#‘songs to die from a stab wound to’ currently only has shake it off and istanbul (not constantinople) in it so far

[leolynn]

in the tags share with me your best playlist titles

[hiscyarika]

Some Things You Just Can’t Speak About

Word Count: 2.5k

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader

Summary: Reader and Javier work through the emotional baggage that comes with their jobs in Colombia. (Unofficial Prequel to When It’s Finally Over)

Warning(s): Heavy Angst, Hopelessness, Grieving, Mentions of Death, Blood, Mentions of Violence/Terrorism

A/N: So like a lot of people, I’ve fallen in love with Taylor Swift’s new album folklore. And when I heard the song “epiphany” (which I highly recommend you listen to while you read. I would link it but I’m afraid the post wouldn’t show up in the tags. The hellsite has been weird about that lately), it immediately sparked the idea for this oneshot. I just hope that this hasn’t been done yet, because I’ve already seen that a couple of authors have used songs on the album as inspiration. I really hope you guys enjoy this. It’s taken a couple of days to get it just the way that I want it. And a special thanks to @bestintheparsec​ for beta reading this for me! I love you Lauren! ❤️

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Gif by @pascvl​, originally from this post. Please let me know if you’d rather me not use the gif! I’ll take it down immediately with no questions asked.

The thing about Colombia is that even after the smoke clears, the blood remains. It’s a crimson river that runs through the streets of Bogotá, then dries as a deep, lingering stain. The blood of men, women, and children. Guilty and innocent alike. And so long as Pablo Escobar lives, the stain will never wash away.

Even the sky burns scarlet with the dying sunset when you finally step out of the hospital. Ambulance sirens glow bright as paramedics attempt to bring more people into the already overwhelmed building.

Early in the afternoon, over two hundred pounds of C4 had been detonated outside of a crowded shopping center. Dozens were killed on impact and the death toll has continued to rise throughout the day. For hours, you haven’t stopped moving, trying desperately to save those who’d survived long enough to get to the hospital to be treated. Fortunately, recovery will be possible for some, but what weighs more heavily on your shoulders are the countless others that you could do nothing for.

Even now that you stand outside with a chance to breathe, your lungs can’t draw in enough air. The sharp stench of antiseptic still burns your nose, turning your stomach in violent knots. Every muscle is sore with a bone deep ache as you force one foot in front of the other in the direction of your car. But none of it compares to the stabbing pain in your soul, the helplessness and defeat that throbs more fiercely with every passing second.

You climb into your car, meeting your own eyes in the rearview mirror. You tear the nursing badge from your scrub shirt and toss it onto the passenger seat, not caring when it slides off the vinyl and onto the floor. Immediately, you have to close your eyes at the sight of the bloodstains on your clothes, a gruesome token of a day spent battling death.

All your years of schooling never prepared you to fight this war. You know how to read vitals. You know how to staunch bleeding and stitch wounds. You know how to intubate someone, to breathe for them. These are all things that can be taught. And you’ve learned them well.

But watching a woman die on the table, one close to your own age, is something entirely its own. You never get used to the shrill cry of the heart rate monitor as it flatlines. Nothing can prepare you for standing in front of an elderly woman, telling her that she’s outlived her daughter. They can’t teach you how to crouch down in front of a six-year-old boy and explain to him that he’ll never see his mother again. There’s no way to gently shatter someone’s world. As their reality crumbles, it takes a piece of you with it, and you only have so much of yourself to give.

The drive back to the apartment passes in a blurred haze, your mind on autopilot as you navigate your way in the growing darkness. You repress every emotion that threatens to bubble to the surface of your consciousness. Forcing numbness is far easier than letting your humanity tear you apart.

The last of the light dies from the sky as you pull into the parking lot, right next to Javier’s Jeep. You find your only solace in the fact that he’s home. In what little news you’d been able to hear, you’d learned that the DEA had been called to the scene. Escobar had never claimed responsibility for the attack, but a confession wasn’t necessary to know the truth, so you knew Javier would be part of the investigation.

Sucking in a deep breath, you try to prepare yourself for whatever state of mind he might be in. Javier brings work home in the form of endless files and a guilty conscience. Both he processes with whiskey and sleep deprivation. But you understand. You’re fighting with him on the front lines of this war. Losses are shared just the same as victories. Even the hard ones.

You drag yourself from the driver’s seat, locking the car up once the door is closed. The stairs to the apartment seem so much steeper as you stare at them now, and it takes what little remains of your perseverance to make it up.

The usual squeal of the front door grates on your nerves as you enter the apartment, more so than it normally does, anyway. You stop for a moment in the doorway, toeing off your shoes and listening carefully for any sign of Javier. From where you stand, you can see the soft yellow glow of the lamp in the living room and after a moment you realize that the voice you hear is coming from the television.

Padding quietly into the room, you feel your heart clench when you see what’s playing on the screen. It’s one of the local news stations, replaying footage from earlier in the day. You’re too tired to mentally translate the quick Spanish that the news anchor speaks, but when the numbers appear next to her to note the casualties, it’s not something that you can ignore. There are more than you thought.

You lose yourself in that news report, your mind running back through all of the trauma that you’ve seen. The shouting and screaming and crying becomes the soundtrack of your thoughts, all blended together in a somehow deafening cacophony despite the fact that it’s all in your head. You see that little boy again, the confused look he had given his grandmother as he asked her when his mother was going to come back from heaven. Oh, how her tear-filled eyes had pleaded with you to give some kind of an answer. And you’d tried. You really had.

You’re pulled from the violent reverie when the news report is replaced by a commercial. You pay it no mind, instead looking around the room for any sign of Javier. It doesn’t take you long to find him.

He’s passed out on the couch, sitting up with a glass of whiskey still in his hand. Even in sleep, his brow is furrowed, and worry lines cut deep into his forehead. Upon further inspection, you find the liquor bottle and a messy array of manila folders on the wooden coffee table in front of him, just as you expected.

You shake your head slightly, though he can’t see the action. The ache in your heart grows stronger as you watch him, his lips parted slightly as he breathes deeply and evenly. You suppose it’s the one thing that you have to be grateful for. As closely involved as he is with the hunt for Escobar, every night he comes home is a blessing. And for him to be sound asleep despite the day’s tragedies is truly invaluable.

You decide to leave him. Better for him to rest uninterrupted than to wake him. And though you know it’s better to work through the horrors you’ve been subjected to before you sleep, you don’t have the energy to face any of it right now. So you step closer to Javi, carefully prying the glass from his hand. Against your better judgement, you finish it off. You wince at the way it burns down your throat as you place the empty glass on the coffee table, but the warmth in your chest that follows is a welcome relief.

You scan the room then. It takes you a minute, but eventually you find the remote on the floor by his feet, probably dropped after he’d fallen asleep. You don’t hesitate to press the power button on the TV, and it brings you a bit of peace to watch the screen go black. Silence falls over the room, interrupted only by a soft snore from Javi.

You turn back to the coffee table, making sure that there’s a paperclip in each file to mark where he’d been. All the while, you try to avoid reading over any classified information, not that your brain could truly process a word of it in your current state of exhaustion. You then close the folders and stack them neatly on top of each other, letting out a heavy breath as you push yourself to stand upright again.

Your face falls in sympathy as you look at Javi once more. Even in sleep he looks exhausted. Your own emotional turmoil aside, it pains you to see the way that Colombia has worn him down. Every day he grows more desperate to find the man responsible for so much suffering, and with each day that passes, you know it only seems like he’s getting further and further away. You wish there was something more you could do to ease his mind.

After another moment, you take the blanket that’s draped over the back of the loveseat, unfolding it and gently covering Javi with it. Your movements are slow and cautious in an attempt to keep from waking him. Once you have the blanket situated, you cradle his cheek lightly in one hand, leaning down to press a tender kiss to his forehead.

You close your eyes at the contact, the first and only gentle interaction of your day. As your eyes flutter shut, you feel your chest begin to swell, and emotion wraps around your throat like barbed wire. Your lips linger for a few seconds longer than necessary as the dam inside you cracks, threatening to give way to a flood at a moment’s notice.

But as you pull away, you feel the feather light brush of eyelashes against your cheeks. You open your eyes, finding soft, tired brown eyes staring back at you. You’re frozen in place as he takes a moment to rouse himself, and once he’s more alert, his eyes trail down your body, catching sight of the blood on your scrubs. When he looks at you again, there’s a knowing glint in his eyes. You don’t have to tell him what you’ve seen, because he already knows. He’s seen it too.

Javier places his hands on your hips, gripping them gently as he tries to pull you closer to him. You brace yourself against his shoulders, resisting him while you’re still wearing your scrubs. Your chin falls to your chest in defeat. It only takes a moment to understand, and he carefully pulls the shirt up and over your head, making sure to keep the bloody fabric away from your face. Once it’s off, he tosses it carelessly to the floor.

You collapse into him as the dam breaks, and he takes it in stride, cradling the back of your head as you bury your face in his shoulder. Your knees land on either side of him, and with his free hand he guides you into a more comfortable position against him. In any other context, this arrangement with you straddling his lap would be carnal and passionate, but all Javier can feel now is the same pain that you force from your body with each gut-wrenching sob.

There are no words he can give you that will ease your pain. It’s something he knows from experience, repeated experience that he wishes you didn’t share with him. He knows what this constant fight against death and injustice can do to a person. He’s not blind to the ways that he’s changed in the years since he came to Colombia. Javier would do anything to make sure that you don’t suffer the same fate. You’re too good to have your gentle soul torn to shreds.

But he knows that all he can do for now is hold you. He can let you cry and mourn and release every emotion you’ve had to keep caged since you first stepped into the hospital this afternoon. And as you wrap your fists around the fabric of his shirt, he only holds you closer, clutching you tightly as his own pain begins to bubble back up into his chest. He’d tried so hard to drown it in booze and escape it in sleep, but Escobar had taken it too far this time. The saving grace is that the rest of the country agrees.

Javier cries silently with you, and though the manifestation of his grief is much quieter than yours, it’s by no means trivial in comparison. This is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. And break he does, in the safest place that he possibly can. He knows that there’s no judgement here, and that there never will be. So he closes his eyes and presses himself closer to you, your proximity being the only thing that could possibly soothe him.

Time is rendered tangential as you mourn together, though eventually you both fall quiet again with no more tears left to shed. Only when you stir against him does Javier lift his head and open his eyes. He manages a halfhearted smile as you meet his gaze, gently wiping away the remnants of your tears with the pads of his thumbs. In turn, you do the same for him, and he turns his head just in time to press a kiss to the underside of your wrist before you pull away again.

He watches you intently, and for just a moment you seem to hesitate, but then you capture his lips with yours. Javier lets out a soft breath in surprise, but soon melts into your touch. You are the salve to his very being, soothing his soul in a way that no one and nothing else can. At the end of the day, when the smoke has cleared and it’s time to count the dead, he thanks whatever god looks down on him, because he has you. Never will he march into battle alone. And he’s grateful, because he knows that he would never survive the war without you by his side.

You pull away again, and the look in your eyes says far more than words ever could. Because in your eyes is the same reverence for him that he holds for you. It’s night like this where you question why you chose the life you did, why you endure more anguish than any one person ever should have to. But then you look at Javier, and you know that you’re fighting the good fight. You know that with him, you can keep going until you reach the end of it all.

Javier presses a quick, soft kiss to your forehead, then shifts again to turn out the lamp light. In the dark, he carefully maneuvers you with him to lie down on the couch. You’re both still in work clothes and the couch is far less comfortable than your shared bed, but that’s not important now. What matters is the feeling of his heartbeat under your cheek as your head rests on his sternum. In just a few hours, the sun will rise again and you’ll both be forced to return to the battlefield, but for now you can find just a glimpse of relief in each other’s embrace.

-

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[dancedelion]

A Dangerous Thing

Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending Word Count: 4202 Summary: Just when Geralt thinks he might have a good day for once, he is surprised by drowners and has to fight them off without weapons. Jaskier wants to take care of his wounds and Geralt is sure the only reason for that can be that Jaskier wants to pay him back for letting him come along on his travels. (Jaskier doesn't quite agree.) ao3: A Dangerous Thing

Geralt is humming under his breath, just quiet enough that Jaskier will not hear him over the current. Jaskier, who is leaning back against the rocks on the bank of the river and playing a song on his lute, one of the old favorites. Geralt watches him over the water, only interrupting himself briefly when he drags his shirt over his head and throws it to the side. Glowing, he thinks. Jaskier is glowing in the light of dawn, red illuminating him like visible magic.

He sighs deeply, contently, and runs his hands over his wet arms. This will get Jaskier off his back about the smell for at least three days. Washing is a low-priority activity, fairly useless in the scheme of things, so the fact that Geralt is doing it anyway rightfully earns him a reprieve from Jaskier’s lectures on cleanliness and hygiene, and Melitele, Geralt, is there at least a chance you heard about the existence of soap, even in passing?

Maybe later, Geralt can hunt for deer in the forest. Or even fish right here in the river. He wouldn’t have to go far. They could make a fire in the spot Jaskier is sitting and lay their bed rolls right next to each other under the starry sky. Geralt lets a smile curl in the corner of his mouth like a small secret.

It’s ridiculous, really. All over the continent, men lie and start wars and make foolish mistakes to get what they want, when all anyone really needs is something like this, the sun on your bare back, one of Jaskier’s songs in your ear. There’s nowhere Geralt would rather-

“Geralt!” Air – water in his lungs – no air – hands clasping his hair – where’s the fucking air – claws hooked deeply into his shoulder, there’s no -

Strength always concentrated, but the fingers are everywhere, grasping his legs, around his wrist, precision is impossible, Geralt can only buck upwards, feet lashing out, his whole body shaking. One of them grabs his hands and tugs, and it hurts and he screams only he doesn’t because no sound comes out and more water pours into his mouth.

Fuck.

It’s drowners, bloody drowners, dragging him under. Where is he?

He’s a child, he’s supposed to fight, no, survive, but he’s only a child and the water is everywhere and they won’t let him lift his head. Survive. A body only learns when it has to.

He swallows more water, everything is black, but it must be drowners, musn’t it? Corpse-like, fish-like humanoids. That’s what they’re doing, they are drowning him. Teeth grazing over his calves.

His body is small and he is screaming at his lungs to grow the fuck up, to hold enough air to make it through, because he has to make it through. He is under water for months, he doesn’t try to come up, he stops squeezing his eyes shut. Poison in his blood, yellow-eyed, he came up after minutes and did not drown and was not a boy.

He is -

He has to get a grip. He presses his lips together and starts holding his breath. One elbow hits the drowner’s stomach and it eases its grip. He struggles with his whole body, until the fingers slip from his legs and he can come up – finally, finally come up and breathe again.

With a few quick strides, he’s on land again and he stumbles backward, his movement still not as smooth as he would have liked. He counts three of them and they close in on him.

And he –

doesn’t have a weapon

doesn’t have a plan

doesn’t have the slightest amount of common sense, what moron would leave his weapons at camp, would listen to the birds, would take off his shirt -

He won’t be subdued so easily, not by drowners, he could kill those in his sleep. He casts Aard to knock one of them backwards and Igni on the other two so they go up in flames.

He should have been able to smell the foul stench from miles away, should have heard the water moving around them, should have seen them in the corner of his eye, he should have sensed them some way, any way.

A punch straight over the ugly grimace knocks its head back. It doesn’t matter. He closes his fingers around the thing’s throat and lets his other fist rain down. He will learn from his mistakes. The drowner’s eyes start bulging, its pale skin turning to gray. It doesn’t matter. He won’t let his swords out of his sight again. He will keep a dagger in his boots. (He won’t take off his boots.)

He lets go off the drowner’s lifeless body once he is sure it is lifeless and gets up, still breathing heavily.

“Jaskier,” he says.

Jaskier is still where he was, only now his eyes are wide and his lute is the wrong way around in his hands, like a haphazard weapon. One quick glance tells Geralt all he needs to know – that Jaskier is safe. The drowners didn’t get to him. He is still whole.

The breath leaves Geralt’s body.

He frowns deeply, then, and walks over to one of the rocks by the river to sit down on. He doesn’t spare Jaskier any more glances. It was all his fault anyway, with his dumb lute-playing and his hang-ups on bad smells. With his contagious idiotic optimism and perpetual good mood. A mood so good even Geralt could feel it and isn’t that just hilarious? He shouldn’t have moods, good or otherwise. He should only listen and watch and ignore anything even remotely resembling a feeling. Eyes on the path. That’s all that’s important.

He is aching all over now, which puts a bit of a damper on his plans. None of it seems bad enough to require tending to, but for a while the pain will slow him down. If only Jaskier hadn’t been there, none of this would have happened. Geralt growls silently.

“I’m sorry,” says Jaskier.

Geralt huffs, presses a bit of bitterness through his nose.

“You should be.”

Finally, too curious not to, Geralt turns his head to look at Jaskier, too reachable over the short distance between them. The last rays of sun still make him look other-worldly. It’s just not fair.

“I -” Jaskier puts down the lute, seemingly irritated to be holding it. “I don’t know what was happening, suddenly I was just frozen – and I didn’t now what to do and I couldn’t think and then it was over so quickly. I should have grabbed one of your swords, done something, anything, other than just stand there like an idiot.”

Geralt’s mouth drops open. “What?”

He shuts it with a snap, suddenly, impossibly, angrier.

“Are you insane? Are you honestly telling me you feel bad now that you don’t have a death wish? You get to live another day. How tragic. The whole country is weeping.”

Geralt shakes his head and continues: “For Melitele’s sake, Jaskier. If you came closer and made me protect you as well, we might have both died. You should have just run.”

Run from the drowners or better yet, run from him. That’s what would have saved Jaskier, could save him still. He doesn’t have to die violently, die tragically, die young. No one ever chose this life for Jaskier. He can walk away. But Jaskier is bristling.

“And leave you to the drowners? I think not. I know friendship is a foreign concept to you, but some of us try not to be complete bastards all the time.”

“Listening to common sense is not bastard behavior, it’s smart.”

Jaskier tilts his head at that. “Well, I did turn by back on the academics.”

“Apparently, you turned your back on being alive.” Each word hurts more than the wounds on his body, but Geralt can’t stop spitting poison. “Honestly, if you had tried to participate in the fight and somehow made it through, I’d have killed you myself for being so stupid.”

“And you’re surprised no one ever offers to help you,” Jaskier has turned to him fully, a stoic look on his face. “Is this how all Witchers respond to affection? With scathing insults and threats of violence? No wonder people throw tomatoes at you.”

Affection? Geralt is supposed to be insulted, he’s pretty sure that was Jaskier’s intention, but his mind is stuck on this one word. Affection?

“I’m not surprised,” Geralt says, just to say anything. “I don’t need anyone.”

Jaskier only scoffs and does not dignify him with an answer. Instead, he just scrutinizes him. Geralt almost balks at his measuring glances.

“That’s enough of that,” Jaskier says softly and steps closer, which he shouldn’t, because Geralt is sitting by the water and any minute drowners could leap out of it and drown them both. “It’s over now, I didn’t do anything and you got hurt. Just… Just let me -” Geralt flinches back at Jaskier’s reaching hand. He won’t be coddled. He’s not broken yet, the pieces are still holding together. Jaskier has got the wrong of it – Geralt doesn’t need to be fixed. So what if he can’t even tell where he is bleeding from? So what if he can already feel the bruises forming beneath his skin? Geralt’s skin will mend itself eventually. There’s no use in tending to wounds that will have to do the hard part themselves one way or another, only in carrying on.

“Don’t,” he tells Jaskier and turns to the river, ducks down to the water. He was here to wash, so he will wash again.

This is not pain. Geralt has had half his ribs bruised and the other half broken. A werewolf once took out a whole chunk of his leg. He has been stabbed below his heart and barely survived it. He has held a red-dripping dagger in his hand, could wipe off the blood - but never the guilt. He has seen Jaskier on the brink of death, pale like a corpse. This is not pain.

(The dizziness will pass if he closes his eyes for a moment.)

(So long as a sword is sharp, it does not need to be clean.) And he drips away into the sand. His jawline washes away, not a word to be said. Turning dirt an ugly red.

He drips and loses himself. There goes the price, there goes the pain, there goes the monster that was a boy a long, long time ago. His lips drip away, not a word to be said, in the angry sand.

A little less shape, a little more nobody. Dripping away.

The scratch on his thigh, deeper than he thought, starts to burn. Let it, Geralt thinks. Let it burn. The scratches hurt, but so do the scars. The bruises ache, but he’s had them before. He barely feels them anymore.

He reaches over to rub his side, but a stab of pain shoots through him – the groan is out before he can stop it. And Jaskier heard, of course. He never listens except at the most inconvenient times.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Jaskier says and Geralt can hear him coming closer. Why does he always come closer to things that will only hurt him in the end?

“It’s nothing.”

He’d forgotten about his hand. It hurts, of course, but it is a dull throb among everything else. He chances a downwards glance but quickly looks away again. Surely his hand is not supposed to hang away at that angle.

“Then why the whine of agony?”

Jaskier, unbearably gentle, reaches out toward Geralt’s arm where one long scratch bleeds profusely and Geralt bats his hand away, with the hand that doesn’t feel numb.

“You could barely hear me,” he tries to argue.

“Okay, then why the small, tiny, hardly-audible whine of blasted agony?”

Why is Jaskier so stubborn in his pity?

“Might have broken my wrist,” Geralt admits. “Oh,” Jaskier says dumbstruck, then waves his hands around furiously. “Oh! Did you, now? And that was not in any way worth mentioning?”

“I can handle it.”

Geralt switches to rub at his rib cage with his other hand, but he brushes against his hurt wrist and has to bite down on his lip not to gasp again.

“Clearly,” he can hear Jaskier say.

“I have healing powers.”

“So do us mere humans, it’s called taking care of yourself. And your wounds. And it’s not like you can just snap your fingers and tada – wounds all gone. You’re still in pain.”

Jaskier is in front of him again, thinking he’s weak, thinking he needs something he doesn’t. Jaskier brushes the hair out of his eyes and holds his shoulders steady and each of his touches is inexplicable and foreign.

“How about,” he says gently, as though to a child, “we give your fascinating healing powers some guidance? Hm?”

“You want to set my broken bones?”

“I’d count that as a step of improvement!”

Geralt grunts, but he’s tired now. Letting Jaskier perform his useless healing rituals will be easier. And Geralt has never had the stamina to protest against whatever has gotten into Jaskier’s head.

“Just a minute,” Jaskier says and flurries off, toward their bags.

Geralt sinks down on one of the rocks, exhaling sharply and feeling like he just fought another battle and lost.

Why is Jaskier so insistent on this? Jaskier has always insisted on all kinds of non-sensical ideas, on accompanying him on monster hunts, on following him from town to town. But he has no benefit from this. Or is it about keeping a Witcher happy? Making him more agreeable?

Non-sensical ideas. Geralt never knows how to say no to him. Might that be it? A thanks, a gift? No. A price. Geralt lets him stay and in exchange… This. Touching a Witcher. Caring for him, against his every instinct. Yes, that makes sense, but also – (red-dripping dagger, broken ribs -)

Jaskier returns quickly and holds up a piece of cloth in front of Geralt’s mouth, clearly intending for Geralt to bite down on it.

“Here.”

Geralt can feel the annoyance rise in him again. “I don’t need -” “A tongue? I beg to differ, even if you don’t use it much.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, but he takes the piece of cloth anyway. Jaskier puts a piece of wood against the underside of his arm and Geralt lets out a small hiss when it touches his wrist.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Jaskier says, voice high. “Geralt? Am I doing this right?” “I’m not sure. I know how to fight. Was never too concerned with the aftermath.”

Geralt knows the basics of course, knows how to get hurt and keep fighting anyway, but he isn’t familiar with the details.

“You’ll have to push it back into place.” “That’s what I was afraid of.”

Geralt puts the piece of cloth between his teeth. Jaskier turns white when he looks more closely at Geralt’s limp hand – (white as a corpse, as pain disguised as bravery, as a cursed wish) – but he takes Geralt’s hand, almost as gentle as a lover’s touch, and Geralt can barley feel it but something warm rises up in his chest.

(Jaskier has already paid, hasn’t he? In blood, in headaches, in those small hurt expressions on his face.) “Oh my,” Jaskier mumbles, “I should have just become a – oh wait, I am a bard. Why do I have to deal with this again?”

Geralt would tell him he doesn’t have to, if it weren’t for the dry fabric in his mouth. But then Jaskier pushes and Geralt screams, only that he doesn’t because no sound comes out. In a second, it’s over and his hand looks less like it’s hanging from a string.

(And Jaskier still holds on to his hand, for one moment, two, three, four -)

“Now imagine your crazy Witcher powers had grown your bones together in that position – the water hags would have been very impressed,” Jaskier says with an invisible smile.

“Hm.”

Finally, Jaskier wraps some bandages around Geralt’s arm and a few around his palm, keeping the piece of wood in place. Geralt doesn’t know what to do with this kindness.

Pain is easy. Pain is passive. You only need to endure it. You don’t need to talk to it. You don’t need to be afraid of scaring it off.

Once Jaskier has secured the bandages, Geralt moves to turn away again, glad the whole ordeal is over, glad he doesn’t have to see the horror in Jaskier’s eyes any longer, but Jaskier grabs his elbow to make him pause. (Again, so gently, like Geralt is breakable – no one has ever seen him this way, something must be wrong with Jaskier’s head.)

“No, no, I’m not letting you off so easily,” Jaskier says.

(But he doesn’t want Jaskier to grit his teeth.) (He wants to be paid in laughter and lute melodies.)

Jaskier won’t be subdued by his glares. Instead, he grabs a bottle of alcohol from his bag and brings it to the wide gash on Geralt’s arm. The liquid runs over the wound, burning him.

Pain is the price. And Geralt doesn’t want to owe anything, so he always pays. Sticks and stones in exchange for yellow eyes. Bruises and broken bones in exchange for brute strength. Heart like tender meat in exchange for a bit of magic. Geralt doesn’t accumulate debt, he pays and pays and pays. (If he didn’t, if he let the debt grow, he might not live through paying it off.) Jaskier wraps him in more bandages and each point Jaskier touches with his fingertips burns too. Each brush hurts sweetly.

Ease me, placate the darkness in me, satisfy my pain.

Jaskier moves on to the scratch on his thigh. He moves the fabric of Geralt’s trousers and pours more alcohol. Geralt holds still and holds his breath. He can’t intrude on this moment. It could pop like a bubble if he made any movement that wasn’t careful.

Ease me, calm the storm in my mind, humor my misery.

For a moment, it hurts more, but then it hurts less. It’s not the alcohol or the bandages, it’s those touches, the tender ones that Jaskier bears for him out of a misguided sense of honor.

Ease me. Take me apart slowly and take care in putting me back together.

Once every wound is treated, Jaskier is standing close to Geralt and he looks up at him with wide eyes, like he hasn’t even noticed it.

You, with your soft smiles and your beautiful eyes, I can not touch you. I would absorb you. I would devour you. I will be your predator, just look at your small hand next to mine.

Jaskier has soft looking hair, but here is what Geralt does not touch: clean silk clothes. Porcelain dolls. Dainty flowers. Anything he wants to keep whole.

And then, as if he has to give Geralt anything more, Jaskier takes a rug and one of his expensive soaps and lets them hover above Geralt’s skin, asking for a permission he does not need. Geralt knows he should put a stop to it here, should have put a stop to it right after he set his wrist or before, but nobody has ever touched him like this. He lets the protest rest in his mouth, feels the bitter taste of it on his tongue.

(Don’t feel obligated. I know you want to pay me back, but you don’t owe me a thing.) (I won’t be your currency, don’t let me be your pain.) Jaskier moves behind Geralt and starts washing his back in circular motions. Geralt braves the touches like he braves any fight. One minute the world is kind, the next it could be scratches or even a knife. That’s how it goes. But the movements continue and his skin stays whole.

But then – and this might be too much to bear – Jaskier steps in front of him again – and how could Geralt let Jaskier touch him and have to look at him?

Jaskier seems reluctant too, his hand hovering right above Geralt’s chest, right where -

Please don’t touch my battered heart, please… Is it not enough it keeps beating? Slowly, but beating?

Thrum… Thrum… Thrum…

Barely, but beating.

I will let you touch my calloused hands, I will let you wash my hair, but please don’t reach into my chest, I couldn’t bear it.

When it comes to this, Jaskier is not merciful. He puts the cloth onto Geralt’s chest and lets it rest there. Geralt wants to say he can do it himself, but his mouth won’t open.

Thrum. Thrum. Thrum.

Why must you do this to me? A heart this dark will blacken your hand. Jaskier starts cleaning him slowly. Each time he moves the cloth, his fingers brush against Geralt’s skin. And each time it burns, with warmth and something shaped like love and Geralt should stop and really look to see that it’s not.

thrum thrum thrum

How could you make demands? It was beating, wasn’t it? What more do you want? Geralt wants to catch Jaskier’s wrist, but that would be too much. As if he were in a trance, Jaskier suddenly drops the cloth, but instead of picking it up, he splays his fingers against Geralt’s chest.

thrumthrumthrumthrumthrum Who gave you the right to make my heart human? So quick, so fluttering, so fit for love.

Jaskier keeps his hand there and Geralt is afraid he can feel it, will know a Witcher’s heart is not supposed to beat like this. He can’t stop himself any longer – he places his hand over Jaskier’s, just to hold it, only once. He finds Jaskier’s eyes and they are big from this close.

But he has forgotten what even the children playing in the forest know – when you are looking at something, it can look back.

“Oh,” Jaskier says and looks down at their joined hands in wonder.

Obviously, he didn’t expect this.

(Jaskier will not love the anvil. He will not love the mill that grinds and grinds. He will love the metal and he will love the grain, but he could never love Geralt.)

Geralt swallows, manages to press out: “Sorry.”

(Geralt is not unfinished. He does not have potential. He is all done, all ready, all used up.)

Jaskier draws his hand away and covers his mouth with it, as though to hold the shock in. Geralt does not sigh. He pays his dues.

“Why are you sorry?” Jaskier’s eyes are still wide. “You didn’t ask for this.”

Geralt is almost ashamed, not to feel this way, but to burden Jaskier with it.

“Of course I didn’t ask,” Jaskier says quietly. “You’re… unattainable. But I would have liked to.”

“But you’re just here for the adventure. Are you saying this because -”

Jaskier has done so much already. What if he’s willing to go further? What if he would give even this to Geralt, thinking he owes it to him? It does not sound like something Jaskier would do, but neither does the alternative.

“I’m here for – for this, for -” Jaskier reaches out to Geralt again. “I mean, someone has to take care of you. You certainly can’t manage it yourself, and where would I be, if – I mean, where would everyone be -”

“Better off?” “No. No. Stop being an idiot.”

“You’re the idiot. Are you saying you want this?”

Geralt gestures down on himself, half-naked, bruised and scarred. Age in the wrinkles around his eyes, menace in the yellow of them. Everything about him clunky, misshapen. Him and Jaskier like two parts that don’t fit.

“Want it? I lo-”

Jaskier breaks himself off, but Geralt’s breath still catches. Geralt lifts his uninjured hand to Jaskier’s head and impossibly, Jaskier leans toward him. Jaskier’s hair is soft and Geralt draws a small circle on Jaskier’s cheek.

Geralt can have this, Jaskier seems to be saying, and among all the things he can’t have, this is everything.

“I just want you to live,” Jaskier mutters into the space between their lips. “Not just live. Live well.”

He leans his head closer, until their lips are almost touching. “I want you to take off that gruff uncomfortable armor every once in a while. I want you to let me take care of your wounds, even if I can’t stop you from getting them. And I want you to sit with me. Just that.”

Geralt kisses him and hopes Jaskier knows this is every permission and every demand. I will let you kiss me and I want to kiss you. You can have my palm. You can have my open back. Just give me this.

And Jaskier does, kisses him like it’s a promise and Geralt hopes that it is. He does that now. He hopes for everything and thinks he might even deserve half of it.

Jaskier is holding his heart in gentle hands and Geralt can’t stop it, but he doesn’t want to. After all these years, it’s on the mend.

[belphegor1982]

C and N for the brothers-in-law. Bonus points if it's Rick who's hurt and Jonathan who's doing the rescuing. :-)

[C: concussion] + [N: getting injured person out of situation]

All right! I went for the bonus points ;o)

And Not a Drop to Drink

The first thing Rick does when consciousness returns is gasp.

The second thing is deeply regret it as muddy water floods his mouth and throat.

The third thing is acknowledge the searing pain in his head that almost makes him pass right out.

It’s the faint but persistent nausea growing in the pit of his stomach on top of everything else that clues him in. Okay, so he got hit on the head and now concussion is setting in. Unless he drowns first, because that’s definitely an option too, apparently.

Somewhere at the back of his mind, his self-preservation instincts are screaming that he should be making fewer idle comments about dying and more attempts to, well, not die. That’s generally what you do when your vision is growing white at the edges from the lack of air. But the thing is, he’s had concussions before, and he’s jumped, fallen, or been pushed into deep waters before, but never both at the same time.

This is not good.

Just as one last spark of life runs from his brain to his toes and makes him try to kick his way up – no way he’s going to die in such a stupid way – he feels a hand grasp his hair. Then his jacket. Then – thankfully – his shoulder, under the armpit.

When Rick breaks the surface he spouts up what feels like half his volume in water, and he has no idea whether he’s expelling it from his lungs or emptying the contents of his stomach.

“That’s right, keep doing that, better out than in”, says a shaky voice right beside his ear. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to recognise his brother-in-law.

What the hell happened?

Rick’s brain doesn’t provide him with an answer right away and he decides it’s a question for another time. Preferably when his head isn’t swimming better than he is and he feels like he would sink like a stone if not for Jonathan’s grip on him.

He noticed early on that both Carnahan siblings do well in water, that time they had to bail out of the burning barge. Evy later told him her childhood included the occasional dip in the Nile and swimming lesson. As for Jonathan, the next time they found themselves having to swim for their lives again – it says something about their lives, Rick supposes, that he can open this sentence with ‘the next time’ – and Rick asked where he learned to swim, he said, “The benefits of a classical education, old boy. Rowed a bit when I was in Oxford. Did you know the Cherwell is beastly cold at seven in the morning?”

Turns out so is the Thames at eight in the evening. Especially in November. Rick’s teeth would probably be chattering if he wasn’t so damn beat.

Ah, well. Jonathan is doing enough chattering for them both anyway.

“– did a splendid job laying out the bounder – anyone ever told you that you could give Jack Petersen a run for his money? Too bad his rotten little friend had the nerve to bring a bat to a fistfight, I mean to say, that bat may have been cricket but the move was absolutely not. Then again, what can you expect from this lot – running about in those ridiculous black polo shirts and idolising foreign dictators, spewing garbage about people who’ve done nothing to—I say, Rick, are you still there?”

“Yeah,” Rick gargles somehow. He still hasn’t opened his eyes. But hey, at least he knows he’s not drowning, so that’s not all bad, right?

“Jolly good.”

Jonathan doesn’t say much after that. Either he talked himself breathless or it takes concentration to lug them both along and not be swept up by the current Rick can feel pulling at his legs. Damn. And people really swim in there!? Only mad dogs and Englishmen, like the song says.

Thankfully it doesn’t take them long before they wash up on the wharf. Good thing they drifted downstream a bit. Rick wouldn’t have liked his chances if the first thing they’d reached had been a seven-feet-tall quay, slippery as an eel.

When Rick finally feels solid ground he rolls onto his back and blinks his eyes open despite the headache. For a second it’s like nothing changes whether his eyelids are up or down. He experiences a short sharp stab of fear before realising that he’s just staring up at a cloudy London night sky. The Thames, when he raises his head a fraction, looks even darker, except for the winks of light where the crests of ripples catch the meagre light dripping from a lamppost somewhere behind them.

The bank underneath him feels cold and slimy and he doesn’t even need to look to know his clothes are coated with sludge. But it’s way better than the alternative.

Beside him, Jonathan is also sprawled on the ground, staring straight up. His chest is rising and falling quickly and deeply as he pants open-mouthed. He actually must be dead tired; nothing but sheer exhaustion can make him shut up, Rick thinks with something like the fond exasperation Evy gets in her voice when she talks about her brother, which was so foreign to him when he met the siblings.

“You all right?” he asks, and almost throws up. His tongue, his mouth, his throat taste like murky, brackish river water.

Jonathan’s head pivots a little. His stare shifts from the sky to Rick.

“Peachy, clearly,” he rasps. “But I should be the one to ask you, really, not the other way around. I’m not the one who got conked on the head and fell into the river. How’s the head?”

“I’ll be fine if we both use small words. What happened to cricket bat guy?”

“Damned if I know. I kicked him in the fork and jumped in after you while he was, er, otherwise occupied. He probably collected his colleague and their nasty little posters and buggered off after a while.”

Rick suppresses a laugh, which would be a really bad idea with a splitting headache and a stomach whose contents are sloshing back and forth like whisky in a tumbler. At a glance Jonathan looks like your garden-variety upper-class twit with more manners than sense, but that impression only goes skin-deep. He has no qualm whatsoever about playing dirty, especially if it means getting out of a scrape.

Or getting someone he actually cares about out of a scrape. This kind of little detail makes all the difference between him and guys like Beni Gabor, as Rick found out over the years.

“You know,” he says, still waiting for the headache to subside and the world to stop spinning – or at least slow down, “when you said you wanted to ‘go out for a drink’ I didn’t think you meant it like that.”

Jonathan snorts. “Well, I don’t. I prefer my drinks with a little more flavour and a little less sewage, thank you very much.” He lifts himself up on his elbows and sits up with a groan. “I might help myself to a whisky or two after this, though. For medicinal purposes. Lots of germs to kill.”

“Go ahead,” says Rick, who still hasn’t moved and doesn’t feel like moving – even though he probably should by now. “I’ll join you.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. You, my good son, are going straight to the hospital. I wasn’t exactly looking at my watch but I know you blacked out for longer than is wise.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“I know that. But that doesn’t mean you get to go home to lick your wounds like a cantankerous bear.”

Both the inflections and the words themselves are so familiar it doesn’t take long for Rick to dredge the memory from the chaos that is his mind. That’s what Evy said last time he got banged up. Which – fair point, even if it kinda feels like cheating.

Most of the time Evy and Jonathan are so different that it’s easy to forget they’re siblings. But every now and then they’ll have the same piercing squint, the same crooked grin, the same quirky turn of phrase, and the similarities hit you like a ton of bricks.

That he doesn’t feel up to arguing more than this tells Rick that a detour to a hospital is probably a good idea. He’s had his fair share of knocks on the head in his life, but there are delicate things in brains that don’t like being disturbed. Judging by the queasy rocking of his stomach, like he’s on a rolling ship instead of slumped on the ground, some things have been disturbed that shouldn’t have been.

He slowly – very slowly – half-rolls on his side and sits up. Then has to stop for a bit. Yeah, his brain definitely shouldn’t feel like it’s leaking out his ears. Even the poor light from the gas lampposts in the distance is loud.

Man, I hate concussions.

“Smaller words, please,” Rick mutters, fighting the urge to rub his eyes. When he opens them – again – he meets Jonathan’s and nods. Slowly.

“All right. But I phone Evy first.”

“St Bart’s has a phone, I can do that from there. Besides, opening with ‘Rick punched a fascist and fell into the Thames’ has a lot more entertainment value for me than ‘Good news, I’m still alive! Bad news, my car is now wrapped around a lamppost because the bloke I play poker with on Thursdays doesn’t like to lose’—”

“Jonathan?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

Jonathan throws him a startled look. For a second the fear that made his voice shake while they were treading water – plus delayed reaction, Rick thinks – shows in his eyes, plain as day. He looks drained, his face white underneath the mud dripping from his hair and into his eyes, and he’s shivering about as badly as Rick is. But then his shoulders slump a little and he gives a small smile.

“You’re welcome. You pulled me out of the soup so many times, I couldn’t not try to pull you out of the drink. Next time you’re picking a fight with those blighters in the black shirts I might bring a bat myself, though.”

“I didn’t pick a fight with them,” Rick points out. Jonathan’s deadpan look as he slowly pulls him to his feet makes him say, “I didn’t! I just laughed at their stupid poster. Didn’t even throw a punch until that guy started ranting about the Jews.”

“I know. I might have taken the opportunity to stuff the rest of the wretched posters into their bucket of glue while they were distracted.”

Rick snorts and immediately regrets it. Some of what he’s feeling must be showing on his face, because Jonathan throws one of his arms over his own shoulder and doesn’t start walking until Rick is certain he’s not going to hurl and looks it. When Rick’s eyelids start to droop he slows down again.

“Don’t fall asleep on me now, old boy.”

“I’m not,” Rick mutters. “Just resting my eyes.” It’s not even a lie. They just passed a lamppost, and while the light looked dim from the edge of the river, the pool of gaslight they walked in stabbed his brain through his eyes.

Sleep is tempting, though, which is why he muses out loud, “Wait, what was that about your car and poker? At that time you said that was an accident!”

Jonathan winces. “So I did. Not one of my finer moments, I’m afraid. It’s rather a long story.”

“Well, we got time. Unless you’re planning to dump me in a taxi and go for that drink.”

“Exactly who do you take me for? All right, so that was around the time I used to patronise a nice little club in Covent Garden…”

Rick ends up paying for the taxi to the hospital, but the story is entertaining enough to stay awake for, even though, he suspects, the storyteller is glossing over certain details to make himself look good… ish. Jonathan’s grip on him is warm, and if it’s shaking a little he shows no sign of letting go. Which is a good thing, because while Rick used to be pretty good at winning bar brawls ten years ago in Cairo and be in good enough shape to limp home afterwards, he’d be in trouble right now if it was just him. Oh, he’d survive. But he wouldn’t necessarily enjoy it.

“Rick? Still awake?”

“Yeah,” Rick mumbles, and does his best to look like it. “Keep going.”

As lousy as he feels, he’s actually looking forward to the end of the story, and – much, much later, probably – a drink to celebrate punching fascists and not ending up a part of the Thames riverbed.

All in all, he really has had worse evenings.

___________

The title is in reference to Samuel Coleridge’s The Rime of the Ancient Mariner:

Water, water, everywhere, And all the boards did shrink; Water, water, everywhere, Nor any drop to drink.

It’s not really important, but this story is set in November 1934. British Fascists/Nazis were a thing: look up Oswald Mosley (who created the British Union of Fascists) and the Battle of Cable Street.

Jack Petersen was a British heavyweight champion in the early 1930s.

Re. Rick saying “taxi” rather than “cab” – I know, I know, Americans use “cab” where the British generally use “taxi”. But Rick hasn’t lived in the US for almost two decades at this point, so I stand by the word :D

I’ll be reblogging this shortly with the link to the story on AO3!

[adam-dumortains]

Slipping Away - Logan x MC

Book/Pairing(s): MC x Logan

Word Count: 1,191 words

Rating: 18+ due to swearing 

Summary: This fanfic is based on the scenes that follow after Ellie (MC) is trapped in the Vault.

Category: Mini series

Warnings / Trope: Swearing, 

Song: Never Get To Heaven - Sarah Blaine

The Mercy Park Crew are ecstatic that their plan had worked: they had stopped the Brotherhood and they were free again. However, feelings are about to change as Logan comes to the reality that Ellie is in the vault, slowly losing life. 

Note: I’m not really sure where I am going with this but I felt inspired, it’s set from my perspective of the next chapter when the crew realise MC is still in the vault. More chapters to be added soon. 

Ellie clamped at her throat, desperately trying to breathe as she realised what had happened. The plan was to get rid of Brotherhood once and for all. Her head quickly looked around the room as she saw the dead body of the hostage lying lifeless in front of her with blood pouring out of his stab wound, her eyes darted to Detective Shaw who was also trying to catch his breath. Ellie couldn’t believe that he had been behind this all and had used to her to gain information, played on her emotions and her currently troubled relationship with her father for his own benefit and for a moment, she was glad she didn’t help him. She could sense time was running out as her breathing became more erratic. She thought of her father and how if she could see him one last time, she would apologise and tell him how sorry she was for how she had acted and she loved him. Soon, her mind flickered to each member of the crew and her heart skipped a beat when she saw Logan’s face in her mind. Her mind was remembering every touch, every word and every kiss her and Logan had shared and she felt as though her heart was physically aching: she would die here alone. She wanted to run to Logan and tell him how much she loved him with every fibre of her being and now he made her feel alive but she could slowly feel herself losing consciousness as her throat began to hurt. “Logan...” she croaked gently as her body began to become weaker, losing the will to fight.

——

Logan’s head shot up as he heard familiar laughter coming into the poker room he was sat in. He could hear the crew laughing and celebrating. A relieved sigh left Logan’s lips as he realised he would see Ellie in less than a second. He jumped up as he heard the door open, ready to take Ellie into his arms and never let her go. He watched as every member of the crew walked through the door, cheering at him about their plan being a success and hurrying to leave the building. Logan’s mind raced as he realised Ellie was not with the crew and his heart dropped as his face turned to panic.

“Where’s Ellie?!” He exclaimed, pushing them to the side as he frantically looked behind them for her, wondering if this was just some cruel prank.

“Ellie?” Mona’s eyebrow raised as she looked at Logan in confusion.

“S-she was here. We had a plan to stop you all before you...”

“I told her to leave, Logan. She is not with us, she probably went home.” Colt said, rolling his eyes at Logan, presuming he was overthinking.

“No. She went into the room to find you all.”

“We went to the vault and-“ Logan’s face dropped as Xiema mentioned the vault and the reality of what had happened began to dawn on him. Ellie has gone into the vault, not realising what Colt’s plan was.

“The fucking vault! She’s in the vault!” Logan shouted at the top of his longs, drips of sweat falling from his head as he pushed the crew away to run down the hall. The crew followed him, panicked and confused.

“How can she be in the vault? We didn’t see her on our way there...” Colt shouted loudly so that Logan could hear over his fastening footsteps.

“What did you do to the vault?” Logan turned quickly and stopped to look at the crew who were also beginning to realise how serious the situation was.

“We... put a gas grenade into the vault.”

“Shit! Ellie!” Logan sprinted down to the hall and stopped promptly at the vault door, his hands scrambling the handle to open it, with the thought of Ellie running through his mind. “Help me!” Logan pleaded with the crew, his eyes beginning to fill with tears as he thought about the prospect of losing Ellie, the only girl he loved. The crew rushed to his side as Colt jabbed the keys to open the vault, all of them covering their mouths to hide their breaths from the toxicity in the air. Logan ran into the room, not even covering his mouth as he scrambled to look for Ellie, his mind racing.

He spotted a body wearing jeans and a red top on the floor and knew instantly it was Ellie. He ran to her side, clutching her.

“Ellie?!” He shouted her name as he looked at her, her body was limp and her breathing still erratic but she was unconscious. Logan picked her up, taking her into his arms as he ran out of the room and down to the hall as the crew shut the vault door, before running after him. Logan ran with Ellie’s limp body in his arms to the nearest exit which took him to alley way, the tears rolling down his cheeks. He gently placed her lower body on the floor with one hand whilst taking his jacket off with the other and placing it on the floor, lying Ellie on top. He looked at her, pleading with a God he didn’t believe in that she would come back to him. The crew ran out of the door and stopped, all shocked and all saddened in their own way as they witness Logan holding Ellie in his arms on the floor.

“Ellie, please...” He moved one hand from under him to wipe the tears flowing from his eyes, ignoring the pain that had come from wiping against the purple bruise that overtook the corner of his eye. “I can’t lose you. You’re the only person who has ever seen any good in me, saw the darkness in me and still loved me. Please...” Logan’s cries became sobs as he gently shook Ellie, begging her to wake up. His body collapsed over Ellie, crying quietly as the crew watched, helpless to the situation and also crying.

“This is all my fault... I should never have gotten you into this life. I’m so sorry, Ellie.” Logan whispered to Ellie, shaking his head as the guilt washed over him for bringing her into such a dangerous lifestyle. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. She was just a pawn at first, something to use for his own gain. Until he started to really see her and began to fall head over heels for her, which never happened. Ever since Logan’s mother was imprisoned and he had never heard from her, the absence of his father, the homelessness he experienced until Kaneko found him and the ultimate realisation that Logan was just a replacement for Colt. Logan had no one, he had his crew, but all he ever wanted was one person to truly care and love him, something he’d never had before and he had found that in Ellie.

“I know this is stupid,” Logan quietly laughed between the tears,” but I googled what your name meant and Ellie means shining light and that’s what you are, Ellie. You’re the light in my life.”

[sweetpea-cc]

Say Love

Request by: @poemfreak306 : “Can I request a Sweet Pea X Reader where the reader has to move in with Pea maybe for her safety and is in love with him but when she moves in he still keeps bringing girls home so she goes out one night because she's upset and something bad happens to her and you can come up with the end.” -In which reader and Sweet Pea are best friends but Sweet Pea is quite oblivious of reader’s affections. (I HOPE THIS IS OKAY OMG/ sorry it took so long!) Pairing: Sweet Pea x Reader Warning: Language, underaged drinking, implied sex, strong violence, BITCH ASS PENNY PEABODY, I THINK a cute fluffy ending Word Count: 2,986

The Whyte Wyrm was bustling with noise— music, chattering, and laughter. The stale smell of alcohol and cigarettes swarmed around you, but you wouldn't want to be anywhere else, the atmosphere was contagious as you sat at the bar, joking around with your best friends, Toni Topaz and Fangs Fargety. Every now and then, your eyes would drift to a familiar and handsome face that was focus wholeheartedly on his current pool game against Tall Boy. You let out a dreamy sigh, a small smile playing at the corner of your lips.

"Hey. Hey, earth to Y/N!" A set of hands wave themselves in front of your face, pulling you out of your trance. You look at Fangs and Toni with apologetic eyes, struggling to force the heat rising in your cheeks to die down. Say you love me.

"This is sad. Literally, everyone who isn't Sweet Pea can see that you're in love with Sweet Pea." Fangs sassed, earning him a boisterous laugh from Toni and slap on the chest from you. It was true, you were in love with Sweet Pea but never had the nerve to speak up about it, so you merely shoved your feelings into a dark closet and prayed they would remain there.

"Shut up! Do you have any idea how totally cliche this is? We've been friends- all of us- since we were like, nine and then suddenly puberty hits and he's the hottest fucking person I've ever seen in my life? And what, we ride off into the sunset together? I don't know if you ever got the memo, but that doesn't happen in real life, plus he's always got his arm wrapped around somebody else. He's always going to see me as his best friend, and that's it." Say you love me.

"I mean, that's not really his fault, Y/N. You can't expect the guy to know exactly what you feel if you don't say anything." You let out a dejected groan, fiddling with your fingers as you busy yourself with your drink. Toni laid a hand your shoulder and patted it gently, her face full of support and a sympathetic smile before she spoke up, backing Fang's claim.

"As usual, your nerves are getting the best of you, if you don't say anything, he's never going to know. Plus, it's really possible that he has the same feelings for you. And I mean, I know you're only living with him because Malachi has taken a creepy interest in you for whatever reason but-"

"He wants me to be his little errand girl because my mom fucked up and practically bargained me away to save her own life. Mother of the year, man." You say, interrupting Toni mid-sentence while taking a large gulp of your drink, the alcohol burning down your throat. Your eyes drift back to Sweet Pea who currently had his arm slanged lazily around some girl as he knocked his head backward, letting out a hearty laugh and all you could think about was how you wanted that to be you. And how incredibly lucky the girl was. Say you love me.

"Right, there's that, and I sympathize, I do but maybe living with him is a blessing in disguise. You get to stare at him like it's totally normal, even though it's not."

"I love how you find this entirely amusing. It doesn't matter anyway, Sweets always has his arm wrapped around somebody else, he'd never give me the time of day. You wanna know how I know? This morning he walked into my room without bothering to knock and asked which shirt he should wear tonight to impress Molly."

Toni and Fangs let out a groan at the same time, of course, Fangs went the extra mile and mimicked tearing out his own heart and dropping it on the ground, making a 'kaboom!' Sound. Shaking your head and glaring at Fangs, you shoved him in the shoulder which only made him laugh harder and soon, all three of you were laughing your cares away. You rolled your eyes at best friends and looked over the crowd again, suddenly you felt your cheeks flushed hot, and your stomach was heavy. Heart pounding in your throat, threatening to break out. Sweet Pea's eyes wandered around the crowd, his signature smirk plastered on his face. Your eyes stay locked on him, wondering how many love songs you had heard that said, "He takes my breath away."? That line made sense now. When Sweet Pea looked in your direction, he grinned slightly, and you snapped your head away, knowing that if you continued to stare, you would get lost in his dark brown eyes. You could feel eyes still on you as you silently inhaled and exhaled, wondering if Sweet Pea ever shared the same thoughts about you as you did him. Say you love me.

One night, you were sitting on your bed when the sound of the front door opening and closing, followed by murmurs of giggling and quiet moans. Standing up, you walk over to your door and crack it open just enough to give you a visual of the hall. From your point of view, you could see Sweet Pea leaning down to kiss some girl, who looked like the same one he had his arm wrapped around last night. His lips were trailing down to her neck as she let out another moan. He then led the girl down the hall, and you quickly shut your door before either of them had a chance to lay eyes on you. You let out a quiet grumble, it was after midnight, and all you wanted was to sleep, and it didn't seem worth it nor smart to be walking around the Southside at that time.

Everything was excellent as you nestled yourself on your bed, pulling out a book to pass the time. Unfortunately, that peace didn't last very long when you felt your walls beginning to make a rhythmic thump noise, and all you could hear was continuous sounds escaping from the girl's mouth. Your eyes widen, she was loud, and after what felt like an eternity, you couldn't stand to be in the trailer any longer, you had to get out of there. Promptly, you gather your jacket, shoes, and snatch your phone from your nightstand, texting Toni on the way out. I'm stopping by, Sweets has company. Chances were, she was still at the Wyrm cleaning up or collecting last calls.

It was a cold, moonless night. The sky was dark and low, the air so chilled it hurt to breathe. Already, the ground was laid white with frost, and any water that has liquid under the winter sun had become ice. You cling to your body for dear life, trying to find warmth in the frigid night. From Sweet Pea's trailer, you could see the soft neon glow of Serpent sign.

You begin walking towards the Whyte Wyrm with haste, it may have been strange but something about the Southside after a specific time of the time always seems ominous and terrifying. You dart your head left and right, your heartbeat quickening with every beat. Maybe it wasn't a bright idea to be out here right now, but you were already halfway to the bar when you saw a shadow develop under the harsh fluorescent street light.

When you look up from the ground, you jump, partially from shock and part from being unnecessarily terrified. You squint, trying to get a good look at the person standing before you when the darkness was cast away, and her face came into view, you let out a sigh of relief. This was the first mistake, but sadly, you realized that only too late.

"Oh, Penny, it's just you. Christ, you scare the shit out of me."

"Sorry about that Y/N. Though it's probably not smart for you to be out here at this time, with Malachi's goons looking for you and all."

"Oh, I know, I just- um, I was just headed to the Wyrm to hang out with Toni."

"Right, well, you'll probably have to wait on that."

You furrow your eyebrows in confusion, instinctively taking a step back but you weren't quick enough nor could you have anticipated that Penny would grab a clump of your hair, tugging on it so tightly you let out a cry. Despite fighting with all your might, you were no match for the woman, and with every struggle, she only held on with more force. Everything had happened so fast you didn't even have time to register the fact that Penny had been hiding a glistening silvery object in her jacket pocket.

Most of the time when someone describes being stabbed, they use the adjectives "painful" "horrible" or "terrifying," and while the experience definitely was all of those, it would seem that those people neglected to mention how cold and numb it feels. Without any warning, Penny dived the knife into your abdomen, twisting at almost a full one-eighty angle. You let out a sound that was torn between a strangled gasp and a pained cry, tears spilling down your face and blurring your vision but even under the harsh lighting, you could still see her emotionless eyes and a horrible smile that only read malice and death.  Penny leaned down next your ear, whispering to you; her voice toneless and flat.

"It's not personal, really, but whatever issues Malachi has with you is becoming bad for my business with him." You let out another choked gasp as your hand traveled to the wound where Penny's knife still sat. Blood started trickling through your fingers, and your breathing hastened, trying to grip onto Penny's arm for support, but she speedily stepped back, allowing you to fall on your knees before collapsing on the snow-covered terrain. Without another word, Penny smirked at you and walked off, not carrying about the fact that she had just stabbed and left a teenager for the dead.

You strain your head up, the Whyte Wyrm wasn't too far away, maybe you could make it. The adrenaline floods your system like it's on an intravenous drip- right into your blood at full pelt. You begin thinking your heart will explode, and your eyes are wide, letting in every ounce of the fading light. At this point you had two choices, stay where you were and hope for someone to come along or you could get up and find help. The adrenaline surges so fast you almost vomit, you could taste the saliva thickening in your mouth to a rancid paste.

"Get up." You yell at yourself, struggling to put yourself up from the frozen ground, with a cry of pain and your mind pacing at hundred miles per out, you take off towards the Wyrm, clinging your bleeding stomach and running until your legs gave out.

The door was locked, but you bang with whatever energy you had left, praying to God that someone would hear. You pounded so hard you were sure the glass door was going to shatter in front of you. At last, through your fading sight, you saw a figure appear and let out a sigh of relief but as quickly as the adrenaline came, it was gone, and you were suddenly painfully aware of your wound. Slowly, your legs gave out from under you, and you fall to the ground, your eyes flickering. It felt like you were shifting in and out of consciousness

"Call an ambulance!" was the last thing you managed to grasp before your entire world faded into absolute nothingness.

You don't know how much time had passed, but when you came to, your head felt like it was on fire and it was as if your brain was going to crack open your skull. Your eyesight was a little fuzzy, but you were able to make out a series of figures- namely what appeared to be FP Jones and Sweet Pea standing in the corner, FP sending his finger to Sweet Pea's chest repeatedly. It seemed like they were fighting but it was difficult to tell given how hushed their conversation was.

"Hey." a soft voice sounded, capturing your attention as you turn your head to the side where you found Toni and Fangs sitting next to you, both of their faces tear-stained and eyes red from exhaustion. Toni collected your hand in her's and squeezed it tightly, and you could feel her body was shaking from fear and all you wanted at that moment was to relieve that fear, so you did what you thought was best; a joke.

"Jeez, you guys look worse than me, and I'm the one who got stabbed." At the sound of your voice, both FP and Sweet Pea jerk their heads in your direction, cautiously stepping forward. It was as if you were glass and they were terrified you would shatter at any moment. You smiled as big as you could despite feeling groggy, not to mention high off the medication that was given to you. Thank god for these drugs because I'm pretty sure getting stabbed hurts like a bitch. You think to yourself, or at least, you thought you had until Toni let out a choked laugh, informing you, that you had indeed said that out loud.

As horrifying, not to mention, traumatic as the situation was, you couldn't help but giggle. Maybe it was your warped sense of humor, perhaps it was the fact that you almost died, or it was just that the entire thing was complete and total bullcrap. FP edged closer to you, his face wholly stoic and honestly, you thought he was going to chew you out for walking around the Southside after he had given specific instructions not to. After all, shit like this could happen.

"How are you doing?" His voice sounded hoarse, whether from yelling earlier or from pure exhaustion, you didn't know, but it didn't matter. You were alive, and you were surrounded by people who you knew wouldn't even hesitate to take a bullet for you, they were your family, and nothing could ever change that.

"Other than almost dying, I'm fantastic." It felt weird to speak, your throat felt dry, but you ignore it. Sweet Pea moved from behind FP, dragging the chair next to your bed closer to you and made himself comfortable as he gathered your other hand in his, caressing it gently. You could tell that he had been crying and it broke your heart. Toni let go of your hand and patted Fangs on the shoulder, motioning him to stand up.

"I'm gonna head down to the cafeteria. Fangs, will you come with me?" Fangs looked conflicted but solemnly nodded, giving you a soft smile and kissing your hand before walking out the door with Toni. FP had followed behind them a few minutes later when he received an urgent phone call, leaving it just you and Sweet Pea. The room was painfully quiet as Sweet Pea held on to your hand, staring at it as if he was trying to make sure you were still there.

"Sweets, hey, look at me. I'm alright, I'm okay. I promise." He didn't say anything as you tried to reassure him but your words almost fell on deaf ears. He still wouldn't meet your eyes until you pulled your hand from his and brought it to his chin, forcing him to look you in the face.

"I am okay. That's all that matters, right? I'm okay."

"Goddamit, Y/N. I thought I lost you and I don't know what I would do if I did. When I heard the sirens and saw your lifeless body being lifted into the ambulance, all I could think about was everything I never said to you."

"I'm not trying to ruin your speech or anything but this isn't some tragic LifeTime movie where we confess our feelings, and then I die, so unless you actually mean it, keep whatever you're going to say to yourself." Sweet Pea rolled his eyes at you, a small groan of annoyance escaping his mouth. It was fantastic how even in a hospital bed with a stab wound, you still had snarky comments rolling off the tip of your tongue.

"Look, Y/N, you know I'm not exactly exceptional at talking about my feelings or anything, you know this probably better than most people. I just want you to know that you got me and you always will. Nothing is ever going to change that, you and me til' the end."

"I love you." the words spilled from your lips faster than you could take them back but you prayed he didn't hear you, however, it would seem that whatever God existed, it wasn't answering your prayers. Sweet Pea looked at you with wide eyes for a few seconds, a slightly confused look on his face and you were terrified that you had just scared your best friend away until the corners of his mouth curl upright.

"I don't even know why you would have feelings for me, Y/N." Now it was your turn to roll your eyes at Sweet Pea, he always did have a habit of being under self-appreciative, and you hated that because, in your eyes, he really was one of the most brilliant and kind people you had ever met.

"You don't give yourself enough credit, Sweets. While everyone sees this terrifying and intimidating guy, I see someone who is brave and smart and totally lives up to his name because you're sweet as hell too." Sweet Pea closed his eyes for a brief moment, bring the palm of your hand to his lips before placing a tender kiss on it. At that moment, everything around the two of you was calm, almost blissful.

Say you love me.

Tag List; @fafulous @glambyoko // CREDIT TO @inyourwildestdreamslove for her amazing and continuous help! :))

[marlahey]

we stumbled in the dark; i knew we’d be alright (part five)

a shawn mendes rpf fic rating/warnings: standard teen language; prepare for some feels. misc notes: if you suspect that ellie’s lanyard and dress are things that I personally own, you would not be wrong. ignore the weird timeline anyone who doesn’t think shawn is at least fifty percent hufflepuff can fight me.  fun fact: I could see basically all of cophenhagen from the moment I started this fic. please reblog and/or drop me an ask if you enjoy this; it’s one of my favourite parts :)  (previously; start at part one here)

copenhagen; now “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god–”  “El?”

You jerk your head up so quickly that you nearly bang your head on the underside of the bed. Shawn seems so much taller than usual from your half-sprawled position on the floor. You didn’t think that was possible.

You should be a little mortified probably: there are clothes and towels and bedsheets everywhere.  But Shawn has seen you first thing in the morning, with gunk still in your eyes. He’s seen you crampy and irritated; he’s also seen you so ill that the tour had to leave you behind. There’s something acutely liberating about being around someone who has seen you at almost all of your lowest moments. In theory, you can only go up.  You’re also almost crying, so the mess is secondary.  “Av wanted me to...” Shawn trails off, tilting his head down at you. You pull yourself into a sitting position. “What’s wrong?” You muster yourself up to tell a lie, but he catches it before the words can leave your mouth. “Tell me.” “My mom’s ring.” You worry the fingers of your naked left hand. “I just noticed it was gone, and I–” The tornado of the room is overwhelming, suddenly. “I can’t find it anywhere. I have no idea where it might have fallen off, like, what if–”  It feels like you might be sick. “What if I left it in Berlin?”  Shawn’s crouched down in front of you now. “No way. Have you asked Ava?” You shake your head. Shame crawls up your throat, hot and tight. “I can’t tell her I’ve lost it.” You stare at his boots. “We’re supposed to go out tonight to celebrate–” You can’t finish your sentence. Your breath shakes on the way out.  Shawn’s hands curl around your elbows. “C’mon El,” he murmurs, and you let him pull you gently to your feet so he can push you equally softly to sit on Ava’s bed. “Just hang on a second, okay?”  You’re too focused on breathing properly to refute him. The bed dips as Shawn drops down beside you, so close you’re pressed together from hip to shoulder. He leans into you, just a little; the pressure is grounding. Concentrating on him is pulling you out of your hysteria. “Hey Mike. You’re still at the arena right? Can you do me a huge favour?”  Ava’s still there too, working. You should have called her. You should get Shawn to stop; sound and engineering should not be hunting around for something that will be impossible to find in fifteen thousand seats. The crew doesn’t even know what it looks like. When you look up to inform Shawn of this, he’s still speaking. “–gold, with little pearls? Three. Yeah. Probably? Pablo was being weird so she...yeah. Yeah dude, call me back. You’re the best.” He hangs up. “You were wearing it this morning. It must still be there.” Shawn finally glances down at you. “You okay?” “How...” It takes a conscious effort not to gape like an idiot. “How do you know what my mom’s ring looks like?” Shawn makes a face, as though he can’t decide between smiling or being offended. He picks up your left hand and pulls it towards him; old calluses are rough on your skin as he thumbs over the tan line on your first finger. “It’s the only one you never take off.” It strikes you then, like it has alarmingly often in the past two and half weeks, that there could be something different here. You can feel it in the way your heart lurches in your chest, in the arguably absent sweep of Shawn’s fingers over yours that leave tiny sparks jumping beneath your skin.  There’s that little voice in your head again. You’ve been hearing it a lot lately.  Careful.  When you decided forever ago that it would be near impossible to ‘catch feelings’ for Shawn in the fleeting moments between and within tour stops, as you slowly but surely amassed what feels like an enormous secret box of knowledge about him, a somewhat foolish part of you had never accounted on him knowing you, too.  Or what that would mean, if anything.  So much for the break between albums making everything go back to normal. Although, the first single drop didn’t help.  We agreed that night goes under the heading ‘Never Talk About Again’  When you look at Shawn, it’s mostly to prove that you still can.  “It’s gonna be fine,” he says, and you’re weirdly grateful at your current crisis that likely masks how newly anxious you feel. His expression is of a familiar soft certainty; faced with it, you can feel yourself almost instinctively comforted. “They’re gonna find it.”  Buried somewhere on the other side of the room, your phone pings with an Instagram notification; the noise is so startling that you jump and grip at Shawn’s hand. His amusement is familiar too, but he doesn’t let go. If anything, he squeezes back.  “Shut up,” you mutter, taking the universe’s exit. You rise to dig your phone out from beneath your backpack and some makeup. When you find it, Shawn’s still sitting where you left him, not quite laughing. But he wants to. You can tell.   “I didn’t say anything.” You make a face at him. Your phone is another welcome distraction, although you still can’t stop rubbing at your hand where your ring should sit. Hannah’s posted a video. Your throat goes tight for another reason altogether as a wave of navy gowns crosses the football field. The traditional graduation processional song is tinny, but still audible through your speaker. You can make out Hannah; her huge curls are impossible to miss.  As a half-hearted effort, you sweep your bag and make up off the floor and attempt to straighten out the contents. You can feel Shawn’s eyes on you. He looks at though he wants to say something, but is interrupted by his own phone.  You don’t dare hope. But you can see the emotion in his face, there and gone like he wants to hide it from you.  “Mike, hey. You did? Fuck, that’s amazing.” Shawn’s grin and thumbs up sweep relief through you, a flash flood that leaves you a little weak in the knees. “Yeah, I’ll get her to– yeah. Mhmm. Yeah, see you soon. Thank you. You’re a rock star.”  You have to sit down in the armchair on the far side of the room. His footfalls are muffled on the carpeted floor. “Cam found it in the green room. You must have shaken it off when you were getting Pablo to work earlier.” Shawn crouches down again. Sometimes, you think, it seems impossible that he can fold himself in half so easily.  “Hey.” His swallow on your knee. That grounding little bit of pressure. He could probably wrap his fingers all the way around, if he wanted. You look up at him through your lashes. “It’s okay, El. They found it.” You can feel your lip wobbling; you have to clench your jaw to get it to stop. Shawn looks torn, like he wants to hug you, but if he does that now you’re definitely going to cry.  You promised yourself you wouldn’t cry today. As if he can sense your resolve, he doesn’t move.  “Paul’s here to get me,” Shawn says. His thumb traces a half circle just above the bend of your leg and it weirdly tickles a little. You’re not sure when you got so comfortable with him touching you, or how you never noticed how much he does it till now, or how both of those things can be true at once.  It’s a thought you have to put away for later.  “I’ll make up some excuse to get Ava to come down to the arena before you guys go out. We’ll get you the ring back before she can even notice it’s gone. Okay?” You just nod. Even though there’s now momentarily less than a year between you, you feel very young, inexplicably, with Shawn hovering over you; it’s like there’s an invisible safe place extending through the lines of his body bent close to yours, as though all you have to do is fold yourself into the spaces of him and everything will be alright.   Resisting the desire to give into it is becoming harder the longer you sit like this. Again, as though he knows, Shawn pulls away from you and stands up. He flexes his right hand a little, like it hurts, glancing at his phone as it pings. “I gotta go. I’ll see you tonight, okay?” “Shawn.” You jump to your feet when he reaches the door. It’s just Shawn, you think, berating yourself. You’re not scared of him. “Thank you. I uh, I don’t know what I’d do without you.” The vaguely odd look on his face from Spain returns. You flush a little. You want to bend beneath it but you refuse to. Shawn smiles. “You too, El.” 

tour prep; before “Uh oh,” Ava says. Shawn pulls his earbuds out to find you standing over him and the couch, fuming. “You’re in for it now.” Your sister barely looks up from her book. “That’s her offended face.”  He looks like he’s about to laugh. It only stokes the flame. You hold out your phone, paused on Shawn’s Hot Ones interview. He looks from it to you, before a dawning comprehension lights his eyes. “Hang on–” “I’m so appalled at you, Shawn Peter Raul Mendes.”  Shawn visibly winces; Ava actually barks a laugh and he shoots her a murderous glare before looking at you again. “Don’t start El,” he says, a little pleading. It doesn’t work. “I can’t believe you would disgrace Harry Potter like this.” You stab at your phone and everyone listens as Shawn’s voice says, “They just like mean nothing. Sorry to all the Harry Potter fans who are offended by that, but I could I care less about Hufflepuff.” “Cedric Diggory did not die for you to slander his house,” you say, pointing accusingly at him. You crack a smile, just so Shawn knows you’re not actually mortally wounded. He sits up from his horizontal lounge. “Neither did Tonks.”  Shawn reaches forward and yanks your lanyard from where it dangles out of your pocket. Your house, school gym locker, and arena office keys you keep for Ava jangle against the tiny clay mint chocolate chip ice cream cone that Hannah bought you last year. The burgundy fabric and gold house letters and stars swivel as he holds it up.  “Says the Gryffindor.” “I’ve sat through the full sorting quiz at least four times.” You go to take your keys back. Your fingers tangle beneath Shawn’s and there’s a mischievous glimmer in his eyes, as though he might actually play tug of war with you. But he doesn’t. “I’m only like ten percent more Gryffindor than Hufflepuff. But it still wins out, every time.” “I’m leaving,” Ava announces, and strides to the green room door. “You two dorks can battle it out. Just no duelling, okay?” “Way to abandon me!” Shawn calls after her. He fixes you with an amused grin. “Did you actually sit through a thirty minute video of me when we were sitting like four feet apart?” You’re almost immune to the blush now. “Hannah sent it. And don’t change the subject! You’re at least half a Hufflepuff and you don’t even know it.” He raises an eyebrow. You start ticking things off your fingers. “You’d rather hug people than fight, you tried to help James up after he was the worst skater I’ve ever seen–” Shawn snorts. His ears are slowly turning red, but you won’t stop. “You shake the hand of every person working every new arena we go to. You’re so loyal to your fans that you’re almost late to rehearsal all the time because you can’t stop taking pictures with them.” “You don’t think I’m brave?” He asks then, a challenge and a genuine question at the same time. This is probably one of the most ridiculous conversations you’ve ever had, but your battered copy of Deathly Hallows in your bag compels you try and get him to understand. Hannah and Ava indulge you, more than anything. But they don’t get it.  Shawn’s Carpool Karaoke had made you laugh so hard you cried. But you know that if he was willing to do the skit, if he was willing to show that to the world, then his love for these kids’ stories is just as big as yours. It’s stupid probably, that this is still such an important part of your life. But it is. “I’ve honestly never met anyone as brave as you.” The admission is out before you can temper it with a joke. His open surprise almost dries up the rest of your words inside your mouth. “I could never do what you do and put myself and my art out there. But that’s not...” You flick your eyes away, and then back.  “Not what?”  There’s so much more weight here now than you thought. “That’s not what I admire most about you.” It’s crazy what eight weeks of non-stop touring and almost nine months of intermittent covert contact with someone will do to your understanding of them. Shawn’s looking at you like it’s hard for him for the first time, as though he’s afraid of what you might say. Fondness twists inside you.  Well, this is happening. “You have a good heart, Shawn. It’s amazing how much you care about other people.” You’re definitely not immune to the blush anymore. “And that’s the most Hufflepuff anyone can be.”

You’ve never seen Shawn speechless before. It’s oddly satisfying. “El...” “Also,” you say in a rush, because this is all getting a little much, “I didn’t know you made such a great Dumbledore.” His laugh is so loud that Ava pokes her head back inside the room. Shawn looks at you and shakes his head a little, like he can’t quite believe you’re a real person. You should probably be embarrassed. But you feel warm instead. “You’re ridiculous.” You shrug. “As long as you don’t go around bad mouthing Hufflepuffs anymore. Badgers are vicious, you know.” Another head shake. “Whatever you say.”

copenhagen; now “Hey I’m back,” Ava says just as you nearly burn yourself with your flat iron. “You getting ready?” “Almost done,” you call from the bathroom. Wrangling your normally quite flat hair into something resembling a curl is normally a challenge you could do without, but this is a special occasion. Your sister meets your eyes in the mirror. You drop your left hand beneath the countertop. “What?” “Is that what you’re wearing?”  You look down at yourself. “What, you don’t like this dress? Did you buy it for me?”  Ava rolls her eyes. “Well yeah, but it hardly says, ‘I graduated from high school with honours with distinction and a half-point away from valedictorian.” “I didn’t pack it,” you tell her. You’ve been holding onto this secret for weeks. It’s a bit of a relief to confess to it. “The dress from Nashville. I didn’t want to just remind you of what we’re missing on this tour. It seemed silly to bring a dress we got for an event we’re not even going to.” Your sister makes a face, an almost annoyed affection. “You’re the weirdest kid ever.” Before you can reply, she disappears back into your room. You turn off your flat iron and contemplate your only three lipsticks.  “This one,” Ava says, picking up the mauve rose. “And put this on while I shower, will you?” She’s holding an armful of cream lace. Your ‘don’t cry’ mandate wavers for a second. “But–” “Remember the night before we left? I went through your closet looking for my sweater.” It’s your turn to roll your eyes. “I told you I didn’t have it!”  Your sister waves your objection away. “I saw you left this.” Ava reaches out and squeezes your shoulder. “Just because we’re not there doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, Lenny. You still accomplished something amazing. And this is what you should wear when we celebrate.” Don’t cry. Don’t cry.  You have to take four deep breaths in a row.  Your mascara holds.  * “I’m sorry about this,” she says as you step carefully out of the car in your heels. You shake your fingers a little through your hair; your wrist clinks and jangles. Despite your birthday ring on your right hand, Ava still hasn’t noticed what’s missing. “Sometimes I swear all these boys would be lost without me.” “It’s fine,” you assure her. “I want to see the final set up anyway. I never get to see the whole thing.” Because Shawn insists on using real flowers as much as possible, final touches are never made until the last minute, by which time you’re either sequestered in the green room or back at the hotel. Though, you like to set out the signs and green bags for compost as crowds leave the venue yourself. Andrew will take no chances; you care too much about the success of Shawn’s third world tour to even want to argue. You and Ava show your crew badges to a woman at the very back entrance, weaving your way through long concrete halls. It’s hard to decide if the fact that all these backstage spaces look the same is disturbing or comforting. Your sister waves at Paul, who has his walkie talkie to his mouth as he nods at you.  “Hey Paul, I got a message about some kind of emergency? Where’s Shawn?” “He’s down on the floor,” Paul says, pointing down the hall to the huge set of double doors. Her heels echo on the concrete. He turns to you. “Hello there, little one. I’m told a celebration’s in order?” You tuck hair back behind your ears. “I was supposed to graduate today. We’re just gonna go out instead.” Paul’s eyes are warm. You think about his own daughter, a twenty-one year old college student whose photos make the security agent smile more widely than you’ve ever seen. “Congratulations.” Your chest twinges through your smile, though you’re suddenly not even sure why. But then you remember why you’re here. Even with Ava safely out of earshot, you lower your voice a little. “Do you know where Cam is, Paul? He has something of mine that I really need back.” The man nods. “He’s up helping onstage. Here come on, I’ll walk you.” You glance down the hall where your sister has disappeared. “Don’t worry Ellie. We’ll make sure you two find each other.” So you follow. Hall, doorway, hall, doorway. You can see the stairs leading up onto the stage. You don’t know why you’re hesitating. It’s suddenly occurred to you that while the crew and the band have seen you at your worst, they’ve never seen you like this; waves in your hair, heels that stretch your legs, a dress that bares skin you’ve never shown anyone. It doesn’t matter, exactly. And yet... Shawn’s never seen you like this either.  You don’t know why the thought makes you so nervous.  “You look beautiful, by the way.” Paul says, as though he can read your mind. “I wouldn’t worry.” You flush. “Thank you. But I might need help on those stairs,” He just chuckles. “Please.” “Alright then.” From inside the arena you hear a distant shout. Light pours onto the stage. Paul holds out his hand; you squeeze a little harder than is probably necessary but he doesn’t seem to mind.  The smell of roses invades everything else. You have to blink against the brightness, until tall figures take shape across the stage floor and you can finally see it. “Wow.” Garlands of roses dangle from the steel ring electric above the stage; white forget-me-nots and vines twist around the speakers; the entire back panel that reaches up towards the screens is covered in blossoms and dotted with lights; petals – pink, white, red – are strewn all over the floor. The piano on B stage is open and exploding with even more flowers.  “Wow is right.” Brian, leaning a little on his mic stand, nods at you. Geoff is grinning. “I told you we were underdressed.” Your face heats immediately. “Underdressed for what?” Acoustic guitar reaches your ears. “Is that–” You let out a disbelieving laugh. “Is that Pomp and Circumstance?” Something lands on your head and dangles in your field of vision. You tug; a blue graduation cap falls into your stunned hands.  “Welcome everyone,” says a voice. Mike stands at the top centre of the stage. A single rose snakes to the top of Shawn’s stand. “to a very special pre-show.” Now that you’re actually onstage looking out, almost the entire technical crew is assembled on the floor. Ava leans against the barrier. She looks just as surprised as you. A spotlight bursts to life; you stare down at the circle edge at your feet. It’s so warm beneath the glare; you look up towards the hotspot and shield your eyes. “Is this really necessary, Kristen?” you shout.   “Put the cap on, graduate!” calls the voice of the lighting tech from somewhere above. Someone else hoots from the floor; applause fills the arena and suddenly your knees are shaking. Paul reappears at your shoulder, plucking the cap from your hands. He places it very gently on your head again, winding the tassel so it swings in and out of view of your right eye.  Paul steers you further downstage, closer to the edge. Mike is holding a scroll of paper tied with a blue ribbon, and on the far side, you finally see Shawn, plucking away at the processional song on his guitar. You could be misreading the look on his face, one that catches your breath in your throat, but there is no mistaking the awkward twang as his hand slips.  Geoff and Brian laugh. Shawn doesn’t seem to notice. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” says Mike with a grin once the bad final note fades, “Please welcome the Shawn Mendes Tour class of 2019, Eleanor May Sinclair.”  You haven’t heard your full name in so long. You’re frozen, until heavy hands land on your shoulders. “Go on, little one.” Paul leans his head close to yours. “If you don’t make it all the way across, all the kid’s planning’ll have been for nothing.” A certain, secret wall in your heart caves in. The magnet of Shawn’s gaze pulls you forward. Emotion you don’t even fully understand stirs in your chest, which becomes a genuine pain when you reach Mike and he hands you the scroll of paper. “I know that your parents would have loved to see you take this walk, Ellie. But we just want you to know that you are very much part of our family.” You chance a look out to the floor. Ava is crying; you have to turn back to the sound engineer. His gaze is so tender and you remember abruptly that he has kids, too. “We love you. And we’re so proud of you.” Mike’s hands squeeze yours. Your mom’s ring presses into your palm. You can’t speak so your mouth forms a silent thank you. He nods. “Congratulations.” Wrapping both hands around the underside of your fake diploma, you slide it onto your finger. Only when it’s back can you find the courage to look across the stage again. You think about how this moment, this rite of passage, has scared you for almost as long as you’ve been working towards it, because even though Ava is the best sister you could ever ask for, she knows that there is a hole in your heart that will never be filled. You look at Shawn now and it’s like he knows too, still. You flash back to earlier in the hotel room, to how you’d dangled on the edges of a safe place with him. Just get to Shawn. But before you can take more than two steps away from Mike, he’s shaking his head at you. You stop. Shawn mimes a motion across his forehead and you suddenly remember the cap. He gestures outwards, at a view that’s normally only his. You look out towards the floor.  You turn your tassel with a trembling hand and the crew erupts with cheers. Shawn claps in your direction, grinning. You stare at his smile until it blurs in a prism of too-bright light; it’s more than five steps to the other side of the stage but you only get that far before he’s there. You might fall into him a little but it doesn’t matter, because Shawn just pulls you in.  In your heels, you can actually wrap your arms around his neck. The cap falls. Shawn’s hands land on your bare shoulder and your back, calluses on skin. You shiver. His nose presses into your temple as Shawn speaks softly into your hair, just above your ear. “I know you’ve been trying to keep it together.” You're shaking again. His arms tighten around you. “I know I’m not who you want right now. But I wanted you to have this, okay, El? You deserve it.” You press your eyes shut a little harder, but tears slide down nonetheless. “I’m here, if you need me.” You find a grip on the soft cotton of his shirt. “I’ve got you.”  Shawn’s fingers trail up and down the length of your spine, which only makes you shiver more; he pulls you, almost impossibly, closer.  “Andrew’s gonna kill me,” he says, and you laugh before you can stop yourself.  “His Skype meeting is almost over.” It’s enough that you can step back and wipe your face with a weak laugh. “God, I’m a mess.” 

Shawn smiles with just one side of his mouth. “No,” he says, and you’re too overwhelmed to move when he reaches up and brushes at a tear with the heel of his hand. “Not at all.”   There it is again: that look. “Okay okay, give me my sister back.” Ava’s eyes are red. She squeezes so tight it aches, before holding you by the shoulders and nodding firmly. “Where’s that cap? We need photos.” “No,” you protest, but your sister’s already found it and Shawn’s already pulled out his phone. “This is happening.” Ava drags you back to centre stage. “You guys too,” she calls. Brian, Geoff, Paul, and Mike lope forward. “And you.” Ava grabs at Shawn’s wrist before he can jump off the stage. “I can’t believe you pulled this off right under my nose.” His grin is cheeky and proud. “Learned to plan from the best.” You line up in a row. As Cam struggles with Shawn’s fancy new phone, the boys hoot and holler. You end up sandwiched between your sister and Paul; from behind Ava’s back, something brushes your hand. Shawn glances over Ava’s head, and then away.  He hooks his pinky into yours. “Ready?” Cam calls. You drag your eyes forward. “One, two, three!” The flash bursts colour across your vision. For once, you don’t mind.  (part six)

[3laxx]

Hwllo! If you're still accepting requests, could I get some angsty djfox? Maybe, Rena protecting our favorite dj and getting hurt as a result? Have a fantastic day!

Thank you so much for the suggestion!

Sorry I got so cruel on that one but it was really easy to get a little explicit with that kinda suggestion ._. I hope that’s okay!

Ao3 / FF.net

“Hey there, pretty boy!”, Firena grinned as she landed in front ofNino, crouching close to the ground to stay low, “Can I help you out?”

He recoiled and his eyes quickly jumped back to the fight before landingon her cheerful face again. That’s what she was good at, grinning througheverything.

“Uhm-”

“Wonderful!”, she exclaimed, throwing a quick glance back over hershoulder, then she frowned, “Okay, hold on tight, we gotta get out of here.”

Before he knew what was happening she had already scooped him up,running away with him in her arms. He gulped and tightly wrapped his armsaround her neck, his whole body tensing as she picked up speed.

“Damnit, this Akuma is really fixated on you, huh?”, she growledas another blow of a deep note slammed into the ground next to them. He whimperedand she gripped him tighter, “Don’t worry, handsome, we’ll get you outta here.”

Nino risked a glance over her shoulder, gulping as he saw theAkuma trying to follow them but Ladybug jumped between them, holding it offwith her yoyo. He clenched his jaw and pressed his forehead against hershoulder, feeling her jumping over another blow that had found its way towardsthem, running into another street to be out of view. Then she let him down,feeling that he trembled on his whole body.

“Say, how did you get into this situation? I mean, this Akuma isfurious.”

Nino wound his arms around his own body, trying to cut off histrembling but failing.

“I-… I applied for a club to perform.”, he began the story as sheknew it already. Nin had been pretty excited about that in school, “Well, and,I had to send in a sample of my songs. Y’know, f-for them to see what I produce,if it fits and stuff. They had hundreds of other people applying and chose tenout to come to their club today. I was there, because I was under these ten.”

Another explosion sounded and she quickly urged him to continuejogging down the street, easily keeping up with him while she looked back.

“And then?”

“They asked us to perform, like an a-audition.”, he explained, “Sothey could narrow it down to two.”

She rolled her eyes, already guessing how it ended.

“You and the Akuma.”

He nodded, now finally prying his arms away from his chest toproperly run down the sidewalk, away from the fight.

“Yeah… I won because I was familiar with the mixing board. I havean older one at home. He wasn’t as good as he could’ve been with another board,so it was obvious I would win.”

“That’s unfortunate for him.”, she commented, throwing another glanceover her shoulder. The Akuma had fought its way to the street where theycurrently ran away and had recognized Nino again, easily throwing away Chatanother time to pick up the chase again, “Fuck. Hold on!”

She scooped him up once again mid-run and was about to jump ontothe roofs but in that moment, another bass explosion threw them off, sendingthem rolling over the street. She was the first on her feet again, grabbing hishand and pulling him up.

He tried to warn her but his voice broke. The Akuma got closer behindher back, pulling off a giant note from his back. It was the size of a swordand probably sharp.

“Firena-”

“LOOK OUT!”, Ladybug yelled but it was already too late. Firenaturned around and Nino’s eyes widened as she didn’t dodge or jump to the side.She stayed, right in front of him.

The Akuma surged forward and shoved the note at her, the sharp endgoing right thorough her suit.

A sound of ripping and a muffled punch sounded, way too loudly forNino’s ears. He heard her spluttering in front of him and her body bending forward.The wild eyes of the Akuma met his and an icy shiver went down his back.Suddenly, something poked him.

On the height of his stomach, he only saw it now, the note wasstopping right on his body. Firena’s blood drew on the blue of the fabric andhe already felt himself choking as the sharp edge just so dragged itself acrossover his hips and thigh so that it didn’t hurt him as the superhero went to thefloor in front of him.

The Akuma didn’t even care about its weapon anymore, letting go ofit and even pushing Firena to the side before she could hit the ground, makingher fall further.

Just as the Akuma was right before grabbing him, Chat pulled itback, engaging it in a furious fight. Every grin was swiped from his face, inhis eyes burning hate. Ladybug attacked with the same fury, her movementsprobably a bit too sharp, her punches a little too deadly.

They managed to push the Akuma back so that Nino could collecthimself and finally break his trance, looking down to Firena. She wasconvulsing in waves of pain, coughing and spluttering out blood while still tryingto breathe properly. He stepped around her, falling to his knees next to her sohe could see where the note had stabbed her.

She had her eyes squinted, her hands clenched in front of her chest.The note was right beneath her arms, meaning it didn’t hit her lungs or heart,at least.

Though, he knew this was still bad. Very bad.

“F-Firena?”

She opened her eyes for a brief moment, looking up to him, thenshe curled up tighter once again, wheezing heavily. He gulped, completelyhelpless as she was fighting against the pain.

“What-… What sh-should I-…”, he already wanted to grab the noteand pull it out to have it gone but she shook her head, effectively stoppinghim.

“… D-Don’t-… P-Pull it-… Out…”, she wheezed, still convulsing and pressingher head against the asphalt in search for something to hold on to, “… Has-…T-To-… Block-…”

A scream left her at another wave of pain and she squinted hereyes again, making him flinch.

“Tell me how to help!”, he sobbed, his hands indecisively hangingin the air, “I-… I’ll call an ambulance but-… H-How can I help you?!”

She just so managed a smile, then she screamed again beforeanswering to him.

“S-Stay-… With… M-Me…”

He nodded, pulling out his phone and shakily typing in theemergency number. The case was quickly explained and he kept the call as theguy on the other end of the call told him. With his phone on his ear, he bentover Firena again, gently caressing her cheek.

“Please-… Please, c’mon, they’re here in a bit. You’ll be f-fine,right? You’ll be fine.”

She squinted her eyes tighter before coughing out more blood, darkred and slimy as it fell onto the asphalt.

“… Y-Yo-… Ha-andsome…”, he quickly nodded, lowering his head tohear her better.

“Yes?”

“… T-Tell… Your-… Your girlf-friend-… You love her-…”, she forcedout, her voice sounding strained and thick of emotion and blood, “… P-Please?”

He furrowed his eyebrows at that request. Why should he tell Alyahe loved her now? Should he call her? Or tell her later? What did she mean?

“… Wha-”, but before he was even able to complete his question,she screamed again, then mumbled something. An orange flash blinded him and lethim fall back of surprise, then he heard a high voice.

“Cub! Cub, no, no, c’mon! Don’t you die on me, please! Cub!”

He slowly opened his eyes again and yelped as he saw how muchblood had already spread over her shirt. Over her-… Her shirt…

His eyes widened at the familiar pattern of violet and orangesquares that slowly vanished under the radiant red of blood. His gaze wanderedup and he recognized the orange tips of her hair, the brown, curly mass that heloved so much the further he looked up.

Her beautiful dark skin, her orange fox ears missing.

Alya.

Without missing a beat, he turned to the side, choking. He didn’tthrow up, even if it needed all in him not to do that at the metallic smell ofblood. The blood from his girlfriend.

“… N-Nino…”, she finally forced out again, over another wet cough.He collected and braced himself before getting to his knees again, tearsshining in his eyes as he made eye contact again.

“… I love you.”, he mumbled, sobbing as he forced himself to focuson her eyes alone. Not the wound, not the crying, little, orange creature onher forehead, not the red blood in which he already kneeled, “I love you, Alya,please-… Please, don’t-… Don’t give in… In a second, Ladybug will r-release thehealing light and-… Y-You’ll be fine… You’ll be fine, please…”

She managed a snort, then she convulsed again and screamed. Heflinched at her pained cries before sliding closer, not caring about the blood.

He scooped her head up, stretched his leg out and rested her cheekon his thigh, then cradled her close, carefully of her wound.

She relaxed for a moment before violently sobbing into the fabricof his jeans on his hips, wheezing. Blood dampened his shirt and jeans but hedidn’t care. His fingers worked through her hair and he bent closer over her, totry and give her at least a little comfort.

“Shh… Shh… You’ll be okay, Alya… I love you… Please, please beokay…”

She couldn’t suppress another yelp in pain, tensing and clenchingaround the note in her stomach.

“… D-Don’t-… Don’t wanna d-die-… Don’t-… P-Please, I-…”, shesobbed, weakly shaking her head before screaming another time, “… N-Nino-…Please…”

It broke his heart to hear her begging like that, to hear thedespair in her voice. The raw fear.

“You won’t, Alya. You won’t die.”

She continued crying, her body shaking of pain and fear.

“… I d-don’t-… W-Wanna die-… I-… M-Make it s-stop-… Just s-sto-op,ple-ease-…”

Nino shifted her higher, now taking her into his arms and sittingher up more. She screamed in pain but he couldn’t bear her talking like that anymore.Cradling her head in his arms, pressing her tightly against his chest, heburied his face in her damp hair.

“You won’t, Alya, you won’t die. It’ll be over in a second. Just alittle more, Alya, a little longer. P-Please, just a little longer, just a bit!”

Her breaths got shorter and she choked, sprinkling blood on hisshoulder. He didn’t care one bit.

“… N-Nino-…”

He leant back again to lower his lips down on hers. He kissed hersoftly and felt her relaxing a bit before coughing again. The blood smeared onhis chin and moistened his lips and even though he already felt his stomachchurning again, he knew soothing her was more important now.

So he waited until she had a short moment of breathing through beforehe kissed her again, keeping his eyes closed. She barely turned her head awaybefore she already threw up, vomiting out blood. The note had probably hit herstomach.

His shirt got soaked but he didn’t mind, he just held her close,pressing his temple against hers, waiting until she was done. The convulsing gotslower and she merely coughed, her body shaking.

Until she stilled.

Her coughing cut out, her breath sounded like rattling. Then, shesighed – and her muscles lost all tension. When he was sure her body hadcompletely slumped he pressed her tighter, sobs overtaking him. One arm wrappedover her shoulder, his hand clenched into her shirt at her back. His other handtightly buried in her hair to keep her head against his shoulder.

He didn’t even feel it as the healing light washed over them,taking the note with it. She remained still in his arms, unmoving. Too warm.

And he didn’t even feel it as a hand came to a rest on his tremblingback.

Also, I deliberately left out the very last sentence ;) If someone wants to know this sentence, send me an ask ;P

Feel free to send me a prompt! Own list, reblogged list or anything you’d like!

[creativeashproductions]

Travelin’ Soldier Part 4

Summary: Reader is currently deployed in the army to an undisclosed combat area. She has been deployed for nearly two years. Anxiously awaiting her return is her husband and brother as they film for Supernatural. Letter comes informing the family that she may not be heard from for awhile and soon devastating news comes. In italic bold in the story is lyrics.

Characters: husband!Jensen x Reader, Jared x Reader (Twins), Gen, Shepherd, Thomas and Misha.

Words: 3874

Disclaimer: I do not own the title of the song Travelin’ Soldier by the Dixie Chicks at all even with the minor change of lyrics to fit the story. I simply thought it could be a little fighting. Not hate towards Danneel either, as this is simply fiction and not real. I do not own any songs in this either.

Warnings: possible swearing, war, mention of death, a lot of angst as usual, FLUFF and rape DO NOT READ IF THE LAST WARNING BOTHERS YOU. IT’S NOT DETAILED BUT YOU CAN CATCH THE MEANING.

Author: Caitsy

Tagging a few at the end. Send an ask to be tagged, or request something.

A/N:  I want to thank you so much for the support you have sent to Ash and I! I apologize in advance at what is in this. Guys the song Travelin’ Soldier came on shuffle…inspiration again.

Part One Part Two Part Three

Masterlist

Prompt List

War is an inevitable part of society because we instinctively crave destruction, pain, and suffering. People can deny it but it’s a true statement. We tend to forget that behind a gun, grenade, tank, and mask is another human being. We can call them monsters, we can them despicable creatures that deserve to die but they’re humans. We sometimes don’t know right from wrong or wrong from right and that’s fine. It makes us the people we are.

In the position she was currently in she craved the pain to know she’s still alive and fighting. She would admit that her will to fight was starting to waver with the torture they have in all kinds of ways, she was just waiting before the threats towards her family began. The actor label both her husband and brother had was enough to make the captors thirsty for money if they found out.

It was natural end expected shock when her captors opened the door to her dungeon and a small petite girl cautiously walked in. In her hands was a impressive box of medical supples, it seemed they didn’t want her to die. The girl stopped in both shock and fear seeing the amount of dead bodies littering the room. A mother and son on the other side of the room and a little girl in a shell shocked young woman.

“I’m Charlotte.” The girl said shifting uncomfortable on her feet obviously not having being around another female for a long time, “i’m going to patch you up.”

“Whatever.” The lack of tone made Charlotte fear for just a second of her life. The impression aura the girl was giving off with the dead bodies still in the room.

“What’s your name?”

“What’s it matter to you?” Y/N snapped not wanting to get close to some barbie girl living in the wrong world.

“I started out in your position. My father offended these men by giving up one of their own for money. Dad always wanted a lot of money. Instead of taking money, my father gave them me. I was thirteen at the time and then I was married to the leader.” Charlotte said cleaning the wounds on Y/N. Meticulously she made slow swipes being careful to not hurt the girl anymore than she already was.

“Well that sucks.”

“Is America as beautiful as they say it is?” Charlotte questioned focused on sewing one of the worst wounds.

“It depends on who is there to show you around. It’s a big place with scenery to take your breathe away.” Y/N smiled thinking of her country and wished in every cell of her that she could go back.

“I’ve always wanted to go.” Charlotte whispered, “Mom and I are from the States but when I was a baby we moved her. She was going to take me back and live with family.”

Y/N winced from the stab wound was touched, with careful inspection both the girls saw that the wound was infected. With a mumbled curse Charlotte tried her best to follow instructions she had been told by one of the older woman. Everyone in this ring of people were either sold to these people or paying their debts to these people.

“It’s bad isn’t it?” Y/N weakly said emotionally, mentally and physically done with everything that had happened lately. It was painful in every way imaginable, she didn’t know if she would be found but she didn’t want to give up on the promise she made with her family.

“Yeah. They’re known to make sure the weapons they use aren’t clean. There’s no point they don’t expect or desire their victims to live.” Charlotte whispered smiling gently at the physically damaged female.

“I’m not surprised.” Y/N said hitting her head back against the wall, “Why don’t you run away?”

“My husband is a bad person I know. I have something keeping me here, it’s very important to me.”

“It’s not worth it if you’re not happy here.” Y/N urgently stated finding a way to escape, “We can run away, we can to the states and you can have a new life.”

Charlotte hesitated biting her lip hard in deep thought playing with the medical supplies in the first aid kit. Y/N looked down to see that in there was a scalpel, and a pair of sharp medical scissors. She grabbed them and hid them in her boot as Charlotte carefully watched. With a small wavering smile Y/N leant back closing her eyes and ignoring the body laying next to her.

The door banged open to reveal a new member of the sadistic bastards holding her hostage. She watched as Charlotte visibly shivered as if she was scared. The man swaggered in with eyes of a predator stalking its prey. Without much force he threw Charlotte into the wall before dragging her to the middle of the room. The girl was screaming in fear.

“NO! Don’t touch her!” Y/N shouted struggling against the chain around her wrists.

“Mhm. No?” The thick accent made the words almost hard to understand him. The sick smile grew as he looked back at the shaking girl.

“W-What are you doing?! He’ll get angry if you do anything to me!” Charlotte screamed thrashing in the man’s arms.

“He gave me specific instructions sweetie.” The man stated staring at Y/N, “Watching you with the little girl have some insight. You care for young people. Almost too much, this torture will be horrible for and her but fun for me.”

Without another word he slapped the screaming Charlotte sharply while pulling the zipper of his pants down. Y/N’s grew as she realized what was going to happen with her unable to stop him, Charlotte began to sob realizing what was happening too. The panic shattered Y/N as her friend’s pants were viciously torn from the petite girls body along with the modest underwear.

“NO!” Y/N screeched, “Don’t touch her! Leave her alone!”

“Too late.” The man laughed as he continued his assault on the young female.

The room was filled with sickening wet sounds and skin meeting skin along with screams of two traumatized people and a grunting male. Y/N couldn’t take her eyes off the scene not because she was turned on but it was like a car accident. It was impossible not to keeping looking no matter how much she didn’t want to.

Soon everyone in the room heard the rustling of clothing and a zipper going up before the man chuckled again. Leaving the room he whistled ignoring the heavy breathing of two girls breaking down in the worst moment ever.

The onslaught of guilt stacked up from the entire time she had been captive while Charlotte curled into herself shaking not caring about modesty anymore. The choked sobs didn’t stop even as Y/N squeezed her eyes shut trying to go to her happy place with Jensen.

“Why didn’t you stop it.” Charlotte’s voice cracked, “YOU COULD HAVE STOPPED IT!”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Y/N rocked back and forth uncontrollably sobbing wanting to die right there.

                                                〰️〰️〰️

They didn’t get together fast in fact it wasn’t until she was being deployed that they met again with a smile. It was in a cafe that Jared and Jensen came to after a successful week off from filming. Sitting at a table in the back corner was a familiar girl in her army fatigues, it had only been couple months since he first saw her. Jared’s smile turned into a grin while he rushed to the table. The girl in question looked up as if in danger, she relaxed seeing who it was.

“Jared!” Y/N smiled standing up to hug him.

Jensen stopped confused about the entire quickly until he thought about the last name of her and Jared. His eyes comically grew larger as he approached.

“Y/N, how are you?” Jensen asked smiling at her. She returned with a grin of her own.

“Jensen! I haven’t seen you in awhile!” Y/N said getting up to quickly hugged him to the confusion of her twin brother.

“You two know each other?” Jared questioned.

“We met in a busy cafe when I was waiting for my flight.” Y/N explained gesturing to the table. The two man had barely sat down before Jared’s phone with off with a picture of his high school best friend.

“I have to take off. Friend is freaking out. I’ll see you guys later!”

“Wait!” Y/N exclaimed making Jared stop, “I guessing you didn’t get my voicemail?”

“What?” Jared questioned.

“Can I talk to you alone?” Y/N asked moving outside calling out she would be back in a minute, once outside she took a deep breathe, “I wasn’t sure when you would be getting back from filming and you don’t answer the phone when you’re working so I left a voicemail.”

“About what?” Jared questioned.

“I’m being deployed. I leave in two hours at the most. You’re the last to know because you didn’t answer the phone.” Y/N admitted tearing up along with her twin. They pulled each other into a hug, “Go help your best friend. He’s in a bad spot right now, his wife died.”

“I know.” Jared’s voice cracked, “I’ll see you in a few months. Hang out with Jensen. I love you twerp.”

With one last hug the twins went in opposite ways. Y/N kept smiling at people giving their gratitude for help their country until she sat down with Jensen.

“I got a question.” Y/N said biting her lip.

“Okay shoot.” Jensen said taking a sip from his coffee. He grinned watching the twinkle in the woman’s eyes.

“I bet you got a girlfriend but I don’t care, I got no one to send a letter to, would you mind if I send one back here to you?” Y/N questioned shyly. Her cheeks turning a rosy pink colour. The blush and words sent Jensen into a mess of butterflies.

“What about your family?” Jensen asked biting his lip.

“It’s hard to share stuff with people that you grew up with.” Y/N sadly smiled, “I’m being deployed and I want someone to lean on.”

“Well consider us pen pals.” Jensen grinned. He knew in that moment he was going to marry this girl.

The coffee was forgotten again in the conversation.

                                                〰️〰️〰️

Jensen’s lifted the glass to his lips taking a deep gulp of the mixture in the seedy bar that reminded him of Supernatural. It was the bars that Sam and Dean would go to after a hunt and for the first Jensen couldn’t figure out if he was Dean or Jensen at that moment.

Immediately after they stopped yelling at Sgt. Michaels Jensen had fled the scene to get a drink because he was fucking done with everything. His wedding ring in hand he twirled it around remembering when he proposed and married Y/N.

He had never been in some much agony before as much as he was right now. God he was conflicted because he didn’t know if he wife was going to come even remotely fine. He heard a husky whisper of his name before he turned to the side to see Ellie again. Her eyes shown with the amount of alcohol she must have had.

“Well look what the mouse dragged in…” Ellie giggled, “I think that’s wrong.”

“Yeah it’s a cat.”

“Ooh you want my pussy?” Ellie giggled again. Jensen’s eyes went wide and he began choking on his drink.

“WHAT THE HELL?” Jensen exclaimed blushing at the blunt words, “I’m married!”

“Widowed and Boo is adorable!”

“She’s not dead. We got new she’s not dead. I’m not having sex with you.”

“Aw is it because I’m not skinny as you want?” Ellie pouted slouching in her seat.

“What?” Jensen frowned getting whiplash at her mood, “Uh…you’re pretty and it doesn’t matter what a scale reads. It only matters that you’re a nice and kind person that shouldn’t drink so much.”

“Wanna go to my place.” Ellie winked.

“Look you’re a sweet girl but I’m not the guy for you.” Jensen mumbled patting her hand that had landed a little too high before pushing her hand off.

“I-I don’t feel so good.” Ellie mumbled before leaning to the side and releaseng a shit ton of puke. 
“Okay. We should get you home.” Jensen mumbled waving the bartender over, “Can you put her stuff on my tab?”

“Can’t do that. Her father owns the bar, she can have as much as she wants.” The bartender bitterly said wiping the counter down, “Her apartment is upstairs.”

Jensen nodded dragging the plastered girl up the flight of stairs into a nicely furbished loft that was art everywhere. He looked in the living room to be on the coffee table to see that there was a bong sitting there. Ellie giggled trying to kiss the man. He placed her on the couch while dodging the kiss.

“Come os stay.” Ellie slurred.

“No. You’re drunk, I’m married and I don’t like you.” Jensen swiftly replied getting her a glass of water.

“Its not like you’ll have sex with her again. The wife you knew isn’t there anymore, she’s probably been raped.” Ellie giggled, “So what’s stopping you from hitting me?”

                                                〰️〰️〰️

Jared was lightly bouncing his daughter cooing up at as he told her a story while Gen was putting the boys to bed.

“Did you know you’re aunt always pushed me into roles. No matter how bad they were she always gave me this glare and would tell me that unless I wasn’t her twin I would be auditioning.  She’s a great person but an even better sister.” Jared kissed the side of her side as she giggled, “She’s the reason I met your mommy.”

“She’s also the one that told me to go for you.” Gen chuckled taking their daughter into her arms, “You’re aunt told, ‘at least one twin should get you and I’m straight as can be so Jared is the answer’ and I was laughing hard.”

Jared let a full fledged laugh out not having heard that before as Gen sent him and wink as she began to go upstairs again.

“I’ll put her to bed. I’m going to have a bath and you’ll write the letter as usual.” Gen chuckled walking up the stairs again leaving her husband to his thoughts. Jared made his way to the kitchen where a binder sat with a pen next to it.

Jared open the highest cupboard where a bottle of alcohol sat, he poured himself a healthy dose before sitting at the table again. He took a sip before opening the binder up to start his new letter. He needed the alcohol because she’s alive and he had to write a letter.

Dear Y/N,

I don’t know how many letter I’ve wrote trying to get my feelings out without hurting someone or drinking. That’s not something I could put any through. I’m nervous about this letter and I had to break out the good alcohol, the first hard stuff we tried as teens.

Today was supposed to be your funeral that had been pushed back before. Sergeant Elias Michaels showed up to inform us of something. They’ve been trailing you for the last little while and under strict order weren’t allowed to tell us. A couple months it turned into a unit, your unit, to rescue you. They’ve left to do so and while I know you’ll come back alive I don’t how you’ll be when you’re back. Jensen freaked out them out of everyone, I had to drag him outside before he assault a government soldier. That wouldn't have went over well and even though I wanted to beat that guys face in I didn’t. Someone needs to hold everyone together but I’m falling apart instead and I don’t know if i can survive if you die. I love you and I will support you but please come back soon.

I don’t have any other words to be honest because you’ll come back read these letters and laugh at me. I can hear the teasing you would have done if you found me writing letters but you don’t deserve something as impersonal as an email. Come back safe okay?

With Gratitude,

Your twin.

                                                〰️〰️〰️

It was the following morning when Charlotte, now a prisoner too, dragged herself to sit next to Y/N, her hands shackled also. They were both silent staring unfocused into the distance with the sound of betrayal in the air. She didn’t know how to approach Charlotte about the man forcing himself on her but she should.

“Do you still have those weapons?” Charlotte’s scratchy voice asked. She hadn’t made a sound other than screaming because the sheer trauma was resting heavily on her shoulders along with the bruises on her lower body already.

“Yes.” Y/N hesitating on why she was asking.

“We need to get out. In my hair is a pin, I’m guessing you know how to pick them?”

“Yeah.”

With some flexibility Y/N had the pin in her mouth as she patiently waited to clear the click, she wore in her excitement she almost swallowed the pin. Once freed she rubbed her wrists together and quickly helped Charlotte out of them. Grinning the woozy girl cracked stretching as she dug into her boot and pulled out the medical scalpel and scissors.

“Okay you have training and I know you’re close to death but I can’t fight.” Charlotte whispered watching the door carefully.

“I’ll try. You run as fast as you can and get help.” Y/N mumbled nodding her thanks before getting the plan in motion.

Stumbling to the door she wrenched it open to see an empty hall, making use of her she hid the shadows as she moved. She had been about to open the door when the click of guns sounded. She gulped throwing the scalpel behind her hearing the scream before turning.

A man with knife managed to grasp her and stick the knife to her neck intending to split her from ear to ear. She gasped.

“Now now. Boys drop the toys. She’s got heart, I like her. Maybe in a couple months she can be one of us.” The voice said shocking Y/N as if someone had dumped freezing water on her head.

                                                〰️〰️〰️

Jensen woke up in a sweat hearing your pleading voice in his head as he panicked before calming down. He was alone and you weren’t dying in front of him. He had taken a nap on the couch because he was exhausted and he would admit a little hungover. He didn’t even notice that Misha was cleaning the mess around the house.

“Hey Jensen.” Misha’s deep voice said as he placed another energy drink can in the garbage bag, “Jared couldn’t come over so he mentioned me coming to visit you. I decided I should clean a little.”

“Uh…thanks.” Jensen mumbled stretching, “Was I screaming?”

“No. You jerked a few times but I thought it would be best if you slept longer.”

“I don’t want to sleep. Wake me up next time, I’m taking a shower.” Jensen exclaimed storming out of the room to the bathroom where he had last had you in there.

                                                〰️〰️〰️

You were practically cackling as your husband playfully bit your shoulder as you tried to finishing wash up in the shower. He wasn’t having that and inside was trying to seduce you into shower sex again. You couldn’t stop giggling but you were absolutely having trouble not giving in.

“J!” You laughed, “Stop! We have dinner with your parents!”

“They can wait half an hour longer. I want to have my way with my wife.” Jensen huskily said into your ear. His hand barely caressing your skin just below your belly button, “I can get you screaming in a minute, I know you’re body almost better than you. Come on honey, release some tension.”

“Mhm. Well if you want this I guess I could do something for you.” You moaned before swiftly turning and dropping to your knees with a wink, “Let’s see if you last longer. I know your body almost as well as you say you know mine.”

Jensen’s eyes went wide with a gasp as your lips wrapped around him with delicate movements that were hot as hell for him. He clenched his jaw and threw his head back as pure bliss flooded his body. He sucked in a large amount of air when you did a new thing with your hands and mouth; something he never felt in his life to be honest.

“Holy fuck!” He yelled as the pleasure intensified. You hummed in appreciation of his praise causing a whimper from him.

Jensen’s parents were finishing placing the food as the table when their son and daughter-in-law wandered into the home. Half heartedly apologizing for you lateness you quickly helped pour ice tea into the glasses sitting upside down.

“Have fun?”  Alan chuckled placing the ham on the table. He knew exactly why they were later than usual to dinner. Especially with the love bites on both of your necks that you probably were unaware of.

“Yeah.” Jensen winked at you. You turned a strawberry colour as a giggle released from your lips, “It was great watching that mov-“

“I remember when your mom and I would use your nap times as our-“

“DAD!” Jensen exclaimed blushing at the implication. You couldn’t help but laugh when Donna sent a scathing look to her husband, “Come on! I don’t want to hear about you and Mom! Dear god it’s almost as if I walked in on you.

“What? We’re all adults here.” Alan chuckled, “We’re aren’t monks J. You wouldn’t believe they amount of times you kids nearly walked in on us.”

“I know.” He shuddered, “Let’s not talk about that stuff, I’m hungry and I don’t want to be scarred for life.”

“Wait until your child is sitting with you along with their spouse. Mark my words this conversation will happen again with you children.” Alan winked before sitting down with his family. The ham was cut with a trained precision over the years among the laughter around the table as stories were told.

                                                 〰️〰️〰️

He rubbed a towel over his hair as he yanked on a clean pair of boxers and some grey sweats. He wasn’t leaving the house so he left the shirt off instead as he walked down to the now clean house. Misha was in the kitchen with food waiting on the counter.

“Made some food. Eat, and we’ll watch a movie.” Misha demanded pointing to the chair. Jensen didn’t bother arguing as he dug into the food.

“I should hire you as my cook.” Jensen mumbled.

“I’m good.” Misha laughed.

“Hey Misha? Thank you.” Jensen smiled at one of his closest friends. His friend pulled him into a hug swiftly and the tears fell again.

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