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divine-mistake · 3 years

Text

'till death blooms us art

Summary: You’d rather die loving him than never getting to see the sun ever again.

(“Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system. This number is not available. At the tone, please record your message.”)

Characters: Sam Wilson/Plus-sized Reader

Warnings: 18+ (no smut), strong language, Hanahaki AU, angst with a happy ending, weight insecurity, allusions to eating disorders, talk about death, blood, past domestic abuse and trauma, gun violence, original male character, book quotes, anxiety

Word Count: 12796

A/N: Thank you for reading! This fic won the vote during my 500 follower celebration and it's finally out now! This story has a lot of meaning for me, due to it being a bit of a metaphor for disorderly eating. I know that will make some people uncomfortable, but as someone who has struggled for a long time, I want to talk more openly about this kind of thing. Anyway, thanks so much for sticking with me and I hope you enjoy!

main masterlist | AO3 | playlist by @tripleyeeet

—STUBBORN WEEDS—

They are everywhere—covering the space of the sitting room like an overgrown garden made of glass and paint, canvas and pages torn from old waterlogged books, stained mugs filled with decaying brushes. Wanda walks through your room like it’s a maze, her fingers trailing over the air but never touching the art. She’s pretending she’s in a museum, or a gallery, or something fancier than what you could ever appear in, but a twinge of something akin to warmth stabs through your heart at the thought.

“These are incredible,” she says, not looking at you. “How do you do it?”

With a shrug, you bend down and pick up one of the canvasses from the floor, holding it out to look at it.

“I don’t know,” you lie.

White space in the shape of flowers, uneven and missing petals here and there, is outlined in streaks of paint that go every direction, in every different shade, hard edges and soft, blurred lines and covering the entirety of the canvas except for those spaces where flowers once sat, pinned to the medium.

“They are beautiful,” Wanda says.

Your nail sneaks under one of the dried chunks of acrylic and you chip it—a fleck of ultramarine blue falls from the painting.

When you turn, Wanda studies a different piece in careful hands. It’s a glass case, trimmed with shitty, shaky lines of gold you painted on a whim. But inside, between the thick panes, dried flowers painted over are encased in eternity, arranged to match their exact placements on the canvas where your brushes stroked life onto them, around them, through them. Two perfect pieces that once belonged together, separated like an act of Adam against his God.

Maybe they were meant to be together, but no one will ever know their story.

“They’re amateur,” you tell her, laughing. “I’m not much of an artist. It’s just for fun.”

She smiles at you, placing the glass piece down. “You have a talent.”

Wanda takes another turn about the room, another circuit, another spin. She looks at every piece in such focus, taking in every single detail, fingers stretching and curling as if she wants to caress the dried flowers, the dried paint, and feel their meaning. You wonder what she would say if she could read their minds—the art you’ve made. Would your pieces tell her the true meaning behind their existence? Or maybe they would laugh, or cry, or howl in pain.

But Wanda only stares, at the paintings and at you, a small smile on her face like she knows something you don’t. Like she’s keeping a secret. Is she keeping the secrets that the flowers have whispered to her when you weren’t looking?

“What inspired them?” she asks, the very tip of her nail tracing a different glass box filled with dyed petals reconstructed into a larger artificial flower, protected by its own display.

You wring your hands together. “I like flowers.”

She laughs. “That’s obvious. But what makes them special enough to paint? To—To make such lovely art out of?”

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you place the small canvas you’d been holding back on the side table, crossing the room to your bookshelf. Your fingertip finds the spine of a hardcover book you’re too familiar with, pulling it out and into your awaiting hands. Sheets of paper, a little bent and crooked, stick out of the pages.

You crack it open, the dulling white petals of a daisy pressed flat between the crackling spine fluttering from between the black inked words, then fall to the floor at your feet.

“The Devil’s hand directs our every move,” you read. “The things we loathed become the things we love.”

Wanda stares at you as you fiddle with the book, tracing the words of the cover.

“Les Fleurs du Mal,” you say. “The Flowers of Evil.”

Gently and without word, she bows at your feet and picks up the drying daisy, cradling it in her pale hands, but you don’t have the strength to take it from her.

(“Hey there darlin’, it’s just me. I had to run some errands this morning, y’know how it is, so I’m out of the Tower right now. I was just wondering if you needed anything while I was out. Anything—really, anything at all. Even breakfast, or maybe a latte? Just a little pick-me-up. Well, give me a call back if you need anything. If not, I’ll be back soon. See ya.”)

—BETTER TOGETHER—

“Steven Grant,” you say his name like a curse, shaking your head. “This is why you spend three hours a day in the gym.”

Too busy shoving the first bite of his first hoagie into his mouth, Steve doesn’t reply. You roll your eyes, but the smile on your lips gives you away. When he’s finally swallowed, wiping crumbs from his mouth, he looks a little indignant.

“Are you calling me fat?”

“Well, you would be if you didn’t have that serum running through you.”

He frowns, brows furrowed, a little confusion on his face. “I thought it was because I work out three hours a day. And I’ll have you know—”

“—you work out six hours a day between your morning runs and training, I know, I know. I’ve heard it all before Steve.” You groan at the thought. “It’s like it’s your job.”

“It is my job. Saving the world and all that.”

“Okay, you really need to let America know that it’s giving you a complex, ‘cause if I hear one more thing about you saving the world, I think I’m going to scream.”

He shrugs, taking another gigantic bite out of his sandwich. Scraps of shredded lettuce fall out from between the buns and litter his plate. You pick at your own, pulling uneven pieces of sliced onion and stray pickles from the hoagie, content to sit and stare at it instead of eating.

Food is good. You brush the grainy crumbs of bread from your fingers. Food is good, but you just aren’t hungry. And you don’t work out three hours a day. Maybe you should start. Your body feels like a balloon with all your insides threatening to come up in a retch and choke you. Food is good. Food is good. You just have to pick up the sandwich and eat it.

Fingers shaking, you take the sub in your hand and stare at the corner where you mean to take the first bite.

“You good?”

Steve, still chewing, looks at you with concern clear in his crystal blues and it makes you put your food back down on the plate. Instead, you busy yourself with another sip of your water, nodding at him.

“Yeah. We can’t all be Steve Rogers, demolishing two hoagies in less than two seconds, y’know.” You throw in a snort, trying to sound nonchalant. “Wipe your mouth, Captain. You’ve got mayo on your cheek.”

He doesn’t, but him grabbing a napkin to embarrassedly wipe a nonexistent condiment from his face gives you enough time to pick your sandwich back up and contemplate taking the first bite. You’ve just gotta start with the first bite and the rest will go down.

But you aren’t hungry. How can you be hungry when you’re already so full? Stuffed, even. There isn’t room in your insides. All your organs are bursting. It’s so painful sometimes, the expanding of your skin to accommodate. Waves of sickness roll through you, spreading. Your stomach is stretched, bloated, filled with all the swallowed—

“What are you doin’ to my girl, huh Steve?”

The sound of his voice alone makes the ache inside of you dissipate, the nausea escapes from your throat, the anxiety twitching through your hands steadies. Your head perks up, shoulders rolling back as your entire body relaxes, and you look behind you.

And there, dressed in a tight blue polo and a pair of pants clinging to his legs like they were made for him, the very angel who blessed you, the devil who cursed you, the god of the fucking sun and everything it could ever touch, stands before you with a smile saved just for you.

Sam Wilson.

His dark eyes are piercing, like he’s trying to peel back the layers of your skin to see underneath, as he shoves his hands in his pockets and grins with all his teeth.

“Hey honey,” he says—simply and easily and not serious. Never serious.

Your lungs burn. Your mouth feels too dry to answer him.

“Oh, your girl?” Steve asks him, brows a little too furrowed to be joking. “When did she become your girl?”

Sam shrugs, walking toward the empty seat next to you, placing his hand on the back of your chair so dangerously close to your body that it makes you pull in a deep breath. His thumb could brush against the fabric of your shirt, run along the seam of your spine. And, goddamn, it should be illegal for him to look so casual and so unbothered while still looking that handsome.

Like this, you can smell the spice in his cologne, a powerful mix of something you’re sure is designed to drive you crazy.

He looks down at you, still hovering over where you sit, and throws a wink your way that brings heat to the surface of your cheeks.

“Aw, she’s always been my girl, ain’t that right? Tell him, darlin’.”

You stare at Sam for one second too long, breaking away to gaze down at your uneaten sandwich again. With every flutter that Sam sends down your stomach, the heaviness inside it seems to fade away. Your fullness is replaced by a familiar hunger—the rawness of your throat waning as a burning itch takes over. A cough is threatening to bubble up. You choke it back, smiling instead.

“He’s right, Stevie,” you say all bright and cheery again.

Steve meets your eyes with a stony gaze, unreadable, his blue eyes looking gray in the light. Beside you, Sam throws himself down in one of the chairs and pulls up to the table, hand still sitting on the back of your seat. His knees are spread a little wide, thigh resting against yours.

It’s so innocent but your brain thinks it’s so intimate. A lie. A lie.

In the end, Steve relaxes back, his eyebrows lifting as he watches the scene unfold in front of him. He tosses one of the sticky plastic menus toward Sam, nodding at it.

“Order up, man,” Steve says, his tone more neutral than you think you’ve ever heard it in regards to Sam. “But I’m not paying for yours. You’re on your own.”

At that, Sam laughs, full and robust with his face up to the ceiling. He rocks back in his chair, shaking his head, and he looks so beautiful even in the shitty sub shop that Steve drags you to for lunch every other week that it makes you ache and your lungs contract in an attempt to cough.

You swallow it back again, trying to even out your breathing. The itch in your throat is so bad that you almost pick up your sandwich to eat again, but your hand passes it up to take another few sips of your water. It’s cool, clear, refreshing—but it can’t make the tickle of the cough go away.

“So,” Sam starts once he’s finished ordering his own hoagie, “how’s that apartment hunting going? Found anything good yet?”

A frown forms, heavy, on your lips. You pick off a flaking piece of bread from your sandwich, watching it turn to crumbs underneath your fingers.

“It’s going,” you say, but anyone who ever responds to a question of how’s it going with it’s going is absolutely lying and it is absolutely not going—and maybe Sam knows that, or maybe Steve does, or hell, maybe they both do but it makes you look weak to admit that things aren’t going so well out loud.

And you—you can’t admit the truth, so it’s just better to lie about it.

You don’t want to leave the Tower.

“It’s going, huh?” Sam asks, his tone proving that he can see right through you. “You need help looking at some places or something?”

“Well—”

“You know,” he barrels through your words as if they are nothing, “I think I actually know a realtor around here. Maybe he can get you some leads on rentals or something. I could make some calls for you, honey.”

It’s not supposed to—Sam only means well, he always does, always trying to do so much for people—but it hurts to hear. Because you don’t hear him saying that he’s trying to help you out. You hear him saying he doesn’t want you around the Tower anymore.

Because, well, why would he want you there?

To him, you’re just an outsider. A girl who doesn’t belong. Someone who daydreams and doodles flowers on every surface as soon as she thinks of him. And you always think of him.

Before you can think about it, your hand flies to your mouth reflexively to hold back a cough. Instantly, Sam’s leaning closer and that damned hand of his falls soft against your back.

“You okay?”

There’s barely a moment for you to nod, signaling that you’re fine, before Steve’s got on his game face, all hard lines and furrowed brows and thin lips pressed tightly together.

“Hey,” he says, grabbing Sam’s attention. “She’s allowed to stay as long as she wants, alright? The Tower is her home now, too. So there isn’t a rush for her to find a place unless she wants to leave.”

The passion and care in Steve’s voice is strong, almost so overpowering it’s oppressive, and something rises up from within you and threatens to send salty tears careening down your cheeks if you don’t blink them away.

Sam raises his hands in front of him dramatically. “Okay, okay, I get it. I wasn’t trying to run her off or anything, just wanted to lend a hand if I could. Damn, Steve.”

Something changes at the table, then. It’s like a fog, thick and cloying, falls over the three of you and keeps you lethargic—so much so that the only words spoken in the next few awkward minutes are Sam’s thanks when the waiter brings his sandwich by.

You still haven’t even touched yours, and you hope it seems like you’re just waiting for Sam to get his, because Steve’s tearing into his second and by the looks of the mustard dripping down his fingers messily, he’ll be done any minute now.

But as you prop your head up on the table, leaning on your elbow boredly, Sam nudges his leg into yours to grab your attention. When you turn to look at him, he’s got that grin again, all pearly and white with the little crooked gap you think you could stare at forever as long as it meant he was smiling and laughing and happy.

“You gonna eat, girl?” Sam picks his sub up in his hand and gestures at you to do the same. God, he makes you dizzy just by talking. The butterflies in your belly are fighting tooth and nail against your organs, trying to take up all the space, but they aren’t really butterflies. The soft monsters in your stomach leave a taste on your tongue you can’t explain.

“Oh.” You mimic his movement and then Sam toasts his hoagie against yours with a chuckle.

“First bite,” he says, and there’s no thought in your head or balloon in your stomach and no bloated skin to make you second guess yourself.

You follow Sam, sinking your teeth into the bread of your sandwich, and its flavor explodes over your tongue just enough to take away all the bitter, floral, fragrant taste of the daisies that are building up in your stomach, their petals choking you out, downy fluttering things inside you.

(“Hey girl, it’s me. I couldn’t find you anywhere—where you at? I was coming to see if you wanted to grab a bite with me for lunch, maybe at that little Italian place you like to go to around the corner? Or maybe sushi or something? Been a while since I got to go out for lunch, so I thought I’d ask, but I guess you’re busy right now. I’ll catch you later, darlin’. Enjoy your lunch.”)

—NEW BEGINNINGS—

You’ve got to call him. You have to. You have no choice anymore.

Danny is on the other side of the locked door, his fist pounding on the wood and threatening to cave it in from the repeated force. The sound is louder than it should be, really, echoing off the tile of the bathroom you’ve barricaded yourself inside. He’s shouting above the sound.

“You fucking bitch. I’m gonna kill you. I’m gonna fucking kill you. You lied to me? What else are you lying about, huh? You fucking whore. I took you in, I gave you a home, I gave you everything. Fucking fat slut—how many other guys are you sleeping with, huh?”

None, you had answered earlier when he was questioning you in your shared bedroom, his fist tight around your soft arm and squeezing so hard it made you want to scream. None.

But that wasn’t the answer Danny was looking for. And, well, once he threw you onto the ground and stomped to the dresser, clothes strewn around the room as he furiously ripped through it until he found the shiny black firearm you didn’t know he had, you were gone.

But there was only one place to go and that was the bathroom.

Now, trapped inside, you know you have no choice. You have to call him—the man from the coffee shop you’ve been going to regularly for a few months. The man who noticed the bruises Danny always left on you after a rough night. The man who pressed and pried and tried to do anything to get you to open up to him even as you refused over and over again. The man who put his number in your phone because he wanted you to call him if you ever needed him, not because he was a hero, but because he was worried about you.

You press the number two on speed dial. The phone rings.

“Hello? Who is this?”

“Steve?” Your voice is nothing but a sob. “Steve, you were right.”

He doesn’t miss a beat, but you hear the rustle of clothes and a jingle of keys on the other side beyond the static, a sound that makes you almost cry with relief or hope or maybe just stress.

“Hold on,” he tells you. “FRIDAY is pulling up your address. I’ll be there as quick as I can. Are you safe?”

“Bathroom,” you’re able to mumble out from behind the waterfall of tears rushing down your face. “He’s locked out but—but I’m scared.”

“I’m on my way. He’s not going to hurt you. I promise you.”

And then Steve hangs up, and you wish he hadn’t because now you’re left all alone with just a flimsy wooden door, painted fucking white so the blood will show up real pretty when Danny kills you, between you and your boyfriend.

Well, ex-boyfriend if you get out of here alive.

“Four fucking years!” he shouts from outside. “I gave you four fucking years of my life, you stupid bitch. I put up with your dumb fat ass for four years and this is what you do? Is this love? Do you think this is love?”

You figure anything is love as long as it doesn’t look like this. The ring of bruises around your upper arm from Danny’s grasp is already turning black and blue, a sight that makes you flinch.

Honestly, if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s yours. All the cash you were stashing should’ve been hidden better. You knew better. A shoebox up on the top shelf of the closet? Amateur. You should’ve cut a section out of one of your prized books or something. Danny never fucking reads. He probably doesn’t know how. He would’ve never found all the money if you’d stashed it there.

“Six thousand dollars!” he roars, punching the center of the door. The wood bends slightly. “How long’ve you been fucking stealing from me, huh? Fucking bitch. Stupid fucking bitch.”

And then it happens.

Danny’s fist breaks through the first layer of the door with a curse of pain falling from his lips. Then, a laugh. He’s laughing.

“I’m gonna kill you.”

He punches the door again and then his hand is through, wood splinters shattering and flying toward you, and with a scream you shield your face with your arms and duck down. You’re sitting beside the bathtub, squished against the toilet, and you scoot back as far as you can trying to wedge yourself to safety.

But there is no safety here. Danny’s bloodied fingers find the doorknob and unlock it with a click, and it’s over. It’s over. It’s fucking over.

With a kick, the door comes flying open and you’re screaming again at the top of your lungs, throat tearing itself raw. Danny’s broad frame possesses the entire room as he shoulders his way inside, his lips pulled back to show all of his teeth in a feral grin, the overhead lights catching the shine of the sleek gun he’s carrying.

You can’t even look at him. All you can do is stare at his back in the bathroom mirror hanging over the counter, your mind completely devoid of thought.

“Fuckin’ dead,” Danny says, and you don’t see him aim the gun at you. You stare in the mirror, right in the mirror and memorize the pattern of the plaid jacket he’s wearing, how the colored stripes form new colors, how the fabric all blends. It’s a pretty shirt. You bought it for him two Christmasses ago. He looks good in it.

You are going to die.

Then, suddenly, you can’t see the plaid anymore. Instead it’s a gray shirt on a much bigger body blocking out the mirror, and when you turn your head to look, Steve’s there.

Steve’s here.

He’s got Danny in a chokehold, grappling for the pistol in your boyfriend’s hand. Ex-boyfriend. Despite Steve being completely unarmed—he’s Captain America for christ’s sake, a goddamn super soldier, he doesn’t need a fucking weapon—he easily brings Danny down to his knees and onto the floor, kicking the gun away from their bodies and out of the bathroom completely.

“Fucking whore,” Danny manages to spit out, the sound strangled as Steve’s arm buckles over his neck. “You’re fucking him too, huh? I’m gonna kill you.”

“Shut up,” Steve grits through his clenched teeth, pulling Danny toward the destroyed door. “You’re done.”

They disappear from the bathroom in a tangle and thrashing of limbs. Danny curses the whole way down the stairs, struggling to break out of Steve’s grasp you presume. He’s a fighter—that’s what he always said. Dog meets dog eats dog world, he would tell you. You can’t ever trust anyone.

And, well, he certainly proved his beliefs. You had the bruises to show for it. The scars as evidence.

Sitting alone in your wrecked bathroom, still sprawled out on the tile, you stare down at your hands. The lines run deep in your palms, fingers stubby and chubby and not at all feminine. Too small to grab Danny the way he always grabbed you. Too soft with fat to deliver a good punch.

You don’t know how much time passes before a much larger hand enters your vision, slowly, like approaching a kicked mutt on the street, and when you don’t flinch, Steve lays his fingers across your palms. Apprehensively, you grab onto his hand, and he squeezes back.

Looking up, he’s crouched in front of you, the beginnings of a bruise forming on his left temple. With your free hand, you reach out and let your fingers brush over it, but Steve just smiles at you.

“Let’s go,” he murmurs.

“Where?”

“Anywhere but here,” he says, gently tugging on your hand. You hold onto him a little tighter and let him help you up off the ground, his arm immediately sliding around your waist to steady your shaky legs.

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” you say. “The money I saved…”

You don’t even know what happened to it. For all you know, Danny burned the cash. Or stashed it somewhere else.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” Steve says in a soft voice. “I’m taking you back to the Tower. The police are dealing with Danny right now. Can you help me pack some clothes for you?”

And so you sat on the bed among your wrecked bedroom as Steve picked through the messy drawers that had been pulled from their dresser, some articles of clothing crumpled on the floor where Danny flung them in his mad search for your secret money stash. And the gun. You almost forgot about the gun.

Steve helps you pack, his face only a little pinker than normal when you’re shoving your intimates into the black duffle bag he fished out of his car, and then he’s helping you slip on your sneakers and guiding you out of your house.

You don’t say goodbye to it, though. That house. Even after four years, you don’t call it home. In a lot of ways, you’re happy to watch it disappear from Steve’s rearview mirror, hoping you’ll never be back.

“They’re going to love you there,” he says quietly in the silence of the car, both hands tight around the steering wheel. He glances over at you, then back at the road. “You’ll fit right in. You’ll be safe. Right at home.”

But you think Steve is a bit of an optimist. Homes, you think, are for people who are loved.

(“Hey honey, just me here. Look, I remembered you saying something about how you wanted those, what were they called, the fairy lights for your room? The ones that look like Christmas lights? I thought we could go pick some up and I’ll hang ‘em up. You’re too short to do it yourself, girl, you know that. Anyway, give me a call if you want to, or just come down to my room and get me, anytime. I’ll be waiting. Talk soon, honey.”)

—KEEPING SECRETS—

Wanda hums a tune under her breath. “I just can’t wait to get out of this place! It’s been too long. Mission after mission after bloody mission.” She sighs and starts to apply a thick coat of mascara, eyes wide as she stares in the mirror.

“Agreed,” Natasha says from somewhere behind you. The sound of her bare feet on the bathroom tile is the only warning you have before she sidles up beside you, gracefully lifting herself up onto the counter and sweeping various cosmetics aside to make room.

You’re still undressed, standing in your panties and an old t-shirt with a stretched out neck, just finishing up your eyeshadow when Nat taps a black bottle on the marble top near your fingers.

“Want me to do your eyeliner?” she asks.

A few months ago, you would have seen it as an insult—a beautiful, dangerous woman telling you in less words that your makeup looked like shit. Now you know it’s an expression of Natasha’s unending love for you. A willing act of service. A small thing she can do for you.

“Yes please.”

Natasha motions you forward, between her legs, and when she takes your face in her hand you close your eyes.

“Pretty colors,” she says, probably about your eyeshadow.

“Thanks,” you reply, and then you feel the cool wetness of liquid liner right on your lash line as she begins to paint a wing on your lid. “You always look pretty.”

“So do you.” She blows softly on your left eye. “It’s like you never need makeup, I swear. Are you even wearing foundation?”

A smile works its way onto your face. “Nope.”

From beside you, Wanda giggles.

“Slut. You’re so perfect it makes me want to scream sometimes,” Natasha says, tongue clicking her teeth as she finishes off your right eye.

All the breath seems to leave you in that moment. Like someone punched you straight in your gut, your bones like the gel shock-absorbing layer protecting your organs. Your eyes want nothing more than to shoot open, but Nat is blowing cool air over the newly formed wing and you force yourself to relax so you don’t mess everything up.

“I’m not perfect,” you tell her. “Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

“Don’t deflect.” You hear her cap the eye liner and set it down on the counter, then her palms engulf your cheeks. Slowly, you let your eyes open, blinking gently.

She’s staring at you, eyes narrowed.

“Just because I’m beautiful doesn’t mean you’re not beautiful,” she says, simply, as if it’s just easy for her to not compare herself to anyone else. “If you’re perfect, you’re perfect. Doesn’t matter if I’m perfect, too. And that Wanda is perfect. Or that anyone is perfect.”

Natasha takes your chin in her fingers and grabs a tube of lipstick—the one she and Wanda always tell you to wear because it looks so damn good on you.

“Your beauty and your worth doesn’t come from other people.” She runs the silken rouge over your lips. “It comes from who you are, not comparisons to other people.”

And, god, you want to scream at her. You want to shout and tell her that she isn’t allowed to say that to you when she looks the way she does—slim and picturesque and every human being’s wet dream. She doesn’t get to say that you shouldn’t compare yourself, with your heavy chest and your wide hips and all your soft pockets of skin, to someone like her. To someone like Wanda. To anyone else that doesn’t need liposuction with a side of diet pills, please.

You can’t be perfect, because if you were perfect, if you were enough, you wouldn’t be dying in agony every night over someone that doesn’t look twice at your too-large stomach and your too-large thighs.

They’re just trying to make you feel better, but all it does is make you feel worse.

“Look,” you say when she’s done with your lipstick, “I get what—”

In a split second, your chest is wracked with hard coughs, lungs struggling for air. It’s choking you, your own insides, and you’re hacking and wheezing and grasping at the bathroom counter and Natasha’s hands are on your shoulders and Wanda is slapping your back in hope that it will help and someone, somewhere, is saying the word heimlich and you can taste it on your tongue like old wallpaper from the 70s, floral and disgusting and toxic and ugly.

You throw your arm over your mouth, smearing your lipstick. It doesn’t help. Natasha is looking at you, eyes wild. You’re coughing and coughing and you think you taste blood underneath the overwhelming velvet on your tongue.

They’re saying your name. Shredded petals are between your teeth.

And then you break, pushing past them to the toilet, skidding on your knees until you’re doubled over and retching. It’s all burning acid and fresh flowers. Rot and fester and earth and greenery. A pair of cool hands—Wanda’s, you think—rest upon your forehead and move your hair away from your face.

Vomit and daisies leak from your mouth until your stomach is done contracting and your insides are empty. All that’s left is your sputtering coughs that taste caustic and beautiful.

It’s getting bad.

When you finally pull away from the toilet, slumped back and wiping your mouth, the toilet is full of an explosion of crisp white and bright yellow, tinged with the faint pink of blood. Wanda is glancing back and forth between you and the unflushed toilet, horror stitched on her face.

Before Natasha approaches, a glass of tap water in hand, you lean over and flush the petals down the drain. The look you shoot Wanda is pleading, but you don’t even know what you’re asking for.

Everything on the inside hurts, burning like a pit of snakes in your belly, hissing and spitting venom and biting into you like they mean to kill you. Perhaps the daisies have grown fangs. Your lungs feel chewed.

Nat places the glass in your shaking hands, her fingers holding your own as if she knows you can’t do it yourself. She helps raise the glass to your soiled lips and you gulp the water down like it’ll flood the valley unfolding in you.

“Who is it?” she asks, her voice calm but her eyes uneasy. You nearly choke, a hand pressing against the middle of your chest as if you need to feel your lungs as they work to assure yourself of your own survival.

“What?” you barely eke out, throat thick and scratchy. One of Wanda’s hands strokes down your back and she doesn’t speak, only shakes her head.

“Who is it?” Natasha repeats.

You look away.

“God.” Wanda sniffles behind you. “How could we not have realized?”

“Because it doesn’t happen,” Nat says, shifting from crouching in front of you to sitting on her knees on the floor, a hand resting on your thigh. “I’ve never known a single person—until now, I guess—who had it. I thought it wasn’t real.”

“They tell it like a fairytale in Sokovia,” Wanda says, her words just as watery as her eyes. “A story you lull children to sleep with! But I should have seen it. We should have seen it.”

A new abundance of petals tickle the back of your throat.

“All that art,” Natasha hisses, but she isn’t looking at you. She’s glaring down at her lap.

“All the daisies,” Wanda cries. Her head drops against your shoulder. You feel the wetness of her tears.

“It’s okay,” you tell them, but your voice is too small. “It’s okay,” you say, louder this time, tasting the flowers like they are the blood of your bitten tongue.

“Who is it?” Natasha asks again, a begging in her voice you don’t think you’ve ever heard before.

“It’s okay,” you say again.

And with this, Nat’s face changes from one of concern to something of realization—like she’s been struck with a thought she never considered, like she’s seen the future.

“It’s him.” Her jaw is slack, staring at you even as Wanda looks at her with confusion etched on her visage. “You have to tell him.”

“No,” you say simply.

“This is bad,” Nat snaps, as if you don’t know it already. “This is getting bad. You need to tell him or you’re—you’re going to die.”

A laugh breaks through the bathroom, echoing. “How can I tell him? How could I ever tell him that I love him when the simple fucking fact that these flowers are growing—rooting—in my goddamn lungs is proof that he doesn’t love me the way that I love him?”

You lean back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.

“Sam Wilson doesn’t love me the way I love him,” you whisper.

The tips of Natasha’s fingers catch the tears you don’t feel streaking down your cheeks like the screaming of shooting stars, hot and bright and dying.

“It’s sort of beautiful, don’t you think?” Your nails dig into the fat flesh of your thighs, trying to puncture skin. “To make art of your own death. To make something lovely out of something so tragic.”

You can’t swallow it back this time. A cough wracks through you, jostling your bones, and you fold yourself in half as soft white petals emerge from your esophagus and choke you. You grind them against the backs of your teeth with your tongue, trying to mash them into nonexistence, but it’s not enough. You retch another wave of daisies into your awaiting hands.

Wanda calls your name and it sounds broken.

“Death like this,” you rasp, catching your breath, “is the most beautiful way to go.”

Your finger drags over one of the downy petals, a bead of blood catching on your skin and smearing across it like a brushstroke of paint, ruining it.

“Death like this is the only way I want to go.”

(“Hey beautiful, it’s me again. I heard you were going out with the girls tonight—I hope you have fun. I just wanted you to know that if you need a ride back home, or you get into trouble and need a hero, or anything, really, I’m just a phone call away. You need me and I’ll be there, ‘kay honey? I’ll be up if you need anything, at least ‘till you get home. Have fun, girl.”)

—INNOCENCE—

You’re beginning to ask yourself if the mirror lies.

It doesn’t. You know that. You’ve been trying to find the lies in it for years at this point, pinching and pulling at all the places you find are thicker than the women you see on TV, the women you see floating around the Tower, the women you’ve seen on the arms of Sam Wilson. Chubby hands caress down your soft belly, poking and prodding the skin you wish you could make disappear. The mirror never lies.

But you wish it did when you stare at yourself and all you see are the bruises beneath your eyes, the hollows in your cheeks, the drained look in your gaze. The longer you stand there, the less you recognize yourself.

You aren’t hungry anymore. You never get hungry—the flowers filling up all the space in your stomach, coughed up from your lungs and swallowed back in pieces. Perfume is what your mouth tastes like now. Perfume and iron. The vomiting hasn’t stopped since the night your secret was revealed to Natasha and Wanda.

And you’ve never looked better.

That’s the part you hate. The part where when you look in the mirror and you can see the places where those daisies have shaved you thinner. It almost makes you laugh. People say you pack on the pounds when you find love. Maybe they should try having toxic flowers take root inside of them and slowly steal their lifeforce while they watch the person they love never love them back.

It’s a slow process, this death. You wonder which will kill you first—the starvation or the suffocation.

The walk down to the gala is as equally exciting as it is dreadful. You’ve never been to a Tony Stark gala before and you’re eager to dance the night away with your friends. But you’re also exhausted.

Oh well. The makeup helps you look less like a corpse and more like a dancing queen. The dress, which you’re sure someone paid far too much money for, is part of the solution. It’s all flowy and gorgeous as if you are a Greek goddess meant to be worshipped and highlights your figure while hiding all the imperfections the mirror seemed to find.

And when you finally enter the room, classical music playing from the live band and people laughing loudly and champagne twirling about the floor for people to take, the first thing you see is him.

Grin taking up his entire face, lighting up the entire ballroom, dressed beautifully in a navy suit that makes him look utterly dashing, is Sam Wilson.

He’s surrounded by people—women who are better dressed than you are—so with a shaky breath and a pain in your lungs, you quickly turn on your heel and head toward the next familiar face.

“Woah there, doll, where you hurryin’ off to?” Bucky, hair neatly pulled back and wearing a black suit, grabs you by your waist.

“Nowhere,” you blurt. “The bar. I just got here.”

He raises a thick brow at you, a silent question, but when you choose not to answer he shrugs.

“Well I can’t refuse to escort a pretty lady, can I?” With a charming smile, he holds his elbow out to you and gestures for you to grab on. You slip your hand around his arm and grasp him tightly, shooting him a grateful smile.

“Thanks, Bucky.”

But as the two of you start dodging through the crowd of excited party-goers, on your way to the bar in the back, Bucky stops short and gets a look on his face that you’re not quite sure you can describe as mischievous, but it’s close enough to make you frown.

“Y’know what,” he says, glancing over at you with that boyish grin, “I think we should take a spin on the dance floor instead.”

“Oh no,” you tell him, eyes wide. “I can’t dance—”

He snorts. “I’ve seen you dance around the kitchen, doll.”

“I can’t dance in front of all these people.”

“Can’t is a word for losers.” Bucky closes his hand over yours, locking you to his elbow. “Don’t wanna be a loser like Stevie, do ya? Oh Buck, I can’t stop fighting, gotta teach ‘em a lesson. Oh Buck, I can’t rinse out my cereal bowl, I gotta go for a run.”

It makes you laugh, maybe a little too loud, but it eases you just enough for Bucky to pull you into the menagerie of dancing couples, and then he’s moving your hand from his arm and onto his shoulder and clasping your other in his fingers.

“There we go.” His eyes shine like the ocean sparkles under the Tower lights.

Bucky has something magic in him, you decide, after two songs of him swinging you along the floor. He has something magic that makes everything so easy, which is something so admirable after all he’s been through. He has you laughing and smiling and spinning across the room with so little effort you forget all your worries in an instant.

“See?” Bucky dips you in his arms, making you squeal with glee, collecting the stares of the people peppered around the room. “Knew you could dance, doll.”

Panting, you rest a hand on his chest, still giggling. “Only ‘cause you’re so good.”

“Song’s over, Buck,” a new, familiar voice cuts in. When you look up, Steve is standing there, eyes crinkling with his own smile. “I can’t wait for another.”

At that, Bucky rolls his eyes with such drama it has you laughing yet again.

“See? I told you. It’s all can’t this, can’t thatwith Stevie. But fine.” Bucky guides you by the waist over to Steve, passing your hand over, and then gives you one last grin with all his teeth. “I had fun, doll. Thanks for dancin’ with me.”

“Anytime,” you tell him, and then Steve’s adjusting your grip on him. The song changes from the upbeat tune Bucky was twirling you to down to a slower classical piece.

“You doing okay, sweetheart?” Steve asks, his eyes roaming over your face.

“Yeah,” you hum. “Bucky and I had a lot of fun.”

Steve’s grip at your waist tightens a little. “No, I mean in general. Are you doing alright?”

There’s worry there—in the wrinkles on his brow, the blue skies of his eyes, the curve of his lips. You know he’s staring at you and seeing everything the mirror told you. All the gaunt places. The hollow, haunted look you’re parading around. The weight you’ve been steadily losing. You know he sees it.

“I’m okay,” you tell him, and you wonder yet again if the mirror ever lies. You know you do.

Steve sways you gently, more carefully than Bucky had. Steve dances with you like you’re made of something fragile. You still don’t understand why. You don’t know why he ever looked at you and saw something important, someone to protect. Maybe it’s just how he was born to be.

“You can tell me anything,” he says, so seriously that your heart breaks a little.

You move your hand from his shoulder and up to cradle his cheek, smiling.

“I know, Steve. I know.”

And if he pulls you into him, crushes you against his chest, and holds you like that for the rest of the song, no one mentions it. Steve lets you rest your head on his shoulder and, not for the first time, you think this must be how it feels to have a family.

But then the lights in the ballroom brighten a little and a spark finds its way into the music, changing into something jazzy and fun, and someone slaps Steve on the shoulder.

“Alright Rogers, she’s ours now.”

There, dressed like she could kill a man with her heels alone, Natasha has her arms crossed over her black satin gown. Beside her, in a red, flowy dress, Wanda has her hands on Nat’s shoulders, giggling from all the bubbly you’re sure she’s consumed.

Steve pulls away from you with a chuckle, holding his hands up in surrender.

“Alright, alright—she’s all yours, ladies.”

With that, Natasha pounces on you, and the three of you start to shimmy the night away together.

You lose count of the songs you spend dancing with them, sweaty and out of breath and having the time of your life, before you wave them off and step out onto the outside patio where hardly anyone is loitering. You pass up a couple sitting on a bench, cuddled up in the cool air of New York, and leave a man smoking a cigarette to himself.

Instead, you find a lonely bench far away enough from the gala that you can hardly hear anything but the bass strings resounding through the building. There, you sit, and turn your head up to the stars you can’t really see anymore.

“You okay, girl?”

Startled, you whirl around to face the object of your affections, standing behind you with his hands shoved casually in his pockets. He isn’t wearing his usual smile. Just staring.

And then you taste dirt. Freshly upturned soil coated in congealing blood. You cough into your hands and hear him approach, laying a warm palm on your back as you choke the daisies down and down and down, swallowing as many as you can, the pungent taste still ripe in your mouth.

“Honey,” he calls out all smooth and sharp like whiskey. “Honey, are you okay?”

You lick the blood from your lips. Sam crouches before you, gathering your cold hands in his, looking up at you with such a fucking expression that you want to kiss him so solidly he can taste the vines growing up your throat. You want his tongue to taste the soil of your suffering—the flowers of your own doom.

“I’m worried about you,” Sam says, his dark eyes searching your face for something.

“I’m okay,” you tell him, just as you’ve been telling everyone.

“You’re not looking so good these days,” he murmurs, and you recoil.

“Wow.” The hurt in your voice is so palpable it makes you cringe. “Thanks, Samuel.”

You move to get up from the bench, heart twisting, but Sam grabs your arms and cages you there.

“I didn’t mean it like that, darlin’, you know better than that.” He gives your arms—too soft too wide too fleshy too—a squeeze of reassurance. “You’re not painting much anymore either. You think I wouldn’t notice?”

Sam holds your gaze until it’s too much and you have to break away.

“C’mon, girl. Are you even sleeping?” Sam shakes you a little. “Eating?”

The flowers of evil root in your chest. See, you know how this book ends. You don’t need to read the last page to find out. It’s just as Baudelaire wrote, you know: “My heart is lost; the beasts have eaten it.”

Your organs have been replaced by daisies. Sam Wilson won’t love you—not tonight, not tomorrow, and not in time.

So you shrug, forcing your lips to curl into what you think might be a smile.

“I can’t paint. I’ve got too many flowers to press,” you tell him. Sam’s visage morphs into confusion, and he shakes his head slightly. He doesn’t understand. He won’t understand.

You take his arms from your body, holding his hands for a split second, long enough to steal their warmth and imagine what it would be like to hold them every single day, and then you pick yourself up off the bench and give him a wave.

“See you inside, Sam.”

And you leave him there, confusion still frozen on his face, the gritty blood ripping shreds in your damaged throat as you swallow it again and again and again in an attempt not to taste it anymore.

(“Hey, uh, it’s Sam. I was just calling to, uh, y’know, remind you about the gala. You have a date yet? I didn't ask anyone. I, uh, I wanted to ask this girl, but uh, I ended up waiting too long and I’m a little late so… I’ll see you there, honey. Try not to kill me with your good looks tonight, you hear? Save a dance for me, baby.”)

—THE SUN AND ALL ITS STARS—

Dishware rattles into your room, signaling Nat’s arrival. By the time you gather the energy to sit up in bed, she’s already entering, a tray of food in her hands and an icy look on her face.

“Breakfast in bed,” she says monotonously.

You shift and pull your duvet up as she fits the tray over your lap. There’s not much—a sweating glass of cold water beside an amber glass of apple juice, two slices of buttered toast, and some melon she cut up.

“Thanks,” you say, voice strained and weak.

Natasha doesn’t leave, but you wish she would. She seats herself on the edge of your bed, staring you down as you sip on your water. You purse your lips in frustration, but pick up the fork and begin to poke at the fruit.

“Eat,” she says.

“I’m trying,” you grumble back. “Stop staring at me.”

Natasha throws her hands up on the air. “Well if I don’t watch you, you’ll just sit here and waste away,” she snaps. “You’re not eating, you’re not sleeping, hell, you aren’t even coming out of your room anymore. You go to work, you come home, you don’t talk to any of us. Steve says—”

“Steve doesn’t know anything!” you shout, interrupting her. As soon as you do, her eyes narrow into slits and you shut your mouth, gulping. That wasn’t what you wanted to do.

Natasha takes a deep breath. “Steve says you’re still looking for a place.” It’s eerie how calm she keeps her tone. “Leaving isn’t going to stop them, you know.”

Even now, not doing anything but staring at the food in your lap, you can taste them like a funeral home, saccharinely floral, covering the smell of death.

“I can’t stay here,” you say.

“You’re dying,” Natasha stresses. “Please. Please, I am begging, krasavitsa. I’ve not begged for much in this life. But I am begging you to please, please tell him. Tell him or consider the other option.”

Two options in the scale, tipping weights. To die or to have the roots of true love carved out of your lungs, peeled away from where they wrap around your heart.

You stab your fork into the tender flesh of the melon. It gives way so easily, letting the tines puncture it. Natasha stares at you, her gaze heavy. Your fingers fumble with the fork and it falls, clattering, to the tray of dishes.

The blood is too hard to swallow anymore—it builds up in your mouth and stains your teeth red, the petals colored pink when they fall from your lips.

“Okay,” you whisper. Maybe you don’t even say it aloud.

“Okay?” Natasha asks. You nod your head, not looking at her.

“I’ll tell him.”

It takes you hours, it feels like, to gather the courage. With all the energy you have left in your bones, muscles only satiated a little by Natasha’s breakfast, you drag yourself out of bed and to your bookshelf. It’s memorized, the place where your book sits, and you pull it out with a gentle tug of your finger.

The Flowers of Evil, its pages nearly chock-full of pressed daisies that have ejected themselves from your body, eager to find the man you love and spill all your desires to him. You thumb through it, gaze flitting over all the damn flowers that have dried in this damn book, and you close your eyes in order not to cry this time.

You press the book tight to your chest, feeling the desperate beating of your heart echo through it, and you head to Sam’s room.

The walk is long and lonely—the Tower feels empty. Devoid of people. You’re a little glad because you’re sure that anyone could see the sickness painted on your body, the illness from inside you that’s staining your outsides. It’s not anyone’s fault but your own, really. The flowers are too beautiful to supplant.

And now, you’re in front of his door, a fist raised to knock, a loud buzzing in your head that keeps saying no, no, no. But your heart, traitorous thing still hammering away in your chest, it just keeps saying yes, yes, yes, finally.

Sam Wilson doesn’t love you.

But do you have any other choice except to take a garden spade to your lungs and dig them out of your chest cavity, to destroy your ribcage and break through the mulch that makes up your nervous system? Is the only option left to die at the hands of Sam or to wither away until your decomposition will feed the very things that killed you off?

You shudder a breath and knock on the door. And you wait. And wait. And wait.

He doesn’t come. He isn’t there. He doesn’t love you.

The tears come suddenly—unexpectedly. They are hot and stricken and fast. They drip off your chin and careen down your neck and dampen the collar of your shirt and your hands are trembling, grasping your book too tightly, to even begin to wipe them away.

You don’t know why you’re crying. You already know this. Sam Wilson could never love you the way that you love him. Sam Wilson is perfection, you know. He possesses the strength of gods, he radiates love, he’s passionate about every fucking thing he does. He’s beautiful. He’s everything and you are nothing when standing next to him, but you love him. You love him.

Sam Wilson doesn’t fucking love you.

“Well,” you laugh to yourself, “I can either die a fool or live a life without you.”

I can either die in love or live my life not knowing what it feels like to be in love with you.

Something tickles your tongue. You reach between your lips and pluck it from your mouth, letting it sit upon the center of your palm. Blood drips down your arm like a river, violent and sooth.

The daisy covers your entire hand, white petals tinged with pink reaching toward your fingers. The center, all yellow florets seeming to seek out warmth, are so bright and full and so big—these are too big, they could choke anyone, anyone, they are choking you.

And like them—god, just like them, just like these daisies that grow from your lungs and destroy you from inside out—you are heliotropic. Everywhere you go, you’re focused on the sun, looking for the sun, stretching toward the sun.

You need the sun.

So you crumble the daisy in your hand, fist tight, blood still easing from between your fingers. You back away from his door, then turn and break away to head back to your room in silence.

You’d rather die loving him than never getting to see the sun ever again.

(“Hey girl, it’s me. Just calling to let you know that Steve and I got called for a mission. It looks like an emergency, wheels up in ten and all that. I wanted to catch you before we gotta go, in case you wanted to say goodbye. To Steve, I mean. Just in case. Take care of yourself while I’m gone, sweetness.”)

—FAREWELLS—

It happens faster than you think it will. You swear you have weeks, or a month at least. You swear you have time.

Four days later, your knees buckle and slam into the wooden floor beneath you, stomach contorting and contracting, balloon finally bursting. Someone is shouting your name from the common room, something is knocked over, scrambling. You barely hear it over the sound of your own vomiting.

On your hands and knees, you stare down at the lump of flowers you couldn’t swallow back. They’re coated in a mixture of soil and blood and stomach acid, but the sweet perfume scent breaks through the rest and makes you retch again. It smells so sweet. So sickly sweet. Dead people and churches.

Did churches always smell so much like blood?

There’s a hand on your shoulder. It’s pulling your hair from your face. Someone is saying something—something—something you can’t make out over the blood rushing between your ears.

You’re dying. This is it.

You collapse upon the ground, rolling onto your side, arm thrown over your mouth as if that will stop the flowers from pouring out of your body. And when you blink, trying to see through the dizziness, it’s him again.

The god of the fucking sun, your sun, mouth moving frantically as he says things you can’t hear and the little gap in his teeth that makes you feel at home when he smiles at you and his eyes, oh, Sam Wilson has eyes that set you on fire and burn you alive and you’d be happy to die like this, you’re so happy you get to die like this, so thankful that the daisies chose you, so thankful you chose him.

You were right. Death is so beautiful like this.

“It might be too late.”

Helen Cho’s heels clack on the tile of the medbay’s room as she shoos the nurse out with a wave of her hands, shaking her head. He shoots to his feet, fingers already curled into fists, and he shoves them in the pockets of his jacket to hide them.

“Too late?” It’s impossible for him to keep his voice low. “How can it be too late? What even—What’s wrong with her?”

She frowns at Sam, folding her hands together in front of her.

“It’s… rare,” she says. “Some of us didn’t think it was real, to be frank with you.”

His brow furrows. “What is it?”

“A disease caused by unrequited love,” Helen says plainly, staring straight at him. “Typically, the patient finds themselves in what is regarded to be true love, but the feelings are not returned, so they build up. It’s theorized that the stress of that creates the problem.”

Sam swallows and it tastes like vomit. “Unrequited love?”

She ignores him, continuing, “The part that is normally so hard to believe is that flowers begin to grow inside the patient, the roots puncturing their lungs and creating masses that eventually will suffocate their host.”

It’s a bag of bricks to his stomach. A super soldier punch to the gut. A bomb blown up in his face. Sam doubles over, clutching his middle, trying to breathe again. He can’t breathe at all. The flowers. The flowers.

“It seems she was swallowing them in an attempt to save herself,” Helen explains. “It’s what kept her alive much longer than she should have been. But now, I don’t know. It may be too late to save her. If she’d just said something earlier, than the surgery might have been able to stop it, but—”

“Surgery?” Sam asks, still gasping for breath. “What surgery?”

“You can extract the roots,” she tells him, glancing at the sleeping woman in the sickbed. “It’s a difficult procedure but it would have saved her. But, from the very little research we have on it, removing the roots also removes the feelings entirely. The love that the patient has disappears. They aren’t able to ever feel anything for that person ever again.”

He falls back into the plastic chair, his limbs numb. Or, at least that’s what he wants to do. But Sam doesn’t. He steadies himself, crosses his arms over his chest, plants himself so firmly there in the hospital room that he doesn’t think an earthquake can move him, and looks at her.

She’s sleeping, but she doesn’t look at peace. Her eyes, lovely things, are sunken in and it makes him so mad. Her collarbones have shadows beneath them and he feels fury wracking his own bones. And how long has it been since he’s seen her smile?

“Do the surgery,” he demands.

“You know I can’t do that without her consent,” Helen says, sighing.

“Then I’ll wait until she wakes up and get her consent,” he seethes through a locked jaw.

Helen’s face doesn’t change. “She might not wake up.”

“She will.”

Sam doesn’t get it. He understands—in a way—but he doesn’t really get it. He knows why she wouldn’t want to get a surgery like that. But he loves—he loves just as fiercely as she does, and that’s why he understands. Why he knows.

So why did the flowers pick her? Why would they pick her and not him?

Helen glances down at her feet, says nothing, and turns to exit the room. He’s left there in the silence, with the crowing of the machine keeping her alive to punctuate all his thoughts. If there is one thing he hates in the world, it’s feeling helpless.

He lowers himself in the plastic seat, leans his head back against the wall, and closes his eyes.

“You’ll wake up,” he says to her, but he can’t look at her.

Or maybe he’ll wake up and it’ll all be a dream.

There’s a soft rapping of knuckles on the door, and it opens slowly and quietly, and Sam has to lock his fingers around the arms of his chair to keep from jumping up and sending a right hook right at Steve’s face.

“How’s she doing?” Steve has the audacity to ask, has the audacity to look worried, has the audacity to pull up another plastic seat next to Sam.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he mutters under his breath, spite burning his tongue.

Steve glares at him. “Yeah, that’s why I asked. What’s your problem?”

“My problem is you, Rogers.” Now, Sam can’t help but stand, towering over the super soldier. He immediately grabs Steve’s arm and hauls him out of his chair, through the door, and out into the hallway. Steve stumbles, a hand on the wall, and Sam’s nostrils flare.

“How could you do this to her?”

“Me?” Steve sounds genuinely taken aback, but Sam doesn’t buy it. “What are you talking about? Helen told me—”

“I thought you loved her, too!”

He really did. That’s why Steve brought her to the Tower, didn’t he? That’s why they go out for lunch every other week and why Sam never gets a chance to take her out himself. Why he always makes sure to say goodbye to her before a mission, like he doesn’t want to leave her behind. He really thought Steve loved her too. If he had thought for one second that Steve didn’t love her...

“What?” Steve’s jaw slackens. “Not like that! She doesn’t—She’s not in love with me, Sam!”

He pants, unable to catch the breath that’s leaving him like a slow leak.

“Then who the hell is she in love with?”

Steve stares at him, a look that Sam can’t recognize, can’t name, in his eyes. Steve stares at him and smooths his hand down his beard, shaking his head.

“She’s in love with you,” he says, and Sam chokes.

Because all the pretty things in his world lead back to her and man, if she loved him, it would all be so perfect that he would never want to leave it. He would never want to say goodbye. He’d ask god and anyone else who would listen to grant him a deathless life so he could look at her forever, with no end in sight, because he would. He would. Sam would love her forever.

“No,” he says, a dry chuckle escaping his lips. “That can’t be true.”

“It’s true,” Steve says.

“That’s impossible.” He backs up, against the wall, holding his head in his hands and staring at the floor. “It’s impossible.”

“It’s true,” Steve repeats, staring past Sam and through the window of the medbay’s room to look at her, lying so still in her bed. “I know it is.”

“Steve, I’m in love with her,” Sam confesses, an ache in his chest. “It can’t be me. I’m in love with her. I’m so fucking in love with her.”

A heavy hand clasps his shoulder, and when Sam looks up, his breathing unsteady, Steve has a look of regret smeared all over his face.

“But does she know that?”

And, for the first time in years, Sam cries.

(“It’s me. I need to tell you something. Even if it will hurt, even if it will destroy—destroy what we have, I don’t know. But I need to tell you, baby. I need to.”)

—SINCERITY—

Sam Wilson thinks she’s starlight.

When she first arrives she’s a collection of stars and their ashes, explosions and deaths, supernovas and black holes and earthbound meteorites.

What he means by that is she’s covered in bruises but she’s so beautiful, and he wants to gather her in his arms and tell her it’s going to be okay.

Steve introduces her, and Sam tries to bite his tongue, but all his words pour out of him anyway as she holds out a hand to him and he takes it, soft and trembling, and he knows she’s special somehow. She’s special.

“You’re the prettiest thing I think I’ve ever seen,” he says, and he means it, but she ducks her head and tries to hide the little smile on her face.

Sam Wilson thinks the world of you. But even when the bruises fade, you’re still left with all the land and the water and the galaxies hidden in your eyes when he catches your gaze, and he looks at you and he swears that you’re reaching into his chest and taking his heart in your small hands and squeezing him dry. You have realms inside of you, he’s sure, all the worlds and all their wonders. But you—you look at Steve like that sometimes, and then Sam is just grateful that you even let him breathe in your general atmosphere.

He can fly, sure, but he certainly isn’t an astronaut, so this is about the closest he can get to you.

(“Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system. This number is not available. At the tone, please record your message.”)

—TRUE LOVE—

The first thing you see is the ceiling, hazy and sleep-filtered, but it looks just like the ceiling in that bathroom, back in Danny’s apartment, back when you thought the pain of love was bone crushing, before you knew the pain of love was slow suffocation.

It makes you stutter back to life and that sends you into a coughing fit. You can still taste them—the daisies. They taste like the rawness of sunlight.

Hand pressed against your chest, your eyes dart around the room, trying to catch your bearings. There’s an IV in your arm, the bed railings are plastic, Sam is sitting in the corner, the lights are dimmed.

Sam Wilson is sitting in the corner.

You gasp, looking at him, and he’s staring right back at you, a familiar book in his hands.

Sam Wilson is sitting beside your bed, holding The Flowers of Evil, and the look on his face is far from happy to see you. It’s not anger. And it’s not sadness. It just… is. And Sam is never “just” anything.

Even if he thinks that sometimes, like the times when he calls you and says, “It’s just me,” as if he isn’t something special, so important you can’t live without him in your life.

Well, you can’t live with him, either.

After a solid minute, Sam looks down at the book between his dark hands, and he begins to sift through the pages. He stops sometimes, lingers on the sheets of dried daisies that have been pressed, their color leaking onto the text only slightly. But then he moves forward, searching for something. You don’t know what.

“How long have you been here?” you ask, throat sore when you speak.

“How long have you been in love with me?”

Your teeth gnash together, bite into your bottom lip, worry a sore there as he doesn’t look at you. He just keeps flipping through the book as if he didn’t just thrust a dagger straight through your heart, as if it isn’t beating so fast and hard like it’s trying to stay alive. You feel like you can’t breathe and you don’t know if it’s the flowers crawling out of your lungs and trying to get to him or if it’s the fact that he knows.

You can’t answer him.

Sam stops on a page, his finger trailing over the script, and then he begins to read.

“And yet

to wine, to opium even, I prefer

the elixir of your lips on which love flaunts itself;

and in the wasteland of desire

your eyes afford the wells to slake my thirst.”

“Les Fleurs du Mal,” he says, shutting the book with a thump and striking his palm with it. “Baudelaire sure had a lot to say, didn’t he?”

Your mouth is suddenly so dry. There’s a pink pitcher of water next to the bed, just like a hospital would have, and you reach weakly for it. Sam grabs it immediately, pouring you a cup, and passing it gently to you. You gulp what you can down through the straw, hardly breathing.

When you finally feel like you aren’t going to cough your lungs up into your hands again, Sam takes the cup back from you, and embarrassment is a cold shiver down your spine.

He sits back down beside you, looking straight at you. “Do you want to get the surgery?”

Your lips part to speak, but he interrupts.

“Be honest.”

Chewing your lip, you take a deep breath. “No. And I never planned on it, either.” From the corner of your eye, you see his jaw tighten.

“Why not?”

“Because what is a life without the fucking sun, Sam?” The words are spat from your mouth. “A life spent not loving you—not knowing you, not feeling you anymore—it wasn’t worth it. Because I love you, Samuel Wilson. I have loved you since the day I met you and you told me—told me I was pretty for some goddamn reason. And I’ve loved you every day since. I love everything about you and there is not a single iteration of life that I would want to live if it meant not loving you.”

This time, nothing tastes like blood. It’s all just daisies, like they’re populating your mouth, changing the way your tongue works, turning to paste in your teeth. It’s so strong that it hurts. Like you’re eating paper valentines and crying too many tears as you say goodbye to a body in a casket.

But it’s beautiful and lovely and gorgeous because you swear that, somewhere beneath it, you can taste what you think love might taste like.

Sam doesn’t speak and it hurts, but it tosses your book down on the side table and reaches into his pocket and it still hurts. He pulls out his phone. You swallow down the rising earth in your chest.

He pulls out his phone—no, it’s your phone. He turns the screen toward you and punches in your password. You furrow your brows. When did he learn your password? But it doesn’t matter, really, because he just swipes to your call log and pulls up your voicemails. And then he begins to play them.

“Hey there darlin’, it’s just me. I couldn’t find you anywhere—where you at? I thought we could go pick some up and I’ll hang ‘em up. You need me and I’ll be there, ‘kay honey? I, uh, I wanted to ask this girl, but uh, I ended up waiting too long and I’m a little late so… I’ll see you there, honey. I wanted to catch you before we gotta go, in case you wanted to say goodbye. I need to tell you something. Even if it will hurt, even if it will destroy—destroy what we have, I don’t know. I’ll catch you later, darlin’. Have fun, girl. Save a dance for me, baby. Take care of yourself while I’m gone, sweetness. But I need to tell you, baby. I need to.”

The sobs fall from the broken seal of your lips, loud and crashing, like a waterfall. Your hand, shaking and weak, comes up to try to cover your mouth, but Sam lunges forward and catches your wrist in gentle fingers.

He’s looking at you like you’re everything—and you know, you know now that you are—to him.

“You’ve been saying that this whole time?” you ask, a laugh bubbling up from your lungs. No flowers retch up your throat.

Sam smiles, lips pulling back to reveal that gap in his front teeth.

“You haven’t been listening, baby girl. I’ve been tryin’ to tell you I love you for months.”

He rests his forehead upon yours, and as close as he is, all you can smell now is the spice of his cologne. Nothing smells floral.

“I never would have thought,” you whisper. “I was sure—so sure—that you didn’t love me. I thought because of the flowers, I thought that meant for sure that you didn’t love me. I mean, why would you? Why would you ever love someone like me?”

“Honey,” he says, so softly, “you’re starlight.”

Tears flood your cheeks and Sam cups your face in his large hands, wiping them away with gentle thumbs.

Sam Wilson is sunlight. You never considered that you could be starlight.

“Why wouldn’t I love you, darlin’? You’re so good, so gorgeous, so perfect.” He laughs and it makes you laugh too, but it comes out like a sob. Your heart feels lighter. “But you’ve never considered yourself worthy of love before, have you?”

“I’m sorry,” you cry. “I’m so sorry, Sam.”

He hushes you, soothes you, smooths his palms over the planes of your face and over your hair,

“You don’t have to be sorry, baby. It’s okay. You’re okay.” He presses a warm kiss to your forehead and the memory of every single time he’s kissed your forehead like this flashes through your mind, an electric current, and you wonder how you never saw it before now.

“I love you,” you say, and this time, your lungs don’t feel as though they will burst from the pressure, the roots, the vines twined around them. You don’t feel choked by petals. You don’t taste blood in the back of your mouth.

“I know,” he says, “and if you let me, I will spend the rest of my days with you convincing you that you are worthy of love, honey. Because I’m in love with you. I’m so in love with you.”

When he presses his lips to yours, he doesn’t taste like flowers. Not like the daisies that wrote your death sentence. He tastes like golden pools of sunlight, warm and wanting. This is your heliotropism. You are a magnet for him, Sam Wilson, god of the fucking sun.

And maybe he’s phototropic, always drawn to you, moving toward your starlight.

(“Hey, it’s me. Sorry I missed your call! I’m on my way home now, and guess what? I have a surprise for you. It’s a bit ironic, but I think you’ll like it. What do you think of the name Daisy for a baby girl?”)

#sam wilson #sam wilson x reader #sam wilson x plus sized reader #plus sized reader #sam wilson angst #sam wilson fanfiction #hanahaki au #sam wilson fluff #thanks for supporting me!#divine masterlist #the flowers of evil

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painless-innit-colourful · 3 years

Text

(Liveblogging ‘Tommy Faces His Traumatic Past’ stream)

'Hi I am currently thinking about that moment after Tommy asked Ranboo to leave after the Prison moment went badly, and he waited for Ranboo to go and then swallowed and let the atmosphere hang for a moment and held his totem in his main hand (I’m pretty sure; he was definitely holding it) and I am telling you, the shot of fear that went through me as I thought “No... He’s not gonna ask Tubbo to kill him, is he?” Now that’d be one way to overcome a fear of dying, holy heck.'

---

Rough edges, shining eyes, a heart of gold. He supposes there's a metaphor or a comparison that could be made there, but to be quite frank, he's sick of the poetic parallels and the dramatic ironies. It's not a tale spun of rhetorical devices and an audience: it's his life, and it hurts.

Appropriately, the skin on his palms is still tender from scrabbling at the walls of the mock cell, and he can feel every groove of the wood the totem's outside is carved from as he grips it firmly. He's doing away with the allusions and analogies and beating around the bush: there's no easy way to ask this, so why make it even harder?

It's going to be difficult. It's going to be painful. It’s going to be helpful in future. Just get on with it Tommy.

Ranboo vanishes up the ladder, and Tommy and Tubbo are left alone in their unused replica of the Final Control Room ('cause their dear friend Eret had a more accurate one). When he turns his eyes to his best friend, Tubbo's giving him a quizzical look. Tommy opens his mouth to begin, but fear stoppers his words, and no sound comes out. He holds fast to the totem and to his courage.

"Are you alright?" His friend's light touch to his arm leads him back. Right. Tubbo. Totem. Question.

"It didn't work." He says despondently. "I couldn't- In there, I couldn't keep it together." "Tommy-" "Look, Tubbo," Like a paranoid exile hiding in a cave, he casts another glance towards the ladder, double-checking that they are truly alone. "And you can't tell anyone this, but I need you to trust me, because I've thought a lot about this."

Tubbo's expression is unreadable for a moment, like his solicitude is elsewhere, like he's remembering something, and then he's back and he's squeezing Tommy's arm. "I trust you, Big Man." And Tommy can tell he's being earnest, so he pushes on. "What is it?" "We had the chance, back in that vault- We had the opportunity to slit Dream’s throat, and we didn't, and- And we agree on this right? Dream... Dream needs to go."

Tubbo seems to think about it for a moment, "You think the revive book isn't worth it?" "Tubbo, I-" If his words could stop clogging up his throat every five seconds, that'd be lovely. "Listen to me, I've been to- to the other side, and I've been here, and I've been in between, and- and I mean this, I would've rather- rather stayed there than be in between again." "Really?" Tommy nods curtly. "Really. It's not worth it." "Well, I'm glad you came back, even if it sucked for you." Lightly, but not without a hint of worry in his voice, Tubbo half-laughs. "That sounded selfish." And Tommy feels wretched about what he's going to ask him to do.

"Look, Tubbo," He clears his throat for good measure. "If I'm going to kill Dream, I can't get into the prison cell and panic. That- That could cost the whole operation, and I can't let that happen." "Tommy, you-" Tubbo cuts himself off this time, "Tommy, do you really have to do this?"

"Yes, I do." His quiet determination matches Tubbo's building exasperation. "I have to do this because he's- he's ruined me, he's broken me and I can't let anything else happen to this server because of our fighting." Their faces and feelings fall to the same resignation as swords impale them against the walls of a room very much like this one, as L'Manberg burns behind their eyelids every time they blink.

"Would you like to try again?" The reproduction of the cell, his tomb, beckons, but Tommy's mind is made up. "I can come in with you this time." A jolt of warmth emanates from his heart at the offer (he wishes it were that easy) and races through his bloodstream, momentarily soothing the aching feeling all around his body, from his head to his feet to his fingertips, and he feels practically like a person again for a few seconds.

"Actually, I- I want you to- Only if you- I won't force you but-" He's abruptly aware of a substantial volume of saliva in his mouth, or maybe he's just too scared to say it out loud. Tubbo waits, his fingers mussing with the end of Tommy's sleeve. "What is it?"

He raises aloft the totem so they're both looking at it, and then very carefully, so he knows he hasn't said it wrong, he says it: "I want you to kill me."

"What?" His adrenaline spikes; no turning back now. "I want you to kill me, and because I have this totem I'll be fine. I can't be scared of dying if I have a totem on me, but I still get scared of getting close, so I want you to kill me. Please." He tacks on hastily, opting to look at the sword at Tubbo's side so he doesn't have to meet his eyes.

"You... Where are you gonna get another totem then?" And Tommy squints at Tubbo for a second, because really, that's what you come out with after that? "I don't know, your husband?" Tubbo giggles a tad despite the concern in his eyes. "Excuse me, I'm the gold-digger here, get your own." And they both crack up, and some of the tension lifts from Tommy's shoulders.

"Okay, seriously, you want me to kill you?" The terse air settles between them as Tubbo's hand floats to his sword. "I- Yeah." "Because then you can't be scared of being close to death." "Mmhm." "So you want me to kill you, right now, right here?"

Tommy nods steadily, and Tubbo, still uncertain, unsheathes his sword. The blade isn't the sharpest, but it'll do the job. Tommy swallows thickly. "I- I trust you. If it were anyone else... Never."

He thought about how, whenever he'd asked to be hit earlier, it was Tubbo who'd stepped up to the plate. Certainly, it was true at the time that he'd felt the jolt of terror and pain, but he was always glad it was Tubbo. There was an unspoken promise in their shared glances, their short requests and careful responses.

“You know I’d never do that, right?” An echo of an old memory, from a less-than-ideal location. “I won’t turn on you or go insane like Wil and Techno.” “Mmhm… And I you.”

"Ready?" Tommy waves the totem around to illustrate, "This better not be a bloody decoy." Their shared smile is forced and wavering, flickering like a candle, shaking like fraying ropes, reaching for a hand that isn't there. The hand is on his shoulder, Tommy notes faintly: it steadies him as the sword pierces his gut, snatching all the air from his lungs. He's drowning in a sudden wave of 'Why here? Why the hell did we stay here?' as a familiar numbing sensation starts to wash over him like the tide, receding in parts and then coming back for more. The darkness entices him - the very same darkness he's been fighting to outrun all along, the same darkness that engulfs him and all his friends in his nightmares. Once, many moons ago, they were all blissfully ignorant of that shadow that stayed firmly three steps behind them and six feet below. Except now, at least for Tommy, death is a memory, and with a totem in hand, he rises to meet it.

Tubbo rips the sword out, and the body of his best friend crumples to the ground like paper disregarded and consigned to oblivion. His weapon hits the ground with a clatter and his sword arm falls limp, reluctant to acknowledge Tommy's blood on the blade as he watches, hands balled into fists, nails digging into his palms, as the totem in Tommy's hand starts to glow, golden light emanating from the emerald eyes and intricate details. About time. About bloody time.

It's pitch black, and the totem is gone. Tommy feels weightless. Tommy feels like a person made of pieces, loosely strung together like a marionette doll. Tommy feels helpless and alone, and quite possibly dead.

Make no mistake; there's also that perverted sense of comfort, ever-present as it seems. A welcome gift, he supposes, to what should be the rest of your eternity. He feels all his 'worldly worries' start to scatter, leaving him feeling so empty he's clawing at nothing to get them back. No worries, no troubles and no meaning. That is the lot of the dead. Yet, Tommy will not be one of them, not today.

Everything returns to him so quickly, it almost feels like he's having aspects of his personality thrown back at him with the force of bricks launched from cannons. Should he reach out to grab them, or should he let them go? The darkness begins to melt away, leading him back to a room full of chests and a friend, and for a second he imagines he hears a familiar voice tease: "You should take off your coat Tommy, you look like you're not staying."

The instant his soul is catapulted back into his body, instincts kick in, and his wobbling legs somehow get him halfway across the room before they get too tangled up and surrender. He doesn't bother cowering - it's Tubbo - instead, he chooses to pull his shirt up to his ribs. The entry site of the stabbing has healed, golden radiance under his skin like godly blood swirling away from the closed wound and leaving it the proper crimson hue of mortals. It worked. He's back. He's back.

Suddenly, he's hit with a force equitable to several small dogs and, oh, it's Tubbo. His arms rest wearily against his best friend's back as the smaller boy buries his head in Tommy's shoulder, folding him into his arms and cradling him tightly. "I- I'm ok- Are you crying?" His response from the shuddering mass of brown curls next to his head comes quietly, "Don't ever make me do that again." "...Okay. I won't."

Eventually, they break apart, Tommy noticing the red rims around Tubbo's eyes as he messes with Tommy's shirt. "Ah, dammit." "What?" He gives a tiny snort-laugh marked with tears. "I've put a hole in your d*mn shirt." He looks down at it too. "That's alright, long as you fix it." Consequently, Tubbo gives him a funny look, which he raises his eyes to meet with bemusement. "Yeah, right. I'll fix it, it's nothing."

Tubbo holds his eye contact for close to ten seconds. "You have..." He shifts across the floor to the left, putting one of the lights at his back, before reaching out and taking Tommy's face in his hands. "You have little flecks of gold in your eyes, dude." "I- What?" Tubbo drops his hands and nods. "You've got gold in your eyes now, boss man." "Does it-" He jumps to his feet, somewhat unsteadily, and strikes a pose. "Does it make me even more incredibly good-looking?"

Tubbo snorts. "Something like that. It's not bad, just... After-product of the totem, I'd guess. Which is interesting to know." He gets to his feet too, hand finding Tommy's side and holding on by a fistful of cloth. "Hey, how about, are you alright?" Tommy asked, picking the hand up and slinging it over his shoulder so they stood hip-to-hip, heads tilted up and down for each other’s benefit.

"I'm fine, just... That wasn't the most fun." Tommy ponders for a moment before responding. "I think I'd be concerned if it was." They chuckle a little. "No, but seriously man, thank you, for doing that." He says sincerely. Tubbo smiles back, all of a sudden seeming too tired to even stand, and Tommy stoops a little to catch him before he faints or something. "Just... did it work?"

Did it work? The darkness still terrified him, ripping the warmth from within him, and he wasn't totally expecting to go back there when using the totem. So, points for new knowledge discovered, perhaps? Despite all that, though, the look in Tubbo's eyes makes his mouth move on its own. He looks so weary.

"Yeah. I feel... less afraid now. Honestly." He tacks on, for the dubious non-believer by his side that could always tell when he was lying. "I... I can do this now." "...Okay."

#this was a real pain to edit lmao #anyway! the title for this one is 'help me be brave'#i wrote it on holiday in the lakes on my phone with a bad flu #so y'know #dream smp #tommyinnit #tubbo #clingy duo #dsmp fic #crim writes #please rb & comment! it means the absolute world

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anika-ann · 4 years

Text

State Your Name (for the Record) - S.R.

Type: One-shot, Reader Insert, emotional H/C

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader Word count: 5560

Summary: For a man haunted by nightmares, waking up was an ambivalent process.

For a man in love, the pros outweighed the cons. And make no mistake, Steve Rogers was a man in love.

In which Steve feels blue, but he can count on his girl to raise his spirits – especially since she can convince his whole team to do something nice for him.

Warnings: implied mission going not so well, angst, crying, self-doubts, swearing ,fluff and cheesiness of the highest order

Waking up was an everyday process most people considered unpleasant.

For a man haunted by nightmares, either made up by his traumatised mind or simply by pressing re-play on one from the stack of torturous memories, the action was both relieving and exhausting.

Waking up meant the nightmares were over; waking up meant he had to pick himself up and, despite all odds, face another day, even when his body ached and his soul seemed too tired, yet determined to continue to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.

For a man in love, the pros outweighed the cons. And make no mistake, Steve Rogers was a man in love.

A woman he proudly called his girlfriend was nothing less than everything he could wish for; she carried beauty in features she considered imperfect, she never failed to make him smile for at least a fraction, her laughter filled his chest with delight as it lit up the room and she was gentle and dorky to a fault. And for he was willing to give her the world, she reciprocated his feelings to full extend.

Waking up next to the woman he loved was what always won over the desire to bury his face under the covers and tell the world to let him fucking rest.

He even cherished waking up with you. Hell, if he could squeeze in a morning run between the time he got up and you did, the better. He loved pulling you from your dreamland, even when you had clearly been dreaming a sweet dream, your lips gently curled up in a smile; because every time he tenderly welcomed you in a new day, your smile would turn brighter.

Which was exactly the reason why, when he opened his eyes today and found your side of the bed – how bold of him to call it that, when you usually slept in his embrace anyway, keeping his heart warm while he did the same for your body – empty, he knew that day would downright suck.

Steve muttered a curse under his breath, running his hand down his face as he forced himself to sit up and swing his legs over the edge of the bed.

You weren’t exactly a proclaimed early riser, so not only that your absence was unnerving and painful, because today more than at any other day Steve would beg for you to be there when he entered the reality, but it was also slightly disconcerting.

He tried not to read more into it and as he glanced at the clock, he knew shouldn’t – after all, he had been informed you would be gone at that time.

Still though, dark thoughts were sometimes hard to chase away. Thoughts regarding you avoiding him. He hated when he was pulling your bright spirit down, dragging you into the shadows of his world, bloody and violent, fearsome and traumatising, offering nothing but bruises, cuts, stab-wounds and shot-wounds, broken bones and broken minds.

Whenever he came back to you from a mission – a bad one, in particular – and you offered him comfort, kindness and understanding that rationally didn’t have any base since you weren’t a soldier of any kind, he questioned whether this was the last time. Whether this was the last drop into the metaphorical goblet of your patience with which it would overflow and you would finally break things off with him after a year being together, living with him for half of that time.

Steve closed his eyes, recalling your words from yesterday, ones that, at the time, fell to deaf ears.

“It wasn’t your fault,” you soothed him when he told you what had happened, how he had messed up and nearly got Natasha killed, which had resulted in Clint yelling at him for being incompetent for leading the team. “From what I hear, anyone would have made the same decision on their best conscience if they received the same intel – hell, this was the best option, they could have decided worse. You’re a great leader. And an amazing friend. The fact you’re beating yourself over something that was beyond anyone’s control only proves it. Let the guilt go.”

He had basked in your embrace and soothing voice, but the message you had been trying to send was not quite getting through, leaving him restless and feeling uneasy, drowning in self-doubt and pain.

Of course, being a bioengineer, having been the one to help developing actual painkillers and anaesthetics for him, you had also basically shoved the former down his throat because of his healing broken ribs, which caused him to sleep through your alarm and wake up at shamefully late hour.

Which meant he missed you and you had already must be on your way to France for symposium of biogenetics.

As if it wasn’t enough that he was questioning his yesterday’s decisions, his position in the team as a leader and a person to be begin with, and his life choices overall you weren’t here.

Maybe Clint was right; he might have been a captain, but in a name only. He fucked up royally and it could have cost his dear friend her life. He wasn’t what he had used to be. This century offered people much stronger, smarter and more capable than him, easily being able to replace him in the position.

His gut twisted at that idea, but perhaps this could be the time he should make space for someone else and just follow orders. Hell, he never wanted to lead in the first place! Not when he had first joined the army nearly a hundred years ago.

His sigh was the only sound in the screaming silence of the bedroom and Steve pushed himself to his feet, not surprised at all that his ribs only echoed the previous pain, and shuffled to the bathroom to have a shower.

Too sleepy and cranky to notice it earlier, he only found a sticky note – possibly having been on the mirror but peeling off because of the steam from the shower – in the bathroom sink.

Unwittingly, his lips curled up in a small smile when he recognized your messy handwriting.

Morning, Stevie. Find a little thing in our kitchen :)

Not bothering to wear more than his boxers, he obediently walked to your private kitchen. You both enjoyed breakfast with the team in the communal kitchen, but there were times you wanted some privacy, revelling in the moments you could have only for yourselves.

Kitchen? Had you managed to make him breakfast? Steve wasn’t hungry, his insides too tight for that, his mind too heavy, but he appreciated the gesture anyw-

He frowned when he found his laptop on the counter instead, a flash drive lying on top of it with another note. He wondered how could he not wake up with you moving around the apartment.

Please, play ‘PLAY ME’ video. I think it’ll be worth it. xxx

Steve found himself tilting his head to side, curious and confused. He couldn’t imagine you leaving something of a-- dirty nature for him, knowing the mood he had been in last night and yesterday in general. Sex was usually not the best way of cheering him up in such situation. As embarrassing as it might seem, he was more of a cuddler at times like these.

Not bothering with fixing himself breakfast, debating Natasha was probably still asleep in her bed in the med bay, he seated himself on the bar stool and heard out your plea.

He was not by any means ready for what was waiting for him after pressing play.

Whoever was filming was apparently not very good at it as the screen appeared to be shaking, but in the end, the device must have been placed on a steady surface and actually zoomed onto something concrete instead of showing a blur.

What surprised him more though was that it was Clint’s voice sounding from the speakers of his laptop, even before the screen showed his face.

“You for real? Do you realize what time it is…? --Oh, not as late as I thought actually. Ugh, okay. I guess that’s fair. You’re actually making this easier for me, you know that?”

Steve frowned, gulping as the voice of his teammate turned from annoyed to surprised to grateful. All of the emotions were far from what Steve had been met with yesterday’s afternoon after the mission.

The archer was seated on an empty bed in med bay, probably alone in the room (unless Steve counted the person who was filming), because there were no intrusive sounds. Steve wasn’t taken aback by the environment he found him in – after all, Clint probably spent a lot of time there, watching over his partner in both work and personal life. He fidgeted before looking directly to the camera.

“Okay. Here we go. Hey, Cap. Steve. I’m sorry. I… I shouldn’t have yelled at you yesterday. I was being an ass,” he admitted, the annoyance back – this time though, it looked as if the source of his indignation was Clint himself. “You know… you know Tasha’s my whole world and seeing her almost blown up… it got the best of me. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean what I said. In fact, I think I’d give the same order. So… I’m sorry.”

Steve gulped, not entirely convinced. If he was being honest, the seeds of doubts had been planted and while Clint’s apology did lift some of the weight from Steve’s shoulders, genuinely appreciated, his mood remained rather sour and gloomy.

Confusion never left him either. He was 95% percent sure you had been the one to film the apology, but the reason behind such action was escaping him. Had Clint left with you, hence apologizing like this instead of in person? That wasn’t right. Why would he go with you?

Turned out, expecting that that was it, the end of the recording, was a mistake. The recording went on and Steve only now noticed what length the timer actually showed. It would go for… several minutes, actually.

That was strange.

Clint on the screen fidgeted and took a deep breath, exchanging a look with of whom Steve assumed was you.

“The truth is, I wouldn’t trade places with you. Like, ever. The pressure we put on you must be unbearable. I think we forget about that sometimes, what a toll it has to take on you. The responsibility on your shoulders has to weigh a fucking ton. We don’t say thank you enough and when we do, you shrug it off, because that’s what you do. Because you think that’s what’s expected of you.”

Steve blinked in surprise, the words striking him right in his chest, knocking the air out of his lungs. What… why would Clint say that?

“And it is, but I want to tell you we appreciate it. We do. To actually fulfil my assignment, I should phrase it differently. I appreciate your modesty, your determination and the fact I can always rely on you. Except when your lady’s around. Then you kinda get lost in-”

A terribly aimed slipper hit the archer in his shoulder and the corners of Steve’s lips automatically twitched in amusement. Oh yeah, it was definitely you behind the camera, now he was sure. Familiar warmth spread around his heart when he realized you wanted to prove him that Clint not only didn’t blame him, but appreciated him even.

What had Steve even done to deserve you?

“-ouch!” the man in the recording complained, pretending to be wounded. “What? It’s the truth—fine. You’re just- you’re great, man, alright? That’s it.”

Steve nearly went for his phone that very second, wanting to let you know how much he loved you, even though his doubts didn’t go away.

The picture changing in a sharp cut made him stop as he spotted a flash of red hair.

Natasha. She was awake. It was undoubtedly her and in a recent footage, because Steve recognized that wound on her head – and she was lying in a hospital bed.

What in the world even…?

The tension in his shoulders eased despite his heart racing. She was smirking even.

“Hey there, you righteous guilty-driven ass!” she greeted him, only to be scolded by your voice from behind the camera.

“Nat!“

“I swear I’m about to make a point!” the spy protested, raising her uninjured hand in a gesture of surrender. “So from what I understand, you’ll get this video only in the morning and by that time, you’ll have already checked up on me for three times – or four, unless you bothered to find this recording first thing after waking up – despite doctors telling you I’d be fine every time you do.”

That-- was unsurprisingly accurate. What Natasha said was true – Steve had checked up on her three times before you had talked him into finally going to bed to get some sleep and he had been thinking about stopping by first thing after finishing this video.

It was almost infuriating how much Natasha knew him, but Steve was too relieved she was awake, speaking and calling him out on his bullshit to care.

“‘cause you’re fussing, Rogers. You’re a mother hen.”

Steve sighed. She was right once more. He had been said such, multiple times. But he felt responsible for his team, for his friends and you and he had seen too many deaths in both the past and the modern times to not to fuss.

“But you know what? We bitch about it, but we love it,” Natasha announced, her smirk softening into a smile. “Let’s be honest; our team needs a babysitter. Clint and Tony are giant children with dangerous weapons, not to mention oh so mighty Thor, I admit I can get cocky just to prove myself in the sea of testosterone from all of you and Bruce… you always try to get him in, showing him that he’s worthy as both the Hulk and his human self. You’re a mother hen with giant heart and you’re baring it for us, carrying it on your sleeve and putting in into everything you do. So… keep rolling. And for god’s sake, do not visit me again.”

Terrible wink followed, very unsubtle, as if she was telling him she was only kidding, but at the same time not quite, because he was overdoing it with his mother-henning.

And Steve found himself laughing at the glint in her eyes, feeling tears forming in his own. His limbs felt strangely floaty, as did his head. He couldn’t remember receiving so much compliments and support in a very long time, certainly not from the former assassin duo.

The sensation was pleasant, but oh so unusual, he couldn’t even describe it.

Of course, the fact you had orchestrated this whole this was not helping his lovesickness. It was hard to tell whether it was day or night from the footage, when exactly you did this, but he was aware of how nervous you were about the symposium. You should have been going through your notes for your presentation (for like… the tenth time, because for all your brilliance, you were a very nervous speaker, a bit like Bruce); instead, you spent your spare time doing this, only to make Steve feel better.

And the video was far from being over.

Surely enough, the scenery changed again, the camera aimed at a computer screen this time. Steve didn’t understand until he recognized Thor, who was currently spending his time with Jane Foster in New Mexico, video-conferencing with you.

“Unbelievable,” Steve muttered under his breath, amazed.

“What is it, lady of Captain’s?” the alien demigod asked, frowning at the screen of his own computer. “This way of communication is still confusing, why are you writing when we can talk together? …Oh.”

The blond was silent for a moment, appearing in deep thought, before smiling broadly.

“Very well. What is of the Captain’s qualities. He’s a mighty warrior. A brave man I would always follow into battle without question. Excellent leader, always having his garrison’s safety in mind-“

A sting of guilt burned at Steve’s consciousness at that.

Did he? He always tried, sure… but was it enough? Yesterday’s incident was proving the opposite, yet he had been acting in utter belief that what he had decided was for the best, confident that the risk for his teammate was minimal. That was the problem with bad intel; they never knew it was bad until something blew up in their faces, sometimes literally. He could never predict what had happened.

And with each minute of this video, Steve felt he was letting a piece of the guilt go, along with doubt.

He wasn’t stupid; he knew that precisely that was the point of this thing, but… yeah, that realization did nothing against the fact that it was working.

“Steven radiates strength, both bodily and mentally and he is a great friend of all,” Thor on the screen continued in his loud voice. “I feel blessed by the Allfather and all Gods above for I encountered him and fought side-by-side with him as well celebrated victories. I look forward for more to come, always delighted by reconnecting with him.”

By the time Bruce in his lab coat appeared (seriously, how did you manage to get a hold of everyone? Steve wasn’t sleeping for that long, though it probably helped that half of his team, if not all, were insomniacs), Steve was breathless with anticipation, greedy for hearing what others had to say, no matter how selfish it made him.

He craved comfort and since you weren’t there… you obtained a different kind of comfort for him and shit, was it working.

“Uh. I’m not good at this-”

“Try? Please?” you asked the scientist softly and Steve could imagine your soothing smile, the gentle hope and plea in your eyes. Steve could never deny you when you asked something of him like that and when you stooped even lower and used your puppy eyes, he stood no chance.

“He’s lucky to have you, you know,” Bruce noted and Steve’s smile widened when you sounded flustered at that remark.

“Bruce…”

“What? You’re an important part of him we appreciate. But I understand complimenting you isn’t the point of this. Just let me… eh. Alright. I think I got it. I’m not good at talking, but I’m gonna try,” he exclaimed, clearly determined. He wasn’t looking directly into the camera, but that didn’t steal any significance from his words.

“Steve, I hope you don’t beat yourself over what happened yesterday. I mean… I know you do, but my point is – don’t. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. You do what you believe is right and we know you long enough to know that that moral compass of yours is as important as your quick decisions in the field – right ones. But what is even more important and why I appreciate you is that… you try to see that piece of goodness in everyone. You see it in Nat, who sure made some questionable things in the past. You see through Tony’s façade and… you see good in me. You look and you see good in people – and every creature – and that’s the best thing about you. Ugh… yeah, I don’t think I can do more.”

He smiled awkwardly, fiddling with his fingers then and lowering his gaze.

It was easy to imagine what – or rather who – was coming next. Steve wasn’t confident he could take it. He had felt an uncomfortable stinging in his eyes two people back, few tears at bay, but he wanted to watch the rest.

The floating sensation overwhelmed his brain and he was honestly surprised he was still breathing, because he felt too stunned to do so. And he felt… moved. Appreciated. Cherished. Hell, he even felt the confidence he needed in the field to the exact quick decisions Bruce had mentioned slowly returning.

His team, his friends… they trusted him. They doubted him less than he doubted himself.

The picture got blurry once more, Tony’s incredulous voice crystal clear.

“So you want me to make a video equivalent of a love letter to him,” the billionaire stated sceptically and despite himself, Steve grinned.

Tony was a complicated person, but leave it to him to be sarcastic and lift the spirit in his own very specific way.

“No! That’s not- Tony. Please?”

“You know, this puppy eyes shit only works on Rogers, not-“ he wavered and Steve laughed as the recording cleared and focused on Tony’s torn expression. Oh, he was going to give in to Steve’s amazing girl, Steve could tell. “-shit. I can’t believe you’re making me do this. You’re infuriating.”

“I know,” you sing-sang as Tony sunk further into the chair in his workshop. “And thanks.”

“Fine. Hey, Capsicle.”

Steve could practically hear your eyeroll at the nickname and for a good measure, he rolled his eyes too. Capsicle. It used to irritate him more, the word Stark used the first time they met. Now it was-- Steve was only mildly annoyed when Tony called him that. There were worse names he had been called.

“Steve. I bet you know, unlike like Miss America over here, that I only give nicknames to people I like,” Tony made a point, looking at you with a smirk and Steve was sure a light-bulb appeared above his own head as he realized that… it actually made sense.

“There aren’t many of those and even less of them realize that they are part of that exclusive club. Look, I do stupid shit. I built robots for fun and to cover for the fact I couldn’t exactly fight without them, and I’m terrible with people. Fury didn’t even want me on the Avengers initiative, because I’m known for being a selfish bastard and not a team player, which you recognized within five minutes of meeting me.”

Steve felt rather bad for such an early assumption. Admittedly, he had been harsh on the man, letting the information he had received cloud his judgement and became a willing victim of prejudice. Hearing Tony self-reflecting his faults, eating the humble pie, it only proved how wrong Steve had been. Hell, Tony had turned out to be the man to make the sacrifice the very same day Steve had accused him of his inability to do so.

Which was why Tony’s next words knocked the air out of Steve’s lungs very effectively, striking his heart with deadly precision. He honestly had no idea what to do with the knowledge he obtained now.

“The thing is, your stupid blond ass is making me want to change that. I hate saying this, because I’m aware it can be used against me, but you’re my friend. I respect you and I admire you. You inspire people. I will always brag about the time I carried a nuke into a wormhole, but the truth is, as much as I liked Coulson and his death was something that brought us together, without you, I don’t think I would have done it. I will bitch about you, I will call you names, I will be an arrogant ass, because that’s who I am, but it won’t change the fact I look up to you. …‘kay. I think that I did ok-- are you crying?”

Steve shook himself, for a moment swearing Tony could see him and spoke directly to him. He quickly blinked away the few tears, shocked to his very core.

Tony… was claiming to take the risk of dying during the battle of New York, because… Steve had inspired him? What the actual-

“Shut up,” you murmured at Tony’s accusation and Steve couldn’t blame you one bit for the tears he couldn’t see. He was such a mess himself. This was too much.

What Tony had said, what you had done for him, what everyone shared through this recording--

He wanted to close the laptop shut and deal with the raging sea of emotions, the silly laugh and tears threatening to spill in waterfalls, the feeling of his heart swelling and nearly bursting in his chest, making it difficult to breathe, his head spinning-

But the video was still not over.

The scenery didn’t quite change, except the chair Tony had been sitting in was empty now, his voice sounding as he spoke from a different angle to the device.

“Come on, doc, you have to do this too, otherwise it won’t count. Do it for the old man. Should I leave so my virgin ears don’t bleed on the dirty things you-“

“Tony… shut up.”

Steve could hear your sigh and heavy hesitant steps and then you appeared in the frame, seating into the chair with a discontent frown, fidgeting nervously.

Steve thought his mouth might actually tear with how widely he was smiling now. You were adorable as the camera revealed you in all your glory – Steve’s long t-shirt you usually slept in and a pair of baggy sweatpants you wore when you were cold, as well as a light sweater thrown over your shoulders. Which, given how tired you looked, made sense, because you were always cold when you didn’t get enough sleep.

Steve hadn’t thought he could get any more touched by what you did, but seeing you now, he assessed the sacrifice you had made just to make him feel better all over again, the severity of your actions hitting him.

What you had done must have been a spontaneous action; you had actually filmed all of those things in the late night and early morning. Tired, with no make-up on yet, but smiling that nervous sweet smile, you tucked a loose strand of your hair behind your ear. You were not looking to the camera, worrying your teeth over your lip.

“Okay, okay…. Please, look directly to the camera and state your name and date of birth for the record,” Tony encouraged you, indulging the moment your roles reversed.

“I’m not doing that,” you hissed, but then you raised your gaze and Steve’s heart stopped. Despite the exhaustion on your face, your eyes radiated warmth and tenderness. “Hey, Stevie. I guess Tony has a point for once-“

“Hey-!“

“-and since I came up with this, I should contribute. But where do I even start?” you wondered as if you truly had to wonder, as if there were too many things to point out. Steve craved having you in his arms to hug you profusely and kiss the living daylight of you for being so sweet and precious.

“And they all gave names to your qualities so well! Uhm… now, I don’t have a first-hand experience with your Avenging, so I can leave out this part of you, but there is still so much to love about you. First of all, you’re kind. Such a gentle soul, such a giver. You’ve been kicked down so many times and yet here you are, not yelling at me when I eat too much chocolate and then complain about stomach-ache and my belly being too soft-“ Steve chuckled at that, recalling way too many times that situation occurred. “I bet that watching this video, you’re still thinking I look cute instead of acknowledging I look like shit. Because you seek the beauty in everything and you love the world. It was one of the first things I noticed about you-“

“Right after his ass and muscles, no doubt mesmerized by his sky-blue eyes,“ Tony hummed from the background, effectively startling Steve who had honestly let the fact that Tony was even there slip from his mind, too lost in your love declarations.

“Fuck you, Tony. And his eyes are not sky-blue, they have a little green in them.“

“Really? Jarvis, show me a good picture…”

“Anyway. You give so much and don’t ask anything in return. Sometimes I can see how much you want to, but you never do. It’s like you don’t expect to get it anyway, not even the little things. As if you didn’t deserve it. Newsflash, Stevie, you do. You deserve the world. I wish I could give it to you…”

Oh, you’re doing that, sweetheart, Steve wished to tell you, but even if he had you on the phone at the moment, he wouldn’t be able to say a word with his throat constricted with the overwhelming emotions.

“And the world itself won’t come crushing down over a mistake that wasn’t even in your power to avoid and it won’t break down if you take a breath and relax. I always think I’m on the right way to convince you about that, but then you shy away from it. You matter, Stevie. You, Steven Grant Rogers, matter so much. Everyone pointed out at least one thing about you and not the Captain and that’s not a coincidence. Despite everything, you’re only human, we remember that and we all love you for it.”

“Some more than others…” Tony interrupted again, his voice carrying a hoarseness as if he was affected by your speech as well. You pointedly ignored him.

“Don’t forget that. I have it from a good source that a guy once told you that everything special about you came from a bottle. We both know that’s a load of bullshit. Even Doctor Erskine recognized how special you were and decided to choose you. Good becomes great, you told me he said. Well, sure. It just needed an opportunity to show. Let’s be honest, I have no doubt that your stubbornness and other tiny flaws amplified too, because you’re unbelievable sometimes, but that’s okay. In the end, you’re the best man I have ever met and I am lucky and feel proud to be called yours. I love you, Stevie. So much,” your voice lowered to a whisper and with a tight smile, you lightly kissed your fingers and nearly touched the lens of the camera.

Steve choked on a watery laugh. You really were too cute for words. A brilliant scientist, one of the most intelligent women the world knew, and here you were being adorable and utterly devoted to him.

Christ, he didn’t deserve you.

“Stupid allergies…” Tony complained, fooling no one as his voice came out scratchy from the lump that no doubt formed in his throat. “You done?”

To Steve’s utter surprise, you shook your head, drying a stray tear that escaped your eyes as well, but the corners of your lips twitched in attempted smile.

“Just a sec. I’m sorry, I want to edit this video more, cut some parts out, but I’ll probably run out of time and I want you to have it in the morning. It’s a bit messy, but I hope with all my heart that you received the message loud and clear.” You have no idea. “Also, sorry for the killer dose of painkillers and sneaking out without a goodbye. I’d be pissed if you did that to me, so… you know, sorry. I promise to make it up to you when I’m back-”

“Ouch, ouch! That’s what I was talking about, I did not want to hear that! I’m scarred for life!” Tony howled dramatically and Steve didn’t even had energy to roll his eyes. He was a complete mess.

“Tony? You’re an asshole.”

“And you’re too good to be true, doc. I think you gotta get on the plane in like thirty minutes, so-“

A look of utter shock and horror appeared on your face and you jumped from the chair with admirable energy for such an early hour and the all-nighter you pulled. “Shit, shit shit-- I’m not gonna edit it at all then, dammit-“

“Nah, I bet it’s better without it, more authentic. Go write a note or something equally sickeningly sweet that you romantics do-”

“Turn it off, you goof!” you giggled, reaching for the camera and the screen went black as if on command.

Steve sat on the bar stool for several minutes, staring on the screen absently, grinning and feeling… so indescribably loved he couldn’t quite contain it.

What you had done-

Feeling like an idiot for not doing it earlier, he sprang towards the bedroom to get his phone, typing a message to you. If he remembered correctly, you might still be on your way, but sometimes it was hard to tell with Tony’s inventions.

S: Have a safe flight and nice stay, sweetheart. You’ll rock. x

S: And thank you for what you’ve done. I don’t deserve you.

His heart skipped a beat when the phone chimed in response almost instantly.

♥: Clearly, you weren’t paying enough attention when watching. Go play it again, Stevie.

He grinned. Apparently, despite the lack of sleep and the nerves he had seen every time you had thought of your presentation, you were fine.

His heart felt too big for his ribcage, squishing his lungs as it grew in size, barely being able to let out a laugh.

S: I did!

S: Correction then: thank you. You are the best thing that ever happened to me. I’ll always be grateful for you and I love you more than anything.

This time, he expected the early comeback.

♥: Love you too. Miss you already! xxx

Steve set the phone down with a goofy smile plastered over his face and went to watch the video again – the part with you anyway.

He could go and check on Natasha later. After all, she told him not to do that again anyway.

⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰

S.R. masterlist

⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰

I should be posting Errare Humanum Est and Attached, but I was feeling a bit down and overwhelmed with schoolwork, so I dusted off this baby for you. I hope you enjoyed :-*

Steve deserves some love from his girl and from his teammates. I actually considered writing this with few alternations so it was Peter doing the video (as a non-relationship kind of thing), but I guess this is even sweeter... in a romantic way anyway.

Thank you for reading!

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thebmatt · 3 years

Text

FFXIV Write 2021 Prompt #16: Crane

Crane - stretch out one's body or neck in order to see something.

Kugane tended to get very warm this time of year, and Ranaa Mhigo was grateful that the casual attire she wore was so breathable. It did an excellent job of keeping the sun from her bronzed skin, but let those all-too rare cool breezes grant the full measure of their cooling relief when they did show up.

One was arriving now, and she let out an enjoyable sigh as it passed through. Unfortunately she also raised her her ever so slightly, and the movement sent a small stab of pain through her neck muscles. With a small exclamation of pain, she reached up to rub the pain away.

Makoto, who was sitting at the table of one of Kugane's smaller teahouses with her, looked over to her with concern in her eyes. "Are you well, my....friend?"

The small hesitation told Ranaa that she'd almost finished that sentence with "heart" as she often called Ranaa in private, but that she'd stopped herself from doing so. Public displays of affection were somewhat frowned on within Hingan culture, and relationships with foreigners or people of the same gender were even more so. Makoto occupied a somewhat prominent position within Kugane as captain of the Sekiseigumi, and so she had to keep their relationship private. Sometimes she went a little overboard on the caution, but Ranaa couldn't be too mad about it. After all she was very affectionate in private.

"I'm fine, just a little neck cramp." she replied. She leaned in and whispered "Between all his training we've been doing for our next performance and all the times we have to crane our neck to look up at Fearless, I think maybe it's gotten more sore than the rest of me!"

Makoto giggled quietly, smiling even as she cast her eyes around, confirming that no one else was within earshot. "You might jest, but honestly mine has been hurting me more than usual lately as well! But I don't think I can ever really complain about it. Seeing her look down back at me with all of that love in her gaze....it is very much a worthwhile trade."

Ranaa smiled back at her. "It really does. Hey, I'm curious, actually. What was your reaction the first time you ever saw her?"

She thought back to those days when she had traveled to Eorzea, seeking the legendary samurai Musosai, hoping he might be willing to rejoin them in bringing the insurgent who wanted to burn the city they all now called home to the ground.

"I will honestly never forget the sight. I was right outside the tavern known as the 'Quicksand' in Ul'dah, hoping to catch sight of Musosai, when this absolutely massive woman approaches me. I remember being equally terrified and entranced, my very breath taken away by how beautiful she was, to the point where it took me a few moments to realize that she was both wearing a katana at her hip and addressing me by name. I remember keeping my eyes absolutely fixed on her own, but my mind was practically begging me to allow myself to admire just how well her armor fit her!"

She looks down at her teacup. "Of course, it was then that I had learned that the man I had pinned my hopes on was no longer among the living, so that did put somewhat of a damper on my traitorous mind."

Makoto shook her head and looked back to Ranaa, smiling. "No. I'm not getting lost back there because it has led me here, and here, in my greatest happiness, is where I wish to be. So, now you must tell me, my dearest Ranaa. What was your own reaction to meeting "our girl" as you are fond of calling her?

Ranaa laughs. "Well, I'll be honest, I don't quite remember the first real time I laid eyes upon her. She was just another member of my first audience in Eorzea. Said audience was quite large, as a Thavnairian dancing troupe performing is hardly a common occurrence in Limsa Lominsa and there was no shortage of beautiful girls watching, both Roegadyn and otherwise. I make it a habit of catching as many eyes as possible when I dance, if only for a brief few seconds. I remember seeing her in the crowd, mostly cause of her axe. She was carrying a real big one"

"But then afterwards, Mistress Nashmeira brought her over to the Troupe and introduced her as her new protege and my new dance partner." Ranaa blushed a little. "I tried so hard to come off all smooth and confident when I talked to her, but inside, I had two conflicting thoughts going through my head. The first was 'How is this mountain of muscles and tits ever going to have the grade needed to learn the Kriegstanz?' The other was 'Oh, Twelve, I'm going to get to look up at this gorgeous mountain of muscles in a dancer's costume...a lot...'"

Both of them erupted in laughter. Makoto managed to regain control of herself first. "We should make our way home, dearest. Perhaps we can convince our 'gorgeous mountain of muscles' to put them to good use in giving us a shoulder massage"

Ranaa smiled coyly at her. "I love you and your brilliant mind. Let's go!"

A short walk to the ferry and a ride across the river later, the pair arrived in their neighborhood, walking hand in hand. Unlike Kugane, Shirogane was reserved exclusively for foreign inhabitants, as well as any citizens who were invited to live with them. The pair were known to a few of their neighbors, but no one else even bothered the pair. Makoto thoroughly enjoyed being able to let her guard down at the end of the day. No one here knew she was a part of the Sekiseigumi, and unlike most Hingashi natives, the residents were not bothered in the least by "less traditional" romantic arrangements.

Ranaa had stopped to speak with a Lalafell neighbor of theirs, a man employed by the East Aldenard Trading Company in the city, and was just catching back up to Makoto when she noticed a familiar person walking up the road. "Wait....why is Franks here?"

Sure enough, the "Old Man" as he preferred to be called, was indeed walking up the road, away from their home. He was carrying a large satchel which Makoto could see held all manner of tools. "Franks, is that you?" Makoto called. "What brings you here?"

Franks waved. "Ah, ladies! Well met. You're just in time, I just finished the addition!"

Ranaa and Makoto exchanged glances. "Addition? What addition?" Ranaa inquired.

He smirked "Ooooh, she didn't tell you! Well, I'll say nothing more, lest I let the rest of the metaphorical couerl out of the bag! Enjoy it!" With that, he gave them a wave goodbye and sauntered onward,

"What in the star was THAT about?" Ranaa wondered as they watched Franks head for the ferry.

Makoto took her hand again. "I suspect we shall find out when we get home, love."

A few less eventful minutes later, they arrived at the home they shared with Fearless to find her waiting for them at the gate. "Oh, good, you're home!" she said, kneeling down to embrace the pair, one under each arm. "I have a surprise for you, come on!"

Fearless stood and spun around, grabbing one of their hands each as she did, and quickly walked around to the house, Both Ranaa and Makoto stumbled as Fearless almost dragged them behind her, but they quickly adjusted their pace and caught up to her.

Around the back of the house, up against a small rocky cliff that gave them some privacy, Makoto spotted a feature that had not been there that morning. It was a large rectangular wooden structure built onto a series of carefully sculpted rocks that gave an illusion of being naturally shaped. On the far end, a taller wooden structure rose, topped by a black tiled roof. Steam rose from the structure.

Ranaa gasped. "Is...is that a personal hot spring? Do we have a HOT SPRING in our backyard??"

Fearless smiled at her. "We do! I've wanted to take you both to one for so long, but the only ones I know of are in Eorzea, and we haven't had time for an extended sojourn there. I haven't been able to find one in Doma, and I know going to any of the ones in Kugane would be too risky. I mentioned it to the others, and Franks came up with this wonderful idea. He crafted it entirely himself. Fire crystals keep it heated, water crystals continuously replenish the supply and keep it clean. Now we can enjoy it whenever we like!

Ranaa lept up into her fellow dancer's arms. "And I'm sure getting to see us in swimwear a lot didn't factor into your decision at all" she teased.

Fearless kissed her. "Well, I see you in minimal clothing a lot as it is, sweetling. Makoto on the other hand? Yeah, totally did all this just to see her wear swimsuits more often

Makoto blushed and smacked her on the arm. "Do you want to tease, or shall we go inside and change and see how nice it is?"

A few minutes later, Makoto found herself loving the addition to their home as she leaned back against Fearless' legs while strong but gentle hands massaged all the aches out of her neck and shoulders as Ranaa sat next to her, awaiting her turn with her usual amount of patience. Which was to say, none at all. She continuously tried to distract her with kisses and teasing touches, waiting for the moment she could slip into her spot and begin receiving Fearless' ministrations.

Though it had not ended as she hoped, Makoto was very glad she'd made that first trip to Eorzea. It had changed her life in ways she never could have imagined, all for the better.

#Final Fantasy XIV #FFXIV 2021 Writing Challenge #Fearless Willow #Ranaa Mhigo #Makoto #oldmanfranks #Girlfriends bein girlfriends

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lambourngb · 4 years

Note

Not sure if you are taking prompt buts if you are Post S2 prompt: I just want to see Alex quietly singing/humming The Song to Michael. Maybe Michael's hurt and in pain or they've both had a really emotional event happen and are totally drained from crying. I want that song to be a source of comfort. My partner isn't an amazing singer but I still find it really comforting when he sings to me and I like to think Michael and Alex eventually get to that point too.

This was a very romantic prompt nonnie! I’m afraid I was in a hurt/comfort state when I started this. Warnings: Confinement, experimentation, angst, mention of Forlex, mention of the Miluca breakup, but all is not lost.

“like a halo from a gun”

Time stopped having meaning to Michael sometime after the third week of confinement.

Guards entered his cell at random intervals, always wearing black masks and dull, badge-less armor that kept them anonymous. The first injection of the serum Helena had once used on him let him know he was probably in the hands of the real Deep Sky operation. Fighting with his fists, pulling every dirty trick he learned from his brief stint in juvie at 15, rewarded him with a broken wrist and a battered torso.

He was gifted with a soft white bandage to hold the splits of his bone together, he supposed they were too nervous to allow him with the hard plaster of a cast. The pain left him weak, tired, and finally docile as vial after vial of blood was taken from him.

At least it was just blood, and not anything more taxing, like tissue or an organ. If he survives this cell, he would have to thank Max for blowing up Liz’s lab. There was no way he could be sanguine over seeing Noah’s liver in a jar after this experience.

Worry about that later, he reminded himself. If there was a later.

No one was coming for him because no one knew he was missing. His plan had been simple, shared with Isobel, Max and Sanders. A month long road trip to get some space from Roswell, and Max’s moping over Liz’s departure seemed like a good idea at the time, and if he by chance he ended up in California to plead his brother’s case, well, seeing the Pacific Ocean felt like a thing to do.

The open road with his window down had beckoned. He had let the wounded feelings from Maria blow away with his mixed emotions about Forrest, stitching up the raw places inside in ways he knew alcohol couldn’t and acetone shouldn’t. As he drove, he had found himself humming Alex’s song, reminding himself of the promise of the future.

It was not their time now, but it would be one day had been his mantra.

Three hours later, feeling lighter and more hopeful, he had pulled over to assist a stranded motorist. A mother, holding a baby at her hip, had seemed harmless enough until she hit him with a needle pulled from an innocuous diaper bag.

His powers gone, he had made it back to his truck just in time for three black Jeeps with weapons mounted to appear from the surrounding brush to pin him down. Surrender or death, he picked surrender. He picked hope.

Now, his wrist screaming with a swollen hot feeling, he considered the idea that he might have picked the wrong option. Michael shut his eyes, letting the siren song of fatigue, despair and pain drag him down to sleep. He found a brighter, happier place to be, deep inside his mind. Perhaps it was his body shutting down, or perhaps he had found the place his mother described to Tripp. The ultimate sanctuary from pain and fear.

There was a kinship believing that his mother found the same haven, where maybe her Manes man had waited for her the way Alex waited for him in the dream. The only dark he could find there, were Alex’s warm eyes, and the only touch he could feel was Alex’s broad hands. After three bags of blood drawn, he could sometimes hear Alex’s voice, whispering soft promises to him.

Together we could quiet all the noises

Drown out the voices

Play our own song

He could still hear Alex’s voice, as he slowly surfaced from his mind. It didn’t make any sense to his sluggish thoughts. The song kept up, and the next thing he was aware of was the slow, carding of his hair and the warmth under his face of his pillow. Except he didn’t have a pillow.

Blinking he met the bruised, worried face of Alex. He would never hallucinate Alex with a mark on his face, let alone darkening blemish on his cheekbone and worrying cut that bled sluggishly from his forehead creeping upward to his hairline. “You’re actually here?”

“Yes,” Alex confirmed.

“Why? How-”

“The ‘how’ is Maria had a vision not long after you left, and once she figured out that you were in trouble, she had me try to track your phone.” Alex frowned faintly, his touch never wavering as he smoothed back the matted and sweat-crusted locks of hair. “We found your truck at used car dealer a few miles from the last cell tower you pinged. It was all hands on deck to find you after that.”

Very little of his words registered on Michael. He was too caught up in the cringing horror at their close proximity, as his mind moved on from the fantasy of seeing Alex to the reality of his current condition. He wanted to pull away because god only knew how badly he smelled at the moment. Bathing consisted of a blast of a hose, bracingly cold and relying on the force of the water to wash away the dirt and fear-sweats he routinely suffered. All of that said, he never wanted to leave the place on Alex’s lap. Being treated like a person after 3 weeks of nothing but sterile touch undid all his work at detachment.

Unaware of the train of Michael’s thoughts, Alex continued in a soft voice, “I should have looked sooner, but- anyway, I didn’t even know you guys had broken up. Actually, I didn’t even know you left town until Maria came to my house looking for you.”

The blood loss was making him stupid as he tried to figure out what made Maria think he was at Alex’s. It was still too painful to even think about how he had failed with her, did she really think he would seek out the other person who knew how inadequate he was when it came to a relationship? As free and relaxed as Alex was at the Wild Pony, with Jesse in the ground, why would he want to ruin that?

Michael was well aware of how stuck he was emotionally, in all the ways that seemed to matter to people, and Alex had evolved past him. Tired, he squeezed his dry eyes shut tightly. “Why your house?”

“Her visions of you all involved me. In various positions she said?”

It took a second to comprehend Alex’s admission before Michael briefly wished that his captors would return. Getting drained to light-headed weakness was preferable to this. The mental retreat he had built where he inserted Alex into his delusion of a happily ever after had more windows instead of privacy doors. He had been broadcasting to his ex-girlfriend. Fuck his life.

“Oh god- I’m so sorry, I just, I was trying to-.”

“Hey, hey,” Alex cut him off, his eyes kind as always even as Michael struggled to keep from crying. It was definitely time to wish for more needles, for more medical experimentation. That felt kinder than this discussion for Michael.

Sensing that hovering stab of humiliation, Alex made his own confession in return in the quiet, “After my leg, when rehab sucked. I pictured things being different too, or I thought about that summer with you. You don’t have to apologize, not to me.”

“Still, if she had put on the damn bracelet-” Mortified and weak, Micheal turned his face toward Alex’s hip, hiding it from view.

“Well the fact she wasn’t wearing the bracelet worked out in your favor. It’s how we realized you were in trouble in the first place, since she came over to my house to yell at you to stop projecting at her. She didn’t think it was deliberate either. She thought we had gotten back together, and because of your past with her, that you had left some link open by accident.”

“Bet Forrest loved that, my ex-girlfriend yelling at you about your- about me.”

Alex’s hand paused, either at the barb or the course correction Michael made in describing himself. For all the use of past tense feelings, the closest he’d heard Alex come to naming him was ‘first love’.

“Sorry,” Michael whispered, as a wave of shame swelled. “Sorry for that, and sorry that you’re here with me now. You shouldn’t have come but I know why you did. Guess that means we’re even now.”

“Of course I came, and it had nothing to do with being even.”

“Right, you don’t want to keep score anymore.”

Alex pinked a little at the reference to his song, before nodding seriously, “Yes, remember how the rest of the song goes?” He let his eyes track to the corner of the cell where the video surveillance was mounted plainly without subterfuge. “Would you meet me in the middle,” he sang sweetly, nodding toward the left wall of the cell, “Could we both stop keeping score? There’s a battle I must fight along, it’s you I’m fighting for. If I call on my battalion, break down the walls stone by stone, tear down the defenses, I could build our heart a home?”

Goddamnit. That crazy, brave, genius bastard really did have a plan. Michael was ready to both kiss and strangle Alex after that.

The building shook briefly, rocked by a far off explosion. Michael summoned the reserves of his energy, and moved with Alex’s body as they rolled toward the wall. Then all hell started to break loose. The battalion mentioned was not just metaphorically tearing down walls. In the midst of deafening blasts and new alarms wailing in response, he found Alex’s ear. “I want to come home to you, that’s all I want, just when I’m ready.”

“That’s all I want too.”

#Anonymous #malex fic #roswell new mexico #spoilers for 2x13 #angst with a hopeful ending #malex #captured: cw #experimentation: cw #hurt/comfort #mentions of others #not sure if I can write short stories #i think in epic terms so...

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quazartranslates · 3 years

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Welcome to the Nightmare Game - CH84

**This is an edited machine translation. For more information, please [click here]**

[<<< Previous Chapter | Table of Contents | Next Chapter >>>]

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Chapter 84: Castle Cry (XI)

Fear, endless fear, Qi Leren moved in panic, and the shadows crawling at his feet moved. They dragged him to the ground with incredible strength and he could not move. The dagger inlaid with holy runes had no effect on the shadow. Qi Leren ruthlessly cut his left arm with the knife, and blood gushed out. The rune on the dagger gave off milky white light, which made his blood carry a weak holy power. The shadow crawling all over the ground paused for a moment, and then came upon him again.

Damn, how could he deal with this thing without form? As the power of the shadows wass getting stronger and stronger, Qi Leren was pulled down and he couldn't stand up. Looking up, the crazy lady was less than five meters away from him!

Save? Or should he use another spell?

No, it wasn’t the time to save. Try again!

A miniature bomb was thrown out and exploded nearby. On the ground, Qi Leren felt the impact, and all the candles nearby went out, leaving only a few candles scattered in the deepest part of the basement.

Qi Leren looked up. After the smoke dispersed, he saw the crazy lady lying on the ground in the distance. She was still, as if she had died in the explosion.

Had she died just like that? Was it over?

Qi Leren was in a state of dreamy unreality, and the shadows had disappeared. He slowly got up from the ground and staggered towards her... Either way, he should make sure with the dagger first.

After the explosion, the miniature bomb had left a pit in the basement. Qi Leren bypassed it and carefully came to the crazy lady's side. She was lying on the ground, her face covered with blood, her eyes closed, and her long golden hair scattered, as if she had lost her vitality.

Qi Leren walked towards her in the dark, and the remaining candlelight in the distance was ethereal, but it could not reach his feet. He came to the lifeless crazy lady's side, clutching the dagger in his hand and slowly lifting it…

Kill her and finish this mission.

Qi Leren's heart beat so fast that even his eardrums were shaking, and his wrist holding the dagger trembled gently because of the fierce struggle just now. He felt as if he was wrapped in a sticky dark, and countless questions, metaphors and plots were glued together, which locked him firmly. But as long as he swung the dagger, everything would be punctured by a sharp blade, and everything would end rudely.

As long as it was over.

With a dull pain in the back of his neck, the seed reminded him that this was a place full of demons, and he couldn’t delay any longer.

Determined, Qi Leren tightened his hand holding the dagger and stabbed it hard!

The wrist was firmly held by a thin and pale hand, and a temperature as cold as ice froze him. When Qi Leren realized what was holding his hand, he jolted like he’d been given an electric shock - his wrist was clasped, and he couldn't escape at all.

He didn't know when the dead crazy lady had opened her eyes. The intact left eye and the right eye that has become a bloody hole "looked" at him together, and the corners of her mouth rolled up in a strange angle.

"Ah, you are not Adeline." The crazy lady sighed and said, "She was a kind, obedient and stupid woman - while she was still alive. Your skin is so warm, this is the temperature of the living. You are not Adeline."

Her intact left eye was also empty and held no focus.

"Are you my Johann?" The crazy lady's other hand slowly touched Qi Leren's cheek, and the hand stained with blood and ashes smeared the smell of death on his face. "My dear, dear Johann. Do you still love me when I am no longer kind, gentle, and beautiful?"

Blood, blood with a demonic smell, was wiped on his face, and the seed of slaughter was like a river that burst its banks, which plunged down from the dam of rationality and instantly washed away his will.

At this moment, Qi Leren only had time to save. At the moment when the save was finished, the seed of slaughter living in his back neck jumped instantly, and spread to his whole body along the spine. The demon power filled his whole body, and a bloodthirsty desire for killing invaded Qi Leren's mind.

Kill her!

Qi Leren's caught wrist filled with strength. He swung his backhand and grabbed his crazy lady, and threw her away. The crazy lady screamed and flew a few meters, and her body collided with the wall beside her, knocking away some candles that had already been extinguished.

"Monster... You’re a monster!" the crazy lady suddenly screamed in horror, trembling.

Qi Leren stood up, his eyes empty, and walked to her step by step.

The crazy lady screamed horribly. In the banshee-like high-pitched sound, the extinguished candles lit up again, and the huge basement shone brightly. In this dazzling flickering candle light, countless shadows recovered again, flocking to Qi Leren like a tide.

Qi Leren was still moving forward, and those crazy shadows were shaking and flapping like branches in the wind, but at the moment when they come into contact with Qi Leren, they seemed to be blocked by invisible barriers, unable to ensnare him, and could only struggle and twist around him in vain.

Low magic, ah.

In Qi Leren's mind sounded a voice that didn't belong to him, or it wasn't a voice at all, but a stream of consciousness that suddenly appeared in his mind. He knew what it was saying, even if it didn't resort to language.

The seed of slaughter, talking.

Qi Leren was aware of this, but right now the controlled brain and body couldn't make any response to the problems he was aware of. It is like a letter that had been written but then forgotten to be sent, and thus it couldn't get a response from the recipient.

He came to the crazy lady, caught her neck with his right hand, and lifted her up.

The crazy lady with blood on her face opened her mouth wide, her feet were off the ground, her face was ferocious and twisted, and her whole body weight remained on her fragile neck, which could break at any time. Her legs struggled to kick, but her strength was weak. Those crazy shadows surrounded her, twisting and changing the shape terrifyingly as she struggled.

However, all this had lost its effect. Qi Leren threw away the dagger inlaid with holy runes in disgust. The metal dagger fell to the ground and bounced twice, then went to sleep quietly. But his hand clenched around the crazy lady’s neck became harder and harder, and it closed like a vice - a crisp crack sounded, and the struggling crazy lady quivered before going limp. Demon energy gushed out from her, and was swallowed up by the seed through Qi Leren’s hands.

Qi Leren loosened his hand and watched her turn into a pile of dead meat, which then quickly rotted into a pile of bones amidst the candlelight.

Wake up quickly.

Wake up!

Trapped in the depths of his consciousness, he shouted, and Qi Leren's fingers twitched. He was trying to compete for control of his body with the seed of slaughter, but unlike the last time he awakened the seed of slaughter, this time it had absorbed new demon power and became stronger and more greedy.

He only had a few seconds at most, and Qi Leren suddenly broke out and bumped into the rough wall. The sharp pain made him wake up instantly, and the seed of slaughter entrenched in his consciousness unwillingly receded. Reason and control once again returned to his body.

Qi Leren collapsed and sat on the ground, blood dripping slowly from his forehead, which smeared half of his face. But at this time, he couldn't take care of it, and fatigue surged up from the bottom of his heart, making his body dull.

Blood flowed through the corners of the mouth and tasted salty. The dormant seed of slaughter seemed to be stirring again. Qi Leren took out the holy water from his inventory and took a sip of it, suppressing it back.

The holy power in the holy water injected a little vitality into his body. At least he had the strength to stand up.

The wound on his head wasn’t serious. Qi Leren directly covered it with a towel. He was ready to go out later and let Dr. Lu bandage it simply, to try not to waste his skills. Only, the cut on his arm was a bit deep. He bandaged it tightly to avoid massive bleeding. He tentatively opened his palm and clenched his fist, and found that there was no nerve damage, so it didn't seem to affect him in battle too much.

He picked up the rune dagger that had just been thrown aside and held it in his hand. Qi Leren walked deeper into the basement.

Earlier, a little baby had been put on the rocking chair where the crazy lady was located. When he got close, he found that it wasn’t a live baby, but a doll. Its shape was rough and it seemed to be sewn with cloth. Qi Leren hesitated and picked it up.

"Ah--!" The doll let out a piercing scream, which scared Qi Leren, who threw it on the ground and stepped on it.

Under his foot the doll struggled to twist up, like a living creature. Qi Leren both wanted to and didn’t want to use the dagger to stab it down, and once stabbed by the dagger, the doll sent out a sad cry then ceased to move.

A small pool of black liquid seeped out of the doll's body, like a pool of blood.

Qi Leren kicked it, and the doll finally stopped moving and looked like an ordinary toy.

It should be dead? Qi Leren was concerned. What evil thing was this, to give off such a strange and ominous feeling?

Qi Leren rummaged through the basement, and soon found a hidden compartment on the wall behind the rocking chair. After opening the hidden compartment, there was an embedded cabinet with two drawers. Qi Leren's heart beat faster, and he had a wonderful premonition,but also an ominous premonition.

Opening the first drawer, there was a tin box, and the system prompt reappeared: "Obtained the sacrifice of the devil 3/6".

When the tin box was opened, it was a bloody eyeball, which had already been covered in a layer of gray and looked cloudy and disgusting. Qi Leren immediately thought of the crazy lady’s empty right eye. Why was her eyeball here? Who dug it out?

Suddenly, there was a glimmer of light behind him, and Qi Leren turned his head and once again saw the phantom - the phantom that appeared every time he found the demon sacrifice.

The crazy lady who couldn't see her own face lingered in the cellar and yelled at the cellar door: "Open the door! Let me out! You poor, rebellious slaves! Who allowed you to lock me up here! "

Outside the cellar came the sound of a key unlocking. The crazy lady looked at the cellar door with delight. The cellar door above her head opened, and a basket containing food was lowered down by ropes and fell to the ground.

The crazy lady looked above her with bitter eyes: "Nina, have even you betrayed me?"

A trembling voice came from outside the cellar door: "Madam, I didn't ... It was the Master’s order to have you stay here."

The crazy lady cried furiously, "I am your master! I am! Let me out! I order you! Let me out!"

Nina sobbed in a low voice outside the door, which could not be heard over the roar of the crazy lady. Soon the crazy lady was tired and sat down on the ground, staring overhead and looking at Nina.

After a long time, Nina, who had stopped crying, whispered, "Madam, I have to go… but I will forget to lock the cellar door. If you… want… I am willing to help you go back, I am willing… to do anything for you as long as you get better."

The crazy lady looked at her in confusion and didn't respond to her words. When the cellar door closed again, she suddenly giggled and slowly put her hand on her intact right eye…

"One more, one more, dear, I can... ha ha ha ha ha..."

The phantom gradually faded, and together with the whispered mad words, it went silent before Qi Leren’s eyes.

The eye in a bloody and rancid state in the tin box made Qi Leren feel sick. He wrapped it in cloth, stuffed the things into his own inventory, and prepared to hand them over to Dr. Lu for safekeeping. The demon power on the tin box made him feel uncomfortable, and the crazy phantom of Mrs. Sarah also made him feel uncomfortable.

There was another drawer in the dark room…

By dim candlelight, Qi Leren slowly opened the drawer: the reflection of metal first caught his eye, then a familiar trademark. With wide eyes, Qi Leren flung open the drawer and stared at the contents.

For a moment, he felt that he was dreaming. He must be dreaming, because only in dreams could such absurd things happen.

Here, he had actually found the origin of this nightmare.

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#Welcome to the Nightmare Game #欢迎来到噩梦游戏 #danmei

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clintbartonswife · 4 years

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eyes that plead

Pairings: Geralt of Rivia x Jaskier, Cirilla Summary: Abandoned and alone, Jaskier licks his wounds. Most people would think that would be metaphorically, but thanks to the witch Geralt had pissed off, Jaskier had in fact become a wolf. Yes, he was aware of the irony. Notes: inspired by an AO3 trope ive seen a lot of, angst & fluff, misunderstandings, animal transformation, hurt!jaskier masterlist || part two

“Bollocks”

If you asked Jaskier how he ended up being chased through the forest by an angry mage, he honestly couldn't tell you. Though this situation was not a new one to the bard, he usually was aware of what he had done to anger the pursuer. This time? He had no idea.

Jaskier had just arrived at a new village, exhausted from travelling the road alone, when said mage had exited the local tavern, angry eyes immediately locking on him. So, here he was, running for his life the trees with absolutely no idea what he had done wrong.

Chancing a look behind him, Jaskier yelped as he tripped over a stray tree root, crashing to the ground in a muddle of limbs.

His groan was drowned out by the mage’s laugh, their body looming over Jaskier’s fallen form with a sinister grin.

“What do you want from me?” He asked, urgency clear in his tone as he began backing away, sliding over the dirty floor, “I - I have done you no harm. I had only just arrived at your village -”

“This is not your fault” the mage agreed, eyes shining with mischief, “This is your Witcher's fault - the White Wolf”

A bitter laugh escaped from Jaskier’s mouth without his consent, a dark shadow crossing his face, “He’s not my Witcher. Besides he couldn't care less about me, if this is some attempt at revenge I’m afraid you’ve found the wrong person”

“No. I think I’ve found exactly who I need”

Jaskier swore, attempting to back off further, but failed to escape as the mage’s magic washed over him.

“Sleep”

As a bard, Jaskier was not unaware of the hilarity of irony.

However, as he looked down at his aching body to see that of a wolf - as white as the first snow fall - he was not laughing.

No, he growled, the sensation feeling weird to him, yet oddly satisfying to do - almost like he was complaining aloud at his situation.

A snapping twig to his left broke him out of his mood, his whole body tensing in fear at the thought of a monster - or, hell, even a human - finding him in this state.

He backed up as a blonde girl broke through the tree line, her eyes panicked and wild. It took him a few seconds through his panicked haze, but he recognised the girl to be Cirilla, the princess he spent winters performing for at court - Geralt’s child surprise.

The familiar chest pain returned at the thought of the Witcher, only for a second, though enough to let out a small growl.

Cirilla whipped around, eyes locking on to the wolf with pleading eyes.

Jaskier tried to contort his body to be less imposing, sending out ‘I’m not going to hurt you’ vibes as best he could. He may have done better than he thought, as the next second the princess was approaching him, moving to hide behind him from whatever threat she had just run from.

‘Figures I would somehow adopt a child’ Jaskier huffed, rising back to his full height as more footsteps approached, ears flattened against his skull in warning.

As the two Nilfgardian soldiers strode into the clearing, Jaskier leapt at them, body acting on instinct as his teeth tore out their throats, their blood coating the inside of his mouth with a foul taste.

The moment the bodies fell to the ground, Jaskier let out a whine, immediately trying to wipe the blood off of his snout, spitting as much blood from his mouth as possible, falling on to his back with the unbalance that came with trying to stand on his hind legs.

“Stop - stop, you’re going to hurt yourself” Ciri said, slowly approaching the wolf, a handkerchief held in her outstretched hand, “Allow me?”

Sensing her skittishness, he sat completely still, watching as she approached him with a smile.

“You saved me” she stated, carefully reaching out to begin to wipe the blood from his face, “So I’m going to assume that this is okay to do”. She paused a fraction away from his snout, as if just realising the ridiculousness of her actions, “Please don't bite me”

Jaskier just continued looking at her, not sure if making a noise would reassure her or scare her away. Not moving seemed to be the right plan, the handkerchief finally beginning to wipe the sticky substance from his fur, his eyes closing in thanks.

Ciri’s giggle brought him out of his little trance, her eyes drawn to his tail which was wagging in delight.

“I’ll take that as a ‘pleased to meet you’“ she grinned, stepping back slightly, “There - I got as much of the blood as I could. Thank you again”

Jaskier watched as Ciri stood, her gaze moving reluctantly to the forest that surrounds them.

“I don't suppose I could ask you to stay with me?” her voice was quiet and unsure, and for a moment she reminded him of himself - helpless and alone, “It’s rather frightening travelling by yourself”

Getting back onto all four limbs, he yipped, wagging his tail for extra measure.

The princess sighed in relief, looking back at the woods with an assured smile on her face, “You know, I almost feel like destiny brought me to you. Why else would you protect me?”

Jaskier wanted to roll his eyes and shout ‘because I’m a human! You know me!’, but then again it wasn't the princess’ fault that he was in this situation, so he simply yipped again, walking to stand next to her side, his fur slightly brushing against her leg in a reassuring manner.

“Now off to find the next part of my destiny” she smiled, looking down at him kindly, “Geralt of Rivia”

Son of a bitch.

The two of them had been travelling alone together for four days.

The silence was filled with Ciri’s natter, Jaskier joining in as much as he was able.

‘Geralt’s going to have fun with this one’ Jaskier thought bitterly, ‘though maybe it was just my babbling he had a problem with’.

“What should I call you?” Ciri had asked on the second morning, “I cant just keep calling you wolf - that’s awfully rude of me”

Jaskier hummed thoughtfully, the noise coming ou as a weird rumble, before rushing over to a patch of wildflowers. Spotter a dandelion, he tried picking it delicately with his teeth (managing to only slightly maim it) and brought it back over to Ciri.

“Dandelion” she smiled, taking the flower from his teeth and placing it behind his ear, “I like it”

Four days through the woods, sleeping with Ciri’s head cushioned on Jaskier’s side, crowded close to the small fire that the princess managed to make.

On the fifth day they managed to find a main road, the princess letting out a small whoop of joy at the signs of humanity.

“Perhaps we’ll be able to find some news of Geralt” she mused aloud, her hand absentmindedly playing with one of Jaskier’s ears. At his affirmative sound, Ciri smiled wider, moving her pace to a skip.

‘At least no sane person would try attack a young girl with a wolf beside her’ Jaskier though, not allowing his mind to stray too much as he tried to stay vigilant, ‘But with the war people are getting desperate. I wouldn't put it past most travellers these days’

He moved closer to Ciri, growling lowly as someone passed them, watching them closely until they passed.

“Would he have come to find me, do you think?” Ciri asked, her hand stroking through the fur on Jaskier’s head lightly, “If so we should go South, back towards Cintra”

Jaskier conveyed his dislike of that idea as obviously as possible, Ciri expressing her confusion. He simply nudged her North once again, before turning South and growling as loudly as he could.

“Okay, Okay” she giggled, “I get it! North good, South bad”

Jaskier nodded, satisfied that he’d managed to communicate successfully again.

The lady was kind, this Jaskier knew, though that didn't stop him from practically gluing himself to Ciri’s legs as they approached her house. When she had tried to get him to sleep outside, he had let out an involuntary growl, glaring at her from the foot of Ciri’s bed.

Picking up on his mood, Ciri had placed a hand on his side, fixing the woman with puppy-eyes, “I sleep better when he’s near” she said, her voice quiet and frail sounding, “He keeps me safe”

“Well - alright then. Just make sure he behaves himself”

Jaskier huffed, and if he could roll his eyes then he would have, but nevertheless settled into the soft blanket. ‘I’ve got to learn how to do those eyes’ he thought, slowly drifting off to sleep, ‘that would be very useful’

He was woken early the next morning, Ciri shaking him.

“We’ve got to go” she whispered, “I don't think we can trust them”

He was on alert at once, springing up from his position on the bed and standing guard by the door as he waited for Ciri to gather their meagre belongings, whole body tensed and ready to defend.

In his sleepy-haze he knew that something must have alerted her, though couldn't tell for himself if it was justified. Nevertheless he stood his ground, following behind the princess as she crept out of the front door and into the forest.

Merely minutes into running, Jaskier came to a halt, his nose filling with a familiar scent.

“What? What is it?” Ciri asked, stumbling to a stop behind him.

Forest, Onion, the tang of blood - Geralt.

With a desperate bark, Jaskier nudged Ciri backwards until she got the message, following him as he chased towards the scent, slowing down as he caught sight of the Witcher, a stab of pain radiating in his chest.

Ciri copied him, letting out a small sound of relief, before racing towards Geralt, throwing herself at his open arms.

Watching the two of them embrace, Jaskier began to back up slowly, unsure if he should stay. He had done what he had promised to himself - delivered Ciri to Geralt - he was free to go, knowing that she would be safe.

He could find someone else to break his enchantment, another mage perhaps.

With one final glance at the pair, he slunk off deeper into the forest, tail hanging low between his legs, Geralt’s final words ringing in his ears.

‘If life could give me one blessing...’

Ciri looked up at Geralt, taking in the face of her protector.

“I knew we’d find you!” she laughed, stepping out of the comfort of his arms to turn around to her wolf, “See-?”

her voice cut off as she noticed the empty space where Dandelion once sat, a small sad noise escaping her. Sensing her distress, Geralt lay a hand on her shoulder.

“Who’s we?" he asked, following her eyeline to the empty forest floor.

“My wolf, Dandelion” she mumbled, steady waves of sadness seeping off of her, “he saved me from Nilfgaardian soldiers a week ago - he, he lead me to you”

Geralt ‘hmm’ed, frowning slightly at Ciri’s distress.

“No you don't understand” she cried, “He was my friend”

“He cant have gone far” Geralt mumbled, “But I’m injured, I cant be walking around the woods for long”

She turned back to him, eyes shining with hope, “but you’ll help me look?”

Geralt hummed again, nodding slightly, and only slightly recoiling when the girl grabbed his hand in his, beginning to pull him along through the wilderness.

“Dandelion?” She called, “Dandelion come back! Dandelion please!”

Jaskier huffed in defeat, Ciri’s pleading voice overpowering the overwhelming urge to flee from Geralt’s presence.

He yipped, sitting down where he was, not having the strength to carry on as much as he couldn't run back to him.

“Dandelion? Geralt I think that was him!”

A few moments later the two burst through the trees, Ciri exclaiming happily at the sight of him, barrelling forwards to hug him.

“Why did you leave?” She mumbled into his fur, sounding upset.

Jaskier simply tilted his head towards Geralt.

“Yes, we found him - oh, no that doesn't mean I don't need you anymore!” she cried, holding onto him tighter, “I need you as well! You’re my friend”

Jaskier sighed inwardly, silently accepting his fate.

‘Well at least she didn't call me a pet’

He tried to ignore the burning of Geralt’s stare, the side of his face burning with the intensity of it, instead focusing on Ciri’s mumblings.

“We should head back to the cottage” Geralt eventually said, voice tight, “I need to heal and it’s a safe place to stay for the night”

Ciri stood, looking at Jaskier warily, “You are coming with us aren't you?”

He sighed, standing back up with a ruffled glare at Geralt, before huffily stalking back towards the cottage.

In Ciri’s delight, she managed to miss the way Geralt tensed as the wolf passed him, his hand flying to his medallion instinctively as it buzzed.

Magic.

If Ciri noticed Geralt acting more on guard around Jaskier then she didn't say anything, but it was a bit of a kick in the teeth to know that even in his wolf form Geralt couldn't bare to be around him.

‘If he’s going to act like I’m such a nuisance, then I might as well become one’ he thought huffily, glaring at Geralt from his place next to the fire.

They had left the cottage a few days after finding Geralt, all wounds cleared up, and headed resolutely away from Sodden. The ash had only begun to settle as they walked away, the breeze bringing the burning smell of death in their direction - Jaskier was more than happy to leave that place.

Travelling with Geralt was practically the same as it always was, only this time he couldn't ride Roach even if he wanted to. Talking of the mare, Jaskier was pretty sure she recognised him, having received a cursory head bump to his back when they first saw each other again.

Annoying Geralt was harder, due to his lack of voice, but he had figured out one night that he could still sing - well, in some capacity anyway. So, Jaskier howled. He howled, staring Geralt dead in the eyes as Ciri clapped alongside him.

After their first week of travel, the two of them had developed a game: Ciri would name a song, and Jaskier would then try and howl it to the best of his ability, always staring at Geralt with a death glare that he was proud of.

“Isn't he amazing?” Ciri had said one night, watching Jaskier howl Fishmonger’s Daughter in awe, “I’ve never met a wolf that could howl like this - and he know all the songs!”

“Hmm” Geralt had hummed, in a way that said, ‘No, I’m not impressed in the slightest. In fact I would rather like to kill that wolf right now, but I wont because you seem to like him for some reason’. Or perhaps Jaskier was just projecting.

If truth be told, Jaskier wasn't surprised that Geralt didn't recognise him. After all, he was a completely different animal now, though that didn't stop the insistent hurt he’d get every time Geralt looked at him with the same distaste he had on the mountain. It made it worse in a way - knowing that no matter what form Jaskier came in he’d always find a way to make the Witcher hate him.

Still, that didn't stop his surprise when one night, now on the path to Kaer Morhen, Ciri turned to Geralt after waking up from a nightmare with a question.

“Who’s Jaskier?”

The two men froze, Geralt’s actions stuttering to a halt as he stared at the girl in - what was that? fear? regret? hatred? - ‘probably hatred’ and took a steadying breath.

“Excuse me?”

“Jaskier. I saw him in my dream. You seemed close”

Jasier scoffed at that, the noise coming out weirdly of his snout, prompting an odd look from the Witcher.

“We travelled together for many years” Geralt eventually said, his words slow and calculated.

‘Many years? 22 years is was more than half of my life!’ Jaskier thought bitterly, his mouth dropping into a silent snarl, before he realised and fixed it, turning his body away from the pair.

“Where is he now?”

“I don't know”

Jaskier wanted to jump up and scream ‘It’s me! I’m right here!’ but the uncertainty of Geralt’s reaction was stopping him, the fear of another rejection already returning to his body.

“Why don't you know? Did something happen?”

Cirilla was getting more insistent, her tone one of pure curiosity.

“We just decided to part ways”

Now that, Jaskier did not agree with. He was so wrapped up in his anger that he didn't realise the growl that was rumbling through his chest, alarming the young girl.

“Can you hear something, Dandelion?” Ciri asked, moving closer to the wolf.

He rolled his eyes the best he could, ‘Yeah a vat of bullshit’

“Is there anything out there Geralt?”

The Witcher considered it for a moment, before shaking his head.

“Huh, that’s odd” Ciri moved closer, her hands beginning to stroke Jaskier’s back until he calmed down, the growl slowly retracting as sadness settled in it’s place.

‘He didn't even see it as a fight’ Jaskier realised, the sensation in his chest getting tighter, ‘it was just a means of getting rid of me’

He settled on the spot, letting it look like he had fallen asleep, all the while his mind brewing on different ways to leave. He’d be gone by morning - and he was leaving for good this time.

Geralt woke up some time in the early morning to rustling in their camp.

Immediately on guard, he grabbed his silver sword from beside him, quietly rising until he was stood over the dying embers of the fire, eyes scanning the area for threats.

The surrounding area was clear, Ciri was in her bedroll and the wolf -

The wolf was gone.

Geralt sighed, sitting back down on his bedroll with his sword lying over his lap as he waited for it to return. The animal had probably gone out hunting, it would be back in an hour or so.

Still, knowing this, an odd feeling in his gut kept him from returning to sleep, the witcher remaining awake and on guard as he waited for the sound of the wolf’s return.

When no such sound came after a few hours, he frowned. The sun had begun to rise, painting the area with a light orange haze.

Making sure not to stray too far away from the camp, he stood up, sword still in his hand, and began walking around the perimeter. He went as far out as he dared, until Ciri’s breathing was only the volume of a slight breeze.

A slight rustling of the fallen leaves caught his attention, Geralt’s head whipping to the left. There he saw the wolf, knocked out by a fallen branch, his tail moving sluggishly as his body begun to come back to it’s senses.

“Idiot” he grumbled, kneeling beside the animal, moving the branch away and checking for any broken bones as gently as he could.

A quiet whimper brought his attention back to the wolf’s face, the cornflower blue eyes swimming with such intense sadness that it sent Geralt reeling backwards, caught off-guard by the sudden recognition that rushed through him.

“Jaskier”

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buckyownsmyheart · 4 years

Text

Duty [8/12]

Finally, Some Alone Time

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Words: 3k

Warnings: Sexual harassment in the workplace. Is it angst? Or is it the plot? I can’t tell the difference anymore, but it’s not all sunshine and rainbows.

Series Summary: Ex-army doctor, and now the Avengers on-mission doctor, Major (Y/n) (Y/l/n), had prepared herself for anything. That was, of course, until she met a devastatingly charming Sergeant from Brooklyn with a quick wit, a kind smile and a taste for adventure. I wonder what will happen?

A/N: AN UPDATE?! Imagine.... I love and appreciate every single reblog and like so thank you! Flashbacks are in italics

Series Masterlist

Chapter 7

***

The first thing you felt was the cold floor against your face. Your head was pounding and thumped against the floor in time with your heartbeat. The coolness of the hard stone was relatively soothing, but your shoulders were also burning, so you repositioned yourself to try and cool them down. Your hands seemed unable to move, and with some opening and closing of your fists, you located them bound behind you back. You finally opened your eyes, blinking the grit out of them and trying to rub them on your shoulder, without success. You looked around your new room. It was dark, a single flickering lightbulb hung from the ceiling and no windows gave it a dingy feel. A smell of damp came from the walls and green slime seemed to coat different areas of the floor. Your body took up about a quarter of the floor space, and you reckoned you could touch the ceiling if you stood up and stretched your arms above your head. The door was on the opposite end of the room to you, with no handle that you could see.

Where was Bucky? You tried to remember anything past the café, but it all came up blank. Sitting up against the wall, you strained your ears to try and hear anything that might help, but all you could hear was a splashing. Wait, a splashing? Were you on water? Now you thought about it, you could feel the gentle tug of the waves moving you from side to side, like someone had placed you in a cradle and was rocking you to sleep. You felt your eyes drooping once more, and your mind began to go blank as the promise of sleep comforted you away from the unknown.

The bang of the door startled you awake, and you sat up so fast you banged the back of your head on the wall. Ouch. Bucky stumbled into the cell and proceeded to collapse on the floor. His lip was split, blood coating his teeth. A black and blue swelling presented around his right eye, the old blood forming a bag under his lower lid, and what you could see of his eye was red and angry looking. His nice shirt that you had gotten him for Christmas was now more of a vest, both sleeves ripped off and a large gash down the centre.

“Bucky,” you said softly, trying to gain his attention.

He looked up at you in wonderment, “Hey sweetcheeks, how are we looking?” You assumed he was trying to give a reassuring smile, but it came off as more of a grimace.

“I’ll be honest Barnes, we’ve looked better.” You had no doubt that you were equally dishevelled. “What’s going on? What have they done to you?”

He coughed a little before scooting closer to you, pressing his leg against yours as he joined you on the back wall, “They’re asking about my trigger words and recovery, about my missions, about what I can do as the Soldier. It’s not looking good. I’m scared, doll, I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

The fear in his eyes reflected yours. Things were slowly starting to come together. Everything had seemed so orchestrated, so easy, you began to question the events leading up to this point.

“Yeah Buck, I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Yeah, no shit,” he murmured as he leant his head against your shoulder.

“Hang on, I need you awake for this,” you nudged you shoulder, trying to keep him awake. You had a feeling you both had concussion and didn’t want him sleeping on it. “Buck, they weren’t trying to make new super soldiers, they were trying to take one back.” You looked at him, placing your hand on his thigh and tracing patterns, trying to keep his eyes open. “For your recovery, Shuri used electrical impulses to remove any synapses that connected your trigger words to the compliancy of the Winter Soldier, right? But your brain will reform them just as strongly as soon as someone tries. We need to rewire those words to mean something else to you, something different, and we need to do it now, before anyone else takes you away.”

“You said so many words,” Bucky mumbles in response, “My girlfriend is so clever she can use made-up words, and everyone pretends to know what they mean.” His eyes were now closed as he leant into further into your shoulder. This might take a little more work than you thought. Reaching into your pocket, you were relieved that your morphine was still in there. You wiggled around and stabbed it into his arm with as much force as your tied hands would allow, trying to relieve some of his pain and wake him up in the process.

“Bucky, I need you with me, we’ve got shit to do.”

Once Bucky had removed your restraints, for some reason his weren’t tied, you had hatched a plan. It ended when the both of you had fallen asleep, curled in on each other, finding solace and comfort in the others presence, like you had done so often in the past few months. You had no idea how much time had passed, where you were headed, or if you were going to get out of there but having Bucky beside you made it a little easier to live in denial and uncertainty. Soft touches along your hair brought you back to consciousness. As you opened your eyes, you saw his black eye was receding, so you estimated around 14 hours had passed since he first came back to the cell. His eyes were focussed on yours and his hand stroked some stray hairs away from your face.

“(Y/n), I need to say something in case we don’t make it out of here,” His tone was uncharacteristically serious.

“Alright Mr. Sunny Optimism.”

“I’m not joking, you know as well as I do the chances of us getting out of here. We’re in the dark, metaphorically and literally, and I just want you to know that- “

You cut him off, placing a gentle kiss to his lips, “I know, Sarge, you don’t need to say anything”

“I need to say it,”

“You can say it when we get out of here, okay? For now, let’s focus finding a comfier place to stay.”

He simply nodded and then grabbed your head and kissing you firmly. You knew his meaning, and as much as you wanted to stay there and pretend like the world consisted of the two of you, you were well aware that it didn’t. Which sucked. You got up, ignoring your aching muscles and complaining joints, pulling Bucky to his feet with you. You both scanned the room for any exit or weak points, the door had no handle and a bolt keeping it shut on the other side. The lightbulb was attached by open wires, and so trying to get them down would most likely result in electrocution. Just as you were inspecting the part of the bolt you could see, it slid open, and a scrawny man entered the room, knocking you back onto the floor as you stared back into an all too familiar face.

“Major (Y/l/n), this is Anthony Tucker, he’ll be here to help you settle in with SIS and introduce you to the crew.” Raymond Johnson, the hopeful next MI-6 chief, gestured to a wiry man. He couldn’t have been much older than 45, but a greying head and wispy facial hair made him look much older. You had recently retired from the army and were looking for a job that kept you in the same place more or less. An army buddy of yours had recommended you try MI-6, and although you laughed at first, joking that they’d be mad to try and hire someone who talks as much as you, you found yourself with a job as a medic within the headquarters to the team that operates locally, as well as some desk agents that think they’re too good to go to a local GP. Tucker regarded you with a cocked head, studying every inch of you under scrutiny, and you had never felt so uncomfortable. To break the silence, you extended your hands towards him in an effort to divert his gaze, and his face lit up. He reached out to your hand, placing a kiss to the back of your knuckles and it took every inch of your self-control not to pull your hand back and get out of there as fast as you could.

“Major,” his sleazy voice sending a shiver down your spine, “I’ve heard so much about you, and I can’t wait to…” He gave an unnatural pause, “work with you.” You nodded and left the room without any further introductions. You really hoped that as soon as you settled in, you didn’t need to be around this guy.

After a few days, you broached the subject with the team you had been assigned to of Tucker and his slight creepiness, but they assured you that although he seems full on and forward, he was a really decent guy and would never do anything to make anyone on the team uncomfortable. He respected their boundaries, and if you said something he would back off. To be fair to him, after your initial greeting, he maintained a professional relationship and made you feel welcome to the team.

The change in pace in MI-6 was a welcome relief, having slightly overworked yourself in the army. You were keen to prove that you were an asset, but people seemed to accept that before seeing what work you could do. Most of what you did anyway was general check-ups and examinations. After a few weeks, you found your fingers itching to do something a little more. You went to seek out Tucker to ask if there was anything else you could set your teeth into, which was when you saw it. He was speaking in low voices to an intern, and she looked terrified. Her eyes were wide open and the papers in her hand rustled as her hands failed to stay still. Hanging back, you watched the scene, as Tucker’s hand moved from the girl’s shoulder, slowly and painstakingly down her back until it reached the subtle curve of her backside. Tucker’s face remained close to her ear, her hair obscuring what he was saying, but she gave an unmistakeable yelp as his hand trailed lower and you couldn’t bear to watch anymore. You made your presence known, not acknowledging Tucker but heading straight for the girl.

“Hey, are those papers for me?” You gestured to the ones in her hand, “Would you mind going over them with me in meeting room 2? I have some few things I want to check.” The girl practically ran into the room you had mentioned, and you turned your attention to Tucker, the smile on his face was enough to make your gut wrench, and you clenched your fists to try and not to hit him.

“What are you doing, Major?” He leered, “Not causing trouble I hope?”

“I’m just doing my job, Sir.” You said through gritted teeth, turning away from him and heading towards the door.

It turned out those were the last words you said to him directly. After talking with the girl, Anita, it turned out that although he wouldn’t dare be inappropriate to someone who could do something about it, he had a habit of accosting the interns and work experience students in narrow hallways, asking them for favours and repaying them with straying hands. He picked on those who couldn’t afford to make a claim and have their job taken away from them. You asked her to try and gather the other people that he had done this to, and to not to worry about losing their jobs.

A month later, and all the claims had fallen through. You don’t know how, but you suspected foul play, money, and friends in high places saved Tucker’s ass from being put on an offender’s list. He didn’t work for MI-6 anymore, but there was nothing else you could do for the girls now, not that an official decision had been reached. You just hoped that he had learnt his lesson, or that other people found the strength to call him out on his disgusting behaviour, but for some reason you doubted it. The girls had all received an anonymous donation in the forms of large bonuses that year, so at least something had come out of it, but there was no way you would work for an organisation that allowed people like him to get away with things like that. You were sure that other people knew and thought themselves far too important to take part in a trivial matter like women’s safety.

“Tucker,” you spat at him, and his eyes gleamed with joy. The same leer remained on his face, making you feel sick.

“Major (Y/l/n), it’s been such a long time! It’s an absolute pleasure to have you back on the team.”

“I’m going nowhere near your team, I’d die before I worked for you again, especially now I know you’re with HYDRA, because that’s what this is right? We’re going to Ellesmere Island?”

“Ahh, Major, Major, you’ve always been too clever for your own good, but I’m afraid you’re wrong if you think you have a choice in this. We've just arrived, and I'll be taking you from here.”

“Go to hell, Tucker, there’s a special place reserved for you.” Bucky looked at you with curious eyes. You had told him about the reason you had left MI-6, but I guess he was still piecing together who this man was and how he fit into the equation. You kept your eyes trained on Tucker as he moved towards Bucky who was positioned under the light.

“If you say no, your Bucky here won’t last much longer I’m afraid.”

You called his bluff, “As if you’ll be able to overpower Bucky Barnes, you are aware of who he is right?”

At that moment, Tucker slapped a device onto Bucky’s metal arm, and Bucky screamed out in pain. The noise cut straight through you, emptying your heart and making your chest feel heavy. You couldn't bear seeing him in pain, he didn't deserve it, not after all he had been through. The fact that it was Tucker causing him that pain added to your anguish. You tried calling out his name, but he wasn’t responding. After a few seconds, he fell to the floor with a thump, completely unconscious.

“Oh no, now look what you made me do,” Tucker sneered down at Bucky's limp form.

“Don’t you dare insinuate that this is on me, you’re the one with the fucked up moral compass,” you shouted back, moving yourself to Bucky’s side, but before you could touch him, Tucker tutted at you from above, and the undeniable click of a gun forced your eyes away from Bucky’s face.

“Say goodbye to him, it might be the last time you see him whilst your Bucky is still in control,”

You closed your eyes and gave Bucky a small kiss on the cheek. As you stood, you looked away from him, not wanting his final image to be the one in front of you. Instead you conjured up one of him that morning, or was it the morning before? Him, in bed, laughing at his own joke so hard that his eyes crinkled and his nose scrunched up. This was the Bucky that would keep you going through this, and this was the Bucky that you would come back to at the end of all this. You didn't look back when you purposefully walked out of the door. You kept your eyes trained ahead and prepared yourself for the worst, not looking back.

***

Chapter 9

***

tags (send me a message if you would like to be tagged in my sporadic updates!):

@velvetwonderbucky @broco8 @sebbbystaaan @nerd-without-a-cause @mcubuckyandsteve @cutiepiemimi13 @livylou3333 @cap-just-said-language @ravenesque

#bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #duty #b.b fanfic #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes fanfic #reader insert

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happy-little-frog · 4 years

Text

The Nightmare pt. 1

Trigger warnings: panic attacks, overall anxiety, mentions of death and murder

Characters: Virgil, Patton, Roman

Word count: 1,684

Time taken: 5 hours

•••

It was a seemingly average Saturday night for the light sides, except for one thing, Patton and Roman were at the grocery store together, stocking up on snacks for a movie night and Logan was away on a trip to the mind palace. Virgil wasn't as anxious about Patton and Roman, they were together if there was trouble they could probably fight it for together; it was Logan he was worried about. Logic said the reason he needed to visit the mind palace was something about taxes. Thomas was always really bad at taxes so Logan needed to focus and he couldn't have any of the other sides accompany him. Virgil didn't want Logan to go alone. He could get hurt, although Logan was very Logical he somehow gets hurt on almost everything. Anxious thoughts began flooding into Virgil's head. What if Logan fell and broke something? Or got robbed, or stabbed, or worse. These thinkings orbited through the mind of Anxiety. He shouldn't have let Logan go alone. He could be seriously hurt. What if Logan didn't return back home and was gone forever. It would be Virgil's shortcoming. God he was so stupid! What if Deceit began to fuck with Logan? Impersonating one of the light sides, filling his mind with words sharp and painful like daggers. That would tear the boy down and therefore Logan would never be the same. What if he turned dark and left to join Deceit and Remus. How would Virgil explain that Logan was gone for good; nothing but a hazy memory.

The boy collapsed into a black recliner in the corner of the living room. This chair was his favorite in the entire house, the soft black material would usually comfort him but today it was unsuccessful He pulled his legs to his chest and tried to make himself as small as possible. Maybe if he just disappeared then he wouldn't have to deal with the pain of losing one of his best and only friends. Virgil tried to steady himself but he was beyond repair at this point.

" good job Virge!!" The boy mumbled " this is all your fault!! If you stayed with the dark sides like you belonged everyone would be safe and happy."

Virgil wiped away a lonely tear that cascaded down his cheek. " Stupid Virgil! Stupid, Worthless, Disgusting Virgil!! God you're so fucking stupid!!" The boy practically screamed, hitting his clenched fists repeatedly on the arms of the recliner before wincing in pain.

Between the pain and self-loathing Virgil's metaphorical flood gates opened, not only were tears pouring down his face at a steady pace but the horrendous thoughts sped into his brain. There were so many thoughts, numerous things he's done wrong.

" Logan?" Virgil whimpered out, holding his knees to his chest and curling up " please forgive me. I'm such a fuck up!! I'm so so so-" the boy tried to finish that statement but no matter how hard he tried he couldn't. His throat felt as if it was closing. The boy feared that he would suffocate. He would suffocate and die. But if he dies doesn't that mean the other sides die as well. Virgil would be responsible, he couldn't deal with that.

Anxiety shut his eyes tight as the world began spinning and shaking. He grabbed the armrest of the chair trying to balance himself. Virgil needed to steady his panicked mind before Patton and Roman got home. He didn't want them to worry about him, they already have so much to worry about. His needs we're obsolete anyways. Life would be better if he just went and lived with the dark sides, where he belonged. Then again the boy was miserable living with the dark sides. When they were together Remus only fueled Virgil's anxiety-ridden mind. Deceit, on the other hand, was almost comforting to Virgil, whispering kind words into Virgil's ear and holding him gently in his long strong arms. It wasn't until after Virgil's initial panic did he realize that most of the words Deceit would tell him we're most likely lies.

Virgil wrapped his arms around his body, hoping the warmth would make him calm down but it didn't seem the case. Usually when he would panic Patton would hold him and Roman would play with his hair, but neither of the boys were there, Virgil was utterly and completely alone. He began shaking more aggressively, gasping for air and sobbing hysterically.

"P-patton?" Virgil murmured, needing the boy by his side. When he realized his pleading was ineffective he shut his eyes tightly, trying to disappear into the void completely.

Just at that moment, Virgil heard the sound of keys from outside the door. The boy hid his face in the crook of his arms and began trembling with fear. What if it was a murderer? What if Patton and Roman came home to see Virgil bleeding out on the carpet all alone? " p-please don't hurt me!" Virgil quietly cried out as the door opened.

Two figured walked through the door kicking off their shoes and giggling like complete fools.

"We've got popcorn and chips and soda and candy!" One voice exclaimed. Virgil smiled slightly recognizing the person immediately. It was Patton, thank God. The dad side was the best at helping Virgil ground himself during a panicked episode.

" anddddd.... ICE CREAM!" another voice exclaimed in a sing-song kind of way. It was Roman. While Roman wasn't the best at calming Virgil using his words he always knew what movies to watch to make him happy again.

Morality and Creativity strut through the door talking to themselves quietly.

" where's your little Virge, come out of hiding bud!" Patton said cheerfully, causing Virgil to jump ever so slightly. The chair squeaked quietly below him. Virgil muttered under his breath as Patton and Roman ventured into the living room.

Patton gasped quietly as he looked at Virgil " hey ro can you go get Virge's blanket and water bottle?" Patton asked in a much more serious tone.

" I'll also get his cat just in case" Creativity said softly to Patton. The cat in question was a beaten and battered black cat stuffie that Virgil had with him since he was seven.

Once Roman left the room Patton walked slowly over to Virgil and bent down slightly. He got below Virgil's level to seem less intimidating "hey sweetheart is it touch okay?" Patton said looking up into Virgils brown eyes. He always made sure to ask before touching Virgil. He didn't want to spook Virgil. In Patton's eyes Virgil was precious and if he caused Anxiety to cry it would be the end of the world for Morality

Virgil nodded ever so slightly, weakly moving his arms so he could be picked up by Morality. Patton smiled softly as he picked up Virgil in his arms. Although the sides all appear the same height to Thomas they actually have varying heights. Patton was significantly taller than Virgil so it was easy to pick the boy up.

Virgil immediately clung to Patton, burying his head deep into the chest of Morality. Patton began to rub circles into Virgils back " hey Virge I'm going to sit down, are you okay with that?"

Virgil just looked at Patton and let out a little squeak. Patton comforts Virgil so often that he understands that the particular noise Virgil let out meant yes

Patton gently sat down holding Virgil in his lap " there we go Virge" he ran his hands through Virgil's purple locks " I'm so proud of you bud, you're so strong"

Virgil grumbled and immediately shook his head. He then buried his face in Patton's chest, scared that he made morality upset.

" yes you are Virge," Patton spoke softly, rubbing little circles into Anxiety's back. "None of us would be able to handle what you go through every single day. You do it so well and that's very admirable"

Virgil looked up from Patton's chest and let out the smallest smile before shyly hiding his face again. He heard footsteps coming towards the room and immediately tensed up, clinging onto Patton for dear life.

Patton chuckled slightly and ruffled Virgil's hair. " hey it's okay, Virge. It's just Roman". Virgil peeked his head out from Patton's chest, letting out a tiny squeak.

Roman chuckled slightly and sat down " Hey Pat, can you hand me Virgil quickly" He looked at the boy and smiled gently

" what do you think Virge, can Roman hold you super quick" He held the boy close, keeping him nice and warm. When Virgil was anxious being kept warm and secure would often make him calm down almost immediately.

Virgil looked up at Patton and then at Roman, nodding very slightly and holding his arms out to Roman.

Roman smiled and picked up Virgil, immediately wrapping him up in his purple anxiety blanket. Virgil let out a small content noise and nuzzled his head into Roman's chest. "Hey Virgil guess what I have?" Creativity pulled out a stuffie from behind his back.

Virgil immediately gasped and grabbed the stuffie " t-thank you!" The boy let out a goofy smile and then looked at the space between Patton and Roman, he immediately scooted off of Creativity's lap into the spot, cuddling up with both of them.

" hey Virge, cutie?" Patton asked snaking an arm around Virgil " how about you pick a movie"

Virgil kicked his legs slightly, " hmm... Oh! Cinderella!" Virgil giggled slightly before letting out a tiny yawn.

"Aww is someone sleepy?" Roman asked the smaller boy.

Virgil looked him dead in the eyes " noooo..." He giggled a bit before nuzzling into Roman's shoulder as Patton turned on the movie

" it's okay if you're a little sleepy," Morality said softly " Roman and I will be right here when you wake up"

Virgil smiled and looked up at Patton " promise?" He asked softly

" We promise Virge, we love you" Roman said quietly, rubbing Virgils back

With that Virgil drifted off into the abyss, smiling and letting out little content noises.

Everything seemed so tranquil.

If only that tranquility would last

#ts virgil #virgil sanders #ts patton #patton sanders #ts roman #roman sanders #ts logan #logan sanders #ts anxiety #ts creativity #ts morality #ts logic #ts light sides #thomas sanders #prinxiety #moxiety #royality #ts sanders sides #sanders sides

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k1ngtok1 · 4 years

Text

“What child doesn’t wish to fly”

Hi hello yes if you know me, you know I love me some winged!Roman. Hope you like it! Please give me some feedback! Reblogs and likes are appreciated and cherished! The word count is 2,603

Tw: Knife mention, blood mention, remus being remus, mild cursing, pain,

Relationships: brotherly Creatitwins, platonic LAMP, prinxiety if you squint and put on glasses

Summary: Roman has wings. Let’s not shy around that. They were big, fluffy, brown angel wings, and they were awesome!

At least to him.

Roman sighed as he easily slipped on a hoodie that looked almost exactly like his tunic. It wasn’t a recording day, so he could wear something a little more comfortable than his usual outfit. Tucking his wings into said hoodie was the hard part.

“W-why won’t you just- c’mon” he grunted angrily, trying to tuck the lower feathers of his wings into his jacket or at least his pants. It would be uncomfortable sitting on them, but if it meant the other sides didn’t find out, then he would bear with it.

“Kiddo! Breakfast is ready!” Patton chirped from outside the door. Roman panicked a little, he couldn’t let Patton come in, lest he see.

“I’m getting ready! Be out in a moment!” He called, managing to get the feathers of one wing inside his jacket, by the way they were angled, he could tell they were going to hurt later. Just another price he would have to pay to keep his secret hidden.

“Ok! Don’t take too long though, wouldn’t want your eggs to get cold.” Patton replied, leaving Roman to assume he walked down the hallway into the kitchen. Roman could not let those eggs get cold. He increased his efforts, desperately swatting at his feathers before slowing down a little and finally being able to tuck them into his pants. The symmetry would bother him later, but all that mattered now was the his eggs stayed warm.

As Roman opened his door and started towards the kitchen, he thought about what this whole hiding-his-very-cool-wings thing was for.

This whole thing started because he was anxious. Wow, now was starting to sound like Virgil! But yes, he was ...anxious. He was scared, terrified even, of what would happen if he were to reveal his extra limbs to the others.

You see, Roman hasn’t always had wings. After the split, Roman and Remus were your average, actually, scratch that, your not-so-average run of the mill twins, in that they hate each others guts most of the time, but Roman would gladly stab an army of dragon witches to death for his brother, as would Remus.

Being Thomas’ more... wholesome creativity, he was the one who took over aspects such as hopes and dreams. And Thomas, like any child, miiiiiight have had a tiny, no, huge dream of being able to fly. So imagine 8 year old Roman’s surprise when he feels sharp pains below his shoulder blades. It wasn’t agonizing just yet, but it was enough for Roman to summon his worse half.

“Is this an occult meeting? Was I finally summoned by my loyal followers? Where’s the bod-“ Remus stopped talking when he saw his brother curled up on his bed. “Oh wow, you look like someone stabbed you with a bunch of knives and didn’t stop the internal bleeding when they patched you back up,”

Roman could care less about Remus’ description of him at that point, the pain was worsening. Small spasms of pure hurt were shooting though him.

Remus, finally realizing that yes this is real and yes his brother is in pain, ran over to Roman, having to crawl up onto the bed in order to properly reach him. “What’s wrong?” Remus said, seriously, for probably the first and last time in his life.

“...h-hurts....m-my back...” Roman managed to squeeze out between pants and rapid breaths.

“Uh.. uhhhhhh,” Remus said, eloquently. He really was great at comforting others, wasn’t he.

Luckily, Remus didn’t have to think of a way to help Roman, because now his red and white leach of a brother was clinging to his midsection and getting his outfit wet with tears.

After ten very long minutes of agony, Roman felt... weird. His brain felt as if there was an army of ants crawling through it. Little ants with jackhammers and megaphones, that is. He could feel the comforter below him, but his arms were still wrapped securely around Remus. He had long pants on, so it couldn’t be his legs. And what was that weight on his back?

“Woah,” Remus whispered, astounded. “Look... y-you...”

Roman shifted slightly, trying not to move his sore body any more than he needed to, and proceeded to gasp at what he saw he saw. He was NOT expecting to see feathers, much less connected to him!

“Rem?” Roman was starting to panic. “W-why ar- is t-there...” he trailed off, more tears starting to fill his eyes. What was that? Why did it come out of him? What in the name of Cinderella’s left slipper was going on!?

After Remus somehow managed to calm down Roman (a miracle, truly), he started to admire his new additions. Somehow already feathered (he didn’t question it), they were a burnt amber color, with small ember-like sparkles dusted in places. He tried to lift one of the wings, but only managed a few inches before stopping.“...Im still confused,” he said, quietly. “Why... why do I have wings?” He asked.

“Well,” Remus started, “we could ask Logan?” He suggested. “He almost always has an answer for everything!” He said, smiling.

Roman thought about it for a minute. “No,”

Remus’ smile fell a little, “Why not?”

Roman sighed “Logan hates things that are ‘illogical’, and I think this counts,” he chuckled, lifting his wing up a little bit again.

Remus persisted, “What about-“

Roman cut him off, “I don’t think I wanna tell anybody, Rem. They’ll look at me weird,” he explained. This was a very plausible outcome in the child’s mind, that or he watched too many movies.

Remus looked like he wanted to argue, but Roman stared at him with a pleading look, and he backed down. The two brothers spent the rest of the day researching birds and testing out his wings in the imagination. He enjoyed himself.

“Earth to Roman, come in Roman,” he saw a hand waving in front of his face. His eyes followed the arm the hand was connected to and eventually landed on a sleep deprived Virgil’s face. He looked around, noticing how somehow he was sat at the bar in the kitchen, and had been blankly staring at the marble counter for about 5 minutes now.

“Oh, sorry,” he apologized quickly, “Daydreaming,”

Virgil shrugged and went back to his food, allowing Roman to loose himself in his thoughts again. At least until Logan came into the room.

“Salutations,” he said, dryly. Not waiting for a response, he marched over to the fridge and pulled out a half full jar of crofters. During this, Roman remembered his eggs, which had cooled significantly, and started stuffing his face. Logan walked over to the seat on the other side of Roman, and sat down.

“Welp,” Virgil started, getting out of his seat and putting his dish in the sink, where Patton was washing them, “imma go mentally prepare for the day, see y’all in like, two hours,” he started walking out of the room. Passing Roman, he gave him a rather large pat on the back.

Right on one of his wings.

Roman’s eyes went wide. He sat strait up and dropped his fork as a weird tingling- almost painful sensation went down his spine. Everyone turned to look at him, Patton was concerned, and Logan had half his face full of jam. Virgil awkwardly pulled his hand away from Roman’s back.

“Are you ok, kiddo?” Patton questioned. Concern was evident in his eyes as he cocked his head slightly to the side.

“Everything’s fine, padre,” Roman assured the moral side, praying that no one questioned him further.

“I don’t know if I believe you,” Logan asserted. Roman was starting to internally panic.

“Seriously! I’m fine!” Roman racked his brain for an excuse, “Virgil’s hand was just really cold,”

Virgil looked at him incredulously, “You’re wearing a hoodie,”

Fuck, Roman needed to work on his lying. He stood up out of his chair, “Thanks for breakfast, Padre, but I have some... script... stuff to work on,” he started to walk toward the hallway. Unfortunately Logan got there first, blocking the doorway.

“Not so fast, Roman. We know something is troubling you, and we are your friends, are we not? It would be emotionally beneficial for you to tell us, so that we may help,” Logan reasoned.

Roman was backed into a (metaphorical, he was really still in the middle of the kitchen) corner. “I told you, I’m fine!” He repeated. All he wanted was to get to his room and do something to make his wings stop feeling so uncomfortable.

“Bullshit” Virgil declared, ignoring the small ‘language!’ from Patton, “You’re hiding something, and it’s hurting you, so give it up you limp noodle!”

The limp noodle in question was very panicked at this point, slightly shaking. He couldn’t let them know, he couldn’t. That would only mean bad things. He needs to get back to his room. He needs Remus. If they know they’ll hate him. He doesn’t want them to hate him.

Apparently he wasn’t hiding his panic as well as he thought was, because Patton walked over with a concerned frown, “Oh, Roman,” he put his arms around his child and squeezed him in a large bear hug.

Patton’s arms were right on Roman’s wings.

Roman cried out and slumped against Patton, causing them both to fall to the tile floor below. He curled up into a ball, his breathing turning ragged. It hurt, it hurt just like the first time he got his wings. Only this time he didn’t have Remus. Apparently you’re not supposed to press down on the joints connecting the wings to the rest of the body.

Surprisingly, it was Virgil who was the first to act. “We need to get him to the couch. Patton, help me get his hoodie off, Logan, go get some heat packs” he ordered, thinking that Roman must suffer from back cramps or something similar.

Logan hesitated for a moment before rushing off, leaving the others to carry a slightly limp Roman to the couch in the living room. They tried to pull off the prince like hoodie, but because of the feathers tucked in haphazardly earlier, Roman cried out whenever they tried. Patton’s eyes lit up with an idea, and he rushed off to go find some scissors, letting Virgil sit there, holding the prince’s hand, trying to be a source of comfort for him.

Virgil was abso-fuckin-lutely freaking out internally, but he had to be there for his friends. Before long, Patton come back holding a pair of sharp scissors in his hands, taking care to walk, not run, like they tell you to do in school. He carefully snipped along one of the seams on Roman’s hoodie, silently promising to sew it back together later. He started to get confused when, among the red and gold of the prince’s t-shirt, there was a brown feather.

“Is that..?” Patton trailed off. He focused back on the hoodie. Soon, he had it all the way clipped, and was about to ask Virgil to help flip Roman onto his stomach in order to have better access to his back, when he saw more of those strange feathers.

“Virgil?” He looked toward the man in question.

The purple clad man noticed the feathers, alright. But he didn’t have time to wonder why Roman was keeping bird leafs in his jacket. “Help me flip him over,” he asked Patton, who nodded and set down the scissors.

Apparently Virgil DID have time to concern himself with the feathers in his friend’s jacket, seeing as those feathers were connected to said friend.“...I guess we know what he was hiding,” Patton chuckled.

This was the moment Logan decided to burst into the room carrying a multitude of heating elements. “I acquired some heat packs, as well as the rice sacks you place in the microwa-“ he stopped short, noticing the large bird wings attached to Roman’s upper back. “...I’m not even going to ask,” he stated. And set down the electronic heat packs, before taking the others into the kitchen.

Roman was... confused, to say the least. The pain has lessened to the point where he could think again, but the others had seen his wings, hadn’t they? Why weren’t they disgusted? He-he thought-

“Roman, kiddo,” Patton said to the winged side, “how are you holding up?”

Roman started tearing up, but he refused to cry, lest Patton think he was in more pain then he was, “I-it still hurts, but not as much,” he admitted, a small smile (or grimace, that too) gracing his features.

Patton nodded and leaned down to pick up one of the heat packs, which he plugged in to a nearby outlet. “I have a heat pack, do you think I could put it at the base of your wings?” He asked.

Roman nodded, and Patton placed the device on his back. Almost instantly the pain lessened. It was still there, but Roman felt like he could breathe again. Logan walked in and wordlessly handed the now warm heating packs to Patton, before sitting on the ground in front of the couch next to him. Patton held up a heating pack, gently placing it near the bottom of the wing base.

“So...” Virgil started, awkwardly, “This is what you’ve been hiding?” Some of his panic from earlier was slipping into his voice. Roman grabbed his hand from where he laid on the couch, which to be fair, was a little awkward, but Roman wanted to comfort Patton’s dead gay son.

“Yeah,” Roman replies breathlessly, rubbing his thumb over Virgil’s knuckles. No one spoke for a while.

Logan was the one to break the silence, “How long?”

Roman replied simply, “since we were eight,” he looked down at the ground and stopped rubbing Virgil’s knuckles.

“You didn’t need to,” Roman perked up when he heard Logan speak. “What do you mean?” He questioned.

“You did not need to hide this from us,” Logan assured, “These are beautiful. I have no idea why you would want to keep them hidden” he answered honestly.

Roman looked back down at the ground, feeling Virgil giving his hand reassuring squeezes. “Because... because I was scared,” he admitted, “I was scared you would think they were weird- think IM weird,” he felt Patton’s hand on his shoulder.

“We would never,”

No more words needed to be said. Roman looked into Patton’s eyes and knew he was telling the truth. These were his friends. His family. They care about him. They won’t reject him. They aren’t going to leave him. Remus was right. Roman started to tear up a little.

“Thanks, padre,” his voice shook a little, bit one said anything about it, “can you help me sit up?”

Patton nodded, before grabbing his shoulders and sitting him up so that his wings were spread out in a way that would not hurt them further. There was some pleasant conversation between the winged side and his companions. Roman started to forget about the ache in his shoulder blades.

“I’m going to need to study your wings, Roman,” stayed Logan, “I want to see how they work in the air,”.

Roman grinned, “sure, I’d be happy to,”. He felt content sitting with his friends. Maybe he should have reveled his wings sooner.

“Roman?” Roman turned to look in the direction of the noise, “Why is it that you have wings?” asked Virgil.

Roman chuckled before answering,

”What child doesn’t wish to fly?”

96 notes · View notes

uas-fics · 5 years

Text

Title: Cold Turkey, Ducks, Parachutes, and Other Mixed Metaphors

Summary: When Nichole moves away, Token is heartbroken. He doesn't want to deal with his friends setting him up or Nichole’s friends scrutinizing any girl he tried to date. So Token concocts a plan to fake date Kenny McCormick to avoid all the trouble.

Rating: T

Ships: Tokenny

Other: Not a perfect story, but it’ll work. ;)

Read on Ao3

——-

He took a wrong turn trying to find the library. Token frowned, looking around. He'd been looking down on his phone.

The hallway ended at a single door. Lime crusted the water fountain to the left. Spiderwebs clung to the corners. When was the last time a dust mop saw the end of this hall?

Token took a step back and looked over his shoulder. He should get back to basketball practice. He told Coach he would only be gone long enough to return a book to the library before it was late tomorrow.

His eyes drifted down to his phone again.

Nichole's text message from two days ago stared back at him. Simple, clear, and no mistake. They were over.

His heart sank. He didn't want to go back to practice. Everyone knew that Nichole moving away hit him hard. He couldn't stand all the pity looks he'd get.

No one would come looking for him until the practice was over knowing what he was going through, so what did it matter if he slumped against the wall and moped for an hour? What was the difference between an hour in the hall and fifteen minutes in the library?

The janitor could kick him out if he stayed too long. He didn't care.

Token pulled his legs to his chest and rested his chin on his knees. Part of him wanted to cry. Part of him wanted to walk all the way to Nichole's new home four states away and beg she take him back.

With a groan, he clenched his eyes shut. No crying.

This was one of the best ways two people could break up. No animosity. No bitterness. Just a forlorn sense of what could have been.

Squeezing his legs closer to his chest, Token swallowed a sob. He’d been in a relationship for almost six years, not counting the week or two long breakups that happened here and there. He honestly didn’t know what to do with himself now.

Since fourth grade, it had been ‘Token and Nichole.’

‘Do you and Nichole want to go on a double date?’

‘Are you and Token coming to the dance?’

‘Of course, Nichole and Token are going to be partners for the project!’

Being single had its own set of challenges he wasn't looking forward to either.

Everyone would try to set him up with someone new. He would bet less than a week would pass before Clyde sent him a picture of some girl claiming Token should talk to her.

The girls in his class, out of their friendship with Nichole, would keep a scrupulous eye on any girl who dared attempted to court Token to make sure he was left in "good hands."

What was he to do? He didn't want to be single again, but he didn't want to go through all the hoops to meet and learn to love someone new. He wasn't ready for all that bullshit!

The door at the end of the hall creaked. Token jumped, scrambling to stand up.

As he wiped his eyes, smoke rolled out of the opened door. The scent of tobacco made him recoil with a cringe.

Kenny waved his hand in front of his face as he stepped out. He didn't notice there was anyone else in the hall until he looked up from grinding his cigarette against the sole of his shoe.

"Oh, hey, man. You skipping detention too?" Kenny asked, readjusting his heavy coat.

"No. I’m not in detention.”

He flinched. Without even shedding a tear, his voice still managed to come out raw and in pain. Using the old water fountain to pull himself up, Token smoothed out his basketball uniform.

"I took a wrong turn to the library," He explained. "I need to return a book. Sorry for interrupting you." He turned and took two steps before a warm hand grabbed his wrist.

"Dude, are you alright?"

If Token hadn't looked over his shoulder, he would have made it back to the locker room, splashed himself with cold water, and went on with his life, but he did.

Despite himself, he started to cry.

Kenny took a few steps back, his face still plastered with worry.

"Dude?" He whispered.

Token wiped his nose on the front of his uniform. "Sorry. I, um, I..." He swallowed. "Nichole and I broke up. She-she moved, remember? And I can't..."

"Ah, Token. I'm sorry," Kenny offered. Token tried to keep some of his composure but quickly gave in to his grief. Tears rolled down his cheeks and sobs broke his voice.

Kenny rocked his weight back and forth before taking a breath. He stepped over and wrapped his arms around Token, patting his back.

"It's alright. You'll be happy again soon," Kenny promised.

Token sniffled more, but found himself happy Kenny hadn't told him he'd find another girlfriend soon. He'd gotten too much of that from Clyde and Jimmy lately.

After a few more minutes of crying against the worn orange of his coat, the cigarette smoke filling his nose and clinging to his shirt, Token found himself sitting on the ground against the wall, spilling everything he'd worried about to Kenny.

Kenny had always been quiet and a good listener, even as far back as elementary school. None of Token's close friends could boast that. Either they were one or the other, but never both.

Kenny put a hand on his forearm. "I knew she'd moved away, but it sucks balls that it’s been so hard for you."

"I just," Toke shook his head, "don't want to deal with it. I can't just jump into a relationship with another girl since it would make the girls mad for getting over Nichole so quickly. I can't stay single because the guys would keep setting me up. I'm between a rock and a hard place."

Kenny hummed then snorted a chuckle. Token fixed him a frown. His eyebrows knit together in confusion.

“What was so funny about that?”

"Sorry, sorry, I just had a thought." Kenny waved his hand.

"A thought? Like an idea?"

"Eh," he lifted a shoulder, "not really. You need a parachute before you jump into another plane.”

“A parachute?” Token echoed.

“Yeah. Being in a relationship is like being in a plane. If you’re on the plane, you'll crash. You’re jumping off, but if you jump without a parachute, you’ll fall.” Kenny grinned. “That doesn’t make sense does it?”

“I...sort of? In a weird way.” Token looked down at his hands. “A parachute is a new relationship that will...buffer? Or, no, like, shield or...whatever. It’ll make everyone back off from helping me get into a new, real relationship?”

Kenny bobbed his head. “Yeah, like,” he took his crumpled pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket, “if you want to stop smoking, you can’t just quit cold turkey. You need to slowly cut down, like from a pack a day to two or three.” He pointed the box at Token with a grin. “What you need is a two or three cigarette parachute before you jump off the turkey plane.”

It felt so good to laugh. He didn't realize how much he needed it until then.

Token wiped his eyes. “You just shoved those metaphors into a Kitchen Aid blender.”

Kenny bent forward in a half bow. “Word smoothie for my lord in these sorrowful times?” He looked up at Token through his lashes with impish eyes. “Twenty bucks.”

Token opened his mouth to make a joke back when an idea came to him. He shut his mouth and looked at the floor just beyond his toes.

His brow furrowed, wondering if his idea could work. It was silly. No way it would. His plan would blow up in his face, but if it didn’t...

Token turned to face Kenny with an impish look of his own. “Kenny, how would you feel about being my parachute?”

---

Token had originally suggested City Wok, but the disgusted look on Kenny’s face shot down that idea in an instant. Instead, the two sat in a corner booth at Denny's.

“You do realize how bat shit crazy your plan sounds out loud, right?” Kenny asked around a chunk of potato. When they ordered, Kenny tried to pick something cheap as he carefully counted out nickels and dimes, until Token told him it didn’t matter and to order whatever he wanted.

“I know, but do you think it might work?” Token drummed his fingers on his drinking glass. “It would only have to be for a month or two, or until something more gossip-worthy happens.”

Kenny swallowed. “Given that our class attends this school, it’ll be like two weeks.” He stabbed his fork into the steak and left it there, earning a cringe for his bad table manners from Token. “But it could work, or make even more drama. Do you really want to risk that?”

Token chewed his lip. He didn’t, but it was worth a shot. With a nod, Token told him he’d like to try his bat shit crazy plan.

“Ok, just so we’re on the same page here, you want me to pretend to date you. If we’re together, the guys won’t set you up with anyone. The girls won’t be able to judge me against Nichole because I’m not one of them. We do this until you're emotionally ready to jump back in the saddle and get a new girlfriend. That’s the page you're on, right?”

Token said, “yeah. I’ll even pay you for your time. Twenty dollars a date and five a day for just holding hands and junk in the hall at school.”

“What makes you think the girls won’t judge me, or, worse, judge you?” Kenny tore his fork from the steak. “You officially break up with your long-time girlfriend and not three days later you're dating the school man-slut? Sounds bad to me.”

“You’re not a man-slut,” Token defended, but couldn’t make himself sound completely sincere. Kenny was a swell guy, but he had a reputation for sleeping around. There was no denying that. Everyone knew it.

“True. In this case, I’d be a man-whore though.” Kenny chuckled. “Also I wasn’t saying slut like a bad thing. I have no problems with being called it. I just want to know if you want your boyfriend being known for that — fake or not, that’ll stick with you.”

Token took a breath. Dating Kenny wouldn’t ruin his reputation. Kenny had gone on dates with plenty of other popular and well-liked kids in their school with no consequences, but maybe it would make Token look desperate.

Could he make that work for him in the end? Pull the ‘he was lonely and sad and desperate’ card to earn some sympathy points when he started dating for real again?

“So you don't want to do it?” Token took a drink to wet his mouth. “I’m not trying to push you into anything you don’t want to do.”

Kenny held up his hands in a surrender gesture. “You’re a real gentleman, Token Black, you know that? I’ll do it, on one condition.” He lowered all his fingers but his pointers and kept his hands up as he spoke.

“What?” Token tensed, praying Kenny wouldn’t ask for something impossible or weird.

Kenny swung his hands down and pointed at Token across the table. “You tell Nichole about this. She deserves to know her leaving didn’t fuck you up that bad.” He dropped his hands to continue eating but kept his eyes half on Token to judge his reaction.

Token blinked, feeling a daze of shock cloud his mind. He’d expected a downpayment or being pressured to push the rules on personal space and touching. He’d expected something that would benefit Kenny completely, not this. Kenny got nothing from Nichole knowing about this plan.

“Really? That’s all?” Token’s mouth gaped.

Around a too big cut of steak, Kenny told him, “Well, we’ll have to discuss it more, about how mushy you want me to get and shit, but for now, yeah. Tell her.”

Slowly, still confused by this request, Token nodded in agreement.

With a grin, Kenny stood up from the table.

“Gotta take a leak.”

Instead of walking straight to the restroom, he walked around the table to the other side of the booth. Placing a hand on either of Token’s shoulders, he leaned down to press a kiss to his cheek.

“Don’t miss me,” He told him in a sing-song voice before stepping back and taking the long route around the restaurant to the restroom.

As Token set his hand on his cheek, he became very aware of a couple of classmates in the restaurant with their gaping expressions fixed straight on him.

---

Craig slammed his locker shut, nearly smashing Token’s fingers.

“Ok, what the fuck, Token?”

Craig narrowed his eyes. Clyde peeked from under Craig’s elbow. Even after everyone hit their growth spurt, Clyde remained the shortest of their friend group, though in this case, you would have to be a giant to be able to look over Craig’s shoulders.

Token braced himself internally, but cooly asked, “Can I help you?”

Clyde pushed his way past Craig, phone held out, and shoved the screen into Token’s face. “This! What’s this? Bebe sent it to me last night.”

Token crossed his eyes to read a message screenshot that played out:

Nellie: Token and Kenny are at the Dennys too? lol. What a contrast!

Bebe: Be nice! Lol what are they doing? Can you tell?

Nellie: They’re just eating and, oh, Kenny’s getting up and...

Bebe: and?

Nellie: He kissed him?! Kenny kissed Token????!!!!! In the Denny’s?!?!?!?!

Token wrinkled his nose. He knew what happened would get around, but one of the biggest gossips in the school knowing seconds after they agreed to fake date? That had to be a record.

Clyde wore a look of betrayal. “Is he your best friend now? I thought that was us.”

“We’ve been friends since first grade. I helped you pull out your first loose tooth. When did you and McComirck suddenly become better friends than that?” Craig flipped him the bird before crossing his arms.

“Best friend?” Token couldn’t help but laugh.

Kenny was a touchy person. He hung off his close friends and, if they allowed it, held their hands and sat in their laps.

One time in middle school, the entire class thought he and Butters Stotch were dating when Kenny kissed him on the forehead after school. It was apparently a good luck kiss for cheer tryouts, but that cemented Kenny as having little boundaries with close friends.

No wonder they thought they were being replaced.

“He’s not my new best friend,” Token told them as he fiddled with his locker. “He’s uh, well...” With a yank, he pulled open his locker. “Last night was a date.”

Clyde’s phone fell from his hand. It clattered to the floor. Craig’s arms drop from his chest to his sides. They both looked at him in horror and disbelief.

“A date? Like a date date?” Craig shook his head. “I know Nichole moving fucked you up, but really? Kenny McCormick? He’s your rebound? Why didn’t you at least wait a month, dude?”

“There is a freshman in my math class that would have jumped on you in a second! All you had to do was ask me.” Clyde slumped. “Or, if you wanted a change from a girlfriend, Craig could have hooked you up with another gay dude in the school.”

Craig put his hand on Clyde’s shoulder and pushed him into the middle of the hall. “Not all gays know each other, Clyde.” He paused, rubbing his chin. “But there is that pansexual dude in Tweek’s art class...”

Token cringed. This was exactly what he wanted to avoid.

“Guys, stop. I asked Kenny to go out with me. I wanted to date him. It’s fine. Drop it,” Token ordered, taking a step to help Clyde back to his feet. “He’s a nice guy. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothin’, nothin’. Kenny and I are bros. He comes over to play Minecraft sometimes,” Clyde defended. “It’s just...you asked him? Not the other way around?”

Token nodded.

“Ok, then, yeah, it’s cool. Sorta. I mean, it’s still weird that you go straight for Kenny ‘gives handjobs during prep assemblies’ McCormick, but as long as it was your choice and he’s not trying to mooch off you in your time of pain.” Clyde slung his arm over his shoulder. “I wish you the best.”

“I don’t.” Craig snorted. “You shouldn't just jump into something with someone else to get over Nichole. It’s not healthy. Do you even have legit feelings for him?”

Token had to bite his tongue. Craig couldn't talk about fake dating someone when that was how he and Tweek started dating. Craig didn’t know how much of a hypocrite he sounded like.

But Token couldn’t throw that at him, so instead, he claimed, “I do like him. He’s handsome as hell. He’s nice. Sorry, you can’t see that.”

Before Craig could reply, another arm fell over Token’s shoulders. Kenny set his hand on Token’s chest, sighing in fake disappointment.

“Some people are just blind, Token. Can’t help that.” Kenny slid his arm down. He wrapped his hand around Token’s and squeeze once. He wore a lazily smile in contrast to the shrew, pointed stares of Clyde and Craig.

Before the conversation could continue, the warning bell sounded. Craig pointed two fingers at his eyes then swung them around to point at Kenny. He repeated his action three more times and he stepped into the crowd to head to his locker. Clyde chewed his lip before sighing.

“I’ll see you in English, Token.” He waved. “See you in weights, Kenny.”

“We’ll pump massive iron, my dude,” Kenny promised as Clyde left. Once Clyde was out of earshot, he whispered, “You could have told them. They are your best friends.”

“No. This is temporary. They’ll get over it.”

Token hoped they would, anyway.

“They’d better. I’m sitting with you at lunch,” Kenny announced. He glanced down at Token’s legs. “You have a big enough lap for me to sit on it, so no one needs to change spots.”

“Wait, what—” But Kenny cut Token off with a kiss on the cheek. “See you at lunch, boo.”

---

Token had had awkward lunches before. Someone would fight with someone else or something distressing would happen to one of them and suddenly everyone else had to be on eggshells. It happened when Craig and Tweek broke up, when Clyde's mom died, when Jimmy dropped the n-word by accident.

All of those times happened within the friend group itself, but this time the eggshells were brought on from the outside.

Token just got settled into his seat, taking out his packed lunch, when Kenny unceremoniously slid his tray in front of Token and shimmied his way into his lap, just like he promised.

The whole time he acted as if this was completely normal. He chatted with Clyde and Jimmy about Minecraft and asked Tweek how he was doing working late at Tweak Bros.

Craig frowned at Token the whole time, even trying to kick him under the table. He missed. His foot ramming into Kenny's shin and making him flinch back to squish Token's farm-raised turkey on whole wheat into his face.

Craig wasn't the only silently judging Token. An entire table of girls kept looking over at him and Kenny, then huddling close to whisper before repeating the process several times throughout lunch.

Nichole said she thought his plan was silly and wouldn't work, but told him if it made him feel better, she would support him and try to smooth things out before the girls did something drastic without telling them the real details.

Hopefully, she smoothed everything soon, since the look Red sent him made his skin goose prickle.

Once lunch ended--thank God--Kenny kept himself pressed against Token side, holding their laced fingers together. A few steps into the main hallway, he pulled him into a less populated hall.

He asked in a whisper, “How was that? Was it boyfriend-y enough? Or should I have kissed you on the lips or something?”

Token raised his shoulders. “It did its job. No complaints.”

Except that Kenny had a bony ass and it was uncomfortable as hell, but Token didn’t say that. He’d have to bring a coat to lunch and have that on his lap as extra padding. It would save his legs and make him look like more of a top-notch boyfriend than he already was.

Kenny smiled. “Good, but, if you want to be more convincing yourself, you should try to interact with me more. You were just kind of...embarrassed and stiff the whole time. Loosen up, bro.” With that, he gave Token a half hug and headed to class.

---

After the first week, everything seemingly calmed down. The girls still gave him the stink eye when he passed them in the hall, but they hadn’t done anything else to him, thankfully. His friends begrudgingly accepted when Kenny chose to sit with them at lunch without complaints. No one tried to give him advice or set him up with anyone.

All in all, his plan was going swimmingly!

Kenny huddled down in his coat. A biting chill blew off of Stark’s Pond and hit them as they walked hand in hand beside it. Kenny pulled at his hood strings one at a time until his face was all but covered, just like when they were kids.

Token craned his head to look at his face. He frowned.

“Are you ok? You look...eh.” Token asked, fighting to keep his hand in Kenny's. If Kenny was sick, he didn’t want it. Kenny blinked, slowly processing the question, then nodded.

“Just tired as hell. Mr. Kim is down a waiter, so I’ve been taking orders, running food out, and dishwashing.” He yawned.

“Don’t overwork yourself. You’ll die.” Token said, only half-joking.

A muffled snort of amusement came from Kenny. “If only.”

He froze suddenly. Before Token could ask what was wrong, he pushed his hood back and tilted his head to the side. He frowned.

“Do you hear that? The quacking?”

Token listened then looked around. There was a quacking sound, but it didn’t sound like normal duck chatter. This sounded distressed.

“Over there!” Kenny pulled Token forward. He stumbled but caught himself well enough to keep up. The two turned a bend in the path and found a gaggle of sixth graders and several upset mallards. The sixth graders cackled as half plucked feathers from a duck’s tail and the others held more ducks by their necks.

Token started to pull Kenny away. They should call Officer Barbradey. Token was sure he knew some of those kids from church. On Sunday, he could mention it to his mom, who would no doubt go talk to their parents and—

Kenny let go of Token’s hand and marched forward.

“What the fuck are you dillweeds doing?” He demanded.

The sixth-graders jumped. Kenny was not a very big man. He wasn’t short, like Clyde, or gangly, like Craig. He had muscles, but he wasn’t broad-shouldered and intimidating.

Usually.

As he marched over to the sixth-graders, Kenny McCormick looked like an angry beast.

“Drop those ducks right now.” He ordered. One of the sixth-graders instantly opened his hands. Three ducks fell to the ground. The ducks quickly righted themselves to their feet before turning and fleeing towards the pond.

The other sixth-grader held tight to the waterfowl.

Kenny growled. “I said drop them. What are you even doing?”

“None of your business. Fuck off.” the sixth-grader holding the ducks down snapped.

“You’re hurting it. What gives you the right to hurt something smaller than you?” Kenny paused and smirked. “What? Did they bite your ankles, little boy? Did the big mean duckies scare the little pissbaby so he had to go get his friends to help him scare them back? Is that what happened?”

Token reached out and set a hand on Kenny’s arm. “Kenny...”

“What? Am I wrong?” Kenny countered. “Only weaklings pick on others like this.”

The sixth-graders' faces burned red with rage or embarrassment--maybe both, Token couldn’t tell. One of them stood up, hands balled into fists.

“We ain’t weak! Bring it on, old man!” was all he said before he ran, fist raised.

Kenny pushed Token back with one hand and grabbed the sixth-grader’s arm with the other. In one move, he had the arm pinned behind his back with the sixth-grader gasping in panic.

Though the sixth-grader struggled, Kenny held firm without seemingly any effort.

“I like to think I have an old soul, but a young body,” Kenny quipped.

“Let me go!”

“Nah. Maybe if your friends let the ducks go, I’ll think about it, though.”

The sixth-grader looked to his friends, who looked at the ducks, who looked at all the humans tormenting them. Finally, one of the sixth-graders nodded and lowered the ducks he held to the ground. Like those before them, the ducks made a beeline for the safety of Stark’s Pond.

With a huff, the final one lifted his hands from the mallard he’d been plucking. The duck wobbled to its feet and took a few steps, enough to get into the bushes, but stopped.

Kenny shoved the sixth-grader he held forward. “Get lost.”

Glaring at him, each kid stomped past.

As one moved past Token, he heard him say, “We did even get enough duck feathers for one throw pillow, man...”

Token shook his head. Had he been that way in sixth grade?

When he turned around, Kenny crouched near the bushes. He drew the plucked duck out, holding it close to his chest. He stroked it, but it still struggled weakly against him.

“Is it ok?” Token asked.

“I’m not sure. I think they hurt its leg.” He carefully touched the leg, making the duck quack in pain. “No, I’m sure they did. Dumb fucks. Hope they get chlamydia...”

“Little harsh to wish on middle schoolers, don’t you think?”

“A yeast infection, then,” Kenny corrected, putting the duck’s head under its wing.

Sighing, Token wanted to know, “What will you do with the duck?”

“I am planning on taking him to Stan. He spent last summer helping at the conservation department. He would know what to do,” Kenny explained, unzipping his coat. He gently put the duck inside against his dirty T-shirt. “I guess that means our ‘date’ is over then. Sorry. Half price today, unless u want to pay for the bus ride down the mountain."

Token looked up at the sky. By the time Kenny got down the mountain, if they even let him in on the bus with a live duck, it would be dark. Token's stomach twisted at the thought of Kenny riding the late-night bus back up to South Park. The late-night buses had the worst people, and Token didn't want his fake boyfriend hurt just for a duck.

"Let me take you down there. If I get the car back before curfew, I can borrow it," Token offered.

Kenny blinked at the unexpected kindness before his face broke out into a beaming smile that made Token feel a warmth spread through his chest.

---

Stan face held murder. "Do you know their names? Their families? I bet if a conservation officer showed up at their door they wouldn't think about torturing wildlife ever again."

Token pressed his lips into a line as Stan looked down at the duck in the dog carrier.

"I don't know their names, but they go to our church, and I saw them when Nichole did tutoring for fifth graders last year, so I'm sure they are in sixth grade," Token told him.

Stan adjusted the water through the carrier door.

"I'll pass that on."

"You should tell your wildlife officer friend to go to the middle school and scare the fear of Mother Nature into them all," Kenny suggested. "Threaten to work all of them picking up trash until someone comes forward."

Token snickered. In his experience, sixth-graders were either the most loyal of friends or would throw you under the bus for a cheese danish. Either they would all come forward together or one of them would drag the rest kicking and screaming.

"I just might." Stan set his hand on the carrier.

Mrs. Marsh walked into the living room then.

"Kenny, dear," she beckoned, "could you come here? I have some of Shelly's old clothes. I think they'd fit your sister. Could you come look through them with me for a minute?"

"Oh, sure thing," Kenny replied, heading out the door with Mrs. Marsh

Stan and Token watched him leave them alone. Token rocked on his heels. He'd never been with one of Kenny's friends since they started fake dating.

From what he could tell in school, Kenny's friend group didn't care. Token was just another fling. That didn't make the silence any less awkward.

Finally, Stan let out a noisy breath through his teeth.

"So," he started, "you and Kenny, huh?"

"Uh, yeah," Token responded, unsure what he was supposed to say.

Stan eyed him in a way that reminded Token a little too much of the way the girls in the hall did before looking away.

"I don't know how to feel about you two."

Token frowned. "It's not your relationship. You don't have to feel anything about it."

Stan rolled his eyes. "Kenny is one of my best friends, and I don't mean that in a bad way. Geez, dude, calm your tits."

"Then how did you mean it?" Token asked.

Stan raised his shoulder. "I don't know if I should be happy or prepare for the worst." Token went to counter, but Stan cut him off with a raise of his hand. He continued, "This has nothing against you. I know Kenny. I know when things get rough, he throws himself into a relationship because feeling special to someone like that helps releave the stress he has at home."

Stan shook his head. "That said, dude, a relationship with you? That seems like a ticking time bomb. You just got of a relationship with Nichole and you jump in another with Kenny of all people as a rebound? Instead of just dealing with it?"

"I didn't..." Token knew he couldn't force that particular lie, so he trailed off.

Stan put a hand on his forearm. "Look, dude, he's my friend. I don't want him used as a holdover between girlfriends just because you knew he's the kind of guy to say 'yes', at least not right now. Not when he needs someone who can be serious with him."

Token's mouth when dry. He couldn't reply even if he had something to say.

Stan had him pegged down.

Finally, Token found himself uttering, "Stressed at home? About what?"

Stan eyed him again before snorting and shaking his head.

"I can't say I'm shocked he didn't mention anything. He really must like you to try to keep you around like that."

Token wanted to ask for an elaboration, but Kenny walked in with Mrs. Marsh, a garbage bag throw over his shoulder.

"Thank you again, Mrs. Marsh. These clothes will make Karen's week." Kenny adjusted the bag. To Token he said, "It's getting late. If we leave now, we make probably make it before your curfew."

"I'll call your moms so they both know you left here and are heading home." Mrs. Marsh told them.

As Token thanked her, Kenny told Stan to take care of the duck and let them know if anything happens with the conservation officer. Stan promised he would as Token and Kenny started towards the door.

In the car, Kenny fell asleep the second they left the Marsh's dirt driveway for smooth asphalt. His chin rested against the bag of clothes in his lap.

Token glanced at him, turning the radio completely off to help Kenny sleep.

A strange feeling pulled at his mind. He spent half the drive home trying to place a word to it. Just as he turned off the main road towards South Park he found a name.

He felt annoyed.

Annoyed that Kenny might be keeping his personal struggles private.

He wasn't sure why that bugged him so much. Friends could keep a secret or two. It wasn't like they were really dating and it was his responsibility to support him through it.

Soon enough Token drove up to the McCormick house. He reached over and shook Kenny's shoulder. Kenny blinked, looking around.

"Are we there?" He asked.

"Yeah."

Kenny opened the door, shoving out the bag of clothes first. Before shutting it, he turned back towards Token.

"Thanks for the ride, man. You're the best."

Token nodded mutely as Kenny shut the door. He waited until he'd made it into the house before pulled back and heading home.

---

Token poked at his dinner, which was, ironically, honey-roasted duck. After covering the meat with mash potatoes so he couldn’t actually see it, he dropped it in his mouth. The distressed quacking grew in his head until he swallowed. Tonight he’d skip the protein part of the food pyramid.

“Token, baby, what’s the matter?” His mom asked.

Token looked up. “Sorry?”

“You look distracted, son,” His dad commented. “Everything alright? No trouble in school? With your friends?”

“Ah, no, it’s all ok.” He shook his head. “I was just out with Kenny today—”

His parents winced. They hadn’t told him they were against them dating, but they hadn’t been too happy about their perfect son dating someone like Kenny either.

Ignoring them, he continued, “and some kids were hurting the ducks at the pond. Kenny stepped in and stopped them. It's why I borrowed the car, you know? It was brave, I guess? I didn’t expect it.”

“Well, how sweet. Are the ducks ok?” His mom asked, her tone indicated force interest.

“Yeah, I think so.” Token stabbed a pea with his fork. He nearly continued his thoughts, but his parents started their own conversation before he could.

Kenny had impressed him today. Token wasn’t going to step up and directly help. It wasn’t his business to punish kids for being bad, after all, but Kenny had no problem with it. He went right up and got involved, like a hero.

Now that Token thought about it, why was he surprised? Kenny had always been self-sacrificing and hero-like. Maybe because he hadn’t seen it this close up since they were kids playing superheroes? Could he have forgotten?

It is a romantic quality, after all.

Token nearly choked on his mouth full of carrots and peas at the thought. His parents responded with concern, but he waved them off, too embarrassed to speak.

Of all the adjectives, why had his brain chosen ‘romantic’?

Wasn't he annoyed with Kenny for not telling him about his sister?

Unless that was why he felt annoyed...

Token pushed his plate back, his head spinning. “I think I’m full,” he said and hurried up to his room to think.

---

“I’ve been working like a dog for the past month, but you’re the one who looks like you’re going to vomit,” Kenny commented idly, tapping his pencil against his textbook. Token’s head shot up.

“I’m fine,” He lied, wondering if Kenny wasn’t a secret mind reader. Token did feel sick, but not from some stomach bug or flu. It was his head making his stomach twist. He’d been trying to sort out his feelings for the last few days with little success.

Did he like-like Kenny? Was he just admiring him? Kenny was handsome, not as handsome as some of the other boys in the class, but still, better than normal. It was natural to view someone else as handsome without there being anything behind it, right?

But Token hadn’t just been admiring his looks. He’d been praising him in his head for being brave and caring. He’d watched closely how Kenny did his best to make Token happy as a fake boyfriend when Token did so little in return. He’d listened to the clever jabs and quips made during lunch.

He spent the next night after the incident with the ducks trying to make a good list of negative qualities for Kenny but failed miserably. Everything negative he came up with he either discarded or chalked up to being petty on his part.

“Are you sure? If you have a cold, I can’t kiss you anymore.” Kenny held up his fingers and crossed them into an x. “I can’t miss work.”

Token waved him off. “I’m just fine. Really. Stress, you know?”

Kenny nodded. “Oh, I know, believe me, I do. Mr. Kim might just work me to death this week. Two waiters out! I half think those dicks eloped together.”

Token winced. “Don’t talk like that.” He said without his permission.

Kenny raised an eyebrow. “What? The swearing? You swear too.”

“No, no, I...” Token raised his hands. “I don’t like the ‘to death’ stuff. I know its a joke, but I don’t want you to die. I'll stop saying it, too."

Kenny blinked, dropping his pencil. He made no move to pick it up.

“Really? It bugs you that much?” He fingered his hood strings. “Guess having your ‘boyfriend’ die right after your girlfriend moves away would make everyone act really weird around you, huh?”

“It’s not that.” Token shook his head. “I just don’t want you to die. I like you.” He took a breath to soothe his nerves. “You’re a really good friend doing this for me.”

To Token’s surprise, the tops of Kenny’s cheeks glowed pink. Kenny coughed into his hand, looking away.

“I see. That’s awesome, man.” He glanced at the clock on the library wall and sighed. “I gotta get to work.” Using his arm, he slid all his books and papers into his bag and zipped it up. “Bye, sweetie.” He kissed his temple and hurried out.

Token furrowed his brow.

What was that? Did saying they were good friends embarrass him that much? They were friends before, maybe not best friends, but Token always invited him to his birthday party or big sleepovers. Why would knowing it bother him?

He looked down at his book then at where Kenny sat. His eyebrow raised. Kenny forgot his wallet in his rush to escape.

Token picked up the wallet--held together with duct tape--and turned it over. Kenny got off at six on school nights, so Token could still run by and drop it off and be home by his eight o’clock curfew.

---

Token tried not to cringe. Fake dating for over a month now or not, Kenny hadn’t once invited Token over. When he'd driven him home, it had been dark. He could barely see it. In the evening light, on the other hand...

It was unspoken amongst their class to acknowledge Kenny’s house was dilapidated, but Token couldn't help but wish he could sweep him away from the ramshackle home.

If not the added construction built into it during the city’s gentrifying attempts years ago, the house would have fallen in on itself. A rusty car on cinder blocks cut-off half the driveway. Cigarette butts and chew and beer cans littered the ground.

Token took a breath. If Kenny saw him judging his home like this, would he be upset? Would he would feel ashamed at his living conditions?

Either way, Token didn’t want to make him unhappy over something Kenny can’t help so he put on a brave face and started across the lawn.

Nearly to the door, he heard shouting.

“That wasn’t for you! What the hell?!” Kenny’s angry voice carried over from the back of the house.

“Why are you even trying, boy? We can’t do enough! There’s no point!”

“If even we can’t do it all, that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t fucking try to do a little, you cock-sucking bastard!”

Token took a step back. Carefully he walked around the side of the house to the fence. Crouching, he peeked through a missing plank to the McCormick backyard.

Mr. McCormick and Kenny stood by a pile of deflated tires shouting and pointing at each other, both red-faced, but for different reasons. Mr. McCormick had a beer in his hand and a half-empty six-pack at his feet. The beer sloshed when he moved his arms.

“I’m doing my best! Do you think I like seeing my daughter like that? Huh? Huh? There is nothing we can do.” Mr. McCormick jabbed a finger at Kenny’s chest. “Just give it up.”

With that, he downed the rest of the beer, tossed the can aside, and picked up the six-pack before wobbling into the house.

Kenny’s shoulders heaved. Even from the fence, Token could hear him breathing heavily in rage. Finally, he threw his leg back and kicked at the snow. A shower of flakes and tiny ice crystals flew into the sky, illuminated only by the setting sun.

“Oh, Kenny...” Token said, debating whether to stand up or leave. He didn’t have much time to debate before Kenny spun around on his heels and made a beeline for the fence. He threw open the gate and slammed it shut.

“That bastard. Motherfucking—” He froze when he saw Token staring up at him. “To...Token? What are you doing here?”

Token took out Kenny’s wallet. “You left this.”

Somberly, Kenny took the wallet. Their fingers brushed. Kenny’s fingers were freezing. Why didn’t he have his gloves on.

“Thanks," he whispered. They sat in silence for an uncomfortably long minute before Kenny added, “Sorry you had to see that.”

“What’s the matter?” Token stood, dusting snow from his jeans. “If you want, we can talk about it.”

Kenny sighed. “It’s nothing. It’s nothing.”

The conversation Token had with Stan played quickly in his head. Any other time, he would have walked away. Told Kenny alright and left it at that, but not today. Not with these feelings.

“I don’t believe that.” He grabbed Kenny’s hand and squeezed. “Tell me what’s wrong. Let me help. I don’t like seeing you sad.”

“...” Kenny smiled crookedly. “You really are good boyfriend material, huh?” He looked around. “Fine. Can we go to the park? I don’t want to stick around here.”

---

“Karen’s hurt.” Kenny swung back. “She hurt her leg and needs physical therapy and we can’t afford it.” He paused then corrected as he swung forward, “We can’t afford it all. I’ve been busting my butt trying to save everything from City Wok and you so she can go at least a little bit.”

Token didn’t swing, just sat on the seat rocking back and forth slightly.

“Is it that expensive?”

Token had torn his ACL during a game in freshman year and had to take physical therapy. He didn’t remember what the bill was, but it wasn’t that expensive. Maybe twenty-five or thirty dollars each time?

“If you don’t have insurance it is.” Kenny pumped his legs. “And none of us do. If it was only once, then we might be able to make due, but...” He shook his head. “It’s been rough. I’d been keeping my money in my room, but Dad got into it today. That’s what started the fight.”

Token laced his fingers together. He hummed in thought before wanting to know, “Why didn’t you ask me? I could have talked to my parents. They would have helped.”

They wouldn’t have been happy, but they would have at least tried to help if Token brought up that it was a little girl who they were helping and not the whole family.

Kenny dug his heels into the muddy ground to force his body to a stop. He stared down at his shoes with his lips pulled into a tight line. He took a breath through his nose and let it out.

“I would have, but...God, I don’t want to fucking say this,” he muttered the last part to himself.

“But?” Token coaxed.

“But I didn’t want to seem like a mooch,” Kenny admitted, not looking at Token, “since I started to like you and all.”

“What?”

Kenny sighed. He met Token’s eyes and Token nearly fell from his swing.

His gaze was determined, the same look they had when they were kids playing superheroes and Mysterion had set his mind to do something incredibly difficult and incredibly stupid.

“I started to like you. I wanted this fake dating thing to be real. I didn’t think I could ever do that if you thought I was just using you for money, so I kept my problems with my family to myself. I didn't want to drive you off. You make me happy, even if you’re a little selfish. I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable.”

He reached out to touch his arm, but stopped and dropped it a second later. “It’s been a month. Other drama already happened, no one will care if we stop. They’ll treat you normal again.”

Token’s mouth opened, shut, and opened again. “Wait, you like me, like, for real like?”

Kenny nodded. “How could I not?” With a lopsided smile, he pressed his palm against Token’s. “Look at how big your hand is. We all know what that means. It would be a crime not to be attracted to someone with a hand this big.”

The tips of Kenny’s fingers came to the last joint in Token’s.

Token blushed and snorted a laugh. “That doesn’t work like that and you know it.” He curled his fingers forward between his, holding tight to his hand.

“What? Bigger hands, better at holding hands. That’s science, Token,” He teased, lowering his own fingers.

“Kenny, I have a confession, as well.” Token took a breath. “I think I’d like to really date you, too, but I also want to help your sister. Would you let me do both?”

Kenny's entire face went red, from his neck up to the part in his hair. He blinked. A sheen of water still covered his eyes.

“You’re not fucking with me?” He asked, his voice shaking. “I don’t want to take money from you, though.”

“You won’t. I’ll just mention to my parents about your sister, suggest maybe rallying up the community together a little, and they’ll call Mrs. Brovfloski in the morning. Your family will be able to afford therapy by Friday," Token offered.

Kenny wiped his cheeks with his free hand. “Nichole lost a great guy when she pushed a turkey out of a plane.”

Token scooted forward then placed a hand on his cheek. With a half-smile, he pressed a kiss to his lips.

As he did, he realized he never once instigated a kiss while they were fake dating. He took kisses to the cheek, but he never kissed Kenny back in any way. What a mistake, he decided while pulling back.

“So this is real now?” Kenny wanted to confirm, wrapping Token in a quick hug. Token squeezed around his shoulder.

“Yeah, it is.”

---

The mallard poked its head out of the carrier and looked around warily. From behind the carrier, Stan, his conversation officer friend, Token and Kenny stood with bated breath.

The mallard, named Mr. Quackers by Stan, waddled from the carrier.

"Go on," Stan whispered, "go home, Mr. Quackers."

Token didn't know if Mr. Quackers understood or even heard Stan, but a heartbeat later the mallard made a straight dash towards Stark's Pond. With a quack of elation, it swam in circles a few times before speeding over to the other ducks. The flock welcomed Mr. Quackers back with open wings.

From farther behind, someone sniffed.

As Token had predicted, when called out on their transgressions against water fowl, all the offending sixth graders came together and admitted what they'd done.

As punishment, all of them had to spend a month's worth of Saturdays picking up trash around Stark's Pond. Given that one of them had an arm covering his eyes, Token assumed the sixth grader had been instilled with a love of the outdoors and nature.

Kenny took a step sideways and leaned against Token’s side. Since they started really dating, Kenny's displays of physical affection subdued.

He still hung off Token or sat in his lap at lunch, but he no longer went over the top. Small touches; little, flirty hallway whispers in his ear; making a tiny heart shape with his hands across the classroom toward him; butterfly kisses to his knuckles when they held hands. Actions most people didn't think deeply on.

Token was fine with that. Nichole told him she was happy for him and that was all he needed to let go of his worries and start giving Kenny affection right back,

He'd hug him from behind and kiss behind his ear or drop his extra coat over his shoulders when the weather was particularly frigid. Every time, Kenny would beam at him.

Like Stan claimed, Kenny adored feeling special to someone, even with his sister's medical bills all paid up thanks to the power of small town kindness and his home life back to normal.

Maybe Token’s silly plan veered off course, but he wouldn’t complain. He was happy with the result and enjoying his ride on a new plane with Kenny.

Token kissed his temple, Kenny grinned at him, and they turned forward to watch the ducks.

---

Big shout out to my friend @najti-nightmare They were the one who when I jokingly said I should make some Tokenny to then provided the plot hook and main details! They’re a really awesome artist and please check them out!

#south park #tokenny #token black #kenny mccormick #fake dating #one-shot #fanfiction #token x kenny

43 notes · View notes

dmcdrabbles · 5 years

Note

*slides you a nice, shiny red orb* 'ey fam you wanna fuck me up with something about the Reader being 100% totally-has-been-since-forever-in love with Nero, but dumb rowdy angel boy either doesn't see it or is with Kyrie?

I got this one SO long ago and it turned into The Mega Ficlet™ which is super exciting for me because even though it’s not that long, I’ve never written this much for a request before (or for most things lol). I think I just really like angst, even though I have much trouble expressing it (๑•́ ω •̀๑) I hope this sad enough lmfao

–

Pairings: Nero x Kyrie, onesided Nero x Male Reader

Summary: Your best friend is getting married. Of course you’re happy for him. Why wouldn’t you be?

Word Count: 5,638

Warnings: angst, recreational alcohol use, offscreen injury

——————————————————————————————

The summer after the Qlipoth was as hot as hell on Earth, the kind of summer that got everyone sluggish, running their daily routines at half-speed. Funny how so immediately after life-shattering disaster normalcy slides right back into place, as welcome as an old friend.

Three months have passed, and Redgrave was well into its repairs. Donations came pouring in from outside cities with the unspoken sentiment of “poor thing, but we would’ve done better”; benevolence with an undercurrent of superiority. Even the Devil May Cry crew- including Dante and his brother- had returned to something approaching ‘normal’, whatever that meant for people like them.

You, on the other hand- you had been benched for most of the past three months after a Behemoth had snapped your femur like a twig. Nico had offered to build you a new leg and seemed only mildly discouraged at your reminder that you didn’t plan to cut it off. It was the second big personal disaster of the year- the first being the Qlipoth roots pulverizing your apartment building, forcing you to move in with Nero and Kyrie. You hobbled around their place and felt like a goddamn burden most of the time. You practically begged the doctor to take your cast off.

Only three months gone and normal had slid back into place like one of Nico’s vinyls, spinning round and round and playing the same familiar tune. This one’s called ‘We’ll Be Fine’.

But disasters came in three for you, they always had.

“Okay, okay, slow down!” You yell, pressing your hands against your knees as you try to catch your breath. Ahead of you, Nero slows to a stop and whips around.

“Tired already, Y/N?” He taunts, laughing. “You’ve gotten soft since we left the Order.”

“I just got my cast off two days ago! I’m a normal amount of tired,” You pant, wiping sweat away from your forehead with both arms. Your right leg is throbbing with pain, but you try to keep your steps even. “You’re just too energetic.”

With the rubble cleared in Redgrave City and most of the populace trying to hide from the heat, most of the sidewalks were prime real estate for training. Whole long stretches for Nero to torture you back into shape with. Just like old times. He could always leave you in the dust, fucked-up leg or not.

“What’s got you so bouncy?” You manage, coughing into your wrist.

Nero’s face twists a little and he cups the back of his head, elbows up to the sky as he stretches. The tension in his face melts away as he contemplates, and you almost want to look away- there was just something so private about seeing him so unguarded. He carried the weight of all his stress in his knit brow and his tensed jaw; you haven’t seen him look this relaxed since before you left Fortuna.

“Hey, what’s that look for?” You ask, taking shaky steps to catch up to him. “You get some other new power I didn’t know about?”

“I wanted to talk to you about that,” Nero drops his arms, swings them a bit as you two start walking side by side. Nowadays it’s so obvious how much of a growth spurt he had- you can remember a time when Nero was so much shorter than you that the morning sun wouldn’t be shining behind his head like that. You have to squint just to look at him.

He rubs his nose, and you stiffen despite your exhaustion. Didn’t take a genius to know what that meant, just someone who knows him half as well as you do.

“About your new power?” You laugh, halfhearted. Weird how even emotional weight slows your footsteps these days. “Did you grow another arm or something?”

“Y/N,” He says, coming to a stop. You just keep walking, trying to keep the jaunt in your step. “I finally asked her.”

“Oh,”

“She said yes.” His voice is so soft.

Couldn’t have expected personal disaster number three to happen so fast. A chronic injury, chugging along with almost-ignorable pain just flaring up fast enough to floor you. Switch the vinyl, play another old song- this one’s called ‘Be Happy for Him’.

“Damn, Nero! Congrats!” You slap his shoulder, “You and Kyrie, getting married? Knew it had to happen eventually.”

A grin breaks out along Nero’s face, and he rubs his nose again. He wraps his arm around your side, yanking you up against his. Like this you barely have to use your bad leg and walking almost feels relaxing again. You’re so close you could tilt your head and rest it on his shoulder.

“We were hoping to have the wedding soon, maybe this month–”

“Why? Any pressing needs?” You joke, petting the air in front of you where a round belly would sit. Nero slaps your hand down.

“No!” He yelps, face red. “We just don’t know how long it’ll be before the next crisis, you know?”

That crease between his brows is back, eyes far off like he was still trying to see the future. Looking for some guarantee that they’d already suffered enough this year and could rest easy for once.

“I know.” You tell the sidewalk, as quietly as if its some kind of secret.

“We don’t exactly have a lot of people to invite, and we wanted something small.” He says, slowly. “About that…”

You round the corner together, finally reaching a part of the city with enough appeal for the people to brave the heat for. You two get more than your share of annoyed glances as passerby weave around the wide blockade you form with your entangled bodies. Nero barely seems to notice.

“Y/N, you know how long we’ve known each other?”

“Iunno. Nine, ten years maybe?” You wrinkle your nose, thinking back. “All I remember is Credo bringing this little snot-nosed runt into training one day and saying that he was going to join us.”

“Runt?” Nero snorts, “I kicked your ass!”

“Only because you fought dirty!” You jab him in the side and he twists away from it, laughing. “Remember what Credo said when they pulled you off me?”

“'Holy Knights don’t start fistfights’?”

“God, so lame.” You shake your head, willing away the less cheery memories that latch themselves to your time in Fortuna. “So like, a decade. What about it?”

Nero pauses, and realization comes to you quickly. Is it entrapment if he’s got his arm hooked around your shoulders like that?

“You’re the closest friend I have, Y/N…”

Don’t ask this of me, you want to say. Instead you stare ahead, burning the memory of this street into your mind in third-person perspective. You wonder how many of the other people around you are feeling that chronic pain of heartache stabbing at them with every throb. It’s an invisible disease with no risk of mortality; the worst symptom is just a constant feeling of being the dumbest person you know.

“Will you be my best man at the wedding?”

“Really! ‘Will you be my best man’, he says.” You burst, laughing a bit. “You’re making this sound like another proposal! No need to be so formal!”

“You’re such a pain,” Nero grumbles, taking his arm off your shoulder and shoving you. An innocent passerby dodges you by an inch, tossing a dirty look over her shoulder at you. “Will you do it or not?”

“I,” You look at the ground, at the buildings, at the dozens of bystanders watching you squirm. “I think I’d make a pretty shitty best man. I don’t know anything about weddings, you know?”

“You’re not our wedding planner,” Nero protests, “Practically just a witness.”

“What if I don’t want to ‘witness’ you and Kyrie being all lovey-dovey as always?” You quip, trying to sound lighthearted.

“Please?” Nero grabs your hand, turning you around to face him. The two of you are taking up the entire sidewalk- you’re probably shoved once or six times, someone probably yelled at you- but it doesn’t even seem to matter. You stare at him, transfixed. You’re pretty sure you’ve never even heard him say ‘please’ before. “I want you there.”

God dammit. That’s not even fair.

“Okay.”

—

It’s three weeks before the wedding, and Nero’s picking out his tuxedo. You had feigned some horrified shock at the idea- you’d never seen someone force him into formal wear before, let alone seen him wear it willingly. You were half sure he asked you along just to spread the misery.

“If I knew the job meant giving you fashion tips, I would have charged you.” You grumble, shifting uncomfortably on the fitting area couch. Weird how they could spend so much money on interior decorating and still make the place so awful to stay in. Still, it was the only place that had managed not to get destroyed by the Qlipoth, so it wasn’t like you had many options.

“Right?” Nico drawled, foot kicking so fast it practically vibrates. She’s been on edge since the attendant confiscated her cigarettes. She sticks out against the artistic monochrome of the store like a tattooed sore thumb. She leans full on against you, the literal to your metaphor of leaning on her. It’s easier to tamp down the melodrama with her crowing in your ear every other minute. “Maybe the wedding should be trash bag themed. Kyrie would still look cute.”

“Oi, quiet out there!” Nero calls from the other side of the stall. “Nico, what’re you even doing here? You’re a bridesmaid!”

“Maid of Honor,” Nico corrected, “And you need all the fashion help you can get. Now are you coming out here, or what?”

The dressing room creaks open loudly, and Nero takes his first step out. If you didn’t know better, you’d say he looks almost…sheepish. You’ve never seen him look like that before, and it hits you with a sudden rush of wondering how many other sides of him you’ll never see.

At the beat of silence he spins around and looks at himself in the hallway mirror. He seems so much taller and broader in a suit- he’s nearly as big as Dante now and he looks it.

“Nero, you look…” You start hesitantly. The pause could last a second or an hour and you wouldn’t know any better- it’s unbearable. And punctuated with a loud slap as Nico smacks your thigh with her open palm, jolting you out of your seat as you wheel on her with wide eyes. It throbs in familiar pain again and you clutch it mindlessly.

“Damn, Nero! You ain’t look half bad when you’re cleaned up!” Nico locks eyes with you, a broad grin on her face. “You tell him, Y/N!”

“Right!” You blurt, following her lead. “Never would’ve guessed you’d look so good in a suit.”

Nero glances at you over his shoulder, smile softening his features back into that unfamiliar little boyish look. The wedding date’s barreling towards him and Kyrie faster than Nico in her van, but every day his face seems to hold that unguarded bliss for a little bit longer.

“Good thing, I don’t think Kyrie would have wanted me to get married in street clothes.” He turns back to face the mirror, tugging the hem of his suit again like he’s not used to jackets that fit right. “You don’t think the blue is too much?”

“It brings out your eyes.” You explain. You had picked it off the rack for him with that in mind. Nero’s eyes meet yours in the mirror for a moment, and you wonder if you can play off that softness in your voice for some sort of sentimentality.

My best friend is getting married to the love of his life and I get to be there for every second of it. I’m so happy I could just die.

“Thanks. I guess this one’s probably it then, huh?” Nero looks down at the suit again, pinching it off his body to look at the fabric. It really is a good match, and you tuck away the little factoid that you’ve spent so much time staring into Nero’s eyes that you’ve memorized their lovely grey-blue.

“You don’t even wanna try the one I picked out?” Nico pouts. She pulls a half-smoked cigarette from her shirt pocket and sets it between her teeth. “Fine, fine, go on and change. We’ll see y'out front.”

Nico has the decency to wait for Nero to get back in the stall before she accosts you. She grabs your arm and yanks you up from your seat, dragging you around the corner and behind the racks of suits. These ones are so expensive you don’t have to worry about customers coming by. How clever. Her fingers are like daggers in your bicep when she spins you around.

“Nico? What the hell are you-”

“Okay, listen here.” She whispers, stabbing your chest with one of her little dagger fingers. Her cigarette stays surprisingly steady between her pursed lips. “I know what’s goin’ on with you-”

“There’s nothing going on with me,” You whisper back, slapping her finger down and rubbing your bruised pec. Your heart races under your palm.

“Hey, hey, shut it!” Her voice climbs until an attendant looks over, and she drops it back down into a conspiratorial whisper. “Trust me when I say I feel for you, but you can’t be doin’ none of that-” She clasps her hands together and flutters her eyelashes at you, then snaps back into a stern pout, “Around him, y'know?”

You open your mouth, then close it. Who cares. I’m already obvious.

“I’m not doing it on purpose.” You whisper, and Nico has to lean in even closer to hear you.

“Well of course you ain’t,” Nico slaps you in the arm, glancing around the corner to make sure Nero’s still in his changing stall. “Nobody’s looking that tragic on purpose.”

“Thanks.”

“Anytime. Listen,” Nico’s voice drops into a more serious tone, and somehow it makes you nervous. “I’m gonna help you out here. You work with me, and we’re gonna get out of this with minimal damage. It’s a goddamn miracle Nero ain’t already noticed the little crush you got on him, homewrecker.”

The relief drops back down into the pit it rose from. She might as well have slapped you, would’ve been just as funny and hurt less.

“I’m not a fucking hom-” The dressing room door’s creaking cuts you off, and Nico snaps away from you faster than you can finish your sentence. Nero whistles lowly as he turns the corner, suit folded over one arm and lifting the price tag.

“Damn, Y/N. You really know how to pick 'em. This suit’s the most expensive thing I’ll own.” He sighs and let the tag hang, looking up at you and Nico for a moment. He double takes the expensive suits around you, face pulling into a wince. “I am not trying any of those on.”

It’s two weeks before the wedding, and Nero is practicing old drills with you. You never would have thought he’d be the one to suggest it- back when you two were teenagers he hated those drills more than anyone else you knew. Not that it meant his form was ever sloppy; he just played fast and loose with the rules and his sparring never suffered for it. You, on the other hand, had found comfort in the repetition of the exercises; you would practice them over and over until they stuck in your head like ‘Be Happy For Him’.“I can’t believe you still remember all the steps,” Nero mumbled into his shirt, lifted to wipe the sweat off his forehead. He had shoved Red Queen tip-down into the dirt and you had to stifle the old habit of nagging him about it. No officers to get in trouble with anymore. “I did the drills a lot more than you did.” You snort, starting up the drill again from the top. It was nice to know your body could still make the motions. “Never saw the point in them. Nobody fights like,” Nero picks up Red Queen and copies the four steps of the starting drill, “You follow that pattern every time, you’re gonna get your ass kicked by the first person who notices it.”You roll your eyes. “That’s not what the drill is for, which you’d know if you listened to our instructors.” You switch up the first drill halfway, changing to the end part of the third drill then back to the top of the second. “It’s so you know how to respond to your opponent and always have something to fall back on. And for good blade control.”Nero stops your sword with his own, stepping up in front of you so you can see his skeptical look. “So you just go back to the old moves one way or another. But people and demons don’t exactly fight fair. What happens when you get something you don’t have a drill for?”“That’s what the control is for.” You push down Nero’s sword and straighten yourself back into your familiar sparring stance. “Wanna test it out?”“Thought you’d never ask.” Nero grins, spins Red Queen just to show off. “You gonna be good on that leg?”To answer you dash forward, sword flashing in a flurry of sweeps you already know Nero will dodge. Using unblunted weapons is a bad idea, especially at this speed, but you and Nero spend more time practicing with real blades than fake ones anyway. He recognizes the drill as expected and brings Red Queen down by his legs in anticipation of the final slash. You feint away at the last second, whipping your blade back and starting up a different drill; this one presses him to retreat back step by step.He doesn’t even try to attack. Maybe he can see the slight stumble in your bad leg, maybe he knows you’ve never favored your left so strongly before. You stop your drill halfway again and instead make a slash around his head so fast that he stumbles back afterward, a ‘what the hell?’ popping out of his mouth just as a tiny lock of his fringe falls to the floor. “Your cut was a little uneven,” You explain, mouth curling up into a half-smile. “Blade control.”Nero huffs and shrugs, ruffling the front of his hair for a moment and starting to turn away. At the last second, the dull side of Red Queen sweeps the back of your good knee and you crash to the ground with a yelp. Nero stabs Red Queen into the ground beside your head, plants one black boot next to it, and leans over you with a smirk. “Fighting dirty.”

—

It’s one week before the wedding, and you’re sitting at the kitchen table making wedding decorations. The original plan was just flowers scattered everywhere- Nero and Kyrie both loved them- but bouquets were too expensive for a Devil Hunter’s budget. So origami it was.

“Done.” Trish announced, dropping one last flawless stalk of paper leaves onto the table. You had been skeptical about Kyrie’s choice to enlist Trish and Lady with the decorations, but one glance at their work had you eating your words- they were damn good at this. “Do you need help with the roses?”

You exchanged a look with Nero, staring at each other and then the messes you two are making out of the paper. You laugh and slide over a stack of paper. “Yes, please.”

“So, Y/N, how are you holding up?” Lady asks after a moment of working in silence. Your eyes flick to Nico for a second and she raises her hands up defensively, like she expects you to attack her with some delicate handmade decorations.

“Uh,” You accidentally rip one of the petals you’re working on and you curse under your breath. “What do you mean?”

Lady looks between the two of you for a moment, mouth twisting into an amused half-smile. “Your leg?”

“Oh. It’s fine.” You flex your leg out as if to test it again. It responds with a resounding throb of pain. “Would be even better, if somebody didn’t decide to clothesline me with his sword.”

“Come on, I barely hit you.” Nero grumbles, waving away Lady’s dubious look without glancing up from his rose. He’s starting to get the hang of it.

“I figure after the ego bruises heal I can get started on finding a new place.” You continue, just as Kyrie walks in with the snacks for everyone. She stops short, mouth falling open in surprise just as Nero turns to you with an almost identical expression. It would be funny if it wasn’t directed at you.

“Y/N, I didn’t know you planned on moving out so soon!” Kyrie starts up again, placing food and drinks on the table as she watches you with a strangely worried look.

“Ah, well,” You take your drink and gulp it down to spare yourself some time. “After the wedding I thought it would be nice for you and Nero to have the place to yourselves.”

Nero pulls his mouth in a tight line. “We’re not gonna kick you out.”

“You don’t have to,” You say, awkwardly. “I just think it’s going to be awkward having an extra roommate around.” And I can’t pay my share of the rent if I can’t fight anymore.

“You’re always welcome with us,” Kyrie smiles gently, until Nico groans loudly and makes her jump.

“Aw, come on. Don’t make it weird for’im.” Nico crosses her arms, locking eyes with you and nodding just the slightest bit. “He’s just too nice to say he wants his own place again.”

Lady and Trish’s eyes ping-pong between the four of you, watching the argument unfolding with mild amusement. You drop your own gaze to the table to avoid locking eyes with anyone.

“Well, you can stay with us in the meantime,” Kyrie pipes in. “At least until you get back on your feet?”

“Nah,” Nico fills in for you again, “Because he’s gonna be stayin’ with me.”

—

It’s the night before the wedding, and Nero is sitting with you at the bar. He’s trying to salvage something more relaxed out of this bachelor’s party that he didn’t really want, and you’re doing your best to help. Dante’s plan to “show up at the bar and see what happens’ combined with the only guests being the groom, the uncle, the estranged father, and the lovesick best friend is turning about as well as could be hoped.

“He didn’t,” Nero sounded horrified, but a grin was stretched wide across his face.

“I’m serious!” You insisted, shouting over the music and the chatter all around you. You took another cautious glance all around- you hadn’t seen Dante for well over an hour, but you still felt the need to check. “He said ‘if we can’t take Nero to the strip club, we’re taking the strip club to him’. Word for word.”

“Noooo,” Nero moaned, his entire upper body melting onto the bar even as he shook with laughter. His grip stayed firm around his beer though- he learned well from the last one. “Stripper nuns, though? The hell does he think I’m into?”

“I was afraid to ask,” You take another gulp of your own drink, eyes falling closed to savor the way the alcohol seemed to turn even your anxiety into a pleasant blur.

“How the hell did you talk him out of it?” Nero asks the bar, blindly wiping the condensation off his beer glass.

“Told him he could bring stripper nuns to my bachelor party someday.” You lean your face on your hand, watching Nero’s back shake again. You were pretty sure he was giggling. “It’s hard being a martyr.”

“Martyr?” Nero turns his head, pillowing it on his forearm as he smiles at you. God, he’s so drunk. “You’re my guardian angel.”

“At your service,” You salute sarcastically. The conversation lulls and you rest your chin on your hand, glancing around the room. When you look back down at Nero, he’s still watching you. His smile has faded back into something thoughtful. “What?”

“You finished packing up this morning, right?” Nero mumbles, head bobbing slightly with his words.

“Yeah. Nico already picked up my stuff, so I’m staying with her tonight.” You tap your fingers against your glass. “She offered to start teaching me her gunsmithing too.”

At that, Nero sits back up. “Really? You gonna have to pay an apprenticeship fee or something?”

“Pff, no.” You stare at your glass. “But I’ll be joining her side of the business. For now, at least.”

Nero stares at you for a second, mouth open. “The hell? And you didn’t tell me?”

“Uh, sorry?” You twirl your cup, face twisting into a grimace. “I’m just testing it out for now.”

“Jeez. You’re leaving devil hunting and I’m getting married. What a year.” He sips his beer. “You excited?”

You look at Nero for a moment, not sure how to answer. How do you say ‘I’d rather it all stay the same forever’ without sounding as pathetic as you feel?

The bartender saves you, sliding up to offer refills. You accept, and she turns to Nero.

“I’m still working on it,” Nero sits up, drunk grin relaxing back into that soft expression he got so often lately. “We probably shouldn’t drink too much before tomorrow.”

“Special occasion?” The bartender asks, sliding your drink to you and picking up your old glass to clean it out. You take it in big gulps, a medicine for the upcoming repetitive conversation- you’ve heard people ask Nero about it so many times you can’t stand to be sober for it this time.

“Wedding.” Nero grins. The bartender whoops and tops off his beer.

“Finally some good news in this city. Everyone’s so damn depressing lately.” The bartender picks up a clean glass, clinks it against yours and Nero’s cups in turn. “Congrats, you two!”

The warmth in your stomach cools, then freezes. You fumble, exchange a glance with Nero. “Oh, I’m not–”

“He’s the best man,” Nero explains, red up to his ears. “I’m marrying someone else.”

“Oh,” The bartender says, sounding genuinely surprised. “Sorry, you were just looking at each other all puppy-eyed-”

“Where’s your bathroom?” You interrupt, and you must look queasy because she hands you a plastic bag from under the counter even as she points to the back corner. The second your bad leg takes your weight it crumples under you, and Nero’s arm shoots out to hold you up. You twist out of his grip.

“I’m good, I’m good-” You assure him as you stumble off, not caring who you bump into, breathing hard into the plastic bag. People sober enough to see the way you heave part way for you, clearing a decent path to the bathroom. You shove the door open as hard as you can. To your irritation, it doesn’t even make a peep. You scan the room- empty. You run into a stall. You fall to your knees in front of the toilet bowl.

And you let out a sob.

It echoes through the bathroom, multiplying until it almost feels as loud and as crushing as it feels. You grip the bowl and empty your tears into it, whole body curling into itself tighter and tighter like you can make yourself so small and weak that the pain will leave, satisfied. Every sob forces its way out of you violently. Let it out, you tell yourself sarcastically, the same way you would if you really had just vomited into the bowl like you were supposed to.

You don’t know how long you kneel there, only that by the time you finally roll onto your ass your knees are numb. You’re still crying but at least the roaring in your ears has died down enough for you to hear your phone vibrating against the tile. It must’ve fallen out of your pocket. You glance down, eager to shut it off, but it’s slid far into another stall and you practically have to crawl into it to pick the phone up. At least the gaps under the stalls are massive.

Two notifications- a text from Nero (‘you ok?’) and an incoming call. “NICO” flashes across the screen. Right. She was supposed to be picking you all up.

“Finally you answer!” Nico yells into the phone, and you wince away from it. “You know how many times I’ve been callin’ you, dummy?”

“Sorry,” You whisper into the phone. Another sob shakes you, and you cover your mouth. Too late.

“Hey, you doin’ okay?” Her voice is so much softer than usual and it makes another sob bubble up out of you.

“I’m so tired of this, Nico.” You whisper, voice taking on a harsh edge as you grit your teeth. “I can’t do this.”

“Hey, hey, hey lover-boy, it’s just one more day. One more day and this shit’s over and done with.”

“It’s not!” You hiss, drawing your knees up tight to your chest. When your voice comes out again, it’s rising louder and louder. For a second the music in the bar seems to climb with your voice, then it’s damped down again. “It’s not done tomorrow! Tomorrow is the ‘first day of the rest of their lives’,” Your voice breaks in a half-crazed, exhausted laugh, “And I’m so happy for them! Nobody in the world deserves it more than they do! I should know, I’ve been by their sides for almost a fucking decade!”

“Listen–”

“We don’t have the Order anymore, we don’t have Fortuna anymore, but they have each other and Nero is so, so happy with her.” You have to pause, overwhelmed by another breath-stealing shudder, “I would never want to hurt Nero. I want him to be happy.” Your whole body seems to relax at once, ragdolling you against the stall. “I just wish he could be happy with me.”

“Listen, lover-boy,” Nico starts, but you don’t hear the rest. Through the bottom gap in the stall you can see a pair of black boots, standing motionless just a few feet away. They turn slowly, and by the time you have the stall open he’s gone.

—

It’s the day of the wedding. They planned it for the evening, just a simple ceremony in a simple place with a small group of people and a simple reception. The details blur together like you’re still drunk. Nero hasn’t spoken to you since last night, and you can’t tell whether it’s deliberate. On their wedding day, grooms rarely have time to chat, let alone confront their best man on what they may or may not have heard the night before.

As planned, you and Nico walk the aisle together to your spots. You’re too slow for the music and you know it, but you’re not used to your new cane yet and you haven’t gotten the right rhythm to support your steps with it yet. Nico stayed up late crafting it for you, said you couldn’t just keep fucking up your bad leg by walking on it as much as you do. She’s working overtime to act like you’re just hungover instead of emptied out from an emotional breakdown, and when you can feel present again you’ll be sure to thank her. Until then you stand behind Nero, face schooled into a smile.

How far back would you have to go to save yourself from this feeling? The moment you accepted your role as best man? The moment Nero told you he was getting married? Your choice to follow them after the crisis in Fortuna? The day you and Nero were sworn into The Order? The day you met him?

How many years would you erase to stop yourself from being here this day, this time, standing at Nero’s side and knowing the fact it was a place no longer reserved for you?

Had it ever been?

Nero looks back at you over his shoulder, brow creased up in that soft expression that has gotten so familiar over this past month. Not a sign of fear or regret. It was the face he made when those butterflies fluttered in his stomach, when he told you about being with Kyrie, about the future he wanted together with her. A face that said he couldn’t wait for the future.

But his eyes are sad. And you have to wonder what that means.

He turns as the music started for her walk down the aisle. So beautiful in white, the fabric of her veil fluttering behind her almost reminiscent of Nero’s wings. She glows in the sunlight. The smile on her face crumples into an overwhelmed grin as she looks up the aisle to her groom and his best man, both of whom stood there with faces wet with tears.

As Kyrie and Nero step into each other’s spaces they bubble off the world around them. No pretenses between them, no expectations, just hands meeting and a whisper under Nero’s breath of her name, spoken like the most intimate word in the world.

And you stand there privy to it, like a voyeur to joy that was never meant for you or your ears.

Tonight, tomorrow, a week from now, a year, you can rebuild yourself into something that you hate a little less. You reassemble yourself just like Redgrave City has, piece by piece. You can play that familiar tune “We’ll Be Fine”, because you will be.

But for today? Today you witness their first kiss as husband and wife, and you stumble a little when you let go of your cane to applaud.

#sakkajagga #request #nero x reader #unrequited nero x reader #dd mild #had this queued since the morning and yet i'm literally editing it up to the last second lmfao

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