#rust twitch drop
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comeuppance | qz!j.m. x f!reader
masterlist | notifs blog
pairing: qz!joel miller x f!reader
summary: [post outbreak] when your recklessness causes an arms deal to go south, joel makes sure you regret it.
warnings: (18+ mdni) qz!joel, age gap (late 20s/early 50s), written with hbo!joel in mind but with game!joel lore, guns, mentioned executions, misogynistic names outside (and in!) a sexual context, canon-typical violence as in murder (joel kills a soldier 'on-screen'), reader is a little shit but joel is worse, darkish & dubcon, spanking as a punishment, gunplay, attempted boot humping, degradation, humiliation, one kick to the cunt, mean!joel, orgasm denial [no use of y/n]
word count: 2.7k
a/n: this is my (admittedly late) submission for @iamasaddie's writing challenge 2.0! my prompt was 'you can't hide forever'. the genre was technically dark but joel himself isn't scarily dark here. thank you so much to aly for, once again, bringing this fandom together with her challenges. it's a steep task but she does a great job every time! and even more thanks to @joelsdagger and @lovesickonmybed for helping me brainstorm! (i have half of a brain without my wonderfully creative friends).
It only takes one deal gone south to fuck everything up.
You know the compass is already ticking that way the moment you and Joel, your longtime smuggling partner, enter the abandoned warehouse. Much like everything else in the Boston QZ, it’s falling apart. The corrugated metal walls are pitted with rust, and old blood is caked all over the floors. In another life, it might’ve been a slaughterhouse, but there’s no real way of knowing. It’s been long enough that any signage has deteriorated. The building’s state of decay, however, isn’t what messes things up.
It’s the singular man that walks in from the opposite side of the atrium.
FEDRA’s favorite executioner. Slitted eyes far apart, thinned out lips, and graying black hair. Rarely seen away from the gallows, only recognizable to you from all of the nightmares you’ve had of his face being the last you see.
If it were drugs, you’d think nothing of it. FEDRA soldiers buy quietly from you all of the time – but they have no need for guns that they don’t already have.
Joel steps forward, merchandise in the duffel bag over his shoulder, none the wiser. A knot ties itself in the base of your throat. You’re too busy trying to figure out what to do, what to do, what to do that you barely even realize that the soldier has a gun aimed right between your eyes until you’re looking right down the barrel.
Your hand jerks to your holster, drawing your pistol in one swipe.
“Drop your fucking gun!” he barks in your direction. It clatters out of your hands. “Don’t you dare fucking move.” Your hands fly up as you take a step back, nearly stumbling into a nearby crate. “Joel Miller and his bitch,” the man sneers. “What a lucky find. You two have quite the bounty on your heads.”
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Joel says, face completely blank.
“Easy for you to say,” the guard says with a nagging smirk. “Your little cunt here already did. Pretty fucking dumb not to check who you’re selling your merchandise to, huh?”
Joel tenses, ultimately huffing through his nose. “Can we get this over with?”
“I’ll make it easy, Miller. Come with me alive so I get paid, or come with me dead so I still get paid.”
Joel’s fingers twitch behind his back, and after almost three years of working with him, it’s impossible not to pick up on the subtext. Keep him busy. His hand is already reaching for the revolver in his back pocket.
“Turn the other way. I can make this worth your time,” you say. “But you’re lucky if those sons of bitches you work for even offer you half the reward they’ve posted for us. Dragging the bodies from Area 5 to the closest checkpoint… you’d have your work cut out for you.”
“Yeah fucking right,” he spits. “You two have been running around free for too damn long. Causing too much trouble. Not anymo–”
The man’s mouth freezes around the words by the time the bullet soars throat the canvas fabric of Joel’s duffel bag and through the man’s jugular. The soldier’s hands claw for his throat while he gargles on the blood as he begins the descent to the ground. New blood, still pumping directionless from the split artery, joins the old.
Much like him, where he’s slumping against the ground, chest moving until the very end, your hands clutch at your own throat. “We need to go,” you say, knowing the rest of FEDRA will come looking for the firefight at any second now. Joel doesn’t move. “Joel!” You reach out to tug his sleeve, but he doesn’t react. “Jesus– move!”
Joel turns to face you, gun still hanging from his hand. His fingers flex around the grip. “What the hell were you thinkin’, little girl?” You can hear his breathing, amplified from how close he is to you. His once inexpressive face is now red, lips curled, skin tight like a crushed soda can.
“I– what?”
“Not vettin’ your buyers. First fuckin’ thing I told you all them years ago, wasn’t it? Gotta check so you don’t sell shit to the wrong guy, yeah?” He stalks closer to you – you stumble back.
Not vetting the now dead executioner, whose blood is currently creeping up to the soles of your boots. Your mistake, yes, a potentially catastrophic one that you’ll definitely never make again after this, but he’d been on your ass about finding buyers and after an entire day of burning bodies, the last thing you wanted to do was go asking around about the ‘John’ in search of guns that you’d talked to over the radio tower.
“We’re alive, aren’t we?”
Joel finally jerks his sleeve away from your grip. Your hand falls slack by your side, burning from his fire stoker touch. “And you oughta count your fuckin’ blessings for that. Dumbfuck of a girl, gonna get me killed,” he spits. Spittle flies across your neck.
You flinch – and not because you’re scared. You’ve never seen him like this before. You hear noise in the distance, the moving of FEDRA trucks, no doubt. “Joel! We can do this later – we need to fucking go–”
“Then you better start running,” he says gruffly.
You don’t need to be told twice.
You sprint out of the atrium, cursing as your bloodied soles carve tracks behind you. A stack of crates blocks the door, which you vault over and shimmy your way through the broken glass panel. The hallway ahead of you is dark, and you have no idea where the fuck you’re going, only that you can’t stop. Each impact of your foot on the ground is like being struck by lightning, carbonating the racing blood pumping through your body. More glass crunches behind you, and a shock of terror pierces you when you hear Joel’s snarls filling the corridor.
There’s a metal cart in your way, which you send whirling in Joel’s direction. He grunts, presumably hitting him in the stomach before it goes clattering on the ground. You make the most of the diversion, hurtling forward and lurching through a cracked door.
Dead fucking end.
An office, by the looks of it. Desks all over the place, leftover tasks still pinned on cork boards from outbreak day, chairs on their sides. You hear Joel huffing and puffing behind you, and fear forks through you. You fall to your hands and knees, crawling underneath the labyrinth of desks and tucking yourself against a wall, carpet-burned hand to your mouth to muffle your breathing. Your chest avalanches with every single breath.
“You ain’t off the hook,” Joel says, voice getting closer with every word. You can hear the thump of his boots against the carpet. See the spread of his shadow roaming across the wall. You squint through the seam of two desks. He's looking over his shoulder when you haul yourself across the room to the next closest desk.
You look around for anything that might get you out of this long enough to slip back out of the door. If you can make it back to the apartment, maybe he can cool off on his own walk back. You reach up for a stapler and take a brief second to peek over a filing cabinet before flinging it against the wall. It snaps open, spilling decades old staples all over the floor.
“Only a clicker’s fallin’ for that,” he tuts at you. His boots land on the floor again, one, two, three steps closer to you. You wince, balling your hands into fists.
All you can hear is the thrashing of your own heart. You scooch away from the desk – maybe if you throw something small at him, like a pack of sticky notes, it’ll be enough to abduct his attention long enough for you to slip by–
“You can’t hide forever,” Joel goddamn coos at you. You see him bending at the waist, scoping out the undersides of desks, seeking you out–
You crawl out from under the desk and book it to the door.
Stupid. Fucking. Idea.
Joel hauls you back by the belt loop, laughing as you cry out. You try squirming away, kicking at him, but his other arm wraps around your torso. It hits you then that you have no idea what he might do to you. You’ve trusted him with your life before, but what would he do when you risked his? You’d always been too scared to find out. He spins you, slamming you over the desk. You cry out as your chest meets the wood. His hand drags your wrists together, pinning them at the small of your back.
“Let me – the fuck– go!” you yell at him, trying to bend your elbow at the right angle to nail him in the chest.
He tightens his grip so much that you can barely move an inch. “Made your fuckin’ bed, gotta lie in it, sweetheart,” he tuts, shaking his head at you. His hand grazes over your ass, and you stiffen as he looms over you. He is just a man. Your mind spins to the worst-case scenario. No, no, no, no–
“How about an… old-fashioned corporal punishment to set ya straight?” Within the next second, he’s yanking your jeans down your thighs.
Oh. Oh fuck.
“Joel–” you exhale, breath shuddery. “Knock it off–”
“No panties? I was gonna be nice and spank ya over them…” Joel frowns at you. “Poor baby. ‘S gonna sting real bad.”
You snap at him, “What, you want me to go to the local QZ Victoria’s Secret?”
Joel swats, hard, across your asscheek.
You’ve seen how intense Joel’s brute strength can be. You’ve just never been on the receiving end of it. A cry pushes out of your throat, and you hunch over the desk as you struggle helplessly against Joel. Tears spring at your eyes.
Mercifully, Joel runs his calloused palm over the smarting skin. “Shh, shh, shh, shh. ‘S okay, Jus’ gotta teach ya a lesson. Make sure it sticks.” He strokes the nape of your neck as you whimper into the desk.
You tense up in preparation for the second hit, but, if anything, it just makes the impact worse. It prickles your other cheek, leaving your knees shaky. And God help you, your clit twitches. Twitches. Your thighs are already heating up, and you can’t help but squirm in a good way underneath Joel. A single tear slips over your waterline, and you have to tilt your head into the shoulder of your shirt to wipe it off. You don’t want him to see you weak – not that weak.
The next spank makes him grunt from how hard he swings his palm into your backside. “Joel!” you shout, pain nearly splitting you in two. Your feet raise off of the ground as you prop yourself up on the desk, kicking uselessly at his shins. All he does is chuckle at you.
Horror sinks like a cinderblock in your stomach when you realize that your hole, leaking slick, is practically fucking winking at him. You thank the darkness. It’s about the only good thing about this place.
“You don’t like that?” he mock-pouts at you. It’s enough to make you throb. The opposite, you’d say if you could.
A series of spanks follows, but at least these are lighter, and in rapid succession. Still, you jerk with each impact, squirming so that your fingers dance in his grip. “Stupid little girl. Thought you could sell our shit to a FEDRA bitch and get off scot-free? Really thought you could get away from me, huh?”
You try clamming up, desperately attempting to close your legs together. You squeeze your thighs together, relieved at the pressure – and then you hear a resounding click behind you.
You still.
Joel’s gun, still fucking hot from the bullet it’d fired right into the executioner’s throat, traces up the small of your back… all the way to your throat. “Could put one right here,” Joel whispers, more to himself than you. “Show ya what happens to girls that don’t follow orders.” He jams it into your skin, and you hiss at the pain, at the bruise it’s sure to leave. And in spite of it all, you fucking gush. God, you’re fucked up.
He wouldn’t kill you – he needs you more than you need him. But common sense isn’t enough to prevent the thrill, the arousal smiting your body from head to toe.
“I’ll reconsider if ya give it a kiss.” He nudges the barrel carefully against your lips and you stop breathing for a second, maybe two. “Go on. Give it some lovin’. Suck it like a cock. I know you’re good at it. Hear all the guys you bring over.”
You whimper at the thought of Joel listening to you getting your hook ups off – at the thought of him fisting his own cock while he listens. Obediently, you part your lips, slowly, ever so slowly, taking the gun down your throat. It fills your mouth up in such a strange way – all hard edges. It’d be freezing cold if not for the fact that it’s a weapon of death, a scythe in its own way. One press of the trigger, and you’d be just like the guard. You suck even harder at it, eyes rolling back in your skull. Your thighs twitch, stripes of slick running down your thighs.
Joel reaches between your legs, grabbing at the meat of your inner thigh to spread you open. Instead, he gets a handful of the arousal that’s been pooling between your legs since he first bent you over the desk.
You freeze, pausing your ministrations on the pistol. He himself freezes before he drags his hips over your folds. His finger pads hover over your swollen clit before he properly rubs you once, and then twice. Your hips cant into the closest thing – his hand.
Joel makes a disgusted noise and swats your leaking pussy before shoving you forward and stepping back. You’re panting, properly fucked out even though he’d barely touched you. Cross-eyed, tongue hanging out, face hot. He looks you up and down, brows furrowing with revulsion. “Horny fuckin’ bitch. Creamin’ all over me. That long since you got action that a spankin’ and a gun in your mouth is all it takes to get you riled up? Pathetic.” He shoves the gun back in his pocket, still shining with your saliva.
He wipes your wetness all over your leg, grabs the back of your collar, and drags you to the floor in one foul swoop. You fall on your hands and knees again, ass still stinging from his treatment, lightheaded from how needy you are. Even his brutal treatment makes you whimper.
You reach for his calf, pulling yourself up to brace your dripping cunt against his boot. You rut against it, not even fully cognizant of your movements as you roll your hips, praying that he lets you have this if nothing else. Your orgasm, wetting his boot thoroughly. Your scent, clinging to him on the walk back to the apartment. You buck into the boot, moaning as the toe bumps against your clit. It might be enough, if you could just do it one more time–
Joel tears his shoe out from underneath you, face pinched with aversion. “No!” you cry, still grabbing for his calf. You fall onto your back, legs spread and panting. Your ass needles from his spanking. The ceiling tiles spin above you.
The same toe you’d been humping kicks into your cunt, and you yelp, curling in on yourself. Another tear slides down your burning cheek as you reach down to cup your sore pussy. Even that pressure feels like touching a live wire.
Joel looks down at his shining boot and makes a disgusted noise. “Does humiliatin’ yourself always get ya dicked down?”
He turns around, already walking away from you without a care in the world. The gun grip pokes out of his pocket, taunting you.
“Pull your goddamn pants up and get a move on. Curfew’s soon.”
#vetty's words 𓇢𓆸#joel miller smut#joel miller x f!reader#joel miller x reader#joel miller fanfic#joel miller/reader#joel miller fic#writing challenge 2.0
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three’s a crowd.
this is just porn with absolutely no plot if i’m being completely honest lollll i was at a festival this weekend and wanted to ease my brain back into writing and then this happened?? i do have part 1 ready to go for shattering expectations but am waiting to post
18+. voyeurism. perv!eddie i guess. unprotected sex hehe
imagine sneaking off to the bathroom with steve at some event you didn’t even want to come to because he just can’t keep his hands off of you.
they’re grabbing onto your supple thighs to hoist you up onto the sink, moving between your legs, lips not living yours as his large, hardened hands roam your body. dress yanked up over your thighs revealing a damp patch in your lacy panties.
he’s growling into your mouth, feeling his erection nudging perfectly at your sensitive clit. pulling him closer to you with your legs wrapped around his waist.
murmuring words of encouragement to tell him to hurry up. you need him now.
his pants coming undone, cock springing up against his stomach as you shuffle forward, hips tilted as you wait impatiently for him to fill you up.
trying so desperately not to make any noise when he slides inside, forehead resting against yours with the tinges of a smirk on his lips. he can feel just how soaked you are for him already, stretching your pretty pussy around him.
finding it too difficult to keep your mouth shut when he hits that sweet, spongy spot deep inside, mewling into his ear with a breath chorus of stevestevesteve.
you’re not sure if you’re hearing things but you’re sure the door creaks and your eyes flit over to spot eddie stood gawping, one hand still wrapped around the rusting door handle.
you startle a little at the sight, squeezing steve’s shoulder to grab his attention, ‘steve.. steve,’ different to the similar sounds you’d been making.
he looks back over his shoulder without much concern, tsks quietly before continuing to thrust his hips, the sounds of your wetness filling the tiny room.
it’s so fucking hot. it shouldn’t be hot.
knowing he’s just stood there watching, you should feel weird. it was. but it was just so sexy, encouraging you in a way you’d never known possible.
your stomach twists, averting your eyes as your head rolls back against the dirtied mirror. heels digging into his back when his thumb moves to circle your clit. using the opportunity to bury his head into your neck, suckling at the taut skin, littering the empty space in a plethora of purples.
head lolling to the side as you once again making eye contact with the other man still stood at the door. dropping to the obvious tent in his pants, hand twitching, just absolutely fucking desperate to touch himself.
eager to please, you steve in by the collar of his shirt, lazily connecting your lips. tongues and spit. eddie’s chest is heaving, near enough drawing blood from his teeth dug into his bottom lip.
your stomach twists, too blissed out now to care about one eddie munson stood at the door. steve’s hand is balanced on the porcelain basin, slamming into your cunt mercilessly, feeling you tighten around him. he knows you’re close, the sweet sounds rolling out of your mouth are indication enough.
‘fuck..’ you’re whining, thighs trembling as the coil snaps, eyes squeezing shut as your orgasm overtakes your limbs. white hot flashes explode behind your eyelids. clinging onto steve’s neck in fear of falling off the flimsy sink.
steve grunts, burying himself to the hilt as thick ropes of hot cum paint your walls. leaving wet kisses along your jaw and down onto your already marked neck before pulling out. his pants back around his waist before you have time to even digest what had just happened.
he’s a gentleman, pulling your dress down and helping you from the basin. finding it so insanely hot to know he’s dripping out of you as you land on wobbly legs, cheeks burning when you catch sight of eddie again.
it’s a silent exchange between them but it makes you giddy all over again. steve nodding at the boy before taking your hand and pulling you out of the bathroom with as much haste as he’d pulled you into it.
the lock clicking as soon as the door is shut again.
#steve harrington#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington x you#steve stranger things#steve harrington x y/n#stranger things x you#eddie munson#steve harrington smut#eddie munson x you#steddie x reader#eddie munson smut
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Exit West (LMH x F!Reader)
pairing: Minho x f!reader (afab)
genres/au/rating: angst, smut, some fluff, post-apocalyptic au (based on the Netflix series Sweet Home), 18+
summary: Even when the world is plunged into its darkest hour, you find the faintest light in Minho.
warnings: heavy angst, lots of mentions of blood and injuries (i tried to make it as non-graphic as possible), minor character deaths, weapons, panic attack (again not graphic), it's heavily implied OC struggles with agoraphobia and PTSD, brief infidelity, Minho and reader do get into verbal arguments (they're a little toxic lol), Minho is a true loverboy, ambiguous but hopeful ending, smut warnings: kissing, fingering (f rec), unprotected sex, brief nipple play
word count: 6.3k
a/n: i'm so sorry that this took so long, google docs decided to be a jerk and delete a huge chunk of this while i was working on it (I apologize in advance for the poorly written angst)! It is based on the world of Sweet Home but honestly you don't need to have watched the show or read the webtoon to follow along. the title is from the book by Mohsin Hamid. I hope you enjoy! <;3
The sharp wire of the metal fence cuts into Minho’s palms, digging into his mottled skin, and he braces himself for the jump. Leaping over, Minho lands silently on his feet, skills honed from many years of observing his cats take the same leap from couches or counters. But none of that existed anymore.
His eyes remain sharp, taking in the cover of woods around him, and he remembers that while the trees helped him stay hidden, they hid the monsters from his sight as well. No sooner than he’s managed to calm down the ever-present racing of his heart, he’s swinging the door to the bunker open, closing it quietly behind him.
Wincing, he examines the cuts on his palms, tinged with dirty specks of rust. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep doing this, knowing the small supply of rubbing alcohol he’d managed to collect over the past few months was now down to the last bottle. And there was no more to be found.
The small bit of sunlight that streams in through the barely-qualifying window illuminates your sleeping figure nestled amongst a pile of dirty blankets, and Minho almost hesitates to disturb you like this. You look so peaceful like this, a stark contrast to the emptiness that fills your eyes when you wake, the pain of living through two starkly different lifetimes contained in their depths. He knows his eyes hold the same.
“___,” he shakes you awake gently, watching you stir. The gashes that mar your face have begun to scab over, leaving ugly scars in their wake.
“I brought dinner.”
That gets you to jolt up, rubbing sleepily at your eyes.
“Are you okay? Anything hurt?” You shake your head, a small frown on your face when you see the fresh red marks that litter his palms. He has the feeling you’re lying to him again, but he doesn’t push it. A lot went unspoken between you two.
Minho wordlessly hands you over a full sleeve of crackers, your eyes lighting up. You chomp down eagerly on one, before pausing, holding it out to him.
“I already ate,” he lies, knowing he didn’t want you to sacrifice any kind of meal for his sake. He’d eat the less full sleeve when you fell back asleep.
Moments of silence pass between you, the soft sounds of your eating lulling Minho’s tired eyes to fall, becoming heavy with sleep. He rests his head on his knees, fighting back the shiver that night brought with it.
A deafening roar breaks through the stillness, and you freeze, dropping the crackers to the ground. Minho is by your side in an instant, hand tentatively reaching out towards your shoulder. But he never closes the gap.
“Ten seconds,” you croak out, so softly that Minho thinks he might not have heard you. “If the distance that sounds travel is 343 metres per second, then ten seconds means it’s far enough away from us.”
The ghost of a smile twitches at Minho’s lips, and he wants to praise your sharp skills, considering he’d only ever been a pabo, but you’ve turned around and fallen asleep again, your back to him.
Minho settles into the blankets across from you, watching you for a few minutes before his body is weighed down by the exhaustion of the day, knowing the exact same thing waited tomorrow.
The end of the world was more boring than he’d expected it to be.
It hadn’t always been this way. The chaos had naturally broken through the quiet, starting one night when a fire broke out in his apartment complex. Amidst the screams and sounds of windows shattering, Minho’s only concern had been the cats, scooping them up, taking special care to cover their ears from the blaring alarms. But all of it hadn’t made a difference anyway.
He thought it was his neighbour at the end of the hallway. Or at least, it looked like him. He’d always had some sort of disdain for the man - in Minho’s eyes he talked too much. Always interrupting him during his morning mail runs to brag about his latest conquests when it came to dating. It was a sore spot for Minho, especially considering his own romantic interests were so singular, something he didn’t want to get into whenever his neighbor cornered him.
But the vain man who talked Minho’s ear off about sleeping with as many women as possible was nowhere to be found, lithe limbs transforming into ropes that broke through the ceiling. Heading straight for Minho.
Somewhere in the chaos, Minho briefly had time to register that whatever was in front of him was no longer human. And so, he did the only thing he could do. Run.
The floor slipped underneath him, hurtling Minho to the ground, the cat carrier thrown open next to him. Soonie, Doongi, and Dori are nowhere to be found. His palms claw against the tile, trying and failing to lift himself up, eyes widening when he sees the red that coats his palms.
“Please,” Minho croaks, attempting to break through to the human underneath the monster. “Don’t do this.”
There’s a brief flash, a spindly arm reaching out for Minho’s face, and he ducks. The sound of shattering glass follows, the grotesque body flinging itself out the window. Minho heaves, hot tears leaking from his face as he remains curled in the fetal position, arms braced over his head. When his breath returns to him, he looks over at the empty carrier and lets out a sob. Slowly, his eyes turn to the shattered window.
Blood lines its jagged edges, dripping to join the mess on the floor. Peering downwards, Minho sees the mangled body of the thing (he refused to acknowledge it had been his neighbor) that had attacked him, unmoving.
He had to get out of there.
…
The knock at the door startles you. It’d been days since you’d locked yourself away from the chaos, days since you’d heard a sound. But the screams would never leave your head.
You’ve been huddled up in the same corner since it all started, exactly ten feet away from the door. Close enough to act quickly in case someone (or something) came knocking, but far enough away to duck into one of the rooms of your apartment for safety.
However, the splitting pain in your ankle prevents you from doing either. The bruises are turning a nasty shade of yellow, mixing with the unsightly violet from before. You’re pretty sure it’s broken, your bookcase toppling over onto it the day this had all started.
The knock startles you again. It’s soft, gentler than the ramming you’d expected if a monster were to come knocking. But still, you could never be too safe.
“Churu,” a soft voice whispers through the darkness, and you freeze. There was only one person in the world who’d know that word, and come knocking at your door.
Your palms burn as you drag yourself against the floor, taking extra care to make as little sound as possible. Fighting the urge to curse when the door creaks, you brace yourself against it, peering through the peephole.
The banged-up face of Lee Minho greets you on the other end, and you nearly sob with relief. Swinging the door open, you take him in at the threshold, peering at you with a strange gaze. You’d often joked to Minho that his eyes resembled his cats’, curiosity mixed with having seen too much contained in their depths. But it seemed especially true today, his lip split open and face haggard while he clutched a baseball bat in his hand.
You know the first thing he’s going to ask before it even leaves his mouth.
“Are you hurt?” he huffs out, watching you collapse against the door frame.
“Junho is gone.” You watch Minho’s entire figure tense up when his best friend’s name comes off your lips, his grip around the bat tightening.
“I-, I tried to talk to him, but there was a weird sound on my phone that kept breaking us up, and then I heard him scream, and then…”
You collapse against Minho in a fit of sobs, forced to recount those awful last moments when you’d heard your boyfriend die over a phone call, the chilling screech of something that wasn’t human cutting off his screams for help. And you were trapped halfway across the city, crumpled on the floor, unable to do anything to help him.
Minho’s arms wrap around you, supporting your weight, and he’s moving you both over the threshold, taking care to shut the door softly behind him. You don’t know how many minutes you spend wailing against his chest, the sight of another human forcing you to confront the horror you’d dealt with in the past few days, but eventually, the pain in your ankle makes itself known again, and you slide to the floor.
Minho rests his head against the door frame, his own eyes red-rimmed, and you watch his face contort, trying to hold back the tears from falling.
“I’m sorry,” you blurt out, watching Minho’s gaze snap to yours.
“What for?” he croaks. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“I’m so scared, Minho,” your eyes fill with tears. “I thought that no one would come for me, that I’d be alone here, and that I’d…”
You choke, unable to finish the sentence, and you watch Minho straighten next to you. The warmth of his hand wrapping around your waist startles you, watching his lithe body contort as he helps you up off the floor, taking special care not to put weight on your ankle.
“You’re with me now. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
There’s a furrow in Minho’s brow when he hears your request, lips tightening into a thin line while his throat bobs.
“Absolutely not.”
The decision is final, resolute, stubborn — Minho’s arms are crossed over each other, and he stares down at your figure among the blankets, eyeing the makeshift splint currently tied around your ankle.
“Minho, please.” It comes out as a whine, years building in your eyes from the frustration of being trapped in the bunker for months on end.
“I said no.”
Minho had dragged the two of you to safety not long after he’d found you, stealthily dodging the strange creatures that had begun to pop up on the city landscape. There was little in common between them besides their monstrous appearances, but Junho’s screams lingered in the back of your mind, causing you to wake up every night in a cold sweat for the first few weeks.
The tiny bunker became your new home, and Minho your roommate, forced together by circumstances beyond your control. You’d snapped at him when he brought up the idea of leaving, wanting to search for food and supplies outside.
Unfortunately, your ankle made the final decision for you — Minho would have to be the sacrificial lamb, risking his life for you both. It filled you with an immeasurable amount of guilt, knowing he put himself in danger every day to provide for you both. But it also made you angry, the listlessness that had begun to brew inside you only becoming stronger when you felt more and more useless every time he’d come back with food and medicine for you and nothing for himself.
Regret cut through you like a searing knife. Who was Minho to do all these things? He’d been Junho’s best friend, not yours. The relationship between you two had been cordial at best, Minho barely managing to string more than five words together every time he was around you. It always seemed to you like Minho stood at the other end of a vast abyss, impossible for you to reach in any way. Admittedly, you’d been no help in closing the chasm, even since you’d both escaped together, the pain in your ankle lulling you to sleep as soon as you swallowed the meds he brought every day.
Your eyes flit to Minho across the bunker, holed up into the corner. You watch his hands rummage around in his pocket, pulling out a switchblade. The shiny metal gleams in the rays of the sun, Minho’s fingers enclosing around a lock of his messy, overgrown hair—
“STOP!” The switchblade clatters to the floor at the sound of your voice, Minho’s lips parting in surprise. A deep flush creeps across your neck, wondering what had prompted you to interrupt him in the moment. His eyes study you with a curious glint, a thousand questions hidden in them.
“You’ll dull the knife,” you manage to get out, amazed at the calmness in your voice despite your heart racing at a million miles an hour. “What if we need it?”
Minho’s lips twist up into a smirk, and you wonder if he can see through your thinly veiled excuse. If he does, he doesn’t say anything, throwing a baseball cap over the shaggy strands, smiling when they fall into his eyes.
“Fine,” he acquiesces. “You can come along. But any sign of trouble and you have to leave me and get back here, okay?”
“What do you mean, leave you? You’re coming back with me, of course.”
“___.”
“Minho.”
You push yourself off the ground with your palms, hobbling over to Minho’s side.
“Thank you,” you whisper softly to him, and Minho rubs at the back of his neck sheepishly, before the door to the bunker creaks open once more, this time the two of you stepping out into the sun together.
. . .
Sweat pools on Minho’s shirt, the sun beating down on the two of you while you make your way through the woods, eventually finding yourselves in a vast field. You’re slower than he is, trailing behind him while you skip on your partially healed ankle, but Minho finds he doesn’t mind.
In fact, he thinks he must look like a fool, the huge smile that threatens to take over his face creeping up every few minutes. Somehow, it feels different now, having you here with him. The sun’s rays feel less ruthless, and there’s the faint rustling of a breeze through the meadow. It's almost like he’s on an adventure, and not caught in an endless struggle for survival. He’s filled with the hope that maybe the two of you can come out of this alive. Together.
Pushing through the blades of grass, Minho pauses when he hears a small thud behind him, followed by the faint sound of wheezing. Turning on his heels, his heart turns to ice when he sees you, knees curled to your chest, the faint sheen of sweat lingering on your skin.
“Shit!” Minho curses into thin air, crouching onto the dirt next to you. “Stay with me ___!”
His arm swings out to steady you, but recoils at the last second, not wanting to startle you. Guilt eats away at his chest when he realizes this is all his fault. He’d been the one to agree to let you go outside. Realization dawns on him that there’d been a reason you stayed in the bunker the entire time, his mind flashing back to the days you must have spent alone in your apartment, full of pain, wondering if anyone would show up.
Minho panics, looking around the field for something, anything that could help hold you over until this passes, when a thought crosses his mind.
“Do you want to hear about the time I tried to walk my cats?” He babbles out, cheeks hot at the silly interruption. It works though, your face jolts up, the trance finally broken. Your eyes are red-rimmed, hair dampened with sweat, snot running down your nose. Minho thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful.
“It was in a field just like this, I brought them out here with their harnesses,” he continues, the smile growing on his face when he sees the stream of tears that run down your cheeks dry up.
“It was a disaster. I thought Doongie ran away for sure, and Soonie just laid down in the grass on his belly, refusing to get up. Dori was the only one who took to it,” he reminsces fondly, a half-sob, half-chuckle escaping him at the memory, trying to soothe the hollow ache in his heart when he thinks of them.
“I wish I’d met them,” you reply softly, your hand resting on Minho’s shoulder.
“It was my fault,” Minho spits out bitterly. “Junho was over all the time, I could have introduced you. They would have really liked you I think.”
Just like I do.
“I hope we find them,” your voice is quiet, but there’s a resoluteness to it that surprises Minho. “They have to be out there somewhere, waiting for you.”
That strange feeling of hope bubbles up in Minho’s chest again, and he helps you up, fighting the burning in his cheeks when your hand remains clasped in his, the two of you hobbling through the field.
Half an hour later, and you’re stopped outside the remains of what looked to be a convenience store, completely ransacked. Minho ignores the emptiness he feels when he lets go of your hand to peer inside, his heart dropping at the bare shelves.
Behind him, a twig snaps, your sharp gasp echoing amidst the silence. The gleam of the switchblade is apparent in seconds, Minho pulling it out of his pocket.
The woman is whimpering, her gauzy white dress in tatters. His eyes trail to her hands, the discoloured nails offset by the glint of a fancy diamond ring, and for a moment, he could almost believe she’d just walked out of the church, beaming from the happiest day of her life.
But her eyes say differently. Hollow pools of black, nothing behind them. She’s one of them.
���___, run.” Minho commands, not even turning to look behind him. He hopes you’re gone already, hopes you won’t have to stick around to see this dark side of him, the one that was used to doing battle with monsters every time he left the safety of your little bunker.
But you’re not gone. Your hand wraps around his, lifting it up to study the switchblade in his hand. He looks into your eyes, full of fear but also sadness at the sight in front of you, and he wonders if you see yourself in her. What things could have been with Junho.
“I don’t think she’s going to hurt us,” you wrestle Minho’s blanched fingers off the blade. “We should just go.”
You pocket the knife, Minho’s jaw tensing at the thought of leaving the woman behind, unsure of the potential harm she could cause. He opens his mouth to protest, but realizes you’ve already begun to walk away, your slumped figure visible against the setting sun. You’re crying again.
The woman wails harder when she sees the two of you go, her cries echoing into the silent night.
It’s cold tonight in the bunker.
You shiver among the pile of blankets, watching your breath turn into mist in the frosty air. Teeth chattering, you look over to Minho. His pile of blankets is even more sparse than your own, and you catch sight of his own trembling figure.
It’s cold, your voice echoes in the back of your mind, your feet dragging across the floor, the blankets dragging behind you.
It’s cold, it echoes again, Minho stirring when you lay by his side, throwing the extra blankets over the two of you. His eyes go wide with shock when he sees your face across his in the darkness, studying the way your hair falls messily in your face, the rapid rising of your chest with every breath.
It’s cold, it repeats a final time, your lips surging forward to meet Minho’s, a strange noise escaping his throat before one of his arms comes up to wrap around you, his other palm steadying him against the floor. It’s cold and Minho is warm, the heat from his body burning through you when his tongue traces your lips, before slipping inside, a low whine escaping your throat.
You break away from him, flushed and shivering, but no longer cold. Minho’s hot breath fans against your cheeks, his thumb resting tentatively at the curve of your jaw.
“Touch me please,” you beg him, and his grip around your waist tightens, hands tracing circles on your side. His lips find yours again, thumbs slipping underneath the hem of your shirt, resting against the curve of your hips. You burrow your face into Minho’s neck, leaving featherlight kisses against his jaw, heat rising in your chest when you hear Minho hold his breath. Breaking away, you meet his gaze, the tips of his ears turning red.
“Anything,” he whispers against your lips. “I’ll do anything for you.”
Sparks crackle in the air between you, the once stagnant air in the bunker becoming filled with frantic energy, you slipping a leg over to straddle Minho, him fumbling with the buttons to your clothes, pushing aside just enough to feel how wet you are. The fingers of his other hand trace under your shirt again, climbing up your stomach, thumbs brushing against the underside of your breasts before he tugs at your nipples.
Sighing, your hips move against Minho’s hardness, pushing aside the worn fabric of Minho’s flannel to press kisses to his collarbones, his thumb working on your clit. Your back arches when he presses another finger inside, and the familiar burn of your orgasm begins to rise, building in your stomach.
“Let go for me,” Minho groans, and the deep growl in his voice has you hurtling over the edge, trembling as you fall apart on top of him. The two of you exchange shallow breaths, Minho’s fingers still buried inside you, and you feel your core begin to clench around them, whining from the oversensitivity.
“Please, please, can I fuck you?” Minho whispers, desperation in his tone. You nod, head spinning with everything that had happened, and you reach back under his sweats, fishing his cock out from underneath them.
He pushes into you slowly, groaning when he feels your walls widening to accommodate him. The two of you stay there for a few moments, catching your breath before you tell him it’s okay to move. His hips snap lazily against yours, fucking you slowly and deeply, soft pants and the sound of your wetness reverberating through the bunker.
You rock against him gently, and you reach for his hands, his warm fingertips slipping through your own easily, limbs tangling together in desperation.
“You’re perfect god, you’re perfect, I love you, I love you so much,” he slurs the words, the confession ringing in your ears, soft groans accompanied by the speeding up of his thrusts before he spills inside you.
Lifting you off of him, his arms reach around your body to press you against him, his lips ghosting your forehead, and you feel the wet trail of tears on his cheeks. Eventually, his breathing slows, soft snores telling you he’s fallen asleep, but you remain restless for the rest of the night.
The headache hits Minho like a freight train in the morning, as he stares up at the rust-covered ceiling. There’s a faint chill in the air, one that became even more pronounced when he woke up and you weren’t by his side, and he wonders for a second if he’d imagined it all, from the softness of your lips to the way the words he’d been wanting to say, waiting years to say spilled out of his throat, every kiss and laugh you shared with Junho burned into his memory. And all he did was look on, hopeless in his desperation. Until everything changed last night.
A loud clang startles him, and he jumps up, watching you throw a heavy sack containing the supplies he’d stockpiled against the walls of the bunker, your back turned to him. He lifts himself off his feet, padding softly behind you, his arm reaching out for you.
“Don’t touch me,” you hiss, words clipped and venomous, and you keep rearranging, completely ignorant to the way Minho stands there, unable to formulate a response, his tongue feeling as though it’s weighed down with lead.
Rage lights up inside him as he watches you move around him, the silence making his heart freeze over, and he decides that he can’t take it anymore. It’s been months with you acting this way, cold and distant, refusing to let Minho in. Before, he’d been able to write off your happiness with Junho as an excuse, as a reason why he couldn’t let himself get close to you. But Junho was long gone.
“We’re not doing this,” he spins you around to face him. “You don’t get to walk away from me like that.”
You push against Minho’s chest with all the might you can muster, and he staggers back. The look in your eyes makes you seem like a wounded animal, ready to pounce.
“Why’d you say it?” Another push, the words leaving you in a broken sob. “Why’d you do that?”
You bat against Minho’s chest until he can no longer take it, grabbing both of your hands with one of his, pinning you against the wall.
“Because it’s true,” he breathes, looking past you through the window outside, unable to meet your eyes. “I love you ____. I’ve loved you this entire time, even when you were with Junho. And I hate myself for it.”
He lets go of your arms, stepping back, his shoulders beginning to shake with the force of his own sobs.
“Why do you think I stayed? Why do you think I put myself in danger every day to make sure that you had medicine for your ankle, food to fill your stomach? Why do you think I go out there and kill every single monster I run into, because I need to make it back here, to be with you again?”
“You shouldn’t!” you scream at him. “What kind of life is this? Love should be the last thing on your mind right now, Minho! You should fucking worry about your own neck, and stop giving a damn about me!”
The words tear through you, because you know that if it weren’t for his love, you wouldn’t even be alive right now. And it hurts, hurts to think of how long he’s spent living like this, merely surviving, a wall of ice around his chest.
“You’re right, I shouldn’t. But I do. Do you know that these past few months, I’m the happiest I’ve ever been? What kind of fucked up logic is that? I have nothing, nothing in this world besides this stupid bunker and the clothes on my back, and it makes me want to sob with joy. Because I get you. I get a chance at life with you, after so many years of wishing for it, and knowing I could never have it.”
He falls onto the ground, tucking his head into his knees.
“The universe gave me another chance,” he whispers softly.
Your blood turns to ice, and you crouch down next to him.
“What do you mean, another chance?”
He looks at you, and you finally see all the pain in his eyes come to the surface, everything that he’s kept bottled up inside.
“It should have been me,” he mutters, lost in his own head. “I told Junho about how I wanted to go up to you that night, how beautiful I thought you were, but before I could do anything, he was there. It ended up being him.”
Your head reels from his confession, and you think back to everything that’s happened through the years. All those memories you had with Junho, Minho lingering in the background, purposely keeping his distance. Memories that you could have had with him instead. Bile rises up in the back of your throat, and you back away.
“I can’t do this, Minho, not right now, I can’t–”
“I know.” He’s at the door before you can stop him, one foot on the other side of the threshold. “Don’t worry about it.”
He leaves before you can even ask him to stay.
Minho knocks back another shot, stomach churning when he sees Junho approach the pretty brunette, chatting her up. She’s batting her eyelashes and giggling at him, and he knows he should be grateful that his best friend is helping him out, on a desperate mission to cure Minho’s singleness.
But all he can focus on is you in the corner, nervously watching your boyfriend flirt with another girl, and Minho wants to vomit when he sees your lip tremble, eyes glassy with tears.
He’d driven himself nearly mad with the fantasies about what he’d do if he was in Junho’s position, how much better he could treat you. But at the end of the day, that’s all they were. Fantasies. You two were happy together, and he had no place in it.
Minho suddenly remembers the shiny ring that Junho had shown him last week, tucked away in the drawer of his dresser, and decides promptly that he needs to step outside, the stale air of the bar burning his nostrils.
There’s a faint breeze outside, and it calms him, rewiring his muddled senses enough for him to plop down on the curb. Minho heaves, the alcohol coming back up his throat, but he tries his best to breathe deeply, like his therapist had told him. The pity in her eyes when he’d explained his feelings for you lingers in the back of his mind. You were a vice he couldn’t quit.
A shadow looms next to him, and Minho looks over to see you standing on the curb next to him, studying him curiously.
“Not a fan of cheap vodka?” you chuckle, taking a seat next to him, and Minho internally curses when he feels your thighs brush. He was too drunk for this.
“Just needed some air,” he tries to laugh it off too. “Gonna have a killer headache tomorrow.”
“She was pretty,” the statement startles him. He couldn’t give less of a damn about the girl Junho was talking to, but it seems that wasn’t the case for you.
“Not interested,” he grits out. Not when she’s not you.
“You know, dating isn’t all it’s cut out to be,” you sigh. “I mean, there are good times, don’t get me wrong, but the bad times feel a thousand times worse when you care about someone. Like seeing your boyfriend flirt with another girl right in front of you.”
There’s a bitter edge to your words, and Minho surprises you, reaching over to cup your cheek and tilt your head towards him.
“Junho is a fool,” the words come out in a slow, heavy breath.
“Happy birthday, Minho,” you whisper, a small smile on your face, and Minho leans in, lips searching for yours. The kiss is quick, a brief graze full of shy reluctance, but you’re surprised you don’t back away, dizzy when he retreats, and missing the feeling of his soft lips.
You lean your head on his shoulder, the two of you lingering on the curb for a few moments, before Junho’s loud voice echoes in the background, startling you apart from each other.
“Hey dipshits, the party’s inside,” he drawls, walking over to swoop you off your feet. Junho presses a peck to your cheek, wrapping his jacket around you, and your eyes roam around frantically, looking for any sign of Minho. But he’s already gone, the faint outline of his leather jacket the only thing you see before he disappears around the corner of the bar, vanishing into the night.
Minho stumbles through the forest, the pounding in his head only growing worse, the memory of the kiss you’d shared consuming his thoughts, splintered with snippets from the conversation with you. The one he’d been waiting so long to have.
The spell had been shattered, and Minho thinks he’s foolish to imagine that it could have lasted, the two of you playing house together, and he cursed the false hope he’d harboured for so long. It was a fucking apocalypse, you were desperate for release, and you’d never cared. Not like he did.
But then his mind flashes back to the kiss, and he doesn’t know what possessed him that night, or possessed you to return it. The moment was the single spark that kept the flickering flame of his love for you going, even now, when you’d basically banished him.
A sharp pain surges through him, and Minho staggers to the ground. He clutches the fabric of his shirt, lifting it up to see the ugly wound he’d been letting fester for weeks, a stray swipe from a monster he’d run into. It’s pulsating now, stabbing into his side, and he wants to kick himself. Why had he been so selfless?
Sometimes, he thinks loving you was the worst decision he’d ever made, the way it consumed him completely. He thinks that maybe if time could reverse, and he had a second chance, that he’d never do it, never lock eyes with you from across the party, your smile forever etched into his memory. But that was a lie. Minho knew he’d do it all again for as long as his heart continued to beat.
Minho feels something squelch on the ground below him, a metallic tang hitting the back of his throat. He swipes at it, crimson coating his fingers. Blood. His blood. He presses a tentative hand to his face, swiping at his leaking nose, but the bleeding won’t stop. There’s too much of it.
Minho screams when his spine cracks, the pain splitting through his entire body, and he feels his eyes roll back into his head.
When he opens them again, the world is dark. And he runs.
. . .
Your lungs feel like they’re going to collapse, parched for air as you make your way through the forest, wobbling through the trees, looking for something, anything that could lead you to Minho.
Your heartbeat echoes in your ears, accompanied by a ringing that hasn’t ceased since you left the bunker. The decision still made your stomach turn, afraid to confront the outside world without Minho by your side, but you had to find him. Had to let him know that you wouldn’t let him suffer anymore.
Mind lingering on a specific memory from Minho’s birthday, you realized there’d always been a strange undercurrent between you, even when Junho had been around. Despite how many times he drew away from you, you never let him escape completely. At first, you’d thought it was because he was Junho’s friend, but it all changed after that night outside the bar, your attraction to Minho settling in your chest like a lead weight.
You think back to the months you’d spent together, the world falling apart around you, and how Minho had become your entire world, the reason you’d continued to hope. How you’d fallen in love with every part of him, from the way he’d let you take the first share of food to the messy strands of his grown-out hair.
The wind whips through your hair, the dense cover of trees thinning around you, and you stumble upon the meadow, a lone figure illuminated in the moonlight. You know it’s him.
“Minho!” you scream, watching as he stumbles across the field in response, trying to get away from you. “Minho!”
You scream until your voice runs hoarse, fighting through the pain in your ankle, and eventually, Minho draws closer and closer, collapsing in the middle of the field. His back is turned to you, and he ducks his head, avoiding your gaze.
You think he’ll run away when you approach him, but he remains lifeless, as still as a statue. Crouching down beside him, you lift his chin, turning his face up to you, a gasp caught in your throat at what you find.
There’s something wrong with his eyes. They shift from the dark brown irises you’d come to know to hollow pools of black. His face is smeared with blood, and his breathing is shallow.
“____, you have to go, I’m turning, it’s not safe, I’m not safe–,” Minho grabs your arm, looking at you with desperation in his eyes. His speech is garbled, but you can hear the gentle tone of his voice still trapped inside. He’s still Minho.
“How dare you tell me to run,” you hiss at him. “How dare you tell me to leave?”
“You don’t understand,” he growls, hands shaking in rage. “I’m a monster!”
Fear strikes you at the realization that something was very wrong with him, something neither you or him had ever been able to anticipate. But it’s overcome by a stronger, more profound emotion.
“I don’t care,” you take his face in your hands again. “I love you, Minho. I loved you through the world ending, and I’ll love you through this. Because your life is mine now, just like mine is yours. It’s our second chance. And we will do whatever it takes to survive.”
Minho clasps your hands in his, fingertips rubbing against your knuckles, and you smile when you notice that his eyes are normal again, no longer filled with darkness. Maybe there was a chance.
“We’ll head west,” Minho rests his forehead against yours, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “I saw a hospital nearby. Maybe there are other survivors, people just like us.”
You nod, throwing your arms around him and burying your head into the crook of his neck. The two of you would exit west as soon as the sun rose, ready to start a new journey together.
Perhaps the life you shared was far from perfect but you realized that you’d clutched onto it as desperately as him, because he was the only thing you had. You were each other’s home.
a/n pt. 2: As always, any feedback or comments are much appreciated, but I appreciate you all anyway. Lots of love, Isi 💜
#kvanity#ksmutsociety#lee know x reader#lee minho x reader#stray kids smut#skz smut#stray kids scenarios#lee know x you#lee know smut#lee minho smut#stray kids fic#stray kids imagines#skz x reader#stray kids x reader#skz fic#skz x you#lee know x y/n#lee know scenarios#skz scenarios#lee know#stray kids angst#lee minho#lee know angst#lee know imagines#skz imagines#stray kids fanfiction#stray kids fanfic
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How specifically do Ren and Nora react when Jaune finishes his story of being the Rusted Knight?
His brother looks tired.
It’s the only thing Ren can think as he listens to Jaune and team RWBY explain what happened. The words are just washing over him, he’s listening but he’s not hearing. He can’t stop staring at his brother.
It was back in Beacon when they first called each other that, and Ren said it partially out of jest. Partially to get Jaune to leave so he could put a gods damned shirt on.
It wasn’t until he was standing next to a screaming-crying Nora and he could see the petals of his own grief swirling in the air where there once was a portal that he really realized what it meant to have a brother.
His brother looks tired.
He’s tall, and he’s confident, and he’s sure of himself, and he looks like a strong wind might bowl him over. There are white streaks in his hair, and his eyes hold an age that Ren has only seen in Oscar’s too-old eyes.
Jaune’s hands won’t stop shaking. Ren can see it, even though his brother is clearly trying to hide it. He keeps clearing his throat when he speaks, looking faintly surprised every time his own voice exits his mouth.
“-and then we were in Vacuo, and you guys found us,” Jaune finishes. His smile is the same as Ren remembers, blinding and sheepish in equal measure.
Ruby is talking about something, but Ren can’t stop staring at Jaune.
He’s never known Nora to be so quiet.
His brother is staring at him.
“Can I…” Jaune interrupts Ruby. “Can I just have some time with my team?” Ruby doesn’t even blink, just nods. The rest of her team follow her out of the room.
Then it’s just the three of them. In a silence so tense he could cut it with his father’s blade.
Jaune is just standing there. He reaches up to brush something out of his eyes, finds nothing there, and drops his hand back to his side. He doesn’t invite them to sit, he doesn’t even sit himself.
It’s like he’s forgotten how to be a person.
“I…” Jaune’s voice creaks into the silence, he trails of. He clears his throat, frowning. Tries his voice on again, like an old coat that hasn’t been worn in years. “I’m sorry I didn’t…” Shakes his head again. “I really missed you guys.”
Ren nods absently. Nora is stiff at his side, her hand as cold as the Solitas tundra in his grasp.
“Were you safe?” Ren asks.
Jaune shrugs, grinning sheepishly. “Mostly,” he concedes, and that’s probably as good as they’re going to get. Bright smile or not, Jaune seems more fragile now than even his spiral in Mistral.
“Were you happy?” And Nora’s hand tightens in his grasp.
Jaune’s eyes widen, and his hand twitches at his side. Ren wonders why he doesn’t grab his sash.
When his brother hesitates further, a shuttered look crossing his face, Ren blinks into gray scale.
Conflict, grief, confusion, joy, rage, sorrow, pain, pain, pain
“I was the Rusted Knight,” Jaune says, stiff as the armor of his title. “It didn’t matter if I was happy.” If I die buying them time it’s worth it, they’re the ones that matter.
“But were you happy??” Nora asks. Her voice is steady, calm, but her whole arm is shaking in Ren’s grip. Scars from lightning cracking across her shoulders, echoing white streaks in his brother’s hair.
Oh the way a person is marked by thinking they’re only worth what they can do for others.
Was he happier? Did he wish he was still there? Did he not want to come back? He was the hero he always wanted to be, a literal beacon of valor and bravery. He was making a difference.
Ren always preferred the Cat, personally, (and how that stings now) but the Rusted Knight was adored. In the books scrounged from drop-offs, and the storytime sessions in libraries, every kid cheered and wept for the brave and cheerful knight. You couldn’t find a better storybook role model than him.
How cruel that his brother had to crumble to dust for the character to exist.
“I was alone,” Jaune creaks eventually, voice as rusty as his armor, as if that’s enough of an answer.
And from anyone else it wouldn’t be. But from his brother, who lives and dies for the people he cares about, no sentence could be more telling.
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T(h)rust in me, I’m not over you... (Fanfic - Alex from Adult World)
Pairings ─ Alex (from Adult World) x Y/N (fem reader)
Genre ─ Smut/fluff
Summary ─ Y/N and Alex (aka Evan Peters in Adult World) are exes who haven’t quite let go. A friend’s birthday party turns into a comedy of errors when a black-out drunk Y/N accidentally enters Alex’s postcode as her own for a cab ride home. As Alex finds her at his doorstep and takes her in his place, old feelings resurface and steamy times go down in his bathroom.
Warnings ─ Swearing, smut, unprotected sex p in v, drinking, oral (m receiving), rough sex, nipple teasing, hangover sex, doggy, pretty smutty guys you’re being warned :)
Word count ─ 3.7K
18+ > If you’re a minor, DO NOT read!
@evanchantingpeters — All rights reserved. please do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.
The birthday cake of your friend, Beatrice, stands proudly in the centre of her living room, decked out in colourful frosting and flickering candles.
You and the rest of the guests belt out the overdone ‘Happy Birthday’ song in what you think is perfect harmony. But here comes Jerry, Beatrice’s younger brother, who starts hollering the lyrics off-key, stealing the show.
Snorting, the birthday girl nudges her brother away, leaning over the cake to blow out the candles. Just as she’s mouthing her wish, Jerry, wearing a wicked grin, swoops in and dips his sister’s face right into the cake.
The room erupts in uproarious laughter as Beatrice’s expression goes from shocked to amused. She taps her cake-covered eyes to remove some chocolate. Then, she turns to Jerry with a look that’s half playful, half ‘I’m plotting revenge.’
“You’re in for it now, Jerry!” she barks. And just like that, an all-out frosting war breaks out, turning the room into a sugar-fuelled battlefield. Cake crumbs are flying in every direction, but you manage to dodge most of it with only a few cake-bulleted stains along the hem of your black dress.
You retreat to a corner of the room, sipping your Prosecco like you’re watching sitcom chaos unfold from afar. Suddenly, you notice a stranger in a fancy tux sauntering over, a sly grin playing on his plump lips.
“Well, looks like you’ve stayed mostly unscathed… or shall I say un-caked?” he chirps, his voice deep and throaty as he nods toward the cake war raging on.
You just shrug, tossing him a faint, uninterested smile, “Good reflexes, I guess,” you quip, giving him a quick once-over before turning back to the cake madness. You feel his dark green eyes scanning you as if you’re going through airport security.
He chuckles, and leans in. “If you need someone to scrub the marks off your dress, I’m your guy,” he whoops, playfully thumping his chest. He extends his hand with an inviting smile. “Tony.”
“Y/N,” you reply bluntly, your energy matching that of a deflated balloon.
Unfazed by your meh vibes, Tony decides to turn up the heat on the handshake, taking you aback as he begins to stroke your wrist. “You’re drop-dead gorgeous,” he purrs, his eyes never leaving yours.
In a bold move, he lightly kisses the back of your hand, his stubble scratching your skin.
You instinctively pull away, trying to force a polite smile, but a nervous twitch is all you manage. Your intrusive thoughts kick in, lecturing you (as usual), ‘Give the guy a chance, Y/N. Seriously, after Alex, all you think about is eye-gouging dudes with a spoon? Get a grip and move on!’
“Enjoying the party, Y/N?” he asks, snapping you out of your mental mess.
“It’s not too bad. I’m here for Beatrice,” you retort, fetching a glass of wine from the buffet. Your eyes drift to the birthday girl, now caked from head to toe and giggling hysterically. You can’t help but crack a smile.
“Sorry, gotta go. Trice’s calling me,” you blurt out and lunge toward your friend, catching a muffled, “No, she didn’t” from behind as you’re practically escaping.
As the night barrels on, your party spirit is like the Energizer Bunny on steroids. You’re all in, downing shots and cocktails like they’re on a liquid clearance sale.
Yet, the question looms in the air: Are you drinking for the sheer fun of it or just drowning sorrows in that cocktail shaker? Alex heartache mode on.
Before you know it, you’re totally sloshed, messily sprawled on a plush couch, using Tanya’s (another friend of yours) knees as your personal pillow. “Iiiiii reeeeally like your boooody, bodyyy, yeah. I reaaaaally wanna get naughtyyyyy I think you’re such a hottieeeee,” you croak out each word of the pop track with a slur, laughing uncontrollably. Your eyes are shut, lost in your boozy world.
As you ramble on, Tony, who’s been lurking around, seizes the moment and leaps out from behind the couch. He casually nudges Tanya’s arm, yelling, “You heard that, Tansy?” with theatrical flair. “She thinks I’m a hottie!” His grin spreads wider than a rubber band as he arrogantly points at himself, acting like he’s the main character of your drunken karaoke.
Tanya clicks her tongue in mild annoyance and cuts in with a hiss, “Tony! Behave, man!” She softly kisses the top of your head in a futile attempt to soothe your booze-induced storm.
“I offered to clean up her dress…” Tony goes on, hovering over the couch. “But, not gonna lie, I’d rather have it crunched up on my bedroom floor as she moans my name,” he murmurs, emphatically banging his fist on the couch before doubling up with laughter.
“Oh, hush it, Tony,” Tanya roars and waves him away, turning back to you and your delirium, which has hit the roof. “I need to get you home, girl, and none of us is fit to drive…”
Tony, not one to give up easily, chimes in once more. “I volunteer! I’d give her a lift all day, all night.”
“No, we’re all catching a cab,” she declares with a tone that brooks no argument. She lightly pokes your shoulder. “Y/N, my love?”
Your tipsy babbling starts to fade into a murmur that seems to be lulling you to sleep. “Y/N,” Tanya repeats. “What’s your postcode, sweetie?”
Your alcohol-soaked brain struggles to register this simple question. “P-postcode? P-o-s-t-d, no. P-p,” you stutter.
“Yes, darling. Confirm your postcode for me, would you? I don’t have it saved,” Tanya says calmly, holding her phone in front of your face.
With a grunt, you manage to sit up, but the world continues to dance spinning salsa around you. With an unsteady hand, you reach for the device, and your fingers fumble as you try to type out the letters and digits.
Deep in your drunken haze, you unconsciously punch in a code that matches anything else but your address.
“To the hottieeeeee,” you shout, throwing your fist in the air before dropping yourself back onto your friend’s knees.
“Ma,am, we’re here,” the taxi driver announces to Tanya that’s sat next to him, his hoarse voice slicing through the quiet of the car.
Tanya swivels around to face the backseats, where you’re laid down, totally passed out. “Y/N,” she calls softly, giving your leg a gentle rub, but you don’t stir.
She hops off the car and speed-walks to your side. With great care, she helps you out by wrapping her hands around you. Your arm is looped around her shoulder for stability. “Biyatchhhh, I saiddd whooo I saeee… who da biyaatch? Am da biyatchh,” you hoot, swaying and leaning heavily on your friend as you pinch her cheek with a goofy smile.
“Y/N, just a sec,” Tanya huffs out as she shoves herself back in to retrieve your purse and coat from the car floor.
You both stumble your way through the labyrinthine apartment complex. “You got your house key?” she asks, catching her breath.
It takes a hot minute for the information to hit as you stare at your friend like a deer in headlights. With an unexpected burst of energy, you break free from Tanya’s hold, almost tripping a few steps away. “My Tanoushka, I'm sho happy you haar!” You cry out and lurch back toward her, showering her with enthusiastic smooches on her cheeks.
Then, in a theatrical whirl, you pop open the purse and jangle your keys in her face. “Jiggly, jiggly. Okiee, goooo, go, go!” you cheer in a wobbly dance, urging Tanya to get back into the car.
With an anxious look on her face, Tanya stands by the open car door. “Alright, phone me once you’re indoors,” she insists, her worried eyes laser-focused on you.
You shoo her away absentmindedly as you stagger toward the complex’s main door. You wrestle with the key, wriggling and twisting it into the lock, but miserably fail to get in the building. “Bad key,” you playfully scold, wagging a finger at the stubborn piece of metal before giving it a light slap.
Soon after, your fingers impulsively begin to clumsily hit the buttons on the intercom, creating a cacophony of buzzing sounds that echo through the entryway. “O-o-o-pen uuup,” your slurred shouting rings through the intercom. “Shtupidd thaang,” you whine, practically bashing the device.
Out of the chorus of tenant voices that crackle through the speaker almost simultaneously, Alex’s familiar voice stands out.
“Y/N? Y/N is that you?” Hearing the shaky and uncertain voice, Alex doesn’t waste a second. He dashes down the stairwell and swings the entrance door wide open, facing a dishevelled Mia, rocking around about to collapse.
“Y/N,” he gasps and sprints to you. “What happened? Why are you here?” His brows furrow in confusion as he observes your smudged makeup and dress that’s askew.
You look up at him with a lopsided smile, your eyes all bloodshot and half-lidded. “Alex, my hottieee. I mishhhsed you so muschh!” you exclaim, your sentences meandering as you lounge at him for a sloppy hug.
“Shit, you’re hammered,” he mutters, worry spurs him into action. With superhero speed, he scoops you up, your butt facing upwards, hands hanging loosely off his back.
Your giggles echo as Alex carries you onto his shoulder with ease, making his way to the lift that leads to his place. In a soft, reassuring whisper, he says, “Don’t worry, baby,” and plants a kiss on your thigh that’s now resting on his chest. “I’ll take care of you,” he adds, giving you a playful spank on the ass.
Once inside, Alex makes a pitstop in the kitchen for a water bottle while you dangle off his shoulder like a ragdoll, humming nonsense. He heads to the bedroom and gently lays you on the bed, making sure your landing is as comfy as a cloud.
Kneeling beside you, he begins to delicately take off your high heels, rubbing your legs along the way. “Who needs a napkin when your dress can double as a tissue, right?” he chuckles softly, tracing the dry cake marks on your outfit, unaware of the sugary fight earlier. “You’ve officially introduced ‘cake couture’ to the fashion world,” he teases, trying to bundle you in a blanket like a burrito.
You slowly lift your head from the pillow, your neck muscles tightening with the effort as you stare at him with bleary yet intent eyes. “I want shyour cakey,” you mewl, wriggling under the blanket on a mission to liberate your hands.
You tug on his hoodie, pulling him closer until he loses his balance and topples onto you. Your bodies press together, and your voice comes out in a pleading whine. “Alex?”
“Yes?” he rasps out, his dark brown eyes flicking down to your lips and then up into your eyes.
“Kiss me,” you mumble and perk up, slowly grazing your lips against his, eyes shut.
The strong scent of alcohol wafts from you, but, in that moment, Alex seems beyond minding. His heart races too erratically to care, and his breaths are too jagged and wild to bother. The room seems to shrink for both of you, and he swallows hard.
“No, Y/N,” he snaps, his voice firm and resolute as he jumps up. “I’d never let this happen... not right now... not with you being like this.” He snatches the water bottle from the bedside table, unscrewing it with a sense of urgency.
Slightly dazed, you touch your lips. “Tickles, tickles, ticklish,” you squeak, breaking into soft giggles. In a sudden and wobbly move, you shift position, popping up on your knees on the bed. “Huggies,” you whoop facing him, arms wide open for an embrace.
But, just as quickly, your mood takes a detour, and now you’re wincing, yanking at the fabric of your outfit in frustration, “This dresshh is prison, tightiee,” you grunt, hiking your dress up only to reveal your red panties.
His eyes can’t help but stare down there as he rubs the back of his neck almost compulsively, his breath hitching in his throat. At the sight of you half-naked, the dilemma of whether to give in or resist intensifies, swirling in his mind on end.
“Hold up, I don’t want you catching a cold or something. I’ve got a top you can slip into,” he says, puffing out his words while pacing toward his wardrobe to avoid looking at her.
“Heeey,” you yell with an unexpectedly stern tone that catches him off guard. But, just as swiftly, your face softens into a sweet, almost kiddish smile that instantly cools things off.
You wave Alex over, beckoning him to approach. “Come, come, comeyyy,” you coo.
You perch next to him again, still rocking that mischievous smile. “It’s a secret, tiny winnie one,” you whisper-shout, pinching your index finger and thumb near your face, closing one eye for added drama. “Just between you and me,” you poke as you emphasise ‘me.’
Alex nods as his grin stretches from ear to ear. “Okay…” he chuckles, officially joining your light-hearted moment.
“Shhhhh,” you dramatically hush, squishing your index finger against your lips like you’re sharing classified intel. “Secret-t-t-t.”
Alex snorts. His rolls his lips into his mouth as he lowers his head to hold back a laugh. “My bad, my bad. Go on,” he whispers with exaggerated enthusiasm. He’s clearly having a blast with your goofy antics.
“Don’t tell Alex… Neva eva!”
“I won’t, I won’t,” he assures you, theatrically raising his finger for a pinky promise.
You take an unusually long moment to process his gesture and what it represents. A sober person would never… Eventually, you sloth-slowly glance back at him, nonchalantly deciding to give up on the symbolism behind the lifted pinky finger. “He’s the kindestsht… and p-p-prettiest boy I’ve eeeeever met,” you exclaim. Your fingers—guided by intoxicated conviction—clumsily roam over his face, stretching his nostril and trailing down to his bottom lip.
Your drunken self radiates an innocent sincerity that makes Alex’s heart throb like a hammer. Flattered and charmed by your confession, he gazes at you bashfully.
His warm smile broadens as he keeps on staring and admiring you.
“He’s shhhuper,” you squeal, forming a heart shape with your fingers, peeking at him through it. “Do youse… hic… I should gimme… no… not me… him, give HIM head to say thank yew for treatin' spoooooon good?”
Alex can’t help but crack up, though his cheeks turn rosy—a testament to his shy nature. He cups his chin and narrows his eyes mischievously, like he’s in deep thought. “Hmm, if we’re talking about Alex, your ex...I think you should give him head, BUT,” he exclaims, throwing a finger into the air.
You gasp, playfully covering your mouth like you’ve heard the most shocking news. Your eyes bulge with feigned surprise. “Beyond all,” he argues, “I think you should totally get back together. He thinks you broke up for something very silly, and he’s dying to be with you.”
You abruptly jerk away from him, gagging as if you’re about to throw up. You feel the blood draining from your face as a wave of distress washes over you.
Alex’s eyes widen with concern as he instinctively rises from the bed, “Off we go to the bathroom,” he insists, rushing to follow you.
Your nausea takes a sudden turn, and you can’t hold back any longer. Barely making it to the toilet in time, you let it all out. Your body heaves with each retch, and you feel miserable.
Alex, the unsung hero, drops to his knees and chucks the water bottle on the floor. He gently pulls your hair back, creating a makeshift puke-proof barrier. All the while, he rubs your back to make the whole ordeal less horrible.
Then, he’s quick on his feet, grabbing some toilet paper for the post-barf clean-up. As you dab your lips, he hands you the bottle to rinse. “I’m disgustiiing, don’t look,” you grumble, shooing him away as you spit water in the toilet before flushing.
“You’re still a wonder to my eyes,” he whispers, running a hand through your loose hair. “And the timing—you puke just as I suggest we get back together, Y/N” he mocks, adding a sprinkle of humour to the less-than-glamorous moment.
You groan and let your head flop onto the toilet seat. “Ahhh, my moussth feels weird… bruushh,” you mumble, rubbing your lips.
Alex lifts you up, guiding you to sit on the edge of the bathtub. “Not brushing yet, baby. We’re swishing with some hydrogen peroxide and water to protect the enamel,” he instructs you, preparing the said concoction in a small measuring cup next to you. “Here you go, wash off.”
“Shhh, you’re a niiieeerd,” you whine after spitting the liquid, feeling it sting your tongue. Giggling, you yank at Alex’s hoodie and playfully sway him back and forth, your minty breath fanning his face.
Then, you suddenly stop and fix him right in the eye. “Aleeex?” you whimper, lips pouting.
“Yes, Y/N,” he asks calmly, sweeping a few strands of hair off your face as a half smirk curls up his lips. He enjoys the banter that weaves through your drunken fog.
“Fuck me,” you plead, fiddling with the buckle of his belt.
Alex’s pulse quickened for a second, held in an irregular rhythm. All the while, your fingertips caress his lower stomach, trying to slip through his trousers and onto his boxers.
You let go when he clears his throat loudly, a deliberate attempt to regain composure. Breathing heavily, he manages a tight-lipped as he strokes your head, tenderly placing it on his shoulder.
“Ohhh, I knoooow,” your exclaim and sit up, your index finger playfully pressing against your mouth. “I willshh brush me an’ you fuck me.”
Forty minutes later, you’re done with her hardcore toothbrushing session, complete with a few rounds of gargling mouthwash. Alex hands you a towel with a warm smile. You’re still wobbly but muster a grateful grin.
“Thaaank, yew rock,” you slur, clumsily patting your face dry.
Alex chuckles, “Better?”
You hum, nodding, but your bleary eyes suddenly light up mischievously. Out of impulse, you slide into the tub, turning the water knob. You start splashing around, water welling up everywhere as you laugh uncontrollably. Alex, caught in the aquatic crossfire, shields himself with his hands.
“What’s the goal? Turning this into a water park?” he jokes, still trying to dodge the watery onslaught. But you’re having none of it. You grip his arm and drag him into the splash party.
Soon, you’re both a wet, tangled mess, laughing like loons, lost in the bliss of the moment. As water skims through the contours of your bodies, there’s a switch in the atmosphere. Amidst the fun chaos, your eyes meet inches away from each other, and the laughter mellows into a shared silence.
Before you realise it, your lips crash in a spontaneous kiss. You spread your legs, letting him wade through and tower over you. Soft moans escape him, and the vibrations against your mouth send delightful shivers down your backbone. You know that’s not just a collision of flesh; it transcends into a harmonious blend of passion and connection.
“I want you, Alex,” you sigh with newfound clarity, miraculously not stumbling over your words in an intoxicating joy for the first time tonight. You push the back of his head to deepen the kiss, your tongues now twisting and twirling in a sensual waltz.
He hungrily gropes handfuls of your body, leaving open-mouthed kisses across the crook of your neck.
“Y/N.. no... stop it,” he protests when your hand ventures down his trousers, rubbing along his growing bulge. Your quivering breaths mingle as he breaks the kiss. Skillfully, he turns off the water as he steps out of the tub. “It’s the alcohol talking now, not you.”
You frown, clutching on the edges of the tub for balance. “The alcohol has shut up; I speak now,” you groan as you stand on your feet. Your drenched dress clings to your body, outlining your figure. Feeling the weight of the soaked fabric, you decide to free yourself from it.
You strip down to your panties, and your soft, pink nipples rise like rosebuds in bloom, betraying a quiet anticipation. Alex sucks in a sharp breath as he watches your every move all mesmerised, eyes widening, lips parted.
“Ever seen someone redefine the art of walking a tightrope?” you chirp, water dripping down your half-naked body. Sinking to your knees, you get on all fours and slowly begin to crawl to him.
You sway your hips in a sensuous, almost hypnotic rhythm, eyes fixed on Alex. All the while, you trace a perfectly straight line to him, proving your recovered sobriety.
Arriving at his pelvic level, you gracefully sit back on your heels with a coy smile, maintaining eye contact. “See?” you whisper, tilting your head as your eyes travel down at his erection. You don’t dare to touch; you just marvel at his full length (realistically speaking).
Staring down at you with a knowing, crooked smirk, he runs his fingers through your damp hair, tenderly petting your head.
“Someone’s suffering here. Let’s free this big boy, shall we?” you purr, brushing your fingers along his hard rock crotch, feeling it twitch upon touch.
He quickly nods in despair as if he’s unable to utter a single syllable. You slowly roll down his trousers and boxers. He gasps as you finally take hold of his large shaft.
You push his tip in your mouth, flattening your tongue, and swipe down the underside ridge of his stiff dick, humming in delight. He groans louder than you expected as you slowly work his cock in and out, grazing your fingers over the ridges of his abs under his t-shirt.
You pull him back out of your mouth just to slide all the way back down. He’s practically growling at this point, clasping onto the corners of the sink—his vein-y arms make your sex twice as moist.
You regain your slow, teasing pace just to gauge his reaction. Letting out a whine like he can’t take it anymore, he grips your hair tighter, pushing you all the way down his dick. His head is now building on pressure as it strikes the back of your throat, bringing tears to your eyes. His hair grip loosens as his breaths start escaping him in choked, punchy gasps.
You’re sucking him whole, from his taint down to his balls, dripping your saliva all over him the harder you draw him into your mouth. Your swollen pussy is tingling for him as you feel him hardening in your mouth, forcing loud moans out of you.
Knowing that your next move will finish him, you slow down again and grab him by the waist, gazing up at him. That’s when you begin to take him in faster and rougher, feeling his hips thrust harder each time.
And… proven! With the change in speed, he lets out a series of choppy moans only to shoot his hot cum in your mouth right after. He stares down at you breathless, mouth agape, as you gulp down his sweet taste with rapid, eager swallows, savouring his taste with a giggle.
“My girl,” he rasps out as he picks you up from the floor effortlessly yet almost in a trance, his dick still throbbing in your hands. He peels his t-shirt off, turning you around so you both face the large bathroom mirror.
Positioned behind you, he holds you close and smacks your ass hard, making you squeal with surprise. The squeal soon turns into a moan as the pain fades into pleasure.
You smile slyly as you observe his muscular hands travelling from your hips all the way up to your waistline and tits. You gasp softly when you feel his erection on your back as his mouth nibbles the flushed skin of your neck, leaving soft love bites in his wake.
“I want you to cum inside me, Alex” you blurt out and take hold of his shaft from behind, slowly sliding the head though your tight moist slit in short thrusts.
“Oh, yeah,” he grunts, biting his bottom lip as he feels your wet lips wrap around him. He instantly fills his hands with your hard nipples, squeezing and rubbing them as he looks at your reflection. “Anything for you, Y/N,” he mutters against your ear in a low, husky voice before knocking himself deep inside you, balls deep, making you scream. His hands roughly grip your thighs to keep you steady and close to him.
Small sobs leave you as you instinctively grab the ends of the sink, bending over to cope with taking him deeper. “Just there,” you yelp, panting, as he starts pounding harder, your hair twisted around his hand. With each thrust, his sack slaps against your clit, making you lose your shit.
Every time your pussy gets to the base of his cock, you pump into him with an intense tempo and move your hips around, making his cock swirl inside your body.
“Fuck, that feels so good,” you cry out with shallow, jagged puffs, rising and resting your head on his shoulder.
He pinches your nipples between his knuckles with one hand while with the other, he starts massaging your clit with circular motions.
“I’m gonna cum,” you whimper in pure ecstasy as a hot flush courses through you, your cunt aching and begging to release.
“You take in me so well, baby. Give it to me,” he groans, his voice a throaty sensual rasp that makes you shudder.
“Yeees,” you scream, writhing and grinding against him until you feel warm liquid dripping down your legs.
He keeps riding your orgasm out with you, fucking the liquids in back until he hits his own high. And then it happens—his cum gushing inside you, stuffing you up.
Out of breath, Alex pulls himself out of you, watching his cum leak out. He lazily grins at you, his curls sticking to his head, and you tuck them all back with trembling hands, giggling.
“This pussy and her owner over here will be the death of me,” he chuckles, gasping for air as he pulls you in for a sloppy, heated kiss.
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@evanchantingpeters — All rights reserved. please do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.
#evan peters#evan peters fandom#evan peters fanfic#evan peters fluff#evan peters imagine#evan peters moodboard#evan peters smut#evan peters x reader#evan peters x female reader#evan peters x y/n#evan peters x you#alex adult world#ahs fandom#ahs murder house#tate langdon#tate langdon fluff#tate langdon smut#tate langdon fanfic#kai anderson#kai anderson imagine#kai anderson x reader#kai anderson x y/n#kai anderson x you#kit walker#kit walker x y/n#kit walker x reader#kit walker x you#kit walker imagine#ahs cult#evan peters dahmer
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OOOO HI I CANT BELIEVE I DIDNT REALISE ITS OCTOBER!!!!! Im in time by like an hour i have been blessed, can I request Anthony + regency + FWB :,) lots of love x
Kinktober: Anthony + Overstimulation
Kinktober 2023 Masterlist
Paring: Anthony Bridgeton x fem!reader
Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, vaginal fingering.
Author’s note: hi lovely 🫶 to make FWB work in Regency reader is a young, rich widow enjoying some pleasure with her good friend, the Viscount 😂😁 I really hope you enjoy this 🧡
“What are you….?”
Your words die in your throat as he keeps going, his hand between your legs, your back pressed into a gnarly tree trunk. Crisp autumnal air swirls around the glazing on your thighs as the edges of your orgasm still buzz in your being. And yet, he has made no move to stop his ministrations. The very reason you are in such a torpid state.
“Once is not enough with all the delightful noises you make, Countess Sedgewick,” Anthony attests velvety against your cheek, the silk layers of your dress pooled over the forearm of his jacket as he keeps swiping a thumb over your throbbing clit.
“Don't call me that,” you frown even as you bite your lip. “Call me by my maiden name, Lady Y/l/n,” you add, a hand gripping the trunk behind you, licking your parched lips, eyes fluttering closed at his continued teasing.
“Of course, Lady Y/l/n. The unexpected delight of being widowed so young, hmm?” his response laconic, switching his hand position to sink two fingers into your dripping pussy. “Yesss, that's the noise,” he goads as you moan behind gritted teeth and writhe.
“No more Bridgerton,” you warn, making no attempt to fight him off, revelling in the gentle pump of his fingers stretching your walls that still flutter sporadically.
“I know you do not mean that,” he chuckles, bemused, with an arching eyebrow, and turns his hand back into a flurry of movement that has you crying to the skies, so overwrought from the pleasure mere moments earlier.
“Again, Lady,” he implores, but it sounds close to an order, greedy for you to break again so soon.
“How about you?” you pant, grasping his forearm to anchor yourself as you spiral quickly. “Do you not wish the favour returned?”
His fingers press more insistently, wiping out your ability to form sentences.
“My pleasure can wait,” he assures, even though he leans bodily into you a fraction so you can feel his cock heatedly press your hip.
You are powerless to stop the tide of a second pleasurable wave hitting you full force, slumping into his caged embrace. He makes triumphant noises as you fracture around his fingers again, limbs shuddering, your body and mind floating somewhere among the rust-coloured leaves above.
“Perfect,” he opines. “Just once more….”
You make a weak noise of protest, dropping your forehead onto his shoulder, the woollen fabric slightly scratchy on your dewy skin.
“Oh yes,” he counters, almost a tart edge to his answer. “You can and you will.”
You pull up to look into his eyes, which are blown wide, his lips flushed dark pink, aroused by your arousal, mirrored back in your inky black pupils. He shuffles closer, leaves scrunching under his heavy riding boot, holding all your weight now you no longer can rely on your own twitching, overwrought leg muscles.
“Come on, Lady Y/l/n,” he purrs. “What is a clandestine lover for, if not hitherto unchartered pleasures?”
You can see the pride in his eyes—that he alone has been the only one to ever do this to you. Make you mindless with pleasure. He knows he has won the argument even before you nod weakly and wrap your arms around his tighter.
Then again, his hand is a frenzy, fingers plundering your depths as he roughly strokes your clit with his thumb. All you can do is cling to him, robbed of your voice, whimpering, sweaty and frayed. Your body burning from overlapping accumulated pleasure, your skin zinging as if caught in a lightning storm.
Your third orgasm is almost serene, reaching a peak that makes your mouth fall open in a silent scream, your whole body stiffening and then bearing down hard upon his fingers, gushing into his hand as you let out a sob of release, completely overwhelmed, feeling your heartbeat in every fibre of your being.
“There it is,” he gloats, triumphant, kissing your damp temple as he finally gives you reprieve.
No taglist as these drabbles are so short
#kinktober 2023#kinktober#anthony bridgerton fanfiction#anthony bridgerton#anthony bridgerton smut#anthony bridgerton imagine#bridgerton fanfiction#bridgerton#bridgerton smut#bridgerton imagine#anthony bridgerton x reader#anthony bridgerton x female reader#anthony bridgerton x you#anthony bridgerton x y/n#bridgerton x reader#bridgerton x female reader#bridgerton x you#bridgerton x y/n
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Forget-Me-Not 3
Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Characters: Loki
Summary: You return to your childhood home to put the past to rest.
Part of the Backwoods AU
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.
You toss another can in the bin. The kitchen is littered with your mother’s addiction. Vodka bottles line the counter and beer cans sit in piles on the tile. In some, you find the putrid remnants of forgotten mouthfuls. You rinse them over the sink and fling them over your shoulder, listening to them land in the tall container.
The house rankles with neglect. The walls are layered in filth, the floor is unswept, and the couch is dingy. You shake your head and mutter.
You’re reminded of the teen girl who trod through her mother’s mess every day on her way to the front door, her room her fortress; the only space she could claim as her own. That sacred stronghold she kept spotless in a measly grasp for an ounce of control.
You drop another can in the sink and back away. You shake the stale dregs from your fingers and flee without a second thought. You stumble out onto the shady porch and gulp in air. Fresh, fertile, and free.
You sit on the highest step and hang your head. Your eyes flick over to the basket of flowers. Your foot twitches, wanting to kick it into the dirt. You sigh and tilt your chin up.
You’re sad but not for your mother. You know you should be. No one else will mourn her. They’ll all whisper about how she wallowed in her filth, how she died lonely and abandoned. But they won’t care. They won’t grieve her.
Neither will you. What they don’t say behind their hands is that she was rotten with the liquor. Bitter to the core. The bottle was her shield and her weapon. Her excuse to be what she was. Vile and venomous.
You don’t miss her, you pity her. You stand and face the house, your eyes tinge as you glare at the screen door. Splinters fill the dents in the frame and rust recedes from the hinges. The birds chirp louder and louder and all at once, the world is quiet.
Paralysed, you watch yourself run up the stairs and stop before the door. Twenty years younger but just as broken. Your shadow listens with her ear tilted. A man’s voice rumbles from inside and your mother croaks in return.
“She’ll be home soon,” she says before she sucks on the neck of the bottle, a loud glug bubbling from its depths. “Plain but quiet.”
Your lip trembles and you falter as if you’ve been struck. The teen girl turns to face you, she’s about to run but the door opens and she’s caught.
“There you are,” your mother’s voice chafes in her throat, “we got company–”
You lunge forward to grab the girl before she’s dragged inside. It’s too late. Your knee hits the step and you shudder. How cruel were those village gossips, to warble about the girl but they never said a cross word about their own husbands.
Your stomach fills with bile as you push yourself to your feet. You won’t go inside. Not this time. You turn away and heave, swiping the tears from your eyes. You swear you can hear the girl screaming and sobbing as you walk away. Just like all the others who ignored her.
Your feet carry you without a destination. Water trickles noisily and lures you in. You sit on the overturned tree and watch the ripples lap over pointed rocks.
You should burn the place down. A pile of ash is worth more than those stained walls. You look down at your hands and shake them out, as if you can shed the memories like snake skin.
Only one person heard that girl. Just the one but he turned out just the same. It was never empathy, only a trick.
Forget him. Forget all of it. You sat in that room, across from that doctor, and you did just that. You’re not going to let it back in.
A twig snaps and you sit straight, breath hitching as you search the shadows between the trees. The sunlight flickers through the leaves and the water reflects the world in warped lines. You stand and go to the river’s edge, looking down at yourself. Not a girl anymore, just a tarnished woman.
“Somehow,” the slither jars you but doesn’t surprise you, “I knew I’d find you here.”
You don’t answer him. You know that’s what he wants. For you to shake, to shriek, to do what you did then. To grovel for him to stop, to go away. Just there, on the riverbed, pebbles jabbing into your stomach, your face soaked with the cold water.
“Offer still stands.”
“I don’t want your money,” you say to his rippled reflection.
“Mm, but we both know you need it.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” you sneer, “you never did.”
He snorts, “I know a lot about you. I know how you feel, I know how you whine and beg and–”
“Are you so pathetic? You cling to the past like some desperate old man. This isn’t high school–”
“No, it isn’t,” he agrees, “yet here we are and hardly a thing has changed,” Loki struts along the river to its narrowest breadth and steps across, “you are still nothing, and I am still me.”
“A big fish in a tiny, dried up pond,” you spit as you sidle away from him.
“I am the same shark–”
You bend and grab a sharp rock. It’s big and thick and just holding it cuts into your hand. You spin and whip it in his direction. It just misses his shoulder as he sidesteps, plunging a foot into the riverbed. He snarls and kicks his shoe up, shaking it like a wet cat.
“Why would you do that?” He hisses.
“I’ll do it again,” you bend to take another stone, “I will bash your fucking face in.”
“Whooo,” he whistles and snickers as he crosses his arms nonchalantly, “she’s found her voice.”
“Fuck you,” you grip the stone and rear back your arm, “I won’t miss again.”
He tilts his head and his nostrils flare. His snakish eyes narrow and he clucks, “neither will I.”
You stand, locked in stalemate, waiting for the other to crack. He drops his arms, hands on his hips as he raises his chin defiantly.
“I waited twenty years,” he snarls, “what’s a little longer?”
He twists on his heel and hops over the river. You squeeze the rock as you watch him stride away. Arrogant and assured. You fling the rock and it bounces on the ground after his heels. He doesn’t look back as he disappears into the forest.
The beast might hide to lick his wounds, but he always comes back.
#loki x reader#loki#dark loki#dark!loki#thor#avengers#mcu#marvel#au#backwoods au#drabble#series#forget-me-not
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talk ; bruce wayne.
track nine of WASTELAND, BABY!
pairing ; rpatz!bruce wayne x fiance!gn!reader
synopsis ; it’d been years since you died. bruce stood silent in front of your grave, hair damp from the cold rain. you approached him from behind, tipping your umbrella forward just enough so the tears of the sky would stop mingling with his own.
words ; 6.8k
themes ; angst, action, fluff, engaged au, ex-thief au
warnings / includes ; faked death, injuries/blood/violence/death, depictions of human trafficking, a lot of Emotions, reader used to be a thief, mentions of the joker and harley quinn, alfred cameo !! and one smutty-ish sentence?
main masterlist.
The ground was sodden with rainwater, mud clinging onto his black boots. Its long laces were loosely dragging through the dirt, wet and filthy, but he couldn’t be bothered to retie them. Rain dripped from the hair that hung limply from his head, frigid drops pricking his skin and meandering down his cheeks. The cold air from the sky was a pleasant but striking juxtaposition to the hot tears slipping from the corners of his eyes, conveniently camouflaged by the rain. It wasn’t often that Bruce Wayne cried, but for you, he allowed himself to shed a few tears.
After all, it was the third anniversary of your death.
He hadn’t shown up to your funeral—well, from what Alfred told him, he wouldn’t have made much of a difference. There were hundreds of people there. He was just glad he wasn’t there so the vultures of public press didn’t have the chance to shove flashing cameras into his face.
He could just imagine the headlines: Bruce Wayne At Gotham’s Most Notorious Thief’s Funeral, Y/N L/N And Bruce Wayne: A Tragic Romance, Bruce Wayne’s Ex-Criminal Fiance Killed By The Joker.
Bruce coughed into his fist, masking a strained, broken sob as his eyes trailed down your headstone, where your name was carved in stone. His shoulders trembled. The sky thundered. He bit down on his tongue. His lungs felt thick and heavy, as if slickened with tar.
There were nearly a dozen bouquets of flowers crowded around the stone. Bruce noticed that there were several wilting roses amongst the heap of petals and thorns.
You hated roses.
“Hope you didn’t leave me any of those,” said an eerily familiar voice from behind him. All of a sudden, the rain stopped pelting his head, shadowed by a dark umbrella, just enough to stop the tears of the sky from mingling with his own. “You know I hate roses.”
His shoulders tensed.
Chest constricting, your name slipped from his lips, nearly lost to the pelting rain.
“The one and only,” you said. “It’s been a long time, Bru.”
He turned around, stiff. His eyes twitched in disbelief. There was a bitter taste in the back of his throat. A part of Bruce, the grief-stricken part, wondered if he was hallucinating you.
But you were here, in the flesh. And there was a small grin coyly toying at the corner of your lips. You had a hat pulled low over your head, nearly shielding your bright eyes as well, and you were dressed in loose, dark clothing.
The ring he gave you dangled on a thin silver chain around your neck, gleaming as if regularly polished. You silently noted that he still wore his own engagement ring.
Bruce’s supposedly dead fiance tilted their head, regarding him with veiled fondness.
“Come on,” you said, pointedly turning away so that the umbrella was no longer hovering over him. He flinched when the cold rain touched his skin. He stood there for a second longer, still in shock, before numbly following behind you.
Rust.
Bruce could smell it everywhere.
“I know it isn’t much,” you said, shouldering the creaky door to the abandoned warehouse open, “but it’s home. For now, at least.”
You glanced over your shoulder, catching Bruce’s hardened eyes. With pursed lips, you shook the water out of your umbrella before shucking it closed, tossing it somewhere in the corner. Bruce watched as you busied yourself with lighting small gas lamps on rickety metal chairs, before allowing his gaze to briefly dart around the room. It was spacious in a way that was unsettling—dark and dreary, cold and lifeless. There were a couple dozen boxes stacked along the opposite wall, lining the large, moldy windows. A beaten down sofa was placed off to the side, with a thin blanket messily thrown over the back.
You’d been living here this entire time?
When he spoke—his first words to you in three entire years—it was shaky and saturated with raw hurt. He was… he was so inexplicably angry with you. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered, so quietly you nearly wished he was yelling instead. “How could you… how could you do this to me? To Alfred?”
The splinter within the fractures of your heart was all of a sudden a large stake, and Bruce held the hammer.
A small sigh fell from your lips and you turned to face him fully. “It’s a long story.”
Bruce’s frustrated countenance remained unchanged. “You better get going, then.”
You shifted your weight from foot to foot, before dropping down onto your patchy sofa. “You don’t wanna sit down?” you asked. He gave you no response. “Alright, then.”
There was so much to tell him. You didn’t know where to start.
After clearing your throat, you finally croaked out, “That night three years ago—I contacted the Joker through Harley Quinn. She was an old pal of mine from my crime days. Through her, I asked him to meet me under Gotham’s largest bridge because I had a deal to make with him. A part of me wasn’t sure he was going to show but—my reputation as the city’s most famous ex-thief was more than enough to convince him. He was curious, you see. He thought I was coming back into the business of stealing. It didn’t take him long to realize that I wasn’t planning on working with him, and he was about to call his cronies for back up, but I knocked him out before he could reach for anything. I planted evidence of my death on him—a knife with my blood on it, his fingerprints over my equipment, his hair on my clothes, my skin under his nails. The next couple of hours, I was across the city, ingesting a fake-death pill—potassium cyanide. The next day, the entire world thought I was dead, killed by the Joker—though if you dug up that grave you were standing over earlier today, you’d find it to be empty. I framed him so he’d land in jail, Bruce. Like he deserves to be.”
Bruce’s pallid complexion made it look like he was going to keel over and hurl. “Why? Why did you do it?”
“There were people trying to kill you because of me, Bru,” you whispered. “They wanted me dead, and they wanted you dead, too. I was protecting you. If I’m gone, then they’d no longer have a reason to kill you.”
“YOU COULD’VE TOLD ME!” he roared, his pain ricocheting throughout the warehouse. All of a sudden, he was no farther than an arm’s length away from you. The blue of his eyes gleamed with a mirage of resurfaced bitterness and anger. His voice quietened, “I could’ve done something. I could’ve helped you. We could’ve worked through it together.”
You shook your head. “You knowing I was alive would’ve put us both at more risk. I had to do it, Bruce. I… I had to do it so I wasn’t under the eye of scrutiny anymore. Being the most famous ex-thief and Bruce Wayne’s fiance meant more eyes on me than practically anyone else in the country. One tiny slip up, and I’d be in jail right next to the Joker!”
Bruce reared back upon realizing what you were saying. “You faked your death to steal again?”
“No!” you bit back, voice cracking. “Not to steal. To help—just without the cops on my back. Without the Penguin breathing down my neck. Without Deathstroke hunting me down. I did it to protect you and help the city in my own way.”
Silence stretched thin between the two of you. Bruce was tense, frozen in front of you, repeating your words over and over in his head.
“I still love you, Bru,” you said, reaching out for his arm. “That’s never changed.”
He moved out of your way, flinching at the mere prospect of touching you.
“Then what do you want from me?” he snarled, gruffer than he had intended. “I grieved you. I couldn’t—I couldn’t live with myself knowing that I’d failed you. I couldn’t save you. It tore me apart, Y/N. I just… I loved you so much. You meant so much to me. And to just… leave without so much as a goodbye! Not even a note!”
Your hand fell back to your side, a sharp ache clawing within your ribcage.
“I’m sorry,” you said, gritting your jaw and willing the surfacing tears away. “I’d love to hash this out with you, B, but there’s more pressing matters at hand. I would’ve never told you that I’m still alive if I really didn’t need your help.”
There was a beat of silence. Bruce shifted, shoulders hunched over as if he wanted to cave in on himself. The thought of being around you right now was simultaneously the worst thing he could do to himself, and what he desired most.
He missed you—painfully so. He missed the hard, determined edge to your expression whenever you concentrated on something. He missed the way you used to cradle him close to you when he had terrible nightmares, kissing around his bruises. He missed the way you’d playfully bump your hip against his while the two of you worked on the same table. He missed the way you'd lewdly moan your special nickname for him—Bru—into the mattress when he rolled his hips into yours from behind, pressing hot kisses down your arched spine. He missed your infamous grin, and how it never failed to replicate itself onto his own lips. He missed your scent—a homely mix of cinnamon and lavender, a smell he wanted to drown himself with. After you’d died, he’d sleep with your hoodie pressed against his nose—and he did so until the perfume wore away, and the last trace of you was gone. He missed your laughter, your lighthearted banter with Alfred, your help on missions when he found himself at a dead end.
This time, you were asking for his help.
And how could he say no to that?
Bruce’s sore eyes darted from the rusty ceiling to you, watching him intently. “What is it?”
Hope sparked within you, like a candle lit in the middle of a hurricane. “Human trafficking, Bru. That’s what I’ve spent the past three years trying to take down. Gotham is rampant with it. If I told the police… they would’ve been five steps ahead and relocated across the country and we’d be right back to square one. I finally got my hands on some intel—they’re moving a bunch of kidnapped children through the abandoned railways under the city tomorrow night. I don’t know where they’re going, but I can’t let them leave, or things would get infinitely more complicated. I don’t know how many exactly. Could be a couple dozen. A hundred. Maybe even just one. But I know I have to stop them—and I can’t do it alone.”
There was something akin to awe behind Bruce’s blue irises. “The five missing kids randomly appearing in a homeless shelter last year—that was you?”
A weak grin nudged at the corner off your lips. “Yeah. The poor things were being forced to manufacture illegal firearms with scrap metal parts.”
Another beat of silence. The hesitance in Bruce seemed to wane away with each passing second.
“How do you know it’s not a trap?” Bruce stepped closer to you, eyebrows furrowing. The fact that all of this was happening right under his nose made a sick feeling twist his stomach.
Your lips trembled. Slowly, you pulled out your phone, pressing on a video file and held it out to him. He took it from you, watching with horror as the grainy footage played. Half of the screen was black, as if filming from behind a wall. The kids were chained, manhandled and shoved into a truck by several armed people, screams and cries echoing along the metal walls. There was a louder shout, closer to the person recording, and the camera began to wobble and shake, pulling away from the crime scene as they began running. The video was cut off there.
He felt sick. His eyes flickered back up to you, anxiously worrying on your bottom lip.
“I filmed that around a day ago,” you whispered, throat thick with emotion. You began to physically shake. “I saw it. I tried to stop them—but I messed up. One of the guards turned around the corner and saw me. I killed him, Bruce, or the entire operation would’ve been blown. I… I—”
There was a cold hand on your shoulder. His thumb brushed against the bare skin of your collarbone. Your fiance kneeled in front of you, nodding his head to silently tell you to go on. You swallowed nervously.
“Thankfully, the rest of them didn’t know I was there. I don’t know where the kids are now, and it kills me to wait. All I know is that they’re planning on taking them through the railways tomorrow. It’s the best shot I have.”
Bruce’s stare burned into you. “You’ve been managing on your own for the past three years. Why are you only asking for my help now?”
You winced, pursing your lips. “The man I killed—he didn’t go down without a fight.”
Gingerly, you shifted your hands down to the hem of your shirt, lifting it up to reveal tightly wound bandages over your stomach. Much to your dismay, they were soaked through with copper-hued blood, a dark shade that sent a queasy tremor up your spine.
Almost immediately, a shadowed, closed-off expression melded over his features. You couldn’t exactly tell whether or not he was angry at you, or just angry in general.
“You’re bleeding,” he stated, rather bluntly. You bit back the urge to berate him for spelling out the obvious, and remained quiet as he told you to lean back. “Do you have extra bandages?”
“Yeah—in that box in the corner there. Nicked ‘em from the pharmacy down the block.”
Bruce frowned at that, but didn’t vocalize his disapproval.
In the box, he’d noticed a bottle of alcohol beside the bandages, grabbing that as well.
He strode back to you, softly asking you to peel back your bandages. You complied, but not without a grumpy divot appearing between your brows. If you weren’t practically bleeding out in front of him, Bruce would’ve found it to be rather endearing.
There were several lacerations across your abdomen, some shallow, and others deep. There were stitches across the more serious wounds, but they were done shoddily. Bruce sent you a look, swallowing hard.
“These look awful.”
“Why don’t you try stitching yourself up, then?” you hissed, biting down on your palm as he started cleaning up your wounds with an alcohol-doused bandage.
Bruce couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that he was cleaning up his fiance’s stab wounds after three years of their supposed death. A part of him wondered if he’d wake up from this nightmare, sprawled across his bed with his nose tucked into your hoodie.
But this was real.
Your muffled groans of pain brought him back down to earth.
You were real.
As swiftly as he could, he neatly wrapped fresh bandages over your waist, murmuring a shaky apology when you cried out from the stinging agony of the combined pressure and the cleansing alcohol.
“What else have you been doing?” Bruce asked, much to your surprise. Your eyes darted to his, and his skin flushed with heat, shifting his gaze to the ground.
It took you a moment to formulate a response. You were walking on eggshells around him, afraid that a slip of your tongue would make him get up and leave. “I’ve been in international waters for the majority of the time—staking out meetings, organizing heists, stealing from the rich—all that lovely jazz. I went to France, Mexico, India, New Zealand—trying to find something to do. My purpose. I guess I was traveling all over the place to run away from Gotham for a while. But I came back—because Gotham will always be my home. Because Gotham is where you are.” You fixed him with a pointed gaze, and Bruce swallowed uneasily. The hazy blue of his irises darkened a shade. You spoke again, voice lowered, “I gave all the money to charities, by the way. A couple of orphanages, too. Balancing out the scales, Bruce. For all the shitty things I’ve done.” You gritted your teeth when he wound another set of bandages over you for good measure.
Your words made an overwhelming sense of nostalgia wash over him, like a tidal wave crashing against the shore. There was good in you, no matter what the press had to say about that. Bruce knew that you were doing your best to help Gotham, just like he was. In your own way, of course, but it was what made Bruce fall in love with you in the first place.
You cared so much for Gotham. For its people. Even when they probably didn’t deserve it.
“Ironic that I fell in love with one of the richest men in the world, isn’t it?” you chuckled, lolling your head back onto the sofa’s armrest, staring up at the rusty warehouse’s ceiling. Bruce could feel his chest constricting. “What about you, Bru? What’ve you been up to since I’ve been dead?”
The man gave you no response, merely lifting one of his shoulders in a tense shrug. He wasn’t sure he was ready to divulge the past few years to you just yet. As much as he missed you, dreamed of you coming back to him—he couldn’t find it within himself to tear down all the barriers he built around himself since your death.
It was all too sudden. Bruce needed time.
You understood him all too well, much to his mild relief, and hummed noncommittally, as if to say ‘take your time’.
“You can’t tell anybody that I’m alive,” you said breathlessly, after a moment of terse silence. “Not even Alfred.”
Bruce’s jaw flexed. He didn’t like keeping secrets from the closest thing he had to a father, but he knew that it was necessary. “What’s the plan?”
“They’ll be moving tomorrow. Are you in, Bruce?”
Only now did he realize that his hands were still splayed out over your bandaged abdomen, and he jerked back, as if he’d burned himself. You propped yourself up on an elbow, a hint of an amused grin tugging at the corner of your lips.
God, you were so beautiful.
It took a great amount of effort for him to look away from your lips, and he focused on leveling his gaze with those bright eyes of yours.
“I’m in,” he said.
You smiled, all warm and utterly heart-breakingly wide, and Bruce could swear the air stilled around the two of you.
“Alright.” Your hand reached out to clasp his pale, cold one. He couldn’t pull away. He should’ve. He didn’t want to. “We strike at midnight.”
There was something about Bruce’s Batman suit that made you stop and stare at him with awe. Quite a few adjustments had been made to the outfit the past three years—the bulletproof platelets over his chest and abdomen were much more form-fitting than before, and a lightweight cape draped down to his ankles, dark as the night. His mask was different as well—it was tighter and covered more of his face. Seeing him like this made you remember that Batman didn’t hide in the shadows—he was the shadow.
He caught you watching him, the blue of his eyes flashing almost dangerously beneath the moonlight. You noticed the way his gaze trailed up and down your form, soaking in your own suit.
It was a simple outfit, made up of a long, cowled coat, the hood draping over your forehead and stopping just above your eyebrows. It was a mottled hue of grey, perfect camouflage for the dull concrete jungle of Gotham city. A mask of the same color covered your nose and mouth, leaving just your eyes for Bruce to see. The rest of your outfit beneath the coat was dark and well-fitted, with several compartments to store your gizmos and gadgets.
There were two daggers slid into your utility belt and a third emergency one strapped to your left shin. Further hidden within your pockets were a multitude of smoke grenades, ropes, and throwing stars.
You had a small pistol wedged into your belt, but that was only for worst-case scenarios. You knew Bruce didn’t like guns.
The two of you stood before the entrance of the abandoned railways, the gaping tunnel overgrown with moss and greenery. He gave you a weary glance, non-verbally asking if you were ready. You gave him a soft nod in response. Graffiti lined the walls near the front, but as the two of you walked in, there were fewer and farther in between.
The plan was clean-cut. Locate the children, take out the guards, and high-tail out of there. Your fiance (or was it ex-fiance? You weren’t quite sure) had made you promise not to kill anybody but—given the circumstances, you weren’t entirely sure if you could hold up to that promise.
Bruce had this innate ability to move in a way that if you hadn’t known he was already there, you wouldn’t have seen him at all. His hands loosely wrapped around your wrist to guide you to the right, and you couldn’t help but hold your breath at the minimal contact.
In the distance, the two of you heard echoing murmurs, gruff voices of what sounded to be a pair of boisterous men. They were getting closer, and getting close fast. In a whirl of dark fabric, you found yourself pressed up against the wall, Bruce’s face mere inches from yours. His long cape draped over the both of you, blending seamlessly into the shadows.
It took you another second to realize that his entire body was slotted against yours. His scent warped around you and consumed you whole, an overwhelmingly nostalgic aroma of fresh mint and blueberries and something purely, entirely just Bruce. You inhaled sharply.
This close, you could see the thin flecks of pale green amongst his blue irises, the smudged mascara around his eyes, the small, faded scar on his jaw. You could—
Oh.
A lump formed in your throat. You could hear his heart beating—feel it—thundering against his ribcage, just above where yours was.
Heat spidered beneath your skin, crawling up your neck and flushing your cheeks. Bruce watched you with an indiscernible gaze, jaw set. Perhaps it was a trick of light, but you could’ve sworn you saw his pupils dilate, dipping towards your lips for a millisecond before flicking right back up to meet your heady stare.
Desperate for a distraction, you craned your neck, and caught sight of the two men passing by. You bit onto the inside of your cheek, swallowing down a tirade of curses when you saw that they both held guns. Of fucking course they did.
Another couple of minutes, and they turned the corner, speaking to each other loudly. Bruce stepped away from you then, still keeping his eyes trained on you.
They both have guns, you signed with your hands. Sign language was something the two of you learned together during your first year of dating—it was always handy in case of emergencies such as this.
Bruce cocked his head in understanding. Stay in the shadows, he signed back.
You nodded, and the two of you took off once more, skimming across the gravel so quickly that you were practically floating.
The two of you slowed to a halt in front of several wrecked train cars, rusted and filthy with neglect. You peered through the glass, noting a few guards milling in front of trucks on the opposite side. That must’ve been where the children were. Tilting your head to look further to the left, you caught sight of a row of children lined up against the wall to the side of the tunnel. Chains shackled their wrists and ankles together. They were entirely silent, which unnerved you more than anything.
You’ve done this a million times before. Why were you so nervous?
Ah, right. Maybe, just maybe, because last time, you got stabbed. Or maybe it was because the love of your life was right by your side—the man who was supposed to think that you were dead.
You bit down on your tongue in a fruitless effort to quell the nausea roiling about in the pits of your stomach.
With a gentle hand to Bruce’s shoulder, you signed, Six kids. Get them to safety. I’ll take the guards.
Not allowing him the chance to protest, you reached into your coat’s pocket and brandished two smoke grenades, your other hand sliding out a dagger. You leapt through the totaled train’s doors, before pulling the pins out with your teeth, chucking them amongst the lounging guards.
Shouts erupted as two large plumes of ashy white smoke encompassed the entirety of the tunnel. Silent as the night, you snuck up behind two guards, bashing their heads together hard enough to render them unconscious. Your dagger flipped in your hand as you knelt, sweeping around and stabbed another right in the leg, dragging the blade down the entire length of their shin. An ear-splitting scream ricocheted across the stone walls of the tunnel.
That was when the gunshots started ringing out. You were able to dodge them lithely, watching the trajectory of the amber sparks made by the ricocheting bullets and ducking away from its sweeping arc. You drove your dagger straight into the jugular of the guard with a gun, kicking him back until he fell into the gravel, gurgling incoherently through the blood flooding his mouth.
Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted Bruce ushering the children through the wrecked train cars, towards the exit. Panic seized its dark hands around your heart as you spotted another guard—the last one in sight—pointing their gun towards Bruce.
You ripped your dagger out of the guard’s throat in no less than half a second, pulling your arm back to hurl it through the air. The blade embedded itself cleanly through the side of his head, the impact sending him crashing into the wall.
A breath of relief slipped your lungs, and you ran over to scoop the fallen gun up, shoving it into your belt.
Bruce had all the kids—it was time to go.
You dashed through the first set of doors into the train.
A deafening gunshot rang out to your right, and you dove down out of pure reflex.
But you were too late.
Searing pain blossomed over your chest, your stomach, your head—everywhere.
Children screaming.
Footsteps thundering.
The gravel beneath you—cold and sticky with your blood.
Bruce yelling your name, panic saturating every syllable.
The edges of your vision flickered with darkness.
Chest heaving—heaving—heaving—your breath leaving you—
Bruce… the children…
Oh, fuck. Everything hurt.
Your head throbbed angrily.
“Wake up, Y/N. Look at me. LOOK AT ME!”
Bruce’s voice was tightly interwoven with dread—bordering on hysteria as he knelt down over you, palm applying direct pressure to the bullet hole in your abdomen. A low moan fell from your lips at the searing agony that shot up your body.
As soon as your eyes dazedly cracked open, Bruce swore under his breath, mild relief seeping into his blown eyes. You’d only been down for no less than two seconds before he ripped his batarang from his armored chest, sending it arcing through the air to the last gunman, striking him down.
Not a single thing registered in your mind as Bruce swept you into his arms, carrying you down the tunnel and ushering the children along with gritted teeth and panic-laced words.
An overwhelming sense of terror still coursed through the very fibers of his being. He couldn’t lose you—not again.
“Bats, put me down,” you said, hoarsely. “Put me down.”
A protest was on the tip of his tongue, but the warning glare you sent him made him reluctantly comply, gently lowering you down to your feet. Your hand clutched his bicep for stability while the other still held pressure against your bullet wound. There were so many emotions coursing through him that he nearly felt dizzy with the overwhelming barrage of turmoil.
The two of you soon reached the end of the tunnel with half a dozen kids in front of you. Bruce herded them into the back seats of the Batmobile—it was a tight fit, but they were small and eager to leave. One of the little girls started crying as soon as she sat down on the leather seat of his car, and Bruce could feel his heart lurch with an ugly amalgamation of anger and concern.
He slid into the driver’s seat just as you slumped into the one next to him. A groan of pain left you as you began rifling through the car dash’s compartment, whipping out a roll of bandages and began winding it around your abdomen.
The car purred to life and in no less than half a minute, you were jetting off, leaving the dirty crime scene far behind.
Bruce’s eyes darted from the dark road to you, nearly bleeding out in the passenger’s seat. You were panting shallowly, head tilted back as you swallowed uneasily. Sweat beaded your forehead.
“We need to get you to a hospital,” he whispered.
“No,” you replied, a biting edge to your tone.
Bruce’s eyebrows drew together. “You have a fucking bullet in you.” His voice lowered, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. “I can’t lose you again.” The last bit was said softly, his voice cracking with raw hurt.
You shook your head, stubborn. Your voice was quiet enough so the trembling kids in the back wouldn’t be able to hear you. “Don’t take me to the hospital, Bru. It’ll ruin everything I’ve built the past few years. Nobody can know I’m still alive.”
There was a beat of hesitation. Bruce clenched his jaw so hard it was a wonder his teeth didn’t crack under the pressure. “At least let me take you back home. Alfred can help you.”
You frowned but kept silent. Going back to the Wayne Mansion was less than desirable, but it was the best choice you had—the other being bleeding out to death in your rusty abandoned warehouse. Your nose twitched as you slowly shifted to look out the window.
The drive went by much quicker than expected, mostly because you were fading in and out of a pain-induced unconsciousness. When you cracked your eyes open again, your head was pounding angrily and your bullet wound pulsated hotly in tandem with the thick, languid beating of your heart. You could faintly make out Bruce in his Batsuit just outside of the car, leading the kids into a building.
Your gaze shifted upwards, a sigh of relief falling from your lips upon seeing the gotham orphanage sign. Bruce helped the woman at the door usher the children in, before handing her about a dozen fat wads of cash. The look on the woman’s face was priceless—mouth gaping and eyes misting over with unshed tears. His lips moved, but you couldn’t hear him from inside the car.
Once Bruce made sure the kids were safe inside, he nodded once to the woman, before turning back to the Batmobile.
He slid in smoothly, checking all the mirrors to make sure that nobody had followed you.
“How are you holding up?” he asked, quiet and uncertain.
“I’m alive,” you replied. “Could really use an Advil right now, though.”
He huffed out a humorless laugh. “Think you need a bit more than an Advil.”
You couldn’t find it in you to reply, the edges of your vision darkening at a concerningly rapid pace.
“Hang on for me, baby,” Bruce whispered brokenly, his hand darting out to grasp your limp one as he drove to the Wayne Mansion, slamming down on the gas. “Hang on.”
The street lights began to expand into a million shards of light as your eyelids drooped.
Blinding, blinding, blinding.
And yet you could see everything. The blue of Bruce’s eyes that constantly glanced over at you. The trembling of his pale hand on the steering wheel. The tacky blood that meandered down your sides and pooled into the crevices of the leather seat.
All of a sudden—
It all went dark.
It’d been three years since you stepped foot in the Batcave.
Really, it was just a private underground railway beneath the Wayne Mansion, but it definitely wasn’t fit for its original use and you were sure at least a couple dozen bats made the dark tunnel their permanent home, thus its name.
Bruce carried you out the car and into his work station, worry woven between every muscle. He deposited you gently onto the table, just as the elevator door rattled open.
Alfred stepped out, and he immediately blanched upon seeing you, bleeding and teetering on the edge of death itself.
They exchanged a couple hurried words, but you couldn’t hear much. Everything was blurry.
A tear slipped down your cheek when Alfred made his way to you, his hand cupping your cheek. He had a medkit clutched in his hands, and he popped it open right beside your head.
“Hi, Al,” you murmured hoarsely. “Long time no see.”
“Hello, my dear,” he replied fondly, deathly calm. It might’ve been a trick of the dim lights, but you could’ve sworn you saw his eyes misting over with unshed tears. “Last I checked, you were dead.”
If you weren’t in so much pain, you would’ve laughed, and given him an easy shrug. “Plans changed, I guess.”
Mustering what little energy you had left in you, you turned to look at Bruce as Alfred began peeling your clothing back to start working on your wounds.
“Hey, Bru,” you whispered. Bruce’s lips twitched at the nickname. “If I don’t make it—”
“Don’t say that,” he gruffed.
His warning fell upon deaf ears and you spoke again, determined. “If I don’t make it, for real this time, just remember that I love you. And I’ve never stopped.”
Something in his chest broke, and a suffocating sob thundered within him. He clutched at your limp hands, whispering out your name just in time for you to hear before you let the darkness take you one last time.
The first thing you noticed when you came to was Bruce’s hand still holding tightly onto yours. The second thing was the fact that the pain in your abdomen was no longer unbearable, but instead subdued to a sharp ache.
Your gaze roamed around the room, and you dimly realized that you were in Bruce’s bed—the bed that the two of you had slept in together when you were together. He was asleep by the edge of the mattress, hunched over in a position that wasn’t at all good for his spine.
He still had the black eye makeup on, smudged and flaking off, dried bits of mascara on his cheeks. His hair was mussed, as if he had raked his fingers through several times.
When you shifted a bit on his expansive mattress, Bruce stirred awake, the blue of his eyes shifting from confusion to panic to relief in a matter of seconds.
“Hey,” you croaked. “Thanks for getting me here. And tell Alfred thanks for patching me up.”
“We nearly lost you,” Bruce replied hoarsely. A muscle in his jaw flexed. “Alfred wasn’t sure if you were going to make it. There was so much blood.”
A pained smile stretched your lips thin. “Well, I’m alive. Sort of. How long was I out?”
“A couple hours,” he replied. He exhaled quietly, lowering his head. “I never stopped loving you, too. After all these years… I should be mad at you. I was, at first… but I’m not anymore. I’m just—glad. I’m glad you’re here.”
You blinked, tilting your head. Slow, you wrapped your wrist around his hand, gingerly moving it up to your lips. You kissed the back of his palm, and he cupped your face tenderly just as the familiar sensation of tears began stinging the corner of your eyes.
“Oh, Bru. I’m so sorry for causing you all this pain. I’m sorry.” You hiccupped, not wanting to dissolve into a mess of tears right in front of him. “I love you so much. I wanted to come back every day, I swear. I had to do it. I did it for you.”
A glimmer of pain warbled in the blue of his irises. “After you died… I was in a bad place. I nearly killed the Joker when I visited him in prison—I was this close. Gordon took me away before I could. From then I just… I lost myself without you. I spiraled. I was vengeance. Then the anger just sort of left and all I had left was just this… this ache. This hurt that never went away.”
A part of you was surprised he was opening up. It was as if the dam had cracked, and the water was spewing out and Bruce just couldn’t stop. He began to cry softly, the dark mascara meandering down his face once more and his hand shaking against your cheek. You could feel your heart crumbling through the bones of your ribcage, and you wanted nothing more than to hold him close to you.
“Please stay,” Bruce croaked. “I can’t lose you—not again. I can’t go through that again. Please don’t let me go through it again.” His forehead fell to the mattress right beside your hip as his hand fell away from your face and his body shook.
This was him begging, you realized in shock. He was begging you.
Helplessness placed its dark hands on your shoulders, and you were frozen for a second.
“Bru, baby, I—”
“Please don’t leave. You can fight crime undercover with me. Here. By my side. Please—I love you.”
Tentative, you reached over and gently ran your fingers through his overgrown hair. This seemed to quell his shaking just a bit. He stayed in that position for another minute before peering up at you.
“I’ll stay,” you said. “But we’re going to have to be careful. I can’t risk more people finding out I’m alive—and I can’t risk dragging you down with me. I need you to understand that if things go south, I’m leaving immediately—to protect you, Bru. And as long as you won’t hold me back from my own missions. We might’ve stopped one trafficking transfer tonight, but I have no doubt that there’ll be plenty more to come.”
For the first time in a very long time, Bruce smiled. It was a small one, the kind that twitched at the corner of his lips and wrinkled the corner of his mirthful, tear-glossed eyes.
He shifted upwards so he sat beside you on the bed, pressing a chaste, affectionate kiss to your forehead. His palm found its way back to your jaw, and he rested his temple against yours.
It’d been three long years since you kissed him.
You arched your neck just enough so his lips would meld over yours. A pained, broken noise fell from Bruce’s throat, and he surged forward, kissing you back with just as much vigor. He missed this. He missed you.
He avoided touching your stomach, afraid that he’d hurt you or rip the stitches of your wound. The last thing he wanted was to explain to Alfred how you’d managed to hurt yourself even more.
As he kissed you, your hands moved to grip his biceps, nails digging into his shirt. His nose bumped softly into yours and he could feel your radiant smile growing against his lips, utterly contagious. Your homely smell, the mesh of cinnamon and gentle lavender invaded his senses, and he nearly started sobbing again at the pure nostalgia from it all.
You were back. You came back to him.
“As lovely as this is,” you husked, voice lowered an octave, “I still need you to promise me you won’t hold me back. You’d be Batman and I’d be… a ghost.” It pleased Bruce immensely to see your chest heaving, and your pupils dilated as they shamelessly darted from his eyes to his lips.
“I promise,” he whispered against your lips in reply. Despite everything that had happened the past few days, he still trusted you to take care of yourself. A thrill shot through him when the cold engagement ring around your neck pressed flush against his chest. “How’d I be able to hold back a ghost, anyway?”
You smiled into him, before tugging him down for another kiss.
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A sequel to this drabble. Though I admit it was a little harder than the other.
While writing half of this I was thinking about that scene from the movie storks when they fight the penguins.
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He truly didn’t know what was worse, protecting his son from his past self or this.
His dear son, curled up in the throes of slumber against the chest of that loathsome heathen who so daringly has his arms wrapped loosely around his boy’s torso, leering down at Lilia from his chin’s perch on silver’s shoulder ‘what’s the matter old boy, that glare doesn’t suit a cute face like yours’ Lilia scowls at him and replies with an all too familiar gesture that would surely have Silver reprimanding him were he awake, alas twas not so instead his precious son was captured in such an image that Lilia would be cooing all over him, if it weren’t for this one abhorrent factor, who knowingly smirks back at Lilia with all the smugness more suited for a mischievous cat.
After the small incident where Lilia had beat the ever loving daylights out of his younger self, poor Silver had been wracked with miserable guilt despite his father’s protestations, claiming that he had been careless and had startled Vanrouge, thus to Lilia’s displeasure he wanted to make amends with the wild fae but ever since the incident Lilia had practically glued himself to Silver’s side whenever the general was in sight even going as far as to hissing at the fae whenever he thought he was too close to his son. As such Vanrouge kept a wide berth with his head down low and Lilia would have gladly left it at that but of course when it came to things like this Silver was rather persistent. For days Lilia watched scornfully as his dear boy ventured out to look for Vanrouge, sometimes he just couldn’t understand the extent of Silver’s kindness. Just mere days ago he had been attacked by the very fae he was searching very intently for and still Silver wishes to apologise to make amends no matter how many times Lilia tried to advise that it was near impossible to reason with a beast like him at that age, the bloodlust was too far ingrained and hadn’t time to rust away. But never did Silver give up and every time they found Vanrouge he would harshly refuse whatever Silver brought as a peace offering, personally Lilia was rather offended when the rats were rejected, it took him hours to catch all of them at Silver’s behest, but oh well more for Lilia. It had been this way for some time until suddenly one day Vanrouge was found begrudgingly eating risotto next to a triumphant Silver, really what was Lilia expecting, of course his son was capable of taming even the most rabid of beasts. But did it really have to be this beast? ‘Pray, do tell how this came to be? You’ve better not be holding him hostage, Vanrouge’ he growls hands on his hips and eye almost irritably twitching as his son shuffled in his sleep and almost buried his face in the general’s neck ‘why I’ve not the slightest clue myself, the poor thing just waltzed in here all dazed like and next thing you know he’s crawling up to me before dropping like so’ he smugly explains, nuzzling his cheek against silver locks. Oh you little…
The snide, conniving look he gives Lilia gives him the unshakable urge to bloody it black and blue again ‘why there was no hesitation whatsoever, he must have mistaken me as his father or something’
‘Of course he would, we have the same face!’ As much as he’d hate to admit, Silver’s recognition was never the best whenever a sleep spell hit him and Lilia did teach the boy to seek him out when he felt one coming. Oh well it can’t be helped he thinks reaching out to carry his boy off to the comforts of his bed only to gasp in indignation when sharp fangs clamp firmly into his hand. There’s a heavy pause as Lilia stares down at Vanrouge, who curls closer to his son, the promise of a slow, painful death blazing in his crimson eyes, yet the general was not intimidated in the slightest, of course not, what with the firm yet gentle way he manoeuvres Silver off him and down on the couch cushions, all without breaking eye contact or releasing his fang’s grip, so Lilia takes the ample opportunity to seize the ponytail he was so glad to shear off in his youth and send them both tumbling to the ground whose soft rug muffled the thud. In a silent brawl the two fae once again bite and kick at each other, daring the other to so much as make a sound and wake up the sleeping child above them, in a sense to Lilia it was a way to prove to himself that this younger version of him was just as he believed he was, a ruthless monster entirely incapable of caring for others, even if it was merely staying quiet just so his child could nap in peace. Yet as they scrapped Vanrouge refused to yield, showing off his familiar prowess by moving so that like Lilia, any blow thrown and received was muffled in some way. At one point they paused in fear when they heard a soft groan but Silver simply turned around and fell silent once more, suddenly Vanrouge whips out a fork of all things and drives it into Lilia’s arm. Lilia cried out in pain but toned it down to a quiet squeal, he rips out the fork and plunged it into the general’s shoulder who’s face blanked on impact and all of a sudden seized a spare cushion from the couch and screamed into it. Lilia would have found the whole thing hilarious had it been anyone else brawling like this.
In the background a certain Zigvolt raises an unimpressed eyebrow at the strange scene before him, honestly this would be a lot more impressive if the two fae weren’t trying to throttle the other in total silence. Wait, are they mouthing death threats to each other? Usually Sebek would never in his life dare to roll his eyes at Master Lilia but what was he to do? This was far too ridiculous, and Silver was bound to get a sore neck with the position he was in.
The two scrabbling generals didn’t even noticed Sebek walking around them towards Silver where he swung his fellow guard’s arm round his neck and hoisted him into his arms, may as well get him to bed, he thought as he carefully slipped out of the room, looking back to the still fighting Lilia’s, now I understand what Grandfather meant when he said that Master Lilia could be an idiot. Seven help him, these old fae were so oblivious.
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A/N: I'm taking a break I swear.
Summary: You haven’t been the same since you woke up in the hospital with memory loss after the earthquake hit Hawkins. When strange things start happening and you feel like you’ve started losing your mind, a group of strangers offer to help. Even though you’ve never met them before, they seem to know you better than you think.
Wordcount: 4k
Warnings: Nosebleed, brief mention of church, Angst, Readers kind of mean to Eddie but she is starting to go really downhill and it's just gonna get worse from here. 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI
Series Masterlist
I am no longer doing a tag list for this series.
Part Seven
Saturday, September 27th, 1986
The afternoon sun beat down on the top of your head. The sweet tea you were sipping on kept you from getting too overheated. The weather would start to change soon. It was nice to enjoy some warmth before the fall.
Eddie had the upper half of his body under the hood of your car. The hem of his black t-shirt rising slightly to show the pale expanse of his lower back. You could catch a sliver of the band of his boxers peeking out.
Had you shut yourself away from the outside world so much that a pair of blue checkered boxes were scandalizing? If he kept this up you were going to have to start fanning yourself like the women in those old films to keep yourself from swooning.
The past hour of Eddie working had been silent, making you wonder if he even remembered you were out there with him.
When he showed up to your house he didn’t mention anything about your episode the other day. His eyes traced your body up and down, like he was making sure nothing was out of place. Like he was afraid asking if you were okay would set you off. When he saw everything still in place, he asked you to sit with him while he worked.
Eddie peeked over his shoulder at you, catching your shameful staring. The sides of his mouth twitched at the sight.
You diverted your eyes quickly, pretending to be entranced by the hunk of oiled metal in his hand.
“So,” you started off timidly, hoping he wouldn’t bring up your gawking. “What’s left for the car?”
Eddie turned around to face you fully at this, arms crossed over his chest.
“Why? Are you trying to get rid of me?” He asked smugly.
“No,” you said firmly. “Just wondering. I feel bad for not asking questions about what you’re doing. I also need to know how much I’m going to owe you for all this.” You waved your hand at your car.
“Well, not sure on the price yet. I’ll let you know when I know. There’s a few things I’m waiting for to arrive at the shop that I ordered. Plus, I’m trying to get my hands on this really important part that might take a while to get here. They’re really hard to find,” he announced with a shrug.
“Really? What part is that?” You sat up with your spine straight in your chair, suddenly more interested than you had been. Whatever this was, it sounded expensive. If it came down to it, asking your mom for money wouldn’t be the worst decision you could make. Putting up with her lectures would just be something you’d have to deal with.
“It’s this….thing. It holds the whole car together. Yours is super rusted so it’s a wonder the whole car hasn’t fallen apart while you’ve been driving.”
“Oh, god. That sounds bad.” You pressed a hand to your forehead, anxiety causing a headache to start. You dropped your hand, focusing on the weeds that grew through the crack in the pavement below your feet.
Eddie must have noticed the grimace on your face. “Hey, don’t worry. I’ll get you back on the road before you know it. Do you trust me?”
You bit your chapped lips. Did you trust him? Despite his reputation, you had no reason not to trust him. He had shown you nothing but kindness since he started coming around.
You slowly nodded your head.
A wide, beautiful smile spread across his face. That traitorous organ in your chest stuttered at the sight. You worried that you might have to start pounding at your own chest to get it back into a normal rhythm.
“Good,” he sighed like it was a relief, still standing and staring at you.
You shifted your hips in your chair, feeling your skin buzz under his stare. You decided to stand and walk over to the radio propped up on the roof of your car. The feeling of his eyes on you as you sauntered over made you feel alive.
Probably more alive than you had felt in a while.
You loved it.
You fiddled with the station, flipping from a static filled metal station to a country one. Daring a glance at Eddie, you noticed the dramatic nose scrunch he made at the music change.
His face made you laugh. “Got any good tapes with you?” You asked.
“Hm…I think I definitely have a few that you would like in there.” He gestured towards the parked van.
You moved towards his van, a hand placed on the handle, but his body suddenly blocked you from opening the door. You looked up at him confused, wondering if maybe you had overstepped by trying to go into his car.
“Sorry. I just remembered it’s really messy in there. I’ll look around for something, okay?” His voice was urgent. You fought the urge to peek through the window.
“Okay,” you agreed, stepping back and walking back to the radio to allow him some privacy. You could hear him shuffling and cursing under his breath as he dug around in search of whatever tape he had in mind.
It was funny to think maybe it was you causing him to be so flustered.
He held the tape up in his hand triumphantly as he walked back towards you. His body crowding yours as he reached onto the roof of the car to put the tape in. He didn’t move away, he just watched your face as you heard The Smith’s start to play.
You raised a curious eyebrow at him as you let out a little laugh. “Didn’t take you as a Smith’s fan,” you stated.
“They’ve got some alright stuff. Are you a fan?”
“I love them.” You couldn’t help the smile, so wide it was aching your cheeks.
The feeling in the air shifted as ’How Soon Is Now?’ played. His eyes flicked from yours down to your mouth then up to your eyes again.
When had he gotten so close to you?
And how could you get him even closer?
For some reason, the decreasing space between the two of you felt so right, like it was clearing the fog from your head. You wanted to hold onto this brief moment of clarity. A moment in time where your head didn’t ache, your nose didn’t bleed, and the nightmares couldn’t get you. Being here with him felt safe, like Eddie was a protective cocoon that wrapped you up and shielded you from all of the bad things.
“Good,” he muttered, reaching to run his thumb gently across your cheek. So softly like he was afraid you might shatter if he put an ounce of pressure behind his touch.
You wanted to shatter in his hands though. Only because it felt like when you were nothing but pieces, only he would be able to put you back together again.
His eyes searched through yours, a silent question that you didn’t know the answer to. But you wished you did.
His face was closer now, his thumb still on your cheek. You tilted your chin up to reach him as he tilted his head and brought it down towards yours. Your eyes flutter shut, scared that if you keep them open your mind will find a way to ruin this one ounce of happiness.
And just before you could feel his lips on yours, he pulled away.
You snap your eyes open to find him standing a foot away now, hands tucked tightly into the pockets of his jeans.
“Shit, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t- I should probably go now,” he blabbered.
You couldn’t help but feel hurt. He was turning you down. It was a harsh slap to the ego to see him so regretful over almost kissing you.
“Right,” you agreed, keeping your voice light like your feelings weren’t hurt.
His face fell as he took you in. His pity was definitely not what you wanted right now.
He didn’t look at you as he packed up his things, shoving them into the back of the van.
You made it up the porch steps when you heard your name called behind you.
Eddie stood at the bottom of the steps, looking up at you.
“Do you want to go out sometime? With me?” He asked, sheepishly. You could see the way he fidgeted with the rings he had put back on his fingers.
“Like on a date?” You prayed you didn’t sound as giddy as you felt on the inside.
“Yes. A date,” he nodded enthusiastically.
“Okay. I think I’d like that,” you agreed, trying to keep your cool. You could already imagine the happy dance you would do once you shut the door.
“Cool! Okay. Let me get my schedule from work for this week and I’ll let you know when.” That smile was back now. His dimples in full force.
You said your goodbyes, both of you hardly containing your happiness. Once inside, you did your little happy shimmy behind the door.
You peaked out the curtain and laughed when you saw Eddie doing his own happy dance on the way to his van.
Sunday, September 28th, 1986
“I’m going to be late for church,” your mother fretted as she maneuvered down the roads of Hawkins.
You kept your head turned away from her, focusing on the window. It was weird driving by sites where the earthquake still left its proof in the earth. It seemed like some people in town lived their everyday life pretending it didn’t happen, like half of the town didn’t fall into the deep chasms in the ground.
Like there weren't men in suits and people in hazmat gear still hanging around.
Your mom was one of the people who pretended it didn’t happen. She found ways to distract herself, mostly by throwing a fit over something new everyday.
She didn’t go to church every Sunday, but on the Sundays that she did, she made sure everyone knew about it.
And if she happened to be late, she would make sure everyone knew it was because of you.
Her attitude has gotten worse lately. Everything you said was met with a snarky remark. You missed the days where you felt like she worried because she loved you. Now it just felt like you were a burden.
You couldn’t wait for Eddie to be finished with your car so you could feel an ounce of freedom. You loved your mom, but if you had to go grocery shopping with her one more time you were going to lose it even more than you already had.
Butterflies erupted in your stomach at the thought of your favorite mechanic.
You didn’t tell your mom that Eddie was working on your car. As far as she knew, you were saving money and trying to get worked into the schedule of the very busy mechanic shops in town.
You chanced a glance at your mother, scared that somehow she can read your mind now and will start berating you for thinking about Eddie Munson.
‘The maniac devil-worshiping serial killer’ she once called him when she saw a picture of him in the newspaper.
You nodded along, agreeing with everything she said because you didn’t know him then. You hadn’t even looked at the picture in the newspaper, His name sparked didn’t spark interest in you like it did now.
You can remember another time, you were having a bad day, the headaches and nosebleeds were constant. It wasn’t long after you left the hospital and you were struggling with the fact that you couldn’t even remember your high school graduation.
You sat on the couch in your mothers living room hugging a throw pillow to your chest. This was before you moved out, watching the evening news with her and trying to act like you weren’t on a downward spiral. His face and name were on the news, discussing his charges being dropped.
Your mom gave you a long lecture that night on who he was, and why you should stay far away from him. Even going as far as saying that if you saw him in the same store as you, then leave.
Back then, you agreed. Willing to do anything to keep yourself safe and your mom happy.
Now you knew she didn’t know him like you did. She would take the gossip and things she heard around town as fact.
“Why would a video store be open on a Sunday anyways?” She asked, bringing you back to the present.
“I don’t know, mom,” you sighed, eyes never straying from the landscape. You fought the urge to roll your eyes. Sometimes you felt like you reverted back to your moody teenage years.
The car pulled into the parking lot of the shopping center. “Shoot,” she muttered under her breath.
“What’s wrong?”
“I forgot I’m supposed to be volunteering with some ladies for a food drive after church. I really can’t miss it…” She chewed on her lip as she stared at the front door of Family Video.
“Do you need me to get a ride? I can ask Robin,” you offered quickly. You would walk all the way home if it meant you could get the hell out of the car and let her go on about her day.
Your mom thought for a second, like she was pondering if that was allowed or not. You wanted to scream, tell her that you were an adult. Despite your issues, you could still make adult decisions.
“I suppose that’s okay,” she finally said.
You sighed and climbed out of the car.
Steve wasn’t at work today, leaving just you and Robin to man the store on your own.
It was probably the best day you had since you worked there.
“I forgot to ask,” you said as you picked up a stack of tapes that had just been returned. “Do you think you can give me a ride home? It’s not too far from town. I can give you some gas money too.”
“Oh, sorry. I don’t drive. Steve’s picking me up. I can ask him…” She trailed off awkwardly. The unspoken words hanging in the air. Steve probably wouldn’t give you a ride home. If he did, it would not be a fun car ride.
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.” You waved your hand in the air like it wasn’t a big deal. You wracked your brain for a moment before an idea dawned on you. “Actually, do you have Eddie’s number?”
Eddie agreed immediately when you asked him for a ride home.
He showed up 15 minutes before closing to pick you up. He waved enthusiastically through the store window when he noticed you staring.
All thoughts about being a burden for needing a ride disappeared when you caught sight of his joyous face.
Robin nudged you playfully when she noticed your bashful smile.
“Come on. Let’s finish up so you can go see him,” she said with a smile.
You rushed through closing, excited to get going. By the time you and Robin locked up for the night, Steve was standing next to Eddie’s van. Eddie leaned up against the passenger side door, a forgotten cigarette burning in his hand.
The conversation looked tense. Steve’s hands moved through the air while Eddie kept his mouth pressed in a thin line, his jaw tense.
Eddie lit up when he saw you approach. He tossed the cigarette to the side, stomping it out with his boot. He waved his hand in the air to try to clear the smoke before you got closer.
And they say chivalry is dead.
“You ready to go?” He asked, cutting Steve off mid sentence.
“Yep,” you chirped. “Hi, Steve,” you say politely.
He nodded his head at you as a greeting, not saying anything to you. You could see the way Eddie’s hands turned into fists for a moment as he glared at Steve before seeming to remember that you were standing right there.
He turned and opened the door for you to climb into the van. You could tell based on the crumbs and small pieces of trash on the floor that he had done his best to clean it up. A strong smelling air freshener hung from the rearview mirror.
When he jumped in the front seat he turned and smiled at you.
“Hi.”
“Hi. Thank you for picking me up. I’m really sorry for having to call you…”
“I told you I can give you rides!” He exclaimed. “It’s really no problem. I’m happy I get to see you again.”
There were those damn butterflies again. You covered your mouth with your hand to hide your traitorous smile.
Eddie pulled out of the parking lot. You noticed he was going slightly under the speed limit, surprising because he usually pulls into your driveway like a bat out of hell.
“Do you mind if I stop by the gas station real quick? I just wanted to run in and get a few snacks,” he explained.
“Yep! That’s fine,” you said. Even with him going under the speed limit the car ride was going by way too quickly. Before you knew it, you were pulling into the gas station.
Eddie hopped out of the van. “Do you want anything?” He asked.
You shook your head no.
“Okay, well, I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere,” he said with a wink.
You watched as he crossed the parking lot. People loitering around the building eyed him suspiciously. Luckily, no one bothered him.
You looked around the van a bit, hoping to get an insight into Eddie. It wouldn’t hurt to snoop a little bit. You were positive if the roles were reversed he would definitely go through your things.
The cloth seats were surprisingly comfortable. You ran your finger over what looked like a cigarette burn that left a hole in the seat. You wondered who sat here before you to leave that permanent mark in his van.
You glanced back over at the gas station, seeing Eddie still roaming the aisles through the large windows.
Deciding the best place to snoop was the glovebox, you popped open the latch and started digging around inside.
Scraps of paper and some trash fell out first. You pushed some tapes aside, thinking that there would be nothing of interest until your eye caught onto pink cloth.
You reached your hand tentatively to grab it.
You held up the cloth to realize it was a pink scrunchy. You checked back to make sure Eddie wasn’t coming out of the store.
You were confused. Eddie wore black all of the time. He didn’t seem like the type to wear a pink scrunchie in his hair. But what did you know?
Setting the scrunchie in your lap, you reached your hand back into the glovebox to see what else you could find. Your hand made contact with smooth glass. You pulled it out to inspect it.
Your stomach dropped when you saw what it was.
Perfume.
Girl's perfume.
You shoved the perfume and scrunchie back where it belonged and slammed the latch shut.
Eddie has a girlfriend.
And if it’s not a girlfriend, then he has a girl in his car enough for her to keep her things in here.
Your stomach dropped and your chest felt like it was cracking in half.
If he has a girlfriend, why would he flirt with you and ask you on a date?
No wonder he didn’t want you to go into his van yesterday to find a tape. He didn’t want you to find out and ruin the little game he was playing.
The driver side door swung open. “Hey, sorry it took me so long. I couldn’t decide on which soda I wanted. But I got you this,” he said as he handed you a bag of M&M’s and a Dr. Pepper.
“Thanks. These are my favorites,” you said quietly.
“You okay?” He questioned. A concerned look crossed over his face as he looked at you, making you wonder how awful you looked right now.
“Oh, yeah. I’m fine. Just really tired.” You did your best to muster a smile.
He looked like he didn’t believe you but decided not to press any further. The rest of the car ride to your house was awkward and quiet, filled with Eddie’s attempts to joke and make you laugh. You could tell your one worded answers were hurting his feelings but you didn’t really care.
He pulled into your driveway and opened the passenger side door to help you out of the van. He walked beside you silently up your porch steps and to your front door.
“Look, are you okay? Because you’re being really quiet, and I don’t know if I did something or if you’re not feeling well…”
You looked up at him, his hair and face illuminated by the porch light you always left on. He twisted and turned the rings on his hand as he searched your face for a clue on why you were suddenly acting so distant to him.
The fact that he was acting so innocent made you even more mad.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” You asked, the words coming out as a harsh accusation.
Eddie looked taken aback for a moment. “Yes- I mean no-” He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment before speaking again. “No. I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Then why did you just say yes so quickly?” You pressed.
“It’s complicated,” he sighed. “I didn’t mean to say yes.”
“He’s lying,” a deep voice whispered in your head, surprising you with its intensity.
The voice was right. Eddie was lying.
Your temples pounded. The edges of your vision start to turn black from the incoming pain.
You needed to go inside.
“I don’t believe you,” you gritted out.
“Why? Did Steve say something to you?” His voice came out strained and angry.
“He’s hiding something from you,” the voice informed you.
“No, no one told me anything. If you don’t have a girlfriend, then what is there for Steve to tell me? And if you don’t have a girlfriend then why is her perfume and scrunchy in your van? Am I some kind of joke to you?” Your voice was growing louder with each word you said. You could feel the anger pouring through your bloodstream.
An unnatural anger that you had never felt before in your life.
You didn’t care if you were overreacting or not. You just wanted to get him away from you.
You turned and unlocked your door quickly, ignoring the pleading look from Eddie beside you.
He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “Look, can I come in and we can talk about this?”
“He’s trying to use you. Don’t let him in,” the voice that only you could hear stated.
You listened to the voice, trusting it fully. You couldn’t trust Eddie.
“Shit, are you okay? Your nose is bleeding, and you look really pale.” Eddie’s hand reached towards you, but you pushed it away.
“Stay the fuck away from me, Eddie. Don’t come back here or I’ll call the cops and tell them how much of a creep you are,” you spat.
Eddie reared back like he had been hit. His mouth opened as he stared at you in shock.
He didn’t move to reach out to you again as you swung the door open and stomped inside, turning to lock it immediately after it shut.
You even shut off the porch light for good measure, leaving him in darkness.
You crawled to your bed, not caring if he made it back to the van or not. Not even bothering to clean the now drying blood on your face or change out of your work clothes.
How had you not seen he was messing with you? Was he just trying to get in your pants the whole time? Or was he going to butter you up in hopes of getting more money out of you when it came time to pay him for his work? Were he and Steve acting like highschoolers and teaming up to make you miserable? Was Robin in on it too?
One thing you knew for certain, was that you would never trust Eddie Munson again.
#eddie munson x y/n#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson#eddie stranger things#eddie munson x you#eddie munson au#eddie munson series#mechanic!eddie munson x reader#mechanic!eddie munson#mechanic!eddie#mechanic eddie munson#eddie munson angst
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Exit West (LMH x F!Reader) - Teaser
pairing: Minho x f!reader (afab)
genres/au/rating: angst, smut, some fluff, post-apocalyptic au (based on the Netflix series Sweet Home), 18+
summary: Even when the world is plunged into its darkest hour, you find the faintest light in Minho.
warnings: mentions blood and injuries, food scarcity
word count: 580 for the teaser, anticipated 3k-4k for fic
a/n: happy valentines day, i'm here to break your heart! this was just an idea I had after I finished Sweet Home 2 (let's not talk about it ok). i'm not sure when this will be out, but i am trying to work on it every day so pls look forward to it (and let me know if you want to be tagged)!
The sharp wire of the metal fence cuts into Minho’s palms, digging into his mottled skin, and he braces himself for the jump. Leaping over, Minho lands silently on his feet, skills honed from many years of observing his cats take the same leap from couches or counters. But none of that existed anymore.
His eyes remain sharp, taking in the cover of woods around him, and he remembers that while the trees helped him stay hidden, they hid the monsters from his sight as well. No sooner than he’s managed to calm down the ever-present racing of his heart, he’s swinging the door to the bunker open, closing it quietly behind him.
Wincing, he examines the cuts on his palms, tinged with dirty specks of rust. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep doing this, knowing the small supply of rubbing alcohol he’d managed to collect over the past few months was now down to the last bottle. And there was no more to be found.
The small bit of sunlight that streams in through the barely-qualifying window illuminates your sleeping figure nestled amongst a pile of dirty blankets, and Minho almost hesitates to disturb you like this. You look so peaceful like this, a stark contrast to the emptiness that fills your eyes when you wake, the pain of living through two starkly different lifetimes contained in their depths. He knows his eyes hold the same.
“___,” he shakes you awake gently, watching you stir. The gashes that mar your face have begun to scab over, leaving ugly scars in their wake.
“I brought dinner.”
That gets you to jolt up, rubbing sleepily at your eyes.
“Are you okay? Anything hurt?” You shake your head, a small frown on your face when you see the fresh red marks that litter his palms. He has the feeling you’re lying to him again, but he doesn’t push it. A lot went unspoken between you two.
Minho wordlessly hands you over a full sleeve of crackers, your eyes lighting up. You chomp down eagerly on one, before pausing, holding it out to him.
“I already ate,” he lies, knowing he didn’t want you to sacrifice any kind of meal for his sake. He’d eat the less full sleeve when you fell back asleep.
Moments of silence pass between you, the soft sounds of your eating lulling Minho’s tired eyes to fall, becoming heavy with sleep. He rests his head on his knees, fighting back the shiver that night brought with it.
A deafening roar breaks through the stillness, and you freeze, dropping the crackers to the ground. Minho is by your side in an instant, hand tentatively reaching out towards your shoulder. But he never closes the gap.
“Ten seconds,” you croak out, so softly that Minho thinks he might not have heard you. “If the distance that sounds travel is 343 metres per second, then ten seconds means that it’s far enough away from us.”
The ghost of a smile twitches at Minho’s lips, and he wants to praise your sharp skills, considering he’d only ever been a pabo, but you’ve turned around and fallen asleep again, your back to him.
Minho settles into the blankets across from you, watching you for a few minutes before his body is weighed down by the exhaustion of the day, knowing the exact same thing waited tomorrow.
The end of the world was more boring than he’d expected it to be.
a/n pt 2: i hope you’re as excited as I am! i don't really have an anticipated release date for this, but it's just something i'm working on for fun!
#kvanity#lee know x reader#lee minho x reader#stray kids scenarios#stray kids x reader#skz x reader#stray kids x you#skz x you#stray kids smut#skz smut#stray kids angst#lee know smut#lee know angst#lee know imagines#stray kids imagines#skz imagines#skz fanfic#lee know fanfic#lee know fic#skz au#skz scenarios#stray kids fanfic#stray kids fanfiction#lee know x you#lee minho x you#skz lee minho#stray kids headcanons
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hi, thank you so much for your wonderful writing :))
I've especially loved reading Deep Blue and I was wondering if you...do continuations? if not that's totally okay, just thought I'd ask :)
have some ice cream :) 🍦
Thank you, thank you! Sorry for taking so long to get to this request. Hope you like it!
Deep Blue - Pt. 4
siren x pirate
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
When his eyelids parted again, the midday sun split the room, haloing the sleeping siren in a honey blaze. Her hair pooled around her head in golden spires where she'd sunken against the cotton pillow during the night.
Her shoulders swam beneath the gauzy knit of the pirate's shirt, pearl-pink skin peeking free. She smelled of the ocean, all salted breezes and chalky sands.
She seemed peaceful, chest swelling with even breaths. An outsider may have labeled her harmless.
The pirate knew better.
His fingers itched to caress the delicate curls framing the siren's forehead all the same. The supernatural charm of a siren, he told himself. He caught his hand when it twitched halfway to action.
He stood up, tearing himself away from the magnetic pull of her. He turned around, shaking out the clumped waves of his hair. His clothes, too, were scratchy with the crust of dried salt. The folds of fabric creased like paper.
He stepped outside and cranked out several pumps of water from the rusted spigot, scrubbing it over his face and hair. The cool droplets streamed fissures down his neck and chest. He pumped fresh palm-fulls to spread over the rest of his exposed skin.
"If you're trying to drown yourself, I can do a much better job of it."
The pirate startled, straightening. "Golden. You're...- How are you feeling?"
Clinging to the open door, the siren stood awkwardly on foreign limbs. The hem of his shirt hung a few inches above her knees; a curtain brushing against his clumsy first aid.
Though her posture painted her a wounded damsel, her eyes were predator-sharp. It set his teeth on edge and sent something primal in his instincts jangling.
The siren's nose crinkled, scanning their surroundings. He tracked her gaze as it roamed over every rock and tree and bump of the earth. "What is that smell?"
The cabin boy snorted, cranking fresh water into his hands to dump over his head. "Dirt."
"Repugnant.”
"Yeah, well... As much as I love it, the smell of salt water and fish can get old as well."
When he glanced up again, he studied the siren more closely. Instead of itchy, irritated skin--sun-dried and chapped--she was glowing as ever. Her golden hair hung in silken waves hardly so much as mussed by his rough sheets, not gritty and salt-riddled as his own locks had been. Her skin faintly shimmered in the daylight.
The only thing about her that wasn't perfect was the red stain weeping through the muddied fabric of her bandage.
Her eyes followed the drip drops puddling beneath the spigot. She wet her lips.
The cabin boy watched her. "Are you thirsty?"
As he'd learned from his hours of curious reading, most sea creatures didn't drink water. They gained their hydration through the food they ate, or their bodies were designed to filter out the harmful sully of salt from the seas they swam in.
Though, his siren was a sea creature no more.
Her feet twitched, seemingly with the urge to take a step, but she hesitated, toeing the wooden step's treacherous edge without letting go of the door.
A small smile cracked the pirate's lips. This creature who had held his life in her hands mere hours prior, capable of capsizing ships and carving out the hearts of men, was afraid to walk. Afraid to fall.
Gravity did have an unforgiving vice above water that it didn't below, weightless and languid in all its honeyed drifting.
He found himself standing in front of her. Ever drawn to her as a moth to its fiery death.
She hissed at him when he offered his hands toward her, sounding like a startled housecat. Jerking back, her heels snagged the rim of the top stair and she fell with a yelp. "Don't touch me!"
Though the cabin boy held up his palms in surrender, the mermaid swiped at him with dull, paddy fingers for good measure.
"Easy," he said, "I was only going to help you."
"Why?"
His brow creased. "...Why?"
"Why are you trying to help me at all?" she demanded.
"You saved my life."
"I tried to drown you! You should have left me there, I would have been better off! Your 'help' is a scourge, a curse!" She pushed herself up onto wobbly feet, smacking his hand away when the pirate reached out again, reflexively, to assist her.
He heaved a sigh, stepping back. “You would have bled to death.”
“It would have been better!” There was something terribly broken in her voice. A windchime once ringing melodic lullabies now cracked and shrieking. She staggered down the remaining two steps, swaying unsteadily on her heels. Her voice softened. “It would have been better than this.”
Guilt twisted the cabin boy’s stomach. “Golden…”
“No. I am now a prisoner in this…weak, defiled body. I have been stripped of every last thread of my identity. My tail, my strength– The ocean has disowned me, I am cursed to die a fumbling human. There is no greater disgrace! I want nothing more from you.” She shoved past him, limping and teetering as she went.
“Where are you going? You’re injured, hungry, and wearing nothing more than my shirt,” the pirate protested, following after her. “You can’t venture into town like that. Many men would take that as an invitation–”
The siren rounded on him, promptly stumbling and catching herself against his shoulders. Her eyes were alight like an August day.
“I know perfectly well what your kind feels entitled to when they come upon a beautiful woman. That is the very foundation of why you are so easily captured under our sway,” she spat. “Your desires overwhelm you, and our songs coax you to believe you can have all you want if only you surrender to us. I cannot make you believe what you do not already want to. You invade our home and hunt us in our own waters, you take and take and take, then call us monsters when we do not let you have us too. As if we are sunken treasure for you to pluck from the seafloor and sell to the next hungry pirate.”
Any response he had readied died behind the cabin boy’s teeth. He wanted to protest that they ‘weren’t all like that.’ That some pirates led with honor, and that many men were decent. He was decent, wasn’t he?
And yet… He still felt homesick for his captain, his crew, his ship. The very ones who cast him to his death for the mutinous act of having a heart.
He swallowed. “I freed you.”
“And for that alone, I spared you. Yet you damned me. Spare me further humiliation and leave me alone.” The siren gave his shoulders a sharp squeeze before letting go, limping away again in the direction she had chosen.
His eyes followed her, clumsy and graceless, all the way to the start of the dirt road that led into the village.
She would certainly be a spectacle there. With shimmery skin and perfect hair of spun gold, eyes like winter fire and only half dressed, she would steal the attention of every human she passed.
She might be found out for what she was. She might be overpowered and hurt, or taken advantage of.
The possibilities burned through him.
She’d begged him to stay away…
The siren’s bare feet kicked up dust along the path that sent her coughing, batting at the air with the same fury she’d faced him with moments prior.
The sight coaxed a tentative smile from the pirate’s mouth. Cursing the sky, the earth, the gods of sea and shore and everything else, he followed after the grounded mermaid.
He would not be responsible for any more of her misfortune. Even if it cemented his own.
He’d always thought the ocean to be fair, even in all its cruelty. It did not shrink itself for the convenience of others. Its crashing swells that swallowed ships whole did not ask for any less from the creatures within it.
He had to believe that there was hope for her, his siren, creature of water and night and song. She would be whole again. He had to try.
General Taglist: @pinned-to-the-wahl , @valiantlytransparentwhispers , @distance-does-not-matter @redbircl , @lilaccatholic , @crazytwentythrees-deactivated @thelazywitchphotographer @chibicelloking , @lolafaiy , @thinkwrite5 , @putridghost @tobeornottobeateacher @sunflower1000 , @bouncyartist , @feyriddle , @yet-another-heathen , @silverwhisperer1 , @distractedlydistracted @pensivespacepirate , @appleejuicee , @deflated-bouncingball @maybe-a-cat42, @m0chik0furan , @mercurymomentum , @fairysprinkles , @vuvulia , @amongtheonedaisy , @rose-pinkie, @trappedgoose-in-a-writblr-room , @scorpio-smiles , @inkygemuwu , @wolfeyedwitch , @thewhumpmeisterx3000, @ikiiryo , @lem-hhn , @fanastywhump , @smallangryfish , @ladybookworm @freefallingup13 , @acaiaforrest , @a-blue-comedy , @puppyaddict , @talkingsperm , @qualitychaoslover , @deckofaces ,@7eselt , @annablogsposts , @lunatic-moss-studio , @medusas-hairband
#writeblr#my writing#fantasci#fantasci snippet#fantasci tumblr#fantasy drabble#writing snippet#heroes and villains#writers of tumblr#creative writing#flash fiction#female villain#hero x villain#fantasci writing#fantasy tumblr#siren x pirate#mermaid
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Dead by Dawn (Part 11)
Azriel x Cassian x Reader
Summary: Zombie!AU: It’s been a while since the end of the world.
Warnings: Blood, gore, injury, graphic depictions of violence, eventual poly!relationship, slow burn, undead, death, mentions of cannibalism.
Word Count: 5,446
(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7) (Part 8) (Part 9) (Part 10)
Notes: Thank you for being so patient! I'm excited 💙
_________________________________________
Day 193
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
“This absolutely fucking sucks,” Azriel pants. He’s pushing a rotted car from behind, Feyre next to him and Cassian in the front seat, steering. Rust flakes off onto his hands and the copper against the pink flesh reminds him of the burns when they had been fresh. He rips his gaze away, focusing instead on the sweat pouring down his face, the blaring sun beating down on his back. “Who’s idea was this anyway, and why the fuck is Cassian steering?”
Feyre cuts him a glare, and for the first time she chooses not to reply with the snippy retort pressing at the back of her teeth. She can’t anyway, her mouth is too dry.
After getting back on the road at first light, you and your group had run into a small traffic jam of abandoned cars blocking the highway. There was no way to get around the mass of piled up cars, the shoulder of the asphalt too narrow for the van.
There had been debate about turning around, trying to find another way through the city, but the van was low on gas and you all had decided that you could search for gas to siphon from the cars as you were moving them out of the van's path.
Cassian swings around in the front seat, ducking his head out of the driver’s door where the window is smashed in, a glower on his face. Sweat beads across his forehead and his hair is damp, pulled back into a fraying knot at the back of his head. “Well, someone has to steer, and my leg still hurts,” he complains, and a part of Azriel wonders just how long he’ll be milking this injury. The other part of him knows that Cassian isn’t lying, because when he’d tried to slip a hand up his thigh while they were on watch together it drew a pained hiss from the other man.
“Hello there,” you call, dragging their attention from where they’re all glaring at each other. It’s hot and everyone is tired, hungry, and dehydrated, so tempers are running hot. With the addition of backbreaking labor and lack of gas, it will be any moment before someone snaps.
You sit comfortably in the front seat of a red convertible, grinning widely at the three, as if seeing your happy attitude could break the tension. Feyre’s lips tighten and you nearly shrink away from her harsh gaze, but you had been helping move the cars out of the way at one point, unlike Cassian.
The sleek vehicle looks as if it might have been in mint condition when the world had all gone to shit, but the leather now peels from the seats, worn from the elements.
Azriel stops pushing the car to wipe a drop of sweat from his brow. If Feyre isn’t going to help him then he’s not doing it alone, especially with someone as big as Cassian in the front seat. He crosses his arms over his chest, panting slightly from the effort and leans his hip against the trunk of the vehicle, trying his best to blink away the exertion he feels. His chest tightens at your grin and the sunglasses perched on your sun-kissed nose.
“Are those mine?”
You shove the glasses up, baring your eyes to him, twinkling and squinting from the sun. His heart kicks in his chest at the sight of the beaming grin on your face. It seems like your talk last night had helped, for you’re acting a little more like yourself today.
Azriel bites back the twitch of his lips.
“These old things? Hang on, let me check,” you respond coolly, pulling down the visor to check yourself in the mirror. “Oh, yeah. Yup. These are definitely not mine.” You send a sly grin to the golden eyed man before flipping the mirror back into its place. As you do so, the corner of it catches your eye as it snaps back into place and you flinch hard, squawking as you cover the sting with your hand.
The irritated look slides off of Feyre’s face as she bursts into laughter at your clumsiness. “Oh my gods,” she wheezes your name like it’s such a struggle to get out, “That was too perfect!”
Your cheeks blaze as the group chuckles, and thankfully you can blame it on the sun. Looks like your terrible luck streak has followed you across state lines. After taking a look around at the group, the air much happier than it had been when Rhys had pushed you up to them, you find yourself joining in on the laughter as well. You’ve all needed this, a good laugh after a tough time, and the tightness in everyone’s shoulders ebbs away slowly.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m a joke,” you roll your eyes playfully, “Let’s go Rhys.”
“Ugh, I don’t want to do this anymore,” Feyre complains, slumping against the back of the trunk next to Azriel.
“You think you don’t want to do this,” Rhys remarks, “At least you’ve got Az helping you, I have to push (Y/N)’s ass around all by myself!”
“Hey,” you whine, twisting further around in your seat, “You think my ass is big, though?”
Cassian and Feyre roll into another fit of laughter while Rhys shakes his head and looks up at the sky as if asking ‘why me?’
“Cassian’s is the biggest,” he plays along finally, grinning with his best friend who has climbed out of the stuffy front seat to hear the conversation better.
“No doubt,” he chuckles, “But Az’s is the tightest.”
The three of them cackle, and to you and Feyre it should seem like an inside joke. But the twinge in your chest tells you that there’s something loaded in Cassian’s words, and the nervous flicker of Azriel’s gaze towards you only confirms it.
“Alright, alright,” Azriel says, face trained into that harshly stoic one he’s so fond of wearing. “Back to work, we’re almost done. We’ve been sitting ducks out here for far too long.”
His words sober the rest of your group up and you all seem to check your surroundings, realizing just how off guard you’d all been while you were joking around. The highway seems quiet, but that can all change in the span of a heartbeat.
Rhys braces his hands on the trunk of the convertible, his muscles straining against the fabric of his graphic t-shirt, sticking to his skin with sweat.
You swear you catch Feyre drooling.
After a few more cars have been moved out of the way, you and Cassian watching with amusement and pretending to be doing an imperative job like steering, you’ve all sufficiently cleared a path for the van to fit through. The line of cars you’ve moved is uneven and Cassian may have crashed some into each other, but overall, you think that you all did a fantastic job.
“Now, to find gas,” Rhys announces, wiping his brow with the bottom of his shirt. The motion shows off some impressive abs. You whistle while Feyre cat calls him playfully in unison. The unpronounced leader of your group rolls his eyes in response, smirking as he flexes a little before letting the fabric drop back down.
“We should split up, it’ll be quicker to check the cars,” Feyre adds. She looks drained from the energy spent pushing the vehicles but her gray gaze is hungry, eating up Rhys as she looks him up and down, unblinking.
Azriel shrugs, still panting a little from the effort of shoving the last big truck out of the way. It was easily almost three times the size of any of the other cars, with its lifted suspension and meaty wheels, complete with a gaudy silver hitch that’s shaped like a ballsack. He had needed both Cassian and Rhys’ help to move the monstrous thing. “Works for me.”
“Cassian, (Y/N), you stay closer to the van,” Rhys tells you, and when you and Cass are on the verge of protesting, Feyre glares at you, shutting the both of you up quickly.
“I’ll take that end,” Azriel points to the far end of the line, where he’d just had help moving the last car. He begins trudging his way up the line, shoving his hands deep into his pockets.
Rhys and Feyre walk with him until they reach a third of the way, where the former drops off to begin his own search for gasoline to siphon. Feyre stays beside Azriel until they hit the second third of the cars, where she begins to look.
The line of cars isn’t that long, maybe twenty vehicles or so, but right now it feels like he has to walk four miles to reach the end. He’s tired beyond belief, even though you’ve had a - for the most part - easy past few days, with the exception of you being taken. Exerting his energy and lack of nutrients, mixing with the bright sun beating down on him, Azriel feels like he could fall asleep right there on the pavement.
The faster you find the gas, the faster you can take a nap.
He begins his search, skipping past the big truck and kicking at its tire on the way. There’s no way that thing even takes the same kind of fuel as the van, and he’s holding a grudge against the thing for being so fucking heavy, moving on to the sedan next to it.
Its gas tank is barren, and so is the one on the next car. He looks down the line at the group as he makes his way, and he wonders if he can climb up on the front of one of these rusted vehicles and sit for a bit while everyone else looks for gas.
While Azriel is thinking of slacking off a bit, he doesn’t notice the nearly disintegrated hand reaching from underneath the car until it latches onto his leg, tripping him. He yelps and goes down hard, twisting around frantically to get a look at the ugly thing dragging itself closer to him.
“Shit,” he hisses, kicking at the zombies face. His foot connects with a sickening crunch, its brittle jaw cracking off and clattering onto the asphalt. It makes his stomach roil but the undead being doesn’t falter, it’s fraying nails biting into the fabric of his pants.
He scrambles for the knife at his belt. He shoves a booted foot at the zombie again, and now he hears someone yelling after him. It’s Feyre, he thinks.
“Azriel, watch out!”
But the warning is too late. Another zombie lunges at him, appearing as if from nowhere. How had he not heard these stupid, clumsy creatures?
It knocks the knife from his grip and if Azriel didn’t know how braindead these things were he would feel as though it was a well thought out attack.
He’s panicking now, heart facing in his chest. Sweat is getting in his eyes, stinging them and making it hard to see as he struggles against the two zombies, the hot asphalt burning through his clothing. He’s defenseless, up against two undead that are just as hungry as he is, and he doesn’t know if there are more on the way.
Azriel bucks his legs again, ripping them free from the zombies feeble grip. It’s jawless, so it wouldn’t be able to fully bite down on his flesh, but it still poses a massive threat, and the thing is fucking disgusting, he wants it nowhere near him.
He tries to hold off the other that’s groaning and reaching for his face. His fingers are curled around the zombie's throat and the skin splits, black blood thick and dripping between his fingers. His aching muscles scream in pain from all of the work he’s just done and he doesn’t know how long he can keep it up.
His golden eyes squeeze shut just as Feyre’s scythe plunges through the head of the zom he’s holding up. The thing goes slack in his arms immediately and something drips onto his face, but Azriel seems unconcerned as he shoves the limp body off of him.
When he opens his eyes he’s met with the sight of Feyre taking the other one down, pulling a few clumps of hair on its head before she cuts cleanly into the spot that severs its head from its neck.
“Are you okay?” she asks through her pants, scanning the area for more.
“Y-yeah,” he lies. His heart is racing and he checks himself over mindlessly, feeling for any signs of bites or scratches that may have occurred. When it’s his third time feeling over himself a hand enters his line of vision and his trembling fingers falter. He looks up, eyes wide.
Feyre is holding a hand out to him.
Feyre saved him.
Feyre hates him.
Or does she?
Azriel takes her hand in his and lets her help pull him to his feet just as Rhys reaches them, Cassian and you close behind, worried looks painted across all of your faces.
You shove the sunglasses up into your hair, eyes flooded with concern for the golden eyed boy. “Oh my gods, Az! Are you okay?”
The gaze that has settled on Cassian’s, eyebrows relaxing with relief, turn to you.
Azriel offers you a forced smile that no one believes. “Yeah, I’m all good.”
“You have to be more careful, Az,” Rhys says, sending him a stern look from where he’s looking over Feyre, wiping her bloody hands on his shirt.
“I know,” Azriel groans, scrubbing at his face. He’s exhausted and just wants to lie down, presumably with Cassian at his side and you on the other, or in his lap like when he’d carried you injured through the woods. “Please tell me one of you found gas.”
Cassian kicks a rock, everyone shaking their heads sadly.
“None of the cars had any gas?” He figured that at least one out of the many that you’d all moved would have a little bit of fuel.
“Shit,” Azriel sighs, “Now what?”
You all stand in a circle, thinking. None of you really want to abandon the van, the only place you’ve felt safe since you’d shacked up with the three men, but no one has thought of a better idea.
Your attention is stolen by the low groan of a zombie. It’s shuffling out of the trees a few yards away, and where there’s one, there are sure to be more. And now that Feyre and Azriel had killed two, you knew it would only be a matter of minutes before more appeared. Everyone stiffens at the flocking undead.
“We should go.”
No one protests as you all begin to head back to the van. You unsheath your knife and find Cassian doing the same. Feyre’s scythe twitches in her fingers, like she’s itching to go again. Rhys has pulled a pistol from his waistband, and Azriel assesses the path back to the vehicle, twisting his blade in his still shaky hand.
Cassian presses the keys into your hand and you light up at the sight. He’s one pace in front of you, a wall of protection that makes your heart warm at the sentiment. He won’t let you be taken again.
“Fuck, yes. It’s about time!”
Azriel’s mouth curls in the corner at your amusement, even more so when Feyre mutters under her breath when she sees the way that you’re spinning the keyring around your finger.
“Oh gods.”
You huff, clutching the keys tightly in your fist as if she’s going to reach out and grab them from you.
“I’m not that bad at driving,” you promise, trying to reassure the men who are all giving you suspicious looks.
“I’m not the one that crashed my driver’s education car,” Feyre makes a face.
“I told you that in confidence,” you hiss and she snorts. “Well, at least I can stay inside of the lines on the road.”
Your companion rolls her eyes and you’re thankful that the three men with you continue watching the undead creatures trailing you because all you’re focused on right now is clearing your name.
“Yeah, because staying in the lines is so important right now. I’ll surely be more careful, with all of this traffic and all.”
As fun as witnessing you and Feyre go at it is, Azriel climbs into the back of the van, collapsing on the seat after bunching the dirty blanket under his head. He shuts his eyes and breathes out a long sigh, leaving Rhys and Cassian to take care of you and Feyre’s bickering, too exhausted to put in the energy.
“Easy, ladies,” Cassian grins, trying to ease the tension. His hands come down on your shoulders with a squeeze as he guides you away from Feyre to the driver’s side. “There will be all the time in the world for bickering about who’s the best driver when we find a safehouse.”
Feyre responds but you don’t hear it over the rumble of the engine turning over. Cassian slides into the passenger seat and Rhys sits nearest the front, letting you know that everyone’s ready to go, a weary look on his face.
“We might be able to make it to the next town,” you say hopefully, looking at the fuel gauge. There’s just under an eighth of a tank and your stomach turns uneasily. What if there’s nothing else out there and the van goes completely empty?
“If we see any cars we can jump out and check the tanks for fuel. Hopefully we will find something,” Rhys suggests, before adding, “Let’s get moving before the horde catches up. (Y/N), the gas pedal is the one on the right.”
You scowl, shoving the shifter into drive.
“Should I be holding onto this handle?” Cassian jokes as the car jerks forward.
You cut him a look but the playful smile on his face eases your sour mood. His eyes dart to the back of the van, noticing Azriel’s sleeping form and the way that Rhys and Feyre are tucked in tight, presumably making a plan for where to head to next. Cassian snakes a hand across the leather seats to settle it on your thigh.
You startle at the feeling but he gives you a gentle squeeze and you relax into the seat a little, keeping your eyes straight on the road.
Neither of you mention it.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
You don’t find any gas. In fact, you don’t see a single car on the fifteen mile journey into the next town.
“We’re doomed,” Feyre groans, eyeing the fuel gauge over your shoulder. The orange line is dipping dangerously low to empty.
“All good things must come to an end eventually,” Cassian says sadly, like he’s about to give the van a proper eulogy. His gaze slides around the interior of the van, taking in all of the scattered belongings, and then each person in turn. His hazel eyes linger on Azriel’s before he straightens in his seat.
The air is thick. Leaving the van behind means leaving safety, a quick getaway, and your home.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Azriel says, a little stern. He refuses to believe that this is the end for the van. “We can check out this town, stay the night in the van, and in the morning we will take it as far as we can. If we still don’t find anything, we reassess or continue on foot.”
Feyre shrugs, “Works for me. I need to start checking towns anyway, look for signs my sisters might’ve left if they’ve had to move.” Her shoulders are tight with the thought of her sisters being in trouble and possibly having to be on the move.
You knew that this was a very real possibility, that you’d run out of gas someday or that something would happen to the gaudy baby pink van. The one piece of solace you could actually find yourself relaxing in, might no longer be an option.
“Maybe we’ll find a nice abandoned house with a tall fence and solar panels,” you sigh, shutting off the engine.
You can only hope.
Feyre indulges you, nudging you with her elbow, a soft grin on her face. “Oh, and the pantry will be fully stocked. It’ll be filled with ho-hos and twinkies and cereal of all kinds!”
Everyone’s smiling now, taking the chance for one last laugh before things get serious.
“And a soccer net in the backyard!”
“And a pool,” Cassian adds, and you can picture the man laying on a floatie underneath the burning sun.
Your cheeks twinge pink.
“And a movie theater room!”
Everyone’s shouting out suggestions now, giggling and giddy. Azriel smiles, admiring each and every one of his friends in turn. Cassian, with his wide smile and the crinkles by his eyes, making his heart falter in his chest. Feyre, who, up until she’d saved him, had not been his biggest fan. Rhys, whose nose is scrunched with his smile, the long lines of his smile curled up, the dimple in his cheek visible. And finally, you, whose eyes are sparkling. Your laughter is melodic, complimenting Cassian’s lower chortle, the sound reverberating through his bones.
Feyre sighs, relaxing back into her seat, the remnants of her grin still gracing her features. “Oh, man, that would really be something.”
“What are the odds we build it ourselves?” Cassian asks, and everyone turns to look at him. He only shrugs, continuing, “Think about it. Say we find a house with a fence, that’s already at least a little protection. If the house has a pool, that’s even better. Some are probably still in decent shape, and it would be easy to tell if they aren’t.”
As he continues, his plan actually starts to sound feasible.
“We can barricade it for even more protection, bring the van and maybe we’ll find some gas eventually. We scour the neighborhood, and finally, we won’t have to be on the run every single day. And I have all of my seeds,” he says, puffing his chest proudly, “If we have somewhere safe we’d have a steady food supply.”
“And if anything should happen – and I pray that it doesn’t, but I have a little medical experience,” you tack on.
Feyre rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest, pouting. “I chose a really bad time to major in art,” she mumbles.
Everyone turns to Az and Rhys, seeing what they think. They share a glance and Azriel shrugs in response. They can see clearly how tired everyone is, see it in the way your walks become longer, your sleep schedules become later, lethargic and endlessly exhausted. With you and Cassian not back at 100% yet, having a place for everyone to spread out and not be so on top of each other does sound quite nice.
“Alright,” Rhys agrees, and the van erupts into another round of cheers. “But, we have to make a plan, a fool proof one. How are we going to find your sisters, Fey? What is the guard schedule going to be like and who will be leading scouts through towns. I’m talking about exit strategy, rendezvous, how long we wait for each other if something goes wrong. We go over everything, and we don’t let our guard down.”
Everyone nods, agreeing. Az’s shoulders relax a little knowing that everyone will continue to stay conscious.
“Alright,” Rhys says, looking each and every person in the eyes. “That’s what we’re going to do. Gear up, we’ve got some house hunting to do.”
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
“What about that one?”
“No,” Feyre makes a face.
“Why not?”
“I don’t like the shutters.”
Rhys sighs, shaking his head a little. “You’ve vetoed every house we’ve suggested.”
Cassian complains at the exact same time, “Shutters could help keep the zoms away. Extra protection.”
“Well, it’s not my fault all of these houses are ugly,” she defends, clearly grumpy.
You nudge Azriel’s elbow and roll your eyes dramatically at your friend. The corner of his mouth twitches and amusement sparkles his golden eyes. It makes your heart stutter in your chest.
He is truly so beautiful.
“Well, you have your pick of the block, Fey,” you answer, “Which one do you like?”
Everyone watches her look around, turning slowly as she assesses the block. Her gray eyes are sharp, examining every house in her line of vision. Eventually, she sighs, hands on her hips and exclaims, “None of these are screaming ‘best safe house in the world’ to me.”
The entire group seems to groan collectively and Feyre gasps, clutching a hand to her chest. “Excuse me, but I thought we all had a collective dream of what we wanted in a safehouse! Maybe you all should’ve lowered your standards a bit and we wouldn’t be in this mess!”
“C’mon, Fey,” you drape yourself across her back, hooking your chin over her shoulder. “We have to find something so that we can prepare it before nightfall. Please, pick something.”
“Alright,” she sighs, “Let’s go.”
Azriel’s brows furrow as you begin walking again, the slight limp in your step has him silently moving closer, flanking your other side so he can protect you if something happens. You notice his presence and beam up at him. He doesn’t have a chance to respond because you’re already looking at Feyre, who’s asking you something.
It’s another hour before Feyre finally decides on a house. You swear you’ve been up and down this block six times before but you don’t mention it, best not to when everyone is sweating and hungry.
The house is gated, but the lock is broken and the gate swings open easily, letting you all in.
With Rhys’ help, he and Azriel wrap the fence with the chain you’d stuffed into your bag from the night you’d met them, when you and Feyre were taking cover in the clothing shop.
“Looks good so far, Feyre,” Azriel compliments, and you think it might be the first time you’ve ever heard them interact quite like this. Since she’s saved him from the two zombies coming after him, he’s been a lot nicer to your companion.
The property is large, and Azriel scans it for any signs of movement. He’s already formulating a schedule in his head, who will take shifts with who and when, walking the property in the morning and maybe a few times throughout the day, at least until they’ve barricaded it better, and then a duo on watch while the rest sleep.
You trek up the small hill that the house is perched on. “Better to be at a high vantage point,” Feyre had said when she’d pointed it out.
“(Y/N), Cass, Fey, do you think you can stand watch out here while Rhys and I take a look inside?” Azriel asks as you all make your way up the stone steps to the large home.
“Sure, I’ll find the house and keep watch,” Feyre mutters in response. “Better not steal the room I want, Shadow.”
And there she is.
“By all means,” Azriel gestures to the door, rolling his eyes at the stupid nickname that seems to be haunting him. “If you want to check the house with Rhys, I’ll stay out here.”
“We’re not helpless, you know,” you say, face scrunched in a pout. Your arms are folded across your chest and you’re leaning heavily on your good foot. You almost look convincing, until Cassian bops you on the nose and you break out into a smile, shoving at him playfully.
“Look alive,” Rhys nods towards the gate where a lone zombie is dragging itself down the street. It hasn’t spotted you yet, and if everyone’s quiet, it won’t. Rhys and Feyre nod at each other and with their weapons poised and ready, Rhys heads for the door.
It’s locked.
“Didn’t see that one coming,” he comments, staring at the door like it should be open for them. Like someone hadn’t been hiding out in this house as the chaos around them took over.
“Let’s try the back,” Feyre suggests.
It’s golden hour now, and the sun will be dipping down soon. You need to find a way inside without making too much noise because there’s no way you’re making it back to the car by nightfall.
You all move around the house only to see more stairs.
You make a face at your throbbing ankle. “Come open the front door for me. I’m not walking down all those stairs.”
“Yeah, I think I’ll stay here too,” Cassian agrees, winking at you. His leg has been feeling a lot better, but it’s not quite healed up as much as he’d like and all of the walking today has irritated the stitches, leg itching underneath the sweat-soaked bandages.
He’ll need you to change them soon.
Azriel turns to Rhys and Feyre, who both look at each other and shrug.
“Be back in a minute, then,” Rhys says, taking the lead.
Azriel follows behind you and Cassian, and your chest tightens uncomfortably. You still don't know what is going on between the two of them and you can feel it all bubbling up inside of you now that it’s the three of you alone. Has Cassian just been using you? But he seemed just as eager to kiss you as you were to kiss him.
It is the end of the world…maybe the two of them aren’t a thing? Not official? Maybe they’re just friends who like to lose themselves in another friend? The thoughts swirling around your head make you dizzy, and you nearly collapse next to Cassian on the stone fence enclosing the front porch. You lift your leg up onto Casisan’s lap, who laughs heartily as you nearly demand for him to rub your aching leg.
“Spoiled,” he murmurs, but his warm hands knead at your tender muscles.
The grip Azriel has around his knife tightens unconsciously at the sight of you both and he turns away so they don’t catch the pinched reaction on his face.
He’s jealous. Of you, being massaged by Cassian, so effortlessly taking what you want. Of Cassian, because he gets to touch you and receive smiles instead of flinches in return.
It’s like torture, the thirty minutes or so that you’re sitting out front, waiting for Feyre and Rhys to clear the house. You wonder if they were using up this time to finally fuck, the tension between the two of them thicker than that you’re creating between you, Cassain, and Azriel.
You and Cassian seem off in your own world, the large man talking lowly into your ear, and he watches you giggle in response. Or the sneaky poke to your side that made you squirm and squeal. Azriel watches Cassian’s fingers travel further and further up the leg of your pants, and he shifts as the back of his neck grows hot.
Finally, the front door clicks open, revealing Rhys who lets everyone know that the home is clear.
“Anything?” Azriel asks as he passes his friend.
“Nah. Seems like it was abandoned a while ago. No food, but there’s beds,” he explains, and all of a sudden it hits him, just how tired he actually is.
“Yeah?” Azriel knows he sounds hopeful. He must look like it too because Rhys’ gaze on him softens and he places a comforting hand on his shoulder with a nod. He can’t remember the last time he’s actually slept in a bed, it’s been in the back of his van for what seems like forever. The vehicle wasn’t the worst place he’s had to sleep. No, that would be the one time he and his friends slept in a dumpster. He shudders at the memory. This, he thinks, is better than winning the lottery.
“Yeah,” Rhys confirms, violet eyes sparkling. He opens his mouth to say something else but is cut off by your shriek of glee as Feyre hugs you so tightly you both topple to the floor.
“This feels really good, Az. I think we might be able to stay awhile.”
Azriel chews his lip. He hates being the one who always has to think about safety and how badly things might turn out, but if anyone is going to do it, it’s him. He wishes that this is something you can all pull off, staying here, but he doesn’t have that sure feeling in his stomach.
He doesn’t voice his concern though, everyone is too happy right now.
Instead, he agrees gently. “Yeah, maybe.”
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
DBD Taglist: @writingsbychlo @kemillyfreitas @5moremin @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @waggel36 @bionic-donut @que-serasera @applepie02 @azrielsbabyg @arcadianmoonlight @pradaxstyles @illyrian-dreamer @secret-ly-here @reiincarnatiion @fuckthatfeeling @shadowsingersmate24 @harrystylesfan2686 @poppyalice2001
#azriel x reader#cassian x reader#azriel x cassian x reader#zombie au#acotar#acomaf#acowar#acosf#dead by dawn#azsazz
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Medical Evac
author's note: i'm not sure i'm the best at writing whumps [i love hurt/comfort so i may write a part two to this but we'll just have to see]
cw: whump, mentions of blood, injury
word count: 1600+
Simon "Ghost" Riley x GN!Reader "Nails"
If only every operation could just go smoothly. Unfortunately, in the world of TF-141, the dirtiest work was the norm. With the dirtiest work comes the nastiest repercussions when things go horribly wrong, after all. "Ghost, I need you to open your eyes for me. Please,” You plead with the hulking man laying in your arms. Your voice is muted as you choke back a sob, your eyes shut tight. The sound of Ghost’s pained groans is both disheartening and promising at the same time; at the very least, he's still breathing.
The corner you had dragged the both of you into was dark, dusty, and dicey, similar to the situation you found yourselves in. The room you're in was surrounded by enemy forces: the ones who reduced the almighty Ghost to a half-dead heap on the filthy concrete floor smeared with layers of blood, old and new. Your eyes moved frantically between Ghost, to the door of the hovel you’d created, and to the barred window on the other side of the room. Evac was supposed to be only a few minutes out and it had been almost fifteen minutes since you called for it. What could possibly be delaying them?
Ghost had stopped squirming in pain at this point. His breathing is slow, labored. It's almost impossible to tell if his eyes are open or not, and the pitch black eye paint certainly doesn’t help. “Ghost?” You shake him a bit. No response. “Ghost?” Your voice begs him for a sound, a twitch, anything to show you that he was still alive. “Please, you can’t leave me— I can’t lose you now.” You whimper quietly as you hunch over to press your forehead against the hard plastic plate of Ghost’s mask. All you can hear was the crackling flames and heavy boot steps just outside the room.
A heavy hand meets the back of your head, causing you to flinch up and look at Ghost. His eyes were finally open again. It was only just a fraction and it seems so forced that it hurt, but they were open. The hand holding your head so gently was tense. His grip tightens and loosens in time with his strained breathing. The tears in your eyes finally fall and drop down onto Ghost’s mask, prompting him to squeeze the back of your head just a bit harder. “It’ll—” Your voice breaks as you speak, feeling choked by the smoke and your own tears. “It’ll only be a little longer, Ghost, just— please, please,” You nuzzle deeper into his hold. “Just stay alive…”
Your shaky hand shot up to your transceiver and your desperate voice blurts out quickly, “What’s the status on evac?! We need to go— now!” Ghost’s hand grips even tighter, trying his best to ground you. Smoke had started to seep under the door. The footfalls outside had seemingly begun to grow louder, louder…
Until, finally, you see the heli approaching your location. You look down at Ghost for a second. Reluctantly, you set him down, carefully, as though he was made of porcelain. You scramble over to the barred window and scan for the best vantage point to… there.
Your foot comes up and slams into a rusted part of the bars and breaks them open, along with some of the bones in your foot. But that wasn’t important right now. A sudden burst of adrenaline courses through your veins from the mind-numbing pain you just inflicted upon yourself and you suddenly find yourself dragging Ghost along the floor and over your shoulder and jumping through the window to the grassy ground around the building. You wince when you felt him take a couple impacts on the way out. You adjust him the best you could, not wanting to make things worse. The last thing you needed was for things to be even worse than they already are.
You haven’t been able to breathe properly for the past six hours. Your mind has been entirely preoccupied with thoughts of Ghost. He hadn’t stirred once since you made it back to the small temporary base TF-141 had settled into for the past few weeks. Even though pain has been radiating up your ankle to the rest of your leg, you haven’t let anyone near to assess the damage. You haven’t even let Price, Soap or Gaz approach you. Whenever anyone would close in on you, your chest tightened. It was as if a boa constrictor has wrapped itself around your chest, squeezing as tight as it could. You just couldn’t stop yourself from snapping at the medics and your colleagues. You knew deep down you’d regret it later, but that was far from the front of your mind.
Really, this whole situation was your fault. It was the most simple mistake, one that even a rookie wouldn’t make. You caught your foot on one piece of debris and Ghost had to help you up. Then, next thing you knew, he had been riddled with bullet holes and he was bleeding everywhere, and he was dying, he was dying—
“Nails…” Ghost’s voice was rough, the sound of it grating on your mind. You can’t bear to keep hearing it playing over and over in your head. It's painful. It hurt to hear him like that. “Nails.” You silently beg for it to stop. His voice was like sandpaper, digging into your skin down to your heart, into your lungs. You couldn’t breathe—
“Nails!” Ghost’s insistent voice finally breaches past your spiraling mind and you jump to attention. You hadn’t realized you were crying again, hunched over and sobbing into your lap, the tears falling down upon your still dirtied cargo pants. You meet eyes with Ghost. You stare at each other for a couple more seconds until he coughs and winces in pain. Apparently, shouting like that really did a number on the back of his throat, parched after the many hours of not drinking.
Words continue to go unexchanged for a few more seconds that seem to drag on for hours. Before you choke out, “I’m sorry,” over and over again. You hunch back over, unable to look Ghost in the eyes. All you could keep seeing was the pain in his gaze under his mask and eye paint. Ghost’s firm hand lands on your head, caressing you with his now ungloved hand. You lean into him quietly. “I almost got you killed…” Your body trembles, your voice broken and breathless.
Ghost’s hand tenses. “Stop that.” He grumbles through gritted teeth. He hates this self-flagellation you were subjecting yourself to. You didn’t deserve that pain, that sole responsibility you tended to leverage upon yourself. You're too good for that. “Look at me.” His voice is gruff and gravelly as he vies for your attention, watching you despair in front of him. Your eyes are finally pulled up to Ghost’s; they're red and saturated with tears, your eyelashes catching the droplets.
“I’m alright.” Ghost’s voice is hoarse as he did his best to comfort you. He grabs your hand and squeezes it tight, bringing you closer to the present and further out of your mind. “Ghost, I— You almost died. I don’t want to lose you…” Your voice is weak. You look at Ghost almost as though he isn’t real. You feel as though maybe this is all just a dream: a hopeful dream where Ghost was still alive, a dream where you’d actually succeeded in keeping him alive. Maybe he's dead and gone, and you’ll wake up just to see that you failed. “I can’t lose you.” The tears start to return. “Are you… are you gone?” You whisper.
Ghost’s cold, icy heart has been cracking ever since he met you. It's been getting harder and harder for him to tell himself he doesn’t care, and that you're just a coworker, maybe even a nuisance with how persistent you are in trying to make friends with him. No matter what he did, you're always there for him, ready to help and ready to care for him if ever he needs it. Even if you knew that the feeling wasn’t reciprocated. Ghost sighs. “I’m here. I’m not dead.” He moves his hand up your arm and squeezes your shoulder. “You’re not gonna lose me, Nails.”
You sit there quietly for a few minutes, only the sounds of Ghost’s heart monitor and your labored breathing occupying the room. You sigh and look up from your lap. “I should get the nurse.” You force out, still trying to choke down the tears welling up. You grip the armrest of the bed and stand carefully, but you don’t get far before your knees buckle and you fall to the floor with a cry of pain.
Ghost is up and at attention immediately, grabbing hold of your arm. “What’s the issue, Nails?” You whimper and try to force yourself up again. “My—” You clench your teeth, your brow scrunching up. “My foot. It’s broken, I think…” You mutter, waiting for his admonishment. Ghost squints at you. “Why haven’t you gotten it treated, sergeant?” His voice is firm, masking the genuine worry hiding beneath it. He watches as fresh tears start rolling down your cheeks. “I didn’t— I-I was worried about you…” You whimper.
“Bloody git…” Ghost groans both in pain and in frustration. You sniffle and get yourself sat in the chair again. “I-I have to get the nurse. I’m sorry.” You wipe your face with your sleeve. Forcing yourself up again, you keep your eyes off Ghost and squeezed shut. With shaky legs, you limp and stumble on your way to the door. Ghost sighs and settles back into his bed to shut his eyes after watching you leave.
𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
#simon ghost riley x reader#simon ghost riley#ghost x reader#simon ghost riley x gn!reader#simon riley x gn!reader#ghost x gn!reader#ghost mw2#ghost modern warfare#ghost cod#mwii#modern warfare ii#mw2 2022#cod mw2#mw2#mw2 x reader#mw2 fanfic#storm's creations#sstormyskyess
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drops of blood [3/4]
SYNOPSIS: Bucky Barnes has some wires crossed. He fixates on a barista at a coffee shop near his apartment, and tells himself it's fine as long as he keeps his distance. Except you keep making that distance smaller.
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: 11k
CONTENT WARNINGS: masturbation in this one. stalking, exhibitionism. consensual-but-not-safe-or-sane vibes really starting to settle in. Weird psychological elements kinda. For easter eggs you can check my AO3 chapter notes; for additional content check my tag "fic; drops of blood". there is a playlist and it's got hozier and the songs are sooo mood.
Thanks for reading!
Read on AO3
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It's been snowing, on and off, the last few days; the gutters on your apartment complex are ancient and decaying, and meltwater pools in the rusted divots along them. The runoff from the rooftop freezes overnight, forms these jagged, spindly icicles on the overhangs, like fingers reaching down towards the street below. You can hear them outside your bedroom, water sliding off the sharp pinpoint ends and hitting the ledge of the window, wearing divots into the brick.
The sound follows you to sleep, the steady drip-drip, drip-drip, drip-drip, staccato and rhythmic and spaced like a heartbeat. In your dream you wriggle out from the tangle of your covers and pad to the window and part the curtains. You look out at the dark night sky and watch the droplets as they fall, glittering flashes of light reflected in the beads of water from streetlamps or the headlights of passing cars somewhere on the street below.
When you look down to the windowsill, the water gathered there has turned color, glittering like rubies, like pomegranate seeds. Like blood, dark and rich and red.
~
“It’s called starfruit. Carambola, technically.”
It’s just the two of you, and it’s late, the sky black and the street nearly empty and the lights inside the coffee shop reflected back by the windows, the both of your reflections mirrored there. Barnes has been here since seven-thirty, but you’d been busy again, and you feel bad; he must have been horribly bored, just waiting that whole time. If he was, he doesn’t look it– he looks just as neutrally impassive as ever, leaned back in the chair, watching you dump the grocery bag out on the tabletop and pull another chair over to sit across from him.
The fruit is yellow and ridged and weird-shaped, and he prods at it with one hand; the left one, gloved. His mouth twitches.
“Dunno if you’ve ever seen a star,” he says, “But I’m pretty sure they don’t look like that.”
You flash him a smile, dragging the chair a little closer. Under the table– the cheap square of laminated plastic that suddenly feels far too small– your knee brushes against his, and he starts, jerks back a fraction of an inch and straightens, this sharp frisson of tension that reverberates out through his whole body like tremors from a stress fracture. His reflexes are much faster than yours, all of them, and he’s able to compose himself and carry on as if nothing happened before you can respond to whatever that was; he’s already leaning to draw his knife from his boot and setting it on the table by the time any of it has even registered in your brain.
Hyperreactive startle response, you reason; that’s not abnormal. He’s a veteran. Multiple times over. You’d spent a long time researching it, combat PTSD, wanting to know, wanting to have the information to be able to— meet him halfway, or something. You don’t know the details of his life these days, not outside of these slivers of time he spends with you, and you’d never ask, but a part of you still wonders how many other friends he has. How many other people he even talks to, besides you and his therapist. The thought makes something ache, in your chest, something soft and melancholy and a little bit painful; it does something else, too, makes you feel determined to not mess this up.
You figure right now, what would help the most is for you to not mention it. The way he’d– flinched, or startled, or something, jerked back from less than half a second of contact like you’d burned him.
Barnes lays out the starfruit lengthwise across one of those flimsy recycled paper napkins and aligns the knife to cut it right down the middle, which conveniently gives you something to say that’s entirely unrelated to whatever just happened.
“Hold on, wait,” you say quickly, “You’re doing it wrong.”
“Doing it wrong,” Barnes repeats, and maybe you imagine it, the way his shoulders relax. Like he’s relieved. He looks up from it, at you; his eyes crinkle up at the corners, just a little bit, humor glinting in the precise and magnetic blue of his irises, and something strange lights in your stomach in response. “What, because there’s a right way?”
“Yes,” you reply, with a teasing sort of cadence like, duh, obviously.
Whatever that feeling is, It buzzes in the pit of your stomach at the barest amount of warmth in his expression; something like adrenaline or anxiety or frayed nerves, only multiple times brighter. A sensation that’s not unfamiliar, not unrecognizable, either, and also not something you really want to think about or examine too closely, right now. Or— ever.
Barnes opens his mouth like he’s going to say something and then doesn’t. He closes it again, and he glances down and away from you, drums his fingers against the table. Taptaptaptap, taptaptaptap. When he looks at you again, the brightness that had been in his eyes before is gone, snuffed out like somebody’d blown out a candle, and whatever it’s been replaced with is something else entirely.
He sets the knife down. The handle clicks against the laminate and your pulse does something weird at the sound; stutters, maybe, or skips, or just stalls outright. He nudges it with the tip of his finger, at the base, makes it spin in a slow, juddering circle, until the blade is pointed towards him, and then he slides it across the table.
When your heartbeat picks up again, it’s too-fast, thudding quick and insistent in the hollow of your throat, like rabbit’s feet.
“Here,” he says. “You want to, this time? Since– since there’s a right way, and all.”
There’s a roughness to his voice, a strain that makes you think of last week, please do it, I just want you to be safe, makes you think of the blood by the dumpster in the back, how he’d looked when he’d come back inside, they were just drunks, it’s fine, it’s all fine, and that warmth inside of you dissipates.
(No, it doesn’t.)
“Sure, yeah,” you hear yourself say, warbly and far-away, like maybe somebody else is speaking. Somebody who isn’t you. But it’s your hand that reaches out to drag the edge of the napkin across the table, and it’s your hand that closes around the knife, too.
The handle is still warm. Something deep inside of you coils in on itself, in the pit of your stomach or the base of your spine or maybe lower, twists and tightens and pulses like a heartbeat. You think about his hand, being where yours is now, the way that he’d spun the knife a few weeks ago, how he handles it with this unnervingly practiced ease, this familiarity, like it’s something more than an object.
Like it’s an extension of his body.
(Again, you think about the blood.)
Carambolas are long, oval fruits with five- or six-point ridges; you cut it into slices the way you’d slice a banana, and the pieces fall over one another shaped like stars.
“Huh,” you hear Barnes say, and when he reaches for one, the glove probably in his pocket, you swallow around nothing at all, suddenly aware with startling clarity of how close his hand is to your own. How much bigger it is than your own. “Starfruit. No kidding.”
You wait for him to pull back before you move to take your own piece, his flinch replaying in the back of your mind, and something else there, too, that you determinedly continue to ignore. The skin on the carambola crunches between your teeth and the juice floods your mouth, sour-sweet and unfamiliar; you’re aware of it, the mechanical action of eating, the taste, but you’re not paying attention to that.
He hasn’t moved to take the knife back. It’s sitting on the table still, closer to you than it is to him. You don’t even really make the conscious decision to reach for it, you just do, dragging it closer to you and turning it lengthwise; up close, there are flaws that you couldn’t see from a distance, chips in the matte black coating of paint over the flat of the blade and the handle, divots worn into the edge from use.
(You wonder if he’s ever killed anyone with it.)
“How sharp is this thing?” you ask absently– idly– inanely, operating on some stupid and unthinking whim, the same impulse that has you reaching out and touching the tapered point of the knife with your thumb, pressing in, just a little, the skin indenting around it until–
Until something entirely predictable happens. Something that anyone with a modicum of common sense could have guessed at, that most people, you figure, probably would have known well enough to avoid, because most people, you think, possess a rational understanding of actions and consequences that would have kept them from doing what you’d just done.
“Okay,” you say, watching the blood beading up along where the sharpened tip had cut into your skin. It’s just a little, no more than you’d get from a pin-prick or a paper cut, just enough to well up into a drop that grows until the surface tension breaks and it spills onto the flat of the blade, oozing sluggishly down the pad of your thumb. “Pretty sharp.”
You’re not going to wipe it off on the napkin, because there’s food on there, so you bring it to your mouth; the second your hand is clear of the knife, Barnes reaches for it, snatches it back, so quickly that it feels like both things happen at the same time, even though you know, rationally, that isn’t possible.
Barnes is staring at you.
“Sorry,” you blurt out reflexively, “Sorry, that was— pretty stupid of me, don’t know what I was expecting—“
“No,” he cuts you off, “No, you’re— it’s fine, you don’t need to apologize, I shouldn’t have—“ he stops and he stammers and then he cuts out into silence and his expression flickers through a whole bunch of things, some that you recognize and others that you don’t; he looks plaintive and stricken and ashamed and worried and scared and something else that you can’t find the words to describe. “Are you— you’re okay?”
“I— yeah, of course,” you reply, feeling again like there’s something you’re missing. Like whatever puzzle you’re constructing of James Buchanan Barnes—it has this hole, right in the center of it, a silhouette in the shape of whatever it is you’re unable to figure out, and like if you could just find it you might be able to fit everything together, and that it– that he– might finally make sense to you. “Not your fault, I was being— dumb. And look, see? It’s fine.”
You hold out your hand to him. He glances down at it for a fraction of a second and then looks back at you, eyes wavering and glassy and filled with that thing you can’t name.
All that’s left is a thin, red line where the knife had pressed in.
No blood.
~
You finish late, almost midnight.
It’s your own fault, you’d gotten distracted, neglected clearing out the pastry display case and cleaning the espresso machine and prepping the brewing stations for the next morning in favor of sitting with Barnes for— way too long. He’d left at eleven, on the dot, and you hadn’t asked him to wait because he’d already been there a while, spent most of it just waiting there for you as the steady tide of customers ebbed and flowed and ebbed again, always just busy enough to keep you occupied and unavailable. So when you strip off your apron and your uniform hat and shrug your coat on over your sweater and finally flick the lights off in the shop behind you, you expect to come out to— nothing. Nobody.
But he’s there, standing off to the side, hands in his pockets, expression flat and clear and calm. He makes eye contact with you and something tightens, his brow, maybe, just for a half-second, but then you smile just on instinct, stopping on the sidewalk a few feet away, and his expression, it– softens, again.
“You stayed,” you say aloud, aware of how pleased you must sound and wondering again, somewhere in the back of your mind, if that’s really how you should feel.
“Yeah,” he replies, glancing down at his feet, scuffing one foot against the concrete. “Yeah, sorry, I, ah—“
“No, I wasn’t– I’m glad,” you interject quickly, back turned from him as you lock the door behind you. “I just— I didn’t ask today because I knew I’d be out late, and I don’t want to— take up all of your time, I guess, I already feel like I made you waste so much of it just, like, sitting, so—“
When you turn back to him, he’s staring, the way he does sometimes— the way he does a lot, precise and unwavering and intense enough to make you feel like you’ve been pinned to the spot– and whatever you’d been saying dries up somewhere in the back of your throat.
“No,” Barnes says, takes all of an aborted half-step closer, and then he tears his eyes away, like he’d maybe realized and tried to correct it, the way that he’d been looking at you. “It’s— you’re not a waste of time,” he says, looking at the ground.
The warmth you can feel in your face, you decide, is because of the cold, and nothing else.
~
He tells you to lock up again, and you tell him that you will.
It’s the very first thing, after pulling the keys from the door, before you hang them up on the peg nearby or strip your coat or take off your shoes— you always flip the deadbolt, and the flimsier lock on the door handle. Force of habit, deeply ingrained.
The windows, though—
It’s the third floor, you reason. There’s a fire escape outside the one that looks in on your bedroom, but the ladder can only be released from the second-story landing, some fifteen feet in the air. You have nothing to worry about. And maybe that’s why you just never get around to it; the fact that the urgency’s not there. It’s not a part of your routine. You mean to do it, because he asks and because you’d said you would, but somewhere between stripping from your work clothes and washing off the smell of stale coffee after a long and annoying shift and padding into your bedroom with a towel wrapped around your chest and water still dripping from your hair and onto the floor—
You always end up forgetting.
~
You have those dreams again. A whole bunch of times.
The ones with the broken pavement, the darkened street, the heartbeat.
The blood.
~
His birthday is March 10th. He hasn’t told you this. You know, though. You’ll see him on the 8th, the Friday he always comes in, and that’s close enough, you figure. Probably better that way; with how he is, so closed off, you think he’ll probably want to spend the actual day alone.
There is an Etsy shop that makes pocket-knives. Fancy ones. Objectively cool-looking ones.You place the order at two in the morning Saturday night, operating on some half-awake impulse. It’s four inches long— street-legal— with this wood-paneled handle and a flat-grip hilt and three letters engraved on one side. JBB. You figured that was better, the initials; the interpretation being left up to him, whether it’s Buchanan or Bucky. It’s just a keepsake. Something you thought he might— like.
“What’d you get this time?” he asks, that brightness in his expression again; your heart is beating too fast, and you’re anxious and doubtful and feeling a little bit sick, spiraling and suddenly certain this was all a massive mistake. But it’s in your hand, in a reusable grocery bag, and you hadn’t even brought anything else to fall back on in case you ended up losing your nerve about it like you are right this second.
You pull out the chair across from him and sit down and drop the bag at your feet, awkwardly folding your hands on the table.
He stares at you.
You stare back.
The silence drags out for what must be only a few seconds but still somehow feels like so much longer, thick and oppressive and borderline uncomfortable.
You open your mouth to speak—
Whatever small amount of courage you’d managed to work up evaporates from you completely.
“Nothing,” you say, nudging the bag with your foot until it’s under your seat, “It’s, um— it’s nothing.”
Barnes stares at you some more, and then raises one incredulous eyebrow. “Okay, well, it’s definitely not nothing.”
“Yeah, or, I mean– no, it’s just— “ You grimace and shift in your chair, suddenly realizing how uncomfortable it is, flimsy and straight-backed and too hard. “I had an idea, but it was a bad one, and— just, nevermind. It’s really— it’s nothing.”
Barnes pulls a patently disbelieving face and leans back and straightens out until his legs are just a little bit past yours under the table, his heels angled against the tiled floor on either side of your calves. There’s still a lot of space between the two of you, he’s nowhere near close enough to be touching, but the awareness of it— his body almost bracketing your own, even if only a little— it lances right through the pit of your stomach, a bright shock of electricity that hums somewhere in your whole body, like it’s leached right into your blood.
Barnes is still staring at you.
“Just spill it, come on,” he says. “I’m not so old that I can’t tell when you’re full of shit.”
You swallow, half-nervous and half— something else.
(Something worse, maybe.)
“It’s your birthday this week,” you blurt out, so quickly that the words all sort of blur together into one continuous block of sound. “I remembered from– you know. History.”
You regret saying it before the words have even completely left your mouth, because something in his expression just– shatters.
“You didn’t—“ He sits up straight and shifts back and shuts his eyes, his brow pinching together in the middle. When he speaks again, it’s soft and small and remarkably plaintive. “You did, didn’t you? I can’t— you shouldn’t have— no. Just— no.“
Your mouth twists into this tight little frown.
“See, I knew it was a bad idea,” you say, aiming at sounding dismissive in some light-hearted and trivial way, and unsure how close you get to achieving that. “Don’t worry, I can just— I’ll return it. I should have asked, but I—well, I saw this thing online, and I thought of you, and I didn’t, you know, actually think, and—“
You’re trying, pretty hard, to not sound like you’re a lot of things—self-conscious, embarrassed, a little disappointed— but it’s clear you do a fucking terrible job at hiding all of that, because his eyes snap open and that furrow in his brow worries deeper and before you can even finish he’s leaned forwards again and cut you off completely.
“No, hey, it’s— it’s fine, you can still— if you want—” he starts, stumbling over the words, like he’s saying it faster than he can even think, “If you really want to, then I’ll— it’s okay.”
You’re not looking at him anymore, looking at the table instead, the places where the laminate is cracked and peeling along the edge closest to you. Whatever you feel right now is cold and slimy and awkward and bad, but you figure this is the time to suck it up and get the fuck over it. No gifts. That’s—fine. It’s a totally reasonable boundary, and you should have known better; you should have asked, you should have thought of it earlier so that you would have even been able to ask, but you didn’t. And it’s fine.
When you finally do look back at him, he’s doing that thing again, his eyes gone all wide and glossy and sad. “Just forget about it,” you reply, a lot more firmly than before, “Seriously, it’s fine, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, and I shouldn’t have—“
“No, it’s okay, really,” he interjects, with a strange urgency. “Really, all right? It’s– I— I just didn’t want you to feel like— like you have to. You’re— you already—“
Barnes cuts off mid-sentence, and falls silent like he’d decided whatever he was going to say wasn’t actually worth saying, after all. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, and then he laughs, this short, sharp, self-deprecating sound, and his mouth twitches at the corners, just a little. It’s not like a repressed smile, not really; it’s rueful and distant and a little too sad.
“It’s just—it’s been a really long time since anybody’s—“ he starts, trailing off, clearing his throat, like that might make his voice steadier. Less hoarse. “Since I’ve had a birthday. Guess I kinda forgot my manners. Last time I had to use ‘em was way back in 1942, so. Kind of— rusty.”
Something in your chest— it aches, like somebody’s stuck a hand in past your ribs and grabbed your heart in a fist and squeezed it.
“I’m sorry,” you blurt out. “I thought– I figured somebody would have– since you’ve been back, I didn’t know–”
“No– hey, c’mon, don’t be sorry,” he says quickly. He leans forwards a little bit more, rests his elbows on the table, arms folded over each other. “What do you have to be sorry for? It’s not– it’s not like it’s your fault.”
You manage a kind of watery approximation of a smile at that, and maybe you imagine it, the way that the tension around his eyes and his mouth eases, his expression going just a little bit softer.
(But maybe you don’t.)
“Kinda makes me wish I’d gone all out,” you say quietly, your mouth curling up further at the corners, despite itself. “Sheet cake and everything, you know? Candles. Balloons, even.”
Barnes makes another sound, another laugh, maybe, except not really. More like the kind of thing somebody does as a placeholder, instead of something else. Maybe something worse. “I definitely don’t deserve all that,” he says, with this kind of lightness that feels— feigned. Performative.
And all of this, you think, with this soft sad sinking feeling; all of it suddenly starts to make a lot more sense.
“It doesn’t work that way,” you tell him, before you can think better of it. You’re looking down at your hands, and your voice comes out small, but steady. Certain. “People don’t— deserve anything from anyone, not really. I just— I wanted to do something nice for you.”
You still don’t look up. Whatever might be in his expression right now— you think if you looked at him, if you saw it, you might lose your nerve again. “If— if that’s okay, I mean,” you add, after a while, painfully aware of his silence.
“Yeah,” he says finally, so quiet it’s almost a whisper. “That’s— it’s okay.”
When you do finally glance up at him, his eyes are wavering and glassy and strangely delicate, like a sheen of ice frozen over window panes. The way he’s looking at you; he’s never looked at you like that before. You don’t think anybody’s ever looked at you like that before, soft and fond and fragile and like you might be able to break him wide open, if you tried. If you wanted to.
(And maybe you do want that. Just to get inside, just to see, you think, in some part of your brain buried so deep you can almost pretend you don’t think it at all. You’d do it gently, put him back together after, piece by vulnerable piece, and maybe you want to do that, too.)
You reach for the bag under the table and take out the box inside, wrapped up neat in brightly-colored paper, the cheesy kind they sell at the dollar store, with a pattern of multicolored balloons and ribbons and HAPPY BIRTHDAYs written in this big, overdramatic font plastered all over it.
“Here,” you say, kind of timidly, sliding it across the table.
Barnes stares at it for a long time. He blinks, and clears his throat, and then finally reaches for the package, pulling it closer to the edge.
“You put a bow on it,” he observes, nonplussed, pressing down on the glinting silver loops of folded plastic with his index finger until they flatten against the box.
The corners of your mouth twitch up, just a little. “I did,” you reply, watching as he peels the square of adhesive-lined cardboard off from where it’s affixed to the wrapping paper, mumbling something under his breath that sounds a lot like what the fuck as he examines it; it occurs to you that they’d probably actually tied bows by hand, way back in the 40s, and that this might be his first time encountering one of the shitty little mass-produced stick-on ones that you can get at the dollar store.
It’s kind of funny. And then it’s also kind of sad.
He sets it on the table and spins the package until he finds the edge with the tape and pulls that free, working it open that careful way that you’ve seen old people do, when they’re trying not to tear the paper, and that, too, is absurd and endearing and has you pressing down on the beginnings of a soft smile. “Just rip it, I don’t care, it’s going in the garbage anyways.”
“Oh, yeah,” Barnes mumbles, and then tears right through it. “Old habit.”
With the wrapping paper gone, there’s just the actual box the knife came in, made of dark, varnished wood, spartan and simple. It props up, with this mechanism on the inside, doubles as a display case; you’d fooled around with it when it had arrived in the mail.
He flips open the lid and his breath catches.
You shift, nervously, in your seat, careful to not lean closer or brush his calves with your shoes, just trying to fidget enough to dispel whatever apprehensive wave of tension has washed over you at the face he’s making, the worry lines folding deeper and his brow furrowing in again.
He pulls the folded knife free of the case with his fingers, so carefully, like he thinks he might break it just by touching it at all, and turns it over in his palm.
“It has— those are my initials,” he says, blankly.
You clear your throat and duck your head and look at the table again. “Yeah, um— the guy I bought it from, he does custom engravings, too, and it was free, so.”
Barnes pulls down on the release mechanism with his index finger and the knife flicks open with a soft click. He hasn’t looked at you, and you’re not sure if that’s good or bad.
“It’s, like. Damascus steel?” you continue, painfully awkward, painfully aware of how awkward you’re being and somehow also unable to do anything to stop yourself, “It’s this weird thing where they take two steel alloys and they fold them together a whole bunch of times, and that’s how they make it, that’s why it— looks like that.”
He makes this sound, holding it in his left hand so he can touch the flat of the blade with the tips of his fingers, running them across like he thinks he might be able to feel ridges, or something, evidence that the two contrasting shades of metal are actually distinct and separate parts, but there’s nothing. It’s smooth. You’d done the same thing yourself, just to see; you can’t feel the individual alloys at all, can’t even tell where one ends and another begins anymore. It’s all just one piece, complete and inseparable. Whole.
“How much did this cost?” he says, his voice wavering.
You pick at the spot on your side of the table where the laminate is peeling, working a fingernail under the edge and pulling it up more. “Only two dollars,” you say, keeping your own voice as light as you can make it, hoping with a mounting sense of unease that you haven’t upset him. That it wasn’t as terrible of an idea as your brain is telling you it was. “In— you know. 1940s money.”
Barnes makes some sound that’s probably supposed to be a laugh, but it’s thick and rough and hoarse and doesn’t really sound anything like one. “You said when you saw this,” he begins, turning it over again in his palm, still just staring at it. “You thought of– me?”
“Yeah,” you reply, eyes still cast down. “I— yeah, I thought you might— like it.”
(That’s not a lie. Not really. It’s just not the whole truth, either.)
“Oh.” Barnes closes his eyes for a second. He swallows thickly, gives one jerky and abrupt nod before he opens them again and says, his voice shaking more than you’ve ever heard, “I do, I— I really—this is— thank you.”
And just like that— all of your worry is gone, melted away like frost in the sunlight, and you’re smiling at him before you can even think to stop it, not sure if you would have been able to, anyways.
“Good,” you say, “I’m really glad,” like maybe if you say it with enough insistence he might actually believe that you mean it; that it’s not about pity or obligation or any of that. You’d really just wanted this, nothing else. To do something nice for him.
He gives you another one of those looks again, soft and fond and impossibly grateful.
You hesitate, just for a second, before you add, “Happy birthday, Barnes.”
Almost as soon as you say it, his eyes break from yours so abruptly that it takes you by surprise, feels like it physically jolts and forcibly recalibrates your whole nervous system.
There’s a long, strange, fraught pause.
You’re suddenly aware of how close you are, both of you leaned in with your elbows on this tiny little coffee table that’s a grand total of two feet across, and something inside of you feels like it ignites at the realization. His legs are stretched out underneath it again, longer than yours, larger, too, so you can fit easily in whatever space is left there, even with them straightened and taking up way more than half of it, and you’re aware of that, too, whatever had come alive in your belly burning a little brighter in response.
In the soft orange light from the overhead fixture, as close as you’ve ever been to him, you can see flecks of silver glinting in the stubble along the sharp edge of his jaw; the angular planes of his face and the blunt curves of his cheekbones and worry lines setting in on his forehead. It’s not his birthday yet, it’s still two days away, and you find yourself wondering how old he’ll be.
Thirty-seven, you think, completely arbitrarily; though you’re not going to tell him that.
“Would you do something for me,” he blurts out; it’s a question, but it’s not really phrased like one, comes out pitched low and flat and monotone. His eyes are closed and his expression tense again, like he’s forcing himself to say it.
“Yeah,” you reply, automatic, unthinking, “Yeah, whatever you need, what’s up?”
What he does in response to that could technically be called a smile, based just on description alone, but in reality looks nothing like one at all; the upturn of his mouth too sharp and his eyes too cold and the sum of it deeply self-deprecating. More like a grimace, you think.
The silence stretches. Charged. Expectant. He’s staring at you again, and you’re thinking more stupid things about the color of his eyes, his irises that bright and blinding shade of blue, and you’re not paying attention as much as you should be.
“Can you—” he clears his throat. Looks away. “I want you to call me Bucky.”
You blink at him for a moment, uncomprehending. And then your stomach does this weird and physiologically impossible fluttering jittery thing and your pulse speeds up or slows down or maybe misses a beat entirely. Maybe misses several.
“Oh, I– okay,” is all you say, momentarily too stunned to manage much more than that. Suddenly your tongue feels thick in your mouth, clumsy and uncooperative, like you’ve just somehow managed to forget how to move it with the dexterity required to actually form syllables and say them aloud, and it takes way too long to snap the fuck out of it and stammer through all of three words in a voice that sounds way too soft and way too shy to actually belong to you, “Happy birthday, Bucky.”
Something flickers in his eyes, too fast for you to examine in detail, and then—
He smiles. Really smiles, small and soft and entirely too fleeting, the kind that reaches his eyes and transforms his whole face and softens his expression into something open and honest and so fundamentally different than the way you’re used to seeing him that it almost feels wrong to be seeing it at all. Like you’ve been sucker-punched, or something. Like you’re staring, wide-eyed, into the sun.
For a second, he looks— happy. But just like with anything else you’ve ever seen from him, it’s only a second, and then it’s gone.
~
“Listen, ah, next week,” Barnes— Bucky— says, stopping at your apartment building; he’s not looking at you, looking at the ground, head ducked down, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck, “How about— maybe I could bring something. Y’know, for— for a change.”
You’re standing on the first step of the staircase up to the lobby door; you think it must put you almost at head-height, compared to him, but it’s hard to tell. He’ll let you sit across from him, at that one little table, but he always stands so far away.
“Yeah,” you say, looking back at him; you’re maybe still kind of running on the high of before, the thought that you might have done something that made him happy, even if just for a second, and you blame that and the fact that it’s nearly midnight for why even something as small as that has you smiling, bright and wide and embarrassingly genuine. “Yeah, that’d be– I’d like that.”
“And don’t forget to lock your—“
“I know, I know,” you cut him off, fighting back the mostly good-natured urge to roll your eyes. “I will.”
He looks uncomfortable, maybe uneasy, but it’s brief and fleeting and less important than the number of other things you’re still thinking about.
You stand there for a long, lingering moment, just looking at him.
He stares right back at you, expression unreadable.
Finally, he clears his throat. Looks away.
When he says goodnight, he says your name, too, and a frisson of— something, it shivers right down the length of your spine at the sound of it.
“Goodnight, Bucky,” you say back, a part of you kind of hoping that you’ll get another smile from him, even just a split second of one.
A flicker of something soft and satisfied flashes across his face, but it doesn’t last, and he doesn’t smile again.
~
It’s all because of that, you’ll think later, having woken up for no reason at some ridiculous hour Saturday night and found yourself unable to fall back asleep, staring at your bedroom ceiling in the dark.
You’d been thinking about him, because it’s past midnight, technically Sunday. Technically his birthday. And you keep thinking about that smile, all of a split second of one; some stupid part of you had been strangely captivated by it, the way that you’d almost been able to see that twenty-eight-year-old guy from Brooklyn way back when, the ghost of him still in his mannerisms, sometimes, but never as clearly visible as it had been right then. Maybe it was the contrast, the superimposition of that younger, happier, safer self over the face of somebody who wasn’t really any of those things anymore— but you’d been reminded, painfully, of a fact that you’d been doing a great job at ignoring, until now.
The fact that he’s— handsome. That you had, at one point, found him attractive. The crush was brief and surface-level and fleeting, the dead Sergeant James Barnes functioning as a suitably unobtainable receptacle for what was, at the time, your tenuous grasp on the concept of attraction in general. You had realized pretty quickly as you’d gotten older that your type, the kind of people you’re actually interested in, the kind you would actively pursue in real life, are not anything like he was; sweet and charming and boyish and—
And young, a particularly hedonistic voice in your head supplies unhelpfully.
But Barnes— Bucky, your brain corrects, which is also unhelpful and has your stomach doing another one of those weird little flips— he’s not any of those things, anymore. He’s older than he’d been then, by an amount that is not-insignificant, and he’s thorny and standoffish and intense and even a little bit scary, sometimes. That childhood crush had been on a guy who was essentially fictional, a memorialized facsimile of a real person, and that had felt safe, idealized and superficial and well beyond your reach. Whatever your little relationship with Bucky is now— whatever it’s turning into— it’s not like that at all. Sergeant Barnes was some long-dead historical relic, but Bucky is alive, he’s a real human being, someone that you know.
It’s strange to think about, and your mind drifts there, next; the fact that you actually know what he looks like, not just in frozen split-seconds from photographs, but in person, up close. You’ve seen him with a five o'clock shadow and with scruffy days-old stubble and you know that he sometimes nicks himself shaving; you know what he looks like when he’s well-rested and when he’s dead tired with bruise-dark bags under his eyes, you’ve seen him with hair all messed up by the wind and chapped lips when there’d been that cold spell back in February and the air had been freezing and bone-dry for weeks. You know that he takes up way too much space when he’s relaxed, slouches in his chair and stretches his legs out as far as they’ll go, and you know that he’s taller than you, larger, too, that his chest is broad and his shoulders are broader and sometimes when he sits leaned forward his leather jacket bunches up around the tops of his biceps like the sleeves are just shy of being a little bit too small, and you know that his right hand— the only one you’ve ever seen without the gloves on— is tanned and calloused and a lot fucking bigger than yours, that it looks like it might be just a little bit rough, if he were to touch you—
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” you mumble, out loud, feeling your face burn with some awful and deeply embarrassing warmth; you try to just roll over onto your side and smush your face into your pillow and will yourself back to sleep, to not fucking think— whatever the fuck you were even thinking. But it’s two in the morning, that horrible hour when nothing seems real and your impulse control is languishing somewhere hopelessly out of reach, and you’re barely half-awake and verging on delirious and as much as you try to think of anything else— literally, literally anything else— the thoughts just seem to sharpen, defiant. Like some part of your brain that you can’t access or control is all the more interested in bringing these things to mind, now that you’re working so hard to ignore them.
Like the fact that you know he runs hot; if he were to touch you his hand would be rough and it would be warm and it would be able to cover such a large span of your body, effortlessly, without even trying. And the other one— you know that it’s metal, even though you’ve never seen it, and that horrible part of your brain suggests that that one might be cool and smooth and if he were to touch you it might make goosebumps spill down the backs of your arms from the chill, from the contrast; he could span your whole ribcage with both of them, your brain supplies traitorously. Could probably close his palm right around the bones of your wrist, maybe even both at once, could cover the whole soft sensitive stretch of the insides of your thighs, could fit one, easily, around your throat—
You make another sound, a wavering and ashamed and deeply self-reproachful one, but it’s really fucking late and you’re really fucking tired and your brain is doing that stupid thing where it decides to hyperfixate on something specifically because you don’t want to think about it, and you rationalize, with a dull pang of guilt, that you might as well just— get it over with. Give up and give in and then get some fucking sleep and be entirely back to normal tomorrow and never have to think about or address any of it ever again.
You shift again, onto your back, and you squirm your way deeper under the coverlet until it’s up around your shoulders and shove your underwear down with the heel of your palm and you ignore the visceral stab of something like shame if shame had fucking teeth that burns in your belly at just how wet you already are, your fingers slipping and sliding and sticky and rubbing light little circles over your clit.
You stop trying to fight that part of your brain that’s insisting on thinking about it.
His reflexes, they’re so much faster than your own, so inhumanly fast that it sometimes feels supernatural; the things he could do to you, you think, helplessly, how strong he is, how he could probably move your whole body like you weigh nothing at all, how he could keep you from moving, and it wouldn’t even be hard. You think about the shadow of perpetual stubble on his cheeks and jaw and how it might feel, coarse and prickly and rasping against the corners of your mouth or the spot where your neck meets the slope of your shoulder or the sensitive insides of your thighs, and then you think about the sound he sometimes makes, the sharp little exhale of breath, an almost-laugh, imagining it in a wildly different context–
Some kind of awful traitorous little whine of a noise almost escapes, the pressure building behind your voice box, but you crush it into silence instead, pressing the flat of your forearm across your mouth, the muscles in your thighs already starting to twitch and tighten and that pressure in your belly rising way too fucking fast.
You think about his face twisting up and going tense and his eyes screwed shut so tight the little muscles around them tremble with the effort, and you think about the all of a handful of times you’ve ever heard his voice shake. Heard it crack. You think of his fingers winding in your hair and his hand tightening into a fist and how the muscles and tendons there would bunch and flex and the skin stretched across his knuckles would turn pale and taut and bloodless, his expression going finally, blissfully fucking slack, images your brain conjures with a terrifying degree of accuracy because you’ve seen all of this from him already. You know what it looks like, in person, up close, you know what he looks like and what he sounds like and you even know the smell of what must be his aftershave or maybe his cologne, warm and woodsy and a little bit sweet, and it’s so easy to take those memories and separate the details out and rearrange them into something else, a horribly vivid fantasy.
You think about standing on the first step of your apartment complex and looking at him and how he’d said your name.
It takes you by surprise, when you come, how easily you do, quick and sweet and warm and shamefully satisfying, a shockwave of heat that ripples out through all of your limbs and shivers down your spine and pulses in the fibers of your muscles, constricting your breathing and forcing your heels to dig divots into the mattress and your thighs to close up around your hand and a single muffled shuddering sound to finally break the silence you’d imposed on your vocal cords and escape from your open mouth.
Outside your window, the fire escape creaks, like maybe there’d been a sharp gust of wind through the alley where the apartment complex dumpsters are lined. That’s the first thing that registers, as your body relaxes and your breathing steadies and slows and your brain reorients around things that are— real. The sound of swaying metal. Your darkened bedroom. The faint sheen of sweat you can feel starting in the dips of your collarbones. The haze of perpetual city light leaking in from outside, a dim, slanted rectangle of it cutting across the floor under the window, your curtains not quite drawn all the way shut. Exhaustion hits like a fucking freight train; your eyelids are heavy and your pulse is slowing and your limbs feel warm and weighed down like molten lead and your brain is, thankfully, finally, silent.
You hear it again, right before you drift off; the creaking outside. And maybe there’s a shadow, one that cuts across that block of gray-blue light on the floor, as quick and as sure as a knife— but maybe there isn’t. Maybe you’re already asleep. Already dreaming.
~
This time, you’re down on the street again, walking from the other direction. Not like you’re coming home from work, but maybe the grocery store or a friend’s or the park that overlooks the East River, or something. From this way, you can see your bedroom window; you can see the fire escape, too, a spindly, narrow set of iron staircases affixed to the side, painted black by the landlord a few months back to disguise how it’s all rusted to shit. It’s wrong, though, the whole thing is twisted and mangled like a broken spine— like somebody had torn it straight off the building in places, grabbed some part and pulled until the railing bent and the stairs warped and the brackets ripped right out from where they’d been cemented into the wall.
When you wake up the next morning, it’s deceptively easy to make yourself believe you had just gone to bed at midnight and stayed asleep straight through until your alarm had gone off.
That all of it had just been part of that strange, surreal dream.
~
Passionfruit is another South American native, about the size of a kiwi, maybe a little smaller; the rind on the outside is this mottled kind of purple color, and the edible insides are soft and jelly-like and weird-looking.
“I had to go all the way to Whole Foods on Houston just to find something new,” Bucky’s telling you– complaining, from the sound of it, but from his face and the curve of his mouth you can tell he doesn’t really mind– dragging a plastic spoon around the edge of the peel. He’d brought two, split the first one in half with the knife you’d bought him for his birthday, and you’d grinned like an idiot, seeing it. “Took a train and everything. Wasted a whole hour.”
“Yeah, well, ” He’s not wearing the glove, not on his right; he usually doesn’t, anymore. You’re trying not to look at his hands, trying to make eye contact like you normally do, trying to even remember how much eye contact you normally make, trying to stop thinking about the tiny little two-foot table or his legs on either side of your own underneath it or the way that he’s staring at you. “There’s only so many fruits out there.”
You take a spoonful of passionfruit out of your half, focus on that. It’s less sweet than it looks; more tart, not exactly citrusy, but close. He’s still watching you, which isn’t unusual, but it’s making you feel weird, jittery and off-balance and unseasonably warm for mid-March.
“I’m gonna have to come up with a whole new gimmick pretty soon,” you say, just to fill the quiet. Just teasing. “Or else you’re gonna get bored of me.”
Bucky makes this flat and disbelieving sound in response, a scoff, dry and short and incredulous, like it’s really that bizarre, for you to even suggest it. Even as a joke.
“Yeah, okay,” he says, sarcasm evident, and then something else about the store, something he’d seen maybe for next week. But you’re not paying attention, just watching him, that warm thing in your belly again, the one that feels like some terrible and badly-kept secret.
The one that just keeps getting harder to ignore.
~
There really aren’t that many things left; you hadn’t been kidding about that.
Persimmons, most of which are imported from Japan. One of the men in my unit was Japanese, Bucky says, picking out the blood-red seeds with the point of his knife, From San Francisco, Jim Morita. He was a funny guy. Lychee, native to China, the first thing that he dislikes, people eat these things? tastes like— fancy soap, and then figs, something else he’d had back in the ‘40s, when they’d be in season down in California. Those you eat only after carefully inspecting the inside, telling him, you know wasps lay eggs in these things, right? And, no, he did not know that, and I didn’t really want to, either, but thanks, dunno if I’ll ever be able to eat ‘em again, that’s– gross.
“When I was maybe about nineteen,” he says after that, some rainy day in mid-April, the sky still not quite black even after eight, the pavement slick and dark and reflecting back shards of white and yellow from the streetlights turning on above it. “There was this wasp’s nest outside my bedroom window. Steve’d just moved in when his mom died, and he’s– well, he was– real allergic to bee stings, right?”
He pauses, finishes his coffee. The way the light is, right now, the blue twilight from outside and the artificially bright gold from the coffee shop— he looks—
You swallow, glance away.
“Anyway,” Bucky continues, setting the cup down, “Anyway, I was all worried he’d get stung by these things so bad he might really die, or somethin’, so I made him stay inside and went out with a whole three layers of clothes on, a slingshot, and a trash can. Still got stung seventeen times. Supposed to go on a date that weekend– she bailed on me, ‘cause my face was so swollen up.”
You lose the fight to not laugh somewhere long before he finishes; he gets as close to smiling as you’ve seen since his birthday, watching you fold into yourself, giggling.
“Oh, yeah?” he says, “What’s so funny, huh?”
You are, you want to tell him, you’re funny and I like you a lot and you’re probably my favorite part of this stupid fucking job.
“Nothing,” you say, ducking your head with a grin, “Nothing, just– you know people who are allergic to bee stings aren’t usually allergic to wasps, right?”
He blinks at you, and then makes some exasperated noise and leans back in his chair and throws up his hands, like he’s annoyed, except for the corners of his mouth twitching higher. “Yeah, well, how was I supposed to know that? It was the thirties, doll, not like there was the internet.”
And there it is again, like an echo, like maybe it’s really 1941 again and he hasn’t gone off to war yet and he’s just a few years older than you, some twenty-seven-year-old playboy from back before the Playboy magazine had even been founded. You’re strangely endeared by it, and then even more by the fact that he’s not that at all, that it’d come from the mouth of someone older and stranger, who’d been through hell and back in some haphazard approximation of a decade spread out over almost a whole century and come out of it still the same, in a lot of ways, and different, in a lot of them, too.
He’s so stunned by what he’s said it doesn’t even matter that his reflexes are faster than yours multiple times over; he’s still just staring at you, struck dumb and unspeaking and frozen like a deer in headlights, by the time your brain has processed what’d happened.
“I like hearing you talk about it,” you say, smiling softly, “Sometimes you get so caught up it’s like– watching somebody travel in time.”
Bucky seems to relax at the realization that you’re not going to be weird about it. You won’t– you’re not even going to think about it in any amount of detail. Right now you are going to put it in a little box inside your head where you put all of the things about him that you don’t think about anywhere except the privacy of your room, in your own bed, staring up at the ceiling fan blades spinning listless and slow in the dark of the evening or the gray light of pre-dawn.
“That’s really just a nice way of saying you sound like a fucking geriatric,” you add, sidestepping all of those thoughts with a practiced ease and hiding your smile behind your coffee cup. “I bet the old ladies would love you down at the bingo hall.”
He shoots you this rueful look, “Yeah,” he says, self-deprecating, “Yeah, they probably would.”
~
It’s not that you forget, not really, the two sides to the coin, just that you stop thinking so much about the other one. You just get used to the weird things, and they all kind of fade into the background– the staring and the subconscious fidgeting with the knife and the way that Bucky moves, sometimes, so fast and so precise that it’s unsettling.
The warning. Lock your door. Windows, too.
He always says it. It starts to feel normal. He’s just worried about you, your safety. Hypervigilance, again. He’s a little bit paranoid, and you don’t blame him for that— how could you. It’s not his fault.
And you do remember to lock your door. You always do, you always had, even before he’d started reminding you. You have a routine, to wind down after a closing shift and go straight to bed; you get home and lock your door and hang up your keys, take a shower and brush your teeth and gor right to bed.
By the time you get to your bedroom, you’ve always forgotten about it completely— that he’d said to lock your window, too.
It’s not like he says it the exact same way every time. Sometimes he says remember to lock everything, other times don’t forget to lock up, sometimes he says lock your door, windows, too, always a little different.
Which is why you almost don’t notice, when what he says one night is;
“Really do lock them, this time. Your windows.”
Something flashes in his expression as soon as he’s said it. A flicker of realization, sharp and volatile and impossibly fast, and then his whole face does something you’ve never seen before– it hardens, and it shuts off, and it goes cold.
Your heartbeat pitches up in your chest until it feels like it’s beating in the hollow of your throat, fluttering there like bird’s wings, and your breath catches. It’s only the smallest amount, so little that you can barely hear it, but you know— somehow— that he can. That he notices. That he can tell. Even though his expression stays utterly empty, frozen still and serene like the unbroken surface of a deep, depthless lake— you just know. It’s something in the pit of your stomach, or the base of your spine, or maybe neither of those places, maybe starting in your hindbrain, that base and unthinking instinct that can sense the presence of a threat even before the rational parts of your consciousness have registered it. Whatever it is, it’s flooding your body with adrenaline, like somebody had pulled a fire alarm in a multi-story building, the warning siren wailing and the emergency lights flashing and the inhabitants all scattering towards the exit signs.
Except, in this analogy, you’re not the people, you think. You’re more like the building; stationary, unable to run.
“Okay,” you say, slow and small and strangely calm, “You always say that. Why?”
A muscle in his jaw tenses, but he doesn’t say a word. Just stands there, silent, like a statue, his eyes flat and cold and devoid of anything at all.
You think of a lot of things you haven’t in a while. The knife and the blood and the Winter Soldier.
Inside of you, something twists— something that, you think, might be fear.
(Something that isn’t.)
Your mind is racing. Your thoughts— they’re scattered and fragmentary and moving so fast you can’t hold onto them, connected by some subconscious thread of understanding that you can’t see.
What you can see, though, is how Bucky’s still looking at you, his eyes vacant and empty and his expression so lifeless he looks catatonic; it’s not like he’s forced himself into some impassive and impenetrable detachment as much as it looks like he’s torn out everything inside and crushed it into nothing, ground it into the dirt, anything he might think or feel. Left this emptied-out imitation of himself, like a shell. Like a skeleton. Like that very first time, the husk of the pomegranate, the wilted, waxy skin, with all of the red stripped clean—and it startles you, how vehemently some part of you reacts to it. Thinks, a little desperately; no. Please don’t do that. Please come back.
“Bucky,” you say, on purpose, after he’s been silent for a long time, careful to keep your voice soft; he flinches, a brief, slight thing that’s almost imperceptible, a fissure splitting across whatever facade he’s put on. Something inside of you clings to it, evidence that he’s still even there at all, that he hasn’t shut himself off from you completely.
He makes this low sound, and he finally moves, just a little, shifts his weight and drags his palm down the lower half of his face.
“I just want to know that you’re– safe,” he manages, his voice carefully flat, not really admitting to anything, not explicitly, but this weightless trembling shock of adrenaline pierces right through your belly, anyways.“That’s– that’s all.”
You swallow. Your throat feels tight, your chest, too, like your muscles have all constricted, like your lungs can’t expand fully. You’re suddenly aware of the sound of your own breathing, aware that something must be off about it, that it’s coming too fast or too shallow or just somehow wrong, because it feels like you’re not getting enough air. And maybe that explains it, the way that you feel right now, dizzy and breathless and strangely numb, like your brain is just– shut off. Or, no, maybe it’s not, maybe it’s the opposite, maybe it’s working so fast you can’t make sense of any of it, all of your thoughts blurring out into this long indecipherable stretch of white noise.
Maybe, you think, distantly, maybe you’re just– overreacting. Maybe you’re being paranoid. Maybe you’re overworked and overtired and all of this is just a very long, very strange list of uncanny coincidences.
(But also— maybe not.)
“But I’m not, like–” your voice cracks, and you have to clear your throat, force yourself to focus on steadying it when you continue, “You don’t think I’m– in danger, or anything, right?
Bucky opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
“No,” he says, his voice something worse than hoarse, like it’d been ripped to shreds, like you’d carved the word right out of his mouth.
He looks like he might say something else, but you cut him off before he can. The way that he seems right now– you’re afraid that if he speaks again it might be something terribly final. I shouldn’t, he’d said, once, and meant it like he should go, and not come back. Meant it like goodbye.
“Okay,” you blurt out, before you can even think; because, you realize, you don’t want that, you do not want that at all, and that matters to you much more than whatever may or may not be happening right now. You don’t want him to leave and you don’t want things to change and you want everything to stay exactly the same as it’s been, and you would do anything– rationalize anything– to make sure of it, to have the assurance that he’s not going to just disappear, that you wouldn’t just wake up tomorrow to a world in which you'd never see him again. You’d do it in a heartbeat.
(You’ve done it already. Ignored things that, you think, maybe you shouldn’t have. Lots of them, that perpetual voice in the back of your head supplies– so, really, even if you are right, even if you’re not being paranoid, what’s one more?)
“Then it’s fine,” you tell him, forcing your voice to be as steady as you can make it. “It’s— I’ll lock it, I will, as soon as I get inside, and– and everything will be fine, okay? You won’t have to worry anymore.”
You glance down at your feet, the pavement, huscuffing your shoe against the sidewalk, toeing at a crushed, dirt-caked bottlecap wedged into a crack in the asphalt, just to give yourself an outlet for your nerves. Waiting for him to say— anything.
He doesn’t say a word.
“I gotta go to bed, it’s pretty late,” you say, after a while. You look back up at him. You wonder if he’d even taken his eyes off you at all. “I’ll—I’ll see you next week, though?”
His face twists up, just for a second, his brow raising, furrowing in, his eyes gone wide and round and stricken, before he seems to notice the shift in his expression and forces it to smoothen out again. “If— if you still do,” he says, “Then— I’ll— yeah.”
He starts saying something else, but you say, “I do,” before he’s even got the first syllable out.
He stares at you for a long moment before he responds, and it takes everything you have to hold his gaze, not to blink or flinch or look away.
Maybe you should, you think.
Maybe you should have been doing that the whole time.
~
At night, you replay everything, alone in your bedroom. In the absence of that nervous adrenaline you’d felt down on the street, it all kind of seems silly. Bucky knows you; he knows that you’re a terminal procrastinator and he knows that you’re always really tired after work and he knows that you never really took it seriously, the thing with the windows. It’s not so outlandish to think he’d just– guessed, and guessed right, and then felt bad about having anxiety, the way he, historically, feels bad about ever having any kind of visible emotion that’s considered less-than-palatable. And all of the things about his behavior that your brain had taken as evidence otherwise, it had been so subtle that you could barely be certain that there’d been anything there at all. He gives you so little to go off of, it’s like it renders your rational mind utterly useless, the scraps of information you feel like you have to fight to even get in the first place arranging themselves into absolutely nothing.
All you have, then, is your gut. Your instinct.
You glance over at the window. The curtain is open, and you can see the moon between the silhouettes of the buildings across the street, hanging pearlescent and full against the backdrop of the night, like the globe of an eye. Milky and opaque and sightless. Blind.
You really should lock it.
Yeah, you think, yeah, you probably should. But– just because you’d promised. Tomorrow you’ll do that, before you go to work, and then Bucky won’t have to worry anymore, and everything will be fine.
You tell yourself this, firmly, like that will make it true.
Everything will be fine.
~
In your dream, the eye of the moon in the window has a pupil, endless and blacker than the night sky, blown out so wide the iris around it is just this slender, paper-thin ring of color.
Blue.
You wake up in the middle of the night with a start, your blanket kicked down into a twisted heap at the foot of your bed, your bare legs and the stretch of your exposed stomach where your shirt had ridden up in your sleep staring back at you accusingly, every inch of your skin burning up and running hot like you’re fighting a fever. You’d fallen asleep without getting up to close the curtain, something you normally do in the spring and summer when the sun rises before you wake up; you tell yourself it’s just that you’re not in the habit yet, haven’t gotten used to needing to bother, because it’d been winter. But it’s the middle of the night and your body temperature feels like it’s skyrocketing and your pulse is so loud in your ears you can hear it, and when you try to lie to yourself it’s like your brain just won’t let you.
You’re shaking, you realize.
You’re not even a little bit cold.
You force yourself up out of bed on unsteady feet and you move to the window and you don’t lock it, you don’t even think to, but you do, shamefully, draw the curtains closed.
When you lay back flat in your bed you pull up your blanket, even though your skin is sticky and glinting with a faint sheen of sweat. You draw it up over your whole body, your head, too, and only when it’s covering you completely do you finally slip your fingers past the elastic of your underwear. The thoughts rush back again and you fall right into them, his name in your mouth; even if you can’t quite bring yourself to say it aloud, just holding the silent shape of it on your tongue and so close to your teeth, feels like this terrible, bloody secret—Bucky. Bucky. Bucky—
You come quickly, so quickly, well before the air starts to feel thin, but you still gasp for a breath when you throw off the blanket after, like you’d been suffocating. You force your lungs to expand out far past what feels natural, filling them until your chest starts to burn and then holding it for as long as you can.
You exhale, horribly unsteady, and draw in another, slower breath–
There’s a sound, from outside, like something scraping against brick, and your breathing— it catches, so hard you nearly choke on it.
You burrow deeper into your blanket, trembling, your whole body alight with adrenaline and your brain telling you that you’re being paranoid and something deeper telling you– or wishing, hoping, which is maybe even worse– that you’re not. That it’s–
You can’t bring yourself to think it, not even in the privacy of your own head, but you don’t even have to. Whatever brief and shallow feeling of satisfaction you’d felt– it’s already gone, like it’s evaporated, and that feverish, trembling warmth has flooded right back.
-
You think you might be afraid of Bucky Barnes. You’re pretty sure you should be.
(You know, though, deep down– you know you’re not.)
#bucky barnes x reader#fic; drops of blood#please tell me why this is going to finish at like 4 chapters/45k#HOWWWW!#it does not feel that long when I'm writing it
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Steve Randle x Reader
This is also from the poll.
Summary: You ask him to fix your car, and you keep him company while he does so. You drive him home after, making a little pit stop *wink wink*
Warnings: MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, oral (male receiving), fingering, face sitting, cum play, car sex, dom! steve, sub! reader, this is probably the filthiest thing i've ever written
"Fucking piece of junk." You mutter, pulling in to the DX to get your car fixed.
You get out, slamming the door. It had been a gift from your father 2 years ago.
"What's up with it?" A boy asks. He had dark hair, and it was grease back, and he had a DX shirt, unbuttoned, to reveal nice toned abs. You glance at his name tag. Steve.
"My car is making a weird noise. I'm sure you heard it." You say, gesturing towards the engine.
"Yeah. I think that the axle is rusted. I can fix that up for you." He says. You nod, sighing a breath of relief.
"Yes, thank you." You say, plopping down on a nearby bench.
"You been working here long?" You ask. Steve nods.
"Four years." He says.
"Mm." You hum in response. You would offer him help, but you were wearing a short leather skirt and a white tank top that showed quite a bit of cleavage.
You made small talk with him while he worked. You learnt that he is part of a greaser gang, and that he lives with them most of the time, unless his dad offered him money.
"There. All done." He says, slamming the hood shut.
"Thank you so much!" You say, smiling.
"That'll be $150." He says. Your heart drops. You didn't even have $50.
"Shit. I-i don't have that. Is there any other way I can pay you?" You ask, fidgeting your thumbs.
"Nah. Just give me a ride home, would ya?" He says, hopping into the drivers seat.
"Well, I'm not really giving you a ride home if you're driving, am I?" You chuckle, getting into the passenger seat.
"Wow. Real beauty." He says. You note that he's talking about the car. The first minute of the ride was silent.
"Are you sure there isn't anything else I can do to pay you back?" You ask.
Steve thinks about it, and when he stops at a red light, he quickly unbuckles his jeans, and pulls them down. His erection smacks against his abs, and your eyes widen. He smirks.
"Come on, gorgeous, you can do it." He says, chuckling. You are suddenly aware of the wetness in your panties.
You bend over the console and take his tip in your mouth. Steve moans quietly.
"Wait, what's your name? I need to be moaning the right one." The boy asks. You take your mouth off of him.
"Y/N." You take him back in your mouth, and the car starts moving. He takes one hand off the wheel and tangles it in your hair, pulling your head up and down on him.
"Fuckkk, baby, just like that." He moans, bucking up into you. He hits the back of your throat and tears start rolling down your cheeks. You gag, momentarily stopping, but then you get right back to it.
Steve hits a speed bump, and you jump, his dick going farther down your throat this time. You whimper, and Steve twitches.
The car comes to a stop, and he bucks up into you, both hands now on your head.
"I'm so close." He moans. Soon enough, his seed is shooting down your throat. You swallow it all, and he pulls your mouth off of him. You pull yourself over the console, straddling his lap as your mouths collide in a hungry kiss. Steve grabs your hips and grinds his waist into yours, letting out a loud moan.
"I-i need you." Steve says, pulling away. You pull the handle on the side of the seat, to make the seat go back. You start grinding into Steve, who hastily pulls your tank top off. He smirks when he sees you're not wearing a bra. He grabs your wrist to stop you.
"It's almost like you knew this was going to happen." He says. You shrug.
"The top has a built in bra." You say, grinding into him again. You stand up momentarily, to unzip your leather skirt, pulling it down your legs.
Steve smacks your hand away when you go to remove your panties. You look out the window, and you guys are outside a house.
"Steve! Is this your gang's house?" You ask, covering your chest.
"Yeah, but they're too busy watching the football game to see you, I swear." He says, removing your arm from your chest to admire you some more. He takes your panties and puts them in his shirt pocket, removing the shirt after.
"Those are mine now." He says.
Your lips collide again, more heated this time. Steve licks your bottom lip, but you deny him entrance. He squeezes your tits and you gasp, and he takes that opportunity to slide his tongue in your mouth. You whimper as his tongue collides with yours.
"Ready?" Steve asks you. You nod. Steve picks you up and you slowly sink onto his dick. He made you feel so full.
"S-steve!" You moan, wrapping your arms around his neck. You start moving back and forth, and Steve grasps your waist to push you down farther.
"Y-yeah, gorgeous, just like that." Steve moans, bucking into you. You pulled off of him completely, and slammed back down.
"HOLY FUCK!" Steve moans loudly, forcing your hips to go faster. Your hands are on his chest, boobs hanging in his face as you bounced on his dick.
"God, oh god, Steve!" You moan as you lean down to kiss him. His tongue immediately clashes against yours. You leave his lips to lick his neck, leaving hickeys.
He does the same to your breasts, leaving hickeys everywhere.
"I'm so close, Steve." You moan out, digging your nails into his chest.
"Yeah. Cum all over my cock. Do it for me." Steve moans. You bounce a couple more times, until you release all over his cock. He pulls you off of him and releases all over your chest.
He scoops it up, guiding his fingers to your mouth. You suck on the digits, not breaking eye contact with Steve. His boner grows again.
He scoops up more of the mess on your chest, and draws a big SR on your chest, chuckling.
"I want you to sit on my face." Steve says.
"No, i'll suffocate you!" You say, blushing.
"No, you won't. It'll be fine. Please?" He begs.
"Ugh. Fine." You say. You bring yourself forward, and hanging onto the handle above you, you hover over Steve's face. His hands grasp your waist and he pulls you onto his face.
"Oh! God..." You moan. It was a different feeling, and his nose brushed against a soft spot.
"Steve! Fuck, that feels so good!" You moan as his tongue slips in and out of you. His hands start moving you back and forth on his face, and tears leak out again. The pleasure was too much, you were seeing stars.
You couldn't think straight. You didn't know which way was up and which way was down. You could only think of Steve.
Steve. Steve. Steve.
Your orgasm came very quickly. You gasped and pulled yourself off of Steve, his face covered in your cum, and he had a stupid grin on his face.
"Thanks, babe." He says, grabbing a cloth from the console and wiping his face.
He flips you over.
"Round two?" He asks. You nod, and he pushes into you, pistoning his hips into yours at a fast pace. You wrap your legs around his waist, bringing his lips to yours. Your clit was pulsing with pleasure, and it was added to as Steve rubbed it gently.
"I love you, Steve." You say, accidentally. He stops.
"What? Say that again?" He says.
"I-I love you." You say quieter.
"Fuckkkk" He moans, going faster than before.
"I-I love you too, g-gorgeous." He says, twitching. He releases into you. He dresses you, but you are wearing your tank top and your very, very short skirt with no panties. You step out of the car and into the Curtis' house, Steve's cum still dripping down your leg.
"How was that for paying me back?" Steve asks, grabbing your ass and kissing your neck.
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