#Death like sleep? More like thin goddamn ice

[hulloitsdani]

Well if ain't the consequences of their own actions! How we feeling about the new FEH book guys?

[merichita]

(Goddamn I was finally able to write at least my character's personality and more, buaa. Btw this was translated so any mistakes are not my fault!)

Dr. Harlow

Personality:

Kind and calm at first sight but inside he is just someone empty who needs to use everything in his favor to survive and cure himself of the parasite that consumes him. Harlow is the type of person who will always be kind to manipulate others for their own good, he resorts to this only when it is new information about a possible cure for his parasite or also for other personal reasons, you never know...He has the perfectionism syndrome, where you want to achieve impossible goals and have everything perfect at the same time, which can be understandable due to where you work and what you specialize in, nuclear physics and radiation. He is a little "dishonest" with his own things, in fact almost all of his sanity has worsened since he became home to the parasite or rather: part of it. Even so, his morality is based on the fact that death is not the solution to diseases, that there may be something far beyond where we can find a cure for everything. Basically someone very ambitious for the common "good", he is such an excellent persuader that you will not realize the consequences of the actions required by Harlow's request. He still tries to be useful and help, understand and seek cures, these thoughts originated in his childhood.

He has a fear of getting sick, since his body does not have the best defenses like others. This fear originated as a child and continued until he was an adult, but now with the parasite he no longer gets sick as often, according to his words...Something that not even he admits is that he has hysteria, influenced by his family, specifically his mother's family, deep down he lies to himself that everything is fine with his mentality and health, although not be true.

Family and childhood:

Mother, father and a younger brother! (I will talk about him later since they are both united in each other) childhood is considered the helplessness of not being able to have done anything to cure his mother of her madness. When Harlow was born she was occasionally mistaken for being delicate because she got sick quickly, which her mother associated with her being a "delicate child" and was given the name "Lily" whenever her mother was awake or quiet...Her mother suffered from schizophrenia and was also influenced by family hysteria, which is why she often had violent attacks on her own children. Harlow's father was not present at all, probably sleeping with other women because his wife did not satisfy him for being "crazy." And lastly, to his brother, when he was born, Harlow always protected him from his mother's outbursts so they were always together like this, although their relationship is too complicated at the moment, they are both on thin ice and if they make a bad step everything will crumbles. (I will talk about this when I upload information about the brother since he is another of my ocs that I want to talk about :3!)

SCP Foundation:

He discovered the SCP foundation by persuading a co-worker about where he worked, successfully getting his co-worker to take his recommendation to the SCP foundation, which worked well, and he was admitted and joined the research department, specializing in nuclear physics and radiation, thus over time raising the security level with a lot of effort. He has too much grudge against 05 because they did nothing regarding the parasite case, yet he refrained from doing anything foolish knowing that he is on thin ice with them so he continued to be cooperative with the SCP Foundation to have more trust from his superiors and make the most of it. He mostly isn't so hard on the newbies because he somehow feels some empathy because he reminds him of his brother. So if you see a man waving at you from a distance, get closer, he's just the one wanting to start a conversation with you and get to know you better.

Personal data and details!!

(his clothes, his open eyes and how his hair works)

• Has nosophobia and hysteria

• The brooch that he wears around his neck was a gift from his mother, his brother also wears one of his but the jewel is a different color than his.

• During a containment breach he met SCP-706, where they had a small talk where they became friends, since that day Harlow occasionally visits SCP-706's containment cell as he sees her as a younger sister.

• The four little moles under each eye is something unique among his family that was inherited from his mother

• His favorite animals are owls and seals

• he is a person who can convince anyone of anything

• His favorite flower is hydrangeas and the ones he hates the most are lilies.

• he calls himself with his last name but never with his first name, since he has never mentioned it.

• One of the employees who has never gone to therapy and does not even attend the monthly psychological evaluations, ignoring that, no matter how much he needs it.

[bolivershagnasty]

The water is French.

It would be so much funnier if the water was Polish.

But that would be too obvious. In reality, the water is French. It's sold for the value that it's all about revolution, but it's about killing the world for a buck.

Killing the world to make the plastic. KILLING the WORLD with the plastic. Ending the WORLD for now is taking too long. That's why it's painful. We see it happen so slowly, but just fast enough for us to notice a change in our lifetimes.

And it's everything. Not just the Perrier.

It's the food, the fuel, the flood of fun flashing into our eyeballs 18 waking hours a day.

It could've at least been 16. Damn! I want some sleep. Like last year, dawg. I'm living on credit now and I'm almost maxxed out. Fried like a pumpkin. Carve the way out.

Breaking my laws. Filled with sauce. Hit the bong. It's so hard to be healthy, when garbage is so cheap.

I want a farm with some sheep. A garden with peas. Slow dance on the patio. With my darling, please.

And the kids can go to sleep. We'll kiss under the stars and won't make a peep.

Get up at dawn. Shake the dew of the lawn. Ice plunge real deep.

Till we're shaking. Sauna and a daydream. Break me before life can; And baying death from the reap.

Biding time to the inevitable.

These days that looks like going backwards. That's the opposite of pro-gress. pfft! what? Is that congress?

I wouldn't have to spell that out so goddamn much if we had more God in our lives. Man, maybe it's me. I need more. Because I can't fix anything outside myself If I can't fix what's inside me first.

It's such an easy decision. It's like dieting. You choose to go without.

Without the sin, haram, hedonism, and satan. Without the lack of accountability and humility. Without blindly following. Without running from reality.

Man that sounds pretty hard. But only if you look at it without the grace of God.

I am never alone.

I am never alone.

If I can be an example. And I can be good a father, who puts God and family first, then I can improve this world 4 times over.

To create a borderless nation, unbound by the house of cards we built to keep us from the rain.

To live in the sun in the Garden of Eden, where true love and power lies.

But I can't do it if I submit to all these distractions. This hormone riddled, glutinous, preservative sandwich. 5 screens a day keeps my spine one way. Content and Content on Content and Content. Keeps my mind from being content. From making my rent. From making my bed. From reaching what I'm meant.

And we consume, like cancer. And procreate the ideology so fast. That it's killing us in the process.

Anything that tries to increase the size of its own footprint at the expens of others is cancer. A vampire. The man who wants to take the lifeforce of boys to become "immortal." Thin the wick to just a thread. That candle won't stay lit.

That consumption creates wars… That we need to pay the bills… And we're turning into human capital-- to batteries for the government to suck dry, and to use our flesh as collateral on another loan to build another gun to rob another bank with.

And we sit here, powerless… Mowing down classrooms and marching down paved public roads.

Electing official scam artists who are just looking for a way out too. They want to at least be the bread throwers at the circus, because the bread thrower gets to eat some crumbs on the side, and she gets to at least be looked at.

And the bread lasts 3 weeks. Not long enough to last till payday when you're poor, but long enough to notice that ain't real bread.

And the water is French. The TV is Korean. The hits are automated. And the love is packaged, bought and used up daily.

Meanwhile, it's the fall of the empire. It happens every time. Like a breathe that was overfilled and held too long. I was bound to pop, so you puked it out and started coughing. You have to stop breathing for a good minute and your heart skipped a few beats. You're not going in the pool again after that one. What a shame.

It happens every time. And the hubris of man is matched and beaten only by the hubris of politicians. They think they are an entire nation, the mouthpiece, the wallet, and the hands… but no eyes and a misplaced asshole. Shitting on the populace that gave it life.

Who try so hard, but are never heard. Who scream and yell, but speak no words. While their mouth is open, the keep eating. And rotting. And plotting. And failing.

And if you know, you know.. God. You know.. and you never need to know:

Why do the nations conspire & the people plot in vain?

starts: The water is French.

ends: Why do the nations conspire & the people plot in vain?

[separatist-apologist]

Lucien Vanserra + The Villain Theory & Why the Mating Bond Is Not Fake

I've been thinking about this for a while and I've decided I want to debunk this because of all the *insert character that is definitely not the villain becoming a secret villain*, Lucien is most definitely not it.

The theory, according to tiktok, is that Lucien is a secret schemer who has tricked everyone, including Elain, into believing they are mates for undefined, suspicious reasons likely related to Koschei. I find this unlikely considering his "father" is ALSO scheming with Koschei and Lucien likely has some awareness of this considering how often Eris is suddenly hanging around.

This is so long. Everything is under the cut.

However, lets pretend he doesn't. There is consistent, contextual proof that Lucien a) could not make up a mating bond even if he wanted to and b) everyone would know if he had.

Starting in ACOTAR, Tamlin tells Feyre the story of Lucien. On page 160, Tamlin says:

"Lucien said he didn't care she wasn't one of the High Fae, that he was certain the mating bond would snap soon and that he was going to marry her and leave his father's court to his scheming brothers."

Followed up on page 161, Tamlin adds:

"...his father has never apologized and his brothers are too frightened of me to risk harming him. But he has never forgotten what they did to her...even if he pretends he has."

That's ACOTAR. I know SJM likes to change things on a whim, but foundationally, this is Lucien's character and across all five books, it never changes. Lucien is still haunted by Jesminda and the mating bond he lost. He firmly believes, if we believe Tamlin to be a reliable narrator (and we should, as Lucien backs Tamlin's opinion up in his private thoughts. It is also worth noting that if Lucien has a villain origin story, it begins right here, the moment his father beheads Jesminda. To assume he's the villain, we ought to believe that he's been scheming non-stop for at least 200 years (since he's like, 300ish?) and to what end? To kill Beron? He'd have been scheming far longer than Elain was alive.

Moving right along to ACOMAF, on page 619, Amren says:

"And the bond," Amren breathed, Cassian's blood shining on her hands as she slowed its dribbling.

Mor said, "She asked the king to break the bond. He obliged."

I thought I might be dying- thought my chest might actually be cleaved in two.

"Thats impossible," Amren said. "That sort of bond cannot be broken."

"The kind said he could do it."

"The king is a fool," Amren barked. "That sort of bond cannot be broken."

"No, it can't," I said.

This is from Rhys' perspective. A mating bond can't be broken with magic- it's forever. Even rejected or in death (we'll get there), the mating bond is for life. Assuming Lucien's mate was Jesminda, even if it hadn't snapped in death, she would STILL be his mate and death would not have changed that. Neither would any magic Lucien, a spell-cleaver, might possess.

Let's also consider Elain, who has no reason to lie and every reason to call Lucien out regarding the bond. In ACOMAF, page 608, we see this:

"...Elain was staring over Nesta's shoulder. At Lucien-whose face she had finally taken in. Dark brown eyes met one of russet and one of metal. Nesta was still weeping, still raging, still inspecting Elain-

Lucien's hands slackened at his sides. His voice broke as he whispered to Elain, "You're my mate."

It's Elain who sees him first, who feels the mating bond mere seconds before Lucien. Why choose Elain, if you're going to pick a fake mate for your scheme? The argument is generally that she has the least amount of knowledge about Faeries and no interest in that education but how would Lucien know that? Feyre told Lucien nothing about her sisters (she told Ianthe instead), which means he would have had to guess. Given that Elain fights being put in the Cauldron, there's nothing contextually in that moment that suggests that Lucien somehow knew she was the easier sister to fool.

It's also worth noting that Lucien, up until that moment, still genuinely believes Jesminda was his mate. If he's the villain, having a fake mate makes no sense to the story or his plans.

Feyre has been inside Lucien's mind twice. Once in ACOMAF (pg. 95):

"Thoughts slammed into me, images and memories, a pattern of thinking and feeling that was old, and clever, and sad, so endlessly sad and guilt-ridden, hopeless-"

And again in ACOWAR when Lucien meets Elain for the first time. On page 249, we get the best description of what Lucien is feeling regarding the mating bond, all through Feyre's perspective:

"Too thin. She must not be eating at all. How can she even stand?

The thoughts flowed through his head, one after another. His heart was a raging, thunderous beat, and he didn't dare move from his position a mere five feet away. She hadn't yet turned toward him, but the ravages of her fasting were evident enough.

Touch her, smell her, taste her-

The instincts were running a river. he fisted his hands at his sides."

"But there she was. His mate. She was nothing like Jesminda."

"Elain had been...thrown at him."

"That circle of people who now claimed to be Feyre's new family...It was what, long ago, he'd once thought life at Tamlin's court would be. An ache like a blow to the chest went through him, but he crossed the rug."

"But he couldn't breathe as she faced him fully. She was the most beautiful female he'd ever seen. Betrayal, queasy and oily, slid through his veins. He'd said the same to Jesminda once. But even as shame washed through him, the words, the senses chanted, Mine. You are mine, and I am yours."

"She looked away- towards the windows. 'I can hear your heart,' she said quietly. He wasn't sure how to respond, so he said nothing and drained his tea even as it burned his mouth.

'When I sleep,' she murmured, 'I can hear your heart beating through the stone.' She angled her head, as if the city view held some answer. 'Can you hear mine?'

He wasn't sure if she truly meant to address him, but he said, 'No, lady. I cannot.'"

These are Lucien's thoughts from Feyre's perspective. He has no idea she's in his head, so why is he thinking all those things? Why feel guilt that he finds her beautiful or that he'd once said all the same things to Jesminda that he thinks about Elain? Why care about her well-being? We know mates are driven to protect and Lucien's very first thoughts about Elain are ones of concern. She's not eating, she's too thin, how can she possibly stand? Not, hahaah my evil planned worked and I totally have an in with the Night Court (which, why would he need considering Tamlin is currently allied with Hybern and Lucien could have taken full advantage of that?).

Additionally, assuming Lucien is faking the mating bond for some poorly defined, evil plot, why keep such distance? Why not force himself on her? That's the claim, right? That he's forcing her to be with him which is amusing because in ACOFAS, Lucien has some thoughts on page 162"

"'How is she?'

'Better. She makes no mention of her abilities. If they remain.'

'Good. But is she still...' A muscle flickered in his jaw. 'Does she still mourn him?'"

First question he asks. "How is she?" Followed by if she's still in love with her ex-fiance. And I can hear the screaming now, "HE ASKED BECAUSE HE WANTS TO OWN HER" but like, on page 165 of ACOFAS, we get:

"I can't stand to be in the same room as her for more than two minutes."

Truly a stupid plan to fake a mating bond with a person that is causing you to be eaten alive with guilt and longing. We know the second he's around her, Lucien's is overwhelmed with the mating instincts and feels guilt over Jesminda, which is why he spends little time around Elain. He also tells Feyre, on that same page, he doesn't want his life to be financed by Rhysand. Feyre practically begs Lucien to move back to Velaris, to work for her full time, to let her set him up somewhere nicer and Lucien declines it all. If his plan hinged on getting closer to the IC, to using Rhys' resources, why tell her no? Why not take her up on it? Why not make him part of her life in a much more tangible way?

And finally, the dreaded scent of the mating bond. Feyre doesn't risk talking to Rhys when she's in Spring for fear of alerting everyone to the scent of the bond. Azriel, too, cannot stand the smell of it to the point he stands in the doorway during solstice rather than come in.

Ladies, Gentleman, and Non-binary pals of the jury, examine the evidence. For Lucien to be a villain, he has to KNOW that Feyre is a daemati before she does and both leave his thoughts unguarded while constantly assuming she MIGHT be picking through them. He also has to be able to control large amounts of people at the same time via the smell of the bond and Elain being able to feel it. When he tugs, she responds.

It would require everyone around them to be incredibly dumb. Feyre and Rhys basically share a mind and while they don't necessarily trust Lucien (unfairly imo), I firmly believe one of them would have picked up on a fake bond or Lucien's scheming.

Lucien wanted Jesminda, not Elain. If he decided to punish the world around him for the consistent pain he was enduring, he doesn't need Elain to achieve this. He's friends with Feyre. He has contacts all over Prythian. He didn't need to fake a mating bond, nor does it make any sense to do so. What they have is REAL.

And lastly, the bond can't be broken. Rejected, yes, broken no. Regardless if you think they'll keep it or not, they ARE mates and Lucien is NOT the villain who will be heroically slaughtered. They're awkward, they're uncomfortable, they have shit to work out but they ARE mates, and Lucien has proven over and over that all he wants is a home and goddamn peace and quiet.

[helliontherapscallion]

Catching Up (Adrenaline Junkie Part 9)

Part 1     Part 2     Part 3     Part 4     Part 5     Part 6     Part 7     Part 8     Part 10     Part 11     Part 12     Part 13     Part 14     Part 15     Part 16     Part 17

Spotify Playlist (collaborative)

Warnings: swearing

Word count: 2,156         

“Did you kidnap a child?”

“I can ex- wait what? Of course I didn’t! Why would you think that?”

“Well, for starters, you just came home with a random kid! What were-”

“Dad. I didn’t kidnap anybody, especially Arthur,” you said exasperated. “It started when I was leaving the village.”

And so, you told your dad about how you met Arthur. Needless to say, he was furious. “(Y/n) (m/n) Minecraft, you yelled at a child? Not just a child, but an orphan that was so clearly in need of help?! I raised you better than that.”

“Dad, I know that yelling at kids is wrong. Just-just let me finish.”

He gave you a wicked side eye and nodded at you to continue. “So then he told me that he was alone. That he had no family. I couldn’t just leave him out there Dad. He would’ve been alone in the city. Hell, he’s been alone for god knows how long already” you ran a stressed hand through your already messy hair. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask you if he could crash here-”

“(Y/n).”

“-but he could’ve got hurt! The village’s dangerous at night-”

“(Y/n).”

“Do you know how many people get mugged there just in a day? God, I can’t imagine him getting hurt, he’s so young and-”

“(Y/n) (m/n) Minecraft.” Your hand froze in your hair. “...Yeah?”

“It was a good idea to bring him here. But there’s gotta be someone out there looking for him.”

“I really don’t think so Dad. You saw him when I brought him here, he looked like he didn’t get a proper bath in months! Even if he did have someone, I’d rather him be here instead of with the bastards that left him like that.”

He sighed. “You’re right. I remember when I found you when you were a baby. Your biological parents were awful, they ignored you. I found you on the porch, they must’ve left you there overnight. You were filthy and you were so small and fragile. I remember being so pissed that they treated you like that, but they never gave me their names.”

You squinted at him. “You’ve never told me that. You told me that you found me in an alleyway.”

“I didn’t want to tell you how I actually found you, it was never important for you to know.”

“What do you mean it’s not impor-” you stopped yourself. That’s not important right now. “We’re going to talk about this later. Right now, we need to talk about Arthur before he gets out of the shower.”

Glancing at the clock, you felt worry engulf your being. “Speaking of, he’s been in there a while, do you think he’s okay?” You felt your heart drop. “What if he slipped!” You stood up in a panic. Philza pulled you back onto the bed giving you a knowing look.

“He’s okay hun. Remember, he’s probably just enjoying the shower.”

You bounced your leg. “You’re right, you’re right… What’s with that look?”

“What look?”

“That look.”

“I just think-”

You heard a knock on your door and a small voice calling your name. Immediately jumping up and forgetting about the conversation, you opened your door. 

“Hey buddy, have a good shower?”

He yawned, rubbing at his eye with a closed fist. The pajamas he wore were slightly too big, but he would grow into them. His auburn hair that he came in the house with was now a brilliant copper color and you could now make out freckles dotting his pale cheeks.

“Mhm.”

You softly smiled at him and grabbed his hand leading him to Wilbur’s old room since it had the comfiest bed. You helped the small-statured boy into the large bed and he flopped down without pulling the covers over himself. You huffed in amusement, pulling the soft blankets out from under him and tucking him in.

You spoke in a calm voice, not wanting to disrupt the peace that engulfed the room. You gently brushed the hair out of his face. “Sleep well, Artie.”

As you stood up and turned to walk away, he grabbed the back of your shirt. Glancing back, you saw that he had his eyes groggily half-open and he stared at you blearily. “Stay?”

Oh, you couldn’t say no to that. Feeling your heart melt, you whispered “of course buddy.” You pulled up an old chair and sat next to the bedside holding his small hand in your larger one. He was out like a light. 

He was so small for his age. It was probably because of the malnutrition from being homeless, and that broke your heart. Your poor, poor baby.

…Wait.

Wait.

Your poor baby? What the fuck were you thinking? This child doesn’t even know you, you only met him earlier in the day. And yet, you already felt affectionate towards him. You wanted to protect him from danger. Why were you feeling like this?

You heard the door creak open and a small sliver of light streamed into the room. Philza poked his head through the small crack in the door. He smiled at you when he saw you sitting next to Arthur holding his hand as he slept. Reaching in an arm, he gestured for you to follow him before slipping out and closing the door.

Reluctantly, you slowly let go of the boy’s slender hand and quietly opened the nightstand drawer. You pulled out a pen and paper and wrote a quick note for him in the morning in your messy handwriting.

“Arthur, when you wake up, Philza and I’ll be downstairs making breakfast. Hope you like bacon and eggs : )

-(Y/n)”

You placed the paper on the nightstand where you hoped that Arthur would see when he woke up and quietly left the room. Philza leaning against the wall greeted you. He was smiling softly at you. He once again gestured for you to follow him downstairs.

Philza felt ecstatic that you were going to give him another grandson. Even if you would inevitably deny being a parental figure to Arthur, he knew that you were going to accept it sooner or later. He raised you, so he should know when you deeply care for someone. Arthur and you both shared a love for innovation and creativity, so he knew that you two would bond over that. He felt like soaring high in the sky. He was so happy that there’s going to be another addition to the family soon. 

He sat you down onto the couch and disappeared into the kitchen. A few moments later, he came back with two steaming mugs of hot chocolate. Your favorite.

“Thanks.”

“Anytime hun.”

You both sat in a comfortable silence on the couch and stared into the crackling flame in the fireplace. The fire swirled with various reds, oranges, and yellows illuminating the living room. You closed your eyes for a brief moment, savoring the flavor of the chocolate and the smell of smoke with the fire popping in the background. You felt relaxed.

“So, how’s Tommy and Wilbur? Are they adjusting well to L’manberg?”

“Oh, they’re thriving. Wilbur’s a natural leader so he’s in his element and Tommy’s always exploring with Tubbo. They get into trouble sometimes, but they always come back in one piece, so I’m not worried about them. They’re having fun.”

“And you?”

“I set up my new workshop next to the capitol building. I think I’m gonna start selling some of the stuff I make, I think it’d make a decent profit.”

“I think that’s a great idea. Ya know that the people in the village are crazy about you, right?”

You groaned, dragging your hand down your face tiredly. “How could I not? I hate it.”

“Why would you hate it? They really admire your work, you should appreciate that.”

“Dad, I do appreciate that they admire my work, but do you remember how they treated me when I first went there after I lost my wing? They treated me like a fucking outcast. And now they’re acting like they actually know me and that they were always friends with me. I know everybody deserves a second chance, but I can’t help but feel like they’re on thin ice.” 

“People change hun. Maybe they realize that how they treated you was wrong and they want to make amends?”

“That’s the thing. They’re only treating me like this only because of my inventions. I can only tolerate it for so long. I don’t even know why they’re treating me like this, I’m not special. I’m just another person.”

“...You aren’t gonna let a few two-faced people ruin your vacation, right?”

“No.”

His cheeks slowly stretched into a smile. “Why? Who are you?”

“I’m (y/n)?”

“I said who. Are. You?”

You spoke up a little more confidently, but kept your voice down. “I’m (y/n) (m/n) Minecraft.”

He quietly laughed. “Damn right you are. You’re ‘(Y/n) Minecraft, Conqueror of the Unknown’. You’re (y/n) goddamn Minecraft and don’t you forget it.”

You chuckled. “You read that book? ‘(Y/n) Minecraft, Conqueror of the Unknown’ was a bit too dramatic for my taste.”

“Why wouldn’t I read something all about my precious little inventor?” He drug out with an overly sweet tone.

“Dad, I’m 20 years old. I’m not little anymore.”

He slung an arm across your shoulders and pulled you into his side. “I know, I know, but you’ll always be my child.”

You sighed and leaned into him. You haven’t spent any time with him since you left the house to help Wilbur and Tommy fight for independence, so this felt nice. “I missed you Dad.”

“Not a day goes by where I don’t miss you or your brothers. It’s way too quiet around here without you four.”

“Do you remember when Tommy put green dye in the shampoo to try and prank me?”

An almost silent laugh reverberated throughout his chest, sounding slightly muffled. “Of course I do. It took at least a few weeks to get it off my skin and a full month after that to get it out of my hair.”

“You should’ve seen his face when I walked into the kitchen in the morning,” you deepen your voice. “‘If you’re not in the shower, then who is?’ Aaaannd then you walked into the kitchen looking like you lost a fight with a witch.” You snorted. “You didn’t know why everyone was staring at you.”

He huffed. “You guys didn’t even tell me until after breakfast.”

“Have you seen yourself in the mornings? You’re literally so grumpy. We didn’t have a death wish.”

“Hey, I’m not that bad in the morning, Mx. I-can’t-function-without-eight-hours-of-sleep.”

“At least I’m fully awake in the morning.”

“Oh, wow, what a zinger,” he said in a monotone voice.

You reached up to playfully slap his arm. “Shuddup.”

You both quietly laughed before the room fell back into a comfortable silence. You took a deep breath. “Arthur knows about The Warden. What it did to me”

You felt him tense up and heard his heart start to beat a little faster. He moved his arm away and leaned back to look you in the eyes.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. He said that he knew what happened and he needed my help. He… he said that The Warden took someone important to him.”

“Was it his paren-”

“I don’t know. I’m going to talk to him about it tomorrow.”

“Do you want me to talk to him with you?”

“I don’t know if Arthur’s comfortable with that yet. I’m not even sure if he trusts me enough to tell me.”

You grabbed your’s and Philza’s empty mugs and took them to the kitchen. You ran your hands down your face. You felt very drained after everything that happened today. You weren’t used to so much human interaction, let alone people staring at you like you were some kind of deity when you weren’t. You leaned against the sink and closed your eyes. 

“(Y/n), I’m turning in for the night. Is there anything you need before I go to bed?”

“No, thank you Dad.”

“Alright, goodnight. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

You heard his retreating footsteps gradually fade out and the room was thick with silence yet again. The darkness in the room was cut by the moonlight streaming in through the window. Your mind was racing as you remembered that you were going to have to talk to Arthur about The Warden soon. 

You hadn’t talked about The Warden for years and now you were being forced into it. You didn’t think you were ready. You wanted to move on with your life, but The Warden was inevitable. It was everywhere around you. It won’t ever leave you alone, will it?

You didn’t think you were going to get much sleep tonight.

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[sagamemes]

the sheridan tapes  📼  part two.   here and under the cut, you can find over 130 lines of dialogue from the horror podcast the sheridan tapes, specifically from episodes four to six, edited for roleplay purposes. some of these focus heavily on survival, war, science, and spooky stuff, but a lot can be used by anyone.  tw:  war, unreality, a mention of cannibalism, implications of manic behaviour.

❝  god, i hate snowstorms like this. not just getting caught in them, but the storms themselves. it feels like the earth’s trying to bury me alive every time it locks in like this. like nature’s rightly pissed off at all of us and doing its level best to crush us to death.  ❞

❝  that’s what yom kippur means:  the day of atonement.  ❞

❝  that wasn’t the first time i’ve caught him in my office, going through my stuff.  ❞

❝  normally i’d be annoyed at someone calling me young lady.  ❞

❝  thank you… you are so warm… thank you for letting me in.  ❞

❝  suddenly, everything fell into place. i made more progress than i had in about half a year.  ❞

❝  the thing i remember most was catching disapproving glances from my father every time i went to the library.  ❞

❝  why does time only run forward?  why does cause need to precede effect?  ❞

❝  no one knows if they can trust me with casework or not.  ❞

❝  i didn’t say i was interested.  ❞

❝  [he/i] was taken off duty and sent for psychiatric evaluation the next day.  ❞

❝  coffee. i was making coffee.  ❞

❝  i didn't mean to get stuck out here.  ❞

❝  that just goes to show how small humans really are in the grand scheme of things:  take away our tools and our toys and our technology, and we’re still just as vulnerable as we ever were.  ❞

❝  she was good at that:  making you feel like you were safe, like you could open up to her.  ❞

❝  i’m just going to cover that one up. no harm in keeping it out of sight for the moment.  ❞

❝  maybe there was someone in the stairs.  ❞

❝  i think i did the lion’s share of the talking, which almost never happens.  ❞

❝  i couldn’t get to sleep... i figured i’d get a head start today.  ❞

❝  i’m afraid i don’t have all of the details of your involvement with the… tragic events in [place]. and i don’t think i’m the only one.  ❞

❝  i’m still not sure i understand the whole tradition.  ❞

❝  whatever it is, it’s chasing me. i can hear it’s footsteps in the snow, i can hear it—  ❞

❝  when you work nights here, the less you really think about them, the better.  ❞

❝  honestly, i just can’t get it out of my head.  ❞

❝  snow is one of nature’s simplest and most effective ways of killing you dead if you aren’t prepared for it.  ❞

❝  i wish you’d tell me what you’re doing here. i could lose my job if anything gets broken or if you end up getting hurt in there…  ❞

❝  would you say you… considered her a friend?  ❞

❝  would you mind saying your name again?  for the recording?  ❞

❝  if that was true, then there was something—and as a scientist, i hate to say this—supernatural going on in that lab.  ❞

❝  most of them didn’t make it. a lot of them died afraid and alone, too.  ❞

❝  i know you don’t like listening to these things, so i just wanted to help you out with…  ❞

❝  if i could sleep, then trust me, i would.  ❞

❝  i’m guessing the new owners are trying to make this place seem less creepy than it already is.  ❞

❝  my schooling was expensive and unremarkable.  ❞

❝  a lot of them died afraid and alone, too:  ideal conditions for the making of poltergeists, in my experience.  ❞

❝  look, i’m sorry, but this really isn’t a good time for anything, so if you wouldn’t mind…  ❞

❝  basically, i was picturing a slightly creepier morticia addams. i couldn’t have been more wrong.  ❞

❝  now i have to deal with [name]’s aspirations to write drama..  ❞

❝  i promise i won’t get you sacked.  ❞

❝  i’ve never been very religious, but for some reason… it made me think of hell.  ❞

❝  i think it may have been a thank you.  ❞

❝  i’m working the graveyard shift and i noticed the lights were on.  ❞

❝  i shouldn’t be here. no one asked me to come in this early.  ❞

❝  everyone around here looks at me like i’m some kind of leper.  ❞

❝  i had to go home for a few hours. i’m already on thin ice around here, and i didn’t want to get in more trouble for screaming obscenities up and down the wall.  ❞

❝  it was… darkness. no, that doesn’t do it credit, the whole place was dark. this was just... void.  ❞

❝  if i’d seen her anywhere else, i’d think she was an athlete or a backpacker.  ❞

❝  better scientists than me have been bashing their heads into that particular wall since 1927.  ❞

❝  i just want you to know that… whatever you really are... you’re safe here.  ❞

❝  goats being goats, it would just come back the next day looking for food.  ❞

❝  i would like you to leave my office now… and i’ll ask you not to tamper with evidence in the future, understood?  ❞

❝  no, of course, i don’t have signal out here, so i can’t just call triple-a.  ❞

❝  what are you doing in my office—at four goddamn thirty in the morning?  ❞

❝  you ever wonder where the line is?  you know, between human and not?  ❞

❝  the funny thing i’ve noticed about war:  no matter how terrible the fighting is, there always seems to be too much waiting. too much quiet. too much sitting around, bored to tears between fits of chaos and violence, lost in routine while waiting for the other shoe to drop.  ❞

❝  a lot of people condemn them for that. we’re so sure we’d never resort to that—that we’d rather die than cross that unspoken boundary.  ❞

❝  i’ve been at the [workplace/institution] for ten years now. that’s long enough to know that the ones who ask questions are the ones who can’t cut it.  ❞

❝  the program blew every fuse in the lab. including the lights.  ❞

❝  it was soon after they left that i began to have trouble sleeping.  ❞

❝  perhaps we never knew each other as well as most friends do, but… we cared for one another.  ❞

❝  most of her questions are a bit above my pay grade.  ❞

❝  i’m trying, i’m trying! i can’t get the door open!  ❞

❝  i don’t know why she needed my help:  i think she had a better grasp of it than most science fiction writers.  ❞

❝  we both had places to be afterwards, so we kind of rushed. i really wish i’d taken the time to say goodbye.  ❞

❝  i guess some things just… don’t want to stay buried.  ❞

❝  it was completely against orders of course, but no one really noticed or cared that far from the front.  ❞

❝  i offered to buy him a cup of coffee.  ❞

❝  newspapers praised them at the time:  saw them as heroes of exploration and paragons of pioneer courage.  ❞

❝  i signed a lot of big, scary nda’s during my time there.  ❞

❝  i did the only thing that came to mind:  i took a grenade from my belt, removed the pin, and threw it.  ❞

❝  i doubt this storm will last more than a couple of days, and once it lets up we can sneak out of here and get going again. very, very carefully.  ❞

❝  given enough time, everything will rot away to its elementary components, and that, you can’t reverse.  ❞

❝  i really can’t see anything from inside the van.  ❞

❝  i knew there were a few experiments that dealt with some pretty high-level theoretical concepts, but i wasn’t directly involved with any of them.  ❞

❝  it’s a strange choice, but then again, he’s a strange man.  ❞

❝  i know, it sounds ridiculous. trust me, i’ve done everything i can think of to make that conclusion go away.  ❞

❝  scared the bejeezus out of a bunch of skiers, but they were nice enough to let me in after deciding i probably wasn’t a ghost.  ❞

❝  please… it burns my skin… please…  ❞

❝  i forgot how fast storms blow in up here.  ❞

❝  it’s not like i felt out of control:  it felt more natural than breathing.  ❞

❝  i didn’t know what i was doing, not at any conscious level. but one step seemed to lead to another, then the next, and then the next.  ❞

❝  it’s called a butcher’s shop in some places, but a mortuary in others. as much as i’d love to imply there was some sweeney todd style recycling going on here, i think the place has just been a lot of things over the years.  ❞

❝  god, these things are creepy as hell.  ❞

❝  if you wouldn’t mind, please, tell us what happened? in your own time, of course.  ❞

❝  it took a few long, nerve-wracking days to work up my courage and visit the section again.  ❞

❝  it’s not that odd to think that people ate each other out there.  ❞

❝  i didn’t think there was a ghost in my room or anything like that, i just kept hearing noises whenever i was about to fall asleep.  ❞

❝  i downed half a dozen energy drinks at 6 and called it dinner—i know, i know, it’s a nasty habit i picked up in grad school.  ❞

❝  they told me that the cpu and motherboard had somehow been melted into a solid lump of plastic and silicon.  ❞

❝  i mean, [name] was a pain in the ass, but at least he didn’t…  ❞

❝  my schedule was full, but i had something else fall through at the last minute. i had your number on my desk, so i thought i may as well call.  ❞

❝  i wonder if it was afraid, or if it even realized what was going to happen. it probably didn’t.  ❞

❝  i need to get more coffee. or punch someone. whichever’s more convenient.  ❞

❝  god, if that’s really how i sound…  ❞

❝  people think i write horror, but i don’t really think that’s true. i just write fiction with all of the comfortable little lies taken out of it.  ❞

❝  i have loved the stars too truly to be fearful of the night.  ❞

❝  i think he felt something about this place… some influence or power that needed to be destroyed, so he tried to do it the only way he knew how.  ❞

❝  well, it’s a tricky thing. the more realistic you make them, the more… unreal they start to look. i think it’s something about the eyes.  ❞

❝  i offered to stay late, just to smooth things over.  ❞

❝  maybe i can get some writing done while i’m stuck here…  ❞

❝  no child could grow up in a jewish home surrounded by books and not read at least one story about golems.  ❞

❝  i just wasn’t a good student, despite my love of reading.  ❞

❝  i have to say, i like your jane doe.  ❞

❝  she was a scientist herself.  maybe not formally, but her way of thinking, her insight, her methods... they were scientist’s qualities.  ❞

❝  seriously, what do i need to do to get a little privacy around here, a little dignity?  hang a  ‘ do not disturb ’  sign on the door?  change all my locks?  ❞

❝  maybe it was stupid, but i figured, ‘ hey, early december, not a cloud in the sky—should still be fine, right? ’  ❞

❝  jesus, [name], i wasn’t born yesterday.  ❞

❝  maybe doing this while it’s still dark outside isn’t the best idea.  ❞

❝  more than a century and a half have passed, and this place is still just as dangerous as it was then.  ❞

❝  now, [mr./ms./mx. name], i’m sure you know why you’re here.  ❞

❝  the [event] was a bust—only about a dozen people showed up all afternoon.  ❞

❝  i never put much stock in the idea of inspiration, but for the first time in my life, it felt like i wasn’t pushing myself through the muck of miscalculation and guesswork towards a solution. i was being pulled towards an answer that already existed.  ❞

❝  it felt like i was a few steps from finding out something fundamental. some truth about our universe that no other scientist had ever dared to dream of.  ❞

❝  huh. that’s… that’s weird. i could’ve sworn there wasn’t a sculpture back there before.  ❞

❝  apparently, no one had told them what i was doing, and i wasn’t actually cleared to leave.  ❞

❝  maybe he’s trying to make amends. keeping watch over these half-living things to make sure no harm comes to them.  ❞

❝  i expected the building to be wreathed in shadow and overgrown with cobwebs, but it's actually really nice.  ❞

❝  sorry, i was trying to get my recorder working, but it froze up on me so i had to find a tape for this old…  ❞

❝  okay. just… don’t get me sacked, alright?  can’t exactly retire on this salary.  ❞

❝  but if it was real—i don’t know if i somehow created it, or if it was feeding me information about itself before it appeared.  ❞

❝  i’ve never had a manic episode before, and i was well below the level of caffeine needed to cause intoxication. as far as i can tell, there isn’t a medical explanation for what happened.  ❞

❝  i don’t get the appeal of meeting real celebrities. it’s just a cheap shock of recognition, and nothing more.  ❞

❝  whatever this… thing was, it sounds pretty dangerous.  ❞

❝  are you familiar with temporal asymmetry?  ❞

❝  i just want to make that abundantly clear:  this /wasn’t/ the plan.  ❞

❝  right then, now let’s get started. please state your name and rank for the record.  ❞

❝  though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light.  ❞

❝  a cracker of a book, young lady.  ❞

❝  no wonder they’re keeping them in storage. they’d give anyone nightmares.  ❞

❝  i was just going to finish out my shift unless… you want me to stick around?  ❞

❝  i went to the university, but don’t remember much of the years i spent there.  ❞

❝  having to study textbooks and essays day in and day out took all of the joy out of reading for a long time.  ❞

❝  we call paradoxes paradoxes for a reason:  no matter how plausible they seem, they can never really happen.  ❞

❝  i don’t know what happened to me that night. i still don’t even know if what i saw was real.  ❞

❝  when we look into the void for too long, we find the monsters instead.  ❞

[slutsofren]

Danger Days Chapter 8: Save Yourself, I’ll Hold Them Back

summary: finding shelter in an abandoned home, you try to keep your wits about you and care for the still unconscious Joel until some trouble comes knocking

word count: 3,792

content warnings: mention of gore and impromptu medical care, more canon-typical violence, death, murder, arrival of.... cannibals, y'know the deal hurt/comfort

notes: i didn't mention it last time but yeah, your shit really can kill you if you get your lower intestines punctured lol it's a real thing and gnarly af

read on ao3 / masterlist

You woke up in a start. Heavy breaths taking hold in your lungs. The small, barely considerable amounts of sleep were getting to you as they had been for the last month as more and more night terrors racked your brain. Rubbing at your eyes, you pushed yourself up to begin your usual routine.

It had been a couple weeks since your little group found yet another abandoned home and it took some hell of maneuvering to get Joel into the basement but it worked. The winter snow was coming in full force and it was peritive you all kept Joel as warm as possible, there were too many odds stacked against him.

Walking over to his prone body, you checked on his wounds once more as you did practically every couple of hours. He was looking worse for wear, even changing out the gauze could only do so much. Whatever small amounts of clean water the three of you had went to cleaning it out, hoping to stave off the infection.

Joel was, by all means, not doing well.

To top it off, even with your meager amount of medic training from your days with FEDRA could never prepare you for the long-term haul you were in with Joel, he was dying. The bastard was dying and you couldn’t help but feel it was your fault.

Night after night you were haunted by the image of him falling off that balcony, the sounds of his groans of pain still lingered in your head even when you were awake. It fucking sucked.

He was asleep now, he barely woke up since everything went to shit at the university then at the mall. That in and of itself felt like a lifetime ago. You put a hand against his forehead, feeling how his fever still hadn’t broken. With the chill in the air as winter was fully settling in making your fingers cold as ice, he didn’t even flinch away. You closed your eyes and sighed, still not wanting to give up. Not for Ellie, not for Tommy, not even for the grumpy man himself.

A quick glance out the small basement window told you it was nearing dusk which startled you. Ellie had left when the sun was at its peak, sometime around noon, surely. She had been gone much much longer than she normally would have.

Usually it was you who left to go hunting for food once your supplies dwindled but Ellie wanted to help relieve the burden from your shoulders and you reluctantly agreed. Yo hated to admit you needed a break. She had argued she wanted to get better with her bow and arrow and she certainly did, often bringing back animals of various sizes. It was her way of coping with potentially losing Joel, something she confided in you that was one of her biggest fears.

Thoughts of Ellie swirled your mind and you paced back and forth, chewing at your fingernails. A nasty habit you suppressed most days. A part of you wanted to go find the girl, follow Callus’ tracks in the snow. Another part of you didn’t want to leave Joel by himself.

Fuck, you thought.

Compartmentalizing you figured if she didn’t return within an hour, you’d go looking for her. If you couldn’t locate her within a mile radius, a strict rule you enforced her limited hunting zone to, you’d hunker down with Joel and wait until morning to find her and scold her for being irresponsible.

You stopped your pacing to look at Joel’s face, seeing how his face was still warped in the painful scowl he hadn’t let go of. His features were beginning to slowly become gaunt as the small amounts of food you’d been able to get him to eat the rare times a day he’d wake were coming far and few in between. Even his usual tan skin was slowly softening to a cooler shade of bronze. He looked like death.

Joel, by all means, was a handsome cowboy. Even with his patchy beard that was littered with grey hair in a few spots. Now he just looked like a ghost of himself.

Okay, fine, you admit to yourself. With Joel down, you’ve kind of missed the fool. You missed the banter and arguing with him about stupid shit. He irritated the daylights out of you because he always wanted to jump headfirst into things without a care for his safety clearly but dammit, the lack of his presence was palpable. You hated it.

You sat beside Joel, removing one of his hands from under the blanket to hold. His hands still rough and calloused, mirrors of yours if you weren’t missing a finger. Once upon a time, you remembered hearing that coma patients could sometimes hear what people said to them, that it helped. Maybe talking to him now would help not just him but you as well, to keep your mind occupied. Maybe pass the time a little. Maybe.

“Hey, it’s me, you grumpy bastard,” you started off lightly. “I don’t know if you can tell but you’ve been puttin’ that girl and I through hell and back trying to keep your ass alive.”

A hollow laugh escapes you, feeling a little more choked up than you’d ever dare to admit. Composing yourself you tried to use playful banter. “How do you do it, cowboy? Ellie is a goddamned handful. Shit, I thought I was bad when I was a teenager,” you sniff, feeling your voice waver.

“When I first laid eyes on you two, I think it would have saved me a whole lotta trouble and pain if Maria let me shoot you,” you sigh dramatically. Even though there was a smile on your lips, it didn’t reach your eyes. What did were the tears that were slowly forming. The added stress of Ellie being missing was really wearing you thin.

Amongst other things.

“Y’know,” you sniffled, “you really hurt my feelings back at the university. When you thought I led the two of you into a trap.” You took a sharp inhale. “As much shit as you and I put each other through, that was the one thing that stung. More than anything.”

You squeezed his hand and sighed, closing your eyes. Admitting that was hard, stars know you’d never say that to Joel while he was conscious nor in front of Ellie.

“Don’t die, you asshole,” you begged softly, wiping away the light tears that coated your lashes, reluctantly letting go of Joel’s hand as you tucked the blanket around him tightly.

After you said your piece, your mind became overrun with the little turd you grew fond of. The more you began to worry about Ellie, the more your thoughts swirled rapidly into worst case scenarios.

Before you worked yourself into a much deeper frenzy, a loud metallic bang echoed from upstairs. You ran up the steps and came face to face with Ellie, looking just as frantic. She raised her hand and in it, a tied white rabbit, so white it was nearly silver in the dim lighting. “I got food,” she said breathlessly.

“And,” she shoved you aside and took off to the basement, “I got this. Can it help?”

Ellie reached into her pocket and pulled out a syringe and orange bottle, she handed it to you while kneeling next to Joel as he shifted in his sleep. You were still rather shocked to see Ellie who looked faintly bloodied and tired, before you could comment on the new rifle on her shoulder, you took the bottle and were damn near milliseconds from riding into her until you read the faded label of the glass container.

Penicillin.

“Where the fuck did you get this, Ellie?”

Without waiting for her to answer, you dug in your pack and pulled out some disinfectant alcohol and a gauze pad to clean the syringe and a spot on Joel’s arm. Ellie refused to look up from where she kept her gaze focused on Joel’s face, “‘s not important.”

“If I wasn’t so mad at you right now, I’d kiss you.”

Throwing away all the questions you had for her, you administered the antibiotic as quickly as you could, he sighed as the medicine entered his body. Although, it was likely you were giving him too much, truthfully, you didn’t think it would hurt him worse than he already was.

As he relaxed underneath your hands, you looked down at his wound one last time for the evening. The haphazard stitches were taut on his stomach where the swelling was, hopefully by morning, he’d be better.

You didn’t look up from Joel as you laid into Ellie, “I don’t want excuses about where you were, only that you promise me to be more careful in the future, please.”

“Ye- yeah, I promise.”

“Good,” you covered Joel back up, “Now go get some rest. I’ll take care of the rabbit and wake you when it’s done.”

You turned your back to Ellie, it wasn’t that you wanted her to feel bad for her little disappearing act. You just needed some space to gather your thoughts. Between being Joel’s caretaker, Ellie’s temporary guardian, and keeping yourself sane, you were a wreck. You needed a moment.

Before you took a step on the stairs you paused. “Good work on getting the medicine, kiddo. Joel would be proud of you too.”

She didn’t respond as you walked away, the implication that although you were upset with her, you were still proud lingered in the air. Mindlessly, you focused on the rabbit, doing what needs to be done to cook it for dinner, pushing away those lingering worries. Ellie was safe, you reminded yourself, she came back.

It didn’t take you long to finish with your meager dinner, still pretty damn proud of Ellie’s evolving hunting skills. Maybe you’d offer to teach her a couple snares in the morning to leave out overnight. Although they tended not to gain anything bigger than a rabbit or a squirrel, something was better than nothing and you’d figure it would help Ellie focus on something other than Joel’s condition.

You bounded down the stairs, bringing the freshly cooked meat with you. A small shake to her shoulder and she was awake, “Dinner’s ready.”

Ellie didn’t bring her gaze up to look you in the eye, likely still ashamed. The two of you still sat in silence eating, occasionally looking to Joel for any changes or whenever he shifted in his sleep.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice sounding small.

“I know, Ellie. I’m sorry too, I didn’t mean to snap at you. I was just worried.”

Once again, the silence encompassed you both like a blanket, warmer now than it was before. You broke it first, “I was thinking about teaching you a couple snares in the morning. How does that sound?”

Ellie wiped the grease from her fingers on her jeans and looked up, “I think I’d like that.”

Just like that, the two of you were on even footing. It didn’t feel right to be mad at each other, not when Joel wasn’t there to diffuse. Either way, it was much like when you were the one in between their own fight that day you’d met them, it wasn’t healthy when you all had to rely on each other for survival. At least with Ellie, she was quick to forgive and forget in the face of the larger picture. A quality you kind of admired in the young woman.

Both of you finished with your portions of the meat, saving the rest for the morning or for Joel if he wakes in the night. Simultaneously you shuffled through the remaining ammo together, doling out some spare bullets to Ellie for her shiny new rifle, still not going to ask how she acquired it. Let her have her space.

She took the bullets graciously, reloading her sidearm and long range weapons and placing them in her backpack before getting ready for sleep. You stayed fiddling with your own weapons for a few moments longer before calling it quits too.

You laid down on the opposite side of Joel, biting your lip and hoping for the best. You tossed and turned, not knowing if you could take facing Joel’s sickly frame but you also couldn’t turn your back on him and Ellie who laid on her backpack on his other side.

Please, you wished, let the medicine take.

These kinds of wishes filled your mind until you slowly drifted to a fitful night’s sleep.

By morning, you happened to find yourself shaken awake with Ellie’s face close to yours, “Wake up, I need you awake!”

You jumped up, onto your knees. “What is it,” you ask startled, afraid Joel was worse than he was when you fell asleep. Looking at Joel, he didn’t look like he deteriorated in the night, but he also didn’t look like he improved any.

“I was tracked,” she says as if that explains anything. Both of you have your hands on each other's arms in a failed attempt at communicating the other’s panic.

“What do you mean ‘tracked’, Ellie?”

“Those people I got the medicine from, David and-and James, they fucking tracked me!”

“Ellie, what the fu-.”

“Look, listen, I’m gonna draw them away. Keep an eye on Joel,” she tells you in a rush, letting go of you and bolting up the stairs, grabbing her backpack on the way out.

“Fuck,” you practically shout while getting up and looking out the window. Outside you see silhouettes of a few men, searching the nearby area. Frustrated, you kick the washing machine.

Shit, shit, shit.

You don’t know what to do, you feel tied down once again because of Joel’s condition and Ellie’s neverending saviour complex. You mumble out a few more expletives at this situation just as you see the girl bound down the street on Callus shouting for the intruder’s attention. As she rides away, you hear bullets being shot at her, getting further and further away from you.

You carelessly threw your denim coat on and opted to grab your knives instead of guns, hoping to kill anybody who came close without alerting the others. Out the basement window, you could see a few of the men still lurking about, choosing not to follow Ellie.

Just before you followed Ellie out of the house, you doubled back to Joel, kneeling forward and giving him a kiss on the forehead. “We’ll come back, I promise you Joel. Just please, don’t die on me now.” Another kiss on his warm skin and you left without stopping, barricading the basement door as if it was left unoccupied.

Everything in you wanted to panic, your muscles were screaming to fold in on yourself and heave what little food remained in your stomach but you couldn’t give in. Not when Ellie was in danger. She may have been a pain in the ass, but she was your pain in the ass.

After your conversation last night, you’d be damned if anybody hurts your girl.

Taking a deep breath, you shook your worries free and cleared your mind. Although you were a field medic by title with FEDRA back in the day, working with them turned you into a killer. It was a toxic mindset for you, even when you had joined the Fireflies, they took advantage of your ability to focus on one thing and one thing only, turning it into their own game - death.

It took years to shake off that blank emotionless part of you, even Tommy was afraid of it when he saw the horrendous things you were capable of, what the Fireflies exploited from you, but Tommy wasn’t here and the people you loved were hanging on by a thread.

It was easy to see the outlines of the few straggling men who searched the nearby homes, whatever Ellie did really pissed them off. Now, these people only pissed you off.

You stayed lurking within the shadows of the homes, even with the sun just getting ready to set, it wasn’t too difficult to stay hidden. Especially to those who weren’t familiar with the layout. It was easy to spot how the few men tended to remain within a handful of yards together, opting not to venture out into the buildings alone. Alert and yet unorganized as you could see how they would often turn their backs on each other, giving you such a delicious opportunity to sneak in and out, weaving through them and taking them down one by one.

Was it absolutely horrible this was your instinct? Maybe. But you had two people you wanted to protect, two absolutely annoying yet selfless humans who gave you hope. You did love Joel and Ellie, even if you hadn’t admitted to it yet. Besides, you had a whole lot of stress burdening your shoulders and you wanna hit something.

You watched as the small group approached one of the homes off to the left, allowing you ample room to get close without having to cross the street in the open. You took off running, not bothering to try and conceal your footprints in the snow as you got to the house besides the targets. You entered through a broken window - a common for every single house on this block. Taking lighter footsteps, you ducked by the windows and reached the second floor landing.

The homes in this area were built within close proximity to the others, making it easy for, say, somebody needing to jump between windows without being seen. Perfect.

You listened hard and close as the men shuffled and tossed things around the first floor, looking for any sign of Ellie and ‘those two people she was with’. You growled lowly, really hating the implication that these people knew about the three of you.

Taking another assessment, you noticed there were two men standing guard out the front of the house, idly walking to-and-fro, their conversation remaining on wishing they were chasing Ellie instead.

A deep breath in and you jumped with an ‘oof’, trying to make as little as noise as possible, aiming for a wide open window with a snow covered bed on the other side. Between the snow and the mattress, the noise was cushioned to only a small thud, thankfully concealed by the thuds of the men downstairs shuffling through rooms. You quickly got up and went to the doorframe and saw there was only a hallway and stairs leading down.

You took deeper breaths again, trying to center yourself for what you were about to do as you heard one person come up the stairs - alone.

Placing your body flush against the wall, you waited in stark concentration, drawing your knife from its sheath. The footsteps came close, nearing the room you were hiding in and just as an armed gunman came in, you rushed him. Putting one hand against their forehead, you pulled the other hand and dragged the knife into their throat, essentially cutting off the person from making a noise and ending their life. You pulled and lowered their body as they began to choke out, laying them on the floor gently against the wall, carelessly hiding the body.

Downstairs you could still hear shuffling of the other invader and you made your way to them, silently assessing.

From what you could tell, the other person was banging around in the basement. So you rounded a nearby corner to where the open basement door was until finally, finally, somebody came through. You took him down just the same as his buddy.

So unorganized, you thought. If they were really looking for you and Joel, they were doing a piss poor job of it.

You swiped a bottle from the kitchen as you strolled past, taking aim out a broken window. Giving it a nice little toss, it shattered against the other house and without fail, you heard the tell-tale signs of one of the other men asking ‘what was that’. You ducked behind the faded curtain until one of the targets came into view, watching how he was pensive and alert, fortunately he was by himself which made the next part just as easy.

As soon as the man walked by the window, you jumped out from your hiding spot and jabbed your hunting knife straight into the soft squishy part of his eye, surprisingly facing little to no resistance.

You pulled it back and repeated the motion again once the man made an audible noise, probably alerting his friend. In only a slight rush now, you jumped out the window and removed your blade, now stalking towards the front when you could hear the other man yell the other’s names.

Wrapping around the corner of a house in a whirlwind, you surprised the last one when you stood face-to-face with him. He looked at you, astounded, mouth agape and dropped his weapon - a handgun. Looking down at his body, he whimpered as he took in the sight of your knife now buried deep in his stomach as you yanked them up into his chest piercing his heart.

Copper scent filled the air as the hunter’s body gave out. His blood spilling down your front. Under normal circumstances you would’ve likely vomited all over yourself but considering the innate need to protect Ellie and Joel, all that shit is blown out the window.

All in all, maybe thirty minutes have passed, you wanted to check on Joel but the distant gunshots were making you worried. At the very least, the longer they went off, the longer you knew your little fighter was alive.

Okay, think, you tried to get yourself to focus. You came up with a rapid-fire plan and before you could second guess yourself, you ran. Refusing to stop. Each step in the plush snow found you closer and closer to your hideout.

Entering the home through the garage, you gave Whiskey a pat as you walked on by and headed straight for the basement. You pushed the undisturbed barricade from the door, grateful it signaled that Joel was safe. Entering the downtrodden room you grabbed your holsters, strapping them maybe a little more tightly than you should’ve and throwing your backpack over your shoulders. You double-checked your weapons, making sure they were fully loaded.

Once again, you kneeled next to Joel as he laid on the dirty mattress, huffing from the rising pain from the stitch in your side. “Joel? I’m gonna go back out and find Ellie. I’m gonna go get our girl,” you said.

You hoped you were telling the truth.

[johnkrrasinski]

ℑ𝔫𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔚𝔬𝔬𝔡𝔰

Chapter 5: Wonderland 

full masterlist // series masterlist

Pairings: dark!Steve Rogers x female!reader

Word count: 2,328

Warnings: smut, kidnapping, oral (male receiving), fingering, dub-con, non-con. (MUST BE 18+)

Summary: after the death of your mother, you decided that you were going to do something new to honor her. You chose a perfect camping spot somewhere down South. You thought it was going to be the life-changing vacation that you never had in your life, until Steve Rogers, a man existed in roughness and control all his life, found you.

a/n: chapter five’s here! i’ve been so focused on my other fic ideas that i nearly forgot i still have an unfinished series. anyways, hope you enjoy! and, things are going to unfold between steve and the reader in this chapter. i truly hope y’all are prepared for some gentle dark steve cause i certainly am. please leave a like & comment. enjoy!

The next morning, you were woken up by the feeling of soft kisses on your shoulders and a few more on your neck. You felt a delicate grip on your hip, as you slowly began to regain consciousness. You felt a broad figure behind you, and you couldn’t help but turn around immediately to see him.

You realized Steve was already naked on your bed, lying on his side as he held you like a lover would. He didn’t stop his kisses even after you were awake, with your body slightly turned to him now, he had easier access to your neck as he pampered you with kisses there too.

You didn’t know why, maybe it was your hazy brain that was still half awake, but you instantly threw your head back to give him more room as you moaned quietly. His hand that was on your hip then went to spread your thighs as he immediately rubbed your clit, not wasting any time in starting with a slow pace.

The wetness that was already there amplified, and after he was done spoiling your neck with kisses, he went to your lips as he hungrily swallowed your moans. He bit your lower lip and you parted them to let his tongue invade your mouth. He kept on kissing you and massaging you at your most sensitive part, and after a few more strokes, your orgasm burst.

He watched the expression on your face as you crumbled. He always loved seeing you fall apart. Your moans were muffled by his mouth that didn’t quit devouring yours until your breathing slowed down. His fingers had slowed down its motion after you erupted, but it didn’t stop instantly to prolong your bliss.

After you were calm enough, he kissed your forehead as you looked into his ocean eyes. “Good morning.” He greeted you. You couldn’t answer due to the feeling that you were just forced to endure, but it didn’t seem to bother him at all.

“Let’s begin our training today, shall we?” He got up from the bed with his eyes still on you.

“Get on your knees.” The authoritative tone resurged. And the commanding look on his face was apparent despite your smoky state. Your legs were still feeble enough to get up. You felt like you needed a little longer respite, but you knew better than to defy him.  

You leisurely rose to your feet as you followed him to the centre of the room. After he stopped at the spot that he deemed fit, he wordlessly ordered you to kneel. From this level, the size of his girth was enough to make you tremble. You gulped in cower as you didn’t dare to gaze into his eyes. You waited for his next instruction as you felt his hand caress your hair.

“I know this one is going to be challenging but, you don’t have to be afraid. I will guide you through every step. Is that understood, little one?”

You nodded, “yes sir.” You still kept your head down, the sight of his boots somehow comforted you better than the man wearing them.

“Good girl. Now, look at me.” You gathered every bit of guts you had left within you to glance up and he had his lips set in a thin line. His ocean eyes had turned into the arctic; glacial ice frosting your soul.

“Open your mouth.” Your lips trembled at his words as you slowly parted your lips whilst still maintaining eye contact. He briskly stroked his shaft then he inserted the tip to your mouth as he pushed himself deeper until he hit the back of your throat.

You wailed in resistance as your hands went to his thighs to push him away, but he persevered. “Stop.” He said from above. “Breathe. Slowly through your nose.”

You followed his instruction. “Good girl. Now, relax your jaws.” You tried as best as you could if that was even possible. Every bone in your body was tense. You certainly had never slept with any man before, let alone tasting him in your mouth. You were petrified of what was he planning to do next.

“Now, wrap your lips around them.” You wrapped your lips around his shaft, cocooning it like a caterpillar.

“Good girl, just move your head back and forth. Suck it like a lollipop.” His hand that was in your hair tugged it to guide you back and forward as he repeated the motion. Your horrified eyes were still looking up at him as tears began flowing down your cheeks.

Every time his tip hits the back of your throat, you moaned in discomfort. You held on to his sturdy thighs to ground yourself. Slowly, you began to enjoy the taste of him. You were utterly confused by the reaction that your body had but once you had regained control of the pace, the terror dried down.

He gesticulated his grip on your hair faster, driving you to whimper as you dug your nails into his skin, leaving crescent-shaped marks on his flesh. He didn’t seem to mind. He only threw his head back as you felt him throbbing. He moaned out loud when he reached his climax, ejaculating deep inside your throat.

He kept himself deep inside your mouth and stayed still until every drop of his cum was spilled down your throat, not wasting any from your lips. He then released your hair and he stepped away from you.

“You just passed the test of putting that mouth for good, baby.” Your chest heaved due to the violation. “Now, get on the bed. I’m gonna return the favour.”

You knew there was nothing profitable from the ‘favour’ he was about to pay you back with, but you did what he ordered you to anyway. You laid down on the bed as he grabbed your ankles to pull you to the edge of the bed and spread them wide. He got on his knees as he plunged deep into your cunt, licking a long stripe on your bud, causing you to close your eyes and relish the unwanted pleasure.

And once again, he proved you that your body was entirely his, and there was no escaping him.

Later that day, after you woke up from your nap, Steve was lying beside you with your head on his chest. You tried to push away from him but that only jolt him awake. You really should try to be more subtle. You were perplexed by what you were seeing… What the hell is he doing sleeping on this bed? He had never slept next to you before, let alone cuddle you. If this man thinks that you two were lovers, he must be out of his goddamn mind.

But he only looked at you with a smile and asked with a husky voice, “good nap?”

You instantly sat up and tried to sit as far away as possible from him. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, in case you forgot, I own this cabin, remember?” He sarcastically mocked you for asking such an absurd question. As if he hadn’t just made you cum more times than you could count for the past few days.

“No I mean, what are you doing on this bed? You never slept here before.”

“Didn’t feel like leaving you yet. And I was pretty worn out from our early session.”

“So is this what we do now? Cuddling after you force me to do whatever fetish you have in mind?” You sneered without looking at him. You didn’t know what erupted the courage within you to be that spontaneously brash. Maybe you no longer cared about his threats of punishments anymore. Maybe you were just extremely fatigued by every tragedy that had befallen on you, so you were going to say whatever your fury wanted you to say.

“Would you rather I leave you here all alone, in the dark, waiting for me to return until I make you perform another sexual act for me?” His tone was surprisingly gentle. You expected him to lay a hand on you or make you regret your own words, but his reaction left you a bit taken aback.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure about anything anymore, honestly.” You folded your knees to your chest as you hugged them, trying to shield yourself from the grim reality you were currently trapped in. He ran a hand down your back, as a soothing gesture. You weren’t going to say it out loud, but it did assuage the fuel of dejection within you.

Then he got up to a sitting position as he inched his body closer to you. “I know this hasn’t been easy for you, but I will get you through this. And I have no intention in harming you, I promise. I just need you to trust me enough to let me take care of you.”

When you were clueless on what to say and the muteness fell in the room except for your and Steve’s breathing, he swept the hair that was falling on your shoulders to behind your back. He then caressed your hair as he did earlier when he prepped you to perform a blowjob on him, but this time, it didn’t feel demanding. It just felt… reassuring. Like he was trying to instil every promise that he made into you, to make you understand the sincerity behind them through his touches.

You didn’t meet his eyes and you remained immobile, despite his effort to make you allow him in. “I don’t know if it could be that easy…”

“I know, and I told you we can take as much time as we need but every progress that we make, there should always be a result, and I need to see them, okay?”

You nodded, hoping it was enough to make him content with whatever he was expecting from you.

“Let’s take a shower, yeah? Maybe it’ll help enlighten your mood.” He got up from the bed and he walked to your side, carrying you with his hands behind your knees and his other one behind your back. Despite the nap that you just had, you couldn’t help but rested your head on his chest in the succinct walk to the narrow bathroom.

He washed himself as he watched you do the same. When you were about to grab the shampoo bottle, he beat you first to it and squeezed a dozen amount onto his palm then he proceeded to wash your hair, messaging your scalp tenderly for such a brutish man. There weren’t many words exchanged between the two of you in the shower, but you could hear your own racing thoughts. You let him take care of you as he promised.

You pondered; maybe breaking down the brick of your walls one by one doesn’t seem like the worst idea. This was the plan after all though, right? To gain his trust and convince him that the idea of escaping had been erased from your mind, and then maybe… You can make an escape. But for now, you were going to savour the sanative treatment of his gentle side.

Later that night, after you dried off your hair, he came back downstairs to feed you. He then left you to give you some space and told you that he will come back later. After you were done, you laid in bed thinking, if your mother was still alive… Would she try to look for you? Would she be worried by now? Who the hell were you kidding, of course, she would. But would she be able to find you? You’d never know. It was pointless to ask those questions anyway. The best that you could do is pray to your mother, hoping that she would save you from this bottomless pit.

Your wishful thinking was disrupted by the cracking sound of the door opening and his presence coming into view. He laid down next to you, putting your head on his chest. You complied easily, not having the energy to oppose. It could’ve been a lot worse than sleeping on his chest.

“I was born and raised in these woods, I don’t go to the city too often unless I’m in dire need of something. My mother was ill from tuberculosis when I was 18 and that’s how she died. I work at the local fire department and I love to take some photographs in my spare time. I don’t meet that many people in my life, so maybe, we can help each other out.”

“What do you mean?” You answered meekly.

“I will guide you through our sexual training and adapting to your new life, but you can also teach me the life that you are used to. We can make some compromise to make this work. How does that sound?”

“Okay.”

“Okay. It’s getting late, you should get some rest.”

“Will you be here when I wake up?” You didn’t know what your real intention was aiming that question. You knew it should’ve been about sleeping with one eye open but somehow, there is this tacit need of assurance, like knowing that you weren’t going to wake up all alone in this cold sheets would give you an easeful slumber.  

“I’m not going anywhere, baby.”  

And that was all you needed to doze off and slowly flutter your drowsy eyelids to the sound of a steady heartbeat. It reminded you that this man was only a man underneath, no matter how unnerving and formidable he could be. It made you think in your ploddingly dissolving state of consciousness, that maybe… Just maybe… You didn’t have to be so fearful by him after all. And maybe… Just maybe… You could start letting your guard down. Who knows what doors it could open?

You could only wonder. But you were avid to find out when daylight comes.

[mrsalwayswrite]

Say You’ll Stay- Chapter 1

Fury/ Band of Brothers Crossover Fic

Summary: Don "Wardaddy" Collier just wanted his crew to make it through the war. He carried no expectations for himself. But as each day passed, he worried he would be unable to keep his promise. When fate (or more accurately- Boyd Swan) places a woman in his path with a soft touch and softer heart...perhaps he has more of a motivation to see the end of the war after all.

Hey so I’m back with this series! I posted the first chapter awhile ago and then realized I did not have my plot and characters as “polished” as I wanted. So if you read the first chapter already, I would recommend rereading it. 

The first chapter is shorter compared to the others so to make up for it, I will also be posting the next chapter! Two in one! 

Our beloved Easy Company will come into play in a couple chapters. Patience, my friends. I have a plan...

Warnings: Swearing, some mentions of wounds/blood

Tag List: @happyveday​ @evelynshelby​ @god-of-dramatic-death-scenes​ @alwaysindecemberfeels​ 

Series Masterlist // Next Chapter

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Sweat dripped down the back of his neck. Dirt and grime covered his skin and clothing. The sound of the Sherman's tracks rolling over the muddy ground encompassed them. Patches of ice and snow still lined the feeble road. He stared ahead blindly, trusting Gordo to get them to the camp safely. The looks on those around him mirrored his own feelings. Everyone was exhausted. Everyone wanted real food. Everyone was tired of watching allies killed by fucking Tigers. 

 Everyone was sick of this shit. 

 They approached the camp. The cesspool that it looked like from far away became even more evident the closer they got. Half-demolished buildings with a dusting of snow were the only standing structures left of what used to be a quaint little town. Soldiers in grubby gear, rifle over their shoulders, ran around. From far away the sounds of artillery fire echoed. Don wondered who was dying now. 

"Boyd." He looked over at his gunner. "When we get parked, you go find an aid station. Get that hand looked at."

 "Yes, sir." The gunner held his injured hand against his chest, wrapped in a makeshift bandage. 

 After getting directions from a lieutenant, they found the tank squad on the other side of the town. Seeing the three other tanks gave the staff sergeant some hope. 

 "Boyd, medic. Gordo, fill 'er up. Grady, check that suspension. I don't like the way it sounds. Norman, find us some ammunition and where the hot chow is." Don barked out orders as everyone jumped off the tank. Replies of "yes, sir" made him nod, silently proud of his crew, before stalking towards where he assumed HQ was. 

 Soon enough he found the building, soldiers scurrying in and out, making the place look like an overturned ant hill. The glass on the store-front was still intact surprisingly, but the door was busted down leaving a gaping hole to walk through. Sliding past a private who looked barely eighteen coming out, he entered the HQ to see a table set out in the middle with maps laid out, paper weights and bullets strewn about. 

 "Who you?" 

 The gravelly voice made him turn to his right, eyeing up the man sitting on a wingback chair. "Staff Sergeant Don Collier, commander of Fury, 66th Armored Regiment, 2nd Armored Division."

 The man exhaled, smoke slipping between his thin lips, cigarette hanging precariously. "Ah, Wardaddy, eh? Right, come on." He stood up and waved Don over to the table. "Captain Evans. What's your status?"

 Don eyed the man, he seemed far too relaxed for being in a war zone. Then again, his greying hair and beard and those sharp eyes made him briefly wonder if this Captain Evans had been in the Great War. Maybe this was easier compared to trenches? Either way, it was nice to see someone in charge for once that looked like they were actually old enough to shave. Fuck knew too many kids were running around with rifles now, having just gotten out of bootcamp. Don wanted nothing to do with them. 

 "We secured the town here," he pointed at the map, "left 86th Infantry to hold. Then my guys and two other tanks were sent here."

 Captain Evans stared at the maps, mind clearly seeing how best to utilize them. "You and two tanks, eh?"

 "Yeah. Ran into a tiger though. Now it's just my guys."

 His bushy eyebrows shot up, even those around the table quieted down with the news. "Just you?" At Don's nod, the Captain tapped his fist on the table. "Damn those tigers. Alright, good to have you here, Don. We're waiting on some intel before sending you out. You and your guys get some chow and rest. Come back and see me in the morning."

 "Yes, sir." Don nodded and walked out of the building, relieved they were not being sent out right away. 

 As he walked down the filthy, cobbled street, he could feel the shakes beginning in his hands. Quickly, he stepped onto a side street, hoping no one would notice him. Leaning back against the brick wall of the building, he shoved his hands in his jacket pockets before anyone could see them shaking. Memories of the fight from yesterday replayed in his mind without permission. The tiger easily destroyed the rest of his platoon. In a matter of minutes, him and his crew were alone. Ten men. They had lost ten men. Good men...well mostly good. There was that one asshole in Edward's squad no one would miss.

 War took the best and worst; death it’s equally possessive lover.  

 Hands slightly fumbling, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it. The lighter took a few clicks before catching. With the inhale, the nicotine and smoke settled in his lungs beautifully. He closed his eyes, letting the cigarette help calm his nerves and try to erase the memories of his platoon. They were dead now. It did no good to dwell on it. 

 After several minutes his hands finally stilled. Running a hand through his hair, he pushed off the building and headed out to find his crew. He glanced around wondering the likelihood of finding a roof and real beds for his guys tonight. They deserved it. Especially after all this shit. His own back cried out for a reprieve from sleeping on the hard ground. 

 Yeah, he would figure out something. Even if he had to toss some goddamn young Privates out into the stained snow. 

 *****

 "Nurse Cooper! You can handle this!" 

 She pushed the flyaway strands of auburn hair out of her face as she walked past the injured, following the voice of Doctor Erickson. The cries, screams and whimpers of the injured and dying no longer affected her. Or at least that was what she told herself. At least this field hospital had separate areas based on severity and a roof over the top.

 She had worked in far worse conditions before. 

 She nodded to the tall, blond doctor who barely gave her a passing glance as he shoved past her, away from injuries he deemed lesser than what he should be focusing his attention on. 

 A man sat on the edge of a cot, cradling his hand in his lap, which was wrapped up like a mummy. He was not screaming or swearing, so she took that as a good sign. His eyes were closed, lips moving silently like he was praying, a thick mustache twitching with every movement. He looked like he could only be a couple years older than her own twenty-three years.

 "What's your name, soldier?" She stood in front of him, wiping her hands on the stained apron she wore over her equally stained dress. Once they had both been white; now, the apron and dress were a patchwork of stains from blood, dirt and other questionable fluids she chose not to think of. 

 He looked up, his brown eyes meeting her blue in surprise. "Boyd Swan, ma'am. Those in my crew call me Bible though. " 

 "Well, Boyd, mind if I take a look at your hand?" She perched on a stool as he offered up his hand. Quickly, she unwrapped it to see the damage with a gentle but methodical touch. A long laceration bled across the palm and past the wrist, thankfully not deep. Honestly, looking it over, it was kind of a miracle it was not worse. 

 "Well, you're lucky, Boyd. Any deeper and you might have lost use of your hand. You might have some nerve damage; I do not think immobility is a concern at this point. I think we can get away without stitches if you can promise me you'll keep your hand bandaged and try not to use it."

 "It's not luck, He's looking out for me and my crew." He pointed a finger on his other hand skyward. 

 "Yes, He certainly was. Let me grab some new bandages." She grabbed some cleaning solution and bandages for the man. The sooner she finished with him, the less likely there would be concern for infection. If she guessed, it would appear the injury happened at the earliest maybe yesterday. More than enough time for it to become infected. Though her training had taught her to ask and determine when the injury occurred, lately she found herself hating that question. It always led into a story and hearing even more of the horrors these men faced. Her mind had enough memories of blood and guts to fuel nightmares for a hundred years. If she could refrain from hearing others’ memories, she found herself choosing too.

 The other reason she wanted to finish with him soon was to open up the bed he currently sat on, in case a worse injury came in. Luckily there had not been a large-scale fight in a week so they only had trickles of men coming in instead of waves of dying men. 

 "You a religious woman?" 

 She looked up from cleaning his hand to meet his earnest eyes. "I guess. I don't pray like I used to."

 He hummed. "I can respect that. I suspect you've seen plenty of death."

 Not wanting to remember all the faces of young men she had slaved over, only for them to die under her care, she changed the subject. "Why do they call you Bible?"

 "I'm always reading the Bible... I reckon that's where it started. I stopped trying to convert those heathens in my tank. I pray for their souls though. Always will." His voice trailed off quietly, but the fondness in it was unmistakable. 

 "You're a good man, Boyd."

 He nervously chuckled, looking away for a moment with the sound of his foot tapping repeatedly on the ground. "No, I'm just doing the Lord's work. That's all."

 "Well, I'm done." Smiling at him, she pushed back slightly. It was nice to have a patient not screaming at her or leering. There were too many of those men as of late. "Do you know your orders yet?"

 "No, ma'am. We just rolled in an hour ago."

 "Alright, if you're still here tomorrow I'd like to take a look at your hand again in the morning."

 "I can do that." 

 "Good. Go rest up now, find some food. You earned it." She stood up, holding the soiled cloths, ready to move on to the next patient or task. 

 "I will.” He rose along with her, clearly understanding the dismissal. "Oh ma'am, what's your name?" 

 For a moment she hesitated to share her name. Normally she preferred the men to call her Nurse Cooper. From past experience, if she told them her name, they seemed to think she was interested in them. Yet with this man, she found herself wanting to share her name. He was kind and respectful. There were no gut feelings scaring her away from him. "Anna. I'm Anna Cooper."

 "Pleasure to meet you, Anna Cooper. You need anything, you let me know, right?"

 She was unsure how he could help her. Depending on his orders she might never see him again, but she nodded to humor him. "Sure. It was lovely to meet you too, Boyd."

 With a parting smile from both, she hurried to the back of the building where they kept the large tub for boiling cloths. She grimaced when she noticed how low the water was. That meant she would have to go to the river soon. A shiver shot through her at the anticipated cold awaiting her outside. Thankfully most of the snow had melted already but winter’s chill still clung possessively to the air. Plus, it did not help how easily cold sunk into her bones. Back home her family would tease her about that fact. Here, on the edge of the front lines, it only made her life more difficult.

 Before Doctor Erickson found a reason to yell at her, she headed back out to assist in whatever way possible. Her conversing with Boyd was her first positive interaction in a few days besides with the few others nurses stationed at the field hospital. She hoped he was not sent away too soon. 

[wlntrsldler]

Familiarity (Bucky Barnes Imagine)

PROMPT: Love is a foreign concept to Bucky. 

WARNINGS: mentions of playboy Bucky

-

To Bucky, love is a foreign concept. 

He spent a large part of his life being deprived of it. He grew untouched, unloved, and discarded, even before the war. It was engraved in his mind that nobody would be capable of loving him, not the way he desired. 

Bucky grew up as the playboy between him and Steve. His poor best friend had to watch the young girls run away in utter devastation after Bucky discarded them the morning after. He would always smile, a cheeky, smug, smile when Steve shakes his head in disappointment. 

“Life’s too short to not have fun, Stevie.” He would grin, shutting the door behind him. He would walk around their shared Brooklyn apartment in nothing but his underwear, like it was just a normal day for him. Well, to Bucky, it was just a normal day. “Try it some time.”

Steve would blush, red as a rose, catching onto what Bucky was insinuating. He would disappear into the comfort of his now empty bedroom but not before he shoots a suggestive wink at Steve. 

Steve would never say it to his face but he saw the emptiness behind Bucky’s blue eyes. The facade of the eligible bachelor that Bucky tried so hard to portray was a cry for help. He wanted more than meaningless flings and random hook-ups. Truth be told, Bucky Barnes was a die-hard romantic. But dear God, the world would end if anyone ever found that out. So Steve kept his mouth shut. 

One, because he knew Bucky was running away from commitment, too scared to truly let himself feel and two, because he knew Bucky would kick his ass to a pulp if he ever tried to bring it up. Steve just let him run around, sleeping with and dating as many women as he pleased.

Then Bucky lived his life as the Winter Soldier. The memories of him being the lovable James Barnes were long gone, long erased from his scrambled mind. He only saw it in flashes while he slept- the red of the lips of the women he kissed, the way they looked sprawled under him, the way they made him feel, or the lack of feeling they gave him. It would leave as quickly as they came. Oftentimes, he would lie awake and ask himself if it was real or if it was just his mind playing tricks on him again. He never could trust his own mind. 

Bucky would stare at the couples on the cheesy TV shows on cable. He would wonder if love was actually as blinding, as captivating, as the people on his old screen make it out to be. At one point, love was just a theory to him, not a feeling, and definitely not a possibility. 

Who would love somebody like him? So capable of destruction and incapable of empathy? Truly, nobody would ever love him after all that he’s done. How could someone love him if he despised himself?

Bucky spent his days post-Winter Soldier in solitude, the feeling of being too scared to open up was the only thing that was the same in the two lives that he lived through. This time he wasn’t afraid because there were too many women to choose from, to devote himself to; This time he was afraid because he felt unworthy of the theory of love. He was broken, cracked, and shattered. Nobody would have the patience to watch him glue himself back together. 

Then you came along- with your terrible dad jokes and inability to keep a straight face. He met you for the first time while doing a promotional video for the Avengers, Tony’s PR idea, and the objective was to look as serious as possible to intimidate the audience. After fifteen takes, you managed to keep your lips in a thin line for the five seconds the camera was focused on you. All the rest of the failed takes made it into the Bloopers reel. Avengers enthusiasts really enjoyed the 50 minute Bloopers reel. 

Bucky was intrigued by you because geez, you were so goddamn happy all the time. For an old, grumpy man like him, happiness only came to him in dreams. Happiness was a friend that he hasn’t seen in a very long time. It was the friend that checks in once in a while, then disappears just when Bucky grew comfortable with its presence. So yeah, your happiness was intriguing to him because if you were to ask Bucky, gun drawn to his temple and all, when the last time he felt happy was, he would accept his death. He can’t remember the last time he was happy and to you, happy was in your routine. 

It started out as slight teasing, banter here and there, before Bucky started to feel something bubble up in his chest. He ignored it at first, blaming his old age for his sudden heart problems. Sam had a field day with making jokes about that. He didn’t stop for months and it only got worse after you joined the soldier in his antics. Bucky would try to block out your constant jokes about him but sometimes he’d let his hard exterior falter a bit. Just a little bit and you’d catch a glimpse of his smile that makes the butterflies in your stomach run wild. 

He grew comfortable with you after a while. A year and a half to be exact, a little too long for your liking but you were just glad he started to take his guard down. You would wake up with your favorite iced coffee already waiting for you on your computer desk, a coaster right under it to catch the condensation. He knew you hated the ringlets of water on top of your wooden desk. The coffee was great and you appreciated it but it was the action behind it that made you fall in love with Bucky Barnes. It was simple, mundane, but it was the most amazing thing that anyone has ever done for you. 

Bucky’s love was pure. It didn’t need much explanation to be understood. He was a man who never experienced love and you were someone who didn’t know if you had the qualifications to explain exactly what it was. But Bucky didn’t mind one bit. If there was someone he could pick to show him the ropes of the complicated theory of love, he would choose you. 

Bucky remembers exactly when he knew. It was when you two were stuck in the tower together. The rest of the team was out doing God knows what in the middle of July. It was a hotter night; The wind that blew towards you was warm, picking up traces of nature on its way. Dust and particles of leaves flew into your eye and you hissed in pain. Bucky walked over to you, worry evident on his face and cradled yours in the palms of his hand. 

“What happened?” He murmured, watching a tear slip out of your shut eye. 

“Somethin’ flew in my eye.”

“Hold still,” Bucky replied, thumbs opening your eye. He softly blew into it, trying to remove the dust from inside. “You should be good now.”

“Thanks, bubs.”

You said it so effortlessly, like it was normal for you. Bucky stood there, face closer to you than ever before, and just stared at you. You cocked your head to the side, confused as to why he was frozen in his place. It wasn’t until you saw the shy smile on his lips and the pink on his cheeks that you realized what slipped. 

But a part of you didn’t want to apologize for it because honestly, you weren’t sorry. You weren’t sorry that the cringey pet name left your lips. It slipped out naturally, almost like it was meant to. And by the look on Bucky’s face, it seemed that he liked it.

Bucky did like it. He loved it. He loved the feeling of love and his heart swelled at the possibility of it. To love and to be loved. 

To Bucky, the concept of love is so foreign. But with you, it suddenly seems so familiar. 

MAIN MASTERLIST

[kestrelmando]

Writer Wednesday - The Phone Booth

The great @autumnleaves1991-blog has put together a weekly “Writer Wednesday” where she provides an image prompt.

This one is Jack “Whiskey” Daniels/f!OC.

Set in my, as of yet, unpublished f!OC x Whiskey series “Whiskey Smash”. Basic relevant background info; Whiskey and Mezcal (my f!OC with previous mob ties) were partners in Statesmen, just barely dip their toe into catching feelings when a near death experience with Mezcal scares him away due to his past. They haven’t talked/seen each other in a couple years at this point.

Warnings: Swear words, descriptions of a fight, impalement with a high heel, descriptions of wounds

-- 

A mission hadn’t blown up in her face like this is a long time, a really long time – the last one was years ago on that dingy rooftop where he had finally finally yanked her in and kissed her only for the night to end with her shoving him out of the line of fire. Three bullets later, two doses of Ginger’s experimental clotting serum, 3.5 liters of blood loss and she had woken up alone.

Just a note next to a vase of purple hyacinth and white amaranth; ‘I can’t do it again. – J’.

Oh, and she’d protested heavily on taking a mission in fucking New York. He was running the NYC branch, he could find someone local but Champ had insisted. It was supposed to be a simple recon mission; blend, listen, collect evidence.

Mezcal had wined and dined all evening, batting her eyelashes and smiling with doe eyes. She was this close to sticking her hand into the right pocket when someone had recognized her. He locked eyes with her across the room and recognition rippled across his face instantly. One of her father’s high level enforcers – hard to forget the boss’s daughter especially when she all but disappeared.

He knew better than to cause a scene in a private residence with stupidly rich people floating around between them. What the hell was he doing here? She made her excuses, off to powder her nose, and slipped into the empty side hallway. There was a small window in the butler’s pantry three doors down or she could try just walking out through the foyer and the front door. He’d be expecting the foyer, the cleanest exit was usually the simplest, so she made for the pantry.

She slipped off her heels and carried them, the click being far too loud on the marble floor, and quietly slid the pocket door open. The window was small, almost too small, but she was confident she’d make it and more importantly – the enforcer wouldn’t. Mezcal slid the door mostly shut and quickly went the window, shoving the frame up and grimacing at the chilly fall air.

A hand closed around her ankle just as she was halfway out, one knee dangling and the other in an awkward bend, and yanked her back. Her shoulder and head crashed against the upper window pane and frame with a crunch. Dazed, she dropped one shoe to the ground and swayed. Still, her free hand locked around the window frame. She would not be pulled back into the house – the other shoe came up, stiletto first, and embedded into his cheek.

The enforcer howled with pain, ripping it from his face with an arc of blood, and wrapped his beefy hands around both legs before dragging her back inside. They both tumbled to the ground at the momentum and she rolled to her feet, hands raised and ready for a fight.

 --

 She didn’t know how long she walked. Her head was swimming, ears were ringing. The cold autumn night bit at her bare feet and tattered dress. It was just like some rich asshole to have his home nearly on the slopes and away from everyone and everything else.

Eventually she stumbled onto a tiny town – if you could call it that. The storefronts were all long closed and she considered breaking into one for a phone and some warmth when she saw the lone phone booth. It stood out like a sore thumb, a relic even, but more secure than using a phone inside one of the stores.

She dutifully trudged to the booth and slipped inside, grimacing and checking the coin return for any spare change. At least one thing went right; seventy five cents in quarters rolled into her hand. Mezcal paused, she had to pick the right person to call and seventy five cents wasn’t going to give her long. After a mental run through of possible contacts, she sighed and let her head slump against the booth.

It had to be him. Goddamit, it had to be Whiskey.

He was all but guaranteed to be at the office still and the New York City branch was only a hour and an half by car. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, willing herself to forget his forlorn face all those years ago when he said he didn't like going home to an empty bed. 

She slid the quarters into the phone and dialed the number she would never admit she knew by heart; Whiskey's direct line. 

It rang twice before he picked up, voice stretched and thin, "Whiskey."

The air left her lungs and her tongue cemented itself to the roof of her mouth. Absurdly, she felt tears prick at her eyes. Even tired and lacking its usual ridiculous bounciness, it was the most beautiful sound she'd heard in ages. He sighed into the receiver.

She finally found her voice, "It's me." 

He breathed her name like a prayer, "Mezcal," he paused and then pressed on more urgently, "What's wrong?"

"I'm in New York, Middletown. I need extraction. I...I was unable to get back to my planned exit."

"Darlin' are you hurt? Where in Middletown?"

She leaned out of the phone booth looking for a street sign, "Oak and Main, phone booth."

"Are you hurt?"

"Nothing a good night's sleep won't fix."

He muttered something she didn't quite catch before saying, "Sit tight,  extraction comin' in a hour."

Mezcal hung up the phone, and slid the phone booth door shut in a vain attempt to stem the flow of cold air. She sunk to the floor and drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her fingers around her numb toes.

--

Time was immaterial; all she knew was cold. The thin dress offered no insulation and both shoes had been lost on the grounds of the target's home.

Headlights cut through the night and she raised her head to see an unmistakable white bronco and a familiar stetson emerge from truck.

He didn't send a driver.

She tried to unfold her frozen limbs but everything was sluggishly moving. Instead, she reached over and slid open the phone booth door.

He caught he gaze over the hood of the bronco. Whiskey hurried over to her and immediately bent to help her up, hissing at the iciness of her bare arms.

She let herself be pulled up, mumbling, "You didn't have to come."

He knew her meaning; he could've sent someone. Instead he just replied, "Yeah I did."

They walked back to the truck, Whiskey's hand on the small of her back, and he opened the passenger door for her. The interior light of bronco illuminated her face and his face quickly morphed into alarm. He blurted out her name, her real name. "Kenna?" 

"You should see the other guy." She attempted with some bravado.

He gave her a once over in the light and all but lifted her into the truck, "Where the fuck are your shoes?"

"Just... let's go. Get the heat on, I'll tell you on the way back."

Whiskey nodded tightly but shut her door and got in on the other side. He turned on the truck, got the heater running, but didn't make a move to go anywhere. Instead he flicked on the overhead lights and reached into the back, broad shoulder brushing against her, and fished out a Statesmen first aid kit. 

He opened it with a snap and began pulling out various items, not glancing up from the kit, "Start talking."

"Recon, potential medical front for a bioweapons dealer. Wasn't supposed to see any action."

She sucked in a breath when she caught his eye. Those damn eyes. His brow had that knit in it and his gaze was the same soft one it had been that night all those years ago. She pointedly did not look at his mouth.

He reached up and tucked his fingers under her chin, turning her head to apply antiseptic to a small cut near her temple and on a few scrapes along her arms. Next was a prototype field ice pack, he gave it a few vigorous shakes and the small pouch froze. 

His fingers swept across her cheekbone, just below her black eye. "And who did this, sugar?"

Silence loomed between them and he frowned, anxiety swirling in his gut the longer she didn't say. His other hand crept up to cradle her neck.

"Kenna--"

"An enforcer. One of his enforcers, Jack."

The knit in his brow increased, his lips turning down into a frown. "Do we need to go take care of it?"

Mezcal smiled grimly then, "No. Dumb city kid was too enraptured by the fancy dumb waiter. The new, modern hydraulic dumb waiter."

Whiskey smirked at that and pressed the ice pack to her swollen eye. She told herself it was just her icicle limbs thawing in the warm truck, but a wave of heat rolled through her as his gaze openly drifted down her body. 

He picked at the tattered line of a slit in her dress, just above her knee, "Anywhere else we need to address?"

Her mouth was a desert, "Just the usual flesh wounds." 

Whiskey hummed and slid the slit over slightly to investigate, the fabric sliding across her legs and opening further up her thigh.

Like a goddamn curtain opening on a reminder of their last op together, the dress revealed the raised, white, puckered scar of a bullet wound. The same wound that nearly bled her dry in Jack's arms. 

Mezcal slowly raised her head to meet his eyes and she could see it happening in real time; his eyes became distant and his expression closed off. Her heart clenched -- goodbye Jack, hello Agent Whiskey. He moved his hands to wheel and they set off back to New York City.

Later, as she took a company car to drive back to Kentucky that night, she didn't bother saying goodbye. They were back to strangers.

[winterhawkkisses]

955.

(for @flawedamythyst)

In the liminal spaces between freezing and waking, between wishing for death and taking it into himself, between breathing and drowning, he remembers what he is. 

The rest of the time he is a monster without a soul. He is hands without a mind, a weapon without a will, a waking nightmare that has gone decades without sleep. They stole who he is away from him, but what he is is sleek between their fingers and in the frozen darkness he can feel them crawling over his skin. 

Of everything they took from him, his skin is the strongest tether, the worst and deepest hurt. 

*

Barney’s gonna be so goddamned mad at him, Clint knows it. He didn’t get caught, he didn’t fumble or fall or have an attack of conscience because he’s learning to live with its pricking, but he’s turned too many corners and he’s not entirely sure of his way back. It ain’t gonna take a lot to find his way, most likely - how many circuses are there gonna be in town? - but he’s later than he ought to be and Barney shows his worry with the broad flat of his hand. Clint’s never gonna tell him that just ‘cos he doesn’t curl in his fingers, that doesn’t make him different from their dad. 

There’s something a little dizzying about being lost, though. Just this moment of breathless freedom where the whole world is at his fingertips, and his fingertips don’t gotta be in someone’s pocket, easing out their wallet, at least for a little while more. He slows down a little, drags his feet, ignores the grumbling of his stomach, ‘cos it’s more than his life’s worth not to bring back everything he took. He looks up, cranes his neck back and stares at the thin strip of blue between buildings, nearly trips over a guy who’s bent down over a crate. 

“The hell are you doing, kid?” he snaps, his voice layered thick with some accent Clint doesn’t know, and Clint skitters back a couple paces. The guy’s attention isn’t on him, though; he’s more concerned about the crate he’s hauled out of a dark gray van. Its lid has come loose, and there’s some kinda blue glow from inside, and it looks like the whole structure of the crate was relying on the lid of it, ‘cos no matter how he tries to lift it it finds a new way to try and spill. 

He calls something after a minute or two, something guttural and thick in his mouth. Clint kinda likes the way it sounds. Another guy slides out of the driver’s side door and comes to help, bitching and grumbling in words Clint doesn’t understand. They manage to get the crate a little more stable between them, and they disappear into a building that leads off the alleyway without a look back. 

And Clint thinks - Clint thinks that yeah, he’s gonna be late, but maybe he can buy his way out of Barney’s annoyance. Maybe he can buy his way past Duquesne. Maybe there’s something left in the van worth taking, and before he’s even got to the end of thinking it he’s climbing into the back, shoving the door a little more open so he can see the building, make a run for it if anyone comes out. 

There are more crates just like the one they’d carried off, all of them with the same weird octopus thing burned into the side. There’s no way he’s carrying one of those, though - no way they wouldn’t notice if he did - so he eels between them and looks for something else he can lift, one eye on the door behind him. 

He doesn’t expect to find the skin. 

He knows what it is. Of course he knows what it is - his mom had one too, and only his dad knew where it was kept. He’d take it out sometimes to taunt her with, so Clint knows what one looks like when he sees it rolled up like that. 

The state of it’s familiar, too. Mom’s had that dull look to it, too, worn out and faded away, too long unworn and untouched. Too long in the possession of someone it shouldn’t be. And maybe that’s a little bit what Clint’s thinking, when he tucks it under his arm and clambers out of the back of the van, ducks his head down and runs for it, as far and as fast as he can. Maybe he’s thinking how no one should have something so precious and not look after it the way it should be. 

Maybe it’s a little bit the distant, fragmented memory of his mom when she was happy, and the way her soft skin felt against his fingers. Maybe it’s a little how warm it was. Maybe it’s a little how cold the caravan gets at night. 

He tells himself he’ll find the selkie that owns it, someday, and that the moment he does he’ll give it back, but he’s aware that he’s kidding himself. How likely is that?

*

The moment between not-sleeping and waking has always been painful, half-drowned lungs taking a bare and water-logged breath. 

This time it feels different. The promise of light, a hole in the ice after too long entombed. A breath of clear air. A freedom unlike anything he remembers. 

The Soldier wakes without their hands on him. And he wakes angry.

[tickle-bugs]

Cow-Face

Warning: Mentions of Death

Summary: Sean won’t stop teasing a very tired Arthur about an escapade at a farm. Arthur decides to take matters into his own hands.

Prompt from @amazingmsme: OMG YES SOMEONE WHO WRITES FOR RDR! Would you be willing to write for Arthur & Sean with “Don’t be an ass” & “You think you’re funny?”? I feel like their friendship would be so adorable & it would be fitting for them

“Oi, Arthur.”

Three hours. Three hours of this agony.

“Yes, Sean?” Arthur answered through perfectly gritted teeth. 

“You smell like a horse’s arse.”

The Van der Linde gang had been on the road for two days now, and they still had three more to go until they hit Rhodes. All of them tended to get on each other’s nerves now and again—the road was long and lonely, and running from place to place for years on end had its toll. For example, Arthur hated the way that Bill chewed with his mouth open. Bill, in return, hated that Arthur liked to think plans through. Sean Macguire, however, was his own breed of pest.

“Oi, Cow-face.”

“That’s a new one,” Hosea chuckled, bumping into Arthur’s shoulder from the wagon’s movement. 

“You never told the gang about the Murphy farm?” Sean gasped, knowing damn well he was playing with fire. 

Yep, Arthur was going to kill him.

“What happened at the Murphy farm?” John asked, all innocence, even though the bastard knew and just wanted to egg Sean on.

“Arthur and I were robbing this stage-coach a few years back. It was glorious. We got a hefty payout but the law caught up to us much faster than we thought they would. We had to make a getaway on foot and Arthur…” Sean trailed off into snickers and Arthur heaved a deep, exasperated sigh.

“Well, I went straight for the forest. I was smart, tried to lose ‘em in the trees. Arthur tried to hide in a nearby barn, hoping the law would miss him. Instead, he got trapped in a cow pen with a very...active lady cow. She definitely wanted a piece o’ Mr. Morgan there.”

“You never did tell me that story,” Hosea said, unable to keep a straight face. 

“I wonder why.” Arthur deadpanned. He swiveled in his seat to glare at Sean, who was riding in the back of the wagon.

“You’re on thin goddamn ice, Macguire.”

“Love you too, Arty.”

The illusion of peace lasted for exactly two more hours. Sean had dozed off amongst the hay and various crates of supplies, rocked to sleep by the rumbling of the wagon. John had also succumbed to slumber, with his hat tilted low and his chin tucked into his chest. Arthur and Hosea’s relief was nearly palpable. 

“How much farther, Cow-face?”

“It was so peaceful,” Hosea muttered, looking out over the countryside.

“Far enough. Go back to sleep. And quit callin’ me that.” Arthur squinted ahead, trying to find some new detail in Dutch’s wagon in front of them. He found none. 

“What, Cow-face?” Arthur could hear Sean’s shit-eating grin without even needing to see it.

“Don’t be an ass, Sean,” Hosea chided, knowing full well that it would have no effect. Sean was far too stubborn and mischievous for that.

“Hosea, mind taking the reins for a bit?” 

“Sure. Please go shut him up.”

“Gladly,” Arthur growled. He climbed over the back of the seat and into the wagon. Sean, not expecting a physical response, scrambled back a little.

“You think you’re real funny, don’t ya?” Arthur made a show of cracking his knuckles and his neck, not bothering to hide the smirk on his face.

“You wouldn’t hurt an innocent man, would ya Arty?”

“Relax. I ain’t gonna hurt ya. You’re gonna wish I did though.” The tone of Arthur’s voice made Sean realize his fate. 

When they were younger, no longer teens but still too young to have any sense, Sean and Arthur were always fooling around. Stealing each other’s hats, chasing each other for no good reason, bickering, the works. 99% of the time it was Sean instigating the confrontation, just to piss Arthur off. That is, until Arthur jabbed Sean in the side a little too softly one day and realized he could get the upper hand.

“Arthur, I will kill you. I will fuckin’ shoot you—no!”

Arthur pounced, digging his fingers into Sean’s ribs, who screeched and went down flailing. He thrashed like a fish on a line, nearly punching Arthur straight in the nose as the two of them grappled. Sean was all talk and all sensitivity, so eventually Arthur’s attack proved far too much for him to handle and he crumbled. 

“What was that? I can’t understand ya with all the noise you’re makin’,” Arthur teased, shoving his hands under Sean’s arms like he used to all those years ago. He flinched at the shriek that flew out of Sean but smiled when his laughter morphed into hysterical, uncontrollable giggles.

“Do we have an outlaw back there or a little girl?” Hosea piped up from the front, unable to resist a few chuckles.

“Hard to tell. I should go investigate,” John snickered, climbing into the back of the wagon with a devious smirk. 

“Not you too, Marston! Oh, I’ll kill ya. Both a’ you better sleep with your eyes wide fuckin’ open, you hear mehehe?” Sean’s threats once again devolved into wild laughter as John descended upon him like a vulture.

“Watch his feet, there. This son of a bitch can kick. His stomach’s real bad if you wanna try there,” Arthur said, grinning like a kid on Christmas. 

“Will do.” 

And with that, four hands descended upon Sean’s very sensitive midriff, creating an interesting symphony of squeals, cursing, and unhinged laughter that echoed through the countryside. 

“Stahahahap!” 

“Nah. You’ve got so many jokes, I reckon it’s your turn to laugh.” Arthur pressed the spaces between Sean’s ribs, making sure to vibrate his fingers as he went. John wiggled his fingers over Sean’s stomach in a lighter but deadly manner and the contrast in pressure was killing him. 

“Marston, you–you traitor! Ahaha, I hate you!” Sean made a few weak attempts to slap John, but every time he raised his arms, Arthur’s fingers scribbled in the exposed spots.

“Oh, you can still talk? Let me fix that,” John drawled, completely unimpressed. His fingers darted underneath Sean’s shirt with dangerous precision and Sean completely fell apart. 

His face turned such a bright shade of red that his eyebrows seemed to vanish. His laugh went completely silent and he sunk deeper into Arthur’s lap, the fight having literally been tickled out of him. 

Had they been alone and a few years younger, Arthur would’ve held Sean for a little while until the latter regained his strength and pulled something stupid. They had company, however, and no time to be soft, so Arthur simply ruffled Sean’s disheveled hair.

“Don’t call me names, Macguire. This is a long wagon ride with nowhere to run and no Karen to save you,” Arthur said, punctuating his statements with quick pokes. Sean giggled but made no move to escape.

“You’re right, Arty. It is a long ride, and I think I deserve a little revenge,” Sean said, bolting upright as if nothing had happened.

“Now, hold on–“ Arthur held his hands in a gesture of surrender, unable to stop the silly grin on his face. 

“Marston, grab his legs. He’s in for it now.”

“Wait–ahahaha! Damn ihihihit!” 

Arthur smiled to himself, clutching the bundle of wildflowers in his fist a little tighter. He laid them next to the headstone underneath the magnolia tree, swiping away a tear before it could leave his eye. He looked up into the branches.

“I miss you, kid. Don’t get into too much trouble up there.” 

Arthur laid Sean’s hat atop his grave, then trudged back down the hill into town. And if he felt a few phantom tingles on his sides that made him stop and turn? Well, that was nobody’s business. 

He always knew that Sean was far too stubborn to die.

[stevenroguers]

we are soldiers

Summary: ‘The last time Steve had lost him, on the train, there had been no goodbye. 

It’s only fitting that this time there is a month for farewells and loving kisses and broken words that mean more to them than anyone will ever be able to understand.’

Something is wrong with the serum in Bucky’s body. At least he has Steve. 

Warnings: Angst, Smut, Terminal Illness, Main Character Death. This fic ignores the latter part of CACW. Basically, Bucky joins the Avengers after HYDRA is destroyed. 

Rating: Explicit. 

Word Count: 4.2k (yes, I know, it is very long for a Tumblr fic but I had a lot to write for them.) 

A/N: This fic has been written for @youngmoneymilla ‘s 15k challenge and if you’re not following her, you totally should because her writing style is mature, fantastic and so captivating. The background score I used as inspiration is here. 

The first time it happens, Bucky is making coffee. 

He feels the tremor in his right shoulder, just as he picks up the cup and before he knows it, he’s spilt burning coffee all over his front and the granite countertop. 

Burns hurt Bucky more than he’s willing to admit, so when Steve comes in to the kitchen, bleary eyed and adorably rumpled from sleep, it’s to the sight of Bucky dabbing a dry, wet cloth to patches of reddening skin on his chest, wincing in pain. 

‘Jesus, Buck, what happened?’ Steve asks, eyes widening as he takes in the overturned coffee cup and Bucky’s shirt lying discarded on the floor. 

‘Spilt the damn coffee,’ Bucky mutters through clenched teeth. ‘Hurts like a bitch.’ 

Steve shakes his head and the fondness Bucky sees there still makes his heart clench with wonder. ‘The way you’re fucking going at it, rubbing like that, it’s going to hurt even more. Put that rag away, I’ll get you some ice.’ 

He turns towards the refrigerator, the rays of sunlight coming in through the windows arcing off his back like golden dancers and Bucky stares, momentarily distracted from the pain. 

Steve is fucking gorgeous. 

Bucky realises it in the stolen moments when he knows only he’s looking, really looking at Steve. 

The few moments of calm after a battle, when everyone is just taking in the surroundings, the wreckage, the disaster– Bucky looks at Steve. Takes in the line of his jaw, the set of his shoulders, the relief and grief battling in his eyes which go from clear blue to overcast skies in the matter of seconds. 

Some mornings, he wakes up before Steve and has the privilege of watching the way his blond hair fans out behind his head, almost like a halo, making him look like the goddamn angel he is. He’s soft in sleep, his eyelashes fluttering, his lips parted and his forehead free of the lines that usually crease them. 

And now, as the sun dances over the expanse of Steve’s back, Bucky hungrily drinks his fill, feasting his eyes. 

They’re soldiers- every moment is precious. 

Steve turns back around and picks up Bucky’s shirt from the floor, wraps up a bunch of ice-cubes in it and walks over to where Bucky’s standing, leaning against the kitchen counter. 

His brow furrows up in concentration as he presses the ice to the reddening patches of Bucky’s skin. 

‘You don’t hafta be so… diligent, Steve,’ Bucky says, his voice gruff. ‘It’s going to heal in a couple seconds anyway.’ 

‘Doesn’t mean I like to see you hurt,’ Steve says immediately, looking up at Bucky through his fucking perfectly curled eyelashes. It makes Bucky want to lean down and kiss him stupid, so he does. 

Their kisses go from chaste and soft in the mornings to heated and filthy in the showers to longing and desperate when one or both of them are about to go away on a mission. 

Now it is gentle, searching, soothing as Steve traces his tongue over Bucky’s bottom lip, making him smile into the soft touch. 

It makes him forget the strange feeling that made him drop the coffee all over himself in the first place. 

– 

Bucky wakes up after a particularly vicious mission where his ribs had been battered and bruised beyond belief, feeling achy and sore. 

It isn’t something he’s used to- the serum heals him in a few hours, maybe a day at most. 

He’s been hospitalised a couple of times, of course, but that’s only when he’s lost a life-threatening amount of blood or when he’s been hit in the head particularly terribly or something else that makes Steve turn pale and his mouth draw into a thin pinched line. If Bucky dares object at being shoved into an ambulance and rushed to a facility, Steve turns furious eyes on him and picks apart his battle techniques and self-esteem issues. 

‘You think you’re fucking dispensable,’ Steve had told him once, almost on the verge of tears. ‘How do I make you understand you’re the most precious thing I have left?’ 

He stopped objecting after that. 

But this mission had been harsh and he’d definitely pulled almost every muscle in his body and sprained a couple joints, but nothing too serious. 

Which doesn’t explain the pain he’s feeling everywhere, because it’s been almost twelve hours and if not completely healed, all he’s supposed to feel at this time is a slight twinge here and there. 

He gingerly walks to the bathroom and takes off his shirt and has to bring his hand up to stifle the gasp that escapes when he encounters his reflection. 

The bruises across his abdomen that are supposed to have healed by now are going from red to an angry purple. There’s red lesions everywhere that haven’t healed and a particularly nasty gash on his right arm which seems to be bleeding slightly. 

He brings up his metal arm to touch one of the bruises and winces as his muscles seem to shrink away from the touch. The pain is tolerable- Bucky’s been through much worse but he knows this isn’t how it is supposed to be. 

So he turns the warm water on (there are perks to living in a tower made by Stark- there’s warm water all the time, anytime) and draws himself a bath, sinking down and hoping the issue resolves itself after a good night’s sleep. 

It does- he wakes up the next day to a body that feels and looks untouched by war and detriment but something about the experience leaves an uneasy feeling curling in his gut. 

– 

Steve notices something is wrong when they’re fucking on the couch. 

He’s riding Steve, and it feels like fucking heaven because Steve knows exactly where to touch him to make him see stars but with one particular thrust Bucky arches too far back and cries out from the pain that shoots across his spine. 

Steve is on alert in a second, reaching out to grip Bucky’s shoulders in firm hands, pulling him down to meet concerned blue eyes. 

‘What’s wrong?’ Steve asks, worry dripping from his tone. ‘Did I hurt you?’ 

The slight incredulity in his voice stings and Bucky scowls (which is laughable because Steve’s dick is still in him) and says, ‘I don’t know why I bother fucking you, if you’re going to be such a fucking pussy each time I make a sound.’ 

He cringes the second the words leave his lips and Steve’s eyebrows shoot up. His dick is going soft inside Bucky. The discomfort and embarrassment make Bucky pull off and fall onto the couch beside Steve where he curls in on himself, facing away. 

A hand rests on his shoulder and he leans into the touch, even as Steve remains silent, waiting for him to explain. Steve knows by now that sometimes, Bucky says things that he doesn’t really mean when he can’t get across what he wants to say. It all comes out anyway, because Bucky is Bucky and Steve is Steve. 

‘The rogue SHIELD branch in Ukraine,’ Bucky murmurs after a while. ‘One of the fuckers got me in the lower back.’ 

‘But–’ 

‘I know,’ Bucky sighs. ‘I still haven’t healed.’ 

He feels the tug on his shoulder and turns around to face Steve with a resigned huff. The concern on his face is overwhelming. 

‘It’s been a week, Buck,’ Steve says, worry shrouding his irises. ‘How are you still feeling it?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ Bucky responds, not quite meeting Steve’s eyes. 

‘Bullshit,’ Steve says immediately, tone flat. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’ 

Bucky sighs and shakes his head. ‘It’s nothing, really. Nothing to worry about anyway. Just that, these days… the healing, it’s not working as well as it used to.’ 

‘What?’

‘Couple of missions, really,’ Bucky hastens to explain, almost frightened by the shock in Steve’s voice. ‘The ones over the last couple of months.’ 

‘Last couple of months? Buck, what the fuck?!’ 

‘Steve–’

‘You don’t fucking talk to me! You’ve not been healing for a couple of months and you didn’t fucking tell me!’ 

‘Steve–’

‘No!’ Steve’s eyes are blazing and he’s pointing a finger at Bucky. ‘No, you don’t get to fucking Steve me right now. We’re going to Bruce tomorrow morning and you don’t get to argue.’ 

Bucky would very much like to argue. But one look at Steve’s shaking finger and the fear in his eyes makes him shut up. He nods in acquiescence and Steve pulls him into a hug that’s even tighter than the ones he usually delivers. 

‘I love you,’ he murmurs into Bucky’s hair and presses a kiss to his temple. ‘I love you so much, fuck.’ 

‘Fuckin’ sap,’ Bucky mumbles into Steve’s chest and that’s that. 

– 

Bucky pleads with Steve to let him go to Bruce alone and finally, after an hour of arguing, Steve says fine with a scowl and stalks out. Then he comes back, scowl still in place, kisses Bucky hard and brutal on the mouth, nipping at his lips and pulling on his tongue. 

When he pulls away, he still looks upset but his voice is soft when he says, ‘I want you to tell me exactly how it goes.’ 

Bucky pulls him into a gentler kiss in response. 

Bruce looks alarmed when he hears what Bucky has to say. 

‘You’re telling me,’ Bruce says, looking at Bucky over his spectacles, ‘that the main property of the super-soldier serum is not… working for you?’ 

‘It isn’t the main property, strength is,’ Bucky says. ‘Isn’t it?’ he adds dubiously. 

Bruce shakes his head. ‘Strength is a result of that property. The reason you have that much strength is because the serum heals you against weakness, if that makes sense.’ 

Bucky shrugs. ‘Well then, yeah. It’s not working.’ 

‘I need to do a blood test. Send it to the lab and get some results,’ Bruce says, looking more worried than Bucky thinks he should. 

‘What could be wrong?’ Bucky asks him. 

‘Any number of things. You didn’t get Erskine’s serum like Steve did. You got whatever mutation Zola managed to come up with. There’s no documentation of what actually went into your body all those years ago. I don’t know what could be wrong and that’s what’s worrying me.’ 

Bucky feels the first shred of fear curl around his chest. 

Bruce’s eyes are kind when he says, ‘Look, Barnes, I didn’t want to sugarcoat it for you. Figured you’d appreciate no one lying to you. But don’t worry about it till the blood comes back with a bunch of papers telling me what’s wrong with you.’ 

Bucky nods. 

‘And Barnes?’ Bruce says, tone a little sharp. Bucky looks at him in askance. 

‘Don’t lie to Steve.’ 

Bucky shudders. 

– 

He tells Steve who buries his head in his hands and stays silent and unmoving for long minutes. Bucky doesn’t know what to tell him so instead he crawls up to Steve and runs his metal fingers through Steve’s hair. It usually relaxes him but this time Steve reaches up to take Bucky’s hand in his and though Bucky can’t really feel anything, the sensors Stark put in this arm lets him know just how hard Steve is gripping it. 

‘You’ll be okay,’ Steve murmurs, focusing on Bucky’s chest instead of his face. ‘You’ll be okay.’ 

Bucky doesn’t know if Steve is trying to convince Bucky or himself. 

– 

As it turns out, Bucky isn’t okay. Bruce comes into their rooms with a sheaf of papers and a grave expression, telling them both to sit down and Bucky immediately knows something is terribly wrong. 

He hopes for Steve’s sake that it’s bearable. 

Bruce hesitates before he begins and Steve’s grip tightens on Bucky’s waist. 

‘You’re dying,’ Bruce says and as soon as the words leave his mouth, he looks horrified. Steve jerks in shock and Bucky still hasn’t really processed what the words mean so he looks at Steve for cues on how to react but Steve just looks… there isn’t really a word. 

‘I’m sorry,’ Bruce says, taking his glasses off and wiping them against his untucked shirt. His hair is a mess and there are shadows under his eyes. ’I never practiced, I don’t have a good bedside manner so I don’t have a clue how to do this but… it’s true. Barnes is dying.’ 

Steve screams. 

It’s so uncharacteristic that both Bucky and Bruce startle. In one swift move, Steve pulls Bucky to him and screams into his shoulder and all Bucky can do is bring his hands up to Steve’s hair, brush through the golden strands and try to process what dying even means. 

When Steve finally stops, his voice is hoarse as he asks Bruce why and how and what. 

The serum Zola put in him is losing potency at an alarming rate, Bruce explains, his voice detached and clinical. His systems are now dependent on it and so they’re going to shut down in due course because there will be nothing to sustain them as putting anything new into Bucky’s body is basically asking for either a painful death or genetic mutation. There’s no way around it simply because of that, Bruce says, hands clenching and unclenching. They don’t know what’s in Bucky’s body. It’s been tested and though isolated elements have been found and explained, the risk is too much. 

‘We’ll keep testing,’ Bruce says, as though it will make Steve’s blank, lost expression disappear. ‘We won’t give up.’ 

Bucky knows they don’t stand a chance.  

– 

They make love that night, on the bed in their room. 

Bucky’s on his back, his nails digging into Steve’s back as Steve gently fingers him open with first one finger, then two, brushing occasionally against his prostate. Bucky cries out, letting all his inhibitions go, pushing into Steve’s thrusts with eager wantonness. He’s always been vocal but today he’s being loud and filthy as he screams Steve’s name into the air surrounding them, heavy with the impending conversations and pain. 

‘Fuck, fuck, Stevie, more,’ he cries out as he turns his neck to the side, gasping into the cool sheets underneath. ‘Give me more, please.’ 

Steve’s barely said anything since they received the news, looking far off into the distance but holding Bucky close with an iron grip. Bucky read and watched one of their favourite films on TV but nothing helped– Steve looked just as blank as he had when Bruce had left. It’s only when Bucky had gently kissed him on the neck, hoping desperately for some reaction that some life had reentered Steve, his eyes brimming with tears as he pulled Bucky into fierce kisses, pushing him down on the bed, holding him there and kissing every inch of him, sucking hickeys down his body, worshipping him. 

That’s how they’ve ended up here with Bucky gasping and arching on the bed with want and Steve going agonisingly slow, nothing like the fast, brutal pace he sets in the bedroom. It’s driving him insane. 

Steve works in three fingers and Bucky howls with the feeling of them sliding in and out of him, the lube slicking their way. Steve relentlessly targets his prostate, hitting it with every thrust and Bucky has had enough so he finally says, ‘Swear to god, Rogers, if you don’t put your cock in me now–’

Steve jerks his fingers out, leaving Bucky whining and empty from the lack of contact. In seconds, the blunt head of his cock is nudging at Bucky’s hole, gently slipping in, filling him up, piecing him back together. 

‘I love you,’ Steve says and his tears fall on Bucky’s face as he moves up Bucky’s body, pressing open mouthed kisses to the corner of his lips, to the shell of his ear. ‘I love you, Buck.’ 

He’s barely thrusting now, just shifting and moving deep inside Bucky’s body. One of his hands curls around Bucky’s cock and the other moves to Bucky’s metal arm. Bucky runs his own hands all over Steve, touching him, feeling him, committing him to memory (as though he hasn’t already). 

‘I love you, too,’ Bucky says, looking up at Steve and for the first time since he’s been informed that he’s going to die in a matter of months, the tears rise in his eyes. ‘Stevie. My Steve.’ 

And this time, Steve’s crying as he buries his head against Bucky’s shoulder and speeds up his thrusts, making Bucky in turn cry out at the feeling. 

He’s nearing orgasm, he can feel it being pulled from him with every stroke of Steve’s hand against his cock and he begins clenching his rim around Steve and the pleasure of it is so unbearable for both of them that they hurtle over the edge almost simultaneously. 

When the high wears off, Steve moves away from Bucky’s shoulder and looks into his eyes. There’s a desperation there Bucky hasn’t seen since the last time he slipped into the Winter Soldier’s headspace which had been almost eight months ago. 

‘I can’t follow you there like I did in the War,’ Steve says and his voice is so small that Bucky’s heart breaks. The truth of where ‘there’ is hangs like an unspoken weapon between them. ’I can’t follow you there, Buck, so where will I go?’ 

And because Bucky has no answer, he pulls Steve close and lets him cry against his chest. 

– 

Bucky gets worse as the days pass. His strength is disappearing so fast that he wakes up each morning feeling like he’s aged ten years. His ninety years are catching up to him now and when he says as much to Steve, Steve gets a hard, cold look in his eyes and tells Bucky to stop joking about something like that. 

It’s weird because usually sickness has medicine but Bruce is against putting any foreign substance into his body and that leaves Bucky with an incurable illness and no medicine. When Natalia comes to visit, he tells her and she pulls his head into her lap and they sit in silence for three hours. 

Bucky’s accepted it, he thinks. 

He knows what’s coming- he knows the end is near and there isn’t anything he can do about it. 

‘Your life is not your own,’ Steve had once said when he’d found Bucky standing on the edge of the rooftop, looking down at the lights and busy roads of Manhattan. ‘Keep your hands off it.’ 

The dead do not know what comes after, but at least they find out. 

The living must deal with never knowing. 

For those who live, the concept of Heaven and Hell is a comfort. It is a blanket of warmth in a world of cold, hard truths. For those who are about to die, those concepts feel like a tightening noose. 

Bucky hopes the afterlife is a void, that is to say he hopes there is no afterlife. 

He cannot live somewhere else, knowing that Steve is apart from him, mourning him. 

Or worse, forgetting him. 

And the possibility of himself forgetting Steve is far too painful to contemplate when those baby blue eyes haunt his dreams, nightmares and waking moments and so Bucky hopes for the void during the sleepless nights where Steve’s breathing beside him is shallow and disturbed from nightmares. 

This he tells Stark, who looks at him like he understands and there’s a silent agreement between them that Steve will never know about these thoughts, these conversations. 

They make love every night and though Bucky sometimes wants it hard and fast and brutal, the achingly slow pace Steve maintains these days is comfortable. 

It gives him more time to appreciate Steve in the throes of passion– that moment before he comes when his eyes fall shut and his lips are swollen and bitten, the moment he first slips into Bucky, the moment when Bucky slips into him. 

They are soldiers, every moment is precious. 

– 

The day Bucky knows he is going to die the minute he wakes up, he coughs blood onto the white sheets, staining them a coppery red. 

Steve says nothing, just lifts Bucky up and changes the sheets. He’s stopped going on missions for the past month, opting to stay in the tower. 

Sometimes Sam comes over and it had been a weird moment when he’d gone all misty-eyed as he’d insulted Bucky for being on his death-bed. He knows that’s Falcon’s emotionally stunted way of saying he’ll be missed but it had been… strange and Bucky hadn’t known what to do with it or the mist fogging up his own eyes. 

The last time Steve had lost him, on the train, there had been no goodbye. 

It’s only fitting that this time there is a month for farewells and loving kisses and broken words that mean more to them than anyone will ever be able to understand. 

Natalia says goodbye and though she tries to keep it short, unemotional, almost clinical, the long silences she spends in his company speak otherwise. 

Stark comes in late in the evenings, sends Steve out to socialise with the others in the tower for a couple of hours much to his chagrin(‘being cooped up here with one person for a month will end up in you becoming some sort of cryptid and we need you, Cap’) and they sit and talk about science and war and sometimes death. It’s both easy and hard around Stark but Stark has accepted that Bucky will die with a sort of stoic cynicism and after Steve’s inability to accept it at all, there’s comfort in Tony’s dark humour. 

Bruce comes in one day, sits on the floor and shatters a bunch of glasses against the wall because Bucky is too far gone for any research progress to help him now. Bucky tries his best to comfort Bruce but he doesn’t know what to say that won’t make him sound suicidal so he says nothing. 

Wanda once came in awkwardly with a bunch of baked cookies and cried on his shoulder for an hour before telling him that if he ever wanted it, she could come and put him to sleep and ensure he enjoyed some good dreams. 

And he’s glad he’s gotten all the goodbyes out of the way as Steve wipes the blood from his chin because he knows, somehow that today is the day he finally finds out what comes after. 

He thinks he should tell Steve but when he pats the spot beside him on the bed, Steve sits and the look in his eyes tells Bucky that he knows too. 

So Bucky closes his eyes and asks Steve to read to him and Steve does, in his soft, lilting voice the last few chapters of the Great Gatsby. The fact that Steve picks this book makes him smile, and he forgoes the pillow in favour of Steve’s lap and falls back asleep, surprisingly content with the reality of his death. 

When he wakes up again, he can barely breathe. 

He looks around him and they’re there– Stark and Bruce and Wanda and Natalia, even Sam and Vision. They aren’t surrounding the bed but they’re milling about, in the bedroom, in the living room that he can see from the bedroom and probably in the kitchen because he can hear someone using the sink there. 

‘Steve,’ he rasps and beside him, there’s movement and Steve is gripping his hand so tightly that Bucky thinks that strength alone is enough to breathe back life into him. 

‘Water,’ he manages and there’s a straw in his mouth that lets him sip in water little by little. 

‘They’re here for you,’ Steve whispers and Bucky smiles. 

‘No, they’re not. They’ve been here for me for the whole time I was dying. Now that I will, they’re here for you.’ He’s breathless and by the time he’s done speaking, he’s panting hard. 

Steve has cried himself dry and Bucky isn’t surprised by the lack of tears in his eyes now. They’re red and swollen but dry as they fix on Bucky. 

‘I’ll miss you,’ Bucky says, suddenly, looking at Steve, who clenches his eyes shut. ‘So much.’ 

‘Wait for me, then,’ Steve says and his eyes are wide, entreating pools of blue that reminds Bucky of the sunshine he hasn’t seen in days. ‘Wherever you are, wait for me.’ 

He takes him in, the slight stubble Steve hasn’t shaved off in a couple of days, the tense set of his broad shoulders, the warmth of his hands. He can feel his life slipping away and he knows Steve can too because the pain intensifies on his face. 

He knows he has just moments left and he can feel his eyes closing but he struggles to keep them open as long as he can, spending those last seconds staring at Steve, falling in love again and again and again. 

They are soldiers. 

Every moment is precious. 

When his eyes finally close, the world turns white. 

[imastrangeone98]

Warm

(A/N: Behold, the second of the 4 pt smutty mini "series" I'm doing to celebrate 90 followers!! Woohoo!)

Part 1: Sloppy (Devil May Cry: Dante)

Ah yes. The wonderful "we need to share a bed to keep warm from the blizzard!" trope. Except... what if the bed was actually the floor of some random cave?? Haha jk..... unless??

I won't lie... this made me feel things 😏

WARNING: No actual ding-a-ling in the fairy cave- everything's clothed- and even that might be slightly (very) unrealistic. We all know it's hotter when the armor stays on during sex XD well, most of it. dirty talk. Some mild angst and a good amount of fluff. Be careful~

Also, I imagine this when Din and Kyla are younger, but post-azloc iii where they leave the team behind

Mygeeto was absolutely freezing.

Kyla could barely feel her toes and fingers, even with the thick gloves and boots she had purchased from the kind Lurmen merchant. And she didn't even want to get started on her pants- they were hilariously thin, and the wind cut right through the fabric. Why did she even pick these in the first place?

Mando, who marched some feet ahead of her, continued to punch through the snow, helmet trained on the tracking fob in his hands.

At some point, he began to curse.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Bounty slipped. And there's gonna be a storm."

As if on cue, thunder clapped in the distance. The wind picked up, hurling snow and chunks of ice into their faces. The chill alone was enough to make her feel like she was sliced in half.

"Kriff." Quickly scanning the perimeter, she pointed out a small cave nearby. "You think that'll do for a shelter?!" she hollered over the howling wind.

They approached it. It was facing away from the wind, and there wasn't a lot of snow. But it was shallow, and easily exposed to the cold.

"It'll have to do!" He turned to her. "I'm going to get some branches for shelter! You need to find firewood or we'll freeze to death!"

She gave him a thumbs up and hurriedly waddled into the tree line, stuffing moss and various twigs into her pockets while keeping an eye out for any potential dry wood.

By the time she managed to find a dead tree that suited their needs, Mando had found her and helped with chopping off logs and dragging it back to camp.

He began arranging branches to block out the wind and ventilate the cave, while Kyla coaxed a flame from the damp wood she collected. Finally, the familiar warmth of the fire began to permeate through the chill.

They both leaned against the cool stone wall, watching the orange-red flames dance in the air.

But even with the heavy layer of branches trapping the heat in, Kyla could still feel the freezing wind outside. She wrapped her coat tighter around her body, cursing her clothing choice.

Mando noticed. "Are you still cold?"

She turned to look at him. With his heavy durasteel armor and cape, he didn't appear to be shivering. Maybe he was.

She was curious to know what he hid beneath his flashy exterior.

She nodded. "But... at least my teeth stopped chattering. That's something, right?"

He tilted his head. "Your lips are still blue."

...Okay, then. "I- I didn't know that."

"It's more obvious now." With a small sense of elegance, Din tugged off his cape, patting the ground beside him. "Sit here."

Something about his tone just made her shiver in anticipation. What it was, she couldn't put her finger on it.

But she didn't refuse his gracious offer, out of fear that he'd just as quickly retract it.

She scooted over to sit beside him, and he draped his cape over her, adjusting it like a blanket before turning away to stoke the fire.

After checking to see whether he was paying attention she hoped he wasn't, she brought the worn cloth to her nose. It smelled like smoke and... something spicy. Something male.

"Kyla."

She was jolted from her thoughts. "Yes?"

"Are you still cold?" he repeated his question from earlier.

She bit her lip. These goddamn pants. "...Yes."

"...I see."

And before she realized it, his hand tugged her shoulder and she was flung onto his lap. His strong arms wrapped themselves firmly around her waist.

When had he taken off his gloves?

"Better?" His voice had a slight purr to it.

Oh. So he wanted to play that game? Alright, then.

"Uncomfortable," she teased, with a tiny grind on his armored thigh.

He was silent after that. Very silent. It was to the point where it began to grow uncomfortable.

...Had she gone over the line? They were friends now, so she thought it would be okay to make such jokes. Was she too insensitive for not asking him beforehand? She'd never forgive herself if she made him feel defensive-

She was suddenly nudged off his lap, only for his hands to fly at the clasps of his thigh guards and toss them aside. He reached for her again, adjusting her so she sat facing him.

"How about now?" His chest rumbled. She could feel one of his fingers trace patterns on her skin, having slipped just under her shirt.

Her mouth felt dry. Her hands were clammy.

Was this real? Was this really real?

"...It's good," she whispered. Her voice sounded hoarse, even to her.

But he didn't seem to mind. In fact, by the small gasp he let out, he seemed to enjoy it.

It was especially apparent with the growing hardness that pressed right against her crotch.

"You look good like this," he murmured with thought, tracing a finger down her cheek. "On top of me like this."

Tentatively, he rolled his hips. A gasp forced itself out of her mouth- he had brushed right against her entrance.

She quickly covered her face with her hands. Embarrassment burned her cheeks- or maybe it was the fire.

"Stop that." Warm hands slid over her wrists and tugged them apart, exposing her bright red face. "Don't hide yourself from me, mesh'la."

"What-?"

A firm roll of his hips stopped her right in her tracks. The softest moan emerged from his vocoder- it sent a tremor between her legs.

"Do you want me, cyar'ika?" he whispered, leaning forward so the front of his helmet brushed against her forehead. "I know I want you."

Maker. Kyla wondered if it was possible to get drunk on sound alone.

"Yes."

She grinded herself on his muscled thigh, savoring the delicious pressure on her clit. His hands slid up her arms, briefly fondling her breasts, before stopping at her sides. His thumbs rubbed warm circles over her hipbones, and she found herself rocking her hips to its rhythm.

"Just like that, cyar'ika," Din moaned. "My sweet girl. So good to me."

Her core tightened around nothing. Her breathing was ridiculously heavy.

She wanted him. She wanted him inside her.

"Din..." she whimpered, pressing herself close to his chest. "Please..."

He hummed- a low, rumbling growl. "I know. I want you too." As if to prove a point, he thrusted upwards onto her clothed cunt, causing a moan to rip out of her throat. "...But not yet. I... I'm not... clean."

She froze. The unspoken name floated in the air between them.

Xi'an.

"...Oh." Kyla swallowed her disappointment. But she understood.

She really did.

"But one day," he finally said, tilting her head towards him with a rough finger. "One day, you will be mine. And I will be yours. Then, and for the rest of our days."

His words flowed over her, warming her to the bone. "Din..."

"I swear it." His hips bucked against hers, and they both gasped, gripping tightly onto each other. As if they would drown if they let go. "On my honor. On my Creed. I'll make you mine."

"And I'll make you mine," she returned, moving with him as they both climbed towards an inescapable high.

A warm hand cradled the back of her neck as she came. Through the thick fog of pleasure, she heard him let out a loud groan, and felt him as he palmed himself.

Her breath slowly came back to her- the pressure in her core now fully relieved. She felt the cool metal of his helmet press into her forehead once more.

"Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum," he whispered, gently running a hand through her hair.

Kyla slowly blinked the spots out of her eyes. "Mando'a, right? What does it mean?"

Din let out an exhausted chuckle. "Maybe I'll tell you later. Sleep." He nestled her head against the crook of his neck. The soft material of his shirt felt nice against her sensitive skin, and the fire was warm on her back.

Just before she fell asleep, she thought she felt lips press against her temple.

------------------------------------------------------

A/N: wow I'm actually proud of this one too ^^ this and my previous edition of the series are some good accomplishments of mine

This felt very intimate, which I like

[anotherdayinchuckletown]

They’re Funny That Way, Chapter 2

A/N: Hey, guys!  I’m pretty happy with the feedback I received on Chapter 1, and I’m so so thankful to everyone who took the time to read it (especially those of you who offered me kind and encouraging words, ily!)  So, the story continues!

I’ve found over the years that dialogue is my biggest strength, and scenes with little to no dialogue stretch and challenge me a bit.  So this chapter was a touch longer in development than the last. But I hope to get a consistent update schedule going pretty soon here because I have a very fleshed-out plan for this fic.

That said, I hope you enjoy!  Please like, reblog, and comment if you do!

(cross-posted to my AO3 https://archiveofourown.org/users/marie_deneuve)

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Arthur Fleck has seen an angel. There is no other way to describe it.

Things are especially tedious since he returned from his latest stint at the psychiatric ward. The same things, day in and day out, until each day begins to blur together like a watercolor painting. No clear lines separating one grueling day from the next, every shape hazy and undefined beyond the smoke of his cigarettes. He himself disappears into the smog and goes about his life unseen. Unknown. Not to mention, he's now on thin ice at work – Hoyt, his boss, made that much clear to him right off the bat. "You've missed a lot of days, Arthur," he had said the morning he came in to pick up his belongings. "Just try not to be a pain in the ass. No fucking up, you got that?" Arthur can't remember how he responded, if he responded. Only that the voice in his head (it's his mother's voice that time) told him to Smile. At least you got your job back. It's so much easier to smile when he's Carnival, and not just because the expression is painted on for him. He loves his job, honestly, he does. Every once in a while, when he's working gigs at birthday parties or at the children's hospital, when he's able to make the kids laugh, it seems worth it. For just a minute, it seems as though he's good for something after all. As though maybe when his mother used to tell him his purpose was to spread joy and laughter in the world, she was right. And maybe he could actually do it. Then he takes off the wig, the brightly-colored clothes, the greasepaint...and the illusion is broken. Sometimes it's easy to forget the husk of a man that lies underneath the makeup. Arthur Fleck. Who is Arthur Fleck? Hard to say. Carnival is easier. And so Carnival stays that evening as he walks home. Also because he's just so fucking exhausted. Not changing out of his clown costume at work means a little less dealing with his coworkers and a little more getting home to sequester himself from the rest of the world for the remainder of the evening. The woman on the elevator is not part of the plan. She holds the door open for him and retreats silently into a corner. The air between them is still as death as they ascend, her eyes burning holes in the back of his coat all the while. Arthur initially avoids looking back at her, afraid that if he does, she'll vanish into thin air. He's becoming too used to his lonely, damaged psyche playing such tricks on him. She never even pushes any of the buttons for a specific floor – if she's a hallucination, she's not even a convincing one. The trip is not smooth by any means – surprise, surprise – and the woman seems more than a little perturbed. "Does...that happen often?" Her voice, gentle and feathery, suddenly drifts over him, covering him like a weighted blanket. He turns to face her fully, intending to respond, but pauses when he feels his heart stop. She is undoubtedly the most beautiful creature he has ever laid eyes on. She instantly evokes images of those actresses in the black and white films of his youth. The same powerful air of sophistication as Grace Kelly. The same allure as Rita Hayworth. Only she's in vivid color, and they're not separated by a screen, and she's so close. Even in the elevator's dingy lighting, her blonde curls glow like a halo. Her full lips are pulled into a concerned frown, and her icy blue eyes are trained quizzically on him. Right, that's because she asked him a question. And he's so far done nothing but stare at her like a depraved creep. Carnival, his work persona, doesn't generally speak - and thank fuck for that. Arthur doesn't think he could power out a single word if he wanted to, his mouth has gone so dry. In the end, all he manages is a shrug. Idiot. She must not think he's a total loser because she keeps talking to him anyway, even pays him a compliment – a compliment! When's the last time that happened? He's definitely glad he kept the clown costume on now; interacting with her this way is safer, gives him less of a chance to screw it up. Less of a chance for her to see how pathetic he really is underneath it all. All good things must come to an end, however, and they do eventually reach the eighth floor. And when they do, she surprises him yet again. "I'm new to the building, by the way – my name's Emma. It's a pleasure." Emma. Emma. Emma. She extends a perfectly-manicured hand, and for a moment, Arthur just stares. This is most likely when he finds out that this woman, this magnificent vision in his hallway, this Emma, is nothing more than a fantastic dream. And if she is, in fact, a dream, he's not so sure he's ready to wake up. Nevertheless, he gingerly returns the gesture. Their hands connect. Soft and tentative, but tangible. Warm. Light. So light that Arthur feels as though he's floating, hovering just above the tiled floor, and he could continue to float forever, as long as he just holds on. To his disappointment, she is the one to let go. Arthur crashes back down to the floor, a chill running through him at the sudden loss of contact, simple though it was. She bids him good night and takes off down the hall, the click of her heels in perfect sync with the thrumming of his heart against his ribcage. Emma. Emma. Emma. He gets the feeling he won't forget that name for as long as he lives. Arthur Fleck has seen an angel. And she is so, so beautiful. _____________________________________ "Hey, you look like shit." "Thanks, motherfucker." On her way to the kitchen, Emma totters past the open bathroom door, where Eddie is busy shaving his face. Apparently not too busy to comment on her fresh-out-of-bed appearance, though. She will admit, she's not surprised if she doesn't look her best at the moment. Almost a week of sleeping on a rapidly-deflating air mattress on Eddie's living room floor has not done her back any favors. The bags forming under her eyes make her look like she hasn't slept since the seventies, and her hair has become stringy and unkempt since the last time it was washed. To top it off, she still has none of her clothes or other belongings. So she's currently sporting an oversized Creedence Clearwater Revival t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, both borrowed from Eddie. They hang off of her smaller frame, giving her the appearance of a sickly child who will be hard-pressed to survive the coming winter. "You making breakfast?" her brother asks, poking his head into the foyer. A glob of shaving cream drips onto the tile below him, and Emma grimaces. She returns her focus to her previous mission of rifling through the freezer, pushing past an assortment of cheap vodka and TV dinners until she finds his deposit of frozen waffles. "Eggos!" she calls out. "Cool! Pop an extra one in the toaster for me, yeah?" Emma complies, setting an extra plate out for him as well. As the toaster whirs quietly atop the kitchen counter, she begins her morning ritual of planting herself on the sofa and burying her face in the job listings section of the local newspaper. The job hunt so far has yielded results that are...less than stellar. So many applications, so many interviews, and so far...nothing. "We'll call you if something else opens up" here and "we'll keep you on file" there. Even a "your educational background is good, but we're looking for a little more experience". It's starting to take a toll on her self-esteem. The only real offer she's gotten is from a dive bar across town called The Harlequin. She's familiar with the bartending world – it's how she put herself through college. And she likes to think she's damn good at it, too – hell, she had mastered the Bloody Mary with only a couple weeks' practice! Run-of-the-mill margaritas and martinis? Piece of cake. Not to mention, studying psychology at the same time has granted her an uncanny ability to manipulate a conversation, bend it to her will. Sniff out how to get the biggest possible tips from each kind of patron. Yes, she's a master, all right. But she's really hoping to move on to something with a more...prestigious title. "Any new prospects today?" Eddie emerges from the bathroom just as the toaster lets out a soft 'ding!' He quickly joins Emma on the sofa, a plate of waffles in either hand and bottle of syrup under his arm, completely bypassing the dining room table as per usual. She hasn't seen him eat a single meal at that table yet, instead opting to bring his food into the living room and spill his goddamn crumbs all over the furniture. "Nothing yet, besides The Harlequin thing," Emma grumbles, taking the fork he offers and muttering a quick "thank you" as he sets a plate down on the coffee table for her. "I'm tempted to accept it, just so I can end the madness." "Didn't Sophie recommend you at the bank?" Eddie goes to town with the syrup, drowning his breakfast until the golden-brown liquid threatens to spill off of his plate and onto the coffee table. "She tried. Nothing was open." Emma puts down the newspaper for the time being, feeling the beginnings of a migraine creeping along her scalp. She instead grabs the remote and flips on the TV across the living room, the background noise helping her to relax her mind. Eddie shovels in a forkful of his syrupy concoction. "Sorry we couldn't get you on at the record store. We had a spot last week, but Ron's back from rehab now..." he says with his mouth full. "That reminds me, you still thinking about medical school?" That gives her pause. Honestly, she hasn't thought about medical school in quite a while. More pressing matters to attend to. Besides, it's been years since she last studied. Who's to say that she could pick up where she left off now, even if she were to apply? In the end, after a moment's hesitation, she shrugs. "Maybe. I'm a little rusty, you know?" She takes a meager bite of her own breakfast, chewing carefully. "Aw, come on, that's a cop-out!" Eddie abruptly stands and rushes to the kitchen, leaving his plate behind. As he begins to rummage through the fridge, he continues. "You gotta at least try! You're smart and talented, you work your ass off – where the fuck? – oh, there it is..." He returns with a can of whipped cream and unleashes about half of it onto his plate, and the other half directly into his mouth. "Plus!" He grins. "You look like me, so you know you've got it goin' on." The fraternal twins did bear a striking resemblance to one another as children, but age has individualized them greatly. Where Emma remains on the shorter side, Eddie is now a solid six feet tall. Eddie has also experienced a little more horizontal growth; although Emma suspects his rampant drinking (more so than his atrocious diet) is the cause. "I'm not sure what looks have to do with anything..." Emma scans her brother's plate for the waffle. She can't see it - it's forever lost to the sugary onslaught. Maybe it is his diet after all. "Looks have to do with everything, Em. Not fair, but true." His eyebrows furrow, and he scrutinizes her face. "Speaking of which, you really do look terrible." "You mentioned." "No, like...have you been sleeping at all?" His eyes narrow with concern, meeting her own sunken ones. "I know that air mattress is a piece of shit - you can get yourself something nicer if you want." Emma sometimes forgets how observant Eddie can be when he focuses. She really hasn't been able to sleep a wink since she arrived in Gotham several days ago. He's right, the air mattress is an awkward and lumpy piece of shit, but that's not the real reason sleep evades her. The walls of the tiny apartment seem to cry in anguish at night. Sirens blare outside the window near constantly; they're sometimes accompanied by flashing red and blue lights, the colors piercing through the curtains and waltzing unsettlingly across the floor. People wander the streets until the wee hours, shouting at each other, their combined voices drifting toward the sky in an unpleasant cacophony. Emma can easily understand why folks here on the East Side are so exhausted. The only person who sleeps less than she does is the man who lives next door. She's never seen him, but she's definitely heard him. At least once every night, when she least expects it, he bursts into sudden uproarious laughter. Normally, Emma would march right over and ask the man what could possibly be so fucking funny at three in the morning (only a bit more tactfully, she's not an animal), but she never brings herself to do it. Truthfully, she's scared to. Something is not right about that laugh. It's discordant and jarring, as if clawing its way into the apartment like a demon prying frantically through the drywall. It lacks joy, and in fact, actually sounds pretty damn miserable. A part of her wonders if the man is all right. Regardless, a better mattress couldn't hurt. "Yeah, I might do that," she says. "I probably should prioritize getting some clothes of my own first." Satisfied, Eddie returns to demolishing his waffle creation. "Get whatever you want, as long as you can make the space for it. Want you to be comfortable while you're here, however long that is." He chuckles. "With your money, I'm sure you can spoil yourself much better than I can." Emma snorts, gesturing wildly at herself and at her surroundings. "Money? What money?" "You kidding?" He looks genuinely surprised for a moment. "Your ex is a millionaire! You mean to tell me you haven't hopped on that alimony pony?" "Oh, don't be ridiculous, I don't give a shit about Daniel's money." Emma rolls her eyes. "Not to mention, we only separated a week ago. We have to set a court date, fill out the paperwork-" "Yeah, yeah," Eddie drawls, waving her off. "When that check comes, you remember who took your ass in, no questions asked. Got it?" It's nice to know his sense of humor hasn't changed. Emma nods once. "You got it." They eat in peaceful silence for a while, the distant voice of the news anchor on TV the only sound in the room. Something that doesn't happen often for the siblings. After a few minutes, Eddie speaks up again. "Hey, Em?" "Yeah?" "...Glad you're back. Missed you." "Hm." A faint smile plays along her lips. "Missed you too."