#Hell I even miss the itching of scars starting to heal | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

unstoppableforcce · 3 years ago

Text

dirty, pretty, beautiful

— “goddamn… I love to watch you work”

pairing: billy russo x f! street fighter! reader

masterlist | 5.2k | ko-fi

warnings: [18+], fighting, blood, blood kink (?), semi-public sex (? it’s a bar bathroom), slight choking, just overall violence (?) but enthusiastically consensual, all smut is from Billy’s POV

a/n: so maybe, I ignored every other WIP I have to write for billy russo. and yeah, this is 9000% inspired by the scene in 1x12 where billy is clearly turned on watching frank kill a man. but i really like the way this came out so I don’t even care

The warehouse had a stink to it. Musty, heady, metallic… Metallic like the remains of a handful of change against his palm. Metallic like waft of hot rain off the highest train tracks. Metallic like the taste of blood, coating his teeth, smothering his tongue until it was all he imagined he would ever taste again.

Fresh blood had a sweeter smell, a saltier smell even, but as more time passed, as the heat of the daily sunlight poured in through the windows left unboarded, as the frigid, damp night settled within the empty body of the building, the smell grew rancid. A ripe fruit passing it’s best by date, left to sit for far too long. A living liquor left to die, to rot, to stink. It was a smell he was far too familiar with, a smell that laced more of his memories than he cared to ever voice. A smell that, on his worst days, he found himself missing.

With hands heavy like weights, stuffed into his pockets to keep him anchored as the smell flooded his head, he managed his way forward towards the hum of the crowd. Hustlers worked the crowd, kids barely old enough to enlist waving hands full of crumpled bills and corralling bet after bet.

“We’ve got three fights! Three fights left until the main event!” One called.

“Place your bets and place them fast!” The next one chanted, over and over again, louder and louder each time a new wad of cash was pushed into his hands.

“This is a night you won’t want to miss.”

Clearly, the crowd agreed.

The itch of his sweater brought a new heat as he moved deeper into the crowd circled around the main cage, a cold sweat gathering at the back of his neck where the collar of his leather jacket met his skin. He knew better than to wear one of his suits to an event like this, but he still found himself missing the fond feel of the expensive fabric, the protective layer it granted him, the height it added to his already intimidating form. A few sideways stares told him he still stood out plenty on his own, but something about being dressed down struck a chord with him he didn’t like.

It was wearing a different skin, a more vulnerable skin, one that left him desperate in a way he hadn’t felt in far too long.

Billy Russo was a powerful man, but he hadn’t always been. It didn’t matter how many years it had been, he spent far too long walking on the edge, toeing a line. The group home, the bullies, the stares that followed his pretty fucking face wherever he went… one wrong move, one bad decision, and he could’ve ended up here under much different circumstances.

It could have been him in the ring, fighting for his next meal, fighting for his life.

His hand scratched at his beard as he shouldered further into the crowd for a better view, doing his best to ignore the brutal stench of violence and the unclean men surrounding him. It didn’t matter what feeling bubbled in his chest, nor what aching memories echoed in the back of his head, he was here for a reason. Recruiting discharged soldiers could only sustain their workforce for so long if special forces remnants and women remained hard to come by. When rumors started to grow, flowering up from the filthy underbelly of the city, a fighter to end all fights, he knew he had to get his offer on the table before anyone else could.

Anvil needed operatives. He had a job to do. The stench of blood and the avalanche of feelings that came with it, that was just… well, he could handle it. With or without his suit and tie.

“... El Tigre and the Mountain!”

The crowd roared for the first fight of the night.

There was a particular bias for the Mountain, which, upon laying eyes on him, made enough sense. He didn’t get the name out of irony, he towered over his opponent by a good foot, and no amount of speed on the smaller man’s part was going to make a difference. The fight lasted, violent hit after violent hit, but within a few minutes, the Mountain prevailed as expected.

Then another fight, just as brutal. Then another.

Watching men beat the shit out of each other, however, was nothing new. If he wanted unthinking violence and filthy brutality, he knew where he could get it a lot cheaper, he was here for overlooked skill, an underestimated killer. He was here for—

“The crowned royalty of chaos, the duchess of destruction, the princess of pain… the one and only…” his voice echoed across the warehouse, rumbling as the crowd grew uncontrollable. “The Queen of Combat!”

If the crowd had allowed enough space between where their rowdy bodies pressed against one another, Billy thought some of them might get on their knees and submit to you right there and then. Hell, the second he laid eyes on you, the thought even crossed his mind.

And he’d be lying if he said it didn’t linger.

The warehouse shook with unflinching loyalty, his ears defeaned by the corresponding cheers. Shoulders hit into his, shoved from behind, pushed by the guy in front of him, some of the crowd climbing up on the cage just to gain a mere inch closer to you. And yet, you made your way into the cage without sparing a glance to a single one of the aggressive animals clawing at the fencing, unphased by the noise, unflinching. Your chin lifted just above the noise and your graceful stature carried you the rest of the way in. Regal was an understatement, but, watching you as closely as everyone else, he wasn’t sure he even had the vocabulary to find a word that worked better.

Blood stained your hoodie, bruises scaled the ridges of your knuckles, and yet, he was sure that one word from you could summon an army out of the screaming crowd surrounding you. One word from you and Billy… well, the things he’d do for you.

His eyes locked on your knuckles, watching closely as you wrapped the brutalized skin away, then moved to your body as you tossed the old hoodie away. Scars and marks lined your torso—bruises left over from a fight a mere few days ago judging by the healing, scars from fights so long ago they were nearly faded, burns, cuts, slices, bumps… your skin was a war zone.

And he knew war zones. Shifting his weight from one foot to another, a hot pressure in his jeans apparent, he was sure he could lose himself in a war zone like that.

If the man who entered behind you was your opponent, it was clear there wasn’t more than a handful of souls in the whole arena who cared. There wasn’t a single clap out of beat, not one change in the roar of support aimed at you and you alone. He was bigger, sure, but if energy was anything to go by, he could be Paul fucking Bunyan and it wouldn’t have even come close to matching your unwavering support.

“Fighters, get ready.”

Your opponent took a few jumps, slapping his arms like he was Michael Phelps. You took one step forward, rolled your shoulders and leveled your stare.

There was no doubt in his mind who he considered a threat, who he considered a future asset.

“Tap out or knock out.” The kid stood between them reminded, and when neither of their deadly stares shifted, he nodded his head once, blew his whistle, and got the fuck out of the way as fast as possible.

But you… you waited.

Your opponent jumped at you, feigning left then right but not putting much strength either way, hoping for a flinch. A flinch he didn’t get. You didn’t even blink.

You just waited.

And when he opened up his left side in frustration after a series of perfectly blocked hits, you turned it on. He couldn’t even get his hands up fast enough.

It wasn’t like he was some nobody they pulled out of the gutter to have you fight tonight, he was clearly a skilled fighter of his own, it just didn’t matter in comparison. You were quick, controlled, deliberate. Two punches for every one of his. Perfectly placed to have him grunting and groaning while his landed with nothing more than a hiss or blink.

If he thought his sweater was suffocating him before, god, he had no idea what he was getting himself into.

He could feel the hum of his heart, and the sudden staccato everytime your fist connected with a crack. He could feel his pulse beating through every inch of his body, from his temples to his toes and every throbbing inch in between. Another hit, he could see the blood coating the wraps across your knuckles. Another hit, he could see the crimson staining your teeth.

He wanted a taste—no, he needed one.

A hit to the ribs had your opponent crinkling, a jab to the face had him spinning. A kick to the knee buckled him over, a knee to the chin sent his teeth up into his brain. As blood splattered up your bare thigh, your opponent collapsed to the concrete.

Knock out.

Even if he wasn’t truly out, he knew better than to move, his eyes already swelling shut, his unscarred skin bruised and bloodied.

The crowd went wild, but Billy couldn’t hear. He watched you swipe your wrapped hand against your chin, wiping away the blood from your lips, and he swore his mind short-circuited as his blood rerouted elsewhere. You were fucking gorgeous, you were delicious, you were his new religion, you were… Royalty.

A Queen.

Fuck, he was hard.

With your hand lifted in victory, the crowd reached a volume Billy hadn’t even thought possible, and when you ripped your hand away and moved back for your discarded sweats, the crowd again tried to swarm you. To touch you, to feel your power, to feel you up. He just watched. He’d catch you when you came back out, showered, with cash in your hand. In his experience, people were much more open to recruitment when they weren’t being verbally and sexually harassed by hoards of disgusting men with filthy leering stares.

It took about an hour, stood outside in the back alley where the late night wind beat him up with freezing gust after freezing gust, but when you came out, you were alone. That alone made it worth it.

Shouldering open the heavy metal door dressed in fresh sweats hanging loose off your hot muscles, you made it a whole two steps before you caught sight of where he lingered in your peripheral and nearly jumped out of your skin. “Staking out this door is a good way to get the shit beat out of you, you know.”

The cool bite in your tone hit even harder than the wind, but neither did anything to cool him down. In fact, his smirk only grew as you raised your chin in a stubborn challenge.

“Don’t worry, I come in peace.” He defended, lifting his hands where they held in his jacket pockets for the warmest show of surrender he could muster.

“Not interested.”

He took a careful step forward, eyes holding your piercing stare. “You haven’t even heard my offer.”

“Don’t have to.” The bag hanging over your shoulder shifted as the wind whipped by once more, and you quickly moved it down your arm as the weight found one of your more grueling injuries stretching the length of your collarbone. If he hadn’t been looking so closely, maybe you could have hidden your shrug, but he saw it all, he wanted to see it all, even as you argued back. “Whatever it is, I don’t need it in my life.”

Your feet found two more steps away before he pulled you back with his sly smile and slimier argument. “Just one drink.”

It’s not frustration that stops you this time, it’s curiosity, one brow raised as your arms cross over your chest. “Are you serious?”

For the first time, he doesn’t have an answer. For the first time, that perfect exterior cracks, his brow furrowing and his mouth left open. “What—“

“I mean…” your laugh shook him out of it, the sound something rough and throaty. “Seriously? I thought for sure you were here to recruit me for something, with this whole pretty boy soldier off-duty look you’ve got going on but no… you want to get a drink? Seriously? You waited out here for an hour in the cold because you want to fuck me?”

He cleared his throat as his stare and smirk absconded, was it really that obvious? Did he really even care if it was?

Business Billy, he reminded himself chastely.

Cutting the distance between the two of you in half, he extended his hand for a shake he knew he’d never get once his mouth opened. “Billy Russo,” he introduced.

Your smirk fell in the same second

“That Anvil guy?”

His hand pulled back and his disposition shifted to the only defense it knew, a cocky smirk and casual shrug. “My reputation precedes me, huh?”

“You take good people who get out and you toss them right back in.” The cold bite had vacated your tone entirely, and what replaced it, the heat of your righteous indignation, reignited the fire he felt when you were fighting. A match strike. A sharp cut against a stick of flint.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t gotten it before, but coming from you… well, he just couldn’t turn his cheek to it. “I help those who can’t get back on their feet—“

“You help them get back to the hell that messed them up in the first place, you mean. How charitable.” The sarcasm was a slap to the face, and still, he couldn’t find it in himself to take a step back.

“At least I take care of my people, I pay better, I—“

Your scoff echoed around the empty alley, bouncing off the dumpsters and brick walls, reverberating in his ears until it was all he could hear. “Yeah? And just how much is a life worth to you?”

His jaw clenched. “More than the government, sweetheart.”

“That’s not really saying much, is it?”

He let loose a sigh, a breath of tension he didn’t even know he was holding as his shoulder twitched and his stare found anything to look at that wasn’t you. What was he supposed to say? What argument could he voice back? You had a point. Hell, he could see a younger version of himself making the same argument back when things first got bad over there, back when he first thought about getting out.

The sentiment was respectable, and your stubborn tenacity was nothing to scoff at, but this wasn’t about heart.

Some people just don’t make it out. Some people can’t. Why was he so wrong for offering them a path back, what was so immoral about offering the opportunity for them to profit off of what they were previously exploited for? If he didn’t do it, then someone else would. And at least… at least he cared. At least he knew what it felt like to come back home and not have a home waiting for you, to have blood on your hands so violently red that you can’t go back into the real world without people noticing.

Your knuckles, scarred and scabbing, told him that you knew too. You found your way back to the fighting, just like the ones he recruited to work for him. Were you really so different?

And still, a part of him knew that voicing that question, in that way, was a good way to get beat up.

His eyes found yours again as his hands lifted and fell back down to his sides, defeated. “You’re right, but it’s just the way things are. Not all of us come home and end up underground fighting royalty.”

Your head shook as you muffled your rough laughter. “It’s not as glamorous as it looks.”

“Nothing ever is.”

Now it was your stare that redirected, eyes dropping to your feet before you let them scale their way back up the rocky terrain of his dressed down form. Worn boots, dark jeans, tight sweater, leather jacket, and that face. That pretty face. Exhaustion buried in the bags beneath his eyes, frustration laced in the furrow of his brow, a familiarity in the darkness of his eyes, a void of everything you remembered, skilled violence and inescapable grief, a void so familiar, a void you could lose yourself in.

It was late. It was cold. And you were alone. You were always alone.

You had made worse choices.

Sucking your bottom lip in tight between the bite of your teeth and slowly letting it out, you cocked your head to the side and began working on the last of your stubborn defenses. “If I say yes to the drink, is it just going to be more of this recruitment talk?”

His head twisted into a similar quirk, his smirk slowly gaining back its traction on his lips as he took you in with a similar once over. He inched one hesitant step forward, and when you didn’t shy away from the renewed heat of his attention, he took another. “Well I mean… I guess it depends.”

“On what?”

“On how much talking we do.”

—

It had been a while since he last had bathroom sex.

His boots stuck to the filthy linoleum floor, making every shift of his footing an extra effort. The shitty fluorescent light overhead flickered in and out with an infuriating lack of rhythm, blinding one second and pathetically inadequate to see you beneath him the next. But as his fingers gripped tighter around the flesh of your thighs, pushing you down into the cool porcelain of the sink he had you sat on, he had to admit that you were right. For everything it was, at least the sink was clean.

“So…” The burn was exactly what he remembered it to be, the cheap liquor clawing at his throat as he forced the shot down, chasing it with a quick swig of the even cheaper beer you had ordered for him. “This is your bar of choice?”

There had been six shots, three for each of you to start with, but you smirked around your final shot and he couldn’t even think ahead to his second. “Is that judgement I hear?”

He could feel his shoulder tick as he corrected with a slow drawl, “curiosity.”

“There are worse bars.”

“There are better ones too—“ His hand caught yours as you reached for one of his two remaining shots, his fingers wrapping carefully around yours. “Do you mind?”

You tried to pull back but his grip didn’t budge.

“You didn’t seem interested,” you fought, following his eyes as they dipped down to your busted lips. Again, you tried your hand. Again, he refused to let go.

“I’m plenty interested.”

You could feel his grip loosen, but this time, you let him hold it there. If anything, you leaned into it. Reaching with your other hand, you brought your bottle to your mouth and wasted no time licking up the remnants of your sip left behind across your bottom lip. Again, his stare followed, his nose scrunching as something deep in his chest began to burn. Again, you leaned into it, close enough for his cologne to overtake any of the thousand other smells swirling around the packed bar.

“Actually,” setting your beer back down, your unoccupied hand found the inseam of his jeans, his legs perched open on his stool with you sat between them. “I like this bar because the bathrooms are the cleanest.”

Picking up his next shot, he couldn't help the twist of his brow nor the uptick of his heart rate as your fingers teased higher. “The bathrooms?”

“Yeah…” your casual tone betrayed the tension pulled taut between the two of you. Every point of contact had him burning. Your hand in his, a candle flame he couldn’t stop drifting his hand over even as it burned. Your hand inching on his thigh, a creeping flame following a line of detcord towards explosion. Your stare, a rumbling volcanic heat mere seconds away from erupting. The rowdy crowd surrounding the two of you was nothing, the stuttering breath fleeing your chest all he could hear.

He leaned in, his brow still furrowed in confusion.

You leaned closer, pulling your hand from his thigh to take his last shot for him. “You ever been fucked over a filthy sink, Marine?”

He prided himself on his composure, in battle and in bed, but fuck, with two fingers inside you feeling you clench around him and his head buried deep in the crook of your neck inhaling the harsh stench of industrial soap trying it’s best to cover the smell of blood, he could feel himself skirting dangerously close to an edge he wasn’t ready to fall off of yet. His dick wasn’t even out of his pants and still, when he thrust a third finger into you and saw your brutalized knuckles wrapped around his bicep, nails digging through the thick fabric of his sweater, his name falling wrecked from your lips, he very nearly lost it.

“Russo— Fuck—”

“You like that?” He challenged breathlessly back, biting down hard on your battle bruised shoulder to keep it together as you grew closer and closer to the same edge. The light flickered and his stare shifted back up towards your face. A Queen brought to a trembling mess, teeth piercing the already torn center of your beaten lip. “Yeah, you do, don’t you?”

“Shut up.” The whine that accompanied your words betrayed the cut of them and his smirk only grew.

His lips scaled the scarred terrain of your shoulders, climbing up the bruised battlefield of your neck, nipping at every inch you offered him with your head thrown back against the steamed up mirror. “Shut me up.”

Your chuckle intercepted your heaving breath, the hot pants hitting his skin and flushing his cheek. “Yeah?” You challenged, your words ghosting over his lips as he drew ever closer. The cut of your nails dug into his arm pulled back, your grip settling comfortably around his throat instead as you inhaled his violent groan. “Make me cum.”

He fought against your vice-like grip as you squeezed tighter and tighter, stealing a singular kiss from your lips. “Yes, Ma’am.”

These were his cheapest jeans anyways.

Dropping slowly to his knees, his neck pulled from your grasp and his mouth found your ready and weeping heat. With one lick, your thighs closed around his ears, one suck of your clit between his lips and one of your calloused hands found his hair while the other gripped tight to the sink for any hope of stability.

“Billy—”

His fingers had worked you too close to the edge already, it didn’t take long before his fingers, still deep inside you, found the right spot and the burning pressure of his mouth on your clit had you soaring. The beating pump of your blood filled your head, the thumping echo all you could hear as your vision began flickering in time with the ancient fluorescent over head. You could feel him moaning into you, your stubborn grip holding tight to his previously pristine head of hair, dragging you closer as your screams no doubt echoed around the small bathroom.

Maybe the music and the boisterous crowd outside in the bar would be loud enough to cover the sounds. Maybe not. He couldn’t care less.

All he cared about as he fought his way back to his feet was the lazy pull of your hand in his hair. All he could ever imagine caring about for the remainder of his lifetime was the effortless drag of your tongue over his chin and lips, collecting the remains of your orgasm before sucking him in for the longest kiss of the night. Loose. Languid. Luxurious.

“Was that up to your standards, your highness…” he murmured with a smirk along the side of your mouth, his hands scraping down to your thighs, dragging himself closer.

Your grip found itself again in his hair, tugging tight. “Take your pants off.”

“Ask nicely.”

He felt the warmth of your scoff against his cheek, but you agreed in the only way you knew how, your hand not buried in his hair dropping to the bulge in his jeans. “Please…” your lips pressed once to his chin, then to his neck, soothing the crescent mark your own nails had left. One kiss, then another, and before he could reach his hand to his own belt to comply, you bit into the mark and deepened the color. “Take your fucking pants off.”

His lips twisted into a snarl, but he had his belt off and his pants open in record time.

The condom in his wallet was only supposed to be a backup, but he had never been more grateful for his disgustingly hopeful thinking than he was to find it exactly where he had remembered it being wedged between the folds of leather. And as you pulled him out of his boxerbriefs and rolled it on with a few lazy pumps, your satisfied smirk told him you were equally grateful.

Still, your fought. “It’s not expired, is it?”

“God, I hate you.” He swore back, but his heart left halfway through the words, his chest deflating, a nearly whimpering moan leaving his lips as he pushed into your soaking folds. “I fucking—“

Your hips rolled as he seated himself fully within you and again, his breathing stuttered. If he thought he was close before, this was just embarrassing.

He remembered the ruthless violence of your fight, the blood running from your nose and staining your teeth, the strong pull between your shoulders as you landed hit after hit. He gripped tight to one of your thighs with one hand and flattened his other palm to the mirror behind your head as his pace picked up. He remembered the echoing crack as you landed your final blows, the utter brutality that oozed from you as you moved from one hit to the next. He dragged your hips closer, he pulled you flush against his chest, muffling your cries into his sweater.

He remembered your knuckles and every groan they elicited. He kissed your jaw, unable to stop himself from thinking of how many you had broken.

The rough drag of him inside of you was taunting, the feel of him so full yet your climax still dancing out of reach. It was too much and too good all at once. Too little and too overwhelming in the same breath.

“Billy—“ your broken sob tore through his chest with a heat he didn’t even recognize, a burn so heavenly he swore a sunburst sliced through him. “Fuck— Russo, yes—“

Every muscle in your body tightened around him, squeezing him, clawing at him, destroying his composure. He tried to draw it out, he tried to fight back from the edge, but your moans turned to music and his head emptied out. “I—“

“Come on,” you cooed, your words slurring as you forced his lips back to yours. He was melting, the heat was too much, searing his insides, charring his heart and fuck… he was melting into you. “That’s it.”

His nose scrunched, his teeth baring, a guttural snarl escaping his fiery chest as he powered himself even further into you. Again and again and again and— “Shit…”

You whimpered as his hips stuttered, you whined as he fell still.

“Shit…” he repeated, trying one last languid thrust as he found his way back down from his blinding high. “That was… fuck…”

“Yeah,” you muster just enough breath for a chuckle. “Yeah it was.”

He barely had enough time to catch his breath before you were pushing him back on unsteady legs, he barely managed to catch himself on the neighboring stall before you hopped down of the sink. He wanted to laugh at your sudden urgency, make some kind of joke, or pull you close and disregard it entirely, but he still couldn’t breathe. His hair fell in his face, his sweater rucked up around his waist and his dick barely soft—

He was a mess. A wrecked mess without the words to stop you. You already had your pants back on by the time he had the condom tied off in the trash, you were fixing yourself in the mirror before he even found a hold on his belt.

“You know, I know some bars with nicer bathrooms.” He finally fought, catching your attention as he fed the tongue of his belt back through. “Better beer too—“

A battering knock sounded on the door, making both of you jump. “Can you two hurry it the fuck up! Some of us have to pee!”

Neither of you two could hold yourselves back from laughing at that, breathless or not, even Billy felt a subtle heat rise to his cheeks. Not for getting caught—no, surely that was inevitable in a place this packed—but because he really didn’t care, because he wanted nothing more than to do it again.

You had to feel the same, that had to be as good for you as it was for him, god it was better than good. If you wanted him on his knees, he would beg. If you wanted to wreck his shit, he’d say ‘yes, please’—

You pressed a firm hand to his chest, forcing him back to the stall wall. Your lips hovered over his, so close, he could taste your breath. “This won’t happen again, pretty boy.”

His head quirked with a glare, your hand keeping him in place as he fought towards your lips. “No?”

“No.” Your lips grazed his as they formed around the word but it wasn’t enough.

“That’s a maybe then?”

“No, it’s not.” He could feel your pulse, the beat of your chest pounding against his as you keep him just close enough and still too far away. He could feel the lie as you made it.

His smirk only grew as his lips touched yours. “Well, if we’re not having sex, you should just come work for me.”

You hand slammed him back but he just laughed.

“Not fucking likely, Russo.”

He surged against your grip for one last kiss before you pulled back. “Well,” he sighed, slumping back against the wall and finally accepting his defeat. “I know where to find you, at least.”

Even your stubborn tenacity couldn’t hide your smirk as you unlocked the door. “Maybe so.”

That wasn’t a no.

#billy russo x reader #billy russo x female reader #billy russo #dirty pretty beautiful tag #the punisher

140 notes · View notes

fruitcoops · 4 years ago

Note

Hi, I love your blog so much! I recently got ankle lateral ligament reconstruction done, and as an athlete, it sucks so bad. I watched my basketball team play yesterday, and it felt really horrible to watch them lose by one point in overtime when I know I would have made a difference if I were on the court... I know you have lots of asks and prompts, but if you have the time and want to, could you possibly hurt me more than I’m already hurting with some angsty ankle injury stuff😩 like maybe Cap watching the Lions lose without him.

Thank you for all the awesome fics you write! Your blog is amazing!

Anon, this ask really struck a chord with me and I wanted to do it justice as best I could--going through a sports injury like that is the worst feeling in the world, and watching your teammates play without you just adds salt to the wound. Sending all the love and healing vibes your way, okay? Please keep me updated on how you're feeling if you feel comfortable <3

Combined with an ask for pre-Coops and Sirius' photo of Remus! SW credit goes to @lumosinlove

TW for canonical injury and mentioned scars (Remus)

Sirius felt a nudge at his arm and his irritation flared, but he did not take his eyes off the game. “Fucking hell,” he muttered as James missed yet another blatant pass. There’s three.

The next nudge was more insistent.

“What?” he snapped, sparing half a glance to his left and feeling his stomach swoop.

Remus raised his eyebrows and held the mouthguard out further. “Either put this in or unclench your jaw.”

You’re not my mother, Sirius almost snarked back, just to be even more of an asshole. He was cold from being at the rink without his gear, severely pissed off by the general bullshit happening on the ice, and the itch in the boot locked around his stupid fucked-up ankle was slowly driving him mad.

Remus offered the mouthguard again, and Sirius’ temper cooled by a few degrees at the soft encouragement on his face. Pretty, his brain supplied. He swallowed hard around his sudden dry mouth and shoved the plastic between his teeth, beating back the unruly emotions with a mental baseball bat. Nope. Not tonight. Focus on being angry.

Logan got distracted, and Finn paid the price as an enforcer slammed him against the boards; he bounced back immediately, but Sirius ground the mouthguard so hard it squeaked. “Tabarnak—”

“Come with me for a sec,” Remus said, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the angry shouts of Lions fans.

Sirius shook his head. What he wouldn’t give to be in the heart of the fight, letting off some of the steam that had been building with no outlet for weeks. “Game’s not over.”

Remus pressed his lips together, but said nothing; Sirius’ throat constricted as he looked at the scoreboard. There may have been three full minutes left on the clock, but the Lions had already lost—unless they pulled a miracle out of their asses, this game would be a stain on their record. Or if they just let me play.

Sirius sighed through his nose. The urge had been growing stronger the longer he stayed cooped up and restless, banging at the walls of his brain and bringing headache after headache.

“Cap.” The hand on the back of his bicep was surprisingly gentle and he closed his eyes as Remus gave him a light tug. “Come on. We can at least be productive instead of sitting here and stewing.”

He smells nice. How does he always smell so nice? Sirius stood and followed Remus down the tunnel, not even bothering to force smiles for the people pounding on the glass partitions. Don’t focus on the game.

Focus on his shoulders, something close to his heart suggested. You like his shoulders.

He scrunched his nose up at the thought—if he dwelled on the smooth, strong curve of Remus’ upper back for any longer, he would start remembering the one time he saw them bare, covered in sweat with scars that shone like moonlight and—

“Are you okay?” Remus asked, snapping him back to reality. Sirius jumped and concern flickered over the golden planes of his face. “You’re twitchy tonight.”

“Just…” He made a vague, aborted motion toward the ice before continuing toward the PT room, though he did not miss the worried look Remus shot him. Fantastic, now I look like a dick and an idiot.

“What’s going on, Sirius?” The door clicked closed behind them and Remus leaned against it with his arms crossed loosely as Sirius limped over to the table and sat down, pulling the mouthguard out. He stared at the floor and the hunk of plastic—don’t think about how nice his voice sounds around your name. Don’t.

He shook his head; through the door, the sounds of the game were faint. “They’re better than this.”

“Yep.”

“They’re all going to be angry tomorrow, which makes them sloppy.”

“Probably.”

“Coach will be upset.”

“No question.”

“It’s the Badgers.”

Remus made a face. “I know, right?”

“They’re a good team, but—” He tightened his jaw again and looked away.

“But we’re better,” Remus finished for him.

“Yeah.” Silence fell between them for a few moments, though it wasn’t uncomfortable. Being quiet around Remus was never uncomfortable, and Sirius was pathetically grateful for every scrap of it he could get. “I—the game would be different if I was out there.”

“Would it?”

“It would.” He had been going over every mistake for two and a half hours, placing himself in like a chess piece to stop the missed passes, fumbled pucks, and thoughtless plays. “They need me with them.”

The paper crinkled as Remus sat down next to him, and every one of Sirius’ senses went on high alert. “They need to you get better,” he said simply, those caramel-apple eyes making Sirius’ knees go weak. “Have you been doing your exercises?”

“Of course,” he scoffed.

“Good.” There was no defensiveness or indignation in Remus’ voice—guilt snapped, a firecracker behind his teeth.

“Sorry.”

Remus smiled wryly. “When you’re around injured hockey players all day long, you get used to a little bit of bitchiness.”

“I’m not bitchy!” Sirius spluttered. The poorly-concealed amusement on Remus’ face made mortification heat his cheeks. “I’m not!”

“Uh-huh.” The note of smug disbelief should not have been as attractive as it was. “Alright, lay down.”

Sirius swore he heard a few crackling noises as his brain short-circuited. “Quoi?”

“I’m not kneeling on freezing linoleum to check out your ankle, Cinderella,” Remus snorted. “Now get a wiggle on.”

“You have the strangest sayings,” he said as he laid back and stretched his leg out, bewildered and yet somehow relieved.

“And you—” Remus pulled the top buckle free. “—have no appreciation for the great American north.”

“I can take it off,” Sirius mumbled, feeling redness rise once again.

He cocked an eyebrow. “The boot? I might not be a muscle-bound athlete, but I’m pretty sure I can manage a couple strips of Velcro.”

“No, it’s—doesn’t touching people’s feet freak you out? Like, the sweat and everything?”

“If it did, I’d have to find another profession, because I’m damp all the time from you fuckers and you all seem to have a habit of breaking things below the knee. Bend.”

Sirius complied, drawing his knee toward his chest. His bare foot looked weird in the bright lights, pale and still swollen, but Remus was as golden as ever. You can watch from afar, he conceded when the cute little furrow appeared on Remus’ forehead while he felt around the bone. Just for a little while. “Your hands are warm,” he said before he could stop himself.

Remus glanced up, and his small smile caused a flood of butterflies in Sirius’ stomach. “Thanks. They’re usually pretty cold, so I’m glad I’m not accidentally giving you foot hypothermia.”

“Is that real?”

“No,” Remus laughed. Sirius wished he could keep that sound forever. “How’s that feel?”

“Uh, fine.” He blinked a couple times to come back to himself as Remus put light pressure on the sole of his foot. “Still fine.”

“You’re a lot more flexible than before. Things are healing well.”

A loud buzzer went off outside—Sirius closed his eyes as disappointment and frustration fired up once more. The crowd wasn’t cheering. The windows weren’t shaking. He didn’t even want to look at the TV to check the score. I should be out there, he thought for the umpteenth time. I’m letting them down.

“I’m sorry,” Remus said quietly as he worked through a few more exercises.

“Not your fault.”

“It’s not yours, either.”

Sirius wanted to believe him. “I’m the captain.”

“And you’re being responsible by doing this with me so you can heal faster.” People rushed past the door outside, but the PT room remained peaceful. Sirius stared at the plain ceiling and wished for a miracle. “They miss you.”

“Y’know, that’s not exactly making me feel better.”

“Sorry.” They lapsed back into silence. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Cool.”

Sirius chewed the inside of his lip for a solid two minutes, following Remus’ simple instructions without looking at him. He should have been out there with them, ankle be damned. It was basically healed anyway; they were just tying up loose ends, and maybe Remus needed to be a little less careful. “Is this really necessary?”

“I’m gonna give you five seconds to ask a different question.”

“I’m just saying, it feels fine and—”

“Time’s up.” Remus let go of his foot and Sirius only spared a moment to mourn the loss of his comforting touch before he caught the stormy, mulish stubbornness that took the place of Remus’ concentration. “Sit.”

“I am.”

He narrowed his eyes, and Sirius dragged himself upright with a huff. Arguing with Remus Lupin was about as useful as arguing with a brick wall, and that was coming from someone who won the ‘Most Stubborn’ superlative at their last end-of-year party. “First of all, ankles are annoying and the soft tissue will still be damaged even if the bone is healed. Second, it’s my job to fix you up so your boys stop whining to me about healing you faster. And third, I’m not giving up on you.”

Sirius paused for a long moment. “What?”

“I’m not giving up,” Remus repeated. His jaw set and he made direct eye contact. “I would love nothing more than to kick Snape in the kneecaps and let you go out there as soon as you can stand on your own, but that’s not what I’m here for. I’m here to make sure you’re ready to kick ass and take names no matter what that little shit was trying to do. So don’t you dare sit there and try to chicken out at the finish line, because I know you want this even more than I do.”

In his chest, Sirius heart was hammering like he had just run five miles. I’m not giving up on you. Sirius had never wanted to kiss him more. “Thank you.”

Remus softened with a slow breath. “We’re in this together, Sirius. You and me.”

“I know.”

“Then let’s get to work. Next time you play the Badgers, make ‘em regret this game.”

--------------------------------

Sirius walked back toward the locker room feeling rather nauseous. The whole team leaked their bad moods into the air—Arthur had barely looked at them before sending them home with a quiet “we’ll talk more tomorrow”, the equivalent of an arrow through Sirius’ heart. I need a pick-me-up, he thought as the rest of the guys trooped out in a melancholy raincloud. He fist-bumped each of them, per tradition, but their responses were weak at best.

Ice cream sounded good. Maybe a milkshake. Oh, who was he kidding, he needed a solid hug and something other than ice to look at. Not for the first time, he contemplated getting a dog, just so the house wouldn’t be empty and dark when he returned.

Laughter rang out ahead and Sirius inhaled sharply, letting the sound roll over him. “I’m not kidding!” Moody chuckled.

“Bullshit,” Remus countered, still snickering. “There is no way—”

“I’ve been around here longer than you’ve been alive, kid.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Remus groaned, though Sirius could hear the smile in his voice even from around the corner. “You only bring it up every goddamn day.”

“Brat.”

Sirius entered the room just in time to see Remus playfully knock the side of his foot against Moody’s; both were grinning. “Isn’t it past your bedtime, old man?”

Moody nodded to him. “Night, twelve.”

“A demain,” Sirius called, offering a slight smile as his eyes lingered on Remus. He was leaning back against the wall with stick tape in his hands—his hands, which never failed to make Sirius throw caution to the wind—and raised it in farewell. “See you, Loops. Thanks again.”

“No problem, Cap.”

He grabbed his duffel off the floor and slid his keys, wallet, and phone into his pockets as Moody and Remus resumed their conversation. He wondered how long they usually stuck around, and if they would oppose him staying—he wouldn’t interrupt, but being around people who weren’t going through the five stages of grief already felt nice.

An idea struck as Remus’ laugh raised goosebumps on his arms once again. With a careful glance over his shoulder, he slipped his phone out and snapped a picture before hurrying off toward his car. His breaths were shallow; that was such a creepy move, and surely one of them noticed—

No voices chased him. Nobody gave him strange looks. He waited until he was safely in the front seat of the car before unlocking his phone, and all the air in his lungs left in a rush.

The photo was perfect. It caught the lopsided tilt to Remus’ mouth, his slender-but-strong fingers, his long legs, the scrunch of his nose mid-laugh. Everything Sirius never let himself look at for long. He didn’t have much space left among the collection of paper memories on his dresser, but maybe if he put it in the back where nobody would see it unless they knew where to look…

He turned the car on. Later. He would print it out and deal with the taut rubber-band-ball of feelings later. Until then, he could settle for the imprint of Remus’ warmth taking away the pain in his ankle and the determination on his face as he promised to bring Sirius back from the personal hell he was living in. You and me, he had said, and Sirius wanted nothing more than to believe it.

#fanfic #my fic #sirius black #remus lupin #alastor moody #james potter #logan tremblay #finn o'hara #sweater weather #coops #injury #pre-coops #lumosinlove

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cdroloisms · 3 years ago

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idk why but i imagined vegas 2.0 as two soccer moms (the politics bois) trying to outdo each other while their sons are dragged into it (green bois) in a rlly fvcked way. e.g.

maybe big q reconsidering dream's usefulness by saying sam's enough as protection and has other things to offer to the team as well. wilbur steps in by suggesting a duel between sam and dream then, to prove it then. maybe while it happens, wilbur whispers to quackity a list of what is still physically broken abt dream post prison (so many unhealed bones, barely healed muscle, he can barely stomach food so he had like 1 steak in the past few days, etc.) and of course, he mentions dream's most powerful asset, the revive book :)

-🐇

LMAOO

this is hilarious and also accurate as hell ,, thank you anon because the image of c!wilbur and c!quackity as PTA moms is completely sending me. this prompt (as most vt2 related things are) was really fun !! it also kinda ran away from me, which is why this ended up being almost 6k words instead of my usual 1-2k for asks, but i hope you enjoy it regardless :]

tws: implied torture/abuse, death, violence, blood, injuries, conditioning, dehumanization, panic attacks, emotional distress, trauma, unhealthy relationships (so many unhealthy relationships), smoking, dark contents, dark themes, vt2 au is always really dark so definitely proceed with caution !! dark portrayals of c!quackity, c!sam, c!wilbur, and c!dream

It starts, as many things do nowadays, with a board meeting - which seems to be as much of a sign as any that everything is going to go to shit. Board meetings for Quackity, much like Wilbur’s stupid group therapy sessions, are just a thinly veiled attempt for the two to fight for control of pretty much everything - ranging from the casino schedules to the laws still being written for Las Nevadas to what food to stock in the vending machines. As Sam is still sitting on his false throne of moral superiority and therefore less inclined to indulge himself in the same blatant corruption that characterizes their discussions, and Dream - more than anything - knows his place (which hardly gives him any position to wrangle for power among the likes of Wilbur and Quackity), the fights for control more or less remain restricted between the two. More often than not, they devolve into proving their superiority over the other by using their control of Dream (which naturally never means anything remotely good for him as a consequence) so when Quackity strolls over, all tight-lipped smiles and a cigarette held between clenched fingers, Dream really doesn’t feel anything other than dread.

Still, orders by Quackity are still orders - Dream knows this fact better than he knows that he’s alive and breathing, better than the fact that he’s out of the prison, better than he knows his own goddamn name - and Dream is far too well-trained to ever consider trying to rebel. So when the time comes - 7:30 pm, sharp - Dream is in his chair, spine straight and head alert like a goddamn dog, and he waits.

It doesn’t take long for the others to arrive. Sam comes over first, leveling him with a heavy, distrustful stare as he sits down in the chair across from Dream, the expression nearly enough for Dream to roll his eyes if it weren’t for the fear that rockets through him, still, at the sight of the Warden so close to him. Sam has made it more than clear from the very beginning that he has no trust at all for Dream, that if he had his way then Dream would be locked up for the rest of eternity in a labyrinth of blackstone and obsidian, forever guarded by his ever-present supervision. Dream feels his ears burning with heat as he dips his eyes low to the surface of the table, wanting no more than to curl up and hide under the scrutiny of the Warden’s glare.

Quackity enters next, throwing open the door of the conference room loud enough to make Dream jump out of his seat, looking at him with an upturned corner of his lip when he comes back to himself enough to notice. Dream stifles a shudder at his visible good mood, all-too-aware of what that usually meant for him in the cell, stiffening further with a growing ringing to his ears as Sam and Quackity talk and Quackity sweeps past his side to get to his seat at the head of the table, carelessly brushing his fingers along the back of Dream’s neck in a way that makes him freeze, stock-still, in his chair - feeling his fingertips ease themselves over the ridge present there from a thick band of scar tissue, a deep, jagged thing that had been carved from the blunter back edge of Quackity’s axe when he had lost his temper and let the thing slam against the back of his neck, hard enough that it probably would’ve paralyzed him completely if it weren’t for Sam’s use of almost a full chest of regens. Quackity remains over him for a few more seconds, leaning over his chair to talk to Sam as he runs a light, possessive hand over the topmost bumps of Dream’s spine, before settling over into his chair, watching him with a small smirk as he keeps a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the table.

Dream hates the prickling shame and terror that keeps his muscles tense as he stares at the table’s surface, still feeling the ghost of fingers tracing over skin and bone along the back of his neck, keeps his burning eyes trained on the surface of solid wood as he tries to steady his breaths. It’s all he can do to press down his flinch when Quackity, with a frustrated yell, slams his fist against the table a few minutes later, rage simmering underneath his words as he speaks.

“Where the hell is Wilbur?” His glare slides across the room, landing on Dream, making him shrink back in his seat, heart thudding in his ears. Quackity doesn’t stop staring at him even as he pulls a cigarette and lighter from his pants pocket, lighting it and bringing it to his lips and letting the silver-grey threads of smoke fill the room and press against the inside of Dream’s lungs. “It’s ten minutes til 8 - I don’t have time for this bullshit.”

Sam digs his fingers into his temples, already looking exhausted. “If you want, Q, we can always start without him and catch him up later. Depends on you.”

“No, then I’ll have to repeat myself and it’ll be pointless and ugh,” Quackity makes a vaguely frustrated noise as he finally turns his eyes over to Sam, making Dream’s shoulders shudder as he finally finds the air to take a breath, “We’ll just have to wait. Fucking idiot. I knew I shouldn’t have worked with any of these fuckers.”

In true Wilbur fashion, it isn’t until fifteen minutes later when the taller man finally makes an appearance, the entire time tense as hell as Quackity takes slow, steady drags of his cigarette and taps his fingers impatiently against the table’s surface. He offers one to Sam, who goes on to decline, making a short quip telling Quackity to watch his health for the future that promptly falls flat. Dream thinks he’s a fucking hypocrite, considering his whole deal with weednip or whatever Ant has on him, but doesn’t voice the thoughts as he sinks down in his chair, wishing more than anything to disappear. Against the fabric of his shirt, the right side of his chest itches, and he presses his palm against the place where he knows there is a small, irregular grid of pockmarked scars from when Quackity had taken smoke breaks in the middle of sessions.

“There you all are,” Wilbur smiles as he slides into the room, a covered metal tray held in his hands as he kicks the door closed and slides the tray onto the table with an awful screech. “I’m sorry for being late,” he continues, sounding not very sorry at all, “but I made some food to make up for it!”

He takes off the cover with a flourish; underneath, sunny yellow squares, nearly blindly bright, look up blankly under the conference room’s overly harsh lighting. They smell sugary and vaguely sour, stinging his nose slightly, and seem to be coated with a fine dusting of powdered sugar.

“Lemon bars!” Wilbur grins, just left of sincere, “they’re gluten-free!”

“God,” Quackity laughs, sounding slightly incredulous, shaking his head. Dream’s gut rolls at the sound, Wilbur’s smile growing wider, even more dangerous, at the tone. It’s familiar, the way the two of them challenge each other, and in a rare moment of solidarity Dream watches from the corner of his eyes as Sam’s shoulders hunch as well. The two of them always bring trouble, even normally, but when they’re in this mood? Actively challenging each other, toeing the line, trying to find the limits and push them just because they can? Dream shivers in his seat, grip tightening on his own arms; this, he knows, is when they are at their most dangerous - and he has the scars to prove it.

“Gluten-free, huh? Really leaning into the whole ‘PTA mom’ schtick today, aren’t you?” Quackity smirks. “Should I call you Linda from now on?”

“I don’t know, Quackity, I was just thinking that I would make a little healthier treat for all of us, you know?” Wilbur brushes off the remark easily, taking a seat and immediately kicking his feet up onto the table. “If you want it, of course. I would hardly want to get in the way of your professionalism, Mr. President- do you have one of those? Or are you going for a more authoritarian approach”

“Fighting words from someone who rigged an election as President,” Quackity drawls, “and couldn’t even win it, might I add. “

“Oh, Big Q! You fail to understand, I wasn’t criticizing you at all,” Wilbur smiles, jagged, “we agree, I believe, on the failures of democracy. Unless you’ve forgotten our conversation, already?”

“Of course not,” Quackity snorts, and Dream doesn’t miss how his gaze shifts towards the side of the room, landing on Dream and making him curl further in his seat. “I’ll save you from me trying to pick your brain, this time, but don’t worry. You make yourself…rather hard to forget.”

Wilbur claps, seeming satisfied with this round of verbal sparring, and the sharp sound of his hands meeting together nearly has Dream jumping in his seat. “So! Lemon bars- does anyone want any?”

Dream is keenly aware of two pairs of eyes landing on him, Wilbur and Quackity watching for his reaction with bated breath and narrowed eyes. Panic crawls up his throat; he knows the purpose behind their stares, knows that he’s once again become the object of one of their power struggles. Quackity’s orders rattle in his brain, his thoughts a messy jumble of pins all knocked loose from his time in the prison, hopelessly unorganized and running on little more than instinct. Wilbur is expecting him to eat, to give into his sweet pastries and sweeter words; the lesson not to eat, move, think without permission, hammered into him between chunks of potato and battered ribs and blood gathered in the crevices of his skin, keeps his hands at his sides instead of reaching towards the pastries still set in the middle of the table. Even with Quackity at the opposite side of the room, Dream swears that he can still feel the pressure of a hand against the back of his neck, pressing just hard enough to make itself known from the feeling of fingers pressing into either side of his spine - he doesn’t even quite feel himself shaking his head, only really realizes what he’s done when he hears Wilbur sigh in frustration and meets Quackity’s satisfied gaze.

“I’ll take one,” Sam says, sounding exhausted, eyes flitting from Wilbur to Quackity to Dream with an increasingly long-suffering expression. His face twists around the first bite of the bright yellow pastry, nose scrunching as he puts it down, missing a half-moon bite along one corner, and drags his fingers over the table to ease off the remnants of powdered sugar. Wilbur watches him, seeming amused, and Quackity rolls his eyes as he pulls a binder out of his inventory.

“Now that everyone is finally here,” he starts, directing a particularly dead-eyed stare at Wilbur, “we can finally get on with the meeting. I was thinking we could go over the budget, today, if that’s alright with the rest of you.”

It sounds innocent enough - which is the first sign of many that this meeting, whatever it is, is going to be anything but pleasant. The grin that steadily grows on Quackity’s face does nothing to assuage Dream’s anxieties, only pushing them higher as the man flips open the binder and messes with it for a few seconds longer before seemingly finding what he’s looking for.

“I think we all know that until Sam finishes with the bank, funds around here are going to be a little bit tight,” Quackity begins, waiting for all of them to nod before continuing, “And we really need to save wherever we can. I recounted the budget yesterday, just to make sure that we’re all on track, and- well,”

Quackity points to a circled series of red numbers that Dream doesn’t understand but can assume mean little good for them. Sam makes a low, considering noise, sounding strangely concerned, and Wilbur actually seems to close his mouth and lean forward in curiosity.

“We have a deficit,” Quackity continues when they’ve all settled back into their seats, “and we’ll get it all back once Sam gets the bank up and running, but for now our funds are...limited. I don’t want to stop progress on Las Nevadas, of course, we really don’t have time to waste. So I thought we’d have a meeting today to discuss the budget and eliminate any expenses that we might find-” Quackity gestures with a smooth twirl of his wrist, “expendable.”

Sam hums. “Do you have anything in mind, Quackity?”

“A few,” Quackity flips to the next page, where he’s seemingly jotted a few notes - different things that they can put off for the moment, it seems, and the money that would be saved for forgoing them temporarily. Dream reads down the list quickly, stilling at the last item.

“Quackity,” Sam sounds twenty times more tired already when he speaks, tone flat and a little irritated. “Why is Dream on the list?”

Quackity shrugs. “Hear me out, now- most of our money right now is going into living expenses for the four of us. Having more people here, until everything becomes more sustainable, is a huge drain on our resources. I’m just listing all our options.”

“So what do you want to do?” Sam huffs. “Throw him back in Pandora?”

Quackity shakes his head.

“Wilbur does have the revive book knowledge, you know,” he says, and Dream’s blood runs cold. He can’t run, can’t move; he’s stuck in his seat, heart hammering faster in his chest as the other three hardly spare him a second glance. Sam purses his lips, a considering expression flashing over his face, as Quackity presses on. “Seriously- listen, Sam. There’s nothing that Dream is really offering, at the moment, that the rest of us can’t handle. Wilbur has the revive book, you can act as security to take out any threats - really, we shouldn’t be pissing anyone off until everything officially opens, and we can always retrieve him then when we need him. He’ll be out of the way, which means he won’t be able to start any fucking trouble,” Quackity laughs, short. “It’s a win-win.”

“I don’t know, Quackity,” Sam says, the words slow, but the tone is familiar enough for Dream to know that he’s already mostly given in. “It’s a risk, isn’t it? None of us but Dream have really used the revive book, before.”

Wilbur doesn’t even look at him when he chirps a reply. “That won’t be a problem, Sam. I’d be very happy to test it out, if you want.”

Quackity leans forward, and Dream nearly gags; he’s preening in his spot, eyes dancing as he smiles up at Sam. “Anything else you can think of?”

“I don’t know,” Sam trails off, and Dream looks down, only barely staving off the panic squeezing around his lungs and tears burning in his eyes. It’s nothing he hasn’t envisioned before, nothing he hasn’t expected, but this- he feels like such a fool, for hoping- “If we get ambushed, Q, I really don’t know if gear is going to be enough. You remember what Technoblade did last time.”

Quackity huffs, sounding annoyed, but nods to concede the point. “That is...fair. But then again, we don’t exactly know how good Dream is either, do we?” Quackity finally leans over to look at him, and Dream feels himself choke on his own breath at the dangerous gleam in Quackity’s eyes, all-too-familiar in their scrutiny, looking at him the same way they had pinned him to the floor of his obsidian-walled hell. “Anything to say, Dream?”

“I-” The words shake on Dream’s tongue, and he only barely manages a dry swallow as he struggles through the rest of his sentence, shrinking back from the heavy weight of three pairs of eyes fixed on his own, “I can be useful, s-” he only barely manages to bite down the word, a new wave of shame making him shrink back further past the fear. Quackity’s lip twitches upward.

Wilbur twirls a pencil in one hand, looking spectacularly bored; Dream’s chest shrieks with a harsh spike of envy at his composure. “How about you prove it?” His eyes are laughing when Dream gets a good look at them, amusement clear at the idea. “Put on a show?”

Quackity rolls his eyes. “What do you have in mind?”

“You want to know if Sam can serve as an adequate replacement for Dream’s combat prowess, no?” Wilbur leans back in his chair as he talks, still focused on spinning his pencil over and between his fingers, “Why doesn’t he prove it? Let them duel, one on one. If Sam kills Dream, then you’re right, we’re done, and we can all move on with our days. If Dream wins, then he’s proved his worth, and we can figure out the rest of the budget after. What do you think?”

Quackity’s lips press together, seeming displeased, but he doesn’t say anything in return. Sam, ever practical, drums his fingers against the table.

“That sounds...fair,” Sam purses his lips. “How would we judge this? Equal gear?”

Wilbur only smiles wider as he shakes his head. “I was thinking we would make it a little more accurate to reality, if Dream’s services were truly to be needed. Sam, you can keep your own gear, and Dream should use his own. I guess on your end we can fight until you yield, but for him…”

The words are left unsaid, but Dream flexes his hands underneath the table as he catches onto the implications. For him, it’s a fight to the death.

Sam shrugs. “That works for me. Dream?”

He doesn’t really have a choice, does he? “Okay.”

“Wonderful!” Wilbur claps, bringing his hands to his chest and looking thoroughly thrilled at the prospects of the potential duel. Quackity glares at Dream but doesn’t say a word, and Dream hunches into himself, nearly folding himself in half as he ducks as far as he can down his seat. Sam pulls out his sword, flipping it around and testing its weight, and Dream doesn’t quite manage to suppress his full-body shudder at the sight. “Let’s get started, then.”

They move out in a roughly single-file line out of the conference room, Wilbur making idle chatter as Sam continues to examine his armor and weapons as they walk. They settle into an open space in the still-unfinished casino that Wilbur looks around for a second and then deems appropriate for the duel. Sam sets down an enderchest to gather his necessary materials, and Dream settles in front of it himself afterwards, shifting the lid open with shaking hands as he tries to work through his inventory.

He’s started the process of building up his gear again in his spare time, but he’s not had the time to finish gathering netherite for both himself and Wilbur - Wilbur meets his eyes with a sly wink before equipping the set of netherite armor that Dream had crafted for him, and Dream stifles a desperate snarl. He doesn’t even have the other set (still a gleaming blue from unplated diamond) enchanted, outside of a Sharpness book that he had slapped onto a diamond axe. He gathers the rest of his supplies with careful hands, trying to press down the increasing trembling of his limbs from his growing panic, flexing his arm around the weight of a shield once again and pocketing steaks and golden apples from his hoard.

He has no potions, no good weapons, not even a properly enchanted crossbow to offer the slightest bit of an advantage. Dream lets his eyes flick up to where Sam is waiting at the opposite side of the room, standing up straight with enchanted netherite covering him head to toe and a familiar axe slung over his shoulder, and tries not to break down right then and there. It’s too familiar, too reminiscent of obsidian walls and netherite pressed against his ribs and demands that he behave, and despite the glittering white walls and high ceiling and cold night air he swears he could fall just from the memories alone. Drowning within them, he distantly remembers a duel long-past under a bright blue sky, Sam laughing under a swirl of potion particles on the grass surrounding the Community House lake, and wonders which of the memories hurt more.

“Dream,” Quackity snaps, and Dream stills in his place, slamming the lid of the enderchest shut as his heart hammers in his ears. Quackity watches him intently, expression twisted in disappointment, and some beaten, instinctual part of him whines uncomfortably at the sight. “Hurry up.”

Dream nods, because of course he does, and stands with the results of his mad scramble to gather anything that could be useful in the duel to come - a few gapples, steaks, a sword, a bow lacking any enchantments at all, and an axe and shield. It’s a rather pathetic ensemble, but it’ll be enough. It’ll have to be enough.

“Ready?” Wilbur takes place as referee, standing off to the side with a smile on his face as Dream stands across from Sam, holding his axe with a white-knuckled grip as the Warden - expression unreadable through the shadow of his helmet and the mask fixed over his face - squares his own stance in preparation for the fight. “Good luck.”

Wilbur’s arm cuts a line in the air as it drops, and the Warden explodes into action, lumbering forward as he raises his axe over his head to bring it down. Dream tumbles in the opposite direction, letting a long held back, battle-trained part of himself take over as he rights himself back on his feet, swinging up his shield to catch on the downward arc of Warden’s Hammer, frantically pressing back the dregs of fear and panic staining the corners of his vision black as he moves.

The Warden hits slow but hits hard, too big and bulky to really avoid any quick attacks but too well-armored to be easily defeated despite that. He’s a classic tank - Dream skitters out of the way of another hit as he reaches for memories of him that won’t leave him gasping, information on his opponent that didn’t come from within the prison and all its horrors.

He’d dueled Sam before, he knows; it wasn’t the same, as Sam was trying out a Turtle Master potion and intent on proving the superiority of Resistance IV against Dream’s own combat prowess. He’d failed, then; Dream forcefully steadies another breath as the sound of the Warden’s armor clanking against the ground almost sends him into another panic. He’ll have to fail now, too.

Fortunately, he’s been allowed food to heal - without it, this fight would probably be near impossible. As it is, even without the potion, the principles of this duel are the same. Dream swings up his axe, catching the blade hurling towards him in the crook where the head meets the handle just long enough to pull himself out of the way and let the Warden’s weapon fall uselessly to the ground. Dream raises his head in the second he has, tracing his gaze over the Warden’s armor in search for places to exploit. Even the best defenses aren’t perfect. All he needs to do is survive for long enough to chip through it.

A fumbled dodge leads to the Warden’s blade skimming past his skin, carving a thin red line in the skin of his upper arm. He hisses as he dives out of the way of the next blow, the twinges of pain from the area almost enough to make his vision unfocused, almost enough to send him tumbling head-first into the part of him screaming submit submit submit if you don’t fight back they won’t hurt you more. He grits his teeth as he swings forward, knocking away the axe coming towards him with his axe long enough to push forward with his shield and knock the Warden further away from him. He can’t afford to flinch, can’t afford to let fear take control of his movements as it has so many times before. The keening desperation running through his veins is familiar, but desperation can fall both ways, can make him fight or flee - and there’s only one real option that will end with him getting out of this alive.

Dream stands and forces himself to meet the next swing hurling towards him dead on, raising his shield to catch the blade and pushing forward past the shuddering shock in his left arm from the force of the blow. His own blade arcs downward in the next second, scraping against the Warden’s netherite armor with a metallic screech. He manages to get in two more blows before the Warden’s next attack has him backing away to dodge, shaking off his arm to get his shield ready for the next attack.

He has to stay on the offensive, keep pressing the Warden back and forcing the other to play defense. He’s still weak from the prison; in terms of brute strength, he’s no match from the Warden, not after months of starvation and torture stuck in a box with hardly enough room to stretch his legs. All he really has going for him is his speed and his experience, neither of which will do him any good if he teeters over the edge into the panic attack he’s been trying to hold off the entire time. Dream runs forward, not giving himself more than a second to breathe as he rushes the Warden once again, switching weapons mid-leap to a sword that will allow for quicker blows in the time that he has the Warden off-balance enough to attack freely. He scores a series of glancing hits on the Warden, none doing any major damage but altogether enough to make the Warden back off, wary, with a gasping note of pain, and Dream shakes his head to force himself to focus before running forward once more.

The Warden pulls out a shield of his own, and Dream switches back to the axe and swings it squarely into the shield, then twists himself around to the Warden’s unprotected back to catch him with another heavy blow that leaves him reeling in the second he takes to recover. He’s clearly untrained with a shield, his left arm clumsy as he tries to block Dream’s blows, and Dream uses the opportunity to score another few solid hits to the Warden’s sides and legs, getting a good blow with the blunt side of his axe into the back of one of his knees, leaving the warden limping when he pulls away.

Dream has hardly come off unscathed in the fight - he wheezes out a heavy breath through his teeth, chest aching from a hit that had broken one of his ribs. The exertion and anxiety still pressing at the back of his throat has left him light-headed, and he bites through a crisp, almost sickeningly-sweet bite of golden apple to close a wound bleeding sluggishly on his side. Neither of them can go on for much longer; the Warden’s grip tightens on his axe, and Dream swallows past the shudder that arises from the sight.

Once again, he raises his axe and runs into the fight, parrying the coming strike and twisting out of the way to strike at a joint of the Warden’s armor with the flat of his blade. The Warden’s arm raises, and Dream bites off a yelp of alarm as the handle of his axe is levied against his unarmored side, knocking him off-balance and falling back onto the ground, too disoriented to catch himself. He lands on his left arm, and his vision goes white as it gives out with a sharp crack.

Through half-lidded eyes, he can make out the Warden stalking closer, axe raised and ready to end the fight - end him. His chest shakes in a pathetic wheeze for breath, arm completely useless from where it’s screaming in pain underneath him. He needs to move, now, if he wants to survive this - fear swells forward, unhindered as his focus is broken by the vice grip the pain has on his skull - he’s shaking, now, the terror so familiar he can taste it - salt and iron and sticky-sweet health potions against the backs of his teeth-

The Warden raises his axe.

No.

Dream raises his sword just in time to catch the blade hurtling towards his neck, uses his foot to kick against the Warden’s grip on the handle. The axe clatters out of his grip, falls forward - Dream rolls away, breathing harshly around the pain threatening to make him black out. Unarmed, the Warden takes a second to grab a sword from his inventory while Dream forces himself back to his feet and kicks the axe as far away as he can.

He’s so flooded with panic he’s choking on it, broken arm hanging limply by his side as he charges forward, sword in hand. He won’t die, not after all this time, not after all this effort - he throws himself at the Warden, batters him with jabs and thrusts that force the other man to back away and parry, snarling wordlessly as he brings his sword to slash forward again and again.

His attacks are messy, uncoordinated, but the Warden is tired and disoriented from the loss of his weapon - he flinches back as Dream hits him in the jaw with the hilt of his sword, only barely matching his blows as he continues to push forward. Any hits that he scores on Dream are brushed off with a growl of pain and his sword moving even faster in his fury, and it’s not very long at all before he’s knocked flat on his back with a sweep of Dream’s legs, gasping for air as Dream pins him to the ground with a blade pressed against his neck.

Dream meets his wide eyes with his own, lips curled back in the same desperate rage that had moved him forwards despite the black creeping into the corners of his eyes and the lancing pain tying its strings around his neck and leaving him gasping for air. The sword in his hand bears threads of blood along its edge, pressing deeper into the Warden’s neck and drawing crimson up to the surface - a thousand fearful, angry thoughts swell up to the front of his skull in a singular, white-hot point. It is the Warden underneath his feet, at the end of his blade, cowering beneath him as he had cowered before - the Warden, the cause of his pain, the reason behind the ache in his gut and the stinging pains in his limbs and the piercing agony from his arm and chest. It would be so easy to push just a little harder, to press the sweet blue blade down and down and down until the Warden is gone and the Warden is dead and the Warden can’t hurt him anymore-

“Down, Dream,” Quackity snaps, and Dream backs off immediately, losing his grip on his sword as the command has him dragged back by the neck like an invisible leash and collar pulling him away. Sam settles back in a sitting position, still wide-eyed, wincing as he moves and bringing a golden apple from his inventory to heal the worst of his injuries.

“Eat,” Quackity commands again, and Dream only barely manages a stiff nod through the nausea and dread curling around his chest as the adrenaline begins to fade away, fumbling with the golden apple he finds in his inventory and nibbling at it to tide off the worst of the pain.

“Bravo, bravo,” Wilbur grins from the side, clapping slowly as he walks back into the middle of their makeshift arena - he’s taken his armor off again, but it doesn’t make the sight of him any less intimidating. “What a show! We should do that more often, what do you think?”

No, Dream almost screams, I can’t- but Quackity beats him to it, glaring at Wilbur with an incredulous expression.

“We don’t have the time to waste on your fucking ‘shows,’” he snaps, crossing his arms as he swings his gaze over to Dream. “Fine. You’ve proved yourself. Now hurry up - we have to clean up all of this shit and then figure out the rest of this fucking budget.”

Dream pulls himself to his feet, watching from the side as the Warden does the same.

“Make yourself useful and clean off all your fucking blood from the floor,” Quackity meets his eyes with a vicious glare, waiting until he stammers his way through an agreement before turning to the other two in the room. “Sam, Wilbur - with me. I want to get this money issue figured out tonight.”

Dream watches them go as he shuffles to the cleaning closet, feeling a shudder crawl up his spine once they’re out of sight. Make yourself useful, Quackity’s voice rings in his head, and Dream bites his lip, only stopping when he accidentally breaks through skin and the taste of blood floods his tongue.

He has a feeling that those words are going to haunt him for a long, long time.

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shouxryuuxha · 1 year ago

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❖││KAGOME││❖·:

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐀 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏. Kagome had unconsciously recognised all too well the eyes of someone who had seen hell, who had been to war at far too young an age—a child soldier, youth stolen away by the cruelty of time, an ache that will scar and fester and never truly heal. Kagome herself was the centre of discussions long before Shiryu transferred to her school: a girl so seemingly normal who vanished for months at a time, her family reporting such disastrous illnesses that more than once the faculty of the school had given her amnesty for missed tests. Every time Kagome returned from the other side of the well, she’d felt the burning of their stares on her face and heard their whispers behind her back. She knows all too well the stigma attached, the controversy.

( Children, they’re only children. )

Kagome hums as she sets down her now empty cup, storm-blue eyes peering at him beneath her lashes. When she’d invited him, it had been due to the familiarity she’d felt the first time she’d seen him. Perhaps it was longing, for someone who would understand her? Maybe she just wanted the scars to itch a little less beneath the sleeves of her uniform, or for her cheeks to stop aching from the smiling mask she has to don for her peers. Or maybe, just maybe, Kagome saw the potential friendship that could blossom between them. Her lips twitch into a smile, the corners curling pleasantly as she slides her geometry textbook just a few blessed inches away from herself. ( The cursed subject, a torture method. ) She chuckles at his defnese of their professor, leaning forward to cup her chin in her upturned pal, elbow resting on the table between them.

❛ Well, I’m glad you can understand sensei’s language unfortunately, I think I’m still incapable of comprehending any of it. ❜

Her posture perks excitedly as the bento is opened, eyes twinkling with delight as she peers down at the delicious-looking meal. The man can cook? Be still her heart! ( She has to physically restrain herself from asking if she can trade Sōta for him. Seriously, a brother that can make her food and help her study?? Sōta Higurashi whomst? ) Kagome reaches for her pair of chopsticks with ease, twirling them absently between lithe fingers in the way Sango often did with her throwing knives. Her friends have taught her such dangerous habits…

❛ I mean, I guess that makes sense, but even before I fell… uh, before I started getting sick ❜ She hesitates over the lie, the taste bitter on her tongue, but she covers it with clearing her throat and studiously studying her chopsticks between her fingers. ❛ I dunno, I still struggled in this class from the beginning. Maybe I’m just destined to fail this course after all. ❜

𝐍𝐎 𝐄𝐘𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑. ❛ Oh, I don't know about that ❜. No acknowlegment was made, not that was wasn't picked up on. Who was he to point a finger when his own track record of being 'sick' was just as egreigous? A poor attendance was frown upon no matter the grade. Yet, it seemed to hold more weight, the newer you were. Shiryu could only imagine how many times Saori had to make the questions, the inquires & the accusations "go away". Would she had been willing to had he not proven his worth in & out of battle? Would she stick her neck out if he didn't want a life outside of it all one?

LIFE. HE WANTED A LIFE!

❛ It all comes down to CONVICTION. If you want it & are willing to work for it, it will pay off. ❜ He had to believe it. (it has to be true!) Elbow proped itself on the table. The plam of his hand made a better perch to rest on than anything else. ❛ Those who are destined to fail are convinced that success has been removed from the equation. They're both just as viable. Why, you've wouldn't have asked for help if you unconsciouly didn't think you could do it. ❜ Reaching around to the floor, Shiryu unclapsed his bag, pulling one of his own personal note. Its spine coated in black; its' skin a VENEMOUS green with a singular vertical line of golden chinese text.

The book with little effort was made to spin under the grip of the thumb & index pointing out, beckoning itself to be taken. ❛ Maybe this is a more suited way to learn. I have every equation broken down & every step explained in detail which the reason as to why it is does this way as opposed to another. Basically---why is this 4 for answer & not 21. ❜ Outlines usually worked better; everyone did not learn the same. Visual learner were easier to teach & caught onto conecpt at the faster rate. Now she had something to ready when SICKNESS overtook her again. For all he & others knew, it might be sometime soon.

❛ I do hope that serves you better for retension. Especially in the event that our meetings are ever cut short or I'm impossible to reach. Besides, I'm going on a trip soon once school break starts. ❜

#❖││Nᴇᴡ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ﹐ Nᴇᴡ ᴇxᴘᴇʀɪᴇɴᴄᴇs﹐ Sᴀᴍᴇ ᴏʟᴅ sᴏᴜʟ.⁽ᵛᵉʳˢᵉ ⁵⁾#tsukihashi #after many a moon #I've done it

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not-me-simping-for-blasty · 4 years ago

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I Melt With You - Bakugou Katsuki

All Parts:

Part 4:

You’re paranoid.

Terribly, terribly paranoid, and even if you’re aware of it, there’s nothing you can do to stop it. Nothing you can do to quell the anxiety that wells up every time another person enters your space. Every time their skin nearly brushes yours, even accidentally, just for a split second.

It’s maddening. Nearly debilitating the way you’re flinching away from people. You can see your co-workers notice too, fellow nurses suddenly giving you odd looks every time you reject a high five. Even when you’re wearing your gloves. It’s just a panic reaction at this point- a fixation on trying to keep your quirk as least exhaustive an experience as it can be.

On one hand, you still really dislike Bakugou- nearly hate him for bringing it up to you- but, on the other hand, he did manage to figure it out. He somehow managed to figure out what you never could, and all in a matter of minutes from your relatively short interactions. It made you think that maybe he could be really smart- if he didn’t spend so much time killing his own brain-cells with every juvenile insult he spewed at you.

You wondered if that was just him, or he really did hate you that much. Surely he couldn’t be that much of a monster to other people, right? Right?

Wrong.

You remember Kirishima, how he apologized for Bakugou nearly the second he walked through the door. It hits you then that you’re definitely not the first person he’d seemed to mercilessly terrorize- you’re not sure if that makes you feel better or worse.

Actually, on second thought, maybe it makes you feel worse. No, it definitely makes you feel worse. So much worse, in fact, that just the sight of his face nearly sends you into an irrational rage. Even now, weeks after the last time he’d personally ruined your day, you were still mad. Still angry. Still cursing every time you saw those red eyes on every billboard, newspaper, and billboard in town.

Well, lucky for you, you didn’t have to look at those printed eyes anymore. Not when the real ones were right in front of you- scaring you shitless as you leave the hospital.

You had left the hospital from the back exit, tired and crabby from your late shift, grumbling as you stepped out into the alleyway. You’d hardly seen him, just the slightest glimpse of movement behind the tall dumpsters, before he’s practically in your face.

“Jesus!” You gasp, curling your arms around your stomach. Your legs feel like jelly. “Don’t do that! Scared me half to death!”

“Oh, chill the hell out, ya fuckin’ baby. You’re fine.” Bakugou rolls his eyes, falling into step next to you.

He looks worse for the wear, just like every other time you’ve seen him, exhaustion coloring his complexion something sickly. There’s an angry purple bruise covering his cheek, a few cuts, and even more bruising dotting his scarred knuckles. A tiny, vindictive part of you thinks it serves him right, but you keep it to yourself. You’re better than that.

You want to be nice to him, truly you do, but he’s made it pretty hard. Concerning you, Bakugou’s pretty much dug his grave at this point, and he only makes it worse with his next works.

“You need to do something for me.” He orders suddenly. “Now.”

“A-are you asking me? For help? Is that what this is?”

“What? No- obviously fucking not.” He sneers, nostrils flaring. “Why the hell would I go and do something like that. That’s stupid. Weak.”

“Oh. Okay. So then two seconds ago, when you were telling me that I ‘need’ to do something for you, what was that?” You squint your eyes at him, eyebrow twitching with annoyance. “That wasn’t you asking for help?”

“No. ‘s an order.”

“Oh. Yeah. Okay- an order. Because you’re totally in a position to make those.”

“I am.��

“You’re not.” You spin on your heels, nearly crashing into his chest since he followed so closely behind you. Still, you figure the promixity is all the better for gesturing, so you don’t miss a beat, waving your hands emphatically. “My shift just ended, alright? That means I’m not on the clock, and you’re not a patient. I don’t have to suck it up and help you unless I want to. Understand?”

Bakugou seems to bristle at your tone, eyes narrowing as his lip curls. You just try to shrug it off. If he wants to be mad in the middle of the alley, fine- but you’ve had a long day and you’re going home. You spin around again, walking briskly into the street, and it takes him a few moments to catch up.

“I told you, Bakugou, I’m not helping you just because you tried to order me to.”

“I know.”

“Then what’re you doing?”

“Walking.”

It’s his tone; that same needling, challenging edge to it that has your blood boiling. If anyone else said that, you’d probably believe it. But he’s not just walking and Bakugou’s smirk makes that very clear.

“No. You’re following me.”

“Same fuckin’ direction. Sue me, leech.”

The street lamps cast spots that yellow out his already pale skin, and the longer you walk the more withered he looks. Bakugou seems utterly burnt out, and when you look really close, all his features are slumped. It’s a stark contrast to Dynamite’s turbo-charged public persona, and it makes you wonder why he’d even let you see him like this at all. You figure whatever it is must be making him pretty desperate.

Suddenly that same, sinking, sympathetic feeling has you letting up a bit. You slow your pace, catching his gaze as you internally curse your own soft heart.

“Okay. Fine. What’s up. What can I help you with?”

Bakugou squints his eyes, almost like he doesn’t believe you. You think that’s a little fair- most times, even you can hardly believe all that you’re capable of forgiving.

“Sleep.” He finally says, bitten out tightly under his breath.

“You want me to help you sleep?”

“Yes. Obviously.”

“Not obvious.”

“Would be if you weren’t such a shitty nurse.”

“If that’s supposed to be a dig- save it.” You roll your eyes, trying to tamper down the irritation. “I did notice. That you look tired. Just didn’t mention it out of kindness, so don’t think you can start bringing my skills into question.”

You turn down another side street, and Bakugou follows. There’s less light so you miss the way his eyes scan the lurking shadows; intense and immediate, like a habit he can’t help himself from indulging in.

“You really live around here?” He suddenly asks, voice low and gruff.

“Yep. In the apartment complexes just up there.” You point off into the distance. “Why-”

“And your shift always end this late?”

“Yes?”

“God,” He laughs something disbelieving under his breath, rolling his eyes at you. “I was fuckin’ right. You really are the stupidest goddamn person walking the planet.”

“That’s- Do you ever think about your words? Seriously!” You huff, curling your fists. You hope it’ll quell your sudden urge to hit him. “Just because you think it, doesn’t mean you should say it! And who the hell are you to judge anyway-”

“You’re fuckin’ asking to be attacked. That’s stupid. ”

“By who?”

“Weirdos, idiot.”

“You’re the weirdo! You’re the one following me home right now!”

“I’m not following you-”

“Really? You’re not? Because right now, the way you’re walking? Maybe all of two steps behind me? On a dark street? At night? Sort of seems like creepy following is exactly what you’re doing!”

“I told you, you need to do something for me. Not leaving till you do.” He grumbles, digging a bruised knuckle into his temples. “And keep it the fuck down. Your screaming sounds like a dying animal.”

“My-” You seethe for a moment, hardly able to stand his attitude. Then you take a breath because you prided yourself on being a kind person, and kind people do not kill national heroes- even when they’re being asses. “You know, it is almost unbelievable how bad you are at asking for help.”

“Told ya, already. ‘m not fuckin’ asking for help.”

“Then why are you even here bothering me? Go bother someone else!”

“If fuckin’ anyone else could do anythin’, believe me, I’d go to them instead.”

“God, do you even understand how rude that is?” You ask him incredulously, hand grasping at the door to your apartment building. “No, seriously, are you even aware of what you sound like to other people?”

“Not my fuckin’ problem that other people are sensitive.”

Your eyes bulge at that, mouth nearly dropping in disbelief. You couldn’t believe him. You just couldn’t believe that a single person could possibly go through life with that callous of a mentality. It was insanity. Pure insanity.

“So, leech, you gonna put me to fuckin’ sleep or not?”

Just kidding- that was insanity. That sentence alone was proof of just how ridiculous your life had gotten since he’d crash landed into it.

Bakugou seems to realize his words simultaneously, his cheeks flushing red under the outdoor lights. You almost laugh, but then he’s glaring, eyes sternly set and murderous. For a moment, you really believe he was gonna blow you up right where you were standing.

“Say a goddamn word. Do it. I fuckin’ dare you. Leech.” He sneers. “Try me.”

“At this hour? No, uh, no thanks.”

Bakugou does seem to relax at your joke, albeit begrudgingly. He drops his shoulders, rolling his eyes, and clears his throat. “Now, seriously, you gonna fuckin’ do it or not?”

A part of you wants to say no- to hold your gift over his head, to lord it just out of reach until he figures out how to not insult you with every breath. Then you think of your job, of all the civilians who come in swearing up and down that Dynamite was a hero. And you believe them, truly, but you think that Bakugou has a long way to go. An especially long way.

But, even so, your fingers are itching again in your gloves. There’s that urge coursing through your veins, your thoughts a constant loop of heal, help, save and so it’s decided. Quickly. Almost like it was never even a question in the first place- and, knowing yourself, you suppose it never really was.

“Fine. I will. On one condition.”

“Condition? When the fuck did I say it was a negotiation. It’s not.”

“It is and I’ll tell you why.” You spin to face him completely, jumping back when you find him much closer than expected. Your retreat till your back hits the door, but you feel no less cramped than before. “You need me. You do. Don’t bother denying it because you wouldn’t be here otherwise. And the funny thing is, I would’ve done it! Would’ve done it entirely free of charge if you just asked nicely, and-”

“Will you get to the fuckin’ point already?”

“See! That! That’s why there’s a condition! Because you’re needlessly rude! All the time from what I’ve seen. And that’s got to change. Especially if you’re gonna ask for my help more than just this one time.”

“God- how many fuckin’ times do I need to make this clear to you? Hah?” Bakugou growls, leaning in even more. You can see it in his wild eyes- he’s trying to scare you, crowding you against the door. “I’m not asking. I’m telling you- You don’t make the fuckin’ rules here.”

“In this I do.” You swallow nervously, trying not to let your intimidation show. “So you’re gonna listen. My condition is this- if you want me to help you, then you have to learn to play nice. That means no names, no insults, no threats, no complaints, and no attitude. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

Bakugou swears under his breath, eyes blazing as he holds his stare. Truthfully, it makes you nervous, but you’re not one to back down. At least, not when there’s no threat of job loss involved. So you just squint back at him, jutting your jaw out in defiance. There’s a tense few seconds of silence, his eyes searching, but then he backs off. Nostrils flaring like a bull, Bakugou relents.

“Fuckin’ fine. Whatever. Jesus.” He swears, hand curling into a fist at his side. “If you’re gonna be such a bitc-”

“I said, no names, Bakugou.”

He just rolls his eyes, face so very pinched, and you briefly wonder if he’s going to explode. There’s anger as he suddenly shoves you away from the door, yanking it open and letting himself into the building. Then he’s stomping through the lobby, and you’re hardly able to catch up by the time Bakugou stops in front of the elevator.

“What fuckin’ floor, leech?”

“Once again, I said no names. None. Especially not that one.” You tell him sternly, trying to keep your voice down. “And you didn’t agree. You’re not following me and I’m not helping you unless you agree.”

If possible, you think Bakugou’s expression grows even more irritated, his eyes widening as he sets his jaw. Another few seconds pass, and when he sees you won’t relent, Bakugou nods. It’s tight and strained, stunted like the acquiescence physically pains him.

“God, you’re lucky I’m nice.” You tell him, nearly stabbing the elevator button as you press it. “Really lucky.”

“And you’re lucky I don’t have enough energy to beat the shit out of you right now.”

“No threats, Bakugou. You agreed.” You say easily, stepping into the elevator as it opens.

“Had to. Because your fuckin’ terms are bullshit.”

“Hey, no complaints. You agreed to that too.”

You think you hear something strangled leave his mouth, but it’s swallowed up by the sound of the elevator ascending.

Now that you’re standing in better lighting, you can see Bakugou’s face clearly. He looked bad before, but he looks worse now. There wasn’t just one bruise on his face, there was multiple- his jaw colored burgundy and his nose and lip split open. There was no blood, but there wasn’t a lot of scabbing either. It was new. These injuries were new.

You think back to that first visit- when he told you he never really got hurt. You wonder what’s been going so wrong for him lately. It seemed like all he’d done since you’d met him was get hurt.

“Stop fuckin’ staring.”

“I-I’m not. Not like that.” You say. “I’m assessing. You’re gonna need a butterfly bandage, on your nose- skin moves too much. And a cold compress for your jaw. Maybe some disinfectant on your lip. Probably should get your knuckles wrapped too and-”

“Jesus, I fuckin’ get it.”

You roll your eyes, ready to retort, but then the elevator dings. You walk out into the hallway, Bakugou trailing behind you like a shadow. It’s not until you’re at your door, twisting your key into the lock, that you pause.

You’re about to enter your apartment, with Bakugou of all people. A guy you’re not even sure can tolerate you. And yet you’re doing it- because he needs help. Because he looks like walking death and you’ve got a first aid kit under your bathroom sink. Because he’s pretty much proved himself to be an irredeemable asshole, but yet you still can’t bring yourself to leave him out in the cold.

Because you’re an empath, and that, by default, makes you an idiot.

You turn the key. Bakugou, to his credit, looks a little uneasy, but then you’re waving him through the door, and pushing it shut behind him.

“So, you wait here.” You gesture towards your couch, moving aside a few pillows to make him room to sit. “I’m gonna go get all that stuff I talked about.”

“So, what, you’re just like playing fuckin’ nice nurse again, now?”

“Bakugou. No attitude please- I am nice, okay? All the time. Or, at least when others are nice to me.” You say, levelling him with an unimpressed look. “And even if they’re not, I still don’t like seeing them hurt. Not if I can do something about it.”

“I don’t want your fuckin’ help.”

“No, but you need it. And since you’re too stubborn to ask for it, I’m just gonna have to force it on you.”

“Do you even fuckin’ hear yourself?” Bakugou prickles, voice rising. “Acting like a goddamn savior. Like you’re so fuckin’ good and holy. It’s bullshit.”

“It’s not.” You say flatly. Then you’re pivoting on your heels, leaving him behind and you grab the first aid kit. You open the bathroom door, calling over your shoulder. “And if you have such a problem with it, then leave. Nobody is keeping you here.”

You hear Bakugou swear again, so angry and seething that you almost believe he’ll take you up on your offer; but then you hear footsteps across the floor, the creaking of your couch.

You reach under your sink, pulling out the kit and a few extra rags for a compress. When you look in the mirror there’s exhaustion lacing your features, your eyes worn and dark with bags. The sight makes a part of you want to forget it all- makes you want to surrender to the ache in your bones and tell him to leave; but that’s just a small part. The larger part is telling you that you’re not spent until you’re unconscious, and that right now, Bakugou looks a whole lot worse than you feel. It’s telling you to hurry up and help him and you agree.

When you walk back out, supplies in hand, Bakugou’s slumped on your couch. He’s got his head tilted over the back, one hand resting on his stomach and the other thrown over his eyes. He shifts at the sound of your approach, dropping his hand and as blinks blearily. You think his eyes look a little duller than before- less like raging wildfire and more like smothered embers. If you didn’t know any better it would look like begruding acceptance- but this was Bakugou, and you knew better.

“So,” You start, setting all of your things down on the couch next to him. “You wanna go to sleep now? Or wait until after I fix up pretty much the entirety of your face?”

He looks at you unsurely, eyebrows creasing.

“Wait, actually- how are you planning to get home?” You continue, hands on your hips. “Where do you even live? Around here? Close? Because you were out in like, 10 minutes, maybe, the last time I touched you, so it’s gotta be close. You live close right? Because-”

“God, cool it with the fuckin’ word vomit. Shit’s annoying. Shut up.” He grumbles. “I’m sleeping here.”

“Who decided? You?”

“Yeah. Obviously.”

“Bakugou.” You balk, striding closer to the back of your couch. You lean over him, forcing him meet your eyes. “This is what I’m talking about! With the learning to play nice thing! I would’ve let you stay here, I would’ve, had you asked. You can’t just bulldoze your way into my house and refuse to leave!”

“Yeah? ‘n just what the fuck are you gonna do about it if I do?” He scoffs, curling his lip as he snarls. “Nothing. Because you’re so fuckin’ nice, right?”

“Don’t say it like that. It’s not a bad trait and I won’t have you insulting it. I’m not embarrassed of who I am.” You try to work through your frustration, centering yourself with a deep breath. “Look, bottom line is, ask next time. Or I’m not helping you until you do.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

You try to shrug off his petulant response, taking another calming breath as you shuck off your gloves. You replace them with latex ones from the kit, pulling the material over your fingers as you grab the antiseptic wipes. You decide to start around the cut on his nose. It’s the largest and widest, spanning over the entirety of his bridge and into his right cheek. It’s a nasty thing, deep and red, all exposed nerves beneath a thin scab and you can tell it hurts him. Bakugou fights to keep from wincing, eyes scrunching slightly as you wipe the remnants of dirt and oil from his skin.

“This from another villan?” You ask calmly, finding an easy peace in performing familiar tasks. “One today?”

“Cuts are from today. Bruises were yesterday.”

Blinking down at him, you’re a little surprised by how easy his answer was. You expected him to fight, to be difficult just because he could, but Bakugou wasn’t doing that. He was lying relatively and still and sated under your fingertips, the only sign of any tension are his minutely pinched eyebrows. Briefly, you check your gloves- for a moment there you were sure you’d accidentally touched him.

“Oh. Okay.” You reply, taking a small butterfly bandage from your kit. You press it over the cut with gentle pressure. “How’s the other guy look?”

“Fuckin’ terrible. Beat ‘em to hell.”

“I’m sure you did.” You snort, moving on to clean the cut on his lip. “Hey, you wanna know something?”

Bakugou peeks a red eye open, studying your face above him. He nods.

“I actually end up treating a lot of your victims, you know.”

“Criminals. Not victims.”

“Mhm. Sure. Well, either way, they’re always covered in burns. Mostly minor, but sometimes pretty nasty ones.” You try to keep your voice light, even and steady as you dab at his lip. “Honestly, at this point, I’m pretty sure you’re entirely responsible for the hospital’s chronic burn-cream shortage.”

Bakugou does seem to smile at that, exhaling through his nose as his eyes flutter briefly. “Wouldn’t be fuckin’ short if people just stopped tryin’ to pull stupid shit all the time. ‘s not my fault they’re so fuckin’ bad at running away.”

“Bakugou.” You balk, unable to keep the laugh from bubbling out your lips. “You can’t say that!’

“Why the fuck not? Hah? It’s true.”

“Because! You’re supposed to be playing nice, remember?”

“Yeah. To you.” He mumbles, voice rough and raspy. “Because you fuckin’ schemed your way into forcing me. They didn’t.”

“Okay- First, I’m like, pretty sure schemed and forced are the same thing, so we definitely don’t need to say them both. It’s just overkill. Second, that’s a borderline insult, so I’m gonna need you to watch your mouth. And third,” You cradle his jaw in your fingers, turning it to the side. “How the hell did you manage to get a bruise behind your ear?”

“I don’t know- probably the same way you somehow managed to become a nurse; even with such shitty fuckin’ bedside manner. You suck, leech.”

Your jaw drops.

“Bakugou!”

He cracks his eyes open, something small and pleased settling at the corner of his mouth. There’s almost as much venom in his voice as before but his eyes are softer now. They’re kinder, crinkling just slightly at the edges.

He’s joking. You realize. He doesn’t actually mean it. Not this time.

“You dick.” You reprimand, flicking his hairline lightly. “You absolute dick.”

His eyes just seem to grow a little brighter at that, just for a second, and then he’s shutting them again. There’s still a smirk on his face though- one you’d swear you’d slap off if he wasn’t actually being somewhat pleasant right now. For once in his life, it seemed.

“Alright,” You announce, rounding the couch quickly. “Your knuckles look just as bad so give ‘em.”

“No thanks.”

“It wasn’t really a suggestion.”

“I don’t need anymore of your pity help, leech.”

“It’s not pity. Not even a little bit.” You sigh. “Look, I know you’re not gonna understand this, but I seriously cannot chill the hell out without at least trying to take care of people. My quirk makes my fingers literally itch when I see injuries. They itch and they don’t stop itching until I do something about it. Helping people, healing people, is hard-wired into me- it’s as much something I do for me as it is something I do for others.”

Bakugou’s eyes widen at that. He sits a little straighter, fists clenching as he presses them into the cushions. A few beats pass and then he’s grumbling, throwing himself back as he thrusts both of his injured knuckles forward.

“God, you’re so fucking irritating.” He gripes. “If you’re gonna be such a weirdo about it, then get the hell to it already.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, instead kneeling next to your coffee table and settling on the ground. You take his hands in yours, bending all his fingers to make sure nothing is broken. When nothing is, you look up at Bakugou, planning to tell him the good news, but he’s already looking at you. Your eyes meet, and he blinks, once, twice, before averting his eyes quickly. You think that maybe he blushes too, but he turns his head so sharply you’re almost convinced you imagined it.

You just try to shrug it off, focusing your attention back on his hands. You notice how warm they are again, nearly feverish and strangely unblemished. When you start rubbing bruise cream over knuckles, kneading the joints between your fingers, Bakugou sighs slumps back into the couch. He closes his eyes once more.

“Are you falling asleep?”

“No. Can’t. Fuckin’ told ya already.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t tell me why.” You set his hands back on the couch, moving instead to unravel a bandage. “Not that I won’t help you, but have you tried any other remedies? Melatonin? Or lavender? Maybe chamomile? Any of those?”

“Mhm. Falling asleep isn’t the problem.”

“Then what is?”

He opens his eyes, squinting at you from above. “None of your fuckin’ business.”

“Bakugou, I’m trying to help here.”

“I don’t want-”

“Yeah. I know. You don’t want it. Or you don’t want to rely on it. I get it. But you wouldn’t have even came here if you didn’t absolutely need it, right?” You insist, grabbing his hands into yours again. “God, you know, I’ve had toddlers who were more cooperative than you. Why’re you so difficult?”

“I’m not fuckin’ difficult.”

“No. You’re difficult. Very difficult.”

“And you’re fuckin’ annoying. Do me a favor and go back to being nice.”

“Nope. Sorry. Pretty sure you didn’t like me then either.” You start wrapping the bandage around his knuckles, taking extra care to apply the right pressure. “And I was only nice to you because I was working, you know. I’m only actually nice to the people who deserve it.”

Bakugou rolls his eyes at that.

You finish wrapping the bandage, securing it into place with a bit of medical adhesive. All things considered, Bakugou looks better than before. Or at least, better than the death incarnate he’d been portraying himself as.

“All done.” You smile, turning away to start packing up your supplies.

“Finally. Took ya fuckin’ long enough.”

“God, you are literally devoid of manners, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. ‘s part of not bein’ an absolute bitch.”

You gawk, spinning around to face him. Bakugou’s relaxed into your couch, arms laid across the back leisurely as he smiles. There’s that same softness to his eyes from before, the crinkling just at the edges.

“Wow.” You scoff, smiling sarcastically. “You really think you’re so funny don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Yeah. Because you’re fuckin’ brainless.”

“Brainless? Me? Swear to god, you only know, like, three words and all of them are probably swears!”

Bakugou just shrugs, looking abnormally pleased. Content even. You figure that’s probably right for someone like him- only happy when everyone around him is devolving into chaos.

“Actually, you know what, I think I’m done yelling for the night.” You say, shucking your gloves off. You wiggle your fingers at him, a smirk plastered across your face. “I think it’s time you’re euthanized, don’t you?”

Bakugou just blinks, minutely shrinking away from you.

“Because you said you wanted me to put you to sleep, right? To put you down. Like a dog.” You continue, nearing him, coming close even as his lip curls up. Bakugou is glaring fully now, fists clenched, and you stop just a few inches out of his reach. “Or, you know, in ruder terms- not a dog, but a bitch.”

Bakugou snarls, lunging at you as you duck away. He’s fast but you’re faster, vaulting behind your couch to create some distance. There’s fire in his eyes, blazing and hot in his irises, but it isn’t scary. If you look close enough, you’re almost sure it’s just warmth. That same rare amusement from earlier.

“You leech. Swear to fuck I’ll make you regret that. Say your goddamn prayers!”

“Touch me and you’ll fall asleep!” You tease. “Or I’ll use my quirk and see into your brain. So I guess it’s more of a ‘pick your poison’ for you, really.”

“It’ll be the same for you.” Bakugou growls, hands grasping the back of the couch as he leans in towards you. “Open casket or closed, it’s still gonna be your fuckin’ funeral.”

“Really?”

“Really. Leech.”

“No thanks.”

“What the fuck do you mean ‘no thanks’,” Bakugou mimics your voice, his features twisting. “I’m killing you. You’re dead. You don’t get a choice.”

“No, I really think I do.”

“And just what the fuck makes you so goddamn confident?”

“This. You not attacking me.” You smile easily, voice daring as you stare right back at him. “If you really wanted me dead, I’d be dead. Isn’t that right, Dynamite?”

The name sends Bakugou recoiling, shrinking backwards and scoffing in outright shock. You watch him stumble, legs hitting your coffee table and nearly causing him to fold. He recovers quickly though, albeit with his cheeks flushing wildly.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Nah. Thanks for the offer though.” You smile brightly, before throwing your arms above your head and yawning widely. “As fun as that was, I’m pretty tired. You ready to fall asleep, yet?”

“Jesus fuck, yes. That’s the entire goddamn reason I’m even here. Idiot.”

“No name calling. You agreed.”

“I didn’t agree to shit.”

“You did.” You affirm. “Now, c’mon, like last time, hold your hand out.”

With surprisingly little dramatics or resistance, Bakugou listens. He thrusts one of his bandaged hands forward as he sits on the couch again. When you touch his fingers, you feel that faint warmth again. Like fire and embers coursing through your bloodstream. It’s uncomfortable, a relentless sensation that has you cringing. You briefly wonder what it would be like to always live with it. Like Bakugou seems to.

His eyes flutter shut just like last time, and you can see the way he staggers. It’s like the fight leaves him entirely, and then he’s falling boneless into the couch. You can hardly place a pillow onto the cushions before he’s driving his head into it.

“Jesus,” You mutter in disbelief. “How long has it been since you slept? You look dead.”

“Weeks.” Bakugou mumbles.

“Since the last time?”

“Mhm.”

If his words alone didn’t confirm the severity of his sleeplessness for you, his response time did. Bakugou answered quickly, without fight, like he’d been wanting to spill for the entire night. And, you suppose, maybe he did; or was trying to. In hindsight, you begin to realize a lot of his screaming could just as easily have read as cries for help- not that you’d ever tell him that. You’d probably have to prepare a will if you ever tried telling him that.

“You want a blanket?” You ask a little unsurely, not exactly confident in your approach to this entirely different Bakugou. “All you’re getting is the couch, but I could probably scrounge up a few blankets.”

Bakugou doesn’t respond. All you hear in response are tiny little snores and slow breathing.

You find it reminds you of the last time- the way you’re reaching into a cupboard and grabbing out a blanket for him. Except this time, it’s a little bit different. Somehow you’re settling the blanket over him with a little bit of genuine kindness instead of begrudging sympathy.

After all, you can’t help but feel a little bit of pity- no one would ever fall asleep that fast unless they really needed it. Especially not in a stranger’s house.

--/--

enjoy my lovelies :))

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alltheworldsinmyhead · 4 years ago

Photo

(WHILE COLLECTING THE STARS) I CONNECTED THE DOTS

or, how Nesta accepted the bond and decided to give living a try // ao3

Adoption /Self-Discovery/Domestic/Witch!Nesta/Mating Bond/Nessian/found family bc why the fck not/Healing

Heal the scars from off my back

I don't need them anymore

You can throw them out or keep them in your mason jars

I've come home

The first thing she notices is how small the girl is.

Her feet are dangling far from the ground and, even though she’s perched on a stroll and Cassian is kneeling on the ground, he’s still towering over her frame. The top of the child’s head barely sticks above the table. Her tucked-in wings make her look even tinier; tiny and miserable, wrapped up with a blanket like an abandoned kitten.

Nesta’s still high on all the magic. There is dark paint smeared all over her skin and her veins are buzzing with the sheer power that she and her coven has just leeched off the very bones of Illyria. She’s only starting to regain some composer and maybe that is why, for a good few minutes, she stays on the corridor and watches as Cassian patiently asks the girl if she wants something to eat or to drink, if she’s warm enough, if maybe she wants to take a nap, hearing nothing in return except for the stubborn, shell-shocked silence.

It’s only when the child pulls her knees up and hides her face in the material of the blanket when Nesta actually makes her presence known.

‘’Hello?’’ she calls quietly from her place on a threshold, not wanting to spook the girl further.

To Cassian’s credit, he does not whip his head towards her – but, after all, he probably knew she’s been here all along.

He always knows she’s near, just like she does.

‘’Hello, Nesta.’’ He says and there is something so heavy, so terribly dark ringing in his voice that she cannot help but shiver. ‘’Sorry, darling, are you fine sitting alone for a while here? I’ll be right back.’’

He raises his hand as if to pat the girl’s knee, but decides not to half-motion; it falls awkwardly to his side when he slowly raises to his full height.

The girl just buries deeper into the blanket.

Something about her – the clear despair radiating from every pore of her body – pulls Nesta towards her like a siren song. She cannot tear her eyes off her, even when Cassian ushers her to the corridor, his hand burning her lower back.

‘’Sorry for no heads-up.’’ He whispers, face half-obscured by the shadows.

It’s almost dusk; the lovely pink light of the dying sun makes everything less real somehow. Or maybe it’s still the magic, the leftovers of it from the sabbath, she’s not sure.

She knows why he’s apologizing. Strangers still threw her off, especially here, in this – space they’ve created. The space where she walks barefoot and with her hair unbound, only for him to see. But how he knows that she doesn’t feel comfortable with unexpected visitors, she has no idea. Sometimes, she wonders how the hell Cassian even knows half of the things he knows about her, because she doesn’t tell him even a quarter of them.

Unexpected visitors that make her uneasy definitely don’t include little lost girls, though. Especially since there’s an unpleasant pounding in Nesta’s head when her mind starts to mull over why the girl would be here in the first place.

‘’Oh, stop being an idiot. Why did you bring her here? Is she- is her mother-‘’

‘’Gone? Yeah.’’

Nesta closes her eyes so tightly that the whole night sky blooms on the underside of her eyelids.

That’s Illyria. – he told her the first time when he came home reeking of blood, his knuckles scraped to the raw meat. – It happens.

And there was not an ounce of acceptance in his voice, only this defeated helplessness. The same helplessness she’s hearing – she’s feeling – now.

‘’She doesn’t have anyone else left? No family?’’

‘’No one. Her father was killed in the war, as far as I know.’’

It happens. Females disappear. Females evaporate. Females appear with their wings clipped, with blood running down their thighs. Females find themselves in the wrong place, the wrong time… especially young, pretty widows, trying to make a living in any way they can, selling whatever they have, including themselves.

Nesta does not have to ask for more details, does not have to dig deeper. Cassian fixes her stare on the chandelier above her head and breaths deeply and, when she looks down, she can see dark bruises blooming on his knuckles, turning them all shades of purple.

Her hands are still cool from the autumn air. He shivers when her thumbs brush across his tender flesh.

‘’Those who did it to her – they won’t do it again to anyone else, will they?’’

‘’No,’’ Cassian growls, his fingers curling around hers. ‘’No, they won’t.’’

She lets her lips curl into a smile, the one that makes Devlon piss his pants whenever he throws a hissy about her coven, or rather about her dragging the clipped females to the woods at night to howl to the moon, as he calls it.

‘’Good.’’ She breathes out.

Her eyes slide on the wooden panels on the wooden panels, back to the kitchen; through the ajar door, all she can see are the black curls, the small talons on top of the girl’s wings peeking from the folds of the blanket.

She’s just so small. She cannot be possibly older than five.

‘’What’s her name?”

“Nicassia.’’ Cassian answers without meeting Nesta’s eyes and something akin to a laugh bubbles in her chest. Nicassia. What a pretty name, swishing like a mountain stream on the rocks, like the wind in the valley.

Ni-cass-ia.

It seems the irony has not escaped Cassian too, because he smirks slightly at her stunned silence.

‘’What are the chances, huh?’’

‘’Yeah.’’ She sounds a bit breathless. Nicassia. ‘’What - where are you planning to take her?’’

She rather feels than hears his hesitance when he says:

‘’Well. There’s an orphanage in Velaris-‘’

Something tightens like a rock inside her core. Of course.

She bites on her tongue. Stop being ridiculous, Velaris is not the source of all evil in the world. She has no doubt that they will take care of her well there – keep her well-fed and clothed, educate her. Give her the care and attention she needs. Maybe she’ll be treated as something … something else, different, but not worse, Feyre would never allow that. Still-

There’s this nagging thought, coming back to her over and over again as she raises her eyes to the small bundle of misfortune on the stroll in the kitchen Nesta has started to think of as hers – what about the things they cannot give her in Velaris?

Nesta’s been living in the Illyria for three years now; she keeps count of every day while pretending she’s absolutely not doing that. And during this time, she has just begun to grasp the magnitude of her ignorance of how these people live and how they think and feel – but she also knows now just enough to realize that there will be no coming back for Nicassia if she’s sent to the Night Court so young.

No one will teach her the songs to keep the rhythm while sewing – no one will teach her how to sew in the first place, how to weave the promises and good fortunes into the fabric. No one will teach her the strange language, full of whistles and hard vowels, impossible to really grasp for somebody who did not grow up hearing it every day. No one will teach her how to put pebbles on the windowsills for protection or to hang bundles of herbs above the fireplace for prosperity and health. No one will make a rowan necklace for her upon her flowering, every hope, and dream that her mother has for her captured on the rope along with the fruits.

No one will teach her the sacred, secret language of Illyrian females, the rites and rituals of their womanhood. If Nicassia grows up in Velaris, she will be forever an outcast in her own home. Not High Fae and not quite Illyrian either.

She will once sit around the fire with other females just like Nesta does with her coven and she too won’t be a part of the story.

And Nesta cannot bear this thought, cannot help but fixate on it.

‘’Nesta.’’

Cassian’s hand is warm and steady on arm, gentle, when he squeezes it.

He’s always gentle with her now, hesitant almost. She’s trying not to miss the times when he was challenging her with every move, every word, driving her insane. It’s better this way, when everything between them is so delicate, fragile like an eggshell. It’s better like that, she tries to convince herself every day, every night laying alone in her bed, her very skin burning from desire.

Sometimes he sleeps beside her to keep her nightmares at bay, but honestly, she almost prefers the nightmares to this unbearable, painful distance between them.

‘’You cannot – you can’t keep her, Sweetheart.’’

She knows what he means by that – she knows he means all the sleepless nights and the emptiness still present in her eyes more often than not. Her still too-skinny hands, her still-not-quite mastered powers. How she would not touch booze for all days of the year except for the anniversary of her father’s death when she gets so absolutely pissed that she sleeps through the next week. The fact that they share fears and dreams and silence, trade quiet feelings, small kisses, absent-minded caresses every day, but they have still not traded the actual words, did not dare to voice anything they feel for each other.

She knows he only wants to protect her.

But maybe a time for coddling has passed. Not when there is a child sitting in their kitchen, small and alone in this world and this time, she has power – power, and strength, and will – to help her.

‘’Maybe I can’t’’. she says softly, slowly. Nicassia’s dark curls spill on her shoulders. Nesta’s hands itch to braid it the way it’s supposed to be braided, just like Emerie explained to her one time- first parted in two, then divided into four strands and woven together (Health. Protection. Love. Devotion.). Nesta’s no Illyrian, but she can learn. She can ask her coven to teach her, to teach her how to sing lullabies in Illyrian, which bedtimes stories she should tell-

Ni-cass-ia.

Nesta thinks about a boy of five, dumped onto the cold mud, taught over and over again in the most horrible way that he has to kill, beg or steal for every little crumb of love in his life, that it will never be given freely to him, that he will never be worth it.

Nesta thinks of a girl of eight, burning with anger too vast to be contained, only learning decades later how to be gentle, how to allow others to be gentle to her. She thinks of Feyre and Elain, of loving too much and not enough simultaneously, of not knowing how to feel anything without this magnitude of feeling devouring her whole.

Nesta turns around to face Cassian, her hands gripping his too-strongly. There’s fire – fire- burning inside her brighter than any magic ever did, hotter than any rage ever did.

She needs us. – she thinks and then: I need this. I want this.

I want this for us.

She doesn’t remember ever wanting anything more. She doesn’t remember the last time she has felt so much.

How can they continue to pretend they’re walking on eggshells when she feels every rise and fall of his chest as if it was her own? When she could’ve as well grabbed on this bond between them or hang herself on it, that’s how strong it is. Forged from some ancient metal. Hardened in flames.

Cassian kneeling on the floor in front of this girl. Nesta coming home.

‘’But maybe we can.’’

His eyes burn golden, staring down at her. She can almost hear his heart stumbling in his chest. She’s trembling, waiting for him to tell her, no, to tell her that’s insane and wrong, to try to reason with her.

But maybe her own heart is painted on her face or maybe the implication of her words are too vast, too great to grasp, or maybe it’s that fact that all her walls go down for a moment when she’s too desperate to keep them up and he sees her for what she truly is for a moment, or maybe it’s all of those things altogether or something else entirely – but Cassian doesn’t say no.

He looks to the kitchen again, his jaw clenching and eyes turning soft when one of Nicassia’s bare feet emerges from the blanket to dangle above the floor.

‘’Are you sure?’’

One step, two steps before she’s so close she could’ve counted the freckles of hazel in his eyes.

Be brave.

‘’I want this with you. I want her. Do you – do you want it too?’’

And she means more than Nicassia, or rather – she means all Nicassia can possibly mean, the whole ocean of dreams she has never dared to venture into, so deep they could both drown in it.

In her grand romance novels, he would’ve pulled her into his arms, give her a sweeping kiss. But in these books, there seems to always be a perfect moment for everything, the exact seconds when stars align and the realization comes like a lightning strike. Nesta does not believe in this type of love any more- doesn’t believe in the perfect moments. It was always Feyre’s brand of romance. Everything in Nesta’s and Cassian’s story has always been complicated and ill-timed. She doesn’t expect to be swept off her feet or wooed anymore.

She just wants to come home. Finally, after all those lonely years.

Cassian doesn’t give her a grand kiss. Instead, he raises their linked hands to his lips and whispers against her skin – quietly, like a secret, like an oath:

‘’I do. Fine then, love.’’

And for a second she can almost see that small boy entering Rhysand’s mother’s cottage in the war camp, craving family and belonging above all reason once again.

Her body turns soft, jelly; her arm raises up, palm resting in the crook of his neck, thumb brushing the line of his jaw. She’s on her tiptoes before she realizes she has even made a move.

For the first time since they met, they meet each other halfway; his forehead resting on hers, his hand pressing hers to his heart.

‘’Fine then, love.’’ She echoes and, all at once, warmth erupts under her skin like a raging forest fire when the bond tugs on her insides and snaps in place, sweet and familiar, the gravity keeping her feet on the ground.

#nessian #nessian fanfiction #nessian fic #acotar #acotar fanfiction #acotar fic #acosf

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daisybeewrites · 4 years ago

Text

You Made Me Soup??

word count: 2.5k

warnings: lots of fluff, daisy gets a cold, daniel takes care of her :)

requested? yes

ship: dousy/daniel sousa x daisy johnson

Soooo this is the first writing that i’m posting on tumblr, let me know how I did in the comments! I’m a sucker for Daisy fluff, lets hope you are too b/c this is very fluffy. I appreciate any feedback and I hope you enjoy!

p.s. drop a request in my inbox if you have a fic idea!

Daisy felt like crap. She just got back home from a long, long mission that seemed as if it had dragged on for weeks (it hadn’t). More importantly, she felt like she hadn’t seen Daniel for weeks (she had, in fact, seen him just six days ago). The night air was chilly as she trudged up the stairs to one of her safe-houses. She frequently crashed here after missions, so she wasn’t surprised when Daniel opened the door and bear hugged her.

“Umph.” Daisy was sore, and her head hurt like a hangover made of bees, but Daniel’s soothing presence relaxed her. He lifted her chin and gave her a deep kiss on the lips. Sousa would love nothing more than to hold her like this for a couple hours minimum, he knew that Daisy needed time to decompress by herself after missions. He helped her inside and shut the door behind them. Daisy's stomach growled. She peered inside the fridge and settled for a tomato and cheese sandwich. Daisy sat at the kitchen island and munched tiredly. Daniel sat on the couch and silently studied her. Something, he thought, is off.

“Sweetheart?” he called.

“Yea?” she replied, around a mouthful of bread.

“Are you, uh, feeling okay?” The genuine concern in his voice caused Daisy to sit up some and look over herself.

“Do I look that bad?” she wasn’t offended, just surprised. There were a couple tears in the legs and one on the side of her suit from the brambles she had had to run through, and she wore dirt all over her face from the dust that had kicked up after she quaked the enemy assailants back about fifty feet. She honestly didn’t think she looked that bad. A tiny frown appeared on her face before Daniel quickly shut down her train of thought.

“No, no, you look amazing as always,” Daniel got up quickly and stepped across the dark wood paneled floor into the old tiles that covered the ground in the kitchen. “No, Dais, that isn’t what I’m saying.”

As he reached her, he pressed a kiss to her forehead and brushed her hair out of her face. Daniel had to admit, she looked very cute when she was tired. However, he was too worried about how out of it she looked that he couldn't fully appreciate her adorable state.

“Then what? Do I have leaves in my hair or something? I could’ve sworn I got them all out!” she began to comb her hair out with her fingers. Daniel just grinned. When she was satisfied that there weren’t any leaves in her hair, she glanced back up at him. His hands were on his hips, and he was using his new prosthetic leg that Jemma and Fitz had designed for him. She returned his grin and hopped off the counter so that she could wrap her arms around his gorgeous shoulders. Suddenly, her vision swam with little black dots and she couldn’t quite get her balance. Daniel reached out to steady her with a little more than worry in his eyes this time.

“Look at that,” Daisy grinned wider, “I’m actually falling for you.” Daniel let out a low sort of chuckle and sighed. “Daisy, I think you need some sleep.”

Daisy patted his chest and nodded. “Probably.” As she said it, she let out an involuntary yawn, “Okay, so definitely. I need sleep.”

Daisy began to walk back to her bedroom. It was cozy, and the colors reminded her of her bunk on the zephyr. There was a large bed with an old, wooden nightstand to match in the corner, and a few bean bag chairs and a short floor desk so that she could work at night. The bed was covered in comfy quilts and a soft, lavender duvet. No one would have guessed that a superhero lived here except for the hexagonal panels lining the walls, ceiling, and floor. Simmons and Daisy agreed to install them after Daisy almost leveled the house during a nightmare. It had been Daniel who suggested painting them, so that she wouldn’t feel as enclosed, like a caged animal. Daisy had been all for protecting those around her, insisted on it even. That doesn’t mean she didn’t feel weird having her bedroom look like the containment module. So, with Daniel, Coulson, and May's help, she painted the walls a homey grey and covered the floor in colourful mix-matched rugs. She left the ceiling white.

Daisy trudged over to her bed and slowly started taking her gear off, but got stuck with the zips and hidden ties.

“Hey, uh, Sou-” she coughed, “I need some help!” Her voice was muffled by the fabric of her suit. Daniel came to lean on the door frame. He smirked at the sight before him. Daisy’s arms were twisted behind her trying to undo a zipper, but had gotten caught while trying to pull it down. Subsequently, the material she had already loosened in the front rose up to reveal her tan, toned stomach. He walked over slowly and put his hands on her waist.

“Mmmhm, Danny-boy, if you want me to sleep you need to just help me out of this damn suit!” she heard a chuckle and a soft ‘okay’ in response. He reached around her and undid the zipper, freeing her hands of the black fabric. She pulled the top over her head and went to get a sleep shirt.

Daniel stopped her. “I’ll get it. You just relax.”

Daisy was too tired to argue. She undressed from the rest of the suit and took the over-sized, comfy clothes he gathered. She pecked his cheek before going to the bathroom to wash her face and put the clothes on. Daniel watched her walk into the bathroom, a bright pink blush on his cheeks when she turned around and noticed him staring. At least he didn't cover his eyes when she changed anymore.

Daisy closed the door and turned the lights on in the bathroom. This was the first time she was able to good look at herself after the mission. She really did look like hell. The scars on her stomach and legs were a tad irritated from wearing her tac gear for so long, and her eyes also looked red. She ignored it and made a mental note to use the healing ointment Jemma had packed in her duffel bag on the red, raised tissue. She leaned forward to get a better look at herself. Her nose itched. Daisy quickly forgot about it as she finished getting ready for bed and slipped into the shirt and shorts that Daniel had handed her.

When she stepped out of the bathroom, Daniel wasn’t there, but she could hear him in the living room down the hall. She still felt horrible, but the warm, coffee-and-vanilla scent that was just Daniel lulled her into a deep sleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.

When Daisy woke up the next morning, she felt absolutely disgusting. She grumbled as she tried to sit up. Her head was pounding, the pressure centered right between her eyebrows. She noticed the bottle of water and pills sitting on her bedside table, and promptly took them. Her nose hurt now, and her body was achier than it had been last night. She could probably sleep for another hour. Instead, she forced herself onto wobbly legs to take a scalding hot shower. The steam felt good on her muscles, and cleared her senses enough that she could properly breathe. She dressed in a clean t-shirt that she recognized as one of Sousa's and a pair of grey sweatpants (also Sousa's, Daisy stole them). Daisy trekked down the hall towards the warm, inviting couch.

Daniel felt more than heard Daisy arrive in the living room, but only turned around when he heard a large crash!

“Daisy! Are you okay? What happened?” Daisy was currently laying on the floor next to a fallen lamp.

“Ow…” she . “I turned the corner and this lamp was here.”

Daniel crutched over to her, then gracefully sat down beside her. “Sorry Dais, didn’t know the lamp was an enemy combatant.”

She gave a tired laugh. “I should’ve looked. I don’t feel great right now. I was practically sleepwalking down the hall.”

Daniel looked over Daisy. He noticed she was wearing his clothes, and tried not to show exactly how that affected him. Daisy snapped him out of his reverie with a small sneeze. Without missing a beat, he handed her his handkerchief. Daisy still thought it odd that he had one, but felt extremely glad he did. Daniel thought he heard a low mumble of ‘cute square’, but couldn’t be sure. Daisy was definitely cute, even when sick.

Daisy groaned as she clutched her head. Daniel swung himself up, and she noticed his leg was... not a leg. Daisy smiled. Knowing that he felt safe enough in her house to relax and not wear his prosthetic made a little bubble of warmth blossom in her chest. Daniel reached a hand down to help her up, and with expert balance, helped her up to her feet. He pressed the cool back of his hand to her forehead. Daisy leaned into the touch.

“That feels good. Like, really good.”

Daniel gave her a quizzical stare. “Has anyone ever taken care of you while you were sick?”

Daisy was incredulous. “I’m not sick!”

Daniel replied with a raised eyebrow and took his hand away from her head. She leaned forward slightly, chasing his hand before stopping herself. It dawned on Daniel that she hadn’t had parents to take care of her when she was a kid, and there was no way she would have let the team nurse her if she came down with something.

“C’mere,” Daniel led her over to the couch and handed her a thick blanket. She took it and tried to spread it over her legs. Daniel laughed a little as she failed miserably. Daisy pouted and sighed, frustrated. Daniel took the blanket and flourished it, then laid it gently over her.

“Square,” she teased. An adorable square.

“Your square, though.” Daniel grabbed her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm, then her knuckles and wrist. Daisy didn’t want to admit how good it made her feel. Daniel got up as he directed her to stay there. “I’ll get some stuff to help.”

Daisy dozed in and out while Sousa gathered what he needed. She could smell something delicious in the kitchen, and heard Sousa walking around. When he was finished, he woke Daisy up with a shake of her shoulder. He carefully helped her sit up.

“Let’s go,” he stated, with a mischievous smile.

“Go... where?” she questioned. The look in Sousa’s eye was making her slightly nervous. No, not nervous... just jittery with anticipation. Huh. Daniel started to walk away, checking over his shoulder to see if she was coming. She quickly shook her head and got up. She followed him down the hall to the bathroom, where a warm bath was waiting.

“Honey?”

“Yes, dear?” Daniel was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, and staring at

Daisy as if she was the only light in the universe. His gaze made her feel all mushy inside, and she pushed down the tears that almost welled up. Daisy told herself it was because she was sick (but we all know it wasn't). Daniel broke eye contact and pushed himself off the counter.

“I’ll be in the kitchen," Daniel winked and gave her kiss on the cheek, then left Daisy standing dumbfounded next to the tub. "Holler if you need me.”

She touched where he kissed and promptly undressed. The bath felt like heaven. If only she could keep her eyes open...

She was woken around fifteen minutes later by the smell of something she could only describe as mouthwatering coming from the kitchen. She toweled off and put on a t-shirt and the shorts she wore the night before. She tip-toed to the kitchen and wrapped her arms around Daniel. Daisy rested her head in between his shoulder blades. She lifted her head and he turned around to place his hands on her waist, slowly pulling her in.

“I don’t think this is safe next to a stove.” Daisy quipped. Daniel murmured something incoherent in her hair. She peered over his shoulder to see what he was cooking.

“Soup?” Daisy questioned, “You... made me soup?” Daniel suddenly seemed shy. He looked away, unsure if he was stepping too far, or if she even liked soup. Even groggy and sick, Daisy picked up on this. She threw her arms around him and whispered into his shoulder. “Thank you, Daniel. No one's ever done this kind of thing for me.”

His face warmed at hearing her call him Daniel. It wasn't often that she did that, usually she stuck to a silly nickname or called him ‘Sousa’ out of habit.

“Anything for you, sweetheart.” Daniel leaned in for a kiss, but Daisy quickly leaned away. Daniel sent her a confused, pouty, adorable glare.

“I-I don’t want you to get sick,” she stuttered by way of explanation, “You should probably stay away until I’m feeling better.” In spite of her words, when Sousa slowly leaned in, she mirrored his movements.

“So, you do admit you’re sick.” Daniel whispered with a triumphant smile. Daisy wanted to argue, but realized there was no way out of this. She pushed him away and shuffled over to the living room, flopping dramatically on the couch.

“Yes, fine! I’m sick.” Daisy closed her eyes to go back to sleep, then remembered the soup that Daniel was currently pouring into bowls, and sat up. He brought it over and carefully handed it to her. She tried a spoonful and burnt her tongue the first time. When she tried again, she looked up through her lashes at Daniel sitting beside her, intently waiting for her verdict.

“Oh my god, this is amazing!” she half-moaned with delight. “You need to cook more often.”

Daniel watched her eat the soup quietly, and took her bowl to the sink when she was finished. When he got back, Daisy had turned on the TV and was watching Singing in the Rain. He smiled at the familiar picture. They spent the next couple hours watching old movies and cuddling. Daisy had protested at first, but gave in when Daniel threatened to tell Jemma she was sick. Daisy happily drifted to sleep with her head on Daniel's chest and the rest of her wrapped around him like a koala.

She woke up early the next morning, and somehow got up without waking Daniel. She padded over to the fridge to pour a cup of orange juice, swallowing a couple pills to help get rid of the last dregs of her cold. She felt really good. Better than good, actually. She felt warm and loved and she had a soft smile on her face as she watched Daniel snooze.

Little did Daisy know, Daniel had absolutely caught her cold. Daisy also didn't know exactly how needy Daniel is when he’s sick.

A/N: how are you feeling? warm, fuzzy? good. that was my evil plan all along. have a great day and don’t forget to drink water!

#dousy fic #timequake #daisy johnson x daniel sousa #Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.#marvel fic #aos season 7 #writer #major fluff #sick trope #hurt/comfort #mini fic #fanfiction #drabble #x reader #ao3

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lucas-koh · 4 years ago

Text

Stitches - Bryce Lahela x MC XII

Parts 1-11 linked in bio!

Somewhat canon compliant.

Rating: M, mentions of medical misdemeanour, implied sex, language

Song: Do I Wanna Know (Live At The BBC) - Hozier

Word Count: 3367

Taglist: @lahellacute @lahamseiroshoe @anotherbeingsworld @fuseboxmusebox @choicesficwriterscreations @bubblelaureno @bratzlahela @eleanorbloom @bryceslahela @thegreentwin @kelseaaa || please let me know if you would like to be added to or removed from this list

Chapter Twelve: An Inconvenient Truth

So. Denial hadn’t been working. At this point Suki had to admit to herself her crush on Bryce. She had no clue what to do. She should end it, right? It wouldn’t be fair on him. He hadn’t signed up for this and they’d made it pretty clear they didn’t want this to happen.

Suki hadn’t had feelings for anyone in such a long time that it had never seemed possible to her. She’d never dreamed she’d end up feeling some type of way for Bryce Lahela. The moment she felt that déjà vu she should’ve run for the hills. Maybe in hindsight the whole thing was a mistake, but it was too late now.

She was laying there in his bed, on his chest, wearing his pyjamas. She definitely wasn’t doing herself any favours right at that moment.

She wanted to stay there forever, enveloped in his smell and his warm skin and the light breeze of his breaths on her forehead; the soft cotton of his pyjamas, the dizzying sensation of his arm on her waist.

But god, Bryce really hadn’t bargained for this. She had to get out of there before she drove herself crazy or overstayed her welcome. Or worse, drove him away. Because although it might not have been what was best for her after the revelation, all Suki wanted was to keep Bryce in her life.

“Thank you so much. Again. But I oughta get out of your hair.” She started to lift herself off him, dreaming up reluctance as his arm fell away from her.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want. You said you had today off too, right? You must be feeling pretty rough,” he chuckled.

“Thank you for offering but really. I should go home.” Should more than you know. Should for my own sanity. Should because it’s the right thing to do when it was me who fucked up.

Bryce left her to it as she changed out of his pyjamas – slowly, she was hungover as hell – and back into the clothes that were strewn across Bryce’s kitchen.

“I’ll wash your underwear for you,” he offered, as they had been caught in the crossfire of her vomit. She could tell it was a serious offer despite the smug smirk painted on his face.

Stop it! Stop it stop it stop it! “No, you won’t. I have a washing machine at home.”

She collected them from him in a plastic bag, how embarrassing.

Imagine making such a state of yourself? I’m twenty-fucking-eight years old and I drank too much because I was afraid to admit I might have some stupid schoolgirl crush on my fuck buddy? Have you ever seen anything more tragic? And now he’s fucking handing me my sick-soaked underwear in a plastic fucking bag. Like a fucking child. A child who threw up at school and had to go home early and get picked up by their mom. And now I can’t stop fucking cursing myself for putting myself in this position. If there was ever any moment at all that he maybe saw me as more than a fuck, that moment was lost now.

So Suki left, her head spinning and not just because of an asshole of a hangover.

Maybe it was just a temporary baseless infatuation. Maybe Suki shouldn’t have been jumping to such drastic measures…

So that - Suki’s denial and clinging on to the hope that she could find a way to continue this – was how Suki and Bryce ended up continuing to sleep together throughout the month of February. But the longer it went on, the more sure Suki was that this addicting feeling when she thought of him was sticking around. And it wasn’t fair on him.

She kept thinking about it, considering her options, making the excuse that she didn’t want to jump into the wrong decision. So yeah, she kept sleeping with him. And no, there was no way in hell Suki was admitting to Bryce that she was into him.

She’d been afraid to contact him after everything that had happened, the amount of embarrassment she’d caused for herself, but he was the one to reach out first. It surprised Suki that he even wanted anything to do with her after all that.

“How’s your hand?” He’d asked the first time since the incident, picking up her wrist and investigating the healing.

“It’s okay, it doesn’t hurt much any more.” The wound was scarring to scab and itch.

“It’s looking good.”

“I guess I have your skills to thank.”

“How many times have I told you?” He grinned, “I’m a talented guy.”

They’d become comfortable with one another, really comfortable, and the friend part of friend with benefits could no longer be ignored.

Suki’s problem? Bryce was impossible to get a read on. She had absolutely no idea to tell if her newfound feelings were reciprocated, because he was a huge flirt to everyone. And Suki wasn’t one to take risks. So she didn’t say anything, assumed Bryce felt the same as he ever had for her.

She was right, of course, but not in the way she expected.

A few nights into the month Bryce texted:

Scalpel Jockey: *sigh* i should call her😉

Bryce’s text was accompanied by a selfie taken in front of his toilet, wide grin and thumb up. So embarrassing. He’d been right about the blackmail thing, then. He wasn’t going to let the mess I was go.

Santa Fe: you’re not even using the meme right

Scalpel Jockey: well my toilet misses your mouth so be sure to come visit it tomorrow

Santa Fe: you think you’re going to get laid after reminding me of the most embarrassing night of my life?

Over-exaggeration. But it honestly sort of felt that way.

Scalpel Jockey: of course I will😏

Santa Fe: nope

Scalpel Jockey:👀😌🤨

The next day,

Santa Fe: fine. see u soon.

—-

“Owwww somethings digging into my back!” Bryce yelped as he’d rolled away from Suki. He did some odd contortions to reach underneath himself and grab whatever was causing the grievance. “Suki, why the hell is your id badge in my bed?”

“Uh, maybe because you chucked it into the abyss a minute ago.”

He gave her a look with pursed lips. He rolled to his side facing away from Suki.

“Aww, you look so cute in this. All innocent and shit.”

“Give it back.”

“I mean it! Look at that little face,” he cooed, brushing the image with his thumb.

“It’s really not my best picture at all,” she groaned. What was it about ID card images which made them always turn out terrible? And then one is left with said image for potentially years to come.

“Suki, this says your birthday is January 18th? You didn’t say anything?” He turned to face her.

“January was so busy, I wasn’t that fussed.”

“You should’ve said. I would’ve celebrated with you.”

“Birthday sex?” She laughed.

“No, like proper birthday stuff. Whatever you like doing on them. And then maybe some birthday sex,” he added with a smirk.

“Eh. It was fine, I just got takeout.”

Bryce tutted.

“When’s your birthday, then?”

Suddenly he looked bashful and uneasy. “Um. November 27th.”

“Oh my god. You’re an idiot.”

“Nah. I’m a Sagittarius,” he winked.

“I can’t believe you were trying to make me feel guilty for not mentioning my birthday when you didn’t either.”

“We actually spent it together. That day I looked after Tommy. I had a great time.”

“Oh.” He had to stop saying things like that. It was terrible for her heart. “I can’t believe you let me set a random kid on you for your birthday.”

“I said I had a great time didn’t I?”

And god Suki’s stomach was having a party, an anxiety-ridden, nerves-on-fire, doubt-clad, smitten-as-shit party.

—-

In no time at all It was Valentine’s Day. Not that Suki was paying any attention… or that she wanted to spend it with a certain god-like surgeon. She didn’t even need to mention it, the plan was just act like this was any other hookup. February 14th was just a day – the way we ascribe time only exists because of us; and therefore it’s just a normal hookup. Using existentialism to cure crush nerves? Surprisingly works.

Santa Fe: 👃

Scalpel Jockey: sorry sukes i’m sick🤒

Well. That was not what she was expecting.

But wait. What if he was faking? What if he knew it was Valentine’s Day and was worried Suki was trying to make a gesture and had to let her down easy?

Worse, what if he was spending Valentine’s with someone else? After all, they had agreed not to be exclusive. Shit. What if Bryce liked someone else?? She didn’t even think about it before and now she felt a bit sick. He was an insanely attractive guy – chances were even without time to meet people there would be plenty at the hospital falling at his feet. There was no way he hadn’t been asked out for Valentine’s.

Those worries were quelled by another text, a picture of Bryce’s legs in his bed and the TV at the end playing something. There was a small bag full of used tissues.

Bless him, he really is sick.

Suki knew what she had to do.

Clanging about in the kitchen she muscled up some veg-packed soup, a vegetable lasagne, and a vegetable stir-fry. She also blended a fruit smoothie. Then she packed everything into Tupperware and fit a couple of portions of each into an insulated container.

Suki marched over to Bryce’s with the insulated container full of her cooked meals and determination. God, I’m a simp.

When she arrived she knocked hard so that he could hear. It was a couple of minutes before Suki heard footsteps, then they stopped (presumably for Bryce to look through the fish-eye) before Bryce creaked the door open.

“Suki. Didn’t you get my text, I’m sick I can’t-“ his voice was weak and croaky, slightly nasal – and he definitely sounded ill.

“I know. I’m not here for that. I bought you these,” she held up the insulated bag.

“What is it?”

“Food. Meals. Because you’re sick and you can’t cook. It’s just simple immune-boosting stuff,” she held out the bag for him to take.

He sniffed loudly and opened the door wider. “Come in.”

She was going to protest, but for some reason she didn’t. The plan was just to drop the food off, not to come in. But when faced with the opportunity Suki’s legs carried her subconsciously. When Bryce opened the door up for her she could see him closer. Dark bags under his eyes, greasy hair, chapped lips. He was wearing sweatpants (similar to the pair Suki had tucked away in her drawer at home from Christmas), and a cotton t shirt. He looked rough. Somehow, he was still the most beautiful man she’d ever met. And seeing him like this wasn’t off-putting at all, it just made her want to look after him. Be there for him. Why am I willing to do so much for him? Liking people is a bit like giving away your soul, isn’t it?

“You get back into bed and I’ll heat one of these up for you. They should still be mostly warm, anyway.”

“Sukes, I’ll be fine,” he said nasally. The nickname sent Suki’s organs into overdrive. Because here he was at his lowest, referring to Suki with an affectionate moniker and sounding like a melancholic song.

“I kind of owe you, remember?”

Bryce hummed a nod, too tired for much else, and slunk back into his bedroom.

Suki busied herself checking all the Tupperware’s – they were cool enough to go in the freezer by then so she put all bar one away. She heated that one for a few moments and transferred it into a bowl with cutlery, planted that on a tray, and brought it through to Bryce.

He was in bed as Suki had instructed, old reruns of Criminal Minds playing on his TV. He smiled weakly when he saw her enter with the tray of soup.

“Thank you,” he said as she placed the tray on his lap.

“No problem.”

He took a spoon of soup and gulped it down gently. Then he turned to Suki, who was now perched lightly on the edge of his bed facing him.

“I’m not good with… seeming weak,” he said, looking at Suki intensely.

“You don’t need to worry about that. It’s only me. I vomited in your toilet.”

“Exactly,” he muttered, and when Suki was about ask what he meant he carried on, “this soup is amazing.”

They sat in silence with only the sounds of the TV as Bryce worked his way through the bowl of soup. Suki was too nervous to ask what he’d meant.

“Thank you,” he said as he finished the bowl. She took the tray from him and took it back through to the kitchen, washing everything up for him. She returned to Bryce’s room, noting beads of sweat on his forehead. Going into Bryce’s en-suite, Suki found a washcloth and soaked it with some cold water before giving it a squeeze.

When she returned to Bryce’s side she gently dabbed the washcloth over his hot forehead. He looked up at her, vulnerable, exhausted – very un-Bryce. She was ever so gentle as she dabbed the cool cloth over his skin. Then Bryce reached up and held onto her wrist weakly with his hand.

“Why are you doing all this?”

“Like I said, I owe you. I was hard work that night at yours.”

He seemed to accept this answer, and gulped a little as he let go of her wrist. She pulled the cloth from his forehead for a moment.

“I’m still nervous,” he croaked.

“About?”

“You seeing me like this. It’s not exactly sexy.”

Suki’s nosiness was getting the better of her, and she knew now would be a good time to strike since there’d been an opening.

“The whole… weakness thing – that’s why you were weird about the surgery?”

“Yeah. Yeah it is,” he sighed, looking at Suki as though weighing up his options. He seemed to come to a decision and continued: “I already went through struggles with self doubt. My parents fucked up my whole belief in myself - it’s why I overcompensate now. It’s why I took the surgery thing so hard, I felt myself doubting my abilities. Well it was more like – less that I was actually doubting myself, because I know I’m good, and more that I was worried I would start doubting myself.”

“Yeah, that totally makes sense.” Suki was surprised he was opening up to her like this. She noticed how he mentioned his parents, but she’d let him get there when he was was ready.

“I’m sorry for not telling you at the time.”

“It’s okay, I wasn’t owed the story. So what really happened? You got kicked off because of karaoke?”

“Uh, the other surgical interns kind of have it out for me.”

“What?”

“Well… everyone liked me at first. You know, I’m a likeable guy,” he flashed a grin, a ghost of his normal megawatt smile, “but I think once they saw how competent and determined I was that changed fast.”

“Jealousy,” she scoffed, “So that’s why you don’t hang out with them any more?” Suki remembered how he’d avoided them at Halloween.

“Yeah. And there was a group of them spreading shit from the start about me, dangerous rumours that could get me fired. Saying I drink on the job, I have *ahem* sexual relationships with my patients, that I’m a terrible surgeon and only made it here because of my parents money which is...”

“Your parents are well off?”

Bryce’s jaw tightened. “Yeah, uh, people found out about who my parents are too.”

“Who are they?”

“Another time,” he bit his lip as though unsure, concern as he looked into Suki’s face.

“Okay- drinking at work, sex with patients? Where the hell did those come from?”

“Well I keep a few condoms in my locker, for you, that can’t have looked great after the accusations. I don’t know shit about the drinking. I guess it just sounded bad and anyone who has had out it for me just wants me to look incompetent.”

“Those fucking dicks.”

Bryce shrugged. “It shows I’m a major threat,” he gave her a smug grin but his heart wasn’t quite in it. “So all that stuff got relayed back to Dr Emery and the karaoke the night before was apparently the last straw. She didn’t want to take the risk in case it was true and gave my surgery to Ben.”

“Ben, huh?” She asked, a sudden iciness in her tone. Like, Ben ‘you like her?’ Ben? Digging into Bryce’s private life Ben?

“Yeah, he’s another intern - you probably don’t know him.”

Maybe not. But I’m about to.

“I know some Ben’s… what’s his last name?”

“White.”

“Oh no, I don’t know him,” Suki smiled sweetly, dabbing Bryce’s head with the flannel again. She’d gotten the information she needed.

Bryce chuckled weakly. “I told you.”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah so, obviously Dr Emery investigated it all after that and realised that none of it was true. But by then I’d lost it anyway. The damage was done, you know? Sorry, I know I sound a bit ‘woe is me’.”

“Not at all. You can talk to me, seriously. Friends – remember? I’m so sorry you had to go through that.” And angrier than I’m letting on.

“I suppose I owe you an apology too. For shutting you down and running away when you tried to ask me about it. I’m just- it’s- I like being That Guy, you know? The one who’s got his shit together. The one who’s the expert surgeon. Who doesn’t let things phase him. Laughs everything off. The one who’s amazing in bed,” he looked at her with a look that was, if Suki didn’t know any better, nervous. God, it’s so weird seeing him like this. But my heart is completely breaking for him.

“If I’m-“ he continued, then seemed to change his mind, “what you need from me wasn’t that, so I didn’t want to mess things up.”

“By being human? You could never,” she smiled as she bought the flannel back to his face, but it was more an excuse to stroke her finger over his cheek comfortingly. Bryce’s eyes seemed to shut involuntarily and he moved into her touch, just letting it be for a while. He was still hot, but had a bit more colour to his face, so Suki felt she had helped at least a little.

Fuck. I like you so much.

This definitely wasn’t helping her whole predicament, because each word he’d said to her, each touch, each look on his face – and she was a puddle on the floor. Overwhelmed with the ache she felt in her chest at the whole situation. That something as ridiculous as jealousy – between people who’s job it was to help others for gods sake – had put Bryce in such a spin. And it seemed to her that losing the surgery was bad for him, but the way that affected his confidence and how he felt he had to be around her – that seemed to have affected him more.

He was too proud.

And she cared for him too much to be okay with seeing him like this.

Suki must’ve been cradling Bryce’s face longer than she’d realised, because he eventually started snoring quietly. His eyebrows now flattened on his face and looking more at peace than he had since she’d arrived. She was careful when removing her hand and placing a pillow up under his head. She placed a gentle kiss to his forehead, brushing against the cool damp area she’d been dabbing. Then she snuck into his bathroom to fill up a glass of water and collect some aspirin, leaving them on his bedside table for him before escaping his apartment.

Suki was on a mission, fuelled by affection and anger.

44 notes · View notes

king-finnigan · 4 years ago

Text

these four walls (supposed to save you from yourself)

part 1, part 2, part 3. also on ao3!

~~~

“Stop fidgeting with it!” Triss slaps his hand away from the bandage around his neck. He lets it fall limply as she takes the scarf from the chair, wrapping it around him.

“But it itches,” he whines, fingers twitching against the side of his leg.

“Good. That means it’s healing.” She sighs, letting her hands rest on his shoulders, ducking to meet his eye. “Listen, I know it’s annoying and I know it itches but you’re doing so well. Don’t mess it up by reopening the wound, alright?”

He nods, shifting his eyes to look past her, catching sight of himself in the mirror. There are still some bruises peeking above the edge of the scarf and he can see the dark circles under his eyes from all the sleepless nights – the ones where the nightmares won’t go away, the ones where furious golden eyes fill every inch of his mind until he feels like he’s choking all over again.

But besides that, he looks… fine. Surprisingly and suspiciously fine, even though he very much feels like he’s not; even though he has trouble sleeping and concentrating and the doctor’s words of possible brain damage keep echoing through his head; even though they had to cut a hole in his throat to allow him to breathe, for crying out loud.

Despite everything, he looks… fine.

He sighs, taking his coat from the bed, shrugging it over his shoulders as Triss grabs the duffel bag. “Shall we go, then?” she asks.

One last time, he looks around the hospital room he spent the last week in before he nods and heads for the door. “Yeah, let’s get out of here.”

---

He has to assure Triss he’ll be fine five times before she finally goes, leaving him alone in his empty apartment with the lasagne she made for him in the fridge and a sad-looking ‘get well soon!’-balloon hanging around in the corner of the living room.

He sighs, dumping the duffel bag on the bed, zipping it open and pulling his dirty clothes out, pushing them into the washing machine and slamming the little door shut. He turns it on before wandering over to the hallway, expressly ignoring that stupid fucking balloon in the living room, shivering as he turns the thermostat up.

He turns around, leaning against the wall and pulling his sweater closer around himself, looking around his apartment.

It’s strange. In all the years that he’s lived here, the place has never felt emptier than it does now. Maybe it’s because he’s still a bit used to the hospital and the people who kept walking into his room to check up on him. Maybe it’s because it feels weird having this big a space all to himself after the small hospital room he was in. Maybe it’s because Triss spent nearly every waking moment by his side and he’s lonely now that she’s gone.

But that doesn’t really make sense, does it? This is the same apartment he spent years of his life being alone in. The same place he decorated so long ago with Ikea furniture and tacky posters and ugly patterned pillows. This is his home.

But then his eye falls on the guitar case in the corner and things make a little more sense.

He walks over to it, sitting on the couch and pulling it into his lap, clicking the locks open. Some part of him foolishly hopes that it’s fine this time around, that it has somehow magically healed over the past few days.

But when he swings the lid open, the spark of hope snuffs out.

He lifts his guitar up by the neck, pushing the case off his lap to replace it with the instrument. Slowly, he lets his hand trail over the jagged edges of the hole in the side, his fingers pressing into the sharp points, splinters burying themselves into his skin.

He still finds it hard to believe, even now. Triss told him it happened either before or during the struggle – either when Geralt grabbed him by the neck and Jaskier had reflexively dropped the instrument, or when the nurses were trying to save his life. No one knows for sure. He supposes it doesn’t matter, in the end.

He strums the strings softly with his thumb, tears pricking behind his eyes when not a single sound comes from the guitar.

It shouldn’t feel like grieving a loved one this much. But it does.

He puts the guitar back in its case carefully, smoothing his hand over the body one last time before he closes the lid, clicking the locks shut again.

He helps himself to some lasagne in the kitchen, leaning against the countertop and idly playing with the edges of the bandage around his throat as the food heats in the microwave. He eats it in front of the tv, chewing and swallowing slowly, eyes glued to the screen as his mind wanders – back to the hospital, back to the ward, back to golden eyes.

He wonders if they’ve restrained Geralt because of what happened. He wonders if he’s playing chess by himself if they haven’t. He wonders if he misses Jaskier. He wonders if he’s finally gone to one of the group therapy sessions. He wonders if Geralt can still feel Jaskier’s skin on his hands the same way Jaskier can feel Geralt’s on his neck.

He wonders a million and one things, letting them drift through his mind like clouds across a clear, blue sky, eyes staring unseeing at the screen, the food turning to dust on his tongue, grating against his throat every time he swallows it.

When he’s done, he turns the tv off, quickly washing his plate and fork in the sink before making his way over to his bedroom. He changes into his pyjamas, smiling softly when he finds fluffy socks that definitely weren’t there before sitting on his desk – he’ll have to remind himself to thank Triss for those later.

He looks at the clock. It’s only seven but he’s already so, so tired, all those sleepless nights taking their toll on him, and he crawls beneath the blankets, turning the lights off and closing his eyes.

He drifts for a while as he ignores the slight itching of the healing wound in his throat, where the doctors had to cut him open to stick a tube into his lungs – his throat had been so swollen he couldn’t breathe by himself and they couldn’t intubate him the traditional way. He remembers waking up in the emergency a few hours later, disoriented and confused, in pain and breathing without the feeling of air wheezing through his throat.

Triss had been by his side – his childhood friend always is – and had told him about the tracheotomy, about the tube and what it meant.

And then the doctor had walked in. Possible brain damage, he’d said. We’ll have to monitor the situation, he’d said.

Signs of brain damage may include being unable to concentrate, insomnia, and memory loss, he’d said. He’d asked if Jaskier remembered what happened. Jaskier had lied and said he vaguely did. With time, the memories had come back, luckily, but that doesn’t stop him from worrying, still.

He pushes those images away for now and loses himself in the memories of strings against his fingers, of chess pieces clicking on the board, of golden eyes looking at him with slight amusement right before Jaskier would lose a game. Memories of soft hums that Jaskier had to translate by himself, of sunlight spilling through the window and casting silver hair in a halo, of the side of a scarred hand touching his.

Scarred hands, wrapped around his neck, golden eyes, furious and boring into his, a voice that used to softly hum growling at him.

His eyes snap open, staring up into the darkness as his throat constricts, panic flooding his chest like a tidal wave that’s broken through a dam. He sees a shadow in the corner – a shadow in the corner, oh god, there’s a shadow in the corner, oh god, oh god, oh god – and he sits upright, quickly turning his bedside lamp on.

The shadow is just his wardrobe.

He sighs, letting himself fall back onto the pillows, looking up at the ceiling as tears prick in his eyes. He wipes them away furiously, hand drifting down to fiddle with the edge of the bandage. The urge to scratch at the wound always gets worse at night, for some reason.

He looks at the clock. Eight. It’s barely even night, though; he’s still got more than enough time to get some rest.

He lays on his side, eyes glued to the clock as he waits for his mind to start drifting again, to find the doorstep that leads to sleep.

He watches as the clock passes nine, ten, eleven, twelve, one, two.

He turns off the light.

Hands around his neck, golden eyes that don’t recognize him, Geralt’s voice growling at him.

He turns the light back on.

A sign of possible brain damage is insomnia.

He groans in frustration, wiping his hands over his face before he sits up straight again. This is useless, he’s never gonna get the sleep he needs like this.

But he’s tired enough as it is already, and how the fuck is he supposed to get sleep if not like this? His eyes drift across the room in search of an idea of some sorts before they land on the chess board on his desk.

He pushes himself out of bed, dragging his blanket along with him as he pads his way over to the chair. He sits down, pulling the board towards himself, hand slowly coming up to reset the pieces back in their correct places. He’s about to take two pawns to switch behind his back when he realizes it’s just him – he’s gonna have to play both colours, now.

He starts with white. Moves a pawn. Turns the board. And, bloody hell, this is really hard. He has to resist the urge not to favour one colour over the other, to make a move he won’t immediately be able to counteract, and he briefly wonders how Geralt can even do this. No wonder he was so eager to play with Jaskier, doing this on your own is an absolute nightmare.

He sighs, leaning his chin on his lower arm on the desk as he contemplates his next move, brows furrowed in concentration as he stares at the pieces that are now at eye-level. He moves a pawn, turns the board with one hand. He blinks at the white pieces, eyelids lingering where they meet for a second. He opens his eyes again, tries to figure out his next move.

He sighs, letting his head tilt to the side, resting the side of it on his arm. His eyes drift shut again. He doesn’t bother opening them again.

He dreams of scarred hands moving chess pieces, of golden eyes glinting with amusement before Jaskier admits defeat, of a soft hum when he asks if they can play another game. His guitar is whole and in his lap. His throat doesn’t hurt when he sings a love song.

---

He wakes up aching, the uncomfortable position at the desk wreaking havoc on his back and neck. He would’ve been freezing if it weren’t for the blanket around him and the fluffy socks on his feet.

He sits up straight, groaning in discomfort as his spine cracks painfully, his neck popping when he moves his head to look at the clock. Six in the morning. Well, at least he managed to get four hours of sleep – it’s better than nothing. It’s better than being plagued by nightmares.

He gets up, dumping his blanket on the bed and shedding his pyjamas as he makes his way to the bathroom. He needs a shower. A good, long one.

He looks at himself in the mirror as the water heats up, gaze drifting to the dark circles under his eyes at first. They’ve gotten a bit deeper over the past night – of course they did. Four hours isn’t enough to keep him well rested on the best of days, so they’re definitely not enough to catch him up to all the sleep he’s lost over the past week.

His gaze drifts lower, still, to the ring of sickly green and yellow bruises adorning his neck, some spots of purple and blue still visible here and there. He raises a hand to tentatively touch at the bandage, picking at the medical tape that holds it in place with his nail. The doctor said he would be allowed to remove it after he’d gotten home and reasonably, Jaskier knows he should before he gets into the shower. Yet part of him fears what he might see.

His fingers tremble when he plucks at the tape some more, slowly peeling it off his skin, eyes glued to his reflection as he pulls the gauze away.

It’s… underwhelming, really. They cut a hole in his throat to push a tube into his lungs and a week after they’ve removed it, the wound is barely even there. Just a small dip in the skin of his throat, an angry red as a thin, horizontal stripe runs across it, a little longer than the nail of his thumb.

It’s there, of course, and it stands out against the pale expanse of his neck but… that’s it. Jaskier wonders what he was so afraid of in the first place.

He’s shaken out of his reverie when steam starts to fog over his reflection and he takes a step back, taking one last look at the mirror before he gets into the shower. He turns the heat way up, letting the water scald his skin, letting it turn as red as the scar on his throat as he stands there, head tipped back, eyes closed against the onslaught, his mind drifting far, far away.

He’s never understood meditation, has never understood how someone can just stand or sit there and do nothing and have a clear mind – his thoughts have always been so, so loud, especially when he has nothing to grab his attention. But here, in the shower, as he’s enveloped by heat and the repetitive sound of water falling onto the ceramic, as he falls into a half-sleep, mind completely empty and feeling at peace for the first time in a week, he understands a little bit better.

He only snaps out of the half-sleep to wash himself when the water’s growing cold and he can no longer control the clacking of his teeth as goosebumps raise along his skin.

He wraps himself into a bathrobe afterwards, padding into the kitchen to grab some cereal. The milk in the fridge isn’t his – it probably would’ve gone bad if it was – and he has to once again vouch to himself to thank Triss the next time he sees her.

He pours himself a bowl and wanders back into his bedroom as he eats, eyeing the chess board on his desk. There are a million things he could be doing, now that he has the rest of the month off to recover, a million things he’s put on his To-Do-list years ago. He could take that vacation to Hawaii he’s always wanted to take. He could learn how to play a new instrument. He could repaint his apartment, go to that coffeeshop a few blocks away, go on an actual date, for once.

He could buy himself a new guitar.

But after years of putting all those things off, after years of longing for time to do the things he wants to do, he finds himself only wanting what he shouldn’t be.

Is he really gonna do this?

He finishes his cereal, dumping his bowl in the sink for future him to worry about before he rummages through his wardrobe, pulling out a soft sweater and some old, faded jeans. He hastily dresses and grabs his things, remembering at the last possible second to bring a scarf – something light and frilly that he bought on a whim from a vintage store a while ago. Who would’ve known it would come in handy someday?

He pauses in the doorway for a few seconds, looking back at his guitar case gathering dust in the corner.

Is he really gonna do this?

It feels weird not to have it on his shoulder, like he’s missing part of himself somehow. He sighs, looping the scarf around his neck, making sure it covers his healing wound before he closes the door behind him with a decisive click.

He’s really gonna do this.

---

“Buttercup? What are you doing here? Is something wrong?”

He smiles and shakes his head as Triss’ hands come to rest on his shoulders, brown eyes concerned as they look him over. “I’m fine,” he says, softly grasping her wrists. “I’m here for Geralt.”

She meets his gaze, confusion furrowing her brow. “Are… are you sure you wanna see him? Buttercup, he…” she drops her voice to a whisper “he nearly killed you.”

He nods. “I know.” He lets his eyes drift through the common room of the mental health ward, smiling lightly as he sees Dara and Ciri sitting at one of the tables, playing Uno together. It’s good to see the girl out of her restraints. He wonders if that means she’s healing – mentally and physically.

“Buttercup.” His eyes snap back to Triss. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. You’re in no way obligated-“

“I know,” he repeats. “But I want to see him. I want to talk to him.”

Something in her gaze softens and she nods. “Alright. But at least take someone with you. I won’t let you go in alone. Not again.”

He nods. “Alright, fine.”

---

“Knock, knock,” he says softly as he raps his knuckles on the doorframe, stepping into the darkened room, the nurse – Istredd, if Jaskier remembers correctly – following closely behind, though lingering in the doorway when Jaskier presses on.

Geralt isn’t sitting at the table by the window or at the foot of the bed, even. Today, he’s sitting on the side of the bed, back turned to Jaskier, head bowed to look at his lap. Jaskier gets the sneaking suspicion he’s been sitting there like that for a while, now. A long while.

Something in him longs to reach out, to run his hands along the knobs of Geralt’s spine, to press his fingers into the tight muscle of his shoulder, to push down with the heel of his hand and work the tension out of Geralt’s back before running his fingers through those silver locks, gently unknotting the tangles.

And something in him longs to shrink back, to run out of this room and never come back, to forget the memory of Geralt’s hands squeezing his neck shut.

He ignores both and steps towards the table by the window, where the chess board is set up, ready for a new game. He plucks two pawns off of it, switching them behind his back a few times before he wanders over to Geralt’s bed, standing in front of the man.

Golden eyes refuse to meet him.

Jaskier stretches his arms out, a pawn in each fist. “Choose,” he simply says.

Geralt just keeps staring at the floor, elbows on his knees and hands hanging limply between his legs. He doesn’t look up at Jaskier’s voice, doesn’t hum or frown or shake his head or acknowledge Jaskier’s existence at all. It’s just like the very first few times Jaskier came here.

And it’s so, so very different than all those times as well.

The Geralt he met had an air of dignity around him – bordering on pretentiousness. He’d been stoic and calculating and composed, intimidating in a way Jaskier had never seen before.

But this Geralt- the Geralt right in front of him, is anything but. He’s a mess, hair tangled and knotted together, a stubble on his chin and cheeks, back bent and shoulders slumped, the skin of his wrists rubbed red and raw.

This Geralt looks… defeated.

Part of Jaskier pities him. Another part tells him the last thing Geralt wants is his pity. A different part remembers the feeling of hands around his neck.

“Choose,” he says again, hands slightly trembling as he clenches his fists around the pawns, the edges digging lines into his palms.

Geralt doesn’t look up.

“Choose,” Jaskier bites out, voice shaky and on the verge of breaking, an edge of desperation sharpening his tongue. “Goddammit, I’m not gonna play chess on my fucking own, so choose.”

“Leave.” Geralt’s voice is soft and raspy and deep enough to send shivers down Jaskier’s spine, had he not been preoccupied with the fact that Geralt just spoke to him.

“Choose,” he grits through clenched teeth nonetheless.

“Leave.”

He lets go of the pawns, barely aware of the sound of them clattering against the floor as his hands fall limply by his side, blood rushing through his ears and a light sheen of red covering his vision. “No. I won’t fucking leave.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, Geralt tilts his head up, golden eyes briefly meeting his before they drift down to the scarf around Jaskier’s neck, to the greenish bruises that are undoubtedly peeking out above the fabric.

“I hurt you.” Jaskier knows he doesn’t imagine the flash of pain that shoots through those golden eyes.

He scoffs, fighting the urge to lift his hand and reflexively cover his throat. “I’m fine. It was really nothing serious.” Possible brain damage, the doctor’s voice rings through his head.

Geralt stands up abruptly, suddenly so close that Jaskier’s fight-or-flight kicks in, the part of him that remembers scarred hands around his throat growing louder and louder as he takes a step back, then another when Geralt takes a step towards him.

“Rivia!” the nurse in the doorway shouts in warning, but Geralt doesn’t relent, stepping closer and closer as Jaskier backs further and further away. His hands are shaking, eyes wide and breath coming out in soft pants, sweat gathering on the back of his neck as he steps back until his shoulder blades meet the drywall.

The button the button the button the button-

“Rivia! Final warning!” the nurse calls out from the doorway as Geralt’s hand comes up.

He’s so close to Jaskier now, crowding into his space, body heat radiating against his skin, golden eyes boring into his and Geralt’s scarred hand comes up to Jaskier’s throat and the button the button the button the button-

Geralt pulls the scarf away. It floats to the linoleum floor as golden eyes drift down to the ring of yellowish green that adorns Jaskier’s throat, to the angry, red scar in the middle, dipping into the small, barely-healed pit in his skin, where the doctors pushed a tube through to his lungs.

Flashes of regret, anger, hurt and a million other things Jaskier can’t bring himself to identify spark across Geralt’s face, his carefully crafted blank mask falling away for just a few seconds.

“It’s really nothing,” Jaskier says, voice trembling and nearly cracking. Golden eyes shoot up to meet his.

“You’re a terrible liar,” Geralt whispers. He turns abruptly, stalking out of the room, pushing past the nurse to disappear into the hallway – where to, Jaskier doesn’t know.

He stands there for a while, trying to process what happened, trying to figure out what to do next. After five long, agonizing minutes, he bends through his knees to pick his scarf up, carefully winding it around his neck again before he looks around the room one last time.

And then he leaves.

---

Golden eyes that don’t recognize him drilling into his, strong hands squeezing his neck shut as he gasps for breath, fingers clawing at Geralt’s wrists. His eyelids fall shut and everything goes to black.

He wakes up in a hospital room, staring up at the white ceiling as he breathes without the feeling of air wheezing through his throat, a tube in his neck connecting him to an oxygen machine. He tries to move his head when he hears a voice by his bedside, but he finds himself unable to do anything. He can’t shift his eyes, clench his hands, wiggle his toes. He can’t do anything but lay there and try not to panic as the voices approach his bedside.

“I’m sorry, miss Merigold. He’s gone too long without oxygen, there’s too much damage. He’s braindead.”

He hears Triss cry next to him, feels her hand on his and he tries- tries so desperately to turn it around and clench her fingers in his- but he can’t. He can’t even fucking turn his head to look at her.

“Miss Merigold, I’m sorry but we’re gonna have to ask you if you know how he felt about organ donation.”

He wants to scream no, wants to shout out that he’s still there- he’s not dead for god’s sake, he’s not dead. He tries, tries so hard, with all his might and he can’t. He can’t even cry out of frustration, out of fear.

But it’s too late. A gloved hand with a butcher’s knife appears into view, quickly followed by a familiar face, framed by white hair. He wants to sob out his relief. Geralt’s here, Geralt will look at him and realize Jaskier’s still in here and will stop all of this from happening.

Golden eyes drill into his, a spark of recognition lighting them up.

“Oh, hello, Jaskier,” Geralt says in that deep voice of his. “Are you still with us?”

Jaskier wants to scream yes, wants to laugh because Geralt knows- knows Jaskier’s still there, knows not to cut him open.

With an effort that drains him from all the energy he has left, he nods minutely.

Geralt grins. “Good,” he says, before he brings the knife down into Jaskier’s neck.

He shoots up in bed, gasping for air as sweat cools on his skin, hands fisting the sheets painfully. He needs a minute to remember where he is before he can start the conscious process of unclenching his hands from the bedding, one of them gingerly coming up to brush against the spot in his neck where the doctors put a tube into his throat, where Geralt stabbed him in his dream.

He sighs, reaching over to turn on the bedside lamp. He needs to squint his eyes a little to get used to the sudden light but once he’s used to it, his gaze drifts over to the clock. Two in the morning.

Well, at least he got… an hour’s sleep. Great.

He sighs, pulling the damp and tangled sheets from around his legs, padding his way to the bathroom. The water is cool and refreshing against his skin, the sound of it rushing from the tap drowning out the last remnants of the nightmare.

He meets his own gaze in the mirror, meets flat, tired eyes and the shadows underneath them, meets the scar in his neck and the ring of yellowish bruises that still adorns the skin above it, meets sweaty and matted hair and furrowed eyebrows. He looks like hell.

He considers calling Triss. It’s the middle of the night but he knows she would gladly help him through it until the sun rises again, knows she would help chase the nightmares away.

But that’s the thing. If she heard about the nightmare he had – heard that Geralt was in it – she would probably tell him not to go back, to stay far, far away from the ward and try to forget all about him. And she would probably be right to tell him that, it would work and with time, the memories would fade and the nightmares would disappear. Jaskier would be able to live his life without ever seeing Geralt again and without ever thinking about him again.

But that’s the thing, too. Jaskier doesn’t want to never see Geralt again, doesn’t want to never think about him ever again. He wants…

He wants…

What does he want?

He sighs, frustrated at his own inability to decipher what it is, exactly, that he does want. He turns the light in the bathroom off and wanders back into his bedroom, letting himself fall down in his desk chair, leaning his chin on his folded arms as he looks at the chess board.

He wants that.

He wants to play chess with Geralt – not even with anyone else, just Geralt. He wants to sit in that hospital room with the blinds halfway up and the sunlight illuminating them both, hurting his eyes with how bright it is. He wants to look at Geralt and fiddle with his guitar and play a love song before he realizes his king got cornered. He wants to see that amused glint in those golden eyes, that twitching of the corner of those full lips, that soft hum of that deep voice when he asks if they can play another game.

He wants to remember that every time he thinks of Geralt, not those hands around his throat.

More than anything, though, he wants to make new memories, too. He wants to hear Geralt talk to him, wants to hear what his life’s been like so far or what kind of music he likes or even how to properly play chess – because Jaskier keeps losing and it’s infuriating. He wants to hear Geralt’s opinion on his music, wants to hear what season he likes best and what his favourite colour is. He wants to hear why Geralt plays chess so much, why he doesn’t join the group therapy sessions, what he wants to do after he gets out of the hospital.

More than anything, he wants to finally get to know Geralt.

He nods to himself. Yes. That’s what he wants. Now he just has to figure out how to get it.

He doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until he wakes up four hours later.

---

“You speak.” It’s the first thing he says to Geralt, the next morning.

Geralt’s once again sitting on the edge of his bed, head bowed and shoulders slumped, elbows on his knees, hands limp between them. It’s the same position as the day before, and Jaskier briefly wonders if Geralt ever even moved at all throughout the night.

Geralt, though, doesn’t look up. Keeps his mouth shut.

Jaskier scoffs before walking to the chess board, picking two pawns – he briefly realizes that the ones he dropped on the ground yesterday are back in place – and switching them behind his back as he takes the two steps back to Geralt.

“Listen, I know you can talk, you did it yesterday. So don’t play coy with me, Geralt. Now,” he holds his hands out, a pawn in every fist, “choose.”

Geralt ignores him. Jaskier can’t help but notice that the stubble on his cheeks has grown, and so have the shadows under his eyes. Did Geralt even sleep?

He sighs. “Alright, listen up, you ass.”

Geralt’s eyebrows twitch together slightly, the first sign of acknowledgement Jaskier has gotten since he stepped foot in the room. He considers it a small victory.

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m getting tired of playing chess against myself and I’m tired of sitting at home all alone. It takes me an hour to get here, you know. So I’m staying until you fucking play me cause I’m not wasting two hours every day just to talk to someone who keeps ignoring me. If I wanted that, I’d just go visit my family.” He takes a deep breath, trying to temper the fire in his chest. “Now choose.”

“Why?” Golden eyes meet his as Geralt tilts his head up slightly.

Jaskier frowns. “If you’d rather I choose, then that’s fine with me-“

“No. Why do you come here?”

He huffs out an annoyed breath. “To play chess with you.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “Cause I don’t know anyone else who can. Now can you please fucking choose? My arms are growing tired.”

Golden eyes stare at him and a hundred minute expressions shift across Geralt’s face in half a second, too many for Jaskier to identify, too many for him to know what it means in the long run. Then, Geralt’s face goes blank like a perfectly wiped slate, the mask of indifference Jaskier got to see the very first day back in place.

It’s a million times better than the defeated expression Geralt wore yesterday. Once again, small victories.

Geralt’s hand comes up to tap Jaskier’s left fist.

He grins in triumph. “Now, was that so hard?”

He turns around to set the pieces on the chess board, turning it so the right side is facing Geralt’s – still unoccupied – chair.

He could swear he hears a “You have no idea,” behind him, but he ignores it, settling in the other chair, back in his usual spot.

“Shall we play, then?”

---

They don’t talk for the rest of the two hours Jaskier’s there, but it’s not an uncomfortable silence. Quite the contrary – Jaskier’s sure that if he had his guitar with him, he would feel inspired enough to actually write music. But alas, his guitar is broken and gathering dust in the corner of his living room. He tries to ignore the pang of hurt he feels every time he remembers.

After a while, though, he loses focus, his ability to concentrate not what it was before… the incident. A sign of possible brain damage is having trouble concentrating. He ignores the doctor’s voice in the back of his head as well.

He announces his departure and gathers his jacket from the back of the chair, hand automatically coming up to make sure his scarf is still in place. He’d kept it on the past two hours, both because the lack of sunshine streaming in through the window makes the room quite cold and because he doesn’t want to remind Geralt of everything that happened every time golden eyes look at him.

He doesn’t need Geralt’s pity. He doesn’t want it either, for that matter.

In the doorway, he turns around one last time, looking at the man sitting at the window. He expects Geralt to be looking at the chess board like he always is whenever Jaskier leaves, but this time, golden eyes are on him already.

“R- right,” he stammers. “See you tomorrow, then?”

A beat of silence, and he could swear something changes in Geralt’s face – something minute, something barely there, but something nonetheless. “See you tomorrow,” Geralt says softly before turning back to the chess board.

---

He actually sleeps well that night.

---

It continues like that for a week or so. Jaskier comes back to the hospital, plays chess against Geralt, they exchange a few polite words and Jaskier leaves again. Every day, it gets a little bit easier to breathe and – at Triss’ insistence – he buys himself a nightlight so he doesn’t have to try to sleep with the lights on.

“Geralt?” he asks tentatively one day, moving his bishop. “Can I ask you something?”

The corner of full lips pulls up. “You just did.”

He rolls his eyes. “Ha ha, you’re hilarious.” It’s quiet for a few seconds. “But seriously, Geralt. I want to ask you something.”

“Hmm.” By now, he knows this particular kind of hum means he’s got permission to go on.

“Why… why haven’t you gone to any of the group therapy sessions yet?”

Something in Geralt’s face shifts, like a shadow falling over his features. A certain tenseness makes its way to Geralt’s muscles and shoulders and his movements are stiff when he pushes a pawn over the board. Jaskier has the distinct feeling that if he were to leave it at this today, the blinds would be pulled all the way down tomorrow – they’re half-raised now. For some reason, they’re always half-raised whenever Geralt’s having a good day.

“You see,” he continues, looking at the chess board without really seeing anything, desperately searching for a way to say what he wants to say without screwing up. “You’ve been here a while and I can’t imagine… I can’t imagine it’s pleasant to be here, all locked up with nowhere to go.”

He looks up to gauge Geralt’s reaction who, after a few seconds, shrugs. “’S not half bad,” he mutters.

Something tight and knotted in Jaskier’s chest unfurls slightly. “I’m just saying, if you were to… play along with what the doctor and nurses are demanding, you’d be able to get out of here. I know my face is a blessing, but you might want to see some other ones, right?”

Geralt gives a noncommittal shrug, but once again something in his face shifts, something sad making its way to his eyes. “Is that why you’re here?” he asks the chess board as it stands forgotten between them.

“Is what why I’m here?”

Golden eyes look at him, calculating and so unsure Jaskier has to resist the urge to get up and hug Geralt. “Because you’re trying to fix me.”

Jaskier sighs, eyes stinging slightly. “W- what?”

“You can’t. You can’t fix me.”

He reaches across the table and Geralt startles slightly when Jaskier cradles one of his hands in both of his, golden eyes flickering between his face and their now intertwined hands.

“Geralt, I’m not trying to fix you. That’s not why I’m here.”

“Then why are you here?”

He bites his bottom lip, trying to fight back the tears from glazing over his eyes, trying not to show how much Geralt’s insecurity hurts to hear. “I… I wanna get to know you.”

“Why?” Once again, a question so simple yet so devastating.

He smiles softly. “Because I think, Geralt of Rivia, that you’re a person worth knowing.”

“I’m not.” Geralt tries to pull his hand away but Jaskier tightens his grip, holding him in place.

“How about you let me be the judge of that? Because…”

He turns Geralt’s hand in his own, trailing his fingers down a scarred palm before hooking them around Geralt’s. Golden eyes remain focused on their hands and bit by bit, Geralt’s fingers curl around Jaskier’s, who smiles softly and rubs his thumb against the back of Geralt’s hand.

“Because,” he whispers again, “from what I’ve gathered so far, I think you’re a person very much worth knowing, my dearest Geralt.”

Golden eyes look at him, open and sincere and insecure and hurting. “You’re a terrible liar,” Geralt says softly.

He holds that gaze, bringing their hands closer and turning them until he can press a soft kiss against the back of Geralt’s hand.

“Then you should know I’m not lying,” he whispers back. “All I’m asking is for you to trust me. That’s all. Please, just trust that I’m not lying to you.”

A few seconds pass, golden eyes never leaving his even as a million minute changes flash through them, betraying Geralt’s inner thought process so much Jaskier feels like he’s intruding on something he shouldn’t. But he holds Geralt’s gaze and waits.

Eventually, Geralt nods.

#the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #jaskier #geralt #geraskier #king writes

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hela-avenger · 5 years ago

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poison & wine- part 16

Author: hela-avenger

Word Count: 1591

Summary: Prince Loki of Asgard is in need of a date to take back home. That’s where you come in with a task of your own to make the whole trip with an insufferable prince worth it. Too bad that things don’t always go as planned and you end up giving more than you can take. Fake-Dating AU.

A/N: If you’ll like to be tagged please reach out to me!

poison & wine masterlist

Your eyes flutter open just to find the stars on the ceiling long gone. The light of the Asgardian sunrise had cast the darkness of the room away and you wonder how early you have to wake in order to witness it in person. You make a mental note to ask the girls but are disrupted by the sound of your stomach growling.

Loki and you had unknowingly gone to bed early and had skipped dinner. It hadn’t been your intention but you were starving now and hoped the girls would be coming by soon with breakfast.

Recalling Loki, you look over at his side of the bed to surprisingly find him still there. He seemed to still be asleep so you try to be as quiet as can be as you start to step out of the bed.

You manage to pull the bed cover away on your own making you suspicious of foul play the night prior. As you turn back to fix it, you find yourself staring at Loki’s bare back. You dropped the cover where it was and couldn’t help but stare.

The entirety of his back was mangled with an array of scars. Some long and jagged, others short and straight. There was a variety and you wondered how he could have survived any of them.

You had your history of scars.

None on you but to the people around you.

You recall your time as an army nurse. The mangled bodies you saw on a daily basis. New and old scars that scattered around the men fighting for their loved ones back at home. You knew what could cause them and how they could heal. You knew which ones would fade away with time and which ones would remain a reminder forever.

Loki’s back was scattered with the worst ones you’ve ever seen. Especially as you recalled that his body was meant to be able to withstand much more than a mortal body ever could. Whoever did this to him must have been very strong and the pain… You can’t even imagine the level of pain he must have felt.

None of the scars look like they healed with care. The way his skin was discolored beyond the wound made you aware that he must have been left to deal with them on his own. Wounded, tortured, perhaps left to die.

Someone hurt him. Someone hurt him very badly.

Your hand itches to run your hand across his back. An ill attempt to heal something just by the pure will of it. You know it’s impossible but you wish to at least try.

So you do... or at least you try to before you’re interrupted by Loki’s groan. He hums as he turns onto his back to stretch, his eyes fluttering open to meet yours.

“What are you doing?” Loki asks.

You pull your hand back and try to erase the last minute away from your mind.

“Trying to see if you were alive,” you manage to lie. “You are awfully still when asleep. It looks like you’re dead.”

Loki stares in response. His eyes narrow down at you trying to gauge if your words were true or not. Though in the end, it didn’t matter as he shook his head and sat up. His back faces you again but the scars you had seen had disappeared. His back was bare from any of it.

You blink and then you blink again but Loki’s back remains scar-free.

Part of you wonders if it had all been a figment of your imagination, but like the bed cover and the stars glowing in the ceiling, you knew this cover up had something to do with the use of seidr. You just didn’t know why.

A timid knock on the door disrupts your thoughts and you are quick to shift your attention elsewhere. You reach for your robe and tug it on just as Loki stands up from the bed and reaches your side.

“Come in,” he bellows as he swings an arm around your waist and pulls you to him. You catch yourself on his chest and you have to refrain from following your instincts which were telling you to push him away. Instead, you let your hands remain where they are as the doors begin to open. “Good morning, girls.”

“Good morning, your majesty.”

“Start on breakfast without me,” Loki states as he pulls away from you. “I’ll be in the library doing some light reading.”

He winks at you and turns to your handmaidens who are trying their hardest to stare at his face. Loki only grins and snaps his fingers to dress himself alleviating the tension in the room.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay and eat?” you ask, capturing his attention once more.

He turns to look at you in question and you don’t understand why you’re even offering to spend more time with him. The silence stretches out a second too long but Loki immediately fixes it by simply smiling down at you.

“Missing me already, pet?” he asks.

You couldn’t help but genuinely laugh at the question.

“You know I always do,” you manage to respond sweetly. “It’s why I keep coming back to you.”

Loki's smile manages to grow wider before he presses a kiss on your forehead. You let out your breath when the touch of his lips on your skin disappears. His hold on your face doesn’t leave as he tilts your head up so that you may look at him.

His eyes flutter to your lips and a spike of anxiety runs through your spine at the thought of him kissing you again.

He doesn’t.

“I won’t be away for too long,” Loki states as he releases you. “I’ll be back to share lunch with you.”

Without another word, Loki makes his way out of your room leaving you at the care of your handmaidens.

Loki flipped through the travel archives with exasperated boredom. He hadn’t realized how many outings were cataloged from the past century. He knew that Thor and he had taken advantage of traveling to other realms with any excuse at all. Loki was growing to regret it as each visit was written down.

There were pages upon pages concerning Thor and his travels that Loki was having a hard time trying to narrow down other royal members who had left Asgard for whatever purpose necessary. It became more complicated as visits to Midgard were non-existent.

It was like looking for a needle in a haystack except Loki didn’t know what the needle looked like.

“Trouble?”

Loki looks up from the catalog to find his mother staring down at him with an amused smile. He glances around momentarily to make sure they were alone and nods.

“I can’t seem to find any trace of recent travel to Midgard,” Loki sighs out. “There’s too many transcriptions that it’s taking longer for me to get through them all.”

“Hmm,” Frigga hums as she takes the book from Loki and looks through it. “Well, perhaps you should be looking through something more recent. The girl is a bit younger than this, isn’t she?”

“I’ve started around the year of her birth but nothing appears,” Loki sighs out as he pulls the first book he started with from the stack. “So I assumed that perhaps her father arrived earlier.”

“And you found nothing?”

“Nothing,” Loki sighs out. “And I doubt anyone could have traveled down and stayed for longer than a century. Odin would never allow such a long visit.”

Frigga scowls and sets the book down.

“Well then that’s quite a problem, isn’t it?”

Loki watches as her mother begins to pace.

“What’s wrong?” he asks her.

“Either her father traveled through other means...” Frigga states.

“That’s impossible seeing as Midgard has travel records that indicate the Bifrost was used.”

“Which then leaves us with another troublesome predicament,” Frigga sighs out unhappily.

“Which is?”

“That your father sent him down secretly.”

“Why would Odin do such a thing?” Loki asks confused.

“I don’t know,” Frigga shrugs. “It could have been a short banishment like your brother or perhaps another reason altogether. Either way, those records would be sealed with your father having sole access.”

Loki lets out a heavy sigh unsure of what he was meant to do now.��

“This has become too complicated.”

“It sure has,” Frigga agrees as she takes the seat next to him. “But for her sake, we must continue our search.”

“How?” Loki asks. “By asking Odin?”

“Yes, that’s…”

“No,” Loki interrupts her. “He’ll immediately want an explanation and what am I to tell him?”

“The truth, Loki.”

“Absolutely not,” Loki exclaims.

“Why not?” Frigga asks him. “For her safety? Or because you abhor the idea of telling the truth to your father?”

“He’s not my father!”

Frigga remains silent, her lips pressed together tightly. She waits for Loki to calm down watching his deep breaths return to a normal pace. He realizes his overreaction and turns to face her apologetically.

“I do not need to rely on that man more than I already have to,” Loki states. “I will find Y/N’s father and keep her safe on my own.”

Frigga lets out a sigh knowing there was no way to convince him otherwise.

“Then so be it,” Frigga resigns. “But whatever shall you do now?”

Loki didn’t have an answer to her question. His only hope relied on you and so that was the only path he could take at the moment.

poison & wine tag: @damalseer @just-the-hiddles @jessiejunebug @nonsensicalobsessions @smollest-soybean @assassinoftheworld @readerbandit @doyoufeelikeayounggod @strangemcuvlogs @ha-tep @i-dont-know-eiither @gene-king @day-dreaming-fox @bn-studies @is-it-madness @sigyn-njorddottir @devilbat @victor-criss-bish @skinny-macncheese @musicconversedance @baby-bunnyxn @fandoms-allovertheplace @marvelloonie @jinxjinxednova @queenmuahaha

Loki Tag: @unicorniorosacomefrutillas @thesilentbluesparrow @oddly-drawn-muse @josiehosiedaninja @hp-hogwartsexpress @sadwaywardkid @wolf-lover74

All Works Tag: @jmb959 @astudyoftimeywimeystuff @hellocookiecutter @steve-rogers-personal-hell @buckybarnesyard @not-zari-tak

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damienthepious · 4 years ago

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hello loves. I knew this was going to be my last Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday offering until december, so I wanted to make sure it counted. My goals for this month? Finish that little one-two punch fic from earlier, publish a 100th fic, and...

well...

finish this. So. Here we go...

Scattered On My Shore (Chapter 19 - End)

[Ch 1] [Ch 2] [Ch 3] [Ch 4] [Ch 5] [Ch 6] [Ch 7] [Ch 8] [Ch 9] [Ch 10] [Ch 11] [Ch 12] [Ch 13] [Ch 14] [Ch 15] [Ch 16] [Ch 17] [Ch 18] [ao3]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla, Sir Damien/Rilla, Lord Arum & The Keep

Characters: Rilla, Lord Arum, Sir Damien, The Keep

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday, Pre-Relationship, (for the three of them. it’s established r/d), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Injury, Injury Recovery, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, (this will also be), Enemies to Lovers, (for damien and arum eventually lol), Mutual Pining, canon typical Arum ignoring feelings

Fic Summary: Strange things wash up out of the lake near Rilla’s hut, on occasion. But this monster… this monster is certainly the strangest.

Chapter Summary: Stay 'till you can breathe like normal people do / I've got room in my house for you

Chapter Notes: End of the road, huh? Never dreamed this fic would get this long, never dreamed it would mean this much to me. This is the longest piece of fiction I've ever written, and the longest work I've ever completed by a country mile. Thank you for hanging in there with me. Thank you for reading. Thank you for every kudos and comment and bookmark. Thank you. Chapter summary from the song Midland, by The Mountain Goats. Have I ever shared my playlist for this fic? See the end of the chapter notes, I'll stick a link there.

The first night on the road home is probably the most difficult.

It's-

It's the first time that Rilla has gone to bed without Arum in literal shouting distance in… in months.

She doesn't say anything about it. She doesn't know what to say about it. Arum is safe, and she and Damien are going home, and they're going to see him again. They are. It's stupid to get all emotional about the fact that they- they're just going to need to deal with a little separation, for a few weeks or so.

Damien douses the fire as Rilla steels herself, flattening her face, arranging their bedroll. Damien comes to lay down beside her, and when he slips his arms around her, she tries to sigh, and- her breath catches.

Damien does not flinch. He presses his lips just above her brow, and she can feel the sympathetic tension in his arms as they settle in the bedroll, curling against each other, as close as they can manage despite the heat.

"I know," he whispers, and Rilla grits her teeth. "I know, my love. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she manages. "Nothing to be sorry about."

"Of course it will be a challenge, this journey," Damien murmurs into her hair. "Especially this night. He is still so close, speaking relatively. So close we can still see that subtle, mellow glow from his swamp on the horizon. So close, and yet… riding away from him aches in my heart like a betrayal. We must, of course. Our duties, our lives… and I miss the Citadel as well. Miss the safety and warmth of your hut, miss… ah," she feels his lip curl into a small smile against her temple. "Ah, but there is the other side of the dilemma, yes? It is so difficult to think of your home, now, without…"

Without Arum there, too.

Rilla sniffs lightly, readjusting her grip on Damien beneath the heavy cloth, and then she pokes him in the side, making him exhale a gust of laughter.

"Faster we fall asleep, faster we'll be on the road again," she mutters. "Faster we're home, faster we'll find out exactly what the hell that plant he gave us actually does."

"Ah- right. I suppose you're right, my love."

"Just-" she clocks her head off his cheek, pursing her lips when that makes him laugh again. "Shush. Sleep now, mope later."

He hums an agreement, soft and soothing, and settles beside her. "Goodnight, my flower. I love you."

Rilla manages the ghost of a smile, feeling one of Damien's hands gently caressing up and down her back. "I love you too. Now go to sleep already."

He nods, light laughter still on his lips, and then he kisses her cheek one more time before he closes his eyes, and Rilla sighs and closes her eyes as well.

She doesn't exactly take her own advice, though.

The discomfort, the worry, the knowledge that she can't just call out and make sure that Arum's still okay- her mind won't slow down enough for sleep to take her, not for what feels like a long time.

It's okay, though. It's okay.

Damien is here with her. His hand keeps up that steady rhythm, his palm soft as his fingers trace up and down her back, gentle as rain, and clearly he's not exactly drifting off either.

They don't say anything else. Rilla thinks they both know it won't do any good, won't make them feel any better. They don't speak, but they can still hold each other, silent and longing despite themselves, and eventually, eventually, they will sleep.

And tomorrow they'll be another step closer to home.

The temperature in the Keep is the same as it always has been, but Arum finds himself cold, more often than not. The remainder of his injuries itch . Amaryllis left him with a number of salves to apply, to reduce the scarring, to speed the already-sped healing process, but it is… strange, to apply it himself. It felt different, before, smoothed across the ragged scabs by her soft, attentive, confident fingers. His own scales are cool. His own fingers do not hold the same softness. It feels perfunctory, now. Awkward and stiff. And-

When she finished tending to him, rewrapping bandages or checking his temperature or applying salve, Amaryllis would always… touch him, then. A gentle tap, on his shoulder, on his elbow. A silent signal, accompanied with a smile, to let him know she was done, before she would stand straighter and turn to attend to other tasks.

Once, when he is done smoothing his fingers across his fading wounds, he reaches across his body and taps his own elbow, hesitant, and then he feels so utterly foolish, so strangely empty, that he-

He does nothing. He simply hurts, for a long moment, before he sighs and sets the salve aside.

The Keep tries, in its way, to soothe this pain as it is soothing his actual injuries, but it is… not precisely the same. He is grateful for the Keep's attempts at physicality, grateful for the touch of vines, grateful to sleep cocooned in soft, oversized petals, even if it makes him feel like a coddled hatchling again.

("You're healing," Amaryllis says, stern and gentle. "Being rough on yourself is only going to make it take even longer. Just- let me take care of you, you big stubborn idiot.")

He misses her. He misses them both. He knew he would, before they left, but-

He spent so, so long missing the Keep. He is quite tired of missing.

During the day, they ride.

They can travel much more quickly, without needing to worry over the wounds of an injured monster. It will make the return trip substantially faster, but-

Neither of them feel as if it is truly going faster.

It reminds Rilla of paradoxes. It reminds Damien of a chiasmus, the reversal with new perspectives. Neither of them discuss it, though they both urge the horse faster, both eye the horizon with skeptical intent, as if it is widening from them deliberately.

It is a relief, not to worry over Arum's safety while they ride, not to have to duck their heads and avoid the eyes of other travelers, not to need to lie. They don't need to slow down to check him over and make sure none of his injuries have started bleeding, they don't need to break from travel to find a safe place hidden far away from the road to rest in each night. It's another odd overlay- the hurt of leaving him behind shaded by the relief of knowing that he's safe, and home, and healing. Rilla can't stop herself from mentioning where she thinks he'll be in his recovery day by day, based on her estimates considering how the Keep seemed to be accelerating the healing process.

Last of the bandages off, today, I'd bet, she says, absent as they ride, her eyes distant, and Damien nudges the horse a little faster.

Replacement wrap for the crack in his horn, today, I think, she says, and Damien remembers the elegant curves that grace Arum's head, his throat aching.

He should be shifting to the next set of exercises for his wrist around now, she mumbles as they sit beside the fire. He'd better've remembered, she adds with a frown, and Damien pulls her even closer.

Rilla does not say that she misses him. Not in so many words. Damien follows her example, though he often finds himself glancing back the way they came, watching as the distance between the pair of them and Lord Arum grows, clutching his heart to stifle the bittersweet pang at his center.

In the small stolen bits of time when they are not riding, eating, or sleeping, Rilla likes to examine Arum's gift. She gently lifts the wrapped plant out from the saddlebag that has become its temporary home, settling it in her lap and squinting at it, observing the structure of the leaves, the colors, carefully easing her fingers into the dirt to determine the root structure.

She hasn't seen anything exactly like it before, she explains to Damien, and the intensity of her focus makes his heart thrum with fondness and familiarity. She narrows her eyes at the small stalk, the waxy purple and green leaves on the trio of branches at the top (Damien remembers Arum's glossy green scales, his violet eyes, and he aches again with longing), and she purses her lips. Native to the swamp, she decides. It must be. It doesn't… seem magical, so she isn't sure what Arum could have meant when he gave it to them, but- well, it's not like Rilla has any of her more delicate instruments here on the road with her. She can't exactly test it, or put some cells under a microscope. She just does her best to water it enough to keep the soil wrapped at its base at a consistent moisture level, and she turns it over in her mind while she's prevented by pesky lack of resources from turning it over in reality.

Neither of them mention their fondness for the plant, either. It reminds them both of Arum, of the Keep, of the swamp, and even while Rilla frowns at her lack of knowledge, that reminds her of Arum too. It makes her scowl, and smile, and she wishes he was here to smack him for leaving her with a mystery deliberately, the sly monster that he is. She wishes he was here for a number of other reasons, too, but that's beside the point.

Damien, for his part, cannot say if he has ever had so many new verses dancing in his head at once. The plant is such a beautiful little metonymy, such a hopeful tether, and though he cannot help but yearn, his yearning still feels safe, like a source.

The nights…

The nights remain difficult. The midpoint of their journey is especially so- as distant from Rilla's home as they are from Arum himself, the night particularly dark this deep in the wilderness, comforted by each others arms and little else besides.

They wake bleary, but relieved to have put another night behind them. The help each other to their feet, and they ride.

The representative is halfway between the border of the swamp and the Keep when Arum finally allows the denizens of his swamp to do as they wish, to descend upon this unfortunate creature and chase him back out the way he came.

Arum steps from the portal just at the edge of his territory, just as the faun stumbles the final few steps backwards over the loose remnants of the border wall Arum and the Keep have been slowly dismantling, and the monster falls halfway into mud with a yelp and his hooves in the air.

Arum lifts a hand, and his denizens abandon their pursuit, birds and amphibians and mammals retreating back into the swamp and returning to their lives, and Arum looks down at the creature. He folds his arms primly behind himself, glaring hard over his snout until the faun notices him in his scrabbling.

He yelps again, losing his grip on a vine beside him and planting his face in the mud, and Arum tilts his head.

"No, no," he says, his voice low and murmuring and magnanimous. "By all means, take your time."

The creature pants, staring up at him, and then he scrambles backwards and rolls up on his hooves, his frame hunched in obvious terror.

"… Well?" Arum drawls after the panting silence draws long. "I don't expect you would have come this far for nothing, hm?"

The faun blinks, blank, and then he shakes his head quickly and his furry fingers fumble at the satchel at his side. "I- yes I- I have been tasked to deliver a m-message and-"

Arum takes a step closer, and the creature's words fly from his tongue, the muscles in his legs bunching as if to bolt. "A message…" he repeats slowly. "How… interesting."

The faun opens his mouth again, trembling, but the words seem to catch in his mouth as Arum looms.

"You, little creature," Arum says, very slowly, "look as if you have seen a ghost. Why, may I ask, would that be the case?"

"I-" the monster bites his tongue, glances aside as if hoping for some sort of help, and then he looks to Arum again. "I was told- I was- you were supposed to be-"

"Dead?"

The faun flinches, and Arum does not let himself feel guilty, considering that this poor little fool is only adjacent to the situation. The point needs be made, and since Arum cannot safely make it to the Senate in person this will have to do. He does soften the glare in his eyes, though, coiling his tail as he waits for the creature to respond.

"I am- I am to seek the current ruler of- of-"

"I am Lord Arum, ruler of the Swamp of Titan's Blooms," Arum says, flat and mild. "Will that suffice for you, then?"

The faun stumbles back another step, his shoulders hitting a tree. "I-I-I represent the Senate a-and they have- have sent me to-"

"The last creature who spoke to me on behalf of your Senate tried to plant a blade in my spine." Arum tilts his head in the other direction, leaning down and close so he may hiss his next words eye-to-eye with this creature. "She missed. Do you believe that your aim will be more true?"

The faun swallows, visibly, his eyes wide and his hands trembling, though he seems too frightened, now, to try to move at all. "I… I am not- not an assassin, I am simply-"

"Delivering a message, as you said." Arum straightens, raising an eyebrow as he stares down his snout at the monster. "To the current ruler of the swamp." Arum grins, a conspicuous display of fangs. "I am he. What missive did the Senate intend for me, then?"

With shaking hands, the faun pulls a scroll from the satchel at his side, and holds it out.

Arum takes the parchment gently, though the faun still flinches, and he reads the letter with careful attention, his brows climbing. He snorts, eventually, folding the paper between his claws and giving the courier an amused sort of look. "The previous ruler of this swamp was killed in the effort to eradicate the human infection," he parrots with half a laugh, and then he shakes his head. "I suppose that is one way in which to spin the truth. Was killed. A delightfully overt lack of active perpetrator in that claim, hm?"

The faun opens his mouth as if to reply, but then he simply gives a sharp nod, fear still obvious in his stance, in his eye, and Arum sighs.

"Well. You may tell the Senate that if they wish to broker an alliance with the Lord of the Swamp, they may come to entreat him personally . As things stand, The Swamp of Titan's Blooms and its residents are no longer a part of the effort to eradicate humanity, nor do they acknowledge the leadership of the Senate. If the Senate wishes to plead its case they may do so here, where their deceit shall not find purchase. Otherwise," Arum growls low, "my lands may simply find other allies. We may still, regardless of whatever overtures the Senate decides to make."

"Y-you- you want me t-to- to tell them-" the faun's eyes widen to saucers, his heartbeat approaching hummingbird speeds, and Arum decides to take pity.

"Hm. Yes, well. I suppose that there is no reason to give them excuse to blame the messenger. Wait a moment, then. Keep, parchment and ink, if you would."

The Keep does as asked, and the faun's eyes flick to the vines that appear from apparent nowhere to hand him his tools. The monster's body is prey-still, leaving aside the trembling.

Arum writes out his letter rather quickly. He has been thinking this through for long enough that he does not need more than a single draft. He rolls the parchment and slides it back into the case he had pulled the Senate's own letter from, and then he holds it out.

"Perhaps," Arum says, his voice low, "you should endeavor to leave the room before they read that particular note, hm?"

After a long moment faun lifts his hands, nods, and gingerly tucks the letter back into his satchel.

Once he is safely back within his Keep, Arum laughs until tears prick at the corners of his eyes, laughs until his ribs hurt, and it doesn't even matter how the Senate responds. Arum cannot find the place within himself to care. He will find a way to survive, to thrive, regardless of whatever those miserable fools decide to do about him.

Arum laughs, the last lingering ghosts of his injuries twinging at him, and he feels foolish, and wild, and free.

The hut sits just as they left it.

The windows are dark, the herb garden has grown a little scruffy around the edges, the flowers across the trellises drift slightly in the wind, and Rilla squeezes her arms around Damien before she swings down from the saddle. She lifts Arum's plant from the saddlebag as Damien dismounts as well, and he gives her a soft, tired smile before he leads his horse off towards her tiny one-horse stable by the edge of the trees.

There's a small, childish, illogical part of Rilla that expects Arum to be there when she creaks open the door. It's stupid, obviously, which is why she doesn't let herself feel disappointed when she finds the hut exactly as empty as it should be. She sets the plant aside first, dumps the rest of her bags in a corner, and goes to light the hearth.

When Damien finishes settling his horse and comes inside with the rest of their bags, Rilla has nearly finished moving the pile of notes in the corner of the kitchen to a new spot on one of her bookshelves, and she grins a little manically at him as he sets his bags down.

"I think I've got a pot big enough to replant this thing. Help me bring it inside?"

He smiles, and they're both exhausted but this is too important to wait. For both of them.

She scoops up some turned earth from the garden to mix with the wrapped soil around the roots of Arum's plant (no more than half again, she remembers, and she's very very careful about that particular measurement), and she and Damien maneuver a large, oval shaped pot into the space Rilla has cleared, at the corner of her kitchen and out of sight of the windows.

It looks so strange and incongruous there, purple and green and wild, and the scent of fresh earth mingles with the reassuring scent of the flames in the hearth, another unfamiliar addition. Damien rests a hand on Rilla's arm, his other hand pressing over his heart, and when he sighs Rilla feels her heart stumble as well.

"Well," she says quietly. "He said it would bloom quickly, but obviously it's not going to bloom right now." She lifts a hand, gripping Damien's hand and squeezing. "C'mon. Not gonna waste time watching for the pot to boil. Let's unpack, and put something together for dinner, yeah?"

Damien squeezes her hand in return, gives the plant one last lingering look, and then turns away to help her put their home to rights again.

Arum feels the Keep buzz through with excitement, hears it pull the portal open at his back, and he barely manages to set his tools down rather than simply dropping them to clatter on his workbench before he spins to see-

"-miss him," Amaryllis says softly, and through the portal Arum sees her sat at their table in the warmth of the kitchen, sees Damien beside her, sees their foreheads ducked close together, Damien's arm wrapped around her shoulder, Amaryllis' hands cupping his face, their eyes gently closed. "Just- it's so quiet and-"

"I know," Damien says, and Arum's heart feels as if it fluoresces within his chest at the poet's voice, finally- finally. "I miss him as well. But- patience, love. Surely, surely we can be patient." Damien nudges their foreheads together, smiling wryly, and the arm around Amaryllis' shoulders tightens as the doctor sighs. "We will see him again. We will."

"Sooner than you think, perhaps," Arum manages, mildly smug that his voice only shakes a little, and the humans both gasp, whipping their faces towards him, all shock and wonder and- delight. His throat goes tight, then, but he still manages to speak. Barely. "Amaryllis," he murmurs, too much feeling in his voice. "Honeysuckle."

They spring to their feet, and Arum cannot help himself. He rushes forward as well.

They collide just in the threshold of the portal, Amaryllis' barreling into his chest and knocking the air from his lungs, Damien's arms flinging around him with a joyous laugh, and-

And perhaps it does not matter, that Arum feels tears at the corners of their eyes. Not if the humans' eyes are bright with tears as well.

"You," Amaryllis growls, her arms tight and fierce around him, and then she leans back enough to swipe a hand over her eyes and scowl before she starts poking at him. "Don't think you can waltz in all dramatic and get around me checking in on you- have you been applying-"

"Every single salve you left me with, like clockwork. Following the doctor's orders to the letter," Arum says, his voice an indulgent purr as Amaryllis' hands skate over his midsection, as she presses a palm over the scar on his back, examining him with critical, warm attention. He would attempt to hold up some degree of indignation about this, if he were not so undeniably, breathlessly happy to hear her complaints again at last. "As if I could possibly ignore you, as if I could not feel the threat of your ire from miles and miles distant-"

Damien breathes something like a sob, his forehead pressed to Arum's shoulder, and Arum make a small, sympathetic noise, curling two arms around him and holding him tighter.

"Oh, little songbird-"

"Missed- missed even your arguments, my lily, I-"

"I missed you as well," Arum admits in a hiss, nuzzling into Damien's hair. "Missed you both, so much more than I knew I could."

The Keep sings behind him, a melody of teasing exasperation and fondness and delight, and Amaryllis leans back to grin, lifting a hand to touch the curling vines of the portal.

"Keep," she says, and she sounds so equally fond that Arum cannot help the little stab of adoration. "So, has he been taking care of himself, then?"

The Keep warbles, affirming and warm, and Amaryllis turns her skeptical, playful gaze back towards Arum, her smile tilting in such a way that he thinks that perhaps she is content with his Keep's answer.

"So that's what the plant does, then? It lets you make a portal- nevermind the distance, weeks and weeks of travel away?"

"That is not it's function, precisely," Arum says. "It has no function, it is simply… a piece of life, from my swamp. If I merely wished to grant myself a doorway to you- the plant itself… it was not necessary. The soil would have sufficed, in truth, for a short time at least, but-"

"But?" Amaryllis asks, looking up at him with more joy on her face than Arum knows what to do with.

"But this seemed… better. More… decisive. A scattering of dirt may be swept aside. I care far more for the both of you than such a simple gesture. This-"

The plant in the wide oval pot by Amaryllis' fireplace is vibrant, glossy, a stab of floral familiarity, shocking and incongruous in this place that Arum grew to know so well.

"You shared your home with me," he says, slow and certain. "It seemed only fitting to give you a piece of mine." He inhales, and he smiles as he continues. "Its roots are taking hold here now, just as mine have, alongside your own."

Damien makes another choking noise, and then his arms tighten around Arum even further, and he presses his lips to Arum's neck. "Let us grow together," he breathes against Arum's scales in a shaking voice, and Arum knows that cadence in his voice, knows the ringing of a poem in Damien's voice. "Twined roots, fruits shared- bite by bite." Damien smiles, lifts his head, cups Arum's cheek in a hand as he continues, his voice so warm and musical that Arum can hardly focus on anything besides. "We tend to that which heals us," he murmurs, "each vine another trellis, braiding lines, lifting- towards the light-"

Arum is too stunned by the words, hit too closely by them, and Amaryllis recovers more quickly, reaching up to brush the tears away from Damien's cheeks, pressing a kiss there as if to replace them.

"I think that's my favorite of the new ones," she whispers. "Thank you."

"Honeysuckle," Arum manages, after another moment, and then he leans down to echo Amaryllis' kiss on the poet's other cheek. "How you craft such beauty… it is quite beyond me."

"With such inspiration before me," Damien says in a quavering voice, "the words practically weave themselves."

"Will that stay?" Amaryllis asks suddenly, gesturing towards the portal.

"I could dismiss it, summon it back when it is needed," he says.

"Cool," she says, and Arum barks a shocked laugh as she tugs at his hands, pulling himself and Damien back towards the table, maneuvering them to sit and folding herself against his side with a hand on his chest, her fingers tapping in a rhythm that it takes him a few moments to realize-

She's tapping along to the beat of his heart. Her fingers drum a little faster, after that.

Arum swallows roughly, and then he nudges the Keep with his mind, and as it closes the portal, leaving the little plant behind in the corner (she placed it precisely where he suggested- he will need to prod her later, discover where she fit that ream of notes and theories instead), Arum is grateful to still feel just the barest hint of the Keep's presence at the edges of his mind. The magic will settle here, yes, just as he did. If they want it to.

He exhales slowly, holding the both of them in silence for a long moment.

"I…" he murmurs eventually, uncertain. "I admit that I… worried, after you left, that perhaps this would be… a step too far. Too presumptuous, to grant myself a door directly into your home, but-"

"No-" Amaryllis shakes her head, lifting away enough to meet his eye. "Arum this is incredible- can you just summon a portal anywhere?"

"Not anywhere," he corrects, mild. "Only within the Swamp of Titan's Blooms. Which…"

Amaryllis looks to the plant, more vivid purple now than it was when he gave it to her.

"You… you literally gave us a piece of… you literally gave us a bloom from your swamp."

"Oh Arum," Damien keens, pressing another kiss to his throat. "Oh-"

"I… yes. It seemed the only thing to do," he says, ducking his head, flustered with his frill fluttering. "I… I knew…" he stops, furrows his brow, tries again. "The Keep is my home, my family. And I… I know, now, that I… I've grown to think of this place… I want this place to be my home as well. I want to be close by your sides. I want- you. I want to be a part of your lives."

"Good," Amaryllis says, but even in her nonchalance her voice is- trembling. Her hand presses hard over his heart, and the she presses her mouth to his in a lingering kiss. "Saints- Arum, we want you too."

"Want you always," Damien adds, tearful. "Oh, to be a home for you- to tend our garden together- oh Arum, oh lily we will hold you if you want us- we will keep you safe, warm-"

Damien interrupts himself, clearly shocking himself with a yawn, and Arum and Amaryllis both laugh at the look of mortification on his face.

"You are…" Arum presses his snout against Damien's temple when he can't find the words to voice what, precisely, Damien is. "Ridiculous," he settles on. "And clearly exhausted. The plant bloomed much more quickly than I was expecting, I think," he mutters, glaring in its direction without any heat. "I can still smell the road on the both of you. Have you gotten any rest whatsoever since you've been home?"

Amaryllis rolls her eyes while Damien purses his lips in obvious guilt, and Arum stifles another laugh.

"Well. It seems it is my turn to act responsibly for once. To bed with you. You certainly won't be rid of me so easily that you shall miss out on a single sleepless night of my presence. To bed," he repeats, "and I shall find mine as well."

Damien blinks, surprised again, and he and Amaryllis meet each other's eyes for a moment, something passing between them.

"What?" Arum grumbles. "What is it? I do not intend to let you wear yourselves out further for my sake. Certainly you would not allow the opposite, were the tables turned."

"You- you want to sleep in the exam room again?" Amaryllis asks, her tone careful, and Arum-

Arum did not realize that there was another option open to him. Would she like for him to- return to the Keep?

He presses his expression flat, unbothered, and then he says, "Where… else?"

Damien and Amaryllis lock eyes again, and this time he can read a note of fondness before Amaryllis turns her attention back to him.

"Well…" Amaryillis trails off. "If you want to sleep in there, you can. I haven't touched it since we got home, so it's still set up the same as when you left it, but-"

"But?"

Amaryllis ducks her head, then looks up at him through the fall of her hair, her smile soft and easy. "You… aren't my patient, Arum," she says, and he blinks. "Not anymore. If you want that to still be your bed here- I understand. You spent ages there, I get it if that's where you're comfortable. But… we love you. We love you, and there's room in our bed for you, too. If you want it."

"If…" Arum trails off, his mind still catching on the belated realization that he- he may exist here, uninjured. A guest, not a patient, as he once imagined. "You… want me to…"

"We love you, Arum," Damien repeats, his tone unspeakably tender. "We want you. Every inch, every moment we may share is a treasure, a gift."

"Did it bother you to have us share your bed?" Amaryllis asks, and Arum wrinkles his snout.

"Ridiculous-"

"Exactly. So…" she bites her lip, and then she leans up, and kisses Arum on the cheek, her lips soft and warm against his scales. "Come to bed with us?"

That feeling again, as if his heart is glowing and warm, as if the light should be pouring out in shafts between his ribs. He presses his mouth against her own, an invitation, a request, and when she hums another kiss against his scales the light within him pulses hot.

"Please," he whispers, and with these two creatures in his arms, with the Keep a gentle presence at the edge of his mind, Arum knows that this is where he belongs.

The monster is barely conscious before he starts trying to pull the both of them closer.

Rilla can hardly blame him. If she wasn't worried about waking him too early, she would have tugged him into her arms ages ago. He's too tired to do much more than give a mumbled breath, though, his greedy limbs stretching out to tug weakly at Rilla and Damien's sides. Damien hums himself awake at Arum's touch, and he smiles so, so wide before his eyes blink muzzily open, and then he looks down at the monster in his arms, and then up at Rilla with a watery smile. She grins right back, and then she obliges Arum's sleep-slack, greedy hands, and she folds herself against his chest, angling her chin up so she can press a kiss to his neck, and Damien embraces him from the other side, strong arms looped around Arum's chest, fingers tracing the ridges of his scales.

Arum murmurs something incomprehensible through his teeth, his eyelids fluttering, and as Rilla kisses him again he hisses a contented sigh, his violet eyes slitting open to meet her gaze in the gentle light of morning.

Rilla is so shockingly in love that her heartbeat stumbles, and Arum and Damien are safe within her arms.

(He’s so pleased, radiating such obvious contentment, and he is so entirely stunned to wake with them holding him. His cheek rests on her hand and he presses his face into it as he rouses, his scales already warm from their radiant heat and his breathing going sharper through his smile, and she feels a fierce sort of satisfaction at that, at the idea of soothing him awake like this again, and again, and again)

He growls lightly, nipping at her fingers and tugging the both of them closer against his chest, rumbling with a deep, inhuman purr.

She almost can't believe there was a time when she thought of him only as a monster.

In their arms, in their bed, in their home. He is their monster. Safe, and healed, and loved.

End notes: Thank you. I love you. Thank you. For further feelings, my playlist for this fic lives here.

also? this note has been sitting at the end of this document since it was only three lines of goofy plot ideas.

[……… profit????]

#hold breath hit post cry into your pillow day fam #elle's fanfic #the penumbra podcast #second citadel #rad bouquet #lizard kissin' tuesday #lord arum #sir damien #amaryllis of exile #the keep #scattered on my shore #it's done. it's done.#it's 90k and it's DONE

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ilguna · 4 years ago

Text

Belamour - Chapter Twelve (f.o)

summary: they say the odds tend to favor those who need them. well, they were wrong.

warnings; swearing, mention of murder and gore

wc; 9.3k

NOTES: i give reader a last name to fit the world. –

After it all, after everything that you’ve been through, you thought silence would be the most comforting thing that the Capitol would have to offer. You looked forward to it, to get away from the sound of birds and other animals in trees, the sound of the waterfall, another person’s presence.

But now that you’re sitting here, by yourself, all alone, in a white room that offers nothing but silence, you’re taking it back. You need the background noise, because it’s the reason that your thoughts had been kept at bay for so long. Always focusing on something, took away the loud voices of paranoia.

In this white room, is nothing but the bed you sit on. There are no doors, there are no windows, there is no one, but you. And it’s the eeriest thing you’ve experienced in a very long time. You hate it a lot more than you thought it would. You didn’t mind the silence with the others, because at least you had their presence.

You miss Finnick.

For a while, you wait in this room, staring at the adjacent wall, looking forward to anyone coming through and greeting you. To give you the next step in the process. You lived through the Hunger Games, you made it out alive with Finnick. What happens next?

You get to see him, you’re sure of it. But when? You have so many questions to ask him specifically. You only remember so much, and it stops after a certain point in time. You remember Lennox chasing you up the cliff, you struggling to breathe at the top when you and him were at a standoff. You remember the second to last cannon sounding before he jumped at you.

The tumbling, the rolling, the panic settling into your body. The will to live, the shot of adrenaline, knowing that if Lennox didn’t get off of you, you were going to die. You were weak, small, and sick. He could have punched you, and that would have been it for you. He leaned forward, locking your hands above your head, sitting on your hips. He was prepared to kill you.

But the panic became useful, you thrusted him off, towards the cliff. He scrambled to grab onto anything around him, looking for just one small part of the ledge to hold onto. And in that scramble, he found your left wrist, still tightly held onto. Eventually, it would slip down to your hand.

Below him, high and beautiful dark blue waves, large black spikes sticking out of the water. If you could get him to let go, he would die by any of the three things: the height, the spikes, or the lack of the ability to swim. Your thought process was sped up when you started to slide off the cliffside, too.

You grabbed your knife, and then stabbed through his hand, and through yours too. You can still feel the sharp pain, but it wasn’t even comparable to the other pains in your body. You and Lennox let go, him taking the knife with him. He fell, and you rolled onto your back, still halfway over the ledge.

And this is when it gets blurry. You remember holding onto the pain in your hand, trying to keep yourself awake. You were waiting for something, and it wasn’t the loud trampling sound in the woods. Thinking back on it now, it was Finnick, coming to your rescue before you ended up in the dark blue waves, too.

Then, it happened. The loud and clear sound of the cannon, that’s what you were waiting for. You vaguely remember hearing your name, and then passing out. You don’t remember anything else past that point, not even the head gamemaker announcing your win. You missed it. But your family didn’t.

You want to see them all. You want to see your brothers now. For them to hold you in their arms and tell you that everything is okay now. And they’ll never let you go, not until you ask them to, because you don’t know when that will be. All you know is that you can’t stand it in here anymore. You can’t stand the Capitol. You want to go home.

And overall, you want to see your best friend, Finnick.

You can’t stand sitting here anymore. You have to move.

Beneath the sheets, you’re naked, but the cotton blanket manages to feel soft and soothing against your skin, instead of rough and scratchy like the blankets they have in District Four. When you look down at the floor, you catch a glimpse of your skin, and stop your idea of getting up.

It’s clean. There is no giant bruise on your upper ribs on the left side. When you run your fingers over it, you can feel every single rib on the way down, consequential of the weight loss during the games. Further down, your stomach is healed perfectly, with no scars left behind. Without even thinking about it, you reach for your nose, next.

Inside of the arena, even if you didn’t complain about it much, your broken and crooked nose was throwing you off too much. Made it hard to think, not to mention how tender it was. But running your fingers along it now, it’s smooth, and straight, and unbroken. It brings no pain when you move it to each side.

Your hands are the last thing on the list, as you hold your arms straight out, staring at the back of your hands. On your left, there is no evidence that a knife had ever pierced through your hand. Beneath your nails is cleaned, no more permanent dirt spots, no more remnants of the nail polish from the interview. They’re clean, and perfectly rounded.

Flipping your palms towards you, the scars from the scorching campfire is nowhere to be seen, too. And neither are the tiny scars that had belonged to the tips of your fingers. They had been there for years, from all the times you’d accidentally pricked your finger with a needle or hurt yourself with a fishing hook on the boats. Furthermore, there are no blemishes on your skin.

You’re in perfect condition, your body is almost like it had been before going into the Hunger Games, minus the weight loss. When you go to get to your feet, you’re prepared to crumple into a useless heap on the floor, but find that your legs are strong, and it’s nice to give them a stretch.

You bring your arms above your head, because it’s nice to do without a stabbing pain in your body anymore. You stretch backwards, hearing all sorts of popping sounds, and when you’re done, a slight burning in the areas you haven’t moved since you got hurt. It feels good to be able to use your body again.

You can’t imagine how long it took to get you back to this condition. There’s always a gap between the last day of the games, and when the tributes are revealed to the country yet again. It’s so the doctors inside of the Capitol can do the exact thing that they did to you; heal you up and make you look human again.

You breathe out a laugh, and then catch yourself, anticipating the pain in your side. When there is none, you laugh a little harder, you’re back, at least for now. As you move towards the end of the bed, you catch sight of something familiar, and daunting. You flinch, raising your arms like the clothes will hurt you themselves. When in reality, they’re nothing but a memory of what happened.

It’s the clothes from the games. The black undergarments, the black jeans, shoes, the navy blue shirt, and the thin, white jacket. You want to retreat back beneath the blanket and hide beneath the covers, away from the clothes. But the only reason why you don’t, is because you want to see Finnick.

You pull on the underwear and sports bra, then the pants and the shirt. You put on the socks and the shoes, and contemplate whether or not to bring the jacket. You pull it on anyway, once you realize that since you lost so much body weight, it’s going to be harder to stay warm. You don’t zip it up above the belly button.

Now, you stand and stare at the wall, hoping that there is a door, after all, and you’re not just a lab rat. When you move to grab your ring, you find the space empty. You have to hold out your hand to double-check and see, and sure as hell, it’s not there. They must have taken it off.

You can’t imagine how much of a struggle that must have been. Inside the arena, you couldn’t take it off, even if you really wanted to. Your fingers had swollen around the metal, and no matter how hard you tugged, it wasn’t budging. Eventually, you just settled for twisting it around your finger to ease the itch and have something to do when things got slow.

Now that it’s gone, you just rub the spot where it used to be. Your skin is silky smooth, did you mention that?

You’re about to go and sit on the bed, not wanting to stand in front of the wall like an idiot any longer, when the wall breaks, and the door slides open. It reveals a slightly dark hallway. When you move out, you’re expecting something, anything, someone? But find no one, not even another door along the walls. The hallway is empty.

You stand for a moment, dumbfounded and wondering where to go next. To your left is a dead end, it looks like. So, you turn and head to the right, wrapping your arms around yourself like a hug, even though you’re not cold. All you want to see is Finnick, where is he?

You take a left turn, and find that the hallways aren’t as empty as you thought they were. Standing in the middle of this one, is a familiar head of black hair, next to him is a tall woman with sleek and shiny dark brown hair, and next to her, is a not-as-tall woman, wearing a seafoam green outfit.

Just as you open your mouth to catch their attention, Anchor is quieting down, eyes locking onto you. Laurel and Elysia notice, looking over their shoulders, and eventually opening up to offer you a spot in their group. Your walk starts slow, like you couldn’t care, but the more you walk, tears gather in your eyes, and you give it up.

You run straight into Anchor’s arms, and he hugs you tightly, letting out a laugh. The tears are streaming out of the corner of your eyes at a steady pace, and you have no doubt that it’s out of joy. It feels good to be in someone else’s presence, to be around the people that know you the best. To know that you’re safe once again.

“Welcome back.” Anchor says, letting you go.

Laurel doesn’t hug as tightly, but she doesn’t push you off of her, either. Motherly, she’s rubbing your back. You hesitate with Elysia, because she doesn’t look the type for physical affection, but she opens her arms for one final hug, and you grip onto her tightly. You know that you two will be around each other for a long, long time now.

“How do you feel?” Anchor asks.

“Fine, where’s Finnick?” you ask, Pleurisy isn’t here, and neither is Mags, which means that they’re somewhere else, with Finnick, you think.

“You’ll see him soon.” Laurel soothes, “They want your reunion to be live, you just have to wait until then.

You nod, but you don’t like it. You want to see him now, to hug onto him and thank him for everything that he did. He might not think it, but he saved you. He’s the reason why you get to see your brothers and sister again.

“We should get going.” Laurel says, nodding towards Anchor and Elysia, “We’ll see you two, later.”

Laurel brings your elbow into hers, and keeps a hand on your upper arm the entire way to the elevator. She doesn’t fill the silence, you listen to the click of her shoes against the cement flooring. Her hand on your arm is a constant reminder that she’s here, and you’re not alone.

The elevator leads you up and into the lobby of the Training Center. You grit your teeth and try not to let the thought of it all overwhelm you. The windows that used to let so much sunlight in, are now blacked out to prevent anyone from looking inside. There’s a few peacekeepers here and there, and they seem to barely acknowledge your presence.

Laurel brings you into the elevator, presses the button to the fourth floor, and the doors shut. There’s a quiet hum to the elevator, something that you never noticed before. But with the deafening silence between you two, you have no choice to listen to it. When the doors open, you’re immediately greeted with the prep team.

They’re loud, and excited to see you. You mostly tune them out, but listen in here and then. They don’t say a single word about what had happened in the games, you’re not sure how they manage to find topics, when that seemed to be the main focus before the games. You wonder if Anchor or Mags tipped them off and gave them specific instructions not to say anything.

Nevertheless, you’re brought over to the dining room, where you’re allowed to eat. The moment that the rich, delicious food is set in front of you, your mouth waters. You remember what happened on the first day inside of the train, and eat slowly and carefully. Conversation is light, and you count everything you’re given, and compare it.

One serving of lamb stew, plums and rice, a handful of vegetables, and two buttered rolls is all that you’re allowed. You’re free to have as much water as you like, but as far as food goes, you can’t get anything else. This is almost nothing compared to what you had been eating during your week here, pre-games.

Three--maybe four--servings of stew, too many bread rolls, vegetable plate after vegetable plate, and so much water that you had to cut back before you dry-drowned yourself. As for Finnick, it was nearly twice this, maybe more. You’re sure that soon you’ll be able to start eating like that again, but for now, you’re required to keep yourself from being sick.

After eating, you’re brought to your room, which is when Laurel breaks off. You realize on your way to the bathroom, that there’s a mirror, and you’ll be seeing yourself. So, the moment that you four get inside, you close your eyes and get every last bit of clothing before bothering to open them again.

Once again, you’re naked in front of the mirror. This time, you’re able to see just how bad you look. Beth stands off to the side, a crease between her eyebrows as she stares you over. As for Cleo, she runs a finger along each one of your ribs, “Wow, no scars! That’s fantastic.”

“No, there’s one.” Beth says, pointing straight at your back, they all have to take a step backward to get the full picture, and they all awe at it.

“Want to see?” Leo asks, and you nod.

They turn your back to the mirror, and hand you a smaller, handheld one. They angle it for you, and it takes a moment before you can see it. And right there, square on your back, are the three claw marks that the bear had made. Long, and deep. Like a ripple in the water.

“Not a full body polish.” Cleo says, “It still looks good.”

“I bet Anchor kept it for you.” Leo says, and you do too.

They might have erased every other little scar on your body, but he left the bigger one, the most important one. Your first ever injury inside of the games, and coincidentally, the one that seems to have left less of a toll. Most victor’s have their symbolic body alteration, like Enobaria with her sharpened teeth. You have something authentic, almost secretive unless you show it off.

When you’re all done aweing, you’re moved right into the shower. They press the buttons and turn knobs for the showing settings for you, washing you down one last time, and doing your hair again. When you step out, it’s when their job really does start. You get a chair to sit in, as the others find their spots to get things done.

Beth does your hair, drying it, straightening it, styling it, then curling it. Cleo sits on the floor with her legs criss-cross, doing your nails, as Leo does your makeup. And it seems like their manner of avoiding the topic of the games has subsided, because it’s all they can talk about. Where they were when what happened inside of the arena.

You don’t listen, just occasionally hum and respond when it’s really needed. You like them, a lot. But you wish they knew better than to pick that topic immediately when they had the chance.

Before you know it, it’s over and Laurel is coming in with your dress. It doesn’t require a bra, since the inside is padded anyway. The dress is a baby blue color, with no sleeves on the top half. It shows off your collarbones, and an inch or so down, the top is secured tight enough to keep it in place. It doesn’t show off any breasts.

It’s tight around the back, and it’s a little difficult to breathe in at first, but you get a hang of it. It has a white pattern on either side of the top, as for the bottom, it’s not very poofy.Enough to give it volume, but that’s it. The fabric is soft, it ends above your knees, and when you spin, it extends all over, like a perfect circle.

Cleo helps you put on white half-socks for the white flats that have a white lace pattern along the sides. Cleo has the job of placing every little accessory that Laurel wants, onto your body. Like a clear anklet around your right ankle, a silver band around your wrist, earrings that dangle because your hair won’t be getting caught in your earrings, and finally, a necklace.

Beth’s allowed a few stands of free hair in the front, curled at the ends. She made it so half of your hair is up and out of your face, and the rest is laid out and pretty. While they circle around you, you reach for the ring, but realize that it’s still gone, and settle for rubbing the spot.

Laurel seems to remember in that moment, and presents the ring, now polished and free of scratches again. You thank her, and slide the token back into place on your right ring finger. You’re brought in front of the mirror, for the final look before you’re led away.

Your makeup is simple, all that’s different is little stars that Leo added to the corners of your eyes. They’re glued into place, no matter how many times you smile, they don’t fall off. Your nails are covered in the same blue color that you’re wearing. You think that this is a look that Reed would approve of. Not too showy, but not too conservative, either. You look your age.

You’re brought back to the elevator, down to the area of the gymnasium underground. You know what’s happening now, you’ve known the entire time of course, but it’s more prominent. Soon, you’ll be back on stage for the recap of the Sixty-Fifth Hunger Games, where you’ll relive every little moment.

You watch as Laurel and the prep team bid you a temporary farewell and disappear to go get ready, themselves. They’ll be on stage with you, since it’s customary that the mentors, escort, stylist and prep teams be introduced to the audience, too. Normally, it’s only one victor that’s being presented, but this year, it’s two.

You’ll rise from the metal plate in front of you, up and onto the stage. First will be the prep teams, so Beth, Leo, Cleo and whoever tends to Finnick. Then, it’ll be Elysia, since she’s the escort, then Laurel and Pleurisy, next is both Mags and Anchor. And then finally, you and Finnick, both at the same time.

It smells clean under here, and while you adjust and readjust the creases of the dress, you spot a wall a few feet away, and automatically know that Finnick will be over there. He’s probably waiting awkwardly for this to be over, and anticipating the moment that the two of you be reunited.

You know you are.

As you play with the ring, you can hear the roaring of the crowd, Caesar is getting them ready. You flatten out your dress, and turn when you hear your name called. It’s Anchor, wearing a black suit like he’s going to a funeral. He gives you a wide smile, and directs you onto your metal circle.

“Super easy stuff, it’ll all come naturally.” he says, “I’ll see you in a minute.”

He leaves into the darkness, and you’re left by yourself, once again. You press your lips together at first, glad that the gloss Leo had applied earlier seems to have dried. You place your arms behind your back, closing your eyes when the anthem starts. Now, it’s up to your imagination.

Caesar greets the audience, like he does every single time. Only, this is exciting. Two victors are going home to Four, and there hasn’t been two victors in at least twenty years. You twist your ring, round and round. You can hear him introduce each and every one of the prep team members, starting with ladies first. The audience is loud, cheering and clapping.

You’ve seen this part, plenty of times. They bow, curtsy and wave, excited to have their own moment of spotlight. Next is Elysia, you can see her too. In big heels, walking smoothly across the stage with a wave, a bright smile on her face. Then it’s Laurel and Pleurisy, there’s louder cheering. Their outfits have been amazing so far, and who knows what they have in store for the future? Your whole Victory Tour in the winter will be featuring their cool outfits. And lastly, your mentors. Anchor and Mags get the loudest cheering so far, but you know it will be outdone as soon as you’re on stage.

It lasts a while, one minute after another. They’re bringing two tributes home, both young. One of them has broken the record for youngest victor, the other is deceitful, smart and cunning. Both of you will be cherished for a long time after this, and it will take a lot to top you two.

You can feel the rumbling beneath your feet, the metal plate is finally moving. You fix the ring to make it look right, and place your hands in front of you, your right hand on top of the other. You raise your chin a little, and you’re conflicted between a straight face and a smile, but settle on the latter because the dress you’re wearing is nowhere near threatening.

At the very last moment, anxiety sprouts like an annoying flower in your stomach and blossoms in your chest. It’s too late to bite it back, because the lights are blinding your face, and forget deafening silence, because the audience is outdoing themselves now. Clapping, cheering, screaming, whistling, stomping, everything they could possibly do to greet you.

You wait for the metal plate to stop moving before you dare to move yourself. Your legs seem to solidify, and you’re looking over to your right, where Finnick stands. His dark hair is curled like it dried naturally, he’s wearing white slacks with a matching blue button down. He’s got the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

He’s got the cheeky smile on his face for a moment, hands stuffed into his pockets. You find yourself moving before you can stop, arms outstretched wide and waiting for him. He closes the distance, and pulls you in tightly, arms wrapped around the middle of your back. You place your head on his shoulder, keeping him tight against your body.

You think he’s saying something, but you can’t hear. When you pull back for a moment to look at his face, to take it in while you’re not half-unconscious, he swoops in and kisses you. The cheering somehow manages to get louder, and Finnick smiles halfway through the kiss. After that, it’s right back to hugging, the two of you refusing to let go until you have to.

Caesar wants to continue the show, and neither of you have complaints. It’s only going to be the three of you on stage, so everyone else that’s helped you along the way, has to find their seats in the audience. Finnick takes your hand, sits first and opens his arm wide for you. You take a seat right next to him, letting his arm rest around your shoulders.

He smells nice, like the expensive cologne that Caesar had worn during your interview, but this one is much sweeter. It makes leaning into him all the more bearable, and you don’t dare move an inch away. You can see your brother’s faces already, screwed up and maybe slightly upset.

Or maybe not, because Finnick saved your life. They owe him a little, for bringing their younger sister home.

Caesar manages to settle down the audience before carefully guiding everyone into the mindset of watching the recap. The recap of your games is mainly made up of highlights, that’s going to last exactly three hours. The person who puts it all together has to choose clips from several weeks--in your case, twenty days worth--and most of the time, make a story out of it.

You’re not sure what it is at first, because you don’t think friendship is right. Until it comes through as a ‘hidden alliance’ sort of thing. The first thirty minutes of the three hour recap, is spent on events that had happened before the games. Starting with the reaping, and then the tribute parade through the Capitol, the training scores, and finally, the interviews. It’s a recap of all the tributes, but it focuses on you and Finnick mainly. Which means that you’re able to see how the friendliness between you two slowly dies out and becomes nothing.

Needless to say, it’s obvious that something had happened between the two of you.

The bloodbath is covered in detail, which is the part where you get the most sick watching. This is the first time that Finnick is truly able to watch you in battle, actually killing. He heard you tell the story, but never got to see it himself. You press your lips together and stare, not liking the way that it makes you look.

You’re not a killing machine, you just did what you had to, to survive.

The first two deaths are the District Ten tributes, the boy being from Lennox, and the girl being because of you. The Nine girl gets unlucky with another tribute, Cass gets her neck snapped by Trink. Lennox kills Amos, the boy from Nine gets unlucky with another tribute. And just like that, it’s over for District Nine.

Verda gets unlucky, Five boy is cornered by you, Trink and Lennox, but Trink ends up killing him. And the very final kill of that bloodbath is Horace, which is the one that’s most focused on, in the end. You lunging at his leg like a rabid dog, slicing it open, and then bringing your sword down against his head.

Eytelle dies that next morning because of you and the bear mutts working together. This is when Finnick is able to watch you get hurt for the very first time, and watching you get healed by your allies. The boy from Twelve is killed later on that afternoon. The next day, Finnick is sponsored with his trident, and Thyme agrees to be a distraction. Together, they kill the girl from Twelve, another district down.

Finnick is on top of it with most of the kills. Him and Thyme worked harder than you did. You almost don’t seem to compare. They draw in the tributes, net them with rope that they were sponsored, and kill them that way. The water wasn’t as clean as you thought. He takes out the District Six girl on the fifth day, and Sydney and Thyme on the eighth.

Things seem to slow, but they’re focusing on you and Blaire a lot more, since Thyme died. They play your entire conversation with Blaire on how you plan to kill Allio to keep the alliance going, and his advice on how to do it. On day eleven, you wake up in the middle of the night and kill Allio, and the audience even now seems captivated by your performance.

Finnick squeezes your shoulders, and you seem to realize that he’s about to watch the shit get beaten out of you, and maybe Blaire. They play those scenes in full, too. Blaire swoops in, saving you, but you’re still wounded. The screen splits into two at first, showing you fleeing and Blaire trying to keep both Trink and Lennox off of him. But as soon as you make it near the waterfall, it splits into three to show what Finnick was doing, too.

Finnick saves you, Blaire dies, and since the two of you are together, it’s much easier to keep track of you two. The sponsor gifts come through, Finnick does his best with keeping you alive. Mac dies on the fourteenth day because he fell out of a tall tree. Finnick carries on with his trap and kill plan with Nestor, the boy from Eight, even though you’re just behind the waterfall.

You wake up on the seventeenth day, and it shows that Trink kills the girl from Five, leaving just four tributes left in the games. You can pinpoint the exact moment that you drink the water, and watch as you deteriorate on screen. You realize why Finnick was beating himself up so badly, now. Because while you didn’t think you looked too terrible, you were awful.

And then the last part of it all plays. Seeing Trink and Lennox at the cornucopia, setting the shack on fire, and watching as your opponents slowly get closer. You and Finnick set up the fake body at the base of the cliff, he sets a pile of sticks and dry leaves on fire, and barely spots them through the trees before running back to you.

He comes, you assure him of the plan. He kisses you, and the battle scene plays. This is when the cheery music that had been playing the entire time, changes to something more dark. The banter between you and Lennox, Finnick chasing Trink through the trees and taking the knife with him.

The screen splits in two again, and it’s two different scenes. While you’re running uphill, struggling to keep ahead of Lennox, Finnick is gaining on Trink. He manages to get a hold of her, but she’s strong and doesn’t go down without a fight. By the time he gains the upper hand on her, you’ve reached the top, having your standoff with Lennox.

Finnick kills Trink, and starts running fast through the trees to where you should be with Lennox. You’re not there, and he sees the footprints that lead uphill, and doesn’t hesitate to follow. While in the meantime, you’re fighting off your attacker, trying not to die. You get Lennox off, he falls over the side of the ledge. You lay there on the cliffside longer than you thought you did, deciding your plan. All while Finnick grows closer and closer.

You begin to slide, unsecure the knife in your belt, and send Lennox to his doom. Finnick can see you through the trees, and there’s a desperate look on his face again. From his angle, you don’t look very alive, and it worsens when the cannon goes off. He shouts your name, and you cringe at how loud and sad it is. Finnick collapses onto his knees, hands shaking as he pulls you away from the edge and into his arms, moving your hair out of your face, begging you to be alive.

You can feel actual tears springing in the corners of your eyes, and you feel the same amount of relief as Finnick when the gamemakers announce your win, “Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to present the victors of the Sixty-Fifth Hunger games, (Y/n) Gallows and Finnick Odair, the tributes of District Four!”

The recap ends there, which you’re glad for. After reliving all of that, you’re not sure if you can stand it any longer. The anthem plays, loud and clear. You and Finnick rise from the loveseat, still holding onto his hand. President Coriolanus Snow takes the stage, with a little girl, she holds a single crown on a pillow.

He stops in front of Finnick first, giving a twist to the crown to have it split in two halves. He places it on Finnick’s brow, a wide smile on his face, and then he moves onto you, doing the same. His smile reaches his eyes, and he gives you a polite nod, and then moves on.

There’s more cheering, loud and clear. You’re left with Finnick to bow and wave and try to give the last bit of entertainment that you can. Caesar wraps up the show, bidding the live audience a goodbye. You blow kisses while he does this, and Finnick laughs at you. Caesar reminds them to tune in for tomorrow’s final interview, and then that’s it for the night.

You don’t have any time to talk to Finnick after the recap, because the two of you are being split and brought to the President’s Mansion for the Victory Banquet separately. You’re upset, because you’ve been away with him for so long already, and you didn’t get to have a real conversation with him just yet. You can only imagine what it’s going to be like at the banquet.

You and Finnick don’t have much time to eat, and you don’t even get to finish your meal before you and Finnick are being overwhelmed with the amount of Capitol officials and sponsors that want pictures with you two. You hold onto Finnick’s hand tightly, he doesn’t let go, no matter how thick the crowd gets.

One face after another, the more they come, the drunker they are. Your cheeks begin to hurt from all the smiling that you’re doing, and you can feel a dreaded headache coming on. Not as bad as the one you had inside of the arena, but this one isn’t pleasant at all, either.

Nearby is Anchor and Mags, enjoying drinks and talking to others. You think that after the people take pictures with you, they move on to congratulate them, too. It’s a feat, bringing two tributes home. They’ve got to be ecstatic too.

There’s a break, where Elysia comes through and shields people from taking pictures so you and Finnick can eat a little more again. You try to talk, but you’re drowned out by other voices, other people competing for Finnick and yours attention. You hardly even get a glance before you’re talking to some woman that had helped sponsor the food you ate with Blaire.

The night drags on, you’re growing more exhausted by the minute. It isn’t until the sun has begun to rise, when you’re finally allowed to go back to the Tribute Center. Finnick is allowed in the same car with you, now. But there isn’t any conversation, you’re half-asleep against Anchor’s shoulder when you reach the center.

No talking is allowed, you’re brought to your rooms and ordered to sleep, you’ll be on camera at two in the afternoon. You don’t complain, you hardly pull off the dress, shoes and accessories before you’re collapsing into the bed, half-naked and too tired to put anything on.

Elysia comes through at around noon and helps you get dressed into something comfortable to eat brunch. You drag your feet, sitting at the table. Unfortunately, you’re not given much opportunity here, either. Mags is telling you two to eat quickly, and doesn’t leave room for argument.

When the prep teams arrive, your guys’ time is up. You’re brought right back into your room, and they start the showering process all over again. Leo complains about how you didn’t wash off the makeup, but then says that it’s for the better, and doesn’t offer any complaint after that.

You ask them meaningless questions that keep them babbling throughout the next two hours. Beth pins back hair from your temples, and secures it in back with a silver moon hair pin.. After that, she says her job is done and goes to sit down on the counter and watch the other two finish theirs.

Leo moves away, allowing you to see yourself in the mirror. Winged eyeliner, big eyelashes, rosy cheeks. You look a little older like this, but still practically your age. When Laurel comes through, Cleo sets aside all the things that she’ll need, and then your prep team disappears.

“Just an interview with Finnick.” she says, helping you into the dress, “And Caesar, of course. No live audience, just a camera.”

You smile, thanking her for her help. The dress is a silver color, reaching your knees again. No bra again, since the top is padded, and there’s thin straps holding the dress on your shoulders. The drop of the dress ends just above your belly button, and the fabric is see-through. As for the bottom half, the first layer is tool, with stars, constellations and sun patterns, beneath the tool is silk. Around the back is lace, which Laurel tries not to tie it too tightly, and lets the bow hang.

She helps you into the half-socks and the silver flats. There’s no excessive accessories tonight, only your ring. Laurel leads you down the hall and to the sitting room. Your blue and white loveseat is back, where you and Finnick will be sitting. There’s an adjacent chair for Caesar, and all around is decoration that resembles back home. Starfish, nets, sand, seashells in clear vases. You wander around the room, and pick out a seashell that you swear you have back home.

Caesar moves into the room after you, and you look over to see. He’s got a bright smile on his face, “Congratulations, (Y/n).”

“Good afternoon,” you say, and then turn back to the small table holding the ornaments, “And thank you.”

You settle the shell onto the top of the pile again, moving around the loveseat. Coming through the doorway is Finnick, wearing a black suit with a white undershirt. He gives you a white smile, and following in behind him is Anchor and Mags. They take their spots by the doors, and you’re welcomed to sit in the loveseat to go ahead and start the broadcast..

Finnick sits down first, and you right next to him. You keep your feet firmly placed on the ground for a moment, but then settle for crossing one of your legs over the other. Finnick takes your hand, giving you a tight squeeze. There’s a countdown from ten, and you fix your posture and give a polite smile.

The conversation is light at the beginning. You expect him to marvel at your guys’ strength, for being so young and all, and you called it exactly. Caesar is fantastic at his job, making sure that the two of you are comfortable throughout the beginning, until it begins to dip.

“I’ve heard around that you and Finnick were friends before the games, did that influence an alliance at all?” Caesar asks.

“Yes, at the very beginning, but it didn’t hold up for long.” Finnick says.

“And why not?” Caesar looks between you two.

When Finnick doesn’t answer immediately, you’re left to pick it up, “Well, we had agreed with trying to get into the career pack. We had even talked to them all after the tribute parade, but it wasn’t until the first or second training day when I realized that Finnick wasn’t interested in the alliance with them anymore.

“Inside of the gymnasium, he’d pulled me along and introduced me to Blaire, Verda and Thyme. I thought I had better chances with the careers, and split away from him.”

“So it was a mutual understanding?” Caesar asks.

“Yes.” Finnick says, and Caesar’s making a face and tilting his head.

“There’s more, I know it! What had happened? In the cave, (Y/n), you mentioned something about him being right. What was he right about?”

You give him a brief smile. You know he’s only asking the questions that the Capitol is dying to know, so you can’t be mad at him. But this is about to get nasty, especially if Finnick still won’t accept what you have to say about it.

“I think it was the night before the interviews when Finnick and I had talked for the last time,” you start quietly, “He was already in my room, and he tried to tell me that being with Trink, Lennox and the other two would be dangerous. I told him the same thing, but with Blaire, Verda and Thyme, I told him that they’d end up getting him killed because they weren’t as skilled as him or I.

“And then he tried to tell me that it wasn’t a plan that my brothers would approve of. I--”

Finnick shakes his head, “She told me her brothers had told her to do anything she had to, to win. I couldn’t be mad at her for that, and she asked for me to leave and not talk to her again. And I listened.”

You don’t think it was that simple, and you frown slightly, looking at him. He doesn’t look at you. So, you go right back to the camera and Caesar, “And he was right, because the careers nearly got me killed. I got too bold with my actions, and I nearly died because of it. Finnick saved my life, whether he wants to believe it or not. I got lucky with his compassion when he found me. If not, I wouldn’t be here.”

Finnick doesn’t push it, and Caesar is either oblivious or doesn’t care, “But you two did come together in the end, despite the fight.”

“I knew her before the games, and I couldn’t just leave her.” Finnick says, “I know her brothers, her family knows mine. I remembered all the times we walked home together after school. It wasn’t even a choice to leave her, I didn’t consider it.”

Caesar begins to uplift, backtracking to before you and Finnick had seen each other. He asks Finnick questions about his system with Thyme and how they came up with it. Next is you, with seeing Blaire and your decision to keep him alive. You tell everyone that Blaire had been kind at the start, and you saw him as a friend after the training days. Right after comes the plan with Allio and why you chose him, out of the others.

You calmly explain that Lennox or Trink would have gone berserk if their district mate had died. And Allio was the more worrying one. He might not have killed anyone, but you felt like he was getting close to it, asking dangerous questions about how you killed Eytelle and the Twelve boy. And then how your plan had been completely foiled when you lost your special knife, and Trink and Lennox found it beneath the box at your bed.

Caesar reveals to you that the pond water was never bad, and neither was the fish. It was the water at the waterfall that was bad. You’re nodding along, saying, “Beauty can be deceiving.” They agree, and the very last part, is how you managed to come up with the plan of ending the games.

You don’t know what to say anymore, so Finnick gives his interpretation, how he saw you the entire time. A trooper, how you kept pushing on even though it was obvious that you were exhausted. He wanted you to take more breaks than you willed, but allowed you to continue on.

He was extra worried when it came around to leaving you in the woods by yourself. During that entire walk, you were on his mind, and he was more than eager to get back to you. When he spotted Trink and Lennox through the trees, he panicked and came straight back, not caring about the fire, because there was no doubt that they’d seen him.

How he wanted to hide you somewhere and fight off Lennox and Trink alone to save you. You, of course, didn’t allow him that, and he sobered quickly. When he kissed you, it was because he was afraid that you’d be the first cannon, and he just wanted to get his feelings out there. You squeeze his hand tightly.

It all finishes up, the climax being the end of the games, where you’re on the ledge.

“You were still awake.” Caesar says, “Why? We didn’t see you close your eyes, even though you very well could’ve.”

“I wanted to make sure that Lennox was gone, and he wouldn’t be coming back. That I had redeemed myself, and took out the boy that mattered the most. I didn’t know if it was Finnick coming through the trees, and I didn’t even care.”

“What about you, Finnick? What were your thoughts when you got to her?”

“I thought she was dead, and I was prepared to beg for her to come back.” is all Finnick says, his hand is tight in yours, almost painful.

Caesar finishes it off, and then the cameras are dead. It’s over, the final interview is over. You reach over to Finnick, letting go of his hand and pulling his body tightly against yours. Some are crying, others are also hugging. You and Finnick keep close as you get up from the loveseat.

You bid farewell to Caesar, thanking him for being so kind. He wishes you and Finnick good luck with the coming months, and your Victory Tour. He’ll be looking forward to speaking to you two again.

You’re welcome to go back to your room and collect anything that you might want, but there is nothing. You’ve got your mother’s ring, and FInnick still has his rope around his wrist. With that, you’re brought out of the Tribute Center and into a car with blackened windows. They drive you through the streets of the Capitol and straight to the train.

It’s a brief goodbye with Laurel and Pleurisy. You thank Laurel and tell her that you’ll be looking forward to what she has in store for the Victory Tour. After that, you and Finnick are brought inside with Anchor, Mags and Elysia. The door shuts behind you guys, and the train is dark for a long moment as you move through the tunnel. As soon as you’re out, is when you’re being brought to the dining car for dinner.

You eat as much as you can, being wary of the fact that the food is still very rich. You know that it should take a long time to recover from the weight loss, but you want to be back to normal now. You don’t want to look like this in front of the entire district, and Finnick seems to be thinking the same way.

When you’re done eating, you’re brought in to watch the replay of the interview. You notice that while it had felt like you were talking more, Finnick was answering more questions. Caesar tried his best with alternating between the two of you, to catch both of your perspectives, but it was hard when the two of you were thinking nearly the same.

After the replay is commentary, and you all decide that it’s time to dissipate and do your own things. You decide on a shower, to get rid of the dress and watch away the makeup. Finnick says that he’s going to do the same, and you promise Anchor and Mags a real conversation later, if they want. They say it’s fine, you’ll have plenty of time for talking, later.

You take your time in the shower, running your fingers through your soft hair, and scrubbing your body until you smell of lavender permanently. Then, you sink onto the floor and turn the water lukewarm to sit there for a while. Tomorrow, you’ll arrive back home, you’ll get to see your family again.

You close your eyes, and the only time you get up again is to turn the water hotter. As you sit here, you realize that this is your real moment of peace. No chaos, no one to interrupt your thoughts. You’re welcome to do how you feel. Following that thought is an onslaught of tears and sobbing so hard that it leaves your throat sore.

With your head on your knees, arms wrapped around your feeble body, you cry. You cry for everything that you’ve been through, for every tribute that you killed, for every friend you just lost. You cry for their families, and their friends, and their district. They will never get to see their children again, and they will never know what it’s like to hold their child.

Six tributes fell by your hand. One of them being thirteen years old, just a boy, only a year younger than Finnick. When you were thirteen, you were going through what you thought would be the hardest part of your life. Living in poverty, both of your parents gone, and a baby to replace your mother.

You just want to go home.

Other victors would be happy, especially the main careers. Pumping their fists, screaming and cheering. They were all excited to have survived, proud and confident. You doubt they ever showed a lick of weakness because they’d trained their entire lives to win the games. Them compared to you, is nothing. Show them your defeat and you’ll be just as forgotten as the other victors that fell to their survivors' guilt.

You didn’t have a choice.

Out of the shower, you put on dark grey shorts and a lighter grey tank top. You brush through the snarls in your hair for a while, but give up and place it all into a ponytail in the end. When you leave the bathroom, you find your room empty. Finnick is nowhere to be seen. You drop the ring into the bowl on the nightstand and fall onto your back on the bed.

You wanted to talk to him, but you’re not sure if there’s anything to say. He already knows how grateful you are for his help, so what’s the point in saying it? You stare at the ceiling for a long time, listening to the rumbling of the train. You wish for sleep, to finally get a night full of sleep.

Even hours later, you’re met with nothing. You give up, take the ring with you on your way out. It’s dark outside of the windows, and it’s silent inside of the train. You hesitate in the hallway, wanting to see if Finnick’s awake in his own room, but decide that if he’s sleeping, you should let him.

You wander down the hall, the peacekeepers give you a nod and you greet them quietly. In the dining car, on the way to the sitting room with the tv and the couch, you see that there’s food laid out. It’s so that you can serve yourself, there is no Avox or otherwise around to tell you not to.

You dig through the cold beverages, and then the hot, looking for something that will make you feel cozy. At the very last cabinet, you find a whole potluck of liquor, and consider it for a brief moment. Then, you remember that you don’t want to make a fool of yourself when you get back home. So, you settle on hot chocolate, and warm sweet rolls that are still steaming. A whole loaded plate later, you move on.

In the sitting car, you place everything onto the coffee table, pushing the couch away as you sit on the floor. You turn the tv on, vaguely remembering the buttons that Anchor had pressed effortlessly. You get it to turn on, and immediately, your games start playing from the very beginning, starting with the reaping.

You watch it numbly, sipping on your hot chocolate and eating your rolls until they’re all gone. You watch the games twice, the first time paying attention to yours and Finnick’s movements, every little thing that you did to bring yourself to be a victor. The second time around is everyone else. Blaire and Verda’s reaping, Tribute Parade costumes, scores, interviews and deaths. You watch how they start out so hopeful, and slowly dwindle to nothing.

The sun comes through the windows, and you don’t find yourself tired at all. You clean up your mess, turn the tv off and go into the dining car to find that Elysia is already awake. She looks over, completely surprised, “How long have you been up for?”

“Didn’t sleep.” you tell her, setting the dishes aside for cleanup.

“We’ll be there soon, you should get ready.” she says.

You go back to your room, brush your teeth and fix your hair. You pull it out of your face again, but at least this time it’s smooth and looks nice. You go into the closet to find an outfit has already been set aside for you. Ripped white jeans, with three silver buttons instead of a zipper, and a light blue blouse that you button up. You put on tennis shoes, and when you leave the closet to go see yourself in the bathroom mirror again, you find Finnick dressed and sitting in the chair in the far right corner of the room.

“Where’d you go last night?” he asks.

“Sitting room.” you tell him, placing your hands in your front pocket, “Sorry I wasn’t here, couldn’t sleep.”

He smiles a bit, “I could.”

You roll your eyes, and laugh, “Ready for breakfast?”

“Yeah.” Finnick says, following you out of your room.

You eat a quick but large breakfast with everyone. Elysia is keeping track of the clock, and when the time hits ten minutes, it’s over. You’re only allowed orange juice and water to drink before you arrive. You and Finnick spend the time in anxiousness. This will be the final time you’re on camera for a couple of months, you think. And it’s you greeting your home.

You and Finnick position yourselves in front of the doors. The train goes dark as you move through the final tunnel, and it lights up again when you reach the station. You offer your hand for Finnick first, giving him a smile. He takes it, and the two of you squeeze. The train stops, the doors hiss, and open to your entire district being at the station.

There’s cheering and clapping, and whistling. Everyone here is so much louder and more excited than the people in the Capitol ever was. You raise your left hand to wave, squeezing Finnick tightly. Completely forgetting about the cameras, you let the tears gather in your eyes, overjoyed.

Hello District Four, you think, it’s nice to see you again.

#ilguna #finnick odair #finnick odair imagine #finnick odair oneshot #finnick odair fanfic #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair lacuna #lacuna

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everybodyscupoftea · 4 years ago

Text

sober up

jj maybank x reader

word count: 2151

warnings: mentions of substance use (vyvanse, alcohol, weed); mention of anxiety; nothing too angsty though i promise

synopsis: based on the song sober up by ajr

When Sarah and John B. disappeared, it rocked the Outer Banks, and no one could think or talk about anything else. Reporters from the mainland flooded both the Cut and Figure Eight looking to talk to the people closest to the ‘Missing Star-Crossed Lovers’ as they’d been dubbed. Neither the Pogues nor the Kooks were safe.

Everyone coped as best they could. You couldn’t speak for the Pogues, you hadn’t run with them for years, but the coping could best be described as destructive spiraling. Rafe, who was arguably off the rails already, went further; Topper retreated into a shell you weren’t sure if he could ever leave; Wheezie, once outgoing and loud, became the quietest person in every room; and you, you just had to watch, stuck in a rut of your own.

Basically, the disappearance stopped the world as everyone knew it, and you weren’t sure it could ever right itself.

Hello hello; I’m not where I’m supposed to be; I hope that you’re missing me; ‘cause it makes me feel young

Sometimes it got too much. Being on Figure Eight, at school, where memories of your friendship with Sarah were especially strong. You usually liked the feeling Vyvanse gave you. The intense focus you could pour into other things to forget about The Disappearance, at least for a few hours. But sometimes, it backfired, and you were hyper focused on it.

In those moments you found yourself wandering back to the Cut, back to your elementary school, to sit on the swings. You liked the back and forth feeling and staring up at the sky. It made you dizzy, but it wasn’t unpleasant. Usually you were alone there. Not this time. This time JJ Maybank beat you there.

“Long time no see,” he said to you, the smile he gave not anywhere close to real.

You didn’t really know what to say. The friendship ended years ago when your mom married up and you both moved off the Cut. It wasn’t explosive, it wasn’t a brawl, it just fizzled. JJ Maybank, your childhood crush, and John B, your biggest defender. You looked for them sometimes, but they were never looking back.

“I like to think out here.”

JJ laughed, “That makes two of us.”

You wanted to ask how he was, but you knew. It really wasn’t worth asking. No need to cheaply fill the silence. Normally you were filled with crushing sadness on the swings. Mourning relationships lost and waiting for the drugs to finally wear off. This time you felt refreshed. Sitting in silence with this now stranger, you felt young again. You forgot how JJ made you feel.

Hello hello; last time that I saw your face, was recess in second grade; and it made me feel young

To your surprise, JJ broke the silence first.

“How’s your mom?”

They had always been close, a surrogate mother to him when his Dad threw him out.

“She’s good.”

“Still up to all that hippie shit?” he asked with a quiet laugh.

“Of course, the day my mother stops harping on the environment is the day we bury her.”

You fell into silence again, unsure if you should ask about his dad. It was nice to be here with him, and you didn’t want to push him away.

Before you could make a decision on asking, JJ pushed off with his feet and started swinging higher, effectively ending the conversation. For lack of anything better to do, you followed suit.

It was bittersweet, one of the last things you did with him before moving was swing at recess. You knew about the engagement and what it meant, but your friends didn’t, and you didn’t know how to tell them.

You remember JJ was always braver than you, swinging higher, jumping from the swing more recklessly, and telling the truth as soon as he found it out. You were always more scared.

Maybe this was the chance to finally be brave.

“JJ, about second grade and the engagement- “ but he cut you off before you could finish.

“It’s in the past. I was mad, but I understand now.”

“Right.”

Goodbye, goodbye; I said to my bestest buds; we said that we’d keep in touch; and we did our best

You had every intention of staying friends with the boys when you transferred schools, but your new dad had other ideas. He never had kids of his own, you were his new project. Your free time became his time where he taught you the ins and outs of the upper class.

He had plenty of connections, plenty of new friends for you to play with. Your mom felt bad, she didn’t realize moving you would also separate you from your closest friends the way it did. She hated seeing you sad, but what could she do?

JJ and John B visited you a lot in the early days. Then, one day, your new dad started answering the door instead of you, and he always said no. They finally caught you one afternoon, but you already had plans with the Cameron’s, and you couldn’t play with the boys. That was the final straw.

There was no fight, just a general, melancholy consensus that this would be the new normal. Rafe and Sarah instead of JJ and John B.

All my new friends, we smile at party time; but soon we forget to smile at anything else

Growing up with the Kooks was hard. Sure, you didn’t want for much, money wasn’t an issue and you had all the educational resources you could possibly need, but the pressure to even keep up, not even to stand out, was immense.

Your stepdad had high hopes, your mom wanted you to fit in and be happy. There was no best of both worlds unfortunately. No one quite understood like the Cameron siblings, your closest friends. Rafe understood the pressure to succeed from your dad, and Sarah understood the pressure to fit in from your mom.

The hangouts you used to have were fun. Full of laughter and actual joy during childhood. Games and picnics, afternoons at the country club pool and tea parties. Finally, you’d found your people after a lonely few years without JJ and John B. You depended on each other as you grew up and moved into high school.

Sarah kept you sane, she invited you to parties, hung out when you were especially struggling, and kept your mom out of your personal life. You owed a lot to her. Rafe kept you medicated. He sold you cheap Vyvanse to help you focus on schoolwork to appease your dad.

It was a delicate balance, the medication and the partying, but you made it work. The Vyvanse made you anxious but the alcohol helped you relax. Soon enough, you were more anxious than relaxed, and you could feel the smiles coming fewer and far between. Childhood was over.

And then Sarah disappeared, taking with her the last of your smiles.

Won’t you help me sober up; growing up, it made me numb; and I want to feel something again

You couldn’t stop it, sitting on the swings with JJ, the sob that broke out of your chest. It was like poking a hole in a balloon. From nothing to everything leaving at once.

“Fuck,” JJ muttered, using his feet to stop his swing as you sobbed, still gently rocking.

“I don’t want to live like this anymore,” you told the ground, refusing to look at him, even as he squatted in front of you.

“Like what?” he asked gently, hand tracing slow circles on your knee.

You shuddered a few times, fighting the anxious wave in your chest fueled by the medicine, “Numb,” you finally responded.

The pitying look on his face broke the numbness. You felt bitter, you didn’t need his pity. It was as if he could sense a wave of anger rising in you, and he backed up. JJ said with a small sigh, “I sure as hell don’t know what you’ve been through, but I have an idea of what you’re going through, so maybe, we can get through this together.”

His words put out the flames and you slouched forward, biting your lip, “You think?”

JJ didn’t answer for a few minutes, and when he did, it wasn’t to your question, “I’m hungry, want to grab some dinner at The Wreck?”

And suddenly, food sounded like the best idea in the world. You stood up and held your hand out for him to take, “My treat.”

Won’t you help me sober up; all the big kids, they got drunk; and I want to feel something again; won’t you help me feel something again

Kiara wasn’t at The Wreck when you and JJ ate. He said there was a party at the Boneyard, she and Pope were there, and invited you. While you weren’t particularly in a partying mood, you didn’t really want to be alone, so you went. It was…weird.

Sarah was your party crutch, the someone around who would always talk to you. The idea of going out and not having that made you feel a little alienated and wary. To your surprise, JJ stayed with you.

Neither of you made any moves to drink. JJ had his dab pen, and you had your juul, but otherwise you sat on a log together in silence. It wasn’t awkward, but it was a little heavy. You watched people dance around the bonfire, totally wasted and carefree, while taking occasional hits from your juul. It didn’t draw you in the same way it used to.

You couldn’t speak for JJ, he may have been itching to join the party, but he didn’t. Together you sat as the sun set and the wind picked up. He eventually handed over his sweatshirt when you started shivering and scooted closer for body heat.

The two of you sat and watched for at least three hours, not really moving or talking. You felt hyper aware of how close his thigh was to pressing against yours and how close your pinkies were from linking. It was something new to focus on. Something that broke through the water you felt had been clogging your brain for the past month.

You and JJ spent weeks together, slowly healing. There would always be a scar, empty air after quoting the first half of an inside joke or a missing t-shirt you’ll never find because you’d lent it out, but you were getting better. Part of that process was finding something new to hyper focus on. One night, both high, JJ revealed that he liked to think in color, and why not try.

My favorite color is you; you’re vibrating out my frequency

JJ was blue, his eyes, the waves he loved to surf, and all of the pens he used were blue ink. He remembered you loved to surf together as kids, so he brought you out there one afternoon. It felt good to have common interests with someone again, constructive rather than destructive common interests at least. You’d been trying to replace ‘numb’ with ‘good’ and it was hard, but it was working

My favorite color is you; you keep me young and that’s how I wanna be

JJ was also red. The same hat he’d kept his entire life, all through childhood and into his teenage years. His dad gave it to him before the abuse started. JJ clutched onto it in his darkest moments. It reminded you of your childhood, he always wore the same damn hat. You liked being able to be there for him when he held the hat instead of wearing it.

My favorite color is you; you’re vibrating out my frequency

For JJ, you were green. Your school sweatshirt that you wore so much and your favorite headband. He liked the steadiness of knowing that you’d come back to him every day, pretty much unchanged. With the violent upheaval of their lives after the disappearance, the steadiness of green was good. Green wasn’t his favorite color, but it was growing on him.

My favorite color is you; you keep me young and that’s how I wanna be

You were also yellow, your smile like sunshine. He felt like he hadn’t seen it in so long. It’d been years since he’d really looked. He’d seen you around, of course, but he hadn’t taken notice. He hadn’t seen you shrink into yourself with hollowed out eyes. JJ cursed himself for missing it. But the smiles, they were coming back, back like they used to be when you were kids.

And I want to feel something again, I just want to feel something again.

Nothing beat the feeling of JJ kissing you. Maybe, despite the circumstances, despite the path it took you to get here. You could finally sober up.

#jj maybank #jj maybank x reader #outer banks #pope heyward #kiara carrera #john b routledge #jj maybank fic #outer banks fic #sarah cameron #rafe cameron

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