#look at that fuckin crystal heart i had to pain i do not know WHAT i am doin
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Day 4: Salvation | Sacrifice
A Hero's Welcome
#kingdom hearts#soriku#sora x riku#sorikuweek2023#kh3#look at that fuckin crystal heart i had to pain i do not know WHAT i am doin#very happy with how it came out regardless#do you know how many times i drew sora's shoes perfectly
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how, um, how do you feel writing something with lieb and this
"It's me or you. And in this case, we need you more than me."
just. just asking.
Well I'd feel pretty peachy, except for one thing. We didn't need to be fuckin' rescued by Patton! I wrote a story and it's a sad one.
This is from this list of sacrifice dialogue prompts.
Here, have some Lieb/Roe.
--
When Eugene gets turned around looking for the other battalions so he can scrounge whatever extra medical supplies they might have, he can usually find his way back. These woods are not his woods, not the damp, warm panoply of animals and birds, towering cypress trees, tall grasses and lilies and slow-moving water that surrounded his childhood home, but he knows how to move through them anyway, knows how to determine which way is north, to keep track of landmarks on his mental map.
As the fog comes down tonight, heavier than before, the air so cold that the moisture has crystallized, he only realizes that he’s lost when he passes a gnarled tree that he knows he passed before. He tamps down on that sinking feeling in his gut and slows down, trying to get his bearings, but the visibility is low and the woods have that eerie quiet, save for the wind, that makes it hard to think straight when he’s worried about making any noise.
He heads off in what he thinks is the right direction, his heartbeat loud in his ears the further he gets without recognizing anything, without starting to encounter familiar foxholes. The hair on the back of his neck is standing so absolutely on end that when someone says flash, he ducks low and looks around wildly in vain for a moment before he remembers the reply.
“Thunder,” he murmurs.
“I thought it was you,” someone says, also obviously keeping his voice down, and when Eugene recognizes the sound, relief floods through him.
“Joe,” he says – on a first name basis since Carentan, when Eugene had come upon him outside of the aid station after Ed Tipper got hit. The two of them, exhausted and heartbroken, had made eye contact and clocked one another so clearly and immediately that Eugene had wondered how he hadn’t seen it before, and that night they had stumbled, push-pulling, into the darkness of a deserted house and taken out their grief on each other.
“You alright?” Joe mutters, the shape of him manifesting in the fog.
“I’m alright,” he acknowledges, hunching his shoulders against the chill. “I – got lost, I think.”
“Yeah. You were gone a long time." Close like this, Eugene can make out the shape of his face and the purer darkness of his eyes, despite the moonless night.
“You didn't come looking for me, did you?” he asks.
“Well, we can’t be down a medic, Doc.” Joe’s fingers seek his out, curling around them. “Shit, your hands are cold."
“It’s a cold night,” Eugene points out. He leans into Joe’s warmth a little, braver than he might normally be out here. “Do you know the way back?”
“Yeah,” Joe murmurs, glancing briefly over his shoulder in a direction that looks the same as all the others. “It’s this way. But we’re pretty far out into no man’s land here, Gene.” He doesn’t issue the warning, because he doesn’t have to; they both start to move as quietly as they can, staying low.
When they first hear voices off to their left, Eugene freezes, and Joe follows suit a split second later. They look quickly at one another, whatever passes for an exchange of glances in the near-blackness, and Joe grabs his jacket and pulls him into a shallow ditch, behind a row of relatively intact shrubs and trees. Eugene hits his knee hard on the landing, glancing it off what might be a tree root, but he swallows down the grunt of pain. He strains his ears to listen, his heart racing, remaining stock-still as the voices draw closer.
And then a voice calls out, clearly a command of some kind, though Eugene speaks no German. He doesn’t have to be able to see Joe’s face to recognize the way his whole body tightens up like a spring.
The order comes again, and when Joe shifts, very slightly, Eugene’s hand circles painfully around his wrist.
“What are you doing?” he murmurs – so hushed, it’s almost lost to the wind, but clear and low anyway.
“They don’t have to get both of us,” Joe replies, in the tone of voice of a man who has made a decision that makes him afraid, but knows he can’t unmake it. “It’s me or you. And in this case, we need you more than me.”
Eugene redoubles his grip, leaning in, trying to memorize his face, the same way he has tried to remember each one that passed under his hands out here – the way he tried to remember his grandmother’s, leaving the Bayou and suspecting he might not see her again. “They’ll kill you,” he breathes, though he knows that mortal peril has never stopped Joe from doing anything.
“We've got no aid station or surgeon,” Joe says, more muted than Eugene had known he could be. “A lot more than me are going to die out here without you.” He reaches under the collar of his jacket, pulling his dog tags over his head and pressing them into Eugene’s palm. He closes Eugene’s fingers around them and then lifts his hand to brush a kiss across the backs of his scuffed, cracked knuckles. “Keep these safe for me.”
Before Eugene can say anything else, Joe has clambered away through the brush. A moment later, he can hear the German squad leader issuing instructions as, presumably, Joe comes into view.
He rubs his thumb blindly over the icy metal ‘H’ on Joe’s dog tag and swallows down his nausea.
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SAINTS OF WARDING; HUNGRY DEMONS
Chapter 1: In Which Lycans Encounter Magnetism
A promise was a promise. Heisenberg didn't tend to rely on much besides himself, his own two hands and his power and the furious engine of his ambitions. For decades that was all he had: the scraping and bowing he had to do to keep Miranda clueless, and the endless work in his factory, each scar and bruise and mockery and dislocated finger another push along the path to freedom. An end to the nightmare, a knife in Miranda's heart.
And now-
And now?
Snow stung at his exposed face as he shoved his way through the deepening snowdrifts, flakes catching in his lashes, blurring his vision as his sunglasses fogged up. The cold gnawed at him, deeper and deeper with each step. The forest was a smear of shadow and blizzard, snow-fog and screaming wind, Heisenberg's personal hell. No metal, nothing but trace shimmers buried deep underfoot, not enough for him to work with.
Should've pulled something from the wreck, he told himself with a grimace, but when the whole goddamn world was blowing up, he could hardly blame himself for getting the hell out of dodge and fuck the consequences.
Consequences. There would be those, wouldn't there?
There was the crackling of frozen dirt as his next step carried him further down than he'd bargained for. Heisenberg stumbled, pitching forward, hunching into the tatters of his disintegrating, mold-burnt trench coat. A whimper rose from the bundle in his arms; he squinted down, pulling aside the fabric from the baby's face.
She'd fallen asleep on the hike from the village, but now she was fussing, a fat-cheeked little brat with a scrub of blonde hair, her face reddened as she blinked up at Heisenberg. She began to whine, eyes wet, and Heisenberg gave one cheek a poke.
"I know, kid," he muttered to her. "I don't look too hot, do I?"
He'd looked worse. His memories were a shriek, a scrawl- the village consumed by a wave of mold, great pulsing black columns of the stuff erupting from the ground, a hellish forest. Like this one. She'd blown the whole place on its ass when she'd begun the ceremony, and Redfield's goons had done the rest. Now the village was a cigarette burn on a map, Winters was ash, and Miranda was...
Was-
Dead felt like a full stop, a pencil slash. Heavy, cold. Dead. Years he'd dreamed of being able to say the word in reference to her. He hadn't done it, his metal army hadn't done it, even though they'd torn through lycan and mycelium constructs alike when the fun really started. He'd sure as hell tried. Mutating was agony, a heave of power, electricity searing his vision white from the inside, from the blue-hot core his Cadou became when he floored it. A hurricane of scrap-metal welding into him, through him, until he wasn't sure what was meat and what was metal; he'd reared into the sky and he was everywhere, in the flare of his lightning, in the atoms of iron that made up his makeshift armor, in the space between them, in the pain that ripped him open and set him free. Buzz-saws screamed. Lycans popped like grapes in a microwave under his onslaught, and in the fray, in the stone ritual ground ringed by the four enthroned kings, he'd caught sight of Miranda. Black wings, black tears. The pop of gunfire. Winters, the moldy boy himself, unleashing hell.
And afterward, after Miranda fell, after Ethan went to his knees in the ruin-
Take her, you bastard.
Don't you fuckin' hand me a baby-
I said take her. And take care of her. Please.
He'd stared at Heisenberg, gaze steady even as his eyes became spheres of cloudy crystal. Rose slept in his arms, peaceful amidst the chaos.
Promise me.
A shimmer on the skin, a sound like cracking glass. He hadn't heard Ethan's last words to the kid but he'd sure as hell heard the explosion, the bomb Redfield had planted in the Black God's guts, the bomb Ethan had set off from the inside out.
Damn fool, Heisenberg thought as he stood in the snow, as Rose began to cry in earnest, big wet snotty tears. What would make a man do a thing like that? He sure as hell wouldn't.
Ethan had broken apart at the end. Sugar in the rain. His mangled hand crumbled as he'd stroked his daughter's head, as he'd bent his face to kiss her forehead once, and never again. He was dying. Maybe that was it. Maybe he'd wanted to go out on his own terms. Heisenberg got that. He'd seen enough people die in enough terrible ways to understand wanting to wrap it all up for himself in a big tidy fuck you. That had to be it.
He'd seen so many people die. People he'd known. People he-
A howl echoed over the wind. Heisenberg jerked his head up and scanned the woods. Movement flashed; he straightened, and power crackled down his nerves, arcing and reaching for metal. He might not have his hammer, might not have enough scrap to really do anything fancy, but that didn't mean he was unarmed.
Sparks popped blue-white as a fine shimmer rose from the seams of his trench coat, from the dust in his pockets. Iron filings, steel dust- metal was metal. He clenched his hand and his power flexed like a muscle, dust whirling into a column around him, movement closing in from the undergrowth, eyes glimmering green through snow. Snarls, the reek of gore, footfalls racing, leaping, ripping toward him and Rose-
Heisenberg grinned.
The first lycan erupted from the trees, lunging with claws splayed. Heisenberg whirled. The metal dust sliced into form: a long, curved blade, ragged and razor-edged. He flung his arm toward the lycan; silver flashed, taking a chunk of skull and brain matter with it. The blade shattered on impact, but as the next beast came for them, slavering for hot blood, Heisenberg was already moving.
The eyes, the throat. One fragment punched a hole straight through the Cadou squirming in the lycan's guts, and tentacles burst from the wound in a spray of crystal, the lycan's bits calcified before they scattered the snow.
"Hah! And don't come back, motherfucker!" Heisenberg roared, shrapnel whirling around him in a deadly hurricane. "Fucking magnets, am I right? This show's not over yet, and-"
Pain ripped through his side, a red bolt that pulsed in his vision. A kick sent the lycan sprawling; it cracked into a tree, jaws snapping. In a flash of electricity the shrapnel became a blade again, pressed into shape, lashing out.
Blue-white sparks streaked the air. The blow sheared through the lycan, through the tree behind it- a diagonal streak of light, the smell of metal and ozone filling the wind. The monster's eyes were wide, glazed. Wood groaned as the tree slowly tipped, as with a crash and shuddering impact, it fell, taking the head and one shoulder of the lycan with it. The rest of the monster's body flopped forward, guts steaming on the snow.
Heisenberg panted. He pushed up his glasses with a thumb and glanced at Rose. "That...that was cool, huh?" he managed. "Not bad for an improv."
He took a few steps onward, past the carnage, the dead lycans scattered, calcifying where they lay. Stray dogs, he figured, hunting for scraps after their killing ground got glassed. Soon they'd be little more than broken crystal, soon covered up by the snow.
Another bolt of pain tore him open. He let out a strangled cry and dropped to his knees. In his blurred vision, red glistened.
Blood. His blood, a streak behind him in the snow, churned up by his unsteady footprints. More spilled from him as he looked down, gently lifting a hand from Rose to probe his side. It pulsed from a deep, tearing gash just below the ribcage, rusting on his skin, wet and livid where it counted. So one of the lycans had got him good. So what? Wasn't he one of the Four Lords of the village? Wasn't he Lord fucking Heisenberg?
"I used to call the shots around there, y'know," he told Rose, who blinked up at him amidst sobs. Her small hands clenched at the air. He pinched one of them between his gloved thumb and forefinger, giving it a little shake. Her fingers closed around the worn leather. He couldn't feel it. He was numb with cold. "The place is probably looking for new management right about now. What do you say, kid? You want to live in a castle?"
One of the Four Lords of an ash-heap, more like. He laughed; it sounded like a snarl. Consequences. He'd never pictured it this way. He'd always pictured his death as something...dunno, fiery. Badass. Not bleeding out holding a baby in the snow in the middle of some goddamn fucking stupid-ass forest.
Guess we never know, he thought, and then he was falling.
***
Watery sunlight.
A garden, familiar.
A girl stood in the flowers, a sprig of yellow blossoms clenched in her hand. Her back was to him. She stared off, through the sun-haze, wind stirring her dark hair around her shoulders.
...Kid? he said.
So you remember. She lifted her head slightly. He glimpsed her pale cheek, her somber look. I didn't know if you would anymore.
Of course I remember. You were the start of it. Back at the beginning, when I didn't know anything could be different.
She hurt you.
He looked down. The blood was here, too, dripping down his side and pooling into the flowers. It didn't hurt, here. All he felt was a weight inside him, like his Cadou was dragging him down. Yeah, kid. She hurt me.
I wish I could have helped you.
You did. You made all of this possible. My work, my army-
Your hatred.
Heisenberg stiffened. Miranda's dead.
And so will you be.
Yeah? And what's wrong with that? He lifted his hand, crushing it into a fist. The bitch is paste. The nightmare's over. I got her, Claudia, and now I'll be free.
Claudia nodded. I know that's what you think. And I'm glad she's dead. But...
Her voice trailed into nothing. A breeze ruffled the flowers. This was the Beneviento garden, he knew, though the details were wrong, though the house was gone, the world beyond the borders blurred and indistinct. There were no graves here, no waterfall that had swallowed Claudia's parents whole. There were only the flowers that gave off dreams, only the weak sunlight, enough to see by, not enough to burn.
He remembered the way she'd said that word before, that but. Her sister hadn't wanted her to use her power, hadn't wanted her to show it off in case Miranda noticed. She hadn't needed to notice. Heisenberg had encouraged her anyway, had told her to show off and fuck the rest. That had been what killed her. That was why she was here, now, in this fungal dying-dream, in this guttering scrap of the megamycete's collective consciousness. That was why she was here, and not wrapped in a bear hug Heisenberg-style, safe. Alive.
Maybe that was why he'd begun to make things the way he had. Dead things, given life. Never the same way, never right. Never like her, but even a candle flame was the sun to someone lost long enough in the dark. Miranda had made Claudia, and Heisenberg had made his army. I can make things, too, Mother.
He'd fallen silent, like Claudia. The garden shimmered around her as she stood, watching the misty borders. She turned, then, the sprig of yellow flowers clasped to her heart. She approached Heisenberg, footfalls silent through the hip-high flowers. Was Donna here, too? Weird as she was, she deserved peace.
We all do, Claudia said, and reached out.
Heisenberg couldn't take her hand. Blood spurted from his wound, darker now, thick and black as oil. It was inside him, he knew. His work, his years of hatred, the single-minded drive to see Miranda dead, Claudia avenged, and himself freed. Was it even freedom he wanted anymore? Even vengeance? Or was it only death?
No matter. Now it was his turn.
No, Claudia said, her hand still lifted. It's not.
A spill of flowers, petals blown apart on the wind. A flare of light. A shout from behind him. A girl's voice- not Claudia's, not even Donna's, but someone else.
Someone new.
Not yet-
***
Consciousness came back like a kick to the ribs.
Heisenberg tore a gasp from the air; the world was dark, slithering, warm and wet against his face. One lens of his glasses was cracked, but his arms were clamped to his sides with that muscular, slithering force. He caught glimpses of forest and snow and dark sky in flashes through the stuff, moving past at wild speed. The kid was gone from his arms; he tried to speak, but the stuff was inside him, black and squirming and alive-
Panic punched a hole through him, and for a moment he was a child again, the surgical cold of the steel table pressing against his back, biting down on the belt in his teeth as his ribs gaped open to the sky- it had pulsed and squirmed against him going in just like this, and when the tentacles wrapped around his ribs the ripple of power through the lab had lifted the medical instruments, the scalpels and forceps, the gurneys and knives from the ground and sent them spinning-
Amazing. A seamless affinity.
It hadn't felt seamless. All he'd felt was the howl of horror at the thing inside him, at the suture sealing itself, at the awakening of this alien new sense.
You're perfect, she'd told him, stroking his hair as he'd wept, silent with fear, watching the blood dry on his skin. Absolutely perfect.
All at once the stuff was gone, retracting in a ripple like the movement of a throat swallowing. It dumped him into a snowdrift; he sprawled, coughing, ragged clothes twisted around him. He was halfway up, cursing and muttering, when he realized the pain was gone. The numbness too. He was warm, feeling okay. Better than he'd felt for days.
He was in a small forest clearing. He knelt in the snow, shoulders curled, heaving breaths. The remnants of the stuff pulsed around him, slick black coils curling and uncurling against the ground like the mouthparts of some bizarre deep-sea creature he'd seen in some book somewhere. Like Miranda's mold, he thought, though this was different, somehow. It didn't feel like her. He reached out and probed one with a finger, like he might do with one of his soldaten that wasn't working. The stuff rippled, warm as human skin, but didn't retract. It advanced, curling around his arm before he could pull away, then fell back.
"Hah," Heisenberg managed. "Huh."
He rocked back on his heels and pulled his tattered trench coat away from his side. His lycan wound was still an angry red slash, but it was closed, sealed together, covered in a lacework of dark veins. Heisenberg healed fast, but not that fast.
He let the coat fall.
"Kid," he said.
She slept a few yards away in a nest of the black stuff. The tentacles radiated from it, and as Heisenberg rose and limped to her they slithered into a new form, a protective sphere that enclosed them both. Droplets of warm mutagen spattered Heisenberg's hat; she'd managed to keep it on his head, bless her. This was his favorite hat yet.
He stopped by her side, hands stuck deep in his pockets. Rose shifted, waking. She stared up at him, small face somber.
"What's going on inside that tiny head of yours?" Heisenberg said. He reached out and lightly tapped his knuckles to the soft down of hair. "Not much, I bet. You seem like the one-brain cell type to me."
His hand opened, and he cupped his palm to her head for a moment. A promise was a promise. And this kid, this girl- she had power. He'd seen what the world did to innocents with power.
But that was the past. This was the now. And right now, Rose was shivering. The remnants of her glistening black matter began to disintegrate as Heisenberg gathered up the girl, holding her awkwardly in the crook of one arm.
Promise me, Ethan had said.
Maybe there was a good reason.
Through the trees, lights glimmered over the tarmac of a road. Electric lights. A town, he figured, or maybe a service station stocked with all the stuff he and Rose needed. Probably no more than a couple employees at this time of night, some poor bastard stuck at the till. Heisenberg grinned. He'd hardly even need to try.
"What d'you say, kid?" he asked Rose. "You wanna be a criminal?"
#saints of warding#re8#resident evil village#re8 fanfiction#karl heisenberg#rosemary winters#claudia beneviento#chapter 1#mother miranda
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( chapter 6′s gif by @buckysbarnes from this lovely set ! )
✪ — VACANT MIRRORS ; B.B. | 6/?
summary: gunshot wounds, panic attacks, and evil next door neighbors.
pairing: bucky barnes / f!reader
tags: set before & during tfatws, friends to lovers, therapy positive, trauma healing techniques, ptsd mentions, the normalization of anxiety disorders, and a good ol’ slow burn
word count: 5.3k, a filler before the real sexual tension.
a/n: be warned, this chapter has a diy medical procedure where bucky removes the slug from rabbit’s shoulder. it’s nothing too graphic, but keep that in mind! also, i wanted to say thank you to everyone who has rec’d, reblogged, commented, kudos, liked, looked at this fic. the response to every chapter has been so overwhelmingly kind and i’m so thankful that i have the oppurtunity to share this fic with you all. that being said, i broke this chapter up. next week has some spice. ;-)
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Bucky wakes up with a headache that feels like someone’s tapped an icepick between his eyes. A fire-bright burn radiates under his ribs.
It’s a slow creep back to reality — he just lays there and stares at the peeling wallpaper that meets the corner of the ceiling for a while, knowing deep in the back of his muddled, confused thoughts that he most likely has a nasty concussion, maybe a few broken ribs.
How? Hm. Fighting. Music? The club.
Rabbit.
He sits up fast and Bucky’s blue eyes struggle to adjust in the low-light of the scarcely furnished apartment. The searing pang of his headache is enough to make his stomach churn, but he’s had worse. So much worse. This is manageable. So, he swallows down the nausea and looks around the room like a wounded animal — and almost immediately, relief greets him at the sight of you in the armchair across from the couch.
Your hair is a mess, falling from it’s previous style that you’d proudly worn to The Glass Cannon. Your lipstick is smeared, there’s glitter on your cheeks, and your make-up has transitioned from starlet beauty to broken-hearted bombshell. Bucky notices, with a bit of dismay, that you’re even missing an earring. There’s a nasty bruise forming along the peak of your cheekbone and a gash there from when Alexei had cracked you across the face with the pistol — and even despite all this, Bucky can feel his heart clench at the sight of you. A good clench. The sort that makes his heart kick into a stutter step.
You look… well, you look like someone who’d had the shit choked out of them and then was shot.
Shot.
Your jacket, punched clean through with the single bullet hole, is hanging over the back of the chair and there’s gauze taped to your shoulder. You’re leaning your good cheek in your hand, attention turned totally to Bucky, where you’ve fallen asleep. From here, you’re a picture of exhaustion.
Anxiety flashes in his heart and he swings his legs over the edge of the couch.
Suddenly, there’s a hand on his shoulder.
“Take it easy.”
It’s the woman from before, Kiwi, and she’s got an ice pack in her hands. It’s wrapped in a ratty, green dish towel, and she hands it off to Bucky with a pitiful little look. Rounding the couch, Bucky finally gets a better look at her.
She’s older than you, maybe by a handful of years, but sharp and beautiful nonetheless. Her hair is dark as night and the tips are drenched in a lime colored dye. Her eyes are dark, too, ringed by kohl and glitter, and Bucky wonders if he’s ever seen her before.
“You heal quick,” she says quietly as she plops down into the chair across the room. On a makeshift desk, there’s a laptop, “Care to explain how you know our dear friend Rabbit here?”
Bucky shifts uncomfortably. Again, his eyes fall on your sleeping form.
He maneuvers the ice pack in his hands, then gently presses it to his ribs. He melts a bit, ignoring the evident tears in the silk shirt. He feels bad — he’d busted some of the seams in the midst of the brutal scuffle and it seems like this artifact of Jaimie’s was most likely beyond salvation.
His dog tags jingle against his chest.
“Therapy,” Bucky croaks, “We, uh, we met in therapy.”
A new voice comes into the picture now, one that’s muffled by a mouthful of food.
“That’s cute.”
It’s the other one, Climber. He’s traded in his all-black, all-polyurethane outfit for an expensive looking t-shirt. Without the strobes, without the tunnel vision, Bucky can now see the intricate buzz cut that sits beneath the mountain of blue curls on his head. There are patterns buzzed into his tight-shave. He’s got a smile, too, the glimmers a little too artificially. Bucky spies crystals inset on his incisors between bites of what looks like a bowl of cereal with no milk. Spoon and all.
“I don’t think we’ve properly met,” Climber says as he plops down next to Bucky on the couch, “What’d you say your name was?”
A hand is jutted his way. Bucky blinks. He shakes it with his vibranium hand.
“I’m Bucky.”
“Well, I’m gay and you’re gorgeous,” he says candidly, giving it a good shake, “So, if that’s of any interest—”
“Can you please shut up, Climber?” comes an irritated rasp from you in your armchair. Bucky turns to watch as you raise your head and rub your eyes, “Christ, I just fell asleep.”
“And your little supersoldier just woke up,” Kiwi chirps from her preoccupation with the laptop and contents on it, “So why don’t you stop being a little baby and let him look at that gunshot wound.”
Bucky’s face falls flat. He drops the ice pack to the coffee table with a thwunk.
You sit up, gingerly trying to maneuver yourself so as to not bother both your ribs and your shoulder. It takes a moment, but finally you’re sitting up with only a dull ache of pain throbbing beneath your skin. Now, the real sting comes from the bitter look Bucky has pinned you with.
“You haven’t cleaned it yet?”
“The shits in the kitchen,” Kiwi waves at Bucky, as if to say told you so, “She fuckin’ refused to let me take care of it.”
“You’re going to get an infection if it stays in you any longer,” he snaps, standing to his feet, “Get up.”
“Kiwi isn’t exactly the most gentle person I know,” you manage to supply as an excuse as you move through the room, “And I know that thing isn’t coming out without a fight.”
He can feel the grey hairs coming in already.
You stand slowly, and Bucky looms behind you as you weave into the small apartment’s kitchen.
It’s barely lived in, but a few years ago it most definitely had life. Now, it’s mostly abandoned save for a few necessities. Kiwi had told you, a long time ago, about this spot — it was her parent’s place before the Snap. After the Blip, they ended up moving back to Massachusetts. Now abandoned by anyone seeking to really live in the one bedroom, it sits collecting dust until Kiwi inevitably needs it.
Like now.
“Up on the counter.”
You wince at his tone, but still thankful to be away from Kiwi and Climber’s prying eyes.
For the entire time Bucky had been out, you’d been subjected to a myriad of questions — all were fair, really, since Bucky did just bust out the Avenger-level super-moves on some Russian mafiosos for your sake, vibranium arm and all. The arm was really the biggest stuck point in the conversation as you tried your best to explain the nature of your relationship with the unconscious supersoldier on the couch. It was met with plenty of looks, both curious and skeptical.
You’re slow to hop up on the dusty marble countertop. From there, you watch Bucky poke through the kit that Kiwi had pulled from under the sink.
Then, with the calculated process of a man who has pulled one too many bullets from himself, Bucky slams the kit shut and wanders into the bathroom.
He returns with a pair of large tweezers. He’s silent as the dead as he rummages for a pan, fills it with water, and sets the gas burner on. He stares, watching the pot boil, as his foot taps against the floor.
You swallow down any comments.
There’s a clean towel beside you, and Bucky casually reached into the boiling water with his vibranium hand to retrieve the tweezers — whether or not he purposely ignored the pain is lost on you. You’re too busy anxiously spiraling into silence.
(He’s trying to ground himself, to feel something other than panic. It’s a mild spike, but it’s still panic. Because you’re hurt. Because you still have a fucking casing lodged in your shoulder and he doesn’t want anything bad to happen to you. Ever. Because he saw it happen and then it was black, and now that anxiousness is creeping in.)
Rubbing alcohol, tweezers, gauze, tape, and… Jack Daniel’s.
It’s from the top of the fridge. It’s got a layer of dust on it — and it’s unopened.
Bucky unceremoniously pops the cap and hands the open bottle to you.
You take it and pause.
Bucky’s gaze is cold.
“You’re gonna want to take a few swigs, Doll.”
You almost snarl. You take a long drink then, ignoring the burn of the whiskey down your throat. It’s only when you’ve had enough to nearly gag that you hand the bottle back and then hiss:
“Don’t call me Doll.”
He takes the bottle and unceremoniously slams it down on the counter.
His movements are rough as he washes his hands — and if Bucky was a better person, maybe he’d take a second and parse through why he was feeling so damn irritable. But, no, no, he could figure out that he was angry at himself and you and Alexei Gardzov and Innessa Sidrova and fucking… everyone because he can’t have any normal relationships in his life without there being bloodshed or pain or suffering. That was enough, and he didn’t want to dig deeper into the nipping fear of losing you, not now, not when he had a job to do—
You suck in a sharp breath when his fingers brush your collarbone. He gently moves the delicate strap of your bodysuit, ignoring the soft skin beneath, and pulls the gauze away from your shoulder.
Your jacket had taken most of the impact it seems. Bucky frowns deeply at the pink fibers clinging to the entry wound. It’s a nasty puckered bit of flesh, smeared with blood, right in the soft muscle of your left shoulder. The hole is a little smaller than a quarter — Bucky recognizes it as shot from a 9mm almost immediately. He’s taken a few of these in his days. He’s glad it wasn’t close range. The burns from the muzzle flash make for nasty scars. He’d know. He has one on his back, right above his hip.
Bucky’s jaw is tight. He’s gritting his back teeth. His headache throbs angrily behind his eyes.
Bucky leans, eyeing the wound carefully. His limited reaction is enough to spark a little light of bravery in your gut, and you move to look at the hole — only to find a vibranium hand rooting your jaw in place. It’s gentle enough as it recorrects the line of your gaze straight ahead. His thumb rests on the curve of your chin as his index climbs your jaw, and the vibranium is warm and cold all at once. It’s an odd sensation. Not bad, but not flesh.
You like it.
(You find your mind quickly flashing with the thought of what that hand would feel like in other places. You ignore it.)
Your eyes are stuck on Bucky.
He’s clearly upset — the pinch between his brows and the evident scowl on his lips is enough of an indication. The bridge of his nose is busted and there’s a bruise crawling under his left eye. The shirt you’d given him is a wreck, and as he bends to snatch up a rubbing alcohol soaked pad, the feeling of shame creeps up on you. The anxiousness that’s settled in the pit of your stomach doesn’t help.
Arguably, it exacerbates the symptom.
The whiskey is slow to make an impact.
But, when Bucky finally swipes the gauze across the wound, your ankles have begun to tingle and it isn’t blinding white pain you feel — not yet. It’s sharp and it feels like he’s touching your shoulder blade when he presses his fingers into the holes to clean the immediate area. That has you grimacing tightly.
His obsidian-hued hand holds your face still through it.
So, you opt to stare.
His arm reminds you of some pottery you’d seen back at the Museum of Modern Art once, on a school trip. In a dimly lit room, spotlights lit up a row of vases that had been gilded back together with gold-dusted sap. You’d sat there for nearly an hour, staring at those things. You can’t remember the name now, not while Bucky does one more pass across the wound. It started with a ‘k’. It was beautiful. You loved that exhibit. Why can’t you — fuck — remember the name? Kinsi… kinsigumi? Gumi. Kintsi —
You grit your teeth and grip the counter tightly. He pauses. You exhale.
You inhale.
Kintsugi.
The seams of his arm remind you of Kintsugi.
It’s beautiful.
Bucky’s eyes flit to yours. He sees your stare.
Maybe it’s the pain, or the half-cocked daze, but the look in your eyes is enough to spur an immediate reaction. Bucky scowls. He yanks his hand back, retreating to the supplies on the counter. He’s pulled, hard and fast, and now he seems miles away.
Quietly, and with a bit more chill than he intended, he speaks. “If it was making you nervous, you should have said something.”
It.
Your head snaps to him.
“What?” you ask, nearly incredulously.
He’s silent. He has the tweezers in his hand now.
Your eyes narrow critically — and instead of shame and anxiety, it’s hurt that flies off your tongue. It’s drenched in enough pain that Bucky hears it in the waver of your voice.
“You think I’m afraid of you?”
It’s nearly a whisper.
He swallows.
He ignores it. He has to. He doesn’t want to know the answer. Either way that conversation goes is enough to drag him into territory he can’t handle right now. Not when he needs to do this without his hands shaking.
“This is going to hurt.”
Your mouth is open — be it shock or anger, he’s not sure. Bucky, however, makes a point of ignoring your expression and your reaction by handing over the whiskey once more. You snatch it from his hands quickly. There’s a look on your face that makes his chest ache. With one last pass over him with your eyes, you take a long swig.
You feel like crying.
You won’t, though. Not now. Not while he does this.
You deserve this.
And holy fucking hell does it hurt. It’s like someone’s taken a hot poker and punctured your skin, then rotated it around and around and around. You can feel every time the tweezers touch the bullet because the metallic little click echoes in your chest. It’s enough to make your head spin, and you grit your teeth and close your eyes and try to breathe — but even after a handful of minutes, when Bucky finally retrieves the slug, there’s no relief. Just a desperate throb.
Your hands are shaking when you reach for the whiskey once more.
You do cry, finally, when Bucky packs the hole.
He rolls the gauze up tightly into a cylinder and, as gently as he can, pushes it in.
It’s a horrible choke of pain that you smother into your palm and pant through. It reminds you to breathe, and while you stare up at the water damage on the kitchen ceiling, Bucky tapes a square piece of gauze over the bruised wound and wraps your shoulder tightly. He takes his time, but there’s a curtness to his actions.
Finally, when he begins to clean up the mess of bloodied gauze, you speak.
“If you’re mad at me, then just say it.”
He snaps almost immediately, like a kicked dog. “And say what, Rabbit? That I almost lost you?”
Your mouth slips shut.
Bucky pauses what he’s doing. He drops the gauze onto the towel and he bares both hands against the counter top. He leans and exhales and drops his own head back — then, you can see his own waves of anxiety knocking him against the shore of composure. His eyes move back and forth, he inhales, and then after a long while he speaks.
It’s calmer. Not so horribly mean.
“You should have told me about Alexei.”
You go to speak — but he stops you.
“I mean really, really told me,” he explains, “Had I known he wanted your fucking head mounted on a spike, I would have kept you far away from that place.”
“We had to—”
“No,” he says sternly, standing up full height, “No, we didn’t. We never have to do anything that’s going to put you in danger. Never. I won’t do it again. You should have fuckin’ told me.”
You’re quiet.
“A few more inches to the right,” he says, gesturing to your throat with his finger. His eyes are expressive and he’s speaking like he’s lived this experience, “You’d be dead. Cold and dead and I’d be here, carrying the fucking guilt around with me because I wouldn’t have been able to do anything.”
His voice splinters at the end — but he’s moved to throw away the gauze and dump the tweezers in the sink. He can’t look at you as he says it, and you know that. Because, just like before, people like you and him have a hard time looking the truth in the eyes.
You slide off the counter.
Your heart is sad. It’s heavy and mournful and weighed down with guilt.
“Bucky.”
It’s soft. He’s scrubbing your blood from his hands.
He doesn’t turn around. He can’t. He can feel the prick of an anxious breakdown beginning to climb into his eyes. Instead, he scrubs and scrubs and scrubs and your blood is stuck in the plating of his hand and it’s not going to come out—
Think of what could have happened if it had been a few inches to the right. The arched spray. Blood everywhere. She can’t speak through the gargle, she’s going cold, she’s gone. And, like always, you’re alone again, Bucky.
Then, your hands are on his.
The touch is enough to stop him. It’s enough for him to move aside at the large, inset kitchen sink. You exhale slowly as you run the water a little warmer and gingerly run his hands under the tap. Your hands are smaller than his, a bit more delicate, and he’s stunned into a sharp silence at the feeling of your fingertips gently washing away the crimson blood.
You grab another dish towel from a drawer beside the stove.
Then, in the dim light of the kitchen, you take both his hands and dry them.
It’s the vibranium hand that you pay special attention to, though. And Bucky feels like a fucking idiot — just standing there, just watching as you run the rag between the gilded plating and use gentle pressure to get into the harder to reach spots. You turn it over, and you dry his knuckles.
You take your time.
You don’t look up when you speak. You’re focused. Almost reverent.
He doesn’t deserve this.
“I’m not afraid of you,” you say sternly.
His mouth is dry. “Rabbit…”
Bucky shifts on his feet and takes a deep inhale. He feels lightheaded.
The whiskey, and the closeness of the two of you, makes your skin warm. His whole nervous system feels like it’s on fire.
“I didn’t mean to stare, I don’t ever mean to,” you apologize as your hands still over his arm. He watches your irises trace the plating above his wrist. The rag is forgotten, its purpose null. Your words are heavy, and Bucky can hear a little shake in them as you swallow, “I just… think it’s beautiful.”
You’re beautiful.
Even now, blood-soaked and sweat-stained. With makeup running down your cheeks and your composure in shambles. Even now, on the run and apparently wanted, you’re incredibly beautiful. Bucky hates how easy it is to admit and how hard it is to keep off his tongue. It nearly gets the better of him. He watches your eyelashes flutter. When you look up at him, the world is suddenly drowned in honey.
“I’m sorry.”
You mean it.
Your bottom lip wobbles.
Bucky, immediately, regrets being so goddamn cold.
You were just trying to help — you were just trying to do the right thing.
“Stop it. Come here.”
The hug is the first time you can remember touching him like this. You think you’ll always remember it, too. It’s sturdy and warm and gentle and honest and you bury your face into the shoulder as his arms come up around your neck. He’s careful of your own injured shoulder, and his fingers find the base of your neck. Around his waist, your fingers dig into the back of his shirt. Both of you ground yourselves in the other’s arms, and for the first time in a handful of hours, you both find peace.
Quiet, sturdy, lovely peace.
And the two of you stay like that for a while in the quiet little kitchen.
It’s not until Climber’s voice rises from the living room that you’re pulled away from Bucky — and even then, your face linger inches from one another for a moment too long. Neither of you say a word, only swallow down confessions that could have been, and move on.
“Oh, girlie, you’re gonna wanna see this.”
Bucky frowns. With your brows knotted tightly together, you weave through the kitchen and back into the living room.
Kiwi has sat up and both her and Climber have their eyes on the bulky flat screen on the dust-covered entertainment center. It’s cable news, and as Climber leans to turn the television up, a picture of you flashes across the screen.
It’s a photo from your arrest six months ago.
“Local authorities are asking that anyone with information on the whereabouts of this young woman call the FBI’s anonymous tip line—”
“Is there a reward?” Climber whispers almost excitedly, eyes on the screen.
“—Authorities are offering $100,000 dollars to the person who provides enough information to lead up to this dangerous fugitive’s capture.”
“Dangerous fugitive?” hisses Bucky.
“A hundred thousand dollars?” cries Kiwi, “Who the fuck did you piss off?”
You inhale deeply as you wave your hands. “The bigger question is who the fuck knew I was going to The Glass Cannon last night. Because they’re looking for me — not you.”
You point at Bucky and the gears are turning in your head.
The pacing is almost immediate, and Bucky crosses his arms tightly as you begin to walk back and forth behind the full length couch that Climber is currently spread out on.
It’s cut short, though, by Kiwi’s laptop chiming successfully.
“Well,” she stands quickly, “I have a feeling that someone knows you’re onto them. And the facial recognition software just got a match. A three point one, too.”
Your eyes brighten.
You’d given Kiwi the photo of the young Innessa, with all her decorated furs and blonde curls. She’s laughing and she’s young and she’s in love and it’s hard for you to imagine a woman like her to be dangerous. While you’d made sure Bucky was propped up comfortably on the couch and then finally calmed down from the adrenaline high enough to get comfortable yourself, Kiwi had dug out the hard-drive she kept on her at all times and began pulling data from the Alexandria Library files.
It had been a handful of hours, so it was clear that Innessa had hid herself well in the vast, expansive database SHIELD kept for all those years while it was in operation.
Bucky is quick to gather behind Kiwi, eyes scanning the screen.
Sure enough, when you come to look at the photos pulled up on Kiwi’s screen, there’s a hit. There’s an identification card photo of an older woman, maybe in her forties, pulled up alongside the photo Bucky had given you. Her hair is no longer blonde, but deep auburn color. She’s marked as having worked with Rumlow — a supervisor of some sort. Makes sense. You didn’t need to see a picture of Crossbones to remember Brock. Even when you’d interned, he’d been infamous.
And that was when he was one of the good guys.
There’s a handful of other photos of her — candids, professional photos, and even one where she is shaking Tony Stark’s hand.
And in all of them, you see your next door neighbor Bonnie McLayne.
“Fuck.”
Bucky blinks. Kiwi turns to look at you over her shoulder.
Again, you speak. Your eyes are wide. You can’t look away from the screen.
“Fuck, fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
“Rabbit…?”
“Fuck.”
Bucky’s face narrows considerably, confusion melting to make room for realization.
His voice is quiet.
“Do you know her?”
“Oh my god,” you say loudly, shaking your head and blinking, “Oh my fucking god, that’s my neighbor.”
Bucky can feel his whole face go clammy.
“The neighbor who—”
“—Who I showed your fucking picture to,” you nearly shriek, “Like it was some cute little matchmaking game!”
Immediately both hands are over your face as you throw your head back. Now, the pacing has begun, and like you’re being carried on autopilot, you begin to move back and forth and back and forth and—
“You don’t think she’d hurt Poke, do you?”
“Rabbit.”
“Oh god, oh god—”
Oh.
Oh, you’re having a panic attack.
Oh, that was quick. Brutally fast. Nearly immediate.
After all, she knows where your family lives. She gets Holiday cards from mom to give to you. She’s been your closest friend for nearly six years. But she’s not Bonnie, she’s Innessa fucking Sidrova. She’s seen you with Bucky. She knows — she knows a lot and you don’t know anything and you’re miles from home, from Poke, from Mom, from Ana… Oh, god, the baby. The baby.
“The baby.”
Bucky’s voice is level. “Rabbit, you gotta calm down.”
“I have to call my mom.”
“No,” Kiwi snaps immediately, “They’re going to be watching for your cell phone pings. No calls, no texting, none of it. And god forbid this woman is one step ahead of the FBI—”
“Oh, god.”
You gasp like a fish out of water, paralyzing fear sending you to lean against the back of the couch.
You claw at your chest and try to remember what Dr. Hart said about these sorts of moments. Square breathing. In and hold and out and hold. Again and again.
“Sit down,” Bucky says as he returns to your side, nearly sweeping you up long enough to plop you down into the armchair from before, “And do me a favor and breathe.”
The whiskey isn’t helping right now.
“I’m trying.”
Another gasped breath.
Climber and Kiwi watch.
Bucky shakes his head sternly, kneeling on one knee and snagging your hands. “Don’t try. Just do it. You can do it. Just follow my lead — you’re the sidekick, after all. Remember? C’mon. There’s the smile. Breathe.”
So you do.
In, hold. Out, hold. You draw a square with one hand on your jeans and hold onto Bucky’s with the other.
Again, in and hold. Out and hold.
And again.
And then, you just listen to Bucky’s breathing.
You’re not sure how long it takes — half an hour, ten minutes, who knows — but finally you’re able to calm the spiraling thoughts in your head. Finally, the loudness quiets down, you catch your breath, and the world isn’t falling apart. The bite of anxiety still remains in the hollow of your chest and Bucky can see that when you finally open your eyes and squeeze his hand.
There’s that look again between the two of you. The one from before, in the kitchen.
“Good?” he asks quietly, blue eyes swimming with some sort of emotion you can’t really pin down. Not now. Maybe, if you’d been a bit more collected, you would have seen it as infatuation. But, no. It’s just… nice.
You swallow and nod.
“Damn, girl,” says Climber from his spot on the couch, “Now I’m starting to get the whole therapy thing.”
“Thanks, dickhead.”
“That’s recent, isn’t it?” he asks, genuine worry crossing his face as he stands to gently pass a hand over your back, “I don’t remember it ever being this bad.”
Your face is sad. “I was just partying through it back then. Distraction was always the best method and then… When I had no more distractions and it was just me? Alone? And, psh, the accident with Jaimie? It got worse. So much worse.”
Climber’s eyes soften. “I’m sorry, bunny.”
You try to put on a brave face.
Bucky stands from in front of you and begins his own pacing. This one isn’t so much born out of anxious nature — but more of a tactical logic born out of keeping you safe.
This wasn’t exactly the turn he was expecting.
“You didn’t recognize her?” he asks after a moment, voice high and tight.
“I’m sorry,” you wave a hand, exasperated, “She doesn’t exactly look the same as she did in the 70s.”
Kiwi frowns at the screen. “Definitely botox.”
Bucky squints. He looks to you for an explanation.
You vaguely gesture to your face.
His brow lifts, he closes his eyes, and he sighs.
Kiwi is next to pipe up. “It explains why the feds are looking for you, especially if she saw you with the one man she knows is looking to hunt her down — so, I think it’s best the both of you lay low for a couple of days.”
“Not to mention,” Climber wags a finger, “Bucky the Babe over here did just piss off one the smaller Russian crime families in New York. So, there’s always that ontop of the evil Nazi-HYDRA-woman-next-door.”
You groan.
“Poke has enough food for a week,” Bucky says nearly reading your mind, “He’ll be fine.”
“So, what? We just wait here? Until something happens?”
“Sidrova is going to try and bait us out,” Bucky mutters, “She knows she can’t just disappear. She’s been settled for too long and we know too much. Engaging us in an altercation is how she’ll do it. Plus, I have a feeling she wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to shoot me in the knees after a few decades. So, we wait.”
“Few decades?” Kiwi whispers.
“How old are you?” Climber asks.
“Hundred and six.”
Both of them just blink at an unphased Bucky.
You sigh, finally standing on wobbly legs. “This feels like a bad idea. I’m just stating that for the record.”
“Better than her hunting the both of you down,” Kiwi supplies, “You can stay here. There’s cable, there’s booze, and there’s plenty of instant ramen to last you until winter.”
“Stale cereal, too.”
“Wait— where are you two going?” you ask, narrowing your eyes, “You’re leaving?”
“Keeping our hands clean,” Kiwi says, closing her laptop, “And letting you be the sidekick, bunny.”
The sadness in your heart grows a little heavier at those words, but there’s a little bit of pride in Kiwi’s tone. As she stands, she moves to wrap her arms around you in a gentle hug. Quietly, she murmurs into your hair.
“Your dad would be proud of you, y’know.”
Bucky watches.
Climber is next, and that hug is bigger, more brotherly, more like sunshine and less like autumn.
“Don’t be a stranger, Rabbit.”
“I’m sorry,” you blurt out as the two of them gather their belongings, “For dragging you both into this. But, thank you. You didn’t have to help me—”
“Yeah, we did,” Kiwi chirps as she knocks Bucky on the arm three times, “Keep her safe, aakarshak purush.”
The Hindi rolls off her tongue with ease.
Bucky laughs. “Bahut lamba.”
Kiwi pauses mid-step. She narrows her eyes. There’s a smile on her lips. “Your pronunciation isn’t bad.”
He shrugs plainly. “I get lunch almost everyday at the Indian place below my apartment, so. The owner has been teaching me some stuff on the side.”
An approving nod.
Kiwi hucks you the keys across the room.
She points at Bucky.
“I like him. Try not to fuck that up, eh?”
And then, the two of them are gone.
And it’s just you and Bucky in the empty apartment.
#vacant mirrors#bucky x reader#bucky barnes#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes imagine#bucky barnes x y/n#bucky barns x you#bucky/reader#winter soldier x reader#mcu imagine#tfatws imagine#A LITTLE LATER THAN PROMISED BUT SHE IS HERE
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Not Your Best Man | D.Kaminari
✎ Denki Kaminari was resentful of all the things Katsuki Bakugou has, the high hero ranks, the fame despite his demeaning behavior, his intelligence, and most importantly, you.
✎ Protagonists: Denki Kaminari x Fem!Reader
✎ Word count: 5.2K
✎ Category: Smut MDNI, angst
✎ Caution(!): Smut MDNI, swearing, denki is jealous, bakuhoe is an asshole, mommy kink, loss of control of quirk during sex, degradation, praise, oral (male!receiving), unprotected sex, orgasm denial to a certain point, mention of puking, doing denki dirty in so many ways and I’m sorry but I’m also… not sorry.
✎ Author’s notes: Hello! Hope everyone’s well! I’m here with @forrest-fern’s Seven Deadly Sins server Collab! I snatched Denki and chose Envy! I wasn’t able to get bakugou but you know damn well I’m squeezing his ass in there lmao (peep the banner you can see the boom boom boy) (shut up im not late shush)
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Her hair is piled up and back, showing more of her delicate yet strong features. Skin so flawless his hands feel bound when he wants to touch it, afraid of staining it with his fingertips, not deeming himself worthy to taint it. Eyes brought out beautifully with makeup products she knew how to work to make her look even more gorgeous than she already is. Lips perfectly coated in lipstick, always formed in the littlest smile, and he feels compelled to kiss the product off of them.
The dress is perfect, it sits on her body as if it has been made just for her. Its fabric folds hugging her figure, following her curves. It’s color is gorgeous against her skin with long sleeves that cover her arms, the backless dress shows skin that begs him, taunts him to touch it and to guide her along with him. The collar exposes enough shoulders that teases him to bite and mark up. It's tight skirt pooled till the floor with a slit up to her left thigh. She looks stunning and he couldn't stop but linger his eyes on her.
She looks as though she is an angel, in the form of the most beautiful girl on earth. Mesmerising eyes, so crystal clear that he could see rivers, oceans, the whole world through them. No flower, no goddess, not even Aphrodite could ever compare to her beauty. She has the body of a dancer, lithe, supple and oh so beautiful. With every step she takes, it looks as though she’s floating, and Denki only became more convinced that he had been around an angel for the majority of his life and he -regretfully- only was able to realize it a bit too late.
Regretfully, because she wasn’t his, isn’t his, will never be his. Not the measly unimportant groomsman. No, she is the best man’s, Katsuki Bakugou’s, meant to be his forever.
Bakugou’s
BakugousBakugousBakugous…
Dammit
“I do.”
An adorable little boy dressed in a black tuxedo walks up and hands Kirishima a ring. He slips it on Mina's finger. The pastor smiles and turns to Mina. She wears a strapless wedding gown with embroidery on her bodice. Rhinestones and pearl beads sewn on her gown. She wears a two-tier veil, with a matching crystal head-piece. She holds a French rose silk bouquet. Kirishima is stunning. He wears a black, single-breasted, satin tuxedo with a white-wing collar shirt.
The pastor repeats the question and receives the same reply. You watch her take his ring from a small girl dressed in pink and place it on his finger. "By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife."
"You may now kiss your bride." He does so, placing his hands on her shoulders and pressing his lips against hers. The pastor holds up his hands, bringing the cheering crowd to their feet.
Kirishima and Mina leave the gazebo, arms linked, with huge smiles on their faces. The best man, maid of honor, and the groomsmen and bridesmaids follow suit, falling in behind them. They stop near the end of the walk, forming the start of the receiving line.
The family and guests file down, pausing for hugs and kisses and congratulating the young couple. Mina then turns around and throws her bouquet of flowers behind her. The women collide with each other as they try to catch it.
She cheers loud when the bouquet falls in your hands, and you giggle and wave it around, the women’s disappointed groans muffled in your ears when you catch the beautiful vermillions of your partner, oblivious to the golden specks that have been eyeing your every move since you stepped foot into the wedding.
“You could’ve been more obvious about wantin’ me to put a ring on your finger.” Katsuki chuckles against your ear, standing behind you with his hands on your hips, both of you looking at the newlyweds as they enter the reception with everyone awwing at them as they did their first dance as husband and wife.
The sun has set long ago, the full moon hanging and illuminating the area beautifully, the fairy lights and lamps circling the area, making the happy couple look absolutely glowing, and you smile at the scene from outside the dance floor.
“They fell in my hands ‘Suki.” you giggle, lacing your fingers between his, “Besides, you already did, didn’t you?”
“Hmm,” his breath tickles your ear, fingers twisting your engagement ring around your ring finger, “was forced to, after all that whinin’ ‘bout wantin’ to settle down and not knowin’ when we’ll see each other when we’re goin’ on missions, and cherishin’ the lives-” he fakes a snore and rests his full weight on your back, both of you laughing as you tip forward and he catches you in time, placing his hand on your waist again and swaying with you as you see your friends happier than they ever were.
You look perfect, standing there holding each other, absolutely and utterly disgusting. Denki stares at you, fire spreading in his abdominal, his lungs constricting with every breath he takes the longer he looks at you. Swaying together, Katsuki’s lips pressing against your temple and you letting out the most beautiful laugh, Denki can’t help but clench the front of his shirt at the sight, wishing, hoping for nothing more than to be in his shoes, being the one lucky enough to be able to hold you that close, the one that has the privilege to hear your laugh, the one to make you laugh.
“Hey Denki,” He is snapped back to reality when Kirishima stands in front of him, blocking his view from the flawless couple. “H-hey Eiji! Congratulations bro, you’re finally a married man!” They hug, Denki’s eyes never leaving you while Katsuki twirls you to face him and peppers kisses across your face. “Thanks man! Hey sorry, could you get Bakugou for me real quick, we’re taking a few pictures with the best man and the maid of honor.”
“Right away, man of the hour.”
Oh God, oh God, he isn’t ready to face you yet. You look too pretty, he doesn’t feel worthy to be in your presence, driven to bow down and ask for forgiveness for even breathing the same as yours. And yet, you smile upon his arrival, even letting go of Bakugou’s hand to wave him over, and you’re blessing him with your smile, giggles sounding like the singing of angels when he waves back excitedly.
“Hi!” you beam up at him the minute he’s close enough to be graced with your voice, “Where have you been, it’s like you were avoiding me all this time,” you pout for a second and Denki could swear he felt his heart skip multiple beats when your lips wobble and a smile makes it way back up at him.
“H-hey, ummm, Baku- uh.” he laughs at himself, trying to collect whatever dignity he has left. “Uh, Eiji is lookin’ for ya bro, something about a photoshoot with the maid of honor?” The groan Bakugou lets out is enough of a confirmation.
“Fuckin’ pain in my fuckin’ ass bitch” he grumbles, pressing his lips against your temple again, promising to come back after the ‘Motherfuckin’ bitch shoot’ is done. You only reply by squeezing his arm, a silent reassurance that you’ll be waiting for him when he gets back.
It's so revolting, the way he swears up and down, having the filthiest mouth with his words, not even respecting the beautiful goddess that tries to calm his nasty self down, he should be more considerate of you and your feelings, God he loathes the way he treats you. The way he mistreats you.
You deserve to be treated so much better than that, the way Denki would, he’d downright kiss the ground you walk on, remind you every day that you’re the best thing that ever happened to him, the best goddamn thing to ever grace this earth.
Okay, you’re staring. God, has she been staring too? Denki, people always say you never shut up, use it to your advantage for once in your life.
Denki extends his arm to you, curses under his breath, wipes his sweaty palm against his pant leg before extending it again. "Would you like to dance?" You raise your eyebrows. "Would you like to dance?"
"Well, dancing is what a charming gentleman like myself would do.” He beames at the chuckle you let out. “Besides, you're beautiful and I want to show you off.” He pauses. “You know, while Bakugou is busy with his best man duties and all."
You smile, your pretty lips letting out a little giggle at his posture as he starts wiggling his fingers persuasively, and shake your head. "You know what? Yeah, I would like to dance."
Arm-in-arm, you and Denki head into the dance floor and step onto the wooden ground. You felt him move easily with you, agile and confident with the music as he takes the lead. His hands slowly yet surely reach to your lower back, but you shrug it off.
"Ah, expect tango music after this," he says. Eyes gleaming as they shift over to the DJ that nods in acknowledgement to him. He frowns when he sees your averted face, shifting your eyes away from his, observing, searching for him, your fiance, the person he wishes he could be, someone he could never be.
Denki trips over his words in an effort to regain your attention, “A-anyway, uh, um. Hey! Did you know that uh, t-tango is banned in other places of the world?" you raise your eyebrows.
“Is it?”
“Yeah, wanna know why?”
“Didn’t expect you to know honestly.” He smiles as you laugh lightly, but something tugs at his heartstrings, its because you think of him as nothing but stupid brainless dunce face, depsite him entering and graduating one of the best hero courses in all of Japan, alongside you of all people, despite his hero work, the people he saves, the villains he captures, fuck.
You don’t miss the way his face falls after your remark, an almost sour expression passing through before he clears his throat and looks behind your shoulder at basically nothing. “S-so,” you start, “Why was it banned?”
The blond’s eyes flicker over to you and soften at the way you’re cocking your head and smiling at him, despite him getting upset with you. What is he doing? He’s experiencing something straight out of his fantasies, having you pressed so close to him, dancing with him and smiling at him. No one else.
“Oh, okay okay, so. It was considered the dance of the low-lifes at the worst places of society when it first emerged, and so the church banned it, because they said it had the music of the “immoral” factions of society”
“Oh? Why’s that.”
“It was considered an oversexualized dance. Portraying the sin and seduction of the Devil. It represents the Devil's nostalgia, his unrequited aspirations, loneliness, rejection, and misery. The longing of someone who will never fit in, who has never had love nor passion.” He takes a deep breath.
“It's like sex, except with clothes on.”
In a failed attempt to seduce you, he stumbles and steps on your heels. Earning a weak yelp from you as you back up from him.
It's okay, it's okay, he can fix this. Oh God the music stopped. Okay he gets to dance tango with you now and press you even more against him and hold you even closer, okay. God, are his hands always this sweaty?
The silence that follows the stopping of the music makes him panic, you’re so close, he just needs to reach out and hold you against him again. Press your tender body against his, let him pretend you’re his, pretend that he’s lucky enough to take you home with him. Help you take off your dress, press kisses against the curves of your body, make love to you all night.
Put all of that is cut short when he feels a daunting presence behind him, and he doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is. Because the way your face lights up at that presence is enough to stop his blood from pumping, enough for him to see only red, for him to dig his nails into the palm of his hands until he feels it piercing his skin.
“Hey,” the taunting voice of Katsuki Bakugou reminds him how beneath him he really is. “Yer havin fun with my girl.” it wasn’t a question. Despite that, in a desperate attempt to feel your touch one more time before you’re swept away by your big strong hero, that he would never be able to match to.
With trembling fingers, Denki grasps your hand and brings your knuckles close to his lips, eyes boring into each other while he kisses them, and you only grin in appreciation at his manners, doing the most adorable courtesy he has ever seen in his life, almost forgetting the looming presence of his former classmate.
Bakugou moves around Denki to reach you, and Kaminari knows at this point all hope is lost for you to dance with him, or better yet, have any interaction with him again for the entirety of the night. Katsuki held your hand with surprising firmness, caramel scent wafting through as you feel how sweaty his hands really are.
“Are you warm?” You mumble, lacing your fingers through his when his reaction is to pull his hands away to wipe them at his pants.
“No.” It's firm and it's rough, yet it isn’t directed at you. It’s directed to the other blond that surprisingly still hasn’t backed down and is still standing straight, eyeing how you two act as a couple, how he wishes you would hold his hand, ask him if he was warm, embrace all his insecurities.
As your fiance leads you back to the center of the dance floor. Hand starting at your waist but quickly slipping to grab a handful of your ass, chuckling when you squeal and slap his chest. Something wicked gleams in his eyes when the first tune of the violin starts playing, drifting with the harmony of the accordion.
“You and I both know that my knowledge of tango is as much as my knowledge for knitting, that’s right, nonexistent.”
“You know my body, don’t you?” he doesn’t wait for an answer. “Follow my lead, let your body do the talking.”
“You’re crazy.” yet you still laugh, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips as he pulls you impossibly close to him, raveling in the feeling of your chest pressed to his. You’re rolling your eyes a little at the way his smirk stretches when he pinches your butt, but you instantly shiver when he places his warm calloused hand within the cutout of your dress on your lower back, skin to skin. And just like your body is made to be molded against his, you place your arm over his shoulder while the other is engulfed in his.
He steps close, too close, scandalously close. Pressing his cheek against your temple and only then meeting the eyes of Denki, that's when his smile drops, every playful act with you is gone. His magma filled eyes staring into the soul of the electrical hero.
Mine
MineMineMine
Neither were stupid, Katsuki knows what Denki is doing, and Denki is well aware of Katsuki’s ability to piece shit together.
Denki is left lonesomely standing by the DJ, watching the way you two dance, the way Bakugou steps forward in your space and you stepping back to accommodate him. He seethes in his stance as you two rock on your feet, the way Bakugou handles your body with firmness and strength, yet softly watching you when you giggle at the way he spins your body effortlessly. Kaminari sees the way you let yourself be led, the way you trust Bakugou to handle you, hold you, care for you, in ways he could only hope for you to see him.
You are perfectly synchronized, almost fluid like, an extension of each other, like you had done this a million times before, practised day and night to perfect it. Bakugou takes his time twirling you across the room, seductively slow. Thighs brushing against each other with every stupid turn.
His body whispering commands to yours, daring it to misbehave, you step and lean and sway, every movement perfect and precise, like an intricate choreography that you have never learned, but your bodies remembering them. He dances with you the way he has sex—with exquisite control, infinite patience, and aggressive moves.
Huh, that's what Denki must have meant.
At that moment, your eyes catch him standing outside the dance floor, and you almost don’t recognize the man alone, filled by ugly emotions they couldn’t help but spill and show on his expression. Sour and hateful and just plain cruel looking.
Katsuki’s mouth curves in a lazy smile at how your brows furrow, spinning you in a vigorous turn so he’s the one facing him instead. You aren’t dense, you feel the eyes on you, well aware who they belong to as they burn through your back. He lowers his head, forcing you to look back up at him, your lips grazing against his, too close.
“Yer puttin’ on a show for your boy?”
“A show- no you ass, weren’t you the one that wanted to dance?” you try to lean away to scold him -yes, middance- but the blond lowers further, until you think he’s trying to get you to shut up by kissing you. Suddenly he’s dipping you low, his face stays only a few inches away from yours, your back arching beautifully.
A static sound dwells on you, followed by the buzzing of electricity. The lights flicker and you instinctively grab at Katsuki, tightening your hold against his bicep, your eyes searching his when he doesn’t lift you back up, only to find him not even looking at you.
His fingers are tingling, tips wiggling as they shoot little sparks at the sight in front of him, his golden eyes illuminating in the momentary darkness as they clash with the magma filled rubies, challenging him, taunting him, mocking him.
MineMineMine
And when Denki accidentally short circuits the entire DJ booth, the dance hall instantly quiets, a blanket of silence weighing them down and daring someone to break it. And yet, Bakugou has other plans, of course.
Sneakily, he slides his hand down from your back to your knee, firmly grabbing your leg as his eyes meet yours before lifting it to his hip. Fingers slipping under your dress and grazing your upper thighs, sending goosebumps racing across your skin, not having the courage to break eye contact until you hear the gasp of a few of the attendees. Only then does he close the gap between to press his lips against yours, the little audience you collected clapping and cheering you along.
The whistling and cheering is loud enough for you to miss the sound of Denki’s fist slam against the table and the sobs wrecking him as he drags his feet away from the scene.
BakugousBakugousBakugous
Sero grunts as he struggles to push the hotel room door open with Denki leaning his full weight on him. It takes him a couple of tries to finally get the drunk man on the bed, slapping his hands away as Denki tries to grab at and kiss the man.
“C’moooon, Hantaaaaa, s’not like you don’ wanna, look atchu, you’re takin’ off m’clothes but you don’ wanna kiss me?”
“You ass, I’m taking off your shoes because you stepped in your own vomit.”
The man gags, chugging the shoes in the trash can and helping his friend ease off of his suit jacket. “Yer a good man Hanta, say, you wanna be m’best man?” Sero laughs, shaking his head as he tries to help him lay on his stomach, “y’know, when I marry y/n.”
The silence that follows is deafening, Sero not having the heart to talk when he catches the sound of Denki sniffing and burying his head in his pillow.
“I- “
“Jus’ leave me alone, Sero.”
And he does, the only confirmation of his solitude is the echoing click of the door’s lock as Sero leaves Denki to brew in his own self loathing.
It takes Denki a few minutes to collect himself, the nausea forcing him to take off his shirt and pants, lying down on his back to feel the cool air on his chest. He doesn’t realize he has his eyes closed until he snaps them open when he hears his door click close.
There you are, radiating, mesmerizing, you’re practically glowing, standing there by his door, adorned by your… nightgown?
God, please don’t say you’re in the wrong room, please don’t say you’re in the wrong room.
“You sure you’re in the right room y/n?”
You don’t answer, you just simply, untie your robe. And Denki’s eyes practically bulge out when the silk robe slips right off of your shoulder and drops in a pile on the floor by your feet. He can’t look you in the eyes, he’s looking at every inch of exposed skin he can muster, committing every curve, every dip, every contour, every fucking thing to memory.
“You’re here, aren’t you?” that’s when he looks back up at your eyes -after shamelessly staring at your peaking nipples for a second too long - blinking twice at your words. He sits up with a struggle, “W-wait, what about Bakugou?”
“What about him?”
And honestly, that alone almost made him bust a nut.
You’re pushing at his chest until he lays back down, throwing your leg over his figure and straddling him. Instantly, he feels your warmth pressing against his strained length and his body shivers at the thumbing against it.
“You’re so good to me Denki,” you breathe, fingers combing through his hair before you take a fistful of it and lightly tug, rolling your hips against his and relishing in the whines he lets out, slender fingers reaching for your thighs and grabbing handfuls, his eyes begging for you to do it again, and when you do, he throws his head back and moans.
“You treat me so well,” you pout, nails tracing his sweaty flushed chest, peppering kisses along it, moving up until you reach his ear, biting at it and giggling when he ruts his hips up against you. Feeling your slick dampen the front of his boxers as his leaky cock does the same. “So pretty for me” he whines again, eyes blown out and chest heaving at the feeling of being kissed by you, held by you, touched by you, hell, looked at by you.
“Fuck, again, ah- d-don’t stop, pleaseplease-”
“Use your words baby, wadda you want?” he thrashes against the bed when you grind your hips against his again, the tips of his fingers buzzing and twitching when you’re lowering yourself to press your chest against his face.
“Fuck, wanna feel your pretty pussy, feel you squeeze my cock, please, just -ah, put it in.” it's all muffled from the spit collecting on tongue and the way he’s smothered by your tits but honestly he wouldn’t have it any other way.
His body refuses to move as you scoot lower, straddling his thigh and grinding your hips against it, wickedly smiling as he whines ‘nonono’ when you do, “m-my cock, my cock, please stop teasin’.” the tip of your finger traces the elastic of his boxers, giggling at the way his body jerks up and at the gasp he lets out when you snap it against his hip. Before gliding your finger against his strained cock, enjoying the way it twitches under your touch, feeling it harden against you.
You coo at him as you pull off his boxers, when you see that there is no initiation from him to move. The sight of his pretty cock with its fiery head welcoming you and you can’t help but grab at it. “Pretty boy all needy for me, hmm?” You give it a lick from the base to the tip, sucking on the head of his cock and feeling it twitch inside of your mouth, hollowing out your cheek and looking up to see the way his face flushes, his body illuminating with the crackling of the thunders around him, twitching his body before he breathes out a few times to calm himself down.
How is he so lucky? How is he blessed with having your lips wrapped around his cock, just looking at you is tightening a knot in his belly, and he can’t help but throw his head back and close his eyes in an effort to prolong his orgasm to feel even more of you.
He doesn't open his eyes until he feels a looming shadow on him, and that's when he catches sight of you again, the moon hitting your face, your glistening precum-covered lips smiling down at him.
“Want me to take care of you?” You tease, chuckling breathlessly as Denki feels your pussy on his cock, your slick covering it as you roll your hips and feel your pussy gush at the way his body shivers in ecstasy at your touch. “Yes! Please mommy ye-”
“Mommy?” Did he just say it out loud? “No, ah- fuck, no-no I didn’t say that I-” you don’t even let him talk, gyrating your hips again, covering his dick with your slick, without having your walls flutter around him just yet.
It takes a few teasing grinds of you against him to have him sobbing at this point, “m-mommy please just please! I wanna, ah” he thrashes when the tip of his leaky cock catches your clit, the lightnings he’s producing passing by his eyes and obscuring his blurry vision for a while, before he’s blessed with the sight of you beautifully arched on top of him. “In, in, wanna feel the pretty pussy, please please lemme feel the pretty pussy.” it's just meaningless babbling at this point, anything to get your walls tightening around his cock, all sensitive from being rubbed against you for god knows how long.
And when his head catches your cunt, he all but cries out at the way it clenches at the head, bucking his hips up to feel more of you. Wanting you to swallow him whole, take him all the way in. “Y’gonna just fuck into my pussy like that, hmm? Is that how you’re treatin’ mommy now?” “n-no! Ah, m’sorry pleaseplease, I just, you feel s’good, you’re s’tight aaah, wanna feel more, please I want more more more,” and he does. So, without a warning, you drop your hips and impale yourself on his cock, and for fuck’s sake all of what Denki saw what white for a few seconds, he could’ve sworn he heard a few angels singing, even.
“That what you want, hmm? Want her to take care of her pretty boy?” you pout mockingly, bouncing yourself on his lap as he tries to grab hold of your hips to guide you, but the way you’re jerking his body has his head dizzy and his sight swimming, the low buzzing of his quirk muffled by the wet slaps of your skin against his, your ass clapping against his thighs and he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget that sound, and he just settles for letting you please yourself with his cock, because if you’re gonna use him as a fucking dildo, then he wouldn’t fucking have it any other way.
Weakly snapping his hips upwards with the drops of your hips, Denki’s leg shake and it takes a few more times for his cock to fully seath itself in your tight walls for him to let go, feeling your pussy squeeze his cock for all his worth as your pants turn into whines, suddenly they’re very afar, almost like you’re underwater. Yet he’s the one feeling like his lungs are constricted when he hears the name you’re calling, and it isn’t his. “Ka- ahh- suki…”
Only then does Denki realize that you aren’t in his room, your discarded rope isn’t thrown haphazardly on the floor by the door, your slick isn’t covering his thigh or coating his dick, and the worst of all, your pussy isn’t the one that has been squeezing his cock, oh no.
It was his hand, those slender fingers wrapping around his softening cock, smeared with his cum. He lifts his hand in horror, disgust and shame eating him up, especially when his ears perk up at your sound.
“Fuck, Katsu- yesyesyes, right there, yes!” Whatever nausea he felt subsiding is coming back tenfold, burning his throat as he slaps his hand over his mouth, anything to stop himself from puking on himself.
“Ha, that what you want? Getting dicked down after havin’ fun with that fuckin’ dunce face.” The wet sounds of Bakugou’s hips slapping yours is almost making his ears bleed. “Havin’ that prick touchin’ ya like that. Fuckin’ slut, all of that to rile me up so I can fuck that tight lil pussy, that what you want?”
Denki doesn’t know what’s the last nail on the coffin, the absolute filth being spewed to you, tainting your angelic ears, that aren’t meant to hear anything but praises and confessions of love and gratitude, the fact that you’re squealing and moaning for him to fuck you even harder, or the fact that he’s listening to every squealching sound, every creak the bed made, every slam of the headboard against your shared wall, every breath, every moan, every scream, everything.
That's when Denki flings himself off of the bed and empties his stomach, right on the floor next to his bed, tears stinging his eyes as he tries to trick himself that it's because of the way his throat is burning and not because of the way his heart is shattering, feeling it wrenched from his chest and thrown on the floor, stepped on and spat on and just beaten to the point of no return.
Sniffing and lifting his head up, Denki can’t help but see red, his whole body crackling with newfound vigor, his whole body is numb, like his quirk is taking the lead, putting his consciousness on the back burner. He chuckles, despite you moaning out Katsuki’s name when you find your release, despite him calling yours as he finds his, despite hearing your giggles and the kisses he’s pressing against god knows where on your body, despite the tears streaming down his face.
The last thing Denki remembers before he lets his quirk take complete control over him, is the humming of energy, the fleeting blinding brightness, the shattering of the light bulbs all around him, the loud deafening bangs, almost like music to his ears and finally, the sound of you screeching in horror.
Hope you like it! Kithes kithes
#im not even sorry#bnhacity#denki smut#kaminari smut#denki kaminari smut#denki x reader smut#denki x reader#kaminari x reader smut#kaminari x reader#denki angst#denki x female reader#kaminari x fem!reader#nami writes
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Linger (Hermit Tommy AU)
(A discussion about scars. This one has been in the bucket for a long time, and it's finally done! Enjoy!!)
TW: Permanent injury, bodily harm, scars, overdose mention
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Tommy's in pain.
The hermits mistook his ever tense posture for wariness, his pinched expression seeming only a front to those Tommy distrusted. They hope it will ease with time, and they are patient.
They turn out to be right. Slowly, Tommy gets used to them, relaxes, smiles more and yells less.
But he's still tense, and his face still twists occasionally in what the hermits start to realize is hurt rather than intimidation after completing simple tasks like lifting shulker boxes.
It's False who notices Tommy's not right handed.
He's a damn good fighter, as dirty as his shots are and as rough his technique is. Tommy fights like his life depends on it, and in that situation there's no room for fancy footwork or skillful swordplay. But looking impressive is not a requirement for being good at PVP, and the scuffed up teenager is a prime example of that.
Tommy's scars are evidence that he just encountered someone better.
Besides his crude offensive, False notices he's also clumsy. Tommy always draws his weapon with his left, and yes, he switches to his right as soon as it's in his hand, but as sporadic as Tommy likes to be, that doesn't add up.
False sees him get jumped by a creeper, once, and in the miniscule time alloted to attack, Tommy drew and swung with his left. Instinctually.
False then sees him grimace when the creeper explodes, and he drops his weapon to knead his left shoulder. That is when it clicks.
"Tom." False tries to sound casual on break from sparring with the kid the next day, watching him carefully from her periphery while she feigns busying herself with her water bottle.
Tommy grunts in acknowledgment, and False takes a breath.
"How come you always switch to your right when you're fighting?" She treads carefully. Tommy doesn't like it when the hermits pry, and he definitely doesn't like it when they're as observant of him as False is.
Thankfully, it doesn't look like Tommy reads into the question too much. "I'm right handed." He says simply, and False knows it's a lie, but his nonchalance would absolutely fool her if she didn't know the truth.
Now is when False would normally nod, and change the subject. But Tommy's hurting, and a part of her just can't let that go.
"See, you're not." False says lightly, abandoning all pretense. Tommy tenses next to her, more than he already is.
"You draw with your left. You wouldn't do that if you were right handed. Why don't you fight like that?" False asks. She doesn't grill him on how he got hurt, or why he hides it. She's being risky enough as is with her flat-out asking, and she's not certain she'll get an answer from the kid if she pushes any further.
Tommy swallows, and his left hand flexes unconsciously. "It, uh. Hurts." Tommy says. False waits patiently.
"I got hit. There. By a Wither, y'know." Tommy continues, and False finally feels a different emotion than calm worry. Sympathy and slight horror twist in her chest, and she's thankful she doesn't need to speak so Tommy can keep talking.
But he doesn't talk, and instead pulls off his shirt in the most difficult way possible since he moves his left arm as little as he can. False's eyes widen as blackened skin is revealed, spreading over the poor kid's entire left shoulderblade and down his arm and chest, dangerously close to his heart. If False were to touch it, she'd know the skin would be cold and dead, barely hanging on to Tommy's body anymore.
False lets out a horrified breath instead, feeling as if the wind got knocked out of her lungs.
There is no cure for being withered, if you don't have milk on hand directly after a hit. Those marks stay with you for life.
But Tommy is 16. Tommy has barely started his life, and he's already bearing an injury that will last with him until the end of his time. False feels bile rise in her throat. Whether it's cause of grief or anger, she can't tell. All she knows is that Withers aren't made on accident. There is a story here.
A story she has no right to know.
"Gods, Tommy, I'm--I'm sorry." False utters helplessly, because she just doesn't know what else to say. Tommy stiffens.
"Not your fault." He says curtly, his words edged with a familiar tone of sharpness that he takes when he feels someone is taking pity on him. False scrambles to save the situation.
"Scar's had some run ins with a Wither. Impulse, too." False comments, and pretends not to see Tommy's face flicker in surprise.
"I'm sure they have some tips, if you're interested." False continues, holding back the desperation she feels with every drop of willpower she possesses to not scare Tommy off. "You'd be a much better fighter if you could use both hands." She adds gently, and a wave of relief crashes over her as Tommy's eyes light up with recognition of opportunity.
Tommy utters an eerily mischievous laugh that False can't help but smile at. "Ohhh-ho, I'm gonna be so fuckin' powerful--they call me dual blade Innit!! I'm gonna dual blade your ass!"
False laughs out loud at that, the icy horror in her chest loosening for only a moment. "Void help us." She comments sarcastically. "Go on then, see Scar first. He's got magic crystals that I hear are good to help pain."
Tommy's face flickers, so quickly that False barely sees it before it's gone. But the expression was bare exhaustion, a kind of weariness that False has never really seen before.
False could guess that Tommy's been in pain for most of his life. No wonder he's tired. No wonder he nearly overdosed on gapples for the absorption they provided when exposed to the hermit's infinite supply. No wonder he doesn't move quickly unless he has to.
Several things click into place as Tommy pulls his shirt back over his head, and the conclusion leaves a lead weight in False's gut.
It's not her business to know what happened to this boy barely old enough to attend MCC that gave him lifetimes of scars both inside and out. She knows her fellow hermits who have been her friends for years have secrets they will never share, and she's made her peace with that a long time ago. For Tommy, it's no different.
But as False watches him gingerly make his way down from the top of her base to the portal, she just wants to know why that fate was seemingly a deserving one for a child to bear.
END.
#meraki post#hermit tommy au#tw drug mention#tw injury#tw scars#fond of this one#hermitcraft fic#dream smp fic#kind of
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Can you trust me? | knj
⇢ pairing: namjoon x reader (idol! Namjoon)
⇢ genre: Angst because Namjoon may or may not be an asshole about important things but also fluff because of sweet-talking
⇢ word count: 3k
⇢ warnings: Arguements but honestly thats it because the rest if fluff lmao.
⇢ Copyright: please do NOT repost, translate, or modify my works in any way, shape or form, on any platform. If found doing so , it is considered as plagiarism and appropriate LEGAL action will be taken
⇢ Summary: Namjoon keeps making excuses of not meeting up with you and given that you guys have been having fall outs recently, things are about to be put on the line. Will you guys break up? Or will you stay together? Can you trust him..
You have reached the voice mailbox of-
You shake your head lightly as tears feel the brim of your eyes. This is the third time today. You knew that in this relationship with Namjoon would mean that he wouldn’t always have time for you. But for him to not even give you a quick text or just even answer his phone is absurd. You’ve been talking about this meet-up for the past two weeks. Although he is mostly busy majority of the times, a dinner for one night surely wouldn’t affect his schedule right?
Especially with all the things going on between you and him. This date tonight would of approached everything that has been happening. The arguments you guys have are just nerve wracking. Especially when he argued with you for being clumsy because you had spilled fruit juice in his studio.. on the wooden floor. You just didn’t get how it would be a big deal as it was not carpet so an easy clean up. At the end of the day, you guys knew how to get on each others bad side and that’s not good at all.
So here you are now, dressed in an elegant black dress with that Swarovski crystal bracelet he gave you for your 1 year annivesary. Atleast, that’s when he actually gave a fuck about the relationship. Actually, you can’t even count the amount of excuses he’s made within the past months to not spend time with you. The last time it was because he was washing clothes and didn’t have any to wear right now. In which you had called bullshit because he has more clothes than anybody could ever.
Needless to say, you had ignored his calls and texts for two days to give him a piece of your mind. Namjoon wasn’t the type to over-react on such things so it wasn’t a win situation for you. Instead he sent you some of your favorite chocolates and flowers as an apology as you weren’t speaking to him. Yes, you gave in because who wouldn’t over the dozen of roses and Switzerland made chocolate?
This time is something different though.
The waitress returns with a bottle of champagne with a bucket of ice in her hands, and while she sets it down, you quickly wipe the stray tears away and force a smile. You didn’t even notice they were there before.
‘‘ It seems as though my significant other..” You take the napkin from your lap and throw it on the table. “ Will not be joining me today. I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”
The poor waitress had been waiting for you to order your food for an hour now. You’d kept insisting to wait because Namjoon would’ve been there any minute. Turns out you were very wrong.
She smiles softly, popping the cork off the bottle and pouring a glass for you. ‘‘Shall I give you the bill then?’‘
As if you would be the one paying for this, when he had broke his promise for you. Broken promises are a thing you hated and he knew that. Putting this on his tab wouldn’t bother him with your petty little antics. The boy is a millionaire, something like this doesn’t even make a dent. Somehow though, you wanted to pay him back for not even showing up.
‘‘Put it on Kim Namjoon’s tab. He’ll be the one paying for this.’‘ You mumble to the young girl. The girl nods her head and pulls out the tab and hands it to you.
You sign your signature on it, and place a good thousand dollar tip on it. The feeling of satisfaction soothes you. He’d surely be paying for his time away, and wasting this waitress’ time. You hand it back to her, waiting for her reaction to the amount. Sure enough she doubled back to you when she realized how much was on the tab.
“ Ma’m? You added two extra zer-”
“ My date wasted your time love. He’s deeply sorry for it. Do something good with the money yeah?” As if the sinister smirk to yourself wasn’t enough, you quickly get up from the table and thank her again before heading to the exit.
The taste of the sweet yet tangy wine soothes the emotions flowing through you right now. Kim Namjoon. A guy who cancels dates a lot. A guy who does not keep his promise.
The only place you knew he would be at rather than his apartment would be at the BigHit building in his studio. He’s always there rather it be snowing or sunny outside he’s just.. there. It always astonishes you how one can just lock himself in a room for hours. What is it about him and doing that? Last time you paid a visit here Namjoon was eating the dinner he ordered in the room, instead of coming over to your house as he promised.
You punch in the code to the brand new building and a charming sound lets you know you may enter. You smile at the two security guards who give a slight smile then back to the blank expression towards the outside world.
Your heels click against the cold tile making your way over to the receptionist. The air smells fresh, as if someone had just cleaned the room again. The receptionist politely stands up quickly and greets you with a smile and a slight bow of her head.
“ Miss Yn, how may I assist you today?” Her eyes are warm and bright, along with her small smile at you. You wish you could feel happy in this current situation right now.
“Is Namjoon in his studio again.”
‘‘ Yes Ma’m should I tell him that you are coming in?’‘ She says, smoothing her skirt out before sitting back down about to grab the phone.
You immediately shake your head no. Since he doesn’t like showing up and canceling dates he doesn’t need to know anything at all.
You force a fake smile upon yourself to please her. ‘‘No. It’s a surprise since we have not had the time to see each other in a while.’‘ Oh yes, a surpise it will be.
She nods her head, ‘‘ Yes ma’m. Have a nice night with him.’‘
You say your goodbyes to each other and you go your separate way down the hallway of studios. Each door standing out in it’s own way makes you smile.
Mang Gae Deok Room
Hope world
Golden Closet
Genius Lab
And finally, Mon Studio.
You fluff your hair a little bit before turning the corner to the secluded area. But something takes you by surprise, it makes you tense up. Eyes watering and a little whimper chokes out of you. So this is what he’s been doing. This is what he’s been up to for the past weeks.
Its as if almost you feel your heart stop beating for a mere second. As if the blood in your veins went cold. As if what you’re seeing right now is only your imagination but in reality it is not.
There he is, sitting in his chair while a female takes it upon herself to casually take a seat on his desk, smiling and laughing and all. The pain in your heart makes it hard for you to keep looking. Sure, you guys argue, but ditching plans to do whatever it is with a girl is a low blow. That’s all you can take. That’s all you can manage to see right before he turns to look at you in complete and utter shock. There is no stopping the flow of the tears coming down your warm cheeks.
You look down at the boxed up food you had bought him and the bottle of wine that you had taken then back up at the door. Raising the box in the air, you throw it against the window making the food splatter everywhere leaving a mess. The two inside jump at your actions, but you ignore them and just walk away with utter disbelief.
Foot steps and yelling are heard behind you but you don’t stop. You continue walking, but then speeding up your pace passing the receptionist, who is confused yet concerned, and pass the two security guards with no expression.
Running to the open, vacant elevator you quickly wipe your tears and repeatedly abuse the close button to keep Namjoon from joining you. The image of him you get just before the door closes, is him running attempting to get the elevator door to open. You make sure to make eye contact with him just so he can see your pain.
You sniffle heavily while hanging your head low walking to your apartment. You could understand if it was one of the boys in the recording room. It doesn’t look like a great situation, but the girl did seem comfortable enough with him to sit on his desk. So that only leads you to think about how long has she been around him. The thoughts barricade your mind and before you know it you are face to face with someone standing directly on your doormat.
You dont bother to look up already knowing that body structure. Instead you try and shove past him to unlock your home, but there’s no use because next thing you know you’re being held by your upper arms standing in-front of him.
‘‘ Namjoon I don’t want to fucking talk about it.’’ You grumble, shoveling yourself out his arms quick enough to unlock your apartment enough for you to slide through and slam shut.
Knocks are loud on your door to cause some neighbors to wonder. Let them wonder they can scold him themselves for causing so much of a scene.
‘‘ Yn im coming in.’‘ He yells through the door.
You roll your eyes and stand a few feet from the door with your arms crossed on your chest. The door gives a charm letting him know the pin-code was correct. He shuffles in lightly through the door and closes it gently behind him. You stand there waiting for his explanation as you slowly walk towards him.
‘‘ Yn-’‘
Smack!
It felt good for your hand to connect with his cheek. How dare he disrespect the relationship of you two like this?
Namjoon holds his now sore, red cheek and gives you a serious look, ‘’ That was unnecessary. Let me fuckin expl-’’
Smack!.
Your nose flared in and out as you breathe heavily with your eyebrows furrowed in anger. ‘’ Another woman Kim Namjoon? You didn’t show up to our date because you were doing god knows what with another woman?”
Namjoon bites his lip hard as his eyes narrow, ‘’ Stop fucking smacking me. Let me got damn explain you brat!’’ He yells, pushing you to against the wall.
Your strength towards him was no match. You try to run away but he pins you back onto the wall. You were useless at this point.
‘‘ What’s your problem! Calm down!’‘ He semi-yells, grabbing your face to make you look at him. You look at him, you look him dead straight in the eyes with anger all over you.
‘‘ Shut up. Shut the fuck up Namjoon. I planned the date to talk about everything happening but you don’t show up? Instead you were chatting it up with another girl.” You pause, ripping your arms away from him. “ That’s not a good look for you.”
Namjoon steps back, scoffing in disbelief. That only pisses you off even more, but you decide that it had been enough smacking him for the night. ‘‘ I wasn’t cheating if you think that. You and I both know I wouldn’t do that, right?”
You glare at him, ‘’I don’t know you fucking tell me.’’
That one single sentence sets him off. Trust is something you two really try to have with each-other but lately that’s been all over the place. Questioning his loyalty to him is like a stab in the back with a sharp, piercing knife. Namjoon puts his hands on his head in shock while walking towards the kitchen. You follow him because the last thing he was going to do to you, is ignore the entire fucking conversation.
The silence is rough. You sit yourself down on one of the island chairs as you watch him pour himself a glass of wine. The one you had bought from the restaurant. The way his jaw locks with a serious pout on his face lets you know, he has some choice words to say. That sharp tongue is just holding it in.
But did you over-react? Perhaps you did? Either way, it wasn’t a great scene to walk in on. Your man and another woman alone in his studio. You can’t help but to have reacted that way. Wouldn’t any other person would? It’s not that she was there, it was the way she was very comfortable around Namjoon to the point of doing what she did. She was also a person you had never met.
Namjoon puts the tip of the glass to his lips, making direct eye contact with you as he takes a long sip of wine. You roll your eyes at his dramatic action.
He clears his throat, ‘‘ Im still young. I have female friends and I have male friends. I would love to have time with them before you start barking up my ass.”
Barking up his ass?
‘‘ So you’re saying that all you were doing was having fun with her cause you’re still got damn young huh? Is that what i’m hearing Namjoon?’‘ That rage begins in your stomach again. Simmering in you like boiling water.
You continue, “ It’s like you just don’t care you left me at the fucking restaurant looking stupid right?”
‘‘ No I wasn’t having fun with her. You ran out without letting me explain, instead you were all dramatic throwing fucking food at my windows.” The sound of the glass clinking against the counter-top is sharp. You wince at the sound of it.
Maybe you did over-react. But in your defense, you still had no idea who the girl was.
“Yn, how childish can you be right now? Did you ever think that me, one of the members of a worldwide known boy-group will be busy? Hmm? Yes, I should of told you that I couldn’t make it beforehand. I honestly thought I would be able to join you, but I overlooked my schedule wrong. That is my fault. The girl came because she was scheduled to work on our collaboration tonight with me.”
Oh gosh. The guilt takes over your body all at once. This was the last thing you wanted to happen. You really outdid yourself now. During all your rage and tantrum about this situation, you had failed to realize that you had indeed signed up to live this type of relationship with him. Of course he’d be busy, he’s an idol. Not once did you take his feelings and thoughts into consideration this entire time.
“ I don’t know Yn, I don’t know if we can continue our relationship together. You and I seem to be clashing a lot now-a-days. You questioning my loyalty really hurt me. We should think about taking a break, or ending things.”
Tears well in your eyes but you just let them fall. Those words you never wanted to hear ever. Sure couples clash with each-other, but isn’t that what makes them stronger? It’d be One year and a half down the drain if things were to go south now. Namjoon is a sweet guy, but your recent over-reacting scenes is becoming too much for him.
There goes that silence again. You two just sit there, not saying a word. The tension is thick as wood. This isn’t right. This won’t be right. Th emotions in you are running high. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Things were only said in the heat of the moment. You were tired of him always canceling and didn’t even bother to let him explain. This could of been handled better.
“ I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve been wanting to spend time with you and you keep canceling on me Namjoon..”
He sighs, placing his now finished glass of wine in the sink. He runs his hands in his hair shaking his head again. “ I’m sorry for that. I should do a better job at telling you my schedule.”
It still hurts though. The way he said those words without hesitation. “ Do you.. still want us to take a break after this?”
“ I think that now that we understand each other a little more, we can work on being better together and not seperate.”
You’re happy to hear those words. Namjoon comes from behind the counter straight towards you where you were now standing beside the chair you were once sitting in. His arms snake around you and pull you into his chest, hugging you tightly. You sink into him, nuzzling your head into him with a small sigh.
“ I don’t like when we fight like this. You know I love you right? So much. So, so, much.” He whispers down to you. You nod your head in agreement. It’s something about being in his arms that soothe you.
You feel so complete with just the presence of him. He makes you happy, as you do him. Namjoon is understanding, caring, kind, and so much more to you. He was there for you on your worst days, and was there on your best days.
He plants a small kiss on your forehead, “ Let’s become better together yn. I want big plans for us in the future, and I don’t want to lose you.”
“ I want that for us too. I love you so much Namjoon. Even when things are bad for us, I care a lot about you.”
The butterflies in your stomach settle. Being in Namjoons arms is what home feels like to you. You’re secure and safe.
‘‘ Can you trust me next time? I promise from now on I will tell you in advance if I cannot participate instead of just leaving you wondering.‘
You nod your head, not caring about what he said but only caring about his embrace right now. The only thing you care about att he moment is him and his understanding.
‘‘ Can you trust me?’‘
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Get Jinxed [MYG]
beautiful, gorgeous, glorious banner made by the talented queen @dee-ehn - thank you so much for making my thoughts come to life in your edit!
Get Jinxed [Yoongi x Reader]
⟶ Credit: @kimtaehyunq
⟶ Genre: Angst | Smut | 21+ | Cyberpunk AU | One Shot
⟶ Warnings: pwp, sorta old lovers to enemies to lovers, cocky yoongi, mentions of weapons, criminal activities, hopeless romantic OC, rough sex, over simulation, multi-orgasms, public indecency, unprotected, creampie, etc,
⟶ WC: 4.7k+
⟶ Summary: A rouge ex officer of the law - Yoongi - has twisted his ways into causing mayhem across towns. You are the high and mighty officer who seeks revenge on Yoongi’s ways; considering that he not only turned against the city in which he grew up in, striping all chances of reforming himself, he also stole your heart.
⟶ Teaser: “He hushes you with a hand, his teeth nipping eagerly around your clavicles. “Shh,” he warns with a devilish glint, “We’re in public, Y/n.” He chuckles, mouth coming back to kiss against your jaw.”
⟶ Beta Reader: Thank you so so so very much for taking on this task very very very last minute @chillingtae I am so thankful for you to accept this role, and thank you for helping me through this fic! I owe you! ♡
⟶ Author’s note: Written for @houseofddaeng‘s Agust D Anniversary Event. Was my first time touching elements of a cyberpunk!au.
Rain casts a veil over your sight as you stare deeply into the silhouette across the murky alleyway; the figure before you surveys the one-of-a-kind hextech rifle aiming right at their head. Glistening neon lights flood your peripherals, puddles reflecting fractions of radiance between the cracks of the split bricks under your very feet. The chill of cold water drenches your attire, even the cap resting on your head leaks streams down the sides of your face.
“How could you!” You choked out between your teeth; loud enough over the pounding rain, loud enough to cut the man in front of you as if your words are daggers.
The rifle that deemed you the best shot in the city has no comparison to your superior intellect. Your wits earned you the way through the rankings and nobody, no criminal or lawbreaker were foolish enough to cross your path. You are known as Vopamis City’s finest peacekeeper and your oath is embedded deep within your family roots.
You’re the sheriff of a thriving, escalating city where art, craftsmanship, trade, and metamorphosis were built and centered from. Vopamis is and forever will be a reinventing city where dreams are lived to the fullest extent and treasures are found around every corner. It sits on top of the distrusted city of Tapos, an undercity district – which used to be once united but now no more – buried deep within canyons weaved below.
You press your words and force the air to pass through your clutching windpipe, “Fuckin’ answer me you son of a bitch!”
The figure sighs with a step forward, rolling their head out of annoyance but once their eyes meet yours in the light you knew all breath escaped your chest.
“Hi, Y/n.”
The dangerous bright orange hair stands out like no other, just like the cocky grin that emits the same tone as his two-toned eyes does. One is dull brown with crystalized specks of white, the other a piercing topaz yellow; a hard contrast between his natural dark pupil – all of which made those eyes captivating.
You fear this moment every day ever since that terrible day. It haunts you; it scares you; it hurts you. Yet here you are, face to face with the man who solemnly swept the valuable, rich rug right out from under you and ran with it. With betrayal and pain coursing through your veins you sought out his existence every single day to get revenge on the one person you thought you truly once loved.
With your rifle adjusted point blank, with the help of the glowing red laser to the center of his forehead, you show no signs of backing down from your stance. The rain beats heavily though your heart pounds harder inside your chest.
He looks just how you remember him; black under-cut still very much unkempt, a piercing jabbed through one eyebrow and two into the cartilage on the same side of his nose. His oversized cryptic jacket hides his frame well, decorated in all sorts of patches, widgets, and spikes that have their own metallic shine to them. You swear you see the edgings of tattoos creeping up the sides of his neck, exactly how you recall them.
Those unforgiving thick soled boots kick up the water around his steps as he inches out of the shadows, “It’s been a while.”
You ignore him just like he ignores your first sentence, “How could you do this?!”
He shrugs with amusement dressing his face, “Why ask me questions you already have answers to, Y/n?”
With glares meeting another in a standoff stare he halts his walk five feet in front of you. Unphased by the downpour of smogged twilight rain, you twist your finger around the trigger of your trusty gun. “You stole for the black markets, betrayed your city and me, ran off to the unstable technologies and reckless constructions of the polluted and gangrenous Tapos. Why!?”
“You seem to be a bit vindictive.” He snickers, swiping a hand through his soaked locks. “I was bored.”
Bored.
Your grip tightens around your rifle, you can’t tell if you are shaking from the cold of the rain or the anger raging throughout your body. His words made your heart sink to the pit of your stomach.. “Yoongi!” You hiss with a harsh tone, blood boiling under your very skin.
He steps again, hand clutching the barrel of your gun and aligning the end against his forehead. Yoongi looks at you with teasing eyes and a wide, wirily smile. He is testing you - taunting you. “I know you won’t do it. You won’t pull the trigger.” That blunt topaz eye drills back into yours, enticing and enchanting all at once. “How many times have you seen me in the streets? Stealing from this filthy, pathetic excuse of a renowned city? How many times did you watch me walk by doing whatever I damn well please? Why are you stopping me now? What changed?”
To what you believe you are holding out strong, insisting you have the upper hand and all control. But you are frozen, unpredictably iced in place from where you stand. Only to stare back at the man that your heart swells and aches for. Yoongi doesn’t wait for you to answer as he already knows every single move and step you have going for you.
“It’s only been two months.” He states with a soft smile, lowering and pushing aside the gun in your grasp. “One of the most determined and skilled investigators of all Vopamis. Filled with ferocity and a strong sense of justice and resolution. Falls right into the footsteps of each and every one of your family members. They reinforced their ideals of right and wrong on you so much that it’s practically branded across your forehead.”
Yoongi spits to the side, tilting his head to watch your face with all his rambling. He has proven himself in such a small-time frame of how impulsive he can be, going from a trusted high ranked officer of the law to a merciful criminal who now wreaks havoc without care. Buildings burn in his name as he always made sure to leave a massive trail of mayhem and panic in his wake, never seized to end his rampage with the biggest explosions – which soon became his signature.
You loved him ever since the day you two joined the academy together. Yoongi excelled in everything from hextech inventions to architectural research. Vopamis has become a magnet for the most skilled craftsmen from all over the world and the more restricted and dangerous ones fell into the toxic runoff of Tapos. Now, Yoongi’s schemes have inspired copycat crimes among the chem-punks, a movement in which he predicted after labeling righteous wordings on structures throughout both cities. Some followers have blindly followed his persona named ‘X’. In a crafty way each successful heist has a small piece left for the police to find; a personable note that always says, “get jinxed.”
Standing helplessly at the mercy of your own heart your head drops, eyes casting to the drenched road. Everything in your righteous mind tells you to take him in, lock him up – it is your job and duty to do this as you are one with the law. But your poor, fragile heart is gapping open from the piece that was ripped away by Yoongi.
“You’re right.” You whisper softly.
“I know.”
All the times you allowed him to do what he continues to do because you didn’t have it in you to send him to jail. As you watch him become the criminal he is now, refusing to stop his acts even though the justice and pride within you screams for you to act on your instincts. “Everything you’re saying is right.”
Yoongi raises his hand, palm facing up and holding a chemtech explosive bullet that swirls a cobalt blue liquid inside. Instantaneously you knew exactly what the bullet is – the meaning behind it, and all of the precious memories came flooding back all at once.
The bullet was no longer than two inches and has a hole drilled through the piece to lace a chain through it. Yoongi wears it as a charm to his bracelet and even in the dark of the rainy night with neon lights flashing around you, you can still see the small etchings of both of your initials on the tip of the bullet. It was his first ever fully functional bullet he crafted back at the academy and he had dedicated that piece of craftsmanship to you.
“I still love you, you know.” Yoongi’s voice stills your breath, deep and stern. With all seriousness he openly speaks with a stony face as you look up to him. “I never stopped.”
You avert your eyes away from the nostalgic piece which lies in Yoongi’s palm and the heat of your breath fans out into the open cool air in a puff of smoke. It hurts your heart, all your pent-up revenge brought out a disgusting angry monster from within you. You’re blinded by the law and blinded by the admiration of love for Yoongi.
“You don’t.” You counter with a hiss.
Raindrops hide away the streams of tears that break down the brims of your eyes and you refuse to keep your eyes open in the slim chance of giving Yoongi the satisfaction of your glistening orbs filling with hurt. As much as you secretly hope and want – need – Yoongi to say those words, they still simmer a splitting pain inside of your delicate heart.
Yoongi’s tatted, calloused hand aimlessly raises to your face, his knuckles brushing against the curve of your cheek. Surprisingly, you don’t flinch at the contrasting and unexpected warmth that’s responsible for heating up that side of your face. Instead you find yourself helplessly leaning into the contact, your shaking hand still holding your trusty gun at your side.
“It’s funny,” Yoongi scoffs, forcing your eyes to jolt in his direction of his action.
You burn a glare at him while he inspects your face, your blood boiling underneath all of your drenched clothes and cold skin. Yoongi sounds a quick ‘tsk’ as disapproval while his fingers glide down the column of your neck. “So funny that you question everything I say and do.”
The fact that he has your rendered frozen in place under the heavy weather and his intimidating presence only confirms his suspicions. He wasn’t lying to you and you knew that, right? You swallow thickly at the bright orange haired man in front of you, eyes casting down to shrink your frame.
You sneer back, “Can you blame me? You ruined your chances of being an officer – all that hard work you put in means nothing now. You destroyed all your chances of being a citizen of Vopamis. And all because you were bored.” In the back of your mind no matter how many hours you had pondered his reasonings to derail into a criminal, what hurt you the most wasn’t the fact he chose this path of being a high risk offender – it is the reality of him leaving you behind as if nothing about your relationship between another is important to him as it was to you.
Yoongi cocks an amused eyebrow, a smirk quick to follow. “Hm, yes. I wasn’t bored with you though, Y/n. Truthfully, knowing that you’ll be hot on my trail at all times – no matter where I went – made this new life even more fun. You enjoy chasing me?” He swipes his tongue through the small opening of his lips, two-toned eyes glare at the small line of tattoos up the back of your own ear. He tilts your jaw with his thumb, exposing more of your smooth damped skin.
Under Yoongi’s hand you feel like a marionette; damned against his ministrations and at how weak you feel towards him. You can see your vision blur around the edges, your sight honing on the glowing eye that stares at you with interest. Another puff of fog seeps out of your mouth from a released breath that you held in for far too long. You don’t acknowledge the way your limbs grew numb by the minute or the way your bottom lip trembles from your constant shivers. You are only focusing on the way the warmth of the pads of his fingers emits onto your skin and gives you a sliver of assurance.
“Have I ruined this too?” Yoongi questions in a whisper, eyes projecting down to your cold lips.
Everything in your mind tells you to scream at him, tell Yoongi ‘yes, you completely and utterly ruined every single aspect of my life,’ but the words cannot crawl their way up your throat and form the sounds you need. Instead your face reacts with pain, all of your walls and defenses breaking down around you and your rifle drops to the puddled ground underneath you.
He can read you like a book, study your features, and pull each intricate and thin string of your heart. He plays you like a fiddle with a crooked smile, a knowing look to his face where all his intuitions of you feeling something towards him are all riddled true. It’s dressed all over your face, your body leaning closer to his, the look to your eyes – glistening or not.
His thumb taps lightly against your bottom lip, popping it open from the stern line your mouth was creating. You gulp with anticipation, your surrounding areas become less and less in vision of your peripheral and your eyes can only bore straight back into Yoongi’s; pupils dilating rapidly.
“No…”
Your solo word shakes out with a heavy breath at the same time Yoongi’s other hand comes to grab your elbow and pull you closer to him. The heat radiating off of him is met between you with a strikingly fast kiss, but the kiss was tentative at best. Even reading all of your body gestures, the way your posture changes when it comes to his proximity invading your territories, Yoongi still approached with cocky confidence. He knows he has you around his finger, around his hand and more.
‘You weren’t ruined, yet,’ he thought. But Yoongi is all too excited to violate whatever purity of the law that is still laced within your morals.
He’s eager to shove his deadly tongue into the first parting of your mouth, a gasp of excitement releasing through a moan. You forget about the downpour of rain around the two of you, the chill of the air cutting through your clothes, even forgetting the blaring neon signs illuminating the paths around this alleyway. Your mind is intoxicated with the savvy orange haired, corrupted, and dangerous man who has swindled his way within the burrows of each city and the cavities of your heart.
A single tear traces down your cheek as your arms link around Yoongi’s neck, your body completely caving into the man before you. With the motion Yoongi backs the two of you up until you're hidden well enough in the darkness. His hand cocks your head to the side as he leaves wet open-mouthed kisses as he pushes you against the side of the building. His lips heat your skin up and send an involuntary chill of goosebumps down your body.
You breath out into the air while your senses adjust to the new sensations of want and need being applied to your form. “Yoongi –“
He hushes you with a hand, his teeth nipping eagerly around your clavicles. “Shh,” he warns with a devilish glint, “We’re in public, Y/n.” He chuckles, mouth coming back to kiss against your jaw.
You muffle a noise of acknowledgement, or a moan of pleasure from the sharp suck Yoongi plants against the sweet spot under your ear. Your arms grip him tighter, pulling him flush against your front to be as close as possible. Without hesitation your hands link up the back of his head, fingers carding through the disheveled drenched locks for a nice pull.
Both of your clothes stick to you like a second skin, suctioned to your own bodies and you desperately want them ripped off. Yoongi hisses at the yank of his head. Sensing your actions as an emergency he huffs a laugh your way, “Yeah? What do you want?” He removes the hand across your mouth only to shove his thumb into it, pressing down against your tongue. “Is this righteous mouth going to tell me something?”
You comply by action with the decision of closing your mouth around his finger and sucking it with delight. Yoongi praises you with words of assurance, biting down on the flesh of his own bottom lip. He leans into you, hips grinding instantly against your frontside. The uneven gyrating of wet fabrics causes a rough and uncomfortable friction, but it was something that helped direct attention toward your neglected core.
Yoongi lifts up your slicked shirt just enough to fondle around the waistband of your pants in search of unhinging your duty rig belt. “You’re going to be a good girl, right?” His eyes give you a knowing look as his thumb detaches from your trap. Nodding, you seek his mouth once more to savor the warmth between you two. “Vopamis’ finest,” he quotes in a mocked tone.
“I love you.”
Your confession halts Yoongi for a brief moment between kisses, his hand stalls as it breaches a few inches inside the front of your pants. He has you pinned against the rough brick of a building in the outskirts of the city with your freezing, aching body under his frame. Your mouth and legs so willing to open up for him.
This is the very first time he’s seen you so ‘not yourself’ in all the years he has known you, even when the fondness blossomed more between the two of you. Whichever relationship the two of you were in – it wasn’t exclusive but it surely is implied – has become completely manipulated to the public eye. Yoongi’s urgency falters for a moment, a flashback to a simpler time where the underlying love and sweetness emitting from the two of you has no boundaries. But as fast as that memory exposes itself, it was easily covered in his future thoughts. His enjoyment of being who he is now, what he wants to achieve, obtain, and take.
With your face plastering across all walls of his mind, he smirks excessively as if he is pleased with himself. He has everything he wants, and he’s greedy for more. No matter what Yoongi does with himself he knows he’ll have you regardless – and right now is proving that theory.
He leans forward to plant another kiss to your appetizing lips once more, “I know you do.”
Quickly, Yoongi flips you in your place in one quick motion, yanking down a portion of your pants once you catch yourself against the wall. Your eyes scan frantically to the opening of the alleyway, silently praying nobody stumbles upon the two of you in this indecency act – especially how your rifle lays still on the ground in the opening.
The air breezes across your now exposed cheeks, and with a firm hand Yoongi shoves against your lower back forcing you to bend forward enough to reveal your core. Gasping, you shudder under the sudden invasion of his cold clammy palm molding on top of your cunt. Your hands held you up against the wall, pants pulled only to your lower thighs preventing the spread your legs most desperately needed.
Slowly, Yoongi’s fingers prod along your slit, dipping directly between your folds the moment they come in contact with your dampness. He shushes you once again with the ruggedness of his voice while you hear the clinking of what you assume to be his belt buckle.
He wastes no time sinking a finger straight into your entrance, only after giving your clit a moments time of blissful pleasure – gone far too quick for your liking. His digit glides easily, enticing him with the next stroke to join a second. Your mouth hangs open with heated pants, your lower stomach jumping excitedly at the intimacy of your loved one, and your hips chase the stride of his fast pace.
“Shit, Yoongi!” you curse under your breath, feeling his free hand now snaking up your side under your shirt. His fingers alone create such friction that has your head lolling to the side and your inners clutching erratically. You don’t question your urgency, the impatient nature your body so willingly falls into, not when Yoongi is inches behind you lining up his engorged head to replace his fingers.
The two of you don’t care about the surrounding areas, too filled with lust. Too drunk on the idea of Yoongi coming back to you – and he is too excited knowing he has you in his clutches.
Heat courses throughout your core and abdomen, running down each of your limbs the moment his hips are pressed against your backside, dick submerged in one swift jolt forward. You lose your footing, falling further into the wall as your forearms plant into the building. A guttural moan leaks out of him the moment you yelp and squirm under him. His fingers desperately hold around your waist as he straightens his back, giving the next few experimental thrusts the slower motion your pussy needed from his harsh action.
Yoongi’s hip snaps back into you, bringing the flesh of your ass into the seat of his lap. He seethes through his teeth, “Fuckin’ hell!”
You’re restricted from widening your legs no thanks to your pants locking you in place, but this also gives a tighter sensation against his swollen cock. He doesn’t give you too much time to recuperate and catch your bearings, too honest with his mission and surging forward to bring the two of you to the brink.
“Stand,” he grunts with an arm circling around your waist. With his help you’re press flush against the wall and his chest, completely stuck between two hard places. Yoongi’s pace is rapid, the slaps of skin melt into the sounds of the fallen raindrops. It’s not long for his cock to jam pleasantly into the sweet spots within your silky walls, his thrusts determined to continue their gyrating motion deep inside you.
He chuckles at the lewd moans you release, head tilted back against his shoulder as you breath for air. “You really don’t care if someone hears you, huh? What do you think they’ll do, seeing the best shot in town being railed by a rogue criminal?”
Yoongi’s words course through your ear, his teeth coming to bite the flesh behind it. Your mind is too cloudy to think straight, not when he was inside of you both physically and emotionally. “T-they’ll hate me.”
“Is that so?”
You hum because that’s all you can do. The knot tightens in your stomach, the dull ache between your legs distorting itself into an electrifying spark has you cursing Yoongi’s name to go faster, harder. Yoongi feels you tightening around his prodding cock, only causing him to buck into you rougher.
Orange locks find their way between your fingers, tightening your grip on his hair the faster that band within you reaches towards its peak. “Yes! Yes, yes, please –“
The moment your body feels his inked fingers sneak their way to your clit, pinching it harshly, pulls a shriek of pleasure from your throat. Your body snaps under him – back arching as your walls clasp around his cock. “A-ah!” you shout while your orgasm rushes to all corners of your body, a tingly sensation vibrating through every fiber of your being.
Yoongi smirks as his pace doesn’t halt, now latching both of his hands to your hips he directs all movements. He enjoys your dispute of over-sensitivity, knowing how much you secretly like it from all the times in the past.
“One more, I know you have it in you. I’ve seen it before.” His voice is rough, any tang of sweetness swept away. “I’ll continue to fuck into this pussy until you cum again.”
Without stopping for a breather your body rushes into overdrive, it continues to squirm in his grasps and your legs shake dangerously underneath you. All thoughts of remaining quiet have gone out the window. Your second orgasm is set to fire, ready to be kicked off the edge into infinity, and with one quick shove of Yoongi’s cock that sinks all the way to ram into your cervix has you keening over and over.
Your pussy pulsates around his dick inconsistently, holding onto the appendage like a vice. It triggers his frenzy, his release spilling deep inside your well spent walls with dirty grunts. His arms hold around you tightly, helping you stand straight and to assist himself at the same time. Together both of your breathes are resounded, heated air escaping around the two of you in puffs of smoke.
You wince when his softening cock slips out of you, leaving gravity to aid in the way his cum drips casually out of your hole. Yoongi doesn’t allow you to turn and face him before he’s hoisting up your bottoms, the fabrics too annoyingly drenched to feel comfortable against your skin.
When you finally turn to speak to him he’s already readjusting his pants up along his hips, securing the button to his pants as he eyes you for a quick second. His hair is even more of a mess than before, no doubt you looked remotely better.
Dropping your mouth to talk, Yoongi averts his gaze to your rifle laying to the side. “Yoongi, I –“
“Don’t.”
His eyes narrow at the device that labels the reality of everything, where the two of you stand no matter how much you tango with another. A snort leaves him as he finishes off the buckle to his belt and you can tell by the way his facial features flicker than he’s having a complicated inner dialog going on inside his mind.
“Yoongi!” You press, grabbing hold of his shoulders to shake him slightly. “Yoongi please look at me, please don’t walk away from me.”
After a deep breath he exhales slowly, blank eyes now directed at you. There’s confusion painted over your face from the way you aren’t understanding why Yoongi suddenly steps even closer to place another kiss onto your lips, but it causes you to stop thinking momentarily. His lips, plump and plush, are the only things you can think about – until he’s pulling away too fast.
Back now facing you, he strides down the alley in which you found him. As if this heated interaction, and everything it consisted of, seized to exist anymore – the time has passed.
You take a wobbly step in his direction, hand reaching towards the figure that distances itself further from your grasp. “Yoongi, please!” You cry.
Behind you is your rifle, only feet away, and in front of you is the man you continuously chase. You’re torn between the two, the feeling of your mind splitting in half causing you to have a mental debacle with yourself. You scream with frustration; tears stream down your face at what your heart truly wants.
To stop the criminal at large or to join him?
You didn’t notice how Yoongi stops in his tracks, head tilted to look behind him with his piercing yellow eye standing out through the darkness. He watches you curiously, the environment around the two of you officially draws itself back into reality. Once he hears your scream of defeat he completely turns to face you with the widest grin smeared across his mouth.
“Hey, Y/n...” He pauses to wait until he knows you’re listening to him – and of course you immediately do so. Yoongi cocks his head to the side with a sense of arrogance radiating from the way his body stood. You desperately look at him with a plea, but your facial features harden at his next words. And they lace, deadly, within your mind.
Yoongi sighs, running one of his hands through his hair. Again, he knows he already has you, ruined you, and now he completely and absolutely owns you whether you like it or not. Yoongi playfully lifts his fingers to cross them together, a sign of a heart sent straight to you, “Get jinxed.”
© All rights reserved under @kimtaehyunq - do not copy, repost, modify, edit, or translate any of my work without my direct consent. This tumblr is the ONLY place my fics are posted.
#hodevent#houseofddaeng#bangtanarmynet#bangtanhq#ficswithluv#magicshopnet#btsbookclub#suganetwork#networkbangtan#armysource#yoongi x reader#bts#bts one shot#get jinxed#min yoongi#bts smut
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❛ YOU ONLY LIVE ONCE ❜
✨ REQUEST: hermanikiiiiiii i wanted to request you the prompt number 1 with coco cruz!!thank you, love you muchisisimoooooo💕💕
✨ PROMPTS: “Wait, you love me? Like Garfield loves Lasagna?”
✨ MADE BY: Juls.
Gif credit: to my lovely @supervalcsi.
WORDS: about 2k.
❚❙ A/N: this writing hasn’t been edited, you may find some grammar mistakes, I’m sorry about that. If you find a description about body or a word out of place or something that makes you feel uncomfortable / unrepresented, let me know by a private message and I will change it delighted ❤
❚❙ JOHNNY ‘COCO’ CRUZ MASTERLIST.
❚❙ MASTERLIST.
❚❙ JOIN MY TAG LIST.
When you heard that Coco had been shot, your heart suddenly stopped. It was four days ago in some kind of dog's fight, as Chuckie told you at the scrapyard. Bishop needed someone to take care of him while they were investigating what happened, so you offered yourself without doubting it.
Much to your regret, you are only two good friends, even if you feel more things that you can't explain, about which you haven't talked with anyone. And thanks to your work in the hospital, you managed a room only for him, so he could rest as much as he wanted, as much as he needed. But your back hurts like hell after being sleeping on the sofa, close to the bed, just to make sure that you were able to attend to all his necessities for minimal they were.
These days there, you have learned a lot about him, about his curiosities, about his fears; spending his time awake talking with you to keep his mind entertained, to not think about the pain in his lower abdomen. Your mates took the bullet in a jiffy, but, normally, the sorrow remains for a couple of weeks. Luckily, he only complained when the hour of the next turn of medicines was close.
You have tried to not think about your feelings the time you were in the hospital, but it was impossible. All you wanted to do was to lie by his side on the bed, embrace him between your arms and kiss him, having to conform yourself with holding his hand and resting your cheek on the mattress. Your eyes have never left his eyes, not even when he was sleeping, on alert in case of an unforeseen because of pain, or an infection, or God who knows. You were really paranoid.
“You ready?”
Coco glared at you, slightly tilting his head. You had asked the same question five times in the last two minutes. Offering him a hand to secure himself, the mexican put down from the hospital bed, ready to leave and go home. Angel and Gilly had cleaned his house, even if you insisted to Bishop that you could do it. But he asked you back to stay with him till the next morning, so he wouldn't stay the night alone until they came back from the other side of the border.
Two knocks in the opened door brought you back to reality from your own thoughts, in the meantime that you helped Coco to wear his leather kutte. Directing your tired eyes to the entrance of the room, you found three Vicki's girls, happily waving their hands. Raising an eyebrow confused and your lips pressed, they came in without asking.
“Papi, we've missed you”. The latin and playful tone of voice from Mariela, as she swung her hips to your friend, gave you shivers.
In just one sight, your presence was pushed to the background. These girls hadn't even called to ask about his state of health and, now, they were there as if they did all the work you did —delighted, of course. Trying to keep calm, you put Coco's clothes into his bag, zipping it when everything is ready.
“No te preocupes, we take care of him now”. Carolina sentenced with contempt and superiority, grabbing his stuff ready to abandon the hospital.
“Yeah, mami. Go home and rest”. His words hurt. More than a bullet.
Preferring their company besides yours let you know that he hadn't taken in count what you did. And yes, you did it because you wanted, but you also thought that maybe could mean a step ahead. But it wasn't. Not saying a word, doing anything but a simple nod with your chin, you grabbed your bag to step out from there. Ashamed. Feeling stupid.
Two weeks have passed and Coco has come back to the clubhouse. This time you have been doing extra shifts to compensate for your lost days taking care of him, almost walking like a zombie from home to work, and from work to home. So, when Bishop invites you to a party in his honor, you decline it. You are too tired physically to assist and tired mentally for foolishness. What is the point of going to a party to see Coco having fun with those bitches? You have had enough after two weeks without receiving a single text to thank you or to know how you are. He hasn't even cared about the fact that you haven't shown up in the club for two weeks. That's the little he thinks in your friendship.
Zapping from one channel to another, you try to find something to watch. A movie, a tv show, whatever that helps to distract your mind, while you enjoy thai noodles with beef. Finally finding an action movie, you cover yourself with a cozy blanket, grabbing the cardboard box to start your dinner. The ringtone of your phone interrupts your calm, with Coco's name on the screen. At first, you don't want to answer, but he continues insisting for more than three long minutes. Hanging up and calling again. With a furious growl installed in your throat, you leave over the table your dinner to grab your phone.
“The fuck means you aren' comen'?”
He doesn't even let you say hi or how are you.
“It means that I'm tired and I have to work at five”.
“I don' think one damn beer reverses your sleeping schedule, Yo' Grace”.
“Fuck you, Jonathan. I've been working double shifts to cover the hours I was taking care of you in th—”.
“Nobody asked you to do it”.
Eyes widened and your heart racing. You can't believe he just said that.
“Yeah, nobody did. But your hermanos preferred to be on the other side of the border. Your putas preferred to be partying and sucking dicks in Vicki's. And your mamá sent me pal' carajo when I called to tell her what happened. I did it because I was your friend. Because I cared about you. Because seeing you there with… all those tubes was killing me. That shit continues giving me nightmares every fucking night. But you shit on that. You kicked me as soon as your putas came to the hospital”. You don't know when you have started to cry, more than because of the rage than because of the sadness. “I'm sorry if I'm too tired to drink a fucking beer, but my job is more important than a person who doesn't give a shit about me, who hasn't called or text me in two weeks, who only wants my company when no one else is around. Have fun in your damn party and fuck all those whores to thank them for picking you up from the hospital, but didn't care about how you were after being shot”.
Hanging up, you toss the phone somewhere on the table, wrapping your body with the blanket and lying down on the sofa. Trying to contain the tears, the only thing you earn is to cry bitterness. You can't understand why he only has noticed your absence at the party. What has changed? Probably it was his egocentrism working, wanting to be surrounded by a lot of people, not caring if they're his friends or not. But you're done being his lapdog.
About to fall asleep, the angry hits in the main door make you suddenly wake up agitated.
“Open up!”
The rage is consuming you again after hearing the strong mexican accent, taking three long strides towards it to receive him with your reddened crystal eyes.
“What the fuck 'you want now? Haven't you had enough beating myself up?”
“You're fuckin' dramatic”. He spits in your face, stopping with a foot the slam to his about to close the door again. “I didn't talk to you because you were working, bu' you didn't talk to me either”.
“Yeah, because you were served with your bitches. Go fuck yourself, Jonathan”.
“Don' call me like that again”. Coco grunts taking a step into your house. “You had to work, they came to cover your back”.
“Oh, please, don't make me laugh. They just wanted to have the credits of taking care of you, so you will expend more money with them. That's the only thing they care about you. Wake up from your world of fantasy, Coco. If you weren't part of the MC, you wouldn't be a shit for them; just another fucking soldier with a broken home”. You can't help but push his chest with both hands, driven by anger.
At first, he doesn't say anything. He looks thoughtful, being aware of the truth in your words. And it hurts that you have to be the one to open his eyes. The problem is that you weren't thinking while talking, pulling your gaze away from him and pressing your trembling lips, one against the other.
“I'm sorry”. You babble, cleaning your tears with the back of your left hand. “I didn't mea—”.
“But you said so”. Coco interrupts you with a husky tone of voice, bristling every inch of skin of your anatomy. “That's wha' I am without my kutte. An ex-soldier, a criminal, an outlaw. I spend my money on them because they take care of me, one way or another”.
“I did it too”.
“So, what? What you want? Money? Tell me an amount”.
Squinting at him, you can't help but chuckle with a painful and bitter laugh.
“I did it because I love you, not because I want your money”. You confess, knowing there's no going back. “I don't care about your money, nor your job, nor about your kutte. I love you because you make me happy. After all, for me, there's nothing better than a hug of yours, because you… you are simply amazing. You're intelligent, funny, loyal. And I wish that you could see yourself through my eyes, Coco”.
He, not saying anything, is killing you slowly. Barely breathing, you cross your arms over your chest to hide the fact that your lungs aren't receiving any air.
“I thought that after being shot, you realized you only live once. And that… after being those… boring days with me, you realized that you preferred the company of these other girls. The funny part of being alive. So I just pulled myself away”. Taking a small pause, you bow down your head, cleaning your tears again. “These weeks have been torture. I've written you a lot of texts that I haven't sent… and I've been a lot of times about to call you. But 'you know that… feeling when you think... the other person is not gonna answer you, because maybe is too busy for you? That shit has been destroying me”.
Hoping that Coco finally is going to speak, he remains silent. Looking at you openmouthed, processing all the information you have just give him.
“Can you, ple—please, say something?” You beg almost shaking.
“Wait, you… love me? Like… Garfield loves lasagna?”
Raising your eyes, pouting at him, you know that he's trying to make you laugh after understanding all the pain you have been through. Lonely. Without talking about it with anyone.
“I'm sorry, mami… I just… fuck”.
Cupping your cheeks onto his hands, Coco slams his lips on yours, tasting the salty tears you have shed because of him. The sloppy kisses bring some more air to your lungs, calming your racing pulse and making you feel less unhappy. As your fingers get intertwined in his shirt, crinkling under your grip, he urges you to walk backward so he can close the main door with a kick.
“God knows I'm so fuckin' sorry… Please, forgive me”. Coco's whispers brush your lips, keeping his eyes closed just like yours. “I'm gonna take care of you now, okay?”.
Nodding in silence, you place your arms around his middle back, hiding your face into his chest. His strong scent brings you back to life, while his arms wrap you tightly to comfort all the pain he has provoked you without knowing it.
“I just want you, ma'. No one else. Just you”.
#lemme know what you think in a comment! ✨#mayans mc x reader#mayans mc imagine#mayans x reader#mayans mc#johnny coco cruz x reader#johnny coco cruz imagine#coco cruz imagine#coco cruz x reader#coco cruz
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𝗙𝗮𝗺𝗶𝗹𝗶𝗮𝗿
Jason Todd x Tamaran! Reader
Requested by anon: Hiya! I love your blog so much, and I just was wondering, if you're taking requests right now, could I request some Jason Todd x a Tamaranean reader? Like maybe she stowed away to earth when Kory made a trip to Tamaran and she's really cute and sweet and enthusiastic and fun and she had no family back home so Kory's like yeah alright you can be my sidekick and she has to get used to life on earth and meets Jason as Robin and they become friends to lovers to oh no he fuckin dead to lovers again?
Warning: Fluff, Angst, Language, Mentions of Death, Slow Burn & oh! did I mention fluff?
A/n: My heart... Also, I pray and hope you enjoy this one, love. This took me a while to finish but I got it done and I got carried away it. I wont lie, my writing isn’t the best but I hope this is something you what wanted or close to it.
Word Count: 3K
Kori loves your company
You were like the little sister she never had
A better sister than Blackfire of course
When she brought you to earth you were so amazed at everything
It looks so lively and green.
Flying around and feeling the cool waters from the ocean, the beautiful smell of the flowers and pines from the trees, and the shiny reflection on the buildings.
As Kori was going to take a visit to the cave to see Dick for a mission, she brought you along for an introduction.
He looked scary once you were brought inside.
“Kori! So nice to see you again. Oh, who’s this?” Dick glanced at your direction as you hid behind her like a scared kitten.
“Ah, this is Y/n L/n. A Tamaranean like me.”
“Hello y/n. I’m Nightwing.” You were mostly afraid of the masks because you haven’t seen anyone like him with that sort.
Dick noticed your fear then he took it off, causing you to relax a little, and shook your hand. “It’s so nice to have you on Earth.” You only nodded your head with a small smile. But there was a large slam of a door and stomping onto the stairs.
“Son of a bitch! Son a crusty no good bitch!”
“Jason. We have guests.” This… ‘Jason’ took a glance at their direction before giving a frown. Once again, you hid your figure behind Kori’s, scared onto the boy
Dick apologized to the two of you and went off to lecture his younger brother.
Kori only sighed and notified you that this was normal of him before Dick came back.
“Don’t worry about him, he’s just having another rough day with our dad. Jason please come greet them!” He rounded a corner with his mask on and his suit with an imprinted R.
“Robin. Pleased to meet you.” He sounded so irritated that he wanted this introduction to be over with.
Still in uneasiness with the mask, Dick quickly nudged his younger brother urging him to take it off.
Jason didn’t.
He just walked past you guys and left the cave on his motorbike.
Oh how much ass whopping he’s gonna get from Dick.
The second encounter happened at the Titans tower.
You finally learned how to control your powers and perform such combat ability that you never knew you could do.
Dick and Kori were like parents in the Tower.
You really loved the Titans
Raven may be dark but you both have such a strong friendship due to your trauma back in Tamaran and hers with her father
You suffered from a torturous experiment that left you with very similar yet slightly different powers than Kori.
Also you both love books
Garth always makes you laugh.
When training he turns into a gorilla to lift a good 3000 pounds while you could lift a good 70 tons making him go EEK!
He would make very disappointing puns but it always amuses you while everyone cringes at the dinner table.
Cyborg is like an older brother to you.
You would sometimes help him with the mechanics and lift heavy parts around while he rants about his day and he would also cheer for you when you’re sparring
They were the closest friends while the rest of the members adore you and your sweet personality
But when Jason came along with Dick for a small mission for a few weeks, you immediately locked yourself in your room.
The Titans were concerned
You were so marvelous and bubbly to all guests. Even to the infamous Batman!
Did the small bastard do something to make you like this?
Planning murder
But Dick and Kori knew why
After a lecture with the boy, Jason came by your dorm at night, still in uniform, knocking on your door, you didn’t open up, only listened from the inside
“I’m sorry.” It wasn’t sincere really. “I know we started off on the wrong foot, um…” his hand went through his hair in frustration that he needed to do this. “Since we're working together, we’re going to need to become trusting of one another….I’ll...see you tomorrow I guess.” That was awkward of him.
As footsteps faded down the hallway, you started to give a small smile.
You start to warm up to him.
But when he starts doing the little things, the two of you grew a bond.
By little things, I mean correcting your moves when sparring, telling you stories of his previous missions, listening to you, exposing embarrassing stories about Dick, bringing you your favorite meals in a large amount because you’re a big eater, and lots of others.
When you first saw him without his mask, you were floating above him, pulling his face closer to yours while admiring the beautiful color of his eyes.
“Your eyes are the most gorgeous color I’ve seen here on Earth.”
Oh how your face fell when he had to leave.
Don’t get me started with Jason, he began to be more hostile when sparring with others
There was a time when he took out his feelings on a sand bag while Garth and Cyborg were questioning what that bag ever did to him.
Of course the ‘parents’ took notice of this and Dick would purposely bring you to the cave or Jason to the tower.
The two of you have such a friendship that you would sometimes prank one another yet enjoy each other's silence.
Carnivals or nights out in the city were always a blast.
Whenever the two of you would see each other, you would fly to him in a swift manner that he would sometimes stumble back to regain balance from the impact.
Soon, a single touch from him exchanging a book to you, caused you to feel such an electric current.
His smile and laughter made your heart paced faster than the speed of light
His cocky attitude and sweet side made your nine stomachs filled with butterflies.
You panicked and told Kori about it while she was sitting on her couch smiling as you explained.
“You like him y/n.” “Well of course! He’s my friend isn’t he?” “Oh dear, you’ll need to sit down for this.”
Wait, there is a different emotion called attraction?
AND IT DOESN’T STOP?
The more time you’ve spent with Jason, the more your ‘attraction’ feels stronger.
You would sometimes daydream the two of you blossoming into a relationship like Dick and Kori.
“Did you hear that Kori and Dick broke up again?” Raven stated before taking a sip of her tea. “What is this, ‘breaking up’ ?” you asked with curiosity yet wonder about this new term
When Raven sighed and gave details about it, you were 100x more terrified about the idea of a relationship
What if you and Jason will experience the same if you both ever become a couple?
You tried to distract the feeling of disheartenment with your enthusiasm
But of course, the feeling always returns
Your legs were pressed to your chest as you gaze at the ocean and it’s crystal shimmers of the moonlight, still in thought about your feelings. Jason found you on the rooftop of the tower since he figured something was wrong for the past week
As he questioned it, you asked, “Jason have you ever liked a girl that is a friend?” His foot on the edge of the building nearly slipped once you asked.
“I mean...yeah, there are times when I really liked her.”
“Do you still have feelings for one?”
“Very.”
“Really!? Who?” You were excited but felt such pain in your heart.
This boy choked onto her request. But he spoke, spoke about this ‘mystery’ girl. How adorable she is and brightening everyone’s day when it has been horrid, including his own. How he admires her caring behavior whenever someone was hurt. He really likes her and would like to take her out one day.
“Her name is Y/n.”
“What a wonderful name she has.”
“You do know I was talking about you, right?”
“Yes yes, she does have- wait what?”
Dreamy sigh
Ah yes
Young love
Kori wasn’t all surprised as she and Dick saw the two of you were walking in the streets of the city, hand in hand. She was delighted.
Dick was thrilled to see the two together yet gave Jason, the talk, if he ever does something stupid to you
The Titans congratulated the two and some exchanged money with one another after losing a bet
After a couple of months, Jason had to leave for a classified mission that’ll last a couple of weeks.
As he said his goodbyes, you gave a kiss to his cheek before rushing back inside and leaving him smiling to himself.
It was lonely for the past couple of weeks but the worst part was when it turned to a few months.
Dick headed to Gotham four weeks after Jason left.
You were frightened about your boyfriend’s well being
As Dick returns to the tower, he doesn’t look the same.
You thought he was acting in such a behavior to surprise you that Jason is back.
“Y/n...we need to talk.”
“Ok?” Kori gave a concerned glance at Dick’s direction, clearly unsure of how you’ll take the announcements. “What? Why are you both so silent? Please tell me.” You have had such a glowing smile, ready to hear it. The prank.
“Look, I know you and Jason are in a relationship but I have some...news.”
“I’m listening.” Your foot tapped in excitement while Dick grew uneasy.
“Four...four weeks ago, we located Jason in an abandoned warehouse. He was held captive there for God knows how long by the Joker. And, as Bruce headed to rescue him…” you wanted to laugh at how far Dick was taking this.
Except, he wasn’t pretending
“...He was too late. The warehouse exploded and my... Jason...passed away. I’m so sorry Y/n.” He added. You clapped your hands and giggled
“Amazing job! Brava! What an incredible and creative prank Dick. Very impressive. Now where is he so I can finally owe him a real kiss.”
The adults were silent. You took their silence as part of the prank and rushed to the bottom of the tower to find him.
But he wasn’t there.
“Ok I checked the 50 floors below us but don’t worry, I bet he’s on the roof. He’s always there.” You returned to the room where Kori and Dick sat you in.
“This isn’t made up.” Raven and a few others entered the room, you could see it in their eyes they weren’t faking but you still denied it. “He passed away y/n.”
“No he didn't...He isn’t...Jason! You can come out now! Jason?” You flew to the roof.
As you searched and it was empty that was when your stomach dropped.
“Jason!” You flew around the area. The more you searched, the heavier your heart became. As you landed on the roof and heard the doors open, you glided to Dick. “Where is he?”
“I’m sorry.”
“No…no no... this is a game, right? When I check the floors again he’ll be there, right?... Dick?” He pulled your hand and placed something on your palm.
“He’s gone Y/n. I’m so...so sorry.” Glancing to the object placed on your palm, your entire being froze at the sight.
From what you’re told, the R emblem is one of the only parts that are the easiest to clean and the least damaged on Jason’s suit after all of his missions.
What Dick gave you was the exact emblem but it was badly dented, burnt marks covered the R, scratch marks on the front and back while most of the edges are chipped.
Your legs gave weight as you fell to the floor, holding his badge close to your chest, and screamed your lungs out. Your vocals were so powerful that they made half of the windows on the Tower shatter. Tears made their way down from your cheeks to the floor as your eyes turned in a y/f/c glow.
You flew off, for time alone to grieve it all. When Kori found you, you broke down even harder in her arms
You weren’t going to turn to revenge.
Even though you saw it in Dick and a few others, you couldn’t.
Kori taught you revenge isn’t the answer along with the new Robin or better known as Tim drake
You weren’t happy Jason was replaced but continued with your bright personality.
But during the nights, you felt so empty and numb.
Why
Out of all people, why did Jason leave you
Your family and friends died due to the violence of the leaders that experimented on you.
But now the person you loved most?
More pain was placed on your shoulders.
You grieved and mourned whenever you’re alone or with Kori.
Two months later, you decided to explore the world on your own.
Saving Earth, countries, and other planets from danger.
Yet discovering the beauty onto nearly every destination
This continued for four years before you were called to Gotham for a meeting.
You greeted the Titans, other heroes you’ve met during your travels, and the bat family before the meeting starts
When it was over, you felt someone’s eyes on you.
As you located the orbs burning on your figure, you found a man with extreme built, a red helmet covering his entire head, a scarlet colored bat emblem imprinted on his black suit, and a coffee leather jacket.
You were confused as to why his eyes were wide and his body leaned forward as if he had found gold.
“Kori, why is he staring over here? Do I have something in my hair?” As your beloved best friend glanced at the man you were referring to, she let out a pearly smile.
“I think he likes you.” She snickered as you rolled your eyes.
In the past, some of your friends tried to set you up with many men. Key word: tried. It’s not that you didn’t want to, it just didn’t feel right. You did try to fall for them but it just doesn’t last.
“Very funny.”
“I’m not joking. He’s looking at you like, in slang terms, a ‘snack’.” You chuckled at her before returning your gaze to the mystery man. But the color of his helmet was not present to your sight, instead, the sight of an exit door closing.
You saw him once again during a mission on a tropical island.
Someone was making hybrids based on DNA from different heroes around the world.
So here you were…
Approaching the scene as the infamous Red Hood was getting choked by a 9 foot tall creature before you scared it off with a blast of your powers.
“Need a hand, big boy?” You reached out your arm, waiting for him to take it. He was hesitant.
“...Sure.” He took it and you couldn’t help but feel slightly surprised of how tall he was
As you found Kori and gave her a hug, you joined the team till the mission finished.
You really loved being in the group.
But mostly enjoyed the company of Red Hood.
There was something about him that made you smile warmly as he progressed with his idiotic plan
Kori and Roy offered for you to be an Outlaw and you gladly accepted
But the third member wasn’t all too happy about it.
The four of you all reserved an Overwater Bungalow resort on the island
A week later, you heard arguing from Kori’s home while you and Roy brought food.
“I don’t understand you, why won’t you tell her already?” Her voice muffled by the walls of the hut.
“She’s not ready.” His voice in the room as well
“Y/n has been far too ready to know who you really are.” You haven’t heard Kori this angry in ages and what did they mean about you knowing?
“You don’t understand.”
“Oh I understand plenty,” You and the red head’s eyes widen at her sass. “How long can you keep this act up? This, I want to hide this because I want to protect her, act? Your brother used that on me a few times, hmph, always knows when to make a woman angry.”
Brother? But the only brother you know she dated was-
“Don’t compare me to Dick, Kori.”
Oh...Shit…
Roy put two and two together and oh shit! He remembered his best friend mentioning a girl before his sudden death. Roy glanced at you as your eyes were wide and glossy at the truth. He kicked the door open causing the two heads to turn while you were hidden outside of the hut with your head down.
How could you not notice it before… Red Hood not revealing himself under the helmet when he was in legit trunks, constantly putting distance between the two of you, displeased when you joined the outlaws, and the worried glances between him and Kori!
“Got the food!” As Roy set the meals down and you entered the room, the air was so intense you could cut it with a knife.
“I’m not that hungry so I’m going to my room.” Kori glared at the helmet man, causing him to release a sigh.
“Do you-”
“Perfect! Now take these,” Roy gave a bag of two take outs to him and led the unresolved pair outside. “Have a good night.” He shut the door closed leaving you and the vigilante in silence.
“I can take the bag.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
It was so awkward the walk back to your huts.
He tries to make the situation lighter but it was no use.
All of that pain you felt years ago, returned and after realizing who he is...It felt so much worse.
“Hey y/n, do you want to know the story of my first kiss?” What is he trying to do now?
“That's pretty sweet! Random but sweet! Go on.” He paused in place under a shadow of a hut as a thick cloud covered the sun. His hand traveled to the back of his helmet and a sudden click was heard before steam escaped from the open cracks of his mask. It was dark and you couldn’t see his full features.
“It was a normal day, I was carrying some groceries with my butler but got lost in the crowd due to my sleep deprivation. And the craziest thing happened when I was struggling to find him, a cute y/h/c girl with bright y/e/c eyes came up to me and spoke a language I’ve never heard in my life. So I tried to understand her words but I was so clueless before she pulled my face and gave me a smooch.” Your stomach did a flip as you realized why the story was so familiar to you. “She apologized when she was done but spoke english. As she left me there completely bamboozled… I wondered, ‘I don’t know what the hell that was about but will I see her again?’ then my butler found me.”
It's a memory. Your memory and his. You dropped the bag.
“Jason.” As the darkness unsheathed and the sun’s light was visible, he took a couple of steps towards you and gosh… You didn’t realize how much you missed him when your eyes began to sting, shoulders dropped, and your bottom lip shaking.
You took flight and bolted in his arms.
“It’s you… it's really...you asshole.” you shoved him lightly while Jason expected the worst. “Asshole. Asshole. Asshole!” Every curse is a light punch on his chest.
“Easy...Easy!” He held your two hands by the wrists. “When did you learn how to curse?!”
“When you were dead!” Your eyes were covered by your signature y/f/c glow and tears streamed down your face.
“Calm down.”
“Calm down? I may be an alien and I may be nice, but I have feelings too. Feelings when we shared that first kiss, held hands, waiting for you to come back...hearing that awful news about you…” Your arms dropped and your head lowered. “And I’m feeling angry at you right now for not saying anything!”
In all honesty, he really wanted to tell you. But he didn’t know how you would take it. He's not the exactly the same when he was a teenager and he’s been through so much as Red Hood that he doesn’t want the bad guys to target you and your superhuman abilities. But his feelings for you didn’t shrink a single centimeter. It grew. Grew that he was so close to return to you and kiss you like there is no tomorrow.
“Didn’t...Haven’t you felt the same of how I felt for you, Jason? Did you hate me that much to leave me and start a new life? To get away from me?” You questioned as the glow in your eyes dimmed down to your y/c/e orbs but your water works didn’t stop. You were still shaking, thinking of how Jason never loved you. How he made you feel pain for years.
He made you feel like a human. Being an alien on Earth was quite lonely. But Kori was there with you through it all. But when Jason, a human, made you feel like you’re a human… You didn’t care about the negativity as much, you focused onto the positives. You discovered things about yourself from a different perspective. You learned how to love.
A warm embrace and the sun falling behind the horizon made your entire being warmer than the heat of the light beams. Your fingers trailed under his jacket to feel his body heat.
“Not even close.” He pulled a little before resting his forehead on yours. “It was the opposite and more. I just didn’t want you to see me in my dark life. I died and came back from the dead, every minute feeling empty. But once I learned more about myself, I wanted to change for the better. But I made so many rough decisions, that I couldn’t come back to you yet until I fixed them. I didn’t want you to love a mistake.”
“Shhh.” You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, running your fingers through his hair. “You’re never a mistake, only a good man who tried his best. The only thing that matters now, is that you’re here.” His teal orbs flickered to yours, your heart skipping a beat by the sight of your favorite colored eyes once again.
The sun was engulfed, the light dimmed till the sky was navy, and the stars were sprinkled all around the two silhouettes under the moon. The lock of your lips to his were the answer to your reunion.
#jason todd x reader#jason todd x you#jason todd x y/n#red hood x reader#red hood x you#Red Hood X y/n#dc x reader#dc x y/n#dc x you#batfam x you#batfam x reader#batfamily x reader#batfamily x you#batfamily x y/n#Jason todd x tamaran! reader#Jason todd x tamaran! y/n#Jason todd x tamaran! you#red hood x tamaran! reader#tamaran reader#Starfire#kori'ander#dick grayson
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Rabid
Summary: A hunt goes wrong and proves that walkers aren't the only danger in this new, cruel world.
Fandom: The Walking Dead, Desus
Warnings: Death, Canon-typical violence, mentions of blood, character death
Snow was beginning to fall. They could hear the dry, icy flakes against the unfallen leaves in the forest around them. The sun was getting ready to set, and the trees stood out stark against the sky like sentinels. How ironic, Daryl thought. He would have laughed, except that his companion next to him was tense with fear. He lay in a copse of fallen trees, his head heavy against Paul’s legs. Paul took stock of their surroundings: the trail of undead that lay still in their wake, the drops of bright red blood slowly being devoured by the snow. He was thankful for that, as the blood trail led directly to where Daryl lay, blood pooling around him. The tufts of grey fur waving in the light breeze registered briefly, but he couldn’t focus.
“I’m sorry.” Daryl said softly. He looked up into Paul’s eyes. Paul’s hard look crumbled as he choked back a sob. “Hey, now.” Daryl pulled his lover’s head down toward his own, but Paul pulled back.
“You have no reason to be sorry. Fuck!” Jesus stood and began pacing. “If I’d had your back- seen it coming…” He put both hands on a nearby tree to steady himself.
“Paul, there’s nothing you could have done! Fighting walkers -you never know what’s coming up on your blindside.” Daryl winced in pain, as he struggled to turn where he sat to face Paul. His face twisted in pain and paled.
“It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.” Daryl barely heard the words, but they drifted down to him on the snow.
“How was it gonna happen? Walker bite? Starve to death? Gunshot?” Daryl snorted a laugh, “How’s a guy supposed to die in this world, Paul?” He sucked in a breath and exhaled raggedly.
“Fuck, Daryl, I don’t know. Christ…” Paul weakly punched the thick tree in front of him. “Fuck!” In a rage, he put his full force into his fists, pummeling the bark with no effect.
“Stop!” Daryl yelled. “Come here.”
Paul finally turned to face him, his sea glass eyes brimming with tears. He pressed the palms of his stinging hands into his eyes before returning to sit in the snow next to Daryl. They faced opposite directions, Daryl propped against a log, Paul kneeling in the snow next to him.
“Look at me, Paul” Paul watched Daryl’s lips as he spoke; they were red with his efforts to catch his breath. “We know I’m not making it out of this forest. Even if you could get me back to the car, that wolf was rabid. That’s the only way an animal would attack with walkers everywhere. The chances of Saddiq –“
“I know.” Paul cut him off, his voice hard, but his hand coming up to gently move the hair out of Daryl’s eyes. His fingers trailed down to Daryl’s chin, where he paused. Daryl subtly leaned in to the touch, and the men regarded one another. The cold cloud of their breath mingling.
“Kiss me?” Daryl tugged on Paul’s coat and pulled him down into a kiss. Paul let himself be pulled in, taking Daryl’s face in his hands. It was sweet at first, a kiss they may have shared any other day. They had long ago become accustomed to asking the other before moving in to kiss; what had at first been a way to honor Daryl’s aversion to public displays of affection turned into an endearing ritual. Daryl held Paul to him, one hand going to the back of his neck. He tried to deepen the kiss, desperate to forget where they were and why.
But as they kissed, it occurred to Paul that this would likely be their last kiss. The last time Daryl would run his hands through his hair. It was the last time he would feel the scratch of his beard against his own. Tonight he would be going back to their little house, alone. And the “never agains” and “last times” shot through him, and he broke their kiss with a sob, pulling Daryl into him. Daryl let himself be cradled against Paul’s strong chest.
“I don’t wanna die.” Daryl sobbed. “I’m so fuckin scared.”
“I know. I know. I’m not going anywhere, love.” Paul kissed the top of Daryl’s head. “I’m gonna be right here with you.”
With every sob, fresh red blood flowed more heavily from the inside of Daryl’s thigh. His pants were torn to shreds there, and a deep bite gushed with every heartbeat. The hastily fashioned tourniquet only slowed the inevitable.
“You have to go on.” Daryl stated simply. His voice was muffled against Paul’s leather coat “Don’t spend time on me.”
“How can you say that?” Paul started, but Daryl gripped him tighter.
“I never felt needed until the world went to shit, Paul. Now I have everything. Everything I didn’t know I wanted.” Daryl pulled back to look at Paul. His lover’s face was streaked with tears, lips trembling with unvoiced sobs. “I aint never loved anything or anyone til I met you. I never thought I could. And now… now I can’t do shit about dyin. Except I’m asking you to live. Just, live, OK?”
Paul looked up into the quickly fading light of the sky and took several deep breaths.
“I don’t know how to do this without you Daryl. I don’t. I thought I had lived a good life, I thought I finally had....” Jesus looked down at Daryl, and couldn't finish. Daryl’s face was beaded with sweat, his breath heavy and skin pale.
“You take my vest – Rick will know what to do with it. You leave me here. Under the stars. I’m right where I need to be if I can’t be with you.”
Jesus’ resolve cracked and kissed Daryl between tears. He kissed Daryl’s forehead and eyelids and the corner of his mouth and his bearded chin, whispering “I love you.” Over and over again. It took what was left of Daryl’s strength to pull himself up and further into Paul’s lap.
“I ain’t gonna last much longer, love.” The cold was beginning to creep further up Daryl’s body and it was harder and harder to catch his breath. Paul held his as close as he could, fist gripping Daryl’s jacket, where he could feel the desperate slowing of his heart.
As Daryl’s vision began to fade, Paul’s came into sharp focus. The crystalized clouds of his breath, the snow falling faster now and the sky burnished with red and gold through the clouds.
Daryl clumsily pawed at Paul’s face, so that the other man would look at him. “I’m still gonna be loving you. Don’t forget.” His deep blue eyes held Paul’s for as long as he had the strength to keep his eyes open. Paul simply smiled down at him, lovingly, letting his smiling face be the last thing Daryl saw.
As Daryl’s eyes closed, Paul began to sing softly.
“Fare thee well my bright star, I watched your taillights blaze into nothingness, But you were long gone before I ever got to you, Before you blazed past this address…”
As he felt Daryl’s heartbeat begin to falter, the man in his arms trembled like a scared bird, he reached back gently and pulled the knot out of the tourniquet.
“And now I think of having loved and having lost' But never know what it feels like to never love' Who can say what's better when my heart's become the cost; A mere token of a brighter jewel sent from above…”
And then there was no more. The trembling ceased and no heartbeat followed the last. The sound that came from deep within Paul’s chest was the pained, strangled cry of a broken man. His keen echoed through the uncaring forest. When he finally had enough control of himself to stand, he laid Daryl back down in the snow. The sun had sunk below the horizon, and full dark would soon be upon him. Absentmindedly, he continued the song as he unsnapped one of his knives from his belt. He smoothed down his archer’s hair to frame his handsome face, which looked so peaceful and relaxed.
“Fare thee well my bright star; The vanity of youth, the color of your eyes And maybe if I'd fanned the blazing fire of your day-to-day; Or if I'd been older I'd been wise…”
Paul leaned over and pressed the tip of the knife behind Daryl’s ear and leaned down to kiss his cold forehead. Fresh tears spilled over as the knife broke through.
He let go of the knife, the thought of putting it back on his belt turning his stomach. With a deep, shaky breath, he rose to his feet.
Gingerly, he rolled Daryl and removed the man’s vest. He held it to his face and inhaled the musky smell before stashing it in his pack. He unsnapped Daryl’s own knife and took his gun from his hip. Steeling himself, he found the crossbow nearly completely covered with snow. From the quiver, he took one of Daryl’s perfect, handmade arrows, fletched with owl feathers, and tucked it inside his duster. He placed the crossbow on Daryl’s chest and regarded his partner one last time.
Snowflakes were sticking to their eyelashes, though they lay heavy and whole on Daryl’s, melting into fresh tears on Paul’s. The urge to lay beside him and let the cold take him was strong. But Daryl had asked so little of him, he couldn’t give up and let go. He arranged Daryl’s strong hands over the crossbow and stood.
Walking slowly through the dark forest, alone, leaving his love in the snow, was the hardest thing he had ever done.
#the walking dead#twd fanfiction#desus#desus fan fiction#desussquad#daryldixon#daryl x jesus#paul jesus rovia#pauljesusroviafanfiction#7daynosmutchallenge
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Predicament [part one]
Alfie Solomons x Shelby! sister reader
Warnings: talks of war, violence,
Request: please one where tommy’s twin sister was a nurse in the war and ended up tending to our boy alfie, they happen to fall in love but are told that the other died so shelby sis and him are surprised when they meet after during a deal
word count: 3.5 k
thinking of making this a two part mini-series, so enjoy a backstory [it’s a longish read so :”) let me know your thoughts]
𝐧𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟗𝟏𝟓
If you shut your eyes tight enough, you could pretend that you weren’t there.
You could pretend that the sounds of gun fire and shouting was actually your younger brothers screams and heavy footsteps as they chased your sister around your cramped flat that looked like a cramped traditional Gypsy caravan.
You could pretend that the smell of gun powder was actually just the wood that your aunt burnt in the fireplace, where you were huddled up with your siblings – telling stories alongside your twin brother.
But there was no room for pretending in a place so disastrous – a place where one decision could end your life.
Tiredly rubbing your bloodied hands down your light blue dress, you ignored the sounds of everyone rushing through the area around you – you needed a break. You weren’t sure how much more death you could take.
Staring at the crimson stains that stained the skin of your hands, you let out a shaky sigh as you tried not to cry, reminding yourself that you couldn’t have saved your last patient. He was already too far gone.
You wished to go back to a happier time. A time where the only blood you would see was when you chased your twin brother, Tommy, down the cobblestone road of Watery Lane – falling and scraping your knees and palms.
A time where your dreams weren’t full of blood, screams and damn medical equipment.
Sometimes you cursed your younger sister, Ada, for forcing you to attend that damn nursing course – cursed yourself for falling in love with the possibility of being able to help people.
Because it’s what got you here. It’s why they drafted you alongside your brothers – to help the soldiers.
“Shelby!” A feminine voice called as rushed footsteps headed towards you. “What are you doing on the floor? We need you!”
The young red-headed woman quickly bent down and grabbed your forearms to pull you onto your feet, her eyes darting over your shaky figure to make sure you were alright. Dorothy, you think her name was – you couldn’t be too sure with how foggy your mind seemed to be, barely showed anymore concern as she tugged you forward.
“More corps have been brought in,” the woman hurried to explain as she lead you over to the Field Marshal. “He wants you to take care of someone important.”
You barely got to question the woman as she rushed off to tend her own patients – your entire body going into nurse mode as you took in the man on the stretcher, your eyes darting to your superior.
“Don’t let him die,” the older man condescendingly spoke as you pushed past the crowd around the injured soldier. “He’s a captain, Miss Shelby – keep him alive.”
You made quick work of assessing his injuries, tearing off his thin white shirt to see a bullet entrance wound on the right side of his chest – using all your strength to roll him over slightly to spot an exit wound.
Letting out a sigh of relief, you grabbed a few rags from the small bench beside you, pushing them against the wound on his back as you made nimble work of sterilising the entrance wound and the needle that another nurse had handed off to you.
You were focused, constantly checking his pulse and making sure you weren’t losing the soldier – knowing that his body passed out to avoid him having to deal with the pain. With ringing ears from the loud shouts from the sea of people around you – you tirelessly worked until you were certain his wound was properly treated.
With a huff, you fell down into the small chair beside his bed – it was late, the hustle and bustle inside the makeshift hospital had calmed down slightly. Patients fast asleep in their uncomfortable cots – nurses retreating to their headquarters, but you refused.
If someone asked, you wouldn’t be able to tell them how long you had sat in that uncomfortable chair – occasionally dozing off in exhaustion before you snapped out of it to make sure your patient hadn’t died on your watch.
Resting your cheek on your open palm – your elbow dug into the wooden armrest of the chair as you watched the man peacefully sleep. The orange hues from the candles beside his bed lit up his features and if you looked closely enough you could make out the lines of exhaustion behind his ginger beard. His pale skin was covered with dirt and soot – the white bandages around his chest standing out against the grime.
He was someone you would’ve found attractive before.
Basking in the rare moment of silence, you finally allowed your mind and body to catch a break. The continuous hours on your feet and threat of death that was constantly in the back of your mind ceased – if only for a moment, before you were snapped out of a brisk period of peace by a soft groan.
You were on your feet within a second, hand tenderly resting on his bicep as you checked over him for any signs of distress – his eyes blinked a couple of times, trying to clear his vision as he let out a hiss of pain through his clenched teeth.
“The fuck happened?” Your heart jumped at the sound of his gravelly voice followed by a dry cough. You reached over for the flask full of water next to the bed – gently lifting his head as you helped him drink.
A loud whimper left his lips as you placed his head back down on the stiff pillow – your hands hovering over where his wound was, watching as he tried to figure out what was happening.
“Where does it hurt, captain?”
His eyes seemed to widen at the sound of your soft voice, the crystal blue meeting your own as you stared at him in concern. One of his hands lifted to come rest on his forehead as he rubbed at the skin.
“Are you an angel?” He drowsily questioned, taking in his surroundings as a soft chuckle left your lips. “Where am I?”
“The infirmary.”
Gently pulling his hand away from his face, you stared down at him as he seemed to huff in recognition – obviously remembering what had happened that landed him in the medical tent.
“Is it your bullet wound or somewhere else that hurts? I can’t help you if I don’t know, captain.”
Taking your bottom lip between your teeth, you waited for him to explain the exact area that he was experiencing pain – letting out a sigh when he didn’t respond, obviously too headstrong to admit that he was in pain.
“Alright,” you trailed off, reaching for the folded blanket at the end of his cot. “It’s a thin blanket, but the nights here get quite cold if you don’t have adrenaline coursing through your veins – so it’ll help a little.”
He watched as you tucked the blanket into the sides of the uncomfortable bed he was stuck in. You were pretty, too pretty for a place like this – perhaps you were an angel after-all. An angel living in hell.
“How many did we lose?” He questioned, watching as your fluent movements faltered – your eyes darting down to your now clean palms.
“Fifteen,” you whispered. “Although, that’s only the confirmed number.”
Neither of you said much more as you rounded his bed again, sitting back down in the chair next to him. He watched as your hands shook, exhaustion evident in the way your entire body seemed to slump in the wooden seat.
“We have any fuckin’ alcohol?” He chuckled lightly, trying not to flinch at the flare of pain he experienced at the movement.
“Only the whiskey we need to save to disinfect things.”
“That’s a fuckin’ shame, innit. Could fuckin’ use it right now, yeah,” his voice held a joking undertone – but you could tell that he was serious. You could use a drink too, just to forget.
“I’d have finished half the bottle already if I had any,” you responded, watching as the corners of his mouth quirked up, a gentle understanding growing between the both of you.
This was the most conversation he had in months that didn’t involve talk of tactic and strategy – perhaps that’s why he wanted it to continue.
“You drink whiskey?”
You shrugged. ”Used to. My brothers were obsessed with it, used to steal it from my dads liquor cabinet and we’d all run down to our spot in my uncles yard to drink it. Got a hell of a scolding, but it was worth it.”
“You don’t look like a bird who drinks the hard fuckin’ stuff, you don’t.”
Your eyebrows rose in questioning, a small smile growing on your face at his teasing – a rare sight to see in a place like this.
“What type of girl do you take me for, captain?”
Both of your heads turned at the sound of a loud cough from someone at the far end of the tent, before your attention was back on each other for a second as the sound of a jet passing above you had you both freezing – holding your breaths until the sound became distant.
You noticed that his features instantly hardened at the sound, before relaxing once his eyes landed back on your figure.
“Something sweet,” he continued your conversation as if your previously tense actions hadn’t interrupted anything. “Right, yeah, you look like you’d like a sweet drink.”
Your fingers traced the dents in the armrest of the chair, as you slouched in the seat again. “I guess looks are deceiving, captain.”
He hummed at your words, moving the blanket down his body to look at his bandage – your arm reaching out to stop his hands from pulling down the bandage.
“I’ll change it in about six hours,” you told him, getting him to pull the blanket back on. “You lost quite a lot of blood, but my superior said that you were important – couldn’t let you die.”
“You patch me up yourself?”
With a nod in agreement to his words, you let out a soft, “yes, captain.”
He seemed to leave the topic at that – shutting his eyes, before grunting at the back of his throat.
“Right, the name’s Alfie. Alfie Solomons. Better than captain, innit?”
“I don’t know, I quite like the authority,” you teased, with a soft giggle – causing him to widely grin. “Get some rest, Alfie. You’ve been through a lot.”
“Only if I get your name too,” he countered, his intense stare causing your skin to heat.
“Y/N Shelby,” you introduced yourself, before gesturing towards him with your chin. “Now go to sleep.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
You smiled at his agreement, however the both of you knew that sleep was the last thing you would be able to do with the way the tent seemed to begin to come back to life.
The silence never lasted long, anyway.
~~~~~~~
𝗱𝗲𝗰𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟭𝟵𝟭𝟱
The infantry was way too full.
You could barely walk anywhere without bumping into someone or something – having to step outside the tent just to be able to breathe.
A few of the soldiers lingering outside turned to you with curious eyes as you tried to stabilise your breathing – you knew you looked like a mess. From the way your uniform was covered in stains of blood, vomit and mud from the countless men you had treated.
A tunnel had collapsed, and at first you had freaked thinking that it was the 179 – the diggers that involved your twin brother, Tommy. You had never pushed so many people out of the way as you checked every bed to make sure he wasn’t in one.
You should’ve felt guilty about the immense relief that overcame you when you realised that it was a different set of troops – but you wouldn’t know what to do if it was your own flesh and blood that was being treated.
“Mail!” A booming voice caused you to jump slightly, your palm resting above your heart as you tried to calm yourself.
You watched as all the men outside rushed over, eagerly wanting to know if their loved ones back home had sent them something that could give them a sliver of hope to hang on to.
The happiness outside was a contrast to the sorrow going on inside the tent behind you.
“No letter?” Your head darted to your left to see your favourite patient walking over to you, a charming smile gracing his face.
“My brothers send them to my aunt,” you gave him a small smile as you took in his appearance. “You seem to be healing nicely, Alf.”
“I have the best fuckin’ nurse taking care of me, don’t I?”
You laughed, looking down at the floor so he wouldn’t see the way you had flushed at his compliment. Alfie had become your primary focus as a patient, making sure that he was healed enough for his superior to be able to send him back out into the field.
It didn’t take long for him to be back on his feet, often clinging to your shoulder as you walked around the military base. The wound in his chest was healing nicely – nothing but a mere scar now.
The thought of him leaving you to go back out into the war zone caused an unsettling feeling to wash over him – your Field Marshal having informed Alfie that he was being sent back out with a new group of corps in a week.
“Right, how about I fuckin’ write to you?”
Your head shot up at his suggestion, a little frown growing on your pretty features – causing Alfie’s hands to cup your cheeks in his palms, his calloused thumb rubbing out the tense lines between your brows. For a man who had been toughened by such violence, he was extremely gentle with you.
Aunt Polly would’ve scolded you for swearing upon the Lords name, but you couldn’t help but swear that Alfie was the handsomest man you had ever seen. From his bright eyes that contrasted against his sharp features, to the way his smile would cause his nose to crinkle whenever you had come back at his smart-ass responses with even more sass.
You wish you found yourself falling for him under different circumstances.
For that you would curse on the Lords name. For introducing you to a man who you would gladly give your heart to – instead forcing you to put up your guard, knowing that at any moment you could lose each other. You cursed him for putting a future in front of you that you could never have.
However, that didn’t seem to stop the other soldiers and nurses around you from referring to you as the ‘captains girl’ – never failing at making you a stumbling mess.
“You want to write me?” You questioned him after a beat, letting him take your hand in his as he walked with you – his voice echoing around you.
“Right, tell me why your brothers don’t write to you.”
“It’s a distraction,” you hummed, although Alfie noticed you visibly deflate at the words. “We don’t write to each other because we’d end up becoming reliant on the letters. Not knowing is better than knowing – at least, until this is all over.”
Alfie ran his free hand under his nose, before speaking again.
“Do you wish you knew?” You nodded.
“I worry,” tears began to cloud your pretty eyes, as Alfie sat you on a log away from everyone. “I never know if they’re still alive. They could be dead right now and I’d have no idea. Aunt Pol never writes to me either because she knows I’ll ask and I can’t afford those distractions – distractions get you killed.”
Alfie seemed lost in thought as he took in your words, giving your hand a gentle squeeze as he pulled you under his arm.
“I’ll write you,” he muttered into the crown of your head. “I promise to fuckin’ write you as many fuckin’ letters that I can, if it brings you comfort.”
He barely had time to react as your arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug – letting yourself show weakness around him as you cried for the first time in too long.
“Thank you,” you spoke genuinely, as he moved you so you were straddling his lap – your forehead resting against his. “I’ll write you back.”
With those words, his lips were on yours – a kiss so soft and tender. A love born through the ashes of a world blanketed by disaster.
~~~~~~~
𝐣𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝟏𝟗𝟏𝟔
He kept his promise.
He wrote to you as often as he could – a whole box of crinkled letters hidden under your bed in the nurses quarters. You pulled them out each night after everyone had fallen asleep, re-reading over the penciled lettering under candlelight until your eyelids became heavy.
He kept his promise until they stopped.
You waited outside, bouncing on the heels of your feet – catching sight of a young man carrying a bag full of mail. Rushing over to him, he gave you a wink before dropping the bag to his feet – opening it as he riffled through the letters.
“Another letter from your man?” The blonde man smiled, he was youthful – even after everything he had seen at such a young age. You eagerly nodded to his question, barely paying mind to the soft chuckles that came from the men who had began to group around you.
You excitedly waited as he shuffled through the letters, calling out random soldiers names – handing them their envelopes until he got to the bottom of the bag.
Not a single one for you.
You heart seemed to sink when the man sympathetically looked towards you – but you brushed it off. He probably wasn’t able to write you yet, he was a captain after all.
But then that missed letter turned into weeks where you didn’t receive a single one – you had sent him multiple, expressing your concern and asking if he was alright, but you never got a response back.
Eventually you stopped waiting outside on mail day – distracting yourself by treating injuries and re-organising the medical equipment for hours on end.
Everybody seemed to tread lightly around you, the soldiers who once called you ‘captains girl’ had taken to calling you your name again and the nurses who would often tease you during the day about your love had stopped.
You didn’t want to think about what had happened to him, telling yourself that he was okay – that he was an honourable man who had more important matters than writing to you.
This was why you didn’t write to your brothers, you thought.
You had built up your wall, pretending that you were okay and not worrying about him at all – although, even a blind man would be able to see that your mind was elsewhere.
Distractions were weakness.
It wasn’t until one faithful day that you finally broke down. The day was colder than usual – rain pelting down outside as you tirelessly worked for hours on end.
The loud infirmary seemed to quieten when your Field Marshal walked in, his eyes darting around the room before landing on you. You could feel your heartbeat speed up; palms becoming sweaty as he walked towards you and removed his hat – running his finger through his grey hair.
“I hate to do this here,” he spoke to you, gesturing you to the side of the tent, away from everyone.
“Is it my brothers?” You questioned, although deep down you knew it wasn’t them he was going to speak about – confirming it when he solemnly shook his head.
“I was told to inform you that Captain Solomons has been killed in action,” he regretfully spoke – your breath hitching at his words before you broke.
One of your hands clenched the fabric of your dress – a sob tearing its way past your lips as you limply fell into the older mans awaiting arms.
He wasn’t supposed to comfort you, but everyone knew you had saved the most of his men, so he let you desperately cling to him – he sighed when he heard the soft “no’s” between your cries.
“I know it hurts,” he mumbled, as a couple of the other nurses rushed to your side to keep you steady – his hands held your face as he spoke to you. “But is this going to affect your work, Miss Shelby?”
You tried to shake your head to assure him that you could still do your job, but you barely heard him as he told the girls to take you back to your sleep quarters – letting you have the rest of the days off.
The two women did as instructed, gently placing you in your bed – brushing away a few of your tears as they made sure you were comfortable before they had to leave to get back to their duties.
You barely moved as you laid there in complete silence – letting yourself cry for that future that the Lord had dangled in front of you before snatching it away.
You cried for Alfie. You cried for your loss.
You cried for what could’ve been.
#alfie solomons#alfie#solomons#alfie solomons x reader#alfie solomons x you#alfie solomons imagine#alfie solomons x shelby! reader#alfie solomons x shelby! sister#alfie solomons one shot#alfie solomons oneshot#alfie solomons fanfic#alfie solomons fanfiction#alfie solomons angst#alfie solomons fluff#alfie solomons imagines#shelby! sister#shelby! reader#sister! shelby#shelby#peaky blinders#peaky blinders fanfic#peaky blinders imagine#peaky blinders imagines#peaky blinders one shot#peaky blinders oneshot#peaky blinders fluff#peaky blinders angst#fanfic#imagine#imagines
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The Diner
Word Count: 3,623 (decidedly NOT a drabble...it got out of control and I won’t apologize.)
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Warnings: Angst, Theft, Fluff
Beta’d By: @princessmisery666 - thank you my love
A/N: This was requested (kind of?) by my amazing and wonderful Name Twin @amanda-teaches. I hope you like this babe! (And I promise I’m working on the other still) I know these are called “Merry Manda’s Christmas Drabbles” and literally NONE of them are Drabbles...but I’m lazy and haven’t changed it in the 4 years I’ve been doing these. So...Sorry? (I’m not, actually. I’m not even sorry a little bit.)
The bitter chill of winter air cut through the leather of Bucky’s jacket as he stepped out of the car. He’d briefly considered taking his bike for the evening but had thought better of it. Though now, he was grateful he’d spared himself that torture. Shivering, he wondered if getting out on this frigid night was even worth it at all.
“Fuckin’ hate the cold,” he muttered, the words crystallizing in the air as he shoved the keys into his pocket and began making his way to the door.
After Steve went back in time to return the stones - and himself - to their proper place, Bucky felt lost. He’d known Steve’s intentions - even supported them. Didn’t mean it didn’t hurt like hell.
He and Sam had gotten along better than Bucky would have guessed at the jump. They’d actually grown code enough, Bucky might even go as far as to call Sam a friend. Sure, they still had their moments of friction, but overall they worked well together. Sam was a damn hard worker and made him laugh, despite the obvious pain Bucky saw in his eyes. He missed Steve too. Whether they admitted it or not to themselves - certainly not out loud - they needed each other.
But sometimes Bucky just needed some time to himself.
That was how he’d wound up here the first time six months ago. It had been Steve’s birthday and even though Sam had invited him along to go see his old friend, he’d declined. He hadn’t been ready for the reminder of what kind of life he’d missed out on. So instead, he’d chosen to go for a drive with no real destination in mind. Not long into the trip however, he’d gotten hungry and stopped at the first place he saw.
The diner was small; cramped and slightly dingy, with scuffed linoleum floors and cracked booth seats. The menus felt sticky and none of the dishes matched, but the coffee was perfect. Hot, dark and slightly burnt; just how he liked it.
If anyone had recognized him that first day, they didn’t say anything. He was used to his fair share of open stares and the odd murmuring of worried voices wherever he went. But not here. Here, he was just Bucky - cup of coffee, no cream.
Bucky fell in love with the place immediately and it soon became his little home away from home. A place of refuge he could escape to when things got too heavy or his thoughts got too loud. Or, like tonight, when he just really, really wanted some of that amazingly shitty diner coffee.
The cold air that enveloped Bucky sloughed off as the diner door shut behind him, quickly replaced by the warm scent of coffee and whatever Mel was frying in the kitchen. He’d been there less than a second and he could already feel himself begin to relax.
A quick scan of the space showed no signs of anything out of the ordinary. Well - not really. A few weeks back, someone had decorated the counter top with a small, fiber-optic Christmas tree and a Santa figure that looked nearly as old as the place itself. Meager as it may be, it made the place feel festive.
The old jukebox in the corner - usually churning out songs by Chuck Berry, Elvis and The Temptations - hummed holiday tunes and voices that made him remember Christmases long since past. Before the war, before HYDRA, before the snap...when he was just a charming blue eyed kid from Brooklyn, looking out for his sisters and his annoyingly stubborn best friend. Bing Crosby's soothing timbre always brought back fond memories of his ma's cooking and the squeals of delight from the girls when they woke Christmas morning.
His moment of reverie was broken, however, by the sound of another familiar voice.
“Hey Bucky. Merry Christmas!” Y/n smiled and Bucky briefly thought of the prospect of making new Christmas memories to settle alongside those from so long ago.
Y/n followed him with a steaming pot of coffee as he took his seat at his usual booth. She filled the cup to the very brim before leaning against the back of the seat opposite of him.
“Merry Christmas, y/n.” Bucky wrapped both hands around the chipped porcelain mug. “I figured you’d have the night off, bein’ the holidays and all.”
In all the months he’d been coming here, he’d only ever seen her face bright and full of joy. She was sweet and kind and always made a point to have a chat with him about anything and nothing when she had a moment to spare. If he was being honest, part of the pull he felt toward this place was because there was a good chance he’d get to bask in her glow, if only for an hour or two.
But now, the smile on her face drew tight and the light in her eyes dimmed. In an instant, Bucky was filled with a pang of regret. Before he could find the words to apologize, her features melted back into place. He wondered if the cheeriness she tended to exude was simply a mask that he’d failed to recognize.
“Girl’s gotta make a buck somehow, right? Just the coffee tonight?”
Bucky paused, the cup halfway to his lips as he thought about it.
“Actually, I think I’m craving pie.”
Y/n nodded approvingly. “Well lucky for you, we have lots to choose from. Pick your poison.”
Savoring the delicious burn of the first sip of liquid gold, Bucky smacked his lips and tipped his head to one side. “How about you surprise me? Bring two slices of your favorite?”
“Coming right up!”
Bucky watched as y/n made her way behind the counter, setting the pot back on the warmer and moving to the fridge where they kept their pies. Propping a fist on one hip, y/n pursed her lips as she surveyed the options before her.
Bing's voice filled the comfortable silence as he crooned "White Christmas".
“Heya, Buck!” Mel’s voice drew his attention and he turned to find the greying head of the diner’s owner peeking out of the kitchen window. "Merry Christmas!"
“Merry Christmas yourself, Mel. Surprised you’re even open tonight.”
“Everybody’s gotta eat, even on Christmas Eve.” Mel grinned. “Besides, who else is gonna let your ugly mug drink all their coffee for a buck and a half?”
Bucky scoffed and shook his head. “You oughta be grateful I even come in and pay for this sludge, Mel. I could just stay home and drink my own damn coffee.”
“And yet here you are,” Mel quipped back, his gaze flicking to y/n as she approached Bucky’s table with two slices of pie. Mel winked at Bucky before disappearing into the kitchen.
Bucky’s face flushed at the not so subtle implication. And yet, here I am, Bucky thought as y/n set the plate in front of him.
“Chocolate cream pie, huh?” Bucky quirked an eyebrow at her. “I woulda pegged you for a cherry kinda gal.”
“Guess you woulda been wrong then, Sarge.” Y/n shrugged, a smug smile on her lips. “Enjoy!”
Y/n turned to head back to the counter, but Bucky caught her wrist gently. As she turned around, a spark of something between fear and confusion flashed across her face.
“Now where are you going?” Bucky let go of her wrist and motioned at the seat across from him as he continued. “Thought we were gonna have some pie?”
Confusion won over as she narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re gonna have some pie. I gotta get back to work.”
Bucky gestured around the nearly empty diner, his eyes wide with feigned innocence. Only one other table was occupied - a young couple, too giggly and twitterpated to notice anything other than each other. “I dunno. Looks to me like there’s not much work to be done at the moment. And besides, you really think I could eat all this by myself?”
Y/n planted her fist on her hip again and rolled her eyes. “Something tells me you definitely could.”
Gasping in mock offense, Bucky pressed his hand to his heart. “Even the notion! And on Christmas Eve, no less…”
Scoffing, y/n held up her hands in surrender. “Alright, fine. Let me go get a cup of coffee and I’ll join you. But only because it’s Christmas.” Y/n shook her head warily as she walked back behind the counter.
He didn't even try to fight the pleased smile from his lips as he tapped the side of the mug with a vibranium finger. “Maybe just bring the pot?” Bucky called before draining the last of his cup.
A dull thunk against the warped tabletop nearly startled him and he looked up to find y/n already settled across from him, the coffee pot between them.
“Already ahead of you, Bucky.”
Bucky grinned and nudged a napkin wrapped fork in her direction as y/n poured a cup of coffee for herself and refilled his.
“So…” he began, unfurling his fork and immediately scooping up a large bite of pie and jamming it into his mouth.
Y/n’s eyebrow quirked and she paused, fork poised midair as she responded - “So?” - before copying his action, albeit with a slightly smaller bite.
“That’s some damn fine pie.” Bucky licked his lips and hummed in delight as he took another bite. “So, what’s the story?”
Y/n set her fork down and wiped her napkin over her mouth. Bracing her elbows on the table and wrapping her hands around her coffee, she tipped her head to one side.
“What’s what story?”
Bucky at least had the manners to swallow before taking a drink and leveling a measured gaze at her.
“Earlier, your face dropped when I mentioned you working tonight. What’s that about?”
Perhaps at some point in Bucky’s long, long life he’d have danced around the question. But lately he found himself growing more and more blunt. Why not just cut right to the chase without all the benign pleasantries?
Y/n blinked and cleared her throat. “I...uh...I don’t know what you mean.” She smiled at him, though her lips seemed forcibly stretched around her teeth.
Leaning forward, Bucky shook a gunmetal grey finger at her. “Nope. Not gonna cut it. Something’s bothering you, and I wanna help. If you’ll let me.” He sat back, running a hand through his recently shortened locks. “God knows you’ve listened to enough of my bullshit to last a lifetime.”
Tentative fingers wrapped around her fork as she began swirling the tines through the whipped cream of her mostly-uneaten pie. Bucky watched as she distracted herself with the sugary concoction.
“It’s,” she cleared her throat, gaze still trailing the swirls made with her fork. “It’s my brother. He got himself in trouble with some pretty brutal bookies. He came around last week asking for cash; I guess he’s in pretty deep. I gave him the little bit of savings I had, but I guess it wasn’t enough.”
Bucky’s body went rigid and he felt the anger building in his veins. He was thankful her gaze was still downcast, because he imagined the look in his eyes was pretty dark.
Y/n swallowed, setting her fork down with a soft ‘clink’ against the plate. “I came home from work a few days ago and he’d come in and stolen anything he thought he could get some money out of. I dunno; guess he pawned it or something.”
Small whirs and barely audible clicks of metal on metal filled the silence between them as Bucky’s fist clenched nearly as tight as his jaw. He knew she probably didn’t hear it, but to his heightened senses, it sounded like a blaring siren. Schooling his features and relaxing as best he could, he took an extra moment to level the tone of his voice.
“Your brother robbed you to pay off some bookies?”
Y/n eyes shot up, meeting his and widening suddenly as realization struck her. “Shit, I didn’t...please don’t…” She sucked in a shaky breath.
Bucky placed a hand over hers, surprising himself for a second before shaking his head. “Hey, hey. It’s ok.”
Hanging her head, she sighed. “Sometimes I forget who you are. You’re just Bucky, to me. I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t mean to put you in any kind of awkward situation being an Avenger and all…”
Her rambling died as Bucky’s hand tightened around hers reassuringly.
“I think knowing I’m ‘just Bucky’ here is one of my favorite things about coming here,” he offered her a lopsided grin as she met his gaze through watery lashes. “I’m just worried about you. You didn’t do anything wrong, darlin’.”
Releasing his hand, she sunk back into the faded pleather booth and wrapped her cardigan around herself.
“I know. I’m fine. Really.” She picked at an invisible thread on her sleeve. “I mean I can do without a TV or a computer, but he took all the presents I bought for the kids down at the rec center. I’d been saving all year to be able to do something nice for them.”
Bucky’s face flushed with renewed anger. How in the hell did someone so kind and generous and wonderful as y/n wind up with such an asshole for a brother?
“Excuse me, miss?”
Y/n looked as caught off guard as Bucky felt when the young couple from the other table called for her. They seemed hesitant to even disrupt the obviously tense situation.
“I’m so sorry to bother you, but we’re gonna miss our train if we don’t leave soon.”
“Oh no, no, no. You’re no bother.” Y/n sniffed and pasted on a smile as she slid out of the booth and met them at the counter. “I’m sorry I didn’t check on you sooner.”
Their conversation faded into the background as Bucky’s head buzzed with all the ways he wanted to make y/n’s brother pay for hurting her so badly. A voice in the back of his head - one that sounded entirely too much like Steve’s star-spangled-ass for his liking - told him to calm down. It was obvious y/n loved her brother, and anything Bucky’s scrambled mind could come up with to deal with him would definitely end up hurting her more.
So, rather than plotting revenge, Bucky pulled out his phone instead. He began clicking away furiously and got so lost in his mission, he missed the sound of y/n’s footsteps as she neared. The feeling of a warm hand against his shoulder made him jump, the device thumping to the table, narrowly missing his now-cooled cup of coffee.
“At ease, Sarge. It’s just me.” Y/n chuckled and patted his shoulder. “I didn’t think it was even possible to scare you.”
Bucky’s face twisted in smug defiance. “It’s not. I was just distracted, that’s all.” He snorted in derision.
“Uh-huh.” Y/n’s lips pursed, clearly trying to fight a smile. Bucky wished she wouldn’t; he’d give just about anything to see her face light up again. “Well, I’ve gotta go clear their table and start getting things shut down for the night. I just wanted to thank you for listening to me and for always being so...well...you.”
The sound of Bucky’s heartbeat roared in his ears as she leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss against his cheek.
“Merry Christmas, Bucky.”
----
A loud, almost violent-sounding banging on the front door woke Bucky up with a jerk. He scowled, eyes squinted against the faint golden rays of morning sun peeking through his curtains. The clock on his nightstand seemed to mock him with bright, bold, red numbers declaring the time to be 6:48 am.
The banging started again, somehow more violently. Muttering curses under his breath - mostly aimed at Sam for deciding to spend the holiday with his family down south, thereby leaving him to deal with whoever was currently trying to break down the front door - Bucky stumbled out of bed.
Another rapid series of knocks came to an abrupt stop as Bucky swung the door open. The venomous glare melted from his face as soon as his eyes met y/n’s.
“Y/n? What are you…”
His confused mumbling was cut off as y/n pushed inside and began pacing the length of the living room. She looked upset; angry even. Which Bucky could understand, at some level, as he, too, was none too pleased with being conscious at this god-forsaken hour. He watched her silent pacing with a sleepy sort of curiosity, expecting her to either start yelling or crying at any second. When a minute or so passed and she’d done neither, he tried again.
“Y/n? What’s wrong?”
The pacing stopped suddenly as she whirled to face him. The fire burning in her eyes was slightly off putting and not something he was used to seeing from her.
“What’s wrong?!” She stalked towards him. “What’s wrong is that I was woken this morning by a burly man named Carl - who smelled of cheese and tequila and told me he had a load of packages waiting for me in his truck. I was seconds away from calling the cops when he told me that it had all been paid for by someone named J. Barnes.”
Bucky’s head fell forward, a funny heat creeping up his face. A particular plank of flooring had suddenly become incredibly interesting.
Y/n scoffed. “I was confused at first, because I don’t know any J. Barnes, right? Except I do, don’t I James.”
The sound of his given name fell from her lips in a sort of disdainful disbelief that made Bucky’s head snap up.
“Y/n listen…”
“How did you even know where I lived? Are you some type of creepy stalker customer? I never asked for...I didn’t…” y/n huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “I didn’t tell you that story so I could be seen as some charity case!”
Bucky held his hands up and took a slow step towards her. When she didn’t step back, he continued to approach her cautiously.
“First off, I know you didn’t. I didn’t mean for it to come across that way. I was only trying to help.” He now stood only a foot away, and made no move to come closer as he continued. “I’m not a stalker, either. I only had EDITH look you up and send the address straight to the delivery company. I specifically told her not to give it to me.”
“Who the hell is Edith?”
Bucky sighed, “It’s not a who, it’s a what. It’s Stark’s AI. The narcissistic bastard called it EDITH - ‘Even Dead, I’m The Hero’.” Bucky rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t help the twinge of pain at the thought of Tony. One of Bucky’s biggest regrets was not being able to make peace with the man before he sacrificed himself against Thanos.
Y/n frowned, opening and closing her mouth a few times. Bucky took a chance and stepped forward, placing his hands gently on her elbows.
“I’m sorry, I swear I was just trying to help. When you said your brother stole all the gifts you’d bought for the kids at the rec center, it made me think of my sisters. There were a few Christmases when my ma couldn’t afford presents and it broke my heart for them. I was just a kid back then and I couldn’t do anything to help, but now I have the means and I just...I just want to help.”
Without warning, Bucky found himself engulfed in y/n’s arms. Her face was warm against his bare chest and he blushed, just now realizing he hadn’t bothered to put a shirt on. He pushed aside his own discomfort and wrapped his arms around her, squeezing tighter when he felt her body begin to convulse with silent sobs.
They stayed that way for...well, Bucky wasn’t sure. It could have been a minute; it could have been an hour. But eventually, her tears subsided and she pulled back, wiping her face and not meeting his gaze.
“Thank you, Bucky” Her voice was so quiet when she spoke, Bucky wondered if he’d only been able to hear it because of his enhanced hearing. “But I can’t accept it. It’s too much, I can’t ask you…”
“You didn’t. I wanted to. For you and for those kids. Every kid deserves a present at Christmas.”
Y/n shook her head, eyes still glossy, though her lips curved in a sweet smile.
“You’re too precious for this world, you know that Sarge?” She sucked in a deep breath. “Ok, fine, but on one condition.”
Bucky frowned. “Condition?”
“Yes. You have to help me deliver them.” Y/n crossed her arms again, a challenging glint in her gaze. “But you should probably put a shirt on first.”
Bucky cringed. “Yeah, sorry about that.”
“Don’t be.” Y/n’s eyes widened as though she hadn’t meant to speak the words out loud.
Bucky fought the urge to make a smug remark and chose instead to ignore it and save her from any further embarrassment. Though he did catalogue that to contemplate later.
“Alright. Let me get changed and then we can get going.”
Bucky smiled and started toward his room, but stopped to face y/n again.
“Oh and y/n?”
Y/n looked at him and Bucky pretended not to notice the way her eyes trailed over his bare torso before she met his eyes.
“Hm?”
“Merry Christmas.”
Like what you see? Want more? My SPN Masterlist is here, and MCU is here. Thanks for reading! :)
A/N 2: I am using my new and improved taglist. If you want to be added, Send me an ask with the list you’d like to be on. Weirdos are for everything, Heroes is MCU and Hunters is for SPN.
Weirdos:
@hannahindie @amanda-teaches @ellen-reincarnated1967 @feelmyroarrrr @masksandtruths @princessmisery666 @jamielea81 @foxyjwls007 @becs-bunker @super100012 @shy-violet-soul @emoryhemsworth @impandagrl @donnaintx
Heroes:
@arrowsandmixtapes @bethbabybaby
#bucky barnes x reader#bucky x reader#Bucky Barnes Fluff#merry manda's christmas drabbles#merry manda#merry manda 2020#panda writes#panda writes MCU
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always yours, always mine
Also on Ao3. Rated E.
Disclaimer, this is another A/B/O fic, which I know isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, so feel free to skip over this one if that’s not something you’re into <3
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“Okay,” Davey says after the third time one of the boys flinches away from him: Albert, this time, who lets out a panicked yelp and all but tucks and rolls, head over ass, in his attempt to keep Davey from touching him. Given that Davey had only gone to clap a friendly hand on his shoulder while they line up to get their papes, this seems like a drastic overreaction. “What aren’t you all telling me.”
They actually have the gall to look surprised—as though they’ve been anything even approaching subtle in the not-quite fifteen minutes that have passed since Davey arrived in the square—and their guilty, hang-dog expressions might’ve been comical if he wasn’t so annoyed.
“Well?” Davey says, arching an eyebrow, his gaze sweeping over each of them in turn. “What is it?”
Race snatches Albert’s cap off his head and thwaps him with it. “Nice goin’ Albie, you done gave it away!”
“What was I s’pposed’ta do?” Albert says, disgruntled, rubbing his forehead. “Jus’ stand there?”
“No, but you were s’pposed’ta handle it discrete like, dumbass—”
“Oh, sure, ‘cause it’s just that easy—”
“None of you would know discrete if it socked you in the jaw,” Davey cuts in, his hands making their way to his hips as he stares down at them. “Now, what’s going on?”
There’s a long silence as the boys all glance at each other, shifting guiltily, but none of them willing to be the first to break.
Finally, Racetrack sighs. “This was a stupid idea anyway,” he mutters. He rolls his shoulders back and looks Davey straight on, opens his mouth to speak—
Henry elbows him in the side, hissing, “Race! Don’t tell him!”
“Albert already ruined it, we might as well come clean—”
“I didn’t ruin it!” Albert cries.
“You kinda did,” Finch says with a shrug. “You were really obvious, Al.”
"What was I s’pposed to do!”
“I say we just tell him,” Buttons chimes in over Albert’s protests. “Davey’s gonna figure it out eventually—”
“—and he’s gonna be more upset the longer we keep it from him.” Specs adds. Buttons points at him as if to say, yeah, see?
“You just don’t want Davey to be mad at’cha,” Romeo says, accusatory.
“Do you want Davey to be mad at’cha?”
“....No.”
“I’m gonna tell him,” Race announces to the group at large.
Multiple voices interject all at once, shouts of disagreement and words of encouragement all jumbled together.
“Race, you can’t,” Crutchie says with a shake of his head, his quieter tones just barely heard beneath the others’ bickering. “Yesterday was bad enough and you heard what Jack said! He doesn’t want to say anything—“
“Yeah, well maybe if Jack wasn’t such a moron, it wouldn’t’ve gotten so bad in the first place—”
“So, this is about Jack, then?” Davey asks, loudly, and the silence that falls is so sudden and absolute that it almost seems to echo.
The boys all look at each other, apprehensive. Then Racetrack blurts, “Jack’s in rut!”
“Jack’s… what?” Davey says, startled, because out of all the possibilities he’d suspected, this wasn’t anywhere on the list. “I thought he was sick?”
“He didn’t want us to tell you,” Crutchie admits, apologetic. “He didn’t want’cha to know.”
“Jack’s in rut and he wasn’t going to tell me?” Davey says, confused and a little hurt. “But… why?”
“Because he’s an idiot?” Race offers, rolling his eyes. “He wasn’t exactly forthcoming with any typa explanation but he’s probably freaking out about some stupid alpha thing—”
“Hey,” Mush protests weakly. Sniper just shrugs as if to say fair enough.
“—and he’s been all keyed up since Tuesday, stinking like frenzy and frustration—and not the fun kind,” Racer continues, wrinkling his nose at the memory. “Plus, he can smell you on all’a us when we get back to the Lodging House every evening; he nearly tore Buttons’ arm outta its socket yesterday when he caught your scent on his sleeve, just from wantin’ it so bad.”
“He didn’t hurt me,” Buttons assures him when Davey looks his way, alarmed. “Nothing like that—you know Jack would never. But he’s driving himself crazy stayin’ away from ya, and havin’ your scent around without you there with it is only makin’ things harder on him.”
“But, why doesn’t he just…” Davey asks, trying to think of a delicate way to say fuck it out, even as something in his chest bares its teeth and snarls at the thought of Jack even considering a rut partner.
“You’re kiddin’, right?” Race says flatly, thoroughly unimpressed. “Please tell me you’re kiddin’, because I can only deal with one of you bein’ stupid at a time and Jack’s already called dibs on this week.”
“So, what, he’s trying to just wait it out when he knows that I would—“
Davey stops himself, flushing. It’s no secret, how he and Jack have been circling each other—teetering on the brink of becoming more, just waiting for something to finally give—but he’s reluctant to talk about it too openly, the possibility of him and Jack still feeling oh so fragile where it’s tucked away in the deepest corner of his heart.
Because he’d thought that they were on the same page, thought that there was an unspoken understanding between them that one day, eventually… But if Jack didn’t want him to know about his rut, hadn’t asked Davey to keep him company through his cycle… Davey chews at his lower lip, stomach twisting up in knots.
“Didn’t I just tell you not to be stupid?” Racetrack asks—frowning, but with no real heat to his words—and Davey realizes that his scent has taken on a sour, anxious note as his thoughts spiralled. “You can’t possibly think that he’d want anyone but you riding this out with him.”
“Except, he doesn’t want me there,” Davey points out. “You just said that he didn’t want me to know—”
“Yeah, but not ‘cause he don’t want you,” Racetrack assures him, as though this is plainly obvious. “‘Cause he really, definitely does: he’s puttin’ up with the rest of us ‘cause he loves us and ‘cause he don’t gotta choice since we all live together, but he wants you. I think he wants you so bad that it scares him.”
Davey tilts his head, running his tongue over his teeth as he considers Race’s words. But it’s not even a choice that needs contemplating, really, not when it’s Jack.
“I’ll go over and check on him,” Davey decides, a little voice in his head whispering yeshelpprotectfixsoothe. “See if I can convince him to let me help him.”
The boys all sag as one—it’s clear that they hadn’t wanted to go directly against Jack’s orders but are relieved that Davey’s going to step in.
“Thank fuck,” Elmer mutters. “I can’t take anymore of his goddamn pacing.”
“Felt like I was havin’ sympathy pains, watching him prowl around,” Mush agrees, rubbing a hand over his chest like he can feel an ache there. “Don’t know how he’s managed to hold out so long—I can’t imagine tryin’ to get through a cycle without Blink now that we’re together—”
“I’ll handle it,” Davey says, determined, the feeling in his chest crystalizing into something solid and certain and unshakable.
“We’ll let your folks know where you are,” Crutchie tells him, clapping Davey on the shoulder. “Just go an’ take care of him—god knows he ain’t gonna take care of himself.”
“And don’t let him run you off,” Race advises. “You know how he gets.”
“I’ll handle it,” Davey repeats firmly.
00000
Davey smells Jack before he sees him: the air is heavy with his cedar and summertime scent, undercut with the smoky sweetness of his rut, so potent that Davey almost goes dizzy with it.
“Jack?” he calls out, announcing himself out of politeness rather than any real need—he’s positive that Jack smelt him the moment he arrived. “Jackie?”
The hair on the back of Davey’s neck stands on end, his heart skipping a beat in his chest, and Davey turns just as Jack steps out of a side hallway, his face shadowed with tension.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” Jack rumbles, watching Davey with dark, dark eyes. He’s only wearing a pair of thin sleep pants, his skin dewy with a sheen of sweat, and even from where he stands, Davey can feel the heat rolling off of him in waves.
“Oh?” Davey says, arching an eyebrow. “Because I’m pretty sure this is exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
“Which one of ‘em squealed?” Jack asks with a growl of frustration, raking a hand through his hair. “No, don’t tell me, it was Racer, wasn’t it?”
“Why didn’t you tell me your rut was coming up?” Davey asks, getting right to the point.
“I didn’t wanna put’cha in that position,” Jack says evasively, gaze falling to the floor.
“And what position would that be?” Davey questions, crossing his arms over his chest.
It takes Jack several seconds to answer. “Didn’t want’cha to feel… obligated or nothin’. Like you hafta be here, like you hafta help me with this, jus’ ‘cause we’re...”
“I don’t understand,” Davey says, watching him carefully, a spark of realization starting to dawn. “How is this any different than you helping me through my heat last month?”
Jack’s spine stiffens, tension thrumming through him like a live wire, but he lets it go just as quickly as it arrived.
“Come on, Davey,” Jack says, voice heavy, his mouth pressed in a thin, unhappy line across his face. “You know what I mean. You know why it’s different.”
“Sweet, stubborn, overprotective alpha,” Davey murmurs with a sad sigh, shaking his head. “Jackie, you’re not going to lose control and go wild just because you’re in rut, it doesn’t actually work like that—”
“Are you sure?” Jack says darkly. “Are you absolutely positive? ‘Cause I’m feelin’ pretty fuckin’ outta control, here, Dave. Feels like I might bust outta my skin any second, my instincts are goin’ goddamn nuts, I can barely sleep, can barely keep my fuckin’ head on straight, and there’s this hollow, empty spot between my lungs that aches every time I breathe, and I can’t— I can’t—”
“Jack,” Davey says, low and soothing. “You have to stop fighting your instincts. I know you think you’re protecting me by holding yourself back, but I promise that there’s nothing to worry about. Let me help you, darling. Please?”
Jack wavers—not like he’s convinced, not like he’s found any sort of faith in himself, but like he no longer has the strength to keep arguing—and that more than anything has the alarm bells going off in the back of Davey’s mind.
“Jack,” Davey beckons, soft but firm. “Jackie, love, come here.”
Jack takes a stumbling, hesitant step forward. Davey meets him halfway and draws him into a tight embrace, one arm wrapped securely around Jack’s middle, the other guiding Jack’s head to rest against the curve of his throat.
Jack’s hands settle cautiously against the small of his back, his nose tucked right against Davey’s scent gland. He takes in a single, shaky breath, then crumples like a puppet that’s had its strings cut, that salty, bitter note of distressed alpha finally fading from his scent.
“Dave,” Jack whines, snuffling desperately at his neck. “Davey.”
“I know, Jackie,” Davey murmurs, hugging him even tighter. “I’m here, I’ve got you.”
They stand like that for several minutes, just holding each other—Davey pressing gentle kisses to the top of Jack’s head while Jack clings to him, relaxing more and more with every inhale.
“Can you look at me for a second, love?” Davey asks, craning back as much as he can without letting go. Jack grumbles but obediently tilts his head back—now that they’re closer, Davey can see that his eyes are glassy with fever, his skin flushed beneath his tan. “When’s the last time you ate something? Or had anything to drink?”
“I dunno,” Jack says, shrugging. “A while, I guess. H’ven’t been keepin’ track.”
“Let’s get some food and water into you, okay?” Davey says. “You’ll feel better once you’ve eaten.”
Davey leads Jack along the hallway and down a set of stairs into the basement, following the traces of Jack’s scent in the air to find wherever he’s been hunkered down for his rut.
He quickly discovers what must be the Lodging House’s cycle room. It’s cold, cramped, and uncomfortable, not a hint of carpet or wood or anything to cover the wall-to-ceiling concrete that encloses the space, and Davey’s heart aches at the thought of Jack waiting out his cycle here, alone, for these last couple days.
He takes stock of the room: there's a wooden bed frame with a lumpy mattress pushed up against one of the walls, covered in a plastic mattress protector and made up with a cheap set of sheets that are stale with sweat, and a single threadbare blanket to go with it—no pillows. There’s a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter sitting on a table in the corner, a mostly full pitcher of water and a glass next to it, and there’s a stack of towels and linens tucked underneath the table with a wash basin.
“Think you can eat something?” Davey asks.
Jack shrugs again but doesn’t answer. Davey decides to interpret this as a yes.
“Sit down for me, darling,” he says, making quick work of fixing Jack a peanut butter sandwich and a glass of water.
Jack hovers close for a second, then finds a spot right on the floor, leaning with his back against the far wall.
“Go ahead and eat this for me,” Davey instructs, handing over the food. Jack accepts it from him by route, but makes no move to actually take a bite. “Jackie, please. You need to eat something.”
“‘M not hungry,” he mutters.
“I know you aren’t, but that’s just the rut talking,” Davey says, running a hand gently along his arm. “You’ll feel differently once you’ve got some food in your stomach.”
Though he’s clearly not thrilled about it, Jack manages to choke down half of his sandwich and two glasses of water. Once that’s taken care of, Davey starts stripping the dirty sheets off the bed, piling them into the corner to be washed later, then remakes it with a fresh set.
“Do you want to try laying down for a while?” Davey asks as he finishes, smoothing away a wrinkle near one of the mattress corners. “You said you haven’t been sleeping well—”
“I think you need to leave,” Jack interrupts, the words coming out in a low, gravelly rasp.
Davey goes very, very still, a sudden flare of heat prickling low in his stomach.
He slowly turns around. Jack rises to his feet with all the grace and power of a jungle cat, his eyes shaded dark with hunger and his scent burning like a wildfire, staring at Davey like he might devour him whole, the air between them growing heated as the next wave of his rut kicks in.
Davey barely resists a whimper, his own scent spiking sugar-sweet in response as desire pulses through him. He wants to rub himself all along Jack’s front, until that smoky-spicy-cedar scent is imprinted into his skin. Wants to lick the taste of it right out of Jack’s mouth.
“David,” Jack growls. His eyes are scorching. “You gotta go, sweetheart. You gotta leave right now.”
Davey swallows around a suddenly dry throat, his tongue feeling heavy in his mouth, but his voice is remarkably steady when he says, “What if I don’t want to leave?”
Now it’s Jack’s turn to stiffen. “Davey,” he says sharply. “I know you’re tryin’ to help, but trust me, this ain’t like your heats. You don’t wanna be here for this.”
“You haven’t actually asked me if I want to be here for this,” Davey points out, taking a single step forward. Jack’s hands ball into fists at his sides. “You’ve just assumed that I don’t.”
“Because you don’t understand how—” Jack’s jaw snaps shut as he cuts himself off, expression tight.
“Answer me this then,” Davey says when Jack doesn’t continue, stepping closer and closer until they’re standing toe to toe, chest to chest. Jack’s nostrils flare, the muscles in his arms tensing and flexing, and that mouth watering scent spikes even stronger. “Do you want me, Jackie?”
“Of course I want’cha,” Jack groans, and one of those big, hot hands finally curls around Davey’s waist—not pulling him any closer, really, but like Jack just can’t help himself. “What kinda question is that? This ain’t about not wantin’ ya.”
“Then why is it so hard for you to believe that I want you too?” Davey asks. “That I want you like this? That I want everything you’re willing to give me?”
“You don’t know what you’re askin’ for,” Jack insists, stubborn. Davey would admire his dedication if it wasn’t so exasperating. “I’m— I can’t control myself as well when I’m in rut, I get rough, possessive—”
Davey rolls his eyes.
“You’re my alpha, Jackie,” he says dryly. “Possessive kind of comes with the territory.”
Jack’s eyes go wide. Two seconds later, Davey realizes what he’s said: this is the first time either of them have openly acknowledged what they are to each other, and voicing it aloud, saying it so plainly… something in Davey’s chest thrums with energy, with connection.
“You... “ Jack’s throat works for a moment. “You think of yourself as mine?”
“Jackie, I’ve always been yours,” Davey says, cupping his hands around Jack’s face, so true and so tender that he aches with it. “And, I think you’ve always been mine.”
Jack pulls one of Davey’s hands away from his face and curls his own around it, pressing a kiss to Davey’s knuckles, then to his palm, and then to the inside of his wrist, his gaze growing more heated with each one.
“Mine,” Jack growls, a hint of teeth scraping against Davey’s pulse as he pulls away. “You’re mine.”
“Yours,” Davey breathes. “All yours.”
Jack’s eyes flash red, then he’s drawing Davey in for a hard, demanding kiss, pressing a thigh between the hot space between Davey’s legs. Davey gasps at the first brush of Jack’s lips against his neck, the slide of Jack’s hands shifting down to palm at his ass, his fingers digging into the swell of Jack’s biceps for purchase.
“Take these off,” Jack growls, yanking Davey’s shirt out from where it’s tucked into his pants. “Take them off before I tear them off you.”
Davey fumbles for the buttons on his shirt, liquid heat pooling low in his stomach. Jack’s hands trail greedily at every bit of his skin as he uncovers it, thoroughly distracting and too good to ignore, and after several minutes of scrabbling, interspersed with long, frenzied kisses, they eventually manage to get their clothes off.
“Bed, cielito,” Jack says. “We need to— Bed.”
Davey hums in acknowledgment but doesn’t move, his face buried against Jack’s shoulder, biting at the skin there until it bruises.
“Dave,” Jack tries again.
“I’m busy,” Davey mumbles, mouthing at the sharp line of Jack’s collarbones.
“And I’m about two seconds away from pushing you down and fucking you right through the floor,” Jack says, voice laden with promise. “So get on the goddamn bed.”
“I really don’t see what the issue is,” Davey teases, still not moving an inch. “The floor is closer, isn’t it?”
Jack snarls, curling a hand around Davey’s nape and pulling him back up into another frenzied kiss.
“Mouthy— little— smartass—“ he pants, his teeth dragging along the tendon in Davey’s throat. “I’m gonna eat you out ‘til you cry.”
He wraps his hands under Davey’s thighs and hoists him up and back. Davey lands on the mattress with a soft bounce, barely given any time to situate himself before Jack is on top of him, pinning him down with rough hands and spreading him wide before following through with his threat, tongue lapping at Davey’s entrance in broad, greedy strokes.
“Ah,” Davey gasps, fingers tight in Jack’s hair, scrabbling for some kind of anchor as Jack licks him open.
Jack lets out a low rumble of approval that vibrates right against where he’s most sensitive, his body growing even wetter, even slicker at the sound and feel of it. Jack swirls his tongue around his opening, making Davey’s toes curl against Jack’s sides, then presses in—Davey cries out, a harsh, desperate sound that tears out of him as he grinds up into the sensation.
“Jack,” he gasps, mindless, hips jerking uselessly in Jack’s unrelenting hold, body pulled taut and stretched loose at the same time, pleasure coiling in his belly. “Jack, I’m— I can’t—”
One particularly filthy swipe of Jack’s tongue has Davey’s breath hitching in his chest, head thrown back as the feelings swell and crest, and it only takes one more teasing flick before Davey’s coming with a broken moan.
“Jack,” he croaks when his lungs reinflate. “Holy shit.”
Jack’s mouth and chin are shiny with slick, his pupils blown wide and shaded with satisfaction.
“Told you,” he says smugly.
Davey tugs him down into another messy kiss, needing to lick that handsome smirk off his face. Then he rears up and flips them over so that he’s the one on top now, kneeling over Jack with his legs straddling Jack’s lap.
“My turn,” Davey murmurs, reaching down and taking Jack’s length—thick and hard and wet at the tip—in hand, lining it up at his entrance.
Then he takes a breath, leans back, and sinks down onto it in one slow, smooth downstroke.
“Mmn,” Davey sighs, his eyes slipping shut as his body adjusts to the stinging stretch of finally being filled. He’s thrumming with tension, with heat, his thighs quivering where they’re spread wide around Jack’s hips, hands splayed against Jack’s chest for leverage, and it feels so good he could almost choke on the pleasure of it.
Jack’s hands flex jerkily against Davey’s sides, then go wonderfully, bruisingly tight, thumbs pressing hard against the divots of his hips.
“Fuck, Davey,” he groans, staring up at Davey with dark eyes tinged with red, lovely and wanting. “You’re gorgeous, sweetheart. So fucking gorgeous and absolutely perfect for me.”
“For you,” Davey agrees, grinding down in a tight, deliberate circle, ass flush against the cradle of Jack pelvis, and Jack’s scent burns even brighter, smoky and sweet. “And you’re all mine, aren’t you darling?”
“Always,” Jack promises.
Davey rises up then drops back down, carefully at first but quickly finding his rhythm, rocking his hips in a steady back and forth motion that sends liquid fire sparking up his spine. Every slip and drag of Jack’s dick inside of him feels like being shaken apart and pieced back together all at once, aching desire coursing through him with every slap of skin against skin.
“Davey,” Jack pants, his hips bucking up to meet Davey’s own as he rolls down again, and Davey moans through the bursts of bliss that explode behind his eyelids. “Oh, fuck, that’s good.”
“Jack,” Davey gasps, leaning forward to tuck his nose against Jack’s neck, nipping at his pulse point as he grinds down in his lap, the scent of summer and cedar and mate, mate, mate anchoring him even as he goes a little scent drunk on how right it all is. “Jackie, I— oh, yes, just like that.”
Jack pulls him down into the next thrust, hard and fast, and Davey cries out, twisting his hip as he sinks into it.
“Perfect,” Jack grunts, those hot, rough hands squeezing tight. “God, Davey, you look absolutely incredible. So fucking pretty, sweetheart, feel so good riding my cock.”
Davey works his hips that much faster at the praise, so much so that the bed starts rocking underneath them, the squeaky creak of the wooden frame echoing through the room in time with his own heaving breaths. He’s so wet now that he can hear Jack fucking him, hears the slick, dirty squelch of Jack’s knot pressing a little deeper inside of him every time they clash together, driving closer and closer to completion.
“Harder,” Davey pleads, his thighs burning from the effort of keeping up his pace but still needing more. “Jack, please—fuck, alpha, please—harder.”
Jack snarls—a low, rumbling, dangerously sexy sound—and his eyes bleed red, his scent washing over Davey like blazing fire. He leverages his legs up, bending them at the knee with his feet flat against the mattress, and when he thrusts up into Davey on the next roll of his hips, it feels so impossibly good that Davey’s mouth falls open around a broken, guttural little keen.
“O-oh,” Davey says, the word catching in his throat, barely able to think with how completely and utterly Jack is destroying him, his knot starting to thicken and swell against his rim as their bodies meet again and again. Davey arches his back, planting a hand against one of Jack’s bent knees for balance, chasing blindly after his pleasure, and Jack makes a noise like he’s going out of his damn mind, a possessive growl tearing its way out of his throat. “Oh fuck.”
“Say it again,” Jack orders, eyes on fire.
It falls out of Davey’s mouth, desperate and true: “Alpha, alpha, my alpha—”
“My omega,” Jack says, his voice low and gritty, rut and desire clouding his gaze. “Mine.”
They’re both teetering on the edge. Jack’s knot is catching on every thrust, fucking him open in torturous, delicious increments, and Davey wants, wants, wants.
“Jack,” Davey’s head hangs heavy between his shoulders, his lower lip caught between his teeth as he pants and sighs. “Jackie, yes, give it to me, give it to me, please, yes—”
Jack’s hands slide lower, clench harder, and Davey has one second to delight in how much he loves the feel of those big hands curled around him before the world spins and he lands flat on his back again with Jack braced above him, his eyes wild and vivid red. He grabs the backs of Davey’s thighs and pushes his knees up towards his ears, hardly faltering at all before he’s driving back inside again, fast and hard and so, so deep, and Davey’s boiling, blistering from the feeling of Jack, always Jack, pulsing inside of him, etched right into the seams of his heart.
“Mine,” Jack growls again, nipping viciously at the base of Davey’s throat, tongue swirling over his scent gland like he’s already trying to taste his claim. Davey tilts his head back with a needy whine, unable to do anything except offer himself up to him, freely and wholly. “Mate. Mine.”
“Jack,” Davey whimpers. “Jack, I— I’m—”
“You’re going to come for me,” Jack orders, pistoning his hips even harder, and the new angle means that he’s tagging that sweet spot inside on every other thrust, fierce and relentless.
“Yes,” Davey moans, sparks flying at the edges of his vision. “Yes, I’m— Don’t stop, don’t stop, please don’t—”
Jack presses him down, snaps his hips forward, sharp, and his knot finally catches, swells, and locks inside of him. Heat thrums, then surges through him, white hot, at the searing stretch of it and Davey comes so hard he goes lightheaded, body rippling and writhing through wave after wave of pleasure. Jack manages a couple more filthy grinds of his hips before he’s tumbling over the edge right after him, capturing Davey’s mouth in a breathless, bruising kiss as his orgasm rocks through them both.
When he feels like he can move his limbs again, Davey lets his legs slip down to wrap around Jack’s waist, looping his arms loosely around Jack’s neck. He turns his face towards Jack’s temple and inhales, smiling softly when he catches the smoky, spicy, cooling-embers scent of a sated, happily exhausted alpha.
“How are you feeling, darling?” Davey murmurs, brushing Jack’s sweaty hair off his forehead with a gentle touch. “Alright?”
Jack mouths something unintelligible against his collarbone, a solid, grounding weight sprawled bonelessly on top of him. Davey cups his hand around the nape of Jack’s neck, then strokes soothingly down his back, his mind a wash of hazy contentment.
“‘M good,” Jack grunts. “I’m… fuck, Dave.”
Davey huffs out a laugh, then presses a kiss to the high point of Jack’s cheek. “Fuck,” he echoes hoarsely, still recovering from his high.
“You?” Jack asks, nuzzling clumsily at the column of Davey’s throat. “Feelin’ okay?”
“Better than,” Davey decides, his body aching deliciously around the hot, hard knot pressed inside of him, stomach sticky with with own release, his thighs wet with slick and come, neck littered with marks, the air thick with their combined scents, spring and citrus and cedar and sweet melded perfectly together, and he feels totally, entirely, completely— “Feel claimed.”
Jack’s body twitches, his knot throbbing as he spills another burst of pleasure deep inside of him. Davey hums, pleased, some base omega instinct purring with satisfaction at how wonderfully full he is.
“Jesus, sweetheart,” Jack eventually gets out, voice rough and raspy and wrecked. “You can’t just— Have mercy on your poor alpha.”
“My alpha,” Davey agrees. “All mine.”
#newsies#javid#jack kelly#davey jacobs#*editor's note#*the writing desk#*final cut#tease series#yep yep yep yep#I’m sorry for nothing
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it’s a better place since you came along
the adventure zone
taako & angus mcdonald
7k words
read on ao3
“So, you must be here about the job,” the old man goes on. “To tell you the truth, I’d just about given up on finding a decent nanny. When can you start?”
Taako stares at him. There’s an alarm klaxon blaring in the back of his brain, along with a shrill inner voice advising him to “abort, motherfucker, abort!”
***
In which Taako answers a general “help wanted” ad that actually changes his entire stupid life.
x
There’s a baby crying somewhere.
Taako, left waiting in the foyer by a harried maid, has nothing else to do but tap a foot, twist one of the rings on one of his fingers, and count the long seconds that the plaintive wail continues to echo through the cavernous house.
Listen, he may not be a very good dude, just in general, and for a healthy plethora of reasons—but there’s a prickling sense of unease growing in the pit of his stomach, as one minute passes into two, and the sounds of distress go unheeded.
What in the fresh fuck, he thinks, when another member of the house staff drifts through the room without any sense of urgency. If he knew shit about magic beyond a few travel-handy tricks and the occasional intuitive transmutation, he’d assume this was some sort of elaborate illusion. Maybe a sort of test played on unsuspecting hopefuls who came to answer the help-wanted ad.
Unfortunately for Taako, he remembers all-too well what it feels like to be an unwanted child, outcast and always alone. As it turns out, he has a very particular Achilles’ heel and he’s not overly thrilled to discover it.
“Well, I didn’t need the job that bad,” he tells himself, as he gets up to single-mindedly fail this stupid test. And nevermind that he kind of really did.
‘Confidence is key’ and ‘fake it till you make it’ are two mantras that Taako could live and die by, so it’s with long, unchecked strides that he crosses the grand foyer and chases the miserable cries up some stairs, down a long corridor, and finally into an out-of-the-way bedchamber at what must have been the back of the house.
The cries stutter when the door clicks open, and Taako gets a glimpse of a tiny round face peering at him through the bars of an ancient-looking crib. The sudden appearance of this strange elf in his nursery seems to have surprised the little human, but not for long. After about two seconds, he screws his face up and screams with renewed vindication.
Taako winces, his sensitive ears twitching back at the onslaught. This is way above his paygrade, but he used to babysit younger kids in the caravans while their parents were busy or drunk, in exchange for a hot meal or a few coins. He’s not totally out of his depth here.
“Hey, little man,” he says by way of hello. “Trying to bring the roof down, huh? No, I dig that. I wasn’t gonna say anything, but this house of yours is ugly as hell.”
Taako doesn’t raise his voice, because what the hell would be the point? There’s no way he’s winning that contest of wills, and nobody wants some lunatic shouting at them when they’re this fucking distraught, anyway. He just crosses his arms on the side of the crib and leans down to get a good look at the kid.
The baby’s face is tacky and snotty, dusky skin flushed darker with exertion, curly hair a tangled mop. But he’s a cute little guy despite himself, probably a year old or thereabouts, not that Taako is in any way a decent judge of that sort of thing. As Taako talks to him in a conversational tone, his awful, heaving sobs peter out.
The tearful gulps are better. The way he lifts pudgy arms up to be held, not so much.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Taako says, casting a nervous glance over his shoulder. “I’m not even supposed to be in here. You have no idea how culturally insensitive people are when it comes to elves and babies. Your mama walks in and sees me holding you, and then she’s calling the guard, and I’m getting hauled off for attempting to spirit her little heir away, and we both perpetuate an archaic myth that all elves are equally capable of and greedy for voluntary childcare. Let me just say—from personal experience—that is not the fuckin' case.”
But he reaches a hand into the crib and lets the little human clutch at it. Tiny, clumsy fingers wrap around Taako’s much bigger ones and hold tight. The baby’s eyes are wide and curious now, soaking up Taako’s every word without a damn clue what any of them mean.
Taako almost forgot he knew how to do this. It’s been months since Glamour Springs, since Sazed ditched him on the road. Taako’s been living a half-life, made up of odd jobs and never staying for too long in any one place, and for all that it’s absurdly one-sided, this is the longest conversation he’s had since then, too.
“One of us is pretty fucking pathetic,” he confides. “And it’s not the screamy baby.”
“Ah, this is where you’ve gone,” a voice from the doorway says.
Taako jumps in alarm, and looks around in time to watch a man step into the nursery. He bears a striking resemblance to the baby in the crib, though he’s graying at the temples and his face is lined with too much age for him to be an immediate parent. Grandparent, probably. Distinguished, dressed in a suit that probably cost more than the entire cumulative worth of everything Taako currently owns, leaning heavily on a walking cane.
He doesn’t look as though he’s about to ring the alarm, but Taako is still a little keyed up. Given the way he’s been living, the feeling of getting caught, even for a moment, activates his fight or flight response.
“Sorry,” Taako says lamely. “I heard him crying.”
“I don’t doubt it. His parents, my daughter and her husband, died recently. An accident on the road,” the man says. There’s some sorrow there, but it’s pushed back and away. Compartmentalized. “He came to live with me, but the transition hasn’t been an easy one. It seems as though all he’s done is cry.”
Taako doesn’t melt even slightly for the poor kid, because he’s made of sterner stuff than that. But he does let him hold onto his hand for a little while longer. It’s not hurting anything.
“So, you must be here about the job,” the old man goes on. “To tell you the truth, I’d just about given up on finding a decent nanny. When can you start?”
Taako stares at him. There’s an alarm klaxon blaring in the back of his brain, along with a shrill inner voice advising him to “abort, motherfucker, abort!”
It wasn’t a nanny ad. It was just a ‘general help wanted in exchange for room and board’ type of deal. He wouldn’t have shown up to take the job in the first place if it had specified providing 1) cooking, 2) companionship, or 3) childcare, and that’s for damn sure. He believes in playing to his strengths, and while vapid charm is certainly one of them, being personable and likable for any extended period of time is not.
And Taako absolutely doesn’t know what to think of this old rich guy who seems to be operating under the illusion that thirty seconds is plenty of time to get enough of a read on some rando to then trust your child to them. For real, and from the bottom of Taako's heart, what the fuck?
He’s only been acquainted with this particular child for about five minutes, but his ears go back and his hackles go up at the idea of someone just walking in off the street to take charge of him.
Maybe there’s some crucial insanity element to parenthood that Taako just isn’t fucking picking up. Maybe total and complete willingness to just ditch your kid at a moment’s notice is part of the package. Sure would explain a few things about Taako’s childhood.
But… this old manor house is clearly in the middle of nowhere. Two hours from the nearest settlement, where the job posting was hiding beneath other flyers on the board in the square. Taako wandered the woods all afternoon and almost gave up finding the place before the chimney smoke tipped him off.
It’s remote. Safe. And, at a glance, more comfortable than any of the inns and caravans Taako has lived out of since his auntie died.
He’s not qualified for this position, but since when has that ever stopped him? It’s not like he went to culinary school, either, and for awhile he was one of the most famous chefs on the continent. A baby can't be that much work.
Fake it till you make it, he thinks, and then faces the old man with a smile.
“Hell, I’m already here. Might as well start now.”
#
Aside from Taako, there are three other members of staff on the books, and none of them are full-time. The maids come in every other day to do the cleaning and the laundry and bring in groceries, that sort of thing. The groundskeeper only works the weekends.
They like Mr McDonald well enough, the girls confide in Taako over tea on his first night there, and the pay isn’t bad, but he’s forgetful. Doesn’t think to eat until he feels hunger pains, that sort of thing. Don’t be surprised if you get paid twice some weeks, or not at all others.
“He’s just not interested in running a household, I think,” the older of the two imparts, ancient at seventeen for all the weariness in her eyes. “I’m glad he finally found someone to take care of the baby. I felt bad about him crying all the time.”
Baby Angus had seemed to surprise both teens by being agreeable and downright adorable, perfectly content to be tucked into the crook of Taako’s arm and soothed to sleep by the rumble of his voice.
Did any of you try, like, holding him? Taako wants to ask acidly. Seems a little fucked up that Taako, of all people, is more on top of this than anyone else. But the maids are little more than kids themselves, and it seems as though grandpa isn’t completely with it.
About a month after Taako first wandered in, grandpa proves it.
“It was before Angus was born,” Mr McDonald says, digging through the many drawers in his study, looking for some expensive rich person thing he’d acquired at auction four years ago. There’s an empty crystal tumbler sitting on the liquor cabinet, next to a half-empty decanter of whiskey. “We went to Goldcliff for a charity fundraiser. Marquis proposed to my daughter that night. You remember, Taako?”
Taako, halfheartedly poking through stuff on the desk while Angus chews on the end of his braid, replies, “Sure do, homie. Hell of a party.”
He finds a photo in a stack of letters and pauses. Two humans are pictured with their arms around each other, handsome smiles on their faces for the camera, a baby cradled tenderly between them.
At the bottom, in looping handwriting, someone wrote ‘Marquis, Angela, and Angus.’ There’s a little heart drawn under the names with such care that it, in itself, is something of a revelation.
Angus’ parents wouldn’t have let him cry himself sick in a faraway room. They wouldn’t have let some stranger be holding him now. They abandoned him, but not on purpose. Not the same way Taako’s family did.
This kid was loved. He’s due love. And all he has is an absent grandpa and a shitty elf looking after him.
“Check it out, Ango,” Taako says quietly, holding the photo up so the baby can see, carefully out of reach of those sticky fingers. “Your genes are killer. You’re gonna outshine the whole damn world.”
He pockets the photo with a sleight of hand he perfected at ten years old, and then guts some ugly painting in the service hallway in the name of repurposing the frame, and then he and Angus stage a tactical retreat.
The nursery was too depressing, just in general, so one of Taako’s first acts as nanny was to move all the baby stuff in with his. He had his pick of any of the second floor bedchambers, and he chose one overlooking the overgrown gardens, with a pretty bay window that it only took like two hours and a handful of stubborn Prestidigitations to scrub clean.
He enlarges the photo, slides it into the frame, transmutes it to look like a more professional job, and then sets it in place of pride on one of the empty shelves.
“Gang’s all here,” he says. He bounces Angus a few times, eliciting a toothy smile from the kid.
Lordy, Taako thinks, she’d be laughing her ass off if she could see me right now.
The thought comes out of absolutely nowhere and disappears just as quickly, sliding right out of his mind like water through a sieve. Then Angus makes a sudden dive to grab one of the charms hanging off the brim of Taako’s hat, and he has more immediate things to worry about.
#
Living in a house is weird. Having the run of the place is even weirder.
Taako is certainly not the type to sign up for extra responsibility, and he’d be the first to say as much to literally anyone who asked. Keeping himself alive has always been trouble enough, and now he has a whole ass extra person he’s in charge of, too.
But as time drags on, he realizes he’s been pretty solidly assimilated.
When McDonald forgets to give Catherine the grocery allowance before he fucks off on one of his bi-monthly business trips to Neverwinter, Taako forks over his own gold without feeling the sting of it too badly. He practically writes his own checks around here, anyway. He can make up the difference whenever.
When crotchety old Boniface came in from the gardens looking for an answer about the freshly broken fountain, he bypasses McDonald’s closed office door entirely to demand guidance out of Taako instead. Taako is in the library, laying on his stomach to supervise Angus’ painstaking and artistic destruction of a probably priceless but unfortunately racist oral history Taako found on one of the shelves, and gives Boniface the go-ahead to gut the old eyesore.
“If it dies, it dies,” Taako says plainly, passing Angus a new red crayon. Boniface, pleased that he’s allowed to demolish something, makes it a point to ask Taako about these things first from then on.
When Ezra shows up in Taako’s suite one morning with tearful eyes and an ugly burn from the temperamental furnace in the basement, neither of them stop to question why she ran all the way up here. They’re both reasonably intelligent people, after all, and Taako is quick to cast a nonverbal Helping Hand. He doesn’t need to overthink it. The burned skin on Ezra’s arm is shiny and red, but repaired.
The girl surges forward to hug him, visibly rethinks it, and then changes course and scoops Angus up for a hug and a noisy kiss on the cheek instead. Angus shrieks in bald delight, and Taako finds himself smiling.
So, yeah. It’s weird, the whole thing is weird, but he wouldn’t say it’s bad.
McDonald is a kind but largely absent presence in their lives. When he’s home, he’s shut up in his study. Angus hardly seems to recognize the man anymore, only watching him with solemn brown eyes from the comforting circle of Taako’s arms. It doesn’t really sit well with Taako—he didn’t take this job to upstage any relatives or be a replacement parent—but he’s already nanny to a precocious two-year-old, he can’t also be nanny to a seventy-something-year-old retired scholar. If McDonald wants to be a part of Angus’ life, that’s on him. It can’t possibly fall on Taako’s shoulders.
“And even if it did, I have a bad back,” Taako informs Angus. “You’ll have to do the heavy-lifting for me, sweetpea. How’s that sound?”
“Okay, Taako,” Angus says gravely. If there’s a tiny part of Taako that’s fucking delighted every time this tiny miracle says his name, he squashes it down good and hard and no one is the wiser.
It feels a little bit like nothing exists outside this spacious manor house. The extensive grounds might as well be a magic barrier between Taako and the rest of the world. It won’t last—nothing good ever does—but for now he allows himself to pretend that it will.
#
Taako and his little shadow swing into the kitchen around noon one day to find Catherine in tears.
This is so far from the norm that Taako actually draws up short in the doorway. Angus toddles right into the back of his leg, loses his balance, and plops down hard on his padded bottom.
“What’s this all about, darling?” Taako asks warily.
Catherine is sharp in all the places Ezra is soft, and while it makes her much easier to understand—a girl after Taako’s own black, shriveled heart—it also makes her approximately one million times more difficult to comfort, as likely to bite at a helping hand as accept one.
At the first sign of her vicious temper, he’s gonna grab his kid and bail. There’s fruit and bread in the larder that’ll see them through to dinner, and if not, he's not above bribing Ezra to run interference.
But Catherine just lifts her head out of her hands and says, “I burnt the stupid soup!”
Taako blinks. He stands still so Angus can use one of his legs as leverage to pull himself back upright, and cups the back of the boy's head in silent praise when he manages it on his own.
“Okay,” Taako says slowly. He can piece this shit together. “The soup is burnt. And you’re cheesed about it because…you feel really strongly about soup.”
“Don’t be stupid,” she snaps, but it’s without any real heat. “I just. I can’t get anything right today.”
Ah. Okay. So it’s one of those.
He hesitates for a moment, and then leans down to scoop Angus up and balances him on a hip. Angus knows not to toddle into the kitchen unsupervised, and rarely gets to toddle in at all when there’s cookery going on.
Taako himself rarely goes in. It feels too much like tempting fate. But his feet carry him forward, and he leans over the pot of thick and creamy chicken and dumplings, and right away he can smell the problem. It caught on the bottom of the pot and scorched.
He’s never worked in this kitchen—and he never will—but he remembers the steps. It’s mise en place. He reaches into the spice cabinet and withdraws a small tin shaker.
“Cinnamon,” he says at length, offering the tin to Catherine.
She stares at him, losing some of her steel for a moment. “Really?”
“Really,” Taako says, and firmly steps back. The six-second exchange has left him feeling tense and sick, his appetite fully and completely fucking out of the picture.
Angus is a perceptive little monster, and settles more heavily into Taako’s arms. He heaves a very pointed sigh, something he started doing to communicate that he’s feeling particularly safe and content. It makes Taako’s chest hurt in a much different way than impending panic attacks tend to, and he presses a kiss to the kid’s curly head.
“Thanks, angel,” he says.
“You’re welcome.”
“Holy shit, Taako,” Catherine says, looking up from the soup with awe in her eyes. As he watches, she tries another spoonful, and then she actually laughs out loud. “It worked!”
He finds himself searching her face for—sickness. Shortness of breath. Something.
It’s stupid. The people he killed in Glamour Springs didn’t show signs of death for days.
“I didn’t know you cooked,” Catherine goes on. “Could you teach me?”
“I don’t,” Taako blurts. It comes out sharper than he meant for it to, sudden and a little bit too loud. Catherine’s smile tapers. Angus lifts his head off Taako’s shoulder. Breathe, idiot, Taako tells himself. Be a fucking person for two seconds. “Cook, I mean. I don’t cook. Or, uh, teach. I’m kind of useless. Pretty, though.”
He flips his hair. It makes Angus giggle, but Catherine isn’t an easily-amused toddler, and she’s not buying it.
Her eyes are sharp, and seem to peel through layers of Taako’s bullshit like a knife. And then she scoffs, and mimics his hair flip with her wrist even though her hair is only about two inches long, and the tension drains out of the room like someone pulled a plug in the floor.
“You’ve been teaching Mango to read,” she says dryly. “And Elvish. And magic. But okay, Mr I Don’t Teach.”
“He’s my fucking protege. That shit’s different!”
“Shit!” Angus agrees cheerfully.
“Whatever. Now that I know you’re secretly a fountain of knowledge, I’m dragging you in here the next time I fuck up a recipe.” She studies him for a moment, and adds, “You don’t have to cook, Teach. If it bothers you. I just…I need help sometimes.
Taako feels himself relenting. This house is turning him into a fucking pushover.
“I know, Cat,” he sighs. “Try to find one person who doesn’t.”
#
“Alright, little man,” Taako says, tugging Angus’ collar straight. “What are the rules?”
“Hold your hand, don’t talk to strangers, aim for the eyes if I can reach them, knees if I can’t,” his boy recites gravely.
Next to him, Ezra stifles a snort of laughter. Boniface, waiting by the loaded carriage, looks reluctantly amused. Catherine says, “Who the fuck thought it was a good idea to give you a kid?”
“Uh, your boss,” Taako says without looking at her. He stands up from his crouch as the front door closes, and they all turn as McDonald comes down the steps to join them in the crumbly courtyard.
“Are we ready, boys?” he asks with a smile. “Neverwinter is waiting.”
Honestly, Taako has been sick with dread over this trip for the past two weeks, but he wouldn’t know how to go about explaining that. And he sure as hell isn’t sending Angus off alone with his absent-minded grandfather. The kid probably wouldn’t make it home.
It’s not as though Taako has been sequestered in the manor house for the last five years. He’s ambled into the settlement with the girls now and then, has gone farther up the road to buy from caravans for Candlenights gifts, has let himself be bullied, cajoled, blackmailed and bribed into helping Boniface lug imported plants home from the train station.
But this is fucking Neverwinter. The Jewel of the North.
“Taako? You okay?” Angus says from somewhere near his elbow.
“Just dreading three hours on the road playing I, Spy with you, boychik,” he lies smoothly. “Go pet the horses so we can get that out of the way.”
Angus looks mulish for a moment, but he does insist on petting the carthorses before they take the carriage literally anywhere, so he lifts his head and crosses the courtyard with great dignity. Taako watches sharply until Boniface rolls his eyes so hard Taako can practically hear it and hefts Agnus up in one huge arm to better reach the giant creatures without running the risk of getting fucking trampled.
“I’m making the salmon at home tonight,” Catherine says abruptly, a non-sequitur that takes Taako by surprise. “If I don’t fuck it up, I’m gonna cook it here, too. So don’t be late, Teach.”
“I’ll a hundred percent eat your share if you’re late,” Ezra adds. Her smile looks a little strained.
Taako has not been subtle. He’s been freaking out right out loud where anybody could see it. Get it together, asshole, he coaches himself helpfully.
“Cat,” he says earnestly, “your salmon is literally the only thing I have to live for.”
She groans and pushes him away from her. Angus has finished with the horses and returns to Taako at a run, even though they’re all going to be walking back across the courtyard to the carriage in like one minute anyway.
McDonald is handing out a few last minute instructions. They’re mostly things that have already been taken care of, errands that have already been run, the ushe. The girls nod along politely, but there’s a level of uncertainty lingering above them like a cloud. They look as nervous about Taako leaving as Taako feels.
Now, Taako is many things—an elf, a failed chef, a murderer, a dime-store wizard, and one lucky nanny—but he is not some mercurial fairy tale creature. He’s not going to vanish from their lives the second they lose sight of him. He could if he wanted to, and he will if he has to, but he doesn’t want to. For now, he doesn’t have to.
So he lifts a hand and says, “Back soon.”
But for some reason, it fucking hurts.
#
The trip is about everything he expected it would be: long and boring. Angus gets bored with I, Spy within about ten minutes, the interior of the carriage is a little too tight to practice his cantrips, and Boniface seems to be aiming for the roughest parts of the road on purpose. Taako tries reading aloud from one of the Caleb Cleveland books, but McDonald keeps interrupting every time they get to the good, mysterious parts, so Angus and Taako trade a loaded glance and wordlessly agree to save it for later.
Still, it’s not awful. Angus at six years old is bright-eyed and relentlessly clever. He wants to be a detective like Caleb, and has taken to solving little mysteries around the manor house, like who left the jam out on the counter (Taako, and what are you going to do about it, pumpkin?) and who tracked the mud inside the undercroft (Boniface, obviously, that’s where all the booze is, and he literally works in mud all day. You didn’t have to put on your detective cap for that one).
Needless to say, Taako would burn the whole world down for this kid.
With no choice but to spend time in his grandson’s company, Taako can see Angus’ innate charm going to work on McDonald. There’s something wistful in the old man’s eyes, affectionate and more than a little bittersweet. He stops interrupting as Angus starts to describe his latest case in great detail—the mystery of the missing tarts!
The tarts are wrapped up and waiting in Taako’s bag for when they inevitably get snacky during the trip, but he's not going to tell. He kinda wants to see how far the kid takes this one.
By the time they board the train, Angus is tuckered out. The excitement of a trip so far from home is wearing off after hours in a carriage, and Taako ends up carrying him into their sleeper car and putting him to bed in one of the bunks.
McDonald takes a seat at the small table and watches without commentary as Taako extracts the boy’s hat and glasses and wand without waking him, pulling the blanket up to his shoulders. And then, out of habit more than anything else, he murmurs the only Elven blessing he remembers, quite literally ‘sweet dreams.’ He remembers Auntie saying it to him, and…someone else, maybe? He remembers that it always made him feel loved to hear it.
“Hiring you was the best thing I could have done for him,” McDonald says suddenly.
Taako turns with a trademark smile on his face, only as charming as it needs to be. “Hiring me was the best thing you ever did, period.”
His boss smiles back, but there’s an edge to it that Taako can’t translate. This is the most present and aware he’s looked in the last five years. Taako isn’t sure he’s ever had this much of McDonald’s attention.
“There’s another reason I wanted to take the two of you with me this week,” he says.
It’s ominous as fuck, and as the train lurches into motion, pulling away from the station, Taako realizes that he’s effectively trapped here, in a way he never was at the manor house. Some of his thoughts must show on his face, because McDonald’s smile warms a bit, and he gestures at the other chair.
“It’s a good thing, son. No need to be nervous.”
Taako sits in an irreverent collapsing of limbs to prove that he isn’t nervous, actually. McDonald pulls a bunch of papers out of his briefcase and sets them on the table. They look official as fuck. McDonald’s signature at the bottom draws Taako’s eye—huh, so that’s his first name. After this long, it would have felt a little awkward to ask. Beneath that is the signature and seal of a notary.
“What am I looking at here, Charlie?”
McDonald’s lips twitch. He probably cottoned onto the name thing.
“Well, this isn’t an easy conversation to have, and I probably could have picked a better time for it, but.” He glances over Taako’s shoulder at where Angus is sleeping. “It’s probably better if the boy doesn’t overhear until it’s sorted.”
“I hear ya. That little bugbear is all up in everyone’s business all the time,” Taako says proudly. “Just the worst.”
“He’s amazing,” McDonald says. That sorrow swims into his eyes now, an ancient, ruinous thing. “He reminds me of my daughter every time I look at him.” Oh. “It’s been…hard to look at him sometimes.” Oh.
Taako carefully reevaluates his opinion of Angus’ absent grandfather. Not too much, because the dude still should have been around, but, you know. Some.
Taako tries to imagine losing somebody, how much it must hurt. He tries to imagine looking like somebody, a family resemblance, a belonging at face-value. He’s never experienced either, but there’s still a bitter pit in his throat, a feeling like if he swallows too hard he’ll start to cry. So he sits very still instead.
“But still, he’s my only grandson, and I want him to be taken care of when I’m gone,” the man goes on. “I’m getting on in years, and I probably don’t have much longer left—oh, Taako. It’s alright.”
Taako is certain he didn’t move. He’s still doing the sitting-very-still thing. Then he realizes his ears betrayed him, pressed back flat against his head. Goddamn things.
“No, it’s uh. Taako’s good, don’t. Just.”
It’s the human age thing. He doesn’t want to think about it. He waves McDonald on, a tight rolling gesture. They really need to power through the rest of this conversation while Taako still has enough self-control left to not do something really embarrassing in front of his boss, like have a whole emotion.
McDonald takes pity. Thank fuck.
“It’s normal to want to get your ducks in a row,” he says. “I’m not planning on kicking the bucket any time soon.”
“Alright, let’s organize these ducks,” Taako says with unwarranted enthusiasm. He’s trying to trick himself into it. “Fucking ducks, am I right?”
“Angus is my heir. When he’s of age, he’ll get the estate and everything that goes with it, as well as his parents’ properties,” McDonald says, once again reminding Taako that he’s a rich old fuck. Istus. “But that’s still more than a decade away. If something should happen to me, I don’t want him to end up a ward of the state.”
Taako blinks. In the back of his mind, he realizes that he has become one of those elves that would one-thousand-percent kidnap a human baby if it came down to it. Leave Agnes in an orphanage? His Agnes? It would literally have never occurred to him.
“Custody cases can be so long-winded. The easiest way to circumvent the whole mess would be to adopt you into the family,” McDonald says, super nonchalant about flipping the world upside down. “That way Angus has an immediate next of kin that no one would question.”
He looks up when Taako doesn’t say anything and frowns at whatever Taako’s face must look like.
“You don’t have to use the surname if you don’t want to. It’s mostly just for the sake of paperwork.”
“I can’t,” Taako blurts.
“Of course. I wouldn’t insist that you change your family name if it’s important to you—”
“Not—not that, who gives a fuck about my family name,” Taako says too loudly. Angus shifts around for a second, like he might wake up, and Taako snaps his mouth closed so hard it hurts his teeth. In a whisper, because it’s all he can manage without giving into the urge to scream, Taako forces out, “I—I’m—I can’t.”
In the nightmare scenarios that still sometimes plague him in the middle of the night, when everyone else is asleep and he’s alone with the voice in his brain that fucking hates him, the choices always boiled down to either leaving Angus behind or taking him on the run. Both choices were fucking awful for a myriad of different reasons, and left Taako pacing his room tirelessly trying to think his way out of an unsolvable problem.
The idea that he could become a legal part of Angus’ family as simply as signing a piece of paper is so far-fetched and ridiculous that he can’t wrap his mind around it.
But bringing all his shit into Angus’ life? Signing up for this only to get snatched away the second the paperwork goes through and the militia finally finds him? Leaving his dirty laundry all over the front yard like the worst fucking house guest imaginable, and then peacing out to spend the rest of his long-ass fucking elf life in jail, while Angus was left to just…deal with that?
He couldn’t. He can’t. Every single option is bad. He shouldn’t have stayed. He should have known he would fall in love with that baby on day one. It’s really fucking stupid that he stayed.
“—aako. Taako.”
Taako jerks his head up. His ears are twitching and his hands are shaking and McDonald has probably been saying his name for awhile.
The man’s eyes are bright and steely. They look exactly like Angus’ do sometimes, when he wakes Taako up from a miserable meditation, when it’s just the two of them in a huge house surrounded by a crumbling garden.
“Tell me,” the man says sternly.
At a fucking complete loss, Taako just…does.
When he’s finished, McDonald looks at him really hard for what feels like a long time. Then he pulls a pair of reading glasses out of an inner pocket of his coat, poises the business end of a fountain pen against a fresh sheet of paper, and starts asking questions.
It’s a business-like, no-nonsense exchange. Taako is wiped out, emotionally he is the equivalent of a damp rag wrung out to dry, and he has no wherewithal left to lie or deny or deflect.
When they’re done, McDonald has filled three notebook pages of blocky handwriting, and Taako is swaying in his seat. He watches somewhat vacantly as McDonald nods to himself and rummages in his briefcase for a stone of farspeech.
“We won’t reach Neverwinter until morning. Get some sleep,” he says, and his voice is kindly again, the way it was before. Taako stares at him. “And don’t tell me elves don’t need it, please. I wasn’t born yesterday, and you nap twice as much as my grandson ever did.”
Well, it would be nice to get one last unnecessary snooze in as a free man, Taako supposes, and he doesn’t hesitate to climb into Angus’ bunk. It’s a familiar ritual. The kid squirms to accommodate him without fully waking. Taako tucks an arm around him and buries his nose in that riot of curly hair.
He hears McDonald say, “You’re not much more than a kid yourself, are you?” but that might have just been part of a dream.
He hears someone else say, “That can’t be broken or lost or taken away, it’s always going to be so important,” but Taako thinks that, whoever that was, they were very clearly wrong.
#
Taako wakes up to a six-year-old’s warm brown eyes. They’re crinkled at the corners in an urchin sort of way, and it’s the only tell Taako needs. His kid has been up to some mischief.
“Grandpa said you were tired and I should let you sleep,” Angus reports cheerfully. “He also said that there was a nice lady selling flowers a few cars down, and I ought to go buy a few!”
Ah. Taako glances down at the ruin of his hair. It looks like about a hundred snowberry blossoms were worked into the thick flaxen braid. It’s going to be an absolute pain to brush out later. He’ll probably find bits of plant in his hair for days. He loves it.
He risks a glance in McDonald’s direction.
The man looks amused by their whole general existence, which is fair. He also doesn't look like he's about to summon the guard to have Taako hauled into the brig, which is a fucking relief and a half.
“The world changed while you were asleep,” he says significantly. “Would you like to sign the papers now or with your pardon?”
Angus says, all in one breath, “You should sign the papers first! Grandpa says then you’ll be my family! I mean, you already are, so I’m not sure what the point is, but it must be important. Look at how official they are!”
Taako feels about four cups of coffee behind this conversation. He scoots off the bed, spilling into one of the chairs at the table, and folds his hands.
“Charlie. Buddy.”
“I stepped out for two minutes,” McDonald says defensively, “and I thought he was asleep!”
“That’s the oldest trick in the book,” Taako mutters. His heart is doing something really complicated and largely unnecessary, fucking backflipping in his chest, at Angus’ thoughtless ‘you already are.’ Like it was a given. What the fuck. “Can you go back to, uh—the world changing? A pardon? What’s up with that?”
“An old friend of mine is a cleric,” he says pushing a steaming cup in Taako’s direction. “Level nine, or thereabouts. She owed me a favor from when we were in school together, when I—well, that’s not important. What is important is that she was happy to cast Discern Location to find your old stage manager.”
Taako fumbles the cup, almost drops it. He sets it down hard.
“What the fuck? No, hold that thought. Angus, I love you. Get lost.”
He’s really banking on the kid being more stir-crazy than curious, and sure enough, Angus hops right off the bunk and sprints for the door.
“Okay, I’ll be in the dining car! You’re not s’posed to take food back with you, but I’m gonna see how many pastries I can fit in my pockets so you won’t be hungry when you sign the papers that make you my family! Love you, bye!”
“A three-hour carriage ride followed by six hours on a train was the worst fucking idea,” Taako says severely. “He’s gonna be on eleven when we roll up to Neverwinter. They might not let us in.”
“He’s just excited,” the old man says, with the tranquility of someone who isn’t going to have to child-wrangle all day long. “I told him I had good news for you.”
Taako is fidgeting, turning the cup of coffee around and around in his hands. It’s leaving a ring of condensation on the table.
“You found Sazed?” he asks, and hates how small his voice sounds.
“We did.”
“He probably hates me,” Taako mutters. “I ruined his life.”
McDonald takes the cup from him and sets it down on the other side of the table with a firm clunk.
“Pardon my language, but you didn’t ruin crud.” Taako mouths ‘crud’ in bewilderment, but McDonald isn’t finished. “I was suspicious of your story when you described the way those people died. Those aren’t the typical symptoms of deadly nightshade, and I’d never heard of a transmutation spell failing in that way before. So I looked into it. Or, I should say, I had a few friends look into it.”
“Are you in a cult?” Taako asks. He can’t help it. He’s one part genuinely curious and two parts hardwired to deflect any time someone tricks him into having a serious conversation. “We frown on cults in this family. Mysterious shadow organizations are never a good thing, no matter what greater-good shit they’re peddling.”
“I’m very rich and belong to very elite social circles,” McDonald says dryly. He’s unmoved by Taako’s general everything. “This whole thing took about three calls. I wish you would have told me about this five years ago, but I do understand why you didn’t.”
Taako doesn’t have a cup to fuck around with anymore. He stopped wearing jewelry when Angus was a baby and literally everything smaller than an apple was a choking hazard, and he never really got into the habit of it again, so he doesn’t have rings to twist around his fingers, either. He wrings his hands instead.
“If it wasn’t the elderberries,” he chokes out, and doesn’t make it any farther.
“It was arsenic,” McDonald says. His voice is kind again, but not so much so that it’s painful to hear. “Sazed was questioned within a Zone of Truth. He admitted to—okay,” he cuts himself off, putting a hand on Taako’s shoulder. “We’re done talking about it for now. Just take it easy.”
Taako doesn’t uncurl from his chair until the door rattles open and Angus’ voice fills the room. He’s found a dozen things to talk about in the ten minutes he’s been gone, and is very proud of himself for all the contraband pastries he managed to make off with. There’s a cheese danish wrapped very carefully in a napkin, only slightly squished, that he presents to Taako with a showy flourish that he really only could have picked up from too much time around one particular idiot.
Taako accepts the danish, and then hauls Angus up onto his lap, and then says, “Charlie, baby. Pass me that fancy pen.”
#
For the first time in almost eight years, Taako is cooking for an audience again. His hands are shaking, but as long as everyone else is politely pretending like they don’t notice, he can do himself the same favor.
I fed those people their death, but it wasn’t on me, he recites inwardly for the seven millionth time, a nervous mantra. My magic was good. My cooking was good. I was good. It wasn’t on me.
He looks up from the counter where all his tools are laid out and his ingredients are arranged. Ezra is bouncing in her seat, Boniface is lingering in the doorway like he doesn’t care but he also isn’t leaving, and Catherine’s eyes are wide and moonlike and younger than Taako has ever seen them. Angus has place of pride, a seat on the counter by the sink with the best view in the house.
“Okay,” he says. “What are the rules, pumpkin?”
“No swiping ingredients, no magic in the kitchen, and no taste-testing until you say it’s okay,” Angus rattles off promptly. “Autographs at the end of the show are three gold apiece, photos are ten, and the overall experience is absolutely priceless.”
Over the sweet sound of the rest of his audience groaning at him, Taako goes on blithely, “And what are we cooking today?”
“Macarons!”
“And who’s your dude?” Taako asks, pointing a whisk at him. Angus giggles, and Taako’s hands aren’t shaking anymore.
In a month, Angus is going off to a summer camp out past Rockport. It’s Caleb Cleveland-themed, and the whole thing sounds extremely nerdy and book-cluby, and Angus is desperately excited. He’s also desperately nervous about being away from his family for three whole weeks but he’s trying to keep that on the down-low. He’s very grown up at nearly ten years old.
Taako can respect that. He also bought the kid a stone of farspeech, because actually fuck that.
And while Angus is off having his first away-from-home adventure—since the girls think that Taako’s just going to be useless and mopey the whole time, and Boniface already threatened to bury him in a flowerbed the first time he whines about literally anything—Taako is going to go do something cool, too. There’s always some interesting jobs posted on Craig's List up in Neverwinter. He’ll be able to find something to occupy his time.
But for now, he’s gonna make some goddamn desserts.
“Come on, Ango,” Taako wheedles, “who’s your dude?”
“You, papa.”
I’m good, Taako reminds himself. He looks at his kid, who only deserves the best this piece of shit world has to offer, and thinks, I can be good.
#the adventure zone#taz balance#taako taaco#angus mcdonald#taz fic#my writing#better place#ladies i dunno but i gotta work in like 3 hours and i wrote this instead of sleeping
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Justice's Flight
okay so here is the third episode in the justice arc featuring the half qunari half elf Harel from @w-h-4-t much love lethalan
Taras feet thudded as she ran, heart dead in her chest. You knew better her mind called, you knew how this would end. Foolish child you knew, she gritted her teeth against the painful thoughts. She used everything in the Vir Tanadhal. She ran along stones, swung from branches to break up her track, and forded every stream. She had to ensure that no one could find her, not ever.
Harel and Cole found the track of the Great stag easily enough and took off after Tara. Soon enough they found the site of the "ambush" and stopped. Cole breathed "scattering scared flighty yet flightless fleeing, falling." Harel looked over at the slight young man "mmm that sounds like.... well Tara's very stony. Scared? Ok maybe that is her." Coles eyes widened "mamae I am sorry mamae I....void blackened hate, glass scraping, I don't want to be the beast again, obsidian shards-" Harel cut him off promptly grabbing the boy "hey breathe, boots on the ground, air in your lungs we're trying to find her, breathe you're okay you're here. Cole looked up with his watery eyes at harel "she hurts so much, sharp glass tearing, she is drowning in the dark." His eyes filled with tears at the soul wrenching agony he could feel. Harel stared at the staged site "shems might fall for this one, but in the clan we called it Falon'din's faint. Stage an attack so the pursuer looses interest in your trail. Harel turned and saw the tears on Cole's face "hey, we're going to find, we will light the darkness okay? we wont let her drown. I wont let you drown either, we are going to be okay.
"Clawing creeping darkness....there" he pointed a trembling hand to the southwest. There was nothing to show her passage but Harel had expected that. Any clanfam worth a damn would know how to evade capture. "She really doesn't want to be found" Cole whispered, Harel nodded studying the area. "really does.... I mean I'm pretty good at tracking from when the clan would leave me behind but.... she really wiped herself off the map." "Swiftly spinning, thunder rumbles in the clouds even when it wants to be a flame." Cole stood wanting to help needing to help, Harel muttered pacing the clearing. "Where is she, were would she go," Cole stared at the sky "Move like brother, think like father, faster, go faster safety in seeking danger." Harel stopped at the words "do....wait....do you think you can follow the feeling? trail off the fear like you do?" "find the hurt?" Harel nodded "uh...yes... like feel out the pain like you do and keep following it till we find her?" Cole looked to the southwest "I can try....but it might make me disappear she is hurting so much..." Harel looked that way too "so long as one of us finds her, she gave up everything for that fucking bastard." Harel's eyes glowed a faint green at her words. "But we are not going to let her go, are we Cole?" Cole's eyes grew haunted "bright in the darkness wearing its skin loosely-" "FOCUS! Follow! we wont let anything happen to her, not again never again. You said she was going that way?" Cole nodded. "Then that is where we will go," a soft trumpeting noise cut her off. The inquisitors white hart trotted into the clearing shaking his head in grief huffing. "Oh you poor sweet thing, Tara left you all alone" she patted the beasts snout "its okay we are here now." Cole looked at the massive white stag "he... he saw her flee, saw her go there beyond the trees past there fleeing with the sun." Harel's eyes opened wide in sudden panic "she, she is heading for the arbor wilds SHITE its gunna get her killed DEAD." Harel felt the fear seizing her heart, "OH MYTHALS FUCKING BREAST BAND that place is deadly!" she shook Cole by the shoulders "she cant survive there! Tara is strong but the wilds will eat her alive!" Cole looked up at the bigger woman "death with purpose, safety in silence... I think that is her plan." "Well her plan is fuckin STUPID. We need to get to her before she gets anymore bright ideas! She is not going to sacrifice herself for some dumbass Templar idiot. We are going to bring her back and if he wants to play mage killer then I'll" a deep dangerous growl rumbled in her chest "I will bring it down on him, he wont hurt her... ever."
Harel swung onto the harts back and pulled Cole up behind her. His soft voice accompanying the thud of the hooves "knotted, gnarled, gnawing, the pain of knowing, of being seen, sheltering inside my heart, oh Mythal what if I kill again. Charred bodies.... burning hate... but now I know the faces, everyone I love, everyone I protect crushed like ash. A new templar an old dance, I cannot let it end the same have to stop have to run. The screams the hiss of burning flesh in armor, Mamae! she is cold so cold. Its safer to run let them think me lost, Dorian will know I cannot lie to him. Harel's heart was heavy as stone listening to the pain that tore at her friend. "She's got so much pain and she just keeps adding more, I don't know how she is still going Cole."
"The lion and the serpent bind me to the light, breaking away old walls and hurt. New love in true forms swirling like honey in his tea, eyes of amber look at me with kindness, I cannot let go but I must for them."
"The serpent will know she cannot keep this from him, he sees her and loves her anyway. He will look in the book eventually, but she will be too far gone by then. The lion roars and she runs to save him from her blood in his mouth. The lion tests his chains, roaring as the whip cuts into him but this is for his own good, his fangs start to show as the links break, to break her would break him.
"I am a weapon I have no right to love him, and now he hurts and its all my fault. Soon the hunt will begin again just as before, The Templars will hunt me and I will flee."
Harel looked into the darkness of the trees as Cole whispered all Tara's fear and hurts to her. The weight grows on her shoulders and she thinks of the horrible pain of being so alone; of finally finding people who love her only to have the spirit she was forced to be bound to rip all of it away. We'll change her mind, Dorian knows, he will do anything to stop her being hunted."
"The serpent raises his head fearless, fangs glinting but never poised to bite. He curls around her defensive and defying he know the pain of being hated. The hurt of betrayal for things that you were born with, he understands and draws up to the lion without fear.....Dorian yelled alot." Harel huffed a laugh "of course he did, and that is good, especially if it was at that blockheaded idiot Commander. I cannot believe we keep such ignorant people ar-" "pain, mistrust, I give them my all and the keep forcing me down. the magic, is dangerous; the chantry mother licks her thumb before turning the page, magic is dangerous. I saw the suffering it causes in the circle in Kirkwall, and here. Magic is dangerous but I want so badly to trust, crushed like a flower beneath hooves. She used me! She let me think she was....normal I still love her how can I still love her."
"He still loves her? okay.....maybe he's not as ignorant as I thought.... Sylaise, I hope to fuck Dorian gets him to calm down before we find her." "His hurt touches hers" Cole's voice was quiet and sad. "The scent of sweet mint and rain, I feel myself slipping away but it is there oakmoss and mint, twisting, tantalizing and terribly apart. What have I done! I didn't even give her a chance! I will may never see her again!"
Harel's hands tightened on the reins as the hart navigated a rock "good the fear will make him remorseful, its better that he remains beating himself up for what he did until we get her. He will never hurt her again after this...never again."
Cole sucked in a breath as he caught the agony around Tara again "sharp shards of hate, like the spines of a dragon, raising like hackles, glowing with darkness and smoke. Her heart cannot break like this, it will break her the darkness will find her take her." Harel swallowed heavily "lets say we cant get to her quick enough, what is she going to.... become"
"A pale mask, the queen she refused to be, the mask hides only darkness, edges, and hate. The crystals she fears tear her apart, dark and sharpened wings singing a discordant song. Groping in the darkness, Mamae's cooling body. I am losing myself, falling into the nothing."
Harel shuddered at the thought of her friend giving in and turning into vengeance. "Mythal grant us time to get to her.
Tara couldn't run anymore, she was utterly exhausted from the trauma and the flight from skyhold. She collapsed to her side under a tree. She tried to summon magic to blunt the pain turn off the nerves, but she was too exhausted for that kind of focus. The darkness of unconsciousness claimed her.
"Her mind is quieter she is sleeping!" Cole told harel. "Good, we need to double time it then, before she takes off again." Cole watched the shadows of the trees, "quiet like a drop of water in a pond, undisturbed, no wolves or shadows just soft darkness. She will not be moving any time soon." Harel pushed the stag just a bit faster "damn gotta her give credit though, she can haul ass when she want to if Dorian hadn't found that note so quickly we have never caught up." The pair rode till dawn "darkness pooling but not silent, she is awake.... and close."
blue white eyes glowed faintly in the shadow of a great tree, a deep melodic voice growled "You are not the hounds I was expecting..."
okay my lovelies there will either be a really long episode or two more depending on how much my sad artist brain can take go check out @w-h-4-t she has alot of great writing and is fantastic at Cole's dialog
#tarasyl'nin#lavellan#justice arc#part three#tara's backstory#dragon age inquisition#dragon age#cullavellan#cullen rutherford#my oc#@w-h-4-t#discord dialogs#cole is a sweet bean and I love him#harel
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