on the dock. He kneels beside Santiago in front of Luciana, placing a hand on her knee as he looks up at her calmly. “You’re having an anxiety attack, Luce. You just need to breathe in time with me, okay?” He earns a struggled nod at that, and he gives her a smile of praise. Santiago looks nervously between his brother and sister. “Breathe in real deep with me, like this.” Frankie takes a deep breath in, and he watches as Luciana shakily does the same. He holds it for a few seconds before going on. “And now let it out.” He exhales as Luciana repeats his motion. He smiles again. “Good. Keep it up.”

Frankie breathes with Luciana until her heaving diminishes and she’s able to get the air in on her own. A few beads of cold sweat still cascade down her head, though Frankie can only see her gaze looking into his—one that’s full of horror and longing, a longing to be comforted by him. But he can’t.

“You’re alright, hermanita,” Santiago assures his sister, hands reaching for the sides of her face as he brushes his thumbs over them. “Feel a little better?” Luciana just nods at him, eyes flickering between her brother and her lover. Frankie tries to ignore the heavy ache in his chest. “I’ll take you to the house and we’ll get you some peace and quiet.”

Luciana nods again to agree, letting Santiago help her to stand up as they start to walk up to the house. Her gaze lingers for just another moment on Frankie when Santiago stops to place a grateful hand on Frankie’s shoulder, and he feels helpless as he begins to stand up slowly from where he’d been kneeling, wishing more than anything that he could be the one going with her—and needing to know what was going through her mind and heart in this moment. Though, he’s pretty sure it has to do with the words she’d cried to him last night, and that thought alone breaks him into pieces.

Once Santiago and Luciana are further out of sight, Frankie walks himself to the edge of the dock, sitting with his legs in the water as he rips his hat from his head. He kneads the material in his hands, his gaze looking endlessly into the rippling water ahead of him. It’s at times like these when he thinks that she’s worth the sacrifice of losing flying. That maybe he can find another skill, another passion, so that she doesn’t have to be alone here and suffer like this. He’d be more than willing to try for her. But she’d never let him.

This is just the first time of many where Luciana will have to suffer without him—and Frankie knows he has to get used to this feeling of pain.

Frankie’s slightly startled when the dock rocks next to him, his gaze looking up to its source as he watches Will sit gingerly beside him. He lets out a heavy breath before he meets Frankie’s gaze, his brow lifting. “You okay, Fish?” Will asks, his voice full of genuine concern as he folds his hands in his lap.

Frankie offers a nod. “Yeah,” he tries his best to assure him, smoothing a hand over his hair before placing his hat back on his head. “I’m just glad that she’s alright. Anxiety attacks are terrifying.”

“Yeah, me too,” Will agrees, his gaze shifting out to the water. “It was scary for me to see her like that. I can’t imagine what it must’ve felt like for you.”

Frankie furrows his brow, his heart starting to beat a bit faster as he looks over at his brother. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Will looks back at Frankie, his expression of nonchalance never changing. “Well, you’re both really close, wouldn’t you say?”

Frankie looks between the water and Will’s gaze. “Uh—yeah, we are, I guess.”

Will remains stoic for one moment but crashes into soft laughter in the next one. He shoulders Frankie in a playful manner. “Fish, you’re a fuckin’ terrible liar.” Frankie can feel his eyes widening as Will raises an eyebrow at him. “You’re in love.”

Frankie’s mouth goes dry as he seeks some kind of response but can’t find one just yet. When he does, it’s incoherent. “I’m, I-I’m in—what?”

Will laughs again. “Don’t worry. She loves you, too. And that’s why you’re together. As you should be.” Will then offers a smile, one that isn’t cynical or threatening. It’s genuinely friendly and warm, as if Will’s been waiting for this to happen as long as Frankie has. Thinking about it, he probably has.

Frankie’s in such shock that he truly can’t speak, now. His lips are parted, but he can’t even begin to think of what he can say. He thought he and Luciana had been doing a good job at keeping things under wraps, but they must’ve slipped somehow. He guesses it was this morning. He wonders if Will’s the only one who knows.

But, just as any good brother would, Will practically reads Frankie’s mind as he continues on. “We all know—everyone except Pope, and I’m pretty sure that’s only ‘cause he’s in such denial of it happening that he refuses to see it.” When Frankie’s eyes only widen more, Will chuckles again. “It’s alright, Frankie. We saw this coming for years. It’s about damn time.”

Frankie finally thinks of something to say, swallowing hard as he tips his hat on his head. “How did you find out?”

Will looks out at the water, pretending to ponder greatly for an answer. “Let’s see.” He hums, and Frankie can tell it’s all an act as he chuckles under his breath. “Leaving all the parties together? Well, that’s just how you two are. No, it was probably when I saw you two dancing at the bar.”

Frankie nearly chokes on air and he feels his cheeks and neck burn red as he runs a hand over the skin there. “You, uh… you saw that?”

Will looks back over at Frankie. “Don’t worry, Frankie, I didn’t stop and stare. And I was mostly drunk. But how could I forget it? My long-time dream couple finally taking their first step together?”

Frankie shakes his head slightly, trying to hold back a smile that’s growing on his lips. “And you didn’t say anything?”

Will shrugs. “I thought you two would be all lovey-dovey after that, but you seemed… normal. So, yeah, I didn’t.”

Now, Frankie’s too curious for his own good. He furrows his brow as he faces his brother. “What else did you see?”

Will’s gaze drifts up to the sky as he thinks again. “I saw your looks at each other on the semi-formal night. I saw you dancing together there. I think that’s when I really, really knew.”

“And the guys did, too?”

“Oh, yeah. We all talked about it when you and Santi and Luci weren’t around. We wanted to help make it happen.”

Frankie feels a realization hit him as he sits up taller towards his friend. “You purposely made sure Luci was left alone in the house the day of my mom’s anniversary, and threw the party the night before graduation at Benny’s frat house so we could be alone, and covered our asses for Pope whenever we snuck away after that.”

Will nods once to agree. “Yep.” He pops the “p.” “And don’t forget the guesthouse.” He gestures towards the path in the woods with his finger, and Frankie can already feel his face turning more red than the color of Will’s swim shorts. “Going for a walk so early in the morning, huh? On the same trail as the guesthouse? What a coincidence.”

Frankie laughs a bit and sighs in defeat, nodding as he looks at Will seriously. “Yeah. We’re together.”

Will slaps a hand on Frankie’s shoulder. “It’s been a long time comin’, brother.” He then wrinkles his brow in concern. “But why’re you trying to be so secretive about it?”

Frankie lowers his voice, gaze falling to his hands as they play with the hem of his t-shirt. “Pope.”

“I figured. But… why?”

Frankie takes a deep breath, looking back up to meet Will’s gaze. “A little while before that night at the bar, Santi, he uh, talked to us. Luci and I. Separately, of course. But he told us that he doesn’t think we should be together because it’s too risky for the dynamic—you know, our family thing we got going on. He’s afraid that if something goes bad between Luci and I, it’ll tear us apart from him. So he made us promise not to get together.”

“And now, you’re together.” Will finishes the idea for Frankie and he nods. Will curses under his breath. “Shit. That’s a dick move on Santiago’s part.”

Frankie shrugs. “He’s just protective of his loved ones.”

“But that doesn’t mean you should have to hide your relationship in the fuckin’ shadows, Frankie. You two are made for each other. We’ve all known it since day fuckin’ one.”

“Then why do you think he made us promise that?”

Will shakes his head, looking at the lake. “Like you said. He’s probably afraid that the closer you two become to each other, the more you’ll drift away from him.” He looks back to Frankie. “He’s afraid of being alone, Frankie.”

Frankie understands that fear. He’s lived that life, experienced that feeling of being so utterly alone and abandoned in this world by everyone he’s loved. That’s why he can’t bring himself to be mad at Santiago, and that’s why he keeps bending to his will and keeping his love hidden.

“You gotta tell him eventually, Fish. He deserves to know. She’s his twin sister for God’s sake, and you’re the closest brother he has out of all of us.”

“I know.” Frankie feels the guilt from earlier resting heavily on his shoulders, now, a hand wiping down his face as he watches his feet kick in the semi-clear lakewater. “I just… now isn’t the time. We’re about to go to basic training and he doesn’t need this shit in his head while we’re doing all that.”

Will nods understandingly. “I get it, Frankie, I really do. But the longer you wait, the worse his reaction will be—especially when it comes to the guesthouse.”

Frankie’s eyes double in size. “He will not be told about the guesthouse.”

Will laughs at Frankie’s panic. “An unnecessary detail. Your secret’s safe with us.” Will places his hand on Frankie’s shoulder yet again, giving his brother another warm smile. “I’m real happy for you both, Frankie.” Frankie returns his brother’s smile. “Just make sure we’re in the wedding. Alright?”

Frankie burns red yet laughs, standing up along with Will as they walk back towards where Benny and Tom are seated in two of the Adirondack chairs. Benny tilts his sunglasses down his nose upon their arrival. “What were you two ladies gossiping about?” Benny jokes, causing Will to snort. “The fact that we know this man’s fuckin’?” He gestures to Frankie who just about adapts red as the permanent color of his face at this point.

“Now Benny, what did I tell you about reducing the state of their relationship to sexual intimacy?” Will retorts, raising his brow at his brother.

Benny blinks a few times at his brother. “Was that English?” he finally asks.

The guys laugh, and Will nudges Frankie’s shoulder again. He points up to the house. “You should go check up on her,” he says lowly. Frankie nods to agree, the ache for his lover still prominent in his chest as he starts off towards the pathway that leads to the house. “Tell Pope we’re ready for another round of tossin’ if he’s up to it.”

Frankie holds up a thumb in acknowledgement, refusing to do anything to slow his movements towards Luciana as he heads up to the house. Once he’s made his way inside through the sliding glass door, he sees Santiago standing by the fridge in the kitchen, pouring a glass of water that’s no doubt for Luciana. He doesn’t see her around, though, and he wonders where she’s gone.

“Hey,” Frankie greets gently, not wanting to startle his brother. Santiago looks at Frankie with eyes still panicked for his sister, but they relax a bit upon seeing Frankie. “How’s she doing? How’re you doing?”

Santiago shrugs as he closes the fridge door, resting the glass of water on the counter as he crosses his arms over his chest. “She’s alright, I think,” Santiago informs him. “Good enough to not want her twin brother fussing over her anymore.” Frankie chuckles softly at that, as does Santiago. He then grimaces, though, a sigh falling from his lips. “But she said it was because she’s worried for us, Frankie—all of us. That makes me feel like shit. I don’t want to have to leave her behind.”

Frankie’s own heart breaks apart at his words. “Me neither, Santi. None of us do. But she’s strong, and a moment like this doesn’t change that. I’m sure that once everything falls into place, we’ll all be a little more at ease.”

Santiago nods to agree. Frankie hates the way his brother seems so down and guilty still, so he walks towards him and holds out his arms, accepting him in a tight hug as he pats his back a few times for reassurance. No words are spoken as the two brothers share a moment of strength, trying to comfort each other over the same woman—to one a dear sister, and to the other a passionate lover. Frankie has a feeling everything will be okay even as he pulls away from the embrace, smiling at Santiago.

“Will said they’re ready for another round if you are,” Frankie informs him. “I can keep an eye on her if you want me to.”

Santiago returns his smile. “That’d be great, Frankie. She’s sick enough of me already.”

Frankie chuckles again, shaking his head as he takes the glass of water off the counter. Santiago steps outside and heads back down to the dock, and Frankie tries to compose himself for what’s to come as he looks around for Luciana. He assumes she’s upstairs, now, and so he heads in that direction with the water in hand. When he comes around the corner of her room, he gently raps his knuckles against the doorframe.

“Santi, for fuck’s sake, I already told you that I’m fin—.” Luciana cuts herself off when she sees Frankie’s image appear in her doorway. She’s since slid on a sweatshirt following the incident, her arms hugging over her stomach as she sits with her legs criss-crossed on the bed. Her brown eyes twinkle at his presence. “Frankie?”

He doesn’t speak just yet as he walks closer to her, setting the glass on the bedside table as he seats himself on the edge of her bed. He reaches a delicate hand to brush away a loose piece of hair from her face, and she leans into his touch without ever breaking his gaze. Frankie can feel his eyes softening at her. “You alright, baby girl?” he finally says, his voice so soft that he wonders if she’s even heard it.

But she must, since she offers a light smile in return. “I’m fine,” Luciana assures him, one of her hands covering the one he still has on her cheek. “I just… got a little too lost in my thoughts.”

Frankie shakes his head at her. “You don’t have to keep it all in here, Luce.” He takes his free hand to gently tap his finger against her temple, earning a larger smile from her. “You have me, too. And Santi. And your other brothers.”

Luciana sighs. “I know. I just don’t want to look…”

“… weak to them?” Luciana nods, and Frankie shakes his head again as he holds her face between his hands. “Luci, having anxiety like that and thoughts like those doesn’t make you ‘weak.’ It just proves how caring and protective you are over all of us. We’re all feeling the same things you are even if we’re not vocalizing them. You being able to say them aloud would prove that you’re actually much stronger than all of us.”

Luciana grabs one of Frankie’s hands to press a kiss to his palm upon hearing that. “Thank you.” Her voice is quiet but never falters, her mesmerizing gaze settling in Frankie’s as she continues smiling at him. “I love you, baby.”

Frankie beams and his heart warms at her endearment. He leans forward to press a gentle kiss against her lips, one so soft that it can barely be felt. He pulls away and rests his forehead against hers. “I love you way more.”

With those words, he wraps his arms around her and shifts his position on the bed, encouraging her to lean into him as he strokes her hair softly. Frankie hopes it can bring her even more peace that she so desperately needs right now—as does he. Yet, he also knows he needs to get his recent conversation off his chest and inform Luciana of what’s been said.

“By the way, Luce… the guys know.”

Luciana lifts her head momentarily from Frankie’s chest, her brow furrowed. “About what?”

Frankie’s eyebrow lifts. “Us.”

Luciana doesn’t even look surprised as she lets her head rest against his chest again. “Oh. Yeah, I figured.”

“You did?”

“We’re not very good at being secretive, Francisco.”

Frankie chuckles at that. “I guess you’re right, Luciana.” Luciana wrinkles her nose upon hearing her full name. “But… your brother deserves to know. Soon.”

“Like I said this morning, babe… all in time.”

Frankie nods to agree with that, planting a kiss in her hair before resting his chin against her head. He continues to stroke her hair as he closes his eyes, absorbing the touch and close intimacy while he still can. The future’s unclear as of now, between his flying and her working and whatever the hell Santiago’s gonna do when he finds out about this, but he knows one thing for certain: Luciana will always be there. “All in time.”

thunder tag list: @youhavereachedtheendofpie @charmantbarnes @theindiealto @fangirl-and-stuff @phoenixhalliwell @maybege @housekenobi @seawhisperer @mrsparknuts @saltywintersoldat @softpedropascal @i-hide-inside-my-head @sunshinepascal @domino-oh-damn @thirsty-flygirl

permanent tag list: @mikahid @bestintheparsec @stilllivindue2spite @givemethatgold @xbrujita @mandalorianspace @blushingwueen @sevvysaurus @myakai13 @thisis-theway @beskars @rachelloveseveryone @theindiealto @hiscyarika @burningsoulbloodyheart @wickedfrsgrl @synystersilenceinblacknwhite @bookwafflefangirl @charliepeaceout @cable-kenobi @ezraslittleblondestreak @hdlynn @your-pixels-are-showing @b0n-chann @javier-djarin @mistermiraclee

#i Do Not want to see them Hurt #i Refuse #but it's coming i know y'all can sense it #help me #frankie morales #catfish morales #frankie morales x reader #thunder fic #dindjarindiaries

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kyber-kisses · 4 years

Text

I, Alone (Part 3)

Dean Winchester x Reader

Wanna start from the beginning? Here’s the masterlist!

Warnings: cursing, spn level gore, all that angst, THERE IS A TIME JUMP

Summary: two years after the reader erased herself from the Winchesters lives, the brothers continue on as normal. . . Until a hunting accident begins messing with Deans head.

A/n: I’m sorry this took so long! I have major writers block and I haven’t felt motivated at all lately. Anyways I hope y’all enjoy and feedback is appreciated!

The warehouse was almost too silent as Dean and Sam made their way through the massive structure, machetes in hand. After days of searching through almost every abandon building in the town, Dean had a feeling that this had to be the place. The body count for vamp kills in the past week had slowly been rising and they were running out of places to look.

Trying to silent his footfalls besides his brother, the older Winchester peeked around the corner, nodding his head once he knew it was clear. It was only a matter of time until they found the nest. He could feel it in his bones.

“Cmon, where are you, you fanged freaks?”

Almost as if on cue, three hulking figures lunged out of the shadows. The first two gunning for Dean while the third went for Sam.

There was a series of yells and groans as the brothers were tossed back, the strength of the monsters clearly underestimated by both. And before Dean could make his next move he was pinned back against the wall, struggling as he watched Sam fight off his own attacker.

Nothing could ever be easy for them, could it?

“You know- is it just me or did this use to be easier?” Dean huffed, once again attempting to swing at the other advancing vamp as he tried to catch his breath.

“It’s just you.” Sam was able to speak through harsh breathing, successfully wrapping his fingers around the machetes handle once more and severing the head of one of the beasts.

“Are you sure-“ panting, Dean tightened his grip on his own blade, mustering up a burst of strength as he threw the vamp off, separating its head from its shoulders in one clean swipe before it could advance once more. “Because I could have sworn this used to be easier.”

Taking down the second one, the jade eyed hunter momentarily paused, placing his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath.

“Maybe you could stop talking and help me!

“Right, right. I’m coming. Hold your horses.” Rushing across the cement floor, Dean quickly yanked the vamp off his struggling brother before sending its head rolling across the floor to join the others.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” Letting out a sigh, Dean used the back of his hand to wipe the blood from his face, before extending it to help hoist his brother to his feet. “You good?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m all good. You?”

Dean opened his mouth to respond but was cut short when another vamp came barreling into him from out of nowhere. He heard Sam let out a shout as his body hit the floor, skidding slightly across the cement surface, only to be stopped by the harsh impact of his skull hitting the opposite wall, the sheer force making his teeth clack together.

Luckily Sam raced forward before the monster could do any more damage and like all the other before it’s head was quickly detached from his body. The machete blade swinging trough the air in a deadly arc as it did so. Once the body hit the ground, Sam was racing forward, knees hitting the pavement harshly as a sudden wave of fear washed over him.

“Dean! You okay?”

The hunter let out a grunt, slowly moving to prop his back against the wall, his bloodied hands nursing his head as waves of pain racked his body, stemming from the point of contact. There was definitely a concussion. No doubt about that.

Slowly pushing himself to his feet, Dean wobbled slightly. The throbbing in his head only increasing as he tried to move. He closed his eyes, hand still planted on his forehead as he winced.

“That. . . Was not fun.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes Sam! I’m fine.” Dean grumbled, squatting down to pick up his machete. “Now can we go? Jobs done.”

As Dean started down the now empty hallway, Sam paused to watch him go, concern still heavy on his features. Even if his brother complained he was gonna make Cas check on him just to be sure. He had hit the wall hard- enough to the point where it had the younger Winchester worrying.

*. *. *. *. *. *.

“I told you! I’m fine!” Swatting are the angels hand, the hunter leaned back in his seat.

“Dean, just let me check. Sam said you hit the wall pretty hard.” Cas sighed. “I can understand his concern.”

Whipping his head around, Dean sent a sharp glare at his brother, saluting him with a middle finger. “You need to stop worrying. I’m fine.”

“C’mon man. Just let him check.”

Dean grumbled under his breath before nodding. “Fine! Fine. work your weird angel mojo.”

Once given the okay, Cas hesitantly leaned forward to place a warm hand against his temple, his eyebrows furrowing on contact. His facial expression immediately caught both brothers attention, Sams face falling into one of concern for what felt like the hundredth time in the last two days.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

Swatting his hand away once more, Dean stared up at the angel. He wasn’t convinced. “What do you mean nothing? Your face ain’t saying nothing.”

“No Dean. What I mean is that I can’t find anything wrong.” Cas paused, looking past Dean to his younger brother. “How hard did you say he hit the wall?”

Sam let out a sigh, arms folding tightly over his chest. “I- I don’t know exactly. But I practically heard it from across the room. It was a cement wall Cas.”

“So I got lucky.” Dean shrugged, popping up from his seat in the library. “Sometimes that happens. Calm down.”

Unfortunately his steps were halted when a hand came down on his shoulder, stopping him from leaving the room. “Dean, if anything you should at least have a concussion.”

“Well, like I said before: I got lucky. Now if you both could stop babying me I would be eternally grateful.” He let out another sigh, raking a hand through his hair. And with that the hunter turned on his heel left the library, leaving two concerned people in his wake.

*. *. *. *. *. *.

It started with little things at first. For the first week Dean did nothing but try and nurse his headaches from his collision with the concrete floor back at the warehouse. Just headaches, nothing unusual about them. Nothing worth mentioning to his brother and Cas at least. But it was around week three that things started to shift. He didn’t catch them at first, the actions small enough to practically fly under is radar. . . almost.

It started last Tuesday when he came back from a supply run with a bag of candy he had no recollection of buying, and then quickly realized he didn’t even like that particular kind. He hesitated for a moment before ultimately deciding to throw it out. At first it caught him off guard but it only took a few more minutes before he shrugged it off.

Three days later he was doing research for a case in the library and turned to his left to ask a question only to find nobody there, his brother seated across from him, nose buried in a lore book. He stared at the vacant seat for a few seconds before passing over that as well.

Glancing at the lone clock hanging above the table in the kitchen, the older Winchester let out a yawn, trudging across the cold linoleum floors towards the coffee pot. His mind going into autopilot as he poured himself a cup, and then another, extending the second cup as if to pass it to somebody.

Halfway through his action Dean paused, eyebrows drawing together as he looked at his extended arm and the other cup of coffee balanced in it. Nobody else was here and he wasn't one to pour his brother coffee either.

“What the h-“

“Morning.” The sudden voice behind him slightly startling him, sending hot coffee splashing onto his hand.

“Jeez, Sam! A little warning next time.” Dean huffed, setting his own mug down so he could use his sleeve to wipe the dark liquid off.

“Sorry.” The younger Winchester mumbled, stepping down into the kitchen. “Thanks for pouring me coffee though.” Stepping forward he took the spare cup from his still outstretched hand, Dean arm staying in place for another moment as he tried to figure out what the hell had just happened.

“.. . No problem.”

“Dude, you okay?” Sliding into one of the vacant seats at the table, Sam sent his brother a questioned glare from over the lip of the coffee mug, Deans eyes fixated on his now empty hand.

“Yeah, yeah. Just had some serious deja vu.” Quickly shaking his head, Dean tossed the incident to the back of his mind, sliding into his own seat. “Nothing to worry about.”

Part 4 coming soon

SPN Taglist (still open!)

@familybusinesswritingbro@a–1–1–3 @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @music-is-all-i-need @agusdoti @callmekda @jordangdelacruz @orphiceseum @andthatsmyworld @marvelfangirllll @fandomnerdespressourself @gladiosamicitias @castielsangelsx @lxstgxrl-ck @tis-i-the-wayward-idgit @amendoise @phoenixuprisingsstuff @ericalynne007 @kaitlaitlaitl @neerness @totallyluciferr @supernaturalenchanted @dolanfivsosxox@supernatural-ocs @emptycanvasposts @akshi8278 @defenderrosetyler @heyyy-hey-babyyy @idksupernatural @vicmc624 @all-will-be-well-love

#supernatural #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #spn x reader #dean winchester imagine #bi-danvers writing #supernatural imagine #supernatural x reader #dean x reader

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iwrestlenow · 3 years

Text

Many More To Die - Chapter 2

TITLE: Many More To Die (Chapter 2)

FANDOM: Sanders Sides (Necromancer AU)

SUMMARY: Names are powerful things--and after ten years, Logan's has acquired quite a bit. The restoration of his power is something he has to fight viciously to keep secret...But he's not the only necromancer who's in hiding. Above his head, Roman is being introduced to the people of the Kingdom's as his father's successor--but someone in the shadows is coming for the royal house of Sanders, of which Roman is part.And Logan will not stand for someone laying figurative hands on anyone that belongs to him.

SHIPS: Logince (Logan/Roman), future Moceit (Patton/Janus) and Dukexiety (Remus/Virgil)

WARNINGS: lots of death because necromancy, slash, and more to come as I figure it out ‘cause it’s late and I’m tired. In this particular chapter, CW for angst--I’ll post what kind at the end if you want to avoid spoilers, but I’m warning because for me? It’s a triggery subject. Be safe, you’re all so sweet and ILU.

Also, no betas, we die like men.

NOTES: This is based on the gorgeous piece of art by @gretacticdraws that can be found here. I ended up writing a ficlet for it, and then my brain got swallowed up. Breathe at me wrong, and I’ll write more…hell, who am I kidding? I’ll write more anyway because this? Is self indulgent drivel. XD

Also located at AO3 over here.

1025, A.A.

“Berry?”

Logan was yanked from a sound sleep by the utterance of his name—not the sound, but the feeling of it. Crawling around inside his skull like ants, static electricity shocking his neural pathways and the core of his essence. It was red strings and his first meal after that one stretch in the dungeon's blackout cells after he punched the guard that dislocated his shoulder.

Logan Berry. Logan Berry. The gift from his guardian angel was two years old at this point...and Logan was starting to wonder if it was more than just a small reminder of his personhood, to keep the harsh world around him from breaking his spirit.

Sitting up, Logan rubbed his eyes and reached for his glasses where they sat on the floor beside his pallet. When they had finally given them back to him two weeks after his arrival, the right lens had been all but shattered. The guard who had returned them—the same one who injured him—smiled far too wide for Logan's liking, inciting the attack that had gotten him punished.

“I am awake.” he announced softly, sliding his glasses on and rising from his pallet to approach the bars of his cell. Squinting in the low torchlight, he searched...

A point of bright yellow sunlight, slit down the middle by a reptilian pupil gleamed in the shadows before the body it was attached to came into view. Swiftly, it was joined by another eye, very much human and dark as chocolate. A sweep of hair as black as Logan's own fell across his forehead, and the torchlight gleamed across the burnished surface of the scales that covered half of the young drake's face and neck.

“Of course.” the drake shot back dryly, not quite managing to hide the sibilant accent inherent to his species. “That's why you were snoring.”

“What do you want, Janus?”

The eighteen year old Janus narrowed his mismatched eyes at Logan—but quickly gave up on trying to look intimidating. He hardly needed it, being not only older, but the son of the captain of the guard.

“A favor.” he admitted, sparking enough of Logan's interest to banish the last of the cobwebs lingering in his head. Janus didn't like being indebted to anyone—and, to that end, usually came to Logan for favors, as Logan was always perfectly willing to trade his assistance for some commodity, be it books, food, or the repair of his glasses.

“What is the favor?” Logan asked.

Janus said nothing for a long moment, staring into Logan's face...no, not his face. Squinting, he realized Janus was quite deliberately avoiding direct eye contact by focusing on a point just above Logan's eyes, somewhere around his forehead.

“Janus?...”

Shutting his eyes, Janus ducked his head.

“I...need a name.”

“A...what?”

“A name, all right? Like the one you picked for yourself.”

Logan was startled by that request—he told no one about the boy who came to him, claimed he made up his own surname to replace the Name that was stripped away. Some of the guards disliked it, stirring fresh retellings of the legends of the Lazari: necromancers with the power not merely to raise the dead, but craft true, living souls from sheer force of will.

He even heard some new ones about the Animata: a theoretical balance to the Necromata, magic practitioners that could manipulate life the way necromancers manipulated death. From the stories Logan overheard while pretending to sleep with guards outside his cell, the Animata had been wiped out by the rise of the Animator, the First of the Necromata, leading to his rise and attempted enslavement of the Kingdoms. With the Animata gone and unable to keep the balance in check, the king had been forced to slay the Animator and had outlawed necromancy soon after.

All stories, of course...but over the last two years, as his name wormed through his brain the way the power of the prison mages had, it sometimes made him wonder. After all, mythology and legend served two functions in human history: explaining natural phenomenon that were not yet understood, or hyperbolic retellings of one or many actual events.

So the prison guards talked, wondered if Logan had designs on restoring his own Name through the adoption of a new one—but Janus, for all his trust issues and ilicit dealings, was an intelligent boy with a good head on his shoulders. He wasn't one for fanciful stories—only those that he could tell in the name of manipulating others.

Perhaps that was why he felt some measure of shame or embarrassment for asking Logan this favor? There was clearly some...unidentified emotion behind the request, and Logan wasn't particularly good at coping with emotional issues. He highly suspected that, when he still had a Name, he had been essentially the same.

“...I want to be allowed to keep books in my cell.” He hadn't meant to say anything indicating agreement—but the words fell out of his mouth without any conscious permission.

Janus's head snapped up sharply. This time, he met Logan's gaze with an intensity that was decidedly threatening.

“That's all?” he asked, squinting after a long moment. “No...commentary?”

Logan shrugged. “You know I do not care for sentiment. Your obvious flirtation with it, in this situation, does not interest me so much as what I can gain from the moment of weakness on your part.”

“Are you sure you're only fourteen? You sound way too much like my grandpa sometimes.”

Logan rolled his eyes, declining to rise to the bait. Instead, he gave the matter what he felt was a comically superficial amount of consideration.

“Hart.” he finally decided.

Janus raised an eyebrow at him, mismatched eyes losing focus for a moment before he nodded to himself.

“That...works surprisingly well.” he mumbled, seemingly more to himself than anything. Refocusing on Logan, Janus straightened and once again resumed his attempts at exuding as commanding a presence as he could manage.

“You'll get your books.” Janus assured him. “I always pay my debts.”

“Past performance indicates this is an accurate assessment. Hence my request.”

“Oh...go back to bed.”

“Gladly.”

********** 1033, A.A.

“Ladies, lords, non-binary royalty, and all of my valued subjects!”

By the gods, I'm going to throw up.

Roman stood behind the curtain on the balcony, his heart in his throat. Every part of him was screaming to run, to hide, to sink into the floor and vanish through sheer force of his desire to not be there—to push Remus out to take his place when the king made his proclamation. Already, he could feel the weight of his impending responsibilities threatening to crush him, the world narrowing and the walls closing in...

He couldn't do this. He wasn't ready. He wasn't smart like Remus or as patient as his father, he wasn't commanding enough—he couldn't be king.

But he would be. One day.

Peering through the curtain, he saw his father turn...and though the pride in his face only made the terror worse, at the same time...

He could do this. He had to.

Smiling, King Thomas Sanders IV extended a hand towards him in silent encouragement. It was the same hand he offered to those subjects that knelt before him at court to have their grievances heard, the same hand he offered to both Roman and Remus as children when they felt shy or had fallen down while playing...

...or leading him back into the house when he was out to hunt a Lazari...

“I give you your future king—Prince Roman Sanders!”

A hand fell to his shoulder, squeezing hard enough to bruise.

“Give 'em hell, Ro Bro!” Remus hissed gleefully in his ear.

It was strange, but some of the weight lifted itself off of Roman's shoulders, with his brother's hand there instead as he stepped out onto the balcony and into the sunlight.

For a moment, it was...magical. The ghost of Remus's fingers pressed into his shoulder, his father's hand curling warm around his nape—the people of the Kingdoms below, smiling and cheering in a symphony that filled his lungs as readily as it filled his ears, turning his heart into pure starlight.

For a moment, basking in his father's pride, his brother's confidence, and his people's love—he didn't just feel like he could do this, he knew that he could.

For a moment—that was all he got before his heart stopped beating.

It happened suddenly, but somehow it felt as natural as breathing. The tension of that missing engine powering the body and soul, the inability to draw breath. It was the peace of sleep, the flow of one step into the next while walking down an evenly paved road—he knew something was wrong, and yet he could not escape the manner in which it felt so normal.

Standing there, dying in front of the very kingdom he was meant to serve with no rhyme or reason for it.

Let it go...it felt so right, it felt proper.

As his vision began to dim, and the hand he'd raised to wave to the crowd started to fall by his side, he felt the urge to fight sliding out of him, eyes already slipping shut...

Easy as existing. Getting dark, time to sleep.

Until he heard a sigh next to him that was chilling.

The king.

Death no longer felt so inevitable, nor did it feel right. It was wrong, but...it was inside him, twisting and warping to form words that echoed inside his head. Something was slipping into the void left behind by the absence of a heartbeat, speaking to him in the Reaper's voice...

The necromancer.

**********

Logan was only aware of it in passing—however, Logan wasn't supposed to be capable of even that, and had to take such painstaking care to make sure that no trace of his magic could be felt anywhere. He had to keep the fact that he had power hidden, had to beat back every trace of it.

So he was aware of his magic, far more than he was aware of the distant stars that were the lives of every creature within the palace and beyond.

And the feel of his power waking, straining towards death? That hit him hard, made him focus on that awareness of what was happening.

“Lo? You okay?”

Logan spun in his seat and stood, stalking up to the bars of his cell. It was little more than a voice in another house, reaching him barely through thin walls and great distances...but it was growing closer, crossing that distance, too close too close too close...

“Logan? You're scaring me.”

Patton was at his side, watching him with wide, fearful eyes.

“Someone is killing the king.” Logan breathed.

“What? How can you possibly know that?” Patton hissed.

Logan opened his mouth...and nothing came.

Until that voice, hollow and honeyed, was suddenly in his house and in his veins and in his...in his.

For the first time, Logan understood why the Necromata were so feared—why he was locked below ground, why he had no Name of his own and why it was so desperately important to make sure no necromancer could ever practice their art.

The moment he sensed that foreign power encroaching on something that belonged to Logan alone, everything was chilling instinct and cold, calculating fury. The power swept up and took over, took action to reclaim what was being stolen.

The king was dying, but so was the Green Man.

Logan's last rational thought before an eerie blue light swallowed up his eyes and the power wiped his mind clean was that, if the Green Man was close enough to the king, he might actually be able to save them both.

********** The necromancer in the dungeons. Roman could feel it, he was certain of it...it felt cold and airy, thick morning fog swirling through his marrow yet rendering his mind strangely clear. It was familiar, not all that different from the way it felt when they touched in Roman's dreams.

The necromancer was there. He was...helping Roman.

You have to get to the king.

He didn't know, even after all these years didn't realize who Roman was, and that was the way it ought to be, and yet...he was warning Roman, he was--

The wrongness of it filled his chest in the space of a blink, filled his lungs, forced breath into his body. The fight squeezed every muscle, including his heart, in a steady rhythm that started his blood moving again. Roman tried to clutch at his chest, but he couldn't.

He felt cold all over, but his body was working, warring with some outside force, struggling to stay alive.

His body was no longer his to control, he realized with a rush of fear. The necromancer...chill fog, thick and light and clear, in his head and his veins and his heart...

Roman's body was turning, his head swiveling around, obeying an order he did not give.

The necromancer was animating him now, manipulating his every move—and all Roman could do was stand there and let it happen--

Go.

...Father!

This time, when he tried to move, his body obeyed him, his will and that of the necromancer uniting as one.

He rushed forward, reaching out...

In just enough time to catch the king as he fell, a corpse gone cold by the time the both of them reached the ground. ((CW: parental death--but this IS a necromancer AU. Just keep that in mind. XD))

#cw: angst #cw: death #sanders sides #ts logan #ts roman #roman sanders #logan sanders #patton sanders #ts morality #logince #necromancer au #thomas sanders #ts fanfic #this is all the artist's fault i'm just a hapless writer that stumbled across it #my name is liz and i swear to god i will fic again #no betas we die like men

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celosiaa · 4 years

Text

the truth is like blood underneath your fingernails (chapter 1)

Summary: Love, Hunger, pain, anxiety.

Jon feels it all at once in the wake of statement withdrawal, and can hardly bear it.

CW: use of exercise as a form of self injury, fighting, self-hatred, alcohol use, language

this is for a prompt sent in by the lovely @transcendentalbf, who requested a statement withdrawal fic. I'm not going to lie, this one got pretty heavy, even for me--and I don't usually skimp on the angst. be mindful of the tags and the content warnings! there will also be a second chapter!

Faster. Faster. Faster.

Heart pounding, pulse racing, Jon flies through the Highland countryside, hair streaming behind him from where his ponytail has come undone. There is no feeling quite like this—the shaking of effort in every corner of his body, every nerve alight, lungs heaving and overburdened. No matter the hurt, no matter the discomfort, Jon has yet to find anything so wonderfully distracting as running.

Even so, the constant static of Hunger still hums in the background, buzzing somewhere between his skull and his spine. He’s learned over the weeks of refusing it statements that he cannot run into town, cannot risk looking anyone in the eyes without being overcome by Want. The Beholding is not pleased with him, and Jon knows it—feels it in the way that his every action has been poisoned by the relentless desire to Eat and to Know.

Martin has undoubtedly gotten the worst of it. When Jon had first announced that he was going to be running in the afternoons, he was elated—chuffed at the idea of doing something together other than their routine of cooking, eating, sleeping day in and day out. Jon had even let him come on his run that day, and knows that he would have loved it, were he not prevented from applying his usual method of quite literally running himself into the ground. Their average pace was not nearly enough to distract him, or even to burn out the anxiety that’s taken hold of his chest, and so Jon had told Martin he’d prefer to be alone.

Poor choice of words.

This had caused somewhat of a row, with Jon’s sudden inability to articulate exactly what he meant providing most of the fodder. Martin was upset, thought that he had done something wrong, thought that Jon didn’t want to be with him anymore—all things that Jon knows are the fragments of the Lonely still residing in him, still marked by the faded white of his naturally dark curls. With difficulty, Jon had managed to break through, explaining that he had always liked to have some time alone. That he needed a few moments just to think and process and enjoy the peacefulness on his own.

This wasn’t entirely a lie—but it wasn’t the truth either, and it left a foul taste in his mouth all the same.

Martin had believed him, of course. He’d even apologized the next day by going down to the village and buying him a phone holster he could strap onto his arm while he runs. With a plastered-on smile, Jon had accepted the gift. He will never tell Martin that he can’t bear the way it sticks to his skin, or that playing music is completely out of the question. He will never tell him that none of this is about health or exercise—it’s about the hurt, it’s about the distraction, it’s about the punishment that Jon knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he deserves.

He’s thirty minutes into the run now, and he’s reached the point at which singular thoughts can no longer filter across his mind. Pushing constantly further, faster, harder strips all of this away, and he’s left with the blessed silence of a clear mind.

That is, until his foot lands a bit funny on a rock, and it sends shooting pains through his knee—old injury reignited in an instant.

Fuck.

He stumbles, hands reaching forward as he begins to lose his balance. Through luck, or skill, or perhaps sheer determination, he manages to stay upright and moving forward, knee throbbing in protest at every step. But he cannot afford to stop now—refuses to give in to the building static.

Breathe through it. Just breathe through it, a kind teacher had once told him in the wake of losing his parents. He does his best to follow that advice now, the pain at least giving him something to focus on, pushing the Hunger to the back of his mind. Even so, the incessant pulling at his injury is enough to plant a permanent wince on his face.

Martin is not going to be pleased with me.

---

Upon entering their little home, Jon’s senses are immediately overcome with powerful-smelling spices, floating through each and every dust-laden corner. From where he stands, he can see just a bit of Martin standing at the kitchen counter, carefully chopping an onion using the knife skills Jon had so recently taught him. In spite of himself, Jon’s chest swells with pride, pulling the corners of his mouth into a small smile, before the reality of his situation overtakes him again.

Perhaps I can sneak past, get in the shower before he notices.

Setting out to do just that, Jon silently pulls of his trainers and begins to cross the room—heel-toe, heel-toe, ever so careful of the creaking floorboards of their kitchen. But of course, Martin would choose to glance over his shoulder at this very moment.

Of course.

“Oh there you are! How was it?” he asks, voice light and jovial as he stirs something in a large pot.

“Good, good,” Jon replies hurriedly, trying to take advantage of Martin’s distraction and hobble as quickly as he can toward the shower.

“Wait, wait, before you go—come taste this and see what you think.”

Damn it.

With steps as measured and careful as he can manage, Jon walks toward him, keeping a smile firmly plastered on his face. Of course, his efforts are in vain—the second Jon begins crossing the room, Martin’s face falls.

“You’re limping. Why are you limping?” he asks, brows knitting together in concern.

“Erm—got a little carried away. I’m fine, it’ll loosen up in the shower,” Jon assures, dropping his eyes, and attempting to walk away.

Martin grabs him by his forearm—with no real force, but the pressure on his overly-sensitive skin is enough to send lightning bolts of agitation through him. Static begins to rise.

“That doesn’t look fine. Here, why don’t you sit down—”

“I’m fine, Martin—”

“Just put some ice on it for a bit—”

“I said, I’m FINE, for god’s sake!”

Jon’s words bend and twist into a seething shout as he yanks his forearm from Martin’s gentle grasp, the static flaring from him like a beacon. The eyes that meet his are no longer the loving concern of a just a few moments ago—turning hard and angry at this undeserved outburst. Staring at him coldly for a moment, Martin simply pivots on his heel and begins heatedly stirring at the large pot, head bowed.

Seeing Martin this way dissolves the fire of anger in Jon’s belly at once, replaced instead with the cold bitterness of shame.

God, what is wrong with me?

“I-I’m sorry, Martin, you didn’t…you didn’t deserve that,” he mumbles, running a hand over his wan face.

“No, I didn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

Martin does not turn around, continuing to stir agitatedly at his pot, and Jon can hear him taking deep breaths in through his nose, out through his mouth. He hates that he’s the cause of this; hates that Martin has to resort to these things just to deal with the frustration he brings to the table.

And the Eye drinks it all in.

…I can’t let it.

Resolved to at least try to make things better, Jon moves slowly around the kitchen table and to the freezer, taking Martin’s advice and grabbing a bag of frozen vegetables. Sinking down painfully into a chair, he undoes the Velcro straps of his brace and plops the pack down onto the swollen wreckage of his knee. Admittedly, Martin had been right—the coolness immediately begins to pull some of the pulsing, swelling ache from his limb, drawing a long sigh from somewhere deep in his chest.

“You need to prop it up too, here—”

Martin has turned back to him at last, reaching around behind Jon to grab a pillow from the sofa and set it on the chair in front of him. As Jon begins to lift his leg up and onto it, he cannot quite bite back a groan of pain, nor hide the wince that floods his face. Concernedly, Martin watches him, hands on his hips in consternation.

“You really did a number on yourself, didn’t you?” he mutters softly, brows knitting together.

Jon cannot bring himself to answer, too ashamed even to look up.

Don’t worry about me, he wants desperately to say. I’m not worth it.

I’m not worth the hurt that I cause.

When Martin turns away again without a word, Jon’s chest aches in a way it hasn’t in quite some time. Certainly not since he heard those devastating words in the Lonely, from Martin’s own mouth—

“I really loved you, you know?”

Perhaps the same is true now.

“Loved.”

Jon squeezes his eyes shut against the rising tide of emotions, threatening to burst from him when—

Martin kneels in front of him, placing a second frozen bag beneath his knee before carefully wrapping an ace bandage around both, holding them together around the joint with a wonderfully relieving pressure. At once, Jon’s eyes begin to sting.

I don’t deserve this.

“Thank you,” he whispers, full of shame. “I’m sorry.”

From where he kneels in front of him, Martin lifts his head to search Jon’s eyes for a moment, worrying at his bottom lip in consideration. At last, he stands to his full height, taking a deep breath before removing the dish towel from where he’s draped it across one broad shoulder. He swipes it gently over the beads of sweat that are still rolling down Jon’s face, and to his utter surprise—kisses him tenderly over the temple.

Jon’s cheeks flare with heat at this, warmth immediately pooling in his stomach.

He is utterly, hopelessly smitten with the man in front of him.

God help him.

“It’s alright, Jon,” Martin says at last, voice returning to something approaching his normal volume.

“Look, I’m really proud of you for running, alright? It’s good for you. But not when your hurt yourself like this,” he continues, tapping lightly at the packs encasing Jon’s knee, forcing Jon to meet his eyes with the intensity of his stare.

“It’s not worth that. Okay?” he ends in a whisper.

Jon merely nods, overwhelmed and embarrassed by the entire situation. Martin, gentle as always, reaches a hand up toward his hair, pushing down the frizzled locks that had been blown wild by the Highland winds.

“Alright, then,” he adds simply, turning back to their dinner with a lopsided smile.

---

The next day, Jon finds himself scarcely able to bear this particular combination of pain and Hunger.

Martin had made him promise the previous evening that he would take the day off from running, allowing his knee at least the chance to heal up a bit before he began abusing it again. While he knows Martin is right, knows he’s trying to look after him—Jon cannot bear the roiling anxiety of inactivity, his body screaming at him to run run run just to escape his own mind.

Once again, Martin bears the brunt of it all.

He knows he’s being impossible; knows that Martin is nearly at his wits end, yet the relentless static fuzzes out whatever words he’s snapping at him now—and for what reason, Jon is no longer sure. The anger tumbles out of him like ink over parchment, pulling all his pain, frustration, and Hunger from his shaking form and placing it on Martin’s shoulders.

And Martin is beyond overwrought.

Turning toward him sharply, Martin bears down on him with cold gaze.

“You know what? I’ve had enough! I’ve had enough,” he shouts, voice melting into a laugh that holds no humor.

Jon’s mouth snaps shut at once, the static fading to nothing now that it’s work has been done.

“I consider myself a patient person, Jon, I really do—but this has pushed me quite to my limit, so congratulations,” he spits, grabbing his keys from the table.

No no no no no

“I’m going to the village. Don’t wait up,” he mutters with finality, striding across the room and out the door with a BANG.

Oh god oh god oh god

Left alone now in the quiet emptiness of their—of Daisy’s house, Jon stumbles backwards, burying his face in his hands.

Why did you do this why did you do this why did you do this

He begs the Eye to answer him, beating his palm into his own chest, and cannot hold back the flood of Knowledge seeping across his mind.

His love, leaning against the side of the cottage, chest heaving with sobs.

His love, striding angrily down toward the pub, tears still streaming down his face as it begins to rain.

His love, getting sloppy-drunk alone, all alone—with no one to walk him home, to make sure he’s safe—

Please.

I can’t bear it.

Please.

Jon folds forward over his legs, sick at the thought that he caused this, that he’s the one who so severely hurt him—and promptly falls to the floor in a wave of dizziness.

God, Martin.

I’m so sorry, my love.

Even now, he cannot bring his tears to the surface, simply lying on the floor until his chest no longer feels as though it’s been pinned to the earth’s core. At last, he forces himself to get up, to move forward—shirking the thought of dinner and moving directly up the stairs toward their bed.

Daisy’s bed, he corrects himself internally.

God knows if he’ll ever come back to make it ours.

---

Jon cannot bring himself to any semblance of sleep until he knows Martin has returned.

The Eye constantly pulls at him to look, to see where he’s gone and what he’s doing now, but Jon refuses. He will not invade Martin’s privacy like that—not if he can ever help it.

Please come home.

Please.

Lying silent and still beneath the covers, the room around him is illuminated only by the light of the moon peeking in through the window. Even in the stillness there remains the static, though pushed down considerably now by the weight of Jon’s own sadness. Of his regret.

Drink it. Drink it all, if that will satisfy you, Jon thinks bitterly, wishing to god that it would be enough.

At last, he hears the unlocking of the front door below—a bit clumsy and heavy-handed, telling Jon immediately that he’s still a bit drunk. Relief floods him at the sound all the same, and he turns away from the bedroom door to feign sleep, wanting to give Martin some privacy.

Though his movements are somewhat sloppy with alcohol, Martin does his best to tiptoe quietly around the room, undressing to his boxers and replacing his jumper and binder with a t-shirt. Slowly, ever so slowly, he crawls into bed, making every effort not to disturb Jon at the other side. Jon feels as though he could cry with the obvious love he pours into every gentle motion, before—

He can sense Martin’s arms reaching for him, hovering over his back to pull him close, as always—before dropping them.

God.

He settles instead for pulling the blanket further over Jon’s shoulders, muttering as he does so, words slurring—

“Don’ understand. Jus’ don’ understand.”

Oh, Martin.

Jon’s heart crumbles to pieces.

He cannot bear to leave this the way things are—not tonight, nor any other. Flipping around at once to face him, Martin’s eyes snap back open—wide with concern and anxiety.

“I know you don’t, Martin. I know, and I’m so sorry,” Jon whispers, cupping his cheek with one scarred hand, tears still burning painfully in his throat.

Martin’s tears seem to have no trouble reaching the surface, spilling over at once in rivulets down his face and off the tip of his nose.

“I don’t understand, Jon, I don’t understand,” he sobs, clapping a hand over his mouth in an attempt to stem the flow, inhaling shakily behind it.

Look what you’ve done look what you’ve done

“I’m so sorry, darling, none of this is your fault, I’m so sorry” Jon murmurs over and over, pulling Martin into his chest—an invitation for him to let go of all his anger and sadness in the crook of his shoulder.

Martin does so, clutching at Jon’s back until the drink-induced drowsiness pulls him under at last.

Jon lies awake—still in the silence, still in the rising static.

I’m sorry, my love.

I’m so sorry.

(chapter 2 here)

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #jonmartin #hurt/comfort #angst #whump #injury #alcohol #fighting #unhealthy coping mechanisms #trans martin

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pinesprings · 4 years

Text

Aetea: Chapter 1

(Just give me a reason, why is it so hard to find one)

Chapter Two

Summary: All hell breaks loose when JJ returns 'home' for the first time after John B's disappearance.. Luckily for him, Kiara would have never let him go in the mouth of the wolf alone

Notes: This had been chilling in my WIPs for some time now, figured I'd post for @jiaraweek . I only hope I'm not too late😅. Second chapter is almost done and on the way! (let me know if you'd like to be tagged)

Warnings: child abuse, blood and violence, head injury, injuries, panic attacks I guess. In one word, angst.

Reading time: 14 mins (1.7k words)

Or read here on ao3

***

Have you ever felt being buried alive in your brain? Your thoughts working tirelessly with your fear as a shovel, desperate to finish piling dirt over your bare body, drowning you with the mud of your deepest worries proving true.

In case you don't know how it feels to want to scream but no sound coming out, because your throat is clogged with the handfuls of panic and your trachea is crushed by the sheer brutality of your cries, you don't know how Kie felt in that moment. The undercurrent of anguish flowed through her veins instead of blood and she couldn't bring herself to hold back the muddy tears.

"Stop!! You're gonna kill him!!"

JJ landed hard on the corner of the small accent table with a sickening thud, the force of the impact knocking the wind out of his lungs, but as the father lunged forward to deliver another blow at the son, Kiara's heart ripping protest went to waste.

He laid where he fell, his body a mere mess of exerted limbs, when several cruel kicks shoved that mess to the side, coming down with brutal force, crushing his ribs, as they had done only so many times before.

Kiara averted her blurry gaze from the scene, hot tears streaming down her face as she broke into uncontrollable sobs.

"You piece of shit! You so naive, thinking I wouldn't find out? Yer even more useless than I thought you were! Ya hear me?!"

And he heard, the words just another dart aiming straight at his heart, only intensifying his physical pain. JJ glanced at Kiara, something akin to guilt dimming the light in his eyes and she shuddered, because it shouldn't have been there.

Before the boy could feel more guilty for the anguished expression on her face, the beast yanked his barely conscious son from the collar of his shirt and lifted him inches above the ground. He stared directly into his blue eyes, one bruised and swollen from the punches. Although, he shouldn't be called a beast, she was being too kind, too easy on him,, Kiara thought while her tears of despair mixed with her repulse for the... the monster.

The father's face contorted in a horrific display of his madness, shaking the boy who was desperately gasping for air. The strangled noise that escaped his torn lips broke Kie's heart and twisted her insides, making her cringe in pain.

She shouted at the monster to let go of JJ so loud that the words grazed her throat, or maybe she thought so because of the lump that had formed there since they first set foot in this house of nightmares.

"Stop.."

The monster did not stop.

"Please!"

The monster didn't hesitate, didn't hold the clenched fists back.

"You're supposed to love him!" she yelled, still crying, still trying to find a way to make him stop, to take his focus off the blonde boy. Oh, that blonde boy, so full of life and love, now surrendered before the injustice of the world. Another dagger was hurled towards her heart, from all the slashes oozing pain and tears.

She gathered all her courage and prayed it was enough to help her drop the bomb:

"No wonder why your wife left you!"

She made sure to highlight every word to provoke him, she was going to draw him like a magnet, away from JJ, because she decided she couldn't bear it anymore. She couldn't bear his pain. She was being too bold, but, frankly, she didn't care. She was going to take his pain, even if that meant she had to make it hers.

Luke Maybank stopped, though he was still grasping JJ in a chokehold. His movement paused however and he responded without clenching a muscle, without turning to look at her. He stayed so awfully still and somehow that made it all so much worse.

"What did you just say?"

The monster dropped his son to fall back on the ground in a heartbeat and whirled around with a jolt. He started marching menacingly towards Kiara, her tiny frame looking like a little toy compared to his bulky build.

Kiara gulped as she backed away, but eventually her back thudded against the concrete wall and the closest possible exit was awfully far out of her reach. The monster's fist slammed the wall just above her shoulder, the force of impact causing the cheap plaster to peel away and turn into nothing more but a stain on Kiara's luscious locks and litter the ground. She yelped in surprise and terror, recoiling into a small bundle of tanned skin and raising her arms protectively around her head.

JJ laid hopelessly on the ground, coughing furiously and spitting blood, leaning on his elbow as to not choke. However when Kiara's yell so much as reached his ears, his every cell shifted towards the horrific sound.

As he watched his father looming over her and daring to threaten her, at the prospect of him laying his filthy hands on Kie- on his Kie, something finally clicked inside of him.

There was only one piece of the puzzle left and it was a perfect fit. The words, the bruises, the feelings, the pain- all composing a perfect symphony, a complex mosaic that finally spelled it out for him, loud and clear.

It was all fucking wrong.

He had known before too, but now, he knew.

Infuriated beyond reason, he wasn't bound to give up. Adrenaline rushed through his veins, summoned by all the years of mutual hell carved into his brain with the claws of injustice.

"Hey, old man!"

He took a moment to recollect the broken pieces of his self as he struggled to get back on his feet before continuing.

"Tired already?" he snarled, his mouth was dripping poison, his senses only slightly swimming. His irises contracted with hate because no matter how much it hurt to , he despised the man his father was, loathed him with a every bruise and every cut- with every fiber of his being. Years and years of despair and sorrow concealed by his disconsolate need to justify the cruelty, to be guilty of something, to find reason in the lack of affection in his father's eyes.

No matter how hard he wished, he could never find a reason.

Because there was fucking none.

The monster smirked with amusement at the comment, a gesture that only made Kiara fee morel sick. He arched an eyebrow in fake astonishment as he hissed a reply.

"You up for more, chum?"

Before he could finish poisoning the air with his alcohol scented words he was tackled over the table by his son, the sudden and violent motion earning a sharp shout of pain from them both. Soon they were brawling across the narrow room, knocking furniture aside and crashing the more fragile objects with swift, unfocused movements.

"Kiara!", the blonde yelled, and it was almost a plea, "Get the hell out of here, now!"

JJ's fist found his father's face in a glorious moment, and the monster briefly stumbled backwards before finding his balance and jabbing an elbow to his son's sides, making him groan involuntarily.

"I- I'm not leaving you!" Kie stuttered and stating her defiance to get to safety only earned her a pained glance from JJ. It was a simple look and though it lasted for half a second, Kiara could easily interpret the meaning behind it. Carefully concealed in his silence but there, was an defeated why. Why bother. It made the fire in the veins of her neck flare up and one more blade to penetrate her skin. It made the unshed stars of glistening tears sting and burn with renewed passion.

Was he really even questioning it? Was he that oblivious?

"Because I love you."

It was less than a whisper, perhaps simply a breath of wind softly hummed between cerulean waves.

Softer than the mellow aftertaste of a tangerine and coral painted sky, dispersing into a star studded darkness of the night. The bittersweet smile of an end and a beginning. Still, JJ caught it and clung to the words, unblinking, and beautiful like a god sculpted out of aegean marble. Mouth agape, scrambling to grasp the meaning, to wrap his head around the endless possibilities behind a door previously locked being slammed open before his eyes, so suddenly and widely it feels like a fever dream. Kiara's breath hitched, either aghast at her own revelation, either in the aftermath of her subsiding weeping.

Half a second had passed, and still it was enough for the monster to regain his strength. He darted forward and pushed with all his might, and suddenly JJ was sent tumbling to the ground. Kiara jolted at his fall, her breathing growing ragged and shallow, her chest heaving desperately in search of air, to no avail.

With every punch Kiara was spiraling further down, further away, until she couldn't feel, and she couldn't hear, and she couldn't see through the wet and cloudy barricades oozing from her hollow eyes.

There's a scream, muffled and desperate. And there's blood accompanying the sharp crunch of bone. There's blood on knuckles and there's blood on face. There's blood on her vision, dragging her back to reality, anchoring her mind to the pain and her feet to the wooden planks a little too dirty to belong to an inhabited home.

But as Kiara stood rooted to the ground, her legs slowly being deprived of feeling as her whole body was shaking in loud sobs of despair, she felt something entirely different. Right there, in the pit of her stomach, was brewing something other than the sickness and nausea that overwhelmed her.

It was gaining ground. Winning.

Anger.

Rage that fueled up her courage, the intoxicating need to express itself started pulling her invisible strings.

In the haze of her madness she grabbed the very first thing she was able to reach with nervous and tense, although concentrated movements.

JJ's weak groans hadn't subsided until he drifted out of consciousness. The monster kept on hitting his son mercilessly. Devoured by his unquenchable desire for pain the monster didn't notice how that 'pathetic little bitch' that had come along with his disappointment of a son, towered over his unprotected back.

Steel determination adorned her still watery eyes. Only a shrieking cry reached the monster's ears, and even thay was hollowed out by his blood lust.

He turned around just in time to feel the cold glass shatter, and sink into his scalp.

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havendance · 4 years

Text

The Gaang as MASKS Playbooks

(Because I am nothing if not a creator of niche content when I actually make stuff.)

This is for the Alternate Universe where they’re all superheroes because I love both MASKS and Avatar and I have opinions that I’m going to share. There’s at least two potential playbooks for each character because there’s a lot of possibilities and different playbooks can focus on different aspects of the characters. Plus, more option is always good.

Anyway, without further ado (under the cut because this got long, I have a lot of thoughts on this matter apparently) the Gaang as MASKS playbooks:

Aang

The Legacy - This is the one that makes the most sense to me and the one that I feel most reflects Aang’s core internal conflict in the show. The legacy is all about bearing the weight of previous generations and their accomplishments and actions. Aang is just the latest in a long line of heroes known as The Avatar who can wield all four elements. For the portion of the playbook that’s about interacting with previous members of the legacy, you could either go with him talking with the past lives like we see in the show or, alternatively, the past couple Avatars could still be alive and kicking. Either way, they’re still watching what he’s doing and trying to push him in what they think is the right direction.

The Nova - This one fits a little less but could still work. The Nova playbooks’ about having a huge amount of power that you can’t necessarily control. For the most part in the show, we don’t see Aang worrying about not being able to control his bending, but this playbook would play more into his fear of losing control in the Avatar state and his worries about hurting someone with firebending.

The Outsider - Okay, this one is a bit of a stretch since the playbooks’ weighted in favor of the hero being an alien or from another dimension. But! I feel like you could definitely hack the playbook to accommodate Aang just being from a hundred years in the past as well if you want to play with that aspect of canon Aang. This playbook would definitely lean more into the whole ‘a lot has changed in a hundred years’ thing. (The Innocent playbook is explicitly from the past, however, it also has a future, supervillain version of yourself running around which, while could be cool for Aang, also deviates a lot from canon

Katara

I’m going to be honest, Katara was the hardest one for me to come up with. None of the MASKS playbooks’ particular flavors of teenage angst really jive with Katara’s drive and passion to help people and make the world better after it hurt her. I’m going to toss out a few options here, but if anyone else has any better ideas here, feel free to add on.

The Legacy - Katara as this playbook would really play into her status as the last Southern Waterbender. It’d take tweaking of the playbook but you could shift it so it’s about this legacy of heroes and more about the legacy of her culture. So it’s less about the outward pressure to uphold the legacy and more about the inward pressure from herself to uphold it.

The Protege - The Protoge playbook has a specific mentor who’s trying to shape the hero into their vision of how a hero should be. Using this playbook, you could definitely really examine her relationship with Pakku or Hama. However, it’d definitely be exploring more of a niche of Katara than her overall character.

The Soldier - Once again, this recommendation is based less on canon and more on stories that would be potentially interesting to tell. The Soldier playbook focuses on the relationship between a hero and the larger organization that they’re a part of (the generic on the game gives is a SHEILD equivalent). I could see Katara being a passionate member of a similar organization (possibly one White Lotus themed since this is the Avatar version of MASKS) and trying to change the world through that. I feel like this is one where Katara’s character could definitely shine, however, it’s definitely a setup that doesn’t have a lot of basis in canon so if you were wanting to play Avatar more straight in MASKS it wouldn’t work as well.

Sokka

The Beacon - Sokka is a textbook beacon. The beacon is a low-powered hero who’s in the heroing business because it’s fun and exciting and a lot of their angst draws from the fact that they aren’t really sure if they belong in a world of superpowered individuals. Sokka’s got his boomerang, he’s got his sword, and he’s got his tactical mind. All of his friends are like crazy powerful. He’s the Beacon.

The Joined - The joined is a playbook that shares a lot of the material of another playbook; the two characters have a close relationship. Now, I’m not saying that Sokka’s just playing second fiddle to Katara. What I am saying is that it was Katara’s idea to become a superhero in the first place and she dragged him along with her into it. Did Sokka want to be a hero? No, he want to stay home and focus on taking care of his family. He didn’t want to be the Painted Dude or whatever Katara said his hero name should be. But does his sister listen to him? No.

Suki

I, unfortunately, have less to say about Suki. We should’ve gotten more of her in the show, that’s what I’m going to chalk it up to.

The Protege - Okay. I will admit, this one is purely what I think would be cool and isn’t actually based in canon. But imagine: Suki as the protoge of Avatar Kyoshi who’s still alive, still kick ass, and still very opinionated. Can’t you see the glory? The potential?

The Soldier - This playbook would probably reflect her most accurately. She’s a member of the Kyoshi Warriors first and foremost in the show and her interactions with the Gaang are always affected by that. In a superhero setting, I could definitely see her and the other Kyoshi warriors being some sort of superhero squad that works throught the SHEILD equivalent

Toph

The Janus - The Janus is the spiderman playbook. You’ve got a mundane life, you’ve got a secret identity, and you’ve got to balance them. Toph is rich heiress of the Bei Fong family by day, and notorious vigilante The Blind Bandit by night. This is the perfect playbook to explore the dual life Toph led before she straight up joined the game. Her parents are super annoying, her life’s a drag, at least as a hero she can be free and who she really is.

The Delinquent - The Delinquent is, in essence, a rebel. Try and tell me that that’s not Toph ‘Let’s break some rules!’ Bei Fong. I mean, just look at some of those playbook moves: Troublemaker, I don’t care what you think!, Team? What Team?, Mary Contrary. Those are such Toph moves.

Zuko

Okay, Zuko has a lot of possibilities. I’m going to blame it on the sheer amount of angst that boy has packed into him.

The Soldier - Okay. I know that I’m using the soldier a lot (it’s because they’re all child soldiers) but hear me out. This would be Zuko if you wanted to play with him going through his redemption. In this case, the Fire Nation wouldn’t super obviously supervillains. They’d probably be some sort of organization that looks outwardly good but is secretly fishy. Ozai’s at the top and of course Zuko’s loyal to them. They’re the good guys. (They aren’t.) The soldier isn’t specifically about breaking away from your organization but it definitely can be.

The Reformed - This playbook fits post redemption Zuko like a glove. The Reformed playbook is one where you were specifically a supervillain previously. You’ve done villainous things, but now you’re a good guy and it’s complicated. I don’t think I really need to explain why this playbook is Zuko. It just is.

The Janus - This is for all of you Blue Spirit!Zuko needs. Look, his life sucks, his Dad’s a jerk. There’s way too much expected of him. At least he can put on this Blue Spirit mask and go out and do vigilante stuff.

The Scion - I’m going to be honest, I’m not super familiar with this playbook but I feel like I have to mention it because it’s about being the child of a supervillain. So I’m tossing it out there. Other people who actually know about this playbook can talk about whether or not it actually fits Zuko.

Bonus:

Mai - The Beacon. She’s the least enthusiastic Beacon you’ll ever meet, but look at her and tell me that she’s not in this because being a hero is the most interesting thing that’s ever happened to her. Her life was so boring before Ty Lee walked up to her and was like hey, let’s be vigilantes together. She’d never admit it, but she loves being a hero.

Ty Lee - The Star. The Star playbook is all about being flamboyant, showy, a celebrity. Being a hero is what separates her from her sisters and she’s going to milk it up. She’s still non-powered for the first part, only having her martial arts and auras, but she knows how to play it up. She definitely has a huge social media following.

Finally, The Outsider playbook could work for any of the characters if you just want to play it straight as a character from the Avatar universe getting dragged into this alternate world of superheroes.

Feel free to discuss and share any ideas you have!

#atla #avatar the last airbender #masks rpg #aang #zuko #sokka #katara #toph #suki #AtLA x MASKs #superhero au #i have thoughts and opinions #occasionaly i share them #now i want to play masks with these characters #let me tell stories about the adventures of boomerang man and the blind bandit #the kyoshi warrior and the painted lady #the avatar and the blue spirit #it would be epic #that's all i'm saying

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whatcouldgowrong-ohthat · 4 years

Note

Wherever you will go by Charlene Soraia for the drabble ask

Nonnie, I think you’re trying to kill me. That was so...so heartbreakingly sweet. I knew the version by The Calling, but DAMN.

Anywho - thank you for the ask. The first time I listened to it - I was gonna write Ro x Loki from her perspective, but then I gave it a second listen and got a really sweet idea for another pairing.

Wherever You Will Go

Marie x Shuri

Summary: Shuri’s got it bad, but with her responsibilties, can she be there for Marie the way she wants to?

Warnings: Bit of angst, Shuri’s majorly crushing and Marie’s oblivious, also Shuri being awkward and adorable

Word Count: 1443 words

A/N: This does have a bit of spoilers for What We Do To Live (like what I’m doing with Shuri’s character, that sort of thing)

Shuri knew what it meant to work hard. Even before, when T’Challa ruled, she understood. But Marie’s obsessive nature took the idea to a whole other level. One that left her more than a little concerned.

Shuri stood in the doorway of Marie’s lab. She knew very well that Marie was oblivious to her presence. Her hoodie was pulled up, its massive sleeves rolled down and barely short enough to reveal her fingers. Shaking her head, Shuri didn’t need to be standing next to her to know that the Cajun’s nails were bitten down to the nub.

She was obsessing. Not that Shuri blamed her – the reason was good enough. But still…

So lately, been wondering… Who will be there to take my place When I’m gone, you’ll need love To light the shadows on your face If a great wave shall fall It would fall upon us all And between the sand and stone…

Could you make it on your own? The question bounced around in the queen’s head as she noticed three empty boxes of pop tarts on the edge of the desk. They looked like an attempt at a tower, hovering over the corner and ready to fall at a moment’s notice. Shuri wondered if that’s what it was like in Marie’s brain.

Everything balanced; yet so close to crashing down.

“Marie?”

The hacker either didn’t hear or didn’t register that Shuri had spoken. Not surprising. Normally it took a couple tries. But Shuri didn’t mind. She walked closer, her feet almost silent against the floor. When she was just behind Marie’s chair, she realized she had earbuds in. They were blaring music and Marie’s fingers, a blur against the keys, were making an odd sort of music on their own.

It was desperation that drove Marie to points like this. In the year the two had known each other, that was one of the first things she had learned. Taking a seat in one of the spare chairs, she propped her arms on her knees and simply watched. It was fascinating to see someone excel at something Shuri didn’t like enough to grasp.

Her thumb ran over her bracelet, the darker part of her mind drifting. Marie lived in a world where people were special. They were mutants. Or royalty. Or enhanced individuals. She was the only one deemed “normal,” but she was so far from it.

“She’s lost weight, Shuri.”

“My Queen, I don’t remember the last time she left the lab.”

“Are you going to tell her she can’t keep this up or am I?”

Between the others working in the lab and Bucky, everyone kept an eye on the girl. She had wormed her way into hearts out of her sheer dedication to help Wakanda and find her family. A year spent searching and a year spent helping them.

If I could, then I would I'll go wherever you will go Way up high or down low I'll go wherever you will go

Shuri knew and appreciated the responsibilities she had for Wakanda, but there was something to Marie she wanted to understand. She wanted to be there for her. She wanted to support this girl.

But would she always be able to?

Sighing softly, Shuri pushed herself to her feet. Marie wouldn’t be “present” for a while. Maybe she would try again this evening. “I’ll see you later, Marie.”

When the door hissed behind Shuri, fingers stilled. The clatter of keys came a halt. Marie looked over her shoulder, teeth worrying her lip. Threatening to draw blood. Her eyes never wavered, watching the queen’s departure. When she was out of sight, Marie took a small breath and went back to work.

And maybe I'll work out A way to make it back some day To watch you, to guide you Through the darkest of your days

“You let yourself fall so hard, Princess.”

Shuri rolled her eyes, some of that childish nature returning so easily. “I haven’t been a princess in a few years, Barnes,” knowing that it would be better to focus on the title than the comment. Bucky had grown too good at arguing with her.

“Yeah, but I don’t see a queen when you act like that same snot nosed kid I first met.” Bucky chuckled as he knocked shoulders with her, the vibranium metal of his arm glinting in the sunlight.

Oh, how she had come to rely on his friendship. Bucky coming to Wakanda was unexpected, but she would never think twice about giving up their friendship. He was a good man. Someone she could come to for advice even holding the mantels she did.

“I keep thinking about the fact that I’m Queen of Wakanda. I have a whole country to lead.” She paused at the railing, looking out at the kingdom she would die for. “Not only that, I’m the Black Panther. After seeing what happened to T’Challa…” She hesitated. The words stayed lodged in her throat, making a home for themselves there.

If a great wave shall fall It'd fall upon us all Well I hope there's someone out there Who can bring me back to you

Bucky squeezed her shoulder. “I know. He was a good man. And I’m sorry he’s not here anymore.” They were always sorry. Sorry for so many things.

Shuri blinked away tears, a watery smile appearing as she waved him off. “I don’t mind being Queen or Black Panther. I simply worry about the day where she trusts me…and I wouldn’t be able to come back to her.”

If I could, then I would I'll go wherever you will go Way up high or down low I'll go wherever you will go

Shuri had kept her silent promise, returning to Marie that evening. However, she came to a surprise when she saw that the lab was empty. “Marie?” She stepped inside, looking around. There was no sign of an altercation. If anything…

The room looked cleaner.

The three boxes of poptarts were now peeking out of the bin.

“’Ey.”

Shuri yelped, touching the necklace around her neck. Vibranium traveled over her skin instantaneously. The Black Panther suit molded to her body as she spun on her heel.

And there was Marie.

A new box of poptarts in hand. Hair in a messy bun, still wet from the shower she must have been in. She’d even changed clothes.

“You…You showered.”

Wow, Bucky would be grinning like that stupid cat of his if he heard her utter those words.

A small blush tinged Marie’s cheeks. “Uh…oui, I did. I’m not an animal,” she joked. They both knew it didn’t go unnoticed that the suit disappeared while she set the box down.

“I know,” Shuri assured her, taking a step closer. “We leave that title to the broken white boy.”

Marie snorted. It was a surprisingly cute sound matched with a scrunch of her nose that made the lines at the corners of her eyes more prominent. She smiled and laughed like that a lot. “I…” She hesitated. “I found it.”

“The Raft?” Shuri knew how hard Marie had been looking. This wasn’t a small feat by any means. “That’s amazing.” Marie smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Shuri’s eyes drifted to her fingers, noticing how she plucked at the edge of the cardboard. There was dried blood where she’d bit at the skin. “What is it?”

Marie shrugged, trying not to sound heartbroken as she asked, “What if she’s not there?”

Shuri came to her side. Her hand instantly found Marie’s, giving it a small and reassuring squeeze. She didn’t want to see this brilliant and beautiful woman spiral into her worst fears. She didn’t deserve that. Marie deserved many things, but that pain was not one of them. Softly, she promised, “Then we keep looking. It’s that simply.”

Run away with my heart Run away with my hope Run away with my love

That pained smile turned a little more genuine and finally reached her eyes. It helped Shuri relax. In that moment, she realized her heart was truly lost to this girl. Stolen by the thief that had no interest in stealing.

How cliché.

Not that Shuri minded. No, she didn’t mind one bit. She would simply have to find a way to be there. However she could, she would.

I know now, just quite how My life and love might still go on In your heart, in your mind I'll stay with you for all of time If I could, then I would I'll go wherever you will go Way up high or down low I'll go wherever you will go

A/N: Look, we all know I don’t do drabbles, but this was cute so I don’t feel bad.

Permanent Taglist (since now I have one? XD)

@butcherofblackwater

#marvel songfic #marvel oneshot #marvel au #shuri x oc #shuri x marie lebeau #fd: marie lebeau #marvel oc #marvel ofc #xmen oc #xmen ofc

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tarithenurse · 5 years

Text

Agent of Hope - 9

Your world falls into ruin together with the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcements Logistics Division when you find out that your boyfriend isn’t one of the good guys. Pairing: Brock Rumlow x fem!reader, Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader Contents: Swearing, angst, distrust, pain, hate, mentions of wounds, some unwanted physical contact (minimal). A/N: Thanks for all the reblogs, my dears! I really appreciate it and it keeps me in the mood for writing more. Hope you like this chapter!

9 - Big bad wolf

Feeling the buzzing, Natasha pulls the cellphone out under the table. The blue light is probably obvious to the people staring her down from their high seats, but she can’t care less about their self claimed entitlement after this day’s six hours (and still counting) of their brainless questioning and attempts at shoving the blame unto her and the Avengers and SHIELD. Natasha rolls the eyes at a senator before focusing on the screen between her fingers.

The chair scrapes harshly over the stone floor, sending jarring shivers through the people around the accused agent which she ignores. In fact, they could have shouted at her and she still wouldn’t have noticed. Fuck. Vaguely aware that someone is calling out to her, the woman turns and strides out of the room, attempting to lessen the pace before it becomes an actual run when she’s out in the long hallway. Shit.

The phone is partially buried in the dark, red locks that bounce and sway with each step. C’mon! Steve answers on the third ring, the sound of shots reverberating along the connection but with little effect on either of the speakers.

“Nat?”

“They got her.”

A few choice curses are dug out from the fourties. “We’re wrapping up here anyways, call you back.”

“Hurry.”

Natasha cuts the call short, fingers already itching to tap in the next number when she takes a deep breath to steel herself before stepping out the front doors and into the veritable storm of camera flashes and shouts from impatient journalists. It’s impossible to hear the beeping unless she presses the phone hard against her ear, but there’s only one ringing tone before the call is answered.

“Clint.”

The welcoming voice chuckles. “You look pissed, smile to the camera.”

It’s tempting to flip it the bird but that won’t help. “Ha…ha…no.” A murderous gaze clears the rest of the way to the car strategically parked right outside the building. “Need you asap.”

“Trouble with the press?”

The door slams, finally shielding the ex-Russian from the scuffle. “Check Jarvis’ message.”

Clint grunt unintelligibly, a sure sign that he’s following orders without wanting to miss the show on the TV where reporters are speculating on Natasha’s tire-squealing exit. There are other voices carried faintly through the phone, evidence of the balance the archer has managed to find between his occupation and a family. Something tugs at her heart and she buries the nose in the thin shirt that still smells a little bit of the woman who turned up out of nowhere.

“Crap.” He doesn’t need to say much else but adds that he’ll be ready.

But where? “Jar’s tracking them, keep you posted.”

… Reader’s PoV …

Not only is your head pounding, your body is also aching with a billion tiny razorblades swimming through your veins and to make it all worse: the place you’re at stinks of dried piss and you’re not all to sure that it isn’t coming from the sorry excuse of a mattress you’re lying on. It’s impossible to see, though, as there are no lights. Wriggling around gingerly, at least you can move freely and sit up. Where the fuck am I? The memories are blurred, only reluctantly untangling themselves from the pain and fussiness to be organized, emptying you from all but cold, immobilizing dread.

You’ve spent some of the time at the Compound by reading up on Hydra. They’ve had a hand in much more than you could ever have imagined, apparently, working from within to shape the world by enabling innumerable horrible events throughout history. If they had succeeded with the latest plan, it would only have topped the list of horrors due to the immediate number of deaths.

Now they’ve got you.

Leaning back, the wall is coarse and damp against the cotton on your back. Your bare toes are cold. Your cheeks are wet from silent tears that flow steadily no matter how hard you try to convince yourself that it’s all going to be okay. The Avengers will come. Natasha will come. Please…come for me.

Resting the back of your head against the wall sends a few crumbling bits of plaster or something down your shirt, but you don’t bother with it because you’ve noticed something else: up in the darkness more or less ahead of you, there’s a tiny dot of red light glowing. Turning your head in the darkness, you find another to your left. Cameras. Placed in diagonal corners, as far as you can judge, there’s no place you cannot be seen. But it’s dark. Do they work even now? No one has come although you’ve clearly been awake for a while, and as you wave a hand in front of your face, it’s only the brief disappearance of the light that proves the movement is real. Hesitating, you give one of the cameras the finger.

…

You’re starting to get hungry by the time footsteps approach and stop. A faint click is the only warning before a naked lightbulb overhead flickers on with an angry buzz, and you squint under the harsh glare to take in the room.

There’s a seatless toilet in one corner, the metal gleaming in the light that does absolutely nothing to improve the basement-like cell where the lowest foot of concrete on the walls is loosening the grip due to the damp. Dust lies in fat layers on the few surfaces, sticky and dark not unlike some of the patches on the mattress you’re sitting on…although a few of those are more brownish. Yuck.

The squeak of metal against metal makes your hairs stand on end. Or maybe it’s the fear of who will walk through the door as it slides open, granting a brief glimpse of a similarly nasty hallway beyond the figure.

“Hey, baby,” Brock’s voice is clipped, bandages and what-not still wrapping around his skull and jaw, “missed me?”

You don’t want to answer, don’t want to look at the broken man with eyes fiery from madness, but looking away can hardly be a safe choice either. Focusing on his chest, you realize that there must be almost no bandages hidden beneath the tight black t-shirt. How? He’d been crushed as the building fell, almost rebuild at the hospital to the extend that he was more metal and broken bones than any healthy parts.

“Don’t like what you see?” The lisp is minimal unlike the limp as he steps closer. “Look at me!” You do as he says, heart pumping in your throat and guts churning with panic. “Look what they did to me, what your new friends did to the man who loved you!”

Meeting his once gorgeous eyes is harder than anything else right now. “You did this to yourself…” is all you manage to whisper at first before finding your voice, your defiance, “you deserve what happened. Hydra? Don’t play the victim when we both know you’re not!”

Brock moves quickly considering he’s recovering and the force behind the back-hand slap is numbing the first seconds until the impact registers like fire across your face. There’s a taste of blood on your tongue, seeping out at the corner of your mouth until a strong hand grabs you by the jaw with renewed pain.

“Don’t think your friends are all that innocent, baby,” Brock hisses, his spit landing on your face, “Hydra wants a better world, I’ll make you see.”

“Njwh!” It doesn’t sound as defiant as you had hoped, but you can’t shake your head free.

A patch on his bandages along the temple darkens with moisture as Brock’s face splits in a grin. “Stubborn girl, we’re back together now, so stop fighting it.”

Surging down, his lips with all the chapped wounds and poisonous words crash upon yours. Too stunned to fight him, you feel his tongue slither along the seem of your mouth to gain entrance with nothing but sheer force. This is nothing like the passionate man you fell in love with. Gone is the caring soul, replaced by a fickle monster that will hurt you in any way imaginable…a fear that’s proven true as his teeth dig into your lower lips so hard it draws blood.

“That,” he whispers against your face before licking the hot drops of crimson away, “was just a warning.”

When he stands, he pushes you easily halfway onto the cold floor, but you don’t mind. Every fiber in you has gone numb as you come to terms with just how royally fucked you are.

Please, Tasha.

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